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 CHIEF EUROPEAN 
 DRAMATISTS'^ (?^/^ec?> 
 
 Brander Matthews '^ 
 
CORNEti < 
 UNIVERSITY 
 LIBRARY 
 
PN6112 .Mil" ""'™"">' "*'""' 
 
 The chief European dramatists: 
 
 olin 
 
 3 1924 030 976 991 
 
^^1 
 
 Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924030976991 
 
THE CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
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 EDITED 
 
 WITH NOTES, BIOGRAPHIES, AND 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHIES 
 
 BY 
 
 BRANDER MATTHEWS 
 
 PROFESSOR OF DRAMATIC LITERATURE IN COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 
 MEMBER OF THE AMERICAN ACADEMY OF ARTS AND LETTERS 
 
 ^e^fioergtOePre^ 
 
 BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 2Cl)e Krtetsilie JjJress Camiiriliffe 
 EL 
 
COPYRIGHT, I916, BY BRANDEB MATTHEWS 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 /\fX73<3r 
 
 CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
 U . S . A 
 
TO 
 H. C. CHATFIELD-TAYLOR 
 
 ACCOMPLISHED INTERPRETER OF TWO 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 GOLDONI AND MOLIERE 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Introduction • . . . . ix 
 
 Agamemnon Mschylus 1 
 
 Translated by E. D. A. Morshead 
 
 CEbipus THE King Sophocles 31 
 
 Translated by Sir Richard Clavering J ebb 
 
 Medea Euripides 55 
 
 Translated by Gilbert Murray 
 
 The Frogs Aristophanes .... 85 
 
 Translated by J. Hookham Frere 
 
 The Captives Plautus 115 
 
 Translated by Edward H. Sy,gden 
 
 Phormio Terence 139 
 
 Translated by Morris H. Morgan 
 
 The Star of Seville Lope de Vega .... 167 
 
 Translated by Philip M. Hayden 
 
 Life is a Dream Calderon 193 
 
 Translated by Denis Florence Mac-Carthy 
 
 
 
 The Cid 
 
 Translated by Florence Kendrick Cooper 
 
 ComeUle . . . . 
 
 . 233 
 
 Tarttjffe 
 
 Translated by Curtis Hidden Page 
 
 Molikre 
 
 . 265 
 
 PaaiDRA 
 
 Translated by Robert Bruce Boswell 
 
 Racine 
 
 . 301 
 
 The Barber of Seville 
 
 Translated by Arthur B. Myrick 
 
 Beaumarchais 
 
 . 329 
 
 Hernani 
 
 Translated by Mrs. Newton Crosland 
 
 Victor Hugo 
 
 . 359 
 
 The Son-in-Law of M. Poiribr .... 
 Translated by Barrett H. Clark 
 
 Augier and Sandeau . 
 
 . 411 
 
 The Outer Edge op Society 
 
 Translated by Barrett H. Clark 
 
 Alexandre Dumas fds 
 
 . 447 
 
 The Mistress of the Inn 
 
 Goldoni 
 
 . 503 
 
 Translated by Merle Pierson 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 Minna von Barnhelm Lessing 537 
 
 Translated by Ernest Bdl 
 
 GoETZ VON Behlichingen Goethe 581 
 
 Translated by Sir Walter Scott 
 
 William Tell Schiller 637 
 
 Translated by Sir Theodore Martin 
 
 Rasmus Montanus Holberg 699 
 
 Translated by Oscar James Campbell and Frederic Schench 
 
 A Doll's House Henrik Ibsen .... 727 
 
 Translated by WiUiam Archer 
 
 Appendix 
 
 I. Notes on the Authoks 771 
 
 II. Notes on the Plats 778 
 
 III. A Reading List in European Dramatists 784 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 It is in response to a wider and more intelligent interest in dramatic literature, and 
 in the drama as an art, that the playwrights of every modem language now publish their 
 plays promptly in order that these may be read both by those who have already witnessed 
 the performance and by those deprived of this pleasure by remoteness from the play- 
 house. Preceding and accompanying this interest in the drama of the immediate present 
 there is also a constantly increasing attention to the drama of the past, and more espe- 
 cially to the dramatic literature of the English language. Professor Neilson has made a 
 selection of the most important tragedies and comedies of the dramatists who were 
 Shakespeare's contemporaries under Queen Elizabeth and his successors imder King 
 James; and Professor Baker is preparing a corresponding collection chosen from out 
 the works of the Restoration dramatists. In Professor Dickinson's volume, the Chief 
 Contemporary Dramatists, there is ample representation of the foremost British and 
 American playmakers at the begriming of the twentieth century. 
 
 Hitherto, however, no adequate attempt has been made to select, out of the drama of the 
 remoter past and out of the drama of other tongues than English, a group of plays, tragic 
 and comic, which might illustrate and illuminate the development of dramatic Uterature 
 from the Greek of the fifth centiuy B.C. to the Scandinavian of the end of the nineteenth 
 century a.d. This is the difficult task which has been undertaken by the editor of this vol- 
 ume. It has been his duty to ascertain who, among the scores and the himdreds of play- 
 wrights that have flourished in the different coxmtries of Europe dming the past twenty- 
 four centuries, were entitled to be recognized as acknowledged masters of the art of 
 the drama or as indisputable representatives of their race and of their era. This selection 
 has proved to be a matter of imexpected delicacy; and the editor cannot hope that the 
 scholars, into whose hands this volume may come, will all of them agree with his choice or 
 accept the principles upon which it has been guided. 
 
 Yet, when every allowance has been made, it ought to be admitted that any selection 
 like this must inevitably be affected by the personal equation of the editor, from which he 
 cannot free himself, however much he may struggle. And this editor confesses frankly 
 that if he could have had his own way, disregarding the necessary limitation of a single 
 volume, he would have been glad to include the most amusing mediaeval Pierre Pathelin 
 of an unknown Frenchman and a corresponding German farce by Hans Sachs. He would 
 have hesitated long before deciding upon the exclusion of Seneca, of Grillparzer and 
 Freytag, of Alfred de Musset and the elder Dumas. It was to him a personal grief that 
 his conscience compelled him to leave out Kotzebue and Scribe, playwrights rather than 
 dramatists, master technicians who made the path straight for artists of a richer endow- 
 ment and of a more significant message. 
 
 Even after the list of dramatists had been drawn up, there remained the almost equally 
 difficult duty of deciding upon the single play which should best represent the total 
 achievement of each of them. There is no doubt that .^schylus is satisfactorily repre- 
 sented by Agamemnon and Sophocles by (Edijms the King; but is Medea necessarily the best 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 play to select from Euripides or Phormio from Terence? What should be the choice from 
 Goethe, from Schiller, and from Holberg? For Beaumarchais ought the Barber of Semite 
 to be taken or the Marriage of Figaro? And from Calderon ought lAfe is a Dream to be 
 picked out or the Devotion to the Cross? All that the editor can urge in justification of 
 the selection that he finally made is that he has been guided by a variety of reasons — by 
 the availability of a satisfactory translation, in some cases, and in others by the superior 
 fitness of the chosen play for the general reader. 
 
 A collection of masterpieces of the drama extending over a score of centuries serves to 
 make plain something which ought never to be overlooked. The principles of dramatic 
 art are unchanging through the ages, the same to-day in Paris or in New York that they 
 were in Athens twenty-four hundred years ago. They are to be deduced from the trage- 
 dies of Sophocles as clearly as from the tragedies of Shakespeare, from the comedies of 
 Moliere as obviously as from the comedies of Lessing and Goldoni and Augier; and they 
 are all the result of the fact that a dramatist always composes his plays with the desire 
 and the intent that they shall be performed by actors in a theater and before an audi- 
 ence. He takes thought of the performers of his own time and city; and Sophocles and 
 Moliere, while they were creating characters for the appreciation of posterity, were also 
 preparing parts for contemporary performers in whom they had confidence. He adjusts 
 the stories he tells on the stage to the physical conditions of the only playhouse with 
 which he is familiar. And he feels constrained always to choose the kind of story which 
 will arouse and retain the interests of his contemporaries in his own country, giving no 
 thought to the possible likings of any other audience either abroad or in the future. 
 
 A dramatist is a playwright who is also a poet — in the largest meaning of the word; 
 and he is a playwright before he is a poet. As a playwright he has an intuitive percep- 
 tion of the undeniable fact that spectators massed in a theater are always likely to be 
 most keenly interested in an action which deals with the deeds of strong-willed men; 
 and therefore he is prone to provide plots caused by the clash of contending desires. 
 As a playwright he is aware that the massed spectators insist on seeing for themselves 
 the culminating moments of the essential struggle, 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 vmderstands fully what is happening before 
 its eyes; and therefore he takes uafinite pains with the problem of exposition, making 
 clear so much of the past as may be essential for the understanding of the present. As 
 a playwright he is conscious that the playgoers need to have their attention kept alive 
 as the story is unrolled before them; and therefore he articulates his plot adroitly that 
 suspense thickens and that the stress of the contest is steadily mtensified. And as a 
 playwright, finally, he never forgets that the audience has eyes as well as ears; and there- 
 fore he provides the utmost spectacle possible in his own theater so far as this is in ac- 
 cord with the quality of his work. 
 
 To the many friends who have aided him with encouragement and helped him with 
 counsel — especially to his colleague Professor Edward Delavan Perry — the editor 
 desires to express his abiding gratitude. And he takes pleasure in recording here his ob- 
 ligation to the kindly courtesy of the translators and of the owners of copyright who have 
 made possible the inclusion of translations especially desirable: to the President and 
 fellows of Harvard University for permission to use the late Professor Morris H Morgan's 
 rendering of Phormio of Terence; to the American-Scandinavian Foundation for per- 
 mission to use the version of Rasmus Montanus prepared by Professor Oscar James 
 
INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 Campbell and Mr. Frederic Schenck; to the Wisconsin Dramatic Society for permission 
 to use Miss Merle Pierson's translation of Goldoni's Mistress of the Inn; to the Oxford 
 University Press, American Branch, and Professor Gilbert Murray for permission to 
 Include his metrical rendering of the Medea of Euripides; to the Cambridge University 
 Press for permission to reprint Jebb's prose version of (Edvpus; to G. P. Putnam's Sons 
 and Professor Ciurtis Hidden Page for permission to include his verse translation of 
 Tartuffe; to Charles Scribner's Sons and Mr. William -Archer for permission to use the 
 latest version of his rendering of A Doll's House; to the Macmillan Company for per- 
 mission to use Morshead's Agamemnon; to George Bell & Sons for permission to use the 
 translations from Hugo, Lessing, and Racine; to J. M. Dent & Co. for permission to 
 include the translation of the Barber o/ Seville; and to D. Appleton & Co. for permission 
 to reprint the translation of the Cid. 
 
AGAMEMNON 
 
 By ^SCHYLUS 
 
 Translated into English verse by E. D. A. MORSHEAD 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 A Watchman. 
 
 Chokus. 
 
 Clttemnestba. 
 
 A Herald. 
 
 Agamemnon. 
 
 Cassandba. 
 
 jEgisthus. 
 
 The Scene is the Palace of Atreus at MyceruB. In front of the Palace stand 
 statues of the gods, and altars prepared for sacrifices. 
 
AGAMEMNON 
 
 A Watchman. I pray the gods to quit 
 
 me of my toils, 
 To close the watch I keep, this livelong 
 
 year; 
 For as a watch-dog lying, not at rest, 
 Propped on one arm, upon the palace-root 
 Of Atreus' race, too long, too well I know 
 The starry conclave of the midnight sky, 
 Too well, the splendors of the firmament. 
 The lords of light, whose kingly aspect 
 
 shows — 
 What time they set or climb the sky in 
 
 turn — 
 The year's divisions, bringing frost or fire. 
 
 And now, as ever, am I set to mark 
 When shall stream up the glow of signal- 
 flame, 
 The bale-fire bright, and teU its Trojan 
 
 tale — 
 Troy town is ta'en: such issue holds in hope 
 She in whose woman's breast beats heart 
 of man. 
 
 Thus upon mine unrestf ul couch I lie. 
 Bathed with the dews of night, unvisited 
 By dreams — ah me! — for in the place of 
 
 sleep 
 Stands Fear as my familiar, and repels 
 The sof t repose that would mine eyelids seal . 
 
 And if at whiles, for the lost balm of sleep, 
 1 medicine my soul with melody 
 Of trill or song — anon to tears I turn, 
 Wailing the woe that broods upon this 
 
 home. 
 Not now by honor guided as of old. 
 
 But now at last fair fall the welcome hour 
 That sets me free, whene'er the thick night 
 
 glow 
 With beacon-fire of hope deferred no more. 
 All hail! 
 
 [A beacon-light is seen reddening 
 the distant sky.] 
 
 Fire of the night, that brings my spirit day, 
 Shedding on Argos light, and dance, and 
 
 song. 
 Greetings to fortune, hail! 
 
 Let my loud summons ring within the ears 
 Of Agamemnon's queen, that she anon 
 Start from her couch and with a shrill 
 
 voice cry 
 A joyous welcome to the beacon-blaze. 
 For Ilion's fall; such fiery message gleams 
 From yon high flame; and I, before the rest. 
 Will foot the lightsome measure of our joy; 
 For I can say. My master's dice fell fair — 
 Behold! the triple sice, the lucky flame! 
 Now be my lot to clasp, in loyal love. 
 The hand of him restored, who rules our 
 
 home: 
 Home — but I say no more: upon my 
 
 tongue 
 Treads hard the ox o' the adage. 
 
 Had it voice. 
 The home itself might soothliest tell its 
 
 tale; 
 I, of set will, speak words the wise may 
 
 learn. 
 To others, nought remember nor discern. 
 [Exit. The chorus of old men of 
 Mycence enter, each leaning on a 
 staff. During their song Clt- 
 TBMNBSTRA appears in the back- 
 ground, kindling the altars.] 
 Chorus. Ten livelong years have rolled 
 
 away. 
 Since the twin lords of sceptered sway. 
 By Zeus endowed with pride of place. 
 The doughty chiefs of Atreus' race, 
 Went forth of yore. 
 To plead with Priam, face to face. 
 Before the judgment-seat of War! 
 
 A thousand ships from Argive land 
 Put forth to bear the martial band. 
 That with a spirit stern and strong 
 Went out to right the kingdom's wrong — 
 
CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Pealed, as they went, the battle-song, 
 
 Wild as the vultures' cry; 
 
 When o'er the eyrie, soaring high, 
 
 In wild bereaved agony, 
 
 Around, around, in airy rings. 
 
 They wheel with oarage of their wings, 
 
 But not the eyas-brood behold. 
 
 That called them to the nest of old; 
 
 Bilt let Apollo from the sky. 
 
 Or Pan, or Zeus, but hear the cry. 
 
 The exile cry, the wail forlorn, 
 
 Of birds from whom their home is torn — 
 
 On those who wrought the rapine fell. 
 
 Heaven sends the vengeful fiends of hell. 
 
 Even so 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'd! 
 And many, many, by his will, 
 The last embrace of foes shall feel. 
 And many a knee in dust be bowed. 
 And splintered spears on shields ring loud, 
 Of Trojan and of Greek, before 
 That iron bridal-feast be o'er! 
 But as he willed 't is ordered all. 
 And woes, by Heaven ordained, must fall — 
 Unsoothed by tears or spilth of wine 
 Poured forth too late, the wrath divine 
 Glares vengeance on the flameless shrine. 
 
 And we in gray dishonored eld. 
 
 Feeble of frame, unfit were held 
 
 To join the warrior array 
 
 That then went forth unto the fray : 
 
 And here at home we tarry, fain 
 
 Our feeble footsteps to sustain. 
 
 Each on his staff — so strength doth wane. 
 
 And turns to childishness again. 
 
 For while the sap of youth is green, 
 
 And, yet unripened, leaps within, 
 
 The young are weakly as the old. 
 
 And each alike unmeet to hold 
 
 The vantage post of war! 
 
 And ah! when flower and fruit are o'er, 
 
 And on life's tree the leaves are sere, 
 
 Age wendeth propped its journey drear, 
 
 As forceless as a child, as light 
 
 And fleeting as a dream of night 
 
 Lost in the garish day! 
 
 But thou, O child of Tyndareus, 
 
 Queen Clytemnestra, speak! and say 
 
 What messenger of joy to-day 
 
 Hath won thine ear? what welcome news, 
 
 That thus in sacrificial wise 
 
 E'en to the city's boundaries 
 
 Thou biddest altar-fires arise? 
 
 Each god who doth our city guard, 
 
 And keeps o'er Argos watch and ward 
 
 From heaven above, from earth below — 
 
 The mighty lords who rule the skies, 
 
 The market's lesser deities, 
 
 To each and all the altars glow, 
 
 Piled for the sacrifice! 
 
 And here and there, anear, afar. 
 
 Streams skyward many a beacon-star, 
 
 Conjur'd and charm'd and kindled well 
 
 By pure oil's soft and guileless spell, 
 
 Hid now no more 
 
 Within the palace' secret store. 
 
 O queen, we pray thee, whatsoe'er. 
 Known unto thee, were well revealed, 
 That thou wilt trust it to our ear, 
 And bid our anxious heart be healed! 
 That waneth now unto despair — 
 Now, waxing to a presage fair. 
 Dawns, from the altar, Hope — to scare 
 From our rent hearts the vulture Care. 
 
 List! for the power is mine, to chant on high 
 The chiefs' emprise, the strength that 
 
 omens gave! 
 List! on my soul breathes yet a harmony, 
 From realms of ageless powers, and strong 
 
 to save! 
 
 How brother kings, twin lords of one com- 
 mand. 
 
 Led forth the youth of Hellas in their 
 flower. 
 
 Urged on their way, with vengeful spear 
 and brand. 
 
 By warrior-birds, that watched the parting 
 hour. 
 
 Go forth to Troy, the eagles seemed to cry — 
 And the sea-kings obeyed the sky-kings' 
 
 word. 
 When on the right they soared across the sky. 
 And one was black, one bore a white tail 
 
 barred. 
 
AGAMEMNON 
 
 High o'er the palace were they seen to soar, 
 Then lit in sight of all, and rent and tare, 
 Far from the fields that she should range 
 
 no more, 
 Big with her imborn brood, a mother-hare. 
 
 And one beheld, the soldier-prophet true, 
 And the two chiefs, unhke of soul and will. 
 In the twy-colored eagles straight he knew, 
 And spake the omen forth, for good and ill. 
 
 (Ah, woe and well-a-day! but be the issue 
 fair!) 
 
 Go forth, he cried, and Priam's town shall 
 
 fall. 
 Yet long the time shall he; and flock and herd, 
 The people's wealth, that roam before the 
 
 wall, 
 Shall force hew down, when Fate shall give 
 
 the word. 
 
 But O beware! lest wrath in heaven abide, 
 To dim, the glowing battle-forge once more, 
 And mar the mighty curb of Trojan pride. 
 The steel of vengeance, welded as for war! 
 
 For virgin Artemis bears jealous hate 
 Against the royal house, the eagle-pair, 
 Who rend the unborn brood, insatiate — 
 Yea, loathes their banquet on the quivering 
 hare. 
 
 (Ah, woe and well-a-day! but be the issue 
 fair!) 
 
 F<yr well she loves — the goddess kind and 
 
 mild — 
 The tender new-born cu6s of lions bold. 
 Too weak to range — and well the sucking 
 
 child 
 Of every beast that roams by wood and wold. 
 
 So to the Lord of Heaven she prayeth still, 
 "Nay, if it must be, be the omen true! 
 Yet do the visioned eagles presage ill; 
 The end be well, but crossed with evil too!" 
 
 Healer Apollo! be her wrath controll'd. 
 Nor weave the long delay of thwarting gales. 
 To war against the Danaans and withhold 
 From the free ocean-waves their eager sails ! 
 
 She craves, alas! to see a second life 
 Shed forth, a curst unhallowed sacrifice — 
 'Twixt wedded souls, artificer of strife. 
 And hate that knows not fear, and fell device. 
 
 At home there tarries like a lurking snake. 
 Biding its lime, a wrath unreconciled, 
 A wily watcher, passionate to slake. 
 In blood, resentment for a murdered child. 
 
 Such was the mighty warning, pealed of 
 
 yore — 
 Amid good tidings, such the word of fear. 
 What time the fateful eagles hovered o'er 
 The kings, and Calchas read the omen clear. 
 
 (In strains like his, once more, 
 Sing woe and well-a-day! but be the issue 
 fair!) 
 
 Zeus — if to The Unknown 
 
 That name of many names seem good — 
 
 Zeus, upon Thee I call. 
 
 Thro' the mind's every road 
 
 I passed, but vain are all, 
 
 Save that which names thee Zeus, the 
 
 Highest One, 
 Were it but mine to cast away the load, 
 The weary load, that weighs my spirit 
 
 down. 
 
 He that was Lord of old, ^ 
 
 In full-blown pride of place anitalor bold. 
 
 Hath fallen and is gone, even*^ an old tale 
 
 told! 
 And he that next hel^rfway, 
 By stronger grasp o'erthrown 
 Hath pass'd aw^! 
 And whoso now /hall bid the triumph-chant 
 
 arise J 
 To Zeus, and Zeus alone. 
 He shall be found the truly wise. 
 'T is Zeus alone who shows the perfect way 
 Of knowledge: He hath ruled. 
 Men shall learn wisdom, by affliction 
 
 schooled. 
 
 In visions of the night, like dropping rain, 
 Descend the many memories of pain 
 Before the spirit's sight ; through tears and 
 
 dole 
 Comes wisdom o'er the unwilling soul — 
 
CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 A boon, I wot, of all Divinity, 
 That holds its sacred throne in strength, 
 above the sky! 
 
 And then the elder chief, at whose com- 
 mand 
 The fleet of Greece was manned. 
 Cast on the seer no word of hate, 
 But veered before the sudden breath of 
 Fate — 
 
 Ah, weary while! for, ere they put forth 
 sail. 
 
 Did every store, each minish'd vessel, fail, 
 
 While all the Achaean host 
 
 At Aulis anchored lay, 
 
 Looking across to Chalcis and the coast 
 
 Where refluent waters welter, rock, and 
 sway; 
 
 And rife with ill delay 
 
 From northern Strymon blew the thwart- 
 ing blast — 
 
 Mother of famine fell. 
 
 That holds men wand'ring still 
 
 Far from the haven where they fain would 
 be! — 
 
 And pitiless did waste 
 
 Each ship and cable, rotting on the sea, 
 
 And, doubling with delay each weary hour. 
 
 Withered with hope deferred th' Achaeans' 
 warlike flower. 
 
 But when, for bitter storm, a deadlier re- 
 lief, 
 And heavier with ill to either chief, 
 Pleading the ire of Artemis, the seer 
 
 avowed. 
 The two Atridse smote their scepters on the 
 
 plain, 
 And, striving hard, could not their tears 
 
 restrain! 
 And then the elder monarch spake aloud — 
 III lot were mine, to disobey! 
 And ill, to smite my child, my household's 
 
 love and pride ! 
 To stain with virgin blood a father's hands, 
 
 and slay 
 My daughter, by the altar's side ! 
 'Twixt woe and:^oe I dvjell — 
 / dare not like' a recreant fly, 
 And leavB'ihe league 0} ships, and fail each 
 
 true ally; 
 
 For rightfully they crave, with eager fiery 
 mind. 
 
 The virgin's blood, shed forth to lull the ad- 
 verse wind — 
 
 God send the deed be well! 
 
 Thus on his neck he took 
 
 Fate's hard compelling yoke; 
 
 Then, in the counter-gale of will abhorr'd, 
 
 accursed, 
 To recklessness his shifting spirit veered — 
 Alas! that Frenzj', first of ills and worst. 
 With evil craft men's souls to sin hath ever 
 
 stirred! 
 
 And so he steeled his heart — ah, well-a- 
 
 day — 
 Aiding a war for one false woman's sake. 
 His child to slay. 
 And with her spilt blood make 
 An offering, to speed the ships upon their 
 
 jvay! 
 
 Lusting for war, the bloody arbiters 
 Closed heart and ears, and would nor hear 
 
 nor heed 
 The girl-voice plead. 
 Pity me. Father ! nor her prayers, 
 Nor tender, virgin years. 
 
 So, when the chant of sacrifice was done. 
 Her father bade the youthful priestly train 
 Raise her, like some poor kid, above the 
 
 altar-stone. 
 From where amid her robes she lay 
 Sunk all in swoon away — 
 Bade them, as with the bit that mutely 
 
 tames the steed. 
 Her fair lips' speech refrain, 
 Lest she should speak a curse on Atreus' 
 
 home and seed. 
 
 So, trailing on the earth her robe of saffron 
 dye. 
 
 With one last piteous dart from her be- 
 seeching eye 
 
 Those that should smite she smote — 
 
 Fair, silent, as a piotur'd form, but fain 
 
 To plead, Is all forgot f 
 
 How oft those halls of old. 
 
 Wherein my sire high feast did hold, 
 
 Rang to the virginal soft strain, 
 
AGAMEMNON 
 
 When I, a stainless child, 
 
 Sang from pure lips and undefiled, 
 
 Sang of my sire, and all 
 
 His honored life, and how on him should fall 
 
 Heaven's highest gift and gain!- 
 
 And then — but I beheld not, nor can tell, 
 
 What further fate befell: 
 
 But this is sure, that CaJchas' boding 
 
 strain 
 Can ne'er be void or vain. 
 This wage from Justice' hand do sufferers 
 
 earn. 
 The future to discern: 
 And yet — farewell, O secret of To-morrow! 
 Fore-knowledge is fore-sorrow. 
 Clear with the clear beams of the morrow's 
 
 sun, 
 The future presseth on. 
 Now, let the house's tale, how dark soe'er, 
 Find yet an issue fair! — 
 So prays the loyal, solitary band 
 That guards the Apian land. 
 
 [They turn to Clttbmnestha, who 
 leaves the altars and comes for- 
 ward.] 
 
 O queen, I come in reverence of thy sway — 
 For, while the ruler's kingly seat is void, 
 The loyal heart before his consort bends. 
 Now — be it sure and certain news of good. 
 Or the fair tidings of a flatt'ring hope. 
 That bids thee spread the light from shrine 
 
 to shrine, 
 I, fain to hear, yet grudge not if thou hide. 
 Clttemnbstra. As saith the adage. 
 From the womb of Night 
 Spring forth, with promise fair, the young 
 
 child Light. 
 Aye — fairer even than all hope my news — 
 By Grecian hands is Priam's city ta'en! 
 Choktts. What say'st thou? doubtful 
 
 heart makes treach'rous ear. 
 Clttemnestba. Hear then again, and 
 
 plainly — Troy is ours! 
 Chortts. Thrillsthro'my heart such joy 
 
 as wakens tears. 
 Clttemnestba. Aye, thro' those tears 
 
 thine eye looks loyalty. 
 Chorus. But hast thou proof, to make 
 
 assurance sure? 
 Clttemnestba. Go to; I have — un- 
 less the god has lied. 
 
 Chorus. Hath some night-vision won 
 
 thee to belief 7 
 Clttemnestba. Out on all presage of a 
 
 slumb'rous soul! 
 Chobus. But wert thou cheered by 
 
 Rumor's wingless word? 
 Clttemnestba. Peace — thou dost chide 
 
 me as a credulous girl. 
 Chobus. Say then, how long ago the city 
 
 fell? 
 Clttemnestba. Even in this night that 
 
 now brings forth the dawn. 
 Chorus. Yet who so swift could speed 
 
 the message here? 
 Clttemnestba. From Ida's top He- 
 phaestus, lord of fire, 
 Sent forth his sign; and on, and ever on. 
 Beacon to beacon sped the courier-flame. 
 From Ida to the crag, that Hermes loves. 
 Of Lemnos; thence unto the steep sublime 
 Of Athos, throne of Zeus, the broad blaze 
 
 flared. 
 Thence, raised aloft to shoot across the sea. 
 The moving light, rejoicing in its strength. 
 Sped from the pyre of pine, and urged its 
 
 way. 
 In golden glory, like some strange new sun. 
 Onward, and reached Macistus' watching 
 
 heights. 
 There, with no dull delay nor heedless 
 
 The watcher sped the tidings on in turn. 
 Until the guard upon Messapius' peak 
 Saw the far flame gleam on Euripus' tide. 
 And from the high-piled heap of withered 
 
 fiirze 
 Lit the new sign and bade the message on. 
 Then the strong light, far-flown and yet 
 
 undimmed, 
 Shot thro' the sky above Asopus' plain. 
 Bright as the moon, and on Cithasron's 
 
 crag 
 Aroused another watch of flying fire. 
 And there the sentinels no whit disowned, 
 But sent redoubled on, the hest of flame — 
 Swift shot the light, above Gorgopis' bay. 
 To jBgiplanctus' mount, and bade the peak 
 Fail not the onward ordinance of fire. 
 And like a long beard streaming in the 
 
 wind, 
 Full-fed with fuel, roared and rose the 
 
 blaze, 
 
8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 And onward . flaring, gleamed above the 
 
 cape, 
 Beneath which shimmers the Saronic bay, 
 And thence leapt light unto Arachne's peak. 
 The mountain watch that looks upon our 
 
 town. 
 Thence to th' Atrides' roof — in lineage 
 
 fair, 
 A bright posterity of Ida's fire. 
 So sped from stage to stage, fulfilled in 
 
 turn, 
 Flame after flame, along the course or- 
 dained, 
 And lo! the last to speed upon its way 
 Sights the end first, and glows imto the 
 
 goal. 
 And Troy is ta'en, and by this sign my lord 
 Tells me the tale, and ye have learned my 
 
 word. 
 CHORtrs. To heaven, O queen, will I up- 
 raise new song: 
 But, wouldst thou speak once more, I fain 
 
 would hear 
 From first to last the marvel of the tale. 
 Clttemnbstka. Think you — this very 
 
 morn — the Greeks in Troy, 
 And loud therein the voice of utter wail ! 
 Within one cup pour vinegar and oil. 
 And look! unblent, unreconciled, they war. 
 So in the twofold issue of the strife 
 Mingle the victor's shout, the captives' 
 
 moan. 
 For all the conquered whom the sword has 
 
 spared 
 Cling weeping — some unto a brother 
 
 slain. 
 Some childlike to a nursing father's form. 
 And wail the loved and lost, the while their 
 
 neck 
 Bows down already 'neath the captive's 
 
 chain. 
 And lo! the victors, now the fight is done. 
 Goaded by restless hunger, far and wide 
 Range all disordered thro' the town, to 
 
 snatch 
 Such victual and such rest as chance may 
 
 give 
 Within the captive halls that once were 
 
 Troy — 
 Joyful to rid them of the frost and dew. 
 Wherein they couched upon the plain of 
 
 old — 
 
 Joyful to sleep the gracious night all 
 
 through, 
 Unsummoned of the watching sentinel. 
 Yet let them reverence well the city's gods, 
 The lords of Troy, tho' fallen, and her 
 
 shrines; 
 So shall the spoilers not in turn be spoiled. 
 Yea, let no craving for forbidden gain 
 Bid conquerors yield before the darts of 
 
 greed. 
 For we need yet, before the race be won, 
 Homewards, unharmed, to round the 
 
 course once more. 
 For should the host wax wanton ere it 
 
 come. 
 Then, tho' the sudden blow of fate be 
 
 spared. 
 Yet in the sight of gods shall rise once more 
 The great wrong of the slain, to claim re- 
 venge. 
 Now, hearing from this woman's mouth of 
 
 mine. 
 
 The tale and eke its warning, pray with me, 
 
 Liick sway the scale, mth no uncertain poise. 
 
 For my fair hopes are changed to fairer joys. 
 
 Chokus. a gracious word thy woman's 
 
 lips have told. 
 Worthy a wise man's utterance, O my 
 
 queen; 
 Now with clear trust in thy convincing tale 
 I set me to salute the gods with song. 
 Who bring us bliss to counterpoise our 
 
 pain. [Exit Clttemnbstha.] 
 
 Zeus, Lord of heaven! and welcome night 
 Of victory, that hast our might 
 With all the glories crowned! 
 On towers of Ilion, free no more, 
 Hast flung the mighty mesh of war, 
 And closely girt them round. 
 Till neither warrior may 'scape, 
 Nor stripling lightly overleap , 
 The trammels as they close, and close. 
 Till with the grip of doom our foes 
 In slavery's coil are bound! 
 
 Zeus, Lord of hospitality, 
 
 In grateful awe I bend to thee — ~> 
 
 'T is thou hast struck the blow! 
 
 At Alexander, long ago. 
 
 We marked thee bend thy vengeful bow, 
 
 But long and warily withhold 
 
 The eager shaft, which, uncontrolled 
 
AGAMEMNON 
 
 And loosed too soon or launched too high, 
 
 And she, unto her country and her kin 
 
 Had wandered bloodless through the sky. 
 
 Leaving the clash of shields and spears and 
 
 
 arming ships. 
 
 Zeus, the high God! — whate'er be dim in 
 
 And bearing unto Troy destruction for a 
 
 doubt, 
 
 dower. 
 
 This can our thought track out — 
 
 And overbold in sin. 
 
 The blow that fells the sinner is of God, 
 
 Went fleetly thro' the gates, at midnight 
 
 And as he wiUs, the rod 
 
 Ijour. 
 
 Of vengeance smiteth sore. One said of old, 
 
 Oft from the prophets' lips 
 
 The gods list not to hold 
 
 Moaned out the warning and the wail — 
 
 A reckoning with him whose feet oppress 
 
 Ah, woe! 
 
 The grace of holiness — 
 
 Woe for the home, the home! and for the 
 
 An impious word ! for whensoe'er the sire 
 
 chieftains, woe! 
 
 Breathed forth rebellious fire — 
 
 Woe for the bride-bed, warm 
 
 What time his household overflowed the 
 
 Yet from the lovely limbs, the impress of 
 
 measure 
 
 the form 
 
 Of bliss and health and treasure — 
 
 Of her who loved her lord, awhile ago ! 
 
 His children's children read the reckoning 
 
 And woe! for him who stands 
 
 plain. 
 
 Shamed, silent, umeproachful, stretching 
 
 At last, in tears and pain. 
 
 hands 
 
 
 That find her not, and sees, yet will not 
 
 On me let weal that brings no woe be sent. 
 
 see, 
 
 And therewithal, content! 
 
 That she is far away! 
 
 Who spurns the shrine of Right, nor wealth 
 
 And his sad fancy, yearning o'er the sea, 
 
 nor power 
 
 Shall summon and recall 
 
 Shall be to him a tower. 
 
 Her wraith, once more to queen it in his 
 
 To guard him from the gulf: there lies his 
 
 hall. 
 
 lot, 
 
 And sad with many memories. 
 
 Where all things are forgot. 
 
 The fair cold beauty of each sculptured 
 
 Lust drives him on — lust, desperate and 
 
 face — 
 
 wild, 
 
 And all to hatefulness is turned their grace, 
 
 Fate's sin-contriving child — 
 
 Seen blankly by forlorn and hungering 
 
 And cure is none ; beyond concealment clear. 
 
 eyes! 
 
 Kindles sin's baleful glare. 
 
 And when the night is deep. 
 
 As an ill coin beneath the wearing touch 
 
 Come visions, sweet and sad, and bearing 
 
 Betrays by stain and smutch 
 
 pain 
 
 Its metal false — such is the sinful wight. 
 
 Of hopings vain — 
 
 Before, on pinions light. 
 
 Void, void and vain, for scarce the sleeping 
 
 Fair Pleasure flits, and lures him childlike 
 
 sight 
 
 on. 
 
 Has seen its old delight, 
 
 While home and kin make moan 
 
 When thro' the grasps of love that bid it 
 
 Beneath the grinding burden of his crime; 
 
 stay 
 
 Till, in the end of time. 
 
 It vanishes away 
 
 Cast down of heaven, he pours forth fruit- 
 
 On silent wings that roam adown the ways 
 
 less prayer 
 
 of sleep. 
 
 To powers that will not hear. 
 
 
 
 Such are the sights, the sorrows fell. 
 
 And such did Paris come 
 
 About our hearth — and worse, whereof I 
 
 Unto Atrides' home. 
 
 may not tell. 
 
 And thence, with sin and shame his wel- 
 
 But, all the wide town o'er. 
 
 come to repay, 
 
 Each home that sent its master far away 
 
 Ravished the wife away — ! 
 
 From Hellas' shore, 
 
CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Feels the keen thrill of heart, the pang of 
 
 loss, to-day. 
 For, truth to say. 
 
 The touch of bitter death is manifold! 
 Familiar was each face, and dear as life, 
 That Went unto the war. 
 But thither, whence a warrior went of old, 
 Doth nought return — 
 Only a spear and sword, and ashes in an 
 
 urn! 
 For Ares, lord of strife. 
 Who doth the swaying scales of battle hold, 
 War's money-changer, giving dust for gold, 
 Sends back, to hearts that held them dear, 
 Scant ash of warriors, wept with many a 
 
 tear. 
 Light to the hand, but heavy to the soul; 
 Yea, fills the light urn full 
 With what survived the flame — 
 Death's dusty measure of a hero's frame! 
 
 Alas! one cries, and yet alas again! 
 
 Our chief is gone, the hero oj the spear, 
 
 And hath not left his peer! 
 
 Ah, woe! another moans — my spouse is 
 
 The death of honor, rolled in dust and blood, 
 Slain for a woman's sin, a false wife's shame! 
 Such muttered words of bitter mood 
 Rise against those who went forth to re- 
 claim ; 
 Yea, jealous wrath creeps on against th' 
 Atrides' name. 
 
 And others, far beneath the Ilian wall, 
 Sleep their last sleep — the goodly chiefs 
 
 and tall. 
 Couched in the foeman's land, whereon 
 
 they gave 
 Their breath, and lords of Troy, each in his 
 
 Trojan grave. 
 
 Therefore for each and all the city's breast 
 
 Is 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 the high gods' doom 
 
 Against the sons of carnage: all too long 
 
 Seems the unjust to prosper and be strong, 
 
 Till the dark Furies come. 
 And smite with stern reversal all his home, 
 Down into dim obstruction — he is gone. 
 And help and hope, among the lost, is none! 
 
 O'er him who vaunteth an exceeding fame. 
 
 Impends a woe condign; 
 
 The vengeful bolt upon his eyes doth flame, 
 
 Sped from the hand divine. 
 
 This bliss 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 estate beneath another's 
 
 heel! 
 
 Behold, throughout the city wide 
 
 Have the swift feet of Rumor hied. 
 
 Roused by the joyful flame: 
 
 But is the news they scatter, sooth ? 
 
 Or haply do they give for truth 
 
 Some cheat which heaven doth frame? 
 
 A child were he and all unwise. 
 
 Who let his heart with joy be stirred. 
 
 To see the beacon-fires arise. 
 
 And then, beneath some thwarting wGrd, 
 
 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 born, as lightly dies 
 
 The tale that springs of her surmise. 
 
 Soon shall we know whereof the bale-fires 
 
 tell. 
 The beacons, kindled with transmitted 
 
 flame; 
 Whether, as well I deem, their tale is true. 
 Or whether like some dream delusive came 
 The welcome blaze but to befool our soul. 
 For lo! I see a herald from the shore 
 Draw hither, shadowed with the olive- 
 wreath — 
 And thirsty dust, twin-brother of the clay, 
 Speaks plain of travel far and truthful 
 
 news — 
 No dumb surmise, nor tongue of flame in 
 
 smoke. 
 Fitfully kindled from the mountain pyre; 
 But plainlier shall his voice say, All is well, 
 Or — but away, forebodings adverse, now, 
 
AGAMEMNON 
 
 And on fair promise fair fulfillment come! 
 And whoso for the state prays otherwise, 
 Himself reap harvest of his ill desire! 
 
 [Enter Herald.] 
 
 Herald. O land of Argos, fatherland of 
 
 mine! 
 To thee at last, beneath the tenth year's 
 
 sun, 
 My feet return; the bark of my emprise, 
 Tho' one by one hope's anchors broke 
 
 away, 
 Held by the last, and now rides safely here. 
 Long, long my soul despaired to win, in 
 
 death. 
 Its longed-for rest within our Argive land : 
 And now all hail, O earth, and hail to thee. 
 New-risen sun! and hail our country's God, 
 High-ruling Zeus, and thou, the Pythian 
 
 lord, 
 Whose arrows smote us once — smite thou 
 
 no more! 
 Was not thy wrath wreaked full upon our 
 
 heads, 
 O king Apollo, by Scamander's side? 
 Turn thou, be turned, be savior, healer, 
 
 now! 
 And hail, all gods who rule the street and 
 
 mart 
 And Hermes hail! my patron and my pride. 
 Herald of heaven, and lordof heralds here! 
 And Heroes, ye who sped us on our way — 
 To one and all I cry. Receive again 
 With grace such Argives as the spear has 
 
 spared. 
 
 Ah, home of royalty, beloved halls. 
 
 And solemn shrines, and gods that front 
 
 the mom! 
 Benign as erst, with sun-flushed aspect 
 
 greet 
 The king returning after many days. 
 For as from night flash out the beams of 
 
 day, 
 So out of darkness dawns a light, a king. 
 On you, on Argos — Agamemnon comes. 
 Then hail and greet him well! such meed 
 
 befits 
 Him whose right hand hewed down the 
 
 towers of Troy 
 With the great axe of Zeus who righteth 
 
 wrong — 
 
 And smote the plain, smote down to noth- 
 ingness 
 Each altar, every shrine; and far and wide 
 Dies from the whole land's face its off- 
 spring fair. 
 Such mighty yoke of fate he set on Troy — 
 Our lord and monarch, Atreus' elder son. 
 And comes at last with blissful honor home ; 
 Highest of all who walk on earth to-day — 
 Not Paris nor the city's self that paid 
 Sin's price with him, can boast, Whate'er 
 
 befall, 
 The guerdon we have won outweighs it all. 
 But at Fate's judgment-seat the robber 
 
 Condemned of rapine, and his prey is torn 
 Forth from his hands, and by his deed is 
 
 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 the dust. 
 Chorus. Hail, herald of the Greeks, 
 
 new-come from war. 
 Herald. All hail! not death itself can 
 
 fright me now. 
 Choktjs. Was thine heart wrung with 
 
 longing for thy land? 
 Herald. So that this joy doth brim 
 
 mine eyes with tears. 
 Chorus. On you, too, then, this sweet 
 
 distress did fall — 
 Herald. How say'st thou? make me 
 
 master of thy word. 
 Chorus. You longed for us who pined 
 
 for you again. 
 Herald. Craved the land us who craved 
 
 it, love for love? 
 Chorus. Yea, till my brooding heart 
 
 moaned out with pain. 
 Herald. Whence thy despair, that 
 
 mars the army's joy? 
 Chorus. Sole cure of wrong is silence, 
 
 saith the saw. 
 Herald. Thy kings afar, couldst thou 
 
 fear other men? 
 Chorus. Death had been sweet, as thou 
 
 didst say but now. 
 Herald. 'T is true; Fate smiles at last. 
 Throughout our toil, 
 These many years, some chances issued 
 
 fair, 
 
12 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 And some, I wot, were checkered with a 
 
 curse. 
 But who, on earth, hath won the bliss of 
 
 heaven, 
 Thro' time's whole tenor an unbroken 
 
 weal? 
 I could a tale unfold of toiling oars, 
 111 rest, scant landings on a shore rock- 
 strewn. 
 All pains, all sorrows, for our daily doom. 
 And worse and hatefuUer our woes on land; 
 For where we couched, close by the foeman's 
 
 wall. 
 The river-plain was ever dank with dews. 
 Dropped from the sky, exuded from the 
 
 earth, 
 A curse that clung unto our sodden garb. 
 And hair as horrent as a wild beast's fell. 
 Why tell the woes of winter, when the birds 
 Lay stark and stiff, so stern was Ida's 
 
 snow? 
 Or summer's scorch, what time the stirless 
 
 wave 
 Sank to its sleep beneath the noonday sun ? 
 Why mourn old woes ? their pain has passed 
 
 away; 
 And passed away, from those who fell, all 
 
 care, 
 Forevermore, to rise and live again. 
 Why sum the count of death, and render 
 
 thanks 
 For life by moaning over fate malign? 
 Farewell, a long farewell to all our woes! 
 To us, the remnant of the host of Greece, 
 Comes weal beyond all counterpoise of 
 ' woe; 
 
 Thus boast we rightfully to yonder sun, 
 Like him far-fleeted over sea and land. 
 The Argive host prevailed to conquer Troy, 
 And in the temples of the gods of Greece 
 Hung up these spoils, a shining sign to Time. 
 Let those who learn this legend bless aright 
 The city and its chieftains, and repay 
 The meed of gratitude to Zeus who willed 
 And wrought the deed. So stands the tale 
 
 fulfilled. 
 Chorus. Thy words o'erbear my doubt: 
 
 for news of good. 
 The ear of age hath ever youth enow : 
 But those within and Clytemnestra's self 
 Would fain hear all; glad thou their ears 
 
 and mine. 
 
 [Re-enter Clttbmnestra.] 
 
 Clttemnbstra. Last night, when first 
 
 the fiery courier came. 
 In sign that Troy is ta'en and razed to 
 
 earth, 
 So wild a cry of joy my lips gave out. 
 That I was chidden — Hath the beacon 
 
 watch 
 Made sure unto thy soul the sack of Troy ? 
 A very woman thou, whose heart leaps light 
 At wandering rumors! — and with words 
 
 like these 
 They showed me how I strayed, misled of 
 
 hope. 
 Yet on each shrine I set the sacrifice, 
 And, in the strain they held for feminine, 
 Went heralds thro' the city, to and fro. 
 With voice of loud proclaim, announcing 
 
 joy; 
 And in each fane they lit and quenched 
 
 with wine 
 The spicy perfumes fading in the flame. 
 All is fulfilled: I spare your longer tale — 
 The king himself anon shall tell me all. 
 
 Remains to think what honor best may 
 
 greet 
 My lord, the majesty of Argos, home. 
 What day beams fairer on a woman's eyes 
 Than this, whereon she flings the portal 
 
 wide. 
 To hail her lord, heaven-shielded, home 
 
 from war? 
 This to my husband, that he tarry not. 
 But turn the city's longing into joy! 
 Yea, let him come, and coming may he find 
 A wife no other than he left her, true 
 And faithful as a watch -dog to his home, 
 His foemen's foe, in all her duties leal. 
 Trusty to keep for ten long years unmarred 
 The store whereon he set his master-seal. 
 Be steel deep-dyed, before ye look to see 
 111 joy, ill fame, from other wight, in me! 
 HbbaIjD. 'T is fairly said: thus speaks a 
 
 noble dame. 
 Nor speaks amiss, when truth informs the 
 
 boast. [Exit Clttbmnestra.] 
 
 Chorus. So has she spoken — be it 
 
 yours to learn 
 By clear interpreters her specious word. 
 Turn to me, herald, — teU me if anon 
 
AGAMEMNON 
 
 13 
 
 The second well-loved lord of Argos comes ? 
 Hath Menelaus safely sped with you ? 
 Herald. Alas — brief boon unto my 
 
 friends it were, 
 To flatter them, for truth, with falsehoods 
 
 fair! 
 Chortjs. Speak joy, if truth be joy, but 
 
 truth, at worst — 
 Too plainly, truth and joy are here di- 
 vorced. 
 Herald. The hero and his bark were 
 
 rapt away 
 Far from the Grecian fleet ? 't is truth I say. 
 Chorus. Whether in all men's sight 
 
 from Ihon borne. 
 Or from the fleet by stress of weather torn ? 
 Herald. Full on the mark thy shaft of 
 
 speech doth light. 
 And one short word hath told long woes 
 
 aright. 
 Chorus. But say, what now of him each 
 
 comrade saith? 
 What their forebodings, of his life or death ? 
 Herald. Ask me no more: the truth is 
 
 known to none, 
 Save the earth-fostering, all-surveying 
 
 Sun, 
 Chorus. Say, by what doom the fleet 
 
 of Greece was driven ? 
 How rose, how sank the storm, the wrath 
 
 of Heaven? 
 Herald. Nay, ill it were to mar with 
 
 sorrow's tale 
 The day of blissful news. The gods demand 
 Thanksgiving sundered from solicitude. 
 If one as herald came with rueful face 
 To say. The curse has fallen, and the host 
 Gone down to death; and one vnde wound has 
 
 reached 
 The city's heart, and out of many homes 
 Many are cast and consecrate to death. 
 Beneath the double scourge, that Ares loves. 
 The bloody 'pair, the fire and sword of doom — 
 If such sore burden weighed upon my 
 
 tongue, 
 'T were fit to speak such words as gladden 
 
 fiends. 
 But — coming as he comes who bringeth 
 
 news 
 Of safe return from toil, and issues fair. 
 To men rejoicing in a weal restored — 
 Dare I to dash good words with ill, and say 
 
 How the gods' anger smote the Greeks in 
 
 storm? 
 For fire and sea, that erst held bitter feud, 
 Now swore conspiracy and pledged their 
 
 faith, 
 Wa.sting the Argives worn with toil and 
 
 war. 
 Night and great horror of the rising wave 
 Came o'er us, and the blasts that blow 
 
 from Thrace 
 Clashed ship with ship, and some with 
 
 plunging prow 
 Thro' scudding drifts of spray and raving 
 
 storm 
 Vanished, as strays by some ill shepherd 
 
 driven. 
 And when at length the sun rose bright, we 
 
 saw 
 Th' .iEgean sea-field flecked with flowers 
 
 of death, 
 Corpses of Grecian men and shattered 
 
 hulls. 
 For us, indeed, some god, was well I deem. 
 No human power, laid hand upon our helm, 
 Snatched us or prayed us from the powers 
 
 of air. 
 And brought our bark thro' all, unharmed 
 
 in hull: 
 And saving Fortime sat and steered us fair, 
 So that no surge should gulf us deep in 
 
 brine, 
 Nor grind our keel upon a rocky shore. 
 
 So 'scaped we death that lurks beneath the 
 
 sea, 
 But, under day's white light, mistrustful all 
 Of Fortune's smile, we sat and brooded 
 
 deep, 
 Shepherds forlorn of thoughts that wan- 
 dered wild. 
 O'er this new woe; for smitten was our 
 
 host, 
 And lost as ashes scattered from the pyre. 
 Of whom if any draw his life-breath yet. 
 Be well assured, he deems of us as dead, 
 As we of him no other fate forebode. 
 But Heaven save all! If Menelaus live, 
 He will not tarry, but will surely come : 
 Therefore if anywhere the high sun's ray 
 Descries him upon earth, preserved by 
 
 Zeus, 
 Who wills not yet to wipe his race away, 
 
14 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Hope still there is that homeward he may 
 
 wend. 
 Enough — thou hast the truth unto the 
 end. [Exit Herald.] 
 
 Choeus. Say, from whose lips the pres- 
 age fell? 
 Who read the future all too well, 
 And named her, in her natal hour, 
 Helen, the bride with war for dower? 
 'T was one of the Invisible, 
 Guiding his tongue with prescient power. 
 On fleet, and host, and citadel. 
 War, sprung from her, and death did lour. 
 When from the bride-bed's fine-spun veil 
 She to the Zephyr spread her sail. 
 Strong blew the breeze — the surge closed 
 
 o'er 
 The cloven track of keel and oar. 
 But while she fled, there drove along. 
 Fast in her wake, a mighty throng — ■ 
 Athirst for blood, athirst for war. 
 Forward in fell pursuit they sprung. 
 Then leapt on Simois' bank ashore, 
 The leafy coppices among — 
 No rangers, they, of wood and field. 
 But huntsmen of the sword and shield. 
 
 Heaven's jealousy, that works its will. 
 
 Sped thus on Troy its destined ill. 
 
 Well named, at once, the Bride and Bane; 
 
 And loud rang out the bridal strain; 
 
 But they to whom that song befell 
 
 Did turn anon to tears again; 
 
 Zeus tarries, but avenges still 
 
 The husband's wrong, the household's 
 
 stain! 
 He, the hearth's lord, brooks not to see 
 Its outraged hospitality. 
 
 Even now, and in far other tone, 
 Troy chants her dirge of mighty moan. 
 Woe upon Paris, woe and hate ! 
 Who wooed his country's doom for mate — 
 This is the burden of the groan, 
 Wherewith she wails disconsolate 
 The blood, so many of her own 
 Have poured in vain, to fend her fate; 
 Troy! thou hast fed and freed to roam 
 A lion- cub within thy home! 
 
 A suckling creature, newly ta'en 
 From mother's teat, still fully fain 
 
 Of nursing care; and oft caressed, 
 Within the arms, upon the breast, 
 Even as an infant, has it lain; 
 Or fawns and licks, by hunger pressed, 
 The hand that will assuage its pain ; 
 In life's yoimg dawn, a well-loved guest, 
 A fondling for the children's play, 
 A joy unto the old and gray. 
 
 But waxing time and growth betrays 
 The blood-thirst of the lion-race. 
 And, for the house's fostering care, 
 Unbidden aU, it revels there. 
 And bloody recompense repays — 
 Rent flesh of kine, its talons tare : 
 A mighty beast, that slays, and slays, 
 And mars with blood the household fair, 
 A God-sent pest invincible, 
 A minister of fate and hell. 
 
 Even so to Ilion's city came by stealth 
 A spirit as of windless seas and skies, 
 A gentle phantom-form of joy and wealth. 
 With love's soft arrows speeding from its 
 
 eyes — 
 Love's rose, whose thorn doth pierce the 
 
 soul in subtle wise. 
 
 Ah, well-a-day! the bitter bridal-bed. 
 When the fair mischief lay by Paris' side! 
 What curse on palace and on people sped 
 With her, the Fury sent on Priam's pride. 
 By angered Zeus! what tears of many a 
 widowed bride! 
 
 Long, long ago to mortals this was told, 
 How sweet security and blissful state 
 Have curses for their children — so men 
 
 hold — 
 And for the man of ail-too prosperous fate 
 Springs from a bitter seed some woe in- 
 Satiate. 
 
 Alone, alone, I deem far otherwise; 
 
 Not bliss nor wealth it is, but impious 
 
 deed. 
 From which that after-growth of ill doth 
 
 rise! 
 Woe springs from wrong, the plant is like 
 
 the seed — 
 While Right, in Honor's house, doth its 
 
 own likeness breed. 
 
AGAMEMNON 
 
 IS 
 
 Some past impiety, some gray old crime, 
 Breeds the young curse, that wantons in 
 
 our ill, 
 Early or late, when haps th' appointed 
 
 time — 
 And out of light brings power of darkness 
 
 still, 
 A master-fiend, a foe, unseen, invincible; 
 
 A pride accursed, that broods upon the race 
 
 And home in which dark At6 holds her 
 sway — 
 
 Sin's child and Woe's, that wears its par- 
 ents' face; 
 
 While Right in smoky cribs shines clear as 
 day, 
 
 And decks with weal his life, who walks 
 the righteous way. 
 
 From gilded halls, that hands polluted 
 
 raise, 
 Right turns away with proud averted eyes, 
 And of the wealth, men stamp amiss with 
 
 praise, 
 Heedless, to poorer, holier temples hies, 
 And to Fate's goal guides all, in its ap- 
 pointed wise. 
 
 Hail to thee, chief of Atreus' race, 
 Returning proud from Troy subdued! 
 How shall I greet thy conquering face ? 
 How nor a fulsome praise obtrude, 
 Nor stint the meed of gratitude? 
 For mortal men who fall to ill 
 Take little heed of open truth, 
 But seek unto its semblance still : 
 The show of weeping and of ruth 
 To the forlorn will all men pay, 
 But, of the grief their eyes display, 
 Nought to the heart doth pierce its way. 
 And, with the joyous, they beguile 
 Their lips unto a feignM smile. 
 And force a joy, unfelt the while; 
 But he who as a shepherd wise 
 Doth know his flock, can ne'er misread 
 Truth in the falsehood of his eyes. 
 Who veils beneath a kindly guise 
 A lukewarm love in deed. 
 And thou, our leader — when of yore 
 Thou badest Greece go forth to war 
 For Helen's sake — I dare avow 
 That then I held thee not as now; 
 
 That to my vision thou didst seem 
 
 Dyed in the hues of disesteem. 
 
 I held thee for a pilot ill. 
 
 And reckless, of thy proper will, 
 
 Endowing others doomed to die 
 
 With vain and forced audacity! 
 
 Now from my heart, ungrudgingly. 
 
 To those that wrought, this word be said — 
 
 Well fall the labor ye have sped — 
 
 Let time and search, O king, declare 
 
 What men within thy city's bound 
 
 Were loyal to the kingdom's care. 
 
 And who were faithless found. 
 
 [Enter Agamemnon in a chariot, accom- 
 panied by Cassandra. He speaks 
 without descending.] 
 
 Agamemnon. First, as is meet, a king's 
 
 All-hail be said 
 To Argos, and the gods that guard the 
 
 land — 
 Gods who with me availed to speed us home, 
 With me availed to wring from Priam's 
 
 town 
 The due of justice. In the court of heaven 
 The gods in conclave sat and judged the 
 
 cause, 
 Not from a pleader's tongue, and at the 
 
 close, 
 Unanimous into the urn of doom 
 This sentence gave, On Ilion and her mem, 
 Death: and where hope drew nigh to par- 
 don's urn 
 No hand there was to cast a vote therein. 
 And still the smoke of fallen Ilion 
 Rises in sight of all men, and the flame 
 Of Atl's hecatomb is living yet, 
 And where the towers in dusty ashes sink, 
 Rise the rich fumes of pomp and wealth 
 
 consumed. 
 For this must all men pay unto the gods 
 The meed of mindful hearts and gratitude: 
 For by our hands the meshes of revenge 
 Closed on the prey, and for one woman's 
 
 sake 
 Troy trodden by the Argive monster lies — 
 The foal, the shielded band that leapt the 
 
 wall, 
 What time with autumn sank the Pleiades. 
 Yea, o'er the fencing wall a lion sprang 
 Ravening, and lapped his fill of blood of 
 
 kings. 
 
i6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Such prelude spoken to the gods in full, 
 To you I turn, and to the hidden thing 
 Whereof ye spake but now: and in that 
 
 thought 
 I am as you, and what ye say, say I. 
 For few are they who have such inborn 
 
 grace. 
 As to look up with love, and envy not. 
 When stands another on the height of weal. 
 Deep in his heart, whom jealousy hath 
 
 seized. 
 Her poison lurking doth enhance his load; 
 For now beneath his proper woes he chafes, 
 And sighs withal to see another's weal. 
 
 I speak not idly, but from knowledge 
 
 sure^ 
 There be who vaunt an utter loyalty, 
 That is but as the ghost of friendship dead, 
 A shadow in a glass, of faith gone by. 
 One only — he who went reluctant forth 
 Across the seas with me — Odysseus — he 
 Was loyal unto me with strength and will, 
 A trusty trace-horse bound unto my car. 
 Thus — be he yet beneath the light of day. 
 Or dead; as well I fear — I speak his praise. 
 
 Lastly, whate'er be due to men or gods, 
 With joint debate, in public council held, 
 We will decide, and warily contrive 
 That all which now is well may so abide: 
 For that which haply needs the healer's 
 
 art, 
 That will we medicine, discerning well 
 If cautery or knife befit the time. 
 
 Now, to my palace and the shrines of home, 
 I will pass in, and greet you first and fair. 
 Ye gods, who bade me forth, and home 
 
 again — 
 And long may Victory tarry in my train! 
 
 [Enter Clttbmnbstra, followed by maidens 
 bearing purple robes.] 
 
 Clttbmnestba. Old men of Argos, 
 
 lieges of our realm. 
 Shame shall not bid me shrink lest ye 
 
 should see 
 The love I bear my lord. Such blushing 
 
 fear 
 Dies at the last from hearts of human kind. 
 From mine own soul and from no alien lips, 
 
 I know and will reveal the hf e I bore. 
 Reluctant, through the lingering hvelong 
 
 years. 
 The while my lord beleaguered Ilion's wall. 
 
 First, that a wife sat sundered from her 
 
 lord. 
 In widowed solitude, was utter woe — 
 And woe, to hear how Rumor's many 
 
 tongues 
 All boded evil — woe, when he who came 
 And he who followed spake of ill on ill. 
 Keening Lost, lost, ail lost! thro' hall and 
 
 bower. 
 Had this my husband met so many wounds. 
 As by a thousand channels Rumor told. 
 No network e'er was full of holes as he. 
 Had he been slain, as oft as tidings came 
 That he was dead, he well might boast him 
 
 now 
 A second Geryon of triple frame. 
 With triple robe of earth above him laid — 
 For that below, no matter — triply dead. 
 Dead by one death for every form he bore. 
 And thus distraught by news of wrath and 
 
 woe. 
 Oft for self-slaughter had I slung the noose. 
 But others wrenched it from my neck . 
 
 away. 
 Hence haps it that Orestes, thine and mine. 
 The pledge and symbol of our wedded 
 
 troth. 
 Stands not beside us now, as he should 
 
 stand. 
 Nor marvel thou at this : he dwells with one 
 Who guards him loyally; 't is Phocis' king, 
 Strophius, who warned me erst. Bethink 
 
 thee, queen, 
 What woes of doubtful issue well may fall! 
 Thy lord in daily jeopardy at Troy, 
 While here a populace uncurbed may cry 
 "Down with the council, down!" bethink thee 
 
 too, 
 'T is the world's way to set a harder heel 
 On fallen power. 
 
 For thy child's absence, then. 
 Such mine excuse, no wily afterthought. 
 For me, long since the gushing fount of 
 
 tears 
 Is wept away; no drop is left to shed. 
 Dim are the eyes that ever watched till 
 dawn, 
 
AGAMEMNON 
 
 17 
 
 Weeping, the bale-fires, piled for thy re- 
 turn, 
 Night after night unkindled. If I slept. 
 Each sound — the tiny humming of a gnat 
 Roused me again, again, from fitful dreams 
 Wherein I felt thee smitten, saw thee slain, 
 Thrice for each moment of mine hour of 
 sleep. 
 
 All this I bore, and now, released from woe, 
 
 I hail my lord as watch-dog of a fold. 
 
 As saving stay-rope of a storm-tossed ship, 
 
 As column stout that holds the roof aloft. 
 
 As only chUd unto a sire bereaved. 
 
 As land beheld, past hope, by crews forlorn. 
 
 As sunshine fair when tempest's wrath is 
 
 past, 
 As gushing spring to thirsty wayfarer. 
 So sweet it is to 'scape the press of pain. 
 With such salute I bid my husband hail! 
 Nor Heaven be wroth therewith! for long 
 
 and hard 
 I bore that ire of old. 
 
 Sweet lord, step forth. 
 Step from thy car, I pray — nay, not on 
 
 earth 
 Plant the proud foot, O king, that trod 
 
 down Troy! 
 Women! why tarry ye, whose task it is 
 To spread your monarch's path with tap- 
 estry? 
 Swift, swift, with purple strew his passage 
 
 fair, 
 That justice lead him to a home, at last. 
 He scarcely looked to see. 
 
 For what remains. 
 Zeal unsubdued by sleep shall nerve my 
 
 hand 
 To work as right and as the gods command. 
 Agamemnon. Daughter of Leda, watcher 
 
 o'er my home. 
 Thy greeting well befits mine absence long. 
 For late and hardly has it reached its end. 
 Know, that the praise which honor bids us 
 
 crave. 
 Must come from others' lips, not from our 
 
 own:. 
 See too that not in fashion feminine 
 Thou make a warrior's pathway delicate; 
 Not unto me, as to some Eastern lord. 
 Bowing thyself to earth, make homage 
 
 loud. 
 
 Strew not this purple that shall make each 
 
 step 
 An arrogance ; such pomp beseems the gods, 
 Not me. A mortal man to set his foot 
 On these rich dyes ? I hold such pride in 
 
 fear, 
 And bid thee honor me as man, not god. 
 Fear not — such footcloths and all gauds 
 
 apart. 
 Loud from the trump of Fame my name is 
 
 blown 
 Best gift of Heaven it is, in glory's hour. 
 To think thereon with soberness: and 
 
 thou — 
 Bethink thee of the adage. Call none blest 
 Till peaceful death have crowned u, life of 
 
 weal. 
 'Tis said: I fain would fare unvexed by 
 fear. 
 Clttemnbstra. Nay, but unsay it — 
 
 thwart not thou my will! 
 Agamemnon. Know, I have said, and 
 
 will not mar my word. 
 Clttemnbstra. Was it fear made this 
 
 meekness to the gods ? 
 Agamemnon. If cause be cause, 't is 
 
 mine for this resolve. 
 Clttemnestra. What, think'st thou, 
 
 in thy place had Priam done? 
 Agamemnon. He surely would have 
 
 walked on broidered robes. 
 Clttemnestra. Then fear not thou the 
 
 voice of human blame. 
 Agamemnon. Yet mighty is the murmur 
 
 of a crowd. 
 Clttemnestra. Shrink not from envy, 
 
 appanage of bliss. 
 Agamemnon. War is not woman's part, 
 
 nor war of words. 
 Clttemnestra. Yet happy victors well 
 
 may yield therein. 
 Agamemnon. Dost crave for triumph in 
 
 this petty strife? 
 Clttemnestra. Yield; of thy grace 
 
 permit me to prevail! 
 Agamemnon. Then, if thou wilt, let 
 some one stoop to loose 
 Swiftly these sandals, slaves beneath my 
 
 foot: 
 And stepping thus upon the sea's rich dye, 
 I pray. Let none among the gods look down 
 With jealous eye on me — reluctant all, 
 
i8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 To trample thus and mar a thing of price, 
 Wasting the wealth of garments silver- 
 worth. 
 Enough hereof: and, for the stranger maid, 
 Lead her within, but gently: God on high 
 Looks graciously on him whom triumph's 
 
 hour 
 Has made not pitiless. None willingly 
 Wear the slave's yoke — and she, the prize 
 
 and flower 
 Of all we won, comes hither in my train. 
 Gift of the army to its chief and lord. 
 — Now, since in this my will bows down 
 
 to thine, 
 I will pass in on purples to my home. 
 Clytemnbstba. a Sea there is — and 
 who shall stay its springs ? 
 And deep within its breast, a mighty store. 
 Precious as silver, of the purple dye, 
 Whereby the dipped robe doth its tint re- 
 new. 
 Enough of such, O king, within thy halls 
 There lies, a store that cannot fail; but I — 
 I would have gladly vowed unto the gods 
 Cost of a thousand garments trodden thus 
 (Had once the oracle such gift required), 
 Contriving ransom for thy life preserved. 
 For while the stock is firm the foliage 
 
 climbs. 
 Spreading a shade, what time the dog-star 
 
 glows; 
 And thou, returning to thine hearth and 
 
 home. 
 Art as a genial warmth in winter hours. 
 Or as a coolness, when the lord of heaven 
 Mellows the juice within the bitter grape. 
 Such boons and more doth bring into a 
 
 home 
 The present footstep of its proper lord. 
 Zeus, Zeus, Fulfillment's lord! my vows 
 
 fulfill. 
 And whatsoe'er it be, work forth thy will! 
 [Exeunt all but Cassandea and 
 the CHORtrs.] 
 Chobtis. Wherefore forever on the 
 wings of fear 
 Hovers a vision drear 
 Before my boding heart? a strain. 
 Unbidden and unwelcome, thrills mine ear. 
 Oracular of pain. 
 
 Not as of old upon my bosom's throne 
 Sits Confidence, to spurn 
 
 Such fears, like dreams we know not to 
 
 discern. 
 Old, old and gray long since the time has 
 
 grown. 
 Which saw the linkfed cables moor 
 The fleet, when erst it came to Ilion's 
 
 sandy shore; 
 And now mine eyes and not another's see 
 Their safe return. 
 Yet none the less in me 
 The inner spirit sings a boding song, 
 Self-prompted, sings the Furies' strain — 
 And seeks, and seeks in vain. 
 To hope and to be strong! 
 
 Ah! to some end of Fate, unseen, unguessed, 
 Are these wild throbbings of my heart and 
 
 breast — 
 Yea, of some doom they tell — 
 Each pulse, a knell. 
 Lief, lief I were, that all 
 To unfulfiUment's hidden realm might fall. 
 
 Too far, too far our mortal spirits strive. 
 Grasping at utter weal, unsatisfied — 
 Till the fell curse, that dwelleth hard be- 
 side. 
 Thrust down the sundering wall. Too fair 
 
 they blow, 
 The gales that waft our bark on Fortune's 
 
 tide! 
 Swiftly we sail, the sooner all to drive 
 Upon the hidden rock, the reef of woe. 
 
 Then 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 saves the bark: 
 even so, 
 
 Doom-laden though it be, once more may 
 rise 
 
 His household, who is timely wise. 
 
 How oft the famine-stricken field 
 
 Is saved by God's large gift, the new year's 
 
 yield! 
 But blood of man once spilled, 
 Once at his feet shed forth, and darkening 
 
 the plain, — 
 Nor chant nor charm can call it back again. 
 So Zeus hath willed: 
 
AGAMEMNON 
 
 19 
 
 Else had he spared the leech Asclepius, 
 skilled 
 
 To bring man from the dead: the hand di- 
 vine 
 
 Did smite himseU with death — a warning 
 and a sign. 
 
 Ah me! if Fate, ordained of old, 
 
 Held not the will of gods constrained, con- 
 trolled. 
 
 Helpless to us-ward, and apart — 
 
 Swifter than speech my heart 
 
 Had poured its presage out! 
 
 Now, fretting, chafing in the dark of 
 doubt, 
 
 'T is hopeless to unfold 
 
 Truth, from fear's tangled skein; and, 
 yearning to proclaim 
 
 Its thought, my soul is prophecy and flame. 
 
 [Re-enter Clttemnestba.] 
 
 Clytbmnestra. Get thee within thou 
 
 too, Cassandra, go! 
 For Zeus to thee in gracious mercy grants 
 To share the sprinklings of the lustral bowl. 
 Beside the altar of his guardianship, 
 Slave among many slaves. What, haughty 
 
 still? 
 Step from the car; Alcmena's son, 't is said. 
 Was sold perforce and bore the yoke of old. 
 Aye, hard it is, but, if such fate befall, 
 'T is a fair chance to serve within a home 
 Of ancient wealth and power. An upstart 
 
 lord, 
 To whom wealth's harvest came beyond 
 
 his hope. 
 Is as a lion to his slaves, in all 
 Exceeding fierce, immoderate in sway. 
 Pass in : thou hearest what our ways will be. 
 Chohus. Clear unto thee, O maid, is her 
 
 command, 
 But thou — within the toils of Fate thou 
 
 art — 
 If such thy will, I urge thee to obey; 
 Yet I misdoubt thou dost nor hear nor 
 
 heed. 
 Clttemnestba. I wot — unless like 
 
 swallows she doth use 
 Some strange barbarian tongue from over- 
 sea — 
 My words must speak persuasion to her 
 
 soul. 
 
 CHORtrs. Obey: there is no gentler way 
 than this. 
 Step from the car's high seat and follow 
 her. 
 Clttemnestba. Truce to this bootless 
 waiting here without! 
 I will not stay : beside the central shrine 
 The victims stand, prepared for knife and 
 
 fire — 
 Offerings from hearts beyond all hope made 
 
 glad. 
 Thou — if thou reckest aught of my com- 
 
 niand, 
 'T were well done soon: but if thy sense be 
 
 shut 
 From these my words, let thy barbarian 
 
 hand 
 Fulfill by gesture the default of speech. 
 CHORtrs. No native is she, thus to read 
 thy words 
 Unaided: like some wild thing of the wood. 
 New-trapped, behold! she shrinks and 
 glares on thee. 
 Clttemnestba. 'T is madness and the 
 rule of mind distraught. 
 Since she beheld her city sink in fire. 
 And hither comes, nor brooks the bit, until 
 In foam and blood her wrath be champed 
 
 away. 
 See ye to her; unqueenly 't is for me. 
 Unheeded thus to cast away my words. 
 
 [Exit Clttemnestba.] 
 Chortts. But with me pity sits in anger's 
 place. 
 Poor maiden, come thou from the car; no 
 
 way 
 There is but this — take up thy servitude. 
 Cassandra. Woe, woe, alas! Earth, 
 Mother Earth! and thou 
 Apollo, Apollo! 
 Chorus. Peace! shriek not to the bright 
 prophetic god. 
 Who will not brook the suppliance of woe. 
 Cassandra. Woe, woe, alas! Earth, 
 Mother Earth! and thou 
 Apollo, Apollo! 
 Chortjs. Hark, with wild curse she calls 
 anew on him. 
 Who stands far off and loathes the voice of 
 wail. 
 Cassandra. Apollo, Apollo! 
 God of all ways, but only Death's to me, 
 
20 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Once and again, O thou, Destroyer named, 
 Thou hast destroyed me, thou, my love of 
 
 old! 
 Chokus. She grows presageful of her 
 
 woes to come, 
 Slave tho' she be, instinct with prophecy. 
 
 Cassandra. Apollo, Apollo! 
 God of all ways, but only Death's to me, 
 O thou Apollo, thou Destroyer named! 
 What way hast led me, to what evil home? 
 Chortts. Know'st thou it not? The 
 
 home of Atreus' race: 
 Take these my words for sooth and ask no 
 
 more. 
 Cassandra. Home cursed of God! 
 
 Bear witness unto me, 
 Ye visioned woes within — 
 The blood-stained hands of them that 
 
 smite their kin — 
 The strangling noose, and, spattered o'er 
 With human blood, the reeking floor! 
 Chorus. How like a sleuth-hound quest- 
 ing on the track, 
 Keen-scented unto blood and death she 
 
 hies! 
 Cassandra. Ah! can the ghostly guid- 
 ance fail. 
 Whereby my prophet-soul is onwards led ? 
 Look! for their flesh the specter-children 
 
 wail, 
 Their sodden limbs on which their father 
 
 fed! 
 Chorus. Long since we knew of thy 
 
 prophetic fame, — 
 But for those deeds we seek no prophet's 
 ^ tongue. 
 
 Cassandra. God! 't is another crime — 
 Worse than the storied woe of olden time, 
 Cureless, abhorred, that one is plotting 
 
 here — 
 A shaming death, for those that should be 
 
 dear! 
 Alas! and far away, in foreign land, 
 He that should help doth stand! 
 Chorus. I knew th' old tales, the city 
 
 rings withal — 
 But now thy speech is dark, beyond my 
 
 ken. 
 Cassandra. O wretch, O purpose fell! 
 Thou for thy wedded lord 
 The cleansing wave hast poured — 
 A treacherous welcome! 
 
 How the sequel tell? 
 Too soon 't will come, too soon, for now, 
 
 even now. 
 She smites him, blow on blow! 
 
 Chorus. Riddles beyond my rede — I 
 
 peer in vain 
 Thro' the dim films that screen the proph- 
 ecy. 
 Cassandra. God! a new sight! a net, a 
 
 snare of hell. 
 Set by her hand — herself a snare more fell I 
 A wedded wife, she slays her lord. 
 Helped by another hand! 
 
 Ye powers, whose hate 
 Of Atreus' home no blood can satiate. 
 Raise the wild cry above the sacrifice ab- 
 horred! 
 Chorus. Why biddest thou some fiend, 
 
 I know not whom. 
 Shriek o'er the house ? Thine is no cheering 
 
 word. 
 Back to my heart in frozen fear I feel 
 My wanning life-blood run — 
 The blood that round the wounding steel 
 Ebbs slow, as sinks life's parting sun — 
 Swift, swift and sure, some woe comes 
 
 pressing on! 
 Cassandra. Away, away — keep him 
 
 away — 
 The monarch of the herd, the pasture's 
 
 pride. 
 Far from his mate! In treaoh'rous wrath. 
 Muffling his swarthy horns, with secret 
 
 scathe 
 She gores his fenceless side! 
 Hark! in the brimming bath. 
 The heavy plash — the dying cry — 
 Hark — in the laver — hark, he falls by 
 
 treachery! 
 Chorus. I read amiss dark sayings such 
 
 as thine. 
 Yet something warns me that they tell of ill. 
 O dark prophetic speech, 
 111 tidings dost thou teach 
 Ever, to mortals here below! 
 Ever some tale of awe and woe 
 Thro' all thy windings manifold 
 Do we unriddle and unfold! 
 Cassandra. Ah, well-a-day! the cup of 
 
 agony, 
 Whereof I chant, foams with a draught 
 
 for me. 
 
AGAMEMNON 
 
 Ah, lord, ah, leader, thou hast led me 
 here — 
 
 Was 't but to die with thee whose doom is 
 near? 
 CHOHtrs. Distraught thou art, divinely 
 stirred. 
 
 And wailest for thyself a tuneless lay, 
 
 As piteous as the ceaseless tale 
 
 Wherewith the brown melodious bird 
 
 Doth ever Itys! Itys! wail, 
 
 Deep-bowered in sorrow, all its little life- 
 time's day! 
 Cassandra. Ah, for thy fate, O shrill- 
 voice nightingale! 
 
 Some solace for thy woes did Heaven 
 afford. 
 
 Clothed thee with soft brown plumes, and 
 life apart from wail — 
 
 But for my death is edged the double- 
 biting sword ! 
 Chokus. What pangs are these, what 
 fruitless pain. 
 
 Sent on thee from on high? 
 
 Thou chantest 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 thee! 
 thy bridal joy 
 
 Was death and fire upon thy race and 
 Troy! 
 
 And woe for thee, Scamander's flood ! 
 
 Beside thy banks, O river fair, 
 
 I grew in tender nursing care 
 
 From childhood unto maidenhood ! 
 
 Now not by thine, but by Cocytus' stream 
 
 And Acheron's banks shall ring my boding 
 scream. 
 Chorus. Too plain is all, too plain ! 
 
 A child might read aright thy fateful strain. 
 
 Deep in my heart their piercing fang 
 
 Terror and sorrow set, the while I heard 
 
 That piteous, low, tender word. 
 
 Yet to mine ear and heart a crushing 
 pang. 
 Cassan"dra. Woe for my city, woe for 
 Ilion's fall ! 
 
 Father, how oft with sanguine stain 
 
 Streamed on thine altar-stone the blood of 
 cattle, slain 
 
 That Heaven might guard our wall I 
 
 But all was shed in vain. 
 
 Low lie the shattered towers whereas they 
 
 fell. 
 And I — ah burning heart! — shall soon 
 lie low as well. 
 CHOHtrs. Of sorrow is thy song, of sor- 
 row stiU ! 
 Alas, what power of ill 
 Sits heavy on thy heart and bids thee tell 
 In tears of perfect moan thy deadly tale? 
 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 
 
 veil; 
 But as the morning wind blows clear the 
 
 east, 
 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 
 
 wave. 
 So in the clearing skies of prescience 
 Dawns on my soul a further, deadlier woe. 
 And I will speak, but in dark speech no 
 
 more. 
 Bear witness, ye, and follow at my side — ■ 
 I scent the trail of blood, shed long ago. 
 Within this house a choir abidingly 
 Chants in harsh unison the chant of ill; 
 Yea, and they drink, for more enhardened 
 
 joy, 
 Man's blood for wine, and revel in the 
 
 halls, 
 Departing never. Furies of the home. 
 They sit within, they chant the primal 
 
 curse, 
 Each spitting hatred on that crime of old, 
 T3ie 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 'prophetess of lies. 
 The wandering hag, the pest of every door — 
 Attest ye now. She knows in very sooth 
 The house's curse, the storied infamy. 
 Chorus. Yet how should oath — how 
 loyally soe'er 
 I swear it — aught avail thee? In good 
 
 sooth, 
 My wonder meets thy claim: I stand 
 amazed 
 
22 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 That thou, a maiden born beyond the seas, 
 Do.st as a native know and tell aright 
 Tales of a city of an alien tongue. 
 
 Cassandra. That is my power — a 
 
 boon Apollo gave. 
 Chorus. God though he were, yearning 
 
 for mortal maid? 
 Cassandra. Aye! what seemed shame 
 
 of old is shame no more. 
 Chorits. Such finer sense suits not with 
 
 slavery. 
 Cassandra. He strove to win me, pant- 
 ing for my love. 
 Chorus. Came ye by compact unto 
 
 bridal joys ? 
 Cassandra. Nay — for I plighted troth, 
 
 then foiled the god.' 
 Chorus. Wert thou already dowered 
 
 with prescience? 
 Cassandra. Yea — prophetess to Troy 
 
 of all her doom. 
 Chorus. How left thee, then, Apollo's 
 
 wrath unscathed ? 
 Cassandra. I, false to him, seemed 
 
 prophet false to all. 
 Chorus. Not so — to us at least thy 
 
 words seem sooth. 
 Cassandra. Woe for me, woe! Again 
 the agony — 
 Dread pain that sees the future all too well 
 With ghastly preludes whirls and racks my 
 
 soul. 
 Behold ye — yonder on the palace roof 
 The specter-children sitting — look, such 
 
 things 
 As dreams are made on, phantoms as of 
 
 babes, 
 Horrible shadows, that a kinsman's hand 
 Hath marked with murder, and their arms 
 
 are full — 
 A rueful burden — ■ see, they hold them up. 
 The entrails upon which their father fed! 
 
 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 master — mine — I bear the slave's 
 
 yoke now. 
 And he, the lord of ships, who trod down 
 
 Troy, 
 Knows not the fawning treachery of tongue 
 
 Of this thing false and dog-like — how 
 
 her speech 
 Glozes and sleeks her purpose, till she win 
 By ill fate's favor the desired chance, 
 Moving like At^ to a secret end. 
 
 aweless soul ! the woman slays her lord — 
 Woman? what loathsome monster of the 
 
 earth 
 
 Were fit comparison ? The double snake — 
 
 Or Scylla, where she dwells, the seaman's 
 bane, 
 
 Girt round about with rocks ? some hag of 
 hell, 
 
 Raving a truceless curse upon her kin ? 
 
 Hark — even now she cries exultingly 
 
 The vengeful cry that tells of battle 
 turned — 
 
 How fain, forsooth, to greet her chief re- 
 stored! 
 
 Nay, then, believe me not: what skills be- 
 lief 
 
 Or disbelief? Fate works its will — and 
 thou 
 
 Wilt see and say in ruth. Her tale was true. 
 Chorus. Ah — 't is Thyestes' feast on 
 kindred flesh — 
 
 1 guess her meaning and with horror thrill. 
 Hearing no shadow'd hint of th' o'er-true 
 
 tale. 
 But its full hatefulness: yet, for the rest, 
 Far from the track I roam, and know no 
 
 more. 
 Cassandra. 'Tis Agamemnon's doom 
 
 thou shalt behold. 
 Chorus. Peace, hapless woman, to thy 
 
 boding words! 
 Cassandra. Far from my speech stands 
 
 he who sains and saves. 
 Chorus. Aye — were such doom at 
 
 hand — which God forbid! 
 Cassandra. Thou prayest idly — these 
 
 move swift to slay. 
 Chorus. What man prepares a deed of 
 
 such despite? 
 Cassandra. Fool! thus to read amiss 
 
 mine oracles. 
 Chorus. Deviser and device are dark to 
 
 me. 
 Cassandra. Dark! all too well I speak 
 
 the Grecian tongue. 
 Chorus. Aye — but in thine, as in 
 
 Apollo's strains, 
 
AGAMEMNON 
 
 23 
 
 Familiar is the tongue, but dark the 
 
 thought. 
 Cassandra. Ah, ah, the fire! it waxes, 
 
 nears me now — 
 Woe, woe for me, Apollo of the dawn! 
 
 Lo, how the woman-thing, the lioness 
 Couched with the woU — her noble mate 
 
 afar — 
 Will slay me, slave forlorn! Yea, like some 
 
 witch. 
 She drugs the cup of wrath, that slays her 
 
 lord. 
 With double death — his recompense for 
 
 me! 
 Aye, 't is for me, the prey he bore from 
 
 Troy, 
 That she hath sworn his death, and edged 
 
 the steel! 
 Ye wands, ye wreaths that cling around 
 
 my neck, 
 Ye showed me prophetess yet scorned of 
 
 all — 
 I stamp you into death, or e'er I die — 
 Down, to destruction! 
 
 Thus I stand revenged — 
 Go, crown some other with a prophet's woe. 
 Look! it is he, it is Apollo's self 
 Rending from me the prophet-robe he gave. 
 God! while I wore it yet, thou saw'st me 
 
 mocked 
 There at my home by each malicious 
 
 mouth — 
 To all and each, an undivided scorn. 
 The name alilse and fate of witch and 
 
 cheat — 
 Woe, poverty, and famine — all I bore; 
 And at this last the god hath brought me 
 
 here 
 Into death's toils, and what his love had 
 
 made, 
 His hate 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 their will shall one requite my 
 
 doom. ' 
 He, 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 land — 
 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 
 
 fulfill. 
 And now why mourn I, tarrying on earth, 
 Since first mine Ilion has found its fate 
 And I beheld, and those who won the wall 
 Pass to such issue as the gods ordain ? 
 I too will pass and like them dare to die! 
 
 [Turns and looks upon the 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. 
 Chobtjs. Maid of mysterious woes, 
 mysterious lore. 
 Long was thy prophecy: but if aright 
 Thou readest all thy fate, how, thus un- 
 
 scared, 
 Dost thou approach the altar of thy doom. 
 As fronts the knife some victim, heaven- 
 controlled? 
 Cassandra. Friends, there is no avoid- 
 ance in delay. 
 Chobtjs. Yet who delays the longest, 
 
 his the gain. 
 Cassandra. The day is come — flight 
 
 were small gain to me! 
 Chorus. O brave endurance of a soul 
 
 resolved! 
 Cassandra. That were ill praise, for 
 
 those of happier doom. 
 Chorus. All fame is happy, even famous 
 
 death. 
 Cassandra. Ah sire, ah, brethren, fam- 
 ous once were ye! 
 [She moves to enter the house, then 
 starts back.] 
 Chorus. What fear is this that scares 
 
 thee from the house? 
 Cassandra. Pah! 
 Chorus. What is this cry? some dark 
 
 despair of souli ? 
 Cassandra. Pah! the house fumes with 
 
 stench and spilth of blood. 
 Chorus. How? 't is the smell of house- 
 hold offerings. 
 
24 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Cassandea. 'T is rank as charnel-scent 
 
 from open graves. 
 CHORtrs. Thou canst not mean this 
 
 scented Syrian nard? 
 Cassandba. Nay, let me pass within to 
 cry aloud 
 The monarch's fate and mine — enough of 
 
 life. 
 Ah, friends! 
 
 Bear to me witness, since I fall in death, 
 That not as birds that shun 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 curse. 
 Grant me this boon — the last before I die. 
 Chobus. Brave to the last! I mourn thy 
 
 doom foreseen. 
 Cassandba. Once more one utterance, 
 but not of wail. 
 Though for my death — and then I speak 
 
 Sun! thou whose beam I shall not see again. 
 To thee I cry. Let those whom vengeance 
 
 calls 
 To slay their kindred's slayers, quit withal 
 The death of me, the slave, the fenceless prey . 
 
 Ah, state of mortal man! in time of weal, 
 
 A line, a shadow! and if ill fate fall. 
 
 One wet sponge-sweep wipes all our trace 
 
 away — 
 And this I deem less piteous, of the twain. 
 [Exit into the palace.] 
 Chorus. Too true it is! our mortal state 
 With bliss is never satiate. 
 And none, before the palace high 
 And stately of prosperity. 
 Cries to us with a voice of fear, 
 Away! 't is ill to enter here ! 
 
 Lo! this our lord hath trodden down. 
 By grace of Heaven, old Priam's town. 
 And praised as god he stands once more 
 On Argos' shore! 
 
 Yet now — if blood shed long ago 
 Cries out that other blood shall flow — 
 His life-blood, his, to pay again 
 The stern requital of the slain — 
 Peace to that braggart's vaunting vain, 
 
 Who, having heard the chieftain's tale, 
 Yet boasts of bliss untouched by bale! 
 
 [A loud cry from within.] 
 Voice of Agamemnon. O I am sped — 
 
 a deep, a mortal blow. 
 Chobus. Listen, listen! who is screaming 
 
 as in mortal agaony ? 
 Voice of Agamemnon. O! O! again, 
 
 another, another blow! 
 Chorus. The bloody act is over — I 
 have heard the monarch's cry — 
 Let us swiftly take some counsel, lest we 
 too be doomed to die. 
 One of the Chorus. 'T is best, I judge, 
 aloud for aid to call, 
 "Ho! loyal Argives! 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 say'st I say: 
 Swiftly to act! the time brooks no delay. 
 Anotheb. Aye, for 't is plain, this pre- 
 lude of their song 
 Foretells its close in tyranny and wrong. 
 Anotheb. Behold, we tarry — but thy 
 name. Delay, 
 They spurn, and press with sleepless hand 
 to slay. 
 Anotheb. I know not what 't were 
 well to counsel now — 
 Who wills to act, 't is his to counsel how. 
 Anotheb. Thy doubt is mine: for when 
 a man is slain, 
 I have no words to bring his life again. 
 Another. What? e'en for life's sake, 
 bow us to obey 
 These house-defilers and their tyrant sway ? 
 Another. Unmanly doom! 't were bet- 
 ter far to die — 
 Death is a gentler lord than tyranny. 
 Another. Think well — must cry or 
 sign of woe or pain 
 Fix our conclusion that the chief is slain ? 
 Another. Such talk befits us when the 
 deed we see — 
 Conjecture dwells afar from certainty. 
 Leader op the Chorus. I read one 
 will from many a diverse word. 
 To know aright, how stands it with our 
 lord! 
 
AGAMEMNON 
 
 25 
 
 [The scene opens, disclosing Clt- 
 TEMNESTRA, wko comes forward. 
 The body of Agamemnon lies, 
 muffled in a long robe, within a 
 silver-sided laver; the corpse of 
 Cassandra is laid beside him.] 
 Clttbmnestra. Ho, ye who heard me 
 
 speak so long and oft 
 The glozing 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 for 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- 
 filled. 
 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 his doom. 
 Even as the trammel hems the scaly shoal, 
 I trapped him with inextricable toils. 
 The ill abundance of a baffling robe; 
 Then smote him, once, again — and at each 
 
 wound 
 He cried aloud, then as in death relaxed 
 Each limb and sank to earth; and as he lay. 
 Once more I smote him, with the last third 
 
 blow. 
 Sacred to Hades, savior of the dead. 
 And thus he fell, and as he passed away. 
 Spirit with body chafed; each dying breath 
 Flung from his breast swift bubbling jets of 
 
 gore, 
 And the dark sprinklings of the rain of 
 
 blood 
 Fell upon me; and I was fain to feel 
 That dew — not sweeter is the rain of 
 
 heaven 
 To comland, when the green sheath teems 
 
 with grain. ' 
 
 Elders of Argos — since the thing stands 
 
 so, 
 I bid you to rejoice, if such yoiu: 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 
 
 corpse 
 
 Who filled his home with curses as with 
 
 wine, 
 And thus returned to drain the cup he filled. 
 Chortjs. I marvel at thy tongue's 
 
 audacity. 
 To vaunt thus loudly o'er a husband slain. 
 Clttemnestra. Ye hold me as a wo- 
 man, weak of will. 
 And strive to sway me: but my heart is 
 
 stout, 
 Nor fears to speak its uttermost to you, 
 Albeit ye know its message. Praise or 
 
 blame. 
 Even as ye list, — I reck not of your words. 
 Lo! at my feet lies Agamemnon slain, 
 My husband once — and him this hand of 
 
 mine, 
 A right contriver, fashioned for his death. 
 Behold the deed! 
 
 Chortts. Woman, what deadly birth, 
 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 curses of thy land ? 
 Our king by thee cut off, hewn down ! 
 Go forth — they cry — occur M and forlorn, 
 To hate and scorn ! 
 Clttemnestra. 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 such doom 
 On him, my husband, when he 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 
 
 shame, 
 Had rightly been atoned by banishment; 
 But ye, who then were dumb, are stern to 
 
 judge 
 This deed of mine that doth affront your 
 
 ears. 
 Storm out your threats, yet knowing this 
 
 for sooth. 
 That I am ready, if your hand prevail 
 As mine now doth, to bow beneath your 
 
 sway: 
 
26 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 If God say nay, it sha;ll be yours to learn 
 By chastisement a late humility. 
 
 Chorus. Bold is thy craft, and proud 
 Thy confidence, thy vaunting loud; 
 Thy soul, that chose a murd'ress' fate, 
 Is all with blood elate — 
 Maddened to know 
 The blood not yet avenged, the damnSd 
 
 spot 
 Crimson upon thy brow. 
 But Fate prepares for thee thy lot — 
 Smitten as thou didst smite, without a 
 
 friend. 
 To meet thine end! 
 
 Clttbmnestka. Hear then the sanction 
 
 of the oath I swear — 
 By the great vengeance for my murdered 
 
 child. 
 By Ate, by the Fury unto whom 
 This 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 — iEgisthus — 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 Chryseis there! 
 Behold him dead — behold his captive 
 
 prize, 
 Seeress and harlot — comfort of his bed. 
 True prophetess, true paramour — I wot 
 The sea-bench was not closer to the flesh, 
 Full oft, of every rower, than was she. 
 See, ill they did, and ill requites them now. 
 His death ye know : she as a dying swan 
 Sang her last dirge, and lies, as erst she 
 
 lay. 
 Close to his side, and to my couch has left 
 A sweet new taste of joys that know no 
 
 fear. 
 Chorus. Ah, woe and well-a-day! I 
 
 would that Fate — 
 Not bearing agony too great, 
 Nor stretching me too long on couch of 
 
 pain — 
 Would bid mine eyelids keep 
 The morningless and unawakening sleep! 
 For life is weary, now my lord is slain, 
 The gracious among kings! 
 Hard fate of old he bore and many grievous 
 
 things, 
 
 And for a woman's sake, on Ilian land — 
 Now is his life hewn down, and by a 
 woman's hand. 
 
 O Helen, O infatuate soul, 
 
 Who bad'st the tides of battle roll, 
 
 O'erwhelming thousands, hfe on life, 
 
 'Neath Ilion's wall! 
 
 And now lies dead the lord of all. 
 
 The blossom of thy storied sin 
 
 Bears blood's inexpiable stain, 
 
 O thou that erst, these halls within, 
 
 Wert unto all a rock of strife, 
 
 A husband's bane! 
 
 Clttemnestba. Peace! pray not thou 
 
 for death as though 
 Thine heart was whelmed beneath this woe, 
 Nor turn thy wrath aside to ban 
 The name of Helen, nor recall 
 How she, one bane of many a man. 
 Sent down to death the Danaan lords. 
 To sleep at Troy the sleep of swords, 
 And wrought the woe that shattered all. 
 Chorus. Fiend of the race! that swoop- 
 
 est fell 
 Upon the double stock of Tantalus, 
 Lording it o'er me by a woman's will, 
 Stern, manful, and imperious — 
 A bitter sway to me! 
 Thy very form I see. 
 Like some grim raven, perched upon the 
 
 slain. 
 Exulting o'er the crime, aloud, in tuneless 
 
 strain! 
 Clttbmnestea. Right was that word 
 
 — thou namest well 
 The brooding race-fiend, triply fell! 
 From him it is that murder's thirst. 
 Blood-lapping, inwardly is nursed — 
 Ere time the ancient scar can sain. 
 New blood comes welhng forth again. 
 Chorus. Grim is his wrath and heavy on 
 
 our home. 
 That fiend of whom thy voice has cried, 
 Alas, an omened cry of woe unsatisfied, 
 An all-devouring doom! 
 
 Ah, woe, ah, Zeus! from Zeus all things 
 
 befall — 
 Zeus the high cause and finisher of all! — 
 Lord of our mortal state, by him are willed 
 All things, by him fulfilled! 
 
AGAMEMNON 
 
 27 
 
 Yet ah, my king, my king no more! 
 What words to say, what tears to pour 
 Can tell my love for thee? 
 The spider-web of treachery 
 She wove and wound, thy life around. 
 And lo! I see thee lie, 
 And thro' a coward, impious wound 
 Pant forth thy life and die! 
 A death of shame — ah, woe on woe! 
 A treach'rous hand, a cleaving blow! 
 Clttemnestba. My guilt thou harpest, 
 
 o'er and o'er! 
 I bid thee reckon me no more 
 As Agamemnon's spouse. 
 The old Avenger, stern of mood 
 For Atreus 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. 
 
 CHoatTS. Thou guiltless of this murder, 
 
 thou! 
 Who dares such thought avow ? 
 Yet it-may be, wroth for the parent's deed. 
 The fiend hath holpen thee to slay the son. 
 Dark Ares, god of death, is pressing on 
 Thro' streams of blood by kindred shed. 
 Exacting the accompt for children dead, 
 For clotted blood, for flesh on which their 
 
 sire did feed. 
 
 Yet, ah, my king, my king no more! 
 What words to say, what tears to pour 
 Can teU my love for thee? 
 The spider-web of treachery 
 She wove and wound, thy life around. 
 And lo! I see thee lie. 
 And thro' a coward, impious wound 
 Pant forth thy life and die! 
 A death of shame — ah, woe on woe! 
 A treach'rous hand, a cleaving blow! 
 Clytbmnestra. I deem not 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, blossom of my womb. 
 He gave unto a deadly doom, 
 Iphigenia, child of tears! 
 And as he wrought, even so he fares. 
 Nor be his vaunt too loud in hell; 
 
 For by the sword his sin he wrought. 
 And by the sword himself is brought 
 Among the dead to dwell. 
 
 Chorus. Ah, whither shall I fly ? 
 For all in ruin sinks the kingly hall; 
 Nor swift device nor shift of thought have I, 
 To 'scape its fall. 
 
 A little while the gentler rain-drops 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 old. 
 The steel that smites, in Justice' hold. 
 Another death to deal. 
 O Earth! 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! 
 And who shall give him sepulcher. 
 And who the waU of sorrow pour? 
 Woman, 't is thine no more! 
 A graceless gift unto his shade 
 Such tribute, by his murd'ress paid! 
 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 ? 
 
 Clytbmnestra. Peace! for such task is 
 
 none of thine. 
 By me he fell, by me he died. 
 And now his burial rites be mine! 
 Yet from these halls no mourners' train 
 Shall celebrate his obsequies; 
 Only by Acheron's rolling tide 
 His child shall spring unto his side. 
 And in a daughter's loving wise 
 Shall clasp and kiss him once again! 
 Chorits. Lo! sin by sin 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 
 
 is lord. 
 His law is fixed and stern; 
 On him that wrought shall vengeance be 
 
 outpoured — 
 The tides of doom return. 
 
28 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 The children of the curse abide within 
 
 These halls of high estate — 
 
 And none can wrench from off the home of 
 
 sin 
 The clinging grasp of Fate. 
 Clytemnestra. Now walks thy word 
 
 aright, to tell 
 This ancient truth of oracle; 
 But I with vows of sooth will pray 
 To him, the power that holdeth sway 
 O'er all the race of Pleisthenes — 
 Tho' dark the deed and deep the guilt, 
 With this last blood, my hands have spilt, 
 I pray thee let thine anger cease ! 
 I pray thee pass from us away 
 To some new race in other lands, 
 There, if thou wilt, to wrong and slay 
 The lives of men by kindred hands. 
 
 For me 't is all sufficient meed, 
 Tho' little wealth or power were won, 
 So I can say, 'T is past and done. 
 The bloody lust and murderous. 
 The inborn frenzy of our house, 
 Is ended, by my deed ! 
 
 [Enter jEgisthusJ 
 
 ^GiSTHUS. Dawn of the day of rightful 
 
 vengeance, hail! 
 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, 
 Slain in requital of his father's craft. 
 Take ye the truth, that Atreus, this man's 
 
 sire, 
 The lord and monarch of this land of old. 
 Held with my sire Thyestes deep dispute, 
 Brother with brother, for the prize of sway, 
 And drave him from his home to banishment. 
 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 lies dead, this welcome 
 
 planned — 
 With zeal that was not love he feigned to 
 
 hold 
 In loyal joy a day of festal cheer, 
 
 And bade my father to his board, and set 
 Before him flesh that was his children once. 
 First, sitting at the upper board alone, 
 He hid the fingers and the feet, but gave 
 The rest — and readily Thyestes took 
 What to his ignorance no semblance wore 
 Of human flesh, and ate : behold what curse 
 That eating brought upon our race and 
 
 name! 
 For when he knew what all unhallowed 
 
 thing 
 He thus had wrought, with horror's bitter 
 
 cry 
 Back-starting, spewing forth the fragments 
 
 foul. 
 On Pelops' house a deadly curse he spake — 
 As darkly as I spurn this damned food. 
 So perish all the race of Pleisthenes ! 
 Thus by that curse feU he whom here ye 
 
 see. 
 And I — who else? — this murder 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 
 
 was, 
 My right hand reached unto the chieftain's 
 
 life. 
 Plotting and planning all that malice bade. 
 And death itself were honor now to me, 
 Beholding him in Justice' ambush ta'en. 
 Chorus, .ffigisthus, for this insolence of 
 
 thine 
 That vaunts itself in evil, take my scorn. 
 Of thine own will, thou sayest, 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 right 
 
 prevails, 
 The people's ban, the stones of death and 
 
 doom. 
 jEgisthus. This word from thee, this 
 
 word from one who rows 
 Ix)w at the oars beneath, what time we rule, 
 We of the upper tier ? Thou 'It know anon, 
 'T is bitter to be taught again in age, 
 By one so young, submission at the word. 
 But iron of the chain and hunger's throes 
 
AGAMEMNON 
 
 29 
 
 Can minister unto an o'erswoln pride 
 Marvelous well, aye, even in the old. 
 Hast eyes, and seest not this? Peace — 
 
 kick not thus 
 Against the pricks, unto thy proper pain! 
 Chobtjs. Thou womanish man, waiting 
 
 till war did cease. 
 Home-watcher and defiler of the couch, 
 And arch-deviser of the chieftain's doom! 
 ^GiSTHUs. Bold words again! but they 
 
 shall end in tears. 
 The very converse, thine, of Orpheus' 
 
 tongue: 
 He roused and led in ecstasy of joy 
 All things that heard his voice melodious; 
 But thou as with the futile cry of curs 
 Wilt draw men wrathfully upon thee. 
 
 Peace! 
 Or strong subjection soon shall tame thy 
 
 tongue. 
 Chobus. Aye, thou art one to hold an 
 
 Argive down — 
 Thou, skilled to plan the murder of the 
 
 king, 
 But not with thine own hand to smite the 
 
 blow! 
 .iEaiSTHtrs. That fraudful 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 holds to rule the citizens. 
 But whoso will not bear my guiding hand. 
 Him for his corn-fed mettle I will drive 
 Not as a trace-horse, light-caparisoned. 
 But to the shafts with heaviest harness 
 
 bound. 
 Famine, the grim mate of the dungeon dark, 
 Shalllook on him and shall beholdhim tame. 
 Chorus. Thou losel soul, was then thy 
 
 strength too sUght 
 To deal in murder, while a woman's hand. 
 Staining and shaming Argos and its gods. 
 Availed to slay him ? Ho, if anywhere 
 The light of life smite on Orestes' eyes, 
 Let him, returning by some guardian fate, 
 Hew down with force her paramour and her! 
 jEgisthtjs. How thy word and act shall 
 
 issue, thou shalt shortly understand. 
 Chobtts. Up to action, O my comrades! 
 
 for the fight is hard at hand. 
 
 Swift, your right hands to the sword hilt! 
 bare the weapon as for strife — 
 .^GiSTHUS. Lo! I too am standing ready, 
 
 hand on hilt for death or life. 
 Chobus. 'T was thy word and we accept 
 
 it: onward to the chance of war! 
 Clttbmnbstra. 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! and pass away unto the 
 
 homes by Fate decreed, 
 Lest ill valor meet our vengeance — 't was 
 
 a necessary deed. 
 But enough of toils and troubles — be the 
 
 end, if ever, now. 
 Ere thy talon, O Avenger, deal another 
 
 deadly blow. 
 'T is a woman's word of warning, and let 
 who will list thereto. 
 .SIgisthus. But that these should loose 
 and lavish reckless blossoms of the 
 tongue. 
 And in hazard of their fortune cast upon 
 
 me words of wrong, 
 And forget the law of subjects, and revile 
 their ruler's word — 
 Chorus. Ruler? but 't is not for Argives, 
 
 thus to own a dastard lord! 
 .^GiSTHUS. I will follow to chastise thee 
 
 in my coming days of sway. 
 Chorus. Not if Fortune guide Orestes 
 
 safely on his homeward way. 
 .S/GiSTHUS. Ah, well I know how exiles 
 
 feed on hopes of their return. 
 Chorus. Fare and batten on pollution 
 
 of the right, while 't is thy turn. 
 .ZEgisthus. Thou shalt pay, be well 
 assured, heavy quittance for thy 
 pride. 
 Chobus. Crow and strut, with her to 
 watch thee, like a cock, his mate 
 beside! 
 Clttemnestra. Heed not thou too 
 highly of them — let the cur-pack 
 growl and yell: 
 I and thou will rule the palace and will 
 order all things well. [Exeunt.] 
 
CEDIPUS THE KING 
 
 By SOPHOCLES 
 Translated into English prose by SIR RICHARD CLA VERING /EBB 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 (Edipus, King of Thebes 
 Peiest op Zeus 
 Cheon, brother of locasta 
 Teieesias, the blind prophet 
 
 lOCASTA. 
 
 FiKST Messenger, a shepherd from Corinth 
 A Shepherd, formerly in the service of Lalus 
 Second Messenger, from the house 
 Chorus of Theban Elders 
 
 A train of suppliants (old men, youths, and 
 children). The children Antigone and Is- 
 mene, daughters of CEdipus and Iocasta 
 
 Scene: Before the Royal Palace at Thebea 
 
CEDIPUS THE KING 
 
 CEdiptjs. My chadren, latest-born to 
 Cadmus who was of old, why are ye set 
 before me thus with wreathed branches of 
 suppliants, while the city reeks with in- 
 cense, rings with prayers for health and 
 cries of woe? I deemed it unmeet, my chil- 
 dren, to hear these things at the mouth of 
 others, and have come hither myself, I, 
 CEdipus renowned of all. 
 
 Tell me, then, thou venerable man — 
 since it is thy natural part to speak for 
 these — in what mood are ye placed here, 
 with what dread or what desire? Be sure 
 that I would gladly give all aid; hard of 
 heart were I, did I not pity such suppliants 
 as these. 
 
 Pkibst op Zetts. Nay, CEdipus, ruler of 
 my land, thou seest of what years we are 
 who beset thy altars, — some, nestlings 
 still top. tender for far flights, — some, 
 bowed with age, priests, as I of Zeus, — 
 and these, the chosen youth; while the rest 
 of the folk sit with wreathed branches in 
 the market-places, and before the two 
 shrines of Pallas, and where Ismenus gives 
 answer by fire. 
 
 For the city, as thou thyself seest, is now 
 too sorely vexed, and can no more lift her 
 head from beneath the angry waves of 
 death; a blight is on her in the fruitful blos- 
 soms of the land, in the herds among the 
 pastures, in the barren pangs of women; 
 and withal the flaming god, the malign 
 plague, hath swooped on us, and ravages 
 the town; by whom the house of Cadmus is 
 made waste, but dark Hades rich in groans 
 and tears. 
 
 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 of men, both in life's common chances, 
 and when mortals have to do with more 
 than man: seeing that thou camest to the 
 town of Cadmus, and didst quit us of the 
 tax that we rendered to the hard songstress; 
 
 and this, though thou knewest nothing 
 from us that could avail thee, nor hadst 
 been schooled; no, by a god's aid, 't is said 
 and believed, didst thou uplift our life. 
 
 And now, CEdipus, king glorious in all. 
 eyes, we beseech thee, all we suppliants, to. 
 find for us some succor, whether by the 
 whisper of a god thou knowest it, or haply' 
 as in the power of man; for I see that, when, 
 men have been proved in deeds past, the 
 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 former 
 zeal; 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 more! 
 
 With good omen didst thou give us thafr 
 past happiness; now also show thyself, ther 
 same. For if thou art to rule this land, even 
 as thou art now its lord, 't is better toj bef 
 lord of men than of a waste: since nedther. 
 walled town nor ship is anything, if it is 
 void and no men dwell with thee therein.. 
 
 CEdipus. Oh my piteous children, known, 
 well known to me are the desires wherewith 
 ye have come: well wot I that ye suffer all; 
 yet, sufferers as ye are, there is not one of 
 you whose suffering is as mine. Your 
 pain comes on each one of you for himself 
 alone, and for no other ; but my soul mourns 
 at once for the city, and for myself, and for 
 thee. 
 
 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, well pondering, I could find, this I 
 have put into act. I have sent the son of 
 Menoeceus, Creon, mine own wife's brother, 
 to the Pythian house of Phcebus, to learn 
 by what deed or word I might deliver this 
 town. And already, when the lapse of days is 
 
34 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 reckoned, it troubles me what he doth; for 
 he tarries strangely, beyond the fitting apace. 
 Put when he comes, then shall I be no true 
 man if I do not all that the god shows. 
 
 Peiest. Nay, in season hast thou 
 spoken; at this moment these sign to me 
 that Creon draws near. 
 
 CEdipus. O king Apollo, may he come to 
 us in the brightness of saving fortune, even 
 as his face is bright! 
 
 Pbiest. Nay, to all seeming, he brings 
 comfort; else woiild he not be coming 
 crowned thus thickly with berry-laden bay. 
 
 CEdipus. We shall know soon: he is at 
 range to hear. — Prince, my kinsman, son 
 of Menceceus, what news hast thou brought 
 us from the god? 
 
 [Enter Creon.] 
 
 ' Cbbon. Good news: I tell thee that even 
 troubles hard to bear, — if haply they find 
 the right issue, — will end in perfect peace. 
 
 CEdipus. But what is the oracle? So far, 
 thy words make me neither bold nor yet 
 afrdid. 
 
 Cbbon. If thou wouldest hear while 
 these are nigh, I am ready to speak; or else 
 to go within. 
 
 CEdipus. Speak before all: the sorrow 
 which I bear is for these more than for mine 
 own life. 
 
 Ceeon. With thy leave, I will tell what 
 I heard from the god. Phoebus our lord 
 bids us plainly to drive out a defiling thing, 
 which (he saith) hath been harbored in this 
 land, and not to harbor it, so that it cannot 
 be healed. 
 
 CEdipus. By what rite shall we cleanse 
 us? What is the manner of the misfortune? 
 
 Ceeon. By banishing a man, or by 
 bloodshed in quittance of bloodshed, since 
 it is that blood which brings the tempest on 
 our city. 
 
 CEdipus. And who is the man whose fate 
 he thus reveals? 
 
 Creon. Lalus, king, was lord of our land 
 before thou wast pilot of this State. 
 
 CEdipus. I know it well — by hearsay, 
 for I saw him never. 
 
 Creon. He was slain; and the god now 
 bids us plainly to wreak vengeance on his 
 murderers — whosoever they be. 
 
 CEdipus. And where are they upon the 
 earth? Where shall the dim track of this 
 old crime be foimd? 
 
 Cbeon. In this land, — said the god. 
 What is sought for can be caught; only 
 that which is not watched escapes. 
 
 CEdipus. And was it in the house, or in 
 the field, or on strange soil that Lalus met 
 this bloody end? 
 
 Creon. 'T was on a visit to Delphi, as 
 he said, that he had left our land; and he 
 came home no more, after he had once set 
 forth. 
 
 CEdipus. And was there none to tell? 
 Was there no comrade of his journey who 
 saw the deed, from whom tidings might 
 have been gained, and used? 
 
 Creon. All perished, save one who fled 
 in fear, and could tell for certain but one 
 thing of all that he saw. 
 
 CEdipus. And what was that? One thing 
 might show the clue to many, could we get 
 but a small beginning for hope. 
 
 Creon. He said that robbers met and 
 fell on them, not in one man's might, but 
 with full many hands. 
 
 CEdipus. How, then, unless "there was 
 some trafiicking in bribes from here, should 
 the robber have dared thus far? 
 
 Creon. Such things were surmised; but, 
 Lalus once slain, amid our troubles no 
 avenger arose. 
 
 CEdipus. But, when royalty had fallen 
 thus, what trouble in your path can have 
 hindered a fuU search? 
 
 Creon. The riddling Sphinx had made 
 us let dark things go, and was inviting us 
 to think of what lay at our doors. 
 
 [Exit Creon.] 
 
 CEdipus. Nay, I will start afresh, and 
 once more make dark things plain. Right 
 worthily hath Phoebus, and worthily hast 
 thou, bestowed this care on the cause of 
 the dead; and so, as is meet, ye shall find 
 me too leagued with you in seeking venge- 
 ance for this land, and for the god be- 
 sides. On behalf of no far-off friend, no, 
 but in mine own cause, shall I dispel this 
 taint. For whoever was the slayer of Laiius 
 might wish to take vengeance on me also 
 with a hand as fierce. Therefore, in doing 
 right to Lalus, I serve myself. 
 
CEDIPUS THE KING 
 
 35 
 
 Come, haste ye, my children, rise from 
 the altar-steps, and lift these suppliant 
 boughs; and let some other summon hither 
 the folk of Cadmus, warned that I mean to 
 leave nought untried; for our health (with 
 the god's help) shall be made certain — or 
 our ruin. 
 
 Priest. My children, let us rise; we 
 came at first to seek what this man prom- 
 ises of himself. And may Phcebus, who 
 sent these oracles, come to us therewith, 
 our savior and deliverer from the pest. 
 
 Chorus. O sweetly speaking message of 
 Zeus, in what spirit hast thou come from 
 golden Pytho vmto glorious Thebes? I am 
 on the rack, terror shakes my soul, O thou 
 DeUan healer to whom wild cries rise, in 
 holy fear of thee, what thing thou wilt work 
 for me, perchance unknown before, per- 
 chance renewed with the revolving years: 
 tell me, thou immortal Voice, born of 
 Golden Hope! 
 
 First, call I on thee, daughter of Zeus, 
 divine Athena, and on thy sister, guardian 
 of our land, Artemis, who sits on her throne 
 of fame, above the circle of our Agora, and 
 on Phoebus the far-darter; O shine forth on 
 me, my threefold help against death! If 
 ever aforetime, in arrest of ruin hurrying 
 on the city, ye drove a fiery pest beyond 
 our borders, come now also! 
 
 Woe is me, countless are the sorrows that 
 I bear; a plague is on aU our host, and 
 thought can find no weapon for defense. 
 The fruits of the glorious earth grow not; 
 by no birth of children do women surmount 
 the pangs in which they shriek; and life on 
 life mayest thou see sped, like bird on 
 nimble wing, aye, swifter than resistless 
 fire, to the shore of the western god. 
 
 By such deaths, past numbering, the city 
 perishes: unpitied, her children lie on the 
 ground, spreading pestilence, with none to 
 moiirn: 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, 
 blent therewith, the voice of lamentation: 
 for these things, golden daughter of Zeus, 
 send lis the bright face of comfort. 
 
 And grant that the fierce god of death, 
 
 who now with no brazen shields, yet amid 
 cries as of battle, wraps me in the flame of 
 his onset, may turn his back in speedy 
 flight from our land, borne by a fair wind 
 to the great deep of Amphitritfe, or to those 
 waters in which none find haven, even to 
 the Thracian wave; for if night 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 thunderbolt! 
 
 Lycean King, fain were I that thy shafts 
 also, from thy bent bow's string of woven 
 gold, should go abroad in their might, our 
 champions in the face of the foe; yea, and 
 the flashing fires 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 Bacchants cry, 
 the comrade of the Maenads, to draw near 
 with the blaze of his blithe torch, our ally 
 against the god unhonored among gods. 
 
 CEdipus. Thou prayest: and in answer 
 to thy prayer, — if thou wilt give a loyal 
 welcome 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, 
 it I were tracing it alone, without a clue. 
 But as it is, — since it was only after the 
 time of the deed that I was numbered a 
 Theban among Thebans, — to you, the 
 Cadmeans all, I do thus proclaim. 
 
 Whosoever of you knows by whom Laius 
 son of Labdacus was slain, I bid him to 
 declare all to me. And if he is afraid, I 
 tell him to remove the danger of the charge 
 from his p3,th 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 if ye keep silence — if any one, 
 through fear, shall seek to screen friend or 
 self from my behest — hear ye what I then 
 shall do. I charge you that no one of this 
 land, whereof I hold the empire and the 
 
36 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 throne, give shelter or speak word unto that 
 murderer, whosoever he be, — make him 
 partner of his prayer or sacrifice or serve 
 him with the lustral rite; but that all ban 
 him their homes, knowing that this is our 
 defiling thing, as the oracle of the Pythian 
 god hath newly shown me. I then am on 
 this wise the ally of the god and of the slain. 
 And I pray solemnly that the slayer, whoso 
 he be, whether his hidden guilt is lonely or 
 hath partners, evilly, as he is evil, may wear 
 out his 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 
 all 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 
 urged 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 is I who hold the 
 powers which once he held, who possess his 
 bed and the wife who bare seed to him; 
 and since, had 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 these 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 whose hand shed that 
 blood, for the honor of the son of Labdacus 
 and of Polydorus and elder Cadmus and 
 Agenor who was of old. 
 
 And for those who obey me not, I pray 
 that the gods send them neither harvest 
 of the earth nor fruit of the womb, but that 
 they 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. 
 
 Choetjs. As thou hast put me on my 
 oath, on my oath, O king, I will speak. I 
 am not the slayer, nor can I point to him 
 who slew. As for the question, it was for 
 Phoebus, who sent it, to tell us this thing — 
 who can have wrought the deed. 
 
 (Edipus. Justly said; but no man on the 
 earth can force the gods to what they will 
 not. 
 
 Choktjs. I would fain say what seems to 
 me next best after this. 
 
 (Edipus. If there is yet a third course, 
 spare not to show it. 
 
 Chorus. I know that our lord Teiresias 
 is the seer most hke to our lord Phoebus, 
 from whom, O king, a searcher of these 
 things might learn them most clearly. 
 
 CEdipus. Not even this have I left out 
 of my cares. On the hint of Creon, I have 
 twice sent a man to bring him; and this 
 long while I marvel why he is not here. 
 
 Chorus. Indeed (his skill apart) the 
 rumors are but faint and old. 
 
 CEdipus. What rumors are they? I look 
 to every story. 
 
 Chorus. Certain wayfarers were said to 
 have killed him. 
 
 (Edipus. I, too, have heard it, but none 
 sees him who saw it. 
 
 Chorus. Nay, if he knows what fear is, 
 he will not stay when he hears thy curses, 
 so dire as they are. 
 
 CEdipus. 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 Teiresias, led by a hoy] 
 
 (Edipus. Teiresias, whose soul grasps all 
 things, the lore that may be told and the 
 unspeakable, the secrets of heaven and the 
 low things of earth, — thou feelest, though 
 thou canst not see, what a plague doth 
 haunt our State, — from which, great 
 prophet, we find in thee our protector and 
 only savior. Now, Phcebus — if indeed 
 thou knowest it not from' the messengers — 
 sent answer to our question that the only 
 riddance from this pest which could come 
 was if we should learn aright the slayers 
 of Laius, 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 thyself 
 and the State, rescue me, rescue all that 
 is defiled by the dead. For we are in thy 
 
CEDIPUS THE KING 
 
 37 
 
 Land; and man's noblest task is to help 
 others by his best means and powers. 
 
 Teibesias. Alas, how dreadful to have 
 wisdom where it profits not the wise! Aye, 
 I knew this well, but let it slip out of mind; 
 else would I never have come here. 
 
 CEdipus. What now? How sad thou hast 
 come in! 
 
 Teibesias. Let me go home; most easily 
 wilt thou bear thine own burden to the 
 end, and I mine, if thou wilt consent. 
 
 QSdipus. Thy words are strange, nor 
 kindly to this State which nurtured thee, 
 when thou withholdest this response. 
 
 Teikbsias. Nay, I see that thou, on thy 
 part, openest not thy lips in season: there- 
 fore I speak not, that neither may I have 
 thy mishap. 
 
 CEdipus. For the love of the gods, turn 
 not away, if thou hast knowledge: all we 
 suppliants implore thee on our knees. 
 
 Tetrbsias. Aye, for ye are all without 
 knowledge; but never will I reveal my 
 griefs — that I say not thine. 
 
 CEdiptjs. How sayest thou? Thou know- 
 est the secret, and wilt not tell it, but art 
 minded to betray us and to destroy the 
 State? 
 
 Teikeisas. I will pain neither myself 
 nor thee. Why vainly ask these things? 
 Thou wilt not learn them from me. 
 
 CEdipus. What, basest of the base, — 
 for thou wouldest anger a very stone, — 
 wilt thou never speak out? Can nothing 
 touch thee? WUt thou never make an end? 
 
 Teibesias. Thou blamest my temper, 
 but seest not that to which thou thyself art 
 wedded: no, thou findest fault with me. 
 
 CEdipus. And who would not be angry 
 to hear the words with which thou now dost 
 slight this city? 
 
 Teibesias. The future will come of it- 
 self, though I shroud it in silence. 
 
 CEdipus. Then, seeing that it must come, 
 thou on thy part shouldst tell me thereof. 
 
 Teibesias. I will speak no further; rage, 
 then, if thou wUt, with the fiercest wrath 
 thy heart doth know. 
 
 CEdipus. Aye, verily, I will not spare — 
 so wroth I am — to speak all my thought. 
 Know that thou seemest to me e'en to have 
 helped in plotting the deed, and to have 
 
 done it, short of slaying with thy hands. 
 Hadst thou eyesight, I would have said 
 that the doing, also, of this thing was thine 
 alone. 
 
 Teibesias. In sooth? — I charge thee 
 that thou abide by the decree of thine own 
 mouth, and from this day speak neither to 
 these nor to me: thou art the accursed de- 
 filer of this land. 
 
 CEdipus. So brazen with thy blustering 
 taunt? And wherein dost thou trust to 
 escape thy due? 
 
 Teibesias. I have escaped: in my truth 
 is my strength. 
 
 CEdipus. Who taught thee this? It was 
 not, at least, thine art. 
 
 Teibesias. Thou: for thou didst spur 
 me into speech against my will. 
 
 CEdipus. What speech? Speak again 
 that I may learn it better. 
 
 Teibesias. Didst thou not take my 
 sense before? Or art thou tempting me in 
 talk? 
 
 CEdipus. No, I took it not so that I can 
 call it known: — speak again. 
 
 Teibesias. I say that thou art the slayer 
 of the man whose slayer thou seekest. 
 
 CEdipus. Now thou shalt rue that thou 
 hast twice said words so dire. 
 
 Teibesias. Wouldst thou have me say 
 more, that thou mayest be more wroth? 
 
 CEdipus. What thou wilt; it will be said 
 in vain. 
 
 Teibesias. I say that thou hast been 
 living in unguessed shame with thy nearest 
 kin, and seest not to what woe thou hast 
 come. 
 
 CEdipus. Dost thou indeed think that 
 thou shalt always speak thus without 
 smarting? 
 
 Teibesias. Yes, if there is any strength 
 in truth. 
 
 CEdipus. Nay, there is, — for all save 
 thee; for thee that strength is not, since 
 thou art maimed in ear, and in wit, and in 
 eye. 
 
 Teibesias. Aye, and thou art a poor 
 wretch to utter taunts which every man 
 here will soon hurl at thee. 
 
 CEdipus. Night, endless night hath thee 
 in her keeping, so that thou canst never 
 hurt me, or any man who sees the sun. 
 
38 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Teiresias. No, thy doom is not to fall 
 by me: Apollo is enough, whose care it is to 
 work that out. 
 
 CEoiPtrs. Are these Creon's devices, or 
 thine? 
 
 Tbieesias. Nay, Creon is no plague to 
 thee; thou art thine own. 
 
 CEdipus. O wealth, and empire, and skill 
 surpassing skill in life's keen rivalries, how 
 great is the envy that cleaves to you, if for 
 the sake, yea, of this power which 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 juggler as this, a tricky quack, 
 who hath eyes only for his gains, but in his 
 art is blind! 
 
 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, CEdipus the 
 ignorant, and made her mute, when I had 
 seized the answer by my wit, untaught of 
 birds. And it is I whom thou art trying to 
 oust, thinking to stand close to Creon's 
 throne. Methinks thou and the plotter of 
 these things will rue your zeal to purge the 
 land. Nay, didst thou not seem to be an 
 old man, thou shouldst have learned to thy 
 cost how bold thou art. 
 
 Chorus. To our thinking, both this 
 man's words and thine, CEdipus, have been 
 said in anger. Not for such words is our 
 need, but to seek how we shall best dis- 
 charge the mandates of the god. 
 
 Teiresias. 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 so 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 seest 
 not in what misery thou art, nor where 
 thou dwellest, nor with whom. Dost thou 
 know of what stock thou art? 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- 
 ness then on the eyes that now see true. 
 
 And what place shall not be harbor to 
 thy shriek, what of all Cithseron 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 fair? And a throng of 
 other ills thou guessest not, which shall 
 make thee level with thy true self and with 
 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 thou. 
 
 CEdipus. Are these taunts to be indeed 
 borne from him? — Hence, ruin take thee! 
 Hence, this instant! Back! — away! — 
 avaunt thee from these doors! 
 
 Teiresias. I had never come, not I, 
 hadst thou not called me. 
 
 CEdipus. I knew not that thou wast 
 about to speak folly, or it had been long 
 ere I had sent for thee to my house. 
 
 Teiresias. Such am I, — as thou think- 
 est, a fool; but for the parents who begat 
 thee, sane. 
 
 CEdipus. What parents? Stay . . . and 
 who of men is my sire? 
 
 Teiresias. This day shall show thy 
 birth and shall bring thy ruin. 
 
 CEdipus. What riddles, what dark words 
 thou always speakest! 
 
 Teiresias. Nay, art not thou most 
 skilled to unravel dark speech? 
 
 CEdipus. Make that my reproach in 
 which thou shalt find me great. 
 
 Teiresias. Yet 't was just that fortune 
 that undid thee. 
 
 CEdipus. Nay, if I delivered this town, I 
 care not. 
 
 Teiresias. Then I will go: so do thou, 
 boy, take me hence. 
 
 CEdipus. Aye, let him take thee: while 
 here, thou art a hindrance, thou, a trouble: 
 when thou hast vanished, thou wilt not vex 
 me more. 
 
 Teiresias. I will go when I have done 
 mine errand, fearless of thy frown: for thou 
 
CEDIPUS THE KING 
 
 39 
 
 canst never destroy me. And I tell thee — 
 the man of whom thou hast this long while 
 been in quest, uttering threats, and pro- 
 claiming a search into the murder of Laius 
 — that man is here, — in seeming, an alien 
 sojourner, but anon he shall be found a 
 native Theban, and shall not be glad of his 
 fortune. A blind man, he who now hath 
 sight, a beggar, who now is rich, he shall 
 make his way to a strange land, feeling the 
 ground before him with his staff. And he 
 shall be found at once brother and father 
 of the children with whom he consorts; son 
 and husband of the woman who bore him; 
 heir to his father's bed, shedder of his 
 father's blood. 
 
 So go thou in and think on that; and if 
 
 thou find that I have been at fault, say 
 
 thenceforth that I have no wit in prophecy. 
 
 [Teiresias is led out by the boy. 
 
 (Edipus enters the paiace.] 
 
 Chorus. Who is he of whom the divine 
 voice from the Delphian rock hath spoken, 
 as having wrought with red hands horrors 
 that no tongue can tell? 
 
 It is time that he ply in flight a foot 
 stronger than the feet of storm-swift 
 steeds: for the son of Zeus is springing on 
 him, all armed with fiery lightnings, and 
 with him come the dread, unerring Fates. 
 
 Yea, newly given from snowy Parnassus, 
 the message hath flashed forth to make all 
 search for the unknown man. Into the 
 wild wood's covert, among caves and rocks 
 he is roaming, fierce as a bull, wretched and 
 forlorn on his joyless path, still seeking to 
 put from him the doom spoken at Earth's 
 central shrine: but that doom ever lives, 
 ever flits around him. 
 
 Dreadly, in sooth, dreadly doth the wise 
 augur move me, who approve not, nor am 
 able to deny. How to speak, I know not; 
 I am fluttered with forebodings; 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 Polybus had, either against 
 other, any grief that I could bring as proof 
 in assailing the public fame of CEdipus, and 
 seeking to avenge the line of Labdacus for 
 the imdiscovered murder. 
 
 Nay, Zeus indeed and Apollo are keen of 
 
 thought, and know the things of earth; but 
 that mortal seer wins knowledge above 
 mine, of this there can be no sure test; 
 though man may surpass man in lore. Yet, 
 until I see the word made good, never will I 
 assent 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 of 
 my heart shall he be adjudged guilty of 
 crime. 
 
 [Enter Creon.] 
 
 Cbbon. Fellow citizens, having learned 
 that GSdipus the king lays dire charges 
 against me, I am here, indignant. If, in the 
 present troubles, he thinks that he has suf r 
 fered from me, by word or deed, aught that 
 tends to harm, in truth I crave not my full 
 term of years, 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 friends. 
 
 Chorus. Nay, but this taimt came under 
 stress, perchance, of anger, rather than 
 from the purpose of the heart. 
 
 Creon. And the saying was uttered, 
 that my counsels won the seer to utter his 
 falsehoods? 
 
 Chorus. Such things were said — I 
 know not with what meaning. 
 
 Creon. And was this charge laid against 
 me with steady eyes and steady mind? 
 
 Chorus. I know not; I see not what my 
 masters do: but here comes our lord forth 
 from the house. 
 
 [Enter CEdipus.] 
 
 CEdipus. Sirrah, how camest thou here? 
 Hast thou a front so bold that thou hast 
 come to my house, who art the proved 
 assassin of its master, — the palpable rob- 
 ber of my crown? Come, tell me, in the 
 name of the gods, was it cowardice or folly 
 that thou sawest in me, that thou didst 
 plot to do this thing? Didst thou think 
 that I would not note this deed of thine 
 creeping on me by stealth, or, aware, would 
 not ward it off? Now is not thine attempt 
 
40 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 foolish, — to seek, without followers or 
 friends, a throne, — a prize which followers 
 and wealth must win? 
 
 Cbeon. Mark me now, — in answer to 
 thy words, hear a fair reply, and then judge 
 for thyself on knowledge. 
 
 (Edipus. Thou art apt in speech, but I 
 have a poor wit for thy lessons, since I 
 have found thee my malignant foe. 
 
 Cbeon. Now first hear how I will ex- 
 plain this very thing — 
 
 (Edipus. Explain me not one thing — 
 that thou art not false. 
 
 Cbeon. If thou deemest that stubborn- 
 ness without sense is a good gift, thou art 
 not wise. 
 
 (Edipus. If thou deemest that thou canst 
 wrong a kinsman and escape the penalty, 
 thou art not sane. 
 
 Cbeon. Justly said, I grant thee: but 
 tell me what is the wrong that thou sayest 
 thou hast suffered from me. 
 
 (Edipus. Didst thou advise, or didst 
 thou not, that I should send for that 
 reverend seer? 
 
 Cbeon. And now I am still of the same 
 mind. 
 
 (Edipus. How long is it, then, since 
 Laius — 
 
 Cbeon. Since Laius . . .? I take not thy 
 drift . . . 
 
 (Edipus. — was swept from men's sight 
 by a deadly violence? 
 
 Cbeon. The count of years would run 
 far into the past. 
 
 (Edipus. Was this seer, then, of the 
 craft in those days? 
 
 Cbeon. Yea, skilled as now, and in equal 
 honor. 
 
 (Edipus. Made he, then, any mention of 
 me at that time? 
 
 Cbeon. Never, certainly, when I was 
 within hearing. 
 
 (Edipus. But held ye not a search touch- 
 ing the murder? 
 
 Cbeon. Due search we held, of course — 
 and learned nothing. 
 
 (Edipus. And how was it that this sage 
 did not tell his story thenf 
 
 Cbeon. I know not; where I lack light, 
 't is my wont to be silent. 
 - CEdipus. Thus much, at least, thou 
 
 knowest, and couldst declare with light 
 enough. 
 
 Cbeon. What is that? If I know it, I 
 will not deny. 
 
 (Edipus. That, if he had not conferred 
 with thee, he would never have named my 
 slaying of Laius. 
 
 Cbeon. If so he speaks, thou best know- 
 est; but I claim to learn from thee as much 
 as thou hast now from me. 
 
 (Edipus. Learn thy fiU: I shall never be 
 found guilty of the blood. 
 
 Cbeon. Say, then — thou hast married 
 my sister? 
 
 (Edipus. The question allows not of 
 denial. 
 
 Cbeon. And thou rulest the land as she 
 doth, with like sway? 
 
 (Edipus. She obtains from me all her 
 desire. 
 
 Cbeon. And rank not I as a third peer 
 of you twain? 
 
 (Edipus. Aye, 't is just therein that thou 
 art seen a false friend. 
 
 Cbeon. Not so, if thou wouldst reason 
 with thine own heart as I with mine. And 
 first weigh this, — whether thou thinkest 
 that any one would choose to rule amid ter- 
 rors rather than in imruffled peace, — 
 granting that he is to have the same pow- 
 ers. Now I, for one, have no yearning in 
 my nature to be a king rather than to do 
 kingly deeds, no, nor hath any man who 
 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 much 
 e'en against mine own pleasure. 
 
 How, then, could royalty be sweeter for 
 me to have than painless rule and influ- 
 ence? Not yet am I so misguided as to 
 desire other honors than those which profit. 
 Now, all wish me joy; now, every man has 
 a greeting for me; now, those who have a 
 suit to thee crave speech with me, since 
 therein is all their hope of success. Then 
 why should I resign these things, and take 
 those? No mind will become false, while it 
 is wise. Nay, I am no lover of such policy, 
 and, if another put it into deed, never could 
 I bear to act with him. 
 
 And, in proof of this, first, go to Pytho, 
 and ask if I brought thee true word of the 
 
CEDIPUS THE KING 
 
 41 
 
 oracle; then next, if thou find that I have 
 planned aught in concert with the sooth- 
 sayer, take and slay me, by the sentence 
 not of one mouth, but of twain — by mine 
 own, no less than thine. But make me not 
 guilty in a comer, on unproved surmise. 
 It is not right to adjudge bad men good at 
 random, or good men bad. I count it a like 
 thing for a man to cast off a true friend as 
 to cast away the life in his own bosom, 
 which most he loves. Nay, thou wilt learn 
 these things with sureness in time, for time 
 alone shows a just man; but thou couldst 
 discern a knave even in one day. 
 
 Chobtjs. Well hath he spoken, O king, 
 for one who giveth heed not to fall: the 
 quick in counsel are not sure. 
 
 CEdipus. When the stealthy plotter is 
 moving on me in quick sort, I, too, must 
 be quick with my counterplot. If I await 
 him in repose, his ends will have been 
 gained, and mine missed. 
 
 Ckbon. What wouldst thou, then? Cast 
 me out of the land? 
 
 (Ediptjs. Not so: I desire thy death — 
 not thy banishment — that thou mayest 
 show forth what manner of thing is envy. 
 
 Creon. Thou speakest as resolved not 
 to yield or to believe? 
 
 Creon. No, for I find thee not sane. 
 
 (Ediptjs. Sane, at least, in mine own 
 interest. 
 
 Creon. Nay, thou shouldst be so in 
 mine also. 
 
 (Eorptrs. Nay, thou art false. 
 
 Cbbon. But if thou understandest 
 nought? 
 
 CEdipus. Yet must I rule. 
 
 Creon. Not if thou rule ill. 
 
 CEdipus. Hear him, O Thebes! 
 
 Creon. Thebes is for me also — not for 
 thee alone. 
 
 Chohtjs. Cease, princes; and in good 
 time for you I see locasta coming yonder 
 from the house, with whose help ye should 
 compose your present feud. 
 
 [Enter Iocasta.] 
 
 locASTA. Mi^iuided men, why have ye 
 raised such foolish strife of tongues? Are 
 ye not ashamed, while the land is thus sick, 
 to stir up troubles of your own? Come, go 
 
 thou into the house, — and thou, Creon, 
 to thy home, — and forbear to make much 
 of a petty grief. 
 
 Creon. Kinswoman, CEdipus thy lord 
 claims to do dread things unto me, even 
 one or other of two ills, — to thrust me 
 from the land of my fathers, or to slay me 
 amain. 
 
 CEniPtis. Yea; for I have caught him, 
 lady, working evil, by ill arts, against my 
 person. 
 
 Creon. Now may I see no good, but 
 perish accursed, if I have done aught to 
 thee of that wherewith thou chargest me! 
 
 Iocasta. Oh, for the gods' love, beUeve 
 it, CEdipus — first, for the awful sake of 
 this oath unto the gods, — then for my 
 sake and for theirs who stand before thee ? 
 
 CJhorus. Consent, reflect, hearken, O 
 my king, I pray thee! 
 
 CEdipus. What grace, then, wouldest 
 thou have me grant thee? 
 
 CJhorus. Respect him who aforetime 
 was not foolish, and who now is strong in 
 his oath. 
 
 CEdipus. Now dost thou know what thou 
 cravest? 
 
 C5HORUS. Yea. 
 
 CEdipus. Declare, then, what thou 
 meanest. 
 
 CJhorus. That thou shouldest never use 
 an unproved rumor to cast a dishonoring 
 charge on the friend who has bound him- 
 self with a curse. 
 
 CEdipus. Then be very sure that, when 
 thou seekest this, for me thou art seeking 
 destruction, or exile from this land. 
 
 Chorus. No, by him who stands in the 
 front of all the heavenly host; no, by the 
 Sim! Unblest, unfriended, may I die by 
 the uttermost doom, if I have that thought ! 
 But my unhappy soul is worn by the with- 
 ering of the land, and again by the thought 
 that our old sorrows should be crowned by 
 sorrows springing from you twain. 
 
 CEdipus. Then let him go, though I am 
 surely doomed to death, or to be thrust 
 dishonored from the land. Thy lips, not 
 his, move my compassion by their plaint; 
 but he, where'er he be, shall be hated. 
 
 Creon. Sullen in yielding art thou seen, 
 even as vehement in the excesses of thy 
 
42 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 wrath; but such natures are justly sorest 
 for themselves to bear. 
 
 CEdipus. Then wilt thou not leave me in 
 peace, and get thee gone? 
 
 Crbon. I will go my way; I have found 
 thee undiscerning, but in the sight of these 
 I am just. [Exit.] 
 
 Chorus. Lady, why dost thou delay to 
 take yon man into the house? 
 
 locASTA. I will do so, when I have learned 
 what hath chanced. 
 
 Chohus. Blind suspicion, bred of talk, 
 arose; and, on the other part, injustice 
 wounds. 
 
 locASTA. It was on both sides? 
 
 Chorus. Aye. 
 
 locASTA. And what was the story? 
 
 Chorus. Enough, methinks, enough — 
 when our land is already vexed — that the 
 matter should rest where it ceased. 
 
 CEdipus. Seest thou to what thou hast 
 come, for all thy honest purpose, in seeking 
 to slack and blunt my zeal? 
 
 Chorus. King, I have said it not once 
 alone — be sure that I should have been 
 shown a madman, bankrupt in sane coun- 
 sel, if I put thee away — thee, who gavest 
 a true course to my beloved country when 
 distraught by troubles — thee, who now 
 also art like to prove our prospering guide. 
 
 locASTA. In the name of the gods, tell 
 me also, O king, on what account thou hast 
 conceived this steadfast wrath. 
 
 CEdipus. That will I; for I honor thee, 
 lady, above yonder men: — the cause is 
 Creon, and the plots that he hath laid 
 
 locASTA. Speak on — if thou canst tell 
 clearly how the feud began. 
 
 CEdipus. He says that I stand guilty of 
 the blood of Laiius. 
 
 locASTA. As on his own knowledge? Or 
 on hearsay from another? 
 
 CEdipus. Nay, he hath made a rascal 
 seer 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 learn for thy comfort that nought 
 of mortal birth is a sharer in the science 
 of the seer. I will give thee pithy proof of 
 that. 
 
 An oracle came to Laius once — I will 
 not say from Phoebus himself, but from his 
 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 rumor 
 saith, — was murdered one day by foreign 
 robbers at a place where three highways 
 meet. And the child's birth was not three 
 days past, when Laius pinned its ankles 
 together, and had it thrown, by others' 
 hands, on a trackless mountain. 
 
 So, in that case, Apollo brought it not 
 to pass that the babe should become the 
 slayer of his sire, or that Laius should die 
 — the dread thing which he feared — by 
 his child's hand. Thus did the messages of 
 seer-craft map out the future. Regard 
 them, thou, not at all. Whatsoever need- 
 ful things the god seeks, he himself will 
 easily bring to light. 
 
 CEdipus. What restlessness of soul, lady, 
 what tumult of the mind hath just come 
 upon me since I heard thee speak! 
 
 locASTA. What anxiety hath startled 
 thee, that thou sayest this? 
 
 CEdipus. Methought I heard this from 
 thee, — that Laius was slain where three 
 highways meet. 
 
 locASTA. Yea, that was the story; nor 
 hath it ceased yet. 
 
 CEdipus. And where is the place where 
 this befell? 
 
 locASTA. The land is called Phocis; and 
 branching roads lead to the same spot from 
 Delphi and from Daulia. 
 
 CEdipus. And what is the time that hath 
 passed since these things were? 
 
 locASTA. The news was published to the 
 town shortly before thou wast first seen in 
 power over this land. 
 
 CEdipus. O Zeus, what hast thou decreed 
 to do unto me? 
 
 locASTA. And wherefore, CEdipus, doth 
 this thing weigh upon thy soul? 
 
 CEdipus. Ask me not yet; but say what 
 was the stature of Lajius, and how ripe his 
 manhood. 
 
 locASTA, He was tall, — the silver just 
 lightly strewn among his hair; and his form 
 was not greatly unlike to thine. 
 
 CEdipus. Unhappy that I am! Methinks 
 
CEDIPUS THE KING 
 
 43 
 
 I have been laying myself even now under 
 a dread curse, and knew it not. 
 
 locASTA. How sayest thou? I tremble 
 when I look on thee, my king. 
 
 CEdipus. Dread misgivings have I that 
 the seer can see. But thou wilt show better 
 if thou wilt tell me one thing more. 
 
 locASTA. Indeed — though I tremble — 
 I will answer all thou askest, when I hear it. 
 
 CEdiptts. Went he in small force, or with 
 many armed followers, like a chieftain? 
 
 locASTA. Five they were in aU, — a her- 
 ald one of them; and ths'e was one carriage, 
 which bore Lajus. 
 
 ■ CEdiptts. Alas! 'T is now clear indeed. 
 — Who was he who gave you these tidings, 
 lady? 
 
 locASTA. A servant — the sole survivor 
 who came hon[ie. 
 
 CEdipus. Is he haply at hand in the house 
 now? 
 
 locASTA. No, tndy; so soon as he came 
 thence, and found thee reigning in the 
 stead of Laius, he supplicated me, with 
 hand laid 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 slave, 
 to win e'en a larger boon than that. 
 
 CEdipus. Would, then, that he could 
 return to us without delay! 
 
 locASTA. It is easy: but wherefore dost 
 thou enjoin this? 
 
 CEdipus. I fear, lady, that mine own lips 
 have been unguarded; and therefore am I 
 fain to behold him. 
 
 locASTA. Nay, he shall come. But I, too, 
 methinks, have a claim to learn what lies 
 heavy on thy heart, my king. 
 
 CEdipus. Yea, and it shall not be kept 
 from thee, now that my forebodings have 
 advanced so far. Who, indeed, is more to 
 me than thou, to whom I should speak in 
 passing through such a fortune as this? , 
 
 My father was Polybus of Corinth, — 
 my mother, the Dorian Merope; and I was 
 held the first of all the folli 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 
 full of wine cast it at me in his cups that I 
 was not the true son of my sire. And I, 
 
 vexed, restrained myself for that day as 
 best I might; but on the next I went to my 
 mother and father, and questioned them; 
 and they were wroth for the taunt with 
 him 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 
 Phoebus 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 defile my mother's bed; and that 
 I should show unto men a brood which 
 they could not endure to behold; and that 
 I should be the slayer of the sire who 
 begat me. 
 
 And I, when I had listened to this, 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 way I came 
 to the regions in which thou sayest that 
 this prince perished. Now, lady, I will tell 
 thee the truth. When in my journey I was 
 near to those three roads, there met me a 
 herald, and a man seated in a carriage 
 drawn by colts, as thou hast described; and 
 he who was in front, and the old man him- 
 self, were for thrusting 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 was passing, and, from the carriage, 
 brought his goad with two teeth down full 
 upon my head. Yet was he paid with in- 
 terest; by one swift blow from the staff in 
 this hand he was rolled right out of the car- 
 riage, on his back; and I slew every man of 
 them. 
 
 But if this stranger had any tie of kin- 
 ship with Laius, who is now more wretched 
 than 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 accost; whom all must repel from their 
 homes! And this — this curse — was laid 
 on me by no mouth but mine own! And I 
 pollute the bed of the slain man with the 
 
44 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 hands by which he perished. Say, am I 
 vile? Oh, am I not utterly unclean? — 
 seeing that I must be banished, and in ban- 
 ishment see not mine own people, nor set 
 foot in mine own land, or else be joined in 
 wedlock to my mother, and slay my sire, 
 even Polybus, who begat and reared me. 
 
 Then would not he speak aright of 
 (Edipus, who judged these things sent by 
 some cruel power above man? Forbid, for- 
 bid, ye pure and awful gods, that I should 
 see that day! No, may I be swept from 
 among men, ere I behold myself visited 
 with the brand of such a doom! 
 
 Chorus. To us, indeed, these things, O 
 king, are fraught with fear; yet have hope, 
 until at least thou hast gained full knowl- 
 edge from him who saw the deed. 
 
 CEdipus. Hope, in truth, rests with me 
 thus far alone; I can await the man sum- 
 moned from the pastures. 
 
 locASTA. And when he has appeared — 
 what wouldst thou have of him? 
 
 (Edipus. I will tell thee. If his 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? 
 
 (Edipus. Thou wast saying that he 
 spoke of Laius as slain by robbers. If, then, 
 he still speaks, as before, of several, I was 
 not the slayer: a solitary man could not be 
 held the same with that band. But if he 
 names one lonely wayfarer, then beyond 
 doubt this guilt leans to me. 
 
 locASTA. Nay, be assured that thus, at 
 least, the tale was first told; he cannot re- 
 voke that, for the city heard it, not I alone. 
 But even if he should diverge somewhat 
 from his former story, never, king, can he 
 show that the murder of Laius, at least, is 
 truly square to prophecy; of whom Loxias 
 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 look to my right hand or my 
 left. 
 
 (Edipus. Thou judgest well. But never- 
 theless send some one to fetch the peasant, 
 and neglect not this matter. 
 ' . locASTA. I will send without delay. But 
 
 let us come into the house: nothing will I 
 do save at thy good pleasure. 
 
 [Exeunt CEdipus and Iocasta.] 
 
 Chorus. May destiny stUl find me win- 
 ning the praise of reverent purity in all 
 words and deeds sanctioned by those laws 
 of range sublime, called into life through- 
 out the high clear heaven, whose father is 
 Olympus alone; their parent was no race 
 of mortal men, no, nor shall oblivion ever 
 lay them to sleep; the god is mighty in 
 them, and he grows not old. 
 
 Insolence breeds the tyrant; Insolence, 
 once vainly surfeited on wealth that is not 
 meet nor good for it, when it hath scaled 
 the topmost ramparts, is hurled to a dire 
 doom, wherein no service of the feet can 
 serve. But I pray that the god never quell 
 such rivalry as benefits the State; the god 
 will I ever hold for our protector. 
 
 But if any man walks haughtily in deed 
 or word, with no fear of Justice, no rever- 
 ence for the images of gods, may an evil 
 doom seize him for his ill-starred pride, if 
 he will not win his vantage fairly, 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 should we join in 
 the sacred dance? 
 
 No more will I go reverently to earth's 
 central and inviolate shrine, no more to 
 Abse's temple or Olympia, if these oracles 
 fit not the issue, so that all men shall point 
 at them with the finger. Nay, king, — if 
 thou art rightly called, — Zeus all-ruling, 
 may it not escape thee and thine ever- 
 deathless power! 
 
 The old prophecies concerning Laius are 
 fading; already men are setting them at 
 nought, and nowhere is Apollo glorified 
 ■with honors; the worship of the gods is 
 perishing. 
 
 [Enter Iocasta.] 
 
 Iocasta. Princes of the land, the thought 
 has come to me to visit the shrines of the 
 gods, with this wreathed branch in my 
 hands, and these gifts of incense. For 
 CEdipus excites his soul overmuch with all 
 
CEDIPUS THE KING 
 
 45 
 
 manner of alarms, nor, like a man of sense, 
 judges the new things by the old, but is 
 at the will of the speaker, if he speak 
 terrors. 
 
 Since, then, by counsel I can do no 
 good, to thee, Lycean ApoUo, for thou art 
 nearest, I have come, a suppliant with 
 these symbols of prayer, that thou mayest 
 find us some riddance from uncleanness. 
 For now we are all afraid, seeing him 
 affrighted, even as they who see fear in the 
 helmsman of their ship. 
 
 [Enter Messenger.] 
 
 Messenger. Might I learn from you, 
 strangers, where is the house of the king 
 CEdipus? Or, better still, tell me where he 
 himself is — if ye know. 
 
 Chorus. This is his dwelling, and he 
 himself, stranger, is within; and this lady 
 is the mother of his children. 
 
 Messenger. Then may she be ever 
 happy in a happy home, since she is his 
 heaven-blest queen. 
 
 locASTA. Happiness to thee also, stran- 
 ger! 'T is the due of thy fair greeting. But 
 say, what thou hast come to seek or to tell. 
 
 Messenger. Good tidings, lady, for thy 
 house and for thy husband. 
 
 locASTA. What are they? And from 
 whom hast thou come? 
 
 Messenger. From Corinth: and at the 
 message which I will speak anon thou wilt 
 rejoice — doubtless; yet haply grieve. 
 
 locASTA. And what is it? How hath it 
 thus a double potency? 
 
 Messenger. The people will make him 
 king of the Isthmian land, as 't was said 
 there. 
 
 locASTA. How then? Is the aged Poly- 
 bus no more in power? 
 
 Messenger. No, verily: for death holds 
 him in the tomb. 
 
 locASTA. How sayest thou? Is Polybus 
 dead, old man? 
 
 Messenger. If I speak not the truth, I 
 am content to die. 
 
 locASTA. O handmaid, away with all 
 speed, and tell this to thy master! O ye 
 oracles of the gods, where stand ye now! 
 This is the man whom CEdipus long feared 
 and shimned, lest he should slay him; and 
 
 now this man hath died in the course of 
 destiny, not by his hand. 
 
 [Enter CEdipus.] 
 
 CEdipus. locasta, dearest wife, why hast 
 thou summoned me forth from these doors? 
 
 locASTA. Hear this man, and judge, as 
 thou listenest, to what the awful oracles 
 of the gods have come. 
 
 CEdipus. And he — who may he be, and 
 what news hath he for me? 
 
 locASTA. He is from Corinth, to tell that 
 thy father Polybus lives no longer, but 
 hath perished. 
 
 CEdipus. How, stranger? Let me have 
 it from thine own mouth. 
 
 Messenger. If I must first make these 
 tidings plain, know indeed that he is dead 
 and gone. 
 
 CEdipus. By treachery, or by visit of 
 disease? 
 
 Messenger. A light thing in the scale 
 brings the aged to their rest. 
 
 CEdipus. Ah, he died, it seems, of sickness? 
 
 Messenger. Yea, and of the long years 
 that he had told. 
 
 CEdipus. Alas, alas! Why, indeed, my 
 wife, should one look to the hearth of the 
 Pythian seer, or to the birds that scream 
 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, perchance, he was killed by 
 longing for me: thus, indeed, I should be 
 the cause of his death. But the oracles as 
 they stand, at least, Polybus hath swept 
 with him to his rest in Hades: they are 
 worth nought. 
 
 locASTA. Nay, did I not so foretell to 
 thee long since? 
 
 CEdipus. Thou didst: but I was misled 
 by my fear. 
 
 locASTA. Now no more lay aught of 
 those things to heart. 
 
 CEdipus. But surely I must needs fear 
 my mother's bed? 
 
 locASTA. Nay, what should mortal fear, 
 for whom the decrees of Fortune are su- 
 preme, and who hath clear foresight of 
 nothing? 'T is best to live at random, as 
 one may. But fear not thou touching wed- 
 
46 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 lock with thy mother. Many men ere now 
 have so fared in dreams also: but he to 
 whom these things are as nought bears his 
 life most easily. 
 
 CEdipus. All these bold words of thine 
 would have been well, were not my mother 
 living; but as it is, since she lives, I must 
 needs fear — though thou sayest well. 
 
 locASTA. Howbeit thy father's death is 
 a great sign to cheer us. 
 
 CEdipus. Great, I know; but my fear is 
 of her who lives. 
 
 Messenger. And who is the woman 
 about whom ye fear? 
 
 CEdipus. Meropl, old man, the consort 
 of Polybus. 
 
 Messbngbe. And what is it in her that 
 moves your fear? 
 
 CEdipus. A heaven-sent oracle of dread 
 import, stranger. 
 
 Messenger. Lawful, or unlawful, for 
 another to know? 
 
 CEdipus. Lawful, surely. Loxias once 
 said that I was doomed to espouse mine 
 own mother, and to shed with mine own 
 hands my father's blood. Wherefore my 
 home in Corinth was long kept by me afar; 
 with happy event, indeed, — yet still 't is 
 sweet to see the face of parents. 
 
 Messenger. Was it indeed for fear of 
 this that thou wast an exile from that city? 
 
 CEdipus. And because I wished not, old 
 man, to be the slayer of my sire. 
 
 Mbssengbk. Then why have I not freed 
 thee, king, from this fear, seeing that I 
 came with friendly purpose? 
 
 CEdipus. Indeed thou shouldst have 
 guerdon due from me. 
 
 Messenger. Indeed 't was chiefly for 
 this that I came — that, on thy return 
 home, I might reap some good. 
 
 CEdipus. Nay, I will never go near my 
 parents. 
 
 Messenger. Ah my son, 't is plain 
 enough that thou knowest not what thou 
 doest. 
 
 CEdipus. How, old man? For the gods' 
 love, tell me. 
 
 Messenger. If for these reasons thou 
 shrinkest from going home. 
 
 CEdipus. Aye, I dread lest Phoebus 
 prove himself true for me. 
 
 Messenger. Thou dreadest to be stained 
 with guUt through thy parents? 
 
 CEdipus. Even so, old man — this it is 
 that ever affrights me. 
 
 Messenger. Dost thou know, then, 
 that thy fears are wholly vain? 
 
 CEdipus. How so, if I was born of those 
 parents? 
 
 Messenger. Because Polybus was noth- 
 ing to thee in blood. 
 
 CEdipus. What sayest thou? Was Poly- 
 bus not my sire? 
 
 Messenger. No more than he who 
 speaks to thee, but just so much. 
 
 CEdipus. And how can my sire be level 
 with him who is as nought to me? 
 
 Messenger. Nay, he begat thee not, 
 any more than I. 
 
 CEdipus. Nay, wherefore, then, called 
 he me his son? 
 
 Messenger. Know that he had re- 
 ceived thee as a gift from my hands of yore. 
 
 CEdipus. And yet he loved me so dearly, 
 who came from another's hand? 
 
 Messenger. Yea, his former childless- 
 ness won him thereto. 
 
 CEdipus. And thou — hadst thou bought 
 me or found me by chance, when thou 
 gavest me to him? 
 
 Messenger. Pound thee in Cithseron's 
 winding glens. 
 
 CEdipus. And wherefore wast thou roam- 
 ing in those regions? 
 
 Messenger. I was there in charge of 
 mountain flocks. 
 
 CEdipus. What, thou wast a shepherd — 
 a vagrant hireling? 
 
 Messenger. But thy preserver, my son, 
 in that hour. 
 
 CEdipus. And what pain was mine when 
 thou didst take me in thine arms? 
 
 Messenger. The ankles of thy feet 
 might witness. 
 
 CEdipus. Ah me, why dost thou speak 
 of that old trouble? 
 
 Messenger. I freed thee when thou 
 hadst thine ankles pinned together. 
 
 CEdipus. Aye, 'twas a dread brand of 
 shame that I took from my cradle. 
 
 Messenger. Such, that from that for- 
 tune thou wast called by the name which 
 still is thine. 
 
CEDIPUS THE KING 
 
 47 
 
 CEdiptjs. Oh, for the gods' love — was 
 the deed my mother's or father's? Speak! 
 
 Messenger. I know not; he who gave 
 thee to me wots better of that than I. 
 
 CEdipus. What, thou hadst me from 
 another? Thou didst not light on me thy- 
 self? 
 
 Messbngeb. No : another shepherd gave 
 thee up to me. 
 
 OEdipus. Who was he? Art thou in case 
 to tell clearly? 
 
 Messenger. I think he was called one 
 of the household of Laius. 
 
 CEdiptjs. The king who ruled this coun- 
 try long ago? 
 
 Messenger. The same: 'twas in his 
 service that the man was a herd. 
 
 (Ediptjs. Is he still alive, that I might 
 see him? 
 
 Messenger. Nay, ye folk of the coun- 
 try should know best. [Exit.] 
 
 CEdiptjs. Is there any of you here pres 
 ent that knows the herd of whom he speaks 
 — that hath seen him in the pastures or 
 the town? Answer! The hour hath come 
 that these things should be finally revealed. 
 
 Chorus. Methinks he speaks of no other 
 than the peasant whom thou wast already 
 fain to see; but our lady locasta might best 
 tell that. 
 
 (Ediptts. Lady, wottest thou' of him 
 whom we lately summoned? Is it of him 
 that this man speaks? 
 
 locASTA. Why ask of whom he spoke? 
 Regard it not . . . waste not a thought on 
 what he said . . . 't were idle. 
 
 CEdipus. It must not be that, with such 
 clues in my grasp, I should fail to bring my 
 birth to light. 
 
 locASTA. For the gods' sake, if thou hast 
 any care for thine own life, forbear this 
 search! My anguish is enough. 
 
 CEdipus. 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. 
 
 locASTA. Yet hear me, I implore thee: 
 do not thus. 
 
 CEdipus. I must not hear of not discover- 
 ing the whole truth. 
 
 locASTA. Yet I wish thee well — I coun- 
 sel thee for the best. 
 
 CEdipus. These best counsels, then, vex 
 my patience. 
 
 locASTA. Ill-fated one! Mayst thou; 
 never come to know who thou art! 
 
 CEdipus. Go, some one, fetch me the 
 herdsman hither, — and leave yon woman 
 to glory in her princely stock. 
 
 locASTA. Alas, alas, miserable! — that 
 word alone can I say unto thee, and no 
 other word henceforth forever. 
 
 [She rushes into the palace.] 
 
 Chorus. Why hath the lady gone, 
 CEdipus, in a transport of wild grief? I 
 misdoubt, a storm of sorrow will break 
 forth from this silence. 
 
 CEdipus. Break forth what will! Be my 
 race never so lowly, I must crave to learn 
 it. Yon woman, perchance, — for she is 
 proud with more than a woman's pride — 
 thinks shame of my base source. But I, 
 who hold myself son of Fortune that gives 
 good, will not be dishonored. She is the 
 mother from whom I spring; 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, 
 O Cithseron, thou shalt not fail — by yon 
 heaven, thou shalt not! — to know at to- 
 morrow's full moon that CEdipus honors 
 thee as native to him, as his nurse, and his 
 mother, and that thou art celebrated in our 
 dance and song, because thou art well- 
 pleasing to OTU' prince. O Phoebus to whom 
 we cry, may these things find favor in thy 
 sight! 
 
 Who was it, my son, who of the race 
 whose years are many that bore thee in 
 wedlock with Pan, the mountain-roaming 
 father? Or was it a bride of 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 thee, a new- 
 born joy, from one of the Nymphs of Heli- 
 con, with whom he most doth sport. 
 
 CEdipus. Elders, if 't is for me to guess, 
 who have never met with him, I think I 
 see the herdsman of whom we have long 
 been in quest; for in his venerable age he 
 
48 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 tallies with yon stranger's years, and withal 
 I know those who bring him, methinks, as 
 servants of mine own. But perchance thou 
 mayest have the advantage of me in knowl- 
 edge, if thou hast seen the herdsman be- 
 fore. 
 
 Chorus. Aye, I know him, be sure; he 
 was in the service of Laius — trusty as any 
 man, in his shepherd's place. 
 
 [The Herdsman is brought ira,.] 
 
 CEdipus. I ask thee first, Corinthian 
 stranger, is this he whom thou meanest? 
 
 Messenger. This man whom thou be- 
 holdest. 
 
 CEdipus. Ho thou, old man — I would 
 have thee look this way, and answer all 
 that I ask thee. — Thou wast once in the 
 service of Laius? 
 
 Herdsman. I was — a slave not bought, 
 but reared in his house. 
 
 CEdipus. Employed in what labor, or 
 what way of life? 
 
 Herdsman. For the best part of my life 
 I tended flocks. 
 
 CEdipus. And what the regions that 
 thou didst chiefly haunt? 
 
 Herdsman. Sometimes it was Cithaeron, 
 sometimes the neighboring ground. 
 
 CEdipus. Then wottest thou of having 
 noted yon man in these parts — j 
 
 Herdsman. Doing what? . . . What man 
 dost thou mean? . . . 
 
 CEdipus. This man here — or of having 
 ever met him before? 
 
 Herdsman. Not so that I could speak 
 at once from memory. 
 
 Messenger. And no wonder, master. 
 But I will bring clear recollection to his 
 ignorance. I am sure that he well wots of 
 the time when we abode in the region of 
 Cithaeron, — he with two flocks, I, his 
 comrade, with one, — three full half-years, 
 from spring 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 
 Laius. Did aught of this happen as I tell, 
 or did it not? 
 
 Herdsman. Thou speakest the truth — 
 though 't is long ago. 
 
 Messenger. Come, tell me now — wot- 
 test thou of having given me a boy in those 
 days, to be reared as mine own foster-son? 
 
 Herdsman. What now? Why dost thou 
 ask the question? 
 
 Messenger. Yonder man, my friend, is 
 he who then was young. 
 
 Herdsman. Plague seize thee — be si- 
 lent once for all! 
 
 OEdipub. Ha! chide him not, old man — 
 thy words need chiding more than his. 
 
 Herdsman. And wherein, most noble 
 master, do I offend? 
 
 CEdipus. In not telling of the boy con- 
 cerning whom he asks. 
 
 Herdsman. He speaks without knowl- 
 edge — he is busy to no purpose. 
 
 CEdipus. Thou wilt not speaJi with a 
 good grace, but thou shalt on pain. 
 
 Herdsman. Nay, for the gods' love, 
 misuse not an old man! 
 
 CEdipus. Ho, some one — pinion him 
 this instant! 
 
 Herdsman. Alas, wherefore? what more 
 wouldst thou learn? 
 
 CEdipus. Didst thou give this man the 
 child of whom he asks? 
 
 Herdsman. I did, — and would I had 
 perished that day! 
 
 CEdipus. Well, thou wilt come to that, 
 unless thou teU the honest truth. 
 
 Herdsman. Nay, much more am I lost, 
 if I speak. 
 
 CEdipus. The fellow is bent, methinks, 
 on more delays . . . 
 
 Herdsman. No, no! — I said before 
 that I gave it to him. 
 
 CEdipus. Whence hadst thou got it? In 
 thine own house, or from another? 
 
 Herdsman. Mine own it was not — I 
 had received it from a man. 
 
 CEdipus. From whom of the citizens 
 here? From what home? 
 
 Herdsman. Forbear, for the gods' love, 
 master, forbear to ask more! 
 
 CEdipus. Thou art lost if I have to ques- 
 tion thee again. 
 
 Herdsman. It was a child, then, of the 
 house of Laius. 
 
 CEdipus. A slave — or one born of his 
 own race? 
 
 Herdsman. Ah me — I am on the 
 dreaded brink of speech. 
 
 CEdipus. And I of hearing; yet must I 
 hear. 
 
CEDIPUS THE KING 
 
 49 
 
 Herdsman. Thou must know, then, 
 that 't was said to be his own child — but 
 thy lady within could best say how these 
 things are. 
 
 CEdipus. How? She gave it to thee? 
 
 Herdsman. Yea, O king. 
 
 CEDiPtJS. For what end? 
 
 Herdsman. That I should make away 
 with it. 
 
 (Edipus. Her own child, the wretch? 
 
 Herdsman. Aye, from fear of evil proph- 
 ecies. 
 
 CEdiptts. What were they? 
 
 Herdsman. The tale ran that he must 
 slay his sire. 
 
 (Edipus. Why, then, didst thou give 
 him up to this old man? 
 
 Herdsman. Through pity, master, as 
 deeming that he would bear him away to 
 another land, whence he himself came; 
 but he saved him for the direst woe. For 
 if thou art what this man saith, know that 
 thou wast bom to misery. 
 
 [Exit Herdsman.] 
 
 CEdiptjs. Oh, oh! All brought to pass — 
 all true! Thou light, may I now look my 
 last on thee — I who have been found ac- 
 cursed in birth, accursed in wedlock, ac- 
 cursed in the shedding of blood! 
 J [He rushes into the palace.] 
 
 Chorus. Alas, ye generations of men, 
 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, 
 imhappy (Edipus — to call no earthly 
 creature blest. 
 
 For he, O Zeus, sped his shaft with peer- 
 less skUl, and won the prize of an all- 
 prosperous fortune; he slew the maiden 
 with crooked talons who sang darkly; he 
 arose 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 
 Thebes. 
 
 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 
 his life reversed? 
 
 Alas, renowned (Edipus! The same boun- 
 
 teous place of rest sufficed thee, as child 
 and as sire also, that thou shouldst make 
 thereon thy nuptial couch. Oh, how can 
 the soil wherein thy father sowed, un- 
 happy one, have suffered thee in silence 
 so long? 
 
 Time the all-seeing hath found thee out 
 in thy despite: he judgeth the monstrous 
 marriage wherein begetter and begotten 
 have long been one. 
 
 Alas, thou child of Laius, would, would 
 that I had never seen thee! I wail as one 
 who pours a dirge from his lips; sooth to 
 speak, 't was thou that gavest me new life, 
 and through thee darkness hath fallen upon 
 mine eyes. 
 
 [Enter Second Messenger from the house.] 
 
 Second Messenger. 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 for the house of Labda- 
 cus! For I ween that not Ister nor Phasis 
 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. 
 
 Chorus. Indeed those which we knew 
 before fall not short of claiming sore lam- 
 entation: besides them, what dost thou 
 announce? 
 
 Second Messenger. This is the short- 
 est tale to tell and to hear: our royal lady 
 locasta is dead. 
 
 Chorus. Alas, hapless one! From what 
 cause? 
 
 Second Messenger. By her own hand. 
 The worst pain in what hath chanced is 
 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 
 fate. 
 
 When, frantic, she had passed within 
 the vestibule, she rushed straight towards 
 her nuptial couch, clutching her hair with 
 the fingers of both hands; once within the 
 chamber, she dashed the doors together at 
 her back; then called on the name of Laius, 
 long since a corpse, mindful of that son, 
 begotten long ago, by whom the sire was 
 
s° 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 slain, leaving the mother to breed accursed 
 offspring with his own. 
 
 And she bewailed the wedlock wherein, 
 wretched, she had borne a twofold brood, 
 husband by husband, children by her child. 
 And how thereafter she perished, is more 
 than I know. For with a shriek (Edipus 
 burst in, and suffered us not to watch her 
 woe unto the end; on him, as he rushed 
 around, our eyes were set. To and fro he 
 went, asking us to give him a sword, — 
 asking where he should find the wife who 
 was no wife, but a mother whose womb had 
 borne alike himself and his children. And, 
 in his frenzy, a power above man was his 
 guide; for 't was none of us mortals who 
 were nigh. And with a dread shriek, as 
 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 beheld we the woman hanging by 
 the neck in a twisted- noose of swinging 
 cords. But he, when he saw her, with a 
 dread, deep cry of misery, loosed the halter 
 whereby she hung. And when the hapless 
 woman was stretched upon the 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 
 behold such horrors as I was suffering and 
 working! long enough have ye looked on 
 those whom ye ought 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 hand; and 
 at each blow the ensanguined eyeballs be- 
 dewed his beard, nor sent forth sluggish 
 drops of 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 
 happiness of their ancestral fortune was 
 aforetime happiness indeed; but to-day 
 — lamentation, ruin, death, shame, all 
 earthly ills that can be named — all, all 
 are theirs. 
 
 Chobus. And hath the sufferer now any 
 respite from pain? 
 
 Second Messenger. He cries for some 
 one to unbar the gates and show to all the 
 Cadmeans his father's slayer, his mother's 
 
 — the unholy word must not pass my lips, 
 
 — as purposing to cast himself out of the 
 land, and abide no more, to make the house 
 accursed 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, 
 the bars of the gates are withdrawn, and 
 soon thou shalt behold a sight which even 
 he who abhors it must pity. 
 
 [Enter CEdipus.] 
 
 Chorus. O dread fate for men to see, O 
 most dreadful of all that have met mine 
 eyes! Unhappy one, what madness hath 
 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 one! Nay, I can- 
 not e'en look on thee, though there is much 
 that I would fain ask, fain learn, much that 
 draws my wistful gaze, — with such a 
 shuddering dost thou fill me! 
 
 CEdipub. Woe is me! Alas, alas, wretched 
 that I am! Whither, whither am I borne in 
 my misery? How is my voice swept abroad 
 on the wings of the air? O my Fate, how 
 far hast thou sprung! 
 
 Chorus. To a dread place, dire in men's 
 ears, dire in their sight. 
 
 CEdipus. O thou horror of darkness that 
 enfoldest me, visitant imspeakable, resist- 
 less, sped by a wind too fair! 
 
 Ay me! and once again, ay me! 
 
 How is my soul pierced by the stab of 
 these goads, and withal by the memory of 
 sorrows! 
 
 Chorus. Yea, amid woes so many a 
 twofold pain may well be thine to mourn 
 and to bear. 
 
 CEdipus. Ah, friend, thou still art stead- 
 fast in thy tendance of me, — thou still 
 hast patience to care for the blind man! 
 Ah me! Thy presence is not hid from me — 
 no, dark though I am, yet know I thy voice 
 full well. 
 
CEDIPUS THE KING 
 
 SI 
 
 Chobtjs. Man of dread deeds, how 
 couldst thou in such wise quench thy 
 vision? What more than human power 
 urged thee? 
 
 OEdipus. Apollo, friends, Apollo was he 
 that brought these my woes to pass, these 
 my sore, sore woes: but the hand that 
 struck the eyes was none save mine, 
 wretched that I am! Why was I to see, 
 when sight could show me nothing sweet? 
 
 Chorus. These things were even as thou 
 sayest. 
 
 CEdipus. Say, friends, what can I more 
 behold, 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 
 mortal most abhorred of heaven! 
 
 Chorus. Wretched alike for thy fortune 
 and for thy sense thereof, would that I had 
 never so much as known thee! 
 
 (Ediptjs. 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! Had I died then, to my 
 friends and to mine ovs(n soul I had not 
 been so sore a grief. 
 
 Chorus. I also would have had it thus. 
 
 CEdipus. 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 woes, it hath 
 become the portion of CEdipus. 
 
 Chorus. I know not how I can say that 
 thou hast counseled well: for thou wert 
 better dead than living and blind. 
 
 ffimpus. Show me hot at large that these 
 things are not best done thus: give me 
 counsel no more. For, had I sight, I know 
 not with 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 sirmed 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 
 
 walls, 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 whom 
 gods have shown to be unholy — and of the 
 race of Laius! 
 
 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 so I should have known nor sight nor 
 sound: for 't is sweet that our thought 
 should dwell beyond the sphere of griefs. 
 
 Alas, Cithaeron, why hadst thou a shelter 
 for me? When I was given to thee, why 
 didst thou not slay me straightwaj', that 
 so I might never have revealed my source 
 tx) men? Ah, Polybus, — 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 evU, and of 
 evil birth. O ye three roads, and thou 
 secret glen, — thou coppice, and narrow 
 way w^here three paths met — ye who 
 drank from my hands that father's blood 
 which was mine own, — remember ye, 
 perchance, what deeds I wrought for you 
 to see, — and then, when I came hither, 
 what fresh deeds I went on to do? 
 
 O marriage-rites, ye gave me birth, and 
 when ye had brought me forth, again ye 
 bore children to your child, ye created an 
 incestuous kinship of fathers, brothers, 
 sons, — brides, wives, mothers, — yea, all 
 the foulest shame that is wrought among 
 men! Nay, but 't is unmeet to name what 
 't is 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 plague can rest on no mortal beside. 
 
 Chorus. 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. 
 
 CEdipus. Ah me, how indeed shall I 
 
52 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 accost him? What claim to credence can 
 be shown on my part? For in the past I 
 have been found wholly false to him. 
 
 [Enter Crbon.] 
 
 Cbeon. I have not come in mockery, 
 (Edipus, nor to reproach thee with any 
 bygone fault. {To the attendants.) But ye, 
 if ye respect the children of men no more, 
 revere at least the all-nurturing flame of 
 our lord the Sun, — spare to show thus 
 nakedly a pollution such as this, — one 
 which neither earth can welcome, nor the 
 holy rain, nor the light. Nay, take him 
 into the house as quickly as ye may; for it 
 best accords with piety that kinsfolk alone 
 should see and hear a kinsman's woes. 
 
 ffinipus. For the gods' love — since thou 
 hast done a gentle violence to my presage, 
 who hast come in a spirit so noble to me, 
 a man most vile — grant me a boon : — for 
 thy good I will speak, not for mine own. 
 
 Cbeon. And what wish art thou so fain 
 to have of me? 
 
 CEdipus. Cast me out of this land with 
 all speed, to a place where no mortal shall 
 be found to greet me more. 
 
 Cbeon. This would I have done, be thou 
 sure, but that I craved first to learn all my 
 duty from the god. 
 
 CEdipus. Nay, his behest hath been set 
 forth in full, — to let me perish, the parri- 
 cide, the unholy one, that I am. 
 
 Cbeon. Such was the purport; yet, see- 
 ing to what a pass we have come, 't is bet- 
 ter to learn clearly what should be done. 
 
 CEniprs. Will ye, then, seek a response 
 on behalf of such a wretch as I am? 
 
 Creon. Aye, for thou thyself wilt now 
 surely put faith in the god. 
 
 CEdipus. Yea; and on thee lay I this 
 charge, to thee will I make this entreaty: 
 
 — give to her who is within such burial as 
 thou thyself wouldest; 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 Cithseron, famed as mine, 
 
 — which my mother and sire, while they 
 lived, set for my appointed tomb, — that 
 so I may die by their decree who sought to 
 
 slay me. Howbeit of thus much am I sure, 
 
 — that neither sickness nor aught else can 
 destroy 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, so that, be they where they 
 may, they can never lack the means to live. 
 But my two girls, poor hapless ones, — 
 who never knew my table spread apart, or 
 lacked their father's presence, but ever in 
 all things shared my daily bread, — I pray 
 thee, care for them; 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! Ah, could I but 
 once touch them with my hands, I should 
 think that they were with me, even as when 
 I had sight. . . . 
 
 [Crbon's attendants lead in the 
 children Antigone and Ismene.] 
 
 Ha? O 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 darlings? Am I right? 
 
 Cbeon. Yea: 't is of my contriving, for 
 I knew thy joy in them of old, — the joy 
 that now is thine. 
 
 CEdipus. 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 
 hither, — hither to the hands of him whose 
 mother was your own, the hands whose 
 offices have wrought that your sire's once 
 bright eyes should be such orbs as these, 
 
 — his, who seeing nought, knowing nought, 
 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 citizens 
 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 years ripe for marriage, who 
 shall he be, who shall be the man, my 
 daughters, that will hazard taking unto 
 him such reproaches as must be baneful 
 alike to my offspring and to yours? For 
 
CEDIPUS THE KING 
 
 S3 
 
 what misery is wanting? Your sire slew 
 his sire, he had seed of her who bare him, 
 and begat you at the sources of his own 
 being! Such are the taunts that will be 
 cast at you; and who then will wed? The 
 man lives not, no, it cannot be, my chil- 
 dren, but ye must wither in barren maiden- 
 hood. 
 
 Ah, son of Menceceus, hear me — since 
 thou art the only father left to them, for 
 we, their parents, are lost, both of us, — 
 allow 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 seest them at this tender age so 
 utterly forlorn, save for thee. Signify thy 
 promise, generous man, by the touch of 
 thy hand! To you, my children, I would 
 have given much counsel, were your minds 
 mature; but now I would have this to be 
 your prayer — that ye live where occasion 
 suffers, and that the life which is your por- 
 tion may be happier than your sire's. 
 
 Creon. Thy grief hath had large scope 
 enough: nay, pass into the house. 
 
 OEdipus. I must obey, though 't is in no 
 wise sweet. 
 
 Ckeon. Yea: for it is in season that all 
 things are good. 
 
 CEdipus. Knowest thou, then, on what 
 conditions I will go? 
 
 Cbeon. Thou shalt name them; so shall 
 I know them when I hear. 
 
 CEdipus. See that thou send me to dwell 
 beyond this land. 
 
 Cebon. Thou askest me for what the 
 god must give. 
 
 CEdipus. Nay, to the gods I have be- 
 come most hateful. 
 
 Creon. Then shalt thou have thy wish 
 anon. 
 
 CEdipus. So thou consentest? 
 
 Creon. 'T is not my wont to speak idly 
 what I do not mean. 
 
 CEdipus. Then 't is time to lead me 
 hence. 
 
 Creon. Come, then, — but let thy chil- 
 dren go. 
 
 CEdipus. Nay, take not these 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 CEdipus, who knew the famed 
 riddle, and was a man most mighty; on 
 whose fortunes what citizen did not gaze 
 with envy? Behold into what a stormy sea 
 of dread trouble he hath come! 
 
 Therefore, while our eyes wait to see the 
 destined final day, we must call no one 
 happy who is of mortal race, until he hath 
 crossed life's border, free from pain. 
 
MEDEA 
 Bv EURIPIDES 
 
 Translated into English verse by GILBERT MVRRA Y 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS, 
 AMERICAN BRANCH 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Medea, daughter of Aietes, King of Colchis 
 
 Jason, chief of the Argonauts; nephew of Pelias, 
 
 King of lolcos in Thessaly 
 Cheon, rider of Corinth 
 Mgevs, King of Athens 
 Nurse of Medea 
 
 Two Childben of Jason and Medea 
 Attendant on the children 
 A Messengek. 
 
 Chobus of Corinthian Women, with their Leadeb 
 Soldiers and Attendants 
 
 The Scene is laid in Corinth. The play was first acted when 
 Pythodorus was Archon, Olympiad 87, year 1 (b.c. 431). 
 Euphorion was first, Sophocles second, Euripides third, with 
 Medea, PhUocteles, Dictys, and the Harvesters, a Satyr-play. 
 
MEDEA 
 
 [The Scene represents the front of Medea's 
 
 house in Corinth. A road to the right leads 
 
 toward the royal castle, one on the left to the 
 
 harbor. The Nurse is discovered alone.] 
 
 NuBSE. Would God no Aigo e'er had 
 
 winged the seas 
 To Colchis through the blue Symplegades: 
 No shaft of riven pine in Pelion's glen 
 Shaped that first oar-blade in the hands of 
 
 men 
 Valiant, who won, to save King Pelias' vow, 
 The fleece All-golden! Never then, I trow. 
 Mine own princess, her spirit wounded sore 
 With love of Jason, to the encastled shore 
 Had sailed of old lolcos: never wrought 
 The daughters of King PeUas, knowing 
 
 not, 
 To spill their father's life: nor fled in fear, 
 Hunted for that fierce sin, to Corinth here 
 With Jason and her babes. This folk at 
 
 need 
 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 world is angry, and true 
 
 love 
 Sick as with poison. Jason doth forsake 
 My mistress and his own two sons, to make 
 His couch in a king's chamber. He must 
 
 wed: 
 Wed with this Creon's child, who now is 
 
 head 
 And chief of Corinth. Wherefore sore be- 
 trayed 
 Medea calleth up the oath they made. 
 They two, and wakes the olasp6d hands 
 
 again. 
 The troth surpassing speech, and cries 
 
 amain 
 On God in heaven to mark the end, and 
 
 how 
 Jason hath paid his debt. 
 
 All fasting now 
 And cold, her body yielded up to pain. 
 Her days a waste of weeping, she hath lain, 
 Since first she knew that he was false. 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 , 
 
 name 
 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 . . . 
 
 alas. 
 She knoweth now how rare a thing that 
 
 was! 
 Methinks she hath a dread, not joy, to see 
 Her children near. 'T is this that maketh 
 
 me 
 Most tremble, lest she do I know not what. 
 Her heart is no light thing, and useth not 
 To brook much wrong. I know that woman, 
 
 aye. 
 And dread her! Will she creep alone to die 
 Bleeding in that old room, where still is 
 
 laid 
 Lord Jason's bed? She hath for that a 
 
 blade 
 Made keen. Or slay the bridegroom and 
 
 the king. 
 And win herself God knows what dire 
 
 thing? 
 'T is a fell spirit. Few, I ween, shall stir 
 Her hate unscathed, or lightly humble her. 
 Ha! 'T is the children from their games 
 
 again, 
 Rested and gay; and all their mother's pain 
 Forgotten! Young lives ever turn from 
 
 gloom! 
 
 [The Children and their Attendant 
 come in.] 
 
6o 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Attendant. Thou ancient treasure of 
 my lady's room, 
 What mak'st thou here before the gates 
 
 alone, 
 And alway turning on thy lips some moan 
 Of old mischances? Will our mistress be 
 Content, this long time to be left by thee? 
 Nurse. Gray guard of Jason's children, 
 a good thrall 
 Hath his own grief, if any hurt befall 
 His masters. Aye, it holds one's heart! . . . 
 
 Meseems 
 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 Sky. 
 Attendant. How? Are the tears yet 
 
 running in her eyes? 
 NuHSB. 'T were good to be like thee! . . . 
 Her sorrow lies 
 Scarce wakened yet, not half its perils 
 wrought. 
 Attendant. Mad spirit! ... if a man 
 may speak his thought 
 Of masters mad. — And nothing in her ears 
 Hath sounded yet of her last cause for 
 tears! 
 
 [He moves towards the house, but 
 the Nurse checks him.] 
 Nurse. What cause, old man? . . . Nay, 
 
 grudge me not one word. 
 Attendant. 'T is nothing. Best forget 
 
 what thou hast heard. 
 NuESE. Nay, housemate, by thy beard! 
 Hold it not hid 
 From me. . . . 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, there standing 
 
 still 
 Beside him. And he said, 'T was Creon's 
 
 will. 
 Being lord of all this land, that she be 
 
 sent, 
 And with her her two sons, to banishment. 
 Maybe 't is all false. For myself, I know 
 No further, and I would it were not so. 
 Nurse. Jason will never bear it — his 
 own sons 
 Banished, — however hot his anger runs 
 Against their mother! 
 
 Attendant. Old love bumeth low 
 When new love wakes, men say. He is not 
 
 now 
 Husband nor father here, nor any Idn. 
 Nurse. But this is ruin! New waves 
 breaking in 
 To wreck us, ere we are righted from the old ! 
 Attendant. Well, hold thy peace. Our 
 mistress wiU be told 
 All in good time; Speak thou no word 
 hereof. 
 Nurse. My babes! 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 
 Friend. . . . 
 Attendant. And what man on earth is 
 different? How? 
 Hast thou lived all these years, and learned 
 
 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 
 sons. 
 Nurse. Go : run into the house, my little 
 ones: 
 All will end happily! . . . Keep them apart: 
 Let not their mother meet them while her 
 
 heart 
 Is darkened. Yester night I saw a flame 
 Stand in her eye, as though she hated them, 
 And would I know not what. For sure her 
 
 wrath 
 Will never turn nor slumber, till she hath . . , 
 Go: and if some must suffer, may it be 
 Not we who love her, but some enemy! 
 Voice [within] . O shame and pain: O 
 woe is me! 
 Would I could die in my misery! 
 
 [The Children and the Attendant 
 go in.] 
 Nurse. Ah, children, hark! She moves 
 
 again 
 Her frozen heart, her sleeping wrath. 
 In, quick! And never cross her path, 
 Nor rouse that dark eye in its pain; 
 
 That fell sea-spirit, and the dire 
 Spring of a will untaught, unbowed. 
 Quick, now! — Methinks this weeping 
 cloud 
 
 Hath in its heart some thunder-fire, 
 
MEDEA 
 
 6i 
 
 Slow gathering, that must flash ere long. 
 
 Yoke, and let Life go, 
 
 I know not how, for ill or well, 
 
 As a beast out in the night. 
 
 It turns, this uncontrollable 
 
 To lie, and be rid of pain? 
 
 Tempestuous spirit, blind with wrong. 
 
 Chorus — Some Women. (A.) " Zeus, 
 
 Voice [within]. Have I not suffered? 
 
 Earth, Light": 
 
 Doth it call 
 
 The cry of a bride forlorn 
 
 No tears? . . . Ha, ye beside the wall 
 
 Heard ye, and wailing bora 
 
 Unfathered children, God hate you 
 
 Of lost delight? 
 
 As I am hated, and him, too. 
 
 (B.) Why weariest thou this day. 
 
 That gat you, and this house and all! 
 
 Wild heart, for the bed abhorred. 
 
 NuKSE. For pity! What have they to do. 
 
 The cold bed in the clay? 
 
 Babes, with their father's sin? Why call 
 
 Death cometh though no man pray. 
 
 Thy curse on these? . . . Ah, children, all 
 
 Ungarlanded, unadorSd. 
 
 These days my bosom bleeds for you. 
 
 Call him not thou. 
 
 
 (C.) If another's arms be now 
 
 Rude are the wills of princes: yea. 
 
 Where thine have been. 
 
 Prevailing alway, seldom crossed, 
 
 On his head be the sin: 
 
 On fitful winds their moods are tossed; 
 
 Rend not thy brow! 
 
 'T is best men tread the equal way. 
 
 (D.) All that thou sufferest. 
 
 
 God seeth: Oh, not so sore 
 
 Aye, not with glory but with peace 
 
 Waste nor weep for the breast 
 
 May the long summers find me crowned: 
 
 That was thine of yore. 
 
 For gentleness — her very soimd 
 
 Voice [within]. Virgin of Righteousness, 
 
 Is magic, and her usages 
 
 Virgin of hallowed Troth, 
 
 
 Ye marked me when with an oath 
 
 All wholesome: but the fiercely great 
 
 I bound him; mark no less 
 
 Hath little music on his road, 
 
 That oath's end. Give me to see 
 
 And falleth, when the hand of God 
 
 Him and his bride, who sought 
 
 Shall move, most deep and desolate. 
 
 My grief when I wronged her not, 
 
 [During the last words the Leader 
 
 Broken in misery. 
 
 of the Chorus has entered. Other 
 
 And all her house. ... God, 
 
 1 women follow her.] 
 
 My mother's home, and the dim 
 
 Leadbb. I heard a voice and a moan, 
 
 Shore that I left for him. 
 
 A voice of the eastern seas: 
 
 And the voice of my brother's blood. . . . 
 
 Hath she found not yet her ease? 
 
 NuBSE. Oh, wild words! Did ye hear 
 
 Speak, aged one. 
 
 her cry 
 
 For I stood afar at the gate. 
 
 To them that guard man's faith forsworn. 
 
 And there came from within a cry, 
 
 Themis and Zeus? . . . This wrath new- 
 
 And wailing desolate. 
 
 born 
 
 Ah, no more joy have I, 
 
 Shall make mad workings ere it die. 
 
 For the griefs this- house doth see. 
 
 Chorus — Other Women. (A.) Would 
 
 And the love it hath wrought in me. 
 
 she but come to seek 
 
 NuESE. There is no house! 'Tis gone. 
 
 Our faces, that love her well. 
 
 The lord 
 
 And take to her heart the spell 
 
 Seeketh a prouder bed: and she 
 
 Of words that speak? 
 
 Wastes in her chamber, nor one word 
 
 (B.) Alas for the heavy hate 
 
 Will hear of care or charity. 
 
 And anger that burneth ever! 
 
 Voice [within]. Zeus, Earth, 
 
 Would it but now abate, 
 
 Light, 
 
 Ah God, I love her yet. 
 
 Will the fire not stab my brain? 
 
 And surely my love's endeavor 
 
 What profiteth living? Oh, 
 
 Shall fail not here. 
 
 Shall I not lift the slow 
 
 (C.) Go: from that chamber drear 
 
62 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Forth to the day 
 Lead her, and say, Oh, say 
 That we love her dear. 
 (D.) Go, lest her hand be hard 
 On the innocent: Ah, let be! 
 For her grief moves hitherward. 
 Like an angry sea. 
 Ntjhse. That will I: though what words 
 
 of mine 
 Or love shall move her? Let them lie 
 With the old lost labors! . . . Yet her 
 eye — 
 Know ye the eyes of the wild kine, 
 
 The lion flash that guards their brood? 
 
 So looks she now if any thrall 
 
 Speak comfort, or draw near at all 
 My mistress in her evil mood. 
 
 [The Nurse goes into the house.] 
 
 Chorus — A Woman. Alas, the bold 
 blithe bards of old 
 
 That all for joy their music made. 
 For feasts and dancing' manifold. 
 
 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 served us in our need. 
 
 What profit, o'er the banquet's swell 
 That lingering cry that none may heed? 
 The feast hath filled them: all is well! 
 Chorus — Others. I heard a song, but it 
 comes no more. 
 Where the tears ran over: 
 A keen cry but tired, tired: 
 A woman's cry for her heart's desired, 
 , For a traitor's kiss and a lost lover. 
 But a prayer, methinks, yet riseth sore 
 To God, to Faith, God's ancient daugh- 
 ter — 
 The Faith that over sundering seas 
 Drew her to Hellas, and the breeze 
 Of midnight shivered, and the door 
 . Closed of the salt unsounded water. 
 
 [During the last words Medea has 
 come out from the house.] 
 Medea. Women of Corinth, I am come 
 to show 
 
 My face, lest ye despise me. For I know 
 Some heads stand high and fail not, even 
 
 at night 
 Alone — far less like this, in all men's sight : 
 And we, who study not our wayfarings 
 But feel and cry — Oh we are drifting 
 
 things. 
 And evil! For what truth is in men's eyes. 
 Which search no heart, but in a flash 
 
 despise 
 A strange face, shuddering back from one 
 
 that ne'er 
 Hath wronged them? .. . . Sure, far-comers 
 
 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 
 
 high, 
 Hath sapped my soul: I dazzle where I 
 
 stand. 
 The cup of all life shattered in my hand, 
 Longing to die — O friends! He, even he, 
 Whom to know well was all the world to 
 
 me. 
 The man I loved, hath proved most evil. — 
 
 Oh, 
 Of all things upon earth that bleed and 
 
 grow, 
 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; and lo, they 
 
 bring 
 A master of our flesh! There comes the 
 
 sting 
 Of the whole shame. And then the jeop- 
 ardy, 
 For good or ill, what shall that master 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 places, why, 
 'T is magic she must have, or prophecy — 
 Home never taught her that — how best to 
 
 guide 
 Toward peace this thing that sleepeth at 
 
 her side. 
 And she who, laboring long, shall find some 
 
 way 
 
MEDEA 
 
 63 
 
 Whereby her lord may bear with her, nor 
 
 fray 
 His yoke too fiercely, blessed is the breath 
 That woman draws! Else, let her pray for 
 
 death. 
 Her lord, if he be wearied of the face 
 Withindoors, gets Viitti forth; some merrier 
 
 place 
 Will ease his heart: but she waits on, her 
 
 whole 
 Vision enchainSd on a single soul. 
 And then, forsooth, 't is they that face the 
 
 call 
 Of war, while we sit sheltered, hid from 
 
 aU 
 Peril! — False mocking! Sooner would I 
 
 stand 
 Three times to face their battles, shield in 
 
 hand. 
 Than bear one child. 
 
 But peace! There cannot be 
 Ever the same tale told of thee and me. 
 Thou hast this city, and thy father's home. 
 And joy of friends, and hope in days to 
 
 come: 
 But I, being citiless, am cast aside 
 By him that wedded me, a savage bride 
 Won in far seas and left — no mother near, 
 No brother, not one kinsman anywhere 
 For harbor in this storm. Therefore of 
 
 thee 
 I ask one thing. If chance yet ope to me 
 Some path, if even now my hand can win 
 Strength to requite this Jason for his sin. 
 Betray me not! Oh, in all things but 
 
 this, 
 I know how full of fears a woman is. 
 And faint at need, and shrinking from the 
 
 light 
 Of battle: but once spoil her of her right 
 In man's love, and there moves, I warn thee 
 
 well. 
 No bloodier spirit between heaven and hell. 
 Leader. I will betray thee not. It is but 
 
 just. 
 Thou smite him. — And that weeping in 
 
 the dust 
 And stormy tears, how should I blame 
 
 them? . . . Stay: 
 'T is Creon, lord of Corinth, makes his way 
 Hither, and bears, methinks, some word 
 
 of weight. 
 
 [Enter Creon, the King, with armed Atten- 
 dants, from the right. 
 Cheon. Thou woman sullen-eyed and 
 
 hot with hate 
 Against thy lord, Medea, I here command 
 That thou and thy two children from this 
 
 land 
 Go forth to banishment. Make no delay: 
 Seeing ourselves, the King, are come this 
 
 day 
 To see our charge fulfilled; nor shall again 
 Look homeward ere we have led thy chil- 
 dren twain 
 And thee beyond our realm's last boundary. 
 
 Medea. Lost! Lost! 
 Mine haters at the helm with sail flung free 
 Pursuing; and for us no beach nor shore 
 In the endless waters! . . . Yet, though 
 
 stricken sore, 
 I still will ask thee, for what crime, what 
 
 thing 
 Unlawful, wilt thou cast me out, O King? 
 Ckeon. What crime? I fear thee, 
 
 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 
 
 here 
 A wise-woman confessed, and full of lore 
 In unknown ways of evil. Thou art sore 
 In heart, being parted from thy lover's 
 
 arms. 
 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 
 
 doom 
 Of vengeance. Which, ere yet it be too late, 
 I sweep aside. I choose to earn thine hate 
 Of set will now, not palter with the mood 
 Of mercy, and hereafter weep in blood. 
 Medea. 'T is not the first nor second 
 
 time, O King, 
 That fame hath hurt me, and come nigh to 
 
 bring 
 My ruin. . . . How can any man, whose 
 
 eyes 
 Are wholesome, seek to rear his children 
 
 wise 
 
64 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Beyond men's wont? Much helplessness 
 
 in arts 
 Of common life, and in their townsmen's 
 
 hearts 
 Envy deep-set ... so much their learning 
 
 brings! 
 Come unto fools with knowledge of new 
 
 things, 
 They deem it vanity, not knowledge. Aye, 
 And men that erst for wisdom were held 
 
 high. 
 Feel thee a thorn to fret them, privUy 
 Held higher than they. So hath it been 
 
 with me. 
 A wise-woman I am; and for that sin 
 To divers ill names men would pen me in; 
 A seed of strife; an eastern dreamer; one 
 Of brand not theirs; one hard to play 
 
 upon . . . 
 Ah, I am not so wondrous wise!. And now, 
 To thee, I am terrible! What fearest thou? 
 What dire deed? Do I tread so proud a 
 
 path — 
 Fear me not thou! — that I should brave 
 
 the wrath 
 Of princes? Thou : what hast thou ever done 
 To wrong me? Granted thine own child to 
 
 one 
 Whom thy soul chose. — Ah, Mm out of 
 
 my heart 
 I hate; but thou, meseems, hast done thy 
 
 part 
 Not ill. And for thine houses' happiness 
 I hold no grudge. Go: marry, and God 
 
 bless 
 Your issues. Only suffer me to rest 
 Somewhere within this land. Though sore 
 
 oppressed, 
 I will be still, knowing mine own defeat. 
 Creon. Thy words be gentle: but I fear 
 
 me yet 
 Lest even now there creep some wickedness 
 Deep hid within thee. And for that the less 
 I trust thee now than ere these words began. 
 A woman quick of wrath, aye, or a man. 
 Is easier watching than the cold and still. 
 Up, straight, and find thy road! Mock 
 
 not my will 
 With words. This doom is passed beyond 
 
 recall; 
 Nor all thy crafts shall help thee, being 
 
 withal 
 
 My manifest foe, to linger at my side. 
 
 Medea {suddenly throwing herself down 
 and dinging to Ceeon). Oh, by thy knees! 
 By that new-wedded bride . . . 
 Creon. 'T is waste of words. Thou 
 
 shalt not weaken me. 
 Medea. Wilt hunt me? Spurn me when 
 
 I kneel to thee? 
 Creon. 'T is mine own house that kneels 
 
 to me, not thou. 
 Medea. Home, my lost home, how I 
 
 desire thee now! 
 Creon. And I mine, and my child, be- 
 yond all things. 
 Medea. O Loves of man, what curse is 
 
 on your wings!' 
 Creon. Blessing or curse, 'tis as their 
 
 chances flow. 
 Medea. Remember, Zeus, the cause of 
 
 all this woe! 
 CqEON. Oh, rid me of my pains! Up, 
 
 get thee gone! 
 Medea. What would I with thy pains? 
 
 I have mine own. 
 Creon. Up: or, 'fore God, my soldiers 
 
 here shall fling . . . 
 Medea. Not that! Not that! ... I do 
 
 but pray, O King . . . 
 Creon. Thou wilt not? I must face the 
 
 harsher task? 
 Medea. I accept mine exile. 'T is not 
 
 that I ask. 
 Creon. Why then so wild? Why cling- 
 ing to mine hand? 
 Medea [rising]. For one day only leave 
 me in thy land 
 At peace, to find some counsel, ere the 
 
 strain 
 Of exile fall, some comfort for these twain, 
 Mine innocents; since others take no 
 
 thought, 
 
 It seems, to save the babes that they begot. 
 
 Ah! Thou wilt pity 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 so dire a day. 
 Creon. Mine is no tyrant's mood. Aye, 
 many a time 
 Ere this my tenderness hath marred the 
 
 chime 
 Of wisest counsels. And I know that now 
 
MEDEA 
 
 6S 
 
 I do mere folly. But so be it! Thou 
 Shalt have this grace . . . But this I warn 
 
 thee clear, 
 If once the morrow's sunlight find thee here 
 Within my borders, thee or child of thine. 
 Thou diest! ... Of this judgment not a line 
 Shall waver nor abate. So linger on, 
 If thou needs must, till the next risen sun; 
 No further. ... In one day there scarce 
 
 can be 
 Those perils wrought whose dread yet 
 
 haunteth me. 
 
 [Exit Cheon vnth his suite.] 
 Chohtts. O woman, woman of sorrow. 
 Where wilt thou turn and flee? 
 What town shall 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. 
 Medea. Defeat on every side; what 
 
 else? — But oh. 
 Not here the end is: think it not! I know 
 For bride and groom one battle yet un- 
 tried, ' 
 And goodly pains for hJTin that gave the 
 
 bride. 
 Dost dream I would have groveled to 
 
 this man, 
 Save that I won mine end, and shaped my 
 
 plan 
 For merry deeds? My lips had never 
 
 deigned 
 Speak word with him: my flesh been never 
 
 stained 
 With touching. . . . Fool, oh, triple fool! 
 
 It lay 
 So plain for him to kill my whole essay 
 By exile swift: and, lo, he sets me free 
 This one long day: wherein mine haters 
 
 three 
 Shall lie here dead, the father and the bride 
 And husband — mine, not hers! Oh, I have 
 
 tried 
 So many thoughts of murder to my turn, 
 I know not which best likes me. Shall I 
 
 bum 
 Their house with fire? Or stealing past 
 
 unseen 
 To Jason's bed — I have a blade made 
 
 keen 
 
 For that — stab, breast to breast, that 
 
 wedded pair? 
 Good, but for one thing. When I am taken 
 
 there. 
 And killed, they will laugh loud who hate 
 
 me. . . . 
 Nay, 
 I love the old way best, the simple way 
 Of poison, where we too are strong as men. 
 Ah me! 
 And they being dead — what place shall 
 
 hold me then? 
 What friend shall rise, with land inviolate 
 And trusty doors, to shelter from their hate 
 This flesh? . . . None anywhere! ... A 
 
 little more 
 I needs must wait: and, if there ope some 
 
 door 
 Of refuge, some strong tower to shield me, 
 
 good: 
 In craft and darkness I will hunt this blood. 
 Else, if mine hour be come and no hope' 
 
 nigh, 
 Then sword in hand, fuU-willed and sure to ■ 
 
 die, 
 I yet will live to slay them. I will wend 
 Man-like, their road of daring to the end.. 
 So help me She who of all Gods hathj 
 
 been 
 The best to me, of all my chosen queen 
 And helpmate, Hecate, who dwells apart;. 
 The flame of flame, in my fire's inmostc 
 
 heart: 
 For aU their strength, they shall not stab 
 
 my soul 
 And laugh thereafter! Dark and full of dole 
 Their bridal feast shaO be, most dark the 
 
 day 
 They joined their hands, and hunted me 
 
 away. 
 Awake thee now, Medea! Whatso plot 
 Thou hast, or cunning, strive and falter not. 
 On to the peril-point! Now comes the 
 
 strain 
 Of daring. Shall they trample thee again? 
 How? And with Hellas laughing o'er thy 
 
 faU 
 While this thief's daughter weds, and weds 
 
 withal 
 Jason? ... A true king was thy father, yea. 
 And bom of the ancient Sun! . . . Thou 
 
 know'st the way; 
 
66 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 And God hath made thee woman, things 
 
 most vain 
 For help, but wondrous in the paths of 
 pain. 
 
 [Medea goes into the house.] 
 Chorus. Back streams the wave on the 
 
 ever-running river: 
 Life, life is changed and the laws of it 
 o'ertrod. 
 Man shall be the slave, the affrighted, the 
 low-liver! 
 
 Man hath forgotten God. 
 And woman, yea, woman, shall be terrible 
 in story: 
 The tales too, meseemeth, shall be other 
 than of yore. 
 For a fear there is that cometh out of 
 Woman and a glory, 
 And the hard hating voices shall encom- 
 pass her no more! 
 
 The old bards shall cease, and their memory 
 that lingers 
 Of frail brides and faithless, shall be 
 shriveled as with fire. 
 For they loved us not, nor knew us: and 
 our lips were dumb, our fingers 
 Could wake not the secret of the lyre. 
 Else, else, O God the Singer, I had sung 
 amid their rages 
 A long tale of Man and his deeds for 
 good and ill. 
 But the old World knoweth — 'tis the 
 speech of all his ages — 
 Man's wrong and ours: he knoweth and 
 
 is still. 
 Chorus — Some Women. Forth from 
 thy father's home 
 Thou earnest, O heart of fire, 
 To the Dark Blue Rocks, to the clashing 
 foam. 
 To the seas of thy desire: 
 
 Till the Dark Blue Bar was crossed; 
 
 And, lo, by an alien river 
 Standing, thy lover lost, 
 Void-armed forever, 
 
 Forth yet again, O lowest 
 
 Of landless women, a ranger 
 Of desolate ways, thou goest. 
 
 From the walls of the stranger. 
 
 Chorus — Others. And the great Oath 
 
 waxeth weak; 
 And Ruth, as a thing outstriven. 
 Is fled, fled, from the shores of the Greek, 
 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 sworn to love thee. 
 Another, queenlier, dearer. 
 Is thronSd above thee. 
 
 [Enter Jason from the right.] 
 
 Jason. Oft have I seen, in other days 
 
 than these. 
 How a dark temper maketh maladies 
 No friend can heal. 'T was easy to have 
 
 kept 
 Both land and home. It needed but to 
 
 accept 
 Unstrivingly the pleasure of our lords. 
 But thou, for mere deUght in stormy words, 
 Wilt lose all! . . . Now thy speech provokes 
 
 not me. 
 Rail on. Of all mankind let Jason be 
 Most evil; none shall check thee. But for 
 
 these 
 Dark threats cast out against the majesties 
 Of Corinth, count as veriest gain thy path 
 Of exile. I myself, when princely wrath 
 Was hot against thee, strove with all good 
 
 will 
 To appease the wrath, and wished to keep 
 
 thee still 
 Beside me. But thy mouth would never stay 
 From vanity, blaspheming night and day 
 Our masters. Therefore thou shalt fly the 
 
 land. 
 Yet, even so, I will not hold my hand 
 From succoring mine own people. Here 
 
 am I 
 To help thee, woman, pondering heedfully 
 Thy new state. For I would not have thee 
 
 flung 
 Provisionless away — aye, and the young 
 Children as well; nor lacking aught that 
 
 will 
 Of mine can bring thee. Many a lesser ill 
 
MEDEA 
 
 67 
 
 Hangs on the heels of exile. . . . Aye, and 
 
 though 
 Thou hate me, dream not that my heart 
 
 can know 
 Or fashion aught of angry will to thee. 
 Medea. Evil, most evil! . . . since thou 
 
 grantest me 
 That comfort, the worst weapon left me 
 
 now 
 To smite a coward. . . . Thou comest to 
 
 me, thou, 
 Mine enemy! (Turning to the Chorus.) Oh, 
 
 say, how call ye this. 
 To face, and smile, the comrade whom his 
 
 kiss 
 Betrayed? Scorn? Insult? Courage? None 
 
 of these: 
 'T is but of all man's inward sicknesses 
 The vilest, that he knoweth not of shame. 
 Nor pity! Yet I praise Viim that he came . . . 
 To me it shall bring comfort, once to clear 
 My heart on thee, and thou shalt wince to 
 
 hear. 
 I will begin with that, 'twixt me and thee. 
 That first befell. I saved thee. I saved 
 
 thee — 
 Let thine own Greeks be witness, every one 
 That sailed on Argo — saved thee, sent 
 
 alone 
 To yoke with yokes the bulls of fiery breath, 
 And sow that Acre of the Lords of Death; 
 And mine own ancient Serpent, who did 
 
 keep 
 The Golden Fleece, the eyes that knew not 
 
 sleep, 
 And shining coils, him also did I smite 
 Dead for thy sake, and lifted up the light 
 That bade thee live. Myself, uncounselfed, 
 Stole forth from father and from home, and 
 
 fled 
 Where dark lolcos under Pelion lies. 
 With thee — Oh, single-hearted more than 
 
 wise! 
 I murdered Pelias, yea, in agony. 
 By his own daughters' hands, for sake of 
 
 thee; 
 I swept their house like War. — And hast 
 
 thou then 
 Accepted all — O evil yet again! — 
 And cast me ofi and taken thee for bride 
 Another? And with children at thy side! 
 One could forgive a childless man. But no: 
 
 I have borne thee children . . . 
 
 Is sworn faith so low 
 And weak a thing? I understand it not. 
 Are the old gods dead? Are the old laws 
 
 forgot. 
 And new laws made? Since not my passion- 
 ing, 
 But thine own heart, doth cry thee for a 
 
 thing 
 Forsworn. 
 
 [She catches sight of her own hand 
 which she has thrown out to de- 
 nounce him.] 
 Poor, poor right hand of mine, whom he 
 Did cling to, and these knees, so cravingly. 
 We are unclean, thou and I; we have caught 
 
 the stain 
 Of bad men's flesh . . . and dreamed our 
 
 dreams in vain. 
 Thou comest to befriend me? Give me, 
 
 then. 
 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 his land, when we two fled away. 
 To those poor Peliad maids? For them 
 
 't were good 
 To take me in, who spilled their father's 
 
 blood. . . . 
 Aye, so my whole life stands! There were 
 
 at home 
 Who loved me well: to them I am become 
 A curse. And the first friends who sheltered 
 
 me. 
 Whom 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 all did 
 
 crave. 
 Thee, the world-wondered lover and the 
 
 brave; 
 Who this day looks and sees me banished, 
 
 thrown 
 Away with these two babes, all, all, alone . . . 
 Oh, merry mocking when the lamps are 
 
 red: 
 "Where go the bridegroom's babes to beg 
 ' their bread 
 
68 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 In exile, and the woman who gave all 
 To save him?" 
 
 O great God, shall gold withal 
 Bear thy clear mark, to sift the base and 
 
 fine, 
 And o'er man's living visage runs no sign 
 To show the lie within, ere all too late? 
 Lbadeb. Dire and beyond all healing is 
 
 the hate 
 When hearts that loved are turned to 
 
 enmity. 
 ' Jason. In speech at least, meseemeth, I 
 
 must be 
 Not evil; but, as some old pilot goes 
 Furled to his sail's last edge, when danger 
 
 blows 
 Too fiery, run before the wind and swell, 
 Woman, of thy loud storms. — And thus 
 
 I tell 
 My tale. Since thou wilt build so wondrous 
 
 high 
 Thy deeds of service 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 tale of it 
 Were graceless telling; how sheer love, a fire 
 Of poison-shafts, compelled thee with de- 
 sire 
 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 hast 
 
 seen 
 Our ordered life, and justice, and the long 
 Still grasp of law not changing with the 
 
 strong 
 Man's pleasure. Then, all Hellas far 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 Medea? Thou and I . . . 
 What worth to us were treasures heaped 
 
 high 
 
 In rich kings' rooms; what worth a voice of 
 
 gold 
 More sweet than ever rang from Orpheus 
 
 old, 
 Unless our deeds have glory? 
 
 Speak I so, 
 Touching the Quest I wrought, thyself did 
 
 throw 
 The challenge down. Next for thy caviling 
 Of wrath at mine alliance with a king. 
 Here thou shalt see I both was wise, and free 
 From touch of passion, and a friend to thee 
 Most potent, and my children . . . Nay, be 
 
 still! 
 When first I stood in Corinth, clogged 
 
 with ill 
 From many a desperate mischance, what 
 
 bhss 
 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 
 
 sought 
 To upbuild mine house with offspring: 't is 
 
 enough. 
 What thou hast borne: I make no word 
 
 thereof: 
 But, first and greatest, that we all might 
 
 dwell 
 In a fair house and want not, knowing well 
 That poor men have no friends, but far 
 
 and near 
 Shunning and silence. Next, I sought to 
 
 rear 
 Our sons in nurture worthy of my race. 
 And, raising brethren to them, in one place 
 Join both my houses, and be all 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 
 
 are 
 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 so! 
 Who looks for more in women? When the 
 
 flow ' 
 
MEDEA 
 
 69 
 
 Of love runs plain, why, all the world is 
 
 fair: 
 But, once there fall some ill chance any- 
 where 
 To baulk that thirst, down in swift 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 
 
 ways! 
 Then had there been no curse to wreck 
 
 mankind. 
 Leadek. Lord Jason, very subtly hast 
 
 thou twined 
 Thy speech: but yet, though all athwart 
 
 thy will 
 I speak, this is not well thou dost, but ill, 
 Betraying her who loved thee and was true. 
 Medea. Surely I have my thoughts, and 
 
 not a few 
 Have held me strange. To me it seemeth, 
 
 when 
 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 hath enough of subtlety. 
 As thou — be not so seeming-fair to me 
 Nor deft of speech. One word will make 
 
 thee fall. 
 Wert thou not false, 't was thine to tell me 
 
 all, 
 And charge me help thy marriage path, as I 
 Did love thee; not befool me with a lie. 
 Jason. An easy task had that been! 
 
 Aye, and thou 
 A loving aid, who canst not, even now. 
 Still that loud heart that surges like the 
 
 tide! 
 Medea. That moved thee not. Thine 
 
 old barbarian bride, 
 The dog out of the east who loved thee sore. 
 She grew gray-haired, she served thy pride 
 
 no more. 
 Jason. Now understand for once! The 
 
 girl to me 
 Is nothing, in this web of sovereignty 
 I hold. I do but seek to save, even yet, 
 Thee: and for brethren to our sons beget 
 Young kings, to prosper aU our lives again. 
 
 Medea. God shelter me from prosperous 
 days of pain, 
 And wealth that maketh wounds about my 
 heart. 
 Jason. Wilt change that prayer, and 
 choose a wiser part? 
 Pray not to hold true sense for pain, nor 
 
 rate 
 Thyself unhappy, being too fortunate. 
 Medea. Aye, mock me; thou hast where 
 to lay thine head. 
 But I go naied to mine exile. 
 
 Jason. Tread 
 Thine own path! Thou hast made it all 
 to be. 
 Medea. How? By seducing and forsak- 
 ing thee? 
 Jason. By those vile curses on the royal 
 halls 
 Let loose. . . . 
 Medea. On thy house also, as chance 
 falls, 
 I am a living ciu-se. 
 
 Jason. Oh, peace! Enough 
 Of these vain wars: I will no more thereof. 
 If thou wilt take from all that I possess 
 Aid for these babes and thine own helpless- 
 ness 
 Of exile, speak thy bidding. Here I stand 
 Full-willed to succor thee with stintless 
 
 hand. 
 And send my signet to old friends that 
 
 dwell 
 On foreign shores, who will entreat thee 
 
 well. 
 Refuse, and thou shalt do a deed most 
 
 vain. 
 But cast thy rage away, and thou shalt 
 
 gain 
 Much, and lose little for thine anger's sake. 
 Medea. I will iiot seek thy friends. I 
 wiU not take 
 Thy givings. Give them not. Fruits of a 
 
 stem 
 Unholy bring no blessing after them. 
 Jason. Now God in heaven be witness, 
 all my heart 
 Is willing, in all ways, to do its part 
 For thee and for thy babes. But nothing 
 
 good 
 Can please thee. In sheer savageness of 
 mood 
 
70 
 
 CHIEF europe;an dramatists 
 
 Thou drivest from thee every friend. 
 
 Wherefore 
 
 I warrant thee, thy pains shall be the more. 
 
 [He goes slowly away.] 
 
 Medea. Go: thou art weary for the new 
 
 delight 
 
 Thou wooest, so long tarrying out of sight 
 
 Of her sweet chamber. Go, fvilfill thy pride, 
 
 O bridegroom! For it may be, such a bride 
 
 Shall wait thee, — yea, God heareth me in 
 
 this — 
 As thine own heart shall sicken ere it kiss. 
 Chobus. Alas, the Love that falleth like 
 
 a flood, 
 Strong-winged and transitory: 
 Why praise ye him? What beareth he of good 
 
 To man, or glory? 
 Yet Love there is that moves in gentleness. 
 Heart-filling, sweetest of all powers that 
 
 Loose not on me, O Holder of man's heart. 
 
 Thy golden quiver. 
 Nor steep in poison of desire 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: 
 O 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 bosoms without war. 
 
 That love, and hate not. 
 
 Chorus — Others. Home of my heart, 
 land of my own. 
 
 Cast me not, nay, for pity. 
 Out on my ways, helpless, alone, 
 Where the feet fail in the mire and stone, 
 
 A woman without a city. 
 Ah, not that! Better 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 his father. 
 
 Lo, we have seen : 't is not a song 
 
 Sung, nor learned of another. 
 For whom hast thou in thy direst wrong 
 For comfort? Never a city strong 
 
 To hide thee, never a brother. 
 Ah, but the man — cursed be he, 
 
 CursSd beyond recover, 
 Who openeth, shattering, seal by seal, 
 A friend's clean heart, then turns his heel, 
 Deaf unto love: never in me 
 Friend shall he know nor lover. 
 
 [While Medea is waiting downcast, 
 seated upon her doorstep, there 
 passes from the left a traveler with 
 followers. As he catches sight of 
 Medea, he stops.] 
 .^GEUs. Have joy, Medea! 'Tis the 
 homeliest 
 Word that old friends can greet with, and 
 the best. 
 Medea [looking up, surprised]. Oh, joy 
 on thee, too, iEgeus, gentle king 
 Of Athens! — But whence com'st thou 
 journeying? 
 .^GEUS. From Delphi now and the old 
 
 encavemed stair. . . . 
 Medea. Where Earth's heart speaks in 
 
 song? What mad'st thou there? 
 jEgbus. Prayed heaven for children — 
 
 the same search alway. 
 Medea. Children? Ah God! Art child- 
 less to this day? 
 .^GEUS. So God hath willed. Childless 
 
 and desolate. 
 Medea. What word did Phoebus speak, 
 
 to change thy fate? 
 .^GEus. Riddles, too hard for mortal 
 
 man to read. 
 Medea. Which I may hear? 
 iEGETJs. Assuredly: they need 
 A rarer wit. 
 
 Medea. How said he? 
 .iEGETJS. Not to spill 
 Life's wine, nor seek for more. . . . 
 Medea. Until? 
 jBgetjs. Until 
 I tread the hearth-stone of my sires of yore. 
 Medea. And what should bring thee 
 
 here, by Creon's shore? 
 iEoETjs. One Pittheus know'st thou, 
 
 high lord of Trozen? 
 Medea. Aye, Pelops' son, a man most 
 pure of sin. 
 
MEDEA 
 
 71 
 
 ^GEUS. Him I would ask, touching 
 
 Apollo's wiU. 
 Medea. Much use in God's ways hath 
 
 he, and much skill. 
 .S!getts. And, long years back he was 
 my battle-friend, 
 The truest e'er man had. 
 
 Medea. Well, may God send 
 Good hap to thee, and grant all thy desire. 
 .^GETJS. But thou . . .? Thy frame is 
 wasted, and the fire 
 Dead iu thine eyes. 
 
 Medea. jEgeiis, my husband is 
 The falsest man in the world. 
 .^GEUS. What word is this? 
 Say clearly what thus makes thy visage 
 dim? 
 Medea. He is false to me, who never 
 
 injured him. 
 ^GEUS. What hath he done? Show all, 
 
 that I may see. 
 Medea. Ta'en him a wife; a wife, set 
 over me 
 To rule his house! 
 
 .^GEUs. He hath not dared to do, 
 Jason, a thing so shameful? 
 
 Medea. Aye, 't is true: 
 And those he loved of yore have no place 
 now. 
 .SIgeus. Some passion sweepeth him? 
 Or is it thou 
 He turns from? 
 
 Medea. Passion, passion to betray 
 His dearest! 
 
 .ffiGETJS. Shame be his, so fallen away 
 From honor! 
 
 Medea. Passion to be near a throne, 
 A king's heir! 
 .^GEUS. How, who gives the bride? 
 
 Say on. 
 Medea. Creon, who o'er all Corinth 
 
 standeth chief. 
 .^GEUS. Woman, thou hast indeed much 
 
 cause for grief. 
 Medea. 'T is ruin. — And they have 
 
 cast me out as well. 
 .SIgetjs. Who? 'T is a new wrong this, 
 
 and terrible. 
 Medea. Creon the king, from every 
 
 land and shore. . . . 
 ^GEUs. And Jason suffers him? Oh, 
 't is too sore! 
 
 Medea. He loveth to bear bravely ills 
 
 like these! 
 But, ^geus, by thy beard, oh, by thy 
 
 I pray thee, and I give me for thine own, 
 Thy suppliant, pity me! Oh, pity one 
 So miserable. Thou never wilt stand there 
 And see me cast out friendless to despair. 
 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 
 Die happy! . . . Thou canst know not; even 
 
 now 
 Thy prize is won! I, I will make of thee 
 A childless man no more. The seed shall be, 
 I swear it, sown. Such magic herbs I know. 
 .^GEUS. Woman, indeed my heart goes 
 
 forth to show 
 This help to thee, first for religion's sake. 
 Then for thy promised hope, to heal my 
 
 ache 
 Of childlessness. 'T is this hath made mine 
 
 whole 
 Life as a shadow, and starved out my soul. 
 But thus it stands with me. Once make 
 
 thy way 
 To Attic earth, I, as in law I may, 
 WiU keep thee and befriend. But in this 
 
 land. 
 Where Creon rules, I may not raise my 
 
 hand 
 To shelter thee. Move of thine own essay 
 To seek my house, there thou shalt alway 
 
 stay. 
 Inviolate, never to be seized again. 
 But come thyself from Corinth. I would 
 
 fain 
 Even in foreign eyes be alway just. 
 
 Medea. 'Tis well. Give me an oath 
 
 wherein to trust 
 And all that man could ask thou hast 
 
 granted me. 
 jEgeus. Dost trust me not? Or what 
 
 thing troubleth thee? 
 Medea. I trust thee. But so many, far 
 
 and near. 
 Do hate me — all King Pelias' house, and 
 
 here 
 Creon. Once bound by oaths and sanctities 
 Thou canst not yield me up for such as 
 
 these 
 To drag from Athens. But a spoken word, 
 
72 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 No more, to bind thee, which no God hath 
 
 heard. . . . 
 The embassies, methinks, would come and 
 
 go: 
 They all are friends to thee. ... Ah me, I 
 
 know 
 Thou wilt not list to me! So weak am I, 
 And they full-filled with gold and majesty. 
 jEgbus. Methinks 't is a far foresight, 
 this thine oath. 
 Still, if thou so wilt have it, nothing loath 
 Am I to serve thee. Mine own hand is so 
 The stronger, if I have this plea to show 
 Thy persecutors: and for thee withal 
 The bond more sure. — On what god shall 
 I call? 
 Medea. Swear by the Earth thou tread- 
 est, by the Sun, 
 Sire of my sires, and all the gods as one. . . . 
 iEcBus. To do what thing or not do? 
 
 Make all plain. 
 Medea. Never thyself to cast me out 
 again. 
 Nor let another, whatsoe'er his plea, 
 Take me, while thou yet livest and art free. 
 .^GEUS. Never: so hear me. Earth, and 
 the great star 
 Of daylight, and all other gods that are! 
 Medea. 'T is well : and if thou falter 
 
 from thy vow ... 7 
 iEcEus. God's judgment on the godless 
 
 break my brow! 
 Medea. Go! Go thy ways 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. 
 
 [jEgetjs and his train depart.] 
 Choetjs. Farewell: and Maia's guiding 
 
 Son 
 Back lead thee to thy hearth and fire, 
 .ffigeus; and all the long desire 
 That wasteth thee, at last be won: 
 Our eyes have seen thee as thou art, 
 A gentle and a righteous heart. 
 Medea. God, and God's Justice, and ye 
 blinding Skies! 
 At last the victory dawneth! Yea, mine 
 
 eyes 
 See, and my foot is on the mountain's brow. 
 Mine enemies! Mine enemies, oh, now 
 Atonement cometh! Here at my worst hour 
 
 A friend is found, a very port of power 
 To save my shipwreck. Here will I make 
 
 fast z' 
 
 Mine anchor, and escape them at the last 
 In Athens' walled hill. — But ere the end 
 'T is meet I show thee all my coimsel, 
 
 friend: 
 Take it, no tale to make men laugh withal! 
 Straightway to Jason I will send some 
 
 thrall 
 To entreat him to my presence. Comes he 
 
 here. 
 Then with soft reasons will I feed his ear, 
 How his will now is my will, how all things 
 Are well, touching this marriage-bed of 
 
 kings 
 For which I am betrayed — aU wise and 
 
 rare 
 And profitable ! Yet will I make one prayer. 
 That my two children be no more exiled 
 But stay. . . . Oh, not that I would leave a 
 
 child 
 Here upon angry shores till those have 
 
 laughed 
 Who hate me: 't is that I will slay by craft 
 The king's daughter. With gifts they shall 
 
 be sent. 
 Gifts to the bride to spare their banishment 
 Fine robings and a carcanet of gold. 
 Which raiment let her once but take, and 
 
 fold 
 About her, a foul death that girl shall die 
 And all who touch her in her agony. 
 Such poison shall they drink, my robe and 
 
 wreath! 
 Howbeit, of that no more. I gnash my 
 
 teeth 
 Thinking on what a path my feet must 
 
 tread 
 Thereafter. I shall lay those children 
 
 dead — 
 Mine, whom no hand shall steal from me 
 
 away! 
 Then, leaving Jason childless, and the day 
 As night above him, I will go my road 
 To exile, flying, flying from the blood 
 Of these my best-beloved, and having 
 
 wrought 
 All horror, so but one thing reach me not. 
 The laugh of them that hate us. 
 
 Let it come! 
 What profits life to me? I have no home, 
 
MEDEA 
 
 73 
 
 No country now, nor shield from any wrong. 
 That was my evil hour, when down the 
 
 long 
 Halls of my father out I stole, my will 
 Chained by a Greek man's voice, who still, 
 
 oh, still. 
 If God yet live, shall all requited be. 
 For never child of mine shall Jason see 
 Hereafter living, never child beget 
 From his new bride, who this day, desolate 
 Even as she made me desolate, shall die 
 Shrieking amid my poisons. . . . Names 
 
 have I 
 Among your folk? One light? One weak 
 
 of hand? 
 An eastern dreamer? — Nay, but with the 
 
 brand 
 Of strange suns burnt, my hate, by God 
 
 above, 
 A perilous thing, and passing sweet my 
 
 love! 
 For these it is that make life glorious. 
 Leader. Since thou hast bared thy fell 
 intent to us, 
 I, loving thee, and helping in their need 
 Man's laws, adjure thee, dream not of this 
 deed! 
 Medea. There is no other way. — I par- 
 don thee 
 Thy littleness, who art not wronged like 
 me. 
 Leader. Thou canst not kill the fruit 
 
 thy body bore! 
 Medea. Yes : it the man I hate be pained 
 
 the more. 
 Leader. And thou made miserable, 
 
 most miserable? 
 Medea. Oh, let it come! All words of 
 good or ill 
 Are wasted now. 
 
 [She daps her hands: the Nurse 
 comes out from the house.] 
 Ho, woman; get thee gone 
 And lead lord Jason hither. . . . There is 
 
 none 
 Like thee, to work me these high services. 
 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 I! 
 
 [The Nurse departs.] 
 Chobtts. The sons of Erechtheus, the 
 olden, 
 
 Whom high gods planted of yore 
 In an old land of heaven 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 the 
 morn. 
 The Muses did gather their powers. 
 
 That a child of the Nine should be born; 
 And Harmony, sown as the flowers. 
 
 Grew gold in the acres of corn. 
 
 And Cephisus, the fair-flowing river — 
 
 The Cyprian dipping 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 she ever and ever. 
 
 And forth of her bosom is blown. 
 As dews on the winds of the river. 
 An hunger of passions unknown, 
 Strong Loves of all godlike endeavor, 
 Whom Wisdom shall throne on her 
 
 throne. 
 Chorus — Some Women. But Cephisus 
 
 the fair-flowing, 
 Will he bear thee on his shore? 
 Shall the land that succors all, succor 
 thee. 
 Who art foul among thy kind, 
 With the tears of children blind? 
 Dost thou see the red gash growing, 
 Thine own burden dost thou see? 
 
 Every side, every way, 
 Lo, we kneel to thee and pray: 
 
 By thy knees, by thy soul, O woman 
 wild! 
 One at least thou canst not slay. 
 Not thy child! 
 Chorus — Others. Hast thou ice that 
 
 thou shalt bind it 
 To thy breast, and make thee dead 
 To thy children, to thine own spirit's 
 pain? 
 When the hand knows what it dares, 
 When thine eyes look into theirs, 
 
74 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Shalt thou keep by tears unblinded 
 Thy dividing of the slain? 
 
 These be deeds not for thee: 
 These be things that cannot be! 
 Thy babes — though thine hardi- 
 hood be fell, I 
 When they cling about thy knee, 
 'T will be well! 
 
 [Enter JasonJ 
 
 Jason. I answer to thy call. Though 
 
 full of hate 
 Thou be, I yet will not so far abate 
 My kindness for thee, nor refuse mine ear. 
 Say in what new desire thou hast called me 
 
 here. 
 Medea. Jason, I pray thee, for my 
 
 words but now 
 Spoken, forgive me. My bad moods. . . . 
 
 Oh, thou 
 At least wilt strive to bear with them! 
 
 There be 
 Many old deeds of love 'twixt me and thee. 
 Lo, I have reasoned with myself apart 
 And chidden: "Why must I be mad, O 
 
 heart 
 Of mine: and raging against one whose 
 
 word 
 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, 
 WiU help us all — to wed a queen, and get 
 Young kings for brethren to my sons? And 
 
 yet 
 I rage alone, and cannot quit my rage — 
 What aileth me? — when God sends har- 
 borage 
 So simple? Have I not my children? Know 
 I not we are but exiles, and must go 
 Beggared and friendless else?" Thought 
 
 upon thought 
 So pressed me, till I knew myself full- 
 fraught 
 With bitterness 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 welcomed duteously thy 
 
 bride. 
 But, as we are, we are — I will not say 
 Mere evil — women! Why must thou to- 
 day 
 Turn strange, and make thee like some evil 
 
 thing, 
 Childish, to meet my childish passioning? 
 See, I surrender: and confess that then 
 I had bad thoughts, but now have turned 
 
 again 
 And found my wiser mind. 
 
 [She claps her hands.] 
 Ho, children! Run 
 Quickly! Come hither, out into the sun, 
 [The Children come from the house, 
 followed by their Attendant.] 
 And greet your father. Welcome him with 
 
 us. 
 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. . . . 
 
 [As the Children go to Jason, she 
 
 suddenly hursts into tears. The 
 
 Children quickly return to her; 
 
 she recovers herself, smiling amid 
 
 her tears.] 
 
 Ah me, 
 
 I am full of hidden horrors! . . . Shall it be 
 
 A long time more, my children, that ye live 
 
 To reach to me those dear, dear arms? . . . 
 
 Forgive! 
 I am so ready with my tears to-day. 
 And full of dread. ... I sought to smooth 
 
 away 
 The long strife with your father, and, lo, 
 
 now 
 I have all drowned with tears this little 
 brow! [She unpes the child's face.] 
 Leader. O'er mine eyes too there steal- 
 eth a pale tear: 
 Let the evil rest, O God, let it rest here! 
 Jason. Woman, indeed I praise thee 
 now, nor say 
 111 of thine other hour. 'T is nature's way, 
 A woman needs must stir herself to wrath, 
 When work of marriage by so strange a 
 
 path 
 Crosseth her lord. But thou, thine heart 
 doth wend 
 
MEDEA 
 
 75 
 
 The happier road. Thou hast seen, ere 
 
 quite the end, 
 What choice must needs be stronger: which 
 
 to do 
 Shows a wise-minded woman. . . . And for 
 
 you, 
 Children; your father never has forgot 
 Yoiu: needs. If God but help him, he hath 
 
 wrought 
 A strong deliverance for your weakness. 
 
 Yea, 
 I think you, with your brethren, yet one 
 
 day 
 Shall be the mightiest voices in this land. 
 Do you grow tall and strong. Your father's 
 
 hand 
 Guideth all else, and whatso power divine 
 Hath alway helped him. . . . Ah, may it be 
 
 mine 
 To see you yet in manhood, stem of brow, 
 Strong-aimed, set high o'er those that hate 
 
 me. . . . 
 How? 
 Woman, thy face is turned. Thy cheek is 
 
 swept 
 With pallor of strange tears. Dost not 
 
 accept 
 Gladly and of good will my benisons? 
 Medea. 'T is nothing, yhinking of 
 
 these little ones. . . . 
 Jason. Take heart, then. I will guard 
 
 them from all iU. 
 Medea. I do take heart. Thy word I 
 
 never will 
 Mistrust. Alas, a woman's bosom bears 
 But woman's courage, a thing born for 
 
 tears. 
 Jason. What ails thee? — All too sore 
 
 thou weepest there. 
 Medea. I was their mother! When I 
 
 heard thy prayer 
 Of long life for them, there swept over me 
 A horror, wondering how these things shall 
 
 be. 
 But for the matter of my need that thou 
 Should speak with me, part I have said, 
 
 and now 
 Will finish. — Seeing it is the king's behest 
 To cast me out from Clorinth . . . aye, and 
 
 best, 
 Far best, for me — I know it — not to 
 
 stay 
 
 Longer to trouble thee and those who sway 
 The realm, being held to all their house a 
 
 foe. . . . 
 Behold, I spread my sails, and meekly go 
 To exile. But our children. . . . Could this 
 
 land ' 
 Be still their home awhile: could thine own 
 
 hand 
 But guide their boyhood. . . . Seek the 
 
 king, and pray 
 His pity, that he bid thy children stay! 
 Jason. He is hard to move. Yet surely 
 
 't were well done. 
 Medea. Bid her — for thy sake, for a 
 
 daughter's boon. . . . 
 Jason. Well thought! Her I can fashion 
 
 to my mind. 
 Medea. Surely. She is a woman like her 
 
 kind. . . . 
 Yet I will aid thee in thy labor; I 
 Will send her gifts, the fairest gifts that lie 
 In the hands of men, things of the days of 
 
 old. 
 Fine robings and a carcanet of gold. 
 By the boys' hands. — Go, quick, some 
 
 handmaiden. 
 And fetch the raiment. 
 
 [A handmaid goes into the house.] 
 Ah, her cup shall then 
 Be filled indeed! what more should woman 
 
 crave, 
 Being wed with thee, the bravest of the 
 
 brave, 
 And girt with raiment which of old the 
 
 sire 
 Of all my house, the Sun, gave, steeped in 
 
 fire. 
 To his own fiery race? 
 
 [The handmaid has returned bear- 
 ' ing the gifts.] 
 Come, children, lift 
 With heed these caskets. Bear them as 
 
 your gift 
 To her, being bride and princess and of 
 
 right 
 Blessed! — I think she will not hold them 
 
 light. 
 Jason. Fond woman, why wilt empty 
 
 thus thine hand 
 Of treasure? Doth King Creon's castle 
 
 stand 
 In stint of raiment, or in stint of gold? 
 
76 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Keep. these, and make no gift. For if she 
 
 hold 
 Jason of any worth at all, I swear 
 Chattels like these will not weigh more 
 
 with her. 
 ' Medea. Ah, chide me not! 'T is written, 
 
 gifts persuade 
 The gods in heaven; and gold is stronger 
 
 made 
 Than words innumerable to bend men's 
 
 ways. 
 Fortune is hers. God maketh great her 
 
 days: 
 Young and a crowned queen! And banish- 
 ment 
 For those two babes. ... I would not gold 
 
 were spent, 
 But life's blood, ere that come. 
 
 My children, go 
 Forth into those rich halls, and, bowing 
 
 low. 
 Beseech your father's bride, whom I obey, 
 Ye be not, of her mercy, cast away 
 Exiled: and give the caskets — above all 
 Mark this! — to none but her, to hold 
 
 withal 
 And keep. ... Go quick! And let your 
 
 mother know 
 Soon the good tiding that she longs for. . . . 
 
 Go! 
 
 [She goes quickly into the house. 
 Jason and the Children with 
 their Attendant depart.] 
 Choeits. Now I have no hope more of 
 
 the children's living; 
 No hope more. They are gone forth unto 
 
 death. 
 The bride, she taketh 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! 
 
 O sweet and cloudy gleam of the garments 
 
 golden! 
 The robe, it hath clasped her breast and 
 
 the crown her head. 
 Then, then, she decketh the bride, as a 
 
 bride, of olden 
 
 Story, that goeth pale to the kiss of the 
 dead. 
 For the ring hath closed, and the portion 
 
 of death is there; 
 And she flieth not, but perisheth unaware. 
 Choetjs — Some Women. O bridegroom, 
 bridegroom of the kiss so cold. 
 Art thou wed with princes, art thou girt 
 with gold. 
 Who know'st not, suing 
 For thy child's undoing. 
 And, on her thou lovest, for a doom un- 
 told? 
 How art thou fallen from thy place of old! 
 Chobus — Others. O Mother, mother, 
 what hast thou to reap, 
 When the harvest cometh, between wake 
 and sleep? 
 For a heart imslaken, 
 For a troth forsaken, 
 Lo, babes that call thee from a bloody deep: 
 And thy love returns not. Get thee forth 
 and weep! 
 
 [Enter the Attendant with the two Children; 
 Medea comes out from the hov^e.] 
 
 Attendant. Mistress, these children 
 from their banishment 
 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 
 
 thou 
 Confounded, when good fortune draweth 
 near? 
 Medea. Ah, God! 
 Attendant. This chimes not with the 
 
 news I bear. 
 Medea. O God, have mercy! 
 Attendant. Is some word of wrath 
 Here hidden that I knew not of? And hath 
 My hope to give thee joy so cheated me? I 
 Medea. Thou givest what thou givest: 
 
 I blame not thee. 
 Attendant. Thy brows are all o'ercast: 
 
 thine eyes are filled. . . . 
 Medea. For bitter need, old man! The 
 gods have willed, 
 And mine own evil mind, that this should 
 come. 
 Attendant. Take heart! Thy sons one 
 day will bring thee home. 
 
MEDEA 
 
 11 
 
 Medea. Home? ... I have others to 
 
 send home. Woe's me! 
 Attendant. Be patient. Many a mother 
 
 before thee 
 Hath parted from her children. We poor 
 
 things 
 Of men must needs endure what fortune 
 
 brings. 
 Medea. I will endure. — Go thou with- 
 in, and lay 
 All ready that my sons may need to-day. 
 [The Attendant goes into the house.] 
 O children, children mine: and you have 
 
 found 
 A land and home, where, leaving me dis- 
 crowned 
 And desolate, forever you will stay, 
 Motherless children! 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, cursed be mine own hard heart! 
 " 'T was all 
 
 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 
 
 were bom. 
 Ah, wondrous hopes my poor heart had in 
 
 you. 
 How you would tend me in mine age, and do 
 The shroud about me with your own dear 
 
 hands. 
 When I lay cold, blessSd in all the lands 
 That knew us. And that gentle thought is 
 
 dead! 
 You go, and I live on, to eat the bread 
 Of long years, to myself most fuU of pain. 
 And never your dear eyes, never again. 
 Shall see your mother, far away being 
 
 thrown 
 To other shapes of life. . . . My babes, my 
 
 own, 
 Why gaze ye so? — What is it that ye see ? 
 And laugh with that last laughter? . . . 
 
 Woe is me. 
 What shall I do? 
 
 Women, my strength is gone. 
 Gone like a dream, since once I looked upon 
 Those shining faces. ... I can do it not. 
 Good-bye to all the thoughts that burned 
 
 so hot 
 
 Aforetime! I will take and hide them far. 
 Far, from men's eyes. Why should I seek 
 
 a war 
 So blind: by these babes' wounds to sting 
 
 again 
 Their father's heart, and win myself a pain 
 Twice deeper? Never, never! I forget 
 Henceforward all I labored for. 
 
 And yet. 
 What is it with me? Would I be a thing 
 Mocked at, and leave mine enemies to sting 
 Unsinitten? It must be. O coward heart. 
 Ever to harbor such soft words! t- Depart 
 Out of my sight, ye twain. 
 
 [The Children go in.] 
 And they whose eyes 
 Shall hold it sin to share my sacrifice, 
 On their heads be it! My hand shall 
 
 swerve not now. 
 
 Ah, Ah, thou Wrath within me! Do not 
 thou, 
 Do not. . . . Down, down, thou tortured 
 
 thing, and spare 
 My children! They will dwell with us, aye, 
 
 there 
 Far off, and give thee peace. 
 
 Too late, too late! 
 By all Hell's living agonies of hate, 
 They shaU not take my little ones alive 
 To make their mock with! Howsoe'er I 
 
 strive 
 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 twain 
 A longer yet and darker, I would fain 
 Speak with them, ere I go. 
 
 [A Jiandmaid hriTigs the' Children, 
 out a^ain^ 
 Come, children; stand 
 A little from me. There. Reach out your 
 
 hand. 
 Your right hand — so — to mother: and 
 good-bye! 
 
 [She has kept them hitherto at arm's- 
 length: but at the touch of their 
 hands, her resolution breaks 
 down, and she gathers them pas- 
 sionately into her arms.] 
 
78 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Oh, darling hand! Oh, darling mouth, and 
 
 eye. 
 And royal mien, and bright brave faces 
 
 clear. 
 May you be blessSd, but not here! What 
 
 here 
 Was yours, your father stole. ... Ah God, 
 
 the glow 
 Of cheek on cheek, the tender touch; and 
 
 oh. 
 Sweet scent of childhood. . . . Go! Go! . . . 
 
 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. 
 
 [She follows the Children into the 
 
 house.] 
 
 Chokus. My thoughts have roamed a 
 
 cloudy land. 
 And heard a fierier music fall 
 Than woman's heart should stir withal : 
 And yet some Muse majestical. 
 Unknown, hath hold of woman's hand, 
 Seeking for Wisdom — not in all: 
 A feeble seed, a scattered band. 
 Thou yet shalt find in lonely places, 
 Not dead amongst us, nor our faces 
 Turned alway from the Muses' call. 
 
 And thus my thought would speak: 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 
 That gentle plant 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 
 
 then 
 Much darkness, if the seed at last 
 Bear fruit in good or evil men! 
 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 what hath fallen? Hark! 
 'T is death slow winging to the dark, 
 And in his arms what was thy child. 
 
 What therefore doth it bring of gain 
 To man, whose cup stood full before. 
 That God should send this one thing more 
 Of hunger and of dread, a door 
 Set wide to every wind of pain? 
 
 [Medea comes out alone from the 
 house.] 
 Medea. 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, 
 
 I trow. 
 His wild-perturbM breath doth warrant 
 
 me 
 The tidings of some strange calamity. 
 
 [Enter Messenger.] 
 
 Messenger. O dire and ghastly deed! 
 Get thee away, 
 Medea! Fly! Nor let behind thee stay 
 One chariot's wing, one keel that sweeps 
 the seas. . . . 
 Medea. And what hath chanced, to 
 
 cause such flights as these? 
 Messenger. The maiden princess lieth 
 — and her sire. 
 The king — both murdered by thy poison- 
 fire. 
 Medea. Most happy tiding! Which thy 
 name prefers 
 Henceforth among my friends and well- 
 wishers. 
 Messenger. What say'st thou? Wom- 
 an, is thy mind within 
 Clear, and not raving? Thou art found in 
 
 sin " 
 
 Most bloody wrought against the king's 
 
 high head. 
 And laughest at the tale, and hast no dread? 
 Medea. I have words also that could 
 answer well 
 Thy word. But take thine ease, good friend, 
 
 and tell, 
 How died they? Hath it been a very foul 
 
MEDEA 
 
 79 
 
 Death, prithee? That were comfort to my 
 
 soul. 
 Messenger. When thy two children, 
 
 hand in hand entwined, 
 Came with their father, and passed on to 
 
 find 
 The new-made bridal rooms, oh, we were 
 
 glad. 
 We thralls, who ever loved thee well, and 
 
 had 
 Grief in thy grief. And straight there 
 
 passed a word 
 From ear to ear, that thou and thy false 
 
 lord 
 Had poured peace offering upon wrath 
 
 foregone. 
 A right glad welcome gave we them, and 
 
 one 
 Kissed the small hands, and one the shining 
 
 hair: 
 Myself, for very joy, I followed where 
 The women's rooms are. There ova mis- 
 tress . . . she 
 Whom now we name so . . . thinking not to 
 
 see 
 Thy little pair, with glad and eager brow 
 Sate waiting Jason. Then she saw, and 
 
 slow 
 Shrouded her eyes, and backward turned 
 
 again. 
 Sick that thy children should come near 
 
 her. Then 
 Thy husband quick went forward, to en- 
 treat 
 The 3'oimg maid's fitful wrath. " Thou wilt 
 
 not meet 
 Love's coming with uti kindness? Nay, 
 
 refrain 
 Thy suddenness, and turn thy face again. 
 Holding as friends all that to me are dear. 
 Thine husband. And accept these robes 
 
 they bear 
 As gifts: and beg thy father to unmake 
 His doom of exile on them — for my sake." 
 When once she saw the raiment, she could 
 
 still 
 Her joy no more, but gave him all his will. 
 And almost ere the father and the two 
 Children were gone from out the room, she 
 
 drew 
 The flowerfid garments forth, and sate her 
 down 
 
 To her arraying: bound the golden crown 
 Through her long curls, and in a mirror 
 
 fair 
 Arranged their separate clusters, smiling 
 
 there 
 At the dead self that faced her. Then 
 
 aside 
 She pushed her seat, and paced those cham- 
 bers wide 
 Alone, her white foot poising delicately — 
 So passing joyful in those gifts was she! — '■ 
 And many a time would pause, straight- 
 limbed, and wheel 
 Her head to watch the long fold to her heel 
 Sweeping. And then came something 
 
 strange. Her cheek 
 Seemed pale, and back with crooked steps 
 
 and weak 
 Groping of arms she walked, and scarcely 
 
 found 
 Her old seat, that she fell not to the 
 
 ground. 
 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 lips was 
 
 seen 
 A white foam crawling, and her eyeballs 
 
 back 
 Twisted, and all her face dead pale for lack 
 Of Ufa: and while that old dame called, the 
 
 cry 
 Turned strangely to its opposite, to die 
 Sobbing. Oh, swiftly then one woman flew 
 To seek her father's rooms, one for the new 
 Bridegroom, to tell the tale. And all the 
 
 place 
 Was loud with hurrying feet. 
 
 So long a space 
 As a swift walker on a measured way 
 Would pace a furlong's course in, there she 
 
 lay 
 Speechless, with veiled lids. Then wide her 
 
 eyes 
 She oped, and wildly, as she strove to rise, 
 Shrieked: for two diverse waves upon her 
 
 rolled 
 Of stabbing death. The carcanet of gold 
 That gripped her brow was molten in a 
 
 dire 
 And wondrous river of devouring fire. 
 
8o 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 And those fine robes, the gift thy children 
 
 gave — 
 God's mercy! — everywhere did lap and 
 
 lave 
 The delicate flesh; till up she sprang, and 
 
 fled, 
 A fiery pillar, shaking locks and head 
 This way and that, seeking to cast the 
 
 crown 
 Somewhere away. But like a thing nailed 
 
 down 
 The burning gold held fast the anadem. 
 And through her locks, the more she scat- 
 tered them. 
 Came fire the fiercer, till to earth she fell 
 A thing — save to her sire — scarce name- 
 able, 
 And strove no more. That cheek of royal 
 
 mien. 
 Where was it — or the place where eyes 
 
 had been? 
 Only from crown and temples came faint 
 
 blood 
 Shot through with fire. The very flesh, it 
 
 stood 
 Out from the bones, as from a wounded 
 
 pine 
 The gum starts, where those gnawing poi- 
 sons fine 
 Bit in the dark — a ghastly sight! And 
 
 touch 
 The dead we durst not. We had seen too 
 much. 
 But that poor father, knowing not, had 
 sped, 
 Swift to his daughter's room, and there the 
 
 dead 
 Lay at his feet. He knelt, and groaning 
 
 low. 
 Folded her in his arms, and kissed her: 
 
 "Oh, 
 Unhappy child, what thing unnatural hath 
 So hideously undone thee? Or what wrath 
 Of gods, to make this old gray sepulcher 
 Childless of thee? Would God but lay me 
 
 there 
 To die with thee, my daughter!" So he 
 
 cried. 
 But after, when he staj^ed from tears, and 
 
 tried 
 To uplift his old bent frame, lo, in the folds 
 Of those fine robes it held, as ivy holds 
 
 Strangling among young laurel boughs. 
 
 Oh, then 
 A ghastly struggle came! Again, again. 
 Up on his knee he writhed; but that dead 
 
 breast 
 Clung still to his: till, wild, like one pos- 
 
 He dragged himself half free; and, lo, the 
 
 live 
 Flesh paited; and he laid him down to 
 
 strive 
 No more with death, but perish; for the 
 
 deep 
 Had risen above his soul. And there they 
 
 sleep. 
 At last, the old proud father and the bride, 
 Even as his tears had craved it, side by 
 side. 
 For thee — Oh, no word more! Thyself 
 will know 
 How best to baffle vengeance. . . . Long ago 
 I looked upon man's days, and found a 
 
 gray 
 Shadow. And this thing more 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 began, 
 Hath there in God's eye stood one happy 
 
 man? 
 Fair days roll on, and bear more gifts or less 
 Of fortune, but to no man happiness. 
 
 [Exit Messenger.] 
 Chorus — Some Women. Wrath upon 
 wrath, meseems, this day shall fall 
 From God on Jason! He hath earned it all. 
 Chorus — Other Women. O miserable 
 maiden, all my heart 
 Is torn for thee, so sudden to depart 
 From thy king's chambers and the light 
 
 above 
 To darkness, all for sake of Jason's love! 
 Medea. Women, my mind is clear. I go 
 to slay 
 My children with all speed, and then, away 
 From hence; not wait yet longer till they 
 
 stand 
 Beneath another and an angrier hand 
 To die. Yea, howsoe'er I shield them, die 
 They must. And, seeing that they must, 
 
 't is I 
 Shall slay them, I their mother, touched of 
 none 
 
MEDEA 
 
 8i 
 
 Beside. Oh, up, and get thine armor on, 
 My heart! Why longer tarry we to win 
 Our crown of dire inevitable sin? 
 Take up thy sword, O poor right hand of 
 
 mine, 
 Thy sword: then onward to the thin-drawn 
 
 hne 
 Where life turns Eigony. Let there be naught 
 Of softness now: and keep thee from that 
 
 thought, 
 " Bom of thy flesh," "thine own beloved." 
 
 Now, 
 For one brief day, forget thy children: thou 
 Shalt weep hereafter. Though thou slay 
 
 them, yet 
 Sweet were they. ... I am sore imfortu- 
 nate. [She goes into the house.] 
 
 Chorus — Sonw Women. O Earth, our 
 mother; and thou 
 All-seer, arrowy crown 
 Of SunUght, manward now 
 
 Look down, oh, look down! 
 Look upon one accurst. 
 Ere yet in blood she twine 
 Red hands — blood that is thine! 
 O Sun, save her first! 
 She is thy daughter still. 
 
 Of thine own golden Une; 
 Save her! Or shall man spill 
 The life divine? 
 Give peace, O Fire that diest not! Send 
 thy spell 
 To stay her yet, to lift her afar, afar — 
 A torture-changM spirit, a voice of Hell 
 Wrought of old wrongs and war! 
 Chortjs — Others. Alas for the mother's 
 pain 
 Wasted! Alas the dear 
 Life that was born in vain! 
 
 Woman, what mak'st thou here, 
 Thou from beyond the Gate 
 Where dim Symplegades 
 Clash in the dark blue seas. 
 The shores where death doth wait? 
 Why hast thou taken on thee, 
 
 To make us desolate, 
 This anger of misery 
 And guilt of hate? 
 For fierce are the smitings back of blood 
 once shed 
 Where love hath been: God's wrath upon 
 them that kill, 
 
 And an anguished earth, and the wonder of 
 the dead 
 Haunting as music still. . . . 
 
 [A cry is heard loithin.] 
 A Woman. Hark! Did ye hear? Heard 
 
 ye the children's cry? 
 Another. O miserable woman! O ab- 
 horred! 
 A Chiu) [within]. What shall I do? 
 What is it? Keep me fast 
 From mother! 
 
 The Other Child. I know nothing. 
 Brother! Oh, 
 I think she means to kill us. 
 
 A Woman. Let me go! 
 I will — Help! Help! — and save them at 
 the last. 
 A Child. Yes, in God's name! Help 
 
 quickly ere we die! 
 The Other Child. She has almost 
 caught me now. She has a sword. 
 [Many of the women are now beat- 
 ing at the barred door to get in. 
 Others are standing apart.] 
 Women [at the door]. Thou stone, thou 
 thing of iron! Wilt verily 
 Spill with thine hand that life, the vintage 
 
 stored 
 Of thine own agony? 
 The Other Women. A mother slew 
 
 her babes in days of yore. 
 One, only one, from dawn to eventide, 
 Ino, god-maddened, whom the Queen 
 of Heaven 
 Set frenzied, flying to the dark: and 
 
 she 
 Cast her for sorrow to the wide salt 
 sea. 
 Forth from those rooms of murder 
 unforgiven. 
 Wild-footed from a white crag of the shore, 
 And clasping stiU her children twain, she 
 died. 
 
 Love of Woman, charged with sorrow sore, 
 What hast thou wrought upon us? What 
 beside 
 
 Resteth to tremble for? 
 
 [Enter hurriedly Jason and Attendants.] 
 
 Jason. Ye women by this doorway clus- 
 tering 
 
82 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Speak, is the doer of the ghastly thing 
 Yet here, or fled? What hopeth she of 
 
 flight? 
 Shall the deep yawn to shield her? Shall 
 
 the height 
 Send wings, and hide her in the vaulted 
 
 sky 
 To work red murder on her lords, and 
 
 fly 
 
 Unrecompensed? But let her go! My care 
 Is but to save my children, not for her. 
 Let them she wronged requite her as they 
 
 may. 
 I care not. 'T is my sons I must some 
 
 way 
 Save, ere the kinsmen of the dead can 
 
 win 
 From them the payment of their mother's 
 sin. 
 Leader. Unhappy man, indeed thou 
 knowest not 
 What dark place thou art come to! Else, 
 
 God wot, 
 Jason, no word like these could fall from 
 thee. 
 Jason. What is it? — Ha! The woman 
 
 would kill me? 
 Leadbk. Thy sons are dead, slain by 
 
 their mother's hand. 
 Jason. How? Not the children. ... I 
 scarce understand. . . . 
 God, thou hast broken me! 
 
 Leader. Think of those twain 
 As things once fair, that ne'er shall bloom 
 again. 
 Jason. Where did she murder them? In 
 
 that old room? 
 Leader. Open, and thou shalt see thy 
 
 children's doom. 
 Jason. Ho, thralls! Unloose me yonder 
 bars! Make more 
 Of speed! Wrench out the jointing of the 
 
 door. 
 And show my two-edged curse, the chil- 
 dren dead, 
 The woman. . . . Oh, this sword upon her 
 head. . . . 
 
 [While the Attendants are still bat- 
 tering at the door, Medea ap- 
 pears on the roof, standing on a 
 chariot of winged dragons, in 
 which are the children's bodies.] 
 
 Medea. What make ye at my gates? 
 
 Why batter ye 
 With brazen bars, seeking the dead and 
 
 me 
 Who slew them? Peace! . . . And thou, if 
 
 aught of mine 
 Thou needest, speak, though never touch 
 
 of thine 
 Shall scathe me more. Out of his firmar 
 
 ment 
 My fathers' father, the high Sun, hath sent 
 This, that shall save me from mine enemies' 
 
 rage. 
 Jason. Thou living hate! Thou wife in 
 
 every age 
 Abhorrfcd, blood-red mother, who didst kill 
 My sons, and make me as the dead: and 
 
 still 
 Canst take the sunshine to thine eyes, and 
 
 smell 
 The green earth, reeking from thy deed of 
 
 hell; 
 I curse thee! Now, oh, now mine eyes can 
 
 see, 
 That then were blinded, when from sav- 
 agery 
 Of eastern chambers, from a cruel land, 
 To Greece and home I gathered in mine 
 
 hand 
 Thee, thou incarnate 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 day 
 When thy first footstep fell on Argo's 
 
 hull. . . . 
 Argo, my own, my swift and beautiful! 
 That was her first beginning. Then a 
 
 wife 
 I made her in my house. She bore to life 
 Children: and now for love, for chambering 
 And men's arms, she hath mm-dered them! 
 
 A thing 
 Not one of all the maids of Greece, not 
 
 one. 
 Had dreamed of; whom I spurned, and for 
 
 mine own 
 Chose thee, a brido of hate to me and 
 
 death. 
 Tigress, not woman, beast of wilder breath 
 
MEDEA 
 
 83 
 
 Than Scylla shrieking o'er the Tuscan sea. 
 Enough! No scorn of mine can reach to 
 
 thee, 
 Such iron is o'er thine eyes. Out from my 
 
 road, 
 Thou crime-begetter, blind with children's 
 
 blood! 
 And let me weep alone the bitter tide 
 That sweepeth Jason's days, no gentle 
 
 bride 
 To speak with more, no child to look 
 
 upon 
 Whom once I reared . . . all, aU forever 
 gone! 
 Medea. An easy answer had I to this 
 swell 
 Of speech, but Zeus our father knoweth 
 
 well, 
 All I for thee have wrought, and thou for 
 
 me. 
 So let it rest. This thing was not to be. 
 That thou shouldst live a merry life, my 
 
 •bed 
 Forgotten and my heart uncomforted. 
 Thou nor thy princess: nor the king that 
 
 planned 
 Thy marriage drive Medea from his land. 
 And suffer not. Call me what thing thou 
 
 please. 
 Tigress or Scylla from the Tuscan seas: 
 My claws have gripped thine heart, and all 
 things shine. 
 Jason. Thou too hast grief. Thy pain is 
 
 fierce as mine. 
 Medea. I love the pain, so thou shalt 
 
 laugh no more. 
 Jason. Ob, what a womb of sin my chil- 
 dren bore! 
 Medea. Sons, did ye perish for 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. 
 Jason. Thou hast said it! For thy lust 
 
 of love they died. 
 Medea. And love to women a slight 
 
 thing should be? 
 Jason. To women pure! — All thy vile 
 
 life to thee! 
 Medea. Think of thy torment. They 
 are dead, they are deadl 
 
 Jason. No: quick, great God; quick 
 
 curses round thy head! 
 Medea. The gods know who began this 
 
 work of woe. 
 Jason. Thy heart and all its loathliness 
 
 they know. 
 Medea. Loathe on. . . . But, oh, thy 
 
 voice. It hurts me sore. 
 Jason. Aye, and thine me. Wouldst 
 
 hear me then no more? 
 Medea. How? Show me but the way. 
 
 'T is this I crave. 
 Jason. Give me the dead to weep, and 
 
 make their grave. 
 Medea. Never! Myself will lay them 
 in a still 
 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 high feast f orevermore 
 And rite, to purge them yearly of the 
 
 stain 
 Of this poor blood. And I, to Pallas' plain 
 I go, to dwell beside Pandion's son, 
 .iEgeus. — For thee, behold, death draw- 
 
 eth on, 
 F.vil and lonely, like thine heart: the hands 
 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 rises on the chariot and is 
 slowly borne away.] 
 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. 
 Jason. Go, thou art wet with cliildren's 
 
 tears! 
 Medea. Go thou, and lay thy bride to 
 
 sleep. 
 Jason. Childless, I go, to weep and 
 
 weep. 
 Medea. Not yet! Age cometh and long 
 
 years. 
 Jason. My sons, mine own! 
 Medea. Not thine, but mino ... 
 Jason. . . . Who slew them! 
 
84 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Medea. Yes; to torture thee. 
 Jason. Once let me kiss their lips, once 
 twine 
 Mine arms and touch. . . . Ah, woe is me! 
 Medea. Wouldst love them and en- 
 treat? But now 
 They were as nothing. 
 Jason. At the last, 
 O God, to touch that tender brow! 
 
 Medea. Thy words upon the wind are 
 
 cast. 
 Jason. Thou, Zeus, wilt hear me. All is 
 
 said 
 For naught. I am but spurned away 
 And trampled by this tigress, red 
 With children's blood. Yet, come what 
 may, 
 So far as thou hast granted, yea. 
 So far as yet my strength may stand, 
 
 I weep upon these dead, and say 
 Their last farewell, and raise my hand 
 
 To all the demons of the air 
 In witness of these 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 casts himself upon the earth.] 
 Chorus. Great treasure halls hath Zeus 
 in heaven. 
 From whence to man strange dooms be 
 given, 
 Past hope or fear. 
 And the end men looked for cometh not, 
 And a path is there where no man thought: 
 So hath it fallen here. 
 
THE FROGS 
 
 By ARISTOPHANES 
 
 Translated in verse ly JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Bacchus 
 
 Xanthias, servant of Bacchus 
 
 Hebcules 
 
 Charon 
 
 ^ACUS 
 
 Euripides 
 
 ^SCHYLUS 
 
 Pluto 
 
 Dead Man 
 
 Proserpine's Servant Maid 
 
 Two Women Sutlers 
 
 Mutes 
 
 Chorus of Votaries, and Frogs 
 
THE FROGS 
 
 [Enter Bacchus and Xanthias.] 
 
 Xanthias. Master, shall I begin with 
 the usual jokes 
 That 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 
 before us. 
 Xanthias. Well, something else that's 
 
 comical and clever? 
 Bacchus. I forbid being "overpress'd 
 
 and overburthen'd." 
 Xanthias. Well, but the drollest joke 
 
 of all— ? 
 Bacchus. Remember 
 There's one thing I protest against — 
 Xanthias. What's that? 
 Bacchus. Why, shifting off your load to 
 the other shoulder. 
 And fidgeting and complaining of the gripes. 
 Xanthias. What then do you mean to 
 say, that I must not say 
 That I'm ready to befoul myself? 
 
 Bacchus. By no means — 
 Except when I take an emetic. 
 
 Xanthias. What's the use, then, 
 Of my being burthen'd here with all these 
 
 bundles. 
 If I 'm to be deprived of the common jokes 
 That Phrjfnichus, and Lycis, and Ameipsias 
 Allow the servants always in their comedies, 
 Without exception, when they carry bun- 
 dles? 
 Bacchus. Pray, leave them off — for 
 those ingenious saUies 
 Have such an effect upon my health and 
 
 spirits 
 That I feel grown old and dull when I get 
 home. 
 Xanthias. It's hard for me to suffer in 
 my limbs. 
 To be overburthen'd and debarr'd from 
 joking. 
 
 Bacchus. Well, this is monstrous, quite, 
 and insupportable! 
 Such insolence in a servant! When your 
 
 master 
 Is going afoot and has provided you 
 With a beast to carry ye. 
 Xanthias. What! do I carry nothing? 
 Bacchus. You're carried yourself. 
 Xanthias. But I carry bundles, don't I?" 
 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 yourself, I tell 
 
 ye. 
 Xanthias. I can't explain it. 
 But I feel it in my shoulders plainly enough. 
 Bacchus. WeU, if the beast don't help 
 you, take and try; 
 Change places with the ass and carry him. 
 Xanthias [in a tone of mere disgust]. 
 Oh, dear! I wish I had gone for a volunteer, 
 And left you to yourself. I wish I had. 
 Bacchus. Dismount, you rascal! Here, 
 we're at the house 
 Where Hercules lives. — Hello! there! 
 who 's within there? 
 
 [Enter Hercules.] 
 
 Hebcules. Who's there? (He has 
 
 bang'd at the door, whoever he is. 
 With the kick of a centaur.) What's the 
 
 matter, there? 
 Bacchus [aside]. Ha! Xanthias! 
 Xanthias. What? 
 Bacchus [aside]. Did ye mind how he 
 
 was frighten'd? 
 Xanthias. I suppose he was afraid you 
 
 were going mad. 
 Hercules [aside]. By Jove! 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. 
 
88 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Hercules. But I can't help laughing, 
 To see the lion's skin with a saffron robe, 
 And the club with the women's sandals — 
 
 altogether — 
 What's the meaning of it all? Have you 
 been abroad? 
 Bacchus. I've been abroad — in the 
 
 Fleet — with Cleisthenes. 
 Heecules. You fought — ? 
 Bacchus. Yes, that we did — we gain'd 
 a victory; 
 And we sunk the enemies' ships — thirteen 
 of 'em. 
 Hercules. "So you woke at last and 
 
 found it was a dream? " 
 Bacchus. But aboard the fleet, as I pur- 
 sued my studies, 
 I read the tragedy of Andromeda; 
 And then such a vehement passion struck 
 
 my heart. 
 You can't imagine. 
 ■ Hercules. A small one, I suppose, 
 My little fellow — a moderate little pas- 
 sion? 
 Bacchus. It's just as small as Melon is 
 — -that's all — 
 Molon the wrestler, I mean — as small as 
 he is — 
 Hercules. Well, 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 feeling — quite dis- 
 tressing; 
 I suffer from it — 
 Hercules. Well, explain. What was it? 
 Bacchus. I can't declare it at once; but 
 I'll explain it 
 Theatrically and enigmatically: 
 Were you ever seized with a sudden pas- 
 sionate longing 
 For a mess of porridge? 
 
 Hercules. Often enough, if that's all. 
 Bacchus. Shall I state the matter to 
 you plainly at once: 
 Or put it oiroumlocutorily? 
 Hercules, Not about the porridge. I 
 
 understand your instance. 
 Bacchus. Such is the passion that pos- 
 sesses me 
 For poor Euripides, that's dead and 
 gone; 
 
 And it's all in vain people trying to per- 
 suade me 
 From going after him. 
 
 Hercules. What, to the shades below? 
 Bacchus. Yes, to the shades below, or 
 the shades beneath 'em. 
 To the undermost shades of all. I'm quite 
 determined. 
 Hercules. But what's your object? 
 Bacchus. Why my object is 
 That I want a clever poet — " for the good, 
 The gracious and the good, are dead and 
 
 gone; 
 The worthless and the weak are left alive." ' 
 Hercules. Is not lophon a good one? 
 
 — He's alive sure? 
 Bacchus. If he's a good one, he's our 
 only good one; 
 But it 's a question ; I 'm in doubt about him. 
 Hercules. There 's Sophocles; he 's 
 older than Euripides — 
 If you go so far for 'em, you'd best bring 
 him. 
 Bacchus. No; first I'U try what lophon 
 can do. 
 Without his father, Sophocles, 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. 
 Hercules. Where 's Agathon? 
 Bacchus. He's gone and left me too, 
 Regretted by his friends; a worthy poet — 
 Hercules. Gone! Where, poor soul? 
 Bacchus. To the banquets of the blest! 
 Hercules. But then you 'veXenocles — 
 Bacchus. Yes! a plague upon him! 
 Hercules. Pythangelus too — 
 Xanthias. But nobody thinks of me; 
 Standing all this while with the bundles on 
 my shoulder. 
 Hercules. But have not you other 
 young ingenious youths 
 That are fit to out-talk Euripides ten times 
 
 over; 
 To the amount of a thousand, at least, all 
 writing tragedy — ? 
 Bacchus. They're good for nothing — 
 " Warblers of the Grove" — 
 
 — "Little, foolish, fluttering things" — 
 
 poor puny wretches, 
 
THE FROGS 
 
 89 
 
 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 
 phrase. 
 Hebctjles. How — "hearty?" What do 
 
 you mean by "valiant phrases?" 
 Bacchtjs. I mean a . . . kind ... of a 
 . . . doubtful, bold expression 
 To talk about . . . "The viewless foot of 
 
 Time" — 
 And . . . "Jupiter's Secret Chamber in the 
 
 Skies" — 
 And about ... a person's soul . . . not 
 
 being perjured 
 When . . . the tongue . . . forswears itself 
 ... in spite of the soul. 
 Hebctjles. Do you hke that kind of 
 
 stuff? 
 Bacchus. I'm crazy after it. 
 Hehctjles. Why, sure, it's trash and 
 
 rubbish — Don't you think so? 
 Bacchus. " Men's fancies are their own 
 
 — Let mine alone" — 
 Hercules. But, in fact, it seems to me 
 
 quite bad — rank nonsense. 
 Bacchus. You'll tell me next what I 
 
 ought to like for supper. 
 Xanthias. But nobody thinks of me 
 
 here, with the bundles. 
 Bacchus. — But now to the business 
 that I came upon — 
 (With the apparel that you see — the same 
 
 as yours) 
 To obtain a direction from you to your 
 
 friends, 
 (To apply to them — in case of anything — 
 If anything should occur) the acquaint- 
 ances 
 That received you there — (the time you 
 went before 
 
 — For the business about Cerberus) — if 
 
 you'd give me 
 
 Their names and their directions, and com- 
 municate 
 
 Any information relative to the country. 
 
 The roads, — the streets, — the bridges, 
 and the brothels. 
 
 The wharfs, — the pubhc walks, — the 
 public bouses, 
 
 The fountains, — aqueducts, — and inns, 
 
 and taverns, 
 And lodgings, — free from bugs and fleas, 
 
 if possible. 
 If you know any such — 
 Xanthias. But nobody thinks of me. 
 Hercules. What a notion! You! Will 
 
 you risk it? Are you mad? 
 Bacchus. 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 
 
 one. 
 
 Hercules. Well, — which shall I tell 
 
 ye first, now? — Let me see now — 
 
 There's a good convenient road by the 
 
 Rope and Noose; 
 The Hanging Road. 
 
 Bacchus. No; that's too close and sti- 
 fling. 
 Hercules. Then, there's an 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 tell me it strikes a chill to the legs 
 and feet. 
 Hercules. Should you like a speedy, 
 
 rapid, downhill road? 
 Bacchus. Indeed I should, for I'm a 
 
 sorry traveler. 
 Hercules. Go to the Keramicus then. 
 Bacchus. What then? 
 Hercules. Get up to the very top of 
 
 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 
 
 "Start! start!" 
 Then start at once with 'em. 
 
 Bacchus. Me? Start? Where from? 
 Hercules. From the top of the tower 
 
 to the bottom, 
 Bacchus. No, not I. 
 It's enough to dash my brains out! I'll 
 
 not go 
 Such a road upon any account. 
 Hercules, Well, which way then? 
 
90 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Bacchus. The way you went yourself. 
 
 Hercules. But it's a long one, 
 For first you come to a monstrous bottom- 
 less lake. 
 
 Bacchus. And what must I do to pass? 
 
 Hebcules. You'll find a boat there; 
 A little tiny boat, as big as that. 
 And an old man that ferries you over in it, 
 Receiving twopence as the usual fee. 
 
 Bacchus. Ah! that same twopence gov- 
 erns everything 
 Wherever it goes. — I wonder how it man- 
 
 To find its way there? 
 
 Hercules. Theseus introduced it. 
 — Next you'll meet serpents, and wild 
 
 beasts, and monsters. 
 Horrific to behold! 
 
 Bacchus. Don't try to fright me; 
 You'll not succeed, I promise you. — I'm 
 
 determined. 
 Hercules. Then there's an abyss of 
 
 mire and floating filth. 
 In which the daam'd lie wallowing and 
 
 overwhelm'd; 
 The unjust, the cruel, and the inhospit- 
 able; 
 And the barbarous bilking Cullies that 
 
 withhold 
 The price of intercourse with fraud and 
 
 wrong; 
 The incestuous, and the parricides, and the 
 
 robbers; 
 The perjurers, and assassins, and the 
 
 wretches 
 That willfully and presumptuously tran- 
 scribe 
 Extracts and trash from Morsimus's plays. 
 Bacchus. And, by Jove! Cinesiae with 
 
 his Pyrrhic dancers 
 Ought to be there — they're worse, or 
 
 quite as bad. 
 Hercules. But after this your sense will 
 
 be saluted 
 With a gentle breathing sound of flutes 
 
 and voices. 
 And a beautiful spreading light like ours on 
 
 earth. 
 And myrtle glades and happy quires among, 
 Of w^omen and men with rapid applause 
 
 and mirth. 
 Bacchus. And who are all those folks? 
 
 Hercules. The initiated. 
 Xanthias. I won't stand here like a 
 mule in a procession 
 Any longer, with these packages and 
 bundles. 
 Hercules. They'll tell you everything 
 you want to know. 
 For they're established close upon the 
 
 road. 
 By the corner of Pluto's house — so fare 
 
 you well; 
 Farewell, my little fellow. [Exit.] 
 
 Bacchus. I wish you better. 
 [To Xanthias.] You, sirrah, take your 
 
 bundles up again. 
 Xanthias. What, before I put them 
 
 down? 
 Bacchus. Yes! now, this moment. 
 Xanthias. Nah! don't insist; there's 
 plenty of people going 
 As corpses with the convenience of a car- 
 riage; 
 They'd take it for a trifle gladly enough. 
 Bacchus. But if we meet with nobody? 
 Xanthias. Then I'll take 'em. 
 Bacchus. Come, come, that's fairly 
 spoken, and in good time; 
 For there they're carrying a corpse out to 
 be buried. 
 
 [A funeral, with a corpse on an 
 open bier, crosses the stage.] 
 — Hello! you there — you Deadman — 
 
 can't you hear? 
 Would you take any bundles to hell with 
 ye, my good fellow? 
 Deadman. What are they? 
 Bacchus. These. 
 
 Deadman. Then I must have two drach- 
 mas. 
 Bacchus. I can't — you must take less. 
 Deadman. Bearers, move on. 
 Bacchus. No, stop! we shall settle be- 
 tween us — you're so hasty. 
 Deadman. It's no use arguing; I must 
 
 have two drachmas. 
 Bacchus. Ninepence! 
 Deadman. I'd best be alive again at 
 that rate. [Exit.] 
 
 Bacchus. Fine airs the fellow gives him- 
 self — a rascal! 
 I'll have him punish'd, I vow, for over- 
 charging. 
 
THE FROGS 
 
 91 
 
 Xanthias. Best give him a good beat- 
 ing: give me the bundles, 
 I'll carry 'em. 
 Bacchus. You're a good, trae-hearted 
 fellow; 
 And a willing servant. — Let's move on to 
 the ferry. 
 
 [Enter Charon.] 
 
 Charon. Hoy! Bear a hand, there — 
 
 Heave ashore. 
 Bacchus. What's this? 
 Xanthias. The lake it is — the place he 
 told us of. 
 By Jove ! and there 's the boat — and here 's 
 old Charon. 
 Bacchus. Well, Charon ! — Welcome, 
 
 Charon! — Welcome kindly! 
 Charon. Who wants the ferryman? 
 Anybody waiting 
 To remove from the sorrows of life? A 
 
 passage anybody? 
 To Lethe's wharf? — to Cerberus's Reach? 
 To Tartarus? — to Tsenarus? — to Perdi- 
 tion? 
 Bacchus. Yes, I. 
 Charon. Get in then. 
 Bacchus. Tell me, where are you go- 
 ing? 
 To Perdition really — ? 
 
 Charon. Yes, to oblige you, I will 
 With all my heart — Step in there. 
 
 Bacchus. Have a care! 
 Take care, good Charon! — Charon, have 
 
 a care! 
 Come, Xanthias, come! 
 
 Charon. I take no slaves aboard 
 Except they've volunteer'd for the naval 
 victory. 
 Xanthias. I could not — I was suffer- 
 ing with sore eyes. 
 Charon. You must trudge away then, 
 roimd by the end of the lake there. 
 Xanthias. And whereabouts shall I 
 
 wait? 
 Charon. At the Stone of Repentance, 
 By the Slough of Despond beyond the 
 
 Tribulations; 
 You understand me? 
 
 Xanthias. Yes, I understand you; 
 A lucky, promising direction, truly. 
 Charon [to Bacchus]. Sit down at the 
 
 oar — Come quick, if there's more 
 
 commg! 
 [To Bacchus again.] Hello! what's that 
 
 you're doing? 
 Bacchus. What you told me. 
 I 'm sitting at the oar. 
 
 Charon. Sit there, I tell you. 
 You Fatguts; that's your place. 
 Bacchus. Well, so I do. 
 Charon. Now ply your hands and arms. 
 Bacchus. Well, so I do. 
 Charon. You'd best leave off your fool- 
 ing. Take to the oar. 
 And pull away. 
 
 Bacchus; But how shall I contrive? 
 I've never served on board — I'm only a 
 
 landsman; 
 I'm quite unused to it — 
 
 Charon. We can manage it. 
 As soon as you begin you shall have some 
 
 music 
 That will teach you to keep time. 
 Bacchus. What music 's that? 
 Chahon. a chorus of Frogs — uncom- 
 mon musical Frogs. 
 Bacchus. Well, give me the word and 
 
 the time. 
 Charon. Whooh up, up; whooh up, 
 up. 
 
 [Enter Chorus of Frogs.] 
 
 Chorus. Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash, 
 Shall the Choral Quiristers of the Marsh 
 Be censured and rejected as hoarse and 
 harsh; 
 
 And their Chromatic essays 
 
 Deprived of praise? 
 No, let us raise afresh 
 Our obstreperous Brekeke-kesh; 
 The customary croak and cry 
 
 Of the creatures 
 
 At the theaters, 
 In their yearly revelry, 
 Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash. 
 
 Bacchus. How I'm maul'd, 
 How I'm gall'd; 
 
 Worn and mangled to a mash — 
 There they go! "Koash, koash !" — 
 
 Frogs, Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash. 
 
 Bacchus. Oh, beshrew, 
 All your crew; 
 You don't consider how I smart. 
 
92 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Fbogs. Now for a sample of the Art! 
 
 Send us headlong, helter, skelter, 
 
 Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash. 
 
 To the pool to seek for shelter; 
 
 Bacchus. I wish you hang'd, with all 
 
 Meager, eager, leaping, lunging. 
 
 my heart. 
 
 From the sedgy wharfage plunging 
 
 — Have you nothing else to say? 
 
 To the tranquil depth below. 
 
 "Brekeke-kesh, koash" all day! 
 
 There we muster aU a-row; 
 
 Feogs. We've a right, 
 
 Where, secure from toil and trouble, 
 
 We've a right; 
 
 With a tuneful hubble-bubble. 
 
 And we croak at ye for spite. 
 
 Our symphonious accents flow. 
 
 We've a right, 
 
 Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash. 
 
 We've a right; 
 
 Bacchus. I forbid you to proceed. 
 
 Day and night, 
 
 Fkogs. That would be severe indeed; 
 
 Day and night; 
 
 Arbitrary, bold, and rash — 
 
 Night and day. 
 
 Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash. 
 
 StUl to creak and croak away. 
 
 Bacchus. I command you to desist — 
 
 Phcebus and every Grace 
 
 — Oh, my back, there! oh, my wrist! 
 
 Admire and approve of the croaking race; 
 
 What a twist! 
 
 And the egregious guttural notes 
 
 What a sprain! 
 
 That are gargled and warbled in their 
 
 Frogs. Once again — 
 
 lyrical throats. 
 
 We renew the tuneful strain. 
 
 In reproof 
 
 Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash. 
 
 Of your scorn 
 
 Bacchus. I disdain — (Hang the pain!) 
 
 Mighty Pan 
 
 All your nonsense, noise, and trash. 
 
 Nods his horn; 
 
 Oh, my blister! Oh, my sprain! 
 
 Beating time 
 
 Frogs. Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash. 
 
 To the rhyme 
 
 Friends and Frogs, we must display 
 
 With his hoof. 
 
 All our powers of voice to-day; 
 
 With his hoof. 
 
 Suffer not this stranger here, 
 
 Persisting in our plan, 
 
 With fastidious foreign ear, 
 
 We proceed as we began, 
 
 To confound us and abash. 
 
 Breke-kesh, Breke-kesh, 
 
 Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash. 
 
 Kooash, kooash. 
 
 Bacchus. Well, my spirit is not broke, 
 
 Bacchus. Oh, the Frogs, consume and 
 
 If it's only for the joke. 
 
 rot 'em. 
 
 I '11 outdo you with a croak. 
 
 I ' ve a blister on my bottom. 
 
 Here it goes — " Koash, koash." 
 
 Hold j'our tongues, you tuneful creatures. 
 
 Frogs. Now for a glorious croaking 
 
 Frogs. Cease with your profane en- 
 
 crash. 
 
 treaties 
 
 Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash. 
 
 All in vain forever striving: 
 
 Bacchus. I '11 disperse you with a splash. 
 
 Silence is against our natures. 
 
 Frogs. Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash. 
 
 With the vernal heat reviving, 
 
 Bacchus. I'll subdue 
 
 Our aquatic crew repair 
 
 Your rebellious, noisy crew — 
 
 From their periodic sleep. 
 
 — Have amongst you there, slap-dash. 
 
 In the dark and chilly deep, 
 
 Frogs. Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash. 
 
 To the cheerful upper air; 
 
 We defy your oar and you. 
 
 Then we frolic here and there 
 
 Charon. Hold! We're ashore just — 
 
 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 is — the 
 
 Chaunting in the leafy bowers 
 
 twopence. 
 
 All the livelong summer hours. 
 
 Bacchus. Ho, Xanthias! Xanthias, I 
 
 Till the sudden gusty showers 
 
 say! Where's Xanthias? 
 
THE FROGS 
 
 93 
 
 Xanthias. A-hoy! 
 Bacchus. Come here. 
 Xanthias. I'm glad to see you, master. 
 Bacchus. What's that before us there? 
 X.\NTHiAS. The mire and darkness. 
 Bacchus. Do you see the villains and 
 the perjurers 
 That he told us of? 
 Xanthias. Yes, plain enough, don't 
 
 you? 
 Bacchus. Ah! now I see them, indeed, 
 quite plain — and now too. 
 Well, what shall we do next? 
 
 Xanthias. We'd best move forward; 
 For here's the place that Hercules there 
 
 inform'd us 
 Was haunted by those monsters. 
 Bacchus. Oh, confound him! 
 He vapor'd and talk'd at random to deter 
 
 me 
 From venturing. He's amazingly conceited 
 And jealous of other people, is Hercules; 
 He reckon'd I should rival him, and, in fact 
 (Since I've come here so far), I should 
 
 rather like 
 To meet with an adventure in some shape. 
 Xanthias. By Jove! and I think I hear 
 
 a kind of a noise. 
 Bacchus. Where? Where? . 
 Xanthias. There, just behind us. 
 Bacchus. Go behind, then. 
 Xanthias. There! — it's before us now. 
 
 — There! 
 Bacchus. Go before, then. 
 Xanthias. Ah! now I see it — a mon- 
 strous beast indeed! 
 Bacchus. What kind? 
 Xanthias. 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; 
 A woman! 
 Bacchus. Where? Where is she? Let 
 
 me seize her. 
 Xanthias. But now she's turned to a 
 
 mastiS all of a sudden. 
 Bacchus. It's the Weird hag! the 
 
 Vampire! 
 Xanthias. Like enough. 
 She's aU of a blaze of fire about the mouth. 
 Bacchus. Has she got the brazen foot? 
 
 Xanthias. Yes, there it is — 
 By Jove! — and the cloven hoof to the 
 
 other leg, 
 Distinct enough — that's she! 
 Bacchus. But what shall I do? 
 Xanthias. And I, too? 
 Bacchus. Save me. Priest, protect and 
 save me, 
 That we may drink and be jolly together 
 hereafter. 
 Xanthias. We're ruin'd. Master Her- 
 cules. 
 Bacchus. Don't call me so, I beg: 
 Don't mention my name, good friend, upon 
 any account. 
 Xanthias. Well, Bacchus, then! 
 Bacchus. That's worse, ten thousand 
 
 times. 
 Xanthias. Come, master, move along 
 
 — Come, come this way. 
 Bacchus. What's happened? 
 Xanthias. Why we're prosperous and 
 victorious : 
 The storm of fear and danger has subsided, 
 And (as the actor said the other day) 
 "Has only left a gentle qualm behind." 
 The Vampire's vanish'd. 
 Bacchus. Has she? Upon your oath? 
 Xanthias. By Jove! she has. 
 Bacchus. No, swear again. 
 Xanthias. By Jove! 
 Bacchus. Is she, by Jupiter? 
 Xanthias. By Jupiter! 
 Bacchus. Oh, dear; what a fright I was 
 in with the very sight of her: 
 It turn'd me sick and pale — but see, the 
 
 priest here! 
 He has color'd up quite with the same alarm. 
 — What has brought me to this pass? — 
 
 It must be Jupiter 
 With his "Chamber in the Skies,'' and the 
 "Foot of Time." 
 Xanthias. Hello, you! 
 Bacchus. What? 
 
 Xanthias. Why, did you not hear? 
 Bacchus. Why, what? 
 Xanthias. The sound of a flute. 
 Bacchus. Indeed! And there's a smell 
 too; 
 A pretty mystical ceremonious smell 
 Of torches. We'll watch here, and keep 
 quite quiet. 
 
94 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 [Enter Chorus of Votaries.] 
 
 Chorus. lacchus! lacchus! Ho! 
 lacchus! lacchus! Ho! 
 
 Xanthias. There, Master, there they 
 are, the initiated; 
 All sporting about as he told us we should 
 
 find 'em. 
 They're singing in praise of Bacchus like 
 Diagoras. 
 
 Bacchus. Indeed, and so they are; but 
 we'll keep quiet 
 Till we make them out a little more distinctly. 
 
 Choeus. Mighty Bacchus! Holy Power! 
 Hither at the wonted hour 
 Come away. 
 Come away. 
 
 With the wanton holiday. 
 Where the revel uproar leads 
 To the mystic holy meads. 
 
 Where the frolic votaries fly, 
 
 With a tipsy shout and cry; 
 
 Flourishing the Thyrsus high, 
 
 Flinging forth, alert and airy, 
 
 To the sacred old vagary, 
 
 The 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. 
 
 Xanthias. Oh glorious virgin, daughter 
 of the goddess! 
 What a scent of roasted griskin reach'd my 
 senses. 
 
 Bacchus. Keep quiet — and watch for 
 ' a chance of a piece of the haslets. 
 
 Chorus. Raise the fiery torches high! 
 Bacchus is approaching nigh. 
 Like the planet of the morn. 
 Breaking with the hoary dawn, 
 
 On the dark solemnity — 
 There they flash upon the sight; 
 All the plain is blazing bright. 
 Flush' d and overflown with light: 
 Age has cast his years away. 
 And the cares of many a day, 
 Sporting to the lively lay — 
 Mighty Bacchus! march and lead 
 (Torch in hand toward the mead) 
 Thy devoted humble Chorus, 
 Mighty Bacchus — move before us! 
 
 Keep silence — keep peace — and let all 
 
 the profane 
 From our holy solemnity duly refrain; 
 Whose souls unenlightened by taste, are 
 
 ob.scure; 
 Whose poetical notions are dark and 
 
 impure; 
 Whose theatrical conscience 
 Is sullied by nonsense; 
 Who never were train'd by the mighty 
 
 Cratinus 
 In mystical orgies poetic and vinous; 
 Who delight in bufiooning and jests out of 
 
 season; 
 Who promote the designs of oppression and 
 
 treason; 
 Who foster sedition, and strife, and debate; 
 AU traitors, in short, to 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 
 
 pitch; 
 In the way that Thorycion grew to be rich 
 From a scoundrelly dirty collector of 
 
 tribute: 
 All such we reject and severely prohibit: 
 All statesmen retrenching the fees and the 
 
 salaries 
 Of theatrical bards, in revenge for the rail- 
 leries, 
 And jests, and lampoons, of this holy 
 
 solemnity, 
 Profanely pursuing their personal enmity. 
 For having been flouted, and scofi'd, and 
 
 scorn'd, 
 AU such are admonish'd and heartily 
 
 warn'd; 
 We warn them once, 
 We warn them twice. 
 We warn and admonish — we warn them 
 
 thrice. 
 To conform to the law, 
 To retire and withdraw; 
 While the Chorus again with the formal saw 
 (Fixt and assign'd to the festive day) 
 Move to the measure and march away. 
 March! march! lead forth. 
 Lead forth manfully, 
 March in order all; 
 Bustling, hustling, justling, 
 
 As it may befall; 
 
THE FROGS 
 
 9S 
 
 Flocking, shouting, laughing, 
 
 And there within the shades. 
 
 Mocking, flouting, quafiSng, 
 
 I spy some lovely maids; 
 
 One and all; 
 
 With whom we romp'd and revel'd. 
 
 All have had a belly-full 
 
 Dismantled and dishevel'd; 
 
 Of breakfast brave and plentiful; 
 
 With their bosoms open, 
 
 Therefore 
 
 With whom we might be coping. 
 
 Evermore 
 
 Xanthias. Well, I was always hearty, 
 
 With your voices and your bodies 
 
 Disposed to mirth and ease. 
 
 Serve the goddess. 
 
 I'm ready to join the party. 
 
 And raise 
 
 Bacchus. And I will, if you please. 
 
 Songs of praise; 
 
 [To the Chorus.] Prithee, my good fellows, 
 
 She shall save the country still. 
 
 Would you please to tell us 
 
 And save it against the traitor's will; 
 
 Which is Pluto's door, 
 
 So she says. 
 
 I'm an utter stranger. 
 
 Now let us raise, in a different strain. 
 
 Never here before. 
 
 The praise of the goddess the giver of grain; 
 
 Chorus. Friend, you're out of danger. 
 
 Imploring her favor 
 
 You need not seek it far; 
 
 With other behavior. 
 
 There it stands before ye. 
 
 In measures more sober, submissive, and 
 
 Before ye, where you are. 
 
 graver. 
 
 Bacchus. Take up your bundles. 
 
 Ceres, holy patroness. 
 
 Xanthias. 
 
 Condescend to mark and bless, 
 
 Xanthias. Hang all bundles; 
 
 With benevolent regard. 
 
 A bundle has no end, and these have none. 
 
 Both the Chorus and the Bard; 
 
 Chorus. Now we go to dance and sing 
 
 Grant them for the present day 
 
 In the consecrated shades; 
 
 ]\Iany 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 I must haste to bring 
 
 Grant them with the present play 
 
 The mysterious early light; 
 
 To bear the prize of verse away. 
 
 Which must witness every rite 
 
 Now call again, and with a different 
 
 Of the joyous happy night. 
 
 measure, 
 
 Let us hasten — let us fly — 
 
 The power of mirth and pleasure; 
 
 Where the lovely meadows lie; 
 
 The florid, active Bacchus, bright and gay, 
 
 Where the living waters flow;r 
 
 To journey forth and join us on the way. 
 
 Where the roses bloom and blow. 
 
 Bacchus, attend! the customary patron 
 
 — Heirs of Immortality, 
 
 Of every lively lay; 
 
 Segregated, safe and pure. 
 
 Go forth without delay 
 
 Easy, sorrowless, 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 footsteps tracing 
 
 Such rewards await them now. 
 
 With unlaborious, light, celestial motion; 
 
 Bacchus. Well, how must I knock at 
 
 And here at thy devotion 
 
 the door now? Can't ye tell me? 
 
 Behold thy faithful quire 
 
 How do the native inhabitants knock at 
 
 In pitiful attire; 
 
 doors? 
 
 All overworn and ragged, 
 
 Xanthias. Pah; don't stand fooling 
 
 This jerkin old and jagged. 
 
 there; but smite it smartly. 
 
 These buskins torn and burst, 
 
 With the very spirit and air of Hercules. 
 
 Though sufferers in the fray, 
 
 Bacchus. Hello! 
 
 May serve us at the worst 
 
 iEACUS. Who's there? 
 
 To sport throughout the day; 
 
 Bacchus. 'T is I, the valiant Hercules! 
 
96 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 iEACus. Thou brutal, abominable, de- 
 testable. 
 Vile, villainous, infamous, nefarious scoun- 
 drel! 
 
 — How durst thou, villain as thou wert, to 
 
 seize 
 Our watchdog, Cerberus, whom I kept and 
 
 tended 
 Hurrying him off, half-strangled in your 
 
 grasp? 
 
 — But now, be sure we have you safe and 
 
 fast. 
 Miscreant and villain! — Thee, the Stygian 
 
 cliffs. 
 With stern adamantine durance, and the 
 
 rocks 
 Of inaccessible Acheron, red with gore, 
 Environ and beleaguer; and the watch. 
 And swift pursuit of the hideous hounds of 
 
 hell; 
 And the horrible Hydra, with her hundred 
 
 heads. 
 Whose furious ravening fangs shall rend 
 
 and tear thee; 
 Wrenching thy vitals forth, with the heart 
 
 and midriff; 
 While inexpressible Tartesian monsters. 
 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 steps of speed. 
 Xanthias. Hello, you! What's the 
 
 matter there — ? 
 Bacchus. Oh dear, 
 I've had an accident. 
 
 Xanthias. Poh! poh! jump up! 
 Come! you ridiculous simpleton! don't lie 
 
 there. 
 The people will see you. 
 Bacchus. Indeed I'm sick at heart; 
 
 la! 
 Xanthias. Was there ever in heaven or 
 
 earth such a coward? 
 Bacchus. Me? 
 A coward! Did not I show my presence of 
 
 mind — 
 And call for a sponge and water in a 
 
 moment? 
 Would a coward have done that? 
 Xanthias. What else would he do? 
 
 Bacchus. He'd have lain there stinking 
 Uke a nasty coward; 
 But I jump'd up at once, like a lusty 
 
 wrestler. 
 And look'd about, and wiped myself, 
 withal. 
 Xanthias. Most manfullj' done! 
 Bacchus. By Jove, and I thinlc it was; 
 But tell me, wern't you frighten'd with 
 
 that speech? 
 — Such horrible expressions! 
 
 Xanthias. No, not I; 
 I took no notice — 
 
 Bacchus. Well, I'll tell you what. 
 Since you're such a valiant-spirited kind of 
 
 fellow. 
 Do you be Me — with the club and the 
 
 lion's skin, 
 Now you're in this courageous temper of 
 
 mind; 
 And I'll 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 heroic Melitensian hangdog — 
 Come, now for my bundles. I must mind 
 my bundles. 
 
 [Enter Proserpine's Servant Maid who im- 
 mediately addresses Xanthias.] 
 
 Servant Maid. Dear Hercules. Well, 
 
 you're come at last. Come in, 
 For the goddess, as soon as she heard of it, 
 
 set to work 
 Baking peck loaves and frying stacks of 
 
 pancakes, 
 And making messes of furmety; there's an 
 
 ox 
 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 Jupiter! 
 We must not let you off, indeed. There's 
 
 wild fowl 
 
THE FROGS 
 
 97 
 
 And sweetmeats for the dessert, and the 
 
 best of wine; 
 Only walk in. 
 Xanthias. I thank you. You'll excuse 
 
 me. 
 Servant Maed. No, no, we can't excuse 
 you, indeed we can't; 
 There are dancing and singing girls besides. 
 Xanthias. What! dancers? 
 Servant Maed. Yes, that there are; 
 the sweetest, charmingest things 
 That you ever saw — and there's the cook 
 
 this moment 
 Is dishing up the dinner. 
 
 Xanthias. Go before then, 
 And teU the girls — those singing girls you 
 
 mentioned — 
 To prepare for my approach in person 
 presently. 
 [To Bacchus.] You, sirrah! follow be- 
 hind me with the bundles. 
 Bacchus. Hello, you! what, do you take 
 the thing in earnest, 
 Because, for a joke, I drest you up Uke 
 
 Hercules? 
 Come, don't stand fooling, Xanthias. 
 
 You'll provoke me. 
 There, carry the bundles, sirrah, when I 
 bid you. 
 Xanthias. Why, sure? Do you mean to 
 take the things away 
 That you gave me yourself of your own 
 accord this instant? 
 Bacchus. I never mean a thing; I do it 
 at once. 
 Let go of the lion's skin directly, I tell you. 
 Xanthias. To you, just Gods, I make 
 my last appeal. 
 Bear witness! 
 Bacchus. What! 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, 
 A mortal and a slave, to pass for Hercules? 
 Xanthias. There. Take them. — There 
 — you may have them — but, 
 please God, 
 You may come to want my help some time 
 or other. 
 Chorus. Dexterous and wily wits. 
 Find their own advantage ever; 
 
 For the wind where'er it sits. 
 
 Leaves a berth secure and clever 
 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 change 
 
 My dress, my name, and my condition. 
 To follow Xanthias, and behave 
 Like a mortal and a slave; 
 To be set to watch the door 
 While he wallow'd with his whore, 
 Tumbling on a purple bed; 
 
 While I waited 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 of an 
 eating-house.] 
 
 First Woman. What, Platana! Goody 
 Platana! there! that's he. 
 The fellow that robs and cheats poor 
 
 victualers; 
 That came to our house and eat those nine- 
 teen loaves. 
 Second WoRLAN. Ay, sure enough that's 
 
 he, the very man. 
 Xanthias. There's mischief in the wind 
 
 for somebody! 
 First Woman. — And a dozen and a 
 half of cutlets and fried chops. 
 At a penny halfpenny apiece — 
 
 Xanthias. There are pains and penalties 
 Impending — 
 First Woman. — And all the garlic : such 
 a quantity 
 As he swallowed — 
 Bacchus. Woman, you're beside your- 
 self; 
 You talk you know not what — 
 
98 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Second Woman. No, no! you reckoned 
 
 I should not know you again with them 
 
 there buskins. 
 
 First Woman. — Good lack! and there 
 
 was all that fish besides. 
 
 Indeed — with the pickle, and all — and 
 
 the good green cheese 
 That he gorged at once, with the rind, and 
 
 the rush-baskets; 
 And then, when I called for payment, he 
 
 looked fierce. 
 And stared at me in the face, and grinned, 
 and roared — 
 XA^rTHIAs. Just like him! That's the 
 
 way wherever he goes. 
 First Woman. — And snatched his 
 
 sword out, and behaved like mad. 
 Xanthias. Poor souls! you suffered 
 
 sadly! 
 First Woman. Yes, indeed; 
 And then we both ran off with the fright 
 
 and terror. 
 And scrambled into the loft beneath the 
 
 roof; 
 And he took up two rugs and stole them off. 
 Xanthias. Just like him again — but 
 something must be done. 
 Go call me Cleon, he's my advocate. 
 Second Woman. And Hyperbolus, if 
 you meet him send him here. 
 He's mine; and we'll demolish him, I war- 
 rant. 
 First Woman. How I should like to 
 strike those ugly teeth out 
 With a good big stone, you ravenous greedy 
 
 villain! 
 You gormandizing villain! that I should — 
 Yes, that I should; your wicked ugly fangs 
 That have eaten up my substance, and 
 devoured me. 
 Bacchus. And I could toss you into the 
 public pit 
 With the malefactors' carcasses; that I 
 
 could. 
 With pleasure and satisfaction; that I 
 could. 
 First Woman. And I should like to rip 
 that gullet out 
 With a reaping hook that swallowed all my 
 
 tripe. 
 And liver and lights — but I'll fetch Cleon 
 here, 
 
 And he shall summon him. He shall settle 
 
 him. 
 And have it out of him this very day. 
 
 [Exeunt First and Second Woman.] 
 Bacchus. I love poor Xanthias dearly, 
 that I do; 
 I wish I might be hanged else. 
 Xanthias. Yes, I know — 
 I know your meaning — No; no more of 
 
 that, 
 I won't act Hercules — 
 
 Bacchus. Now pray don't say so, 
 My little Xanthias. 
 
 Xanthias. How should I be Hercules? 
 
 A mortal and a slave, a fellow like me? — 
 
 Bacchus. I know you're angry, and 
 
 you've a right to be angry; 
 
 And if you beat me for it I'd not complain; 
 
 But if ever I strip you again, from this time 
 
 forward, 
 I wish I may be utterly confounded, 
 With my wife, my children, and my family. 
 And the blear-eyed Archedemus into the 
 bargain. 
 Xanthias. I agree then, on that oath, 
 
 and those conditions. 
 Chorus. Now that you revive and 
 
 flourish 
 In your old attire again, 
 You must rouse afresh and nourish 
 
 Thoughts of an heroic strain; 
 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, 
 Like the god you represent. 
 But beware, 
 Have a care! 
 If you bhinder, 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, I thank you for 
 your care; 
 Your advice was good and fair; 
 Corresponding in its tone 
 With reflections of my own. 
 — Though I clearly comprehend 
 All the upshot and the end 
 
THE FROGS 
 
 99 
 
 (That if any good comes ot it, 
 Any pleasure any profit — 
 He, my master, will recede 
 From the terms that were agreed), 
 You shall see me, notwithstanding, 
 Stem, intrepid, and commanding. 
 Now's the time; for there's a noise! 
 Now for figmre, look, and voice! 
 
 [Enter ^acus.] 
 
 .SIactjs. Arrest me there that fellow that 
 stole the dog. 
 There! — Pinion him! — Quick! 
 
 B ACCHTJS. There 's somebody in a scrape. 
 Xanthias. Keep off, and be hanged. 
 .^ACTJS. Oh, ho! do you mean to fight 
 for it? 
 Here! Pardokas, and Skeblias, and the rest 
 
 of ye. 
 Make up to the rogue, , and settle him. 
 Come, be quick. 
 Bacchus. Well, is not this quite mon- 
 strous and outrageous. 
 To steal the dog, and then to make an 
 
 assault 
 In justification of it. 
 Xanthias. Quite outrageous! 
 .^Eacus. An aggravated case! 
 Xanthias. Well, now — by Jupiter, 
 May I die; but I never saw this place 
 
 before — 
 Nor ever stole the amount of a farthing 
 
 from you: 
 Nor a hair of your dog's 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. 
 .ffiACUS. But which way would you 
 
 please to have him tortured? 
 Xanthias. In your own way — with . . . 
 the lash — with . . . knots and screws, 
 With . . . the common usual customary 
 
 tortures. 
 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 
 of: 
 
 I must not have him treated like a child. 
 To be whipp'd with fennel, or with lettuce 
 leaves. 
 .SJactjs. That's fair — and if so be . . . 
 he's maim'd or crippled 
 In any respect — the valy shall be paid you. 
 Xanthias. Oh no! — by no means! not 
 to me! — by no means! 
 You must not mention it! — Take him to 
 the torture. 
 .^Acus. It had better be here, and under 
 your own eye. 
 Come you — put down your bundles and 
 
 make ready. 
 And mind — let me hear no lies! 
 
 Bacchus. I'll teU you what: 
 I'd advise people not to torture me; 
 I give you notice — I'm a deity. 
 So mind now — you'll have nobody to 
 
 blame 
 But your own self — 
 .^Acus. What's that you're saying 
 
 there? 
 Bacchus. Why that I'm Bacchus, 
 Jupiter's own son: 
 That fellow there's a slave. 
 jEacus. Do ye hear? 
 Xanthias. I hear him — 
 A reason the more to give him a good beat- 
 ing) 
 If he's immortal he need never mind it. 
 Bacchus. Why should not you be beat 
 as well as I then, 
 If you're immortal, as you say you are? 
 Xanthias. 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. 
 .^Acus. Ah, you 're a worthy gentleman, 
 I'll be bound for't; 
 You're all for the truth and the proof. 
 Come — Strip there both o' ye. 
 Xanthias. But how can ye put us to 
 the question fairly. 
 Upon equal terms? 
 
 .^ilAcus. Oh, easily enough, 
 Conveniently enough — a lash apiece, 
 Each in your turn; you can have 'em one 
 by one. 
 Xanthias. That's right. Now mind if 
 ye see me flinch or swerve. 
 
CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 jEacus. I've struck. 
 
 A proposal for removing groundless fears 
 
 Xanthias. Not you! 
 
 and disability. 
 
 ^ACTJS. Why it seems as if I had not. 
 
 First that all that were inveigled into 
 
 I'll smite this other fellow. 
 
 Phryniohus's treason. 
 
 Bacchus. When vrill you do it? 
 
 Should be suffer'd and received by rules of 
 
 Oh dear! Companions of my youthful 
 
 evidence and reason 
 
 years. 
 
 To clear their conduct — Secondly, that 
 
 Xanthias [to jEacus]. Did ye hear? he 
 
 none of our Athenian race 
 
 made an outcry. 
 
 Should live suspected and subjected to loss 
 
 .SIacus. What was that? 
 
 of franchise and disgrace, 
 
 Bacchus. A favorite passage from 
 
 Feeling it a grievous scandal when a single 
 
 Archilochus. 
 
 naval fight 
 
 Xanthias. Jupiter! that on the Idean 
 
 Renders foreigners and slaves partakers of 
 
 height; 
 
 the city's right: 
 
 .^Acus. Well, after all my pains, I'm 
 
 — Not that we condemn the measure; we 
 
 quite at a loss 
 
 conceived it wisely done. 
 
 To discover which is the true, real deity. 
 
 As a just and timely measure, and the first 
 
 By the Holy Goddess — I 'm completely 
 
 and only one: 
 
 puzzled; 
 
 — But your kinsmen and your comrades, 
 
 I must take you before Proserpine and 
 
 those with whom you fought and bore 
 
 Pluto, 
 
 Danger, hardship, and fatigue, or with their 
 
 Being gods themselves they're likeliest to 
 
 fathers long before. 
 
 know. 
 
 Struggling on the land and ocean, laboring 
 
 Bacchus. Why, that's a lucky thought. 
 
 with the spear and oar 
 
 I only wish 
 
 — These we think, as they profess repent- 
 
 It had happen'd to occur before you beat 
 
 ance for their past behavior. 
 
 us. 
 
 Might, by your exalted wisdoms, be re- 
 
 Chokus. Muse, attend our solemn sum- 
 
 ceived to grace and favor. 
 
 mons 
 
 Better it would be, believe us, casting off 
 
 And survey the assembled commons, 
 
 revenge and pride, 
 
 Congregated as they sit. 
 
 To receive as friends and kinsmen all that 
 
 An enormous mass of wit. 
 
 combat on our side 
 
 — Full of genius, taste, and fire, 
 
 Into full and equal franchise: on the other 
 
 Jealous pride, and critic ire — 
 
 hand we fear, 
 
 Cleophon among the rest 
 
 If your hearts are fill'd with fancies, 
 
 (Like the swallow from her nest, 
 
 haughty, captious, and severe; 
 
 A familiar foreign bird), 
 
 While the shock of instant danger threatens 
 
 Chatters loud and will be heard, 
 
 shipwreck to the state. 
 
 (With the accent and the grace 
 
 Such resolves will be lamented and re- 
 
 Which he brought with him from Thrace) ; 
 
 pented of too late. 
 
 But we fear the tuneful strain 
 
 If the Muse foresees at all 
 
 Will be turn'd to grief and pain; 
 
 What in future will befall 
 
 He must sing a dirge perforce 
 
 Dirty Cleigenes the small — 
 
 When his trial talces its course; 
 
 . He, the sovereign of the bath. 
 
 We shall hear him moan and wail, 
 
 Will not long escape from scath; 
 
 Like the plaintive nightingale. 
 
 But must perish by and by. 
 
 It behoves the sacred Chorus, and of right 
 
 With his potash and his lye; 
 
 to them belongs. 
 
 With his realm and dynasty, 
 
 To suggest the best advice in their addresses 
 
 His terraqueous scouring ball. 
 
 and their songs, 
 
 And his washes, one and all; 
 
 In performance of our office, we present 
 
 Therefore he can never cease 
 
 with all humility 
 
 To declaim against a peace. 
 
THE FROGS 
 
 Often times have we reflected on a similar 
 
 abuse, 
 In the choice of men for oflSce, and of coins 
 
 for common use; 
 For your old and standard pieces, valued, 
 
 and approved, and tried. 
 Here among the Grecian nations, and in all 
 
 the world beside; 
 Recognized in every realm for trusty stamp 
 
 and pure assay. 
 Are rejected and abandon'd for the trash 
 
 of yesterday; 
 For a vile, adulterate issue, drossy, counter- 
 feit, and base. 
 Which the traffic of the city passes current 
 
 in their place! 
 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 
 
 and in song. 
 All are ousted and supplanted by a base 
 
 ignoble throng; 
 Paltry stamp and vulgar mettle raise them 
 
 to command and place. 
 Brazen counterfeit pretenders, scoundrels 
 
 of a scoundrel race; 
 Whom the state in former ages scarce would 
 
 have allow'd to stand. 
 At the sacrifice of outcasts, as the scape- 
 goats of the land. 
 
 — Time it is — and long has been, re- 
 
 nouncing all your follies past, 
 To recur to sterling merit and intrinsic 
 worth at last. 
 
 — If we rise, we rise with honor; if we fall, 
 
 it must be so! 
 
 — But there was an ancient saying, which 
 
 we all have heard and know. 
 That the wise, in dangerous cases, have 
 
 esteem'd it safe and good 
 To receive a slight chastisement from o 
 wand o/ noble wood. 
 .^Acus. By Jupiter ; but he 's a gentleman. 
 That master of yours. 
 
 Xanthias. Agentleman! Tobesureheis; 
 Why, he does nothing else but wench and 
 drink. 
 .^Acus. His never striking you when you 
 took his name — 
 Outfacing him and contradicting him! — 
 
 Xanthias. It might have been worse for 
 
 him if he had. 
 .^ACTJS. Well, that's well spoken, like a 
 true-bred slave. 
 It's just the sort of language I delight in. 
 Xanthias. You love excuses? 
 J!)acus. Yes; but I prefer 
 Cursing my master quietly in private. 
 Xanthias. Mischief you're foniof? 
 jEactts. Very fond indeed. 
 Xanthias. What think ye of muttering 
 as you leave the room 
 After a beating? 
 .^ACTJS. Why, that's pleasant too; 
 Xanthias. By Jove, is it! But listening 
 at the door 
 To hear their secrets? 
 jEacus. Oh, there's nothing like it. 
 Xanthias. And then the reporting them 
 
 in the neighborhood. 
 .^AGCs. That's beyond everything. — 
 
 That's quite ecstatic. 
 Xanthias. Well, give me your hand. 
 And, there, take mine — andbussme. 
 And there again — and now for Jupiter's 
 
 sake! — 
 (For he's the patron of our cuffs and beat- 
 ings) 
 Do tell me what's that noise of people 
 
 quarreling 
 And abusing one another there within? 
 iEActJS. iEschylus and Euripides, only! 
 Xanthias. Heh? — ?— ? 
 iEACus. Why, there's a desperate busi- 
 ness has broke out 
 Among these here dead people; — quite a 
 tumult. 
 Xanthias. As how? 
 Mi^cvs. 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. 
 Xanthias. I understand you. 
 .^acus. So he maintains it, till there 
 comes a better 
 Of the same sort, and then resigns it up. 
 Xanthias. But why should .^schylus 
 be disturb'd at this? 
 
CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Macvs. He held the seat for tragedy, as 
 the master 
 In that profession. 
 Xanthias. Well, and who's there now? 
 .SIacus. He kept it till Euripides ap- 
 peared; 
 But he collected audiences about him. 
 And flourish'd, and exhibited, and ha- 
 rangued 
 Before the thieves, and housebreakers, and 
 
 rogues, 
 Cut-purses, cheats, and vagabonds, and 
 
 villains, 
 That make the mass of population here; 
 And they — being quite transported, and 
 
 delighted 
 With his equivocations and evasions. 
 His subtleties and niceties and quibbles — 
 In short — they raised an uproar, and de- 
 clared him 
 Archpoet, by a general acclamation. 
 And he with this grew proud and confident. 
 And laid a claim to the seat where jEschy- 
 lus sat. 
 Xanthias. And did not he get pelted for 
 
 his pains? 
 .^actjs. 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? 
 .^ACTjs. Scoundrels indeed! Ay, scoun- 
 drels without number. 
 Xanthias. But jEschylus must have 
 
 had good friends and hearty? 
 .^Acus. Yes; but good men are scarce 
 
 both here and elsewhere. 
 Xanthias. Well, what has Pluto settled 
 
 to be done? 
 .iEacus. To have an examination and a 
 trial 
 In public. 
 Xanthias. Buthow comes it? — Sopho- 
 cles? — 
 Why does he not put forth his claim 
 amongst them? 
 jEacus. No, no! — He's not the kind of 
 man — not he! 
 I tell ye; the first moment that he came. 
 He went up to ^Eschylus and saluted him 
 And kiss'd his cheek and took his hand 
 quite kindly; 
 
 And iEschylus edged a little from his seat 
 To give him room; so now the story goes, 
 (At least I had it from Cleidemides) 
 He means to attend there as a stander-by, 
 Proposing to take up the conqueror; 
 If .^schylus gets the better, well and good. 
 He gives up his pretensions — but if not, 
 He'U stand a trial, he says, against Eurip- 
 ides. 
 Xanthias. There'll be strange doings. 
 jEacus. That there will — and shortly 
 — Here — in this place — strange things, 
 
 I promise you; 
 A kind of thing that no man could have 
 
 thought of; 
 Why, you'll see poetry weigh'd out and 
 
 measured. 
 Xanthias. What, will they bring their 
 
 tragedies to the steel-yards? 
 .SlActrs. Yes, wiU they — with their 
 
 rules and compasses 
 They 'U measure, and;examine, and compare, 
 And bring their plxmmiets, and their lines 
 
 and levels. 
 To take the bearings — for Euripides 
 Says that he'U make a survey, word by 
 
 word. 
 Xanthias. jEschylus takes the thing to 
 
 heart, I doubt. 
 .ffiAcus. He bent his brows and pored 
 
 upon the ground; I saw him. 
 Xanthias. Well, but who decides the 
 
 business? 
 Macvs. Why, there the difficulty lies — 
 
 for judges. 
 True learned judges, are grown scarce, and 
 
 jEschylus 
 Objected to the Athenians absolutely. 
 Xanthias. Considering them as rogues 
 
 and villains mostly. , 
 iEACus. As being ignorant and empty 
 
 generally; 
 And in their judgment of the stage partic- 
 ularly. 
 In fine, they've fix'd upon that master of 
 
 yours, 
 As having had some practice in the busi- 
 ness. 
 But we must wait within — for when our 
 
 masters 
 Are warm and eager, stripes and blows 
 
 ensue. [Exit .Eacus.] 
 
THE FROGS 
 
 103 
 
 Chorus. The fuU-mouth'd master of the 
 tragic quire, 
 We shall behold him foam with rage and 
 
 ire; 
 — Confronting in the list 
 His eager, shrewd, sharp-tooth' d antago- 
 nist. 
 Then will his visual orbs be wildly whirl'd 
 And huge invectives will be hurl'd 
 
 Superb and supercilious, 
 
 Atrocious, atrabilious. 
 With furious gesture and with lips of foam, 
 And lion crest unconscious of the comb; 
 Erect with rage — his brow's impending 
 
 gloom 
 O'ershadowing his dark eyes' terrific blaze. 
 
 The opponent, dexterous and warj'. 
 
 Will fend and parry: 
 While masses of conglomerated phrase, 
 
 Enormous, ponderous, and pedantic, 
 
 With indignation frantic. 
 
 And strength and force gigantic, 
 Are desperately sped 
 At his devoted head — 
 Then in different style 
 The touchstone and the file, 
 And subtleties of art 
 In turn will play their part; 
 Analysis and rule. 
 And every modem tool; 
 With critic scratch and scribble, 
 And nice invidious nibble; 
 Contending for the important choice, 
 A vast expenditure of human voice! 
 
 [Enter Ettripides, and .SIschylus.] 
 
 Euripides. Don't give me your advice, 
 I claim the seat 
 As being a better and superior artist. 
 Bacchus. What, .iEschylus, don't you 
 
 speak? you hear his language. 
 Euripides. He's mustering up a grand 
 commanding visage 
 — A silent attitude — the common trick 
 That he begins with in his tragedies. 
 Bacchus. Come, have a care, my friend 
 
 — You'll say too muclu 
 Euripides. I know the man of old — 
 I've scrutinized 
 And shown him long ago for what he is, 
 A rude unbridled tongue, a haughty spirit; 
 Proud, arrogant, and insolently pompous; 
 
 Rough, clownish, boisterous, and overbear- 
 ing. 
 jEschylus. Say'st thou me so? Thou 
 bastard of the earth. 
 
 With thy patch'd robes and rags of senti- 
 ment 
 
 Raked from the streets and stitch' d and 
 tack'd together! 
 
 Thou mumping, whining, beggarly hypo- 
 crite! 
 
 But you shall pay for it. 
 
 Bacchus. There now, .iEschylus, 
 
 You grow too warm. Restrain your ireful 
 mood. 
 .^scHYLus. Yes; but I'll seize that 
 sturdy beggar first, 
 
 And search and strip him bare of his pre- 
 tensions. 
 Bacchus. Quick! Quick! A sacrifice to 
 the winds — Make ready; 
 
 The storm of rage is gathering. Bring a 
 victim. 
 .^SCHYLUS. — A wretch that has cor- 
 rupted everything; 
 
 Our music with his melodies from Crete; 
 
 Our morals with incestuous tragedies. 
 Bacchus. Dear, worthy .^schylus, con- 
 tain yourself, 
 
 And as for you, Euripides, move off 
 
 This instant, if you're wise; I give you 
 warning. 
 
 Or else, with one of his big thumping 
 phrases, 
 
 You'll get your brains dash'd out, and all 
 your notions 
 
 And sentiments and matter mash'd to 
 pieces. 
 
 — And thee, most noble jEschylus, I be- 
 seech 
 
 With mild demeanor calm and affable 
 
 To hear and answer. — For it ill beseems 
 
 Illustrious bards to scold like market- 
 women. 
 
 But you roar out and bellow like a fur- 
 nace. 
 Euripides. I'm up to it. — I'm re- 
 solved, and here I stand 
 
 Ready and steady — take what course you 
 will; 
 
 Let him be first to speaJc, or else let me. 
 
 I'll match my plots and characters against 
 him; 
 
104 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 My sentiments and language, and what 
 
 not: 
 Ay! and my music too, my Meleager, 
 My jEoIus and my Telephus and all. 
 Bacchus. Well, jEschylus, — determine. 
 
 What say you? 
 jEschtltjs. I wish the place of trial had 
 been elsewhere, 
 I stand at disadvantage here. 
 Bacchus. As how? 
 
 .^llscHYLUs. 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. 
 Bacchus. Come — let them bring me 
 fire and frankincense. 
 That I may offer vows and make oblations 
 For an ingenious critical conclusion 
 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- 
 tition. 
 Ye, that on earth or in air are forever 
 kindly protecting the vagaries of 
 learned ambition, 
 And at your ease from above our sense and 
 folly directing (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 
 pulhng and hauling, with inordinate 
 uproar and bawling, 
 Driving and drawing, like carpenters saw- 
 ing, their dramas asunder: 
 With suspended sense and wonder, 
 All are waiting and attending 
 On the conflict now depending! 
 Bacchus. Come, say your prayers, you 
 
 two before the trial. 
 jEschtlus. O Ceres, nourisher of my 
 soul, maintain me 
 A worthy follower of thy mysteries. 
 
 Bacchus. There, you there, make your 
 
 offering. 
 EuHipiDES. Well, I will*. 
 But I direct myself to other deities. 
 Bacchus. Hey, what? Your own? Some 
 
 new ones? 
 EuEipiDES. Most assuredly! 
 Bacchus. Well! Pray away, then — to 
 
 your own new deities. 
 Euripides. Thou foodful Air, the nurse 
 of all my notions; 
 And ye, the organic powers of sense and 
 
 speech. 
 And keen refined olfactory discernment, 
 Assist my present search for faults and 
 errors. 
 Chorus. Here beside you, here are we. 
 Eager all 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 spleen. 
 While the veteran rends and raises 
 Bitted, 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 awkward 
 silly joking. 
 EuKipiDBS. At the first outset, I forbear 
 to state my own pretensions; 
 Hereafter I shall mention them, when his 
 
 have been refuted; 
 After I shall have fairly shown, how he 
 
 befool'd and cheated 
 The rustic audience that he found, which 
 
 Phrynichus bequeathed him. 
 He planted first 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 
 to utter. 
 
THE FROGS 
 
 I OS 
 
 Bacchus. No more they did: 't is very 
 
 true. 
 Euripides. — In the meanwhile the 
 Chorus 
 Stnmg on ten strophes right-an-end, but 
 they remain'd in silence. 
 Bacchus. I Uked that silence well 
 enough, as well, perhaps, or better 
 Than those new talking characters — 
 Euripides. That's from your want of 
 judgment, 
 Believe me. 
 Bacchus. Why, perhaps it is; but what 
 
 was his intention? 
 Euripides. 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? — 
 Euripides. Because he feels my cen- 
 sures. 
 
 — Then having dragg'd and drawl'd along, 
 
 half-way to the conclusion, 
 He foisted in a dozen words of noisy bois- 
 terous accent, 
 With lofty plumes and shaggy brows, mere 
 
 bugbears of the language. 
 That no man ever heard before. — 
 .SIscHYLUS. Alas! aJas! 
 Bacchus. Have done there! 
 Euripides. He never used a simple 
 
 word. 
 Bacchus. Don't grind your teeth so 
 
 strangely. 
 Euripides. But "Bulwarks and Sca- 
 manders" and "Hippogrifs and 
 Gorgons." 
 "On burnish'd shields emboss'd in brass;" 
 
 bloody remorseless phrases 
 Which nobody could understand. 
 
 Bacchus. Well, I confess, for my part, 
 I used to keep awake at night, with guesses 
 
 and conjectures 
 To think what kind of foreign bird he 
 meant by grifiBn-horses. 
 .ffiscHTLUS. A figure on the heads of ships ; 
 you goose, you must have seen them. 
 Bacchus. Well, from the likeness, I 
 declare, I took it for Eruxis. 
 
 Euripides. So! Figures from the heads 
 
 of ships are fit for tragic diction. 
 jEschylits. Well then — thou paltry 
 wretch, explain. What were your 
 own devices? 
 Euripides. Not stories about flying- 
 stags, like yours, and grifiin-horses; 
 Nor terms nor images derived from tap- 
 estry Persian hangings. 
 When I received the Muse from you I 
 
 found her pufi'd and pamper'd 
 With pompous sentences and terms, a 
 
 cumbrous huge virago. 
 My first 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 phrase, and 
 
 cool familiar salad. 
 With water-gruel episode, with sentimental 
 
 jelly. 
 With moral mincemeat; till at length I 
 
 brought her into compass; 
 Cephisophon, who was my cook, contrived 
 
 to make them relish. 
 I kept my plots distinct and clear, and, to 
 
 prevent confusion. 
 
 My leading characters rehearsed their 
 
 pedigrees for prologues. 
 
 .lEscHYLUs. 'Twas well, at least, that you 
 
 forbore to quote your own extraction. 
 
 Euripides. From the first opening of 
 
 the scene, all persons were in action; 
 
 The master spoke, the slave replied, the 
 
 womenj young and old ones, 
 All had their equal share of talk — 
 .iEscHTLUS. Come, then, stand forth and 
 tell us, 
 What forfeit less than death is due for such 
 an innovation? 
 Euripides. 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. 
 .^scHTLUS. I say so too. — Moreover 
 I say that — for the public good — you 
 ought to have been hang'd first. 
 Euripides. The rules and forms of 
 rhetoric, — the laws of composition. 
 
io6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 To prate — to state — and in debate to 
 
 meet a question fairly: 
 At a dead lift to turn and shift — to make 
 
 a nice distinction. 
 ' .ffiscHTLTjs. I grant it all — I make it all 
 
 — my ground of accusation. 
 Euripides. The whole in cases and con- 
 cerns occurring and recurring 
 At every turn and every day domestic and 
 
 familiar, 
 So that the audience, one and all, from 
 
 personal experience, 
 Were 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 surprise to storm 
 
 their understandings, 
 With Memnons and Tydides's and idle 
 
 rattle-trappings 
 Of battle-steeds and clattering shields to 
 
 scare them from their senses; 
 But for a test (perhaps the best) our pupils 
 
 and adherents 
 May be distinguish'd instantly by person 
 
 and behavior; 
 His are Phormisius the rough, Meganetes 
 
 the gloomy. 
 Hobgoblin-headed, trumpet-mouth'd, grim 
 
 visaged, ugly-bearded; 
 But mine are Cleitophon the smooth, — 
 
 Theramenes the gentle. 
 BACCHtrs. Theramenes — 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. 
 Euripides. 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 affairs. 
 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 modern style and tone. 
 Bacchus. Yes, by Jove — and at their 
 
 homes 
 Nowadays each master comes. 
 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 pUfer'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 cross'd the door, 
 They sat them down to doze and snore. 
 
 Choeus. "Noble Achilles! you see the 
 disaster 
 
 The shame and affront, and an enemy 
 nigh!" 
 Oh ! bethink thee, mighty master, 
 
 Think betimes of your reply; 
 Yet beware, lest anger force 
 Your hasty chariot from the course; 
 Grievous charges have been heard, 
 With many a sharp and bitter word. 
 Notwithstanding, mighty chief, 
 Let Prudence fold her cautious reef 
 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 tragical trumperies! 
 
 Open the floodgate of figure and phrase! 
 
 iEscHYLUs. My spirit is kindled with 
 anger and shame, 
 To so base a competitor forced to reply, 
 But I needs must retort, or the wretch will 
 
 report 
 That he left me refuted and foil'd in debate; 
 Tell me then. What are the principal merits 
 Entitling a poet to praise and renown? 
 
 Euripides. The improvement of morals, 
 the progress of mind. 
 When a poet, by skill and invention. 
 Can render his audience virtuous and wise. 
 
 .^SCHYLUS. But if you, by neglect or 
 intention, 
 Have done the reverse, and from brave 
 
 honest spirits 
 Depraved, and have left them degraded 
 
 and base. 
 Tell me, what punishment ought you to 
 suffer? 
 
THE FROGS 
 
 107 
 
 Bacchus. Death, to be sure! — Take 
 
 that answer from me. 
 jEscHTLtrs. Observe then, and mark, 
 
 what our citizens were, 
 When first from my care they were trusted 
 
 to you; 
 Not scoundrel informers, or paltry buffoons. 
 Evading the services due to the state; 
 But with hearts all on fire, for adventure 
 
 and war, 
 Distinguished for hardiness, stature, and 
 
 strength. 
 Breathing forth nothing but lances and 
 
 darts. 
 Arms, and equipment, and battle array. 
 Bucklers, and shields, and habergeons, and 
 
 hauberks. 
 Helmets, and plumes, and heroic attire. 
 Bacchtjs. There he goes, hammering on 
 
 with his helmets, 
 He'll be the death of me one of these days. 
 EuEiPiDES. But how did you manage to 
 
 make 'em so manly. 
 What was the method, the means that vou 
 
 took? 
 Bacchus. Speak, jEschylus, speak, and 
 
 behave yourself better, 
 And don't in your rage stand so silent and 
 
 stem. 
 .^SCHTLUS. A drama, brimful with hero- 
 
 ical spirit. 
 Euripides. What did you call it? 
 .^SCHTLUS. "The Chiefs against 
 
 Thebes," 
 That inspired each spectator with martial 
 
 ambition, 
 Courage, and ardor, and prowess, and pride. 
 Bacchus. But you did very wrong to 
 
 encourage the Thebans. 
 Indeed, you deserve to be punish'd, you do, 
 For the Thebans are grown to be capital 
 
 soldiers. 
 You've done us a mischief by that very 
 
 thing. 
 .^SCHTLUS. The fault was your own, if 
 
 you took other courses; 
 The lesson I taught was directed to you: 
 Then I gave you the glorious theme of "the 
 
 Persians," 
 Replete with sublime patriotjcal strains, 
 The record and example of noble achieve- 
 ment, 
 
 The delight of the city, the pride of the 
 
 stage. 
 Bacchus. I rejoiced, I confess, when the 
 
 tidings were carried 
 To old King Darius, so long dead and 
 
 buried, 
 And the chorus in concert kept wringing 
 
 their hands. 
 Weeping and wailing, and crying, Alas! 
 .^SCHTLUS. Such is the duty, the task 
 
 of a poet, 
 Fulfilling in honor his oflBce and trust. 
 Look to traditional history — look 
 To antiquity, primitive, early, remote: 
 See there, what a blessing illustrious poets 
 Conferred on mankind, in the centuries 
 
 past, 
 Orpheus instructed mankind in religion, 
 Reclaim'd them from bloodshed and bar- 
 barous rites: 
 Musasus deliver'd the doctrine of medicine, 
 And warnings prophetic for ages to come: 
 Next came old Hesiod, teaching us hus- 
 bandry. 
 Ploughing, and sowing, and rural affairs, 
 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 lessons he 
 
 taught us, 
 Discipline, arms, and equipment of war? 
 Bacchus. Yes, but Pantacles was never 
 
 the wiser; 
 For in the procession he ought to have led, 
 When his helmet was tied, he kept puzzling, 
 
 and tried 
 To fasten the crest on the crown of his head. 
 .^SCHTLUS. But other brave warriors 
 
 and noble commanders 
 Were train'd in his lessons to valor and 
 
 skill; 
 Such was the noble heroical Lamachus; 
 Others besides were instructed by him; 
 And I, from his fragments ordaining a 
 
 banquet, 
 Furnish'd and deck'd with majestical 
 
 phrase. 
 Brought forward the models of ancient 
 
 achievement, 
 Teucer, Patroclus, and chiefs of antiquity; 
 Raising and rousing Athenian hearts, 
 
io8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 When the signal of onset was blown in their 
 
 ear, 
 With a similar ardor to dare and to do; 
 But I never allow'd of your lewd Stheno- 
 
 boeas, 
 Or filthy, detestable Phaedras — not I — 
 Indeed, I should doubt if my drama 
 
 throughout 
 Exhibit an instance of woman in love. 
 Euripides. No, you were too stern for 
 
 an amorous turn, ' 
 For Venus and Cupid too stern and too 
 
 stupid. 
 .iBscHTLus. May they leave me at rest, 
 
 and with peace in my breast. 
 And infest and pursue your kindred and you, 
 With the very same blow that despatch'd 
 
 you below. 
 Bacchus. That was well enough said; 
 
 with the life that he led, 
 He himself in the end got a wound from a 
 
 friend. 
 EuBipiDBS. But what, after all, is the 
 
 horrible mischief ? 
 My poor Sthenobcsas, what harm have 
 
 they done? 
 .aiscHTLUs. The example is followed, the 
 
 practice has gain'd. 
 And women of family, fortune, and worth, 
 Bewilder'd with shame in a passionate 
 
 fury, 
 Have poison'd themselves for Bellerophon's 
 
 sake. 
 Euripides. But at least you'll allow that 
 
 I never invented it, 
 Phsedra's affair was a matter of fact. 
 iEscHTiiUS. A fact, with a vengeance! 
 
 but horrible facts 
 Should be buried in silence, not bruited 
 
 abroad. 
 Nor brought forth on the stage, nor em- 
 
 blazon'd in poetry. 
 Children and boys have a teacher assign'd 
 
 them — 
 The bard is a master for manhood and 
 
 youth. 
 Bound to instruct them in virtue and 
 
 truth, 
 Beholden and bound. 
 
 Euripides. But is virtue a sound? 
 Can any mysterious virtue be found 
 In bombastical, huge, hyperbolical phrase? 
 
 .^SCHTLUS. Thou dirty, calamitous 
 
 wretch, recollect 
 That exalted ideas of fancy require 
 To be clothed in a suitable vesture of 
 
 phrase; 
 And that heroes and gods may be fairly 
 
 supposed 
 Discoursing in words of a mightier import. 
 More lofty by far than the children of man; 
 As the pomp of apparel assign'd to their 
 
 persons, 
 Produced on the stage and presented to 
 
 view. 
 Surpasses 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. 
 Euripides. As how? 
 iEscHTLUs. When you brought forth 
 
 your kings, in a villainous fashion. 
 In patches and rags, as a claim for com- 
 passion. 
 Euripides. And this is a grave. misde- 
 meanor, forsooth! 
 jEschtlus. 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 distress — with an overworn 
 
 dress. 
 Bacchus. By Jove, so they do; with a 
 
 waistcoat brand new. 
 Worn closely within, warm and new for the 
 
 skin; 
 And if they escape in this beggarly shape. 
 You'll meet 'em at market, I warrant 'em 
 
 all, 
 Buying the best at the fishmonger's stall. 
 jEschtlus. He has taught every soul to 
 
 sophisticate truth; 
 And debauch'd all the bodies 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 ruin'd by you — 
 With prate and debate in a mutinous state; 
 Whereas, in my day, 't was a different way; 
 Nothing they said, nor knew nothing to say, 
 
THE FROGS 
 
 109 
 
 But. to call for their porridge, and cry, 
 "PuUaway." 
 Bacchus. Yes — yes, they knew this, 
 
 How to f ... in the teeth 
 
 Of the rower beneath; 
 
 And befoul their own comrades. 
 
 And pillage ashore; 
 
 But now they forget the command of the 
 oar: — 
 
 Prating and splashing. 
 
 Discussing and dashing, 
 
 They steer here and there, 
 
 With their eyes in the air, 
 
 Hither and thither. 
 
 Nobody knows whither. 
 .^scHTLUs. Can the reprobate mark in 
 the course he has run. 
 
 One crime imattempted, a mischief un- 
 done? 
 
 With his horrible passions, of sisters and 
 brothers. 
 
 And sons-in-law, tempted by villainous 
 mothers. 
 
 And temples defiled with a bastardly birth, 
 
 And women, divested of honor or worth. 
 
 That talk about lite "as a death upon 
 earth"; 
 
 And sophistical frauds and rhetorical 
 bawds; 
 
 Till now the whole state is infested with 
 tribes 
 
 Of scriveners and scribblers, and rascally 
 scribes — 
 
 All practice of masculine vigor and pride. 
 
 Our wrestling and running, are all laid aside. 
 
 And we see that the city can hardly pro- 
 vide 
 
 For the Feast of the Founder, a racer of 
 force 
 
 To carry the torch and accomplish a course. 
 Bacchus. Well, I laugh'd till I cried 
 
 The last festival tide. 
 
 At the fellow that ran, — 
 
 'T was 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 the flank. 
 
 The flank, the loin, the back, the shoulders. 
 
 With shouts of applause from all beholders; 
 While he ran on with a filthy fright. 
 Puffing his link to keep it alight. 
 
 Chorus. Ere the prize is lost and won 
 Mighty doings will be done. 
 Now then — (though to judge aright 
 Is difficult, when force and might 
 Are opposed with ready shght, 
 When the Champion that is cast 
 Tumbles uppermost at last) 
 
 — Since you meet in equal match, 
 Argue, contradict and scratch. 
 Scuffle, and abuse and bite. 
 Tear and fight. 
 
 With all your wits and all your might. 
 
 — Fear not for a want of sense 
 Or judgment in your audience, 
 That defect 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. 
 
 Euripides. Proceed — Continue! 
 Bacchus. Yes, you must continue, 
 ^schylus, I command you to continue. 
 And you, keep a look-out and mark his 
 blundfers. 
 .SscHTLUs. " From his sepulchral mound 
 I call my father 
 "To listen and hear" — 
 
 Euripides. There's a tautology! 
 "To listen and hear" — 
 Bacchus. Why, don't you see, you 
 ruffiapl 
 It's a dead man he's calling to — Three 
 
 times 
 We call to 'em, but they can't be made to 
 hear. 
 .^scHTLUs. And you: your prologues, 
 
 of what kind were they? 
 Euripides. I'll show ye; and if you'll 
 point out a tautology. 
 Or a single word clapped in to botch a 
 verse — 
 
CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 That's all! — I'll give you leave to spit 
 upon me. 
 Bacchus. Well, I can't help myself; I 'm 
 bound to attend. 
 Begin then with these same fine-spoken 
 prologues. 
 EuKipiDES. "CEdipus was at first a 
 
 happy man." . . . 
 .^scHYLus. Not he, by Jove! — but 
 born to misery; 
 Predicted and predestined by an oracle 
 Before his birth to murder his own father! 
 
 — Could he have been "at first a happy 
 
 man?" 
 Euripides. . . . " But afterwards became 
 
 a wretched mortal." 
 .^scHYLUs. By no means! he continued 
 
 to be wretched, 
 
 — Born wretched, and exposed as soon as 
 
 born 
 
 Upon a potsherd in a winter's night; 
 
 Brought up a foundling with disabled feet; 
 
 Then married — a young man to an aged 
 woman. 
 
 That proved to be his mother — where- 
 upon 
 
 He tore his eyes out. 
 Bacchus. To complete his happiness. 
 
 He ought to have served at sea with 
 Erasinides. 
 
 There! — that's enough — now come to 
 music, can't ye? 
 Euripides. I mean it; I shall now pro- 
 ceed to expose him 
 As a bad composer, awkward, uninventive, 
 Repeating the same strain perpetually. — 
 Chorus. I stand in wonder and perplext 
 To 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. — 
 Euripides. Mighty fine music, truly! 
 I'll give ye a sample; 
 It's every inch cut out to the same pattern. 
 Bacchus. I'll mark — I've pick'd these 
 
 pebbles up for counters. 
 Euripides. Noble Achilles! Forth to 
 the rescue! 
 Forth to the rescue with ready support! 
 
 Hasten and go, 
 There is havoc and woe. 
 Hasty defeat, 
 And a bloody retreat, 
 Confusion and rout. 
 And the terrible shout 
 Of a conquering foe. 
 Tribulation and woe! 
 
 Bacchus. Whoh hoh there! we've had 
 
 woes enough, I reckon; 
 Therefore I'll go to wash away my woe 
 In a warm bath. 
 
 Euripides. No, do pray wait an instant. 
 And let me give you first another strain, 
 Transferr'd to the stage from music to the 
 
 lyre. 
 Bacchus. Proceed then — only give us 
 
 no more woes. 
 Euripides. The supremacy scepter and 
 
 haughty command 
 Of the Grecian land — with a fiatto-flatto- 
 
 flatto-thrat — 
 And the ravenous sphinx, with her horrible 
 
 brood, 
 Thirsting for blood — with a flatto-flatto- 
 
 flatto-thrat. 
 And armies equipt for a vengeful assault. 
 For Paris's fault — with a flatto-flatto- 
 
 flatto-thrat. 
 Bacchus. What herb is that same flatto- 
 
 thrat? Some simple, 
 I guess, you met with in the field of 
 
 Marathon: 
 
 — But such a tune as this! You must have 
 
 learned it 
 From fellows hauling buckets at the well. 
 jEschylus. Such were the strains I 
 
 purified and brought 
 To just perfection — taught by Phrynichus, 
 Not copying him, but culling other flowers 
 From those fair meadows which the Muses 
 
 love — 
 
 — But he filches and begs, adapts and bor- 
 
 rows 
 
 Snatches of tunes from minstrels in the 
 street. 
 
 Strumpets and vagabonds — the luUabys 
 
 Of nurses and old women — jigs and bal- 
 lads — 
 
 I'll give ye a proof — Bring'me a lyre here, 
 somebody. 
 
 What signifies a lyre? the castanets 
 
THE FROGS 
 
 Will suit him better — Bring the castanets, 
 With Euripides's Muse to snap her fingers 
 In cadence to her master's compositions. 
 Bacchus. This Muse, I take it, is a 
 
 Lesbian Muse. 
 .ffiscHYLTJs. Gentle halcyons, ye that 
 
 lave 
 Your snowy plimie. 
 Sporting on the summer wave; 
 
 Ye too that around the room, 
 On the rafters of the roof 
 Strain aloft your airy woof; 
 Ye spiders, spiders ever spinning. 
 Never ending, still beginning — 
 Where the dolphin loves to foUow, 
 Weltering in the surge's hoUow, 
 Dear to Neptune and Apollo; 
 By the seamen understood 
 Ominous of harm or good; 
 In capricious, eager sallies, 
 Chasing, racing round the gaUeys. 
 ^scHYLUs. Well now. Do you see this? 
 Bacchus. I see it — 
 .^SCHYLUS. Such is your music. I shall 
 now proceed 
 To give a specimen of your monodies — 
 O dreary shades of night! 
 What phantoms of affright 
 Have scared my troubled sense 
 With saucer eyes immense; 
 And huge horrific paws 
 With bloody claws! 
 Ye maidens haste, and bring 
 From the fair spring 
 A bucket of fresh water; whose clear stream 
 May purify me from this dreadful dream: 
 But oh! my dream is out! 
 Ye maidens search about! 
 mighty powers of mercy, can it be; 
 
 That Glyke, Glyke, she 
 (My friend and civil neighbor heretofore), 
 Has robb'd my henroost of its feather'd 
 store? 
 With the dawn I was beginning, 
 Spiiming, spinning, spinning, spinning. 
 Unconscious of the meditated crime; 
 Meaning to sell by yam at market-time. 
 Now tears alone are left me. 
 My neighbor hath bereft me, 
 Of all — of all — of all — all but a tear! 
 Since he, my faithful trusty chanticleer 
 Is flown — is flown! — Is gone — is gone! 
 
 — But, O ye nymphs of sacred Ida, bring 
 Torches and bows, with arrows on the 
 
 string; 
 
 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 
 
 torch, 
 Even from the topmost garret to the porch 
 Explores the premises with search eact. 
 To find the thief and ascertain the fact — 
 
 Bacchus. Come, no more songs! 
 
 .SIscHYLUs. I've had 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 
 verses. 
 
 Bacchus. Well then, so be it — if it 
 must be so, 
 That I'm to stand here like a cheesemonger 
 Retailing poetry with a pair of scales. 
 
 Chorus. Curious eager wits pursue 
 Strange devices quaint and new. 
 Like the scene you witness here. 
 Unaccountable and queer; 
 I myself, if merely told it. 
 If I did not here behold it, 
 Should have deem'd it utter folly, 
 Craziness and nonsense wholly. 
 
 [Ent&- Pluto.] 
 
 Bacchus. Move up; stand close to the 
 
 balance! 
 Euripides. Here are we — 
 Bacchus. Take hold now, and each of 
 
 you repeat a verse, 
 And don't leave go before I call to you! 
 Euripides. We're ready. 
 Bacchus. Now, then, each repeat a 
 
 verse. 
 Euripides. " I wish that Argo with her 
 
 woven wings." 
 JEscHYLUs. "O streams of Sperchius, 
 
 and ye pastured plains." 
 Bacchus. Let go! — See now — this 
 
 scale outweighs that other 
 Very considerably — 
 Euripides. How did it happen? 
 Bacchus. He shpp'd a river in, like the 
 
 wool-jobbers. 
 
CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 To moisten his meter — but your line was 
 
 light, 
 A thing with wings — ready to fly away. 
 EtTBipiDBS. Let him try once again then, 
 
 and take hold. 
 Bacchus. Take hold once more. 
 EuEipiDES. We're ready. 
 Bacchus. Now repeat. 
 Euripides. "Speech is the temple and 
 
 altar of persuasion." 
 iEscHYLUS. "Death is a God that loves 
 
 no sacrifice." 
 Bacchus. Let go! — See there again! 
 This scale sinks down; 
 No wonder that it should, with Death put 
 
 into it. 
 The heaviest of all calamities. 
 Euripides. But I put in persuasion 
 finely express'd 
 In the best terms. 
 
 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. " Achilles has thrown twice — 
 Twice a deuce ace!" 
 Come now, one trial more; this is the last. 
 Euripides. " He grasp'd a mighty mace 
 
 of massy weight." 
 .iEscHYLUs. "Cars upon cars, and 
 
 corpses heap'd pell mell." 
 Bacchus. He has nick'd you again — 
 Euripides. Why so? What has he done? 
 Bacchus. He has heap'd ye up cars and 
 corpses, such a load 
 As twenty Egyptian laborers could not 
 carry — 
 .^schtlus. Come, no more single lines 
 — let him bring all. 
 His wife, his children, his Cephisophon, 
 His books and everything, himself to 
 
 boot — 
 I'll counterpoise them with a couple of 
 lines. 
 Bacchus. Well, they're both friends of 
 mine — I shan't decide 
 To get myself ill-will from either party; 
 One of them seems extraordinary clever, 
 And the other suits my taste particularly. 
 
 Pluto. Won't you decide then, and con- 
 clude the business? 
 Bacchus. Suppose then I decide; what 
 
 then? 
 Pluto. Then take him 
 Away with you, whichever you prefer, 
 As a present for your pains in coming down 
 here. 
 Bacchus. 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 design? 
 Bacchus. With this design; to see 
 The City again restored to peace and 
 
 wealth. 
 Exhibiting tragedies in a proper style. 
 
 — Therefore whichever gives the best 
 
 advice 
 On pubUc matters I shall take him with me. 
 
 — First then of Alcibiades, what think ye? 
 The City is in hard labor with the question. 
 
 Euripides. What are her sentiments 
 
 towards him? 
 Bacchus. What? 
 " She loves and she detests and longs to 
 
 have him." 
 But tell me, both of you, your own opin- 
 ions. 
 Euripides. I hate the man, that in his 
 country's service 
 Is slow, but ready and quick to work her 
 
 harm; 
 Unserviceable except to serve himself. 
 Bacchus. Well said, by Jove! — Now 
 
 you — Give us a sentence. 
 .^SCHYLUS. 'T is rash and idle policy to 
 foster 
 A lion's whelp within the city walls. 
 But when he's rear'd and grown you must 
 indulge him. 
 Bacchus. By Jove then I'm quite puz- 
 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 for the 
 state? 
 Euripides. To tack Cinesias like a pair 
 of wings 
 To Cleocritus' shoulders, and dispatch them 
 From a precipice to sail across the seas. 
 
THE FROGS 
 
 "3 
 
 Bacchus. It seems a joke; but there's 
 
 some sense in it. 
 Euripides. . . . Then being both equipp'd 
 with little cruets 
 They might cooperate in a naval action, 
 By sprinkling vinegar in the enemies' eyes. 
 — But I can tell you and will. 
 
 Bacchus. Speak, and explain then — 
 Euripides. It we mistrust where present 
 trust is placed, 
 Trusting in what was heretofore mis- 
 trusted — 
 Bacchus. How! What? I'm at a loss — 
 Speak it again 
 Not quite so learnedly — more plainly and 
 simply. 
 Euripides. If we withdraw the confi- 
 dence we placed 
 In these our present statesmen, and trans- 
 
 . fer it 
 To those whom we mistrusted heretofore. 
 This seems I think our fairest chance for 
 safety: 
 If with our present counselors we fail, 
 Then with their opposites we might suc- 
 ceed. 
 Bacchus. That's capitally said, my 
 Palamedes! 
 My politician! Was it all your own? 
 Your own invention? 
 
 Euripides. AU except the cruets; 
 That was a notion of Cephisophon's. 
 Bacchus. Now you — what say you? 
 .^SCHTLUS. Inform me about the city — 
 What kind of persons has she placed in 
 
 office? 
 Does she promote the worthiest? 
 
 Bacchus. No, not she. 
 She can't abide 'em. 
 iEscHTLUs. Rogues then she prefers? 
 Bacchus. Not altogether, she makes use 
 of 'em 
 Perforce as it were. 
 
 .iEscHTLUS. Then who can hope to save 
 A state so wayward and perverse, that 
 
 finds 
 No sort of habit fitted for her wear? 
 Drugget or superfine, nothing wiU suit her! 
 Bacchus. Do think a little how she can 
 
 be saved. 
 .3)scHTi.us. Not here; when I return 
 there, I shall speak. 
 
 Bacchus. No, do pray send some good 
 
 advice before you. 
 ^scHTiiUS. When they regard their 
 lands as enemy's ground. 
 Their enemy's possessions as their own. 
 Their seamen and the fleet their only safe- 
 guard. 
 Their sole resource hardship and poverty, 
 And resolute endurance in distress — 
 Bacchus. 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 
 selves, 
 I'll make a choice according to my fancy. 
 Euripides. Remember, then, your oath 
 to your poor friend; 
 And; as you swore and promised, rescue me. 
 Bacchus. "It was my tongue that 
 
 swore" — • I fix on .^schylxis. 
 Euripides. O wretch! what have you 
 
 done? 
 Bacchus. Me? Done? What should I? 
 Voted for ^schylus to be sure — Why not? 
 Euripides. And after such a villainous 
 act, you dare 
 To view me face to face — Art not 
 ashamed? 
 Bacchus. Why shame, ia 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. 
 Euripides. O 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 
 
 senses; 
 For what is Death but an eternal sleep? 
 And does not Life consist in sleeping and 
 eating? 
 Pluto. Now, Bacchus, you'll come here 
 
 with us within. 
 Bacchus. What for? 
 Pluto. 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. 
 
114 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Chorus. Happy is the man possessing 
 The superior holy blessing 
 Of a judgment and a taste 
 Accurate, refined and chaste; 
 As it plainly doth appear 
 In the scene presented here; 
 Where the noble worthy Bard 
 Meets with a deserved reward, 
 Suffer'd to depart in peace 
 Freely with a full release, 
 To revisit once again 
 His kindred and his countrymen — 
 Hence moreover 
 You discover, 
 That to sit with Socrates, 
 In a dream of learned ease; 
 Quibbling, counter-quibbling, prating. 
 Argufying and debating 
 With the metaphysic sect, 
 Daily sinking in neglect. 
 Growing careless, incorrect. 
 While the practice and the rules 
 Of the true poetic Schools 
 Are renounced or slighted wholly, 
 Is a madness and a folly. 
 Pluto. Go forth with good wishes and 
 
 hearty good-will, 
 And salute the good people on Pallas's 
 
 hill; 
 Let them hear and admire father j3Eschylus 
 
 still 
 In his office of old which again he must fill; 
 
 — You must guide and direct them, 
 Instruct and correct them. 
 
 With a lesson in verse. 
 
 For you'll find them much worse; 
 
 Greater fools then before, and their foUy 
 much more, 
 
 And more numerous far than the block- 
 heads of 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 rest of the crew 
 
 That devise and invent 
 
 New taxes and tribute, 
 Are summonses sent, 
 
 Which you'll mind to distribute. 
 Bid them come to their graves, 
 Or, like runaway slaves, 
 If they linger and fail. 
 We shall drag them to jail; 
 Down here in the dark 
 With a brand and a mark. 
 
 MscEYhvs. I shall do as you say; 
 But the while I'm away, 
 Let the seat that I held 
 Be by Sophocles fill'd. 
 As deservedly reckon'd 
 My pupil and second 
 In learning and merit 
 And tragical spirit — 
 And take special care; 
 Keep that reprobate there 
 Far aloof from the Chair; 
 Let him never sit in it 
 An hour or a minute. 
 By chance or design 
 To profane what was mine. 
 Pluto. Bring forward the torches! — 
 
 The Chorus shall wait 
 And attend on the Poet in triumph and state 
 With a thundering chant of majestical tone 
 To wish him farewell, with a tune of his 
 
 own. 
 Chorus. Now may the powers of the 
 
 earth give a safe and speedy de- 
 parture 
 To the Bard at his second birth, with a 
 
 prosperous happy revival; 
 And may the city, fatigued with wars and. 
 
 long revolution. 
 At length be brought to return to just and 
 
 wise resolutions; 
 Long in peace to remain — Let restless 
 
 Cleophon hasten 
 Far from amongst us here — since wars 
 
 are his only diversion, 
 Thrace his native land will afford him wars 
 
 in abundance. 
 
THE CAPTIVES 
 
 (CAPTIVI) 
 
 By PLAUTUS 
 
 Translated in the original meters by EDWARD H. SUGDEN 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Ergasilus, o parasite 
 
 Hbgio, an old gentleman 
 
 Philochates, an Elian KnigU, 1 
 
 [• the prisoners 
 Tyndaeus, son of Hegio i 
 
 Aeistophontes, a prisoner 
 
 Philopolemus, a young man, son of Hegio 
 
 Stalagmtjs, a slave 
 
 Overseers of slaves 
 
 A boy 
 
THE CAPTIVES 
 
 [The Scene represents the home of Hegio in 
 Mtolia. Before the house are seen standing in 
 chains the two prisoners, Philocbates and 
 Ttndarus.I 
 Prologue. You all can see two prison- 
 ers standing here, 
 Standing in bonds; they stand, they do not 
 
 sit; 
 In this you'll witness that I speak the truth. 
 Old Hegio, who lives here, is this one's 
 
 father; 
 But how he's come to be his father's slave 
 My prologue shall inform you, if you'll 
 
 Usten. 
 This old man had two sons; the one of whom 
 Was stolen by a slave when four years old. 
 He ran away to Elis and there sold him 
 To this one's father. 
 
 — Do you see? — That's right! 
 Yon fellow in the gallery says he does n't? 
 Let him come nearer, then! What, there's 
 
 no room? 
 If there's no room to sit, there's room to 
 
 walk! 
 You'd like to send me begging, would you, 
 
 sir! 
 Pray, don't suppose I'll crack my lungs for 
 
 you! 
 You gentlemen of means and noble rank 
 Receive the rest; I hate to be in debt. 
 That run-a-way, as I've already said. 
 When in his flight he 'd stolen from his home 
 His master's son, sold him to this man's 
 
 father. 
 Who, having bought him, gave him to his 
 
 son 
 To be his valet; for the two lads were 
 Much of an age. Now he's his father's slave 
 In his own home, nor does his father know 
 
 it; 
 See how the gods play ball with us poor 
 
 men! 
 Now then, I ' ve told you how he lost one son. 
 The ^tolians and the Elians being at war, 
 His other son, a not uncommon thing 
 
 In war, was taken prisoner; and a doctor 
 At Elis, called Menarchus, bought him 
 
 there. 
 His father then began to buy up Elians, 
 To see if he could find one to exchange 
 Against his son, — the one that is a pris- 
 oner; 
 The other, who's at home, he does 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 commission- 
 ers. 
 But they between themselves have laid a 
 
 plot. 
 So that the slave may get his lord sent 
 
 home. 
 Thus they've exchanged their clothing and 
 
 their names; 
 He's called Philocrates, he Tyndanis, 
 And either plays the other's part to-day. 
 The slave to-day will work this clever 
 
 dodge. 
 And get his master set at liberty. 
 By the same act he'll save his brother too. 
 And get him brought back free to home and 
 
 father. 
 Though all unwitting: oft we do more good 
 In ignorance than by our best-laid plans. 
 Well, ignorantly, in their own deceit. 
 They 'ye so arranged and worked their little 
 
 trick. 
 That he shall still remain his father's slave. 
 For now, not knowing it, he serves his 
 
 father. 
 What things of naught are men, when one 
 
 reflects on 't! 
 This story's ours to act, and yours to see. 
 But let me give you onefbrief word of warn- 
 ing: 
 It's well worth while to listen to this play. 
 It's not been treated in a hackneyed fash- 
 ion. 
 
CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Nor like the rest of plays; here you'll not 
 
 find 
 Verses that are too nasty to be quoted. 
 Here is no perjured pimp, or crafty girl, 
 Or braggart captain. — Pray, don't be afraid 
 Because I said a war was going on 
 Between the .iEtolians and the Elians; 
 The battles won't take place upon the stage. 
 We're dressed for comedy; you can't expect 
 That we should act a tragedy all at once. 
 If anybody 's itching for a fight. 
 Just let him start a quarrel; if he gets 
 An opposite that's stronger, I dare bet 
 He'll quickly see more fighting than he 
 
 likes, 
 And never long to see a fight again. 
 I'm off. Farewell, ye most judicious judges 
 At home, most valiant fighters in the field! 
 [Exit Prologue.] 
 
 [Enter Ehgasilus from the tovm.] 
 
 Ergasilus. 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 
 
 grace. 
 Then is grace there or not? Of course she is! 
 But, more of course, we parasites are there, 
 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 as well. 
 As, when it's warm, the snails lie in their 
 
 shells. 
 And, failing dew, live on their native juices; 
 So parasites lie hid in misery 
 All through the holidays, living on their 
 
 juices, 
 Whilst those they feed on jaunt it in the 
 
 country. 
 During the holidays, we parasites 
 Are greyhounds; when they're over, we are 
 
 mastiffs. 
 Bred out of " Odious" by "Prince of Bores." 
 Now here, unless your parasite can stand 
 Hard fisticuffs, and has no strong objection 
 To have the crockery broken on his pate. 
 He'd better go and take a porter's billet 
 At the Trigeminal gate; which lot, I fear, 
 Is not at all unlikely to be mine. 
 
 My patron has been captured by the foe — 
 
 The jEtolians and the Elians are at war, 
 
 (This is .^tolia) ; 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 oft as I behold it, I must weep. 
 
 Now for his son's sake, he's begun a trade. 
 
 Dishonorable, hateful to himself; 
 
 He 's buying prisoners, if perchance he may 
 
 Find any to exchange against his son. 
 
 O how I pray that he may gain his wish! 
 
 Till he's recovered, I am past recovery. 
 
 The other youtlis are selfish, hopelessly. 
 
 And only he keeps up the ancient style. 
 
 I've never flattered him without reward; 
 
 And the good father takes after his son! 
 
 Now I '11 go see him. Ha! the door is open- 
 ing, 
 
 Whence I have often come, just drunk with 
 gorging. 
 
 [Enter from the house Hegio and an 
 Overseer.] 
 
 Hegio. Attend to me; those prisoners 
 that I bought 
 A day ago from the Commissioners 
 Out of the spoil, put lighter fetters on them; 
 Take off these heavier ones with which 
 
 they 're bound. 
 And let them walk indoors or out at will; 
 But watch them with the utmost careful- 
 ness. 
 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 again. 
 OvERSBBK. Why, all of us would rather 
 far be free 
 Than slaves. 
 
 Hegio. Why not take steps, then, to be 
 
 free? 
 OvERSBBR. Shall I give leg-hail f I've 
 
 naught else to give! 
 Heoio. I fancy that in that case you 
 
 would ccteh it ! 
 Overseer. I '11 be like that wild bird you 
 
 spoke about. 
 Hegio. All right; then I will clap you in 
 a cage. 
 Enough of this; do what I said, and go. 
 
 [Exil Overseer into the Aouse.) 
 
THE CAPTIVES 
 
 119 
 
 I'll to my brother's, to my other captives, 
 To see how they've behaved themselves 
 
 last night, 
 And then I'll come back home again 
 straightway. 
 Ergasilus [aside]. It grieves me that 
 the poor old man should ply 
 This gaoler's trade to save his hapless son. 
 But if perchance the son can be brought 
 
 back, 
 The father may turn hangman: what care I? 
 Hegio. Who speaks there? 
 Ergasilus. One who suffers in your grief. 
 I'm growing daily thinner, older, weaker! 
 See, I'm all skin and bones, as lean as lean! 
 AU that I eat at home does me no good; 
 Only a bite at a friend's agrees with me. 
 Hegio. Ergasilus! hail! 
 ERGAsrLTTS. Heav'n blcss you, Hegio ! 
 Hegio. Don't weep! 
 Ergasilus. Not weep for him? What, 
 not bewail 
 That excellent young man? 
 
 Hegio. I always knew 
 You and my son to be the best of friends. 
 Ergasilus. Alas! we don't appreciate 
 our blessings 
 Till we have lost the gifts we once enjoyed. 
 Now that your son is in the foeman's hands, 
 I realize how much he was to me! 
 Hegio. Ah, if a stranger feels his loss so 
 much. 
 What must I feel? He was my only joy. 
 Ergasilus. 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. 
 Hegio. You're right to make your 
 friend's distress your own; 
 But come, cheer up! 
 
 Ergasilus. Alas! it pains me here, 
 That now the feaster's army is discharged. 
 Hegio. And can't you meantime find 
 another general 
 To call to arms this army that's discharged? 
 Ergasilus. No fear! since Philopolemus 
 was taken, 
 Who filled that post, they all refuse to act. 
 Hegio. And it's no wonder they refuse 
 to act. 
 You need so many men of divers races 
 
 To work for you; first, those of Bakerton; 
 And several tribes inhabit Bakerton; 
 Then men of Br^,dport and of Biscuitville, 
 Of Thrushborough and Ortolania, 
 And all the various soldiers of the sea. 
 Ergasilus. How oft the noblest talents 
 lie concealed! 
 
 what a splendid general you would make. 
 Though now you're serving as a private 
 
 merely. 
 Hegio. Be of good cheer; in a few days, I 
 trust, 
 
 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. 
 
 Ergasilus. May Heaven grant it! 
 
 Hegio. Where 've you been invited 
 To dine to-day? 
 
 Ergasilus. Why, nowhere that I know 
 of. 
 Why do you ask? 
 
 Hegio. Because it is my birthday; 
 And so, I pray you, come and dine with me. 
 
 Ergasilus. Well said indeed! 
 
 Hegio. That is if you're content 
 With frugal fare. 
 
 Ergasilus. Well, if it 's not too frugal ; 
 I get enough of that, you know, at home. 
 
 Hegio. Well, name your figure! 
 
 Ergasilus. Done! unless 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's only fair that I should make my terms. 
 
 Hegio. I fear that this estate you're sell- 
 ing me 
 Has got a bottomless abyss within 't! 
 But if you come, come early. 
 
 Ergasilus. Now, if you like! 
 
 Hegio. Go hunt a hare; you've only 
 caught a weasel. 
 The path my guest must tread is full of 
 stones. 
 
 Ergasilus. 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. 
 
 Ergasilus. Do you eat brambles? 
 
 Hegio. My dinner's from the soil. 
 
 Ergasilus. So is good pork. 
 
 Hegio. Plenty of cabbage! 
 
CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Ehgasilus. Food for invalids! 
 What more? 
 
 Hegio. Be there in time. 
 Eegasilus. I'll not forget. 
 
 [Exit Ebgasilus to the market- 
 place.] 
 Hegio. Now I'll go in and look up my 
 accounts, 
 To see what I have lying at my banker's; 
 Then to my brother's, as I said just now. 
 [Exit Hegio into the house.] 
 
 [Enter Overseers, Philocrates and Ttn- 
 DAEtrs, each in the other's clothes, and 
 other slaves.] 
 
 Overseer. Since Heaven has willed it 
 should be so, 
 That you must drink this cup of woe, 
 Why, bear it with a patient mind. 
 And so your pain you'll Ughter find. 
 At home, I dare say, you were free; 
 Now that your lot is slavery. 
 Just take it as a thing of course, 
 Instead of making matters worse; 
 Behave yourselves and don't be queasy 
 About your lord's commands; 't is easy. 
 Prisoners. Oh, oh! 
 
 Overseer. No need for howls and cries ! 
 I see your sorrow in your eyes. 
 Be brave in your adversities. 
 
 Ttndarus. But we're ashamed to wear 
 
 these chains. 
 Overseer. My lord would suffer far 
 worse pains, 
 Should he leave you to range at large out of 
 
 his custody. 
 Or set you at liberty whom he bought yes- 
 terday. 
 TTNDARtrs. Oh, he need n't fear that 
 he'll lose his gains; 
 Should he release us, we know what's our 
 duty, sir. 
 Overseer. Yes, you'll run off; I know 
 
 that. You're a beaiity, sir! 
 Tyndarus. Run off ? run off where? 
 Overseer. To the land of your birth. 
 Ttndarus. Nay, truly, it never would 
 answer 
 To imitate runaway slaves. 
 
 Overseer. Well, by Jove! 
 I'd advise you, if you get a chance, sir. 
 Tyndartjs. One thing I beg of you. 
 
 Overseer. What's your petition, sir? 
 Ttndarus. Give us a chance of exchang- 
 ing a word, 
 Where there's no fear that we'll be over- 
 heard. 
 Overseer. Granted! Go, leave them. 
 We'll take our position there. 
 See that your talk does n't last too long! 
 Ttndarus. Oh, that's my intention. 
 
 So, now, come along! 
 Overseer. Go, leave them alone. 
 Tyndakus. We ever shall own 
 We're in your debt for the kindness you've 
 
 shown to us; 
 You have the power, and you've proved 
 yourself bounteous. 
 Philocrates. Come away farther, as 
 far as we can from them; 
 We must contrive to cbnceal our fine plan 
 
 from them. 
 Never disclose any trace of our trickery. 
 Else we shall find all our dodges a mockery. 
 Once they get wind of it, 
 There'll be an end of 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 senses all 
 
 waking; 
 There's no time to sleep; it's a big under- 
 taking. 
 Ttndarus. So I'm to be master? 
 Philocrates. Yes, that is the notion. 
 Ttndarus. And so for your head (I 
 would pray you remark it), 
 You want me to carry my own head to 
 market! 
 Philocrates. I know. 
 Ttndarus. 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! 
 When they have got it, they set to work 
 
 cheating you. 
 Now I have told you the treatment you owe 
 
 to me. 
 You I regard as a father, you knonr, to me. 
 
THE CAPTIVES 
 
 Philocrates. Nay, let us say, — no 
 
 conventions shall hinder us, — 
 Next to my own, you're my father, dear 
 
 Tyndanis. 
 Ttndarus. That will do! 
 Philocrates. Now then, I warn you 
 
 always to remember this; 
 I no longer am your master but your slave; 
 
 don't be remiss. 
 Since kind Heav'n has shown us plainly 
 
 that the way ourselves to save 
 Is for me, who was your master, now to 
 
 turn into your slave. 
 Where before I gave you orders, now I beg 
 
 of you in prayer, 
 By the changes in our fortune, by my 
 
 father's kindly care. 
 By the comynon fetters fastened on us by 
 
 the enemy. 
 Think of who you were and are, and pay no 
 
 more respect to me 
 Than I used to pay to you, when you were 
 
 slave and I was free. 
 Ttndarus. Well, I know that I am you 
 
 and you are me! 
 Philocrates. Yes, stick to that! 
 Then I hope that by your shrewdness we 
 
 shall gain what we are at. 
 
 [Enter Hbgio from his house.] 
 
 Hegio [addressing some one inside]. I'll 
 
 be back again directly when I've 
 
 looked into the case: 
 Where are those whom I directed at the 
 
 door to take their place? 
 Philocrates. Oby Pollux! you've been 
 
 careful that we shouldn't be to seek; 
 Thus by bonds and guards surrounded we 
 
 have had no chance to sneak! 
 Hegio. Howsoever careful, none can be 
 
 as careful as he ought; 
 When he thinks he's been most careful, oft 
 
 your careful man is caught. . 
 Don't you think that I ' ve just cause to keep 
 
 a careful watch on you. 
 When I've had to pay so large a sum of 
 
 money for the two? 
 Philocrates. Truly we've no right to 
 
 blame you, that you watch and 
 
 guard us thus; 
 Andif we should get a chance and run away, 
 
 you can't blame its. 
 
 Hegio. Just like you, my son is held in 
 
 slavery by your countrymen. 
 Philocrates. Was he taken prisoner? 
 Hegio. Yes. 
 
 Philocrates. We were n't the only cow- 
 ards then. 
 Hegio. Come aside here; there is some- 
 thing I would ask of you alone; 
 And I hope you'll not deceive me. 
 
 Philocrates. Everything I know I'll 
 own; 
 If in aught I'm ignorant, I'll tell you so, 
 upon my life. 
 
 [Hegio and Philocrates go aside; 
 
 Ttndarus standing where he can 
 
 hear their conversation.] 
 
 Ttndarus [aside]. Now the old man's 
 
 at the barber's; see my master whets 
 
 his knife! 
 
 Why, he has n't even put an apron on to 
 
 shield his clothes! 
 Will he shave him close or only cut his hair? 
 
 Well, goodness knows! 
 But if he has any sense, he'll crop the old 
 man properly! 
 Hegio. Come now, tell me, would you 
 
 rather be a slave or get set free? 
 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. 
 Ttndarus [aside] . Bravo ! I 'd not 
 give a cent for Thales, the Mile- 
 sian! 
 For, compared with this man's cunning, he 
 
 is but a trifling knave. 
 Mark how cleverly he talks, as if he'd al- 
 ways been a slave! 
 Hegio. Tell me to what family Philo- 
 crates belongs? 
 Philocrates. The Goldings; 
 That's a family most wealthy both in hon- 
 ors and iu holdings. 
 Hegio. Is your master there respected? 
 Philocrates. Highly, by our foremost 
 
 men. 
 Hegio. If his influence amongst them is 
 as great as you maintain, 
 Are his riches fat? 
 
122 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Philochates. I guess so! Fat as suet, 
 
 one might say. 
 Hegio. Is his father Uving? 
 Philochates. Well, he was, sir, when we 
 came away; 
 Whether he still lives or not, you'll iave to 
 go to hell to see. 
 TTNDAKtrs [aside]. Saved again! for now 
 
 he's adding to his lies philosophy! 
 Hegio. What's his name, I pray? 
 Philockates. Thensaurocroesonieochry- 
 
 sides. 
 Hegio. I suppose a sort of nickname 
 
 given to show now rich he is. 
 Philochates. Nay, by Pollux! it was 
 given him for his avarice and greed. 
 Truth to tell you, Theodoromedes is his 
 name indeed. 
 Hegio. What is this? His father's grasp- 
 ing? 
 Philochates. Grasping? Ay, most cov- 
 etous! 
 Just to show you, when he sacrifices to his 
 
 Genius, 
 All the vessels that he uses are of Samian 
 
 crockery, 
 Lest the Genius should steal them ! There 's 
 his character, you see. 
 Hegio. Come with me then. 
 Now I'll ask the other what I want to 
 
 know. 
 [To TYNDARtrs.] Now, PhUocrates, your 
 slave has acted as a man should 
 do. 
 For from him I've learnt your birth; the 
 
 whole he has confessed to me. 
 If you will admit the same, it shall to your 
 
 advantage be; 
 For your slave has told me all. 
 
 Tyndarus. It was his duty so to do. 
 All is 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 remember when he durst not speak a word 
 to do me ill; 
 
 He may strike me now; so fortune plays 
 
 with mortals as she will. 
 I, once free, am made a slave and brought 
 
 from high to low degree. 
 And instead of giving orders must obey sub- 
 missively. 
 But if I should have a master, such as I was 
 
 when at home, 
 I've no fear that his commands will prove 
 
 unjust or burdensome. 
 Hegio, will you bear from me a word of 
 
 warning? 
 Hegio. Yes, say on. 
 Tyndarus. Once I was as free and happy 
 
 as your own beloved son. 
 But the force of hostile arms has robbed 
 
 him of his freedom, too; 
 He's a slave amongst our people, just as I 
 
 am here with you. 
 Certaioly there is a God who watches us 
 
 where'er we be; 
 He win treat your son exactly as 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. 
 Hegio. Yes, I know. Do you admit, then, 
 
 what your slave confessed to me? 
 Tyndarus. I admit, sir, that my father 
 
 is a man of property. 
 And that I'm of noble birth. But I beseech 
 
 you, Hegio, 
 Do not let my ample riches cause your avar- 
 ice to grow. 
 Lest my father think it better, though I am 
 
 his only son, 
 That I should continue serving you and 
 
 keep your livery on. 
 Rather than come home a beggar to my in- 
 finite disgrace. 
 Hegio. Thanks to Heav'n and my fore- 
 . fathers, I've been wealthy all my 
 
 days; 
 Nor is wealth, in my opinion, always useful 
 
 to obtain — 
 Many a man I've known degraded to a 
 
 beast by too much gain; 
 There are times when loss is better far than 
 
 gain, in every way. 
 Gold! I hate it! Oh, how many people has it 
 
 led astray! 
 
THE CAPTIVES 
 
 123 
 
 Now, attend to me, and I my purpose 
 
 plainly will declare: 
 There in Elis, with your people, is my son a 
 
 prisoner. 
 If you'll bring him back to me, you shall 
 
 not pay a single cent: 
 I'll release you and your slave too; other- 
 wise I '11 not relent. 
 Ttndarus. That's the noblest, kindest 
 offer! All the world can't find your 
 mate! 
 But is he in slavery to a private man or to 
 the State? 
 Hegio. To Menarchus, a physician. 
 TrNDARTJS. Ah! my cUent! all is plain; 
 Everything will be as easy as the falUng of 
 the rain. 
 Hegio. Bring him home as soon as may be. 
 Tyndabtjs. Certainly; but, Hegio — 
 Hegio. What's your wish? For I'll do 
 
 aught in reason. 
 Ttndaeus. Listen; you shall know. 
 I don't ask that I should be sent back until 
 
 your son has come. 
 Name the price you'll take for yonder slave, 
 
 to let me send him home. 
 That he may redeem your son. 
 Hegio. Nay, some one else I should pre- 
 fer. 
 Whom I'll send when truce is made to go 
 
 and meet your father there. 
 He can take your father any message that 
 you lilje to send. 
 Ttndarus. It 's no use to send a stranger; 
 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 aU his heart. 
 Boldly trust your son to him; and he will 
 
 truly play his part. 
 Don't you fear! at my own peril I'll make 
 
 trial of his truth; 
 For he knows my kindness to him; I can 
 safely trust the youth. 
 Hegio. Well, I'U send him at your risk, 
 
 if you consent. 
 Ttndarus. Oh, I agree. 
 Hegio. Let him start as soon as may be. 
 Ttndarus. That will suit me perfectly. 
 
 Hegio. Well, then, if he does n't come 
 back here you '11 pay me fifty pounds ; 
 Are you willing? 
 
 Ttndarus. Certainly. 
 Hegio. Then go and loose him from his 
 bonds; 
 And the other too. 
 Ttndarus. May Heaven ever treat you 
 graciously! 
 Since you 've shown me so much kindness, 
 
 and from fetters set me free. 
 
 Ah, my neck's more comfortable, now I've 
 
 cast that iron ruff! 
 
 Hegio. Gifts when given to good people 
 
 win their gratitude! Enough! 
 
 Now, if you are going to send him, teach 
 
 and tell him what to say. 
 When he gets home to your father. Shall I 
 . call him? 
 Ttndarus. Do so, pray! 
 
 [Hegio crosses the stage to Philo- 
 CRATES and addresses him.] 
 Hegio. Heav'n bless this project to my 
 son and me, 
 And you as well! 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. 
 Philocrates. Well, I'm prepared to 
 serve either one or t' other; 
 I 'm like awheel, just twist me as you please! 
 I'U turn this way or that, as you command. 
 Hegio. I'll see that you don't lose by 
 your comphance; 
 Since you are acting as a good slave should. 
 Come on. 
 Now, here's your man. 
 
 Ttndarus. I thank you, sir. 
 For giving me this opportunity 
 Of sending him to bring my father word 
 About my welfare and my purposes; 
 All which he'll tell my father as I bid him. 
 Now, Tyndarus, we've come to an agree- 
 ment. 
 That you should go to Elis to my father; 
 And should you not come back, I've under- 
 taken 
 To pay the sum of fifty pounds for you. 
 
124 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Philocrates. a fair agreement! for your 
 father looks 
 For me or for some other messenger 
 To come from hence to him. 
 
 Ttndarus. Then, pray attend, 
 And I will teU you what to tell my father. 
 Philocrates. I have always tried to 
 serve you hitherto, Philocrates, 
 As you wished me, to the utmost of my 
 
 poor abilities. 
 That I '11 ever seek and aim at, heart and 
 soul and strength alway. 
 Ttndarus. That is right : you know your 
 duty. Listen now to what I say. 
 First of all, convey a greeting to my parents 
 
 dear from me. 
 And to other relatives and friends, if any 
 
 you should see. 
 Say I'm well, and held in bondage by this 
 
 worthy gentleman. 
 Who has shown and ever shows me all the 
 honor that he can. 
 Philocrates. Oh, you need n't tell me 
 
 that, it's rooted in my memory. 
 Ttndarus. If I did n't see my keeper, I 
 should think that I was free. 
 Tell my father of the bargain I have made 
 
 with Hegio, 
 For the ransom of his son. 
 
 Philocrates. Don't stay to teU me that. 
 
 I know. 
 Ttndarus. He must purchase and re- 
 store him, then we both shall be set 
 free. 
 Philocrates. Good! 
 Hegio. Bid him be quick, for your sake 
 
 and for mine in like degree. 
 Philocrates. You don't long to see your 
 son more ardently than he does his! 
 Hegio. Why, each loves his own. 
 Philocrates. Well, have you any other 
 
 Ttndarus. Yes; don't hesitate to say 
 I'm well and happy, Tyndarus; 
 
 That no shade of disagreement ever sep- 
 arated us; 
 
 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 helped me in 
 my sore adversities, 
 
 True and faithful to me ever. When my 
 
 father hears of this, 
 Tyndarus, 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 I'll spare no effort that it 
 
 may be brought 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 fetters by 
 
 your ready wit. 
 Philocrates. 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 man y 
 
 kindnesses. 
 Night would fall before I'd finished; you 
 
 have done as much for me 
 As if you had been my slave. 
 
 Hegio. Good 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. 
 Ttndarus. Truly he has not commended 
 
 me 
 Even a hundredth part as much as he him- 
 self deserves to be. 
 Hegio. Well, as you've behaved so nobly, 
 
 now you have a splendid chance 
 Here to crown your services by doubly 
 
 faithful vigilance. 
 Philocrates. As I wish the thing ac- 
 complished, so I shall do all I know; 
 To assure you of it, I call Jove to witness, 
 
 Hegio! 
 That I never will betray Philocrates, I'll 
 
 take my oath! 
 Hegio. Honest fellow! 
 Philocrates. I will treat him as myself, 
 
 upon my troth! 
 Ttndarus. From these loving protesta- 
 tions, mind you never never swerve. 
 And if I 've said less about you than your 
 
 faithful deeds deserve, 
 
THE CAPTIVES 
 
 125 
 
 Pray you, don't be angry with me on ac- 
 count of what I've said; 
 But remember you are going with a price 
 
 upon your head; 
 And that both my life and honor I have 
 
 staked on your return; 
 When you've left my sight, I pray you, 
 don't forget what you have sworn, 
 Or when you have left me here in slavery 
 
 instead of you. 
 Think that you are free, and so neglect what 
 
 you are pledged to do. 
 And forget your solemn promise to redeem 
 
 this good man's son. 
 Fifty pounds, remember, is the price that 
 
 we've agreed upon. 
 Faithful to your 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 old man as well. 
 Take my hand in yours, I pray you, swear 
 
 an oath unbreakable. 
 That you'U 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. 
 
 PHUiOCRATBS. O that'll do! 
 Are you satisfied if I can carry this commis- 
 sion through? 
 Ttndartjs. Yes. 
 
 Philocrates. Then I'll return in such a 
 manner as shall please you both. 
 Is that all, sir? 
 Hbgio. Come back quickly. 
 Philocrates. So I will, upon my troth. 
 Hegio. Come along then to my banker's; 
 I'll provide you for the way. 
 Also I wiU get a passport from the prastor. 
 Ttmbarus. Passport, eh? 
 Hegio. Yes, to get him through the 
 army so that they may let him go. 
 Step inside. 
 
 Ttndarus. a pleasant journey! 
 Philocrates. Fare-you-well! 
 Hegio. By Pollux, though, 
 What a blessing that I bought these men 
 
 from the Commissioners! 
 So, please Heav'n, I've saved my son from 
 bondage to those foreigners. 
 
 Dear! How long I hesitated whether I 
 
 should buy or not! 
 Please to take him in, good slaves, and do 
 
 not let him leave the spot. 
 When there is no keeper with him; I shall 
 Boon be home again. 
 
 [Exeunt Ttndarub and slaves into 
 the house.] 
 Now I'll run down to my brother's and in- 
 spect my other men. 
 I'U inquire if any of them is acquainted 
 
 with this youth. 
 [To Philocrates.] Come along and I'll 
 despatch you. That must be done 
 first, in sooth. 
 
 [Exeunt Hegio and Philocrates 
 to the market-place.] 
 
 [Enter Ergasilus returning from the 
 market-place.] 
 
 Ergasilus. Wretched he who seeks his 
 dinner, and with trouble gets a haul; 
 
 Wretcheder who seeks with trouble, and 
 can't find a meal at all; 
 
 Wretchedest who dies for food, and can't 
 get any anyway. 
 
 If I could, I'd like to scratch the eyes out of 
 this cursed day! 
 
 For it's filled all men with meanness to- 
 wards me. Oh, I never saw 
 
 Day so hungry; why, it's stuffed with fam- 
 ine in its greedy maw. 
 
 Never day pursued its purpose in 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 want us Spartans, owners 
 of a single chair, 
 
 Sons of Smacked-Face, 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 will see them shopping in the market 
 with as little shame 
 
 As when, sitting on the bench, the culprit's 
 sentence they proclaim. 
 
126 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 For us wits they don't care twopence; keep 
 
 entirely to their set. 
 When I went just now to market, there a 
 
 group of them I met; 
 "Hail!" says I; "where shall we go," says 
 
 I, "to lunch?" They all were mum. 
 "Who speaks first? Who volunteers?" says 
 
 I. And still the chaps were dumb. 
 Not a smile ! " Where shall we dine together? 
 
 Answer." Not a word! 
 Then 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 
 
 was a got-up affair. 
 Why, they would n't even do as much as 
 
 any angry cur; 
 If they could n't smile, they might at least 
 
 have shown their teeth, I swear! 
 Well, I left the rascals when I saw that they 
 
 were making game; 
 Went to others; and to others; and to others 
 
 — still the same! 
 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 dinners, at a 
 
 time when food is dear! 
 So I'll do; now to the harbor; there I may 
 
 to dinner steer; 
 If that fails me, I '11 return and try this old 
 
 man's wretched cheer. 
 
 [Exit Eegasiltts to the harbor] 
 
 [Enter Hegio from his brother's with 
 Abistophontes.] 
 
 Hegio. How pleasant it is when you've 
 
 managed affairs 
 For the good of the public, as yesterday I 
 
 did. 
 When I bought those two fellows. Why, 
 
 every one stares 
 
 And congratulates me on the way I decided. 
 To tell the plain truth, I am worried with 
 standing. 
 And weary with waiting; 
 From the flood of their words I could scarce 
 
 get a landing, 
 And even at the praetor's it showed no 
 abating. 
 I asked for a passport; and when it had 
 
 come, 
 I gave it to Tyndarus; 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 Philocrates 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 
 brought him. 
 I bade them loose him from his chains. 
 And came away. {To Ahistophontes.) 
 Pray follow me; 
 Your earnest suit success obtains. 
 Your dear old friend you soon shall see. 
 [Exeunt Hegio and Ahisto- 
 phontes into the house; Tyn- 
 darus immediately rushes out.\ 
 Tyndarus. Alas! the day has come on 
 which I wish I never had been 
 born. 
 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 help or hope remains to me to drive 
 
 away my anxious fear. 
 No cloak I anjrwhere can find to cover up 
 
 my crafty Ues, 
 No cloak, 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 shelter, nor my 
 
 craft the hiding-place it needs. 
 All that I hid has come to light; my plans 
 
 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 
 
 127 
 
 This Aristophontes, who's just come, will 
 surely bring me to the stake; 
 
 He knows me, and he is the friend and kins- 
 man of Philocrates. 
 
 Salvation could n't save me, if she would; 
 there is no way but this. 
 To plan some new and smarter trickeries. 
 
 Hang it, what f What shall I do? I am just 
 up a lofty tree, 
 
 If I can't contrive some new and quite pre- 
 posterous foolery. 
 
 [Enter from the hoiise Hegio and 
 Aristophontes.] 
 
 Hegio. Where's the feUow gone whom 
 
 we saw rushing headlong from the 
 
 house? 
 Ttndahus [aside]. Now the day of 
 
 doom has come; the foe 's upon thee, 
 
 Tyndarus! 
 O, what story shaU I tell them? What deny 
 
 and what confess? 
 My purposes are all at sea; O, ain't I in a 
 
 pretty mess? 
 O would that Heaven had blasted you be- 
 fore you left your native land, 
 You wretch, Aristophontes, who have 
 
 ruined all that I had planned. 
 The game is up if I can't light on some 
 
 atrocious villainy! 
 Hegio. Ah, there's your man; go speak 
 
 to him. 
 Tyndarus [aside]. What man is wretch- 
 
 eder than I? 
 Aristophontes. How is this that you 
 
 avoid my eyes and shun me, Tsm- 
 
 darus? 
 WTiy, you might have never known me, 
 
 fellow, that you treat me thus! 
 I'm a slave as much as you, although ia 
 
 Elis I was free, 
 Whilst you from your earUest boyhood were 
 
 enthralled in slavery. 
 Hegio. Well, by Jove! I'm not surprised 
 
 that he should shun you, when he 
 
 sees 
 That you call him Tyndarus, not, as you 
 
 should, Philocrates. 
 Tyndarus. Hegio, this man in Elis was 
 
 considered raving mad. 
 Take no note of anything he tells you either 
 
 good or bad. 
 
 Why, he once attacked his father and his 
 
 mother with a spear; 
 And the epilepsy takes him in a form that '3 
 
 most severe. 
 Don't go near him! 
 Hegio. Keep your distance! 
 Aristophontes. Rascal! Did I rightly 
 hear, 
 That you say I'm mad, and once attacked 
 
 my father with a spear? 
 And that I have got the sickness for which 
 men are wont to spit? 
 Hegio. Never mind! for many men be- 
 sides yourself have suffered it, 
 And the spitting was a means of healing 
 them, and they were glad. 
 Aristophontes. What, do you believe 
 
 the wretch? 
 Hegio. In what respect? 
 Aristophontes. That I am mad! 
 Tyndarus. Do you see hipi glaring at 
 you? Better leave him! O beware! 
 Hegio, the fit is on him; he'll be raving 
 soon! Take care! 
 Hegio. Well, I thought he was a mad- 
 man when he called you Tyndarus. 
 Tyndarus. Why, he sometimes does n't 
 know his ovm name. Oh, he's often 
 thus. 
 Hegio. But he said you were his comrade. 
 Tyndarus. Ah, no doubt! precisely so! 
 And AlcmsBon, and Orestes, and Lycurgus, 
 
 don't you know. 
 Are my comrades quite as much as he is! 
 
 Aristophontes. Oh, you gallows bird. 
 Dare you slander me? What, don't I know 
 you? 
 Hegio. 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. 
 Aristophontes. Nay, he says he is the 
 
 man he is n't, not the man he is. 
 Tyndarus. O yes! Doubtless you know 
 better whether I'm Philocrates 
 Than Philocrates himself does! 
 Aristophontes. You'd prove truth it- 
 self a liar, 
 As it strikes me. But, I pray you, look at me I 
 Tyndarus. As you desire! 
 Aristophontes. Are n't you Tyndarus? 
 
128 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Ttndarus. I'm not. 
 
 Ahistophontes. You say you are Philo- 
 
 crates? 
 Ttndarus. Certainly. 
 Ahistophontes. Do you believe him? 
 Hegio. Yes, and shall do, if I please. 
 For the other, who you say he is, went 
 
 home from here to-day 
 To the father of this captive. 
 Aeistophontes. Father? He's a slave. 
 TYNDAHtrs. And, pray! 
 Are you not a slave, though you were free 
 
 once, as I hope to be. 
 When I have restored good Hegio's son to 
 home and liberty? 
 Abistophontbs. What's that, gaol-bird? 
 Do you teU me that you were a free- 
 man born? 
 Ttndabus. No! Philocrates, not Free- 
 man, is my name. 
 Aristophontbs. 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's a slave. 
 Tyndakus. 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 spiteful, envy 
 those who 're better off. 
 Ahistophontes. Hegio, don't believe 
 this fellow; for he's doing naught 
 but scoff; 
 Sure I am, he'll play some scurvy trick on 
 
 you before he's done; 
 I don't like this tale of his about the ransom 
 of your son. 
 Ttndarus. You don't like it, I dare 
 say; but I'll accomplish it, you see! 
 I'll restore him to his father; he in turn re- 
 leases me. 
 That's why I've sent Tyndarus to see my 
 father. 
 Aristophontbs. Come, that's lame! 
 You are Tyndarus yourself, the only slave 
 who bears that name! 
 Ttndarus. Why reproach me with my 
 bondage? I was captured in the fray. 
 ARisTOPnoNTES. Oh, I can't restrain my 
 fury! 
 
 Tyndarus. Don't you hear him? Run 
 away! 
 He'll be hurling stones at us just now, if 
 you don't have him bound. 
 Aristophontes. Oh, damnation! 
 Tyndarus. How he glares at us! I hope 
 your ropes are sound. 
 See, his body's covered over with bright 
 
 spots of monstrous size! 
 It 's the black bile that aflBicts him. 
 
 Aristophontbs. Pollux! if this old man's 
 wise, 
 You will find black pitch afflict you, when it 
 blazes round your breast. 
 Tyndarus. Ah, he's wandering now, poor 
 fellow! by foul spirits he's possessed! 
 Hegio [to Tyndarus]. What do you 
 think? Would it be best to have him 
 bound? 
 Tyndarus. Yes, so I said. 
 Aristophontbs. Oh, perdition take it! 
 Would I had a stone to smash his 
 head, 
 This whipped cur, who says I'm mad! By 
 Jove, sir, I will make you smart! 
 Tyndarus. Hear him calling out for 
 
 stones! 
 Aristophontbs. Pray, might we have a 
 
 word apart, Hegio? 
 Hegio. Yes, but keep your distance; 
 
 there's no nee d to come so close! 
 Tyndarus. If, by Pollux, you go any 
 
 nearer, he'll bite off your nose. 
 Ahistophontes. Hegio, I beg and pray 
 you, don't believe that I am mad, 
 Or that I have epilepsy as this shameless 
 
 fellow said. 
 But if you're afraid of me, then have me 
 
 bound; I won't say no, 
 If you '11 bind that rascal too. 
 
 Tyndarus. O no, indeed, good Hegio! 
 Bind the man who wishes it! 
 Ahistophontes. Be quiet, you! The case 
 stands thus; 
 I shall prove Philocrates the false to be true 
 
 Tyndarus. 
 What are you winking for? 
 Tyndarus. I was n't. 
 Ahistophontes. He winks before your 
 
 very face! 
 Hegio. What, if I approached this mad- 
 man? 
 
THE CAPTIVES 
 
 129 
 
 Ttndarus. It would be a wild-goose 
 chase. 
 He'll keep chattering, till you can't make 
 
 either head or tail of it. 
 Had they dressed him for the part, you'd 
 say 't was Ajax in his fit. 
 Hbgio. Never mind, I will approach 
 
 him. 
 Ttndarus [aside]. Things are looking 
 very blue. 
 I'm between the knife and altar, and I don't 
 know what to do. 
 Hegio. I attend, Aristophontes, if you 
 
 've anything to say. 
 Aristophontes. You shall hear that 
 that is true which you've been 
 thinking false to-day. 
 First I wish to clear myself of all suspicion 
 
 that I rave, 
 Or that I am subject to disease — except 
 
 that I'm a slave. 
 So may He who's king of gods and men re- 
 store me home again: 
 He's no more Philocrates than you or I. 
 
 Hegio. But tell me then, 
 Who he is. 
 Abistophontes. The same that I have 
 told you from the very first. 
 If you find it otherwise, I pray that I may 
 
 be accursed. 
 And may suffer forfeit of fatherland and 
 freedom sweet. 
 Hegio. What say you f 
 TTNDABrs. That I'm your slave, and 
 
 you're my master. 
 Hegio. That's not it. 
 Were you free? 
 TTNDARtrs. I was. 
 Aristophontes. He was n't. He's just 
 
 Ijang worse and worse. 
 Ttndaeus. How do you know? Per- 
 haps it happened that you were my 
 mother's nurse, 
 That you dare to speak so boldly! 
 Aristophontes. Why, I saw you when 
 
 a lad. 
 TTNDARtrs. Well, I see you when a man 
 to-day! So we are quits, by gad! 
 Did I meddle with your business? Just let 
 mine alone then, please. 
 Hegio. Was his father called Thensauro- 
 croesonicochrysides? 
 
 Aristophontes. No, he was n't, and I 
 never heard the name before to-day. 
 Theodoromedes was his master's father. 
 
 Tyndarus [aside]. Deuce to pay! 
 O be quiet, or go straight and hang yourself, 
 
 my beating heart! 
 You are dancing there, whilst I can hardly 
 stand to play my part. 
 Hegio. He in Elis was a slave then, if 
 you are not telling lies. 
 And is not Philocrates? 
 
 Aristophontes. You'll never find it 
 
 otherwise. 
 Hegio. So I've been chopped into 
 fragments and dissected, goodness 
 knows. 
 By the dodges of this scoundrel, who has 
 
 led me by the nose. 
 Are you sure there's no mistake though? 
 Aristophontes. Yes, I speak of what I 
 
 know. 
 Hegio. Is it certain? 
 Aristophontes. Certain? Nothing could 
 be more entirely so. 
 Why, Philocrates has been my friend from 
 
 when he was a boy; 
 But where is he now? 
 Hegio. Ah, that's what vexes me, but 
 gives him joy. 
 Tell me though, what sort of looking man is 
 this Philocrates? 
 Aristophontes. Thini' the face, a sharp- 
 ish nose, a fair complexion, coal- 
 black eyes. 
 Reddish, crisp, and curly hair. 
 
 Hegio. Yes, that's the fellow to a T. 
 Ttndarus [aside]. Curse upon it, every- 
 thing has gone all wrong to-day with 
 me. 
 Woe unto those wretched rods that on my 
 back to-day must die! 
 Hegio. So I see that I've been cheated. 
 Ttndarus [aside]. Come on, fetters, 
 don't be shy! 
 Run to me and clasp my legs and I'll take 
 care of you, no fear! 
 Hegio. 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. 
 
130 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Yes, they've corked my nose most finely! 
 
 Don't I make a foolish show? 
 But this fellow here shan't mock me! Cola- 
 
 phus, Corax, Cordalio, 
 Come out here and bring your thongs. 
 
 [Enter Overseers.] 
 
 Overseer. To bind up faggots? Here's 
 
 ago! 
 Hbgio. Come, bind your heaviest 
 
 shackles on this wretch. 
 Ttndarus. Why, what's the matter? 
 
 what's my crime? 
 Heqio. Your crime! 
 You've sowed and scattered ill, now you 
 shall reap it. 
 Tyndarus. Had n't you better say I 
 harrowed too? 
 For farmers always harrow first, then sow. 
 Heqio. How boldly does he flout me to 
 
 my face! 
 Tyndarus. A harmless, guiltless man, 
 although a slave, 
 Should boldly face his master, of all men. 
 Hegio. Tie up his hands as tightly as 
 
 you can. 
 Tyndarus. You'd better cut them off; 
 for I am yours. 
 But what's the matter? Why are you so 
 angry? 
 Hegio. Because my plans, as far as in 
 you lay. 
 By your thrice-villainous and lying tricks 
 You've torn asunder, mangled limb from 
 
 limb. 
 And ruined all my hopes and purposes. . 
 Philocrates escaped me through your guile; 
 I thought he was the slave, and you the free ; 
 For so you said, and interchanged your names 
 Between yourselves. 
 
 Tyndarus. Yes, I admit all that. 
 'T is just as you have said, and cunningly 
 He 's got away by means of my smart work; 
 But I beseech you, are you wroth at that? 
 Heqio. You 've brought the worst of tor- 
 ments on yourself. 
 Ttndarus. If not for sin I perish, I don't 
 care! 
 But though I perish, and he breaks his 
 
 word. 
 And does n't come back here, my joy is 
 this: 
 
 My deed wOl be remembered when I 'm dead, 
 How I redeemed my lord 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 his bonds. 
 Heqio. The only fame you'U get will be 
 
 in hell. 
 Tyndarus. Nay, he who dies for virtue 
 
 does n't perish. 
 Hegio. When I've expended all my tor- 
 ments on you, 
 And given you up to death for your deceits. 
 People may call it death or perishing 
 Just as they Uke; so long as you are dead, 
 I don't mind if they say that you 're alive. 
 Tyndarus. By Pollux! if you do so, 
 you'U repent. 
 When he comes back as I am sure he will. 
 Aristophontes. O Heavens! I see it 
 now! and imderstand 
 What it all means. My friend Philocrates 
 Is free at home, and in his native land. 
 I'm glad of that; nothing could please me 
 
 more. 
 But I am grieved I've got him into trouble, 
 Who stands here bound because of what I 
 said. 
 Hegio. Did I forbid you to speak falsely 
 
 to me? 
 Tyndarus. You did, sir. 
 Hegio. Then how durst you tell me lies? 
 Tyndarus. Because to tell the truth 
 would have done hurt 
 To him I served; he profits by my lie. 
 Hegio. But you shall smart for it! 
 Tyndarus. O that's all right! 
 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 think this a crime? f 
 Hegio. A very vile one. 
 Tyndarus. /say it's right; 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 your 
 
 favor? 
 Answer! 
 
THE CAPTIVES 
 
 131 
 
 Hbgio. Well, yes. 
 
 Ttndasus. Then why be wroth with 
 
 me f 
 Hegio. Because you were more faithful 
 
 to your master 
 Than e'er to me. 
 
 I Tyndabus. What else could you^expect? 
 Do you suppose that in one night and day 
 You could so train a man just taken captive, 
 A fresh newcomer, as to serve you better 
 Than him with whom he'd Uved from ear- 
 liest childhood? 
 Hegio. Then let him pay you for it. 
 
 Take him' off, 
 And fit him with the heaviest, thickest 
 
 chains; 
 Thence to the quarries you shaJl go right 
 
 on. 
 And whilst the rest are hewing eight stones 
 
 each, 
 You shall each day do half as much again, 
 Or else be nicknamed the Six-htmdred- 
 
 striper. 
 Abistophontes. By gods and men, I 
 
 pray you, Hegio, 
 Do not destroy him. 
 
 Hegio. I'll take care of him! 
 For in the stocks all night he shall be kept, 
 And quarry stones all day from out the 
 
 ground. 
 O, I'll prolong his torments day by day. 
 AiiisTOPHONTES. Is this your purpose? 
 H^Gio. Death is not so sure. 
 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 him that I wish him to be treated 
 With greater harshness than the worst slave 
 
 there. 
 TyNDABUS. Why should I plead with 
 
 you when you're resolved? 
 The peril of my life is yours as well 
 When I am dead I have no ill to fear; 
 And if I live to an ejctreme old age, 
 My time of suffering will be but short. 
 Farewell! though you deserve a different 
 
 wish. 
 Aristophontes, as you've done to me. 
 So may you prosper; for it is through you 
 That this has come upon me. 
 Hegio. Take him off. 
 
 Tyndakus. But if Philocrates returns to 
 you, 
 Give me a chance of seeing him, I pray. 
 Hegio. Come, take him from my sight or 
 
 I'll destroy you! 
 Ttndarus. Nay, this is sheer assault 
 and battery! 
 
 [Exeunt Overseers and Tyndarus 
 to the quarries^ 
 Hegio. There, he has gone to prison as 
 he merits. 
 I'll give my other prisoners an example. 
 That none of them may dare repeat his 
 
 crime. 
 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. Alas! I hoped 
 That I had saved my son from slavery. 
 My hope has perished. One of my sons I 
 
 lost. 
 Stolen by a slave when he was four years 
 
 old; 
 Nor have I ever found the slave or him. 
 The elder's now a captive. What's my 
 
 crime. 
 That I beget my children but to lose them? 
 Follow me, you! I'll take you where you 
 
 were. 
 Since no one pities me, I'll pity none. 
 Aristophontes. Under good auspices I 
 left my chain; 
 But I must take the auspices again. 
 
 [Exeunt Aristophontes and He- 
 gio to Hegio's hrother's.] 
 
 [Enter Ergasiltjs from the harbor.] 
 
 Ergasilus. Jove supreme, thou dost 
 protect me and increase my scanty 
 store. 
 
 Blessings lordly and magnific thou bestow- 
 est more and more; 
 
 Both thanks and gain, and sport and jest, 
 festivity and hoUdays, 
 
 Processions plenty, lots of drink and heaps 
 of meat and endless praise. 
 
 Ne'er again I'U play the beggar, every- 
 thing I want I've got; 
 
 I'm able now to bless my friends, and send 
 my enemies to pot. 
 
 With such joyful joyfulness this joyful day 
 has loaded met 
 
132 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Though it has n't been bequeathed me, I've 
 
 come into property! 
 So now I '11 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 resolved I '11 do just what the slaves do 
 
 in a comedy; 
 I'll throw my cloak around my neck, that 
 
 he may hear it first from me. 
 For this good news I hope to get my board 
 
 in perpetuity. 
 
 [Enter Hegio from his brother's.] 
 
 Hegio. How sad the regrets in my heart 
 
 that are kindled, 
 As I think over all that has happened tome. 
 
 is n't it shameful 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! 
 When I come to the market they'll show 
 
 me no pity, 
 But chaffing say, "Wily old man up a tree! " 
 But is this Ergasilus coming? Bless me! 
 His cloak 's o'er his shoulder. Why, what 
 
 can it be? 
 Ergasilus. 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. 
 
 Hegio. 'Fore me the man begins to spar! 
 Ergasilus. I shall do it. Wherefore let 
 all passers-by stand off afar; 
 Let none dare to stand conversing in this 
 
 street, tiU 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, if 
 with me they come to blows. 
 Hegio. What's he mean by all this 
 threatening? I confess I 'm puzzled 
 quite. 
 Ergasilus. I'll take care they don't 
 forget this day, this place, my 
 mickle might. 
 
 He who stops me in my course, will find 
 
 he's stopped his life as well. 
 Hegio. What he's after with these 
 
 threats and menaces,. I cannot tell. 
 Ergasilus. I proclaim it first, that none 
 
 may suffer inadvertently; 
 Stay at, home, good people all, and then 
 
 you won't get hurt by me. 
 Hegio. 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! 
 Ergasilus. First, for those pig-breeding 
 
 millers, with their fat and bran-fed 
 
 sows. 
 Stinking so that one is hardly able to get 
 
 past the house; 
 If in any public place I catch their pigs 
 
 outside their pen. 
 With my fists I'll hammer out the bran 
 
 from those; same filthy — men! 
 Hegio. Here's pot- valor with a venge- 
 ance! He's as full as man could 
 
 wish! 
 Ergasilus. Then those fishmongers, 
 
 who offer 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 baskets I '11 deal them on 
 
 their face a few smart blows, 
 Just to let them feel the nuisance that they 
 
 cause the public nose. 
 Hegio. Listen to his proclamations! 
 
 What a royal style they keep! 
 Ergasilus. 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, sweet 
 
 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! 
 Hegio. Bravo! he makes rules as if he 
 
 were a mayor and corporation. 
 Surely he's been made the master of the 
 
 market to our nation. 
 
THE CAPTIVES 
 
 133 
 
 Eegasiltjs. I'm no more a parasite, but 
 kinglier than a king of kings. 
 Such a stock of belly-timber from the port 
 
 my message brings. 
 Let me haste to heap on Hegio this good 
 
 news of jollity. 
 Certainly there 's no man living who 's more 
 fortunate than he. 
 
 Hegio. What's this news of gladness 
 which he gladly hastes on me to 
 pour? 
 
 Ekgasilus. Ho! where are you? 
 Who is there? WiU some one open me this 
 door? 
 
 Hegio. Ah! the fellow's come to dinner. 
 
 Ergasilus. Open me the door, I say; 
 Or I'll smash it into matchwood, if there's 
 any more delay. 
 
 Hegio. I'll speak to him. Ergasilus! 
 
 Ergasilus. Who calls my name so 
 lustily? 
 
 Hegio. Pray, look my way! 
 
 Ergasilus. You bid me do what For- 
 tune never did to me! 
 Who is it? 
 
 Hegio. Why, just look at me. It's 
 Hegio! 
 
 Ergasilus. Ye gods! It's he. 
 Thou best of men, in nick of time we have 
 each other greeted. 
 
 Hegio. You've got a dinner at the port; 
 that makes you so conceited. 
 
 Ergasilus. Give me your hand. 
 
 Hegio. My hand? 
 
 Ergasilus. Your hand, I say, at once! 
 
 Hegio. I give it. There! 
 
 Ergasilus. Now rejoice! 
 
 Hegio. Eejoice! but why? 
 
 Ergasilus. 'T is my command. Begone 
 dull care! 
 
 Hegio. Nay, the sorrows of my house- 
 hold hinder me from feeling joy. 
 
 Ergasilus. Ah, but I wiU wash you 
 clean from every, speck that can 
 annoy. 
 Venture to rejoice! 
 
 Hegio. All right, though I've no reason 
 to be glad. 
 
 Ergasilus. That's the way. Now or- 
 der — 
 
 Hegio. What? 
 
 Ergasilus. To have a mighty fire made. 
 
 Hegio. What, a mighty fire? 
 Ergasilus. I said so; have it big 
 
 enough. 
 Hegio. What next? 
 Do you think I'll burn my house down at 
 your asking? 
 Ergasilus. Don't be vexed! 
 Have the pots and pans got ready. Is it to 
 
 be done or not? 
 Put the ham and bacon in the oven, have 
 
 it piping hot. 
 Send a man to buy the fish — 
 Hegio. His eyes are open, but he dreams! 
 Ergasilus. And another to buy pork, 
 
 and lamb, and chickens — 
 Hegio. Well, it seems 
 You could dine well, if you'd money. 
 Ergasilus. — Perch and lamprey, if 
 you please. 
 Pickled mackerel and sting-ray, then an 
 eel and nice soft cheese. 
 HJBGio. Naming 's easy, but for eating 
 you won't find facilities 
 At my house, Ergasilus. 
 Ergasilus. Why, do you think I'm 
 ordering this 
 For myself? 
 HJEGio. Don't be deceived; for you'll eat 
 neither much, nor little, 
 If you've brought no appetite for just your 
 ordinary victual. 
 Ergasilus. Nay, I'll make you eager 
 for a feast though I should urge you 
 not. 
 Hegio. Me? 
 Ergasilus. Yes, you. 
 Hegio. Then you shall be my lord. 
 Ergasilus. A kind one too, I wot! 
 Come, am I to make you happy? 
 Hegio. Well, I'm not in love with woe. 
 Ergasilus. Where's your hand? 
 Hegio. There, take it. 
 Ergasilus. Heaven's your friend! 
 Hegio. But I don't mark it, though. 
 Ergasilus. You're not in the market, 
 that's why you don't mark it: come 
 now, bid 
 That pure vessels be got ready for the 
 
 offering, and a kid. 
 Fat and flourishing, be brought. 
 Hegio. What for? 
 Ergasilus. To make a sacrifice. 
 
134 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Hegio. Why, to whom? 
 Eegasilus. To me, of course! — I'm 
 Jupiter in human guise! 
 Yes, to you I am Salvation, Fortune, Light, 
 
 Delight, and Joy. 
 It's your business to placate my deity 
 with food, dear boy! 
 Hegio. Hunger seems to be your trou- 
 ble. 
 Eegasilus. Well, my hunger isn't 
 
 yours. 
 Hegio. As you say; so I can bear it. 
 Ergasiltjs. Lifelong habit that en- 
 sures! 
 Hegio. Jupiter and all the gods con- 
 found you! 
 Eegasilus. Nothing of the sort! 
 Thanks I merit for reporting such good 
 
 tidings from the 'port. 
 Now I'll get a meal to suit me! 
 Hegio. Idiot, go! you've come too late. 
 Eegasilus. If I'd come before I did, 
 your words would come with greater 
 weight. 
 Now receive the joyful news I bring you. 
 
 I have seen your son 
 Philopolemus in harbor safe; and he'll be 
 
 here anon. 
 He was on a public vessel; with him was 
 
 that Elian youth 
 And your slave Stalagmus, he who ran 
 
 away — it's naught but truth — 
 He who stole your little boy when four 
 years old so cruelly. 
 Hegio. Curse you, cease your mocking! 
 Eegasilus. So may holy Fulness smile 
 on me, 
 Hegio, and make me ever worthy of her 
 
 sacred name, 
 As I saw him. 
 Hegio. Saw my son? 
 Eegasilus. Your son, my patron: they 
 
 're the same. 
 Hegio. And the prisoner from Elis? 
 Eegasilus. Oui, parbleul 
 Hegio. And that vile thief, 
 Him who stole my younger son, Stalag- 
 mus? 
 Eegasilus. Oui, monsieur, par Crieff t 
 Hegio. What, just now? 
 Eegasilus. Par Kil\iecrankiel 
 Hegio. Has he come? I 
 
 Eegasilus. Oui, par Dundeel 
 
 Hegio. Are you sure? 
 
 Eegasilus. Par Auehtermuchtie! 
 
 Hegio. Certain? 
 
 Eegasilus. Oui, par Kirkcudbright I 
 
 Hegio. Why by these barbarian cities 
 
 do you swear? 
 Eegasilus. Because they're rude, 
 As you said your dinner was. 
 Hegio. That's just like your ingrati- 
 tude! 
 Eegasilus. Ah, I see you won't believe 
 
 me though it's simple truth I say. 
 But what countryman was this Stalagmus, 
 
 when he went away? 
 Hegio. A Sicilian. 
 Eegasilus. Well, but he belongs to 
 
 Colorado now; 
 For he's married to a collar, and she 
 
 squeezes him, I vow! 
 Hegio. Tell me, is your story true? 
 Eegasilus. It's really true — the very 
 
 truth. 
 Hegio. O good Heav'ns! if you're not 
 
 mocking, I've indeed renewed my 
 
 youth. 
 Eegasilus. What? Will you continue 
 
 doubting when I've pledged my 
 
 sacred troth? 
 As a last resource then, Hegio, if you can't 
 
 believe my oath. 
 Go and see. 
 Hegio. Of course I will; go in, prepare 
 
 the feast at once; 
 Everything's at your disposal; you're my 
 
 steward for the nonce. 
 Eegasilus. If my oracle's a false one, 
 
 with a cudgel comb my hide! 
 Hegio. You shall have your board for- 
 ever, if you've truly prophesied. 
 Eegasilus. Who will pay? 
 Hegio. My son and I. 
 Eegasilus. You promise that? 
 Hegio. I do indeed. 
 Eegasilus. Then I promise you your 
 
 son has really come in very deed. 
 Hegio. Take the best of everything! 
 Eegasilus. May no delay your path 
 
 impede! 
 
 [Exit Hegio to the harbor.] 
 Eegasilus. He has gone; and put his 
 
 kitchen absolutely in my hands! 
 
THE CAPTIVES 
 
 I3S 
 
 Heav'ns! how necks and trunks will be 
 dissevered at my stern commands ! 
 What a ban will fall on bacon, and what 
 harm on humble ham! 
 
 what labor on the lard, and what calam- 
 
 ity on lamb! 
 
 Butchers and pork dealers, you shall find 
 a deal to do to-day! 
 
 But to tell of all who deal in food would 
 cause too long delay. 
 
 Now, in virtue of my office, I'll give sen- 
 tence on the lard. 
 
 Help those gammons, hung though un- 
 condemned — a fate for them too 
 hard. 
 
 [Exit Ergasiltjs into the house.] 
 
 [Enter a boy from the house of Hegio.] 
 
 Boy. ISIay Jupiter and all the gods, 
 Ergasilus, confound you quite, 
 
 And all who ask you out to dine, and every 
 other parasite. 
 
 Destruction, ruin, dire distress, 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 Ucked his 
 
 lips and glared around; 
 I shook with dread, by Hercules ! he gnashed 
 
 his teeth with fearsome sound. 
 When he'd got in, he made a raid upon the 
 
 meat-safe and the meats; 
 He seized 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 doors 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. 
 For as this fellow's carrying on, there'll 
 
 soon be nothing on the shelf. 
 
 [Exit boy to the harbor.] 
 
 [Enter from the harbor Hegio, Philopole- 
 Mtrs, Philocrates, and Stalagmus.] 
 
 Hegio. All praise and thanksgiving to 
 Jove I would render 
 
 For bringing you back to your father again; 
 
 For proving my staunch and successful 
 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. 
 Philopolbmus. Grieved I have enough 
 already, I don't want to grow still 
 thinner, 
 
 And you've told me all your sorrows at the 
 harbor, pending dinner. 
 
 Now to business! 
 Philocrates. Tell me, Hegio, have I 
 kept my promises. 
 
 And restored your son to freedom? 
 Hegio. Yes, you have, Philocrates. 
 
 I can never, never thank you for the serv- 
 ices you've done. 
 
 As you merit for the way you've dealt with 
 me and with my son. 
 Philgpolemus. Yes, you can, dear fa- 
 ther, and the gods will give us both 
 a chance, 
 
 Worthily to recompense the source of my 
 deliverance. 
 
 And I'm sure, my dearest father, it will be 
 a pleasing task. 
 Hegio. Say no more. I have no tongue 
 
 that can deny you aught you ask. 
 Philocrates. Then restore to me the 
 slave whom, as a pledge, I left be- 
 hind. 
 
 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. 
 Hegio. For your goodness he shall be 
 restored to you; 't is only fair. 
 
 That and aught beside you ask for, you 
 shall have. But don't, I pray. 
 
 Be enraged with me because in wrath I 've 
 punished him to-day. 
 Philocrates. Ah, what have you done? 
 Hegio. I sent him to the quarries bound 
 with chains. 
 
 When I found how I'd been cheated. 
 Philocrates. Woe is me! he bears these 
 pains, 
 
 Dear good fellow, for my sake, because he 
 gained me my release. 
 
136 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Hegio. And on that account you shall 
 not pay for him a penny piece. 
 I will set him free for nothing. 
 
 Philochates. Well, by Pollux! Hegio, 
 That is kind. But send and fetch him 
 quickly, will you? 
 Hegio. Be it so. 
 [To a slave.] Ho, where are you? Run and 
 quickly bid young Tyndarus re- 
 turn. 
 Now, go in; for from this slave, this whip- 
 ping-block, I fain would learn 
 What has happened to my younger son, 
 
 and if he's living still. 
 Meanwhile you can take a bath. 
 Philopolemus. Come in, Philocrates. 
 Philockates. I will. 
 
 [Exeunt Philopolemtjs and Phi- 
 locrates into the house.] 
 Hegio. Now stand forth, my worthy sir, 
 my slave so handsome, good, and 
 wise! 
 Stalagmus. What can you expect from 
 me, when such a man as you tells 
 lies? 
 For I never was nor shall be fine or hand- 
 some, good or true; 
 If you're building on my goodness, it will 
 be the worse for you. 
 Hegio. Well, it is n't hard for you to see 
 which way 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 
 
 Stalagmus. Oh, you need n't think I 
 blush to hear you say what I con- 
 fess. 
 
 Hegio. I will make you blush, you vil- 
 lain; for a bath of blood prepare! 
 
 Stalagmus. 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'll get it. 
 
 Hegio. You're too fluent; kindly speak 
 with brevity. 
 
 Stalagmus. As you please. 
 
 Hegio. Ah, from a boy he was a supple, 
 flattering knave. 
 
 But to business! Pray attend to me, and 
 
 tell me what I crave. 
 If you speak the truth, you'll find your 
 
 interest 't will best subserve. 
 Stalagmus. Don't tell me! D' you 
 
 think that I don't know full well 
 
 what I deserve? 
 Hegio. But you may escape a part if 
 
 not the whole of your desert. 
 Stalagmus. Oh, it's little I'll escape! 
 
 and much will happen to my hurt: 
 For I ran away and stole your son from 
 
 you, and him I sold. 
 Hegio. Oh, to whom? 
 Stalagmus. To Theodoromedes of the 
 
 house of Gold 
 For ten pounds. 
 Hegio. GoodHeav'ns! Why, that's the 
 
 father of Philocrates. 
 Stalagmus. Yes, I know that quite as 
 
 well as you do — better, if you 
 
 please. 
 Hegio. Jupiter in Heaven, save me, and 
 
 preserve my darling son! 
 On your soul, Philocrates, come out! I 
 
 want you. Make haste, run! 
 
 [Enter Philocrates froTn the hoitse.] 
 
 Philocrates. Hegio, I am at your serv- 
 ice. 
 Hegio. This man says he sold my son 
 To your father there in Elis for ten pounds. 
 Philocrates. When was this done? 
 Stalagmus. Twenty years ago. 
 Philocrates. O, nonsense! Hegio, he's 
 
 telling lies. 
 Stalagmus. Either you or I am lying; 
 
 for when you were little boys. 
 He was given you by your father to be 
 
 trained along with you. 
 Philocrates. Well, then, tell me what 
 
 his name was, if this tale of yours is 
 
 true. 
 Stalagmus. Psegnium at first; in after 
 
 time you called him Tyndarus. 
 Philocrates. How is it that I don't 
 
 Icnow you? 
 Stalagmus. Men are oft oblivious. 
 And forget the names of those from whom 
 
 they 've nothing to expect. 
 Philocrates. Then this child you sold 
 
 my father, if your story is correct, 
 
THE CAPTIVES 
 
 137 
 
 Was bestowed on me as valet. Who was he? 
 Stalagmus. My master's son. 
 Hbgio. Is he hving, fellow? 
 Stalagmus. Nay, I got the money; then 
 
 I 'd done. 
 Hegio. What say youf 
 Philocrates. That Tyndanis is your 
 lost son! I give you joy! 
 So at least this fellow's statements make 
 
 me think; for he's the boy 
 Who received his education with myself all 
 through our youth. 
 Hegio. 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, alas! I did both more and less than 
 
 what I should have done! 
 How I'm vexed that I chastised him! 
 
 Would that I could alter it! 
 See, he comes! and in a fashion that is any- 
 thing but fit. 
 
 [Enter Ttndarus from the quarries] 
 
 TruBARUs. Well, I've often seen in 
 
 pictures all the torments of the 
 
 damned; 
 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 all weariness; you simply drive it off by 
 
 working more. 
 When I got there, just as wealthy fathers 
 
 oft will give their boys 
 Starlings, goslings, quills to play with in 
 
 the place of other toys, 
 So when I got there, a crow was given me as 
 
 plaything pretty! 
 Ah, my lord is at the door; and my old lord 
 
 from Ehs city 
 Has returned! 
 
 Hegio. O hail, my long lost son! 
 TTNDARtrs. Wiiat means this talk of 
 
 "sons"? 
 Oh, I see why you pretend to be my father; 
 
 yes, for once 
 You have acted like a parent, for you've 
 
 brought me to the light. 
 PHrLOCRATBS. Hail, good Tyndarus! 
 Ttndarus. All hail! for you I'm in this 
 
 pretty plight. 
 
 Philocrates. Ah! 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 
 
 valet you might be. 
 This man whom we brought from Elis has 
 most certain proofs supplied. 
 Ttndarus. What, am I his son? 
 Philocrates. You are; your brother too 
 
 you '11 find inside. 
 
 Ttndarus. Then you have brought back 
 
 with you his son who was a prisoner? 
 
 Philocrates. Yes, and he is in the house. 
 
 Ttndarus. You've done right well and 
 
 nobly, sir. 
 Philocrates. Now you have a father; 
 here's the thief who stole you when 
 a boy. 
 Ttndarus. Now that I'm grown up, 
 he'll find that theft will bring him 
 little joy. 
 Philocrates. He deserves your venge- 
 ance. 
 Ttndarus. Oh, I'U have him paid for 
 what he's done. 
 Tell me though, are you my father really? 
 Hegio. Yes, I am, my son. 
 Ttndarus. Now at length it dawns 
 upon me, and I seem, when I re- 
 flect. 
 Yes, I seem to call to mind and somewhat 
 
 vaguely recollect, 
 As if looking through a mist, my father's 
 name was Hegio. 
 Hegio. I am he! 
 
 Philocrates. Then strike the fetters off 
 your son and let him go! 
 And attach them to this villain. 
 
 Hegio. Certainly, it shall be so. 
 Let's go in, and let the smith be summoned 
 
 to strike off your chains. 
 And to put them on this fellow. 
 
 Stalagmus. Right! For they're my 
 
 only gains. 
 Epilogue. Gentlemen, this play's been 
 written on the lines of modesty; 
 Here are found no wiles of women, no gay 
 lovers' gallantry; 
 
138 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Here are no aflBliations, and no tricks for 
 
 getting gold; 
 No young lover buys his mistress whilst his 
 
 father is cajoled. 
 It's not often nowadays that plays are 
 
 written of this kind, 
 
 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 our cause, 
 And to modesty award the prize with 
 
 heartiest applause. 
 
PHORMIO 
 
 By TERENCE 
 
 Translated into English frose By MORRIS H. MORGAN 
 
COPYRIGHT BY THE PRESIDENT AND FELLOWS 
 OF HARVARD COLLEGE, 1894 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Davos, a slave 
 
 Geta, slave of Demipho 
 
 AuTiPHo, a young man, son of Demipho 
 
 PaBDEiA, a young man, son of Chremes 
 
 Demipho, an old man 
 
 Phormio, a parasite 
 
 Hegio, 1 
 
 Cratinus, j- advisers of Demipho 
 
 Ceito, I 
 
 DoEio, a slave-trader 
 
 Chbemes, an old man, Demipho' s brother 
 
 SopHHONA, an old nurse 
 
 Nausisthata, a matron, wife of Chremes 
 
 A Cantor 
 
PHORMIO 
 
 ACT I 
 
 [Scene: A street in Athens, leading on the 
 right to the market-'place, on the left to the port. 
 At the back, the houses of Chkemes (%.), 
 Demipho (c), and Dorio (r.).] 
 
 [Enter Davos, r.] 
 
 Davos. My particular friend and coun- 
 tryman, Geta, came to see me yesterday. 
 I had been owing him some small balance 
 of cash on account a good while, and he 
 asked me to get it together. I've got it 
 together, and I'm bringing it to him now. 
 The fact is, I'm told that his master's son 
 has got married; it's for the girl, I suppose, 
 that he's scraping this testimonial together. 
 How unfair it is that poor folks should al- 
 ways be adding something to rich people's 
 piles! Now here's Geta; — the 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 '11 spoil 
 him 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 haa a baby; and then another too 
 when the baby has a birthday, 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 see Geta? 
 
 [Enter Geta, from Demipho's.] 
 
 Geta [looking back]. If e'er a red-head 
 asks for me — 
 
 Davos. Here he is. That'll do. 
 
 Geta. Ha! Why, Davos, you were the 
 very man I wanted to meet. 
 
 Davos [handing him the bag]. There you 
 are! Take it; it's good money. You'll find 
 the total comes 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 such a pass that 
 you're expected to feel very much obliged 
 when a man pays you a debt. But what 
 makes you so glum? 
 
 Geta. Me? Oh, you don't know what ^ 
 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. Get out, will you, you simpletons- 
 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 gain by deceiving you there? 
 
 Geta. Well, then, listen. 
 
 Davos. I'm at your service. 
 
 Geta. Davos, do you know our old 
 gentleman's elder brother Chremes? 
 
 Davos. Of course I do. 
 
 Geta. And his son Phjedria? 
 
 Davos. As well as I know you. 
 
 Geta. The two old fellows happened'; to 
 start out at the same time, — Chremes on 
 a trip to Lemnos, 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? 
 
 Geta. Never mind; it is his nature 
 to. 
 
 Davos. Oh, if only I had been a million- 
 aire! 
 
 Geta. Well, when the two old gentlemen 
 set out, they left me here with their sons 
 as a sort of guardian. 
 
 Davos. O 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 
 make a long story short, I found that being 
 true to the old man was the ruination of 
 my back. 
 
144 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Davos. Just what I was thinking; it's 
 folly, you know, kicking against the pricks. 
 
 Geta. So I began to do everything they 
 wanted, and to comply with all their 
 wishes. 
 
 Davos. You understand how to carry 
 your pigs to the best market. 
 
 Geta. Our fellow did n't make any 
 trouble at first; but Phsedria 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, and we had n't a 
 penny to give him, — the old gentlemen 
 had looked out for that. So the only thing 
 left for Phsedria 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 Phsedria. Now there 
 was a barber's shop just across the street 
 from 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. "I 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 opposite. 
 She had n't with her a well-wisher or friend 
 or relative helping with the funeral, except 
 one lone woman. It was pitiable. The girl 
 herself was a beauty." In short, he stirred 
 us all up, and Antipho cried out, "Shall we 
 go and see her?" and somebody else, "I 
 move we do, — let's go, — show us the 
 way, please." We start; we're there; we 
 take a look. The girl was a beauty, and 
 you could put it all the more strongly be- 
 cause she had n't any artificial fallals to 
 make her so. Hair disheveled — feet bare 
 
 — she all frowsy — weeping — meanly 
 dressed; in fact, if she had n't been the 
 very essence of beauty, all this would have 
 eclipsed her beauty. The young fellow who 
 was in love with the harp-lady only said, 
 "She's very pretty"; but my young 
 master — 
 
 Davos. I know without being told; he 
 fell in love with her. 
 
 Geta. 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 marry a 
 girl without a dowry and of unknown 
 family? Never in the world. 
 
 Davos. Well, what happened in the end? 
 
 Geta. What happened? There's a para- 
 site of the name of Phormio — a cheeky 
 fellow — blast him! 
 
 Davos. Why, what's he been up to? 
 
 Geta. He supplied the scheme which I 
 am going to describe. "There's a law," 
 says he, "that orphan girls must marry 
 their next of kin, 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. I '11 pretend that 
 I was a friend of the girl's father. We shall 
 come into court. Who her father was, and 
 who her mother, and how she is related to 
 you, I'll make all that up. It will be good 
 and easy for me, for you won't disprove 
 any of the charges, and so of 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 ours any- 
 how. 
 
 Davos. A jolly piece of cheek! 
 
 Geta. Antipho agreed — 't was done 
 — off we went — got beaten — he married 
 her. 
 
 Davos. What are you telling me? 
 
 Geta. Just what you hear. 
 
 Davos. Oh, Geta, what will become of 
 you? 
 
 Geta. By the powers I don't know that; 
 but one thing I do know, which is, that 
 "bravely we'll bear the burden fortune 
 brings." 
 
PHORMIO 
 
 145 
 
 Davos, I like that; that's taking it Uke 
 a, little man. 
 
 Geta. I've no hope in anybody but 
 myself. 
 
 Davos. Good again! 
 
 Geta. I suppose I must go to somebody 
 who will beg me off in this style: "Do let 
 him off just this once; but if he is ever 
 guilty again, I won't say a word," — all 
 but adding, "Kill him, for all me, when I've 
 once got away." 
 
 Davos. What about the harp-lady's 
 chaperon? How's he getting on? 
 
 Geta. So, so. Pretty poorly. 
 
 Davos. Has n't much to give, perhaps? 
 
 Geta. Nothing at all but imadulterated 
 hope. 
 
 Davos. His father home yet or not? 
 
 Geta. Not yet. 
 
 Davos. Well, how long before you ex- 
 pect your own old man? 
 
 Geta. I don't know for sure, but I'm 
 told that a letter has come from him which 
 has been taken to fe.£ custom-house; I'll 
 go after it. 
 
 Davos. Can't do anything more for you, 
 Geta, can I? 
 
 Geta. Only take care of yourself. [Exit 
 Davos, b.] Hi! boy! is nobody ever com- 
 ing? [Enter a slave] Take this, and give it 
 to Doroium. [Gives him the bag, and exit l.] 
 
 ACT II 
 
 [Enter Antipho and Ph^dria from the 
 house of Chremes.] 
 
 Antipho. Oh, Phaedria, to think that it 
 haa 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 
 should be waiting for his coming with joy. 
 
 Ph^dria. Why, what's 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 step, 
 which was the beginm'ng of aU my troubles! 
 I shouldn't have got the girl, of course, 
 and that would have made me wretched for 
 
 some days; but still, I should n't be suffer- 
 ing this everlasting anxiety all the time, — 
 
 PasDRiA. Yes, yes. 
 
 Antipho. Constantly expecting that he 
 will soon be here to break up this marriage 
 of mine. 
 
 Ph^dria. Other men are wretched be- 
 cause they have n't "got the object of their 
 love, but you're unhappy because you've 
 got too much of it. You're embarrassed 
 with bliss, Antipho. But I tell you that 
 your position is one to be coveted and de- 
 sired. Bless me, for the chance to be so 
 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 say nothing of 
 your having got a well-born lady without 
 any expense, and of having the wife of your 
 choice pubUcly acknowledged, and without 
 any scandal! 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 out! But that's the way 
 almost all of us are made; we're dissatisfied 
 with our own lot. 
 
 Antipho. On the contrary, Phsedria, 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 such a fix that I can neither 
 keep mine nor let her go either. But what 's 
 here? Is n't this Geta I see running up this 
 way? It's the very man. Oh, dear me, I'm 
 dreadfully frightened about the news he 
 may be bringing! [They retire u'p.\ 
 
 [Enter Geta, hastily from the 'port.] 
 
 Geta. You're done for, Geta, unless you 
 find some way out and mighty quick ! Such 
 troubles threaten you all of a sudden and 
 you're so unprepared. I don't see how to 
 dodge them or how to get myself out of this 
 fix. Our reckless doings can't possibly be 
 concealed any longer. 
 
 Antipho [aside]. 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 close by. 
 
 Antipho [aside]. What's this trouble? 
 
146 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Geta. Once he's heard of it, how shall I 
 headoff his fury? Talk? 'T would set him 
 afire. Silence? Merely egging him on. Clear 
 myself? Might as well wash a brick. Oh, 
 dear me! I'm frightened on my own ac- 
 count, and then I'm in torture when I 
 think of Antipho. He's the man I'm sorry 
 for. I'm afraid for his sake now, and it's 
 he that keeps me here. Why, if it were not 
 for him, I should have seen to myself eas- 
 ily enough, and got even with the old man 
 for his anger. I should just have got some 
 traps together, and then taken to my 
 heels straight out of here. 
 
 Antipho [aside]. Why, what's this he's 
 plotting about running away or stealing? 
 
 Geta. But where shall I find Antipho? 
 Which way shall I go to look for him? 
 
 Ph^dbia [aside]. He's talking about 
 you. 
 
 Antipho [aside]. I dread some great 
 misfortune from this news. 
 
 Ph.«!DBia [aside]. Oh, dear! 
 
 Geta. I'll go on home. That's where he 
 is generally. 
 
 Ph^dbia [aside]. Let's call the fellow 
 back. 
 
 Antipho. Stop where you are! 
 
 Geta. Ha! pretty peremptory, don't 
 care who you are! 
 
 Antipho. 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 
 in one word. 
 
 Geta. I will. 
 
 Antipho. Speak out. 
 
 Geta. Just now, down at the post — 
 
 Antipho. My — 
 
 Geta. You've hit it. 
 
 Antipho. I'm a dead man! 
 
 Ph^bdeia. Whew! 
 
 Antipho. What shall I do? 
 
 Ph^bdria. What's this you say? 
 
 Geta. That I saw his father, your uncle. 
 
 Antipho. Now how am I to find a way 
 out of this sudden catastrophe, dear, dear 
 me? Why, life is n't worth living, if it's 
 my fate to be torn away from you, 
 Phanium. 
 
 Geta. Well, if that's so, Antipho, 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 will 
 think you guilty if he sees you frightened. 
 
 Ph.«!DBIa. That's true. 
 
 Antipho. I can't change my nature. 
 
 Geta. Suppose you had to do something 
 still harder, what then? 
 
 Antipho. As I can't do this, I could do 
 that still less. 
 
 Geta. It's no use, Phasdria; it's all over. 
 Why waste our time here for nothing? I 'm 
 off. 
 
 PhjBdria. And I too [going]. 
 
 Antipho. For mercy's sake! Suppose I 
 make believe? Will this do? 
 
 [Strikes an attitude.] 
 
 Geta. Silly! 
 
 Antipho. But just look at my face. 
 There! is that satisfactory? 
 
 Geta. No. 
 
 Antipho. How abt'ait this? 
 
 Geta. Pretty fair. 
 
 Antipho. And this? 
 
 Geta. That will do. Keep that, and look 
 out that you answer him word for word, tit 
 for tat, so that he shan't rout you with 
 harsh language while he's in a passion. 
 
 Antipho. I understand. 
 
 Geta. Say you were forced into it, 
 against your will. 
 
 PHiEDBiA. By the law — by the court. 
 
 Geta. Do you catch on? But who's 
 that old man I see down the street? It's 
 the governor! 
 
 Antipho. I can't face him. 
 
 Geta. Here! what are you doing? 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. [Runs off, a.] 
 
 Ph^dbia. What's going to be done now, 
 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, Phsedria, just what we were 
 advising Antipho. 
 
 PHiBDRiA. None of your "oughts." Just 
 give me your orders what I'm to do. 
 
PHORMIO 
 
 147 
 
 Geta. Do you-remember what you said 
 long ago when we started in with this 
 affair, about protecting ourselves from 
 trouble, — that the other side's case was 
 just, easy, sure to win, the best in the 
 world? 
 
 Ph^dria. Yea, I remember. 
 
 Geta. Well, now's the time for that 
 very plea, or, if possible, for a better and 
 one more cunning still. 
 
 PaEDRiA. I'll do my best. 
 
 Geta. You go up to him first, and I'U 
 ■ stay here in ambush as a reserve force, in 
 case you fail. 
 
 PttffiDBiA. Very well. [Geta retires up.] 
 
 [Enter Demipho, l.] 
 
 Demipho. What, what, what! Antipho's 
 got married, has he, without my consent? 
 As for my authority, — well, never mind 
 authority, — but only think of his haviog 
 no regard even for my displeasure! Not a 
 bit ashamed, either. Oh, what a monstrous 
 thing! Oh, Geta, Geta, you rare adviser! 
 
 Geta [aside]. In for it at last! 
 
 Demipho. Now what will they say to 
 me? What excuse will they find? I wonder 
 very much. 
 
 Geta [aside]. Oh, I shall find one; you 
 need n't worry about that. 
 
 Demipho. Is this what he'll say: "I did 
 it against my will; the law forced me to it." 
 Yes, yes; I admit it. 
 
 Geta. You old dear! 
 
 Demipho. But with his eyes open, with- 
 out a word, to give up the case to the other 
 side! Did the law force him to that? 
 
 PasjDRiA [aside]. Ah, that's a hard nut! 
 
 Geta [aside]. I'll crack it, though; let 
 me alone for that! 
 
 Demipho. It's taten me so unawares, — 
 it's so past belief that I can't tell what to 
 do. I 'm so much exasperated that I can't 
 compose my mind to think it over. Well, 
 the fact is, when everything is most suc- 
 cessful 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 
 daughter's illness; — these things happen 
 to everybody, they can happen to you, so 
 there should n't be anything surprising in 
 them; but everything that surprises you 
 
 by ending well, you can set down as so 
 much clear gain. 
 
 Geta [aside]. Ha, Phsedria! It's past 
 belief how much more of a sage I am than 
 my master. I have reflected on all the 
 troubles that master's return will bring 
 upon me, — grinding to do at tiie 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 shall 
 set down as so much clear gain. But why 
 don't you step up to him and address him 
 politely to begin with? 
 
 Demipho. There's my nephew Phasdria, 
 I see, coming to meet me. 
 
 PhjBdria. How do you do, imcle? 
 
 Demipho. How do you do? But where 'a 
 Antipho? 
 
 PaEDRiA. You've got back safe, — 
 
 Demipho. Yes, yes; but answer my 
 question. 
 
 PasiDRiA. He's well — he's here; but 
 has everything gone to your liking? 
 
 Demipho. I wish it had, indeed. 
 
 PhjBdbia. Why, what's the matter? 
 
 Demipho. What a question, Phsedria! 
 This is a fine marriage that you've cooked 
 up here while I was away! 
 
 Pb^dria. Holloa! are you angry with 
 him for that? 
 
 Geta [aside]. Fine acting! 
 
 Demipho. 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! 
 
 PttSJDRiA. 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. 
 
 PHiBDRiA. It is n't so. 
 
 Demipho. When A's in trouble, B turns 
 up to make excuses for him; and when 
 it's B, then up comes A. They go part- 
 ners in it. 
 
 Geta [aside]. The old man's drawn a 
 fine sketch of their proceedings without 
 knowing it. 
 
 Demipho. If it was n't so, you would n't 
 be taking his part, Phsedria. 
 
148 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Ptt«!DEiA. Well, uncle, if it is a fact that 
 Antipho has done a wrong, regardless of 
 his interests or reputation, I have nothing 
 to say against his suffering as he has de- 
 served. But if somebody took advantage 
 of his own cunning to lay a snare for our 
 youthful innocence and has caught us in 
 it, is it our 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. 
 
 Geta [aside]. If I did n't know the case, 
 I should believe that he was telling the 
 truth. 
 
 Demipho. Is there a judge aUve who 
 can possibly know your rights when you 
 don't answer a word yourself, like that son 
 of mine? 
 
 Ph^dhia. He behaved like a young 
 man of good breeding. When we got into 
 court, he could n't speak his piece; his 
 modesty struck him quite dumb then and 
 there. 
 
 Geta [aside]. Bravo, you! but shall I not 
 address the old man at once? [Going for- 
 ward.] Good-day, master. I'm glad you've 
 got home safe. 
 
 Demipho. 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. 
 
 Geta. I've heard you blaming us 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. 
 
 Demipho. I waive all that, and I admit 
 this, too, that the boy was afraid and un- 
 suspecting. I grant that you are a slave. 
 But no matter 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 her look out for another 
 husband. On what account, then, did he 
 prefer to bring home a pauper? 
 
 Geta. It was n't on account, — it was 
 cash down that was wanted. 
 
 Demipho. He should have got it some- 
 where or other. 
 
 Geta. Somewhere or other? Nothing 
 easier to say! 
 
 Demipho. On interest, at the worst, if on 
 no other terms. 
 
 Geta. Bless my soul! Pretty fine talk! 
 As if anybody would have trusted him, 
 with you alive! 
 
 Demipho. No, no; it shan't be so; it 
 can't be. What! let her stay on as his wife 
 a single day? This is no case for kindness. 
 But I want to have that man pointed out 
 to me, or to be shown where he lives. 
 
 Geta. You mean Phormio? 
 
 Demipho. The woman's next friend. 
 
 Geta. I '11 bring him here at once. 
 
 Demipho. Where's Antipho now? 
 
 Geta. Out. 
 
 Demipho. Go and look for him, Phae- 
 dria, and bring him here. 
 
 PttEDBiA. I'll make a bee line. 
 
 [Exit to Dohio's.] 
 
 Geta [aside]. Yes,toPamphila's. [ExUb..] 
 
 Demipho. As for me, I'U turn in home 
 and pay my respects to my household gods, 
 and then go on 'Change and call some 
 friends to stand by me in this affair, so 
 that I shan't be unprepared in case of 
 Phormio's coming. [Exit to his hotise.] 
 
 ACT III 
 [Enter Phormio and Geta, r.] 
 
 Phormio. And so you say he's gone off 
 in a fright at his father's return? 
 
 Geta. Exactly. 
 
 Phormio. Phanium left all by herself? 
 
 Geta. Just so. 
 
 Phormio. And the old man boiling. 
 
 Geta. Precisely. 
 
 Phormio. Then, Phormio, the whole 
 responsibiUty rests on you; you mixed this 
 mess, and now you've got to eat it all 
 yourself. Brace up! 
 
 Geta. For mercy's sake, Phormio! 
 
 Phormio . Supposing he asks — 
 
 Geta. You're our only hope! 
 
 Phormio. See here, what if he retorts — 
 
 Geta. You drove the boy to it. 
 
 Phormio. There, that'll do, I fancy. 
 
 Geta. Come to the rescue! 
 
 Phormio. Trot out your old man, for 
 I've got my plans all marshaled in my 
 head. 
 
PHORMIO 
 
 149 
 
 Gbta. What are you going to do? 
 
 Phormio. What, indeed, except let 
 Phanium stay here, clear Aiitipho of this 
 charge, and turn the whole current of the 
 old man's wrath on to myself? 
 
 Geta. Oh, you brave, kind man! but 
 what I'm often afraid of, Phormio, is that 
 all this courage may land you in the stocks 
 at last. 
 
 Phobmio. Oh, no, not at all; I've tried 
 it ; I know where to set my feet. How many 
 fellows do you think I've beaten to death 
 before to-day? Yet come, did you ever 
 hear of anybody bringing a suit against me 
 for assault and battery? 
 
 Geta. How does it come about? 
 
 Phormio. It's because we never set 
 traps for the hawks and kites that really 
 hmi; us; it's only for birds that don't hurt 
 that traps are set. There's 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 
 everybody knows that I've got nothii^ to 
 lose. But perhaps you'll say that they'll 
 convict me and take me home to hold me 
 there. Oh, no; they don't want to keep a 
 ravenous fellow like me; they don't want 
 to do good for evil, and that 's where they 're 
 wise, I think. 
 
 Geta. Well, he can't ever thank you as 
 much as you deserve. 
 
 Phokmio. Not quite so. Nobody ever 
 can thank his patron as much as he de- 
 serves. Think of it! You come scot free to 
 his dinner, all perfumed and shining from 
 the bath, with a heart free from care, 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 puzzling banquet's spread. 
 
 Geta. What's that? 
 
 Phormio. That's when you're puzzled 
 what to help yourself to first. Now, when 
 you 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; the first onset is always the 
 
 fiercest. If you stand that, you may after- 
 wards make play as you like. 
 
 [Enter Dbmipho and his advisers, R.] 
 
 Demipho. Did you ever hear of a more 
 insulting piece of injustice done to anybody 
 than this to me? Stand by me, I beg of 
 you. 
 
 Geta [aside]. He's in a passion. 
 
 Phormio [to Geta aside]. Mind your 
 cue now; I 'm going to touch him up pretty 
 quick. [Alovd, to Geta.] Great heavens! 
 Does Demipho actually deny that Pha- 
 nium 's related to him? What! Demipho 
 says this girl's no relation? 
 
 Geta. He says not. 
 
 Phormio. And that he doesn't know 
 who her father was? 
 
 Geta. He says not. 
 
 Demipho. I fancy this is the very man I 
 was talking about. Follow me. 
 
 Phormio. Because the poor thing is left 
 in poverty, her father is disowned and she 
 herself is abandoned. Only see what avarice 
 does! 
 
 Geta. You'll hear what you won't like 
 if you insinuate anything wrong about my 
 master. 
 
 Demipho. Oh, what impudence! Why, 
 he 's come to take the initiative by accusing 
 me! 
 
 Phormio. I've no reason at aU 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 
 living, generally keeping in the country, 
 where my father let him have a farm to 
 cultivate. The old fellow used often to tell 
 me how this kinsman of his neglected him. 
 But what a fine man he was! the best / ever 
 saw in all my life. 
 
 Geta. I hope you'll ever see yourself 
 such as you describe him. 
 
 Phormio. 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. 
 
 Geta. Will you persist in slandering my 
 master behind his back, you dirty dog? 
 
 Phobmio. Serves him right. 
 
ISO 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Geta. Still more of it, you jail-bird? 
 
 Demipho. Greta — 
 
 Geta. You extortioner, you law-shark! 
 
 Demipho. Geta! 
 
 Phormio [aside]. Answer him. 
 
 Geta. Whom have we here? Oh! 
 
 Demipho. Hold your tongue! 
 
 Geta. Why, he's been insulting you all 
 day long behind your back, — insults that 
 don't fit you and do fit him. 
 
 Demipho. Avast there I Hold on! Young 
 man [to Phobmio], to begin with, I want to 
 ask you this, with your kind permission, if 
 you will be good enough to answer me: 
 Explain to me who this friend of yours was 
 you're talking about, and how he said that 
 I was related to him. 
 
 Phobmio. There you are, fishing; as if 
 you did n't know. 
 
 Demipho. Did n't know? 
 
 Phoemio. Yes. 
 
 Demipho. I say I don't; but you, who 
 Bay I do, just jog my memory. 
 
 Phormio. What, man! not know your 
 own cousin? 
 
 Demipho. You're killing me. TeU me 
 his name. 
 
 Phormio. His name; of course. 
 ■ Demipho. Why don't you speak? • 
 
 Phormio [aside]. By the powers, I'm a 
 goner! I've forgotten the name. 
 
 Demipho. What's that you say? 
 
 Phormio [aside to Geta]. Geta, just 
 prompt me if you recollect the name that 
 was given at the time. [Aloud.] No, I won't 
 tell you. You're here to pump me, as if 
 you did n't know it yourself. 
 
 Demipho. What! Pumping you? 
 
 Geta [aside to Phormio]. Stilpo. 
 
 Phormio. And then again, what do I 
 care ? It 's Stilpo. 
 
 Demipho. Whom did you say? 
 
 Phormio. Stilpo, I tell you; you knew 
 him. 
 
 Demipho. I did n't know him either, 
 and I never had a relative of such a name. 
 
 Phobmio. So, so? Don't you feel abashed 
 before these gentlemen? Yet if he had left 
 a property worth ten talents — 
 
 Demipho. Oh confound you! 
 
 Phobmio. You'd be the very first with 
 a tip-top memory to trace your ancestry 
 
 all the way from grandfather and great- 
 grandfather. 
 
 Demipho. Very likely, as you say. Well, 
 when I came forward I should have stated 
 how she was related to me. Now, you do 
 the same. Come, how is she related? 
 
 Geta. Bravo, master, well done! and 
 you, sir, look out for yourself. 
 
 Phormio. My duty was to explain it to 
 the court, and I did so with perfect clear- 
 ness. If it was n't true, why did n't your 
 son disprove it on the spot? 
 
 Demipho. You talk to me about my 
 son? Why, I can't find words to describe 
 his stupidity. 
 
 Phobmio. Well, then, you who are so 
 wise, go to the magistrates and make them 
 try the same case all over again for you. 
 For you talk as though you were sole lord 
 paramount in these parts and the only man 
 alive entitled to a second trial of the same 
 case. 
 
 Demipho. Though I have been unjustly 
 treated, still, rather than go to law or have 
 to listen to you — here, just as if she really 
 were related, take these five ducats, the 
 dowry that the law directs, and carry her 
 away. 
 
 Phobmio. Ha! ha! ha! you sweety! 
 
 Demipho. 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? 
 
 Phobmio. Does the law direct you, I'd 
 like to know, to pay her and send her off 
 like a courtesan? Or was it to prevent a 
 freeborn lady from doing anything to dis- 
 grace herself through poverty that the law 
 directs to give her to her nearest kinsman 
 to live with him? And that's just what 
 you're preventing. 
 
 Demipho. Yes, to her nearest kinsman. 
 But how do we come in, or on what 
 grounds? 
 
 Phobmio. Oh, dear! "don't open a case 
 that's closed," as the saying goes. 
 
 Demipho. Don't open it? On the con- 
 trary, I'll never rest until I've seen it 
 through. 
 
 Phobmio. Silly of you. 
 
 Demipho. You just let me alone. 
 
 Phobmio. In short, Demipho, I've noth- 
 
PHORMIO 
 
 151 
 
 ing to do with you. It was your son that 
 lost the suit, not you; for your time for 
 marrying was gone long ago. 
 
 Demipho. You can take him as saying 
 all that I say now; if he does n't I'll shut 
 him and his wife out of my house. 
 
 Geta [aside]. He's in a passion. 
 
 Phobmio. You'd better do the same 
 thing with yourself. 
 
 Demipho. So you're ready to take a 
 stand against me in everything, are you, 
 you ill-starred wretch? 
 
 Phokmio [aside to Geta]. He's afraid of 
 lis, though he tries hard to conceal it. 
 
 Geta [imde to Phormio]. Your first 
 moves are well made. 
 
 Phobmio [aloud]. Why not put up with 
 what you must put up with? That will be 
 in keeping with your reputation, and we 
 shall be friends. 
 
 Demipho. What! I seek your friend- 
 ship, or wish to see or hear of you? 
 
 Phormio. If you make it up with her, 
 you'll have somebody to cheer your old 
 age; think of your time of life. 
 
 Demipho. Keep her to cheer yourself. 
 
 Phobmio. Do moderate your angry pas- 
 sions. 
 
 Demipho. See here! enough said. If you 
 don't hurry and take that woman away, 
 I '11 throw her out of doors. That 's my last 
 word, Phormio. 
 
 Phobmio. And if you lay a finger on her 
 in any way unbefitting a lady, I'll bring 
 a smashing suit against you. That's my 
 last word, Demipho. [Aside to Geta.] 
 Here! if you need me for slny thing, you'll 
 find me at home. 
 
 Geta. All right! [Exit Phormio, b.] 
 
 Demipho. What worry and trouble my 
 son does 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 
 might know what he has to say about the 
 matter, or what he thinks. Off with you! 
 see whether he has got home yet. 
 
 Geta. Yes. [Exit to house of Demipho.] 
 
 Demipho [to his advisers]. You see in 
 what a state things are. Now what am I 
 to do? Tell me, Hegio. 
 
 Hecio. I? I move Cratinus does, if you 
 please. 
 
 Demipho. Well, speak, Cratinus, 
 
 Cratinus. Do you mean me? 
 
 Demipho. Yes sir. 
 
 Cratinus. 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 absence should be put back entirely 
 as it was, and you will carry that point. 
 That's what I say. 
 
 Demipho. Now, Hegio, it's your tiurn 
 to speak. 
 
 Hegio. 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 to me that what the 
 law has done can be undone; and it's dis- 
 creditable to try it. 
 
 Demipho. Well, Crito? 
 
 Cioto. I vote we take time to think it 
 over; it's important. 
 
 Hegio. We can't do anjrthing more for 
 you, can we? 
 
 Demipho. You have done finely. 
 [Exeunt advisers r.] I'm much more be- 
 wildered than before. 
 
 [Enter Geta, from Dbmipho's hottse.] 
 
 Geta. They say he has n't come in. 
 
 Demipho. I must wait for my brother. 
 I'll follow the advice which he gives me in 
 the matter. I '11 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 may know how things are. But, 
 halloa! I see him coming ia the nick of 
 time. 
 
 [Enter Antipho, e.] 
 
 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 
 business 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. 
 
152 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Geta. And really, master, we too have 
 been finding fault with you behind your 
 back for leaving us. 
 
 Antipho. You're the very man I was 
 looking for. 
 
 Geta. But for aU that we have n't failed 
 you a bit. 
 
 Antipho. For heaven's sake, tell me 
 how my fate and fortunes stand. My 
 father has n't got wind of anything? 
 
 Geta. Not yet. 
 
 Antipho. Any prospect for the future? 
 
 Geta. I don't know. 
 
 Antipho. Oh, dear! 
 
 Geta. But Phaedria has never ceased his 
 efforts for you. 
 
 Antipho. That's nothing new in him. 
 
 Geta. Then Phormio, too, has shown 
 the man of energy in this as in everjrthing 
 else. 
 
 Antipho. Why, what has he done? 
 
 Geta. He's bluffed the angry old man 
 with his talk. 
 
 Antipho. Oh, bravo, Phormio! 
 
 Geta. And I did what I could myself. 
 
 Antipho. My dear Geta, I'm much 
 obliged to you all. 
 
 Geta. The opening moves were made 
 as I have described; all's quiet up to the 
 present time, and your father is going to 
 wait until your uncle comes home. 
 
 Antipho. Why for him? 
 
 Geta. He said he wanted to act in this 
 case according to his advice. 
 
 Antipho. Oh, Geta, how I do dread to 
 see my uncle come home safe and sound! 
 For life and death, I find, depend on his 
 single voice. 
 
 Geta. Here comes Phjedria. 
 
 Antipho. Where, pray? 
 
 Geta. There, coming out from his play- 
 ground. 
 
 [Enter PttEDBiA and Dorio, from Doric's 
 house.] 
 
 Ph^bdria. Do listen to me, Dorio, for 
 pity's sake! 
 
 Dorio. No, I won't. 
 
 PnaiDRiA. Just a minute. 
 
 Doric. Why won't you let me alone? 
 
 PiLBDRiA. But listen to what I have to 
 say. 
 
 DcRio. No; I'm tired of hearing the 
 same thing a thousand times. 
 
 Phedria. But now I'm going to say 
 something which you will hke to hear. 
 
 Doric. Speak out then. I'mlLstening. 
 
 Ph^dria. Can't I prevail on you to 
 wait just these three days? Why, where 
 are you going now? 
 
 Doric. I wondered whether you had 
 anything new to bring forward. 
 
 Antipho [aside]. Oh, dear! I'm afraid 
 this slave-trader may be — 
 
 Geta [aside]. Hoist with his own petar? 
 I'm afraid so, too. 
 
 Phedria. You don't believe me yet, eh? 
 
 Dorio. You're a mind reader! 
 
 Ph^dria. But if I give you my word? 
 
 Doric. Stuff! 
 
 Ph/edria. You'll have reason to call 
 your kindness a fine investment. 
 
 Doric. Words, words. 
 
 PasiDRiA. Believe me, you'll be glad 
 you did it. It's true, by heaven! 
 
 Dorio. Moonshine! 
 
 Ph^dria. Just try the experiment; it's 
 not for long. 
 
 Doric. Always singing the same old 
 song! 
 
 Phjbdria. I'll call you my kinsman, — 
 father, — friend — 
 
 Doric. Nonsense! 
 
 PaEDRiA. To think of your being so 
 hard and unbending that neither pity nor 
 prayers can soften you! 
 
 Doric. And to think of your being so 
 unreasonable ajid impudent, Phsedria, as 
 to lead me on with gilded promises, and so 
 get my slave girl for nothing! 
 
 Antipho [aside]. What a pity! 
 
 Ph^dria. Oh, dear me! he's got the 
 better of me. 
 
 Geta [aside]. How they both do Uve up 
 to their own characters. 
 
 Ph^dria. Think of all this trouble hap- 
 pening to me at the very time when An- 
 tipho is full of another worry of his own. 
 
 Antipho [coming forward] Why, Phae- 
 dria, what is all this? 
 
 PhjBdria. Oh, Antipho, you luckiest of 
 men! 
 
 Antipho. I? 
 
 PH.a!DRiA. Yes; for the girl you love is 
 
PHORMIO 
 
 ^S3 
 
 in your own keeping, and you've never had 
 occasion to struggle with such a difficulty 
 as mine. 
 
 Antipho. In my own keeping? Not 
 qiiite so; I'm "holding a wolf by the ears," 
 as the old saying is. 
 
 Doric. That 's just how I feel about him. 
 
 Antipho. Halloa! Act up to your role of 
 slave-trader! Has he been doing anything? 
 
 Ph/Edbia. He? Been behaving like a 
 barbarian; he's sold my Pamphila. 
 
 Antipho. What! sold her? 
 
 Geta. You don't say so! sold her? 
 
 PKffiiDHiA. Yes, he's sold her. 
 
 Doric. What an outrage, to sell a girl 
 bought with my own money! 
 
 Ph^dhia. And I can't prevail on him 
 to wait for me and to put off keeping his 
 promise to the man for only three days, 
 while I am getting the money promised me 
 by my friends. If I don't pay it by that 
 time, you need n't wait for me an hour 
 longer. 
 
 DcBio. Still dinning it into me? 
 
 Antiphc. It's no long time he asks for. 
 Come, consent. He'll return the kindness 
 with a hundred per cent interest. 
 
 Doric. Fine talk! 
 
 Antipho. WiU you let Pamphila be car- 
 ried away from this town, and can you bear 
 to see such a pair of lovers torn asunder? 
 
 DoBic. Of course I can't any more than 
 you. 
 
 Geta. Heaven send you what you de- 
 serve! 
 
 DcKic. 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 opposite of all 
 this, I have found a man who pays and 
 does n't cry about it. Make way for your 
 betters. 
 
 Antipho. But, by heaven, if I remember 
 rightly, there was a day set on which you 
 were to pay him? 
 
 Phmvuia. There was. 
 
 DoHio. I don't deny it, do I? 
 
 Antipho. Has it come yet? 
 
 DcKio. No, but to-day has come in 
 ahead of it. 
 
 Antipho. Are n't you ashamed to be 
 such a fraud? 
 
 DoBio. Not a bit of it is for my gain. 
 
 Geta. Oh, you dunghill! 
 
 Ph«:dbia. Look here, Doric, is this the 
 right way to behave? 
 
 DcRio. It's my way; if you like me, take 
 me as you find me. 
 
 Antiphc. And you cheat him like this? 
 
 DoEic. 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's 
 taken me in, but to him I am exactly what 
 I was before. But never mind; this is what 
 I'U do. A soldier man has promised to pay 
 me the money to-morrow morning; now, 
 Phaedria, if you bring it to me before he 
 does, I'U follow my regular rule, that he is 
 the better man who is first to come down 
 with the cash. Good-bye. [Exit, n.] 
 
 Phedria. What shall I do? Where am I 
 to find the money for him in such a hurry, 
 when I've less than nothing myself, poor 
 fellow? It was promised to me, if I could 
 only have begged these three days out of 
 him! 
 
 Antiphc. Shall we let him 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 kindness now 
 when it's needed? 
 
 Geta. I know of course it 's only the fair 
 thing to do. 
 
 Antipho. Come, then, you are the only 
 man who can save him. 
 
 Geta. What can I do? 
 
 Antipho. Find the money. 
 
 Geta. I want to; but where? Tell me that. 
 
 Antipho. My father's here. 
 
 Geta. I know he is, but what of it? 
 
 Antipho. Oh, a word to the wise is quite 
 enough. 
 
 Geta. That's it, hey? 
 
 Antiphc. That's it. 
 
 Geta. 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 already, to try 
 to get hanged for his sake? 
 
 Antiphc. There's truth in what he says. 
 
 PHiBDRiA. What, Geta, am I a mere 
 stranger to all of you? 
 
154 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Geta. I suppose not; but is n't it enough 
 that the old man is so very angry with us 
 all now, without our prodding him still 
 more, so as to leave us no chance to cry off? 
 
 Ph^dria. And shall another man carry 
 her off to foreign parts before my very 
 eyes? Ah me! 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 do? Out with it. 
 
 Ph^dria. Wherever in the world she's 
 carried, I'm resolved to foUow, or to die 
 in the attempt. 
 
 Geta. Heaven bless your efforts; go 
 slow, though. 
 
 Antipho. Do see whether you can help 
 him in any way. 
 
 Geta. Anyway? But what way? 
 
 Antipho. Try to think of something, for 
 mercy's sake. Don't let him do anything, 
 great or small, Geta, that shall make us 
 sorry when it's too late. 
 
 Geta. I am trying. [A pause.] Well, 
 he's all right, I think; but really I'm afraid 
 there'll be trouble. 
 
 Antipho. Never fear; we '11 share it with 
 you, good or bad. 
 
 Geta. Tell me; how much money do 
 you need? 
 
 Ph.<bdria. Only thirty ducats. 
 
 Geta. Thirty? Whew! She's pretty 
 dear, Phsedria. 
 
 Ph^dria. No, not at all; she's cheap. 
 
 Geta. Well, well. I'll see that it's found, 
 and give it to you. 
 
 Ph^dria. Oh, you are a trumpi 
 
 Geta. Take yourself off. 
 
 PH.EDRIA. I need it at once. 
 
 Geta. You shall have it at once; but I 
 need Phormio to help me in this business. 
 
 Antipho. He's all ready; lay on him 
 boldly any load you like; he'll carry it off. 
 He's a friend indeed to a friend. 
 
 Geta. Let's hurry to him then. 
 
 Antipho. You don't need any help from 
 me, do you? 
 
 Geta. No. You go home and comfort 
 that poor girl, for I know she 's in there now 
 half dead with fright. What! waiting? 
 
 Antipho. There's nothing I shall be so 
 glad to do. [Exit to Demipho's.] 
 
 PHiBDKiA. How are you going to man- 
 age this affair? 
 
 Geta. I '11 tell you on the way; only take 
 yourself out of this. [Exeunt, b.] 
 
 ACT IV 
 [Enter Demipho and Chremes, l.] 
 
 Demipho. Well, Chremes, did you bring 
 your daughter with you, what you went to 
 Lemnos for? 
 
 Chremes. No. 
 
 Demipho. Why not? 
 
 Chremes. 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 neglected any longer, she set 
 out, they told me, bag and baggage, to 
 come and find me. 
 
 Demipho. Then why, I want to know, 
 did you stay there so long when you heard 
 that? 
 
 Chremes. 'Gad, I was kept there by 
 illness. 
 
 Demipho. How so? What illness? 
 
 Chremes. What illness? Old age is ill- 
 ness enough in itself. But the skipper who 
 brought them told me that they reached 
 here safe and sound. 
 
 Demipho. Have you heard what has 
 happened to my son in my absence, 
 Chremes? 
 
 Chremes. That's just what makes me 
 so undecided in my plans. For if I offer her 
 in marriage to any outsider, I must tell the 
 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 as I am to myself. But 
 if a stranger seeks alliance with me, he will 
 hold his tongue just so long as we are close 
 friends with one another; but if he breaks 
 with me, then he will know more than he 
 ought to know. And I'm afraid my wife 
 ijiay get an inkling of all this. If she does, 
 the only thing left for me to do is to give 
 myself a shake and leave the house; for 
 I'm all I've got in the world. 
 
 Demipho. Iknowthat is so; that's what 
 makes me so anxious, and I shall never 
 weary of making every effort to perform 
 my promise for you. 
 
PHORMIO 
 
 ^S5 
 
 [Enter Geta. r.]- 
 
 Geta [aside]. A shrewder fellow than 
 Phormio I never saw in my born days. I 
 went to tell him that 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, congratulated me, 
 asked where the old man was. Then he 
 thanked heaven that now he had a chance 
 to show that he was as much of a friend to 
 Phaedria as to Antipho. I told the fellow 
 to wait on 'Change, and said that I would 
 bring the old man there. Halloa! here he is. 
 Who's that on the other side? Oh my! 
 Phsedria's father's come home. Lubber 
 that I am, what was I afraid of? Was it 
 because I've got two to trick instead of 
 one? It's handier, I think, to have two 
 strings 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- 
 comer. 
 
 [Enter Antipho, unobserved, r.] 
 
 Antipho [aside]. I'm expecting Geta 
 back every minute. Why, there 's my uncle 
 standing with my father. Dear me! how 
 I do fear what father may be driven to by 
 his coming! 
 
 Geta.. I'll go up. Why! our good friend 
 Chremes! How do you do? 
 
 Chrembs. How do you do, Geta? 
 
 Geta. I'm delighted to see you back 
 safe. 
 
 Chremes. Dare say. 
 
 Geta. How goes it? Do you find many 
 surprises here, as usual when a man comes 
 home? 
 
 Chremes. A good many. 
 
 Geta. To be sure. Have you heard 
 what's happened to Antipho? 
 
 Chremes. The whole story. 
 
 Geta [to Demipho.] You told him, then? 
 What an outrageous thing, Chremes, to be 
 taken in in this way. 
 
 Chremes. Just what I was telling him. 
 
 Geta. But on thinking it all over care- 
 fully, by the powers I believe I've found a 
 way out of it. 
 
 Chremes. What, Geta? 
 
 Demipho. What's your way out? 
 
 Geta. When I left you I happened to 
 meet Phormio. 
 
 Chremes. Who's Phormio? 
 
 Demipho. The man who was her — 
 
 Chremes. I see. 
 
 Geta. I thought I had better find out 
 his real feelings, so I buttonholed the fel- 
 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 him with 
 one voice to turn the girl out of doors!" 
 
 Antipho [aside]. Now what can he be 
 starting on, or how will he end this blessed 
 day? 
 
 Geta. "But, you'll say, won't the law 
 punish him if he turns her out? He's 
 looked into that already, and I tell you, 
 you'll have to sweat for it, if you begin on 
 a man Uke him. He's that eloquent! But 
 come, suppose he 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, she to make 
 herself scarce, and you to give no trouble." 
 
 Antipho [aside]. Can he be in his sober 
 
 Geta. "The fact is, I am certain that if 
 you name anything that's at all fair and 
 reasonable, there won't be three word? 
 between you. He's such a kind-hearted 
 man." 
 
 Demipho. Who gave you orders to say 
 that? 
 
 Chremes. No, no; he could n't have bet- 
 ter brought about just what we want. 
 
 Antipho [aside]. I'm a dead man! 
 
 Demipho. Go on and finish. 
 . Geta. At first the fellow was wild. 
 
 Chremes. Tell us what he asked. 
 
 Geta. Oh, a great deal too much. 
 
 Chremes. How much? Speak. 
 
 Geta. If you'd offer a great talent — 
 
 Demipho. A great big D, you mean! 
 What! has the fellow no shame? 
 
 Geta. Just what I said to him. "Look 
 
IS6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 here," said I; ''suppose he were marrying 
 oil an only daughter of his own; he has n't 
 gained much by not having one himself if 
 somebody else's turns up for him to por- 
 tion." Well, to be brief, and omitting all 
 his silly talk, this was finally his last word: 
 "From the very first," says he, "I have 
 wanted to marry my old friend's daughter 
 myself, as was proper; for I saw how dis- 
 agreeable it would be for her, a poor girl, 
 married only to be a rich man's slave. But, 
 to tell you the honest truth, I needed a 
 wife who should bring me a Uttle something 
 to pay off what I owe; yes, and even after 
 all that's passed, if Demipho is willing to 
 give as much as I am getting with the girl 
 to whom I am engaged, there's nobody in 
 the world whom I should like better for a 
 wife." 
 
 Antipho [aside]. I can't make out 
 whether he's acting from stupidity or mis- 
 chief, from design or off his guard. 
 
 Demipho. But suppose he owes body 
 and soul? 
 
 Geta. "My farm," said he, "is mort- 
 gaged for ten ducats." 
 
 Demipho. Well, well; let him marry her. 
 I'll pay it. 
 
 Geta. "Then my house for another 
 ten." 
 
 Demipho. Whew! it's too much! 
 
 Chremes. Don't make a row. You can 
 get those ten of me. 
 
 Geta. "Then there's a lady's maid to 
 be bought for my wife; then I need a little 
 more furniture, and some cash to spend on 
 the wedding. Put down ten more for this," 
 says he. 
 
 Demipho. Then let him bring hundreds 
 and hundreds of lawsmts against me. I 
 won't give him a penny. What! that dirty 
 fellow to get the laugh on me again? 
 
 Cheemes. Pray be quiet. I'll pay it 
 myself. All you've got to do is to make 
 your son marry the girl, we wish. 
 
 Antipho [aside]. Oh, dear me! you've 
 been the death of me, Geta, with your 
 tricks. 
 
 Chremes. She is turned out for my sake, 
 and so it 's fair for me to be the loser. 
 
 Geta. "Let me know as soon as you 
 can," says he, "if they 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." 
 
 Chremes. Let him have the money at 
 once, break the engagement with them, 
 and marry her. 
 
 Demipho. Yes, and may bad luck go 
 with her. 
 
 Chremes. Fortunately, I have just 
 brought the money with me now, the rents 
 from my wife's estates in Lemnos. I'll 
 take it out of that, and tell my wife that 
 you needed it. 
 
 [Exeunt Demipho and Chremes to 
 Chremes's.] 
 
 Antipho [coming forward]. Geta! 
 
 Geta. Halloa! 
 
 Antipho. What have you done? 
 
 Geta. Cleaned the old gentlemen out of 
 their cash. 
 
 Antipho. Is that all? 
 
 Geta. By the powers, I don't know; it 
 was all I was told to do. 
 
 Antipho. What, you rogue! I ask you 
 one thing, and you answer another? 
 
 Geta. Why, what are you talking about? 
 
 Antipho. What am I talking about? 
 Here I am actually reduced to the rope, and 
 it's all your doing? May all the gods and 
 goddesses up above and down below make 
 the worst sort of an example of you! Well, 
 well; 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 rock! 
 Why, what could have been worse than to 
 lay your finger on this sore and to mention 
 my wife? Here's my father made to hope 
 that he can cast her off. Come now, what 
 follows? Suppose Phormio gets the dowry 
 and has to marry her, what then? 
 
 Geta. But he won't marry her. 
 
 Antipho. Oh, no! But when they ask 
 the money back, then of course he'll prefer 
 to go to jail for my sake. 
 
 Geta. There isn't any story in the 
 world, Antipho, that can't be spoiled in the 
 telling. Now you're leaving out all the 
 good side and telling only the bad. Now, 
 then, hear the other side. Suppose now he 
 gets the money: he will have to marry her, 
 as you say; I admit that; — but they'll 
 
PHORMIO 
 
 157 
 
 give him a little time anyho,v to get ready 
 for the wedding, to send out the invita- 
 tions, and to offer sacrifice. Meanwhile 
 Phffidria's friends wfll give him the money 
 which they have promised, and Phormio 
 will pay back the dowry out of that. 
 
 Antipho. On what ground? What can 
 he say? 
 
 Gbta. What a question! "Since my en 
 gagement I've had so many bad omens. 
 A strange black dog trotted straight into 
 my front hall; a snake fell down from the 
 roof through the raia hole; a hen has 
 crowed; the clairvoyant forbade it, the 
 soothsayer won't let me. Besides, to take 
 up anything new before the winter sets in," 
 •— "iliat's the strongest reason in the world. 
 That's the way it will be. 
 
 Antipho. I only hope it may. 
 
 Geta. May? It shall. Look to me for 
 that. There's your father coming out. Go 
 tell Phaedria that we've got the money. 
 
 [Exit Antipho, r.] 
 
 [Enter Demipho and Chremes, from 
 Chbemes's.] 
 
 Demipho. Do be quiet, I say. I'll take 
 care he does n't play me any trick. I '11 
 never let the money go from me helter- 
 skelter without having witnesses. I '11 have 
 it understood to whom I am giving it and 
 why I give it. 
 
 Geta [aside]. How cautious he is, where 
 he has n't any call to be. 
 
 Chremes. That's just what you ought 
 to do; but make haste, while he's still in 
 the mood for it. If that other girl is more 
 pressing, perhaps he'll leave us in the lurch. 
 
 Geta [aside]. You've hit the very point. 
 
 Demipho [to Geta] . Take me to him, then. 
 
 Geta. I 'm ready. 
 
 Chkemes. 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 marryirlg her to Phor- 
 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 
 large a dowry as he askeid for. 
 
 Demipho. What the plague does that 
 matter to you? 
 
 Chkemes. A good deal, Demipho. It's 
 not enough for you to do your duty if the 
 world doesn't approve of what you've 
 done. I want this to take place of her own 
 free will, so that she shan't be saying that 
 we drove her out. 
 
 Demipho. Well, I can bring all that 
 about myself. 
 
 Chhbmes. But a woman's the best hand 
 to deal with a woman. 
 
 Demipho. I'll ask her, then. 
 
 [Exeunt Demipho and Geta, r.I 
 
 Chremes. I wonder now where I can 
 find those women? 
 
 [Enter Sophbona from the house of 
 Demipho.] 
 
 SoPHRONA. What shall I do? Where am 
 I to find a friend in my distress? Whom 
 shall I consult? Where get help? I'm 
 afraid my mistress may come to grief from 
 foUowiog my advice; the yoimg man's 
 father takes all this so hard, I hear. 
 
 Chkemes [aside]. Why, who's this old 
 woman that's come out of my brother's 
 house so excited? 
 
 SoPHRONA. It was our poverty that 
 drove me to it, though I knew such a mar- 
 riage was a shaky thing, to provide that at 
 least she might be sure of a living in the 
 mean time. 
 
 Chbbmes [aside]. Upon my word, unless 
 my mind's going or my eyesight's bad, 
 that's my own daughter's nurse that I see 
 there. 
 
 SoPHRONA. And we can't track out — 
 
 Chkemes [aside]. What shall I do? 
 
 SoPHRONA. Her father — 
 
 Chremes [aside]. Shall I go and speak 
 to her, or stay where I am until I know 
 better what she is saying? 
 
 SoPHRONA. If only I could find him, 
 there's nothing I should be afraid of. 
 
 Chkemes. It's the very woman. I'U 
 speak to her. 
 
 SoPHRONA. Who's this talking here? 
 
 Chremes. Sophrona! 
 
 SoPHRONA. Calling me by name, too. 
 
 Chremes. Look at me. 
 
 SoPHRONA. Oh, good gracious! can this 
 be Stilpo? 
 
 Chremes. No! 
 
158 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 SoPHHONA. What? No? 
 
 Chrembs. Come over here a little, away 
 from that door, Sophrona, please, and don't 
 call me by that name any more. 
 
 SoPHBONA. Why not? for mercy's sake, 
 are n't you the man you always said you 
 were? 
 
 Chhbmes. Hush! 
 
 SoPHBONA. What is there in this door 
 that you 're afraid of? 
 
 Chrbmes. I've got a savage wife caged 
 up in there. As for that name, it was 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 
 you. 
 
 Chrbmes. But tell me, what have you 
 to do with the people whose house you just 
 came out from? Where are the ladies? 
 
 Sophrona. Oh, dear me! 
 
 Chrbmes. Hey? What's the matter? 
 Are n't they alive? 
 
 Sophrona. Yom: daughter is; but her 
 mother, poor thing, died of grief. 
 
 Chbemes. Too bad! 
 
 SoPHEONA. And so I, being only a lone 
 lorn old woman, whom nobody knew, did 
 my best and got the girl married to the 
 young gentleman who lives in here. 
 
 Chbbmbs. To Antipho? 
 
 SopHBONA. Certainly; the very man. 
 
 Chrbmes. What! has he got two wives? 
 
 SoPHEONA. For pity's sake, no; she's 
 the only one he has. 
 
 Chrembs. What about the other who is 
 called his relative? 
 
 Sophrona. Why, it's she, of coiuse. 
 
 Chbemes. What's that you say? 
 
 Sophrona. It was a put-up job, — the 
 only way by which her lover might get her 
 without a dowry. 
 
 Chbemes. Heaven help us! how often 
 things do turn out by haphazard which 
 you'd scarcely 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 all our might to bring 
 about, he has taken the greatest trouble to 
 
 do all by himself without any trouble of 
 ours. 
 
 Sophrona. Well now, just see what's to 
 be done next. The young man's father has 
 arrived, and they say that he is bitterly 
 opposed to it. 
 
 Chremes. There's no danger at all. 
 But, by heaven and earth, don't let any- 
 body find out that she is my daughter. 
 
 Sophrona. Nobody shall from me. 
 
 Chbemes. Follow me; you shall hear the 
 rest inside. [Exeunt to Demipho'b.] 
 
 ACT V 
 
 [Ent&- Demipho and Geta, r.] 
 
 Demipho. It's all our own fault that 
 people find it pays them to be rogues; it's 
 because we are too anxious to be called 
 kind and generous. "Enough is as good as 
 a feast," says the proverb. Was n'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 something to 
 live on imtil he can work up some other 
 outrage? 
 
 Geta. Perfectly true. 
 
 Demipho. Nowadays people who make 
 right wrong get rewarded. 
 
 Geta. True enough. 
 
 Demipho. So it proves that we've made 
 a stupid mess of it with him! 
 
 Geta. Well, if only we get out of it by 
 his marrying her — 
 
 Demipho. 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. 
 
 Demipho. Bless me! What! Change 
 his mind? 
 
 Geta. I don't know about it. I'm only 
 saying "supposing." 
 
 Demipho. That 's what I '11 do, what iny 
 brother advised: I'll bring his- wife here to 
 talk with that girl. Geta, you go ahead 
 and tell her that Nausistrata is coming. 
 
 [Exit to Chremes's.] 
 
 Geta. Phaedria's money is found and 
 all's quiet with the lawsuit. We've looked 
 out that the bride shan't be sent off for the 
 
PHORMIO 
 
 J59 
 
 present. Now, what next? What's to be 
 done? Sticking in the same rut still? Rob- 
 bing Peter to pay Paiil, Geta? You've put 
 off the evil 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 
 she mustn't be afraid of Phormio or of 
 Nausistrata's talk. [Exit to Demipho's.] 
 
 [Enter Demipho and Nausisteata from 
 Chkemes's.] 
 
 Demipho. Come, then, Nausistrata, with 
 your usual good nature make her feel kindly 
 towards us, so that she may do of her own 
 accord what must be done. 
 
 Nausistrata. I will. 
 
 Demipho. You'U be aiding me now with 
 your good o£Sces, just as you helped me a 
 while ago with your purse. 
 
 Nausistrata. You're quite welcome; 
 and upon my word, it 's my husband's fault 
 that I can do less than I might well do. 
 
 Demipho. Why, how is that? 
 
 Nausistrata. Because he takes wretched 
 care of my father's honest savings; he used 
 regularly to get two silver talents from 
 those estates. How much better one man 
 is than another! 
 
 Demipho. Two talents, do you say? 
 
 Nausistrata. Yes, two talents, and 
 when prices were much lower than now. 
 
 Demipho. Whew! 
 
 Nausistrata. What do you think of that? 
 
 Demipho. Oh, of course — 
 
 Nausistrata. I wish I'd been bom a 
 man. I'd soon show you — 
 
 Demipho. Oh yes, I'm sure. 
 
 Nausistrata. The way — 
 
 Demipho. Pray, do save yourself up for 
 her, lest she may wear you out; she's 
 young, you know. 
 
 Nausistrata. I'll do as you tell me. 
 But there 's my husband coming out of your 
 bouse. 
 
 [Enter Chremes.] 
 
 Chrembs. Ha! Demipho, has the money 
 been paid him yet? 
 
 Demipho. I saw to it at once. 
 
 Chremes. I wish it had n't been. 
 . [Aside.] Oh, dear! there's my wife. I had 
 almost said too much. 
 
 Demipho. What makes you wish it 
 had n't, Chremes? 
 
 Chremes. No matter now. 
 
 Demipho. What have you been about? 
 Have you told her why we are bringing 
 Nausistrata? 
 
 Chremes. I've attended to it. 
 
 Demipho. Well, what does she say? 
 
 Chremes. She's not to be taken away. 
 
 Demipho. Why is n't she? 
 
 Chremes. Because they 're heart to 
 heart. 
 
 Demipho. What's that to us? 
 
 Chremes. A good deal. Besides I have 
 found out that she really is related to us. 
 
 Demipho. What? You're raving. 
 
 Chremes. You'll find it's so. I'm not 
 speaking at random. I 've recollected. 
 
 Demipho. Are you in your right mind? 
 
 Nausistrata. Oh, for mercy's sake! 
 take care not to hurt a relative. 
 
 Demipho. She is n't one. 
 
 Chremes. Don't say that. Her father 
 went by another name; that's how you 
 made a mistake. 
 
 Demipho. Didn't she know who her 
 father was? 
 
 Chremes. Oh, yes. 
 
 Demipho. What made her call him 
 something else? 
 
 Chremes. Won't you ever stop insisting, 
 and take in what I mean? 
 
 Demipho. But if you don't tell me any- 
 thing? 
 
 Chremes [aside to Demipho]. You '11 
 ruin me! 
 
 Nausistrata. I wonder what it all is. 
 
 Demipho. By heaven, I'm sure I don't 
 know. 
 
 Chremes. 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. 
 
 Demipho. Great heavens! Let's go 
 straight to her. It it's so, I want us all to 
 know it aUke — or if it is n't so. 
 
 Chremes. Oh, dear! 
 
 Demipho. What's the matter? 
 
 Chremes. To think of your trusting me 
 so little! 
 
 Demipho. You want me to believe it,, 
 then? You want me to consider it settled?. 
 
i6o 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Very well, have it so. But then, what's to 
 be done with the other girl, our friend's 
 daughter? 
 
 Chrbmes. Oh, that's all right. 
 
 Demipho. Shall we drop her, then? 
 
 Chrbmes. Why not? 
 
 Demipho. And this one is to stay? 
 
 Chremes. Yes. 
 
 Demipho. You cango, then, Nausistrata. 
 
 Nausistrata. Good gracious, I think it 
 is better for all concerned that she should 
 stay, than to have it as you first intended; 
 for she seemed to me a very lady -like thing 
 when I saw her. 
 
 [Exit Nausistrata to Chrbmes's.] 
 
 Demipho. Now, what is the meaning of 
 this business? 
 
 Chrbmes. Has she shut the door yet? 
 
 Demipho. Yes. 
 
 Chrbmes. O Lord! heaven does smile 
 on us! I 've found my daughter married 
 to your son! 
 
 Demipho. Bless me! how can that be? 
 
 Chrbmes. This place is n't safe enough 
 to tell the story in. 
 
 Demipho. Well, come indoors, then. 
 
 Chrbmes. Look here, I don't want our 
 sons to get an inkling of this. 
 
 [Exeunt to Demipho's.] 
 
 [Enter Antipho, r.] 
 
 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 conceive such desires that 
 you can satisfy them by simple means 
 when things go wrong! No sooner has he 
 got the money than he ' s freed from anxiety ; 
 but here I am, unable to get out of these 
 troubles by any means whatever, but what 
 I'm in terror if it's kept quiet, and dis- 
 graced if it comes out. I should n't be codl- 
 ing home now if there was n't some hope 
 of my having her. But where can I find 
 Geta? 
 
 [Enter Phormio, h.] 
 
 Phormio. I've received the money and 
 handed it over to the trader. I've taken 
 away the girl and arranged that Phajdria 
 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 
 spree of it. I propose to take some days off. 
 
 Antipho. Why, there's Phormio. Say! 
 
 Phormio. Say what? 
 
 Antipho. What's Phaedria going to do 
 now? How does he propose to spend his 
 honeymoon? 
 
 Phormio. He's going to take his turn at 
 playing your part. 
 
 Antipho. What part is that? 
 
 Phormio. To run away from his father. 
 And he requests you in return to play his 
 and plead his cause for him. The fact is, he 
 is going to my house for a little spree. I 
 shall tell the old gentlemen that I am 
 going down to Sunium to the fair, to buy 
 that lady's maid that Geta talked about; 
 then they won't think I'm squandering 
 their money when they don't see me here. 
 But there 's a noise at your front door. 
 
 Antipho. See who is coming out. 
 
 Phormio. It's Geta. 
 
 [Enter Geta from Demipho's.] 
 
 Geta. Oh Fortune! oh Lucky Fortune! 
 With what blessings and how suddenly 
 have you loaded my master Antipho with 
 your kindness to-day! 
 
 Antipho [aside] . Why, what can he mean? 
 
 Geta. And unloaded aU us friends of his 
 of fear! But here I am dilly-dallying in- 
 stead of loading up my shoulder with my 
 cloak and hurrying off to find him, so that 
 he may learn all that's happened. 
 
 Antipho [aside to Phormio]. You can't 
 make out what he is talking about, can you? 
 
 Phormio [aside]. Nor you either? 
 
 Antipho [aside]. Not a bit. 
 
 Phormio [aside]. No more can I. 
 
 Geta. I'll start and go to the slave- 
 trader's; they're there now. 
 
 Antipho. Halloa, Geta! 
 
 Geta. There you are! Always the way! 
 Called back just when you have started 
 running! 
 
 Antipho. Geta! 
 
 Geta. Keeping it up, begad! Well, you 
 shan't ever beat me with your insolence. 
 
 Antipho. Wait, won't you? 
 
 Geta. Oh, go get yourself thrashed! 
 
 Antipho. That's just what will happen 
 
PHORMIO 
 
 i6i 
 
 to you in a minute if you don't stop, you 
 knave! 
 
 Geta. He must know me pretty well — 
 to threaten me with a thrashing. Why, is it 
 the man I am after or not? It is the very 
 man. Up to him on the spot. 
 
 Antipho. What's the matter? 
 
 Geta. Oh you most blessed man in all 
 the world! I tell you, Antipho, there's no 
 denying that you're the only man whom 
 heaven loves. 
 
 Antipho. I should like to be; but I 
 should like to have you tell me why I'm 
 to think so. 
 
 Geta. Is it enough if I set you all drip- 
 ping down with joy? 
 
 Antipho. You'll be the death of me. 
 
 Phokmio. Away with your promises 
 and out with your news! 
 
 Geta. What! you here too, Phormio? 
 
 Phormio. Yes, but why don't you go 
 ahead? 
 
 Geta. Well, then, listen. After we had 
 paid you the money on 'Change, we started 
 straight home; then master sent me over 
 to see your wife. 
 
 Antipho. What for? 
 
 Geta. I'll leave that out; it's nothing 
 to do with the case, Antipho. Just as I was 
 entering my lady's chamber, Mida, her 
 slave boy, ran up to me, caught me by the 
 cloak behind and pulled me back. I looked 
 round and asked him what he was stopping 
 me for. He said that there was no admis- 
 sion to his mistress. "Sophrona has just 
 brought in the old man's brother Chremes 
 and he's in there now with the ladies," 
 says he. When I heard that, I went up 
 softly on tiptoe, stood still, held my breath 
 and put my ear against the door; and I 
 began to listen, trying to catch their talk 
 so fashion. 
 
 Phobmio. Bravo, Geta! 
 
 Geta. Whereupon I heard a most beau- 
 tiful piece of business; so much so that by 
 cracky, I nearly shouted for joy. 
 
 Antipho. WTiat was it? 
 
 Geta. Well, what do you think? 
 
 Antipho. I don't know. 
 
 Geta. But it's most marvelous! Your 
 uncle has proved to be your wife Phani- 
 um'"'*ather. 
 
 Antipho. What's that you say? 
 
 Geta. He lived with her mother at 
 Lemnos unbeknownst. 
 
 Phormio. You're dreaming! As if the 
 girl would n't know her own father! 
 
 Geta. Oh well, depend upon it, Phormio, 
 there's some reason for that; but do you 
 think that I, outside of the door, could 
 understand everything that went on be- 
 tween them inside? 
 
 Antipho. Yes, and I have had an ink- 
 ling of this story, too. 
 
 Geta. Yes, and I'll 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 were 
 allowed to keep her. Finally I was sent to 
 look you up and bring you home. 
 
 Antipho. Why don't you drag me off 
 then? What are you waiting for? 
 
 Geta. I'U do it mighty quick. 
 
 Antipho. Good-bye, my dear Phormio. 
 
 Phohmio. Good-bye, Antipho. God 
 bless me, this is a good thing. I'm glad 
 of it. 
 
 [Exeunt Antipho and Geta to 
 Demipho's.] 
 
 Phormio. What an unexpected piece of 
 good luck for these boys! And now I have 
 a fine chance to take the old gentlemen in, 
 and to rid Phaedria 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, shall be his outright 
 in spite of all their opposition. The facts 
 have shown me how to force them to it. 
 I must now put on a new air and change 
 my ejcpression. I'll withdraw into this 
 alley close by and show myself to them 
 from there when they come out. I shan't 
 go to the fair as I pretended. 
 
 [Withdraws, r.] 
 
 [Enter Demipho ared Chremes from 
 Demipho's.] 
 
 Demipho. I am grateful and thankful 
 to the gods, brother, and they deserve it, 
 since all this has turned out so well for us 
 to-day. 
 
 Chremes. Is n't she a thorough lady 
 though, as I told you? 
 
 ; 
 
i6z 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Demipho. Through and through. We 
 must now find Phormio as soon as possible 
 and get our thirty ducats away from him 
 before he makes ducks and drakes of them. 
 
 Phobmio [coming forward]. I'll just see 
 whether Demipho is at home, so as to — 
 
 Demipho. Ah, we were just going to 
 see you, Phormio. 
 
 Phobmio. On the same old errand, per- 
 haps? 
 
 Demipho. Yes, to be sure. 
 
 Phormio. I supposed so. But what 
 made you think it necessary to come? 
 
 Demipho. Oh pooh! 
 
 Phokmio. Did you 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 been particular about, and 
 that is to keep my word. And so I came to 
 tell you this, Demipho, that I'm all ready. 
 Give me my wife whenever you wish. I 
 have put off all my other business, and 
 properly enough, too, when I saw how very 
 bent you were upon it. 
 
 Demipho. But Chremes here has per- 
 suaded me not to give her to you. " Why, 
 what will Mrs. Grundy say," says he, "if 
 you do that? Awhile ago, when you could 
 have done it decently, you did n't release 
 her. To turn her out now, divorced, is an 
 outrage." In fact, his arguments were all 
 pretty much the same that you urged 
 against me yourself awhile ago face to 
 face. 
 
 Phobmio. You 're making game of me 
 in a pretty high and mighty way. 
 
 Demipho. How 's that? 
 
 Phormio. How 's that? Why, because I 
 shan '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? 
 
 Chremes. [aside to Demipho.] " Be- 
 sides I see that Antipho does n't want to 
 let her leave him " — say that. 
 
 Demipho. Besides I see that my son 
 does n't at all want to let the woman 
 leave him. So come over to the bank, 
 please, and have that money transferred 
 to me again, Phormio. 
 
 Phormio. What! after I have already 
 paid it round among my different credi- 
 tors? 
 
 Demipho. What's to be done then? 
 
 Phormio. If 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 loser 
 through the means of you two; for it was 
 out of regard for you that I broke off with 
 the other lady who was to bring me just as 
 large a dowry. 
 
 Demipho. You be hanged with your 
 high-toned talk, you vagabond! Do you 
 suppose that we don't know you and yoiir 
 doings? 
 
 Phormio. You're making me angry. 
 
 Demipho. So you'd marry her, would 
 you, if we gave her to you? 
 
 Phobmio. Try it on. 
 
 Demipho. Yes, so that my son might 
 live with her in your house; that was your 
 scheme. 
 
 Phormio. What are you talking about, 
 pray? 
 
 Demipho. Come, hand over my money. 
 
 Phormio. Not much; you hand over 
 my wife. 
 
 Demipho. Walk straight into court then. 
 
 Phobmio. Look here, if you are going to 
 keep on being troublesome — 
 
 Demipho. What are you going to do 
 about it? 
 
 Phormio. I? Perhaps you two think 
 that I'm the protector of undowried 
 women only; but I'm in the habit of pro- 
 tecting dowried ones too. 
 
 Chremes. What's that to us? 
 
 Phobmio. Oh, nothing. But I knew a 
 woman round here whose husband mar- 
 ried — 
 
 Chbbmes. Ha! 
 
 Demipho. What's the matter? 
 
 Phormio. Another wife at Lemnos — 
 
 Chremes. I'm done for! 
 
 Phormio. By whom he had a daughter; 
 is bringing her up, too, on the sly. 
 
 Chremes. I 'm as good as buried. 
 
 Phormio. I'm just going to tell her all 
 about it. 
 
 Chremes. For heaven's sake, don't! 
 
 Phormio. Oh, you were the man, were 
 you? 
 
 Demipho. Whatgamehe'smakir"/« "us! 
 
PHORMIO 
 
 163 
 
 Cheemes. We let you off scot free. 
 
 Phormio. Oh, bosh! 
 
 Chremes. Well, what would you have? 
 We let you off with the money that you've 
 got. 
 
 Phormio. Oh, yes! Why the deuce are 
 you making game of me with your silly, 
 childish shiUy-shallying? "I won't, I will, 
 and I will, I won't," — one after the other; 
 "take it — give it back" — say a thing 
 and unsay it; make a bargain one minute 
 and break it off the next. 
 
 Chremes [aside]. How or where did he 
 ever come to find this out? 
 
 Demipho [aside]. I don't know; but I'm 
 sure I did n't tell anybody. 
 
 Chremes [aside.] A perfect miracle, as 
 I hope to Uve! 
 
 Phormio [aside]. I've put a spoke in his 
 wheel. 
 
 Demipho. See here, is this rascal going 
 to rob us of aU this money and laugh in our 
 very faces? By heaven, I'U die the death 
 first! [Aside to Chremes.] Make ready to 
 be bold and have your wits about you. 
 You see your little peccadillo has got out 
 and you can't hide it from your wife any 
 longer. The easiest way to get it forgiven, 
 Chremes, is for us to tell her ourselves 
 what she is sure to hear from others. And 
 then we shall be able to revenge ourselves 
 at our ease upon this dirty fellow. 
 
 Phormio [aside]. My goodness! I'm in 
 a fix if I don't look out for myself. They 
 are making at me with the air of prize- 
 fighters. 
 
 Chremes [aside]. But I'm afraid we 
 can't make her forgive me. 
 
 Demipho [aside]. Courage, Chremes! 
 I'll bring you back into her good graces, 
 on the strength of this, that the woman by 
 whom you had this child is out of the way. 
 
 Phormio. That's the way you deal with 
 me, is it? A cunning attack enough! It's 
 not for his good that you've stirred me up, 
 Demipho, by heaven! Aha! when you've 
 been carrying on abroad after your own 
 sweet will without any regard for yonder 
 noble lady, but on the contrary, insulting 
 her in this strange fashion, would you come 
 now with prayers to wash away your sin? 
 Why, I '11 set her so afire against you with 
 
 this story that you shan't put her out 
 though you actually dissolve away in 
 tears. 
 
 Demipho. Was ever a man so impudent! 
 Why does n't the government transport 
 the knave to some desert island? 
 
 Chremes. I'm reduced to such a state 
 that I don't know what to do with him. 
 
 Demipho. I do, then. Let's go to law. 
 
 Phormio. To law? To her, if you don't 
 mind. 
 
 Chremes. Follow him up; hold on to 
 him while I call the slaves out. 
 
 Demipho. I can't all by myself; run and 
 help me. 
 
 Phormio. Here's one suit for assaiilt 
 and battery against you! 
 
 Demipho. Go to law, then! 
 
 Phormio. And another for you, Chremes. 
 
 Chremes. Hurry him off! 
 
 Phormio. That's it, hey? Why, then, I 
 must use my voice — Nausistrata! Come 
 out here! 
 
 Chremes. Stop his dirty mouth; just 
 see how strong he is. 
 
 Phormio. I say, Nausistrata! 
 
 Demipho. Hold your tongue, won't you? 
 
 Phormio. Hold my tongue? 
 
 Demipho. If he does n't come along, hit 
 him in the belly with your fists. 
 
 Phormio. Gouge out an eye if you like; 
 but I shall soon have a fine revenge. 
 
 [Enter Nausistrata from Chkembs's.] 
 
 Nausistrata. Who's calling me? Why, 
 husband, what's this disturbance about, 
 for mercy's sake? 
 
 Phormio. Halloa! what's struck you so 
 dumb now? 
 
 Nausistrata. Who is this fellow? Won't 
 you answer me? 
 
 Phormio. He answer you! When by 
 heaven he does n't know who he is himself! 
 
 Chremes. Don't believe anything the 
 fellow says. 
 
 Phormio. Go and touch him; if he's not 
 cold all over, you may murder me. 
 
 Chremes. It's nothing at all. 
 
 Nausistrata. Well, then, what is he 
 talking about? 
 
 Phormio. You shall soon find out — just 
 listen. 
 
164 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Chebmes. Are you going to believe him? 
 
 Nausistbata. For mercy's sake, what 
 should I believe when he has n't said any- 
 thing? 
 
 Phormio. The poor wretch is raving 
 mad with fear. 
 
 Natjsistrata. Upon my word, it's not 
 for notliing that you are so frightened. 
 
 Chremes. I frightened? 
 
 Phormio. All right, then. As you're 
 afraid of nothing, and as what I say is 
 nothing, just tell her yourself. 
 
 Demipho. What! tell it for you, you 
 scoundrel? 
 
 Phormio. Oho you! you've done finely 
 for your brother, of course! 
 
 Natjsistrata. Won't you tell me, hus- 
 band? 
 
 Chremes. But — 
 
 Nausistrata. But what? 
 
 Chremes. There's no need of telling. 
 
 Phormio. Not for you of course, but 
 she ought to know. In Lemnos — 
 
 Nausistrata. Ah! what's that you say? 
 
 Chremes. Won't you hold your tongue? 
 
 Phormio. Behind your back — 
 
 Chremes. Oh dear me! 
 
 Phormio. He married another wife. 
 
 Nausistrata. God forbid, my dear man! 
 
 Phormio. It 's true. 
 
 Nausistrata Alas! I'm undone! 
 
 Phormio. Andby her he's already had one 
 daughter, too, without your dreaming of it. 
 
 Chremes. What shall I do? 
 
 Nausistrata. Oh heavens! what a 
 wicked, shameful thing! 
 
 Phoemio. Do? You're done for! 
 
 Nausistrata. Was there ever anything 
 more infamous! When it comes to their 
 wives, they're old enough, forsooth! 
 Demipho, I appeal to you, for I am sick of 
 talking to this creature. This was the mean- 
 ing, was it, of all those constant trips and 
 long stays at Lemnos? This was the low 
 prices that reduced our rents there? 
 
 Demipho. For my part, Nausistrata, I 
 don't say that he does n't deserve to be 
 blamed in this matter, but it is a fault that 
 may be pardoned. 
 
 Phormio. Might as well talk to the dead. 
 
 Demipho. The fact is, it was not that 
 he did n't care for you or that he disliked 
 
 you. His affair with this woman was about 
 fifteen years ago, once when he had drunk 
 too much, and that was how this girl came 
 to be born; he never went near the woman 
 afterwards; she is dead and out of the way; 
 that was the only stumbling-block left. 
 And so I beg of you that you will bear this 
 patiently, as you act in other things. 
 
 Nausistrata. Patiently — why should 
 I? I certainly do want to have an end of it 
 aU, I'm so wretched; but how could I 
 expect that? Can I count on his sinning less 
 as he grows older? He was an old man even 
 then, if it's old age that makes men virtu- 
 ous. Do my own looks or my years make 
 me more attractive now than I was then, 
 Demipho? Come, what can you offer to 
 make me expect or trust that this won't 
 happen again? 
 
 Phormio. All who desire to attend the 
 funeral of Chremes , now 's the time ! That 's 
 the way I'll give it to 'em! Now come on, 
 whoever wants to stir up Phormio! I'll 
 ruin him as completely as I have Chremes. 
 
 Demipho. Don't be so angry; calm your- 
 self, Nausistrata. 
 
 Phoemio. Yes, yes, let him back into your 
 good graces; he 's been punished enough 
 to satisfy me. And she's got something to 
 din into his ears just as long as he lives. 
 
 Nausistrata. I deserved it, then, I sup- 
 pose. Why should I, at this late day, 
 Demipho, rehearse what a wife I've been 
 to him? 
 
 Demipho. I know it all as well as you do. 
 
 Nausistrata. Do you think I've de- 
 served this treatment? 
 
 Demipho. Never in the world. But 
 what's done cannot be undone by re- 
 proaches. Do forgive him. He begs par- 
 don, — he owns up, — he offers to atone. 
 What more can you want? 
 
 Phormio [aside]. Really now, before she 
 pardons him I must look out for myself 
 and Phaedria. [Aloiid.] See here, Nausis- 
 trata, just listen to me before you ajiswer 
 him off-hand. 
 
 Nausistrata. What is it? 
 
 Phormio. I got thirty ducats out of him 
 by a trick, and gave them to your son. He 
 bought his mistress with them from her 
 owner. 
 
PHORMIO 
 
 165 
 
 Chbemes. Hey! what's that you say? 
 
 Nattsistrata. Do you thiok it's so very 
 bad for a young fellow like your son to have 
 one mistress, when here you are yourself 
 with two wives? Have you no sense of 
 shame? How can you have the face to 
 scold him for it? Answer me that. 
 
 Demipho. He shall do everything you 
 wish. 
 
 Nausistrata. Well, to let you know my 
 decision, I neither pardon liim nor promise 
 anything nor make any answer at all, be- 
 fore seeing my son. I leave the whole thing 
 to his judgment. I'll do whatever he tells 
 me. 
 
 Phormio. You are a wise woman, 
 Nausistrata. 
 
 Nausistrata. Does that satisfy you? 
 
 Demipho. Certainly. 
 
 Chremes [aside]. Upon my word, I get 
 out of it pretty finely, and better than I 
 expected. 
 
 Nattsistrata [to Phormio], Please to 
 tell me your name. 
 
 Phormio. Phormio, a friend of your 
 house, by heaven, and particularly of your 
 son Phaedria. 
 
 Nausistrata. Well, Phormio, after this 
 I'll do and say for you whatever you like 
 as well as I can, upon my word I will. 
 
 Phoemio. That's very kind of you. 
 
 Nausistrata. I'm sure you have de- 
 served it. 
 
 Phormio. Do you want to begin by giv- 
 ing me a pleasure to-day, Nausistrata, and 
 to make your husband's eyes ache at the 
 same time? 
 
 Nausistrata. Yes. 
 
 Phormio. Then invite me to dinner. 
 
 Nausistrata. Certainly, I invite you. 
 
 Demipho. Let us go in, then. 
 
 Nausistrata. Well, but where is Phse- 
 dria, who is to decide between us? 
 
 Phormio. I'll bring him here. 
 
 Cantor. Farewell, and give us your 
 applause. 
 
 [Exeunt, Phormio, r., the others to 
 Chrbmes's.] 
 
THE STAR OF SEVILLE 
 
 (LA ESTRELLA DE SEVILLA) 
 
 By LOPE DE VEGA 
 
 Translated in prose by PHILIP M. HA YDEN 
 
COPYRIGHT, I916, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 King Sancho the Bold 
 
 Don Ahias, confidant of the King 
 
 Don Pedko db Guzman, ) 
 
 > chief alcaldes 
 Fakfan db Rivera, ) 
 
 Don Gonzalo db Ulloa, the Cid of Cordova 
 
 Fernan Pbeez db Medina, Captain 
 
 Don Sancho Oktiz, ) 
 
 > councilors 
 BtrsTos Tabbba, ) 
 
 Inigo Osokio 
 
 Don Manuel 
 
 Pbdho db Caus, Governor of the Prison of Triana 
 
 Clarindo, Gradoso, servant to Don Sancho 
 
 Stella, the Star of Seville 
 
 Teodoba, servant 
 
 Matilde, slave 
 
 Attendants, Servants, Musicians, People. 
 
THE STAR OF SEVILLE 
 
 ACT I 
 
 [Scene I. A room in the palace^ 
 
 [Enter the King, Don Arias, Don Pedro 
 DE Guzman, and Farfan de Rivera.] 
 
 King. My welcome in Seville has greatly 
 pleased me, and I perceive I am indeed the 
 sovereign monarch in Castile; my reign 
 dates from this day, since this day Seville 
 receives me and does me honor; for it is 
 clear and evident, and an accepted law, 
 that no man could be king in CastUle who 
 did not reign in Seville. I shall not be con- 
 tent if I do not reward the munificence of 
 my reception, and the splendor of my en- 
 trance. My court shall have its seat within 
 these walls, and marvel not that the Cas- 
 tilian court should make its seat in Seville, 
 for I shall reign in Castile, while I reign in 
 Seville. 
 
 Don Pedro. We, the chief alcaldes of 
 the city, kiss your feet in gratitude, for we 
 receive your favors in her name. Jurors 
 and councilmen gladly offer you their 
 wealth and loyalty, and the council is in 
 accord, provided only that the chartered 
 rights of this your city do not suffer. 
 
 King. I am much pleased — 
 
 Don Pedro. Grant us your hand to kiss. 
 
 King. — that in receiving me you have 
 borne yourselves like the men you are, and 
 I believe that with your support I shall 
 make myself king of Gibraltar, which sleeps 
 in fancied security upon the Columns, 
 and if fortune favors me I shall make my- 
 self remembered. 
 
 Fabfan. With loyalty the people of 
 Seville will serve Your Highness in this 
 lofty enterprise, offering their lives as one. 
 
 Arias. His Maj esty feels it so, and is well 
 pleased with you and your desire. 
 
 King. Men of Seville, I believe you and 
 so declare. Go with God. 
 
 [Exeunt the alcaldes.] 
 
 Arias. My lord, how like you Seville? 
 
 King. Much; for to-day I am truly 
 king. 
 
 Arias. She will deserve your favor. Sire, 
 and win it more from day to day. 
 
 King. Surely; for so rich and fair a city, 
 as I live longer in it, will be admired at 
 leisure. 
 
 Arias. The beauty and the grandeur of 
 its streets — I know not if Augustus saw 
 the like in Rome, or had such wealth. 
 
 King. And her ladies, divinely fair, why 
 do you not mention them? How can you 
 limit or describe their attributes and radi- 
 ance? Tell me, why are you not aflame in 
 the light of such glories? 
 
 Arias. Dona Leonor de Ribera seemed 
 heaven itself, for in her countenance shone 
 the light of the springtime sun. 
 
 KtNG. She is too pale. A sun with rays 
 of ice is Uttle worth, for it chills instead of 
 warming. I want a burning sun, not freez- 
 ing. 
 
 Akias. The one who threw you roses is 
 Dona Mencia Coronel. 
 
 King. A handsome dame, but I saw 
 others loveUer. 
 
 Arias. The two lively damsels at the 
 next window were Dona Ana and Dona 
 Beatriz Megia, sisters through whom day 
 gains fresh splendors. 
 
 King. Ana is but a vulgar name for one, 
 and Beatriz for the other, lonely like the 
 phoenix, because unequaled. 
 
 Arias. Does good fortune or ill attend 
 even upon a name? 
 
 King. 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, auburn-haired. . . . 
 
 King. Tell me not her name. The pale 
 lady with auburn hair will be marble and 
 bronze, and your descriptions weary me as 
 you continue. One I saw there full of grace, 
 whom you have left unmentioned; for you 
 
172 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 have noted only the blonde, and not the 
 raven-haired. Who is she who on her bal- 
 cony drew my attention, and to whom I 
 doffed my hat? Who is she whose two eyes 
 flash lightning like Jove's thunder-bolts, 
 and sent their deadly rays into my heart, 
 unknowing of their power? One who, 
 though dark, outshone the sun? In tresses 
 of night she eclipsed the orb of day; her 
 beauty obscured its rays. 
 
 Arias. I have it. Sire. 
 
 King. Choose the loveliest of them all, 
 for that is she. 
 
 Ahias. They call her the Star of Seville. 
 
 King. If she is fairer than the sun, why 
 slight her thus? But Seville does not esteem 
 her, seeing her daily. Sun she shall be 
 called, since she is a sun that revives and 
 kindles. 
 
 Abias. Her name is Dona Stella Tabera, 
 and Seville, in homage, calls her its star. 
 
 King. And it might call her its sun. 
 
 Aeias. Her brother hopes to marry her 
 in Seville, as well he may. 
 
 King. Her brother's name? 
 
 Arias. Bustos Tabera, and he is coun- 
 cilor in Seville, in saying which I bear trib- 
 ute to his quality. 
 
 King. And is he married? 
 
 Arias. He is not married, for in the 
 Sevillian firmament he is the sun, if Stella 
 is his sister, and Star and Sun are in con- 
 junction. 
 
 King. My guiding star brought me to 
 Seville, and I find great joy in it, if it is as 
 brilliant as I hope. All will 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? 
 
 Arias. You shall find her a friendly star, 
 in spite of the Sun. Heap honors upon her 
 brother, for the most rigid honor yields to 
 honors. Favor him, for favors can over- 
 come and conquer the impossible. If you 
 give to him, and he receives, he binds him- 
 self, and sees himself obliged to requite 
 what you have given; for he graves in 
 bronze who accepts favors. 
 
 King. Let him be summoned, and take 
 measures likewise that the following night 
 I may see Stella in her house. O vision that 
 inflames my inmost soul. [Exit Arias.] 
 
 [Enter Don Gonzalo, in mourning.] 
 
 GoNZALO. I kiss your highness' feet. 
 
 King. Rise, Gonzalo. On this day of 
 joy, why do you come so sad? 
 
 GoNZALO. My father is no more. 
 
 King. I have lost a vahant captain. 
 
 Gonzalo. And the frontier remains 
 without defender. 
 
 King. Yes, a heroic commander has de- 
 parted. Grieving I listen to you. 
 
 Gonzalo. Sire, the frontier of Archidona 
 has suffered a great loss, and since there 
 can be found no equal to his valor, and 
 since I have inherited the honored name of 
 the great general, I implore your majesty 
 not to permit another to receive the post 
 now vacant. 
 
 King. There is sufficient proof that his 
 valor lives again in you. Lament your 
 father's death, and while you are in mourn- 
 ing and in sorrow, rest in my court. 
 
 Gonzalo. Fernan Perez 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 ruby hue the pearly 
 walls of Granada. Hence my diligence. 
 
 King. I will consider it; for if I must 
 make this decision, I wish to weigh the 
 matter. 
 
 [Enter Fernan Perez db Medina.] 
 
 Fernan. I fear, O king, that I arrive too 
 late. I kiss your feet, and then . . . 
 
 King. You may present your homage, 
 Fernan Perez, with a tranquil mind. The 
 office is still in my hands, and such a post 
 will not be given without consulting first 
 yourself and others of high credit in the 
 kingdom who being bulwarks in them- 
 selves will be advisers concerning Archi- 
 dona. Go, and rest. 
 
 Gonzalo. This memorial I leave with 
 you, my lord. 
 
 Fernan. And I leave mine, which is the 
 crystal mirror of my valor, in which my 
 nature can be seen, pure, accomplished, 
 loyal. 
 
 Gonzalo. Mine is crystal too, and shows 
 the clearness of my claim, 
 
 [Exeunt Fernan and Gonzalo.] 
 
THE STAR OF SEVILLE 
 
 173 
 
 [Enter Amas and Bttstos.] 
 
 Arias. Here, my lord, is Bustos Tabera. 
 
 BusTos. Perturbed you see me at your 
 feet, my lord, for so it is natural for the 
 vassal to be confused in presence of his 
 king; I am for this reason and by the com- 
 mon lot perturbed, but twice perturbed, 
 because this undreamt-of favor hath further 
 agitated me. 
 
 King. Rise. 
 
 BtJSTOs. Nay, this is my place. If kings 
 should be adored like saints upon an altar, 
 my place is here. 
 
 King. You are a gallant gentleman. 
 
 Btjstos. Of that I have shown proof in 
 Spain. But, Sire, I crave but such advance- 
 ment as is due me. 
 
 King. Then cannot I advance you? 
 
 Bustos. The laws of God and man give 
 power to kings, but forbid the vassal to be 
 presumptuous; for he, my lord, must keep 
 his wishes within bounds. So I, seeing this 
 law transgressed, limit my ambition to my 
 lawful aspirations. 
 
 King. What man ever did not desire to 
 become greater? 
 
 Bustos. If I were greater, I should be 
 covered now; but if I am Tabera, Tabera 
 must stand uncovered. 
 
 EJNG [aside to Ahias]. A strange phi- 
 losophy of honor! 
 
 Aeias [aside to King]. A caprice novel 
 and unexampled. 
 
 King. I do not desire, Tabera, upon my 
 life, that you stand covered before I have 
 advanced you, and given you a proof of my 
 affection. And thus it is my will that you 
 cease to be Tabera, and become General of 
 Archidona, for your heroism shall be the 
 defense of that frontier. 
 
 Bustos. But, Sire, in what war have I 
 ever served you? 
 
 King. Even in the occupations of peace, 
 Bustos, I see you so capable of defending 
 my lands, that I give you preference over 
 these, whose memorials show such services. 
 Here in my presence read and decide: the 
 candidates are three — yourself and these 
 two; see what competitors you have. 
 
 Bustos [reads] : " Most noble King, Don 
 Gonzalo de Ulloa entreats your majesty to 
 
 grant him the post of captain general of the 
 frontier of Archidona, inasmuch as 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 Gonzalo has 
 inherited the valor of his father, I name 
 him for the place. 
 
 King. Read the other memorial. 
 
 Bustos [reads]: "Most noble king, Fer- 
 nan Perez de Medina has been a soldier 
 twenty years in the service 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 plain 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." 
 
 King. Recite your claims. 
 
 Bustos. 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, the 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. Here in Seville, my lord, I have 
 no claim upon you, for in the wars I was 
 a soldier, in peace, a councilor. In truth 
 Fcman Perez de Medina merits the honor, 
 for his age is worthy of the frontier post; 
 Don Gonzalo is young, and a nobleman of 
 Cordova; him you can make a captain. 
 
 King. Then it shall be as you desire. 
 
 Bustos. I desire only what is right and 
 in accord with justice, to give to those who 
 serve their due reward. 
 
 King. Enough. You put me to shame 
 with your good counsels. 
 
 Bustos. They are mirrors of truth, and 
 so in them you see your true self. 
 
 King. You are a noble gentleman, and I 
 desire your attendance in my chamber and 
 in my palace, for I wish to have you near 
 me. Are you raarried? 
 
 Bustos. My lord, I am the protector of 
 
174 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 a sister, and will not marry, until I have 
 given her a husband. 
 
 King. I will give her a better one, 
 Bustos. Her name? 
 BusTOS. Dona Stella. 
 King. To a star, if she be fair, I know 
 not what husband to give, except the sim. 
 Bustos. I wish only a man. Sire, for 
 Stella. She is not a heavenly star. 
 
 King. I will unite her to one who is 
 worthy of her. 
 
 Bustos. In her name I thank you. Sire. 
 
 King. I will give her, Bustos, a husband 
 
 suited to her rank. Inform your sister that 
 
 her marriage is in my care, and that I shall 
 
 dower her. 
 
 Bustos. Now, Sire, I pray you tell me 
 on what business 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. 
 Go with God. 
 Bustos. I kiss your feet. 
 King. I embrace you, noble councilor. 
 Bustos [aside]. Such favor passes my 
 understanding, and I am filled with mis- 
 giving. To love me and to honor me with- 
 out knowing me seems rather to attack my 
 honor than to favor me. [Exit.] 
 
 King. The man is keen of mind; as wise 
 as he is honorable. 
 
 Arias. I have no patience with these 
 men of honor. How many. Sire, have been 
 so, until occasion meets them! Yes, all are 
 occasionally wise, but not all, my lord, on 
 all occasions. To-day 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 your gifts, your 
 praises and your privity. 
 
 King. 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, 
 I follow the Star of Seville.' 
 
 [Exeunt the King and Ariab.] I 
 
 [Scene II. A room in Tabera's house.] 
 
 [Enter Don Sancho, Dona Stella, 
 Matilde, and Clahindo.] 
 
 Sancho. Angel of heaven, when will 
 you be mine, when will you free from this 
 restraint the passion that I feel for you? 
 Like a sun you rise, dispensing radiance 
 from coral lips formed for love: — when will 
 you turn the pale dew that drops from my 
 eyes to pearls that may deck the peaceful 
 joys of our souls? 
 
 Stella. If time kept pace with my de- 
 sires, its giant strides should outstrip the 
 sun; Seville should celebrate my sweet sub- 
 mission, and your happy love should cease 
 to envy the tender turtle dove, which, 
 softly cooing, makes its nest amid a thou- 
 sand favoring branches. 
 
 Sancho. Ah, how gratefully my heart 
 receives these sighings! My soul yearns for 
 the noblest gifts of fame, to lay them at 
 your feet. 
 
 Stella. I ask only for life, to join it to 
 yours. 
 
 Sancho. Oh, sweet SteUa, clothed in 
 love and light! 
 
 Stella. Ah! Can life endure such love? 
 
 Sancho. Oh charms divine, lodestar to 
 my dazzled eyes! 
 
 Clahindo [to Matilde]. Why should 
 not we, like our masters, utter a few sweet 
 sighs, soft as finest cambric? 
 
 Sancho. Be quiet, knave! 
 
 Clahindo. We're dumb. [To Matilde.] 
 Ah! Sleek filly! Despair of my exist- 
 ence! 
 
 Matilde. Oh, low-bom suitor! Your 
 poetics smack of the currycomb. 
 
 Clahindo. Oh, my love! 
 
 Matilde. Oh, happy man! 
 
 Clahindo. What leper ever heaved such 
 sighs! 
 
 Sancho. What does your brother say? 
 
 Stella. That when the papers are made 
 out and signed, the marriage may proceed; 
 and that there shall be but a few days' 
 delay, while he makes the arrangements. 
 
 Sancho. Hell bring my love to desper- 
 ation; delay is torment for it. Would we 
 might wed to-day, lest fortune change 
 before to-morrow! 
 
THE STAR OF SEVILLE 
 
 1 75 
 
 Stella. K delay continues, speak to my 
 brother. 
 
 Sancho. Speak I will, for I shall die if 
 this persists. 
 
 Clarindo. Bustos Tabera comes. 
 
 [Enter Bustos.] 
 
 Bustos. Sancho, my friend! 
 
 Stella. Heavens! What is this? 
 
 Sancho. Such sadness? You? 
 
 Bustos. Sadness and joy are cause of 
 my dismay. Stella, leave us alone. 
 
 Stella. God help me! Delay has turned 
 against me. [Exit.] 
 
 Bustos. Sancho Ortiz de las Roelas, . . . 
 
 Sancho. Do you no longer call me 
 brother? 
 
 Bustos. A steed beyond control sweeps 
 me on unspurred. Know that the king sent 
 for me; God is my witness that I know not 
 why, for though I asked him, yet he told 
 me not. Unasked, he was about to make 
 me general of Archidona, and indeed, had 
 I not resisted, would have given me the 
 royal commission. Finally he made me . . . 
 
 Sancho. Proceed, for all of this is joy. 
 Tell me your sadness, explain your grief. 
 
 Bustos. He attached me to his suite. 
 
 Sancho. And he did well. 
 
 Bustos. We come now to the pain. 
 
 Sancho [aside]. I foresee sorrow here 
 for me. 
 
 Bustos. He told me not to seek a match 
 for Stella; that should be his care; and he 
 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 
 attain 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 natural 
 for you to be merry. But you break the 
 law of friendship, for you should have told 
 the king your sister was already promised. 
 
 Bustos. It was all so strange, and my 
 head so troubled, that I did not find the 
 chance to say it. 
 
 Sancho. Being so, shall my marriage 
 not take place? 
 
 Bustos. I will return and inform the 
 king that the agreements and the writings 
 
 are all made, and the contract will then 
 stand, for his authority will not disregard 
 your just claim. 
 
 Sancho. But if the king should turn the 
 law, who ca n constrain him if guided_by 
 self-interest "orjleasure? 
 
 Bustos. l^will speak to him, and you as 
 well; for then, in my confusion, I did not 
 tell him of our agreement. 
 
 Sancho. Would that my griefs might 
 kiU me! 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? 
 
 Bustos. Sancho Ortiz, the king's the 
 king. Be silent and have patience. [Exit.] 
 
 Sancho. In such a plight, 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 Castile! 
 Well do you deserve the name of Sancho 
 the Bold by the acts I learn of now, if you 
 win the name by tyranny! But God will 
 break your plans — may He drive you 
 from your kingdom of Castile! I'll leave 
 Seville, and go to Gibraltar, to seek death 
 in the battle-front. 
 
 Claeindo. Methinks we '11 find it nearer 
 than Gibraltar! 
 
 Sancho. Loving Stella the fair, why is 
 my love so ill-starred? But my star is un- 
 favorable, and her influence works my 
 unhappiness! , 
 
 Clarindo. A shooting star, mayhap. 
 
 Sancho. May you be banished from 
 your kingdom of Castile! [Exeunt.] 
 
 [Scene III. A street in Seville, showing en- 
 trance to Tabbra's hoitse.] 
 
 [Enter the King, Don Arias, and Suite.] 
 
 King. Announce that I am here. 
 
 Arias. They are informed, and Don 
 Bustos Tabera is already at the door to 
 greet you. Sire. 
 
 [Enter Bustos.] 
 
 Bustos. What an honor, and what con- 
 descension! Your highness in my house! 
 
 King. I was strolling in disguise to see 
 the city, and they told me as we passed, 
 
176 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 this was your house; and I would see it, for 
 they say it is most beautiful. 
 
 Bttstos. It is the house of a simple 
 esquire. 
 
 King. Let us go in. 
 
 BiTSTOsr Sire, 't is fit for my humble 
 station, but not for you; for so great a lord 
 it is too small. And it will not be well re- 
 ceived in Seville, when they know you came 
 to visit me. 
 
 King. I come not for your house, 
 Tabera, but for you. 
 
 BusTOS. My lord, you do me great 
 honor. But if you come for me, it is not 
 meet that I obey you; for it would be un- 
 courtly, that the king should come to the 
 vassal, 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 the palace, if you wish to honor me. For 
 favors may become affronts, when open to 
 suspicion. 
 
 King. Suspicion? Of what? 
 
 Bttstos. It will be said, though it be 
 false, you came to my house to see my sis- 
 ter; and her good name, however well 
 established, might come in question; for 
 honor is a crystal clear — a breath may 
 tarnish it. 
 
 King. Since I am here, I wish to speak 
 with you of matters of importance. Let us 
 go in. 
 
 BusTOS. It shall be upon the way, with 
 your permission. My house is not in order. 
 
 King [aside to Akias]. He makes great 
 opposition. 
 
 Arias [aside to the King]. Take him 
 away, and I will stay behind and speak to 
 her for you. 
 
 King. Speak low, that he may not hear 
 you. The fool puts all his honor in his ears. 
 
 Arias. The weight will break them. 
 
 King [to Bustos]. So be it; I would not 
 see your house against your will. 
 
 Bustos. Sire, at Stella's marriage you 
 shall see it suitably adorned. 
 
 Abias. Bring up the coach. 
 
 King. Bustos, you'll ride upon the step. 
 
 Bustos. I'll go on foot, with your per- 
 mission. 
 
 King. The coach is mine, and I give 
 orders here. 
 
 Arias. The carriage waits. 
 
 King. Drive to the palace. 
 
 Bustos [aside]. Great favors these! The 
 king does me much honor: please God it 
 be for good. [Exeunt. Manet Abias.] 
 
 [Enter Stella and Matildb.] 
 
 Stella. What do you say, Matilde? 
 
 Matilde. It was the king, my lady. 
 
 Abias. It was he, and it is not the first 
 time a king was guided by a star. He came 
 to your house to do homage to your charms j 
 for if he is king of Castile, you are the 
 queen of beauty. The King Don Sancho, 
 whom for his unconquered prowess, the 
 public, and the Moors who tremble at his 
 name, have called The Bold, saw at a bal- 
 cony your divine beauty, which rivals Au- 
 rora in her palace, when, hailed by drowsy 
 birds mid roses and lUies, and weeping at 
 the wakening, she scatters garlands of 
 pearls. He ordered me to offer you the 
 riches of Castile, though riches be but 
 little for such charms. Accept his will, for 
 if you do accept it, and reward it, you shall 
 be the Sun of Seville, 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 glory of your ancestors, and bring honor 
 to the name of Tabera. What say you? 
 
 Stella. What do I say? See! 
 
 [She turns her hack.] 
 
 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 impossible for 
 the king to outwit and conquer them, but 
 strength and persistence 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? 
 
 Matilde. I am a slave. 
 
 Arias. A slave! 
 
 Matilde. Deprived of blessed liberty, 
 and subject both to prison and to death. 
 
 Arias. I'll have the king release you, 
 
THE STAR OF SEVILLE 
 
 177 
 
 and give you with your freedom, a thousand 
 ducats rent, if you will do his will. 
 
 Matildb. For liberty and gold, there is 
 no crime that I'll not undertake. What is 
 there I can do? I'll do it if I can. 
 
 Arias. You'll give the king admittance 
 to the house to-night. 
 
 Matujje. He shall find the doors all 
 open, if you but keep your promise. 
 
 Abias. Before he enters, I will give you 
 a letter from the king, ia his own hand and 
 signed by him. 
 
 Matilde. Then I'll put him in Stella's 
 very bed to-night. 
 
 Arias. What time does Bustos come? 
 
 Matilde. Eachnight 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 come? 
 
 Matilde. Let him come at eleven, for 
 then she will be in bed. 
 
 Arias. Take this emerald as pledge of 
 the favors that await you. [Exeunt.] 
 
 [Scene IV. A room in the palace.] 
 
 [Enter Inigo Osorio, Bustos Tabeba, and 
 Don Manuel, vrith golden keys.] 
 
 Manuel. I congratulate your lordship 
 on the key, and the dignity it represents. 
 May you win the honors you desire. 
 
 Bustos. Would I might repay his maj- 
 esty the honor that he does me, undeserved. 
 
 Inigo. 'T is not beyond your merit. 
 Be assured, the kiug makes no mistake. 
 
 Bustos. 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 
 he who gives thus hastily may change as 
 suddenly. 
 
 [Enter Arias.] 
 
 Arias. You may retire, gentlemen. The 
 king intends to write. 
 
 Manuel. Let's go and seek amusement 
 for the night. [Exeunt.] 
 
 [Enter the King.] 
 
 King. You say I shall enjoy her charms 
 to-night, Don Arias? 
 
 Arias. The little slave is wholly won. 
 
 King. Castile shall raise a statue to 
 her. 
 
 Arias. You are to give her a document. 
 
 King. Prepare it. Arias. I shall^not hesi- 
 tate to sign, for my love impels it. 
 
 Arias. In faith, the little slave is useful. 
 
 King. 'Tis the sun in heaven she pro- 
 cures for me, in the Star of Seville. 
 
 [Exeunt King and Arias.] 
 
 ACT II 
 
 [Scene I. Street before Tabera's house.] 
 [Enter the KnsTG, Don Arias, and Matilde.] 
 
 Matilde. Alone; it will be safer, for all 
 are now at rest. 
 
 King. And Stella? 
 
 Matilde. She is sleeping, and the room 
 is dark. 
 
 King. Although my promise might suf- 
 fice, here, woman, is the paper, with your 
 liberty therein. I wiU give another slave to 
 Bustos. 
 
 Arias. And the money and all is included 
 in it. 
 
 Matilde. I kiss your feet. 
 
 Arias. All alike, my lord, yield to their 
 interest. 
 
 KnsTG. What joy divine to be a king! 
 
 Arias. Who can resist it? 
 
 King. To be more secret, I'll go up 
 alone. 
 
 Arias. 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 I can find you. 
 
 Arias. I'll enter in Saint Mark's. 
 
 [Exit.] 
 
 King. What time will Bustos come? 
 
 Matilde. He always comes when the 
 birds salute the dawn. And till he comes, 
 the door is open. 
 
 King. My love impels me to this high 
 adventure. 
 
 Matilde. Follow me, your highness; 
 the passage is in darkness. [Exeunt.] 
 
178 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 [Enter Btjstos, Don Manuel, and 
 Don ISigo.] 
 
 Btjstos. Here is my house. 
 
 Inigo. Farewell. 
 
 BusTOS. It is early for me. 
 
 Manuel. You need not go farther. 
 
 Btjstos. 'T is well. 
 
 Inigo. We two have a certain visit still 
 to make. 
 
 BusTOS. Did Feliciana please 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. [Exeunt.] 
 
 BusTos. I 'm early home to bed. The 
 house is dark. No page is at the door. Ho! 
 Lujan, Osorio, Juan, Andres! They're all 
 asleep. Justine! Ines! The maids are 
 sleeping too. Matilda! The slave also has 
 surrendered. Sleep is the god and master 
 of her senses. [Exit Btjstos.] 
 
 [Scene II. A room in the hoiise.] 
 
 [Enter Matilde and the King.] 
 
 Matilde. I think that was my master 
 calling. I am lost. 
 
 King. Did you not say he came at dawn? 
 Matilde. Woe is me! 
 
 [Enter Bustos. The King wraps himself in 
 his cloak.] 
 
 Bustos. Matilde! 
 
 Matilde. O God! I cannot face him. 
 
 King [aside to Matilde]. Have no fear. 
 [Exit Matilde.] 
 
 Bustos. Who's there? 
 
 King. A man. 
 
 Bustos. A man, at this hour? And in 
 my house? His name! 
 
 King. Stand back. 
 
 Bustos. You lack in courtesy, and if 
 you pass, it shall be by the point of this 
 sword; for although this house is sacred, 
 I'll profane it. 
 
 King. 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 
 me pass. 
 
 Bustos. This house is mine, and I com- 
 mand in it. 
 
 King. Let 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. 
 
 Bustos. Is honor thus increased? 
 King. Your honor is in my care. 
 Bustos. A better defender is this sword. 
 And if you seek my honor, why do you 
 come disguised? Do you conceal yourself 
 to honor me? 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! 
 Bustos. I'll kill you here and now, or 
 you'll kiU me. 
 
 King. I'll tell hun who I am. Hold! I 
 am the king. 
 
 Bustos. 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 his vassal? This angers me still more. 
 For this I'll kill you, in spite of all resist- 
 ance. Oifending me, lay not such charges 
 against His Majesty, for well you know the 
 laws of God and man condemn to just 
 chastisement him who fancies or suspects 
 unworthy conduct in his king. 
 
 King. What strange persistence! Man, 
 I say I am the king. 
 
 Bustos. Still less 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 [aside]. He is both fool and boor. 
 What shall I do? 
 
 BusTOS [aside]. It is the king, disguised. 
 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 take 
 away. — Pass, whoever you may be, and 
 next time do not defame the king, nor call 
 yourself the king, wretch, when you have 
 to blush for your acts. Know that the king 
 my master, the dread of Africa, is most 
 Christian and most holy, and you insult 
 
THE STAR OF SEVILLE 
 
 179 
 
 his name. He has entrusted to me the key 
 to his house, and could not come without 
 a key to mine, when he has given me his. 
 And do not offend the law, remember that 
 he is an honorable man. This I say to you, 
 and I spare you because you feigned to be 
 the king. Marvel not to see me loyal, 
 though offended, for 't is a vassal's obliga- 
 tion to respect the name. Thus will he 
 learn to be ruler of the honor of his vassals, 
 and cease to wrong them against God's law 
 and man's. 
 
 King. I can no more; I choke with 
 shame and anger. Fool! You let me go 
 because I feigned to be the king? Then let 
 me tell you that because I said so, I'll go 
 out thus from here. [He draws.] For if I 
 win to freedom because I called myself the 
 king, and you respect the name, I '11 act the 
 king, and you'll respect his deeds. [They 
 fight.] Die, villain, for here the name of king 
 gives power to me; the king will kill you. 
 
 BusTOS. My honor rules me mor than 
 any king. 
 
 [Enter servants with lights^ 
 
 Servant. What's this? 
 
 King. I '11 make escape before I 'm recog- 
 nized. I leave this offended rufBan, but I 
 will have revenge. [Exit^ 
 
 Servant. Yoiu' enemy has fled. 
 
 BusTOs. Follow him! Chastise him! . . . 
 No, let him go, we'll give the enemy a 
 bridge of silver. Give a Ught to Matilde, 
 and do you withdraw. 
 
 [They give her one and exeunt.] 
 
 BusTOS [aside]. She has betrayed me, for 
 she hangs her head in shame. I will obtain 
 the truth with a cunning lie. — Close the 
 door. I am about to kill you. The king has 
 told me all. 
 
 Matilde. If he has not kept the secret, 
 how can I in my unhappy state do so, my 
 lord? All the king has told you is the truth. 
 
 Bttstos [aside]. Now I shall learn the 
 damage to my honor. — So then you gave 
 the king admittance? 
 
 Matilde. He promised me my freedom, 
 and for that I brought him to' this place, as 
 you have seen. 
 
 BtrsTos. And does Stella know aught of 
 this? 
 
 Matilde. I think her wrath would have 
 consumed me, had she heard my plot. 
 
 BusTos. That is certain, for if her light 
 were dimmed, she'd be no star. 
 
 Matiide. Her radiance suffers neither 
 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 you behind him. 
 
 BtrgTOS. What? The king gave you this 
 paper? 
 
 Matilde. With a thousand ducats rent, 
 and liberty. 
 
 BusTos. A noble gift, at the expense of 
 my honor! Well does he honor and advance 
 me! Come with me. 
 
 Matilde. Where do you take me? 
 
 BusTOS. You are going where the king 
 may see you, for thus I fulfill the law and 
 obhgation that rests upon me. 
 
 Matilde. Ah, unhappy slave! 
 
 BuBTOs. Though the king sought to 
 eclipse her, the fame shall not be lost in 
 Spain of the Star of Seville. 
 
 [Exeunt Bustos and Matilde.] 
 
 [Scene III. A street leading to the palace.] 
 [Enter the King and Arias.] 
 
 King. And that is what befell me. 
 
 Arias. You would go in alone. 
 
 King. He was so mad and bold as to 
 insult me; for I know he recognized me. He 
 drew upon me with equivocal words and 
 though I contained myself a time, the 
 natural resentment born in every 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 back fearing 
 to be recognized. And so I come; you see. 
 Arias, what befell me with Bustos Tabera. 
 
 Arias. Let him pay for his 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. 
 
 King. To execute him^ publicly, Arias, 
 is error great. 
 
 Arias. You will have sufficient pretext; 
 for he is councilor of Seville, and the wisest 
 and most prudent, Sire, still commits some 
 crime, a prey to power and ambition. 
 
i8o 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 King. He is so circumspect and prudent, 
 that he has no guilt. 
 
 Arias. Then have him killed in secret, 
 Sire. 
 
 King. That might be done, but to whom 
 can I entrust the secret? 
 
 Arias. To me. 
 
 King. I do not wish to endanger you. 
 
 Arias. Then I will find you a man, 
 courageous and valiant soldier, an4 dis- 
 tinguished nobleman as well, before whom 
 the Moor has trembled in the strong fort- 
 ress of Gibraltar, where he has been many 
 times victorious captain, and was never 
 conquered. To-day in Seville they give 
 him first rank among the brave and gallant, 
 for he is the glory of the soldier's trade. 
 
 King. What is his name? 
 
 Aeias. Sancho Ortiz de las Roelas, called 
 besides the Cid of Andalusia. 
 
 King. Summon him to me at once, for 
 dawn approaches. 
 
 Arias. Come to bed. 
 
 King. What bed can tempt him who is 
 offended, and in love? Call the man at 
 once. 
 
 Arias. What form is that, that hangs 
 upon the palace, swinging in the wind? 
 
 King. A form, you say? What can it be? 
 
 Arias. There must be reason for it. 
 
 King. See what it is. 
 
 Arias. The little slave, with her paper 
 in her hands. 
 
 King. What cruelty! 
 
 Arias. And what a crime! 
 
 King. I'll 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. 
 
 [Exeunt the King and Arias.] 
 
 [Scene IV. A room in Tabbra's house.] 
 [Enter Bustos and Stella.] 
 
 Stella. What do I hear? 
 
 BtrsTOs. Close the door. 
 
 Stella. Hardly does the sleepy sun, 
 shod with sapphires, leave the palace of 
 Aurora, and you rouse me from my bed, 
 alone, troubled, and afHicted? You are 
 agitated and perturbed! Tell me, have 
 
 you seen some fault, in which I am con- 
 cerned? 
 
 BnsTos. You can tell me if there has 
 been such. 
 
 Stella. I? What do you say? Are you 
 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 
 against me. 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 testify 
 against me, what fault can I have done? 
 
 Bustos. I do not speak without occasion. 
 
 Stella. Without occasion? 
 
 Bustos. Alas! Stella! ... for this night 
 and in this house . . . 
 
 Stella. Speak, for if I should be guilty, 
 I offer myself at once for punishment. 
 What happened in this house this night? 
 
 Bustos. This night was the epicycle of 
 the sun, for this night my Stella's star 
 dechned. 
 
 Stella. No astrologies in dealing with 
 questions of honor! Speak plainly, and 
 leave the sun in its five zones, for though 
 my name be Stella, the sun does not con- 
 trol me. 
 
 Bustos. When the discordant tones of 
 the bell of Cuevas soimding in the sky 
 marked the . middle of the night, I entered 
 the house, and found in it, and near your 
 very room, the king alone and in disguise. 
 
 Stella. What say you? 
 
 Bustos. I speak the truth. Ask yourself, 
 Stella, why the king could have come to 
 my house alone at such an hom', if he came 
 not for Stella. Matilde was with him: I 
 heard her step, for then my honor was alert 
 andkeen. I drew, and said: "Who's there?" 
 "A man," he answered. I advanced upon 
 him, and he retreating, said he was the king. 
 And although I recognized 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 lest he be seen, and was not recog- 
 nized by any. I questioned the slave, and 
 she, without need of torture, confessed the 
 
THE STAR OF SEVILLE 
 
 i8i 
 
 truth. The king gave her her freedom, 
 signed in a paper that he wrote, chief wit- 
 ness in the case, in which his guilt stood 
 clear. I took her from the house at once, 
 lest her infected breath sow dishonor within 
 these walls. I seized her at the door, and 
 placing her upon my shoulders, made my 
 way to the palace, and for her crime I 
 hanged her from the railings; for I'd have 
 the king know that if he is a Tarquin, I will 
 be a Brutus. Now you know all, Stella. 
 Our honor is in danger. I am forced to 
 leave you, and must give you a husband. 
 Sancho Ortiz it shall be, for in his care 
 you will be delivered from the designs of the 
 king, and I can go my way in peace. 
 
 Stella. Oh, Bustos, give me your hand 
 for the service you have done me. 
 
 Btjstos. It must be to-day, and till I see 
 you wed to him, keep silence, for my honor 
 is at stake. 
 
 Stella. O joy, my love! Thou art mine 
 at last, and shalt not escape again. And yet, 
 who knows the end from the beginning, if 
 between the cup and the lip the sage feared 
 danger? [Exeunt Stella and Bustos.] 
 
 [Scene V. A room in the palace.] 
 
 [Enter Arlas, and the King, leith two 
 papers.] 
 
 Arlas. Sanchos Ortiz de las Roelas is 
 waiting in the antechamber. 
 
 King. 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. 
 
 Arias. Without? 
 
 King. Yes; for I wish him to see that I 
 alone am in the secret. Thus my desire 
 conceives the vengeance more assured. 
 
 Arias. I'll call him. ' ' [Exit.] 
 
 King. I fear this is no glorious or lofty 
 token of my love. 
 
 [Enter Sancho Ortiz.] 
 
 Sancho. I kiss your feet. 
 
 King. Rise, I would not humble you, rise. 
 
 Sancho. My lord. 
 
 King [aside]. A noble youth. 
 Sancho. My lord, it is not strange that 
 I should be confused, being no courtier, nor 
 yet orator. 
 
 King. 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 
 king, to your imperial will. 
 King. What is your state? 
 Sancho. Never so honored as I am to- 
 day. 
 
 King. I applaud your wisdom and your 
 zeal. Now, since you will be anxious, and 
 eager to learn why I have summoned you, 
 I'll tell you, and will see if I have in you 
 as well a vahant soldier. My interest de- 
 mands the killing of a man, in secret, and 
 this task I mean to trust to you, for I pre- 
 fer you to all others in the city. 
 Sancho. Is he guilty? 
 King. He is. 
 
 Sancho. Then, why a secret murder for 
 a culprit? You may, in justice, publicly 
 effect his death, without killing him in se- 
 cret; for thus you do accuse yourself, accus- 
 ing him, since men wUl think you cause his 
 death unjustly. If this poor man has but 
 a slight offense, my lord, I ask you par- 
 don him. 
 
 King. Sancho Ortiz, you are not here as 
 advocate for him, but executioner. And 
 since I order it, hiding 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. 
 King. 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- 
 tate no more. 
 
 King. Give me your hand upon it. 
 Sancho. And with it my soul and faith. 
 King. You can kill him, taking him un- 
 awares. 
 
 Sancho. My lord, I am Roela and a 
 soldier, would you make me a traitor? I, 
 kill by treachery! Face to face I'll kill him, 
 where Seville may see, in street or market- 
 
l82 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 place. For none can excuse him who kills 
 and does not fight; and he who dies by 
 treachery fares better than the one who kills. 
 He who lives thus proclaims his perfidy to 
 all he meets. 
 
 King. Kill him as you like. You bear this 
 paper signed by me, as guarantee, in which 
 it states that I have pardoned any crime 
 you do. Read. [He gives him a paper.] 
 
 Sancho. It reads thus [reads] : 
 
 "Sancho Ortiz, At once for me and in 
 my name give death to him this paper 
 indicates. I act through you, and if you 
 be disturbed, I promise you hereby that I 
 shall free you. "/ the King." 
 
 I am amazed Your Majesty should think 
 so meanly of me. I, a promise! a paper! My 
 loyalty trusts more in you than it. If your 
 words have effect to move the hills, and 
 carry 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 
 tears 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. I go 
 at once to execute your will, and only ask 
 you, as reward, the woman whom I choose, 
 as wife. 
 
 King. Be she a duchess of Castile, I give 
 her to you. 
 
 Sancho. May you regain the Moorish 
 throne! May your glorious possessions 
 reach the sea, and even to the pole! 
 
 King. Your excellent service, Sancho, 
 shall be rewarded. In this paper is the name 
 of the man who is to die. [Gives him the 
 paper.] And when you open it, be not dis- 
 mayed. I have heard it said in Seville, he 
 is brave. 
 
 Sancho. That we shall see hereafter. 
 
 King. We two alone this secret know. I 
 need not say, be prudent, act, and keep 
 your counsel. [Exit.] 
 
 [Enter Clarindo.] 
 
 Clarindo. I have sought you, my lord, 
 bearing good news. I ask a guerdon for 
 your dearest wish fulfilled. 
 
 Sancho. You come in good spirits. 
 
 Clarindo. Does your heart not divine 
 the guerdon? [Gives him a paper.] 
 
 Sancho. From whom is this? 
 
 Clarindo. From Stella, who was fairer 
 and loveKer than the sun. She ordered me 
 to give you this paper and ask a guerdon. 
 
 Sancho. For what? 
 
 Clarindo. For the marriage, which is 
 to take place at once. 
 
 Sancho. What do you say? This joy 
 will kill me. What! 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? [Reads:] 
 
 "My husband: 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 
 no time. " Your Stella." 
 
 Oh, fairest maid! 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 ser- 
 vants 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. 
 
 Clarindo. May you outlive the very 
 stones, and cUng like ivy to your bride! 
 Nay, since I love you so, may you live 
 longer than a fool! [Exit.] 
 
 Sancho. I will seek Bustos, for I am 
 tormented with hope and eagerness. But 
 with this marriage and my joy, I had for- 
 got the king. It was not right. The paper 
 is unsealed; I'll see who is it must be killed. 
 
 [Reads:] 
 
 "Sancho, he whom you must kill is 
 Bustos Tabera." 
 
 Heaven help me! Is this his will? After 
 joy, disaster! All this life is but a game of 
 chance, the cards ill shuffled and leading to 
 reverse and ruin, for it 's all in gains and 
 losses, like a game of cards. 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. 
 [Reads.] "Sancho, he whom you must kill 
 is Bustos Tabera." I am undone. What 
 
THE STAR OF SEVILLE 
 
 183 
 
 shall I do? For I have given my promise to 
 the king, and I shall lose his sister. . . . 
 Sancho Ortiz, it must not be; Bustos shall 
 live! — But it is not right that my desire 
 constrain my honor. Bustos shall die! 
 Bustos must die! — But hold, fierce hand! 
 Bustos must live, shall hve! — But I can- 
 not obey my honor, if I yield to love. — 
 But who can resist the force of love? — 
 'T is better that I die or go away, so that I 
 serve the' king, and he may hve. — But 
 I must do the king's will. [Reads.] " San- 
 cho, he whom you must kill is Bustos Ta- 
 bera." — But if the king kills him because 
 of Stella, and seeks to honor her? If for 
 Stella he kills him! 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 mad love must 
 give way, for though it cost me cruel grief, 
 to obey the king is right: Bustos must die, 
 shall die! None may rightly say: Bustos 
 must hve, shall live! Forgive me, beloved 
 Stella, but O the sacrifice, to renounce you 
 and become your enemy. What shall I do? 
 Can I do otherwise? 
 
 [Enter Bustos Tabera.] 
 
 Bustos. Brother, I am blessed by fate 
 in finding you 
 
 Sancho [aside]. And I am cursed by 
 fate in meeting you, for you seek me to 
 give me life, but I seek you to kill you. 
 
 Bustos. Brother, the hour has come for 
 your desired marriage. 
 
 Sancho [aside]. The hour of aU my 
 grief, I'd better say. O God! Was ever 
 man in such despair? That I should have 
 to kill the man I most have loved! to re- 
 nounce his sister! to lose all that I hold 
 dear! 
 
 Bustos. By contract you are already 
 wed to Stella. 
 
 Sancho. I meant to marry her, but now 
 it may not be, although you grant it. 
 
 Bustos. Do you know me, and address 
 me thus? 
 
 Sancho. Because I know you, I speak 
 thus, Tabera. 
 
 Bustos. If you know me to be Tabera, 
 how dare you use such words? i| 
 
 Sancho. I speak because I know you. 
 
 Bustos. You know my birth, my blood, 
 and valor; and virtue, which is honor, for 
 without it honor never was: and I am ag- 
 grieved, Sancho. 
 
 Sancho. But less than I. 
 
 Bustos. How so? 
 
 Sancho. To have to speak with you. 
 
 Bustos. If you cast reflection on my 
 honor or my faith, you basely lie, and here 
 I do maintain it. [He draws.] 
 
 Sancho. What have you to maintain, 
 villain? [Aside.] Forgive me, love; the 
 king's excess has made me mad, and none 
 may resist me now. [They fight.] 
 
 Bustos. You've kUled me; stay your 
 hand. 
 
 Sancho. Ah! I am beside myself and 
 woimded you unknowing. But now I beg 
 you, brother, since I have regained my 
 sense, to MQ me. Sheathe your sword 
 within my breast, and open passage for my 
 soul. 
 
 Bustos. Brother, I leave my Stella in 
 your care. Farewell. [He dies.] 
 
 Sancho. O cruel sword! O bloody, sav- 
 age murder ! Since thou hast taken half my 
 life, complete thy work, that my soul may 
 expiate this other wound. 
 
 [Enter two alcaldes, Pedeo and Farfan.] 
 
 Pedro. What's this? Hold your hand. 
 
 Sancho. Why stay me if I've killed one 
 dear to me? 
 
 Farfan. O what confusion! 
 
 Pedro. 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 through him. 
 
 [Enter Arias.] 
 
 Arias. What's this? 
 
 Sancho. A cruel violence, for such is the 
 effect in man of promises fulfilled, and 
 purest loyalty. Tell the king my master 
 that SeviUians keep their promises by acts, 
 
i84 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 as you see here; and for them they offend 
 the stars, and know no brother. 
 
 Pedro. Has he killed Bustos Tabera? 
 
 Arias. O what a rash deed! 
 
 Sancho. Seize me, take me prisoner, for 
 it is right that he who kills should die. See 
 what a cruel deed love made me under- 
 take, for it has forced me to kill him, and 
 has forced me to die. Now through him I 
 come to ask the death he owes to me. 
 
 Pedro. Take him a prisoner to Triana, 
 for the city is in confusion. 
 
 Sancho. O Bustos Tabera, my friend! 
 
 Farpan. The man has lost his mind. 
 
 Sancho. 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 the life that I have taken. 
 
 Pedro. He's mad. 
 
 Sancho. If I have violated friendship, I 
 have kept the law, and that, sir, is to be 
 king; and that, sir, is not to be king. Un- 
 derstand me, or understand me not, for 
 I '11 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 take him and exeunt.] 
 
 [Scene VI. A room in Tabeea's house] 
 [Enter Stella and Tbodora.] 
 
 Stella. I know not if I dressed me well, 
 for I did dress in haste. Give me the mir- 
 ror, Teodora. 
 
 Teodora. 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. 
 
 Stella. My face is flushed, my color 
 warm. 
 
 Teodora. Your blood, my lady, has 
 mounted to your cheek, 'twixt fear and 
 modesty, to celebrate your joy. 
 
 Stella. 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. O happy day! O my guiding star! 
 
 Teodora. I hear a knock. [Drops mir- 
 ror.] The envious mirror fell. [She picks it 
 
 up.] The glass within the frame of one 
 light made a thousand. 
 
 Stella. Did it break? 
 
 Teodora. Yes, my lady. 
 
 Stella. '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 Clarindo in gala dress.] 
 
 Clarindo. 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. 
 
 Stella. Then I will change this guerdon 
 for you. Give it me, and take this diamond. 
 
 Clarindo. The stone is split in two; it 
 is for melancholy; they say that hyacinths 
 have this complaint, although they lose it. 
 It's split in two. 
 
 Stella. What matter that 't is broken! 
 The very jewels feel my joy and happiness. 
 happy day! O my guiding star! 
 
 Teodora. I hear people in the court- 
 yard. 
 
 Clarindo. I think I hear the guests 
 upon the stairs. 
 
 Stella. How can I bear my joy? . . . 
 But what is this? 
 
 [Enter the two alcaldes with Tabeea's body] 
 
 Pedro. Disaster and sorrow are the lot 
 of man; for life is a sea of tears. Don 
 Bustos Tabera is dead. 
 
 Stella. O hostile fate! 
 
 Pedro. One consolation still remains to 
 you, which is that the murderer, Sancho 
 Ortiz de las Roelas, is a prisoner, and that 
 he will suffer the penalty to-morrow with- 
 out fail. 
 
 Stella. Leave me, 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 fateful day! 
 O my guiding star! But if you have hu- 
 man pity, kill me. 
 
 Pedro. Her grief dements her, and well 
 may. 
 
 Stella. Unhappy is my star! My 
 
THE STAR OF SEVILLE 
 
 i8S 
 
 brother is dead, and Sancho Ortiz killed 
 him, and broke three hearts in one! Leave 
 me, for I'm lost indeed. [Starts to go.] 
 
 Pedro. She's desperate. 
 
 Fabfan. Unhappy maid! 
 : Pedro. FoUow her. 
 : Clarindo. My lady . . . 
 
 Stella. Leave me, wretch, henchman 
 of that murderer! Now, since all is ended, 
 I '11 end my hf e as well. Unhappy day! 
 O my guiding star! [Exeunt.] 
 
 ACT III 
 
 [Scene I. A room in the palace.] 
 
 [Enter the King, the two alcaldes, Don 
 Arias.] 
 
 Pedro. He confesses that he killed him, 
 but he will not confess why. 
 
 King. Does he not say what impelled 
 him? 
 
 Fare AN. He only answers "I do not 
 know." 
 
 Arias. Great mystery! 
 
 King. Does he say whether there was 
 provocation? 
 
 Pedro. In no wise, my lord. 
 
 Arias. What obstinate temerity! 
 
 Farpan. He says he killed him, but he 
 knows not if 't was right. He only con- 
 fesses that he killed him, because he swore 
 to kill him. 
 
 Abias. He must have given provocation. 
 I Pedro. He says not so. 
 
 King. Go back and speak to him for me, 
 and say that I demand his plea. Tell him 
 I am his friend, but I will be his enemy in 
 rigorous punishment. Let him declare on 
 vhat provocation he killed Bustos Tabera, 
 and give in summary phrase the reason for 
 the crime, rather than meet death in ob- 
 stinacy. Let him say who ordered him, or 
 on whose account he killed him, or what 
 incitement moved him to this act; that on 
 this condition I will show him mercy, else 
 he must prepare to die. 
 
 Pedro. 'T is that he most desires; his 
 grief has made him mad: after a deed so 
 odious, so barbarous and cruel, he is bereft 
 of reason. 
 
 King. Does he complain of any man? 
 
 Farpan. No, Sire. He takes counsel 
 only of his grief. 
 
 King. Rare and noble courage. 
 
 Parfan. He IS silent on the crimes of 
 others, and blames himself alone. 
 
 King. 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 him 
 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. 
 
 Arias. I go. 
 
 [Exeunt alcaldes and Arias.] 
 
 [Enter Don Manuel.] 
 
 Manuel. Dofia Stella begs permission 
 to kiss your hand. 
 
 King. Who prevents her? 
 
 Manuel. The citizens, my lord. 
 
 King. She measures her act with reason. 
 Give me a chair, and let her enter now. 
 
 Manuel. I'll go for her. [Exit] 
 
 King. She will come radiant with 
 beauty, like the star that appears in heaven 
 after a storm. 
 
 [Enter Don Manuel, Stella, and people.] 
 
 Manuel. She is here, beautiful as the 
 sun, but a sun whose summer radiance has 
 turned cold as stone. 
 
 Stella. Don Sancho, most Christian 
 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, comes 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 
 tears, 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 our mutual 
 affection, and all believed we were twin 
 
i86 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 stars reduced to one. A cruel hunter bends 
 his bow upon my brother, and ends our 
 happiness. I have lost my brother, I have 
 lost my husband, I am left alone. And you 
 do not hasten to your royal duty, from 
 which none has released you! Justice, 
 Sire! Give me the murderer, fulfill the law 
 in this; let me pass judgment on him. 
 
 King. Be comforted, and dry your eyes, 
 else will my palace burst in flame, for stars 
 are tears of the sun, as each of its rays is 
 topaz. Let Aurora gather her riches in 
 them, if the new-born sun gives her the 
 time, and let heaven treasure them, for 
 't is not right that they be squandered 
 here. Take this ring, it will open the castle 
 of Triana for you. Let them deliver him 
 to you, and be to him the cruel tigress of 
 Hircanian cliffs; — 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. 
 
 Stella. In this case. Sire, severity 's a 
 virtue, for if in me were silver and gold, 
 I'd tear them from my head, and cover 
 my face with ugliness, though 't were by 
 burning coals. If one Tabera 's dead, an- 
 other lives, and if Tabera's shame is in my 
 face, my hands shall tear my flesh till it 
 strike terror to the hardest heart. 
 
 [Exeunt all bvi the King.] 
 
 King. If they deliver Sancho Ortiz 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! See what 
 a deed mad passion doth commit: I did 
 incite Sancho Ortiz, and now I give him up, 
 for love treads under foot the royal purple 
 and promulgates his decrees at his own 
 pleasure. [Exit.] 
 
 [Scene II. A prison.] 
 
 [Enter Sancho, Clabindo, 
 musicians.] 
 
 and 
 
 Sancho. Have you not made some verses 
 on my fate, Clarindo? 
 
 Clarindo. 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 seeing me in the 
 
 streets, would say to me, as if I were a 
 tailor, or repairer, "Is not the compliment 
 finished?" and urged me to more haste 
 than for a mended doublet. And had I not 
 been hungry, I'd have excelled Anaxagoras 
 in silence, and would have made a jest of 
 Greek and Latin genius. 
 
 [Enter the alcaldes and Akias.] 
 
 Pedko. Enter. 
 
 Clarindo. I believe these men have 
 come, my lord, to inform you of your sen- 
 tence. 
 
 Sancho [to musicians]. Then quickly 
 begin 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 
 move me. 
 
 Clarindo. Admirable courage! What 
 better could a drunken Teuton do, his soul 
 steeped in oldest wine? 
 Musicians [sing]. 
 
 Since my unhappy fate 
 Consists in living, 
 So long as death delays, 
 It stays my dying. 
 
 Clarindo. An excellent enigma that 
 they sing! 
 
 Sancho. A timely sentiment. 
 
 Musicians. 
 
 There's naught in life like death 
 For one who lives a-dying. 
 
 Pedro. Is this a time for music, sir? 
 
 Sancho. Why, what better entertain- 
 ment in their misery can prisoners have? 
 
 Farfan. Can one be entertained by 
 music when death threatens him hourly, 
 and when he momentarily awaits the sen- 
 tence of his harsh judgment? 
 
 Sancho. I am a swan, and sing before 
 I die. 
 
 Fahfan. The time has come. 
 
 Sancho. I kiss your hands and feet, for 
 the news you give me. O blessed day of my 
 desire! 
 
 Pedro. Sancho Ortiz de las Roelas, do 
 you confess you killed Bustos Tabera? 
 
 Sancho. Yes, I declare it here aloud. 
 Seek barbarous punishments, invent new 
 tortures, that shall make Spain forget 
 Phalaris and Maxentius. 
 
THE STAR OF SEVILLE 
 
 187 
 
 Farpan. 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 tell ; 
 for I know not why he died, I only know I 
 killed him without knowing. 
 
 Pedko. It seems a treachery to Idll him 
 without cause. 
 
 Sancho. He certainly gave cause, since 
 he is dead. 
 
 Pedro. To whom? 
 
 Sancho. To him who brought me where 
 I am, to this extremity. 
 
 Pedko. Who is it? 
 
 Sancho. I cannot tell, because he charged 
 me secrecy. And if I acted like a king, I 
 will keep silence like one, and to put me to 
 death, you need but know that I have 
 killed hun, without demanding why. 
 
 Arias. Senor Sancho Ortiz, I come to 
 you in the king'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 relatives, or for some man 
 in power, some grandee of this realm, and 
 if you have from him some paper, safe- 
 guard, or agreement, written or signed by 
 his hand, show it at once, and thereby do 
 your duty. 
 
 Sancho. If I do so, my lord, I shall 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 hiTTi that I may have had a paper, but 
 he insults me when he asks for papers, hav- 
 ing seen them torn. I killed Bustos 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 I 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. 
 
 Arias. If you can justify yourself by a 
 word, 't is madness to refuse it. 
 
 Sancho. 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 shaU both act as befits us. 
 
 Arias. I'll say that to His Majesty. 
 
 Pedro. Sancho Ortiz, you have done a 
 thing most ill advised, and you have acted 
 rashly. 
 
 Fahpan. You have offended the munici- 
 pality of Seville, and exposed your life to her 
 severity, your neck to her just vengeance. 
 [Exeunt the alcaldes and Arias.] 
 
 Clarindo. 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 aflame 
 with thimderbolts and lightning : one sweeps 
 upon me like a serpent, describing swift 
 curves of fire. 
 
 Clarindo. I think that he has lost his 
 wits. I'll follow his humor. 
 
 Sancho. How I burn! 
 
 Clarindo. How I broil! 
 
 Sancho. Did the bolt strike you too? 
 
 Clarindo. Do you not see me in ashes? 
 
 Sancho. God save us! 
 
 Clarindo. Yes, my lord, I am the ashes 
 of a fagot. 
 
 Sancho. We are now in the other world. 
 
 Clarindo. In hell, I think. 
 
 Sancho. In hell, Clarindo? Why say 
 you so? 
 
 Clarindo. Because I see in yonder cas- 
 tle, my lord, a thousand lying tailors. 
 
 Sancho. You rightly say we 're there; 
 for Pride is burning upon yon tower formed 
 of the arrogant and haughty; there I see 
 Ambition drinking a river of fire. 
 
 Clarindo. And farther on there is a 
 legion of cabmen. 
 
 Sancho. 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, 
 hell's not so bad. 
 
 Clarindo. 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 centuries 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 promises? You seem 
 a simpleton, for not to keep a promise is a 
 noble act these days. — I promised to kill 
 a man, and raging killed him, though he 
 was my friend. — Bad! 
 
 Clarindo. At least not good! 
 
 Sancho. At least not good. Put him in 
 prison, and condemn him for a fool. — 
 Honor, I lost his sister, and now I suffer in 
 that I did fight him. — No matter. 
 
 Clarindo. God help me! If I let him 
 continue further, he will be mad entirely. 
 I will invent a trick. [He shoids.] 
 
 Sancho. Who calls? Who calls? 
 
 Clakindo. It is the dog Cerberus who 
 calls, the porter of this palace. Do you not 
 know me? 
 
 Sancho. Methinks I do. 
 I Clarindo. And who are you? 
 
 Sancho. A man of honor. 
 
 Clarindo. What! In here! Begone. 
 
 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 
 his 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 also his companion by the hand. 
 [Gives him a whirl, and releases him.] — 
 Now you are in the world, my friend. God 
 be with you, as with me. 
 
 Sancho. God, said he? 
 
 Clarindo. Yes, my lord, for this devil, 
 before he was one, was a baptized Chris- 
 tian, and is a Gallego of Caldefrancos. 
 
 Sancho. It seems to me that I am wak- 
 ing from a trance. God help me! O Stella! 
 How wretched is my fate without you! 
 But since I caused your grief, I deserve my 
 punishment. 
 
 ,, [Enter the Governor of the prison and 
 ! Stella, veiled.] 
 
 Stella. Deliver me the prisoner at once. 
 GovBBNOE. Here is the prisoner, my 
 
 lady, and as the king commands me, I de- 
 liver him to your hands. Senor Sancho 
 Ortiz, 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. 
 
 Clarindo. Does it not seem enchant- 
 ment? 
 
 Stella. Let no one follow us. [Exeunt.] 
 
 Clarindo. 'Tis well. In faith, we're 
 traveling well, from hell to Seville, and 
 from Seville to hell! Please God this Star 
 reveal herself as Venus! [Exit.] 
 
 IScENE III. Outside the prison.] 
 
 [Enter Stella, covered with her cloak, 
 Sancho.] 
 
 Stella. Now I have placed you at 
 liberty. Go with God, Sancho Ortiz, and 
 remember that I have been merciful and 
 compassionate. Go with God! Go. You are 
 free. Why do you linger? Why look you so? 
 Why hesitate? He who delays is wasting 
 time. Go, for a horse awaits you on which 
 you can escape; the servant has money for 
 the journey. 
 
 Sancho. Madame, I kiss your feet. 
 
 Stella. Go, for there is no time to lose. 
 
 Sancho. With heavy heart I go. May 
 I not know who has liberated me, that I 
 may give thanks for such mercy? 
 
 Stella. A woman; I wish you well, for 
 I give you liberty, having it in my discre- 
 tion. Go with God. 
 
 Sancho. I will not pass from here, ex- 
 cept you tell me who you are, or let me see 
 your face. 
 
 Stella. I 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 loves you best, 
 and whom you love least. Go with God. 
 
 Sancho. I will not go if you do not un- 
 cover. 
 
 Stella. That you may go, I am . . . 
 
 [Uncovers \ 
 
 Sancho. Stella, star of my soul! 
 
THE STAR OF SEVILLE 
 
 i8g 
 
 Stella. A star I am, that guides you, the 
 omen of your life. Go, for thus does love 
 o'ercome the force of sternness, for as I love 
 you, so am I to you a favoring Star. 
 
 Sancho. You! resplendent and fair, in 
 presence of your mortal enemy! You! 
 Such pity for me! Treat me more cruelly, 
 for here pity is cruelty, for pity is punish- 
 ment. Have 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 Uve, 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 as 
 who you are, I have to act my part. 
 
 Stella. Why do you die? 
 
 Sancho. To avenge you. 
 
 Stella. For what? 
 
 Sancho. For my treachery. 
 
 Stella. 'T is cruelty. 
 
 Sancho. 'T is justice. 
 
 Stella. There is no plaintiff. 
 
 Sancho. Love is plaintiff. 
 
 Stella. 'T is 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. 
 
 Sancho. There is nothing to be said. 
 
 Stella. Where are you going? 
 
 Sancho. I go to die, since by my life I 
 offend you. 
 
 Stella. Go, and leave me. 
 
 Sancho. It is not well. 
 
 Stella. Live, and take your freedom. 
 
 Sancho. It is not right. 
 
 Stella. Why do you die? 
 
 Sancho. It is my pleasure. 
 
 Stella. 'T is cruelty. 
 
 Sancho. 'T is honor, too. 
 
 Stella. Who accuses you? 
 
 Sancho. Your disdain. 
 
 Stella. I have none. 
 
 Sancho. I am unmoved. 
 
 Stella. Are you in your senses? 
 
 Sancho. I am in my honor, and I offend 
 you by living. 
 
 Stella. Then, madman, go and die, for 
 I will also die. [Exeunt on opposite sides.] 
 
 [Scene IV. A room in the palace.] 
 [Enter the King and Abias.] 
 
 King. And so he'll not confess that I 
 commanded him to kill? 
 
 Arias. I ne'er saw bronze 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. 
 
 King. He hopes to force me by his 
 silence. 
 
 Arias. Indeed he has constrained you. 
 
 King. He has fulfilled his promise, and I 
 am sore perplexed not to be able to keep the 
 word I gave him in a moment of anger. 
 
 Arias. You cannot evade a promise 
 given, for if an ordinary man must keep it, 
 in a king's mouth it becomes law, and all 
 must bow before the law. 
 
 King. 'T is true, when the law is inter- 
 preted by natural right. 
 
 Arias. It is an obligation. The vassal 
 does not question the law 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 are boimd to fulfill to him 
 the law you made in ordering him to kill 
 Bustos Tabera; for had it not been by your 
 command, he had not killed him. 
 
 King. 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 
 Castille when Don Alonso there already 
 calls me tyrant, and the Roman pontiff 
 attacks me with his 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 Sancho die, and that 
 is baseness. What shall I do? 
 
190 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Arias. Your Highness may with flattery 
 win the alcaldes, and ask them that by 
 exile Sanoho Ortiz pay for his crime and 
 grievous fault, suppressing greater rigors; 
 thus do you intercede for him. You may 
 make him general on some frontier, and so 
 you reward him with a laurel crown. 
 
 King. You say well ; but if Dona Stella, to 
 whom I gave my ring, has already wreaked 
 vengeance on him, what shall we do then? 
 
 Arias. All shall be put in order. I will 
 go in your name and seize 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 marry her to some grandee 
 of the court, for her virtue and her rank de- 
 serve a noble husband. 
 
 King. How I repent my weakness. 
 Arias! The sage well says that he alone is 
 wise who is upon occasion prudent, as on 
 occasion stern. Go now and take Stella, 
 since by her capture you free me from my 
 perplexity. And to placate her I will marry 
 her to a Duke of Castile, and could I give 
 my throne, would put her in my place, for 
 such a brother and sister merit immortal 
 glory. 
 
 Arias. The people of this city dim the 
 glory of Rome. [Exit Arias.] 
 
 [Enter the Governor of the prison] 
 
 Governor. I kiss Your Highness' feet. 
 
 King. Pedro de Caus, what occasion 
 brings you to my feet? 
 
 Governor. Sire, this ring, engraved 
 with your arms, is it not Your Majesty's? 
 
 King. 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 Ortiz be delivered her. I referred your 
 mandate to the guards, together with the 
 ring, and all were of opinion that he be 
 delivered. I released him, but shortly 
 Sanoho Ortiz, like a madman, with loud 
 cries, begs that the castle gate be opened. 
 "I will not do the king's command," he 
 said, " and wish to die, for it is right that he 
 who kills should die." I refused admit- 
 tance, but he shouted so I was obliged to 
 
 open. He entered, and in joy he waits for 
 death. 
 
 King. I never saw such noble or such 
 Christian folk as in this city. Bronze, 
 marble, statues, may be silent. 
 
 Governor. "The woman says, my lord, 
 she gave him freedom, and he would not 
 accept it, when he knew she was the sister 
 of Bustos Tabera, whom he put to death. 
 
 King. What you say now astounds me 
 all the more, their magnanimity passes 
 nature. She when she should be most vin- 
 dictive, forgives, and frees him; and he to 
 reward her generous soul, returned to die. 
 If their deeds go further, they will be im- 
 mortalized in records of eternity. Do you, 
 Pedro de Caus, bring me Don Sancho in 
 my carriage to the palace, with strictest 
 secrecy, avoiding noise or guards. 
 
 Governor. I go to do your bidding. 
 
 [Exit.] 
 
 [Enter a servant.] 
 
 Servant. The two chief alcaldes desire 
 to see Your Majesty. 
 
 King. Tell them to enter, with their 
 wands of office. [Exit servant.] Now if I 
 can I'll keep my word to Sancho Ortiz, 
 without revealing my deed of cruelty. 
 
 [Enter the alcaldes.] 
 
 Pedro. Sire, the guilt is proved; the case 
 requires sentence. 
 
 King. Pronounce it. I only beg you, 
 since you are the guardians of the state, to 
 consider justice, and clemency oft favors 
 it. Sancho Ortiz is councilor of Seville, and 
 if he who is dead was also councilor, the one 
 claims mercy, if the other calls for venge- 
 ance. 
 
 Farfan. 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 lose their heav- 
 enly function. 
 
 King. I ask not that you deflect them, 
 but that equity be done in justice. 
 
 Pedro. Sire, the source of our authority 
 
THE STAR OF SEVILLE 
 
 191 
 
 is Your Majesty. On your command de- 
 pend our hopes. Spare his life; you may 
 pardon him, since kings are accountable to 
 none. God creates kings, and God trans- 
 fers the crown of sovereignty from Saul to 
 David. 
 
 King. Go in, and weigh the sentence 
 that you give for penalty, and let Sancho 
 Ortiz go to execution as the laws require. 
 [Aside.] You, Pedro de Guzman, listen to 
 a word apart. 
 
 Pedko. What is Your Highness' will? 
 
 King. By putting Sancho to death, my 
 dear Don Pedro, you do not restore life to 
 the dead. May we not avoid the extreme 
 penalty, and exile him to Gibraltar, or 
 Granada, where in my service he may find 
 a voluntary death? What say you? 
 
 Pedeo. That I am Don Pedro de Guz- 
 man, and I am at your feet. Yours is my 
 Ufe, and my possessions and my sword. 
 
 King. Embrace me, Don Pedro de 
 Guzman. I did expect no less from a 
 noble heart. Go with God; send Farfan 
 de Rivera to me. [Aside.] Flattery levels 
 mountains. 
 
 Faefan. You see me at your feet. 
 
 King. Farfan de Rivera, it grieved me 
 that Sancho Ortiz 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. 
 
 King. In truth you are Rivera, in whom 
 the flowers of virtue spring, to adorn and 
 attend you. Go with God. [Exeunt al- 
 caldes.] Well have I labored. Now, Sancho 
 Ortiz escapes death, and my promise is 
 saved without becoming known. I will have 
 him go as general to some frontier, whereby 
 I exile and reward him. 
 
 [Reenter alcaldes.] 
 
 Pedro. Now the sentence is signed, and 
 it remains only to submit it to Your Ma- 
 jesty. 
 
 King. Such noble lords as you will have 
 made it, I doubt not, as I desired. 
 
 Farfan. Our boast is loyalty. 
 
 King [reads the sentence]: "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? Zounds! 
 
 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 
 or heaven. 
 
 Pedro. Give us your orders as subjects, 
 but as chief alcaldes, ask not unjust things, 
 for then we bear our wands; as vassals 
 we're without them. And the Council of 
 Seville is what it is. 
 
 King. Enough; 't is well, for all of you 
 put me to shame. 
 
 [Enter Arias and Stella.] 
 
 Arias. Stella is now here. 
 King. Don Arias, what shall I do? What 
 is your counsel in such great confusion? 
 
 [Enter the Governor, Sancho Ortiz, and 
 Claeindo.] 
 
 Governor. Sancho Ortiz is before you. 
 
 Sancho. Great king, why do you not 
 end my sufferings with death, my misfor- 
 tunes with your condemnation? I killed 
 Bustos Tabera, kill me; he who kills must 
 die. Show mercy, Sire, by executing justice. 
 
 King. Wait! Who ordered you to kill 
 him? 
 
 Sancho. A paper. 
 
 King. From whom? - 
 
 Sancho. Could the paper speak, 't would 
 tell; that is clear and evident; but papers 
 torn give but confused reply. I only know 
 I killed the man I most did love, because 
 I promised. But here at your feet Stella 
 awaits my death in atonement, and still is 
 her vengeance incomplete. 
 
 King. 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. Sire, if I am married, let Sancho 
 Ortiz go free. I renounce my vengeance. 
 
 Sancho. And so you give me pardon, 
 because His Highness marries you? 
 
192 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Stella. Yes, for that I pardon you. 
 
 Sancho. And are you thus avenged for 
 my offense? 
 
 Stella. And satisfied. 
 
 Sancho. Then that your hopes may be 
 fulfilled, I consent to live, although I 
 wished to die. 
 
 King. Go with God. 
 
 Faefan. Look what you do, my lord, 
 for this is to offend Seville, and he must die. 
 
 King [to Akias]. What shall I do? 
 These people anger and dismay me. 
 
 Arias. Speak. 
 
 King. Men of Seville, put me to death, 
 for I was cause of this murder. I ordered 
 him to kill, and this suffices to discharge him. 
 
 Sancho. My honor awaited only this 
 avowal, for the king ordered me to kill him, 
 and I had not committed an act so cruel, 
 had the king not ordered it. 
 
 King. I declare that this is true. 
 
 Faepan. Then is Seville content, for 
 since you ordered he be put to death, no 
 doubt he gave you cause. 
 
 King. The nobility of Seville leaves me 
 in wonder. 
 
 Sancho. I will depart to exile, when Your 
 Majesty fulfills another promise that you 
 gave me. 
 
 King. I'll keep it. 
 
 Sancho. I said that you should give to 
 me for wife the woman I should ask. 
 
 King. So it was. 
 
 Sancho. I ask for Stella. 
 
 Stella. Sancho Ortiz, I am promised. 
 
 Sancho. Promised? 
 
 Stella. Yes. 
 
 Sancho. Woe is me. 
 
 King. Stella, this was my promise; I am 
 king and must fulfill it. What do you say? 
 
 Stella. Your will be done. I am his. 
 
 Sancho. I am hers. 
 
 King. And now, what lacks? 
 
 Sancho. Harmony. 
 
 Stella. Which we shall never find in life 
 together. 
 
 Sancho. I say the same, and therefore 
 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. 
 
 Stella. Then we are free? 
 
 Sancho. Yes. 
 
 Stella. So then farewell. 
 
 Sancho. Farewell. 
 
 King. Wait. 
 
 Stella. Sire, I cannot take for husband 
 a man who killed my brother, though I love 
 him and adore him. [Exit] 
 
 Sancho. And I, Sire, because I love her, 
 it is not just that I should marry her. 
 
 King. What nobility! 
 
 Arias. What constancy! 
 
 Clahindo. Madness it seems to me. 
 
 King. I marvel at these people. 
 
 Pedro. Such are the people of Seville. 
 
 King. I intend to give her a husband, 
 and such as she deserves. 
 
 Clarindo. And now Lope consecrates 
 to you this tragedy, giving eternal fame to 
 the Star of Seville, whose marvelous his- 
 tory is writ on tablets of bronze. 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 (LA VIDA ES SUENO) 
 By CALDERON 
 
 Translated in the original meters by DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Basiuus, King of Poland 
 SiGisMUND, his son 
 AsTOLFO, Duke of Muscovy 
 Clotaldo, o nobleman 
 EsTEELLA, o pHncess 
 RosAUBA, a lady 
 Clahin, her servant 
 Soldiers, Guards, Musicians, Attendants, Ladies, Servants 
 
 The Scene is in the Court of Poland, in a fortress at 
 some distance, and in the open field. 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 ACT I 
 
 [Scene I. At one side a craggy mountain, 
 at the other a tower, the lower part of which 
 serves as the prison of Sigismund. The door 
 faring the spectators is half open. The action 
 commences at nightfall.] 
 
 [RosAURA in man's attire appears on the 
 rocky heights and descends to the plain. 
 She is followed by Clarin.] 
 
 RosAUBA. Wild hippogriff swift speeding, 
 Thou that dost run, the winged winds ex- 
 ceeding, 
 Bolt which no flash illumes. 
 Fish without scales, bird without shifting 
 
 plumes. 
 And brute awhile bereft 
 Of natural instinct, why to this wild clej 
 This labyrinth of naked rocks, dost 
 Unreined, imcurbed, to plunge thei 
 
 the steep? 
 Stay in this mountain wold, 
 And let the beasts their Phaeton 
 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 thou received a stranger, since in 
 
 blood 
 The name thou writest on thy sands 
 Of her who hardly here fares hardly at thy 
 
 hands 
 My fate may well say so: — 
 But where shall one poor wretch find pity 
 
 in her woe? 
 Clarin. Say two, if you please; 
 Don'tlSM^t^ out when making plaints 
 
 For if 
 Wholi 
 
 two 
 live country with the view 
 
 Of seeking strange adventures, if we be 
 
 The two who, madly and in misery, 
 
 Have got so far as this, and if we still 
 
 Are the same two who tumbled down this 
 hiU, 
 
 Does it not plainly to a wrong amount. 
 
 To put me in the pain and not in the ac- 
 count? 
 RosAURA. I do not wish te impart, 
 
 Clarin, to thee, the sorrows of my heart; 
 
 Mourning for thee would spoil the consola- 
 tion 
 
 Of making for thyself thy lamentation; 
 
 For there is such a pleasure in complain- 
 ing, 
 
 That a philosopher I've heard maintaining 
 ought to seek a sorrow and be vain of it, 
 f der to be privileged to complain of it. 
 IN. That same philosopher 
 old drunken fool, unless I err: 
 at I coxild a thousand thumps pre- 
 sent him, 
 t''In order for complaining to content him! 
 
 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. So strange a misadventure 
 who has seen? 
 
 But if my sight deceives me not, between 
 
 These rugged rocks, half-lit by the moon'g 
 ray 
 
 And the declining day, 
 
 It seems, or is it fancy? that I see 
 
 A human dwelling? 
 Clarin. So it seems to me. 
 
 Unless my wish the longed-for lodging 
 mocks. 
 .RosAURA. A rustic little palace 'mid the 
 rocks 
 
 Uplifts its lowly roof, 
 
 Scarce seen by the far sun that shines aloof. 
 
 Of such a rude device 
 
 Is the whole structure of this edifice, 
 
196 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 That lying at the feet 
 Of these gigantic crags that rise to greet 
 The sun's first beams of gold, 
 It seems a rock that down the mountain 
 rolled. 
 Claein. Let us approach more near, 
 For long enough we've looked at it from 
 
 here; 
 Then better we shall see 
 If those who dwell therein will generously 
 A welcome give us. 
 
 RosAURA. See an open door 
 (Funereal mouth 't were best the name it 
 
 bore), 
 
 From which as from a womb 
 
 The night is born, engendered in its gloom. 
 
 [The sound of chains is heard within] 
 
 Claein. Heavens! what is this I hear? 
 
 RosAUBA. Half ice, half fire, I stand 
 
 transfixed with fear. 
 Claein. A sound of chains, is it not? 
 Some galley-slave his sentence here hath 
 
 got; 
 My fear may well suggest it so may be.^ 
 SiQiSMUND [in the tower]. Alas!. 
 
 wretched me! Ah, wretche( 
 RosAURA. Oh what a mournful wi 
 Again my pains, again my fears preval 
 Claein. Again with fear I die. 
 RosATTEA. Clarin! 
 Clarin. My lady! 
 Rosauea. Let us turn and fly 
 The risks of this enchanted tower. 
 
 Clarin. For one, 
 I scarce have strength to stand, much less 
 to run. 
 Rosauea. Is not" that glimmer there 
 afar — 
 That dying exhalation — that pale star — 
 A tiny taper, which, with trembling blaze 
 Flickering 'twixt struggling flames and 
 
 dying rays. 
 With ineffectual spark 
 Makes the dark dwelling place appear 
 
 more dark? 
 Yes, for its distant light, 
 Reflected dimly, brings before my sight 
 A dungeon's awful gloom. 
 Say rather of a living corse, a living tomb; 
 And to increase my terror and surprise. 
 Dressed in the skins of beasts a man there 
 lies: 
 
 A piteous sight, 
 
 Chained, and his sole companion this poor 
 light. 
 
 Since then we cannot fly. 
 
 Let us attentive to his words draw nigh, 
 
 Whatever they may be. 
 
 [The doors of the tower open wide, 
 and SiGiSMUND is discovered in 
 chains and clad in the skins of 
 beasts. The light in the tower 
 increases.] 
 SiGiSMUND. Alas! Ah, wretched me! 
 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 alone I ponder o'er. 
 
 My strange mystery to pierce through; 
 ^l^ing wholly out of view 
 
 ^^JBS my hapless birthday bore, 
 
 How^K/e I offended more. 
 
 That :BliSmore you pimish me? 
 ^"l^s^Slfct other creatures be 
 
 Tmh0^1i born, what privilege 
 
 Can they over me allege 
 
 Of which I should not be free? 
 
 Birds are born,.tlie bird that sings, 
 
 Richly robed by Nature's dower, 
 
 Scarcely floats — a feathered flower. 
 
 Or a bunch of blooms with wings — 
 
 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 less liberty? 
 
 Beasts are born, 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 — p„ 
 
 Nature's stern necessity. 
 
 To be schooled in cruelty, J 
 
 Monster, waging ruthless ■ 
 
 And with instincts better iai^ 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 197 
 
 Must I have less liberty? 
 
 'T is enough that I prostrate me. 
 
 Fish are born, the spawn that breeds 
 
 At thy feet, to liberate me! 
 
 Where the oozy seaweeds float, 
 
 SiGiSMUND. Strange thy voice can so 
 
 Scarce perceives itself a boat, 
 
 unbend me. 
 
 Scaled and plated for its needs. 
 
 Strange thy sight can so suspend me. 
 
 When from wave to wave it speeds, 
 
 And respect so penetrate me! 
 
 Measuring all the mighty sea, 
 
 Who art thou? For though I see 
 
 Testing its profundity 
 
 Little from this lonely room, 
 
 To its depths so dark and chill: — 
 
 This, my cradle and my tomb. 
 
 And with so much freer will. 
 
 Being all the world to me. 
 
 Must I have less liberty? 
 
 And if birthday it could be, 
 
 Streams are bom, a coiled-up snake 
 
 Since my birthday I have known 
 
 When its jwth the streamlet finds, 
 
 But this desert wild and lone, 
 
 Scarce a silver serpent winds 
 
 Where throughout my life's sad course 
 
 'Mong the flowers it must forsake, 
 
 I have lived, a breathing corse, 
 
 But a song of praise doth wake. 
 
 I have moved, a skeleton; 
 
 Mournful though its music be. 
 
 And though I address or see 
 
 To the plain that courteously 
 
 Never but one man alone. 
 
 Opes a path through which it flies: — 
 
 Who my sorrows all hath known. 
 
 And with life that never dies. 
 
 And through whom have come to me 
 
 Must I have less liberty? 
 
 Notions of earth, sky, and sea; 
 
 When I think of this I start. 
 
 And though harrowing thee again. 
 
 ^tna-like in wild unrest 
 
 Since thou 'It call me in this den, 
 
 I would pluck from out my breast 
 
 Monster fit for bestial feasts. 
 
 Bit by bit my burning heart: — 
 
 I'm a man among wild beasts. 
 
 For what law can so depart 
 
 And a wild beast amongst men. 
 
 From all right, as to deny 
 
 But though round me has been wrought 
 
 One lone man that liberty — 
 
 All this woe, from beasts I've learned 
 
 That sweet gift which God bestows 
 
 Polity, the same discerned 
 
 On the crystal stream that flows. 
 
 Heeding what the birds had taught. 
 
 Birds and fish that float or fly? 
 
 And have measured in my thought 
 
 RosAtTRA. Fear and deepest sympathy 
 
 The fair orbits of the spheres; 
 
 Do I feel at every word. 
 
 You alone, 'midst doubts and fears. 
 
 , SiGiSMUND. Who my sad lament has 
 
 Wake my wonder and surprise — 
 
 heard? 
 
 Give amazement to my eyes, 
 
 What! Clotaldo! 
 
 Admiration to my ears. 
 
 Clabin [aside to his mistress]. Say 't is 
 
 Every time your face I see 
 
 he. 
 
 You produce a new amaze: 
 
 RoSADHA. No, 'tis but a wretch (ah, 
 
 After the most steadfast gaze. 
 
 me!) 
 
 I again would gazer be. 
 
 Who in these dark caves and cold 
 
 I believe some hydropsy 
 
 Hears the tale your lips unfold. 
 
 Must affect my sight, I think 
 
 SiGiSMTTND. Then you'll die for listen- 
 
 Death must hover on the brink 
 
 ing so, 
 
 Of those wells of light, your eyes, 
 
 That you may not know I know 
 
 For I look with fresh surprise. 
 
 That you know the tale I told. [Seizes her.] 
 
 And though death result, I drink. 
 
 Yes, you'll die for loitering near: 
 
 Let me see and die: forgive me; 
 
 In these strong arms gaunt and grim 
 
 For I do not know, in faith. 
 
 I will tear you limb from limb. 
 
 If to see you gives me death. 
 
 Clabin. I am deaf and could n't hear: — 
 
 What to see you not would give me; 
 
 No! 
 
 Something worse than death would grieve 
 
 RosATJKA. If human heart you bear. 
 
 me, 
 
igS 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Anger, rage, corroding care, 
 Death, but double death it were, 
 Death with tenfold terrors rife, 
 Since what gives the wretched life, 
 Gives the happy death, despair! 
 
 RosAUHA. Thee to see wakes such dis- 
 may, 
 Thee to hear I so admire, 
 That I'm powerless to inquire, 
 That I know not what to say: 
 Only this, that I to-day, 
 Guided by a wiser will, 
 Have here come to cure my ill, 
 Here consoled my grief to see. 
 If a wretch consoled can be 
 Seeing one more wretched still. 
 Of a sage, who roamed dejected. 
 Poor, and wretched, it is said, 
 That one day, his wants being fed 
 By the herbs which he collected, 
 "Is there one" (he thus reflected) 
 "Poorer than I am to-day?" 
 Turning round him to survey, 
 He his answer got, detecting 
 A still poorer sage collecting 
 Even the leaves he threw away. ■ 
 Thus complaining to excess, 
 Mourning fate, my life I led. 
 And when thoughtlessly I said 
 To myself, "Does earth possess 
 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 these pains may be imparted, 
 Hear attentively the story 
 Of my life's supreme disasters. 
 I am. . . . 
 
 Clotaldo [within] . Warders of this 
 tower, 
 Who, or sleeping or faint-hearted, 
 Give an entrance to two persons 
 Who herein have burst a passage . . . 
 
 Rosaura. New confusion now I suffer. 
 
 SiGisMTJND. 'T is Clotaldo, who here 
 guards me; 
 Are not yet my miseries ended? 
 
 Clotaldo [within]. Hasten hither, quick 1 
 be active! 
 
 And before they can defend them, 
 Kill them on the spot, or capture! 
 
 [Voices within.] Treason! 
 
 Claein. Watchguards of this tower, 
 Who politely let us pass here. 
 Since you have the choice of killing 
 Or of capturing, choose the latter. 
 
 [Enter Clotaldo and Soldiers; he with 
 a pistol, and aU with their faces cov- 
 ered.] 
 
 Clotaldo [aside to the Soldiers]. 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 stragglers. 
 Clarin. Are there masqueraders here? 
 Clotaldo. Ye who in your ignorant 
 rashness 
 Have passed through the bounds and 
 
 limits 
 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 Mves, 
 Or this pistol, this cold aspic 
 Formed of steel, the penetrating 
 Poison of two balls will scatter, 
 The report and fire of which 
 Will the air astound and startle. 
 SiGiBMUND. Ere you wound them, ere 
 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 misfortunes, 
 •Or lament their sad disaster. 
 
 Clotaldo. If you know that your mis- 
 fortunes, 
 Sigismund, are unexampled, 
 Since before being born you died 
 By Heaven's mystical enactment; 
 If you know these fetters are 
 Of your furies oft so rampant 
 But the bridle that detains them, 
 But the circle that contracts them. 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 199 
 
 [To the Soldiers.] Why these idle boasts? 
 
 The door 
 Of this narrow prison fasten; 
 Leave him there secured. 
 
 SiGiSMUND. Ah, heavens, 
 It is wise of you to snatch me 
 Thus from freedom! since my rage 
 'Gainst you had become Titanic, 
 Since to break the glass and crystal 
 Gold-gates of the sun, my anger 
 On the firm-fixed rocks' foundations 
 Would have mountains piled of marble. 
 
 Clotaldo. 'T is that you should not so 
 pile them 
 That perhaps these ills have happened. 
 
 [Some of the Soldiers lead Sigis- 
 MTJND into his prison, the doors 
 of which are closed upon him.] 
 
 RosAtTBA. Since I now have seen how 
 pride 
 Can offend thee, I were 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 harshness 
 If humility and pride, 
 Both alike were disregarded. 
 
 Clakin. If Humility and Pride 
 Those two figures who have acted 
 Many and many a thousand times 
 In the autos sacramentales, 
 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 pardon. 
 
 Clotaldo. Ho! 
 
 Soldiers. My lord? 
 
 Clotaldo. Disarm the two, 
 And their eyes securely bandage, 
 So that they may not be able 
 To see whither they are carried. 
 
 Rosauka. 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 I could hardly 
 Yield it unto one less noble. 
 
 Clarin. Mine I'll give the greatest 
 rascal 
 Of your troop: [to a Soldier] so take it, you. 
 
 RosATJRA. And if I must die, to thank 
 thee 
 For thy pity, I would leave thee 
 
 This as pledge, which has its value 
 From the owner who once 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 mystery 
 Lies within this golden scabbard, 
 Since relying but on it 
 I to Poland here have traveled 
 To revenge a wrong. 
 
 Clotaldo [aside]. Just heavens! 
 What is this? Still graver, darker. 
 Grow my doubts and my confusion, 
 My anxieties and my anguish. — 
 Speak, who gave you this? 
 
 RosATJRA. A woman. 
 
 Clotaldo. And her name? 
 
 RosATJBA. To that my answer 
 Must be silence. 
 
 Clotaldo. But from what 
 Do you now infer, or fancy. 
 That this sword involves a secret? 
 
 RosAURA. She who gave it said: "De- 
 part hence 
 Into Poland, and by study. 
 Stratagem, and skUl 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. 
 
 Clotaldo [aside]. Bless me. Heaven! 
 what's this I hear? 
 For so strangely has this happened, 
 That I cannot yet determine 
 If 't is real or imagined. 
 This is the same sword that I 
 Left with beauteous Violante, 
 As a pledge unto its wearer, 
 Who might seek me out thereafter. 
 As a son that I would love him. 
 And protect him as a father. 
 What is to be done (ah, me!) 
 In confusion so entangled. 
 If he who for safety bore it 
 Bears it now but to dispatch him. 
 Since condemned to death he cometh 
 To my feet? How strange a marvel! 
 What a lamentable fortune! 
 How unstable! how unhappy! 
 This must be my son — the tokens 
 
200 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 All declare it, superadded 
 
 To the flutter of the heart, 
 
 That to see him loudly rappeth 
 
 At the breast, and not being able 
 
 With its throbs to burst its chamber, 
 
 Does as 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 Heavens!) 
 
 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, according 
 
 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; besides, he told me, 
 
 If I well recall his language. 
 
 That he came to revenge a wrong. 
 
 But a wronged man is a lazar, — 
 
 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, 
 
 Since 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 doubts 
 
 A mid course alone 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 his anger. 
 Give him death, then he will die 
 Without knowing I'm his father. — 
 Come, then, come then with me, strangers. 
 [To RosATjRA and Clarin.] 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 I know not which are larger. 
 
 [Exeunt.] 
 
 [Scene II. A Hall in the Royal Palace.] 
 
 [Enter at one side Astolfo and Soldiers, 
 and at the other the Intanta Estrella 
 and her Ladies. Military music and 
 salutes within.] 
 
 AsTOLro. Struck at once with admira- 
 tion 
 At thy starry eyes outshining. 
 Mingle many a salutation, 
 Drums and trumpet-notes combining, 
 Founts and birds in alternation; 
 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 Senora, 
 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 Pallas in thy might. 
 And as Queen thou rul'st my heart. 
 
 Estrella. 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 I my standard rear, 
 Since they say, it seems to me, 
 Not the flatteries that I hear. 
 But the rigors that I see. 
 Think, too, what a base invention 
 From a wild beast's treachery sprung, — 
 Fraudful mother of dissension — 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 Is to flatter with the tongue, 
 
 Both to you and me the prize. 
 
 And to kill with the intention. 
 
 Making you a Queen, but Queen 
 
 AsTOLFO. in informed you must have 
 
 By my will, our uncle leaving 
 
 been, 
 
 You the throne we'll share between — 
 
 Fair Estrella, thus to throw 
 
 And my love a realm receiving 
 
 Doubt on my respectful mien: 
 
 Dearer than a King's demesne. 
 
 Let your ear attentive lean 
 
 Estrella. Well, I must be generous too, 
 
 While the cause I strive show. 
 
 For a gallantry so fine; 
 
 King Eustorgius the Fair, 
 
 This imperial realm you view, 
 
 Third so called, died, leaving two 
 
 If I wish it to be mine 
 
 Daughters, and Basilius heir; 
 
 'T is to give it unto you. 
 
 Of his sisters I and you 
 
 Though if I the truth confessed. 
 
 Are the children — I forbear 
 
 I must fear your love may fail — 
 
 To recall a single scene 
 
 Flattering words are words at best, 
 
 Save what's needful. Clorilene, 
 
 For perhaps a truer tale 
 
 Your good mother and my aunt, 
 
 Tells that portrait on your breast. 
 
 Who is now a habitant 
 
 AsTOLPO. On that point complete con- 
 
 Of a sphere of simnier sheen, 
 
 tent 
 
 Was the elder, of whom you 
 
 Will I give your mind, not here. 
 
 Are the daughter; Recisunda, 
 
 For each sounding instrument 
 
 Whom God guard a thousand years, 
 
 [Drums are heard.] 
 
 Her fair sister (Rosamunda 
 
 Tells us that the King is near. 
 
 Were she called if names were true) 
 
 With his Court and Parhament. 
 
 Wed in Muscovy, of whom 
 I was bom. 'T is needful now 
 
 [Enter the King Basilius, vrith his retinue.] 
 
 The cominencement to resume. 
 
 Estrella. Learned Euclid . . . 
 
 King Basilius, who doth bow 
 
 AsTOLPO. Thales wise . . . 
 
 'Neath the weight of years, the doom 
 
 Estrella. The vast Zodiac . . . 
 
 Age imposes, more inclined 
 
 AsTOLFA. The star spaces . . . 
 
 To the studies of the mind 
 
 Estrella. Who dost, soar to . . . 
 
 Than to women, wifeless, lone. 
 
 AsTOLPO. Who dost rise ... 
 
 Without sons, to fill his throne 
 
 Estrella. The sun's orbit ... 
 
 I and you our way would find. 
 
 AsTOLFO. The stars' places . . . 
 
 You, the elder's child, averred. 
 
 Estrella. To describe . . . 
 
 That the crown you stood more nigh: 
 
 AsTOLFO. To map the skies . . . 
 
 I, maintaining that you erred. 
 
 Estrella. Let me humbly interlac- 
 
 Held, though bom of the younger, I, 
 
 ing .. . 
 
 Being a man, shoxild be preferred. 
 
 AsTQLPO. Let me lovingly embrac- 
 
 Thus our mutual pretension 
 
 ing .. . 
 
 To our uncle we related. 
 
 Estrella. Be the tendril of thy tree. 
 
 Who replied that he would mention 
 
 AsTOLPO. Bend respectfully my knee. 
 
 Here, and on this day he stated. 
 
 Basilius. Children, that dear word dis- 
 
 What might settle the dissension. 
 
 placing 
 
 With this end, from Muscovy 
 
 Colder names, my arms here bless; 
 
 I set out, and with that view, 
 
 And be sure, since you assented 
 
 I to-day fair Poland see. 
 
 To my plan, my love's excess 
 
 And not making war on you, 
 
 Will leave neither discontented, 
 
 \V ait till war you make on me. 
 
 Or give either more or less. 
 
 Would to love — that God so wise — 
 
 And though I from being old 
 
 That the crowd may be a sure 
 
 Slowly may the facts unfold, 
 
 Astrologue to read the skies, / 
 
 Hear in silence my narration. 
 
 And this festive truce secure , 
 
 Keep reserved your admiration, 
 
202 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Till the wondrous tale is told. 
 
 You already know — I pray you 
 
 Be attentive, dearest children, 
 
 Great, illustrious Court of Poland, 
 
 Faithful vassals, friends and kinsmen, 
 
 You already know — my studies 
 
 Have throughout the whole world given me 
 
 The high title of " the learndd," 
 
 Since 'gainst time and time's oblivion 
 
 The rich pencils of Timanthes, 
 
 The bright marbles of Lysippus, 
 
 Universally proclaim me 
 
 Through earth's bounds the great Basilius. 
 
 You already know the sciences 
 
 That I feel my mind most given to 
 
 Are the subtle mathematics. 
 
 By whose means my clear prevision 
 
 Takes from rumor its slow 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 orbs 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 books where heaven has written 
 
 Upon diamond-dotted paper. 
 
 Upon leaves by sapphires tinted, 
 
 With light luminous lines of gold. 
 
 In clear characters distinctly 
 
 All the events of human hfe. 
 
 Whether adverse or benignant. 
 
 These so rapidly I read 
 
 That I follow with the quickness 
 
 Of my thoughts the swiftest movements 
 
 Of their orbits amd their circles. 
 
 Would to heaven, that ere my mind 
 
 To those mystic books addicted 
 
 Was the comment of their margins 
 
 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 injures! — 
 
 I may say so, but my story 
 
 So will say with more distinctness, 
 
 And to win your admiration 
 
 Once again I pray you listen. — 
 
 Clorilene, my wife, a son 
 
 Bore me, so by fate afflicted 
 
 That on his unhappy birthday 
 
 AH Heaven's prodigies 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. 
 
 Fashioned like a man, but sprinkled 
 
 With her blood, who gave her death, 
 
 By that human viper bitten. 
 
 Round his birthday came at last. 
 
 All its auguries fulfilling 
 
 (For the presages of evil 
 
 Seldom fail or even linger) : 
 
 Came with such a horoscope. 
 
 That the sun rushed blood-red tinted 
 
 Into a terrific combat 
 
 With the dark moon that resisted; 
 
 Earth its mighty lists outspread 
 
 As with lessening lights diminished 
 
 Strove the twin-lamps of the sky. 
 
 'T is of all the sun's eclipses 
 
 The most dreadful that it suffered 
 
 Since 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 buildings, 
 
 Stones the angry clouds rained down. 
 
 And with blood ran red the rivers. 
 
 In this frenzy of the sun, 
 
 In its madness and delirium, 
 
 Sigismund was born, thus early' 
 
 Giving proofs of his condition. 
 
 Since his birth his mother slew, 
 
 Just as if these words had killed her, 
 
 " I am a man, since good with evil 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 203 
 
 I repay here from the beginning," — 
 
 Of his miseries the sole witness. 
 
 I, applying to my studies, 
 
 Here there are three things: the first 
 
 Saw in them as 't were forewritten 
 
 I rate highest, since my wishes 
 
 This, that Sigismund would be 
 
 Are, Poland, thee to save 
 
 The most cruel of all princes. 
 
 From the oppression, the affliction 
 
 Of all men the most audacious. 
 
 Of a tyrant King, because 
 
 Of all monarchs the most wicked; 
 
 Of his country and his kingdom 
 
 That his kingdom through his means 
 
 He were no benignant father 
 
 Would be broken and partitioned, 
 
 Who to such a risk could give it. 
 
 The academy of the vices, 
 
 Secondly, the thought occurs 
 
 And the high school of sedition; 
 
 That to take from mine own issue 
 
 And that he himself, borne onward 
 
 The plain right that every law 
 
 By his crimes' wild course resistless, 
 
 Human and divine hath given him 
 
 Would even place his feet on me: 
 
 Is not Christian charity; 
 
 For I saw myself down-stricken. 
 
 For by no law am I bidden 
 
 Lying on the ground before him 
 
 To prevent another proving. 
 
 (To say this what shame it gives me!) 
 
 Say, a tyrant, or a villain. 
 
 While his feet on my white hairs 
 
 To be one myself: supposing 
 
 As a carpet were imprinted. 
 
 Even my son should be so guilty, 
 
 Who discredits threatened ill. 
 
 That he should not crimes commit 
 
 Specially an ill previsioned 
 
 I myself should first commit them. 
 
 By one's study, when self-love 
 
 Then the third and last point is, 
 
 Makes it his peculiar business? — 
 
 That perhaps I erred in giving 
 
 Thus then crediting the fates 
 
 Too implicit a behef 
 
 Which far off my science witnessed. 
 
 To the facts foreseen so dimly; 
 
 All these fatal auguries 
 
 For although his inclination 
 
 Seen though dimly in the distance, 
 
 Well might find its precipices. 
 
 I resolved to chain the monster 
 
 He might possibly escape them: 
 
 That unhappily life was given to. 
 
 For the fate the most fastidious, 
 
 To find out if yet the stars 
 
 For the impulse the most powerful. 
 
 Owned the wise man's weird dominion. 
 
 Even the planets most malicious 
 
 It was publicly proclaimed 
 
 Only make free will incline. 
 
 That the sad ill-omened infant 
 
 But can force not human wishes. 
 
 Was stillbom. I then a tower 
 
 And thus 'twixt these different causes 
 
 Caused by forethought to be builded 
 
 Vacillating and unfixed, 
 
 'Mid the rocks of these wild mountains 
 
 I a remedy have thought of 
 
 Where the sunlight scarce can gild it. 
 
 Which will with new wonder fill you. 
 
 Its glad entrance being barred 
 
 I to-morrow morning purpose. 
 
 By these rude shafts obeliscal. 
 
 Without letting it be hinted 
 
 All the laws of which you know, 
 
 That he is my son, and therefore 
 
 All the edicts that prohibit 
 
 Your true King, at once to fix him 
 
 Any one on pain of death 
 
 As King Sigismund (for the name 
 
 That secluded part to visit 
 
 Still he bears that first was given him) 
 
 Of the motintain, were occasioned 
 
 'Neath my canopy, on my throne, , 
 
 By this cause, so long well hidden. 
 
 And in fine in my position, 
 
 There still lives Prince Sigismund, 
 
 There to govern and command you. 
 
 Miserable, poor, in prison. 
 
 Where in dutiful submission 
 
 Him alone Clotaldo sees. 
 
 You will swear to him allegiance. 
 
 Only tends to and speaks with him; 
 
 My resources thus are triple, 
 
 He the sciences has taught him, 
 
 As the causes of disquiet 
 
 He the Catholic religion 
 
 Were which I revealed this instant. 
 
 Has imparted to him, being 
 
 The first is; that he being prudent, 
 
204 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Careful, cautious, and benignant, 
 Falsifying the wild actions 
 That of him had been predicted, 
 You'll enjoy your natural prince. 
 He who has so 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 nms with loosened rein 
 O'er the broad plain of the vicious, 
 I wiU have fulfilled the duty 
 Of my natural love and pity; 
 Then his righteous deposition 
 Will but prove my royal firmness, 
 Chastisement and not revenge 
 Leading him once more to prison. 
 My third course 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 separate pretensions 
 Having happily commingled 
 By the holy bonds of marriage. 
 Will then fill their fit position. 
 This is what a king commands 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 Republic, 
 This is what a slave petitions. 
 
 AsTOLPO. If on me devolves the answer. 
 As being in this weighty business 
 The most interested party, 
 I, of all, express the opinion: — 
 Let Prince Sigismund appear; 
 He's thy son, that's all-sufficient. 
 
 All. Give to us our natural prince, 
 We proclaim him king this instant! 
 
 Basilius. 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. Live, long live great King Basilius! 
 
 [Exeunt all, occompanyinj? Estrella 
 
 and AsTOLFo; the King remains.] 
 
 [Enter Clotaldo, Rosatjra, and Clakin.] 
 
 Clotaldo. May I speak to you, Sire? 
 
 Basilius. Clotaldo, 
 You are always welcome with me. 
 
 Clotaldo. 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 happened? 
 
 Clotaldo. A misfortime. 
 Sire, which has my heart afficted 
 At the moment when all joy 
 Should have overflown and filled it. 
 
 Basilius. Pray proceed. 
 
 Clotaldo. This handsome youth here, 
 Inadvertently, or driven 
 By his daring, pierced the tower, 
 And the Prince discovered in it. 
 Nay. . . . 
 
 Basilius. 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. [Exit.] 
 
 Clotaldo. Myriad years to my lord be 
 given! 
 [Aside.] Heaven has sent a happier fate; 
 Since I need not now admit it, 
 I'll not say he is my son. — 
 Strangers who have wandered hither, 
 You are free. 
 
 RosAURA. I give your feet 
 A thousand kisses. 
 
 Clarin. I say misses, 
 For a letter more or less 
 'Twixt two friends is not considered. 
 
 RosAURA. You have given me life, my lord, 
 And since by your act I'm living, 
 I eternally will own me 
 As your slave. 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 205 
 
 Clotaldo. The life I've given 
 Is not really your true life, 
 For a man by birth uplifted 
 If he suffers an affront 
 Actually no longer liveth; 
 And supposing 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 no life disgraced is life. — 
 [Aside.] (This I say to arouse his spirit.) 
 
 RosAURA. I confess I have it not, 
 Though by you it has been given me; 
 But revenge being wreaked, my honor 
 I will leave so pure and limpid, 
 All its perils overcome. 
 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 sword that once was girded 
 Round me (I say this the while 
 That to me it was committed). 
 Will know how to right you. 
 
 RosAURA. Thus 
 In your name once more I gird it. 
 And on it my vengeance swear, 
 Though the enemy who afflicts me 
 Were more powerful. 
 
 Clotaldo. Is he so? 
 
 RosAtJRA. Yes; so powerful, I am hin- 
 dered 
 Saying who he is, not doubting 
 Even for greater things your wisdom 
 And calm prudence, but through fear 
 Lest against me your prized 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. — 
 [Aside.] (Would that I but knew his name!) 
 
 RosAURA. Not to think I set so little 
 Value on such confidence. 
 Know my enemy and my victim 
 Is no less than Prince Astolfo, 
 Duke of Muscovy. 
 
 Clotaldo [aside.] Resistance 
 Badly can my grief supply 
 
 Since 't is heavier than I figured. 
 Let us sift the matter deeper. — 
 If a Muscovite by birth, then 
 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 
 By his angry hand. [Aside.] (Oh, heavens!) 
 
 RosAURA. Mine's a wrong more deep 
 and bitter. 
 
 Clotaldo. Tell it, then; it cannot be 
 Worse than what my fancy pictures. 
 
 R08AUEA. I wiU tell it ; though I know not. 
 With the respect your presence gives me, 
 With the affection you awaken, 
 With the esteem your worth elicits. 
 How with bold face here to tell you 
 That this outer dress is simply 
 An enigma, since it is not 
 What it seems. And from this hint, then, 
 If I'm not what I appear. 
 And Astolfo with this princess 
 Comes to wed, judge how by him 
 I was wronged: I've said sufficient. 
 
 [Exeunt Rosauha and Clarin.] 
 
 Clotaldo. Listen! hear me! wait! oh, stay! 
 What a labyrinthine thicket 
 Is all this, where reason gives 
 Not a thread whereby to issue? 
 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 I doubt it has the power; 
 When in such confused abysses. 
 Heaven is all one fearful presage. 
 And the world itself a riddle. [Exit.] 
 
 ACT II 
 
 [Scene I. A HaU in the Royal Palace] 
 [Enter Basilius and Clotaldo.] 
 
 Clotaldo. Everything has been effected 
 As you ordered. 
 
 Basilius. How all happened 
 Let me know, my good Clotaldo. 
 
206 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Clotaldo. It was done, Sire, in this 
 manner. 
 With the tranquilizing draft. 
 Which was made, as you commanded, 
 Of confections duly mixed 
 With some herbs, whose juice extracted 
 Has a strange tyrannic power, 
 Has some secret force imparted. 
 Which all human sense and speech 
 Robs, deprives, and counteracteth, 
 And as 't were a living corpse 
 Leaves the man whose lips have quaffed 
 
 it 
 So asleep that all his senses. 
 All his powers are overmastered. . . . 
 
 — No need have we to discuss 
 That this fact can really 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 planted, 
 
 But some special quality 
 
 Doth possess: for if 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 example . . . 
 
 — 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 
 
 Of the sciences, those first studies 
 
 Which mute Nature's gentle masters. 
 
 Silent 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. 
 
 The swift flight, the stare undazzled 
 
 Of a pride-plumed eagle 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, ' 
 
 Or a comet's hair untangled. 
 
 I extolled its soaring flight. 
 
 Saying, "Thou at last art master 
 
 Of thy house, thou'rt king of birds. 
 
 It 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 things: he said, 
 
 "In the restless realm of atoms 
 
 Given to bitds, that even one 
 
 Should swear fealty as a vassal! 
 
 I, reflecting upon this, 
 
 Am consoled by my disasters. 
 
 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 madness, 
 
 I occasion took to proffer 
 
 The drugged draft: he drank, but hardly 
 
 Had the liquor from the vessel 
 
 Passed into his breast, when fastest 
 
 Sleep his senses seized, a sweat. 
 
 Cold as ice, the life-blood hardened 
 
 In his veins, his limbs grew stiff. 
 
 So that, knew I not 't was acted. 
 
 Death was there, feigned death, his life 
 
 I could doubt not had departed. 
 
 Then those, to whose care 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 largess, 
 
 I would ask but this alone 
 
 (My presumption you will pardon), 
 
 ■That you tell me, with what object 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 207 
 
 Have you, in this secret manner, 
 To your palace brought him here? 
 
 Basilius. Good Clotaldo, what youaskme 
 Is so just, to you alone 
 I would give full satisfaction. 
 Sigismund, my son, the hard 
 Influence of his hostile planet 
 (As you know) doth threat a thousand 
 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 might prove more mild, more guarded 
 At the least, and self -subdued 
 By his prudence and true valor 
 Change his character; for 't is man 
 That alone controls the planets. 
 This it is I wish to test, 
 Having brought him to this palace, 
 Where he'll learn he is my son. 
 And display his natural talents. 
 If he nobly hath subdued him. 
 He will reign; but if his manners 
 Show him tyrannous and cruel. 
 Then his chains once more shall clasp him. 
 But for this experiment. 
 Now you probably 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 hovacs after 
 Finds himself once more restored 
 To his misery and his shackles. 
 Certain 't is that from his temper 
 Blank despair may end in madness — 
 But once knowing who he is. 
 Can he 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 this advantage 
 We attain two ends. The first 
 Is to put beyond all cavil 
 Mis 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. 
 
 Basilius. It is best that I retire; 
 But do you, so long his master. 
 Near Tiinn stand; the wild confusions 
 That his waking sense may darken 
 Dissipate by simple truth. 
 
 Clotaldo. Then your hcense you have 
 granted 
 That I may declare it? 
 
 Basilius. Yes; 
 For it possibly may happen 
 That admonished of his danger 
 He may conquer his worst passions. [Exit.] 
 
 [Enter Clarin.] 
 
 Clarin [aside]. Four good blows are all 
 it cost me 
 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 so 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 gazes at them. 
 
 Clotaldo [aside]. This is Clarin, 
 Heavens! of her. 
 Yes, I say, of her the valet. 
 She, who dealing in misfortunes. 
 Has my pain to Poland carried; — 
 Any news, friend Clarin? 
 
 Clarin. News? 
 Yes, sir, since your great compassion 
 Is disposed Rosaura's outrage 
 To revenge, she has changed her habit. 
 And resumed her proper dress. 
 
 Clotaldo. 'T is quite right, lest possible 
 scandal 
 Might arise. 
 
208 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Clarin. More news: her name 
 Having changed and wisely bartered 
 For your niece's name, she now 
 So in honor has advanced her, 
 That among Estrella's ladies 
 She here with her in the palace 
 Lives. 
 
 CiiOTALDo. 'T is right that I once more 
 Should her honor reestablish. 
 Clabin. News; that anxiously she 
 waiteth 
 For that very thing to happen, 
 When you may have time to try it. 
 
 Clotaldo. Most discreetly has she 
 acted; 
 Soon the time will come, believe me, 
 Happily to end this matter. 
 Clarin. News, too; that she's well re- 
 galed. 
 Feasted like a queen, and flattered 
 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 think 
 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. 
 [Music and song. Sigismund 
 enters, lost in amazement. Serv- 
 ants minister to him, present- 
 ing costly robes, Clotaldo and 
 Clarin.] 
 Sigismund. Help me. Heaven, what's 
 this I see! 
 Help me, Heaven, what's this I view! 
 Things I scarce believe 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 servants 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, 
 Waking I recall my lot, 
 I am Sigismund, am I not? 
 Heaven make plain what dark doth seem! 
 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? 
 Better taste the present good. 
 Come what will some other day. 
 
 F.IEST Servant [aside to the Second 
 Servant, and to Clabin]. What a 
 sadness doth oppress him! 
 
 Second Servant. Who in such-like case 
 would be 
 Le!3s surprised and sad than he? 
 
 Clabin. 1 for one. 
 
 Second Servant [to the First]. You had 
 best address him. 
 
 First Servant (to Sigismund]. May 
 they sing again? 
 
 Sigismund. No, no; 
 I don't care to hear them tiing. 
 
 Second Sekvant. I conceived the song 
 might bring 
 To your thought some ease. 
 
 Sigismund. Not so; 
 Voices that but charm the ear 
 Cannot soothe my sorrow's pain; 
 'T is the soldier's martial strain 
 That alone 1 love to hear. 
 
 Clotaldo. May Your Highness, mighty 
 Prince, 
 Deign to let me kiss your hand, 
 I would first of all this land 
 My profound respect evince. 
 
 Sigismund [aside]. 'T is my jailerl how 
 can he 
 Change, his harshness and neglect 
 To this language of respect? 
 What can have occurred to me? 
 
 Clotaldo. The new state in which I find 
 you 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 209 
 
 Must create a vague surprise, 
 
 Second Servant. Fly, Clotaldo! 
 
 Doubts unnumbered must arise 
 
 Clotaujo. Woe to thee, 
 
 To bewilder and to blind you; 
 
 In thy pride so powerful seeming. 
 
 I would make your prospect fair, 
 
 Without knowing thou art dreaming! 
 
 Through the maze a path would show. 
 
 [Exit.] 
 
 Thtis, my lord, 't is right you know 
 
 Second Servant. Think . . . 
 
 That you are the prince and heir 
 
 SiGiSMTJND. Away! don't trouble me. 
 
 Of this Polish reahn: if late 
 
 Second Servant. He could not the 
 
 You lay hidden and concealed 
 
 King deny. 
 
 'T was that we were forced to yield 
 
 Sigismund. Bade to do a wrongful thing 
 
 To the stern decrees of fate, 
 
 He should have refused the King; 
 
 Which strange ills, I know not how, 
 
 And, besides, his prince was I. 
 
 Threatened on this land to bring 
 
 Second Servant. 'T was not his affair 
 
 Should the laurel of a king 
 
 to try 
 
 Ever crown thy princely brow. 
 
 If the act was wrong or right. 
 
 Still relying on the power 
 
 SiGiSMTJND. You're indifferent, black or 
 
 Of your will the stars to bind. 
 
 white. 
 
 For a man of resolute mind 
 
 Since so pertly you reply. 
 
 Can them bind how dark they lower; 
 
 Clarin. What the Prince says is quite 
 
 To this palace from your cell 
 
 true. 
 
 In your lifelong turret keep 
 
 What you do is wrong, I say. 
 
 They have borne you while dull sleep 
 
 Second Servant. Who gave you this 
 
 Held your spirit in its spell. 
 
 license, pray? 
 
 Soon to see you and embrace 
 
 Clarin. No one gave; I took it. 
 
 Comes the King, your father, here — 
 
 Sigismund. Who 
 
 He wiU make the rest all clear. 
 
 Art thou, speak? 
 
 SiGiSMtTND. Why, thou traitor vile and 
 
 Clarin. A meddling fellow. 
 
 base, 
 
 Prating, prying, fond of scrapes. 
 
 What need I to know the rest. 
 
 General of all jackanapes, 
 
 Since it is enough to know 
 
 And most merry when most mellow. 
 
 Who I am my power to show. 
 
 Sigismund. You alone in this new sphere 
 
 And the pride that fills my breast? 
 
 Have amused me. 
 
 Why this treason brought to hght 
 
 Clarin. That's quite true, sir, 
 
 Hast thou to thy country done. 
 
 For I am the great amuser 
 
 As to hide from the King's son, 
 
 Of all Sigismunds who are here. 
 
 'Gainst all reason and all right. 
 This his rank? 
 
 [Enter Astolfo.] 
 
 Clotaldo. Oh, destiny! 
 
 Astolpo. Thousand times be blest the 
 
 SiGisMTJND. Thou the traitor's part hast 
 
 day. 
 
 played 
 
 Prince, that gives thee to our sight. 
 
 'Gainst the law; the King betrayed. 
 
 Sun of Poland, whose glad light 
 
 And done cruel wrong to me; 
 
 Makes this whole horizon gay. 
 
 Thus for each distinct oflFense 
 
 As when from the rosy fountains 
 
 Have the law, the King, and I 
 
 Of the dawn the stream-rays run. 
 
 Thee condemned this day to die 
 
 Since thou issuest Uke the sim 
 
 By my hands. 
 
 From the bosom of the mountains! 
 
 Second Servant. Prince . . . ' 
 
 And though late do not defer 
 
 SiGiSMTJND. No pretence 
 
 With thy sovereign light to shine; 
 
 Shall undo the debt I owe you. 
 
 Round thy brow the laurel twine — 
 
 Catiff, hence! By Heaven! I say, 
 
 Deathless crown. 
 
 If you dare to stop my way 
 
 Sigismund. God guard thee, sir. 
 
 From the window I will throw you. 
 
 Astolfo. In not knowing me I o'erlook. 
 
210 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 But alone for this defect, 
 
 Adds new splendor to my throne, 
 
 This response that lacks respect, 
 
 'T is for seeing thee alone 
 
 And due honor. Muscovy's Duke 
 
 That I merit gratulation; 
 
 Am I, and your cousin born. 
 
 Therefore I a prize have drawn 
 
 Thus my equal I regard thee. 
 
 That I scarce deserved to win, 
 
 SiGisMTTND. Did there, when I said "God 
 
 And am doubly blessed therein: — 
 
 guard thee," 
 
 Star, that in the rosy dawn 
 
 Lie concealed some latent scorn? — 
 
 Dimmest with transcendent ray 
 
 Then if so, now having got 
 
 Orbs that brightest gem the blue, 
 
 Thy big name, and seeing thee vexed, 
 
 What is left the sun to do, 
 
 When thou com'st to see me next 
 
 When thou risest with the day? — 
 
 I will say God guard thee not. 
 
 Give me then thy hand to kiss, 
 
 Second Servant [to Astolfo]. Think, 
 
 In whose cup of snowy whiteness 
 
 Your Highness, if he errs 
 
 Drinks the day delicious brightness. 
 
 Thus, his mountain birth 's at fault. 
 
 Estrella. What a courtly speech is this? 
 
 Every word is an assault. 
 
 Astolfo [aside]. If he takes her hand I 
 
 [To SiGisMUND.] Duke Astolfo, sir, pre- 
 
 feel 
 
 fers. . . . 
 
 I am lost. 
 
 SiGiSMUND. Tut! his talk became a bore, 
 
 Second Servant [aside]. Astolfo's grief 
 
 Nay his act was worse than that, 
 
 I perceive, and bring relief: — 
 
 He presumed to wear his hat. 
 
 Think, my lord, excuse my zeal. 
 
 Second Servant. As grandee. 
 
 That perhaps this is too free. 
 
 SiGiSMUND. But I am more. 
 
 Since Astolfo . . . 
 
 Second Servant. Nevertheless respect 
 
 SiGiSMUND. Did I say 
 
 should be 
 
 Woe to him that stops my way? — 
 
 Much more marked betwixt ye two 
 
 Second Servant. Wiat I said was just. 
 
 Than 'twixt others. 
 
 SiGiSMUND. To me 
 
 SiGiSMUND. And pray who 
 
 This is tiresome and absurd. 
 
 Asked your meddling thus with me? 
 
 Nought is just, or good or ill. 
 
 [Enter Estrella.] 
 
 In my sight that balks my will. 
 Second Servant. Why, my lord, your- 
 
 EsTHBLLA. Welcome may Your Highness 
 
 self I heard 
 
 be, 
 
 Say in any righteous thing 
 
 Welcomed oft to this thy throne, 
 
 It was proper to obey. 
 
 Which long longing for its own 
 
 SiQisMUND. You must, too, have heard 
 
 Finds at length its joy in thee; 
 
 me say 
 
 Where, in spite of bygone fears. 
 
 Him I would from window throw 
 
 May your reign be great and bright, 
 
 Who should tease me or defy? 
 
 And your life in its long flight 
 
 Second Servant. Men like me perhaps 
 
 Count by ages, not by years. 
 
 might show 
 
 SiGiSMUND [to Clarin]. Tell me, thou, 
 
 That could not be done, sir. 
 
 say, who can be 
 
 SiGiSMUND. No? 
 
 This supreme of loveliness — 
 
 Then, by Heaven, at least, I'll try! 
 
 Goddess in a woman's dress — 
 
 [He seizes him in his arms and 
 
 At whose feet divine we see 
 
 rushes to the side. All follow, and 
 
 Heaven its choicest gifts doth lay? — 
 
 return immediately.] 
 
 This sweet maid? Her name declare. 
 
 Astolfo. What is this I see? Oh, woe! 
 
 Clarin. 'T is your star-named cousin fair. 
 
 Estrella. Oh, prevent him! Follow me! 
 
 SiGiSMUND. Nay, the sun, 'twere best 
 
 [Exit.] 
 
 to say. — 
 
 SiGiSMUND [returning]. From the win- 
 
 [To Estrella.] Though thy sweet felic- 
 
 dow into the sea 
 
 itation 
 
 He has fallen; I told him so. 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 211 
 
 AsTOLFO. These strange bursts of savage 
 
 Sigismund. Well, without them I must 
 
 malice 
 
 stay. 
 
 You should regulate, if you can; 
 
 As I've stayed for many a year. 
 
 Wild beasts are to civilized man 
 
 For a father so severe. 
 
 As rude mountains to a palace. 
 
 Who could treat me in this way. 
 
 SiGiSMOTiD . Take a bit of advice for that : 
 
 Whose unfeeling heart could tear me 
 
 Pause ere such bold words are said. 
 
 Prom his side even when a child. 
 
 Lest you may not have a head 
 
 Who, a denizen of the wild. 
 
 Upon which to hang your hat. 
 
 As a monster there could rear me. 
 
 [Erit AsTOLFO.] 
 
 And by many an artful plan 
 
 [Enter Basilitts.] 
 
 Sought my death, it cannot grieve me 
 Much his arms will not receive me 
 
 Basiltos. What's all this? 
 
 Who has scarcely left me man. 
 
 SiGisMUND. A trifling thing: 
 
 Basilius. Would to God it had not been 
 
 One who teased and thwarted me 
 
 Act of mine that name conferred. 
 
 I have just thrown into the sea. 
 
 Then thy voice I ne'er had heard. 
 
 Clabin [to Sigismund]. Know, my lord, 
 
 Then thy boldness ne'er had seen. 
 
 it is the King. 
 
 Sigismund. Did you manhood's right 
 
 Basilitts. Ere the first day's sun hath set. 
 
 retain, 
 
 Has thy coming cost a life? 
 
 I would then have nought to say. 
 
 Sigismund. Why he dared me to the 
 
 But to give and take away 
 
 strife. 
 
 Gives me reason to complain; 
 
 And I only won the bet. 
 
 For although to give with grace 
 
 Basilius. Prince, my grief, indeed is 
 
 Is the noblest act 'mongst men. 
 
 great, 
 
 To take back the gift again 
 
 Coming here when I had thought 
 
 Is the basest of the base. 
 
 That admonished thou wert taught 
 
 Basilius. This then is thy grateful 
 
 To o'ercome the stars and fate, 
 
 mood 
 
 Still to see such rage abide 
 
 For my changing thy sad lot 
 
 In the heart I hoped was free. 
 
 To a prince's! 
 
 That thy first sad act should be 
 
 Sigismund. And for what 
 
 A most fearful homicide. 
 
 Should I show my gratitude! 
 
 How could I by love conducted, 
 
 Tyrant of my will o'erthrown, 
 
 Trust me to thine arms' embracing, 
 
 If thou hoary art and gray. 
 
 When their haughty interlacing. 
 
 Dying, what dost give me? Say, 
 
 Has already been instructed 
 
 Dost thou give what's not mine own? 
 
 How to kill? For who could see. 
 
 Thou'rt my father and my King, 
 
 Say, some dagger bare and bloody. 
 
 Then the pomp these walls present 
 
 By some wretch's heart made ruddy, 
 
 Comes to me by due descent 
 
 But would fear it? Who is he. 
 
 As a simple, natural thing. 
 
 Who may happen to behold 
 
 Yes, this sunshine pleaseth me. 
 
 On the ground the gory stain 
 
 But 't is not through thee I bask; 
 
 Where another man was slain 
 
 Nay, a reckoning I might ask 
 
 But must shudder? The most bold 
 
 For the life, love, liberty 
 
 Yields at once to Nature's laws; 
 
 That through thee I've lost so long: 
 
 Thus I, seeing in your arms 
 
 Thine 't is rather to thank me. 
 
 The dread weapon that alarms. 
 
 That I do not claim from thee 
 
 And the stain, must fain withdraw; 
 
 Compensation for my wrong. 
 
 And though in embraces dear 
 
 Basilius. Still untamed and uncon- 
 
 I would press you to my heart. 
 
 trolled; — 
 
 I without them must depart, 
 
 Heaven fulfills its word I feel, 
 
 For, alas! your arms I fear. 
 
 I to that same court appeal 
 
CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 'Gainst thy taunts, thou vain and bold, 
 But although the truth thou'st heard, 
 And now know'st thy name and race. 
 And dost see thee in this place, 
 Where to all thou art preferred. 
 Yet be warned, and on thee take 
 Ways more mild and more beseeming, 
 For perhaps thou art but dreaming, 
 When it seems that thou'rt awake. [Exit.] 
 SiGiSMUND. Is this, then, a phantom 
 scene? — 
 Do I wake in seeming show? — 
 No, I dream not, since I know 
 What I am and what I 've been. 
 And although thou should 'st repent thee. 
 Remedy is now too late. 
 Who I am I know, and fate, 
 Howsoe'er thou should 'st lament thee, 
 Cannot take from me my right 
 Of being bom this kingdom's heir. 
 If I saw myself erewhile 
 Prisoned, boxmd, 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. 
 
 [Enter Rosattea, in female attire.] 
 
 RosAUEA [aside]. To wait upon Estrella 
 
 I come here. 
 And lest I meet Astolfo tremble with much 
 
 fear; 
 Clotaldo's wishes are 
 The Duke should know me not, and from 
 
 afar 
 See 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. 
 k Clarin [to Sigismund]. Of all this palace 
 
 here can boast, 
 All that you yet have seen, say which has 
 
 pleased you most? 
 SiGiSMUND. Nothing surprised me, noth- 
 ing scared. 
 Because for everything I was prepared; 
 But if I felt for aught, or more or less 
 Of admiration, 't was the loveliness 
 Of woman; I have read 
 Somewhere in books on which my spirit fed, 
 That which caused God the greatest care to 
 
 plan, 
 
 Because in him a little world he formed, 
 
 was man; 
 But this were truer said, unless I err, 
 Of woman, for a little heaven he made in 
 
 her; 
 She who in beauty from her birth 
 Surpasses man as heaven surpasseth earth; 
 Nay, more, the one I see. 
 Rosatjba [aside]. The Prince is here; I 
 
 must this instant flee. 
 SiGiSMTTND. Hear, woman! stay; 
 Nor wed the western with the orient ray. 
 Flying with rapid tread; 
 For joined the orient rose and western red. 
 The hght and the cold gloom. 
 The day will sink untimely to its tomb. 
 But who is this I see? 
 Rosauha [aside]. I doubt and yet be- 
 lieve that it is he. 
 SiGiSMDND [aside] . This beauty I have seen 
 Some other time. 
 
 RosAURA [aside]. This proud, majestic 
 mien. 
 This form I once saw bound 
 Within a narrow cell. 
 SiGisMUND [aside]. My life I have 
 found. — 
 [Aloud.] 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 subhme. 
 Persuading me we 've met some other time. 
 Fair woman, speak; my will must be 
 obeyed. 
 RosATjEA. In bright Estrella's train a 
 hapless maid. — 
 [Aside.] He must not know my name. 
 SiGiSMUND. 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 brightest shine 
 Gems, the assembled glories of the mine, 
 The brilliant throng elect the diamond king 
 For the superior splendor it doth fling. 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 213 
 
 Amid the halls of light, 
 
 Where the unresting star-crowds meet at 
 
 night, 
 I have seen fair Hesper rise 
 And take the foremost place of all the skies. 
 And in that higher zone 
 Where the sun calls the planets round his 
 
 throne, 
 I have seen, with sovereign sway, 
 That he presides the oracle of the day. 
 How, then, 'mid flowers of earth or stars of 
 
 air, 
 'Mid stones or suns, if that which is most 
 
 fair 
 The preference gains, canst thou 
 Before a lesser beauty bend and bow. 
 When thine own charms compose 
 Something more bright than sun, stone, 
 
 star, or rose? 
 
 [Enter Clotaldo.] 
 
 Clotaldo [aside]. To calm Prince Sigis- 
 mund devolves on me. 
 Because 't was I who reared him: — What 
 do I see? 
 RosAURA. Thy favor, sir, I prize; 
 To thee the silence of my speech replies; 
 For when the reason's duU, the mind de- 
 pressed, 
 He best doth speak who keeps his silence 
 best. 
 SiGiSMUND. You must not leaveme. Stay: 
 What! would you rob my senses of the ray 
 Your beauteous presence gave? 
 
 RosATJRA. That license, from your High- 
 ness, I must crave. 
 SiGisMUND. The violent efforts that you 
 make 
 Show that you do not ask the leave you take. 
 RosAUBA. I hope to take it, if it is not 
 
 given. 
 SiGisMUND. You rouse my courtesy to 
 rage, by Heaven! — 
 In me resistance, as it were, distils 
 A cruel poison that my patience kills. 
 RosAUBA. Then though that poison may 
 be strong. 
 The source of fury, violence, and wrong. 
 Potent thy patience to subdue, 
 It dare not the respect to me that's due. 
 
 SiGisMUND. As if to show I may. 
 You take, the terror of your charms away. 
 
 For I am but too prone 
 
 To attempt the impossible; I to-day have 
 
 thrown 
 Out of this window one who said, Uke 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 [aside]. More obstinate doth 
 
 he grow; 
 What course to take, O Heavens! I do not 
 
 know. 
 When wild desire, nay, crime. 
 Perils my honor for the second time. 
 
 RosAURA. Not vainly, as I 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 
 Aught from a man who is but a man in 
 
 name. 
 Audacious, cruel, cold. 
 Inhuman, proud, tyrannical and bold, 
 'Mong beasts a wild beast born? — 
 SiGiSMTiND. It was to save me from such 
 
 words of scorn 
 So courteously I spoke. 
 Thinking to bind you by a gentler yoke; 
 But if I am in aught what you have said. 
 Then, as God lives, I will be all you dread. 
 Ho, there! here leave us. See to it at your 
 
 cost, 
 The door be locked; let no one in. 
 
 [Exeunt Clabin and the attendants.] 
 RosATjEA. I'm lost! 
 Consider . . . 
 
 SiGisMUND. I'm a despot, and 't is vain 
 
 You strive to move me, or my will restrain. 
 
 Clotaldo [aside]. Oh, what a moiiienti 
 
 what an agony! 
 I will go forth and stop him though I die. 
 [He advances.] 
 My lord, consider, stay . , . 
 SiGisMtTND. 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? Speak! 
 Clotaldo. The accents of this voice, 
 
 however weak. 
 To tell you to restrain 
 
214 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Your passions, if as King you wish to 
 
 reign, — 
 Not to be cruel, though you deem 
 Yourself the lord of all, for all may be a 
 dream. 
 SiGisMUND. You but provoke my rage 
 By these old saws, the unwelcome light of 
 
 age. 
 In killing you, at least I'll see 
 If 't is a dream or truth. 
 
 [As he is about to draw his dagger 
 Clotaldo detains it, and throws 
 himself on his knees.] 
 Clotaldo. Sole hope for me 
 To save my life is thus to humbly kneel. 
 SiGiSMUND. Take yoiu' audacious hand 
 
 from off my steel. 
 Clotaldo. Till some kind aid be sent. 
 Till some one come who may your rage 
 
 prevent, 
 I will not loose my hold. 
 RosATJRA. Oh, Heaven! 
 SiGisMUND. I say. 
 Loose it, old dotard, grim and gaunt and 
 
 gray. 
 Or by another death {They struggle] 
 
 I'll crush you in my arms while you have 
 breath. 
 RosAUBA. Quick! quick! they slay 
 Clotaldo, help! oh, help! [Exit] 
 
 [AsTOLPO enters at this moment, and Clo- 
 taldo falls at his feet ; he stands be- 
 tween them.] 
 
 AsTOLFO. This strange affray. 
 What can it mean, magnanimous Prince? 
 
 would you 
 So bright a blade imbrue 
 In blood that age already doth congeal? 
 Back to its sheath return the shining steel. 
 
 SiGisMTJND. Yes, when it is bathed red 
 In his base blood. 
 
 AsTOLFO. This threatened life hath fled 
 For sanctuary to my feet; 
 I must protect it in that poor retreat. 
 
 SiGiSMUND. Protect your own life, then, 
 for in this way. 
 Striking at it, I will the grudge repay 
 I owe you for the past. 
 
 AsTOLFO. I thus defend 
 My life; but majesty will not offend. 
 [AsTOLFO draws his sword and they fight.] 
 
 Clotaldo. Oh! wound him not, my 
 lord. 
 
 [Enter Basilius, Estrella and 
 Attendants.] 
 
 Basilius. Swords flashing here! — 
 
 Estrella [aside]. Astolfo is engaged: — 
 Oh, pain severe! 
 
 Basilius. What caused this quarrel? 
 Speak, say why? 
 
 Astolfo. 'T is nothing now, my lord, 
 since thou art by. 
 
 SiGiSMUND. 'T is much, although thou 
 now art by, my lord. 
 I wished to Idll this old man with my sword. 
 
 Basilius. Did you not then respect 
 These snow-white hairs? 
 
 Clotaldo. My lord will recollect 
 They scarce deserved it, being mine. 
 
 SiGiSMUND. Who dares 
 To ask of me do I respect white hairs? 
 Your own some day 
 My feet may trample in the public way. 
 For I have not as yet revenged my wrong, 
 Your treatment so imjust and my sad state 
 so long. [Exit.] 
 
 Basilius. But ere that dawn doth break, 
 You must return to sleep, where when you 
 
 wake 
 All that hath happened here will seem — 
 As is the glory of the world — a dream. 
 
 [Exeunt the King, Clotaldo, and 
 Attendants.] 
 
 Astolfo. Ah, how rarely 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 cruel things; for, doubtless. 
 They would turn out true forever! 
 This in Sigismund and me 
 Is exemplified, Estrella, 
 Since between our separate fortunes 
 Such a difference is presented. 
 In his case 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 so rare and so resplendent 
 That the sun is but their shadow. 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 215 
 
 And even heaven a faint resemblance, 
 When fate promised me good fortune, 
 Trophies, praises, and all blessings, 
 . It spoke ill and it spoke well; 
 For it was of both oppressive, 
 When it held out hopes of favor. 
 But disdain alone effected. 
 EsTBELLA. 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 compliments deserveth. 
 Go and pay them to herself. 
 For like bills that are protested 
 In the counting-house of love. 
 Are those flatteries and finesses 
 Which to other kings and ladies 
 Have been previously presented. 
 
 [Enter Rosauba.] 
 
 RosAUKA [aside]. Well, thank God, my 
 miseries 
 Have attained their lowest level, 
 Since by her who sees this sight 
 Nothing worse can be expected. 
 
 Astolfo. Then that portrait from my 
 breast 
 Shall be taken, that thy perfect 
 Beauty there may reign instead. 
 For where bright Estrella enters 
 Shadow cannot be, or star 
 Where the sim; I go to fetch it. — 
 [Aside.] Pardon, beautiful Rosaura, 
 This offense; the absent never, 
 Man or woman, as this shows. 
 Faith or plighted vows remember. [Exit.] 
 
 [RosAtTBA comes forward.] 
 RosATjRA [aside]. Not a single word I 
 heard. 
 Being afraid they might observe me. 
 EsTBELLA. Oh, Astrea! 
 Rosauba. My good lady! 
 EsTBELLA. Nothing could have pleased 
 me better 
 Than your timely coming here. 
 I have something confidential 
 To entrust you with. 
 
 RosAXiBA. You honor 
 Far too much my humble service. 
 
 EsTEELLA. Brief as is the time, As- 
 trea, 
 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. 
 
 Rosauba. Your slave! 
 
 EsTBELLA. Then concisely to express it, 
 Know, Astolfo, my first cousin 
 ('T is enough that word to mention. 
 For some things may best be said 
 When not spoken but suggested). 
 Soon expects to wed with me. 
 If my fate so far relenteth. 
 As that by one single bliss 
 All past sorrows may be lessened. 
 I was troubled, the first day 
 That we met, to see suspended i 
 From his neck a lady's portrait. 
 On the point I urged him gently. 
 He so courteous and polite 
 Went immediately to get it, 
 And will bring it here. From him 
 I should feel quite disconcerted 
 To receive it. You here stay. 
 And request him to present it 
 Unto you. I say no more. 
 You are beautiful and clever. 
 You must know too what is love. [Exit.] 
 
 Rosauba. Would I knew it not! O help 
 me 
 Now, kind Heaven! for who could be 
 So prudential, so collected. 
 As to know how best to act 
 In so painful a dilemma? 
 . Is there in the world a being, 
 Is there one a more inclement 
 Heaven has marked with more misfor- 
 tunes, 
 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 consoling be my helper? 
 From my earliest misfortune 
 Everything that I've attempted 
 Has been but one misery more — 
 Each the other's sad successor, 
 
2l6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 All inheritors of themselves. 
 
 Thus, the Phcenix they resemble, 
 
 One is from the other born, 
 
 New life springs where old life endeth, 
 
 And the young are warmly cradled 
 
 By the ashes of the elder. 
 
 Once a wise man called them cowards. 
 
 Seeing that misfortunes never 
 
 Have been seen to come alone. 
 
 But I call them brave, intrepid, 
 
 Who go straight unto their end. 
 
 And ne'er turn their backs in terror: — 
 
 By the man who brings them with him 
 
 Everything may be attempted. 
 
 Since he need on no occasion 
 
 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 see me in death's arms, 
 
 Wounded by fate's final weapon. 
 
 Woe is me! but what to-day 
 
 Shall I do in this emergence? — 
 
 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 said my reparation 
 
 Must in silence be expected. 
 
 If I 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 tongue 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 alone what grief suggesteth 
 
 I will do, for no one holds 
 
 In his power the heart's distresses. 
 
 And thus what to say or do 
 
 As my soul cannot determine, 
 
 Grief must only reach to-day 
 
 Its last limit, pain be ended. 
 
 And at last an exit make 
 
 From the doubts that so perplex me 
 
 How to act: but until then 
 
 Help me. Heaven, oh, deign to help me! 
 
 [Enter Astolfo, ivith the portrait.] 
 
 Astolfo. Here then is the portrait. 
 Princess: 
 But, good Grod! 
 
 RosATTEA. Your Highness trembles; 
 What has startled, what surprised you? 
 
 Astolfo. Thee, Rosaura, to see present. 
 
 RosATJRA. I Rosaura? Oh, Your High- 
 ness 
 Is deceived by some resemblance 
 Doubtless to some other lady; 
 I'm Astrea, one who merits 
 Not the glory of producing 
 An emotion so excessive. 
 
 Astolfo. Ah, Rosaura, thou mayst 
 feign, 
 But the soul bears no deception. 
 And though seeing thee as Astrea, 
 As Rosaura it must serve thee. 
 
 RosATjRA. I, not knowing what Your 
 Highness 
 Speaks of, am of course prevented 
 From replying aught but this. 
 That Estrella (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 some reason she prefers 
 It through me should be presented — 
 So Estrella — say, my star — 
 Wishes — so a fate relentless 
 Wills — in things that bring me loss — 
 So Estrella now expecteth. 
 
 Astolfo. Though such efforts you at- 
 tempt. 
 Still how badly you dissemble, 
 My Rosaura! Tell the eyes 
 In their music to keep better 
 Concert with the voice, because 
 Any instrviment 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. 
 
 RosATjRA. I wait only, as I said. 
 For the portrait. 
 
 Astolfo. Since you're bent then 
 To the end to keep this tone, 
 I adopt it, and dissemble. 
 Tell the Princess, then, Astrea, 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 217 
 
 That I so esteem her message, 
 That to send to her a copy 
 Seems to me so slight a present, 
 How so highly it is valued 
 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. 
 
 RosAiTBA. When it has been undertaken 
 By a man, bold, brave, determined, 
 To obtain a certain object, 
 Though he get perhaps a better, 
 Still not bringing back the first 
 He returns despised: I beg, then. 
 That Your Highness give the portrait; 
 I, without it, dare not venture. 
 
 AsTOLFO. How, then, if I do not give it 
 Will you get it? 
 
 RosAURA. I will get it 
 Thus, ungrateful. [She attemptsto snatchiti 
 
 AsTOLFO. 'T is in vain. 
 
 RosATJRA. It must ne'er be seen, no, 
 never 
 In another woman's hands. 
 
 AsTOLFO. Thou art dreadful. 
 
 RosAtTRA. Thou deceptive. 
 
 AsTOLFO. Oh, enough, Rosaura mine. 
 
 RosATjRA. Thine! Thou liest, base de- 
 serter. [Both struggle for the •portrait] 
 
 [Enter Estrella.] 
 
 EsTRELLA. Prince! Astrea! What is 
 this? 
 
 AsTOLFO [asid^. Heavens! Estrella! 
 
 Rosaura [asidA. Love befriend me; 
 Give me wit enough my portrait 
 To regain: — [To Estrella.] If thou 
 
 would 'st learn then 
 What the matter is, my lady, 
 I will tell thee. 
 
 AsTOLFO [aside to Rosaura]. Would 'st 
 o'erwhelm me? 
 
 Rosaura. You commanded me to wait 
 here 
 For the Prince, and, representing 
 You, to get from him a portrait. 
 I remained alone, expecting, 
 And, as often by one thought 
 Is some other thought suggested. 
 Seeing that you spoke of portraits, 
 I, reminded thus, remembered 
 
 That I had one of myself 
 
 In my sleeve: I wished to inspect it, 
 
 For a person quite alone 
 
 Even by trifles is diverted. 
 
 From my hand I let it fall 
 
 On the ground; the Prince, who entered 
 
 With the other lady's portrait. 
 
 Raised up mine, but so rebellious 
 
 Was he to what you had asked him 
 
 That, instead of his presenting 
 
 One, he wished to keep the other. 
 
 Since he mine will not surrender 
 
 To my prayers and my entreaties: 
 
 Angry at this ill-timed jesting 
 
 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. 
 
 Estrella. Duke, at once, give up the 
 portrait. [She takes it from his hand] 
 
 Astolfo. Princess . . . 
 
 Estrella. Well, the tints were blended 
 By no cruel hand, methinks. 
 
 Rosaura. Is it like me? 
 
 Estrella. Like! 'T is perfect. 
 
 Rosaura. Now demand from him the 
 other. 
 
 Estrella. Take your own, and leave 
 our presence. 
 
 Rosaura [aaide\. I have got my portrait 
 back; 
 Come what may I am contented. [Exit] 
 
 Estrella. Give me now the other por- 
 trait; 
 For — although perhaps I never 
 May again address or see you — 
 I desire not, no, to let it 
 In your hands remain, if only 
 For my folly in requesting 
 You to give it. 
 
 Astolfo [asid^. How escape 
 From this singular dilemma? — 
 Though I wish, most beauteous Princess, 
 To obey thee and to serve thee, 
 Still I cannot give the portrait 
 Thou dost ask for, since . . . 
 
 Estrella. A wretched 
 And false-hearted lover art thou. 
 Now I wish it not presented. 
 So to give thee no pretext 
 For reminding me that ever 
 I bad asked it at thy hands. [Exit] 
 
2l8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 AsTOLro. Hear me! listen! wait! remem- 
 ber! — 
 God, what hast thou done, Rosaura? 
 Why, or wherefore, on what errand, 
 To destroy thyself and me 
 Hast thou Poland rashly entered? [Exit] 
 
 [Scene II. Prison of the Prince in the 
 Tower] 
 
 [SiGiSMTJND, as at the commencement, clothed 
 in skins, chained, and lying on the 
 ground; Clotaldo, two Servants, and 
 ClarinJ 
 
 Clotaldo. Leave him here on the 
 ground. 
 Where his day, — its pride being o'er, — 
 Finds its end too. 
 
 A Servant. As before 
 With the chain his feet are bound. 
 
 Clarin. Never from that sleep pro- 
 found 
 Wake, O Sigismimd, or rise. 
 To behold with wondering eyes 
 All thy glorious life o'erthrown, 
 Like a shadow that hath flown. 
 Like a bright brief flame that dies! 
 
 Clotaldo. One who can so wisely make 
 Such reflections on this case 
 Should have ample time and space, 
 Even for the Solon's sake. 
 To discuss it; [to the Servant] him you'll 
 
 take 
 To this cell here, and keep bound. 
 
 [Pointing to an adjoining room] 
 
 Clarin. But why me? 
 
 Clotaldo. Because 't is found 
 Safe, when clarions secrets know, 
 Clarions to lock up, that so 
 They may not have power to sound. 
 
 Clarin. 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? 
 
 Clotaldo. 'T is a clarion's punishment. 
 
 Clarin. Then a horn of low degree, 
 Yea, a cornet I will be, 
 A safe, silent instrument. 
 
 [They take him away, and Clo- 
 taldo remains alone] 
 
 [Enter Basilius, disguised] 
 
 Basilitts. Hark, Clotaldo! 
 
 Clotaldo. My lord here? 
 Thus disguised. Your Majesty? 
 
 Basilius. Foolish curiosity 
 Leads me in this lowly gear 
 To find out, ah, me! with fear, 
 How the sudden change he bore. 
 
 Clotaldo. There behold him as before 
 In his miserable state. 
 
 Basilius. Wretched Prince! unhappy 
 fate! 
 Birth by baneful stars watched o'er! — 
 Go and wake him cautiously. 
 Now that strength and force lie chained 
 By the opiate he hath drained. 
 
 Clotaldo. Muttering something rest- 
 lessly. 
 See he lies. 
 
 Basilius. Let's listen; he 
 May some few clear words repeat. 
 
 Sigismund. [Speaking in his sleep] 
 
 Perfect Prince is he whose heat 
 Smites the tyrant where he stands, 
 Yes, Clotaldo dies by my hands, 
 Yes, my sire shall kiss my feet. 
 
 Clotaldo. Death he threatens in his 
 rage. 
 
 Basilius. Outrage vile he doth intend. 
 
 Clotaldo. He my life has sworn to end. 
 
 Basilius. He has vowed to insult my 
 age. 
 
 Sigismund [still sleeping]. On the mighty 
 world's great stage, 
 'Mid the admiring nations' cheer, 
 Valor mine, that has no peer. 
 Enter thou: the slave so shunned 
 Now shall reign Prince Sigismund, 
 And his sire his wrath shall fear. — 
 
 [He otoafces.] 
 But, ah me! Where am I? Oh! — 
 
 Basilius. Me I must not let him see. 
 [To Clotaldo.] Listening I close by will be. 
 What you have to do you know. 
 
 [He retires] 
 
 Sigismund. 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! 
 God! what wondrous things I've dreamed! 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 219 
 
 Clotaldo. Now in this delusive play 
 Must my special part be taken: — 
 Is it not full time to waken? 
 
 SiGiSMXTND. Yes, to waken well it may. 
 
 Clotaldo. Wilt thou sleep the livelong 
 day? — 
 Since we gazing from below 
 Saw the eagle sailing slow, 
 Soaring through the azure sphere, 
 AU the time thou waited here, 
 Didst thou never waken? 
 
 SlGISMtTND. No, 
 
 Nor even now am I awake. 
 
 Since such thoughts my memory fill, 
 
 That it seems I'm dreaming still: 
 
 Nor is this a great mistake; 
 
 Since if dreams could phantoms make 
 
 Things of actual substance seen, 
 
 I things seen may phantoms deem. 
 
 Thus a double harvest reaping, 
 
 I can see when I am sleeping, 
 
 And when waking I can dream. 
 
 Clotaujo . What you may have dreamed 
 of, say. 
 
 SiGiSMTJND. If I thought it only seemed, 
 I would tell not what I dreamed, 
 But what I behold, I may. 
 I awoke, and lo! I lay 
 (Cruel and delusive thing!) 
 In a bed whose covering. 
 Bright with blooms from rosy bowers. 
 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 
 Thrilled with joy to hear thee tell 
 Of the fate that me befell. 
 For though now in this dark den, 
 I was Prince of Poland then. 
 
 CLOTAiyDO. Doubtless you repaid me 
 well? 
 
 SiGiSMUND. No, not well: for, calling thee 
 Traitor vile, in furious strife 
 Twice I strove to take thy life. 
 
 Clotaldo. But why all this rage 'gainst 
 me? 
 
 SiGisMUND. 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 dream, 
 That alone can never end. 
 
 [The King 'm{hdraws\ 
 
 Clotaldo [asM^. From his place the 
 King hath gone. 
 Touched 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 sight 
 How for years I tended thee. 
 For 't were well, whoe'er we be, 
 Even in dreams to do what 's right. [Exit\ 
 
 SiGiSMUND. That is true: then let's re- 
 strain 
 This wild rage, this fierce condition 
 Of the mind, this proud ambition, 
 Should we ever dream 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 him ring, 
 Bom of air, on air take wing. 
 And in ashes (mournful fate!) 
 Death dissolves his pride and state: 
 Who would wish a crown to take, 
 Seeing that he must awake 
 In the dream beyond death's gate? 
 And the rich man dreams of gold, 
 Gilding cares 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 
 
 hands, 
 Dreams who wrong for wrong demands, 
 And in fine, throughout 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 was a dream that once a state 
 I enjoyed of light and gladness. 
 What is life? 'T is but a madness. 
 
220 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 What is life? A thing that seems, 
 A mirage that falsely gleams, 
 Phantom joy, delusive rest, 
 Since is life a dream at best. 
 And even dreams themselves are dreams. 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 ACT III 
 
 [Scene I. Within the Tower.] 
 
 Clarin. 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 Uving! 
 I compassionate myself; 
 All will say: "I well believe it"; 
 And it well may be believed, 
 Because silence is a virtue 
 Incompatible with my name 
 Clarin, which of course forbids it. 
 In this place my sole companions, 
 It may safely be predicted, 
 Are the spiders and the mice: 
 What a pleasant nest of linnets! — 
 Owing to this last night's dream. 
 My poor head I feel quite dizzy 
 From a thousand clarionets, 
 Shawms, and seraphines and cymbals. 
 Crucifixes and processions, 
 Flagellants who so well whipped them. 
 That 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. 
 Simply 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 Fasti 
 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 the fault committed. 
 Since a servant to be silent 
 Is a sacrilege most sinful. 
 
 • [A sound of drums and trumpets, 
 with voices vnthin.] 
 
 [Soldiers and Clarin.] 
 
 First Soldier [unthin]. He is here 
 within this tower. 
 Dash the door from off its hinges; 
 Enter all. 
 
 Claein. Good God! 'tis certain 
 That 't is me they seek so briskly. 
 Since they say that I am here. 
 What can they require? 
 
 First Soldier [vxithin]. Go in there. 
 
 [Several Soldiers enter.] 
 
 Second Soldier. Here he is. 
 
 Clarin. He's not. 
 
 All the Soldiers. Great lord! 
 
 Clarin [aside]. Are the fellows mad or 
 tipsy? 
 
 First Soldier. 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 Soldiers. Live, long live our best 
 of Princes! 
 
 Clarin [aside]. 'Gad! 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. 
 
 Soldiers. Thy feet give us! 
 
 Clarin. I can't give them, 
 As I want them for myself. 
 For a prince to be a cripple 
 Would be rather a defect. 
 
 Second Soldier. We have all con- 
 veyed our wishes 
 To your father; we have told him 
 You alone shall be our Prince here, 
 Not the Duke. 
 
 Clarin. And were you guilty 
 'Gainst my sire, of disrespect? 
 
 First Soldier. 'T was the loyalty of 
 our spirit. 
 
 Clarin. If 't was loyalty, I forgive you. 
 
 Second Soldier. Come, regain thy 
 lost dominion. 
 Long live Sigismundl 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 All. Live the Prince. 
 
 Clabin [aside]. Say they Sigismund? 
 Good. Admitted. 
 Sigismund must be the name 
 Given to all pretended princes. 
 
 [Enter Sigismund.] 
 
 Sigismund. Who has named here Sigis- 
 mund? 
 
 Clarin [aside]. Ah, I'm but an addled 
 prince, then! 
 
 First Soldier. Who is Sigismund? 
 
 Sigismund. Who? I. 
 
 Second Soldier [to Clarin]. How, 
 then, didst thou, bold and silly, 
 Dare to make thee Sigismund? 
 
 Clarin. I a Sigismund? Thou fib- 
 best; 
 It was you yourselves that thus 
 Sigismundized me and princed me: 
 All the silliness and the boldiiess 
 Have been by yourselves committed. 
 
 First Soldier. Great and brave Prince 
 Sigismund 
 (For thy bearing doth convince us 
 Thou art he, although on faith 
 We proclaim thee as our prince here). 
 King Basilius, thy father. 
 Fearful of the Heavens fulfilling 
 A prediction, which declared 
 He would see himseK submitted ' 
 At thy victor feet, attempts 
 To deprive thee of thy birthright, 
 And to give it to Astolfo, 
 Muscovy's duke. For this his missives 
 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 is thus. 
 That the fate for thee predicted 
 Treating with a noble scorn. 
 They have sought thee where imprisoned 
 Thou dost live, that issuing forth, 
 By their powerful arms assisted, 
 From this tower, thy crown and scepter 
 Thou shouldst thus regain, and quit them 
 Of a stranger and a tyrant. 
 Forth! then; for among these cliffs here. 
 There is now a numerous army. 
 Formed of soldiers and banditti. 
 That invoke thee: freedom waits thee; 
 
 To the thousand voices listen. 
 
 [Voices mthin.] Long, long live Prince 
 Sigismund! 
 Sigismund. Once again, Heaven! 
 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 darlcness and in gloom, 
 
 Like a flame the winds extinguish? 
 
 Once again by sad experience 
 
 To be taught the dangerous limits 
 
 Human power may overleap. 
 
 At its birth and while it liveth? 
 
 No, it must not, must not be : — 
 
 See me now once more submitted 
 
 To my fate: and since I know 
 
 Life is but a dream, a vision, 
 
 Hence, ye phantoms, that assume 
 
 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 — illusions 
 
 Which the slightest breath that ripples 
 I The calm ether can destroy, 
 ; Even as in the early spring-time, 
 
 When the flowering almond tree 
 
 Unadvisedly exhibits 
 
 All its fleeting bloom of flowers, 
 
 The first blast their freshness withers, 
 
 And the ornament and grace 
 
 Of its rosy locks disfigures. 
 
 Now I know ye — know ye all, 
 
 And I know the same false glimmer 
 
 Cheats the eyes of all who sleep. 
 
 Me false shows no more bewflder; 
 
 Disabused, I now know well 
 
 Life is but a dream — a vision. 
 Second Soldier. If thpu thinkest we 
 deceive thee, 
 
 Turn thine eyes to those proud cliffs 
 here. 
 
 See the crowds that wait there, willing. 
 
 Eager to obey thee. 
 Sigismund. Yet 
 
 Just as clearly and distinctly, 
 
 I have seen another time 
 
 The same things that now I witness, 
 
 And 't was but a dream. 
 
222 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Second Soldier. At all times 
 Great events, my lord, bring with them 
 Their own omens; and thy dream 
 But the actual fact prefigured. 
 
 SiGiSMUND. You say well, it was an 
 omen; 
 But supposing the bright vision 
 Even were true, since life is short, 
 Let us dream, my soul, a little. 
 Once again, remembering now 
 With all forethought and prevision 
 That we must once more awake 
 At the better time not distant; 
 That being known, the undeceiving, 
 When it comes, will be less bitter; 
 For it takes the sting from evil 
 To anticipate its visit. 
 And with this conviction, too. 
 Even its certainty admitting. 
 That all power being only lent 
 Must return unto the Giver, 
 Let us boldly then dare all. — 
 For the loyalty you exhibit. 
 Thanks, my lieges. See in me 
 One who will this land deliver 
 From a stranger's alien yoke. 
 Sound to arms; you soon shall witness 
 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. Long live Sigismund, our king! 
 
 [Enter Clotaldo.] 
 
 Clotaldo. Ha! what tumult, heavens! 
 has risen? 
 
 Sigismund. Well, Clotaldo. 
 
 Clotaldo. Sire . . . [Aside] On me 
 Will his wrath now fall. 
 
 Clarin [aside]. He'll fling him 
 Headlong down the steep, I '11 bet. [Exit.] 
 
 Clotaldo. At your royal feet sub- 
 mitted 
 I know how to die. 
 
 Sigismund. My father. 
 Rise, I pray, from that position. 
 Since to you, my guide and polestar, 
 Are my future acts committed; 
 
 All my past life owes you much 
 For your careful supervision. 
 Come, embrace me. 
 
 Clotaldo. What do you say? 
 
 Sigismund. That I dream, and that my 
 wishes 
 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 sjmibol. 
 You will pardon me for asking. 
 So to act, that you permit me. 
 No advice and no assistance 
 Can I give against my king. 
 Better that my lord shoiJd kill me 
 At his feet here. 
 
 Sigismund. Oh, ungrateful! 
 Villain! wretch! [Aside.] But, Heavens! 
 
 '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 king. 
 Where the battle rages thickest 
 We shall meet. — To arms, my friends! 
 
 Clotaldo. Thanks, most generous of 
 princes. [Exit.] 
 
 Sigismund. Fortune, we go forth to 
 reign; 
 Wake me not if this is vision. 
 Let me sleep not if 't is true. 
 But which ever of them is it. 
 To act right is what imports me. 
 If 't is true, because it is so; 
 If 't is not, that when I waken 
 Friends may welcome and forgive me. 
 
 [Exeunt all, drums beating] 
 
 [Scene II. Hall in the Royal Palace.] 
 [Enter Basilius and Astolfc] 
 
 Basilius. Who can expect, Astolfo, to 
 
 restrain 
 An untamed steed that wildly turns to 
 
 flee? 
 Who can the current of a stream detain, 
 That swollen with pride sweeps down to 
 
 seek the sea? 
 Who can prevent from tumbling to the 
 
 plain 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 223 
 
 Some mighty peak the lightning's flash 
 
 sets free? 
 Yet each were easier in its separate way, 
 Than the rude mob's insensate rage to 
 
 stay. 
 The several bands that throng each green 
 
 retreat 
 This truth proclaim by their disparted 
 
 cries; 
 Astolfo here the echoing notes repeat, 
 While there 't is Sigismund that rends the 
 
 skies. 
 The place where late the land was glad to 
 
 greet 
 The choice we made, a second venture 
 
 tries; 
 And soon will be, as Horror o'er it leans, 
 The fatal theater of tragic scenes. 
 Astolfo. 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 that bears the 
 bolt. [Exa.] 
 
 ii Basiuus. Slight help there is for what ia 
 
 fixed 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 law! Stem rule! Dire fact to con- 
 template! 
 That he who thinks to fly doth nearer go. 
 Thus by the very means that I employed, 
 My country and myself I have destroyed. 
 
 [Enter Estbella.] 
 
 EsTKELLA. If , mighty lord, thy presence, 
 
 which it braves. 
 The tumult of the crowd cannot defeat — 
 The frenzy of the multitude that raves 
 In hostile bands through every square and 
 
 street, — 
 Thou 'It see thy kingdom swim in crimson 
 
 waves, 
 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 trial fate hath sent, 
 Dazed is the eye, and terrified the ear; 
 Dark grows the sun, and every wind is 
 
 spent; 
 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. 
 
 [Enter Clotaldo.] 
 
 Clotaldo. Thanks be to God, I reach 
 
 thy feet alive. 
 Basilitts. What news of Sigismund, 
 
 Clotaldo, say? 
 Clotaldo. The crowd, whom frenzy 
 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 Heaven must now 
 make known. 
 Basilius. Give me a horse! In person 
 forth I'll ride 
 To check the pride of this ungrateful son. 
 Where Science erred let now the sword 
 
 decide; 
 By my own valor shall my throne be won! 
 
 [Exit.] 
 
 EsTRELLA. Let me the glory of the fight 
 
 divide — 
 
 A twinkling star beside that royal sun — 
 
 Bellona matched with Mars: for I would 
 
 dare 
 To scale even heaven to rival Pallas there. 
 [Exit, and they sound to arms.] 
 
 [Enter Rosaxjiia, who detains Clotaldo.] 
 
 RosAtTHA. Though the tnunpets from afar 
 Echo in thy valorous breast. 
 Hear me, list to my request, 
 For I know that all is war. 
 Well thou knowest that I came 
 Poor to Poland, sad, dejected; 
 And that graciously protected, 
 Thou thy pity let me claim. 
 It was thy command, ah, me! 
 I should live here thus disguised, 
 Striving, as thy words advised 
 (Hiding all my jealousy), 
 
224 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 To avoid Astolfo's sight; 
 
 I to him am by receiving; 
 
 But he saw me, and though seeing, 
 
 Thus bewildered and beset, 
 
 With Estrella, he — false being! — 
 
 Vainly seeks my love a way. 
 
 Converse holds this very night 
 
 Since I have a debt to pay. 
 
 In a garden bower. The key 
 
 Where I must exact a debt. 
 
 I have taken, and will show 
 
 RosAURA. It is settled, I believe, 
 
 Where, by entering, with a blow 
 
 As all men of spirit know. 
 
 Thou canst end my misery. 
 
 That 't is glorious to bestow, 
 
 Thus, then, daring, bold, and strong. 
 
 But a meanness to receive. 
 
 Thou my honor wilt restore; 
 
 Well, admitting this to be. 
 
 Strike, and hesitate no more. 
 
 Then thy thanks should not be his, 
 
 Let his death revenge my wrong. 
 
 Even supposing that he is 
 
 Clotaldo. It is true, my inclination 
 
 One who gave thy life to thee; 
 
 Since thou first wert seen by me, 
 
 As the gift of life was thine. 
 
 Was to strive and do for thee 
 
 And from him the taking came, 
 
 (Be thy tears my attestation) 
 
 In his case the act was shame. 
 
 AH my life could do to serve thee. 
 
 And a glorious act in mine. 
 
 What I first was forced to press, 
 
 Thus by him thou art aggrieved, 
 
 Was that thou should 'st change thy 
 
 And by me even complimented. 
 
 dress; 
 
 Since to me thou hast presented 
 
 Lest if chancing to observe thee 
 
 What from him thou hast received: 
 
 Masquerading like a page, 
 
 Then all hesitation leaving, 
 
 By appearances so strong 
 
 Thou to guard my fame shouldst fly, 
 
 Led astray, the Duke might wrong 
 
 Since my honor is as high 
 
 By a thought thy sex and age. 
 
 As is giving to receiving. 
 
 Meanwhile various projects held me 
 
 Clotaldo. Though it seems a generous 
 
 In suspense, oft pondering o'er 
 
 fever 
 
 How thy honor to restore; 
 
 In a noble heart to give. 
 
 Though (thy honor so compelled me) 
 
 Still an equal fire may live 
 
 I Astolfo's life should take — 
 
 In the heart of the receiver. 
 
 Wild design that soon took wing — 
 
 Heartlessness is something hateful, 
 
 Yet, as he was not my king, 
 
 I would boast a liberal name; 
 
 It no terror could awake. 
 
 Thus I put my highest claim 
 
 I his death was seeking, when 
 
 In the fact of being grateful. 
 
 Sigismund with vengeful aim 
 
 Then to me that title leave, — 
 
 Sought for mine; Astolfo came, 
 
 Gentle birth breeds gentleness; 
 
 And despising what most men 
 
 For the honor is no less 
 
 Would a desperate peril deem. 
 
 To bestow than to receive. 
 
 Stood in my defense; his bearing, 
 
 RosAURA. I received my life from 
 
 Nigh to rashness in its daring. 
 
 thee. 
 
 Showed a valor most extreme. 
 
 But for thee I now were dead; 
 
 How then, think, could I, whose breath 
 
 Still it was thyself that said 
 
 Is his gift, in murderous strife, 
 
 No insulted life could be 
 
 For his giving me my life. 
 
 Called a life: on that I stand; 
 
 Strive in turn to give him death? 
 
 Nought have I received from thee, 
 
 And thus, grateful, yet aggrieved, 
 
 For the life no life could be 
 
 By two opposite feelings driven, 
 
 That was given me by thy hand. 
 
 Seeing it to thee have given. 
 
 But if thou wouldst first be just 
 
 And from him have it received. 
 
 Ere being generous in this way 
 
 Doubting this, and that believing, 
 
 (As I heard thyself once say). 
 
 Half revenging, half forgiving. 
 
 Thou wilt give me life I trust. 
 
 If to thee I'm drawn by giving, 
 
 Which thou hast not yet; and thus 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 225 
 
 Giving will enhance thee more, 
 
 For if liberal before, 
 
 Thou wilt then be generous. 
 
 Clotaujo. Conquered by thy argu- 
 ment, 
 Liberal I first will be. 
 I, Rosaura, will to thee 
 All my property present; 
 In a convent live; by me 
 Has the plan been weighed some time, 
 For escaping from a crime 
 Thou wilt there find sanctuary; 
 For so many ills present them 
 Through the land on every side. 
 That being nobly bom, my pride 
 Is to strive and not augment them. 
 By the choice that I have made, 
 Loyal to the land I'll be, 
 I am liberal with thee, 
 And Astolfo's debt is paid; 
 Choose then, nay, let honor, rather. 
 Choose for thee, and for us two. 
 For, by Heaven! I could not do 
 More for thee were I thy father! — 
 
 RosATjRA. Were that supposition true, 
 I might strive and bear this blow; 
 But not being my father, no. 
 
 Clotaldo. Wiat then dost thou mean 
 to do? 
 
 Rosaura. KiU the Duke. 
 
 Clotaldo. a gentle dame. 
 Who no father's name doth know, 
 Can she so much valor show? 
 
 RosAtTKA. Yes. 
 
 Clotaldo. What drives thee on? 
 
 RosATTBA. My fame. 
 
 Clotaldo. Think that in the Duke 
 thou 'It see . . . 
 
 RosATJBA. Honor all my wrath doth 
 rouse. 
 
 Clotaldo. Soon thy king — Estrella's 
 spouse. 
 
 RosAUHA. No, by Heaven! it must not 
 be. 
 
 Clotaldo. It is madness. 
 
 RosAUBA. Yes, I see it. 
 
 Clotaldo. Conquer it. 
 
 RosAUBA. I can't o'erthrow it. 
 
 Clotaldo. It will cost thee . . . 
 
 RosATjRA. Yes, I know it. 
 
 Clotaldo. Life and honor. 
 
 RosAUBA. Well, so be it. 
 
 Clotaldo. What wouldst have? 
 
 RosAUBA. My death. 
 
 Clotaldo. Take care! 
 It is spite. 
 
 RosAtTBA. 'T is honor's cure. 
 
 Clotaldo. 'T is wild fire. 
 
 RosATTBA. That will endure. 
 
 Clotaldo. It is frenzy. 
 
 RosAiTBA. Rage, despair. 
 
 Clotaldo. Can there then be nothing 
 done 
 This blind rage to let pass by? 
 
 RosAUBA. No. 
 
 Clotaldo. And who will help thee? 
 
 RoSAtTBA. I. 
 
 Clotaldo. Is there then no remedy? 
 
 RosAUBA. None. 
 
 Clotaldo. Think of other means 
 
 whereby . . . 
 RosAUBA. Other means would seal my 
 
 fate. [Emt.] 
 
 Clotaldo. If 'tis so, then, daughter, 
 
 wait. 
 For together we shall die. [Exit] 
 
 [Scene III. The Open Plain.] 
 
 [Enter Sigismund, clothed in skins: Soldiers 
 marching. Clabin. Drums are heard.] 
 
 Sigismund. If Rome could see me on 
 this day 
 Amid the triumphs of its early sway. 
 Oh, with what strange deUght 
 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 the 
 
 sky! 
 But let us 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 cost, 
 A moment given, 't was in a moment lost; 
 Determined not to abuse it. 
 The less wiU be my sorrow should I lose it. 
 [A trumpet sounds.] 
 
 Clabin. Upon a rapid steed, 
 (Excuse my painting it; I can't indeed 
 Resist the inspiration). 
 Which seems a moving mass of all creation, 
 
226 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Its body being the earth, 
 The fire the soul that in its heart hath birth, 
 Its foam the sea, its panting breath the air, 
 Chaos confused at which I stand and stare. 
 Since in its soul, foam, body, breath, to 
 
 me 
 It is a monster made of fire, earth, air, and 
 
 sea; 
 Its color, dapple gray, 
 Speckled its skin, and flecked, as well it 
 
 may, 
 By the impatient spur its flank that dyes, 
 For lo! it doth not run, the meteor flies; 
 As borne upon the wind, 
 A beauteous woman seeks thee. 
 SiGiSMiJND. I'm struck blind! 
 Clarin. Good God, it is Rosaura, oh, 
 
 the pain! [Reiires.] 
 
 SiGiSMUND. Heaven has restored her to 
 
 my sight again. 
 
 [Enter Rosaitba, in a light corselet, with 
 award and dagger.] 
 
 Rosaura. Noble-hearted Sigismund! 
 Thou whose hidden light heroic 
 Issues from its night of shadows 
 To the great deeds of its morning; 
 And as heaven's sublimest planet 
 From the white arms of Aurora 
 Back restores their beauteous color 
 To the wild flowers and the roses. 
 And upon the seas 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 sawest me, when thy life 
 
 Wiled from me mine own misfortunes. 
 
 As a woman next thou sawest me, 
 
 Where the splendors of thy throne-room 
 
 Vanished like a fleeting vision, 
 
 Vain, phantasmal and abortive. 
 
 The third time is now, when being 
 
 Something monstrous and abnormal, 
 
 In a woman's dress thou see'st me 
 
 With a warrior's arms adorned. 
 
 And to pity and compassion 
 
 That thou may'st be moved more strongly, 
 
 Listen to the sad succession 
 
 Of my tragical misfortunes. 
 
 In the Court of Muscovy 
 
 I was bom of a noble mother, 
 
 Who indeed must have been fair 
 
 Since unhappiness 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 bom, 
 
 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 these 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 unfortunate as all are. 
 
 That ridiculous excuse 
 
 Of a plighted husband's promise 
 
 So misled her, that even yet 
 
 The remembrance brings her sorrow. 
 
 For that traitor, that .S!neas 
 
 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. 
 
 Names its nature cannot alter, 
 
 I was born, a perfect image, 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 227 
 
 A true copy of my mother, 
 
 In her loveliness, ah, no! 
 
 In her miseries and misfortunes. 
 
 Therefore there is little need 
 
 To say how the hapless daughter, 
 
 Heiress of such scant good luck. 
 
 Had her own peculiar portion. 
 
 All that I will say to thee 
 
 Of myself is, that the robber 
 
 Of the trophies of my fame. 
 
 Of the sweet spoils of my honor. 
 
 Is Astolfo . . . Ah! to name him 
 
 Stirs and rouses up the choler 
 
 Of the heart, a fitting effort 
 
 When an enemy's name is spoken, — 
 
 Yes, Astolfo 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 are some pains and sorrows 
 
 That by feelings are expressed, 
 
 Better than when words are spoken), 
 
 I by silence spoke my pain, 
 
 Till one day being with my mother 
 
 Violante, she (oh, Heavens!) 
 
 Burst their prison; like a torrent 
 
 Forth they rushed from out my breast, 
 
 Streaming wildly o'er each other. 
 
 No embarrassment it gave me 
 
 To relate them, for the knowing 
 
 That the person we confide to 
 
 A like weakness must acknowledge 
 
 Gives as 't were to our confusion 
 
 A sweet soothing and a solace. 
 
 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 condoneth! 
 
 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 
 
 Less, my fortune wished that I 
 
 Should a man's strange dress put on' me. 
 
 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 so 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 thee 
 
 What thou knowest already, how 
 
 A wild steed resistless bore me 
 
 To thy caverned 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 
 
 Dress to assume, and on Estrella 
 
 To attend as maid of honor. 
 
 So to thwart Astolfo's love 
 
 And prevent the marriage contract, 
 
 Let us, too, pass by, that here 
 
 Thou didst once again behold me 
 
 In a woman's dress, 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 
 
228 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 To forego my rightful project. 
 
 But, O valiant Sigismund, 
 
 Seeing that the moment cometh 
 
 For thy vengeance, since Heaven wishes 
 
 Thee to-day to burst the portals 
 
 Of thy narrow rustic cell, 
 
 Where so long immured, thy body 
 
 Was to feeling a wild beast, 
 
 Was to sufferance what the rock is, 
 
 And that 'gainst thy sire and country 
 
 Thou hast gallantly revolted, 
 
 And ta'en arms, I come to assist thee, 
 
 Intermingling the bright corselet 
 
 Of Minerva with the trappings 
 
 Of Diana, thus enrobing 
 
 Silken stuff and shining steel 
 
 In a rare but rich adornment. 
 
 On, then, on, imdaunted champion! 
 
 To us both it is important 
 
 To prevent and bring to nought 
 
 This engagement and betrothal; 
 
 First to me, that he, my husband, 
 
 Should not falsely wed another, 
 
 Then to thee, that their two staffs 
 
 Being united, their jointed forces 
 
 Should with overwhelming power 
 
 Leave our doubtful victory hopeless. 
 
 Woman, I come here to urge thee 
 
 To repair my injured honor, 
 
 And as man I come to rouse thee , 
 
 Crown and scepter to recover. 
 
 Woman I would wake thy pity 
 
 Since here at thy feet I 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'st court me, 
 
 I, as man, will give thee death 
 
 In the laudable upholding. 
 
 Of my honor, since I am 
 
 In this strife of love, this contest, 
 
 Woman my complaints to tell thee, 
 
 And a man to guard my honor. 
 
 SiGisMtTND [aside]. Heavens! if it is true 
 I dream. 
 Memory then suspend thy office, 
 For 't is vain to hope remembrance 
 Could retain so many objects. 
 Help me, God! or teach me how 
 All these numerous doubts to conquer, 
 Or to cease to think of any! — 
 Whoe'er tried such painful problems? 
 
 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 notorious? 
 
 Then 't was truth, and not a dream; 
 
 But if it was truth (another 
 
 And no less confusion), how 
 
 Can my life be called in proper 
 
 Speech a dream? So like to dreams 
 
 Are then all the world's chief glories. 
 
 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 false? 
 
 Are the original and the copy 
 
 So alike, that which is which 
 
 Oft the doubtful mind must ponder? 
 
 If 't is so, and if must vanish, 
 
 As the shades of night at morning. 
 
 All 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 us, since our joy 
 
 Lasteth while our dream lasts only. 
 
 In my power Rosaura stands. 
 
 Thou, my heart, her charms adoreth, 
 
 Let us seize then the occasion; 
 
 Let love trample in its boldness 
 
 All the laws on which relying 
 
 She here at my feet has thrown her. 
 
 'T is 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! 
 
 If it is a dream that mocks me, ■ 
 
 Who for human vanities 
 
 Would forego 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 that bloweth; 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 229 
 
 Let us seek then the eternal, 
 
 RosAUEA. Why? 
 
 The true fame that ne'er reposeth, 
 
 Clabin. Because alone I know 
 
 Where the bliss is not a dream, 
 
 Who you are: and this being so, 
 
 Nor the crown a fleeting glory. 
 
 Learn, Clotaldo is . . . This strain 
 
 Without honor is Rosaura. 
 
 Puts me out. [Drums are heard.] 
 
 But it is a prince's province 
 
 RosAiniA. What can it be? 
 
 To give honor, not to take it: 
 
 Clabin. From the citadel at hand. 
 
 Then, by Heaven! it is her honor 
 
 Leagured round, an armed band 
 
 That for her I must win back. 
 
 As to certain victory 
 
 Ere this kingdom I can conquer. 
 
 Sallies forth with flags unfurled. 
 
 Let us fly then this temptation. 
 
 RosAUBA. 'Gainst Prince Sigismund! 
 
 'T is too strong: [To the Soldiers.] To 
 
 and I, 
 
 arms! March onward! 
 
 Coward that I am, not by 
 
 For to-day I must give battle, 
 
 To siu'prise and awe the world. 
 
 Ere descending night, the golden 
 
 When with so much cruelty 
 
 Simbeams of expiring day 
 
 Each on each the two hosts spring! [Exit.] 
 
 Buries in the dark green ocean. 
 
 Voices of some. Live, long live our vic- 
 
 RosAUKA. Dost thou thus, my lord, 
 
 tor King! 
 
 withdraw thee? 
 
 Voices of othees. Live, long Uve our 
 
 What! without a word being spoken? 
 
 liberty! 
 
 Does my pain deserve no pity? 
 
 Clabin. live, long live the two, I say! 
 
 Does my grief so Uttle move thee? 
 
 Me it matters not a pin. 
 
 Can it be, my lord, thou wilt not 
 
 Which doth lose or which doth win. 
 
 Deign to hear, to look upon me? 
 
 If I can keep out of the way! — 
 
 Dost thou even avert thy face? 
 
 So aside here I wiU go, 
 
 SiGisMTjND. Ah, Rosaura, 't is thy 
 
 Acting like a prudent hero. 
 
 honor 
 
 Even as the Emperor Nero 
 
 That requires this harshness now. 
 
 Took things cooUy long ago. 
 
 If my pity I would show thee. 
 
 Or if care I cannot shun, 
 
 Yes, my voice does not respond. 
 
 Let it 'bout mine ownself be; 
 
 'T is my honor that respondeth; 
 
 Yes, here hidden I can see 
 
 True I speak not, for I wish 
 
 All the fighting and the fun; 
 
 That my actions should speak for me; 
 
 What a cozy place I spy 
 
 Thee I do not look on, no. 
 
 Mid the rocks there! so secure. 
 
 For, alas! it is of moment. 
 
 Death can't find me out I'm sure, 
 
 That he must not see thy beauly 
 
 Then a fig for death I say! 
 
 Who is pledged to see thy honor. 
 
 [Conceals himself, drums beat and 
 
 [Exit, followed by the Soldiers.] 
 
 the sound of arms is heard.] 
 
 RosAUBA. What enigmas, ye skies! 
 After many a sigh and tear. 
 
 [Enter Basilixjs, Clotaldo, and Astolpo, 
 flying.] 
 
 Thus in doubt to leave me here 
 
 With equivocal replies! 
 
 Basilitts. Hapless king! disastrous 
 
 Clabin. Madam, is it visiting hour? 
 
 reign! 
 
 RosAUBA. Welcome, Clarin, where have 
 
 Outraged father! guilty son! 
 
 you been? 
 
 Clotaldo. See thy vanquished forces 
 
 Clabin. Only four stout walls between 
 
 run 
 
 In an old enchanted tower; 
 
 In a panic o'er the plain! 
 
 Death was on the cards for me, 
 
 Astolpo. And the rebel conqueror's 
 
 But amid the sudden strife 
 
 stay, 
 
 Ere the last trump came, my life 
 
 Proud, defiant. 
 
 Won the trick and I got free. 
 
 Basilitts. 'T is decreed 
 
 I ne'er hoped to sound again. 
 
 Those are loyal who succeed. 
 
230 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Rebels those who lose the day. 
 Let us then, Clotaldo, flee, 
 Since the victory he hath won, 
 From a proud and cruel son. 
 
 [Shots are fired within, and Claein 
 falls wounded from his hiding- 
 place.] 
 
 Clarin. Heaven protect me! 
 
 AsTOLFO. Who can be 
 This last victim of the fight, 
 Who struck down in the retreat. 
 Falls here bleeding at our feet? 
 
 Clarin. 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 
 In 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 nigh, 
 Oh, take heed for thou must die 
 If it is God's will thou diest! [FaUs loithin.] 
 
 Basilius. Oh, take heed for thou must 
 die 
 If it is God's will thou diest! — 
 With what eloquence, O Heaven! 
 Does this body that here lieth, 
 Through the red mouth of a wound 
 To profoundest thoughts entice us 
 From our ignorance and our error! 
 The red current as it glideth 
 Is a bloody tongue that teaches 
 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 but brought upon my country 
 All the ills I would have hindered. 
 
 Clotaldo. Though, my lord, fate know- 
 eth well 
 
 Every path, and quickly 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 iUs that have surprised thee, 
 From worse ills thyself preserve. 
 
 AsTOLFO. Sire, Clotaldo doth address 
 thee 
 As a cautious, prudent man. 
 Whose experience 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 thee. 
 
 Basilius. If it is God's will I die. 
 Or if Death for me here lieth 
 As in ambush, face to face 
 I will meet it and defy it. 
 
 [Enter Sigismtjnd, Estrella, Rosauea, 
 Soldiers and Attendants.] 
 
 A Soldier. 'Mid the thickets of the 
 moimtain, 
 'Neath these dark boughs so united. 
 The King hides. 
 
 SiGiSMUND. Pursue him then, 
 Leave no single shrub unrifled. 
 Nothing must escape your search, 
 Not a plant, and not a pine tree. 
 
 Clotaldo. Fly, my lord! 
 
 Basilius. And wherefore fly? 
 
 AsTOLFO. Come! 
 
 Basilius. Astolfo, I'm decided. 
 
 Clotaldo. What to do? 
 
 Basilius. To try, Clotaldo, 
 One sole remedy that surviveth. 
 [To SiGiSMUND.] If 'tis me thou'rt seek- 
 ing, Prince, 
 At thy feet behold me lying. [Kneeling.] 
 Let thy carpet be these hairs 
 Which the snows of age have whitened. 
 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 
 
 231 
 
 All precautions let fate be, 
 Let Heaven keep the word it plighted. 
 SiQiSMTjND. Princes of the Court of Po- 
 land, 
 Who such numerous surprises 
 Have astonished seen, attend, 
 For it is your prince invites ye. 
 That which heaven has once determined. 
 That which God's eternal finger 
 Has upon the azure tablets 
 Of the sky sublimely written, 
 Those transparent sheets of sapphire 
 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. 
 Thus, my father, who is present. 
 To protect him from the wildness 
 Of my nature, made of me * 
 
 A fierce brute, a human wild beast; 
 So that I, who from my birth. 
 From the noble blood that trickles 
 Through my veins, my generous nature. 
 And my liberal condition. 
 Might have proved a docile child. 
 And so grew, it was sufficient 
 By so strange an education. 
 By so wild a course of Uving, 
 To have made my manners wild; — 
 What a method to refine them I 
 If to any man 't was said, 
 " It is fated that some wild beast 
 Will destroy you," would it be 
 Wise to wake a sleeping tiger 
 As the remedy of the ill? 
 If 't were said, " This sword here hidden 
 In its sheath, which thou dost wear. 
 Is the one foredoomed to kill thee," 
 Vain precaution it would be 
 To preserve the threatened victim. 
 Bare to point it at his breast. 
 If 't were said, " These waves that ripple 
 Calmly here for thee will build 
 Foam-white sepulchers of silver," 
 Wrong it were to trust the sea 
 When its haughty breast is lifted 
 Into mountain heights of snow. 
 Into hills of curling crystal. 
 Well, this very thing has happened 
 Unto him, who feared a wild beast, 
 And awoke him while he slept; 
 
 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 (hear me) 
 
 Was as 't were the sleeping tiger, 
 
 A sheathed sword my innate rage. 
 
 And my wrath a quiet ripple, 
 
 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-strictness. 
 
 Not before an evil cometh 
 
 Can it rightly be resisted 
 
 Even by him who hath foreseen 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 hindered. 
 
 Let it serve as an example 
 
 This strange sight, this most surprising 
 
 Spectacle, 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 mighty king submitted. 
 
 This the sentence of high Heaven 
 
 Which he did his best to hinder 
 
 He could not prevent. Can I, 
 
 Who in valor and in science. 
 
 Who in years am so inferior. 
 
 It avert? [To the King] My lord, forgive 
 
 me. 
 Rise, sir, let me clasp thy hand; 
 For since Heaven has now apprized thee 
 That thy mode of counteracting 
 Its decree was wrong, a willing 
 Sacrifice to thy revenge 
 Let my prostrate neck be given. 
 
 Basilius. Son, this noble act of thine 
 In my heart of hearts reviveth 
 All my love, thou'rt there reborn. 
 Thou art Prince; the bay that bindeth 
 Heroes' brows, the palm, be thine. 
 Let the crown thine own deeds give thee. 
 
 All. Long live Sigismund our King! 
 
 SiGisMTJND. Though my sword must 
 wait a little 
 Ere great victories it can gain, 
 
232 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 I to-day will win the highest, 
 
 Served my father, I can give him 
 
 The most glorious, o'er myself. — ' 
 
 But these open arms wherein 
 
 Give, Astolfo, give your plighted 
 
 He will find whate'er he wishes. 
 
 Hand here to Rosaura, since 
 
 A Soldier. If thou honorest those who 
 
 It is due and I require it. 
 
 serve thee. 
 
 Astolfo. Though 'tis true I owe the 
 
 Thus, to me the first beginner 
 
 debt. 
 
 Of the tmnult through the land. 
 
 Still 't is needful to consider 
 
 Who from out the tower, thy prison. 
 
 That she knows not who she is; 
 
 Drew thee forth, what wilt thou give? 
 
 It were infamous, a stigma 
 
 SiGisMUND. Just that tower: and that 
 
 On my name to wed a woman . . . 
 
 you issue 
 
 Clotaldo. Stay, Astolfo, do not finish; 
 
 Never from it until death. 
 
 For Rosaura is as noble 
 
 I will have you guarded strictly; 
 
 As yourself. My sword will right her 
 
 For the traitor is not needed 
 
 In the field against the world: 
 
 Once the treason is committed. 
 
 She's my daughter, that's suflScient. 
 
 Basilitjs. So much wisdom makes one 
 
 AsTOLFFO. What do you say? 
 
 wonder. 
 
 Clotaldo. Until I saw her 
 
 Astolfo. What a change in his condi- 
 
 To a noble spouse united. 
 
 tion! 
 
 I her birth would not reveal. 
 
 RosATjRA. How discreet! how calm! how 
 
 It were now a long recital, 
 
 prudent! 
 
 But the sum is, she's my child. 
 
 SiGiSMUND. Why this wonder, these sur- 
 
 Astolfo. That being so, the word I've 
 
 prises. 
 
 plighted 
 
 If my teacher was a dream. 
 
 I will keep. 
 
 And amid my new aspirings 
 
 SiGiSMUND. And that Estrella 
 
 I am fearful I may wake. 
 
 May not now be left afflicted, 
 
 And once more a prisoner find me 
 
 Seeing she has lost a prince 
 
 In my cell? But should I not. 
 
 Of such valor and distinction. 
 
 Even to dream it is sufficient: 
 
 I propose from mine own hand 
 
 For I thus have come to know 
 
 As a husband one to give her, 
 
 That at last all human blisses 
 
 Who, if he does not exceed 
 
 Pass and vanish as a dream. 
 
 Him in worth, perhaps may rival 
 
 And the time that may be given me 
 
 Give to me thy hand. 
 
 I henceforth would turn to gain: 
 
 Estrella. I gain 
 
 Asking for our faults forgiveness, 
 
 By an honor so distinguished. 
 
 Since to generous, noble hearts 
 
 SiGisMUND. To Clotaldo, who so truly 
 
 It is natural to forgive them. 
 
THE CID 
 
 By PIERRE CORNEILLE 
 
 Translated into English blank verse by FLORENCE KENDRICK COOPER 
 
COPYRIGHT, igOI, BV D. APPLETON Sf CO. 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Fernanb, first King of Castile 
 
 Ueraque, Infanta of Castile 
 
 DiiiGUE, father of Roderick 
 
 Gomez, Count of Gormaz, father of Chimkne 
 
 Roderick, lover of Chim&ne 
 
 Sancho, enamored of Chim&ne 
 
 Ahias, 
 
 J 
 
 Castilian gentlemen 
 Alonso, 
 
 CniMliNii, datighter of the Count of Gormaz 
 
 Leonora, governess of the Infanta 
 
 Elvire, governess of Chim&ne 
 
 A Page of the Infanta 
 
 The Scene ia at Seville 
 
THE CID 
 
 ACT I 
 
 [Enter CniMiiNE and Elviee.] 
 
 ChimJine. Tell me, Elvira, is this a true 
 report? 
 
 In naught dost thou disguise my father's 
 words? 
 Elvike. My heart thrills with delight 
 when I recall them. 
 
 Your love for Roderick vies with his es- 
 teem; 
 
 , Unless I read amiss his inmost soul, 
 ' He will command that you return his love. 
 CHmfcisrB. Repeat, 1 pray, a second time 
 the cause 
 
 Why thou dost think that he 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 he on the secret plot 
 
 That Roderick and Sancho made with thee? 
 
 Hast thou not made too clear the differ- 
 ences 
 
 Which draw me to my chosen Roderick's 
 side? 
 Elvibe. No, an indifferent heart I pic- 
 tured yours. 
 
 That kindles not, nor blights, the hope of 
 either. 
 
 And, not too Stem, nor yet too soft, but 
 waits 
 
 Your father's wish in choosing you a hus- 
 band. 
 
 This fHal s^ rit charmed hi m, as his lips 
 
 ^nd every^'feafure quick assurance gave. 
 
 And since your heart demands his very 
 words 
 
 Repeated o'er and o'er — why, here they 
 are: 
 
 "Wisely she waits my choice; they both are 
 worthy. 
 
 Of noble blood, of faithful, valiant soul. 
 
 Their 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 stamlggsj 
 
 honor. ' ' " — — ^ ^ 
 
 Cradled amid war's trophies was this son. 
 So 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 his mighty deeds inarms. 
 The son will prove fully worthy of the sire; 
 'T would please me should he win my 
 
 daughter's love." 
 Then to the council-chamber did he haste. 
 Whose pressing hour an interruption made; 
 But from his hurried words I think 't is 
 
 clear 
 He leans not strongly 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 gifts ne'er meet a rival 
 
 claim, 
 Whether in royal court or honor's field. 
 And since your Roderick has his father's 
 
 word 
 To press the marriage, at the council's close, 
 Your heart may well assure you of his plea, 
 And in a tender hope will rest content. 
 CniMfeNB. My troubled heart in hope 
 
 finds little ease, 
 But, burdened with sad doubt, asks cer- 
 tainty: 
 Fate in a moment can reverse her will; 
 Even this happiness may mean a sorrow. 
 Elvibe. Nay, happily that fear shall be 
 
 dispelled. 
 CniMfeNE. Away! — to wait the issue, 
 
 what it be. 
 
 [Exeunt CniMiiNE and Elvike.] 
 
238 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 [Enter the Infanta, Leonora, and Page.] 
 
 Infanta. Page, quickly tell Chimtoe 
 
 she stays too long 
 Before her promised coming; my affection 
 Complains that she neglects the heart that 
 
 loves her. [Exit Page.] 
 
 Leonora. Madam, some longing bums 
 
 within yom' soul. 
 For at each meeting anxiously you seek 
 The daily progress of her lover's suit. 
 Infanta. Have I not reason? Heryoimg 
 
 heart is pierced 
 By darts myself did level at her breast. 
 Her lover Roderick was my lover first, 
 And 't is to me she owes his passion deep; 
 Thus having forged these lovers' lasting 
 
 chains, 
 I yearn to see the end of all their pains. 
 Leonora. Madam, their dear delight in 
 
 mutual love 
 Finds, as I read your heart, no echo there. 
 But sorrow weighs your spirit at their 
 
 hopes. 
 Can your great soul feel grief at others' joy? 
 Why should your love for them react in 
 
 pain. 
 And cause you suffering in their hour of 
 
 rapture? 
 But, pardon, madam, I am overbold. 
 Infanta. Concealment deepens sorrow, 
 
 therefore hear 
 What struggles my too-loving heart has 
 
 borne; 
 Listen what fierce assault my courage 
 
 braves. 
 The tyrant Love spares neither high nor 
 
 low; 
 This cavalier whose heart I 've given away 
 I love! 
 Leonora. You love him! 
 Infanta. Feel my bounding pulse! 
 Mark what its conqueror's name alone can 
 
 do; 
 It knows its master. 
 
 Leonora. Madam, pardon me, 
 I would not fail in gentle courtesy, 
 J 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? "-■' ~ 
 
 What all Castile? Yours is the blood of 
 
 Have you remembered that? 
 
 Infanta. So well, alas! 
 That I would ope these veins ere I would 
 
 prove 
 False to the sacred trust of rank and name. 
 In noble souls, 't is true, worth, worth alone 
 Should kindle love's bright fires; and did I 
 
 choose 
 To justify my passion, many a one 
 As high-born as myself could give me cause. 
 But JionQr_^heeds„iiot Love's excuses fond. 
 And sense, suiprised, makes not my^cour- 
 
 age less. 
 The daughter of a king must mate with 
 
 kings; 
 No other hand than kingly sues for mine. 
 To save my heart from well-nigh fatal 
 
 stroke. 
 With mine own hand I turned the steel 
 
 away. 
 I drewthe bond that binds him to Chimlne, 
 And tuned their notes to love to still my 
 
 own. 
 No longer wonder that my harassed soul, 
 With restless haste, will urge their nuptials 
 
 on. 
 Love lives on hope, and dies when hope is 
 
 dead — 
 A flame that needs perpetual renewal. 
 My heart has suffered much; but if this tie 
 Be consummated with no long delay, 
 My hope is dead, my wounded spirit healed. 
 But till that hoiir I'm rent with varying 
 
 pangs; 
 I will to lose, yet suffer in my loss; 
 The love I would resign I still would keep; 
 And thus the court that to Chimfene he pays 
 Excites the secret pain I cannot hide. 
 IjCH(g,moves my sighs forgone wtoge. rank I 
 
 scorn". 
 ,Mxj^33iyidedieels,adoublg. papg.^.. 
 My wnijs sh-ong; my heart is all a. lame. 
 raSre not hope from their united lives" 
 More than a mingled sense of joy and pain. 
 Honor and Love war on this fatal field; 
 ^either can wholly conquer, neither yield. 
 Leonora. Madam, I blame not, but I 
 
 pity you. 
 And have no word to utter, save that I 
 Sigh with your sighs and suffer in your grief. 
 
THE CID 
 
 239 
 
 But since your royal heart, imstained and 
 
 strong, 
 Can front an ill so tempting and so sharp. 
 And bear it down, your noble spirit soon 
 Will know again its sweet serenity. 
 Eme is the friend of Virtue; with its aid 
 You will forget; and Heaven, whose God is 
 ^ just. 
 
 Will not forsake you in this trying hour. 
 Infanta. My surest hope is hope's own 
 
 swift defeat. 
 
 [Enter Page.] 
 
 Page. Chimfene awaits Your Highness 
 
 at yoxa wish. 
 Infanta [to Leonora]. Go, entertain her 
 
 in the gallery. 
 Lbonoba. Here, brooding o'er your sor- 
 row, will you stay? 
 Infanta. No, I but wish to hide my grief 
 from her. 
 And to assume a joy I scarce can feel; 
 I follow soon. 
 
 Infanta [alone]. Just Heaven, whence I 
 must hope alone for aid. 
 Put to this bitter suffering an end; 
 Grant me repose; in honor's path be guide; 
 In others' bliss my own I fain would seek. 
 Three hearts are waiting for this marriage 
 
 bond; 
 Oh, hasten it, or strengthen my weak soul! 
 The tie that makes these happy lovers one 
 Will break my fetters and my anguish end. 
 But I am lingering; I will seek Chim&ne; 
 Her gentle presence will assuage my pain. 
 [Exit Infanta.] 
 
 [Enter the Coitnt and DiiiGTiE.] 
 
 Codnt. At last you win the prize; the 
 royal hand 
 Uplifts you to a place where I should stand. 
 You are to train the young prince of Cas- 
 tile. 
 DdiGUE. His justice and his gratitude 
 the king 
 Has blended in this honor to my house. 
 Count. Kings, howsoever great they 
 be, are men. 
 And, like us all, they ofttimes strangely enr; 
 All courtiers may, in this, a warnmg see 
 That present service meets but poor re- 
 ward. 
 
 Di&Gui:. No longer let us speak upon a 
 
 theme 
 So chafing to your spirit; kindness may 
 Have turned the balance quite as much as 
 
 merit. 
 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, I an only son. 
 Their marriage would forever make us one 
 In more than friendship's bonds; this favor- 
 
 grant. 
 Count. To such alliance does this youth- 
 
 presume? 
 Wm the new splendor of your office serve 
 To puff his mind with swelling vanity? 
 Use yom- new dignity, direct the prince, 
 Instruct him how a province should be 
 
 ruled 
 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 unequaled; pass long days 
 And nights on horseback; to sleep fully 
 
 armed; 
 To force a stronghold, and, the battle won,. 
 To owe the glory to himself alone. 
 Instruct him by example; his young eyes- 
 Must in yourself his perfect pattern see. 
 Dii)GUE. Your envious soul speaks in 
 
 your sneering'^WTJldsl 
 But, for example, he need only turn 
 The pages of my Ufe; therein he'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. Li-ving 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 now! 
 On my strong arm this kingdom rests- se- 
 cure; 
 When my sword flashes, Aragon retreats, 
 Granada trembles; by my name of might 
 Castile is girdled round as by a wall. 
 
240 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Without me you would pass 'neath other 
 
 laws, 
 And soon you'd have your enemies your 
 
 kings. 
 Each day, each flying hour, exalts my fame. 
 Adds victory unto victory, praise to praise. 
 Under the guarding shadow of my arm 
 The prince should prove his mettle on the 
 
 field, 
 Should learn by seeing conquest how to 
 
 conquer. 
 In his young princehood he should early win 
 The loftiest heights of courage; he should 
 see — 
 DiiiGtrE. I know! you serve the king, 
 your master, well; 
 'Neath my command I've often watched 
 you fight; 
 / And since the stiffening currents of old age 
 1 Have chilled my powers, your prowess 
 I nobly shows — 
 
 1 No more; what I have been, you are to-day. 
 ' 'T is true, however, that when choice is due. 
 Our monarch sees a difference 'twixt us still. 
 Count. Nay! 'you have stolen what was 
 ■ mine by right! 
 DifeGiTE. To win an honor is the proof of 
 
 merit. 
 CoTJNT. He is most worthy who can use 
 
 it best. 
 DifeGiTB. To be refused it is poor proof 
 
 of worth. 
 Count. You've used a courtier's wiles, 
 
 and won by trick! 
 DiiiGUB. My fame has been my only par- 
 tisan. 
 Count. Admit the king but honors yoiu' 
 
 old age. 
 DifeGUE. My years the king but meas- 
 ures by my deeds. 
 Count. If deeds are years, I'm elder far 
 
 than you! 
 DiiiGUE. Who not obtained this honor 
 
 not deserved it. 
 Count. I not deserved it? I? 
 DiiiGUE. Yes, you! 
 Count. Old man. 
 Thine insolence shall have its due reward. 
 [Gives him a blow.] 
 DifeauE [dramng his sword]. Quick, run 
 me through ! — the first of all my race 
 To wear a flush of shame upon my brow. 
 
 Count. What dost thou hope thine im- 
 potence can do? 
 DiiiGUE. O God! my worn-out strength 
 
 at need forsakes me. 
 Count. Thy sword is mine, but thou 
 wouldst be too vain 
 
 If I should take this trophy of thy fall. 
 
 Adieu! Go read the prince, in spite of 
 sneers. 
 
 For his instruction, thy life's history. 
 
 This chastisement of insolent discoiu-se 
 
 Will prove, methinks, no slight embellish- 
 ment. [Exit Count.] 
 DiisGUE. Rage 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 his 
 throne. 
 
 And kept the rod of empire in his grasp. 
 
 Betray me now, and leave me unavenged? 
 
 O sad remembrance of my vanished glory! 
 
 O years of life undone in one short hour! 
 
 This new-won height is fatal to my fortune, 
 
 A precipice from which my honor faUs. 
 
 /Must the Coimt's triumph' add the final 
 
 pang 
 1 To death dishonorable, 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 re- 
 versed, 
 
 And leaves me here with hope and honor 
 gone. 
 
 And thou, brave instrument of my exploits, 
 
 But useless 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 
 master; 
 
 Pass, to avenge me, into worthier hands! 
 
 [Enter Roderick.] 
 
 DiiiGUB. Hast thou a brave heart, Rod- 
 erick? 
 Roderick. Any man 
 Except my father soon would prove it so. 
 
THE CID 
 
 241 
 
 DdiGTJB. O pleasing choler! wrath that 
 
 soothes my hurt! 
 My own blood speaks in this resentment 
 
 swift, 
 lAnd in thy heat my youth comes back to 
 1 me. 
 
 My son, my scion, come, repair my wrong; 
 Avenge me instantly! 
 
 Roderick. For what? for what? 
 '~ DrfcGUB. For an affront so cruel, so un- 
 just, 
 'T is fatal to the^hongr of our house. 
 [A blow! across my cheek! his Ufe had paid, 
 Save that my nerveless arm betrayed my 
 
 will. 
 This sword, which I again can never wield, 
 I pass to thee for vengeance to the death. 
 Against this arrogance thy courage set; 
 Only iu blood such stains are cleansed, and 
 
 thou 
 Must 1H11 or die. This man, mine enemy, 
 Whom thou must meet, is worthy of thy 
 
 steel; 
 Begrimed with blood and dust, I've seen 
 
 him hold 
 An army terror-stricken at his will. 
 And break a hundred squadrons by his 
 
 charge; 
 And, to say aU, more than a leader brave. 
 More than a warrior great, he is — he is — 
 Roderick. In mercy speak! 
 DrfcauE. The father of Chimfene! 
 Roderick. ChimSne! 
 DiliGUE. Nay, answer not; I know thy 
 
 love; 
 But who can Hve disgraced deserves not 
 I Ufe. 
 
 [is the offender dear, worse the offense. 
 Thou know'st my wrong; its quittance lies 
 
 with thee; 
 I say no more; avenge thyself and me! 
 Remember who thy father is — and was! 
 Weighed down with Fate's misfortunes 
 
 heaped on me, 
 I go to mourn them. Do thou fly to venge- 
 ance! [Exit DiijGUB.] 
 Roderick. My heart 's o'erwhelmed with 
 
 woe. 
 A mortal stroke that mocks my tender 
 
 trust 
 Makes me avenger of a quarrel just, 
 And wretched victim of an unjust blow. 
 
 Though crushed in spirit, still my pride 
 
 must cope 
 With that which slays my hoije. 
 So near to love's fruition to be told — 
 
 O God, the strange, strange pain! — 
 My father has received an insult bold, 
 
 The offender is the father of Chim^ne. 
 
 'Mid conflicts wild I stand. 
 I lift my arm to strike my father's foe. 
 But Love withmighty impulse urges " No ! " 
 
 Pride fires my heart, affection stays my 
 hand; 
 I must be deaf to Passion's calls, or face 
 A life of deep disgrace. 
 Whate'er I do, fierce anguish follows me — 
 
 O God, the strange, strange pain! 
 Can an affront so base unpunished be? 
 
 But can I fight the father of ChimSne? 
 
 To which allegiance give? — 
 To tender tyranny or noble bond? — 
 A tarnished name or loss of pleasures fond? 
 
 Unworthy or unhappy must I live. 
 
 [To his sword.] 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 aU my pain, 
 Was 't given me to use for this, for this? — 
 
 To save my honor, but to lose Chimfene? 
 
 I must seek death's dread bourne. 
 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 most 
 
 sweet, 
 Or for that hope immeet. 
 What heals my honor's wounds augments 
 my grief. 
 And causes keener pain; 
 Be strong, my soul! Since death's my sole 
 relief, 
 I'U die, nor lose the love of my Chimfine. 
 
 What, die without redress? 
 Seek death — so fatal to my future fame? 
 Endure that Spain shall heap on me the 
 shame 
 
 Of one who failed in honor's sorest stress? 
 All for a love whose hope my frenzied heart 
 
242 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Already sees depart? 
 
 I'll list no longer to the subtle plea 
 
 Which but renews my pain; 
 Come, arm of mine, my choice turns now 
 to thee, 
 Since naught, alas! can give me back 
 Chimfine. 
 
 Yes, love my will misled. 
 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 '11 shed. 
 Too long I've dallied with a purpose weak; 
 Now vengeance swift I seek. 
 The flush of shame mounts hotly to my 
 brow. 
 
 That I can deem it pain 
 To save my father's house. I haste e'en now 
 
 To seek — woe's me! — the father of 
 Chimgne. [Exit Roderick.] 
 
 ACT II 
 
 [Enter Abias and the Count.] 
 
 1 Count. I grant you that my somewhat 
 1 hasty blood 
 
 I Took fire too soon, and carried me too far; 
 I But — what is done, is done: the blow was 
 4, struck. 
 
 Arias. To the king's will let your proud 
 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; 
 No common rule that serves 'twixt man 
 
 and man 
 Will meet the high demand exacted here. 
 Count. The king can use my life to suit 
 
 his will. 
 Arias. You add the fault of anger to 
 your deed. 
 The king still loves you well; appease his 
 
 wrath; 
 You know his wish; you will not disobey? 
 Count. To disobey — a little — were 
 no crime, 
 Should it preserve the fame I most do prize. 
 But were it such, forsooth, my valiant 
 service 
 
 More than suffices for o'erlooking it. 
 Arias. For deeds howe'er illustrious and 
 high, 
 A king can ne'er become a subject's debtor. 
 Better than any other you should know 
 Who serves his king well does his simple 
 
 . duty; 
 This haijghty confidence will cost you dear. 
 Count. I will believe you when I pay 
 
 the price. 
 Arias. You should respect your mon- 
 arch's sovereign will. 
 CotJNT. I can outlive a single day's dis- 
 ,' pleasure. 
 
 I Let the whole state be armed to hurl me 
 
 down — 
 If I be made to suffer, Spain will fall! 
 - Arias. What! you, forsooth, defy the 
 power supreme! 
 Count. Why should I fear a sceptered 
 hand whose grasp 
 Is weaker than my own? He knows my 
 
 use; 
 
 My head, in falling, will shake off his 
 crown. 
 Arias. Let reason rule_your action; be 
 
 advised. "■ — -— — 
 
 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. 
 Abias. Remember that you brave a ty- 
 rant's power. 
 Count. The die is cast and longer speech 
 
 is vain. 
 Arias. Adieu, then, since I cannot 
 change your will. 
 E'en on your laureled head the bolt may 
 strike! 
 Count. I wait it without fear. 
 Arias. 'T will cast you down. 
 Count. Then old DiSgue will be well 
 satisfied. [Exit Arias.] 
 
 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 
 
 name. 
 Myself alone can rob me of my honor. 
 
THE CID 
 
 243 
 
 [Enter Roderick.] 
 
 Roderick. Grant me a word, Count. 
 CoTTNT. Speak. 
 
 Roderick. Dost know Difegue? 
 Count. Yea. 
 
 Roderick. Listen, then, and let us 
 softly speak. 
 Dost also know that his now feeble arm 
 Was once Spain's chiefest honor, valor, 
 glory? 
 Count. Perhaps! 
 
 Roderick. This fire enkindled in my 
 eyes 
 Marks the same blood as his; dost thou 
 know that? 
 Count. What matters that to me? 
 Roderick. I '11 teach you, Count, 
 At some four paces hence, what matters it. 
 Count. Presumptuous youth! 
 Roderick. Speak quietly, I pray. 
 My years are few, but. Count, in high-born 
 
 souls. 
 Valor and youth full oft united are. 
 Count. And thou wouldst stand 'gainst 
 me! thou vain, untried. 
 Impudent upstart? Cease thy boyish brag! 
 Roderick. The temper of my steel will 
 not demand 
 A second proof; the first will be enough. 
 Count. Know'st thou to whom thou 
 
 speakest? 
 Roderick. I know well! 
 Another than I am would hear with dread 
 The mention of thy name: thy crowns of 
 
 palm 
 Must mean to me, 't would seem, the stroke 
 
 of doom. 
 But bold I meet thine all- victorious arm; 
 Where courage leads, there force will aye 
 
 be found. 
 A father's honor is a triple shield; 
 Invincible thou art not, though uncon- 
 quered. 
 Count. Thy fearless words a fearless 
 heart reveal. 
 I 've watched thy growing powers from day 
 
 to day; 
 In thee the future glory of Castile 
 I have believed to see, and proud of heart, 
 Was lajring in thine own my daughter's 
 hand. 
 
 fl know thy love, and charmed am I to learn 
 |That duty is a dearer mistress still. 
 Nor soft emotions weaken warlike zeal. 
 Thy manly worth responds to my esteem; 
 And wishing for my son a noble knight, 
 I did not err when I made choice 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 fight a combat so unequal; 
 A victory won without a peril braved 
 Is but inglorious triumph, and for me 
 Such contest is not fitting. None would 
 
 dream 
 Thou couldst withstand an instant, and 
 
 regret 
 At thy young, foolish death would e'er be 
 mine. 
 Roderick. Thy pity more insults me 
 than thy scorn; 
 Thou fear'st my arm, but dar'st attack my 
 honor. 
 Count. Withdraw from here! 
 Roderick. Let us to deeds, not words! 
 Count. Art tired of life? 
 Roderick. Dost thou, then, fear to die? 
 
 1 Count. Come on! Thou'rt right. I'll 
 help thee do thy duty! 
 T is a base son survives a father's fame! 
 [Exeunt Count and Roderick.] 
 
 [Enter the Infanta, ChimJine, and 
 Leonora.] 
 
 Infanta. Nay, do not weep! allay thy 
 
 grief, ChimSne! 
 This sorrow should disclose thy spirit's 
 
 strength. 
 After this transient storm a calm will fall. 
 And happiness, deferred and clouded now. 
 Will brighter seem in contrast. Do not 
 
 weep! 
 Chim^ne. My heart, worn out with 
 
 trouble, has no hope. 
 A storm so sudden and so terrible. 
 To my poor bark_brings direful threat of 
 
 wreck. 
 Ere I set sail upon iny 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. 
 
244 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 ' O cursed ambition! wrath's insanity! 
 Pride, to my dearest wishes pitiless, 
 Whose tyranny the noblest nature rules! 
 In sighs and tears a heavy price I pay. 
 Infanta. Thy fears o'ercome thee; 't is 
 a hasty word; 
 The quarrel of a moment dies as soon. 
 The king already seeks to make a peace; 
 And I, as well thou knowest, to dry thy 
 
 tears 
 And heal thy grief would try the impos- 
 sible. 
 CHiMfeNB. No reconciliation can avail. 
 Such woimds are mortal and defy all art 
 Of king or princess, of command or plead- 
 ing. 
 And though an outward show of peace be 
 
 gained, 
 The fires of hate, compressed within the 
 
 heart, 
 Burn fiercer, and will break at last in 
 flame. 
 Infanta. When Love has bound Chi- 
 mfene and Roderick 
 In sacred marriage, hatred will depart; 
 Their fathers will forget, and happiness 
 Will silence discord in sweet harmony. 
 CniMiiNE. I wish for such an end, but 
 dare not hope. 
 'T is a matched combat between two proud 
 
 souls; 
 Neither will yield; I know them; I must 
 
 weep! 
 The past I mourn, the future frightens me. 
 Infanta. What fearest thou? an old 
 
 man's feebleness? 
 ChimJine. . Brave sires make braver sons; 
 
 Roderick is bold. 
 Infanta. He is too young. 
 Chim4ne. Such men are born high- 
 hearted! 
 Infanta. Thou shouldst not fear his 
 boldness overmuch; 
 He cannot wound thee, whom he loves so 
 
 well; 
 A word from thy sweet lips will check his 
 
 wrath. 
 1 ChimJjnb. How shall I speak it? If he 
 / do not yield, 
 
 ;'T is but an added burden to my heart; 
 'And if he do, what will men say of him — 
 jHis father's son, to see his father's fall, 
 
 '^or lift an arm of vengeance? In this strait 
 I stand confused, nor know what I would 
 
 choose — 
 His too weak love, or his too stem refusal. 
 ' Infanta. In thy high soul, Chimfene, no 
 
 thought can live 
 Unworthy of thee; love but more exalts. 
 But if, until this trouble be o'erpast, 
 I make a prisoner of this gallant youth, 
 Preventing thus the dread results you fear. 
 Would it offend thy proud and loving heart? 
 CniMfeNE. Ah! madam, then my cares 
 
 are quieted. 
 
 [Enter the Page] 
 
 Roderick 
 
 Infanta. Page, summon 
 hither; I would see him. 
 Page. He and the Coimt de Gormaz — 
 ChimIine. Heaven, oh, help me! 
 Infanta. What? Speak! 
 Page. Together they have left the pal- 
 ace. 
 ChimJinb. Alone? 
 
 Page. Yes, and they muttered angrily. 
 CniMiiNE. They've come to blows! All 
 
 words are useless now; 
 Madam, forgive this haste — my heart 
 will break! 
 
 [Exeunt CniMiiNE and Page] 
 Infanta. Alas! that such inquietude is 
 mine; 
 I weep her griefs, but Roderick still en- 
 thrals; 
 My peace is gone; my dying flame revives. 
 The fate that parts Chimfene from him she 
 
 loves -'' 
 
 Renews alike my sorrow and my hope. 
 
 1 Their separation, cruel though it be, 
 E;£cites a secret ecstasy in me. 
 f Leonora. Surely, the n oble virtue of 
 \ your soul -===" 
 
 iTields not so soon to passion's baser thrall. 
 C-'Infanta. Nay, do-nof name it thus, 
 
 since in my heart, 
 Strong and triumphant, it controls my will" 
 Respect my love, for it is dear to me; 
 My nobler pride forbids it — yet I hope. 
 Ill-guarded 'gainst a madness sobewild'ring, 
 My heart flies to a love Chimfene has lost. 
 Leonora. And thus your high resolve 
 all-powerless fails? 
 JAnd Reason lays her wonted scepter down? 
 
THE CID 
 
 245 
 
 Infanta. Ah! Reason has a harsh and 
 
 rude effect, 
 When such sweet poison has inflamed the 
 
 heart; 
 The patient loves his painful malady, 
 Nor willingly accepts a healing draught. 
 Leonora. Be not beguiled by Love's 
 
 seductions soft; 
 That Roderick is beneath you, all well 
 
 know. 
 Infanta. Too well myself 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 his blow. 
 What other plea,_need Love, the pleader, 
 
 use? 
 Who could withstand that conqueror's con- 
 queror! 
 My fancy sets no bounds to his exploits; 
 Whole kingdoms soon would fall beneath 
 
 his laws; 
 I see t^JTri on Granada's ancient throne; 
 The subject Moors with trembling do his 
 
 will; 
 Proud Aragon acknowledges him king, 
 And Portugal receives him, while the seas 
 Bear his high destiny to other lands. 
 In Afric's blood his laurels shall be dyed, 
 And aU that e'er was said of greatest chief, 
 I hear of Roderick, this victory won; 
 Then in his love my highest glory lies. 
 Leonoka. Nay, madam, 't is your fancy 
 
 makes you dream 
 Of conquests whose beginning may not 
 
 chance. 
 Infanta. The count has done the deed 
 
 — Roderick enraged — 
 They have gone forth to combat — needs 
 
 there more? 
 Leonora. E'en should they fight — 
 
 since you will have it so — 
 Will Roderick prove the knight you picture 
 
 him? 
 Infanta. Nay, I am weak; my foolish 
 
 mind runs wild; 
 I Love spreads its snares for victims such as I. 
 ' Come to my chamber; there console my 
 
 grief, 
 Nor leave me till this troubled hoiu- is o'er. 
 [Exeunt Infanta and Leonora.] 
 
 [Enter the Kino, Arias, and Sancho.] 
 
 KiNQ. Pray, is this haughty count bereft 
 
 of sense? 
 Dares he believe his crime can be o'er- 
 
 looked? 
 Arias. To him I have conveyed your 
 
 strong desire; 
 Nothing I gained from long and earnest 
 
 pleas. 
 King. Just Heaven! A subject have I in 
 
 my realm 
 So rash that he wiU disregard my wish? 
 My oldest, foremost courtier he affronts, 
 Then aims his boundless insolence at me! 
 The law, in my own court, he would decree: 
 Leader and warrior, great howe'er he be, 
 I'U school his haughty soul with lesson 
 
 hard. 
 Were he the god of battles, valor's self, 
 Obedience to his sovereign he shall pay. 
 Although his act like chastisement deserved, 
 It was my will to show him leniency. 
 Since he abuses mercy, from this hour 
 He is a prisoner, all resistance vain. 
 Sancho. Pray, sire, a brief delay may 
 
 calm his mind. 
 Fresh from the quarrel he was first ap- 
 proached, 
 I Boiling with passion. Sire, a soul like his. 
 So hasty and so bold, belies itself 
 [T n its fir st Jimjiiiilgp; soon he'll know his 
 
 fault, 
 [But cannot yet admit he was the offender. 
 King. Be silent, Sancho, and be warned 
 
 henceforth. 
 He who defends the guilty shares the guilt. 
 Sancho. Yea, sire, I will obey, but grant 
 
 me grace 
 To say one further word in his defense. 
 King. What can you say for such a reck- 
 less man? 
 Sancho. Concessions do not suit a lofty 
 I) soul 
 
 Accustomed to great deeds; it can conceive 
 Of no submission without loss of honor. 
 He cannot bendhis.<pFide^g8ise.ame^s; 
 Too humble is the part you'd have him 
 
 play; 
 He would obey you were he less a man. 
 Command his arm, nourished 'mid_war's 
 
 aJanns, 
 
246 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 To right this wrong upon the field of honor. 
 
 The boldest champion who his steel will 
 face 
 
 He will accept and make atonement swift. 
 Kino. You fail in due respect, but youth 
 is rash, 
 
 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 care, and jealously. 
 
 Like a great head, I guard my members 
 well. 
 
 Your reason, then, no reason is for me; 
 
 You speak, a soldier; I must act, a king. 
 
 Moreover, let the count think what he will, 
 
 Obedjgace ta,hi.sjking ennobles him. 
 I He has affronted me; he rudely stained 
 
 The honor of my son's appointed guide. 
 
 To strike a blow at him — 't is nothing less 
 
 Than to attack with blows the power su- 
 ' preme. 
 
 I'll hear no more. Listen! — there have 
 been seen 
 
 Ten hostile vessels, with their colors up; 
 
 They've dared approach clear to the riv- 
 er's mouth. 
 Aeias. The Moors have learned, per- 
 force, to know you well; 
 
 Conquered so oft, what courage can they 
 feel 
 
 To risk themselves against their conqueror? 
 King. They'll never see, without a jeal- 
 ous rage, 
 
 My scepter rule o'er Andalusia. 
 
 That lovely land, by them too long pos- 
 
 Always with envious eye they closely watch. 
 That was the 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. 
 Abias. They know, at cost of many a 
 
 mighty chief, 
 That triumph, sire, your presence only 
 
 needs. 
 Naught can you have to fear. 
 ' King, Nor to neglect; 
 
 For confidence is danger's sure ally. 
 Well do you know with what an easy sweep 
 A rising tide may float them to our walls. 
 'T is but a rumor; let no panic rise, 
 
 Nor causeless fears be spread by false 
 
 alarms. 
 Stir not the city in the hours of night; 
 But doubly fortify the walls and harbor. ' 
 Enough, till more is known. 
 
 [Enter Alonso.] 
 
 CAlonso. The count is dead! 
 Difegue has taken vengeance by his son! 
 King. Soon as the affront I learned, I 
 feared revenge. 
 Would that I might have turned that fatal 
 wrath! 
 Alonso. ChimSne approaches, bathed 
 in bitter tears. 
 And at your feet would she for justice plead. 
 King. Compassion moves my soul at her 
 mishaps; 
 But the count's deed, methinks, has well 
 
 deserved 
 This chastisement of his audacity. 
 iAnd yet, however just may be his doom, 
 I lose with pain a warrior strong and true, 
 /After long service rendered to our state, 
 jHis blood poured out for us a thousand 
 
 times. 
 His pride excites my anger, but my throne 
 His loss enfeebles while his death bereaves. 
 
 [Enter DrfcGUB and ChimJine.] 
 
 CniMiiNB. Justice, sire, justice! 
 DifeGTiE. Ah, sire, let me speak! 
 CniMfeNE. Behold me, at your feet! 
 DiiiGUE. I clasp your knees! 
 CniMfeNB. 'T is justice I demand! 
 DrfcGUE. Hear my defense! 
 CniMtNE. Punish the insolence of this 
 bold youth! 
 He has struck down your kingdom's Chief 
 
 support! 
 My father he has slain! 
 DifeGTJE. To avenge his own! 
 ChimJine. a subject's blood demands his 
 
 monarch's justice! 
 DiiiGUB. A vengeance just demands no 
 
 punishment. 
 King. Rise, and in calmness let us hear 
 of this. 
 Chim^ne, my deepest sympathy is stirred; 
 A grief not less than yours affects my heart. 
 [To DiijQUE.] You will speak after, nor dis- 
 turb her plaint. 
 
THE CID 
 
 247 
 
 CHiMiiNE. My father, sire, is dead; mine 
 
 eyes have seen 
 Great drops of blood roll from his noble side ; 
 That blood that oft your walls has fortified; 
 That blood that many times your fights has 
 
 won; 
 That blood which, shed, still holds an angry 
 
 heat 
 To be outpoured for other lives than yours. 
 What in war's deadliest carnage ne'er was 
 
 spilled, 
 The hand of Roderick sheds upon your soil. 
 Breathless and pale, I reached the fatal 
 
 spot; 
 I found him lifeless, sire — forgive my 
 
 tears; 
 In this sad tale words mock my trembling 
 
 lips; 
 My sighs will utter what I cannot speak. 
 King. Take courage, child; thy king 
 
 henceforth shall be 
 Thy father, in the place of him that's lost. 
 CHiMfcNB. Such honor, sire, I ask not in 
 
 my woe; 
 I said I foimd him lifeless: open wound 
 And blood outpoured, and 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. 
 1 sire, let not such license reign unchecked 
 iBeneath your sovereign sway, before your 
 
 eyes; 
 iSo the most noble may, without restraint, 
 /Suffer the blows of beardless insolence, 
 lAnd a young braggart triumph o'er their 
 i glory, 
 
 Bathe in their blood and mock their mem- 
 '- ory. 
 
 This valiant warrior, slain, if unavenged, 
 Will surely cool the ardor of your knights. 
 O sire, grant vengeance for my father's 
 
 death! 
 Your throne demands it more than my poor 
 
 heart. 
 His rank was high, his death will cost you 
 
 dear; 
 Pay death with death, and blood with 
 
 blood avenge. 
 
 A victim, not for me, but for your crown, 
 Your person, and Your Majesty, I beg — 
 A victim that will show to all the state 
 The madness of a deed so arrogant. 
 King. What say'st, Di6gue? 
 DifeQUE. Worthy of envy he 
 Who, losing life's best gift, can part with 
 
 life! 
 For age's weakness brings 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 long with life I've 
 
 stayed, 
 Affronted, prostrate lie and powerless. 
 What neither siege nor fight nor ambuscade. 
 Nor all your foes, 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 
 
 eye. 
 Thus, sire, these locks, 'neath war's rough 
 
 harness blanched. 
 This blood, so gladly lavished in your cause. 
 This arm, 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 
 
 stain. 
 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, errs, the head must bear 
 
 the blame. 
 Whether this be a crime of which we speak, 
 His was the hand, but mine, sire, was the 
 
 will. 
 Chimfene names him her father's murderer; 
 The deed was mine; I longed to take his 
 
 place. 
 Spare for your throne the arm of youth and 
 
 might. 
 But slay the chief whom Time o'ermasters 
 
 soon. 
 
248 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 If an old soldier's blood will expiate 
 And satisfy Chimtoe, 't is hers to shed; 
 Far from repining at such stem decree, 
 I'll glory in an honorable death. 
 King. Of deep and serious import is this 
 deed, 
 And in full council must be gravely met. 
 Lead the count's daughter home; and you, 
 
 Di6gue, 
 Shall be held prisoner by yoiu" word of 
 
 honor. 
 Let Roderick be brought; I must do justice. 
 CniMfeNB. 'T is iustice,"Sre7a murderer 
 
 should die. 
 King. Allay your grief, my child, and 
 
 take repose. 
 CHiinfeNE. When silence urges thought, 
 then anguish grows. [Exeunt omnes.] 
 
 ACT III 
 [Enter Roderick and Elvire.] 
 
 Elvire. Roderick, what hast thou done? 
 
 why com'st thou here? 
 Roderick. I follow my sad fate's im- 
 
 happy course. 
 Elvire. Whence hast thou this audacity, 
 to come 
 To places filled with mourning by thy deed? 
 Com'st here to brave the dead count's very 
 
 shade? 
 Hast thou not killed him? 
 
 Roderick. To my shame he lived; 
 My father's house demanded that he die. 
 Elvire. But why seek shelter 'neath 
 thy victim's roof? 
 What 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 in penance for a death. 
 My love's my judge, my judge Chimtoe 
 
 alone. 
 Sharper than death the knowledge of her 
 
 hate; 
 That I deserve, and I have come to ask 
 The sentence of her lips, her hand's death 
 blow. 
 Elvire. Nay, rather flee her sight, her 
 passion's force, 
 
 Remove thy presence from her fresh de- 
 spair. 
 Flee! shim the promptings of her anguish 
 
 new 
 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 
 I shun a hundred others worse to face. 
 Elvthe. Chimene is at the palace, 
 
 drowned in tears. 
 And will return escorted from the king. 
 Flee, Roderick, flee! pray add not to my 
 
 cares. 
 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, 
 
 hide! [Exit Roderick.] 
 
 [Enter Sancho and Chimene.] 
 
 Sancho. True, madam, blood alone pays 
 debts like this; 
 Your wrath is righteous, and your tears are 
 
 just. 
 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 sword is at your service to command; 
 My love is yours to avenge your father's 
 
 death; 
 If you I serve, my arm will outmatch his. 
 ChimSine. O wretched that I am! 
 Sancho. Accept my sword! 
 I Chimene. It would offend the king, who 
 ' pledges justice. 
 
 Sancho. The march of Justice often is 
 I so slow 
 
 iThat crime escapes the tardy loiterer. 
 Her oft uncertain course costs tears and 
 
 pain! 
 Suffer a knight to avenge you with his 
 
 sword; 
 I The way is sure, the punishment is swift. 
 Chimene. It is the last resort. If come it 
 must, 
 
THE CID 
 
 249 
 
 And still my sorrows move yom' soul to 
 
 pity. 
 
 You shall be free to avenge my injury. 
 Sancho. To that one happiness my soul 
 
 aspires, 
 And hoping this, I leave you, well content. 
 [Exit Sancho.] 
 Chim4!nb. At last, in freedom from a 
 
 forced restraint, 
 I can pour out to thee my poignant woe. 
 Can give an utterance to my mournful sighs, 
 And let my soul tell all its many griefs. 
 My father's dead, Elvire; the maiden thrust 
 Of Roderick's sword has cut his life-thread 
 
 short. 
 Weep, weep, my eyes, dissolve yourselves 
 
 in tears; 
 One half my heart the other half entombs; 
 And for this mortal stroke, my heart that 
 
 loves 
 Must vengeance taie for that which is no 
 
 more. 
 Elvire. Rest, madam, rest. 
 CHiMfeNB. Nay, mock me not with 
 
 words! 
 In misery like mine to speak of rest! 
 Whence-ever shall my agony be soothed 
 Unless I hate the hand that caused my 
 
 WTiat respite can I hope from torment aye, 
 
 When loveagdijaicboth seek the criminal? 
 
 Elvire. Tou still can love the one who 
 
 killed your father? 
 CHnriiNi;. Love is a word too weak for 
 what I feel; 
 I do adore him, spite of my resentment; 
 My lover and my enemy are one. 
 Still, notwithstanding all my hatred fierce. 
 Against my father Roderick contends; 
 My fiUal love resists his sweet assault. 
 And struggles, feeble now, and now trium- 
 phant. 
 
 In this rude war of anger and of love. 
 My heart is rent, but stronger grows my 
 
 soul; 
 I feel Lovg!s power, but duty's deeper 
 , claims 
 
 Forbid that I should change or hesitate; 
 •[ balance not, nor swerve, when honor leads. 
 To me is Roderick dear; I weep his fate; 
 {My heart pleads in his favor, yet, alas! 
 jl am my father's daughter; he is dead. 
 
 Elvire. Shall you pursue it further? 
 CmMiiNE. 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 he must die. ( 
 Elvire. Nay, madam, quit so terrible a 
 task. 
 Nor on yourself impose a law so stem. 
 CniMtNE. My father dead — nay, 
 snatched from my embrace! 
 Shall his dear blood unheard for vengeance 
 
 cry? 
 Shall my weak heart, snared by seducing 
 
 spells. 
 With woman's tears alone pay honor's 
 
 debt? 
 Shall guileful love betray my filial duty. 
 And in a shameful silence still its voice? 
 ELViRte. Beheve me, madam, there is I 
 much excuse ■ 
 
 For cooler counsels toward a loving heart, '' 
 Against a lover dear. You've made appeal ^ 
 Unto the king himself; press not too far 
 Persistence in this purpose strange and sad. 
 ChimIinb. My word is pledged to ven- 
 geance; it must fall. 
 Love would beguile us with sweet subtle- 
 ties; 
 To noble souls excuses shameful seem. 
 Elvire. If you love Roderick, he can 
 
 not offend you. 
 ChimIine. 'T is true! 
 Elvire. Then, after all, what will you 
 
 do? 
 Chim±ne. I will avenge my father, end j 
 my woe; ! 
 
 I'U follow him, destroy him, then I'll — 
 die! I 
 
 [Enter Roderick.] 
 
 Roderick. Nay, madam, you shall find 
 an easier way; 
 My lite is in your hand; your honor's sure. 
 CniMiiNE. Elvire, where are we? Who 
 is this I see? 
 Is Roderick in my house? — before my 
 eyes? 
 Roderick. I offer you my life; taste, 
 when you will. 
 The sweetness of my death and yoiu" re- 
 venge. 
 CHiMtNE. Oh, woel 
 
250 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Roderick. Pray, hear me! 
 CHiMiiNE. Nay, I die! 
 Roderick. A moment! 
 CHiMiNE. Go; let me die! 
 Roderick. I would but speak a word. 
 You shall reply with sword-thrust at my 
 heart. 
 ChimJ!ne. What! with a blade stained 
 
 with my father's blood? 
 Roderick. Chimfene! 
 ChimI!ne. Remove that object from 
 mine eyes! 
 Its sight recalls thy crime and sues for 
 death! 
 Roderick. Nay, gaze upon it; 'twill 
 excite still more 
 Thy hatred and thy wrath; 't will haste my 
 doom. 
 CniMfeNE. 'T is tinged with my own 
 
 blood. 
 Roderick. Plunge it in mine! 
 Wash in my veins what it has brought 
 
 from thine. 
 CnmiiNE. Oh, cruel steel, which in one 
 awful day ' "' 
 
 A father's ahd'a daughter's life can take. 
 I cannot live and see it! Take it hence! 
 Thou did'st me hear, and yet thou strik'st 
 me dead! 
 Roderick. 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 of a blow what heart can bear? 
 The affront was mine, I sought its author 
 
 swift, 
 And swift avenged the honor of my sire. 
 Were it again to do, again 't were done! 
 But even 'gainst the inevitable deed, 
 My love long struggled for supremacy. 
 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 
 
 love. 
 Compelled to wound thy heart or stand 
 
 disgraced. 
 Myself I did accuse of haste undue, 
 
 ! Of passions too alive to feel affront. 
 '; Thy beauty might have turned the balance 
 ' still, 
 
 But for the thought that pressed itself at 
 
 last — 
 A man disgraced had naught to offer thee, 
 And vainly would thy heart's voice plead 
 
 for me. 
 If nobleness were sunk in infamy. 
 To yield to love, to hearken to its cry. 
 Proved me unworthy of thy tenderness. 
 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 
 
 else 
 Could blot my shame and leave me worthy 
 
 thee. 
 Now, honor and my father satisfied. 
 To thee I come, to pay my final debt; 
 To offer thee my life, I seek thee here. 
 That duty done, this only rests 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 
 
 him 
 Who shed thy father's nor can mourn the 
 
 deed. 
 I ChimSine. Ah! Roderick, strangely does 
 / my changeful heart 
 (Defend thee who hast saved thy father's 
 
 fame. 
 If my distracted mind has cruel seemed, 
 'T is not with blame for thee, but in despair. 
 The ardor of a high, unbroken spirit 
 That cannot brook an insult, well I know. 
 It was thy duty taught thee, but, alas! 
 In doing thine, thou teachest me mine own. 
 Thfi^ry terror oT^EHy^deed compels;^ 
 For, as thy father's name thou hast re- 
 stored. 
 Mine also calls upon his child for vengeance 
 But, oh! my love for thee drives me to mad- 
 ness! 
 My father's loss by other hand had left 
 The solace of thy presence and thy love, 
 A consolation sweet in misery. 
 I still had felt in grief thy sympathy, 
 And loved the hand that wiped my tears 
 
 away. 
 But now, in losing him thee too I lose; 
 
THE CID 
 
 251 
 
 This victory o'er my love his fame demands, 
 And duty, with the face of an assassin. 
 Drives me to work thy ruin and mine own. 
 For in my heart no more than in thine own 
 Must courage yield to luring dreams of 
 
 love. 
 My strength must equal thine. In thine 
 
 offense -p_ 
 
 Thou hast but proved thy worth, ^y thine 
 
 own death V 
 
 Alone can I be worthy of thy love.} 
 
 Roderick. Defer no longer what thy 
 
 cause demands. 
 It claims my head; I offer it to thee; 
 Make me the victim of thy just revenge. 
 I welcome the decree; I hail the stroke; 
 The tedious course of Justice to await 
 Retards thy glory, as my punishment. 
 'T is welcome fate to die by thy dear hand. 
 CniMiiNB. 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 work my 
 will; 
 
 Challenge I must, but punish never, never! 
 Roderick. However love constrains 
 thee for my sake, 
 
 Thy spirit must be equal to mine own. 
 
 Thyself hast said; then wouldst thou bor- 
 row arms 
 
 To avenge a father's death? Nay, my 
 Chimene, 
 
 The soul of vengeance fails. No hand but 
 mine 
 
 Could slay thy father; thine must punish 
 me. 
 Chimene. O cruelty, to stand upon this 
 point! 
 
 Thou didst not need my aid, I need not 
 thine! 
 
 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. 
 Roderick. 'T is thou that standest on a 
 point of honor. 
 
 Shall I ne'er win this mercy at thy hand? 
 
 In thy dead father's name, for our love's 
 sake. 
 
 In vengeance or in pity, slay me here! 
 
 Thy wretched lover keener pain will know 
 To live and feel thy hate than meet thy 
 blow. 
 CHiMiiME. Leave me, I hate thee not. 
 Roderick. 'T is my desert. 
 CmMJiNE. I cannot. 
 Roderick. When my deed is fully 
 known, 
 And men can say that still thy passion 
 
 bums. 
 Dost thou not fear the cruel, stinging words 
 Of censure and of malice? Silence them; 
 Save thine own fame by sending me to 
 death. 
 CraisdiNE. 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 I love thee and yet seek thy life. 
 Go, 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. 
 Roderick. Oh, let me die! 
 CHiMiiNB. Depart. 
 Roderick. What wilt thou do? 
 CHiMfcNB. The fires of wrath bum with 
 the flames of love. 
 My father's death demands my utmost 
 
 zeal; 
 'T is duty drives me with its cruel goad. 
 And my dear wish is — nothing to achieve. 
 Roderick. O miracle of love! y 
 
 Chimene. O weight of woe! 
 Roderick. We pay our filial debt in 
 
 suffering! 
 CnmiiNE. Roderick, who would have 
 
 thought — 
 Roderick. Or could have dreamed — 
 CniMiiNB. That joy so near so soon our 
 
 grasp would miss? 
 Roderick. Or storm so swift, already 
 close to port. 
 Should shatter the dear bark of all our 
 hope? 
 ChimJine. Oh, mortal griefs! 
 Roderick. Regrets that count fornaughtl 
 
252 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 ChimJine. Pray, leave me now; I cannot 
 
 longer hear. 
 Roderick. Adieu! I go to drag a dying 
 life, 
 Till it is ended at thine own command. 
 ChimIine. If my dire fate e'er bring that 
 hour to me, 
 Thy breath and mine together will depart. 
 Adieu! and let no eye have sight of thee. 
 [Exit Roderick.] 
 Elvibe. Madam, whatever ills kind 
 
 Heaven may send — 
 ChimIinb. Trouble me not; pray, leave 
 me with my grief. 
 I long for night's dark silence, and for tears. 
 [Exeunt Elviee and CniMfeNE.] 
 
 [Enter Di^gue.] 
 
 - DiiiGUE. Never a perfect happiness is 
 
 j ours; 
 
 I Our best achievements have their bitter 
 
 drop; 
 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 
 
 voice, 
 I see his form — a shadow of the night. 
 I would embrace him — lo, he is not 
 
 there ! — 
 Till love, deceived, suspicious grows and 
 
 fearful. 
 No marks of hasty flight do I discern, 
 And that strong troop of friends who served 
 
 the count 
 Affrights me and suggests a thousand ills. 
 If Roderick lives, he breathes a dungeon's 
 
 air. — 
 Just Heaven! do I deceive myself again? 
 Or do I see at last my hope, my son? 
 T is he! I doubt no more; my vows are 
 
 heard, 
 My fears dispelled, my anxious longings 
 
 [Enter Roderick.] 
 
 DiiiGUE. At last, my Roderick, Heaven 
 
 restores thee mine. 
 Roderick. Alas! 
 
 DrIiGUE. 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 spirit; 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 
 mine; 
 
 Thine untaught youth, inspired by ardor 
 great, 
 
 By this one effort, touches my renown. 
 
 Prop of my age, and crown of all my for- 
 tune. 
 
 On these white hairs lay thy redeeming 
 hand; 
 
 Come, kiss this cheek where still thou canst 
 behold 
 
 The mark of that affront thou hast avenged. 
 Roderick. The honor is your due; I 
 could no less. 
 
 Your blood in mine, your care my school of 
 arms. 
 
 Most happy am I that my maiden blow 
 
 Did not disgrace the author of my life. 
 
 But in yom- satisfaction do not shun 
 
 To grant me, also, what my soul demands. 
 
 Your words too long have silenced my de- 
 spair, 
 
 Which bursts anew with every painful 
 thought. 
 
 No mean regret for serving thee I feel; 
 
 But canst thou render back the price it 
 cost? 
 
 My arm, for thee, I've raised against my 
 love, 
 
 And with the stroke I cast away my all! 
 
 No more, no more; I owed you life itself; 
 
 That which I owed I've paid; your cause 
 is won. 
 DiiGiTE. Nay, glory in the fruit of vic- 
 tory; 
 
 I gave thee life, life's joy I 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 warlike 
 breast; 
 
THE CID 
 
 253 
 
 ', Love is a pleasure summoned when thou 
 
 wilt; 
 Thy soul's one rightful master is thine 
 
 honor. 
 . Roderick. What 's this you teach me? 
 DiiiGTrE. That which thou shouldst 
 I know. 
 
 Roderick. My outraged honor turns 
 
 upon myself, 
 And now thou dar'st to counsel treachery — 
 Treason to her I love! Baseness is one, 
 Whether in craven knight or lover false. 
 Wrong not with breath of doubt my faith- 
 fulness; 
 To thee, to her, I,.2Huliha.iKllQl]jc~taafi. 
 Bonds such as mine cannot be broken thus; 
 A promise lives, though hope be dead for 
 
 aye. 
 I cannot leave, nor can I win, ChimSne; 
 In death I find my solace and my pain. 
 DrfcctTE. This is no time for thee to 
 
 prate of death. 
 Thy country and thy prince demand thine 
 / arm. 
 
 The fleet, whose coming has aroused our 
 I fears. 
 
 Plots to surprise and pillage all our towns. 
 The 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 every 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. 
 This valiant band calls thee to be their 
 
 head; 
 Front the assault of these old enemies; 
 If die thou wilt, seek there a noble death 
 In service of thy king and war's emprise. 
 T^et the king owe his. safety to thy loss. 
 Nay, but return, far rather, crowned with 
 
 Win silence from Chimfene, grace from the 
 
 Thy faiB&not narrowed to a vengeful deed. 
 But broadened to a kingdom's strong de- 
 fense. 
 
 And if thou still wouldst gain her maiden 
 
 heart, 
 Know that to conquering hero it will yield. 
 I waste thy time in words. Come, follow 
 
 me; 
 Forth to the fight, and let thy sovereign see 
 What in the count he's lost he's gained in 
 
 thee. 
 
 [Exeunt DrfcauE and Roderick.] 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 [Enter ChimIine and Elvire.] 
 
 CaiMiiNE. Is this no false report? — art 
 
 sure, Elvire? 
 Elvire. Should I repeat how all do 
 sound his praise. 
 And bear to heaven the fame of his exploits, 
 And wonder at his youth, you'd scarce be- 
 lieve. 
 The Moors before him met a quick disgrace; 
 The attack was swift, but swifter still the \ 
 flight. ) 
 
 After three hours of combat we had won 
 Two captive kings and victory secure; 
 Naught could resist the young chief's onset 
 fierce. 
 ChimI;ne. And Roderick's arm this 
 
 miracle has wrought? 
 EiiViRE. Of his great prowess are two 
 kings the prize, 
 Conquered and captured by his hand alone. 
 ChimJine. How knowest thou the truth 
 
 of this strange news? 
 Elvire. The people do extol him to the 
 
 Call him their liberator and their angel. 
 The author and the guardian of their 
 peace. 
 ChimSne. The king, what thinks he of 
 
 these mighty deeds? 
 Elvire. Not yet has Roderick braved 
 the royal eye; 
 B ut the two captive kings, in fetters bound. 
 Still wearing crowns, DiSgue with joy 
 
 presents. 
 Entreating of the king, as recompense. 
 That he will see the conqueror and forgive. 
 Chim&ne. Is Roderick wounded? ( 
 
254 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 ? Elvire. I 've heard naught of it. 
 You lose your color! pray take heart again. 
 CniMiiNB. I'll take again my weak 
 
 heart's failing wrath! 
 Must I forget myself in thought of him! 
 Shall my lips join in praises of his deeds! 
 While honor 's mute, and duty, dull, con- 
 \ sents ? 
 
 j Be still, my love, and let my anger swell! 
 ' What are two conquered kings? My 
 
 father's slain! 
 This mourning garb, which speaks of my 
 
 distress, 
 Is the first token of his wondrous might! 
 Others may call his deeds magnanimous; 
 Here, every object testifies his crime. 
 May all this somber pomp which wraps me 
 
 round — 
 This sweeping veil, these heavy depths of 
 
 crape — 
 Add force to my resentment, 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 fearless meet this hero proud. 
 Elvibe. Calm yourself now; the Infanta 
 
 is approaching. 
 
 [Enter the Infanta and Leonora.] 
 
 Infanta. I come not vainly to console 
 thy grief; 
 Rather my tears to mingle with thine own. 
 ChimAne. Ah, madam, thou canst share 
 the common joy; 
 'T is thine to taste this Heaven-sent happi- 
 ness; 
 The right to weep is mine, and mine alone. 
 The peril Roderick's wisdom could avert. 
 The public safety by his valor won, 
 Permit to me alone, to-day, a tear. 
 The city he, has saved, the king has 
 
 served — 
 His valorous arm brings woe to me alone. 
 Infanta. 'T is true, ChimSne, he has 
 
 great marvels wrought. 
 CniMiiNE. 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 Mars delighted thee; 
 
 He dwelt within thy heart, he owned thy 
 sway; 
 
 To tell his praises is to sound thine own. 
 ChimJine. Others may boast his deeds; 
 '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 grows. 
 
 Ah, cruel torture of a heart that loves! 
 
 My passion burns the brighter with his 
 worth. 
 
 While duty, stem defender of my course. 
 
 Would follow him to death in love's de- 
 spite. 
 Infanta. But yesterday thy 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 
 advice? 
 CniMfeNE. Not to hear 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 him the Moors with hopeless terror 
 
 -Securely leans on him our loved Castile. 
 
 The king himself can never now deny 
 
 Thy father's spirit moving in the youth; 
 
 Thou seek'st the public ruin in his death. 
 
 Thy country was thy father's country first, 
 
 And ne'er canst thou to hostile hands be- 
 tray it. 
 
 Wilt thou pursue thy vengeance though its 
 blow 
 
 lEnwrap the kingdom in a fatal woe? 
 
 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, preserve his 
 life. 
 CHiMiiNE. The gift of mercy is not mine 
 to grant; 
 
 I cannot check the duty driving me; 
 
 Though in ray heart the voice of love may 
 plead, 
 
 Though prince and people praise him and 
 adore. 
 
 Though all heroic souls encircle him — 
 
THE CID 
 
 255 
 
 (: 
 
 My cypress-boughs his laurels shall o'er- 
 
 spread. 
 J Infanta. 'T is noble not to falter, my 
 / Chimfene, 
 
 /Though to avenge a father stabs our heart; 
 I But 't is a higher nobleness to place 
 I The public good above all private wrong. 
 ' Believe me, to exclude him from thy soul 
 Will be the bitterest pang thou canst be- 
 stow. 
 Yield to the act thy coimtry's weal de- 
 mands, 
 Nor doubt thy king's most willing leni- 
 ency. 
 CniMiiNE. Whether he hear, I still must 
 
 plead for justice. 
 Infanta. Consider well what course you 
 now will take. 
 Adieu! let solitude thy counsel aid. 
 CmsdiNE. My father dead! — what 
 choice remains for me? 
 
 [Exeunt omnesi 
 
 [Enter the King, DiiiGUE, Arias, Roder- 
 ick, and Sancho.] 
 
 King. Bold heir of an illustrious ances- 
 try, 
 Ever the hope and glory of Castile, 
 Son of a race of valor unexcelled. 
 Whose best exploits thine own already 
 
 rank, 
 For due reward my power is all too weak — 
 What thou hast earned thy king can never 
 
 pay. 
 Our land set free from barbarous enemy. 
 My scepter in my hand, by thine secured. 
 The Moors despatched before the call to 
 
 arms 
 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 recognize thy might. 
 Their Cm they name thee, sovereign, lord, 
 
 Tiid head. 
 I well might envy thee this title proud. 
 The highest in their land; but, no, I call 
 On all to know that thou the Cm shalt be. 
 The Cm henceforth art thou. To that great 
 
 name 
 May every foe succumb! — Granada yield. 
 Toledo tremble, but on hearing it. 
 
 To all my subjects ever shall it show 
 How great the debt to thee we proudly owe. 
 RoDEBicK. Nay, sire, your words too 
 highly speak my praise, 
 And make me flush with shame before a 
 
 king 
 Whose generous honor is so undeserved. 
 The blood within these veins, the air I 
 
 breathe — 
 All, all, to this great empire do I owe. 
 Had these been lost, and death alone been 
 
 won, 
 A subject's duty only had I done. 
 
 King. E'en duty done is not the whole 
 
 of service; 
 Its glory is a courage quick and high. 
 Which, reckoning not with danger or de- 
 feat. 
 Pushes its way to triumph and renown. 
 Suffer thy praises from a grateful sover- 
 eign. 
 And now relate the story of thy deeds. 
 Roderick. That in this sudden stress 
 
 of peril, sire, 
 A troop of followers of my father's house 
 Urged me to be their leader, well you know. 
 My troubled soul was painfully perplexed — 
 I dared not lead the band without thy 
 
 word, 
 But to approach thee was a fatal step. 
 Pardon the rashness, sire, that dared to act! 
 I chose to lose my head in serving thee. 
 Rather than while my followers stood in 
 
 arms. 
 King. The state defended is thy full 
 
 defense. 
 And thyJfflQ-heated vengeance I excuse. 
 Chimfene, hereafter, has a cause forlorn;) 
 I hear her but to comfort her; say on. J 
 Roderick. I take the lead, and, with 
 
 defiant front, 
 The little column slowly makes advance; 
 Five hundred at the starting, but ere long 
 Three thousand was our number, strong 
 
 and bold. 
 The frightened gathered courage at the 
 
 sight. 
 A certain part I hurriedly conceal 
 In vessels l3Tng at the river's mouth; 
 The rest, whose numbers every hour in- 
 creased. 
 Impatient for the fray, with me remain. 
 
256 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Close to the ground they crouched, and, 
 
 still as death, 
 They passed the night, nor slept, nor 
 
 scarcely breathed. 
 At my command, pretended, sire, from you, 
 The guard itself conceals, and aids my plot. 
 Just as the flow of tide comes rolling in. 
 By starlight pale, lo! thirty Moorish sails. 
 Mounting the wave, sweep to the harbor's 
 
 mouth. 
 They enter; all seems tranquil; not a guard. 
 No soldiers on the quay, none on the walls' 
 Our ambush is complete, and fearlessly. 
 Not doubting their attack a full surprise. 
 They anchor, and debark; suspecting 
 
 n'aught. 
 They rush into the embraces of their foes. 
 We spring from every hiding-place, and 
 
 loud 
 A thousand cries of battle rise to heaven. 
 Then from the ships pour forth our armed 
 
 men; 
 But half have sprung to land when, terror- 
 struck, 
 They see the fight is lost ere 't is begun. 
 They came for pillage; 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. 
 Their panic is dispelled, their ranks are 
 
 formed. 
 Their terrors 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 carnage, death its. lord. 
 Their blood and ours in horrid mixture 
 
 ran. 
 Brave deeds were wrought which never 
 
 will be known; 
 The darkness was a veil, 'neath which each 
 
 man 
 Fought as it were alone; nor any knew 
 How victory inclined. I praised my men, 
 Placed reenf orcements here, changed orders 
 
 there, 
 Nor knew till dawn which side was con- 
 queror. 
 But day made clear our gain and their 
 
 defeat. 
 
 Their courage fails them, with the fear of 
 
 death; 
 And when they see approach a fresh com- 
 mand. 
 They seek their ships, cut cables, and their 
 
 cries 
 Of terror and of anguish fill the air. 
 They wait not to discover if their kings 
 Are 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 shores. 
 The kings and others, left without retreat 
 Or hope of succor, make a valiant stand; 
 They sell their Uvea at cost of hfe in turn, 
 And fight till nearly every man is dead. 
 I urge surrender, but they hsten not. 
 Till the last follower falls, when yield they 
 
 must. 
 Then the two kings demand to see the chief; 
 I tell them who I am, they seek my grace; 
 I send them straightway to Your Majesty. 
 So the fight ended, lacking combatants. 
 'T was in this manner, sire, that for your 
 
 cause — 
 
 [Enter AiONSc] 
 
 Alonso. Chimfene approaches, sire, to 
 
 sue for justice. 
 King. 'T is sorry news! 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- 
 brace. [Embraces him.] 
 
 [Exit KODERICK.] 
 
 DiiiQTjE. Chimfene would save Viim from 
 
 her own pursuit. 
 King. 'T is said she loves him still; 
 
 I'll test her heart; 
 Assume a mournful air — 
 
 [Enter ChimIine and Elvire.] 
 
 King. Chimfene, your wishes with suc- 
 cess are crowned; 
 
 Our foes have fallen beneath Roderick's 
 hand. 
 
 Give thanks to Heaven, which hath avenged 
 you thus. 
 
 [Aside to DiiiGUE.] Mark how her color 
 changes at my words. 
 
THE CID 
 
 257 
 
 DiiiGUG. But see, she swoons, a token, 
 
 sire, most sure, 
 Of perfect love; this grief the secret tells 
 Which rules her soul. No longer can you 
 
 doubt 
 Her passion's flame still bums with glow 
 
 unquenched. 
 CniMfcNE. Tell me, is Roderick dead? 
 King. Nay, nay, he lives. 
 And still his love unchanged for thee re- 
 mains. 
 Forget the anxious grief that mourns for 
 
 him. 
 CHiMliNB. O sire, one swoons from joy 
 
 as well as grief; 
 The soul surprised with happiness grows 
 
 weak; 
 Too sudden gladness every sense o'er- 
 
 whelms. 
 King. Thou canst not so deceive my 
 
 watchful eye; 
 Thy grief, Chimtoe, too manifest appeared. 
 CniMiiNE. .Add, then, this deeper pain 
 
 to my distress; 
 My swoon but told my disappointment 
 
 sore; 
 My righteous wrath has brought me down 
 
 to this. 
 His death would snatch him from my just 
 
 revenge. 
 From wounds received in battle should he 
 
 die. 
 What place remains for my imyielding 
 
 will! 
 And end so honorable mocks my aim. 
 I wish tiJTn dead, but not with honor's 
 
 stroke. 
 Not in a blaze of glory should he pass. 
 But on a scaffold, shrouded in disgrace. 
 Grant him a murderer's, not a patriot's 
 
 death. 
 To die for country is a noble fate; 
 Not that for him, but with a blemished 
 
 name, 
 A tarnished 'scutcheon, should his breath 
 
 depart. 
 His victory gives me pleasure imalloyed — 
 The state gains stableness, and I, I gain 
 A victim worthier still my father's house. 
 No longer a rash youth, whose violence 
 Condemns itself; but great, chief among 
 
 chiefs, 
 
 A warrior crowned with laurels, one whose 
 
 fall 
 Would vindicate my purpose. But, alas! 
 My hopes beyond my reason bear me on. 
 What force is in my tears, which men 
 
 despise? 
 The freedom of your empire is his own; 
 Under your power, he works his wicked 
 
 will. 
 He from my feebleness has naught to fear. 
 O'er me, as o'er his enemies, he triumphs. 
 To stifle Justice in his victory 
 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 car of triumph bids me follow. 
 King. My child, your words are all too 
 
 violent; 
 The scales of justice must not swerve a 
 
 hair. 
 Thy father was the aggressor; that thou 
 I know'st. 
 
 Justice must see that mercy has a claim. 
 Nay, be not swift to oppose thy monarch's 
 
 plea; 
 Consult thy heart; there still thy Roderick 
 
 lives. 
 Thy love, though hidden, is a mighty thing. 
 And will approve this favor from thy king. 
 ChimI:ne. Favor to him a cause of 
 
 thanks from me! 
 The author of my woes, my bitter foe! 
 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, sire, will demand. 
 By arms alone my happiness was wrecked, 
 By arms alone my vengeance should be 
 
 wrought. 
 Of all you cavaliers I ask his head; 
 To him who brings it, I will give my hand. 
 Confirm the combat, sire, by your decree; 
 I wed the man who conquers Roderick. 
 King. That ancient custom I would not 
 
 restore. 
 The state was oft enfeebled 'neath its rule. 
 Under the false pretence of righting wrongj 
 
2S8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 if The noblest oft would fall, the base es- 
 j } • cape. 
 
 ! t A life whose import deepens to our state 
 
 ! i Shall not be left to Fate's capricious whim; 
 
 From that ordeal of arms is Roderick free. 
 
 Whatever crime his hasty wrath has 
 
 wrought 
 The flying Moors have borne with them 
 afar. 
 DiiouE. What, sire, for him alone re- 
 verse the laws 
 Your court so oft has honored by observ- 
 ance? 
 What will your people think, or envy say, 
 If 'neath your arm, a coward, he 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. Bravely did he 
 
 front 
 
 The bragging count; he will be brave again. 
 
 King. Since you demand it, let it be; 
 
 but know 
 
 A thousand warriors will replace the slain 
 
 By Roderick conquered; for the offered 
 
 prize 
 Will make an eager foe of every knight. 
 To oppose them all would be a grievous 
 
 wrong; 
 Once only shall he enter in the lists. 
 Choose whom thou wilt, Chimtoe, but 
 
 choose with care; 
 .No more reproaches will thy sovereign bear. 
 j DiiiGtrE. Let none be overlooked — not 
 
 those who most 
 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. Declare an open field ! I enter it. 
 Rash though I be, I dare confront this 
 
 knight. 
 Madam, this favor grant to my devotion; 
 Your word's fulfillment shall I surely claim. 
 King. Chimlne, do you accept this 
 
 champion? 
 ChimJinb. It is a promise, sire. 
 j King. To-morrow, then. 
 jDiiiGUE. Nay, sire, why should there 
 I longer be delay? 
 
 IThe brave are ever ready. Now's the 
 I time. 
 
 KiNGr He scarce has quit his battle with 
 
 the Moors. 
 DiijGTTE. While in your presence he took 
 
 breathing space. 
 King. An hour or two of respite I impose. 
 And lest this combat seem to speak my 
 
 will — 
 To show the deep reluctance that I feel 
 In suffering this bloody pass at arms — 
 I and my court will straight withdraw us 
 
 hence. 
 [To Arias.] You shall be judge between 
 
 these combatants; 
 See that the laws of honor govern them. 
 The combat ended, lead to me the victor. 
 Whoe'er he be, the prize is still the same. 
 With mine own hand Chimfene I would 
 
 present. 
 And for his guerdon she her faith shall 
 plight. 
 CniMiiNE. What, sire, impose on me a 
 
 law so stern? 
 King. Thou murmurest, but thy change- 
 ful, loving heart, 
 If Roderick wins, will gladly take his part. 
 Cease to complain of such a mild decree; 
 The victor shall thy husband surely be. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes.] 
 
 ACT V 
 
 [Enter Rodeeick, and ChimJjne.] 
 
 CniMiNE. What, Roderick! whence this 
 boldness — to my face? 
 Go! — this will cost my honor. Leave me, 
 pray. 
 Roderick. Madam, to death I go, but 
 ere I die, 
 To offer you a last farewell I come. 
 The love that keeps me vassal to your laws 
 Even in death demands my homage still. 
 CHiMfeNE. And wilt thou die? 
 Roderick. I count the moment blest 
 That satisfies your hatred with my life. 
 CniMfeNE. But wilt thou die? Sancho is 
 not the one 
 To terrify that dauntless soul of thinel 
 What renders thee so weak, or bim so 
 strong? 
 
THE CID 
 
 2S9 
 
 before the combat, Roderick talks of 
 death! 
 
 He who nor feared my father nor the 
 Moors, 
 
 Is going to fight one Sancho, and despairs! 
 
 Does courage thus desert thee, valorous 
 knight? 
 RoDEHicK. I haste to pimishment, and 
 not to combat. 
 
 Since you desire my death, what wish 
 have I 
 
 To keep my life? My courage fails me not; 
 
 But my indifferent arm wiU not preserve 
 
 What thou dost find displeasing. Not a 
 blow 
 
 C!ould I have struck against the fiery Moors 
 
 For wrong of mine alone; 'twas for my 
 king. 
 
 His people, and his kingdom, that I fought. 
 
 To poorly guard myself were treachery. 
 
 Life is not yet so hateful to my heart 
 
 That basely I can sacrifice its claims. 
 
 The question now is different. I alone 
 
 Am in the balance. You demand my death; 
 
 Your sentence I accept, although the hand 
 
 You let inflict it should have been your 
 own. 
 
 He who shall wield your weapon in your 
 stead 
 
 Shall meet no sword-thrust answering to 
 his steel. 
 
 I cannot strike the man that fights for you; 
 
 I joy to think his blow is from your hand. 
 
 Since 't is your honor that his arms main- 
 tain. 
 
 Unguarded shall I offer every point. 
 
 Seeing in his your hand which slays me 
 thus. 
 CniMiiNE. Let no blind folly lead thee to 
 forget 
 
 That glory ends with life. Though my just 
 wrath 
 
 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- 
 mand 
 
 A nerveless arm, an vmdefended blow — 
 
 Remember, all the splendor of thy deeds 
 i Will change to shame when death has con- 
 quered thee. 
 
 Who will believe thou didst not raise thy 
 hand? 
 
 Though I am d^^iiti bQfigr is dearer still, 
 
 Else I had stiff my fatSei7an(fTheTio^e 
 
 That fatal blow has cost thee would re- 
 main — 
 
 The hope of calling me thine own Chimfene. 
 
 Thou canst not hold so cheap thy high 
 renown 
 
 To weakly, unresisting yield it up. 
 
 What strange inconstancy can valor show! 
 
 Thou shouldst have more or else thou 
 shouldst have less! 
 
 Is it to grieve me only thou art bold, 
 
 And courage fails when courage I de-l 
 mand? ' 
 
 Wilt thou my father's might so disallow 
 
 That, conquering him, thou 'It to a weaker 
 yield? 
 
 ,Go, do not will to die, o'ercome my will; 
 
 flf life no longer charms thee, honor pleads. 
 Roderick. The count is dead, the 
 Moors defeated fly — 
 
 Still other claims to glory need I prove? 
 
 Henceforth, my fame can scorn all self- 
 defense. 
 
 None would believe this heart of mine 
 could quail. 
 
 What can I not accomplish? Who will 
 doubt 
 
 That, honor gone, naught 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 courage to im- 
 pugn. 
 
 Nor deem that I did meet my conqueror. 
 
 "He loved Chimfene" — 'tis thus the 
 court will say — 
 
 "He would not live and her resentment 
 face. 
 
 To the stern hand of Fate that followed 
 him — 
 
 Her vengeful hand — he yielded up his 
 breath. 
 
 She sought his life; to his great soul it 
 seemed 
 
 '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 
 still, 
 
 Honor for love, and love for life, he chose." 
 
 'T will not obscure my glory thus to die, 
 
/260 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 But brighter will its growing splendor 
 
 shine. 
 My willing death this honor high will win, 
 No life but mine for thee redress could 
 
 make. 
 CniMiiisrE. Since life and honor feebly 
 
 plead my cause, , 
 Nor stay thee from a death imwished by 
 
 me, 
 ( Let mine old love speak for me, Roderick, 
 And, in return, shield me from Sancho's 
 
 power. 
 
 Save me from such a fate as 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 still beats for thy 
 
 Chimfene, 
 As conqueror, thou lovest not in vain. 
 Adieu! my cheek is hot at this avowal. 
 
 [Exit ChimSne.] 
 Roderick. What foe can daunt my 
 
 valiant spirit now? 
 Come on, Navarre, Morocco, and Castile! 
 Come, all the valor of our kingdom's 
 
 might! 
 In one great host unite to hurl me down! 
 My arm alone will equal all your force. 
 Against a hope so sweet, the flower of 
 
 Spain 
 Were all too weak ! I fight for my Chimfine ! 
 [Exit Roderick.] 
 
 [Enter Infanta.] 
 
 Infanta. Thou pride of birth, which 
 
 turns my love to crime, 
 Thy warning shall I list, or thy sweet 
 
 voice 
 My heart, whose soft constraint compels 
 
 revolt 
 Against that tyrant stern? In worth alone 
 Thou, Roderick, art mine equal; but thy 
 
 blood. 
 Though brave and pure, flows not from 
 
 royal veins. 
 
 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 quell! 
 
 'Twixt love and pride my reason bids me 
 
 choose 
 Though birth's high destiny demand a 
 
 throne. 
 Thou, Roderick, art of kings the conqueror. 
 And 'neath thy sway with honor shall I 
 
 dwell. 
 The glorious name of Cid that now is thine 
 Points clearly to the realm where thou 
 
 shalt reign. 
 
 Worthy is he, but 't is ChimSne he loves. 
 Her father's death so slightly breaks their 
 
 bonds. 
 That, though her duty slays him, she 
 
 adores. 
 No hope to my long grief his crime can 
 
 bring. 
 Alas for me! ordains a wretched fate 
 That love outlast the bitterness of hate. 
 
 [Enter Leonora.] 
 
 Infanta. Why com'st thou, Leonora? 
 Leonora. 'T is to praise thee, 
 That thou at last hast conquered all thy 
 
 pain. 
 And hast repose. 
 Infanta. Repose? whence shall that 
 come 
 To a heart burdened with a hopeless woe? 
 Leonora. Love lives on hope; without 
 it, surely dies. 
 No more can Roderick's image charm your 
 
 heart; 
 For whether in this combat he prevail, 
 I Or whether fall, he is her victim still, 
 lyour hope is dead, your wounded heart is 
 healed. 
 Infanta. That time — how distant 
 
 still!- 
 Leonora. Why mock yourself? 
 Infanta. Say, rather, why forbid me 
 still to hope? 
 I can invent a thousand happy shifts 
 This combat's hard conditions to evade. 
 Love tortures me, but 'tis from love I 
 
 learn 
 To use a lover's skillful artifice. 
 Leonora. The flame of love, enkindled 
 in their hearts, 
 Survives a father slain. What, then, can 
 you? 
 
THE CID 
 
 261 
 
 No deadly hate inspires ChimSne's pur- 
 suit. 
 She claims a combat, but she straight ac- 
 cepts 
 The combatant who offers first his sword. 
 None does she choose among the vaUant 
 
 knights 
 Whose bold exploits match Roderick's own 
 
 renown. 
 A youth whose steel has never yet been 
 
 tried 
 Suits her cause well — young Sancho is 
 
 her choice. 
 His liighest merit is his unskilled blade. 
 Without a name, no fame has he to save; 
 And this too easy choice full plainly shows 
 I This combat is but ditty's weak-pretence. 
 ! To Roderick she gives avietim sure, 
 , Whose harmless death her honor seems to 
 crown. 
 Infanta. I read her plan, and still this 
 restless heart 
 Rivals Chimfene, and loves this conqueror. 
 Unhappy that I am! what shall I do? 
 Leonora. Recall the high conditions of 
 your birth. 
 Shall a king's daughter love her father's 
 subject? 
 Infanta. My love has changed its 
 object; listen, pray! 
 It is no longer Roderick I love, 
 A simple gentleman; not so, not so! 
 I love the author of most noble deeds, 
 The valorous Cid, the conqueror of two 
 
 (But still my love I'll conquer; not in fear. 
 But lest their sweet devotion I betray. 
 If for my sake a crown he should receive, 
 I would not take again the gift I gave. 
 Since to no doubtful combat he is gone, 
 Another happy scheme must I employ. 
 Do thou, the confidant of all my woes, 
 Help me to finish what I have begun. 
 
 [Exeunt Infanta and Lbonoka.] 
 
 [Enter CmMfcNB, and Elvire.] 
 
 ChimJjnb. Elvire, I suffer — pity, pity 
 me! 
 I can but hope, yet everything I fear. 
 A vow escapes me I would fain withdraw; 
 A swift repentance follows every wish. 
 Two rivals for my sake are now at arms; 
 
 Of dear success my tears the price wi]l pay. 
 Though Fate may seem to grant my great 
 
 desire, 
 I still must carry in my heart the pain 
 Of father unavenged or lover dead. 
 Elvire. Nay, 't is of consolation you 
 must dream. 
 Your lover or your vengeance is assured. 
 Whatever issue destiny decrees, 
 Your honor and a husband are your own". 
 ., CniMiiNE. What! him I hate, or him 
 5 I've wished to slay! 
 
 'The murderer of my father, or of Roderick? 
 The victory of either gives to me 
 A husband stained with blood that I adore. 
 From this most wretched choice my soul 
 
 revolts. 
 [Far more than death I dread this quarrel's 
 ' end. 
 
 Hence, vengeance, love, disturbers of my 
 
 peace! 
 I can no longer pay your cruel price. 
 Almighty author of my direful fate, 
 Bring thou this combat to no certain close — 
 Let there be neither conqueror nor con- 
 quered. 
 Elvire. Nay, wish not a result so prof- 
 itless. 
 If still you cherish Justice' stem demands, 
 And still your deep resentment you would 
 
 nurse. 
 Unsatisfied, because your lover lives. 
 This combat will but torture you anew. 
 Far rather hope his valor may secure 
 New bays for him, and silence for your 
 
 plaints; 
 That by the law of combat, still revered. 
 Your sighs be stifled and your heart con- 
 soled. 
 CHiMiiNB. To him, though conqueror, 
 think'st thou I will yield? 
 fToo strong my duty, and my loss too dear. 
 /No law of combat, nor the king's decree, 
 I Can force a daughter's conscience to be 
 
 quiet. 
 An easy victory he may win in fight, 
 Chimfene will prove an adversary still, 
 j Elvihe. 'T were well if Heaven prevent 
 f your vengeance just, 
 
 I To punish pride so strange and impious! 
 I What! will you now the happiness reject 
 pi silence with your honor reconciled? 
 
262 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 W hat means such duty ? Pray, what hope 
 
 you lorr 
 Your lover slain, will't give your father 
 
 back? 
 Does one such sorrow not suflSce for you, — 
 Must you heap loss on loss, and grief on 
 
 grief? 
 VT is a caprice of temper you indulge, 
 'which of your promised lord makes you 
 
 unfit. 
 The wrath of Heaven will snatch him from 
 
 your arms, 
 And leave you as young Sancho'a rightful 
 
 bride. 
 CniMiiNB. Elvire, the conflicts which my 
 
 soul endures 
 Pray deepen not by prophecy maKgn. 
 Would Heaven ordain I might escape them 
 
 both; 
 If not, for Roderick all my vows ascend. 
 Not that my foolish love inclines me 
 
 thus. 
 But Sancho's prize I cannot, cannot be! 
 That fear o'ermasters every wish besides. 
 What is 't I see? Undone! — I am undone! 
 
 [Enter Sancho.] 
 
 Sancho. 'T is mine this sword to offer at 
 
 your feet. 
 CniMiiNE. 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? 
 I Burst forth, my love ! no longer need'st thou 
 ■ fear! 
 
 jMy father's death restrains thee never- 
 more; 
 .By one fell blow my honor is assured, 
 fdy love set free, my soul plunged in de- 
 '\ spair. 
 
 Sancho. With calmer mind — 
 CniMiiNE. Thou speak'st to me again! 
 Assassin of a hero I adore! 
 Away! thou wast a traitor! Well I know 
 That valiant knight by thee was never 
 
 slain 
 In open combat. Nothing hope from me. 
 My champion thou! — my death thou 'It 
 surely be ! 
 Sancho. What strange illusion! Hear 
 me, I entreat! 
 
 ChimJjne. Think 'st thou I'U listen to 
 
 thy bragging tale — 
 With patience bear thine insolence which 
 
 paints 
 His fall, my crime, and, chiefest still, thy 
 
 valor? 
 
 [Enter the King, Di^GtrB, Akias, and 
 Alonso.] 
 
 ChimJine. Ah, sire, no more need I dis- 
 simulate 
 What vainly I have struggled to conceal. 
 I loved; 't was known to you; but for my 
 
 father 
 
 I could devote to death so dear a head. 
 Love, sire, to duty's desperate cause I gave 
 Now Roderick is dead, my heart is changed 
 From foe relentless to afflicted lover. 
 To him who gave me life was vengeance 
 
 due; 
 But now my tears can fall for him I love. 
 Young Sancho in defending me destroys. 
 And of his murderous arm I am the prize. 
 In pity, sire, if pity move a king. 
 Revoke a law so terrible to me! 
 As recompense for victory, whose end 
 To me is loss of aU on earth 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 
 away. 
 DiliGUE. No longer, sire, it seems to her 
 a shame 
 To openly avow her heart's desire. 
 
 King. Be undeceived, Chimtoe: thy 
 Roderick lives! 
 The champion has, though vanquished, 
 told thee false. 
 Sancho. 'T was her too hasty thought 
 deceived herself. 
 To tell the issue of the fight 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 
 
 in doubt, 
 Rather than pierce a heart that loves 
 
 Chimfene. 
 My duty summons me at once to court. 
 Do thou convey to her the final chance, 
 And lay thy sword, her trophy, at her feet." 
 This had I done, but seeing me return, 
 
THE CID 
 
 263 
 
 Bearing my sword, she deemed me con- 
 queror. 
 
 Then love and anger, mingled suddenly. 
 
 Betrayed her into transports uncontrolled, 
 
 Nor could I gain a hearing for my tale. 
 
 Vanquished in combat, still I am content, 
 
 And gratefully accept my own defeat; 
 
 For though I love and lose my love, 't is 
 sweet 
 
 This perfect love of theirs to consummate. 
 KiNQ. My child, no flush of shame 
 should mount thy cheek. 
 
 No longer seek to disavow thy flame. 
 
 Thy faithful love unmeasured praise shall 
 win, 
 
 Thy honor's safe, thy filial duty done. 
 
 Thy father is avenged; to do thy will 
 
 Thy Roderick's life thou hast in peril set. 
 
 'T was Heaven ordained to save liinn for 
 thine own; 
 
 Thou hast not shunned thy part; take thy 
 reward; 
 
 Be not rebellious toward my wise decree. 
 
 Thy lover in thy loving arms enfold. 
 
 [Enter Roderick, Infanta, and Leonoha.] 
 
 Infanta. No longer weep, Chimfene. 
 
 With joy receive 
 This noble conqueror from thy princess' 
 
 hand. 
 Roderick. I crave indulgence, sire, that 
 
 love's high claim 
 Impels me, in thy presence, to her feet. — 
 To ask no promised prize, Chimfine, I 
 
 come, 
 But once again my life to offer 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 speak your wish; you shall be satisfied. 
 A thousand rivals I will yet o'ercome. 
 To utmost bounds of earth I'll fight my 
 
 way. 
 Alone I'll force a camp, an army rout. 
 The fame of demigods I'll cast in shade; 
 Whate'er the deeds my crime to expiate. 
 All things will I attempt and all achieve. 
 But if the voice of honor unappeased 
 Still clamors for the guilty slayer's death. 
 Arm not against me warrior such as I. 
 My head is at your feet: strike now the 
 
 blow! 
 
 You only can o'ercome the invincible; 
 No other hand than yours can vengeance 
 
 take. 
 One thing I pray: let death end punish- 
 ment; 
 From your dear memory ne'er banish me. 
 Your honor is exalted in my death; 
 As recompense let my remembrance live. 
 Say sometimes, thinking of my love for 
 
 you, 
 "He died, because he ne'er could be un- 
 true." 
 CniMfeNB. Nay, Roderick, rise. — Ah, 
 
 sire, no more I hide 
 The feelings which have burst their long 
 
 control. 
 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 
 
 cause 
 Must I, the guerdon, though reluctant, 
 
 be? 
 A prey forever to remorseful shame 
 That in paternal blood my hands I've 
 
 stained. 
 King. Time changes a ll ; a deed .to-day 
 
 unmeet, 
 May seem hereafter lawful and benign. 
 Thou has been won by Roderick; thou art 
 
 his. 
 This day his valor rightly gained the prize. 
 But since so freshly from the field he comes, 
 And still thy heart unreconciled remains, 
 I well might seem thy fair fame's enemy. 
 If I so soon reward his victory. 
 My law decreed no hour for nuptial vows, 
 Nor does delay show change in royal will. 
 Let a round year bring solace to thy 
 
 heart. 
 And dry the fountain of a daughter's tears. 
 For thee, brave knight, wait mighty deeds 
 
 of arms: 
 The Moors on our own borders thou hast 
 
 slain. 
 Their plots confounded, their assaults 
 
 repelled; 
 Now into their own coimtry push the war, 
 
264 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Command my army, plunder all their 
 land. 
 
 Thy name of Cid their terrors will in- 
 flame; 
 
 Themselves have given it — king they'll 
 choose thee now. 
 
 Fidelity is valor's noblest crown; 
 
 Return yet worthier of this lovely maid. 
 
 Let thy great deeds so loudly plead for 
 thee, 
 
 That pride and love will join to make her 
 thine. 
 
 Roderick. To win Chimtoe and serve 
 my glorious king, 
 
 My arm is iron and my heart is flame. 
 
 Though absence from her eyes I must en- 
 dure, 
 
 I thank you, sire, for hope's imfailing bliss. 
 King. Thy valor and my word assure 
 thy hopes; 
 
 Her heart already is confessed thine own. 
 
 The filial honor that resists thee now, 
 
 To time, thy king, and thy high deeds will 
 bow. 
 
TARTUFFE 
 By MOLIERE 
 
 Translated into English blank verse by CURTIS HIDDEN PAGE 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY G. r. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Madame Peenelle, mother of Organ 
 
 Okgon, husband of Elmire 
 
 Elmire, wife of Orgon 
 
 Dauis, son of Orgon 
 
 Maeianb, daughter of Orgon, in love with VaUre 
 
 VAiiiBE, in love with Mariane 
 
 Ciif ante, brother-in-law of Orgon 
 
 Taetuffb, a hypocrite 
 
 DoBiNB, Mariane's maid 
 
 M. Loyal, a bailiff 
 
 Flipotte, Madame Pemelle's servant 
 
 A Police Officer 
 
 The Scene is at Paris 
 
TARTUFFE 
 
 ACT I 
 
 [Enter Madame Pernblle and Flipotte, 
 her servant; Elmire, Marianb, CuS- 
 
 ANTE, DaMIS, DoRINB.] 
 
 Madame Pbrnblle. Come, come, Fli- 
 potte, and let me get away. 
 Elmire. You hurry so, I hardly can 
 
 attend you. 
 Madame Pernelle. Then don't, my 
 daughter-in-law. Stay where you 
 are. 
 I can dispense with your polite attentions. 
 Elmire. We're only paying what is due 
 you, mother. 
 Why must you go away in such a hurry? 
 Madame Pernelle. Because I can't 
 endure your carryings-on. 
 And no one takes the sKghtest pains to 
 
 please me. 
 I leave your house, I tell you, quite dis- 
 gusted; 
 You do the opposite of my instructions; 
 You've no respect for anjrthing; each one 
 Must have his say; it's perfect pandemo- 
 nium. 
 
 DOKINB. If . . . 
 
 Madame Pernelle. You're a servant 
 wench, my girl, and much 
 Too full of gab, and too impertinent 
 And free with yoiu: advice on all occasions. 
 Damis. But . . . 
 
 Madame Pernelle. You're a fool, my 
 boy — f, o, o, 1 
 Just spells your name. Let grandma, tell 
 
 you that. 
 I've said a hundred times to my poor son. 
 Your father, that you 'd never come to good 
 Or give him anything but plague and tor- 
 ment. 
 Mariane. I think . . . 
 Madame Pernelle. O dearie me, his 
 little sister! 
 You're all demureness, butter wouldn't 
 melt 
 
 In your mouth, one would think to look at 
 you. 
 
 Still waters, though, they say . . . you 
 know the proverb; 
 
 And I don't like your doings on the sly. 
 Elmire. But, mother . . . 
 Madame Pernelle. Daughter, by your 
 leave, your conduct 
 
 In everything is altogether wrong; 
 
 You ought to set a good example for 'em; 
 
 Their dear departed mother did much bet- 
 ter. 
 
 You are extravagant; and it offends me, 
 
 To see you always decked out like a prin- 
 cess. 
 
 A woman who would please her husband's 
 eyes 
 
 Alone, wants no such wealth of fineries. 
 CuSante. But, madam, after all . . . 
 Madame Pernelle . Sir, as for you. 
 
 The lady's brother, I esteem you highly, 
 
 Love, and respect you. But, sir, all the 
 same. 
 
 If I were in my son's, her husband's, place, 
 
 I'd urgently entreat you not to come 
 
 Within our doors. You preach a way of 
 living 
 
 That decent people cannot tolerate. 
 
 I'm rather frank with you; but that's my 
 way — 
 
 I don't mince matters, when I mean a 
 thing. 
 Damis. Mr. TartuSe, your friend, is 
 
 mighty lucky . . . 
 Madame Pernelle. He is a holy man, 
 and must be heeded; 
 
 I can't endure, with any show of patience. 
 
 To hear a scatterbrains like you attack him. 
 Damis. What! Shall I let a bigot critic- 
 aster 
 
 Come and usurp a tyrant's power here? 
 
 And shall we never dare amuse ourselves 
 
 Till this fine gentleman deigns to consent? 
 Dorinb. If we must hark to him, and 
 heed his maxims, 
 
270 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 There's not a thing we do but what's a 
 crime; 
 
 He censures everything, this zealous carper. 
 Madame Pernellb. And all he censures 
 is well censured, too. 
 
 He wants to guide you on the way to 
 heaven; 
 
 My son should train you all to love him 
 well. 
 Damis. No, madam, look you, nothing 
 — not my father 
 
 Nor anything — can make me tolerate him. 
 
 I should belie my feelings not to say so. 
 
 His actions rouse my wrath at every turn; 
 
 And I foresee that there must come of it 
 
 An open rupture with this sneaking scoun- 
 drel. 
 DoRiNE. Besides, 't is downright scan- 
 dalous to see 
 
 This unknown upstart master of the 
 house — 
 
 This vagabond, who had n't, when he 
 came. 
 
 Shoes to his feet, or clothing worth six far- 
 
 And who so far forgets his place, as now 
 To censure everything, and rule the roost! 
 Madame Pernbllb. Eh! Mercy sakps 
 alive! Things would go better 
 If all were governed by his pious orders. 
 DoRiNB. He passes for a saint in your 
 opinion. 
 In fact, he's nothing but a hypocrite. 
 Madame Pernbllb. Just listen to her 
 
 tongue! 
 DoRiNB. I would n't trust him. 
 Nor yet his Lawrence, without bonds and 
 surety. 
 Madame Pernelle. I don't know what 
 the servant's character 
 May be; but I can guarantee the master 
 A holy man. You hate him and reject him 
 Because he tells home truths to all of you. 
 'T is sin alone that moves his heart to 
 
 anger, 
 And Heaven's interest is his only motive. 
 DoRiNE. Of course. But why, especially 
 of late. 
 Can he let nobody come near the house? 
 Is Heaven offended at a civil call 
 That he should make so great a fuss 
 about it? 
 
 I'll tell you, if you like, just what I think; 
 
 [Pointing to Elmihb.] Upon my word, 
 he's jealous of our mistress. 
 Madame Pernelle. You hold your 
 tongue, and think what you are 
 saying. 
 
 He's not alone in censiudng these visits; 
 
 The turmoil that attends yoiu" sort of 
 people. 
 
 Their carriages forever at the door, 
 
 And all their noisy footmen, flocked to- 
 gether. 
 
 Annoy the neighborhood, and raise a scan- 
 dal. 
 
 I'd gladly think there's nothing really 
 wrong; 
 
 But it makes talk; and that's not as it 
 should be. 
 Cl^ante. Eh! madam, can you hope to 
 keep folk's tongues 
 
 From wagging? It would be a grievous 
 thing 
 
 If, for the fear of idle talk about us, 
 
 We had to sacrifice our friends. No, no; 
 
 Even if we could bring ourselves to do it, 
 
 Think you that every one would then be 
 silenced? 
 
 Against backbiting there is no defense. 
 
 So let us try to live in innocence, 
 
 To silly tattle pay no heed at all, 
 
 And leave the gossips free to vent their gall. 
 Dorinb. Our neighbor Daphne, and her 
 little husband, 
 
 Must be the ones who slander us, I 'm think- 
 ing. 
 
 Those whose own conduct's most ridicu- 
 lous. 
 
 Are always quickest to speak ill of others; 
 
 They never fail to seize at once upon 
 
 The slightest hint of any love affair, 
 
 And spread the news of it with glee, and 
 give it 
 
 The character they'd have the world be- 
 lieve in. 
 
 By others' actions, painted in their colors, 
 
 They hope to justify their own; they think, 
 
 In the false hope of some resemblance, 
 either 
 
 To make their own intrigues seem innocent. 
 
 Or else to make their neighbors share the 
 blame 
 
 Which they are loaded with by everybody. 
 
TARTUFFE 
 
 271 
 
 Madame Pebnelle. These argumente 
 are nothing to the purpose. 
 Orante, we all know, Uves a perfect life; 
 Her thoughts are all of heaven; and I have 
 
 heard 
 That she condemns the company you keep. 
 DoRiNB. O admirable pattern! Virtu- 
 ous dame! 
 She lives the model of austerity; 
 But age has brought this piety upon her, 
 And she's a prude, now she can't help her- 
 self. 
 As long as she could capture men's atten- 
 tions 
 She made the most of her advantages; 
 But, now she sees her beauty vanishing. 
 She wants to leave the world, that's leaving 
 
 her. 
 And in the specious veil of haughty virtue 
 She'd hide the weakness of her worn-out 
 
 charms. 
 That is the way with all your old coquettes. 
 They find it hard to see their lovers leave 
 
 'em; 
 And thus abandoned, their forlorn estate 
 Can find no occupation but a prude's. 
 These pious dames, in their austerity. 
 Must carp at everything, and pardon noth- 
 ing. 
 They loudly blame their neighbors' way of 
 
 living. 
 Not fotreJieon's sake Jbjit out of envy, . 
 Because they can't endure to see another 
 Enjoy the pleasures age has weaned them 
 from. 
 Madame Pernblle PoElmibb]. There! 
 That's the kind of rigmarole to 
 please you, 
 Daughter-in-law. One never has a chance 
 To get a word in edgewise, at your house. 
 Because this lady holds the floor all day; 
 But none the less, I mean to have my say, 
 
 too. 
 I tell you that my son did nothing noser 
 In all his life, than take this godly man 
 Into his household; Heaven sent him here. 
 In your great need, to make you all re- 
 pent; 
 For your salvation, you must hearken to 
 
 him; 
 He censures nothing but deserves his cen- 
 sure. 
 
 These visits, these assemblies, and these 
 
 balls, 
 Are all inventions of the evil spirit. 
 You never hear a word of godliness 
 At them — but idle cackle, nonsense, flim- 
 flam. 
 Oin: neighbor often comes in for a share. 
 The talk flies fast, and scandal fills the air; 
 It makes a sober person's head go round, 
 At these assemblies, just to hear the sound 
 Of so much gab, with not a word to say; 
 And as a learned man remarked one day 
 Most aptly, 't is the Tower of Babylon, 
 Where all, beyond all limit, babble on. 
 And just to tell you how this point came 
 
 in . . . 
 [To Cl^ante]. So! Now the gentleman 
 
 must snicker, must he? 
 Go find fools like yourself to make you 
 
 laugh 
 And don't . . . 
 [roELMiRE.] Daughter, good-bye; not one 
 
 word more. 
 As for this house, I leave the half unsaid; 
 But I shan't soon set foot in it again. 
 [Cuffing Flipottb.] Come, you! What 
 
 makes you dream and stand agape. 
 Hussy! I'll warm your ears in proper 
 
 shape! 
 March, trollop, march! 
 
 [Exeunt all but Cl£ante, Domne.] 
 Cl^ante. I won't escort her down. 
 For fear she might fall foul of me again; 
 The good old lady . . . 
 
 DoRiNB. Bless us! What a pity 
 She should n't hear the way you speak of 
 
 her! 
 She'd surely tell you you're too "good" 
 
 by half, 
 And that she's not so "old" as all that, 
 
 neither! 
 Cij6ante. How she got angry with us, 
 
 all for nothing! 
 And how she seems possessed with her 
 
 Tartuffe! 
 DoEiNB. Her case is nothing, though, 
 
 beside her son's! 
 To see him, you would say he's ten times 
 
 worse! 
 His conduct in our late unpleasantness 
 Had won him much esteem, and proved his 
 
 courage 
 
272 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 In service of his king; but now he's lilse 
 A man besotted, since he's been so taken 
 With this Tartuffe. He calls him brother, 
 
 loves him 
 A hundred times as much as mother, son, 
 Daughter, and wife. He tells him all his 
 
 secrets 
 And lets him guide his acts, and rule his 
 
 conscience. 
 He fondles and embraces him; a sweet- 
 heart 
 Could not, I think, be loved more tenderly; 
 At table he must have the seat of honor, 
 While with delight our master sees him eat 
 As much as six men could; we must give 
 
 up 
 The choicest tidbits to him; if he belches, 
 Master exclaims: "God bless you!" — 
 
 Oh, he dotes 
 Upon him; he's his universe, his hero; 
 He's lost in constant admiration, quotes 
 
 him 
 On all occasions, takes his trifling acts 
 For wonders, and his words for oracles. 
 The fellow knows his dupe, and makes the 
 
 most on't. 
 He fools him with a hundred masks of 
 
 virtue, 
 Gets money from him all the time by 
 
 canting, 
 And takes upon himself to carp at us. 
 Even his silly coxcomb of a lackey 
 Makes it his business to instruct us too; 
 He comes with rolling eyes to preach at 
 
 us. 
 And throws away our ribbons, rouge, and 
 
 patches. 
 The wretch, the other day, tore up a ker- 
 chief 
 That he had found, pressed in the Golden 
 
 Legend, 
 Calling it horrid crime for us to mingle 
 The devil's finery with holy things. 
 
 [Enter Elmire, Mabiane, Damis.] 
 
 Elmibb [to Ctf ante]. 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. 
 So I'll go up and wait till he comes in. 
 Cl^ante. And I, to save time, will 
 await him here; 
 
 I'll merely say good-morning, and be gone. 
 [Exeunt Elmire and Marianb.] 
 Damis. I wish you'd say a word to him 
 about 
 My sister's marriage; I suspect Tartuffe 
 Opposes it, and puts my father up 
 To all these wretched shifts. You know, 
 
 besides. 
 How nearly I'm concerned in it myself; 
 If love unites my sister and Valfere, 
 I love his sister too; and if this marriage 
 Were to . . . 
 DoBiNE. He's coining. 
 
 [Exit Damis.] 
 
 [Enter Orgon.] 
 
 Obgon. Ah! Good-morning, brother. 
 Cl:6ante. I was just going, iDut am glad 
 to greet you. 
 Things are not far advanced yet, in the 
 country? 
 Obgon. Dorine . . . 
 [To CufiANTE.] Just wait a bit, please, 
 
 brother-in-law. 
 Let me allay my first anxiety 
 By asking news about the family. 
 [To DoBiNE.] Has everything gone well 
 
 these last two days? 
 What's happening? And how is every- 
 body? 
 DoHiNB. Madam had fever, and a split- 
 ting headache 
 Day before yesterday, all day and evening. 
 Obgon. And how about Tartuffe? 
 DoBiNB. Tartuffe? He's well; 
 He's mighty well; stout, fat, fair, rosy- 
 lipped. 
 Obgon. Poor man! 
 DoRiNE. At evem'ng she had nausea 
 And couldn't touch a single thing for 
 
 supper, 
 Her headache still was so severe. 
 
 Orgon. And how 
 About Tartuffe? 
 
 DoRiNB. He supped alone, before her, 
 And unctuously ate up two partridges, 
 As well as half a leg o' mutton, deviled. 
 Obgon. Poor man! 
 
 DoRiNB. All night she couldn't get a 
 wink 
 Of sleep, the fever racked her so; and we 
 Had to sit up with her till daylight. 
 
TARTUFFE 
 
 273 
 
 Okgon. How 
 About Tartuffe? 
 
 DoRiNE. Gently inclined to slumber. 
 He left the table, went into his room, 
 Got himself straight into a good warm bed, 
 And slept quite undisturbed until next 
 morning. 
 Obgon. Poor man! 
 
 DoMNB. At last she let us all persuade 
 her, 
 And got up courage to be bled; and then 
 She was relieved at once. 
 
 Obgon. And how about 
 Tartuffe? 
 
 DoRiNE. He plucked up courage prop- 
 erly, 
 Bravely entrenched his soul against all 
 
 evils. 
 And, to replace the blood that she had lost, 
 He drank at breakfast fom: huge draughts 
 of wine. 
 Orgdn. Poor man! 
 
 DoRiNE. So now they both are doing 
 well; 
 And I'll go straightway and inform my 
 mistress 
 -How pleased you are at her recovery. 
 
 [Exit DORINB.] 
 
 Cl^antb. Brother, she ridicules you to 
 
 your face; 
 And I, though I don't want to make you 
 
 angry. 
 Must tell you candidly that she's quite 
 
 right. 
 Was such infatuation ever heard of? 
 And can a man to-day have charms to 
 
 make -you 
 Forget all else, relieve his poverty. 
 Give him a home, and then . . . ? 
 
 Obgon. Stop there, good brother. 
 You do not know the man you're speaking 
 
 of. 
 Ci^ANTte. Since you will have it so, I 
 
 do not know him; 
 But after all, to tell what sort of man 
 He is . . . 
 Orgon. Dear brother, you'd be charmed 
 
 to know him; 
 Your raptures over him would have no 
 
 end. 
 He is a man . . . who . . . ah! ... in fact 
 
 ... a man. 
 
 Whoever does his will, knows perfect peace, 
 
 And coimts the whole world else, as so much 
 dung. 
 
 His converse has transformed me quite; he 
 weans 
 
 My heart from every friendship, teaches , 
 me 
 
 To have no love for anything on earth; 
 
 And I could see my brother, children, 
 mother, 
 
 And wife, all die, and never care — a snap. 
 Cij6ante. Your feelings are humane, 
 
 I must say, brother! 
 Orgon. Ah! If you'd seen him, as I saw 
 him first, 
 
 You would have loved him just as much 
 as I. 
 
 He came to church eafch day, with con- 
 trite mien. 
 
 Kneeled, on both knees, right opposite my 
 place. 
 
 And drew the eyes of all the congregation. 
 
 To watch the fervor of his prayers to 
 heaven; 
 
 With deep-drawn sighs and great ejacula- 
 tions, 
 
 He humbly kissed the earth at every mo- 
 ment; 
 
 And when I left the church, he ran before 
 me 
 
 To give me holy water at the door. 
 
 I learned his poverty, and who he was, 
 
 By questioning his servant, who is like him, 
 
 And gave him gifts; but in his modesty 
 
 He always wanted to return a part. 
 
 "It is too much," he'd say, "too much by 
 half; 
 
 I am not worthy of your pity." Then, 
 
 When I refused to take it back, he'd go, 
 
 Before my eyes, and give it to the poor. 
 
 At length Heaven bade me take him to my 
 home, 
 
 And since that day, all seems to prosper 
 here. 
 
 He censures everjrthing, and for my sake 
 
 He even takes great interest in my wife; 
 
 He lets me know who ogles her, and seems 
 
 Six times as jealous as I am myself. 
 
 You'd not believe how far his zeal can go; 
 
 He calls himself a sinner just for trifles; 
 
 The merest nothing is enough to shock him; 
 
 So much so, that the other day I heard him 
 
274 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Accuse himself for having, while at prayer, 
 
 In too much anger caught and killed a flea. 
 
 Cl^ante. Zounds, brother, you are 
 
 mad, I think! Or else 
 You're making sport of me, with such a 
 
 speech. 
 What are you driving at with all this non- 
 sense . . . ? 
 Orgon. Brother, your language smacks 
 
 of atheism; 
 And I suspect your soul 's a little tainted 
 Therewith. I've preached to you a score 
 
 of times 
 That you'll draw down some judgment on 
 
 your head. 
 Cl^ante. That is the usual strain of all 
 
 your kind; 
 They must have 'every one as blind as 
 
 they. 
 They call you atheist if you have good 
 
 eyes; 
 And if you don't adore their vain grimaces, 
 You've neither faith nor care for sacred 
 
 things. 
 No, no; such talk can't frighten me; 
 
 I know 
 What I am saying; Heaven sees my heart. 
 We're not the dupes of all your canting 
 
 mummers; 
 There are false heroes — and false de- 
 votees; 
 And as true heroes never are the ones 
 Who make much noise about their deeds of 
 
 honor, 
 Just so true devotees, whom we should 
 
 follow, 
 Are not the ones who make so much vain 
 
 show. 
 What! Will you find no difference between 
 Hypocrisy and genuine devoutness? 
 And will you treat them both alike, and 
 
 pay 
 The selfsame honor both to masks and 
 
 faces. 
 Set artifice beside sincerity, 
 Confuse the semblance with reality, 
 Esteem a phantom like a living person, 
 And counterfeit as good as honest coin? 
 Men, for the most part, are strange crea- 
 tures, truly! 
 You never find them keep the golden 
 
 mean; 
 
 The limits of good sense, too narrow for 
 them. 
 
 Must always be passed by, in each direc- 
 tion; 
 
 They often spoil the noblest things, be- 
 cause 
 
 They go too far, and push them to ex- 
 tremes. ''" 
 
 I merely say this by the way, good brother. 
 Obgon. You are the sole expounder of 
 the doctrine; 
 
 Wisdom shall die with you, no doubt, good 
 brother, . 
 
 You are the only wise, the sole enlight- 
 ened. 
 
 The oracle, the Cato, of our age. 
 
 All men, compared to you, are downright 
 fools. 
 CnfiANTE. I'm not the sole expounder 
 of the doctrine, 
 
 And wisdom shall not die with me, good 
 brother. 
 
 But this I know, though it be all my 
 knowledge, 
 
 That there's a difference 'twixt false and 
 true. 
 
 And as I find no kind of hero more 
 
 To be admired than men of true religion. 
 
 Nothing more noble or more beautiful 
 
 Than is the holy zeal of true devoutness; 
 
 Just so I think there's naught more odious 
 
 Than whited sepulchers of outward unc- 
 tion, 
 
 Those barefaced charlatans, those hireling 
 zealots, 
 
 Whose sacrilegious, treacherous pretense 
 
 Deceives at will, and with impunity 
 
 Makes mockery of all that men hold 
 sacred; 
 
 Men who, enslaved to selfish interests, 
 
 Make trade and merchandise of godliness. 
 
 And try to purchase influence and office 
 
 With false eye-rollings and affected rap- 
 tures; 
 
 Those men, I say, who with uncommon 
 zeal 
 
 Seek their own fortunes on the road to 
 heaven; 
 
 Who, skilled in prayer, have always much 
 to ask. 
 
 And live at court to preach retirement; 
 
 Who reconcile religion with their vices, 
 
TARTUFFE 
 
 275 
 
 Are quick to anger, vengeful, faithless, 
 
 tricky, 
 And, to destroy a man, will have the bold- 
 ness 
 To call their private grudge the cause of 
 
 Heaven; 
 All the more dangerous, since in their anger 
 They use against us weapons men revere. 
 And since they make the world applaud 
 
 their passion, 
 And seek to stab us with a sacred sword. 
 There are too many of this canting kind. 
 Still, the sincere are easy to distinguish; 
 And many splendid patterns may be found, 
 In our own time, before our very eyes. 
 Look at Ariston, P6riandre, Oronte, 
 Alcidamas, Clitandre, and Polydore; 
 No one denies their claim to true religion; 
 Yet they're no braggadocios of virtue, 
 They do not make insufierable display, 
 And their religion's human, tractable; 
 They are not always judging all our ac- 
 tions, ■ 
 They'd think such judgment savored of 
 
 presumption; 
 And, leaving pride of words to other men, 
 'T is by their deeds alone they censure ours. 
 Evil appearances find little credit 
 With them; they even incline to think the 
 
 best 
 Of others. No cabalers, no intriguers. 
 They mind the business of their own right 
 
 living. 
 They don't attack a sinner tooth and nail. 
 For sin's the only object of their hatred; 
 Nor are they overzealous to attempt 
 Far more in Heaven's behalf than Heaven 
 
 would have 'em. 
 That is my kind of man, that is true living. 
 That is the pattern we should set ourselves. 
 Your fellow was not fashioned on this 
 
 model; 
 You're quite sincere in boasting of his 
 
 zeal; 
 But you're deceived, I think, by false pre- 
 tenses. 
 Okgon. My dear good brother-in-law, 
 
 have you quite done? 
 Cl^ante. Yes. 
 Orgon. I'm your humble servant. 
 
 [Starts to go.] 
 Cl^antf.. Just a word. 
 
 We'll drop that other subject. But you 
 
 know 
 Valfire has had the promise of your 
 daughter. 
 Okgon. Yes. 
 CiifiANTE. You had named the happy 
 
 day. 
 Obgon. 'T is true. 
 
 CufiANTE. Then why put off the cele- 
 bration of it? 
 Orgon. I can't say. 
 Ci^ANTB. Can you have some other 
 plan 
 In mind? 
 Orgon. Perhaps. 
 CiJantb. You mean to break your 
 
 word? 
 Okgon. I don't say that. 
 Cl^ante. I hope no obstacle 
 Can keep you from performing what you 've 
 promised. 
 Orgon. Well, that depends. 
 CrfANTE. Why must you beat about? 
 Valfere has sent me here to settle matters. 
 Orgon. Heaven be praised! 
 Ci.fiANTE. What answer shall I take 
 
 him? 
 Orgon. Why, anything you please. 
 Cl^ante. But we must know 
 Your plans. What are they? 
 Orgon. I shall do the will 
 Of Heaven. 
 
 Cl:6ante. Come, be serious. You've 
 given. 
 Your promise to Valere. Now will you keep 
 it? 
 Orgon. Good-bye. [Exit.] 
 
 CiiiSANTB [alone]. His love, methinks, has 
 much to fear; 
 I must go let him know what's happening 
 here. [Exit.] 
 
 ACT II 
 
 [Enter Orgon and Mabiane.1 
 
 Orgon. Now, Mariane. 
 Mariane. Yes, father? 
 ORGQN.v"XJome: I'll tell you 
 A secret. 
 Mariane. Yes . . . What are you look- 
 ing for? 
 
276 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Orgon [looking into a small closet-room]. 
 To see there's no one there to spy 
 upon us; 
 That little closet 's mighty fit to hide in. 
 There! We're all right now. Mariane, in 
 
 you 
 I've always found a daughter dutiful 
 And gentle. So I've always loved you 
 dearly. 
 Makianb. I 'm grateful for your fatherly 
 
 affection. 
 Orgon. Well spoken, daughter. Now, 
 prove you deserve it 
 By doing as I wish in all respects. 
 Mariane. To do so is the height of my 
 
 ambition. 
 Obgon. Excellent well. What say you 
 
 of — Tartuffe? 
 Mabiane. Who? I? 
 Orgon. Yes, you. Look to it how you 
 
 answer. 
 Mariane. Why! I'U say of him — any- 
 thing you please. 
 
 [DoBiNB enters quietly, and stands behind 
 Orgon, so that he does not see her.] 
 
 Orgon. Well spoken. A good girl. Say 
 then, my daughter. 
 That all his person shines with noble merit. 
 That he has won your heart, and you 
 
 would Uke 
 To have him, by my choice, become your 
 
 husband. 
 Eh? 
 Mariane. Eh? 
 Orgon. What say you? 
 Mariane. Please, what did you say? 
 Orgon. What? 
 
 Mariane. Surely I mistook you, sir? 
 Orgon. How now? 
 
 Mariane. Who is it, father, you would 
 have me say 
 Has won my heart, and I would like to 
 
 have 
 Become my husband, by your choice? 
 Orgon. Tartuffe. 
 
 Mariane. But, father, I protest it is n't 
 true! 
 Why should you make me tell this dread- 
 ful lie? 
 Orgon. Because I mean to have it be the 
 truth. 
 
 Let this suffice for you: I've settled it. 
 Mariane. What, father, you would . . . 
 Orgon. Yes, child, I'm resolved 
 To graft Tartuffe into my family. 
 So he must be your husband. That I've 
 
 settled. 
 And since your duty . . . 
 [Seeing Dorinb.] What are you doing 
 
 there? 
 Your curiosity is keen, my girl. 
 To make you come eavesdropping on us 
 so. 
 DoRiNE. Upon my word, I don't know 
 how the rumor 
 Got started — if 'twas guesswork or mere 
 
 chance — 
 But I had heard already of this match, 
 And treated it as utter stuff and nonsense. 
 Orgon. What! Is the thing incredible? 
 DoRiNB. So much so 
 I don't believe it even from yourself, sir. 
 Orgon. I know a way to make you 
 
 credit it. 
 DoRiNB. No, no, you're telling us a 
 
 fairy tale! 
 Orgon. I'm telling you just what will 
 
 happen shortly. 
 Dorinb. Stuff! 
 Orgon. Daughter, what I say is in good 
 
 earnest. 
 Dorinb. There, there, don't take your 
 father seriously; 
 He's fooUng. 
 Orgon. But I tell you . . . 
 DoRiNE. No. No use. 
 They won't believe you. 
 Orgon. If I let my anger . . . 
 DoRiNE. Well, then, we do believe you; 
 and the worse 
 For you it is. What! Can a grown-up man 
 With that expanse of beard across his face 
 Be mad enough to want . . . ? 
 
 Orgon. You hark to me: 
 You've taken on yourself here in this 
 
 house 
 A sort of free familiarity 
 That I don't like, I tell you frankly, girl. 
 Dorinb. There, there, let's not get 
 angry, sir, I beg you. 
 But are you making game of everybody? 
 Your daughter's not cut out for bigot's 
 meat; 
 
TARTUFFE 
 
 277 
 
 And he has more important things to 
 
 think of. 
 Besides, what can you gain by such a 
 
 match? 
 How can a man of wealth, like you, go 
 
 choose 
 A wretched vagabond for son-in-law? 
 Orgon. You hold your tongue. And 
 
 know, the less he has. 
 The better cause have we to honor him. 
 BKs poverty is honest poverty; 
 It should exalt him more than worldly 
 
 grandeur, 
 For he has let himself be robbed of all. 
 Through careless disregard of temporal 
 
 things 
 And fixed attachment to the things eternal. 
 My help may set him on his feet again. 
 Win back his property — a fair estate 
 He has at home, so I'm informed — and 
 
 prove him 
 For what he is, a true-born gentleman. 
 DoRiNE. Yes, so he says himself. Such 
 
 vanity 
 But ill accords with pious living, sir. 
 The man who cares for holiness alone 
 Should not so loudly boast his name and 
 
 birth; 
 The humble ways of genuine devoutness 
 Brook not so much display of earthly 
 
 pride. 
 Why should he be so vain? . . . But I 
 
 offend you: 
 Let's leave his rank, then, — take the man 
 
 himself: 
 Can you without compunction give a man 
 Like him possession of a girl like her! 
 Think what a scandal 's sure to come of 
 
 it! 
 Virtue is at the mercy of the fates. 
 When a girl's married to a man she hates; 
 The best intent to live an honest wo- 
 man 
 Depends upon the husband's being hu- 
 man, 
 And men whose brows are pointed at afar 
 May thank themselves their wives are 
 
 what they are. 
 For to be true is more than woman can. 
 With husbands built upon a certain plan; 
 And he who weds his child against her 
 
 wiU 
 
 Owes Heaven account for it, if she do ill. 
 Think then what perils wait on your de- 
 sign. 
 Oegon [to Mariane]. So! I must learn 
 
 what's what from her, you see! 
 DoRiNB. You might do worse than fol- 
 low my advice. 
 Orgon. Daughter, we can't waste time 
 upon this nonsense; 
 I know what's good for you, and I'm your 
 
 father. 
 True, I had promised you to young Valfere; 
 But, first, they tell me he's inclined to 
 
 gamble, 
 Andthen, Ifeai his faith is not quite sound. 
 I have n't noticed that he's regular 
 At church. 
 
 DoHiNE. You'dhavehimrun there just 
 when you do. 
 Like those who go on purpose to be seen? 
 Orgon. I don't ask your opinion on the 
 matter. 
 In short, the other is in Heaven's best 
 
 graces, 
 And that is riches quite beyond compare. 
 This match will bring you every joy you 
 
 long for; 
 'T will be all steeped in sweetness and de- 
 
 hght. 
 You'll live together, in your faithful loves. 
 Like two sweet children, hke two turtle- 
 doves; 
 You'll never fall to quarrffl, scold, or 
 
 tease. 
 And you may do with him whate'er you 
 please. 
 DoRiNE. With him? Do naught but 
 
 give him horns, I'll warrant. 
 Orgon. Out on the wench! 
 DoRiNE. I tell you he's cut out for 't; 
 However great your daughter's virtue, sir, 
 His destiny is sure to prove the stronger. 
 Orgon. Have done with interrupting. 
 Hold your tongue. 
 Don't poke your nose in other people's 
 business. 
 Dorinb. [She keeps interrupting him, 
 just as he turns and starts to speak to 
 his daughter.] If I make bold, sir, 
 't is for your own good. 
 Orgon. You're too officious; pray you, 
 hold your tongue. 
 
278 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 DoBiNB. 'T is love of you . . . 
 Orgon. I want none of your love. 
 DoRiNE. Then I will love you in your 
 
 own despite. 
 Oegon. You will, eh? 
 DoRiNE. Yes, your honor 's dear to me; 
 I can't endure to see you made the butt 
 Of all men's ridicule. 
 Okgon. Won't you be still? 
 DoKiNE. 'T would be a sin to let you 
 
 make this match. 
 Okqon. Won't you be still, I say, you 
 
 impudent viper! 
 DoBiNB. What! you are pious, and you 
 
 lose your temper? 
 OnGON. I'm all wrought up, with your 
 confounded nonsense; 
 Now, once for all, I tell you hold your 
 tongue. 
 DoRiNE. Then mum's the word; I'll 
 
 take it out in thinking. . 
 Orgon. Think aU you please; but not a 
 syllable 
 To me about it, or . . . you understand! 
 [Turning to his daughter.] As a wise father, 
 
 I've considered all 
 With due deliberation. 
 DoRiNE. I'll go mad 
 If I can't speak. 
 
 [She stops the instant he turns his 
 head.] 
 Orgon. Though he's no lady's man, 
 Tartuffe is well enough . . . 
 DoRiNE. A pretty phiz! 
 Orgon. So that, although you may not 
 care at all 
 For his best qualities . . . 
 
 DoRiNB. A handsome dowry! 
 
 [Obgon turns and stands in front 
 
 of her, with arms folded, eyeing 
 
 tier.] 
 
 Were I in her place, any man should rue it 
 
 Who married me by force, that 's mighty 
 
 certain; 
 I'd let him know, and that within a week, 
 A woman's vengeance is n't far to seek. 
 Orgon [to Dorine] . So — nothing that 
 
 I say has any weight? 
 DoKiNB. Eh? What's wrong now? I 
 
 did n't speak to you. 
 Orgon. What were you doing? 
 DoBiNE. Talking to myself. 
 
 Orgon. Oh! Very well. [Aside.] Her 
 monstrous impudence 
 Must be chastised with one good slap in the 
 face. 
 
 [He stands ready to strike her, and, 
 
 each time he speaks to his 
 
 daughter, he glances toward her; 
 
 but she stands still and says not 
 
 award.] 
 
 Orgon. Daughter, you must approve of 
 
 my design. . . . 
 
 Think of this husband ... I have chosen 
 
 foryou ... 
 [To DoBiNE.] Why don't you talk to 
 yourself? 
 DoEiNE. Nothing to say. 
 Obgon. One little word more. 
 DoBiNE. Oh, no, thanks. Not now. 
 Orgon. Sure, I'd have caught you. 
 DoEiNE. Faith, I'm no such fool. 
 Orgon. So, daughter, now obedience is 
 the word; 
 You must accept my choice with reverence. 
 Dorine [running away]. You'd never 
 catch me marrsring such a creature. 
 Obgon [swinging his hand at her and 
 missing her]. Daughter, you've such 
 a pestilent hussy there 
 I can't live with her longer without sin. 
 I can't discuss things in the state I'm in. 
 My mind's so flustered by her insolent 
 
 talk. 
 To calm myself, I must go take a walk. 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 DoBiNE. Say, have you lost the tongue 
 
 from out your head? 
 
 And must I speak your r61e from A to Zed? 
 
 You let them broach a project that's 
 
 absurd. 
 And don't oppose it with a single word! 
 Mariane. What can I do? My father is 
 
 the master. 
 Dorine. Do? Everything, to ward off 
 
 such disaster. 
 Marians. But what? 
 Dorine. Tell him one does n't love by 
 proxy; 
 Tell him you '11 marry for yourself, not him; 
 Since you 're the one for whom the thing ia 
 
 done, 
 You are the one, not he, the man must 
 please; 
 
TARTUFFE 
 
 279 
 
 If bis TartuSe has charmed him so, why 
 
 let him 
 Just marry him himself — no one will hinder. 
 Makiane. a father's rights are such, 
 it seems to me, 
 That I could never dare to say a word. 
 DoBiNB. Come, talk it out. Valfere has 
 asked your hand: 
 Now do you love him, pray, or do you not? 
 Maeiane. Dorine! How can you wrong 
 my love so much, 
 And ask me such a question? Have I not 
 A hundred times laid bare my heart to you? 
 Do you not know how ardently I love him? 
 DoRiNB. How do I know if heart and 
 words agree. 
 And if in honest truth you really love him? 
 Makiane . Dorine, you wrong me greatly 
 if you doubt it; 
 I've shown my inmost feelings, all too 
 plainly. 
 DoBiNE. So then, you love him? 
 Marians. Yes, devotedly. 
 Dorine. And he returns your love, ap- 
 parently? 
 Marianb. I think so. 
 Dorine. And you both aUke are eager 
 To be well married to each other? 
 Mabiane. Surely. 
 DoRiNB. Then what's your plan about 
 
 this other match? 
 Mariane. To kill myself, if it is forced 
 upon me. 
 r- Dorine. Good! That's i remedy I 
 I had n't thought of. 
 
 'Just die, and everything will be all right. 
 This medicine is marvelous, indeed! 
 It drives me mad to hear folk talk such 
 nonsense. 
 Mariane. Oh, dear, Dorine, you get in 
 such a temper! 
 You have no sympathy for people's troubles. 
 Dorine. I have no ssrmpathy when folk 
 talk nonsense. 
 And flatten out as you do, at a pinch. 
 Mariane. But what can you expect? — 
 
 if one is timid? — 
 DoKrwi. But what is love worth, if it 
 
 has no courage? 
 Marians. Am I not constant in my 
 love for him? 
 Is 't not his place to win me from my father 7 
 
 Dorine. But if your father is a crazy fool. 
 And quite bewitched with his Tartuffe? 
 
 And breaks 
 His bounden word? Is that your lover's 
 
 fault? 
 Mariane. But shall I pubUcIy refuse 
 
 and scorn 
 This match, and make it plain that I'm in 
 
 love? 
 Shall I cast off for him, whate'er he be, 
 Womanly modesty and filial duty? 
 Yoii ask me to display my love in pub- 
 lic ... ? 
 DoEiNE. No, no, I ask you nothing. 
 
 You shall be 
 Mister Tartuffe's; why, now I think of it, 
 I should be wrong to turn you from this 
 
 marriage. 
 What cause can I have to oppose your 
 
 wishes? 
 So fine a match! An excellent good match! 
 Mister Tartuffe! Oh ho! No mean 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 world joins to sing his praise 
 
 already; 
 He 's noble — in his parish; handsome too; 
 Red ears, and high complexion — oh, my 
 
 lud! 
 You'll be too happy, sure, with him for 
 
 husband. 
 Mariane. Oh, dear! . ; . 
 Dorine. What joy and pride will fill 
 
 your heart 
 To be the bride of such a handsome fellow! 
 Mariane. Oh, stop, I beg you; try to 
 
 find some way 
 To help break off the match. I quite 
 
 give in, 
 I'm ready to do anything you say. 
 Dorine. No, no, a daughter must obey 
 
 her father. 
 Though he should want to make her wed 
 
 a monkey. 
 Besides, your fate is fine. What could be 
 
 better! 
 You'U take the stage-coach to his little 
 
 village. 
 And find it full of uncles and of cousins, j 
 
28o 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Whose conversation will delight you. 
 
 Then 
 You'll be presented in their best society. 
 You'll even go to call, by way of welcome, 
 On Mrs. Bailiff, Mrs. Tax-CoUector, 
 Who'll patronize you with a folding-stool. 
 There, once a year, at carnival, you'll 
 
 have — 
 Perhaps — a ball; with orchestra — two 
 
 bag-pipes; 
 And sometimes a trained ape, and Punch 
 
 and Judy; 
 Though if your husband . . . 
 
 Mabiane. Oh, you'll kill me. Please 
 Contrive to help me out with your advice. 
 DoKiNE. I thank you kindly. 
 Mariane. Oh! Dorine, I beg you . . . 
 DoKiNE. To serve you right, this mar- 
 riage must go through. 
 Mahiane. Dear girl! 
 DORINE. No. 
 
 Mabiane. If I say I love Valere . . . 
 DoKiNE. No, no. Tartuffe 's your man, 
 
 and you shall taste him. 
 Mariane. You know I've always 
 
 trusted you; now help me . . . 
 DoKiNE. No, you shall be, my faith! 
 
 Tartuffified. 
 Mariane. Well, then, since you've no 
 pity for my fate 
 Let me take counsel only of despair; 
 It will advise and help and give me cour- 
 age; 
 There's one sure cure, I know, for all my 
 troubles. [She starts to go.] 
 
 DoRiNB. There, there! Come back. I 
 can't be angry long. 
 I must take pity on you, after all. 
 
 Mariane. Oh, don't you see, Dorine, if 
 I must bear 
 This martyrdom, I certainly shall die. 
 DoEiNE. Now don't you fret. We'll 
 surely find some way 
 To hinder this . . . But here's Valfere, your 
 lover. 
 
 [Enter ValJire.] 
 
 VAiiiRE. Madam, a piece of news — 
 quite new to me — 
 Has just come out, and very fine it is. 
 
 Mariane. What piece of news? 
 ■ Valere. Your marriage with Tartuffe. 
 
 Maeianb. 'T is true my father has this 
 plan in mind. 
 
 Val£rk. Your father, madam . . . 
 
 Mariane. Yes, he's changed his plans, 
 And did but now propose it to me. 
 
 VALiiRE. What! 
 Seriously? 
 
 Mariane. Yes, he was serious, 
 And openly insisted on the match. 
 
 VAiijRE. And what's your resolution in 
 the matter. 
 Madam? 
 
 Mariane. I don't know. 
 
 VAiiiRE. That's a pretty answer. 
 You don't know? 
 
 Mabiane. No. 
 
 VAiiiRE. No? 
 
 Mariane. What do you advise? 
 
 VaiAke. I? My advice is, marry him, by 
 
 all means. 
 Mariane. That's your advice? 
 VAiiiRE. Yes. 
 
 Mabiane. Do you mean it? 
 VaiAre. Surely. 
 A splendid choice, and worthy your ac- 
 ceptance. 
 Mabiane. Oh, very well, sir! I shall 
 
 take your counsel. 
 VAiiiRE. You'll find no trouble taking 
 
 it, I warrant. 
 Mabiane. No more than you did giving 
 
 it, be sure. 
 VAiiiBE. I gave it, truly, to oblige you, 
 
 madam. 
 Mariane. And I shall take it to oblige 
 
 you, sir. 
 DoBiNB [wilMraiDing to the hack of the 
 
 sta^e]. Let'ssee what this affair will 
 
 come to. 
 
 VALiiBE. So. 
 
 That is your love? And it was all deceit 
 When you ... 
 Mabiane. 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. 
 VaiAre. Don't shield yourself with 
 talk of my advice. 
 You had your mind made up, that's evi- 
 dent; 
 
TARTUFFE 
 
 2Sl 
 
 And now you're snatching at a trifling 
 
 pretext 
 To justify the breaking of your word. 
 Mamane. Exactly so. 
 VAiiiRE. Of course it is; your heart 
 Has never known true love for me. 
 
 Mamanb. Alas! 
 You're free to think so, if you please. 
 
 VAiiiBB. Yes, yes, 
 I'm free to think so; and my outraged 
 
 love 
 May yet forestall you in your perfidy, 
 And offer elsewhere both my heart and 
 hand. 
 Mabiane. No doubt of it; the love your 
 high deserts 
 May win . . . 
 VaiAre. Good Lord, have done with 
 my deserts! 
 I know I have but few, and you have 
 
 proved it. 
 But I may find more kindness in another; 
 I know of some one, who '11 not be ashamed 
 To take your leavings, and make up my 
 loss. 
 Mabiane. The loss is not so great; you'll 
 easily 
 Console yourself completely for this 
 change. 
 ValJire. 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 
 
 forget; 
 Or if we cannot, must at least pretend 
 
 to. 
 No other way can man such baseness 
 
 prove. 
 As be a lover scorned, and still in love. 
 Mariane. In faith, a high and noble 
 
 sentiment. 
 VAiiiRE. Yes; and it's one that all men 
 must approve. 
 What! Would you have me keep my love 
 
 alive. 
 And see you fly into another's arms 
 Before my very eyes; and never offer 
 To some one else the heart that you had 
 scorned? 
 Mariane. Oh, no, indeed! For my part, 
 I could wish 
 That it were done already. 
 
 VAiiiRE. What! You wish it? 
 Mariane. Yes. 
 
 VAiiiRE. This is insult heaped on in- 
 jury; 
 I'll go at once and do as you desire. 
 
 IHe takes a step or two as if to go 
 away.] 
 Mariane. Oh, very well then. 
 VAiiiRE Uuming back]. But remember 
 this: 
 'T was you that drove me to this desperate 
 pass. 
 Mariane. Of course. 
 VAiiiRE [turning back again]. And in the 
 plan that I have formed 
 I only follow your example. 
 Mariane. Yes. 
 VAiiiRE [at the, door]. Enough; you shall 
 
 be punctually obeyed. 
 Mariane. So much the better. 
 VAiiiRE [coming back again]. This is 
 
 once for all. 
 Mariane. So be it, then. 
 VAiiiRE [going toward the door, but just 
 ashe reaches it, turning arov,nd\. Eh? 
 Mariane. What? 
 VAiiiRB. You did n't call me? 
 Mariane. I? You are dreaming. 
 Val^re. Very well, I'm gone. 
 Madam, farewell. 
 
 [He walks slowly away.] 
 Mariane. Farewell, sir. 
 DoRiNE. I must say 
 You ' ve lost your senses and both gone clean 
 
 daft! 
 I've let you fight it out to the end o' the 
 
 chapter 
 To see how far the thing could go. Oho, 
 
 there, 
 Mister Valere! 
 
 [She goes and seizes him by the 
 arm, to stop him. He makes a 
 great show 0/ resistance^ 
 ValJire. What do you want, Dorine? 
 DoRiNE. Come here. 
 Valere. No, no, I'm quite beside my- 
 self. 
 Don't hinder me from doing as she wishes. 
 Dorine. Stop! 
 
 VAiiiRE. No. You see, I'm fixed, re- 
 solved, determined. 
 DoBiNE. So! 
 
282 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Mabianb [aside]. Since my presence 
 pains him, makes him go, 
 I'd better go myself, and leave him free. 
 DoRiNB [leamng ValJibe, and running 
 after Makiani!]. Now 't other! 
 Where are you going? , 
 Marians. Let me be. 
 DoKiNB. Come back. 
 Marianb. No, no, it is n't any use. 
 VAiiiBE [aside]. "T is clear the sight of 
 me is torture to her; 
 No doubt, 't were better I should free her 
 from it. 
 DoRiNB [leamng Marianb, and running 
 after VALi;RB]. Same thing again! 
 Deuce take you both, I say. 
 Now stop your fooling; come here, you; 
 and you. 
 
 [She pulls first one, then the other, 
 
 toward the middle of the stage.] 
 
 VALfeRE [to Dobine]. What's your idea? 
 
 Marianb [to Dorine]. What can you 
 
 mean to do? 
 DoBiNB. Set you to rights, and pull you 
 out o' the scrape. 
 [To VAiijRE.] Are you quite mad, to 
 quarrel with her now? 
 VaiJibe. Did n't you hear the things 
 
 she said to me? 
 DoRiNB [to Marianb]. Are you quite 
 
 mad, to get in such a passion? 
 Marianb. Did n't you see the way he 
 
 treated me? 
 Dobine. Fools, both of you. 
 [To VALiiRB.] She thinks of nothing else 
 But to keep faith with you, I vouch for it. 
 [To Marianb.] And he loves none but you, 
 
 and longs for nothing 
 But just to marry you, I stake my life 
 on't. 
 Marianb [to Valbrb]. Why did you 
 
 give me such advice then, pray? 
 VAiijRE [to Mariane]. Why ask for my 
 
 advice on such a matter? 
 Dorine. You both are daft, I tell you. 
 Here, your hands. 
 [To VALijEB.] Come, yours. 
 VALiiRB [giving Dorine his hand]. What 
 
 for? 
 Dobine [to Marianb], Now, yours. 
 Marianb [giving BoRm-E her hand]. But 
 what's the use? 
 
 DoRiNB. Oh, quick now, come along. 
 There, both of you — 
 You love each other better than you think. 
 [VALiiRB and Marianb hold each 
 other's hands some time withoui 
 looking at each other.] 
 VAiiiBE [at last turning toward Marianb]. 
 Come, don't be so ungracious now 
 about it; 
 Look at a man as if you did n't hate him. 
 [Mabianb looks sideways toward 
 VAiiiRB, uiith just a bit of a smile.] 
 Dorine. My faith and troth, what fools 
 
 these lovers be! 
 VaiJirb [to Mabiane]. But come now, 
 have I not a just complaint? 
 And truly, are you not a wicked creature 
 To take delight in saying what would pain 
 me? 
 Mabianb. And are you not yourself the 
 
 most ungrateful . . . ? 
 Dorine. Leave this discussion till an- 
 other time; 
 Now, think how you'll stave off this 
 plaguey marriage. 
 Mabianb. Then tell us how to go about 
 
 it. 
 Dobine. Well, 
 We'll try all sorts of ways. 
 [To Marianb.] Your father 's daft; 
 [To VAiiiiBB.] This plan is nonsense. 
 [To Marianb.] You had better humor 
 His notions by a s eigblance of consent. 
 So that in case of dangerTyou can still 
 Find means to block the marriage by delay. 
 If you gain time, the rest is easy, trust me. 
 One day you'll fool them with a sudden 
 
 illness. 
 Causing delay; another day, ill omens: 
 You've met a funeral, or broke a mirror, 
 Or dreamed of muddy water. Best of all. 
 They cannot marry you to any one 
 Without your saying yes. But now, me- 
 
 thinks. 
 They mustn't find you chattering to- 
 gether. 
 [To VALiiRB.] You, go at once and set your 
 
 friends at work 
 To make him keep his word to you ; while we 
 Will bring the brother's influence to bear, 
 And get the stepmother on our side, too. 
 Good-bye, 
 
TARTUFFE 
 
 283 
 
 VAiiiKE [to Mariane]. Whatever efforts 
 we may make, 
 My greatest hope, be sure, must rest on 
 you. 
 Mabiane [to VAiiiRE]. I camiot an- 
 swer for my father's whims; 
 But no one save ValSre shall ever have me. 
 VAiijBE. You thrill me through with joy! 
 
 Whatever comes . . . 
 DoRiNE. Oho! These lovers! Never 
 done with prattUng! 
 Now, go. 
 
 VAiiiRE [starting to go, and coming back 
 
 again]. One last word . . . 
 DoEiNE. What a gabble and pother! 
 Be off! By this door, you. And you, by 
 t'other. 
 
 [She pushes them off, by the 
 shoulders, in opposiie direc- 
 iionsi 
 
 ACT III 
 [Enter Damis and Dorinb.] 
 
 Damis. May lightning strike me dead 
 this very instant. 
 
 May I be everywhere proclaimed a scoun- 
 drel. 
 
 If any reverence or power shall stop me,- 
 
 And if I don't do straightway something 
 desperate! 
 DoRiNE. I beg you, moderate this tow- 
 ering passion; 
 
 Your father did but merely mention it. 
 
 Not all things that are talked of turn to 
 facts; 
 
 The road is long, sometimes, from plans to 
 acts. 
 Damis. No, I must end this paltry fel- 
 low's plots. 
 
 And he shall hear from me a truth or two. 
 DoBiNE. So ho! Go slow now. Just you 
 leave the fellow — 
 
 Your father too — in your stepmother's 
 hands. 
 
 She has some influence with this Tartuffe, 
 
 He makes a point of heeding all she says, 
 
 And I suspect that he is fond of her. 
 
 Would God 't were true! — 'T would be 
 the height of humor. 
 
 Now, she has sent for him, in your behalf, 
 
 To sound liim on this marriage, to find out 
 What his ideas are, and to show him plainly 
 What troubles he may cause, if he persists 
 In giving countenance to this design. 
 His man says, he's at prayers, I mustn't 
 
 see him. 
 But likewise says, he'll presently be down. 
 So off with you, and let me wait for him. 
 Damis. I may be present at this inter- 
 view. 
 DoRiNB. No, no! They must be left 
 
 alone. 
 Damis-. I won't 
 So much as speak to him. 
 
 DoRiNE. Go on! We know you 
 And your high tantrums. Just the way to 
 
 spoil things! 
 Be off. 
 Damis. No, I must see — I'll keep my 
 
 temper. 
 DoRiNE. Out on you, what a plague! 
 He's coming. Hide! 
 
 [Damis goes and^hides in the closet J 
 at the back of the stage.] J 
 
 [Enter Tartuffe.] 
 
 Tartuffe [speaking to his valet, off the 
 stage, aa soon as he sees Dorine is 
 there]. Lawrence, put up my hair- 
 cloth shirt and scourge, 
 And pray that Heaven may shed its light 
 
 upon you. 
 If any come to see me, say I'm gone 
 To share my alms among the prisoners. 
 Dorine [a^de]. What affectation and 
 
 what showing off! 
 Tartuffe. What do you want with me? 
 Dorine. To tell you . . . 
 Tartuffe [taking a handkerchief from 
 his pocket]. Ah! 
 Before you speak, pray take this hand- 
 kerchief. 
 DoBiNE. What? 
 
 Tartuffe. Cover up that bosom, which 
 I can't 
 Endure to look on. Things hke that offend 
 Our souls, and fill our minds with sinful 
 thoughts. 
 Dorine. Are you so tender to tempta- 
 tion, then. 
 And has the flesh such power upon your 
 
284 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 1 don't know how you get in such a heat; 
 For my part, I am not so prone to lust, 
 And I could see you stripped from head to 
 
 foot. 
 And all you hide not tempt me in the least. 
 Tartufpe. Show in your speech some 
 little modesty. 
 Or I must instantly take leave of you. 
 DoRiNB. No, no, I'U leave you to your- 
 self; I've only 
 One thing to say: Madam will soon be 
 
 down, 
 And begs the favor of a word with you. 
 Tartupfb. Ah! Willingly. 
 D0.RINB [aside]. How gentle all at once! 
 My faith, I still believe I've hit upon it. 
 TARTtTFFB. Will she come soon? 
 DoRiNE. I think I hear her now. 
 Yes, here she is herself; I'll leave you with 
 her. [Exit] 
 
 [Enter Elmire.] 
 
 Tarttjffe. May Heaven's overflowing 
 kindness ever 
 Give you good health of body and of soul. 
 And bless your days according to the wishes 
 And prayers of its most humble votary! 
 Elmire. I'm very grateful for your 
 pious wishes. 
 But let's sit down, so we may talk at ease. 
 Tartuffb [after sitting down]. And how 
 are you recovered from your ill- 
 ness? 
 Elmire [sitting down also]. Quite well; 
 
 the fever soon let go its hold. 
 Tartufpe. 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. 
 ELMraB. You're too solicitous on my 
 
 behalf. 
 Tartupfb. We could not cherish your 
 dear health too much; 
 I would have given mine, to help restore it. 
 Elmire. That's pushing Christian char- 
 ity too far; 
 I owe you many thanks for so much kind- 
 ness. 
 • Tartufpe. I do far less for you than 
 you deserve. 
 
 Elmire. There is a matter that I wished 
 to speak of 
 In private; I am glad there's no one here 
 To hsten. 
 
 Tartufpe. Madam, I am overjoyed. 
 'T is sweet to find myself alone with you. 
 This is an opportimity I've asked 
 Of Heaven, many a time; till now, in vain. 
 Elmire. All that I wish, is just a word 
 from you. 
 Quite frank and open, hiding nothing from 
 me. 
 
 [Damis, without their seeing him, 
 
 opens the closet door halfway.] 
 
 Tartufpe. I too could wish, as Heaven's 
 
 especial favor, 
 
 To lay my soul quite open to your eyes, 
 
 And swear to you, the trouble that I made 
 
 About those visits which your charms 
 
 attract. 
 Does not result from any hatred toward 
 
 you. 
 But rather from a passionate devotion, 
 And purest motives . . . 
 
 Elmire. That is how I take it, 
 
 I think 't is my salvation that concerns you. 
 
 Tartufpe [pressiiig her finger-tips]. 
 
 Madam, 't is so; and such is my 
 
 devotion . . . 
 
 Elmire. Ouch! but you squeeze too 
 
 hard. 
 Tartufpe. Excess of zeal. 
 In no way could I ever mean to hurt you. 
 And I'd as soon . . . 
 
 [He puts his hand on her knee.] 
 Elmire. What's your hand doing there? 
 Tartufpe. Feeling your gown; the stuff 
 
 is very soft. 
 Elmire. Let be, I beg you; I am very 
 ticklish. 
 
 [She moves her chair away, and 
 Tartufpe brings his nearer.] 
 Tartufpe [handling the lace yoke of 
 Elmire 's dress]. Dear me, how 
 wonderful in workmanship 
 This lace is! They do marvels, nowadays; 
 Things of all kinds were never better made. 
 Elmire. Yes, very true. But let us come 
 to business. 
 They say my husband means to break his 
 
 word, 
 And marry Marians to you. Is't so? 
 
TARTUFFE 
 
 285 
 
 Taktupfe. He did hint some such thing; 
 but truly, madam, 
 That's not the happiness I'm yearning 
 after; 
 
 I see elsewhere the sweet compelling 
 charms 
 
 Of such a joy as fills my every wish. 
 Elmire. You mean you cannot love 
 
 terrestrial things. 
 Tartutte. The heart within my bosom 
 
 is not stone. 
 Elmire. I well believe your sighs all 
 tend to Heaven, 
 
 And nothing here below can stay your 
 thoughts. 
 Taktufpe. Love for the beauty of eter- 
 nal things 
 
 Cannot destroy our love for earthly beauty ; 
 
 Our mortal senses well may be entranced 
 
 By perfect works that Heaven has fash- 
 ioned here. 
 
 Its charms reflected shine in such as you. 
 
 And in yourself, its rarest miracles; 
 
 It has displayed such marvels in your face, 
 
 That eyes are dazed, and hearts are rapt 
 away; 
 
 I could not look on you, the perfect crea- 
 ture. 
 
 Without admiring Nature's great Creator, 
 
 And feeling all my heart inflamed with 
 love 
 
 For you, His fairest image of Himself. 
 
 At first I trembled lest this secret love 
 
 Might be the Evil Spirit's artful snare; 
 
 I even schooled my heart to flee your 
 beauty. 
 
 Thinking it was a bar to my salvation. 
 
 But soon, enlightened, O all lovely one, 
 
 I saw how this my passion may be 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 
 me 
 
 To dare make you the offer of my heart; 
 
 My love hopes all things from your perfect 
 goodness, 
 
 And nothing from my own poor weak en- 
 deavor. 
 
 You are my hope, my stay, my peace of 
 heart; 
 
 On you depends my torment or my bliss; 
 
 And by your doom of judgment, I shall be 
 Blest, if you will; or damned, by your 
 
 decree. 
 Elmire. Your declaration's turned most 
 
 gallantly; 
 But truly, it is just a bit surprising. 
 You should have better armed your heart, 
 
 methinks. 
 And taken thought somewhat on such a 
 
 matter. 
 A pious man like you, known every- 
 where . . . 
 Tartufpe. Though pious, I am none the 
 
 less a man; - 
 And when a man beholds your heavenly 
 
 charms, 
 The heart surrenders, and can think no 
 
 more. 
 I know such words seem strange, coming 
 
 from me; 
 But, madam, I'm no angel, after all; 
 If you condemn my frankly made avowal 
 You only have your charming self to 
 
 blame. 
 Soon as I saw your more than human 
 
 beauty. 
 You were thenceforth the sovereign of my 
 
 soul; 
 Sweetness ineffable was in your eyes, 
 That took by storm my still resisting heart. 
 And conquered everything, fasts, prayers, 
 
 and tears. 
 And turned my worship wholly to your- 
 self. 
 My looks, my sighs, have spoke a thousand 
 
 times; 
 Now, to express it all, my voice must speak. 
 If but you will look down with gracious 
 
 favor 
 Upon the sorrows of your worthless slave. 
 If in your goodness you will give me com- 
 fort 
 And condescend imto my nothingness, 
 I'll ever pay you, O sweet miracle. 
 An imexampled worship 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 their acts, and vain in 
 
 speech; 
 
286 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 They always brag in public of their prog- 
 ress; 
 Soon as a favor 's granted, they'll divulge 
 
 it; 
 Their tattling tongues, if you but trust to 
 
 them. 
 Will foul the altar where their hearts have 
 
 worshiped. 
 But men like me are so discreet in love, 
 That you may trust their lasting secrecy. 
 The care we take to guard our own good 
 
 name 
 May fully guarantee the one we love; 
 So you may find, with hearts like ours 
 
 sincere, 
 Love without scandal, pleasure without 
 fear. 
 Elmirb. I've heard you through — 
 your speech is clear, at least. 
 But don't you fear that I may take a fancy 
 To tell my husband of your gallant passion. 
 And that a prompt report of this affair 
 May somewhat change the friendship 
 which he bears you? 
 Tartufpe. I know that you're too good 
 and generous. 
 That you will pardon my temerity, 
 Excuse, upon the score of human frailty, 
 The violence of passion that offends you. 
 And not forget, when you consult your 
 
 mirror. 
 That I'm not blind, and man is made of 
 flesh. 
 Elmirb. Some women might do other- 
 wise, perhaps, 
 But I am willing to employ discretion, 
 And not repeat'the matter to my husband; 
 But in return, I'll ask one thing of you: 
 That you urge forward, frankly and sin- 
 cerely. 
 The marriage of Valere to Mariane; 
 That you give up the unjust influence 
 By which you hope to win another's rights; 
 And... 
 Damis [coming out of the doset-room where 
 he had been hiding]. No, I sayl 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 confound this scoundrel's 
 pride 
 
 And grant me means to take a signal venge- 
 ance 
 
 On his hypocrisy and arrogance. 
 
 And undeceive my father, showing up 
 
 The rascal caught at making love to you. 
 Elmirb. No, no; it is enough if he re- 
 forms, 
 
 EndeavoriQg to deserve the favor shown 
 him. 
 
 And since I've promised, do not you belie 
 me. 
 
 'T is not my way to make a public scandal; 
 
 An honest wife will scorn to heed such 
 follies, 
 
 And never fret her husband's ears with 
 them. 
 Damis. You've reasons of your own for 
 acting thus; 
 
 And I have mine for doing otherwise. 
 
 To spare him now would be a mockery; 
 
 His bigot's pride has triumphed all too long 
 
 Over my righteous anger, and has caused 
 
 Far too much trouble in our family. 
 
 The rascal all too long has ruled my father. 
 
 And crossed my sister's love, and mine as 
 well. 
 
 The traitor now must be unmasked before 
 him; 
 
 And Providence has given me means to do 
 it. 
 
 To Heaven I owe the opportunity. 
 
 And if I did not use it now I have it, 
 
 I should deserve to lose it once for all. 
 Elmirb. Damis . . . 
 Damis. No, by your leave; I'll not be 
 coimseled. 
 
 I'm overjoyed. You need n't try to tell me 
 
 I must give up the pleasure of revenge. 
 
 I'll make an end of this affair at once; 
 
 And, to content me, here's my father now. 
 
 [Enter Orgon.] 
 
 Damis. Father, we've news to welcome 
 
 your arrival. 
 That's altogether novel, and surprising. 
 You are well paid for your caressing care. 
 And this fine gentleman rewards your love 
 Most handsomely, with zeal that seeks no 
 
 less 
 Than your dishonor, as has now been proven. 
 I've just surprised him making to your 
 
 wife 
 
TARTUFFE 
 
 287 
 
 The shameful offer of a guilty love. 
 She, somewhat over gentle and discreet, 
 Insisted that the thing should be concealed; 
 But I will not condone such shamelessness, 
 Nor so far wrong you as to keep it secret. 
 Elmire. Yes, I believe a wife should 
 
 never trouble 
 Her husband's peace of mind with such 
 
 vain gossip; 
 A woman's honor does not hang on telling; 
 It is enough if she defend herself; 
 Or so I think; Damis, you'd not have 
 
 spoken, 
 If you would but have heeded my advice. 
 
 [Exit.] 
 Orgon. Just Heaven! Can what I hear 
 
 be credited? 
 Tabtuffb. Yes, brother, I am wicked, 
 
 I am guilty, 
 A miserable sinner, steeped in evil. 
 The greatest criminal that ever lived. 
 Each moment of my life is stained with 
 
 soilures; 
 And all is but a mass of crime and filth; 
 Heaven, for my punishment, I see it plainly. 
 Would mortify me now. Whatever wrong 
 They find to charge me with, I'll not 
 
 deny it 
 But guard against the pride of self-defense. 
 Believe their stories, arm your wrath 
 
 against me. 
 And drive me like a villain from your house; 
 I cannot have so great a share of shame 
 But what I have deserved a greater still. 
 Orgon [to his son]. You miscreant, can 
 
 you dare, with such a falsehood. 
 To try to stain the whiteness of his virtue? 
 Damis. What! The feigned meekness of 
 
 this hypocrite 
 Makes you discredit . . . 
 Orgon. Silence, cursed plague! 
 Tartttpfe. 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? 
 And should you trust my outward sem- 
 blance, brother, 
 Or judge therefrom that I'm the better 
 
 man? 
 No, no; you let appearances deceive you; 
 I'm anything but what I'm thought to be. 
 
 Alas! and though all men believe me godly. 
 The simple truth is, I'm a worthless crea- 
 ture. 
 [To Damis.] Yes, my dear son, say on, and 
 
 call me traitor. 
 Abandoned scoundrel, thief, and murderer; 
 Heap on me names yet more detestable. 
 And I shall not gainsay you; I've deserved 
 
 them; 
 I'll bear this ignominy on my knees, 
 To expiate in shame the crimes I've done. 
 Okgon [to Tarttjffb]. Ah, brother, 'tis 
 too much! 
 [To his son.] You'll not relent, 
 You blackguard? 
 Damis. What! His talk can so deceive 
 
 you ... 
 Orgon. Silence, you scoundrel! 
 [To Tartuffb.] Brother, rise, I beg you. 
 [To his son.] Infamous villain! 
 Damis. Can he . . . 
 Obgon.. Silence! 
 Damis. What . . . 
 Orgon. Another word, I'll break your 
 
 every bone. 
 Tartuffb. Brother, in God's name, 
 don't be angry with him! 
 I'd rather bear myself the bitterest torture 
 Than have him get a scratch on my account. 
 Orgon [to his son]. Ungrateful monster! 
 Tartuffe. Stop. Upon my knees 
 I beg you pardon him . . . 
 Orgon [throwing himself on his knees too, 
 and embracing Tartuffb]. Alas! 
 How can you? 
 [To his son.] Villain! Behold his goodness! 
 Damis. So . . . 
 Orgon. Be still, 
 Damis. What! I . . . 
 Orgon. Be stiU, I say. I know your 
 motives 
 For this attack. You hate him, all of you; 
 Wife, children, servants, all let loose upon 
 
 him. 
 You have recourse to every shameful trick 
 To drive this godly man out of my house; 
 The more you strive to rid yourselves of him. 
 The more I'M strive to make him stay with 
 
 me; 
 I'll have him straightway married to my 
 
 daughter, 
 Just to confoimd the pride of all of you. 
 
288 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Damis. What! Will you force her to 
 
 accept his hand? 
 Ohgon. Yes, and this very evening, to 
 enrage you, 
 Young rascal! Ah! I'll brave you all, and 
 
 show you 
 That I 'm the master, and must be obeyed. 
 Now, down upon your knees this instant, 
 
 rogue, 
 And take back what you said, and ask his 
 pardon. 
 Damis. Who? I? Ask pardon of that 
 
 cheating scoundrel . . . ? 
 Okgon. Do you resist, you beggar, and 
 insult him? 
 A cudgel, here! a cudgel! 
 [To Taktufpe.] Don't restrain me. 
 [To his son.] Off with you! Leave my 
 
 house this instant, sirrah, 
 And never dare set foot in it again. 
 Damis. Yes, I will leave your house, 
 
 but . . . 
 Orgon. Leave it quickly. 
 You reprobate, I disinherit you, 
 And give you, too, my curse into the bar- 
 gain. [Exit Damis.] 
 What! So insult a saintly man of God! 
 Tabtuffe. Heaven forgive him all the 
 pain he gives me! 
 [To Ohgon.] Could you but know with 
 
 what distress I see 
 Them try to vilify me to my brother! 
 Ohgon. Ah! 
 
 Tartuppe. The mere thought of such 
 ingratitude 
 Makes my soul suffer torture, bitterly . . . 
 My horror at it . . .Ah! my heart 's so full 
 I cannot speak ... I think I'll die of it. 
 Ohgon [in tears, running to the door 
 through which he drove away his sori\. 
 Scoundrel! I wish I'd never let you 
 go. 
 But slain you on the spot with my own 
 
 hand. 
 [To Tahtuppe.] Brother, compose your- 
 self, and don't be angry. 
 Tartuppe. Nay, brother, let us end 
 these painful quarrels. 
 I see what troublous times I bring upon 
 
 you, 
 And think 'tis needful that I leave this 
 house. 
 
 Ohgon. What! You can't mean it? 
 Tartuppe. Yes, they hate me here, 
 And try, I find, to make you doubt my 
 faith. 
 Orgon. What of it? Do you find I listen 
 
 to them? 
 Tartuppe. No doubt they won't stop 
 there. These same reports 
 You now reject, may some day win a hear- 
 ing. 
 Orgon. No, brother, never. 
 Tabtuffe. Ah! my friend, a woman 
 May easily mislead her husband's mind. 
 Orgon. No, no. 
 
 Tartuppe. So let me quickly go away 
 And thus remove all cause for such at- 
 tacks. 
 Orgon. No, you shall stay; my life de- 
 pends upon it. 
 Tartuppe. Then I must mortify my- 
 self. And yet, 
 If you should wish . . . 
 Ohgon. No, never! 
 Tabtuffe. Very well then; 
 No more of that. But I shall rule my con- 
 duct 
 To fit the case. Honor is delicate, 
 And friendship binds me to forestall sus- 
 picion, 
 Prevent all scandal, and avoid your wife. 
 Orgon. No, you shall haunt her, just to 
 spite them all. 
 '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 
 
 them, 
 I'll have no other heir but you; and 
 
 straightway 
 I'll go and make a deed of gift to you, 
 Drawn in due form, of all my property. 
 A good true friend, my son-in-law to 
 
 be, 
 Is more to me than son, and wife, and kin- 
 dred. 
 You will accept my offer, will you not? 
 Tartuppe. Heaven's will be done in 
 
 everything! 
 Orgon. Poor mani 
 We'll go make haste to draw the deed 
 
 aright, 
 And then let envy burst itself with spite! 
 
 {Exeunt\ 
 
TARTUFFE 
 
 289 
 
 ACT IV 
 [Enter Cl^ante and Tarttiffe.] 
 
 Cl^antb. Yes, it's become the talk of 
 all the town, 
 
 And made a stir that's scarcely to your 
 credit; 
 
 And I have met you, sir, most opportunely. 
 
 To tell you in a word my frank opinion. 
 
 Not to sift out this scandal to the bottom, 
 
 Suppose the worst for us — suppose Damis 
 
 Acted the traitor, and accused you falsely; 
 
 Should not a Christian pardon this offense, 
 
 And stifle in his heart all wish for venge- 
 ance? 
 
 Should you permit that, for your petty 
 quarrel, 
 
 A son be driven from his father's house? 
 
 I tell you yet again, and tell you frankly, 
 
 Every one, high or low, is scandaUzed; 
 
 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. 
 Tabtuffb. Alas! So far as I'm con- 
 cerned, how gladly 
 
 Would I do so! I bear him no ill-will; 
 
 I pardon all, lay nothing to his charge. 
 
 And wish with all my heart that I might 
 serve him; 
 
 But Heaven's interests cannot allow it; 
 
 If he returns, then I must leave the house. 
 
 After his conduct, quite unparalleled, 
 
 AH intercourse between us would bring 
 scandal; 
 
 God knows what every one's first thought 
 would be! 
 
 They would attribute it to merest schem- 
 ing 
 
 On my part — say that conscious of my 
 guilt 
 
 I feigned a Christian love for my accuser. 
 
 But feared him in my heart, and hoped to 
 win him 
 
 And underhandedly secure his silence. 
 CtfiANTE. You try to put us off with 
 specious phrases; 
 
 But all your arguments are too far-fetched. 
 
 Why take upon yourself the cause of 
 Heaven? 
 
 Does Heaven need our help to punish sin- 
 ners? 
 
 Leave to itself the care of its own venge- 
 ance. 
 And keep in mind the pardon it commands 
 
 us; 
 Besides, think somewhat less of men's 
 
 opinions. 
 When you are following the will of Heaven. 
 Shall petty fear of what the world may 
 
 think 
 Prevent the doing of a noble deed? 
 No! — let us always do as Heaven com- 
 mands. 
 And not perplex oui: brains with further 
 questions. 
 Tarttjpfe. Already I have told you I 
 forgive him; 
 And that is doing, sir, as Heaven com- 
 mands. 
 But after this day's scandal and affront 
 Heaven does not order me to live with him. 
 ClSante. And does it order you to lend 
 your ear 
 To what mere whim suggested to his father. 
 And to accept the gift .of his estates, 
 On which, in justice, you can make no 
 claim? 
 Tabtuffb. 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 
 
 me; 
 I am not dazzled by their treacherous 
 
 glamor; 
 And if I bring myself to take the gift 
 Which he insists on giving me, I do so. 
 To tell the truth, only because I fear 
 This whole estate may fall into bad hands. 
 And those to whom it Comes may use it ill 
 And not employ it, as is my design. 
 For Heaven's glory and my neighbors' 
 good. 
 Cl^ante. Eh, sir, give up these con- 
 scientious scruples 
 That well may cause a rightful heir's com- 
 plaints. 
 Don't take so much upon yourself, but let 
 
 him 
 Possess what's his, at his own risk and 
 
 peril; 
 Consider, it were better he misused it. 
 Than you should be accused of robbing him. 
 I am astounded that unblushingly 
 
290 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 You could allow such offers to be made! 
 Tell me — has true reUgion any maxim 
 That teaches us to rob the lawful heir? 
 If Heaven has made it quite impossible 
 Damis and you should live together here, 
 Were it not better you should quietly 
 And 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 . . . 
 
 Tahtuffe. Sir, it is half -past three; 
 certain devotions 
 Recall me to my closet; you'll forgive me 
 For leaving you so soon. [Exit.] 
 
 Cl:6ante [alone]. Ah! 
 
 {Enter Elmire, Mariane, and Dobine.] 
 
 DoRiNE [to CiJiante]. Sir, we beg you 
 To help us all you can in her behalf; 
 She 's suffering almost more than heart can 
 
 bear; 
 This match her father means to make to- 
 night 
 Drives her each moment to despair. He's 
 
 coming. 
 Let us unite our efforts now, we beg you, 
 And try by strength or skill to change his 
 purpose. 
 
 [Enter Orgon.] 
 
 Obgon. So ho! I'm glad to find you all 
 
 together. 
 [To Mariane.] Here is the contract that 
 
 shall make you happy, 
 My dear. You know already what it 
 
 means. 
 Mariane [on her knees before Orgon]. 
 
 Father, I beg you, in the name of 
 
 Heaven 
 That knows my grief, and by whate'er can 
 
 move you. 
 Relax a little your paternal rights. 
 And free my love from this obedience! 
 Oh, do not make me, by your harsh com- 
 mand, 
 Complain to Heaven you ever were my 
 
 father; 
 Do not make wretched this poor life you 
 
 gave me. 
 If, crossing that fond hope which I had 
 
 formed. 
 
 You'll not permit me to belong to one 
 Whom I have dared to love, at least, I beg 
 
 you 
 Upon my knees, oh, save me from the 
 
 torment 
 Of being possessed by one whom I abhor! 
 And do not drive me to some desperate act 
 By exercising all your rights upon me. 
 Orgon [a little touched]. Come, come, 
 
 my heart, be firm! no human weak- 
 ness! 
 Mariane. I am not jealous of your love 
 
 for him; 
 Display it freely; give him your estate, 
 And if that's not enough, add all of mine; 
 I willingly agree, and give it up, 
 If only you'll not give him me, your 
 
 daughter; 
 Oh, rather let a convent's rigid rule 
 Wear out the wretched days that Heaven 
 
 allots me. 
 Orgon. These girls are ninnies! — al- 
 ways turning nuns 
 When fathers thwart their silly love-affairs. 
 Get on your feet! The more you hate to 
 
 have him. 
 The more 't will help you earn your soul's 
 
 salvation. 
 So, mortify your senses by this marriage. 
 And dont^exiTJie^ aboutTTanjTmore. 
 Dorine. But what . . . ? 
 Orgon. You, hold your tongue, before 
 
 your betters. 
 Don't dare to say a single word, I tell you. 
 Cl^ante. If you will let me answer, 
 
 and advise . . . 
 Obgon. Brother, I value your advice 
 
 most highly; 
 'T is well thought out; no better can be 
 
 had; 
 But you '11 allow me — not to follow it. 
 Elmire [to her hitsband]. 1 can't find 
 
 words to cope with such a case; 
 Your blindness makes me quite astounded 
 
 at you. 
 You are bewitched with him, to disbelieve 
 The things we tell you happened here 
 
 to-day. 
 Orgon. I am your humble servant, and 
 
 can see 
 Things, when they're plain as noses on 
 
 folks' faces. 
 
TARTUFFE 
 
 291 
 
 I know you're partial to my rascal son, 
 And did n't dare to disavow the trick 
 He tried to play on this poor man; besides, 
 You were too calm, to be believed; if that 
 Had happened, you'd have been far more 
 disturbed. 
 Elmire. And must our honor always 
 rush to arms 
 At the mere mention of illicit love? 
 Or can we answer no attack upon it 
 Except with blazing eyes and lips of scorn? 
 For my part, I just laugh away such non- 
 sense; 
 I've no desire to make a loud to-do. 
 Our virtue should, I think, be gentle-na- 
 
 tured; 
 Nor can I quite approve those savage 
 
 prudes 
 Whose honor arms itself with teeth and 
 
 claws 
 To tear men's eyes out at the slightest 
 
 word. 
 Heaven preserve me from that kind of 
 
 honor! 
 I like my virtue not to be a vixen, 
 And I believe a quiet cold rebuff 
 No less effective to repulse a lover. 
 Okgon. I know . . . and you can't 
 
 throw me off the scent. 
 Elmire. Once more, I am astoimded at 
 your weakness; 
 I wonder what your unbelief would answer, 
 If I should let you see we've told the truth? 
 Ohgon. See it? 
 Elmire. Yes. 
 Orgon. Nonsense. 
 Elmire. Come! If I should find 
 A way to make you see it clear as day? 
 Orgon. All rubbish. 
 Elmire. What a man! But answer me. 
 I'm not proposing now that you believe 
 
 us; 
 But let's suppose that here, from proper 
 
 hiding. 
 You should be made to see and hear all 
 
 plainly; 
 What would you say then, to your man of 
 virtue? 
 Obgon. Why, then, I'd say , . . say 
 
 nothing. It can't be. 
 Elmire. Your error has endured too long 
 already, 
 
 And quite too long you've branded me a 
 
 liar. 
 I must at once, for my own satisfaction. 
 Make you a witness of the things we 've told 
 you. 
 Orgon. Amen! I take you at your word. 
 We'll see 
 What tricks you have, and how you'll keep 
 your promise. 
 Elmire [to Dorine]. Send him to me. 
 DoRiNE [to Elmire]. The man's a 
 crafty codger; 
 Perhaps you'll find it difficult to catch 
 him. 
 Elmire [to Dorine]. Oh, no! A lover's 
 never hard to cheat, 
 And self-CQQceit- leads straight io— self- 
 
 j jeceij j. 
 Bid him come down to me. 
 [To Cl^ante and Mariane.] And you, 
 withdraw. 
 
 [Exeunt Ci^ante and Mariane.] 
 Elmire. Bring up this table, and get 
 
 imder it. 
 Orgon. What? 
 Elmire. One essential is to hide you 
 
 well. 
 Orgon. Why under there? 
 Elmire. Oh, dear! Do as I say; 
 I know what I'm about, as you shall see. 
 Get under, now, I tell you; and once there 
 Be careful no one either sees or hears you. 
 Orgon. I'm going along way to humor 
 you, 
 I must say; but I'll see you through your 
 scheme. 
 Elmire. And then you'll have, I think, 
 no more to say. 
 [To her husband, who is now under the 
 table.] But mind, I'm going to 
 meddle with strange matters; 
 Prepare yourself to be in no wise shocked. 
 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, 
 I'll make this hypocrite put off his mask. 
 Flatter the longings of his shameless pas-' 
 
 sion. 
 And give free play to all his impudence. 
 But, since 't is for your sake, iio prove to 
 you 
 
292 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 His guilt, that I shall feign to share his 
 
 love, 
 I can leave off as soon as you're convinced, 
 And things shall go no further than you 
 
 choose. 
 So, when you think they've gone quite far 
 
 enough, 
 It is for you to stop his mad pursuit. 
 To spare your wife, and not expose me 
 
 further 
 Than you shall need, yourself, to undeceive 
 
 you. 
 It is your own affair, and you must end it 
 When . . . Here he comes. Keep stiU, 
 
 don't show yourself. 
 
 [Enter Tartttpfe.] 
 
 Taetuppe. They told me that you wished 
 
 to see me here. 
 Elmire. Yes. I have secrets for your 
 ear alone. 
 But shut the door first, and look every- 
 where 
 For fear of spies. 
 
 [Tartufpe goes and closes the 
 door, and comes back.] 
 We surely can't afford 
 Another scene like that we had just now; 
 Was ever any one so caught before! 
 Damis did frighten me most terribly 
 On your account; you saw I did my best 
 To baffle his design, and calm his anger. 
 But I was so confused, I never thought 
 To contradict his story; still, thank 
 
 Heaven, 
 Things turned out all the better, as it hap- 
 pened, 
 And now we're on an even safer footing. 
 The high esteem you're held in, laid the 
 
 storm; 
 My husband can have no suspicion of you. 
 And even insists, to spite the scandal- 
 mongers. 
 That we shall be together constantly; 
 So that is how, without the risk of blame, 
 I can be here locked up with you alone, 
 And can reveal to you my heart, perhaps 
 Only too ready to allow your passion. 
 Tarttjpfe. Your words are somewhat 
 hard to understand, 
 Madam; just now you used a different 
 style. 
 
 Elmire . If that refusal has offended you, 
 How little do you know a woman's heart! 
 How ill you guess what it would have you 
 
 know. 
 When it presents so feeble a defense! 
 Always, at first, our modesty resists 
 The tender feelings you inspire us with. 
 Whatever cause we find to justify 
 The love that masters us, we still must feel 
 Some little shame in owning it; and strive 
 To make as though we would not, when we 
 
 would. 
 But from the very way we go about it, 
 We let a lover know our heart surrenders. 
 The while our lips, for honor's sake, oppose 
 Our heart's desire, and in refusing promise. 
 I'm telling you my secret all too freely 
 And with too little heed to modesty. 
 But — now that I've made bold to speak 
 
 — pray, tell me, 
 Should I have tried to keep Damis from 
 
 speaking. 
 Should I have heard the offer of your heart 
 So quietly, and suffered aU your pleading, 
 And taken it just as I did — remember — 
 If such a declaration had not pleased me. 
 And, when I tried my utmost to persuade 
 
 you 
 Not to accept the marriage that was talked 
 
 of. 
 What should my earnestness have hinted 
 
 to you 
 If not the interest that you've inspired. 
 And my chagrin, should such a match 
 
 compel me 
 To share a heart I want all to myself? 
 Tarttjpfe. 'Tis, past a doubt, the 
 
 height of happiness. 
 To hear such words from lips we dote upon; 
 Their honeyed sweetness pours through all 
 
 my senses 
 Long draughts of suavity ineffable. 
 My heart employs its utmost zeal to please 
 
 you. 
 And counts your love its one beatitude; 
 And yet that heart must beg that you al- 
 low it 
 To doubt a little its felicity. 
 I well might think these words an honest 
 
 trick 
 To make me break off this approaching 
 
 marriage; 
 
TARTUFFE 
 
 293 
 
 And if I may express myself quite plainly, 
 I cannot trust these too enchanting words 
 Until the granting of some little favor 
 I sigh for, shall assure me of their truth 
 And build within my soul, on firm founda- 
 tions, 
 A lasting faith in your sweet charity. 
 Elmire [coughing to draw her hiishand's 
 attention]. What! Must you go so 
 fast? — and all at once 
 Exhaust the whole love of a woman's 
 
 heart? 
 She does herself the violence to make 
 This dear confession of her love, and you 
 Are not yet satisfied, and will not be 
 Without the granting of her utmost favors? 
 Taktotte. 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 can believe it. 
 And I, who know how Uttle I deserve 
 Your goodness, doubt the fortunes of my 
 
 daring; 
 So I shall trust to nothing, madam, till 
 You have convinced my love by something 
 real. 
 Elmibe. Ah! How your love enacts the 
 tyrant's r61e. 
 And throws my mind into a strange con- 
 fusion! 
 With what fierce sway it rules a conquered 
 
 heart, 
 And violently will have its wishes granted! 
 What! Is there no escape from your pur- 
 suit? 
 No respite even? — not a breathing space? 
 Nay, is it decent to be so exacting, 
 And so abuse by urgency the weakness 
 You may discover in a woman's heart? 
 TARTtiFFE. But if my worship wins your 
 gracious favor, 
 Then why refuse me some sure proof 
 thereof? 
 Elmire. But how can I consent to what 
 you wish, 
 Without offending Heaven you talk so 
 much of? 
 Tarttjffe. If Heaven is all that stands 
 now in my way, 
 I'll easily remove that little hindrance; 
 
 Your heart need not hold back for such a 
 trifle. 
 Elmibb. But they affright us so with 
 
 Heaven's conynands! 
 Tabtuffb. I can dispel these foolish 
 fears, dear madam; 
 I know the art of pacifying scruples. 
 Heaven forbids, 't is true, some satisfac- 
 tions; 
 But we find means to make things right 
 
 with Heaven. 
 There is a science, madam, that instructs 
 
 us 
 How to enlarge the limits of our conscience, 
 According to our various occasions, 
 And rectify the evil of the deed 
 According to our purity of motive. 
 I '11 duly teach you all these secrets, madam ; 
 You only need to let yourself be guided. 
 Content my wishes, have no fear at all; 
 I answer for't, and take the sin upon me. 
 
 [ELMrsB coughs still louder.] 
 Your cough is very bad. 
 
 Elmire. Yes, I'm in torture. 
 Tabtuffb. Would you accept this bit 
 
 of licorice? 
 Elmibe. The case is obstinate, I find; 
 and all 
 The licorice in the world will do no good. 
 Tabtuffb. 'T is very trying. 
 Elmirb. More than words can say. 
 Tabtuffb. In any case, your scruple 's 
 easily 
 Removed. With me you're sure of secrecy, 
 And there's no harm unless a thing is 
 
 known. 
 The public scandal is what brings offense, 
 And secret sinning is not sin at all. ) 
 Elmirb [after coughing again]. So then, 
 I see I must resolve to yield; 
 I must consent to grant you everything. 
 And cannot hope to give full satisfaction, 
 Or win full confidence, at lesser cost. ^ 
 
 No doubt 't is very hard to come to this; 
 'T is quite against my will I go so far; 
 But since I must be forced to it, since noth- 
 ing 
 That can be said suffices for belief, , 
 
 Since more convincing proof is still de- : 
 
 manded, 
 I must make up my mind to humor people. 
 If my consent give reason for offense. 
 
294 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 So much the worse for him who forced me 
 
 to it; 
 The fault can surely not be counted mine. 
 Tartuffb. It need not, madam ; and the 
 
 thing itself . . . 
 Elmibb. Open the door, I pray you, and 
 just see 
 Whether my husband's not there, in the 
 hall. 
 Taetuffe. Why take such care for him? 
 Between ourselves, 
 I I He is a man to lead round by the nose. 
 1/ 1/ He's capable of glorying in our meetings; 
 I've fooled him so, he'd see all, and deny 
 it. 
 Elmirb. No matter; go, I beg you, look 
 about. 
 And carefully examine every corner. 
 
 [Exit Tartuffb.] 
 Orgon [crawling out from under the 
 table]. That is, I own, a man . . . 
 abominable! 
 I can't get over it; the whole thing floors 
 me. 
 Elmirb. What? You come out so soon? 
 You cannot mean it! 
 Go back under the table; 't is not time 
 
 yet; 
 
 Wait till the end, to see, and make quite 
 
 certain. 
 And don't believe a thing on mere conjec- 
 ture. 
 Orgon. Nothing more wicked e'er came 
 
 out of hell. 
 Elmirb. Dear me! Don't go and credit 
 things too lightly. 
 No, let yourself be thoroughly convinced; 
 Don't yield too soon, for fear you'll be 
 mistaken. 
 
 [As Tartuffb enters, she makes 
 - - . her husband stand behind her.] 
 
 Tartuffb [no< seeing Orgon]. All things 
 conspire toward my satisfaction, 
 Madam. I've searched the whole apart- 
 ment through. 
 There's no one here; and now my ravished 
 
 soul . . . 
 I Orgon [stopping him]. Softly! You are 
 
 too eager in your amours; 
 You need n't be so passionate. Ah, ha! 
 My holy man! You want to put it on 
 me! 
 
 How is your soul abandoned to temptation! 
 Marry my daughter, eh? — and want my 
 
 wife, too? 
 I doubted long enough if this was earnest. 
 Expecting all the time the tone would 
 
 change; 
 But now the proof's been carried far 
 
 enough; 
 I'm satisfied, and ask no more, for my 
 part. 
 Elmirb [to Tartuffb]. 'Twas quite 
 against my character to play 
 This part; but I was forced to treat you 
 so. 
 Tartuffb. What? You believe . . . ? 
 Orgon. Come, now, no protestations. 
 Get out from here, and make no fuss about 
 it. 
 Tartuffb. But my intent . . . 
 Orgon. That talk is out of season. 
 You leave my house this instant. 
 
 Tartuffb. You're the one 
 To leave it, you who play the master here! 
 This house belongs to me, I'll have you 
 
 know. 
 And show you plainly it 's no use to turn 
 To these low tricks, to pick a quarrel with 
 
 me. 
 And that you can't insult me at your 
 
 pleasure. 
 For I have wherewith to confound your 
 
 lies. 
 Avenge offended Heaven, and compel 
 Those to repent who talk to me of leaving. 
 [Exit Tartuffb.] 
 Elmire. What sort of speech is this? 
 
 What can it mean? 
 Oegon. My faith, I'm dazed. This is 
 
 no laughing matter. 
 Elmire. What? 
 
 Orgon. From his words I see my great 
 mistake; 
 The deed of gift is one thing troubles me. 
 Elmirb. The deed of gift . . . 
 Orgon. Yes, that is past recall. 
 But I've another thing to make me anx- 
 ious. 
 Elmirb. What's that? 
 Orgon. You shall know all. Let's see 
 at once 
 Whether a certain box is still upstairs 
 
 [Exeunt] 
 
TARTUFFE 
 
 295" 
 
 ACT V 
 [Enter Orgon and CiifiANTE.] 
 
 CLfiANTE. Whither away so fast? 
 Okgon. How should I know? 
 CtfiANTE. Methinks we should begin by 
 taking counsel 
 To see what can be done to meet the case. 
 Orgon. I'm aU worked up about that 
 wretched box. 
 More than aU else it drives me to despair. 
 Cl^ante. That box must hide some 
 
 mighty mystery? 
 Okgon. Argas, my friend who is in 
 trouble, brought it 
 Himself, most secretly, and left it with me. 
 He chose me, in his exile, for this trust; 
 And dh these docimients, from what he 
 
 said, 
 I judge his life and property depend. 
 Ci^ANTE. How could you trust them to 
 
 another's hands? 
 Orgon. By reason of a conscientious 
 scruple. 
 I went straight to my traitor, to confide 
 In him; his sophistry made me believe 
 That I must give the box to him to keep. 
 So that, in case of search, I might deny 
 My having it at all, and still, by favor 
 Of this evasion, keep my conscience clear 
 Even in taking oath against the truth. 
 Cl^antb. Your case is bad, so far as I 
 can see; 
 This deed of gift, this trusting of the 
 
 secret 
 To him, were both — to state my frank 
 
 opinion — 
 Steps that you took too lightly; he can 
 
 lead you 
 To any length, with these for hostages; 
 And since he holds you at such a disad- 
 vantage. 
 You'd be still more imprudent, to provoke 
 
 him; 
 So you must go some gentler way about. 
 Orgon. What! Can a soul so base, a 
 heart so false. 
 Hide 'neath the semblance of such touching 
 
 fervor! 
 I took him in, a vagabond, a beggar! . . . 
 'Tis too much! No more pious folk for 
 me! 
 
 I shall abhor them utterly forever. 
 
 And henceforth treat them worse than any 
 devil. 
 Cii^ANTB. So! There you go again, quite 
 off the handle! 
 
 In nothing do you keep an eygiLtemper. 
 
 You never know what reason is, but al- 
 ways 
 
 Jump first to one extreme, and then the 
 other. 
 
 You see your error, and you recognize 
 
 That you've been cozened by a feignfed 
 zeal; 
 
 But to make up for't, in the name of rea- 
 son. 
 
 Why should you plunge into a worse mis- 
 take. 
 
 And find no difference in character 
 
 Between a worthless scamp, and all good 
 people? 
 
 What! Just because a rascal boldly duped 
 you 
 
 With pompous show of false austerity. 
 
 Must you needs have it everybody 's like 
 him, 
 
 And no one 's truly pious nowadays? 
 
 Leave such conclusions to mere infidels; 
 
 Distinguish virtue from its counterfeit. 
 
 Don't give esteem too quickly, at a ven- 
 ture. 
 
 But try to keep, in this, the golden mean. 
 
 If you can help it, don't uphold impos- 
 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 Damis.] 
 
 Damis. What! father, can the scoundrel 
 threaten you. 
 Forget the many benefits received. 
 And in his base abominable pride 
 Make of your very favors arms against 
 you? 
 Orgon. Too true, my son. It tortures 
 
 me to think on't. 
 Damis. Let me alone, I'll chop his ears 
 off for him. 
 We must deal roundly with his insolence; 
 'T is I must free you from him at a blow; 
 'T is I, to set things rights must strike him 
 down. 
 
296 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 CuSante. Spoke like a true young man. 
 
 Now, just calm down, 
 And moderate your towering tantrums, 
 
 will you? 
 We live in such an age, with such a king, 
 That violence cannot advance our cause. 
 
 [Enter Madame Pernblle, Euhire, 
 Marians, and Dorinb.] 
 
 Madame Pebnelle. What's this? I 
 
 hear of fearful mysteries! 
 Orgon. Strange things, indeed, for my 
 own eyes to witness; 
 You see how I'm requited for my kindness. 
 I zealously receive a wretched beggar, 
 I lodge him, entertain him like my brother, 
 Load him with benefactions every day. 
 Give him my daughter, give him all my 
 
 fortune: 
 And he meanwhile, the villain, rascal, 
 
 wretch. 
 Tries with black treason to suborn my 
 
 wife. 
 And not content with such a foul design, 
 He dares to menace me with my own 
 
 favors. 
 And would make use of those advantages 
 Which my too foolish kindness armed him 
 
 with. 
 To ruin me, to take my fortune from me. 
 And leave me in the state I saved him from. 
 Dorinb. Poor man! 
 Madame Pernelie. My son, I cannot 
 possibly 
 Believe he could intend so black a deed. 
 Orgon. What? 
 Madame Pernelle. Worthy men are 
 
 still the sport of envy. 
 Orgon. Mother, what do you mean by 
 
 such a speech? 
 Madame Pernelle. There are strange 
 goings-on about your house. 
 And everybody knows your people hate 
 him. 
 Orgon. What's that to do with what I 
 
 tell you now? 
 Madame Pernelle. I always said, my 
 son, when you were little: 
 That virtue here below is hated ever; 
 The envious may die, but envy never. 
 Orgon. What's that fine speech to do 
 with present facts? 
 
 Madame Pernelle. Be sure, they've 
 
 forged a hundred silly hes . . . 
 Orgon. I've told you once, I saw it all 
 
 myself. 
 Madame Pernelle. For slanderers 
 
 abound in calumnies . . . 
 Orgon. Mother, you'd make me danm 
 my soul. I tell you 
 I saw with my own eyes his shamelessness. 
 Madame Pernelle. Their tongues for 
 spitting venom never lack. 
 There's nothing here below they'll not 
 attack. 
 Orgon. Your speech has not a single 
 grain of sense. 
 I saw it, harkee, saw it, with these eyes 
 I saw — d' ye know what saw means? — 
 
 must I say it • 
 
 A hundred times, and din it in your ears? 
 Madame Pernelle. My dear, appear- 
 ances are oft deceiving. 
 And seeing should n't always be believing. 
 Orgon. I'll go mad. 
 Madame Pernelle. False suspicions 
 may delude. 
 And good to evil oft is misconstrued. 
 Orgon. Must I construe as Christian 
 charity 
 The wish to kiss my wife! 
 
 Madame Pernelle. You must, at least. 
 Have just foundation for accusing people. 
 And wait until you see a thing for sure. 
 Orgon. The devil! How could I see any 
 surer? 
 Should I have waited till, before my eyes, 
 He . . . No, you'll make me say things 
 quite improper. 
 Madame Pernelle. In short, 't is 
 known too pure a zeal inflames him; 
 And so, I cannot possibly conceive 
 That he should try to do what's charged 
 against him. 
 Orgon. If you were not my mother, I 
 should say 
 Such things! ... I know not what, I'm so 
 
 enraged! 
 ^- Dorine [to Orgon]. Fortune has paid 
 
 you fair, to be so doubted; 
 You flouted our report, now yours is 
 flouted. 
 Cl^antb. We're wasting time here in 
 the merest trifling. 
 
TARTUFFE 
 
 297 
 
 Which we should rather use in taking 
 
 measures 
 To guard ourselves against the scoundrel's 
 threats. 
 Damis. You think his impudence could 
 
 go so far? 
 EuviiEE. For one, I can't believe it pos- 
 sible; 
 Why, his ingratitude would be too patent. 
 CiifiANTE. Don't trust to that; he 'U find 
 abundant warrant 
 To give good color to his acts against you; 
 And for less cause than this, a strong cabal 
 Can make one's life a labyrinth of troubles. 
 I tell you once again: armed as he is 
 You never should have pushed him quite so 
 far. 
 Orgon. True; yet what could I do? The 
 rascal's pride 
 Made me lose all control of my resent- 
 ment. 
 Cl^ante. I wish with all my heart that 
 some pretense 
 Of peace could be patched up between you 
 two. 
 Elmbrb. If I had known what weapons 
 he was armed with, 
 I never should have raised such an alarm. 
 And my . . . 
 Orgon [to Dokeste, seeing Mr. Loyal 
 come in]. Who's coming now? Go 
 quick, find out. 
 I'm in a fine state to receive a visit! 
 Mr. Loyal [to Dokine, at the back of the 
 stage]. Good-day, good sister. Pray 
 you, let me see 
 The master of the house. 
 
 DoRiNB. He's occupied; 
 I think he can see nobody at present. 
 Mr. Loyal. I'm not by way of being 
 unwelcome here. 
 My coming can, I think, nowise displease 
 
 him; 
 My errand will be found to his advantage. 
 DoRiNE. Yoiu' name, then? 
 Mb. Loyal. Tell him simply that his 
 friend 
 Mr. Tartuffe has sent me, for his goods . . . 
 DoBiNB [to Orgon]. It is a man who 
 comes, with civil manners, 
 Sent by Tartuffe, he says, upon an errand 
 That you'll be pleased with. 
 
 Cl^ante [to Orgon]. Surely you must 
 see him. 
 And find out who he is, and what he wants. 
 Orgon [to Cl^antb]. Perhaps he's come 
 to make it up between us; 
 How shall I treat him? 
 
 CliSante. You must not get angry; 
 And if he talks of reconciliation, 
 Accept it. 
 Mr. Loyal [to Orgon]. Sir, good-day. 
 And Heaven send 
 Harm to your enemies, favor to you. 
 Orgon [aside to Cleantb]. This mild 
 beginning suits with my conjectures 
 And promises some compromise already. 
 Mr. Loyal. All of your house has long 
 been dear to me; 
 I had the honor, sir, to serve your father. 
 Orgon. Sir, I am much ashamed, and 
 ask yom' pardon 
 For not recalling now your face or name. 
 Mr. Loyal. My name is Loyal. I'm 
 from Normandy. 
 My office is court-baiUff, in despite 
 Of envy; and for forty years, thank Heaven 
 It's been my fortune to perform that office 
 With honor. So I ' ve come, sir, by your leave, 
 To render service of a certain writ . . . 
 Orgon. What, you are here to . . . 
 Mr. Loyal. Pray, sir, don't be angry. 
 'Tis nothing, sir, but just a little sum- 
 mons: — 
 Order to vacate, you and yours, this house. 
 Move out your furniture, make room for 
 
 others, 
 And that without delay or putting off, 
 As needs must be . . . 
 
 Orgon. I? Leave this house? 
 Mb. Loyal. Yes, please, sir. 
 The house is now, as you well know, of 
 
 eovase, 
 Mr. Tartufie's. And he, beyond dispute. 
 Of all your goods is henceforth lord and 
 
 master 
 By virtue of a contract here attached. 
 Drawn in due form, and unassailable. 
 Damis [to Mr. Loyal]. Yoiu- insolence 
 
 is monstrous, and astounding! 
 Mr. Loyal [to Damis]. I have no busi- 
 ness, sir, that touches you; 
 [Pointing to Orgon.] This is the gentle- 
 man. He's fair and courteous. 
 
298 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 And knows too well a gentleman's behavior 
 To wish in any wise to question justice. 
 Oegon. But . . . 
 
 Mr. Loyal. Sir, I know you would not 
 for a million 
 Wish to rebel; like a good citizen 
 You'll let me put in force the court's de- 
 cree. 
 Damis. Your long black gown may well, 
 before you know it, 
 Mister Court-bailiff, get a thorough beat- 
 ing. 
 Mr. Loyal [to Orgon]. Sir, make your 
 son be silent or withdraw. 
 I should be loath to have to set things down. 
 And see your names inscribed in my report. 
 DoRiNE [aside]. This Mr. Loyal's looks 
 
 are most disloyal. 
 Mr. Loyal. I have much feeling for 
 respectable 
 And honest folk like you, sir, and con- 
 sented 
 To serve these papers, only to oblige you. 
 And thus prevent the choice of any other 
 Who, less possessed of zeal for you than 
 
 I am, 
 Might order matters in less gentle fashion. 
 Orgon. And how could one do worse 
 than order people 
 Out of their house? 
 
 Mr. Loyal. Why, we allow you time; 
 And even will suspend until to-morrow 
 The execution of the order, sir. 
 I'll merely, without scandal, quietly. 
 Come here and spend the night, with half 
 
 a score 
 Of officers; and just for form's sake, please 
 You '11 bring your keys to me, before retir- 
 ing. 
 I will take care not to disturb your rest. 
 And see there 's no unseemly conduct here. 
 But by to-morrow, and at early morningi 
 You must make haste to move your least 
 
 belongings; 
 My men will help you — I have chosen 
 
 strong ones 
 To serve you, sir, in clearing out the house. 
 No one could act more generously, I fancy. 
 And, since I 'm treating you with great in- 
 dulgence, 
 I beg you'll do as well by me, and see 
 I 'm not disturbed in my discharge of duty. 
 
 Okgon. I'd give this very minute, and 
 not grudge it, 
 The hundred best gold louis I have left, 
 If I could just indulge myself, and land 
 My fist, for one good square one, on his 
 snout. 
 Cl^ante [aside to Orgon]. Careful! — 
 
 don't make things worse. 
 Damis. Such insolence! 
 I hardly can restrain myself. My hands 
 Are itching to be at him. 
 Dorine. By my faith, 
 With such a fine broad back, good Mr. 
 
 Loyal, 
 A little beating would become you well. 
 , Mr. Loyal. My girl, such infamous 
 words are actionable. 
 And warrants can be issued against women. 
 Cl^ante [to Mr. Loyal]. Enough of 
 this discussion, sir; have done. 
 Give us the paper, and then leave us, 
 pray. 
 Mr. Loyal. Then au revoir. Heaven 
 keep you from disaster! [Exit.] 
 
 Orgon. May Heaven confoimd you 
 both, you and your master ! 
 — Well, mother, am I right or am I not? 
 This writ may help you now to judge the 
 
 matter. 
 Or don't you see his treason even yet? 
 Madame Pernelle. I'm all amazed, 
 
 befuddled, and beflustered! 
 DoRiNE [to Orgon]. You are quite 
 wrong, you have no right to blame 
 him; 
 This action only proves his good inten- 
 tions. 
 Love for his neighbor makes his virtue 
 
 perfect; 
 And knowing money is a root of evil. 
 In Christian charity, he'd take away 
 Whatever things may hinder your salva- 
 tion. 
 Orgon. Be still. You always need to 
 
 have that told you. 
 Cl^ante [to Orgon]. Come, let us see 
 
 what course you are to follow. 
 Elmire. 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 
 
 299 
 
 [Enter ValIire.] 
 
 VAiiiRB. 'T is with regret, sir, that I 
 
 bring bad news; 
 But urgent danger forces me to do so. 
 A close and intimate friend of mine, who 
 
 knows 
 The interest I take in what concerns you, 
 Has gone so far, for my sake, as to break 
 The secrecy that's due to state affairs. 
 And sent me word but now, that leaves you 
 
 only 
 The one expedient of sudden flight. 
 The vUlain who so long imposed upon you, 
 Found means, an hour ago, to see the 
 
 prince, 
 And to accuse you (among other things) 
 By putting in his hands the private strong- 
 box 
 Of a state criminal, whose guilty secret, 
 You failing in your duty as a subject 
 (He says) have kept. I know no more of it 
 Save that a warrant 's drawn against you, 
 
 sir, 
 And for the greater surety, that same rascal 
 Comes with the officer who must arrest 
 
 you. 
 CiifiAUTE. His rights are armed; and 
 
 this is how the scoundrel 
 Seeks to secure the property he claims. 
 Obgon. Man is a wicked animal, I'll 
 
 own it! 
 VaiAke. The least delay may still be 
 
 fatal, sir. 
 I have my carriage, and a thousand louis, 
 Provided for your journey, at the door. 
 Let's lose no time; the bolt is swift to 
 
 strike. 
 And such as only flight can save you from. 
 I '11 be your guide to seek a place of safety. 
 And stay with you until you reach it, sir. 
 Orgon. How much I owe to your oblig- 
 ing care! 
 Another time must serve to thank you fitly; 
 And I pray Heaven to grant me so much 
 
 favor 
 That I may some day recompense your 
 
 service. 
 Good-bye; see to it, all of you . . . 
 
 CrfANTE. Come, hurry; 
 We'll see to everything that's needful, 
 
 brother. 
 
 [Enter Tabtufpe and an Officer.] 
 
 Taktuppe [stopping Orgon]. 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. 
 Orgon. Traitor! You saved this worst 
 stroke for the last; 
 This crowns your perfidies, and ruins me. 
 Tartuffe. I shall not be embittered by 
 your insults, 
 For Heaven has taught me to endure all 
 things. 
 Ci^ANTE. Your moderation, I must 
 
 own, is great. 
 Damis. How shamelessly the wretch 
 
 makes bold with Heaven! 
 Tartuffe. Your ravings cannot move 
 me; all my thought 
 Is but to do my duty. 
 
 Mabiane. You must claim 
 Great glory from this honorable act. 
 Tartuffe. The act cannot be aught but 
 honorable, 
 Coming from that high power which sends 
 me here. 
 Okgon. Ungrateful wretch, do you for- 
 get 't was I 
 That rescued you from utter misery? 
 Tartuffe. I've not forgot some help 
 you may have given; 
 But my first duty now is toward my prince. 
 The higher power of that most sacred 
 
 claim 
 Must stifle in my heart all gratitude; 
 And to such puissant ties I 'd sacrifice 
 My friend, my wife, my kindred, and my- 
 self. 
 Elmirb. The hypocrite! 
 DoRiNE. How well he knows the trick 
 Of cloaking him with what we most revere! 
 Cl^ante. But if the motive that you 
 make parade of 
 Is perfect as you say, why should it wait 
 To show itself, until the day he caught you 
 Soliciting his wife? How happens it 
 You have not thought to go inform against 
 
 him 
 Until his honor forces him to drive you 
 Out of his house? And though I need not 
 mention 
 
300 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 That he's just given you his whole estate, 
 Still, if you meant to treat him now as 
 
 guilty. 
 How could you then consent to take his 
 gift? 
 Tarttjffe [to the Officer]. Pray, sir, de- 
 liver me from all this clamor; 
 
 Be good enough to carry out your order. 
 The Opficeb. Yes, I've too long de- 
 layed its 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 lodging 
 ready. 
 Taetttppb. Who? I, sir? 
 The Officer. You. 
 Tabtttpfe. But why to prison? 
 The Officer. You 
 
 Are not the one to whom I owe account. 
 
 You, sir [to Orgon], recover from your hot 
 alarm. 
 
 Our prince is not a friend to double-deal- 
 ing, 
 
 His eyes can read men's inmost hearts, and 
 all 
 
 Jhe art of hypocrites cannot deceive him. 
 
 JHi s sharp discernment sees things clear and 
 true; 
 
 His mind cannot too easily be swayed, 
 
 fFor reason always holds the balance even. 
 
 He honors and exalts true piety. 
 
 But knom the false, and views it with dis- 
 gusji 
 
 This fellow was by no means apt to fool 
 him. 
 
 Far subtler snares have failed against his 
 wisdom. 
 
 And his quick insight pierced immediately 
 
 The hidden baseness of this tortuous heart. 
 
 Accusing you, the knave betrayed him- 
 self. 
 
 And by true recompense of Heaven's justice 
 
 He stood revealed before our monarch's 
 eyes 
 
 A scoundrel known before by other names. 
 
 Whose horrid crimes, detailed at length, 
 might fill 
 
 A long-drawn history of many volumes. 
 
 Our monarch — to resolve you in a word — 
 
 Detesting his ingratitude and baseness, 
 
 Added this horror to his other crimes, 
 
 And sent me hither under his direction 
 To see his insolence out-top itself, 
 And force him then to give you satisfac- 
 tion. 
 Your papers, which the traitor says are his, 
 I am to take from him, and give you back; 
 The deed of gift transferring your estate 
 Our monarch's sovereign will makes null 
 
 and void; 
 And for the secret personal offense 
 Your friend involved you in, he pardons 
 p you: 
 
 |Thus he rewards your recent zeal, dis- 
 played 
 In helping to maintain his rights, and shows 
 How weU his heart, when it is least ex- 
 pected. 
 Knows how to recompense a noble deed. 
 And will not let true merit miss its due, 
 Remembering always rather good than 
 e^^Ll 
 DoRiNE. Now, Heaven be praised! 
 Madame Peenelle. At last I breathe 
 
 again. 
 Elmire. a happy outcome! 
 Mariane. Who'd have dared to hope 
 
 it? 
 Orgon [to Tartufpe, who is being led off 
 by the Offi,cer]. There, traitor! Now, 
 you're . . . 
 
 [Exeunt Tartufpe and Officer.] 
 Ci^ANTE. Brother, hold ! — and don't 
 Descend to such indignities, I beg you. 
 Leave the poor wretch to his unhappy fate. 
 And let remorse oppress him, but not you. 
 Hope rather that his heart may now return 
 To virtue, hate his vice, reform his ways. 
 And win the pardon of our glorious prince; 
 While you must straightway go, and on 
 
 your knees 
 Repay with thanks his noble generous 
 kindness. 
 Orgon. Well said! We'll go, and at his 
 feet kneel down. 
 With joy to thank him for his goodness 
 
 shown; 
 And this first duty done, with honors due. 
 We'll then attend upon another, too. 
 With wedded happiness reward ValSre, 
 And crown a lover noble and sincere. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes.] 
 
PHiEDRA 
 
 (PHEDRE) 
 By jean RACINE 
 
 Translated into English blank verse by ROBERT BRUCE BOSWELL 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Theseus, son of ^geus and King of Athens 
 
 PiLEDEA, wife of Theseus and daughter of Minos and Pasiphae 
 
 HippoLYTUS, son of Theseus and Antiope, Queen of the Amazons 
 
 Ahicia, Princess of the Blood Royal of Athens 
 
 CEnone, nurse of Phosdra 
 
 Thbrambnes, tuior of Hippolytus 
 
 IsMENE, bosom friend of Aricia 
 
 Panope, waiting-woman of Phoedra 
 
 Guards 
 
 The scene is laid at Trcesen, a town of the Peloponnesus 
 
PH.EDRA 
 
 ACT I 
 
 [Enter Hippolttus, Theramejtbs.] 
 
 HiPPOLTTTjs. My mind is settled, dear 
 
 Theramenes, 
 And I can stay not more in lovely Troezen. 
 In doubt that racks my soul with mortal 
 
 anguish, 
 I grow ashameid of such long idleness. 
 Six months and more my father has been 
 
 gone, 
 And what may have befallen one so dear 
 I know not, nor what comer of the earth 
 Hides him. 
 
 Theramektes. And where, prince, wiU 
 
 you look for him? 
 Already, to content your just alarm. 
 Have t not cross'd the seas on either side 
 Of Corinth, ask'd if aught were known of 
 
 Theseus 
 Where Acheron is lost among the Shades, 
 Visited Elis, doubled Tcenarus, 
 And sail'd into the sea that saw the fall 
 Of Icarus? Inspired with what new hope, 
 Under what favor'd skies think you to trace 
 His footsteps? Who knows if the king, your 
 
 father, 
 Wishes the secret of his absence known? 
 Perchance, while we are trembling for his 
 
 life. 
 The hero calmly plots some fresh intrigue, 
 And only waits till the deluded fair — 
 Hippolttus. Cease, dear Theramenes, 
 
 respect the name 
 Of Theseus. Youthful errors have been left 
 Behind, and no unworthy obstacle 
 Detains him. Phaedra long has fix'd a heart 
 Inconstant once, nor need she feair a rival. 
 In seeking him I shall but do my duty. 
 And leave a place I dare no longer see. 
 Theramenes. Indeed! When, prince, 
 
 did you begin to dread 
 These peaceful haunts, so dear to happy 
 
 childhood, 
 Where I have seen you oft prefer to stay. 
 
 Rather than meet the tumult and the pomp 
 Of Athens and the court? What danger 
 
 shun you. 
 Or shall I say what grief? 
 
 Hippolttus. That happy time 
 Is gone, and all is changed, since to these 
 
 shores 
 The gods sent Phaedra. 
 
 Theramenes. I perceive the cause 
 Of your distress. It is the queen whose sight 
 Offends you. With a step-dame's spite she 
 
 schemed 
 Your exile soon as she set eyes on you. 
 But if her hatred is not wholly vanish'd. 
 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 Phaedra, sick'ning of a dire disease 
 Of which she will not speak, weary of life 
 And of herself, form any plots against you? 
 Hippolttus. It is not her vain enmity I 
 fear; 
 Another foe alarms Hippolytus. 
 I fly, it must be own'd, from yoimg Aricia, 
 The sole survivor of an impious race. 
 Theramenes. What! You become her 
 persecutor too! 
 The gentle sister of the cruel sons 
 Of Pallas shared not in their perfidy; 
 Why should you hate such charming inno- 
 cence? 
 Hippolttus. I should not need to fly, if 
 
 it were hatred. 
 Theramenes. May I, then, learn the 
 meaning of your flight? 
 Is this the proud Hippolytus I see. 
 Than whom there breathed no fiercer foe to 
 
 love 
 And to that yoke which Theseus has so oft 
 Endured? And can it be that Venus, 
 
 scorn'd 
 So long, will justify your sire at last? 
 Has she, then, setting you with other mor- 
 tals. 
 
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 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Forced e'en Hippolytus to offer incense 
 Before her? Can you love? 
 
 HiPPOLTTTJS. Friend, ask me not. 
 You, who have known my heart from in- 
 fancy 
 And all its feelings of disdainful pride, 
 Spare me the shame of disavowing all 
 That I profess'd. Born of an Amazon, 
 The wildness 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 zealous service, 
 You told me then the story of my sire. 
 And know how oft, attentive to your voice, 
 I kindled when I heard his noble acts. 
 As you described him bringing consolation 
 To mortals for the absence of Alcides, 
 The highways clear'd of monsters and of 
 
 robbers, 
 Procrustes, Cercyon, Scire, Sinnis slain. 
 The Epidaurian giant's bones dispersed, 
 Crete reeking with the blood of Minotaur. 
 But when you told me of less glorious 
 
 deeds, 
 Troth plighted here and there and every- 
 where. 
 Young Helen stolen from her home at 
 
 Sparta, 
 And Periboea's tear s in Salamis, 
 With many another trusting heart deceived 
 Whose very names have 'scaped his mem- 
 ory, 
 Forsaken Ariadne to the rocks 
 Complaining, last this Phaedra, bound to 
 
 him 
 By better ties, — you know with what 
 
 regret 
 I heard and urged you to cut short the tale, 
 Happy had I been able to erase 
 From my remembrance that unworthy 
 
 part 
 Of such a splendid record. I, in turn, 
 Am I too made the slave of love, and 
 
 brought 
 To stoop so low? The more contemptible 
 That no renown is mine such as exalts 
 The name of Theseus, that no monsters 
 
 quell'd 
 Have given me a right to share his weak- 
 ness. 
 
 And if my pride of heart must needs be 
 humbled, 
 
 Aricia should have been the last to tame it. 
 
 Was I beside myself to have forgotten 
 
 Eternal barriers of separation 
 
 Between us? By my father's stern com- 
 mand 
 
 Her brethren's blood must ne'er be rein- 
 forced 
 
 By sons of hers; he dreads a single shoot 
 
 From stock so guilty, and would fain with 
 her 
 
 Bury their name, that, even to the tomb 
 
 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 — 
 Therambnes. The gods, dear prince, if 
 once your hour is come, 
 
 Care little for the reasons that should 
 guide us. 
 
 Wishing to shut your eyes, Theseus unseals 
 
 ' them; 
 
 His hatred, stirring a rebellious flame 
 
 (Within you, lends his enemy new charms. 
 
 And, after all, why should a guiltless pas- 
 sion 
 
 Alarm you? Dare you not essay its sweet- 
 ness, 
 
 But follow rather a fastidious scruple? 
 
 Fear you to stray where Hercules has wan- 
 der'd? 
 
 What heart so stout that Venus has not 
 vanquish'd? 
 
 Where would you be yourself, so long her 
 foe. 
 
 Had your own mother, constant in her scorn 
 
 Of love, ne'er glowed with tenderness for 
 Theseus? 
 
 What boots it to affect a pride you feel not? 
 
 Confess it, all is changed; for some time 
 past 
 
 You have been seldom seen with wild de- 
 light 
 
 Urging the rapid car along the strand, 
 
 Or, skillful in the art that Neptune taught, 
 
 Making th' unbroken steed obey the bit; 
 
 Less often have the woods return'd our 
 shouts; 
 
 A secret burden on your spirits cast 
 
 Has dimm'd your eye. How can I doubt 
 you love? 
 
PH^DRA 
 
 30s 
 
 Vainly would you conceal the fatal wound. 
 
 Has not the fair Aricia touch'd your heart? 
 
 HippoLTTtrs. Theramenes, I go to find 
 
 my father. 
 THEBAMEirES. Will you not see the 
 queen before you start, , 
 My prince? 
 HippoLTTUs. That is my purpose: you 
 can tell her. 
 Yes, I will see her; duty bids me do it. 
 But what new ill vexes her dear OEnone? 
 
 [Enter CEnone.] 
 
 CEnonb. Alas, my lord, what grief was 
 e'er Uke mine? 
 The queen has almost touch'd the gates of 
 
 death. 
 Vainly close watch I keep by day and night, 
 E'en in my arms a secret malady 
 Slays her, and all her senses are disorder'd. 
 Weary yet restless from her couch she rises, 
 Pants for the outer air, but bids me see 
 That no one on her misery intrudes. 
 She comes. 
 
 HippoLYTtrs. Enough. She shall not be 
 disturb'd, 
 Nor be confronted with a face she hates. 
 
 [Exeunt Hippolytus and Thera- 
 menes.] 
 
 [Enter Ph^dba.] 
 
 PhjEdra. We have gone far enough. 
 
 Stay, dear CEnone; 
 Strength fails me, and I needs must rest 
 
 awhile. 
 My eyes are dazzled with this glaring light 
 So long unseen, my trembling knees refuse 
 Support. Ah me! 
 
 CEnone. Would Heaven that our tears 
 Might bring relief! 
 
 Phledka. Ah, how these cumbrous gauds. 
 These veils oppress me! What officious 
 
 hand 
 Has tied these knots, and gather'd o'er my 
 
 brow 
 These clustering coils? How all conspires 
 
 to add 
 To my distress! 
 
 CEnone. What is one moment wish'd. 
 The next, is irksome. Did you not just now. 
 Sick of inaction, bid us deck you out. 
 And, with your former energy recall'd, 
 
 Desire to go abroad, and see the light 
 
 Of day once more? You see it, and would 
 fain 
 
 Be hidden from the sunshine that you 
 sought. 
 PaajDRA. Thou glorious author of a hap- 
 less race. 
 
 Whose daughter 't was my mother's boast 
 to be. 
 
 Who well may'st blush to see me in such 
 plight, 
 
 For the last time I come to look on thee, 
 
 OSun! 
 CEnone. What ! Still are you in love with 
 death? 
 
 Shall I ne'er see you, reconciled to life. 
 
 Forego these cruel accents of despair? 
 Ph^dra. Would I were seated in the 
 forest's shade! 
 
 When may I follow with delighted eye, 
 
 Thro' glorious dust flying in full career, 
 
 A chariot — 
 
 CEnone. Madam? 
 
 Ph^dra. Have I lost my senses? 
 
 What said I? and where am I? Whither 
 stray 
 
 Vain wishes? Ah! The gods have made me 
 mad. 
 
 I blush, CEnone, and confusion covers 
 
 My face, for I M&ve let you see too clearly 
 
 The shame and grief that, in my own de- 
 spite, 
 
 O'ferflow these eyes of mine. 
 CEnone. If you must blush. 
 
 Blush at a silence that inflames your woes. 
 
 Resisting all my care, deaf to my voice. 
 
 Will you have no compassion on yourself, 
 
 But let your life be ended in mid course? 
 
 What evil spell has drain'd its fountain dry? 
 
 Thrice have the shades of night obscured 
 the heav'ns 
 
 Since sleep has enter'd thro' your eyes, and 
 thrice 
 
 The dawn has chased the darkness thence, 
 since food 
 
 Pass'd your wan lips, and you are faint and 
 languid. 
 
 To what dread purpose is your heart in- 
 clined? 
 
 How dare you make attempts upon your 
 life. 
 
 And so offend the gods who gave it you, 
 
3o6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Prove false to Theseus and your marriage 
 
 vows, 
 Ay, and betray your most unhappy chil- 
 dren, 
 Bending their necks yourself beneath the 
 
 yoke? 
 That day, be sure, which robs them of their 
 
 mother, 
 Will give high hopes back to the stranger's 
 
 son, 
 To that proud enemy of you and yours, 
 To whom an Amazon gave birth, I mean 
 Hippolytus — 
 
 I^^DRA. Ye gods! 
 CEnonb. Ah, this reproach 
 Moves you! 
 Ph^dra. Unhappy woman, to what 
 
 name 
 Gave your mouth utterance? 
 
 CEnone. Your wrath is just. 
 'T is well that that ill-omen'd name can 
 
 rouse 
 Such rage. Then live. Let love and duty 
 
 urge 
 Their claims. Live, suffer not this son of 
 
 Scythia, 
 Crushing your children 'neath his odious 
 
 sway, 
 To rule the noble offspring of the gods. 
 The purest blood of Greece'. Make no delay; 
 Each moment threatens death; quickly 
 
 restore 
 Your shatter' d strength, while yet the 
 
 torch of life 
 Holds out, and can be fann'd into a flame. 
 PhjEDBa. Too long have I endured its 
 
 guilt and shame! 
 CEnone. Why? What remorse gnaws at 
 
 your heart? What crime 
 Can have disturb'd you thus? Your hands 
 
 are not 
 Polluted with the blood of innocence? 
 Ph.«;dba. Thanks be to Heav'n, my 
 
 hands are free from stain. 
 Would that my soul were innocent as they! 
 CEnone. What awful project have you 
 
 then conceived, 
 Whereat your conscience should be still 
 
 alarm'd? 
 Ph.«)dra. Have I not said enough? 
 
 Spare me the rest. 
 I die to save myself a full confession. 
 
 CEnone. Die then, and keep a silence so 
 inhuman; 
 But seek some other hand to close your 
 
 eyes. 
 Tho' but a spark of life remains within you, 
 My soul shall go before you to the Shades. 
 A thousand roads are always open thither; 
 Pain'd at your want of confidence, I'll 
 
 choose 
 The shortest. Cruel one, when has my 
 
 faith 
 Deceived you? Think how in my arms you 
 
 lay 
 New bom. For you, my country and my 
 
 children 
 I have forsaken. Do you thus repay 
 My faithful service? 
 
 PttsiDRA. What do you expect 
 From words so bitter? Were I to break 
 
 silence. 
 Horror would freeze your blood. 
 
 CEnone. What can you say 
 To horrify me more than to behold 
 You die before my eyes? 
 
 PaEDRA. When you shall know 
 My crime, my death will follow none the 
 
 less. 
 But with the added stain of guilt. 
 
 CEnone. Dear madam, 
 By all the tears that I have shed for you, 
 By these weak knees I clasp, relieve my 
 
 mind 
 From torturing doubt. 
 PhjEdra. It is your wish. Then rise. 
 CEnone. I hear you. Speak. 
 PaffliDRA. Heav'ns! How shall I begin? 
 CEnone. Dismiss vain fears, you wound 
 
 me with distrust. 
 PaEDRA. O fatal animosity of Venus! 
 Into what wild distractions did she cast 
 My mother! 
 QEnonb. Be they blotted from remem- 
 brance. 
 And for all time to come buried in silence. 
 Ph^dra. My sister Ariadne, by what 
 love 
 Were you betray'd to death, on lonely 
 
 shores 
 Forsaken! 
 
 CEnone. Madam, what deep-seated pain 
 Prompts these reproaches against all your 
 kin? 
 
PH^DRA 
 
 307 
 
 PhjEDRA. It is the will of Venus, and I 
 perish, 
 Last, most unhappy of a family 
 Where all were wretched. 
 CEnonb. Do you love? 
 PttsiDRA.. I feel 
 All its mad fever. 
 
 CEnone. Ah! For whom? 
 Paffi!DRA. Hear now 
 The crowning horror. Yes, I love — my 
 
 lips 
 Tremble to say his name. , 
 (Enonb. Whom? 
 Fbmdha. Know you him. 
 Son of the Amazon, whom I've oppress'd 
 So long? 
 
 CEnone. Hippolytus? Great gods! 
 PaaiDRA. 'T is you 
 Have named him. 
 
 CEnone. All my blood within my veins 
 Seems frozen. O despair! O cursM race! 
 ni-omen'd journey! Land of misery! 
 Why did we ever reach thy dangerous 
 shores? 
 PaaiDRA. My wound is not so recent. 
 Scarcely had I 
 Been bound to Theseus by the marriage 
 
 yoke. 
 And happiness and peace seem'd well 
 
 secured, 
 When Athens show'd me my proud enemy. 
 I look'd, alternately tum'd pale and 
 
 blush'd 
 To see him, and my soul grew all distraught ; 
 A mist obscured my vision, and my voice 
 Falter'd, my blood ran cold, then burn'd 
 
 like fire; 
 Venus I felt in all my fever'd frame. 
 Whose fury had so many of my race 
 Pursued. With fervent vows I sought to 
 
 shun 
 Her torments, built and deck'd for her a 
 
 shrine, 
 And there, 'mid countless victims did I 
 
 seek 
 The reason I had lost; but all for naught, 
 No remedy could cure the wounds of love! 
 In vain I offer'd incense on her altars; 
 When I invoked her name my heart adored 
 Hippolytus, before me constantly; 
 And when I made her altars smoke .with 
 victims, 
 
 'T was for a god whose name I dared not 
 
 utter. 
 I fled his presence everywhere, but found 
 
 him — 
 
 crowning horror! — in his father's fea- 
 
 tures. 
 Against myself, at last, I raised revolt, 
 And stirr'd my courage up to persecute 
 The enemy I loved. To banish him 
 
 1 wore a step-dame's harsh and jealous 
 
 carriage. 
 With ceaseless cries I clamor'd for his exile, 
 Till I had torn him from his father's arms. 
 I breathed once more, CEnone; in his ab- 
 sence 
 My days flow'd on less troubled than before, 
 And innocent. Submissive 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 
 Again the enemy whom I had banish'd. 
 And the old wound too quickly bled afresh. 
 No longer is it love hid in my heart, 
 But Venus in her might seizing her prey. 
 I have conceived just terror for my crime; 
 I hate my life, and hold my love in horror. 
 Dying I wish'd to keep my fame unsullied, 
 And bury in the grave a guilty passion; 
 But I have been unable to withstand 
 Tears and entreaties, I have told you all; 
 Content, if only, as my end draws near. 
 You do not vex me with unjust reproaches. 
 Nor with vain efforts seek to snatch from 
 
 death 
 The last faint lingering sparks of vital 
 breath. 
 
 [Enter Panope.] 
 
 Panopb. Fain would I hide from you 
 tidings so sad, 
 But 't is my duty, madam, to reveal them. 
 The hand of death has seized your peerless 
 
 husband. 
 And you are last to hear of this disaster. 
 CEnone. What say you, Panope? 
 Panope. The queen, deceived 
 By a vain trust in Heav'n, begs safe return 
 For Theseus, while Hippolytus his son 
 Learns of his death from vessels that are 
 
 now 
 In port. 
 
3o8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Ph^dra. Ye gods! 
 
 Pajjope. Divided counsels sway 
 
 The choice of Athens; some would have the 
 prince, 
 
 Your child, for master; others, disregarding 
 
 The laws, dare to support the stranger's 
 son. 
 
 'T is even said that a presumptuous faction 
 
 Would crown Aricia and the house of 
 Pallas. 
 
 I deem'd it right to warn you of this danger. 
 
 Hippolytus already is prepared 
 
 To start, and should he show himself at 
 Athens, 
 
 'T is to be fear'd the fickle crowd will all 
 
 Follow his lead. 
 
 (Enonb. Enough. The queen, who hears 
 you. 
 
 By no means will neglect this timely warn- 
 ing. [Exit Panope.] 
 
 Dear lady, I had almost ceased to urge 
 
 The wish that you should Uve, thinking to 
 follow 
 
 My mistress to the tomb, from which my 
 voice 
 
 Had fail'd to turn you; but this new mis- 
 fortune 
 
 Alters the aspect of affairs, and prompts 
 
 Fresh measures. Madam, Theseus is no 
 more, 
 
 You must supply his place. He leaves a 
 son, 
 
 A slave, if you should die, but, if you live, 
 
 A king. On whom has he to lean but you? 
 
 No hand but yours will dry his tears. Then 
 live 
 
 For him, or else the tears of innocence 
 
 Will move the gods, his ancestors, to wrath 
 
 Against his mother. Live, your guilt is gone, 
 
 No blame attaches to your passion now. 
 
 The king's decease has freed you from the 
 bonds 
 
 That made the crime and horror of your 
 love. 
 
 Hippolytus no longer need be dreaded. 
 
 Him you may see henceforth without re- 
 proach. 
 
 It may be, that, convinced of your aversion, 
 
 He means to head the rebels. Undeceive 
 him. 
 
 Soften his callous heart, and bend his pride. 
 
 King of this fertile land, in Troezen here 
 
 His portion lies; but as he knows, the laws 
 Give to your son the ramparts that Min- 
 erva 
 Built and protects. A common enemy 
 Threatens you both, unite then to oppose 
 Aricia. 
 
 PaEDEA. To your counsel I consent. 
 Yes, I will live, if life can be restored, 
 If my affection for a son has pow'r 
 To rouse my sinking heart at such a dan- 
 gerous hour. [Exeunt.] 
 
 ACT II 
 
 [Enter Aricia and Ismbnb.] 
 
 Ahicia. Hippolytus request to see me 
 here! 
 
 Hippolytus desire to bid farewell! 
 
 Is't true, Ismene? Are you not deceived? 
 IsMENE. This is the first result of 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. 
 Aeicia. 'T is not then, Ismene, 
 
 An idle tale? Am I no more a slave? 
 
 Have I no enemies? 
 Ismene. The gods oppose 
 
 Your peace no longer, and the soul of 
 Theseus 
 
 Is with your brothers. 
 Aricia. Does the voice of fame 
 
 Tell how he died? 
 
 Ismene. Rumors incredible 
 
 Are spread. Some say that, seizing a new 
 bride. 
 
 The faithless husband by the waves was 
 swallow'd. 
 
 Others aflSrm, and this report prevails, 
 
 That with Pirithous to the world below 
 
 He went, and saw the shores of dark Cocy- 
 tus. 
 
 Showing himself alive to the pale ghosts; 
 
 But that he could not leave those gloomy 
 realms, 
 
 Which whoso enters there abides forever. 
 Aricia. Shall I believe that ere his des- 
 tined hour 
 
PH^DRA 
 
 309 
 
 A mortal may descend into the gulf 
 
 Of Hades? What attraction 'could o'er- 
 
 come 
 Its terrors? 
 
 IsMENE. He is dead, and you alone 
 Doubt it. The men of Athens mourn his 
 
 loss. 
 Troezen already hails Hippolytus 
 As king. And Phpedra, fearing for her son, 
 Asks counsel of the friends who share her 
 
 trouble, 
 Here in this palace. 
 
 Abicia. Will Hippolytus, 
 Think you, prove kinder than his sire, make 
 
 light 
 My chains, and pity my misfortunes? 
 
 IsMENE. Yes, 
 I think so, madam. 
 
 Aricia. Ah, you know him not 
 Or you would never deem so hard a heart 
 Can pity feel, or me alone except 
 From the contempt in which he holds our 
 
 sex. 
 Has he not long avoided every spot 
 Where we resort? 
 
 IsMENE. I know what tales are told 
 Of proud Hippolytus, but I have seen 
 Him near you, and have watch'd with curi- 
 ous eye 
 How one esteem'd so cold would bear him- 
 self. 
 Little did his behavior correspond 
 With what I look'd for; in his face confusion 
 Appear'd at your first glance, he could not 
 
 turn 
 Has languid eyes away, but gazed on you. 
 Love is a word that may offend his pride. 
 But what the tongue disowns, looks can 
 betray. 
 Abicia. How eagerly my heart hears 
 what you say, 
 Tho' it may be delusion, dear Ismene! 
 Did it seem possible to you, who know me, 
 That I, sad sport of a relentless Fate, 
 Fed upon bitter tears by night and day. 
 Could ever taste the maddening draught of 
 
 love? 
 The last frail offspring of a royal race, 
 Children of Earth, I only have survived 
 War's fury. Cut off in the flow'r of youth, 
 Mown by the sword, six brothers have I 
 lost, 
 
 The hope of an illustrious house, whose 
 
 blood 
 Earth drank with sorrow, near akin to his 
 Whom she herself produced. Since then, 
 
 you know 
 How thro' all Greece no heart has been 
 
 allow'd 
 To sigh for me, lest by a sister's flame 
 The brothers' ashes be perchance rekindled. 
 You know, besides, with what disdain I 
 
 view'd 
 My conqueror's suspicions and precau- 
 tions. 
 And how, oppos'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 his son. 
 Not that, attracted merely by the eye, 
 I love him for his beauty and his grace. 
 Endowments which he owes to Nature's 
 
 bounty. 
 Charms which he seems to know not or to 
 
 scorn. 
 I love and prize in him riches more rare, 
 The virtues of his sire, without his faults. 
 I love, as I must own, that generous pride 
 Which ne'er has stoop'd beneath the amor- 
 ous yoke. 
 Phaedra reaps little glory from a lover 
 So lavish of his sighs; I am too proud 
 To share devotion with a thousand others. 
 Or enter where the door is always open. 
 But to make one who ne'er has stoop'd be- 
 fore 
 Bend his proud neck, to pierce a heart of 
 
 stone. 
 To bind a captive whom his chains astonish, 
 I Who vainly 'gainst a pleasing yoke rebels, — 
 That piques my ardor, and I long for that. 
 'T was easier to disarm the god of strength 
 Than this Hippolytus, for Hercules 
 Yielded so often to the eyes of beauty. 
 As to make triumph cheap. But, dear 
 
 Ismene, 
 I take too little heed of opposition 
 Beyond my pow'r to quell, and you may 
 
 hear me. 
 Humbled by sore defeat, upbraid the pride 
 I now admire. What! Can he love? and I 
 Have had the happiness to bend — 
 
 Ismene. He comes. 
 Yourself shall hear him. 
 
310 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 [Enter HippolytusJ 
 
 HippoLTTUS. Lady, ere I go 
 My duty bids me tell you of your change 
 Of fortune. My worst fears are realized; 
 My sire is dead. Yes, his protracted ab- 
 sence 
 Was caused as I foreboded. Death alone, 
 Ending his toOs, could keep him from the 
 
 world 
 Conceal'd so long. The gods at last have 
 
 doom'd 
 Alcides' friend, companion, and successor. 
 I think your hatred, tender to his virtues, 
 Can hear such terms of praise without re- 
 sentment. 
 Knowing them due. One hope have I that 
 
 soothes 
 My sorrow: I can free you from restraint. 
 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 Troezen, where my grandsire Pittheus 
 
 reign'd 
 Of yore and I am now acknowledged king, 
 I leave you free, free as myself, — and 
 
 more. 
 Akicia. Your kindness is too great, 't is 
 
 overwhelming. 
 Such generosity, that pays disgrace 
 With honor, lends more force than you can 
 
 think 
 To those harsh laws from which you would 
 
 release me. 
 HippoLYTtrs. Athens, uncertain how to 
 
 fill the throne 
 Of Theseus, speaks of you, anon of me, 
 And then of Phaedra's son. 
 Aeicia. Of me, my lord? 
 HippoLTTCs. I know myself excluded by 
 
 strict law: 
 Greece turns to my reproach a foreign 
 
 mother. 
 But if my brother were my only rival. 
 My rights prevail o'er his clearly enough 
 To make me careless of the law's caprice. 
 My forwardness is check'd by juster claims : 
 To you I yield my place, or, rather, own 
 That it is yours by right, and yours the 
 
 scepter. 
 As handed down from Earth's great son, 
 
 Erechtheus. 
 
 Adoption placed it in the hands of .^igeus: 
 Athens, by him protected and increased. 
 Welcomed a king so generous as my sire. 
 And left your hapless brothers in oblivion. 
 Now she invites you back within her walls; 
 Protracted strife has cost her groans enough, 
 Her fields are glutted with your kinsmen's 
 
 blood 
 Fatt'ning the furrows out of which it sprung 
 At first. I rule this Troezen; whUe the son 
 Of Phaedra has in Crete a rich domain. 
 Athens is yours. I will do all I can 
 To join for you the votes divided now 
 Between us. 
 
 Aricia. Stunn'd at all I hear, my lord, 
 I fear, I almost fear a dream deceives me. 
 Am I indeed awake? Can I believe 
 Such generosity? What god has put it 
 Into your heart? Well is the fame deserved 
 That you enjoy! That fame falls short of 
 
 truth! 
 Would you for me prove traitor to yourself? 
 Was it not boon enough never to hate me, 
 So long to have abstain'd from harboring 
 The enmity — 
 HippoLTTua. To hate you? I, to hate 
 you? 
 However darkly my fierce pride was 
 
 painted, 
 Do you suppose a monster gave me birth? 
 What savage temper, what envenom'd 
 
 hatred 
 Would not be mollified at sight of you? 
 Could I resist the soul-bewitching charm — 
 Aricia. Why, what is tliis, sir? 
 HippoLYTus. I have said too much 
 Not to say more. Prudence in vain resists 
 The violence of passion. I have broken 
 Silence at last, and I must tell you now 
 The secret that my heart can hold no longer. 
 You see before you an unhappy instance 
 Of hasty pride, a prince who claims com- 
 passion. 
 I, who, so long the enemy of Love, 
 Mock'd at his fetters and despised his cap- 
 tives, 
 Who, pitying poor mortals that were ship- 
 
 wreck'd. 
 In seeming safety view'd the storms from 
 
 land. 
 Now find myself to the same fate exposed, 
 Toss'd to and fro upon a sea of troubles! 
 
PH^DRA 
 
 3" 
 
 My boldness has been vanquish'd in a 
 
 moment, 
 And humbled is the pride wherein I boasted. 
 For nearly six months past, ashamed, 
 
 despairing, 
 Bearing where'er I go the shaft that rends 
 My heart, I struggle vainly to be free 
 From you and from myself; I shun you, 
 
 present; 
 Absent, I find you near; I see your form 
 In the dark forest depths; the shades of 
 
 night, 
 Nor less broad daylight, bring back to my 
 
 view 
 The charms that I avoid; all things con- 
 spire 
 To make Hippolytus your slave. For fruit 
 Of all my bootless sighs, I fail to find 
 My former self. My bow and javelins 
 Please me no more, my chariot is forgotten, 
 With all the Sea God's lessons; and the 
 
 woods 
 Echo my groans instead of joyous shouts 
 Urging my fiery steeds. 
 
 Hearing this tale 
 Of passion so uncouth, you blush perchance 
 At your own handiwork. With what wild 
 
 words 
 I offer you my heart, strange captive held 
 By silken jess! But dearer in your eyes 
 Should be the offering, that this language 
 
 comes 
 Strange to my lips; reject not vows ex- 
 press' d 
 So ill, which but for you had ne'er been 
 form'd. 
 
 [Enter Thekamenes.] 
 
 Thebamenbs. Prince, the queen comes. 
 I herald her approach. 
 'T is you she seeks. 
 Hippolytus. Me? 
 
 Thebamenbs. What her thought may be 
 I know not. But I speak on her behalf. 
 She would converse with you ere you go 
 hence. 
 Hippolytus. What shall I say to her? 
 
 Can she expect — 
 Aeicta. You cannot, noble Prince, re- 
 fuse to hear her, 
 Howe'er convinced she is your enemy, 
 Some shade of pity to her tears is due. 
 
 Hippolytus. Shall we part thus? and 
 will you let me go, 
 Not knowing if my boldness has offended 
 The goddess I adore? Whether this heart, 
 Left in your hands — 
 
 Aricia. Go, Prince, pursue the schemes 
 Your generous soul dictates, make Athens 
 
 own 
 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 sight. 
 [Exeunt Aricia and Ismenb.] 
 Hippolytus. Friend, is all ready? 
 But the Queen approaches. 
 G<), see the vessel in fit trim to sail. 
 Haste, bid the crew aboard, and hoist the 
 
 signal; 
 Then soon return, and so deliver me 
 From interview most irksome. 
 
 [Exit Therameneb.] 
 
 [Enter Pblbdra and OEnonb.] 
 
 Ph.«!dra [to CEnone]. There I see him! 
 My blood forgets to flow, my tongue to 
 
 What I am come to say. 
 
 (Enonb. Think of your son. 
 How all his hopes depend on you. 
 
 Ph^dra. I hear 
 You leave us, and in haste. I come to add 
 My tears to your distress, and for a son 
 Plead my alarm. No more has he a father. 
 And at no distant day my son must witness 
 My death. Already do a thousand foes 
 Threaten his youth. You only can defend 
 
 him. 
 But in my secret heart remorse awakes. 
 And fear lest I have shut your ears against 
 His cries. I tremble lest your righteous 
 
 anger 
 Visit on him ere long the hatred earn'd 
 By me, his mother. 
 
 Hippolytus. No such base resentment, 
 Madam, is mine. 
 
 Ph^dba. I could not blame you. Prince, 
 If you should hate me. I have injured you: 
 So much you know, but could not read my 
 
 heart. 
 T' incur your enmity has been mine aim : 
 The selfsame borders could not hold us 
 both; 
 
312 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 In public and in private I declared 
 Myself your foe, and found no peace till 
 
 seas 
 Parted us from each other. I forbade 
 Your very name to be pronounced before 
 
 me.> 
 And yet if punishment should be propor- 
 
 tion'd 
 To the offense, if only hatred draws 
 Your hatred, never woman merited 
 More pity, less deserved your enmity. 
 HippoLYTUs. A mother jealous of her 
 
 children's rights 
 Seldom forgives the offspring of a wife 
 Who reign'd before her. Harassing sus- 
 picions 
 Are common sequels of a second marriage. 
 Of me would any other have been jealous 
 No less than you, perhaps more violent. 
 PH.iBDRA. Ah, Prince, how Heav'n has 
 
 from the general law 
 Made me exempt, be that same Heav'n my 
 
 witness ! 
 Far different is the trouble that devours me! 
 HippoLTTTjs. This is no time for self- 
 reproaches, madam. 
 It may be that your husband still beholds 
 The light, and Heav'n may grant him safe 
 
 return. 
 In answer to our prayers. His guardian god 
 Is Neptune, ne'er by him invoked in vain. 
 Ph.«:dka. He who has seen the mansions 
 
 of the dead 
 Returns not thence. Since to those gloomy 
 
 shores 
 Theseus is gone, 't is vain to hope that 
 
 Heav'n 
 May send him back. Prince, there is no 
 
 release 
 From Acheron's greedy maw. And yet, me- 
 
 thinks, 
 He lives, and breathes in you. I see him 
 
 still 
 Before me, and to him I seem to speak; 
 My heart - — 
 
 Oh! I am mad; do what I will, 
 I cannot hide my passion. 
 HippoLTTUS. Yes, I see 
 The strange effects of love. Theseus, tho' 
 
 dead. 
 Seems present to your eyes, for in your soul 
 There burns a constant flame. 
 
 PHiEDRA. Ah, yes, for Theseus 
 I languish and I long, not as the Shades 
 Have seen him, of a thousand different 
 
 forms 
 The fickle lover, and of Pluto's bride 
 The would-be ravisher, but faithful, proud 
 E'en to a slight disdain, with youthful 
 
 charms 
 Attracting every heart, as gods are painted. 
 Or like yourseff. He had your mien, your 
 
 eyes. 
 Spoke and could blush like you, when to the 
 
 isle 
 Of Crete, my childhood's home, he cross'd 
 
 the waves. 
 Worthy to win the love of Minos' daughters. 
 What were you doing then? Why did he 
 
 gather 
 The flow'r of Greece, and leave Hippolytus? 
 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 windings of his vast retreat. 
 To guide yom: doubtful steps within the 
 
 maze 
 My sister would have arm'd you with the 
 
 clue. 
 But no, therein would Phsedra 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 
 
 ways. 
 What anxious care a life so dear had cost me! 
 No thread had satisfied your lover's fears: 
 I would myself have wish'd to lead the way, 
 And share the peril you were bound to face ; 
 Phaedra with you would have explored the 
 
 maze. 
 With you emerged in safety, or have 
 
 perish'd. 
 Hippolytus. Gods! What is this I hear? 
 
 Have you forgotten 
 That Theseus is my father and your hus- 
 band? 
 Ph^dra. Why should you fancy I have 
 
 lost remembrance 
 Thereof, and am regardless of mine honor? 
 
PH^DRA 
 
 3T3 
 
 HippoLTTus. 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 — 
 
 PosaiRA. Ahl cruel Prince, too well 
 
 You imderstood me. I have said enough 
 
 To save you from mistake. I love. But 
 think not 
 
 That at the moment when I love you most 
 
 I do not feel my guilt; no weak compliance 
 
 Has fed the poison that infects my brain. 
 
 The ill-starr'd object of celestial vengeance, 
 
 I am not so detestable to you 
 
 As to myself. The gods will bear me wit- 
 ness, 
 
 Who have within my veins kindled this fire. 
 
 The gods, who take a barbarous delight 
 
 In leading a poor mortal's heart astray. 
 
 Do you yourself recall to miad the past: 
 
 'T was not enough for me to fly, I chased 
 you 
 
 Out of the country, wishing to appear 
 
 Inhuman, odious; to resist you better, 
 
 I sought to make you hate me. All in 
 vain! 
 / Hating me more I loved you none the less: 
 
 New channs were lent to you by your mis- 
 fortunes. 
 
 I have been drown'd in tears, and scorch'd 
 by fire; 
 
 Your own eyes might convince you of the 
 truth. 
 
 If for one moment you could look at me. 
 
 What is 't I say? Think you this vile con- 
 fession 
 
 That I have made is what I meant to utter? 
 
 Not daring to betray a son for whom 
 
 I trembled, 't was to beg you not to hate 
 him 
 
 I came. Weak purpose of a heart too full 
 
 Of love for you to speak of aught besides! 
 
 Take your revenge, ptmish my odious 
 passion; 
 
 Prove yourself worthy of your valiant sire, 
 
 And rid the world of an offensive monster! 
 
 Does Theseus' widow dare to love his son? 
 
 The frightful monster! Let her not escape 
 you! 
 
 Here is my heart. This is the place to strike. 
 
 Already prompt to expiate its guilt, 
 
 I feel it leap impatiently to meet 
 
 Your arm. Strike home. Or, if it would 
 
 disgrace you 
 To steep your hand in such polluted blood, 
 If that were punishment too mild to slake 
 Your hatred, lend me then your s^yord, if 
 
 not 
 Your arm. Quick, giv't. 
 
 QEnone. What, madam, will you do? 
 Just gods! But some one comes. Go, fly 
 
 from shame. 
 You carmot 'scape if seen by any thus. 
 
 [Exeunt Ph^dra and (Enonb.] 
 
 [Enter Thekamenbs.] 
 
 Theramhnes. Is that the form of 
 Phaedra that I see 
 Hurried away? What mean these signs of 
 
 sorrow? 
 Where is your sword? Why are yofl pale, 
 confused? 
 HiPPOLTfTus. Friend, let us fly. I am, 
 indeed, confounded 
 With horror and astonishment extreme. 
 Phsedra — but no; gods, let this dreadful 
 
 secret 
 Remain forever buried in oblivion. 
 Theramenbs. The ship is ready if you 
 wish to sail. 
 But Athens has already giv'n her vote; 
 Their leaders have consulted all her tribes; 
 Your brother is elected, Phsedra wins 
 HippoLTTUS. Phsedra? 
 Theramenes. a herald, charged with a 
 commission 
 From Athens, has arrived to place the reins 
 Of power in her hands. Her son is king. 
 HippoLTTUS. Yegods, whoknowher, do 
 ye thus reward 
 Her virtue? 
 Theramenes. A faint rumor meanwhile 
 whispers 
 That Theseus is not dead, but in Epirus 
 Has shown himself. But, after all my 
 
 search, 
 I know too well — 
 
 HippoLTTtrs. Let nothing be neglected. 
 This rumor must be traced back to its 
 
 source. 
 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. [Exeunt.] 
 
314 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 ACT III 
 [Enter PhjBdra and CEnone.] 
 
 Phledra. Ah! Let them take elsewhere 
 
 the worthless honors 
 They bring me. Why so urgent I should 
 
 see them? 
 What flattering balm can soothe my 
 
 wounded heart? 
 Far rather hide me: I have said too much. 
 My madness has burst forth like streams 
 
 in flood, 
 And I have utter'd what should ne'er have 
 
 reach'd 
 His ear. Gods! How he heard me! How 
 
 reluctant 
 To catch my meaning, diill and cold as 
 
 marble. 
 And eager only for a quick retreat! 
 How oft his blushes made my shame the 
 
 deeper! 
 Why did you turn me from the death I 
 
 sought? 
 Ah! When his sword was pointed to my 
 
 bosom, 
 Did he grow pale, or try to snatch it from 
 
 me? 
 That I had touch'd it was enough for him 
 To render it forever horrible. 
 Leaving defilement on the hand that holds 
 
 it. 
 CEnone. Thus brooding on your bitter 
 
 disappointment. 
 You only fan a fire that must be stifled. 
 Would it not be more worthy of the blood 
 Of Minos to find peace in nobler cares, 
 And, in defiance of a wretch who flies 
 From what he hates, reign, mount the 
 
 proffer'd throne? 
 Ph-s!DRA. I reign! Shall I the rod of 
 
 empire sway, 
 When reason reigns 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? 
 (Enonb. Fly. 
 
 Ph^dra. I cannot leave him. 
 (Enonb. Dare you not fly from him you 
 
 dared to banish? 
 Ph^dra. The time for that is past. He 
 
 knows my frenzy. 
 
 I have o'erstepp'd the bounds of modesty. 
 
 And blazon'd forth my shame before his 
 eyes. 
 
 Hope stole into my heart against my wiU. 
 
 Did you not rally my declining pow'rs? 
 
 Was it not you yourself recall'd my soul 
 
 When fluttering on my lips, and with your 
 counsel, 
 
 Lent me fresh life, and told me I might love 
 him? 
 CEnone. Blame me or blame me not for 
 your misfortunes, 
 
 Of what was I incapable, to save you? 
 
 But if your indignation e'er was roused 
 
 By insult, can you pardon his contempt? 
 
 How cruelly his eyes, severely fix'd. 
 
 Survey 'd you almost prostrate at his feet! 
 
 How hateful then appear'd his savage pride! 
 /Why did not Phaedra see him then as I 
 I Beheld him? 
 
 PH.ffiaDRA. This proud mood that you re- 
 sent 
 
 May yield to time. The rudeness of the 
 forests 
 
 Where he was bred, inured to rigorous laws. 
 
 Clings to him still; love is a word he ne'er 
 
 Had heard before. It may be his surprise 
 
 Stunn'd him, and too much vehemence was 
 shown 
 
 In all I said. 
 CEnone. Remember that his mother 
 
 Was a barbarian. 
 
 Ph^dra. Scythian tho' she was, 
 
 She learned to love. 
 CEnone. He has for all the sex 
 
 Hatred intense. 
 
 Ph^dra. Then in his heart no rival 
 
 Shall ever reign. Your counsel comes too 
 late. 
 
 (Enone, serve my madness, not my reason. 
 
 His heart 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 was drawn to 
 Athens; 
 
 His vessels' prows were thither tum'd al- 
 ready. 
 
 All sail was set to scud before the breeze. 
 
 Go you on my behalf, to his ambition 
 
 Appeal, and let the prospect of the crown 
 
PH^DRA 
 
 315 
 
 Dazzle his eyes. The sacred diadem 
 Shall deck his brow, no higher honor mine 
 Than there to bind it. His shall be the 
 
 pow'r 
 I cannot keep; and he shall teach my son 
 How to rule men. It may be he will deign 
 To be to him a father. Son and mother 
 He shall control. Try ev'ry means to move 
 
 him; 
 Your words wiU find more favor than can 
 
 mine. 
 Urge him with groans and tears; show 
 
 Phaedra dying, 
 Nor blush to use the voice of supplication. 
 In you is my last hope; I'll sanction all 
 You say; and on the issue hangs my fate. 
 [Exit CEnone.] 
 FaxonA [alone]. Venus implacable, who 
 
 seest me shamed 
 And sore confounded, have I not enough 
 Been humbled? How can cruelty be 
 
 stretch'd 
 Farther? Thy shafts have all gone home, 
 
 and thou 
 Hast triumph'd. Would'st thou win a new 
 
 renown? 
 Attack an enemy more contumacious: 
 Hippolytus neglects thee, braves thy wrath. 
 Nor ever at thine altars bow'd the knee. 
 Thy name offends his proud, disdainful ears. 
 Our interests are alike: avenge thyself. 
 Force him to love — 
 But what is this? CEnone 
 Retum'd already? He detests me then, 
 And will not hear you. 
 
 [Enter CEnone.] 
 
 CEnone. Madam, you must stifle 
 A fruitless love. Recall your former virtue: 
 The king who was thought dead will soon 
 
 appear 
 Before your eyes, Theseus has just arrived, 
 Theseus is here. The people flock to see 
 
 him 
 With eager haste. I went by your command 
 To find the prince, when with a thousand 
 
 shouts 
 The air was rent — 
 
 PaaajBA. My husband is aUve, 
 That is enough, CEnone. I have own'd 
 A passion that dishonors him. He lives: 
 I ask to know no more. 
 
 CEnone. What? 
 PasiDRA. I foretold it. 
 But you refused to hear. Your tears pre- 
 
 vail'd 
 Over my just remorse. Dying this morn, 
 I had deserved compassion; your advice 
 I took, and die dishonor'd. 
 CEnone. Die? 
 Ph.«:dra. Just Heav'ns! 
 What have I done to-day? My husband 
 
 comes. 
 With him his son : and I shall see the witness 
 Of my adulterous flame watch with what 
 
 face 
 I greet his father, while my heart is big 
 With sighs he scorn 'd, and tears that could 
 
 not move him 
 Moisten mine eyes. Think you that his re- 
 spect 
 For Theseus will induce him to conceal 
 My madness, nor disgrace his sire and king? 
 Will he be able to keep back the horror 
 He has for me? His silence would be vain. 
 I know my treason, and I lack the boldness 
 Of those abandon'd women who can taste 
 Tranquillity in crime, and show a forehead 
 All unabash'd. I recognize my madness. 
 Recall it all. These vaulted roofs, me- 
 
 thinks, 
 These walls can speak, and, ready to accuse 
 
 me. 
 Wait but my husband's presence to reveal 
 My perfidy. Death only can remove 
 This weight of horror. Is it such misfortune 
 To cease to live? Death causes no alarm 
 To misery. I only fear the name 
 That I shall leave behind me. For my sons 
 How sad a heritage! The blood of Jove 
 Might justly swell the pride that boasts 
 
 descent 
 From Heav'n, but heavy weighs a mother's 
 
 guilt 
 Upon her offspring. Yes, I dread the scorn 
 That will be cast on them with too much 
 
 truth. 
 For my disgrace. I tremble when I think 
 That, crush'd beneath that curse, they'll 
 
 never dare 
 To raise their eyes. 
 
 CEnone. Doubt not I pity both; 
 Never was fear more just than yours. Why, 
 
 then, 
 
3i6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Expose them to this ignominy? Why 
 Will you accuse yourself? You thus de- 
 stroy 
 The only hope that's left; it will be said 
 That Phaedra, conscious of her perfidy, 
 Fled from her husband's sight. Hippolytus 
 Will be rejoiced that, dying, you should 
 
 lend 
 His charge support. What can I answer 
 
 him? 
 He'll find it easy to confute my tale, 
 And I shall hear him with an air of triumph 
 To every open ear repeat your shame. 
 Sooner than that may fire from heav'n con- 
 sume me I 
 Deceive me not. Say, do you love him still? 
 How look you now on this contemptuous 
 prince? 
 Ph^dra. As on a monster frightful to 
 
 mine eyes. 
 
 CEnonb. Why yield him, then, an easy 
 
 victory? 
 
 You fear him. Venture to accuse him first, 
 
 As guilty of the charge which he may bring 
 
 This day against you. Who can say 't is 
 
 false? 
 All tells against him: in your hands his 
 
 sword 
 Happily left behind, your present trouble, 
 Your past distress, your warnings to his 
 
 father, 
 His exile which your earnest pray'rs ob- 
 tain'd. 
 Ph^dba. What! Would you have me 
 
 slander innocence? 
 CEnone. My zeal has need of naught 
 from you but silence. 
 Like you I tremble, and am loath to do it; 
 More willingly I 'd face a thousand deaths. 
 But since without this bitter remedy 
 I lose you, and to me your life outweighs 
 All else, I'll speak. Theseus, howe'er en- 
 raged, 
 Will do no worse than banish him again. 
 A father, when he punishes, remains 
 A father, and his ire is satisfied 
 With a light sentence. But if guiltless blood 
 Should flow, is not your honor of more 
 
 moment? 
 A treasure far too precious to be risk'd? 
 You must submit, whatever it dictates; 
 For, when our reputation is at stake, 
 
 All must be sacrificed, conscience itself. 
 But someone comes. 'T is Theseus. 
 
 PH.«ajRA. And I see 
 Hippolytus, my ruin plainly written 
 In his stern eyes. Do what you will; I trust 
 My fate to you. I cannot help myself. 
 
 [Enter Theseus, Hippolytus, and 
 Thehamenes.] 
 
 Theseus. Fortune no longer fights 
 
 against my wishes, 
 Madam, and to your arms restores — 
 
 PaBDKA. Stay, Theseus! 
 Do not profane endearments that were once 
 So sweet, but which I am unworthy now 
 To taste. You have been wrong'd. Fortune 
 
 has proved 
 Spiteful, nor in your absence spared your 
 
 wife. 
 I am imfit to meet your fond caress, 
 How I may bear my shame my only care 
 Henceforth. 
 
 [Exeunt Ph^dha and CEnone.] 
 Theseus. Strange welcome for your 
 
 father, this! 
 What does it mean, my son? 
 HippoLiTus. Phaedra, alone 
 Can solve this mystery. But if my wish 
 Can move you, let me never see her more; 
 Suffer Hippolytus to disappear 
 Forever from the home that holds your 
 
 wife. 
 Theseus. You, my son! Leave me? 
 Hippolytus. 'T was not I who sought 
 
 her: 
 'T was you who led her footsteps to these 
 
 shores. 
 At your departure you thought meet, my 
 
 lord. 
 To trust Alicia and the queen to this 
 Troezenian land, and I myself was charged 
 With their protection. But what cares 
 
 henceforth 
 Need keep me here? My youth of idleness 
 Has shown its skill enough o'er paltry foes 
 That range the woods. May I not quit a 
 
 life 
 Of such inglorious ease, and dip my spear 
 In nobler blood? Ere you had reaoh'd my 
 
 age 
 More than one tyrant, monster more than 
 
 one 
 
PH^DRA 
 
 317 
 
 Had felt the weight of your stout arm. 
 
 Already, 
 Successful in attacking insolence, 
 You had removed all dangei^ that infested 
 Our coasts to east and west. The traveler 
 
 fear'd 
 Outrage no longer. Hearing of your deeds, 
 Already Hercules relied on you, 
 And rested from his toils. While I, un- 
 known 
 Son of so brave a sire, am far behind 
 Even my mother's footsteps. Let my cour- 
 age 
 Have scope to act, and if some monster yet 
 Has 'scaped you, let me lay the glorious 
 
 spoils 
 Down at yom* feet; or let the memory 
 Of death faced nobly keep my name alive. 
 And prove to all the world I was your son. 
 Theseus. Why, what is this? What 
 
 terror has possess'd 
 My family to make them fly before me? 
 If I return to find myself so fear'd. 
 So little welcome, why did Heav'n release 
 
 me 
 From prison? My sole friend, misled by 
 
 passion. 
 Was bent on robbing of his wife the tyrant 
 Who ruled Epihis. With regret I lent 
 The lover aid, but Fate had made us blind. 
 Myself as well as him. The tyrant seized 
 
 me 
 Defenseless and imarm'd. Pirithofls 
 I saw with tears cast forth to be devoiu^'d 
 By savage beasts that lapp'd the blood of 
 
 men. 
 Myself in gloomy caverns he enclosed, 
 Deep in the bowels of the earth, and nigh 
 To Pluto's realms. Six months I lay ere 
 
 Heav'n 
 Had pity, and I 'scaped the watchful eyes 
 That guarded me. Then did I purge the 
 
 world 
 Of a foul foe, and he himself has fed 
 His monsters. But when with expectant 
 
 joy 
 To all that is most precious I draw near 
 Of what the goda have left me, when my 
 
 soul 
 Looks for full satisfaction in a sight 
 So dear, my only welcome is a shudder, 
 Embrace rejected, and a hasty flight. 
 
 Inspiring, as I clearly do, such terror. 
 Would I were still a prisoner in Epirus! 
 Phaedra complaiils that I have suffer'd out- 
 rage. 
 Who has betray'd me? Speak. Why was I 
 
 not 
 Avenged? Has Greece, to whom mine arm 
 
 so oft 
 Brought useful aid, shelter'd the criminal? 
 You make no answer. Is my son, mine own 
 Dear son, confederate with mine enemies? 
 I'll enter. This suspense is overwhelming. 
 I'll learn at once the culprit and the crime. 
 And Phaedra must explain her troubled 
 state. [Exit.] 
 
 HiPPOLTTOS. What do these words por- 
 tend, which seem'd to freeze 
 My very blood? WUl Phaedra, in her frenzy, 
 Accuse herself, and seal her own destruc- 
 tion? 
 What will the ting say? Gods! What fatal 
 
 poison 
 Has love spread over all his house! Myself, 
 Full of a fire his hatred disapproves. 
 How changed he finds me from the son he 
 
 knew! 
 With dark forebodings is my mind alarm'd. 
 But innocence has surely naught to fear. 
 Come, let us go, and in some other place 
 Consider how I best may move my Sire 
 To tenderness, and tell him of a flame 
 Vex'd but not vanquish'd by a father's 
 blame. [Exeunt] 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 [Enter Theseus and CEnone.] 
 
 Theseus. Ah! What is this I hear? 
 Presumptuous traitor! 
 
 And would he have disgracied his father's 
 honor? 
 
 With what relentless footsteps Fate pur- 
 sues me! 
 
 Whither I go I know not, nor where now 
 
 I am. O kind aiSection ill repaid! 
 
 Audacious scheme! Abominable thought! 
 
 To reach the object of his foul desire 
 
 The wretch disdain'd not to use violence. 
 
 I know this sword that served him in his 
 
 fury, 
 
 The Bwcird I gave him for a nobler Use. 
 
3i8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Could not the sacred ties of blood restrain 
 
 him? 
 And Phaedra — was she loath to have him 
 
 punish'd? 
 She held her tongue. Was that to spare the 
 
 culprit? 
 (Enone. Nay, but to spare a most un- 
 happy father. 
 O'erwhelm'd with shame that her eyes 
 
 should have kindled 
 So infamous a flame and prompted him 
 To crime so heinous, Phaedra would have 
 
 died. 
 I saw her raise her arm, and ran to save her. 
 To me alone you owe it that she lives; 
 And, in my pity both for her and you, 
 Have I against my will interpreted 
 Her tears. 
 Theseus. The traitor! He might well 
 
 turn pale. 
 'T was fear that made him tremble when he 
 
 saw me. 
 I was astonish'd that he show'd no pleasure; 
 His frigid greeting chili'd my tenderness. 
 But was this guilty passion that devours 
 
 him 
 Declared already ere I banish'd him 
 From Athens? 
 
 CEnone. Sire, remember how the queen 
 
 Urged you. Illicit love caused all her hatred. 
 
 Thbsetts. And then this fire broke out 
 
 again at Trcezen? 
 CEnone. 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.] 
 
 [Enter Hippolttus.] 
 
 THESEtrs. Ah! There he is. Great gods! 
 
 That noble mien ■ 
 Might well deceive an eye less fond than 
 
 mine! 
 Why should the sacred stamp of virtue 
 
 gleam 
 Upon the forehead of an impious wretch! 
 Ought not the blackness of a traitor's heart 
 To show itself by sure and certain signs? 
 Hippolttus. My father, may I ask what 
 
 fatal cloud 
 Has troubled your majestic countenance? 
 Dare you not trust this secret to your son? 
 
 Theseus. Traitor, how dare you show 
 yourself before me? 
 Monster, whom Heaven's bolts have spared 
 
 too long! 
 Survivor of that robber crew whereof 
 I cleansed the earth. After your brutal lust 
 Scorn'd even to respect my marriage bed. 
 You venture — you, my hated foe — to 
 
 come 
 Into my presence, here, where all is full 
 Of your foul infamy, instead of seeking 
 Some unknown land that never heard my 
 
 name. 
 Fly, traitor, fly! Stay not to tempt the 
 
 wrath 
 That I can scarce restrain, nor brave my 
 
 hatred. 
 Disgrace enough have T incurr'd forever 
 In being father of so vile a son, 
 Without your death staining indelibly 
 The glorious record of my noble deeds. 
 Fly, and unless you wish quick punishment 
 To add you to the criminals cut off 
 By me, take heed this sun that lights us 
 
 now 
 Ne'er see you more set foot upon this soil. 
 I tell you once again, — fly, haste, return 
 
 not. 
 Rid all my realms of your atrocious pres- 
 ence. 
 To thee, to thee, great Neptune, I appeal; 
 If erst I clear'd thy shores of foul assassins. 
 Recall thy promise to reward those efforts, 
 Crown'd with success, by granting my first 
 
 pray'r. 
 Confined for long in close captivity, 
 I have not yet call'd on thy pow'rful aid, 
 Sparing to use the valued privilege 
 Till at mine utmost need. The time is 
 
 come, 
 I ask thee now. Avenge a wretched father! 
 I leave this traitor to thy wrath; in blood 
 Quench his outrageous fires, and by thy 
 
 fury 
 Theseus will estimate thy favor tow'rds him . 
 Hippolttus. Phaedra accuses me of law- 
 less passion! 
 This crowning horror all my soul con- 
 founds; 
 Such unexpected blows, falling at once, 
 O'erwhelm me, choke my utterance, strike 
 me dumb. 
 
PH^DRA 
 
 319 
 
 Theseus. Traitor, you reckon'd that in 
 
 timid silence 
 Phsedra would bury your brutality. 
 You should not have abandon'd in your 
 
 flight 
 The sword that in her hands helps to con- 
 demn you 
 Or rather, to complete your perfidy. 
 You should have robb'd her both of speech 
 
 and life. 
 HiPPOLTTUS. Justly indignant at a lie so 
 
 black 
 I might be pardon'd if I told the truth; 
 But it concerns your honor to conceal it. 
 Approve the reverence that shuts my 
 
 mouth; 
 And, without wishing to increase your woes. 
 Examine closely what my life has been. 
 Great crimes are never single, they are 
 
 link'd 
 To former faults. He who has once trans- 
 
 gress'd 
 May violate at last all that men hold 
 Most sacred; vice, like virtue, has degrees 
 Of progress; innocence was never seen 
 To sink at once into the lowest depths 
 I Of guilt. No virtuous man can in a day 
 I Turn traitor, murderer, an incestuous 
 
 wretch. 
 The nursUng of a chaste, heroic mother, 
 I have not proved unworthy of my birth. 
 Pittheus, whose wisdom is by all esteem'd, 
 Deign'd to instruct me when I left her 
 
 hands. 
 It is no wish of mine to vaunt my merits. 
 But, if I may lay claim to any virtue, 
 I think beyond all else I have display'd 
 Abhorrence of those sins with which I'm 
 
 charged. 
 For this Hippolytus is known in Greece, 
 So continent that he is deem'd austere. 
 All know my abstinence inflexible: 
 The daylight is not purer than my heart. 
 How, then, could I, burning with fire pro- 
 fane — 
 Theseus. Yes, dastard, 't is that very 
 
 pride condemns you. 
 I see the odious reason of your coldness: 
 Phsedra alone bewitch'd your shameless 
 
 eyes; 
 Your soul, to others' charms indifferent, 
 Disdain'd the blameless fires of lawful love. 
 
 Hippolytus. No, father, I have hidden 
 it too long. 
 This heart has not disdain'd a sacred 
 
 flame. 
 Here at your feet I own my real offense: 
 I love, and love in truth where you forbid 
 
 me; 
 Boimd to Aricia by my heart's devotion. 
 The child of Pallas has subdued your son. 
 A rebel to your laws, her I adore. 
 And breathe forth ardent sighs for her 
 alone. 
 Theseus. You love her? Heav'nsI 
 But no, I see the trick. 
 You feign a crime to justify yourself. 
 HiPPOLTTUS. Sir, I have shunn'd her for 
 six months, and still 
 Love her. To you yourself I came to tell it, 
 Trembling the while. Can nothing clear 
 
 your mind 
 Of your mistake? What oath can reassure 
 
 you? 
 By heav'n and earth and aU the pow'rs of 
 nature — 
 Theseus. The wicked never shrink from 
 perjury. 
 Cease, cease, and spare me irksome protes- 
 tations, 
 If yoxu: false virtue has no other aid. 
 HiPPOLTTUS. Tho' it to you seem false 
 and insincere, 
 Phaedra has secret cause to know it true. 
 Theseus. Ah, how your shamelessness 
 
 excites my wrath! 
 HiPPOLTTUS. What is my term and place 
 
 of banishment? 
 Theseus. Were you beyond the Pillars 
 of Alcides, 
 Your perjured presence were too near me 
 yet. 
 HiPPOLTTUS. What friends will pity me, 
 when you forsake 
 And think me guilty of a crime so vile? 
 Theseus. Go, look you out for friends 
 who hold in honor 
 Adultery and clap their hands at incest. 
 Low, lawless traitors, steep'd in infamy. 
 The fit protectors of a knave like you. 
 HiPPOLTTUS. Are incest and adultery 
 the words 
 You cast at me? I hold my tongue. Yet 
 think 
 
320 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 What mother Phsedra had; too well you 
 
 know 
 Her blood, not mine, is tainted with those 
 
 horrors. 
 Theseus. What! Does your rage before 
 
 my eyes lose all 
 Restraint? For the last time — out of my 
 
 sight! 
 Hence, traitor! Wait not till a father's 
 
 wrath 
 Force thee away 'mid general execration. 
 
 [Exit HiPPOLYTUS.] 
 
 Theseus [alone]. Wretch! Thou must 
 meet inevitable ruin. 
 Neptune has sworn by Styx -^ to gods 
 
 themselves 
 A dreadful oath — and he will execute 
 His promise. Thou canst not escape his 
 
 vengeance. 
 I loved thee; and, in spite of thine offense. 
 My heart is troubled by ahticipation 
 For thee. But thou hast eam'd thy doom 
 
 too well. 
 Had father ever greater cause for rage? 
 Just gods, who see the grief that over- 
 whelms me, 
 Why was I cursed with such a wicked son? 
 
 [Enter Ph.s:dra.] 
 
 PHffi)DRA. My lord, I come to you, fill'd 
 
 with just dread. 
 Your voice raised high in anger reach'd 
 
 mine ears, 
 And much I fear that deeds have foUow'd 
 
 threats. 
 Oh, if there yet is time, spare your own 
 
 offspring. 
 Respect your race and blood, I do beseech 
 
 you. 
 Let me not hear that blood cry from the 
 
 ground; 
 Save me the horror and perpetual pain 
 Of having caused his father's hand to shed 
 
 it. 
 Theseus. No, madam, from that stain 
 
 my hand is free. 
 But, for all that, the wretch has not es- 
 caped me. 
 The hand of an Immortal now is charged 
 With his destruction. 'T is a debt that 
 
 Neptune 
 Owes me, and you shall be avenged. 
 
 PasiDRA. A debt 
 
 Owed you? Pray'rs made in anger — 
 Theseus. Never fear 
 
 That they will fail. Rather join yours to 
 mine. 
 
 In all their blackness paint for me his 
 crimes. 
 
 And fan my tardy passion to white heat. 
 
 But yet you know not all his infamy; 
 
 His rage against you overflows in slan- 
 ders; 
 
 Your mouth, he says, is full of all deceit, 
 
 He says Aricia has his heart and soul, 
 
 That her alone he loves. 
 Phedra. Aricia? 
 Theseus. Aye, 
 
 He said it to my face: an idle pretext I 
 
 A trick that gulls me not! Let us hope 
 Neptune 
 
 Will do him speedy justice. To his altars 
 
 I go, to urge performance of his oaths. 
 
 [Exit.] 
 Pkedra [alone]. Ah, he is gone! What 
 tidings struck mine ears? 
 
 What fire, half smother'd, in my heart re- 
 vives? 
 
 What fatal stroke falls like a thunder- 
 bolt? 
 
 Stung by remorse that would not let me 
 rest, 
 
 I tore myself out of (Enone's arms, 
 
 And flew to help Hippolytus with all 
 
 My soul and strength. Who knows if that 
 repentance 
 
 Might not have moved me to accuse my- 
 self? 
 
 And, if my voice had not been choked with 
 shame. 
 
 Perhaps I had confess'd the frightful truth. 
 
 Hippolytus can feel, but not for me! 
 
 Aricia has his heart, his plighted troth. 
 
 Ye gods, when, deaf to all my sighs and 
 tears. 
 
 He arm'd his eye with scorn, his brow with 
 threats, 
 
 I deem'd his heart, impregnable to love, 
 
 Was fortified 'gainst all my sex alike. i 
 
 And yet another has prevaii'd to tame I 
 
 His pride, another has secured his favor. 
 
 Perhaps he has a heart easily melted; 
 
 I am the only one he cannot bear! 
 
 And shall I charge myself with his defense? 
 
PH^DRA 
 
 321 
 
 [Enter CEnone.] 
 
 PttffiDRA. Know you, dear nurse, what I 
 
 have leam'd just now? 
 (Enonb. No; but I come in truth with 
 trembling limbs. 
 I dreaded with what purpose you went 
 
 forth. 
 The fear of fatal madness made me pale. 
 Ph^dha. Who would have thought it, 
 
 nurse? I had a rival. 
 (Enone. a rival? 
 
 PttffiiDHA. Yes, he loves. I cannot doubt 
 it. 
 This wild untamable Hippolytus, 
 Who scom'd to be admired, whom lovers' 
 sighs 
 / Wearied, this tiger, whom I fear'd to rouse, 
 Fawns on a hand that has subdued his 
 V pride: 
 
 Aricia has found entrance to his heart. 
 (Enone. Aricia? 
 
 Ph^dra. Ah! anguish as yet untried! 
 For what new tortures am I still reserved? 
 All I have imdergone, transports of passion. 
 Longings and fears, the horrors of remorse, 
 The shame of being spurn'd with con- 
 tumely. 
 Were feeble foretastes of my present tor- 
 ments. 
 They love each other! By what secret 
 
 charm 
 Have they deceived me? Where, and when, 
 
 and how 
 Met they? You knew it all. Why was I 
 
 cozen'd? 
 You never told me of those stolen hours 
 Of amorous converse. Have they oft been 
 
 seen 
 Talking together? Did they seek the shades 
 Of thickest woods? Alas! full freedom had 
 
 they 
 To see each other. Heav'n approved their 
 
 They loved without the consciousness of 
 
 guilt; 
 And every morning's sun for them shone 
 
 clear, 
 While I, an outcast from the face of Nature, 
 Shunn'd the bright day, and sought to hide 
 
 myself. 
 Death was the only god whose aid I dared 
 
 To ask: I waited for the grave's release. 
 Water'd with tears, nourish'd with gall, my 
 
 woe 
 Was all too closely watch'd; I did not dare 
 To weep without restraint. In mortal dread 
 Tasting this dangerous solace, I disguised 
 My terror 'neath a tranquil countenance. 
 And oft had I to check my tears, and smile. 
 CEnone. What fruit will they enjoy of 
 their vain love? 
 They will not see each other more. 
 
 Phaedra. That love 
 Will last forever. Even while I speak. 
 Ah, fatal thought, they laugh to scorn the 
 
 madness 
 Of my distracted heart. In spite of ejdle 
 That soon must part them, with a thousand 
 
 oaths 
 They seal yet closer union. Can I suffer 
 A happiness, CEnone, which insults me? 
 I crave yom: pity. She must be destroy'd. 
 My husband's wrath against a hateful 
 
 stock 
 Shall be revived, nor must the punishment 
 Be light: the sister's guilt passes the broth- 
 ers'. 
 I will entreat him in my jealous rage. 
 What am I saying? Have I lost my 
 
 Is Phsedra jealous, and will she implore 
 Theseus for help? My husband lives, and 
 
 yet 
 I burn. For whom? Whose heart is this I 
 
 claim 
 As mine? At every word I say, my hair 
 Stands up with horror. Guilt henceforth 
 
 has pass'd 
 All bounds. Hypocrisy and incest breathe 
 At once thro' all. My murderous hands are 
 
 ready 
 To spill the blood of guileless innocence. 
 Do I yet live, wretch that I am, and dare 
 To face this holy Sun from whom I spring? 
 My father's sire was king of all the gods; 
 My ancestors fill all the universe. 
 Where can I hide? In the dark realms of 
 
 Pluto? 
 But there my father holds the fatal urn; 
 His hand awards th' irrevocable doom : 
 Minos is judge of all the ghosts in hell. 
 Ah! how his awful shade will start and 
 
 shudder 
 
322 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 When he shall see his daughter brought be- 
 fore him, 
 Forced to confess sins of such varied dye, 
 Crimes it may be unknown to hell itself! 
 What wilt thou say, my father, at a sight 
 So dire? I think I see thee drop the urn. 
 And, seeking some unheard-of punishment, 
 Thyself become my executioner. 
 Spare me! A cruel goddess has destroy 'd 
 Thy race; and in my madness recognize 
 Her wrath. Alas! My aching heart has 
 
 reap'd 
 No fruit of pleasure from the frightful crime 
 The shame of which pursues me to the 
 
 grave. 
 And ends in torment life-long misery. 
 (ENOrrE. Ah, madam, pray dismiss a, 
 
 groundless dread: 
 Look less severely on a venial error. 
 You love. We cannot conquer destiny. 
 You were drawn on as by a fatal ^harm. 
 Is that a marvel without precedent 
 Among us? Has love triumph'd over you, 
 / And o'er none else? Weakness is natural 
 To man. A mortal, to a mortal's lot 
 Submit. You chafe against a yoke that 
 
 others 
 Have long since borne. The dwellers in 
 
 Olympus, 
 The gods themselves, who terrify with 
 
 threats 
 The sins of men, have bum'd with lawless 
 
 fires. 
 Ph^edra. What words are these I hear? 
 . What counsel this 
 
 ^ You dare to give me? Will you to the end 
 Pour poison in mine ears? You have de- 
 
 stroy'd me. 
 You brought me back when I should else 
 
 have quitted 
 The light of day, made me forget my duty 
 And see Hippolytus, till then avoided. 
 What hast thou done? Why did yoiu- 
 
 wicked mouth 
 With blackest lies slander his blameless 
 
 life? 
 Perhaps you've slain him, and the impious 
 
 pray'r 
 Of an unfeeling father has been answer'd. 
 No, not another word! Go, hateful mon- 
 ster; 
 Away, and leave me to my piteous fate. 
 
 May Heav'n with justice pay you your 
 
 deserts! 
 And may your punishment forever be 
 A terror to all those who would, like you. 
 Nourish with artful wiles the weaknesses 
 Of princes, push them to the brink of ruin 
 To which their heart inclines, and smooth 
 
 the path 
 Of guilt. Such flatterers doth the wrath of 
 
 Heav'n 
 Bestow on kings as its most fatal gift. [Exit.] 
 CEnone [alone]. O gods! to serve her 
 
 what have I not done? 
 This is the due reward th at I have won. 
 
 [Exa.] 
 
 ACT V 
 
 [Enter Hippolttus and Aeicia.] 
 
 Aricia. Can you keep silent in this mor- 
 tal peril? 
 Your father loves you. Will you leave him 
 
 thus 
 Deceived? If in your cruel heart you scorn 
 My tears, content to see me nevermore, 
 Go, part from poor Aricia; but at least, 
 Going, secure the safety of your life. 
 Defend your honor from a shameful stain. 
 And force your father to recall his pray'rs. 
 There yet is time. Why out of mere caprice 
 Leave the field free to Phaedra's calumnies? 
 Let Theseus know the truth. 
 
 HippoLTTirs. Could I say more. 
 Without exposing him to dire disgrace? 
 How should I venture, by revealing all, 
 To make a father's brow grow red with 
 
 shame? 
 The odious mystery to you alone 
 Is known. My heart has been outpoiir'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 imder what 
 
 seal 
 I spoke. Forget my words, if that may be; 
 And never let so pure a mouth disclose 
 This dreadful secret. Let us trust to 
 
 Heav'n 
 My vindication, for the gods are just; 
 For their own honor will they clear the 
 
PH^DRA 
 
 323 
 
 Sooner or later punish'd for her crime, 
 Phsedra will not escape the shame she 
 
 merits. 
 I ask no other favor than your silence; 
 In all besides I give my wrath free scope. 
 Make your escape from this captivity, 
 Be bold to bear me company in flight; 
 Linger not here on this accursed soil. 
 Where virtue breathes a pestilential air. 
 To cover yoiu: departure take advantage 
 Of this confusion, caused by my disgrace. 
 The means of flight are ready, be assured; 
 You have as yet no other guards than mine. 
 Pow'rful defenders will maintain our qxiar- 
 
 rel; 
 Argos spreads open arms, and Sparta calls 
 
 us. 
 Let us appeal for justice to our friends. 
 Nor suffer Phasdra, in a common ruin 
 Joining us both, to hunt us from the throne. 
 And aggrandize her son by robbing us. 
 Embrace this happy opportunity: 
 What fear restrains? You seem to hesitate. 
 Your interest alone prompts me to urge 
 Boldness. When I am all on fire, how 
 
 comes it 
 That you are ice? Fear you to follow then 
 A bapish'd man? 
 
 Aricia. Ah, dear to me would be 
 Such exile ! With what joy, my fate to yours 
 United, could I live, by all the world 
 Forgotten! But not yet has that sweet tie 
 Bound us together. How then can I steal 
 Away with you? I know the strictest honor 
 Forbids me not out of your father's hands 
 To free myself; this is no parent's home. 
 And flight is lawful when one flies from 
 
 tyrants. 
 But you, sir, love me; and my virtue 
 
 shrinks — 
 HippoLTTTJS. No, no, your reputation is 
 
 to me 
 As dear as to yourself. A nobler purpose 
 Brings me to you. Fly from your foes, and 
 
 follow 
 A husband. Heav'n, that sends us these 
 
 misfortunes. 
 Sets free from hiunan instruments the 
 
 pledge 
 Between us. Torches do not always light 
 The face of Hymen. 
 At the gates of Trcezen, 
 
 'Mid ancient tombs where princes of my 
 
 race 
 Lie buried, stands a temple ne'er approach'd 
 By perjurers, where mortals dare not make 
 False oaths, for instant punishment befalls 
 The guilty. Falsehood knows no stronger 
 
 check 
 Than what is present there — the fear of 
 
 death 
 That cannot be avoided. Thither then 
 We'll go, if you consent, and swear to love 
 Forever, take the guardian god to witness 
 Our solemn vows, and his paternal care 
 Entreat. I will invoke the name of all 
 The holiest Pow'rs; chaste Dian, and the 
 
 Queen 
 Of Heav'n, yea all the gods who know my 
 
 heart 
 Will guarantee my sacred promises. 
 Aeicia. The king draws near. Depart — 
 
 make no delay. 
 To mask my flight, I linger yet one moment. 
 Go you; and leave with me some trusty 
 
 guide. 
 To lead my timid footsteps to your side. 
 
 [Exit HiPPOLTTTJS.] 
 
 [Enter Theseus and Ismenb,] 
 
 Thesetts. Ye gods, throw light upon my 
 troubled mind. 
 Show me the truth which I am seeking here. 
 Aricia [aside to Ismene]. Get ready, dear 
 Ismene, for our flight. 
 
 [Exit Ismene.] 
 
 Theseus. Your color comes and goes, 
 
 you seem confused. 
 
 Madam! What business had my son with 
 
 you? 
 
 Aricia. Sire, he was bidding me farewell 
 
 forever. 
 Theseus. Your eyes, it seems, can tame 
 that stubborn pride; 
 And the first sighs he breathes are paid to 
 you. 
 Aricia. I can't deny the truth; he has 
 not, sire. 
 Inherited your hatred and injustice; 
 He did not treat me like a criminal. 
 Theseus. That is to say, he swore eter- 
 nal love. 
 Do not rely on that inconstant heart; 
 To others has he sworn as much before. 
 
324 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 - Ahicia. He, sire? 
 Theseus. You ought to check his roving 
 
 taste 
 How could you bear a partnership so vile? 
 Aricia. And how can you endure that 
 
 vilest slanders 
 Should make a life so pure as black as pitch? 
 Have you so little knowledge of his heart? 
 Do you so ill distinguish between guilt 
 And innocence? What mist before your eyes 
 Blinds them to virtue so conspicuous? 
 Ah! 't is too much to let false tongues de- 
 fame him. 
 Repent; call back your murderous wishes, 
 
 sire; 
 Fear, fear lest Heav'n in its severity 
 Hate you enough to hear and grant your 
 
 pray'rs. 
 Oft in their wrath the gods accept our 
 
 victims. 
 And oftentimes chastise us with their gifts. ■ 
 Thesetjs. No, vainly would you cover 
 
 up his guilt. 
 Your love is blind to his depravity. 
 But I have witness irreproachable: 
 Tears have I seen, true tears, that may be 
 
 trusted. 
 Aricia. Take heed, my lord. Your 
 
 hands invincible ■. 
 Have rid the world of monsters numberless; 
 But all are not destroy'd, one you have left 
 Alive — Your son forbids me to say more; 
 Knowing with what respect he still regards 
 
 you, 
 I should too much distress him if I dared 
 Complete my sentence. I will imitate 
 His reverence, and, to keep silence, leave 
 
 you. [Exit] 
 
 Thesetjs [alone]. What is there in her 
 
 mind? What meaning lurks 
 In speech begun but to be broken short? 
 Would both deceive me with a vain pre- 
 tense? 
 Have they conspired to put me to the 
 
 torture? 
 And yet, despite my stern severity, 
 What plaintive voice cries deep within my 
 
 heart? 
 A secret pity troubles and alarms me. 
 (Enone shall be questioned once again, 
 I must have clearer light upon this crime. 
 Guards, bid CEnone come, and come alone. 
 
 [Enter Panope.] 
 
 Panope. I know not what the queen in- 
 tends to do. 
 But from her agitation dread the worst. 
 Fatal despair is painted on her features; 
 Death's pallor is already in her face. 
 CEnone, shamed and driven from her sight. 
 Has cast herself into the ocean depths. 
 None knows what prompted her to deed so 
 
 rash; 
 And now the waves hide her from us for- 
 ever. 
 Theseus. What say you? 
 Panope. Her sad fate seems to have 
 added 
 Fresh trouble to the queen's tempestuous 
 
 soul. 
 Sometimes, to soothe her secret pain, she 
 
 clasps 
 Her children close, and bathes them with 
 
 her tears; . 
 Then suddenly, the mother's love forgot- 
 ten. 
 She thrusts them from her with a look of 
 
 horror. 
 She wanders to and fro with doubtful steps; 
 Her vacant eye no longer knows us. Thrice 
 She wrote, and thrice did she, changing her 
 
 mind. 
 Destroy the letter ere 't was well begun. 
 Vouchsafe to see her, sire: vouchsafe to help 
 her. [Exit.] 
 
 Theseus. Heav'ns! Is CEnone dead, and 
 Phaedra bent 
 On dying too? Oh, call me back my son! ' 
 Let him defend himself, and I am ready 
 To hear him. Be not hasty to bestow 
 Thy fatal bounty, Neptune; let my pray'rs 
 Rather remain ever unheard. Too soon 
 I lifted cruel hands, believing lips 
 That may have lied! Ah! What despair 
 may follow! 
 
 [Enter Theramenes.] 
 
 Theseus. Theramenes, is 't thou? Where 
 
 is my son? 
 I gave him to thy charge from tenderest 
 
 childhood. 
 But whence these tears that overflow thine 
 
 eyes? 
 How is it with my son? 
 
PH^DRA 
 
 325 
 
 Thbramenes. Concern too late! 
 Affection vain! Hippolytus is dead. 
 Theseus. Gods! 
 Thbramenes. I have seen the flow'r of 
 
 all mankind 
 Cut off, and I am bold to say that none 
 Deserved it less. 
 
 Thesetjs. What! My son dead! When I 
 Was stretching out my arnas to him, has 
 
 Heav'n 
 Hasten'd his end? What was this sudden 
 
 stroke? 
 Thbramenes. Scarce had we pass'd out 
 
 of the gates of Trcezen, 
 He silent in his chariot, and his guards. 
 Downcast and silent too, around him 
 
 ranged; 
 To the Mycenian road he turn'd his steeds, 
 Then, lost in thought, allow'd the reins to 
 
 he 
 Loose on their backs. His noble chargers, 
 
 erst 
 So full of ardor to obey his voice. 
 With head depress'd and melancholy eye 
 Seem'd now to mark his sadness and to 
 
 share it. 
 A frightful cry, that issues from the deep. 
 With sudden discord rends the troubled 
 
 air; 
 And from the bosom of the earth a groan 
 Is heard in answer to that voice of terror. 
 Our blood is frozen at om- very hearts; 
 With bristling manes the list'ning steeds 
 
 stand still. 
 Meanwhile upon the watery plain there 
 
 rises 
 A mountain billow with mighty crest 
 Of foam, that shoreward rolls, and, as it 
 
 breaks. 
 Before our eyes vomits a furious monster. 
 With formidable horns its brow is arm'd. 
 And all its body clothed with yellow scales, 
 In front a savage bull, behind a dragon 
 Turning and twisting in itopatient rage. 
 Its long continued bellowings make the 
 
 shore 
 Tremble; the sky seems horror-struck to 
 
 see it; 
 The earth with terror quakes; its poisonous 
 
 breath 
 Infects the air. The wave that brought it 
 
 ebbs 
 
 In fear. All fly, forgetful of the courage 
 That cannot aid, and in a neighboring 
 
 temple 
 Take refuge — all save bold Hippolytus. 
 A hero's worthy son, he stays his steeds. 
 Seizes his darts, and, rushing forward, hurls 
 A missile with sure aim that wounds the 
 
 monster 
 Deep in the flank. With rage and pain it 
 
 springs 
 E'en to the horses' feet, and, roaring, falls, 
 Writhes in the dust, and shows a fiery 
 
 throat 
 That covers them with flames, and blood, 
 
 and smoke. 
 Fear lends them wings; deaf to his voice for 
 
 once. 
 And heedless of the curb, they onward fly. 
 I Their master wastes his strength in efforts 
 ) vain; 
 
 With foam and blood each courser's bit is 
 
 red. 
 Some say a god, amid this wild disorder. 
 Is seen with goads pricking their dusty 
 
 flanks. 
 O'er jaggld rocks they rush urged on by 
 
 terror; 
 Crash! goes the axle-tree. Th' intrepid 
 
 youth 
 Sees his car broken up, flying to pieces; 
 He falls himself entangled in the reins. 
 Pardon my grief. That cruel spectacle 
 Will be for me a source of endless tears. 
 I saw thy hapless son, I saw him, sire, 
 Dragg'd by the horses that his hands had 
 f fed, 
 
 Pow'rless to check their fierce career, his 
 
 voice 
 1 But adding to their fright, his body soon 
 One mass of wounds. Our cries of anguish 
 
 fill 
 The plain. At last they slacken their swift 
 
 pace. 
 Then stop, not far from those old tombs 
 
 that mark 
 Where lie the ashes of his royal sires. 
 Panting I thither run, and after me 
 His guard, along the track stain'd with 
 
 fresh blood 
 That reddens all the rocks; caught in the 
 
 briers 
 Locks of his hair hang dripping, gory spoils I 
 
326 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 I come, I call him. Stretching forth his 
 
 hand, 
 He opes his dying eyes, soon closed again. 
 "The gods have robb'd me of a guiltless 
 
 Ufe," 
 I hear him say: "Take care of sad Aricia 
 When I am dead. Dear friend, if e'er my 
 
 father 
 Mourn, undeceived, his son's unhappy fate 
 Falsely accused; to give my spirit peace. 
 Tell him to treat his captive tenderly, 
 And to restore — " With that the hero's 
 
 breath 
 Fails, and a mangled corpse lies in my arms, 
 A piteous object, trophy of the wrath 
 Of Heav'n — so changed, his father would 
 not know him. 
 Theseus. Alas, my son! Dear hope for- 
 ever lost! 
 The ruthless gods have served me but too 
 
 well. 
 For what a life of anguish and remorse 
 Am I reserved! 
 
 Theramenbs. Aricia at that instant. 
 Flying from you, comes timidly, to take 
 
 him 
 For husband, there, in presence of the gods. 
 Thus drawing nigh, she sees the grass all 
 
 red 
 And reeking, sees (sad sight for lover's 
 
 eye!) 
 Hippolytus stretch'd there, pale and dis- 
 figured. 
 But, for a time doubtful of her misfortune, 
 Unrecognized 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, groans, 
 
 and falls, 
 Swooning and all but lifeless, at his feet. 
 Ismene, all in tears, kneels down beside her, 
 And calls her back to life — life that is 
 
 naught 
 But sense of pain. And I, to whom this 
 
 light 
 Is darkness now, come to discharge the 
 
 duty 
 The hero has imposed on me, to tell thee 
 His last request — a melancholy task. 
 But hither comes his mortal enemy. 
 
 [Enter PttffiDRA, Panope, and Gwirds.] 
 
 Theseus. Madam, you've triumph'd, 
 and my son is kill'd! 
 Ah, but what room have I for fear! How 
 
 justly 
 Suspicion racks me that in blaming him 
 I err'd! But he is dead; accept your victim; 
 Rightly or wrongly slain, let your heart 
 
 leap 
 For joy. My eyes shall be forever blind: 
 Since you accuse him, I'U believe him 
 
 guilty. 
 His death affords me cause enough for tears. 
 Without a foobsh search for further light 
 Which, pow'rless to restore him to my grief, 
 Might only serve to make me more un- 
 happy. 
 Far from this shore and far from you I '11 
 
 fly, 
 
 For here the image of my mangled son 
 
 Would haunt my memory and drive me 
 mad. 
 
 From the whole world I fain would banish 
 me. 
 
 For all the world seems to rise up in judg- 
 ment 
 
 Against me; and my very glory weights 
 
 My punishment; for, were my name less 
 known, 
 
 'T were easier to hide me. All the favors 
 
 The gods have granted me I mourn and 
 hate, 
 
 Nor wiU I importune them with vain 
 pray'rs 
 
 Henceforth forever. Give me what they 
 may, 
 
 What they have taken will all else out- 
 weigh. 
 Ph^dra. Theseus, I cannot hear you 
 and keep silence: 
 
 I must repair the wrong that he has suf- 
 fer'd — 
 
 Your son was innocent. 
 Theseus. Unhappy father! 
 
 And it was on your word that I condemn'd 
 him! 
 
 Think you such cruelty can be excused — 
 PH.«a)BA. Moments to me are precious; 
 hear me, Theseus. 
 
 'T was I who cast an eye of lawless passion 
 
 On chaste and dutiful Hippolytus. 
 
PH^DRA 
 
 327 
 
 Heav'n in my bosom kindled baleful fire. 
 And vile (Enone's cunning did the rest. 
 She fear'd Hippolytus, knowing my mad- 
 ness, 
 Would make that passion known which he 
 
 regarded 
 With horror; so advantage of my weakness 
 She took, and hasten'd to accuse him first. 
 For that she has been punish'd, the' too 
 
 mildly; 
 Seeking to shun my wrath she cast herself 
 Beneath the waves. The sword ere now had 
 
 cut 
 My thread of life, but slander'd innocence 
 Made its cry heard, and I resolved to die 
 In a more lingering way, confessing first 
 My penitence to you. A poison, brought 
 To Athens by Medea, runs thro' my veins. 
 Already in my heart the venom works, 
 Infusing there a strange and fatal chill; 
 
 Already as thro' thickening mists I see 
 The spouse to whom my presence is an out- 
 rage; 
 Death, from mine eyes veiling the light of 
 
 heav'ii, 
 Restores its purity that they defiled. 
 Panope. She dies, my lord! 
 Theseus. Would that the memory 
 Of her disgraceful deed could perish with 
 
 her! 
 Ah, disabvised too late! Come, let us go. 
 And with the blood of mine unhappy son 
 Mingle our tears, clasping his dear remains, 
 In deep repentance for a pray'r detested. 
 Let him be honor'd as he well deserves; 
 And, to appease his sore offended ghost, 
 Be her near kinsmen's guilt whate'er it 
 
 may, 
 Aricia shall be held my daughter from to- 
 day. [Exeunt omnes.] 
 
THE BARBER OF SEVILLE 
 
 (LE BARBIER DE SEVILLE) 
 
 By BEAUMARCHAIS 
 Translated by ARTHUR B. MYRICK 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Count Almaviva, a grandee of Spain, the unknown lover of Rosine 
 
 Baetholo, a physician, guardian of Rosine 
 
 Rosine, a young lady of noble birth, and the ward of Bartholo 
 
 Figaro, a barber of Seville 
 
 Don Bazile, organist, and singing-master to Rosine 
 
 La Jbunesse, an old domestic of Bartholo 
 
 L'EvEiLL^, another servant of Bartholo, a simpleton and sluggard 
 
 A Notary 
 
 An Alclade and a Justice 
 
 Policemen and Servants with torches 
 
 The scene is laid in Seville in the first act, in the street, and under the windows 
 of Rosine: the remainder of the piece is in the house of Doctor Bartholo, 
 
THE BARBER OF SEVILLE 
 
 ACT I 
 
 [The stage represents a street in SeoiUe: 
 windows looking upon the street are barred. 
 
 The Count in a heavy brown cloak and 
 broad-brimmed hat. He looks at his watch 
 as he walks back and forth.] 
 
 Count. The morning is not so far ad- 
 vanced as I thought; the hour at which she 
 usually shows herseU behind her blinds is 
 still far off. No matter; I would far rather 
 arrive too soon than miss the one moment 
 when I may see her. If any of my amiable 
 friends at court could see me one hundred 
 leagues from Madrid, lingering beneath the 
 window of a lady to whom I have never 
 spoken, they would certainly take me for 
 a Spaniard of Isabella's time. Why not? 
 Every one seeks his own happiness. Mine 
 I find in the heart of Rosine. What! 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 conquests which 
 self-interest, convenience, or vanity are 
 yielding me every day. Ah! 't is so sweet to 
 be loved for one's self alone! And if I could 
 be perfectly sure that under this disguise 
 . . . The devil take this unseasonable 
 rascal! 
 
 [Enter Figabo, with a guitar slung across 
 his back by a broad ribbon, paper and 
 pencil in hand.] 
 
 FiGAHO [singing gayly]. 
 Away with sorrow consuming! 
 Without the fire of good liquor inspiring, 
 Without enlivening pleasure. 
 All men would live in a stupor, 
 With very good prospects of dying. 
 
 Really, that's not so bad, so far, is 
 
 it? 
 
 With very good prospects of dying. 
 Generous wine and idleness 
 Shall e'er dispute my heart. 
 
 Well, no! they do not dispute; they reign 
 together peaceably enough. . . . 
 
 Shall ever share my heart. 
 Shall I say se partagent? Well, thank 
 goodness, we writers of comic operas are 
 not so particular about style. Nowadays, 
 what is scarcely worth saying, we sing. 
 
 [Sings.] 
 Generous wine and idleness 
 Shall ever share my heart. 
 I should Uke to finish with something 
 fine, brilliant, sparkling, which would really 
 look like an idea. 
 
 [Kneels and writes as he sings.] 
 Shall ever share my heart. 
 If one enjoys my tenderness. ■ . . 
 The other is my joy. 
 Pshaw! that's flat. It is not that. ... I 
 need an antithesis: — 
 
 If one be my mistress, 
 The other . . . 
 There! I have it. . . . 
 
 The other shall be my slave. 
 Well done, Master Figaro. 
 
 \Wriies and sings.] 
 Generous wine and idleness 
 Shall ever share my heart. 
 If one be my mistress. 
 The other shall be my slave, 
 The other shall be my slave. 
 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. [He perceives the Count.] 
 I have seen that priest somewhere. 
 
 [He rises.] 
 Count [aside]. I am sure I know this fel- 
 low. 
 
 Figaro. No, he's no priest. His proud 
 and noble bearing . . . 
 Count. That grotesque figure . . . 
 Figaro. I was right. Count Almaviva. 
 Count. I think this rascal must be 
 Figaro. 
 
332 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Figaro. The very same, my lord. 
 
 Count. You knave! If you say one 
 word . . . 
 
 FiQAKO. Yes, I recognize you; the same 
 familiar kindness with which you have al- 
 ways honored me. 
 
 Count. I did not recognize you at all. 
 You were so tall and stout . . . 
 
 Figaro. What would you have, my 
 lord? 't is hard times. 
 
 Count. Poor fellow! what are you doing 
 in Seville?] Not long since I recommended 
 you to a position in the government. 
 
 Figaro. I received my appointment, my 
 lord, and my gratitude . . . 
 
 Count. Call me Lindor. Don't you see, 
 by my disguise, that I wish to be im- 
 known? 
 
 Figaro. I will leave you. 
 
 Count. On the contrary. I await the 
 issue of a certain affair, and two men chat- 
 ting together are less suspect than one 
 pacing back and forth. Let iis appear to be 
 chatting. Now, this position. 
 
 Figaro. The minister, having considered 
 your excellency's recommendation, forth- 
 with appointed me apothecary's boy. 
 
 Count. In the army hospitals? 
 
 Figabo. No, indeed; in the Andalusian 
 studs. 
 
 Count [laughing]. Truly, a fine beginning! 
 
 Figaro. The position was not a bad one; 
 for, having the dressings and the drugs ia 
 my charge, I often sold the men the best 
 of horse medicines . . . 
 
 Count. Which killed the king's loyal 
 subjects? 
 
 Figaro. Ha! ha! There is no universal 
 remedy which has not failed sometimes to 
 cure GaUcians, Catalans, or Auvergnats. 
 
 Count. Why, then, did you resign it? 
 
 Figaro. Resign 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. 
 
 Figaro. That is really the cause of my 
 misfortune, your excellency. When they 
 reported to the minister 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 tragically, and 
 had me dismissed the service, on the pre- 
 text that a love of letters is quite incom- 
 patible with the spirit of business. 
 
 Count. Powerfully reasoned! And you 
 failed to represent to him . . . 
 
 FiGAEO. I thought myself only too 
 happy to be forgotten; for 1 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 Heavens! my lord, you 
 would have a poor fellow absolutely fault- 
 less. 
 
 Count. Lazy, dissolute . . . 
 
 Figaro. In comparison with the virtues 
 demanded of a domestic, does your excel- 
 lency know of many masters worthy of 
 being valets? 
 
 Count [laitghing]. Not so bad. And you 
 retired to this city? 
 
 Figaro. No, not immediately. 
 
 CoTJNT [stopping him]. One moment . . . 
 I thought 't was she. . . . Keep on talk- 
 ing, I can hear you well enough. 
 
 Figabo. On my return to Madrid, I 
 tried my literary talents again; and the 
 theater seemed to me a field of honor . . . 
 
 Count. Ah! God help you there! 
 
 Figaro [while he replies, ike Count 
 gazes attentively in the directum of the blind]. 
 Truly I know not why I had not the great- 
 est success; for I had filled the pit with the 
 most excellent workers, with hands like 
 paddles; I had forbidden gloves, canes, and 
 everything else which produces only dull 
 applause, and, on my honor, before the 
 piece was played, the caf6 seemed to be 
 perfectly well-disposed toward us. But the 
 efforts of the cabal . . . 
 
 Count. Ah! the cabal! The last refuge 
 of our fallen author. 
 
 Figaro. I may say that as well as an- 
 other; why not? They hissed me, but if I 
 could ever get them togetheivagain . . . 
 
THE BARBER OF SEVILLE 
 
 333 
 
 Count. You would take your revenge by 
 boring thein to death. 
 
 FiGABO. Ah! how I lay it up against 
 them! Zounds! 
 
 Count. You swear! Do you know that 
 in the courts you have only twenty-four 
 hours in which to curse your judges? 
 
 FiGABO. You have twenty-four years in 
 the theater; life is only too short to exhaust 
 such resentment. 
 
 Count. Your merry anger delights me. 
 But you have not told me what caused you 
 to leave Madrid. 
 
 FiGABO. My good angel, your excel- 
 lency, 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 Wds them, 
 all the insects, gnats, mosquitoes and critics, 
 all the envious, journalists, booksellers, 
 censors, and, in fact, everything able to 
 cling to the hide of the unhappy man of 
 letters, succeeded in lacerating and suck- 
 ing the little substance left to them; worn 
 out with writing, weary of myself, dis- 
 gusted with others, overwhelmed with 
 debts, and innocent of cash; finally con- 
 vinced that the tangible revenue from my 
 razor is preferable to the empty honors of 
 the pen, I left Madrid, my baggage slung 
 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 everjrwhere 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? 
 
 FiGABO. Continual misfortune. I al- 
 ways hasten to laugh at everything for fear 
 that I may be obUged to weep. What are 
 you staring at over there? 
 
 Count. Let us hide. 
 
 FiQABO. Why? 
 
 Count. Come, you blockhead! You will 
 be my destruction. [They conceal them- 
 selves.] 
 
 [The blind in the first story opens, and 
 Babtholo and Rosine appear at the 
 mndow.] 
 
 RosiNE. What a pleasure it is to breathe 
 the fresh air! Tius blind is so rarely 
 opened . . . 
 
 Babtholo. What is that paper? 
 
 -RosiNi;. These are a few couplets from 
 The Useless Precaution, which my singing 
 master gave me yesterday. 
 
 Babtholo. What is this Useless Pre- 
 caution? 
 
 Rosine. 'T is a new comedy. 
 
 Babtholo. Some new play! Some new 
 sort of folly! 
 
 Rosine. I know nothing about it. 
 
 Babtholo. Well, the journals and the 
 authorities will avenge us. Barbarous 
 age ... ! 
 
 Rosine. You are always criticizing our 
 poor century. 
 
 Babtholo. Pardon the liberty that I 
 take! What has it produced that we should 
 praise it? Follies of all sorts; liberty of 
 thought, gravitation, electricity, religious 
 toleration, inoculation, quinine, the en- 
 cyclopaedia, and plays . . . 
 
 RosiNE [as the paper drops from her 
 hand and falls into the street]. Oh! my song! 
 My song dropped from my hand as I was 
 listening to you. . . . Run, run, sir, — my 
 song — it wiU be lost! 
 
 Babtholo. Confound it! When you 
 had it why did you not hold it? 
 
 [Leaves the balcony.] 
 
 Rosine glances about the room and sig- 
 nals to the Count in the street]. Sh! [The 
 Count appears.] Pick it up quickly, make 
 your escape. [The Count seizes the paper 
 and retreats to his hiding-place.] 
 
 Babtholo [appears in the street and 
 searches for the song]. Where is it? I can- 
 not find it. 
 
 Rosine. Under t"hBJt|alcony, at the foot 
 of the wall. , 
 
 Babtholo. You have sent me upon a 
 fine errand. Has any one passed by? 
 
334 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 RosiNB. I have seen no one. 
 
 Bartholo [aside]. And I, who have been 
 
 so simple as to search . . . Bartholo, my 
 
 friend, you are indeed a simpleton. This 
 
 should teach you never to open the blinds. 
 
 [He reenters the house.] 
 
 RosiNB [in the balcony]. My excuse lies 
 in my unhappiness; alone, ill, and a butt for 
 the persecutions of an odious man, is it a 
 crime to try to escape the bonds of slavery? 
 
 Bartholo [appearing in the balcony]. Go 
 in, young lady; it is my fault that you have 
 lost your song; but this misfortune will 
 never overtake you again; I swear it. 
 
 [Carefully locks the blind.] 
 
 CoTiNT. Now that they have gone in, 
 let us examine this song, in which a mystery 
 surely lies hidden. Ah, it is a note! 
 
 Figaro. He asked what The Useless Pre- 
 caution was! 
 
 CotTNT [reading excitedly]. "Your devo- 
 tion excites my curiosity. As soon as my 
 guardian has gone out, sing carelessly 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 desperately attached to the 
 unfortunate Rosine." 
 
 Figaro [imitating Rosine's voice]. My 
 song, I have lost my song; run, quickly. 
 [Laughing.] Ha! ha! Oh! these women! 
 Would you teach cunning to the most un- 
 sophisticated? Just shut her up. 
 
 Count. My dear Rosine! 
 
 Figaro. My lord, I am at no more 
 trouble for the motives for your mas- 
 querade; you are making love here in pro- 
 spective. 
 
 Count. I see that you know how the 
 land lies; but if you chatter . . . 
 
 Figaro. I, chatter! To reassure you I 
 shall employ none of the high-sounding 
 phrases of honor and devotion which are 
 continually abused. I have only one word 
 to say; my interest will answer for my 
 loyalty; weigh everything in that balance, 
 and . . . 
 
 Count. Very well! Know, then, that 
 six months ago I met, by chance, in the 
 Prado, a young lady of such beauty . . . 
 Well, you have just seen her. I have sought 
 her in vain through all Madrid. It was only 
 
 a few days ago that I discovered that her 
 name is Rosine, that she is of noble blood, 
 an orphan, and married to an old physician 
 of that city, one Bartholo. 
 
 Figaro. A fine bird, by my faith! — 
 and a hard one to root out! But who told 
 you that she is the doctor's wife? 
 
 Count. Everybody. 
 
 Figaro. That is a story invented by him 
 on his arrival from- Madrid, to give the slip 
 to the gallants, and put them off the scent. 
 She is still only his ward, but soon . . . 
 
 Count [passionately]. Never! Ah! what 
 news! I was resolved to dare everything 
 to express my disappointment, and now I 
 find her free ! There 's not a moment to lose ; 
 I must win her love, and snatch her from 
 the imworthy husband to whom she is 
 destined. Do you know her guardian? 
 
 Fiqabo. As well as my mother. 
 
 Count, What sort of man is he? 
 
 Figaro [vivaciovMy]. He is a fine big, 
 short, young old man, dapple gray, crafty, 
 well-shaven, blasS, peeping and prying, 
 grumbling and moaning, all at once. 
 
 Count [impatiently]. Ah! I have seen 
 him. And his character? , 
 
 Figaro. Brutal, avaricious, and ab- 
 surdly jealous of Ms ward, who hates him 
 with a deadly hatred. 
 
 Count. So his power to please is . . . 
 
 Figaro. Zero. 
 
 Count. So much the better! His 
 honesty? 
 
 Figaro. He is quite honest enough to 
 escape hanging. 
 
 Count. So much the better! To punish 
 a rascal while at the same moment I find 
 my happiness . . . 
 
 Figaro. Is to do a public and private 
 good; really, a masterpiece of morality, my 
 lord! 
 
 Count. You say that fear of the gal- 
 lants makes him keep his doors closed upon 
 her? 
 
 Fiqabo. Upon every one if he could stop 
 up the cracks in it. . . . 
 
 Count. The devil! So much the worse! 
 Do you happen to have access to his house? 
 
 Figaro. Have I! The house that I oc- 
 cupy belongs to the doctor, who lodges me 
 there gratis. 
 
THE BARBER OF SEVILLE 
 
 33S 
 
 CotfNT. Halhal 
 
 FiGAKO. Yes, indeed! And I, in my grati- 
 tude, promise him ten gold pistoles a year 
 also gratis. 
 
 CoTJNT [impatiently]. You are his tenant? 
 
 FiGAKO. Much more; his barber, his 
 surgeon, his apothecary; there is not a 
 stroke of the razor, the lancet, or the syringe 
 in his house which does not proceed from 
 the hand of your humble servant. 
 
 CoTTNT [embracing him]. Ah, Figaro, my 
 friend! you shall be my savior and my 
 guardian angel. 
 
 FiGAEO. The plague! How soon has my 
 usefulness shortened the distance between 
 us! Talk to me of men with a passion! 
 
 CoTTNT. Fortunate Figaro! You shall 
 see my Rosine! you shall see her! Can you 
 imagine your good fortime? 
 
 FiGAKO. That's the usual lover's talk! 
 I do not adore her. I wish that you could 
 take my place. 
 
 CotTNT. Ah, if we could only dodge these 
 vigilant fellows! 
 
 Figaro. That's what I was thinking of. 
 
 Count. For but a single day. 
 
 Figaro. By setting the servants to look 
 out for their own interests, we shall prevent 
 them from interfering with the interests of 
 others. 
 , Count. Doubtless. Well? 
 
 Figaro [refiecting]. I shall rack my brains 
 to see whether materia medica will not 
 furnish some innocent means . . . 
 
 Count. Scotmdrel! 
 
 Figaro. Am I going to hurt them? They 
 all need my ministrations. It is only a 
 question of how to treat them all at once. 
 
 Count. But this doctor may grow sus- 
 picious? 
 
 Figaro. We shall have to set to work so 
 quicldy that he will have no time to sus- 
 pect. I have an idea. The regiment of the 
 heir-apparent has just arrived in the city. 
 
 Count. The colonel is one of my friends. 
 
 Figaro. Good. Go 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 rest. 
 
 Count. Excellent! 
 
 Figaro. It would be still better if you 
 appeared a trifle intoxicated . . . 
 
 Count. Why? 
 
 Figaro. And treat him a bit cavalierly, 
 for you have an excellent excuse for being 
 unreasonable. 
 
 Count. Again I ask you why? 
 
 Figaro. 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? 
 
 Figaro. I, indeed! We shall be fortu- 
 nate enough if he does not recognize you 
 whom he 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 difiBcult part. Cavalier 
 . . . the worse for wine . . . 
 
 Count. You are laughing at me. [Imi- 
 taiing the speech of a drunkard.] Is this the 
 house of Doctor Bartholo, my friend? 
 
 Figaro. Truly, not bad, only a little 
 more unsteady in the legs. [In a more 
 drunken voice.] Is this the house of Doctor 
 Bartholo . . . 
 
 Count. Shame upon you! 'Tis a low 
 and vulgar drunkenness. 
 
 Figaro. A good one and a pleasant one. 
 
 Count. The door opens. 
 
 Figaro. Out man: let us make off until 
 he is gone. [They hide.] 
 
 Bartholo [coming out, speaking to some 
 one in the house]. I shall return instantly, 
 let no one enter the house. How foolish I 
 was to come down. As soon as she asked 
 me, I should have suspected. . . . Why is 
 Bazile so late? He was to arrange every- 
 thing for my secret marriage t(3'-morrow: 
 and no news! Let us go and find out what 
 may have delayed him. [Exit.] 
 
 Count. What did I hear? To-morrow he 
 marries Rosine secretly! 
 
 Figaro. My lord, the difiiculties in the 
 way of success only add to the necessity of 
 the undertaking. 
 
 Count. What sort of a man is this 
 Bazile who is meddling with this mar- 
 riage? 
 
 Figaro. A poor devil who teaches music 
 to the doctor's ward, infatuated with his 
 art, a bit of a rascal, always needy, on his 
 knees before a crown-piece, who, in short. 
 
336 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 will be very easy to manage, my lord . . . 
 [Olancing at the blind.] There she is! there 
 she is! 
 
 COITNT. Who? 
 
 Figaro. Behind the blind, — there she 
 is! there she is! Don't look! Don't look! 
 
 Count. Why? 
 
 FiGAEO. Did she not write: "Sing care- 
 lessly" ? — that is to say, sing ... as if 
 you were singing . . . only for the sake of 
 singing. Oh! there she is! there she is! 
 
 Count. Since I have begun to interest 
 her without being known to her, I shall 
 keep the name of Lindor which I have as- 
 sumed; my triumph will have a greater 
 charm. [He unfolds the paper which Rosine 
 has thrown out of the ivindow.] But how 
 shall I sing to this music. I cannot make 
 verses. 
 
 Figaro. Every verse that occurs to you, 
 my lord, will be excellent : in love, the heart 
 assists the productions of the mind . . . 
 And take my guitar. 
 
 Count. What shall I do with it? I play 
 so badly! 
 
 Figaro. Can a man like you be ignorant 
 of anything? With the back of the hand: 
 turn, tum tum. ... To sing without a 
 guitar in Seville! You would soon be re- 
 cognized; faith, you would soon be hunted 
 out. 
 
 [Figaro stands close to the wall 
 under the balcony.] 
 
 Count [singing, walking back and forth, 
 and accompanying himself on the guitar]. 
 
 Thou shalt know my name, since to command 
 is thine; 
 
 Unknow^to thee, I dared to show my adora- 
 tion; 
 
 My name once known, I 've nought but des- 
 peration. 
 
 What matters it? My master's will ia mine. 
 
 Figaro [in a low voice]. Fine, upon my 
 word! Courage, my lord! 
 Count. 
 
 Lindor am I, of common birth and nation; 
 
 A simple student's life is all I claim : 
 
 Alas! why bear I not some knight's exalted 
 
 name, 
 To offer you his brilliant rank and station? 
 
 Figaro. Deuce take it! I, who pique 
 myself on my verses, could do no better. 
 
 Count. 
 
 Here, with a tender voice will I 
 
 My hopeless love proclaim, each morning 
 
 bright. 
 My pleasures shall be bounded by thy sight ; 
 Each morning here with tender notes and long 
 Will I my hopeless love of thee proclaim! 
 To see thee . . . this shall be my joy, my 
 
 flame, 
 And mayest thou pleasure find to list my 
 
 song! 
 
 Figaro. Oh! my word! this last one! . . . 
 [Approaches his master and kisses 
 the hem of his doak.] 
 Couira. Figaro! 
 Figaro. Your excellency? 
 Count. Do you think she heard me? 
 RosiNB [within singing:] — 
 All tells me now of Lindor's charms. 
 Whom I must love with constancy . . . 
 
 [They hear the window closed noisily.] 
 
 Figaro. Now, do you think that she 
 heard you? 
 
 Count. She has closed her window; 
 some one has apparently entered the room. 
 
 Figaro. Ah! poor little thing! how she 
 trembles as she sings! She is caught, my 
 lord. 
 
 Count. She avails herself of the very 
 means which she pointed out to me: — 
 
 All tells me now of Lindor's charm. 
 What grace! what a pretty wit. 
 
 Figaro. What cunning! what love! 
 
 Count. That is enough! I am Rosine's 
 . . . forever. 
 
 Figaro. You forget, my lord, that she 
 cannot hear you now. 
 
 Count. Master Figaro! I have but one 
 word to say; she will be my wife, and if you 
 further my plan by refusing to disclose my 
 name to her . . . you understand me, you 
 know me . . . 
 
 Figaro. I agree. Come, Figaro, your 
 fortune is made, my boy. 
 
 Count. Let us retire, for fear of exciting 
 suspicion. 
 
 Figaro [vivaciously]. I shall enter this 
 house, where by means of my art, with a 
 single stroke of my wand, I shall put vigi- 
 lance to sleep, awake love, banish jealousy, 
 mislead intrigue, and overcome all ob- 
 stacles. You, my lord, my house, a soldier's 
 
THE BARBER OF SEVILLE 
 
 337 
 
 miifonn, the billet, and gold in your 
 pockets. 
 
 CoTTNT. Gold for whom? 
 
 'FiGAS.o [impatiently]. Gold, for Heaven's 
 sake, gold! it is the sinews of intrigue! 
 
 Count. Calm yourself, Figaro, I shall 
 bring plenty of it. 
 
 Figaro [going off]. I shall rejoin you in 
 a short time. 
 
 Count. Figaro! 
 
 FiGABO. What is it? 
 
 Count. Your guitar? 
 
 FiGAKO. I have forgotten my guitar! 
 I am losing my wits! ' [Exit] 
 
 Count. And your house, stupid! 
 
 Figaro [returning]. Ah! really, I am 
 astonished! My shop is a few steps away; 
 'tis painted blue, has leaden window 
 frames, three cups in the air, an eye in a 
 hand, with a motto, Consilio manuque. 
 
 [Emt] 
 
 ACT II 
 
 [The apartments of Rosinb. The case- 
 ment at the rear of the stage is closed by a 
 barred shutter.] 
 
 [Enter Rosine alone, a candle in her hand. 
 She takes some paper and' sits down to 
 the table to write.] 
 
 Rosine. MarcelUne is Ul, all the serv- 
 ants are busy, and no one sees me writing. 
 I know not whether these walls have eyes 
 and ears, or whether my Argus commands 
 some evil 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. 
 . . . Ah! Lindor! [She seals the letter.] Well, 
 I must seal my letter, though I know not 
 when or how I may deliver it. As I looked 
 through my blind, I saw him talking for a 
 long time to the barber Figaro. The good 
 fellow has sometimes shown some pity for 
 me; if I could only speak to him for a 
 moment . . . 
 
 [Enter Piqako.] 
 
 Rosine [in surprise]. Ah! Master Fi- 
 garo, how glad I am to see you! 
 FiOABO. Your health, madame? 
 
 Rosine. Not too good. Master Figaro, 
 I am dying of ennui. 
 
 Figaro. I believe you; only fools fatten 
 upon it. 
 
 Rosine. With whom were you talking 
 so earnestly down there? I did not hear; 
 but . . . 
 
 Figaro. With a young bachelor, a rela- 
 tion of mine, a young man of fine parts, full 
 of wit, sentiment, and talent, and gifted, 
 moreover, with a most attractive counte- 
 nance. 
 
 Rosine. Oh! most excellent, I assure 
 you! and his name? ... 
 
 Figaro. Lindor. He has nothing; but 
 had he not left Madrid in such a hurry, he 
 might have found some good position there. 
 
 Rosine [thoughtlessly]. He will find one. 
 Master Figaro, he will find one. Such a 
 man as he whose portrait you have painted 
 is not born to remain unknown. 
 
 Figaro [aside]. Very well. [Aloud.] But 
 he has one great fault which will always 
 stand in the way of his advancement. 
 
 Rosine. A fault. Master Figaro! A 
 fault! you are quite sure? 
 
 Figaro. He is in love. 
 
 Rosine. He is in love! and you call that 
 a fault? 
 
 Figaro. In truth, 't is none but in re- 
 gard to his poor fortune. 
 
 Rosine. Ah! how unjust is Fate! And has 
 he told you whom he loves? I am curious . . . 
 
 Figaro. You are the last, madame, to 
 whom I should like to entrust such a secret 
 as this. 
 
 Rosine [beseechingly]. Why, ' Master 
 Figaro? I am discreet; the young man is 
 your relation, he interests me greatly . . . 
 tell me, then. 
 
 Figaro [with a sly glance]. Imagine the 
 prettiest little darling, sweet, tender, gen- 
 tle-mannered, fresh as the rose, provoking 
 one's appetite, with a dainty foot, a figure 
 agile and slender, plump arms, a rosy 
 mouth, and hands! cheeks! teeth! eyes! . . . 
 
 Rosine. Does she live in this city? 
 
 Figaro. In this quarter of it. 
 
 Rosine. On this street, perhaps? 
 
 Figaro. Not two feet away from me. 
 
 Rosine. Ah! how charming! ... for 
 your relation. And this person is? . . . 
 
338 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Figaro. Have I not named, her? 
 
 RosiNE [excitedly]. It is the only thing 
 that you have forgotten, Master Figaro. 
 Tell me, please tell me quickly; if any one 
 should come in, I might never know . . . 
 
 Figaro. Do you really wish to know, 
 madame? Well! this person is . . . your 
 guardian's ward. 
 
 RoBiNB. Ward? 
 
 Figaro. Doctor Bartholo's: yes, ma- 
 dame. / 
 
 RosiNE [with emotion]. Ah, Master Fi- 
 /garo! ... I do not believ^ it, I assure you. 
 
 Figaro. And that is what he is himself 
 dying to convince you of. 
 
 RosiNU. You make me tremble. Master 
 Figaro. 
 
 Figaro. Shame, tremble, indeed! 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. 
 
 RosiNB. If he loves me, he must prove 
 it to me by remaining absolutely quiet. 
 
 Figaro. Indeed, madame! May love 
 and repose dwell side by side in the same 
 heart? Poor youth is so unfortunate, nowa- 
 days, that it has but this terrible choice, 
 love without repose, or repose without 
 love. 
 
 RosnsTE [dropping her eyes]. Repose 
 without love . . . seems . . . 
 
 Figaro. Ah! very languid, indeed. It 
 seems, in fact, that love without repose 
 Ktts a much better figure; and, as for my- 
 self, if I were a woman . . . 
 
 RosiNB [in embarrassment]. It is quite 
 certain that a young lady cannot prevent 
 a good man from esteeming her. 
 
 Figaro. So my relation loves you to 
 distraction. 
 
 RosiNB. But if he should be guilty of 
 any imprudence. Master Figaro, he would 
 ruin us. 
 
 Figaro [aside]. He would ruin us . . . 
 [Aloud.] If you would forbid him expressly 
 in a little note ... a note has a great deal 
 of power, 
 
 RosiNB [gives him the letter which she has 
 just written], I have no time to write this 
 over again, but when you give it to him, 
 tell him . . . well, tell him . . . [Listens.] 
 
 Figaro. No one, madame. 
 
 RosiNB. That all that I do is out of pure 
 friendship. 
 
 Figaro. That speaks for itself. God-a- 
 mercy! Love sets us another pace! 
 
 RosiNE. Only out of pure friendship, 
 you understand? All that I fear is, that, 
 discouraged by difficulties . . . 
 
 Figaro. As if his passion were only a 
 will-o'-the-wisp. Remember, madame, that 
 the gust which blows out a light will light a 
 brazier, and that, often enough, we are the 
 brazier. Speaking of that only, he breathes 
 out such a flame, that he has made me al- 
 most delirious with his passion, I who have 
 nothing to do with the whole matter! 
 
 RosiNE. Good Heaven! I hear my 
 guardian. If he should find you here . . . 
 Go out through the music-room, and go 
 down as softly as you can. 
 
 Figaro. Be easy about that. [Aside, 
 holding up the letter.] This is worth more 
 than all my observations. [Exit.] 
 
 RosiNB [alone]. 1 am beside myself with 
 anxiety until he has left the house . . . 
 How I like him, that good Figaro! He is a 
 very honest fellow, a good relation! Ahl 
 There is my tyrant, I must take up my 
 work. 
 
 [She blows out the candle, sits 
 down, and takes up some em- 
 
 !■] 
 
 [Enter Bartholc] 
 
 Bartholo [in a ra^e]. Ah! curses upon 
 that villain, that piratical rogue, Figaro! 
 Zounds! I cannot leave my house one mo- 
 ment, and be sure when I return . . . 
 
 RosiNE. What makes you so angry, sir? 
 
 Bartholo. That damned barber who 
 just crippled my whole household in a jiffy! 
 He has given Eveill6 a sleeping powder. La 
 Jeunesse something to make him sneeze, 
 he has bled Marcelline in the foot; even 
 down to my mule; he has put a poultice 
 over the eyes of a poor blind beast! Be- 
 cause he owes me one hundred crowns, he 
 is in haste to balance his account. Ah! let 
 him bring them! And no one in the ante- 
 room! one might enter this apartment as 
 easily as the parade-ground. 
 
 RosiNB. And who but yourself, sir? 
 
THE BARBER OF SEVILLE 
 
 339 
 
 Bartholo. I would rather have unrea- 
 sonable fears than expose myself without 
 precautions. There are bold and daring fel- 
 lows everjrwhere . . . This very morning, 
 did not some one quickly pick up yo\ir 
 song while I was going down to get it? 
 Oh! I . . . 
 
 RosiNE. 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? 
 
 Bartholo. 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 
 pick up all the papers which any woman 
 affects to drop by mistake. 
 
 RosiNB. Afiects, sir? 
 
 Bartholo. Yes, madame, affects. 
 
 RosiNB [aaide]. Oh! the wicked old fel- 
 low! 
 
 Bartholo. But it will never happen 
 again, because I am going to have this 
 blind locked. 
 
 RosiNE. Do better than that; wall up 
 all the windows; between a prison and a 
 cell there is very little choice. 
 
 Bartholo. As for those which look out 
 upon the street, it would not be a bad idea, 
 perhaps ... At least, that barber has not 
 been here? 
 
 RosiNi!. Is he also an object of your 
 jealousy? 
 
 Bartholo. Just as much as any other. 
 
 RosiNE. How civilly you answer me! 
 
 Bartholo. Ah! Trust in everybody, 
 and you will soon have in your house a wife 
 to deceive you, good friends to spirit her 
 off, and good servants to help them do it. 
 
 RosiNE. What! You will not grant, in- 
 deed, that one has principles against the 
 seduction of Master Figaro? 
 
 Bartholo. Who the devil knows any- 
 thing about the peculiarities of women? 
 And how many of these high and mighty 
 virtues have I seen . . . 
 
 RosiNB [angrily]. But, sir, if one must 
 only be a man to please us, why is it, then, 
 that you are so repulsive to me? 
 
 Bartholo [in amazement]. Why? . . . 
 Why? . . . You do not answer my question 
 about that barber? 
 
 RosiNE [provoked]. Yes, 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 very agreeable, and may 
 you die of vexation! [Exit.] 
 
 Bartholo [alone]. Ah! the Jews! those 
 dogs of servants! Jeunesse! Eveill^! that 
 damned Eveill6! 
 
 [Enter Eveill£, yawning, and half awake.] 
 
 EvEiLufi. Aah, aah, ah, ah . . . 
 
 Bartholo. Where were you, you con- 
 founded idiot, when that barber entered 
 the house? 
 
 EvEiLLfi. Sir, I was ... ah, aah, ah . . . 
 
 Bartholo. Hatching out some trick, 
 no doubt? And you did not see him? 
 
 EvEiLLfi. 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 hearing 
 him talk ... ah, ah, aah . . . 
 
 Bartholo [mimics him]. Just hearing 
 him talk . . . Where is that good-for-noth- 
 ing Jetmesse? To drug this little fellow 
 without my prescription! There is some 
 rascality in it. .^ 
 
 [Enter Jeitnesbe like an old man, leaning 
 upon a cane; he sneezes several times.] 
 
 Eveill:6 [still yawning]. Jeunesse! 
 
 Bartholo. You will sneeze Sunday. 
 
 Jeunesse. That's more than fifty . . . 
 fifty times ... in a minute. [Sneezes.] I am 
 exhausted. 
 
 Bartholo. I ask you twice if any one 
 entered Rosine's apartment, and you tell 
 me only that that barber . . . 
 
 EvEiLL^ [still yawning]. Is Master Fi- 
 garo any one? aah, ah . . . 
 
 Bartholo. I would wager that the sly 
 fellow has an understanding with him. 
 
 EvEiLLfi [weeping foolishly]. I! ... I, 
 have an understanding! . . . 
 
 Jeunesse [sneezing]. But sir, is there 
 any justice ... is there any justice? 
 
 Bartholo. Justice! Justice for you, 
 you wretches! I am your master, who is 
 always right. 
 
 Jeunesse [sneezing]. But, now, when a 
 thing is true . . . 
 
 Bartholo. When a thing is true. If I do 
 
34° 
 
 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. 
 
 Jbunusse [sneezing]. You may as well 
 give me my dismissal. It's a terrible posi- 
 tion and a devilish row all the time. 
 
 EvEiLuS [weeping]. A poor respectable 
 fellow is treated like a wretch. 
 
 Baktholo. Out with you, you poor re- 
 spectable fellow! [Mimics them.] T'chew! 
 t'chew! One sneezes and the other yawns 
 in my face. 
 
 Jeunessb. Ah, sir! I swear that without 
 Miss Rosine there would be no way of get- 
 ting on in the house. [Exit sneezing.] 
 
 Babtholo. In what a plight has Figaro 
 left them all! See what's the matter; the 
 vUlain wants to pay me my hundred crowns 
 without opening his piu:se. 
 
 [Enter Don Bazile. Figaeo, hidden in the 
 cabinet, appears from time to time and 
 listens.] 
 
 Baetholo. Ah, Don Bazile! have you 
 come to give Rosine her music-lesson? 
 
 Bazile. That is the least part of my 
 haste. 
 
 Baetholo. I went to see you without 
 finding you at home. 
 
 Bazile. I had gone out on your business. 
 I have learned some sorry news. 
 
 Baetholo. For yourself?. 
 
 Bazile. No, for you. Count Almaviva 
 is in this city. 
 
 Baetholo. Speak lower. The one who 
 had Rosine sought for throughout the 
 whole city of Madrid? 
 
 Bazile. He is lodging in a house on the 
 Plaza, and comes out every day in disguise. 
 
 Baetholo. He has designs upon me, 
 that's certain. What shall I do? 
 
 Bazile. If he were a private citizen, we 
 might soon get him out of the way. 
 
 Baetholo. Yes, we might ambush him 
 in the evening, with sword and buckler . . . 
 
 Basils. Bone-Deus ! Compromise our- 
 selves! To start a nasty affair, that is fine, 
 and meanwhile slander him to the utmost 
 concedo ! 
 
 Baetholo. That is a singular way of 
 getting rid of a man. 
 
 Bazile. Slander, sir? You hardly know 
 what you despise. I have seen the best of 
 men nearly crushed under it. Believe me 
 that there is no vulgar wickedness, no hor- 
 ror, 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 here! At first, 
 a slight rumor, skimming the ground Uke 
 the swallow before the storm, pianissimo, 
 it murmurs, and twists and leaves behind 
 it its poisonous trail. So-and-So hears it 
 and piano piano shps it gracefully into your 
 ear. The evil is done, it sprouts, crawls, 
 travels on, and rinforzando from mouth to 
 mouth, it goes on at the deuce of a pace; 
 then, suddenly, I know not how, you see 
 slander arising, hissing, swelling, and visi- 
 bly growing. It rushes forward, extends its 
 flight, whirls, envelops, tears, bursts, and 
 thunders, and becomes, thank Heaven, a 
 general cry, a public crescendo, a universal 
 chorus of hate and denunciation. Who the 
 deuce could withstand it? 
 
 Babtholo. What old wives' tale are you 
 teUing me? And what connection may this 
 piano-crescendo have with my situation? 
 
 Bazile. What! — what connection! 
 What one does everywhere to put his 
 enemy out of the way, must now be done to 
 prevent yours from further approach. 
 
 Baetholo. Approach? I intend to 
 marry Rosine before she knows that this 
 count even exists. 
 
 Bazile. In that case, you have not a 
 moment to lose. 
 
 Bartholo. Why don't you hasten, 
 Bazile? I entrusted all the details of this 
 affair to you. 
 
 Bazile. 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. 
 
 Baktholo [giving him money]. Well, we 
 shall have to give in to you; but to con- 
 tinue ... 
 
 Bazile. That's what I call talking. It 
 will be all over to-morrow; it is for you to 
 prevent any one from warning your ward 
 to-day. 
 
THE BARBER OF SEVILLE 
 
 341 
 
 Baktholo. Trust to me. Are you com- 
 ing this evening? 
 
 Bazile. Do not count upon me. Your 
 marriage alone will keep me busy the whole 
 day; do not count upon me. 
 
 Bartholo [accompanying him to the 
 door]. Yova servant. 
 
 Bazile. No ceremony, doctor. 
 
 Bartholo. No, indeed. I wish to close 
 the street door after you. [Exeunt.] 
 
 Figaro [alone, issuing from the cabinet]. 
 Oh! a good precaution, indeed! Close your 
 street door, then, and I shall open it again 
 for the count as I go out. Wnat a great 
 rogue is that Bazile! Luckily he is even 
 more foolish than rascally. One needs sta- 
 tion, family, name, rank, and, in short, the 
 regard of the world, to make any sensation 
 in the world as a slanderer. But a Bazile! 
 His lies would never pass current. 
 
 [Enter Rosine, in haste.] 
 
 RosiNE. What! You are still there, 
 Master Figaro? 
 
 Figaro. Luckily for you, miss. Your 
 guardian and your singing-master, thinking 
 that they were here alone, have spoken very 
 clearly. ... • 
 
 Rosine. And you listened to them. 
 Master Figaro? Do you know that that is 
 very wrong? 
 
 Figaro. To listen? That is the very best 
 way to hear well. Know, then, that your 
 guardian is preparing to wed you to-mor- 
 row. 
 
 RosDJE. Ah! great Heaven! 
 
 Figaro. Fear nothing; we shall give him 
 so much to do that he will have no time to 
 think of that. 
 
 R08INE. He is returning; go out by the 
 little staircase. You terrify me. 
 
 [Exit Fiqaro.] 
 
 [Enter Bartholo.] 
 
 RosiNi;. You were here with some one, 
 sir? 
 
 Bartholo. Don Bazile, whom I have 
 just accompanied to the door, and with 
 good reason. You would have preferred 
 that it was Master Figaro? 
 
 Rosine. I assure you, it's all the same 
 to me. 
 
 Bartholo. I should like to know what 
 that barber was so anxious to tell you. 
 
 Rosine. Must we tallr seriously? He 
 gave me an account of Marcelline's condi- 
 tion, and, so he says, she jg'none too well. 
 
 Bartholo. Give youah account? I will 
 wager that he was commissioned to hand 
 you some, letter. 
 
 Rosine. And from whom, if you please? 
 
 Bartholo. Oh,,fromwhom! From some 
 one whom women never name. How should 
 I know? Perhaps the answer to the paper 
 that dropped from the window. 
 
 Rosine [aside]. He is perfectly right, 
 to be sure. [Aloud.] It would serve you 
 right if it was. 
 
 Bartholo [examining Rosine's hand]. 
 That is it. You have been writing. 
 
 Rosine [in embarrassment]. You will be 
 s killf ul indeed to make me acknowledge it. 
 
 Bartholo [taking her right hand]. I? 
 Not at all! But your finger is stained with 
 ink. . . . What do you make of that, you 
 sly miss? 
 
 Rosine. What a cursed man! 
 
 Bartholo [stUl holding her hand]. A 
 woman always thinks that she is safe when 
 she is alone. 
 
 Rosine. Ah! 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 as well as to-day. 
 
 Rosine [aside]. Oh! what a fool! . . . 
 
 Bartholo [counting]. Three, four, 
 five! . . . 
 
 Rosine. The sixth . . . 
 
 Bartholo. I see very clearly that there 
 is no sixth. 
 
 Rosine [dropping her eyes]. The sixth? 
 I used it to make a bag for some bon-bons 
 which I sent to little Mistress Figaro. 
 
 Bartholo. Little Mistress Figaro? And 
 the pen, which was brand-new, how did 
 that become black? Was it in writing her 
 address? 
 
342 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 RosiNE. This man has a genius for 
 jealousy! . . . [Aloitd.] I used it to sketch 
 a faded flower on the jacket which I am 
 embroidering. 
 
 Baetholo. How edifying that is! In 
 order to be believed, my child, you should 
 not blush when concealing the truth so fast; 
 but you do not know that yet. 
 
 RosiNB. What! Who would not blush, 
 sir, to see such damaging deductions drawn 
 from the most innocent circumstances? 
 
 Babtholo., Certainly I am wrong; to 
 burn one's finger, dip it in the ink, to make 
 bon-bon bags for Mistress Figaro, and to 
 sketch an embroidery design! What more 
 innocent! But how many lies told to con- 
 ceal a single fact! / am, alone, I am not ob- 
 served, I may lie as I please: but the end of 
 her finger is still black, the pen is soiled, 
 and the paper is missing! 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. 
 
 Count [entering in a cavalry uniform, 
 feigning intoxication and singing:] 
 
 Let 's wake her, etc. 
 
 Bartholo. What does this fellow wish 
 of us? A soldier! Go into yotir room, 
 young lady. 
 
 CoTJNT [singing]. 
 
 Let's wake her, 
 
 [Advancing toward Rosinb.] Which of you 
 two ladies is named Doctor Balordo? [Aside 
 to RosiNB.] I am Lindor. 
 
 Bartholo. Bartholo! 
 
 RosiNB. He speaks of Lindor. 
 
 Count. Balordo, Barque-S,-l'eau, I don't 
 care which, only I must know which of the 
 two. . . . [To RosiNB, showing her a paper.] 
 Take this letter. 
 
 Bartholo. Which! You see very well 
 •that it ia I! Which, forsooth! Retire to 
 your room, Rosine, this man seems to be 
 drunk! '' 
 
 RosiNB. But you are alone, sir. A 
 woman sometimes inspires a little respect. 
 
 Bartholo. Off with you; I am not 
 
 timid. [Exit R o sine.] 
 
 eoTTNTT'Ohl 1 recognized you im'medi- 
 
 ately by your description. 
 
 Bartholo [to the Count, who is folding 
 up the letter]. What are you hiding in your 
 pocket? 
 
 Count. I am hiding this in my pocket 
 so that you will not know what it is. 
 
 Bartholo. My description! Those fel- 
 lows are forever believing that they are 
 talking to soldiers! 
 
 Count. Do you think that it is such a 
 hard matter to describe you? 
 The nodding head, the bald and polished 
 
 crown, 
 The wall-eyed, blear, and savage-squinting 
 
 frown, 
 The manners like a fierce Algonquin chief. 
 The heavy figure, warped beyond beUef, 
 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 his vicious appetites declare 
 This man 's the pearl 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! That's 
 a churlish speech. Can you read, doctor 
 . . . Barbe-S,-l'eau? 
 
 Bartholo. Another silly question. 
 
 Count. Oh! don't let thait worry you; 
 for I, who am at least as much of a doctor 
 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 knowledge, comrade, it is true, 
 Hath a success of wider sway, 
 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, so to revile the first, 
 the greatest, and the most useful of the arts! 
 
THE BARBER OF SEVILLE 
 
 343 
 
 Count. Useful, indeed, for those who 
 practice it. 
 
 Bartholo. An art honoring the sun 
 which shines upon its successes! 
 
 Count. And whose blunders the earth 
 makes haste to cover. 
 
 Babtholo. I see very well, you saucy 
 fellow, that you are only accustomed to 
 talk to horses. 
 
 Count. Talk to horses! Ah, doctor! a 
 poor wit for a witty doctor. ... Is it not 
 notorious that the farrier always cures his 
 patients without speaking to them, though, 
 on the contrary, the physician taUss much 
 to his. . . . 
 
 Bartholo. Without curing them, you 
 mean? 
 
 Count. You have said so. 
 
 Bartholo. Who the devil sends us this 
 cursed drunkard? 
 
 Count. My dear fellow, I think that you 
 are firing epigrams at me! 
 
 Bartholo. Well, what would you have? 
 what do you want? 
 
 Count [feigning a rage]. Well, then! 
 What do I wa nt? jDon^t^you jfiel___ 
 
 RosiNB [erdering in haste]. Mastei sol- 
 dier, do not get angry, I beg you! [To 
 Bartholo.] Speak to him gently, sir: an 
 unreasonable man . . . 
 
 Count. You are right; he is unreason- 
 able; but we are reasonable! I, polite, you, 
 pretty . . . that's enough. To tell the 
 truth, I wish to have dealings with no one 
 in this house but you. 
 
 RosiNB. What can I do to serve you, 
 sir? 
 
 Count. A mere trifle, my child. If there 
 is any obscurity in my words . . . 
 
 RosiNE. I shall understand their mean- 
 ing. 
 
 Couiw [showing her the letter]. Now, con- 
 fine yourself to the letter, to the letter. It 
 is only this . . . that you give me a bed to- 
 night. 
 
 Bartholo. Nothing but that? 
 
 Count. No more. Read the note which 
 our quartermaster has written you. 
 ..Bartholo. Let us see. [The Covtxt hides 
 the letter and gives him another paper. Bar- 
 tholo reads.] " Doctor Bartholo will re- 
 ceive, feed, lodge, and bed ..." 
 
 Count [leaning over his shoulder]. Bed! 
 
 Bartholo. " For one night only, one 
 Lindor called the Scholar, trooper in the 
 regiment." 
 
 RosiNE. It is he, it is he! 
 
 Bartholo [quickly to Rosine]. What is 
 that? 
 
 Count. Well, am I wrong now, Doctor 
 Bartholo? 
 
 Bartholo. One might say that this man 
 takes a malicious pleasure in belaboring me 
 in every possible way. To the devil with 
 your Barbaro, Barbe-S,-l'eau! and tell your 
 impertinent quartermaster that since my 
 journey to Madrid I am exempt from lodg- 
 ing soldiers. 
 
 Count [aside]. O Heaven! What a vexa- 
 tious migfortune! 
 
 Bartholo. Ha! ha! my friend, that puts 
 you out a little? Clear out this very mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Count [aside]. I nearly betrayed myself. 
 [Aloud.] Be off! If you are exempt from 
 men of war, you are not exempt from polite- 
 ness! Decamp! Show me your exemption 
 warrant; although I cannot read, I shall 
 soon see . . . 
 
 Bartholo. What has that to do with 
 it? It is in this bureau . . . 
 
 Count [as he approaches it says mthout 
 moving]. Ah! my fair Rosine! 
 
 Rosine. 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 approaches.] 
 
 Bartholo. Gently, gently, sir soldier, 
 I do not like my wife looked at so closely. 
 
 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 and 
 yourself. 
 
 Bartholo [reading from a parchment]. 
 "In consideration of good and faithful 
 testimony proffered us . . ." 
 
 Count [striking the parchments from his 
 hand to the floor]. Do I need this string of 
 words? 
 
 Bartholo. You know very well, sol- 
 
344 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 dier, that if I call my people, I wUl have 
 you treated forthwith as you deserve. 
 
 Count. A fight! Ah, willingly! that is 
 my trade [sKoioing a pistol in his belt] and 
 here is something to throw powder in their 
 eyes. Perhaps you have never seen a bat- 
 tle, madame? 
 
 RosiNB. Nor do I wish to see one. 
 
 Count. Nothing, however, is as gay as 
 a battle! Imagine [pushing the doctor], in 
 the first place, that the enemy is on one 
 side of the ravine, and the friends on the 
 other. [To Rosinb, showing her the letter.] 
 Now take out your handkerchief. [Spits 
 on the floor.] That's the ravine, you un- 
 derstand. 
 
 [Rosinb takes out her handker- 
 chief. The Count drops his 
 letter between them.] 
 
 Bartholo [stooping]. Ha! ha! 
 
 Count. There! ... I was going to teach 
 you all the secrets of my trade. . . . Truly, 
 a very discreet lady! Has she not just 
 dropped a note from her pocket? 
 
 Bartholo. Give it to me. 
 
 Count. Softly, papa! No meddling, if 
 you please. If a prescription for rhubarb 
 had fallen out of yours? . . . 
 
 Rosinb [reaching for it]. Ah! I know 
 what it is, master soldier. 
 
 [She takes the letter and hides it in 
 the little pocket of her apron.] 
 
 Bartholo. Are you going to get out? 
 
 Count. Well, I will go. Good-bye, 
 doctor; no bitterness. A little compliment, 
 my dear fellow: pray Death to forget me 
 for a few more campaigns: life has never 
 been so dear to me. 
 
 Bartholo. Never mind, if I had so 
 much credit with Death . . . 
 
 Count. With Death! Are you not a 
 physician? You do so much for Death, 
 that he can refuse you nothing. [Exit] 
 
 Bartholo [watching him out]. He is gone 
 at last. [Aside.] Let us dissemble. 
 
 Rosinb. Now confess, sir, that he is a 
 very gay fellow, this young soldier! Despite 
 his drunkenness, I can see that he does not 
 lack wit, nor a certain amount of educa- 
 tion. 
 
 Bartholo. Fortunate, my love, that we 
 have been able to get rid of him! But are 
 
 you not a little anxious to read me the paper 
 that he handed you? 
 
 Rosinb. What paper? 
 
 Bartholo. The one that he pretended to 
 pick up to hand to you. 
 
 Rosinb. 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. 
 
 Rosinb. I recognized it easily. 
 
 Bartholo. What does it cost to look at 
 it. 
 
 Rosinb. I do not know what I have done 
 with it. 
 
 Bartholo [pointing to her pocket]. You 
 put it there. 
 
 Rosinb. Oh, yes! absent-mindedly. 
 
 Bartholo. Oh! certainly. You will prob- 
 ably see that it is some piece of foolishness. 
 
 Rosinb [aside]. There is no way of re- 
 fusing him without making him angry. 
 
 Bartholo. Give it to me, my dear. 
 •-'• Rosinb. But what do you mean, sir, by 
 insisting? Do you distrust me? 
 
 Bartholo. But why are you so unwill- 
 ing to show it to me? 
 
 Rosinb. 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 will tell you 
 frankly that your liberties displease me 
 exceedingly. 
 
 Bartholo. I do not understand you. 
 
 Rosinb. Shall I examine every paper 
 addressed to you? Why do you take it upon 
 you to examine everything addressed to 
 me? If it is jealousy, it insults me ; if it is the 
 abuse of a power usurped, I am even more 
 'disgusted. 
 
 Bartholo. What, disgusted! You have 
 never before spoken to me in t his fashion. 
 
 KosiNB. It 1 nave been moflefate until 
 to-day, it was not to give you any right to 
 offend me with impunity. 
 
 Bartholo. What oSense are you talk- 
 ing about? 
 
 Rosinb. It is unheard of to permit any 
 one to open one's letters. 
 
 Bartholo. Not even your wife's? ~ ' 
 
 Rosinb. I am not yet your^wife. But 
 why should she be made the object of an 
 
THE BARBER OF SEVILLE 
 
 345 
 
 indignity that you would not offer to every 
 one? 
 
 Babtholo. You are trying to put me 
 off the scent, and divert my attention from 
 the note, which is, no doubt, a missive from 
 some lover! But I shall see it, I assure you. 
 RosiNE. You shall not see it. If you 
 approach me, I flee this house, and I shall 
 ask refuge of the first comer. 
 ^ASTHOLO. Who will not receive you. 
 BINE. We shaU see about that. 
 JiTHOLO. We are not in France, where 
 [always give way to women; but ia. 
 
 • to destroy your illusion, I shall lock 
 ^oor. 
 DSINB [as he departs to do so]. Ah! 
 
 i! What shall I do? Let us quickly 
 ^ange it for my cousin's letter, and give 
 i a chance to find it. 
 
 [She makes the exchange, puts her 
 cousin's letter in her pocket, so 
 that it protrudes a trifle.] 
 iARTHOLO [returning]. Ah! now I ex- 
 , to see it. 
 
 losiNB. By what right, if you please? 
 Jartholo. By the right most univer- 
 
 • recognized, the right of might. 
 RosiNE. You may kiU me before you 
 ; it from me. 
 
 IBartholo [stamping with vexaiion]. 
 ladame! madame! . . . 
 IRosini! [falling into an arm-chair and 
 ugning illness]. Oh! what an outrage! . . . 
 IBartholo. Give me that letter, or you 
 In have reason to fear my anger. 
 IRosini: [JaUing backward]. Unfortunate 
 psine! 
 Jartholo. What is the matter with 
 
 .osiNii. What a terrible future. 
 
 ARTHOLO. Rosine! 
 
 ,osiNB. I am choking with anger. 
 
 ABTHOLO. She is ill. 
 
 osirrB. I am fainting. ... I am dying. 
 
 ARTHOLO [feeling her pulse and saying 
 
 le]. Heavens! the letter! Jjet us read it 
 lore she knows it. 
 
 [He continues to feel her pulse, and 
 seizes the letter, which he tries to 
 read by turning aside a little.] 
 [stm reclining]. Ah! unfortu- 
 
 Bartholo [dropping his arm and saying 
 aside]. How mad are we to learn what we 
 always fear to know. 
 
 RosiNB. Ah! poor Rosine! 
 
 Bartholo. The use of perfumes pro- 
 duces spasmodic affections. 
 
 [He reads behind the armchair as 
 he feels her pulse. Rosine rises 
 a little, gazes at him fixedly, nods, 
 and falls back without a word.] 
 
 Bartholo [aside]. O Heaven! it is her 
 cousin's letter. Cvirsed anxiety! Now, how 
 shaU I appease her? At least, let her not 
 know that I have read it! 
 
 [He pretends to raise her up and 
 slips the letter into her pocket.] 
 
 Rosine [sighs]. Ah! . . . 
 
 Bartholo. WeUlitisnothing, my child, 
 a slight attack of the vapors, that is all; for 
 your pulse has not varied one beat. 
 
 [He turns to take a flask from the table.] 
 
 Rosine [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 that I was a little 
 too rough about the note. 
 
 Rosine. He is still talking of the note! 
 It is your manner of asking for things 
 which is disgusting. 
 
 Bartholo [on his knees]. Your pardon. 
 I soon saw that I was quite wrong; you see 
 me at your feet, ready to make reparation. 
 
 Rosine. Yes, pardon indeed! when you 
 believe that this letter does not come from 
 my cousin. 
 
 Bartholo. Whether it comes from him 
 or any one else, I ask for no explanation. 
 
 Rosine [presenting him the letter]. 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 unfortimate 
 enough to have any. 
 
 Rosine. Read it, sir. 
 
 Bartholo [drawing back]. Go.d forbid 
 that I should offer you such an insult! 
 
 Rosine. You would displease me by re- 
 fusing it. 
 
 Babtholo. Receive as a recompense 
 
346 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 this mark of my perfect confidence. I am 
 going to see poor Marcelline, whom that 
 Figaro has, for some odd reason, bled in the 
 foot; will you not come also? 
 
 RosiisrB. I will go up in a moment. 
 
 Baktholo. Since we have made peace, 
 my darling, give me your hand. If you 
 could only love me, how happy you might 
 be! 
 
 RosiNE [dropping her eyes]. If you would 
 only please me, ah! how I should love you! 
 
 Babtholo. I will please you, I will 
 please you! and when I say that I will 
 please you! . . . [Exit.] 
 
 RosiNE [watching him go out]. Ah, Lin- 
 dor! He says that he will please me! . . . 
 Let us read this letter which has almost, 
 caused me so much sorrow. [She reads 
 and cries out:] Ah! ... I am too late, he 
 asks me to start an open quarrel with my 
 guardian. I had such a good opportunity 
 and I let it escape me! When I received the 
 letter I felt that I blushed to the eyes. Ah! 
 my guardian is right, I am far from having 
 that acquaintance with the world which, 
 he oftens tell me, assures the manners of 
 women on every occasion! But an unjust 
 man would succeed in making an intriguer 
 of innocence itself. [Exit.] 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Babtholo [alone and in despair]. What 
 caprices! what caprices! She seemed quite 
 satisfied . . . There! I wish some one could 
 tell me who the devil has put it into her 
 head not to wish any more lessons from Don 
 BazUe! 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 point 
 . . . one only . . . [Another knock.] Let's 
 see who it is. 
 
 [Enter the Count as a student.] 
 
 Count. May peace and joy forever 
 dwell herein. 
 
 Babtholo [shortly]. Never was wish in 
 better season. 
 
 Count. I am Alonzo, bachelor, licen- 
 tiate . . . 
 
 Babtholo. I have no need of a tutor. 
 
 Count. The pupil of Don Bazile, organ- 
 ist to the grand convent, who has the 
 honor to teach music to madame, your . . . 
 
 Babtholo. Bazile! organist! who has 
 the honor! I know it! Yes, indeed! 
 
 Count [aside]. What a man! [Aloud.] 
 A sudden illness which forces him to keep 
 his bed . . . 
 
 Babtholo. Keep his bed! Bazile! 
 has done well to send me word, 1 1 
 see him this moment. 
 
 Count [aside]. Oh! the devil! [i 
 When I say his bed, sir, I ... I , 
 his room. 
 
 Babtholo. Even if it be only a ti 
 illness ... Go ahead, I will foUow yo| 
 
 Count [in embarrassment]. Sir, I| 
 charged . . . Nobody can hear us? 
 
 Babtholo [aside]. He is some rd 
 [Aloud.] No, master mysterious! S| 
 without fear, if you can. 
 
 Count [aside]. Confounded old 
 [Aloud.] Don Bazile charged me to| 
 you . . . 
 
 Babtholo. Speak louder, I am deal 
 one ear. 
 
 Count [raising his voice]. Ah! willir 
 . . . that Count Almaviva, who was lo| 
 ing in the Plaza . . . 
 
 Babtholo [in terror]. Speak lower, sp^ 
 lower. 
 
 Count [louder] . . . has moved away 1 
 morning. As it was through me that| 
 knew Count Almaviva . . . 
 
 Babtholo. Not so loud, I beg you. 
 
 Count [in the same tone] . . . was in l 
 city, and that I have discovered that '. 
 Rosine has written to him . . . 
 
 Babtholo. Has written to him? 
 dear friend, not so loud, I beg you! Th 
 let us sit down, and have a fried 
 chat. You have discovered, you say, 
 Rosine . . . 
 
 Count [anxiously]. Assuredly. Ba 
 disturbed on your account about this { 
 respondence, has asked me to show you 
 letter; but the way in which you 
 things . . . 
 
 Babtholo. Goodness! I take thi 
 
 But can't you speak in a lower void 
 
 Count. You are deaf in one ear, j 
 
THE BARBER OF SEVILLE 
 
 347 
 
 Babtholo. Pardon, Master Alonzo, if 
 you found me suspicious and harsh; but I 
 am so completely surrounded by intriguers 
 and plots; . . . and then your appearance, 
 your age, your air . . . Your pardon. 
 Well! you have the letter. 
 
 Count. In good time! If you take it this 
 way, sir . . . But I am afraid lest some one 
 may be eavesdropping. 
 
 Babtholo. Who do you think? All my 
 servants are laid out! Rosine, in a rage, 
 shut up in her room! The devil has entered 
 my house. I wiU go to make sure . . . 
 
 [He opens Rosine's door softly.] 
 
 Count [aside]. I have got into trouble 
 by being too much in a hurry . . . Shall I 
 keep the letter for the present? I shall have 
 to take myself off; I might as well have 
 stayed away . . . Show it to him ... If 
 I can put Rosine upon her guard, to show 
 it is a master-stroke. 
 
 Babtholo [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 see hers. 
 
 Count [hands him Rosine's letter]. Here 
 it is. [Aside.] It is my letter which she is 
 reading. 
 
 Babtholo [reads]. "Since you have told 
 me your name and rank" . . . Ah! the ' 
 wretch! It is, indeed, her hand. 
 
 Count [in terror]. It is your turn to 
 speak lower. 
 
 Babtholo. What an obligation, my 
 dear fellow! 
 
 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 is at present carrying on with a 
 lawyer . . . 
 
 Babtholo. With a lawyer, for my mar- 
 riage? 
 
 Count. Would I have stopped without 
 telling you that? He charged me to tell you 
 that all would be ready for to-morrow. 
 Then, if she resists . . . 
 
 Babtholo. She will resist. 
 
 '* Count [tries to regain the letter from Bar- 
 
 tholo, who keeps it in his possession]. That 
 
 is the time when I may be able to serve 
 
 you; we will show her her letter, and if it is 
 
 necessary [more mysteriously] I shall go so 
 far as to tell her that I had it from a woman 
 to whom the Count had given it. You see 
 that anxiety, shame, and spite may drive 
 her immediately . . . 
 
 Babtholo [laughing]. Calumny! Now, 
 indeed do I see that you really come from 
 Bazile! But in order that all this may not 
 appear to be a plot, would it not be well for 
 her to know you beforehand? 
 
 Count [represses a start of joy]. That was 
 Don Bazile's opinion. But how shall we do 
 it? It is late ... In the httle time which 
 remain s . . . 
 
 " Babtholo. I will tell her that you are 
 coming in his place. WUI you not give her 
 a lesson? 
 
 Count. There is nothing that I would 
 not do to please you. But bear in mind that 
 all these stories of alleged masters are old 
 dodges, comedy tricks. If she suspects . . . 
 
 Babtholo. If you are introduced by me, 
 there is no likelihood of it. You look more 
 like a disguised lover than an obliging friend. 
 
 Count. Really! Do you think that my 
 appearance will add to the deceit? 
 
 Babtholo. 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 harpsichord is 
 in this cabinet. Amuse yourself while you 
 wait; I am going to try the impossible in 
 bringing her to you. 
 
 Count. Take care not to speak of the 
 letter. 
 
 Babtholo . Before the decisive moment? 
 That would destroy all its effect. You need 
 not tell me things twice. [Exit.] 
 
 Count [aZone]. Saved! Phew! How hard 
 this devilish fellow is to handle! Figaro 
 knows him well. I could see myself as I 
 lied; it surely made me look flat and stupid, 
 and he has eyes! My word, if it had not 
 been for the sudden inspiration of the letter, 
 I must confess, I would have gone on like 
 a fool. O Heaven! they are disputing in 
 there. If she should refuse to come! Let's 
 listen . . . She refuses to come out of her 
 room, and I have lost all the advantage 
 that I had gained. [He listens again.] Here 
 she is; let us not appear at first. 
 
 [He enters the ccMnet.] 
 
348 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 [Enter Rosine and Babtholo.] 
 
 RosiNE [v/ith an affected anger]. All that 
 you may say, sir, is useless; I have de- 
 cided, I wish to hear nothing more about 
 music. 
 
 Bartholo. Listen, my child; it is 
 Master Alonzo, the pupil and friend of 
 Don Bazile, chosen by him to be one of our 
 witnesses. Music will calm you, I assure 
 you. 
 
 Rosine. Oh! as for that, you may give 
 up that notion. You want me to sing this 
 evening! Where is this master whom you 
 are afraid to send away? I will send him 
 about his business, and Bazile's too. [She 
 sees her lover and utters a cry.] Ah! . . . 
 
 Baktholo. What is the matter? 
 
 Rosine [clasping her hands upon her 
 breast]. Ah! sir! . . . Ah, sir! . . . 
 
 Babtholo. She is ill again, Master 
 Alonzo! 
 
 Rosine. No, I am not ill . . . but, as I 
 turned ... Ah! 
 
 Count. You turned your ankle, madame? 
 
 Rosine. Ah, yes! I turned my ankle. 
 It gave me a terrible pain. 
 
 Count. I perceived that it did. 
 
 Rosine [gazing at the Count]. It struck 
 me to the heart. 
 
 Babtholo. A chair, a chair. Not an 
 armchair here! [Goes to seek one.] 
 
 Count. Ah, Rosine! 
 
 Rosine. What an imprudence! 
 
 Count. I have a thousand things to tell 
 you. 
 
 Rosine. He will not leave us. 
 
 Count. Figaro will come to our assist- 
 ance. 
 
 Babtholo [bringing an easy chair]. 
 There, darling, sit down. It is quite im- 
 probable, master bachelor, that she will 
 take a lesson this evening; you will have to 
 wait until another day. Farewell. 
 
 Rosine [to the Count]. No, wait; my 
 pain is a little eased. [To Babtholo.] I see 
 that I was wrong with you, sir; I will fol- 
 low your example by repairing immedi- 
 ately . . . 
 
 Babtholo. Ah! what good little dis- 
 positions women have! But after endur- 
 ing such pain, my child, I will not allow 
 
 you to make the least effort. Farewell, 
 farewell, master bachelor. 
 
 Rosine [to the Count]. One moment, 
 sir, if you please! [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 lesson. 
 
 Count [aside to Babtholo]. Do not op- 
 pose her, if you wish to take my advice. 
 
 Babtholo. That is enough, my dear. 
 I am so far from trying to displease 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. 
 
 Rosine [aside to the Count]. He puts me 
 to the torment. 
 
 Count [talcing up a sheet of music]. Will 
 you sing that, madame? 
 
 Rosine. Yes, it is a very pretty piece 
 from The Useless Precaution. 
 
 Babtholo. The Useless Precaution Sigaial 
 
 Count. It is the newest thing of the day. 
 It is a picture of Spring in a very lively 
 genre. Does madame wish to try it? 
 
 Rosine [gazing at the Count]. With 
 great pleasure; a picture of Spring will en- 
 chant me; it is the youth of Nature. After 
 the winter, it seems as if the heart reaches 
 a higher degree of sensibility, as a slave 
 who has long been confined enjoys to the 
 full the charm of liberty which has just been 
 offered him. 
 
 Babtholo [to the Count in a low voice]. 
 Her head is forever full of these romantic 
 ideas. 
 
 Count [in a low voice]. Do you see the 
 point of it? 
 
 Babtholo. Zounds! 
 
 [Seats himself in the chair which 
 Rosine has been occupying.] 
 
 Rosine [sin^s]. 
 
 When o'er the plain 
 Love once again 
 
 Doth bring 
 The lovers' cherished Spring, 
 
 Then everything 
 
 With new life thrills; 
 
 The flowers it fills 
 And maketh young hearts sing. 
 
THE BARBER OF SEVILLE 
 
 349 
 
 The flocks are seen 
 
 Upon the green, 
 And all the hills 
 
 With the young lambs' cries resound. 
 They frisk and bound — ■ 
 
 All things be growing, 
 
 All blossoms blowing. 
 And grazing sheep 
 The faithful watchdogs keep. 
 But Lindor, passion-moved, 
 
 Thinks none the less 
 But of the joy of being loved 
 
 By his fair shepherdess. 
 
 Far from her mother, with a blithesome song, 
 Our shepherdess doth trip along 
 
 To tryst her waiting lover. 
 By this device doth Love entice 
 And snare the pretty rover. 
 Will song protection give her? 
 
 The piping reeds 
 
 She lists and heeds. 
 
 Birds' sweet alarms, 
 
 Her swelling charms,. 
 
 Her fifteen years.*— 
 
 All that she sees, 
 
 All that she hears 
 
 Fills her with fears 
 
 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. 
 Refrain. 
 Now sighs 
 And sweet alarms and many a fond caress, 
 Now amorous vows and lively tenderness. 
 
 Bright eyes 
 Dear dalliance and swift repartee 
 All come in play, and now, perdie, 
 Eight soon our gentle shepherdess 
 Feels her just rage grow less; 
 And if some jealous swain 
 Dare trouble such sweet pain. 
 Our lovers in accord. 
 With every act and word 
 
 Their highest joys conceal. 
 For when we love indeed 
 Restraint can naught but feed 
 The fires of love we feel. 
 
 [As he listens, Barthoio falls 
 asleep. The CotTNT, during the 
 
 refrain, ventures to seize her 
 hand, which he covers with kisses. 
 In her emotion the song dies 
 away, until it ceases in the mid- 
 dle of the cadence at the last word. 
 The orchestra follows the move- 
 ment of the singer, and is silent 
 with her. The absence of the 
 sounds which had put Bartholo 
 to sleep awakes him. The Cotjnt 
 rises, Rosinb and the orchestra 
 quickly continue the air.] 
 Count. Truly it is a charming piece, and 
 madame sings it with a degree of under- 
 standing . . . 
 
 RosiNE. You flatter me, sir; the praise 
 belongs entirely to the master. 
 
 Bartholo [yavming]. I 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 
 soon as I sit down, my poor legs . . . 
 
 [He rises and pushes away the chair.] 
 RosiNE [whispers to the Count]. Figaro 
 does not come. 
 Count. Let us try to kill time. 
 Bartholo. But, master bachelor, I have 
 already said so to that old Bazile; is there 
 no way of making her study something 
 more lively than all these grand aria^, which 
 go up and down, rolling along with a hi, ho, 
 a, a, a, a, and which seem to me like so 
 many funerals? Now, some of those little 
 airs that they used to sing in my youth, and 
 which all remembered so easily. I used to 
 know some of them . . . For example . . . 
 [During the prelude he scratches his 
 head and sings, snapping his 
 fingers and dancing with his 
 knees bent in the manner of old 
 men^] 
 Dost thou, my Rosinette, 
 Elect to get 
 
 A spouse, the prince of men? . . . 
 [To the Count, laughing.] There is a 
 Fanchonette in the song, but I substituted 
 Rosinette for her, to make it more pleasing 
 to her, and to make it fit the circum- 
 stances. Ha! ha! ha! ha! Pretty good, 
 is n't it? 
 
 Count [laughing]. Ha! ha! ha! yes, 
 capital. 
 
350 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 [Enter Figaro, who remains at the back.] 
 
 Bartholo [sings]. 
 
 Dost thou, my Rosinette, 
 
 Elect to get 
 
 A spouse, the prince of men? 
 
 No Thyrsis I — yet when 
 
 The shadows fall, at ending of the day, 
 
 I still am worth my fee. 
 
 For in obscurity 
 
 The bravest oats are merely somber gray. 
 
 [He repeats the refrain dancing. 
 Figaro, behind him, imitates 
 his movements.] 
 
 No Thyrsis I, etc. 
 
 [Perceiving Figaro.] Ah! enter master 
 barber: come in, you are charming! 
 
 Figaro [salutes]. Sir, it is true that my 
 mother used to teU me so: but I am some- 
 what deformed since that time. [Aside to 
 the Count.] Bravo, my lord. 
 
 [During this whole scene, the 
 Count makes numerous at- 
 tempts to speak to Rosine, but 
 the restless and vigilant eye of 
 her guardian prevents him, which 
 produces a sort of dumb show of 
 all the actors not taking part in 
 the discussion between the doctor 
 and Figaro.] 
 Bartholo. Have you come again to 
 bleed, drug, and prostrate my whole house- 
 hpW? , 
 
 '''^ 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 . . . 
 
 Bartholo. Your zeal does not wait! 
 What have you to say, master zealot, to 
 that wretch who yawns and sleeps, though 
 wide awake? and the other, who, for the last 
 three hours, has been sneezing enough to 
 crack his cranium, or blow out his brains! 
 What have you to say to that? 
 Figaro. What have I to say to that? 
 Bartholo. Yes! 
 
 Figaro. Well, I should say ... I should 
 say to him who sneezes, God bless you: and 
 Go to bed, to him who yawns. It is not that, 
 sir, which will increase the bill. 
 
 Bartholo. Truly, no: but it is bleed- 
 ings and medicines which would increase it 
 if I would stand it. Is it due to your zeal 
 also that you bandaged my mule's eyes? 
 And will your bandage return its sight? 
 
 Figaro. If it does not bring back the 
 sight, it will no longer prevent it from see- 
 ing. 
 
 Bartholo. Wait till I find it in the bill! 
 ... I will not stand such extravagance! 
 
 Figaro. Faith, sir, there being little to 
 choose between stupidity and foUy, 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? 
 
 Bartholo. You would do much better, 
 maste'r reasoner, to pay me my hundred 
 crowns and the interest, without any non- 
 sense: I warn you. 
 
 Figaro. Do you doubt my honesty, 
 sir? Your hundred crowns! I would rather 
 owe them to you all my life than deny them 
 to you for a single moment. 
 
 Bartholo. And tell me how Mistress 
 Figaro liked the bon-bons that you took 
 her. 
 
 Figaro. What bon-bons? What do you 
 mean? 
 
 Bartholo. Yes, those bon-bons, in the 
 bag made from a sheet of this letter paper 
 . . . this morning. 
 
 Figaro. The devil fly away with me 
 if . .. 
 
 Rosine [interrupting him]. Did you 
 take care to tell her that they were from 
 me, Master Figaro? I told you to do so. 
 
 Figaro. Ah, yes! this morning's bon- 
 bons! How stupid I am! I had quite for- 
 gotten that . . . Oh! excellent, madame, 
 admirable! 
 
 Bartholo. Excellent! admirable! Yes, 
 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? 
 
 Bartholo. Which will acquire a fine 
 reputation for you, sirrah. 
 
 Figaro. I will try to live up to it, sir. 
 
 Bartholo. Say that you will live it 
 down, sirrah. 
 
 Figaro. As you please, sir. 
 
THE BARBER OF SEVILLE 
 
 3SI 
 
 Bartholo. You ride a high horse, sirrah. 
 Raow that when I dispute with a fool, I 
 never yield to him. 
 
 FiGABO [turning his hack upon him]. We 
 differ in that, sir, for I always yield to him. 
 
 Bartholo. Hey! What does he mean 
 by that, bachelor? 
 
 Figaro. That you think that you have 
 to do with some village barber, who only 
 knows how to handle the razor. Learn, sir, 
 that I have labored with my pen at Mad- 
 rid, and that were it not for the envious . . . 
 
 Bartholo. Why did you not stay there, 
 without coming here to change your profes- 
 sion! 
 
 Figaro. We do what we can; put your- 
 self in my place. 
 
 Bartholo. Put myself in your place! Ah! 
 zounds ! I would say a fine lot of stupidities ! 
 
 Figaro. Sir, you do not begin badly; I 
 appeal to your colleague, who is dreaming 
 there. . . . 
 
 Count [turning to him]. I ... I am not 
 his colleague. 
 
 Figaro. No? Seeing you here in con- 
 sultation, I thought that you were pursuing 
 the same object. 
 
 Bartholo [angrily]. Well, what brings 
 you here? Is it to bring madame another 
 letter this evening? Speak; must I retire? 
 
 Figaro. How harshly you treat the 
 poor world! Zounds, sir, I come to shave 
 you, that 's all. Is not to-day your day? 
 
 Bartholo. You may return later. 
 
 Figaro. Ah, yes, 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? 
 
 Bartholo. No, I will not. But . . . why 
 can't you shave me here? 
 
 'RosaTE[contemptiu>usly]. You are polite! 
 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. 
 
 Figaro [whispers to the Count]. We 
 cannot get him out of here! [Aloud.] Come, 
 Eveill^! Jeunesse! the basin, the water, 
 everything master needs! 
 
 Bartholo. That 's right, call them! 
 Fatigued, harassed, belabored at your 
 hands, did they not need to go to bed? 
 
 Figaro. 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. 
 
 Bartholo [unfastens his hunch of keys 
 and says reflectively:] No, no, I will go my- 
 self. [Whispers to the Count as he goes out:] 
 Keep your eyes on them, I beg you. 
 
 [E:dt.] 
 
 Figaro. Oh! what a great opportunity 
 we have missed! He was going to give me 
 the keys. Was not the key of the blind 
 among them? 
 
 RosiNB. It was the newest of them all. 
 
 Bartholo [returning]. [Aside.] Good! 
 I do not know what I am doing in having 
 this cursed barber here. [To Figaro.] Here.' 
 [Gives him the keys.] In my dressing-room, 
 under the bureau; touch nothing else. ^ 
 
 Figaro. The plague! It would be good 
 enough for you, suspicious as you are! 
 [Aside, going off.] See how Heaven protects 
 innocence! [Exit.] 
 
 Bartholo [whispers to the Count]. He is 
 the knave who took the letter to the Count. 
 
 Count [in a low voice]. He looks like a 
 rogue to me. , 
 
 Bartholo. He will not catch me again. 
 
 Count. I think that as far as that goes, 
 the worst is over. 
 
 Bartholo. 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. 
 
 RosiNE. It is very polite, gentlemen, to 
 whisper continually! And my lesson? 
 [They hear a noise as of dishes upset.] 
 
 Bartholo [with a cry]. What do I hear! 
 That cruel barber must have dropped 
 everything downstairs, and the finest 
 pieces in my dressing-case! 
 
 [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. 
 
 RoBiNE. Ah, Lindor! 
 
352 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Count. I can climb to your blind; and 
 as for the letter which I received from you 
 this morning, I found myself forced . . . 
 
 [Enter Bartholo and Figabo.] 
 
 Bartholo. I was not mistaken; every- 
 thing is broken, smashed. 
 
 Figaro. It must be a great calamity to 
 make so much noise! You can't see at all 
 on the stairs. [He shows the key to the 
 Count.] As I came upstairs I stumbled 
 upon a key . . . 
 
 Bartholo. You should take care what 
 you are doing. Stumble upon a key! The 
 clever man! 
 
 Figaro. My faith, sir, you may look for 
 a cleverer. 
 
 [Enter Don Bazile.] 
 
 RosiNE [aside in terror]. Don Bazile! . . . 
 
 Count [aside]. Good Heaven! 
 
 Figaro [aside]. 'T is the devil! 
 
 Bartholo [advancing to meet him]. Ah! 
 Bazile, my friend, you are soon cured. 
 Your accident has had no bad conse- 
 quences? Truly, Master Alonzo had 
 frightened me considerably about you; 
 ask him; I was going out to see you, and if 
 he_hfld not restrained me . . . 
 
 Bazile [in astonishment]. Master Al- 
 onzo? . . . 
 
 Figaro [stamps Ms foot]. What! More 
 bad places? Two hours for one poor beard. 
 Confound such a customer! 
 
 Bazile [looking at all]. Will you be kind 
 enough to tell me, sirs? . . . 
 
 Figaro. You may speak to him when I 
 am gone. 
 
 Bazile. But why should that be neces- 
 sary, anyway? ' 
 
 Count. You should be silent, Bazile. 
 Do you think to teach 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. 
 
 Bazile [in greater astonishment]. The 
 music lesson! . . . Alonzo! . . . 
 
 RosiNE [aside to Bazile], Come! Will 
 you be still? 
 
 Bazile. And she, too! 
 
 Count [in a low voice to Bartholo]. 
 Whisper to him that we have all agreed. 
 
 Bartholo [aside to Bazile]. Don't give 
 us the lie, Bazile, by saying that he is not 
 your pupil; you would spoil everything. 
 
 Bazile. Ha! ha! 
 
 Bartholo [alovd]. Truly, Bazile, no one 
 has more talent than your scholar. 
 
 Bazile [in astonishment]. Than my 
 scholar! . . . [Whispers.] 1 was coming to 
 tell you that the Coimt has moved. 
 
 Bartholo [in a low voice]. Silence, I 
 know it. 
 
 Bazile [lowering his voice]. Who told 
 you? 
 
 Bartholo [whispers]. He, of course! 
 
 Count [whispers]. Certainly I: if you 
 would only listen. 
 
 RosiNE [in a whisper to Bazile]. Is it so 
 difficult to keep still? 
 
 Figaro [iAe same]. Hum! your great hip- 
 pogriff! He is deaf! 
 
 Bazile [aside]. Who the devil is it that 
 they are fooling here? Every one seems to 
 be in the secret. 
 
 Bartholo [alovd]. Well! Bazile, your 
 lawyer? 
 
 Figaro. You have the whole evening 
 to talk about your lawyer. 
 
 Bartholo [to Bazile]. One word only; 
 tell me if you are really satisfied with the 
 lawyer? 
 
 Bazile [in a fright]. With the lawyer? 
 
 Count [smiling]. Did n't you see your 
 lawyer? 
 
 Bazile [impatiently]. No, I did not see 
 the lawyer. 
 
 Count [aside to Bartholo]. You don't 
 want him to explain before her, do you? 
 Send him off. 
 
 Bartholo [in a whisper to the Count]. 
 You are right. \To Bazile.] But what 
 made you iU so suddenly? 
 
 Bazile [angrily]. I don't understand 
 you. 
 
 Count [aside, puts a purse into his hand]. 
 Yes, he has just asked you what you ex- 
 pect to do here in your present state of 
 illness. 
 
 Figaro. He is as pale as death. 
 
 Bazile. Ah! I understand . . . 
 
 Count. Go to bed, my dear Bazile: you 
 are not well and you give us a terrible 
 fright. Go to bed! 
 
Missing Page 
 
Missing Page 
 
\f 
 
 THE BARBER OF SEVILLE 
 
 3SS 
 
 Babtholo. My word, those fellows are 
 so alert! Look here, my friend, I am un- 
 easy. Go to the notary's. Tell him to re- 
 turn with you immediately. 
 
 Bazilb. It rains, the weather is infernal; 
 but nothing will stop me in your service. 
 What are you doing? 
 
 Bartholo. I will lead you. Have they 
 not put that Figaro up to crippling all my 
 servants! I am alone here. 
 
 BAZitB. I have my lantern. 
 
 Bartholo. There, Bazile, there is my 
 pass-key: I will wait, I will watch for you; 
 and, come who will, none but the notary 
 and yourself wiU get in to-night. 
 
 Bazile. With these precautions, you 
 are sure of your case. [Exeunt.] 
 
 [RosiNB, (done, coming out of her room.] 
 
 RosiNE. It seemed to me that I heard 
 talking. It has just struck midnight; 
 Lindor has not come! This bad weather 
 was the very thing to help him. Sure not 
 to meet a soul . . . Ah, Lindor! If you have 
 deceived me! . . . What noise do I hear?. . . 
 Heaven! It is my guardian. Let us get back. 
 [Bartholo returns.] 
 
 Bartholo [holding up the light]. Ah, 
 Rosine! since you have not yet retired to 
 your apartments . . . 
 
 RosiNE. I am going to retire. 
 
 Bartholo. In this horrible weather you 
 will not get any repose, and I have many 
 important things to tell you. 
 
 RosiifB. What will you have, sir? Is it 
 not enough to be tormented by day? 
 
 Bartholo. Rosine, Usten to me. 
 
 RosiNE. To-morrow I will listen to you. 
 
 Bartholo. One moment, if you please! 
 
 Rosine [aside]. If he would only come! 
 
 Bartholo [shoioing her the letter]. Do 
 you recognize this letter? 
 
 RosiNB [recognizing it]. Ah! Great 
 Heaven! ... "* 
 
 Bartholo. My intention, Rosine, is not 
 to reproach you: at your age one may err; 
 but I am your best friend: listen to me. 
 
 Rosine. I am overwhelmed. 
 
 Bartholo. That letter which you wrote 
 to Count Almaviva. . . 
 
 Rosine [astounded]. To Count Alma- 
 viva! . . . 
 
 Bartholo. 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. 
 
 Rosine. Count Almaviva! . . . 
 
 Bartholo. You can hardly persuade 
 yourself that it is so horrible. Inexperience, 
 Rosine, makes your sex confiding and cred- 
 ulous; but learn 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 thought! The 
 most abominable plot, between Almaviva, 
 Figaro, and that Alonzo, that pretended 
 scholar of Bazile' 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 
 out. 
 
 Rosine [overwhelmed]. How horrible! 
 . . . What! Lindor? . . . what! that young 
 man . . . 
 
 Bartholo [aside]. Ah! it is Lindor. 
 
 Rosine. It is for Count Almaviva . . . 
 It is for another . . . 
 
 Bartholo. That is what they said when 
 they gave me your letter. 
 
 Rosine [cmgrily]. Ah! what an indig- 
 nity! He will be punished for it. Sir, you 
 desire to marry me? 
 
 Bartholo. You know the depth of my 
 feeUngs. 
 
 Rosine. If you can still feel so, I am 
 yours. 
 
 Babtholo. Well, the notary will come 
 this very evening. 
 
 Rosine. 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 his bunch of keys]. 
 Oh, the rascals! . . . My child, I will leave 
 you no more. 
 
 Rosine [in terror]. Oh, sir! and if they 
 should be armed? 
 
 Bartholo. You are right: I would lose 
 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. Arrested as a thief, we shall 
 
3S^ 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 have the pleasure of being at once avenged 
 and delivered from him! And remember 
 that my love will repay you . . . 
 
 RosiNB [in despair]. Only forget my 
 errors. [Aside.] Ah! I am sufficiently pun- 
 ished for it! 
 
 Baetholo [going ovt]. Let us go to set 
 our trap. At last I have her. [Exit.] 
 
 "^ RosiNE. His love will repay me. . . . 
 Wretch that I am! . . . [She takes her hand- 
 kerchief and gives way to her tears.] What 
 shall I do? ... He will come. I will re- 
 main and dissemble with him, to contem- 
 plate him for a moment in all his blackness. 
 The baseness of his actions will be my pre- 
 server. Ah! I have great need of one. What 
 a noble figure! what a gentle air! what a 
 tender voice! and they are only the vile 
 agents of a corrupter. Ah! unfortunate! 
 unfortunate! . . . Heaven! some one is 
 opening the blind! [She runs ovi.] 
 
 [The CotTNT, Figaro wrapped in a 
 mantle, appear at the vnndow.] 
 
 Figaro [speaking from the outside]. Some 
 one has just rushed out; shall I enter? 
 
 Count [oidside]. A man? 
 
 Figaro. No. 
 
 Count. It is Rosine, whom your hideous 
 iBgure has probably put to flight. 
 
 Figaro [leaping into the room]. My word, 
 I believe you. . . . Here we are at last, despite 
 the rain, the thunder, and the lightning. 
 
 Count [wrapped in a long mantle]. Give 
 me your hand. [Also leaps in.] Victory ! 
 
 Figaro [throwing off his mantle]. We are 
 quite drenched. Charming weather to go 
 on love quests. My lord, how do you like 
 this evening? 
 
 Count. Superb for a lover. 
 
 Figaro. 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. 
 
 Figaro. You have in your interest three 
 passions very powerful over the fair sex: 
 love, hatred, and fear. 
 
 Count [gazing into the darkness]. How 
 shall I tell her abruptly that the notary is 
 waiting at your house to unite us? She will 
 
 think my plan a very bold one. She will call 
 me audacious. 
 
 Figaro. If she calls you audacious, you 
 may call her cruel. Women are much 
 pleased to be called cruel. At the most, if 
 her love is as strong as you hope, you may 
 tell her who you are: she will no longer 
 doubt you. 
 
 [Enter Rosine. Figaro lights all the 
 candles on the table.] 
 
 Count. Here she is! My fair Rosine! . . . 
 
 Rosine [very calmly]. I began, sir, to 
 fear that you were not coming. 
 
 Count. 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 . . . 
 
 Rosine. Sir, if the gift of my hand had 
 not had to foUow 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, without 
 birth! . . . 
 
 Rosine. Birth, fortime! Let us put 
 aside such attendants on chance, and if you 
 will assure me that your intentions are 
 pure . . . 
 
 Count [at her feet]. Ah, Rosine! I adore 
 you! . . . 
 
 Rosine [indignantly]. Stop, you wretch! 
 You dare to profane! You adore me! . . . 
 Go! You are no longer dangerous to me; 
 I was waiting for this word only to detest 
 you. But before I abandon you to the re- 
 morse which awaits you, [lueeping] learn 
 that I did love you; learn that it made me 
 happy to think of sharing your poor lot. 
 Miserable Lindor! I was going to leave 
 everything to follow you, but the cowardly 
 abuse which you have made of my kind- 
 ness, and the baseness of that, horrible 
 Count Almaviva, to whom you sold me, 
 have brought me this evidence of my 
 weakness. Do you recognize this letter? 
 
 Count [excitedly]. Which your guardian 
 gave you? 
 
 Rosine [proudly]. Yes, I am obliged to 
 him for it. 
 
THE BARBER OF SEVILLE 
 
 357 
 
 CoTTNT. Heaven! how glad I am! He 
 had it from me. In my embarrassment, 
 yesterday, I made use of it to draw him 
 out, and I have been miable to find a 
 favorable moment to tell you of it. Ah, 
 ^, Rosine! it is true, then, that you love me 
 (,j> truly! 
 
 ' ^^ Figaro. My lord, you sought a woman 
 who should love you for yourself. 
 
 Rosine. My lord! what is he saying? 
 
 Count [thromng aside his heavy mantle, 
 appears magnificently clothed]. O most be- 
 loved of women! I must no longer deceive 
 you: 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. 
 
 Rosine [falling into the arms of the 
 Cotint]. Ah! . . . 
 
 Count {frightened]. Figaro? 
 
 Figaro. Don't be uneasy, my lord: the 
 sweet emotion of joy never has sorrowful 
 consequences. There, she is coming to her 
 senses; my word! how beautful she is! 
 
 Rosine. Ah, Lindor! . . . Ah, sir! how 
 guilty I am! I was going to yield to my 
 guardian this very night. 
 
 Count. You, Rosine? 
 
 Rosine. Only see how I am punished: I 
 would have passed my life in detesting you. 
 Ah, Lindor! is it not a most frightful pun- 
 ishment to hate, when you feel impelled to 
 love? 
 
 Figaro \looTdng out of the window]. My 
 lord, our escape is cut off, the ladder is 
 taken away! 
 
 Count. Taken away! 
 
 Rosine [in anxiety]. Yes, it is I ... it is 
 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. 
 
 Figaro [looking out again]. My lord, 
 they are opening the street door. 
 
 Rosine [hastening to the arms of the 
 Count in terror]. Ah, Lindor! 
 
 Count [firmly]. 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. 
 
 Rosine. No, no, pardon him, dear Lin- 
 dor! My heart is so full that vengeance 
 can find no place there. 
 
 [Enter the Notary and Don Bazile.] 
 
 Figaro. My lord, it is our notary. 
 
 Count. And friend Bazile with him! 
 
 Bazile. Ah! what do I see? 
 
 Figaro. Bywhat chance, my friend? . . . 
 
 Bazile. By what chance, sirs? . . . 
 
 Notary. Are these the betrothed? 
 
 Count. Yes, sir. You were to unite 
 Senora Rosine and myself to-night, at the 
 house of the barber Figaro; but we pre- 
 ferred this house for reasons which you will 
 know later. Have you our contract? 
 
 Notary. I have the honor, then, to 
 speak to His Excellency Count Almaviva? 
 
 Figaro. Precisely. 
 
 Bazile [aside]. If that is the reason that 
 he gave me his pass-key . . . 
 
 Notary. I have two marriage contracts 
 here, my lord; let us not confuse them: 
 here is yours, and here is Bartholo's with 
 Senora . . . Rosine too? These ladies, ap- 
 parently, are two sisters who bear the 
 same name? 
 
 Count. Let us sign quickly. Don Bazile 
 will be willing to serve as the second wit- 
 ness. [They sign.] 
 
 Bazile. But, Your Excellency ... I 
 don't understand . . . 
 
 Count. Master Bazile, a trifle confuses 
 you, and all astonishes you. 
 
 Bazile. But, my lord ... if the 
 doctor . . . 
 
 Count [throwing him a purse]. You are 
 acting like a child! Sign quickly. 
 
 Bazile [astonished]. Ha! ha! 
 
 Figaro. Why do you make a difficulty of 
 signing? 
 
 Bazile [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 signs.] 
 
 [Enter Bartholo, a Justice of the Peace, 
 Policemen, Servants with torches.] 
 
 Bartholo [sees the Count kissing 
 RogiNE's hand, and - Figaro grotesquely 
 embracing Don Bazile; he cries ovi, seizing 
 the Notary by the throat], Rosine with these 
 
3S8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 rascals! Arrest them all. I have one of 
 them by the collar. 
 
 Notary. I am your notary. 
 
 Bazilb. He is your notary. Are you 
 foohng? 
 
 Bartholo. Ah, Don Bazile! how is it 
 that you are here? 
 
 Bazile. Rather, why were you not here? 
 
 Justice [pointing out Figaro]. One 
 moment; I know this fellow. What are 
 you doing in this house at such an un- 
 heard-of hour? 
 
 Figaro. 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. 
 
 Bartholo. Almaviva! 
 
 Justice. They are not robbers, then? 
 
 BiKSHQiJO;__l!ipt us drop that. Every- 
 where else, Count Almaviva, I am Your 
 Excellency's servant; but you understand 
 that superiority of rank is useless here. 
 If you please, have the kindness to retire. 
 
 CotTNT^ Yes, 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. 
 
 Bartholo. What is he saying, Rosine? 
 
 RosiNB. He is telling you the truth. 
 What causes your astonishment? Was I 
 not this very night to be avenged of a de- 
 ceiver? I am. 
 
 Bazile. When I told you that it was the 
 Count himself, doctor? 
 
 Bartholo. What does that matter to 
 me? This is a ridiculous marriage! Where 
 are the witnesses? 
 
 Notary. There is nothing lacking. I 
 have been assisted by these two gentlemen. 
 
 Bartholo. What, Bazile! . . . You signed? 
 
 Bazile. What would you have? This 
 devil of a fellow always has his pockets full 
 of irresistible arguments. 
 
 Bartholo. I despise your arguments. I 
 shall make use of my authority. 
 
 Count. You have lost it by abusing it. 
 
 Bartholo. The young lady is a minor. 
 
 Figaro. 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 rank, young and 
 rich; she is my wife: does any one wish to 
 dispute me this title which honors us both. 
 
 Bartholo. You shall never take her 
 from my hands. 
 
 Count. She is no longer in your power. 
 I will put her under the protection of the 
 law; and this gentleman, whom you have 
 summoned yourself, will protect her from 
 any violence which you may wish to offer 
 her. True magistrates are the protectors 
 of all the oppressed. 
 
 Justice. Certainly. And this useless 
 resistance to a most honorable marriage 
 shows well enough how frightened he is 
 over the ill-administration of his ward's 
 property, of which he will have to render 
 an account. 
 
 Count. Ah! let him consent to all, and I 
 shall ask nothing further of him. 
 
 Figaro. But my quittance for my hun- 
 dred crowns. Let us not lose our heads. 
 
 Bartholo [angrily]. They were all 
 against me . . . I have thrust my head 
 into a scrape. 
 
 Bazile. What scrape? Remember, 
 doctor, that although you cannot have the 
 woman, you have the money — yes, you 
 have the money. 
 
 Bartholo. Oh! leave me alone, Bazile! 
 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- 
 cides me? [He signs.] 
 
 Figaro [Umghing]. Ha! ha! ha! my lord, 
 they are of the same family. 
 
 Notary. But, gentlemen, I do not quite 
 understand. Are there not two young 
 ladies who bear the same name? 
 
 Figaro. No, sir, there is only one. 
 
 Bartholo [in despair]. And it was I 
 who brought them the ladder in order that 
 the marriage should be more certain! Ah! 
 I have defeated myself for lack of pre- 
 cautions. 
 
 Figaro. Lack of good sense. But to tell 
 you the truth, doctor, when youth and 
 love have agreed to deceive an old man, all 
 that he does to prevent it may well be 
 called The Useless PrecaiUion, 
 
HERNANI 
 By victor HUGO 
 
 Translated into English Hank verse by MRS. NE WTON CROSLAND 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Heenani 
 Don Carlos 
 
 Don Ruy Gomez de Silva 
 Dona Sol de Silva 
 The King of Bohemia 
 The Duke of Bavakia 
 The Duke of Gotha 
 The Baron of Hohenbourg 
 The Duke of Lutzelbourg 
 Don Sancho 
 Don Matias 
 Don Ricardo 
 Don Garcia Suarez 
 Don Francisco 
 Don Juan de Haro 
 , Don Pedro Gusman de Lara 
 Don Gil Tellez Giron 
 DoSa Josefa Duarte 
 Jaquez 
 
 A Mountaineer 
 A Lady 
 
 First Conspirator 
 Second Conspirator 
 Third Conspirator 
 Conspirators of the Holy League, Germans and Spaniards, Mountaineers, 
 Nobles, Soldiers, Pages, Attendants, etc. 
 
HERNANI 
 
 ACT I 
 
 [Saragossa. A Chamber. Night: a lamp on 
 the table.] 
 
 [Enter DoSa Josefa Dtjarte, an old wo- 
 man dressed in black, with body of her 
 dress worked in jet in the fashion of Isa- 
 bella the Catholic. She draws the crim- 
 son curtains of the window, and puts 
 some armchairs in order. A knock at a 
 little secret door on the right. She listens. 
 A second knock.] 
 
 DoSa Josefa. Can it be he already? 
 [Another knock.] 'T is, indeed, 
 At tV hidden stairway. [A fourth knock.] I 
 must open quick. 
 
 [She opens the concealed door.] 
 
 [Enter Don Cablos, his face muffled in his 
 cloak, and his hat drawn over his brows. 
 
 Good-evening to you, sir! 
 
 [She ushers him in. He drops his 
 cloak and reveals a rich d^ess of 
 sUk and velvet in the Castilian 
 style of 1619. She looks at him 
 closely, and recoils astonished.] 
 What now? — not you, 
 Signer Hemani! Kre! fire! Help, oh, help! 
 Don Carlos [seizing her by the arm]. But 
 two words more, duenna, and you die ! 
 [He looks at her intently. She is 
 frightened into silence.] 
 Is this the room of Dona Sol, betrothed 
 To her old uncle, Duke de Pastrana? 
 A very worthy lord he is — senile, 
 White-hair'd and jealous. Tell me, is it true 
 The beauteous Dona loves a smooth-faced 
 
 youth, 
 All whiskerless as yet, and sees him here 
 Each night, in spite of envious care? Tell me, 
 Am I informed aright? 
 
 [She is silent. He shakes her by the 
 arm.] 
 Will you not speak? 
 DoSa Josefa. You did forbid me, sir, to 
 speak two words. 
 
 Don Carlos. One will suffice. I want a 
 yes, or no. 
 Say, is thy mistress Dofia Sol de Silva? 
 
 DoijA Josefa. Yes, why? 
 
 Don Carlos. No matter why. Just at 
 this hour 
 The venerable lover is away? 
 
 Dona Josefa. He is. 
 
 Don Carlos. And she expects the young 
 one now? 
 
 DoSa Josefa. Yes. 
 
 Don Carlos. Oh, that I could die! 
 
 Do5fA Josefa. Yes. 
 
 Don Carlos. Say, duenna. 
 Is this the place where they will surely meet? 
 
 DoSa Josefa. Yes. 
 
 Don Carlos. Hide me somewhere here. 
 
 DoSa Josefa. You? 
 
 Don Carlos. Yes, me. 
 
 DoSa Josefa. Why? 
 
 Don Carlos. No matter why. 
 
 DoSa Josefa. I hide you here! 
 
 Don Carlos. Yes, here. 
 
 DoSa Josefa. No, never! 
 
 Don Carlos [drawing from his girdle a 
 purse and a dagger]. Madam, conde- 
 scend to choose 
 Between a purse and dagger. 
 
 DoNa Josefa [taking the purse]. Are you, 
 then. 
 The devil? 
 
 Don Carlos. Yes, duenna. 
 
 DoSa Josefa [opening a narrow cup- 
 board in the wall]. Go — ^ go in. 
 
 Don Carlos [examining the cupboard]. 
 This box! 
 
 DoNa Josefa [shutting up the cupboard.] 
 If you don't like it, go away. 
 
 Don Carlos [reopening cupboard]. And 
 yet! [Again examining it.] Is this 
 the stable where you keep 
 The broona-stick that you ride on? 
 
 [He crouches down in the cupboard 
 with difficulty.] 
 Oh! Oh! Oh! 
 
 Do5tA JoBEFA [joining her hands and 
 looking ashamed]. A man here! ^ 
 
362 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Don Carlos {from the cupboard, still 
 open]. And was it a woman, then, 
 Your mistress here expected? 
 
 DoSa Josbpa. Heavens! I hear 
 The step of Dona Sol! Sir, shut the door! 
 Quick — quick! 
 
 [She pushes the cupboard door, 
 which closes.] 
 Don Carlos {from the closed cupboard]. 
 Remember, if you breathe a word 
 You die! 
 
 DoSa Josbpa [alone]. Who is this man? 
 If I cry out. 
 Gracious! there's none to hear. All are 
 
 Within the palace walls — madam and I 
 Excepted. Pshaw! The other '11 come. He 
 
 wears 
 A sword; 't his affair. And Heav'n keep 
 
 us 
 From powers of hell. [Weighing the purse in 
 
 her hand.] At least no thief he is. 
 
 [Enter DoSa Sol in white. DoSa Josbpa 
 hides the purse.] 
 
 DoNa Sol. Josef a! 
 ' DoSa Josepa. Madam? 
 DoSa Sol. I some mischief dread, 
 For 't is full time Hemani should be here. 
 [Noises of steps at the secret door.] 
 He's comiQg up; go — quick! at once, undo 
 Ere he has time to knock. 
 
 [JosEPA opens the little door.] 
 
 [Enter Hbrnani in large cloak and large hat; 
 underneath, costume of mountaineer of 
 Aragon — gray, with a cuirass of leather; 
 a sword, a dagger, and a horn at his 
 girdle.] 
 
 DoNa Sol [going to him]. Hemani! Oh! 
 
 Hernani. Ah, Dotia Sol! It is yourself 
 at last 
 I see — your voice it is I hear. Oh, why 
 Does cruel fate keep you so far from me? 
 I have such need of you to help my heart 
 Forget all else! 
 
 Do5tA Sol [touching his dothes]. Oh! 
 Heav'ns! Your cloak is drench'd! 
 The rain must pour! 
 
 Hbrnani. I know not. 
 
 DoSa Sol. And the cold — 
 "You must be cold! 
 
 Hbrnani. I feel it not. 
 DoSaSol. Takeoff 
 This cloak, then, pray. 
 
 Hbrnani. Dona, beloved, tell me. 
 When night brings happy sleep to you, so 
 
 pure 
 And innocent — sleep that half opes your 
 
 mouth. 
 Closing your eyes with its light finger- 
 touch — 
 Does not some angel show how dear you 
 
 are 
 To an unhappy man, by all the world 
 Abandoned and repulsed? 
 
 DoSa Sol. Sir, you are late; 
 But tell me, are you cold? 
 
 Hbrnani. Not near to you. 
 Ah! when the raging fire of jealous love 
 Burns in the veins, and the true heart is 
 
 riven 
 By its own tempest, we feel not the 
 
 clouds 
 O'erhead, though storm and lightning they 
 fling forth! 
 DoSa Sol. Come, give me now the cloak, 
 
 and your sword too. 
 Hernani [his hand on his sword]. No. 
 'T is my other love, faithful and 
 pure. 
 The old Duke, Dofia Sol, — your promised 
 
 spouse. 
 Your uncle, — is he absent now? 
 
 DoSa Sol. Oh, yes; 
 This hour to us belongs. 
 
 Hbrnani. And that is all! 
 Only this hour! And then comes after- 
 wards! — 
 What matter! For I must forget or die! 
 Angel! One hour with thee — with whom 
 
 I would 
 Spend life, and afterwards eternity! 
 DoNa Sol. Hernani! 
 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 sweet 
 
 voice 
 And looks. And I am happy, though, no 
 
 doubt 
 He would deny me e'en one hour, although 
 He steals my very life. 
 
HERNANI 
 
 363 
 
 DoSa Sol. Be calm. [Giving the cloak to 
 the duenna.] Josef a! 
 This wet cloak take and dry it. 
 
 [Exit Josef A.] 
 [She seats herself, and makes a sign 
 for Hebnani to draw near.] 
 Now, come here. 
 
 Hernani [without appearing to hear her]. 
 The Duke, then, is not in the mansion now? 
 DoSi Sol. How grand you look! 
 Hebnani. He is away? 
 DoSaSol. Deal one, 
 Let us not think about the Duke. 
 
 Hernani. Madam, 
 But let us think of him, the grave old man 
 Who loves you — who will marry you! How 
 
 now? 
 He took a kiss from you the other day. 
 Not think of him! 
 DoSa Sol. Is 't that which grieves you 
 thus? 
 A kiss upon my brow — an uncle's kiss — 
 Almost a father's. 
 
 Hernani. No, not so; it was 
 A lover's, husband's, jealous kiss. To 
 
 him — 
 To him it is that you will soon belong. 
 Think'st thou not of it! Oh, the foolish 
 
 dotard, 
 With head drooped down to finish out his 
 
 days! 
 Wanting a wife, he takes a girl; himself 
 Most like a frozen specter. Sees he not. 
 The senseless one! that while with one hand 
 
 he 
 Espouses you, the other mates with Death! 
 Yet without shudder comes he 'twixt our 
 
 hearts! 
 Seek out the grave-digger, old man, and 
 
 give 
 Thy measure. 
 
 Who is it that makes for you 
 This marriage? You are forced to it, I hope? 
 DoSfA Sol. They say the King desires it. 
 Hebnani. King! 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 to him allied. 
 My hate continues fresh. Him dead, no 
 more 
 
 We count with; but while still a child I 
 
 swore 
 That I'd avenge my father on his son. 
 I sought him in all places — Charles the 
 
 King 
 Of the Castiles. For hate is rife between 
 Our families. The fathers wrestled long 
 And without pity, and without remorse. 
 For thirty years! 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. 
 Ah! then I find 't is thou who hast made up 
 This execrable marriage! Thee I sought — 
 Thou comest in my way! 
 DoSa Sol. You frighten me! 
 Hernani. Charged with the mandate of 
 anathema, 
 I frighten 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 youth can give thee, oh! young 
 
 girl. 
 Such store of gold and jewels 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, 
 then, » 
 
 Just what he is. And now consider me. 
 My poverty is absolute, I say. 
 Only the forest, where I ran barefoot 
 In childhood, did I know. Although per- 
 chance 
 I too can claim illustrious blazonry, 
 That's dimm'd just now by rusting stain 
 
 of blood. 
 Perchance I've rights, though they are 
 
 shrouded still. 
 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- 
 ceived 
 But air, and light, and water — gifts be- 
 stowed 
 On all. Now, wish you from the Duke, or 
 me. 
 
364 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 To be delivered? You must choose 'twixt 
 
 us, 
 Whether you marry him, or follow me. 
 DoSa Sol. You, I will follow! 
 Hernani. 'Mong companions rude, 
 Men all proscribed, of whom the headsman 
 
 knows 
 The names already. Men whom neither 
 
 steel 
 Nor touch of pity softens; each one urged 
 By some blood feud that's personal. Wilt 
 
 thou 
 Then come? They'd call thee mistress of 
 
 my band. 
 For know you not that I a bandit am? 
 When I was himted throughout Spain, 
 
 alone 
 In thickest forests, and on mountains steep, 
 'Mong rocks which but the soaring eagle 
 
 spied. 
 Old Catalonia like a mother proved. 
 Among her hills — free, poor, and stern — 
 
 I grew; 
 And now, to-morrow if this horn should 
 
 sound, 
 Three thousand men would rally at the 
 
 call. 
 You shudder, and should pause to ponder 
 
 well. 
 Think what 't wiU prove to follow me 
 
 through woods 
 And over mountain paths, with comrades 
 
 like 
 The fiends that come in dreams! To live in 
 
 fear. 
 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! 
 DoNa Sol. I'll follow you. 
 Hernani. The Duke is wealthy, great 
 And prosperous, without a stain upon 
 His ancient name. He offers you his hand, 
 And can give all things — treasures, digni- 
 ties, 
 And pleasure — 
 
 DoSa Sol. We'll set out to-morrow. 
 Oh! 
 Hernani, censure not th' audacity 
 Of this decision. Are you angel mine 
 Or demon? Only one thing do I know. 
 That I'm yovu: slave. Now, listen: where- 
 
 soe'er 
 You go, I go — pause you or move I'm 
 
 yours. 
 Why act I thus? Ah! that I cannot tell; 
 Only I want to see you evermore. 
 When sound of your receding footstep dies 
 I feel my heart stops beating; without yoii 
 Myself seems absent, but when I detect 
 Again the step I love, my soul comes back, 
 I breathe — I live once more. 
 
 Hernani [embracing her]. Oh! angel 
 
 mine! 
 DoSa Sol. At midnight, then, to-mor- 
 row, clap your hands 
 Three times beneath my window, bringing 
 
 there 
 Your escort. Go! I shall be strong and 
 brave. 
 Hernani. Now know you who I am? 
 DoSa Sol. Only my lord. 
 Enough — what matters else? — I follow 
 you. 
 Hernani. Not so. Since you, a woman 
 weak, decide 
 To come with me, 't is right that you should 
 
 know 
 What name, what rank, what soul, per- 
 chance what fate 
 There hides beneath the low Hernani here. 
 Yes, you have willed to link yourself for 
 
 aye 
 With brigand — would you stiU with out- 
 law mate? 
 Don Carlos [opening the cupboard]. 
 When will you finish all this history? 
 Think you 't is pleasant in this cupboard 
 hole? 
 
 [Hernani recoils, astonished. 
 DoffA Sol screams and takes 
 refuge in Hernani's arms, look- 
 ing at Don Carlos with fright- 
 ened gaze.] 
 Hernani [hi^ hand on the hilt of his sword]. 
 
 Who is this man? 
 DoSa Sol, Oh, Heavens, helpl 
 Hernani. Be still, 
 
HERNANI 
 
 S^S 
 
 My Dona Sol! you'll wake up dangerous 
 
 eyes. 
 Never — whatever be — while I am near, 
 Seek other help than mine. 
 [To Don Carlos.] What do you here? 
 Don Carlos. I? — Well, I am not rid- 
 ing through the wood, 
 That you should ask. 
 
 Hernani. He who affronts, then jeers, 
 May cause his heir to laugh. 
 
 Don Carlos. Each, sir, in turn. 
 Let us speak frankly. You the lady love, 
 And come each night to mirror in her eyes 
 Your own. I love her, too, and want to 
 
 know 
 Who 't is I have so often seen come in 
 The window way, while I stand at the door. 
 Hernani. Upon my word, I'll send you 
 out the way 
 I enter. 
 Don Carlos. As to that we'll see. My 
 love 
 I offer unto madam. Shall we, then. 
 Agree to share it? In her beauteous soul 
 I've seen so much of tenderness, and love, 
 And sentiment, that she, I 'm very sure, 
 Has quite enough for ardent lovers twain. 
 Therefore, to-night, wishing to end sus- 
 pense 
 On your account, I forced an entrance, 
 
 hid. 
 And — to confess it all — I listened too. 
 But I heard badly, and was nearly choked; 
 And then I crumpled my French vest — 
 
 and so. 
 By Jove! come out I must! 
 
 Hernani. Likewise my blade 
 Is not at ease, and hurries to leap out. 
 Don Carlos [bovnng]. Sir, as you please. 
 Hernani [draviing his sword]. Defend 
 yourself! 
 
 [Don Carlos draws his sword.] 
 DoSa Sol. Oh, Heaven! 
 Don Carlos. Be calm, senora. 
 Hernani [to Don Carlos]. Tell me, sir, 
 
 your name. 
 Don Carlos. Tell me yours! 
 Hernani. It is a fatal secret, 
 Kept for my breathing in another's ear, 
 Some day when I am conqueror, with my 
 
 knee 
 Upon his breast, and dagger in his heart. 
 
 Don Carlos. Then tell to me this 
 
 other's name. 
 Hernani. To thee 
 What matters it? ' On guard! Defend thy- 
 self! 
 
 [They cross swords. DoSa Sol 
 falls trembling into a chair. They 
 hear knocks at the door.] 
 DoSa Sol| [rising in alarm]. Oh, Heav- 
 ens! There 's some one knocking at 
 the door! 
 
 [The champions pause.] 
 
 [Enter Josefa, at the little door, in a fright- 
 ened state.] 
 
 Hernani [to Josepa]. Who knocks in 
 
 this way? 
 Doff A Josefa [to DoNa Sol]. Madam, a 
 surprise! 
 An unexpected blow. It is the Duke 
 Come home. 
 
 DoSa Sol [clasping her hands]. The 
 
 Duke. Then every hope is lost! 
 DoSa Josefa [looking round]. Gracious! 
 — the stranger out! — and swords, 
 and fighting 
 Here's a fine business! 
 
 [The two combatants sheathe their 
 swords. Don Carlos draios his 
 cloak round him, and pulls his 
 hat down on his forehead. More 
 knocking.] 
 Hernani. What is to be done? 
 
 [More knocking.] 
 A Voice [without]. Dona Sol, open to me. 
 [Dona Josefa is going to the door, 
 when Hernani stops her.] 
 Hernani. Do not open. 
 DoSa Josefa [pulling out her rosary]. 
 Holy St. James! Now draw us 
 through this broU! 
 
 [More knocking.] 
 Hernani [pointing to the cupboard]. Let 's 
 
 hide! 
 Don Carlos. What! in the cupboard? 
 Hernani. Yes, go in; 
 I will take care that it shall hold us both. 
 Don Carlos. Thanks. No; it is too 
 
 good a joke. 
 Hernani [pointing to secret door]. Let's 
 
 fly 
 
 Th9,t way. 
 
366 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Don Carlos. Good-night! But as for 
 me I stay 
 Here. 
 Hernani. Fire and fury, sir, we will be 
 quits 
 For this. 
 
 [To DoSa Sol.] What if I firmly barr'd 
 the door? 
 Don Carlos [to Josef a]. O^en the door. 
 Hernani. What is it that he says? 
 Don Carlos [to Josefa, who hesitates be- 
 wildered]. Open the door, I say. 
 [More knocking. Josefa opens the 
 door, trembling.] 
 DoSa Sol. Oh, I shall die! 
 
 [Enter Don Ritt Gomez de Silva, in black; 
 white hair and beard. Servants with 
 lights.] 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. My niece with two 
 
 men at this hour of night! 
 Come all! The thing is worth exposing 
 
 here. 
 [To DoSta Sol.] Now, by St. John of Avila, 
 
 I vow 
 That we three with you, madam, are by two 
 Too many. 
 [To the two young men.] My young sirs, 
 
 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 armor had less 
 
 weight 
 Than your fine velvets have for you. These 
 
 men 
 Respected whitened beards, and when they 
 
 loved. 
 Their love was consecrated by the Church. 
 Never did such men cozen or betray. 
 For reason that they had to keep unflawed 
 The honor of their house. Wished they to 
 
 wed, 
 They took a stainless wife in open day, 
 Before the world, with sword, or axe, or 
 
 lance 
 In hand. But as for villains such as you. 
 Who come at eve, peeping behind them oft, 
 To steal away the honor of men's wives 
 In absence of their husbands, I declare, 
 
 The Cid, our ancestor, had he but known 
 Such men, he would have plucked away 
 
 from them 
 Nobility usurped, have made them kneel. 
 While he with flat of sword their blazon 
 
 dashed. 
 Behold what were the men of former 
 
 times 
 Whom I, with anguish, 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 passes in the street, 
 And jeer at there? Shall they so laugh at 
 
 me, 
 Tried soldier of Zamora? At the least 
 Not yours will be that laugh. 
 Hernani. But, Duke — 
 Don Rut Gomez. Be still! 
 What! You have sword and lance, falcons, 
 
 the chase, 
 And songs to sing 'neath balconies at night, 
 Festivals, pleasures, feathers in your hats, 
 Raiment of silk — balls, youth, and joy of 
 
 life; 
 But wearied of them all, at any price 
 You want a toy, and take an old man for it. 
 Ah, though you've broke the toy, God 
 
 wills that it 
 In bursting should be flung back in your 
 
 face! 
 Now follow me! 
 Hernani. Most noble Duke — 
 Don Rut Gomez. Follow — 
 Follow me, sirs. Is this alone a jest? 
 What! I've a treasure, mine to guard with 
 
 care, 
 A young girl's character, a family's fame. 
 This girl I love — by kinship to me bound. 
 Pledged soon to change her ring for one 
 
 from me. 
 I know her spotless, chaste, and pure. Yet 
 
 when 
 I leave my home one hour, I — Ruy 
 
 Gomez 
 De Silva — find a thief who steals from 
 
 me 
 My honor, glides unto my house. Back, 
 
 back. 
 Make clean your hands, oh, base and soul- 
 less men, 
 
HERNANI 
 
 367 
 
 Whose presence, brushing by, must serve 
 
 to taint 
 Our women's fame! But no, 'tis well. 
 
 Proceed. 
 Have I not something more? 
 [Snatches off his coUar.] Take, tread it now 
 Beneath your feet. Degrade my Golden 
 
 Fleece. 
 [Throws off his hat.] Pluck at my hair, in- 
 sult me every way, 
 And then, to-morrow through the town 
 
 make boast 
 That lowest scoundrels in their vilest sport 
 Have never shamed a nobler brow, nor soiled 
 More whitened hair. 
 DoSa Sol. My lord — 
 Don Rttt Gomez [to his servants]. A 
 rescue! grooms! 
 Bring me my dagger of Toledo, axe. 
 And dirk. 
 
 [To the young men.] Now, foUow — follow 
 me — ye two. 
 Don Cablos [stepping forward a liUle]. 
 Duke, this is not the pressing thing 
 just now; 
 First we've to think of Maximilian dead. 
 The Emperor of Germany. 
 
 [Opens his doak, and shows his face, 
 premously hidden by his liat.] 
 Don Rut Gomez. Jest you! 
 Heavens, the King! 
 DoSaSol. The King! 
 Hehnani. The King of Spain! 
 Don Cahlos [gravely]. Yes, Charles, my 
 noble Duke, are thy wits gone? 
 The Emperor, my grandsire, is no more. 
 I knew it not imtil this eve, and came 
 At once to tell it you and coimsel ask. 
 Incognito, at night, knowing you well 
 A loyal subject that I much regard. 
 The thing is very simple that has caused 
 This hubbub. 
 
 [Don Rut Gomez sends away 
 servants by a sign, and ap- 
 proaches Don Cahlos. DoSa 
 Sol looks at the King with fear 
 and surprise. Hernani from a 
 comer regards him with flashing 
 eyes.] 
 Don Rut Gomez. But oh, why was it 
 the door 
 Was not more quickly opened? 
 
 Don Cablos. Reason 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 Rut Gomez. Highness, oh! 
 Forgive me, some appearances — 
 
 Don Cablos. Good father. 
 Thee Governor of the Castle of Figufere 
 I've made. But whom thy governor shall 
 I make? 
 Don Rut Gomez. Oh, pardon — 
 Don Cablos. 'T is enough. We'll say no 
 more 
 Of this. The Emperor is dead. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. Your Highness's 
 Grandfather dead! 
 
 Don Cablos. Aye! Duke, you see me 
 here 
 In deep affliction. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Who'll succeed to 
 
 him? 
 Don Cablos. A Duke of Saxony is 
 named. The throne 
 Francis the First of France aspires to 
 mount. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Where do the Electors 
 
 of the Empire meet? 
 Don Cablos. They say at Aix-la-Cha- 
 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 Rut Gomez. To you it should re- 
 vert. 
 Don Cablos. I know it, Duke. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Your father was 
 Archduke of Austria. 
 I hope 't will be remembered that you are 
 Grandson to him, who but just now has 
 
 changed 
 Th' imperial purple for a winding-sheet. 
 Don Cablos. 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 dead! 
 He was an Emperor magnificent 
 And mighty. 
 
368 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Don Carlos. Rome is for me. 
 Don Ruy Gomez. Valiant, firm, 
 And not tyrannical, this head might well 
 Become th' old German body. 
 
 [He bends over the King's hands 
 and kisses them.] 
 Yet so yoimg. 
 
 I pity you, indeed, thus plunged in such 
 A sorrow. 
 
 Don Caklos. Ah! the Pope is anxious 
 
 now 
 To get back Sicily — the isle that's mine; 
 'T is ruled that Sicily cannot belong 
 Unto an Emperor; therefore it is 
 That he desires 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 wings to be thus olipp'd! 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. What joy 'twould be 
 For this great veteran of the throne to see 
 Your brow, so fit, encircled by his crown! 
 Ah, Highness, we together weep for him. 
 The Christian Emperor, so good, so great! 
 Don Carlos. The Holy Father's clever. 
 
 He will say — 
 This isle unto my States should come; 
 
 't is but 
 A tatter'd rag that scarce belongs to Spain. 
 What will you do with this ill-shapen 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 cut away! — 
 Thanks, Holy Father, but if I have luck 
 I think that many pieces such as this 
 Upon the Holy Empire will be sewn! 
 And if some rags from me are ta'en, I 
 
 mean 
 With isles and duchies to replace them all. 
 Don Rttt 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 
 
 France 
 Most Christian? 'Tis a place worth hold- 
 ing fast. 
 Once to King Louis did my grandsire say — • 
 
 If I were God, and had two sons, I'd make 
 
 The elder God, the second, King of France. 
 
 [To Don Ruy Gomez.] Think you that 
 
 Francis has a chance to win? 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. He is a victor. 
 
 Don Carlos. There 'd be all to change — 
 The golden biill doth foreigners exclude. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. In a like manner. 
 Highness, you would be 
 Accounted King of Spain. 
 
 Don Carlos. But I was bom 
 A citizen of Ghent. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. His last campaign 
 Exalted Francis mightily. 
 
 Don Carlos. The Eagle 
 That soon perchance upon my helm will 
 
 gleam 
 Knows also how to open out its wings. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. And knows Your 
 Highness Latin? 
 
 Don Carlos. Ah, not much. 
 
 IDoN Rut Gomez. A pity that. The 
 German nobles like 
 The best those who in Latin speak to them. 
 Don Carlos. With haughty Spanish 
 they will be content, 
 For trust King Charles, 't will be of small 
 
 account, 
 When masterful the voice, what tongue it 
 
 speaks. 
 To Flanders I must go. Your King, dear 
 
 Duke, 
 Must Emperor return. The King of France 
 Will stir all means. I must be quick to win. 
 I shall set out at once. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. Do you, then, go, 
 Oh, Highness, without clearing Aragon 
 Of those fresh bandits who, among the 
 
 hills. 
 Their daring insolence show everywhere? 
 Don Carlos. To the Duke D'Arcos I 
 have orders given 
 That he should quite exterminate the 
 band. 
 Don Rut Gomez. But is the order given 
 to its chief 
 To let the thing be done? 
 
 Don Carlos. Who is this chief — 
 His name? 
 Don Rut Gomez. I know not. But the 
 people say 
 That he's an awkward customer. 
 
HERNANI 
 
 369 
 
 Don Carlos. Pshaw! I know 
 That now he somewhere in Galicia hides; 
 With a few soldiers, soon we '11 capture him. 
 Don RtFT Gomez. Then it was false, the 
 riimor which declared 
 That he was hereabouts? 
 
 Don Carlos. Quite false. Thou canst 
 Accommodate me here to-night? 
 
 Don Ritt Gomez [bomng to the ground]. 
 Thanks! Thanks! 
 Highness! [He calls his servants.] You'll 
 
 do all honor to the King, 
 My guest. 
 
 [The servants reenter with lights. 
 The Duke arranges them in two 
 rows to the door at the hack. 
 Meanwhile DoSa Sol ap- 
 proaches Hernani softly. The 
 King observes them.] 
 DoSa Sol [to Hernani]. To-morrow, 
 midnight, without fail 
 Beneath my window clap your hands three 
 times. , 
 
 Hernani [softly]. To-morrow night. 
 Don Carlos [aside]. To-morrow! 
 [Aloud to DoNa Sol, whom he approaches 
 
 with politeness.] Let me now 
 Escort you hence, I pray. 
 
 [He leads her to the door. She goes 
 out.] 
 Hernani [his hand in his breast on dagger 
 
 hilt]. My dagger true! 
 
 Don Carlos [coming back, aside]. Ovir 
 
 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 Ritt Gomez [coming back, and 
 pointing to Hernani]. This lord — 
 who's he? 
 Don Carlos. One of my followers, 
 who '11 soon depart. 
 
 [They go out with servants and 
 lights, the Duke preceding with 
 waxlight in his hand.] 
 Hernani. One of thy followers! I am, 
 OKing! 
 
 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 rival! For an instant I 
 'Twixt love and hate was balanced in the 
 
 scale. 
 Not large enough my heart for her and 
 
 thee; 
 In loving her oblivious I became 
 Of all my hate of thee. But since 't is thou 
 That comes to will I should remember it, 
 I recollect. My love it is that tilts 
 Th' uncertain balance, while it falls entire 
 Upon the side of hate. Thy follower! 
 'T is 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 foUow, will thy steps more closely 
 
 haunt 
 And certainly than I. What they would 
 
 have. 
 These famed grandees, is hollow title, or 
 Some toy that shines — some golden sheep 
 
 to hang 
 About the neck. Not such a fool am I. 
 What I would have is not some favor vain. 
 But 'tis thy blood, won by my conquering 
 
 steel — 
 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 
 
 front — 
 I foUow thee. My watchful vengeance 
 
 walks 
 With me, and whispers in mine ear. Go 
 
 where 
 Thou wilt I'm there to listen and to spy, 
 And noiselessly my step will press on thine. 
 No day, should 'st thou but turn thy head, 
 
 OKing, 
 But thou wilt find me, motionless and 
 
 grave, 
 At festivals; at night, should'st thou look 
 
 back, 
 Still wilt thou see my flaming eyes behind. 
 [Exit by the little door. 
 
37° 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Saragossa. A square before the palace of 
 SiLVA. On the left the high walls of the 
 palace, vnth a window and a balcony. Below 
 the window a little door. To the right, at the 
 back, houses of the street. Night. Here and 
 there are a few windows still lit up, shining in 
 the front of the houses. 
 
 [Enter Don Carlos, Don Sancho San- 
 chez DE ZuffiGA, Count de Mon- 
 terey, Don Matias Centtjhion, 
 Marqtjis d'Almunan, Don Ricaedo 
 DE RoxAS, Lord op Casapalma, Don 
 Carlos at the head, hats pxdled down, 
 and wrapped in long cloaks, which their 
 siDords inside raise up.] 
 
 Don Carlos [looking up at the balcony]. 
 Behold! We're at the balcony — 
 the door. 
 My heart is bounding. 
 [Pointing to the window, which is dark.] Ah, 
 no light as yet. 
 
 [He looks at the windows where 
 light shines.] 
 Although it shines j ust where I 'd have it not. 
 While where I wish for light is dark. 
 
 Don Sancho. Your Highness, 
 Now let us of this traitor speak again. 
 And you permitted him to go I 
 Don Carlos. 'T is true. 
 Don Matias. 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 name? 
 Don Carlos [his eyes fixed on the win- 
 dow]. Munoz — Fernan — 
 [With gesture of a man suddenly recollect- 
 ing.] A name 
 In i. 
 
 Perchance Hemani? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 'T was he. 
 
 The chief, Hemani! 
 
 Cannot you recall 
 
 / 
 
 Don Sancho. 
 
 Don Carlos. 
 
 Don Sancho. 
 
 Don Matias. 
 
 Don Sancho. 
 His speech? 
 
 Don Carlos. 
 the vile 
 And wretched cupboard. 
 
 Oh, I heard nothing in 
 
 Don Sancho. Wherefore let him slip 
 When there you had him? 
 
 Don Carlos [turning round gravely and 
 looking him in the face]. Count de 
 Monterey, 
 You question me! 
 
 [The two nobles step back, and are 
 silent.] 
 Besides, it was not he 
 Was in my mind. It was his mistress, not 
 His head, I wanted. Madly I 'm in love 
 With two dark eyes, the loveliest in the 
 
 world. 
 My friends! Two mirrors, and two rays J 
 
 two flames! 
 I heard but of their history these words: 
 "To-morrow come at midnight." 'Twas 
 
 enough. 
 The joke is excellent! 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 Carlos. Count, 't is most capital 
 advice. Your hand 
 Is prompt. 
 Don Ricardo [bovnng low]. And by 
 what title will it please 
 The King that I be count? 
 Don Sancho. 'T was a mistake. 
 Don Ricardo [to Don Sancho]. The 
 King has called me count. 
 
 Don Carlos. Enough — enough! 
 [To Don Ricardo.] I let the title fall; but 
 pick it up. 
 Don Ricardo \bomng again]. Thanks, 
 
 Highness. 
 
 Don Sancho. A fine count — count by 
 mistake! 
 
 [The King walks to the back of 
 the stage, watching eagerly the 
 lighted windows. The two lords 
 talk together at the front] 
 Don Matias [to Don Sancho]. What 
 think you that the King will do, 
 when once 
 The beauty 's taken? 
 Don Sancho [looking sideways at Don 
 Ricardo]. Countess she'll be made; 
 
HERNANI 
 
 371 
 
 Lady of honor afterwards, and then, 
 
 And you will see her. But our number, 
 
 If there's a son, he will be King. 
 
 perhaps. 
 
 Don Matias. How so? — 
 
 Will frighten her. Go, all three out of 
 
 My lord! a bastard! Let him be a count. 
 
 sight 
 
 Were one His Highness, would one choose 
 
 Beyond there, watching for the man we 
 
 asking 
 
 want. 
 
 A countess' son? 
 
 'Twixt us, my friends, we'll share the lov- 
 
 Don Sancho. He'd make her marchion- 
 
 ing pair, 
 
 ess 
 
 For me the girl — the brigand is for you. 
 
 Ere then, dear marquis. 
 
 Don Ricabdo. Best thanks. 
 
 Don Matias. Bastards — they are kept 
 
 Don Carlos. If he appear from am- 
 
 For conquer ' d countries . They for viceroys 
 
 buscade. 
 
 serve. 
 
 Rush quickly, knock him down, and, while 
 
 [Don Carlos comes forward.] 
 
 the dupe 
 
 Don Carlos [looking with vexation at the 
 
 Recovers from the blow, it is for me 
 
 lighted vmidows]. Might one not say 
 
 To carry safely off the darling prize. 
 
 they 're jealous eyes that watch? 
 
 We'll laugh anon. But kill him not out- 
 
 Ah! there are two which darken; we shall 
 
 right, 
 
 do. 
 
 He's brave, I own; — killing's a grave 
 
 Weary the time of expectation seems — 
 
 affair. 
 
 Sirs, who can make it go more quickly? 
 
 [The lords bow and go. Don 
 
 Don Sancho. That 
 
 Carlos waits till they are quite 
 
 Is what we often ask ourselves within 
 
 gone, then claps his hands twice. 
 
 The palace. 
 
 At the second time the window 
 
 Don Carlos. 'T is the thing my people 
 
 opens, and DoSa Sol appears 
 
 say 
 
 on the balcony.] 
 
 Again with you. 
 
 DoSa Sol [from the balcony]. Hernani, 
 
 [The last window light is extinguished.] The 
 
 is that you? 
 
 last light now is gone. 
 
 Don Carlos [aside]. The devil! We 
 
 [Turning toward the balcony of 
 
 must 
 
 DoSa Sol, still dark.] 
 
 Not parley! [He daps his hands again.] 
 
 Oh, hateful window! When wilt thou light 
 
 DoSa Sol. I am coming down. 
 
 up? 
 
 [She closes the window, and the 
 
 The night is dark; come, Dofia Sol, and 
 
 light disappears. The next min- 
 
 shine 
 
 ute the little door opens, and she 
 
 Like to a star! 
 
 comes out, the lamp in her hand, 
 
 [fo Don RiCARDO.] Is 't midnight yet? 
 
 and a mantle over her shmdders.] 
 
 Don Ricahdo. Almost. 
 
 Do5fA Sol. Hernani! 
 
 Don Carlos. Ah! we must finish, for 
 
 [Don Carlos pulls his hat dovm 
 
 the other one 
 
 on his face, and hurries toward 
 
 At any moment may appear. 
 
 her.] 
 
 [A light appears in DoSa Sol's 
 
 DoSa Sol getting her lamp fall]. 
 
 chamber. Her shadow is seen 
 
 Heavens! 'T is not his footstep! 
 
 through the glass.] 
 
 [She attempts to go back, but Don 
 
 My friends! 
 
 Cablos runs to her and seizes 
 
 A lamp! and she herself seen through the 
 
 her by the arm.] 
 
 pane! 
 
 Don Carlos. Dofia Sol! 
 
 Never did daybreak charm me as this 
 
 DoSa Sol. 'Tis not his voice! Oh, 
 
 sight. 
 
 misery! 
 
 Let's hasten with the signal she expects. 
 
 Don Carlos. What voice 
 
 We must clap hands three times. An in- 
 
 Is there that thou could 'st hear that would 
 
 stant more 
 
 be more 
 
372 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 A lover's? It is still a lover here, 
 And King for one. 
 
 Do5fA Sol. The King! 
 ' Don Carlos. Ah! wish, command, 
 A kingdom waits thy will; for he whom 
 
 thou 
 Hast vanquish 'd is the King, thy lord — • 
 
 't is Charles, 
 Thy slave! 
 
 DoNa Sol [trying to escape from him]. 
 
 To the rescue! Help, Hemani! 
 
 Help! 
 
 Don Carlos. Thy fear is maidenly, and 
 
 worthy thee. 
 
 'T is not thy bandit — 't is thy King that 
 
 holds 
 Thee now! 
 
 DoSa Sol. Ah, no. The bandit's you. 
 Are you 
 Not 'shamed? The blush unto my own 
 
 cheek mounts 
 For you. Are these the exploits to be 
 
 noised 
 Abroad? A woman thus at night to seize! 
 My bandit's worth a hundred of such 
 
 kings! 
 I do declare, if man were born at level 
 Of his soul, and God made rank propor- 
 tional 
 To his heart, he would be king and prince, 
 
 and you 
 The robber be! 
 Don Carlos [trying to entice her]. 
 
 Madam! — 
 DoSa Sol. Do you forget 
 My father was a count? 
 
 Don Carlos. And you I'll make 
 A duchess. 
 
 DoffA Sol [repulsing him]. Cease! All 
 this is shameful; — go! 
 
 [She retreats a few steps.] 
 Nothing, Don Carlos, can there 'twixt us 
 
 be. 
 My father for you freely shed his blood. 
 I am of noble birth, and heedful ever 
 Of my name's purity. I am too high 
 To be your concubine — too low to be 
 Your wife. 
 Don Carlos. Princess! 
 DoSa Sol. Carry to worthless girls, 
 King Charles, your vile addresses. Or, if 
 me 
 
 You treat insultingly, I'll show you well 
 That I'm a woman, and a noble dame. 
 Don Carlos. Well, then but come, and 
 
 you shall share my throne. 
 My name — you shall be Queen and Em- 
 press — 
 DoSa Sol. No. 
 It is a snare. Besides, I frankly speak, 
 Since, Highness, it concerns you. I avow 
 I'd rather with my king, Hernani, roam. 
 An outcast from the world and from the 
 
 law — 
 Know thirst and hunger, wandering all the 
 
 year, 
 Sharing the hardships of his destiny — 
 Exile and warfare, mourning hours of 
 
 terror, 
 Than be an Empress with an Emperor! 
 Don Carlos. Oh, happy man is he! 
 DoSa Sol. What! poor, proscribed! 
 Don Carlos. 'T is well with him, 
 
 though poor, proscribed he be. 
 For he's beloved! — an angel watches him! 
 I'm desolate. You hate me, then? 
 
 DoSa Sol. I love 
 You not. 
 Don Carlos [seizing her violently]. Well, 
 
 then, it matters not to me 
 Whether you love me, or you love me not! 
 You shall come with me — yes, for that 
 
 my hand's 
 The stronger, and I will it! And we'll see 
 If I for nothing am the King of Spain 
 And of the Indies! 
 
 DoSa Sol [struggling]. Highness! Pity 
 
 me! 
 You're King, you only have to choose 
 
 among 
 The countesses, the duchesses, the great 
 Court ladies, all have love prepared to 
 
 meet 
 And answer yours; but what has my pro- 
 scribed 
 Received from niggard fortune? You 
 
 possess 
 Castile and Aragon — Murria and L6on, 
 Navarre, and still ten kingdoms more. 
 
 Flanders, 
 And India with the mines of gold you own. 
 An empire without peer, and all so vast 
 That ne'er the sun sets on it. And when 
 
 you. 
 
HERNANI 
 
 373 
 
 The Eong, have all, would you take me, 
 
 poor girl, 
 From him who has but me alone. 
 
 [She throws herself on her knees. 
 He tries to draw her up.] 
 Don Caklos. Come — come! 
 I camiot listen. Come with me. I'U give 
 Of Spain a fourth part unto thee. Say, now. 
 What wilt thou? Choose. 
 
 DoSa Sol [struggling in his arms]. For 
 mine own honor's sake 
 I '11 only from Your Highness take this dirk. 
 [She snatches the poniard from his 
 girdle.] 
 Approach me now but by a step! 
 
 Don Carlos. The beauty! 
 I wonder not she loves a rebel now. 
 
 [He makes a step towards her. She 
 raises the dirk.] 
 Do5fA Sol. Another step, I kill you — 
 and myself. 
 
 [He retreats again. She turns and 
 
 cries loudly.] 
 
 Hemani! Oh, Hemani! 
 
 Don Carlos. Peace! 
 
 DoSa Sol. One step, 
 
 And all is finished. 
 
 Don Carlos. Madam, to extremes 
 I 'm driven. Yonder there I have three men 
 To force you — followers of mine. 
 
 Hernani [coming suddenly behind him]. 
 But one 
 You have forgotten. 
 
 [The King turns, and sees Hernani 
 motionless behind him, in the 
 shade, his arms crossed under the 
 long cloak which is wrapped 
 round him, and the brim of his 
 hat raised up. Dona Sol makes 
 an exclamation and runs to him.] 
 Hernani [motionless, his arms still 
 crossed, and his fiery eyes fixed cm, the 
 King]. Heaven my witness is, 
 That far from here it was I wished to seek 
 him. 
 DoSaSol. Hemani! Save me from him. 
 Hernani. My dear love, 
 -Fear not. 
 
 Don Carlos. Now, what could all my 
 friends ia town 
 Be doing, thus to let pass by the chief 
 Of the Bohemians? Ho! Monterey! 
 
 Hernani. Your friends are in the hands 
 
 of mine just now, 
 So call not on their powerless swords; for 
 
 three 
 That you might claim, sixty to me would 
 
 jfci. come 
 Each one worth four of yours. So let us 
 
 now 
 Our quarrel terminate. What! You have 
 
 dared 
 To lay a hand upon this girl! It was 
 An act of folly, great Castilian King, 
 And one of cowardice! 
 
 Don Carlos. Sir Bandit, hold! 
 There must be no reproach from you to me! 
 Hernani. He jeers! Oh, I am not a 
 
 king; but when 
 A king insults me, and above all jeers. 
 My anger swells and surges up, and lifts 
 Me to his height. Take care! When I'm 
 
 offended. 
 Men fear far more the reddening of my 
 
 brow 
 Than helm of king. Foolhardy, therefore, 
 
 you 
 If still you're lured by hope. [Seizes his 
 
 arm.] Know you what hand 
 Now grasps you? Listen. 'T was your 
 
 father who 
 Was death of mine. I hate you for it. You 
 My title and my wealth have taken. 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. 
 Hernani. And yet this night my hate 
 
 was lull'd. 
 Only one thought, one wish, one want I 
 
 had — 
 'T was Dona 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 pathway 
 
 placed! 
 I tell you, King, you are demented! Ah! 
 King Charles, now see you're taken in the 
 
 snare 
 Laid by yourself: and neither flight nor 
 
 help 
 For thee is possible. I hold thee fast. 
 Besieged, alone, surrounded by thy foes, 
 
374 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Bloodthirsty ones, — what wilt thou do? 
 
 Don Carlos [proudly]. Dare you 
 To question me! 
 
 Hbrnani. Pish! pish! I would not wish 
 An arm obscure should strike thee. 'T is 
 
 not so 
 My vengeance should have play. 'T is I 
 
 alone 
 Must deal with thee. Therefore defend 
 thyself. [He draws his sword.] 
 
 Don Carlos. I am your lord, the 'King. 
 
 Strike! but no duel. 
 Hernani. Highness, thou may'st re- 
 member yesterday 
 Thy sword encountered mine. 
 Don Carlos. I yesterday 
 Could do it. I your name knew not, and 
 
 you 
 Were ignorant of my rank. Not so to-day. 
 You know who I am, I who you are now. 
 Hernani. Perchance. . 
 Don Carlos. No duel. You can murder. 
 
 Do. 
 Hernani. Think you that kings to me 
 are sacred? Come, 
 Defend thyself. 
 
 Don Carlos. You will assassinate 
 Me, then? 
 
 [Hernani falls back. The King 
 looks at him with eagle eyes.] 
 Ah, bandits, so you dare to think 
 That your most vile brigades may safely 
 
 spread 
 Through towns — ye blood-stained, mur- 
 derous, miscreant crew — 
 But that you'll play at magnanimity! 
 As if we'd deign th' ennobling of your dirks 
 By touch of our own swords — we victims 
 
 duped. 
 No, crime enthralls you — after you it 
 
 trails. 
 Duels with you! Away! and murder me. 
 [Hernani, morose and thoughtful, 
 plays for some instants with the 
 hilt of his sword, then turns 
 sharply toward the King and 
 snaps the blade on the pavement.] 
 Hernani. Go, then. 
 
 [The King half turns toward him 
 and looks at him haughtily.] 
 We shall have fitter meetings. Go. 
 Get thee away. 
 
 Don Carlos. 'T is well. I go, sir, 
 soon 
 Unto the ducal palace. I, your King, 
 Will then employ the magistrate. Is there 
 Yet put a price upon your head? 
 
 Hernani. Oh, yes. 
 
 Don Carlos. My master, from this day 
 I reckon you 
 A rebel, trait'rous subject; you I warn. 
 I will pursue you everywhere, and make 
 You outlaw from my kingdon^. 
 
 Hernani. That I am 
 Already. 
 
 Don Carlos. That is well. 
 
 Hernani. But France is near 
 To Spain. There's refsge there. 
 
 Don Carlos. But I shall be 
 The Emperor of Germany, and you 
 Under the Empire's ban shall be. 
 
 Hernani. Ah, well! 
 I still shall have the remnant of the world. 
 From which to brave you — and with 
 
 havens safe 
 O'er which you '11 have no power. 
 
 Don Carlos. But when I've gain'd 
 The world? 
 
 Heknani. Then I shall have the grave. 
 
 Don Carlos. Your plots 
 So insolent I shall know how to thwart. 
 
 Hernani. Vengeance is lame, and comes 
 with lagging steps. 
 But still it comes. 
 
 Don Carlos [vdih a half laugh of dis- 
 dain]. For touch of lady whom 
 The bandit loves! 
 
 Hernani [with flashing eyes]. Dost thou 
 remember, King, 
 I hold thee still? Make me not recollect 
 
 future Roman Csesar, 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 Eagle! 
 
 Don Carlos. Then do it. 
 HsRNANi. Get away. 
 
 [He takes off his cloak, and throws 
 it on the shoulders of the King.] 
 Go, fly, and take 
 This cloak to shield thee from some knife 
 
 I fear 
 Among our ranks. 
 
 [The King wraps himself in the cloak.] At 
 present safely go, 
 
HERNANI 
 
 375 
 
 My thwarted vengeance for myself I keep. 
 It makes 'gainst every other hand thy life 
 Secure. 
 Don Carlos. And you who've spoken 
 thus to me 
 Ask not for mercy on some future day. 
 
 [Exit Don Carlos.] 
 DoSa Sol [seizing Hernani's hand]. 
 
 Now, let us fly — be quick. 
 Hernani. It well becomes 
 You, loved one, in the trial hour to prove 
 Thus strong, unchangeable, and wiUing 
 
 e'er 
 To th' end and depth of all to cling to me; 
 A noble wish, worthy a faithful soul! 
 But thou, O God, dost see that to accept 
 The joy that to my cavern she would 
 
 bring — • 
 The treasure of a beauty that a king 
 Now covets — and that Dona Sol to me 
 Should all belong — that she with me 
 
 should 'bide. 
 And all our lives be joined — that this 
 
 should be 
 Without regret, remorse — it is too late. 
 The scaffold is too near. 
 
 DoSa Sol. What is't you say? 
 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 
 His palace, and is calling round him guards 
 And servants, his great lords, his heads- 
 men — 
 Doit A Sol. Heavens! 
 Hernani! Oh, I shudder. Never mind. 
 Let us be quick and fly together, then. 
 Hernani. Together! No; the hour has 
 passed for that. 
 Alas! When to my eyes thou didst reveal 
 Thyself, so good and generous, deigning 
 
 e'en 
 To love me with a helpful love, I could 
 But offer you — I, wretched one! — the 
 
 hills. 
 The woods, the torrents, bread of the 
 
 proscribed, 
 The bed of turf, all that the forest gives; 
 Thy pity then emboldened me — but now 
 To ask of thee to share the scaffold! No, 
 No, Dona Sol. That is for me alone. 
 
 DoRa Sol. And yet you promised even 
 
 that! 
 Hernani [falling on his knees]. Angel! 
 At this same moment, when perchance 
 
 from out 
 The shadow Death approaches, to wind 
 
 up 
 All mournfully a life of mournfulness, 
 I do declare that here a man proscribed, 
 Enduring trouble great, profound, — and 
 
 rock'd 
 In blood-stained cradle, — black as is the 
 
 gloom 
 Which spreads o'er all my life, I still de- 
 clare 
 I am a happy, to-be-envied man. 
 For you have loved me, and your love have 
 
 owned! 
 For you have whispered blessings on my 
 
 brow 
 Accursed! 
 
 DoSa Sol [leaning over his head]. Her- 
 nani! 
 Hernani. Praised be the fate 
 Sweet and propitious that for me now sets 
 This flower upon the precipice's brink! 
 [Raising himself.] 'T is not to you that I 
 
 am speaking thus; 
 It is to Heaven that hears, and unto God. 
 DoSa Sol. Let me go with you. 
 Hernani. Ah, 't would be a crime 
 To pluck the flower while falling in the 
 
 abyas. 
 Go: I have breathed the perfume — 'tis 
 
 enough. 
 Remould your life, by me so sadly marred. 
 This old man wed; 't is I release you now. 
 To darkness I return. Be happy thou — 
 Be happy and forget. 
 
 DoNa Sol. No, I will have 
 My portion of thy shroud. I follow thee. 
 I hang upon thy steps. 
 Hernani [pressing her in his arms]. Oh, 
 let me go 
 Alone! Exiled — proscribed — a fearful 
 
 man 
 AmL 
 
 [He quits her with a convulsive 
 movement, and is going.] 
 Do5tA Sol [mournfully, and clasping her 
 hands], Hernani, do you fly from 
 mel 
 
376 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Hernani [returning]. Well, then, no, no. 
 You will it, and I stay. 
 Behold me! Come into my arms. I '11 wait 
 As long as thou wilt have me. Let us 
 
 rest, 
 Forgetting them. [He seals her on a bench.] 
 Be seated on this stone. 
 
 [He places himself at her feet.] 
 The liquid light of your eyes inundates 
 Mine own. Sing me some song, such as 
 
 sometimes 
 You used at eve to warble, with the tears 
 In those dark orbs. Let us be happy now. 
 And drink; the cup is full. This hour is 
 
 ours, 
 The rest is only folly. Speak and say. 
 Enrapture me. Is it not sweet to love, 
 And know that he who kneels before you 
 
 loves? 
 To be but two alone? Is it not sweet 
 To speak of love in stillness of the night 
 When Nature rests? Oh, let me slumber 
 
 now. 
 And on thy bosom dream. Oh, Dona Sol, 
 My love, my darling! 
 
 [Noise of bells in the distance.] 
 DoSa Sol [starting up frightened]. 
 ' Tocsin! — dost thou hear? 
 The tocsin! 
 
 Heenani [still kneeling at her feet]. Eh! 
 No, 't is our bridal bell 
 They're ringing. 
 
 [The noise increases. Confused 
 cries. Ldghts at all the windows, 
 on the roofs, and in the streets.] 
 D9SA Sol. Rise — oh, fly — great God! 
 the town 
 Lights up! 
 Hernani [half rising]. A torchlight wed- 
 ding for us 't is! 
 DoSa Sol. The nuptials these of Death, 
 and of the tombs! 
 
 [Noise of swords and cries.] 
 Hernani [lying down on the stone bench]. 
 
 Let us to sleep again. 
 ^ A Mountaineer [rushing in, sword in 
 hand]. The runners, sir. 
 The alcaldes rush out in cavalcades 
 With mighty force. Be quick — my Cap- 
 tain, — quick. [Hernani rises.] 
 * DoSfA Sol [pale]. Ah, thou wert right! 
 The Mountaineer. Oh, help us! 
 
 Hernani [to Mountaineer]. It is well — 
 I'm ready. 
 
 [Confuted cries outside.] Death to the 
 bandit! 
 Hernani [to Mountaineer]. Quick, thy 
 sword — 
 [To Dora Sol]. Farewell! 
 DoRa Sol. 'T is I have been thy ruin! 
 Oh, 
 Where canst thou go? 
 [Pointing to the little door.] The door is free. 
 
 Let us 
 Escape that way. 
 
 Hernani. Heavens! Desert my friends! 
 What dost thou say? 
 
 DoSa Sol. These clamors terrify. 
 Remember, if thou diest I must die. 
 
 Hernani [holding her in his arms]. A 
 
 kiss! 
 DoSa Sol. Hernani! Husband! Master 
 
 mine! 
 Hernani [kissing her forehead]. Alas! it 
 
 is the first! 
 DofiA Sol. Perchance the last! 
 
 [Exit Hernani. She falls on the 
 bench.] 
 
 ACT III 
 
 The Castle of SUva in the midst of the 
 mountains of Aragon. The gallery of family 
 portraits of Silva; a great hall of which these 
 portraits — surrounded with rich frames, 
 and surmounted by ducal coronets and gilt 
 escutcheons — form the decoration. At the 
 back u lofty Gothic door. Between the por- 
 traits complete panoplies of armor of dif- 
 ferent centuries. DoSa Sol, pale, and stand- 
 ing near a table. Don Ruy Gomez de 
 Silva, seated in his great carved oak chair. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. At last the day has 
 
 come! — and in an hour 
 Thou 'It be my duchess, and embrace me! 
 
 Not 
 Thine uncle then! But hast thou pardoned 
 
 me? 
 That I was wrong I own. I raised thy 
 
 blush, 
 I made thy cheek turn pale. I was too 
 
 quick 
 With my suspicions — should have stayed 
 
 to hear 
 
HERNANI 
 
 377 
 
 Before condemning; but appearances 
 Should take the blame. Unjust we were. 
 
 Certes 
 The two young handsome men were there. 
 
 But then — 
 No matter — well I know that I should not 
 Have credited my eyes. But, my poor child, 
 What would 'st thou with the old? 
 
 DoSa Sol [seriously, and viithout moving]. 
 
 You ever talk 
 Of this. Who is there blames you? 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. I myself, 
 I should have known that such a soul as 
 
 yours 
 Never has gallants; when 't is Dona Sol, 
 And when good Spanish blood is in her 
 
 veins. 
 DoSa Sol. Truly, my Lord, 't is good 
 
 and pure; perchance 
 'T will soon be seen. 
 Don Rut Gomez [rising, and going 
 
 toward her]. Now list. One cannot 
 
 be 
 The master of himseK, so much in love 
 As I am now with thee. And I am old 
 And jealous, and am cross — and why? 
 
 Because 
 J'm old; because the beauty, grace, or 
 
 youth 
 Of others frightens, threatens me. Be- 
 cause, 
 While jealous thus of others, of myself 
 I am ashamed. What mockery! that this 
 
 love 
 Which to the heart brings back such joy 
 
 and warmth. 
 Should halt, and but rejuvenate the soul. 
 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, and murmur low: 
 Oh, I would give my battlemented towers, 
 And ancient ducal donjon, and my fields 
 Of com, and all my forest lands, and 
 
 flocks 
 So vast which feed upon my hills, my name 
 And all my ancient titles — ruins mine, 
 And ancestors who must expect me soon, 
 All — all I 'd give for his new cot, and brow 
 TJnwrinkled. For his hair is raven black, 
 And his eyes shine like yours. Beholding 
 
 him 
 
 You might exclaim: A young man this! 
 
 And then 
 Would think of me so old. I know it well. 
 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- 
 some now! 
 Vain dream! that I were young again, who 
 
 must 
 By long, long years precede thee to th6 
 
 tomb. 
 DoSa Sol. Who knows? 
 Don Ruy Gomez. And yet, I pray you, 
 
 me believe, 
 The frivolous swains have not so much of 
 
 love 
 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 gayr 
 
 painted birds 
 That warble sweet, and in the thicket trill, 
 WiU change their loves as they their plum- 
 age moult. 
 They are the old, with voice and color gone. 
 And beauty fled, who have the resting 
 
 wings 
 We love the best. Our steps are slow, and 
 
 dim 
 Our eyes. Our brows are furrowed, — but 
 
 the heart 
 Is never wrinkled. When an old man loves 
 He should be spared. The heart is ever 
 
 young. 
 And always it can bleed. This love of mine 
 Is not a plaything made of glass to shake 
 And break. It is,a love severe and sure, 
 Solid, profound, paternal, — strong as is 
 The oak which forms my ducal chair. See, 
 
 then, 
 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 thy graceful step each 
 
 day. 
 Thy forehead pure, thy brightly beaming 
 
 eye, 
 I'm joyous — feeling that my soul will 
 
 have 
 Perpetual festival! 
 
378 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 DoSa Sol. Alas! 
 
 Don Rtjy Gomez. And then, 
 Know you how much the world admires, 
 
 applauds, 
 A woman, angel pure, and like a dove. 
 When she an old man comforts and con- 
 
 As he is tott'ring to the marble tomb. 
 Passing away by slow degrees as she 
 Watches and shelters him, and condescends 
 To bear with him, the useless one, that 
 
 seems 
 But fit to die? It is a sacred work 
 And worthy of all praise — effort supreme 
 Of a devoted heart to comfort him 
 Unto the end, and without loving, perhaps. 
 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 like 
 A sister prove. 
 
 DoSa 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. Alas! I know 
 And tell you, often old men tarry long. 
 And see the young go first, their eyes shut 
 
 fast 
 By sudden stroke, as on a sepulcher 
 That still was open falls the closing stone. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. Oh, cease, my child, 
 such saddening discourse. 
 Or I shall scold you. Such a day as this 
 Sacred and joyous is. And, by-the-bye. 
 Time summons us. Are you not ready yet 
 For chapel when we 're called? Be quick to 
 
 don 
 The bridal dress. Each moment do I count. 
 
 DoRa Sol. There is abundant time. 
 
 Don Ruy Gomez. Oh, no, there's not. 
 
 [Enter a Page.] 
 
 What want you? 
 The Page. At the door, my lord, a 
 'man — 
 A pilgrim — beggar — or I know not what. 
 Is craving here a shelter. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. Let him in 
 Whoever he may be. Good enters with 
 The stranger that we welcome. What's 
 the news 
 
 From th' outside world? What of the 
 
 bandit chief 
 That filled oiu: forests with his rebel band? 
 The Page. Hemani, lion of the moun- 
 tains, now 
 Is done for. 
 DoSa Sol [aside]. God! 
 Don Rttt Gomez [to the Page]. How so? 
 The Page. The troop's destroyed. 
 The King himself has led the soldiers on. 
 Hemani's head a thousand crowns is worth 
 Upon the spot; but now he's dead, they 
 say. 
 DoSa Sol [aside]. What! Without me, 
 
 Hemani! 
 Don Rut Gomez. And thank Heaven! 
 So he is dead, the rebel! Now, dear love. 
 We can rejoice; go then and deck thyself, 
 My pride, my darling. Day of double joy. 
 Do5}A Sol. Oh, mourning robes! 
 
 [Exit DoSa Sol.] 
 Don Rut Gomez [to the Page]. The 
 casket quickly send 
 That I'm to give her. 
 
 [He seats himself in his chair.] 
 'T is my longing now 
 To see her all adorned Madonna like. 
 With her bright 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 enter here. 
 Excuses from us offer; run, be quick. 
 
 [The Page hows and exit.] 
 
 'T is ill to keep a guest long waiting thus. 
 
 [The door at the hack opens.] 
 
 [Hebnani appears disguised as a Pilgrim. 
 The Duke rises. Hernani pauses at 
 the threshold of the door.] 
 
 Hernani. My lord, peace and all hap- 
 piness be yours! 
 
 Don Rut Gomez [saluting him vnth hia 
 hand]. To thee be peace and hap- 
 piness, my guest! 
 
 [Hernani enters. The Duke reseata 
 himself.] 
 
 Art thou a pilgrim? 
 
 Hernani [howing]. Yes. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. No doubt you come 
 From Armillas? 
 
HERNANI 
 
 379 
 
 Hernani. Not so. I hither came 
 By other road, there was some fighting 
 there. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Among the troop of 
 
 bandits, was it not? 
 Hernani. I know not. 
 Don RtTY Gomez. What's become of 
 Viim — the chief 
 They call Hernani? Dost thou know? 
 
 Hbknani. My lord, 
 Who is this man? 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. Dost thou not know 
 him, then? 
 For thee so much the worse ! Thou wilt not 
 
 gain 
 The good rovmd sum. See you a rebel he 
 That has been long unpunished. To Madrid 
 Should you be going, perhaps you'll see 
 him hanged. 
 Hernani. I go not there. 
 Don Rut Gomez. A price is on his 
 head 
 For any man who takes him. 
 Hernani [aside]. Let one come! 
 Don Rut Gomez. Whither, good pU- 
 
 grim, goest thou? 
 Hernani. My lord, 
 I'm bound for Saragossa. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. A vow made 
 In honor of a saint, or of Our Lady? 
 Hernani. Yes, of Our Lady, Duke. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Of the Pillar? 
 Hernani. Of the Pillar. 
 Don Rut Gomez. We must be soulless 
 quite 
 Not to acquit us of the vows we make 
 Unto the saints. But thine accomplished, 
 
 then 
 Hast thou not other purposes in view? 
 Or is to see the Pillar all you wish? 
 Hernani. Yes. I would see the lights 
 and candles burn, 
 And at the end of the dim corridor 
 Our Lady in her glowing shrine, with cope 
 All golden — then would satisfied return. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Indeed, that's well. 
 Brother, what is thy name? 
 Mine, Ruy de Silva is. 
 Hernani [hesitating]. My name — 
 Don Rut Gomez. You can 
 Conceal it if you will. None here has right 
 To know it. Cam'st thou to asylum ask? 
 
 Hernani. Yes, Duke. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Remain, and know 
 thou'rt welcome here. 
 For nothing want; and as for what thou'rt 
 
 named. 
 But call thyself my guest. It is enough ' 
 Whoever thou may'st be. Without demur 
 I 'd take in Satan if God sent him me. 
 
 [The folding doors at the back open.] 
 
 [Enter DoSa Sol in nuptial attire. Behind 
 her Pages and Lackeys, and two women 
 carrying on a velvet cushion a casket of 
 engraved silver, which they place upon 
 a table, and which contains a jewel 
 case, with duchess' coronet, necklaces 
 bracelets, pearls, and diamonds in pro- 
 fusion. Hernani, breathless and scared, 
 looks at DoSa Sol with flaming eyes 
 without listening to the Duke.] 
 
 Don Rut Gomez [continuing]. Behold 
 my blessed Lady — to have prayed 
 To her will bring thee happiness. 
 
 [He offers his hand to DoSa Sol, 
 still pale and grave.] 
 Come, then. 
 
 My bride. What! not thy coronet, nor 
 ring! 
 Hernani [in a voice of thunder]. Who 
 wishes now a thousand golden 
 crowns 
 To win? 
 
 [All turn to him astonished. He 
 tears off his pilgrim's robe, and 
 crushes it under his feet, reveal- 
 ing himself in the dress of a 
 mountaineer.] 
 I am Hernani. 
 
 DoSa Sol [joyfully]. Heavens! Oh, 
 He lives! 
 
 TtEssKsi [to the Lackeys]. See! I'm the 
 man they seek. 
 [To the Duke.] You wished 
 To know my name — Diego or Perez? 
 No, no! I have a grander name — Her- 
 nani. 
 Name of the banished, the proscribed. See 
 
 you 
 This head? 'T is worth enough of gold to 
 
 pay 
 For festival. 
 [To the Lackeys.] I give it to you all. 
 
386 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Take; tie my hands, my feet. But there's 
 
 no need, 
 The chain that binds me's one I shall not 
 break. 
 DoNa Sol [aside]. Oh, misery! 
 Don Ruy Gomez. Folly! This my guest 
 is mad — 
 A lunatic! 
 
 Hernani. Your guest a bandit is. 
 DoNa Sol. Oh, do not heed him. 
 Hernani. What I say is truth. 
 Don Ruy Gomez. 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 willing one be found. 
 [To the Lackeys.] Now seize, and sell me! 
 Don Ruy Gomez [trying to silence him]. 
 Be quiet, or they'll take you at 
 your word. 
 Hernani. Friends, this your opportun- 
 ity is good. 
 I tell you, I'm the rebel — the proscribed 
 Hernani! 
 Don Ruy Gomez. Silence! 
 Hernani. I am he! 
 DoSa Sol [in a low voice to him]. Be 
 
 still! 
 Hernani [half turning to DoSa Sol]. 
 There's marrying here! My spouse 
 awaits me too. 
 [To the Duke.] She is less beautiful, my 
 
 lord, than yours. 
 But not less faithful. She is Death. 
 [To the Lackeys.] Not one 
 Of you has yet come forth! 
 
 DoJfA Sol [in a low voice]. For pity's 
 sake! 
 I Hernani [to the Lackeys]. A thousand 
 golden crowns. Hernani here! 
 Don Ruy Gomez. This is the demon! 
 Hernani [to a young Lackey]. Come! 
 thou 'It earn this sum. 
 Then rich, thou wilt from lackey change 
 
 again 
 To man. 
 -[To the other Lackeys, who do not stir.] And 
 
 also you — you waver. Ah, 
 Have I not misery enough? 
 ^ Don Ruy Gomez. My friend, 
 
 To touch thy life they'd peril eacJi his 
 
 own. 
 Wert thou Hernani, or a himdred times 
 As bad, I must protect my guest, — were 
 
 e'en 
 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 DoJfA 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. 
 
 [Exit, followed by servants.] 
 Hernani [looking with despair at his 
 empty girdle]. Not e'en a knife! 
 [Do5fA Sol, after the departure of 
 the Duke, takes a few steps, as if 
 to follow her women, then pauses, 
 and when they are gone, comes 
 hack to Hernani with anxiety. 
 Hernani looks at the nuptial 
 jewel-case with a cold and appar- 
 ently indifferent gaze; then he 
 tosses back his head, and his 
 eyes light up.] 
 Accept my 'gratulations! Words tell not 
 How I 'm enchanted by these ornaments. 
 
 [He approaches the casket.] 
 This ring is in fine taste, — the coronet 
 I like, — the necklace shows surpassing 
 
 skill. 
 The bracelet's rare — but oh, a hundred 
 
 times 
 Less so than she, who 'neath a forehead 
 
 pure 
 Conceals a faithless heart. 
 
 [Examining the casket again.] 
 What for all this 
 Have you now given? Of your love some 
 
 share? 
 But that for nothing goes! Great God! to 
 
 thus 
 
 Deceive, and still to live and have no 
 
 shame! [Looking at the jewels.] 
 
 But after all, perchance, this pearl is false. 
 
 And copper stands for gold, and glass and 
 
 lead 
 Make out sham diamonds — pretended 
 
 gems! 
 Are these false sapphires and false jewels 
 all? 
 
HERNANI 
 
 381 
 
 If so, thy heart is like them, Duchess false, 
 Thyself but only gilded. [He returns to 
 
 the casket.] Yet no, no! 
 They all are real, beautiful, and good. 
 He dares not cheat, who stands so near the 
 
 tomb. 
 Nothing is wanting. 
 
 [He takes up one thing after another.] 
 Necklaces are here. 
 And brilliant earrings, and the Duchess' 
 
 crown 
 And golden ring. Oh, marvel! Many 
 
 thanks 
 For love so certain, faithful and profound. 
 The precious box! 
 
 DoSa Sol [going to the casket, feeling in it, 
 
 and drawing forth a dagger]. You 
 
 have not reached its depths. 
 This is the dagger which, by kindly aid 
 Of patron saint, I snatched from Charles 
 
 the King 
 When he made offer to me of a throne, 
 Which I refused for you, who now insult 
 
 me. 
 Hernani [falling at her feet]. Oh, let me 
 
 on my knees arrest those tears, 
 The tears that beautify thy sorrowing eyes. 
 Then after thou canst freely take my life. 
 DoSa Sol. I pardon you, Hernani. In 
 
 my heart 
 There is but love for you. 
 
 Hernani. And she forgives — 
 And loves me stillj But who can also teach 
 Me to forgive myself, that I have used 
 Such words? Angel, for heaven reserved, 
 
 say where 
 You trod, that I may kiss the ground. 
 DoSa Sol. My love! 
 Hernani. Oh, no, I should to thee be 
 
 odious. 
 But listen. Say again — I love thee still! 
 Say it, and reassure a heart that doubts. 
 Say it, for often with such little words 
 A woman's tongue hath cured a world of 
 
 woes. 
 DoSa Sol [absorbed, and without hear- 
 ing him]. To think my love had 
 
 such short memory! 
 That all these so ignoble men could shrink 
 A heart, where his name was enthroned, to 
 
 love 
 By them thought worthier. 
 
 Hernani. Alas! I have 
 Blasphemed! If I were in thy place I 
 
 should 
 Be weary of the furious madman, who 
 Can only pity after he has struck. 
 I'd bid him go. Drive me away, I say. 
 And I will bless thee, for thou hast been 
 
 good 
 And sweet. Too long thou hast myself 
 
 endured. 
 For I am evil; I should blacken still 
 Thy days with my dark nights. At last it is 
 Too much; thy soul is lofty, beautiful. 
 And pure; if I am evil, is't thy fault? 
 Marry the old Duke, then, for he is good 
 And noble. By the mother's side he has 
 Olm^do, by his father's Alcala. . 
 With him be rich and happy by one act. 
 Know you not what this generous hand of 
 
 mine 
 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 moumfulness. 
 Marry the old man — he deserves thee 
 
 well! 
 Ah, who could ever think my head pro- 
 scribed 
 Fit mate 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 
 
 to say 
 That the same law should guide our des- 
 tinies? 
 No, God, who ruleth aU things well, did 
 
 not 
 Make thee for me. Noright from Heav'n 
 
 above 
 Have I to thee; and I'm resigned to fate. 
 I have thy heart; it is a theft! I now 
 Unto a worthier yield it. Never yet 
 Upon our love has Heaven smiled; 'tis 
 
 false 
 If I have said thy destiny it was. 
 To vengeance and to love I bid adieu! 
 My life is ending; useless I will go, 
 
382 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 And take away with me my double dream, 
 Ashamed I could not punish, nor could 
 
 charm. 
 I have been made for hate, who only 
 
 wished 
 To love. Forgive and fly me, these my 
 
 prayers 
 Reject them not, since they will be my last. 
 Thou livest — I am dead. I see not why 
 Thou should'st immure thee in my tomb. 
 DoSa Soii. Ingrate! 
 Hernani. Mountains of old Aragon! 
 
 Galicia! 
 Estremadura! Unto all who come 
 Around me I bring misery I 
 The best, without remorse I've ta'en to 
 
 fight, 
 And now behold them dead! The bravest 
 
 brave 
 Of all Spain's sons, lie, soldier-like, upon 
 The hills, their backs to earth, the living 
 
 God 
 Before; and if their eyes could ope they'd 
 
 look 
 On heaven's blue. See what I do to all 
 Who join me! Is it fortime any one 
 Should covet? Dona Sol, oh! take the 
 
 Duke, 
 Take hell, or take the King — all would be 
 
 well. 
 All must be better 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 
 
 love 
 A duty of religion! Fly from me, 
 For pity's sake. Thou think' st me, per- 
 haps, a man 
 Like others, one with sense, who knows the 
 
 end 
 At which he aims, and acts accordingly. 
 Oh, undeceive thyself. I am a force 
 That cannot be resisted — agent blind 
 Anddeaf of mournful mysteries! A soul 
 Of misery made of gloom. Where shall I 
 
 go? 
 I cannot tell. But I am urged, compelled 
 By an impetuous breath and wild decree; 
 I fall, and fall, and cannot stop descent. 
 If sometimes breathless I dare turn my 
 
 head, 
 
 A voice cries out, "Go on!" and the abyss 
 Is deep, and to the depths I see it red 
 With flame or blood! Around my fearful 
 
 course 
 All things break up — all die. Woe be to 
 
 them 
 Who touch me. Fly, I say! Turn thee 
 
 away 
 From my so fatal path. Alas! without 
 Intending I should do thee ill. 
 DoSa Sol. Great God! 
 Hebnani. My demon is a formidable 
 
 one. 
 But there's a thing impossible to it — 
 My happiness. For thee is happiness. 
 Therefore, go seek another lord, for thou 
 Art not for me. If Heaven, that my fate 
 Abjures, should smile on me, believe it not: 
 It would be irony. Marry the Duke! 
 DoSa Sol. 'T was not enough to tear 
 
 my heart, but you 
 Must break it now! Ah me! no longer, then 
 You love me! 
 
 Hernani. Oh! my heart — its very life 
 Thou art! The glowing hearth whence all 
 
 warmth comes 
 Art thou! Wilt thou, then, blame me that 
 
 I fly 
 From thee, adored one? 
 
 DoSa Sol. No, I blame thee not. 
 Only I know that I shall die of it. 
 Hernani. Die! And for what? For me? 
 
 Can it then be 
 
 That thou should'st die for cause so small? 
 
 DoSa Sol [bursting into tears]. Enough. 
 
 [She falls into a chair.] 
 
 Hernani [seating himself near her]. And 
 
 thou art weeping; and 't is still my 
 
 fault! 
 And who will punish me? for thou I know 
 Wilt pardon still! Who, who can tell thee 
 
 half 
 The anguish that I suffer when a tear 
 Of thine obscures and drowns those radiant 
 
 eyes 
 Whose luster is my joy. My friends are 
 
 dead! 
 Oh, I am crazed — forgive me — I would 
 
 love 
 I know not how. Alas! I love with love 
 Profound. Weep not — the rather let us 
 
 die! 
 
HERNANI 
 
 383 
 
 Oh that I had a world to give to thee! 
 Oh, wretched, miserable man I am! 
 
 DoSa Sol [throwing herself on his neck]. 
 You are my lion, generous and 
 superb! 
 I love you. 
 
 Hernani. Ah, this love would be a good 
 Supreme, if we could die of too much love! 
 DoSa Soil. Thou art my lord! I love 
 thee and belong 
 To thee! 
 
 Hernani [letting his head fall on her 
 shoulder]. How sweet would be a 
 poniard stroke 
 From thee! 
 
 Dona Sol [entreatingly]. Fear you not 
 God will punish you 
 For words like these? 
 (. Hernani [still leaning on her shoulder]. 
 
 Well, then, let Him unite us! 
 I have resisted; thou would'st have it thus. 
 [While they are in each other's arms, 
 absorbed and gazing with ecstasy 
 at each other, Don Rut Gomez 
 enters by the door at the back of 
 the stage. He sees them, and 
 stops on the threshold as if 
 petrified.] 
 Don Rttt Gomez [motionless on the 
 threshold, with arms cross<ed]. And 
 this is the requital that I find 
 Of hospitality! 
 
 DoNa Sol. Oh, Heavens — the Duke! 
 [Both turn as if awakening with a 
 start.] 
 Don Rut Gomez [still motionless]. This 
 then's the recompense from thee, 
 my guest? 
 Good Duke, go see if all thy walls be high. 
 And if the door is closed, and archer placed 
 Within his tower, and go the castle round 
 Thyself for us; seek in thine arsenal 
 For armor that will fit — at sixty years 
 Resume thy battle-harness — and then see 
 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 lived, and met some- 
 times 
 Unbridled souls; and oft my dirk have 
 drawn 
 
 From out its scabbard, raising on my path 
 The hangman's game birds: murd'rers I 
 
 have seen 
 And coiners, traitorous varlets poisoning 
 Their masters; and I've seen men die 
 
 without 
 A prayer, or sight of crucifix. I've seen 
 Sforza and Borgia; Luther still I see. 
 But never have I known perversity 
 So great that feared not thimderbolt, its 
 
 host 
 Betraying! 'T was not of my age — such 
 
 foul 
 Black treason, that at once could petrify 
 An old man on the threshold of his door. 
 And make the master, waiting for his 
 
 grave. 
 Look like his statue ready for his tomb. 
 Moors and Castilians! Tell me, who's this 
 
 man? 
 
 [He raises his eyes and looks 
 round on the portraits on the 
 wall.] 
 Oh, you, the Silvas who can hear me now, 
 Forgive if, in your presence by my wrath 
 Thus stirr'd, I say that hospitality 
 Was ill advised. 
 
 Hernani [rising]. Duke — 
 Don Rut Gomez. Silence! 
 
 [He makes three steps into the hall 
 looking at the portraits of the 
 Silvas.] 
 Sacred dead! 
 
 My ancestors! Ye men of steel, who know 
 What springs from heav'n or hell, reveal, 
 
 I say. 
 Who is this man? No, not Hernani he. 
 But Judas is his name — oh, try to speak 
 And tell me who he is! 
 [Crossing his arms.] In all your days 
 Saw you aught like him? No. 
 Hernani. My lord — 
 Don Rut Gomez [still addressing the 
 
 portraits]. See you 
 The shameless miscreant? He would speak 
 
 to me. 
 But better far than I you read his soul. 
 Oh, heed him not! he is a knave — he'd 
 
 say 
 That he foresaw that in the tempest wild 
 Of my great wrath I brooded o'er some 
 
 deed 
 
384 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Of gory vengeance shameful to my roof. 
 A sister deed to that they call the feast 
 Of Seven Heads. He'll tell you he's pro- 
 scribed, 
 He '11 tell you that of Silva they will talk 
 E'en as of Lara. Afterwards he '11 say 
 He is my guest and yours. My lords, my 
 
 sires, 
 Is the fault mine? Judge you between us 
 now. 
 Hernani. Ruy Gomez de Silva, if ever 
 'neath 
 The heavens clear a noble brow was raised. 
 If ever heart was great and soul was high, 
 Yours are, my lord; and oh, my noble host, 
 I, who now speak to you, alone have sinn'd. 
 Guilty most damnably am I, without 
 Extenuating 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. 
 DoSa Sol. My lord, 't was not his fault 
 
 — strike only me. 
 Hbknani. Be silent, Dofla Sol. This 
 hour supreme 
 Belongs alone to me; nothing I have 
 But it. Let me explain things to the Duke. 
 Oh, Duke, believe the last words 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. 
 Then throw my body out of doors, and have 
 The flooring washed, if you should will it so. 
 What matter? 
 
 DoSa Sol. Ah! I only am the cause 
 Of all; because I love him. 
 
 [Don Rut turns round trembling 
 at these words, and fixes on Do5fA 
 Sol a terrible look. She throws 
 herself at his feet.] 
 Pardon! Yes, 
 My lord, I love him! 
 Don Rut Gomez. Love him — you love 
 him. 
 [To Hernani.] Tremble! [Noise of trum- 
 pets outside.] 
 
 [Enter a Page.] 
 
 What is this noise? 
 
 The Page. It is the King, 
 My lord, in person, with a band complete 
 Of archers, and his herald, who now sounds. 
 DoSa Sol. Oh, God! This last fatality 
 
 — the King! 
 The Page [to the Duke]. He asks the 
 reason why the door is closed. 
 And order gives to open it. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Admit 
 The King. [The Page bows and exit.] 
 
 DoSa Sol. He's lost! 
 
 [Don Rut Gomez goes to one of 
 the portraits — that of himself 
 and the last on the left; he presses 
 a spring, and the portrait opens 
 out like a door, and reveals a 
 hiding-place in the wall. He 
 turns to Hernani.] 
 Don Rut Gomez. Come hither, sir. 
 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 presses the spring, and 
 the portrait springs back to its 
 place looking as before.] 
 DoNa Sol. My lord. 
 Have pity on him! 
 
 The Page [entering]. His Highness the 
 King! 
 
 [DoSa Sol hurriedly lowers her 
 veil. The folding-doors open.] 
 
 [Enter Don Carlos in military attire, fol- 
 lowed by a crowd of gentlemen equally 
 armed vnth halberds, arquebuses, and 
 cross-boxDS. Don Carlos advances 
 slowly, his left hand on the hilt of his 
 sword, his right hand in his bosom, and 
 looking at the Duke with anger and de- 
 fiance. The Duke goes before the King 
 and bows low. Silence. Expectation and 
 terror on all. At last the King, coming 
 opposite the Duke, throws back his head 
 haughtily.] 
 
 Don Carlos. How comes it, then, my 
 cousin, that to-day 
 Thy door is strongly barr'd? By all the 
 saints 
 
HERNANI 
 
 38s 
 
 I thought your dagger had more maty 
 
 grown, 
 And know not why, when I'm your visitor, 
 It should so haste to brightly shine again 
 All ready to your hand. 
 
 [Don RtTT Gomez attempts to 
 speak, but the King continues 
 with an imperious gesture.] 
 Late in the day 
 
 It is for you to play the young man's part! 
 Do we come turban'd? Tell me, are we 
 
 named 
 Boabdil or Mahomet, and not Charles, 
 That the portcullis 'gainst us you should 
 
 lower 
 And raise the drawbridge? 
 
 Don Rtjy Gomez [bomng]. Highness — 
 Don Caklos [to his gentlemen]. Take the 
 keys 
 And guard the doors. 
 
 [Two officers exeunt. Several others 
 arrange the soldiers in a triple 
 line in the hall from the King to 
 the principal door. Don Carlos 
 turns again to the Duke.] 
 Ah! you would wake to life 
 Again these crushed rebellions. By my 
 
 faith. 
 If you, ye dukes, assume such airs as these 
 The King himself will play his kingly part. 
 Traverse the mountains in a warlike mode, 
 And in'their battlemented nests will slay 
 The lordlings! 
 
 Don Rtjt Gomez [drawing himself up]. 
 Ever have the SUvas been, 
 Your Highness, loyal. 
 
 Don Caklos [interrupting him]. With- 
 out subterfuge 
 Reply, or to the ground I'll raze thy towers 
 Eleven! Of extinguished &e remains 
 One spark — of brigands dead the chief 
 
 survives, 
 And who conceals him? It is thou, I say! 
 Hemani, rebel ringleader, is here, 
 And in thy castle thou dost hide him 
 now. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Highness, it is quite 
 
 true. 
 Don Carlos. Well, then, his head 
 I want — or if not, thine. Dost imder- 
 
 stand. 
 My cousin? 
 
 Don RtJY Gomez. Well, then, be it so. 
 You shall 
 Be satisfied. 
 
 [DoSa Sol hides her face in her 
 hands and sinks into the arm- 
 chair.] 
 Don Carlos [o little softened]. Ah! you 
 repent. Go seek 
 Your prisoner. 
 
 [The Duke crosses his arms, lowers 
 his head, and remains some 
 moments pondering. The King 
 and DoSa Sol, agitated by con- 
 trary emotions, observe him in 
 silence. At last the Duke looks up, 
 goes to the King, takes his hand, 
 and leads him with slow steps 
 toward the oldest of the portraits, 
 which is where the gallery com- 
 mences to the right of the spec- 
 tator.] 
 Don Rut Gomez [pointing out the old 
 portrait to the King]. This is the 
 eldest one. 
 The 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 Galceran de Silva — other Cid! 
 They keep his body still at Toro, near 
 Valladolid; a thousand candles bum 
 Before his gilded shrine. 'T was he who 
 
 freed 
 Leon from tribute o' the hundred virgins. 
 [Passing to another.] Don Bias — who, in 
 
 contrition for the fault 
 Of having iU-advised the king, exiled 
 Himself of his own will. 
 [To another.] This Christoval! 
 At fight of Escalon, when fled on foot 
 The King Don Sancho, whose white plume 
 
 was mark 
 For general deadly aim, he cried aloud, 
 Oh, Christoval! And Christoval assumed 
 The plume, and gave his horse. 
 [To another.] This is Don Jorge, 
 Who paid the ransom of Ramire, the King 
 Of Aragon. 
 
 Don Carlos [crossing his arms and look- 
 ing at him from head to foot]. By 
 Heavens, now, Don Ruy, 
 I marvel at you! But go on. 
 
386 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. Next comes 
 Don Ruy Gomez Silva; he was made 
 Grand Master of St. James, and Calatrava. 
 His giant armor would not suit our heights. 
 He took three hundred flags from foes, and 
 
 won 
 In thirty battles. For the King Motril 
 He eonquer'd Antequera, Suez, 
 Nijar; and died in poverty. Highness, 
 Salute him. 
 
 [He bows, uncovers, and passes to 
 another portrait. The King 
 listens impatiently, and with 
 increasing anger.] 
 Next him is his son, named Gil, 
 Dear to all noble souls. His promise worth 
 The oath of royal hands. 
 [To another.] Don Gaspard this, 
 The pride alike of Mendoc6 and Silva. 
 Your Highness, every noble family 
 Has some alliance with the Silva race. 
 Sandoval has both trembled at, and wed 
 With us. Manrique is envious of us: Lara 
 Is jealous. Alencastre hates us. We 
 All dukes siu-pass, and mount to kings. 
 
 Don Carlos. Tut! tut! 
 You're jesting. 
 
 Don Ruy Gomez. Here behold Don 
 Vasquez, called 
 The Wise. Don Jayme surnamed the 
 
 Strong. One day 
 Alone he stopped Zamet and five score 
 
 Moors. 
 I pass them by, and some the greatest. 
 
 [At an angry gesture of the King. he 
 passes by a great number of por- 
 traits, and speedily comes to the 
 three last at the left of the audi- 
 ence.] 
 This, 
 
 My grandfather, who lived to sixty years. 
 Keeping his promised word even to Jews. 
 [To the last portrait but one.] This venerable 
 
 form my father is, 
 A sacred head. Great was he, though he 
 
 comes 
 The last. The Moors had taken prisoner 
 His friend Count Alvar Giron. But my sire 
 Set out to seek him with six hundred men 
 To war inured. A figure of the count 
 Cut out of stone by his decree was made 
 And dragged along behind the soldiers, he, 
 
 By patron saint, declaring that until 
 The count of stone itself turned back and 
 
 fled. 
 He would not falter; on he went and saved 
 His friend. 
 
 Don Carlos. I want my prisoner. 
 Don Rut Gomez. This was 
 A Gomez de Silva. Imagine — judge 
 What in this dwelling one must say who 
 
 sees 
 These heroes — 
 
 Don Carlos. Instantly — my prisoner! 
 
 [Don Ruy Gomez bows low before 
 
 the King, takes his hand, and 
 
 leads him to the last portrait, 
 
 which serves for the door of 
 
 Heknani's hiding-place. Do5fA 
 
 Sol watches him vnth anxious 
 
 eyes. Silence and expectation in 
 
 all] 
 
 Don Ruy Gomez. This portrait is my 
 
 own. Mercy! King Charles! 
 
 For you require that those who see it 
 
 here 
 Should say, "This last, the worthy son of 
 
 race 
 Heroic, was a traitor found, that sold 
 The life of one he sheltered as a guest! " 
 
 [Joy of DoNa Sol. Movement of 
 bewilderment in the crowd. The 
 King, disconcerted, moves away 
 in anger, and remains some 
 moments with lips trembling and 
 eyes flashing.] 
 Don Carlos. Your castle, Duke, an- 
 noys me, I shall lay 
 It low. 
 Don Ruy Gomez. Thus, Highness, 
 you 'd retaliate. 
 Is it not so? 
 
 Don Carlos. For such audacity 
 Your towers I '11 level with the ground, and 
 
 have 
 Upon the spot the hemp-seed sown. 
 
 Don Ruy Gomez. I'd see 
 The hemp spring freely up where once my 
 
 towers 
 Stood high, rather than stain shoiild eat 
 
 into 
 The ancient name of Silva. 
 [To the portraits.] Is't not true? 
 I ask it of you all. 
 
HERNANI 
 
 387 
 
 Don Cablos. Now, Duke, this head, 
 'T is ours, and thou hast pTomised it to 
 me. 
 Don Rut Gomez. I promised one or 
 other. 
 [To the portraits.] Was't not so? 
 I ask you all? 
 
 [Pointing to his head.] This one I give. [To 
 the King.] Take it. 
 Don Cablos. Duke, many thanks; but 
 't would not do. The head 
 I want is yoxmg; when dead the headsman 
 
 must 
 Uplift it by the hair. But as for thine. 
 In vain he'd seek, for thou hast not enough 
 For him to clutch. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. Highness, insult me 
 not. 
 My head is noble still, and worth far more 
 Than any rebel's poll. The head of Silva 
 You thus despise! 
 
 Don Carlos. Give up Hernani! 
 Don Rut Gomez. I 
 Have spoken. Highness. 
 
 Don Carlos [to his followers]. Search 
 you everyivhere 
 From roof to cellar, that he takes not 
 wing — 
 Don Rut Gomez. My keep is faithful 
 as myself; alone 
 It shares the secret which we both shall 
 
 guard 
 Right well. 
 Don Carlos. I am the King! 
 Don Rut Gomez. Out of my house 
 Demolished stone by stone, they'll only 
 
 make 
 My tomb, — and nothing gain. 
 Don Cablos. Menace I find 
 And prayer alike are vain. Deliver up 
 The bandit, Duke, or head and castle both 
 Will I beat down. 
 Don Rut Gomez. I've said my word. 
 Don Carlos. Well, then, 
 Instead of one head I'll have two. 
 [To the Duke d'Alcala.] You, Jorge, 
 Arrest the Duke. 
 
 DoSa Sol [plucking off her veil and 
 throwing herself between the King, 
 the Duke, and the Guards]. King 
 Charles, an evil king 
 Are you! 
 
 Don Carlos. Good Heavens! Is it 
 Dona Sol I see? 
 
 DoSa Sol. Highness! Thou hast no 
 
 Spaniard's heart! 
 Don Carlos [confmed]. Madam, you 
 are severe upon the King. 
 [He approaches her, and speaks low.] 
 '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 grow! 
 Perchance, if you had willed it so, young 
 
 girl, 
 I'd noble been — the lion of Castile; 
 A tiger I am made by your disdain. 
 You hear it roaring now. Madam, be stiU! 
 [DoSa Sol looks at him. He bows.] 
 However, I'll obey. [Turning to the Duke.] 
 
 Cousin, may be 
 Thy scruples are excusable, and I 
 Esteem thee. To thy guest be faithful still. 
 And faithless to thy King. I pardon thee. 
 'T is better that I only take thy niece 
 Away as hostage. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Only! 
 DoSaSol. Highness! Me! 
 Don Carlos. Yes, you. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Alone! Oh, wondrous 
 clemency! 
 Oh, generous conqueror, that spares the 
 
 head 
 To torture thus the heart! What mercy 
 this! 
 Don Carlos.. Choose 'twixt the traitor 
 and the Dona Sol; 
 I must have one of them. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. The master you! 
 
 [Don Carlos approaches DoSa 
 Sol to lead her away. She flies 
 toward the Duke.] 
 Do5}A Sol. Save me, my lord! 
 [She pauses. — Aside.] Oh, misery! and 
 
 yet 
 It must be so. My uncle's life, or else 
 The other's! — rather mine! 
 [To the King.] I follow you. 
 Don Cablos [aside]. By all the saints! 
 the thought triumphant is! 
 Ah, in the end you'll soften, princess mine! 
 [DoffA Sol goes with a grave and 
 steady step to the casket, opens 
 
388 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 it, and takes from it the dagger, 
 which she hides in her bosom. 
 Don Cablos comes to her and 
 offers his hand.] 
 Don Cablos. What is 't you're taking 
 
 thence? 
 DoSa Sol. Oh, nothing! 
 Don Cablos. Is 't 
 Some precious jewel? 
 DoSa Sol. Yes. 
 
 Don Cablos [smiling]. Show it to me. 
 Do5fA Sol. Anon you'll see it. 
 
 [She gives him her hand and pre- 
 pares to follow him. Don Rut 
 Gomez, who has remained mo- 
 tionless and absorbed in thought, 
 advances a few steps crying out.] 
 Don Rut Gomez. Heavens, Dona Sol! 
 Oh, Dona Sol! Since he is merciless, 
 Help! Walls and armor come down on us 
 
 now! 
 [He runs to the King.] Leave me my child! 
 I have but her, O King! 
 Don Carlos [dropping Do5fA Sol's 
 hand]. Then yield me up my pris- 
 oner. 
 
 [The Duke drops his head, and 
 seems the prey of horrible inde- 
 cision. Then he looks up at the 
 portraits with supplicating hands 
 before them.] 
 Don Rut Gomez. Oh, now 
 Have pity on me all of you! 
 
 [He makes a step toward the hiding- 
 place. DoSa Sol loatching him 
 anxiously. He turns again to 
 the portraits.] 
 Oh, hide 
 Your faces! They deter me. 
 
 [He advances with trembling steps 
 toward his own portrait, then 
 turns again to the King.] 
 Is't your will? 
 Don Cablos. Yes. 
 
 [The Duke raises a trembling hand 
 toward the spring.] 
 DoSa Sol. O God! 
 Don Rut Gomez. No! 
 
 [He throws himself on his knees be- 
 fore the King.] 
 In pity take my life! 
 Don Cablos. Thy niece! 
 
 Don Rut Gomez [rising]. Take her, and 
 
 leave me honor, then. 
 Don Carlos [seizing the hand of the 
 trembling DoSa Sol]. Adieu, Duke. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Till we meet again! 
 [He watches the King, who retires 
 slowly uiith DoSa Sol. After- 
 wards he puts his hand on his 
 dagger.] 
 May God 
 Shield you! 
 
 [He comes back to the front of the 
 stage panting, and stands mo- 
 tionless, with vacant stare, seem- 
 ing neither to see nor hear any- 
 thing, his arms crossed on his 
 heaving chest. Meanwhile the 
 King goes out with DoSa Sol, the 
 suite following two by two accord- 
 ing to their rank. They speak in 
 a low voice among themselves.] 
 [Aside]. Whilst thou go'st joyous from my 
 
 house, 
 O King, my ancient loyalty goes forth 
 From out my bleeding heart. 
 
 [He raises his head, looks all round, 
 and sees that he is alone. Then 
 he takes two swords from a 
 panoply by the waU, measures 
 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. 
 
 [Hbrnani appears at the door of 
 the hiding-place. Don Rut 
 Gomez points to the two swords 
 on the table.] 
 Now, choose. 
 
 Choose, for Don Carlos has departed now, 
 And it remains to give me satisfaction. 
 Choose, and be quick. What, then! trem- 
 bles thy hand? 
 Hernanl a duel! Oh, it cannot be, old 
 man, 
 'Twixt us. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Why not? Is it thou 
 art afraid? 
 Or that thou art not noble? So or not, 
 All men who injure me, by Hell, I count 
 Noble enough to cross their swords with 
 mine. 
 
HERNANI 
 
 389 
 
 Hernani. Old man — 
 Don Rtjt Gomez. Come forth, young 
 man, to slay me, else 
 To be the slain. 
 
 Hernani. To die, ah, yes! Against 
 My will thyself hast saved me, and my life 
 Is yours. I bid you take it. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. This you wish? 
 [To the portraits.] You see he wills it. 
 [To Hernani.] This is well. Thy prayer 
 Now make. 
 
 I Hernani. It is to thee, my lord, the last 
 I make. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Pray to the other 
 
 Lord. 
 Hernani. No, no. 
 To thee. Strike me, old man, — dagger 
 
 or sword, — 
 Each one for me is good, — but grant me 
 
 first 
 One joy supreme. Duke, let me see her ere 
 Idle. 
 Don Rut Gomez. See her! 
 Hernani. Or at the least I beg 
 That you will let -me hear her voice once 
 
 more — 
 Only this one last time! 
 Don Rut Gomez. Hear her! 
 Hernani. 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- 
 night. 
 I'll grateful be to hear her. But in peace 
 I'd calmly die, if thou would'st deign that 
 
 ere 
 My soul is freed, it sees once more the 
 
 soul 
 That shines so clearly in her eyes. To her 
 I will not speak. Thou shalt be there to 
 
 see, 
 My father, and canst slay me afterwards. 
 Don Rut Gomez [pointing to the recess 
 still open]. Oh, saints of Heaven! 
 Can this recess, then, be 
 So deep and strong that he has nothing 
 heard? 
 
 Hernani. No, I have nothing heard. 
 Don Rut Gomez. I was compelled 
 To yield up Dona Sol or thee. 
 Hernani. To whom? 
 Don Rut Gomez. The King. 
 Hernani. Madman! He loves her. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Loves her! He! 
 Hernani. He takes her from us! He our 
 
 rival is! 
 Don Rut Gomez. Curses be on him! 
 Vassals! all to horse — 
 To horse! Let us pursue the ravisher! 
 Hernani. Listen! The vengeance that 
 is sure of foot 
 Makes on its way less noise than this 
 
 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 me take part in this thy vengeance 
 
 due; 
 Grant me this boon, and I will kiss thy 
 
 feet, 
 If so must be. Let us together speed 
 The King to follow. I will be thine arm. 
 I will avenge thee, Duke, and after- 
 wards 
 The life that's forfeit thou shalt take. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. And then, 
 As now, thou 'It ready be to die? 
 Hernani. Yes, Duke. 
 Don Rut Gomez. By what wilt thou 
 
 swear this? 
 Hernani. My father's head. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Of thine own self 
 
 wilt thou remember it? 
 Hernani [giving him the horn which he 
 takes from his girdle]. 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 
 
 horn 
 And take no other care; all will be done. 
 Don Rut Gomez [offering his hand]. 
 Your hand! [They press hands.] 
 
 [To the portraits.] And all of you are wit- 
 nesses. 
 
390 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 The Tomb, Aix-la-Chapelle. The vaults 
 which enclose the Tomb of Charlemagne at 
 Aix-la-Chapelle. Great arches of Lombard 
 architecture, with semicircular columns, 
 having capitals of birds and flowers. At the 
 right a small bronze door, low and curved. 
 A single lamp suspended from the crown of 
 the vault shows the inscription: cakolvs 
 MAGNVS. It is night. One cannot see to the 
 end of the vaults, the eye loses itself in the 
 intricacy of arches, steps, and columns which 
 mingle in the shade. 
 
 [Enter Don Caklos, Don Ricardo de 
 RoxAS, Count de Casapalma, lan- 
 terns in hand, and wearing large doaks 
 and slouched hais.\ 
 
 Don Ricaedo [hat in hand]. This is the 
 
 place. 
 Don Cablos. Yes, here it is the League 
 Will meet; they that together in my power 
 So soon shall be. Oh, it was well, my Lord 
 Of Treves th' Elector — it was well of you 
 To lend this place; dark plots should 
 
 prosper best 
 In the dank air of catacombs, and good 
 It is to sharpen daggers upon tombs. 
 Yet the stake 's heavy — heads are on the 
 
 game. 
 Ye bold assassins, and the end we '11 see. 
 By Heaven, 't was well a sepulcher to 
 
 choose 
 For such a business, since the road will be 
 Shorter for them to traverse. 
 [To Don Ricardo.] 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 Altenheim. 
 
 Don Carlos. Ah, where 
 Lothaire was overcome by Rodolf. Once 
 Again, Count, tell me o'er their names and 
 wrongs. 
 Don Ricardo. Gotha. 
 Don Carlos. Ah, very well I know why 
 'tis 
 The brave Duke is conspirator: he wills 
 For Germany, a German Emperor. 
 
 Don Ricardo. Hohenbourg. 
 Don Carlos. Hohenbourg would better 
 like 
 With Francis hell, than heaven itself with 
 me. 
 Don Ricardo. Gil Tellez Giron. 
 Don Carlos. Castile and our Lady! 
 The scoundrel! — to be traitor to his king! 
 Don Ricardo. One evening it is said 
 that you were found 
 With Madam Giron. You had just be- 
 
 • fore 
 Made him a baron; he revenges now 
 The honor of his dear companion. 
 Don Carlos. This, then, the reason he 
 revolts 'gainst Spain? 
 What name comes next? 
 
 Don Ricardo. The Reverend Vasquez, 
 AvUa's Bishop. 
 
 Don Carlos. Pray does he resent 
 Dishonor of his wife! 
 
 Don Ricardo. Then there is named 
 Guzman de Lara, who is discontent, 
 Claiming the collar of your order. 
 
 Don Carlos. Ah! 
 Guzman.de Lara! If he only wants 
 A collar he shall have one. 
 
 Don Ricardo. Next the Duke 
 Of Lutzelbourg. As for his plans, they 
 say — 
 Don Carlos. Ah! Lutzelbourg is by the 
 
 head too tall. 
 Don Ricardo. Juan de Haro — who 
 
 Astorga wants. 
 Don Carlos. These Haros! Always 
 they the headsman's pay 
 Have doubled. 
 
 Don Ricardo. That is all. 
 Don Carlos. Not by my count. 
 These make but seven. 
 
 Don Ricardo. Oh, I did not name 
 Some bandits, probably engaged by Treves 
 Or France. 
 Don Carlos. Men without prejudice of 
 course, 
 Whose ready daggers turn to heaviest pay. 
 As truly as the needle to the pole. 
 Don Ricardo. However, I observed 
 two sturdy ones 
 Among them, both new comers — one was 
 
 young. 
 The other old. 
 
HERNANI 
 
 391 
 
 Don Caklos. Their names? 
 
 [Don Ricabdo shrugs his shoidders 
 in sign of ignorance.] 
 Their age, then, say? 
 Don Ricardo. The younger may be 
 
 twenty. 
 Don Carlos. Pity, then. 
 Don Ricardo. The elder must be sixty, 
 
 quite. 
 Don Carlos. One seems 
 Too young — the other, over-old; so much 
 For them the worse 't will be. I will take 
 
 care — - 
 Myself will help the headsman, be there 
 
 need. 
 My sword is sharpened for a traitor's 
 
 block, 
 I'll lend it him if blunt his axe should grow. 
 And join my own imperial purple on 
 To piece the scaffold cloth, if it must be 
 Enlarged that way. But shall I Emperor 
 
 prove? 
 Don Ricabdo. The College at this hour 
 
 deliberates. 
 Don Carlos. Who knows? Francis the 
 
 first, perchance, they'll name. 
 Or else their Saxon Frederick the Wise. 
 Ah, Luther, thou art right to blame the 
 
 times 
 And scorn such makers-up of royalty. 
 That own no other rights than gilded ones. 
 A Saxon heretic! Primate of Treves, 
 A libertine! Count Palatine, a fool! 
 As for Bohemia's king, for me he is. 
 Princes of Hesse, all smaller than their 
 
 states! 
 The young are idiots, and the old de- 
 bauched, 
 Of crowns a plenty — but for heads we 
 
 search 
 In vain! Council of dwarfs ridiculous, 
 That I in lion's skin could carry off 
 Like Hercules; and who of violet robes 
 Bereft, would show but heads more shallow 
 
 far 
 Than Triboulet's. See'st thou I want three 
 
 votes 
 Or all is lost, Ricardo? Oh! 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 take them 
 
 back 
 A little later on. 
 
 [Don Ricardo bows low to the 
 King, and puts <m his hat.] 
 You cover, sir! 
 Don Ricardo. Sire, you have called [ 
 me thou [bowing again]. And thus I 
 I'm made 
 Grandee of Spain. 
 Don Carlos [aside]. Ah, how to piteous 
 scorn 
 You rouse me! Interested brood devour'd 
 By mean ambition. Thus across my plans 
 Yours struggle. Base the court where with- 
 out shame 
 The King is plied for honors, and he yields, 
 Bestowing grandeur on the hungry crew. 
 [Musing.] God only, and the Emperor are 
 
 great. 
 Also the Holy Father! For the rest. 
 The kings and dukes, of what account are 
 they? 
 Don Ricardo. I trust that they Your 
 
 Highness will elect. 
 Don Carlos. Highness — still High- 
 ness! Oh, unlucky chance! 
 If only King I must remain. 
 
 Don Ricardo [aside]. By Jove, 
 Emperor or King, Grandee of Spain I am. 
 Don Carlos. When they've decided 
 who shall be the one 
 They choose for Emperor of Germany, 
 What sign is to announce his name? 
 
 Don Ricardo. The guns. 
 A single firing will proclaim the Duke 
 Of Saxony is chosen Emperor; 
 Two if 't is Francis; for Your Highness 
 three. 
 Don Carlos. And Dofia Sol! I'm 
 crossed on every side. 
 If, Count, by turn of luck, I'm Emperor 
 
 made, 
 Go seek her; she by Csesar might be won. 
 Don Ricardo [smiling]. Your Highness 
 
 pleases. 
 Don Carlos [haughtily]. On that sub- 
 ject peace! 
 I have not yet inquired what's thought of 
 
 me. 
 But tell me when will it be truly known 
 Who is elected? 
 
392 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Don Ricaedo. In an hour or so, 
 At latest. 
 Don Carlos. Ah, three votes; and only 
 
 three! 
 But first this trait'rous rabble we must 
 
 crush. 
 And then we'll see to whom the Empire 
 
 falls, 
 
 [He counts on his fingers and 
 stamps his foot.] 
 Always by three too few! Ah, they hold 
 
 power. 
 Yet did Cornelius know all long ago: 
 In Heaven's ocean thirteen stars he saw 
 Coming full sail toward mine, all from the 
 
 north. 
 Empire for me — let's on! But it is said. 
 On other hand, that Jean Trithfeme Francis 
 Predicted! Clearer should I see my fate 
 Had I some armament the prophecy 
 To help. The sorcerer's predictions come 
 Most true when a good army — with its 
 
 guns 
 And lances, horse and foot, and martial 
 
 strains, 
 Ready to lead the way where Fate alone 
 Might stumble — plays the midwife's part 
 
 to bring 
 Fulfillment of prediction. That's worth 
 
 more 
 Than our Cornelius Agrippa or 
 Trithfeme. He, who by force of arms ex- 
 pounds 
 His system, and with sharpen'd point of 
 
 lance 
 Can edge his words, and uses soldiers' 
 
 swords 
 To level rugged fortune — shapes events 
 At his own will to match the prophecy. 
 Poor fools! who with proud eyes and 
 
 haughty mien 
 Only look straight to Empire, and declare 
 "It is my right!" They need great guns in 
 
 files 
 Whose burning breath melts towns; and 
 
 soldiers, ships. 
 And horsemen. These they need their ends 
 
 to gain 
 O'er trampled peoples. Pshaw! At the 
 
 crossroads 
 Of human life, where one leads to a throne, 
 Another to perdition, they will pause 
 
 In indecision, — scarce three steps will 
 
 take 
 Uncertain of themselves, and in their 
 
 doubt 
 Fly to the necromancer for advice 
 Which road to take. 
 [To Don Ricabdo.] Go now, 't is near the 
 
 time 
 The trait'rous crew will meet. Give me the 
 key. 
 Don Ricardo [giving key of tomb]. Sire, 
 't was the guardian of the tomb, the 
 Count 
 De Limbourg, who to me confided it, 
 And has done everything to pleasure you. 
 Don Carlos. Do all, quite all that I 
 
 commanded you. 
 Don Ricaedo [bowing]. Highness, I go 
 
 at once. 
 Don Carlos. The signal, then. 
 That I await is cannon firing thrice? 
 
 [Don Ricardo bows and exit. 
 Don Carlos faUs into a deep 
 reverie, his arms crossed, his 
 head drooping; afterwards he 
 raises it, and turns to the tonib.] 
 Forgive me, Charlemagne! Oh, this lonely 
 
 vault 
 Should echo only unto solemn words. 
 1 Thou must be angry at the babble vain 
 I Of our ambition at your monument. 
 iHere Charlemagne rests! How can the 
 
 somber tomb 
 Without a rifting spasm hold such dust! 
 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 was 
 
 made. 
 Mighty construction with two men su- 
 preme 
 Elected chiefs to whom born kings submit. 
 States, duchies, kingdoms, marquisates 
 
 and fiefs — 
 By right hereditary most are ruled. 
 But nations find a friend sometimes in 
 
 Pope 
 Or Csesar; and one chance another chance 
 Corrects; thus even balance is maintained 
 And order opens out. The cloth-of-gold 
 
HERNANI 
 
 393 
 
 Electors, and the scarlet cardinals. 
 
 The double, sacred senate, \into which 
 
 Earth bends, are but paraded outward 
 show, 
 
 God's fiat rules it all. One day He wills 
 
 A thought, a want, should burst upon the 
 world. 
 
 Then grow and spread, and mix with every- 
 thing, 
 
 Possess some man, win hearts, and delve a 
 groove 
 
 Though kings may trample on it, and may 
 
 To gag; — only that they some mom may 
 
 see 
 At diet, conclave, this the scorned idea, 
 That they had spumed, all suddenly ex- 
 pand 
 And soar above their heads, bearing the 
 
 globe 
 In hand, or on the brow tiara. Pope 
 And Emperor, they on earth are all in all, 
 A mystery supreme dwells in them both. 
 And Heaven's might, which they still rep- 
 resent, 
 Feasts them with kings and nations, hold- 
 ing them 
 Beneath its thunder-cloud, the while they 
 
 sit 
 At table with the world served out for 
 
 food. 
 Alone they regulate all 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 through the window, watchful on 
 
 tiptoe. 
 But weary of the scene. The common 
 
 world 
 Below them groups itself on ladder-rungs. 
 They make and all unmake. One can re- 
 lease. 
 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 the other swathed 
 In white like winding-sheet — when they 
 
 come out 
 From sanctuary, the dazzled multitude 
 Look with wild terror on these halves of 
 God, 
 
 The Pope and Emperor. Emperor! oh, to 
 
 be 
 Thus great! Oh, anguish, not to be this 
 
 Power 
 When beats the heart with dauntless 
 
 courage fill'd! 
 Oh, happy he who sleeps within this tomb! 
 How great, and oh! how fitted for his time! 
 The Pope and Emperor were more than 
 
 men, 
 In them two Homes in mystic Hymen joined 
 Prolific were, giving new form and soul 
 Unto the human race, refounding realms 
 And nations, shaping thus a Europe new, 
 And both remoulding with their hands the 
 
 bronze 
 Remaining of the great old Roman world. 
 What destiny! And yet 't is here he lies? 
 Is all so little that we come to this! 
 What then? To have been Prince and 
 
 Emperor, 
 And King — to have been sword, and also 
 
 law; 
 Giant, with Germany for pedestal — 
 For title Caesar — Charlemagne for name: 
 A greater to have been than Hannibal 
 Or Attila — as great as was the world. 
 Yet all rests here! For Empire strive and 
 
 strain 
 And see the dust that makes an Emperor! 
 Cover the earth with tumult, and with 
 
 iloise 
 Know you that one day only will remain — 
 Oh, madd'ning thought — a stone! For 
 
 sounding name 
 Triumphant, but some letters 'graved to 
 
 serve 
 For little children to learn spelling by. 
 How high soe'er ambition made thee soar. 
 Behold the end of all! Oh, Empire, power. 
 What matters all to me! I near it now 
 And like it well. Some voice declares to 
 
 me 
 Thine — thine — it will be thine. Heavens, 
 
 were it so! 
 To mount at once the spiral height su- 
 preme 
 And be alone — the keystone of the arch. 
 With states beneath, one o'er the other 
 
 ranged. 
 And kings for mats to wipe one's sandal'd 
 
 feet! 
 
394 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 To see 'neath kings the feudal families, 
 Margraves and cardinals, and doges — 
 
 diikes. 
 Then bishops, abb6s — chiefs of ancient 
 
 clans, 
 Great barons — then the soldier class and 
 
 clerks. 
 And know yet farther ofE — in the deep 
 
 shade 
 At bottom of th' abyss there is Mankind — 
 That is to say a crowd, a sea of men, 
 A tumult — cries, with tears, and bitter 
 
 laugh 
 Sometimes. The wail wakes up and scares 
 
 the earth 
 And reaches us with leaping echoes, and 
 With trumpet tone. Oh, citizens, oh, men! 
 The swarm that from the high church 
 
 towers seems now 
 To sound the tocsin! 
 [Musing.] Wondrous himian base 
 Of nations, bearing on your shoulders 
 
 broad 
 The mighty pyramid that has two poles. 
 The living waves that ever straining hard 
 Balance and shake it as they heave and roll, 
 Make all change place, and on the highest 
 
 heights 
 Make stagger thrones, as if they were but 
 
 stools. 
 So sure is this, that ceasing vain debates 
 Kings look to Heaven! Kings look down 
 
 below. 
 Look at the people! — • Restless ocean, there 
 Where nothing's cast that does not shake 
 
 the whole; 
 The sea that rends a throne, and rocks a 
 
 tomb — 
 A glass in which kings rarely look but ill. 
 Ah, if upon this gloomy sea they gazed 
 Sometimes, what Empires in its depths 
 
 they'd find! 
 Great vessels wrecked that by its ebb and 
 
 flow 
 Are stirr'd — that wearied it — known now 
 
 no more! 
 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 
 
 struck 
 With dizziness bewildering every sense. 
 
 Oh, moving pyramid of states and kings 
 With apex narrow, — woe to timid step! 
 What shall restrain me? If I fail when there 
 Feeling my feet upon the trembling world. 
 Feeling alive the palpitating earth. 
 Then when I have between my hands the 
 
 globe 
 Have I the strength alone to hold it fast. 
 To be an Emperor? O God, 't was hard 
 And difficult to play the kingly part. 
 Certes, no man is rarer than the one 
 Who can enlarge his soul to duly meet 
 Great Fortune's smiles, and still increasing 
 
 gifts. 
 But I! Who is it that shall be my guide, 
 My counselor, and make me great? 
 [Falls on his knees before the tomb.] 'T is 
 
 thou. 
 Oh, Charlemagne! And since 't is God for 
 
 whom 
 All obstacles dissolve, who takes us now 
 And puts us face to face — from this 
 
 tomb's depths 
 Endow me with sublimity and strength. 
 Let me be great enough to see the truth 
 On every side. Show me how small the 
 
 world 
 I dare not measure — me this Babel show 
 Where, from the hind to Caesar mounting 
 
 up. 
 Each one, complaisant with himself, re- 
 gards 
 The next with scorn that is but half re- 
 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 night 
 
 flings forth 
 A flood of light? If this be true, indeed. 
 Say, Emperor! what can after Charlemagne 
 Another do! Speak, though thy sovereign 
 
 breath 
 Should cleave this brazen door. Or rather 
 
 now 
 Let me thy sanctuary enter lone! 
 
HERNANI 
 
 395 
 
 Let me behold thy veritable face, 
 
 And not repulse me with a freezing breath. 
 
 Upon thy stony pillow elbows lean, 
 
 And 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 full 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, 
 
 giant, for there's nothing here below 
 So great as thy poor ashes. Let them teach. 
 Failing thy spirit. 
 
 [He puts the key in the lock.] Let us enter 
 
 now. 
 [He recoils.] O God, if he should really 
 
 whisper me! 
 If he be there and walks with noiseless tread. 
 And I come back with hair in moments 
 
 bleached! 
 
 1 '11 do it still. [Sownd of footsteps.] 
 Who comes? who dares disturb 
 
 Besides myself the dwelling of such dead! 
 
 [The sound comes nearer.] 
 My murderers! I forgot! Now, enter we. 
 [He opens the door of the tomb^ 
 which shuts upon him.] 
 
 [Enter several men walking softly, disguised 
 by large cloaks and hats. They take 
 each others' hands, going from one to 
 another and speaking in a low tone.] 
 
 First Conspibator [who alone carries 
 a lighted torch]. Ad au^usta. 
 
 Second Conspirator. Per angu^ta. 
 
 First Conspirator. The saints 
 Shield us. 
 
 Third Conspirator. The dead assist 
 us. 
 
 First Conspirator. Guard us, God! 
 
 [Noise in the shade.] 
 
 First Conspirator. Who's there? 
 
 A Voice. Ad augu^ta. 
 
 Second Conspirator. Per angusta. 
 
 [Enter fresh Conspirators — noise of 
 footsteps.] 
 
 First Conspirator [to Third]. See! 
 there is some one still to come. 
 
 Third Conspirator. Who's there? 
 Voice [in the darkness]. Ad augusta. 
 Third Conspirator. Per angusta. 
 
 [Enter more Conspirators, who exchange 
 signs with their hands with the others.] 
 
 First Conspirator. 'T is well. 
 All now are here. Gotha, to you it falls 
 To state the case. Friends, darkness waits 
 for light 
 
 [The Conspirators sit in a half- 
 circle on the tombs. The First 
 Conspirator passes before them, 
 and from his torch each one 
 lights a wax taper which he holds 
 in his hand. Then the' First 
 Conspirator seats himself in 
 silence on a tomb a little higher 
 than the others in the center of 
 the circle.] 
 Duke of Gotha [rising]. My friends! 
 This Charles of Spain, by mother's 
 side 
 A foreigner, aspires to moxmt the throne 
 Of Holy Empire. 
 First Conspirator. But for him the 
 
 grave. 
 Duke or Gotha [throwing down his 
 light and crushing it with his foot]. 
 Let it be with his hea,d as with this 
 flame. 
 All. So be it. 
 
 First Conspirator. Death unto him. 
 DuKj; OP Gotha. Let him die. 
 All. Let him be slain. 
 Don Juan de Habo. German his father 
 
 was. 
 Duke de Lutzelbourg. His mothei: 
 
 Spanish. 
 Duke op 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! 
 
 First Conspirator. Him! oh, never 
 
 him! 
 Don Gil Tbllbz Giron. What signifies? 
 Let us strike off the head. 
 The Crown will fall. 
 First Conspirator. But if to him be- 
 longs 
 The Holy Empire, he becomes so great 
 
396 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 And so august, that only God's own hand 
 Can reach him. 
 Duke of Gotha. All the better reason 
 why 
 He dies before such power august he gains. 
 First Conspirator. He shall not be 
 
 elected. 
 All. Not for him 
 The Empire. 
 First Conspirator. Now, how many 
 hands will't take 
 To put him in his shroud? 
 I All. One is enough. 
 First Conspirator. How many strokes 
 
 to reach his heart? 
 All. But one. 
 First Conspirator. Who, then, will 
 
 strike? 
 All. MIAU! 
 
 First Conspirator. The victim is 
 A traitor proved. They would an Emperor 
 
 choose, 
 We've a high-priest to make. Let us draw 
 lots. 
 
 [All the Conspirators write their 
 names on their tablets, tear out 
 the leaf, roll it up, and one after 
 another throw them into the urn 
 on one of the tombs.] 
 Now, let us pray. [All kneel.] 
 
 Oh, may the chosen one 
 Believe in God, and like a Roman strike. 
 Die as a Hebrew would, and brave alike 
 The wheel and burning pincers, laugh at 
 
 rack. 
 And fire, and wooden horse, and be re- 
 signed 
 To kill and die. He might have all to do. 
 [He draws a parchment from the 
 urn.] 
 All. What name? 
 First Conspirator [in low voice]. Her- 
 
 nani! 
 Hbrnani [coming out from the crowd of 
 Conspirators]. 1 have won, yes, 
 won! 
 I hold thee fast! Thee I've so long pur- 
 sued 
 With vengeance. 
 Don Rut Gomez [piercing through the 
 crowd and talcing Hernani aside]. 
 Yield — oh, yield this right to me. 
 
 Hernani. Not for my life! Oh, signor, 
 grudge me not 
 This stroke of fortune — 't is the first I've 
 known. 
 Don Rut Gomez. You nothing have! 
 I'll give you houses, lands, 
 A hundred thousand vassals shall be yours 
 In my three hundred villages, if you 
 But yield the right to strike to me. 
 Hernani. No — no. 
 Duke op Gotha. Old man, thy arm 
 
 would strike less sure a blow. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Back! I have strength 
 of soul, if not of arm. 
 Judge not the sword by the mere scab- 
 bard's rust. 
 [To Hernani.] You do belong to me. 
 
 Hernani. My life is yours. 
 As his belongs to me. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez [draunng the horn from 
 his girdle]. I yield her up, 
 And will return the horn. 
 
 HERNANI [trembling]. What life! My life 
 And Dona Sol! No, I my vengeance 
 
 choose. 
 I have my father to revenge — yet more, 
 Perchance I am inspired by God in this. 
 Don R,ut Gomez. I yield thee Her — 
 
 and give thee back the horn! 
 Hernani. No! 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. Boy, reflect. 
 Hernani. Oh, Duke, leave me my prey. 
 Don Rut Gomez. My curses on you for 
 depriving me 
 Of this my joy. 
 First Conspirator [to Hernani]. Oh, 
 brother, ere they can 
 Elect him — 't would be well this very 
 
 night 
 To watch for Charles. 
 
 Hernani. Fear nought, I know the way 
 
 To kill a man. 
 
 First Conspirator. May every treason 
 
 fall 
 
 On traitor, and may God be with you now. 
 
 We Counts and Barons, let us take the 
 
 oath 
 That if he fall, yet slay not, we go on 
 And strike by turn unflinching till Charles 
 dies. 
 All [dramng iheir mords]. Let us all 
 swear. 
 
HERNANI 
 
 397 
 
 Duke op Gotha [to First Conspirator]. 
 My brother, let's decide 
 On what we swear. 
 Don Rtjt Gomez [taking his sword hy 
 the point and raising it above his 
 head]. By this same cross, 
 All [raising their swords]. And this 
 That he must quickly die impenitent. ' 
 
 [They hear a cannon fired afar off. 
 All pause and are silent. The 
 door of the tomb half opens, and 
 Don Carlos appears at the 
 threshold. A second gun is fired, 
 then a third. He opens wide the 
 door and stands erect and mo- 
 tionless vyithout advancing.] 
 Don Carlos. Fall back, ye gentlemen 
 — the Emperor hears. 
 
 [All the lights are simultaneously 
 extinguished. A profound si- 
 lence. Don Carlos advances a 
 step in the darkness, so dense, 
 that the silent, motionless Con- 
 spirators can scarcely be dis- 
 tinguished.] 
 Silence and night! From darkness sprung, 
 
 the swarm 
 Into the darkness plunges back again! 
 Think ye this scene is like a passing 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 voices loud, 
 Raise, then, your drooping heads, for 
 
 Charles the Fifth 
 Is here. Strike. Move a pace or two and 
 
 show 
 You dare. But no, 't is not in you to dare. 
 Your flaming torches, blood-red 'neath 
 
 these 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 strikes the iron key on the 
 bronze door of the tomb. At the 
 sound all the depths of the cavern 
 are filled with soldiers bearing 
 torches and halberts. At their 
 head the Dtjke d'Alcala, the 
 Marquis d'AlmuSan, etc.] 
 
 Come on, my falcons! I've the nest — the 
 
 prey. 
 [To Conspirators.] I can make blaze of 
 
 light, 't is my turn now, 
 Behold! 
 
 [To the Soldiers.] Advance — for flagrant 
 is the crime. 
 Hernani [looking at the Soldiers]. Ah. i 
 well! At first I thought 'twas] 
 Charlemagne, ' 
 
 Alone he seemed so great — but after all 
 'T is only Charles the Fifth.l 
 
 Don Carlos [to the Duke d'Alcala]. 
 Come, Constable 
 Of Spain. 
 [To Marquis d'AlmuSan.] And you Cas- 
 
 tilian Admiral, 
 Disarm them all. 
 
 [The Conspirators are surrounded 
 and disarmed.] 
 Don Ricardo [hurrying in and bowing 
 almost to the ground]. Your Majesty! 
 Don Carlos. Alcalde 
 I make you of the palace. 
 Don Ricardo [again bowing]. Two 
 Electors, 
 To represent the Golden Chamber, come 
 To offer to Your Sacred Majesty 
 Congratulations now. 
 
 Don Carlos. Let them come forth. 
 [Aside to Don Ricardo.) The Dona Sol. 
 [Ricardo bows and exit.] 
 
 [Enter with flambeaux and flourish of 
 trumpets the King of Bohemia and the 
 Duke of Bavaria, both wearing cloth 
 of gold, and with crowns on their heads. 
 Numerous followers. German nobles 
 carrying the banner of the Empire, 
 the double-headed Eagle, with the 
 escutcheon of Spain in the middle of it. 
 The Soldiers divide, forming lines be- 
 tween which the Electors pass to the 
 Emperor, to whom they bow low. He 
 returns the salutation by raising his 
 hat.] 
 
 Duke op 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 each king 
 
 aspires I 
 
398 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 The Saxon Frederick was elected first, 
 But he judged you more worthy, and de- 
 clined. 
 Now, then, receive the crown and globe, 
 
 O King — 
 The Holy Empire doth invest you now. 
 Arms with the sword, and you indeed are 
 great. 
 Don Carlos. The College I will thank 
 on my return. 
 But go, my brother of Bohemia, 
 And you. Bavarian cousin. — Thanks; but 
 
 now 
 I do dismiss you — I shall go myself. 
 King op Bohemia. Oh! Charles, our 
 ancestors were friends. My sire 
 Loved yours, and their two fathers were 
 
 two friends — 
 So young! exposed to varied fortunes! say. 
 Oh, Charles, may I be ranked a very chief 
 Among thy brothers? I cannot forget 
 I knew you as a little child. 
 Don Caklos. Ah, well — 
 King of Bohemia, you presume too much. 
 [He gives him his hand to kiss, also 
 the Duke of Bavaria, both 
 how low.] 
 Depart. 
 
 [Exeunt the two Electohs with 
 their followers.] 
 The Crowd. Long live the Emperor! 
 Don Carlos [aside]. So 't is mine. 
 All things have helped, and I am Em- 
 peror — 
 By the refusal, though, of Frederick 
 Surnamed the Wise! 
 
 [Enter DoSa Sol led by Ricardo.] 
 
 DoSaSol. What, soldiers! — Emperor! 
 Hernani! Heaven, what an unlooked-for 
 chance ! 
 Hernani. Ah! Dona Sol! 
 Don Ruy Gomez [aside to Hernani]. 
 She has not seen me. 
 
 [DoSa Sol runs to Hernani, who 
 makes her recoil by a look of dis- 
 dain.] 
 Hernani. Madam! 
 DoNa Sol [drawing the dagger from her 
 
 bosom]. I still his poniard have! 
 Hernani [taking her in his arms]. My 
 dearest one! 
 
 Don Carlos. Be silent all. 
 [To the Conspirators.] Is't you remorseless 
 
 are? 
 I need to give the world a lesson now, 
 The Lara of Castile, and Gotha, you 
 Of Saxony — all — aU — what were your 
 
 plans 
 Just now? I bid you speak. 
 
 Hernani. Quite simple. Sire, 
 The thing, and we can briefly tell it you. 
 We 'graved the sentence on Belshazzar's 
 wall. 
 
 [He takes out a poniard and 
 brandishes it.] 
 We render unto Caesar Csesar's due. 
 
 Don Carlos. Silence! 
 [To Don Rut Gomez.] And you! You too 
 are traitor, Silva! 
 Don Rut Gomez. Which of us two is 
 
 traitor. Sire? 
 Hernani [turning toward the Conspira- 
 tors]. Our heads 
 And Empire — all that he desires he has. 
 [To the Emperor.] The mantle blue of kings 
 
 encumbered you; 
 The purple better suits — it shows not 
 blood. 
 Don Carlos [to Don Rut Gomez]. 
 Cousin of Silva, this is felony, 
 Attainting your baronial rank. Think well, 
 Don Ruy — high treason! 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. Kings like Roderick 
 Count Julians make. 
 Don Carlos [to the Duke d'Alcala]. 
 Seize only those who seem 
 The nobles, — for the rest! — 
 
 [Don Rut Gomez, the Duke de 
 LuTZBLBOURG, the Duke op 
 Gotha, Don Juan de Haro, 
 Don Guzman de Lara, Don 
 Tellez Giron, the Baron op 
 HoHENBOURG Separate them- 
 selves from the group of Con- 
 spirators, among whom is Her- 
 nani. The Duke d'Alcal.\ 
 surrounds them with guards.] 
 DoSa Sol [aside]. Ah, he is saved! 
 Hernani [coming from among the Con- 
 spirators]. I claim to be included! 
 [To Don Carlos.] Since to this 
 It comes, the question of the axe — that 
 now 
 
HERNANI 
 
 399 
 
 Hernani, humble churl, beneath thy feet 
 Unpunished goes, because his brow is not 
 
 At level with thy sword — because one 
 must 
 
 Be great to die, I rise. God, who gives 
 power, 
 
 And gives to thee the scepter, made me 
 Duke 
 
 Of Segorbe and Cardona, Marquis too 
 
 Of Monroy, Albaterra's Count, of Gor 
 
 Viscount, and Lord of many places, more 
 
 Than I can name. Juan of Aragon 
 
 Am I, Grand Master of Avis — the son 
 
 In exile bom, of murder'd father slain 
 
 By king's decree, King Charles, which me 
 proscribed. 
 
 Thus death 'twixt us is family affair; 
 
 You have the scaffold — we the poniard 
 hold. 
 
 Since Heaven a duke has made me, and 
 exile 
 
 A mountaineer, — since all in vain I've 
 sharpen'd 
 
 Upon the hills my sword, and in the tor- 
 rents 
 
 Have tempered it. [He puts on his hat.] 
 
 [To the Conspirators.] Let us be covered 
 now. 
 
 Us the Grandees of Spain. [They cover.] 
 
 [To Don Cahlos.] Om' heads, O King, 
 
 Have right to fall before thee covered 
 thus. 
 
 [To the Prisoners.] Silva, and Haro — 
 Lara — men of rank 
 
 And race make room for Juan of Ara- 
 gon. 
 
 Give me my place, ye dukes and counts — 
 my place. 
 
 [To the Courtiers and Guards.] King, heads- 
 men, varlets — Juan of Aragon 
 
 Am I. If all your scaffolds are too small 
 
 Make new ones. 
 
 [He joins the group of nobles.] 
 DoSa Sol. Heavens! 
 Don Caelos. I had forgotten quite 
 
 This history. 
 
 Hernani. But they who bleed remember 
 
 Far better. Th' evil that wrong-doer thus 
 
 So senselessly forgets, forever stirs 
 
 Within the outraged heart. 
 Don Cahlos. Therefore, enough 
 
 For me to bear this title, that I 'm son 
 
 Of sires, whose power dealt death to an- 
 cestors 
 Of yours! 
 Dona Sol [falling on her knees before the 
 Emperor]. Oh, pardon — pardon! 
 Mercy, Sire, 
 Be pitiful, or strike us both, I pray. 
 For he my lover is, my promised spouse. 
 In him it is alone I live — I breathe; 
 Oh, Sire, lq mercy us together slay. 
 Trembling — oh. Majesty! — I trail my- 
 self 
 Before your sacred knees. I love him. 
 
 Sire, 
 And he is mine — as Empire is your 
 
 own. 
 Have pity! 
 
 [Don Cablos looks at her without 
 moving.] 
 Oh, what thought absorbs you? 
 
 Don Carlos. Cease. 
 Rise — Duchess of Segorbe — Marchioness 
 Of Monroy — Countess Albaterra — 
 
 and — 
 [To Hernani.] Thine other names, Don 
 Juan? 
 Hernani. Who speaks thus, 
 The King? 
 
 Don Carlos. No, 't is the Emperor. 
 
 DoffA Sol. Just Heav'n! 
 
 Don Carlos [pointing to her]. Duke 
 
 Juan, take your wife. 
 Hernani [his eyes raised to heaven, 
 
 DoSa Sol in his arms]. Just God! 
 Don Carlos [to Don Rut Gomez]. My 
 cousin, 
 I know the pride of your nobility. 
 But Aragon with Silva well may mate. 
 Don Rtty Gomez [bitterly]. 'T is not a 
 
 question of nobility. 
 
 Hernani [looking with love on DoSa Sol 
 
 and still holding her in his arms]. 
 
 My deadly hate is vanishing away. 
 
 [Throws away his dagger.] 
 
 Don Rut Gomez [aside, and looking at 
 
 them]. Shall I betray myself? Oh, 
 
 no, — my grief, 
 
 My foolish love would make them pity 
 
 cast 
 Upon my venerable head. Old man 
 And Spaniard! Let the hidden fire con- 
 sume, 
 
400 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 And suffer still in secret. Let heart break 
 But cry not; — they would laugh at 
 thee. 
 DoSa Sol [still in Heknani's arms]. 
 
 My Duke! 
 Hernani. Nothing my soul holds now 
 
 but love! 
 DoffA Sol. Oh, joy! 
 Don Carlos [aside, his hand in his 
 bosom]. Stifle thyself, young heart 
 so full of flame, ' 
 
 Let reign again the better thoughts which 
 
 thou 
 So long hast troubled. Henceforth let thy 
 
 loves, 
 Thy mistresses, alas! — be Germany 
 And Flanders — [looking at the banner] 
 
 Spain. 
 The Emperor is like 
 The Eagle his companion, in the place 
 Of heart, there Js but a 'scutcheon. 
 Hernani. Csesar you! 
 Don Carlos. Don Juan, of your ancient 
 name and race 
 Your soul is worthy [pointing to DoSa 
 
 Sol] — worthy e'en of her. 
 Kneel, Duke. 
 
 [Hernani kneels. Don Carlos 
 unfastens his own Golden Fleece 
 and puts it on Hbrnani's neck.] 
 Receive this collar. 
 
 [Don Carlos draws his sword and 
 strikes him three times on the 
 shoulder.] 
 Faithful be, 
 
 For by St. Stephen now I make thee 
 Knight. 
 
 [He raises and embraces him.] 
 Thou hast a collar softer and more 
 
 choice; 
 That which is wanting to my rank su- 
 preme, — 
 The arms of loving woman, loved by 
 
 thee. 
 Thou wilt be happy — I am Emperor. 
 [To Conspirators.] Sirs, I forget your names. 
 
 Anger and hate 
 I will forget. Go — go — I pardon you. 
 This is the lesson that the world much 
 needs. 
 
 The Conspirators. Glory to Charles! 
 Don Rut Gomez [to Don Carlos]. I 
 
 only suffer, then! 
 Don Carlos. And I! 
 Don Rtjy Gomez. But I have not like 
 
 Majesty 
 Forgiven! 
 Hernani. Who is't has worked this 
 
 wondrous change? 
 All, Nobles, Soldiers, Conspirators. 
 
 Honor to Charles the Fifth, and 
 
 Germany! 
 Don Carlos [turning to the tomb]. 
 
 Honor to Charlemagne! Leave us 
 
 now together. 
 
 [Exeunt all. Don Carlos, alone, 
 bends toward the tomb.] 
 Art thou content with me, O Charle- 
 magne! 
 Have I the kingship's littleness stripped 
 
 off? 
 Become as Emperor another man? 
 Can I Rome's miter add unto my helm? 
 Have I the right the fortunes of the world 
 To sway? Have I a steady foot that safe 
 Can tread the path, by Vandal ruins 
 
 strewed. 
 Which thou has beaten by thine armies 
 
 vast? 
 Have I my candle lighted at thy flame? 
 Did I interpret right the voice that spake 
 Within this tomb? Ah, I was lost — alone 
 Before an Empire — a wide howling world 
 That threatened and conspired! There 
 
 were the Danes 
 To punish, and the Holy Father's self 
 To compensate — with Venice — Soliman, 
 Francis, and Luther — and a thousand 
 
 dirks 
 Gleaming already in the shade — snares — 
 
 rocks; 
 And countless foes; 'a score of nations 
 
 each 
 Of which might serve to awe a score of 
 
 kings. 
 Things ripe, all pressing to be done at 
 
 once. 
 I cried to thee — with what shall I begin? 
 And thou didst answer — Son, by clem- 
 ency! 
 
HERNANI 
 
 401 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Saragassa. A terrace of the palace of 
 Aragon. At the back a flight of steps leading 
 to the garden. At the right and left, doors on 
 to a terrace which shows at the back of the 
 stage a balustrade surmounted by a doiible 
 row of Moorish arches, above and through 
 which are seen the palace gardens, fountains 
 in the shade, shrubberies and moving lights, 
 and the Gothic and Arabic arches of the 
 palace illuminated. It is night. Trumpets 
 afar off are heard. Masks and Dominoes, 
 either singly or in groups, cross the terrace 
 here and there. At the front of the stage a 
 group of young lords, their masks in their 
 hands, laugh and chat noisily. 
 
 [Enter Don Sancho Sanchez de ZttSiga, 
 
 COTJNT DE MONTERET, DoN MaTIAS 
 
 Centurion, Marquis d'AlmuSan, 
 Don Ricardo de Roxas, Count de 
 Gasapalma, Don Francisco de 
 SoTOMATOR, Count de Valalcazab, 
 Don Garcia Suarez de Carbajal, 
 Count de Penalvbr.] 
 
 Don Garcia. Now to the bride long life 
 
 — and joy — I say! 
 Don Matias [looking to the balcony]. All 
 Saragossa at its windows shows. 
 
 Don Garcia. And they do well. A 
 torchlight wedding ne'er 
 Was seen more gay than this, nor lovelier 
 
 night. 
 Nor handsomer married pair. 
 Don Matias. Kind Emp'ror! 
 Don Sancho. When we went with him 
 in the dark that night 
 Seeking adventure. Marquis, who'd have 
 
 thought 
 How it would end? 
 
 Don Ricardo [interrupting]. I, too, was 
 there. [To the others.] Now, list. 
 Three gallants, one a bandit, his head due 
 Unto the scaffold; then a duke, a king, 
 Adoring the same woman, all laid siege 
 At the same time. The onset made — who 
 
 won? 
 It was the bandit. 
 Don Francisco. Nothing strange in 
 that. 
 For love and fortune, in all other lands 
 
 As well as Spain, are sport of the cogg'd 
 
 dice. 
 It is the rogue who wins. 
 
 Don Ricardo. My fortune grew 
 In seeing the love-making. First a count 
 And then grandee, and next an alcalde 
 At court. My time was well spent, though 
 
 without 
 One knowing it. 
 
 Don Sancho. Your secret, sir, appears 
 To be the keeping close upon the heels 
 O' the King. 
 
 Don Ricardo. And showing that my 
 conduct's worth 
 Reward. 
 
 Don Garcia. And by a chance you 
 profited. 
 
 Don Matias. What has become of the 
 old Duke? Has he 
 His coffin ordered? 
 
 Don Sancho. Marquis, jest not thus 
 At him! For he a haughty spirit has; 
 And this old man loved well the Dona Sol. 
 His sixty years had tm'ned his hair to gray. 
 One day has bleached it. 
 
 Don Garcia. Not again, they say, 
 Has he been seen in Saragossa. 
 
 Don Sancho. Well? 
 Wouldst thou that to the bridal he should 
 
 bring 
 His coffin? 
 
 Don Francisco. What's the Emperor 
 doing now? 
 
 Don Sancho. The Emperor is out of 
 sorts just now, 
 Luther annoys him. 
 
 Don Ricardo. Luther! — subject fine 
 For care and fear! Soon would I firdsh him 
 With but four men-at-arms! 
 
 Don Matias. And Soliman 
 Makes him dejected. 
 
 Don Garcia. Luther — Soliman — 
 Neptune — the devil — Jupiter! What are 
 They all to me? The women are most 
 
 fair. 
 The masquerade is splendid, and I've said 
 A hundred foolish things! 
 
 Don Sancho. Behold you now 
 The chief thing. 
 
 Don Ricardo. Garcia 's not far wrong, 
 I say. 
 Not the same man am I on festal days. ' 
 
402 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 When I put on the mask in truth I think 
 Another head it gives me. 
 
 Don Sancho [apart to Don Matias]. 
 Pity 't is 
 That all days are not festivals! 
 
 Don Fhancisco. Are those 
 Their rooms? 
 
 Don Garcia [with a nod of his head]. 
 Arrive they will, no doubt, full soon. 
 Don Francisco. Dost think so? 
 Don Garcia. Most undoubtedly! 
 Don Francisco. 'T is well. 
 The bride is lovely! 
 
 Don Ricardo. What an Emperor! 
 The rebel chief, Hernani, to be pardoned — 
 Wearing the Golden Fleece! and married 
 
 too! 
 Ah, if the Emperor had been by me 
 Advised, the gallant should have had a 
 
 bed 
 Of stone, the lady one of down. 
 Don Sancho [aside to Don Matias]. 
 How well 
 I'd like with my good sword this lord to 
 
 smash, 
 A lord made up of tinsel coarsely joined; 
 Pourpoint of count filled out with bailiff's 
 soul! 
 Don Ricardo [drawing near]. What are 
 
 you saying? 
 Don Matias [aside to Don Sancho]. 
 Count, no quarrel here! 
 [To Don Ricardo.] He was reciting one of 
 
 Petrarch's sonnets 
 Unto his lady love. 
 
 Don Garcia. Have you not seen 
 Among the flowers and women, and dresses 
 
 gay 
 Of many hues, a figure specter-like. 
 Whose domino all black, upright against 
 A balustrade, seems like a spot upon 
 The festival? 
 Don Ricardo. Yes, by my faith! 
 Don Garcia. Who is't? 
 Don Ricardo. By height and mien I 
 judge that it must be — 
 The Admiral — the Don Prancasio. 
 Don Franciso. Oh, no. 
 Don Garcia. He has not taken off his 
 
 mask. 
 Don Francisco. There is no need; it is 
 the Duke de Soma, 
 
 Who likes to be observed. 'Tis nothing 
 more. 
 Don Ricardo. No; the Duke spoke to 
 
 me. 
 Don Garcia. Who, then, can be 
 This Mask? But see — he's here. 
 
 [Enter a Black Domino, who slowly crosses 
 the back of the stage. All turn and 
 watch him without his appearing to 
 notice them.] 
 
 Don Sancho. If the dead walk. 
 That is their step. 
 
 Don Garcia [approaching the Black 
 Domino]. Most noble Mask — 
 [The Black Domino stops and 
 turns. Garcia recoils.] 
 I swear, 
 
 Good sirs, that I saw flame shine in his eyes. 
 Don Sancho. If he's the devil, he'll 
 find one he can 
 Address. 
 
 [He goes to the Black Domino, who 
 is still motionless.] 
 Ho, Demon! Comest thou from hell? 
 "The Mask. I come not thence — 't is 
 thither that I go. 
 
 [He continues his walk and disap- 
 pears at the balustrade of the 
 staircase. All watch him with a 
 look of horrified dismay.] 
 Don Matias. Sepulchral is his voice, 
 
 as can be heard. 
 Don Garcia. Pshaw! What would 
 frighten elsewhere, at a ball 
 We laugh at. 
 Don Sancho. Silly jesting 't is! 
 Don Garcia. Indeed, 
 If Lucifer is come to see us dance, 
 Waiting for lower regions, let us dance! 
 Don Sancho. Of course it's some buf- 
 foonery. 
 Don Matias. We'll know 
 To-morrow. 
 Don Sancho [to Don Matias]. Look 
 now what becomes of him, 
 I pray you! 
 Don Matias [at the balustrade of the 
 terrace]. Down the steps he's gone. 
 That's all. 
 Don Sancho. A pleasant jester he! 
 [Musing.] 'T is strange. 
 
HERNANI 
 
 403 
 
 Don Garcia [to lady passing]. Marquise, 
 Let us pray dance this time. 
 
 [He bows and offers Ms hand.] 
 The Lady. You know, dear sir, 
 My husband will my dances with you all 
 Count up. 
 Don Garcia. All the more reason. 
 Pleased is he 
 To count, it seems, and it amuses him. 
 He calculates — we dance. 
 
 [The lady gives her hand. Exeunt.] 
 Don Sancho [thoughtfully]. In truth, 
 
 't is strange! 
 Don Matias. Behold the married pair! 
 Now, silence all! 
 
 [Enter Hernani and DoSa Sol hand in 
 hand. DoifA Sol in magnificent bridal 
 dress. Hernani in black velvet and with 
 the Golden Fleece hanging from his 
 neck. Behind them a crowd of Masks 
 and of ladies and gentlemen who form 
 their retinue. Two halberdiers in rich 
 liveries follow them, and four pages 
 precede them. Every one makes way for 
 them and bows as they approach. Flour- 
 ish of trumpets.] 
 
 Hernani [saluting]. Dear friends! 
 Don Ricardo [advancing and bowing]. 
 Your Excellency's happiness 
 Makes ours. 
 Don Francisco [looking at DoSa Sol]. 
 Now, by St. James, 't is Venus' self 
 That he is leading. 
 
 Don Matias. Happiness is his! 
 Don Sancho [to Don Matias]. 'T is late 
 now, let us leave. 
 
 [All salute the married pair and 
 retire — some by the door, others 
 by the stairway at the back.] 
 Hernani [escorting them]. Adieu! 
 Don Sancho [who has remained to the last, 
 and pressing his hand]. Be happy! 
 [Exit Don Sancho. Hernani and 
 DoSa Sol remain alone. The 
 sound of voices grows fainter and 
 fainter till it ceases altogether. 
 During the early part of the fol- 
 lowing scene the sound of trum- 
 pets grows fainter, and the lights 
 by degrees are extinguished — 
 till night and silence prevail.] 
 
 DoSfA Sol. At last they all are gone. 
 Hernani [seeking to draw her to his arms]. 
 
 Dear love! 
 DoNa Sol [drawing back a little]. Is't 
 late? — 
 At least to me it seems so. 
 Hernani. Angel, dear. 
 Time ever drags till we together are. 
 Dona Sol. This noise has wearied me. 
 Is it not true. 
 Dear lord, that all this mirth but stifling is 
 To happiness? 
 
 Hernani. 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 mirth. 
 
 DoifA Sol. Thy smile's 
 Like daylight in thine eyes. 
 [Hernani seeks to lead her to the door.] Oh, 
 presently. 
 Hernani. I am thy slave; yes, linger if 
 thou wilt, 
 Whate'er thou dost is well. I'll laugh and 
 
 sing 
 If thou desirest 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. 
 
 DoSa Sol. How good you are to me. 
 My heart's Hernani! 
 
 Hernani. Madam, what name's that? 
 I pray in pity speak it not again! 
 Thou call'st to mind forgotten things. I 
 
 know 
 That he existed formerly in dreams, 
 Hernani, he whose eyes flashed like a 
 
 sword, 
 A man of night and of the hills, a man 
 Proscribed, on whom was seen writ every- 
 where 
 The one word vengeance. An unhappy 
 
 man 
 That drew down malediction! I know not 
 The man they called Hernani. As for me, 
 I love the birds and flowers, and woods — ■ 
 
 and song 
 Of nightingale. I'm Juan of Aragon, 
 The spouse of Dona Sol — a happy man! 
 DoSfA Sol. Happy am II 
 
404 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Hernani. What does it matter now, 
 The rags I left behind me at the door! 
 Behold, I to my palace desolate 
 Come back. Upon the threshold-sill there 
 
 waits 
 For me an angel; I come in and lift 
 Upright the broken columns, kindle fire. 
 And ope again the windows; and the grass 
 Upon the courtyard I have all pluck'd 
 
 up; 
 For me there is but joy, enchantment, love, 
 Let them give back my towers, and don- 
 jon-keep, 
 My plume, and seat at the Castilian board 
 Of council, comes my blushing Dona Sol, 
 Let them leave us — the rest forgotten is. 
 Nothing I've seen, nor said, nor have I 
 
 done. 
 Anew my life begins, the past effacing. 
 Wisdom or madness, you I have and love, 
 And you are all my joy! 
 
 DoSa Sol. How well upon 
 The velvet black the golden collar shows! 
 Hbenani. You saw it on the King ere 
 
 now on me. 
 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 thy neck 
 Which suits the golden collar. Thou art 
 
 proud 
 And noble, my own lord. 
 [He seeks to lead her indoors.] Oh, presently, 
 A moment! See you not, I weep with joj'? 
 Come look upon the lovely night. [She 
 
 goes to the balustrade] My Duke, 
 Only a moment — but the time to breathe 
 And gaze. All now is o'er, the torches 
 
 out. 
 The music done. Night only is with us. 
 Felicity most perfect! Think you not 
 That now while all is still and slumber- 
 ing, 
 Nature, half waking, watches us with love? 
 No cloud is in the sky. All things like us 
 Are now at rest. Come, breathe with me 
 
 the air 
 Perfumed by roses. Look, there is no light. 
 Nor hear we any noise. Silence prevails. 
 The moon just now from the horizon rose 
 E'en while you spoke to me; her trembling 
 light 
 
 And thy dear voice together reached my 
 
 heart. 
 Joyous and softly calm I felt, oh, thou 
 My lover! And it seemed that I would 
 
 then 
 Most willingly have died. 
 
 Hernani. Ah, who is there 
 Would not all things forget when listening 
 
 thus 
 Unto this voice celestial! Thy speech 
 But seems a chant with nothing human 
 
 mixed. 
 And as with one, who gliding down a 
 
 stream 
 On summer eve, sees pass before his eyes 
 A thousand flowery plains, my thoughts 
 
 are drawn 
 Into thy reveries! 
 
 DoSa Sol. This silence is 
 Too deep, and too profound the calm. Say, 
 
 now, 
 Wouldst thou not like to see a star shine 
 
 forth 
 From out the depths — or hear a voice of 
 
 night. 
 Tender and sweet, raise suddenly its song? 
 Hernani [smiling]. Capricious one! Just 
 now you fled away 
 From all the songs and lights. 
 
 DoSa Sol. Ah, yes, the ball! 
 But yet a bird that in the meadow sings, 
 A nightingale in moss or shadow lost. 
 Or flute far off. For music sweet can pour 
 Into the soul a harmony divine, 
 That like a heavenly choir wakes in the 
 
 heart 
 A thousand voices! Charming would it be! 
 [They hear the sound of a horn from 
 the shade.] 
 My prayer is heard. 
 Hernani [aside, tremhlirtg]. Oh, miser- 
 able man! 
 DoSfA Sol. An angel read my thought 
 — 't was thy good angel 
 Doubtless? 
 Hernani [bitterly]. Yes, my good angel! 
 
 [Aside.] There, again! 
 DoSa Sol [smiling], Don Juan, I rec- 
 ognize your horn. 
 Hernani. Is 't so? 
 
 DoSa Sol. The half this serenade to 
 you belongs? 
 
HERNANI 
 
 405 
 
 Hernani. The half, thou hast declared 
 
 it. 
 DoSa Sol. Ah, the ball 
 Detestable! Far better do I love 
 The horn that sounds from out the woods! 
 
 And since 
 It is your horn 't is like your voice to me. 
 [The horn sounds again.] 
 Hernani [aside]. It is the tiger howling 
 
 for his prey! 
 DoSfA Sol. Don Juan, this music fills 
 
 my heart with joy. 
 Hernani [drawing himself up and look- 
 ing terrible]. Call me Hernani! call 
 me it again! 
 For with that fatal name I have not done. 
 ^ DoSa Sol [trembling]. What ails you? 
 , Hernani. The old man! 
 
 DoSa Sol. O God, what looks! 
 What is it ails you? 
 
 Hernani. That old man who in 
 The darkness laughs. Can you not see him 
 there? 
 Doff A Sol. Oh, youarewand'ring! Who 
 
 is this old man? 
 Hernani. The old man! 
 DoSa Sol. On my knees I do entreat 
 Thee, say what is the secret that afflicts 
 Thee thus? 
 
 Hernani. I swore it! 
 DoSa Sol. Swore! 
 
 [She watches his movements with 
 
 anxiety. He stops suddenly and 
 
 passes his hand across his brow.] 
 
 Hernani [aside]. What have I said? 
 
 Oh, let me spare her. [Aloud.] I — nought. 
 
 What was it 
 I said? 
 
 DoSa Sol. You said — 
 Hernani. No, no, I was disturbed — 
 And somewhat suffering I am. Do not 
 Be frightened. 
 
 DoSa Sol. You need something? Order 
 
 me. 
 
 Thy servant. [The horn sounds again.] 
 
 Hernani [aside]. Ah, he claims! He 
 
 claims the pledge! 
 
 He has my oath. [Feeling for his dagger.] 
 
 Not there. It must be done! 
 Ah! — 
 
 DoSa Sol. Suff'rest thou so much? 
 Hernani. 'T is an old wound 
 
 That I thought healed — it has reopened 
 
 now. 
 [Aside.] She must be got away. [Aloud.] 
 
 My best 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. Tell me your 
 wish. 
 Hernani. It holds a flask of an elixir 
 which 
 Will end my sufferings. — Go! 
 DoSa Sol. I go, my lord. 
 
 [Exit by the door to their apartments.] 
 Hernani [alone]. This, then, is how my 
 happiness must end! 
 Behold the fatal finger that doth shine 
 Upon the wall! My bitter destiny 
 Still jests at me. 
 
 [He falls into a profound yet con- 
 vulsive reverie. Afterwards he 
 turns abruptly.] 
 Ah, well! I hear no sound. 
 Am I myself deceiving? — 
 
 [The Mask in black domino ap- 
 pears at the balustrade of the steps. 
 Hernani stops petrified.] 
 The Mask. "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 horn 
 And take no other care. All wiU be done." 
 This compact had the dead for witnesses. 
 Is it all done? 
 Hernani [in a low voice], 'T is he! 
 The Mask. Unto thy home 
 I come, I tell thee that it is the time. 
 It is my hour. I find thee hesitate. 
 Hernani. Well, then, thy pleasure say. 
 What wouldest thou 
 Of me? 
 The Mask. I give thee choice 'twixt 
 poison draught 
 And blade. I bear about me both. We 
 
 shall 
 Depart together. 
 Hernani. Be it so. 
 The Mask. Shall we 
 First pray? 
 Hernani. What matter? 
 The Mask. Which of them wilt thou? 
 
4o6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Hernani. The poison. 
 The Mask. Then hold out your hand. 
 [He gives a vial to Heknani, who 
 pales at receiving it.] 
 Now drink, 
 That I may finish. 
 
 [Hernani lifts the vial to his lips, 
 but recoils.] 
 Hernani. Oh, for pity's sake. 
 Until to-morrow wait! If thou hast heart 
 Or soul, if thou art not a specter just 
 Escaped from flame, if thou art not a soul 
 Accursed, forever lost; if on thy brow 
 Not yet has God inscribed his "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 lovedst in thine 
 
 arms. 
 Wait till to-morrow. Then thou canst come 
 back! 
 The Mask. Childish it is for you to jest 
 this way! 
 To-morrow! Why, the bell this morning 
 
 toU'd 
 Thy funeral! And I should die this night. 
 And who would come and take thee after 
 
 me! 
 I will not to the tomb descend alone. 
 Young man, 't is thou must go with me! 
 
 Hernani. Well, then, 
 I say thee nay; and, demon, I from thee 
 Myself deliver. I will not obey. 
 The Mask. As I expected. Very well. 
 On what, 
 Then, didst thou swear? Ah, on a trifling 
 
 thing. 
 The mem'ry of thy father's head. With 
 
 ease 
 Such oath may be forgotten. Youthful 
 
 oaths 
 Are light affairs. 
 
 Hernani. My father! — father! Oh 
 My senses I shall lose! 
 
 The Mask. Oh, no, — 't is but 
 A perjury and treason. 
 Hernani. Duke! 
 The Mask. Since now 
 The heirs of Spanish houses make a jest 
 Of breaking promises, I'll say Adieu! 
 
 [He moves as if to leave.] 
 - Hernani. Stay! 
 
 The Mask. Then — 
 Hernani. Oh, cruel man! [He raises the 
 vial.] Thus to return 
 Upon my path at heaven's door! 
 
 [Reenter Do5Ja Sol without seeing the Mask, 
 who is standing erect near the balustrade 
 of the stairway at the back of the stage.] 
 
 DoSta Sol. I've failed 
 To find that little box. 
 
 Hernani [aside]. O God! 't is she! 
 At such a moment here! 
 
 DoSa Sol. What is't, that thus 
 I frighten him, — e'en at my voice he 
 
 shakes! 
 What hold'st thou in thy hand? What fear- 
 ful thought! 
 What hold'st thou in thy hand? Reply to 
 me. 
 
 [The Domino unmasks; she utters 
 a cry in recognizing Don Rut.] 
 'T is poison! 
 Hernani. Oh, great Heaven! 
 DoSa Sol [to Hernani]. What is it 
 That I have done to thee? What mystery 
 Of horror? I'm deceived by thee, Don 
 Juan! 
 Hernani. Ah, I had thought to hide it 
 all from thee. 
 My life I promised to the Duke that time 
 He saved it. Aragon must pay this debt 
 To Silva. 
 
 DoSa Sol. Unto me you do belong. 
 Not him. What signify your other oaths? 
 [To Don Rut Gomez.] My love it is which 
 
 gives me strength, and, Duke, 
 I will defend him against you and all 
 The world. 
 Don Rut Gomez [unmoved]. Defend 
 him if you can against 
 An oath that's sworn. 
 DoSa Sol. What oath? 
 Hernani. Yes, I have sworn. 
 DoStA Sol. No, no; naught binds thee; 
 it would be a crime, 
 A madness, an atrocity — no, no, 
 It cannot be. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. Come, Duke. 
 
 [Hernani makes a gesture to obey. 
 DoSa Sol tries to stop him.] 
 Hernani. It must be done. 
 Allow it, Dona Sol. My word was pledged 
 
HERNANI 
 
 407 
 
 To the Duke, and to my father now in 
 heaven! 
 DoifA Sol [to Don Rut Gomez]. Better 
 that to a tigress you should go 
 And snatch away her young, than take 
 
 from me 
 Him whom I love. Know you at all what 
 
 is 
 This Dona Sol? Long time I pitied you, 
 And, 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 hosom.] 
 See you this dagger? Old man imbecile! 
 Do you not fear the steel when eyes flash 
 
 threat? 
 Take care, Don Ruy! I'm of thy family. 
 Listen, mine imcle! Had I been your child 
 It had been ill for you, if you had laid 
 A hand upon my husband! 
 
 [She throws away the dagger, and 
 falls on her knees before him.] 
 At thy feet 
 
 I fall! Mercy! Have pity on us both. 
 Alas! my lord, I am but woman weak, 
 My strength dies out within my soul, I fail 
 So easily; 't is at your knees I plead, 
 I supplicate — have mercy on us both! 
 Don Rut Gomez. Dona Sol! 
 DoSa Sol. Oh, pardon!' With us 
 Spaniards 
 Grief bursts forth in stormy words, you 
 
 know it. 
 Alas! you used not to be harsh! My uncle. 
 Have pity, you are killing me indeed 
 In touching him! Mercy, have pity now. 
 So well I love him! 
 
 Don Rut Gomez [gloomily]. You love 
 
 him too much! 
 Hernani. Thou weepest! 
 DoSa Sol. No, my love, no, no, it must 
 Not be. I wiU not have you die. 
 [To Don Rut.] To-day 
 Be merciful, and I will love you well. 
 You also. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. After him; the dregs 
 you 'd give. 
 The remnants of your love, and friendliness. 
 Still less and less. — Oh, think you thus to 
 
 quench 
 The thirst that now devours me? 
 
 [Pointing to Hernani.] He alone 
 Is everything. For me kind pityings! 
 With such affection, what, pray, could I 
 
 do? 
 Fury! 't is he would have yoiu' heart, your 
 
 love, 
 And be enthroned, and grant a look from 
 
 you 
 As alms; and if vouchsafed a kindly word 
 'T is he would tell you, — say so much, it is 
 Enough, — cursing in heart the greedy one 
 The beggar, unto whom he's forced to fling 
 The drops remaining in the emptied glass. 
 Oh, shame! derision! No, we'll finish. 
 Drink! 
 Hernani. He has my promise, and it 
 
 must be kept. 
 Don Rut Gomez. Proceed. 
 
 [Hernani raises the vial to his 
 lips; DoSa Sol throws herself on 
 his arm.] 
 Dp5fA Sol. Not yet. Deign both of you 
 
 to hear me. 
 Don Rut Gomez. The grave is open and 
 
 I cannot wait. 
 DoSa Sol. A moment only, — Duke, 
 and my Don Juan, — 
 Ah! both are cruel! What is it I ask? 
 An instant! That is all I beg from you. 
 Let a poor woman speak what's in her 
 
 heart. 
 Oh, let me speak — 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. I cannot wait. 
 DoSa Sol. My lord. 
 You make me tremble! What, then, have 
 I done? 
 Hernani. His crime is rending him. 
 DoJtA Sol [still holding his arm]. You see 
 full weU 
 I have a thousand things to say. 
 Don Rut Gomez [to Hernani]. Die — 
 die 
 You must. 
 
 DoSa Sol [still hanging on his arm]. Don 
 Juan, when all's said, indeed. 
 Thou shalt do what thou wilt. 
 [She snatches the vial.] I have it now! 
 
 [She lifts the vial for Hernani and 
 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 
 
4o8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 In search of souls. Grave oaths you took 
 
 to me, 
 And by the race from which you sprang. 
 
 I go 
 Unto your father, and to speak among 
 The dead. Adieu. 
 
 [He moves as if to depart. Heb- 
 NANi holds him back.] 
 Heenani. Stay, Duke. 
 [To DoSa Sol.] Alas! I do 
 Implore thee. Wouldst thou wish to see in 
 
 me 
 A perjured felon only, and e'erwhere 
 I go "a traitor" written on my brow? 
 In pity give the poison back to me. 
 'T is by our love I ask it, and our souls 
 Immortal — 
 
 DoSa Sol [sadly]. And thou wilt? [She 
 
 drinks.] Now, take the rest. 
 Don Rtjy Gomez [aside]. 'T was, then, 
 
 for her! 
 DoSa Sol [returning the half-emptied vial 
 
 to Heknani], I tell thee, take. 
 Hehnani [to Don Rtjy]. See'st thou, 
 Oh, miserable man! 
 
 ' DoSa Sol. Grieve not for me, 
 I 've left thy share. 
 Hernani [taking the vial]. O God! 
 DoSa Sol. Not thus would'st thou 
 Have left me mine. But thou! Not thine 
 
 the heart 
 Of Christian wife! Thou knowest not to 
 
 love 
 As Silvas do — but I've drunk first — 
 
 made sure. 
 Now, drink it, if thou wilt! 
 
 Hernani. What hast thou done, 
 Unhappy one? 
 DoSa Sol. 'T was thou who willed it so. 
 Hernani. It is a frightful death! 
 DoSfA Sol. No — no — why so? 
 Hernani. This philter leads unto the 
 
 grave. 
 DoSa Sol. And ought 
 We not this night to rest together? Does 
 It matter in what bed? 
 
 Hernani. My father, thou 
 Thyself avengest upon me, who did 
 Forget thee! 
 
 [He lifts the vial to his mouth.] 
 DoSa Sol [throwing herself on him]. 
 Heavens, what strange agony! 
 
 Ah, throw this philter far from thee! My 
 
 reason 
 Is wand'ring. Stop! Alas! oh, my Don 
 
 Juan, 
 This drug is potent, in the heart it wakes 
 A hydra with a thousand tearing teeth 
 Devouring it. I knew not that such pangs 
 Could be! What is the thing? 'T is liquid 
 
 fire. 
 Drink not! For much thou'dst suffer! 
 
 Hernani [to Don' Rut]. Ah, thy soul 
 Is cruel! Could'st thou not have found for 
 
 her 
 Another drug? 
 
 [He drinks and throws the vial away.] 
 DofJA Sol. What dost thou? 
 Hernani. What thyself 
 Hast done. 
 
 DoSa Sol. Come to my arms, young 
 lover, now. 
 
 [They sit down close to each other.] 
 Does not one suffer horribly? 
 Hernani. No, no. 
 
 DoSa Sol. These are our marriage rites! 
 But for a bride 
 I'm very pale, say am I not? 
 Hernani. Ah me! 
 Don Rut Gomez. Fulfilled is now the 
 
 fatal destiny! 
 Hernani. Oh, misery and despair to 
 
 know her pangs! 
 Do5fA 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 Gomez. Oh, agony supreme! 
 Hernani [in a feeble voice]. Oh, bless'd 
 be Heav'n 
 That will'd for me a life by specters fol- 
 lowed. 
 And by abysses yawning circled still, 
 Yet grants, that weary of a road so rough, 
 I fall asleep my lips upon thy hand. 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. How happy are they! 
 Hernani [in voice growing weaker and 
 weaker]. Come — come. Dona Sol, 
 All's dark. Dost thou not suffer? 
 DoSa Sol [in a voice eqwdly faint]. 
 Nothing now. 
 Oh, nothing. 
 
HERNANI 
 
 409 
 
 Hernani. Seest thou not fires in the 
 
 gloom? 
 DoRa Sol. Not yet. 
 Hernani [with a sigh]. Behold — 
 
 [HefaUs.] 
 Don Rut Gomez [raising the head, which 
 
 faUs again]. He's dead! 
 DoSa Sol [dishevehd and half raising 
 
 herself on the seat]. Oh, no, we sleep. 
 He sleeps. It is my spouse that here you 
 
 We love each other — we are sleeping thus. 
 
 It is our bridal. [In a failing voice.] I en- 
 treat you not 
 
 To wake him, my Lord Duke of Meudoc€, 
 
 For he is weary. 
 
 [She turns round the face of Hernani.] Turn 
 to me, my love. 
 
 More near — still closer — 
 
 [She faUs hack.] 
 
 Don Rut Gomez. Dead! Oh, I am 
 
 damn'd! [He kills himself.] 
 
THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 (LE GENDRE de M. POIRIER) 
 
 By EMILE AUGIER and JULES SANDEAU 
 
 ^ Translated by BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
 /^ 
 
COPYRIGHT, I916, BY BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 POIBIEE 
 
 Gaston, Marquis de Presles 
 
 Hbctoe, Dvke de Montmeyran 
 
 Verdelet 
 
 Antoinette 
 
 Salomon, 
 
 Chevassus, • creditors 
 
 COGNE, 
 
 Vatel 
 
 The Pohteb 
 A Servant 
 
 The action takes place in the home o] M. Poirier, at Paris, 
 
THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 ACT I 
 
 A very richly furnished drawing-room. 
 There are doors on either side, and windows 
 at the hack, looking out upon the garden. 
 There is a fireplace in which a fire is burn- 
 ing. 
 
 [As the curtain rises, a Servant and the 
 Duke are discovered.] 
 
 Sekvant. I repeat, Corporal, Mon- 
 sieur le Marquis cannot possibly receive. 
 He is not up yet. 
 
 Dtjkb. At nine o'clock! [Aside.] Ha, 
 the sun rises slowly during the honeymoon. 
 — What time is breakfast served here? 
 
 Servant. At eleven; but what busi- 
 ness is that of yours? 
 
 Duke. You will lay another place. 
 
 Servant. For your colonel? 
 
 Duke. Yes, for my colonel. Is this to- 
 day's paper? 
 
 Servant. Yes: February 15, 1846. 
 
 Duke. Give it to me. 
 
 Servant. 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? 
 
 Duke. The Duke de Montmeyran. 
 
 Servant. You're joking! 
 
 [Enter Gaston.] 
 
 Gaston. Why, it's you! [They embrace.] 
 
 Servant [aside]. The devil! I've put 
 my foot in it! 
 
 Duke. My dear Gaston! 
 
 Gaston. My dear Hector! I'm so glad 
 to see you! 
 
 Duke. And I you! 
 
 Gaston. You could n't possibly have 
 arrived at a better time. 
 
 Duke. How do you mean? 
 
 Gaston. Let me tell you — but, my 
 poor fellow, the way you're rigged up! 
 
 Who would recognize under that tunic one 
 of the princes of youth, the perfect model 
 of prodigal sons? 
 
 Duke. 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. 
 
 Gaston [looking at the Duke's uniform]. 
 Thank you! 
 
 Duke. Yes, look at the tunic. It's the 
 only costume that can keep me from boring 
 myself to death. And this little decoration 
 which you pretend not to notice — 
 
 [He shows his corporal's stripes.] 
 
 Gaston. Stripes! 
 
 Duke. Which I picked up on the field 
 of Isly, 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 wiUingly shed a pint 
 of my blood for it. 
 
 Gaston. You are a real soldier, I see! 
 
 Duke. Yes — I love my profession. 
 It's the only one for a ruined gentleman. 
 I have but one regret: that I did not enter 
 it long ago. This active and adventurous 
 life is infinitely attractive. Even discipline 
 has its peculiar 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. 
 That 's why I can feel so care-free and happy. 
 I know my duty, I do it, and I am con- 
 tent. 
 
 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 
 CafS de Paris and call chauvinism, make 
 our hearts swell when we face the enemy. 
 
4i6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 The first cannon-shot knocks forever the 
 last vestige of that nonsense out of our 
 minds; the flag then is no longer a bit of 
 cloth at the end of a stick: it is the very 
 vesture of the patrie. 
 
 Gaston. That's all very well, but this 
 enthusiasm for a flag which is not your 
 own — 
 
 Duke. Nonsense, you can't see the color 
 in the midst of the powder smoke. 
 
 Gaston. Well, the important point is 
 that you are satisfied. Are you going to 
 stay in Paris for some time? 
 
 Duke. Just a month. You know how 
 I've arranged my manner of living? 
 
 Gaston. No — tell me. 
 
 Duke. Did n't I? 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' 
 rate, and for the rest of the year I live on 
 six sous a dfty. Naturally, I have chosen 
 carnival season for my prodigalities. It be- 
 gan yesterday, but my first visit has been 
 to you. 
 
 Gaston. Thanks! But, you under- 
 stand, I shan't hear of your staying any- 
 where but with me. 
 
 Duke. But I don't want to be in the way. 
 
 Gaston. You won't: there's a small 
 pavilion here, at the end of the garden. 
 
 Duke. To be perfectly frank, I'm not 
 afraid of you, but of myself. You see — 
 you lead a family life here: there's your 
 wife, your father-in-law — 
 
 Gaston. 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 wiife brought 
 with her a heap of bourgeois virtues, that 
 all that remains for me to do is write an 
 inscription over my door: "Here lies Gas- 
 ton, Marquis de Presles." 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 seriously, — I in- 
 vite whom I like to meals (by the way, 
 
 you'll dine with all my friends to-morrow, 
 and you'll see how I treat them). In short, 
 marriage has not changed me in the least 
 — except it has done away with creditors. 
 
 Duke. So your wife and your father-in- 
 law leave you free rein? 
 
 Gaston. Absolutely. 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 Presles 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 
 dessert: that ambition is now satisfied. 
 
 Duke. Come now, do such bourgeois 
 still exist? 
 
 Gaston. In a word, he is Georges 
 Dandin become a father-in-law. But, 
 really, I 've made a magnificent match of it. 
 
 Duke. I can well believe that you had 
 good reasons for contracting this misal- 
 liance. 
 
 Gaston. Judge for yourself. You know 
 the desperate straits I was in? I was an 
 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 
 to do so. 
 
 Duke. And you then occupied the posi- 
 tion of honorary nephew. 
 
 Gaston. I thought of taking a position 
 in the rank of active sons-in-law. At that 
 time Heaven sent Monsieur Poirier across 
 my path. 
 
 Duke. How did you happen to meet 
 him? 
 
 Gaston. He had 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 sufficient 
 guarantee as a debtor, but I offered him 
 enough as a son-in-law. I made inquiries 
 about his person, assured myself that his 
 fortune had been honorably acquired, and 
 then, by Jove, I married his daughter. 
 
 Duke. Who brought you — ? 
 
 Gaston. The old fellow had four mil- 
 lions; now he has only three. 
 
 Duke. 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 
 himdred thousand francs. The day we 
 signed the contract he gave me stock which 
 will net me an income of twenty-five thou- 
 sand francs: five hundred thousand francs 
 more! 
 
 DrrKB. There's your million. And then? 
 
 Gaston. Then? He insisted on not being 
 separated from his daughter and agreed to 
 defray all household expenses so long as we 
 lived in his home with him. So, after re- 
 ceiving lodging, heat, carriages, and board, 
 I still have an income of twenty-five thou- 
 sand francs for my wife and myself. 
 
 DxjKE. Very neat. 
 
 Gaston. Wait a moment. 
 
 Duke. Something else? 
 
 Gaston. He bought back the ChS,teau 
 de Presles, and I expect that any day I shall 
 find the deeds under my plate at breakfast. 
 
 Duke. What a delightful father-in-law I 
 
 Gaston. Wait a moment! 
 
 Duke. What? More? 
 
 Gaston. As soon as the contract was 
 signed, he came to me, took my hands in 
 his, and made any number of excuses for 
 being no more than sixty years old; but he 
 assured me that he would hurry on to the 
 age of eighty. But I 'm in no great haste — 
 he's not in the way, the poor man. He 
 knows his place, goes to bed with the 
 chickens, rises at cock-crow, 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. 
 
 Duke. Really, you are the most for- 
 timate of men. 
 Gaston. And wait — you might imagine 
 
 that my marriage has lessened 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 
 time. 
 
 Duke. Why? 
 
 Gaston. Don't you understand — you, 
 my born second? 
 
 Duke. A duel? 
 
 Gaston. 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 Presles dead? Are you thinking of bury- 
 ing him yet? 
 
 Duke. Whom are you fighting with, and 
 why? 
 
 Gaston. The Viscount de Pontgrimaud 
 — a gambling quarrel. 
 
 Duke. Gambling quarrel? Can't it be 
 decided otherwise? 
 
 Gaston. Is that the way you are taught 
 to regulate affairs of honor in the regiment? 
 
 DuKB. Yes, 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? 
 
 Duke. A woman! 
 
 Gaston. That's it. 
 
 Duke. An intrigue — so soon? That's 
 bad! 
 
 Gaston. How could I help it? A last 
 year's passion I had imagined dead of the 
 cold, and which, a month after my mar- 
 riage, had its Indian Summer. You see, 
 there's nothing serious in it, and no cause 
 for worry. 
 
 Duke. And might I know — ? 
 
 Gaston. I can have no secrets from you: 
 the Countess de Montjay. 
 
 Duke. My compliments, but the mat- 
 ter is serious. I once thought of making 
 love to her, but I retired before the dangers 
 of such a liaison — that sort of danger has 
 little enough of chivalry in it. You know, of 
 course, that the Coimtess has no money of 
 her own? 
 
4i8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Gaston. That she is waiting for the for- 
 tune of her aged husband; that he would 
 have the bad taste to disinherit her in case 
 he discovered her guilt? I know all that. 
 
 Duke . And out of sheer lightness of heart 
 have you imposed that bond on yourself? 
 
 Gaston. Habit, a certain residue of my 
 former love, the temptation of forbidden 
 fruit, the pleasure of cutting out that little 
 fool Pontgrimaud, whom I detest — 
 
 Duke. Why, you're doing him an honor! 
 
 Gaston. What else can I do? He gets on 
 my nerves, the little imp; he imagines that 
 he is a noble by reason of his knightly 
 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 pose 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 first in the history of his 
 family. 
 
 Duke. Has he sent his seconds to you? 
 
 Gaston. I expect them at any moment. 
 You and Grandlieu will help me. 
 
 Duke. Very well. 
 
 Gaston. Of course, you will stay here 
 with me? 
 
 Duke. Delighted. 
 
 Gaston. Though this is carnival season, 
 you don't intend to parade about as a hero, 
 do you? 
 
 Duke. No, I wrote beforehand to my 
 tailor — 
 
 Gaston. Sh! 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 Poiribr and Verdelet.] 
 
 Gaston. How are you, Monsieur Ver- 
 delet? 
 Verdelet. Your servant, messieurs. 
 
 Gaston. A dear friend of mine, my dear 
 Monsieur Poirier: the Duke de Mont- 
 meyran. 
 
 Duke. Corporal of the African Cavalry. 
 
 Verdelet [aside]. Indeed! 
 
 Poirier. Most honored, Monsieur le 
 Due! 
 
 Gaston. More honored than you think, 
 dear Monsieur Poirier; for Monsieur le 
 Due has been good enough to accept the 
 hospitality which I have offered him. 
 
 Verdelet [aside]. Another rat in the 
 cheese! 
 
 Duke. I beg your pardon, monsieur, 
 for accepting an invitation which my friend 
 Gaston has possibly been a trifle too hasty 
 in offering. 
 
 Poirier. Monsieur le Marquis, my son- 
 in-law, need never feel obliged to consult 
 me before inviting his friends to stay with 
 him here. The friends of our friends — 
 
 Gaston. Very well. Monsieur Poirier. 
 Hector will stay in the garden pavilion. 
 Is it ready for him? 
 
 Poirier. I shall see to it at once. 
 
 Duke. 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 will of course give 
 orders that the little blue coup6 be placed 
 at his disposal? 
 
 Poirier. The one I usually use — ? 
 
 Duke. Oh, I positively refuse — 
 
 Poirier. But I can easily hire one; there 
 is a stand at the end of the street. 
 
 Verdelet [aside]. Fool! Idiot! 
 
 Gaston [to the Duke]. Now, let us take 
 a look at the stables. Yesterday I got a 
 superb Arabian — you can tell me what 
 you think of him. Come. 
 
 Duke [to Poirier]. With your permis- 
 sion, monsieur. Gaston is impatient to 
 show me his 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 [aside to the Duke]. You'll spoil 
 my father-m-law! [Going toward the door, 
 
THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 419 
 
 and stopping.} By the way, Monsieur 
 Poirier, you know I am giving a grand 
 dinner party to-morrow night. Will you 
 give us the pleasure of your company? 
 
 PoiKiER. No, thank you — I am dining 
 with Verdelet. 
 
 Gaston. Ah, Monsieur Verdelet, I am 
 very angry with you for carrying off my 
 father-in-law every time I have company 
 here. 
 
 Verdelet [aside\. Impertinent! 
 
 Poirier. A man of my age would only 
 be in the way! 
 
 Verdelet [aside[. You old G^ronte! 
 
 Gaston. As you please. Monsieur 
 Poirier. [He goes out with the Duke.] 
 
 Verdelet. I tell you, that son-in-law of 
 yours is mighty obsequious with you. You 
 warned me beforehand: you'd know how 
 to make him respect you. 
 
 Poirier. I'm doing what pleases me. 
 I prefer to be loved than feared. 
 
 Verdelet. You've not always thought 
 that way. Well, you've succeeded: your 
 son-in-law is on a more familiar footing 
 with you than with the other servants. 
 
 Poirier. I can do without your clever 
 remarks, and I advise you to mind your 
 own business. 
 
 Verdelet. This is my own business, I 
 tell you! Are n't we partners? Why, we're 
 a little like the Siamese twins. Now, when 
 you grovel before that marquis, I have a 
 hard time keeping my temper. 
 
 Poirier. Grovel? As if — ? That mar- 
 quis! Do you think I am dazzled by his 
 title? I've always been more of a Liberal 
 than you, and I still am. I don't care a 
 snap of my finger for the nobility! Ability 
 and virtue are the onlj' social distinctions 
 that I recognize and before which I bow 
 down. 
 
 Verdelet. Is your son-in-law virtuous? 
 
 Poirier. You make me tired. Do you 
 want me to make him feel that he owes 
 everything to me? 
 
 Verdelet. Oh, oh; you have become 
 very considerate 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 goddaughter to marry a 
 
 man from our own class. But you refused 
 to listen to reason — 
 
 Poirier. Ha, ha! Listen to monsieur! 
 That's the last straw! 
 
 Verdelet. Well, why not? 
 
 Poirier. Oh, Monsieur Verdelet, you are 
 most clever and you have the noblest 
 ideals; you have read amusing books, you 
 have your own ideas on every subject, but 
 in the matter of common sense, I can give 
 you enormous odds. 
 
 Verdelet. Oh, as to common sense — 
 you mean business sense. I don't deny 
 that: you've piled up four millions, while 
 I've barely made forty thousand a year. 
 
 Poirier. And that you owe to me. 
 
 Verdelet. I don't deny it. What I have 
 I owe to you. But it is all going eventu- 
 ally to your daughter, after your son-in- 
 law has ruined you. 
 
 Poirier. Ruined me? 
 
 Verdelet. Yes — within ten years. 
 
 Poirier. You're crazy. 
 
 Verdelet. At the rate he's going now, 
 you know only too well how long it will 
 take him to run through his money. 
 
 Poirier. Well, that's' my business. 
 
 Verdelet. If you were the only one 
 concerned, I'd never open my lips. 
 
 Poirier. 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? 
 
 Verdelet. What is the matter with you? 
 
 Poirier. I don't like ungrateful people. 
 
 Verdelet. The devil! You're taking 
 out your son-in-law's famiharities on me. 
 I was going to say, if you were the only 
 one concerned, I could at least be patient 
 about it: you are n't my godson, but it 
 happens that your daughter is my god- 
 daughter. 
 
 Poirier. I was a fool to give you that 
 right over her. 
 
 Verdelet. You might easily have fovmd 
 some one who loved her less. 
 
 Poirier. Yes, yes, I know — you love 
 her more than I do — I know, you claim 
 that — and you've even persuaded her — 
 
 Verdelet. Are we going to quarrel 
 about that again? For Heaven's sake, 
 then, go ahead! 
 
420 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 PoiHiER. I will go ahead! Do you 
 think I like to see myself left out, pushed 
 aside by a stranger? Have I no place in my 
 own daughter's heart? 
 
 Verdelet. She has the tenderest affec- 
 tion for you — 
 
 PoiRiER. That's not so: you've taken 
 my place. All her secrets, all her nice 
 pleasing little ways are for you. 
 
 Verdelet. Because I don't make her 
 afraid. How can you expect the little one 
 to be confidential with an old bear like you? 
 She can never find an opening, you're al- 
 ways so crabbed. 
 
 PoiRiER. Well, you are the one who has 
 made me play the part 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 wishes, and forgetting 
 what's good for them. That's loving them 
 for your own sake, instead of for theirs. 
 
 Verdelet. Now, Poirier, you know very 
 well that when the real interests of your 
 daughter were at stake, 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. 
 
 Poirier. She was in love with the Mar- 
 quis. — Let me read my paper. 
 
 [He sits down and runs his eyes 
 over the " Constiiutionnel."] 
 
 Verdelet. It's all very well for you 
 to say the child was in love: you forced 
 her into it. You brought the Marquis de 
 Presles here. 
 
 Poirier [rising]. Another one has ar- 
 rived at the top! Monsieur Michaud, the 
 ironmaster, has just been appointed a 
 peer of France. 
 
 Verdelet. What do I care? 
 
 Poirier. What do you care! Does it 
 make no difference to you to see a man of 
 our class arrive at the top? To see the 
 Government honor industry 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 you ask, "What do I care?" 
 - Verdelet. Heaven preserve me from 
 
 aspiring to the peerage! And Heaven pre- 
 serve my country when I become a peer! 
 Poirier. But why? Can't Monsieur 
 Michaud fill his position? 
 
 Verdelet. Monsieur Michaud is not 
 only a business man, but a man of great 
 personal merit. MoliSre's father was an 
 upholsterer, but that is no reason why 
 every upholsterer's son should believe 
 himself a poet. 
 
 Poirier. I tell you, commerce is the 
 true school for statesmen. Who shall lay 
 his hand on the wheel unless it is those who 
 have first learned to steer their own barks? 
 
 Verdelet. A bark is not a ship, and a 
 little captain is not necessarily a true 
 pilot, and France is no commercial house. 
 I can hardly restrain myself when I see this 
 mania taking root in people's minds. I de- 
 clare, you might imagine that statesman- 
 ship 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 concerns for thirty 
 years; he makes his fortune, and one fine 
 day closes his shop and sets up business as 
 a statesman. With no more effort than that! 
 Very simple receipt! Good Lord, mes- 
 sieurs, you might just as well say, "I have 
 measured so many yards of cloth, and I 
 therefore know how to play the violin!" 
 
 Poirier. I don't exactly see what con- 
 nection — ? 
 
 Verdelet. Instead of thinking about 
 governing France, learn to govern your 
 own home. Don't marry off your daughters 
 to ruined marquesses who imagine they are 
 doing you an honor in allowing you to pay 
 oflf their debts with your own hard cash — 
 
 Poirier. Are you saying that for me — ? 
 
 Verdelet. No; for myself! 
 
 [Enter Antoinette.] 
 
 Antoinette. How are you, father? 
 How is everything? Hello, godfather. Are 
 you going to have lunch with us? How nice 
 you are! 
 
 Poirier. He is nice. But what am I, 
 I who invited him? 
 
 Antoinette. You are charming. 
 
 Poirier. But only when I invite Verde- 
 let. Agreeable for me! 
 
THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 421 
 
 Antoinette. Where is my husband? 
 
 PoiRiEH. In the stable. Where else 
 would he be? 
 
 Antoinette. Do you blame hi'm for 
 liking horses? Is n't it natural for a gen- 
 tleman to like horses and arms — ? 
 
 PoiKiBB. Oh, yes, but I wish he cared 
 for something else. 
 
 Antoinette. He is very fond of the 
 arts: poetry, painting, music. 
 
 PoiRiER. Huh, the agreeable arts! 
 Pleasures! 
 
 Verdelet. Would you expect him to 
 care for unpleasant arts? Would you want 
 him to play the piano? 
 
 PoiBiER. There you are again, taking 
 his part before Toinon. You're trying to 
 get into her good graces. [To Antoinette.] 
 He was just telling me that your husband 
 was ruining me. Did n't you? 
 
 Verdelet. Yes, but all you have to do 
 is to pull tight your purse-strings. 
 
 PoiRiER. It would be much simpler if 
 the young man had some occupation. 
 
 Verdelet. It seems to me that he is 
 very much occupied as it is. 
 
 PoiRiBR. Yes: spending money from 
 morning till night. I 'd prefer a more 
 lucrative occupation. 
 
 Antoinette. What, for instance? He 
 can't sell cloth. 
 
 PoiRiEB. He wouldn't be able to. I 
 don't ask for so very much, after all. Let 
 him take a position that befits his rank: 
 an embassy, for instance. 
 
 Verdelet. An embassy? You don't take 
 an embassy the way you take cold. 
 
 PoiHiER. When a man is called the Mar- 
 quis de Presles, he can aspire to anything. 
 
 Antoinette. But on the other hand, 
 father, he need not aspire to anything. 
 
 Verdelet. That's true. Your son-in- 
 law has his own ideas — 
 
 Poireer. Only one: to be lazy. 
 
 Antoinette. That's not fair, father: 
 my husband has very fine ideals. 
 
 Verdelet. At least, if he has n't, he 
 possesses that chivalrous obstinacy of his 
 rank. Do you think for one moment that 
 your son-in-law is going to give up the 
 traditions of his family, just for the sake of 
 changing his lazy life? 
 
 PoiRiER. You don't know my son-in- 
 law, Verdelet; I have studied him thor- 
 oughly — I did that before giving my 
 daughter to him. He's hare-brained, and 
 the lightness 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. 
 
 Verdelet. That makes no difference. 
 It would have been much wiser to have 
 sounded him on this subject before the 
 marriage. 
 
 Poirier. What a fool you are! 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, persever- 
 ingly. He has been living here this past 
 three months on the fat of the land. 
 
 Verdelet. I see: you wanted to make it 
 pleasant for him before you came down to 
 busiaess. 
 
 Poirier. Exactly. [To Antoinette.] 
 A man is always indulgent toward his wife 
 during the honeymoon. Now, if you ask 
 him in a nice way — in the evening — when 
 you're taking down your hair — ? 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, father — ! 
 
 Poirier. That's the way Madame 
 Poirier used to get me to promise to take 
 her to the Op6ra — I always took her the 
 next day. See? 
 
 Antoinette. But I'd never dare speak 
 to my husband on so serious a subject. 
 
 Poirier. Your dowry will surely give 
 you a good enough right to speak. 
 
 Antoinette. He would only shrug his 
 shoulders, and not answer. 
 
 Verdelet. Does he do that when you 
 talk with him? 
 
 Antoinette. No, but — 
 
 Verdelet. Ah, you look away! So your 
 husband treats you a little — ? I've been 
 afraid of that. 
 
 Poirier. Have you any reason to com- 
 plain of him? 
 
 Antoinette. No, father. 
 
 Poirier. Does n't he love you? 
 
 Antoinette. I don't say that. 
 
 Poirier. Then what do you say? 
 
42 2 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Antoinette. Nothing. 
 
 Vebdelet. Come, dear, you should 
 speak frankly with your old friends. Our 
 whole object in 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? 
 
 Antoinette. I have n't the right to be: 
 my husband is very kind and good. 
 
 PoiRiER. Well, then? 
 
 Veedelbt. 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? 
 
 Antoinette. 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. 
 
 PoiRiER. The fool ! 
 
 Verdelet. Why don't you explain to 
 him? 
 
 Antoinette. I tried to more than once, 
 but the tone of his first 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 
 can I tell Gaston that it was n't his title 
 that pleased me, but his manners, his 
 mind, his knightly bearing, his contempt 
 for the pettinesses of life? How can I tell 
 him that he is the man of my dreams — 
 how can I do that if he stops me at once 
 with some joke? 
 
 PoiRiER. That shows the boy is in a 
 good humor. 
 
 Verdelet. No: it's because his wife 
 bores him. 
 
 Poirier [to Antoinette]. Do you bore 
 your husband? 
 
 Antoinette. I'm afraid I do! 
 
 Poirier. I tell you it is n't you, but his 
 own confounded laziness that bores him. 
 A husband does n't love his wife very long 
 when he has nothing else to do but to love 
 her. 
 
 Antoinette. Is that true, Tony? 
 
 Poirier. /'m telling you! You need n't 
 ask Verdelet. 
 
 Verdelet. Yes, I do believe that pas- 
 sion is soon exhausted unless it is managed 
 like a fortune: economically. 
 
 Poirier. Every man wants to be actively 
 engaged in some pursuit. When his way is 
 barred, that desire is wasted, lost. 
 
 Verdelet. A wife should be the preoccu- 
 pation, not the occupation, of her husband. 
 
 Poirier. Why did I always adore your 
 mother? Because I never had time to 
 think about her. 
 
 Verdelet. Your husband has twenty- 
 four hours a day to love you — 
 
 PoiRiEE. That's twelve too many. 
 
 Antoinette. You're opening my eyes. 
 
 Poirier. Let him take a position and 
 everything will turn out satisfactorily. 
 
 Antoinette. What do you say, Tony? 
 
 Verdelet. Possibly! The difficulty is 
 in making him take the position. 
 
 Poirier. Leave that to me. Leave the 
 matter in my hands. 
 
 Verdelet. Are you going to attack the 
 question at once? 
 
 Poirier. No, but I shall after lunch. I 
 have noticed that the Marquis is in splen- 
 did humor after his meals. 
 
 [Enter Gaston and the Duke.] 
 
 Gaston [introducing the Duke to his 
 wife]. My dear Antoinette, Monsieur de 
 Montmeyran, who is not entirely unknown 
 to you. 
 
 Antoinette. 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 resume, as it were, a 
 former friendship. [Aside to the Marquis.] 
 Your wife is charming! 
 
 Gaston [aside to the Duke]. Yes, she is 
 nice. [To Antoinette.] I have some good 
 news for you: Hector is going to stay with 
 us during his leave. 
 
 Antoinette. How good of you, mon- 
 sieur! I trust your leave is a long one? 
 
 Duke. One month, after which I return 
 to Africa. 
 
THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 423 
 
 Verdelet. You afford us a noble ex- 
 ample, Monsieur le Due: you do not con- 
 sider laziness as a family inheritance. 
 
 Gaston [aside]. Aha! Monsieur Verde- 
 let. 
 
 [Eyiter a Servant, carrying a picture.] 
 
 Servant. This picture has just come 
 for Monsieur le Marquis. 
 
 Gaston. Lay it on that chair, by the 
 window. There — good. [The Servant goes 
 out.] Just look at it, Montmeyran. 
 
 Duke. Charming — beautiful evening 
 effect! Don't you think so, madame? 
 
 Antoinette. Yes — ■ charming — and 
 how real it is! And how calm and quiet. 
 You feel as if you would like to walk about 
 in that silent landscape. 
 
 PoiBiER [aside to Verdelet]. Peer of 
 France! 
 
 Gaston. Just look at that strip of green- 
 ish light, running between the orange tones 
 of the horizon, and that cold blue of the rest 
 of the sky. Splendid technique! 
 
 Duke. Then the foreground! And the 
 coloring, the handling of the whole thing! 
 
 Gaston. Then the almost imperceptible 
 reflection of that little spot of water be- 
 hind the foliage — charming! 
 
 PoiBiEB. Let's take a look at it, Ver- 
 delet. [PoiRiER and Verdelet go to look 
 at the picture.] Well? What does it repre- 
 sent? 
 
 Verdelet. It represents some fields at 
 nine o'clock at night. 
 
 PoiRiER. The subject is n't interesting; 
 it does n't tell anything. In my rooiii I 
 have an engraving showing a dog on the sea- 
 shore barking at a sailor's hat. There now, 
 you can understand that: it's clever, and 
 simple, and touching. 
 
 Gasion. 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 little white onion. The 
 knife lies beside it. Nothing at all, and yet 
 it brings tears to the eyes! 
 
 Verdelet [aside to Poirier]. He's mak- 
 ing fun of you. ^ 
 
 Poirier [aside to Verdelet], Very well 
 — let him! 
 . Duke. Who painted this landscape? 
 
 Gaston. Poor devil — lots of talent — 
 but he has n't a sou. 
 
 Poirier. What did you pay for the 
 picture? 
 
 Gaston. Fifty louis. 
 
 Poirier. . Fifty louis? For the picture of 
 an unknown painter who is dying of 
 hunger! If you'd gone aroimd at meal- 
 time you could have got it for twenty- 
 five francs. 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, father! 
 
 Poirier. A fine example of misplaced 
 generosity! 
 
 Gaston. Then you don't think that the 
 arts should be protected? 
 
 Poirier. Protect the arts as much as 
 you like, but not the artists — ■ they're all 
 rascals or debauchees. Why, the stories 
 they tell about them are enough to raise the 
 hair on your head, things I could n't repeat 
 to my own daughter. 
 
 Verdelet [aside to Poirier]. What? 
 
 Poirier [aside to Verdelet]. They say, 
 old man, that — 
 
 [He takes Verdelet to one side 
 and whispers to him]. 
 
 Verdelet. And do you believe things 
 of that kind? 
 
 Poirier. The people who told me knew 
 what they were talking about. 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. Dinner is served. 
 
 Poirier [to the Servant]. Bring up a 
 bottle of 1811 Pomard. [To the Duke.] 
 The year of the comet, Monsieur le Due — 
 fifteen francs a bottle! The king drinks no 
 better. [Aside to Verdelet.] You must n't 
 drink any — neither will I! 
 
 Gaston [to the Duke]. Fifteen francs a 
 bottle, to be returned when empty! 
 
 Verdelet [aside to Poirier]. Are you 
 going to allow him to make fun of you like 
 that? 
 
 Poirier [aside to Verdelet]. In mat- 
 ters of this sort, you must take your time. 
 [They all go out.] 
 
424 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 ACT II 
 
 [The scene is the same. As the curtain 
 rises, Vbrdelet, Poirier, Gaston, the 
 DtTKE, and Antoinette enter from the 
 dining-room.] 
 
 Gaston. Well, Hector, what do you 
 say? This is the house, and this is what we 
 do every mortal day. Can you imagine a 
 happier man on earth than myself? 
 
 Duke. I must confess that you make 
 me very envious; you almost reconcile me 
 to the idea of marriage. 
 
 Antoinette [aside to Verdelet]. 
 Charming young man, that Duke de 
 Montmeyran, is n't he? 
 
 Verdelet [aside to Antoinette]. Yes, 
 I like him. 
 
 Gaston. Monsieur Poirier, I must say, 
 you are an excellent soul. Believe me, I'm 
 not in the least ungrateful to you. 
 
 Poirier. Oh, Monsieur le Marquis! 
 
 Gaston.' Come, now, call me Gaston. 
 Ah, Monsieur Verdelet, I am delighted to 
 see you. 
 
 Antoinette. He is a member of the 
 family, dear. 
 
 Gaston. Shake hands, uncle! 
 
 Verdelet [shaking hands with Gaston 
 — aside]. He's not so bad after all! 
 
 Gaston. You can't deny. Hector, that 
 I'm downright lucky. Monsieur Poirier, 
 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, I beg 
 you, to think of something I might do for 
 you in return — anything in my power. 
 
 Poirier. 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 — 
 
 Poirier. Oh, please don't, monsieur; be 
 good enough to stay with us. This is going 
 to 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 council!" Are you going to have 
 me out under a legal adviser? 
 
 Poirier. Far from it, my dear Gaston. 
 Let us sit down. 
 
 [They all seat themselves.] 
 
 Gaston. Monsieur Poirier has the floor. 
 
 PoiRiEB. 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. 
 
 Poirier. 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. 
 
 Gaston. You talk like a book, I do de- 
 clare! Very well, let us give our attention 
 to history. 
 
 Poirier. What do you intend to do? 
 
 Gaston. To-day? 
 
 Poirier. And to-morrow — in the fu- 
 ture. You surely have some idea? 
 
 Gaston. Of course: to-day I intend to 
 do what I did yesterday; to-morrow what 
 I did to-day. I'm not capricious, even 
 though I may appear light-hearted. So 
 long as the future promises to be as bright 
 as the present, I am content. 
 
 Poirier. 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? 
 
 Poirier. You have, have n't you, Ver- 
 delet? 
 
 Verdelet. I admit I have. 
 
 Poirier. Yes; he passed his school-days 
 playing truant. 
 
 Gaston. Well, when Heinrich Heine 
 was asked what became of all the full 
 moons, he replied that they were broken in 
 pieces and made into stars. 
 
 Poirier. I don't quite see — 
 
 Gaston. When our honeymoon grows 
 old, we shall break it up, and there will re- 
 main enough fragments to make a whole 
 Milky Way. 
 
 Poirier. Very pretty idea, I suppose. 
 
 Duke. The sole merit of which is its 
 extreme simplicity. 
 
 Poirier. Bu.t, seriously, son-in-law, 
 does n't this lazy life you are leading seem 
 
THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 425 
 
 to threaten the happiness of a young 
 household? 
 
 Gaston. Not in the least. 
 
 Verdelet. a man of your ability 
 should n't be always condemned to a life 
 of inactivity. 
 
 Gaston. Ah, but one can resign himself 
 to — 
 
 Antoinette. Are n't you afraid that in 
 time you may be bored, dear — ? 
 
 Gaston. You fail to do yourself jvistice, 
 my dear. 
 
 Antoinette. I am not vain enough to 
 believe that I can be everything in your 
 life, 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 
 enlist? 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, no. 
 
 Gaston. Then, what — ? 
 
 PoiRiER. We want you to take a posi- 
 tion worthy of your name. 
 
 Gaston. There are but three: in the 
 army, the church, and agriculture. Choose. 
 
 PoiBiER. We all owe our services to 
 France: she is our mother. 
 
 Vebdelet. I can readily understand the 
 sorrow of a son who sees his mother re- 
 marry; I can sympathize with his not 
 joining in the wedding festivities; but if he 
 is honest and sincere, he will not blame the 
 mother. And if the second husband makes 
 the mother happy, the son cannot with a 
 good conscience help offering the second 
 husband his hand. 
 
 PoiBiEK. The nobility won't always keep 
 away as it does now; it's even beginning 
 to recognize the fact already. More than 
 one great noble has given a good example: 
 Monsieur de Valchevrifere, Monsieur de 
 ChazeroUes, Monsieur de Mont-Louis. 
 
 Gaston. Those gentlemen did what 
 they thought best. I am not judging them, 
 but I cannot emulate them. 
 
 Antoinette. Why not, dear? 
 f Gaston. Ask Montmeyran. 
 
 Verdelet. Monsieur le Due's uniform 
 answers for him. 
 
 Dtjkb. Allow me, monsieur; the soldier 
 has but one idea, to obey; but one ad- 
 versary, the enemy. 
 
 PoiBiER. Still, monsieur, I might an- 
 swer that — 
 
 Gaston. Let us drop the subject. Mon- 
 sieur Poirier; 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 us say no more about this. [To the 
 DtTKE.] I beg your pardon, my dear fel- 
 low, but this is the first time we have 
 talked politics here, and I promise it will 
 be the last. 
 
 Duke [aside to Antoinette]. You have 
 been led into an indiscretion, madame! 
 
 Antoinette [aside to the Duke]. I 
 realize it — only too late! 
 
 Gaston. I bear you no malice. Mon- 
 sieur Poirier. I have been a trifle dirfect, 
 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 hands. 
 
 Poirier. You're only too good! 
 
 Verdelet [aside to Poirier]. This is 
 a pretty mess! 
 
 Poirier [aside to Verdelet]. First at- 
 tack repulsed, but I'm not lifting the 
 siege. 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. There are some people in the 
 small waiting-room who say they have an 
 appointment with Monsieur Poirier. 
 
 Poirier. Very well. Ask them to wait 
 a moment. I'll be there directly. [The 
 Servant goes ovi.] Your creditors, son-in- 
 law. 
 
 Gaston. Yours, my dear father-in-law. 
 I have given them to you. 
 
 Duke. For a wedding present. 
 
 Verdelet. Good-bye, Monsieur le Mar- 
 quis. 
 
 Gaston, Are you leaving us so soon? 
 
 Verdelet. Very good of you. Antoi- 
 nette has asked me to do something for her. 
 
 Poirier. Well! What? 
 
 Verdelet. It's a secret between us. 
 
 Gaston. You know, if I were inclined to 
 be jealous — 
 
 Antoinette. But you are not. 
 
 Gaston. Is that a reproach? Very well, 
 Monsieur Verdelet. I have made up my 
 
426 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 mind to be jealous, and I ask you in the 
 name of the law to unveil the mystery! 
 
 Vehdelbt. You are the last person in 
 the world whom I should think of telling! 
 
 Gaston. And why, please? 
 
 Verdelet. You are Antoinette's right 
 hand, and the right hand should not know 
 what — 
 
 Gaston. The left gives. You are right; I 
 am indiscreet. Allow me to pay my indem- 
 nity. [He gives his purse to Antoinette.] 
 Put this with your own, my dear child. 
 
 Antoinette. Thank you on behaU of 
 my poor. 
 
 PoiRiER [aside]. He is mighty generous! 
 
 Duke. Will you allow me, too, madame, 
 to steal a few blessings from you? [He also 
 gives her his purse.] It is not heavy, but it 
 is the corporal's mite. 
 
 Antoinette. Offered from the heart of 
 a true duke. 
 
 PoiEiER [aside]. Has n't a sou to his 
 name, and he gives to charity! 
 
 Verdelet. Are n't you going to add 
 something, Poirier? 
 
 PoiBiER. I've already given a thousand 
 francs to the charity organization. 
 
 Verdelet. I see. Good-day, messieurs. 
 Your names won't appear on the lists, but 
 your charity won't be less welcome. 
 
 [He goes out with Antoinette.] 
 
 Poirier. See you later. Monsieur le 
 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 unconscion- 
 able rascals. You must have had some- 
 thing to do with them. Hector, — old 
 P6re Salomon, Monsieur Chevassus, Mon- 
 sieur Cogne? 
 
 DtJKE. Did I! They're the first Arabs 
 I ever had anything to do with. Lent me 
 money at fifty per cent. 
 . Poirier. Highway robbery! And you 
 were fool enough — I beg your pardon. 
 Monsieur le Due, — I beg your pardon! 
 
 Duke. What else could I do? Ten 
 thousand francs at two per cent is better 
 than nothing at all at five per cent. 
 
 Poirier. But, monsieur, there is a law 
 against usury. 
 
 Duke. Which the usurers respect and 
 obey; they take only legal interest, but you 
 get only one half the face value of the note 
 in cash, you see. 
 
 Poirier. And the other haK? 
 
 Duke. Stuffed lizards, as in Molifere's 
 time. Usurers do not progress: they were 
 bom perfect. 
 
 Gaston. Like the Chinese. 
 
 Poirier. I hope, son-in-law, that you 
 have n't borrowed at any such outrageous ^ 
 rate? 
 
 Gaston. I hope so too, father-in-law. 
 
 Poirier. At fifty per cent! 
 
 Gaston. No more, no less. 
 
 Poirier. And did you get stuffed 
 lizards? 
 
 Gaston. Any number. 
 
 Poirier. Why didn't you tell me sooner? 
 I could have come to an agreement with 
 them before the marriage. 
 
 Gaston. That is precisely what I did 
 not want. Would it not be fine to see the 
 Marquis de Presles buying back his pledged 
 word, insulting his noble name! 
 
 Poirier. 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. 
 
 Poirier. AUow me, Monsieur le Mar- 
 quis, — I believe I may say that I am an 
 honest man; I have never cheated any one 
 out of a single sou, and I am incapable of 
 advising you to do something underhand, 
 but it appears to me that in paying back 
 those scoundrels their principal at six per 
 cent, you wiU have acted in an honorable 
 and scrupulous way. 
 
 Gaston. This is not a question of hon- 
 esty, but of honor. 
 
 Poirier. 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 surprised at only 
 one thing: that the nose of a nobleman 
 deigns to be called by the same name when 
 it happens to be on a tradesman's face! 
 
THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 427 
 
 -T«- 
 
 Gaston. That is because all noses are 
 similar. 
 
 Duke. Within six inches! 
 
 PoiKiEK. Then don't you think that 
 men are? 
 
 Gaston. It's a question. 
 
 PoiRiER. Which was decided long ago, 
 Monsieur le Marquis. 
 
 Duke. Out rights 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: Noblesse oblige ! No mat- 
 ter what happens, we shall abide by a 
 code more severe than the law, that mys- 
 terious code which we call honor. 
 
 PoiRiER. Well, Monsieur le Marquis, it 
 is very fortunate for your honor that my 
 honesty pays your debts. Only, as I am not 
 a gentleman, I warn you that I shall do my 
 best to get out of this fix as cheaply as I 
 can. 
 
 Gaston. You must be very clever, in- 
 deed, to make any sort of compromise with 
 those highway robbers: they are masters of 
 the situation. 
 
 [Reenter Antoinette.] 
 
 PoiWEB. We'll see, we'll see. [Aside.] 
 I have an idea: I'm going to play my own 
 little game. [Alotid.] I'll go at once, so 
 that they shan't get impatient. 
 
 DtTKE. No, don't wait; they will devour 
 you if you do. [Poikibr goes out.] 
 
 Gaston. Poor Monsieur Poirier, I feel 
 sorry for him. This latest revelation takes 
 away all his pleasure in paying my debts. 
 
 Duke. Listen to me: there are very few 
 people who know how to be robbed. It is 
 an art worthy a great lord. 
 
 [Enter a Savant] 
 
 Servant. Messieurs de Ligny and de 
 Chazerolles would like to speak to Mon- 
 sieur le Marquis on behalf of Monsieur de 
 Pontgrimaud. 
 
 Gaston. Very well. [The Servant goes 
 out.] You receive the gentlemen, Hector. 
 You don't need me to help you arrange 
 the party. 
 
 Antoinette. A party — ? 
 
 Gaston. Yes, I won a good deal of 
 
 money from Pontgrimaud and I promised 
 him a chance to take revenge. [To Hector.] 
 To-morrow, some time in the morning, 
 will be satisfactory for me. 
 
 Duke [aside to Gaston]. When shall I 
 see you again? 
 
 Gaston [aside to Hector]. Madame de 
 Montjay is expecting me. At three, then, 
 here. [The Duke goes ovi.\ 
 
 Gaston [siUing on a sofa, opens a maga- 
 zine, yawns, and says to his wife]. Would 
 you like to go to the Italiens to-night? 
 
 Antoinette. Yes, if you are going. 
 
 Gaston. lam. What gown are you going 
 to wear? 
 
 Antoinette. Any one you like. 
 
 Gaston. It makes no difference to me 
 — I mean, you look very pretty in any 
 of them. 
 
 Antoinette. But you have such excel- 
 lent taste, dear; you ought to advise me. 
 
 Gaston. I am not a fashion magazine, 
 my dear child; and then, all you have to do 
 is to watch the great ladies, make them 
 your models: Madame de Nohan, Madame 
 de Villepreux — 
 
 Antoinette. Madame de Montjay — 
 
 Gaston. Why Madame de Montjay, 
 rather than any one else? 
 
 Antoinette. Because she pleases you 
 more. 
 
 Gaston. Where did you get that idea? 
 
 Antoinette. The other evening at the 
 Op6ra you paid her a rather long visit in 
 her box. She is very pretty. Is she clever 
 too? 
 
 Gaston. Very. [A pause.] 
 
 Antoinette. Why don't you tell me 
 when I do something that does n't please 
 you? 
 
 Gaston. I have never failed to do so. 
 
 Antoinette. You never said you were 
 displeased. 
 
 Gaston. Because you never gave me the 
 occasion. 
 
 Antoinette. 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. 
 
 Antoinette. If I had had any notion 
 what your ideas on that subject were, do 
 
428 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 you think for an instant that I should 
 have — ? 
 
 Gaston. Truly, my dear, it almost 
 seems as if you were making excuses. 
 
 Antoinette. That is because I am 
 afraid you will think me childish and 
 vain — 
 
 Gaston. What if you were a little 
 proud? Is that a crime? 
 
 Antoinette. I swear I have n't an 
 ounce of pride. 
 
 Gaston [rising]. My dear, you have n't 
 a 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. 
 
 Antoinette. Less so than you. 
 
 Gaston. Do you think me difficult to 
 please? You see, you have some vanity — 
 I've caught you in the act! 
 
 Antoinette. I have no illusions about 
 myself: I know very well what I need in 
 order to be worthy of you. But if you will 
 only take the trouble to guide me, tell me 
 something about the ideas of the world you 
 know, I love you so much that I would com- 
 pletely change myself. 
 
 Gaston [kissing her hand]. 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. 
 
 Antoinette. Very weU, then, I shall 
 study Madame de Montjay. 
 
 Gaston. Again! Are you doing me the 
 honor to be jealous? Take 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 nearly so." 
 
 Antoinette. I think that your greatest 
 imperfection is your absence. 
 
 Gaston. Neatly turned. Thank you. 
 Who's this? My creditors! 
 
 [Enter the Creditors.] 
 
 Gaston. You here, messieurs! You 
 have mistaken the door: the servants' en- 
 trance is on the other side. 
 
 Salomon. We did n't want to leave 
 without seeing you. Monsieur le Marquis. 
 
 Gaston. I can dispense with your 
 thanks. 
 
 CoGNE. We have come to ask for yours. 
 
 Chevassijs. You've treated us long 
 enough as usurers. 
 
 CoGNE. Leeches. 
 
 Salomon. Blood-suckers. 
 
 Chevassus. We're delighted to have 
 this occasion to tell you that we are honest 
 men. 
 
 Gaston. I fail to see the joke? 
 
 Cogne. This is not a joke, monsieur. 
 We have loaned you money at six per cent. 
 
 Gaston. Have my notes not been ac- 
 quitted in full? 
 
 Salomon. There's a trifle lacking: some 
 two hundred and eighteen thousand francs. 
 
 Gaston. What's that? 
 
 Chevassus. We were obliged to submit 
 to that! 
 
 Salomon. And your father-in-law in- 
 sisted on your being sent to the debtors' 
 prison. 
 
 Gaston. My father-in-law insisted 
 that — ? 
 
 CoGNB. Yes; it seems that you have 
 been playing some underhanded trick with 
 him, the poor fellow! 
 
 Salomon. It'll teach him better next 
 time! 
 
 Cogne. But meantime, we must bear 
 the burden. 
 
 Gaston [to Antoinette]. Your father, 
 madame, has behaved in a very undigni- 
 fied way. [To the Creditors.] I confess my- 
 self in your debt, messieurs, but I have an 
 income of only twenty-five thousand francs. 
 
 Salomon. You know very well you can't 
 touch the principal without your wife's 
 consent. We have seen your marriage con- 
 tract. 
 
 Cogne. You're not making your wife 
 very happy — 
 
 Gaston. Leave the house! 
 
 Salomon. You can't kick honest people 
 
THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 429 
 
 out of the house like dogs — people who 've 
 helped you [Antoinette has meantime sat 
 down and is now writing] — people who be- 
 lieved that the signature of the Marquis 
 de Presles was worth something. 
 
 CoGNE. And who were mistaken! 
 
 Creditors. Yes, mistaken! 
 
 Antoinette [handing Salomon a check 
 which she has written]. You are not mis- 
 taken, messieurs: you are paid in full. 
 
 Gaston [taking the check, he glances at it, 
 and hands it back to Salomon]. Now that 
 you really are thieves — leave the house! 
 Rascals! Hurry up, or we '11 have you swept 
 out! 
 
 Creditors. Too good of you, Monsieur 
 le Marquis! A thousand thanks! 
 
 [They go out.] 
 
 Gaston. You dear! I adore you! 
 
 [He takes her in his arms and 
 kisses her vehemenUy.] 
 
 Antoinette. Dear Gaston! 
 
 Gaston. Where in the world did your 
 father find the heart he gave you? 
 
 Antoinette. 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 his 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. 
 
 Antoinette. You really won't blame 
 him, will you? 
 
 Gaston. No, since you wish it, Mar- 
 quise, — Marquise, you hear? 
 
 Antoinette. Call me your wife — the 
 only title of which I am proud! 
 
 Gaston. You do love me a little? 
 
 Antoinette. Have n't you noticed it, 
 ungrateful man? 
 
 Gaston. Oh, yes, but I like to hear you 
 say it — especially at this moment. [The 
 clock strikes three.] Three o'clock! [Aside.] 
 The devil! Madame de Montjay is expect- 
 ing me! 
 
 Antoinette. You are smiling — what 
 are you thinking about? 
 
 Gaston. Would you like to take a ride 
 with me in the Bois? 
 
 Antoinette. Well — I'm not dressed. 
 
 Gaston. Just throw a shawl over your 
 shoulders. Ring for your maid. [Antoi- 
 nette rings.] 
 
 [Enter Poirieb.] 
 
 Poirier. Well, son-in-law, have you 
 seen your creditors? 
 
 Gaston [with evident ill-humor]. Yes, 
 monsieur — 
 
 Antoinette [aside to Gaston, as she 
 takes his arm]. Remember your promise. 
 
 Gaston [amiably]. Yes, my dear father- 
 in-law, I have seen them. 
 
 [Enter the Maid.] 
 
 Antoinette [to the Maid]. Bring me my 
 
 shawl and hat and have the horses hitched. 
 
 [The Maid goes out.] 
 
 Gaston [to Poirieb]. Allow me to con- 
 gratulate you on your good stroke of busi- 
 ness; you did play them a very clever trick. 
 [Aside to Antoinette.] Am I not nice? 
 
 Poirieb. You take it better than I 
 thought you would; I was prepared for any 
 niunber of objections on the score of your 
 "honor." 
 
 Gaston. I am reasonable, father-in-law. 
 You have acted according to your own 
 ideas. I have so little objection to that; 
 we have acted according to our ideas. 
 
 Poirieb. What's that? 
 
 Gaston. You gave those rascals only the 
 actual sum of money borrowed from them: 
 we have paid the rest. 
 
 PoiBiBB [to Antoinette]. What! Did 
 you sign away — ? [Antoinette nods.] 
 Good God, what have you done! 
 
 Antoinette. I beg your pardon, 
 father — 
 
 Poirieb. I've moved heaven and earth 
 in order to give you a good round sum and 
 you throw it out of the window! Two 
 himdred and eighteen thousand f ranees! 
 
 Gaston. Don't worry about that. Mon- 
 sieur Poirier; we are the ones who lose: 
 you receive the benefit. 
 
 [Reenter the Maid, with a hat and shawl.] 
 
 Antoinette. Good-bye, father, we are 
 going to the Bois. 
 Gaston. Your arm, wife! [They go out.] 
 
43° 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 PoiRiER. He gets on my nerves, that 
 son-in-law of mine. I can see very well 
 that I can never get any satisfaction out 
 of him. He's an incurable gentleman! He 
 refuses to do anything — he's good for 
 nothing — he's a frightful expense — he 
 is master of my own house. This has got 
 to end. [He rings. A moment later — ] 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Have the porter and the cook come here. 
 [The servant goes out.] We'll see, son-in- 
 law. I've been too soft and kind and gen- 
 erous. So you won't give in, my fine 
 friend? Very well, do as you please! 
 Neither will I : you remain a marquis, and 
 I shall remain a bourgeois. I'll at least 
 have the consolation of living as I want 
 to live. 
 
 [Enter the Porter.] 
 
 Did monsieur ask for me? 
 
 PoiRiER. Yes, Frangois, monsieur did 
 ask for you. Put up a sign on the house at 
 once. 
 
 Porter. A sign? 
 
 PoiRiBR. "To let, a magnificent apart- 
 ment on the first floor, with stables and 
 appurtenances." 
 
 Porter. Monsieur le Marquis's apart- 
 ment? 
 
 PoiHiER. Exactly, Frangois. 
 
 Porter. But Monsieur le Marquis gave 
 me no orders about this? 
 
 PoiRiER. Idiot, who is master here? 
 Who owns this house? 
 
 Porter. You, monsieur. 
 
 PoiRiER. Then, do as I tell you. I can 
 dispense with your opinions. 
 
 Porter. Very well, monsieur. 
 
 [The Porter goes out.] 
 
 [Enter Vatel.] 
 
 Hurry, Frangois. — Corne here, Monsieur 
 Vatel. You are preparing a grand dinner 
 for to-morrow? 
 
 Vatel. Yes, monsieur, and I may even 
 say that the menu would be no disgrace to 
 my illustrious ancestor. It will be a veri- 
 table work of art. Monsieur Poirier will be 
 astonished — 
 
 PoiEiER. Have you the menu with you? 
 
 Vatel. No, monsieur, it is being copied, 
 but I know it by heart. 
 
 PoiEiER. Be good enough to recite it to 
 me. 
 
 Vatel. Potage aux ravioles A I'llalienne 
 and potage d I'orge d la Marie Stuart. 
 
 PorarER. Instead of those two unknown 
 soups you will have ordinary vegetable 
 soup. 
 
 Vatel. What, monsieur? 
 
 PoiRrER. It is my will. Continue. 
 
 Vatel. After the soup: Carpe du Rhin 
 it la Lithuanienne, poulardes & la Godard, 
 filet de hceuf braisS aux raisins A la Napoli- 
 taine, Westphalian ham, Madeira sauce. 
 
 Poirier. Here 's an easier and much 
 healthier after-soup course for you: Brill 
 with caper sauce; Bayonne ham with spin- 
 ach; larded veal with gooseberries; and 
 rabbit. 
 
 Vatel. But, Monsieur Poirier, I shall 
 never consent to -j- 
 
 Poirier. I am master here, do you un- 
 derstand? Continue. 
 
 Vatel. Entries: Filets de volaille A la 
 concordat — croustades de truces gamies de 
 foie a la royale; stuffed pheasants d la Moni- 
 pensier, red partridges farcis A la hoh&- 
 mienne. 
 
 Poirier. Instead of these entries we'll 
 have nothing at all. Let's proceed at once 
 to the roasts. That's the important part. 
 
 Vatel. But this is against all the pre- 
 cepts of the art. 
 
 Poirier. I '11 take the responsibility for 
 that. Now, what are your roasts? 
 
 Vatel. There is no use going any further, 
 monsieur; my ancestor thrust a sword 
 through his heart for a lesser insult. I 
 resign. 
 
 Poirier. I was just going to ask you to 
 do that, old man. Of course, you still have 
 a week here, while I can look for another 
 servant — 
 
 Vatel. A servant! Monsieur, I am a 
 chef! 
 
 Poirier. I am going to replace you by 
 a woman-cook. Meantime, during the week 
 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 
 
 PoiRiER [aside]. Another stickler for his 
 name! [Alovd.] Blow your brains out, 
 Monsieur Vatel, but be careful not to burn 
 my sauces. Good-day to you. [Vatel 
 goes out.] And now I 'm going to invite some 
 of my old friends from the Rue des Bour- 
 donnais. Monsieur le Marquis de Presles, 
 we are going to tnake you come down a few 
 pegs! 
 
 [He goes ovi humming the first 
 
 verse of "Monsieur et Madame 
 
 Dems."] 
 
 ACT III 
 
 [The scene is the same. Gaston and 
 Antoinette are present.] 
 
 Gaston. What a delightful ride! Charm- 
 ing spring weather. You might almost 
 think it was April! 
 
 Antoinette. Really, were n't you too 
 bored? 
 
 Gaston. With you, my dear? As a mat- 
 ter of fact, you are the most charming 
 woman I know. 
 
 Antoinette. Compliments, Monsieur? 
 
 Gaston. Oh, no: the truth in its most 
 . brutal form. And what a delightful 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. 
 
 Antoinette. And I don't displease you 
 too much? 
 
 Gaston. It is my place to ask yqu that 
 question. I feel like a peasant who has 
 been entertaining a disguised queen: all at 
 once the queen puts on her crown and the 
 peasant feels embarrassed and makes ex- 
 cuses for not having been more attentive 
 and hospitable. 
 
 Antoinette. Be assured, good peasant, 
 that your queen blamed nothing except her 
 own incognito. 
 
 Gaston. For having kept it so long, 
 cruel queen? Was 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 
 lover. 
 
 Antoinetth. Noj my dear Gaston, re- 
 main my husband. I think that a womani 
 can cease to love her lover, never her hus- 
 band. 
 
 Gaston. Ah, so you are not romantic? 
 
 Antoinette. I am, but in my own way.. 
 My ideas on the subject are perhaps not 
 fashionable, but they are deeply rooted in 
 me, like childhood 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 tenderest 
 and closest of all relationships. To love a 
 man who is not my husband seems con- 
 trary to nature. 
 
 Gaston. The ideas rather of a Roman 
 matron, my dear Antoinette, but keep them , , 
 for the sake of my honor and my happiness. 
 
 Antoinette. Take care! "There is an- 
 other side: I am jealous, I warn you. If 
 there is only one man in the world whom I 
 can love, I must have all his love. The day 
 I discover that this is not so, 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. 
 
 Gaston [aside]. The devil! [Aloud.] 
 Fear nothing, dear Antoinette, we shall 
 live like two lovers, like Philemon and 
 Baucis — with the exception of the hut — 
 you don't insist on the hut, do you? 
 
 Antoinette. Not in the least. 
 
 Gaston. 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. 
 
 Antoinette. Must we proclaim our hap- 
 piness so loud? 
 
 Gaston. Don't you like entertainments? 
 
 Antoinette. I like everjrthing that you 
 like. Are we going to have company at 
 dinner to-day? 
 
 Gaston. No — to-morrow. To-day we 
 have only Montmeyran. Why did you 
 ask? 
 
 Antoinette. Should I dress? 
 
 Gaston. Yes, because I want you to 
 make married life attractive to Hector. 
 Go now, my dear child. I shan't forget this 
 happy dayl 
 
432 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Antoinette. How happy I am! 
 
 [She goes out.] 
 
 Gaston. There is no denying the fact: 
 she is prettier than Madame de Montjay. 
 Devil take me if I am not falling in love 
 with my wife! Love is like good fortune: 
 while we seek it afar, it is waiting for us at 
 home. 
 
 [Enter Poirier.] 
 
 Well, my dear father-in-law, how are you 
 taking your little disappointment? Are you 
 still angry on account of the money? Have 
 you decided to do something? 
 
 Poirier. I have. 
 
 Gaston. Something violent? 
 
 Poirier. Something necessary. 
 
 Gaston. Might I be so indiscreet as to 
 inquire what? 
 
 Poirier. On the contrary, monsieur, I 
 even owe you an explanation. When I 
 gave you my daughter together with a mil- 
 lion francs dowry, I never for a moment 
 thought that you would refuse to take a 
 position. 
 ^ Gaston. Please let's drop that subject. 
 
 Poirier. I merely wanted to remind 
 you. I confess I was wrong in thinking that 
 a gentleman would ever consent to work 
 like a man ; I own my mistake. Asa result 
 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 therefore 
 thought of making a few reforms, which 
 you will undoubtedly approve. 
 
 Gaston. Proceed, Sully! Go on, Turgot! 
 Cut, slash. You find me in splendid humor! 
 Take advantage of the fact. 
 
 Poirier. I am most delighted at your 
 condescension. I have, I say, decided, 
 resolved, commanded — 
 
 Gaston. I beg your pardon, father-in- 
 law, but if you have decided, resolved, 
 commanded, it seems quite superfluous for 
 you to consult me. 
 
 Poirier. I am not consulting you; I 
 am merely telling you the facts. 
 
 Gaston. So you are not consulting me? 
 Poirier. Are you surprised? 
 Gaston. A little, but, as I told you, I 
 am in splendid humor. 
 
 Poirier. Well, the first reform, my 
 dear boy — 
 
 Gaston. You mean, your dear Gaston, 
 I think? A slip of the tongue! 
 
 Poirier. Dear Gaston, dear boy — all 
 the same. Some familiarity between 
 father-in-law and son-in-law is allowed, 
 doubtless? 
 
 Gaston. And on your part. Monsieur 
 Poirier, it flatters and honors me. You 
 were about to say that your first reform — ? 
 
 Poirier. That you, monsieur, do me the 
 favor to stop making fun of me. I'm tired 
 of being the butt of all your jokes. 
 
 Gaston. Now, now. Monsieur Poirier, 
 don't be angry. 
 
 Poirier. I know very well that you 
 think I'm of little account, that I'm not 
 very intelligent, but — 
 
 Gaston. Where did you get that idea? 
 
 PoiKiER. But let me tell you, there is 
 more brains in my little finger than there 
 is in your whole body. 
 
 Gaston. This is ridiculous — 
 
 Poirier. I'm no marquis! 
 
 Gaston. Hush! Not so loud! Some one ' 
 might believe it! 
 
 Poirier. It makes no difference to me 
 whether they do or not. I don't pretend to 
 be a gentleman, thank God! It's not worth 
 troubling my mind about. 
 
 Gaston. Not worth troubling about? 
 
 Poirier. 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 laugh at 
 the mere accident of birth. The nobility 
 don't dazzle 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. 
 
 Gaston. Do you think I have merits? 
 
 Poirier. No, monsieur, I do not. 
 
 Gaston. No? Then, why did you give 
 me your daughter? 
 
 Poirier. Why did I — ? 
 
 Gaston. Possibly you had some after- 
 thought? 
 
THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 433 
 
 PoiKiER [embarrassed]. Afterthought? 
 
 Gaston. Allow me: your daughter did 
 not love me when you brought me to your 
 home; and certainly it was not my debts 
 which appealed to you, and which caused 
 the honor of your choice to fall upon me. 
 Now, since it was not my title either, I am 
 forced to assume that you must have had 
 some afterthought. 
 
 PoiRiEB. And what of it, monsieur? 
 What if I did try to combine my own in- 
 terest with my daughter's happiness? 
 Where would be the harm? Who could 
 blame me, I who gave a million right out of 
 my pocket, for choosing a son-in-law 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 
 Poirier; I only say that you were wrong in 
 one respect: not to have had confidence in 
 me. 
 
 PoiRiEB. Well, you are not a very en- 
 couraging sort of man. 
 
 Gaston. Are you blaming me for my 
 occasional jokes at your expense? Pos- 
 sibly I am not the most 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 right that you were 
 looking for the support which I have found 
 in you. 
 
 PoiBiER [aside]. Can he really have un- 
 derstood the situation? 
 
 Gaston. Look here, my dear father-in- 
 law, can I help you in any way? That is, if 
 I am good for anything? 
 
 PoiKiBR. Well, I once dreamed of being 
 introduced at court. 
 
 Gaston. Ah, so you still have that de- 
 sire to dance at court? 
 
 PoiBiER. It's not a matter of dancing. 
 Do me the honor of thinking me not quite 
 so frivolous as that. I am not vain or 
 trivial. 
 
 Gaston. Then, in the name of Heaven, 
 what are you? Explain yourself. 
 
 Poirier [piteously]. I am ambitious. 
 
 Gaston. Why, you're not blushing, are 
 you? Why? With all the experience you 
 have acquired in the realm of business, you 
 
 might well aspire to any heights? Com- 
 merce is the true school for statesmanship. 
 
 Poirier. 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 Richelieus and Colberts sprang. 
 
 Poirier. Oh, I don't pretend — ! 
 
 Gaston. Now, my good Monsieur 
 Poirier, what would suit you? A prefec- 
 ture? Nonsense! Council of State? No! 
 Diplomatic service? Let me see, the Turk- 
 ish Embassy is vacant at present — 
 
 Poirier. I'm a stay-at-home — and 
 then I don't understand Turkish. 
 
 Gaston. Wait! [Striking Poirier on the 
 shoulder.] The peerage — it would fit you 
 toaT. 
 
 Poirier. Oh! Do you really think so? 
 
 Gaston. That's the trouble: you don't 
 fall into any category, you see. The In- 
 stitute? No. You're not a member of the 
 Institute? 
 
 Poirier. 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, MachiaveUi! Sixtus V! 
 You'll outstrip them all! 
 
 Poirier. Yes, I think I will! 
 
 Gaston. But I sincerely hope your am- 
 bition will not stop there? You must have 
 a title. 
 
 Poirier. Oh, I don't insist on such 
 vain baubles. I 'm an old Liberal, as I 
 told you. 
 
 Gaston. All the more reason. A Liberal 
 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, I'll be reasonable about 
 it: a baronetcy would sufiice. 
 
 Gaston. Baron Poirier! Sounds well! 
 
 Poirier. Yes, Baron Poirier ! 
 
 Gaston [looks at Poirier and then hursts 
 out laughing]. 1 beg your pardon! But — 
 
434 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 really — this is too funny! Baron — ! 
 Monsieur Poirier! Baron de Catillard — ! 
 
 PoiRiER [aside]. He's been making fun 
 of me! 
 
 Gaston [calling]. Come here, Hector! 
 
 [Enter the Duke.] 
 
 Come here! Do you know why Jean 
 Gaston de Presles received three wounds 
 from an arquebuse at the battle of Ivry? 
 Do you know why Fran5ois Gaston de 
 Presles led the attack on La Rochelle? 
 Why Louis Gaston de Presles was blown to 
 pieces at La Hogue? Why Philippe Gaston 
 de Presles captured two flags at Fontenoy? 
 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 baron! 
 
 Duke. What do you mean? 
 
 Gaston. This is the secret of that little 
 attack on me this morning. 
 
 Duke [aside]. 1 see! 
 
 Poirier. And do you know, Monsieur 
 de Due, why I have worked fourteen hours 
 a day for thirty years? Why I heaped up, 
 sou by sou, four millions of cash, while I 
 deprived myself of everything but bare ne- 
 cessities? It was all in order that some day 
 Monsieur le Marquis Gaston de Presles, 
 who died neither at Quiberon, nor at Fon- 
 tenoy, nor at La Hogue, nor anywhere 
 else, might die of old age on a feather bed, 
 after having spent his life doing nothing 
 at all. 
 
 Duke. Well said, monsieur! 
 
 Gaston. You are cut out for an orator! 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. There are some gentlemen 
 here who would like to see the apartment. 
 
 Gaston. What apartment? 
 
 Servant. Monsieur le Marquis's — 
 
 Gaston. Do they think this a natural 
 history museum? 
 
 Poirier [to the Servant]. Tell the gentle- 
 men to call again. [The Servant goes out.] 
 Pardon me, son-in-law, I was so carried 
 away by your gayety, that I forgot to 
 mention that I am renting the first floor 
 of my house. 
 
 Gaston. What's that? 
 
 Poirier. That is one of the little re- 
 forms I was speaking about. 
 
 Gaston. And where do you intend to 
 lodge me? 
 
 Poirier. On the floor above: the apart- 
 ment is large enough for us all. 
 
 Gaston. A Noah's Ark! 
 
 Poirier. Of cour.se, it goes without 
 saying that I am renting the stables and 
 carriages, too. 
 
 Gaston. And my horses — are you 
 going to lodge them on the second floor? 
 
 Poirier. You will sell them. 
 
 Gaston. 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 coup6. I'll lend it to you when you 
 need it. 
 
 Duke. When the weather is nice! 
 
 Gaston. Now, see here, Monsieur 
 Poirier, this is — ! 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. Monsieur Vatel would like to 
 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 funeral? And on the 
 eve of battle! 
 
 Vatel. The position in which I have 
 been placed is such that I am forced to 
 desert in order to escape dishonor. Will 
 Monsieur le Marquis kindly cast his eyes 
 over the menu which Monsieur Poirier has 
 imposed upon me! 
 
 Gaston. Monsieur Poirier imposed on 
 you? Let us see. [Reading.] " Lapin 
 saute !" 
 
 Poirier. My old friend Ducaillou's 
 favorite dish. 
 
 Gaston. "Stuffed turkey and chest- 
 nuts!" 
 
 Poirier. My old comrade Groschenet 
 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 resignation, 
 
THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 435 
 
 Monsieur Vatel. [Vatel goes oiU.] So, 
 to-morrow my friends are to have the 
 honor of meeting yours? 
 
 PomiER. Exactly; they will have that 
 honor. Monsieur le Due will not, I hope, 
 feel humiliated at having to eat soup — 
 my soup — as he sits between Monsieur 
 and Madame Pincebourde? 
 
 DtJKE. Not at all. This little debauch 
 is not in the least displeasing. Undoubt- 
 edly Madame Pincebovirde will sing during 
 the dessert? 
 
 Gaston. And after dinner we shall have 
 a game of piquet, too? 
 
 Duke. Or lotto. 
 
 PoiBiBK. Pope Joan also. 
 
 Gaston. And I trust we shall repeat the 
 debauch from time to time ? 
 
 PoiBiEB. My home will be open every 
 evening, and your friends will always find 
 a welcome there. 
 
 Gaston. Really, Monsieur Poirier, your 
 home will soon become a center of marvel- 
 ous pleasures, a miniature Capua. But I 
 am afraid I should become a slave of lux- 
 ury and I shall, therefore, leave no later 
 than to-morrow. 
 
 PoiRiEH. 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? 
 
 PoiBiBB. Or will you enter the Depart- 
 ment of Roads and Bridges? For you will 
 certainly be unable to keep up your rank 
 on nine thousand francs income? 
 
 Gaston. Nine thousand francs income? 
 
 Poirier. Well, 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 eighteen 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 & la Lithuanienne and Volailles & la 
 concordat f Take my word for it, my dear 
 Gaston, stay with me; you will be more 
 comfortable than in a home of your own. 
 
 Think of your children, who will not be 
 sorry some day to find in the pockets of the 
 Marquis de Presles the savings of old man 
 Poirier. Good-bye, son-in-law, I'm going 
 to settle accounts with Monsieur Vatel. 
 
 [Poirier goes out.] 
 
 Gaston [as he and the Duke exchange 
 glances and the Duke bursts into peals of 
 laughter]. You think it funny, do you? 
 
 Duke. Indeed I do! So this is the mod- 
 est and generous fruit-tree of a father-in- 
 law! This Georges Dandin! At last you've 
 found your master, old man. In the name 
 of Heaven, don't look so miserable! See 
 there, you look like a prince starting on a 
 crusade, turning back because of the rain! 
 Smile a little; this is n't so tragic after 
 all! 
 
 Gaston. You are right. Monsieur Poi- 
 rier, you are rendering me a great serv- 
 ice that you little dream of! 
 
 Duke. A service? 
 
 Gaston. Yes, my dear fellow. I was 
 about to make a fool of myself: fall in love 
 with my wife. Fortunately, Monsieur 
 Poirier has put a stop to that. 
 
 Duke. Your wife is not to blame for the 
 stupidity of her father. She is charming! 
 
 Gaston. Nonsense! She's just like her 
 father! 
 
 Duke. Not the least bit, I tell you! 
 
 Gaston. There is a family resemblance 
 — I insist! I could n't kiss 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 be a kitchen fire- 
 side — [He takes out his watch.] Good- 
 evening! 
 
 Duke. Where are you going? 
 
 Gaston. To Madame de Montjay's; 
 she's been waiting two hours already. 
 
 Duke. Gaston, don't go. 
 
 Gaston. They want to make my life 
 a hardship for me here, make me feel 
 penitent — 
 
 Duke. Listen to me! 
 
 Gaston. You can't persuade me. 
 
 Duke. What about your duel? 
 
 Gaston. That's so — I'd forgotten 
 about that. 
 
 Duke. You are going to fight to-morrow 
 at two in the Bois de Yincennes. 
 
436 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Gaston. Very well. With this humor 
 on me, Pontgrimaud is going to spend a 
 nice fifteen minutes to-morrow! 
 
 [Enter Veedelet and Antoinette.] 
 
 Antoinette. Are you going out, dear? 
 
 Gaston. Yes, madame, I am going out. 
 [He goes out.] 
 
 Verdelet. Well, Toinon, his humor 
 isn't quite so charming as you described 
 it? 
 
 Antoinette. I don't understand why — ? 
 
 Duke. Very serious things are happen- 
 ing, madame. 
 
 Antoinette. What? 
 I Duke. Your father is ambitious. 
 
 Vebdelet. Poirier ambitious? 
 
 Duke. He was counting on his son-in- 
 law's title to — 
 
 Verdelet. Get into the peerage — 
 like Monsieur Michaud! [Aside.] Old fool! 
 
 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. 
 
 Antoinette. How do you mean? 
 
 Vebdelet. It's only too simple: if your 
 father is making the house disagreeable to 
 your husband, he will seek distraction 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Antoinette. 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 
 was. 
 
 Antoinette. No harm done yet? 
 Everything can be as it was? You make 
 me very much afraid. Against whom am 
 1 to defend myself? 
 
 Duke. Against your father. 
 
 Antoinette. No: you are not telling me 
 everything. What my father has done is 
 not enough to take my husband from me 
 in the space of a single day. He's making 
 love to some woman, is he not? 
 
 Duke. No, madame, but — 
 
 Antoinette. Please, Monsieur le Due, 
 don't try to hide the truth. I have a rival! 
 
 Duke. Do calm yourself! 
 
 Antoinette. I feel it. I know it! He is 
 with her now! 
 
 Duke. No, madame: he loves you. 
 
 Antoinette. But he has just come to 
 know me since an hour ago. Ha, it was n't 
 to me that he felt he must tell of his anger 
 — he went elsewhere with his troubles! 
 
 Vebdelet. 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 made me angry. 
 
 [Enter a Servant carrying a letter on a 
 silver plate.] 
 
 Seevant. a letter for Monsieur le Mar- 
 quis. 
 
 Antoinette. He has gone out. Lay it 
 there. [The Servant lays the letter on a table. 
 Antoinette looks at it, and says, aside:] 
 A woman's hand! [Aloud.] From whom 
 does this come? 
 
 Seevant. Madame de Montjay's foot- 
 man brought it. [He goes out.] 
 
 Antoinette [aside], Madame de Mont- 
 jay! 
 
 Duke. I shall see Gaston before you, 
 madame. Would you like me to give him 
 the letter? 
 
 Antoinette. Are you afraid I might 
 open it? 
 
 Duke. Oh, madame! 
 
 Antoinette. It must have crossed 
 Gaston. 
 
 Verdelet. The idea! Your husband's 
 mistress would never dare write him here! 
 
 Antoinette. She must despise me, if 
 she would dare to write to him here. But 
 I don't say she is his mistress. I only say 
 that he is making love to her. I say that 
 because I am positive. 
 
 Duke. But I swear, madame — 
 
 Antoinette. Would you dare swear, 
 —seriously swear, — Monsieur le Due? 
 
 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 
 is, I have warned you of the danger and 
 suggested a means of escape. I have done 
 my duty as a friend and an honorable man. 
 Do not ask anything else of me. 
 
 [He goes out.] 
 
THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 437 
 
 Antoinette. I have just lost every- 
 thing I had won in Gaston's affection. 
 An hour ago he called me Marquise, and 
 my father has just brutally reminded him 
 that I was Mademoiselle Poirier. 
 
 Verdelet. Well, is it impossible for 
 any one to love Mademoiselle Poirier? 
 
 Antoinette. Possibly my own devo- 
 tion might have touched him, my own love 
 have awakened his. That was already 
 beginning, but my father has stopped it. 
 His mistress! She can't be that yet, can 
 she, Tony? You don't really believe she 
 is, do you? 
 
 Verdelet. Certainly not! 
 
 Antoinette. I understand how he 
 might have been making love to her for the 
 last few days. But if he is really her lover, 
 then he must have begun the day after our 
 marriage. That would be vile! 
 
 Verdelet. Yes, my dear child. 
 
 Antoinette. Of course, he 'didn't 
 marry me with the idea that he wovild 
 never love me — he should n't have con- 
 demned me so soon. 
 
 Verdelet. 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 sort! You know very well my hus- 
 band would n't be capable of it! Tell me — 
 there's no doubt, is there? You don't 
 think him so low? 
 
 Verdelet. No! 
 
 Antoinette. Then you can swear he 
 is innocent! Swear it, dear Tony, swear 
 it! 
 
 Verdelet. I swear it! I swear it! 
 
 Antoinette. Why is she writing a letter 
 to him? 
 
 Verdelet. 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 think that 
 the secret of my whole future life is in that 
 envelope. Let's go — that letter tempts 
 me — 
 
 [She lays the letter, which she has 
 meanwhile picked up, on the 
 table and stands fixedly looking 
 at it.] 
 
 Verdelet. Come, then, you are right. 
 [She does not move.] 
 
 [Enter Poirier.] 
 
 Poirier. Why, Antoinette — [To 
 Verdelet.] What is she looking at? A 
 letter? [He picks up the letter.] 
 
 Antoinette. Leave it there, father, it 
 is addressed to Monsieur de Presles. 
 
 Poirier [looking at the addresis]. Pretty 
 handwriting! [He sniffs the letter.] Does n't 
 smell of tobacco! It's from a woman! 
 
 Antoinette. Yes, I know; it's from 
 Madame de Montjay. 
 
 Poirier. How excited you are! You're 
 feverish, are n't you? [He takes her hand.] 
 You are! 
 
 Antoinette. No, father. 
 
 Poirier. Yes, you are. What's the 
 matter? Tell me. 
 
 Antoinette. Nothing, I tell you. 
 
 Verdelet [aside to Poirier]. Don't 
 worry her. She's jealous. 
 
 Poirier. Are you jealous? Is the Marquis 
 unfaithful to you? By God, if that's so — 
 
 Antoinette. Father, dear, if you love 
 me, don't — 
 
 PoiEiEB. If I love you — ! 
 
 Antoinette. Don't torment Gaston. 
 
 PoiRiEH. Who's tormenting him? I'm 
 just economizing, that's all. 
 
 Verdelet. You irritate the Marquia, 
 and your daughter suffers for it. 
 
 Poirier. You mind your own business. 
 [To Antoinette.] What has that man 
 done to you? I must know. 
 
 Antoinette [frighterted]. Nothing — 
 nothing. Don't quarrel with him, for 
 Heaven's sake! 
 
 Poirier. Then, why are you jealous? 
 Why are you looking at that letter, eh? 
 [He takes the letter.] Do you think that 
 Madame de Montjay — ? 
 
 Antoinette. No, no! 
 
 Poirier. She does, does n't she, Verde- 
 let? 
 
 Verdelet. Well, she thinks — 
 
 Poirier. It's very easy to find out — 
 [He breaks the seal.] 
 
 Antoinette. Father! A letter is sacred. 
 
 Poirier. There is nothing so sacred to 
 me as your happiness. 
 
 Verdelet. Take care, Poirier. What 
 will your son-in-law say? 
 
438 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 PoiRiEK. I don't care a hang about my 
 son-in-law. [He opens the leltei .] 
 
 Antoinette. Please, don't read that 
 letter. 
 
 PoiKiER. I will read it. If it is n't my 
 right, it is my duty. [Reading:] " Dear 
 Gaston — " The blackguard! 
 
 [He drops the letter.] 
 
 Antoinette. She is his mistress! Oh, 
 God! [She falls into a chair.] 
 
 PoiRiBK [taking Vebdelet by the coat 
 collar]. You allowed me to arrange this 
 marriage! 
 
 Vbedelet. Oh — this is too much! 
 
 PoiRiBR. 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? 
 
 Vebdelet. I told you twenty times — 
 but, no, monsieur was ambitious! 
 
 PoiRiBR. Much good it did me! 
 
 Vbedelet. She's fainting! 
 
 PoiRiER. Good God! 
 
 Vbrdelet [kneeling before Antoinette]. 
 Toinon, my child, come to yourself! 
 
 PoiBiER. Get out! You don't know 
 what to say to her! [Kneeling before An- 
 toinette.] Toinon, my child, come to 
 yourself! 
 
 Antoinette. It was nothing — I'm 
 well, father. 
 
 PoiRiER. Don't worry, I '11 get rid of the 
 monster for you. 
 
 Antoinette. What have I done to 
 deserve this! And after three months of 
 marriage! Why — the day after, the day 
 after — ! 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 I was giving my- 
 self and my love completely up to him. 
 The wretch! I can't live — after this! 
 
 PoiRiER. Can't live! You must! What 
 would become of me without you? The 
 scoundrel! Where are you going? 
 
 Antoinette. To my room. 
 
 PoiBiEB. Do you want me to come with 
 you? 
 
 Antoinette. Thank you, father, — no. 
 
 Vebdelet [to Poirieb]. Leave her to cry 
 
 alone. Tears will make her feel better. 
 
 [Antoinette goes out.] 
 
 PoiBiBB. What a marriage! What a 
 marriage! 
 
 [He strides back and forth, striking 
 his breast as he walks.] 
 
 Vebdelet. Calm yourself, Poirier, 
 everything can be arranged again. At 
 present our duty is to bring these two 
 hearts together again. 
 
 Poirieb. I know my duty and I am 
 going to do it. [He picks up the letter.] 
 
 Vebdelet. Please, now, don't do any- 
 thing foolish! 
 
 [Enter Gaston.] 
 
 Poirieb. 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 pocket. 
 
 Gaston. Have you by any chance 
 opened it? 
 
 Poirieb. Yes, monsieur, I have. 
 
 Gaston. You have? Do you realize, mon- 
 sieur, that that is an infamous trick? The 
 act of a dishonest and dishonorable man? 
 
 Vebdelet. Monsieur le Marquis! — 
 Poirier! 
 
 Poirier. There is only one dishonorable 
 man here, and that is you! 
 
 Gaston. Let us drop that! In stealing 
 from me the secret of my fault, you have 
 forfeited the right to judge it. There is 
 but one thing more sacred than the lock of 
 a safe, monsieur, and that is the seal of a 
 letter — because it cannot defend itself. 
 
 Vebdelet [to Poirieb]. What did I tell 
 you? 
 
 PoiEiBB. This is ridiculous! Do you 
 mean to tell me that a father has n't the 
 right — ? Why, I'm doing you a great 
 favor even to answer you! You'll explain 
 in court, Monsieur le Marquis. 
 
 Vebdelet. In court! 
 
 Poibier. 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? 
 
 Poirier. In public. Yes, monsieur, in 
 public. 
 
 Verdelet. You 're crazy, Poirier. Think 
 of the scandal! 
 
THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 439 
 
 Gaston. Of course, you're forgetting: 
 a woman will lose her reputation! 
 
 PoiBiER. Now, say something about her 
 honor! Yes, I expected that! 
 
 Gaston. Yes, her honor, and if that 
 is n't enough to dissuade you, her ruin — 
 
 PoraiER. So much the better! I'm de- 
 lighted! She will get all she deserves, 
 the — ! 
 
 Gaston. Monsieur — ! 
 
 PoiRiBR. She'll get no sympathy! To 
 take a husband from his poor young wife, 
 after three months of marriage! 
 
 Gaston. She is less to blame than I. 
 I am the only one you should accuse — 
 
 PoiRiER. You need n't worry: I despise 
 you as the lowest of the low! Are n't 
 you ashamed of yourself? To sacrifice a 
 charming woman like Antoinette! Has she 
 ever given you cause for complaint? Find 
 a 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 cost me, Verdelet? 
 
 Veedelet. Do keep calm, Poirier! 
 
 PoiRiER. 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. 
 
 PoiRiER. I have thought it over. 
 
 Gaston [to Verdelet]. Please help me 
 to prevent him from committing an irrep- 
 arable blunder, monsieur. 
 
 Verdelet. Ah, you don't know him. 
 
 Gaston [to Poirier]. 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. 
 
 Poirier. I know that very well. 
 
 Gaston. You have no idea how desper- 
 ate I can be. 
 
 Poirier. So you're threatening? 
 
 Gaston. Yes, I am threatening. Give 
 me that letter. You are not going to leave 
 this room until I have it. 
 
 Poirier. Violence, eh? Must I ring for 
 the servants? 
 
 Gaston. That 's so — I 'm losing 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. 
 
 Poirier. I have a right to be angry, 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 your 
 daughter happy — ? 
 
 Poirier. It would merely be the sec- 
 ond time you have sworn! Let's stop this 
 nonsense! 
 
 Gaston. Very well. You were right this 
 morning: it is lack of an occupation that 
 has been my ruin. 
 
 Poirier. Ah, now. you admit it! 
 
 Gaston. Well, what if I took a position? 
 
 Poirier. 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 — 
 
 Verdelet. That's a good guarantee, 
 Poirier. 
 
 Poirier. A guarantee of what? 
 
 Verdelet. That he will stand by his 
 promise: that he will never see that lady 
 again, that he will take a position, that he 
 will make your daughter happy. What 
 more can you ask? 
 
 Poirier. I see; but what assurance can 
 I have? 
 
 Verdelet. The letter! What the devil, 
 the letter! 
 
 Poirier. That's so, yes, that's so. 
 
 Verdelet. Well, do you accept? Any- 
 thing is better than a divorce. 
 
 Poirier. I don't quite agree with that, 
 but if you insist — [To the Marquis.] For 
 my part, monsieur, I am willing to accept 
 your offer. Now we have only to consult 
 my daughter. 
 
 Verdelet. She will surely not want any 
 scandal. 
 
 Poirier. Let's go and find her. [To 
 Gaston.] Believe me, monsieur, my only 
 object in all this is to assure my daughter's 
 happiness. 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 remain 
 
440 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 the same plain business man I have al- 
 ways been. 
 
 Vebdblet. Good, Poirier! 
 
 PoiBiER [to Vbkdelet]. So long, at least, 
 as he does n 't make my daughter so 
 happy that — [They go out.] 
 
 Gaston. Blame it on yourself, Marquis 
 de Presles. What humiliations! Ah, Ma- 
 dame de Montjay! This is the hour of 
 my fate. What are they going to do with 
 me? Condemn me, or that unfortunate 
 woman? Shame or remorse? And it has 
 all been because of one caprice — a single 
 day! Blame it on yourself. Marquis de 
 Presles — you have no one else to blame. 
 [He stands plunged in thought.] 
 
 [Enter the Duke, who comes up to Gaston 
 and slaps him on the shoulder.] 
 
 Duke. What 's the matter? 
 
 Gaston. You know what my father-in- 
 law asked me this morning? 
 
 Duke. Yes. 
 
 Gaston. What if I told you I was go- 
 ing to accede to his wishes? 
 
 Duke. I should say. Impossible! 
 
 Gaston. And yet it's a fact: I am. 
 
 Duke. Are you crazy? 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. 
 
 Duke. Poor fellow! You are in a diffi- 
 cult situation! 
 
 Gaston. Pontgrimaud would be render- 
 ing me a great service if he were to kill me 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Duke. Come, come, put that idea out of 
 your head. 
 
 Gaston. That would be a solution. 
 
 Duke. 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 say that I may have a happy life before 
 
 me, but I tell you I am disgusted with life 
 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! 
 
 Duke. Courage, my friend. Don't lose 
 hope! 
 
 Gaston [rising]. Yes, I am a coward. A 
 gentleman may lose everything except his 
 honor. 
 
 Duke. What are you going to do? 
 
 Gaston. What you would do in my 
 place. 
 
 Duke. I should not kill myself ! No! 
 
 Gaston. You see, then, you have 
 guessed! — Sh-h! I have only my name 
 now, and I want to keep that intact. Some 
 one's coming! 
 
 [Enter PoiBrER, Antoinette, and 
 
 VeRDBIiET.] 
 
 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 again. He's going to make 
 you happy! 
 
 Antoinette. Happiness is no longer 
 possible 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 [to the Marquis]. Speak, mon- 
 sieur. 
 
 Antoinette. Monsieur de Presles says 
 nothing, because 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. 
 
 Poirier. Please, my child, think of the 
 scandal. It will affect us all. 
 
 Antoinette. It will harm only those 
 who are guilty. 
 
THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 441 
 
 Verdelet. Think of that woman whom 
 you will ruin — 
 
 Antoinette. Did she have pity on me? 
 Father, give me the letter. It is not as your 
 daughter that I ask for it, but as the out- 
 raged Marquise de Presles. 
 
 PoiRiER. There. — But I tell you he is 
 willing to take a position — 
 
 Antoinbttb. Give it to me. [To the 
 Marquis.] Here is 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 letter and throws 
 it into the fireplace.] 
 ■ PoiRiBR. Well — ! What's she done? 
 
 Antoinette. My duty. 
 
 Verdelet. Dear child! [He kisses her.] 
 
 Duke. Noble heart! 
 
 Gaston. Ah, madame, how can I hope to 
 express to you — ? I was so haughty and 
 proud — I thought I had made a misal- 
 liance, but I see that you bear my name 
 better than I! My whole life will not suf- 
 fice to make up for the evil I have done 
 you. 
 
 Antoinette. I am a widow, monsieur — 
 [She takes Verdelet's arm, and 
 starts to leave, as the curtain 
 falls.] 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 [The scene is the same. Antoinette is 
 seated between Vbrdblbt and Poirieh.] 
 
 Verdelet. I tell you you still love him. 
 
 PoiRiER. I tell you you hate him. 
 
 Verdblbt. No, no, Poirier — 
 
 PoiRiER. Yes, I say! Evidently what 
 happened yesterday is not enough for you! 
 I suppose you'd like to see that good-for- 
 nothing carry her off now? 
 
 Verdelet. I don't want Antoinette's 
 whole life ruined, but from the way you 
 go about things I — 
 
 Poirier. 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're not at swords' points with the Mar- 
 quis. Once let him carry her off 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 you! 
 You're selfish, like all old bachelors! 
 
 Verdelet. Take care, Poirier! Are you 
 positive that while you're pushing things 
 to extremes, you yourself are not acting 
 selfishly — ? 
 
 PoiRiBR. Ha, so I '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 her life a torture! [To Antoinette.] 
 Say something, can't you? It concerns you 
 more than it does us! 
 
 Antoinette. I don't love him any more, 
 Tony. He crushed out of my heart every- 
 thing that made me love him. 
 
 Poirier. You see! 
 
 Antoinette. I don't hate him, father; 
 I am simply indifferent to him. I don't 
 know him any more. 
 
 PoiRiBR. 'That's enough for me. 
 
 Verdelet. But, my poor Toinon, you 
 are just beginning life. Have you ever 
 thought what would become of a divorced 
 woman? Did you ever consider — ? 
 
 PoiRiBR. Verdelet, never mind your 
 sermons! 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'U see, dearie, what a 
 lovely life we'll lead, we two [indicating 
 Verdelet] — 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! Now, 
 smile at your father, and say that you're 
 happy with him. 
 
 Antoinette. Yes, father, very happy. 
 
 Poirier. Hear that, Verdelet? 
 
 Verdelet. Yes, yes. 
 
 Poirier. Now, as for your rascal of a 
 husband — why, you've been much too 
 good to him. We have him in our power at 
 last. I'll allow him a thousand crowns a 
 year, and he can go hang himself. 
 
 Antoinette. Let him take everything 
 that I have. 
 
 PoiBiER. Oh, no! 1. 
 
442 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Antoinette. I ask only one thing : never 
 to see him again. 
 
 PoiRiEB. He'll hear from me before 
 long. I've just delivered a last blow. 
 
 Antoinette. What have you done? 
 
 PoiRiBR. Offered the Chateau de Presles 
 for sale, the chi,teau of his worthy ances- 
 tors. 
 
 Antoinette. Have you done that? And 
 would you allow him, Tony? 
 
 Verdelet [aside to Antoinette]. Don't 
 worry. 
 
 PoiRiER. Yes, I have. The land specu- 
 lators know their business, 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 his fathers will be cut down and the 
 wood sawed into little pieces, which will be 
 burned in the fireplaces of good bourgeois, 
 who have earned the money to buy fire- 
 wood for themselves. And I myself will 
 buy a cord or two for my own use. 
 
 Antoinette. But he will think this is all 
 revenge. 
 
 PoiRiER. He will be perfectly right. 
 
 Antoinette. He will think it is I who — 
 
 Verdelet [aside to Antoinette]. Don't 
 worry, my dear. 
 
 PoiRiER. 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 Ch&teau de Presles " ! 
 
 Verdelet. Perhaps it's already sold! 
 
 PoiRiER. Since last evening? Nonsense! 
 I'm going to the printer's. [He goes out.] 
 
 Verdelet. Your father is absurd. If 
 we let him have his way, he'd make 
 reconciliation impossible between you and 
 your husband. 
 
 Antoinette. 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 Presles meant to 
 me — 
 
 Verdelet. Oh, indeed I do. 
 
 Antoinette. He was not only a hus- 
 band, but a mfaster whose slave I was proud 
 
 to be. I not only loved him, I admired him 
 as a great representative of a former age. 
 Oh, Tony, what a horrible awakening I've 
 had! 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. Monsieur le Marquis asks 
 whether madame will see him? 
 
 Antoinette. No. 
 
 Verdelet. See him, dear. [To the 
 Servant.] Monsieur le Marquis may come 
 in. [The Servant goes out.] 
 
 Antoinette. What good can come of it? 
 
 [Enter Gaston.] 
 
 Gaston. 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 come to say good- 
 bye to you. 
 
 Verdelet. What's this, monsieur? 
 
 Gaston. Yes; I am going to do the only 
 honorable thing that remains. You should 
 be able to understand that. 
 
 Verdelet. 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 Africa with Monsieur 
 de Montmeyran, who has been good enough 
 to sacrifice his leave of absence for my 
 sake. 
 
 Verdelet [aside to Antoinette]. What 
 a splendid fellow! 
 
 Antoinette [aside to Verdelet]. I 
 never said he was a coward! 
 
 Verdelet. 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 better 
 than to make amends. 
 
 Gaston. If there were anything I could 
 do — ! [A paiise.] There is nothing — I 
 know! [To Antoinette.] 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 still young and beautiful. And war 
 carries with it happy chances — 
 
THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 443 
 
 [Enter the Duke.] 
 
 Duke. I have come to get him. 
 
 Gaston, fcome. [Offering his hand to 
 Verdelet.] Good-bye, Monsieur Verde- 
 let. [They embrace.] Good-bye, madame, 
 — for always. 
 
 Duke. For always! He loves you, 
 madame. 
 
 Gaston. Hush! 
 
 Verdelet. He loves you desperately. 
 The moment he emerged from the black 
 abyss from which you have helped him, his 
 eyes were opened. He has seen you as you 
 really are. 
 
 Antoinette. Mademoiselle Poirier has 
 triumphed over Madame de Montjay. 
 How admirable! 
 
 Verdelet. You are cruel! 
 
 Gaston. She is only doing justice, mon- 
 sieur. She deserved the purest sort of love, 
 and I married her for her money. I made 
 a bargain, a bargain which I was not honest 
 enough to abide by. [To Antoinette.] 
 Yes, the very day after our marriage I 
 sacrificed you, out of pure viciousness, for 
 a woman who is far beneath you. Your 
 youth, your charm, your purity, were not 
 enough; no, in order to bring light to this 
 , darkened heart it was 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 eyes? When 
 I loved you, I did what any man in my 
 place would have done; in blinding myself 
 to your virtues and your splendid quali- 
 ties, I did what no one else would have 
 done. You are right, madame, to despise 
 a man who is utterly unworthy of you. 
 I have lost all, even the right to pity 
 myself — I don't pity myself. — Come, 
 Hector. 
 
 Dttke. Wait. Do you know where he is 
 going, madame? To fight a duel. 
 
 Verdelet and Antoinette. To fight a 
 duel? 
 
 Gaston. What are you saying? 
 
 Dtjke. Well, if your wife does n't love 
 you any longer, there is no reason for 
 hiding the truth. — Yes, madame, he is 
 going to fight a duel. 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, Tony, his life is in 
 danger — ! 
 
 DiTKB. What difference does that make 
 to you, madame? Is it possible that 
 everything is not over between you, 
 then? 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, no: everything is 
 over. Monsieur de Presles may dispose 
 of his life as he thinks best — he owes me 
 nothing — 
 
 DtTKE [to Gaston]. Come, then — 
 
 [They go as far as the door.] 
 
 Antoinette. Gaston! 
 
 Duke. You see, she still loves you! 
 
 Gaston [throwing himself at her feet]. 
 Oh, madame, if that is true, if I stiU have a 
 place in your affection, say some word — • 
 give me the wish to live. 
 
 [Enter Poiriee.] 
 
 Poirier. What are you doing there, 
 Monsieur le Marquis? 
 
 Antoinette. He is going to fight a 
 duel! 
 
 Poirier. A duel! And are you the least 
 bit surprised? Mistresses, duels — that's 
 to be expected. He who has land has war. 
 
 Antoinette. What do you mean, 
 father? Do you imagine — ? 
 
 Poirier. I'd wager my head on it. 
 
 Antoinette. That's not true, is it, 
 monsieur? You don't answer? 
 
 Poirier. Do you think he would be 
 honest enough to admit it? 
 
 Gaston. I cannot lie, madame. This 
 duel is the last remnant of an odious past. 
 
 Poirier. He's a fool to confess it! The 
 impudence! 
 
 Antoinette. And I was led to under- 
 stand that you still loved me! I was even 
 ready to forgive you — while you were on 
 the point of fighting a duel for your mis- 
 tress ! Why, this was a trap for my weak- 
 ness. Ah, Monsieur le Due! 
 
 Duke. He has already told you, ma- 
 dame, that this duel was the remnant of a 
 past which he detests and wants to lay at 
 rest and obliterate. 
 
 Verdelet [to the Marquis]. 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. 
 
444 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Gaston. What, monsieur, make ex- 
 cuses? 
 
 Vbbdelet. You must give Antoinette a 
 proof of your sincerity, and this is the only 
 one which you can give. Then did n't you 
 just now ask for something to do as an ex- 
 piation? Time was the only proof she 
 could impose. Are n't you happy that you 
 now have a chance, and that you can give 
 that proof at once? I know it's a great 
 sacrifice, but if it were any less, could it be 
 a real expiation? 
 
 PoiEiEB [aside]. The fool! He's going 
 to patch up matters! 
 
 Gaston. I would gladly sacrifice my life, 
 but my honor — the Marquise de Presles 
 would never accept that sort of sacrifice. 
 
 Antoinette. What if you were mis- 
 taken, monsieur? What if I would accept 
 it? 
 
 Gaston. What, madame, would you ask 
 me — ? 
 
 Antoinette. 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 most offensive to me? How 
 can I believe in your love, if it is less strong 
 than your pride? 
 
 PoiRiER. Then what good would a sword- 
 scratch do you? Take my word for it, 
 prudence is the mother of safety. 
 
 Verdblet [aside]. Old fool! 
 
 Gaston. See? That is what people 
 will say. 
 
 Antoinette. Who would doubt your 
 courage? Have n't you given ample proofs 
 of it? 
 
 PoiRiBR. And then what do you care for 
 the opinion of a lot of know-nothings? You 
 will have the respect of my friends, and 
 that ought to be enough — 
 
 Gaston. You see, madame, jpeople 
 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 
 levity. 
 
 Gaston. What! 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 
 affects only your own person^ pride. 
 
 Gaston. But to make excuses on the 
 ground — ? 
 
 Poibier. I would! 
 
 Vebdelbt. Really, Poirier, one might 
 think you were trying to make him fight! 
 
 Poibier. I'm doing all in my power to 
 prevent him. 
 
 Duke. Come, Gaston, you have no 
 right to refuse this proof to your wife. 
 
 Gaston. Well — no! It's out of the 
 question! 
 
 Antoinette. That is the price of my 
 forgiveness. 
 
 Gaston. Then I refuse it, madame. I 
 shan't carry my sorrow very long. 
 
 Poirier. 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 like an expert swimmer trying 
 to drown himself: once in the water, the 
 devil himself could n't keep him from 
 saving himself. 
 
 Antoinette. If Madame de Montjay 
 objected to your fighting, you would give 
 in to her. Good-bye. 
 
 Gaston. Antoinette, for God's sake — 1« 
 
 Duke. She is exactly right. 
 
 Gaston. Excuses! I offer excuses! 
 
 Antoinette. I see, you are thinking 
 only of your own pride! 
 
 Duke. Gaston! Give in! I swear I 
 would do the same thing in your place. 
 
 Gaston. Very well — but to Pont- 
 grimaud! — Go without me, then. 
 
 Duke [to Antoinette]. Madame, are 
 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 Marquis 
 stands still, his head bowed. Antoinette 
 goes to him, takes his head in her hands, and 
 kisses his forehead.] Now, go and fight! 
 Go! 
 
 Gaston. My dearest wife, you have my 
 mother's heart! 
 
 Antoinette. No, my mother's, mon- 
 sieur — 
 
THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 445 
 
 PoiRiEB [aside]. What idiots women 
 are! 
 
 Gaston [to the Duke]. Quick, or we 
 shall be late. 
 
 Antoinette. You are a good swords- 
 man, are you not? 
 
 Duke. He's as good as St. George, 
 madame, and he has a wrist of steel. Mon- 
 sieur Poirier, pray for Pontgrimaud! 
 
 Antoinette [to Gaston]. Please don't 
 kill the young man. 
 
 Gaston. I'll let him oflf with a scratch 
 — because you love me. Come, Hector. 
 
 [Enter a Servant with a letter on a 
 silver plate.] 
 
 Antoinette. Another letter? 
 
 Gaston. Open it yourself. 
 
 Antoinette. It will be the first of 
 yours that I have opened. 
 
 Gaston. I am sure of that. 
 
 Antoinette [opening the letter]. It is 
 from Monsieur de Pontgrimaud. 
 
 Gaston. Bah! 
 
 Antoinette [reading], "My dear Mar- 
 quis — " 
 
 Gaston. Snob! 
 
 Antoinette. "We have both proved our 
 valor — " 
 
 Gaston. In different ways, however! 
 
 Antoinette. "I therefore have no 
 hesitation in telling you that I regret hav- 
 ing for a moment lost my head — " 
 
 Gaston. / 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 flatter me, monsieur. 
 
 Antoinette. "And I have no doubt 
 that you will accept them as gallantly as 
 they are offered — " 
 
 Gaston. Exactly! 
 
 Antoinette. "With all my heart. Vis- 
 count de Pontgrimaud." 
 
 Duke. He is not a viscount, and he has 
 no heart.i Otherwise his letter is most ap- 
 propriate. 
 
 Verdelet [to Gaston]. Everything has 
 turned out splendidly, my dear boy. I hope 
 you have learned your lesson? 
 
 * Here follows a pun on "Pont" — "bridge" — 
 and " grimaud " — " scribbler." — Tr. 
 
 Gaston. For the rest of my life, dear 
 Monsieur Verdelet. From this day on I 
 begin a serious and calm existence. In 
 order to break definitely with the follies of 
 my past, I ask you for a place in your 
 office. 
 
 Verdelet. In my office! You! A gen- 
 tleman! 
 
 Gaston. Have I not my wife to support? 
 
 Duke. You will do as the Breton nobles 
 did, when they laid down their swords in 
 Parliament in order to enter the field of 
 commerce, and took them up again after 
 having set their houses in order. 
 
 Verdelet. Very good. Monsieur le 
 Marquis. 
 
 Poirier [aside]. It's now my turn to 
 give in. [Aloud,] My dear son-in-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 as to staying with you, 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. 
 
 PoiRiEB. Are you going to take away 
 my daughter? Are you going to leave me 
 alone? 
 
 Antoinette. I'll come to see you often, 
 father. 
 
 Gaston. And you wiU always be wel- 
 come. 
 
 PoiRiER. So my daughter is going to be 
 the wife of a tradesman! 
 
 Verdelet. No, Poirier, your wife will 
 be mistress of the Chfi.teau de Presles. 
 The ch&teau was sold this morning, and, 
 with the permission of your husband, 
 Toinon, it will be my wedding present. 
 
 Antoinette. Dear Tony! May I ac- 
 cept it, Gaston? 
 
 Gaston. 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 cultivate your land together. That is 
 a gentleman's profession. 
 
 PoiRiER. Well, what about me, then? 
 Are n't you going to invite me? All children 
 are ungrateful — yes, my poor father was 
 right. 
 
 Vbrdblet. Buy some neighboring land, 
 and live near us. 
 
 PoiBiEB. That's an idea! 
 
 Verdelet. That's all you have to do; 
 and besides — you're cured of your ambi- 
 tion, are n't you? I think you are. 
 
 PoiRiER. Yes, yes. [Aside.] Let me see: 
 this is 1846. I '11 be deputy of the arron- 
 dissement of Presles in forty-seven, and peer 
 of France in forty-eight! 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 (LE DEMI-MONDE) 
 By ALEXANDRE DUMAS FiLS 
 Translated by BARRETT H, CLARK 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Olivier de Jalin 
 Raymond de Nanjac 
 HiPPOLTTE RicHoiro 
 De Thonneeins 
 FiKST Servant 
 Second Servant 
 Third Servant 
 Baroness Suzanne d'Ange 
 Viscountess de VerniJ:res 
 Valentine de Santis 
 Marcellb 
 A Chambermaid 
 
 The action takes place at Paris; the- first and fifth acts in the home of Olivier, the 
 , second in that of the Viscountess, the third and fourth, in that of Suzanne, 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 ACT I 
 A drawing-room in the home 0/ Olivier 
 
 DE JaLIN. 
 
 [As the curtain rises, the Viscountess and 
 Olivier are discovered.] 
 
 Viscountess. Then you promise that 
 the affair will go no further? 
 
 Olivier. It cannot. 
 
 Viscountess. I wanted to come myself 
 and ask you, even at the risk of being found 
 in your home with Heaven knows whom! 
 
 Olivier. Do I keep evil company? 
 
 Viscountess. People say so. 
 
 Olivier. People are mistaken. No 
 women except those who are your intimate 
 friends come here. 
 
 Viscountess. That's flattering to my 
 friends! 
 
 Olivier. But your presence here is 
 quite explicable. Two friends of yours, 
 Monsieur de Maucroix and Monsieur de 
 Latour, were playing cards at your home 
 and had a little misunderstanding. An ex- 
 planation became necessary; that explana- 
 tion should be made in this place. I am 
 Monsieur de Maucroix's second; you have 
 come to ask me to arrange the affair — 
 what more natural? 
 
 Viscountess. 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 I gamble at home. If anything serious 
 happens, there will be a trial, and no re- 
 spectable woman should appear in court, 
 even as witness, and have her name appear 
 in the 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 gambling in order that 
 people may amuse themselves, not quarrel. 
 
 Olivier. I understand. 
 
 Viscountess. Well, as Madame de 
 Santis has n't come yet, I must go. 
 
 Olivier. Is Madame de Santis to do me 
 the honor — ? 
 
 Viscountess. When she learned that I 
 was coming to see you she said to me: 
 '■'I'U come and call for you. I shan't be 
 sorry to see him either, the naughty man! " 
 But she's so careless she may have forgot- 
 ten all about it. I can't wait an instant 
 longer. Good-bye. Let me remind you 
 that you have n't asked after my niece, 
 who was nice enough to ask me to convey 
 to you all sorts of things. 
 
 Olivier. Pleasant things? 
 
 Viscountess. Of course. 
 
 Olivier. Very kind of her. 
 
 Viscountess. Certainly it is kind; she 
 did n't have to do it: she knows very well 
 that you are not going to marry her. 
 
 Olivier. Oh, no! 
 
 Viscountess. My dear friend, you 
 might happen upon some one much worse. 
 
 Olivier. One never happens on any one 
 worth while. 
 
 Viscountess. But we're better off than 
 you. 
 
 Olivier. Are you sure? 
 
 Viscountess. You are of the petty 
 nobility — and, you're not rich? 
 
 Olivier. I have thirty thousand. 
 
 Viscountess. Dividends? 
 
 Olivier. Land. 
 
 Viscountess. 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 never to 
 remarry. When she casts aside her hus- 
 band's name, she becomes practically a 
 stranger to her family. That is how, my 
 
4S2 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 dear Viscountess, I was thrown so much on 
 my own resources at an early age; that is 
 why I have sown my wild oats, and con- 
 tracted debts which I have since paid, and 
 why to-day I am far too reasonable a man 
 to marry your niece, in spite of the fact that 
 I think her charming, that she appeals to 
 me as an orphan, and that at one time I was 
 afraid I might marry her. 
 
 V'iSCOUNTESS. You ? 
 
 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 should have ended by asking 
 you for her hand, which would have been 
 absurd — 
 
 Viscountess . Because she hasnomoney? 
 
 Olivier. That made no difference to 
 me; I am not the man to marry for money. 
 No, there is another reason. 
 
 Viscountess. What is that? 
 
 Olivier. We men of the world are not 
 such fools as we may appear to be. When 
 we marry, we choose in our wives what we 
 have been unable to find in the wives of 
 others, and the longer we live the more in- 
 sistent we are that our wives know nothing 
 of life. Those little ladies who have ready- 
 made reputations for wit and independ- 
 ence before marriage, make a very sorry 
 showing as wives. Look at Madame de 
 Santis! 
 
 Viscountess. But Marcelle has n't Val- 
 entine's character. 
 
 Olivier. Which does not prevent 
 Madame de Santis, who is separated from 
 an unknown husband, — a woman who is 
 compromised and who compromises, — 
 from having as her bosom friend Made- 
 moiselle de Sancenaux, your niece. Tell me, 
 now, is Madame de Santis a fit companion 
 for a girl of twenty? 
 
 Viscountess. 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 girl 
 must have some distractions. She is keep- 
 ing out of mischief, after all. 
 
 Olivier. She does keep out of mischief, 
 but she gives people the idea that she 
 does n't, and she will end by getting into it. 
 
 Viscountess. My dear Olivier! 
 
 Olivier. You are wrong! Do you know 
 what you ought to have done? Sent your 
 niece to the Marquis de Thonnerins three 
 years ago, when she left boarding-school. 
 He wanted to have her with him for his 
 own daughter's sake. To-day Marcelle 
 would be living in respectable society, and 
 would have married or been able to marry 
 as she should. Now, I doubt whether she 
 will ever be able to do that. 
 
 Viscountess. I loved her so much that 
 I couldn't think of being separated from 
 her. 
 
 OLmER. That was selfishness, which 
 you will later regret, and for which she will 
 some day blame you. 
 
 Viscountess. 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 — 
 
 Olivier. But husbands are also what 
 their wives make them — and the com- 
 pensation is not sufficient. Whom are you 
 going to marry her to this time? 
 
 Viscountess. A young man. 
 
 Olivier. Who is in love with Made- 
 moiselle de Sancenaux and who is loved by 
 her? 
 
 Viscountess. No, but that makes little 
 difference. In marriage it there is love, it 
 is killed by familiarity, and when it does 
 not exist, it gives birth to it. 
 
 Olivier. You talk like La Rochefou- 
 cauld. Where did you find the young man? 
 
 Viscountess. Monsieur de Latour in- 
 troduced him to her. 
 
 Olivier. Introduced by Monsieur de 
 Latour, specialist in shoddy: half string, 
 half cotton! 
 
 Viscountess. Listen to me: I know good 
 respectable men when I see them, and I 
 tell 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 likes, may marry 
 to-morrow. The only people he knows in 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 4S3 
 
 Paris are Monsieur de Latour, Marcelle, 
 and me. This is a splendid chance — I 
 could n't hope for a &ier. You'll be the 
 first to admit it when you've seen the 
 man. 
 
 Olivier. Oh, I am to meet him, then? 
 
 ViscotTNTESs. To-day: he is Monsieur 
 de Latour's second. 
 
 Olxviek. Then he's that Monsieur de 
 Nanjac who left his card here yesterday, 
 and who is going to call to-day at three? 
 
 ViscoiTNTESs. Yes. Now, be nice; you 
 can when you want to be. If Monsieur 
 de Nanjac takes to you, there's nothing 
 out of the way in that, and if he speaks to 
 you about Marcelle, try not to say too 
 many of those stupid things you referred to 
 a few moments ago. 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Sebvant. Madame de Santis. 
 
 [He goes oiU.] 
 
 [Enter Valentine.] 
 
 Viscountess. Come here, my dear 
 child! Where have you been? 
 
 Valentine. Don't speak about it — I 
 thought I'd never get away! [To Olivibe.] 
 How are you? 
 
 Olivier. Splendid, thanks. 
 
 Valentine. Just think! My dress- 
 maker came and I had to try on some 
 dresses. You'll see the one I'm having 
 made for the races 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. 
 What rent do you pay here — ? 
 
 Olivieb. Three thousand francs. 
 
 Valentine. You're in a new neigh- 
 borhood, a real desert. You might be 
 murdered here and no one would ever 
 know. I'd die of boredom. I found the 
 dearest little apartment on the third floor 
 — it's in the Rue de la Paix — seven thou- 
 sand five hundred a year — landlord will 
 re-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! 
 » GlIvieb. How can you afford all that? 
 
 Valentine. How, you ask? Have n't 
 I my dowry? 
 
 Olivier. You can't have very much of 
 it left, at the pace you are living? 
 
 Valentine. I have about thirty thou- 
 sand. [To the Viscountess.] My dear, if 
 you ever need money, don't forget my 
 agent: Monsieur Michel. I didn't have 
 time to wait for the sale of some property 
 of mine in Touraine, so I let him have the 
 deeds, and he advanced me five thousand 
 cash at once — interest at eight per cent 
 — that is n't too high. From here I 'm 
 going straight to him and get the rest of 
 the money. 
 
 Oliviee. Is n't that Michel a thin little 
 fellow with a mustache, who wears em- 
 broidered shirts, and enameled buttons on 
 his waistcoat? 
 
 Valentine. He's very nice-looking. 
 
 Olivier. That depends on where you 
 see him . You know, he is a thief. I know 
 him: he 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? 
 
 Valentine. There's still my husband. 
 He must give me an allowance. Or if he 
 does n't, I can always return to him. 
 
 Olivier. What luck for him! And to 
 think that at this moment he has n't the 
 slightest inkling of the happiness that 
 awaits him! But what if he were to refuse? 
 
 Valentine. He can't — our separation 
 is n't a judicial one. I have the right 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. 
 
 Valentine. You'll see — I've got to 
 decide soon. Now — where else have I 
 been? That's £ill! I came back by way of 
 the Champs-EIysSes — what crowds of 
 people there were! I met heaps of my men 
 friends: little de Bonchamp, the Count de 
 Bryade, Monsieur de Casavaux. I invited 
 them to tea to-morrow. Will you come, 
 too? 
 
 Olivieb. Thank you, no. 
 
454 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Valentine. I reserved a box at the 
 theater for to-night, a stage-box down- 
 stairs. I paid my bill at the modiste's. 
 I'm leaving her: she works now only for 
 actresses. That's what I've done to-day. 
 [To the Viscountess.] Oh, by the way, we 
 dine Tuesday at Monsieur de Calvillot's 
 — a house-warming. What a charming 
 apartment he has! He asked me to invite 
 the ladies. You'll come with Marcelle, 
 won't you? We'll have a very gay time. 
 
 Olivier [hoking at her]. Poor woman! 
 
 Valentine. What's the matter? 
 
 Olivier. Nothing — I pity you. 
 
 Valentine. Why? 
 
 Olivier. Because you deserve to be 
 pitied. If you can't understand, then I 
 shan't waste time trying to explain. 
 
 Valentine. By the way, I knew I 
 wanted to ask you something! 
 
 Olivier. She did n't even hear what I 
 said! — Can she have anything at all in her 
 brain? — And what did you want to know? 
 
 Valentine. Have you heard anything 
 of Madame d'Ange? 
 
 Olivier. Why do you ask? 
 
 Valentine. Did n't she write you from 
 Baden? 
 
 Olivier. No. 
 
 Valentine. And you tell that to me, to 
 me who — [She laughs.] 
 
 Olivier. To you who — ? 
 
 Valentine. Who mailed her letters for 
 her. I can keep a secret, though I may look 
 like a fool. She wrote you some charming 
 letters. [She laughs again.] 
 
 Olivier. Why 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 heard from her for 
 two weeks. 
 I Valentine. Exactly: not since I left. 
 
 Olivier. Did n't she write to you, 
 either? 
 
 Valentine. She never writes. 
 
 [She laughs in his face.] 
 
 Olivier [looking into the whites of her 
 eyes]. What have you — there? 
 
 Valentine. Where do you mean? 
 
 Viscountess. He wants to make you 
 angry. 
 
 Olivier. It's all black around your 
 eyes. 
 
 Valentine. 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 half my friends believe I 
 paint — ! 
 
 Olivier. And the other half are sure! 
 
 Valentine. The idea! 
 
 Olivier. Don't you use powder? 
 
 Valentine. The way every woman 
 does — 
 
 Olivier. And rouge? 
 
 Valentine. Never. 
 
 Olfvier. Never? 
 
 Valentine. Just a touch, in the eve- 
 nings — sometimes. 
 
 Olivier. And don't you touch up a 
 little around the eyes? 
 
 Valentine. It's the fashion. 
 
 Olivier. Not among decent women, 
 anyway. 
 
 Valentine. If it 's becoming, what 's the 
 difference? So long as people know I'm 
 decent, too — 
 
 Olivier. It is evident. 
 
 Viscountess. What a gossip you are, 
 dear! We must go now! 
 
 Valentine [to the Viscountess]. Would 
 you like to come with me to my apartment? 
 
 Viscountess. Delighted — ^1 haven't 
 anything to do. 
 
 Valentine [to Olivier]. Come with us: 
 you can advise me about shades. 
 
 Olivier. I can't go: I am waiting for 
 some one. 
 
 Valentine. For whom? 
 
 Olivier. A friend of mine. 
 
 Valentine. What's his name? 
 
 Olivier. How can that interest you? 
 
 Valentine [feigning indifference]. I 
 just asked — 
 
 Olivier. His name is Hippolyte Rich- 
 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? 
 
 Valentine [troubled]. No. 
 
 Viscountess. Is he married? 
 
 Olivier. Yes, so you need n't trouble — 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 4SS 
 
 ■ VaI/ENTIne. Do you know his wife? 
 
 Olivier. And his son, too. 
 
 Valentine [astonished]. He has a son? 
 
 Olivier. Five or six years old. Why 
 are you surprised? You say you don't 
 know him? 
 
 Valentine. And this Monsieur Bich- 
 ond lives at — ? 
 
 OuviER. Number seven, Rue de Lille. 
 Would you care to see him? Wait a mo- 
 ment, I'll introduce you. 
 
 Valentine. No, no, I don't want to see 
 him. 
 
 Olivier. What's the matter? 
 
 Valentine. Nothing! Good-bye! 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. Monsieur Hippolyte Rich- 
 ond. [He goes out.] 
 
 Olivier [to Valentinb]. Won't you — ? 
 
 Valentine. Don't try to persuade me — 
 
 [She lets down her veil, and, as 
 
 Hippolyte enters, turns her 
 
 head to one side. She goes out 
 
 with the Viscountess.] 
 
 Olivier. How are you? 
 
 HippoLTTE. Very well. And you? 
 
 Oliviek. Splendid. How's your wife? 
 
 Hippolyte. Everybody is very well. — 
 Who is that woman? 
 
 Olivier. Her name is Madame de 
 Santis. 
 
 Hippolyte. Valentine! 
 
 Olivter. You know her? 
 
 Hippolyte. Not personally, but I knew 
 her husband intimately. 
 
 Olivier. Is she really married? 
 
 Hippolyte. As much married as a per- 
 son can possibly be. 
 
 Olivier. Really? She claims that her 
 husband has greatly wronged her. 
 
 Hippolyte. True: first he did wrong to 
 marry her, for it seems she'd lost all sense 
 of modesty. 
 
 Olivier. Not quite. 
 
 Hippolyte. Do you know her very 
 well? 
 
 Olivier. Yes. She has 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. 
 
 Hippolyte. We have never exchanged 
 a word; but she must know that I am well 
 acquainted with every detail of her life. 
 
 Olivier. And where is Monsieur de 
 Santis? 
 
 Hippolyte. Her husband's name is not 
 de Santis; she got that name from her 
 mother, and used it just after she was 
 separated. Her husband refused to allow 
 her to use his. 
 
 Olivier. What cause for complaint did 
 he have against her? 
 
 Hippolyte. She deceived him — vilely. 
 He was madly in love with her. I must 
 say, she was charming: every one called 
 her the beautiful Mademoiselle de San- 
 tis. She did n't have a sou to her name. 
 Her suitor was rich, very much in love, 
 young, very timid, he did n't dare ask for 
 her hand. A friend of his, who first in- 
 troduced him to the family, offered to make 
 the proposal on his behalf, and the man 
 accepted. The girl took the offer, and the 
 friend was one of the two witnesses at the 
 ceremony. 
 
 Olivier. And you were the other? 
 
 Hippolyte. Yes. Six months after the 
 wedding the husband came to me: he had 
 incontrovertible proof that his wife was the 
 mistress of the scoundrel who had brought 
 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 use his name, or even to say 
 that she ever Icnew him. Since that time 
 they have not seen each other. That was 
 ten years ago. 
 
 Olivier. And where is the husban d now? 
 
 Hippolyte. He lives abroad. I met him 
 in Germany two months ago. 
 
 Olivier. Does he still love his wife? 
 
 Hippolyte. I don't think so. 
 
 Olivier. Yet she maintains that he 
 loves her as' much as ever, and that it rests 
 with her whether or not she shall return 
 to him. 
 
 Hippolyte. She is mistaken. — Who 
 is that old lady she went out with? 
 
 Olivier. The remains of a woman of 
 quality whom the need for luxury and 
 pleasure has gradually dragged into a 
 
4S6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 rather free-and-easy social circle. She 
 ruined her husband, who took it into his 
 head to die ten or twelve years ago. She 
 has a few old friends, some few shares 
 which are given her at par and which she 
 sells at a premium, a few scattered frag- 
 ments of her fortune which the wind casts 
 up from time to time — those are her sole 
 resources. She has a very pretty niece, 
 upon whose marriage she counts to regild 
 her 'scutcheon; the only trouble is that the 
 husband is not yet forthcoming. Mean- 
 time, she struggles on as best 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 ices. 
 The young people whom she invites drink 
 the pimch, send bonbons on New Year's, 
 marry girls in real society, and just tip 
 their hats to the Viscountess and her niece 
 when they meet them, in order not to have 
 to invite them to meet their mothers and 
 wives. 
 
 HippoLTTE. And is Madame de Santis 
 a friend of that woman? 
 
 Olivier. In what other social circle 
 would she move? 
 
 HippoLTTE. That's true! — Well, you 
 wrote that you had a favor to ask me. 
 What is it? 
 
 Olivier. What time is it? 
 
 HippoLTTE. Two o'clock. 
 
 Olivier [ringing]. Let me finish some- 
 thing I have to do, then we can talk at our 
 ease. 
 
 HippoLYTB. Please! I have plenty of 
 time. 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Olivier [to the Servant, as he hands him a 
 ktter]. Take this letter to Monsieur le 
 Comte de Lornan. You know him, of 
 course. In case he is not at hoine, give the 
 letter to Madame la Comtesse. That will 
 do. [The Servant goes out.] 
 
 HippoLYTB. So you write letters that 
 can be opened by both — ? 
 
 Olivier. No! I wrote a letter that can be 
 read only by the wife, but, in order not to 
 compromise her, I address it to the husband. 
 
 HiPPOLTTB. But what if it is handed to 
 the husband? 
 
 Olivieb. Stupid! The husband is in the 
 covmtry. 
 
 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? 
 
 Oltvier. Here's the story — it's very 
 simple, you see. I'll mention the people, 
 in 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 rein to 
 the imagination, where each leaf that falls 
 is a ready-made elegy, 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 Falling 
 of the Leaves, volume one, pag€ twenty-one. 
 I know that! I've suffered from consumpi- 
 tion myself. 
 
 Olivier. Who has n't? Consumption 
 and the mounted National Guard of 1830 
 — every one has been in both. Well, last 
 autumn I was introduced to the Countess 
 de Lornan, who was spending the month of 
 October in the country with the mother of 
 one of my friends — why, de Maucroix's 
 mother, it was! We were just speaking of 
 him. She'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 believe I am in love with 
 her. Ob our return to Paris she intro- 
 duces me to her husband. 
 
 HiPPOLTTB. Who is a fool? 
 
 Olivier. Charming feUow of forty, who 
 took to me, and for whom I feel deep affec- 
 tion. At the end of two weeks I became his 
 intimate friend and forgot all about the 
 woman — absolutely. Now, there was a 
 woman who gave me no hopes whatsoever, 
 and who, between you and me, was no 
 more intended for love affairs and in- 
 trigues than — [He tries to find the word.] 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 457 
 
 HippoLTTE. Never mind: you'll find the 
 comparison some other time. 
 
 Olivier. Her pride was hurt; she be- 
 lieved I had been trifling with her. Well, 
 yesterday she wrote me that her hus- 
 band had gone away tor a few days, and 
 that she wanted an explanation from me, 
 that she was waiting for me to-day at two 
 o'clock. I 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 Heavens! it will be something to be 
 proud of to have saved the good name of 
 a woman — 
 
 HiPPOLYTB. Splendid, I say! 
 
 OuviBR. And I decided that without 
 any afterthought, I swear! 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 his friend- 
 ship and hospitality, call him friend, and 
 then take his wife, — well, so much the 
 worse for those who don't agree with me, 
 — but I think that it is shameful, repug- 
 nant, disgusting. 
 
 HippoLTTE. You're really magnificent! 
 
 Olivibr. Well — yes! 
 
 HippoLYTE. You must be in love with 
 some one else. 
 
 Olivibr. Skeptic! 
 
 HippoLTTE. Confess it! 
 
 Olivier. Well, it's a fact that — 
 
 HippoLTTB. I was saying to myself: 
 "There's a gay fellow who's playing the 
 Joseph — he must have good reasons — " 
 Do I know the fair lady? 
 
 Olivier. 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. 
 
 HippoLTTE. Nonsense! 
 
 Olivier. She says so. Meantime, she is 
 free, she pretends to be a widow, she is no 
 more than twenty. She 's wonderful, 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 liaison 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 necessary to change horses. I 
 entered this liaison 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. 
 
 Hippoltte. And it will last — ? 
 
 Olivier. As long as she wishes it. 
 
 Hippoltte. Until you marry ! 
 
 Olivier. I shall never marry. 
 
 Hippoltte. You say so, but some fine 
 day — 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. Monsieur. 
 
 Olivier. Yes? What is it? 
 
 Servant [in an undertone]. The lady who 
 was away. 
 
 Olivier [pointing to a door]. Tell her to 
 go in there; I shall be with her in a mo- 
 ment. [The Servant goes out.] 
 
 Hippoltte. Is it she? 
 
 Olivier. Yes. 
 
 Hippoltte. I'm going. 
 
 Olivier. When shall I see you again? 
 
 Hippoltte. Whenever you say. 
 
 Olivier. Well? 
 
 Hippoltte. Well, what? 
 
 Olivier. Are you running off like this? 
 
 Hippoltte. How else should I? 
 
 Olivier. But what about Maucroix? 
 We've been talking about everything else 
 except his affair. 
 
 Hippoltte. That's so. We forgot. 
 What fools we are! 
 
 Olivier. Use the singular, please! 
 
 Hippoltte. Very well. What a fool you 
 are! 
 
 Olivier. Is monsieur pleased to be 
 clever? 
 
 Hippoltte. Sometimes. 
 
 Olivier. This is the case, then: Mon- 
 sieur de Maucroix had a quarrel at cards 
 
4S8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 with Monsieur de Latour; it took place at 
 the home of the Madame de VemiSres, 
 whom you saw here. De Latour is going to 
 send his second here at three o'clock. Now, 
 the moment he sends me a second, I know 
 that 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 might as well have 
 it over with as soon as possible. Where can 
 I find you in case I need you? 
 
 HippoLTTB. At my home, up to six, and 
 from six to eight at the Caf6 Anglais. Will 
 you have dinner with me there? 
 
 Olivibk. Good! Come for me at six; 
 this is not out of your way. 
 
 [HippoLYTB goes out. As soon as 
 the door at the back has closed, 
 Olivier goes to the side door, 
 which has opened meantime.] 
 
 [Enter Suzanne.] 
 
 Olivier. What! It's you! 
 , [He offers his hand to her.] 
 
 Suzanne [shaking hands and smiling]. 
 Yes it's I. 
 
 Olivier. I thought you were dead. 
 ' Suzanne. You see, I'm very well. 
 
 Olivier. When did you come from 
 Baden? 
 
 Suzanne. A week ago. 
 
 Olivier. A week ago! 
 
 Suzanne. Yes. 
 
 Olivier. Well, well, and to-day I see 
 you for the first time! There must be some 
 news to tell? 
 
 Suzanne. Possibly. [A paiise.] Are you 
 as clever as ever? 
 
 Olivier. More so. 
 ', Suzanne. Since when? 
 
 Olivier. Since your return. 
 
 Suzanne. That's almost a compliment. 
 
 Olivier. Almost. <* 
 
 Suzanne. So much the better. 
 
 Olivier. Why? 
 
 Suzanne. Because on my return from 
 Baden, I'm not at all sorry to talk over a 
 number of things. 
 
 Olivier. Don't people talk at Baden? 
 
 Suzanne. No — they just speak! 
 
 Olivier. Well, it seems that you 
 
 were n't any too anxious to talk this last 
 week. Otherwise you would have come to 
 see me sooner. 
 
 Suzanne. I've been in the country. 
 I've come to Paris to-day for the first time, 
 and no one knows I'm here. You were 
 saying that you were as clever as ever? 
 
 Olivier. Yes. 
 
 Suzanne. We'll see. 
 
 Olivier. What are you driving at? 
 
 Suzanne. One point: a question. Will 
 you marry me? 
 
 Olivier. You? 
 
 Suzanne. Don't be too surprised — 
 that would be most impolite. 
 
 Olivier. What an idea! 
 
 Suzanne. Then you won't? Don't say 
 any more about it. Well, my dear Olivier, 
 I must now let you know that we shall never 
 see each other again. I'm going away. 
 
 Olivier. For long? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes, for long. 
 
 Olivier. Where are you going? 
 
 Suzanne. Far away. 
 
 Olivier. I'm puzzled. 
 
 Suzanne. It's very simple. People talk; 
 you find them everywhere. It was for such 
 people that carriages and steamboats were 
 invented. 
 
 Olfvier. That's true. Well, what about 
 me? 
 
 Suzanne. You? 
 
 Olivier. Yes. 
 
 Suzanne. You? You stay here at Paris, 
 I imagine. 
 
 Olivier. Ah! 
 
 Suzanne. At least — unless you want 
 to go away, too? 
 
 Olivier. With you? 
 
 Suzanne. Oh, no. 
 
 OLrviER. Then — it's all over? 
 
 Suzanne. What? 
 
 Olxvier. We don't love each other any 
 more? 
 
 Suzanne. Have we ever done so? 
 
 Olivier. I once thought it. 
 
 Suzanne. I did all in power to be- 
 lieve it. 
 
 Olivier. Really? 
 
 Suzanne. I have spent my life wanting 
 to love. Up to now, it has been impossible. 
 
 Olivier. Thank you! 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 4S9 
 
 Suzanne. I'm not referring to you alone. 
 
 Olivier. Thank you on our behalf, 
 then! 
 
 Suzanne. You must know that when I 
 left for Baden, I went there less as a woman 
 who wanted to be lazy than as one who 
 wanted time to reflect — Uke a sensible 
 woman. At a distance, one can better 
 realize what one truly feels and thinks. 
 Possibly you were of more importance to 
 me than I had wanted to believe. I went 
 away in order to see whether I could do 
 without you. 
 
 Olivier. Well? 
 
 Suzanne. Well, I can. You did not 
 follow me; and the most that can be said of 
 your letters is that they were clever. Two 
 weeks after I left, you were completely in- 
 different to me. 
 
 Olivier. Your words possess the inesti- 
 mable advantage of being absolutely clear. 
 
 Suzanne. My first idea on returning 
 here was not even 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 
 in 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 
 make out of our false love a true friend- 
 ship? [Olivieh smiles.\ Why are you 
 smiling? 
 
 Oliviek. Because, except for the form, 
 I said or rather wrote the same thing not 
 two hours ago. 
 ^ Suzanne. To a woman? 
 i Oliviek. Yes. 
 
 Suzanne. To the beautiful Charlotte 
 de Loman? 
 
 Olivier. I don't know the lady. 
 
 Suzanne. Toward the end of my last 
 stay in Paris you did not come to see me so 
 regularly as you used to. I very soon saw 
 that 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 
 my home, after saying that you were to 
 meet 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 
 did n't love you : I 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 Loman? 
 
 Suzanne. If I had, I should have had to 
 ask you to choose between that woman and 
 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 want 
 to speak to you. 
 
 Olivier. But you were mistaken. I did 
 go to see Madame de Loman, but I declare 
 she has never been, is not, and never will 
 be, any other than a good friend of mine. 
 
 Suzanne. That is nothing to me. You 
 are free to love whom you like. All I ask 
 is your friendship; may I have it? 
 
 Olivier. What is the use, since you are 
 going away? 
 
 Suzanne. Exactly. Friends are rare and 
 more precious at a distance than near at 
 hand. 
 
 Olipibb. Tell me the whole truth. 
 
 Suzanne. What truth? 
 
 Olivier. Why are you going away? 
 
 Suzanne. Merely in order to — get 
 away. 
 
 Olivier. Is there no other reason? 
 
 Suzanne. No other. 
 
 Olivier. Then stay. 
 
 Suzanne. No, there are reasons to pre- 
 vent that. 
 
 Olivibb. Don't you want to tell me? 
 
 Suzanne . To ask for a secret in exchange 
 for one's friendship is not friendship, it's 
 a venal transaction. 
 
 Olivieh. You are logic incarnate. And 
 what are you going to do before you leave? 
 
 Suzanne. Stay in the country. I know 
 you are bored to death with the country, 
 and that is why I am not asking you to 
 come. 
 
 Olivier. Very well. Then this is a dis- 
 missal in good form. Well, my task as friend 
 will not be difficult. 
 
 Suzanne. It will be more difficult than 
 you imagine. I don't mean by that word 
 
460 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 friendship one of those banal traditional 
 affairs that every lover offers to every 
 other when the two separate; that is noth- 
 ing more than the mite of a reciprocal in- 
 difference. What I want is an intelligent 
 friendship, a useful attachment, a form of 
 devotion and protection, if need be, and 
 above all, of discretion. You will doubtless 
 have but one occasion, and that lasting five 
 minutes, to prQve your friendship. But 
 that will be a suflBcient proof. Do you ac- 
 cept? 
 Olivieb. I do. 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. Monsieur Raymond de Nan- 
 Jac asks whether monsieur can see him. 
 Here is his card. He has come on behalf of 
 Monsieur le Comte de Latour, and says 
 that monsieur is awaiting him. 
 
 Olivier. That's so. I shall see him in 
 a moment. 
 
 Suzanne [to the Servant]. Wait a mo- 
 ment! Let me see that card. 
 
 Olivier [handing her the card]. Here. 
 
 Suzanne. Good. Monsieur de Nanjac 
 is a friend of yours, is n't he? 
 
 Olivier. I have never set eyes on him. 
 
 Suzanne. How is it that he is here to 
 see you? 
 
 Olivier. He is acting as second to Mon- 
 sieur de Latour, who had a quarrel with a 
 friend of mine. 
 
 Suzanne. What strange coincidences 
 there are! 
 
 Olivier. What is it? 
 
 Suzanne. Where can I escape without 
 being seen? 
 
 Olivier. You know very well. How 
 agitated you are! Do you know Monsieur 
 de Nanjac? 
 
 Suzanne. I was introduced to him at 
 Baden — I spoke to him two or three 
 times. 
 
 Olivter. Oh! I'm getting warm, I 
 think, as little children say when they are 
 playing games. Is Monsieur de Nanjac — ? 
 
 Suzanne. You're dreaming! 
 
 Olivier. Hm! Hm! 
 
 Suzanne. Well, if you insist that Mon- 
 sieur de Nanjac see me in your apartment, 
 ask him in. 
 
 Olivier. I should n't think of it. 
 
 Suzanne [regaining control over herself]. 
 No, ask him in. That's better. 
 
 Olivier [motioning to the Servant]. I don't 
 understand, now? 
 
 Servant [announcing]. Monsieur Ray- 
 mond de Nanjac. 
 
 [Enter Raymond.] 
 
 Olivier [going to greet him at the door]. 
 Pardon my having made you wait, mon- 
 sieur. 
 
 [Raymond hows, then looks at 
 Suzanne in astonishment. He 
 is deeply moved.] 
 
 Suzanne. Don't you recognize me. 
 Monsieur de Nanjac? 
 
 Raymond. I thought I did, madame, 
 but I was not quite sure. 
 
 Suzanne. When did you come from 
 Baden? 
 
 Raymond. The day before yesterday I 
 thought I should have the honor of pay- 
 ing you a visit to-day, but it is likely I 
 shall be prevented from doing so by cer- 
 tain things which have happened, contrary 
 to all expectation. 
 
 Suzanne. Whenever you would like to 
 call, I shall be only too delighted to see you. 
 Good-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 Raymond]. Good-bye, 
 monsieur. I hope to see you again. 
 
 [She goes out.] 
 
 Olivier. Now, monsieur, I am at your 
 service. [He motions Raymond to a seat.] 
 
 Raymond [sitting down — dryly]. Mon- 
 sieur, the matter is most simple. Monsieur 
 de Latour, a friend of mine — 
 
 Olivier. Pardon me, monsieur, for in- 
 terrupting: is Monsieur de Latour a friend 
 of yours? 
 
 Raymond. Yes, monsieur. Why do you 
 ask? 
 
 Olivibr. Because sometimes — Are you 
 a soldier, monsieur? 
 
 Raymond. Yes, monsieur. 
 
 Olivier. Because sometimes 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 
 
 461 
 
 scarcely knows, or even whom he does not 
 know at all. 
 
 Raymond. True, we rarely refuse. But 
 as a matter of fact, I do know Monsieur de 
 Latour; I like him and consider him as a 
 friend. Does he not deserve the title? Is 
 that what you mean to convey? 
 
 OuvBER. Not in the least, monsiexir. 
 Continue, please. 
 
 Raymond. Well, Monsieur de Latour was 
 the day before yesterday at the home of 
 the Viscountess de Verniferes. I was there 
 with him; they were playing lansquenet. A 
 young man. Monsieur Gteorges de Mau- 
 croix — 
 
 Olivier. A friend of mine. 
 
 Raymond. Monsieur de Maucroix "had 
 the hand." I beUeve that is the term — 
 I am not acquainted with the technical 
 expressions used in cards. I have never 
 played. 
 
 Olivier. That is the expression which 
 has been consecrated by time. 
 
 Raymond. Monsieur de Maucroix had 
 "passed" 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 told Monsieur de Maucroix that he 
 would take the hand and owe the money: 
 give his word for it. At that, Monsieur de 
 Maucroix, who was about to lay down his 
 cards, handed them to his right-hand neigh- 
 bor, and said: "I pass." Monsieur de Latour 
 was pleased to see in this simple occurrence 
 a refusal to accept his word about the 
 money. He believed that he had been 
 offended, and demanded an explanation 
 from Monsieur de Maucroix, who replied 
 that the place where they were was not 
 suitable for that sort of discussion. He 
 mentioned your name and address. Mon- 
 sieur de Latour has asked me to come and 
 receive the explanation from you which 
 your friend thought he could not make in 
 person. 
 
 Olivibh. The explanation is very 
 simple, monsieur, and in this affair there 
 will result, I hope, one advantage for me: 
 the pleasure of making your acquaintance. 
 Gteorges had no intention of offending 
 
 Monsieur de Latour: he "passed," as any 
 one may when he does 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 Latour. 
 
 Olivier. He merely reconsidered. 
 
 Raymond. He would have played the 
 hand with any one else; of that I am 
 firmly convinced. He would have played 
 it if Monsieur de Latour's money had been 
 on the table. 
 
 Olivieb. 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 had been in Monsieur de 
 Latour's place, I should never have no- 
 ticed that detail. 
 
 Raymond. It is possible, monsieur, that 
 in ordinary society it might be as you say, 
 but in military circles — 
 
 Olivier. I beg your pardon, monsieur, 
 but I was not aware that Monsieur de 
 Latour was in the army. 
 
 Raymond. But I am. 
 
 Olivter. Allow me to remark, monsieur, 
 that in this matter neither of xis is con- 
 cerned; this is between Monsieur de Latour 
 and Monsieur de Maucroix, neither of 
 whom is in the army. 
 
 Raymond. 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 impartiaUty, which wUl, in case of 
 a tragic outcome, relieve them of respon- 
 sibility. It is surely sufficient to discuss 
 facts, without making suppositions — those 
 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 beats under each. You see, a 
 
462 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 man's life appears so serious a matter to me 
 that it deserves serious discussion, and 
 only when no other course is open should 
 one cold-bloodedly bring two men face to 
 face on the dueling-ground. If you like, 
 monsieur, let us have another meeting, for, 
 if you will allow me to speak frankly, you 
 seem in a rather irritable humor, and your 
 friend and mine cannot come to a satis- 
 factory agreement, unless for some reason 
 which I cannot guess (for this is the first 
 time I have had the honor of meeting you) 
 we are ourselves two adversaries needing 
 seconds, and not seconds trying to con- 
 ciliate two adversaries. 
 
 Raymond [loith 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. 
 
 Olivier. Speak, monsieur. 
 
 Raymond. I am very frank — the way 
 soldiers usually are — and I ask you to be 
 frank in return. 
 
 Olivier. 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? 
 
 Olivier. I am now beginning to. 
 
 Raymond. I ought to have begun in this 
 tone, instead of allowing myself to go on in 
 that Ul-humored manner, and receiving the 
 little lesson which you so cleverly and de- 
 lightfully 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 have been 
 ridiculous. Now, let me ask you a few 
 delicate questions^ which only an old friend 
 would ordinarily have the right to ask. 
 I give you my word that not a syllable will 
 go farther than this room. 
 
 Olivier. Proceed. 
 
 Raymond. Thank you. This conversa- 
 tion may have the greatest influence over 
 my life. 
 
 Olivier. I am listening. 
 
 Raymond. What is the name of the 
 woman who was here when I came in? 
 
 Olivier. Baroness d'Ange. 
 
 Raymond. In society? 
 
 Olivier. Yes. 
 
 Raymond. Widow? 
 
 Olivier. Yes. 
 
 Raymond. What are the relations — 
 answer me, monsieur, on your honor, as 
 I should if you asked me the same ques- 
 tion — what are the relations between her 
 and you? 
 
 Olivier [after a pause]. Simple friend- 
 ship. 
 
 Raymond. You are simply her friend ? 
 
 Olivier [emphasizing the word "am"]. 
 I am simply her friend. 
 
 Raymond. Thank you, monsieur. One 
 word more: how did it happen that Ma- 
 dame d'Ange was here? Surely a friend — ? 
 
 Olivier. May not a respectable woman 
 visit a respectable man? Why not? And 
 the proof that Madame d'Ange's business 
 here was nothing that she need be ashamed 
 of is that, although she might have left 
 here by that door unseen, she waited, 
 talked with you, and went quite openly. 
 
 Raymond. That's so. Well, I needed 
 this explanation. Now, as I wish to fulfill 
 my obligations to you for your frankness, 
 let me tell you everything. I 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 
 convalescence. Two weeks ago I arrived 
 at Baden. I saw Madame d'Ange, and ob- 
 tained an introduction; she produced an 
 instantaneous and profound impression 
 on me. I followed her to Paris, and I am 
 desperately in love with her. She has never 
 in any way encouraged my passion. She is 
 young and beautiful, and I wondered 
 whether she were in love with some one, 
 because her behavior at Baden was irre- 
 proachable. Now you can easily under- 
 stand how excited I was when I found her 
 here. You will understand my very natural 
 fears, all my suppositions, 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 
 so courteously gave me. I hope, monsieur, 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 463 
 
 that we shall have occasion to see each 
 other again. Please consider me among 
 your friends; if ever I can help you, re- 
 member that I am at your service. 
 
 Olivier. I have already told you what 
 I had to tell you, monsieur. Good luck to 
 you! 
 
 Raymond. I believe that this duel aSair 
 can be satisfactorily settled. 
 
 Olivier. I believe so, too. 
 
 Raymond. We 'U outline our conference, 
 give copies to our friends, and nothing 
 more need be done about it. 
 
 Olivier. Exactly. Shall I see you to- 
 morrow? I shall come to you. I have your 
 address on this card here. At the same hour? 
 
 Raymond. Very well. Until to-morrow, 
 monsieur. 
 
 [They shake hands, then Raymond 
 goes out. Hippolyte opens the 
 door and looks through.] 
 
 Hippolyte. May I come in? 
 
 OLtviBR [boufing to Raymond, who is in 
 the hallway — aside]. Poor fellow! 
 
 Hippolyte. What's happening? 
 
 Olivier. A great deal, my dear man. 
 
 Hippolyte. What about Monsieur de 
 Maucroix's affair? 
 
 Olivier. Settled — 
 
 Hippolyte. Good. And the lady who 
 came from Baden? 
 
 Olivier. All my plans for the future 
 have crumbled. Harlequin proposed beau- 
 tifully, but Columbine disposed in her own 
 way. 
 
 Hippolyte. That makes two ruptures 
 in a single day. 
 
 Olivier. One before, one after. If Titus 
 were in my place, he would be able to retire 
 early, and he would not have misspent his 
 day. 
 
 Hippolyte. Well, something has hap- 
 pened to me, too. 
 
 Olivier. What? 
 
 Hippolyte. I have just received the 
 following invitation from Madame de 
 Verniferes : " Madame la Vicomtesse de Ver- 
 nifires has the honor to ask 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 
 
 de Santis, who sends, her compliments." 
 Madame de Santis wants to talk to me 
 about her husband, no doubt. 
 
 Olivier. What did you answer? 
 
 Hippolyte. Nothing, as yet, but I am 
 going to accept. 
 
 Olivier. I'll go with you. 
 
 Hippolyte. Were you invited, too? 
 
 Olivier. An invitation is not necessary 
 at Madame de VerniSres.' 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 rather than after 
 it is hatched. — Are you hvmgry? 
 
 Hippolyte. Oh, yes! 
 
 Olivier. Then let's go to dinner. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 [The drawing-room at Madame de 
 VBRNiijREs'. As the curtain rises, the ' 
 ViscoiTNTESS is Speaking to a Servant.] 
 
 Viscountess. Light up the boudoir and 
 my bedroom. 
 
 Servant [just as he is leaving, announces]. 
 Madame la Baronne d'Ange. 
 
 [He goes out.] 
 
 [Enter Suzanne.] 
 
 Suzanne. I'm not as prompt as I 
 wanted to be, my dear Viscountess, but 
 you know when one^lives in the country, one 
 cannot always be punctual. I dressed at 
 home, at Paris, but ever3rthing was upside 
 down there, as if I'd been away. But to- 
 morrow everything will be in order again. 
 
 Viscountess. You are not late. 
 
 Suzanne. One is always late when one 
 comes to do a favor. 
 
 Viscountess. How good of you! You 
 received my letter, did n't you? You don't 
 blame me too much for my indiscretion, 
 do you? 
 
 Suzanne. But we 're friends! Here is 
 what you asked me for. [She gives the Vis- 
 countess a bank-note.] If that is not 
 enough — 
 
 Viscountess. Thank you, that will be 
 plenty — and I needed it to-day! 
 
 Suzanne. Why didn't you ask for it 
 yesterday? 
 
464 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Viscountess. Because up to the last 
 moment I thought I could get it from 
 Madame de Santis's broker; he promised 
 me. But at noon he told me it would be 
 impossible. Valentine is very hard-pressed, 
 too, and I could n't ask her. Now I can 
 tell you : I 'm being sued. I had good reason 
 to believe that my goods would have been 
 seized to-morrow. I wanted to avoid that 
 scandal. 
 
 StrzANNB. You are quite right. You 
 must pay the bailiff to-night. 
 
 Viscountess. There are two. 
 
 Suzanne. Then, the bailiffs. 
 
 Viscountess. I'm going to send my 
 maid with the money. 
 
 Suzanne. Don't take servants into your 
 confidence in matters of that sort. 
 
 Viscountess. But I can't wait until 
 to-morrow. Those men might come the 
 first thing in the morning. 
 
 Suzanne. Then go yourself. 
 
 Viscountess. What about my guests? 
 
 Suzanne. I'll receive them for you. 
 You can be back before the first one arrives. 
 Who are coming? 
 
 Viscountess. Valentine; a Monsieur 
 Richond whom she wanted me to ask — 
 a friend of her husband; Monsieur de 
 Nanjac (oh, if that were only a match! 
 I'm counting on you for that — if it ma- 
 terializes, we'll be saved!); Marcelle; you; 
 I; and then the Marquis de Thonnerins. 
 I'm counting on these. I don't know 
 whether Monsieur de Maucroix and Mon- 
 sieur de Latour are coming, even though 
 their quarrel has been settled. 
 
 Suzanne. Didn't you invite Monsieur 
 de Jalin? 
 
 Viscountess. He never comes. 
 
 Suzanne. Will the Marquis de Thon- 
 nerins come? 
 
 Viscountess. He sent no reply, which 
 means he is coming. 
 
 Suzanne. Quick now, attend to your 
 affairs — I'll wait for you. 
 
 Viscountess. I'll take a cab and be 
 back in twenty minutes. You're going to 
 be bored — or shall I leave Marcelle with 
 you? I don't think she need go with me. 
 
 Suzanne. What has she to do with it? 
 
 Viscountess. I'll tell you: my affairs 
 
 are in such confusion that the only way I 
 can hope to save a few little odds and ends 
 is by putting them under some one else's 
 name. I 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 
 stiU have: it's her only guarantee. Now, 
 that will protect me from further perse- 
 cution. Still, I think possibly she may 
 have to sign something. 
 Suzanne. Then take her with you. 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. Monsieur le Marquis de 
 Thonnerins. [He goes out.] 
 
 Suzanne. I'll talk with the Marquis 
 while I 'm waiting for you. 
 
 Viscountess. Good. I '11 go now before 
 he comes; otherwise I could n't get away. 
 Tell him about Marcelle and Monsieur de 
 Nanjac, he might be of use to us. 
 
 [She goes out.] 
 
 [Enter the Marquis.] 
 
 MARQxns. Who just left? 
 
 Suzanne. The mistress of the house, 
 who has an errand to do. She will be back 
 soon. 
 
 Marquis. Oh — never mind! I prob- 
 ably shan't see her. 
 
 Suzanne. Are n't you going to spend 
 the evening with us? 
 
 Marquis. 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 I did not want to make you come out 
 to the country — that would be taking 
 advantage of you. Is Mademoiselle de 
 Thonnerins well? 
 
 Marquis. Very well. 
 
 Suzanne. Are n't you ever going to let 
 me see her? You know, I 'd so like to, even 
 at a distance, because you might never 
 bring her. 
 
 Marquis. My dear Suzanne, 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 
 
 465 
 
 Suzanne. You once told me that no 
 matter what might happen, I should al- 
 ways find you ready to help me. 
 
 Marquis. True, and I repeat it. 
 
 Suzanne. Yes, but so distantly that I 
 am not sure whether it would be discreet 
 of me to count on your promise. 
 
 Marquis. I don't remember ever having 
 made you a promise which I did not keep. 
 The way in which I spoke 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 he can be of service, if possible, to those 
 whom he has 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 owe everything to you. Mon- 
 sieur le Marquis. Perhaps you have for- 
 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 passing fancy; you honored 
 me with a little love. 
 
 Marquis. Suzanne — ! 
 
 Suzanne. I was nothing, and you made 
 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 I 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 circimistances. Things 
 being as they are, I must either fall lower 
 than where I began, or rise to the very top. 
 Marriage is my only salvation. 
 
 Marquis. Marriage? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes. 
 
 Marquis. You are ambitious. 
 
 Suzanne. 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 devote 
 his whole life to me; young enough, hand- 
 some enough, to believe that he is loved 
 and that I shali love him. 
 
 Marquis. Have you found this con- 
 fident, noble, and loving husband? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes. 
 
 Mabquis. Is he young enough to be- 
 lieve he is loved? 
 
 Suzanne. He is young enough for me to 
 love him. 
 
 Marquis. 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 wanted to speak to 
 you first. It was the least I could do. 
 
 Marquis. Well, there is this to fear, 
 you know: that this man, who appears so 
 splendid to you, may be merely speculat- 
 ing. He may 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 ten years ago, 
 and he knows nothing of my life. If 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 — 
 
 Mabquis. I don't want, nor have I a 
 right, to know it. My interest in your wel- 
 fare may lead me so far as to wish to see 
 your desires fulfilled, but I really cannot 
 help you in an affair 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 where I 
 should have either to deceive a man of 
 honor, or betray you. 
 
 Suzanne. Of course, people of honor 
 must stand by one another. 
 
 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 husband as 
 being in any way the result of material 
 calculation. To do this I must have a for- 
 tune of about the " same size as his — I 
 must have it in two hours' time. You are 
 my guardian, and you know how much I 
 have: tell me. 
 
 Marquis. Just at present your income 
 is fifteen thousand francs. 
 
 Suzanne. Yes? 
 
 Marquis. Which means a capital of 
 three hundred thousand, figured at five per 
 cent. 
 
 Suzanne. And this capital — ? 
 
 Marquis. A word to my solicitor, — 
 he has charge of your affairs, too, — and 
 he will hand you over all your papers. 
 
 Suzanne. You are a wonderful man! 
 
 Marquis. I am merely rendering you 
 your account. 
 
 Suzanne. I owe everything to you, even 
 the happiness I am about to get from an- 
 other. 
 
 Marquis. A clever woman never owes 
 anything to any one. 
 
 Suzanne. That is an indirect reproach. 
 
 Marquis. No: merely a receipt of 
 "paid in full." [He kisses her hand.] Please 
 offer my excuses to the Viscountess. 
 
 [He goes out.] 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. Monsieur Raymond de Nan- 
 jac. [He goes otit.] 
 
 [Enter Raymond.] 
 
 Raymond. I have just come from your 
 apartment. I had hoped we might spend a 
 few moments together before coming to the 
 Viscountess's, and I was looking forward 
 to the pleasure of accompanying you. 
 
 Suzanne. I received a note from 
 Madame de VerniSres, who asked me to 
 come a little earlier. There was a favor to 
 do. 
 
 Raymond. 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. 
 
 Raymond. Has he not a sister? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes: the Duchess d'Haubeney. 
 
 Raymond. 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? 
 
 Suzanne. The Marquis has a charming 
 daughter. 
 
 Raymond. What is that to me? 
 
 Suzanne. Whose dowry will amount to 
 four or five millions. 
 
 Raymond. What difference can that 
 make to me? I don't want to marry her. 
 
 Suzanne. Why not? 
 
 Raymond. How can I think of Made- 
 moiselle de Thonnerins, or any one else, 
 when I love you? 
 
 Suzanne. How ridiculous! You scarcely 
 know me. 
 
 Raymond. The day a man sees for the 
 first time the woman he is going to love, 
 he already loves her. Perhaps he even 
 loved her the day before he meets her. 
 Love comes; it is not reasoned about. It is 
 sure and instantaneous, or else it never 
 comes. It seems I have known you for ten 
 years. 
 
 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, still we want to 
 believe in the durability of true love. Now, 
 you say you love me, and yet you are 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? If you have im- 
 agined that, you have done me a grave 
 injustice. 
 
 Raymond. 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 then, 
 and night brings counsel. 
 
 Raymond. I am not going away. I sent 
 in my resignation to-day. 
 
 Suzanne. Really? That was madness! 
 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 old woman 
 compared with you: I am twenty-eight. 
 At twenty-eight, a woman is older than a 
 man of thirty. I must be reasonable for 
 both of us. 
 
 Raymond. But is it necessary to have 
 lived, as you say, to have worn out one's 
 heart in the banal and vulgar intrigues of 
 what masquerades 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 for having granted me since my early 
 youth an active life, for keeping intact all 
 my feelings and energies, until I should be 
 old enough to respond to the call of a true 
 passion! You treat me as you would a 
 child! I was only ten, Suzanne, when I 
 lost a mother whom I worshiped. No mat- 
 ter how soon one loses his mother, that 
 event makes him old all at once. Can't 
 you see that the camp-life I 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 one? I have gray hair, 
 Suzanne; I am an old man; love me. 
 
 Suzanne. But if I love you and if you 
 continue to be suspicious of me, as you 
 were when you saw me at Monsieur de 
 JaUn's (I went there to speak about you) ; 
 if I must continually struggle against your 
 doubts, your jealousy, what will become 
 of me? 
 
 Raymond. What I told Olivier proved 
 my love. Is there a man who really loves 
 who can harbor a single suspicion about the 
 woman he loves? There can be no true love 
 without respect and esteem. 
 
 StrzANNB. That's true. I can imder- 
 stand this jealousy of yours; I might even 
 feel it myself; perhaps I do. What I like 
 in you is that you have never loved. 
 If I 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. 
 
 Raymond. 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. 
 
 Suzanne. But what will your sister say? 
 
 Raymond. She will say: "If you love 
 her, and if she loves you and is worthy of 
 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 
 which 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 ago. 
 You love her, and you will end by believing 
 her. 
 
 Raymond. My sister will live near us; 
 she has no attachments anywhere. 
 
 Suzanne. Let me become acquainted 
 with her first. I want her to like me; I want 
 to win her respect and her affection; I want 
 her to wish to have me for a sister, to want 
 our marriage instead of merely accepting it. 
 
 Raymond. I shall do as you wish. 
 
 Suzanne. How about the friends whose 
 advice you are going to ask? 
 
 Raymond. I have no friends. 
 
 Suzanne. Monsieur de Jalin? 
 
 Raymond. 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! You speak of marriage, and yet, if 
 for 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 OUvier; other- 
 wise, keep our secret to yourself. The real 
 and true happiness is that of which no one 
 else knows. 
 
 Raymond. You areright;you always are 
 right. Although 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, I 
 promise to say nothing either to my sister 
 or to Olivier. Is that satisfactory? 
 
468 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Suzanne. Yes. 
 
 Raymond. How I love you! 
 
 Suzanne. Here comes some one. 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. Monsieur Olivier de Jalin. 
 Monsieur Hippolyte Richon. 
 
 [He goes out.] 
 
 Suzanne [aside]. Olivier! What can he 
 want here? 
 
 [Enter Hippolyte and Olivier.] 
 
 Olivier. What! Is the Viscountess not 
 here? And she calls this "receiving"! 
 
 Suzanne. The Viscountess will soon re- 
 turn. 
 
 Olivier. In any event, she could not 
 have chosen a better representative. 
 Since you are doing the honors, Baroness, 
 allow me to present my friend Monsieur 
 Hippolyte Richond. 
 
 Hippolyte [bovnng]. Madame. 
 
 Suzanne [likewise bov/ing]. Monsieur. 
 
 Olivier. And how are you to-day, my 
 dear Raymond? 
 
 Raymond. Very well, thank you. 
 
 Suzanne [to Olivier and Raymond]. 
 How pleasant it is to see two men who 
 have n't been acquainted over a week on 
 terms of such intimacy! 
 
 Olivier. Between upright and honor- 
 able people, my dear Baroness, there exists 
 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 best 
 friends — I have two now — to Monsieur 
 Hippolyte Richond, who has traveled 
 widely, who has likewise been in Africa. 
 You may chat about it together. 
 
 Raymond. Ah, monsieur, so you know 
 that beautiful country about which so 
 much evil is spoken! 
 
 [They draw aside and converse.] 
 
 Olivier [to Suzanne]. I thought you 
 were in the country? 
 
 Suzanne. I returned this evening. 
 
 Olivier. Oh, have you anything new 
 of interest to tell me? 
 
 Suzanne. Absolutely nothing. 
 ' Olivier. Then let me tell you some news. 
 
 Suzanne. What? 
 
 Olivier. Monsieur de Nanjac is in love 
 with you. 
 
 Suzanne. You're joking! 
 Olivier. Has n't he spoken to you? 
 Suzanne. No. 
 
 Olivier. That's strange. He spoke to 
 me. 
 
 Suzanne. He went about it indirectly. 
 Olivier. You may expect a proposal. 
 Suzanne. Thank you for preparing me. 
 Olivier. Why? 
 
 Suzanne. Because I'm going to let him 
 know as soon as possible that he would 
 be wasting his time. 
 
 Olivier. Don't you love Monsieur de 
 Nanjac? 
 Suzanne. I? The idea! 
 Olivier. Not even a little? 
 SuzANTJE. Not even a great deal! 
 Olivier. Nor passionately. Then, not 
 at all? 
 Suzanne. Not at all, as you say. 
 Olivier. Then I've been very much 
 mistaken, but I am very glad to hear what 
 you tell me. 
 Suzanne. Why? 
 
 Olivier. I'll tell you when we're alone 
 together. 
 
 Suzanne. Tell me soon, because you 
 know I 'm going away. 
 Olivier. You have n't gone yet. 
 Suzanne. Who can prevent my go- 
 ing? 
 Olivier. I — I hope. 
 Suzanne. Take care, or I shall ask Ma- 
 dame de Lornan to protect me. 
 
 Olivier. Madame de Lornan has noth- 
 ing to do with me. I've called there daily 
 for the past three days, and she has refused 
 to see me each time. 
 
 Suzanne. Do you want me to see her 
 and make it up between you? 
 Olivier. You — ? 
 Suzanne. Yes. 
 
 Olivier. Do you think she would re- 
 receive you and not me? 
 
 Suzanne. Perhaps. People receive me 
 when I want them to — At your service! 
 [She turns and goes away.] 
 Olivier [to himself]. That looks like a 
 threat. We'll see. 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 469 
 
 [Enter the Viscountess and Marcelle.] 
 
 Viscountess. 1 hope you will excuse 
 me, gentlemen? 
 
 Suzanne [to the Viscountess]. Well? 
 
 Viscountess. Everything is arranged. 
 Thanks. 
 
 Marcelle [to Suzanne]. I hope you are 
 well, madame? 
 
 Suzanne. And you, my dear? 
 
 Marcelle. Well, I'm sorry to say. 
 When a woman is always well, no one is in- 
 terested in her. 
 
 Suzanne. But I have occasionally heard 
 you cough when we passed the night to- 
 gether. 
 
 Marcelle. That doesn't count: I've 
 had colds as long as I can remember. I 
 must have had a cold when I was born. 
 
 Viscountess [to Hippoltte, to whom 
 Olivier has meantime introduced her]. It's 
 very good of you, monsieur, to accept 
 my invitation, although it was sent in a 
 rather irregular fashion. Madame de San- 
 tis, whose husband you know — 
 
 HippoLYTE. Yes, madame. 
 
 Viscountess. Madame de Santis was 
 very anxious to consult you on a matter of 
 some importance, and she is not yet settled 
 in her own 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 realize 
 her dreams. 
 
 HippoLTTB. If that depends on me, ma- 
 dame, she shall. 
 
 Marcelle. Did n't Monsieur de Thon- 
 nerins come? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes, 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. 
 
 Marcelle. I wish I might have seen 
 him! 
 
 Viscountess. By the way, Monsieur de 
 Nanjac, did n't you promise me you would 
 bring your sister? 
 
 Raymond. Yes, madame, but you know 
 she is still in mourning, and is ailing a little 
 at present. As soon as she is better, I shall 
 be delighted to introduce her. 
 
 Olivier [to Raymond]. Tell me — 7 
 
 Raymond. Yes? 
 
 Marcelle. Monsieur de Nanjac? 
 
 Olivier [to Raymond]. I'll ask you 
 later. 
 
 Raymond. Mademoiselle? 
 
 Marcelle [to Olivier]. Monsieur Oli- 
 vier, lend me Monsieur de Nanjac a mo- 
 ment; I'll give him back. [To Raymond.] 
 I have something to talk to you about, but 
 beforehand, please take this pin out of my 
 hat. 
 
 HippoLYTB [to Olivier]. That young 
 lady seems very clever. 
 
 Olivier. 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? 
 
 Marcelle. Yes: they are trying to get 
 you to marry me. 
 
 Raymond. But — 
 
 Marcelle. Oh, don't try to be gallant, 
 now! 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 aimt will believe you are making 
 love to me. She'll be so pleased. One must 
 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 goes out laughing, with Ray- 
 mond.] 
 
 Viscountess [to Suzanne]. What did 
 I tell you? Everything is going splen- 
 didly. 
 
 HippoLYTE. 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. 
 
 [Enter a Servant] 
 
 Servant. Madame de Santis. 
 
 [He goes out.] 
 Oliviee. This is your affair. 
 
47° 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 [Enter Valentine.] 
 
 Viscountess. You are the last to ar- 
 rive. 
 
 Valentine [aside to the Viscountess]. 
 Monsieur de Latour did n't want to let me 
 go; I had an awful time getting away; he 
 does n't know I am here. — Is Monsieur 
 Richond here? 
 
 Viscountess. He's talking with Olivier 
 over there. 
 
 Valentine. Oh, how my heart's beat- 
 ing! 
 
 Suzanne. Courage! 
 
 Olivier [going to Valentine]. How are 
 you? 
 
 Valentine. Very well, thank you. 
 
 Olivier. You're dressed like a simple 
 little middle-class housekeeper. Suits you 
 beautifully! Let me introduce you to my 
 friend Richond. You had him asked, so 
 that I imagine you would like to meet 
 him? 
 , Valentine. Yes. Introduce me. 
 
 Olivier [introducing her to Hippolyte]. 
 Monsieur Hippolyte Richond — Madame 
 de Santis. 
 
 Hippolyte. Madame. 
 
 Valentine [bowing]. I have been want- 
 ing to meet you for ever so long, monsieur. 
 
 Hippolyte. Very good of you, madame, 
 to say so. I have been away from France 
 during the past ten years. 
 
 Valentine [after making sure that she 
 will not be overheard — to Hippolyte]. Tell 
 me, now, Hippolyte, what are you going to 
 do with me? 
 
 Hippolyte. With you, madame? 
 
 Valentine. Yes! 
 
 Hippolyte. Why — what I have been 
 doing so far! 
 
 Valentine. But I tell you my situation 
 is impossible. 
 
 Hippolyte. Why? 
 
 Valentine. You ask that! We have n't 
 spoken to each other for ten years. I am 
 still your wife. 
 
 Hippolyte. Yes — legally. 
 
 Valentine. You once loved me. 
 
 Hippolyte. Deeply. I nearly died — 
 luckily, I escaped death. 
 - Valentine. And now — ? 
 
 Hippolyte. Now I don't even think of 
 you any more; you are as indifferent to me 
 as if you had never lived. 
 
 Valentine. And yet you came here, 
 knowing you would see me. If I were in- 
 different to you, you would not have 
 come. 
 
 Hippolyte. You are mistaken: I came 
 precisely because I had nothing to fear in 
 seeing you again. 
 
 Valentine. Then will you never for- 
 give me? 
 
 Hippolyte. Never! 
 
 Valentine. Your home will never be 
 open to me? 
 
 Hippolyte. I hope it never will. 
 
 Valentine. Is it true what people have 
 told me? 
 
 Hippolyte. What have you been told? 
 
 Valentine. That your home is — occu- 
 pied? 
 
 Hippolyte. Yes: by people for whom 
 I care a great deal. 
 
 Valentine. But whom I might drive 
 out. 
 
 Hippolyte. You know very well that 
 only one of us two has the right to 
 threaten, and that is I. Don't forget that. 
 Even after three years of sorrow, despair, 
 loneliness, during which, if your heart had 
 found a single word of regret, if you had 
 shed a single tear of repentence, I would 
 have forgiven you, — because I loved you. 
 But now I think I have earned the right to 
 feel and live as I think best. It is in the 
 bosom of a family happened upon by 
 chance, at a borrowed hearth, as it were, 
 that I have found the happiness which 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 every- 
 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 laziness and 
 luxury, and now that you are at the end 
 of your resources, you say to yourself: 
 "Let's see whether my husband will take 
 me back!" Never has a single word come 
 straight from your heart. No, madame, 
 no, everything is over between us: you are 
 dead to me. 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 471 
 
 Valentine. So — you don't care what 
 becomes of me? 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. You may do what you 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 ridiculous. 
 
 Valentine. That is all I wanted to 
 know. You can blame yourself now for 
 whatever happens to me. 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. Good-bye, then. We shall 
 never see each other again. 
 
 Marcelle [who has entered meanwhile 
 and is anxious to speak with Hippoltte]. 
 Are you going, monsieur? 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. Yes, mademoiselle. [To 
 Valentine.] Madame. [He bows to her.] 
 
 Valentine [bovring]. Monsieur. 
 
 Viscountess. Are you leaving us so 
 soon, monsieur? That's not at all nice! 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. I promised to return early. 
 
 Viscountess. Why did n't you bring 
 Madame Richond? 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. Madame de Santis did not 
 ask her. 
 
 Viscountess. I am at home every 
 Wednesday, monsieur, and whenever you 
 and Madame Richond wish to give me 
 the pleasure of your company at tea, I 
 shall be glad to receive you. 
 
 HiPPOLTTE [to Olivier]. I shall see you 
 to-morrow; I want to talk to you. 
 
 [He bows and goes out.] 
 
 Marcelle. You can never count on 
 these married men! 
 
 Raymond [to Olivier]. You had some- 
 thing to say to me awhile ago? 
 
 Olivier. Yes. Tell me, my dear Ray- 
 mond, you have never, since that once, re- 
 ferred to Madame d'Ange. What has be- 
 come of your consuming passion? 
 
 Ratmond. I have given it up. 
 
 Olivter. So soon? 
 
 Raymond. Yes: I was only wasting my 
 time. 
 
 Oliviek. You came to that conclusion 
 at once? 
 
 Raymond. What else could I do? 
 
 Olivier. That's so. Do you know, you 
 are becoming quite Parisian: you are more 
 reasonable than I had thought. I congrat- 
 ulate you. You have also encouraged me 
 to give you some advice. 
 
 Raymond. What? 
 
 Olivier. You promised the Viscountess, 
 did you not, that you wotild introduce her 
 to your sister? 
 
 Raymond. Yes. 
 
 Olivier. Don't bring her here. 
 
 Raymond. Why not? Is the Viscount- 
 ess's home not quite respectable? 
 
 Olivier. 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! [Aloitd.] Are we not to 
 have the pleasure of seeing Monsieur de 
 Latour? 
 
 ViscoTiNTESs. He wrote asking to be 
 excused — urgent 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 him, and he 
 never speaks anything but good of you. 
 
 Olivier. He is only doing his duty. 
 
 Valentine. He is most charming, very 
 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 enough. 
 
 Olivier. Yes, true for what it costs him 
 to make: he gambles every night and in- 
 variably wins. 
 
 Viscountess. I suppose you will say he 
 cheats? 
 
 Olivier. 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. 
 
 Raymond. My dear Olivier, don't for- 
 get that I was once a second for Monsieur 
 de Latour. 
 
 Olivier. Whose acquaintance you made 
 at the hotel in Baden. You are a man of 
 honor, my dear Raymond, and you im- 
 agine that every one else is like yourself. 
 That is very dangerous. I tell you, I should 
 
472 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 never have consented to the duel which 
 Monsieur de Latour appears to have pro- 
 voked. 
 
 Suzanne. Do you deny that he 's brave? 
 He fought his first duel when he was eight- 
 een, and killed his adversary. 
 
 ViscoTiNTBSS. A very good beginning in 
 life! 
 
 Olivieb. The life of other people! I 
 don't question Monsieur de Latour's cour- 
 age; I only say that a man of honor like 
 Monsieur de Maucroix ought no more to 
 fight with Monsieur de Latour than a man 
 of honor like Monsieur de Nanjac to serve 
 as his second. 
 
 Suzanne. But, my dear Olivier, surely 
 Monsieur de Latour is as fine a man as 
 Monsieur de Maucroix? 
 
 Olivier. No, because Monsieur de La- 
 tour, who calls himself Count, is the son of 
 a little money-lender of Marais who left 
 him fifty thousand francs, with the aid of 
 which his son, thanks to cards, nets an 
 income of forty thousand francs. 
 
 Valentine. Nonsense! He comes of an 
 excellent family. 
 
 Oliviee. Wliat family? 
 
 Valentine. The Latour of Auvergne. 
 
 Olivier. Hm! . . . iJ am astonished that 
 women who claim to belong to society — 
 
 Viscountess. Who do, my dear friend. 
 
 Olivier. 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 Briade or Monsieur de 
 Bonchamp, or any of those gentlemen, as 
 Madame de Santis calls them, have not 
 come here to-day, it was for fear of meeting 
 Monsieur de Latour. 
 
 Viscountess. Let us not discuss the 
 matter any further. [A pause.] 
 
 Olivier. Madame de Santis! Madame 
 de Santis! 
 
 Valentine. Well? 
 
 Olivier. Has the lease of your apart- 
 ment in the Rue de la Paix expired 
 yet? 
 
 Valentine. What is that to you? I 
 don't think you came very often. 
 
 * An untranslatable pun on " Latour d* Au- 
 vergne " and " Latour prends garde." — Tr. 
 
 Olivier. Thank you — and your 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-and-yeUow rooms? 
 
 Valentine. My husband? He'll hear 
 from me! 
 
 Olivier. That wiU please him. 
 
 Valentine. I'm going to sue him. 
 
 Olivier. That's an idea. But is it a 
 good one? Why sue him? 
 
 Valentine. You'll see why. I know 
 some very interesting facts about him; I 
 leave the rest with my lawyer. I am his wife, 
 after aU. 
 
 Olivier. The lawyer's? 
 
 Valentine. My dear, you are witty 
 once a week, and yesterday was your day. 
 Keep still now! 
 
 Olivier. Rather good, you know. 
 
 Marcellb. Let him talk, Valentine, 
 dear. You have the right on your side, and 
 you'll 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 I know nothing of dolls 
 or lunches, I never converse with little 
 girls. 
 
 Marcelle. Is that for my benefit? 
 
 Olivier. Yes, mademoiselle. 
 
 Marcelle. But I speak of the same 
 things as 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- 
 moiselle? 
 
 Marcelle. I am a woman, and I speak 
 like a woman! 
 
 Olivier. You might even say, "like a 
 man!" 
 
 Marcelle. Monsieur! 
 
 Valentine. I thought you would end 
 with some impertinence! 
 
 Viscountess [taking Marcelle aside]. 
 You are going a little too far. Monsieur de 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 473 
 
 Jalin; that child never harmed you. If, in 
 the future, you feel the need of saying dis- 
 agreeable things to some one, you may do 
 so to me, when you are in my home, and to 
 me alone. — Come, MaroeUe. — Are you 
 coming with us, Monsieur de Nanjac? 
 
 Ratmostd. One moment, please. 
 
 [The women go out.] 
 
 Olivier. You heard that, my dear Ray- 
 mond? Are you going to bring your sister 
 to Madame de Vernifires' ? 
 
 Ratmond. Then everything you said is 
 true? 
 
 OuviER. Absolutely. 
 
 Raymond. And this Monsieur de La- 
 tour—? 
 
 Olivier. An unprincipled rascal. 
 
 Raymond. And Madame de Santis? 
 
 Olivier. 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. 
 
 Raymond. And Mademoiselle de Sance- 
 naux? 
 
 Olivier. A little girl looking for a hus- 
 band: a new product of our present-day 
 society. 
 
 Raymond. But what is this society? I 
 must confess, I can't understand a thing 
 about it. 
 
 Olivier. My dear fellow, you must live 
 for a long time, as I have, in the intimate 
 circles of Parisian society in order to imder- 
 stand the various shades of this particular 
 stratum. It is not easy to explain. — Do 
 you like peaches? 
 
 Raymond [surprised]. Peaches? Yes. 
 
 Olivier. Well, go to a large fruit dealer, 
 Chevet's, say, or Potel's, and ask for his 
 best peaches. He will show you a basket of 
 magnificent 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 
 at first sight exactly like the others, but they 
 are packed closer together; only one side is 
 visible. The dealer did not offer you these. 
 Ask him their price, and he will reply: 
 "Fifteen sous." You will naturally ask 
 
 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 
 dear 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 as 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 come from God knows 
 where. 
 
 Raymond. And has this social stratum 
 any particular visible characteristics? 
 
 Olivier. You see it everywhere, but 
 rather indistinctly; a Parisian can recog- 
 nize it at a glance. 
 
 Raymond. How? 
 
 Olivier. By the absence of husbands. 
 It is full of married women whose husbands 
 are never seen. 
 
 Raymond. But what is the origin of this 
 strange social world? 
 
 Olivier. It is a modern creation. 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. 
 MoliSre 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 grief and shame; 
 
474 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 but — the second? The second followed 
 the first, and the two gave the name of mis- 
 fortune to what was really a fault; an error, 
 what was actually a crime. They began to 
 console and excuse each other. With the 
 advent of a third, they invited one another 
 to lunch; with the fourth, they had a dance. 
 Then, about this nucleus came in turn 
 young girls who have "made a slip," false 
 widows, women who bear the name of the 
 man they are living with, some truly-mar- 
 ried couples who made their d6but in a 
 liaison of many years' standing; finally, 
 the women who think they have done some- 
 thing of importance 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. 
 
 Raymond. Where do these people got 
 Oliviee. It's impossible to say. Only, 
 beneath the brilliant surface, gilded by 
 youth, beauty, money, under this social 
 fabric of laces, smiles, fStes, and passion, 
 dark and tragic dramas are played, dramas 
 of expiation, scandal, ruin, of the dishonor 
 of whole families, law-suits, 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 passes 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 Viscountess de 
 Verniferes — 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, people 
 will not gossip about her. The ruined mar- 
 
 riage is patched up again, the facade la 
 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. 
 
 Raymond. What, is all that true? How 
 delighted the Baroness would be if she 
 heard this! 
 
 Olivier. Why so? 
 
 Raymond. Because she has already told 
 me the same thing. 
 
 Olivier. She did? She ! 
 
 Raymond. Yes, but not so cleverly, I 
 must admit. 
 
 Olivier. Ah! [Aside.] Very clever of 
 her to do it. [Aloud.] But since the Baron- 
 ess knows this section of society so well, 
 why does she frequent it? 
 
 Raymond. 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 interested in Ma- 
 demoiselle de Sancenaux, 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? 
 
 Raymond. It's a secret, but in a week 
 you will hear great news. 
 
 [Enter Makcelle.] 
 
 Marcelle. Monsieur de Nanjac, Ma- 
 dame d'Ange would like to see you; she has 
 something she wants to say to you. [Ray- 
 mond goes out.] Don't go. Monsieur de 
 Jalin, I want to say something to you. 
 
 Olivier. At your service, mademoiselle. 
 
 Marcelle. You were very hard on me 
 alittle while ago: you made me cry. What 
 have I done to you? 
 
 Olivier. Why, nothing at all. 
 
 Marcelle. And this is n't the first 
 time you've not treated me nicely. I know 
 you have a bad opinion of me — I 've been 
 told so. 
 
 Olivibr. You have not been told the 
 truth. 
 
 Marcelle. And yet you did n't use 
 to be that way with me: you used to 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 475 
 
 say pleasant things occasionally. I even 
 thought 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. Why are n't you nice to me now? 
 What have I done? 
 
 Olivier. I feel that bond of sympathy, 
 mademoiselle, as I used to, only — 
 
 Marcellb. Oh, tell me — ! 
 
 Olivier. Well — a young girl must be a 
 young girl, and she should only have to do 
 with those things which are befitting her 
 age. Now, there are times when your con- 
 versation actually makes me blush, me, a 
 man! And I can't think what answer to 
 make to you. I sometimes regret that you 
 have been brought up in this evil society, 
 and that you can speak as you did, not 
 long ago. 
 
 Marcelle. Then you were purposely 
 severe? Thank you. But what can I do? 
 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 lived in this 
 atmosphere? When I see every day of my 
 life what is happening to women who have 
 erred for the first time, I have learned not 
 to err myself. 
 
 Olivier. That's true. 
 
 Marcelle. But that's not enough, it 
 seems, 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. 
 
 Olivier. What is it, mademoiselle? 
 
 Marcelle. If a young girl like me, with- 
 out money, without a family, with no other 
 protector than a relative like Madame de 
 Verniferes, a girl who has been brought up 
 in a society like this, wants to escape the 
 evil influences, the possible scandal, the 
 nasty advice, the discouragement, how is 
 she to go about it? [A pause.] 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? 
 
 Olivier [totiched]. Forgive me! 
 
 Marcelle. I do more than forgive you, 
 I thank you for having opened my eyes 
 
 before it was 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 shakes hands with Olivier.] 
 
 [Enter Suzanne.] 
 
 Suzanne. I am delighted to see that 
 peace is once more established. 
 
 Marcelle. Yes, and I am very happy. 
 [She goes out.] 
 
 Olivier. Strange girl! 
 
 Suzanne. She is in love with you. 
 
 Olivier. With me! 
 
 Suzanne. She has been for ever so long. 
 
 Olivier. Well, one learns strange things 
 every day! 
 
 Suzanne. Yes: for instance, I have just 
 learned that your pledged word is not to be 
 taken seriously. 
 
 Olivier. And why? 
 
 Suzanne. Because you have not been a 
 friend to me as you promised. 
 
 Olivier. What have I done? 
 
 Suzanne. Monsieur de Nanjac has just 
 repeated your conversation to me. 
 
 Olivier. I did not speak of you. 
 
 Suzanne. 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. 
 
 Olivier. What difference can it possibly 
 make to you, if you don't love Monsieur 
 de Nanjac? 
 
 Suzanne. What do you know about that? 
 
 Olivier. Do you love him? 
 
 Suzanne. I'm not forced to tell you. 
 
 Olivier. Perhaps you are! 
 
 Suzanne. Then, it's — war? 
 
 Olivier. Very well: war! 
 
 Suzanne. You have letters of mine; 
 please return them. 
 
 Olivier. To-morrow I shall do so in 
 person. 
 
 Suzanne. Until to-morrow, then. 
 
 Olivieb. Until to-morrow! 
 
 [He goes out.] 
 
476 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 ACT III 
 
 [The drawing-room in the home of Su- 
 zanne. Suzanne and Sophie are present.] 
 
 Suzanne. Has my solicitor called yet? 
 
 Sophie. No, madame. 
 
 Suzanne. I am going out. If any one 
 comes, ask- him to wait. 
 
 Sophie [opening the door, ready to leave]. 
 Mademoiselle de Sancenaux. 
 
 Suzanne. Tell her to come in. 
 
 [Sophie goes out.] 
 
 [Enter Maecellb.] 
 
 Suzanne. My dear child, to what do I 
 owe this lovely visit? 
 
 Maecelle. Am I keeping you from 
 something? 
 
 Suzanne. You never do that. You 
 know how much I think of you, and that 
 I 'm always ready to do anything I can for 
 you. What is it, now? 
 
 Maeoelle. You can do a great deal for 
 my future. 
 
 Suzanne. Yes? What is it? 
 
 Maecellb. You have a great deal of 
 influence with Monsieur de Thonnerins, 
 have n't you? 
 
 Suzanne. He is good enough to count 
 me among his friends. 
 
 Maecelle. Four or five years ago he 
 offered my aunt to take me to live in his 
 home and bring me up with his daughter; 
 he wanted a companion of her own age for 
 her. 
 
 Suzanne. He told me about it at the 
 time. But your aunt refused. 
 
 Maecelle. Unfortunately. If she had 
 consented, I shouldn't have been in the 
 situation I now am. 
 
 Suzanne. What's the trouble? 
 
 Maecelle. I don't want to blame my 
 aunt: it is n'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 cares and affection which cannot 
 be repaid. However, the continual fight 
 for money often hardens the kindest 
 hearts. After you went yesterday we had 
 p- rather sharp discussion, when I told her 
 I didn't love Monsieur de Nanjac, and 
 
 that I refused to make any effort to become 
 his wife. 
 
 Suzanne. Especially as you love some 
 one else! 
 
 Maecelle. Possibly! When we had 
 stopped discussing, my aimt 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 plan 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 ask you to ask the 
 Marquis to do for me to-day what he was 
 willing to do four years ago. Mademoiselle 
 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. Even 
 after she marries, I don't doubt that she'll 
 have me with her then. And I'm certain 
 that if you stand sponsor for me, my little 
 scheme will succeed, and I'U owe you, if 
 not for a brUliant career, at least for one 
 that's all I could desire: independent, ob- 
 scure, and quiet. 
 
 Suzanne. I shall see the Marquis to- 
 day. 
 
 Maecelle. Really? 
 Suzanne. I must go out now, and I'll 
 call on my way. 
 Maecelle. How good you are! 
 Suzanne. Write me a letter to give him. 
 Maecelle. I'll go home, then, and send 
 it to you. 
 
 Suzanne. No, write it here; it's much 
 easier — while I 'm putting on my hat and 
 cloak. Bring it to me in my bedroom, and 
 then wait for the answer; I shall return in 
 an hour. [She rings the bell] 
 
 Maecelle. I '11 go back to see my aunt 
 while you are gone. I went out with the 
 maid without telling her where I -jvas go- 
 ing, and she might worry. 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Suzanne [to the Servant]. If Monsieur 
 de Jalin comes, ask him to wait. The 
 same with Monsieur de Nanjac, too. [The 
 Servant goes out. — To Maecelle.] I '11 go 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 477 
 
 to my room and wait: we might be de- 
 layed by visitors. [She goes out.] 
 
 Marcblle [as she is vrriting the letter]. 
 That was a splendid inspiration! He will 
 protect me — [Meanwhile, Olivier has 
 come in. He stands watching Marcelle for 
 a few moments. She rises, seals the letter and, 
 turning round, catches sight of Olivier.] Oh! 
 
 Olivier. Did I frighten you, mademoi- 
 selle? 
 
 . Marcelle. I did n't expect to see you 
 there — so suddenly. 
 
 OLnrrER. You seem very happy this 
 morning. 
 
 Marcelle. Yes, I'm so hopeful, and 
 now I'm very glad to see you. You Imow, I 
 owe this great feeling of hope to you. Since 
 yesterday, the future has taken on an en- 
 tirely different aspect. 
 
 Olivier. What has happened to you? 
 
 Marcelle. I'll tell you later. Could I 
 hold secrets from you, my best friend? I '11 
 see you later. 
 
 Olivier. Are you going so soon? 
 
 Marcelle. I'm coming back in an 
 hour. You'll still be here: I'll tell the Bar- 
 oness, whom I 'm going to see now, to keep 
 you. [Taking his hand.] Please always be 
 as frank as you were yesterday. 
 
 [She goes out.] 
 
 Olivier. Possibly some day some one 
 will explain a woman's heart, but the man 
 who can decipher that of a young girl — ! 
 God knows what I thought about that child 
 yesterday, and God knows what she will 
 make me think to-day! [Taking a packet of 
 letters from his pocket.] Meantime, let us 
 put an epitaph on this dead past; may the 
 earth lie light over it! [Writing.] "To Ma- 
 dame la Baronne d'Ange — " 
 
 [Enter Raymond.] 
 
 Raymond! the devil! [He puts the letters 
 back into his pocket.] Ah, so it's you! My 
 dear Raymond! I felt sure I was going to 
 see you: I was speaking of you only a short 
 whde ago. 
 
 Raymond. Where? 
 
 Olivier. With de Maucroix, Senior, 
 with whom I lunched. When I say, "I was 
 speaking of you," I mean, "He was speak- 
 ing of you." 
 
 Raymond. Does Monsieur de Maucroix, 
 Senior, know me? 
 
 Olivier. Not personally, 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 those 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. 
 
 Raymond. Well, it is a fact, and if I have 
 not yet spoken to you — 
 
 Olivier. Your secrets 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, though 
 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? 
 
 Raymond. Perfectly well. — Are you 
 going? 
 
 Olivier. Yes, the Baroness does not 
 seem to come. 
 
 Raymond. Then let us wait for her to- 
 gether? 
 
 Olivier. I have n't time; I have a call 
 to make — 
 
 Raymond. Shall I deliver some message 
 to her from you? 
 
 Olivier [after a pause] . If you will , please 
 tell her that I brought what she asked me for. 
 
 Raymond. What a mysterious message! 
 Are you annoyed with me? 
 
 Olivier. Why should I be? Good Lord! 
 
 Raymond. 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 everjrthing, because, since 
 yesterday, I had been very much worried. 
 I am ashamed to have deceived you. 
 
 Olivier. I had just as soon that you 
 told me nothing. I even beg you not to say 
 a word. 
 
478 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Raymond. Now, that's a touch of child- 
 ish spite, my dear Olivier; men of our age 
 should be above such things, especially as 
 I was going to call on you to-day and ask 
 a favor. 
 
 Olfvier. a favor? 
 
 Raymond. I am going to be married. 
 
 Olivier. You! 
 
 Raymond. Yes, I. 
 
 Olivier. And you are marrying — 7 
 
 Raymond. Guess. 
 
 Olivier. How can I? 
 
 Raymond. When we met for the first 
 time I told you that the information I 
 asked for might have the greatest possible 
 influence over my life. I am going to marry 
 Madame d'Ange. 
 
 Olivier. Suzanne! [Quickly.] The 
 Baroness? 
 
 Raymond. Yes. 
 
 Olivier. You're joking! 
 
 Raymond. I am not joking. 
 
 Olivier. You mean it, then? 
 
 Raymond. I mean it seriously. 
 
 Olivier. Was the marriage her idea? 
 
 Raymond. It was mine. 
 
 Olivier. Oh! — my compliments, Ray- 
 mond! 
 
 Raymond. The news seems to surprise 
 you? 
 
 Olivier. I don't deny that it's unex- 
 pected. I rather suspected, though you 
 tried to throw me off the scent yesterday, 
 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, I must say, that it might be a 
 question of marriage. 
 
 Raymond. Why not? 
 
 Olivier. Because, according to my no- 
 tion, marriage is a serious matter, and 
 when one is going to pledge his life with a 
 single word, he ought to reflect much longer 
 than you have. 
 
 Raymond. But I 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 free — 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. That's all very 
 natural, is n't it? 
 
 Olivier. Perfectly. And when is the 
 wedding to take place? 
 
 Raymond. 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. 
 
 Olivier. My account? 
 
 Raymond. Yes; I must have witnesses 
 and I felt sure you would do me the favor. 
 
 Olivier. I a witness of your marriage 
 with the Baroness? It's impossible. 
 
 Raymond. You refuse? 
 
 Olivier. I am going away to-morrow. 
 
 Raymond. But you never said a word 
 of this! Why, my dear Olivier, what's the 
 matter? You seem so embarrassed — you 
 have for the past few moments. 
 
 Olivier. It is very embarrassing. 
 
 Raymond. What is it? Tell me. 
 
 Olivier. Raymond, are you willing to 
 believe that if I were to advise you in a 
 serious situation, the advice could not but 
 be for your good? 
 
 Raymond. Yes. 
 
 Olivier. Then, take my advice, delay 
 this wedding — there is stiU time. 
 
 Raymond. What do you mean? 
 
 Olivier. I mean that no matter how 
 deeply in love you are, there is no need of 
 your marrying — when you can do other- 
 wise. 
 
 Raymond. 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 say no 
 more about it. Good-day! 
 
 Raymond. Are n't you going to wait for 
 the Baroness? 
 
 Olivier. No; I'll return later. 
 
 Raymond. Olivier! 
 
 Olivier. Raymond? 
 
 Raymond. You have something on your 
 mind? 
 
 Olivier. Nothing. 
 
 Raymond. Yes, you have. 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 479 
 
 Olivier. My dear fellow, you are not 
 like other men — 
 
 Raymond. What is there unusual about 
 me? 
 
 OuviEK. I don't seem able to talk with 
 you; you always turn the good to evil. 
 At the slightest word, you ignite like 
 powder, you reason hke a cannon-ball of 
 '48, which shatters one's arms and legs. 
 I tell you, it's discouraging. I advise you 
 as a friend; I think it my duty, and you 
 stop the words on my Ups with one of those 
 marble answers that no one else but you 
 can make. We Parisians are not familiar 
 with those characters which lack subtlety 
 and cannot understand half -uttered phrases. 
 You make me afraid. 
 
 Raymond. My dear fellow, the pro- 
 fession of soldier has not altogether crushed 
 out of me all common 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 tell me. And, take my word 
 for it, the moment I see the point, I promise 
 I shall be the first to laugh. 
 
 Olivieb. So you say, but you won't laugh. 
 
 Raymond. 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 best he can do is to see the humor 
 of it and laugh. Everything or nothing! 
 That is my motto! 
 
 OuvrEK. Word of honor? 
 
 Raymond. Word of honor! 
 
 Oliviee. Then, my dear fellow, let us 
 laugh. 
 
 Raymond. Have I been on the wrong 
 track? 
 
 Olivier. Exactly. 
 
 Raymond. Does n't she love me? 
 
 Olivier. I don't say 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. 
 
 Raymond. What — ? You mean the 
 Baroness — ? Tell me. 
 
 Olivieb. It would take too long, and 
 then other people's affairs do not concern 
 me. All that I have a right to tell you is, 
 do not marry Madame d'Ange. 
 
 Raymond. Truly? 
 
 Olivier. Only your recent arrival from 
 Africa could allow such an idea to creep 
 into your head. 
 
 Raymond. You are opening my eyes! 
 Now I tmderstand why she wanted me to 
 say nothing about the marriage, why she 
 wanted to be married far from Paris, and 
 why she told me to be on my guard against 
 you. 
 
 Olivier. She knew that I thought too 
 much of you to allow you to do a thing of 
 this sort, without giving you a little in- 
 formation. 
 
 Raymond. You know, the woman is 
 very clever! She had 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 place 
 there she does, is a proof of her superiority. 
 Don't marry Suzanne, but love her: she is 
 well worth your while. 
 
 Raymond. You know something about 
 this? 
 
 Olivier. I? No. 
 
 Raymond. Why be so discreet at this 
 point? This is n't the same sort of situation 
 as when we first met. That day you were 
 discreet; that was most natural, because 
 you did n't know me. 
 
 Olivier. I have told you the truth. 
 
 Raymond. Come, now! 
 
 Olivier. Word of honor! You said to 
 me: "You are only a friend of Madame 
 d'Ange?" and I replied: "Yes"; that was 
 true, I was only her friend. Then, I did 
 not know you, as you say; you came here 
 ready to kill, right and left, and I had no 
 very good reasons for being interested in 
 your welfare. I said to myself: "There's a 
 young man who is in love with the Baron- 
 ess; he is or will soon be her lover; he will 
 leave here two months hence with the firm 
 
48o 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 conviction that he has been loved by a 
 woman of the world, and he will then blow 
 his brains out. Bore voyage!" But, now 
 that I have come to know and value your 
 open heart, your frankness, to appreciate 
 your character — now you tell me that you 
 are on the point of giving this woman yoiu: 
 name! The devil! That's another matter, 
 and silence on my part would be treason, 
 for which you would later on have every 
 right to call me to accoimt. I shan't hide 
 anything now. Things have followed their 
 natural order. You're not blaming me, are 
 you? 
 
 Raymond. Blame you, my dear friend? 
 Are you mad? Believe me — on the con- 
 trary — I shall never forget what you are 
 doing for me, as long as I live. 
 
 Olivier. You never know just how peo- 
 ple in love will behave — 
 
 Raymond. I don't love that woman now. 
 
 Olivier. You understand, of course, 
 that everything I say is in strict confi- 
 dence? 
 
 Raymond. Of course. Now, what do you 
 advise me to do? 
 
 Olivier. This concerns you — 
 
 Raymond. 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. 
 
 Raymond. What situation? 
 
 Olivier. 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 
 one. 
 
 Raymond. Then she is not a widow? 
 
 Olivier. She was never married. 
 
 Raymond. Are you sure? 
 
 Olivier. I am. No one has ever seen 
 the Baron d'Ange! 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 here: she 
 would suspect something, and she must not 
 know of this conversation. 
 
 Raymond. I understand. Then there 
 is no use of my giving her the message you 
 spoke of? 
 
 Olivieb. What message? 
 
 Raymond. Didn't you ask me to tell 
 her that you were going to bring later what 
 you brought her this morning? ' 
 
 Olivier. Say nothing about it. 
 
 Raymond. What did you bring? 
 
 Olivier. Some papers. 
 
 Raymond. Business papers? 
 
 Oltvier. Yes. 
 
 Raymond. About her income? 
 
 Olivebr. Yes. Good-bye. 
 
 Raymond. 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. [A paitse.] Come, while we're on 
 the point: the more you tell me, the better 
 it will be. 
 
 Olivier. Well, yes, they are letters. 
 
 Raymond. Which she wrote you, and 
 which she, intending to marry, wants back. 
 Now, do your duty. 
 
 Olivier. How? 
 
 Raymond. Prove that you are really a 
 friend. 
 
 Olivier. What must I do? 
 
 Raymond. Give me the letters. 
 
 Olivier. You? 
 
 Raymond. Yes. 
 
 Olivier. You know that is impossi- 
 ble. 
 
 Raymond. Why? 
 
 Olivier. Because one doesn't give 
 away a woman's letters. 
 
 Raymond. That depends. 
 
 Olivier. On what? 
 
 Raymond. 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. 
 
 Raymond [very seriously]. I think it's 
 a little late to come forth with maxims of 
 that sort, my dear Olivier. 
 
 Olivieb. You think so? 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 481 
 
 Raymond. Yes, because when you once 
 begin a confidential conversation of this 
 sort, you ought to carry it through to the 
 bitter end. 
 
 Olivier. My dear Raymond, I see that 
 I have made a grave blunder; I ought to 
 say nothing more. 
 
 Raymond. Why? 
 
 Olivier. 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 moments ago was only in order to 
 make me speak. You are more clever than 
 I thought you. Good-morning. 
 
 Raymond. Olivier, in the name of our 
 friendship, give me those letters! 
 
 Olivier. Why, that's out of the ques- 
 tion. I tell you it would be unworthy of 
 both of us. I am surprised at your asking. 
 
 Raymond. I merely ask for a proof of 
 what you have told me — 
 
 Olivier. You may doubt it all, if you 
 like. 
 
 Raymond. I would willingly do it for 
 your sake. 
 
 Olivier. Swear to me on your honor — 
 
 Raymond. I — [He stops.] 
 
 Olivier. You see? 
 
 Raymond. 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. 
 
 Olivier. No! 
 
 Raymond. Do you doubt my word? 
 
 Olivier. Good Heavens, no! 
 
 Raymond. Well, then ^ ? 
 
 Olivier. Listen to me, Raymond: you 
 will never forgive me for having told you 
 the truth. I cannot repent, because I 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 sufficient. 
 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 moment 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. And 
 now, my dear Raymond, do as you think 
 best! I was your friend; I will continue to 
 be such so long as you wish me to be. 
 Good-bye — or — au revoir. 
 
 [He goes out.] 
 Raymond. Olivier! [He makes for the 
 letters, which Olivier has 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 picks up, then 
 lays down the envelope.] He is right: it is 
 impossible! 
 
 [Enter Suzanne.] 
 
 SirzANNE. I've been out long, my dear, 
 have n't I? 
 
 Raymond. No. Then, I was n't alone. 
 
 Suzanne. Who was here? 
 
 Raymoistd. Monsieur de Jalin. 
 
 Suzanne. Why did n't he wait? 
 
 Raymond. He seemed to be in a hurry. 
 
 Suzanne. Is he coming back? 
 
 Raymond. Yes, in half an hour. Where 
 have you been, dear Suzanne? 
 
 Suzanne. I've been on some tiresome 
 errands. I don't complain, because they 
 were for you. 
 
 Raymond. For me? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes, for you, monsieur. When 
 a person marries, he must put all his 
 affairs in order, must n't he? I should n't 
 complain at all — unless you happened to 
 change your mind — 
 
 Raymond. Not yet! 
 
 Suzanne. Is there any chance of it? 
 
 Raymond. That will depend on you. 
 
 Suzanne. 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 fi- 
 nances. 
 
 Raymond. Never mind that. 
 
 Suzanne. I have just got my birth- 
 certificate. See, I didn't lie: I'm an old 
 woman of twenty-eight. There's no deny- 
 ing facts. [She reads:] "Infant; sex, femi- 
 
482 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 nine; born February 4, 1818, at 11 o'clock 
 in the evening; daughter of Jean-Hya- 
 cinthe, Count de Berwach, and of Jos§- 
 phine-Henriette de Crousserolles, his wife." 
 You see, I come of a good family! This 
 is all that remains of the first two love 
 affairs of my life: an almost illegible scrap 
 of paper, an oflBcial document, cold and dry 
 as the epitaph on a tombstone. Here is my 
 marriage-contract. I was n't in a happy 
 mood that day, Raymond dear, because I 
 did n't love my husband; I was simply 
 giving in to the wishes of my parents. But 
 I can't reproach the Baron, he was as good 
 as he could be to me; he came of an old 
 family, and was the last of the line. And 
 here is my husband'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? 
 
 Raymond. Will you let me have those 
 documents? 
 
 Suzanne. Certainly, but don't lose them. 
 
 Raymond. You may be sure I shan't; 
 I'll put them with niy own, as soon as I get 
 them. Is that all you've done this morn- 
 ing? 
 
 Suzanne. 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 tell 
 her. 
 
 Raymond. There ia a way. 
 
 Suzanne. How? 
 
 Raymond. Write to her before she 
 comes. Is n't that the best way to break 
 bad news? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes, but it's such a bother 
 to write! 
 
 Raymond. It depends: to those we love, 
 for instance! 
 
 Suzanne. That's different! 
 
 Raymond. But you never wrote to me. 
 
 Suzanne. I have seen you every day; 
 what did I have to write? But you've lost 
 nothing: I write a fearful hand. 
 
 Raymond. Let me see a sample? 
 
 Suzanne. Do you really wish to? 
 
 Raymond. Yes. 
 
 Suzanne. Veryw«ll. {She virites:] "My 
 dear child—" Horrid pen! "I have been 
 to see Monsieur de Thonnerins, as I 
 promised, but I did not find our old friend 
 in the frame of mind I had ^cpected — " 
 [To Raymond, who is watching closely what 
 she writes.] Can hardly read it, can you? 
 
 Raymond. Hardly. Let me have the 
 beginning of the letter, please. 
 
 Suzanne. Why? 
 
 Raymond. Give it to me. 
 
 Suzanne. There. 
 
 Raymond [after having examined the 
 letter]. My dear Suzanne, I forgot to tell 
 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 asked him 
 for. 
 
 Suzanne. I? 
 
 Raymond. Yes, you. 
 
 Suzanne. From whom are they? 
 
 Raymond. From you! 
 
 Suzanne. From me! I don't under- 
 stand. Where are they? 
 
 Raymond. Here. 
 
 Suzanne. Give them to me. 
 
 Raymond. I beg your pardon, Suzanne, 
 dear, but I'm going to ask your permis- 
 sion to open the package. 
 
 Suzanne. Did Monsieur de Jalin bring 
 these for me? 
 
 Raymond. I told you that he did. 
 
 Suzanne. Very well, then, open it and 
 read the letters if you wish. If you wanted 
 to see anything in them, you need n't have 
 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, we shall explain. 
 
 [He opens the package, takes one 
 of the letters and compares it 
 with the one which Suzanne has 
 just written to Marcelle.] 
 
 Suzanne. Well? 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 483 
 
 Raymond. Suzanne, some one is being 
 deceived somewhere. 
 
 StJZANNB. I, I think, for I hope to die if 
 I can guess a word of the riddle! 
 
 Raymond. Look at those letters. 
 
 SuzAOTfB. They are from a woman. 
 
 Raymond. Read them. 
 
 Suzanne [glancing through a few]. Love- 
 letters, or nearly so — the expressions are 
 not particularly tender. But they might 
 pass for love-letters. Well? 
 
 Raymond. Don't you know who wrote 
 those letters? 
 
 Suzanne. How should I know? They're 
 not signed. 
 
 Raymond. Are they not in your hand- 
 writing? 
 
 Suzanne. What! My handwriting? 
 Are you mad? Is my handwriting like 
 that? I wish it were! That woman writes 
 very nicely. 
 
 Raymond. Then why Olivier's lie? He 
 seemed so sure! 
 
 Suzanne. What lie? Tell me, what does 
 this mean? Did Monsieur de Jalin say that 
 these letters were from me? 
 I Raymond. Yes. 
 
 ' Suzanne [indignantly]. Then, Monsieur 
 de Jahn must have been my lover? 
 
 Raymond. So it appears. 
 
 Suzanne. Did he tell you that? 
 
 Raymond. He gave me to understand — 
 
 Suzanne. Please — where is the joke? 
 
 Raymond. Monsieur de Jalin was not 
 joking. 
 
 Suzanne. He was making fun of you. 
 You Uedto him yesterday, and to-day he is 
 merely taking his revenge. I have known 
 Monsieur de JaUn longer than you have; I 
 know he is incapable of doing anything 
 cowardly. You are now accusing h\m of 
 something that is. He made love to me at 
 one time, and wrote letters to me, which I 
 can show you. I think he is rather hurt 
 that I am marrying, because it takes his 
 last hope from him. But there's a vast 
 gulf 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. 
 
 Raymond. We shall see. 
 
 Suzanne. Have you any doubts, yourself? 
 
 Raymond. This matter is between him 
 and me. Will you swear that what Mon- 
 sieur de Jalin told me was false? 
 
 Suzanne. Do you want me to swear? 
 So, it's something more than a joke, or 
 even a libel on Monsieur de Jalin's part: 
 it is treason on yours, monsieur. 
 
 Raymond. Treason! 
 
 Suzanne. Yes, you are already begin- 
 ning to regret the promises you made me. 
 Why did n't you tell me frankly rather 
 than resort to such means, which really do 
 more honor to your cleverness than to your 
 delicacy. 
 
 Raymond. Suzanne, you are accusing 
 me of something infamous. 
 
 Suzanne. What am I accusing you of? 
 
 Raymond. Monsieur de Jalin is coming 
 here shortly; let us clear matters up in his 
 presence. 
 
 Suzanne. What! Must you await 
 Monsieur de Jalin's permission to believe 
 that I am telling the truth? I am going to 
 have Monsieur de Jahn himself tell you 
 that he was never my lover; you will be- 
 lieve me 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. Everythmg is over 
 between us now. 
 
 Raymond. My jealousy is only a proof 
 of my love. I love you so deeply, Suzanne! 
 
 Suzanne. I don't want to be loved that 
 way! 
 
 Raymond. I swear — 
 
 Suzanne. Please! 
 
 Raymond. Suzanne! 
 
 [Enter Sophie.] 
 
 Sophie. Mademoiselle de Sancenaux 
 wishes to know if madame will see her? 
 Suzanne. Ask her to come in. 
 
 [Sophie goes out.] 
 Raymond. I shall stay with you. 
 
484 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 [Enter Mabcelle.] 
 
 Marcelle. It's I, madame. 
 
 Suzanne. I'm so glad to see you, dear 
 child. [To Raymond.] Please excuse us, 
 Monsieur de Nanjac, mademoiselle and I 
 wish to be alone. 
 
 Raymond. When shall I have the pleas- 
 ure of seeing you again, madame? 
 
 Suzanne. On my return: I'm leaving 
 to-night, and I shan't see any one in the 
 meantime. 
 
 [Raymond bows and goes out, as 
 Suzanne rings.] 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 [To the Servant]. If Monsieur de Nanjac 
 calls again to-day, tell him I am not at 
 home; if he insists, add that I refuse to see 
 him. Go! [The Servant goes out.] I have 
 seen the Marquis, and I have bad news to 
 report, my poor dear: Monsieur de Thon- 
 nerins is interested in you, but — 
 
 Maecblle. But he refuses. 
 
 Suzanne. He would like to do what you 
 ask — 
 
 Maecblle. 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 
 Thonnerins is very fortunate in having a 
 father to protect and care for her. Thank 
 you, dear madame, and forgive me for hav- 
 ing troubled you so. 
 
 Suzanne. I do wish I had been success- 
 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 
 that obstacle were removed. 
 
 Maecblle. I asked for help, not alms. 
 
 Suzanne. That is 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 
 loves you even now? If he does, what is 
 there to prevent your becoming his wife? 
 
 Marcelle. I don't love any one. 
 
 Suzanne. Oh, very well, Marcelle, I'm 
 not asking for any secrets. 
 
 Maecelle. Did n't I hear you say you 
 were going away to-night? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes. 
 
 Marcelle. Perhaps we shan't see each 
 other again, but I shall never forget how 
 good you have been to me. 
 
 Suzanne. I'll let you know where lam. 
 Write me, and no matter how far away I 
 am, I shall do everything in my power to 
 help you. 
 
 Marcelle. Thank you. [She kisses Su- 
 zanne.] Good-bye. 
 
 Suzanne. Good-bye — and courage! 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. Monsieur Olivier de Jalin. 
 
 [Marcelle makes ready to go, as 
 the Servant leaves.] 
 
 [Enter Olivier.] 
 
 Olivier. Am I sending you away, made- 
 moiselle! 
 
 Marcelle. No, monsieur, I was going 
 anyway. 
 
 Olivier. How sad you look. What's 
 the matter? 
 
 Marcelle. One hour follows another, 
 and not one resembles another. I was too 
 quick to hope: life is more difficult than I 
 had imagined, when one is alone to strug- 
 gle with it. 
 
 Olivier. 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'll tell me all your 
 troubles! 
 
 Marcelle. I will do everything you 
 tell me. 
 
 Olivier. I shall see you soon, possibly 
 in a very short while. 
 
 [He shakes hands with her, and 
 she goes oui.] 
 
 Suzanne. It's touching, is n't it? I 
 should very much like to see you marry 
 Mademoiselle de Sancenaux, after what 
 you have said about her. 
 
 Olivier. I did not know her then, now 
 I do. 
 
 Suzanne. All of which goes to show that 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 48s 
 
 it is never wise to speak evil of people be- 
 fore you know! By the way, you and I 
 have an account to balance. 
 
 Olivier. What? 
 
 Suzanne. Now pretend not to under- 
 stand! You told Monsieur de Nanjac that 
 it would be wrong of him to marry me. 
 
 Oltvier. That is true. 
 
 Suzanne. Did you tell him why it 
 would be wrong? 
 
 Olivier. Yes. 
 
 Suzanne. You are at least frank. How- 
 ever, that is no excuse for your having com- 
 mitted a — What is it? There is a word 
 for such things — 
 
 Oltvier [appearing to be searching for the 
 iDordl. A blunder? 
 . Suzanne. No. 
 
 Olivier. Something tactless? 
 
 Suzanne. Not altogether. Something 
 — er — 
 
 Olivier. Cowardly? Say it; it burns 
 your lips. 
 
 Suzanne. Exactly: something cowardly! 
 
 Olvier. And why did I do it? 
 
 Suzanne. Because a man of honor keeps 
 such things to himself. 
 
 Olivier. Which proves that you and I 
 do not agree on the question of honor, for- 
 tunately! 
 
 Suzanne. You have nothing more to 
 add? 
 
 Oltvibr. Nothing. 
 
 Suzanne. And did you imagine that 
 Monsieur de Nanjac would fail to repeat 
 your conversation to me? 
 
 Oltvier. I did, because he gave me his 
 word of honor. 
 
 Suzanne. But you gave me your word 
 of honor, my friend! 
 
 Olivier. To be your friend, yes, but not 
 your accomplice. 
 
 Suzanne. "Accomplice'' is rather bru- 
 tal. [She Imighs.] Tell me, Olivier? 
 
 Oltvier. Yes? 
 
 Suzanne. You know, what you have 
 done has turned out to my advantage. 
 
 Oltvieh. So much the better! Well, I 
 have done my duty on the one hand, and 
 done you a favor on the other. 
 
 Suzanne. He loves me more than ever. 
 
 Oltvibr. Indeed? 
 
 Suzanne. I really can't be angry with 
 you. And you pretend to be a clever man! 
 Why, can't you see that you ' ve been caught 
 in a trap? 
 
 Olivier. Caught in a trap? 
 
 Suzanne. Of course, you poor dear! 
 You are trying to deal with a woman! 
 Have n'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 had to strike a final blow and 
 lay low the truth so emphatically, that any 
 Ues 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 eyes! Do you think I am 
 the sort of woman 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 
 pocket! A short while before you were due 
 here, I went out in order to leave you alone 
 with Monsieur 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 — 
 
 Olivier. And? 
 
 Suzanne. And as they bear no resem- 
 blance to each other, he is convinced that 
 I am the victim of a Ubelous story. He 
 loves me more than ever, and he has only 
 one thought: to cut your throat. The idea! 
 To think that, at your age, you don't yet 
 know that the very best way to fall out with 
 a friend is to speak 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 
 
486 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 circumstances. I told him I could never 
 think of becoming his wife. He will be here 
 in ten minutes, and in a week's time we 
 shall be married. I owe all this to you, my 
 dear. You have lost, you see, and you owe 
 me a forfeit. 
 
 Olivier. Have you two samples of the 
 handwriting? 
 
 Suzanne. I have only one, but that is 
 enough. 
 
 Olivier. Then how does it happen 
 that — ? 
 
 . Suzanne. I shall tell you everything, 
 because at bottom I am obliging, and I 
 have nothing 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 des- 
 tined to be lost by those to whom they are 
 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 compromising letter, and for the 
 last ten years I have adhered to that rule. 
 Olivier. Then the letters you wrote 
 me — ? 
 
 Suzanne. 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 up! 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 himl 
 
 Olivier [bowing]. I have nothing more 
 to say. You are a most powerful — 
 
 Suzanne. Now, let us talk seriously. By 
 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 under- 
 stand, but are you quite sure that you 
 haven't been prompted by a feeling of 
 wounded pride? I know you don't love me, 
 but a man always rather resents being told 
 by a woman 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 I thought you an honorable man, 
 because I loved you, perhaps, are you there- 
 fore going to be an obstacle to the happi- 
 ness 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! — to close to 
 me the honorable path I have chosen to 
 tread? No, my dear Olivier, it's not right; 
 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 nor 
 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. 
 
 Olivier. 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. For Raymond'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." 
 
 Suzanne. That is all I wanted to hear 
 from you. Now — 
 
 Olivier. Now? 
 
 Suzanne [seeing Sophie enter]. Nothing. 
 [To Sophie.] What is it? 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 487 
 
 Sophie. Monsieur de Nanjac has called. 
 
 Stjzannb. I have already ^ven my or- 
 ders — 
 
 Sophie. He insisted on seeing Madame 
 la Baronne. I told tiim that Madame 
 la Baronne was not receiving. He asked 
 whether Monsieur de Jalin was with ma- 
 dame, and told me, if he was, to ask him 
 to step out and see him. 
 
 Suzanne. Tell Monsieur de Naajac to 
 come in. 
 
 Olivieb. Are you going to see him? 
 
 Suzanne. No, but you will, and you 
 will please tell him what you think you 
 ought to tell him. Only remember that he 
 loves me, that I love him, and that what I 
 want, Twant. Au revoir, my dear Olivier. 
 [She goes out.] 
 
 Olivier. Well, I'll get this over with at 
 once. 
 
 [Enter Raymond.] 
 
 You wished to see me, my dear Ray- 
 mond? The Baroness is not present — we 
 are alone. I am listening. 
 
 Raymond. I don't wish to forget that I 
 once called you friend, but — 
 
 Olivier. But? 
 
 Raymond. You have deceived me. 
 
 Olivier [staccato]. I have not. 
 
 Raymond. Listen to me: I have decided 
 not to consider proofs; furthermore, Ma- 
 dame d'Ange proved that what you told 
 me was not so. You said that she was never 
 married; I have seen the marriage contract, 
 seen it with my own eyes. Are you going to 
 tell me that the document is a forgery? 
 
 Olivier. No. 
 
 Raymond. You told me that she was 
 not a widow; I have seen her husband's 
 death-certificate. Are you going to tell me 
 that that document is an invention? 
 
 Olivier. No. 
 
 Raymond. I have just come from the 
 Marquis de Thonnerins, whom I have ques- 
 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 — 
 
 Olivier. Are not from her, I now know: 
 one of her friends wrote them for her, and 
 I was led to believe they 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 Baroness, but 
 even my own stupidity did n't furnish one. 
 When I tried to prove that I was truly 
 your friend, I succeeded only in proving 
 that I was a fool. I have been beautifully 
 deceived, take my word (or it. 
 
 Raymond. So you take back everything 
 you said? 
 
 Olivier. Everything. She comes of a 
 good family, she 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 defamer 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 again 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, 
 
 Raymond. Good-bye. [Ohviek goes out.] 
 I must hear the final word from that man! 
 
 [Enter a Servant] 
 
 Servant. Monsieur knows, of course, 
 that Madame la Baronne has gone out, and 
 will not return until late? 
 
 Raymond [sitting down]. Very well, I 
 shall wait. 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 The scene is the same. Suzanne is present. 
 
 [Enter a Servant, who announces:] 
 
 Servant. Monsieur le Marquis de 
 Thonnerins. [He goes out.] 
 
 [Enter the Marquis.] 
 
 Marquis. How do you do. Baroness! 
 
 SuzANiwi. To what do I owe the pleasure 
 of your visit, my dear Marquis? 
 
 Marquis. I have come to learn, my dear 
 Suianne, if my solicitor has given you 
 what he was to give you? 
 
488 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Suzanne. He gave me everything, 
 thank you. 
 
 Makquis. And then I wanted to find 
 out how you were getting on? 
 
 Suzanne. Very well. 
 
 Marquis. And your marriage? 
 
 Suzanne. My marriage? 
 
 Marquis. Yes; is it going to take place? 
 
 Suzanne. That's so — I have n't seen 
 you for a long time. Have n't you heard? 
 
 Marquis. I have heard nothing. 
 
 Suzanne [with a sigh]. You are right, 
 Monsieur le Marquis, I was too ambitious: 
 some things are impossible. 
 
 Marquis. ■ You admit it? 
 
 Suzanne. I must. > 
 
 Marquis. Tell me about it. 
 
 Suzanne. Some one told! 
 
 Marquis. Who? 
 
 Suzanne. Some one in whom I had too 
 great confidence: Monsieur de Jalin. 
 
 Marquis. And did he tell Monsieur de 
 Nanjao — ? 
 
 Suzanne. You know his name? 
 
 Marquis. Yes. And what did Monsieur 
 de Nanjac do ? 
 
 Suzanne. He believed Monsieur de Jalin; 
 then, because he loved me, he believed me. 
 
 Marquis. And now? 
 
 Suzanne. Now he still loves me — only 
 jealously, and without confidence in me. 
 There's no end of questions, suspicions, 
 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 heads, start each morning of 
 my life with some new lie which I have to 
 confess 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. 
 
 Marquis. You don't love Monsieur de 
 Nanjac? 
 
 Suzanne. I love no one. 
 
 Marquis. Then the marriage will not 
 take place? 
 
 Suzanne. No; I 'm going to remain free. 
 I'm going to Italy; they rarely ask where a 
 woman comes from there, 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, receive 
 and protect artists, and some day, if I like, 
 marry a ruined Italian prince of question- 
 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? 
 
 Marquis. So you're going away? 
 
 Suzanne. In three or four days. 
 
 Marquis. Alone? 
 
 Suzanne. With my maid. 
 
 Marquis. Does Monsieur de Nanjac 
 know you are going? 
 
 Suzanne. He has no suspicion of it. 
 
 Marquis. Are you not going to let him 
 know where you will be? 
 
 Suzanne. If I wanted to continue to see 
 him, I might better remain in Paris. No; 
 I am leaving in order to escape from an 
 unbearable situation, one which cannot 
 but become worse as time goes on. 
 
 Marquis. Well, I congratulate you. 
 Your common sense is leading you to do 
 what necessity would have forced on your 
 later. 
 
 Suzanne [distractedly]. How is that? . 
 
 Marquis. Chance is a very clumsy 
 bungler in what does not concern it. Now, 
 chance had it that Monsieur de Nanjac's 
 sister is a friend of my own sister. Monsieur 
 de Nanjac did not hide his plans from his 
 sister, who came to see my sister. That 
 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 him 
 nothing, because, as a man of honor, I 
 preferred to allow you to extricate yourself 
 from this delicate situation with all the 
 honors of war. To-day I have come to 
 tell you what I have told you once before: 
 namely, that the day I should meet Qyy 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 489 
 
 chance, of course) the man whom you wish 
 to marry, I should tell him the whole truth. 
 I have waited a little, and I am glad, be- 
 cause I see you have decided not to marry 
 now. It's all for the best, if you mean 
 what you say — 
 
 Suzanne. I do. To-morrow Monsieur 
 de Nanjac will be freed from all obligations, 
 and you will be at perfect liberty, if you 
 like, to give him to Mademoiselle de 
 Thonnerins as a husband. 
 
 Marquis. My daughter has nothing to 
 do in all this, my dear Suzanne; remember 
 that. Everything I have said is in sober 
 earnest. 
 
 Suzanne. Sober earnest, yes. 
 
 Marquis. Be happy; that is my last 
 wish. Good-bye, Baroness, and remember! 
 
 Suzanne. I shall never forget. 
 
 [The Marquis goes out as Valen- 
 tine enters. They bow to each 
 other.] 
 
 Valentine [who wears a traveling dress, 
 looks at the door through which the Marquis 
 has gone]. Was that the Marquis de Thon- 
 nerins? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes. 
 
 Valentine. He 's always a little brusque, 
 is n't he? 
 
 Suzanne. Where are you going? You're 
 dressed for traveling? 
 
 Valentine. I'm going away. 
 
 Suzanne. When? 
 
 Valentine. In an hour. 
 
 Suzanne. Where? 
 
 Valentine. To London, and from there 
 to Belgium, and then Germany. 
 
 Suzanne. With — ? 
 
 Valentine. Yes, some one is going with 
 me. 
 
 Suzanne. 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." 
 So, I'm going away. 
 
 Suzanne. I have n't seen you for a long 
 time. 
 
 Valentine. Oh, the things I have to 
 buy for the trip! It seems one can't get 
 an3^hing in England. And I must do some- 
 
 thing about nly apartment in the Rue de la 
 Paix. I paid a year's rent to the landlord, 
 who let me go; I gave a>n 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 asked you for. 
 
 Valentine. I've written it. Didn't 
 you get my note? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes, only — 
 
 Valentine. I '11 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 told 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 de Jalin. 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 Tuil- 
 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 was deceiving her, 
 that he was in love with Mademoiselle de 
 Sancenaux, 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 of him. I pretended to think 
 that Madame de Lornan was no more than a 
 friend of Olivier's. As a matter of fact, she 
 is only a friend, but she loves him and is 
 fearfully jealous. 
 
 Suzanne. Did you mention me? 
 
 Valentine. She was 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 she came. I promised and, as 
 I wrote you, she will be here at two o'clock. 
 The poor woman does n't know where she 
 is. Who would ever believe that that Mon- 
 sieur de Jalin could inspire such passion? 
 Have you heard from him? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes. 
 
 Valentine. On what sort of terms is he 
 with Monsieur de Nanjac? 
 
 Suzanne. Bad; but Olivier wrote me — 
 
 Valentine. What does he say? 
 
 Suzanne. That he loves me, that if he 
 wished to prevent my marriage, it was for 
 that reason — 
 
 Valentine. That may be true — 
 
 Suzanne. 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. 
 
 Valentine. There is some trick in this. 
 
 Suzanne. But I am certain that he and 
 Monsieur de Nanjac are not on speaking 
 terms. 
 
 Valentine. If Monsieur de Nanjac could 
 only give him one good sword-thrust and 
 teach him not to meddle in what does n't 
 concern him! 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 '11 be only too 
 glad to help you. 
 
 Suzanne. Never worry, I shan't forget. 
 What is the use of offending, so long as the 
 offenses 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 Lornan; that will possibly 
 force him to modify his ideas a little. 
 
 Valentine. Is he coming? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes. 
 
 Valentine. He'll be furious — What 
 if he were to get angry with you? 
 
 Suzanne. The idea! The first angry 
 word would mean a duel with Monsieur 
 de Nanjac, and he does n't want that. He 
 will learn his lesson and hold his tongue 
 henceforth. 
 
 Valentine. Is n't it too bad I have to 
 go away? Well, good-bye. Write me 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 hus- 
 band to 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. 
 
 Suzanne. You'll let me hear from you, 
 won't you? 
 
 Valentine. I shan't fail to. Good- 
 bye. Remember, in Mademoiselle Rose's 
 name. 
 
 [Enter Raymond through one door, as Val- 
 entine disappears throvffh another.] 
 
 Suzanne. Another woman I shan't re- 
 ceive after I marry! [To Raymond.] I've 
 been so anxious to see you! 
 
 Raymond. Everything is ready. 
 
 Suzanne. The contract? 
 
 Raymond. We shall sign it to-morrow. 
 
 Suzanne. And we leave — ? 
 
 Raymond. Whenever you like. 
 
 Suzanne. Will you always love me? 
 
 Raymond. And will you, Suzanne? 
 
 Suzanne. Can you doubt it now? Have 
 n't I given you every proof I was able to? 
 Oh, yes, I love you! 
 
 Raymond. Tell me, have you seen Mon- 
 sieur de Jalin again? 
 
 Suzanne. No. Why? 
 
 Raymond. Well, I saw him not long 
 ago, coming in this direction with his friend 
 Monsieur Richond. 
 
 Suzanne. Yes; he is coming here. 
 
 Raymond. I thought you were n't to 
 see him any more. I asked you not to; you 
 promised me. 
 
 Suzanne. He wrote that he had to 
 speak to me, and I am going to receive him 
 as if nothing had happened. I shall even 
 pretend that nothing has happened, and I 
 advise you to forget, too. 
 
 Raymond. Please give your final orders 
 about the signing of the contract to-mor- 
 row. I want our marriage oflScially an- 
 nounced to all our friends, including Mon- 
 sieur de Jalin, whom I shall receive; I wish 
 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. 
 
 [She goes otU.] 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 491 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. Monsieur Olivier de Jalin. 
 Monsieur Hippolyte Richond. [He goes out.] 
 
 [Enter Omviek and Hippolyte.] 
 
 Raymond [bomng formally]. Messieurs! 
 
 Olivibr. How are you, Raymond? 
 
 Raymond. In the best of health, thank 
 you. 
 
 OuviER. Is the Baroness in? 
 
 Raymond. She asked me to beg you to 
 wait for her; she will be here in a few mo- 
 ments. Messieurs — 
 
 [He bows and goes out.] 
 
 Olivier. What a face! 
 
 Hippolyte. You might have expected 
 it when you decided to come here. Why 
 did you come? You were clear of all this 
 intriguing; why return to it? You have 
 done your duty. Monsieur de Nanjac is 
 determined to marry the woman; if he in- 
 sists on seeing no obstacle, Uke Guzman, 
 leave him alone. After all, it does n't con- 
 cern you. 
 
 Olivier. You are perfectly right, and, 
 as a matter of fact, I did make up my mind 
 to have nothing 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 Suzanne has just dealt me a blow 
 and provoked me to continue. It's not my 
 fault. 
 
 Hippolyte. You have been waiting only 
 for a pretext to return to her. 
 
 OuviBR. Possibly; but that is only an- 
 other reason why you ought not to furnish 
 me with this pretext. 
 
 Hippolyte. Tell me what she did. 
 
 Olivier. Your wife wrote an anony- 
 mous letter to Madame de Lornan. 
 
 Hippolyte. My wife? 
 
 Olivier. Yes; the handwriting was dis- 
 guised, but I recognized it. The letter 
 asked Madame de Lornan for a meeting; 
 her housekeeper showed it to me (she 
 knows the interest I have in her mistress, 
 though Charlotte still refuses to receive 
 me). I know Suzanne is at the bottom of 
 this, but I warn her to take care! • If what 
 I believe is true, if she makes the slightest 
 
 move against Madame de Lornan, I don't 
 know just how I shall go about it, but I 
 declare I will so ruin her prospects of mar- 
 riage that I'm hanged if she even finds the 
 tiniest fragment! 
 
 Hippolyte. What if I tried to stop her? 
 So long as she confined herself to wronging 
 me, it was n't so bad, but the moment she 
 touches others — 
 
 Olivier. I'll attend to it myself. 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. 
 She replied that she would see me if I 
 called on her to-day. Just allow me to 
 cast my line where I want, and don't 
 make any noise; in an hour, the fish will 
 bite. 
 
 [Enter the Viscotintess, very agitated.] 
 
 Viscountess. Where is the Baroness? 
 
 Olivier. What is the trouble, my dear 
 Viscountess? You come in like a tempest? 
 
 Viscountess. I'm perfectly furious! 
 
 Olivier. I'm not at all sorry to see you 
 that way. It changes one. 
 
 Viscountess. I am in no mood for jok- 
 ing. 
 
 Olivier. Then let me answer your 
 question: the Baroness is with Monsieur 
 de Nanjac; we are now waiting for her. 
 
 Viscountess [taking Olivier to one side, 
 as she says to Hippolyte]. Pardon me, 
 monsieur. [To Olivier.] Do you know 
 what Marcelle has done? 
 
 Olivier. She told Monsieur de Nanjac 
 to his face that she would n't marry him. 
 
 Viscountess. Yes. 
 
 Olivier. Because she does not love him. 
 
 Viscountess. A fine reason! But that 
 isn't all: when I went to Marcelle's room 
 this morning, she was n't there. 
 
 Olivier. She must have left a letter? 
 
 Viscountess. Yes; she said she had 
 found a means of not being a burden to 
 me any more, that I should fear nothing, 
 and that I should never have reason to be 
 ashamed of her. 
 
 Olivier. And added that she was going 
 back to the school where she was educated, 
 eh? 
 
 Viscountess, Have you seen her? 
 
492 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Olivier. Not long ago. 
 
 Viscountess. Where? 
 
 Olivier. At her school. 
 
 Viscountess. How did that happen? 
 
 Olivier. She wrote. 
 
 Viscountess. To you? 
 
 Olivier. To me. 
 
 Viscountess. Why? 
 
 Olivier. I advised her to do as she 
 did. 
 
 Viscountess. What business is it of 
 yours? 
 
 Olivier. It is my business. 
 
 Viscountess. It was you, too, doubt- 
 less, who advised her to leave Paris? 
 
 Olivier. Yes; she is going to-morrow. 
 The head of the school has found her a 
 position. 
 
 Viscountess. A position? 
 
 Olivier. With an excellent family at 
 Besangon. Mademoiselle de Sancenaux 
 will give lessons in English and music to a 
 little girl. She will receive eight hundred 
 francs a year, with board and lodging. It 
 will hardly be amusing, but she considers 
 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 am 
 going to do? Write and tell her at least to 
 change her name. To think of having a 
 Sancenaux, my own brother's daughter, 
 compromise her family Uke that! A San- 
 cenaux teaching! Why not make her a 
 chambermaid? 
 
 Olivier. Is that what you call compro- 
 mising her family? My dear Viscountess, 
 the person who sold you your logic, cheated 
 you shamelessly! It must have been 
 Monsieur de Latour. 
 
 Viscountess. What hope has she of 
 marriage, after a scandal like that? 
 
 Olivier. She will doubtless marry 
 sooner than if she stayed with you. 
 
 Viscountess. She 's not taking the right 
 road. 
 
 Olivier. All roads lead to Rome, and 
 the longest is more frequently the surest. 
 
 Viscountess. We'll see. I've done all 
 I could for her. She is only my niece, after 
 all. 
 
 [Enter Suzanne.] 
 
 Suzanne. How are you, Viscountess? 
 
 Viscountess. How are you, dear? 
 
 Suzanne. What's the matter? 
 
 Viscountess. I'll tell you later. I've 
 returned what you were good enough to 
 lend me. 
 
 Suzanne. There 's no hurry. 
 
 Viscountess. 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. 
 
 Hippoltte. I hesitated for fear of being 
 indiscreet, but Olivier — 
 
 Suzanne. The friends of Monsieur de 
 Jalin are my friends. 
 
 Hippoltte. Thank you, madame. 
 
 Suzanne [to Olivier]. So you are here? 
 
 Olivier. Yes, I am. You wrote me to 
 come. 
 
 Suzanne. In order to find out what you 
 had to say to me. 
 
 Olivier. I wrote you that. 
 
 Suzanne. Do you love me? 
 
 Olivier. I love you. 
 
 Suzanne. So that was why you wanted 
 me to come to you? Hm ! Yes, in order that 
 Monsieur de Nanjac might know, and see 
 me go into your home! Really, you're 
 waging a child's war, using wooden can- 
 nons and bullets made of bread-crumbs. 
 Do you intend to disarm me? 
 
 Olivier. Don't you believe me? 
 
 Suzanne. No! 
 
 Olivier. Very well. Good-bye. 
 
 Suzanne. Don't go; I want to show you 
 something. 
 
 Olivier. What? 
 
 Suzanne. I can't tell you; it 's a surprise. 
 [During this conversation, Rat- 
 MOND has entered and beffun 
 speaking with the Viscountess 
 and Hippoltte. He says aloud 
 to the former:] 
 
 Ratmond. My dear Viscountess, you 
 surely know Madame de Lornan, do you 
 not? 
 
 Viscountess. I used to, but we have 
 since drifted apart. 
 
 Suzanne. She is said to be very virtuous. 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 493 
 
 Viscountess. That's true. 
 
 Suzanne. She is most particular as to 
 what homes she visits. 
 
 Viscountess. She sees very few people. 
 
 Suzanne. She is coming here. I'll in- 
 troduce her to you, my dear Monsieur de 
 Nanjac; you'll see, she's most charming. 
 
 OuviER. If she comes! 
 
 Suzanne. That's so; you know Ma- 
 dame de Lornan very well, don't you, dear 
 Monsieur de Jalin? 
 
 Olpvieb. That is why I am willing to 
 wager that she is not coming, or at least, 
 if she does, that she will not enter the 
 house. 
 
 Suzanne. How much will you wager? 
 
 Olivibh. Whatever you like, whatever 
 a respectable woman can wager: a box of 
 candy or a bouquet. 
 
 Suzanne. I accept [seeing a Servant 
 enter], and I think I am going to win imme- 
 diately. [To the Servant.] What is it? 
 
 Servant. A lady who would like to 
 speak with Madame la Baronne. 
 
 Suzanne. Her name? 
 
 Servant. She would not tell me. 
 
 Suzanne. Tell the lady that I do not 
 receive people who refuse to give their 
 names. [The Servant goes out.] 
 
 Olivier [aside to Raymond]. Raymond, 
 for the sake of our former friendship, pre- 
 vent Madame de Loman's entering this 
 room. 
 
 Raymond. Why? 
 
 Olivier. Because her coming here may 
 have dire results. 
 
 Raymond. For whom? 
 
 Olivier. For several people. 
 
 Raymond. I have no rights in the home 
 of Madame d'Ange. 
 
 Olivier. Very well. 
 
 Servant [opening the door], Madame de 
 Lornan asks whether Madame la Baronne 
 will receive her? 
 
 Suzanne. Ask her to come in. 
 
 Olivier. Poor woman! 
 
 [He hastens out.] 
 
 HippoLYTE. God grant that you never 
 regret what you are doing, madame! 
 
 Suzanne. I have never regretted any- 
 thing I ever did. [To Raymond, who is 
 about to leave.] Don't go! Monsieur de 
 
 Jalin is going to offer his arm to Madame 
 de Lornan. He has lost his wager, and he 
 is doing the best thing he can do. 
 
 [Raymond goes toward the door. 
 The moment he gets there, it 
 opens, and Olivier appears.] 
 
 Raymond. Where have you been, 
 monsieur? 
 
 Olivier. I have just told Madame de 
 Lornan that I object to her coming in 
 here. 
 
 Raymond. By what right? 
 
 Olivier. By the right of an honest man 
 who wishes to prevent an honest woman's 
 losing her good name. 
 
 Suzanne. Especially when that honest 
 woman is the mistress of that honest man. 
 
 Olivier. You lie, madame! 
 
 Raymond. Monsieur, you are. insulting 
 a woman. 
 
 Olivier. During the past week, mon- 
 sieur, you have been trying to pick a quar- 
 rel with me, but allow me to tell you, I did 
 not come here to give you 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. 
 
 Raymond. In an hour's time, monsieur, 
 my seconds will pay you a call. 
 
 Olivier. I shall await them. 
 
 Raymond. They have only the condi- 
 tions to fix; the cause should remain un- 
 known. [The men prepare to go.] 
 
 Suzanne. RajTnond! 
 
 Raymond. Wait for me, Suzanne; I 
 shall return at once. [He goes out.] 
 
 Olivier. Come, Hippolyte. 
 
 [They bow, and go out, opposite.] 
 
 Viscountess. My dear, a provocation 
 to a duel in your home, between two men 
 who were such good friends a few days ago ! 
 How could it happen? 
 
 Suzanne. I know nothing about it. 
 
 Viscountess. But you surely won't 
 allow it? 
 
 Suzanne. Oh, no; I've done more diflB- 
 cult things than that. 
 
 Viscountess. Can't I help you? 
 
 Suzanne. No, thank you. 
 
 Viscountess. Then I'll go; you have 
 none too much time. Keep me posted on 
 developments. 
 
494 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 StrzANNB. I shan't fail. Come back later 
 in the day, or else I'll drop in to see you. 
 
 Viscountess. I'll see you soon again. 
 [As she goes.] What does it all mean? 
 
 [She leaves.] 
 
 Suzanne. Really, Olivier is braver than 
 I had thought him. He's a splendid, up- 
 right man. Olivier is not in love with 
 that Madame de Lornan — but what if he 
 were? 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. A letter for Madame la 
 Baronne. 
 
 [He gives her the letter and goes out.] 
 
 Suzanne. Very well. That will do. [She 
 opens the letter.] From the Marquis! [Read- 
 ing:] "You have deceived me: you have 
 seen Monsieur de Nanjac again, and you 
 insist on marrying, in spite of the fact that 
 I forbade your so doing. I give you one 
 hour in which to break it off. If by the end 
 of that time you have not found the means, 
 I shall tell everything to Monsieur de Nan- 
 jac." — Oh, this past of mine, that keeps 
 crimibling before me, fragment by frag- 
 ment! Shall I never be able to bury it? 
 Confess everything? No; I am going to 
 fight it out to the bitter end. [She rings.] 
 I must gain time, that's the principal 
 thing. [She writes a note, and gives it to 
 Sophie, who enters.] Take this letter to 
 Monsieur de Thonnerins, and deliver it to 
 him yourself. — Close this door. 
 
 [Sophie goes to the door, and as she 
 is about to close it, announces:] 
 
 Sophie. Madame, Monsieur de Nanjac. 
 
 Suzanne [closing her writing-portfolio, 
 as she says in a lovd voice to Sophie]. Very 
 well. Never mind, Sophie, you may do 
 that errand later. [Sophie goes out as 
 Raymond enters. — To Ratmond.] Well, 
 dear? 
 
 Raymond. I have just been to see two 
 oflBcers, old comrades of mine, and asked 
 them to act as seconds for me. They were 
 not in, but I left word for them. 
 
 Suzanne. Raymond, this duel cannot 
 take place. 
 
 Raymond. You must be mad, Su- 
 zanne. I may allow compromises between 
 Monsieur de Latour and Monsieur de Mau- 
 
 croix, but not for my own duels. Monsieur 
 de Jalin is right: I hate him. 
 
 Suzanne. Give me up, Raymond: I 
 have done you nothing but harm so far. 
 
 Raymond. I have sworn that you are 
 to be my wife, and you will be! Now, I 
 may be killed: in a duel one man is as good 
 as another, and Monsieur de JaUn is no 
 coward; he will do his best to defend him- 
 self. I do not want to die without having 
 kept my promise. 
 
 [He sits by the table and starts to 
 open the writing-portfolio.] 
 
 Suzanne [with an involuntary start]. 
 What are you going to do? 
 
 Raymond. Ask my solicitor to come here. 
 Please have this letter taken to him. 
 
 Suzanne. Never mind. 
 
 Raymond. What's the matter? Didn't 
 we agree — ? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes, but you have plenty of 
 time. 
 
 Raymond. Not at all; I have very little. 
 
 Suzanne. I'U give you pens and paper. 
 
 Raymond. Here is everything I need. 
 
 Suzanne. No. 
 
 Raymond. You're mistaken — v?hy, 
 you were writing here when I came in. 
 
 Suzanne. Raymond, I ask you not to 
 open that. 
 
 Raymond. I shan't, then, if you have 
 been writing things I have no business 
 seeing. 
 
 Suzanne. Do you suspect something 
 else? 
 
 Raymond. No, dear Suzanne, no: if you 
 have any secrets, I shall respect them. 
 
 Suzanne. Then open it and read. 
 
 Raymond. Will you allow me? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes. [Raymond is on the 
 point of opening the portfolio, when she stops 
 him.] So you defy me? 
 
 Raymond. 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? 
 
 Raymond. I promise. 
 
 Suzanne. If you only knew what it's 
 about! 
 
 Raymond. We shall soon see. 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 49S 
 
 Suzanne. You ■will know so much more 
 when you see the list of things I have or- 
 dered for our trip — 
 
 Raymond. What have you ordered? 
 
 Stizanne. Dresses, skirts, silk gowns 
 with figured corsages, and — How inter- 
 esting those details must be to a man! 
 
 Raymond. Is that the whole secret? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes. 
 
 Raymond. So you were writing to your 
 dressmaker? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes. 
 
 Raymond. While I was seeing the sec- 
 onds for my duel, you were ordering dresses. 
 Really, Suzanne, do you think I am a fool? 
 
 Suzanne. Raymond! 
 
 Raymond. I want to know whom you 
 were writing to! 
 
 Suzanne. Oh ho, well, I won't tell you! 
 [She opens the vxriting-portfolio and 
 takes out a letter.] 
 
 Raymond. Take care! 
 
 Suzanne. Threats! And by what right? 
 Thank God, I am not your wife yet. I am 
 here in my own home, free, mistress of 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? 
 
 Raymond [seizing her vxrist]. Let me see 
 that letter! 
 
 Suzanne. You shall not see it, I tell 
 you! I have never given in to violence. I 
 have told you the truth; you may now be- 
 lieve and suspect whatever you hke. 
 
 Raymond. I beUeve that you are deceiv- 
 ing me. 
 
 Suzanne. Very well! 
 
 Raymond [menacingly]. Suzanne — ! 
 
 Suzanne. That wiU do, monsieur! I 
 release you of all your obligations, and I 
 take back my promise. You and I are now 
 nothing to each other. 
 
 Raymond. You have once before made 
 use of that trick, madame, but this time 
 I shall stay here. 
 
 Suzanne. What sort of man are you? 
 
 Raymond. A man who asked nothing of 
 you in exchange for an honorable name, 
 except one moment's sincerity; a man who 
 has sworn that you had nothing with which 
 to reproach yourself; a man who to-morrow 
 is going to fight a duel 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 and 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 does 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 take it! 
 
 Suzanne [crumpling the letter in her 
 hand and trying to tear it]. You are not 
 going to have it. 
 
 Raymond [shaking her by the arm]. The 
 letter! 
 
 Suzanne. You dare use violence with a 
 woman! 
 
 Raymond [getting more and more excited]. 
 That letter! 
 
 Suzanne. I don't love you! I never 
 loved you! I did deceive you. Now, go! 
 
 Raymond. That letter! [He tries to force 
 open her hand.] 
 
 Suzanne. Raymond, I'll teU you every- 
 thing — you're hurting me — I'm not to 
 blame. Please, for God's sake! [He 
 snatches the letter from her.] Oh, you — ! 
 [She falls exhausted into a chair.] All right 
 — read it — I '11 have my revenge, I swear ! 
 
 Raymond [reading, as his voice quivers 
 with emotion]. "I beg you, don't ruin me. 
 I must see you; I shall explain everything 
 to you. I will do as you say. It is not my 
 fault if Monsieur de Nanjac loves me: I 
 love him, that is my excuse. I dependion 
 you. Please be generous and forgiva'me. 
 If he knew the truth, I should die of shame; 
 I promise you I shall never marry him, but 
 you must never let him know. Wait till I 
 am free, I — " And I still doubted! [He 
 hides his face in his hands.] What did I 
 ever do to you, Suzanne? Why did you 
 deceive me? Here is your letter. Good- 
 bye. [He starts to go out, but falls into a 
 chair and bursts out crying.] 
 
 Suzanne [seeing that he is overcome, says, 
 timidly]. Raymond? 
 
 Raymond. You have made a man cry 
 who has not cried since his mother's death. 
 I thank you — it has done me good. 
 
 Suzanne [softly and reproachfully]. You 
 hurt my arms and hands cruelly, Raymond. 
 
496 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Raymond. I am sorry; forgive me; it 
 was cowardly. But I did so love you! 
 
 Suzanne [going toward him]. I loved 
 you, too. 
 
 Raymond. If you had loved me, you 
 would not have lied to me. 
 
 Suzanne [still nearer to him]. There is 
 not a woman who would have confessed 
 what you asked me to confess. I loved you; 
 I respected you; I wanted to be loved and 
 respected in turn. Let me tell you about 
 my life. There is one thing I should keep 
 from you, but only one. Ah, if you only 
 knew: I am not so much to blame as I may 
 seem to be; I had no one 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 falls to her knees and takes 
 Raymond's hand.] Raymond, believe in 
 me: I love you! 
 
 Raymond. To whom were you going 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 name! 
 
 Suzanne. 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 will tell you all, if you prom- 
 ise to be calm. 
 
 Raymond [rising]. Good-bye. 
 
 Suzanne [retaining him]. I'll tell you 
 everything. 
 
 Raymond. Well? 
 
 Suzanne. I was going to send that letter 
 to — 
 
 Raymond. To Olivier? 
 
 Suzanne [forcefully]. No, I swear that! 
 But promise me you won't challenge him. 
 
 Raymond. I promise. 
 
 Suzanne. To the Marquis de Thonne- 
 rins. [Raymond makes a gesture of surprise 
 and anger.] Raymond, put yourself in the 
 place of a woman who has been cast off by 
 every one, who had at last found an un- 
 
 hoped-for though secret protector. I owe 
 everything to the Marquis! If you only 
 realized — I never had any family! 
 
 Raymond. Then your marriage — ? 
 
 Suzanne. A lie! 
 
 Raymond. But the documents you 
 showed me? 
 
 Suzanne. Belonged to a young woman 
 who died abroad — she had no friends or 
 relatives. 
 
 Raymond. But your fortune? 
 
 Suzanne. Comes from Monsieur de 
 Thonnerins. 
 
 Raymond. And you were prepared to 
 exchange that shame for my confidence 
 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! You 
 did not see that, after I had become your 
 husband, had I found out about this in- 
 famous bargain, the only thing I could do 
 would have been to kill you, and then 
 myself. You not only did not love me, 
 Suzanne, 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 loneliness coiHd have led 
 you to go to him. If that man was ever 
 your lover, it means that you have loved 
 him, and that love is what I can never for- 
 give! 
 
 Suzanne. 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? 
 
 Suzanne [calmly]. I swear. 
 
 Raymond. Do you love me? 
 
 Suzanne. Do you think I would have 
 confessed unless I did? 
 
 Raymond. Well, Suzanne, I ask for only 
 one proof of that love. 
 
 Suzanne. What? 
 
 Raymond. Return to Monsieur de 
 Thonnerins everything you have from him. 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 497 
 
 Suzanne [ringing]. At once! [She takes 
 some papers from a drawer, wraps them up 
 and seals them,. To the Servant, who enters.] 
 Take these papers at once to Monsieur de 
 Thonnerins; there is no answer. 
 
 Servant. Monsieur le Marquis de 
 Thonnerins is just this moment coming up 
 the stairs. 
 
 StrzANNB. He is — ! 
 
 Raymond [to the Servant]. Ask Monsieur 
 le Marquis to wait! [The Servant goes out. — 
 To Suzanne.] Give me those papers; I 
 shall give them to him myself. 
 
 Suzanne. You frighten me! 
 
 Raymond. Don't be afraid. There is still 
 time, Suzanne. Choose ! Keep these pa- 
 pers; I shall go away, for always; or, if 
 you decide to make those promises again, 
 and in case I am not killed to-morrow, I 
 shall hold you to account only from this 
 moment on. We may then go away to- 
 gether. 
 
 Suzanne. I have told you the truth. 
 
 Raymond. Oh, Suzanne, I had no idea 
 myself how much I loved you! 
 
 [He goes out.] 
 
 Suzanne. I am staking my whole life, 
 past and future! Olivier is the only one 
 now who can ruin or save me! If he loves 
 me as he says he does — it would be 
 strange. [She puts on her doak and hat.] 
 We shall see! [She goes out.] 
 
 ACT V 
 
 [The scene is the same as in the First Act. 
 As the curtain rises, Olivier is writing. A 
 moment later, enter Hippolyte.] 
 
 HiPPOLYTB [touching Olivier on the 
 shoulder]. It's I. 
 
 Olivier [as he seals the letter]. Well? 
 
 HiPPOLYTB. Well, I have done every- 
 thing. 
 
 Olivier. Have you seen Madame de 
 Loman? 
 
 HiPPOLYTB. Yes, but through the agency 
 of her housekeeper, because her husband 
 has returned. That is why Madame de 
 Loman wrote you asking for news. She 
 can't leave her house now. I told her that 
 the duel was not going to take place. 
 
 Olivier. And that in no event would 
 her name be mentioned? Undoubtedly, 
 she cares more about that than about any- 
 thing else? 
 
 HiPPOLYTB. 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 received a good lesson, and she will 
 profit by it. I reassured her. It was not 
 very difficult, because I felt very sure my- 
 self. 
 
 Olivier. How do you mean? 
 
 HiPPOLYTB. The duel will not take 
 place, I tell you. 
 
 Olivieh. Why? 
 
 HiPPOLYTB. Because I have seen the 
 Marquis; there is something new. 
 
 Olivier. There can't be anything new 
 which can 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. 
 
 HiPPOLYTB. That depends on you alone. 
 
 Olivier. Tell me what you mean. 
 
 HippoLYTE. I have seen the Marquis. 
 
 Olivier. Does he refuse to act as my 
 second? 
 
 HiPPOLYTB. Yes. 
 
 Oltvibr. I rather thought he would. 
 He is afraid of conipromising himself — 
 he, too. 
 
 HiPPOLYTB. He is, and he is 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. 
 
 Olivier. The whole truth? 
 
 HiPPOLYTB. So far as the Marquis is 
 concerned. He found a letter that Su- 
 zanne had 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. 
 
 Olivier. Did she do it? 
 
498 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. So it seems. 
 
 Olivier. I am surprised; but, tell me, 
 how can this prevent the duel? 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. Monsieur de Nanjac gave 
 back everything himself, and Monsieur de 
 Thonnerins, who was told of the provoca- 
 tion, informed Monsieur de Nanjac that 
 the marriage, like the duel, was out of 
 the question; that Madame d'Ange was 
 not worthy of him, and that your conduct 
 throughout was that of a gallant man 
 and a good friend. You know what a man 
 in love is like when he finds himself in a 
 false position: the more violently the 
 woman is attacked, the more he believes 
 it due his dignity to defend her. Mon- 
 sieur de Nanjac took it all in a high- 
 handed way and replied: "The moment 
 I restore what Madame d'Ange has re- 
 ceived from you, monsieur, it means that 
 I wish to forget everything in Madame 
 d'Ange's 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 lover,' 
 — that is what he ought to do if he ever 
 cared anything at all for me, — I give him 
 my word of honor, to make excuses to him, 
 to offer him my hand as I used to, and 
 never see Madame d'Ange again." You 
 see now how senseless a duel would be? 
 
 Olivier. Are you through? 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. Yes. 
 
 Olivier. Well, my poor Hippol3rte, I 
 thank you for your splendid intentions; 
 but we have been wasting good time. 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. Why? 
 
 Olivier. 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 
 effort 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. 
 
 I belong to what is called the middle-class. 
 What would be said if the duel were 
 stopped? Let us allow things to follow 
 their natural course. Monsieur de Nanjac 
 is more to be pitied than I, 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. 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. 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? 
 
 Olivier. No. 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. 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, though she has not yet 
 reached the end. She is one of 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 the bottom of the ladder have, 
 the excuse of evil example, misery, and 
 ignorance. 
 
 Olivier. I'm sorry, but it is now half- 
 past two. 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. That's true. After Mon- 
 sieur de Thonnerins refused to be your 
 second, I went to see Monsieur de Mau- 
 croix, and he and I went to see Monsieur de 
 Nanjac. We meet at three o'clock. We 
 still have three quarters of an hour. 
 
 Olivier. Where is it to take place? 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. In the fields behind your 
 home; they are large and alwasrs deserted. 
 No one will disturb us — and then we shall 
 be only a step from where you live. In case 
 of accident, we shall have a safe place to 
 carry the wounded. 
 
 Olivier. What weapons? 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. The seconds left the choice 
 to us. 
 
 Olivier. Did you refuse? 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. Yes, because you told us 
 that you wanted no concessions; we drew 
 lots, and the choice fell to us. 
 
 Olivier. What did you decide on? 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. Swords. 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 499 
 
 Olivier. If anything should happen to 
 me, you will find a letter in this drawer; 
 please have it sent to Mademoiselle de 
 Sancenaux at once, because she is going 
 away to-night. This letter will prevent her 
 leaving. 
 
 HippoLYTE. Is that all? 
 
 Olivier. Yes. 
 
 HippoLTTE. Nothing for Madame 
 d'Ange? 
 
 Olivteb. No, nothing — she is coming. 
 
 HippoLTTE. Did she send word? 
 
 Olivier. No ; but she is brave and proud 
 only when she is victorious; if she knows 
 that I have to say only a word in order to 
 break off her marriage, she will stop at 
 nothing in order to obtain my silence. She 
 will come. 
 
 HippoLTTE. Do you know what I am 
 thihking of? 
 
 Olivier. Tell me. 
 
 HippoLTTE. That you were more in love 
 with Suzanne than you let any one see, and 
 that perhaps you still are, more than you 
 will admit. 
 
 Olivier [smiling]. Who knows? The 
 heart of man is so strange! 
 
 [Enter a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. There is a young lady below 
 in a carriage who would Uke to speak with 
 monsieur. 
 
 Oliviek. Who is it? 
 
 Servant. She wrote this note. 
 
 [He hands Olivier a note.] 
 
 Olivier [reading]. "Marcelle"! Ask 
 the lady to come in. [The Servant goes out. 
 — To HiPPOLTTE.] Go into my room. I 
 am to see some one who does not want to 
 be seen. When the time comes for us to 
 leave, rap on the door, and I shall join 
 you. 
 
 HiPPOLTTE. You have only half an hour. 
 
 Olivier. Don't worry; we shall be on 
 time. [HiPPOLTTE goes out; Olivier goes 
 toward the door. Enter Marcelle.] You 
 here, MarceUe? How imprudent! 
 
 Marcelle. 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. 
 
 Olivier. I should have called on you 
 before you went. 
 
 Marcelle. That might not have been 
 possible, perhaps? Or did n't you think of 
 that? 
 
 Olivier. Is that a reproach? 
 
 Marcelle. What right have I to re- 
 proach you? Am I a friend of yours? Am 
 I worthy of your confidence? If your are in 
 trouble, do you come to me? If you are in 
 danger, would you even think of saying 
 good-bye to me before exposing yourself? 
 How miserable I am! 
 
 Olviier. What is the trouble, Marcelle? 
 
 Marcelle. You are going to fight; per- 
 haps you will be killed! Do you expect me 
 to be calm? And you ask what's the 
 trouble? 
 
 Olivier. Who told you I was going to 
 fight? 
 
 Marcelle. My aimt, who came to see 
 me after she had been to see Madame 
 d'Ange; she told me everything, and gave 
 me the name of the woman for whose sake 
 you are fighting: Madame de Loman. 
 
 Olivier. She was mistaken. 
 
 Marcelle. No. If something had hap- 
 pened to you, I should have heard about it 
 the way every one else did — that you 
 were killed! Not to have a single memory 
 or souvenir of you in the moment of 
 danger — ! How ungrateful of you! I de- 
 clare, if I were in danger, you would be the 
 only person I would ask to help me! You 
 might at least do for me what I would do 
 for you. But, never mind: I am going to 
 stop the duel. 
 
 Olivier. How? 
 
 Marcelle. You see — you don't deny 
 it! I'm going to report you to the first 
 police oflScer I can find. 
 
 Olivier. By what right? 
 
 Marcelle. By the right of a woman 
 who wants to save the life of the man she 
 loves. 
 
 Olivier. Do you love me? 
 
 Marcelle. You know I do. 
 
 Olivier. Marcelle! 
 
 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 whose 
 
500 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 sake would I have been willing to bury my- 
 self in the provinces to make a living in 
 sadness and obscurity? For whose sake am 
 I going away, with no other consolation 
 but the thought that I was respected and 
 perhaps would soon be forgotten by you? 
 And, at last, for whose sake does a woman 
 change herself in this way, unless it is for 
 the sake of the man she loves? Deep down 
 in my heart I was taking one hope with 
 me; I said to myself: " Perhaps he is trying 
 to test me? When he sees that I am mak- 
 ing an honest effort to live a respectable 
 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 fighting a duel for an- 
 other woman. Do you think I'm going to 
 allow that? Let her allow it, the woman 
 you love; very well; but I, I who love you? 
 Never! 
 
 Olivier. 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 made a 
 woman my excuse to avoid fighting — I 
 swear, Marcelle, I will not survive the dis- 
 honor. 
 
 Marcelle. I shan't say a word; I shall 
 only pray. 
 
 Olivier. Now, Marcelle, you must go 
 home. I shall see you soon. 
 
 Marcelle. You're sending me away 
 because the duel is going to take place 
 to-day. 
 
 Olivier. No — perhaps, even, it will 
 not take place at all. Now that I know you 
 love me, I want to live. There is a way out 
 of it all. 
 
 Marcelle. Will you promise that you 
 are not going to fight to-day? 
 
 Olivier. I promise. [Hippolttb' s fcnocA; 
 is heard.] Very well — one moment. 
 
 Marcelle. What's that? 
 
 Olivier. A friend of mine who wants 
 me. 
 
 Marcelle. One of your seconds! 
 
 Olivier. Yes. 
 
 Marcelle. To take you to the dueling- 
 ground. Olivier, I'm not going to leave 
 you. 
 
 Olivier. My seconds are already here: 
 they are having a conference with Monsieur 
 de Nanjac's seconds. They must see me. 
 That is why Hippolyte wants to speak to me. 
 Marcelle. I'm so afraid! 
 Olivier. Listen, 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 basic need in 
 my own heart. That is all I can teU you, 
 because a man whose life is in imminent 
 danger has no right to speak of hope and 
 the future. 
 
 Marcelle. Olivier! 
 
 Olivier. Everything will have been 
 decided in one hour; then I can explain. 
 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 will 
 be only to see you. Courage! 
 
 [He goes ovt.] 
 
 Marcelle. O God, protect me! 
 
 [She makes ready to leave, as Su- 
 zanne enters.] 
 
 Suzanne. Marcelle! 
 
 Marcelle [turning round]. You, ma- 
 dame! 
 
 Suzanne. How does it happen that you 
 are here? 
 
 Marcelle. I came the moment I heard 
 of the duel. 
 
 Suzanne. Have you seen Olivier? 
 
 Marcelle. Yes. 
 
 Suzanne. When does it take place? 
 
 Marcelle. I hope it won't take place. 
 
 Suzanne. How is that? 
 
 Marcelle. There is one means of stop- 
 ping it. 
 
 Suzanne. What means? 
 
 Marcelle. I don't know, but Olivier 
 told me that he would make use of it. 
 
 Suzanne. That means is infamous! 
 
 Marcelle. Do you know what it is? 
 
 Suzanne. Yes; and I tell you Olivier 
 would not compromise any woman in 
 order to avoid fighting. He deceived you. 
 
THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 SOI 
 
 Mabcellb. He did! 
 
 Suzanne. Tell me; what did you tell 
 him when you came here? 
 
 Mabcellb. That I didn't want the 
 duel to take place. 
 
 Suzanne. And that you loved him? 
 
 Mabcellb. Yes. 
 
 Suzanne. That if he persisted, you 
 would not leave him? 
 
 Mabcelle. How do you know that? 
 
 Suzanne. I know what a woman would 
 say under like circumstances. Then did he 
 promise to come to an understanding with 
 his opponent? 
 
 Mabcellb. Yes. 
 
 Suzanne. He said, too, that he loved 
 you? 
 
 Mabcellb. I could see that. 
 
 Suzanne. He deceived you. He wanted 
 to gain time. He then went out to fight. 
 
 Mabcellb. No: he is in there. 
 
 Suzanne. Are you sure? 
 
 Mabcellb. If I call he will come. 
 
 Suzanne. Call him. 
 
 Mabcellb [calUng]. Ohvier! Olivier! 
 
 Suzanne [opening the door]. No one! 
 Now are you convinced? 
 
 Mabcellb. It's — impossible! 
 
 Suzanne [ringing]. Do you still doubt? 
 [To the Servant, who enters.] Has your 
 master gone out? 
 
 Sebvant. Yes, madame. 
 
 Suzanne. Alone? 
 
 Sebvant. With Monsieur Richond and 
 Monsieur de Maucroix, who came to get 
 him . 
 
 Suzanne. Did he leave any word either 
 for mademoiselle or for me? 
 
 Sebvant. Nothing, madame. 
 
 Suzanne. That will do. [The Servant 
 goes md. — To Mabcelle.] Wlere are you 
 going? 
 
 Mabcelle. I must find him and save 
 him! 
 
 Suzanne. Where? Do you know where 
 he is? How can you save him? Wait! 
 That is all we can do — everything rests 
 on chance. Olivier and Raymond are now 
 fighting, that is sure. They are both brave 
 men, they hate each other, and one of them 
 is sure to be killed. 
 
 Mabcelle. My GodI 
 
 Suzanne. Now, listen to me: Olivier 
 has lied both to you and to me — he told 
 me, too, that he loved me. 
 
 Mabcelle. You? When? 
 
 Suzanne. Two hours ago. I may lose 
 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 does 
 love us. If he is the one who survives, he 
 mtist find only one of us here — you \m- 
 derstand that, of eoiurse? He would never 
 explain before us both. One of us wiU meet 
 him, the other will remain hidden behind 
 this door, and hear everything: I'll do that, 
 if you like. If he persists in telling you that 
 he loves you, I will sacrifice myself, and go 
 away without saying a word. TeU me — ? 
 
 Marcellb. I don't imderstand, ma- 
 dame; I don't know what you are saying. 
 How calm you are — it's frightful! 
 
 Suzanne. Listen! 
 
 Mabcelle. What? 
 
 Suzanne. A carriage! 
 
 Mabcellb. It's he! 
 
 Suzanne. Something has happened! 
 Go in there! 
 
 Mabcelle. I must see him. 
 
 Suzanne. Go in there, I tell you! It's 
 he — Olivier! 
 
 Mabcelle. He is saved! He is living! 
 Now, O God, let me suffer! 
 
 Suzanne [ptishing her toward the door at 
 the left]. Go in! [Mabcelle goes out.] 
 
 [Enter Olivibb.] 
 
 Olivieb [feebly]. Is that you, Suzanne? 
 
 Suzanne. You did n't expect to see me? 
 
 Olivibb. No, I did n't. 
 
 Suzanne. Are you wounded? 
 
 Olivieb. It's nothing! 
 
 Suzanne. But Raymond? 
 
 Olivibb [whose voice grows stronger], 
 Suzanne, was I in the right? Did I de- 
 ceive him? 
 
 Suzanne. No. Well — ? 
 
 Olivibb. Did I do my duty as an honest 
 man? Answer me. 
 
 Suzanne. Yes, Well—? 
 
502 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Olivier. When you forced us to fight, 
 whom did you consider was right? 
 
 Suzanne. You. 
 
 Olivieb. Then his death is only a mis- 
 fortune, and not a crime? 
 
 Suzanne. His death! 
 
 Olivier. Yes, his death. Listen, Su- 
 zanne. The day you came 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 was the strange, fatal sort 
 which you inspire in all who love you: in 
 Monsieur de Thonnerins, that old man 
 who for a moment forgot his daughter for 
 your sake; in Raymond, whom nothing 
 could 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 1 told Raymond all I did 
 tell him, if on the dueling-ground I forgot 
 that he was a friend, if I — I — killed the 
 man who was dear to me only a week ago 
 — it was not because of any offense, it was 
 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 
 lose everything; 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! Let us go away to- 
 gether! 
 
 Suzanne [after looking him straight in 
 the eyes]. Yes, let us go! 
 
 Olivier [clasping her to him]. At last! — 
 [He bursts out laughing.] Oh ! It was such 
 trouble! 
 
 Suzanne. What! 
 
 Olivier. You have lost, my dear. You 
 owe me a forfeit! Look! 
 
 Suzanne [seeing Raymond appear, fol- 
 lowed by Hippoltte], Raymond! 
 
 [Enter Marcellb, who throws herself into 
 Olivier 's arms.] 
 
 Marcblle. Oh! 
 
 Olivier. Forgive me, dear child; I had 
 to save a friend. 
 
 Raymond [to Olivier]. Thank you, 
 Olivier. I must have been mad. You have 
 taken my honor into your hands; nothing 
 
 stopped your attempts to convince me — 
 not even my own blindness, my unjust 
 hatred, or even this wound, which is, luck- 
 ily, only a slight one. Everything is over 
 between madame and me, except a few 
 material matters, which I shall ask 
 you to regulate. [He gives him a slip of 
 paper.] I don't wish to have to speak with 
 her. 
 
 [Marcblle goes to Raymond, 
 who takes her hands in his in an 
 aimicahle manner. Olivier goes 
 to Suzanne.] 
 
 Suzanne. You are a blackguard! 
 
 Olivier. Careful, please! When one 
 implicates the life and honor of two men, 
 and loses, he should bow to Fate with 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 honest man marry none but an honest 
 woman. You have lost, but you know you 
 have a consolation prize? 
 
 Suzanne. What? 
 
 Olivier. In this document, Raj^mond 
 gives you back the fortune he made you 
 abdicate. 
 
 Suzanne [playing her last card]. Give it 
 to me! [She destroys the document as she 
 looks at Raymond.] 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. 
 
 [Raymond pretends not to hear.] 
 
 Olivier. But you have nothing to live 
 on! You returned everything to the Mar- 
 quis. 
 
 Suzanne. I don'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 goes out.] 
 
 Olivier. And to think that all that 
 woman needed to turn her bad into good 
 was a small proportion of the intelligence 
 she used in doing evil! 
 
 Raymond [to Marcblle]. You are go- 
 ing to be happy, mademoiselle: you are 
 marrying the &iest man I know! 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 (LA LOCANDIERA) 
 By carlo GOLDONI 
 
 Translated by MERLE PIERBON 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY MERLE FIEHSON 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 The Cavaliek di Ripafeatta 
 The MARQxns di Foelipopoli 
 The Count D'Albafioeita 
 MiEANBOLiNA, the Mistress of the Inn 
 Fabeicius, sertdng^man in the Inn 
 Servant of the Cavalier 
 Servant of the Count 
 
 The scene 13 placed in Florence in the Inn of MirandoUna. 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 ACT I 
 
 The pMic room of the hotel. 
 
 [Enter the Marqius di Forlipopoli and 
 the Count D'Albapiokita.] 
 
 MARQtris. There is quite a distinction 
 between you and me. 
 
 Count. As far as the inn goes my money 
 is as good as yours. 
 
 Makquis. But if the mistress of the inn 
 shows me certain marks of consideration, 
 it's because I deserve them more than you. 
 
 Count. For what reason? 
 
 Marquis. I am the Marquis di Forlip- 
 opoli. 
 
 Count. And I the Count d'Albafiorita. 
 
 Marquis. Yes, count of a purchased 
 county. 
 
 Count. I purchased my coimty when 
 you sold your marquisate. 
 
 Marquis. Enough! I am who I am and 
 must be shown respect. 
 
 Count. Who's wanting in respect? You 
 speak with over-much boldness. . . . 
 
 Marquis. I am in this inn, because I 
 love its mistress. All know it and all oughl^ 
 to respect a young woman who pleases my 
 fancy. 
 
 Count. O, that's a good one! You want 
 to keep me from loving MirandoUna. Why 
 do you think I'm in Florence? Why do 
 you think I'm in this particular hotel? 
 
 Marquis. Oh, well! You won't accom- 
 plish anything at all. 
 
 Count. I shall not, and you will? 
 
 Marquis. I shall and you will not. I 
 am who I am. Mirandolina needs my pro- 
 tection. 
 
 Count. Mirandolina needs money, but 
 not protection. 
 
 Marquis. Money? . . . That's not 
 lacking. 
 
 Count. I spend ten shillings a day, 
 Marquis, and I'm always giving her gifts. 
 
 Marquis. But I 'm not telling what I do. 
 
 Count. You don't say anything about 
 it, but everybody knows it. 
 
 Marquis. All is not known. 
 
 Count. Indeed, my dear Marquis, but 
 it is. The waiters are talldng about it. 
 A shilling a day! 
 
 Marquis. Speaking of waiters there is 
 this waiter here, who's called Fabricius. 
 I don't exactly like that fellow. It seems to 
 me that our hostess looks upon him alto- 
 gether too favorably. 
 
 Count. Perhaps she wants to marry 
 him. It would n't be a bad thing. Her 
 father has been dead six months. A yoimg 
 girl alone at the head of an inn will find 
 herself embarrassed. For my part, if she 
 should marry, I have promised her one 
 htmdred pounds. 
 
 Marquis. If she marries, I am her pro- 
 tector and I shall ... I know what I'll do. 
 
 Count. Come here. As good friends 
 let's arrange the affair. Let us give her a 
 hundred pounds apiece. 
 
 Marquis. What I do, I do secretly, and 
 I don't boast of it. I am who I am. [CaUs.] 
 Who's there? 
 
 Count [oside]. Ruined, poor, and proud. 
 
 [Enter Fabricius.] 
 
 Fabricius. At your service, sir. 
 
 Marquis. Sir? Who taught you your 
 maimers? 
 
 Fabricius. Pardon me. 
 
 Count [to Fabricius]. Tell me: how is 
 your mistress? 
 
 Fabricius. She is very well, your lord- 
 ship. 
 
 Marquis. Is she up yet? 
 
 Fabricius. Yes, your lordship. 
 
 Marquis. Ass! 
 
 Fabricius. Why, your lordship? 
 
 Marquis. Don't lordship me! 
 
 Fabricius. It's the title I gave to the 
 other gentleman too. 
 
So8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Marquis. There is some distinction be- 
 tween him and me. 
 
 Count [(oFabeicius]. Just listen to him. 
 
 Fabricius [in a low tone to the Count]. 
 He speaks the truth. There is a difference. 
 I notice it in the bills. 
 
 Marquis. Tell your mistress to come 
 to my room; that I want to speak with 
 her. 
 
 Fabricius. Yes, your excellency. I 
 did n't make a mistake this time, did I? 
 
 Marquis. All right. You have known it 
 three months. You are an insolent fellow. 
 
 Fabricius. As you wish, your excel- 
 lency. 
 
 Count. Do you want to see the differ- 
 ence between the Marquis and me? 
 
 Marquis. What do you mean? 
 
 Count. See here. I'm giving you ten 
 shillings. Make him give you the same. 
 
 Fabricius [to the Count]. Thanks, your 
 lordship. [To the Marquis]. Your excel- 
 lency . . . 
 
 Marquis. I don't throw away my money 
 as madmen do. Go! 
 
 Fabricius [to the Count). Your lord- 
 ship. Heaven bless you. [Aside.] Your ex- 
 cellency! Played out! Outside of your own 
 country you don't have to have titles to be 
 esteemed, you have to have money. 
 
 [Exit Fabricius.] 
 
 Marquis. You think you can outdo me 
 with your gifts, but you can't do anything 
 of the sort. My rank is worth more than 
 all your money. 
 
 Count. I don't care what a thing's 
 worth, what I like is something I can spend. 
 
 Marquis. You are spending only to 
 break your neck. Mirandolina does n't 
 have any esteem for you at all. 
 
 Count. Well, do you think that with 
 all that fine nobility of yours she really es- 
 teems you? There has to be money. 
 
 Marquis. How money? She wants pro- 
 tection — she wants some one who can do 
 her a favor in a pinch. 
 
 Count. Yes, some one who can lend her 
 in a pinch a hundred pounds. 
 
 Marquis. A man must make himself 
 respected. 
 
 Count. When there's no lack of money, 
 every one respects you. 
 
 Marquis. You don't know what you 're 
 talking about. 
 
 Count. I understand better than you 
 do. 
 
 [Enter the Cavalier di Ripafratta 
 from his room.] 
 
 Cavalier. Friends, what's all this 
 noise about? Are you two quarreling? 
 
 Count. There's a very fine point in dis- 
 pute. 
 
 Marquis [ironically]. 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. 
 
 Cavalier. Really, my dear Marquis. . . . 
 
 Mabquis. Come now, let's talk about 
 something else. 
 
 Cavalier. How did you come to get 
 into such a quarrel? 
 
 Count. For the silliest reason in the 
 world. 
 
 Marquis. Bravo! The 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? 
 
 Marquis. You must know with what 
 .great diflBculty I have been protecting 
 her. 
 
 Count [to Cavalier]. He protects her, 
 and I spend the money. 
 
 Cavalier. Indeed, one can't dispute 
 about anything that deserves it less. A 
 woman changes you, a woman upsets you? 
 A woman? What queer things one hears 
 nowadays! As far as I am concerned there 
 is n't any danger that I '11 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 thought 
 that woman is an unbearable infirmity for 
 man. 
 
 Marquis. As far as that goes Mirando- 
 lina has extraordinary worth. 
 
 Count. Up to this point the Marquis 
 has reason on his side. The mistress of our 
 inn is truly an adorable person. 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 5°9 
 
 Marquis. Now, when I love her you 
 must think there is something fine in her. 
 
 Cavauer. Indeed, you make me laugh. 
 What can she have that's out of the 
 ordinary and not common to all other 
 women? 
 
 MARQtris. She has a noble manner that 
 charms. 
 
 Count. She is beautiful, she speaks 
 well, she dresses nicely, and she has the 
 best taste imaginable. 
 
 Cavalier. All these 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. 
 
 Cavalier. Nonsense. I have taken a 
 good look at her. She is a woman just like 
 the others. 
 
 Marquis. 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 Csesar! I have always 
 been accustomed to be much in the society 
 of women. I know their defects and their 
 weaknesses. And yet with her, in spite of 
 my long courtship, and the great hopes I 
 have had, I have n't been able to touch as 
 much as a finger. 
 
 Cavalieb. Art, exquisite art. Poor sim- 
 pletons. You believe in her, ah? Now, 
 that wouldn't have happened to me. 
 Women? Away with all of them. 
 
 Count. You have never been in love? 
 
 Cavalier. No, and I never will be. 
 They have done their best to give me a 
 wife, but I have never wanted one. 
 
 Marquis. But you are the only one left 
 of your house; don't you have to think of 
 the succession? 
 
 Cavalier. 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 riches? 
 
 Cavalier. I shall enjoy the little I have 
 with my friends. 
 
 Marquis. Fine, Cavalier, fine; we shall 
 enjoy ourselves. 
 
 Count. And you don't want to give any- 
 thing at all to women? 
 
 Cavalier. Absolutely nothing. They 
 certainly don't get anything out of me. 
 
 Count. See, our hostess! Look at her 
 and see if she is n't adorable. 
 
 Cavalier. What an idea! For my part 
 I value a fine hunting dog four times as 
 much as I do her. 
 
 Marquis. If you don't esteem her, I do. 
 
 Cavalier. I'd leave her to you even if 
 she were more beautiful than Venus. 
 
 [Enter Mirandolina.] 
 
 Mirandolina. 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 excellency? 
 
 Marquis. In my room. 
 
 Mirandolina. In your room? If you 
 need anything, the waiter will come and 
 serve you. 
 
 Marquis [aside to the Cavalier]. What 
 do you say to that modesty? 
 
 Cavalier [aside to the Marquis]. What 
 you call modesty I'd call forwardness and 
 impertinence. 
 
 Count. Dear Mirandolina, I shall speak 
 to you in public; I'll not put you to the 
 inconvenience of coming to my room. You 
 see these earrings. Do you like them? 
 
 Mirandolina. Beautiful. 
 
 Count. They are diamonds; do you 
 know that? 
 
 Mirandolina. Oh, I recognize them. I, 
 too, understand diamonds. 
 
 Marquis. They are at your service. 
 
 Cavalier [softly to the Count]. My dear 
 friend, you're throwing them away. 
 
 Mirandolina. Why do you want to 
 give me these earrings? 
 
 Marquis. A fine present, indeed, they 
 would make! She has some twice as hand- 
 some. 
 
 Count. These are set in the latest style. 
 I beg you to take them with my love. 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. What a madman. 
 
 Mirandolina. No, of course not, sir. 
 
S»o 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Count. If you don't take them, you'll 
 displease me. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. I don't kuow what to 
 say. ... It's to my interest to keep on 
 good terms with the patrons of my inn. So 
 as not to displease you, Count, I'll take 
 themi 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. Oh, the wretch! 
 
 Count [to the Cavalier]. What do you 
 say to this vivacity? 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. Splendid vivacity! 
 She takes them from you, and without a 
 word of thanks either. 
 
 Marquis. Really, Count, you've made 
 yourself highly esteemed. Out of vanity to 
 give gifts to a woman in public! Mirando- 
 lina! I must speak to you privately; I 
 am a gentleman. 
 
 MiRANDOUNA [oside]. What penury! He 
 does n't give any one presents. — If the 
 gentlemen desire nothing further of me I 
 shall go. 
 
 Cavalier [vjith displeasure]. Look here, 
 mistress! The linen you gave me is n't to 
 my taste. If you have n't any better, I 
 shall have to provide it myself. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Sir, you shall have bet- 
 ter. It will be brought up; but it seems to 
 me you might ask with a little politeness. 
 
 Cavalier. Where I spend my money, 
 I don't need to stand on ceremony. 
 
 Count [to Mirandolina]. Excuse him. 
 He is an implacable woman-hater. 
 
 Cavalier. Eh! I don't need her indul- 
 gence. 
 
 Mirandolina. 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 confidence. 
 
 Change the linen for me. I shall send my 
 
 valet for it. Friends, your humble servant. 
 
 [E3n,t the Cavalier.] 
 
 Mirandolina. What a savage man! I 
 have never seen his like. 
 
 Count. Dear Mirandolina, every one 
 does n't appreciate your merits. 
 
 Mirandolina. Indeed, I'm so disgusted 
 with his bad behavior, that I shall dismiss 
 him this very moment directly. 
 
 Marquis. Yes, do; and if he does n't 
 want to go, tell me and I'll make him leave 
 
 immediately. Pray make use of my pro- 
 tection. 
 
 Count. And whatever money you lose, 
 I '11 make good and pay everything. Listen, 
 send away the Marquis, too, and I'll pay 
 you for that. 
 
 Mirandolina. Thank you, gentlemen. 
 I have spirit enough to tell a guest that I 
 don't want him; and as regards business, 
 my inn never has a room vacant. 
 
 [Enter Fabricius.] 
 
 Fabricius [to the Count]. 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 sets 
 jewels. [Softly to Mirandolina.] Miran- 
 dolina, discretion; this is n't a proper place 
 for you. [Exit.] 
 
 Count. Oh, yes; he has a jewel to show 
 me. Mirandolina, I want to match these 
 earrings. 
 
 Mirandolina. 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, Miran- 
 dolina; Sir Marquis, I must take my leave 
 of you. [Exit the Count.] 
 
 Marquis [aside]. The accursed Count! 
 He bores me to death with that money of 
 his. 
 
 Mirandolina. 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. 
 
 Mirandolina. Presents are never re- 
 pugnant to any one. 
 
 Marquis. I should think I was insulting 
 you by trying to put you under obligations 
 with gifts. 
 
 Mirandolina. Oh, certainly, the Mar- 
 quis has never insulted me. 
 
 Marquis. And he never will. 
 
 Mirandolina. I sincerely believe you. 
 
 Marquis. But wherever I can, I am at 
 your service. 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 S" 
 
 MiKANDOLiNA. I should have to know 
 in what you can help me. 
 
 Mabquis. In everything. Try me. 
 
 MiRANDOiiNA. But, for instance, in 
 what? 
 
 Marquis. By Jove. You have a won- 
 derful charm. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Many, many thanks, 
 your excellency. 
 
 MABQtns. Ah, I would make an almost 
 imbecoming remark. I would almost call 
 down curses on my title. 
 
 MrRANDomNA. Why so, sir? 
 
 Makquis. Sometimes, I wish I were in 
 the coimt's position. 
 
 Miramdouna. Perhaps, because of his 
 money? 
 
 Makquis. Eh! How money? I don't 
 care a rap about it. If I were a ridiculous 
 Count like him — 
 
 MiRANDouNA. What would you do? 
 
 Marquis. The deuce. ... I would 
 marry you. [Exit the Marquis.] 
 
 MiRANSOLiNA. Oh, what has he saidi 
 Marquis Empty Pockets, that fine fellow, 
 wants to marry me? Yes, if you wanted to 
 you'd find a little diflSculty. I'd stand in 
 the way. I like the good things 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 
 faUen 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 so brusquely? 
 He's the first guest 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 so, is something that makes me angry. 
 He a woman-hater? He can't bear the sight 
 of them? Poor fool! Probably he hasn't 
 found the one who knows how to handle him. 
 But he shall find her. He shall. And who 
 knows that he has n't found her. I'm going 
 to enter the lists 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 the weakness of 
 almost 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 hard hearts which are the enemies of 
 us who are the best thing that beautiful 
 Mother Nature has produced in this world. 
 
 [Enter Fabricius.] 
 
 Fabricius. Look here, mistress. 
 
 MiRANDOiiNA. What is it? 
 
 Fabricius. The guest who has the mid- 
 dle room finds fault with the linen; he says 
 it's commonplace, and he does n't want it. 
 
 MiBANDOLiNA. I know it, I know it; he 
 said the same thing to me, and I want his 
 commands to be carried out. 
 
 Fabricius. Very well. Come, then, and 
 lay out the things so that I can take them 
 to him. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Ncvor mind, never mind. 
 I shall take them to him. 
 
 Fabricius. You wish to take them to 
 him. 
 
 MiRANDOLINA. YcS, I do. 
 
 Fabricius. You must be greatly in- 
 terested in that guest. 
 
 MiRANDOLINA. I'm interested in every 
 one. Mind your own business. 
 
 Fabricius [aside]. Indeed, I'm sure of 
 it. Our affair won't amount to anything. 
 She's just flattering me and nothing will 
 come of it. 
 
 MiRANDOLINA [oside]. Poor fool. He 
 has aspirations. I want to keep him hop- 
 ing, because he has served me faithfully. 
 
 Fabricius. It has always been custom- 
 ary for me to serve strangers. 
 
 MiRANDOLINA. You are a little too rough 
 with the guests. 
 
 Fabricius. And you a little too kind. 
 
 MiRANDOLINA. I kuow what I 'm doing; 
 I don't need advisers. 
 
 Fabricius. Very well, very well. Get 
 another waiter. 
 
 MiRANDOLINA. Why, Fabricius? Are 
 you displeased with me? 
 
\ 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Fabricius. Do you remember what 
 your father said to us two before he died? 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Yes, when I decide to 
 marry I shall remember what my father 
 told me. 
 
 Fabeicius. But I am sensitive; there 
 are certain things I can't endure. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. But what do you think 
 lam? A gossip? A flirt? A fool? I'm as- 
 tonished at you. What do I care about 
 guests who come and go. If I treat them 
 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 who has served me well can't com- 
 plain of me. I am grateful. I recognize 
 merit' . . . but I am not appreciated. 
 Enough, Fabricius, understand me, if you 
 can. [Exit Mirandolina.] 
 
 Fabricius. He 's a smart fellow who 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 flirt, but she 
 wants to do as she pleases. 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 throughout 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 shaU have the best 
 advantage after all. [Exit Fabricius.] 
 
 [Enter the Cavalier and a Servant.] 
 
 Servant. Your lordship, I have brought 
 you this letter. 
 
 Cavalier. Bring me a cup of chocolate. 
 [Exit the Servant; the Cavalier opens the 
 letter.] "Sienna, first of January, 1753." 
 Who's writing? Horace Taccagni, my 
 dear friend. "The tender friendship which 
 binds me to you, makes me anxious to warn 
 you of the necessity of your return to your 
 native land. The Count Manna is dead." 
 ... Poor fellow I I'm sorry. "He has left 
 one daughter, of marriageable age, heir- 
 ess to thirty thousand potmds. All your 
 friends woiid hke such a fortune to fall 
 to you and are busy arranging it." They 
 need n't take that trouble for me because 
 
 I don't want to know anything of it. And 
 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 me 
 worst of all. [Tears up the letter.] What 
 do I care about thirty thousand pounds? 
 As long as I'm alone, less is enough. If I 
 were married, a great deal more would n't 
 suffice. A wife for me! Rather a thousand 
 times a quartan fever. 
 
 [Enter the Mabquis.] 
 
 Marquis. My friend, will you let me 
 stay a little while with you? 
 
 Cavalier. You honor me. 
 
 Marquis. At least you and I can talk 
 confidentially; but that ass of a Count 
 is n't good enough to be in our society. 
 
 Cavalier. My dear Marquis, excuse 
 me; but respect others, if you want to be 
 respected. 
 
 Marquis. You know my character. I 
 am courteous to every one; but I can't 
 stand that fellow. 
 
 Cavalier. You can't endure him merely 
 because he is your rival in love. Shame on 
 you! A gentleman of your station in love 
 with an innkeeper. The idea of a man as 
 intelligent as you running after women! 
 
 Marquis. My dear Cavalier, she has 
 bewitched me. 
 
 Cavalier. Oh! Nonsense; folly. What 
 enchantments has she? Why don't women 
 bewitch me? Their witcheries consist in 
 their personal charms, and in their flat- 
 teries; and he who stands afar off as I do, 
 is in no danger of being unduly influenced. 
 
 Marquis. Enough! 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? 
 
 Marquis. He hasn't lived up to his 
 word. 
 
 [Enter the Servant with the chocolate.] 
 
 Cavalier [to Servant]. I don't like it. 
 Get me another, right away. 
 
 Servant. At present there is n't any 
 other in the house, your lordship. 
 
 Cavalier. You must get it. [To the 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 S13 
 
 Marquis]. If you woxild be so good as to 
 accept this. . . . 
 
 MARQtns [takes the chocolate and drinks 
 it viithout ceremony, keeping on talking and 
 drinking at the same time]. This overseer of 
 mine, as I told you . . . [drinks] . . . 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. And I shall go with- 
 out. 
 
 Marquis. He promised to send me by 
 post . . . [drinks] . . . ten pounds . . . 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. Now he comes with a 
 second thrust. 
 
 Marquis. And he has not sent it to 
 me . . . [drinks]. The point is . . . the 
 point is . . . [finishes drinking] . . . Here! 
 [giving the glass to the Servant]. The point 
 is that I'm in great difficulty, and I don't 
 know what to do. 
 
 Cavalier. A week more, a week less — 
 
 Marquis. But you, who are a gentle- 
 man, know what it means to keep one's 
 word. I am in difficulties, and by Jove! 
 I am utterly powerless. 
 
 Cavalier. I'm sorry to see you un- 
 happy. [Aside.] If I knew how to get out 
 of it honorably. 
 
 Marquis. It would put you out, would 
 it, to do me the favor for a week? 
 
 Cavalier. Dear Marquis, if I could, I 
 would help you out willingly; it I had it, 
 I would offer it at once. I'm expecting 
 some, but I don't happen to have any now. 
 
 Marquis. You would n't have me think 
 you are without money. 
 
 Cavalier [shovring a sequin and soTne 
 small change of various denominations]. 
 See. Behold all my riches. They don't 
 amount to two sequins. 
 
 Marquis. That is a gold sequin. 
 
 Cavalier. Yes, it's my last; I have n't 
 any more. 
 
 Marquis. Lend it to me and mean- 
 while I'll see . . . 
 
 Cavalier. But then I — 
 
 Marquis. What are you afraid of? I'll 
 pay you back. 
 
 Cavalier [girnng him the sequin]. I don't 
 know what to say; help yourself. 
 
 Marquis [taking the seguin and going], 
 I have some pressing business, friend; I 
 am bound at present; I'll meet you again 
 at dinner. 
 
 Cavalier. Fine! The Marquis wanted 
 to extort twenty sequins from me and then 
 he is contented with one. After all it does 
 n't matter much if I do lose a sequin, and 
 if he did n't pay it back he would n't bore 
 me any more. What displeases me most is 
 that he drank my chocolate. What impu- 
 dence. And then, "I am who I am, I am a 
 gentleman." Oh, most poUte gentleman! 
 
 [Enter Mirandolina with the linen.] 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [entering v/ith some con- 
 straint]. May I come in, your lordship? 
 
 Cavalier [harshly]. What do you want? 
 
 Mirandolina [coming forwavd a little]. 
 Look, here is some better linen. 
 
 Cavalier [indicating the table]. Very 
 well. Put it down here. 
 
 Mirandolina. I beg you to be so good 
 as to see if it is to your liking. 
 
 Cavalier. What kind of stuff is it? 
 
 Mirandolina [coming forward a little 
 more]. The sheets are of fine linen. 
 
 Cavalier. Fine linen? 
 
 Mirandolina. Yes, sir; ten shiUings a 
 yard. Look at it. 
 
 Cavalier. I did n't want anything so 
 nice as all that. It would have been enough 
 so long as it was something better than 
 you gave me at first. 
 
 Mirandolina. 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 have them, see- 
 ing it's you. I would n't give them to any 
 one else. 
 
 Cavalier. Seeing it's you. The usual 
 compliment. 
 
 Mirandolina. Look at the table service. 
 
 Cavalier. Oh! This Flanders linen, 
 when it's washed, is very much spoiled. 
 It is n't necessary to soil them on my ac- 
 covmt. 
 
 Mirandolina. With a gentleman of 
 your quality I don't consider such little 
 things. I have several of these napkins 
 and I shall keep them for your lordship. 
 
 Cavalier [aside], I can't deny that 
 she's an obliging woman. 
 
 Mirandolina [aside]. Indeed, he has a 
 surly face which shows that women don't 
 attract him. 
 
SI4 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Cavalier. Give my linen to my valet, 
 or put it down some place there. It is n't 
 necessary that you put yourself out on my 
 account. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Oh, I'm never putting 
 myself out, when I serve gentlemen of such 
 distinguished merit. 
 
 Cavalier. Well, well, I don't need any- 
 thing more. [Aside.] She wants to flatter 
 me. Women! Every one of them is just 
 like this. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. I'll put it in the alcove? 
 
 Cavalier [seriously]. Yes, wherever you 
 please. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Oh, this is a hard prop- 
 osition ! I 'm afraid I '11 accomplish nothing. 
 [Goes to put away the linen.] 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. Simpletons hear these 
 fine words, they believe those who say 
 them, and they fall. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [returning without the 
 linen]. What would you like to order for 
 dinner? 
 
 Cavalier. I'll eat whatever there is. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. I would like to know 
 your preference. If you like one thing 
 better than another, speak up. 
 
 Cavalier. If I wish anything, I'll teU 
 the waiter. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. But in these matters 
 men don't have the care and patience we 
 women do. If a little ragout, any sauce 
 would please you, be so kind as to tell me. 
 
 Cavalier. 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. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Why mention the folly 
 of those two gentlemen? They come to 
 my inn to lodge and then they claim they 
 want to court the mistress of the inn. I 
 have other things to do besides paying 
 attention to their idle talk. I'm trying to 
 act according to my best interests. 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 
 woman. 
 
 Cavalier. Good. Your frankness de- 
 lights me. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Oh! I don't havs any 
 other good qualities? 
 
 Cavalier. But notwithstanding, you 
 know how to pretend with those who pay 
 you attention. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. 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 
 jested with them in such a way that they 
 could with reason be flattered. I don't 
 treat them rudely, 'because my interests 
 won't allow it, but I don't come far 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 see? I am not a 
 girl. I am several years old; I am not beau- 
 tiful, but I have had some good chances; 
 and yet I have never married, because I 
 thoroughly value my freedom. 
 
 Cavalier. Oh, yes, freedom is a splen- 
 did treasure. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. And so many lose it 
 foolishly. 
 
 Cavalier. I know very well what I'm 
 about. Enough! 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Has your lordship a wife? 
 Cavalier. Heaven, no, nor children. 
 I'm not fond of women. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Good. May you always 
 keep that attitude. Women, sir — But 
 then, it is n't just the thing for me to 
 speak ill of them. 
 
 Cavalier. On the contrary you are the 
 first I ever heard speak so. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. I '11 Say it : we innkeepers 
 see and hear a good deal; and indeed I pity 
 the men who fear our sex. 
 Cavalier [aside]. She is a queer piece. 
 MiRANDOLiNA [pretends she wants to go]. 
 With your excellency's permission. 
 Cavalier. You are in a hurry to go? 
 MiRANDOLiNA. I Wouldn't want to be 
 troublesome. 
 
 Cavalier. Oh, no, you please and amuse 
 me. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Do you See, sir? I act 
 just the same with the others. I stay a few 
 minutes; I am rather merry, I make a few 
 little jests to amuse them and all at once 
 they think ... I meant it; and they make 
 desperate love to me. 
 
 Cavalier. That happens, because you 
 have good maimers. 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 SIS 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [uiith o cuftsy]. You are 
 too kind, your lordship. 
 
 Cavalier. And do they fall in love? 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Just See what weakness! 
 To fall suddenly in love with a woman! 
 
 Cavalier. That 's something I 've never 
 been able to comprehend. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. What splendid strength! 
 What splendid manliness. 
 
 Cavalier. What frailty! Oh, degener- 
 ate human race! 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. That is the way men 
 should think. Sir Cavalier, give me your 
 hand. 
 
 Cavalier. Why do you want that? 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Be SO kind if you will 
 condescend; see, I'm clean. 
 
 Cavalier. Here it is. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. This is the first time 
 I've had the honor of taking the hand of a 
 man who thought truly as a man. 
 
 Cavalier [withdrawing his hand]. Come, 
 enough! 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Now, just See 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 faulted. I should n't allow them the 
 slightest hberty 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 
 excellency, 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. 
 
 Cavalier. Why have you taken such a 
 great liking 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 look at me as a servant, with- 
 out bothering me with ridiculous preten- 
 sions, with grotesque affectations. 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. I don't understand 
 that extraordinary character of hers. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [oside]. The satyr will 
 gradually become tamed. 
 
 Cavalier. Come, now, if you have some 
 other things to look after, don't stay on 
 my account. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. 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. 
 
 Cavalier. Very well. ... If sometime 
 you should come, too, I'd willingly see you. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Indeed, I don't go into 
 the guests' rooms, but I'll come sometime 
 to yours. 
 
 Cavalier. To mine . . . why? 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Becausc, your lordship, 
 you please me very much. 
 
 Cavalier. I please you? 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. You please me because 
 you are n't effeminate, because you are n't 
 one of those who fall in love. [Aside.] May 
 my nose drop off, if he does n't fall in love 
 before to-morrow. [Exit Mieandolina.] 
 
 Cavalier [alone]. Eh! I know what 
 I'm doing. Women? Away with them. 
 She would be one of those who could make 
 me love her more than any one else. That 
 truth, that freedom of speech is a thing 
 too little found. She has something or 
 other out of the ordinary about her, but 
 I wotild n't let myself 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. [Exit the Cavalier.] 
 
 [Enter Mirandolina and the Marquis.] 
 
 Marquis. May I come in? May I? 
 
 [The Marquis pidls out of his 
 
 pocket a fine silk handkerchief, 
 
 unfolds it, and pretends to wipe 
 
 his forehead.] 
 
 Mirandolina. A fine handkerchief. 
 
 Marquis! 
 
 Marquis. Ah. What do you think of it? 
 
 Is n't it beautiful? Have n't I good taste? 
 
 Mirandolina. Certainly the best taste. 
 
 Marquis. Have you ever seen any so 
 
 beautiful? 
 
 Mirandolina. It is superb. I have 
 never seen its like. 
 Marquis. It comes from London. 
 
Si6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 MiBANDOLiNA. It is beautiful; it pleases 
 me very much. 
 
 Marquis. Then I have good taste? I 
 tell you the Count does n't know how to 
 spend. He throws his money away and 
 he never buys a present that's in good 
 taste. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. The Marquis is a con- 
 noisseur, he can distinguish, understand, 
 see, appreciate. 
 
 Makquis [folding the handkerchief care- 
 fully]. One must fold this well so as not to 
 spoil it. This sort of thing has to be taken 
 great care of. Here, take it. 
 
 [He gives it to Mirandolina.] 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. You Want me to put it 
 in your room? 
 
 Marquis. No; put it in yours. 
 
 Mirandolina. Why in mine? 
 
 Marquis. Because ... I'm giving it to 
 you. 
 
 Mirandolina. Your lordship, pardon 
 me — 
 
 Marquis. No matter, I give it you. . . . 
 
 Mirandolina. But I don't want it. 
 
 Marquis. Don't make me angry. 
 
 Mirandolina. Oh, if that 's the case, the 
 Marquis knows my disposition; I don't 
 want to displease any one. So as not to 
 make you angry, I'U take it. 
 
 [Enter the Count.] 
 
 Count. I was looking for you. 
 
 Mirandolina. I'm here. 
 
 Marquis [aside to Mirandolina]. Look 
 here. Show the Count the handkerchief. 
 
 Mirandolina [showing the handkerchief 
 to the Count]. See, Sir Count, the beauti- 
 ful gift the Marquis has made me. 
 
 Count. Congratulations! Bravo, Mar- 
 quis! 
 
 Marquis. Oh, it's nothing at all, 
 nothing at all. Mere nothings. Put it 
 back, away; I don't want you to mention 
 it. I don't want people to know what 
 I do. 
 
 Mirandolina [aside]. He does n't want 
 people to know and yet he makes me show 
 it. His pride vies with his poverty. 
 
 Count [to Mirandolina]. By your 
 leave, I 'd like to say a word. 
 
 Mirandolina. Pray, speak freely. 
 
 Marquis. You'll spoil that handker- 
 chief if you put it in your pocket. 
 
 Mirandolina. Oh, I shall put it in a 
 wrapper, so it won't be soiled. 
 
 Count [to Mirandolina]. See this little 
 jewel set with diamonds. 
 
 Mirandolina. Very beautiful. 
 
 Count. It's the companion to the ear- 
 rings I gave you. 
 
 Mirandolina. Certainly it's like them, 
 but it's more beautiful too. 
 
 Marquis [aside]. The Count be hanged 
 with his diamonds and his money, and may 
 the deuce take him. 
 
 Count [to Mirandolina]. Now, that 
 you may have an ornament to match, I'm 
 going to give you the jewel. 
 
 Mirandolina. I absolutely won't take 
 it. 
 
 Count. Don't treat me so discourte- 
 ously. 
 
 Mirandolina. Oh, I never do that. 
 So as not to displease you, I'll take it. [To 
 the Marquis.] Ah, what do you think of it. 
 Marquis? Is n't it elegant? 
 
 Marquis. Of its kind the handkerchief 
 is in much better taste. 
 
 Count. Yes, but between kind and kind 
 there is quite a distance. 
 
 Marquis. A fine thing! To boast in 
 public of your great outlay. 
 
 Count. Yes, yes, you give your gifts in 
 secret. 
 
 Mirandolina [aside]. I can well say 
 and with truth that where there are two 
 litigants the third person gets the profit. 
 
 Marquis. 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 handkerchief 
 of that kind! Mirandolina hold it dear. 
 Handkerchiefs of that kind you don't run 
 across every day. Diamonds you may get, 
 but handkerchiefs of that kind you won't 
 get. [Exit the Marquis.] 
 
 Mirandolina [aside]. Oh, what a fool! 
 Count. Dear Mirandolina, you are n't 
 displeased with what I do. 
 
 Mirandolina. Not at all, sir. 
 
 Count. I do it for your sake. I do it in 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 S17 
 
 order to bring profit and customers. Be- 
 sides, I am yours; yours is my heart, and 
 yours are my riches, and I place them all 
 freely at your disposal. [Exit the Count;.] 
 MiRANDOLiNA [olone]. With all his 
 riches, with all his gifts he'll never succeed 
 in making me love him; and much less will 
 the Marquis 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 most money. But the one does 
 n't concern me any more than the other. 
 I 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 
 so much pleasure. I'll try; I know I have 
 n't skill, but I'll try. The Count and the 
 Marquis meanwhile will leave me in peace 
 and I'll 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 conquest; but he who 
 loiters, who listens and is pleased, must 
 sooner or later fall in spite of himself. 
 
 [Exit MmANDOLINA.] 
 
 ACT II 
 
 The Cavalier's room vrilh table laid for 
 dinner, and chairs. 
 
 [Enter the Cavalier, who walks abovi viith 
 a hook. Servant. Fabhicitjs enters and 
 ■puts the soup on the table.] 
 
 Fabriciijs [to the Servant]. Tell your 
 master, if he is ready for dinner, that the 
 soup is on the table. 
 
 Servant [to Fabriciits]. You might just 
 as well teU him. 
 
 Fabricitjb. He's such a queer fellow, 
 that I don't say anything to him unless I 
 have to. 
 
 Servant. 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 
 to men. 
 
 Fabricius [aside]. He can't bear the 
 sight of women. Poor fool! He does n't 
 know what's good when he sees it. 
 
 [Exit Fabricius.] 
 
 Servant. Your lordship, if you please, 
 dinner is served. 
 
 [The Cavalier puts away the book 
 and goes and sits doum at the 
 table.] 
 
 Cavalier [to the Servant]. This morning 
 dinner seemed to be served much earlier 
 than usual. 
 
 [The Servant stands behind the 
 Cavalier's chair with a napkin 
 under his arm]. 
 
 Servant. This room has been served 
 first. The Count d'Albafiorita grumbled 
 because he wanted to be served first, but 
 the mistress wanted your lordship to be 
 served first. 
 
 Cavalier. I am much obliged for the 
 attentions she shows me. 
 
 Servant. She is a very accomplished 
 woman, your lordship. In all the world 
 I've seen, I've never found a politer inn- 
 keeper than she. 
 
 Cavalier [turning a little backward]. 
 She pleases you, then, eh? 
 
 Servant. If it weren't for wronging 
 my master, I would Uke to enter her serv- 
 ice as a waiter. 
 
 Cavalier. Poor fool! What wovild you 
 want her to do yith you? 
 
 [Gives him the plate and he changes 
 it]. 
 
 Servant. A woman of that sort, I'd 
 like to serve like a little dog. 
 
 [Goes for a dish.] 
 
 Cavalier. By Jove. She bewitches 
 them all. It would be funny if she should 
 bewitch me too. Cheer up; to-morrow I'm 
 going to 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. 
 
 Servant [entering with the boiled meat 
 and another dish]. The mistress said that 
 if you did n't Uke the fowl, she would send 
 in a pigeon. 
 
 Cavalier. This is all right. What's 
 that you've got? 
 
 Servant. The mistress told me that I 
 should tell her whether this sauce suited 
 your lordship, for she made it with her 
 own hands. 
 
 Cavalier. This woman is becoming 
 
Si8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 more and more obliging [Tastes it.] It is 
 delicious. Tell her that I like it and I thank 
 her. 
 
 Servant. I'll tell her, your lordship. 
 
 Cavalier. Go, tell her at once. 
 
 Servant. At once. [Aside.] What a 
 miracle? He sends a compliment to a 
 woman! [Exit Servant.] 
 
 Cavalier [alone]. It is a delicious sauce. 
 I have 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 I esteem 
 more in her is her frankness. Oh, what a 
 splendid thing is frankness! Why can't 
 I bear the sight of women? Because they 
 are false, wheedling. But that fine frank- 
 ness! Ah, me . . . 
 
 [Enter the Servant.] 
 
 Servant. The mistress thanks you for 
 your kindness in appreciating her humble 
 efforts. 
 
 Cavalier. Bravo, master of ceremo- 
 nies, bravo. 
 
 Servant. Now she is making another 
 dish with her hands, but I don't know 
 what it is. 
 
 Cavalier. She is making it? 
 
 Servant. Yes, sir. 
 ' Cavalier. Give me something to drink. 
 
 Servant. Yes, sir. [Goes to get the liquor.] 
 
 Cavalier. Well, now, I'll have to re- 
 ciprocate generously. She is overly po- 
 lite; I'll have to pay double. I must treat 
 her well, but I must go away soon. [The 
 Servant gives him the liqitor.] Tell me, is 
 the Marquis at the table? 
 
 Servant. He has gone out, and has n't 
 been seen. 
 
 Cavalier [indicating he wants plate 
 changed]. Here. 
 
 Servant. Yes, sir. 
 
 I [Enter Mirandolina with a plate in her 
 hand.] 
 
 Mirandolina. May I come in? 
 Cavalier. Who is here? 
 Mirandolina. At your service. 
 Cavalier. Take that plate from her. 
 Mirandolina. Pardon me. Let me have 
 
 the honor of putting it on the table with 
 my own hands. [Puts the food on the table.] 
 Cavalier. That is n't your duty. 
 Mirandolina. Oh, sir, who am I; some 
 fine lady? I am only the servant of who- 
 ever desires to come to my inn. 
 Cavalier. 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 catch my meaning or 
 not. As far as you are concerned, I come 
 without scruples, and frankly. 
 
 Cavalier. Thank you. What dish is that? 
 
 Mirandolina. It is a little ragout I 
 made with my own hands. 
 
 Cavalier. It will be good. If you have 
 made it, it must be good. 
 
 Mirandolina. Oh, you are exceedingly 
 kind, sir. I don't know how to do anything 
 well. But I would like to know how to suit 
 so accomplished a gentleman. 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. 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 cooks and serv- 
 ants. I would like it if you would see if 
 the dish is to your taste. 
 
 Cavalier. Gladly. At once. [He tastes 
 it] Splendid. Delicious. Oh, what a 
 flavor! I don't know what it is. 
 
 Mirandolina. Oh, I have some special 
 secrets. These hands know how to make 
 some fine things. 
 
 Cavalier [to the Servant with some pas- 
 sion]. I would like something to drink. 
 
 Mirandolina. You should drink a good 
 wine after that dish. 
 
 Cavalier [to Servant]. Give me some 
 Burgundy. 
 
 Mirandolina. Fine! Burgundy is de- 
 licious. In my opinion it is the best wine 
 one can drink with food. 
 
 [The Servant puts the bottle on the 
 table with a glass.] 
 
 Cavalier. Your taste is good in every- 
 thing. 
 
 Mirandolina. Indeed, I have been mis- 
 taken few times. 
 
 Cavalier. And yet you are mistaken 
 this time. 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 519 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. In what, sir? 
 
 Cavaliek. In believing I deserve special 
 favor at your hands. 
 
 MiBANDOLiNA [gigMng]. Oh, Sir Cava- 
 lier, . . . 
 
 Cavaubr [changing his tone]. What's 
 the matter? Why these sighs? 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. I'lltellyou. I am just as 
 attentive to every one and it makes me feel 
 bad when I think that some are ungrateful. 
 
 Cavalier [complacently]. I won't be 
 ungrateful. 
 
 MrBANDOLiNA. I don't pretend to ac- 
 quire merit in your eyes, merely by doing 
 my duty. 
 
 Cavalier. No, no, I understand very 
 
 well. I am not so uncouth as you think 
 
 me. You won't have to complain of me. 
 
 [Turns the wine into the glass.] 
 
 Mirandolina. But, — sir, — I don't 
 vmderstand. 
 
 Cavalieh [drinks]. To your health. 
 
 Mirandolina. Very much obUged. 
 You do me exceeding honor. 
 
 Cavalebr. This wine is deUcious. 
 
 Mirandolina. Burgundy is my passion. 
 
 Cavalier [offering the wine]. It is at 
 your service. 
 
 Mihandolina. Oh, thanks, sir. 
 
 Cavalier. Have you dined? 
 
 Mirandolina. Yes, your lordship. 
 
 Cavalier. Don't you want a little glass? 
 
 Mirandolina. I don't deserve these 
 attentions. 
 
 Cavalier. Indeed, I give it to you will- 
 ingly. 
 
 Mirandolina. I don't know what to 
 say. I accept your politeness. 
 
 Cavalieb [to the Servant]. Get a glass. 
 
 Mirandolina [taking the Cavalier's 
 glass]. No, no, if I may, I'll take this. 
 
 Cavalier. I beg you, I have been served 
 from it. 
 
 Mirandolina. I shall drink to your 
 beauty. 
 
 [Laughing, the Servant puts the 
 other glass in the saucer.] 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. Eh, rascal! 
 
 [Pours out the wine.] 
 
 MiRANDOLrNA. But it is some time since 
 I have eaten; I am afraid it will hurt me. 
 
 Cavalier. There is no danger. 
 
 Mirandolina. If you could favor me 
 with a small bit of bread. 
 
 Cavalier. Gladly. [Gives her a lit of 
 Irread.] Here! 
 
 [Mirandolina, with the cup in one 
 hand and the bread in the other, 
 makes a pretense of being ill at 
 ease and does not know what to 
 do with the bread and wine.] 
 
 Cavalier. You are ill at ease. Don't 
 you want to sit down. 
 
 Mirandolina. I don't deserve so much, 
 sir. 
 
 Cavalier. Come, come, we are alone. 
 [To the Servant.] Get her a chair. 
 
 Servant [aside]. My master must be 
 goiag to die; he has never acted Uke that 
 before. [Goes to get the chair.] 
 
 Mirandolina. If the Count and the 
 Marquis should know, poor me! 
 
 Cavalier. Why? 
 
 Mirandolina. A hundred times they 
 have wanted me to oblige them by eating or 
 drinking, and I have never wanted to do it. 
 
 Cavalier. Come, now, sit down. 
 
 Mirandolina. To obey you. 
 
 [Sits down and dips her bread in 
 the wine.] 
 
 Cavalier [aside to Servant]. Listen! 
 Don't tell any one that the innkeeper is 
 sitting at my table. 
 
 Servant. Don't worry. [Aside.] This 
 new aspect of his surprises me. 
 
 Mirandolina. To the health of every- 
 thing which pleases the Cavalier. 
 
 Cavalier. Thank you, my polite hos- 
 tess . . . 
 
 Mirandolina. This toast does n't refer 
 to women. 
 
 Cavalier. No? Why? 
 
 Mirandolina. Because I know you 
 can't bear the sight of them. 
 
 Cavalier. It is true; I have never been 
 able to. 
 
 Mirandolina. May you always be of 
 that mind. 
 
 Cavalier. I would not wish. . . 
 
 [He looks at the Servant.] 
 
 Mirandolina. What, sir? 
 
 Cavalier. Listen. [He whispers in her 
 ear.] I wouldn't want you to make me 
 change my nature. 
 
520 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 MlBANDOLINA. I, Sir? HoW? 
 
 Cavaliek [to the Servant]. Go away. 
 
 Servant. Is something wanted? 
 
 Cavalibe. Have two eggs cooked for me 
 and when they are done, bring them in. 
 
 Servant. How do you want them? 
 
 Cavaube. As you please, but hurry up. 
 
 Servant. I understand. [Exit Servant.] 
 
 Cavalier. Mirandolina, you are a po- 
 lite yoimg woman. 
 
 Mirandolina. Ah, sir, you're making 
 fun of me. 
 
 Cavalier. Listen. I want to say some- 
 thing true, very true, which will redound 
 to your glory. 
 
 Mirandolina. I will listen gladly. 
 
 Cavalier. You are the first woman in 
 this world whose society I could endure 
 with pleasure for any length of time. 
 
 Mirandolina. I shall tell you. Sir Cav- 
 alier, my worth, indeed, is little, but at 
 times there exist these kindred natures 
 which meet. This sympathy, this affinity, 
 lives, too, between persons who don't 
 know each other. I, too, feel for you what 
 I have never felt for another. 
 
 Cavalier. I fear that you wish to [Ide- 
 stroy my peace of mind. 
 
 Mirandolina. Come, 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 I 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, 
 comes with a new style of talk to tempt me. 
 Sir, favor me with a little Burgundy. 
 
 Cavalier. Enough — 
 
 [Pours the vrine into a glass.] 
 
 Mirandolina. He is on the very point 
 of falling. 
 
 Cavalier. Here. 
 
 [Gives her this glass with the wine.] 
 
 Mirandolina. Much obliged. But are 
 n't you going to drink with me? 
 
 Cavalier. Yes, I shall. [Aside.] It 
 would be better if I should get drunk. One 
 devil would drive out the other. 
 
 [Turns the wine into his glass.] 
 
 Mirandolina [coyly]. Cavalier . . . 
 
 Cavalier. What is it? 
 
 MlBANDOLINA. Clink. [She makes her 
 glass dink against his.] Here's to good 
 friends. 
 
 Cavalier [a little tenderly]. Here's to 
 them. 
 
 Mirandolina. Here's to those — who 
 like each other — sincerely. Clink. 
 
 Cavalier. Here's to you. 
 
 [Enter the Marquis.] 
 
 Marquis. I'm here, too. Who's health 
 is it? 
 
 Cavalier [in a different tone]. What, 
 Marquis? 
 
 Marquis. Excuse me, friend. I called. 
 There is no one here? 
 
 Mirandolina [trying to leave]. With 
 your permission. 
 
 Cavalier [to Mirandolina]. Stay. 
 [To the Marquis.] I don't take so much 
 liberty with you. 
 
 Marquis. Begging your pardon. We 
 are friends. I thought you were alone. I 
 am glad to see you beside our adorable 
 mistress. Ah, what do you say. Is n't she 
 a masterpiece? 
 
 Mirandolina. Sir, I was here to serve 
 the Cavalier. I felt a little ill and he braced 
 me up with a glass of Burgundy. 
 
 Marquis [to the Cavalier]. Is that Bur- 
 gundy? 
 
 Cavalier. Yes, it is. 
 
 Marquis. But, the real thing? 
 
 Cavalier. At least, I paid for such. 
 
 Marquis. I understand wines. Let me 
 taste it, and I'U tell you whether it's gen- 
 uine or not. 
 
 Cavalier [calling]. Look here! 
 
 [Enter the Servant with the eggs.] 
 
 Cavalier [to Servant]. A little glass for 
 the Marquis. 
 
 Marquis. Not such a little glass either. 
 Burgundy is n't a cordial. To judge it one 
 has to drink enough of it. 
 
 Servant. Here are the eggs. 
 
 [About to place them on the table.] 
 
 Cavalier. I don't want anything more. 
 
 Marquis. What dish is that? 
 
 Cavalier. Eggs. I don't want them. 
 [The Servant takes them away.] 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 521 
 
 MiBANDOLiNA. Marquis, with the per- 
 mission of the Cavalier, taste this little 
 ragout I made with my own hands. 
 
 MARQtris. Oh, yes. Look here! A chair. 
 [The Servant brings him a chair and he puts 
 the glass in the saucer]. A fork. 
 
 Cavalier. Go, get him a cover. 
 
 [The Servant goes to get it.] 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Sir, I am better, I'm 
 going. 
 
 Marquis. Do me the pleasure of staying 
 a little while. 
 
 MiHANDOLiNA. But, Sir, I have to attend 
 to my business, and then the Cavalier . . . 
 
 Marquis [to the Cavalier]. You don't 
 mind if she stays a little while? 
 
 Cavalier. What do you want of her? 
 
 Marquis. I wish to have you drink a 
 little glass of Cyprian wine which — as 
 long as you are in the w6rld — you'll never 
 taste its like. I want Mirandolina to taste 
 it, too, and give her opinion. 
 
 Cavalier [to Mirandolina]. Come, to 
 please the Marquis, stay. 
 
 Mirandolina. The Marquis wiU ex- 
 cuse me. 
 
 Marquis. You don't want to taste it? 
 
 Mirandolina. Some other time, your 
 excellency. 
 
 Cavalier. Come, stay. 
 
 Mirandolina [to the Cavalier]. You 
 bid me? 
 
 Cavalier. I tell you to stay. 
 
 Mirandolina [sitting]. I obey. 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. She is always putting 
 me under more and more obligations. 
 
 Marquis [eating]. Oh, what a dish! Oh, 
 what a rojjoMi .' Oh, what savor! Oh, what 
 taste! 
 
 Cavalier [aside to Mirandolina]. The 
 Marquis will be jealous because you are 
 near me. 
 
 Mirandolina [aside to the Cavalier]. 
 It does n't make the slightest difference to 
 me. 
 
 Cavalier [aside to Mirandolina]. You 
 are a man-hater? 
 
 Mirandolina [aside to the Cavalier]. 
 As you are a woman-hater. 
 
 Cavalier [aside to Mirandolina]. These 
 enemies of mine are avenging themselves 
 on me. 
 
 Mirandolina [aside to the Cavalier]. 
 How, sir? 
 
 Cavalier [aside to Mirandolina]. Eh, 
 rogue! You will see very well. 
 
 Marquis. Friend, to your health. 
 
 [Drinks the Burgundy.] 
 
 Cavalier. Well, how is it? 
 
 Marquis. With your leave, it isn't 
 worth anything at all. You should taste 
 my Cyprian wine. 
 
 Cavalier. But where is your Cjrprian 
 wine? 
 
 Marquis. I have it here. I have brought 
 
 it with me. I want us all to enjoy it. See. 
 
 [Draws out a very small 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. 
 [Servant carries some glasses for the Cyp- 
 rian wine.] 
 
 Marquis [covering the bottle with his 
 hand]. They are altogether too large. 
 Have n't you any smaller? 
 
 Cavalier [to Servant]. Bring those used 
 for cordial. 
 
 Mirandolina. I think it would be 
 enough to smell it. 
 
 Marquis. Ah, fine! It has a comforting 
 odor. [He puts his nose to it.] 
 
 [Servant brings in three little glasses in the 
 saucer.] 
 
 Marquis [pours very slowly and does not 
 fill the glasses; he pours out for the Cavalier, 
 Mirandolina, and himself, corking the 
 bottle well]. What nectar! What ambrosia! 
 What distilled manna! [Drinks.] 
 
 Cavalier [aside to Mirandolina]. What 
 does this miserable stuff seem like to you? 
 
 Mirandolina [aside to the Cavalier]. 
 Rinsings of the Qask. 
 
 Marquis [to the Cavalier]. Ah. What 
 are you saying? 
 
 Cavalier. Good! Splendid! 
 
 Marquis. Are you pleased with it, 
 Mirandolina? 
 
 Mirandolina. For my part, sir, I can- 
 not dissimulate. I don't like it; I find it 
 bad and I can't say it's good. I compU- 
 ment the man who knows how to pretend. 
 
522 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 But he who can pretend in one thing will 
 know how to pretend in another also. 
 
 Cavalier [cmde]. She rebukes me; I 
 don't see why. 
 
 Marqtjis. Mirandolina, you don't un- 
 derstand this kind of wine. I pity you. In- 
 deed, you appreciated the handkerchief I 
 gave you and you were pleased with it, 
 but you don't appreciate my Cyprian wine. 
 [Finishes drinking.] 
 
 Mirandolina [aside to the Cavalier]. 
 You see how he boasts. 
 
 Cavalier [aside to MmANDOLiNA]. I 
 would n't do that. 
 
 MiRAKDOLiNA [aside to the Cavalier]. 
 Your boast is in despising women. 
 
 Cavalier [aside to Mirandolina]. 
 And yours in conquering all men. 
 
 Mirandolina [coyly aside to the Cava- 
 lier]. All, no. 
 
 Cavalier [with some passion aside to 
 Mirandolina]. All, yes! 
 
 Marquis [to the Servant, who brings them 
 to him on a saucer]. Look here. Three clean 
 glasses. 
 
 Mirandolina. I don't care for any more. 
 
 Marquis. No, no. Don't be afraid. I'm 
 not doing this for you. [Pours the Cyp- 
 rian wine into the three little glasses.] My 
 good man, with the permission of your 
 master, go to the Count d'Albafiorita and 
 tell him from me in a loud tone of voice, 
 so that every one can hear, that I ask him 
 to taste a little of my Cyprian wine. 
 
 Servant. At your service. [Aside.] He 
 certainly won't get drunk on it. 
 
 [Exit Servant.] 
 
 Cavalier. Marquis, you are eixeeed- 
 ingly generous. 
 
 Marquis. I? Ask Mirandolina. 
 
 Mirandolina. Oh, certainly. 
 
 Marquis [to Mirandolina]. Has the 
 Cavalier seen the handkerchief? 
 
 Mirandolina. No, he has n't. 
 
 Marquis [to the Cavalier]. You should 
 see it. [Putting back the bottle with a little 
 wine left.] This little bit of balm I'll keep 
 for this evening. 
 
 Mirandolina. Take care that it does 
 n't make you ill. Marquis. 
 
 Marquis [to Mirandolina], Ah, that 
 does n't, but do you know what does? 
 
 Mirandolina. What? 
 
 Mabquis. Your beautiful eyes. 
 
 Mirandolina. Really? 
 
 Marquis. 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. 
 
 Cavalier. Yes, 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 pounds. 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. This fellow begins to 
 bore me. 
 
 [Enter the Servant with a bottle in a 
 saucer.] 
 
 Servant [to //le 'Marquis]. Tbe Count 
 thanks your excellency and sends you a 
 bottle of Canary. 
 
 Marquis. Oh, oh. He would like to 
 compare his Canary with my Cyprus. Let 'a 
 see. Poor fool! It is miserable stuff; I 
 know it by the smell. 
 
 [He gets up and takes the bottle in 
 his hand.] 
 
 Cavalier [to the Marquis]. You taste 
 it first. 
 
 Marquis. I don't want to taste 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, taking away 
 the bottle.] 
 
 Cavalier. The poor Marquis is a mad- 
 man. 
 
 Mirandolina. Fearing lest his anger 
 should ever make him ill, he's carried away 
 the bottle to return it. I 
 
 Cavalier. He is a madman, I tell you. 
 And you have made him such. 
 
 Mirandolina. I am one of those who 
 makes men mad? 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 523 
 
 Cavalier [tro%ibled]. Yes, indeed, you 
 are. . . . 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Sir, with your permis- 
 sion, [fiises.] 
 
 Cavalier. Stay. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [going]. Pardon me, I 
 don't make any one mad. 
 
 Cavalier. Listen. 
 
 [Gets up, but remains at the table.] 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Pardon me. 
 
 Cavalier [in a commanding tone]^ Stay, 
 I tell you. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [kaughtHy turning around]. 
 What do you want of me? 
 
 Cavalier [perplexed]. Nothing. Drink 
 another glass of Burgundy. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Come, now, sir, quick, 
 quick, for I must be going. 
 
 Cavalier. Sit down. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Standing up, standing 
 up. 
 
 Cavalier [giving her the glass tenderly]. 
 Here. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. I '11 give a toast and then 
 I must go immediately. A toast my grand- 
 mother taught me — 
 
 Live, thou Bacchus, live, thou love; 
 Ye do both us cheer, console, 
 One doth pass through throat to goal, 
 Other runs from eye to soul. 
 Drink I wine; those eyes of mine — ' 
 Them I use as thou dost thine. 
 
 [Exit MiRANDOLiNA.] 
 
 Cavalier. Bravo! Come here! Ah, 
 rogue! She has fled. She has escaped 
 and left me a hundred devils to torture 
 me. 
 
 Servant [to the Ca-Yalieb.]. Do you wish 
 the fruit to be served? 
 
 Cavalier. Go to the devil. 
 
 [Exit the Servant.] 
 [Alone.] 
 
 " Drink I wine, those eyes of mine — 
 Them I use as thou dost — " 
 
 What mysterious sort of a toast is that? 
 Ah, wretch, I know you. You want to 
 strike me down, to assassinate me. But 
 she does it with such grace! She knows 
 well how to ingratiate herself. Devil, devil, 
 you would make me endure the sight of 
 her? No, I will go to Leghorn. I would n't 
 
 want ever to meet her again. She'll never 
 cross my path again. Cursed women! 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 I find myself almost 
 obliged 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 to-morrow? If I come and sleep 
 in the house this evening, who can assure 
 me Mirandolina won't finish ruining me? 
 [Thinks.] Yes, I must act resolutely like 
 a man. 
 
 [Reenter the Servant] 
 
 Servant. Sir. 
 
 Cavalier. What do you want? 
 
 Servant. The Marquis is in the public 
 room and awaits you, because he desires 
 to speak to you. 
 
 Cavalier. 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. Go to the waiter of the 
 inn and tell him to bring my biU at 
 once. 
 
 Servant [on the point of departure]. Yes, 
 sir. 
 
 Cavalier. 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 
 see. 
 
 Servant. But if he sees me pack the 
 trimks? 
 
 Cavalier. Tell him what you will. 
 Understand? 
 
 Servant [aside]. Oh, how much it pains 
 me to leave Mirandolina. 
 
 [Exit Servant.] 
 
 Cavalier [alone]. And yet it is true. I 
 feel in leaving here a new uneasiness which 
 I have never experienced before. It is so 
 much worse for me to remain here. I must 
 go away aU the sooner. Yes, women, I 
 shall always speak ill of you; yes, you have 
 always done evil to us, even when you 
 wished to do good. 
 
524 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 [Enter Fabeicius.] 
 
 Fabricius. Is it true, sir, that you wish 
 your bill? 
 
 Cavaliek. Yes; have you made it out 
 yet? 
 
 Fabeicius. The mistress is doing it now. 
 
 Cavalier. She makes out the bills? 
 
 Fabricius. Ah, always. Even when her 
 father was living. She writes and knows 
 how to keep accounts better than any clerk. 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. What a singular 
 woman she is! 
 
 Fabricius. But you wish to go away at 
 once? 
 
 Cavalier. Yes, my affairs are pressing. 
 
 Fabeicius. I beg you remember the 
 waiter. 
 
 Cavalier. Bring me the bill, and I know 
 what I ought to do. 
 
 Fabricius. Do you wish your account 
 to be brought here? 
 
 Cavalier. I want it here; I shan't go 
 to the public room for the present. 
 
 Fabeicius. You do well; that bore of a 
 Marquis is in the public room. Good soul. 
 He is in love with the innkeeper, but that's 
 all the satisfaction he'll get. Mirandolina 
 is to be my wife. 
 
 Cavalier [changing his tone]. The bill. 
 
 Fabeicius. Yes, sir, at once. 
 
 [Exit Fabeicius.] 
 
 Cavalier [alone]. Every one is smitten 
 with Mirandolina. It is no wonder that I 
 have begun to feel myself affected. But I 
 will go away. I will overcome this strange 
 power. Whom do I see? Mirandolina? 
 What does she want of me? She has a sheet 
 of paper in her hand. She 's bringing me 
 my bill. What shall I do? I must endure 
 this last attack. I'll be gone from here in 
 two hours. 
 
 [Enter Mirandolina with a sheet of 
 paper in her hand.] 
 
 Mirandolina [sadly]. Sir! 
 
 Cavalier. What is it, Mirandolina? 
 
 Mirandolina [standing in the back- 
 ground]. Pardon me. 
 
 Cavalier. Come here. 
 
 Mirandolina. You asked for your bill; 
 I have brought it. 
 
 Cavalier. Give it here. 
 
 Mirandolina. Here it is. 
 
 [She wipes her eyes with her apron 
 in giving the bill.] 
 
 Cavalier. What is the matter? Are 
 you crying? 
 
 Mirandolina. No, sir, the smoke got 
 into my eyes. 
 
 Cavalier. Smoke in your eyes? Oh, 
 well. — How much does my bill come to? 
 [Reads.] Ten shillings. For such generous 
 hospitality for four days only ten shillings? 
 
 MiEANDOLiNA. That is the bill. 
 
 Cavaliee. And the two special dishes 
 you gave me this morning; they are not in 
 the bill? 
 
 Mieandolina. Pardon me. Whatever 
 I give, I don't put in the bill. 
 
 Cavaliee. You make me a present of 
 them? 
 
 Mieandolina. Pardon the liberty. Ac- 
 cept them as an act of . . . 
 
 [She covers her face making a pre- 
 tense of crying.] 
 
 Cavaliee. What is the matter? 
 
 Mieandolina. I don't know whether 
 it is the smoke or some sort of running of 
 the eyes. 
 
 Cavaliee. I would not have had you 
 suffer, cooking those two delicious dishes 
 for me. 
 
 Mieandolina. If it were that, I would 
 suffer — gladly . . . 
 
 [Pretending to be trying to keep 
 from crying]. 
 
 Cavaliee [aside]. 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 becomes con- 
 fused.] i 
 
 [Mieandolina vrithovt speaking 
 falls as though she has fainted on 
 a chair.] 
 
 Cavalier. Mirandolina. Alas! Miran- 
 dolina! She's fainted. Can it be that she 
 is in love with me? But so soon? And why 
 not? Am I not in love with her? Dear 
 Mirandolina. . . . "Dear"? I say dear to a 
 woman. But she fainted on my account. 
 Oh, how bea,utiful you are! If I only had 
 something to make her come to. I am not 
 much in the society of women; I have n't 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 525 
 
 got smelling-salts or vials. Who's there? 
 There's no one? Quick — I'll go. Poor 
 little girl. Blessings on you. [Goes out.] 
 
 MiKANDOLiNA. Now, then, he has given 
 in at last. The weapons we use to conquer 
 men are many. But when they are obsti- 
 nate, the final blow, that's sure to win 
 them, is fainting. He's coming back. He's 
 coming back. [She lies as before.] 
 
 Cavalier [returning with aju^ of water]. 
 Look. Look. She has n't come to yet. Oh, 
 certainly she loves me. Sprinkling water 
 in her face ought to revive her. [He sprin- 
 kles the water and she moves.] Courage, 
 courage. I am here, dear. I'll never leave 
 you now. 
 
 [Enter the Servant with the sword and hat.] 
 
 Servant [to the Cavalier]. Here are 
 your sword and your hat. 
 
 CAVALrsR [to Servant]. Go away. 
 
 Servant. The trunks . . . 
 
 Cavalier. Go away; curse you. 
 
 Servant. Mirandolina. 
 
 Cavalier. Go before I split your head. 
 [He threatens with the jug; the Servant goes.] 
 She has n't come to yet? Her forehead per- 
 spires. Come, dear Mirandolina, take 
 courage, open your eyes. Speak to me 
 freely. 
 
 [Enter the Marquis and the Count.] 
 
 Makquis. Cavalier? 
 
 Count. Friend? 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. Curses! 
 
 Marquis [becoming aTigry]. Mirandolina? 
 
 Mirandolina [getting up]. Alas! 
 
 Marquis. I have made her recover. 
 
 Count. I rejoice. Sir Cavalier. 
 
 Marquis. Fine for the gentleman who 
 can't bear the sight of women. 
 
 Cavalier. What impertinence! 
 
 Count. Have you given in? 
 
 Cavalier. Go to the devil, all of you. 
 [He throws the jug down in the 
 direction of the Count and the 
 Marquis and breaks it. Exit 
 the Cavalier in a rage.] 
 
 Count. The Cavalier has become a 
 madman. [Exit the Count.] 
 
 Marquis. I want satisfaction for this 
 insult. [Exit the Marquis.] 
 
 Mirandolina. My task is done. His 
 heart is on fire, in flames, in ashes. All I 
 have to do is to complete my victory, to 
 make my triumph public to the discom- 
 forture of presumptuous men, and to the 
 honor of my sex. [Exit Mirandolina.] 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene I. Mikandolina's room with a 
 little table and linen ready to iron. 
 
 [Enter Mirandolina.] 
 
 Mirandolina. Now the time's past for 
 amusing myself. I want to look after my 
 business now. First I want to iron this 
 linen, if it is dry. Oh, Fabricius. 
 
 Fabricius. Madam. 
 
 Mirandolina. Do me a favor. Get me 
 the hot flat-iron. 
 
 Fabricius. Yes, ma'am. 
 
 \With serious mien on the point of 
 leaving.] 
 
 Mirandolina. Excuse me, if I bother you. 
 
 Fabricius [offering to go]. Not at all, 
 madam. While I eat your bread I am under 
 obligations to serve you. 
 
 Mirandolina. Wait. Listen; 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. 
 
 Mirandolina. Why thrown away? 
 Perhaps I am ungrateful? 
 
 Fabricius. You don't pay any atten- 
 tion to poor men. The nobility pleases you 
 overly much. 
 
 Mirandolina. Ah, poor fool! If I could 
 tell you everything ! Go, go ; get me the iron . 
 
 Fabricius. But I have seen it with these 
 eyes of mine. 
 
 Mirandolina. Go, go; less idle talk. 
 Get me the iron. 
 
 Fabricius [going]. I'm going, I'm go- 
 ing, I will serve you for but little reward. 
 
 Mirandolina [pretending to speak to 
 herself, but really so that she may be heard]. 
 With these men the better one likes them 
 the worse one treats them. 
 
S26 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Fabricitjs [tenderly, turning around]. 
 What did you say? 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Come, are you going to 
 get me that iron? 
 
 Fabbicius. Yes, I'll get it. [Aside.] I 
 don't understand it at all. Now she lifts 
 me up, now she throws me down. I don't 
 understand it at all. [Exit FABRicros.] 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [alone]. Poor fool! He 
 can't help serving me in spite of himself. 
 I almost burst out laughing 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 to. 
 
 Servant [entering]. Mirandolina. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. What is it, friend? 
 
 Servant. My master sends you his 
 greetings. He told me to ask you how you 
 are. 
 
 Mirandolina. .Tell him I am very well. 
 
 Servant. He says you should drink a 
 little of this cordial which wiU make you 
 feel ever so much better. 
 
 [He gives her a Utile gold flask]. 
 
 MiBAJTOOLiNA. This flask is gold? 
 
 Servant. Yes, madam, gold; I know it 
 positively. 
 
 Mirandolina. Why did n't he give me 
 the cordial when that terrible faint came 
 on? 
 
 Servant. He did n't have this flask then. 
 
 Mirandolina. And how did he get it 
 now? 
 
 Servant. Listen! In confidence! He 
 sent 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 spirits. 
 
 Mirandolina. Ha! Ha! Ha! 
 
 Servant. You're laughing. 
 
 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 
 time. 
 
 Mirandolina. Come, I'll drink a little 
 now for a preventive. [Drinks.] Here. 
 [She offers to give him the flask.] Thank him. 
 
 Servant. Oh! The flask is yours. 
 
 Mirandolina. How mine? 
 
 Servant, It's this way. My master 
 bought it purposely for you. 
 
 Mirandolina. Purposely for me? 
 
 Servant. For you; but hush. 
 
 Mirandolina. Take him his flask and 
 tell him that I thank him. 
 
 Servant. Ah, come. 
 
 Mirandolina. I tell you to take it to 
 him, that I don't want it. 
 
 Servant. You want to give him this 
 insult? 
 
 Mirandolina. Less idle talk. Do your 
 duty. Take it. 
 
 Servant. I don't need anything more 
 said to me. I'U carry it to him. [Aside.] 
 ^^Tiat a woman. Refuses six pounds. I 
 have never foimd one like her and it would 
 be some trouble to do so. [Exit Servant.] 
 
 Mirandolina [alone]. 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 hirn to confess the 
 power of women without being able to say 
 that they are seK-seeking and venial. 
 
 Fabricius [entering; self-contained, with 
 iron in his hand]. Here 's your iron. 
 
 Mirandolina. Is it good and hot? 
 
 Fabricius. Yes, madam, it is. 
 
 Mirandolina. What news is there? 
 
 Fabricius. This Cavalier sends embas- 
 sies; he sends gifts. His servant told me so. 
 
 Mirandolina. Yes, sir, he sent me a 
 little gold flask and I sent it back to him. 
 
 Fabricius. You've sent it back? 
 
 Mirandolina. that — Fabricius — 
 that he may not say — Now, don't let us 
 talk any more about it. 
 
 Fabricius. Dear Mirandolina, pardon 
 me. 
 
 Mirandolina. Go away, let me iron. 
 
 Fabricius. I'm not hindering you. 
 
 Mirandolina. Go, get another iron 
 ready and when it's hot bring it to me. 
 
 Fabricius. Yes, I'll go. Believe me, 
 when I say . . . 
 
 Mirandolina. Don't talk any more. 
 You make me angry. 
 
 Fabricius. I'll keep still. [Aside.] She 
 
 is a queer little body, but I am fond of her. 
 
 [Exit Fabricius.] 
 
 Mirandolina [alone]. This too is fine. 
 I'm acquiring merit in the eyes of Fabri- 
 cius by having refused the Cavalier's gold 
 flask. That is to say — I know how to live, 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 527 
 
 to act, to profit by everything, with good 
 grace, nicely, and freely. As regards tact 
 I don't need to say I wrong my sex. 
 
 [Goes on ironing.] 
 
 [Enter the Cavalier.] 
 
 Cavaliek [to himself in the background]. 
 See here. I did n't want to come here, but 
 the devil dragged me. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [aside]. See him. See him. 
 [She looks out of the corner of her 
 eyes and irons.] 
 
 Cavalier. Mirandolina? 
 
 MraANDOLiNA. Oh, Sir Cavalier! Your 
 most humble servant. [Ironing.] 
 
 Cavalier. How are you? 
 
 Mirandolina. Very well, thank you. 
 
 [Ironing vnthout looking at him.] 
 
 Cavalier. I have reason to complain 
 of you. 
 
 Mirandolina. Why, sir? 
 
 [Looking at him a little.] 
 
 Cavalier. Because you refused a Uttle 
 flask I sent you. 
 
 Mirandolina. What did you want me 
 to do with it? [Ironing.] 
 
 Cavalier. Make use of it at need. 
 
 Mirandolina. Thank Heaven, I'm not 
 subject to fainting spells. What happened 
 to-day never happened to me before. 
 
 [Ironing.] 
 
 Cavalier. Dear Mirandolina, I hope 
 I was n't the occasion of that disastrous 
 accident. 
 
 Mirandolina. Yes, I'm afraid you were 
 precisely the cause of it. 
 
 Cavalier [passionately]. I! Why? 
 
 Mirandolina. You made me drink that 
 cursed Burgundy and it made me ill. 
 
 [Ironing angrily.] 
 
 Cavalier [mortified]. What? Is it pos- 
 sible? 
 
 Mirandolina. It is certainly true. I'll 
 never go into your room again. [Ironing.]. 
 
 Cavalier. I understand. You will 
 never come into my room again. I under- 
 stand the mystery. Yes, I understand it. 
 But come there, and you will consider 
 yourself happy. 
 
 Mirandolina. This iron is n't very hot. 
 [In a loud tone of voice.] Oh, Fabricius. If 
 the other irotf is hot, bring it in. 
 
 Cavalier. Do me this favor, take this 
 flask. 
 
 Mirandolina. Indeed, sir, I'm not in 
 the habit of taking gifts. 
 
 [Ironing with displeasure.] 
 
 Cavalier. Yet you have taken them 
 from the Count d'Albafiorita. 
 
 Mirandolina. I had to in order not to 
 displease him. [Ironing.] 
 
 Cavalier. And yet you would wrong 
 me and displease me? 
 
 Mirandolina. What does it matter to 
 one whom all womankind displeases? In- 
 deed, he can't bear the sight of women. 
 
 Cavalier. Oh, Mirandolina, I can't 
 say that now. 
 
 Mirandolina. Cavalier, has the moon 
 affected your senses? 
 
 Cavalier. My change is not dependent 
 on the moon, I'm not a lunatic. That is a 
 miracle caused by your beauty and your 
 grace. 
 
 Mirandolina Ha! Ha! Ha! 
 
 [Laughs loudly and irons.] 
 
 Cavalier. You are laughing? 
 
 Mirandolina. Don't you want me to 
 laugh? You make fun of me and you don't 
 want me to laugh? 
 
 Cavalier. Ah, you little rogue! I make 
 fun of you, eh? Come, take this bottle. 
 
 Mirandolina. Thanks, thanks. 
 
 [Ironing!] 
 
 Cavalier. Take it or you'U make me 
 angry. 
 
 Mirandolina [calling loudly in an exag- 
 gerated way]. Fabricius, the iron. 
 
 Cavalier [changing his voice]. Will you 
 take it, or won't you take it? 
 
 Mirandolina. Fury, fury. 
 
 [Takes the flask and with displeas- 
 ure throws it into the clothes- 
 basket.] 
 
 Cavalier. You throw it away in that 
 fashion. 
 
 Mirandolina [calling loudly]. Fabri- 
 cius. 
 
 [Enter Fabricius mth iron.] 
 
 Fabricius [seeing the Cavalier, he be- 
 comes jealous]. I am here. 
 
 Mirandolina [taking the iron]. Is the 
 iron good and hot? 
 
528 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 ! 
 
 Fabricius [self-contained]. Yes, madam. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [tenderly to Fabricius]. 
 What is the matter that you seem so dis- 
 turbed? 
 
 Fabricius. Nothing at all, mistress, 
 nothing at all. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [tenderly]. You are ill? 
 
 Fabricius. Give me the other iron if 
 you want me to put it on the fire. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [tenderly]. Indeed, I fear 
 you are iU. 
 
 Cavalier. Come, give him the iron and 
 let him go. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. I am fond of him, do you 
 know that? He is my trusty waiter. 
 
 Cavalier [angrily to himself]. I can 
 stand no more. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [giving the iron to Fabri- 
 cius]. Here, my dear, heat it. 
 
 Fabricius [tenderly]. Mistress. 
 
 MiRAHDOLiNA. Come, come, quick. 
 
 [She turns him out.] 
 
 Fabricius [aside]. What way of acting 
 is this? I feel I can't stand any more. 
 
 [Exit Fabricius.] 
 
 Cavalier. Fine manners, fine maimers, 
 madam, to your waiter. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. As for that, what would 
 you have me say? 
 
 Cavalier. It seems as if you were smit- 
 ten with him. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. I in love with a waiter? 
 You make fine compliments, sir; I am not 
 of such bad taste. When I wish to fall in 
 love, I won't throw away my time so un- 
 profitably. [Ironing.] 
 
 Cavalier. You deserve the love of a 
 king. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. The king of spades or 
 the king of diamonds. [Ironing.] 
 
 Cavalier. Let us talk seriously and lay 
 jesting aside. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. You talk and I'll listen. 
 
 [Ironing.] 
 
 Cavalier. Can't you stop ironing for a 
 while? 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Oh, pardon me. I must 
 get this linen carefully prepared for to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Cavalier. Then this linen concerns you 
 more than I do. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Surely. [Ironing.] 
 
 Cavalier. And you even repeat it? 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Of course, because I have 
 to use this linen, but I can't count on you in 
 any way. 
 
 Cavalier. On the contrary, you may 
 dispose of me freely. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Oh. You Cannot bear 
 the sight of women. 
 
 Cavalier. Don't torment me any more. 
 You have been avenged enough. 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. Yes, sir, we'U tell them 
 all about it. 
 
 [Ironing hastily, lets faU a cuff.] 
 
 Cavalier [picking up the cuff and giv- 
 ing it to her]. Believe me — 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Don't put yourself out. 
 
 Cavalier. You deserve to be served. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [laughing loudly]. Ha! 
 Ha! Ha! 
 
 Cavalier. Are you laughing? 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. I'm laughing because 
 you are making fun of me. 
 
 Cavalier. Mirandolina, I can stand no 
 more. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Do you feel ill? 
 
 Cavalier. Yes, I feel faint. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [gimng his flask to him 
 with displeasure]. Take your cordial. 
 
 Cavalier. Don't treat me so harshly. 
 Believe me ; I love you, I swear it. [Tries 
 to take her hand and she bums him with the 
 iron]. Ouch! 
 
 Mirandolina. Excuse me, I did n't do 
 it purposely. 
 
 Cavalier. Patience! That is nothing. 
 You have given me a far worse burn. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Where, sir? 
 
 Cavalier. In my heart. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNO [calling laughingly]. Fa- 
 bricius? 
 
 Cavalier. For mercy sakes, don't call 
 that fellow. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. But I need another 
 iron. 
 
 Cavalier. Wait — but no — I shall call 
 my servant. 
 
 Mirandolina. Oh! Fabricius — 
 
 Cavalier. I swear by Heaven that if 
 that fellow comes I'll split His head. 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 529 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Oh, this is a fine state of 
 afFairs. I can't make use of my own serv- 
 ants? 
 
 Cavalibk. Call some one else; I can't 
 stand him. 
 
 MiBANDOLiNA. It secms to me you go a 
 little too far, Cavalier. 
 
 [jS^ goes away from the table with 
 the iron in her hand.] 
 
 Cavalier. Excuse me. — I am beside 
 myself. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. I'll go into the kitchen 
 and you'll be satisfied then. 
 
 Cavalier. No, dear, stay. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [walking dovt]. This is a 
 queer thing. 
 
 Cavalier [walking after her]. Excuse 
 me. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [she wolks about]. I can't 
 call whom I wish? 
 
 Cavalier. I confess. I am jealous of 
 him. [He goes after her.] 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [oside]. He comes after 
 me just like a little dog. 
 
 Cavalieb. This is the first time that I 
 have experienced what love is. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [walking to and fro]. No 
 one ever ordered me about so. 
 
 Cavalier. I had no intent of command- 
 ing you; I beg you. [He follows her.] 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [tumtng haughtily]. What 
 do you want of me? 
 
 Cavalier. Love, compassion, pity. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. A man, who this morn- 
 ing could n't bear the sight of women, now 
 asks for love and pity. [Aside.] 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 MiRANDOLiNA.] 
 
 Cavalier [alone]. Oh, cursed be the mo- 
 ment I first saw her. I have fallen into 
 the snare and there is n't any help now. 
 
 [Enter the Marquis.] 
 
 Marquis. Sir Cavalier, you have in- 
 sulted me. 
 
 Cavalier. Excuse me, it was an acci- 
 dent. 
 
 Marquis. I'm astonished at you. 
 
 Cavalier. After all the jug did n't hit 
 you. 
 
 Marquis. A little drop of water stained 
 my clothing. 
 
 Cavalier. I repeat, excuse me. 
 
 Marquis. That is an impertinence. 
 
 Cavalier. I did nothing purposely. For 
 the third time, I say excuse me. 
 
 Marquis. I wish satisfaction. 
 
 Cavalier. If you don't want to excuse 
 me, if you want satisfaction, I am here. 
 I'm not afraid of you. 
 
 Marquis [changing his tone]. I fear this 
 stain won't go away. That is what makes 
 me furious. 
 
 Cavalier [disdainfully]. When a gen- 
 tleman asks to be excused, what more do 
 you want? 
 
 Marquis. If you didn't do it out of 
 malice, I will let you off. 
 
 Cavalier. I teU 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. My anger is 
 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. 
 
 Cavalier. I don't meddle with your 
 affairs. 
 
 Marquis. How you have fallen, sir 
 enemy of women! | 
 
 Cavalier. I? How? 
 
 Marquis. Yes, you are in love . . . 
 
 Cavalier. I am, am I? Go to the devil. 
 
 Marquis. What's the use trying to hide 
 it? 
 
 Cavalier. Let me alone, or I swear to 
 Heaven I'll make you sorry for this. 
 
 [Exit the Cavalier.] 
 
 Marquis [alone]. 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 I only knew how to take it 
 away. These women usually have some 
 sort of powder to take away stains. [Looks 
 on the table and in the basket] This beauti- 
 
53° 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 ful flask. Is it gold or brass? It must be 
 brass; 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 
 stain. [Opens it, smells it, and tastes it.] It 
 is cordial. At any rate, it will do that much 
 good. I want to try it. 
 
 [Puts it in his pocket.] 
 
 [Enter the Cavaueb's Servant] 
 
 Servant [looking on the table]. Where 
 the deuce is that flask? 
 
 Marquis. "What are you looking for, 
 my good man. 
 
 Servant. I 'm looking for a flask of cor- 
 dial. Mirandolina wants it. She says she 
 left it here, but can't find it. 
 
 Maeqtjis. Was it a little brass flask? 
 
 Servant. No, sir, it was gold. 
 
 Marquis. Gold? 
 
 Servant. Yes, it was gold. I saw it 
 bought for six pounds. 
 
 Marquis [aside]. Oh poor me! But 
 how did she come to leave a gold flask 
 around? 
 
 Servant. She left it here, but I can't 
 find it. 
 
 Marquis. And yet it seems impossible 
 that it should be gold. 
 
 Servant. It was gold, I tell you. Per- 
 haps you have seen it, your excellency? 
 
 Marquis. I haven't seen anything. 
 
 Servant. That's enough. I'll tell her 
 I can't find it. It 's her loss. She ought to 
 have put it in her pocket. 
 
 [Exit Servant.] 
 
 Marquis [alone]. Oh, the poor Marquis 
 di Forlipopoli! 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 the Count.] 
 
 Count. What do you say. Marquis, of 
 this fine bit of news? 
 
 Marquis. What 's happened? 
 
 Count. The savage Cavalier, the scorner 
 of women, is in love with Mirandolina. 
 
 Marquis. I'm glad of it, I want him 
 to recognize in spite of himself the merit of 
 this woman, and to see that I^m not smit- 
 
 ten with one who does not deserve my love; 
 and may he suffer and burst for his imper- 
 tinence. 
 
 Count. But suppose Mirandolina recip- 
 rocates his affections? 
 
 Marquis. That can't be. She would n't 
 torture me so. I am who I 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 evident 
 that with women the more you do for them, 
 the less you merit; they adore him who 
 makes fun of them, they run after him 
 who disdains them. 
 
 Marquis. If that were true — but it 
 can't be. 
 
 Count. Why can't it? 
 
 Marquis. Would you want to compare 
 the Cavalier with me? 
 
 Count. Have n't you seen her yourself 
 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. Fabricius groans with 
 jealousy. And then that swooning, real or 
 feigned, is n't it a manifest sign of love? 
 
 Marquis. How? She made him savory 
 ragouts, but for me tough beef and thin 
 rice broth. Yes, it is true; this is an insult 
 to my rank, and to my station in life. 
 
 Count. And I who have spent so much 
 on her? 
 
 Marquis. And I who gave her gifts con- 
 tinually. I even gave her a drink of that 
 delicious Cyprian wine of mine. The 
 Cavalier couldn't have done for her the 
 smallest part of what we have done. 
 
 Count. Be sure that he, too, has lav- 
 ished gifts upon her. 
 
 Marquis. So? What did he give her? 
 
 Count. A gold bottle with cordial. 
 
 Marquis [aside], Alas! — How do you 
 know? 
 
 Count. His servant told mine. 
 
 Marquis [aside]. Worse and worse. 
 I'm getting into trouble with the Cavalier. 
 
 Count. I see that she is ungrateful. I 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 S3I 
 
 wish to leave her absolutely; I wish to leave 
 this unworthy irm before an hour is up. 
 
 Mabqtjis. Yes, yes; you do well; go. 
 
 Count. And you, who are a gentleman 
 of such honor ought to go with me. 
 
 Maequis. But — where ought we to go? 
 
 Count. I shall find you a stopping- 
 place. Leave that to me. 
 
 Marquis. This inn — it will be, for in- 
 stance . . . 
 
 Count. We will go into a house of one 
 of my feUow townsmen. We won't spend 
 anything. 
 
 Marquis. Enough; you are such a good 
 friend of mine, that I can't say no. 
 
 Count. Letjus go and take vengeance 
 on this ungrateful woman. 
 
 Marquis. Yes, let us go. [Aside.] How 
 about the flask, then? I am a gentleman. 
 I can't do a base action. 
 
 Count. Don't hesitate. Marquis. Let's 
 get away from here. Do me this favor and 
 then I'm your humble servant wherever I 
 can serve you. 
 
 Marquis. I shall tell you in confidence 
 — don't teU any one — my steward has 
 delayed my remittance for some time — 
 
 Count. You perhaps have a bill to set- 
 tle? 
 
 Marquis. Yes, six pounds. 
 
 Count. Six pounds? It must be two 
 months that you have not paid. 
 
 Marquis. It is true. I owe her six 
 pounds. I can't go without paying her. If 
 you would do me the favor — 
 
 Count [drawing out his purse]. Gladly. 
 Here are six poimds. 
 
 Marquis. Wait. Now that I remember 
 it is six pounds, ten. [Aside.] 1 want to 
 return the Cavalier his ten shillings. 
 
 Count. Six pounds, or more, it is the 
 same to me. Here. 
 
 Marquis. I shall return it as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 Count. Help yourself as far as you 
 please. I don't lack for money, and to get 
 even with her, I would spend two thou- 
 sand pounds. 
 
 Marquis. Indeed, she is ungrateful. I 
 spent money on her and she treats me so. 
 
 Count. I want to ruin her inn; it's thus 
 I '11 get even with her. After that, the Cava- 
 
 lier, who has Concealed his true motives in 
 order to betray me, will have to give me 
 satisfaction of a different sort. 
 
 [Exit the Count.] 
 
 Scene II. Boom with three doors. 
 [Enter Mirandolina.] 
 
 Mirandolina [alone]. Ah, poor me! I 
 am in a horrid fix. If the Cavalier comes 
 to me, a pretty mess. He is confoundedly 
 furious. I hope the devil doesn't tempt 
 him to come here. I must close this door. 
 [She locks the door throiigh which she came.] 
 Now I ahnost 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 despiser 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'6tat. 
 I am alone. I need some one to look out 
 for my interests. It cannot be any other 
 than that good man Fabricius who in case 
 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 Cavalier knocks at the door 
 from within.] 
 
 Mirandolina. Some one is knocking 
 at the door; who ever can it be? 
 
 [She approaches it.] 
 
 Cavalier [from within]. Mirandolina? 
 
 Mirandolina. Here he is again. 
 
 Cavalier [from within]. MirandoUna, 
 open for me. 
 
 Mirandolina [aside]. Open. I am not 
 such a simpleton. — What do you wish, 
 sir? 
 
 Cavalier [/toot within]. Open the door. 
 
 Mirandolina. Do me the favor of go- 
 ing to your room and waiting for me until 
 I am disengaged. 
 
 Cavalier [from vMhin]. Why don't you 
 want to open it? 
 
 Mirandolina. Some guests have come. 
 Do me this favor, and wait for me. I'll 
 be with you presently. 
 
532 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Cavalier [leaving the door]. I'll go; but 
 if you don't come, I pity you. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA [aside]. "If you don't 
 come, I pity you." I pity myself, if I 
 should go. The matter is becoming worse. 
 I would remedy matters, if I could. Has 
 he gone? [Looks ihroitgh the keyhole.] Yes, 
 yes, he's gone; but I'm not going to him. 
 [At another door.] 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 they are of stone. 
 [Calls at the other door.] Fabricius? 
 
 Fabkicius. You called? 
 ' Mirandolina. Come here; I have 
 something confidential to tell you. 
 
 Fabricius. I am here. 
 
 Mirandolina. You know that the Cava- 
 lier Ripafratta has shown that he is in love 
 with me. 
 
 Fabricius. Hum, I noticed it. 
 
 Mirandolina. Y'es? You noticed it! 
 I in truth was never aware of it. 
 
 Fabricius. Poor simpleton! You never 
 knew it? You did n't see the grimaces he 
 made when you were ironing — that he 
 was jealous of me? 
 
 h Mirandolina. I take things indiffer- 
 ently, when I act without malice. It is 
 enough. Just now he said certain words 
 which, indeed, made me blush. 
 
 Fabricius. You see. He dares 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. 
 
 Mirandolina. Come, now; I under- 
 stand perfectly what you say; I have 
 thought of marrying. 
 
 Fabricius. Remember your father. 
 
 Mirandolina. Yes, I shall remember 
 him. 
 
 [The Cavalier knocks at the door 
 as before.] 
 
 Mirandolina [to ITabricius]. Some one 
 is knocking. 
 
 Fabricius [in a loud voice toward the 
 door]. Who is that knocking? 
 
 Cavalier [from within]. Open it. 
 
 Mirandolina [to Fabricius]. The 
 Cavalier! 
 
 Fabricius. What do you want? 
 
 [Goes to open it.\ 
 
 Mirandolina. Wait until I go. 
 
 Fabricius. Of what are you afraid? 
 
 Mirandolina. Dear Fabricius, I don't 
 know, I'm afraid for myself. 
 
 [Exit Mirandolina.] 
 
 Fabricius. Don't worry, I '11 defend you. 
 
 Cavalier [from within]. Open, I swear 
 by Heaven! 
 
 Fabricius. What do you want, sir? 
 What noise is this? People don't act so ia 
 a respectable inn. 
 
 Cavalier. Open that door. 
 
 [He tries to break open the door J 
 
 Fapricius. The deuce! I would not 
 want to go too far. Help! Who is there? 
 Is n't there any one? 
 
 [Enter the Marquis and the Count from 
 the center door.] 
 
 Count [at the door]. What is that? 
 
 Marquis [ai the door] . What noise is that? 
 
 Fabricius [aside so that the Cavalier 
 should n't hear him]. Sirs, I beg you; the 
 Cavalier di Ripafratta wants to smash this 
 door. 
 
 Cavalier [from within]. Open it, or I'll 
 throw it down. 
 
 Marquis [to the Count]. Has he gone 
 mad? Let us go. 
 
 Count [to Fabricius]. Open it. I want 
 to speak with him. 
 
 Fabricius. I shall open it, but I beg 
 you — 
 
 Count. Don't hesitate. We are here. 
 
 Marquis [aside]. If I see the least little 
 thing, I '11 beat a retreat. 
 
 [Fabricius opens the door and the 
 Cavalier enters.] 
 
 Cavalier. I swear to Heaven, where is 
 she? 
 
 Fabricius. For whom are you looking, 
 sir? 
 
 Cavalier. Where is Mirandolina? 
 
 Fabricius. I don't know. 
 
 Marquis [aside]. He is angry with 
 Mirandolina. It is nothing at all. 
 
 Cavalier. Base woman, I shall find her. 
 
 [He walks about and discovers the 
 
 Count and then the Marquis.] 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 533 
 
 Count [to the Cavalier]. With whom 
 are you angry? 
 
 MARQtris. Cavalier, we are friends. 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. Alas! I would n't 
 want this weakness of mine to be known 
 for all the gold in the world. 
 
 Fabricius. What do you want, sir, of 
 the mistress? 
 
 Cavalier. I am not responsible to you. 
 When I give orders, I want them obeyed. 
 I pay my money for this, and I swear to 
 Heaven that she will have to settle with me. 
 
 Fabricius. Your excellency pays his 
 money to be obeyed in legitimate and 
 honest things, but you can't pretend, par- 
 don me, that an honest woman — 
 
 Cavalier. What are you saying? Who 
 are you ? I know what I ordered from her. 
 
 Fabricius. You ordered her to come to 
 your room. 
 
 Cavalier. Come, come, knave, before I 
 break your skull. 
 
 Fabricius. I am astonished at you. 
 
 Marquis [to Fabricius]. Hush. 
 
 Count [to Fabricius]. Go away from 
 here. 
 
 Cavalier [to Fabricius]. Go away from 
 here. 
 
 Fabricius [becoming angry]. I tell you, 
 sirs, — 
 
 Mabquis. Away. 
 
 Count. Away. [They turn him out.] 
 
 Fabricius [aside]. By Jove! I want to 
 do something reckless! 
 
 [Exit Fabricius.] 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. Worthless woman. 
 To make me wait in my room! 
 
 Marquis [aside to the Count]. What the 
 deuce is the matter with him? 
 
 Count [aside to the Marquis]. Don't 
 you see? He is in love with Mirandolina. 
 
 Cavalier. And she is with Fabricius 
 and speaks with him about marriage? 
 
 Count [aside]. Now is the time to avenge 
 myself. — CavaUer, it is n't fitting for one 
 to laugh at the weaknesses of another, 
 when one has a heart as easily broken as 
 yours. 
 
 Cavalier [to the Marquis]. Do you 
 know what he is talking about? 
 
 Marquis. 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 conquest. 
 
 Cavalier [angrily to the Marquis]. I? 
 
 Marquis. I'm not talking. 
 
 Count. Turn to me, and answer me. 
 Are n't you ashamed of having acted so 
 basely? 
 
 Cavalier. I am ashamed to listen to 
 you, without telling you that you lie. 
 
 Count. You give me the lie? 
 
 Marquis [aside]. The matter is grow- 
 ing worse. 
 
 CAVALrEB [angrily to the Marquis]. On 
 what basis can you say — the Count does 
 n't know what he is saying. 
 
 Marquis. But I don't want to get 
 mixed up in it. 
 
 Count. You are a liar. 
 
 Marquis. I'm going away. 
 
 [Wants to go.] 
 
 Cavalier. Stay. [Holds him by force.] 
 
 Count. You'll pay me for this. 
 
 Cavalier [to the Marquis]. Yes, yes, 
 I'll pay you. — Give me your sword. 
 
 Marquis. Oh, come, calm yourselves 
 both of you. Dear Count, what difference 
 does it make to you if the Cavaher does 
 love Mirandolina? 
 
 Cavalier. I love her? It is not true; he 
 lies that says it. 
 
 Marquis. Lies? The lie is n't any of 
 mine. I am not the one that says it. 
 
 Cavalier. Who, then? 
 
 Count. I say it, and I maintain it, and 
 I'm not afraid of you. 
 
 Cavalier [to the Marquis]. Give me 
 that sword. 
 
 Marquis. No, I say. 
 
 Cavalier. You are my enemy, too? 
 
 Marquis. I am the friend of all. 
 
 Count. These actions are unworthy. 
 
 Cavalier. I swear to Heaven! 
 
 [He takes the sword from the Mar- 
 quis, but it remains fixed and he 
 pulls the scabbard out of the belt.] 
 
 Marquis. Don't be wanting in respect. 
 
 Cavalier [to the Marquis]. If you 
 consider yourself insulted, I'll give you 
 satisfaction too. 
 
534 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Marquis. Come, you are too excited. 
 [Grieving to himself.] I don't like this — 
 
 Count. I wish satisfaction. 
 
 Cavalier. I'll give it to you. 
 
 [He tries to draw away the scab- 
 bard, and cannot.] 
 
 Marquis. That sword does n't suit you. 
 
 Cavalier. Curses! 
 
 [He tries hard to draw it out.] 
 
 Marquis. Cavalier, you are n't accom- 
 plishing anything at all. 
 
 Count. I have n't any more patience. 
 
 Cavalier. See. [Draws out the sword and 
 sees that the blade is broken off.] What 's this? 
 
 Marquis. You have ruined my sword. 
 
 Cavalier. Where is the rest? There 
 is n't anything there in. the scabbard. 
 
 Marquis. Yes, that's so, I ruined it in 
 my last duel. I did n't remember it. 
 
 Cavalier [to the Count]. Let me get a 
 sword. 
 
 Count. I swear by Heaven, you shan't 
 escape from my clutches. 
 
 Cavalier. What, flee? I am not afraid 
 to face you even with this bit of blade. 
 
 Marquis. It's a Spanish blade. It 
 knows no fear. 
 
 Count. Not so much bravado. Sir 
 Boaster. 
 
 Cavalier. Yes, with this blade — 
 
 [He rushes upon the Count.] 
 
 Count. Back. 
 
 [He puts himself on guard.] 
 
 [Enter Mirandohna, Fabricius.] 
 
 Pabricius. Stop, stop, gentlemen. 
 
 Mirandohna. Stop, gentlemen, stop. 
 
 Cavalier [aside, seeing Mirandolina]. 
 Oh, curses! 
 
 Mirandolina. Poor me! With swords? 
 
 Marquis. Do you see? For your sake. 
 
 Mirandolina. For my sake? 
 
 Count. See the Cavalier, he is in love 
 with you. 
 
 Cavalier. I in love? It is n't true; you 
 lie. 
 
 Mirandolina. The Cavalier in love 
 with me? Oh, no, Count, you are mis- 
 taken. I can assure you that you are mis- 
 taken. 
 
 Count. And you have an understand- 
 ing as well — 
 
 Marquis. It 's known, and evident — 
 
 Cavalier. What's known? What's 
 evident? 
 
 Marquis. I say, when it is so, it's known, 
 — when it is n't so, it's not evident. 
 
 Mirandolina. The Cavalier in love 
 with me? He denies it, and denying it in 
 my presence he mortifies, humiliates me, 
 and makes me recognize his strength and 
 my weakness. I confess the truth: if I 
 had succeeded in making him fall in love 
 with me, I would think I had done the 
 greatest act of prowess in the world. A 
 man, who cannot bear the sight of women, 
 who despises them, who has a poor idea of 
 them, I cannot hope to make him love me. 
 My good sirs, I am a woman, who is frank 
 and sincere; when I ought to speak, I 
 speak; and I can't conceal the truth. I 
 tried to make the Cavalier fall in love with 
 me, but all to no purpose. Is n't it true, 
 sir! I have done my best, but I have 
 accomplished nothing. 
 
 pAVALiER [aside]. Ah. I can't speak. 
 
 Count [to Mirandolina]. Do you see? 
 He is perplexed. 
 
 Marquis [to Mirandolina]. He has n't 
 the courage to say no. 
 
 Cavalier [to the Marquis, angrily]. 
 You don't know what you are talking 
 about. 
 
 Mirandolina. Oh the CavaUer is n't 
 in love. He knows women's wiles, he 
 knows women's roguishness; he does n't 
 believe everything they say; he does n't 
 put any confidence in tears. He even 
 laughs when they faint. 
 
 Cavalier. Then women's tears are false, 
 and their fainting but pretense? 
 
 Mirandolina. What? Don't you know 
 that, or are you pretending not to know? 
 
 Cavalier. I swear by Heaven. Such 
 deceit deserves a dagger in the heart. 
 
 Mirandolina. Cavalier, don't get an- 
 gry, or these gentlemen will say that you 're 
 really in love. 
 
 Count. Yes, he is; he can't hide it. 
 
 Marquis. It's perfectly evident. 
 
 Cavalier [angrily to the Marquis]. No, 
 I am not. 
 
 Marquis, It is always with me that 
 he 's angry. 
 
THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 S35 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. No sir, he is not in love. 
 I say it, I maintain it, and I am ready to 
 prove it. 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. I cannot stand any 
 more. Count, another time you will find 
 me provided with a sword. 
 
 [He throws away the broken half 
 of the Marquis's sword.] 
 
 Marquis. See here! The hilt costs 
 money. [He takes it from the ground.] 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Stop, Cavalier, your 
 reputation is at stake. These gentlemen 
 believe you are in love; they must be un- 
 deceived. 
 
 Cavalier. There is n't any need of it. 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Oh, yes, sir; stay a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Cavalier [aside]. What does that wo- 
 man intend to do? 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Sirs, the surest sign of 
 love is jealousy and the man who is n't 
 jealous, is n't in love. If the Cavalier 
 loved me, he could n't bear that I should 
 be another's, but he will bear it, and you 
 shall see — 
 
 Cavalier. To whom does this refer? 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. He for whom my father 
 destined me. 
 
 Fabricius [to MiRANDOLiNA]. Perhaps 
 you're speaking of me? 
 
 MiRANDOLiNA. Yes, dear Fabricius, 
 and I wish, in the presence of these gentle- 
 men, to give my hand to you in token of 
 betrothal. 
 
 Cavalier [aside, acting nervoitsly]. Alas! 
 With that fellow? I can't bear it. 
 
 Count [aside]. If she marries Fabricius, 
 she does n't love the Cavalier. — Yes, 
 marry and I promise you a hundred 
 pounds. 
 
 Marquis. Mirandolina, an egg to-day 
 is better than a hen to-morrow. Marry 
 now and I'll give you six pounds. 
 
 Mirandolina. Thanks, sirs, I don't 
 need a dowry. I am a poor woman without 
 charm, without vivacity, incapable of mak- 
 ing persons of consideration love me. But 
 Fabricius wishes me well, and therefore 
 I'll marry him in the presence of you all. 
 
 Cavalier. Yes, curse you, marry whom 
 you wiU. I know you deceived 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 held up as an example 
 of feminine flatterers, of feminine de- 
 ceivers. But that would be to humiliate 
 myself twice over. I flee from your eyes; 
 I curse your flattery,* your tears, your de- 
 ceit; you have made me see what baleful 
 power your sex has over us, and you have 
 taught me to my cost that it is n't enough 
 to despise it — we men must flee from it. 
 [Exit the Cavalier.] 
 
 Count. Say now that he is n't in love. 
 
 Marquis. If he gives me the lie again, 
 on the word of a gentleman, I challenge 
 him. 
 
 Mirandolina. Hush, gentlemen, hush. 
 He has gone away, and if he does n't re- 
 turn, and if the matter passes over this 
 way, I can say I'm lucky. I have suc- 
 ceeded only too well in making him fall in 
 love with me, and I am thus placed in a 
 precarious condition. I don't want to 
 know anything more of him. Fabricius, 
 come here, dear; give me your hand. 
 
 Fabricius. Your hand? Not so fast, 
 madam. You find pleasure in making peo- 
 ple fall in love with you this way, and you 
 expect me to want to marry you? 
 
 Mirandolina. Oh, come, fool! It was a 
 joke, a whim, a little bit of pique. I was a 
 girl; I had no one to order my ways. When 
 I am married, I know what I'U do. 
 
 Fabricius. What? 
 
 [Enter the Cavalier's Servant.] 
 
 Servant. Madame, before leaving I 
 have come to pay my respects. 
 
 Mirandolina. Are you going away? 
 
 Servant. Yes, my master has gone to 
 the stage-coach office, he's making them 
 harness up. He's waiting for me with the 
 things, and we are going to Leghorn. 
 
 Mirandolina. Pardon me, if I have ever 
 done you . . . 
 
 Servant. I have n't time to stay. 
 Thank you, and au reooir. 
 
 [Exit Servant.] 
 
 Mirandolina. Thank Heavens, he is 
 gone. I have some remorse yet; certainly 
 
536 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 he left with little satisfaction. I'll never 
 try any more of these jokes. 
 
 Count. Mirandolina, married or single, 
 I shall always be the same to you. 
 
 Marquis. Bank on my protection. 
 
 Mirandolina. Now, I am married, 
 gentlemen, I don't need protectors, I don't 
 need lovers, I don't need gifts. 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. 
 
 Fabricius. But, madam, not so fast. 
 
 Mirandolina. Why slow? What is it? 
 What difficulty is there? Come, now. 
 Give me that hand. 
 
 Fabricius. I would like to make our 
 agreements first. 
 
 Mirandolina. What agreement? The 
 agreement is this, — either give me your 
 hand or go home. 
 
 Fabricius. I will give my hand — but 
 then — 
 
 Mirandolina. But then, dear, every- 
 thing will be yours; don't hesitate. I shall 
 always love you, you will always be my 
 soul. 
 
 Fabricius [giving her his hand]. Here, 
 dear, I can't resist any more. 
 
 Mirandolina [aside]. Then this is done. 
 
 Count. Mirandolina, you are a fine 
 woman, you have the power of leading men 
 where you will. 
 
 Marquis. Your manner puts us under 
 infinite obligations to you. 
 
 MiRAirooLiNA. If it is true that I can hope 
 for favors from you, I ask for one last one. 
 
 Count. Then pray say it. 
 
 Marquis. Speak. 
 
 Fabricius [aside]. Whatever will she 
 ask for now? 
 
 Mirandolina. I beg you as a favor to 
 change your lodgings. 
 
 Fabricius [aside]. Fine; now I see she is 
 well disposed toward me. 
 
 Count. Yes, yes, I understand, and I 
 compliment you. I shall go, but wherever 
 I am, be assured of my esteem. 
 
 Marquis. Tell me; did you lose a little 
 gold flask? 
 
 Mirandolina. Yes, sir. 
 
 Marquis. Here it is. I found it and I'm 
 going to return it. I shaU leave to please 
 you, but in every place, pray, bank on my 
 protection. 
 
 Mirandolina. 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 hearts; 
 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 remember 
 the Mistress of the Inn. 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 By LESSING 
 
 Translated by ERNEST BELL 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Major von Tellhbim, o discharged officer 
 
 Minna von Barnhelm 
 
 Count von Brttchsal, her uncle 
 
 Franziska, her lady's maid 
 
 Just, servant to the Major 
 
 Paul Werner, an old sergeant of the Major's 
 
 The Landlord of an inn 
 
 RiCCAUT DB LA MaRLINI^RE 
 
 A Lady 
 An Orderly 
 
 The Scene alternates between the parlor of an inn 
 and a room adjoining it. 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Jtjst [sitting in a corner, and talking while 
 asleep]. Rogue of a landlord! You treat 
 us so? On, comrade! Hit hard! [He strikes 
 vxith his fist, and wakes through the exertion.] 
 Ha! There he is again! I cannot shut an 
 eye without fighting with him. I wish he 
 got but half the blows. Why, it is morning! 
 I must look for my poor master at once; if 
 I can help it, he shall not set foot in the 
 cursed house again. I wonder where he has 
 passed the night? 
 
 [Enter Landlord.] 
 
 Landlokd. Good-morning, Herr Just; 
 good-morning! What, up so early! Or 
 shall I say — up so late? 
 
 JtrsT. Say which you please. 
 
 Landlord. I say only — good-morning! 
 And that deserves, I suppose, that Herr 
 Just should answer, "Many thanks." 
 
 Just. Many thanks. 
 
 Landlord. One is peevish, if one can't 
 have one's proper rest. What wiU you bet 
 the Major has not returned home, and you 
 have been keeping watch for him? 
 
 Just. How the man can guess every- 
 thing! 
 
 Landlord. I surmise, I surmise. 
 
 Just [turning round to go]. Your servant ! 
 
 Landlord [stopping him]. Not so, Hen- 
 Just! 
 -Just. Very well, then, not your servant ! 
 
 Landlord. What, Herr Just, I do hope 
 you are not still angry about yesterday's 
 affair! Who would keep his anger over- 
 night? 
 
 Just. I; and over a good many nights. 
 
 Landlord. Is that like a Christian? 
 
 Just. As much so as to turn an honor- 
 able man who cannot pay to a day, out of 
 doors, into the street. 
 
 Landlord. Fie! Who would be so 
 wicked? 
 
 Just. A Christian innkeeper. — My 
 master! Such a man! Such an officer! 
 
 Landlord. I 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 one! I was 
 obliged to have another room prepared for 
 him. Think no more about it, Herr Just. 
 [CaUs.] HuUo! I wiU make it good in an- 
 other way. [A lad comes.] Bring a glass; 
 Herr Just will have a drop; something 
 good. 
 
 Just. Do not trouble yourself, Mr. 
 Landlord. May the drop turn to poison, 
 which — But I will not swear; I have not 
 yet breakfasted. 
 
 Landlord [to the lad, who brings a bottle 
 of spirits and a glass]. Give it here. Go! 
 Now, Herr Just; something quite excellent; 
 strong, deUcious, and wholesome. [Fills 
 and holds it out to him.] That can set an 
 overtaxed stomach to rights again! 
 
 Just. I hardly ought! — And yet why 
 should I let my health suffer on account of 
 his incivility? [Takes it and drinks.] 
 
 Landlord. May it do yoji good, Herr 
 Just! 
 
 Just [giving the glass back]. Not bad! 
 But, Landlord, you are nevertheless an ill- 
 mannered brute! 
 
 Landlord. Not so, not so! — Come, 
 another glass; one cannot stand upon one 
 leg. 
 
 Just [after drinking]. I must say so 
 much — it is good, very good! Made at 
 home. Landlord? 
 
 Landlord. At home, indeed! True 
 Dantzig, real double distilled! 
 
 JrsT. Look ye, Landlord; if I could play 
 the hjrpocrite, I would do so for such stuff 
 as that; but I cannot, so it must out. — 
 You are an ill-mannered brute all the same. 
 
 Landlord. Nobody in my life ever told 
 me that before. — But another glass, Herr 
 Just; three is the lucky number! 
 
540 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 JxTST. With all my heart! [Drinks.] 
 Good stuff, indeed, capital! But truth is 
 good also, and indeed. Landlord, you are 
 an ill-mannered brute all the same! 
 
 Lanbloed. If I was, do you think I 
 Bhould let you say so? 
 
 Just. Oh, yes ; a brute seldom has spirit. 
 
 Landlobd. One more, Herr Just; a 
 four-stranded rope is the strongest. 
 
 Just. liTo, enough is as good as a feast! 
 And what good will it do you, Landlord? 
 I shall stick to my text till the last drop in 
 the bottle. Shame, Landlord, to have such 
 good Dantzig, and such bad manners! To 
 turn out of his room, — in his absence, — 
 a man like my master, who has lodged at 
 your house above a year; from whom you 
 have had already so many shining thalers; 
 who never owed a heUer 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 I really wanted 
 the room and saw beforehand that the 
 Major would willingly have given it up if 
 we could only have waited some time for 
 his return! Should I let strange gentlefolk 
 like them drive away again from my door? 
 Should I willfully send such a prize into 
 the clutches of another innkeeper? Besides, 
 I don't believe they could have got a lodg- 
 ing elsewhere. The inns are all now quite 
 fuU. 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? 
 
 Just. 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- 
 structed it. The room is otherwise very 
 nice, and is papered — 
 
 Just. Has been! 
 
 Landlord. No, one side is so stiU. And 
 the little room adjoining, — what is the 
 matter with that? It has a chimney which, 
 perhaps, smokes somewhat in the winter — 
 
 Just. But does very nicely in the sum- 
 mer. I believe. Landlord, you are mock- 
 ing us in the bargain! 
 
 Landlord. Come, come; Herr Just, 
 Herr Just — 
 
 Just. Don't make Herr Just's head 
 hot — 
 
 Landlord. I make his head hot? It is 
 the Dantzig does that. 
 
 Just. An officer, hke my master! Or do 
 you think that a discharged officer is not an 
 officer, who may break your neck for you? 
 Why were you all, you landlords, so civil 
 during the war? Why was every officer an 
 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 so, 
 Herr Just? 
 
 Just. I will fly out. 
 
 Major von Tellheim [entering]. Just! 
 
 Just [supposing the Landlord is still 
 speaking]. Just? Are we so intimate? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Just! 
 
 Just. I thought I was "Herr Just" 
 with you. 
 
 Landlord [seeing the Major]. Hist! 
 Hist! Herr Just, Herr Just, look round; 
 your master — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Just, I think 
 you are quarreling! What did I tell you? 
 
 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? 
 
 Just. 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. I esteem him so much 
 the more: I like him for it. 
 
 Just. I should Uke to knock his teeth 
 out for him! 
 
 Landlord. It is only a pity that he puts 
 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 Tellheim. More than 
 enough, sir! I am in your debt; you turn 
 out my room in my absence. You must be 
 paid, I must seek a lodging elsewhere. Very 
 natural. 
 
 Landlord. Elsewhere?. You are not 
 going to quit, honored sir? Oh, unfortu- 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 S4I 
 
 nate stricken man that I am! No, never! 
 Sooner shall the lady give up the apart- 
 ments again. The Major cannot and will 
 not let her have his room. It is hia; she 
 must go; I cannot help it. I will go, hon- 
 ored sir — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. My friend, do 
 not make two foolish strokes instead of 
 one. The lady must retain possession of 
 the room — 
 
 Landlord. And your honor could sup- 
 pose that from distrust, 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 hvmdred 
 thalers in louis d'ors marked on it — which 
 your honor had in your writing-desk — is 
 in good keeping. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. I trust so; as 
 the rest of my property. Just shall take 
 them into his keeping, when he has paid 
 your bill — 
 
 Landlord. Really, I was quite alarmed 
 when I found the purse. 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 desk — 
 1 Major von Tellheim. You wouldhave 
 treated me rather more civilly. I imder- 
 stand you. Go, sir; leave me. I wish to 
 speak with my servant. 
 
 Landlord. But, honored sir — 
 
 Major ton Tellheim. Come, Just; he 
 does not wish to pennit me to give my 
 orders to you in his house. 
 
 Landlord. I am going, honored sir! 
 My whole house is at your service. [Exit.] 
 I JtrsT [stamping with his foot and spitting 
 after the Landlord]. Ugh! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. What is the 
 matter? 
 
 Just. I am choking with rage. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. That is as bad 
 as from plethora. 
 
 JirsT. And for you, sir, I hardly know 
 you any longer. May I die before your 
 eyes, if you do not encourage this malicious, 
 unfeeling wretch! In spite of gallows, axe, 
 and torture I could — yes, I could have 
 throttled him with these hands, and torn 
 him to pieces with these teeth! 
 
 Major VON Tellheim. You wild beast! 
 
 JtrsT. Better a wild beast than such a 
 man! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. But what is it 
 that you want? 
 
 Just. I want you to perceive how much 
 he insults you. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. And then — 
 
 Just. To take your revenge — No, the 
 fellow is beneath your notice! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. 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 biU from your hands. I 
 know that you can throw down a handful 
 of money with a tolerably contemptuous 
 mien. 
 
 Just. Oh! A pretty sort of revenge! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Which, how- 
 ever, we must defer. I have not one heUer 
 of ready money, and I know not where to 
 raise any. 
 
 Just. No money! What is that purse, 
 then, with five hundred dollars' worth of 
 louis d'ors, which the Landlord found in 
 your desk? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. That is money 
 given into my charge. 
 
 Just. Not the himdred pistoles which 
 your old sergeant brought you four or five 
 weeks back? 
 
 Major VON Tellheim. The same. Paul 
 Werner's; right. 
 
 Just. And you have not used them yet? 
 Yet, sir, you may do what you please with 
 them. I wiU answer for it that — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Indeed! 
 
 Just. Werner heard from me, how they 
 had treated your claims upon the War 
 Office. He heard — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. That I should 
 certainly be a beggar soon, if I was not one 
 already. I am much obUged 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 
 part. 
 
 Just. How! What! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Not a word. 
 There is some one coming. 
 
S42 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 [Enter Lady in mourning.] 
 
 Lady. I ask your pardon, sir. 
 
 Majob von Tbllheim. Whom do you 
 seek, madam? 
 
 Lady. The worthy gentleman with 
 whom I have the honor of speaking. You 
 do not know me again. I am the widow of 
 your late captain. 
 
 Major von Tellhbim. Good Heavens, 
 madam, how you are changed! 
 
 Lady. I have just risen from a sick-bed, 
 to which grief on the loss of my husband 
 brought me. I am troubhng you at a very 
 early hour. Major von Tellheim, but I am 
 going into the country, where a kind, but 
 also unfortunate, friend has for the present 
 offered me an asylum. 
 
 Major von Tellheim [to Jtjst]. Leave 
 us. [Exit Just.] — Speak freely, madam! 
 You must not be ashamed of your bad for- 
 tune before me. Can I serve you in any way? 
 
 Lady. Major — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. I pity you, 
 madam! How can I serve you? You know 
 your husband was my friend; my friend, I 
 say, and I have always been sparing of this 
 title. 
 
 Lady. Who knows better than I do how 
 worthy you were of his friendship — how 
 worthy he was of yours? You would have 
 been in his last .thoughts, yoiu: name would 
 have been the last sound on his dying Ups, 
 had not natural affection, stronger than 
 friendship, demanded this sad prerogative 
 for his unfortunate son and his unhappy 
 wife. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Cease, madam! 
 I could wiUingly weep with you; but I have 
 no tears to-day. Spare me! You come to 
 me at a time when I might easily be misled 
 to murmur against Providence. Oh, honest 
 Marloff! Quick, madam, what have you 
 to request? If it is in my power to assist 
 you, if it is in my power — 
 
 Lady. I cannot depart without fulfilling 
 his last wishes. He recollected, shortly be- 
 fore his death, that he was dying a debtor 
 to you, and he conjured me to discharge 
 his debt with the first ready money I 
 should have. I have sold his carriage, and 
 come to redeem his note. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. What, madam? 
 Is that your object in coming? 
 
 Lady. It is. Permit me to coimt out the 
 money to you. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. No, madam. 
 Marloff a debtor to me! That can hardly 
 be. Let us look, however. [Takes out a 
 pocketbook and searches.] I find nothing of 
 the kind. 
 
 Lady. You have doubtless mislaid his 
 note; besides, it is nothing to the purpose. 
 Permit me — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. No, madam; I 
 am careful not to mislay such documents. 
 If I have not got it, it is a proof that I 
 never had it, or that it has been honored 
 and already returned by me. 
 
 Lady. Major! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Without doubt, 
 madam; Marloff does not owe me any- 
 thing — nor can I remember that he ever 
 did owe me anything. This is so, madam. 
 He has much rather left me in his debt. I 
 have never been able to do anything to 
 repay a man who shared with me good and 
 ill luck, honor and danger, for six years. I 
 shall not forget that he has left a son. He 
 shall be my son, as soon as I can be a father 
 to him. The embarrassment in which I am 
 at present — 
 
 Lady. Generous man! But do not think 
 so meanly of me. Take the money. Major, 
 and then at least I shall be at ease. 
 
 Major von Telmeim. What more do 
 you require to trajiquilize you than my as- 
 surance that the money does not belong to 
 me? Or do you wish that I should rob the 
 young orphan of my friend? Rob, madam; 
 for that it would be in the true meaning of 
 the word. The money belongs to him; in- 
 vest it for him. 
 
 Lady. I understand 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 for 
 the preservation of her own life? I am 
 going — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Go, madam, 
 and may you have a prosperous journey! 
 I do not ask you to let me hear from you. 
 Your news might come to me when it might 
 be of little use to me. There is yet one 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 543 
 
 thing, madam; I had nearly forgotten that 
 which is of most consequence. Marloff 
 also had claims upon the chest of our old 
 regiment. His claims are as good as mine. 
 K my demands are paid, his must be paid 
 also. I will be answerable for them. 
 
 Lady. Oh, sir, — but what can I say? 
 Thus to purpose future good deeds is, in 
 the eyes of Heaven, to have performed 
 them already. May you receive its reward, 
 as well as my tears. [Exit.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Poor, good wo- 
 man! I must not forget to destroy the bill. 
 [Takes some papers from his pocketbook and 
 destroys them.] Who would guarantee that 
 my own wants might not some day tempt 
 me to make use of it? 
 
 [Enter Just.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Is that you. 
 Just? 
 
 Just [mping his eyes]. Yes. 
 
 Majok von Tellheim. You have been 
 crying? 
 
 Just. I have been writing out my ac- 
 count in the kitchen, and the place is fuU 
 of smoke. Here it is, sir. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Give it to me. 
 
 Just. Be merciful with me, sir. I know 
 well that they have not been so with you; 
 
 stm — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. What do you 
 want? 
 
 Just. I should sooner have expected my 
 death than my discharge. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. I cannot keep 
 you any longer: I must learn to manage 
 without servants. [Opens the paper, and 
 reads.] "What my master, the Major, 
 owes me: Three months and a half wages, 6 
 thalers per month, is 21 thalers. During 
 the first part of this month, laid out in sun- 
 dries — 1 thaler 7 groschen 9 pfennigs. 
 Total, 22 thalers 7 groschen 9 pfennigs." 
 Right; and it is just that I also pay your 
 wages for the whole of the current month. 
 
 Just. Turn over, sir. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Oh! More? 
 [Beads.] "What I owe my master, the 
 Major: Paid for me to the army surgeon, 
 25 thalers. Attendance and nurse during 
 my cure, paid for me, 39 thalers. Ad- 
 
 vanced, at my request, to my father, — 
 who was burned out of his house and 
 robbed, — without reckoning the two 
 horses of which he made him a present, 50 
 thalers. Total, 114 thalers. Deduct the 
 above 22 thalers 7 groschen 9 pfennigs; I 
 remain in debt to my master, the Major, 
 91 thalers 16 groschen 3 pfennigs." — You 
 are mad, my good fellow! 
 
 Just. I wilUngly 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 Uvery from me too, which, 
 by the way, I have not yet earned — I 
 would rather you had let me die in the 
 workhouse. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. For what do 
 you take me? You owe me nothing; and I 
 will recommend you to one of my friends, 
 with whom you will fare better than with 
 me. 
 
 Just. I do not owe you anjrthing, and 
 yet you turn me away! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Because I do 
 not wish to owe you anything. 
 
 Just. On that account? Only on that 
 account? As certain as I am in your debt, 
 as certain as you can never be in mine, so 
 certainly shall you not turn me away now. 
 Do what you wUl, Major, I remain in your 
 service; I must remain. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. With your ob- 
 stinacy, your insolence, your savage bois- 
 terous temper toward all who you think 
 have no business to speak to you, your 
 malicious pranks, your love of revenge — 
 
 Just. Make me as bad as you wiU, I 
 shall not think worse of myself than of my 
 dog. Last winter I was walking one even- 
 ing at dusk along the river, when I heard 
 something whine. I stooped down, and 
 reached in the direction whence the sound 
 came, and when I thought I was saving a 
 child, I pulled a dog out of the water. That 
 is well, thought I. The dog followed me; 
 but I am not fond of dogs, so I drove him 
 away — in vain. I whipped him away — 
 in vain. I shut him out of my room at 
 night; he lay down before the door. If he 
 came too near me, I kicked him; he yelped, 
 looked up at me, and wagged his tail. I 
 have never yet given him a bit of bread 
 
S44 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 with my own hand; and yet I am the only 
 person whom he will obey, or who dare 
 touch him. He jumps about me, and 
 shows off his tricks to me, without my ask- 
 ing for them. He is an ugly dog, but he is 
 a good animal. If he carries it on much 
 longer, I shall at last give over hating him. 
 
 Major von Tellheim [aside]. As I do 
 him. N0jjthejce.isja,a.one.Esrfect]34nhtiman. 
 Just, we will not part. 
 
 Just. Certainly not! And you wanted 
 to manage without servants! You forget 
 your wounds, and that you only have the 
 use of one arm. Why, you are not able to 
 dress alone. I am indispensable to you; 
 and I am, — without boasting. Major, — 
 I am a servant who, if the worst comes to 
 the worst, can beg and steal for his master. 
 
 Majob von Tellheim. Just, we will 
 part. 
 
 JrsT. AU right, sir! 
 
 [Enter Servant.] 
 
 Servant. I say, comrade! 
 
 Just. What is the matter? 
 
 Servant. Can you direct me to the 
 officer who lodged yesterday in that room? 
 [Pointing to the one out of which he 
 is coming.] 
 
 Just. That I could easily do. What 
 have you got for him? 
 
 Servant. What we always have, when 
 we have nothing — compliments. My 
 mistress hears that he has been turned out 
 on her account. My mistress knows good 
 manners, and I am therefore to beg his 
 pardon. 
 
 Just. Well, then, beg his pardon; there 
 he stands. 
 
 Servant. What is he? What is his 
 name? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. 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 compliments to her. What is 
 the name of your mistress? 
 
 Servant. Her name! We call her my 
 lady. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. The name of 
 her family? 
 
 Servant. I have not heard that yet, 
 
 and it is not my business to ask. I manage 
 so that I generally get a new master every 
 six weeks. Hang all their names! 
 
 Just. Bravo, comrade! 
 
 Servant. I was engaged by my present 
 mistress a few days ago, in Dresden. I be- 
 lieve she has come here to look for her lover. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Enough, friend. 
 I wished to know the name of your mistress, 
 not her secrets. Go! 
 
 Servant. Comrade, he would not do 
 for my master. [Exit.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Just, see that 
 we get out of this house directly! The po- 
 liteness of this strange lady affects me more 
 than the churlishness of the host. Here, 
 take this ring — the only thing of value 
 which I have left — of which I never 
 thought of making such a use. Pawn it! 
 Get eighty louis d'ors for it: our host's bill 
 can scarcely amount to thirty. Pay him, 
 and remove my things. — Ah, where? 
 Where you will. The cheaper the inn, the , 
 better. You will find me in the neighboring 
 coffee-house. I am going; you will see to it 
 aU properly? 
 
 Just. Have no fear. Major! 
 
 Major von Tellheim [coming back]. 
 Above all things, do not let my pistols be 
 forgotten, which hang beside the bed. 
 
 Just. I wiU forget nothing. 
 I Major von Tellheim [coming back 
 \again]. Another thing: bring your dog 
 'with you too. Do you hear, Just? 
 
 [Exit Major von Tellheim.] 
 
 Just. The dog wiU not stay behind, he 
 wiU take care of that. Hem! My master 
 still had this valuable ring and carried it 
 in his pocket instead of on his finger! My 
 good landlord, we are not yet so poor as we 
 look. To him himself, I will pawn you, you 
 beautiful httle ring! I know he will be an- 
 noyed that you will not aU be consumed in 
 his house. Ah! — 
 
 [Enter Paul Werner.] 
 
 Just. HuUo, Werner! Good-day to you, 
 Werner. Welcome to the town. 
 
 Werner. The accursed village I I can't 
 manage to get at home in it again. Merry, 
 my boys, merry; I have got some more 
 money! Where is the Major? 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 S4S 
 
 Jtjst. He must have met you; he just 
 went downstairs. 
 
 Werner. I came up the back stairs. 
 How is he? I should have been with you 
 last week, but — 
 
 Jtjst. WeU, what prevented you? 
 
 Werner. Just, did you ever hear of 
 Prince HeracUus? 
 
 Jtjst. Heraclius? Not that I know of. 
 
 Werner. Don't you know the great 
 hero of the East? 
 
 Jtjst. I know the wise men of the East 
 wen enough, who go about with the stars 
 on New Year's Eve. 
 
 Werner. Brother, I beUeve you read 
 the newspapers as Uttle as the Bible. You 
 do not know Prince HeracUus? Not know 
 the brave man who seized Persia, and wiU 
 break into the Ottoman Porte in a few 
 days? Thank God, there is stiU war some- 
 where in the world! I have long enough 
 hoped it would break out here again. But 
 there they sit and take care of their skins. 
 No, a soldier I was, and a soldier I must be 
 agaia! In short [looking round carefully, to 
 see if any one is listening], between our- 
 selves. Just, I am going to Persia, to have 
 a few campaigns against the Turks, under 
 his Royal Highness Prince Heraclius. 
 
 Just. You? 
 
 Werner. I myself. Our ancestors 
 fought bravely against the Turks; and so 
 ought we, too, if we would be honest men 
 and good Christians. I aUow that a cam- 
 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 next. The swords of 
 the Turks are aU set with diamonds. 
 
 Just. 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 com- 
 fortable little farm! 
 
 Werner. Oh! I take that with me. Do 
 you see? The property is sold. 
 
 Just. Sold? 
 
 Werner. Hist! Here are a hundred 
 ducats, which I received yesterday toward 
 the payment: I am bringing them for the 
 Major. 
 
 Just. What is he to do with them? 
 
 Werner. 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! Priace Heraclius must 
 have heard of Major von Tellheim, if he 
 has not heard of Paul Werner, his late 
 sergeant. Our affair at Katzenhauser — 
 
 Just. Shall I give you an account of 
 that? 
 
 Werner. You give me! I know well 
 that a fine battle array is beyond your 
 comprehension. I am not going to throw 
 my pearls before swine. Here, take the 
 hundred ducats; give them to the Major: 
 tell him, he may keep these for me too. I 
 am going to the market now. I have sent 
 in a couple of loads of rye; what I get for 
 them he can also have. 
 
 Just. Werner, you mean it well; but we 
 don't want your money. Keep your ducats; 
 and your hundred pistoles you can also 
 have back safe, as soon as you please. 
 
 Werner. What, has the Major money 
 StiU? 
 
 Just. No. 
 
 Werner. Has he borrowed any? 
 
 Just. No. 
 
 Werner. On what does he Uve, then? 
 
 Just. We have everything put down in 
 the bUI; 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. 
 
 Werner. If he has annoyed the Major, 
 I am ready. 
 
 Just. What if we watch for him in the 
 evening, when he comes from his club, and 
 give him a good thrashing? 
 
 Werner. In the dark! Watch for him! 
 Two to one! No, that won't do. 
 
 Just. Or if we burn his house over his 
 head? 
 
 Werner. Fire and bum! Why, Just, 
 one hears that you have been baggage-b6y 
 and not soldier. Shame! 
 
 Just. Or if we ruin his daughter? But 
 she is cursedly ugly. 
 
S46 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Webneb. She has probably been ruined 
 long ago. At any rate, you don't want any 
 help there. But what is the matter with 
 you? What has happened? 
 
 Just. Just come with me, and you shall 
 hear something to make you stare. 
 
 Werner. The devil must be loose here, 
 then? 
 
 JiTST. Just so; come along. 
 
 Weener. So much the better! To 
 Persia, then; to Persia. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene: Minna's Room. 
 
 Minna [in morning dress, looking at her 
 watch]. Franziska, we have risen very 
 early. The time wiU hang heavy on our 
 hands. 
 
 Franziska. Who can sleep in these 
 abominable large towns? The carriages, 
 the watchmen, the drums, the cats, the 
 soldiers, never cease to rattle, to call, to 
 roU, to mew, and to swear; just as if the 
 last thing the night is intended for was for 
 sleep. Have a cup of tea, my lady! 
 
 Minna. I don't care for tea. 
 
 Franziska. I will have some chocolate 
 made. 
 
 Minna. For yourself, if you Uke. 
 
 Franziska. For myseK! I would as 
 soon talk to myself as drink by myself. 
 Then the time wiU, indeed, hang heavy. 
 For very weariness we shall have to make 
 our toUets, and try on the dress in which 
 we intend to make the first attack? 
 
 Minna. Why do you talk of attacks, 
 when I have only come to require that the 
 capitulation be ratified? 
 
 Franziska. But the officer whom we 
 have dislodged, and to whom we have 
 apologized, cannot be the best-bred man in 
 the world, or he might at least have begged 
 the honor of being allowed to wait upon 
 you. 
 
 Minna. All officers are not Tellheims. 
 To tell you the truth, I only sent him the 
 message in order to have an opportunity of 
 inquiring from him about TeUheim. Fran- 
 ziska, my heart tells me my journey will be 
 a successful one and that I shall find him. 
 
 Franziska. The heart, my lady! One 
 must not trust to that too much. The heart 
 echoes to us the words of our tongues. If 
 the tongue was as much inclined to speak 
 the thoughts of the heart, the fashion of 
 keeping mouths under lock and key would 
 have come in long ago. 
 
 Minna. Ha, ha! Mouths under lock 
 and key! That fashion would just suit me. 
 
 Franziska. Rather not show the most 
 beautiful set of teeth than let the heart be 
 seen through them every moment. 
 
 Minna. What, are you so reserved? 
 
 Franziska. No, my lady; but I would 
 wiUingly be more so. People seldom talk 
 of the virtue they possess, and aU the more 
 often of that which they do not possess. 
 
 Minna. Franziska, you made a very 
 just remark there. 
 
 Franziska. Made! Does one make it, 
 if it occurs to one? 
 
 Minna. And do you know why I con- 
 sider it so good? It apphra to my TeUheim. 
 
 Franziska. What would not, in your 
 opinion, apply to him? 
 
 Minna. Friend and foe say he is the 
 bravest man in the world. But who ever 
 heard him talk of bravery? He has the 
 most upright mind; but uprightness and 
 nobleness of mind are words never on his 
 tongue. 
 
 Franziska. Of what virtues does he 
 talk, then? 
 
 Minna. He talks of none, for he is 
 wanting in none. 
 
 Franziska. That is just what I wished 
 to hear. 
 
 Minna. Wait, Franziska; I am wrong. 
 He often talks of economy. Between our- 
 selves, I believe he is extravagant. 
 
 Franziska. One thing more, my lady. 
 I have often heard him mention truth and 
 constancy toward you. What, if he be 
 inconstant? 
 
 Minna. Miserable girl! But do you 
 mean that seriously? 
 
 Franziska. How long is it since he 
 wrote to you? 
 
 Minna. Alas, he has only written to me 
 once since the peace. 
 
 Franziska. What! A sigh on account 
 of the peace? Surprising! Peace ought 
 
Mk\NA VON BARNHELM 
 
 547 
 
 only to make good the ill which war causes; 
 but it seems to disturb the good which the 
 latter, its opposite, may have occasioned. 
 Peace should not be so capricious! — How 
 long have we had peace? The time seems 
 wonderfully long, when there is so little 
 news. It is no use the post going regularly 
 again; nobody writes, for nobody has any- 
 thing to write about. 
 
 Minna. "Peace has been made," he 
 wrote to me, "and I am approaching the 
 fulfillment of my wishes." But since he 
 only wrote that to me once, only once — 
 
 Franziska. And since he compels us 
 to run after this fulfillment of his wishes 
 ourselves — If we can but find him, he 
 shaU pay for this! Suppose, in the mean 
 time, he may have accomplished his 
 wishes, and we should learn here that — 
 
 Minna [anxioiisly]. That he is dead? 
 
 Franziska. To you, my lady; and mar- 
 ried to another. 
 
 Minna. You tease, you! Wait, Fran- 
 ziska, I wiU pay you out for this! But talk 
 to me, or I shall fall asleep. His regiment 
 was disbanded after the peace. Who knows 
 into what a confusion of biUs and papers 
 he may thereby have been brought? Who 
 knows into what other regiment, or to 
 what distant station, he may have been 
 sent? Who knows what circumstances — 
 There's a knock at the door. 
 
 Franziska. Come in! 
 
 Landlohd [putting his head in at the door]. 
 Am I permitted, your ladyship? 
 
 Franziska. Our landlord? — Come 
 in! 
 
 Landloed [a pen behind his ear, a sheet 
 of paper and an inkstand in his hand] . I am 
 come, your ladyship, to wish you a most 
 humble good-morning. [To Franziska.] 
 And the same to you, my pretty maid. 
 
 Franziska. A polite man! 
 
 Minna. We are obliged to you. 
 
 Franziska. And wish you also a good- 
 morning. 
 
 Landlord. May I venture to ask how 
 your ladyship has passed the first night 
 under my poor roof? 
 
 Franziska. The roof is not so bad, sir; 
 but the beds might have been better. 
 
 Landlord. What do I hear! Not slept 
 
 well! Perhaps the over-fatigue of the 
 journey — 
 
 Minna. Perhaps. 
 
 Landlord. Certainly, certainly, for 
 otherwise — Yet, should there be any- 
 thing not perfectly comfortable, my lady, 
 I hope you wiU not fail to command me. 
 
 Franziska. Very well, Mr. Landlord, 
 very well! We are not bashful; and least of 
 all should one be bashful at an inn. We 
 shall not fail to say what we may wish. 
 
 Landlord. I next come to — 
 
 [Taking the pen from behind his ear.] 
 
 Franziska. Well? 
 
 Landlord. Without doubt, my lady, 
 you are already acquainted with the wise 
 regulations of our poUce. 
 
 Minna. Not m 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 writing, his 
 name, place of abode, occupation, object 
 of his journey, probable stay, and so on, to 
 the proper authorities. 
 
 Minna. Very well. 
 
 Landlord. Will your ladyship ^then be 
 BO good — 
 
 [Going to the table, and making 
 ready to write.] 
 
 Minna. Willingly. My name is — 
 
 Landlord. One minute! [He writes.] 
 "Date, 22d August, a.d., etc.; arrived at 
 the King of Spain Hotel." Now your 
 name, my lady. 
 
 Minna. Fraulein von Barnhehn. 
 
 Landlord [writes].' "Von Barnhehn." 
 Coming from — where, your ladyship? 
 
 Minna. From my estate in Saxony. 
 
 Landlord [writes]. "Estate in Saxony." 
 Saxony! Indeed, indeed! In Saxony, your 
 ladyship? Saxony? 
 
 Franziska. Well, why not? I hope it is 
 no sin in this coimtry to come from Saxony! 
 
 Landlord. A sin? Heaven forbid! 
 That would be quite a new sin! From Sax- 
 ony, then? Yes, yes, from Saxony, a de- 
 hghtful country, Saxony! But i I am 
 right, your ladyship. Saxony is not small, 
 and has several — how shall I call them? 
 — districts, provinces. Our police are very 
 particular, your ladyship. 
 
548 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Minna. I imderstand. From my estate 
 in Thuringia, then. 
 
 Landlobd. From Thuringia! Yes, that 
 is better, your ladyship; that is more exact. 
 [Writes and reads.] "Fraulein von Bam- 
 hehn, coming from her estate in Thuringia, 
 together with her lady in waiting and two 
 menservants." 
 
 Feanziska. Lady in waiting! That 
 means me, I suppose! 
 
 Landlord. Yes, my pretty maid. 
 
 Feanziska. Well, Mr. Landlord, in- 
 stead of "lady in waiting," write "maid in 
 waiting." You say, the police are very 
 exact; it might cause a misunderstandiiig, 
 which might give me trouble some day 
 when my barms are read out. For I really 
 am stUl unmarried, and my name is Fran- 
 ziska, with the family name of WUlig: 
 Franziska Willig. I also come from Thur- 
 ingia. My father was a miller, on one of 
 my lady's estates. It is caUed Little 
 Rammsdorf . My brother has the miU now. 
 I was taken very early to the manor, and 
 educated with my lady. We are of the 
 same age — one-and-twenty next Candle- 
 mas. I learned everything my lady learned. 
 I should like the police to have a full ac- 
 coimt of me. 
 
 Landloed. Quite right, my pretty 
 maid; I win bear that in mind, in case of 
 future inquiries. — But now, your lady- 
 ship, your business here? 
 
 Minna. My business here? 
 
 Landloed. Have you any business 
 with His Majesty the King? 
 
 Minna. Oh, no. 
 
 Landloed. Or at our courts of justice? 
 
 Minna. No. 
 
 Landlord. Or — 
 
 Minna. No, no. I have come here 
 solely on account of my own private affairs. 
 
 Landlord. Quite right, your ladyship; 
 but what are those private affairs? 
 
 Minna. They are — Franziska, I think 
 we are undergoing an examination. 
 
 Franziska. 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 
 especially secrets. 
 
 Feanzsika. What is to be done, my 
 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 
 teU him? 
 
 Franziska. We come to carry off an 
 officer from the king. 
 
 Landloed. How? What? My dear 
 girl! 
 
 Franziska. Or to let ourselves be 
 carried oS by the officer. It is all one. 
 
 Minna. Franziska, are you mad? The 
 saucy girl is laughing at you. 
 
 Landloed. I hope not! 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 under- 
 stand 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 ten mUes from here, 
 and did not wish that I should remain a 
 night longer on the road, so I had to come 
 on. I am sure he will not be more than 
 four-and-twenty hours after us. 
 
 Landlord. Very well, madam, we will 
 wait for him. 
 
 Minna. He wiU be able to answer your 
 questions better. He will know to whom, 
 and to what extent, he must give an ac- 
 count of himseK — what he must relate 
 respecting his affairs, and what he may 
 withhold. 
 
 Landloed. So much the better! In- 
 deed, one cannot expect a young girl [look- 
 ing at Franziska in a marked manner] to 
 treat a serious matter with serious people 
 in a serious manner. 
 
 Minna. And his rooms are in readiness, 
 I hope? 
 
 Landloed. Quite, your ladyship, quite; 
 except the one — 
 
 Franziska. Out of which, I suppose, 
 you will have to turn some other honorable 
 gentleman! 
 
 Landlord. The waiting maids of Sax- 
 ony, your ladyship, seem to be very com- 
 passionate. 
 
 Minna. In truth, sir, that was not well 
 done. You ought rather to have refused us. 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 549 
 
 Landloed. Why so, your ladyship, 
 why so? 
 
 Minna. I imderstand that the officer 
 who was driven out on our account — 
 
 Landlord. Is only a discharged officer, 
 your ladyship. 
 
 Minna. Well, what then? 
 
 Landlord. Who is ahnost done for. 
 
 Minna. So much the worse! He is said 
 to be a very deserving man. 
 
 Landlord. But I tell you he is dis- 
 charged. 
 
 Minna. The king cannot be acquainted 
 with every deserving man. 
 
 Landlord. Oh, doubtless he knows 
 them; he knows them all. 
 
 Minna. But he cannot reward them aU. 
 
 Landlord. They would have been re- 
 warded if they had hved so as to deserve 
 it. But they hved during the war as if it 
 would last forever; as if the words "yours" 
 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. I have come off 
 pretty well with this one. If he had no 
 more money, he had at any rate money's 
 worth; and I might, indeed, have let him 
 remain qiiiet two or three months longer. 
 However, it is better as it is. By the by, 
 your ladyship, you understand 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. There! Just look, 
 just look! [Taking the ring from its case, 
 and handing it to her.] What brilliancy! 
 The diamond in the middle alone weighs 
 more than five carats. 
 
 Minna \loohing at it]. Good Heavens! 
 What do I see? This ring — 
 
 Landlord. Is honestly worth fifteen 
 hundred thalers. 
 
 Minna. Pranziska! Look! 
 
 Landlord. I did not hesitate for a mo- 
 ment to advance eighty pistoles on it. 
 
 Minna. Do not you recognize it, 
 Franziska? 
 
 Franziska. The same! Where did you 
 get that ring, Mr. Landlord? 
 
 Landlord. Come, my girl! You surely 
 have no claim to it? 
 
 Franziska. We have no claim to this 
 ring! My mistress's monogram must be 
 on it, on the inner side of the setting. — 
 Look at it, my lady. 
 
 Minna. It is! It is! How did you get 
 this ring? 
 
 Landlord. I! In the most honorable 
 way in the world. You do not wish to 
 bring me into disgrace and trouble, your 
 ladyship! How do I know where the ring 
 properly belongs? During the war many 
 a thing often changed masters, both with 
 and without the knowledge of its owner. 
 War was war. Other rings wiU have crossed 
 the borders of Saxony. Give it me again, 
 your ladyship; give it me again! 
 
 Franziska. 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. From the best man under the 
 sun, if you have it from its owner. Bring 
 him here directly! It is himself, or, at any 
 rate, he must know him. 
 
 Landlord. Who? Who, your lady- 
 ship? 
 
 Franziska. 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 von TeUheim! 
 
 Landlord. Yes, Tellheim. Do you 
 know him? 
 
 Minna. Do I know him! He is here! 
 TeUheim here! He had this room! He! 
 He pledged this ring with you! What has 
 brought him into this embarrassment? 
 Where is he? Does he owe you anything? 
 ^Franziska, my desk here! Open it! 
 [Franziska puis it on the table and opens it.] 
 — What does he owe you? To whom else 
 does he owe anything? Bring me all his 
 creditors! Here is gold; here are notes. It 
 is all his! 
 
 Landlord. What is this? 
 
 Minna. Where is he? Where is he? 
 
 Landlord. An hour ago he was here. 
 
55° 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Minna. Detested man! How could 
 you act so rudely, so hardly, so cruelly 
 toward him? 
 
 Landlosd. Your ladyship must par- 
 don — 
 
 Minna. Quick! Bring him to me. 
 
 Landlord. His servant is perhaps still 
 here. Does your ladyship wish that he 
 should look for him? 
 
 Minna. Do I wish it? Begone, run! 
 For this service alone I will forget how 
 badly you have behaved to him. 
 
 Franziska. Now, then, quick, Mr. 
 Landlord! Be off! Fly! Fly! 
 
 [Pushes him out.] 
 
 Minna. Now I have found him again, 
 Franziska! Do you hear? Now I have 
 found him again! I scarcely know where I 
 am for joy! Rejoice with me, Franziska. 
 But why should you? And yet you shall; 
 you must rejoice with me. Come, I will 
 make you a present, that you may be able 
 to rejoice with me. Say, Franziska, what 
 shall I give you? Which of my things 
 would please you? What would you hke? 
 Take what you will; only rejoice with me. 
 I see you will take nothing. Stop! [Thrusts 
 her hand into the desk.] There, Franziska 
 [gives her money], buy yourself what you 
 like. Ask for more, if it be not sufficient; 
 but rejoice with me you must. It is so 
 melancholy to be happy alone! There, 
 take it, then. 
 
 Franziska. 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 [forcing 
 money into her hand] — and if you thank 
 me — Stay, it is well that I think of it. 
 [Takes more money from the desk.] Put that 
 aside, Franziska, for the first poor wounded 
 soldier who accosts us. 
 
 [Enter Landlord.] 
 
 Well, is he coming? 
 
 Landlord. The cross, unmannered fel- 
 low! 
 
 Minna. Who? 
 
 Landlord. His servant. He refuses to 
 go for him. 
 
 Franziska. Bring the rascal here, then. 
 
 I know all the Major's servants. Which of 
 them was it? 
 
 Minna. Bring him here directly. When 
 he sees us he will go fast enough. 
 
 [Exit Landlord.] 
 
 I cannot bear this delay. But, Fran- 
 ziska, how cold you are still! Why will 
 you not share my joy with me? 
 
 Franziska. I would from my heart, if 
 only — 
 
 Minna. If only what? 
 
 Franziska. We have foimd him again. 
 But how have we found him? From all we 
 hear, it must go badly with him. He must 
 be unfortunate. That distresses me. 
 
 Minna. Distresses you! Let me em- 
 brace you for that, my dear playiiia,te\ I 
 shall never forget this of you. I am only in 
 love, you are good. 
 
 [Enter Landlord and Just.] 
 
 Landlord. With great difficulty I have 
 brought him. 
 
 Franziska. A strange face! I do not 
 know him. 
 
 Minna. Friend, do you live with Major 
 von Tellheim? 
 
 Just. Yes. 
 
 Minna. Where is your master? 
 
 Just. Not here. 
 
 Minna. But you could find him? 
 
 Just. Yes. 
 
 Minna. Will you fetch him quickly? 
 
 Just. No. 
 
 Minna. You will be doing me a favor. 
 
 Just. Indeed! 
 
 Minna. And your master a service. 
 
 Just. Perhaps not. 
 
 Minna. Why do you suppose that? 
 
 Just. You are the strange lady who sent 
 your compliments to him this morning, I 
 think? 
 
 Minna. Yes. 
 
 Just. Then I am right. 
 
 Minna. Does your master know my 
 name? 
 
 Just. No; but he likes over-civil ladies 
 as Mttle as over-uncivil landlords. 
 
 Landlord. That is meant for me, I 
 suppose? 
 
 Just. Yes. 
 
 Landlord. Well, do not let the lady 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 S5I 
 
 siiffer for it then; but bring him here 
 directly. 
 
 Minna [to Franziska]. Franziska, give 
 him something — 
 
 Franziska [trying to put some money 
 into Just's hand\. We do not require your 
 services for nothing. 
 
 Just. Nor I your money without serv- 
 ices. 
 
 Franziska. One in return for the other. 
 
 Just. I cannot. My master has ordered 
 me to pack up. That I am now about, and 
 I beg you not to hinder me further. When 
 I have finished, I will take care to tell him 
 that he may come here. He is close by, at 
 the coffee-house; and if he finds nothing 
 better to do there, I suppose he will come. 
 
 [Going.] 
 
 Franziska. Wait a moment! My lady 
 is the Major's — sister. 
 
 Minna. Yes, yes, his sister. 
 
 Just. I know better; the Major has not 
 a sister. He has sent me twice in six 
 months to his family in Courland. It is 
 true there are different sorts of sisters — , 
 
 Franziska. Insolent! 
 
 Just. One must be so to get the people 
 to let one alone. [Exit.] 
 
 Franziska. That is a rascal! 
 
 Landlord. So I said. But let him go! 
 I know now where his master is. I will 
 fetch him instantly myself. I only beg your 
 ladyship, most humbly, that you will make 
 an excuse for me to the Major, that I have 
 been so unfortunate as to offend a man of 
 his merit against my will. 
 
 Minna. Pray go quickly. I will set all 
 that right again. [Exit Landlord.] — 
 Franziska, run after, him, and tell him not 
 to mention my name! [£ot< Franziska.] — 
 Ij have found him again ! — Am jl alone? 
 — I will not be alone to no purpose. 
 [Clagping her hands.] Yet I am not alone! 
 [Looking upward.] One single grateful 
 thought toward Heaven is the most perfect 
 prayer! I have found him! [With out- 
 stretched arms.] I am joyful and happy! 
 What can please the Creator more than a 
 joyful creature! [Franziska returns.] 
 Have you returned, Franziska? You pity 
 him! I do not pity him. Misfortune too is 
 useful. Perhaps Heaven deprived him of 
 
 eversrthing — to give him all again, 
 through me I 
 
 Franziska. He may be here any mo- 
 ment. — You are still in your morning 
 dress, my lady. Ought you not to dress 
 yourself quickly? 
 
 Minna. Not at all. He will now see me 
 more frequently so than dressed out. 
 
 Franziska. Oh! You know, my lady, 
 how you look best. 
 
 Minna [after a pause]. Truly, girl, you 
 have hit it again. 
 
 Franziska. I think women who are 
 beautiful are most so when unadorned. 
 
 Minna. Must we then be beautiful? 
 Perhaps it is necessary that we should 
 think ourselves so. Enough for me if only 
 I am beautiful in his eyes. Franziska, if^ 
 all women feel as I now feel, we are — 
 strange things. Tender-hearted, yet proud; 
 virtuous, yet vain; passionate, yet inno- 
 cent. I daxe say you do not understand 
 me. I do not rightly understand myself. 
 Joy tu ns my head. 
 
 Franziska. Compose yourself, my lady. 
 I hear footsteps. 
 
 Minna. Compose myself! What! re- 
 ceive him composedly? 
 
 [Enter Major von Tellheim and Land- 
 lord.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim [walks in, andihe 
 moment he sees Minna rushes toward her]. 
 Ah' my Minna! 
 
 Minna [springing toward him]. Ah! my 
 Tellheim! 
 
 Major von Tellheim [starts suddenly, 
 and draws back]. I beg your pardon, Frau- 
 lein von Bamhehn; but to meet you here — 
 
 Minna. Cannot surely be so very unex- 
 pected! [Approaching him, while he draws 
 back still more.] Am I to pardon you be- 
 cause I am stiU your Minna? Heaven 
 pardon you, that I am still Fraulein von 
 Bamhehn! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Fraulein — 
 
 [Looks fixedly at the Landlord, 
 and shrugs his shoulders.] 
 
 Minna [seeing the Landlord, and mak- 
 ing a sign to Franziska]. Sir — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. If we are not 
 both mistaken — 
 
5S2 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Fhanziska. Why, Landlord, whom have 
 you brought us here? Come, quick, let us 
 go and look for the right man. 
 
 Landlokd. Is he not the right one? 
 Surely! 
 
 Franziska. Surely not! Come, quick! 
 I have not yet wished your daughter good- 
 morning. 
 
 Landlord. Oh! you are very good. 
 
 [Still does not stir.] 
 
 Franziska [taking hold of him]. Come, 
 and we wiU make the bill of fare. Let us 
 see what we shall have. 
 
 Landlord. You shall have first of all — 
 
 Franziska. Stop, I say, stop! If my 
 
 mistress knows now what she is to have for 
 
 dinner, it will be aU over with her appetite. 
 
 Come, we must talk that over in private. 
 
 [Drags h m off.] 
 
 Minna. Well, are we stiU both mis- 
 taken? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Would to 
 Heaven it were so! — 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 Tellheim. You here? 
 What do you want here, madam? 
 
 Minna. Nothing now. [Going to him 
 vnth open arms.] I have found all that I 
 wanted. 
 r~ Major von Tellheim [draioing back]. 
 You seek a prosperous man, and one worthy 
 of yom: love; and you find — a wretched 
 one. 
 
 Minna. Then do you love me no longer? 
 Do you love another? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Ah! He never 
 loved you, who could love another after- 
 ward. 
 
 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 nothing! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Right; the 
 wretched must love nothing. He merits 
 his misfortunes, if he cannot achieve this 
 victory over himself — if he can allow the 
 
 woman he loves to take part in his misfor- 
 tune — Oh! how difiicult is this victory! 
 — Since reason and necessity have com- 
 manded me to forget Minna von Bam- 
 hehn, what pains have I taken! I was just 
 beginning to hope that my trouble would 
 not f or^jrer be in vain — and you appear. 
 
 Minna. Do I understand you right? 
 Stop, sir! Let us see what we mean, before 
 we make further mistakes. WiU you answer 
 me one question? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Any one. 
 
 Minna. But will you answer me with- 
 out shift or subterfuge? With nothing but 
 a plain "Yes," or "No"? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. I wiU — if I 
 can. 
 
 Minna. You can. Well, notwithstand- 
 ing the pains that you have taken to forget 
 me, do you love me still, Tellheim? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Madam, that 
 question — 
 
 Minna. You have promised to answer 
 Yes, or No. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. And added, if I 
 can. 
 
 Minna. You can. You must know 
 what passes in your heart. Do you love 
 me still, Tellheim? Yes, or No? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. If my heart — 
 
 Minna. Yes, or No? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. WeU, yes! 
 
 Minna. Yes? 
 
 Major VON Tellheim. Yes, yes! Yet — 
 
 Minna. Patience! You love me stUl; 
 that is enough for me. Into what a mood 
 have we fallen! — an unpleasant, melan- 
 choly, infectious mood! I sissume 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, foohsh thing your Minna was — is. 
 She allowed — allows herself, to imagine 
 that she makes your whole happiness. De- 
 clare aU your misery at once. She would 
 like to try how far she can outweigh it. — 
 WeU? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Madam, I am 
 not accustomed to complain. 
 
 Minna. Very well. I know nothing in a 
 soldier, after boasting, that pleases me less 
 than complaining. But there is a certain 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 SS3 
 
 cold, careless way of speaking of bravery 
 and misfortune — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Which at the 
 bottom is stUl boasting and complaining. 
 
 Minna. You disputant! You should 
 not have called yourself unhappy at aU, 
 then. You should have told the whole, or 
 kept quiet. Reason and necessity com- 
 manded you to forget me? I am a great 
 stickler for reason; I have a great respect 
 for necessity. But let me hear how reason- 
 able this reason, and how necessary this 
 necessity may be. 
 
 Major von Tellhbim. Listen then, 
 madam. You call me TeUheim; the name 
 is correct. But you suppose I am that Tell- 
 heim whom you knew at home; the pros- 
 perous man, fuU of just pretensions, with 
 a thirst for glory; the master of all his 
 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 TeUheim I am now, as 
 little as I am my own father. They both 
 have been. Now I am TeUheim 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? 
 
 Minna. That sounds very tragic. — 
 Yet, Major TeUheim, until I find the former 
 one again — I am quite foolish about the 
 Tellheims — the latter wiU have to help 
 me in my dilemma. Your hand, dear 
 beggar! [Taking his hand.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim [holding his hat 
 before his face with the other hand, and turn- 
 ing away from her]. This is too much! — 
 What am I? — Let me go, madam. Your 
 kiidness tortures me! Let me go. 
 
 ^iNNA. What is the matter? Where 
 wduld you go? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. From you! 
 
 Minna. From me? [Drawing his hand 
 to her heart.] Dreamer! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Despair wiU lay 
 me dead at your feet. 
 
 Minna. From me? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. From you. 
 Never, never to see you again. Or at least 
 
 determined, fuUy determined, never to be 
 guilty of a mean action; never to cause you 
 to commit an imprudent one. Let me go, 
 Minna. [Tears himself away, and exit.] 
 
 Minna [calling after him]. Let you go, 
 Minna? Minna, let you go? TeUheim! 
 TeUheim! 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene: The Parlor. 
 [Enter Just, with a letter in his hand.] 
 
 Just. Must I come again into this 
 cursed house! A note from my master to 
 her ladyship that would be his sister. I 
 hope nothing wiU come of this, or else 
 there will be no end to letter-carrying. I 
 should like to be rid of it; but yet I don't 
 wish to go into the room. The women ask 
 so many questions, and I hate answering. 
 — Ah, the door opens. Just what I wanted, 
 the waiting puss! 
 
 Fhanziska [calling through the door by 
 which she has just entered]. Fear not; I wUI 
 watch. [Observing Just.] See! I have met 
 with something immediately. But nothing 
 is to be done with that brute. 
 
 Just. Your servant. 
 
 Franziska. I should not like such a 
 servant. 
 
 Just. WeU, weU, pardon the expression! 
 There is a note from my master to your 
 mistress — her ladyship — his sister, 
 was n't it? — sister. 
 
 Franziska. Give it me! 
 
 [Snatches it from his hand.] 
 
 Just. You wUl be so good, my master 
 begs, as to deliver it. Afterward you wiQ 
 be so good, my master begs, as not to think 
 I ask for anything! 
 
 Franziska. WeU? 
 
 Just. My master imderstands how to 
 manage the affair. He knows that the way 
 to the young lady is through her maid, me- 
 thinks. The maid wiU therefore be so 
 good, my master begs, as to let him know 
 whether he may not have the pleasure of 
 speaking with the maid for a quarter of an 
 hour. 
 
 Franziska. With me? 
 
 Just. Pardon me, if I do not give you 
 your right title. Yes, with you. Only for 
 
SS4 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 one quarter of an hour; but alone, quite 
 alone, in private, tSte-Srt§te. He has some- 
 thing very particular to say to you. 
 
 Franziska. Very well! I have also 
 much to say to him. He may come; I shall 
 be at his service. 
 
 . Just. But when can he come? When is 
 it most convenient for you, young woman? 
 In the evening? 
 
 Franziska. What do you mean? Your 
 master can come when he pleases; and now 
 be off. 
 
 Just. Most willingly! [Going.] 
 
 Franziska. I say! — one word more! 
 Where are the rest of the Major's servants? 
 
 Just. The rest? Here, there, and every- 
 where. 
 
 Franziska. Where is WiUiam? 
 
 Just. The valet? He has let him go for 
 a trip. 
 
 Franziska. Oh! — and Philip, where is 
 he? 
 
 Just. The huntsman? Master has 
 found him a good place. 
 
 Franziska. Because he does not hunt 
 now, of course. But Martin? 
 
 Just. The coachman? He is off on a 
 ride. 
 
 Franziska. And Fritz? 
 
 Just. The footman? He is promoted. 
 
 Franziska. Where were you, then, 
 when the Major was quartered in Thur- 
 ingia with us that winter? You were not 
 with him, I suppose! 
 
 Just. Oh, yes, I was groom; but I was 
 in the hospital. 
 
 Franziska. Groom! and now you are — 
 
 Just. AU in all; valet and huntsman, 
 footman and groom. 
 
 Franziska. Well, I never! To turn 
 away so many good, excellent servants, and 
 to lieep the very worst of aU! I should like 
 to know what your master finds in you! 
 
 Just. Perhaps he finds that I am an 
 honest fellow. 
 
 Franziska. Oh! One is precious httle 
 if one is nothing more than honest. Wil- 
 liam was another sort of a man! So your 
 master has let liim go for a trip? 
 
 Just. Yes, he — let him — because he 
 could not prevent him. 
 
 Franziska. How bo? 
 
 Just. Oh! WiUiam will do well on his 
 travels. He took master's wardrobe with 
 him. 
 
 Franziska. What! He did not run 
 away with it? 
 
 Just. I cannot say that exactly; but 
 when we left Niimberg, he did not foUow us 
 with it. 
 
 Franziska. Oh, the rascal! 
 
 Just. He was the right sort! He could 
 curl hair and shave — and chatter — and 
 flirt — could n't he? 
 
 Franziska. At any rate, I would not 
 have turned away the huntsman, had I 
 been in the Major's place. If he did not 
 want him any longer as himtsman, he was 
 stiU a useful fellow. Where has he found 
 him a place? 
 
 Just. With the Commandant of Span- 
 dau. 
 
 Franziska. The fortress! There can- 
 not be much hunting within the walls 
 either. 
 
 Just. Oh! Philip does not hunt there. 
 
 Franziska. What does he do then? 
 
 Just. He rides — on the treadmill. 
 
 Franziska. 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. 
 
 Franziska. I am astonished ; the faiave ! 
 
 Just. Ah, he was a useful fellow; a 
 huntsman who knew all the footpaths and 
 byways for fifty miles round, through for- 
 ests and bogs. And he could shoot! 
 
 Franziska. It is lucky the Major has 
 still got the honest coachman. 
 
 Just. Has he got him still? 
 
 Franziska. I thought you said Martin 
 was off on a ride: of course he will come 
 back! 
 
 Just. Do you think so? 
 
 Franziska. Well, where has he riddten 
 to? 
 
 Just. It is now going on for ten weeks 
 since he rode master's last and only horse 
 — to water. 
 
 Franziska. And has not he come back 
 yet? Oh, the rascal! 
 
 Just. The water may have washed the 
 honest coachman away. Oh, he was a fa- 
 mous cqachman! He had driven ten years 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 555 
 
 in Vienna. My master will never get such 
 another again. When the horses were in 
 full gallop, he only had to say "Whoa!" 
 and there they stood, like a wall. More- 
 over, he was a finished horse-doctor! 
 
 Franziska. I begin now to be anxious 
 about the footman's promotion. ' 
 
 Just. No, no; there is no occasion for 
 that. He has become a drummer in a gar- 
 rison regiment. 
 
 Franziska. I thought as much! 
 
 Just. Fritz chmnmed up with a scamp, 
 never came home at night, made debts 
 everywhere in master's name, and a thou- 
 sand rascally tricks. In short, the Major 
 saw that he was determined to rise in the 
 world [pantomimically imitating the act of 
 hanging], so he put hiTn in the right road. 
 
 Fbanziska. Oh, the stupid! 
 
 Just. Yet a perfect footman, there is no 
 doubt of that. In runnng, my master 
 could not catch him on his best horse if he 
 gave him fifty paces; but on the other hand, 
 Fritz could give the gaUows a thousand 
 paces, and, I bet my hfe, he would over- 
 haul it. They were all great friends of 
 yours, eh, young woman? — William and 
 'Philip, Martin and Fritz! Now, Just 
 wishes you good-day. [Exit.] 
 
 Franziska [looking after him serioiisly]. 
 I deserve the hit! Thank you, Just. I 
 imdervalued honesty. I will not forget the 
 lesson. Ah, our unfortunate Major! 
 
 [Turns round to enter her mistress's 
 room, when the Landlord 
 comes.] 
 
 Landlord. Wait a bit, my pretty maid. 
 
 Franziska. I have not time now, Mr. 
 Landlord. 
 
 Landlord. Only half a moment! No 
 further tidings of the Major? That surely 
 could not possibly be his leave-taking! 
 
 Franziska. What could not? 
 
 Landlord. Has not her ladyship told 
 you? When I left you, my pretty maid, 
 below in the kitchen, I returned acciden- 
 tally into this room — 
 
 Franziska. Accidentally — with a view 
 to hsten a httle. 
 
 Landlord. What, girl! How can you 
 suspect me of that? There is nothing so 
 bad in a landlord as curiosity. I had not 
 
 been here long, when suddenly her lady- 
 ship's door burst open: the Major dashed 
 out; the lady after him; both in such a state 
 of excitement; with looks — in attitudes — 
 that must be seen to be understood. 
 She seized hold of him; he tore him- 
 self away; she seized him again — "TeU- 
 heim." "Let me go, madam." "Where?" 
 Thus he drew her as far as the staircase. 
 I was really afraid he would drag her down; 
 but he got away. The lady remained on 
 the top step; looked after him; called after 
 him; wrung her hands. Suddenly 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- 
 fend us ! I believe the lady took me for you. 
 "Franziska," she cried, with her eyes fixed 
 upon me, "am I happy now?" Then she 
 looked straight up to the ceihng, and said 
 again, "Am I happy now?" Then she 
 wiped the tears from her eyes, and smiled, 
 and asked me again, "Franziska, am I 
 happy now?" I really felt, I know not 
 how. Then she ran to the door of her room, 
 and turned round again toward me, say- 
 ing, "Come, Franziska, whom do you pity 
 now?" And with that she went in. 
 
 Franziska. Oh! Mr. Landlord, you 
 dreamed that. 
 
 Landlord. Dreamed! No, my pretty 
 maid; one does not dream so minutely. 
 Yes, what would not I give — I am not 
 curious: but what would not I give — to 
 have the key to it! 
 
 Franziska. The key? Of our door? Mr. 
 Landlord, that is inside; we take it in at 
 night; we are timid. 
 
 Landlord. Not that sort of key; I 
 mean, my dear girl, the key — the ex- 
 planation, as it were; the precise connection 
 of all that I have seen. 
 
 Franziska. Indeed! Well, good-bye, 
 Mr. Landlord. Shall we have dinner 
 soon? 
 
 Landlord. My dear girl, not to forget 
 what I came to say — 
 
 Franziska. Well? In as few words as 
 possible. 
 
SS6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Landlord. Her ladyship has my ring 
 still. I call it mine — 
 
 Fbanziska. You shall not lose it. 
 
 Landlord. I have no fear on that ac- 
 count: I merely put you in mind. Do you 
 see, I do not wish to have it again at all. I 
 can guess pretty well how she knew the 
 ring, and why it was so like her own. It 
 is best in her hands. I do not want it any 
 more; and I can put them down — the 
 hundred pistoles which I advanced for it, 
 to the lady's bill. Will not that do, my 
 pretty maid? 
 
 [Enter Paul Wbknee.] 
 
 Werner. There he is! 
 
 Franziska. a hundred pistoles? I 
 thought it was only eighty. 
 
 Landlord. True, only ninety, only 
 ninety. I will do so, my pretty maid, I will 
 do so. 
 
 Franziska. AU that will come right, 
 Mr. Landlord. 
 
 Werner [coming from behind, and tap- 
 ping Franziska on the shoulder]. Little 
 woman — little woman. 
 
 Franziska [frightened]. Oh! -dear! 
 
 Werner. Don't be alarmed! I see you 
 are pretty, and a stranger, too. And 
 strangers who are pretty must be warned. 
 Little woman! Little woman! I advise you 
 to beware of that fellow! 
 
 [Pointing to the Landlord.] 
 
 Landlord. Ah! What an unexpected 
 pleasure! Herr Werner! Welcome, wel- 
 come! Yes, you are just the same jovial, 
 joking, honest Werner! — So you are to 
 beware of me, my pretty maid. Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Werner. Keep out of his way every- 
 where! 
 
 Landlord. My way? Am I such a 
 dangerous man? Ha, ha, ha! — Hear him, 
 my pretty maid! A good joke, is n't it? 
 
 Werner. People like him always call it 
 a joke, if one tells them the truth. 
 
 Landlord. The truth. Ha, ha, ha! 
 Better and better, my pretty maid, is n't 
 it? He knows how to joke! I dangerous? 
 I? Twenty years ago there might have 
 been something in it. Yes, yes, my pretty 
 maid, then I was a dangerous man; many 
 a one knew it; but now — 
 
 Werner. Oh, the old fool! 
 
 Landlord. There it is! When we get 
 old, danger is at an end! It wiU be so with 
 you too, Herr Werner! ' 
 
 Werner. You utter old fool! — Little 
 woman, you wiU give me credit for enough 
 common sense not to speak of danger from 
 him. That one devil has left him, but 
 seven others have entered into him. 
 
 Landlord. Oh, hear him! How cleverly 
 he can turn things about! Joke upon joke, 
 and always something new! Ah, he is an 
 excellent man, Paul Werner is. [To Fran- 
 ziska, as if whispering.] A well-to-do man, 
 and a bachelor still. He has a nice httle 
 freehold three miles from here. He made 
 prize-money in the war, and was a sergeant 
 to the Major. Yes, he is a real friend of the 
 Major's; he is a friend who would give his 
 life for him. 
 
 Werner. Yes. [Pointing to the Land- 
 lord.] And that is a friend of the Major's 
 — that is a friend — whose life the Major 
 ought to take. 
 
 Landlord. How! What! No, Herr 
 Werner, that is not a good joke. I no friend 
 of the Major! I don't understand that 
 joke. 
 
 Werner. Just has told me pretty 
 things. 
 
 Landlord. Just! Ah! I thought Just 
 was speaking through you. Just is a nasty, 
 ill-natured man. But here on the spot 
 stands a pretty maid — she can speak, she 
 can say if I am no friend of the Major's — 
 if I have not done him good service. And 
 why should not I be his friend? Is not he 
 a deserving 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. 
 
 Werner. Heaven put those words into 
 your mouth. But Just — certainly there 
 is nothing remarkable about Just, l3ut stiU 
 Just is no liar; and if what he has told me 
 be true — 
 
 Landlord. I don't want to hear any- 
 thing about Just. As I said, this pretty 
 maid here can speak. [Whispering to her.] 
 You know, my dear; the ring! TeU Herr 
 Werner about it. Then he wiU learn better 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 SS7 
 
 what I am. And that it may not appear as 
 if she only said what I wish, I will not even 
 be present. — I wOl go; but you shaU teU 
 me after, Herr Werner, you shall tell me, 
 whether Just is not a foul slanderer. 
 
 [Erit] 
 
 Werneb. Little woman, do you know 
 my Major? 
 
 Franziska. Major von Tellheim? Yes, 
 indeed, I do know that good man. 
 
 Weenee. Is he not a good man? Do 
 you Uke him? 
 
 Feanziska. From the bottom of my 
 heart. 
 
 Weener. Indeed! I tell you what, 
 little woman, you are twice as pretty now 
 as you were before. But what are the serv- 
 ices which the Landlord says he has ren- 
 dered our Major? 
 
 Feanziska. 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. 
 
 Webistee. Then what Just told me is 
 true? [Toward the- side where the Land- 
 IjOED went off.] A lucky thing for you that 
 you are gone! He did reaUy turn him out 
 of his room? — To treat such a man so, 
 because the donkey fancied that he had 
 no more money! The Major no money! 
 
 Feanziska. What! Has the Major any 
 money? 
 
 Werner. By the load. He does n't 
 know how much he has. He does n't know 
 who is in his debt. I am his debtor, and 
 have brought him some old arrears. Look, 
 little woman, in this purse [dravnng it out 
 of one pocket] are a hundred louis d'ors; 
 and in this packet [drawing it out of another 
 pocket] a hundred ducats. AH his money! 
 
 Franziska. ReaUy! Why, then, does 
 the Major pawn his things? He pledged a 
 ring, you know — 
 
 Werner. Pledged! Don't you believe 
 it. Perhaps he wanted to get rid of the 
 rubbish. 
 
 Franziska. It is no rubbish; it is a very 
 valuable ring; which, moreover, I suspect, 
 he received from a loving hand. 
 
 Werner, That wiU be the reason. 
 From a loving hand! Yes, yes; such a 
 thing often puts one in mind of what one 
 
 does not wish to remember, and therefore 
 one gets rid of it. 
 
 Franziska. 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 acquaintances, 
 which he only intends for the winter, but 
 which the good soul with whom he makes 
 them, looks upon for hfe. Then, presto! a 
 ring is suddenly conjured on to his finger; 
 he hardly knows himself how it gets there; 
 and very often he would w illin gly give the 
 finger with it, if he could only get free from 
 it again. 
 
 Feanziska. Oh! And do you think this 
 has happened to the Major? 
 
 Weenee. Undoubtedly. Especially in 
 Saxony. If he had had ten fingers on each 
 hand, he might have had aU twenty fuU of 
 rings. 
 
 Feanziska [aside]. That sounds im- 
 portant, and deserves to be inquired into. 
 Mr. Freeholder, or Mr. Sergeant — 
 
 Weenee. Little woman, if it makes no 
 difference to you, I like "Mr. Sergeant" 
 best. 
 
 Feanziska. Wdl, 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. WiU you be so good as- to wait? I 
 should like very much to have a little talk 
 with you. 
 
 Webnee. Are you fond of talking, little 
 woman? Well, with all my heart. Go 
 quickly. I am fond of talking too; I will 
 wait. 
 
 Franziska. Yes, please wait. [Exit.] 
 
 Weenee. That is not at all a bad Kttle 
 woman. But I ought not to have promised 
 her that I would wait, for it would be most 
 to the purpose, I suppose, to find the Major. 
 He will not have my money, but rather 
 pawns his property. That is just his way. 
 A Uttle trick occurs to me. When I was in 
 the town, a fortnight back, I paid a visit to 
 Captain Marloff's widow. The poor wo- 
 man was ill, and was lamenting that her 
 husband had died in debt to the Major for 
 four hundred thalers, which she did not 
 know how to pay. I went to see her again 
 to-day; I intended to teU her that I could 
 
SS8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 lend her five hundred thalers, when I had 
 received the money for my property; for 
 I must put some of it by, if I do not go to 
 Persia. But she was gone; and no doubt 
 she has not been able to pay the Major. 
 Yes, I 'U do that; and the sooner the better. 
 The little woman must not take it ill of me; 
 I cannot wait. 
 
 [Is going, thoughtfully, and almost 
 runs against the Major, who 
 meets him.] 
 
 Majoe von Telihbim. Why so thought- 
 ful, Werner? 
 
 Werner. Oh, that is you! I was just 
 going to pay you a visit in your new quar- 
 ters. Major. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. To fill my ears 
 with curses against the Landlord of my old 
 one. Do not remind me of it. 
 
 Werner. I should have done that by 
 the way; yes. But more particularly, I 
 wished to thank you for having been so 
 good as to take care of my hundred louis 
 d'ors. Just has given them to me again. 
 I should have been very glad if you would 
 have kept them longer for me. But you 
 have got into new quarters, which neither 
 you nor I know much about. Who knows 
 what sort of place it is? They might be 
 stolen, and you would have to make them 
 good to me; there would be no help for it. 
 So I cannot ask you to take them again. 
 
 Major von Tellheim [smiling]. When 
 did you begin to be so careful, Werner? 
 
 Werner. One learns to be so. One can- 
 not now be careful enough of one's money. 
 I have also a commission for you. Major, 
 from Frau Marloff; I have just come from 
 her. Her husband died four hundred 
 thalers in your debt; she sends you a hun- 
 dred ducats here, in part payment. She 
 wUl forward you the rest next week. I 
 beUeve I am the cause that she has not 
 sent you the whole sum. For she also 
 owed me about eighty thalers, and she 
 thought I was come to dun her for them — 
 which, perhaps, was the fact — so she 
 gave them me out of the roU which she had 
 put aside for you. You can spare your 
 hundred thalers for a week longer, better 
 than I can spare my few groschens. There, 
 take it! [Hands him the dveais.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Werner! 
 
 Werner. Well! Why do you stare at 
 me so? Take it. Major! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Werner! 
 
 Werner. What is the matter with you? 
 What annoys you? 
 
 Major von Tellheim [angrily striking 
 his forehead, and stamping with his foot]. 
 That — the four hundred thalers are not 
 all there. 
 
 Werner. Come! Major, did not you 
 understand me? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. It is because I 
 did understand you! Alas, that the best 
 men should to-day distress me most! 
 
 Werner. What do you say? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. This only ap- 
 plies partly to you. Go, Werner! 
 
 [Pushing back Werner's hand 
 with the money in it.] 
 
 Werner. As soon as I have got rid of 
 this. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Werner, suppose 
 I tell you that Frau Marloff was here her- 
 self early this morning' — 
 
 Werner. Indeed? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. That she owes 
 me nothing now — 
 
 Werner. Really? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. That she has 
 paid me every penny — What will you say 
 then? 
 
 Werner [thinks for a minute]. I shall 
 say that I have told a he, and that lying is 
 a low thing, because one may be caught 
 at it. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. And you wiU be 
 ashamed of yourself? 
 
 Werner. And what of him who com- 
 pels me to lie? Should not he be ashamed, 
 too? Look ye. Major; if I was to say that 
 your conduct has not vexed me, I should 
 tell another he, and I won't he any more. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Do not be an- 
 noyed, Werner. I know your heart, and 
 your affection for me. But I do not re- 
 quire your money. 
 
 Werner. Not require it! Rather sell, 
 rather pawn, and get talked about! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Oh! People 
 may know that I have nothing more. One 
 must not wish to appear richer than one ia. 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 559 
 
 Webneb. But why poorer? A man has 
 Bomething as long as his friend has. 
 
 Majoe von Tellheim. It is not proper 
 that I should be your debtor. 
 
 Webneb. Not proper! On that summer 
 day which the sun and the enemy made hot 
 for us, when your groom, who had your 
 canteen, was not to be found, and you 
 came to me and said, "Werner, have you 
 nothing to drink? " and I gave you my flask, 
 you took it and drank, did you not? Was 
 that proper? Upon my life, a mouthful of 
 dirty water at that time was often worth 
 more than such filth. [Talcing the purse 
 also out of Ms pocket, and holding out both 
 to him.] Take them, dear Major! Fancy 
 it is water. God has made this, too, for all. 
 
 Majob von Tellheim. You torment 
 me: don't you hear? I will not be your 
 debtor. 
 
 Wbbneb. At first, it was not proper; 
 now you wiU not. Ah! that is a different 
 thing. [Rather angrily.] You will not be 
 my debtor? But suppose you are already. 
 Major? Or, are you not a debtor to the 
 man who once warded off the blow that 
 was meant to split your head; and, at 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 less consequence than my money? 
 If that is a noble way of thinking, by my 
 soul, it is a very silly one, too! 
 
 Majob von Tellheim. 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 have 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? 
 
 Weeneb. If an opportunity occurred! 
 Who doubts it. Major? Have I not seen 
 you risk your life a hundred times for the 
 lowest soldier, when he was in danger? 
 
 Majob von Tellheim. Well! 
 
 Webneb. But — 
 
 Majoe von Tellheim. Why cannot you 
 understand me? I say, it is not proper that 
 I should be your debtor; I will not be your 
 
 debtor. That is, not in the circumstances 
 in which I now am. 
 
 Webneb. Oh, so you would wait till 
 better times! You will borrow money from 
 me another time, when you do not want 
 any; when you have some yourself, and I 
 perhaps none! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. A man ought 
 not to borrow, when he has not the means 
 of repaying. 
 
 Webneb. A man like yourself cannot 
 always be in want. 
 
 Majob von Tellheim. You know the 
 world — Least of all should a man borrow 
 from one who wants his money himself. 
 
 Webneb. Oh, yes; I am such a one! 
 Pray, what do I want it for? When they 
 want a sergeant, they give him enough to 
 live on. 
 
 Majob von Tellheim. You want it, to 
 become something more than a sergeant — 
 to be able to get forward in that path in 
 which even the most deserving, without 
 money, may remain behind. 
 
 Webneb. To become something more 
 than a sergeant! I do not think of that. I 
 am a good sergeant; I might easily make a 
 bad captain, and certainly a worse general. 
 
 Majob von Tellheim. Do not force 
 me to think iU of you, Werner! I was very 
 sorry to hear what Just has told me. (TouT 
 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 hviag 
 which is unfortunately connected with it. 
 A man should be a soldier for his own coun- 
 try, or from love of the cause for which he 
 fights. To serve without any purpose — 
 to-day here, to-morrow there — is only 
 traveling about like a butcher's apprentice, 
 nothing more. 
 
 Webneb. Well, then. Major, I will do 
 as you say. You know better what is right. 
 I wiU remain with you. But, dear Major, 
 do take my money in the mean time. 
 Sooner or later your affairs must be settled. 
 You wiU get money in plenty then; and 
 then you shall repay me with interest. I 
 only do it for the sake of the interest. 
 
 Majob von Tellheim. Do not talk of it. 
 
 Webneb. Upon my life, I only do it for 
 
56o 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 the sake of the interest. Many a time I 
 have thought to myself: "Werner, what 
 will become of you in your old age, when 
 you are crippled, when you will have noth- 
 ing in the world, when you will be obhged 
 to go and beg? " And then I thought again : 
 "No, you will not be obhged to beg; you 
 will go to Major TeUheim; he wiE share 
 his last penny with you; he will feed you 
 till you die; and with him you can die like 
 an honest fellow." 
 
 Major von Tbllheim [taking Weenee's 
 hand]. And, comrade, you do not think so 
 stiU? 
 
 Weenbr. No; I do not think so any 
 longer. He who will not take anything 
 from me, when he is in want, and I have 
 to give, wiU not give me anything when he 
 has to give, and I am in want. So be it. 
 
 [7s going.] 
 
 Major von Tbllheim. Man, do not 
 drive me mad! Where are you going? 
 [Detains him.] If I assure you now, upon 
 my honor, that I still have money — if I 
 assure you, upon my honor, that I will tell 
 you when I have no more — that you shall 
 be the first and only person from whom I 
 wiU borrow anything — wiU that content 
 you? 
 
 Werner. I suppose it must. Give me 
 your hand on it. Major. 
 
 Majoe von Tbllheim. There, Paul! 
 And now enough of that. I came here to 
 speak with a certain young woman. 
 
 Peanziska [entering]. Are you there 
 StiU, Mr. Sergeant? [Seeing Tellheim.] 
 And you there, too. Major? I wiU be at 
 your service instantly. 
 
 [Goes back quickly into the room.] 
 
 Majoe von Tellheim. That was she! 
 But it seems you know her, Werner. 
 
 Wbenee. Yes, I know her. 
 
 Major von Tbllheim. Yet, if I remem- 
 ber rightly, when I was in Thui'ingia you 
 were not with me. 
 
 Werner. No; I was seeing after the 
 uniforms in Leipzig. 
 
 Majoe von Tbllheim. Where did you 
 make her acquaintance, then? 
 
 Webnee. Our acquaintance is very 
 young. Not a day old. But young friend- 
 ship is warm. 
 
 Majoe von Tellheim. Have you seen 
 her mistress, too? 
 
 Weenee. Is her mistress a young lady? 
 She told me you are acquainted with her 
 mistress. 
 
 Major von Tbllheim. Did not you 
 hear? She comes from Thuringia. 
 
 Weenee. Is the lady young? 
 
 Majoe von Tellheim. Yes. 
 
 Weenee. Pretty? 
 
 Majoe von Tbllheim. Very pretty. 
 
 Weenee. Rich? 
 
 Major von Tbllheim. Very rich. 
 
 Werndr. Is the mistress as fond of you 
 as the maid is? That would be capital! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. What do you 
 mean? 
 
 Franziska [entering with a letter in her 
 hand]. Major — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Franziska, I 
 have not yet been able to give you a "Wel- 
 come" here. 
 
 Franziska. In thought, I am sure that 
 you have done it. I know you are friendly 
 to me; so am I to you. But it is not at aU 
 kind to vex those who are friendly to you 
 so much. 
 
 Weenee [aside]. Ah, now I see it! It is 
 so! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. My destiny, 
 Franziska! Did you give her the letter? 
 
 Franziska. Yes; and here I bring you — 
 [Holding out a letter.] 
 
 Major von Tbllheim. An answer! 
 
 Franziska. No, your own letter again. 
 
 Major von Tbllheim. What! She wUl 
 not read it! 
 
 Franziska. She would have liked, but 
 — we can't read writing weU. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. You are joking! 
 
 Franziska. And we think that writing 
 was not invented for those who can con- 
 verse with their Ups whenever they please. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. What an ex- 
 cuse! She must read it. It contains my 
 justification — aU the grounds and rea- 
 sons — 
 
 Franziska. My mistress wishes to hear 
 them aU from you yourself, not to read 
 them. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Hear them from 
 me myself! That every look, every word 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 S6i 
 
 of hers, may embarrass me; that I may- 
 feel in every glance the greatness of my 
 loss. 
 
 Franziska. Without any pity! Take it. 
 [Giving him his letter.] She expects you at 
 three o'clock. She wishes to drive out and 
 see the town; you must accompany her. 
 
 Majoe von Tellheim. Accompany 
 her! 
 
 Fbanziska. And what will you give me 
 to let you drive out by yourselves? I shaJl 
 remain at home. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. By ourselves! 
 
 Fkanziska. In a nice close carriage. 
 
 Major von Teliheim. Impossible! 
 
 Franziska. Yes, yes, in the carriage, 
 Major. You will have to submit quietly; 
 you cannot escape there! And that is the 
 reason. In short, you will come, Major, 
 and punctually at three — [Looking at 
 Werner.] Well, you wanted to speak to 
 me, too, alone. What have you to say to 
 me? Oh, we are not alone. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Yes, Franziska; 
 as good as alone. But as your mistress has 
 not read my letter, I have nothing now to 
 say to you. 
 
 Franziska. As good as alone! Then 
 you have no secrets from the Sergeant? 
 
 Major von TelijHeim. No, none. 
 
 Franziska. And yet I think you should 
 have some from him. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Why so? 
 
 Werner. How so, httle woman? 
 
 Franziska. Particularly secrets of a 
 certain kind — All twenty, Mr. Sergeant? 
 [Holding up both her hands, loith 
 open fingers.] 
 
 Werner. Hist! Hist! Girl! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. What is the 
 meaning of that? 
 
 Franziska. Presto! — conjured on to 
 his finger, Mr. Sergeant. 
 
 [As if she was putting a ring on her 
 finger.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim. What are you 
 talking about? 
 
 Werner. Little woman, httle woman, 
 don't you understand a joke? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Werner, you 
 have not forgotten, I hope, what I have 
 often told you: that one should not jest 
 
 beyond a certain point with a young 
 woman! 
 
 Werner. Upon my life I may have for- 
 gotten it! — Little woman, I beg — 
 
 Franziska. Well, if it was a joke, I will 
 forgive you this once. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Well, if I must 
 come, Franziska, see that your mistress 
 reads my letter beforehand? That wiU 
 spare me the pain of thinking again — of 
 talking again, of things which I would will- 
 ingly forget. There, give it to her! [He 
 turns the letter in giving it to her, and sees 
 that it has been opened.] But do I see aright? 
 Why, it has been opened! 
 
 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 teU you what, Major! Don't 
 come as you are now — in boots, and with 
 such a head. You are excusable, you do 
 not expect us. Come in shoes, and have 
 your hair fresh dressed. You look too 
 soldierlike, too Prussian for me as you are. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Thank you, 
 Franziska. 
 
 Franziska. You look as if you had 
 been bivouacking last night. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. You may have 
 guessed right. 
 
 Franziska. We are going to dress, di- 
 rectly, too, and then have dinner. We 
 would willingly ask you to dinner, but 
 your presence might hinder our eating; 
 and observe, we are not so much in love 
 that we have lost our appetites. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. I wiU go. Pre- 
 pare her somewhat, Franziska, beforehand, 
 that I may not become contemptible in her 
 eyes, and in my own. — Come, Werner, 
 you shall dine with me. 
 
 Werner. At the table d'h6te here in 
 the house? I could not eat a bit there. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. With me, in my 
 room. 
 
 Werner. I will follow you directly. 
 One word first with the little woman. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. I have no ob- 
 jection to that. [Exit.] 
 
 Franziska. Well, Mr. Sergeant! 
 
562 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Webnbk. Little woman, if I come again, 
 ehall I too come smartened up a bit? 
 
 Franziska. Come as you please; my 
 eyes will find no fault with you. But my 
 ears will have to be so much the more on 
 their guard. Twenty fingers, all fuU of 
 rings. Ah! Ah! Mr. Sergeant! 
 
 Webker. No, little woman; that is just 
 what I wished to say to you. I only rattled 
 on a little. There is nothing in it. One ring 
 is quite enough for a man. Hundreds and 
 hundreds of times I have heard the Major 
 say, "He must be a rascally soldier who 
 can mislead a young girl." So think I, too, 
 little woman. You may trust to that! I 
 must be quick and follow him. A good 
 appetite to you! [Exit.] 
 
 Franziska. The same to you! I really 
 beheve I lilce that man! 
 
 [Going in, she meets Minna com- 
 ing out.] 
 Minna. Has the Major gone already, 
 Franziska? I beheve I should have been 
 sufficiently composed again now to have 
 detained him here. 
 
 Franziska. And I will make you stUl 
 more composed. 
 
 Minna. So much the better! His letter! 
 Oh, his letter! Each line spoke the honor- 
 able, noble man. Each refusal to accept 
 my hand declared his love for me. I sup- 
 pose he noticed that we had read his letter. 
 I don't mind that, if he does but come. 
 But are you sure he will come? There only 
 seems to me to be a httle too much pride 
 i in his conduct. For not to be willing to be 
 ; indebted for his good fortune, even to the 
 woman he loves, is pride, unpardonable 
 i pride! If he shows me too much of this, 
 i Franziska — 
 
 Franziska. You will discard him! 
 
 I Minna. See there! Do you begin to 
 
 pity him again already? No, siUy girl, a 
 
 \ man is never discarded for a single fault. 
 
 \ No; but I have thought of a trick — to 
 
 I pay him off a little for this pride, with 
 
 ) pride of the same kind. 
 
 Franziska. Indeed, you must be very 
 composed, my lady, if you are thinking of 
 tricks again. 
 
 Minna. I am so; come. You will have 
 a part to play in my plot. 
 
 I ACT IV 
 
 Scene: Minna's Room. Minna, dressed 
 handsomely and richly, but in good 
 taste, and Franziska have just risen 
 from a table, which a servant is clearing. 
 
 Franziska. You cannot possibly have 
 eaten enough, my lady. 
 
 Minna. Don't you think so, Franziska? 
 Perhaps I had no appetite when I sat down. 
 
 Franziska. We had agreed not to men- 
 tion him during dinner. We should have 
 resolved likewise not to think of him. 
 
 Minna. Indeed, I have thought of 
 nothing but him. 
 
 Franziska. So I perceived. I began to 
 speak of a hundred different things, and 
 you made wrong answers to each. [An- 
 other servant brings coffee.] Here comes a 
 beverage more suited to fancies — sweet, 
 melancholy coffee. 
 
 Minna. Fancies! I have none. I am 
 only thinking of the lesson I wiU give him. 
 Did you understand my plan, Franziska? 
 
 Franziska. Oh, yes; but it would be 
 better if he spared us the putting it in 
 execution. 
 
 Minna. You wiU see that I know him 
 thoroughly. He who refuses me now, with 
 aU my wealth, wiU contend for me against 
 the whole world, as soon as he hears that 
 I am unfortunate and friendless. 
 
 Franziska [seriously]. That must tickle 
 ithe most refined self-love. 
 
 Minna. You morahst! First you con- 
 vict me of vanity — now of self-love. Let 
 me do as I please, Franziska. You, too, 
 shall do as you please with your Sergeant. 
 
 Franziska. With my Sergeant? 
 
 Minna. Yes. If you deny it altogether, 
 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 de la MarliniJire.] 
 
 Riccaut [before he enters]. Est-il permis, 
 Monsieur le Major? 
 
 Franziska. Who is that? Any one for 
 us? [Going to the door.] 
 
 Riccaut. Parbleu! I am wrong. Mais 
 non — I am not wrong. C'est la chambre — 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 563 
 
 Franziska. Without doubt, my lady, 
 this gentleman expects to find Major von 
 TeHheim here still. 
 
 RiccAUT. Oui, dat is it! Le Major de 
 TeUheim; juste, ma belle enfant, c'est lui 
 que je cherche. Oil est-il? 
 
 Fiianzisb:a. He does not lodge here any 
 longer. 
 
 RiccATiT. Comment? Dere is four-and- 
 twenty hour ago he did lodge here, and not 
 lodge here any more? Where lodge he den? 
 
 Minna [going up to him]. Sir — 
 
 RiccAUT. Ah! Madame, mademoiselle, 
 pardon, lady. 
 
 MrNNA. Sir, your mistake is quite ex- 
 cusable, and your astonishment very nat- 
 ural. Major von TeDheim has had the 
 kindness to give up his apartments to me, 
 as a stranger, who was not able to get them 
 elsewhere. 
 
 RiccAUT. Ah! VoilS, de ses politesses! 
 C'est un trSs-galant homme que ce Major! 
 
 Minna. Where has he gone now? — 
 truly I am ashamed that I do not know. 
 
 RiccAUT. Madame not know? C'est 
 dommage; j'en suis f&ch6. 
 
 Minna. I certainly ought to have in- 
 quired. Of course his friends will seek him 
 here. 
 
 RiccAUT. I am vary great his friend, 
 madame. 
 
 Minna. Franziska, do you not know? 
 
 Franziska. No, my lady. 
 
 RiccAUT. It is vary nScessaire dat I 
 speak him. I come and bring him a nou- 
 veUe, 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 — ■ 
 
 RiccAUT. I comprehend. Mademoiselle 
 parle frangais? Mais sans doute; telle que 
 je la vols! La demande 6tait bien impoMe; 
 vous me pardonnerez, mademoiselle. 
 
 Minna. Sir — 
 
 RiccAUT. No! You not speak French, 
 madame? 
 
 Minna. Sir, in France I would endeavor 
 to do so ; but why here? I perceive that you 
 understand me, sir; and I, sir, shall doubt- 
 less understand you; speak as you please. 
 
 RiccAUT. Good, good! I can also ex- 
 
 plain me in your langue. Sachez done, 
 mademoiselle, you must know, madame, 
 dat I come from de table of de ministre, 
 ministre de, ministre de — What is le 
 ministre out dere, in de long street, on de 
 broad place? 
 
 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, and de conversation 
 did fall on Major TeUheim; et le ministre 
 m'a dit en confidence, — car Son Excel- 
 lence est de mes amis, et il n'y a point de 
 mystferes entre nous — Son Excellence, I 
 say, has trust to me, dat 1' affaire from our 
 Major is on de point to end, and to end 
 good. He has made a rapport to de king, 
 and de king has resolved et tout k fait en 
 faveur du Major. "Monsieur," m'a dit 
 Son Excellence, "vous comprenez bien, 
 que tout depend de la maniSre, dont on 
 fait envisager les choses au roi, et vous me 
 connaissez. Cela fait un trte-joU gargon 
 que ce TeUheim, et ne sais-je pas que vous 
 I'aimez? Les amis de mes amis sont aussi 
 les miens. II co<lte un peu cher au roi ce 
 TeUheim, mais est-ce que I'on sert les rois 
 pour rien? II faut s'entr'aider en ce monde; 
 et quand il s'agit de pertes, que ce soit le 
 roi qui en fasse, et non pas un honnSte 
 homme de nous autres. Voil^ le principe, 
 dont je ne me dSpars jamais." But what 
 say madame to it? N'est pas, dat is a fine 
 feUow? Ah, que Son ExceUence a le cceur 
 bien plac6! He assure me au reste, if de 
 Major has not regu already une lettre de 
 la main, — a royal letter, — dat to-day 
 infailliblement must he receive one. 
 
 Minna. Certainly, sir, this news wiU be 
 most welcome to Major von TeUheim. I 
 should like to be able to name the friend 
 to him who takes such an interest in his 
 welfare. 
 
 RiccATTT. Madame, you wish my name? 
 Vous voyez en moi — you see, lady, in me, 
 le Chevalier Riccaut de la Marlinifere, 
 Seigneur de PrSt-au-val, de la branche de 
 Prens d'or. You remain astonished to hear 
 me from so great, great a family, qui est 
 v6ritablement du sang royal. II faut le 
 dire; je suis sans doute le cadet le plus 
 aventureux que la maison n'a jamais eu. 
 
564 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 I serve from my eleven year. Une affaire 
 d'honneur make me flee. Den I serve de 
 holy Papa of Rome, den de Republic St. 
 Marino, den de Poles, den de States- 
 General, tiU enfin I am brought here. Ah, 
 mademoiselle, que je voudrais n'avoir 
 jamais vu ce pays-ei! Had one left me in 
 de service of de States-General, should I 
 be now at least colonel. But here always 
 to remain capitaine, and now also a dis- 
 charged capitaine. 
 
 Minna. That is ill luck. 
 
 RiccATiT. Qui, mademoiselle, me voilS, 
 ri5form6, et par l4 mis sur le pav6! 
 
 Minna. I am very sorry for you. 
 
 RiccAUT. Vous ^tes bien bonne, made- 
 moiselle — No, merit have no reward here. 
 Reformer a man, like me! A man who also 
 have ruin himself in dis service! I have 
 lost in it so much as twenty thousand 
 Uvres. What have I now? Tranchons le 
 mot; je n'ai pas le sou, et me voilA exacte- 
 ment vis-a-vis de rien. 
 
 Minna. I am exceedingly sorry. 
 
 RiccAUT. Vous ^tes bien bonne, made- 
 moiselle. But as one say — misfortune 
 never come alone! qu'un malheur ne vient 
 jamais seul: so it arrive with me. What 
 ressource rests for an honnlte homme of 
 my extraction, but play? Now, I always 
 played with luck, so long I not need her. 
 Now I very much need her, je joue aveo im 
 guignon, mademoiselle, qui surpasse toute 
 croyanoe. For fifteen days, not one is 
 passed, dat I always am broke. Yesterday 
 I was broke dree times. Je sais bien, qu'il 
 y avait quelque chose de plus que le jeu. 
 Car parmi mes pontes se trouvaient cer- 
 taines dames. I wiU not speak more. One 
 must be very galant to les dames. Dey 
 have invite me again to-day, to give me 
 revanche; mais — vous m'entendez, made- 
 moiselle — one must first have to live, be- 
 fore one can have to play. 
 Minna. I hope, sir — 
 
 RiccAUT. Vous Stes bien bonne, made- 
 moiselle. 
 
 Minna [taking Franziska aside]. Fran- 
 ziska, I reaUy feel for the man. Would he 
 take it ill if I offer him something? 
 
 Franziska. He does not look to me like 
 a man who would. 
 
 Minna. Very weU! — Sir, I perceive 
 that — you play, that you keep the bank; 
 doubtless in places where something is to 
 be won. I must also confess that I — am 
 very fond of play. 
 
 RiccAtTT. Tant mieux, mademoiselle, 
 tant mieux! Tous les gens d'esprit aiment 
 le jeu S, la fureur. 
 
 MiinsTA. That I am very fond of win- 
 ning; that I Uke to trust my money to a 
 man who — knows how to play. Are you 
 inclined, sir, to let me join you? To let me 
 have a share in your bank? 
 
 RiccATjT. Comment, mademoiselle, vous 
 voulez gtre de moiti^ avec moi? De tout 
 mon coeur. 
 
 Minna. At first, only with a trifle. 
 
 [Opens her desk and takes out some 
 money.] 
 RiccAUT. Ah, mademoiselle, que vous 
 ^tes charmante! 
 
 Minna. Here is what I won a short 
 time back; only ten pistoles. I am ashamed, 
 so httle — 
 
 RiccAUT. Doimez toujours, mademoi- 
 selle, doimez. [Takes it.] 
 Minna. Without doubt, your bank, sir, 
 is very considerable. 
 
 RiccAUT. Oh, yes, vary considerable. 
 Ten pistoles! You shaU 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 fi, bien au- 
 gwcer de ma fortune. 
 
 Minna. But I cannot be present, sir, 
 when you play. 
 
 RiccATJT. For why it n^cessaire dat you 
 be present? We other players axe honor- 
 able people between us. 
 
 Minna. If we are fortunate, sir, you will 
 of course bring me my share. If we are un- 
 fortunate — 
 
 RiccATJT. I come to bring recruits, n'est 
 pas, madame? 
 
 Minna. In time recruits might fail. 
 Manage our money well, sir. 
 
 RiccAUT. What does madame think 
 me? A simpleton, a stupid devil? 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 S6S 
 
 Minna. I beg your pardon. 
 
 RiccAUT. Je suis des bons, mademoi- 
 selle. Savez vous ce que cela veut dire? I 
 am of the quite practiced — 
 
 Minna. But still, sir — 
 
 RiccATjT. Je sais monter un coup — 
 
 Minna [amazed]. Could you? 
 
 RiccATJT. Je file la carte avec une 
 adresse. 
 
 Minna. Never! 
 
 RiccAtTT. Je fais sauter la coupe avec 
 une dext6rit6. 
 
 Minna. You surely would not, sir! — 
 
 RiccAUT. What not, madame; what 
 not? Donnez moi un pigeonneau 3, plumer, 
 et — 
 
 Minna. Play false! Cheat! 
 
 RiccATTT. Comment, mademoiselle? 
 Vous appelez cela cheat? Corriger la for- 
 tune, I'enchalner sous ses doigts, 6tre s<ir 
 de son fait, dat you call cheat? Cheat! Oh, 
 what a poor tongue is your tongue! What 
 an awkward tongue! 
 
 Minna. No, sir, if you think so — 
 
 RiccAUT. Laissez-moi faire, mademoi- 
 selle, and be tranquiUe! What matter to 
 you how I play? Enough! to-morrow, ma- 
 dame, you see me again or with hundred 
 pistol, or you see me no more. Votre trfes- 
 hiunble, mademoiselle, votre trfes-humble. 
 [Exit quickly.] 
 
 Minna [looking after him with astonish- 
 ment and displeasure]. I hope the latter, 
 sir. 
 
 Fkanziska [angrily]. What can I say? 
 Oh! How grand! How grand! 
 
 Minna. Laugh at me; I deserve it. 
 [After reflecting, more calmly.] No, do not 
 laugh; I do not deserve it. 
 
 Franziska. Excellent! You have done 
 a charming act — set a knave upon his 
 legs again. 
 
 Minna. It was intended for an unfor- 
 tunate man. 
 
 Fbanziska. And what is the best part 
 of it, the fellow considers you like himself. 
 Oh! I must follow him, and take the money 
 from him. [Going.] 
 
 Minna. Franziska, do not let the coffee 
 get quite cold; pour it out. 
 
 Fbanziska. He must return it to you; 
 
 you have thought better of it; you will not 
 play in partnership with him. Ten pistoles ! 
 You heard, my lady, that he was a beggar! 
 [Minna pours out the coffee herself.] Who 
 would give such a sum to a beggar? And 
 to endeavor, in the bargain, to save him 
 the humUiation of having begged for it! 
 The charitable woman who, out of gener- 
 osity, mistakes the beggar, is in return 
 mistaken by the beggar. It serves you 
 right, my lady, if he considers your gift as 
 — I know not what. [Minna hands a cup 
 of coffee to Fbanziska.] Do you wish to 
 make my blood boil stUl more? I do not 
 want any. [Minna puts it dovm again.] 
 "Parbleu, madame, merit have no reward 
 here." [Imitating the Frenchman.] I think 
 not, when such rogues are allowed to walk 
 about unhanged. 
 
 Minna [coldly and slowly, while sipping 
 her coffee]. Girl, you understand good men 
 very well; but when will you learn to bear 
 with the bad? And yet they are also men; 
 and frequently not so bad as they seem. 
 One should look for their good side. I 
 fancy this Frenchman is nothing worse 
 than vain. Through mere vamty he gives 
 himself out as a false player; he does not 
 wish to appear under an obhgation to one; 
 he wishes to save himself the thanks. Per- 
 haps he may now go, pay his small debts, 
 Uve quietly and frugally on the rest as far 
 as it wiU go, and think no more of play. If 
 that be so, Franziska, let him come for re- 
 cruits whenever he pleases. [Oives her cup 
 to Fbanziska.] There, put it down! But, 
 teU me, should not TeUheim be here by 
 this time? 
 
 Fbanziska. 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 will come! 
 
 Franziska. He ought to remain away! 
 You remark in him — in him, the best of 
 men — a httle pride; and therefore you 
 intend to tease him so cruelly! 
 
 Minna. Are you at it again? Be silent! 
 I will have it so. Woe to you if you spoil 
 this fun of mine — if you do not say and 
 do all, as we have agreed. I will leave you 
 with him alone; and then — but here he 
 comes. 
 
566 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 [Paul Werneh comes in, carrying himself 
 very erect as if on duty.] 
 
 Fkanziska. No, it is only his dear 
 Sergeant. 
 
 Minna. Dear Sergeant! Whom does 
 the "dear" refer to? 
 
 Fkanziska. Pray, my lady, do not 
 make the man embarrassed. — Your serv- 
 ant, Mr. Sergeant; what news do you 
 bring us? 
 
 Werneb [goes up to Minna, without 
 noticing Fbanziska]. Major von TeUheim 
 begs to present, through me, Sergeant Wer- 
 ner, his most respectful compliments to 
 Fraulein von Barnhelm, and to inform her 
 that he will be here directly. 
 
 Minna. Where is he, then? 
 
 Weeneb. Your ladyship will pardon 
 him; we left our quarters before it began 
 to strike three: but the paymaster met us 
 on the way; and because conversation with 
 those gentlemen has no end, the Major 
 made me a sign to report the case to your 
 ladyship. 
 
 Minna. Very well, Mr. Sergeant. I 
 only hope the paymaster may have good 
 news for him. 
 
 Webneb. Such gentlemen seldom have 
 good news for officers. — Has your lady- 
 ship any orders? [Going.] 
 
 Fbanziska. Why, where are you going 
 again, Mr. Sergeant? Had not we some- 
 thing to say to each other? 
 
 Webneb [in a whisper to Fbanziska, and 
 seriously]. Not here, Uttle woman; it is 
 against respect, against disciphne. — Your 
 ladyship — 
 
 Minna. Thank you for your trouble. I 
 am glad to have made your acquaintance. 
 Franziska has spoken in high praise of you 
 to me. 
 
 [Webneb makes a stiff bow, and goes.] 
 
 Minna. So that is your Sergeant, Fran- 
 ziska? 
 
 Fbanziska [aside]. I have not time to 
 reproach her for that jeering your. [Aloud.] 
 Yes, 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 must 
 march past you as if on parade. And when 
 
 soldiers are on parade, they certainly look 
 more like wooden doBs than men. You 
 should see and hear him when he is himself. 
 
 Minna. So I should, indeed! 
 
 Fbanziska. He must still be in the next 
 room; may I go and talk with him a little? 
 
 Minna. I refuse you this pleasure un- 
 willingly: but you must remain here, 
 Franziska. You must be present at our 
 conversation. Another thing occurs to me, 
 [Takes her ring from her finger.] There, take 
 my ring; keep it for me, and give me the 
 Major's in the place of it. 
 
 Franziska. Why so? 
 
 Minna [while Fbanziska is fetching the 
 ring]. I scarcely know, myself; but I fancy 
 I see, beforehand, how I may make use of 
 it. — Some one is knocking. Give it to me, 
 quickly. [Puts the ring on.] It is he. 
 
 [Enter Major von Tellheim, in the same 
 coat, hut otherwise as Franziska 
 advised.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Madam, you 
 will excuse the delay. 
 
 Minna. Oh! Major, we will not treat 
 each other in quite such a mihtary fashion. 
 You are here now; and to await a pleasure, 
 is itself a pleasiure. Well [looking at him and 
 smiling], dear TeUheim, have we not been 
 Mke children? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Yes, madam; 
 like children, who resist when they ought 
 to obey quietly. 
 
 Minna. We will drive out, dear Major, 
 to see a httle of the town, and afterward to 
 meet my uncle. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. What! 
 
 Minna. You see, we have not yet had 
 an opportunity of mentioning the most 
 important matters even. He is coming 
 here to-day. It was accident that brought 
 me here without him, a day sooner. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Count von 
 Bruchsal! Has he returned? 
 
 Minna. The troubles of the war drove 
 him into Italy: peace has brought him 
 back again. Do not be uneasy, TeUheim; 
 if we formerly feared on his part the great- 
 est obstacle to our union — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. To our union! 
 
 Minna. He is now your friend. He has 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 567 
 
 heard too much good of you from too many 
 people, not to become so. He longs to be- 
 come personally acquainted with the man 
 whom his heiress has chosen. He comes as 
 uncle, as guardian, as father, to give me 
 to you. 
 
 Major von Tellhbim. Ah, dear lady, 
 why did you not read my letter? Why 
 would you not read it? 
 
 Minna. Your letter! Oh, yes, I remem- 
 ber you sent me one. — What did you do 
 with that letter, Franziska? Did we, or 
 did we not read it? — What was it you 
 wrote to me, dear Tellheim? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. 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 I? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Yes, you shall 
 hear it. 
 
 Minna. No, I need not even hear it. 
 It speaks for itself. As if you could be 
 guilty of such an unworthy act, as not to 
 take me! Do you know that I should be 
 pointed at for the rest of my life? My 
 countrywomen would talk about me, and 
 say, "That is she, that is the Fraulein von 
 Bamhehn, who fancied that because she 
 was rich she could marry the noble Tell- 
 heim; as if such men were to be caught 
 with money." That is what they would 
 say, for they are aU envious of me. That 
 I am rich, they cannot deny; but they do 
 not wish to acknowledge that I am also a 
 tolerably good girl, who would prove her- 
 self worthy of her husband. Is that not so, 
 Tellheim? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Yes, yes, 
 madam, that is hke your countrywomen. 
 They wiQ envy you exceedingly a dis- 
 charged ofl&cer, with sullied honor, a crip- 
 ple, and a beggar. 
 
 Minna. And are you all that? If I mis- 
 take not, you told me something of the 
 kind this forenoon. Therein are good and 
 evil mixed. Let us examine each charge 
 more closely. You are discharged? So you 
 say. I thought your regiment was only 
 drafted into another. How did it happen 
 
 that a man of your merit was not re- 
 tained? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. It has hap- 
 pened, as it must happen. The great ones 
 are convinced that a soldier does very little 
 through regard for them, not much more 
 from a sense of duty, but everything for his 
 own advantage. What, then, can they 
 think they owe him? Peace has made a 
 great many, hke myself, superfluous to 
 them; and at last we shall all be super- 
 fluous. 
 
 Minna. You talk as 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 best thanks to the 
 great ones that they have given up their 
 claims to a man whom I would very un- 
 wiUingly have shared with them. I am 
 your sovereign, Tellheim; you want no 
 other master. To find you discharged is a 
 piece of good fortune I dared scarcely 
 dream of! But you are not only dis- 
 charged; you are more. And what are you 
 more? A cripple, you say! Well [looking 
 at him from head to foot], the cripple is tol- 
 erably whole and upright — appears still 
 to be pretty well and strong. Dear TeU- 
 heim, if you expect to go begging on the 
 strength of your limbs, I prophesy that 
 you will be relieved at very few doors; 
 except at the door of a good-natured girl 
 like myself. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. I only hear the 
 joking girl now, dear Minna. 
 
 Minna. And I only hear the "dear 
 Minna" in your chiding. I wiU not joke 
 any longer; for I recollect that after all 
 you are something of a cripple. You are 
 wounded by a shot in the right arm; but, 
 all things considered, I do not find much 
 fault with that. I am so much the more 
 secure from your blows. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Madam! 
 
 Minna. You would say, you are so 
 much the less secure from mine. Well, 
 well, dear Tellheim, I hope you wfll not 
 drive me to that. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. You laugh, 
 madam. I only lament that I cannot 
 laugh with you. 
 
 Minna. Why not? What have you to 
 
S68 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 say against laughing? Cannot one be very- 
 serious even while laughing? Dear Major, 
 laughter keeps us more rational than vex- 
 ation. The proof is before us. Your laugh- 
 ing friend judges of your circumstances 
 more correctly than you do yourself. Be- 
 cause you are discharged, you say your 
 honor is sullied; because you are wounded 
 in the arm, you call yourself a cripple. Is 
 that right? Is that no exaggeration? And 
 is it my doing that all exaggerations are 
 so open to ridicule? I dare say, if I exam- 
 ine your beggary that it wiE also be as Uttle 
 able to stand the test. You may have lost 
 your equipage once, twice, or thrice; your 
 deposits in the hands of this or that banker 
 may have disappeared 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 beggar on that account? If nothing 
 else remained to you but what my uncle 
 is bringing for you — 
 
 Major von Tellhbim. Your imcle, 
 madam, wiU bring nothing for me. 
 
 Minna. Nothing but the two thousand 
 pistoles which you so generously advanced 
 to our Government. 
 
 Major von Tellhbim. If you had but 
 read my letter, madam! 
 
 Minna. Well, I did read it. But what I 
 read in it, on this point, is a perfect riddle. 
 It is impossible that any one should wish 
 to turn a noble action into a crime. But 
 explain to me, dear Major. 
 
 Major von Tellhbim. You remember, 
 madam, that I had orders to collect the 
 contribution for the war most strictly in 
 cash in the districts in your neighborhood. 
 I wished to forego this severity, and ad- 
 vanced the money that was deficient my- 
 self. 
 
 Minna. I remember it well. I loved 
 you for that deed before I had seen you. 
 
 Major von Tellhbim. The Govern- 
 ment gave me their biU, 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 oviTiership of the same was dis- 
 puted. People looked incredulous, when I 
 declared that I had myself advanced the 
 
 amount in cash. It was considered as 
 bribery, as a douceur from the Government, 
 because I at once agreed to take the small- 
 est sum with which I could have been sat- 
 isfied in a case of the greatest exigency. 
 Thus the biU went from my possession, 
 and if it be paid, will certainly not be paid 
 to me. Hence, madam, I consider my 
 honor to be suspected! Not on account 
 of my discharge, which, if I had not re- 
 ceived, I should have applied for. You 
 look serious, madam! Why do you not 
 laugh? Ha, ha, ha! I am laughing. 
 
 Minna. Oh! Stifle that laugh, Tell- 
 heim, I implore you! It is the terrible 
 laugh of misanthropy. No, you are not the 
 man to repent of a good deed, because it 
 may have had a bad result for yourself. 
 Nor can these consequences possibly be 
 of long duration. The truth must come to 
 light. The testimony of my uncle, of our 
 Government — 
 
 Major von Tellhbim. Of your uncle! 
 Of your Government! Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Minna. That laugh will kill me, Tell- 
 heim. If you beUeve in virtue and Provi- 
 dence, TeUheim, do not laugh so! I never 
 heard a curse more terrible than that laugh! 
 But, viewing the matter in the worst hght, 
 if they are determined to mistake your 
 character here, with us you will not be mis- 
 understood. No, we cannot, we will not, 
 misunderstand you, TeUheim. And if our 
 Government has the least sentiment of 
 honor, I know what it must do. But I am 
 foolish; what would that matter? Imagine, 
 Tellheim, that you have lost the two 
 thousand pistoles on some gay evening. 
 The king was an unfortunate card for you: 
 the queen [pointing to herself] wiU be so 
 much the more favorable. Providence, 
 beUeve me, alwaj^s 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 desirous 
 of making your acquaintance. You know 
 I went uninvited to the first party where I 
 thought I should meet you. I went en- 
 tirely on your account. I went with a 
 fixed determination to love you — I loved 
 youabeadyl With the fixed determination 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 5^9 
 
 to make you mine, if I should find you as 
 dark and ugly as the Moor of Venice. So 
 dark and ugly you are not; nor will you be 
 so jealous. But, Tellheim, Tellheim, you 
 are yet very like him! Oh, the unmanage- 
 able, stubborn man, who always keeps his 
 eye fixed upon the phantom of honor, and 
 becomes hardened against every other 
 sentiment! Your eyes this way! Upon me 
 
 — me, Tellheim! [He remains thcrughlful 
 and ivimovable, with his eyes fixed on one 
 spot.] Of what are you thinking? Do you 
 not hear me? 
 
 Majoe von Te)llhbim [absently]. Oh, 
 yes; but tell me, how came the Moor into 
 the service of Venice? Had the Moor no 
 country of his own? Why did he hire his 
 arm and his blood to a foreign land? 
 
 Minna [alarmed]. Of what are you 
 thinking, TeUheim? It is time to break off. 
 Come [taking him by the hand]. — Fran- 
 ziska, let the carriage be brought round. 
 
 Major von TeiiLhbim [disengaging his 
 hand, and following Fbanziska]. No, 
 Franziska; I cannot have the honor of ac- 
 companying your mistress. — Madam, let 
 me still retain my senses unimpaired for 
 to-day, and give me leave to go. You are 
 on the right way to deprive me of them. I 
 resist it as much as I can. But hear, while 
 I am stiU 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 hfe; if a complete 
 change in my fortune does not take place; 
 if — 
 
 Minna. I must interrupt you, Major. 
 
 — We ought to have told him that at first, 
 Franziska. You remind me of nothing. — 
 Our conversation would have taken quite 
 a different turn, Tellheim, if I had com- 
 menced with the good news which the Chev- 
 aKer de la Marliniere brought just now. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. The Chevalier 
 de la Marliniere! Who is he? 
 
 Franziska. He may be a very honest 
 man. Major von TeUheim, except that — 
 
 Minna. Silence, Franziska! Also a dis- 
 charged officer from the Dutch service, 
 who — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Ah! Lieutenant 
 Riccaut! 
 
 Minna. He assured us he was a friend 
 of yours. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. I assure you 
 that I am not his. 
 
 Minna. And that some minister or 
 other had told him, in confidence, that 
 your busiuess was likely to have the very 
 best termination. A letter from the king 
 must now be on its way to you. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. How came 
 Riccaut and a minister in company? Some- 
 thing certainly must have happened con- 
 cerning my affair; for just now the pay- 
 master of the forces told me that the king 
 had set aside all the evidence offered 
 against me, and that I might take back my 
 promise, which I had given in writing, not 
 to depart from here until 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 shaU the 
 utmost distress waste me away before the 
 eyes of my calunmiators, than — 
 
 Minna. Obstinate man! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. I require no 
 favor; I want justice. My honor — 
 
 Minna. The honor of such a man — 
 
 Major von Tellheim [warmly]. No, 
 madam, you may be able to judge of any 
 other subject, 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 well. Honor 
 is — honor. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. 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 yours, for I am not worthy, 
 in the eyes of the world, of being yours. 
 Minna von Bamhehn deserves an irre- 
 proachable husband. It is a worthless love 
 which does not scruple to expose its object 
 to scorn. He is a worthless man who is not 
 ashamed to owe a woman aU his good for- 
 tune; whose blind tenderness — 
 
 Minna. And is that really your feeling, 
 Major? [Turning her back suddenly.] — 
 Franziska! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Do not be angry. 
 
 Minna [aside to Franziska.]. Now is 
 
57° 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 the time! What do you advise me, Fran- 
 ziska? 
 
 Fbanziska. I advise nothing. But cer- 
 tainly he goes rather too far. 
 
 Major von Tellheim [approaching to 
 interrupt them]. You axe angry, madam. 
 
 Minna [ironically]. I? Not in the least. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. If I loved you 
 
 Minna [still in the same tone]. Oh! cer- 
 tainly, it would be a misfortune for me. 
 And hear, Major, I also will not be the 
 cause of your xmhappiness. One should 
 love with perfect disinterestedness. It is 
 as well that I have not been more open! 
 Perhaps your pity might have granted to 
 me what your love refuses. 
 
 [Dramng the ring slowly from her 
 finger.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim. What does this 
 mean, madam? 
 
 Minna. No, neither of us must make 
 the other either more or less happy. True 
 love demands it. I beheve you. Major; and 
 you have too much honor to mistake love. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Are you jesting, 
 madam? 
 
 Minna. Here! Take back the ring with 
 which you plighted your troth to me. 
 [Gives him the ring.] Let it be so! We will 
 suppose we have never met. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. What do I hear? 
 
 Minna. Does it surprise you? Take it, 
 sir. You surely have not been pretending 
 only! 
 
 Major von Tellheim [taking the ring 
 from her]. Heavens! Can Minna speak 
 thus! 
 
 Minna. In one case you cannot be 
 mine; in no case can I be yours. Your mis- 
 fortune is probable; mine is certain. Pare- 
 well! [7s going.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Where are you 
 going, dearest Minna? 
 
 Minna. Sir, you insult me now by that 
 term of endearment. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. What is the 
 matter, madam? Where are you going? 
 
 Minna. Leave me. I go to hide my 
 tears from you,, deceiver! [Exii.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Her tears? And 
 I am to leave her. [Is abovi to follow her.] 
 
 Franziska [holding him hack]. Surely 
 not, Major. You would not follow her into 
 her own room! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Her misfortune? 
 Did she not speak of misfortune? 
 
 Franziska. Yes, truly; the misfortime 
 of losing you, after — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. After? After 
 what? There is more in this. What is it, 
 Franziska? Tell me! Speak! 
 
 Franziska. After, I mean, she has 
 made such sacrifices on your account. 
 
 Major VON Tellheim. Sacrifices for me! 
 
 Franziska. Well, Usten. It is a good 
 thing for you. Major, that you are freed 
 from your engagement with her in this 
 manner. — Why should I not tell you? It 
 cannot remain a secret long. We have fled 
 from home. Count von Bruchsal has dis- 
 inherited my mistress, because she would 
 not accept a husband of his choice. On that 
 every one deserted and shghted her. What 
 could we do? We determined to seek him, 
 whom — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Enough! Come, 
 and let me throw myself at her feet. 
 
 Franziska. What are you thinking 
 about? Rather go, and thaiik your good 
 fortune. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Pitiful creature! 
 For what do you take me? Yet no, my dear 
 Franziska, the advice did not come from 
 your heart. Forgive my anger! 
 
 Franziska. Do not detain me any 
 longer. I must see what she is about. How 
 easily something might happen to her! Go 
 now, and come again, if you like. 
 
 [Follows Minna.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim. But, Franziska! 
 Oh! I will wait your return here. — No, 
 that is more torturing! — If she is in earn- 
 est, she will not refuse to forgive me. — 
 Now I want your aid, honest Werner! — 
 No, Minna, I am no deceiver! 
 
 [Rvshes oj'.] 
 ACT V 
 
 [Enter Major von Tellheim /row one side, 
 Werner from the other.] 
 Major von Tellheim. Ah, Werner! I 
 have been looking for you everywhere. 
 Where have you been? 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 571 
 
 Werner. And I have been looking for 
 you, Major; that is always the way. — I 
 bring you good news. 
 
 Majob von Tellheim. I do not want 
 yoiu" news now; I want your money. Quick, 
 Werner, give me all you have; and then 
 raise as much more as you can. 
 
 Werner. Major! Now, upon my life, 
 that is just what I said — "He wiU bor- 
 row money from me, when he has got it 
 himself to lend." 
 
 Major von Tellheim. You sm-ely are 
 not seeking excuses! 
 
 Werner. That I may have nothing to 
 upbraid you with, take it with your right 
 hand, and give it me again with your left. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Do not detain 
 me, Werner. It is my intention to repay 
 you; but when and how, God knows! 
 
 Werner. Then you do not know yet 
 that the Treasury has received an order to 
 pay you your money? I just heard it at — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. What are you 
 talking about? What nonsense have you 
 let them palm oS on you? Do you not see 
 that if it were true, I should be the first 
 person to know it? In short, Werner, 
 money! money! 
 
 Werner. Very well, with pleasure. 
 Here is some! A hundred louis d'ors there, 
 and a hundred ducats there. 
 
 [Gives him both.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Werner, go and 
 give Just the hundred louis d'ors. Let him 
 redeem the ring again, on which he raised 
 the money this morning. But whence will 
 you get some more, Werner? I want a 
 good deal more. 
 
 Werner. Leave that to me. The man 
 who bought my farm Mves in the town. 
 The date for payment is a fortnight hence, 
 certainly; but the money is ready, and by 
 a reduction of one half per cent — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Very weU, my 
 dear Werner! You see that I have had re- 
 course to you alone — I must also confide 
 all to you. The young lady you have seen 
 is in distress — 
 
 Werner. That is bad! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. But to-morrow 
 she shall be my wife. 
 
 Werner. That is good! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. And the day 
 after, I leave this place with her. I can go; 
 I will go. I would sooner throw over every- 
 thing here! Who knows where some good 
 luck may be in store for me? If you will, 
 Werner, come with us. We will serve again. 
 
 Werner. Really? But where there is 
 war. Major! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. To be sure. Go, 
 Werner, we will speak of this again. 
 
 Werner. Oh, my dear Major! The day 
 after to-morrow! Why not to-morrow? I 
 wOl get everything ready. In Persia, Major, 
 there is a famous war; what do you say? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. We wiU think 
 of it. Only go, Werner! 
 
 Werner. Hurrah! Long live Prince 
 HeracUus! [Exit.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim. How do t feel! 
 — My whole soul has acquired a new im- 
 pulse. My own unhappiness bowed me to 
 the ground; made me fretful, short-sighted, 
 shy, careless: her imhappiness raises me. 
 I see clearly again, and feel myself ready 
 and capable of undertaldng anything for 
 her sake. Why do I tarry? 
 
 [Is going toward Minna's room, 
 when Fbanziska comes out of it.] 
 
 Franziska. Is it you? I thought I 
 heard your voice. What do you want, 
 Major? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. What do I 
 want! What is she doing? Come! 
 
 Franziska. She is just going out for a 
 drive. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. And alone? 
 Without me? Where to? 
 
 Franziska. Have you forgotten, Major? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. How silly you 
 are, Franziska! I Irritated her, and she was 
 angry. I will beg her pardon, and she will 
 forgive me. 
 
 Franziska. What! After you have 
 taken the ring back. Major! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Ah! I did that 
 in my confusion. I had forgotten about 
 the ring. Where did I put it? [Searches 
 for it.] Here it is. 
 
 Franziska. Is that it? — [Aside, as he 
 puts it again in his pocket.] If he would only 
 look at it closer! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. She pressed it 
 
572 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 upon me so bitterly. But I have forgotten 
 that. A fuU heart cannot weigh words. 
 She will not for one moment refuse to take 
 it again. And have I not hers? 
 
 Franziska. She is now waiting for it in 
 return. Where is it, Major? Show it to me, 
 do! 
 
 Major von Tellhbim [embarrassed]. I 
 have — forgotten to put it on. Just — 
 Just will bring it directly. 
 
 Franziska. They are something alike, 
 I suppose; let me look at that one. I am 
 very fond of such things. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Another time, 
 Franziska. Come now. ^ 
 
 Franziska [aside]. He is determined not 
 to be drawn out of his mistake. 
 
 Major von Telibeim. What do you 
 say? Mistake! 
 
 Franziska. It is a mistake, I say, if you 
 think that my mistress is stiU a good match. 
 Her own fortune is far from considerable; 
 by a few calculations in their own favor her 
 guardians may reduce it to nothing. She 
 expected everything from her imcle; but 
 this cruel uncle — 
 
 Major VON Tellheim. Let him go! Am 
 I not man enough to make it all good to her 
 again? 
 
 Franziska. Do you hear? She is ring- 
 ing; I must go in again. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. I will accom- 
 pany you. 
 
 Franziska. For Heaven's sake, no! She 
 forbade me expressly to speak with you. 
 Come in, at any rate, a little time after me. 
 
 [Goes in.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim [calling after her]. 
 Announce me! Speak for me, Franziska! 
 I shall follow you directly. — What shall 
 I say to her? Yet where the heart can 
 speak, no preparation is necessary. There 
 is one thing only which may need a studied 
 turn — this reserve, this scrupulousness of 
 throwing herseK, unfortunate as she is, into 
 my arms; this- anxiety to make a false show 
 of still possessing that happiness which she 
 has lost through me. How she is to excul- 
 pate herself to herself — for by me it is 
 already forgiven — for this distrust in my 
 honor, in her own worth, — Ah! here she 
 comes. 
 
 Minna [speaking as she comes out, as if 
 not aware of the Majck's presence]. The 
 carriage is at the door, Franziska, is it not? 
 My fan! 
 
 Major von Tellheim [advancing to her]. 
 Where are you going, madam? 
 
 Minna [with forced coldness]. I am going 
 out. Major. I guess why you have given 
 yourself the trouble of coming back; to re- 
 turn me my ring. Very well. Major von 
 TeUheim, have the goodness to give it to 
 Franziska. — Franziska, take the ring 
 from Major von Tellheim! — I have no 
 time to lose. [Is going.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim [stepping before 
 her]. Madam! Ah, what have I heard? I 
 was unworthy of such love. 
 
 Minna. So, Franziska, you have — 
 
 Franziska. Told him all. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. 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 on 
 me; at first you wished to hide it from me. 
 I do not complain of this mistrust. It 
 arose from the desire to retain my affection. 
 That desire is my pride. You found me in 
 distress; 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 is now over. I have released you 
 from yoiir engagement; you have, by tak- 
 ing back the ring — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Consented to 
 nothing! On the contrary, I now consider 
 myself bound more firmly than ever. You 
 are mine, Minna, mine forever. [Takes off 
 the ring.] Here, take it for the second time 
 — the pledge of my fidehty. 
 
 Minna. I take that ring again! That 
 ring? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Yes, dearest 
 Minna, yes. 
 
 Minna. What are you asking me? That 
 ring? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. You received it 
 for the first time from my hand, when our 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 573 
 
 positions were similar and the circum- 
 stances propitious. They are no longer 
 propitious, but are again similar. Equality 
 is always the strongest tide of love. Per- 
 mit me, dearest Minna! 
 
 [Seizes her hand to piU on the ring.] 
 
 Minna. What, by force, Major! No, 
 there is no power in the world that shall 
 compel me to take back that ring! Do 
 you think that I am in want of a ring? 
 Oh, you may see [pointing to her ring] that 
 I have another here which is in no way 
 inferior to yours. 
 
 Franziska [aside]. Well, if he does not 
 see it now! 
 
 Major von Tellhbim [ktting fall her 
 hand]. What is this? I see Praulein von 
 Bamhelm, but I do not hear her. — You 
 are pretending. — Pardon me, that I use 
 your own words. 
 
 Minna [in her natural tone]. Did those 
 words offend you. Major? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. They grieved 
 me much. 
 
 Minna [affected]. They were not meant 
 to do that, Tellheim. Forgive me, Tellheim. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Ah, that 
 friendly tone tells me you are yourself 
 again, Minna; that you stiU love me. 
 
 Franziska [exclaims]. The joke will 
 soon have gone a little too far. 
 
 Minna [in a commanding tone]. Fran- 
 ziska, you wiU not interfere in our affairs, 
 I beg. 
 
 Franziska [aside, in a surprised tone]. 
 Not enough yet! 
 
 Minna. Yes, sir; it would only be wo- 
 manish vanity in me to pretend to be cold 
 and scornful. No! Never! You deserve to 
 find me as sincere as yourself. I do love 
 you still, Tellheim, I love you still; but not- 
 withstanding — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. No more, dear- 
 est Minna, no more! 
 
 [Seizes her hand again, to put on 
 the ring.] 
 
 Minna [drawing back her hand]. Not- 
 withstanding, so much the more am I de- 
 termined that that shall never be — never! 
 — Of what are you thinking. Major? — I 
 thought your own distress was sufficient. 
 You must remain here; you must obtain 
 
 by obstinacy — no better phrase occurs to 
 me at the moment — the most perfect 
 satisfaction, obtain it by obstinacy — 
 And that even though the utmost distress 
 should waste you away before the eyes of 
 your calumniators — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. So I thought, so 
 I said, when I knew not what I thought or 
 said. Chagrin and stifling rage had en- 
 veloped my whole soul; love itself, in the 
 fuU 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 j 
 all the avenues of my soul to sensations of 
 tenderness. The impulse of self-preserva- 
 tion awakes, when I have something more 
 precious than myself to support, and to 
 support through my own exertions. Do 
 not let the word "pity" offend you. From 
 the innocent cause of our distress we may 
 hear the term without humiliation. I am 
 this cause; through me, Minna, have you 
 lost friends and relations, fortune and 
 country. Through me, in me, must you 
 find them all again, or I shaU have the de- 
 struction of the most lovely of her sex upon 
 my so\il. Let me not think 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? Does the sun rise 
 here alone? Where can I not go? In what 
 service shall I be refused? And should I 
 be obliged to seek it in the most distant 
 cUme, only follow me with confidence, 
 dearest Minna — we shall want for nothing. 
 I have a friend who wUl assist me with 
 pleasure. 
 
 [Enter an Orderly.] 
 
 Franziska [seeing the Orderly], Hist, 
 Major! 
 
 Major von Tellheim [to the Orderly], 
 Whom do you want? 
 
 Orderly. I am looking for Major von 
 Tellheim. Ah, you are the Major, I see. I 
 have to give you this letter from His 
 Majesty the Eu^. 
 
 [Taking one out of his hag.] 
 
 Majob von Tellheim. To me? 
 
574 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Obderlt. According to the direction. 
 
 Minna. Franziska, do you hear? The 
 Chevalier spoke the truth, after all. 
 
 Orderly [while Tellhbim takes the 
 letter]. I beg your pardon, Major; you 
 should properly have had it yesterday, but 
 I could not find you out. I learned your 
 address this morning only from Lieutenant 
 Riccaut, on parade. 
 
 Franziska. Do you hear, my lady? — 
 That is the Chevalier's minister. "What 
 is the name of de ministre out dere, on de 
 broad place?" 
 
 Major von Tbllheim. I am extremely 
 obliged to you for your trouble. 
 
 Orderly. It is my duty. Major. 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Ah! Minna, 
 what is this? What does this contain? 
 
 Minna. I am not entitled to extend my 
 curiosity so far. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. What! You 
 would still separate my fate from yours? 
 
 — But why do I hesitate to open it? It 
 cannot make me more unhappy than I am: 
 no, dearest Minna, it cannot make us more 
 unhappy — but perhaps more happy! 
 Permit me. 
 
 [While he opens and reads the 
 letter, the Landlord comes 
 stealthily on the stage.] 
 
 Landlord [to Franziska]. Hist! my 
 pretty maid! A word! 
 
 Franziska [to the Landlord]. Mr. 
 Landlord, we do not yet know ourselves 
 what is 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 has ap- 
 proached the Landlord]. Tell Just that it 
 is already redeemed; and tell him by whom 
 
 — by me. 
 Landlord. But — 
 
 Minna. I take it upon myself. Go! 
 
 [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 them- 
 selves. 
 
 Major von Tellheim [after reading the 
 letter with mxich emotion]. Ai! Nor has he 
 herein befied himself! Oh! Minna, what 
 justice! what clemency! This is more than 
 I expected; more than I deserve! — My 
 fortune, my honor, all is reestablished! — 
 Do I dream? [Looking at the letter, as if to 
 convince himself.] No, no delusion bom of 
 my own desires! Read it yourself, Minna; 
 read it yourself! 
 
 Minna. I would not presume. Major. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. 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. [Takes the letter and reads.] 
 
 "My dear Major von Tellheim, 
 
 "I hereby inform you that the business 
 which caused me some anxiety on account 
 of your honor has been cleared up in your 
 favor. My brother had a more detailed 
 knowledge of it, and his testimony has 
 more than proved your innocence. The 
 Treasury has received orders to deHver 
 again to you the biU in question, and to 
 reimburse the sum advanced. I have also 
 ordered that all claims which the Pay- 
 master's Office brings forward against your 
 accoutits be nullified. Please to inform me 
 whether your health will allow of your tak- 
 ing active service again. I can ill spare a 
 man of your courage and sentiments. I 
 am your gracious King," etc. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Now, what do 
 you say to that, Minna? 
 
 Minna {folding up and returning the 
 Utter]. I? Nothing. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. 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 Tellheim. 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 aU my heart. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. And you do not 
 know me better? No, since fortune re- 
 stores me suflficient to satisfy the wishes of 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 S7S 
 
 a reasonable man, it shall depend upon my 
 Minna alone, whether for the future I shall 
 belong to any one else but her. To her 
 service alone my whole life shall be de- 
 voted! The service of the great is danger- 
 ous, and does not repay the trouble, the 
 restraint, the humiliation which it costs. 
 Minna is not among those vain people who 
 love nothing in their husbands beyond 
 their titles and positions. She wiU 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 poUtical principles — and from the 
 whim that it is good for every honorable 
 man to try the profession of arms for a 
 time, to make himself familiar with danger, 
 and to learn coolness and determination. 
 Ejrtreme necessity alone could have com- 
 pelled me to make this trial a fixed mode 
 of life, this temporary occupation a profes- 
 sion. But now that nothing compels me, 
 my whole and sole ambition is to be a 
 peaceful and a contented man. This with 
 you, dearest Minna, I shall infalhbly be- 
 come; this in your society I shall 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 
 seek out the most peaceful, the brightest, 
 most smiling nook which wants but a happy 
 couple to be a Paradise. There we will 
 dwell; there shall each day — What is the 
 matter, Minna? 
 
 [Minna turns away uneasily, and 
 endeavors to hide her emotion.] 
 
 Minna [regaining her composure]. It is 
 cruel of you, Tellheim, to paint such hap- 
 piness to me, when I am forced to renounce 
 it. My loss — 
 
 Major VON TELtHEiM. Your loss! Why 
 name your loss? All that Minna could lose 
 is not Minna. You are BtiU the sweetest, 
 dearest, lovehest, best creature under the 
 sun; aU goodness and generosity, innocence 
 and bliss! Now and then a little petulant; 
 at times somewhat willful — so much the 
 better! So much the better! Minna would 
 otherwise be an angel, whom I should 
 honor with trepidation, but not dare to 
 love. [Takes her hand to kiss it.] 
 
 Minna [drawing away her hand]. Not 
 
 so, sir. Why this sudden change? Is this 
 flattering, impetuous lover the cold TeU- 
 heim! — Could his returning good fortune 
 alone create this ardor in him? He wUl 
 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 he shall give himseK 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. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Well! If the 
 busy world has greater charm^ for you, 
 Mirma, let us remain in the busy world! 
 How mean, how poor is this busy world! 
 You now only know its gilded surface. 
 Yet certainly, Minna, you will — But let 
 it be so! Until then! Your charms shall 
 not want admirers, nor wiU my happiness 
 lack enviers. 
 
 Minna. No, Tellheim, I do not mean 
 that! I send you back into the busy world, 
 on the road of honor, without wishing to 
 accompany you. TeUheim will there re- 
 quire an irreproachable wife! A fugitive 
 Saxon girl who has thrown herself upon 
 him — 
 
 Major von Tellheim [starting up, and 
 looking fiercely about him]. Who dare say_ 
 that? Ah! Minna, I feel afraid of myself, 
 when I imagine that any one but yourself 
 could have spoken so. My anger against 
 him would know no bounds. 
 
 Minna. Exactly! That is just what I 
 fear. You would not endure one word of 
 calumny against me, and yet you would 
 have to put up with the very bitterest 
 every day. In short, Tellheim, hear what 
 I have firmly determined, and from which 
 nothing in the world shall turn me — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Before you pro- 
 ceed, I implore you, Minna, reflect for one 
 moment that you are about to pronounce 
 a sentence of Ufe or death upon me! 
 
 Minna. Without a moment's reflection! 
 
576 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 — As certainly as I have given you back 
 the ring with which you formerly pledged 
 your troth to me, as certainly as you have 
 taken back that_same_ ring, so certainly 
 shall the unfortunate Minna never be the 
 wife of the fortunate TeUheim! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. And herewith 
 you pronounce my sentence. 
 
 Minna. Equality is the only sure bond 
 of love. The happy Minna only wished to 
 Uve for the happy Tellheim. Even Minna 
 in misfortune would have allowed herself 
 to be persuaded either to increase or to 
 assuage the misfortune of her friend 
 through herself — He must have seen, 
 before the arrival of that letter, which has 
 again destroyed all equality between us, 
 that in appearance only I refused. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Is that true? I 
 thank you, Minna, that you have not yet 
 pronounced the sentence. You will only 
 marry Tellheim when imfortunate? You 
 may have him. [Coolly.] I perceive now 
 that it would be indeooroiis in me to accept 
 this tardy justice; that it will be better if 
 I do not seek again that of which I have 
 been deprived by such shameful suspicion. 
 Yes; I will suppose that I have not re- 
 ceived the letter. Behold my only answer 
 to it! [About to tear it up.] 
 
 Minna [stopping him]. What are you 
 going to do, Tellheim? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Obtain your 
 hand. 
 
 Minna. Stop! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. 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. 
 
 Minna. What! In such a tone? Shall 
 I, must I, thus become contemptible in my 
 own eyes? Never! She is a worthless 
 creature who is not ashamed to owe her 
 whole happiness to the blind tenderness of 
 a man! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. False! Utterly 
 false! 
 
 Minna. Can you venture to find fault 
 with your own words when coming from 
 my Ups? 
 
 Major VON Tellheim. Sophistry! Does 
 the weaker sex dishonor itself by every 
 
 action which does not become the stronger? 
 Or can a man do everything which is 
 proper in a woman? Which is appointed 
 by nature to be the support of the other? 
 
 Minna. Be not alarmed, Tellheim! — 
 I shall not be quite improtected if I must 
 decUne the honor of your protection. I 
 shaJl still have as much as is absolutely 
 necessary. I have announced my arrival 
 to our Ambassador. I am to see him to- 
 day. I hope he will assist me. Time is fly- 
 ing. Permit me. Major — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. I will accom- 
 pany you, madam. 
 
 Minna. No, Major; leave me. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Sooner shall 
 your shadow desert you! Come, madam, 
 where you wiU, to whom you will, every- 
 where, to friends and strangers, will I re- 
 peat in your presence — repeat a hundred 
 times each day — what a bond binds you 
 to me, and with what cruel caprice you 
 wish to break it — 
 
 [Enter Just.] 
 
 Just [impetuously]. Major! Major! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Well! 
 
 Just. Here quick! Quick! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Why? Come to 
 me. Speak! What is the matter? 
 
 Just. What do you think? 
 
 [Whispers to him.] 
 
 Minna [aside to Franziska]. Do you 
 notice anything, Franziska? 
 
 Franziska. Oh, you merciless creature! 
 I have stood here on thorns! 
 
 Major von Tellheim [to Just]. What 
 do you say? — That is not possible! — 
 You? [Looking fiercely at Minna.] Speak 
 it out; tell it to her face. — Listen, madam. 
 
 Just. The Landlord says that Praulein 
 von Barnhehn has taken the ring which I 
 pledged to him; she recognized it as her 
 own, and would not return it. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Is that true, 
 madam? No, that cannot be true! 
 
 Minna [smiling]. And why not, Tell- 
 heim? Why can it not be true? 
 
 Major von Tellheim [vehemently]. 
 Then it is true! — What terrible light sud- 
 denly breaks in upon me! — Now I know 
 you — false, faithless one! 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 577 
 
 Minna [alanned\. Who, who is faithless? 
 
 Major von Teulheim. You, whom I 
 will never more name! 
 
 Minna. TeUheim! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Forget my 
 name — You came here with the intention 
 of breaking with me — It is evident! — 
 Oil, that chance should thus delight to as- 
 sist the faithless! It brought your ring into 
 your possession. Your craftiness contrived 
 to get my own back into mine! 
 
 Minna. TeUheim, what visions are you 
 conjuring up? Be calm, and Usten to me. 
 
 Franziska [aside]. Now she will catch it! 
 
 [Enter Werner, luith a purse full of gold.] 
 
 Werner. Here I am already. Major! 
 
 Major von Tellheim [without looking 
 at him]. Who wants you? 
 
 Werner. I have brought more money! 
 A thousand pistoles! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. I do not want 
 them! 
 
 Werner. And to-morrow, Major, you 
 can have as many more. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Keep your 
 money! 
 
 Werner. It is your money, Major — 
 I do not think you see whom you are speak- 
 ing to! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Take it away, I 
 say! 
 
 Werner. What is the matter with you? 
 — I am Werner. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. AU goodness is 
 dissimulation; aU kindness, deceit. 
 
 Werner. Is that meant for me? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. As you please! 
 
 Werner. Why, I have only obeyed 
 your commands. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Obey once more, 
 and be off! 
 
 Werner. Major! [Vexed.] I am a 
 man — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. So much the 
 better! 
 
 Werner. Who can also be angry. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Anger is the 
 best thing we possess. 
 
 Werner. I beg you. Major. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. How often must 
 I tell you? I do not want your money! 
 
 Werner [in a rage]. Then take it, who 
 will! [Throws the purse on the ground, 
 
 and goes to the side.] 
 
 Minna [to Franziska]. Ah! Franziska, 
 I ought to have followed your advice. I 
 have carried the jest too far. — Still, when 
 he hears me — [Going to him.] 
 
 Franziska [without answering Minna, 
 goes up to Werner]. Mr. Sergeant — 
 
 Werner [pettishly]. Go along! 
 
 Franziska. Ah, what men these are! 
 
 Minna. Tellheim! Tellheim! [Tell- 
 heim, biting his fingers with rage, turns away 
 his face, loithout listening.] No, this is too 
 bad — Only Usten! — You are mistaken! 
 
 — A mere misunderstanding. Tellheim, 
 will you' not hear your Minna? Can you 
 have such a suspicion? — I break my en- 
 gagement with you? I came here for that 
 purpose? — TeUheim! 
 
 [Enter two Servants, running into the room 
 from different sides.] 
 
 First Servant. Your ladyship, His Ex- 
 oeUency the Count! 
 
 Second Servant. He is coming, your 
 ladyship! 
 
 'FRANzisKA[running to th^ window]. It is! 
 It is he! 
 
 Minna. Is'it? Now, Tellheim, quick! 
 
 Major von Tellheim [suddenly recover- 
 ing himself]. Who — who comes? Your 
 uncle, madam! This cruel uncle! — Let 
 him come; just let him come! — Fear not! 
 
 — He shaU not hurt you even by a look. 
 He shall have to deal with me — You do 
 not, indeed, deserve it of me. 
 
 Minna. Quick, TeUheim! One embrace 
 and forget all. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Ah! Did I but 
 know that you could regret — 
 
 Minna. No, I can never regret having 
 obtained a sight of your whole heart! — 
 Ah, what a man you are! — Embrace 
 your Minna, your happy Minna: and in 
 nothing more happy than in the possession 
 of you. [Embracing.] And now to meet 
 him! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. To meet whom? 
 
 Minna. The best of your unknown 
 friends. 
 
 Major von Tellheim. What! 
 
578 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Minna. The Count, my uncle, my 
 father, your father — My flight, his dis- 
 pleasure, my loss of property — do you 
 not see that all is a fiction, credulous 
 knight? 
 
 Majob von Tellheim. Fiction! But 
 the ring? — the ring? 
 
 Minna. Where is the ring that I gave 
 back to you? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. You will take 
 it again? Ah! Now I am happy — Here, 
 Minna. [Taking it from his pocket.] 
 
 Minna. Look at it first! — Oh! how 
 bMnd are those who wiU not see! — What 
 ring is that? — the one you gave me? — or 
 the one I gave to you? Is it not the one 
 which I did not like to leave in the Land- 
 lord's possession? 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Heavens! WLat 
 do I seel What do I hear! 
 
 Minna. Shall I take it again now? 
 Shall I? Give it to me! Give it! [Takes 
 it from him, and then puts it on his finger 
 herself.] There, now all is right! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. Where am I? 
 [Kissing her hand.] Oh, malicious angel, to 
 torture me so! 
 
 Minna. As a proof, my dear husband, 
 that you shall 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 Tellheim. Oh, you ac- 
 tresses! But I ought to have known you. 
 
 Fbanziska. Not I, indeed; I am spoiled 
 for acting. I trembled and shook, and was 
 obliged to hold my hps together with my 
 hand. 
 
 Minna. Nor was mine an easy part. — 
 But come, now — 
 
 Major von Tellheim. I have not re- 
 covered myself yet. How happy, yet how 
 anxious, I feel! It is like awajdng sud- 
 denly from a frightful dream. 
 
 Minna. We are losing time — I hear 
 him coming now. 
 
 [Enter Count von Bruchsal, accompanied 
 by several servants and the Landlord.] 
 
 Count. She arrived in safety, I hope? 
 Minna [running to meet him]. Ah, my 
 father! 
 
 Count. Here I am, dear Minna. [Em- 
 bracing her.] But what, girl [seeing Tell- 
 heim], only four-and-twenty hours here, 
 and friends — company already! 
 
 Minna. Guess who it is? 
 
 Count. Not your TeUheim, surely! 
 
 Minna. Who else! — ^Come, TeUheim. 
 [Introducing him.] 
 
 Count. Sir, we have never met; but at 
 the first glance I fancied I recognized you. 
 I wished it might be Major von Tellheim. 
 — Your hand, sir; you have my highest 
 esteem; I ask for your friendship. My 
 niece, my daughter loves you. 
 
 Minna. You know that, my father! — 
 And was my love blind? 
 
 Count. No, Minna, your love was not 
 blind; but your lover — is dumb. 
 
 Major von Tellheim [throwing himself 
 in the Count's arms]. Let me recover my- 
 self, my father! 
 
 Count. Right, my son. I see your heart 
 can speak, though your lips cannot. I do 
 not usually care for those who wear this 
 uniform. But you are an 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 aU? — 
 Which are my apartments. Landlord? 
 
 Landlord. WiU Your ExceUency have 
 the goodness to walk this way? 
 
 Count. Come, Minna! — Pray come. 
 Major! 
 
 [Exit with the Landlord and servants.] 
 
 Minna. Come, TeUheim! 
 
 Major von Tellheim. I wiU foUow you 
 in an instant, Minna. One word first with 
 this man. [Turning to Werner.] 
 
 Minna. And a good word, methinks, it 
 should be. — Should it not, Franziska? 
 
 [Exit.] 
 
 Major von Tellheim [pointing to the 
 purse which Werner had thrown down]. 
 Here, Just, pick up the purse, and carry it 
 home. Go! [Just takes it up and goes.] 
 
 Werner [still standing, out of humor, in 
 a corner, and absent till he hears the last 
 words]. WeU, what now? 
 
 Major von Tellheim [in a friendly tone 
 while going up to him]. Werner, when can 
 I have the other two thousand pistoles? 
 
MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 579 
 
 ' Werner [in a good humor again in- 
 stantly]. To-morrow, Major, to-morrow. 
 
 Major von Tellhbim. I do not need 
 to become your debtor; but I will be your 
 banker. AH you good-natured people 
 ought to have guardians. You are in a 
 manner spendthrifts. — I irritated you just 
 now, Werner. 
 
 Werner. Upon my life you did! But I 
 ought not to have been such a dolt. Now 
 I see it all clearly. I deserve a hundred 
 lashes. You may give them to me, if you 
 will. Major. Only no more ill-will, dear 
 Major! 
 
 Major von Tellhbim. lU-will! [Shak- 
 ing him by the hand.] Read in my eyes all 
 that I cannot say to you. — Ah, let me see 
 the man with a better wife and a more 
 trusty friend than I shall have. — Eh! 
 Franziska? [Exit.] 
 
 Franziska [aside]. Yes, indeed, he is 
 more than good! — Such a man will never 
 fall in my way again. — It must come out. 
 [Approaching Webnub bashfully.] Mr. 
 Sergeant! 
 
 Werner [wiping his eyes]. Well! 
 
 Franziska. Mr. Sergeant — 
 
 Werner. What do you want, little 
 woman? 
 
 Franziska. Look at me, Mr. Sergeant. 
 
 Werner. I can't yet ; there is something, 
 I don't know what, in my eyes. 
 
 Franziska. Now, do look at me! 
 
 Werner. I am afraid I have looked at 
 you too much already, httle woman! — 
 There, now I can see you. What then? 
 
 Franziska. Mr. Sergeant — don't you 
 want a Mrs. Sergeant? 
 
 Werner. Do you really mean it, little 
 woman? 
 
 Franziska. Really I do. 
 
 Werner. And would you go with me 
 to Persia even? 
 
 Franziska. Wherever you please. 
 
 Werner. You wiU? — Hullo, Major, 
 no boasting! At any rate, I have got as 
 good a wife, and as trusty a friend, as you. 
 — Give me your hand, my little woman! 
 It's a match! In ten years' time you shall 
 be a general's wife, or a widow! 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 WITH THE IRON HAND 
 
 By J. W. VON GOETHE 
 
 Translated by SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Maximilian, Emperor of Germany 
 
 GoETz VON Beblichingen, o free knight of the Empire 
 
 Elizabeth, his wife 
 
 Maria, his sister 
 
 Charles, his son — a boy 
 
 George, his page 
 
 Bishop of Bamberg 
 
 Adelbert von Weislingen, a free German knight of the Empire 
 
 Adelaide von Walldorf, widow of the Count von Walldorf 
 
 LiEBTHAUT, a courtier of the Bishop's 
 
 Abbot of Fulda, residing at the Bishop's court 
 
 Oleaeius, a doctor of laws 
 
 Brother Martin, o mank 
 
 Hans von Selbitz, 
 
 . free knights, in alliance with Goetz 
 Franz von Sickingen, , 
 
 Lerse, a trooper 
 
 Francis, esquire to Weislingen 
 
 Female Attendant on Adelaide 
 
 President, Accuser, and Avenger of the Secret Tribunal 
 
 Metzler, 
 
 SlEVERS, 
 
 Link, 
 Kohl, 
 
 Wild, 
 
 Imperial Commissioners 
 Two Merchants of Nuremberg 
 Magistrates of Heilhronn 
 
 leaders of the insurgent peasantry 
 
S84 CHARACTERS 
 
 Maximilian Stumf, o vassal of the Palsgrave 
 
 An unknown 
 
 Bride's father, 
 
 Bride, > peasants ' 
 
 Bridegroom, 
 
 Gypsy captain 
 
 Gypsy mother and women 
 
 Sticks and Wolf, gypsies 
 
 Imperial captain 
 
 Imperial officers 
 
 Innkeeper 
 
 Sentinel 
 
 Sergeant-at-arms 
 Imperial Soldiers — Troopers belonging to Goetz, to Selbitz, to 
 SiCKiNGEN, and to Weislingen — Peasants — Gypsies — Judges of 
 the Secret Tribunal — Gaolers — Courtiers, etc., etc., etc. 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene I. An inn at Schwarzeriberg in 
 Franconia. 
 
 [Metzleh and Sievers, two Swabian peas- 
 ants, are seated at a table. At the fire, at 
 some distance froTn them, are two troopers 
 from Bamberg. The Innkeeper.] 
 
 SiBVEHS. Hansel! Another cup of 
 brandy — and Christian measure. 
 
 Innkeeper. Thou art a Never-enough. 
 
 Metzleb [apart to Sievers]. Repeat that 
 again about Berlichingen. The Bamberg- 
 ers there are so angry they are ahnost 
 black in the face. 
 
 Sievers. Bambergers! What are they 
 about here? 
 
 Metzler. Weislingen has been two 
 days up yonder at the castle with the Earl 
 — they are his attendants — they came 
 with him, I know not whence; they are 
 waiting for him — he is going back to 
 Bamberg. 
 
 Sievers. Who is that Weislingen? 
 
 Metzler. The bishop of Bamberg's 
 right hand! — a powerful lord, who is lying 
 in wait to play Goetz some trick. 
 
 Sievers. He had better take care of 
 himself. 
 
 Metzler [aside]. Prithee go on! [Aloud.] 
 How long is it since Goetz had a new dis- 
 pute with the Bishop? I thought all had 
 been agreed and squared between them. 
 
 Sievers. Aye! Agreement with priests! 
 When 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 a 
 truce — and honest Berlichingen yielded 
 to an absurd extent, as he always does when 
 he has the advantage. 
 
 Metzler. God bless him! — a worthy 
 nobleman. 
 
 Sievers. Only think! Was it not shame- 
 ful? They fell upon a page of his, to his lio 
 
 small surprise; but they will soon be mauled 
 for that. 
 
 Metzler. How provoking that his last 
 stroke should have missed. He must have 
 , been plaguily annoyed. 
 
 Sievers. 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 attendants, and which 
 road; and had it not been betrayed by some 
 traitor, Goetz would have blessed his bath 
 for him, and rubbed him dry. 
 
 First Trooper. What are you prating 
 there about our Bishop; do you want to 
 pick a quarrel? 
 
 Sievers. Mind your own affairs; you 
 have nothing to do with our table. 
 
 Second Trooper. Who taught you to 
 speak disrespetftfuUy of our Bishop? 
 
 Sievers. Am I bound to answer your 
 questions? Look at the fool! 
 
 [The First Trooper boxes his ears.] 
 
 Metzler. Smash the rascal ! 
 
 [They attack each other.] 
 
 Second Trooper [to Metzler], Come 
 on if you dare — 
 
 Innkeeper [separating them]. Will you 
 be quiet? Zounds! Take yourself off if 
 1 you have any scores to settle; in my house 
 I will have order and decency. [He pushes- 
 the Troopers out of doors.] And what are 
 you about, you jackasses? 
 
 Metzler. No bad names, Hansel, or 
 your sconce shall pay for it. Come, com- 
 rade, we '11 go and thrash those blackguards. 
 
 [Enter two of Berlichingen's Troopers.] 
 
 First Trooper. What's the matter? 
 
 Sievers. Ah! Good-day, Peter! — 
 Good-day, Veit! — Whence come you? 
 
 Second Trooper. Mind you don't let 
 out whom we serve. 
 
 Sievers [whispering]. Then your master 
 Goetz is n't far off? 
 
S86 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 FiBST Trooper. Hold your tongue! — 
 Have you had a quarrel? 
 
 SiBVERS. You must have met the fel- 
 lows without — they are Bambergers. 
 , First Trooper. What brings them here? 
 
 SiEVBBS. They escort Weislingen, who 
 is up yonder at the castle with the Earl. 
 
 First Trooper. Weislingen! 
 
 Second Trooper [aside to his compan- 
 ion]. Peter, that is grist to our mill. How 
 long has he been here? 
 
 Metzlbr. Two days — but he is off to- 
 day, as I heard one of his fellows say. 
 
 First Trooper [aside]. Did I not tell 
 you he was here? — We might have waited 
 yonder long enough — Come, Veit — 
 
 Sievers. Help us first to drub the Bam- 
 bergers. 
 
 Second Trooper. There are already two 
 of you — We must away. Farewell! 
 
 [Exeunt both Troopers.] 
 
 SiBVEES. Scurvy dogs, these troopers! 
 They won't strike a blow without pay. 
 
 Mbtzlbb. I could swear they have 
 something in hand. — Whom do they 
 serve? 
 
 SiEVEBS. I am not to tell — They serve 
 Goetz. 
 
 Mbtzlbb. So! — Well, now we'll cudgel 
 those fellows outside While I have a 
 quarter-staff I care not for their spits. 
 
 SiEVEBS. If we durst but once serve the 
 princes in the same manner, who drag our 
 skins over our ears! [Exeunt.] 
 
 Scene II. A cottage in a thick forest. 
 
 [GoETZ VON Berlichingen discovered 
 walking among the trees before the door.] 
 
 Goetz. Where linger my servants? I 
 must walk up and down, or sleep will over- 
 come me. Five days and nights already on 
 the watch. It is hardly earned, this bit of 
 life and freedom. But when I have caught 
 thee, Weislingen, I shall take my ease. 
 [Fills a glass of wine and drinks; looks at the 
 flask.] Again empty. — George! — While 
 this and my courage last, I can laugh at the 
 ambition and chicanery of princes! — 
 George! — You may send round your ob- 
 sequious Weislingen to your uncles and 
 cousins to calumniate my character. Be it 
 
 so. I am on the alert. Thou hast escaped 
 me, Bishop; then thy dear Weislingen shall 
 pay the score. — George! — Does n't the 
 boy hear? — George! George! 
 
 George [entering in the cuirass of a full- 
 grown man]. Worshipful sir. 
 
 Goetz. What kept you? Were you 
 asleep? — What in the devil's name means 
 this masquerade? — Come hither; you don't 
 look amiss. Be not ashamed, boy; you look 
 bravely. Ah! if you could but fill it! — Is 
 it Hans's cuirass? 
 
 Gbobge. He wished to sleep a little, and 
 unbuckled it. 
 
 GoBTZ. He takes things easier than his 
 master. 
 
 Gbobge. Do not be angry! I took it 
 quietly away and put it on, then fetched 
 my father's old sword from the wall, ran to 
 the meadow, and drew it — 
 
 Goetz. And laid about you, no doubt? 
 Rare times for the brambles and thorns! — 
 Is Hans asleep? 
 
 George. He started up and cried out to 
 me when you called. I was trying to un- 
 buckle the cuirass when I heard you twice 
 or thrice. 
 
 Goetz. Go, take back his cuirass, and 
 tell him to be ready with his horses. 
 
 Gbobge. I have fed them well and they 
 are ready bridled; you may mount when 
 you will. 
 
 GoBTZ. Bring me a stoup of wine. Give 
 Hans a glass too, and tell him to be on the 
 alert — there is good cause; I expect the 
 return of my scouts every moment. 
 
 George. Ah, noble sir! 
 
 Goetz. What's the matter? 
 
 George. May I not go with you? 
 
 Goetz. Another time, George! when we 
 waylay merchants and seize their wagons — 
 
 George. Another time! — You have 
 said that so often. — Oh, this time, this 
 time! I will only skulk behind; just keep 
 on the lookout. I will gather up all the 
 spent arrows for you. 
 
 Goetz. Next time, George! — You must 
 first have a doublet, a steel cap, and a lance. 
 
 George. Take me with you now! — Had 
 I been with you last time, you would not 
 have lost your crossbow. 
 
 Goetz. Do you know about that? '*' 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 587 
 
 George. You threw it at your antago- 
 nist's head; one of his followers picked it 
 up, and off with it he went. — Don't I 
 know about it? 
 
 GoETZ. Did my people tell you? 
 
 George. Oh yes: and for that, I whistle 
 them all sorts of tunes while we dress the 
 horses, and teach them merry songs, too. 
 
 Goetz. Thou art a brave boy. 
 
 George. Take me with you to prove 
 myself so. 
 
 Goetz. The next time, I promise you! 
 You must not go to battle unarmed as you 
 are. There is a time coming which will also 
 require men. I tell thee, boy, it will be a 
 dear time. Princes shall offer their treas- 
 ures for a man whom they now hate. Go, 
 George, give Hans his cuirass again, and 
 bring me wine. [Exit George.] — Where 
 can my people be? It is incomprehensible! 
 — A monk! What brings him here so late? 
 
 [Enter Brother Martin.] 
 
 Goetz. Grood-evening, reverend father! 
 Whence come you so late? Man of holy 
 rest, thou shamest many knights. 
 
 Martin. Thanks, noble sir! I am at 
 present but an unworthy brother, if we 
 comeTto titles. My cloister name is Au- 
 gustin, but I like better to be called by my 
 Christian name, Martin. 
 
 Goetz. You are tired, Brother Martin, 
 and doubtless thirsty. 
 
 [Enter Geoug^ with vnne.\ 
 
 Goetz. Here, in good time, comes wine! 
 
 Martin. For me a draught of water. 
 I dare not drink wine. 
 
 Goetz. Is it against your vow? 
 
 Martin. Noble sir, to drink wine is not 
 against my vow; but because vnne 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. 
 
 Goetz. Well! 
 
 Martin. When thou hast eaten and 
 drunken, thou art as it were newborn, 
 stronger, bolder, fitter for action. Wine 
 rejoices the heart of man, and joyousness 
 is the mother of every virtue. When thou 
 
 hast drunk wine, thou art double what 
 thou shouldst be! — twice as ingenious, 
 twice as enterprising, and twice as active. 
 
 Goetz. As I drink it, what you say is true. 
 
 Martin. 'T is when thus taken in 
 
 moderation that I speak of it. But we — 
 
 [George brings water.] 
 
 Goetz [aside to George]. Go to the road 
 which leads to Daxbach; lay thine ear close 
 to the earth, and listen for the tread of 
 horses. Return immediately. 
 
 Martin. But we, on the other hand, 
 when we have eaten and drunken, are the 
 reverse of what we should be. Our sluggish 
 digestion depresses our mental powers; and 
 in the indulgence of luxurious ease, desires 
 are generated which grow too strong for 
 our weakness. 
 
 Goetz. One glass, Brother Martin, will 
 not disturb your sleep. You have traveled 
 far to-day. [Raises his glass.] Here's to all 
 fighting men! 
 
 Martin. With all my heart! [They ring 
 their glasses.] I cannot abide idle people — 
 yet will I not say that all monks are idle; 
 they do what they can: I am just come from 
 St. Bede, where I slept last night. The 
 prior took me into the garden; that is their 
 hive. Excellent salad, cabbages in per- 
 fection, and such cauliflowers and arti- 
 chokes as you will hardly find in Europe. 
 
 Goetz. So that is not the life for you? 
 
 [Goes out and looks anxiously after 
 the boy. Returns.] 
 
 Martin. Would that God had made me 
 a gardener, or day laborer, I might then 
 have been happy! My convent is Erfurt 
 in Saxony; my Abbot loves me; he knows 
 I cannot remain idle, and so he sends me 
 round the country, wherever there is busi- 
 ness to be done. I am on my way to the 
 Bishop of Constance. 
 
 Goetz. Another glass. Good speed to 
 you! 
 
 Martin. The same to you. 
 
 Goetz. Why do you look at me so stead- 
 fastly, brother? 
 
 Martin. I am in love with your armor. 
 
 Goetz. Would you like a suit? It is 
 heavy and toilsome to the wearer. 
 
 Martin. What is not toilsome in this 
 world? — But to me nothing is so much so 
 
S88 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 as to renounce my very nature! Poverty, 
 chastity, obedience — three vows, each of 
 which taken singly seems the most dreadful 
 to humanity — so insupportable are they 
 all; — and to spend a lifetime under this 
 burden, or to groan despairingly under the 
 still heavier load of an evil conscience — 
 Ah! Sir Knight, what are the toils of your 
 life compared to the sorrows of a state, 
 which, from a mistaken desire of drawing 
 ( nearer to the Deity, condemns as crimes the 
 ibest impulses of our nature, impulses by 
 (which we live, grow, and prosper! 
 
 GoBTZ. Were your vow less sacred, I 
 would give you a suit of armor and a steed, 
 and we would ride out together. 
 
 Martin. Would to Heaven my shoulders 
 had strength to bear armor, and my arm to 
 unhorse an enemy! — Poor weak hand, 
 accustomed from infancy to swing censers, 
 to bear crosses and banners of peace, how 
 couldst thou manage the lance and falchion? 
 My voice, tuned only to aves and halle- 
 luiahs, 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. 
 
 GoETZ. To your happy return! [Drinks.] 
 
 Martin. I drink that only in compU- 
 ment to you! A return to my prison must 
 ever be unhappy. When 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 can you speak 
 of happiness. 
 
 GoETZ. And accordingly it comes but 
 seldom! 
 
 Martin [with growing ardor]. But when 
 it does come, it is a foretaste of paradise. — 
 When you return home laden with the 
 spoils of your enemies, and, remember, 
 " such a one I struck from his horse ere he 
 could discharge his piece — such another I 
 overthrew, horse and man"; then you ride 
 to your castle, and — 
 
 GoETZ. And what? 
 
 Martin. And your wife — [Fills a 
 glass.] To her health! [He vnpes his eyes.] 
 You have one? 
 
 Goetz. a virtuous, noble wife! 
 
 Martin. Happy the man who possesses 
 a virtuous wife, his life is doubled. This 
 blessing was denied me, yet was woman the 
 glory or crown of creation. 
 
 Goetz [aside]. I grieve for him. The 
 sense of his condition preys upon his heart. 
 
 [Enter George, breathless.] 
 
 George. My lord, my lord, I hear 
 horses in full gallop! — two of them — 
 'T is they for certain. 
 
 Goetz. Bring out my steed; let Hans 
 mount. Farewell, dear brother, God be 
 with you. Be cheerful and patient. He will 
 give you ample scope. 
 
 Martin. Let me request your name. 
 
 Goetz. Pardon me — farewell! 
 
 [Gives his left hand.] 
 
 Martin. Why do you give the left? Am 
 I unworthy of the knightly right hand? 
 
 Goetz. Were you the Emperor, you 
 must be satisfied with this. My right hand, 
 though not useless in combat, is unrespon- 
 sive to the grasp of affection. It is one with 
 its mailed gauntlet — You see, it is iron! 
 
 Martin. Then art thou Goetz of Ber- 
 lichingen. I thank thee. Heaven, who hast 
 shown me the man whom princes hate, but 
 to whom the oppressed throng! [He takes 
 his right hand.] Withdraw not this hand; 
 let me kiss it. 
 
 Goetz. You must not! 
 
 Martin. Let me, let me — thou hand, 
 more worthy even than the saintly relic 
 through which the most sacred blood has 
 flowed! Lifeless instrument, quickened by 
 the noblest spirit's faith in God. 
 
 [Goetz adjusts his helmet, and 
 takes his lance.] 
 
 Martin. There was a monk among us 
 about a year ago, who visited you when 
 your hand was shot off at the siege 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 
 knight — I shall never forget it. 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 589 
 
 [Enter the two Troopers. They speak 
 apart with Goetz.] 
 
 Martin [continuing]. I shall never for- 
 get his words uttered in the noblest, the 
 most childlike trust in God: "If I had 
 twelve hands, what would they avail me 
 without thy grace? Then may I with only 
 one — " 
 
 Goetz. In the wood of Haslach, then. 
 [Turns to Mabtin.] Farewell, worthy 
 brother! [Embraces him.] 
 
 Mabtin. Forget me not, as I shall never 
 forget thee! 
 
 [Exeunt Goetz and his Troopers.] 
 
 Maktin. How my heart beat at the 
 sight of him. He spoke not, yet my spirit 
 recognized his. What rapture to behold a 
 great man! 
 
 George. Reverend sir, you will sleep 
 here? 
 
 Martin. Can I have a bed? 
 
 George. No, sir! I know of beds only 
 by hearsay; in our quarters there is nothing 
 but straw. 
 
 Martin. It will serve. What is thy 
 name? 
 
 George. George, reverend sir. 
 
 Martin. Gteorge! Thou hast a gallant 
 patron saint. 
 
 George. They say he was a trooper; 
 that is what I intend to be! 
 
 Martin. Stop! [Takes a picture from his 
 breviary and gives it to him.] There, behold 
 him — follow his example ; be brave, and 
 fear God. [Exit into the cottage.] 
 
 George. Ah! what a splendid gray 
 horse! If I had but one like that — and the 
 golden armor. There is an ugly dragon. 
 At present I shoot nothing but sparrows. 
 O St. George ! Make me but tall and strong ; 
 give me a lance, armor, and such a horse, 
 and then let the dr£|,gons come! [Exit.] 
 
 Scene III. An apartment in Jaxthausen, 
 the castle of Goetz von Berlichingen. 
 
 [Elizabeth, Maria, and Charles 
 discovered.] 
 
 Charles. Pray now, dear aunt, tell me 
 again that story about the good child; it is 
 so pretty — 
 
 Maria. Do you tell it to me, little 
 rogue! that I may see if you have paid at- 
 tention. 
 
 Charles. Wait, then, till I think. — 
 "There was once upon" — yes — "There 
 was once upon a time a child, and his 
 mother was sick; so the child went — " 
 
 Maria. No, no! — "Then his mother 
 said, 'Dear child'— " 
 
 Charles. " ' I am sick — ' " 
 
 Maria. " ' And cannot go out.' " 
 
 Charles. "And gave him money and 
 said, 'Go and buy yourself a breakfast.' 
 There came a poor man — " 
 
 Maria. "The child went. There met him 
 an old man who was — " Now, Charles! 
 
 Charles. "Who was — old — " 
 
 Maria. 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.' 
 Then the child gave him the money — " 
 
 Maria. "That should have bought his 
 breakfast." 
 
 Charles. "Then the old man said — " 
 
 Maria. "Then the old man took the 
 child by the hand — " 
 
 Charles. "By the hand, and said — 
 and became a fine beautiful saint — and 
 said —' Dear child —'" 
 
 Maria. " ' The holy Virgin rewards thee 
 for thy benevolence through me: whatever 
 sick person thou touchest — ' " 
 
 Charles. '"With thy hand—'" It 
 was the right hand, I think. 
 
 Maria. Yes. 
 
 Charles. "'He will get well directly."' 
 
 Maria. "Then the child ran home, and 
 could not speak for joy — " 
 
 Charles. "And fell upon his mother's 
 neck and wept for joy." 
 
 Maria. "Then the 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 kings and 
 emperors, and became so rich that he built 
 a great abbey." 
 
 Elizabeth. I cannot understand why 
 my husband stays. He has been away five 
 days and nights, and he hoped to have 
 finished his adventure so quickly. 
 
59° 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Maria. I have long felt uneasy. Were 
 I married to a man who continually in- 
 curred such danger, I should die within the 
 first year. 
 
 Elizabeth. I thank God that He has 
 made me of firmer stuff! 
 
 Charles. But must my father ride out, 
 if it is so dangerous? 
 
 Maria. Such is his good pleasure. 
 
 Elizabeth. He must, indeed, dear 
 Charles! 
 
 Charles. Why? 
 
 Elizabeth. Do you not remember the 
 last time he rode out, when he brought you 
 those nice things? 
 
 Charles. Will he bring me anything 
 now? 
 
 Elizabeth. I believe so. Listen: There 
 was a tailor at Stutgard who was a capital 
 archer, and had gained the prize at Cologne. 
 
 Charles. Was it much? 
 
 Elizabeth. A hundred dollars; and 
 afterwards they would not pay him. 
 
 Maria. That was naughty, eh, Charles? 
 
 Charles. Naughty people! 
 
 Elizabeth. 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 prisoners till they 
 paid the money. Would you not have rid- 
 den out too? 
 
 Charles. No; for one must go through 
 a dark thick wood, where there are gypsies 
 and witches — 
 
 Elizabeth. You're a fine fellow; afraid 
 of witches! 
 
 Maria. Charles, it is far better to live at 
 home in your castle, like a quiet Christian 
 knight. One may find opportunities enough 
 of doing good on one's own lands. Even the 
 worthiest knights do more harm than good 
 in their excursions. 
 
 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. 
 
 Maria. We will not judge, Elizabeth. 
 — My brother is 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. 
 
 Maria. What I have heard of him has 
 interested me. — Even your husband re- 
 lates many instances of his former good- 
 ness and affection. — How happy was their 
 youth when they were both pages of honor 
 to the Margrave! 
 
 Elizabeth. That may be. But only 
 tell me, how can a man ever have been good 
 who lays snares for his best and truest 
 friend; who has sold his services to the 
 enemies of my husband; and who strives, 
 by invidious misrepresentations, to poison 
 the mind of our noble emperor, who is so 
 gracious to us? [A horn is heard.] 
 
 Charles. Papa! papa! The warder 
 sounds his horn ! Joy! joy! Open the gate! 
 
 Elizabeth. There he comes with booty! 
 
 [Enter Peter.] 
 
 Peter. We have fought — we have con- 
 quered! — God save you, noble ladies! 
 
 Elizabeth. Have you captured Weis- 
 lingen? 
 
 Peter. Himself, and three followers. 
 
 Elizabeth. How came you to stay so 
 long? 
 
 Peter. We lay in wait for him between 
 Nuremberg and Bamberg, but he would not 
 come, 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 Sohwarzenberg. 
 
 Elizabeth. They would also fain make 
 the Earl my husband's enemy. 
 
 Peter. I immediately told my master. 
 — Up and away we rode into the forest of 
 Haslach. And it was curious, that while we 
 were riding along that night, a shepherd was 
 watching, and five wolves fell upon the 
 flock and attacked them stoutly. Then my 
 master laughed, and said, " Good luck to us 
 all, dear comrades, both to you and us!" 
 And the good omen overjoyed us. Just then 
 Weislingen came riding toward us with 
 four attendants — 
 
 Maria. How my heart beats! 
 
 Peter. My comrade and I, as our master 
 had commanded, threw ourselves suddenly 
 on him, and clung to him as if we had grown 
 together, so that he could not move, while 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 S9I 
 
 my master and Hans fell upon the servants, 
 and overpowered them. They were all 
 taken, except one who escaped. 
 
 Elizabeth. I am cvirious to see him. 
 Will he arrive soon? 
 
 Peter. They are riding through the 
 valley, and will be here in a quarter of an 
 hour. 
 
 Maria. He is, no doubt, cast down and 
 dejected? 
 
 Peter. He looks gloomy enough. 
 
 Maria. It wiU grieve me to see his dis- 
 tress! 
 
 Elizabeth. Oh! I must get food ready. 
 You are, no doubt, all hungry? 
 
 Peter. Hungry enough, in truth. 
 
 Elizabeth [to Maria]. Take the cellar 
 keys and bring the best wine. They have 
 deserved it. [Exit Elizabeth.] 
 
 Charles. I'll go, too, aunt. 
 
 Maria. Come, then, boy. 
 
 [Exeunt Charles and Maria.] 
 
 Peter. He'll never be his father, else he 
 would have gone with me to the stable. 
 
 [Enter Goetz, Weislingen, Hans, 
 and other Troopers.] 
 
 Goetz [laying his helmet and sword on a 
 table]. Unbuckle my armor, and give me 
 my doublet. Ease will refresh me. Brother 
 Martin, thou saidst truly. You have kept 
 us long on the watch, Weislingen! 
 
 [Weislingen paces up and down 
 in silence.] 
 
 Be of good cheer! Come, unarm your- 
 self! Where are your clothes? I hope noth- 
 ing has been lost. [To the attendants.] Go, 
 ask his servants; open the baggage, and see 
 that nothing is missing. Or I can lend you 
 some of mine. 
 
 Weislingen. Let me remain as I am — 
 it is all one. 
 
 Goetz. I can give you a handsome 
 doublet, but it is only of linen; it has grown 
 too tight for mej I wore it at the marriage 
 of my lord the Palsgrave, when your Bishop 
 was so incensed at me. About a. fortnight 
 before I had simk two of his vessels upon 
 the Maine. — I was going upstairs in the 
 Stag at Heidelberg, with Pranz von Sick- 
 ingen. Before you get quite to the top, 
 there is a landing-place with iron rails — 
 
 there stood the Bishop, and gave his hand 
 to Franz as he passed, and to me also as 
 I followed close behind him. I laughed in 
 my sleeve, and went to the Landgrave of 
 Hanau, who was always a kind friend to me, 
 and said, "The Bishop has given me his 
 hand, but I'U wager he did not know me." 
 The Bishop heard me, for I was speaking 
 on purpose. He came to us 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 your shake of the hand back again! " 
 The manikin grew red as a Turkey cock 
 with spite, and he ran up into the room and 
 complained to the Palsgrave Lewis and 
 the Prince of Nassau. We have laughed 
 over the scene again and again. 
 
 Weislingen. I wish you would leave me 
 to myself. 
 
 Goetz. Why so? I entreat you be of good 
 cheer. You are my prisoner, but I will not 
 abuse my power. 
 
 Weislinsbn. I have no fear of that. 
 That is your duty as a knight. 
 
 Goetz. And you know how sacred it is 
 to me. 
 
 Weislingen. I am your prisoner — the 
 rest matters not. 
 
 Goetz. You should not say so. Had you 
 been taken by a prince, fettered and cast 
 into a dungeon, your jailer directed to 
 drive sleep from your eyes — 
 
 [Enter Servants with clothes. Weislingen 
 unarms himself. Enter Charles.] 
 
 Charles. Good-morrow, papa! 
 
 Goetz [kisses him]. Good-morrow, boy! 
 How have you been this long time? 
 
 Charles. Very well, father! Aunt says 
 I am a good boy. 
 
 Goetz. Does she? 
 
 Charles. Have you brought me any- 
 thing? 
 
 Goetz. Nothing this time. 
 
 Charles. I have learned a great deal. 
 
 Goetz. Aye! 
 
 Charles. Shall I tell you about the good 
 child? 
 
 Goetz. After dinner. 
 
 Charles. I know something else, too. 
 
 Goetz. What may that be? 
 
592 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Charles. "Jaxthausen is a village and 
 castle on the Jaxt, which has appertained 
 in property and heritage for two hundred 
 years to the Lords of Berlichingen — " 
 
 GoBTZ. Do you know the Lord of Ber- 
 lichingen? [Charles stares at him. Aside.] 
 His learning is so abstruse that he does not 
 know his own father. To whom does Jaxt- 
 hausen belong? 
 
 Charles. "Jaxthausen is a village and 
 castle upon the Jaxt — " 
 
 GoETZ. 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 kitchen? 
 
 Charles. Yes, papa! They are cooking 
 a lamb and turnips. 
 
 GoETZ. Do you know that, too. Jack 
 Turnspit? 
 
 Charles. And my aunt is roasting an 
 apple for me to eat after dinner — 
 
 GoETZ. Can't you eat it raw? 
 
 Charles. It tastes better roasted. 
 
 GoBTZ. 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! 
 
 Charles. Who is that man? 
 
 GoETZ. Bid him welcome. Tell him to 
 be merry. 
 
 Charles. There's my hand for you, 
 man! Be merry — for the dinner will soon 
 be ready. 
 
 Weislingen [takes up the child and kisses 
 him]. Happy boy, that knowest no worse 
 evil than the delay of dinner. May you 
 live to have much joy in your son, Ber- 
 lichingen! 
 
 GoETZ. Where there is most light the 
 
 shades are deepest. Yet I should thank 
 
 God for it. We'll see what they are about. 
 
 [Exit with Charles and Servants.] 
 
 Weislingen. Oh, that I could but wake 
 and find this all a dream! In the power of 
 Berlichingen! — from whom I had scarcely 
 dfetached myself — whose remembrance I 
 shunned like fire — whom I hoped to over- 
 power! And he still the old true-hearted 
 Goetz! 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 prize him as thy soul! 
 
 Who can know him and hate him? Alas! 
 I am so thoroughly insignificant here. 
 Happy days, ye are gone. There, in his 
 chair by the chimney, sat old Berlichin- 
 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 sympathize with my 
 misfortune. But what avails it? Can they 
 give me the peace after which I strive? 
 
 [Reenter Goetz with urine and goblets.] 
 
 GoBTZ. We'll take a glass while dinner 
 is preparing. Come, sit down, — think 
 yourself at home! Fancy you've come once 
 more to see Goetz. It is long since we have 
 sat and emptied a flagon together. [Lifts his 
 glass.] Come: a light heart! 
 
 Weislingen. Those times are gone by. 
 
 Goetz. 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 scuflle I had with the Po- 
 lander, whose pomaded and frizzled hair I 
 chanced to rub with my sleeve? 
 
 Weislingen. It was at table; and he 
 struck at you with a knife. 
 
 GoBTZ. I gave it him, however; and you 
 had a quarrel upon that account with his 
 comrades. We always stuck together like 
 brave fellows, and were the admiration of 
 every one. [Raises his glass.] Castor and 
 Pollux! It used to rejoice my heart when 
 the Margrave so called us. 
 
 Weislingen. The Bishop of Wiirzburg 
 first gave us the name. 
 
 Goetz. 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 
 caress us, praise our friendship, and say, 
 "Happy is the man who is his friend's 
 twin-brother." 
 
 Weislingen. No mora of that. 
 
 Goetz. Why not? I know nothing more 
 delightful after fatigue than to talk over 
 old times. Indeed, when I recall to mind 
 how we bore good and bad fortune to- 
 gether, and were all in all to each other, and 
 how I thought this was to continue forever. 
 Was not that my sole comfort when my 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 593 
 
 hand was shot away at Landshut, and you 
 nursed and tended me like a brother? I 
 hoped Adelbert would in future be my 
 right hand. And now — 
 
 Weislingen. Alas! 
 
 GoETZ. Hadst thou but listened to me 
 when I begged thee to go with me to Bra- 
 bant, all would have been well. But then 
 that unhappy turn for court-dangling 
 seized thee, and thy coquetting and flirting 
 with the women. I always told thee, when 
 thou wouldst mix with these lounging, vain 
 court sycophants, and entertain them with 
 gossip about unlucky matches and seduced 
 girls, scandal about absent friends, and all 
 such trash as they take interest in — I al- 
 ways said, "Adelbert, thou wilt become a 
 rogue!" 
 
 Weislingen. To what purpose is all 
 this? 
 
 GoBTZ. Would to God I could forget it, 
 or that it were otherwise! Art thou not free 
 and nobly born as any in Germany; inde- 
 pendent, subject to the Emperor alone; and 
 dost thou crouch among vassals? What is 
 the Bishop to thee? Granted, he is thy 
 neighbor, and can do thee a shrewd turn; 
 hast thou not power and friends to requite 
 him in kind? Art thou ignorant of the dig- 
 nigy of a free knight, who depends only 
 upon God, the Emperor, and himself, that 
 thou degradest thyself to be the courtier of 
 a stubborn, jealous priest? 
 
 Weislingen. Let me speak! 
 
 GoETZ. What hast thou to say? 
 
 Weislingen. You look upon the princes 
 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 the high- 
 roads, and sack their castles and villages? 
 Upon the other hand, our country's ene- 
 mies threaten 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 
 giving to great and small the blessings of 
 quiet? And can you blame us, Berlichingen, 
 
 for securing the protection of the powerful 
 princes, our neighbors, whose assistance is 
 at hand, rather than relying on that of the 
 Emperor, who is so far removed from us, 
 and is hardly able to protect himself? 
 
 GoETZ. Yes, yes, I understand you. 
 Weislingen, were the princes as you paint 
 them, we should all have what we want. 
 Peace and quiet! No doubt! Every bird of 
 prey naturally likes to eat its plunder un- 
 disturbed. The general weal! If they would 
 but take the trouble to study that. And 
 they trifle with the Emperor shamefully. 
 Every day some new tinker or other comes 
 to give his opinion. The Emperor means 
 well, and would gladly put things to rights; 
 but because he happens to imderstand a 
 thing readily, and by a single word, can put 
 a thousand hands into motion, he thinks 
 everjrthing will be as speedily and as easily 
 accomplished. Ordinance upon ordinance 
 is promulgated, each nullifying the last, 
 while the princes obey only those which 
 serve their own interest, 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 Emperor 
 fully employed! 
 
 Weislingen. You view things your own 
 way. 
 
 GoETZ. So does every one. The ques- 
 tion is, which is the right way to view them? 
 And your plans at least shun the day. 
 
 Weislingen. You may say what you 
 will; 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 made! 
 And the clergy were the 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 his 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 the boy? 
 
 Weislingen. It was done without his 
 knowledge. 
 
594 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 GoBTZ. Then, why does he not release 
 him? 
 
 Weislingen. He did not conduct him- 
 self as he ought. 
 
 GoETZ. Not conduct himself as he 
 ought? By my honor, he performed his 
 duty, as surely as he has been imprisoned 
 both with your knowledge and the Bish- 
 op's! Do you think I am come into the 
 world this very day, that I caimot see what 
 all this means? 
 
 Weislingen. You are suspicious, and do 
 us wrong. 
 
 Goetz. Weislingen, shall I deal openly 
 with you? Inconsiderable as I am, I am a 
 thorn in your side, and Selbitz and Sick- 
 ingen 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 possible 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 dispatched for 
 intelligence: and now you say he did not 
 conduct himself as he should do, because he 
 would not betray my secrets. And you, 
 Weislingen, are their tool! 
 
 Weislingen. Berlichingen! 
 
 Goetz. Not a word more. I am an enemy 
 to long explanations; they deceive either the 
 maker or the hearer, and generally both. 
 
 [Enter Charles.] 
 
 Charles. Dinner is ready, father! 
 
 Goetz. Good news! 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. Come! [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene IV. The Bishop of Bamberg's palaee. 
 
 [The Bishop, the Abbot of Fulda, Olearius, 
 LiEBTRAUT, and Courtiers at table. 
 The dessert and wine before them.] 
 
 Bishop. Are there many of the German 
 nobility studying at Bologna? 
 Olearius. Both nobles and citizens; 
 
 and, I do not exaggerate m saying that they 
 acquire the most brilliant reputation. It is 
 a proverb in the university, "As studious 
 as a German noble." For while the citizens 
 display a laudable diligence, in order to 
 compensate by learning for their want of 
 birth, the nobles strive, with praiseworthy 
 emulation, to enhance their ancestral dig- 
 nity by superior attainments. 
 
 Abbot. Indeed! 
 
 LiEBTRAUT. What may one not live to 
 hear! We live and learn, as the proverb 
 says. "As studious as a German noble." 
 I never heard that before. 
 
 Olearius. Yes, they are the admiration 
 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 them 
 the highest offices. 
 
 Bishop. He caimot fail to do so. 
 
 Abbot. Do you know, for instance, a 
 young man — a Hessian? — 
 
 Olearius. There are many Hessians 
 with us. 
 
 Abbot. His name is — is — Does no- 
 body remember it? His mother was a von 
 — Oh! his father had but one eye, and was 
 a marshal — 
 
 LiEBTRAUT. Von Wildenholz! 
 
 Abbot. Right. Von Wildenholz. 
 
 Olearius. I know him well. A young 
 man of great abilities. He is particularly 
 esteemed for his talent in disputation. 
 
 Abbot. He has that from his mother. 
 
 LiEBTRAUT. Yes: but his father would 
 never praise her for that quality. 
 
 Bishop. How call you the Emperor who 
 wrote your Corpus Juris ? 
 
 Olearius. Justinian. 
 
 Bishop. A worthy prince: — here's to 
 his memory! 
 
 Olearius. To his memory: 
 
 [Th^y drink.] 
 
 Abbot. That must be a fine book. 
 
 Olearius. It may be called a book of 
 books; a digest of all laws; there you find 
 the sentence ready for every case, and 
 where the text is antiquated or obscure, the 
 deficiency is supplied by notes, with which 
 the most learned men have enriched this 
 truly admirable work. 
 
GOETZ VON" BERLICHINGEN 
 
 S9S 
 
 Abbot. A digest of all laws! — Indeed! 
 — Then the Ten Commandments must be 
 in it. 
 
 Oleakius. Implidte; not explidte. 
 
 Abbot. That's what I mean; plainly set 
 down, without any expUcation. 
 
 Bishop. But the best is, you tell us that 
 a state can be maintained in the most per- 
 fect tranquiUity and subordination, by re- 
 ceiving and rightly following that statute- 
 book. 
 
 Oleakius. Doubtless. 
 
 Bishop. All doctors of laws! 
 
 [They drink.] 
 
 Oleakius. 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? 
 
 Oleakius. From Frankfort, at your 
 eminence's service! 
 
 Bishop. You gentlemen of the law, then, 
 are not held in high estimation there? — 
 How comes that? 
 
 Oleakius. It is strange enough — when 
 I last went there to collect my father's 
 effects, the mob almost stoned me, when 
 they heard I was a lawyer. 
 
 Abbot. God bless me! 
 
 Oleakius. It is because their tribunal, 
 which they hold in great respect, is com- 
 posed of people totally ignorant of the 
 Roman law. An intimate acquaintance with 
 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 established edicts of their own, and 
 some old customs recognized in the city and 
 neighborhood. 
 
 Abbot. That's very right. 
 
 Oleakius. But far from sufficient. The 
 life of man is short, and in one generation 
 cases of every description cannot occur; 
 our statute-book is a collection of prece- 
 dents, furnished by the experience of many 
 centuries. Besides, 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. Law determines absolutely, 
 and its decrees are immutable. 
 
 Abbot. That's certainly better. 
 
 Oleakius. But the common people 
 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. 
 
 LiEBTRAUT. You come from Frankfort? 
 — I know the 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. 
 
 Oleakius. My father's name was Oil- 
 man. But after the example, and with the 
 advice of many jurists, I have latinized the 
 name to Olearius for the decoration of the 
 title-page of my legal treatises. 
 
 LiEBTKAUT. You did well to translate 
 yourself: a prophet is not honored in his 
 own country — in your native guise you 
 might have shared the same fate. 
 
 Oleakius. That was not the reason. 
 
 LiEBTRAUT. All things have two reasons. 
 
 Abbot. A prophet is not honored in his 
 own country. 
 
 LiEBTRAUT. But do you know why, most 
 reverend sir? 
 
 Abbot. Because he was born and bred 
 there. 
 
 LiEBTRAUT. Well, that may be one rea- 
 son. The other is, because, upon a nearer 
 acquaintance with these gentlemen, the 
 halo of glory and honor shed around them 
 by the distant haze totally disappears; they 
 are then seen to be nothing more than tiny 
 rushlights ! 
 
 Oleakius. It seems you are placed here 
 to tell pleasant truths. 
 
 LiEBTRAUT. As I have wit enough to 
 discover them, I do not lack courage to 
 utter them. 
 
 Olearius. Yet you lack the art of ap- 
 plying them well. 
 
 LiEBTKAUT. It is no matter where you 
 place a cupping-glass, provided it draws 
 blood. 
 
 Olearius. Barbers are known by their 
 dress, and no one takes offense at their 
 scurvy jests. Let me advise you as a pre- 
 
S9<5 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 caution to bear the badge of your order — 
 a cap and bells! 
 
 LiBBTBATJT. Where did you take your 
 degree? I only ask, so that, should I ever 
 take a fancy to a fool's cap, I could at once 
 go to the right shop. 
 
 Olearius. You carry face enough. 
 
 LiEBTRAUT. And you paunch. 
 
 [The Bishop and Abbot laugh.] 
 
 Bishop. Not so warm, gentlemen! — 
 Some other subject. At table all should be 
 fair and quiet. Choose another subject, 
 Liebtraut. 
 
 LiEBTRAUT. Opposite Frankfort lies a 
 village, called Sachsenhausen — 
 
 Olearius [to the Bishop]. What news of 
 the Turkish expedition, your excellency? 
 
 Bishop. The Emperor has most at heart, 
 first of all, to restore peace to the Empire, 
 put an end to feuds, and secure the strict 
 administration of justice: then, according 
 to report, he will go in person against the 
 enemies of his country and of Christendom. 
 At present internal dissensions give him 
 enough to do; and the Empire, despite half 
 a hundred treaties of peace, is one scene of 
 murder. Franconia, Swabia, the Upper 
 Rhine, and the surrounding countries are 
 laid waste by presumptuous and reckless 
 knights. — And here, at Bamberg, Sick- 
 ingen, Selbitz with one leg, and Goetz with 
 the iron hand, scoff at the imperial authority. 
 
 Abbot. If His IVIajesty does not exert 
 himself, these fellows wiU at last thrust us 
 into sacks. 
 
 Liebtraut. He would be a sturdy fel- 
 low, indeed, who should thrust the wine- 
 butt of Fulda into a sack! 
 
 Bishop. Goetz 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 Weislingen? 
 
 Olearius. No, your eminence. 
 
 Bishop. If you stay till his arrival, you 
 will have the pleasure of seeing a most 
 noble, accomplished, and gallant knight. 
 
 Olearius. He must be an excellent 
 man, indeed, to deserve such praises from 
 such a mouth. 
 
 Liebtraut. And yet he was not bred at 
 any university. 
 
 Bishop. We know that. [The attendants 
 throng to the window.] What's the matter? 
 
 Attendant. Farber, WeisUngen's serv- 
 ant, is riding in at the castle gate. 
 
 Bishop. See what he brings. He most 
 likely comes to announce his master. 
 
 [Exit Liebtraut. — They stand 
 up and drink.] 
 
 [Liebtratjt reSnters.] 
 
 Bishop. What news? 
 
 Liebtraut. I wish another had to tell 
 it — Weislinger is a prisoner. 
 
 Bishop. What? 
 
 Liebtraut. Berlichingen has seized him 
 and three troopers near Haslach — one is 
 escaped to teU you. 
 
 Abbot. A Job's messenger! 
 
 Olearius. 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 Bishop.] 
 
 Abbot [sitting down]. Another draught, 
 however. [The Servants fill round.] 
 
 Olearius. Will not your reverence take 
 a turn in the garden? " Post coenam stabis, 
 seu passus mille meabis." 
 
 Liebtraut. In truth, sitting is un- 
 healthy for you. You might get an apo- 
 plexy. [The Abbot rises. Aside.] Let me 
 but once get him out of doors, I will give 
 him exercise enough! [Exeunt.] 
 
 Scene V. Jaxthausen. 
 [Maria, Weislingen.] 
 
 Maria. You love me, you say. I willingly 
 believe it and hope to be happy with you, 
 and make you happy also. 
 
 Weislingen. I feel nothing but that I 
 am entirely thine. [Embraces her.] 
 
 Maria. Softly! — I gave you one kiss 
 for earnest, but you must not take posses- 
 sion of what is only yours conditionally. 
 
 Weislingen. You are too strict, Maria! 
 Innocent love is pleasing in the sight 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 their 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 S97 
 
 union, and that maidens, when they love, 
 are weaker than Samson after the loss of 
 his locks. 
 
 Weislingen. Who taught you so? 
 
 Maria. The abbess of my convent. Till 
 my sixteenth year I was with her — and it 
 is only with you that I enjoy happiness 
 like that her company afforded me. She 
 had loved, and could tell — She had a 
 most affectionate heart. Oh! she was an 
 excellent woman! 
 
 Weisungen. Then you resemble her. 
 [Takes her hand.] What will become of me 
 when I am compelled to leave you? 
 
 Maria [withdrawing her hand]. You will 
 feel some regret, I hope, for I know what 
 my feelings will be. But you must away! 
 
 Weisungen. I know it, dearest! and I 
 will — for well I feel what happiness I shall 
 purchase by this sacrifice! Now, blessed be 
 your brother, and the day on which he rode 
 out to capture me! 
 
 Mabia. His heart was full of hope for 
 you and himself. "Farewell!" he said, at 
 his departure, "I go to recover my friend." 
 
 Weislingen. That he has done. Would 
 that I had studied the arrangement and 
 security of my property, instead of neg- 
 lecting it, and dallying at that worthless 
 court! — then couldst thou have been in- 
 stantly mine. 
 
 Mabia. Even delay has its pleasures. 
 
 Weislingen. 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 
 journey! 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 wishes; but 
 this happiness surpasses them all. 
 
 [Enter Goetz.] 
 
 GoETz. Your page has returned. He 
 can scarcely utter a word for hunger and 
 fatigue. My wife has ordered hun some 
 refreshment. Thus much I have gathered: 
 the Bishop will not give up my page— - 
 
 imperial commissioners are to be appointed, 
 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 
 that you wiU for the future give neither open 
 nor secret assistance to my enemies. 
 
 Weisingen. Here I grasp thy hand. 
 From this moment be our friendship and 
 confidence, firm and unalterable as a pri- 
 mary law of nature! Let me take this hand 
 also [takes Maria's hand], and with it the 
 possession of this most noble lady. 
 
 Goetz. May I say yes for you? 
 
 MAXiA.[timidly]. If — if it is your wish — 
 
 Goetz. Happily our wishes do not differ 
 on this point. Thou need'st not blush — 
 the glance of thine eye betrays thee. Well 
 then, Weislingen, join hands, and I say. 
 Amen! My friend and brother! I thank 
 thee, sister; thou canst do more than spin 
 flax, for thou hast drawn a thread which 
 can fetter this wandering bird of paradise. 
 Yet you look not quite at your ease, Adel- 
 bert. What troubles you? I am perfectly 
 happy! What I but hoped in a dream, I now 
 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 you held it so fast that it broke 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 order. That cursed 
 court has made you neglect both. I must 
 call my wife. — Elizabeth! 
 
 Maria. How overjoyed my brother is! 
 
 Weislingen. Yet I am still more so. 
 
 Goetz [to Maria]. You will have a 
 pleasant residence. 
 
 Maria. Franconia is a fine country. 
 
 Weislingen. And I may venture to say 
 that my castle lies in the most fertile and 
 delicious part of it. 
 
 Goetz. That you may, and I can con- 
 firm it. Look you, here flows the Maine, 
 around a hill clothed with cornfields and 
 vineyards, its top crowned with a Gothic 
 castle; then the river makes a sharp turn, 
 and glides round behind the rock on which 
 'the castle is built. The windows of the . 
 
S98 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 great hall look perpendicularly down upon 
 the river, and command a prospect of 
 many miles in extent. 
 
 [Enter Elizabeth.] 
 
 Elizabeth. What wouldst thou? 
 
 GoBTZ. You, too, must give your hand, 
 and say, God bless you! They are a pair. 
 
 Elizabeth. So soon? 
 
 GoETZ. But not unexpectedly. 
 
 Elizabeth. May you ever adore her as 
 ardently as while you sought her hand. And 
 then, as your love, so be your happiness! 
 
 Weislingen. Amen! I seek no hap- 
 piness but under this condition. 
 
 GoETZ. The bridegroom, my love, must 
 leave us 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, Eliza- 
 beth; let us leave him; his page has, no 
 doubt, private messages for him. 
 
 Weislingen. Nothing but what you 
 may hear. 
 
 GoBTZ. 'T is needless. Franconians and 
 Swabians! Ye are now more closely united 
 than ever. Now we shall be able to keep the 
 princes in check. 
 
 [Exeunt Goetz, Elizabeth, Ma- 
 ria.] 
 
 Weislingen [alone]. God in heaven! 
 And canst Thou have reserved such hap- 
 piness for one so unworthy? It is too much 
 for my heart. How meanly I depended 
 upon wretched fools, whom I thought I 
 was governing, upon the smile of princes, 
 upon the homage of those around me! 
 Goetz, my faithful Goetz, thou hast re- 
 stored me to myself, and thou, Maria, hast 
 completed my reformation. I feel free, 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 
 neither to command nor to obey. 
 
 [Enter Francis.] 
 
 Francis. God save you, noble sir! I 
 bring you so many salutations that I know 
 not where to begin. Bamberg, and ten 
 miles round, cry with a thousand voices, 
 God save you! 
 
 Weislingen. Welcome, Francis! Bring'st 
 thou aught else? 
 
 Francis. You are held in such considera- 
 tion at court that it cannot be expressed. 
 
 Weislingen. That will not last long. 
 
 Francis. As long as you live; and after 
 your death it will shine with more luster 
 than the brazen characters on a monument. 
 How they took your misfortune to heart! 
 
 Weislingen. And what said the Bishop? 
 
 Francis. His eager curiosity poured out 
 question upon question, without giving me 
 time to answer. He knew of your acci- 
 dent already; for Farber, 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. 
 
 Weislingen. And what said he to the 
 proposals? 
 
 Francis. He was ready at first to give 
 up the page and a ransom to boot for your 
 liberty. 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 off Berlichingen 
 with some pretense. He charged me with 
 a thousand messages to you, more than I 
 can ever utter. Oh, how he harangued! It 
 was a long sermon upon the text, " I cannot 
 live without Weislingen!" 
 
 Weislingen. He must learn to do so. 
 
 Francis. What mean you? He said "Bid 
 him hasten; all the court waits for him." 
 
 Weislingen. Let them wait on. I shall 
 not go to court. 
 
 Francis. Not go to court! My gracious 
 lord, how comes that? If you knew what I 
 know; could you but dream what I have 
 seen — 
 
 Weislingen. What ails thee? 
 
 Francis. The bare remembrance takes 
 away my senses. Bamberg is no longer 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 599 
 
 Bamberg. Aa angel of heaven, in sem- 
 blance of woman, has taken up her abode 
 there, and has made it a paradise. 
 
 Weislinqen. Is that all? 
 
 Francis. May I become a shaven friar, 
 if the first glimpse of her does not drive you 
 frantic! 
 
 Weislingen. Who is it, then? 
 
 Francis. Adelaide von Walldorf. 
 
 Weisungen. Indeed! I have heard 
 much of her beauty. 
 
 Francis. Heard! You might as well 
 say I have seen music. So far is the tongue 
 from being able to rehearse the slightest 
 particle of her beauty, that the very eye 
 which beholds her cannot drink it all in. 
 
 Weislingen. 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 had been 
 drunk, or, I may rather say, I felt like a 
 glorified saint enjoying the angelic vision! 
 All my senses exalted, more lively and more 
 perfect than ever, yet not one at its owner's 
 command. 
 
 Weislingen. That is strange! 
 
 Francis. As I took leave of the Bishop, 
 she sat by him; they were playing at chess. 
 He was very gracious; gave me his hand to 
 kiss, 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 if 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 her brow — and the 
 dazzUng luster of her face and neck, 
 heightened by her raven tresses — 
 
 Weislingen. The theme has made 
 you quite poetical. 
 
 Francis. I feel at this moment what 
 constitutes poetic inspiration — a heart 
 altogether wrapped in one idea. As 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 he 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. 
 
 and I only bowed. I would have given all 
 I had for permission to kiss but one of her 
 fingers! As I stood thus, the Bishop let fall 
 a pawn, and in stooping to pick it up, I 
 touched the hem of her garment. Trans- 
 port thrilled through my limbs, and I scarce 
 know how I left the room. 
 
 Weislingen. 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 her glance is to 
 bask in the sunshine of spring. 
 
 Weislingen. She would not make so 
 strong an impression on me. 
 
 Francis. I hear you are as good as 
 married. 
 
 Weislingen. Would I were really so! 
 My gentle Maria will be the happiness of 
 my life. The sweetness of her soul beams 
 through her mild blue eyes, and, like an 
 angel of innocence and love, she guides my 
 heart to the paths of peace and felicity! 
 Pack up, and then to my castle. I will not 
 to Bamberg, though St. Bede came in per- 
 son to fetch me. [Exit Weislingen.] 
 
 Francis [alone]. Not to Bamberg! 
 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 her has made 
 me so. My master must to Bamberg, and 
 I also, and either recover my senses or gaze 
 them quite away. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene I. Bamberg. A hall. 
 
 [The Bishop and Adelaide, playing at 
 chess, Liebthaut with a guitar, Ladies 
 and Courtiers standing in groups.] 
 
 LiEBTRATJT [plays and sin^s]. 
 Anned with quiver and bow. 
 With his torch all a-glow, 
 Young Cupid comes winging his flight. 
 Courage glows in his eyes, 
 As adown from the skies, 
 He rushes, impatient for fight. 
 
6 00 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Up! up! 
 
 On! on! 
 
 Hark! the bright quiver rings! 
 
 Hark! the rustle of wings! 
 
 All hail to the delicate sprite! 
 
 They welcome the urchin — ; 
 Ah, maidens, beware! 
 He finds every bosom 
 Unguarded and bare. 
 In the light of his flambeau 
 He kindles his darts; — 
 They fondle and hug him 
 And press to their hearts. 
 
 Adelaide. Your thoughts are not in 
 your game. Check to the king! 
 
 Bishop. There is still a way of escape. 
 
 Adelaide. You will not be able to hold 
 out long. Check to the king! 
 
 LiEBTRAUT. Were I a great prince, I 
 would not play at this game, and would 
 forbid it at court, and throughout the whole 
 land. 
 
 Adelaide. 'T is indeed a touchstone of 
 the brain. 
 
 LiEBTHAUT. Not on that account. I 
 would rather hear a funeral bell, the cry 
 of the ominous bird, the howling of that 
 snarling watch-dog, conscience; rather 
 would I hear these through the deepest 
 sleep, than from bishops, knights, and such 
 beasts, the eternal — Check to the king! 
 
 BiSHOf . Into whose head could such an 
 idea enter? 
 
 LiEBTRAUT. A man's, for example, en- 
 dowed with a weak body and a strong con- 
 science, which, for the most part, indeed, 
 accompany each other. Chess is called a 
 royal game, and is said to have been in- 
 vented for a king, who rewarde(l the in- 
 ventor with a mine of wealth. If this be so, 
 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- 
 bid! — only for pastime. His tutor, too 
 active for a scholar, too intractable for a 
 man of the world, invented the game, in 
 usum Delphini, that was so homogeneous 
 with his majesty — and so on. 
 
 Adelaide. Checkmate! You should fill 
 up the chasms in our histories, Liebtraut. 
 
 [They rise.] 
 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 such an occupation to good account. 
 Bishop. He will not come, you say! 
 Adelaide. I beseech you, banish him 
 from your thoughts. 
 
 Bishop. What can it mean? 
 LiEBTRAUT. What! The reasons may 
 be told over like the beads of a rosary. He 
 has been seized with a fit of compunction, 
 of which I could soon cure him. 
 Bishop. Do so; ride to him instantly. 
 LiEBTRAUT. My commission — 
 Bishop. 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- 
 sion. 
 
 Adelaide. Do you know so little of me, 
 or are you so young as not to understand 
 in what tone you should speak of me to 
 Weislingen? 
 
 LiEBTRAUT. In the tone of a fowler's 
 whistle, I think. 
 
 Adelaide. You will never be reasonable. 
 LiEBTRAUT. Does One ever become so, 
 gracious lady? 
 
 Bishop. Gro! Go! Take the bfest 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 S3Tnpathy 
 than I. 
 
 Bishop. Yet, what will it avail? Ber- 
 lichingen has wholly gained him over. He 
 will no sooner be here than he will wish to 
 return. 
 
 LiEBTRAUT. He will wish it, doubtless; 
 but can he go? A prince's squeeze of the 
 hand and the smiles of a beauty, from these 
 no Weislingen can tear himself away. I 
 have the honor to take my leave. 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 6oi 
 
 Bishop. A prosperous journey! 
 
 Adelaide. Adieu! [Exit Libbtbatjt.] 
 
 Bishop. When he is once here, I must 
 trust to you. 
 
 Adelaide. Would you make me your 
 lime-twig? 
 
 Bishop. By no means. 
 
 Adelaide. Your call-bird, then? 
 
 Bishop. No; that is Liebtraut's part. 
 I beseech you do not refuse to do for me 
 what no other can. 
 
 Adelaide. We shall see. [Exeunt.] 
 
 Scene II. Jaxthausen. 
 Goetz's castle. 
 
 A hall in 
 
 [Enter Gobtz and Hans von Selbitz.] 
 
 Selbitz. Every one will applaud you for 
 declaring feud against the Nurembergers. 
 
 GoETZ. It would have eaten my very 
 heart away had I remained longer their 
 debtor. It is clear that they betrayed my 
 page to the Bambergers. They shall have 
 cause to remember me. 
 
 Selbitz. They have an old grudge 
 against you. 
 
 GoETZ. And I against them. I am glad 
 they have begun the fray. 
 
 Selbitz. These free towns have always 
 taken part with the priests. 
 
 GoETZ. They have good reason. 
 
 Selbitz. But we will cook their porridge 
 for them! 
 
 GoETZ. I reckon upon you. Would that 
 the Burgomaster of Nuremberg, with his 
 gold chain round his neck, fell in our way, 
 we'd astonish him with all his cleverness. 
 
 Selbitz. I hear Weislingen is again on 
 your side. Does he really join in our 
 league? 
 
 GoETZ. Not immediately. There are 
 reasons which prevent his openly giving us 
 assistance; 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 priest! 
 
 Selbitz. When do we set forward? 
 
 GoETZ. To-morrow or next day. There 
 are merchants of Bamberg and Nuremberg 
 returning from the fair of Frankfort. We 
 may strike a good blow. 
 Selbitz. Let us hope so! 
 
 Scene III. The Bishop's palace at 
 Bamberg. 
 
 [Adelaide and her Waiting-Maid.] 
 
 Adelaide. He is here, sayest 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 horse 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 sat the curveting steed with 
 an easy indifference, and by threats and 
 soothing brought him to the gate, followed 
 by Liebtraut and a few servants. 
 
 Adelaide. What do you think of him? 
 
 Maid. I never saw a man who pleased 
 me so well. [Pointing to a picture.] He is as 
 like that portrait of the Emperor as if he 
 were his son. His nose is somewhat smaller, 
 but just such gentle light-brown eyes, just 
 such fine light hair, and such a figure! A 
 half-melancholy expression on his face, I 
 know not how, but he pleased me so well. 
 
 Adelaide. I am curious to see him. 
 
 Maid. He would be the husband for 
 you! 
 
 Adelaide. Foolish girl! 
 
 Maid. Children and fools — 
 
 [Enter Liebtbaut.] 
 
 LiEBTBAUT. Now, gracious lady, what 
 do I deserve? 
 
 Adelaide. 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. 
 
 Liebtraut. 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 
 
6o2 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 stratagems to you? — First, I pretended 
 to have heard nothing, 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 
 matter in quite a different light to what he 
 did — could not find — could not see, and 
 so forth. Then I gossiped things great and 
 small about Bamberg, and recalled to his 
 memory certain old recollections; and when 
 I had succeeded in occupying his imagina 
 tion, I 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 found him begin to waver, and saw him 
 too much occupied with his own feelings to 
 suspect my sincerity, I threw over his head 
 a halter, woven of the three powerful cords, 
 beauty, court favor, and flattery, and 
 dragged him hither in triumph. 
 
 Adelaide. What said you of me? 
 
 LiBBTEAUT. The simple truth — that 
 you were in perplexity about your estates, 
 and had hoped, as he had so much influence 
 with the Emperor, all would be satisfac- 
 torily settled. 
 
 Adelaide. 'T is well. 
 
 LiEBTRAUT. The Bishop will introduce 
 him to you. 
 
 Adelaide. I expect them. [Exit Lieb- 
 TRAUT.] And with such feelings have I 
 seldom expected a visitor. 
 
 Scene IV. The Spessart. 
 
 [Enter Selbitz, Goetz, and George in the 
 armor and dress of a trooper.] 
 
 Goetz. So, thou didst not find him, 
 George? 
 
 George. He had ridden to Bamberg the 
 day before, with Liebtraut and two serv- 
 ants. 
 
 Goetz. I cannot understand what this 
 means. 
 
 Selbitz. I see it well — your reconcilia- 
 tion was almost too speedy to be lasting. 
 Liebtraut is a cunning fellow, and has no 
 doubt inveigled him over. 
 
 Goetz. Think'st thou he will become a 
 traitor? 
 
 Selbitz. The first step is taken. 
 
 Goetz. I will never believe it. Who 
 knows what he may have to do at court — 
 his affairs are still unarranged. Let us hope 
 for the best. 
 
 Selbitz. Would to Heaven he may de- 
 serve of your good opinion, and may act 
 for the best! 
 
 Goetz. A thought strikes me! — We will 
 disguise Gteorge 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. 
 
 George. I have long wished to do so. 
 
 Goetz. It is thy fii;st expedition. Be 
 careful, boy; I should be sorry if iU befell 
 thee. 
 
 George. Never fear. I care not how 
 many of them crawl about me; I think no 
 more of them than of rats and mice. 
 
 [Exeunt.] 
 
 Scene V. The Bishop's palace. His 
 cabinet. 
 
 [The Bishop and Weislingbn.] 
 
 Bishop. Then thou wilt stay no longer? 
 
 Weislingbn. You would not have me 
 break my oath. 
 
 Bishop. I could have wished thou 
 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 court? 
 
 Weislingbn. The thing is done; — ex- 
 cuse it as you can. 
 
 Bishop. I cannot see that there was the 
 least necessity for taking such a step — 
 to renounce me? Were there not a thou- 
 sand other ways of procuring thy freedom? 
 Had we not his page? And would I not 
 have given gold enough to boot? — and 
 thus satisfied Berlichingen. 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 easily 
 counterwork the mines he himself has dug. 
 
 Weislingbn. My gracious lord — 
 
 Bishop. And yet — when I again look 
 on thy face, again hear thy voice — it is 
 impossible — impossible! 
 
 Weislingen. Farewell, good my lord! 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 603 
 
 Bishop. I give thee my blessing — 
 formerly -when we parted, I was wont to 
 say, "Till we meet again!" — Now Heaven 
 grant we meet no more! 
 
 Weislingbn. Things may alter. 
 
 Bishop. Perhaps I may live to see thee 
 appear as an enemy before my walls, carry- 
 ing havoc through the fertile plains which 
 now owe their flourishing condition to thee. 
 
 Weislingen. Never, my gracious lord! 
 
 Bishop. You cannot say so. My tem- 
 poral neighbors all have a grudge against 
 me — but while thou wert mine — Go, 
 Weislingen! — I have no more to say — 
 Thou hast undone much. Go — 
 
 Weislingen. I know not what to an- 
 swer. [Exit Bishop.] 
 
 [Enter Francis.] 
 
 Francis. The Lady Adelaide expects 
 you. She is not well — but she will not let 
 you depart without bidding her adieu. 
 
 Weislingen. Come. 
 
 Francis. Do we go, then, for certain? 
 
 Weislingen. This very night. 
 
 Francis. I feel as if I were about to 
 leave the world — 
 
 Weislingen. I, too, and as if besides I 
 knew not whither to go. 
 
 Scene VI. Adelaide's apartment. 
 [Adelaide and Waiting-Maid.] 
 
 Maid. You are pale, gracious lady! 
 
 Adelaide . I love him not, yet I wish him 
 to stay — for I am fond of his company, 
 though I should dislike him for my hus- 
 band. 
 
 Maid. Does your ladyship think he will 
 go? 
 
 Adelaide. He is even now bidding the 
 Bishop farewell. 
 
 Maid. He has yet a severe struggle to 
 imdergo. 
 
 Adelaide. What meanest thou? 
 
 Maid. Why do you ask, gracious lady? 
 The barb'd hook is in his heart — ere he 
 tear it away he must bleed to death. 
 
 [Enter Weislingen.] 
 
 Weislingen. You are not well, gracious 
 lady? 
 
 Adelaide. That must be indifferent to 
 you — - you leave us, leave us forever: what 
 matters it to you whether we live or die? 
 
 Weislingen. You do me injustice. 
 
 Adelaide. I judge you as you appear. 
 
 Weislingen. Appearances are deceitful. 
 
 Adelaide. Then you are a chameleon. 
 
 Weisligen. Could you but see my 
 heart — 
 
 Adelaide. I should see fine things there. 
 
 Weislingen. Undoubtedly ! — You 
 would find your own image — 
 
 Adelaide. Thrust 'into some dark 
 corner, 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 
 Qur actions — a discovered masquerader 
 plays a pitiful part. You do not disown 
 your deeds, yet your words belie them; 
 what are we to think of you? 
 
 Weislingen. What you will — I am so 
 agonized at reflecting on what I am, that I 
 little reck for what I am taken. 
 
 Adelaide. You came to say farewell. 
 
 Weislingen. Permit me to kiss your 
 hand, and 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. 
 
 Weislingen. 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 Theuerdanck, 
 and wish that they had such a husband. — 
 Knightly word! — Nonsense! 
 
 Weislingen. You do not think so? 
 
 Adelaide. On my honor, you are dis- 
 sembling. 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 the 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 Rubezahl. 
 There is something behind all this. — To 
 become an enemy of the Empire — a dis- 
 
6o4 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 turber of public happiness and tranquillity, 
 an enemy of the Emperor, the associate of 
 a robber! — Thou, Weislingen, with thy 
 gentle soul! 
 
 Weislingen. Did but you know him? 
 
 Adelaide. I would deal justly with 
 Goetz. He has a lofty, indomitable spirit, 
 and woe to thee, therefore, Weislingen. Go, 
 and persuade thyself thou art his com- 
 panion. Go, and receive his commands. 
 Thou art courteous, gentle — 
 
 Weislingen. And he, too. 
 
 Adelaide. But thou art yielding, and he 
 is stubborn. Imperceptibly will he draw 
 thee on. Thou wilt become the slave of 
 a baron; thou that mightest command 
 princes ! — Yet it is cruel to make you dis- 
 contented with your future position. 
 
 Weislingen. Did you but know what 
 kindness he showed me. 
 
 Adelaide. Kindness! — Do you make 
 such a merit of that? It was his duty. And 
 what would you have lost had he acted 
 otherwise? I would rather he had done so. 
 An overbearing man like — 
 
 Weislingen. You speak of your enemy. 
 
 Adelaide. I speak for your freedom; 
 yet I know not why I should take so much 
 interest in it. Farewell! 
 
 Weislingen. Permit me, but a moment. 
 [Takes her hand. A pause.] 
 
 Adelaide. Have you aught to say? 
 
 Weislingen. I must hence. 
 
 Adelaide. Then, go. 
 
 Weislingen. Gracious lady, I cannot. 
 
 Adelaide. You must. 
 
 Weislingen. And is this your parting 
 look? 
 
 Adelaide. Go, I am unwell, very in- 
 opportunely. 
 
 Weislingen. Look not on me thus! 
 
 Adelaide. Wilt thou be our enemy, and 
 yet have us smile upon thee — go! 
 
 Weislingen. Adelaide! 
 
 Adelaide. I hate thee! 
 
 [Enter Francis.] 
 
 Francis. Noble sir, the Bishop inquires 
 for you. 
 Adelaide. Go! go! 
 
 Francis. He begs you to come instantly. 
 Adelaide. Go! go! 
 
 Weislingen. I do not say adieu : I shall 
 see you again. 
 
 [Exeunt Weislingen and Fran- 
 cis.] 
 Adelaide. Thou wilt see me again? We 
 must provide for that. Margaret, when he 
 comes, refuse him admittance. Say I am 
 ill, have a headache, am asleep, anything. 
 If this does not detain him, nothing will. 
 
 [Exeunt.] 
 
 Scene VII. An anteroom. 
 [Weislingen and Francis.] 
 
 Weislingen. She will not see me! 
 
 Francis. Night draws on ; shall we saddle? 
 
 Welisingen. She will not see me! 
 
 Francis. Shall I order the horses? 
 
 Weislingen. It is too late ; we stay here. 
 
 Francis. God be praised! [Exit.] 
 
 Weislingen [alone]. Thou stayest! Be 
 on thy guard — the temptation is great. 
 My horse 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, with- 
 out at least so arranging them, that my suc- 
 cessor may be able to continue where I left 
 off. That I can do without breach of faith 
 to Berliohingen, and when it is done no 
 one shall detain me. Yet it would have 
 been better that I had never come. But I 
 will away — to-morrow — or next day: — 
 'T is decided! [Exit.] 
 
 Scene VIII. The Spessart. 
 [Enter Goetz, SELBrrz, and George.) 
 
 Selbitz. You see it has turned out as I 
 prophesied. 
 
 Goetz. No, no, no. 
 
 George. I tell you the truth, believe me. 
 I did as you commanded, took the dress 
 and password of the Bamberg trooper, and 
 escorted some peasants of the Lower Rhine, 
 who paid my expenses for my convoy. 
 
 Selbitz. In that disguise? It might 
 have cost thee dear. 
 
 George. So I begin to think, now that 
 it's over. A trooper who thinks of danger 
 beforehand, will, never do anything great. 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 605 
 
 I got safely to Bamberg, and in the very- 
 first inn I heard them tell how the Bishop 
 and Weislingen were reconciled, and how 
 Weislingen was to marry the widow of Von 
 Walldorf. 
 
 GoETZ. Mere gossip! 
 
 George. I saw him as he led her to 
 table. She is lovely, by my faith, most 
 lovely! We all bowed — she thanked us 
 all. He nodded, and seemed highly pleased. 
 They passed on, and everybody murmured, 
 "What a handsome pair!" 
 
 GoETZ. That may be. 
 
 George. Listen further. The next day 
 as he went to mass, I 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 
 friend BerUchingen." 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! 
 
 SEiiBiTZ. His evil conscience degrades 
 tiim more than thy condition does thee. 
 
 George. "Art thou of Bamberg?" said 
 he. "The Knight of BerUchingen greets 
 you," said I, "and I am to inquire — " 
 "CJome to my apartment to-morrow morn- 
 ing," quothhe, "and we will speak further." 
 
 Goetz. And you went? 
 
 George. Yes, certainly, I went, and 
 waited in his antechamber a long — long 
 time — and his pages, in their silken 
 doublets, stared at me from head 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- 
 gered me. "There are but two sorts of peo- 
 ple," said I, "true men and scoundrels, 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 agreement, that he 
 owed you no allegiance, and would have 
 nothing to do with you. 
 
 Goetz. Hast thou that from his own 
 mouth? 
 
 George. That, and yet more. He 
 threatened me — 
 
 Goetz. It is enough. He is lost forever. 
 Faith and confidence, again have ye de- 
 ceived me. Poor Maria! How am I to 
 break this to you? 
 
 Sblbitz. I would rather lose my other 
 leg than be such a rascal. 
 
 Scene IX. Hall in the Bishop's palace 
 at Bamberg. 
 
 [Adelaide and Weislingen discovered.] 
 
 Adelaide. 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 
 fever. 
 
 Weislingen. Are you tired of me already? 
 
 Adelaide . Not so much of you as of your 
 society. I would you had gone when you 
 wished, and that we had not detained you. 
 
 Weislingen. Such is woman's favor! 
 At first she fosters with maternal warmth 
 our dearest hopes; and then, like an incon- 
 stant hen, she forsakes the nest, and aban- 
 dons the infant brood to death and decay. 
 
 Adelaide. Yes, you may rail at women. 
 The reckless gambler tears and curses the 
 harmless cards which have been the in- 
 struments of his loss. But let me tell you 
 something about men. What are you that 
 talk about fickleness? You that are seldom 
 even what you would wish to be, never 
 what you should be. Princes in holiday 
 garb! 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 
 heels. 
 
 Weislingen. You are severe. 
 
 Adelaide. 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 
 phoenix, Weislingen ! My wish was granted. 
 
 Weislingen. And the phoenix turned 
 out a dunghill cock. 
 
 Adelaide. No, Weislingen, I took an in- 
 terest in you. 
 
 Weislingen. So it appeared. 
 
6o6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Adelaide. So it was — for you really 
 surpassed your reputation. The multitude 
 prize only the reflection of worth. For my 
 part, I do not care to scrutinize the char- 
 acter of those whom I esteem; so we lived 
 on for some time. I felt there was a de- 
 ficiency in you, but knew not what I 
 missed; at length my eyes were opened — 
 I saw instead of the energetic being who 
 gave impulse to the affairs of a kingdom, 
 and was ever alive to the voice of fame — 
 who was wont to pile princely project on 
 project, till, like the mountains of the 
 Titans, they reached the clouds — instead 
 of all this, I saw a man as querulous as a 
 love-sick poet, as melancholy as a slighted 
 damsel, and more indolent than an old 
 bachelor. I first ascribed it to your mis- 
 fortune which still lay at your heart, and 
 excused you as well as I could; but now that 
 it daily becomes worse, 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. 
 
 Weislinobn. Dismiss me, then. 
 
 Adelaide. Not till all chance of re- 
 covery is lost. Solitude 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 has urged me to say. 
 
 Weislingen. Couldst thou but love me, 
 couldst thou but return the fervor of my 
 passion with the least glow of sympathy — 
 Adelaide, thy reproaches are most unjust. 
 Couldst thou but guess the hundredth part 
 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 taken must be the work of more 
 than one day. How can I plot against the 
 man who has been so recently and so vividly 
 restored to my affection? 
 
 Adelaide. Strange being! Can you love 
 him whom you envy? It is like sending pro- 
 visions to an enemy. 
 
 Weislingen. I well know that here 
 there must be no dallying. He is aware that 
 I am again Weislingen; and he will watch 
 his advantage over us. Besides, Ade- 
 
 laide, we are not so sluggish as you think. 
 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. 
 
 Adelaide. You go there? 
 
 Weislingen. If I could carry a glimpse 
 of hope with me. [Kisses her hand.] 
 
 Adelaide. Oh, ye infidels! Always 
 signs and wonders required. Go, Weis- 
 lingen, and accomplish the work! The in- 
 terest of the Bishop, yours, and mine, are 
 all so linked together, that were it only for 
 policy's sake — 
 
 Weislingen. You jest. 
 
 Adelaide. I do not jest. The haughty 
 duke has seized my property. Goetz will 
 not be slow to ravage yours; and if we do 
 not hold together, as our enemies do, and 
 gain over the Emperor to our side, we are 
 lost. 
 
 Weislingen. I fear nothing. Most of 
 the princes think with us. The Emperor 
 needs assistance against the Turks, and it 
 is therefore just that he should help us in 
 his turn. What rapture for me to rescue 
 your fortime from rapacious enemies; to 
 crush the mutinous chivalry of Swabia; to 
 restore peace to the bishopric, and then — 
 
 Adelaide. One day brings on another, 
 and fate is mistress of the future. 
 
 Weislingen. But we must lend our en- 
 deavors. 
 
 Adelaide. We do so. 
 
 Weislingen. But seriously. 
 
 Adelaide. Well, then, seriously. Do 
 but go — 
 
 Weislingen. Enchantress! [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene X. An inn. The bridal of a peasant. 
 
 [The Bride's Father, Bride, Bridegroom, and 
 other Country-folks, Goetz von Ber- 
 lichingen, aiid Hans von Selbitz 
 all discovered at table. Troopers and 
 Peasants attend.] 
 
 Goetz. It was the best way thus to 
 settle your lawsuit by a merry bridal. 
 
 Bride's Father. Better than ever I 
 could have dreamed of, noble sir, — to 
 spend my days in quiet with my neighbor, 
 and have a daughter provided for to boot. 
 
6o7 
 
 Bridegroom. And I to get the bone of 
 contention and a pretty wife into the bar- 
 gain! Aye, the prettiest in the whole vil- 
 lage. Would to Heaven you had consented 
 sooner. 
 
 GoETZ. How long have you been at law? 
 
 Bride's Father. About eight years. I 
 would rather have the fever for twice that 
 time than go through with it again from the 
 beginning. For these periwigged gentry 
 never give 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 
 the assessor Sapupi for a damned swarthy 
 Italian! 
 
 Bridegroom. Yes, he's a pretty fellow; 
 I was before him twice. 
 
 Bride's Father. Andl 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 daughter, and the ground besides. 
 
 GoETZ [drinks]. To your better under- 
 standing for the future. 
 
 Bride's Father. With all my heart! 
 But come what may, I'll never go to law 
 again as long as I live. What a mint of 
 money it costs! For every bow made to 
 you by a procurator, you must come down 
 with your dollars. 
 
 Selbitz. But there are annual imperial 
 visitations. 
 
 Bride's Father. I have never heard of 
 them. Many an extra dollar have they 
 contrived to squeeze out of me. The ex- 
 penses are horrible. 
 
 GoETZ. How mean you? 
 
 Bride'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. 
 
 Bridegroom. Who? 
 
 Bride's Father. Why, who else but 
 Sapupi? 
 
 GoETZ. That is infamous. 
 
 Bride's Father. 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 there, 
 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 couple of guilders, and sent 
 me about my business. 
 
 Bridegroom. Impossible! Sapupi? 
 
 Bride's Father. Aye, he himself! — 
 What do you stare at? 
 
 Bridegroom. Devil take the rascal ! 
 He took fifteen guilders from me, too! 
 
 Bride's Father. The deuce he did! 
 
 Selbitz. They call us robbers, Goetz! 
 
 Bride's Father. Bribed on both sides! 
 That's why the judgment fell out so queer. 
 — Oh! the scoundrel! 
 
 Goetz. You must not let this pass un- 
 noticed. 
 
 Bride's Father. What can we do? 
 
 Goetz. Why, go to Spire where there is 
 an imperial visitation; make your com- 
 plaint; they must inquire into it, and help 
 you to your own again. 
 
 Bridegroom. Does your honor think 
 we shall succeed? 
 
 Goetz. If I might take him in hand, I 
 could promise it you. 
 
 Selbitz. The sum is worth an attempt. 
 
 Goetz. Aye; many a day have I ridden 
 out for the fourth part of it. 
 
 Bride's Fathfr [to Bridegroom]. What 
 think'st thou? 
 
 Bridegroom. We'll try, come what 
 may. 
 
 [Enter George.] 
 
 George. The Nurembergers have set 
 out. 
 
 Goetz. Whereabouts are they? 
 
 George. If we ride off quietly, we shall 
 just catch them in the wood betwixt Ber- 
 heim and Miihlbach. 
 
 Selbitz. Excellent! 
 
 Goetz. Well, my children, God bless 
 you, and help every man to his own! 
 
 Bride's Father. Thanks, gallant sir! 
 Will you not stay to supper? 
 
 Goetz. I cannot. Adieu! 
 [Exeunt Goetz, Selbitz, and Troopers.] 
 
6o8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene I. A garden at Augsburg. 
 [Enter two Merchants of Nuremberg.] 
 
 First Mekchant. We'll stand here, for 
 the Emperor must pass this way. He is just 
 coming up the long avenue. 
 
 Second Merchant. Who is that with 
 him? 
 
 First Merchant. Adelbert of Weis- 
 lingen. 
 
 Second Merchant. The Bishop's friend. 
 That's lucky! 
 
 First Merchant. We'll throw our- 
 selves at his feet. 
 
 Second Merchant. See! they come. 
 
 [Enter the Emperor and Weislingen.] 
 
 First Merchant. He looks displeased. 
 
 Emperor. I am disheartened, Weis- 
 lingen. When I review my past life, I am 
 ready to despair. So many half — aye, 
 and wholly ruined undertakings — and all 
 because the pettiest feudatory of the Em- 
 pire thinks more of gratifying his own 
 whims than of seconding my endeavors. 
 
 [The Merchants throw themselves 
 at his feet.] 
 
 First Merchant. Most mighty! Most 
 gracious! 
 
 Emperor. Who are ye? What seek ye? 
 
 First Merchant. Poor merchants of 
 Nuremberg, Your Majesty's devoted serv- 
 ants, who implore your aid. Goetz von 
 Berlichingen and Hans von Selbitz 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 assistance 
 to obtain redress, else we are all ruined 
 men, and shall be compelled to beg our 
 bread. 
 
 Emperor. Good Heavens! What is this? 
 The one has but one hand, the other but 
 one leg; if they both had two hands and 
 two legs, what would you do, then? 
 
 First Merchant. We most humbly be- 
 seech Your Majesty to cast a look of com- 
 passion upon our unfortunate condition. 
 
 Emperor. How is this? — If a merchant 
 loses a bag of pepper, all Germany is to 
 
 rise in arms; but when business is to be 
 done, in which the imperial majesty and 
 the Empire are interested, should it concern 
 dukedoms, principalities, or kingdoms, 
 there is no bringing you together. 
 
 Weislingen. You come at an unsea- 
 sonable time. Go, and stay at Augsburg 
 for a few days. 
 
 Merchants. We make our most hum- 
 ble obeisance. [Exeunt Merchants.] 
 
 Emperor. Again new disturbances; they 
 multiply like the hydra's heads! 
 
 Weislingen. And can only be extirpated 
 with fire and sword. 
 
 Emperor. Do you think so? 
 
 Weislingen. Nothing seems to 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 nobles and free barons long 
 for quiet. Could we but crush Sickingen, 
 Selbitz — and — and — and Berlichingen, 
 the others would fall asunder; for it is the 
 spirit of these knights which quickens the 
 turbulent mulitude. 
 
 Emperor. Fain would I spare them ; they 
 are noble and hardy. Should I be engaged 
 in war, they would follow me to the field. 
 
 Weislingen. 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 oflSces 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. 
 
 Emperor. You advise severe measures, 
 then? 
 
 Weislingen. I see no other means of 
 quelling the spirit of insurrection which 
 has seized upon whole provinces. Do we 
 not already hear the bitterest complaints 
 from the nobles, that their vassals and serfs 
 rebel against them, question their author- 
 ity, and threaten to curtail their hered- 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 609 
 
 itary prerogatives? A proceeding which 
 would involve the most fearful conse- 
 quences. 
 
 Emperor. This were a fair occasion for 
 proceeding against Berlichingen and Sel- 
 bitz; but I will not have them personally 
 injured. Could they be taken prisoners, 
 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. 
 
 Weislingbn. a general exclamation of 
 joyful assent will spare Your Majesty the 
 trouble of particular detail. [Exeunt.] 
 
 Scene II. Jaxthausen. 
 
 [Enter Goetz and Franz von 
 Sickingen.] 
 
 SiCKiNGEN. Yes, my friend, I come to 
 beg the heart and hand of your noble 
 sister. 
 
 GoBTZ. I would you had come sooner. 
 Weislingen, during his imprisonment, ob- 
 tained her affections, proposed for her, and 
 I gave 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. 
 
 SiCKINQBN. Is this SO? 
 
 GoBTZ. Even as I tell you. 
 
 Sickingen. He has broken a double 
 bond. 'T is well for you that you were not 
 more closely allied with the traitor. 
 
 GoETZ. The poor maiden passes her life 
 in lamentation and prayer. 
 
 Sickingen. I will comfort her. 
 
 Goetz. What! Could you make up your 
 mind to marry a forsaken? — 
 
 Sickingen. It is to the honor of you 
 both, to have been deceived by him. 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 castles! 
 
 Goetz. I tell you he was not indifferent 
 to her. 
 
 Sickingen. Do you think I cannot 
 efface the recollection of such a wretch? 
 Let us go to her. [Exeunt.] 
 
 Scene III. The camp of the party sent 
 to execute the imperial mandate. 
 
 [Imperial Captain and Officers 
 discovered.] 
 
 Captain. We must be cautious, and 
 spare our people as much as possible. Be- 
 sides, we have strict orders to overpower and 
 take him alive. It will be difficult to obey; 
 for who will engage with him hand to hand? 
 
 First Oppicbr. 'T is true. And he will 
 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 Officer. 'Twere shame to us 
 should we not take him. Had I him once 
 by the ears, he should not easily escape. 
 
 First Officer. Don't seize him with 
 your teeth, however, he might chance to 
 run away with your jawbone. My good 
 young sir, such men are not taken like a 
 runaway thief. 
 
 Second Officer. We shall see. 
 
 Captain. By this time he must have had 
 our summons. We must not delay. I mean 
 to dispatch a troop to watch his motions. 
 
 Second Officer. Let me lead it. 
 
 Captain. You are unacquainted with 
 the coimtry. 
 
 Second Officer. I have a servant who 
 was bom and bred here. 
 
 Captain. That will do. [Exeunt.] 
 
 Scene IV. Jaxthausen. 
 
 Sickingen [alons]. All goes as I wishi 
 She was somewhat startled at my proposal, 
 and looked at me from head to foot; I'll 
 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 
 after such a cruel disappointment. 
 
 [Enter Goetz.] 
 
 Sickingen. What news, brother? 
 Goetz . They have laid me under the ban. 
 Sickingen. How? 
 
 Goetz. There, read the edifying epistle. 
 The Emperor has issued an edict against 
 
6io 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 me, which gives my body for food to the 
 beasts of the earth and the fowls of the air. 
 
 SiCKiNGBN. They shall first furnish them 
 with a dinner themselves. I am here in the 
 very nick of time. 
 
 GoBTZ. No, Sickingen, you must leave 
 me. Your great undertakings might be 
 ruined, should you become the enemy of the 
 Emperor at so unseasonable a time. Be- 
 sides, you can be of more use to 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 
 if they knew we were united, their numbers 
 would only be increased, and our position 
 would consequently be no better. The 
 Emperor is at the fountain-head; and I 
 should be utterly ruined were it as easy to 
 inspire soldiers with courage as to collect 
 them into a body. 
 
 Sickingen. 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. 
 
 SiCKiNGBN, It will be small against the 
 multitude. 
 
 GoETZ. One wolf is too many for a whole 
 flock of sheep. 
 
 Sickingen. But if they have a good 
 shepherd? 
 
 GoETZ. Never fear! They are all hire- 
 lings; and then even the best knight can do 
 but little if he cannot act as he pleases. It 
 happened once, that to oblige 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- 
 trates, 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. 
 
 Sickingen. Good luck, brother! I will 
 hence, and send thee what men I can col- ' 
 lect in haste. 
 
 GoETZ. Come first to the women. I left 
 them together. I would you had her con- 
 sent before you depart! 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. 
 
 Sickingen. We will hope for the best. 
 
 [Exeunt.] 
 
 Scene V. Bamberg. Adelaide's 
 chamber. 
 
 [Adelaide and Francis.] 
 
 Adelaide. They have already set out to 
 enforce the ban against both? 
 
 Francis. Yes; and my master has the 
 happiness of marching against your ene- 
 mies. I would gladly have gone also, how- 
 ever rejoiced I always am at being dis- 
 patched to you. But I will away instantly, 
 and soon return with good news; my 
 master has allowed me to do so. 
 
 Adelaide. How is he? 
 
 Francis. He is well, and commanded 
 me to kiss your hand. 
 
 Adelaide. There! — Thy lips glow. 
 
 Francis [aside, pressing his breast]. Here 
 glows something yet more fiery. [Aloud.] 
 Gracious lady, your servants are the most 
 fortunate of beings! ' 
 
 Adelaide. Who goes against Ber- 
 lichingen? 
 
 Francis. The Baron von Sirau. Fare- 
 well! Dearest, most gracious lady, I must 
 away. Forget me not! 
 
 Adblaidb. Thou must first take some 
 rest and refreshment. 
 
 Francis. I need none, for I have seen 
 you! I am neither weary nor hungry. 
 
 Adelaide. I know thy fidelity. 
 
 Francis. Ah, gracious lady! 
 
 Adelaide. You can never hold out; you 
 mv^t repose and refresh yourself. 
 
 Francis. You are too kind to a poor 
 youth. [ExU.] 
 
 Adelaide. The tears stood in his eyes. 
 I love him from my heart. Never did man 
 attach himself to me with such warmth of 
 affection. [^sit.] 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 6ii 
 
 Scene VI. Jaxthausen. 
 [GoETZ and George.] 
 
 George. He wants to speak with you 
 in person. I do not know him — he is a tall, 
 well-made man, with keen dark eyes. 
 
 GoETz. Admit him. [Exit George.] 
 
 [Enter Lersb.] 
 
 Goetz. God save you! What bring you? 
 
 Lerse. Myself: not much, but such as 
 it is, it is at your service. 
 
 Goetz. You are welcome, doubly wel- 
 come! A brave man, and at a time when, 
 far from expecting new friends, I was in 
 hourly fear of losing the old. Your name? 
 
 Lerse. Franz Lerse. 
 
 Goetz. I thank you, Franz, for making 
 me acquainted with a brave man! 
 
 Lerse. I made you acquainted with me 
 once before, but then you did not thank 
 me for my pains. 
 
 Goetz. I have no recollection of you. 
 
 Lerse. I should be sorry if you had. 
 Do you recollect when, to please the Pals- 
 grave, you rode against- Conrad Schotten, 
 and went through Hassfurt on an Allhal- 
 low eve? 
 
 Goetz. I remember it well. 
 
 Lerse. And twenty-five troopers en- 
 countered you in a village by the way? 
 
 Goetz. 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 let 
 them ride by. Then I thought of faUing 
 upon them in the rear, as I had concerted 
 with the other troop. 
 
 Lerse. 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. 
 
 Goetz. And then 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 Truchsess killed 
 one of my followers, for which I knocked 
 him off his horse. Had they all behaved Uke 
 him and one other trooper, it would have 
 been all over with me and my little band. 
 
 Lerse. And that trooper — 
 
 Goetz. Was as gallant a fellow as I ever 
 saw. He attacked me fiercely; and when I 
 thought I had given him 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. 
 
 Lerse. Have you forgiven him? 
 
 Goetz. He pleased me only too well. 
 
 Lerse. I hope, then, you have cause to 
 be contented with me, since the proof of my 
 valor was on your own person. 
 
 Goetz. Art thou he? Oh, welcome! 
 welcome! Canst thou boast, Maximilian, 
 that amongst thy followers, thou hast 
 gained one after this fashion? 
 
 Lerse. I wonder you did not sooner hit 
 upon me. 
 
 Goetz. How coiild I think that the 
 man would engage in my service who did 
 his best to overpower me? 
 
 Lerse. Even so, my lord. From my 
 youth upwards I have served as a trooper, 
 and have had a tussle with many a knight. 
 I was overjoyed when we met you ; for I had 
 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. 
 
 Goetz. How long wilt thou engage with 
 me? 
 
 Lerse. For a year, without pay. 
 
 Goetz. No; thou shalt have as the 
 others; nay, more, as befits him who gave 
 me so much work at Remlin. 
 
 [Enter George.] 
 
 George. Hans von Selbitz greets you. 
 To-morrow he will be here with fifty men. 
 
 Goetz. 'T is well. 
 
 George. There is a troop of Imperialists 
 riding down the hill, doubtless to recon- 
 noiter. 
 
 Goetz. How many? 
 
 George. About fifty? 
 
 Goetz. Only fifty! Come, Lerse, we'll 
 have a slash at them, so that when Selbitz 
 comes he may find some work done to his 
 hand. 
 
 Lerse. 'T will be capital practice. 
 . Goetz. To horse! . [Exeunt.] 
 
6l2 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Scene VII. A wood, on the borders of 
 a morass. 
 
 [Two Imperialist Troopers meeting.] 
 
 First Imperialist. What dost thou 
 here? 
 
 Second Imperialist. I have leave of 
 absence for ten minutes. Ever since our 
 quarters were beat up last night, I have 
 had such violent attacks that I can't sit on 
 horseback for two minutes together. 
 
 First Imperialist. Is the party far 
 advanced? 
 
 Second Imperialist. About three miles 
 into the wood. 
 
 First Imperialist. Then, why are you 
 playing truant here? 
 
 Second Imperialist. 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 comest 
 thou? 
 
 First Imperialist. I am bringing our 
 officer some wine and meat from the nearest 
 village. 
 
 Second Imperialist. So, so! He stuffs 
 himself under our very noses, and we must 
 starve — a fine example! 
 
 First Imperialist. Come back with 
 me, rascal. 
 
 Second Imperialist. Call me a fool, if 
 I do! There are plenty in our troop who 
 would gladly fast, to be as far away as I 
 am. [Trampling of horses heard.] 
 
 First Imperialist. Hear'st thou? — 
 Horses! 
 
 Second Imperialist. Oh, dear! Oh, 
 dear! 
 
 First Imperialist. I '11 get up into this 
 tree. 
 
 Second Imperialist. And I'll hide 
 among the rushes. [They hide themselves.] 
 
 [Enter on horseback, Goetz, Lersb, 
 George, and Troopers, all completely 
 armed.] 
 
 GoBTZ. Away into the wood, by the ditch 
 on the left, — then we have them in the 
 rear. [They gallop off.] 
 
 First Imperialist [descending]. This 
 is a bad business — Michael! — He an- 
 swers not — Michael, they are gone! [Goes 
 
 toward the marsh] Alas, he is sunk! — ■ 
 Michael! — He hears me not: he is suffo- 
 cated. — Poor coward, art thou done for? 
 We are slain — enemies! Enemies on all 
 sides! 
 
 [Reenter Goetz and George on horseback] 
 
 GoETZ. Yield thee, fellow, or thou diest! 
 
 Imperialist. Spare my life! 
 
 GoETZ. Thy sword! — George, lead him 
 to the other prisoners, whom Lerse is 
 guarding yonder in the wood. I must pur- 
 sue their fugitive leader. [Exit.] 
 
 Imperialist. What has become of the 
 knight, our officer? 
 
 George. My master struck him head 
 over heels from his horse, so that his plume 
 stuck in the mire. His troopers got him up 
 and off they were as if the Devil were be- 
 hind them. [Exeunt.] 
 
 Scene VIII. Camp of the Imperialists. 
 [Captain and First Officer.] 
 
 First Officer. They fly from afar 
 toward the camp. 
 
 Captain. He is most likely hard at their 
 heels. Draw out fifty as far as the mill; if 
 he follows up the pursuit too far, you may 
 perhaps entrap him. [Exit Officer.] 
 
 [The Second Officer is borne in.] 
 
 Captain. How now, my young sir, — 
 have you got a cracked headpiece? 
 
 Officer. A plague upon you! The 
 stoutest helmet went to shivers like glass. 
 The demon! He ran upon me as if he 
 would strike me into the earth! 
 
 Captain. Thank God, that you have 
 escaped with your life. 
 
 Officer. There is Uttle left to be thank- 
 ful for; two of my ribs are broken — 
 Where's the surgeon? [He is carried off.] 
 
 Scene IX. Jaxthausen. 
 
 [Enter Goetz and Selbitz.] 
 
 Goetz. And what say you to the ban, 
 Selbitz? 
 Selbitz. 'T is a trick of Weislingen's. 
 Goetz. Do you think so? 
 Selbitz. I do not think — I know it. 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 613 
 
 GoETZ. How so? 
 
 Selbitz. He was at the Diet, I tell thee, 
 and near the Emperor's person. 
 
 GoETZ. Well, then, we shall frustrate 
 another of his schemes. 
 
 Selbitz. I hope so. 
 
 GoBTZ. We will away and course these 
 hares. 
 
 Scene X. The imperial camp. 
 [Captain, Officers, and Followers.] 
 
 Captain. We shall gain nothing at this 
 work, sirs! He beats one troop after an- 
 other; and whoever escapes death or cap- 
 tivity, would rather fly to Turkey than re- 
 turn to the camp. Thus our force diminishes 
 daily. We must attack him once for all, 
 and in earnest. I will go myself, and he 
 shall find with whom he has to deal. 
 
 Officer. We are all content; but he is 
 so well acquainted with the country, and 
 knows every path and ravine so thoroughly, 
 that he will be as difficult to find as a rat 
 in a barn. 
 
 Captain. I warrant you we '11 ferret him 
 out. On toward Jaxthausen! Whether he 
 like it or not, he must come to defend his 
 castle. 
 
 Officer. Shall our whole force march? 
 
 Captain. Yes, certainly — do you know 
 that a hundred of us are melted away al- 
 ready? 
 
 Officer. Then, let us away with speed, 
 before the whole snowball dissolves ; for this 
 is warm work, and we stand here like butter 
 in the sunhsine. 
 
 [Exeunt — a march sounded.] 
 
 Scene XI. Mountai/ns and a wood. 
 [GoETZ, Selbitz, and Troopers.] 
 
 GoETZ. They are coming in full force. 
 It was high time that Sickingen's troopers 
 joined us. 
 
 Selbitz. We will divide our party — I 
 will take the left hand by the hill. 
 
 Goetz. Good — and do thou, Lerse, 
 lead fifty men straight through the wood 
 on the right. They are coming across the 
 heath. I will draw up opposite to them. 
 George, stay by me — when you see them 
 
 attack me, then fall upon their flank: we'll 
 beat the knaves into a mummy — they 
 little think we can face them [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene XII. A heath — on one side an emi- 
 nence, with a ruined tower, on the 
 other the forest. 
 
 [Enter marching, the Captain of the Im- 
 perialists with Officers and his Squad- 
 ron — Drums and standards.] 
 
 Captain. He halts upon the heath! 
 That's too impudent. He shall smart for 
 it. What! Not fear the torrent that 
 threatens to overwhelm him! 
 
 Officer. I had rather you did not head 
 the troops; he looks as if he meant to plant 
 the first that comes upon him in the mire 
 with his head downmost. Prithee ride in 
 the rear. 
 
 Captain. Not so. 
 
 Officer. I entreat you. You are the 
 knot which imites this bundle of hazel 
 twigs; loose it, and he will break them 
 separately like so many reeds. 
 
 Captain. Sound, trumpeter — and let 
 us blow him to hell! 
 
 [A charge sounded — exeunt in 
 full career.] 
 
 [Selbitz, with his Troopers, comes from be- 
 hind the hill, galloping.] 
 
 Selbitz. Follow me! They shall wish 
 that they could multiply their hands. 
 
 [They gallop across the stage, et 
 exeunt.] 
 
 [Loud alarm — Lerse and his party sally 
 from the wood.] 
 
 Lerse. Ho! to the rescue! Goetz is al- 
 most surrounded. — Gallant Selbitz, thou 
 hast cut thy way — we will sow the heath 
 with these thistle heads. [Gallop off.] 
 
 [A loud alarm, with shouting and 
 firing for some minutes.] 
 
 [Selbitz is borne in wounded by two 
 Troopers.] 
 
 Selbitz. Leave me here, and hasten to 
 Goetz. 
 
 First Trooper. Let us stay, sir, — you 
 need our aid. 
 
6i4'' 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Sblbitz. Get one of you on the watch- 
 tower, and tell me how it goes. 
 
 First Trooper. How shall I get up? 
 
 Second Trooper. Mount upon my 
 shoulders — you can then reach the ruined 
 part, and thence scramble up to the open- 
 ing. [First Trooper gets up into the tower.] 
 
 First Trooper. Alas, sir! 
 
 Selbitz. What seest thou? 
 
 First Trooper. Your troopers fly to- 
 ward the hill. 
 
 Selbitz. 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 thou Goetz? 
 
 [Exit Second Trooper.] 
 
 Trooper. I see his three black feathers 
 floating in the midst of the wavy tu- 
 mult. 
 
 Selbitz. Swim, brave swimmer — I lie 
 here. 
 
 Trooper. A white plume — whose is 
 that? 
 
 Selbitz. The captain's. 
 
 Trooper. Goetz gaUops upon him — 
 crash! Down he goes! 
 
 Selbitz. The captain? 
 
 Trooper. Yes, sir. 
 
 Selbitz. Hurrah! hurrah! 
 
 Trooper. Alas! alas! I see Goetz no 
 more. 
 
 Selbitz. Then, die, Selbitz! 
 
 Trooper. A dreadful tumult where he 
 stood — George's blue plume vanishes 
 too. 
 
 Selbitz. Come down! Dost thou not 
 see Lerse? 
 
 Trooper. No; — everything is in con- 
 fusion. 
 
 Selbitz. 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. Come down. 
 
 Trooper. I cannot. Hurrah! hurrah! 
 I see Goetz, I see George. 
 
 Selbitz. On horseback? 
 
 Trooper. Aye, aye, high on horseback 
 — Victory! victoryl — they fly. 
 
 Selbitz. The Imperialists? 
 
 Trooper. Yes, standard and all, Goetz 
 behind them. They disperse, — Goetz 
 reaches the ensign, — he seizes the stand- 
 ard; he halts. A handful of men rally 
 roimd him. My comrade reaches him — 
 they come this way. 
 
 [Enter Goetz, George, Lerse, and 
 Troopers, on horseback.] 
 
 Selbitz.' Joy to thee, Goetz! — victory! 
 
 GoETZ [dismounting]. Dearly, dearly 
 bought. Thou art wounded, Selbitz! 
 
 Selbitz. But thou dost Uve and hast 
 conquered! I have done little; and my ■ 
 dogs of troopers! How hast thou come 
 off? 
 
 Goetz. For the present, well! And here 
 I thank George, and thee, Lerse, for my 
 hfe. I unhorsed the captain, they stabbed 
 my horse, and pressed me hard. George 
 cut his way to me, and sprang off his horse. 
 I threw myself like hghtning upon it, and 
 he appeared suddenly like a thunderbolt 
 upon another. How earnest thou by thy 
 steed? 
 
 Geobge. a fellow struck at you from 
 behind: as he raised his cuirass in the act, 
 I stabbed him with my dagger. Down he 
 came; and so I rid you of an enemy, and 
 helped myself to a horse. 
 
 Goetz. There we held together liill 
 Francis here came to our help; and there- 
 upon we mowed our way out. 
 
 Lerse. The hounds whom I led were to 
 have mowed their way in, till our sc3rthes 
 met, but they fled Uke Imperialists. 
 
 Goetz. Friend and foe all fled, except 
 this little band who protected my rear. I 
 had enough to do with the fellows in front, 
 but the fall of their captain dismayed them; 
 they wavered, and fled. I have their ban- 
 ner, and a few prisoners. 
 
 Selbitz. The captain has escaped you? 
 
 Goetz. They rescued him in the scuflSe. 
 Come, lads; come, Selbitz. — Make a litter 
 of lances and boughs. Thou canst not 
 mount a horse, come to my castle. They 
 are scattered, but we are very few; and I 
 know not what troops they may have in 
 reserve. I will be your host, my friends. 
 Wine will taste well after such an action. 
 [Exeunt, carrying SELBrrz.J 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 6iS 
 
 Scene XIII. The camp. 
 [The Captain and Imperialists.] 
 
 Captain. I could kill you all with my 
 own hand. — What! to turn tail! He had 
 not a handful of men left. To give way 
 before one man! No one will believe it but 
 those who wish to make a jest of us. Ride 
 round the country, you, and you, and you: 
 collect our scattered soldiers, or cut them 
 down wherever you find them. We must 
 grind these notches out of our blades, even 
 should we spoil our swords in the operation. 
 
 [Exeunt.] 
 
 Scene XIV. Jaxthausen. 
 
 [GoETZ, Lersb, and George.] 
 
 GoETZ. We must not lose a moment. 
 My poor fellows, I dare allow you no rest. 
 Gallop round and strive to enhst troopers, 
 appoint them to assemble at Weilern, where 
 they will be most secure. Should we delay 
 a moment, they will be before the castle. 
 [Exeunt Lerse and George.] I must send 
 out a scout. This begins to grow warm. — 
 If we had but brave foemen to deal with! 
 But these feUows are only formidable 
 through their number. [Exit.] 
 
 [Enter Sickingen and Maria.] 
 
 Maria. I beseech thee, dear Sickingen, 
 do not leave my brother! His horsemen, 
 your own, and those of Selbitz, all are 
 scattered; he is alone. Selbitz has been 
 carried home to his castle wounded. I fear 
 the worst. 
 
 Sickingen. Be comforted, I will not 
 leave him. 
 
 [Enter Goetz.]^ 
 
 GoETZ. Come to the chapel, the priest 
 waits; in a few minutes you shall be 
 united. 
 
 Sickingen. Let me remain with you. 
 
 GoETZ. You must come now to the 
 chapel. 
 
 Sickingen. Willingly! — and then — 
 
 GoETZ. Then you go your way. 
 
 Sickingen. Goetz! 
 
 GoBTz. Will you not to the chapel? 
 
 Sickingen. Come, come! [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene XV. Camp. 
 [Captain and Officers.] 
 
 Captain. How many are we in all? 
 
 Officer. A hundred and fifty — 
 , Captain. Out of four hundred. — That 
 is bad. Set out for Jaxthausen at once, 
 before he collects his forces and attacks us 
 on the way. 
 
 Scene XVI. Jaxthausen. 
 
 [Goetz, Elizabeth, Maria, and 
 Sickingen.] 
 
 Goetz. God bless you, give you happy, 
 days, and keep those for your children 
 which he denies to you! 
 
 Elizabeth. And may they be virtu- 
 ous as you — then let come what will. 
 
 Sickingen. I thank you. — And you, 
 my Maria! As I led you to the altar, so 
 shall you lead me to happiness. 
 
 Maria. Our pilgrimage will be together 
 toward that distant and promised land. 
 
 Goetz. A prosperous journey! 
 
 Maria. That was not what I meant — 
 We do not leave you. 
 
 Goetz. You must, sister. 
 
 Maria. You are very harsh, brother. 
 
 Goetz. And you more affectionate than 
 prudent. 
 
 [Enter George.] 
 
 George [aside to Goetz]. I can collect 
 no troopers. One was incUned to come, but 
 he changed his mind and refused. 
 
 Goetz [aside to George]. 'T is well, 
 George. Fortune begins to look coldly on 
 me. I foreboded it, however. [Aloud.] Sick- 
 ingen, I entreat you, depart this very even- 
 ing. Persuade Maria — you are her hus- 
 band — let her feel it. When women come 
 across our undertakings, our enemies are 
 more secure in the open field, than they 
 would else be in their castles. 
 
 [Enter a Trooper.] 
 
 Trooper [aside to Goetz]. The Imper- 
 ial squadron is in full and rapid march 
 hither. 
 
 Goetz. I have roused them with stripes 
 of the rod! How many are they? 
 
6i6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Trooper. About two hundred. They 
 can scarcely be six miles from us. 
 
 GoETZ. Have they passed the river 
 yet? 
 Trooper. No, my lord. 
 GoETZ. Had I but fifty men, they should 
 not cross it. Hast thou seen Lerse? 
 Trooper. No, my lord. 
 GoETZ. Tell all to hold themselves 
 ready. — We must part, dear friends. 
 Weep on, my gentle Maria. Many a mo- 
 ment of happiness is yet in store for thee. 
 It is better thou shouldst weep on thy wed- 
 ding-day than that present joy should be 
 the forerunner of future misery. — Fare- 
 well, Maria! — Farewell, brother! 
 
 Maria. I cannot leave you, sister. Dear 
 brother, let us stay. Dost thou value my 
 husband so little as to refuse his help in thy 
 extremity? 
 
 GoETZ. 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 horses to be 
 saddled: you must away instantly. 
 Maria. Brother! brother! 
 Elizabeth [to Sickinqen]. Yield to his 
 wishes. Speak to her. 
 
 SiCKiNGEN. Dear Maria! We must go. 
 Maria. Thou, too? My heart will 
 break! 
 
 GoETZ. Then, stay. In a few hours my 
 castle will be surrounded. 
 
 Maria [weeping bitterly]. Alas! alas! 
 GoETz. We will defend ourselves as long 
 as we can. 
 
 Maria. Mother of God, have mercy 
 upon us! 
 
 GoETZ. And at last we must die or sur- 
 render. Thy tears will then have involved 
 thy noble husband in the same misfortune 
 with me. 
 
 Maria. Thou torturest me! 
 GoETZ. Remain! Remain! We shall be 
 taken together! Sickingen, thou wilt fall 
 into the pit with me, out of which I had 
 hoped thou shouldst have helped me. 
 Maria. We will away — sister — sister! 
 GoBTZ. Place her in safety, and then 
 think of me. 
 
 Sickingen. Never will I repose a night by 
 her side till I know thou art out of danger. 
 
 GoETZ. Sister, dear sister! [Kisses her.] 
 
 Sickingen. Away! Away! 
 
 GoETZ. Yet one moment! I shall see you 
 again. Be comforted, we shall meet again. 
 [Exeunt Sickingen and Mama.] I urged 
 her to depart — yet when she leaves me, 
 what would I not give to detain her! 
 Elizabeth, thou stayest with me. [Exit.] 
 
 Elizabeth. TiU death! 
 
 GoBTZ. Whom God loves, to him may 
 He give such a wife. 
 
 [Enter George.] 
 
 George. They are near! I saw them 
 from the tower. The sun is rising, and I 
 perceived their lances glitter. I cared no 
 more for them than a cat would for a whole 
 army of mice. 'T is true we play the mice 
 at present. 
 
 GoBTZ. Look to the fastenings of the 
 gates; barricade them with beams and 
 stones. [Exit George.] We'll exercise 
 their patience, and they may chew away 
 their valor in biting their nails. [A trumpet 
 from vrithout. Goetz goes to the window.] 
 Aha! Here comes a red-coated rascal to ask 
 me whether I wfll be a scoimdrel! What 
 says he? [The voice of the Herald is heard 
 indiMincUy, as from a distance. Goetz mut- 
 ters to himself.] A rope for thy throat! 
 [Voice again.] "Offended majesty ! " — 
 Some priest has drawn up that proclama- 
 tion. [Voice concludes, and Goetz answers 
 from the u/indow.] Surrender — surrender 
 at discretion. With whom speak you? Am 
 I a robber? Tell your captain, that for the 
 Emperor I entertain, as I have ever done, 
 all due respect; but as for him, he may — 
 [Shuts the window with violence.] 
 
 Scene. XVII. The kitchen. 
 [Elizabeth preparing food. Enter Goetz.] 
 
 Goetz. You have hard work, my poor 
 wife! 
 
 Elizabeth. Would it might last! But 
 you can hardly hold out long. 
 
 Goetz. We have not had time to pro- 
 vide ourselves. 
 
 Elizabeth. And so many people as you 
 have been wont to entertain. The wine is 
 well-nigh finished. 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 6i7 
 
 _ GoBTZ. If we can but hold out a certain 
 time, they must propose a capitulation. 
 We are doing them some damage, I promise 
 you. They shoot the whole day, and only 
 wound our walls and break our windows. 
 Lerse is a gallant fellow. He slips about 
 with his gun : if a rogue comes too nigh — 
 pop! there he lies! [Firing.] 
 
 [Enter Trooper.] 
 
 Trooper. We want live coals, gracious 
 lady! 
 
 GoETZ. For what? 
 
 Trooper. Our bullets are spent; we 
 must cast some new ones. 
 
 GoETZ. How goes it with the powder? 
 
 Trooper. There is as yet no want: we 
 save our fire. 
 
 [Firing at intervals. Exeunt Goetz 
 and Elizabeth.] 
 
 [Enter Lerse vxith a buUet-motdd. Serv- 
 ants with coala.] 
 
 Lerse. Set them down, and then go and 
 seek for lead about the house; meanwhile 
 I will make shift with this. [Goes to the 
 window, and takes out the leaden frames.] 
 Everything must 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 begot 
 me little knew whether the fowls of heaven 
 or the worms of the earth would pick my 
 bones. 
 
 [Enter George with a leaden spout.] 
 
 George. Here's lead for thee! If you 
 hit with only half of it, not one will return 
 to tell His Majesty, "Thy servants have 
 sped ill!" 
 
 Lerse [cutting it down]. A famous piece! 
 
 George. The rain must seek some other 
 way. I 'm not afraid of it — a brave trooper 
 and a smart shower will always find their 
 road. [They cast halls.] 
 
 Lerse. Hold the ladle. [Goes to the 
 
 mndow.] Yonder is a fellow creeping about 
 
 with his rifle; he thinks our fire is spent. 
 
 He shall have a bullet warm from the pan. 
 
 [He loads his rifle.] 
 
 George [puts down the mould]. Let me 
 see. 
 
 Lerse [fires]. There lies the game! 
 
 George. He firSd at me as I stepped out 
 on the roof to get the lead. He killed a 
 pigeon that sat near me; it fell into the 
 spout. I thanked him for my dinner, and 
 went back with the double booty. 
 
 [They cast balls.] 
 
 Lerse. Now, let us load, and go through 
 the castle to earn our dinner. 
 
 [Enter Goetz.] 
 
 GoETZ. Stay, Lerse, I must speak with 
 thee. I will not keep thee, George, from the 
 sport. [Exit George.] 
 
 Goetz. They offer terms. 
 
 Lerse. I will go and hear what they have 
 to say. 
 
 Goetz. 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 liberty 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 
 colors. 
 
 Goetz. They will not permit us. 
 
 Lerse. It is worth the asking. We will 
 demand a safe-conduct, and I will sally 
 out. 
 
 Scene XVIII. A hall. 
 
 '[Goetz, Elizabeth, George, and 
 Troopers at table.] 
 
 Goetz. Danger unites us, my friends! 
 Be of good cheer; don't forget the bottle! 
 The flask is empty. Come, another, dear 
 wife! [Elizabeth shakes her head.] is there 
 no more? 
 
 Elizabeth [aside]. Only one, which I 
 have set apart for you. 
 
 Goetz. Not so, my love! Bring it out; 
 they need strengthening more than I, for it 
 is my quarrel. 
 
 Elizabeth. Fetch it from the cup- 
 board. 
 
 Goetz. It is the last, and I feel as if we 
 need not spare it. It is long since I have 
 
6i8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 been so merry. [TheyfiU.] To the health 
 of the Emperor! 
 
 All. Long live the Emperor! 
 
 GoETZ. Be it our last word when we die I 
 I love him, for our fate is similar; but I am 
 happier than he. To please the princes, he 
 must direct his imperial squadrons against 
 mice, while the rats gnaw his possessions. 
 — I know he often wishes himself dead, 
 rather than to beany longer the soul of such 
 a crippled body. [TheyfiU.] It will just go 
 once more round. And when our blood runs 
 low, like this flask; when we pour out its 
 last ebbing drop [empties the wine drop by 
 drop into his gohlet], what then shall be our 
 cry? 
 
 George. Freedom forever! 
 I GoETZ. Freedom forever! 
 ' All. Freedom forever! 
 
 GoETZ. And if that survive us 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 — 
 
 Geobge. Things would be widely dif- 
 ferent. 
 
 GoETZ. Not so much so as it wotdd 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 free equals, and who 
 did not think the knights unfit companions 
 till they had degraded themselves by 
 courtly homage. 
 
 Geobge. Have you known such princes? 
 
 GoETZ. 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 instituted 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 them 
 under God's free sky! 
 
 Geobge. He must have been as good a 
 master as you. 
 
 GoETZ. And may we not hope that 
 many such will rule together some future 
 day, to whom reverence to the Emperor, 
 peace and friendship with their neighbors, 
 and the love of their vassals, shall be the 
 best and dearest family treasure handed 
 down to their children's children? Every 
 one will then keep and improve his own, in- 
 stead of reckoning nothing as gain that is 
 not stolen from his neighbors. 
 
 George. And should we have no more 
 forays? 
 
 GoETZ. Would to God there were no 
 restless spirits in all Germany! — We 
 should still have enough to do! We would 
 clear the mountains of wolves, and bring 
 our peaceable laborious neighbor a dish of 
 game from the wood, and eat it together. 
 Were that not full employment, we would 
 join our brethren, and, like cherubims with 
 flaming swords, defend the frontiers of the 
 Empire against those wolves the Turks, and 
 those 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. [George springs up.] 
 Whither away? 
 
 Geobge. Alas! I forgot we were be- 
 sieged — besieged by the very Emperor; 
 and before we can expose our lives in 
 his defense, we must risk them for our 
 liberty. 
 
 Goetz. Be of good cheer. 
 
 [Enter Lersb.] 
 
 Lerse. Freedom! Freedom! The cow- 
 ardly poltroons — the hesitating, irres- 
 olute asses. You are to depart with men, 
 weapons, horses, and armor; provisions you 
 are to leave behind. 
 
 Goetz. They will hardly find enough to 
 exercise their jaws. 
 
 Lerse [aside to Goetz], Have you hid- 
 den the plate and money? 
 
 Goetz. No! Wife, go with Lerse; he 
 has something to tell thee. [Exeunt.] 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 619 
 
 Scene XIX. The court of the castle. 
 George [in the stable: sings]. 
 An urchin once, as I have heard, 
 
 Ha! ha! 
 Had caught and caged a little bird, 
 
 Sa! sa! 
 
 Ha! ha! 
 
 Sa! sa! 
 He viewed the prize with heart elate, 
 
 Ha! ha! 
 Thrust in his hand — ah, treacherous fate! 
 
 Sa! sa! 
 
 Ha! ha! 
 
 Sa! sa! 
 Away the titmouse wing'd its flight, 
 
 Ha! ha! 
 And laugh'd to scorn the silly wight, 
 
 Sa! sa! 
 
 Ha! ha! 
 
 Sa! sa! 
 
 [Enter Gobtz.] 
 
 GoETZ. How goes it? 
 
 Geobgb [brings out his horse]. All sad- 
 dled! 
 
 GoETZ. Thou art quick. 
 
 Geoege. As the bird escaped from the 
 cage. 
 
 [Enter all the besieged.] 
 
 GoETZ. Have you all your rifles? Not 
 yet! Go, take the best from the armory, 
 't is all one; we'll ride on in advance. 
 
 George [sings]. 
 
 Ha! hal 
 Sa! sa! 
 Ha! ha! 
 
 Scene XX. The armory. 
 [Two Troopers choosing guns.] 
 
 First Trooper. I '11 have this one. 
 
 Second Trooper. And I this — but 
 yonder 's a better. 
 
 First Trooper. Never mind — make 
 haste. [Tumult and firing mthout.] 
 
 Second Trooper. Hark! 
 
 First Trooper [springs to the window]. 
 Good Heavens, they are murdering our 
 master! He is unhorsed! George is down! 
 
 Second Trooper. How shall we get off? 
 Over the wall by the walnut tree, and into 
 the field. [Exit.] 
 
 First Trooper. Lerse keeps his ground; 
 I will to him. If they die, I will not sur- 
 vive them. ■ [Exit] 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene I. An inn in the city of Heilbronn. 
 
 [Goetz, solus.] 
 
 Goetz. I am like the evil spirit whom 
 the Capuchin conjured into a sack. I fret 
 and labor, but all in vain. The perjured 
 villains! 
 
 [Enter Elizabeth.] 
 
 What news, Elizabeth, of my dear, my 
 trusty followers? 
 
 Elizabeth. Nothing certain: some are 
 slain, some are prisoners; no one could or 
 would tell me further particulars. 
 
 Goetz. Is this the reward of fideUty, of 
 filial obedience? — "That it may be well 
 with thee, and that thy days may be long 
 in the land!" 
 
 Elizabeth. Dear husband, murmur not 
 against our heavenly Father. They have 
 their reward. It was born with them — a 
 noble and generous heart. Even in the 
 dungeon they are free. Pay attelntion to the 
 imperial commissioners; their heavy gold 
 chains become them — 
 
 Goetz. As a necklace becomes a sow! 
 I should hke to see George and Lerse 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 fury. 
 What! in fetters! Had ye but loved me 
 less, dear lads! I could never look at them 
 enough — What! to break their word 
 pledged in the name of the Emperor! 
 
 Elizabeth. Put away these thoughts. 
 Reflect ; you must appear before the Council 
 — you are in no mood to meet them, and I 
 fear the worst. 
 
 Goetz. What harm can they do me? 
 
 Elizabeth. Here comes the sergeant. 
 
 Goetz. What! The ass of justice that 
 carries the sacks to the mill and the dung to 
 the field? What now? 
 
620 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 [Enter Sergeant.] 
 
 Sergeant. The lords commissioners are 
 at the Council-House; and require your 
 presence. 
 
 GoETz. I come. 
 
 Sergeant. I am to escort you. 
 
 GoETZ. Too much honor. 
 
 Elizabeth. Be but cool. 
 
 GoBTZ. Fear nothing. [Exeunt.] 
 
 Scene II. The Council-House at Heilbronn. 
 
 [The Imperial Commissioners seated at a 
 table. The Captain and the Magis- 
 trates of the city attending.] 
 
 Magistrate. In pursuance of your 
 order, we have collected the stoutest and 
 most determined of our citizens. They are 
 at hand, in order, at a nod from you, to 
 seize Berlichingen. 
 
 Commissiotster. We shall have much 
 pleasure in communicating to His Im- 
 perial Majesty the zeal with which you 
 have obeyed his illustrious commands. — 
 Are they artisans? 
 
 Magistrate. Smiths, coopers, and 
 carpenters, men with hands hardened by 
 labor; and resolute here. 
 
 [Points to his breast.] 
 
 Commissioner. 'T is well. 
 
 [Enter Sergeant.] 
 
 Sergeant. Goetz von Berlichingen 
 waits without. 
 Commissioner. Admit him. 
 
 [Enter Goetz.] 
 
 Gobtz. God save you, sirs! What would 
 you with me? 
 
 Commissioner. First, that you consider 
 where you are; and in whose presence. 
 
 Goetz. By my faith, I know you right 
 well, sirs. 
 
 Commissioner. You acknowledge al- 
 legiance. 
 
 Goetz. With all my heart. 
 
 Commissioner. Be seated. 
 
 [Points to a stool.] 
 
 Goetz. What, down there? I'd rather 
 stand. That stool smells so of poor sin- 
 ners, as, indeed, does the whole apartment. 
 
 Commissionbr. Stand, then. 
 
 Goetz. To business, if you please. 
 
 Commissioner. We shall proceed in due 
 order. 
 
 Goetz. I am glad to hear it. Would you 
 had always done so. 
 
 Commissioner. You know how you feU 
 into our hands, and are a prisoner at dis- 
 cretion. 
 
 Goetz. What will you give me to forget 
 it? 
 
 Commissioner. Could I give you 
 modesty, I should better your affairs. 
 
 GoBTZ. Better my affairs! Could you 
 but do that! To repair is more diflBcult 
 than to destroy. 
 
 Secretary. Shall I put all this on 
 record? 
 
 Oommissioker. Only what is to the 
 purpose. 
 
 Goetz. As far as I'm concerned you 
 may print every word of it. 
 
 Commissioner. You fell into the power 
 of the Emperor, whose paternal goodness 
 got the better of his justice, and, instead of 
 throwing you into a dungeon, ordered you 
 to repair to his beloved city of Heilbronn. 
 You gave your knightly parole to appear, 
 and await the termination in all humility. 
 
 Goetz. Well; I am here, and await it. 
 
 Commissioner. And we are here to inti- 
 mate to you His Imperial Majesty's mercy 
 and clemency. He is pleased to forgive 
 your rebellion, to release you from the ban 
 and all well-merited punishment; provided 
 you do, with becoming humility, receive 
 his bounty, and subscribe to the articles 
 which shall be read unto you. 
 
 Goetz. I am His Majesty's faithful 
 servant, as ever. One word, ere you pro- 
 ceed. My people — where are they? What 
 will be done with them? 
 
 Commissioner. That concerns you not. 
 
 Goetz. So may the Emperor turn his 
 face from you in the hour of your need. 
 They were my comrades, and are so now. 
 What have you done with them? 
 
 Commissioner. We are not bound to 
 account to you. 
 
 Goetz. Ah! I forgot that you are not 
 even pledged to perform what you have 
 promised, much less — 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 621 
 
 Commissioner. Out business is to lay 
 the articles before you. Submit yourself 
 to the Emperor, and you may find a way 
 to petition for the lite and freedom of your 
 comrades. 
 
 GoETZ. Your paper. 
 
 Commissioner. Secretary, read it. 
 
 Secretary {reads]. "I, Goetz of Ber- 
 lichingen, make public acknowledgment, 
 by these presents, that I, having lately 
 risen in rebeUion against the Emperor and 
 Empire — " 
 
 Goetz. 'T is false! I am no rebel, I have 
 committed no offense against the Emperor, 
 and with the Empire I have no concern. 
 
 Commissioner. Be silent, and hear 
 further. 
 
 Goetz. I will hear no further. Let any 
 one arise and bear witness. Have I ever 
 taken one step against the Emperor, or 
 against the House of Austria? Has 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 
 thef ree knights and feudatories owe to their 
 liege lord the Emperor? I should be a vil- 
 lain could I be induced to subscribe that 
 paper. 
 
 Commissioner. Yet we have strict or- 
 ders to try and persuade you by fair means, 
 or, in case of your refusal, to throw you into 
 prison. 
 
 Goetz. Into prison! — Me? 
 
 Commissioner. Where you may expect 
 your fate from the hands of justice, since 
 you will not take it from those of mercy. 
 
 Goetz. To prison! You abuse the im- 
 perial power! To prison! That was not the 
 Emperor's command. What, ye traitors, 
 to dig a pit for me, and hang out your oath, 
 your knightly honor as the bait ! To promise 
 me permission to ward myself on parole, 
 and then again to break your treaty! 
 ^ Commissioner. We owe no faith to 
 robbers. 
 
 Goetz. Wert thou not the represent- 
 ative 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 mightest 
 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 Commissioner makes o sign 
 to the Magistrate of Heilbronn, who rings a 
 bell.] 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 
 person — 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. 
 
 [Enter a party of Artisans armed with 
 halberds and swords.] 
 
 Goetz. What means this? 
 
 Commissioner. You will not listen. — 
 Seize him! 
 
 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! [They rush upon 
 him. He strikes one down; and snatches a 
 sword from another. They stand aloof .] Come 
 on! Come on! I should like to become ac- 
 quainted with the bravest among you. 
 
 Commissioner. Surrender! 
 
 Goetz. With a sword in my hand! Know 
 ye not that it depends but upon myself to 
 make way through aU these hares and gain 
 the open field? But I wiU teach you how 
 a man should keep his word. Promise me 
 but free ward, and I will give up my sword, 
 and am again your prisoner. 
 
 Commissioner. How! Would you treat 
 with the Emperor, sword in hand? 
 
 Goetz. 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. 
 
 CommJissioner. Seize him! What! Does 
 not your love for the Emperor supply you 
 with courage? 
 
 Goetz. No more than the Emperor sup- 
 plies them with plaster for the wounds their 
 courage would earn them. 
 
 [Enter Sergeant, hastily.] 
 
 Oppicbr. The warder has just dis- 
 covered from the castle-tower, a troop of 
 
622 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 more than two hundred horsemen hasten- 
 ing toward the town. TJnperceived by us, 
 they have pressed forward from behind the 
 hill, and threaten our walls. 
 
 Commissioner. Alas! alas! What can 
 this mean? 
 
 [A Soldier enters.] 
 
 Soldier. Francis of Sickingen waits 
 at the drawbridge, and informs you that 
 he has heard how perfidiously you have 
 broken your word to his brother-in-law, 
 and how the Council of Heilbronn have 
 aided and abetted in the treason. He is 
 now come to insist upon justice, and if 
 refused it, threatens, within an hour, 
 to fire the four quarters of your town, 
 and abandon it to be plundered by his 
 
 GoETZ. My gallant brother! 
 
 Commissioner. Withdraw, Goetz. [Exit 
 GoETZ.] What is to be done? 
 
 Magistrate. Have compassion upon 
 us and our town! Sickingen is inexorable 
 in his wrath; he will keep his word. 
 
 Commissioner. Shall we forget what is 
 due to ourselves and the Emperor? 
 
 Captain. If we had but men to enforce 
 it; but situated as we are, a show of resist- 
 ance would only make matters worse. It is 
 better for us to yield. 
 
 Magistrate. Let us apply to Goetz to 
 put in a good word for us. I feel as though 
 I saw the town already in flames. 
 
 Commissioner. Let Goetz approach. 
 
 [Enter Goetz.] 
 
 Goetz. What now? / 
 
 Commissioner. Thou wilt do well to 
 dissuade thy brother-in-law from his re- 
 bellious interference. Instead of rescuing 
 thee, he will only plunge thee deeper in 
 destruction, and become the companion of 
 thy fall! 
 
 Goetz [sees Elizabeth at the door, and 
 speaks to her aside]. Go; tell him instantly 
 to break in and force his way hither, but to 
 spare the town. As for these rascals, if they 
 offer any resistance, let him use force. I 
 care not if I lose my life, provided they 
 are all knocked on the head at the same 
 time. 
 
 Scene III. A large hail in the Council- 
 House, beset by Sickingen's troops. 
 
 [Enter Sickingen and Goetz.] 
 
 Goetz. That was help from Heaven. 
 How camest thou so opportunely and un- 
 expectedly, brother? 
 
 Sickingen. Without witchcraft. I had 
 dispatched two or three messengers to 
 learn how it fared with thee; when I heard 
 of the perjury of these fellows, I set out 
 instantly, and now we have them safe. 
 
 Goetz. I ask nothing but knightly ward 
 upon my parole. 
 
 Sickingen. You are too noble. Not even 
 to avail yourself of the advantage which 
 the honest man has over the perjurer! 
 They are in the wrong, and we will not give 
 them cushions to sit upon. They have 
 shamefully abused the imperial authority, 
 and, if I know anything of the Emperor, 
 you might safely insist upon more favor- 
 able terms. You ask too little. 
 
 Goetz. I have ever been content with 
 little. 
 
 Sickingen. And therefore that little 
 has always been denied thee. My proposal 
 is, that they shall release your servants, and 
 permit you all to return to your castle on 
 parole — you can promise not to leave it 
 till the Emperor's pleasure be known. You 
 will be safer there than here. 
 
 GoBTZ. They will say my property is 
 escheated to the Emperor. 
 
 Sickingen. Then we will answer thou 
 canst dwell there, and keep it for his service 
 till he restores it to thee again. Let them 
 wriggle like eels in the net, they shall not 
 escape us! They may talk of the imperial 
 dignity — of their commission. We will 
 not mind that. I know the Emperor, and 
 have some influence with him. He has ever 
 wished to have thee in his service. You 
 will not be long in your castle without 
 being summoned to serve him. 
 
 GoETZ. God grant it, ere I forget the 
 use of arms! 
 
 Sickingen. Valor can never be forgot- 
 ten, as it can never be learned. Fear noth- 
 ing! When thy affairs are settled, I will re- 
 pair to court, where my enterprises begin 
 to ripen. Good fortune seems to smile on 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 623 
 
 them. I want only to soimd the Emperor's 
 mmd. The towns of Triers and Pfalz as 
 soon expect that the sky should fall as that 
 I shall come down upon their heads. But 
 I will come like a hailstorm! And if I am 
 successful, thou shalt soon be brother to an 
 elector. I had hoped for thy assistance in 
 this undertaking. 
 
 GkiETZ [looks at his hand]. Oh! That ex- 
 plains the dream I had the night before I 
 promised Maria to WeisUngen. I thought 
 he vowed eternal fidelity, and held my iron 
 hand so fast that it loosened from the arm. 
 Alas! I am at this moment more defenseless 
 than when it was shot away. Weislingen! 
 Weislingen! 
 
 SicKiNGEN. Forget the traitor! We will 
 thwart his plans, and undermine his au- 
 thority, till shame and remorse shall gnaw 
 him to death. I see, I see the downfall of 
 our enemies. — Goetz — only half a year 
 more! 
 
 Goetz. Thy soul soars high! I know not 
 why, but for some time past no fair pros- 
 pects have dawned upon me. I have been 
 ere now in sore distress — I have been a 
 prisoner before — but never did I experi- 
 ence such a depression. 
 
 SiCEiNGEN. Fortune gives courage. 
 Come, let us to the bigwigs. They have 
 had time enough to deliberate, let us take 
 the trouble upon ourselves. [Exeunt.] 
 
 Scene IV. The castle of Adelaide, 
 Augsburg. 
 
 (Adelaide and Weislingen discovered.] 
 
 Adelaide. This is detestable. 
 
 Weislingen. I have gnashed my teeth. 
 So good a plan — so well followed out — 
 and after all to leave him in possession of 
 his castle! That cursed Sickingen! 
 
 Adelaide. The Council should not have 
 consented. 
 
 Weislingen. They were in the net. 
 What else could they do? Sickingen 
 threatened them with fire and sword, — 
 the haughty, vindictive man! I hate him! 
 His power waxes like a mountain torrent 
 — let it but gain a few brooks, and others 
 come pouring to its aid. 
 
 Adelaide. Have they no Emperor? 
 
 Wei8liNgs;n> My dear wife, he waxes 
 old and feeble; he is only the shadow of 
 what he was. When he heard what had 
 been done, and I and the other counsel- 
 ors murmured indignantly — "Let them 
 alone!" said he; "I can sparfe my old 
 Goetg his little fortress, and if he remains 
 quiet there, what have you to say against 
 him?" We spoke of the welfare of the 
 state — "Oh," said he, "that I had always 
 had counselors who would have urged my 
 restless spirit to consult more the happiness 
 of individuals!" 
 
 Adelaide. He has lost the spirit of a 
 prince! 
 
 Weislingen. We ^inveighed against 
 Sickingen — "He is my faithful servant," 
 said he; "and if he has' not acted by my 
 express order, he has performed what I 
 wished better than my plenipotentiaries, 
 and I can ratify what he has done as well 
 after as before." 
 
 Adelaide. 'T is enough to drive one 
 mad. 
 
 Weislingen. Yet I have not given up 
 all hope. Goetz is on parole to remain quiet 
 in his castle. 'T is impossible for him to 
 keep his promise, and we shall soon have 
 some new cause of complaint. 
 
 Adelaide. That is the more Ukely, as 
 we may hope that the old Emperor will soon 
 leave the world, and Charles, his gallant- 
 successor, will display a more princely 
 mind. 
 
 Weislingen. Charles! He is neither 
 chosen nor crowned. 
 
 Adelaide. Who does not expect and 
 hope for that event? 
 
 Weislingen. You have a great idea of 
 his abilities; one might almost think you 
 looked on him with partial eyes. 
 
 Adelaide. You insult me, Weislingen. 
 For what do you take me? 
 
 Weislingen. I do not mean to offend; 
 but I cannot be silent upon the subject. 
 Charles's marked attentions to you dis- 
 quiet me. 
 
 Adelaide. And do I receive them as — 
 
 Weislingen. You are a woman; and no 
 woman hates those who pay their court to 
 her. 
 
 Adelaide. This from you? 
 
624 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Weislingen. It cuts me to the heart — 
 the dreadful thought — Adelaide. 
 
 Adelaide. Can I not cure thee of this 
 folly? 
 
 Weislingen. If thou wouldst — thou 
 canst leave the court. 
 1 Adelaide. But upon what pretense? 
 Art thou not here? Must I leave you and 
 all my friends, to shut myself up with the 
 owls in your solitary castle? No, Weis- 
 lingen, that will never do; be at rest, thou 
 knowest I love thee. 
 
 Weislingen. That is my anchor so long 
 as the cable holds. [Exit.] 
 
 Adelaide. Ah! It is come to this? This 
 was yet wanting. The projects of my bosom 
 are too great to brook the interruption. 
 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 earth; my way lies over thee! 
 
 [Enter Francis, mth a letter.] 
 
 Francis. Here, gracious lady. 
 
 Adelaide. Hadst thou it from Charles's 
 own hand? 
 
 Francis. Yes. 
 
 Adelaide. What ails thee? Thoulook'st 
 so mournful! 
 
 Francis. It is your pleasure that I 
 should pine away, and waste my fairest 
 years in agonizing despair. 
 
 Adelaide [aside]. I pity him; and how 
 little would it cost me to make him happy. 
 [Aloud.] Be of good courage, youth! I 
 know thy love and fidelity, and will not be 
 ungrateful. 
 
 Francis [with stifled breath]. If thou wert 
 capable of ingratitude, I could not survive 
 it. There boils not a drop of blood in my 
 veins but what is thine own — I have not 
 a single feeling but to love and to serve 
 thee! 
 
 Adelaide. Dear Francis! 
 
 Francis. You flatter me. [Bursts into 
 tears.] Does my attachment deserve only 
 to be a stepping-stool to another — to see 
 all your thoughts fixed upon Charles? 
 
 Adelaide. You know not what you 
 wish, and still less what you say. 
 
 Francis [stamping with vexation and 
 
 rage]. No more will I be your slave, your 
 go-between! 
 
 Adelaide. Francis, you forget yourself. 
 
 Francis . To sacrifice my beloved master 
 and myself — 
 
 Adelaide. Out of my sight! 
 
 Francis. Gracious lady! 
 
 Adelaide. Go; betray to thy beloved 
 master the secret of my soul! Fool that I 
 was to take thee for what thou art not. 
 
 Francis. Dear lady! You know how I 
 love you. 
 
 Adelaide. And thou, who wast my 
 friend — so near my heart — go; betray 
 me. 
 
 Francis. Rather would I tear my heart 
 from my breast! Forgive me, gentle lady! 
 My heart is too full, my senses desert me. 
 
 Adelaide. Thou dear, affectionate boy! 
 [She takes him by both hands, draws him to- 
 ward her and kisses him. He throws himself 
 weeping upon her neck.] Leave me! 
 
 Francis [his voice choked by tears]. 
 Heavens! 
 
 Adelaide. Leave me! The walls are 
 traitors. Leave me! [Breaks from him.] Be 
 but steady in fidelity and love, and the 
 fairest reward is thine. [Exit.] 
 
 Francis. The fairest reward! Let me 
 but live till that moment — I could 
 murder my father, were he an obstacle to 
 my happiness! [Exit.] 
 
 Scene V. Jaxthausen. 
 
 [GoETz seated at a table with writing ma- 
 terials. Elizabeth beside him with her 
 work.] 
 
 GoETZ. This idle life does not suit me. 
 My confinement becomes more irksome 
 every day. I would I could sleep, or per- 
 suade myself that quiet is agreeable. 
 
 Elizabeth. Continue writing the ac- 
 count of thy deeds which thou hsist 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. 
 
 GoETz. Alas! Writing is but busy idle- 
 ness; it wearies me. While I am writing 
 what I have done, I lament the misspent 
 time in which I might do more. 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 625 
 
 Elizabeth [takes the ivriting]. Be not im- 
 patient. Thou hast come to thy &st im- 
 prisonment at Heilbronn. 
 
 GoETZ. That was always an vmlucky 
 place to me. 
 
 Elizabeth [reads]. "There were even 
 some of the confederates who told me that 
 I had acted foolishly in appearing before 
 my bitterest enemies, who, as I might sus- 
 pect, would not deal justly with me." And 
 what didst thou answer? Write on. 
 
 GoETZ. I said, "Have I not often risked 
 life and limb for the welfare and property of 
 others, and shall I not do so for the honor 
 of my knightly -s^ord?" 
 
 Elizabeth. Thus does fame speak of 
 thee. 
 
 GoETZ. They shall not rob me of my 
 honor. They have taken all else from me 
 
 — property — liberty — everything. 
 Elizabeth. I happened once to stand in 
 
 an inn near the Lords of Miltenberg and 
 Singlingen, who knew me not. Then I was 
 joyful as at the birth of my first-born; for 
 they extolled thee to each other, and said, 
 
 — "He is the mirror of knighthood, noble 
 and merciful in prosperity, dauntless and 
 true in misfortune." 
 
 GoETZ. Liet them show me the man to 
 whom I have broken my word. Heaven 
 knows, my ambition has ever been to 
 labor for my neighbor more than for my- 
 self, and to acquire the fame of a gallant 
 and irreproachable knight, rather than prin- 
 cipalities or power; and, God be praised! 
 I have gained the meed of my labor. 
 
 [Enter George and Leese with game.] 
 
 GoETZ. Good luck to my gallant himts- 
 men! 
 
 Geokge. Such have we become from 
 gallant troopers. Boots can easily be cut 
 down into buskins. 
 
 Lersb. The chase is always something 
 
 — 't is a kind of war. 
 
 George. Yes; if we were not always 
 crossed by these imperial gamekeepers. 
 Don't you recollect, my lord, how you 
 prophesied we should become huntsmen 
 when the world was turned topsy-turvy? 
 We are become so now without waiting for 
 that. 
 
 GoETZ. 'T is all the same, we are pushed 
 out of our sphere. 
 
 George. 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. 
 
 GoETZ. Very ill! Then our career draws 
 to a close. 
 
 Lerse. And in the neighborhood there 
 are terrible commotions; the peasants have 
 made a formidable insurrection. 
 
 GoETZ. Where? 
 
 Lerse. In the heart of Swabia; they are 
 plundering, burning, and slaying. I fear 
 they will sack the whole country. 
 
 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. 
 
 GoBTZ. Then some of my poor friends 
 and neighbors, no doubt, suffer innocently. 
 
 George. Alas! that we are pent up thus! 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Scene I. A village plundered by the in- 
 surgent peasantry. Shrieks and tumult. 
 Women, old men, and children fly across the 
 stage. 
 
 Old Man. Away! Away! Let us fly from 
 the murdering dogs. 
 
 Woman. Sacred Heaven! How blood-red 
 is the sky! How blood-red the setting sunl 
 
 Another. Thkt must be fire. 
 
 A Third. My husband! My husband! 
 
 Old Man. Away! Away! To the woodi 
 
 [Exewnt.] 
 
 [Enter Link and Insurgents.] 
 
 Link. Whoever opposes you, down with 
 him! The village is ours. Let none of the 
 booty be injured, none be left behind. 
 Plunder clean and quickly. We must soon 
 set fire — 
 
 [Enter Metzleb, coming down the hill.] 
 
 Metzleb. How do things go with you, 
 Link? 
 
626 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Link. Merrily enough, as you see; you 
 are just in time for the fun. — Whence 
 come you? 
 
 Mbtzler. From Weinsberg. There was 
 a jubilee. 
 
 Link. How so? 
 
 Metzleb. We stabbed them all, in such 
 heaps, it was a joy to see it! 
 
 Link. All whom? 
 
 Mbtzler. Dietrich von Weiler led up 
 the dance. The fool! We were all raging 
 round the church steeple. He looked out 
 and wished to treat with us. — Baf ! A ball 
 through his head! Up we rushed like a 
 tempest, and the fellow soon made his exit 
 by the window. 
 
 Link. Huzza! 
 
 Mbtzler [to the Peasants]. Ye dogs, 
 must I find you legs? How they gape and 
 loiter, the asses! 
 
 Link. Set fire! Let them roast in the 
 flames! Forward! Push on, ye dolts. 
 
 Mbtzler. 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 miserable sinners passed by. 
 They stared at each other, and, heaven and 
 earth! We surrounded them before they 
 were aware, and then dispatched them all 
 with our pikes. 
 
 Link. Why was I not there? 
 
 Metzler. Never in all my life did I see 
 such fun. 
 
 Link. On! On! Bring all out! 
 
 Peasant. All 's clear. 
 
 Link. Then fire the village at the four 
 corners. 
 
 Mbtzler. 'T will make a fine bonfire! 
 Hadst 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 like dogs, and with dogs. I had 
 not caught sight of him all the while, when 
 suddenly his fool's visage looked me full in 
 the face. Push! went the spear between his 
 ribs, and there he lay stretched on all-fours 
 above his companions. The fellows lay 
 
 kicking in a heap like the hares that used 
 to be driven together at their grand hunt- 
 ing-parties. 
 
 Link. It smokes finely already! 
 
 Mbtzler. Yonder it burns! Come, let 
 us with the booty to the main body. 
 
 Link. Where do they halt? 
 
 Metzler. Between this and Heilbronn. 
 They wish to choose a captain whom every 
 one will respect, for we are after all only 
 their equals; they feel this, and turn res- 
 tive. 
 
 Link. Whom do they propose? 
 
 Metzler. Maximihan Stumf, or Goetz 
 von Berlichingen. 
 
 Link. That would be well. 'T would 
 give the thing credit should Goetz accept 
 it. He has ever been held a worthy inde- 
 pendent knight. Away, away! We march 
 toward Heilbronn! Pass the word. 
 
 Metzler. The fire will light us a good 
 part of the way. Hast thou seen the great 
 comet? 
 
 Link. Yes, it is a dreadful ghastly sign! 
 As we march by night we can see it well. 
 It rises about one o'clock. 
 
 Metzler. 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 stars , 
 at the sword's hilt and point? 
 
 Metzler. And the broad haze-colored 
 stripe illuminated by a thousand streamers 
 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. 
 
 Metzlbr. Did you see 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. Away! Away! [Exeunt.] 
 
 Scene II. Open country. In the distance 
 two villages and an abbey are burning. 
 
 [Kohl, Wild, Maximilian Stumf, 
 Insurgents.] 
 
 Stumf. You cannot ask me to be your 
 leader; it were bad for you and for me: I am 
 a vassal of the Palsgrave, and how shall I 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 627 
 
 make war against my liege lord? Besides, 
 you would always suspect I did not act from 
 my heart. 
 
 Kohl. We knew well thou wouldst 
 make some excuse. 
 
 [Enter George, Lerse, and Goetz.] 
 
 GoBTZ. What would you with me? 
 
 Kohl. You must be our captain. 
 
 Goetz. 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. 
 
 Goetz. And were I free, and you wanted 
 to deal with the lords and nobles as you did 
 at Weinsberg, lajring waste the country 
 round with fire and sword, and should 
 wish me to be an abettor of your shame- 
 less, barbarous doings, rather than be your 
 captain, you should slay me like a mad 
 dog! 
 
 Kohl. What has been done cannot be 
 undone. 
 . Stump. That was just the misfortune, 
 that they had no leader whom they 
 honored, and who could bridle their fury. 
 I beseech thee, Goetz, accept the oflBce! 
 The princes will be grateful; all Grermany 
 will thank thee. It will be for the weal and 
 prosperity of all. The country and its in- 
 habitants will be preserved. 
 
 Goetz. Why dost not thou accept it? 
 
 Stump. I have given them reasons for 
 my refusal. 
 
 Kohl. We have no time to waste in 
 useless speeches. Once for all! Goetz, be 
 our chief, or look to thy castle and thy 
 head! Take two hours to consider it. 
 Guard him! 
 
 Goetz. 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 
 rights and freedom, why do you plunder 
 and lay waste the land? Will you abstain 
 from 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 lawful and orderly de- 
 mands. 
 
 Wild. What has been done was done in 
 the first heat, and thy interference is not 
 needed to prevent it for the futiu-e. 
 
 Kohl. Thou must engage with us at 
 least for a quarter of a year. 
 
 Stump. Say four weeks, that wiU satisfy 
 both parties. 
 
 Goetz. Then be it so. 
 
 Kohl. Your hand! 
 
 Goetz. But you must promise to send 
 the treaty you have made with me in writ- 
 ing to all your troops, and to punish se- 
 verely those who infringe it. 
 
 Wild. Well, it shall be done. 
 
 Goetz. Then I bind myself to you for 
 four weeks. 
 
 Stump. Good fortune to you! In what- 
 ever thou doest, spare our noble lord the 
 
 Kohl [aside]. See that none speak to 
 him without our knowledge. 
 
 Goetz. Lerse, go to my wife. Protect 
 her; you shall soon have news of me. 
 
 [Exeunt Goetz, Stump, George, 
 Lerse, and some Peasants.] 
 
 [Enter Metzler, Link, and their 
 followers.] 
 
 Metzler. Who talks of a treaty? What's 
 the use of a treaty? 
 
 Link. It is shameful to make any such 
 bargain. 
 
 Kohl. Weknowas well what we want as 
 you; and we may do or let alone what we 
 please. 
 
 Wild. This raging, and burning, and 
 murdering must have an end some day or 
 other; and by renouncing it just now, we 
 gain a brave leader. 
 
 Metzler. How? An end? Thou traitor! 
 Why are we here but to avenge ourselves 
 on our enemies, and enrich ourselves at 
 their expense? Some prince's slave has been 
 tampering with thee. 
 
 Kohl. Come, Wild, he is like a brute- 
 beast. [Exeunt Wild and Kohl.] 
 
 Metzler. Aye, go your way, no band 
 will stick by you. The villains! Link, we'll 
 set on the others to burn Miltenberg yon- 
 der; and if they begin a quarrel about the 
 treaty, we'll cut off the heads of those that 
 made it. 
 
 Link. We have still the greater body of 
 peasants on our side. 
 
 [Exeunt with Insurgents.] 
 
628 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Scene III. A hill and prospect of the 
 country. In the flat scene a mill. A body of 
 horsemen. 
 
 [Weislingen comes out of the mill, followed 
 by Fbancis and a Courier.] 
 
 Weislingen. My horse! Have you an- 
 nounced it to the other nobles? 
 
 CouKiEE. At least seven standards will 
 meet you in the wood behind Miltenberg. 
 The peasants are marching in that direc- 
 tion. Couriers are dispatched on all sides; 
 the entire confederacy will soon be as- 
 sembled. Our plan cannot fail; and they 
 say there is dissension among them. 
 
 Weislingen. So much the better. 
 Francis! 
 
 Francis. Gracious sir! 
 ^ Weislingen. Discharge thine errand 
 punctually. I bind it upon thy soul. Give 
 her the letter. She shall from the court to 
 my castle instantly. Thou must see her de- 
 part, and bring me notice of it. 
 
 Francis. Your commands shall be 
 obeyed. 
 
 Weislingen. Tell her she shall go. [To 
 the Courier.] Lead us by the nearest and 
 best road. 
 
 Courier. We must go round; all the 
 rivers are swollen with the late heavy rains. 
 
 Scene IV. Jaxthausen. 
 [Elizabeth and Lbrse.] 
 
 Lerse. Gracious lady, be comforted! 
 
 Elizabeth. Alas! Lerse, the tears stood 
 in his eyes when he took leave of me. It is 
 dreadful, dreadful! 
 
 Lerse. He will return. 
 
 Elizabeth. It is not that. When he 
 went forth to gain honorable victories, 
 never did grief sit heavy at my heart. I 
 then rejoiced in the prospect of his return, 
 which I now dread. 
 
 Lerse. So noble a man. 
 
 Elizabeth. Call him not so. There lies 
 the new misery. The miscreants! They 
 threatened to murder his family and burn 
 his castle. Should he return, gloomy, most 
 gloomy shall I see his brow. His enemies 
 will forge scandalous accusations against 
 him, which he will be unable to refute. 
 
 Lerse. He wiU and can. 
 
 Elizabeth. He has broken his parole: 
 — canst thou deny that? 
 
 Lerse. No! He was constrained. What 
 reason is there to condemn him? 
 
 Elizabeth. Malice seeks not reasons, 
 but pretexts. He has become an ally of 
 rebels, malefactors, and murderers: — he 
 has become their chief. Say No to that. 
 
 Lerse. 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 
 best thanks for having undertaken the 
 dangerous office of leading these unruly 
 people, in order to restrain their rage, and 
 to save so many lives and possessions? 
 
 Elizabeth. Thou art an affectionate 
 advocate. Should they take him prisoner, 
 deal with him as with a rebel, and bring 
 his gray hairs — Lerse, I should go mad! 
 
 Lerse. Send sleep to refresh her body, 
 dear Father of mankind, if Thou deniest 
 comfort to her soul! 
 
 Elizabeth. George has promised to 
 bring news, but he will not be allowed to do 
 so. They are worse than prisoners. Well 
 I know they are watched Uke enemies. — 
 The gallant boy! He would not leave his 
 master. 
 
 Lerse. The very heart within me bled 
 as I left him. — Had you not needed my 
 help, all the terrors of grisly death should 
 not have separated us. 
 
 Elizabeth. I know not where Sickingen 
 is. — Could I but send a message to Maria! 
 
 Lerse. Write, then: — I will take care 
 that she receives it. [Exit.] 
 
 Scene V. A village. 
 
 [Enter Goetz and George.] 
 
 Goetz. To horse, George! Quick! I see 
 Miltenberg in flames. Is it thus they keep 
 the treaty? — Ride to them, tell them my 
 purpose. — The murderous incendiaries — 
 I renounce them. Let them make a thiev- 
 ing gypsy their captain, not me! — Quick, 
 George! [fisit George.] Would that I were 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 629 
 
 a thousand miles hence, at the bottom of 
 the deepest dungeon in Turkey! — Could 
 I but come off with honor from them! I 
 have thwarted them every day, and told 
 them the bitterest truths, in the hope they 
 might weary of me and let me go. 
 
 [Enter an Unknovm.] 
 
 Unknown. God save you, gallant sir! 
 
 GoETZ. I thank you! What is your 
 errand? Your name? 
 
 Unknown. My name does not concern 
 my business. I come to tell you that your 
 life is in danger. The insurgent leaders are 
 weary of hearing from you such harsh lan- 
 guage, and are resolved to rid themselves of 
 you. Speak them fair, or endeavor to 
 escape from them; and Gtod be with you! 
 
 [Exit.] 
 
 GoETZ. To quit life in this fashion, 
 Goetz, to end thus? But be it so. My death 
 will be the clearest proof to the world that 
 I have had nothing in common with the 
 miscreants. 
 
 [Enter Insurgents.] 
 
 First Insitrgent. Captain, they are 
 prisoners, they are slain! 
 
 GoETZ. Who? 
 
 Second Instjkgent. Those who burned 
 Miltenberg; a troop of confederate cavalry 
 suddenly charged upon them from behind 
 the hill. 
 
 Goetz. They have their reward. Oh, 
 George! George! They have taken him 
 prisoner with the caitiffs. My George! 
 My George! 
 
 [Enter Insurgents in confusion.] 
 
 Link. Up, Sir Captain, up! — There is 
 no time to lose. The enemy is at hand, and 
 in force. 
 
 Goetz. Who burned Miltenberg? 
 
 Metzleb. If you mean to pick a quarrel, 
 we'll soon show you how we'll end it. 
 
 Kohl. Look to your own safety and 
 ours. Up! 
 
 Goetz [to Metzler]. Barest thou 
 threaten me, thou scoundrel. — Thinkest 
 thou to awe me, because thy garments are 
 stained with the Count of Helfenstein's 
 blood? 
 
 Metzleb. Berlichingen! 
 Goetz. Thou may est call me by my 
 name, and my children will not be ashamed 
 to hear it. 
 
 Metzler. Out upon thee, coward! — 
 Prince's slave! 
 
 [Goetz strikes him down. The 
 others interpose.] 
 Kohl. Ye are mad! — The enemy are 
 breaking in on all sides, and you quarrel! 
 Link. Away! Away! 
 
 [Cries and tumult — The Insur- 
 gents fly across the stage.] 
 
 [Enter Weislingen and Troopers.] 
 
 Weislingen. Pursue! Pursue! They 
 fly! — Stop neither for darkness nor rain. 
 — I hear Goetz is among them; look that 
 he escape you not. Our friends say he is 
 sorely wounded. [Exeunt Troopers.] And 
 when I have caught thee — it will be 
 merciful secretly to execute the sentence 
 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 gypsy-hvi in a 
 wild forest. Night. A fire before the hut, at 
 which are seated the Mother of the Gypsies 
 and a girl. 
 
 Mother. Throw some fresh straw upon 
 the thatch, daughter. There'll be heavy 
 rain again to-night. 
 
 [Enter a Gypsy Boy.] 
 
 Boy. A dormouse, mother! And look! — ■ 
 two field-mice! 
 
 Mother. I'll skin them and roast them 
 for thee, and thou shalt have a cap of their 
 skins. "Thou bleedest! 
 
 Boy. Dormouse bit me. 
 
 Mother. Fetch some dead wood, that 
 the fire may burn bright when thy father 
 comes; he will be wet through and through. 
 
 [Another Gypsy Woman with a child at her 
 back.] 
 
 First Woman. Hast thou had good 
 luck? 
 
 Second Woman. Ill enough. The whole 
 country is in an uproar; one's life is not 
 
630 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 safe a moment. Two villages are in a 
 blaze. 
 
 FiEST Woman. Is it fire that glares so 
 yonder? I have been watching it long. One 
 is so accustomed now to fiery signs in the 
 heavens. 
 
 [The Captain of the Gypsies enters with three 
 0/ his gang.] 
 
 Captain. Heard ye the wild hunts- 
 man? 
 
 FmsT Woman. He is passing over us 
 now. 
 
 Captain. How the hounds give tongue! 
 Wow! Wow! 
 
 Second Man. How the whips crack! 
 
 Third Man. And the huntsmen cheer 
 them — Hallo — ho ! 
 
 Mother. 'T is the Devil's chase. 
 
 Captain. We have been fishing in 
 troubled waters. The peasants rob each 
 other; there's no harm in our helpihg 
 them. 
 
 Second Woman. What hast thou got, 
 Wolf? 
 
 Wolf. A hare and a capon, a spit, a 
 bundle of linen, three spoons, and a bridle. 
 
 Sticks. I have a blanket and a pair of 
 boots, also a flint and tinder-box. 
 
 Mother. All wet as mire; I '11 dry them; 
 give them here! [TrcumpUng without.] 
 
 Captain. Hark! — A horse! Go see 
 who it is. 
 
 [Enter Goetz on horseback.] 
 
 GoETZ. I thank thee, God! I see fire — 
 they are gypsies. — My wounds bleed 
 sorely — my foes are close behind me! — 
 Great God, this is a tearful end! 
 
 Captain. Is it in peace thou comest? 
 
 GoETZ. I crave help from you. My 
 wounds exhaust me — assist me to dis- 
 mount! 
 
 Captain. Help him! — A gallant war- 
 rior in look and speech. 
 
 Wolf [aside]. 'Tis Goetz von Ber- 
 lichingen! 
 
 Captain. Welcome! Welcome! — All 
 that we have is yours. 
 
 Goetz. Thanks, thanks! 
 
 Captain. Come to my hut! 
 
 [Exeunt to the hut.] 
 
 Scene VII. Inside the hut. 
 [Captain, Gypsies, and Goetz.] 
 
 Captain. Call our Mother — teU her to 
 bring bloodwort and bandages. [Goetz 
 unarms himself.] Here is my holiday 
 doublet. 
 
 Goetz. God reward you! 
 
 [The Mother binds his wounds.] 
 
 Captain. I rejoice that you are come. 
 
 Goetz. Do you know me? 
 
 Captain. Who does not know you, 
 Goetz? Our lives and heart's blood are yours. 
 
 [Enter Sticks.] 
 
 Sticks. Horsemen are coming through 
 the wood. They are confederates. 
 
 Captain. Your pursuers! They shall 
 not harm you. Away, Sticks, call the 
 others: we know the passes better than 
 they. We shall shoot them ere they are 
 aware of us. 
 
 [Exeunt Captain and Men Gypsies 
 with their guns.] 
 
 GoBTZ [alone]. O Emperor! Emperor! 
 Robbers protect thy children. [A sharp 
 firing.] The wild foresters! Steady and 
 true! 
 
 [Enter Women.] 
 
 Women. Flee, flee! The enemy has over- 
 powered us. 
 
 GoBTZ. Where is my horse? 
 
 Women. Here! 
 
 GoETZ [girds on his sword and mounts 
 without his armor]. For the last time shall 
 you feel my arm. I am not so weak yet. 
 [Exit. — Tumult.] 
 
 Women. He gallops to join our party. 
 
 [Firing.] 
 
 [Enter Wolf.] 
 
 Wolf. Away! Away! All is lost. — The 
 Captain is shot! — Goetz a prisoner! 
 
 [The Women scream and fly into 
 the wood.] 
 
 Scene VIII. Adelaide's bedchamber. 
 
 [Enter Adelaide vnth a letter.] 
 
 Adelaide. He or I! The tyrant — to 
 threaten me! We will anticipate him. Who 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 631 
 
 glides through the antechamber? [A low 
 hnock at the door.] Who is there? 
 
 Francis [in a low voice]. Open, gracious 
 lady! 
 
 Adelaide. Francis! He well deserves 
 that I should admit him. [Opens the door.] 
 
 ¥RAj'fcis [throws himself on her neck]. My 
 dear, my gracious lady! 
 
 Adelaide. What audacity! If any one 
 should hear you? 
 
 Francis. Oh — all — all are asleep. 
 I Adelaide. What wouldst thou? 
 ' Francis. I cannot rest. The threats of 
 my master, — your fate, — my heart. 
 
 Adelaide. He was incensed against me 
 when you parted from him? 
 
 Francis. He was as I have never seen 
 him. — " To my castle," said he, " she 
 must — she shall go." 
 
 Adelaide. And shall we obey? 
 
 Francis. I know not, dear lady! 
 ' Adelaide. Thou foolish, iiifatuated 
 boy! Thou dost not see where this will 
 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 have power to use me as his 
 hate shall dictate. 
 
 Francis. 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 his 
 castle to immure me in a cloister. 
 
 Francis. Hell and damnation! 
 I Adelaide. Wilt thou rescue me? 
 
 Francis. Anything! Everything! 
 
 Adelaide [throws herself weeping upon 
 his neck]. Francis! Oh save me! 
 
 Francis. He shall fall. I will plant my 
 foot upon his neck. 
 
 Adelaide. No violence! You shall carry 
 a submissive letter to him announcing 
 obedience — then give him this vial in his 
 wine. 
 
 Francis. Give it me! Thou shalt be 
 free! 
 
 Adelaide. Free! — And then no more 
 shalt thou need to come to my chamber 
 trembling and in fear. No more shall I need 
 anxiously to say, "Away, Francis! the 
 morning dawns." 
 
 Scene IX. Street before the prison at 
 Heilbronn. 
 
 [Elizabeth and Lerse.] 
 
 Lerse. Heaven relieve your distress, 
 gracious lady! Maria is come. 
 
 Elizabeth. God be praised! Lerse, we 
 have sunk into dreadful misery. My worst 
 forebodings are realized! A prisoner — 
 thrown as an assassin and malefactor into 
 the deepest dungeon. 
 
 Lerse. I know all. 
 
 Elizabeth. Thou fcnowest nothing. Our 
 distress is too — too great! His age, his 
 wounds, a slow fever — and, more than 
 all, the despondency of his mind, to think 
 that this should be his end. 
 
 Lerse. Aye, and that Weislingen should 
 be commissioner! 
 
 Elizabeth. Weislingen? 
 
 Lerse. They have acted with unheard-of 
 severity. Metzler has been burned alive — 
 hundreds of his associates broken upon the 
 wheel, beheaded, quartered, and impaled. 
 All the country round looks like a slaughter- 
 house, where human flesh is cheap. 
 
 Elizabeth. Weislingen commissioner! 
 
 Heaven! A ray of hope! Maria shall go 
 to him: he cannot refuse her. He had ever 
 a compassionate heart, and when he sees 
 her whom he once loved so much, whom he 
 has made so miserable — Where is she? 
 
 Lerse. Still at the inn. 
 Elizabeth. Take me to her. She must 
 away instantly. I fear the worst. 
 
 [Exeunt.] 
 
 Scene X. An apartment in Weislingen's 
 castle. 
 
 [Weislingen, alone.] 
 
 Weislingen. I am so ill, so weak — all 
 my bones are hollow — this wretched fever 
 has consumed their very marrow. No rest, 
 no sleep, by day or night! And when I 
 slumber, such fearful dreams! Last night 
 methought I met Goetz 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 ia 
 a, prisoner; yet I tremble to think of him. 
 
632 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Miserable man! Thine own voice has con- 
 demned him, yet thou tremblest like a 
 malefactor at his very shadow. And shall 
 he die? Goetz! Goetz! We mortals are not 
 our own masters. Fiends have empire over 
 us, and shape our actions after their own 
 hellish will, to goad us to perdition. [Sits 
 down.] Weak! Weak! Why are my nails 
 so blue? A cold, clammy, wasting sweat 
 drenches every limb. Everything swims 
 before my eyes. Could I but sleep! Alas! 
 
 [Enter Maria.] 
 
 Weislingen. Mother of God! 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. 
 
 Maria. Weislingen, I am no spirit. I 
 am Maria. 
 
 Weislingen. It is her voice! 
 
 Maria. I came to beg my brother's life 
 of thee. He is guiltless, however culpable 
 he may appear. 
 
 Weislingen. Hush! Maria — Angel of 
 heaven as thou art, thou bringest with 
 thee the torments of hell! Speak no more! 
 
 Maria. And must my brother die? 
 Weislingen, it is horrible that I should 
 have to tell thee he is guiltless; that I should 
 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? 
 
 Weislingen. Thou seest — the con- 
 suming breath of the grave hath swept over 
 me — my strength sinks in death — I die 
 in misery, and thou comest to drive me to 
 despair — Could I but tell thee all, thy 
 bitterest hate would melt to sorrow and 
 compassion. O Maria! Maria! 
 
 Maria. Weishngen, 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. 
 
 Weislingen. Enough! — 
 
 [Rings a hand-heU.] 
 
 [Enter Francis, in great ogitaMon.] 
 
 Francis. Gracious sir. 
 
 Weislingen. Those papers, Francis. 
 
 [He gives them. Weislingen tears open a 
 packet and shows Maria a paper.] Here is 
 thy brother's death-warrant signed! 
 
 Maria. God in heaven! 
 
 Weislingen. And thus I tear it. He 
 shall live! But can I restore what I have 
 destroyed? Weep not so, Francis! Dear 
 youth, my wretchedness lies deeply at thy 
 heart. 
 
 [Francis throws himself at his feet, 
 and clasps his knees.] 
 
 Maria [apart]. He is ill — very ill. The 
 sight of him rends my heart. I loved him! 
 And now that I again approach him, I feel 
 how dearly — 
 
 Weislingen. Francis, arise and cease 
 to weep — I may recover! While there is 
 life, there is hope. 
 
 Francis. You cannot! You must die! 
 
 Weislingen. Must? 
 
 Francis [beside himself]. Poison! poison! 
 — from your wife! I — I gave it. 
 
 [Rushes out.] 
 
 Weislingen. Follow him, Maria — he 
 is desperate. [Exit Maria.] Poison from 
 my wife! Alas! Alas! I feel it. Torture and 
 death! 
 
 Maria [within]. Help! help! 
 
 Weislingen [attempts in vain to rise]. 
 God! I cannot. 
 
 Maria [returning]. He is gone! He 
 threw himself desperately from a window 
 of the hall into the river. 
 
 Weislingen. It is well with him! — Thy 
 brother is out of danger! The other com- 
 missioners, especially Seckendorf, are his 
 friends. "They will readily allow him to 
 ward himself upon his knightly word. 
 Farewell, Maria! Now, go. 
 
 Maria. I will stay with thee — thou 
 poor forsaken one! 
 
 Weislingen. Poor and forsaken, in- 
 deed! O God, Thou art a terrible avenger! 
 My wife! 
 
 Maria. Remove from thee that thought. 
 Turn thy soul to the Throne of Mercy. 
 
 Weislingen. Go, thou gentle spirit! 
 Leave me to my misery! Horrible! Even 
 thy presence, Maria, even the attendance 
 of my only comforter, is agony. 
 
 Maria [aside]. Strengthen me, Heaven! 
 My soul droops with his. 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 ^33 
 
 Weisldjgen. Alas! Alas! Poison from 
 my wife! My Francis , seduced by the 
 wretch! She waits — listens 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 my sins? 
 Leave me, leave me that I may die! 
 
 Mama. Let me stay! Thou art alone: 
 think I am thy nurse. Forget all. May 
 God forgive thee as freely as I do! 
 
 Wbislingen. Thou spirit of love! Pray 
 for me! Pray for me! My heart is seared. 
 
 Mabia. There is forpveness for thee. — 
 Thou art exhausted. 
 
 Weislingen. I die! I die! And yet I can- 
 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 
 opened to comfort, and his soul to the hope 
 of eternal life, even in the agony of death! 
 
 Scene XL A narrow vault dimly illum- 
 inated. 
 
 [The Judges of the Secret Tribunal discovered 
 seated, all muffled in black cloaks.] 
 
 Eldest Jtjdge. 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 Deity ! Are 
 your hands clean and your hearts pure? 
 Raise them to heaven, and cry, — Woe 
 upon evil-doers! 
 
 All. Woe! Woe! 
 
 Eldest Judge. Crier, begin the diet of 
 judgment. 
 
 CErBB. I cry, I cry for accusation against 
 evil-doers! He whose heart is pure, whose 
 hands are clean to swear by the cord and 
 the steel, let him lift up his voice and call 
 upon the steel and the cord for Vengeance! 
 Vengeance! Vengeance! 
 
 Accuseb [comes forward]. 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 
 Vengeance! Vengeance! Vengeance! 
 ^ Eldest Jtjdge. Vengeance upon whom? 
 
 Accuseb. I call upon the cord and the 
 steel for vengeance against Adelaide of 
 Weislingen. She has committed adultery 
 and murder. She has poisoned her husband 
 by the hands of his servant — the servant 
 hath slain himself — the husband is dead. 
 
 Eldest Judge. Dost thou swear by the 
 God of truth, that thy accusation is true? 
 
 Accuseb. I swear! 
 
 Eldest Judge. Dost thou invoke upon 
 thine own head the punishment of murder 
 and adultery, should thy accusation be 
 found false? 
 
 Accuser. On my head be it. 
 
 Eldest Judge. Your voices? 
 
 [They converse a few minutes in 
 whispers.] 
 
 Accuseb. Judges of the Secret Tribunal, 
 what is your sentence upon Adelaide of 
 Weislingen, accused of murder and adul- 
 tery? 
 
 Eldest Judge. She shall die! — She 
 shall die a bitter and twofold death! 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. Woe! Woe! 
 
 Eldest Judge. Woe! Avenger, come 
 forth. [A man advances.] 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. Judges, 
 ye that judge in secret and avenge in secret 
 Uke the Deity, keep yovu: hearts from 
 wickedness, and your hands from innocent 
 blood! 
 
 Scene XII. The court of an inn. 
 [Leesb and Mabia.] 
 
 Maria. The horses have rested long 
 enough; we will away, Lerse. 
 
 Leesb. 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 expect a fair 
 morning. 
 
 Lebse. Be it as you will. 
 
634 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Scene XIII. The prison at Heilbronn. 
 [GoETz and Elizabeth.] 
 
 Elizabeth. I entreat thee, dear hus- 
 band, speak to me. Thy silence alarms 
 me; thy spirit consumes thee, pent up 
 within thy breast. Come, let me see thy 
 wounds; they mend daily. In this de- 
 sponding melancholy I know thee no 
 longer! 
 
 GoBTZ. Seekest thou Goetz? He is long 
 since gone! Piece by piece have they 
 robbed me of all I held dear — my hand, 
 my property, my freedom, my good name! 
 My life! Of what value is it to me? What 
 news of George? Is Lerse gone to seek him? 
 
 Elizabeth. He is, my love! Be of good 
 cheer; things may yet take a favorable 
 turn. 
 
 GoETZ. He whom God hath stricken 
 lifts himself up no more! I best know the 
 load I have to bear. — To misfortune I am 
 inured. — But now it is not Weislingen 
 alone, not the peasants alone, not the death 
 of the Emperor, nor my wounds — it is the 
 whole united — My hour is come! I had 
 hoped it should have been like my life. But 
 his will be done! 
 
 Elizabeth. Wilt thou not eat some- 
 thing? 
 
 GoBTZ. Nothing, my love! See how the 
 sun shines yonder! 
 
 Elizabeth. It is a fine spring day! 
 
 Goetz. My love, wilt thou ask the 
 keeper's permission for me to walk in his 
 little garden for half an hour, that I may 
 look upon the clear face of heaven, the 
 pure air, and the blessed sun? 
 
 Elizabeth. I will — and he will readily 
 grant it. 
 
 Scene XIV. The prison garden. 
 
 [Lerse and Maria.] 
 
 Maria. Go in, and see how it stands 
 with them. [Exit Lerse.] 
 
 [Enter Elizabeth and Keeper.] 
 
 Elizabeth [to the Keeper]. God reward 
 your kindness and attention to my hus- 
 band! [Exit Keeper.] — Maria, how hast 
 thou sped? 
 
 Maria. My brother is safe! 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 surrounded 
 and besieged. 
 
 Elizabeth. Beheve not the rumor; and 
 let not Goetz hear it. 
 
 Maria. How is it with him? 
 
 Elizabeth. I feared he would not sur- 
 vive till thy return: the hand of the Lord 
 is heavy on him. And George is dead! 
 
 Maria. George! The gallant boy! 
 
 Elizabeth. When the miscreants were 
 burning Miltenberg, his master sent him to 
 check their villainy. A body of cavalry 
 charged upon them. Had they all be- 
 haved as George, they must all have had 
 as clear a conscience. Many were killed, 
 and George among them; he died the death 
 of a warrior. 
 
 Maria. Does Goetz 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. 
 
 Maria. O God! What are the hopes of 
 this world? 
 
 [Enter Goetz, Lerse, and Keeper.] 
 
 Goetz. Almighty God! How lovely it 
 is beneath Thy heaven! How free! The 
 trees put forth their buds, and all the 
 world awakes to hope — Farewell, my 
 children! My roots are cut away, my 
 strength totters to the grave. 
 
 Elizabeth. Shall I not send Lerse to 
 the convent for thy son, that thou may'st 
 once 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 thus! — 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 most dar- 
 ing fights: then, my spirit encouraged all 
 of you; now, thine supports me — Oh, that 
 I could but once more see George, and sua 
 
GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 ^35 
 
 myself in his look! You turn away and 
 weep. He is dead? George is dead? Then, 
 die, Goetz! Thou hast outlived thyself, 
 outlived the noblest of thy servants — 
 How died he? Alas! they took him among 
 the incendiaries, and he has been executed? 
 
 Elizabeth. No! He was slain at Mil- 
 tenberg, whQe fighting like a lion for his 
 freedom. 
 
 GoBTZ. God be praised! He was the 
 kindest youth under the sun, and one of the 
 bravest — Now, release my soul. IMy poor 
 wife! I leave thee in a wicked world. Lerse, 
 forsake her not! Lock your hearts more 
 carefully than your doors. The age of fraud 
 
 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 high! Selbitz is dead, and 
 the good Emperor, and my George — Give 
 me a draught of water! — Heavenly air! 
 Freedom! Freedom! [He dies.] 
 
 Elizabeth. Freedom is above — above 
 — with thee! The world is a prison-house. 
 
 Mama. Noble man! Woe to this age 
 that rejected thee! 
 
 Lerse. And woe to the future, that shall 
 misjudge thee! 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 By SCHILLER 
 
 TranslaUd into Ettglish verse by SIR THEODORE MARTIN 
 
 \ 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 vecyple of Schwytz 
 
 Heemann Gesslee, the Governor of Schvyytz and Uri 
 Weenee, Baron of Attinghausen, free noble of Switzerland 
 Uleich von Rtidenz, his nephew 
 Weenee Stauffachee, 
 
 CONEAD HtJNN, 
 
 Hans aup dee Mauee, 
 joeg im hofe, 
 Uleich dee Scecmidt, 
 JosT VON Weileb, 
 Itel Reddtg, 
 
 WaLTEE FtJBST, 
 
 William Tell, 
 RSssELMANN, the Priest, 
 Peteemann, Sacristan, 
 KuoNi, herdsman, 
 Webni, huntsman, 
 Rtjodi, fisherman, 
 Aenold of Melchthal, 
 
 CoNEAD BatJMGAETEN, 
 
 Metee von Saenen, 
 Steuth von Winkeleied, 
 Klaus von dee Flue, 
 buekhaet am buhel, 
 Aenold von Sewa, 
 Pfeiffee of Luceenb 
 KuNz OF Geesau 
 Jenni, fisherman's son 
 
 » of Uri 
 
 ' of Unterwald 
 
640 CHARACTERS 
 
 Seppi, herdsman's son 
 
 Gertrude, Stauffacher's wife 
 
 Hedwiq, wife of Tell, daughter of Fiirst 
 
 Bertha of Bruneck, a rich heiress 
 
 Armgart, -j 
 
 Mechthild, y peasant women 
 
 Elsbeth, J 
 
 HiLDEGARD 
 
 Walter, 
 
 1 
 
 1, i 
 
 , Tell's sons 
 
 WiLLUM, 
 
 Friesshaedt, ] 
 
 > soldiers 
 Letjthold, j 
 
 RtTDOLPH DER Harras, Gessler's master of the horse 
 
 Johannes Parricida, Duke of Swabia 
 
 Stussi, Overseer 
 
 The Mayor of Uri 
 
 A Courier 
 
 Master Stonemason, Companions, and Workmen 
 
 Taskmaster 
 
 A Crier 
 
 Monks of the Order of Charity 
 
 Horsemen of Gessler and Landbnbehq 
 
 Many Peasants — Men and Women from the Waldstetten 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene I: A high rocky shore of the Lake 
 of Lucerne opposite Schioyiz. The lake makes 
 a bend into the land; a hitt stands at a short 
 distance from the shore; the fisher hoy is row- 
 ing about in his boat. Beyond the lake are 
 seen the green meadows, the hamlets and 
 farms of Schwytz, lying in the clear sunshine. 
 On the left are observed the peaks of The 
 Hacken, surrounded with clouds; to the 
 right, and in the remote distance, appear the 
 glaciers. The Ram des Vaches, and the 
 tinkling of cattle bells, continue for some time 
 after the rising of the curtain. 
 
 [Enter Fisher Boy, singing in his boat.] 
 
 Melody of the Bam des Vaches 
 
 The amUe-dunpled lake wooed to bathe in its 
 
 deep, 
 A boy on its green shore had laid him to sleep; 
 Then heard he a melody 
 
 Floating along. 
 Sweet as the notes 
 Of an angel's song. 
 And as thrilling with pleasure he wakes from 
 
 his rest, 
 The waters are rippling over his breast; 
 And a voice from the deep cries, 
 
 " With me thou must go, 
 I charm the young shepherd, 
 I lure him below." 
 
 [Herdsman, on the mountains.] 
 
 Air. — Variation of the Ram des Vaches 
 
 Farewell, ye green meadows. 
 
 Farewell, sunny shore. 
 The herdsman must leave you. 
 The sunamer is o'er. 
 We go to the hiUs, but you'U see us again. 
 When the cuckoo calls, and the merry birds 
 sing. 
 When the flowers bloom afresh in glade and 
 in glen, 
 And the brooks sparkle bright in the sun- 
 shine of spring. 
 
 Farewell, ye green meadows. 
 
 Farewell, sunny shore. 
 The herdsman must leave you, 
 
 The summer is o'er. 
 
 [Chamois-Hunter, appearing -on the top of a 
 
 clif.] 
 
 Second varitUion of the Ram des Vaches 
 
 On 
 
 the heights peals the thunder, and 
 trembles the bridge. 
 The huntsman bounds on by the dizzying 
 ridge. 
 Undaunted he hies him 
 O'er ice-covered wild. 
 Where leaf never budded. 
 Nor Spring ever smiled; 
 And beneath hiTn an ocean of mist, where his 
 
 eye 
 No longer the dwellings of man can espy; 
 Through the parting clouds only 
 
 The earth can be seen, 
 
 Far down 'neath the vapor 
 
 The meadows of green. 
 
 [A change comes over the landscape. 
 A rumbling, cracking noise is 
 heard amang the mountains. 
 Shadows of clouds sweep across 
 the scene.] 
 
 [Rtjodi, the fisherman, conies out of his cot- 
 tage. Webni, the huntsman, descends 
 from the rocks. Kuoni, the shepherd, 
 enters, with a milk pail on his shoul- 
 ders, followed by Seppi, his assistant.] 
 
 RuoDi. Come, Jenni, bustle; get the 
 
 boat on shore. 
 The grizzly Vale-King comes, the Glaciers 
 
 moan. 
 The Mytenstein is drawing on his hood. 
 And from the Stormcleft chilly blows the 
 
 wind; 
 The storm will burst, before we know 
 
 what's what. 
 Kuoni. 'T will rain ere long; my sheep 
 
 browse eagerly, 
 
642 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 And Watcher there is scraping up the 
 earth. 
 Werni. The fish are leaping, and the 
 water-hen 
 Keeps diving up and down. A storm is 
 brewing. 
 KuoNi [to his boy]. Look, Seppi, if the 
 
 beasts be all in sight. 
 Seppi. There goes brown Liesel, I can 
 
 hear her bells. 
 KuoNi. Then all are safe; she ever 
 
 ranges farthest. 
 RuoDi. You've a fine chime of beUs 
 
 there, master herdsman. 
 Wehni. And likely cattle, too. Are they 
 
 your own? 
 KnoNi. I'm not so rich. They are the 
 noble lord's 
 Of Attinghaus, and told off to my care. 
 Rtjodi. How gracefully yon heifer bears 
 
 her ribbon! 
 KuoNi. 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 — 
 Webni. Easily said. But beasts have 
 reason, too — 
 And that we know, we chamois-hunters, 
 
 well. 
 They never turn to feed — sagacious crear 
 
 tures! — 
 Till they have placed a sentinel ahead. 
 Who pricks his ears whenever we approach. 
 And gives alarm with clear and piercing 
 pipe. 
 RtroDi [to the Shepherd]. Are you for 
 
 home? 
 Ktjoni. The Alp is grazed quite bare. 
 Werni. A safe return, my friend! 
 Ktjoni. The same to you! 
 Men come not always back from tracks 
 like yours. 
 Rtjodi. But who comes here, running at 
 
 topmost speed? 
 Werni. I know the man; 't is Baumgait 
 
 of Alzellen. 
 Conrad Batjmqarten [rushing in breath- 
 less]. For God's sake, ferryman, 
 your boat! 
 RuoDi. How now? 
 Why all this haste? 
 
 Battmgabten. Cast off! My life's at 
 stake! 
 Set me across! 
 Ktjoni. Why, what's the matter, 
 
 friend. 
 Werni. Who are pursuing you? First 
 
 tell us that. 
 Baumqaeten [to the Fisherman]. Quick, 
 quick, man, quick! They're close 
 upon my heels! 
 It is the Viceroy's men are after me; 
 If they should overtake me, I am lost. 
 RuoDi. Why are the troopers in pursuit 
 
 of you? 
 Battmgabten. First make me safe and 
 
 then I'll tell you all. 
 Webni. There's blood upon your gar- 
 ments — how is this? 
 Batjmgaeten. The Imperial Seneschal, 
 
 who dwelt at Rossberg — 
 Ktjoni. How! What! The Wolf shot! 
 
 Is it he pursues you? 
 Baumgabten. He'll ne'er hurt man 
 
 again; I've settled him. 
 All [starting back]. Now, God forgive 
 
 you! What is this you've done? 
 Baumgabten. What every free man in 
 my place had done. 
 Mine own good household right I have en- 
 forced 
 'Gainst him that would have wronged my 
 wife — my honor. 
 KuoNi. How! Wronged you in your 
 
 honor, did he so? 
 Baumgabten. That he did not fulfill his 
 foTil desire. 
 Is due to God and to my trusty axe. 
 Webni. And you have cleft his skuU, 
 
 then, with your axe? 
 KuoNi. Oh, tell us all! You've time 
 enough, and more. 
 While he is getting out the boat there from 
 the beach. 
 Baumgabten. When I was in the forest 
 feUing timber, 
 My wife came running out in mortal 
 
 fear. 
 "The Seneschal," she said, "was in my 
 
 house. 
 Had ordered her to get a bath prepared, 
 And thereupon had ta'en unseemly free^ 
 doms. 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 643 
 
 From which she rid herself, and flew to 
 
 me." 
 Armed as I was, I sought him, and my axe 
 Has given his bath a bloody benison. 
 Werni. And you did well; no man can 
 
 blame the deed. 
 KuoNi. The tyrant! Now he has his 
 just reward! 
 We men of Unterwald have owed it long. 
 Baumgarten. The deed got wind, and 
 now they're in pursuit. 
 Heavens! while we speak, the time is flying 
 fast. [It begins to thunder.] 
 
 Ktjoni. Quick, ferryman, and set the 
 
 good man over. 
 RiTODi. Impossible! A storm is close at 
 hand. 
 Wait till it pass! You must. 
 
 Baumgarten. Almighty Heavens! 
 I cannot wait; the least delay is death. 
 KtroNi [to the Fisherman]. Push out — 
 God with you! We should help our 
 neighbors; 
 The like misfortime may betide us all. 
 
 [Thunder and the roaring of the wind.] 
 
 RuoDi. The south wind's up ! See how 
 
 the lake is rising! 
 
 I cannot steer against both wind and wave. 
 
 Baumgarten [clasping him by the knees]. 
 
 God so help you as now you pity me! 
 
 Werni. His life's at stake. Have pity 
 
 on him, man! 
 KuoNi. He is a father: has a wife and 
 children. 
 
 [Repeated peals of thunder.] 
 RuoDi. What! And have I not, then, a 
 life to lose, 
 A wife and child at home as well as he? 
 See how the breakers foam, and toss, and 
 
 whirl. 
 And the lake eddies up from aU its depths! 
 Right gladly would I save the worthy man. 
 But 't is impossible, as you mdkt see. 
 Baumgarten [still kneeling]. Then must 
 I fall into the tyrant's hands. 
 And with the shore of safety close in sight! 
 Yonder it Ues! My eyes can see it clear. 
 My very voice can echo to its shores. 
 There is the boat to carry me across. 
 Yet must I lie here helpless and forlorn. 
 KuoNi. Look! Who comes here? 
 RuoDi. 'T is Tell, aye, Tell, of Biirglen. I 
 
 [Enter Tell v/ith a crossbow.] 
 
 Tell. What man is he that here im- 
 plores for aid? 
 KuoNi. He is from Alzellen, and to 
 guard his honor 
 From touch of foulest shame, has slain the 
 
 Wolf shot. 
 The Imperial Seneschal, who dwelt at 
 
 The Viceroy's troopers are upon his heels; 
 He begs the ferryman to take him over. 
 But frightened at the storm he says he 
 won't. 
 RuoDi. Well, there is Tell can steer as 
 well as I. 
 He'U be my judge, if it be possible. 
 
 [Violent peals of thunder — the 
 lake becomes more tempestuous.] 
 Am I to plunge into the jaws of heU? 
 I should be mad to dare the desperate act. 
 Tell. The brave man thinks upon him- 
 self the last. 
 Put trust in God, and help him in his need! 
 RuoDi. Safe in the port, 't is easy to 
 advise. 
 There is the boat, and there the lake! Try 
 you! 
 Tell. The lake may pity, but the Vice- 
 roy never. 
 Come, risk it, man! 
 Shepherd and Huntsman. Oh, save 
 
 him! Save him! Save him! 
 RuoDi. Though 't were my brother, or 
 my darling child, 
 I would not go. 'T is Simon and Jude's 
 
 day. 
 The lake is up, and calling for its victim. 
 Tell. Naught's to be done with idle 
 talking here. 
 Each moment's precious; the man must be 
 
 helped; 
 Say, boatman, will you venture? 
 RuoDi. No; not I. 
 
 Tell. In God's name, then, give me the 
 boat! I wiU, 
 With my poor strength, see what is to be 
 done! 
 KuoNi. Ha, gallant TeU! 
 Wekni. That's like a huntsman true. 
 Baumgarten. You are my angel, my 
 preserver, Tell. 
 
644 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Tell. I may preserve you from the 
 Viceroy's power, 
 But from the tempest's rage another must. 
 Yet better 't is you fall into God's hands, 
 Than into those of men. [To the Herds- 
 man.] Herdsman, do thou 
 Console my wife if I should come to grief. 
 I could not choose but do as I have done. 
 [He leaps into the boat.] 
 KuoNi [to the Fisherman]. A pretty man 
 to keep a ferry, truly! 
 What Tell could risk, you dared not ven- 
 ture on. 
 RuoDi. Far better men would never 
 cope with Tell. 
 There's no two such as he 'mong all our 
 hills. 
 Weeni [who has ascended a rock]. Now 
 he is off. — God help thee, gallant 
 sailor! 
 Look how the Uttle boat reels on the waves! 
 Ktjoni [on the shore]. There! they have 
 swept clean over it. And now 
 'T is out of sight. Yet, stay, there 't is 
 
 again! 
 Stoutly he stems the breakers, noble fellow! 
 Seppi. Here come the troopers hard as 
 
 they can ride! 
 KuoNi. Heavens! So they do! Why, 
 that was help, indeed. 
 
 [Enter a troop of Horseman.] 
 
 FiEST Horseman. Give up the mur- 
 derer! You have him here! 
 
 SECo^fD Horseman. This way he came! 
 'T is useless to conceal him! 
 
 RuoDi AND KuoNi. Whom do you mean? 
 
 First Horseman [discovering the boat]. 
 The devil! What do I see? 
 
 Werni [from above]. Is't he in yonder 
 boat ye seek? Ride on; 
 If you lay to, you may o'ertake him yet. 
 
 Second Horseman. Curse on you, he's 
 escaped! 
 
 First Horseman [to the Shepherd and 
 Fisherman]. You helped him off, 
 And you shall pay for it! — Fall on their 
 
 herds! 
 Down with the cottage! Bum it! Beat it 
 down! [They rush off.] 
 
 Seppi [hurrying after them]. Oh, my poor 
 lambs! 
 
 KuoNi [following him]. Unhappy me, 
 
 my herds! 
 Werni. The tsrants! 
 RuoDi [wringing his hands]. Righteous 
 
 Heaven! Oh, when will come 
 Deliverance to this doom-devoted land? 
 [Exeunt severally.] 
 
 Scene II: A lime tree in front of Statip- 
 pacher's house at Steinen, in Schwytz, upon 
 the public road, near a bridge. 
 
 [Werner Staupfacher and Ppbipper, of 
 Lucerne, enter into conversation.] 
 
 Ppeipper. Aye, aye, friend Stauflfacher, 
 as I have said. 
 Swear not to Austria, if you can help it. 
 Hold by the Empire stoutly as of yore. 
 And God preserve you in your ancient 
 freedom! 
 [Presses his hand warmly and is 
 going.] 
 Stattfpacher. Wait till my mistress 
 comes. Now, do! You are 
 My guest in Schwjrtz — I in Lucerne am 
 yours. 
 Ppeipper. Thanks! Thanks! But I 
 must reach Gersau to-day. 
 Whatever grievances your rulers' pride 
 And grasping avarice may yet inflict, 
 Bear them in patience — soon a change 
 
 may come. 
 Another Emperor may mount the throne. 
 But Austria's once, and you are hers for- 
 ever. [Exit.] 
 [Staupfacher sits down sorrow- 
 fully upon a bench under the 
 lime tree.] 
 
 [Gertrude, his wife, enters, and finds him 
 in this posture. She places herself near 
 him, and looks at him for some time in 
 silence.] 
 
 Gertrude. So sad, my love! I scarcely 
 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 heart. 
 Trust it to me. I am thy faithful wife. 
 And I demand my half of all thy cares. 
 
 [Staupfacher gives her his hand 
 and is sileni,.] 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 645 
 
 Tell me what can oppress thy spirits thus? 
 Thy toil is blest — the world goes well with 
 
 thee — 
 Our bams are fuU — our cattle, many a 
 
 score; 
 Our handsome team of well-fed horses, too. 
 Brought from the mountain pastures 
 
 safely home. 
 To winter in their comfortable stalls. 
 There stands thy house — no nobleman's 
 
 more fair! 
 'T is newly built with timber of the best, 
 AU grooved and fitted with the nicest skill ; 
 Its many glistening windows tell of com- 
 fort! 
 'T is quartered o'er with scutcheons of all 
 
 hues. 
 And proverbs sage, which passing travelers 
 Linger to read, and ponder o'er their 
 
 meaning. 
 Statjftachbr. The house is strongly 
 
 built, and handsomely. 
 But, ah, the ground on which we built it 
 
 quakes. 
 Gektbtjdb. TeU me, dear Werner, what 
 
 you mean by that? 
 Stattffacheb. No later gone than yes- 
 terday, I sat 
 Beneath this linden, thinking with delight 
 How fairly aU was finished,, when from 
 
 KiJssnacht 
 The Viceroy and his men came riding by. 
 Before this house he halted in surprise: 
 At once I rose, and, as beseemed his rank. 
 Advanced respectfully to greet the lord. 
 To whom the Emperor delegates his power. 
 As judge supreme within our canton here. 
 "Who is the owner of this house?" he 
 
 asked, 
 With mischief in his thoughts, for well he 
 
 knew. 
 With prompt decision, thus I answered 
 
 him: 
 "The Emperor, your grace — my lord and 
 
 yours. 
 And held by me in fief." On this he 
 
 answered, 
 "I am the Emperor's viceregent here. 
 And win not that each peasant churl should 
 
 buUd 
 At his own pleasure, bearing him as freely 
 As though he were the master in the land. 
 
 I shall make bold to put a stop to this!" 
 So saying, he, with menaces, rode off. 
 And left me musing with a heavy heart 
 On the fell purpose that his words betrayed. 
 Gebtrude. My own dear lord and hus- 
 band! Wilt thou take 
 A word of honest counsel from thy wife? 
 I boast to be the noble Iberg's child, 
 A man of wide experience. Many a time. 
 As we sat spinning in the winter nights, 
 My sisters and myself, the people's chiefs 
 Were wont to gather round oiu" father's 
 
 hearth. 
 To read the old imperial charters, and 
 To hold sage converse on the country's 
 
 weal. 
 Then heedf ully 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 mark me well; for thou 
 
 wUt see, 
 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 the 
 
 Swiss 
 In homage to this upstart house of princes, 
 And kept them stanch, like their good sires 
 
 of old. 
 In true allegiance to the Empire. Say, 
 Is't not so, Werner? Tell me, am I wrong? 
 Staufpacheb. 'T is even so. For this 
 
 doth Gessler hate me. 
 Gebtritde. He bums with envy, too, to 
 
 see thee Uving 
 Happy and free on thine ancestral soil, 
 For he is landless. From the Emperor's 
 
 self 
 Thou hold'st in fief the lands thy fathers 
 
 left thee. 
 There's not a prince i' the Empire that can 
 
 show 
 A better title to his heritage; 
 For thou hast over thee no lord but one, 
 And he the mightiest of all Christian kings. 
 Gessler, we know, is but a younger son. 
 His only wealth the knightly cloak he 
 
 wears; 
 He therefore views an honest man's good 
 
 fortune 
 
646 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 With a malignant and a jealous eye. 
 
 Long has he sworn to compass thy destruc- 
 tion. 
 
 As yet thou art uninjured. Wilt thou wait, 
 
 Till he may safely give his malice vent? 
 
 A wise man would anticipate the blow. 
 Staupfacher. What's to be done? 
 Gertrude. Now, hear what I advise. 
 
 Thou knowest well, how here with us in 
 Schwytz 
 
 AU worthy men are groaning underneath 
 
 This Gessler's grasping, grinding tjrranny. 
 
 Doubt not the men of Unterwald as well, 
 
 And Uri, too, are chafing Uke ourselves. 
 
 At this oppressive and heart-wearying 
 yoke. 
 
 For there, across the lake, the Landenberg 
 
 Wields the same iron rule as Gessler here — 
 
 No fishing-boat comes over to our side. 
 
 But brings the tidings of some new en- 
 croachment. 
 
 Some fresh outrage, more grievous than the 
 last. 
 
 Then it were well, that some of you — true 
 men — 
 
 Men sound at heart, should secretly devise 
 
 How best to shake this hateful thralldom 
 off. 
 
 Full sure I am that God would not desert 
 you. 
 
 But lend his favor to the righteous cause. 
 
 Hast thou no friend ia Uri, one to whom 
 
 Thou frankly may'st unbosom all thy 
 thoughts? 
 Stauttacheb. I know full many a gal- 
 lant fellow there. 
 
 And nobles, too, — great men, of high 
 repute, 
 
 In whom I can repose imbounded trust. 
 
 [Rising.] Wife! What a storm of wild and 
 perilous thoughts 
 
 Hast thou stirred up within my tranquU 
 breast! 
 
 The darkest musings of my bosom thou 
 
 Hast dragged to light, and placed them 
 full before me; 
 
 And what I scarce dared harbor e'en in 
 thought. 
 
 Thou speakest plainly out with fearless 
 tongue. 
 
 But hast thou weighed well what thou 
 urgest thus? 
 
 Discord will come, and the fierce clang of 
 arms. 
 
 To scare this valley's long-unbroken peace. 
 
 If we, a feeble shepherd race, shall dare 
 
 Him to the fight, that lords it o'er the 
 world. 
 
 Even now they only wait some fair pretext 
 
 For setting loose their savage warrior 
 hordes. 
 
 To scourge and ravage this devoted land, 
 
 To lord it o'er us with the victor's rights. 
 
 And, 'neath the show of lawful chastise- 
 ment, 
 
 Despoil us of our chartered hberties. 
 Gertrude. You, too, are men; can 
 wield a battle-axe 
 
 As well as they. God ne'er deserts the 
 brave. 
 Staufpachbb. Oh, wife! A horrid, ruth- 
 less fiend is war, 
 
 That smites at once the shepherd and hia 
 flock. 
 Gertrude. Whate'er great Heaven ia- 
 flicts, we must endure; 
 
 But wrong is what no noble heart wiU bear. 
 Staupfacher. This house — thy pride 
 — war, unrelenting war 
 
 Will bum it down. 
 
 Gertrude. And did I think this heart 
 
 Enslaved and fettered to the things of 
 earth, 
 
 With my own hand I'd hurl the kindling 
 torch. 
 Staupfacher. Thou hast faith in hu- 
 man kindness, wife; but war 
 
 Spares not the tender infant in its cradle. 
 Gertrude. There is a Friend to inno- 
 cence in heaven. 
 
 Send your gaze forward, Werner, — not 
 behind. 
 Staupfacher. We men may die like 
 men, with sword in hand; 
 
 But oh, what fate, my Gertrude, may be 
 thine? 
 Gertrude. None are so weak, but one 
 last choice is left. 
 
 A spring from yonder bridge and I am free! 
 Staupfacher [embracing' fter]. Well may 
 he fight for hearth and home, that 
 clasps 
 
 A heart so rare as thine against his own! 
 
 What are the host of emperors to him? 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 < - 
 
 647 
 
 Gertrude, farewell! I will to Uri straight. 
 There lives my worthy conirade, Walter 
 
 Furst; 
 His thoughts and loine upon these times 
 
 are one. 
 There, too, resides the noble Banneret 
 Of Attinghaus. High though of blood he 
 
 be, 
 He loves the people, honors their old cus- 
 toms. 
 With both of these I wiU take counsel how 
 To rid us bravely of our coimtry's foe. 
 Farewell! And while I am away, bear thou 
 A watchful eye in management at home. 
 The pilgrim journeying to the house of God, 
 And holy friar, collecting for his cloister, 
 To these give UberaUy from purse and 
 
 gamer. 
 Stauffacher's house would not be hid. 
 
 Right out 
 Upon the public way it stands, and offers 
 To all that pass a hospitable roof. 
 
 [They retire.]' 
 
 [Tell enters with Baumqakten.] 
 
 Tell. Now, then, you have no further 
 need of me. 
 Enter yon house. 'T is Werner Stauf- 
 facher's, 
 A man that is a father to distress. 
 See, there he is, himseK! Come, follow me. 
 [They retire up.] 
 
 Scene III: A common near AUdarf. On 
 an eminence in the background a castle in 
 progress of erection, and so far advanced that 
 the outline of the whole may be distinguished. 
 The back part is finished: men are working 
 at the front. Scaffolding, on which the work- 
 men are going up and down. A slater is seen 
 upon the highest part of the roof. All is bustle 
 and activity. 
 
 [Enter Taskmaster, Mason, Workmen, La- 
 borers.] 
 
 Taskmaster [with a stick, urging on the 
 workmen]. Up, up! You've rested 
 long enough. To work! 
 
 The stones here! Now the mortar, and the 
 lime! 
 
 And let his lordship see the work advanced, 
 
 When next he comes. These feUows crawl 
 like snails! 
 
 [To two Laborers, with loads.] 
 What! Call ye that a load? Go, double it. 
 Is this the way ye earn your wages, lag- 
 gards? 
 First Workman. 'T is very hard that 
 we must bear the stones, 
 To make a keep and dungeon for ourselves! 
 Taskmaster. What's that you mutter? 
 'T is a worthless race. 
 For nothing fit but just to milk their cows. 
 And saunter idly up and down the hills. 
 Old Man [sinks down exhausted]. I can 
 
 no more. 
 Taskmaster [shaking him]. Up, up, old 
 
 man, to work! 
 First Workman. Have you no bowels 
 of compassion, thus 
 To press so hard upon a poor old man, 
 That scarce can drag his feeble Umbs along? 
 Master Mason and Workmen. Shame, 
 shame upon you — shame! It cries 
 to Heaven. 
 Taskmaster. Mind your own business. 
 
 I but do my duty. 
 First Workman. Pray, master, what's 
 to be the name of this 
 Same castle, when 't is built? 
 
 Taskmaster. The Keep of 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, wiU you, 
 
 with this paltry place! 
 First Workman. How many molehills 
 such as that must first 
 Be piled up each on each, ere you make 
 A mountain equal to the least in Uri? 
 
 [Taskmaster retires up the stage.] 
 Master Mason. I 'U drown the maUet 
 in the deepest lake. 
 That served my hand on this accursed 
 pile. 
 
 [Enter Tell and Staupfacher.] 
 
 Staitpfacher. O that I had not lived 
 to see this sight! 
 
 Tell. Here 't is not good to be. Let us 
 proceed. 
 
 Staupfacher. Am I in Uri — Uri, free- 
 dom's home? 
 
64S 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Master Mason. Oh, sir, if you could 
 only see the vaults 
 Beneath these towers! The man that ten- 
 ants them 
 WiU ne'er hear cook crow more. 
 Staupfachbk. O God! O God! 
 Mason. Look at these ramparts and 
 these buttresses, 
 That seem as they were built to last for- 
 ever. 
 Tell. What hands have built, my 
 friend, hands can destroy. 
 
 [Pointing to the mountains.] 
 That home of freedom God hath biult for 
 us. [A drum is heard.] 
 
 [People enter hearing a cap upon a pole, fol- 
 lowed by a crier. Women and children 
 thronging tumultuously after them.] 
 
 First Workman. What means the 
 
 drum? Give heed! 
 Mason. Why, here's a mumming! 
 And look, the cap — what can they mean 
 by that? 
 Crier. In the Emperor's name, give ear! 
 Workman. Hush! silence! hush! 
 Crier. Ye men of Uri, ye do see this 
 cap! 
 It will be set upon a lofty pole 
 In Altdorf, in the market-place: and this 
 Is the Lord Governor's good will and 
 
 pleasure; 
 The cap shall have like honor as himself. 
 All do it reverence with bended knee. 
 And head uncovered; thus the King will 
 
 know 
 Who are his true and loyal subjects here; 
 His life and goods are forfeit to the Crown 
 That shall refuse obedience to the order. 
 [The people hurst out into laughter. 
 The drum heats and the proces- 
 sion passes on.] 
 First Workman. A strange device to 
 fall upon, indeed : 
 Do reverence to a cap! A pretty farce! 
 Heard ever mortal anything like this? 
 Master Mason. Down to a cap on 
 bended knee, forsooth! 
 Rare jesting this with men of sober sense! 
 First Workman. Nay, an it were the 
 imperial crown! A cap! 
 Merely the cap of Austria! I've seen it 
 
 Hanging above the throne in Gessler's hall. 
 
 Mason. The cap of Austria? Mark 
 
 that! A snare 
 
 To get us into Austria's power, by Heaven! 
 
 Workman. No freebom man will stoop 
 
 to such disgrace. 
 Master Mason. Come — to our com- 
 rades, and advise with them! 
 
 [They retire up.] 
 Tell [to Stauppacher]. You see how 
 matters stand. Farewell, my friend! 
 Stauppacher. Whither away? Oh, 
 
 leave us not so soon. 
 Tell. They look for me at home. So 
 
 fare ye well. 
 Staupfacher. My heart's so full, and 
 
 has so much to tell you! 
 Tell. Words will not make a heart 
 
 that's heavy light. 
 Stauppacher. Yet words may possibly 
 
 conduct to deeds. 
 Tell. Endure in silence! We can do no 
 
 more. 
 Stauppacher. But shall we bear what 
 
 is not to be borne? 
 Tell. Impetuous rulers have the short- 
 est reigns. 
 When the fierce south wind rises from his 
 
 chasms, 
 Men cover up their fires, the ships in haste 
 Make for the harbor, and the mighty spirit 
 Sweeps o'er the earth, and leaves no trace 
 
 behind. 
 Let every man five quietly at home; 
 Peace to the peaceful rarely is denied. 
 Stauppacher. And is it thus you view 
 
 our grievances? 
 Tell. The serpent stings not till it is 
 provoked. 
 Let them alone; they'll weary of them- 
 selves, 
 When they shall see we are not to be 
 roused. 
 Stauppacher. Much might be done — 
 
 did we stand fast together. 
 Tell. When the ship founders, he will 
 best escape 
 Who seeks no other's safety but his own. 
 Stauppacher. And you desert the com- 
 mon cause so coldly? 
 Tell. A man can safely count but on 
 himself! 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 649 
 
 Stattffachbb. Nay, even the weak 
 
 grow strong by union. 
 Tell. But the strong man is strongest 
 
 when alone. 
 Stattpfacher. So, then, your country 
 cannot count on you, 
 If in despair she rise against her foes. 
 Tell. Tell rescues the lost sheep from 
 yawning gulfs: 
 Is he a man, then, to desert his friends? 
 Yet, whatsoe'er you do, spare me from 
 
 council! 
 I was not bom to ponder and select; 
 But when your course of action is resolved. 
 Then call on Tell: you shall not find him 
 fail. 
 
 [Exeunt seuerally. A sudden tu- 
 muli is heard around the scaf- 
 folding.] 
 Mason [running in]. What's wrong? 
 First Workman [running forward]. The 
 
 slater's fallen from the roof. 
 Bertha [rushing in]. Heavens! Is he 
 dashed to pieces? Save him, help! 
 If help be possible, save him! Here is gold. 
 [Throws her trinkets among the 
 people.] 
 Mason. Hence with your gold — your 
 universal charm, 
 And remedy for iU! When you have torn 
 Fathers from children, husbands from their 
 
 wives. 
 And scattered woe and wail throughout the 
 
 land, 
 You think with gold to compensate for all. 
 Hence! TiU we saw you, we were happy 
 
 men; 
 With you came misery and dark despair. 
 Bertha [to the Taskmaster, who has re- 
 turned^. Lives he? 
 
 [Taskmaster shakes his head.] 
 Ill-omened towers, with curses built. 
 And doomed with curses to be tenanted! 
 
 [Eayit.] 
 
 Scene IV: The house of Walter Fubst. 
 
 [Walter Furst and Arnold von Melch- 
 THAL enter simuUaneovsly at different 
 sides.] 
 
 Melchthal. Good Walter Flirst. 
 FiJRST. If we should be surprised! 
 
 Stay where you are. We are beset with 
 spies. 
 Melchthal. 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 here! 
 What have I done so heinous that I must 
 Skulk here in hiding, like a murderer? 
 I only laid my staff across the fists 
 Of the pert varlet, when before my eyes. 
 By order of the Governor, he tried 
 To drive away my handsome team of oxen. 
 FtJRST. You are too rash by far. He 
 did no more 
 Than what the Governor had ordered him. 
 You had transgressed, and therefore should 
 
 have paid 
 The penalty, however hard, in sUence. 
 Melchthal. Was I to brook the fel- 
 low's saucy gibe, 
 "That if the peasant must have bread to 
 
 eat. 
 Why, let him go and draw the plough him- 
 self!" 
 It cut me to the very soul to see 
 My oxen, noble creatures, when the knave 
 Unyoked them from the plough. As 
 
 though they felt 
 The wrong, they lowed and butted with 
 
 their horns. 
 On this I could contain myself no longer, 
 And, overcome by passion, struck him 
 down. 
 FtTRST. Oh, we old men can scarce com- 
 mand ourselves! 
 And can we wonder youth breaks out of 
 bounds? 
 Melchthal. I'm only sorry for my 
 father's sake! 
 To be away from him, that needs so much 
 My fostering care! The Governor detests 
 
 him. 
 Because, whene'er occasion served, he has 
 Stood stoutly up for right and liberty. 
 Therefore they'll bear him hard — the 
 
 poor old man! 
 And there is none to shield him from their 
 
 grip. 
 Come what come may, "I must go home 
 again. 
 FtJRST. Compose yourself, and wait in 
 patience till 
 
650 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 We get some tidings o'er from Unterwald. 
 Away! Away! I hear a knock! Perhaps 
 A message from the Viceroy! Get thee in! 
 You are not safe from Landenberger's arm 
 In Uri, for these tyrants pull together. 
 Mblchthal. They teach us Switzers 
 
 what we ought to do. 
 FOkst. Away! I'll call you when the 
 
 coast is clear. 
 
 [Melchthal retires.] 
 Unhappy youth! I dare not tell him all 
 The evil that my boding heart predicts! — • 
 Who's there? The door ne'er opens but I 
 
 look 
 For tidings of mishap. Suspicion lurks 
 With darkling treachery in every nook. 
 Even to our inmost rooms they force their 
 
 way, 
 These myrmidons of power; and soon we'll 
 
 need 
 To fasten bolts and bars upon our doors. 
 [He opens the door and steps back 
 in surprise as Wbbnbb Stauf- 
 FACHBR enters.] 
 What do I see? You, Werner? Now, by 
 
 Heaven! 
 A valued guest, indeed. No man e'er set 
 His foot across this threshold, more es- 
 
 teemedj 
 Welcome! Thrice welcome, Werner, to my 
 
 roof! 
 What brings you here? What seek you 
 
 here in Uri? 
 Stauffacher [shakes FtJRST by the hand]. 
 
 The olden times and olden Switzer- 
 land. 
 FtJEST. You bring them with you. See 
 
 how glad I am! 
 My heart leaps at the very sight of you. 
 Sit down — sit down, and tell me how you 
 
 left 
 Your charming wife, fair Gertrude? Iberg's 
 
 child. 
 And clever as her father. Not a man. 
 That wends from Germany, by Meimrad's 
 
 CeU, 
 To Italy, but praises far and wide 
 Your house's hospitaUty. But say, 
 Have you come here direct from Fluelen, 
 And have you noticed nothing on your way. 
 Before you halted at my door? 
 Stauffacher [sits down]. I saw 
 
 A work in progress, as I came along, 
 I little thought to see — that likes me iU. 
 FtiBST. O friend! you've lighted on my 
 
 thought at once. 
 STAtTFFACKER. Such things in Uri ne'er 
 
 were known before. 
 Never was prison here in man's remem- 
 brance. 
 Nor ever any stronghold but the grave. 
 FtiRST. You name it well. It is the 
 
 grave of freedom. 
 Stauffacher. Friend, Walter Fiirst, 
 
 I will be plain with you. 
 No idle curiosity it is 
 That brings me here, but heavy cares. I 
 
 left 
 ThraUdom at home, and thraUdom meets 
 
 me here. 
 Our wrongs, e'en now, are more than we 
 
 can bear. 
 And who shall tell us where they are to 
 
 end? 
 From eldest time the Switzer has been free, 
 Accustomed only to the mildest rule. 
 Such things as now we suffer ne'er were 
 
 known. 
 Since herdsman first drove cattle to the 
 
 hills. 
 FtJRST. Yes, our oppressions are un- 
 paralleled! 
 Why, even our own good lord of Atting- 
 
 haus. 
 Who lived in olden times, himself declares 
 They are no longer to be tamely borne. 
 Stauffacher. In Unterwalden yonder 
 
 't is the same; 
 And bloody has the retribution been. 
 The Imperial Seneschal, the Wolfshot, who 
 At Rossberg dwelt, longed for forbidden 
 
 fruit — 
 Baumgarten's wife, that lives at Alzellen, 
 He tried to make a victim to his lust. 
 On which the husband slew him with his 
 
 axe. 
 FiJRST. Oh, Heaven is just in all its 
 
 judgments still! 
 Baumgarten, say you? A most worthy 
 
 man. 
 Has he escaped, and is he safely hid? 
 Stauffacher. Your son-in-law con- 
 veyed him o'er the lake. 
 And he lies hidden iu my house at Steiuen. 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 651 
 
 He brought the tidings with him of a thing 
 That has been done at Samen, worse than 
 
 all, 
 
 A thing to make the very heart run blood! 
 
 FiiBST [attentively]. Say on. What is it? 
 
 Statjfpachek. There dwells in Melch- 
 
 thal, then, 
 
 Just as you enter by the road from Kerns, 
 
 An upright man, named Henry of the 
 
 Halden, 
 A man of weight and influence in the Diet. 
 FtJBST. Who knows him not? But 
 
 what of him? Proceed. 
 Stattfpachbb. The Landenberg, to pun- 
 ish some offense 
 Committed by the old man's son, it seems. 
 Had given command to take the youth's 
 
 best pair 
 Of oxen from his plough; on which the lad 
 Struck down the messenger and took to 
 flight. 
 FtJBST. But the old father — teU me, 
 
 what of him? 
 Staufi-achee. The Landenberg sent 
 for him, and required 
 He should produce his son upon the spot; 
 And when the old man protested, and 
 
 with truth, 
 That he knew nothing of the fugitive, 
 The tyrant called his torturers. 
 
 FuKST [springs up and tries to lead him 
 
 to the other side]. Hush! no more! 
 Stauffacheb [mth increasing warmth]. 
 "And though thy son," he cried, 
 "has 'scaped me now, 
 I have thee fast, and thou shalt feel my 
 
 vengeance." 
 With that they flung the old man to the 
 
 ground. 
 And plunged the pointed steel into his eyes. 
 FtJEST. Merciful Heaven! 
 Mblchthal [nisMng out]. Into his eyes, 
 
 his eyes? 
 Staxttfacheb [addresses himself in as- 
 tonishment to Walter FttRST]. 
 Who is this youth? 
 Melchthal [grasping him convulsively]. 
 
 Into his eyes? Speak, speak! 
 FtiasT. Oh, miserable hour! 
 STAtnPFACHBR. Who is it, tell me! 
 
 [Statjfpacher makes a sign to 
 him.] 
 
 It is his son! All-righteous Heaven! 
 
 Melchthal. And I 
 Must be from thence! What! Into both 
 his eyes? 
 FtTRST. Be calm, be calm; and bear it 
 
 like a man! 
 Melchthal. And all for me — for my 
 mad, willful foUy! 
 Bhnd, did you say? Quite blind — and 
 both his eyes? 
 Statjffacher. Ev'n so. The fountain 
 of his sight is quenched. 
 He ne'er will see the blessed sunshiae 
 more. 
 FiJRST. Oh, spare his anguish! 
 Melchthal. Never, never more! 
 
 [Presses his hands upon his eyes 
 and is silent for some moments; 
 then, turning from one to the 
 other, speaks in a subdued tone, 
 broken by sobs.] 
 Oh, the eye's Ught, of all the gifts of 
 
 Heaven, 
 The dearest, best! From Ught all beiags 
 
 live — 
 Each fair created thing — the very plants 
 Turn with a jojrtul transport to the Hght; 
 And he — he must drag on through all his 
 
 days 
 In endless darkness! Never more for him 
 The sunny meads shall glow, the flow'rets 
 
 bloom; 
 Nor shall he more behold the roseate tints 
 Of the iced mountain-top! To die is noth- 
 ing. 
 But to have life, and not have sight — oh, 
 
 that 
 Is misery, indeed! Why do you look 
 So piteously at me? I have two eyes. 
 Yet to my poor bhnd father can give 
 
 neither! 
 No, not one gleam of that great sea of 
 
 light. 
 That with its dazzling splendor floods my 
 gaze. 
 Stauffacher. Ah, I must swell the 
 measure of your grief. 
 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, 
 
6S2 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Blind, and in rags, he moves from door to 
 door. 
 Mblchthal. Naught but his staff to 
 the old eyeless man! 
 
 Stripped of his all — even of the light of 
 day. 
 
 The common blessing of the meanest 
 wretch? 
 
 Tell me no more of patience, of conceal- 
 ment! 
 
 Oh, what a base and coward thing am I, 
 
 That on mine own security I thought, 
 
 And took no care of thine! Thy precious 
 head 
 
 Left as a pledge within the tyrant's grasp ! 
 
 Hence, craven-hearted prudence, hence! 
 And aU 
 
 My thoughts be vengeance, and the des- 
 pot's blood! 
 
 I'U seek him straight — no power shall 
 stay me now — 
 
 And at his hands demand my father's eyes. 
 
 I'll beard him 'mid a thousand myrmi- 
 dons! 
 
 What's life to me, if in his heart's best 
 blood 
 
 I cool the fever of this mighty anguish? 
 
 [He is going.] 
 FtJRST. Stay; this is madness, Melch- 
 thal! What avails 
 
 Your single arm against his power? He sits 
 
 At Sarnen high within his lordly keep. 
 
 And, safe within its battlemented walls. 
 
 May laugh to scorn your unavaiUng rage. 
 Mblchthal. And though he sat within 
 the icy domes 
 
 Of yon far Schreckhom — aye, or higher, 
 where. 
 
 Veiled since eternity, the Jungfrau soars, 
 
 StiU to the tyrant would I make my way; 
 
 With twenty comrades minded Uke myself, 
 
 I'd lay his fastness level with the earth! 
 
 And if none follow me, and if you all, 
 
 In terror for your homesteads and your 
 herds. 
 
 Bow in submission to the tyrant's yoke. 
 
 Round me I'll call the herdsmen on the 
 hills. 
 
 And there beneath heaven's free and 
 boundless roof, 
 
 Where men still feel as men, and heajts are 
 true. 
 
 Proclaim aloud this foul enormity! 
 Statjpfacher [to FtJBST]. The meas- 
 ure's full — and are we then to wait 
 
 Till some extremity — 
 
 Mblchthal. Peace! What extremity 
 
 Remains for us to dread? What, when our 
 eyes 
 
 No longer in their sockets are secure? 
 
 Heavens! Are we helpless? Wherefore did 
 we learn 
 
 To bend the crossbow — wield the battle- 
 axe? 
 
 What Hving creature but in its despair 
 
 Finds for itself a weapon of defense? 
 
 The baited stag will turn, and with the 
 show 
 
 Of his dread antlers hold the hoimda at 
 bay; 
 
 The chamois drags the huntsman down th' 
 
 The very ox, the partner of man's toil, 
 The sharer of his roof, that meekly bends 
 The strength of his huge neck beneath the 
 
 yoke. 
 Springs up, if he's provoked, whets his 
 
 strong horn, 
 And tosses his tormentor to the clouds. 
 FiJRST. If the three cantons thought as 
 
 we three do, 
 Something might then be done, with good 
 
 effect. 
 Statjffacheb. When Uri calls, when 
 
 Unterwald replies, 
 Schwytz will be mindful of her ancient 
 
 league. 
 Mblchthal. I've many friends in 
 
 Unterwald, and none 
 That would not gladly venture life and 
 
 limb. 
 If fairly backed and aided by the rest. 
 Oh, sage and reverend fathers of this land, 
 Here do I stand before your riper years, 
 An unskilled youth, who in the Diet must 
 Into respectful silence hush his voice. 
 Yet do not, for that I am young, and want 
 Experience, slight my counsel and my 
 
 words. 
 'T is not the wantormess of youthful 
 
 blood 
 That fires my spirit; but a pang so deep 
 That e'en the flinty rocks must pity me. 
 You, too, are fathers, heads of families. 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 6S3 
 
 And you must wish to have a virtuous son, 
 
 To reverence your gray hairs, and shield 
 your eyes 
 
 With pious and affectionate regard. 
 
 Do not, I pray, because in limb and fortune 
 
 You stiU Me unassaQed, and still your eyes 
 
 Revolve imdimmed and sparkling in their 
 spheres — 
 
 Oh, do not, therefore, disregard our wrongs! 
 
 Above you, also, hangs the tyrant's sword. 
 
 You, too, have striven to alienate the land 
 
 From Austria. This was aU my father's 
 crime: 
 
 You share his gmlt, and may his punish- 
 ment. 
 Statjffacher [to FtJBST]. Do thou re- 
 solve! I am prepared to foUow. 
 FiJRST. First let us learn what steps the 
 noble lords 
 
 Von SiUinen and Attinghaus propose. 
 
 Their names would rally thousands to the 
 cause. 
 Melchthal. Is there a name within the 
 Forest Mountains 
 
 That carries more respect than yovaa — 
 and yours? 
 
 On names like these the people build their 
 trust 
 
 In time of need — such names are house- 
 hold words. 
 
 Rich was yom' heritage of manly worth. 
 
 And richly have you added to its stores. 
 
 What need of nobles? Let us do the work 
 
 Ourselves. Yes, though we have to stand 
 alone. 
 
 We shall be able to maintaia our rights. 
 Stauffachbb. The nobles' wrongs are 
 not so great as ours. 
 
 The torrent, that lays waste the lower 
 grounds. 
 
 Hath not ascended to the uplands yet. 
 
 But let them see the country once in arms, 
 
 They'll not refuse to lend a helping hand. 
 FBbst. Were there an umpire 'twixt 
 ourselves and Austria, 
 
 Justice and law might then decide our 
 quarrel. 
 
 But our oppressor is our Emperor too, 
 
 And judge supreme. 'T is God must help 
 us, then. 
 
 And our own arm! Be yours the task to 
 rouse 
 
 The men of Sohwytz; I'U rally friends in 
 
 Uri. 
 But whom are we to send to Unterwald? 
 Melchthal. Thither send me. Whom 
 
 should it more concern? 
 FtJRST. No, Melchthal, no; you are my 
 
 guest, and I 
 Must answer for your safety. 
 
 Melchthal. Let me go. 
 I know each forest-track and mountain- 
 path; 
 Friends, too, I'U find, be sure, on every 
 
 hand, 
 To give me wiUing shelter from the foe. 
 Stauffachbr. Nay, let him go; no 
 
 traitors harbor there: 
 For tyranny is so abhorred in Unterwald, 
 No tools can there be found to work her 
 
 will. 
 In the low valleys, too, the AlzeUer 
 WiU gain confederates, and rouse the 
 
 country. 
 Melchthal. But how shall we com- 
 municate, and not 
 Awaken the suspicion of the tyrants? 
 Stauffacher. Might we not meet at 
 
 Brunnen or at Treib, 
 Where merchant vessels with their cargoes 
 
 come? 
 FiJEST. We must not go so openly to 
 
 work. 
 Hear my opinion. On the lake's left bank, 
 As we sail hence to Brunnen, right against 
 The Mytenstein, deep-hidden in the wood 
 A meadow hes, by shepherds called the 
 
 RootU, 
 Because the wood has been uprooted there. 
 [To Melchthal.] 'T is where our canton 
 
 boimd'ries verge on yours — 
 [To Statjffacher.] Your boat will carry 
 
 you across from Sohwytz. 
 Thither by lonely bypaths let us wend 
 At midnight, and deliberate o'er our plans. 
 Let each bring with him there ten trusty 
 
 men, 
 AU one at heart with us; and then we 
 
 may 
 Consult together for the general weal. 
 And, with God's guidance, fix what next to 
 
 do. 
 Stattffacheb. So let it be. And now 
 
 yolu: true right hand! — 
 
6S4 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Yours, too, young man! — and as we now 
 
 three men 
 Among ourselves thus knit our hands to- 
 gether 
 In all sincerity and truth, e'en so 
 Shall we three cantons, too, together stand 
 In victory and defeat, in life and death. 
 FtJEST AND Melchthal. In life and 
 death 1 
 
 [They hold their hands clasped to- 
 gether for some moments in 
 silence.] 
 Melchthal. Alas, my old blind father! 
 The day of freedom, that thou canst not 
 
 see, 
 But thou shalt hear it, when from Alp to 
 
 Alp 
 The beacon fires throw up their flaming 
 
 signs, 
 And the proud castles of the tyrants fall, 
 Into thy cottage shall the Switzer burst. 
 Bear the glad tidings to thine ear, and o'er 
 Thy darkened way shall Freedom's radi- 
 ance pour. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene I: The mansion of the Baron op 
 Attinghausen. a Gothic hall, decorated 
 with escutcheons and helmets. 
 
 [The Baron, a gray-headed man, eighty-five 
 years old; tall and of a commanding 
 mien, clad in a furred pelisse, and lean- 
 ing on a staff tipped u/ith chamois horn, 
 Ktjoni and six hinds standing round 
 him mth rakes and scythes. Ulrich op 
 Rtjdenz enters in the costume of a 
 knight.] 
 
 Rtjdenz. Uncle, I'm here! Your wiU? 
 Attinghausen. First let me share. 
 After the ancient custom of our house, 
 The morning cup, with these my faithful 
 servants! 
 
 [He drinks from a cup, which is 
 then passed round.] 
 Time was, I stood myself in field and wood, 
 With mine own eyes directing all their toil, 
 Even as my banner led them in the fight. 
 Now I am only fit to play the steward: 
 And, if the genial sun come not to me, 
 I can no longer seek it on the hills. 
 
 Thus slowly, in an ever-narrowing sphere, 
 I move on to the narrowest and the last, 
 Where all life's pulses cease. I now am but 
 The shadow of my former self, and that 
 Is fading fast — 't wiU soon be but a name. 
 Ktjoni [offering Rtjdenz the cup]. A 
 
 pledge, young master! 
 
 [Rtjdenz hesitates to take the cup.] 
 Nay, sir, drink it off! 
 
 One cup, one heart! You know our prov- 
 erb, sir? 
 Attinghausen. Go, children, and at 
 
 eve, when work is done, 
 We'U meet and talk the country's business 
 
 over. [Exeunt Servants.] 
 
 Belted and plumed, and all thy bravery on ! 
 
 Thou art for Altdorf — for the castle, boy? 
 
 RuDENZ. Yes, Tmcle. Longer may I not 
 
 delay — 
 Attinghausen [sitting down]. Why in 
 
 such haste? Say, are thy youthful 
 
 hours 
 Doled in such niggard measure, that thou 
 
 must 
 Be chary of them to thy aged uncle? 
 Rtjdenz. I see my presence is not needed 
 
 here; 
 I am but as a stranger in this hoTise. 
 Attinghausen [gazes fixedly at him for a 
 
 considerable time]. Aye, pity 't is 
 
 thou art! Alas, that home 
 To thee has grown so strange! O Uly! Uly! 
 I scarce do know thee now, thus decked in 
 
 silks, 
 The peacock's feather flaimting in thy cap, 
 And purple mantle round thy shoulders 
 
 flung; 
 Thou look'st upon the peasant with dis- 
 dain; 
 And tak'st his honest greeting with a 
 
 blush. 
 Rudbnz. All honor due to him I gladly 
 
 pay, 
 But must deny the right he would usurp. 
 Attinghausen. The sore displeasure of 
 
 its monarch rests 
 Upon our land, and every true man's heart 
 Is full of sadness for the grievous wrongs 
 We suffer from our tyrants. Thou alone 
 Art all unmoved amid the general grief. 
 Abandoning thy friends, thou tak'st thy 
 
 stand 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 6SS 
 
 Beside thy country's foes, and, as in scorn 
 Of our distress, pursuest giddy joys, 
 Courting the smiles of princes all the while 
 Thy country bleeds beneath their cruel 
 
 scourge. 
 RuDENZ. The land is sore oppressed, I 
 
 know it, uncle. 
 But why? Who plunged it into this dis- 
 tress? 
 A word, one little easy word, might buy 
 Instant dehverance from all our ills. 
 And win the good-will of the Emperor. 
 Woe unto those who seal the people's eyes. 
 And make them adverse to their country's 
 
 good — 
 The men who, for their own vile, selfish 
 
 ends. 
 Are seeking to prevent the Forest States 
 From swearing fealty to Austria's House, 
 As aU the countries 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. 
 Attinghatjsen. Must I hear this, and 
 
 from thy Ups, rash boy? 
 RuDENZ. You virged me to this answer. 
 
 Hear me out. 
 What, uncle, is the character you've 
 
 stooped 
 To fill contentedly through hf e? Have you 
 No higher pride than in these lonely wUds 
 To be the Landamman or Baimeret, 
 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 
 
 court. 
 Than sit at home, the peer of your own 
 
 vassals, 
 And share the judgment-seat with vulgar 
 
 clowns? 
 Attinghatjsbn. Ah, Uly, Uly; all too 
 
 well I see 
 The tempter's voice has caught thy willing 
 
 ear. 
 And poured its subtle poison in thy heart. 
 Rttdenz. Yes, I conceal it now. It doth 
 
 offend 
 My inmost soul to hear the strangers' gibes, 
 
 That taunt us with the name of "Peasant 
 
 Nobles!" 
 Think you the heart that 's stirring here can 
 
 brook. 
 While all the young nobility around 
 Are reaping 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 spring? In other 
 
 lands 
 Great deeds are done. A world of fair re- 
 nown 
 Beyond these mountains stirs in martial 
 
 pomp. 
 My helm and shield are rusting in the hall; 
 The martial trumpet's spirit-stirring blast. 
 The herald's call, inviting to the lists, 
 Rouse not the echoes of these vales, where 
 
 naught 
 Save cowherd's horn and cattle bell is 
 
 heard. 
 In one unvarying dull monotony. 
 Athnghausen. Deluded boy, seduced 
 by empty show! 
 Despise the land that gave thee birth! 
 
 Ashamed 
 Of the good ancient customs of thy sires! 
 The day will come when thou, with burn- 
 ing tears. 
 Wilt long for home, and for thy native hills. 
 And that dear melody of tuneful herds. 
 Which now, in proud disgust, thou dost 
 i! 
 
 A day when wistful pangs shall shake thy 
 
 heart, ^ 
 
 Hearing their music in a roreign land. 
 Oh, potent is the spell that binds to home! 
 No, no, the cold, false world is not for thee. 
 At the proud court, with thy true heart, 
 
 thou wUt 
 Forever feel a stranger among strangers. 
 The world asks virtues of far other stamp 
 Than thou hast learned within these simple 
 
 But go — go thither — barter thy free soul, 
 Take land in fief, be minion to a prince, 
 Where thou might'st be lord paramount, 
 
 and prince 
 Of aU thine own unburdened heritage! 
 O Ulyj Uly, stay among thy people! 
 
6s6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Go not to Altdorf. Oh, abandon not 
 The sacred cause of thy wronged native 
 
 land! 
 I am the last of aU my race. My name 
 Ends with me. Yonder hang my hehn and 
 
 shield; 
 They wiU be buried with me in the grave. 
 And must I think, when jdelding up my 
 
 breath. 
 That thou but wait'st the closing of mine 
 
 eyes, 
 To stoop thy knee to this new feudal court. 
 And take in vassalage from Austria's hands 
 The noble lands, which I from God 
 
 received. 
 Free and imfettered as the mountain air! 
 RuDENZ. 'T is vain for us to strive 
 
 against the King. 
 The world pertains to him; — shall we 
 
 alone, 
 In mad, presumptuous obstinacy, strive 
 To break that mighty chain of lands which 
 
 he 
 Hath drawn around us with his giant 
 
 grasp? 
 His are the markets, his the courts — his, 
 
 too. 
 The highways; nay, the very carrier's 
 
 horse, 
 That traffics on the Gotthardt, pays him 
 
 toU. 
 By his dominions, as within a net, 
 We are enclosed and girded roundabout. 
 — And wUl the Empire shield us? Say, 
 
 can it 
 Protect itself 'gainst Austria's growing 
 
 power? 
 To God and no#to emperors must we look! 
 What store can on their promises be placed 
 When they, to meet their own necessities. 
 Can pawn and even alienate the towns 
 That flee for shelter 'neath the eagle's 
 
 wings? 
 No, uncle! It is wise and wholesome 
 
 prudence. 
 In times like these, when faction's aU 
 
 abroad. 
 To vow attachment to some mighty chief. 
 The imperial crown's transferred from Mne 
 
 to line. 
 It has no memory for faithful service: 
 But to secure the favor of these great 
 
 Hereditary masters were to sow 
 Seed for a future harvest. 
 
 Attinghausen. Art so wise? 
 Wilt thou see clearer than thy noble sires, 
 Who battled for fair freedom's priceless gem 
 With hfe, and fortune, and heroic arm? 
 Sail down the lake to Lucerne, there in- 
 quire 
 How Austria's thraUdom weighs the can- 
 tons down. 
 Soon she will come to count oiu: sheep, our 
 
 cattle. 
 To portion out the Alps, e'en to their peaks, 
 And in our own free woods to hinder us 
 From striking down the eagle or the stag; 
 To set her toUs on every bridge and gate, 
 Impoverish us, to swell her lust of sway. 
 And drain our dearest blood to feed her 
 
 wars. 
 No, if our blood must flow, let it be shed 
 In our own cause! We purchase hberty 
 More cheaply far than bondage. 
 
 RuDENZ. What can we, 
 A shepherd race, against great Albert's 
 
 hosts? 
 Attinghausen. Learn, foolish boy, to 
 
 know this shepherd race! 
 I know them, I have led them on in fight — 
 I saw them in the battle at Favenz. 
 What! Austria try, forsooth, to force on us 
 A yoke we are determined not to bear! 
 Oh, learn to feel from what a stock thou'rt 
 
 sprung; 
 Cast not, for tinsel trash and idle show, 
 The precious jewel of thy worth away. 
 To be the chieftain of a freebom race, 
 Bound to thee only by their unbought love. 
 Ready to stand — to fight — to die with 
 
 thee. 
 Be that thy pride, be that thy noblest 
 
 boast! 
 Knit to thy heart the ties of kindred — 
 
 home — 
 Cling to the land, the dear land of thy 
 
 sires. 
 Grapple to that with thy whole heart and 
 
 soul! 
 Thy power is rooted deep and strongly 
 
 here. 
 But in yon stranger world thou 'It stand 
 
 alone, 
 A trembling reed beat down by every blast. 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 6S7 
 
 Oh, come! 't ia long since we have seen thee, 
 
 Uly! 
 Tarry but this one day. Only to-day! 
 Go not to Altdorf . Wilt thou? Not to-day! 
 For this one day, bestow thee on thy 
 
 friends. [Takes his hand.] 
 
 RtTDENz. I gave my word. Unhand me! 
 
 I am bound. 
 Attinghattsen [drops his hand and says 
 
 sternly]. Bound, didst thou say? 
 
 Oh, yes, imhappy boy. 
 Thou art, indeed. But not by word or oath. 
 'T is by the silken mesh of love thou 'rt 
 
 bound. PRtfDENZ turns aviay.] 
 
 Aye, hide thee, as thou wilt. 'T is she, I 
 
 know. 
 Bertha of Bruneck, draws thee to the court; 
 'T is she that changed thee to the Em- 
 peror's service. 
 Thou think'st to win the noble knightly 
 
 maid 
 By thy apostasy. Be not deceived. 
 She is held out before thee as a lure; 
 But never meant for innocence like thine. 
 Rtjdenz. No more; I've heard enough. 
 
 So fare you well. [Exit.] 
 
 Attinghausen. Stay, Uly! Stay! — 
 
 Rash boy, he's gone! I can 
 Nor hold him back, nor save him from 
 
 destruction. 
 And so the Wolfshot has deserted us — 
 Others wiU foUow his example soon. 
 This foreign witchery, sweeping o'er our 
 
 hills. 
 Tears, with its potent spell our youth away. 
 Oh, luckless hour, when men and manners 
 
 strange 
 Into these cahn and happy valleys came. 
 To warp oxu' primitive and guileless ways! 
 The new is pressing on with might. The 
 
 old, 
 The good, the simple, all fleet fast away. 
 New times come on. A race is springing up. 
 That think not as their fathers thought 
 
 before! 
 What do I hear? AH, all are in the grave 
 With whom erewhile I moved, and held 
 
 converse; 
 My age has long been laid beneath the sod : 
 Happy the man who may not Mve to see 
 What shall be done by those that foUow 
 
 me! 
 
 Scene II: A meadow surrounded by high 
 rocks and wooded ground. On the rocks are 
 tracks, with rails and ladders, by which the 
 peasants are afterward seen descending. In 
 the background the lake is observed, and over 
 it a moon rainbow in the early part of the 
 scene. The prospect is closed by lofty mouvr 
 tains, with glaciers rising behind them. The 
 stage is dark, but the lake and glaciers glisten 
 in the moonlight. 
 
 [Enter Melchthal, BAtrMOARTEN, Wink- 
 ELBiED, Meter von Sarnen, Burk- 
 
 HART AM BUHEL, AbNOLD VON SeWA, 
 
 Klaus von der Fltte, and four other 
 Peasants, all armed.] 
 
 Melchthal [behind the scenes]. The 
 mountain pass is open. Follow me! 
 I see the rock, and httle cross upon it: 
 This is the spot; here is the Rootli. 
 
 [They enter with torches.] 
 WiNKELEiED. Hark! 
 Sewa. The coast is clear. 
 Meter. None of our comrades come? 
 We are the first, we Unterwaldeners. 
 Melchthal. How far is 't i' the night? 
 Baumgarten. The beacon watch 
 Upon the SeUsberg has just called two. 
 
 [A bell is heard at a distance.] 
 Meter. Hush! Hark! 
 BuHBL. The forest chapel's matin bell 
 Chimes clearly o'er the lake from Switzer- 
 land. 
 Von Flue. The air is clear, and bears 
 
 the sound so far. 
 Melchthal. Go, you and you, and 
 Hght some broken boughs; 
 Let's bid them welcome with a cheerful 
 blaze. [Two Peasants exeunt.] 
 
 Sewa. The moon shines fair to-night. 
 Beneath its beams 
 The lake reposes, bright as burnished 
 steel. 
 Buhel. They'll have an easy passage. 
 WiNKELRiED [pointing to the lake]. Ha! 
 Look there! 
 Do you see nothing? 
 
 Meter. Aye, indeed, I do! 
 A rainbow in the middle of the night. 
 Melchthal. Formed by the bright re- 
 flection of the moon! 
 
6s8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Von Flub. A sign most strange and 
 wonderful, indeed! 
 Many there be who ne'er have seen the like. 
 Sbwa. 'T is doubled, see, — a paler one 
 
 above! 
 Baumgarten. a boat is gliding yonder 
 
 right beneath it. 
 Melchthal. That must be Werner 
 Stauffacher! I knew 
 The worthy patriot would not tarry long. 
 [Goes with Baumgaeten toward 
 the shore.] 
 Meyer. The Uri men are like to be the 
 
 last. 
 BuHBL. They're forced to take a wind- 
 ing circuit through 
 The mountains; for the Viceroy's spies are 
 out. 
 
 [In the mean while ike two Peas- 
 ants have kindled a fire in the 
 center of the stage.] 
 Melchthal [on the shore]. Who's there? 
 
 The word? 
 Stauffacher [from, below]. Mends of 
 the country. 
 
 [All retire up the stage, toward the 
 party landing from the boat.] 
 
 [Enter Stattffacheb, Itel Reding, Hans 
 
 AUF DEE MaUEE, JoRG IM HoFB, 
 CONEAD HUNN, UlEICH DBE ScHMIDT, 
 
 ^osT VON Weilbe, and three other 
 Peasants, armed.] 
 
 All. Welcome! 
 
 [While the rest remain behind ex- 
 changing greetings, Melchthal 
 comes forward with Statjf- 
 fachee.] 
 Melchthal. Oh, worthy Stauffacher, 
 I 've looked but now 
 On him who could not look on me again; 
 I 've laid my hands upon his rayless eyes. 
 And on their vacant orbits sworn a vow 
 Of vengeance, only to be cooled in blood. 
 Stauffacher. Speak not of vengeance. 
 We are here, to meet 
 The threatened evil, not to avenge the past. 
 Now, tell me what you've done, and what 
 
 secured, 
 To aid the common cause in Unterwald. 
 How stand the peasantry disposed, and 
 how 
 
 Yourself escaped the wiles of treachery? 
 Melchthal. Through the Siu-enen's 
 fearful mountain chain, 
 Where dreary ice-fields stretch on every 
 
 side. 
 And sound is none, save the hoarse vul- 
 ture's cry, 
 I reached the Alpine pasture, where the 
 
 herds 
 From Uri and from Engelberg resort. 
 And turn their cattle forth to graze in 
 
 common. 
 StUl, as I went along, I slaked my thirst 
 With the coarse oozings of the glacier 
 
 heights 
 That through the crevices come foaming 
 
 down. 
 And turned to rest me in the herdsmen's 
 
 cots, 
 Where I was host and guest, until I gained 
 The cheerful homes and social haunts of 
 
 men. 
 Already through these distant vales had 
 
 spread 
 The rumor of this last atrocity; 
 And wheresoe'er I went, at every door, 
 Kind words saluted me and gentle looks. 
 I found these simple spirits all in arms 
 Against our rulers' tyrannous encroach- 
 ments. 
 For as their Alps through each succeeding 
 
 year 
 Yield the same roots — their streams flow 
 
 ever on 
 In the same channels — nay, the clouds 
 
 and winds 
 The seKsame course unalterably pursue, 
 So have old customs there, from sire to son, 
 Been handed down, imchanging and un- 
 changed; 
 Nor win they brook to swerve or tvurn aside 
 From the fixed even tenor of their Ufe. 
 With grasp of their hajd hands they wel- 
 comed me — 
 Took from the walls their rusty falchions 
 
 down — 
 And from their eyes the soul of valor 
 
 flashed 
 With joyful luster, as I spoke those names, 
 Sacred to every peasant in the mountains. 
 Your own and Walter Fiirst's. Whate'er 
 your voice 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 6S9 
 
 Should dictate as the right, they swore to 
 
 do; 
 And you they swore to follow e'en to 
 
 death. 
 — So sped I on from house to house, secure 
 In the guest's sacred privilege — and 
 
 when 
 I reached at last the valley of my home, 
 Where dwell my kinsmen, scattered far 
 
 and near — 
 And when I found my father, stripped and 
 
 blind, 
 Upon the stranger's straw, fed by the alms 
 Of charity — 
 Staxtfpachee. Great Heaven! 
 Melchthal. Yet wept I not! 
 No — not in weak and imavailing tears 
 Spent I the force of my fierce burning 
 
 anguish; 
 Deep in my laosom, like some precious 
 
 treasure, 
 I locked it fast, and thought on deeds alone. 
 Through every winding of the hilk I 
 
 crept — 
 No valley so remote but I explored it; 
 Nay, at the very glacier's ice-clad base, 
 I sought and found the homes of hving 
 
 men; 
 And stiU, where'er my wandering footsteps 
 
 turned. 
 The selfsame hatred of these tyrants met 
 
 me. 
 For even there, at vegetation's verge, 
 Where the numbed earth is barren of aU 
 
 fruits. 
 Their grasping hands had been for plunder 
 
 thrust. 
 Into the hearts of aU this honest race. 
 The story of my wrongs struck deep, and 
 
 now 
 They, to a man, are ours; both heart and 
 
 hand. 
 STAtrpFACHBR. Great things, indeed, 
 
 you've wrought in little time. 
 Melchthai.. I did stiU more than this. 
 
 The fortresses, 
 Rossberg and Sarnen, are the country's 
 
 dread; 
 For from behind their adamantine walls 
 The foe, like eagle from his eyrie, swoops. 
 And, safe himself, spreads havoc o'er the 
 
 land. 
 
 With my own eyes I wished to weigh its 
 
 strength. 
 So went to Sarnen, and explored the castle. 
 Stauppacher. How! Venture even into 
 
 the tiger's den? 
 Melchthal. Disguised in pilgrim's 
 weeds I entered it; 
 I saw the Viceroy feasting at his board — 
 Judge if I'm master of myself or no! 
 I saw the tyrant, and I slew him not! 
 Stauppacher. Fortune, indeed, upon 
 your boldness smiled. 
 
 [Meanwhile the others have arrived 
 and join Melchthal and 
 Stauppacher.] 
 Yet tell me now, I pray, who are the 
 
 friends, 
 The worthy men, who came along with 
 
 you 
 Make me acquainted with them, that we 
 
 may 
 Speak frankly, man to man, and heart to 
 heart. 
 Meter. In the three cantons, who, sir, 
 knows not you? 
 Meyer of Sarnen is my name; and this 
 Is Struth of Winkelried, my sister's son. 
 Stauppacher. No unknown name. A 
 Winkelried it was 
 Who slew the dragon in the fen at Weiler, 
 And lost his life in the encounter, too. 
 Winkelried. That, Master StaufEacher, 
 
 was my grandfather. 
 Melchthal [pointing to two Peasants]. 
 These two are men who till the 
 cloister lands 
 Of Engelberg, and live behind the forest. 
 You'll not think ill of them, because 
 
 they're serfs, 
 And sit not free upon the soU, like us. 
 They love the land, and bear a good repute. 
 Stauppacher [to them]. Give me your 
 hands. He has good cause for 
 thanks. 
 That to no man his body's service owes. 
 But worth is worth, no matter where 't is- 
 found. 
 HuNN. That is Herr Reding, sir, our old 
 
 Landamman. 
 Meyer. I know him well. I am at law 
 with him 
 About a piece of ancient heritage. — 
 
66c 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Herr Reding, we are enemies in court, 
 Here we are one. [Shakes his hand.] 
 
 Staupfachee. That's well and bravely 
 
 said. 
 WiNKBLKiED. Listen! They come. The 
 horn of Uri! Hark! 
 
 [Ore the right and left armed men 
 
 are seen descending the rocks 
 
 with torches.] 
 
 Maueb. Look, is not that the holy man 
 
 of God? 
 
 A worthy priest! The terrors of the night 
 
 And the way's pains and perils scare not 
 
 him, 
 A faithful shepherd caring for his flock. 
 Batjmgabten. The Sacrist follows him, 
 and Walter Fiirst. 
 But where is Tell? I do not see him there. 
 
 [Waltee Fuest, Rosselmann the Pastor, 
 Petbemann the Sacrist, Ktjoni the 
 Shepherd, Webni the Huntsman, 
 RuoDi the Fisherman, and five other 
 countrymen, thirty-three in all, advance 
 and take their places round the fire.] 
 
 Fuest. Thus must we, on the soil our 
 
 fathers left us, 
 Creep forth by stealth to meet like 
 
 murderers, 
 And in the night, that should her mantle 
 
 lend 
 Only to crime and black conspiracy, 
 Assert our own good rights, which yet are 
 
 clear 
 As is the radiance of the noonday sun. 
 Mblchthal. So be it. What is hatched 
 
 in gloom of night 
 Shall free and boldly meet the morning 
 
 hght. 
 Rosselmann. Confederates! Listen to 
 
 the words which God 
 Inspires my heart withal. Here we are met. 
 To represent the general weal. In us 
 Are all the people of the land convened. 
 Then let us hold the Diet, as of old. 
 And as we're wont in peaceful times to do. 
 The time's necessity be our excuse, 
 If there be aught informal in this meeting. 
 Still, wheresoe'er men strike for justice, 
 
 there 
 Is God, and now beneath his heaven we 
 
 stand. 
 
 Statjppachee. 'T is well advised. — 
 Let us, then, hold the Diet, 
 According to our ancient usages. — 
 Though it be night, there's sunshine in our 
 cause. 
 Mblchthal. Few though otir numbers 
 be, the hearts are here 
 Of the whole people; here the best are met. 
 HuNN. The ancient books may not be 
 near at hand. 
 Yet they are graven in our itunost hearts. 
 Rosselmann. 'T is well. And now, 
 then, let a ring be formed. 
 And plant the swords of power within the 
 ground. 
 Mauee. Let the Landamman step into 
 his place, 
 And by his side his secretaries stand. 
 Sacrist. There are three cantons here. 
 Which hath the right 
 To give the head to the tmited Council? 
 Schwytz may contest that dignity with 
 
 Uri, 
 We Unterwald'ners enter not the field. 
 Mblchthal. We stand aside. We are 
 but suppUants here. 
 Invoking aid from our more potent friends. 
 Stattfpachee. Let Uri have the sword. 
 Her banner takes. 
 In battle, the precedence of our own. 
 FtJRST. Schwytz, then, must share the 
 honor of the sword; 
 For she's the honored ancestor of all. 
 Rosselmann. Let me arrange this gen- 
 erous controversy. 
 Uri shall lead in battle — Schwytz in 
 Council. 
 FuRST [gives Staupfachee his hand]. 
 
 Then take your place. 
 Stauppacher. Not I. Some older man. 
 Hope. Ubich, the smith, is the most 
 
 aged here. 
 Maubr. a worthy man, but not a free- 
 man; no! 
 — No bondman can be judge in Switzer- 
 land. 
 Stauppacher. Is not Herr Reding here, 
 our old Landamman? 
 Where can we find a worthier maji than 
 he? 
 FtJEST. Let him be Amman and the 
 Diet's chief 1 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 661 
 
 You that agree with me, hold up your 
 
 hands! 
 
 [All hold up their right hands.] 
 Reding [stepping into the center]. I can-* 
 
 not lay my hands upon the books; 
 But by yon everlasting stars I swear, 
 Never to swerve from justice and the right. 
 [The two swords are placed before 
 him, and a circle formed; 
 Schwytz in the center, Uri on his 
 right, Unterwald on his left.] 
 Reding [resting on his battle-sword]. 
 
 Why, at the hour when spirits walk 
 
 the earth, 
 Meet the three cantons of the mountains 
 
 here. 
 Upon the lake's inhospitable shore? 
 What may the purport be of this new 
 
 league 
 We here contract beneath the starry 
 
 heaven? 
 Stauffacheb [entering the circle]. 'T is 
 
 no new league that here we now 
 
 contract. 
 But one our fathers framed, in ancient 
 
 times. 
 We purpose to renew! 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. 
 
 Winkelried. Is, then, the burden of 
 
 our legends true, 
 That we came hither from a distant land? 
 Oh, tell us what you know, that our new 
 
 league 
 May reap fresh vigor from the leagues of 
 
 old. 
 Stauffacher. Hear, then, what aged 
 
 herdsmen tell. There dwelt 
 A mighty people in the land that lies 
 Back to the north. The scourge of famine 
 
 came; 
 And in this strait 't was publicly resolved 
 That each tenth man, on whom the lot 
 
 might fall, 
 Should leave the country. They obeyed 
 
 — and forth. 
 With loud lamentings, men and women 
 
 went, 
 
 A mighty host; and to the south moved 
 
 on. 
 Cutting their way through Germany by 
 
 the sword. 
 Until they gained these pine-clad hills of 
 
 ours; 
 Nor stopped they ever on their forward 
 
 coxirse, 
 TiU at the shaggy dell they halted, where 
 The Miita flows through its luxuriant 
 
 meads. 
 No trace of human creature met their eye. 
 Save one poor hut upon the desert shore. 
 Where dwelt a lonely man, and kept the 
 
 ferry. 
 A tempest raged — the lake rose mountains 
 
 high 
 And barred their fiuther progress. There- 
 upon 
 They viewed the country — found it rich 
 
 in wood. 
 Discovered goodly springs, and felt as they 
 Were in their own dear native land once 
 
 more. 
 Then they resolved to settle on the spot; 
 Erected there the ancient town of Schwytz; 
 And many a day of toil had they to clear 
 The tangled brake and forest's spreading 
 
 roots. 
 Meanwhile 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. 
 They built the village Stanz, beside the 
 
 Kemwald; 
 The village Altdorf, in the vale of Reuss; 
 Yet, ever mindful of their parent stem. 
 The men of Schwytz, from all the stranger 
 
 race, 
 That since that time have settled in the 
 
 land, 
 Each other recognize. Their hearts still 
 
 know. 
 And beat fraternally to kindred blood. 
 
 [Extends his hand right and left.] 
 Maueb. Aye, we are all one heart, one 
 
 blood, one race! 
 All [joining hands]. We are one people, 
 
 and will act as one. 
 
662 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Stauffachbr. The nations round us 
 
 bear a foreign yoke, 
 For they have to the conqueror succumbed. 
 Nay, e'en within our frontiers may be 
 
 found 
 Some that owe villein service to a lord, 
 A race of bonded serfs from sire to son. 
 But we, the genuine race of ancient Swiss, 
 Have kept our freedom from the &st tiU 
 
 now. 
 Never to princes have we bowed the knee; 
 Freely we sought protection of the Empire. 
 RossBLMANN. Freely we sought it — 
 
 freely it was given. 
 'T is so set down in Emperor Frederick's 
 
 charter. 
 Stauffachbr. For the most free have 
 
 stiU some feudal lord. 
 There must be still a chief, a judge su- 
 preme. 
 To whom appeal may he, in case of strife. 
 And therefore was it that our sires allowed. 
 For what they had recovered from the 
 
 waste, 
 This honor of the Emperor, the lord 
 Of all the German and Italian soil; 
 And, hke the other free men of his realm, 
 Engaged to aid him with their swords in' 
 
 war; 
 The free man's duty this alone should be. 
 To guard the Empire that keeps guard for 
 
 him. 
 Mblchthal. He 's but a slave that 
 
 would acknowledge more. 
 Stauffachbr. They followed, when the 
 
 Heribann went forth. 
 The imperial standard, and they fought 
 
 its battles! 
 To Italy they marched in arms, to place 
 The Caesars' crown upon the Emperor's 
 
 head. 
 But still at home they ruled themselves in 
 
 peace, 
 By their own laws and ancient usages. 
 The Emperor's only right was to adjudge 
 The penalty of death; he therefore named 
 Some mighty noble as his delegate. 
 That had no stake or interest in the land. 
 Who was called in, when doom was to be 
 
 And, in the face of day, pronounced decree. 
 Clear and distinctly, fearing no man's hate. 
 
 What traces here, that we are bondsmen? 
 
 Speak, 
 If there be any can gainsay my words! 
 * HoFE. No! You have spoken but the 
 
 simple truth; 
 We never stooped beneath a tyrant's yoke. 
 STAtrrFACHEB. Eveu to the Emperor 
 
 we did not submit. 
 When he gave judgment 'gainst us for the 
 
 Church; 
 For when the Abbey of Einsiedlen claimed 
 The Alp our fathers and ourselves had 
 
 And showed an ancient charter, which be- 
 stowed 
 The land on them as being ownerless — 
 For our existence there had been con- 
 cealed — 
 What was our answer? This: "The grant 
 
 is void. 
 No Emperor can bestow what is our own: 
 And if the Empire shall deny our rights, 
 We can, within our mountains, right our- 
 selves!" 
 Thus spake our fathers! And shall we 
 
 endure 
 The shame and infamy of this new yoke, 
 And from thejvassal brook what never king 
 Dared, in his plenitude of power, attempt? 
 This soil we have created for ourselves, 
 By the hard labor of our hands; we've 
 
 changed 
 The giant forest, that was erst the haunt 
 Of savage bears, into a home for man; 
 Extirpated the dragon's brood, that wout 
 To rise, distent with venom, from the 
 
 swamps; 
 Rent the thick misty canopy that hung 
 Its bUghting vapors on the dreary waste; 
 Blasted the solid rock; across the chasm 
 Thrown the firm bridge for the wayfaring 
 
 man. 
 By the possession of a thousand years 
 The soil is ours. And shall an alien lord, 
 Himself a vassal, dare to venture here, 
 Insult us by our own hearth fires — at- 
 tempt 
 To forge the chains of bondage for our 
 
 hands. 
 And do us shame on our own proper soil? 
 Is there no help against such wrong as this? 
 [Great sensation among the people.] 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 663 
 
 Yes ! There 's a limit to the despot's power ! 
 When the oppressed for justice looks ia 
 
 vain, 
 When his sore burden may no more be 
 
 borne, 
 With fearless heart he makes appeal to 
 
 Heaven, 
 And thence brings down his everlasting 
 
 rights, 
 Which there abide, inahenably his. 
 And indestructible as are the stars. 
 Nature's primeval state returns again, 
 Where man stands hostile to his feUow 
 
 man; 
 And if all other means shall fail his need. 
 One last resource remains — his own good 
 
 sword. 
 Our dearest treasures call to us for aid, 
 Against the oppressor's violence; we stand 
 For coimtfy, home, for wives, for children 
 
 here! 
 All [clasping their swords]. Here stand 
 
 we for our homes, our wives, and 
 
 children. 
 RossELMANN [stepping into the circle]. 
 
 Bethink ye well, before ye draw the 
 
 sword. 
 Some peaceful compromise may yet be 
 
 made; 
 Speak but one word, and at your feet 
 
 you'U see 
 The men who now oppress you. Take the 
 
 terms 
 That have been often tendered you; re- 
 nounce 
 The Empire, and to Austria swear alle- 
 giance!' 
 Maubr. What says the priest? To 
 
 Austria allegiance? 
 BtTHEL. Hearken not to him! 
 WiNKBLBiBD. 'T is a traitor's counsel. 
 His country's foe! 
 
 Reding. Peace, peace, confederates! 
 Sewa. Homage to Austria, after wrongs 
 
 like these! 
 Von Flue. Shall Austria extort from us 
 
 by force 
 What we denied to kindness and entreaty? 
 Meter. Then should we all be slaves, 
 deservedly. 
 
 Matter. Yes! Let him forfeit all a 
 
 Switzer's rights, 
 
 Who talks of yielding thus to Austria's 
 
 yoke! 
 I stand on this, Landamman. Let this be 
 The foremost of our laws! 
 
 Melchthal. Even so! Whoe'er 
 Shall talk of bearing Austria's yoke, let 
 
 him 
 Of all his rights and honors be despoiled. 
 No man thenceforth receive him at his 
 
 hearth! 
 All [raising their right hands]. Agreed! 
 
 Be this the law! 
 Reding [after a paiise]. The law it is. 
 RossELMANN. Now you are free — this 
 
 law hath made you free. 
 Never shall Austria obtain by force 
 What she has failed to gain by friendly 
 
 suit. 
 Wbilbr. On with the order of the day! 
 
 Proceed! 
 Reding. Confederates! Have all gentler 
 
 means been tried? 
 Perchance the Emperor knows not of our 
 
 wrongs. 
 It may not be his will we suffer thus; 
 Were it not well to make one last attempt, 
 And lay our grievances before the throne, 
 Ere we unsheath the sword? Force is at 
 
 best 
 A fearful thing e'en in a righteous cause; 
 God only helps, when man can help no 
 
 more. 
 Stattfpacher [to Conrad Htjnn]. Here 
 
 you can give us information. Speak! 
 Htxnn. I was at Rheinfeld, at the Em- 
 peror's court. 
 Deputed by the cantons to complain 
 Of the oppressions of these governors. 
 And of our hberties the charter claim. 
 Which each new King tiU 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 they 
 
 wished, 
 And straight went home again with merry 
 
 heart. 
 But me, your envoy, they to the Council 
 
 sent, 
 Where I with empty cheer was soon dis- 
 missed: 
 "The Emperor at present was engaged; 
 Some other time he would attend to usT' 
 
664 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 I turned away, and passing through the 
 
 hall, 
 With heavy heart, in a recess I saw 
 The Grand Duke John in tears, and by hia 
 
 side 
 The noble lords of Wart and Tegerfeld, 
 Who beckoned me, and said: "Redress 
 
 yourselves. 
 Expect not justice from the Emperor. 
 Does he not plunder his own brother's 
 
 child. 
 And keep from him his just inheritance?" 
 The Duke claims his maternal property. 
 Urging he's now of age, and 't is fuU time 
 That he should rule his people and estates; 
 What is the answer made to him? The 
 
 King 
 Places a chaplet on his head. "Behold 
 The fitting ornament," he cries, "of 
 youth!" 
 Maueb. You hear. Expect not from the 
 Emperor 
 Or right or justice! Then redress your- 
 selves! 
 Reding. No other course is left us. 
 Now, advise . 
 What plan most likely to insure success. 
 PuBST. To shake a thraUdom off that 
 we abhor, 
 To keep oiu- ancient rights inviolate. 
 As we receive them from our fathers — 
 
 this, 
 Not lawless innovation, is our aim. 
 Let CsBsar stiU retain what is his due; 
 And he that is a vassal, let him pay 
 The service he is sworn to faithfully. 
 Mbtee. I hold my land of Austria in 
 
 fief. 
 FtJBST. Continue, then, to pay your 
 
 feudal dues. 
 Weileb. I'm tenant of the lords of 
 
 Rappersweil. 
 FifEST. Continue, then, to pay them 
 
 rent and tithe. 
 RossELMANN. Of Zurich's abbess hum- 
 ble vassal I. 
 FtjRST. Give to the cloister what the 
 
 cloister claims. 
 Staupfacheb. The Empire only is my 
 
 feudal lord. 
 FtJRST. What needs must be, we'll do, 
 but nothing more. 
 
 We'll drive these tyrants and their minions 
 
 hence. 
 And raze their towering strongholds to the 
 
 ground. 
 Yet shed, if possible, no drop of blood. 
 Let the Emperor see that we were driven 
 
 to cast 
 The sacred duties of respect away; 
 And when he finds we keep within our 
 
 bounds. 
 His wrath, beUke, may yield to policy; 
 For truly is that nation to be feared 
 That, arms in hand, is temperate in its 
 wrath. 
 Reding. But prithee tell us how may 
 this be done? 
 The enemy is armed as weU as we, 
 And, rest assured, he wHl not yield in peace. 
 Staupfachek. He wiU, whene'er he sees 
 us up in arms; • 
 
 We shall surprise him, ere he is prepared. 
 Meter. Easily said, but not so easily 
 - done. 
 Two strongholds dominate the country — 
 
 they 
 Protect the foe, and should the King in- 
 vade us, 
 Our task would then be dangerous, indeed. 
 Rossberg and Samen both must be secured. 
 Before a sword is drawn in either canton. 
 Statjpfachbr. Should we delay, the foe 
 would soon be warned; 
 We are too numerous for secrecy. 
 Meyer. There is no traitor in the For- 
 est States. 
 RossELMANN. But even zeal may heed- 
 lessly betray. 
 FtjRST. Delay it longer, and the keep at 
 Altdorf 
 WiU be complete — the Governor secure. 
 Meyer. You think but of yourselves. 
 Sacristan.' You are imjust! 
 Meyer. Unjust! said you? Dares Uri 
 
 taunt us so? 
 Redinq. Peace, on your oath! 
 Sacristan. If Schwytz be leagued with 
 Uri, 
 Why, then, indeed, we must perforce be 
 dumb. 
 Reding. And let me tell you, in the 
 Diet's name. 
 Your hasty spirit much disturbs the peace 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 66s 
 
 Stand we not all for the same conunon 
 
 cause? 
 WiNKELBiED. What, if till Christmas 
 
 we delay? 'T is then 
 The custom for the serfs to throng the 
 
 castle, 
 Bringing the Governor their annual gifts. 
 Thus may some ten or twelve selected men 
 Assemble imobserved, within its walls, 
 Bearing about their persons pikes of steel. 
 Which may be quickly mounted upon 
 
 staves. 
 For arms are not admitted to the fort. 
 The rest can fill the neighboring wood, 
 
 prepared 
 To sally forth upon a trumpet's blast, 
 Soon as their comrades have secured the 
 
 gate; 
 And thus the castle will with ease be ours. 
 Melchthal. The Rossberg I wiU un- 
 dertake to scale. 
 I have a sweetheart in the garrison. 
 Whom with some tender words I could 
 
 persuade 
 To lower me at night a hempen ladder. 
 Once up, my friends will not be long be- 
 hind. 
 Reding. Are all resolved in favor of 
 
 delay? 
 
 [The majority raise their hands.] 
 Statjfpacher [counting them]. Twenty 
 
 to twelve is the majority. 
 FtJEST. If on the appointed day the 
 
 castles fall. 
 From mountain on to mountain we shall 
 
 speed 
 The fiery signal: in the capital 
 Of every canton quickly rouse the Land- 
 
 sturm. 
 Then, when these tyrants see our martial 
 
 front. 
 Believe me, they will never make so bold 
 As risk the conflict, but will gladly take 
 Safe conduct forth beyond our boundaries. 
 STArFFACHBE. Not SO with Gessler. He 
 
 will make a stand. 
 Surrounded with his dread array of horse. 
 Blood will be shed before he quits the field. 
 And even expelled he'd still be terrible. 
 'T is hard, nay, dangerous, to spare his life. 
 Baumgahtbn. Place me where'er a life 
 
 is to be lost; 
 
 I owe my life to Tell, and cheerfully 
 Will pledge it for my coimtry. I have 
 
 cleared 
 My honor, and my heart is now at rest. 
 Reding. Counsel will come with cir- 
 cumstance. Be patient! 
 Something must still be to the moment 
 
 left. 
 Yet, whUe by night we hold our Diet here. 
 The morning, see, has on the mountain tops 
 Kindjed her glowing beacon. Let us part. 
 Ere the broad sun surprise us. 
 
 FtJBST. Do not fear. 
 The night wanes slowly from these vales of 
 ours. 
 
 [All have involuntarily taken off 
 their caps, and contemplate the 
 breaking of day, absorbed in 
 silence.] 
 RSssEiiMANN. By this fair light which 
 greeteth us, before 
 Those other nations, that, beneath us far. 
 In noisome cities pent, draw painful breath. 
 Swear we the oath of our confederacy! 
 A band of brothers true we swear to be. 
 Never to part in danger or in death! 
 
 [They repeat his words with three 
 fingers raised.] 
 We swear we will be free, as were our sires. 
 And sooner die than live in slavery! 
 
 [All repeat as before.] 
 We swear, to put our trust in God Most 
 
 High, 
 And not to quail before the might of man! 
 [AU repeat as before, and embrace 
 each other.] 
 Stattffacher. Now every man pursue 
 his several way 
 Back to his friends, his kindred, and his 
 
 home. 
 Let the herd winter up his flock, and gain 
 In secret friends for this great league of 
 
 ours I 
 What for a time must be endured, endure. 
 And let the reckoning of the tyrants grow. 
 Till the great day arrive, when they shall 
 
 pay 
 The general and particular debt at once. 
 Let every man control his own just rage. 
 And nurse his vengeance for the public 
 
 wrongs: 
 For he whom selfish interests now engage, 
 
666 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Defrauds the general weal of what to it 
 belongs. 
 
 [As they are going off in profound 
 silence, in three different direc- 
 tions, the orchestra plays a sol- 
 emn air. The empty scene re- 
 mains open for some time, show- 
 ing the rays of the sun rising over 
 the glaciers.] 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene I: Court before Tbll's house. 
 
 [Enter Tell uiith an axe. Hedwig engaged 
 in her domestic duties. Walter and 
 William in the background, playing 
 vnth a little crossbow.] 
 
 WAiypEB [sings] 
 
 With his crossbow, and his quiver, 
 
 The huntsman speeds his way, 
 Over mountain, dale, and river, 
 
 At the dawning of the day. 
 As the eagle, on wild pinion. 
 
 Is the king in realms of air, 
 So the hunter claims dominion 
 
 Over crag and forest lair. 
 Far as ever bow can carry. 
 
 Through the trackless airy space. 
 All he sees he makes his quarry. 
 
 Soaring bird and beast of chase. 
 
 William [runs forward]. My string has 
 
 snapped! Oh, father, mend it, do! 
 Tell. Not I; a true-bom archer helps 
 
 himself. [Boys retire.] 
 
 Hedwig. The boys begin to use the 
 
 bow betimes. 
 Tell. 'T is early practice only makes 
 
 the master. 
 Hedwig. Ah! Would to Heaven they 
 
 never learned the art! 
 Tell. But they shall learn it, wife, in 
 
 all its points. 
 Whoe'er would carve an independent way 
 Through life, must learn to ward or plant 
 
 a blow. 
 Hedwig. Alas! Alas! And they will 
 
 never rest 
 Contentedly at home. 
 
 Tell. No more can I! 
 I was not framed by nature for a shepherd. 
 
 My restless spirit ever yearns for change; 
 I only feel the flush and joy of life 
 If I can start fresh quarry every day. 
 Hedwig. Heedless the while of aU your 
 wife's alarms, 
 As she sits watching through long hours at 
 
 home. 
 For my soul sinks with terror at the tales 
 The servants tell about the risks you run. 
 Whene'er we part, my trembling heart 
 
 forebodes 
 That you will ne'er come back to me again. 
 I see you on the frozen mountain steeps, 
 Missing, perchance, your leap from crag to 
 
 crag. 
 I see the chamois, with a wild rebound, 
 Drag you down with him o'er the precipice. 
 I see the avalanche close o'er your head — 
 The treacherous ice give way, and you sink 
 
 down 
 Entombed ahve within its hideous gulf. 
 Ah! In a hundred varying forms does 
 
 , death 
 Pursue the Alpine huntsman on his course. 
 That way of life can surely ne'er be blessed 
 Where life and limb are periled every hour. 
 Tell. The man that bears a quick and 
 steady eye, 
 And trusts in God, and his own lusty thews, 
 Passes, with scarce a scar, through every 
 
 danger. 
 The mountain cannot awe the mountain 
 child. 
 
 [Having finished his work, he 
 lays aside his tools.] 
 And now, methinks, the door will hold 
 
 awhile — 
 Axe in the house oft saves the carpenter. 
 [Takes his cap.] 
 Hedwig. Whither away? 
 Tell. To Altdorf, to your father. 
 Hedwig. You have some dangerous en- 
 terprise in view? 
 Confess! 
 Tell. Why think you so? 
 Hedwig. Some scheme's on foot 
 Against the Governors. There was a Diet 
 Held on the Rootli — that I know — and 
 
 you 
 Are one of the confederacy, I'm sure. 
 Tell. I was not there. Yet will I not 
 hold back, 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 667 
 
 Whene'er my country calls me to her aid. 
 Hedwig. Wherever danger is will you 
 be placed. 
 On you, as ever, will the burden faU. 
 Tell. Each man shall have the post 
 
 that fits his powers. 
 Hedwig. You took — aye, 'mid the 
 thickest of the storm — 
 The man of Unterwald across the lake. 
 'T is marvel you escaped. Had you no 
 
 thought 
 Of wife and children, then? 
 Tell. Dear wife, I had; 
 And therefore saved the father for his 
 children. 
 Hedwig. To brave the lake in all its 
 wrath! 'T was not 
 To put your trust in God! 'T was tempt- 
 ing Him. 
 Tell. Little will he that's overcautious 
 
 do. 
 Hedwig. Yes, you've a kind and help- 
 ing hand for all; 
 But be in straits, and who wiU lend you 
 aid? 
 Tell. God grant I ne'er may stand in 
 need of it! 
 
 [Takes up his crossbow and arrows.] 
 Hedwig. Why take your crossbow with 
 
 you? leave it here. 
 Tell. I want my right hand, when I 
 want my bow. 
 
 [The boys return.] 
 
 Waltek. Where, father, are you going? 
 Tell. To grand-dad, boy — 
 ToAltdori. Will you go? 
 Walter. Aye, that I will! 
 Hedwig. The Viceroy's there just now. 
 
 Go not to Altdorf! 
 Tell. He leaves to-day. 
 Hedwig. Then let him first be gone, 
 Cross not his path — You know he bears 
 
 us grudge. 
 Tell. His iU-wiU cannot greatly injitte 
 
 me. 
 I do what's right, and care for no man's 
 
 hate. 
 Hedwig. 'T is those who do what's 
 
 right whom most he hates. 
 Tell. Because he cannot reach them. 
 
 Me, I ween. 
 
 His knightship will be glad to leave in 
 peace. ^ 
 
 Hedwig. Aye I — Are you sure of that? 
 Tell. Not long ago. 
 As I was hunting through the wild ravines 
 Of Shechenthal, untrod by mortal foot — 
 There, as I took my solitary way 
 Along a shelving ledge of rocks, where 
 
 'twas 
 Impossible to step on either side — 
 For high above rose, like a giant wall. 
 The precipice's side, and far below 
 The Shechen thundered o'er its rifted 
 bed — 
 
 [The boys press toward him, looh- 
 ing upon him with excited 
 curiosity.] 
 There, face to face, I met the Viceroy. He 
 Alone with me — and I myself alone — 
 Mere man to man, and near us the abyss; 
 And when his lordship had perused my 
 
 face. 
 And knew the man he had severely fined 
 On some most trivial ground, not long 
 
 before, 
 And saw me, with my sturdy bow in hand. 
 Come striding toward him, his cheek grew 
 
 pale, 
 His knees refused their oflSce, and I thought 
 He would have sunk against the mountain- 
 side. 
 Then, touched with pity for him, I ad- 
 vanced 
 Respectfully, and said, "'T is I, my lord." 
 But ne'er a sound could he compel his 
 
 hps 
 To frame in answer. Only with his hand 
 He beckoned me in silence to proceed. 
 So I passed on, and sent his train to seek 
 him. 
 Hedwig. He trembled, then, before 
 you? Woe the while 
 You saw his weakness! That he'll ne'er 
 forgive. 
 Tell. I shun him, therefore, and he'll 
 
 not seek me. 
 Hedwig. But stay away to-day. Go 
 
 hunt instead! 
 Tell. What do you fear? 
 Hedwig. I am uneasy. Stay! 
 Tell. Why thus distress yourself with- 
 out a cause? 
 
668 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Hbdwig. Because there is no cause. 
 
 TeU, TeU! Stay here! 
 Tell. Dear wife, I gave my promise I 
 
 would go. 
 Hedwig. Must you? — Then go. But 
 
 leave the boys with me. 
 Wamteb. No, mother, dear, I go with 
 
 father, I. 
 Hedwig. How, Walter! Will you leave 
 
 your mother, then? 
 Walter. I'U bring you pretty things 
 from grandpapa. 
 
 [Exit mth his father.] 
 William. Mother, I'll stay with you! 
 Hedwig [embracing him]. Yes, yes! thou 
 art 
 My own dear child. Thou'rt all that's left 
 to me. 
 
 [She goes to the gate of the court and 
 looks anxiously after Tell and 
 her son for a considerable time.] 
 
 Scene II: A retired part of the forest — 
 brooks dashing in spray over the rocks. 
 
 Enter Bertha in a hunting-dress. Imme- 
 diately afterward Rudenz.] 
 
 Behtha. He follows me. Now, then, to 
 
 speak my mind! 
 Rudenz [entering hastily]. At length, 
 
 dear lady, we have met alone 
 In this wild dell; with rocks on every side. 
 No jealous eye can watch our interview. 
 Now, let my heart throw off this weary 
 
 silence. 
 Bertha. But are you sure they will not 
 
 follow us? 
 Rudenz. See, yonder goes the chase! 
 
 Now, then, or never! 
 I must avail me of this precious chance — 
 Must hear my doom decided by thy hps, 
 Though it should part me from thy side 
 
 forever. 
 Oh, do not arm that gentle face of thine 
 With looks so stem and harsh! Who — 
 
 who am I, 
 That dare aspire so high, as unto thee? 
 Fame hath not stamped me yet; nor may 
 
 I take 
 My place amid the courtly throng of 
 
 knights. 
 
 That, crowned with glory's luster, woo thy 
 
 smiles. 
 Nothing have I to offer, but a heart 
 That overflows with truth and love for 
 
 thee. 
 Bertha [sternly and with severity]. And 
 
 dare you speak to me of love — of 
 
 truth? 
 You, that are faithless to your nearest ties! 
 You, that are Austria's slave — bartered 
 
 and sold 
 To her — an alien, and your country's 
 
 tyrant! 
 Rudenz. How! This reproach from 
 
 thee! Whom do I seek, 
 On Austria's side, my own beloved, but 
 
 thee? 
 Bertha. Think you to find me in the 
 
 traitor's ranks? 
 Now, as I live, I'd rather give my hand 
 To Gessler's seK, all despot though he be. 
 Than to the Switzer who forgets his birth, 
 And stoops to be a tyrant's servile tool. 
 Rudenz. O Heaven, what words are 
 
 these? 
 Bertha. Say! What can he 
 Nearer the good man's heart than friends 
 
 and kindred? 
 What dearer duty to a noble soul. 
 Than to protect weak, suffering innocence, 
 And vindicate the rights of the oppressed? 
 My very soul bleeds for your countrymen. 
 I suffer with them, for I needs must love 
 
 them; 
 They are so gentle, yet so fuU of power; 
 They draw my whole heart to them. Every 
 
 day 
 I look upon them with increased esteem. 
 But you, whom nature and your knightly 
 
 vow 
 Have given 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 
 
 core. 
 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 peace 
 'Neath Austria's potent scepter? 
 Bertha. Bondage, rather! 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 669 
 
 You would drive Freedom from the last 
 
 stronghold 
 That yet remams for her upon the earth. 
 The people know their own true interests 
 
 better: 
 Their simple natures are not warped by 
 
 show. 
 But round your head a tangling net is 
 
 wound. 
 RuDENz. Bertha, you hate me — you 
 
 despise me! 
 Bebtha. Nay! 
 And if I did, 't were better for my peace. 
 But to see him despised and despicable — 
 The man whom one might love — 
 
 Rtidenz. Oh, Bertha! You 
 Show me the pinnacle of heavenly bliss. 
 Then, in a moment, hurl me to despair! 
 Bertha. No, no! The noble is not all 
 
 extinct 
 Within you. It but slumbers — I will 
 
 rouse it. 
 It must have cost you many a fiery strug- 
 gle 
 To crush the virtues of your race within 
 
 you. 
 But, Heaven be praised, 't is mightier than 
 
 yourself. 
 And you are noble in your own despite! 
 RuDENz. You trust me, then? Oh, 
 
 Bertha, with thy love 
 What might I not become! 
 
 Bbetha. Be only that 
 For which yom- own high nature destined 
 
 you. 
 Fill the position you were bom to fill — 
 Stand by your people and your native 
 
 land — 
 And battle for your sacred rights! 
 
 RuDBNZ. Alas! 
 How can I win you — how can you be 
 
 mine. 
 If I take arms against the Emperor? 
 Will not your potent kinsmen interpose. 
 To dictate the disposal of your hand? 
 Bektha. All my estates lie in the Forest 
 
 Cantons; 
 And I am free when Switzerland is free. 
 Rtjdenz. Oh, what a prospect. Bertha, 
 
 hast thou shown me! 
 Beetha. Hope not to win my hand by 
 
 Austria's grace; 
 
 Fain would they lay their grasp on my 
 estates. 
 
 To swell the vast domains which now they 
 hold. 
 
 The selfsame lust of conquest, that would 
 rob 
 
 You of your liberty, endangers mine. 
 
 Oh, friend, I'm marked for sacrifice — to 
 be 
 
 The guerdon of some parasite, perchance! 
 
 They'E drag me hence to the imperial 
 court, 
 
 That hateful haunt of falsehood and 
 intrigue. 
 
 And marriage bonds I loathe await me 
 there. 
 
 Love, love alone, — your love, — can res- 
 cue me. 
 Rtjdbnz. And thou couldst be content, 
 love, to live here; 
 
 In my own native land to be my own? 
 
 Oh, Bertha, all the yearnings of my soul 
 
 For this great world and its tumultuous 
 strife. 
 
 What were they, but a yearning after thee? 
 
 In glory's path I sought for thee alone. 
 
 And all my thirst of fame was only love. 
 
 But if in this calm vale thou canst abide 
 
 With me, and bid earth's pomps and pride 
 adieu. 
 
 Then is the goal of my ambition won; 
 ; And the rough tide of the tempestuous 
 world 
 
 May dash and rave around these firm-set 
 hills! 
 
 No wandering wishes more have I to send 
 
 Forth to the busy scene that stirs beyond. 
 
 Then may these rocks, that girdle us, ex- 
 tend 
 
 Their giant walls impenetrably round. 
 
 And this sequestered, happy vale alone 
 
 Look up to heaven, and be my paradise! 
 Bebtha. Now, art thou aU my fancy 
 dreamed of thee. 
 
 My trust has not been given to thee in vain. 
 RuDBNZ. Away, ye idle phantoms of my 
 . folly; 
 
 In mine own home I'll find my happiness. 
 
 Here, where the gladsome boy to manhood 
 grew, 
 
 Where every brook, and tree, and moun- 
 tain peak, 
 
670 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Teems with remembrances of happy hovirs, 
 In mine own native land thou wUt be mine. 
 Ah, I have ever loved it weU, I feel 
 How poor without it were aU earthly joys. 
 Bertha. Where should we look for 
 
 happiness on earth, 
 If not in this dear land of innocence? 
 Here, where old truth hath its familiar 
 
 home, 
 Where fraud and guUe are strangers, envy 
 
 never 
 ShaU dim the sparkling fountain of our 
 
 And ever bright the horn's shall over us 
 
 glide. 
 There do I see thee, in true manly worth. 
 The foremost of the free and of thy peers, 
 Revered with homage pxire and uncon- 
 strained, 
 Wielding a power that kings might envy 
 
 thee. 
 RuDBNz. And thee I see, thy sex's 
 
 crowning gem. 
 With thy sweet woman's grace and wake- 
 ful love. 
 Building a heaven for me within my home, 
 And, as the springtime scatters forth her 
 
 flowers. 
 Adorning with thy charms my path of life. 
 And spreading joy and sunshine aU around. 
 Bertha. And this it was, dear friend, 
 
 that caused my grief, 
 To see thee blast this life's supremest bliss 
 With thine own hand. Ah! What had 
 
 been my fate. 
 Had I been forced to foUow some proud 
 
 lord. 
 Some ruthless despot, to his gloomy keep! 
 Here are no keeps, here are no bastioned 
 
 walls 
 To part me from a people I can bless. 
 RuDENZ. Yet, how to free myself; to 
 
 loose the coils 
 Which I have madly twined around my 
 
 head? 
 Bebtha. Tear them asunder with a 
 
 man's resolve. 
 Whate'er ensue, firm by thy people stand! 
 It is thy post by birth. 
 
 [Hunting-horns are heard in the 
 distance.] 
 But hark! The chase! 
 
 Farewell — 't is needful we should part — 
 
 away! 
 Fight for thy land; thou fightest for thy 
 
 love. 
 One foe fills all our souls with dread; the 
 
 blow 
 That makes one free, emancipates us all. 
 [Exeunt severally.] 
 
 SceneIII: A meadow near Altdorf. Trees 
 in the foreground. At the back of the stage 
 a cap upon a pole. The prospect is bounded 
 by the Bannberg, which is surmounted by a 
 snow-capped mountain. 
 
 [Frtbsshabdt and Letjthold on guard.] 
 
 Fkiesshardt. We keep our watch in 
 
 vain. Zounds! not a soul 
 Will pass and do obeisance to the cap. 
 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. 
 LEtTTHOu). Only the vUest rabble show 
 
 themselves 
 And wave their tattered caps in mockery 
 
 at us. 
 AU honest citizens would sooner make 
 A weary circuit over haK the town, 
 Than bend their backs before our master's 
 
 cap. 
 Fbiesshardt. They were obliged to 
 
 pass this way at noon, 
 As they were coming from the Council 
 
 House. 
 I counted then upon a famous catch, 
 For no one thought of bowing to the cap. 
 But Rossehnann, the priest, was even with 
 
 me: 
 Coming just then from some sick man, he 
 
 taJies 
 His stand before the pole — lifts up the 
 
 Host — 
 The Sacrist, too, must tinkle with bis 
 
 beU — 
 When down they dropped on knee — my- 
 self and all — 
 In reverence to the Host, but not the cap. 
 Leuthold. Hark ye, companion, I've 
 
 a shrewd suspicion, 
 Our post's no better than the pillory. 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 671 
 
 It is a burning shame, a trooper should 
 Stand sentinel before an empty cap, 
 And every honest fellow must despise us. 
 To do obeisance to a cap, too! Faith, 
 I never heard an order so absurd! 
 Fribsshardt. Why not, an't please you, 
 to an empty cap? 
 You've ducked, I'm sure, to many an 
 empty sconce. 
 
 [Enter Hildegaed, Mechthiu), and Els- 
 BBTH with their children, and station 
 themselves around the pole.] 
 
 Leuthold. -And you are a time-serving 
 sneak, that takes 
 Dehght in bringing honest folks to harm. 
 For my part, he that hkes may pass the 
 
 cap — 
 I'll shut my eyes and take no note of him. 
 Mechthild. There hangs the Viceroy! 
 
 Your obeisance, children! 
 
 Elsbeth. I would to God he'd go, and 
 
 leave his cap! 
 
 The country would be none the worse for it. 
 
 Friesshakdt [driving them away]. Out 
 
 of the way! Confounded pack of 
 
 Who sent for you? Go, send your husbands 
 
 here. 
 If they have courage to defy the order. 
 
 [Enter Tell with his crossbow, leading his 
 son Walter hy the hand. They pass 
 the hat without noticing it, and advance 
 to the front of the stage.] 
 
 Walter [poiniing to the Bannberg]. 
 Father, is't true that on the moun- 
 tain there 
 The trees, if wounded with a hatchet, 
 bleed? 
 Tell. Who says so, boy? 
 Walter. The master herdsman, father! 
 He teUs us there's a charm upon the 
 
 trees, 
 And if a man shall injure them, the hand 
 That struck the blow wiH grow from out 
 the grave. 
 Tell. There is a charm about them — 
 that's the truth. 
 Dost see those glaciers yoifder — those 
 
 white horns — 
 That seem to melt away into the sky? 
 
 Walter. They are the peaks that 
 thunder so at night, 
 And send the avalanches down upon us. 
 Tell. They are; and Altdorf long ago 
 had been 
 Submerged beneath these avalanches' 
 
 weight. 
 Did not the forest there above the town 
 Stand like a bulwark to arrest their fall. 
 Walter [after musing a little]. And are 
 there countries with no mountains, 
 father? 
 Tell. Yes, if we travel downward from 
 our heights. 
 And keep descending where the rivers 
 
 go. 
 We reach a wide and level country, where 
 Our moimtain torrents brawl and foam no 
 
 more. 
 And fair large rivers gl'de serenely on. 
 All quarters of the heaven may there be 
 
 scanned 
 Without impediment. The corn grows 
 
 there 
 In, broad and lovely fields, and all the 
 
 land 
 Is like a garden fair to look upon. 
 Walter. But, father, tell me, where- 
 fore haste we not 
 Away to this delightful land, instead 
 Of toiling here, and struggUng as we do? 
 Tell. The land is fair and bountiful as 
 heaven; 
 But they who till it never may enjoy 
 The fruits of what they sow. 
 
 Walter. Live they not free. 
 As you do, on the land their fathers left 
 them? 
 Tell. The fields are aU the bishop's or 
 
 the King's. 
 Walter. But they may freely hunt 
 
 among the woods? 
 Tell. The game is all the monarch's — 
 
 bird and beast. 
 Walter. But they, at least, may 
 
 surely fish the streams? 
 Tell. Stream, lake, and sea, all to the 
 
 King belong. 
 Wamteb. Who is this King, of whom 
 
 they're so afraid? 
 Tell. He is the man who fosters and 
 protects them. 
 
672 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Walter. Have they not courage to pro- 
 tect themselves? 
 Tell. The neighbor there dare not his 
 
 neighbor trust. 
 Walter. I should want breathing- 
 room in such a land. 
 I 'd rather dwell beneath the avalanches. 
 Tell. 'T is better, child, to have these 
 glacier peaks 
 Behind one's back, than evil-minded men! 
 [Tkey are about to pass on.] 
 Walter. See, father, see the cap on 
 
 yonder pole! 
 Tell. What is the cap to us? Come, 
 let's begone. 
 
 [As he is going, Fribsshabdt, pre- 
 senting his pike, stops him.] 
 Fbiesshardt. Stand, I command you, 
 
 in the Emperor's name! 
 Tell [seizing the pike]. What would ye? 
 
 Wherefore do ye stop me thus? 
 Fribsshardt. You've broke the man- 
 date, and with us must go. 
 Leitthold. You have not done obeis- 
 ance to the cap. 
 Tell. Friend, let me go. 
 Friesshardt. Away, away to prison! 
 Walter. Father to prison! Help! 
 
 [Calling to the side scene.] 
 This way, you men! 
 
 Good people, help! They're dragging him 
 to prison! 
 
 [Enter RosselmajnW the Priest, and t e 
 Sacristan, with three other men.] 
 
 Sacristan. What's here amiss? 
 Rossblmann. Why do you seize this 
 
 man? i 
 
 Friesshardt. He is an enemy of the 
 
 King — a traitor. 
 Tell [seizing him with violence]. A 
 
 traitor, I! 
 RSssELMANN. Friend, thou art wrong. 
 
 'T is Tell, 
 An honest man, and worthy citizen. 
 Walter [descries FtfRST and runs up to 
 
 him]. Grandfather, help; they want 
 
 to seize my father! 
 Friesshardt. Away to prison! 
 FtJRST [running in]. Stay, I offer bail. — 
 For God's sake. Tell, what is the matter 
 
 here? 
 
 [Enter Melchthal and Statjppacher.] 
 
 Leuthold. He has contemned the 
 Viceroy's sovereign power. 
 Refusing flatly to acknowledge it. 
 Stauffacher. Has Tell done this? 
 Melchthal. Villain, you know 't ia 
 
 false! 
 Leuthold. He has not made obeisance 
 
 to the cap. 
 FtJRST. And shall for this to prison? — 
 Come, my friend, 
 Take my security, and let him go. 
 Friesshardt. Keep your security for 
 yourself — you'll need it. 
 We only do our duty. — Hence with him! 
 Melchthal [to the country people]. This 
 is too bad! Shall we stand by and 
 see 
 Him' dragged away before our very eyes? 
 Sacristan. We are the strongest. 
 Friends, endure it not. 
 Our countrymen will back us to a man. 
 Friesshardt. Who dares resist the 
 
 Governor's commands? 
 Other three Peasants [running in]. 
 We'U help you. What's the matter? 
 Down with them! 
 
 [Hjldegard, Mechthild, and 
 Elsbeth return.] 
 Tell. Go, go, good people; I can help 
 myself. 
 Think you, had I a mind to use my 
 
 strength. 
 These pikes of theirs should daunt me? 
 Mechthild [to Fbiesshardt]. Only 
 try — 
 Try from our midst to force him, if you 
 dare! 
 FtJRST AND Stauffacher. Peace, peace, 
 
 friends! 
 Fmbsshardt [loudly]. Riot! Insurrec- 
 tion, ho! [Hunting-horns withovi.] 
 Women. The Governor! 
 Friesshardt [raising his voice]. Rebel- 
 
 Uon! Mutiny! 
 Stauffacher. Roar till you burst, 
 knave! 
 
 ROSSELMANN AND MeLCHTHAL. Will 
 
 you hold your tongue? 
 Friesshardt [calling stiU huder]. Help, 
 help, I say, the servants of the lawl 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 673 
 
 FtJKST. The Viceroy here! Then we 
 shall smart for this! 
 
 [Enter Gess^eb on horseback, vjith a falcon 
 on his wrist; Ettdolph der Habeas, 
 Bebtha, and Rtjdenz, and a numerous 
 train of armed attendants, who form a 
 circle of lances round the whole stage.] 
 
 Habbas. Room for the Viceroy! 
 Gesslek. Drive the clowns apart. 
 Why throng the people thus? Who calls 
 for help? [General silence.] 
 
 Who was it? I will know. 
 
 [Fbiesshabdt steps forward.] 
 And who art thou? 
 
 And why hast thou this man in custody? 
 [Gives his falcon to an attendant.] 
 Fbiesshabdt. Dread sir, I am a soldier 
 of your guard, 
 And stationed sentinel beside the cap. 
 This man I apprehended in the act 
 Of passing it without obeisance due; 
 So, as you ordered, I arrested him. 
 Whereon to rescue him the people tried. 
 GESSiiER [after a pause]. And do you, 
 Tell, so lightly hold your King, 
 And me, who act as his viceregent here. 
 That you refuse obeisance to the cap 
 I hung aloft to test your loyalty? 
 I read in this a disaffected spirit. 
 
 Tell. Pardon me, good my lord! The 
 action sprang 
 From inadvertence — not from disrespect. 
 Were I discreet, I were not WilUam Tell. 
 Forgive me now — I'll not offend again. 
 Gesslee [after a pause]. I hear. Tell, 
 you're a master with the bow — 
 From every rival bear the pahn away. 
 Walteb. That's very truth, sir! At a 
 hundred yards 
 He'U shoot an apple for you off the tree. 
 Gesslek. Is that boy thine, TeU? 
 Tell. Yes, my gracious lord. 
 Gessleb. Hast any more of them? 
 Tell. Two boys, my lord. 
 Gessleb. And, of the two, which dost 
 
 thou love the most? 
 Tell. Sir, both the boys are dear to me 
 
 alike. 
 Gessleb. Then, Tell, since at a hundred 
 yards thou canst 
 
 Bring down the apple from the tree, thou 
 
 shalt 
 Approve thy skill before me. Take thy 
 
 bow — 
 Thou hast it there at hand — make ready, 
 
 then. 
 To shoot an apple from the stripling's 
 
 head! 
 But take this counsel — look well to thine 
 
 . aim. 
 See that thou hit'st the apple at the first, 
 For, shouldst thou miss, thy head shall 
 
 pay the forfeit. 
 
 [All give signs of horror.] 
 Tell. What monstrous thing, my lord, 
 
 is this you ask? 
 What, from the head of mine own child! 
 
 — No, no! 
 It cannot be, kind sir; you meant not 
 
 that — 
 God, in his grace, forbid! You could not 
 
 ask 
 A father seriously to do that thing! 
 Gessleb. Thou art to shoot an apple 
 
 from his head! 
 I do desire — command it so. 
 
 Tell. What, I! 
 Level my crossbow at the darling head 
 Of mine own chUd? No — rather let me 
 
 die! 
 Gessleb. Or thou must shoot, or with 
 
 thee dies the boy. 
 Tell. Shall. I become the murderer of 
 
 my child? 
 You have no children, sir, — you do not 
 
 know 
 The tender throbbings of a father's heart. 
 Gessleb. How now, TeU, on a sudden 
 
 so discreet? 
 I had been told thou wert a visionary — 
 A wanderer from the paths of common 
 
 men. 
 Thou lovest the marvelous. So have I 
 
 now 
 
 Culled out for thee a task of special daring. 
 
 Another man might pause and hesitate — 
 
 Thou dashest at it, heart and soul, at once. 
 
 Bebtha. Oh, do not jest, my lord, with 
 
 these poor souls! 
 See, how they tremble, and how pale they 
 
 look. 
 So little used are they to hear thee jest. 
 
674 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Gbssler. Who teUs thee that I jest? 
 [Grasping a branch above his head.] 
 Here is the apple. 
 Room there, I say! And let him take his 
 
 distance — 
 Just eighty paces — as the custom is — 
 Not an inch more or less! It was his boast, 
 That at a hundred he could hit his man. — 
 Now, archer, to your task, and look you 
 
 miss not! 
 Harras. Heavens! This grows serious. 
 
 — Down, boy, on yom- knees, 
 And beg the Governor to spare your life. 
 FxJBST [aside to Melchthal, who can 
 
 scarcely restrain his indignation]. 
 
 Command yourself! — Be calni, I 
 
 beg of you! 
 Bertha [to the Governor]. Let this suflfice 
 
 you, sir! It is inhuman 
 To trifle with a father's anguish thus. 
 Although this wretched man had forfeited 
 Both life and limb for such a sUght offense, 
 Aheady has he suffered tenfold death. 
 Send him away uninjured to his home; 
 He'll know thee well in future; and this 
 
 hour 
 He and his children's children will re- 
 member. 
 Gessler. Open a way there — quick! 
 
 Why this delay? — 
 Thy life is forfeited; I might dispatch thee. 
 And see, I graciously repose thy fate 
 Upon the skiU of thine own practiced 
 
 hand. — 
 No cause has he to say his doom is harsh 
 Who's made the master of his destiny. — 
 Thou boastest thine unerring aim. 'T is 
 
 weU! 
 Now is the fitting time to show thy skill; 
 The mark is worthy and the prize is great. 
 To hit the bull's-eye in the target — that 
 Can many another do as well as thou; — 
 But he, methinks, is master of his craft. 
 Who can at all times on his skill rely. 
 Nor lets his heart disturb or eye or hand. 
 FtJRST. My lord, we bow to your 
 
 authority; 
 But oh, let justice yield to mercy here! 
 Take half my property, nay, take it all. 
 But spare a father this unnatural doom! 
 Walter. Grandfather, do not kneel to 
 
 that bad man! 
 
 Say, where am I to stand? I do not fear; 
 My father strikes the bird upon the wing, 
 And win not miss now when 't would harm 
 his boy! 
 Stauffacher. Does the child's inno- 
 cence not touch your heart? 
 RossEiiMANN. Bethink you, sir, there is 
 a God in heaven. 
 To whom you must account for all your 
 deeds. 
 Gessker {pointing to the boy]. Bind him 
 
 to yonder lime tree! 
 Walter. What! Bind me? 
 No, I will not be bound! I will be still — 
 Still as a lamb — nor even draw my breath ! 
 But if you bind me, I cannot be stiU. 
 Then I shall writhe and struggle with my 
 bonds. 
 Harras. But let yoiu: eyes at least be 
 
 bandaged, boy! 
 
 Walter. And why my eyes? No! Do 
 
 you think I fear 
 
 An arrow from my father's hand? Not I! 
 
 I 'U wait it firmly, nor so much as wink! — 
 
 Quick, father, show them what thy bow 
 
 can do. 
 He doubts thy skill — he thinks to ruin us. 
 Shoot, then, and hit, though but to spite 
 the tyrant! 
 
 [He goes to the lime tree, and an 
 apple is placed on his head.] 
 Melchthal [to the country people]. 
 What! Is this outrage to be per- 
 petrated 
 Before our very eyes? Where is our oath? 
 Stauffachbr. Resist we caimot! 
 Weapons we have none. 
 And see the wood of lances round us! See! 
 Melchthal. Oh, would to Heaven that 
 we had struck at once! 
 God pardon those who counseled the delay! 
 Gessler [to Tell]. Now, to your task! 
 Men bear not arms for naught. 
 To carry deadly tools is dangerous, 
 And on the archer oft his shaft recoils. 
 This right, these haughty peasant churls 
 
 assume. 
 Trenches upon their master's privileges: 
 None should be armed but those who bear 
 
 command. — 
 It pleases you to carry bow and bolt — 
 Well, be it so. I will prescribe the mark. 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 675 
 
 Tell \bends thehov), and fixes the arrow]. 
 
 A lane there! Room! 
 STAtTFFACHBR. What, Tell? You would 
 — no, no! 
 You shake — your hand's unsteady — 
 your knees tremble. 
 Tell [letting the how sink dovm]. There's 
 something swims before mine eyes! 
 Women. Great Heaven! 
 Tell. Release me from this shot! Here 
 is my heart! [Tears open his breast.] 
 Summon your troopers — let them strike 
 me down! 
 Gbssler. 'T is not thy life I want — I 
 want the shot. 
 Thy talent's universal! Nothing daunts 
 
 thee! 
 The rudder thou canst handle like the bow! 
 No storms affright thee, when a life's at 
 
 stake. 
 Now, savior, help thyself — thou savest 
 all! 
 
 [Tell stands fearfully agitated by 
 contending emotions, his hands 
 moving convulsively, and his eyes 
 turning alternately to the Gov- 
 ernor and to heaven. Suddenly 
 he takes a second arrow from his 
 quiver, and sticks it in his belt. 
 The Governor notes all he does.] 
 Wai/tbr [beneath the lime tree]. Shoot, 
 
 father, shoot! Fear not! 
 Tell. It must be! 
 
 [Collects himself and levels the bow.] 
 RuDENZ [who all the while has been 
 standing in a state of violent excite- 
 ment, and has with difficulty re- 
 strained himself, advances]. My 
 lord, you will not urge this matter 
 further; 
 You will not. It was surely but a test. 
 You've gained your object. Rigor pushed 
 
 too far 
 Is sure to miss its aim, however good, 
 As snaps the bow that's aU too straitly 
 bent. 
 Gessleb. Peace, tiU your counsel 's 
 
 asked for! 
 RuDENZ. I will speak! 
 Aye, and I dare! I reverence my King; 
 But acts like these must make his name 
 abhorred. 
 
 He sanctions not this cruelty. I dare 
 Avouch the fact. And you outstep your 
 
 powers 
 In handling thus my harmless country- 
 men. 
 Gessleb. Ha! Thou grow'st bold, me- 
 
 thinks! 
 Rtjdbnz. I have been dumb 
 To all the oppressions I was doomed to see. 
 I've closed mine eyes to shut them from 
 
 my view. 
 Bade my rebellious, sweUing heart be still, 
 And pent its struggles down within my 
 
 breast. 
 But to be silent longer were to be 
 A traitor to my King and country both. 
 Bebtha [casting herself between him and 
 
 the Governor]. Oh, Heavens! You 
 
 but exasperate his rage! 
 Rtjdenz. My people I foisook — re- 
 nounced my kindred — 
 Broke aU the ties of nature, that I might 
 Attach myself to you. I madly thought 
 That I should best advance the general 
 
 weal 
 By adding sinews to the Emperor's power. 
 The scales have fallen from mine eyes — I 
 
 see 
 The fearful precipice on which I stand. 
 You've led my youthful judgment far 
 
 astray — 
 Deceived my honest heart. With best 
 
 intent, 
 I had well-nigh achieved my country's ruin. 
 Gessler. Audacious boy, this language 
 
 to thy lord? 
 Rtidbnz. The Emperor is my lord, not 
 
 you! I'm free 
 As you by birth, and I can cope with you 
 In every virtue that beseems a knight. 
 And if you stood not here in that King's 
 
 name, 
 Which I respect e'en where 't is most 
 
 abused, 
 I'd throw my gauntlet down, and you 
 
 should give 
 An answer to my gage in knightly sort. 
 Aye, beckon to your troopers! Here I 
 
 stand; 
 But not like these [pointing to the people] — 
 
 unarmed. I have a sword, 
 And he that stirs one step — 
 
676 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 SiAurFACHER [exclaims]. The apple's 
 down! 
 
 [While the attention of the crowd 
 has been directed to the spot 
 where Bbetha had cast herself 
 between Rudenz and Gbsslbr, 
 Tell has shot.] 
 RossELMANN. The boy's alive! 
 Many Voices. The apple has been 
 struck! 
 
 [Wai/ter Furst staggers and is 
 about to fall. Bertha supports 
 him.] 
 Gessler [astonished]. How? Has he 
 
 shot? The madman! 
 Bertha. Worthy father! 
 Pray you, compose yourself. The boy's 
 alive. 
 Walter [runs in with the apple]. Here is 
 the apple, father! Well I knew 
 You would not harm your boy! 
 
 [Tell stands with his body bent 
 forward, as if still following the 
 arrow. His bow drops from his 
 hand. When he sees the boy ad- 
 vancing, he hastens to meet him 
 with open arms, and embracing 
 him, passionately sinks down 
 with him quite exhausted. AU 
 crowd round them deeply af- 
 fected.] 
 Bertha. Oh, ye kind Heavens! 
 FtJRST [to father and son]. My children, 
 
 my dear children! 
 Statjffacher. God be praised! 
 Leuthold. Almighty powers! That 
 was a shot, indeed! 
 It will be talked of to the end of time. 
 Harras. This feat of Tell, the archer, 
 will be told 
 Long as these mountains stand upon their 
 base. [Hands the apple to Gessler.] 
 Gessler. By Heaven! The apple's 
 cleft right through the core. 
 It was a master shot, I must allow. 
 RossELMANN. The shot was good. But 
 woe to him who drove 
 The man to tempt his God by such a 
 feat! 
 Staupfacher. Cheer up. Tell, — rise! 
 You 've nobly freed yourseljf, 
 And now may go in quiet to your home. 
 
 RossELMANN. Come, to the mother let 
 us bear her son! 
 
 [They are about to lead him off.] 
 Gessler. A word. Tell. 
 Tell. Sir, your pleasure? 
 Gessler. Thou didst place 
 A second arrow in thy belt — nay, nay! 
 I saw it well. Thy purpose with it? Speak! 
 Tell [confused]. It is a custom with aU 
 
 archers, sir. 
 Gessler. No, Tell, I cannot let that 
 answer pass. 
 There was some other motive, well I know. 
 Frankly and cheerfully confess the truth : — 
 Whate'er it be, I promise thee thy Ufe. 
 Wherefore the second arrow? 
 
 Tell. Well, my lord. 
 Since you have promised not to take my 
 
 life, 
 I wUl, without reserve, declare the truth. 
 [He draws the arrow from his belt, 
 and fixes his eyes sternly upon 
 the Governor.] 
 If that my hand had struck my darling chUd, 
 This second arrow I had aimed at you. 
 And, be assured, I should not then have 
 
 Gessler. WeU, Tell, I promised thou 
 
 shouldst have thy life; 
 
 I gave my knightly word, and I wiU keep it. 
 
 Yet, as I know the maUce of thy thoughts, 
 
 I'll have thee carried hence, and safely 
 
 penned. 
 Where neither sun nor moon shall reach 
 
 thine eyes. 
 Thus from thy arrows I shall be secure. — 
 Seize on him, guards, and bind him! 
 
 [They bind him.] 
 Stauppacher. How, my lord — 
 How can you treat in such a way a man 
 On whom God's hand has plainly been 
 revealed? 
 Gessler. Well, let us see if it wiU save 
 him twice! 
 Remove him to my ship; I'll follow 
 
 straight. 
 At Kussnacht I will see him safely lodged. 
 RossELMANN. You dare not do 't. Nor 
 durst the Emperor's self 
 So violate our dearest chartered rights. 
 Gessler. Where are they? Has the 
 Emp'ror confirmed them? 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 677 
 
 He never has. And only by obedience 
 May you that favor hope to win from 
 
 him. 
 You are all rebels 'gainst the Emp'ror's 
 
 power — 
 And bear a desperate and rebellious spirit. 
 I know you all — I see you through and 
 
 through. 
 Him do I single from among you now, 
 But in his guilt you all participate. 
 If you are wise, be silent and obey! 
 
 [Exit, followed by Bertha, Rtj- 
 DENz, Habras, and attendants. 
 Friesshabdt and LeuthoiiD 
 remain.] 
 PBbst [in violent anguish]. All's over 
 now! He is resolved to bring 
 Destruction on myself and all my house. 
 Statjffachee [to Tell]. Oh, why did 
 
 you provoke the tyrant's rage? 
 Tell. Let him be calm who feels the 
 
 pangs I felt. 
 STAtrFPACHER. Alas! alas! Our every 
 hope is gone. 
 With you we aU are fettered and enchained. 
 CoTTNTRT People [surrounding Tell]. 
 Our last remaining comfort goes 
 with you! 
 Leuthold [approaching him]. I'm sorry 
 
 for you. Tell, but must obey. 
 Tell. Farewell! 
 
 Walter Tell [clinging to him in great 
 agony]. O father, father, father, 
 dear! 
 Tell [pointing to heaven]. Thy Father is 
 
 on high — apptal to Him! 
 Staitpfacher. Have you no message. 
 
 Tell, to send your wife? 
 Tell [clasping the boy passionately to his 
 breast]. The boy's uninjured; God 
 will succor me! 
 
 [Tears himself suddenly away, and 
 follows the soldiers of the guard.] 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene I: Eastern shore of the Lake of 
 Lmcerne; rugged and singularly shaped rocks 
 dose the prospect to the west. The lake is 
 agitated, violent roaring and rushing of wind, 
 with thunder and lightning at intervals. 
 
 [Enter Kunz of Geesatt, Fisherman and 
 Boy.] 
 
 Kunz. I saw it with these eyes! Be- 
 lieve me, friend. 
 It happened all precisely as I've said. 
 Fisherman. How! Tell a prisoner, and 
 to Ktissnacht borne? 
 The best man in the land, the bravest arm, 
 Had we for hberty to strike a blow! 
 Kunz. The Viceroy takes >iim up the 
 lake in person: 
 They were about to go on board as I 
 Started from Fliielen; but the gathering 
 
 storm, 
 That drove me here to land so suddenly, 
 May well have hindered them from setting 
 out. 
 Fisherman. Our Tell in chains, and in 
 the Viceroy's power! 
 Oh, trust me, Gessler will entomb him, 
 
 where 
 He never more shall see the light of day; 
 For, TeU onqp free, the tyrant well might 
 
 dread 
 The just revenge of one so deeply wronged. 
 Kunz. The old Landamman, too, — 
 Von Attinghaus, — 
 They say, is lying at the point of death. 
 Fisherman. Then the last anchor of 
 our hopes gives way! 
 He was the only man that dared to raise 
 His voice in favor of the people's rights. 
 Kunz. The storm grows worse and 
 worse. So, fare ye well! 
 I'll go and seek out quarters in the village. 
 There 's not a chance of getting off to-day. 
 
 [Emt.] 
 
 Fisherman. Tell dragged to prison, and 
 
 the Baron dead! 
 
 Now, Tyranny, exalt thy brazen front — 
 
 Throw every shame aside! Truth's voice 
 
 is dumb! 
 The eye that watched for us, in darkness 
 
 closed. 
 The arm that should have struck thee 
 down, in chains! 
 BoT. 'T is hailing hard — come, let us 
 to the hut! 
 This is no weather to be out in, father! 
 Fisherman. Rage on, ye winds! Ye 
 lightnings, flash your fires! 
 
678 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Burst ye, swollen clouds! Ye cataracts of 
 
 heaven, 
 Descend, and drown the country! In the 
 
 germ- 
 Destroy the generations yet unborn! 
 Ye savage elements, be lords of all! 
 Return, ye bears; ye ancient wolves, retinrn 
 To this wide, howling waste! The land is 
 
 yours. 
 Who would Uve here, when hberty is gone? 
 Boy. Hark! How the wind whistles, 
 
 and the whirlpool roars! . 
 I never saw a storm so fierce as this! 
 Fisherman. To level at the head of his 
 
 own child! 
 Never had father such command before. 
 And shall not Nature, rising in wild wrath. 
 Revolt against the deed? I should not 
 
 marvel, . 
 Though to the lakes these rocks should bow 
 
 their heads. 
 Though yonder pinnacles, yon towers of 
 
 ice, 
 That, since creation's dawn have known no 
 
 thaw, 
 Should, from their lofty summits, melt 
 
 away — 
 Though yonder mountains, yon primeval 
 
 cliffs, I 
 
 Should topple down, and a new deluge 
 
 whelm 
 Beneath its waves all living men's abodes! 
 
 [Bells heard.] 
 BoT. Hark! They are ringing on the 
 
 mountain, yonder! 
 They surely see some vessel in distress. 
 And toll the bell that we may pray for it. 
 [Ascends a rock.] 
 Fisherman. Woe to the bark that now 
 
 pursues its course. 
 Rocked in the cradle of these storm-tossed 
 
 waves! 
 Nor hehn nor steersman here can aught 
 
 avail ; 
 The storm is master. Man is like a ball. 
 Tossed 'twixt the winds and billows. Far 
 
 or near. 
 No haven offers him its friendly shelter! 
 Without one ledge to grasp, the sheer 
 
 smooth rocks 
 Look down inhospitably on his despair, 
 And only tender him their flinty breasts. 
 
 Boy [calling from above]. Father, a ship: 
 
 from Fltielen bearing down. 
 Fisherman. Heaven pity the poor 
 
 wretches! When the storm 
 Is once entangled in this strait of ours, 
 It rages like some savage beast of prey, 
 Struggling against its cage's iron bars! 
 Howling, it seeks an outlet — all in vain; 
 For the rocks hedge it round on every side, 
 Walling the narrow gorge as high as heaven. 
 [He ascends a cliff.] 
 Boy. It is the Governor of Uri's ship; 
 By its red poop I know it, and the flag. 
 Fisherman. Judgments of Heaven! Yes, 
 
 it is he himself. 
 It is the Governor! Yonder he sails, 
 And with him bears the burden of his 
 
 crimes. 
 The avenger's arm has not been slow to 
 
 strike! 
 Now over him he knows a mightier lord, i 
 These waves yield no obedience to his.voice. 
 These rocks bow not their heads before his 
 
 cap. 
 Boy, do not pray; stay not the Judge's 
 
 arm! 
 Boy. I pray not for the Governor, I 
 
 pray 
 For TeU, who 's with him there on board 
 
 the ship. 
 Fisherman. Alas, ye blind, unreasoning 
 
 elements! 
 Must ye, in punishing one guilty head, 
 Destroy the vessel and the pilot too? 
 Boy. Seey see, they've cleared the Bug- 
 
 gisgrat; but upw 
 The blast, rebounding from the Devil's 
 
 Minster, 
 Has driven them back on the Great Axen- 
 
 berg. 
 I cannot see them now. 
 
 FishiSrman. The Hakmesser 
 Is there, that's foundered many a gallant 
 
 ship. 
 If they should fail to double that with skill, 
 Their bark wiU go to pieces on the rocks 
 That hide their jagged peaks below the 
 
 lake. 
 The best of pilots, boy, they have on board. 
 If man could save them, TeU is just the 
 
 man. 
 But he is manacled both hand and foot. 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 679 
 
 [Enter Tell, with his crossbow. He enters 
 precipitately, looks wildly round, and 
 testifies the most violent agitation. 
 When he reaches the center of the stage, 
 he throws himself upon his knees, 
 stretching out his hands, first toward the 
 earth, and then toward heaven.] 
 
 Boy [observing him]. See, father! A 
 man on's knees; who can it be? 
 
 Fisherman. He clutches at the earth 
 with both his hands, 
 And looks as though he were beside him- 
 self. 
 
 BoT [advancing]. What do I see? Come, 
 father, come and look! 
 
 Fisherman [approaches]. Who is it? 
 God in heaven! What! Tell! 
 How came you hither? Speak, Tell! 
 
 Boy. Were you not 
 In yonder ship, a prisoner, and in chains? 
 
 Fisherman. Were they not carrying 
 you to Ktissnacht, TeU? 
 
 Tell [rising]. I am released. 
 
 Fisherman and Boy. Released, oh, 
 miracle! 
 
 Boy. Whence came you here? 
 
 Tell. From yonder vessel! 
 
 Fisherman. What? 
 
 Boy. Where is the Viceroy? 
 
 Tell. Drifting on the waves. 
 
 Fisherman. Is it possible? But you! 
 How are you here? 
 How 'scaped you from your fetters and the 
 storm? 
 
 Tell. By God's most gracious provi- 
 dence. Attend. 
 
 Fisherman and Boy. Say on, say on! 
 
 Tell. You know what passed at Alt- 
 dorf. 
 
 Fisherman. I do — say on! 
 
 Tell. How I was seized and bound. 
 And ordered by the Governor to Ktiss- 
 nacht. 
 
 Fisherman. And how at Fluelen he em- 
 barked with you. 
 All this we know. Say, how have you 
 escaped? 
 
 Tell. I lay on deck, fast bound with 
 cords, disarmed. 
 In utter hopelessness. I did not think " 
 Again to see the gladsome light of day, 
 
 Nor the dear faces of my wife and boys. 
 And eyed disconsolate the waste of 
 waters — 
 Fisherman. Oh, wretched man! 
 Tell. Then we put forth; the Viceroy, 
 Rudolph der Hanas, and their suite. IVIy 
 
 bow 
 And quiver lay astern beside the helm; 
 And just as we had reached the corner, 
 
 near 
 The Little Axen, Heaven ordained it so 
 That from the Gotthardt's gorge, a hurri- 
 cane 
 Swept down upon us with such headlong 
 
 force 
 That every oarsman's heart within him 
 
 sank, 
 And all on board looked for a watery grave. 
 Then heard I one of the attendant train. 
 Turning to Gessler, in this wise accost him: 
 "You see our danger, and your own, my 
 
 lord. 
 And that we hover on the verge of death! 
 The boatmen there are powerless from fear. 
 Nor are they confident what course to take. 
 Now, here is TeU, a stout and fearless man. 
 And knows to steer with more than com- 
 mon s kill ; 
 How if we should avail ourselves of liim 
 In this emergency? " The Viceroy then 
 Addressed me thus; "If thou wilt under- 
 take 
 To bring us through this tempest safely, 
 
 TeU, 
 I might consent to free thee from thy 
 
 bonds." 
 I answered: "Yes, my lord; so help me God, 
 I'U see what can be done!" On this they 
 
 loosed 
 The cords that bound me, and I took my 
 
 place 
 Beside the helm, and steered as best I could. 
 Yet ever eyed my shooting gear askance. 
 And kept a watchful eye upon the shore. 
 To find some point where I might leap to 
 
 land: 
 And when I had descried a shelving crag. 
 That jutted, smooth atop into the lake — 
 Fisherman. I know it. At the foot of 
 the Great Axen; 
 So steep it looks, I never could have 
 dreamed 
 
68o 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 That from a boat a man could leap to it. 
 Tell. I bade the men to row with all 
 their force 
 Until we came before the shelving ledge. 
 For there, I said, the danger wiU be past! 
 Stoutly they pulled, and soon we neared 
 
 the point; 
 One prayer to God for his assisting grace, 
 And, straining every muscle, I brought 
 
 round 
 The vessel's stem close to the rocky waU; 
 Then snatching up my weapons, with a 
 
 bound 
 I swung myself upon the flattened shelf, 
 And with my feet thrust off, with all my 
 
 might, 
 The puny bark into the watery hell. 
 There let it drift about, as Heaven ordains! 
 Thus am I here, delivered from the might 
 Of the dread storm, and man's more dread- 
 ful still. 
 Fisherman. TeU, TeU, the Lord has 
 manifestly wrought 
 A miracle in thy behalf! I scarce 
 Can credit my own eyes. But tell me, now, 
 Whither you purpose to betake yourself? 
 For you will be in perU, should perchance 
 The Viceroy escape this tempest with his 
 hfe. 
 Tell. I heard him say, as I lay bound 
 on board. 
 At Brunnen he proposed to disembark. 
 And, crossing Schwytz, convey me to his 
 castle. 
 Fisherman. Means he to go by land? 
 Tell. So he intends. 
 Fisherman. Oh, then conceal yourself 
 
 without delay! 
 Not twice win Heaveji release you from 
 
 his grasp. 
 Tell. Which is the nearest way to Arth 
 
 and Kussnacht? 
 Fisherman. The public road leads by 
 the way of Steinen, 
 But there's a nearer road, and more re- 
 tired. 
 That goes by Lowerz, which my boy can 
 show you. 
 Tell [gives him his hand]. May Heaven 
 reward your kindness! Fare ye well. 
 [As he is going, he comes back.] 
 Did not you also take the oath at RootU? 
 
 I heard your name, methinks. 
 
 Fisherman. Yes, I was there. 
 And took the oath of the confederacy. 
 Tell. Then do me this one favor : speed 
 to Biirglen — 
 My wife is anxious at my absence — tell 
 
 her 
 That I am free, and in secure concealment. 
 Fisherman. But whither shall I tell her 
 
 you have fled? 
 Tell. You'll find her father with her, 
 and some more. 
 Who took the oath with you upon the 
 
 RootM; 
 Bid them be resolute, and strong of 
 
 heart — 
 For Tell is free and master of his arm; 
 They shall hear further news of me ere long. 
 Fisherman. What have you, then, in 
 
 view? Come, tell me frankly! 
 Tell. When once 't is done, 't will be 
 in every mouth. [Exit.] 
 
 Fisherman. Show him the way, boy. 
 Heaven be his support! 
 Whate'er he has resolved, he'U execute. 
 
 [Exit.] 
 
 Scene II: Baronial mansion of Atting- 
 hausen. 
 
 [The Baron upon a couch dying. Walter 
 FtJRST, Stauffacher, Melchthal, 
 and Batjmgarten attending round 
 him. Walter Tell kneeling before 
 the dying man.] 
 
 FtJRST. All now is over *ith him. He is 
 gone. 
 
 Stautfacher. He lies not like one dead. 
 The feather, see. 
 Moves on his lips! His sleep is very calm, 
 And on his features plays a placid smile. 
 [Baumgabtbn goes to the door and 
 speaks with some on^.^ 
 FiJRST. Who's there? 
 Batjmgarten [returning]. Tell's wife, 
 your daughter; she insists 
 That she must speak with you, and see her 
 boy. [Walter Tell rises.] 
 
 FtiRST. I who need comfort — can I 
 comfort her? 
 Does every sorrow center on my head? 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 68 1 
 
 ; Hed-wiq [forcing her way in]. Where is 
 my child? Unhand me! I must see 
 him. 
 Statjffacher. Becalm! Reflect, you're 
 
 in the house of death! 
 Hbdwig \falling upon her boy's neck]. 
 
 My Walter! Oh, he yet is mine! 
 Walter. Dear mother! 
 Hedwig. And is it surely so? Art thou 
 unhiui;? 
 
 [Gazing at him vjith anxioits terir 
 demess.] 
 And is it possible he aimed at thee? 
 How could he do it? Oh, he has no heart — 
 And he could wing an arrow at his child! 
 FtTKST. His soul was racked with an- 
 guish when he did it. 
 No choice was left Tii'tti but to shoot or die! 
 Hedwig. Oh, if he had a father's heart, 
 he would 
 Have sooner perished by a thousand 
 deaths! 
 Statjffacheb. You should be grateful 
 for God's gracious care. 
 That ordered things so well. 
 
 Hedwig. Can I forget 
 What might have been the issue? God of 
 
 Heaven, ' 
 Were I to hve for centuries, I still 
 Should see my boy tied up — his father's 
 
 mark — 
 And still the shaft would quiver in my 
 heart! 
 Melchthal. You know not how the 
 
 Viceroy taunted him! 
 Hedwig. Oh, ruthless heart of man! 
 Offend his pride, 
 And reason in his breast forsakes her 
 
 seat; 
 In his bund wrath he'U stake upon a cast 
 A child's existence and a mother's heart! 
 Baumgakten. Is then your husband's 
 fate not hard enough, 
 That you embitter it by such reproaches? 
 Have you ho feeling for his sufferings? 
 Hedwig [turning to him and gazing full 
 upon him]. Hast thou tears only 
 for thy friend's distress? 
 Say, where were you when he* — ray noble 
 
 Tell — 
 Was bound in chains? Where was your 
 friendship then? 
 
 The shameful wrong was done before your 
 
 eyes; 
 Patient you stood, and let your friend be 
 
 dragged. 
 Aye, from your very hands. Did ever Tell 
 Act thus to you? Did he stand whining by. 
 When on your heels the Viceroy's horsemen 
 
 And full before you roared the storm- 
 tossed lake? 
 
 Oh, not with idle tears his pity showed; 
 
 Into the boat he sprang, forgot his home. 
 
 His wife, his children, and deUvered thee! 
 FtJEST. It had been madness to attempt 
 his rescue. 
 
 Unarmed, and few in numbers as we were! 
 Hedwig [casting herself upon his bosom]. 
 Oh, father, and thou, too, hast lost 
 my Tell! 
 
 The country — all have lost him! All 
 lament 
 
 His loss; and, oh, how he must pine for us! 
 
 Heaven keep his soul from sinking to de- 
 spair! 
 
 No friend's consoling voice can penetrate 
 
 His dreary dungeon walls. Should he fall 
 sick! 
 
 Ah! In the vapors of the murky vault 
 
 He must fall sick. Even as the Alpine rose 
 
 Grows pale and withers in the swampy air. 
 
 There is no life for him, but in the sun. 
 
 And in the breath of heaven's fresh-blow- 
 ing airs. 
 
 Imprisoned! Liberty to him is breath; 
 
 He cannot hve in the rank dungeon air! 
 Staupfacheb. Pray you be calm! And 
 hand in hand we'll all 
 
 Combine to burst his prison doors. 
 Hedwig. He gone. 
 
 What have you power to do? While Tell 
 was free. 
 
 There stiH, indeed, was hope — weak in- 
 nocence 
 
 Had stiU a friend, and the oppressed a stay. 
 
 Tell saved you all! You cannot all com- 
 bined 
 
 Release him from his cruel prison bonds. 
 [The Baron wakes.] 
 Baumgakten. Hush, hush! He starts! 
 Attinghausbn [sitting up]. Where is 
 
 he? 
 Stattffacheh. Who? 
 
682 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 ATTlNGHAtrSBN. He leaves me — 
 In my last moments he abandons me. 
 Statjffachbr. He means his nephew. 
 
 Have they sent for him? 
 FiJBST. He has been summoned. — 
 Cheerly, sir! Take comfort! 
 He has found his heart at last, and is our 
 own. 
 Attinghatjsbn. Say, has he spoken for 
 
 his native land? 
 Stauppacher. Aye, like a hero! 
 Attinghausen. Wherefore comes he 
 not, 
 That he may take my blessing ere I die? 
 I feel my life fast ebbing to a close. 
 Staitpfacher. Nay, talk not thus, dear 
 sir! This last short sleep 
 Has much refreshed you, and your eye is 
 bright. 
 Attinghausen. Life is but pain, and 
 that has left me now; 
 My sufferings, like my hopes, have passed 
 
 away. 
 [Observing the Boy.] What boy is that? 
 
 FtJRST. Bless him. Oh, good my lord! 
 He is my grandson, and is fatherless. 
 
 [Hedwig kneels with the Boy he- 
 fore the dying man.] 
 Attinghattsen. And fatherless — I 
 leave you aU, aye, all! 
 Oh, wretched fate, that these old eyes 
 
 should see 
 My coimtry's ruin, as they close in death! 
 .Must I attain the utmost verge of hfe. 
 To feel my hopes go with me to the grave? 
 Stauppacher [to Furst]. Shall he de- 
 part 'mid grief and gloom like this? 
 Shall not his parting moments be illumed 
 By hope's inspiring beams? — My noble 
 
 lord. 
 Raise up your drooping spirit! We are not 
 Forsaken quite — past all dehverance. 
 Attinghausen. Who shall deHver you? 
 FtJRST. Ourselves. For know. 
 The cantons three are to each other pledged 
 To hunt the tyrants from the land. The 
 
 league 
 Has been concluded, and a sacred oath 
 Confirms our union. Ere another year 
 Begins its circling course, the blow shall 
 
 faU. 
 In a free land your ashes shall repose. 
 
 Attinghausen. The league concluded! 
 
 Is it really so? 
 Melchthal. On one day shall the 
 cantons rise together. 
 All is prepared to strike — and to this hour 
 The secret closely kept, though hundreds 
 
 share it; 
 The ground is hollow 'neath the tyrants' 
 
 feet; 
 Their days of rule axe numbered, and ere 
 
 long 
 No trace wiU of their hateful sway be left. 
 Attinghausen. Aye, but their castles, 
 
 how to master them? 
 Melchthal. On the same day they, 
 
 too, are doomed to faU. 
 Attinghausen. And are the nobles 
 
 parties to this league? 
 Stauppacher. We trust to their as- 
 sistance, should we need it; 
 As yet the peasantry alone have sworn. 
 Attinghausen [raising himself up in 
 great astonishment]. And have the 
 peasantry dared such a deed 
 On their own charge, without the nobles' 
 
 aid — 
 Relied so much on their own proper 
 
 strength? 
 Nay, then, indeed, they want our help no 
 
 more; 
 We may go down to death cheered by the 
 
 thought 
 That after us the majesty of man 
 Win Hve, and be maintained by other 
 hands. 
 
 [He lays his hand upon the head of 
 the Child who is kneeling before 
 him.] 
 From this boy's head, whereon the apple 
 
 lay, 
 Your new and better Uberty shaJl spring; 
 The old is crumbUng down — the times 
 
 are changing — 
 And from the ruins blooms a fairer hfe. 
 Stauppacher [to Ftjrst]. See, see, what 
 splendor streams around his eye! 
 This is not nature's last expiring flame, 
 It is the beam of renovated life. 
 Attinghausen. From their old towers 
 the nobles are descending. 
 And swearing in the towns the civic 
 oath. 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 683 
 
 In Uechtland and Thurgau the work's 
 
 begun; 
 The noble Berne lifts her commanding 
 
 head, 
 And Preyburg is a stronghold of the free; 
 The stirring Zurich calls her guilds to 
 
 arms — 
 And now, behold! — the ancient might of 
 
 kings 
 Is shivered 'gainst her everlasting walls. 
 
 [He speaks what follows with a 
 prophetic tone; his utterance ris- 
 ing into enthvMosm.] 
 I see the princes and their haughty peers. 
 Clad all ia steel, come striding on to crush 
 A harmless shepherd race with mailed 
 
 hand. 
 Desp'rate the conflict: 't is for life or 
 
 death; 
 And many a pass will teU to after years 
 Of glorious victories sealed in foemen's 
 
 blood. 
 The peasant throws himself with naked 
 
 breast, 
 A willing victim on their serried spears; 
 They yield — the flower of chivalry's cut 
 
 down. 
 And Freedom waves her conquering ban- 
 ner high. 
 
 [Grasps the hands of Walter 
 FtJBST and Stauffachbr.] 
 Hold fast together, then — forever fast! 
 Let freedom's haunts be one in heart and 
 
 mind! 
 Set watches on your mountain tops, that 
 
 league 
 May answer league, when comes the hour 
 
 to strike. 
 Be one — be one — be one — 
 
 [He falls back upon the cushion. 
 His lifeless hands continue to 
 grasp those of Furst and Statjp- 
 FACHER, who regard him for some 
 moments in silence, and then 
 retire, overcome with sorrow. 
 Meanwhile the servants have 
 quietly pressed into the chamber, 
 testifying different degrees of 
 grief. Some kneel down beside 
 him and weep on his body: while 
 this scene is passing, the castle 
 bell toUs.] 
 
 RuDENZ [entering hurriedly]. Lives he? 
 Oh, say, can he stiU hear my voice? 
 FtJRST [averting his face]. You are our 
 seignior and protector now; 
 
 Henceforth this castle bears another name. 
 RuDENZ [gazing at the body with deep 
 emotion]. OGod! Is my repentance, 
 then, too late? 
 
 Could he not Uve some few brief moments 
 more. 
 
 To see the change that has come o'er my 
 heart? 
 
 Oh, I was deaf to his 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 hiin — undis- 
 charged! 
 
 Oh, tell me ! Did he part in anger with me? 
 STArPFACHER. When djdhg, he was told 
 what you had done, 
 
 And blessed the valor that inspired your 
 words! 
 RuDBNZ [kneeling down beside the dead 
 body]. Yes, sacred relics of a man 
 beloved! 
 
 Thou lifeless corpse! Here, on thy death- 
 cold hand. 
 
 Do I abjure all foreign ties forever! 
 
 And to my coimtry's cause devote myself. 
 
 I am a Switzer, and will act as one. 
 
 With my whole heart and soul. 
 
 [Rises.] MoiKn for our friend. 
 
 Our common parent, yet be not dismayed! 
 
 'T is not alone his lands that I inherit — 
 
 His heart — his spirit — have devolved on 
 me; 
 
 And my young arm shall execute the task 
 
 Which in his hoary age he could not pay. 
 
 Give me your hands, ye venerable sires! 
 
 Thine, Melchthal, too! Nay, do not hesi- 
 tate. 
 
 Nor from me turn distrustfully away. 
 
 Accept my phghted vow — my knightly 
 oath! 
 FuEST. Give him your hands, my 
 friends! A heart Uke this, 
 
 That sees and owns its error, claims our 
 trust. 
 Melchthal. You ever held the peasan- 
 try in scorn. 
 
684 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 What surety have we, that you mean xis 
 fair? 
 RiTDENZ. Oh, think not of the error of 
 
 my youth! 
 Stauppachbr [to Melchthal]. Be one! 
 They were our father's latest words. 
 See they be not forgotten! 
 
 Melchthal. Take my hand — 
 A peasant's hand — and with it, noble sir, 
 The gage and the assurance of a man! 
 Without us, sir, "what would the nobles 
 
 be? 
 Our order is more ancient, too, than yours! 
 RuDENZ. I honor it — will shield it 
 
 with my sword! 
 Melchthal. The arm, my lord, that 
 tames the stubborn earth. 
 And makes its bosom blossom with increase, 
 Can also shield its owner's breast at need. 
 Rtidenz. Then you shall shield my 
 breast, and I will yours. 
 Thus each be strengthened by the other's 
 
 strength. 
 Yet wherefore talk we, while our native 
 
 land 
 Is stiU to alien tyranny a prey? 
 First let us sweep the f oemen from the soil, 
 Then reconcile our difference in peace! 
 [After a moment's pause.] How! You are 
 
 silent! Not a word for me! 
 And have I yet no title to your trust? — 
 Then must I force my way, despite your 
 
 win, 
 Into the League you secretly have formed. 
 You've held a Diet on the Rooth — I 
 Know this — know aU that was transacted 
 
 there; 
 And though not trusted with your secret, I 
 Have kept it closely like a sacred pledge. 
 Trust me — I never was my country's foe, 
 Nor would I ever have against you stood! 
 Yet you did wrong — to put your rising 
 
 off. 
 Time presses! We must strike, and swiftly 
 
 too! 
 Already TeU is lost through your delay. 
 Statifpacher. We swore that we should 
 
 wait till Christmastide. 
 RuDENZ. I was not there — I did not 
 take the oath. 
 If you delay, I will not! 
 Melchthal. What! You would — 
 
 Rttdenz. I count me now among the 
 
 coimtry's chiefs. 
 And my first duty is to guard yoxir rights. 
 Fukst. Your nearest and your hoUest 
 
 duty is 
 Within the earth to lay these dear remains. 
 RuDBNZ. When we have set the coun- 
 try free, we'll place 
 Our fresh victorious wreaths upon his bier. 
 Oh, my dear friends, 't is not your cause 
 
 alone! — 
 I with the tyrants have a cause to fight. 
 That more concerns myself. My Bertha's 
 
 gone. 
 Has disappeared — been carried off by 
 
 stealth — 
 Stolen from among us by their ruffian 
 
 hands! 
 Statjppacher. So fell an outrage has 
 
 the tyrant dared 
 Against a lady free and nobly born? 
 RtTDENZ. Alas! My friends, I promised 
 
 help to you. 
 And I must first implore it for myself! 
 She that I love is stolen — is forced away, 
 And who knows where she's by the tyrant 
 
 hid. 
 Or with what outrages his ruffian crew 
 May force her into nuptials she detests? 
 Forsake me not! — Oh, help me to her 
 
 rescue! 
 She loves you! WeU, oh, well, has she 
 
 deserved 
 That all should rush to arms in her behalf! 
 Staufpacher. What course do you 
 
 propose? 
 RuDENz. Alas! 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 me. 
 From out the ruins of the tyrant's power 
 Alone can she be rescued from the grave. 
 Their strongholds must be leveled, every 
 
 one, 
 Ere we can penetrate her dungeon walls. 
 Melchthal. Come, lead us on! We 
 
 follow! Why defer 
 Until to-morrow what to-day may do? 
 TeU's arm was free when we at Rootli 
 
 swore. 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 68s 
 
 This foul enormity was yet undone. 
 
 And change of circumstance brings change 
 
 of vow; 
 Who such a coward as to waver still? 
 RuDENZ [to Wai/tek Fubst]. Meanwhile 
 
 to arms, and wait in readiness 
 The fiery signal on the mountain-tops! 
 For swifter than a boat can scour the lake 
 Shall you have tidings of our victory; 
 And when you see the welcome flames 
 
 ascend, 
 Then, hke the lightning, swoop upon the 
 
 foe. 
 And lay the despots and their creatures 
 
 low! 
 
 Scene III: The Pass near Kussnacht, 
 sloping down from behind, with rocks on 
 either side. 
 
 The Travelers are visible upon the heights, 
 before they appear on the stage. Rocks all 
 round the stage. Upon one of the foremost 
 a projecting cliff overgrown with brushwood. 
 
 [Enter Tell, vnth his crossbow.] 
 
 Tell. Through this ravine he needs 
 
 must come. There is 
 No other way to Kussnacht. Here I'U do 
 
 it! 
 The ground is everything I could desire. 
 Yon elder bush wiU hide me from his view. 
 And from that point my shaft is sure to 
 
 hit. 
 The straitness of the gorge forbids pursuit. 
 Now, Gessler, balance thine account with 
 
 Heaven! 
 Thou must away from earth — thy sand 
 
 is run.' 
 Qviiet and harmless was the life I led. 
 My bow was bent on forest game alone; 
 No thoughts of murder rested on my soul. 
 But thou hast scared me from my dream 
 
 of peace; 
 The milk of human kindness thou hast 
 
 tinned 
 To rankling poison in my breast; and made 
 Appalling deeds familiar to my soul. 
 He who could make his own child's head 
 
 his mark. 
 Can speed his arrow to his foeman's heart. 
 My boys, poor innocents, my loyal wife. 
 Must be protected, tyrant, from thy rage! 
 
 When last I drew my bow — with 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 anguish 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 torments of that moment, 
 I hold a sacred debt, and I wiU 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 here 
 To deal forth law — stern law — for he is 
 
 wroth; 
 But not to wanton with unbridled will 
 In every cruelty, with fiendlike joy: 
 There Mves a God to punish and avenge. 
 Come forth, thou bringer once of bitter 
 pangs. 
 My precious jewel now — my chief est 
 
 treasure — 
 A mark I '11 set thee, which the cry of grief 
 Could never penetrate — but thou shalt 
 
 pierce it — 
 And thou, my trusty bowstring, that so oft 
 For sport has served me faithfully and'well, 
 Desert me not in this dread hour of need — 
 Only be true this once, my own good cord. 
 That hast so often winged the biting shaft: 
 For shouldst thou fly successless from my 
 
 hand, 
 I have no second to send after thee. 
 
 [Travelers pass over the stage.] 
 I '11 sit me down upon this bench of stone. 
 Hewn for the wayworn traveler's brief re- 
 pose — 
 For here there is no home. Men hurry past 
 Each other, with quick step and careless 
 
 look, 
 Nor stay to question of their grief. Here 
 
 goes 
 The merchant, all anxiety — the pilgrim. 
 With scantly finished scrip — the pious 
 
 monk. 
 The scowling robber, and the jovial player, 
 
686 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 The carrier with his heavy-laden horse, 
 That comes to us from the far haunts of 
 
 men; 
 For every road conducts to the world's end. 
 They all push onward — every man intent 
 On his own several business — mine is 
 
 murder! [Sits down.] 
 
 Time was, my dearest children, when 
 
 with joy 
 You hailed your father's safe return to 
 
 home 
 From his long mountain toils; for, when he 
 
 came, 
 He ever brought with him some Httle gift — 
 A lovely Alpine flower — a curious bird — 
 Or elf-bolt, such as on the hiUs are found. 
 But now he goes in quest of other game. 
 Sits in this gorge, with murder in his 
 
 thoughts. 
 And for his enemy's life-blood Ues in wait. 
 But still it is of you alone he thinks, 
 Dear children. 'T is to guard your inno- 
 cence. 
 To shield you from the tyrant's fell re- 
 venge. 
 He bends his bow to do a deed of blood! 
 
 [Rises.] 
 Well — I am watching for a noble 
 
 prey — 
 Does not the huntsman, with unflinching 
 
 heart, 
 Roam for whole days, when winter frosts 
 
 are keen, 
 Leap at the risk of death from rock to 
 
 rock — 
 And cUmb the jagged, shppery steeps, to 
 
 which 
 His limbs are glued by his own streaming 
 
 blood — 
 And all to hunt a wretched chamois down? 
 A far more precious prize is now my aim — 
 The heart of that dire foe who seeks my 
 
 hfe! 
 
 [Sprightly mime heard in the dis- 
 tance, which comes gradually 
 nearer.] 
 From my first years of boyhood I have 
 
 used 
 The bow — been practiced in the archer's 
 
 feats; 
 The buU's-eye many a time my shafts have 
 
 hit, 
 
 And many a goodly prize have I brought 
 
 home 
 From competitions. But this day I'll 
 
 make 
 My master-shot, and win what's best to 
 
 win 
 
 In the whole circuit of our mountain range. 
 
 [A bridal party passes over the 
 
 stage, and goes up the pass. 
 
 Tell gazes at it, leaning on his 
 
 how.] 
 
 [Enter Stussi, the Ranger.] 
 
 Stussi. There goes the cloister bailiff's 
 bridal train 
 Of Morlischachen. A rich fellow he! 
 And has some half-score pastures on the 
 
 Alps. 
 He goes to fetch his bride from Imisee. 
 At Kiissnacht there will be high feast to- 
 night. 
 Come with us — ev'ry honest man is asked. 
 Tell. A gloomy guest fits not a wedding 
 
 feast. 
 Stussi. If you 've a trouble, dash it from 
 your heart! 
 Take what Heaven sends! The times are 
 
 heavy now. 
 And we must snatch at pleasure as it flies. 
 Here 't is a bridal, there a burial. 
 Tell. And oft the one close on the 
 
 other treads. 
 Stussi. So runs the world we live in. 
 Everywhere 
 Mischance befalls and misery enough. 
 In Glarus there has been a landslip, and 
 A whole side of the Glaxnisch has fallen 
 in. 
 Tell. How! Do the very hiUs begin to 
 quake? 
 There is stability for naught on earth. 
 Stussi. Of strange things, too, we hear 
 from other parts. 
 I spoke with one but now, from Baden 
 
 come. 
 Who said a knight was on his way to court, 
 And, as he rode along, a swarm of wasps 
 Surrounded him, and settling on his horse, 
 So fiercely stung the beast that it fell dead, 
 And he proceeded to the court on foot. 
 Tell. The weak are also furnished with 
 a sting. 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 687 
 
 [Enter Abmgaet with several children, and 
 places herself at the entrance of the pass.] 
 
 Sttjssi. 'T is thought to bode disaster to 
 the land — 
 Some horrid deeds against the course of 
 natinre. 
 Tell. Why, every day brings forth such 
 fearful deeds; 
 There needs no prodigy to herald them. 
 Stussi. Aye, happy he who tills his field 
 in peace, 
 And sits at home untroubled with his 
 kin. 
 Tell. The very meekest cannot be at 
 peace 
 If his ill neighbor will not let liim rest. 
 
 [Tell looks frequently with restless 
 expectation toward the top of the 
 pass.] 
 Stussi. So fare you well! You're wait- 
 ing some one here? 
 Tell. I am. 
 
 Stussi. God speed you safely to your 
 home! 
 You are from Uri, are you not? His Grace 
 The Governor 's expected thence to- 
 day. 
 Thaveleb [entering]. Look not to see 
 the Governor to-day. 
 The streams are flooded by the heavy 
 
 rains, 
 And all the bridges have been swept away. 
 
 [Tell rises.] 
 Armgaht [coming forward]. Gessler not 
 
 coming? 
 Stussi. Want you aught with him? 
 Abmgabt. Alas, I do! 
 Stussi. Why, then, thus place yourself 
 Where you obstruct his passage down the 
 pass? 
 Abmgabt. Here he cannot escape me. 
 
 He must hear me. 
 Feiesshakdt [coming hastily down the 
 pass and calls upon the stage]. Make 
 way, make way! My lord, the 
 Governor, 
 Is close behind me, riding down the pass. 
 
 [Exit Tell.] 
 Abmgabt [excitedly]. The Viceroy comes. 
 [She goes toward the pass with her 
 children.] 
 
 [Gessleb and Rudolph dee Habeas ap- 
 pear on horseback at the upper end of 
 the pass.] 
 
 Stussi [to Fkibsshaedt]. How got ye 
 through the stream, 
 When all the bridges have been carried 
 down? 
 Fbiesshardt. We've fought, friend, 
 with the tempest on the lake; 
 An Alpine torrent's nothing after that. 
 Stussi. How! Were you out, then, in 
 
 that dreadful storm? 
 Feiesshaedt. We were! I 'U not forget 
 
 it while I Uve. 
 Stussi. Stay, speak — 
 Feiesshaedt. I can't — must to the 
 castle haste. 
 And tell them that the Governor 's at hand. 
 
 [Exit.] 
 
 Stussi. If honest men, now, had been 
 
 in the ship. 
 
 It had gone down with every soul on board: 
 
 Some folks are proof 'gainst fire and water 
 
 both. 
 [Looking, round.] Where has the hunstman 
 gone with whom I spoke? [Exit.] 
 
 [Enter Gesslee and Rudolph deb Hab- 
 eas on horseback.] 
 
 Gessleb. Say what you wiU; I am the 
 
 Einperor's liege. 
 And how to please him my first thought 
 
 must be. 
 He did not send me here to fawn and cringe, 
 And coax these boors into good humor. 
 
 No! 
 Obedience he must have. The struggle 's 
 
 this: 
 Is King or peasant to be sovereign here? 
 AbsIgaet. Now is the moment! Now 
 
 for my petition! 
 Gessleb. 'T was not in sport that I set 
 
 up the cap 
 In Altdorf — or to try the people's 
 
 hearts — 
 AU this I knew before. I set it up 
 That they might learn to bend those stub- 
 bom necks 
 They carry far too proudly; and I placed 
 What well I knew their pride could never 
 
 brook 
 
688 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Full in the road, which they perforce must 
 
 That, when their eye fell on it, they might 
 
 call 
 That lord to mind whom they too much 
 forget. 
 Haebas. But surely, sir, the people 
 
 have some rights — 
 Gesslee. This is no time to settle what 
 they are. 
 Great projects are at work, and hatching 
 
 now. 
 The imperial house seeks to extend its 
 
 power. 
 Those vast designs of conquest which the 
 
 sire 
 Has gloriously begun, the son wiU end. 
 This petty nation is a stumbUng-block — 
 One way or other it must be put down. 
 
 [They are about to pass on. Arm- 
 GART throws herself down before 
 Gesslbe.] 
 Armgabt. Mercy, Lord Governor! Oh, 
 
 pardon, pardon! 
 Gessleb. Why do you cross me on the 
 pubhc road? 
 Stand back, I say. 
 
 Armgabt. My husband hes in prison; 
 My wretched orphans cry for bread. Have 
 
 pity, 
 Pity, my lord, upon our sore distress! 
 Harras. Who are you? and your hus- 
 band, what is he? 
 Armgabt. A poor wUd-hayman of the 
 Rigiberg, 
 Kind sir, who on the brow of the abyss 
 Mows the unownered grass from craggy 
 
 shelves. 
 To which the very cattle dare not cUmb. 
 Harbas [toGEssLBR]. By Heaven! a sad 
 and pitiable life! 
 I pray you set the wretched fellow free. 
 How great soever may be his offense. 
 His horrid trade is punishment enough. 
 [To Armgabt.] You shall have justice. To 
 
 the castle bring 
 Your suit. This is no place to deal with it. 
 Armgabt. No, no, I will not stir from 
 where I stand 
 Until your grace gives me my husband 
 
 back. 
 Six months already has he been shut up. 
 
 And waits the sentence of a judge in vain. 
 Gessleb. How! Would you force me, 
 
 woman? Hence! Begone! 
 Abmgabt. Justice, my lord! Aye, jus- 
 tice! Thou art judge: 
 Viceregent of the Emperor — of Heaven. 
 Then do thy duty: as thou hopest for 
 
 justice 
 From Him who rules above, show it to us! 
 Gessleb. Hence! Drive this insolent 
 
 V rabble from my sight! 
 Abmgabt [seizing his horse's reins]. No, 
 no, by Heaven, I've nothing more 
 to lose. — 
 Thou stir'st not, Viceroy, from this spot, 
 
 until 
 Thou do'st me fullest justice! Knit thy 
 
 brows. 
 And roU thine eyes — I fear not. Our dis- 
 tress 
 Is so extreme, so boimdless, that we care 
 No longer for thine anger. 
 
 Gessleb. Woman, hence! 
 Give way, or else my horse shall ride you 
 down. 
 Abmgabt. Well, let it! — there — 
 
 [Throws her children and herself 
 upon the ground before him.] 
 Here on the ground I Ue, 
 I and my children. Let the wretched 
 
 orphans 
 Be trodden by thy horse into the dust! 
 It wiU not be the worst that thou hast done. 
 Habras. Are you mad, woman? 
 Armgabt [continuing with vehemence]. 
 Many a day thou hast 
 Trampled the Emperor's lands beneath thy 
 
 feet! 
 Oh, I am but a woman! Were I man, 
 I 'd find some better thing to do than here 
 Lie groveUng in the dust! 
 
 [The music of the bridal party is 
 again heard from the top of the 
 pass, but more sofUy.] 
 Gessleb. Where are my knaves? 
 Drag her away, lest I forget myself. 
 And do some deed I may repent me of. 
 Harras. My lord, the servants cannot 
 force their way; 
 The pass is blocked up by a bridal train. 
 Gessler. Too mild a ruler am I to this 
 people; 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 689 
 
 Their tongues are all too bold — nor have 
 
 they yet 
 Been tamed to due submission, as they 
 
 shall be. 
 I must take order for the remedy; 
 I win subdue this stubborn mood of theirs, 
 This braggart spirit of freedom I will crush, 
 I wiU proclaim a new law through the land: 
 IwiU — 
 
 [An arrow pierces' him — he puts 
 
 his hand on his heart, and is 
 
 about to sink — vMh a feeble 
 
 voice:] 
 
 O God, have mercy on my soul! 
 
 Habras. My lord! My lord! O God! 
 
 What's this? Whence came it? 
 Armgaht [starts up\. Dead, dead! He 
 
 reels, he falls! 'T is in his heart! 
 T3jiSBJiS [springs from his horse]. Horror 
 of horrors! Heavenly powers! Sir 
 Knight, 
 Address yom^elf for mercy to your God! 
 You are a dying man. 
 
 Gessler. That shot was Tell's! 
 
 [He slides from his horse into the 
 arms of Rtidolph der Hak- 
 RAS, who lays him down upon 
 the f)ench.] 
 
 [Tell appears above upon the rocks.] 
 
 Tell. Thou knoVst the marksman — 
 I, and I alone! 
 Now are our homesteads free, and inno- 
 cence 
 From thee is safe: thou 'It be our curse no 
 more! i 
 
 [Tell disappears. People rush in.] 
 Stussi. What is the matter? TeU me 
 
 what has happened? 
 Armgabt. The Viceroy's shot — pierced 
 
 by a crossbow bolt! 
 People [running in]. Who has been 
 shot? 
 
 [While the foremost of the marriage 
 party are coming on the stage, 
 the hindmost are still upon the 
 heights. The music continues.] 
 Harras. He's bleeding fast to death. 
 Away, for help — pursue the murderer! — 
 Unhappy man, is this to be your end? 
 You would not listen to my warning 
 words. 
 
 Sttjssi. By Heaven, his cheek is pale! 
 
 Life's ebbing fast. 
 Many Voices. Who did the deed? 
 Harras. What! Are the people mad, 
 That they make music to a murder? 
 Silence! — 
 
 [Music breaks off suddenly. People 
 continue to flock in.] 
 Speak, if you can, my lord. Have you no 
 
 charge 
 To trust me with? 
 
 [Gesslbr makes signs with his 
 
 hand, which he repeats with 
 
 vehemence when he finds they are 
 
 not understood.] 
 
 Where shall I take you to? 
 
 To Kussnacht? What you say I can't make 
 
 out. 
 Oh, do not grow impatient! Leave aU 
 
 thought 
 Of earthly things and make your peace with 
 Heaven. 
 
 [The whole marriage party gather 
 round the dying man.] 
 Stussi. See there! How pale he grows! 
 Death's gathering now 
 About his heart — his eyes grow dim and 
 glazed. 
 Armgart [holds up a child]. Look, chil- 
 dren, how a tyrant dies! 
 Habras. Mad hag! 
 Have you no touch of feeUng, that your 
 
 eyes 
 Gloat on a sight so horrible as this? — 
 Help me — take hold! What, will not one 
 
 assist 
 To pull the torturing arrow from his breast? 
 Women. What! touch the man whom 
 
 God's own hand has struck! 
 Harras. All curses light on you! 
 
 [Draws his sword.] 
 Stussi [seizes his arm]. Gently, Sir 
 Knight! 
 Your power is at end. 'T were best for- 
 bear. 
 Our country's foe has fallen. We will brook 
 No further violence. We are free men. 
 All. The country's free! 
 Harras. And is it come to this? 
 Fear and obedience at an end so soon? 
 
 [To the soldiers of the guard who 
 are thronging in.] 
 
690 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 You see, my friends, the bloody piece of 
 
 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 
 
 Kiissnacht, 
 And let us save that fortress for the King! 
 For in a moment such as this, all ties 
 Of order, fealty, and faith, are rent, 
 And we can trust to no man's loyalty. 
 
 [^s he is going out with the soldiers, 
 six Fratres Misericordve ap- 
 pear.] 
 Aemqaet. Here comes the brotherhood 
 
 of mercy. Room! 
 Stttssi. The victim 's slain, and now the 
 
 ravens stoop. 
 Bbothebs of Mercy [form a semicircle 
 round the body, and sing in solemn 
 tones]. 
 
 Death hurries on with hasty stride, 
 No respite man from him may gain; 
 
 He cuts him down, when life's full tide 
 Is throbbing strong in every vein. 
 
 Prepared or not the call to hear. 
 
 He must before his Judge appear. 
 
 [While they are repeating the last 
 two lines, the curtain falls.] 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Scene I: A common near Altdorf. In the 
 background to the right the keep of XJri, with 
 the scaffold still standing, as in the third 
 scene of the First Act. To the left the view 
 opens upon numerous mountains, on all of 
 which signal fires are burning. Day is break- 
 ing, and distant bells are heard ringing in 
 several directions. 
 
 [Enter Ruodi, Ktjoni, Werni, Master 
 Mason, and many other country people, 
 also women and children.] 
 
 Rtjodi. See there! The beacons on the 
 mountain heights! 
 
 Mason. Hark how the bells above the 
 forest toU! 
 
 RuoDi. The enemy's routed! 
 
 Mason. And the forts are stormed! 
 
 Ruodi. And we of Uri, do we stiU en- 
 dure 
 
 Upon our native soil the tyrant's keep? 
 Are' we the last to strike for Uberty? 
 Mason. Shall the yoke stand, that was 
 to ciffb our necks? 
 Up! Tear it to the ground! 
 All. Down, down with it! 
 RiroDi. 'Where is the Stier of Uri? 
 Uki. Here. 'Wbat would ye? 
 Ruodi. Up to your tower, and wind us 
 such a blast 
 As shall resound afar, from peak to peak; 
 Rousing the echoes of each glen and hill, 
 To rally swiftly all the mountain men! 
 
 [Exit Stier op Uri.] 
 
 [Enter Walter Furst.] 
 
 FtTRST. Stay, stay, my friends! As yet 
 we have not learned 
 ■What has been done in Unterwald and 
 
 Schwytz. 
 Let's wait tiU we receive inteUigence! 
 Ruodi. Wait, wait for what? The ac- 
 cursed tjTant's dead. 
 And on us freedom's glorious day has 
 dawned! 
 Mason. How! Are these flaming sig- 
 nals not enough. 
 That blaze on every mountain-top around? 
 Ruodi. Come all, fall to — come, men 
 and women, all! 
 Destroy the scaffold! Burst the arches! 
 
 Down, 
 Down with the waDs, let not a stone re- 
 main! 
 Mason. Come, comrades, come! We 
 built it, and we know 
 How best to hurl it down. 
 All. Come! Down with it! 
 
 [They fall upon the building on 
 every side.] 
 FtTRST. The floodgate's burst! They're 
 not to be restrained. 
 
 [Enter Melchthal and Baumqarten.] 
 
 Melchthal. 'What! Stands the fortress 
 still, when Sarnen has 
 In ashes, and the Rossberg's in our hands? 
 FOest. You, Melchthal, here? D'ye 
 bring us liberty? 
 Are all the cantons from our tyrants freed? 
 Melchthal. We've swept them from 
 the soil. Rejoice, my friend: 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 691 
 
 Now, at this very moment, while we 
 
 There's not one tyrant left in Switzerland! 
 FtJBST. How did you get the forts into 
 
 your power? 
 Melchthal. Rudenz it was who by a 
 
 bold assault 
 With manly valor mastered Samen's keep. 
 The Rossberg I had stormed the night 
 
 before. 
 But hear, what chanced. Scarce had we 
 
 driven the foe 
 Forth from the keep, and given it to the 
 
 flames, 
 That now rose crackling upward to the 
 
 skies. 
 When from the blaze rushed Diethebn, 
 
 Gessler's page. 
 Exclaiming, "Lady Bertha wiUbebumed!" 
 FtJRST. Good Heavens! 
 
 [The beams of the scaffold are heard 
 falling.] 
 Melchthal. 'T was she herself. Here 
 
 had she been 
 By Gessler's orders secretly immiu-ed. 
 Up sprang Rudenz in frenzy. For even 
 
 now 
 The beams and massive posts were crash- 
 ing down, 
 And through the stifling smoke the piteous 
 
 shrieks 
 Of the xmhappy lady. 
 FtJBST. Is she saved? 
 Melchthal. 'T was not a time to hesi- 
 tate or pause! 
 Had he been but our baron, and no more. 
 We should have been most chary of oin: 
 
 Uves; 
 But he was our confederate, and Bertha 
 Honored the people. So, without a thought. 
 We risked the worst, and rushed into the 
 
 flames. 
 FuBST. But is she saved? 
 Melchthal. She is. Rudenz and I 
 Bore her between us from the blazing 
 
 pile, 
 With crashing timbers toppling all around. 
 And when she had revived, the danger past. 
 And raised her eyes to look upon the sun. 
 The Baron fell upon my breast; and then 
 A silent vow between us two was sworn — 
 A vow that, welded in yon furnace heat, 
 
 Will last through ev'ry shock of time and 
 fate. 
 
 FtJBST. Where is the Landenberg? 
 
 Melchthal. Across the Briinig. 
 'T was not my fault he bore his sight away. 
 He who had robbed my father of his eyes! 
 He fled — I foUowed — overtook him soon, 
 And dragged him to my father's feet. The 
 
 sword 
 Already quivered o'er the caitiff's head. 
 When from the pity of the blind old man, 
 He wrung the life which, craven-like, he 
 
 He swore Urphede, never to return: 
 He 'U keep his oath, for he has felt our arm. 
 FuBST. Oh, well for you, you have not 
 stained with blood 
 Our spotless victory! 
 
 Children [running across the stage with 
 fragments of wood]. We 're free! 
 We 're free! 
 FfJEST. Oh, what a joyous scene! These 
 children wiU 
 Remember it when aU their heads are gray. 
 [Girls bring in the cap upon a pole. 
 The whole stage is filled with 
 people.] 
 RtroDi. Here is the cap to which we 
 
 were to bow! 
 Battmgarten. What shall we do with 
 
 it? Do you decide! 
 FtJRST. Heavens! 'T was beneath this 
 
 cap my grandfeon stood! 
 Several Voices. Destroy the emblem 
 of the tyrant's power! 
 Let it be burned! 
 
 FijEST. No. Rather be preserved; 
 'T was once the instrument of despots — 
 
 now 
 'T wiU of our freedom be a lasting sign. 
 
 [Peasants, men, women, and chil- 
 dren, some standing, others sitting 
 upon the beams of the shattered 
 scaffold, all picturesquely 
 grouped, in a large semicircle.] 
 Melchthal. Thus, now, my friends, 
 with h'ght and merry hearts. 
 We stand upon the wreck of tyranny; 
 And gloriously the work has been fulfilled, 
 Which we at RootU pledged ourselves to do. 
 FtJRST. No, not fulfilled. The work is 
 but begun: 
 
692 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Courage and concord firm, we need them 
 
 both; 
 For, be assured, the King will make all 
 
 speed 
 To avenge his Viceroy's death, and rein- 
 state. 
 By force of arms, the tyrant we've expelled. 
 Melchthal. Why, let him come, with 
 
 aU his armaments! 
 The foe 's expelled that pressed us from 
 
 within; 
 The foe without we are prepared to meet! 
 Rtjodi. The passes to our cantons are 
 
 but few; 
 These with our bodies we wiU block — we 
 
 will! 
 Batjmgaeten. Knit are we by a league 
 
 will ne'er be rent. 
 And all his armies shall not make us quail. 
 
 [Enter Rosselmann and Stauppacheb.] 
 
 RossEi/MANN [speaking as he enters]. 
 These are the awful judgments of 
 the Lord! 
 
 Peasant. What is the matter? 
 
 Rosselmann. In what times we live! 
 
 FtJEST. Say on, what is't? — Ha, Wer- 
 ner, is it you? 
 What tidings? 
 
 Peasant. What's the matter? 
 
 Rosselmann. Hear and wonder! 
 
 Stauppacher. We are released from 
 one great cau^ of dread. 
 
 Rosselmann. The Emperor is mur- 
 dered! 
 
 FtJBST. Gracious Heaven! 
 
 [Peasants rise up and throng round 
 Stauppacher.] 
 
 All. Murdered! — theEmp'ror? What! 
 TheEmp'rorl Hear! 
 
 Melchthal. Impossible! How came 
 you by the news? 
 
 Statjppacher. 'T is true! Near Bruck, 
 by the assassin's hand. 
 King Albert fell. A most trustworthy man, 
 John MuUer, from Schaffhausen, brought 
 the news. 
 
 FUbst. Who dared commit so horrible 
 a deed? 
 
 Staxtppacheb. The doer makes the deed 
 more dreadful still; 
 It was his nephew, his own brother's son, 
 
 Duke John of Austria, who struck the blow. 
 Melchthal. What drove him to so dire 
 
 a parricide? 
 Stauppacheb. The Emp'ror kept 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 coimfiel of his friends in arms; 
 And with the noble lords. Von Eschenbach, 
 . Von Tegerfeld, Von Wart, and Pahn, re- 
 solved. 
 Since his demands for justice were despised, 
 With his own hands to take revenge at 
 
 least. 
 FijRST. But say — the dreadful deed, 
 
 how was it done? 
 Stauppacheb. The King was riding 
 
 down from Stein to Baden. 
 Upon his way to join the court at Rhein- 
 
 feld — 
 With him a train of high-born gentlemen. 
 And the young Princes John and Leopold; 
 And when they'd reached the ferry of the 
 
 Reuss, 
 The assassins forced their way into the 
 
 boat, 
 To separate the Emperor from his suite. 
 His Highness landed, and was riding on 
 Across a fresh-ploughed field — where once, 
 
 they say, 
 A mighty city stood in pagan times — 
 With Hapsburg's ancient turrets in sight, 
 That was the cradle of his princely race, 
 When Duke John plunged a dagger in his 
 
 throat, 
 Pahn ran him through the body with his 
 
 lance. 
 And Eschenbach, to end him, clove his 
 
 skull; 
 So down he sank, all weltering in his blood. 
 On his own soil, by his own kinsmen slain. 
 Those on the opposite banlt beheld the 
 
 deed, 
 But, parted by the stream, could only raise 
 An unavailing cry of loud lament. 
 A poor old woman, sitting by the way, 
 Raised him, and on her breast he bled to 
 
 death. 
 Melchthal. Thus has he dug his own 
 
 untimely grave, 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 693 
 
 Who sought insatiably to grasp at all. 
 Statjffachek. The country round is 
 
 fiUed with dire alarm, 
 The passes are blockaded everywhere, 
 And sentinels on ev'ry frontier set; 
 E'en ancient Zurich barricades her gates, 
 That have stood open for these thirty 
 
 years, 
 Dreading the murd'rers and th' avengers 
 
 more. 
 For cruel Agnes comes, the Hungarian 
 
 Queen, 
 By all her sex's tenderness untouched. 
 Armed with the thimders of the ban, to 
 
 wreak 
 Dire vengeance for her parent's royal 
 
 blood, 
 On the whole race of those that murdered 
 
 him — 
 
 Their servants, children, children's children 
 
 — yea. 
 Upon the stones that biult their castle 
 
 walls! 
 Deep has she sworn a vow to immolate 
 Whole generations on her father's tomb. 
 And bathe in blood as in the dew of May. 
 Melchthal. Is 't known which way the 
 
 murderers have fled? 
 Statjpfacheb. No sooner had they done 
 
 the deed than they 
 Took flight, each foUowing a different 
 
 route, 
 And parted ne'er to see each other more. 
 Duke John must stfll be wand'ring in the 
 
 mountains. 
 F&RST. And thus their crime has borne 
 
 no fruit for them. 
 Revenge bears never fruit. Itself, it is 
 The dreadful food it feeds on; its dehght 
 Is murder — its satiety despair. 
 Staufpachbe. The assassins reap no 
 
 profit by their crime; 
 But we shaU pluck with unpolluted hands 
 The teeming fruits of their most bloody 
 
 deed. 
 For we are ransomed from our heaviest 
 
 fear; 
 The direst foe of liberty has fallen, 
 And 't is reported that the crown wiU pass 
 From Hapsburg's house into another line; 
 The Empire is determined to assert 
 Its old prerogative of choice, I hear. 
 
 FtJBST AND Several Others. la any 
 
 named? 
 STAtrpFACHEB. The Count of Luxem- 
 bourg's 
 Already chosen by the general voice. 
 FtJRST. 'T is well we stood so stanchly 
 by the Empire! 
 Now we may hope for justice, and with 
 cause. 
 Statjpfacher. The Emperor will need 
 some vaUant friends. 
 He will 'gainst Austria's vengeance be our 
 shield. [The peasantry embrace.] 
 
 [Enter Sacristan vnth Imperial Messenger.] 
 
 Sacristan. Here are the worthy chiefs 
 of Switzerland! 
 
 ROSSELMANN AND SEVERAL OtHERS. 
 
 Sacristan, what news? 
 Sacristan. A courier brings this letter. 
 All [to Walter Furst]. Open and read 
 
 it. 
 FiJRST [reading]. "To the worthy men 
 Of Uri, Schwytz, and Unterwald, the 
 
 Queen 
 EUzabeth sends grace and all good wishes! " 
 Many Voices. What wants the Queen 
 
 with us? Her reign is done. 
 FtJRST [reading]. " In the great grief and 
 doleful widowhood. 
 In which the bloody exit of her lord 
 Has plimged the Queen, still in her mind 
 
 she bears 
 The ancient faith and love of Switzerland." 
 Melchthal. She ne'er did that in her 
 
 prosperity. 
 Rosselmann. Hush, let us hear! 
 FtJRST [reading]. "And she is well as- 
 sured. 
 Her people wiU in due abhorrence hold 
 The perpetrators of this damnfed deed. 
 On the three cantons, therefore, she relies. 
 That they in nowise lend the murderers 
 
 aid; 
 But rather, that they loyally assist. 
 To give them up to the avenger's hand. 
 Remembering the love and grace which 
 
 they 
 Of old received from Rudolph's royal 
 house." 
 
 [Symptoms of dissatisfaction among 
 the peasaniry?^ 
 
694 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Many Voices. The love and grace! 
 Stauffacher. Grace from the father 
 
 we, indeed, received. 
 But what have we to boast of from the son? 
 Did he confirm the charter of our freedom, 
 As all preceding Emperors had done? 
 Did he judge righteous judgment, or afford 
 Shelter, or stay, to innocence oppressed? 
 Nay, did he e'en give audience to the men 
 We sent to lay our grievances before him? 
 Not one of aU these things did the King do. 
 And had we not ourselves achieved our 
 
 rights 
 By our own stalwart hands, the wrongs we 
 
 bore 
 Had never touched him . Gratitude to him ! 
 Within these vales he sowed no seeds of 
 
 that; 
 He stood upon an eminence — he might 
 Have been a very father to his people. 
 But all his aim and pleasure was to raise 
 Himself and his own house: and now may 
 
 those 
 Whom he has aggrandized lament for him! 
 FtJRST. We will not triumph in his fall, 
 
 nor now 
 Recall to mind the wrongs that we endured. 
 Far be 't from us! Yet, that we should 
 
 avenge 
 The sovereign's death, who never did us 
 
 good. 
 And hunt down those who ne'er molested 
 
 us. 
 Becomes us not, nor is our duty. Love 
 Must be a tribute free, and unconstrained; 
 From all enforced duties death absolves, 
 And unto him we owe no further debt. 
 Mblchthal. And if the Queen laments 
 
 within her bower. 
 Accusing Heaven in sorrow's wild despair. 
 Here see a people, from its anguish freed. 
 To that same Heaven send up its thankful 
 
 praise. 
 Who would reap tears, must sow the seeds 
 
 of love. 
 
 [Exit the Imperial Courier.] 
 Stauffacher [to the Peopk]'. But where 
 
 is Tell? Shall he, our freedom's 
 
 founder. 
 Alone be absent from our festival? 
 He did the most — endured the worst of 
 
 aU. 
 
 Come — to his dwelling let us all repair, 
 And bid the savior of our country hail! 
 
 [Exeunt omnes.] 
 
 Scene II: Interior of Tell's cottage. A 
 fire burning on the hearth. The open door 
 shows the scene outside. 
 
 [Enter Hedwig, Walter, William.] 
 
 Hedwig. My own dear boys, your 
 
 father comes to-day; 
 He lives, is free, and we and all are free; 
 The country owes its hberty to him! 
 Walter. And I, too, mother, bore my 
 
 part in it! 
 I must be named with him. My father's 
 
 shaft 
 Ran my life close, but yet I never flinched. 
 Hedwig [embracing him]. Yes, yes, thou 
 
 art restored to me again! 
 Twice have I seen thee given to my sad 
 
 eyes. 
 Twice suffered all a mother's pangs for 
 
 thee! 
 But this is past — I have you both, boys, — 
 
 both! 
 And your dear father will be back to-day. 
 
 [A Monk appears at the door.] 
 
 William. See, mother, yonder stands a 
 holy friar; 
 He comes for alms, no doubt. 
 
 Hedwig. Go lead him in. 
 That we may give him cheer, and make 
 
 him feel 
 That he has come into the house of joy. 
 [Exit and returns immediately with 
 a cup.] 
 William [to the Monk]. Come in, good 
 
 man. Mother wiU give you food! 
 Walter. Come in and rest, then go re- 
 freshed away! 
 .Monk [glancing round in terror, with un- 
 quiet looks]. Where am I? In what 
 country? Tell me. 
 Walter. How! • 
 Are you bewildered, that you know not 
 
 where? 
 You are at Biirglen, in the land of Uri, 
 Just at the entrance of the Shechenthal. 
 Monk [to Hedwig]. Are you alone? 
 Your husband, is he here? 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 69s 
 
 Hedwiq. I am expecting him. But 
 what aUs you, man? 
 There's something in your looks that 
 
 omens ill! 
 Whoe'er you be, you are in want — take 
 that. [Offers Mm the cwp.\ 
 
 Monk. Howe'er my sinking heart may 
 yearn for food. 
 Naught will I taste tiU you have promised 
 first — 
 Hedwig. Touch not my garments; 
 come not near me, monk! 
 You must stand farther back, if I 'm to hear 
 you. 
 Monk. Oh, by this hearth's bright, 
 hospitable blaze. 
 By your dear children's heads, which I 
 embrace — [Grasps the Boys.] 
 
 EDedwig. Stand back, I say! What is 
 your purpose, man? 
 Back from my boys! You are no monk — 
 
 no, no. 
 Beneath the robe you wear peace should 
 
 abide, 
 But peace abides not in such looks as yours. 
 Monk. I am the wretchedest of living 
 
 men. 
 Hedwig. The heart is never deaf to 
 wretchedness; 
 But your look freezes up my inmost soul. 
 Walter [sfrings up]. Mother, here's 
 
 father! 
 Hedwig. O my God! 
 
 [7s about to follow, trembles and 
 stops.] 
 William [running after his brother]. My 
 
 father! 
 WmjTer [withoui]. Here, here once more! 
 William [without]. My father, my dear 
 
 father! 
 Tell [withovi]. Yes, here once more! 
 
 Where is your mother, boys? 
 Walter. There at the door she stands, 
 and can no further. 
 She trembles so with terror and with joy. 
 Tell. Oh, Hedwig,.Hedwig, mother of 
 my children; 
 God has been kind and helpful in our woes. 
 No tyrant's hand shall e'er divide us more. 
 Hedwig [jailing on his neck]. Oh, TeU, 
 what anguish have I borne for thee! 
 [Monk becomes attentive.] 
 
 Tell. Forget it now, and Uve for joy 
 
 alone! 
 
 I'm here again with you! This is my cot! 
 
 I stand again upon mine own hearthstone! 
 
 William. But, father, where 's your 
 
 crossbow? Not with you? 
 Tell. Thou shalt not ever see it more, 
 my boy. 
 Within a holy shrine it has been placed. 
 And in the chase shall ne'er be used again. 
 Hedwig. Oh, TeU! TeU! 
 
 [Steps back, dropping his hand.] 
 Tell. What alarms thee, dearest wife? 
 Hedwig. How — how dost thou return 
 to me? This hand ^- 
 Dare I take hold of it? This hand — O 
 God! — 
 Tell [with firmness and animation]. Has 
 shielded you and set my coimtry 
 free; 
 Freely I raise it in the face of Heaven. 
 
 [Monk gives a sudden start — 
 Tell looks at him.] 
 Who is this friar here! 
 
 Hedwig. Ah, I forgot him; 
 Speak thou with him; I shudder at his 
 presence. 
 Monk [stepping nearer]. Are you the 
 
 TeU who slew the Governor? 
 Tell. Yes, I am he. I hide the fact 
 
 from no man. 
 Monk. And you are Tell! Ah! It is 
 God's own hand. 
 That hath conducted me beneath your 
 roof. 
 Tell [examining him closely]. You are 
 
 no monk. Who are you? 
 Monk. You have slain 
 The Governor, who did you wrong. I, too, 
 Have slain a foe, who robbed me of my 
 
 rights. 
 He was no less your enemy than mine. 
 I've rid the land of him! 
 
 Tell [drawing back]. You are — oh, 
 horror! — 
 In — chUdren, children — in, without a 
 
 word. 
 Go, my dear wife! Go! Go! — Unhappy 
 
 man. 
 You should be — 
 
 Hedwig. Heav'ns, who is it? 
 Tell. Do not ask. 
 
696 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Away! Away! The children must not hear 
 
 it — 
 Out of the house — away! You must not 
 
 rest 
 'Neath the same roof with this unhappy 
 man! 
 Hbdwig. Alas! What is it? Come. 
 
 [Exit with the children.] 
 
 Tell [to the Monk]. You are the Duke 
 
 Of Austria — I know it. You have slain 
 
 The Emperor, your imcle and Uege lord! 
 
 John. He robbed me of my patrimony. 
 
 Tell. How! 
 
 Slain him — your King, your imcle! And 
 
 the earth- 
 Stm bears you! And the sim still shines on 
 you! 
 John. Tell, hear me; are you — 
 Tell. Reeking, with the blood 
 Of him that was your Emperor, your kins- 
 man, 
 Dare you set foot within my spotless house. 
 Dare to an honest man to show your face. 
 And claim the rites of hospitality? 
 John. I hoped to find compassion at 
 your hands. 
 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 self-defense? 
 Had you to shield your children's darUng 
 
 heads. 
 To guard your fireside's sanctuary — ward 
 
 off 
 The last, the direst doom from all you 
 
 loved? 
 To Heaven I raise my unpolluted hands, 
 To curse your act and you ! I have avenged 
 That holy nature which you have pro- 
 faned. 
 I have no part with you! You murdered, I 
 Have shielded aU that was most dear to 
 me. 
 John. You cast me oS to comfortless 
 
 despair! 
 Tell. I shrink with horror while I talk 
 with you. 
 Hence, on the dread career you have be- 
 gun! 
 Cease to pollute the home of innocence! 
 
 [John turns to depart.] 
 
 John. I cannot and I will not live this 
 
 life! 
 Tell. And yet my soul bleeds for you. 
 
 Gracious Heaven, 
 So young, of such a noble line, the grandson 
 Of Rudolph, once my lord and Emperor, 
 An outcast — mmderer — standing at my 
 
 door, 
 The poor man's door — a suppliant, in 
 
 despair! [Covers his face.] 
 
 John. If you have power to weep, oh, 
 
 let my fate 
 Move your compassion — it is horrible! 
 I am — say, rather was — a prince. I 
 
 might 
 Have been most happy, had I only curbed 
 Th' impatience of my passionate desires: 
 But envy gnawed my heart — I saw the 
 
 youth 
 Of mine own cousin Leopold endowed 
 With honor, and enriched with broad do- 
 mains, 
 The while myself, of equal age with him, 
 In abject slavish nonage was kept back. 
 Tell. Unhappy man, your uncle knew 
 
 you weU, 
 When from you land and subjects he with- 
 held! 
 You, by your mad and desperate act, have 
 
 set 
 A fearful seal upon his wise resolve. 
 Where are the bloody partners of your 
 
 crime? 
 John. Where'er th' avenging furies 
 
 may have borne them; 
 I have not seen them since the luckless 
 
 deed. 
 Tell. Know you the Empire's ban is 
 
 out — that you 
 Are interdicted to your friends, and given 
 An outlawed victim to yoxir enemies? 
 John. Therefore I shxm all public 
 
 thoroughfares, 
 And venture not to knock at any door — 
 I turn my footsteps to the wilds, and 
 
 through 
 The moimtains roam, a terror to myself! 
 From mine own self I shrink with horror 
 
 back, 
 If in a brook I see my ill-starred form! 
 If you have pity or a human heart — 
 
 [Falls down before him.] 
 
WILLIAM TELL 
 
 697 
 
 Tell. Stand up, stand up! I say. 
 John. Not till you give 
 Your hand in promise of assistance to me. 
 Tell. Can I assist you? Can a sinful 
 man? 
 Yet get ye up — how black soe'er your 
 
 crime — 
 You are a man, I, too, am one. From Tell 
 Shall no one part uncomforted. I will 
 Do all that hes within my power. 
 
 John [springing up and grasping him 
 ardently by the hand]. Oh, Tell, 
 You save me from the terrors of despair! 
 Tell. Let ^o my hand! You must 
 away. You cannot 
 Remain here undiscovered, and, discovered. 
 You cannot count on succor. Which way, 
 
 then, 
 Would you be going? Where do you hope 
 
 to find 
 A place of rest? 
 John. Alas! I know not where. 
 Tell. Hear, then, what Heaven unto 
 my heart suggests. 
 You must to Italy — to Saint Peter's 
 
 city — 
 There cast yourself at the Pope's feet — 
 
 confess 
 Your guilt to him, and ease your laden soul ! 
 John. WiU he not to th' avengers yield 
 
 me up? 
 Tell. Whate'er he does, accept it as 
 
 from God. 
 John. But how am I to reach that un- 
 known land? 
 I have no knowledge of the way, and dare 
 
 not 
 Attach myself to other travelers. 
 
 Tell. I will describe the road, so mark 
 
 me well! 
 
 You must ascend, keeping along the Reuss, 
 
 Which from the mountains dashes wildly 
 
 down. 
 
 John [in alarm]. What! See the Reuss? 
 
 The witness of my deed! 
 Tell. The road you take lies through 
 the river's gorge. 
 And many a cross proclaims where travelers 
 Have been by avalanches done to death. 
 John. I have no fear for nature's ter- 
 rors, so 
 I can appease the torments of my soul. 
 
 Tell. At every cross kneel down and 
 
 expiate 
 Your crime with burning penitential 
 
 tears — 
 And if you 'scape the perils of the pass. 
 And are not whelmed beneath the drifted 
 
 snows, 
 That from the frozen peaks come sweeping 
 
 down. 
 You'll reach the bridge that's drenched 
 
 with drizzling spray. 
 Then if it give not way beneath your guilt, 
 When you have left it safely in your rear. 
 Before you frowns the gloomy Gate of 
 
 Rocks, 
 Where never sun did shine. Proceed 
 
 through this. 
 And you will reach a bright and gladsome 
 
 vale. 
 Yet must you hurry on with hasty steps, 
 You must not linger in the haunts of peace. 
 John. Oh, Rudolph, Rudolph, royal 
 
 grandsire! Thus 
 Thy grandson first sets foot within thy 
 
 realms! 
 Tell. Ascending still, you gain the 
 
 Gotthardt's heights, 
 Where are the tarns, the everlasting tarns, 
 That from the streams of heaven itself are 
 
 fed. 
 There to the German soil you bid farewell; 
 And thence, with sweet descent, another 
 
 stream 
 Leads you to Italy, your promised land. 
 [Ram des Vaches sounded on Alp- 
 horns is heard without.] 
 But I hear voices! Hence! 
 Hedwig [hurrying in]. Where art thou, 
 
 Tell? 
 My father comes, and in exulting bands 
 All the confederates approach. 
 
 John [covering himself]. Woe 's me! 
 I dare not tarry 'mong these happy men! 
 Tell. Go, dearest wife, and give this 
 
 man to eat. 
 Spare not your bounty; for his road is long. 
 And one where shelter will be hard to find. 
 Quick — they approach! 
 Hedwig. Who is he? 
 Tell. Do not ask! 
 And when he quits you, turn your eyes 
 
 away, 
 
698 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 So that they do not see which way he goes. 
 [John advances hastily toward 
 Tell, hid he beckons him aside, 
 and exit] 
 
 Scene III: The whole valley before Tell's 
 house, the heights which enclose it occupied 
 by peasants, grouped into tableaux. Some 
 are seen crossing a lofty bridge, which crosses 
 the Shechen. 
 
 [Walter FtiasT with the two Boys, Wer- 
 ner, and Stauppachbr, come forward. 
 Others throng after them. When Tell 
 appears, all receive him with loud 
 cheers.] 
 
 All. Long live brave Tell, our shield, 
 our savior! 
 
 [While those in front are crowding 
 round Tell, and embracing 
 him, Ritdenz and Bertha ap- 
 pear. The former salutes the 
 
 the latter embraces 
 
 Hedwig. The music from the 
 
 mountains continues to play. 
 
 When it has stopped. Bertha 
 
 steps into-the cento- of the crowd.] 
 
 Bertha. Peasants! Confederates! Into 
 
 your league 
 
 Receive me, who was happily the first 
 
 That found dehverance in the land of 
 
 freedom. 
 To your brave hands I now entrust my 
 
 rights. 
 Win you protect me aa your citizen? 
 Peasants. Aye, that we wiU, with life 
 
 and goods! 
 Bertha. 'T is well! 
 And now to him [turning to Rudbnz] I 
 
 frankly give my hand — 
 A free Swiss maiden to a free Swiss man! 
 RuDENz. And from this moment aU my 
 serfs are free! 
 
 [MvMC, and the curtain f alls.] 
 
RASMUS MONTANUS 
 
 By HOLBERG 
 Translated by OSCAR JAMES CAMPBELL and FREDERIC SCHENCK 
 
COPYRIGHT, I9I4, BY THE AMERICAN-SCANDINAVIAN FOUNDATION 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Jbppe Behg, a well-to-do peasant 
 
 NiLLE, his mfe 
 
 Rasmus Berg, caMed Ebasmus Montanus 
 their elder son, a student at the University 
 
 Jacob, the younger son 
 
 Jeeonimus, a wealthy freeholder 
 
 Magdelone, his mfe 
 
 LiSBED, their daughter, betrothed to Rasmus 
 
 Peee, the Deacon 
 
 Jespee, the Bailiff 
 
 A Lieutenant 
 
 Niels, the Corporal 
 
RASMUS MONTANUS 
 
 ACT I 
 
 A village street shovring Jeppe's house. 
 
 [Enter Jbppe, loith a letter in his hand.] 
 
 Jeppe. It is a shame that the Deacon is 
 not in town, for there's so much Latin in 
 my son's letter that I can't understand. 
 Tears come to my eyes 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 can dis- 
 pute with any clergyman alive. Oh, if only 
 my wife and I could have the joy of hearing 
 him preach on the hill, before we die, we 
 shouldn'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 of 
 Rasmus Berg. It is a terrible thing about 
 these scholarly people. They are so jealous 
 of each other, and no one of them can en- 
 dure the thought that another is as learned 
 as he. The good man preaches fine sermons 
 here in the village and can talk about envy 
 so 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't 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 Berg would never do such a 
 thing. But if here is n't Peer, the Deacon! 
 
 [Enter Peer, the Deacon.] 
 
 Welcome home again. Peer. 
 
 Peek. Thank you, Jeppe Berg. 
 
 Jeppe. Oh, my dear Peer, I wish you 
 could explain to me some Latin in my son's 
 last letter. 
 
 Peer. That's nothing! Do you think I 
 don't understand Latin as well as your son? 
 I am an old academicus, I'd have you know, 
 Jeppe Berg. 
 
 Jeppe. I know it. — I just wondered if 
 you understood the new Latin, for that 
 language must change, just as the language 
 of SjseUand 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 caUed a "boy"; what 
 they now call a "mysterioits" used to be 
 called a "whore"; a "madenioiselle," 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 line in 
 the letter.] Will you please explain that? I 
 can read the letters, but I don't get the 
 meaning. 
 
 Peek. Your son writes that he is now 
 studying his Logicam, Rhetoricam, and 
 Metaphysicam. 
 
 Jeppe. What does Logicam mean? 
 
 Peer. That's his pulpit. 
 
 Jeppe. I 'm glad of that. I wish he could 
 become a pastor! 
 
 Peer. But a deacon first. 
 
 Jeppe. What is the second subject? 
 
 Peer. That is Rhetorica, which in Dan- 
 ish means the Ritual. The third subject' 
 must be written wrong, or else it must be in 
 French, because if it were Latin, I could 
 read it easily. I am able, Jeppe Berg, to 
 recite the whole Aurora: ala, that's a wing; 
 andlla, a girl; barba, a beard; coma, a cham- 
 ber-pot; cerevisia, ale; campana, a bell; 
 ceUa, a cellar; lagena, a bottle; lana, a wolf; 
 andlla, a girl; janua, a door; cerevisia, 
 butter; — 
 
 Jeppe. You must have the devil's own 
 memory. Peer! 
 
 Peer. Yes, I never thought I should 
 have to stay in a poverty-stricken deacon's 
 living so long. I could have been something 
 else years ago, if I had been willing to 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. 
 
 Jeppe. But, my dear Peer, here is more 
 
704 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Latin that I can't understand. Look at this 
 line. 
 
 Pebb. Die Veneris Hafnia domum pro- 
 fecturus sum. That 's rather high-flown, but 
 I understand it perfectly, though any other 
 man might cudgel his brains over it. That 
 means in Danish: There is come profecto a 
 lot of Russes to Copenhagen. 
 
 Jeppb. What are the Russians doing 
 here again? 
 
 Peer. These are n't Muscovites, Jeppe 
 Berg, but young students, who are called 
 "Russes." 
 
 Jeppe. Oh, I see. I suppose there is a 
 great celebration on the days when the 
 boys get their salt and bread and become 
 students. 
 
 Peer. When do you expect him home? 
 
 Jeppe. To-day or to-morrow. Wait a 
 bit, my dear Peer; I will run and tell Nille 
 to bring us out a drink of ale. 
 
 Peer. I'd rather have a glass of brandy 
 — it's early in the day to drink ale. 
 
 [Exit Jeppe into house.] 
 
 To tell the truth, I am not very anxious 
 to have Rasmus Berg come home. Not 
 that I am afraid of his learning, for I was an 
 old student when he was still at school, get- 
 ting beatings — saving your presence — on 
 his rump. They were different fellows who 
 graduated in my time from what they are 
 now. I graduated from Slagelse School 
 with Peer Monsen, Rasmus Jespersen, 
 Christen Klim, Mads Hansen, — whom we 
 used to call Mads Pancake in school, — 
 Poul Iversen, — whom we called Poul 
 Barlycorn, — all boys with bone in their 
 skulls 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 will support a man. Before my time 
 people here in the village thought one 
 funeral-song as good as another, but I have 
 arranged things so that I can say to a peas- 
 
 ant, "Which hynm will you have? This one 
 costs so much and this one so much"; and 
 when it comes to scattering earth on the 
 body, "Will you have fine sand or just 
 common or garden dirt?" Then there are 
 various other touches that my predecessor. 
 Deacon Christoffer, had no idea of; but he 
 was imeducated. I can't understand how 
 the fellow ever came to be a deacon; yet 
 deacon he was, all the same. I tell you, 
 Latin helps a man a great deal in every sort 
 of business. I would n't give up the Latin 
 I know for a hundred rix-doUars. It has 
 been worth more than a hundred rix-doUars 
 to me in my business; yes, that and a hun- 
 dred more. 
 
 [Enter Nille and Jeppe.] 
 
 Nille [offering the deacon a glass of 
 brandy]. Your health. Peer! 
 
 Peer. Thank you, mother. I never 
 drink brandy unless I have a stomach-ache, 
 but I have a bad stomach most of the time. 
 
 Nille. Do you know. Peer, my son is 
 coming home to-day or to-morrow! You'll 
 find him a man you can talk to, for the 
 boy's not tongue-tied, from all I hear. 
 
 Peer. Yes, I suppose he can talk a lot of 
 Cloister-Latin. 
 
 Nille. , Cloister-Latin? That must be 
 the best Latin, just as cloister-linen is the 
 best linen. 
 
 Peer. Ha, ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Jeppe. What are you laughing at. Peer? 
 
 Peer. At nothing at all, Jeppe Berg. 
 Just another drop! Your heafth, mother! 
 It's true, as you say: cloister-linen is good 
 linen, but — ■ 
 
 Nille. If that linen is n't made in a 
 cloister, why is it called cloister-linen? 
 
 Peer. Yes, that's right enough, ha, ha, 
 ha! But won't you give me a bite to eat 
 with my brandy? 
 
 Nille [getting a plate from the house]. 
 Here 's a little bread and cheese already cut, 
 if you will eat it. 
 
 Peer. Thank you, mother. Do you 
 know what bread is in Latin? 
 
 Nille. No, indeed, I don't. 
 
 Peer [eating and talking at the same time]. 
 It's called panis; genitive, pani; dative, 
 pane; vocative, panits; ablative, pano. 
 
RASMUS MONTANUS 
 
 70s 
 
 Jeppe. Goodness, Peer! That language 
 is long-winded. What is coarse bread in 
 Latin? 
 
 Peer. That's panis gravis; and fine 
 bread is panis finis. 
 
 Jeppe. Why, that's half Danish! 
 
 Pees. True. There are many Latin 
 words that were originally Danish. I'll tell 
 you why: there was once an old rector at 
 the school in Copenhagen, called Saxo 
 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 his day 
 Latin was so poor that a man couldn't 
 write one sentence which people could 
 understand. 
 
 Jeppe. But what does that word "Gram- 
 matica" mean? 
 
 Peer. The same as "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 like ala. 
 
 NiLLE. I never shall see how people can 
 keep so much in their head. My head 
 swims just from hearing them talk about 
 it. 
 
 Jeppe. That's why learned folk usually 
 are n't quite right in their heads. 
 
 NiLLE. What nonsense! Do you think 
 our son Rasmus Berg is n't quite right? 
 
 Jeppe. It only seems a little queer, 
 mother, that he should write a Latin letter 
 to me. 
 
 Peer. Jeppe's right there, certainly. 
 That 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. 
 
 Jeppe. Do you know Greek, Peer? 
 
 Peer. 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." 
 
 Jeppe. Oh, Peer, it will be splendid, 
 when my son comes back, to get you two 
 together! 
 
 Peer. If he wants to dispute with me, 
 he will find that I can hold my own; and 
 if he wants to have a singing match with me, 
 he will get the worst of it. I once had a 
 
 singing contest with ten deacons and beat 
 every one of them, for I outsang them in 
 the Credo, all 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 loves and honors 
 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 once to pass the 
 time with him and sing for him. Last year 
 on this occasion he gave me two marks for 
 singing "Ut, re, mi, fa, sol." He swore that 
 he took more pleasure in that than in the 
 best vocal music he 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. [Exit Nille.] 
 
 Peer. I don't sing for every one, but you 
 are my good friend, Jeppe, whom I serve 
 with pleasure. [He sings.] Ut, re, mi, fa, 
 sol, la, si, ut; now down — ut, si, la, sol, fa, 
 mi, re, ut. 
 
 [Reenter Nille with brandy. He drinks.] 
 
 Now you shall hear how high I can go, 
 ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la, 
 si, ut, re — 
 
 Jeppe. Heavens! That last was fine. 
 Our little pigs can't go any higher with a 
 squeak. 
 
 Peer. Now I will sing rapidly: Ut, re, 
 mi, re — No! that wasn't right. Ut, re, 
 mi, do, re, mi, ut — No, that went wrong, 
 too. It 's cursed hard, Jeppe, to sing so fast. 
 But there comes Monsieur Jeronimus. 
 
 [Enter Jeronimus, Magdblone, and 
 
 LiSBED.] 
 
 Jeronimtts. Good-morning, kinsman! 
 Have you any news from your son? 
 
 Jeppe. Yes; he is coming to-day or 
 to-morrow. 
 
 LisBBD. Oh, is it possible? Then my 
 dream has come true. 
 
 Jeronimus. What did you dream? 
 
 L18BED. I dreamed that I slept with him 
 last night. 
 
7o6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Magdblone. There is something in 
 dreams, I tell you. Dreams are not to be 
 
 Jebonimus. That's true enough, but if 
 you girls did n't think so much about the 
 menfolk in the daytime, you would n't have 
 so 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, Magdelone? 
 
 Magdblone. I did, indeed, but upon 
 my word I have n't dreamed about you for 
 some years now. 
 
 Jeronimus. That's because your love 
 is n't as hot now as it used to be. 
 
 LiSBED. But is it possible that Rasmus 
 Berg is coming home to-morrow? 
 
 Jeronimus. Come, daughter, you should 
 n't show that you are so much in love. 
 
 LiSBED. Oh, but is it sure that he is 
 coming home to-morrow? 
 
 Jeronimus. Yes, yes; you hear, don't 
 you, that's when he is coming? 
 
 LiSBED. How long is it till to-morrow, 
 father, dear? 
 
 Jeronimus. What confounded non- 
 sense! These people in love act as if they 
 were crazy. 
 
 LiSBED. I tell you, I shall count every 
 hour. 
 
 Jeronimus. You should ask how long an 
 hour is, so that people would think that you 
 were completely mad. Stop this twaddle 
 and let us elders talk together. — Listen, 
 my dear Jeppe Berg! Do you think it is 
 wise for these two young people to marry 
 before he gets a position? 
 
 Jeppe. That is as you think best. I can 
 support them well enough, but it would 
 be better that he should get a position 
 first. 
 
 Jeronimus. I don't think it would be 
 wise for them to marry until then. [Lisbbd 
 weeps and wails.] Fie, shame on you! It's a 
 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 Latin letter just 
 lately. 
 
 NiLLE. And, marry, it's one that can 
 stand alone, as the deacon can tell you. 
 
 LiSBED. Was it so well written? 
 
 Peer. Yes, well written for one so yoimg. 
 He may amount to something, mamselle! 
 But there's a lot left to learn. I thought I 
 was learned, myself, at his age, but — ■ 
 
 Jeppe. Yes, you learned folk never 
 praise one another — 
 
 Peer. Nonsense! Do you think I am 
 jealous of him? Before he was born 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 
 deacon. 
 
 Jeppe. One man may have a better head 
 than another; one may learn as much in a 
 year as others in ten. 
 
 Peer. For that matter, the Deacon 
 dares set his head against any one's. 
 
 Jeronimus. Yes, yes, 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 
 way. 
 
 LiSBED. Be sure to let me know as soon 
 as he comes! 
 
 [Exeunt Jeronimus, Magdelone, 
 and LisBED.] 
 
 [Enter Jacob.] 
 
 Jeppe. What do you want, Jacob? 
 
 Jacob. Father! Have you heard the 
 news? Rasmus Berg is back. 
 
 Jeppe. Heavens, is it possible! How 
 does he look? 
 
 Jacob. Oh, he looks mighty learned. 
 Rasmus Nielsen, who drove him, swears 
 that he did nothing aU the way but dispute 
 with himself in Greek and Elamite; and 
 sometimes with so much zeal that he struck 
 Rasmus Nielsen in the back of the neck 
 three or four times, with his clenched fist, 
 shouting all the while, "Probe the Major! 
 Probe the Maj or ! " I suppose he must have 
 had a dispute with a major before he 
 started out. Part of the way he sat still and 
 stared at the moon and the stars with such 
 a rapt expression that he fell off the wagon 
 three times and nearly broke his neck from 
 sheer learning. Rasmus Nielsen laughed at 
 that, and said to himself, " Rasmus Berg 
 
RASMUS MONTANUS 
 
 707 
 
 may be a wise man in the heavens, but he 
 is a fool on earth." 
 
 Jeppe. Let us go and meet him. Come 
 with us, dear Peer. It may be that he has 
 forgotten his Danish and won't be able to 
 talk an3rthing but Latin. In that case you 
 can be interpreter. 
 
 Peer [aside]. Not if I know it! [Alovd.] 
 I have other things to attend to. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 A room in Jeppe's house. 
 
 [Enter MoNTANtrs, whose stockings are 
 falling dovm around his ankles.] 
 
 MoNTANtrs. I have been away from 
 Copenhagen only a day, and I miss it al- 
 ready. If I didn't have my good books 
 with me, I could n't exist in the country. 
 Stvdia secundas res omant, adversis solatium 
 praibent. I feel as if I had lost something, 
 after going three 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 disputation. I can't talk much to 
 my poor parents, for they are simple 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 expected me to 
 travel by night from Copenhagen. [He 
 strikes a match, lights his pipe, and puts the 
 bowl of his pipe through a hole he has made in 
 his hat.] That's what they call smoking 
 studentikos — it's a pretty good invention 
 for any one who wants to write and smoke 
 at the same time. 
 
 [Sits down and begins to read.] 
 
 [Enter Jacob. He kisses his own hand and 
 extends it to his brother.] 
 
 Jacob. Welcome home again, my Latin 
 brother! 
 
 MoNTANTJB. I am glad to see you, Jacob. 
 But as for being your brother, that was 
 
 well enough in the old days, but it will 
 hardly do any more. 
 
 Jacob. How so? Are n't you my 
 brother? 
 
 MoNTANTJS. Of course I don't deny, you 
 rogue, that I am your brother by birth, but 
 you must realize that you are still a peasant 
 boy, whereas I am a Bachelor of Philos- 
 ophy. But listen, Jacob, — how are my 
 sweetheart and her father? 
 
 Jacob. Very well. They were here 
 awhile ago and asked how soon brother 
 would be at home. 
 
 MoNTANTTS. Brother again! It's not 
 from mere pride that I object, Jacob, but it 
 simply won't do. 
 
 Jacob. Then what shall I call you, 
 brother? 
 
 MoNTANTJS. You must call me "Mon- 
 sieur Montanus," for that is what I am 
 called in Copenhagen. 
 
 Jacob. It I could only keep it in my 
 head. Was is "Monsieur Dromedarius"? 
 
 MoNTANTJS. Can't you hear? I say 
 " Monsieur Montanus." 
 
 Jacob. Mossur Montanus, Mossur Mon- 
 tanus. 
 
 Montanus. That's right. "Montanus" 
 in Latin is the same as "Berg" in Danish. 
 
 Jacob. Then can't I be called "Jacob 
 Montanus"? 
 
 Montanus. When you have been to 
 school as long as I have and passed your 
 examinations, then you can give yourself a 
 Latin name, too; but as long as 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 been 
 very impatient at your staying away so 
 long, brother. 
 
 Montanus. There you go again, yokel! 
 
 Jacob. I meant to say: Mossur's sweet- 
 heart has been impatient because brother 
 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 the 
 wedding I shall take her to Copenhagen 
 with me. 
 
 Jacob. Won't mossur take me along? 
 
7o8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 MoNTANTTS. What would you do there? 
 
 Jacob. I should like to look around in 
 the world a bit. 
 
 MoNTANUS. I wish you were six or seven 
 years younger, so that I could put you into 
 a Latin school, and then you could be a 
 college man, too. 
 
 Jacob. No, that would n't do. 
 
 MoNTANUS. Why not? 
 
 Jacob. If that happened, our parents 
 would have to go begging. 
 
 Mont ANUS. Hear how the feUow talks! 
 
 Jacob. Oh, I am full of ideas. If I had 
 studied, I should have been the devil of a 
 rogue. 
 
 MoNTANUS. I have been told that you 
 had a good head. But what else should 
 you like to do in Copenhagen? 
 
 Jacob. I should like to see the Round 
 Tower and the cloister where they make the 
 linen. 
 
 Mont ANUS. Ha, ha, ha! They're busy 
 with other things besides Unen-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. 
 
 Montanus. Have you heard whether he 
 intends to give his daughter a dowry? 
 
 Jacob. Oh, I think he will give her a 
 good one, especially if he once hears mossur 
 preach here in the village. 
 
 Montanus. 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 was better to be able 
 to preach. 
 
 Montanus. Do you know what disputa- 
 tion really means? 
 
 Jacob. Of course! I dispute every day 
 here at home with the maids, but I don't 
 gain anything by it. 
 
 Montanus. Oh, we have plenty of that 
 kind of disputation. 
 
 Jacob. What is it, then, that mossur 
 disputes about? 
 
 Montanus. I dispute about weighty 
 and learned matters. For example, whether 
 angels were created before men; whether 
 the earth is round or oval; about the moon, 
 
 sun, and stars, their size and distance from 
 the earth; and other things of a like nature. 
 
 Jacob. That's not the sort of thing I 
 dispute about, for that's not the sort of 
 thing that concerns me. If only I can get 
 the servants to work, they can say the 
 world is eight-cornered, for all I care. 
 
 Montanus. Oh, animal brutum ! — 
 Listen, Jacob, do you suppose any one has 
 let my sweetheart know that I have come 
 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, but shall I 
 not tell Lisbed first? 
 
 Montanus. Lisbed? Who is that? 
 
 Jacob. Don't you know, brother, that 
 your betrothed's name is Lisbed? 
 
 Montanus. Have you forgotten all I 
 have just taught you, you rascal? 
 
 Jacob. You may call me "rascal" as 
 much as you like, but I'm your brother 
 just the same. 
 
 Montanus. If you don't shut up, I'll 
 profecto, hit you over the head with this 
 book. 
 
 Jacob. It would n't be proper to throw 
 the Bible at people. 
 
 Montanus. This is no Bible. 
 
 Jacob. Marry, I know a Bible when 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 whatever it is, 
 it's a bad thing to throw books at yo.ir 
 brother. 
 
 Montanus. Shut up, rascal! 
 
 Jacob. I may be a rascal, but I earn 
 with my hands the money for my parents 
 that you spend. 
 
 Montanus. If you don't shut up, I'll 
 maim you. 
 
 [Throws the book at him.] 
 
 Jacob. Ow, ow, ow! 
 
 [Enter Jeppe and Nille.] 
 
 Jeppb. What is all this noise? 
 
 Jacob. Oh, my brother Rasmus is 
 beating me. 
 
 Nille. What does this mean? He 
 would n't hit you without good reason. 
 
RASMUS MONTANUS 
 
 709 
 
 MoNTANUs. No, mother, that is so. He 
 comes here and bandies words with me as 
 though he were my equal. 
 
 NiLLE. What a devil's own rogue! 
 Don't you know enough to respect such a 
 learned 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. 
 
 MoNTANtrs. I sit here speculating about 
 important questions, and this importunis- 
 simus and andadssimv^ juvenis comes and 
 hinders me. It is no child's play to have 
 to deal with these transcendentalibits. I 
 wouldn't have had it happen for two 
 marks. 
 
 Jeppe. Oh, don't be angry, my dear son! 
 This shall 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 shocks. I know that 
 Peer, the Deacon, got excited once and 
 did n't recover for three days. 
 
 MoNTANTjs. Peer, the Deacon! Is he 
 learned? 
 
 Jeppe. I should say he was! 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. 
 
 MoNTANtJS. For all that, he may have 
 no learning at all. 
 
 Jeppe. He preaches beautifully, too. 
 
 MoNTANUS. For all that, too, he might 
 have no learning at all. 
 
 NiLLE. Oh, honored son! How can a 
 man lack learning if he preaches well? 
 
 MoNTANUs. Surely, mother! All the 
 ignorant folk preach well, for inasmuch as 
 they can't compose anything out of their 
 own heads, they use borrowed sermons, 
 and learn good men's compositions by 
 heart, though sometimes 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 in this country to 
 judge a student's learning altogether too 
 much from his sermons. But let the fellow 
 dispute as I do — there's the touchstone of 
 learning. If any one says this table is a 
 candlestick, I will justify the statement. If 
 any one says that meat or bread is straw, I 
 
 will justify that, too; that has been done 
 many a time. Listen, father! Will y,ou ad- 
 mit that the man who drinks well is blessed? 
 
 Jeppe. I think rather that he is accursed, 
 for a man can drink himself out of both 
 reason and money. 
 
 MoNTANtrs. I will prove that he is 
 blessed. Quicunque bene bibit, bene dormit. 
 But, no, — you don't understand Latin; I 
 must say it in Danish. Whoever drinks 
 well, sleeps well. Is n't that so? 
 
 Jeppe. That's true enough, for when I 
 am half-drunk I sleep like a horse. 
 
 MoNTANTis. He who sleeps well does not 
 sin. Is n't that true, too? 
 
 Jeppe. True, too; so long as a man's 
 asleep he does n't sin. 
 
 MoNTANTJs. He who does not sin is 
 blessed. 
 
 Jeppe. That is also true. 
 
 MoNTANTTS. Ergo, he who drinks well is 
 blessed. — Little mother, I will turn you 
 into a stone. 
 
 NiLLE. Oh, nonsense! That is more than 
 even learning can do. 
 
 MoNTANUS. You shall hear whether it is 
 or not. A stone cannot fly. 
 
 NiLLB. No, indeed it can't, unless it is 
 thrown. 
 
 MoNTANtrs. You cannot fly. 
 
 NiLLE. That is true, too. 
 
 MoNTANTis. Ergo, little mother is a 
 stone. [NiiiLB cries.] Why are you cryiag, 
 little mother? 
 
 NiLLE. Oh! I am so much afraid that I 
 shall turn into a stone. My legs already 
 begin to feel cold. 
 
 MoNTANtrs. Don't worry, little mother. 
 I will immediately turn you into a human 
 being again. A stone neither thinks nor 
 talks. 
 
 NiLLE. That is so. I don't know whether 
 it can think or not, but it surely cannot talk. 
 
 MoNTANUs. Little mother can talk. 
 
 NiLLE. Yes, thank God, I talk as well as 
 a poor peasant woman can! 
 
 MoNTANUS. Good! Ergo, httle mother is 
 no stone. 
 
 NiLLB. Ah! That did me good! Now I 
 am beginning to feel like myself again. 
 Faith, it must take strong heads to study. 
 I don't see how your brains can stand it. — 
 
710 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Jacob, after this you shall wait on your 
 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 
 stand. 
 
 MoNTANirs. Little mother, I should like 
 very much to break him of the habit 
 of calling me "brother." It is not decent 
 for a peasant boy to call a learned man 
 " brother." I should Uke to have him call 
 me " monsieur." 
 
 Jeppb. Do you hear that, Jacob? When 
 you speak to your brother after this, you 
 are to call him mossur. 
 
 MoNTANirs. I should like to have the 
 Deacon invited here to-day, so that I can 
 see what he is good for. 
 
 Jeppe. Yes, surely, it shall be done. 
 
 Mont AN us. In the mean time I will go 
 to visit my sweetheart. 
 
 NiLLB. But I am afraid it is going to 
 rain. Jacob can carry your cloak for you. 
 
 MONTANUS. 'Jacob. 
 
 Jacob. Yes, mossur. 
 
 MOntanus. Walk behind me and carry 
 my cloak. 
 
 [Exit Montanxjs followed by Ja- 
 cob bearing the cloak.] 
 
 Jeppe. Have n't we cause to be pleased 
 with a son like that, Nille? 
 
 NiLLB. Yes, indeed, not a penny has 
 been wasted on him. 
 
 Jeppe. 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 
 ale. 
 
 Nille. It is very dangerous, husband, to 
 treat the Bailiff; a man like that must n't 
 find out how our affairs stand. 
 
 Jeppe. 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. 
 
 Nille. Oh, dear husband, I wonder if it 
 is 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 parents! 
 
 Jeppe. No, wife, one is enough; we must 
 have one at home who can give us a hand 
 and do our work. 
 
 Nille. Oh, at such work as that a man 
 cannot do more than live from hand to 
 mouth. Rasmus Berg, who is a scholar, can 
 do our family more good, with his brain, in 
 an hour than the other in a year. 
 
 Jeppe. That makes no difference, little 
 mother; our fields must be tilled and our 
 crops looked after. We can't possibly get 
 along without Jacob. Look, here he is now, 
 coming back again! 
 
 [Enter Jacob.] 
 
 Jacob. Ha! ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! My 
 brother may be a very learned man, hut he 
 is a great simpleton for all that. 
 
 Nille. You wicked rascal! Do you call 
 your brother a simpleton? 
 
 Jacob. I really don't know what I ought 
 to call such a thing, little mother. It rained 
 until it poured, and yet he let me walk 
 along behind him with the cloak on my 
 arm. 
 
 Jeppe. Could n't you have been civil 
 enough to have said, " Mossur, it is raining. 
 Won't you put on your cloak?" 
 
 Jacob. It seems to me, little father, it 
 would have been very strange for me to say 
 to the person whose parents had spent so 
 much money upon him to teach him wis- 
 dom and cleverness, when so much rain was 
 falling on him that he was wet to his shirt, 
 "It is raining, sir; won't you put on your 
 cloak?" He had no need of my warning; 
 the rain gave him warning enough. 
 
 Jeppe. Did you walk the whole way, 
 then, with the cloak on your arm? 
 
 Jacob. Marry, I did not; I wrapped my- 
 self up comfortably in the cloak; so my 
 clothes are perfectly dry. I understand 
 that sort of thing better than he, though 
 I've not spent so much money learning 
 wisdom. I grasped it at once, although I 
 don't know one Latin letter from another. 
 
 Jeppe. Your brother weis plunged in 
 thought, as deeply learned folk usually are. 
 
 Jacob. Ha, ha! the devil split such 
 learning! 
 
 Jeppe. Shut up, you rogue, or shame 
 on your mouth! What does it matter if 
 
RASMUS MONTANUS 
 
 711 
 
 your brother is absent-minded about such 
 things as that, when in so many other mat- 
 ters he displays his wisdom and the fruit of 
 his studies? 
 
 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 
 he would have had his learned legs well 
 caulked if I had not dragged him to the 
 other side; for watch-dogs are no respecters 
 of persons; they measure all strangers with 
 the same stick, and bite at random what- 
 ever legs they get hold of, whether Greek or 
 Latin. When he entered the covirt, Mossur 
 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 confounded limk-head that lad 
 must be!" 
 
 NiLLE. Oh, my dear husband, can you 
 stand hearing him use such language? 
 
 Jeppe. Jacob, you wiU get into trouble if 
 you talk like that any more. 
 
 Jacob. Little father ought rather to 
 thank me, for I 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 sure that if I had not been with 
 him, he would have been standing in the 
 stable yet, gazing at the cows' tails, from 
 sheer learning. 
 
 Jeppe. A plague on your impudent 
 mouth! [Jacob runs off, Jeppe after him.] 
 
 NiLLE. The confounded rogue! — I have 
 sent word to the Bailiff and the Deacon, so 
 that my son can have some one to dispute 
 with when he comes back. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Same as Act II. 
 
 [Enter Nille.] 
 
 NiLLE [alone]. My son Montanus 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 things which — But 
 there, I see him corning. 
 
 [Enter Montantjs.] 
 
 Welcome home, my dear son. Our kind 
 friend Jeronimus was no doubt very glad to 
 see our honored son in good health after so 
 long an absence. 
 
 Montanus. I have spoken neither to 
 Jeronimus nor to his daughter, on account 
 of that fellow with whom I got into a dis- 
 pute. 
 
 NiLLB. What kind of a man was he? 
 Perhaps it was the Schoolmaster. 
 
 MoNTANtrs. No, it was a stranger, who is 
 going away to-day. I know him, although 
 I have not associated 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 idiots. I'll 
 teU you, mother, how it is: This fellow has 
 been ordinarius opponens once or twice; 
 therein hes his sole achievement. But how 
 did he perform his Partes f Misere et 
 hcBsitanter absque methodo. Once when 
 Presses wished to distinguish inter rem et 
 modum rei, he asked, Quid hoc est ? — 
 Wretch, you should have known that ante- 
 quam in arenam descendis. Quid hoc est ? 
 QucB bruta! A fellow who ignores the dis- 
 tinctiones cardinales, and then wants to 
 dispute pvhlice! 
 
 Nille. Oh, my respected son, you 
 must n't take such things as that to heart. 
 I can see from what you say that he must 
 be a fool. 
 
 MoNTANtrs. An ignoramus. 
 
 NiLLB. Nothing could be plainer. 
 
 MoNTANTTS. An idiot. 
 
 Nille. I can't see that he is anything 
 else. 
 
 MoNTANns. Et quidem plane hospes in 
 philosophia. Let the dog turn away from 
 what he committed in the presence of so 
 many worthy people. 
 
 Nille. Is that what he did? By that 
 you may know a swine. 
 
 Montanus. No, little mother, he did 
 something worse than that; he openly con- 
 founded materiam cum forma. 
 
 NiLLB'. Plague take him! 
 
712 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 MoNTANtrs. Does the fellow imagine 
 that he can dispute? 
 
 NiLLB. The devU he can! 
 
 MoNTANUs. Not to mention the mistake 
 he made in his Prcemio, when he said, 
 " Lectissimi et doctissimi avMtores." 
 
 NiLLE. What a fool he must be! 
 
 MoNTANTjs. For putting "lectissimi" in 
 front of "doctissimi," when "lectissimi" is 
 a predicate, one can give a Deposituro. 
 
 NiLLE. But did n't you get a chance to 
 talk with Jeronimus, my son? 
 
 MoNTANUs. 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 began to talk of learned mat- 
 ters, and finally to dispute, so that I had to 
 postpone my visit. 
 
 NiLLE. I am very much afraid that 
 Monsieur Jeronimus will be offended when 
 he hears that my son has been in his yard, 
 but went away without talking with him. 
 
 MoNTANUs. Well, I can't help that. 
 When any one attacks philosophy, he at- 
 tacks my honor. I am fond of Mademoi- 
 selle Lisbed, but my Melaphysica and my 
 Logica have priority. 
 
 NiLLE. Oh, my dear son, what did I 
 hear? Are you engaged to two other girls in 
 Copenhagen? That will be a bad business 
 in the matrimonial courts. 
 
 MoNTANTJS. You don't understand me; 
 I did n't mean it in that way. They are not 
 two girls, but two sciences. 
 
 NiLLB. Oh, that is another matter. But 
 here comes the Bailiff. Don't be angry any 
 more. 
 
 MoNTANus. I can't be angry with him, 
 for he is a simple, ignorant man, with whom 
 I cannot get into a dispute. 
 
 [Enter Jeppe aTid Jespbr, the Bailiff.] 
 
 Jbspbr. Serviteur, monsieur. I congrat- 
 ulate you on your arrival. 
 
 MoNTANtrs. I thank you, Mr. Bailiff. 
 
 Jbspeb. 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, 
 happiness has come to you in your old age. 
 
 Jeppe. Yes, that is true. 
 
 Jesper. But listen, my dear Monsieur 
 Rasmus, I should Hke to ask you some- 
 thing. 
 
 MoNTANUs. My name is Montanus. 
 
 Jbspbr [aside to Jbppe]. Montanus? Is 
 that the Latin for Rasmus? 
 
 Jeppe. Yes, it must be. 
 
 Jesper. Listen, my dear Monsieur Mon- 
 tanus Berg. I have heard that learned folk 
 have such extraordinary ideas. Is it true 
 that people in Copenhagen think the earth 
 is round? Here on the hUl no one believes 
 it; for how can that be, when the earth 
 looks perfectly flat? 
 
 Montanus. That is because the earth is 
 so large that one cannot notice its round- 
 ness. 
 
 Jesper. Yes, it is true, the earth is large; 
 it is almost a half of the universe. But lis- 
 ten, monsieur, how many stars will it take 
 to make a moon? 
 
 Montanus. A moon! In comparison to 
 the stars the moon is like Pebling Pond in 
 comparison with all Sjselland. 
 
 Jesper. Ha, ha, ha! Learned folk are 
 never just right in the head. Will you be- 
 lieve it, I have heard people say that the 
 earth moves and the sun stands still. You 
 certainly don't believe- that, too, monsieur? 
 
 Montanus. No man of sense doubts it 
 any longer. 
 
 Jesper. Ha. ha, ha! If the earth should 
 move, surely we should fall and break our 
 necks. 
 
 Montanus. Can't a ship move with you, 
 without your breaking your neck? 
 
 Jesper. Yes, but you say that the earth 
 turns round. Now, if a ship should turn 
 over, would n't the people fall off then into 
 the sea? 
 
 Montanus. No. I will explain it to 
 you more plainly, if you will have the 
 patience. 
 
 Jesper. Indeed, I won't hear anything 
 about it. I should have to be crazy to be- 
 lieve such a thing. Could the earth turn 
 over, and we not fall heels over head to the 
 devil and clear down into the abyss? Ha, 
 ha, ha! But, my Monsieur Berg, how is it 
 that the moon is sometimes so small and 
 sometimes so big? 
 
RASMUS MONTANUS 
 
 713 
 
 MoNTANTJS. If I tell you why, you won't 
 believe me. 
 
 Jespek. Oh, please tell me. 
 
 MoNTANus. It is because, when the 
 moon has grown large, pieces are clipped 
 off it to make stars of. 
 
 Jbspeb. That certainly is curious. I 
 really did n't know that before. If pieces 
 were not clipped off, it would get too large 
 and grow as broad as all Sjalland. After 
 all, nature does regulate everything very 
 wisely. But how is it that the moon does n't 
 give warmth like the sun, although it is just 
 as big? 
 
 MoNTANTJS. That is because the moon is 
 not a light, but made of the same dark 
 material as the earth, and gets its Hght and 
 briUiance from the sun. 
 
 Jesper. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Let us 
 talk of something else. 'That's stuff and 
 nonsense; a man might go stark mad over it. 
 
 [Enter Peek.] 
 
 Jbppe. Welcome, Peer. Where good folk 
 are gathered, good folk come. Here, you 
 see, is my son, who has just come back. 
 
 Peer. Welcome, Monsieur Rasmus 
 Berg! 
 
 MoNTANTJS. In Copenhagen, I am accus- 
 tomed to be called " Montanus." I beg you 
 to caU me that. 
 
 Peer. Yes, surely, it's all the same to 
 me. How are things in Copenhagen? Did 
 many graduate this year? 
 
 MoNTANTJS. About as many as usual. 
 
 Peer. Was any one rejected this year? 
 
 MoNTANiTS. Two or three condiiionaliter. 
 
 Peer. Who is Imprimatur this year? 
 
 MoNTANTJS. What does that mean? 
 
 Peer. I mean, who is Imprimatur of the 
 verse and the books which are published? 
 
 MoNTANTTS. Is that supposed to be 
 Latin? 
 
 Peer. Yes, in my day it was good Latin. 
 
 MoNTANTJS. If it was good Latin then, it 
 must be so still. But it has never been 
 Latin in the sense in which you use it. 
 
 Peer. Yes, it is, — good Latin. 
 4 MoNTANTJS. Is it a nomen or a verbum ? 
 
 Peer. It is a nomen. 
 
 Jesper. That is right. Peer, just speak 
 up for yourself. 
 
 MoNTANTJS. Cuius decUnotionis is 7?re- 
 primatur, then? 
 
 Peer. All the words that can be men- 
 tioned may be referred to eight things, 
 which are: nomen, proncmien, verbum, prin- 
 dprium, conjugatio, dedinatio, interjectio. 
 
 Jesper. Yes, yes, just listen to Peer 
 when he shakes his sleeves! That's right, 
 keep at him! 
 
 MoNTANUS. He's not answering what I 
 ask him. What is the genitive of " Im- 
 primatur" f 
 
 Peer. Nominativus, ala; genitivus, aloe; 
 dativus, ala; vocativus, alo; ablativus, ala. 
 
 Jesper. Ah, ah, Monsieur Montanus, 
 we have some folk here on the hill, too! 
 
 Peer. 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. 
 
 MoNTANDS. That is certainly a wonder- 
 ful thing! Boys in the second class can do 
 that to-day. Nowadays there are gradu- 
 ates from the schools in Copenhagen who 
 can write Hebrew and Chaldean verse. 
 
 Peer. Then they can't know much 
 Latin. 
 
 MoNTANTJS. Latin! If you went to 
 school now, you couldn't get above the 
 bottom class. 
 
 Jesper. Don't say that, Montanus. 
 The deacon is, I know, a thoroughly edu- 
 cated man; that I have heard both the 
 district baiUff and the tax-coUector say. 
 
 MoNTANTJS. Perhaps they understand 
 Latin just as little as he. 
 
 Jespbe. But I can hear that he answers 
 splendidly. 
 
 Montanus. Yes, but he does n't answer 
 what I ask him — E qua schola dimissus es, 
 mi Domine f 
 
 Peer. Adjectivum et suhsiantivum genere, 
 numero et caseo conveniunt. 
 
 Jesper. He's giving him his bucket full. 
 Good for you, Peer; as sure as you live, we 
 shall drink a half-pint of brandy together. 
 
 MoNTANTJS. If you knew, Mr. Bailiff, 
 what his answers were, you would laugh 
 until you split. I ask him from what school 
 he graduated and he answers at random 
 something entirely different. 
 
714 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Pebb. Tunc tva res agitur, paries cum 
 proximus ardet. 
 
 Jespbr. Yes, yes, that's a good lead for 
 you. Answer that, now. 
 
 MoNTANUS. I can't answer that; it is 
 
 mere mincemeat. Let us talk Danish, so 
 
 the others can understand; then you will be 
 
 able to hear what kind of a fellow he is. 
 
 [NiLLE cries.] 
 
 Jespbb. What are you crying for, my 
 good woman? 
 
 NiLLB. Oh, I am so sorry that my son 
 must admit himself beaten in Latin. 
 
 Jbspeb. 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, as we all understand it. 
 
 Pebb. Yes, certainly. I am ready 
 for whichever one of the two he wishes. 
 We shall propose certain questions to 
 each other; for example, who was it that 
 screamed so loud that he could be heard 
 over the whole world? 
 
 MoNTANUs. I know no one who screams 
 louder than asses and country deacons. 
 
 Pebb. Nonsense! Can they be heard 
 over the whole world? It was the ass in 
 Noah's ark; for the whole world was in the 
 ark. 
 
 Jbspeb. Ha, ha, ha! That is true, to be 
 sure. Ha, ha, ha! Peer, the Deacon, has a 
 fine head on his shoulders. 
 
 Pbee. Who was it killed a quarter of the 
 world? 
 
 MoNTANUS. Bah! I refuse to answer 
 such stupid questions. 
 
 Pebb. It was Cain, who killed lus 
 brother Abel. 
 
 MoNTANtrs. Prove that there were no 
 more than four human beings at the time. 
 
 Pebb. You prove that there were more. 
 
 MoNTANUS. That is n't necessary; for 
 affirmanie incumbit probatio. Do you 
 understand that? 
 
 Pebb. Of course I do. Omnia conando 
 docilis solerlia vincit. Do you understand 
 that? 
 
 MoNTANUs. 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 
 is. Let's hear once, quid est logica f 
 
 Pebb. Post molestam seneciutam, post 
 molestam senectutam nos habebat humus. 
 
 MoNTANUS. Are you trying to make a 
 fool of me, you rascal? 
 
 [He grabs him by the hair. The 
 Deacon escapes and shovis, 
 "Dunce, dunce!" Exeunt all 
 except the Bailiff.] 
 
 [Enter Jebonimtts.] 
 
 jERONiMtrs. Your servant, Mr. Bailiff. 
 I am surprised to find you here. I have 
 come to see my future son-in-law, Rasmus 
 Berg. 
 
 Jbspeb. He will be here in a moment. It 
 is a shame that you did n't come a half -hour 
 sooner. You would then have heard him 
 and the Deacon disputing together. 
 
 Jeronimus. How did it come out? 
 
 Jbspeb. Shame on Peer, the Deacon! 
 He is worse than I thought. I see well 
 enough that he has forgot nothing either of 
 his Latin or Hebrew. 
 
 Jebonimus. I believe that well enough, 
 for he probably never knew much of either. 
 
 Jespeb. Don't say that. Monsieur Jeron- 
 imus! He has a devilish clever tongue. It 
 is really a joy to hear the man talk Latin. 
 
 Jebonimtts. That is more than I should 
 have expected. But how does my son look? 
 
 Jbspeb. He looks confoundedly learned. 
 You would hardly recognize him. He has 
 another name, too. 
 
 jEBONiMtrs. Another name! What does 
 he call himself? 
 
 Jbspeb. He calls himself Montanus, 
 which is said to be the same as Rasmus in 
 Latin. 
 
 Jbbonimtjs. Oh, shame! that is wicked. 
 I have known many who have changed 
 their Christian names in that way, but they 
 never have prospered. Some years ago I 
 knew a person who was christened Peer, 
 and afterwards, when he had become a man 
 of consequence, wanted to be coined again, 
 and called himself Peter. But that name 
 cost him dear, for he broke his leg and died 
 in great misery. Our Lord does n't allow 
 such a thing, Mr. Bailiff. 
 
 Jespbr. I don't care what his name is, 
 but I don't like it that he has such peculiar 
 opinions in religion. 
 
RASMUS MONTANUS 
 
 71S 
 
 Jeronimus. What kind of opinions has 
 he, then? 
 
 Jesper. Oh, it's terrible! My hair 
 stands on end when I think of it. I can't 
 remember all that I heard, but I know that 
 among other things he said that the earth 
 was round. What can I call such a thing, 
 Monsieur Jeronimus? That is nothing else 
 than overthrowing all religion and leading 
 folk away from the faith. A heathen cer- 
 tainly cannot speak worse. 
 
 Jeronimus. He must have said that 
 only in jest. 
 
 Jesper. It is going rather too far to joke 
 about such things as that. See, here he 
 comes hiinseU. 
 
 [Enta- MoNTANUS.] 
 
 MoNTANUs. How do you do, my dear 
 father-in-law. I am delighted to see you in 
 good health. 
 
 Jeronimus. People of my age can't 
 enjoy remarkable health. 
 
 MoNTANUs. You look mighty well, 
 however. 
 
 Jeronimus. Do you think so? 
 
 MoNTANUs. How is Miss Lisbed? 
 
 Jeronimus. Oh, well enough. 
 
 MoNTANUs. But what is the matter? It 
 seems to me, my dear father-in-law, that 
 you answer me rather coldly. 
 
 Jeronimus. I have no good reason to do 
 otherwise. 
 
 MoNTANUS. What wrong have I done? 
 
 Jeronimus. I have been told that you 
 have such peculiar opinions that people 
 might really think that you had become 
 mad or deranged, for how can a sane man 
 be foolish enough to say that the earth is 
 round? 
 
 MoNTANUS. But, profecto, it is round. I 
 must speak the truth. 
 
 Jeronimus. The deuce it is the truth! 
 Such a notion can't possibly come from 
 anywhere but from the devU, who is the 
 father of lies. I am sure there is n't a single 
 man here in the village who would not con- 
 demn such an opinion. Just ask the Bailiff, 
 who is an intelligent man, if he does not 
 agree with me. 
 
 Jesper. It is really all one to me whether 
 it is oblong or round; but I must believe my 
 
 own eyes, which show me that the earth is 
 as fiat as a pancake. 
 
 MoNTANUS. 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 the 
 earth is roimd. 
 
 Jeronimus. The deuce it is round! You 
 must be crazy. You surely have eyes in 
 your head as well as other men. 
 
 MoNTANUS. It is known for certain, my 
 dear father-in-law, that people live right 
 under us with their feet turned toward 
 ours. 
 
 Jesper. Ha, ha, ha; hi, hi, hi; ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Jeronimus. Yes, you may well laugh, 
 Mr. Bailiff, 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. 
 
 Montanus. That is an entirely different 
 thing, father-in-law, because — 
 
 Jeronimus. I will never in the world be 
 your father-in-law. I love my daughter too 
 well to throw her away like that. 
 
 Montanus. 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 
 demand. 
 
 Jeronimus. Ha, ha! I see you have 
 another lady-love in mind. You can keep 
 your Lucy or your Sophy. I certainly shall 
 not force my daughter on you. 
 
 Montanus. You mistake me. Philos- 
 ophy is nothing other than a science, which 
 has opened my eyes, in this respect as in 
 others. 
 
 Jeronimus. It has rather blinded both 
 your eyes and your understanding. How 
 can you believe such a thing is good? 
 
 Montanus. That is something which is 
 beyond proof. No learned man doubts that 
 any longer. 
 
 Jesper. I warrant you will never get 
 Peer, the Deacon, to agree with you. 
 
 Montanus. Peer, the Deacon! 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 fromJiere, 
 
7i6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 have day while we have night: they see 
 other heavens, other stars. 
 
 Jeronimus. Are you crazy? Is there 
 more than one heaven and one earth? 
 
 Jespbr. Yes, indeed, Monsieur Jeroni- 
 mus, there are twelve heavens, one above 
 the other, until the crystal heaven is 
 reached. So far he is right. 
 
 MoNTANUS. Ah! Quantce tenebrce! 
 
 jERONiMtrs. In my youth I went sixteen 
 times to the neighborhood of Kiel, but as 
 sure as I am an honorable man, I never 
 saw a different heaven from what we have 
 here. 
 
 MoNTANUS. You must travel sixteen 
 times as far, Domine Jeronime, before you 
 can notice such a thing, because — ■ 
 
 Jeronimus. Stop talking such nonsense; 
 it is neither here nor there. Let 's hear your 
 other proof. 
 
 MoNTANUS. The other proof is taken 
 from the eclipse of the sun and moon. 
 
 Jesper. Just hear that! Now he is 
 stark mad. 
 
 MoNTANUS. What do you really suppose 
 an eclipse to be? 
 
 Jesper. Eclipses are certain signs which 
 are placed upon the sun and moon when 
 some misfortune is going to happen on the 
 earth, — a thing I can prove from my own 
 experience: when my wife had a miscar- 
 riage three years ago, and when my daugh- 
 ter Gertrude died, both times there were 
 eclipses just before. 
 
 MoNTANTJS. Oh, such nonsense will 
 drive me mad. 
 
 Jeronimus. The Bailiff is right, for an 
 eclipse never occurs unless it is a warning 
 of something. When the last eclipse hap- 
 pened, everything seemed to be well, but 
 that did 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 hears of it at 
 another. 
 
 MoNTANUS. That is true enough, for no 
 day passes that some misfortune does not 
 happen somewhere in the world. But as 
 far as these persons you mentioned are con- 
 
 cerned, they have no need to blame the 
 eclipse, for if they had studied more, they 
 would have passed. 
 
 Jeronimus. What is an eclipse of the 
 moon, then? 
 
 MoNTANUS. It is nothing other than the 
 earth's shadow, which deprives the moon of 
 the sunlight, and since the shadow is roimd, 
 we thereby see that the earth is round, too. 
 It all happens in a natural way, for eclipses 
 can be predicted, and therefore it is folly to 
 say that such things are prophetic warnings 
 of misfortune. 
 
 Jeronimus. Oh, Mr. Bailiff, I feel ill. 
 Unlucky was the day on which your par- 
 ents allowed you to become a scholar. 
 
 Jesper. Yes, he comes 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 Latin or Greek, 
 that the earth, thank God, is as fiat as my 
 hand. But here comes Madame Jeronimus 
 with her daughter. 
 
 [Enter Magdelone and Lisbed.] 
 
 Magdelone. Oh, my dear son-in-law, it 
 is a delight to me to see you back again in 
 good health. 
 
 Lisbed. Oh, my darling, let me hug you. 
 
 Jeronimus. Slowly, slowly, my child, 
 not so ardently. 
 
 Lisbed. May I not hug my sweetheart 
 when I have n't seen him for years? 
 
 Jeronimus. Keep away from him, I tell 
 you, or else you will get a beating. 
 
 Lisbed [weeping]. I know one thing, that 
 we have been publicly betrothed. 
 
 Jeronimus. That is true enough, but 
 since that time something has occurred to 
 hinder. [Lisbed weeps.] You must know, 
 my child, that when he became engaged to 
 you he was an honest man and a good 
 Christian. But now he is a heretic and a 
 fanatic, who ought to be introduced to the 
 Litany rather than into our family. 
 
 Lisbed. If that is all, father, dear, we 
 can still make everything right. 
 
 Jeronimus. Keep away from him, I tell 
 you. 
 
 Magdelone. What does this mean, Mr. 
 Bailiff? 
 
RASMUS MONTANUS 
 
 717 
 
 Jesper. It's a bad business, madame. 
 He introduces false doctrine into this vil- 
 lage, saying that the earth is round, and 
 other things of such a nature that I should 
 blush to mention them. 
 
 Jeronimus. Don't you think that the 
 good old parents are to be pitied who have 
 spent so much money on him? 
 
 Magdelone. Oh, is that all? If he loves 
 our daughter, he will give up his opinion 
 and say that the earth is flat, for her sake. 
 
 LiSBED. Oh, my dear, for my sake say 
 that it is flat! 
 
 MoNTANTjs. I cannot humor you in this, 
 so long as I am in full possession of my rea- 
 son. I cannot give the earth another shape 
 from what it has by nature. For your sake 
 I will say and do whatever is possible for 
 me; but in this one thing I can never humor 
 you, for if the brothers in my order should 
 find out that I had given expression to such 
 an opinion, I should be thought a fool, and 
 despised. Besides, we learned folk never 
 give up our opinions, but defend what we 
 have once said to the uttermost drop of our 
 inkhoms. 
 
 Magdelone. See here, husband, I don't 
 think it matters so much that we should 
 break off the match on that account. 
 
 Jeronimus. And merely on that account 
 I should try to have them divorced even if 
 they had been actually married. 
 
 Magdelone. You had better believe I 
 have something to say in this matter, too ; for 
 if she is your daughter, she is mine as well. 
 
 LisBED [weeping]. Oh, my dear, do say 
 that it is flat. 
 
 MoNTANUS. Profecto, I really cannot. 
 
 Jeronimus. Listen, wife: you must 
 know that I am the head of the house, and 
 that I am her father. 
 
 Magdelone. You must also know that I 
 am the mistress of the house, and that I am 
 her mother. 
 
 Jeronimus. I say that a father is always 
 more than a mother. 
 
 Magdelone. And I say not, for there 
 can be no doubt that I am her mother, but 
 whether you — I had better not say any 
 more, for I am getting excited. 
 
 LiSBED [weeping]. Oh, my heart, can't 
 you say just for my sake that it is flat? 
 
 Montanus. I cannot, my doll, nam 
 contra naturam est. 
 
 Jeronimus. What did you mean by 
 that, my wife? Am I not her father as 
 surely as you are her mother? — Listen, 
 Lisbed, am I not your father? 
 
 LiSBED. I think so, for my mother says 
 so; but I know that she is my mother. 
 
 Jeronimus. What do you think of this 
 talk, Mr. Bailiff? 
 
 Jesper. I can't say that mamselle is 
 wrong in this matter, for — 
 
 Jeronimus. That is enough. Come, let us 
 go — You may be sure, my good Rasmus 
 Berg, that you wiU never get my daughter 
 so long as you cling to your delusions. 
 
 LiSBBD [weeping]. Oh, my heart, do say 
 that it is flat! 
 
 Jeronimus. Out, out of the door! 
 
 [Exeunt Jeronimus, Magdelone, 
 and Lisbed.] 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Before Jeppe's house. 
 
 [Enter Montanus.] 
 
 Montanus. 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 said. 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 I get a chance to 
 talk to Jeronimus, I can convince him of 
 his errors so conclusively that he will agree 
 to the match. But there are the Deacon 
 and the Bailiff, coming from my father- 
 and mother-in-law's. 
 
 [Enter Peer and Jesper.] 
 
 Jesper. My dear Monsieur Montanus, 
 we have been working hard for you this 
 day. 
 
7i8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 MoNTANUs. What's that? 
 
 Jbspbr. We have intervened between 
 your parents and your parents-in-law to 
 bring about a reconciliation. 
 
 MoNTANUS. Well, what have you accom- 
 plished? Did my father-in-law give way? 
 
 Jesper. The last words he said to us 
 were, " There has never been any heresy in 
 our family. You tell Rasmus Berg" — I 
 merely quote his words; he never once said 
 Montanus Berg — "You tell Rasmus Berg 
 from me," said he, "that my wife and I are 
 both honest, 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 always 
 had pure faith here on the hill, and Mon- 
 sieur Jeronimus is n't far wrong in wishing 
 to break off the match. 
 
 MoNTANTjs. My good friends, tell 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 scholasticas and consuetu- 
 dines laudabiles. 
 
 Peer. Oh, Dominus! Will you give up 
 your pretty sweetheart for such trifles? 
 Every one will speak ill of it. 
 
 Montanus. The common man, vulgus, 
 will speak ill of it; but my commilitiones, 
 my comrades, will praise me to the skies for 
 my constancy. 
 
 Peer. Do you consider it a sin to say 
 that the earth is flat or oblong? 
 
 Montanus. No, I do not, but I consider 
 it shameful and dishonorable for me, a 
 Baccalaureus Philosophioe, to repudiate 
 what I have publicly maintained, and to do 
 anything that is improper for one of my 
 order. My duty is to see to it that ne quid 
 detrimenii patiatur respublica philosophica. 
 
 Peer. But if you can be convinced that 
 what you believe is false, do you consider it 
 a sin to give up your opinion? 
 
 Montanus. Prove to me that it is false, 
 and that methodice. 
 
 Peer. That 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 mere 
 
 use of his pen; next, myself, unworthy man, 
 who have been deacon here for fourteen full 
 years; then this good man, the BailiS, 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. 
 
 Montanus. That's the deuce of a syl- 
 logismus. What does all such nonsense 
 lead to? 
 
 Peer. I'm coming to that directly. I 
 say, just ask any one of these good 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 so many say, rather than what only 
 one says. Ergo, you are wrong. 
 
 Montanus. You may bring all the peo- 
 ple on the hill and let them oppose me both 
 in this matter and others, and I shall close 
 the mouths of all of them. Such people have 
 no convictions; they must believe what I 
 and other folk say. 
 
 Peer. But if you should say the moon 
 was made of green cheese, would they be- 
 lieve that, too? 
 
 Montanus. Why not? Tell me, what do 
 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. 
 
 Montanus. And I say it is a lie. I say 
 you are a cock, and I shall prove it, as 
 siirely as two and three make five. 
 
 Peer. The devil you will! Now, how 
 can I be a cock? How can you prove that? 
 
 Montanus. Can you tell me anything 
 to prevent you from being one? 
 
 Peer. In the first place I can talk; a 
 cock cannot talk; ergo, I am not a cocki 
 
 Montanus. Talking does not prove any- 
 thing. A parrot or a starling can talk, too; 
 that does not make them human beings by 
 any means. 
 
 Peer. I can prove it from something 
 else besides talking. A cock has no human 
 intelligence. I have human intelligence; 
 exgo, I am not a cock. 
 
 Montanus. Proha minorem. 
 
 Jesper. Aw, talk Danish. 
 
 Montanus. I want him to prove that he 
 has the intelligence of a human being. 
 
RASMUS MONTANUS 
 
 719 
 
 Peer. See here, I discharge the duties of 
 my office irreproachably, don't I? 
 
 MoNTANUs. What are the main duties of 
 your office wherein you show human intel- 
 ligence? 
 
 Peer. First, I never forget to ring for 
 service at the hour appointed. 
 
 MoNTANTis. Nor does a cock forget to 
 crow and make known the hour and tell 
 people when to get up. 
 
 Peer. Second, I can sing as well as any 
 deacon in Sjaelland. 
 
 MoNTANtrs. And our cock crows as well 
 as any cock in Sjaelland. 
 
 Peer. I can mould wax candles, which 
 no cock can do. 
 
 MoNTANUS. Over against that, a cock 
 can make a hen lay eggs, which you can't 
 do. Don't you see that the intelligence you 
 show in your calling fails to prove that you 
 are better than a cock? Let us see, in a nut- 
 shell, what points you have in 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 ruffles himself up, you do like- 
 wise; a cock gives warning when it is time 
 to get up, you when it is time for service. 
 Ergo, you are a cock. Have you anything 
 else to say? [Peer cries.] 
 
 Jespeb. Here, don't cry, Peer! Why do 
 you heed such things? 
 
 Peer. A plague on me if it's not 
 sheer falsehood. I can get a certificate 
 from the whole village that I am not a 
 rooster; that not one of my forbears has 
 been anjrthing but a Christian human be- 
 ing. 
 
 MoNTANUs. Refute, then, this syllogis- 
 mus, gitem 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 
 protujaerances on his head. You have the 
 same peculiarities. Ergo, you are a cock. 
 Refute me that argument. 
 
 [Peer weeps again.] 
 
 Jesper. If the Deacon can't shut you 
 up, I can. 
 
 MoNTANUs. Let us hear your argument, 
 then! 
 
 Jesper. First, my conscience tells me 
 that your opinion is false. 
 
 MoNTANtrs. One cannot pass judgment 
 in all matters according to a bailiff's 
 conscience. 
 
 Jesper. In the second place, I say that 
 everything you have said is sheer false- 
 hood. 
 
 MoNTANUs. Prove it. 
 
 JjESPER. In the third place, I am an 
 honest man, whose word has always de- 
 served to be believed. 
 
 MoNTANUS. That sort of talk will con- 
 vince no one. 
 
 Jesper. In the fourth place, I say that 
 you have spoken like a knave and that the 
 tongue ought to be cut out of your mouth. 
 
 MoNTANUs. I still hear no proof. 
 
 Jesper. And, finally, in the fifth .place, 
 I will prove it to you abundantly either 
 with swords or with bare fists. 
 
 MoNTANUS. No, I do not care for either, 
 thank you; but as long as you wish to dis- 
 pute with the mouth only, you shall find 
 that I can justify not only the things which 
 I have said, but more, too. Come on, Mr. 
 Bailiff, I will prove by sound logic that you 
 are a bull. 
 
 Jesper. The devil you will. 
 
 MoNTANiTS. Just have the patience to 
 hear my argument. 
 
 Jesper. Come, Peer, let's go. 
 
 MoNTANUS. I prove it in this way. 
 Quicunque — [Jesper shrieks and puts his 
 hand over Erasmus's mouth.] If you do not 
 wish to hear my proof this time, you can 
 meet me another time, whenever you 
 please. 
 
 Jesper. I am too good to associate with 
 such a fanatic. 
 
 [Exeunt Jesper amd Peer.] 
 
 MoNTANTTS. 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 methodum 
 disputandi and that they are just as well 
 versed in philosophy as I. 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 
 parents. 
 
720 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 [Enter Jbppb and Nille.] 
 
 Jbppb. Oh, my dear son, don't carry on 
 so, and don't quarrel with everybody. The 
 Bailiff and Deacon, who at our request 
 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 bulls? 
 
 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. 
 
 Jbppb. It seems to me that it would 
 have been better never to have studied in 
 that way. 
 
 MoNTANTJS. Keep your mouth shut, old 
 man! 
 
 Jbppb. You're not going to beat your 
 parents? 
 
 MoNTANUS. If I did, I should justify 
 that, too, before the whole world. 
 
 [Exeunt Jbppb and Nille weeping.] 
 
 [Enter Jacob.] 
 
 I will not abandon my opinions, even if 
 they all go mad at once. 
 
 Jacob. I have a letter for mossur. 
 
 [Gives him the letter, and exit.] 
 
 Montanus [reading]. 
 
 "My dearest friend ! 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. I can teU 
 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 conform to the 
 faith in which we here on the hill have been 
 happy for so long. If you do not humor 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. 
 
 "Elisabeth, daughier of Jeronimus, 
 "by her own hand." 
 
 Oh, Heavens! This letter moves me and 
 throws me into great irresolution — 
 
 TJtgue securi 
 Saucia trabs ingens, ubi plaga novissima restat, 
 Quo cadat in dubio est, omnigue a parte timetur. 
 Sic animus — 
 
 On the one hand is Philosophy, bidding 
 me stand firm; on the other, my sweetheart 
 reproaching me with coldness and faith- 
 lessness. But should Erasmus Montanus 
 for any reason renounce his conviction, 
 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 shall 
 make both myself and my sweetheart mis- 
 erable. She will die of grief, and all the 
 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. Still, con- 
 sider what you are doing, Erasmus Mon- 
 tane, Mtisarum et Apollonis pvMe ! Here 
 you have the chance to show that you are a 
 true philosophus. The greater the danger, 
 the larger the laurel wreath you win inter 
 philosophos. Think what your commUi- 
 tiones will say when they hear something 
 like this: "He is no longer the Erasmus 
 Montanus who hitherto has defended his 
 opinions to the last drop of his blood." If 
 common and ignorant people reproach me 
 with unfaithfulness to my sweetheart, 
 philosophi, for their part, will exalt me to 
 the skies. The very thing which disgraces 
 me in the eyes of the one party crowns me 
 with honor among the other. I must there- 
 fore resist the temptation. I am resisting it. 
 I conquer it. I have already conquered it. 
 The earth is round. Jacta est aha. Dixi. 
 [Calls.] 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 fiat as long as my head remains on 
 my shoulders. 
 
 Jacob. I believe, too, that the earth is 
 round, but if any one gave me a seed-cake 
 
RASMUS MONTANUS 
 
 721 
 
 to say it was oblong, I should say that it 
 was oblong, for it would make no difference 
 to me. 
 
 MoNTANTTS. That might be proper for 
 you, but not for a phihsophus, whose prin- 
 cipal virtue is to justify to the uttermost 
 what he once has said. I will dispute pub- 
 licly on the subject here in the village and 
 challenge all who have studied. 
 
 Jacob. But might I ask mossur one 
 thing: If you win the disputation, what will 
 be the result? 
 
 MoNTANtTS. The result will be that I 
 shall have the honor of winning and shall 
 be recognized as a learned man. 
 
 Jacob. Mossur meajis 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 Christensen, who says 
 little and always gives in, is admitted to 
 have an understanding of the duties of 
 Chief Bailiff. 
 
 MoNTANXJS. Will you listen to the ras- 
 cal? 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 learn. I 
 should like to know whether, when mossur 
 wins the dispute. Peer, the Deacon, will 
 thereupon be turned into a cock? 
 
 MoNTANTTS. Nonseuse! He will stay the 
 same as he was before. 
 
 Jacob. Well, then, mossur would lose! 
 
 MoNTANUS. I shall not allow myself to 
 be drawn into dispute with a rogue of a 
 peasant like you. If you understood Latin, 
 I should readily oblige you. I am not accus- 
 tomed to disputation in Danish. 
 
 Jacob. That is to say, mossur has be- 
 come so learned that he cannot make clear 
 his meaning in his mother tongue. 
 
 MoNTANtrs. Be silent, aitdacissime 
 juvenisl Why should I exert myself to 
 explain my opinions to coarse and common 
 folk, who don't know what universcdia 
 entia rationis fomuB substantiales are? It 
 certainly is obsurdiasimum to try to prate of 
 
 colors to the blind. Vidgus indoctum est 
 monstrum horrendum informe, cwi lumen 
 ademptum. Not long ago a man ten times 
 as learned as you wished to dispute with 
 me, but when I found that he did not know 
 what quidditas was, I promptly refused him. 
 
 Jacob. What does that word quidditas 
 mean? Was n't that it? 
 
 MoNTANxrs. I know well enough what it 
 means. 
 
 Jacob. Perhaps mossur knows it him- 
 self, but can'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. 
 
 MoNTANus. 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? 
 
 MoNTANTJS. I should like to hear you. 
 
 Jacob. He who studies the most impor- 
 tant things, I think, has the most thorough 
 learning. 
 
 MoNTANtrs. Yes, that is true enough. 
 
 Jacob. I study farming and the cultiva- 
 tion of the soil. For that reason I am more 
 learned than mossur. 
 
 MoNTANUS. Do you believe that rough 
 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 how far it is to the moon, you learned 
 men would soon suffer in the stomach. You 
 scholars spend the time disputing whether 
 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 rumpling Dr. Arent Hvitfeld's Chron- 
 icle or a book of sermons? 
 
 Montanus. 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 peasant-boy's mouth. 
 For although all you have said is false and 
 ungodly, still it is an unusual speech for one 
 
722 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 in your walk of life. Tell me this minute 
 from whom you have learned such 
 nonsense. 
 
 Jacob. I have not studied, mossur, but 
 people say I have a good head. The Dis- 
 trict Judge never comes to town but he 
 sends for me at once. He has told my par- 
 ents a hundred times that I ought to devote 
 myself to books, and that 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 
 drank himself to death. 
 
 MoNTANUs. Let us hear the verse. 
 
 Jacob. You must know, first, that the 
 father and the grandfather of this same 
 Morten were both fishermen, and were 
 drowned at sea. This was how the verse 
 went: — 
 
 Here lies the body of Morten Nielsen; 
 
 To follow the footsteps of hia forbears, 
 
 Who died in the water as fishermen, 
 
 He drowned himself 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. 
 
 MoNTANUs. The poem, though forma- 
 Uter very bad, is none the less materialiter 
 excellent. The prosody, which is the most 
 important thing, is lacking. 
 
 Jacob. What does that mean? 
 
 MoNTANUS. Certain lines have not 
 pedes, or feet, enough to walk on. 
 
 Jacob. Feet! I would have you know 
 that in a few days it ran over the whole 
 countryside. 
 
 Mont ANUS. I see you have a crafty 
 head. I could wish that you had studied 
 and understood your Philosophiam instru- 
 mentalem, so you could dispute under me. 
 Come, let us go. [Exeunt.] 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Same as in Act IV. 
 
 [Enter a Lieutenant, Jespeb, the Bailiff.] 
 
 Lieutenant. How can I manage to see 
 the fellow, Mr. Bailiff? I should like to 
 have a talk with him. Is he a likely looking 
 fellow? 
 
 Jespeb. Oh, he looks pretty well, and he 
 has a mouth like a razor. 
 
 Lieutenant. That makes no difference, 
 so long as he's strong and active. 
 
 Jespbh. He can say anything he wants, 
 
 and maintain it. He proved beyond a 
 
 doubt that Peer, the Deacon, was a cock. 
 
 Lieutenant. Is he good and broad 
 
 across the shoulders? 
 
 Jespeb. A big, strong lad. Every one in 
 the house here is afraid of him, even his 
 parents, for he can turn them into cows, 
 oxen, and horses, then back again into peo- 
 ple, — that is, he can prove that they are, 
 from books. 
 
 Lieutenant. Does he look as if he could 
 stand knocking about? 
 
 Jespeb. 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? 
 
 Jespeb. 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 to 
 him — he won't budge from his opinions 
 and his learning. 
 
 Lieutenant. Mr. Bailiff, from all I 
 hear, he will make a perfect soldier. 
 
 Jespeb. How can you make a soldier of 
 him. Lieutenant? He is a student. 
 
 Lieutenant. That has nothing to do 
 with it. If he can turn people into sheep, 
 oxen, and cocks, I '11 have a try at turning a 
 student into a soldier, for once. 
 
 Jespeb. I should be happy if you could. 
 I should laugh my belly in two. 
 
 Lieutenant. Just keep quiet about it, 
 Jesper! When a bailiff and a lieutenant 
 put their heads together, such things 
 are not impossible. But I see some one 
 coming this way. Is that he, by any 
 chance? 
 
 Jespeb. Yes, it is. I shall run off , so that 
 he won't suspect me. [Exit.] 
 
 [Enter Montantjs.] 
 
 LrBUTENANT. Welcome to the village. 
 MoNTANus. I humbly thank you. 
 Lieutenant. I have taken the liberty of 
 addressing you, because there are n't many 
 
RASMUS MONTANUS 
 
 723 
 
 educated people hereabouts for a man to 
 talk to. 
 
 MoNTANTJS. I am delighted that you 
 have been a scholar. When did you gradu- 
 ate, if I may inquire? 
 
 Lieutenant. Oh, ten years ago. 
 
 MoNTANTJS. Then you are an old acade- 
 micus. What was your specialty when you 
 were a student? 
 
 Lieutenant. I read mostly the old 
 Latin authors, and studied natural law 
 and moral problems, as in fact I do 
 still. 
 
 Montanus. That is mere trumpery, not 
 academicum. Did you lay no stress on 
 Philosophiam instrumentalem ? 
 
 Lieutenant. Not especially. 
 
 Montanus. Then you have never done 
 any disputation? 
 
 Lieutenant. No. 
 
 Montanus. Well, is that studying? 
 Philosophia instrumentalis is the only solid 
 studium; the rest are all very fine, but they 
 are not learned. One who is well drilled in 
 Logica and Metaphysica can get himself out 
 of any difficulty and dispute on all subjects, 
 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 philosophiis instrumentalis can pass for a 
 polyhistor. 
 
 Lieutenant. Who is the best disputer 
 nowadays? 
 
 Montanus. 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 wiU defend yours." In all that sort 
 of thing his Philosophia instrumentalis 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 
 sumus ergo pares." Yet I will always yield 
 him the palm. 
 
 Lieutenant. 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 absurd. 
 
 Montanus. If I said it, I am the man to 
 defend it. 
 
 Lieutenant. I dare wager a ducat that 
 you are not clever enough for that. 
 
 Montanus. I will risk a ducat on it. 
 
 Lieutenant. Good. It is agreed. Now, 
 let's hear you. 
 
 Montanus. 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. 
 
 LrsuTENANT. Enough, enough, I have 
 lost. Faith, you shall have your ducat. 
 
 Montanus. Oh, you were not in earnest; 
 I will profedo take no money. 
 
 Lieutenant. Upon my word, you shall 
 take it. I swear you shall. 
 
 Montanus. Then I will take it to keep 
 you from breaking an oath. 
 
 Lieutenant. But may I not also try to 
 turn you into something? Par exemple, I 
 will turn you into a soldier. 
 
 Montanus. Oh, that is very easy, for all 
 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 — 
 
 Montanus. Nego minorem. 
 
 Lieutenant. Et ego probo minorem by 
 the two rix-dollars you took into yoiir hand. 
 
 Montanus. Distinguendum est inter 
 nummos. 
 
 Lieutenant. No distinction! You are a 
 soldier. 
 
 Montanus. Distinguendum est inter the 
 two: simplidter and relative accipere. 
 
 Lieutenant. No nonsense! The contract 
 is closed, and you have taken the money. 
 
 Montanus. Distinguendum est inter 
 contractum verum et apparentem. 
 
 Lieutenant. Can you deny that you 
 have received a ducat from me? 
 
 Montanus. Distinguendum est inter rem 
 et modum rei. 
 
 Lieutenant. Come, follow me straight, 
 comrade! You must get your uniform. 
 
724 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 MONTANUS. There are your two rix- 
 doUars back. You have no witnesses to my 
 taking the money. 
 
 [Enter Jespbr and Nielb, the Corporal.] 
 
 Jesper. I can bear witness that I saw 
 the Lieutenant put money into his hand. 
 
 Niels. I, too. 
 
 MoNTANTJS. But why did I take the 
 money? Distinguendum est inter — 
 
 LiBTTTBNANT. Oh, We won't listen to any 
 talk. Niels, you stay here, while I fetch the 
 uniform. [Exit the Lieutenant.] 
 
 Mont ANUS. Oh, help! 
 
 Niels. If you don't shut up, you dog, 
 I'll stick a bayonet through your body. 
 Has n't he enlisted, Mr. Bailiff? 
 
 Jespbr. Yes, of course he has. 
 
 [Enter the Lieutenant.] 
 
 Lieutenant. Come, now, pull off that 
 black coat and put on this red one. [Mon- 
 TANUS cries while they put on his uniform.] 
 Oh, come, it looks bad for a soldier to cry. 
 You are far better 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, leads 
 MoNTANUS about, drilling him and heating 
 him. Exeunt the Lieutenant and Jesper.] 
 
 [Reenter the Lieutenant.] 
 
 Well, Niels, can he go through the drill? 
 
 Niels. He'll learn in time, but he is a 
 lazy dog. He has to be beaten every 
 minute. 
 
 Montanus [crying]. 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 has once been well 
 beaten and toughened, it won't hurt so 
 much. 
 
 Montanus [crying]. 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. 
 
 [Montanus weeps again.] 
 
 [Enter Jeronimus, Magdelone, Jeppe, 
 and Nille.] 
 
 Jeronimus. Are you sure of it? 
 
 Jeppe. Indeed I am; the Bailiff told me 
 a moment ago. Ah, now my anger is turned 
 to pity. 
 
 Jeronimus. If we could only get him 
 back to the true faith, I should be glad to 
 buy him off. 
 
 LisBED [rushing in]. Oh, poor wretch 
 that I am! 
 
 Jeeonimxts. Don't raise a hubbub, 
 daughter, you won't gain anything by that. 
 
 LisBED. Oh, father, dear, if you were as 
 much in love as I am, you would n't ask me 
 to keep quiet. 
 
 JpRONiMus. Fie, fie, it is not proper 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? 
 
 Montanus. Oh, my dear Monsieur 
 Jeronimus, I've become a soldier. 
 
 Jeronimus. Yes, now you have some- 
 thing else to do besides turning men into 
 beasts and deacons into cocks. 
 
 Montanus. Oh, alas! I lament my for- 
 mer folly, but aU too late. 
 
 Jeronimus. Listen, my friend. If you 
 will give- up your former foolishness, and 
 not fill the land with disagreements and 
 disputations, I shall not fail to do every- 
 thing in my power to get you off. 
 
 MoTNTANus. Oh, I don't deserve any- 
 thing better, after threatening my old par- 
 ents with blows. But if you will have pity 
 on me and work for my release, I swear to 
 you, that hereafter I shall live a different 
 life, devote myself to some business, and 
 never bother any one with disputations any 
 more. 
 
 Jeronimus. Stay here for a moment; I 
 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 engaged 
 to my only daughter, who is much in love 
 with him. Set him free again. I shall be 
 glad to present you with a hundred rix- 
 dollars, if you do. I admit that at first I 
 
JiASMUS MONTANUS 
 
 72s 
 
 was delighted myself that he had been pun- 
 ished in such a way, for his singular be- 
 havior had exasperated me, and all the 
 good folk here in the village, against him. 
 But when I saw him in this plight, and at 
 the same time heard him lament his former 
 folly and promise amendment, my heart 
 was ready to burst with sympathy. 
 
 Lieutenant. Listen, my dear Monsieur 
 Jeronimus. What I have done has been 
 only for his own good. I know that he is 
 engaged to your daughter, and therefore 
 merely for the good of your house I have 
 reduced him to this condition and treated 
 him with such great harshness, so that he 
 might be brought to confess his sins. But 
 for your sake I wiU give the money to the 
 poor, inasmuch as I hear that he has expe- 
 rienced a change of heart. Let him come 
 here. — Listen, my friend, your parents 
 have spent much money on you in the hope 
 that you would become an honor and a 
 comfort to them in their old age. But you 
 go off a sensible fellow and come back en- 
 tirely deranged, arouse the whole village, 
 advance strange opinions, and defend them 
 with stubbornness. If that is to be the fruit 
 of studies, then one ought to wish that 
 there never had been any books. It seems 
 to me that the principal thing a man ought 
 to learn in school is just the opposite of 
 what you are infected with, and that a 
 learned man ought particularly to be dis- 
 tinguished from others in that he is more 
 temperate, modest, and considerate in his 
 speech than the uneducated. For true phi- 
 losophy teaches 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 rule of philos- 
 ophy is. Know thyself; and the further one 
 advances, the lower opinion one should 
 have of himself, the more one should realize 
 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; iu so doing 
 
 you incur hatred and bring contempt upon 
 learning, for people imagine that your ex- 
 traordinary manners are the natural fruits 
 of education. The best advice I can give 
 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 
 your way to success; or, if you are bound to 
 pursue your studies, that you go about 
 them in some other fashion. 
 
 MoNTANUS. Oh, my good sir, I will fol- 
 low your advice, and do my best to be a 
 different man from now on. 
 
 Lieutenant. 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. 
 
 MoNTANUs. 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 I 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 iu the 
 highest esteem. 
 
 Jeronimus. Then you don't believe any 
 longer, my dear son-in-law, that the world 
 is round? For that is the point that I take 
 most to heart. 
 
 MoNTANUS. 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 
 round. 
 
 Jeronimus. Oh, Mr. Lieutenant, let 
 him be made a soldier again until the earth 
 becomes flat. 
 
 MoNTANUS. My dear father-in-law, the 
 earth is as flat as a pancake. Now are you 
 satisfied? 
 
 Jeronimus. 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 us the honor 
 of joining us? [Exeunt.] 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 (EL DUKKETHEIM) 
 
 By HENRIK IBSEN 
 
 Translated by WILLIAM ARCHER 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 TORVALD HbLMEB 
 
 Nora, his wife 
 
 Doctor Eank 
 
 Mrs. Linden 
 
 Nils Krogstad 
 
 The Helmers' three children 
 
 kim&., their nurse 
 
 Ellen, a maidservant 
 
 A Porter 
 
 The action passes in Helmer's house (o flat) in Christiania. 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 ACT I 
 
 A room, comfortably and tastefully, but not 
 expensively, furnished. In the back, on the 
 right, a door leads to the hall; on the left an- 
 other door leads to Helmer's study. Between 
 the two doors a pianoforte. In the middle of 
 the left wall a door, and nearer the front a 
 window. Near the window a round table with 
 armchairs and a small sofa. In the right wall, 
 somewhat to the back, a door, and against the 
 same waU, further forward, a porcelain stove; 
 in front of it a couple of armchairs and a 
 rocking-chair. Between the stove and the side- 
 door a smaU table. Engravings on the walls. 
 A what-not with china and bric-A-brac. A 
 small bookcase filled with handsomely bound 
 books. Carpet. A fire in the stove. It is a 
 winter day. A bell rings in the hall outside. 
 Presently the outer door of the flat is heard to 
 open. 
 
 [Nora enters, humming gayly. She is in out- 
 door dress, and carries several parcels, 
 which she lays on the right-hand table. 
 She leaves the door into the hall open, 
 and a Porter is seen outside, carrying a 
 Christmas tree and a basket, which he 
 gives to the Maidservant who has opened 
 the door.] 
 
 NoBA. Hide the Christmas tree care- 
 fully, Ellen; the children must on no ac- 
 count see it before this evening, when it's 
 lighted up. [To the Porter, taking out her 
 purse.] How much? 
 Porter. Fifty ore. 
 
 Nora. There is a crown. No, keep the 
 change. 
 
 [The Porter thanks her and goes. 
 Nora shuts the door. She con- 
 tinues smiling in quiet glee as 
 she takes off her outdoor things. 
 Taking from her pocket a bag of 
 macaroons, she eats one or two. 
 Then she goes on tiptoe to her 
 husband's door and listens.] 
 Yes; he is at home. 
 
 [She begins humming again, cross- 
 ing to the table on the right.] 
 
 Helmbb [in his room]. Is that my lark 
 twittering there? 
 
 Nora [busy opening some of her parcels]. 
 Yes, it is. 
 
 Helmbr. Is it the squirrel frisking 
 around? 
 
 Nora. Yes! 
 
 Helmer. When did the squirrel get 
 home? 
 
 Nora. Just this minute. [Hides the bag 
 of macaroons in her pocket and wipes her 
 movih.] Come here, Torvald, and see what 
 I've been buying. 
 
 Helmer. Don't interrupt me. [A little 
 later he opens the door and looks 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, slu-ely we can 
 afford to launch out a little now. It's the 
 first Christmas we have n't had to pinch. 
 
 Helmer. Come, come; we can't afford 
 to squander money. 
 
 Nora. Oh, yes, Torvald, do let us squan- 
 der a httle, now — just the least little bit! 
 You know you'll soon be earning heaps of 
 money. 
 
 Helmer. 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. 
 
 Helmer. Nora! [He goes up to her and 
 takes her playfully by the ear.] Still my little 
 featherbrain! Supposing I borrowed a 
 thousand crowns to-day, and you made 
 ducks and drakes of them during Christ- 
 mas week, and then on New Year's Eve a 
 tile blew off the roof and knocked my brains 
 out. 
 
 Nora [laying her hand on his mouth]. 
 Hush! How can you talk so horridly? 
 
 Helmer. 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 was in debt or not. 
 
 Helmer. But what about the credi- 
 tors? 
 
732 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Nora. They! Who cares for them? 
 They're only strangers. 
 
 Helmee. Nora, Nora! What a woman 
 you are! But seriously, Nora, you know 
 my principles on these points. No debts! 
 No borrowing! Home life ceases to be free 
 and beautiful as soon as it is founded on 
 borrowing and debt. We two have held 
 out bravely till now, and we are not going 
 to give in at the last. 
 
 Nora \going to the fireplace]. Very well — 
 as you please, Torvald. 
 
 Helmer [follovnng her]. Come, come; 
 my little lark must n't droop her wings like 
 that. What? Is my squirrel in the sulks? 
 [Takes out his purse.] Nora, what do you 
 think I have here? 
 
 Nora [turning round quickly]. Money! 
 
 Helmbb. There! [Gives her some notes.] 
 Of course, I know all sorts of things are 
 wanted at Christmas. 
 
 Nora [counting]. Ten, twenty, thirty, 
 forty. Oh, thank you, thank you, Torvald! 
 This will go a long way. 
 
 Helmee. I should hope so. 
 
 Nora. Yes, indeed; a long way! But 
 come here, and let me show you all 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 dress- 
 stuffs and kerchiefs for the servants. I 
 ought to have got something better for old 
 Anna. 
 
 Helmer. And what's in that other 
 parcel? 
 
 Nora [crying out]. No, Torvald, you're 
 not to see that until this evening! 
 
 Helmee. Oh! Ah! But now, tell me, 
 you little spendthrift, have you thought of 
 anything for yourself? 
 
 Nora. For myself! Oh, I don't want 
 anything. 
 
 Helmer. 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 — 
 
 Helmer. Well? 
 
 Noba [playing with his coat-buttons, with- 
 out looking him in the face]. If you really 
 
 want to give me something, you might, you 
 know — you might — 
 
 Helmee. Well? Out with it! 
 
 Nora [quickly]. You might give me 
 money, Torvald. Only just what you think 
 you can spare; then I can buy something 
 with it later on. 
 
 Helmee. But, Nora — 
 
 Nora. Oh, please do, dear Torvald, 
 please do! I should hang the money in 
 lovely gilt paper on the Christmas tree. 
 Would n't that be fun? 
 
 Helmee. What do they call the birds 
 that are always making the money fly? 
 
 Nora. Yes, I know — spendthrifts, of 
 course. But please do as I ask you, Torvald. 
 Then I shall have time to think what I 
 want most. Is n't that very sensible, now? 
 
 Helmee [smiling]. Certainly; that is to 
 say, if you really kept the money I gave 
 you, and really spent it on something for 
 yourself. But it all goes in housekeeping, 
 and for all manner of useless things, and 
 then I have to pay up again. 
 
 Nora. But, Torvald — 
 
 Helmer. 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 you. 
 
 NoBA. For shame! How can you say so? 
 Why, I save as much as ever I can. 
 
 Helmer [kmghing]. Very true — as much 
 as you can — but that's precisely nothing. 
 
 Nora [hums and smiles with covert glee]. 
 H'm! If you only knew, Torvald, what 
 expenses we larks and squirrels have. 
 
 Helmer. You're a strange little being! 
 Just like your father — always on the look- 
 out for all the money you can lay your 
 hands on; but the moment you have it, it 
 seems to shp 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 many of 
 papa's qualities. 
 
 Helmer. And I 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 it? — 
 so suspicious to-day — 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 733 
 
 Nora. Do I? 
 
 Helmer. You do, indeed. Look me full 
 in the face. 
 
 Nora [looking at him]. Well? 
 
 Helmer [threatening loith his finger]. 
 Has n't the little sweet-tooth been playing 
 pranks to-day? 
 
 Nora. No; how can you think such a 
 thing! 
 
 Helmer. Did n't she just look ia at the 
 confectioner's? 
 
 Nora. No, Torvald; really — 
 
 Helmer. Not to sip a little jelly? 
 
 Nora. No; certainly not. 
 
 Helmer. Has n't she even nibbled a 
 macaroon or two? 
 
 Nora. No, Torvald, indeed, indeed! 
 
 Helmer. Well, well, well; of course I'm 
 only joking. 
 
 Nora [goes to the table on the right]. I 
 should n't think of doing what you dis- 
 approve of. 
 
 Helmer. No, I'm sure of that; and, be- 
 sides, you ' ve given me your word — [Ooing 
 tovmrd ha:] Well, keep your little Christ- 
 mas secrets to yourself, Nora darling. The 
 Christmas tree will bring them all to light, 
 I dare say. 
 
 Nora. Have you remembered to invite 
 Doctor Rank? 
 
 Helmer. No. But it's not necessary; 
 he'U come as a matter of course. Besides, 
 I shall ask him when he looks in to-day. 
 I've ordered some capital wine. Nora, you 
 can't think how I look forward to this 
 evening. 
 
 Nora. And I, too. How the children 
 will enjoy themselves, Torvald! 
 
 Helmer. Ah, it's glorious to feel that 
 one has an assured position and ample 
 means. Is n't it delightful to think of? 
 
 NoBA. Oh, it's wonderful! 
 
 Helmer. Do you remember last Christ- 
 mas? 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. 
 
 Helmer [smiling]. But it came to little 
 enough in the end, Nora. 
 
 Nora. Oh, are you going to tease me 
 about that again? How could I help the 
 cat getting in and pulling it all to pieces? 
 
 Helmer. To be sure you could n't, my 
 poor little Nora. You did your best to give 
 us all pleasure, and that's the main point. 
 But, all the same, it's a good thing the hard 
 times are over. 
 
 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 hands]. No, I need 
 n't, need I, Torvald? Oh, how wonderful 
 it is to think of? [Takes his arm.] And 
 now I'll tell you how I think we ought 
 to manage, Torvald. As soon as Christ- 
 mas is over — [The hall doorbell rings.] 
 Oh, there's a ring! [Arranging the room.] 
 That's somebody come to call. How tire- 
 some! 
 
 Helmer. I'm "not at home" to callers; 
 remember that. 
 
 Ellen [in the doorway]. A lady to see 
 you, ma'am. 
 
 Nora. Show her in. 
 
 ■ Ellen [to Helmer]. And the doctor has 
 just come, sir. 
 
 Helmer. Has he gone into my study? 
 
 Ellen. Yes, sir. 
 
 [Helmer goes into his study.] 
 
 [Ellen ushers in Mrs. Linden, in traveling 
 costume, and goes out, closing the door.] 
 
 Mrs. Linden [embarrassed and hesitat- 
 ing]. How do you do, Nora? 
 
 Nora [doubtfully]. How do you do? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I see you don't recognize 
 me. 
 
 Nora. No, I don't think — oh, yes! — 
 I believe — [Suddenly brightening.] What, 
 Christina! Is it really you? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes; really I! 
 
 Nora. Christina! And to think I did n't 
 know you ! But how could I — [More sofUy.] 
 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, so 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-winter! How brave of you! 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I arrived by this morn- 
 ing's steamer. 
 
 Nora. To have a merry Christmas, of 
 course. Oh, how delightful! Yes, we will 
 have a merry Christmas. Do take your 
 things off. Are n't you frozen? [Helping 
 her.] There; now we'll sit cozily by the fire. 
 No, you take the armchair; I shall sit in 
 this rocking-chair. [Seizes her hands.] Yes, 
 now I can see the dear old face again. It 
 was only at the first glance — But you're 
 a little paler, Christina, — and perhaps a 
 little thinner. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. And much, much older, 
 Nora. 
 
 Nora. Yes, perhaps a little older — not 
 much — ■ ever so little. [She suddenly checks 
 herself; seriously.] Oh, what a thoughtless 
 wretch I am! Here I sit chattering on, and 
 — Dear, dear Christina, can you forgive 
 me! 
 
 Mrs. Linden. What do you mean, Nora? 
 
 NoHA [softly]. Poor Christina! I forgot: 
 you are a widow. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes; my husband died 
 three years ago. 
 
 Nora. I know, I know; I saw it in the 
 papers. Oh, believe me, Christina, I did 
 mean to write to you; but I kept putting it 
 off, and something always came in the way. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I can quite understand 
 that, Nora, dear. 
 
 Nora. No, Christina; it was horrid of 
 me. Oh, you poor darling! how much you 
 must have gone through! — And he left 
 you nothing? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Nothing. 
 
 Nora. And no children? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. None. 
 
 Nora. Nothing, nothing at all? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Not even a sorrow or a 
 longing to dwell upon, 
 
 Nora [looking at her incredvlously]. My 
 dear Christina, how is that possible? 
 
 Mrs. Linden [smiling sadly and stroking 
 her hair]. Oh, it happens so sometimes, 
 Nora. 
 
 Nora. 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 nurse. But 
 now you must tell me everything. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. No, no; I want you to 
 tell me — 
 
 Nora. No, you must begin; I won't be 
 egotistical to-day. To-day I'll think only 
 of you. Oh! but I must tell you one thing 
 — perhaps you ' ve heard of our great stroke 
 of fortune? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. No. What is it? 
 
 Nora. Only think ! my husband has been 
 made manager of the Joint Stock Bank. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Your husband! Oh, how 
 fortunate! 
 
 Nora. Yes; is n't it? A lawyer's posi- 
 tion is so uncertain, you see, especially 
 when he won't touch any business that's 
 the least bit — shady, as of course Torvald 
 never would; and there I quite agree with 
 him. Oh! You can imagine how glad we 
 are. He is to enter on his new position at 
 the New Year, and then he'll have a large 
 salary, and percentages. In future we shall 
 be able to live quite differently — just as 
 we please, in fact. Oh, Christina, I feel so 
 light-hearted and happy! 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 — heaps! 
 
 Mrs. Linden [smiling]. Nora, Nora, 
 have n't you learned reason yet? In our 
 schooldays you were a shocking little spend- 
 thrift. 
 
 Nora [quietly smiling]. Yes; that's what 
 Torvald says I am still. [Holding up her 
 forefinger.] But "Nora, Nora," is not so 
 silly as you all think. Oh! I have n't had 
 the chance to be much of a spendthrift. We 
 have both had to work. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. You, too? 
 
 Nora. Yes, light fancy work: crochet, 
 and embroidery, and things of that sort; 
 [carelessly] and other work too. You know, 
 of course, that Torvald left the Government 
 service when we were married. He had 
 little chance of promotion, and of course 
 he required to make more money. But in 
 the first year after our marriage he over- 
 worked himself terribly. He had to under 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 735 
 
 take all sorts of extra work, you know, and 
 to slave early and late. He could n't stand 
 it, and fell dangerously iU. Then the doc- 
 tors declared he must go to the South. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. You spent a whole year 
 in Italy, did n't you? 
 
 NoBA. Yes, we did. It was n't easy to 
 manage, I can tell you. It was just after 
 Ivar's birth. But of course we had to go. 
 Oh, it was a wonderful, delicious journey! 
 And it saved Torvald's life. But it cost a 
 frightful lot of money, Christina. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. So I should think. 
 
 Nora. Twelve hundred dollars! Four 
 thousand eight hundred crowns! Isn't 
 that a lot of money? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. How lucky you had the 
 money to spend. 
 
 Nora. We got it from father, you must 
 know. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Ah, I see. He died just 
 about that time, did n't he? 
 
 Nora. Yes, Christina, just then. And 
 only think! I could n't go and nurse him! 
 I was expecting little Ivar's birth daily ; and 
 then I had my poor sick Torvald to attend 
 to. Dear, kind old father! I never saw him 
 again, Christina. Oh! That's the hardest 
 thing I have had to bear since my marriage. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I know how fond you 
 were of him. But then you went to Italy? 
 
 Nora. Yes; you see, we had the money, 
 and the doctors said we must lose no time. 
 We started a month later. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. And your husband came 
 back completely 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 n't come professionally. He is our best 
 friend, and never lets a day pass 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 so am 
 I. [Jumps up and claps her hands.] Oh, 
 Christina, Christina, what a wonderful 
 thing it is to live and to be happy! — Oh 
 but it's really too horrid of me! Here am I 
 talking about nothing but my own con- 
 
 cerns. [Seats herself upon a footstool close to 
 Christina, and lays her arms on her friend's 
 lap.] Oh, don't be angry with me! Now, 
 tell me, is it really true that you did n't 
 love your husband? What made you marry 
 him, then? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. My mother was still 
 alive, you see, bedridden and helpless; and 
 then I had my two younger brothers to 
 think of. I did n't think it would be right 
 for me to refuse him. 
 
 Nora. Perhaps it would n't have been. 
 I suppose he was rich then? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Very well off, I believe. 
 But his business was uncertain. It fell to 
 pieces at his death, and there was nothing 
 left. 
 
 Nora. And then — ? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Then I had to fight my 
 way by keeping a shop, a little school, any- 
 thing I could turn my hand to. The 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 business, and can look 
 after themselves. 
 
 Nora. How free your life must feel ! 
 
 Mrs. Linden. No, Nora; only inexpressi- 
 bly empty. No one to live for! [Stands up 
 restlessly.] That's why I could not bear to 
 stay any longer in that out-of-the-way cor- 
 ner. Here it must be easier to find something 
 to take one up — ■ to occupy one's thoughts. 
 If I could only get some settled employ- 
 ment — some office work. 
 
 Nora. But, Christina, that 's such drudg- 
 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 [going to the window]. I 
 have no father to give me the money, Nora. 
 
 Nora [rising]. Oh, don't be vexed with 
 me. 
 
 Mrs. Lindbn [going to her]. My dear 
 Nora, don't you be vexed with me. The 
 worst of a position like mine is that it makes 
 one so 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 
 glad for my own sake more than for yours. 
 
736 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Nora. How do you mean? Ah, I see! 
 You think Torvald can perhaps do some- 
 thing for you. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes; I thought so. 
 
 NoHA. And so he shall, Christina. Just 
 you leave it all to me. I shall lead up to it 
 beautifully! — I shall think of some de- 
 lightful plan to put him in a good humor! 
 Oh, I should so love to help you. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. How good of you, Nora, 
 to stand by me so warmly! Doubly good in 
 you, who know so little of the troubles and 
 burdens of life. 
 
 Nora. I? I know so little of — ? 
 
 Mrs. Linden [smiling]. Oh, well — a 
 little fancy-work, and so forth. — You're 
 a child, Nora. 
 
 Nora [tosses her head and paces the room]. 
 Oh, come, you must n't be so patronizing! 
 
 Mrs. Linden. No? 
 
 Nora. You're like the rest. You all 
 think I 'm fit for nothing really serious — 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Well, well — 
 
 Nora. You think I've had no troubles 
 in this weary world. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. My dear Nora, you've 
 just told me all your troubles. 
 
 Nora. Pooh — those trifles! [Softly.] I 
 have n't told you the great thing. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. The great thing? What 
 do you mean? 
 
 NoBA. I know you look down upon me, 
 Christina; but you have no right to. You 
 are proud of having worked so hard and so 
 long 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 was able to keep my mother's last days 
 free from care. 
 
 Nora. And you're proud to think of 
 what you have done for your brothers, too. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Have I not the right to be? 
 
 Nora. Yes, indeed. But now let me tell 
 you, Christina, — I, too, have something 
 to be proud and glad of. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I don't doubt it. But 
 what do you mean? 
 
 Nora. Hush! Not so loud. Only think, 
 if Torvald were to hear! He mustn't — 
 not for worlds! No one must know about 
 it, Christina, — no one but you. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Why, what can it be? 
 
 Nora. Come over here. [Draws her dovm 
 beside her on the sofa.] Yes, Christina, — I, 
 too, have something to be proud and glad 
 of. I saved Torvald's life. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Saved his life? How? 
 
 Nora. I told you about our going to 
 Italy. Torvald would have died but for 
 that. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Well — and your father 
 gave you the money. 
 
 Nora [smiling]. Yes, so Torvald and 
 every one believes; but — 
 
 Mrs. Linden. But — ? 
 
 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 [contemptitously]. In the lottery? 
 Pooh! Any one could have done that! 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Then, wherever did you 
 get it from? 
 
 NoBA [hums and smiles mysteriously]. 
 H'm; tra-la-la-la. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Of course you couldn't 
 borrow it. 
 
 Nora. No? Why not? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Why, a wife can't borrow 
 without her husband's consent. 
 
 Nora [tossing her head]. Oh! When the 
 wife has some idea of business, and knows 
 how to set about things — 
 
 Mrs. Linden. But, Nora, I don't under- 
 stand — 
 
 Nora. Well, you need n't. I never said 
 I borrowed the money. There are many 
 ways I may have got it. [Throws herself 
 back on the sofa.] I may have got it from 
 some admirer. When one is so — attractive 
 as I am — 
 
 Mrs. Linden. You're too silly, Nora. 
 
 Nora. Now, I'm sure you're dying of 
 curiosity, Christina, — 
 
 Mrs. Linben. Listen to me, Nora, dear: 
 haven't you been a little rash? 
 
 Nora [sitting upright again]. Is it rash 
 to save one's husband's life? 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 737 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I think it was rash of you, 
 without his knowledge — 
 
 Nora. But it would have been fatal for 
 him to know! Can't you understand that? 
 He was n't even to suspect how ill he was. 
 The doctors came to me privately and told 
 me his life was 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, Uke other yoimg wives; I wept and 
 prayed; I said he ought to think of my con- 
 dition, and not to thwart me; and then I 
 hinted that he could borrow the money. 
 But then, Christina, he got almost angry. 
 He said I was frivolous, and that it was his 
 duty as a husband not to yield to my whims 
 and fancies — so he called them. Very 
 well, thought I, but saved you must be; 
 and then I found the way to do it. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. And did your husband 
 never learn from your father that the 
 money was not from him? 
 
 Nora. No; never. Papa died at that 
 very time. I meant to have told him all 
 about it, and begged him to say nothing. 
 But he was so ill — unhappily, it was n't 
 necessary. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. And you have never con- 
 fessed to your husband? 
 
 Nora. Good Heavens! What can you 
 be thinking of? Tell him, when he has such 
 a loathing of debt! And, besides, — how 
 painful and humiliating it would be for 
 Torvald, with his manly self-respect, to 
 know that he owed anything to me! It 
 would utterly upset the relation between 
 us; our bea-utiful, happy home would never 
 again be what it is. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Will you never tell him? 
 
 Nora [thoughtfvUy, half-smiling]. Yes, 
 some time, perhaps, — many, many years 
 hence, 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 does n'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. 
 [Breaking off.] Nonsense! Nonsense! That 
 time will never come. Now, what do you 
 say to my grand secret, Christina? Am I 
 
 fit for nothing now? You may 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 called install- 
 ments, and quarterly interest, that are 
 terribly hard to provide for. So I've had 
 to pinch a little here and there, wherever I 
 could. I could n't save much out of the 
 housekeeping, for, of course, Torvald had 
 to live well. And I could n't let the chil- 
 dren go about badly dressed; all I got for 
 them, I spent on them, the blessed dar- 
 lings! 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Poor Nora! So it had to 
 come out of your own pocket-money. 
 
 Nora. Yes, of course. 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 always 
 bought the simplest and cheapest things. 
 It's a mercy that everything suits me so 
 well — Torvald never had any suspicions. 
 But it was often very hard, Christina, dear. 
 For it's nice to be beautifully dressed — 
 now, is n't it? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. 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 
 work in that way and earn money. I almost 
 felt as if I was a man. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Then how much have 
 you been able to pay off? 
 
 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 
 did n't know where to turn. [Smiles.] Then 
 I used to sit here and pretend that a rich 
 old gentleman was in love with me — 
 
 Mrs. Linden. 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 cha,rming person, Mrs. Nora Helmer." 
 
 Mrs. Linden. But, my dear Nora, — 
 what gentleman do you mean? 
 
738 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Nora. Oh, dear, can't you understand? 
 There wasn't any old gentleman: it was 
 only what I used to dream and dream when 
 I was at my wits' end for money. But it 
 does n't matter now — the tiresome old 
 creature may stay where he is for me. I 
 care nothing for him or his will; for now my 
 troubles are over. [Springing up.] Oh, 
 Christina, how glorious it is to think of! 
 Free from all anxiety! Free, quite free. 
 To be able to play and romp about with 
 the children; to have things tasteful and 
 pretty ip the house, exactly as Torvald 
 likes it! 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 see the sea again. Oh, what a 
 wonderful thing it is to live and to be 
 happy! [The hall doorbell rings.] 
 
 Mrs. Linden [rising]. 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. 
 
 Ellen [in the doorway]. If you please, 
 ma'am, there's a gentleman to speak to 
 Mr. Helmer. 
 
 Nora. Who is the gentleman? 
 
 Krogstad [in the doorway]. It is I, Mrs. 
 Helmer. 
 
 [Mrs. Linden starts and turns 
 away to the window.] 
 
 Nora [goes a step toward him, anxiously, 
 speaking low]. You? What is it? What do 
 you want with my husband? 
 
 Krogstad. Bank business — in a way. 
 I hold a small post in the Joint Stock Bank, 
 and your husband is to be our new chief, 
 I hear. 
 
 Nora. Then it is — ? 
 
 Krogstad. Only tiresome business, Mrs. 
 Helmer; nothing more. 
 
 Nora. Then will you please go to his 
 study. 
 
 [Krogstad goes. She bows indif- 
 ferently while she closes the door 
 into the hall. Then she goes to 
 the stove and looks to the fire.] 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Nora — who was that 
 man? 
 
 Nora. A Mr. Krogstad — a lawyer. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Then it was really he? 
 
 Nora. Do you know him? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I used to know him — 
 many years ago. He was in a lawyer's 
 office in our town. 
 
 Nora. Yes, so he was. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. How he has changed! 
 
 Nora. I believe his marriage was un- 
 happy. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. And he is a widower 
 now? 
 
 Nora. With a lot of children. There! 
 Now it will burn up. 
 
 [She closes the stove, and pushes the 
 rocking-chair a little aside.] 
 
 Mrs. Linden. His business is not of the 
 most creditable, they say? 
 
 Nora. Is n't it? I dare say not. I don't 
 know. But don't let us think of business — 
 it's so tiresome. 
 
 [Doctor Rank conies out of Hel- 
 mer's room.] 
 
 Rank [still in the doorway]. No, no; I-'m 
 in your way. I shall go and have a chat' 
 with your wife. [Shuts the door and sees 
 Mrs. Linden.] Oh, I beg your pardon. 
 I 'm in the way here too. 
 
 Nora. No, not in the least. [Introduces 
 them.] Doctor Rank — Mrs. Linden. 
 
 Rank. Oh, indeed; I've often heard 
 Mrs. Linden's name; I think I passed you 
 on the stairs as I came up. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes; I go so very slowly. 
 Stairs try me so much. 
 
 Rank. Ah — you are not very strong? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Only overworked. 
 
 Rank. Nothing more? Then no doubt 
 you've come to town to find rest in a roimd 
 of dissipation? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I have come to look for 
 employment. 
 
 Rank. Is that an approved remedy for 
 overwork? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. One must live, Doctor 
 Rank. 
 
 Rank. Yes, that seems to be the general 
 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 on as 
 long as possible. All my patients, too, have 
 the same mania. And it's the same with 
 people whose complaint is moral. At this 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 739 
 
 very moment Helmer is talking to just 
 such a moral incurable — 
 
 Mrs. Linden [softly]. Ah! 
 
 NoKA. Whom do you mean? 
 
 Rank. Oh, a fellow named Krogstad, a 
 man you know nothing about, — corrupt 
 to the very core of his character. But even 
 he began by announcing, as a matter of 
 vast importance, that he must live. 
 
 NoHA. Indeed? And what did he want 
 with Torvald? 
 
 Rank. I have n't an idea; I only gath- 
 ered that it was some bank business. 
 
 NoBA. I did n't know that Krog — that 
 this Mr. Krogstad had anything to do with 
 the Bank? 
 
 Rank. Yes. He has got some sort of 
 place there. [To Mrs. Linden.] 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 
 cold. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Well, I suppose the — 
 deUcate characters require most care. 
 
 Rank [skmgs his shotdders]. There we 
 have it! It's that notion that makes society 
 a hospital. 
 
 [Nora, deep in her own thoughts, 
 breaks into hcdf-stifled laughter 
 and claps her hands.] 
 Why' do you laugh at that? Have you any 
 idea 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 Torvald now? 
 
 Rank. Is that what strikes you as ex- 
 cessively amusing? 
 
 NoBA [smiles and hums]. Never mind, 
 never mind! [Walks dbovi the room.] Yes, 
 it is funny to think that we — that Tor- 
 vald has such power over so many people. 
 [Takes the bag from her pocket.] Doctor 
 Rank, will you have a macaroon? 
 
 Rank. What! — macaroons! I thought 
 they were contraband here. 
 
 NoKA. Yes; but Christina brought me 
 these. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. What! I — ? 
 
 Nora. Oh, well! Don't be frightened. 
 You could n't possibly know that Torvald 
 had forbidden them. The fact is, he's 
 afraid of me spoiling my teeth. But, oh, 
 bother, just for once! — That's for you, 
 Doctor Rank! [Puts a macaroon into his 
 mouth.] And you too, Christina. And I'll 
 have one while we're about it — only a 
 tiny one, or at most two. [Walks 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 
 Uke 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 Helmer's hearing? 
 
 Nora. I should so love to say, "Damn 
 it all!" 
 
 Rank. Are you out of your mind? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Good gracious, Nora — ! 
 
 Rank. Say it — there he is! 
 
 Nora [hides the macaroons]. Hush — sh — 
 
 [Helmer comes out of his room, hat in hand, 
 with his overcoat on his arm.] 
 
 [Going to him]. Well, Torvald, dear, have 
 you got rid of him? 
 
 Helmer. Yes; he has just gone. 
 
 Nora. Let me introduce you — this is 
 Christina, who has come to town — 
 
 Helmer. Christina? Pardon me, I don't 
 know — 
 
 NoKA. Mrs. Linden, Torvald, dear, — 
 Christina Linden. 
 
 Helmer [to Mrs. Linden]. Indeed! A 
 school-friend of my wife's, no doubt? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes; we knew each other 
 as girls. 
 
 Nora. And only think! She has taken 
 this long journey on purpose to speak to 
 you. 
 
 Helmer. To speak to me! 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Well, not quite — 
 
 Nora. You see, Christina is tremen- 
 dously clever at office work, and she's so 
 
740 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 anxious to work under a first-rate man of 
 business in order to learn still more — 
 
 Helmbh [to Mrs. Linden]. Very sensi- 
 ble, indeed. 
 
 Nora. And when she heard you were 
 appointed manager — 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 you? 
 
 Helmer. It 'snot impossible. I presume 
 Mrs. Linden is a widow? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes. 
 
 Helmer. And you have already had 
 some experience of business? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. A good deal. 
 
 Helmer. Well, then, it's very likely I 
 may be able to find a place for you. 
 
 Nora [clapping her hands]. 'There now! 
 There now! 
 
 Helmer. You have come at a fortunate 
 moment, Mrs. Linden. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Oh, how can I thank 
 you—? 
 
 Helmer [smiling]. There is no occasion. 
 [Puts on his overcoat.] But for the present 
 you must excuse me — 
 
 Rank. Wait; I am going with you. 
 
 [Fetches his fur coat from the hall 
 and warms it at the fire.] 
 
 Nora. Don't be long, Torvald, dear. 
 
 Helmer. Only an hour; not more. 
 
 Nora. Are you going, too, Christina? 
 
 Mrs. Linden [putting on her walking 
 things]. Yes; I must set about looking for 
 lodgings. 
 
 Helmer. Then perhaps we can go to- 
 gether? 
 
 Nora [helping her]. What a pity we 
 have n't a spare room for you; but it's 
 impossible — 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I shouldn't think of 
 troubling you. Good-bye, dear Nora, and 
 thank you for all your kindness. 
 
 Nora. Good-bye for the present. Of 
 course, you'll come back this evening. And 
 you, too. Doctor Rank. What! If you're 
 well enough? Of course you'll be well 
 enough. Only wrap up warmly. [They go 
 out, talking, into the hall. Outside on the 
 stairs are heard children's voices.] There 
 they are! There they are! [She runs to the 
 out&r door and opens it. The Nurse, Anna, 
 
 enters the hall with the children.] Come in! 
 Come in! [Stoops down and kisses the chil- 
 dren.] Oh, my sweet darhngs! Do you see 
 them, Christina? Are n't they lovely? 
 
 Rank. Don't let us stand here chatter- 
 ing in the draught. 
 
 Helmer. Come, Mrs. Linden; only 
 mothers can stand such a temperature. 
 
 [Doctor Rank, Helmer, and 
 Mrs. Linden go down the stairs.] 
 
 [Anna enters the room with the children; 
 Nora also, shutting the door.] 
 
 Nora. How fresh and bright you look! 
 And what red cheeks you've got! Like 
 apples and roses. [The children chatter to 
 her during what follows.] Have you had 
 great fun? That's splendid! Oh, really! 
 You've been giving Emmy 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 Uttle, Anna. My sweet little 
 dolly! [Takes the smallest from the nurse and 
 dances with her.] Yes, yes; mother will 
 dance with Bob, too. What ! Did you have 
 a game of snowballs? Oh, I wish I'd been 
 there. No; leave them, Ann a.; I'll take 
 their things off. Oh, yes, let me do it; it's 
 such fun. Go to the nursery; you look 
 frozen. You'U fimd some hot coffee on the 
 stove. 
 
 [The Nurse goes into the room on 
 the left. Nora takes off the chil- 
 dren's things and throws them 
 dovm anywhere, while the chil- 
 dren talk all together.] 
 Really I A big dog ran after you? But he 
 did n't bite you? No; dogs don't bite dear 
 Uttle dolly children. Don't peep into those 
 parcels, Ivar. What is it? Would n't you 
 hketoknow? Takecare— it 'U bite! What? 
 Shall we have a game? What shall we play 
 at? Hide-and-seek? Yes, let's play hide- 
 and-seek. Bob shall hide first. Am I to? 
 Yes, let me hide first. 
 
 [She and the children play, wUh 
 laughter and shouting, in the 
 room and the adjacent one to the 
 right. At last Nora hides under 
 the table; the children come rush- 
 ing in, look for her, hut cannot 
 find her, hear her half-choked 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 741 
 
 laughter, rush to the table, lift up 
 the cover and see her. Loud 
 shouts. She creeps out, as though 
 to frighten them. Fresh shouts.] 
 
 [Meanwhile there has been a knock at the 
 door leading into the hall. No one has 
 heard it. Now the door is half opened 
 and Krogstad appears. He waits a 
 little; the game is renewed.] 
 
 Krogstad. I beg your pardon, Mrs. 
 Helmer — 
 
 Nora [with a suppressed cry, turns round 
 and half jumps up]. Ah! What do you 
 want? 
 
 • Krogstad. Excuse me; the outer door 
 was ajar — somebody must have forgotten 
 to shut it — 
 
 Nora, [standing up]. My husband is not 
 at home, Mr. Krogstad. 
 
 Krogstad. I know it. 
 
 Nora. Then what do you want here? 
 
 Krogstad. To say a few words to you. 
 
 Nora. To me? [To the children, softly.] 
 Go in to Anna. What? No, the strange 
 man won't hurt mamma. When he 's gone 
 we'll go on playing. [She leads the children 
 into the left-hand room, and shuts the door 
 behind them. Uneasy, in suspense.] It is to 
 me you wish to speak? 
 
 Krogstad. Yes, to you. 
 
 Nora. To-day! But it's not the first 
 yet — 
 
 Krogstad. No, to-day is Christmas Eve. 
 It will depend upon yourself whether you 
 have a merry Christmas. 
 
 Nora. What do you want? I'm not 
 ready to-day — 
 
 Krogstad. Never mind that just now. 
 I have come about another matter. You 
 have a minute to spare? 
 
 Nora. Oh, yes, I suppose so; although — 
 
 Krogstad. Good. I was sitting in the 
 restaurant opposite, and I saw your hus- 
 band go down the street — 
 
 Nora. Well? 
 
 Krogstad. With a lady. 
 
 Nora. What then? 
 
 Krogstad. May I ask if the lady was a 
 Mrs. Linden? 
 
 Nora. Yes. 
 
 Krogstad. Who has just come to town? 
 
 Nora. Yes. To-day. 
 
 Krogstad. I believe she is an intimate 
 friend of yours. 
 
 Nora. Certainly. But I don't under- 
 stand — 
 
 Krogstad. I used to know her too. 
 
 Nora. I know you did. 
 
 Krogstad. Ah! You know all about it. 
 I thought as much. Now, frankly, is Mrs. 
 Linden to have a place in the Bank? 
 
 Nora. How dare you catechize me in 
 this way, Mr. Krogstad — you, a subordi- 
 nate of my husband's? But since you ask, 
 you shall know. Yes, Mrs. Linden is to be 
 employed. And it is I who recommended 
 her, Mr. Krogstad. Now you know. 
 
 Krogstad. Then my guess was right. 
 
 Nora [walking up and dovm]. 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. Krogstad, they ought 
 really to be careful how they offend any- 
 body who — h'm — 
 
 Krogstad. Who has influence? 
 
 Nora. Exactly. 
 
 Krogstad [taking another tone]. Mrs. 
 Helmer, will you have the kindness to em- 
 ploy your influence on my behalf? 
 
 Nora. What? How do you mean? 
 
 Krogstad. Will you be so good as to 
 see that I retain my subordinate position 
 in the Bank? 
 
 Nora. What do you mean? Who wants 
 to take it from you? 
 
 Krogstad. 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 — 
 
 Krogstad. 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. 
 
 Krogstad. 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? 
 
 Krogstad. Oh, I know your husband 
 
742 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 from our college days. I don't think he is 
 any more inflexible than other husbands. 
 
 NoEA. If you talk disrespectfully of my 
 husband, I must request you to leave the 
 house. 
 
 Khogstad. You are bold, madam. 
 
 Nora. I am afraid of you no longer. 
 When New Year's Day is over, I shall soon 
 be out of the whole business. 
 
 Krogstad [controlling himself]. Listen 
 to me, Mrs. Helmer. If need be, I shall 
 fight as though for my life to keep my little 
 place in the Bank. 
 
 Nora. Yes, so it seems. 
 
 Krogstad. 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 
 clean 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. 
 
 Krogstad. 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 've been one of the worst. But now I must 
 get clear of it all. My sons are growing up; 
 for their sake I must try to recover my 
 character as well as I can. This place in 
 the Bank was the first step; and now your 
 husband wants to kick me off the ladder, 
 back into the mire. 
 
 Nora. But I assure you, Mr. Krogstad, 
 I have n't the least power to help you. 
 
 Krogstad. 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? 
 
 Krogstad. H'm; suppose I were to? 
 
 Nora. It would be shameful of you. 
 [With tears in her voice.] The secret that is 
 my joy and my pride — that he should 
 learn it in such an ugly, coarse way — and 
 from you. It would involve me in all sorts 
 of unpleasantness — 
 
 Krogstad. Only unpleasantness? 
 
 Noea [hotly]. But just do it. It's you 
 that will come off worst, for then my hus- 
 band will see what a bad man you are, and 
 then you certainly won't keep your place. 
 
 Krogstad. I asked whether it was only 
 domestic unpleasantness you feared? 
 
 NoEA. If my husband gets to know 
 about it, he wiU, of course, pay you off at 
 once, and then we shall have nothing more 
 to do with you. 
 
 Krogstad [coming 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 little 
 clearer to you. 
 
 Noea. How so? 
 
 Krogstad. When your husband was ill, 
 you came to me to borrow twelve hxindred 
 dollars. 
 
 Noea. I knew of nobody else. 
 
 Krogstad. I promised to find you the 
 money — 
 
 Nora. And you did find it. 
 
 Keogstad. 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 them. 
 I promised to find you the amount in ex- 
 change for a note of hand, which I drew up. 
 
 Nora. Yes, and I signed it. 
 
 Krogstad. Quite right. But then 1 
 added a few lines, making your father 
 security for the debt. Your father was to 
 sign this. 
 
 Nora. Was to — ? He did sign it! 
 
 Krogstad. I had left the date blank. 
 That is to say, your father was himself to 
 date his signature. Do you recollect that? 
 
 Nora. Yes, I believe — 
 
 Keogstad. Then I gave you the paper 
 to send to your father, by post. Is not that 
 so? 
 
 Nora. Yes. 
 
 Krogstad. And of course you did so at 
 once; for within five or six days you brought 
 me back the document with your father's 
 signature; and I handed you the money. 
 
 Nora. Well? Have I not made my pay- 
 ments punctually? 
 
 Krogstad. Fairly — yes. But to return 
 to the point: You were in great trouble at 
 the time, Mrs. Helmer. 
 
 Noea. I was, indeed! 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 743 
 
 Krogstad. Your father was very ill, I 
 believe? 
 
 Nora. He was on his death-bed. 
 
 Krogstad. And died soon after? 
 
 Nora. Yes. 
 
 Krogstad. Tell me, Mrs. Helmer; do 
 you happen to recollect the day of his 
 death? The day of the month, I mean? 
 
 Nora. Father died on the 29th of Sep- 
 tember. 
 
 Krogstad. Quite correct. I have made 
 inquiries. And here comes in the remark- 
 able point — [prodrices a paper] which I 
 cannot explain. 
 
 Nora. What remarkable point? I don't 
 know — 
 
 BJaoGSTAD. The remarkable point, mad- 
 am, that your father signed this paper 
 three days after his death! 
 
 NoBA. What! I don't understand — 
 
 Krogstad. Your father died on the 29th 
 of September. But look here: he has dated 
 his signature October 2d! Is not that re- 
 markable, Mrs. Helmer? [Nora is sUent.] 
 Can you explain it? [Nora continues silent.] 
 It is noteworthy, too, that the words 
 "October 2d" and the year are not in your 
 father's handwriting, but in one which I 
 beheve I know. Well, this may be ex- 
 plained; youi father may have forgotten to 
 date his signature, and somebody may have 
 added the date at random, before the fact 
 of your father's death was known. There 
 is nothing wrong in that. Everything 
 depends on the signature. Of course, it 
 is genuine, Mrs. Helmer? It was really 
 your father himself who wrote his name 
 here? 
 
 Nora [after a short silence, throws her head 
 back and looks defiantly at him]. No, it was 
 not. / wrote father's name. 
 
 Krogstad. Ah! — Are you aware, mad- 
 am, that that is a dangerous admission? 
 
 Nora. How so? You will soon get your 
 money. 
 
 Krogstad. 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 him for his signature, I 
 should have had to tell him why I wanted 
 the money; but he was so ill I really could 
 
 not tell him that my husband's life was in 
 danger. It was impossible. 
 
 Krogstad. 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. 
 
 Krogstad. 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, although you knew how ill my hus- 
 band was. 
 
 Krogstad. Mrs. Helmer, you evidently 
 do not realize what you have been guilty 
 of. But I can assure you it was nothing 
 more and nothing worse that made me an 
 outcast from society. 
 
 Nora. You! You want me to believe 
 that you did a brave thing to save your 
 wife's life? 
 
 Krogstad. The law takes no account of 
 motives. 
 
 Nora. Then it must be a very bad law. 
 
 Krogstad. 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 
 right 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 law, but I'm sure you'll find, 
 somewhere or another, that that is allowed. 
 And you don't know that — you, a lawyer! 
 You must be a bad one, Mr. Krogstad. 
 
 Krogstad. Possibly. But business — 
 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. 
 
 [Bows and goes out through hall.] 
 
 Nora [stands a while thinking, then tosses 
 her head]. Oh, nonsense! He wants to 
 frighten me. I'm not so foolish as that. 
 [Begins folding the children's clothes. Pauses.] 
 But — ? No, it's impossible! Why, I did 
 it for love! 
 
 Children [at the door, left]. Mamma, the 
 strange man has gone now. 
 
744 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 NoKA. Yes, yes, I know. But don't tell 
 any one about the strange -man. Do you 
 hear? Not even papa! 
 
 Children. No, mamma; and now will 
 you play with us again? 
 , NoEA. No, no ; now not. 
 
 Children. Oh, do, mamma; you know 
 you promised. 
 
 NoBA. Yes, but I can't just now. Run 
 to the nursery; I have so much to do. Run 
 along, run along, and be good, my darlings! 
 [She pushes them gently into the inner room, 
 and closes the door behind them. Sits on the 
 sofa, embroiders a few stitches, but soon 
 pauses.] No! [Throws down th£ work, rises, 
 goes to the hall door and calls out.] Ellen, 
 bring in the Christmas tree! [Goes to table, 
 left, and opens the drawer; again pauses.] 
 No, it's quite impossible! 
 
 Ellen [with Christmas tree]. Where shall 
 I stand it, ma'am? 
 
 Nora. There, in the middle of the 
 room. 
 
 Ellen. Shall I bring in anything 
 else? 
 
 Nora. No, thank you, I have all I 
 want. 
 
 [Ellen, having put down the tree, 
 goes out.] 
 
 Nora [busy dressing the tree]. There must 
 be a candle here — and flowers there. — 
 That horrible man! Nonsense, nonsense! 
 there 's nothing to be afraid of. The Christ- 
 mas tree shall be beautiful. I'll do every- 
 thing to please you, Torvald; I'U sing and 
 dance, and — 
 
 [Enter Helmbr by the hall door, with a 
 bundle of documents.] 
 
 Nora. Oh! You're back already? 
 
 Helmeb. Yes. Has anybody been here? 
 
 Nora. Here? No. i 
 
 Helmer. That's odd. I saw Krogstad 
 come out of the house. 
 
 Nora. Did you? Oh, yes, by the bye, 
 he was here for a minute. 
 
 Helmer. Nora, I can see by your man- 
 ner that he has been begging you to put in 
 a good word for him. 
 
 Nora. Yes. 
 
 Helmer. And you were to do it as if of 
 your own accord? You were to say nothing 
 
 to me of his having been here. Did n't he 
 suggest that, too? 
 Noba. Yes, Torvald; but — 
 Helmer. Nora, Nora! And you could 
 condescend to that! To speak to such a 
 man, to make him a promise! And then to 
 tell me an untruth about it! 
 Nora. An imtruth! 
 
 Helmer. Did n't you say that nobody 
 had been here? [Threatens with his finger.] 
 My little bird must never do that again! 
 A song-bird must sing clear and true; no 
 false notes. [Puts his arm round h^.] That's 
 so, is n't it? Yes, I was sure of it. [Lets her 
 go.] And now we'll say no more about it. 
 [Sits down before the fire.] Oh, how cozy and 
 quiet it is here! [Glances into his docu- 
 ments.] 
 
 Nora \busy with the tree, after a short si- 
 lence]. Torvald! 
 Helmer. Yes. 
 
 Nora. I'm looking forward so much to 
 the Stenborgs' fancy ball the day after 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Helmer. And I 'm on tenterhooks to see 
 what surprise, you have in store for me. 
 Nora. Oh, it's too tiresome! 
 Helmer. What is? 
 
 Nora. I can't think of anything good. 
 Everything seems so foolish and meaning- 
 less. 
 
 Helmer. Has little Nora made that dis- 
 covery? 
 
 Nora [behind his chair, with her arms on 
 the back]. Are you very busy, Torvald? 
 Helmer. Well — 
 Nora. What papers are those? 
 Helmer. Bank business. 
 Nora. Already! 
 
 Helmer. I have got the retiring man- 
 ager to let me make some necessary changes 
 in the staff and the organization. I can do 
 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 [still leaning over the chair-back and 
 slowly stroking his hair]. If you hadn't 
 been so very busy, I should have asked you 
 a great, great favor, Torvald. 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 745 
 
 Helmer. What can it be? Out with it. 
 
 Nora. Nobody has such perfect taste as 
 you; and I shoiild so love to look well at 
 the fancy ball. Torvald, dear, couldn't 
 you take me in hand, and settle what 
 I'm to be, and arrange my costume for 
 me? 
 
 Helmer. Aha! So my willful little 
 woman is at a loss, and making signals of 
 distress. 
 
 Nora. Yes, please, Torvald. I can't get 
 on without your help. 
 
 Helmer. Well, well, I'll think it over, 
 and we '11 soon hit upon something. 
 
 Nora. Oh, how good that is of you! 
 [Goes to the tree again; paitse.] How well the 
 red flowers show. — TeU me, was it any- 
 thing so very dreadful this Krogstad got 
 into trouble about? 
 
 Helmer. Forgery, that's all. Don't you 
 know what that means? 
 
 Nora. May n't he have been driven to 
 it by need? 
 
 Helmer. Yes; or, like so many others, 
 he may have done it in pure heedlessness. 
 I am not so hard-hearted as to condemn a 
 man absolutely for a single fault. 
 
 Nora. No, surely not, Torvald! 
 
 Helmer. Many a man can retrieve his 
 character, if he owns his crime and takes 
 the punishment. 
 
 Nora. Punishment — ? 
 
 Helmer. But Krogstad did n't do that. 
 He evaded the law by means of tricks and 
 subterfuges; and that is what has morally 
 ruined him. 
 
 Nora. Do you think that — ? 
 
 Helmer. Just think how a man with a 
 thing of that sort on his conscience must be 
 always lying and canting and shamming. 
 Think of the mask he must wear even to- 
 ward those who stand nearest him — to- 
 ward his own wife and children. The effect 
 on the children — that's the most terrible 
 part of it, Nora. 
 
 Nora. Why? 
 
 Helmer. Because in such an atmosphere 
 of lies home life is poisoned and contami- 
 nated in every fiber. Every breath the 
 children draw contains some germ of evil. 
 
 Nora [closer behind him]. Are you sure of 
 that? 
 
 Helmee. As a lawyer, my dear, I have 
 seen it often enough. Nearly all cases of 
 early corruption may be traced to lying 
 mothers. 
 
 Nora. Why — mothers? 
 
 Helmer. It generally comes from the 
 mother's side; but of course the father's 
 influence may act in the same way. Every 
 lawyer knows it too well. And here has 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. 
 [Holds out both hands to her.] So my sweet 
 little Nora must promise not to plead his 
 cause. Shake hands upon it. Come, come, 
 what's this? Give me your hand. That's 
 right. Then it's a bargain. I assure you it 
 would have been impossible for me to work 
 with him. It gives me a positive sense of 
 physical discomfort to come in contact 
 with such people. 
 
 [Nora draws her hand away, and 
 moves to the other side of the 
 Christmas tree.] 
 
 Nora. How warm it is here. And I have 
 so much to do. 
 
 Helmer [rises and gathers up his papers]. 
 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 Christmas tree. [Lays his 
 hand on her head.] My precious little song- 
 bird! 
 
 [He goes into his room and shuts the 
 door.] 
 
 Nora [softly, after a pause]. It can't be. 
 It's impossible. It must be impossible! 
 
 Anna [at the door, left]. The little ones 
 are begging so prettily to come to mamma. 
 
 Nora. No, no, no; don't let them come 
 to me! Keep them with you, Anna. 
 
 Anna. Very well, ma'am. 
 
 [Shvis the door.] 
 
 Nora [pale with terror]. Corrupt my 
 children ! — Poison my home ! [Short pause 
 She throws back her head.] It's not true! It 
 can never, never be true! 
 
746 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 ACT II 
 
 The same room. In the corner, beside the 
 piano, stands the Christmas tree, stripped, 
 and with the candles burnt out. Noha's out- 
 door things lie on the sofa. 
 
 [Nora, alone, is walking about restlessly. At 
 last she stops by the sofa, and takes up 
 her cloak.] 
 
 Nora [dropping the cloak]. There 's some- 
 body coming! [Goes to the hall door and lis- 
 tens.] Nobody; of course nobody will come 
 to-day, Christmas Day; nor to-morrow 
 either. But perhaps — [Opens the door and 
 looks out] — No, nothing in the letter box; 
 quite empty. [Comes forward.] Stuff and 
 nonsense! Of course he won't really do 
 anything. Such a thing could n't happen. 
 It's impossible! Why, I have three little 
 children. 
 
 [Anna enters from the left, with a large 
 cardboard box\ 
 
 Anna. I 've found the box with the fancy 
 dress at last. 
 
 Nora. Thanks; put it down on the table. 
 
 Anna [doing so]. But I'm afraid it's very 
 much out of order. 
 
 Nora. Oh, I wish I could tear it into a 
 hundred thousand pieces! 
 
 Anna. Oh, no. It can 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! You'll catch cold, ma'am, and be 
 ill. 
 
 Nora. Worse things might happen. — 
 What are the children doing? 
 
 Anna. They're playing with their 
 Christmas presents, poor little dears; but — 
 
 Nora. Do they often ask for me? 
 
 Anna. You see they 've been so used to 
 having their mamma with them. 
 
 Nora. Yes; but, Anna, I can't have 
 them so much with me in future. 
 
 Anna. Well, little children get used to 
 anything. 
 
 Nora. Do you think they do? Do you 
 believe they would forget their mother if 
 she went quite away? 
 
 Anna. Gracious me! Quite away? 
 
 Nora. Tell me, Anna, — I've so often 
 wondered about it, — how could you bring 
 yourself to give your child up to strangers? 
 
 Anna. I had to when I came to nurse 
 my httle Miss 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's been in 
 trouble must take what comes. That 
 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- 
 firmed and when she was married. 
 
 Nora [embracing her]. Dear old Anna — 
 you were a good mother to me when I was 
 httle. 
 
 Anna. My poor little Nora had no 
 mother but me. 
 
 Nora. And if my little ones had nobody 
 else, I'm sure you would — Nonsense, 
 nonsense! [Opens the box.] Go in to the 
 children. Now I must — You '11 see how 
 lovely I shall be to-morrow. 
 
 Anna. I'm sure there will be no one at 
 the ball so lovely as my Miss Nora. 
 
 [She goes into the room on the left.] 
 
 Nora [takes the costume out of the box, biU 
 soon throws it down again]. Oh, if I dared 
 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 gloves! To for- 
 get — to forget! One, two, three, four, five, 
 six — \With a scream.] Ah, there they 
 come. 
 
 \/3oes toward the door, then stands 
 irresolute.] 
 
 [Mrs. Linden enters from the hall, where 
 she has taken off her things.] 
 
 Nora. Oh, it's you, Christina. There's 
 nobody else there? I 'm so glad you have 
 come. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I hear you called at my 
 lodgings. 
 
 Nora. Yes, I was just passing. There's 
 something you must help me with. Let us 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 747 
 
 sit here on the sofa — so. To-morrow even- 
 ing there's to be a fancy ball at Consul 
 Stenborg's overhead, and Torvald wants 
 me to appear as a NeapoUtan fisher-girl, 
 and dance the tarantella; I learned it at 
 Capri. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I see — quite a perform- 
 ance. 
 
 Nora. Yes, Torvald wishes it. Look, 
 this is the costume; Torvald had it made 
 for me in Italy. But now it's all so torn, I 
 don't know — 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Oh, we shall soon set that 
 to rights. It's only the trimming that has 
 come loose here and there. Have you a 
 needle and thread? Ah, here's the very 
 thing. 
 
 Nora. Oh, how kind of you. 
 
 Mrs. Linden [seioing]. So you're to be 
 in costume to-morrow, Nora? I'll tell you 
 what — I shall come in for a moment to 
 see you in all your glory. But I've quite 
 forgotten to thank you for the pleasant 
 evening yesterday. 
 
 Nora [rises and walks across the room]. 
 Oh, yesterday, it did n't seem so pleasant 
 as usual. — You should have come to town 
 a little sooner, Christina. — Torvald has 
 certainly the art of making 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 as 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 mistresses and all sorts 
 of things — so the son has been sickly from 
 his childhood, you understand. 
 
 Mrs. Linden [lets her sewing fall into her 
 lap]. Why, my darling Nora, how do you 
 come to faiow such things? 
 
 Nora {moving about the room]. Oh, when 
 one has three children, one sometimes has 
 visits from women who are half — half 
 doctors — and they talk of one thing and 
 another. 
 
 Mrs. Linden [goes on sewing; a short 
 pause]. Does Doctor Rank come here every 
 day? 
 
 Nora. Every day of his 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. Linden. When you introduced us 
 yesterday he said he had often heard my 
 name; but I noticed afterwards that your 
 husband had no notion who I was. How 
 could Doctor Rank — ? 
 
 Nora. He was quite right, Christina. 
 You see, Torvald loves me so indescrib- 
 ably, he wants to have me aU 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; so naturally I 
 gave up doing it. But I often talk of the 
 old times to Doctor Rank, for he likes to 
 hear about them. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Listen to me, Nora! 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 
 say. 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. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. And nobody to provide 
 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 your senses? How 
 can you think such a thing? A friend who 
 comes here every day! Why, the position 
 would be unbearable! 
 
748 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Mes. Linden. Then it really is not he? 
 
 NoBA. No, I assure you. It never for a 
 moment occurred to me — Besides, at 
 that time he had nothing to lend; he came 
 into his property afterwards. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Well, I believe that was 
 lucky for you, Nora, dear. 
 
 NoKA. No, really, it would never have 
 struck me to ask Doctor Rank — And yet, 
 I'm certain 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 must 
 get clear of that. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes, yes, I told you so 
 yesterday; but — 
 
 Nora [walking up and down]. A man can 
 manage these things much better than a 
 woman. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. One's own husband, yes. 
 
 Nora. Nonsense. [Stands still.] When 
 everything is paid, one gets back the paper. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Of course. 
 
 Nora. And can tear it into a hundred 
 thousand pieces, and burn it up, the nasty, 
 filthy thing! 
 
 Mrs. Linden [looks at her fixedly, lays 
 down her work, mid rises slowly]. Nora, you 
 are hiding something from me. 
 
 Nora. Can you see it in my face? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Something has happened 
 since yesterday morning. Nora, what is it? 
 
 Nora [going toward her]. Christina — ! 
 [Listens.] 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 help 
 you. 
 
 Mrs. Linden [gathers some of the things 
 together]. Very well; but I shan't go away 
 untn you have told me all about it. 
 
 [She goes out to the left] 
 
 [Helmer enters from the hall.] 
 
 Nora [runs to meet him]. Oh, how I've 
 been longing for you to come, Torvald, dear ! 
 
 Helmer. Was that the dressmaker — ? 
 
 Nora. No, Christina. She's helping me 
 with my costume. You'll see how nice I 
 shall look. 
 
 Helmer. Yes, was n't that a happy 
 thought of mine? 
 
 Nora. 'Splendid! But is n't it good of 
 me, too, to have given in to you about the 
 tarantella ? 
 
 Helmer [takes her under the chin]. Good 
 of you! To give in to your own husband? 
 Well, well, you little madcap, I know you 
 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, I 
 suppose? 
 
 Helmer. Yes. [Shows her a bundle of 
 papers.] Look here. I've just come from 
 the Bank — [Goes toward his room.] 
 
 Nora. Torvald. 
 
 Helmer [stopping]. Yes? 
 
 Nora. If your little squirrel were to beg 
 you for something so prettily — 
 
 Helmer. Well? 
 
 Nora. Would you do it? 
 
 Helmer. I must know first what it is. 
 
 Nora. The squirrel would skip about 
 and play all sorts of tricks if you would 
 only be nice and kind. 
 
 Helmer. Come, then, out with it. 
 
 Nora. Your lark would twitter from 
 morning till night — 
 
 Helmer. Oh, that she does in any case. 
 
 Nora. I'll be an elf and dance in the 
 moonlight for you, Torvald. 
 
 Helmer. Nora — you can't mean what 
 you were hinting at this morning? 
 
 Nora [coming nearer]. Yes, Torvald, I 
 beg and implore you! 
 
 Helmer. Have you really the courage 
 to begin that again? 
 
 Nora. Yes, yes; for my sake, you must 
 let Krogstad keep his place in the Bank. 
 
 Helmer. My dear Nora, it's his place I 
 intend for Mrs. Linden. 
 
 Nora. Yes, that's so good of you. But 
 instead of Krogstad, you could dismiss 
 some other clerk. 
 
 Helmer. Why, this is incredible obsti- 
 nacy! Because you have thoughtlessly 
 promised to put in a word for him, I am 
 to — ! 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 749 
 
 NoBA. It's not that, Torvald. It's for 
 your own sake. This man writes for the 
 most scurrilous newspapers; you said so 
 yourself. He can do you no end of harm. 
 I'm so terribly afraid of him — 
 
 Helmer. Ah, I understand; it's old 
 recollections that are frightening you. 
 
 Nora. What do you mean? 
 
 Helmer. Of course, you're thinking of 
 your father. 
 
 Nora. Yes — yes, of course. Only think 
 of the shameful 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. 
 
 Helmer. My little Nora, between your 
 father and me there is all the difference in 
 the world. Your father was not altogether 
 unimpeachable. I am; and I hope to re- 
 main so. 
 
 Nora. Oh, no one knows what wicked 
 men may hit upon. We could live so 
 qmetly and happily now, in our cozy, peace- 
 ful home, you and I and the children, Tor- 
 vald! That 's why I beg and implore you — 
 
 Helmer. And it is just by pleading his 
 cause that you make it impossible for me 
 to keep him. It's already known at the 
 Bank that I intend to dismiss Krogstad. 
 If it were now reported that the new man- 
 ager let himself be turned round his wife's 
 little finger — • 
 
 Nora. What then? 
 
 Helmer. Oh, nothing, so long as a will- 
 ful woman can have her way — ! I am to 
 make myself a laughing-stock to the whole 
 staff, and set people saying that I am open 
 to all sorts of outside influence? Take my 
 word for it, I should soon feel the conse- 
 quences. And besides — there is one thing 
 that makes Krogstad impossible for me to 
 work with — 
 
 Nora. What thing? 
 
 Helmer. I could perhaps have over- 
 looked his moral failings at a pinch — 
 
 Nora. Yes, could n't you, Torvald? 
 
 Helmer. And I hear he is good at his 
 work. But the fact is, he was a college chum 
 of mine — ^there was one of those rash 
 friendships 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 tactless enough to do it even when 
 others are present. He delights in putting 
 on airs of familiarity — Torvald here, 
 Torvald there! I assure you it's most pain- 
 ful to me. He would make my position at 
 the Bank perfectly unendurable. 
 
 Nora. Torvald, 'surely you're not seri- 
 ous? 
 
 Helmer. No? Why not? 
 
 Nora. That's such a petty reason. 
 
 Helmer. What! Petty! Do you con- 
 sider me petty! 
 
 Nora. No, on the contrary, Torvald, 
 dear; and that's just why — 
 
 Helmer. Never mind; you call my mo- 
 tives petty; then I must be petty too. 
 Petty! Very well! — Now we'll put an end 
 to this, once for all. [Goes to the door into 
 the hall and calls.] Ellen! 
 
 Nora. What do you want? 
 
 Helmer [searching among his papers]. 
 To settle the thing. 
 
 [Ellen enters.] 
 
 Here; take this letter; give it to a mes- 
 senger. See that he takes it at once. The 
 address is on it. Here's the money. 
 
 Ellen. Very well, sir. 
 
 [Ooes with the letter.] 
 
 Helmer [putting his papers together]. 
 There, Madam Obstinacy. 
 
 Nora [breathless]. Torvald — what was 
 in the letter? 
 
 Helmer. Krogstad's dismissal. 
 
 Noba. Call it back again, Torvald! 
 There's still time. Oh, Torvald, call it 
 back again! For my sake, for your own, 
 for the children's sake! Do you hear, Tor- 
 vald? Do it! You don't know what that 
 letter may bring upon us all. 
 
 Helmeb. Too late. 
 
 Nora. Yes, too late. 
 
 Helmer. My dear Nora, I forgive your 
 anxiety, though it's anything but flattering 
 to me. Why should you suppose that I 
 would be afraid of a wretched scribbler's 
 spite? But I forgive you all the same, for 
 it's a proof of your great love for me. 
 [Talies her in his arms.] That's as it should 
 be, my own dear Nora. Let what will hap- 
 pen — when it comes to the pinch, I shall 
 
75° 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 have strength and courage enough. You 
 shall see: my shoulders are broad enough 
 to bear the whole burden. 
 
 Nora [terror-struck]. What do you mean 
 by that? 
 Helmer. The whole burden, I say — 
 Nora [with decision]. That you shall 
 never, never do! 
 
 Helmbe. Very well; then we'll share it, 
 Nora, as man and wife. That is how it 
 should be. [Petting her.] Are you satisfied 
 now? Come, come, come, don't look like a 
 scared dove. It's all nothing — foolish 
 fancies. — Now you ought to play the tar- 
 antella 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. 
 [Turns round in doorway.] And when Rank 
 comes, just tell him where I'm to be found. 
 [He nods to her, and goes with his 
 papers into his room, closing the 
 door.] 
 NoBA [beioildered with terror, stands as 
 though rooted to the ground, and whispers]. 
 He would do it. Yes, he would do it. He 
 would do it, in spite of all the world. — No, 
 never that, never, never! Anything rather 
 than that! Oh, for some way of escape! 
 What shall I do — ! [Hall bell rings.] Doc- 
 tor Rank — ! Anything, anything, rather 
 than — ! 
 
 [Nora draws her hands over her 
 face, pulls herself together, goes 
 to the door and opens it. Rank 
 stands outside hanging up his fur 
 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 closes the door.] 
 Nora. Oh, you know very well, I have 
 always time for you. 
 
 Rank. Thank you. I shall avail myself 
 of your kindness as long as I can. 
 
 Nora. What do you mean? As long as 
 you can? 
 Rank. Yes. Does that frighten you? 
 Nora. I think it's an odd expression. 
 Do you expect anything to happen? 
 
 Rank. Something I have long been pre- 
 pared for; but I did n't think it would come 
 so soon. 
 
 Nora [catching at his arm.] What have 
 you discovered? Doctor Rank, you must 
 tell me! 
 
 Rank [sitting down by the stove]. I am 
 running down hill. There's no help for it. 
 
 Nora [drawing along hreaih of relief]. It's 
 you — ? 
 
 Rank. Who else should it be? — Why 
 lie to one's self? I am the most wretched 
 of all my patients, Mrs. Helmer. In these 
 last days I have been auditing my life- 
 account — bankrupt! Perhaps before a 
 month is over, I shall lie rotting in the 
 churchyard. 
 
 Nora. Oh! 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 ugly things have to be gone 
 through first. There is only one last inves- 
 tigation to be made, and when that is over 
 I shall know pretty certainly when the 
 break-up will begin. There's one thing I 
 want to say to you: Helmer's delicate na- 
 ture shrinks so from all that is horrible: I 
 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 certain of 
 the worst, I shall send you my visiting- 
 card with a black cross on it; and then you 
 will know that the final horror has begun. 
 
 Nora. Why, you're perfectly imreason- 
 able to-day; and I did so want you to be in 
 a really good humor. 
 
 Rank. With death staring me in the 
 face? — And to suffer thus for another's 
 sin! Where's the justice of it? And in one 
 way or another you can trace in every fam- 
 ily some such inexorable retribution — 
 
 Nora [stopping her ears]. Nonsense, non- 
 sense! Now, cheer up! 
 
 Rank. Well, after all, the whole thing's 
 only worth laughing at. My poor innocent 
 spine must do penance for my father's wild 
 oats. 
 
 Nora [ai table, left]. I suppose he was too 
 fond of asparagus and Strasbourg p&t6, 
 was n't he? 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 75^ 
 
 Rank. Yes; and truffles. 
 
 Nora. Yes, truffles, to be sure. And 
 oysters, I believe? 
 
 Rank. Yes, oysters; oysters, of course. 
 
 Nora. And then all the port and cham- 
 pagne! It's sad 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's the worst of it. 
 
 Rank [looks at her searchingly], H'm — 
 
 Nora [a mom&nt later]. Why did you 
 smUe? 
 
 Rank. No; it was you that laughed. 
 
 Nora. No; it was you that smiled. 
 Doctor Rank. 
 
 Rank [standing up]. I see you're deeper 
 than I thought. 
 
 Nora. I 'm in such a crazy mood to-day. 
 
 Rank. So it seems. 
 
 Nora [with her hands on his shoulders]. 
 Dear, dear Doctor Rank, death shall not 
 take you away from Torvald and me. 
 
 Rank. Oh, you'll easily get over the loss. 
 The absent are soon forgotten. 
 
 Nora [looks at him anxiously]. Do you 
 think so? 
 
 Rank. People make fresh ties, and 
 then — 
 
 NoKA. Who make fresh ties? 
 
 Rank. You and Helmer will, when I am 
 gone. You yourself are taking time by the 
 forelock, it seems to me. What was that 
 Mrs. Linden doing here yesterday? 
 
 Nora. Oh! — 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, perhaps — 
 
 Nora. Hush! Not so loud! She's in 
 there. 
 
 Rank. To-day as well? You see! 
 
 Nora. Only to put my costume in order 
 — dear me, how unreasonable you are! 
 [Sits on sofa.] Now, do be good. Doctor 
 Rank! To-morrow you shall see how beau- 
 tifully I shall dance; and then you may 
 fancy that I'm doing it all to please you — 
 and of course Torvald as well. [Takes vari- 
 ous things out of box.] Doctor Rank, sit 
 down here, and I'll show you something. 
 
 Rank [sitting]. What is it? 
 
 Nora. Look here. Look! 
 
 Rank. Silk stockings. 
 
 Nora. Flesh-colored. Aren't they 
 lovely? It's so dark here now; but to- 
 morrow — No, no, no; you must only look 
 at the feet. Oh, well, I suppose you may 
 look at the rest too. 
 
 Rank. H'm — 
 
 Nora. 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 [looking at him a moment]. For 
 shame! [Hits him lightly on the ear with the 
 stockings.] Take that. 
 
 [Rolls them up again.] 
 
 Rank. And what other wonders am I to 
 see? 
 
 Nora. You shan't see anything more; 
 for you don't behave nicely. 
 
 [She hums a little and searches 
 among the things.] 
 
 Rank [after a short silence]. When I sit 
 here gossiping with you, I can't imagine — 
 I simply cannot conceive — what would 
 have become of me if I had never entered 
 this house. 
 
 Nora [smiling]. Yes, I think you do feel 
 at home with us. 
 
 Rank [more softly — looking straight he- 
 fore him]. And now to have to leave it all — 
 
 Nora. Nonsense. You shan't leave us. 
 
 Rank [in the same tone]. And not to be 
 able to leave behind the slightest token of 
 gratitude; scarcely even a passing regret — 
 nothing but an empty place, that can be 
 filled by the first comer. 
 
 Nora. And if I were to ask you for — ? 
 No — 
 
 Rank. For what? 
 
 Nora. For a great proof of your friend- 
 ship. 
 
 Rank. Yes — yes? 
 
 Nora. I mean — for a very, very great 
 service — 
 
 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 service, 
 but help and advice, besides — 
 
752 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Rank. So much the better. I can't think 
 what you can mean. But go on. Don't you 
 trust me? 
 
 NoBA. As I trust no one else. I know 
 you are my best and truest friend. So I 
 will tell you. Well, then, Doctor Rank, 
 there is something you must help me to 
 prevent. You know how deeply, how won- 
 derfully Torvald loves me; he wouldn't 
 hesitate a moment to give his very life for 
 my sake. 
 
 Rank [bending toward her]. Nora — do 
 you think he is the only one who — ? 
 
 Nora [with a slight start]. Who — ? 
 
 Rank. Who woxild gladly give his life 
 for you? 
 
 Nora [sadly]. Oh! 
 
 Rank. I have sworn that you shall 
 know it before I — go. I shall never find 
 a better opportunity. — Yes, Nora, now 
 I have told you; and now you know that 
 you can trust me as you can no one 
 else. 
 
 Nora [standing up; simply and calmly]. 
 Let me pass, please. 
 
 Rank [makes way for her, but remains sil- 
 ting]. Nora — 
 
 Nora [in the doorway]. Ellen, bring the 
 lamp. [Crosses to the stove.] Oh, dear, Doc- 
 tor Rank, that was too bad of you. 
 
 Rank [rising]. That I have loved you as 
 deeply as — any one else? Was that too 
 bad of me? 
 
 Nora. No, but that you should have 
 told me so. It was so unnecessary — 
 
 Rank. What do you mean? Did you 
 know — ? 
 
 [Ellen enters with the lamp; sets it on the 
 table and goes out again.] 
 
 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 all so nice! 
 
 Rank. Well, at any rate, you know now 
 that I am at your service, body and soul. 
 And now, go on. 
 
 Noka [looking at him]. Go on — now? 
 
 Rank. I beg you to tell me what you 
 want. 
 
 Nora. I can tell you nothing now. 
 
 Rank. Yes, yes! You must n't punish 
 me in that way. Let me do for you what- 
 ever a man can. 
 
 NoBA. You can do nothing for me now. 
 
 — Besides, I really want no help. You shall 
 see it was only my fancy. Yes, it must be 
 so. Of course! [Sits in the rocking-chair, 
 looks at him and smiles.] You are a nice 
 person. Doctor Rank! Are n't you ashamed 
 of yourself, now that the lamp is on the 
 table? 
 
 Rank. No; not exactly. But perhaps I 
 ought to go — forever. 
 
 Nora. No, indeed you must n't. Of 
 course, you must come and go as you've 
 always done. You know very well that 
 Torvald can't do without you. 
 
 Rank. Yes, but you? 
 
 Nora. Oh, you know I always like to 
 have you here. 
 
 Rank. That is just what led me astray. 
 You are a riddle to me. It has often seemed 
 to me as if you liked being with me almost 
 as much as being with Hehner. 
 
 Nora. Yes; don't you see? There are 
 people one loves, and others one likes to 
 talk to. 
 
 Rank. Yes — there's something in that. 
 
 Nora. When I was a girl, of course, I 
 loved papa best. But it always deUghted 
 me to steal into the 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 their place I 
 have taken? 
 
 Nora [jumps up and hurries toward him]. 
 Oh, my dear Doctor Rank, I don't mean 
 that. But you understand, with Torvald 
 it's the same as with papa — 
 
 [Ellen enters from the hall.] 
 
 Ellen. Please, ma'am — 
 
 [Whispers to Nora, and gives her 
 a card.] 
 Nora [glancing at card]. Ah! 
 
 [Puts it in her pocket.] 
 Rank. Anything wrong? 
 Nora. No, no, not in the least. It's only 
 
 — it's my new costume — 
 
 Rank. Your costume! Why, it's there. 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 7SS 
 
 Nora. Oh, that one, yes. But this is 
 another that — I have ordered it — Tor- 
 vald must n't know — 
 
 Rank. Aha! So that's the great secret. 
 
 Nora. Yes, of course. Please go to him; 
 he 's in the inner room. Do keep hitn while 
 I — 
 
 Rank. Don't be alarmed; he shan't 
 escape. [Goes into BtBLMER's room.] 
 
 Nora [to Ellen]. Is he waiting in the 
 kitchen? 
 
 Ellen. Yes, he came up the back stair — 
 
 Nora. 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 
 spoken to you. 
 
 Nora. Then let him come in ; but quietly. 
 And, Ellen — say nothing about it; it's a 
 surprise for my husband. 
 
 Ellen. Oh, yes, ma'am, I imderstand. 
 [She goes out.] 
 
 Nora. It is coming! The dreadful thing 
 is coming, after all. No, no, no, it can never 
 be; it shall not! 
 
 [She goes to Hblmer's door and 
 slips the bolt.] 
 
 [Ellen opens the hall door for Keogstad, 
 and shuts it after him. He wears a 
 traveling-coat, high boots, and a fur cap.] 
 
 Nora [goes toward him]. Speak softly; 
 my husband is at home. 
 
 Krogstad. All right. That's nothing to 
 me. 
 
 Nora. What do you want? 
 
 Krogstad. A little information. 
 
 Nora. Be quick, then. What is it? 
 
 Krogstad. You know I have got my 
 dismissal. 
 
 Nora. I could n't prevent it, Mr. Krog- 
 stad. I fought for you to the last, but it 
 was of no use. 
 
 Krogstad. Does your husband care for 
 you so little? He knows what I can bring 
 upon you, and yet he dares. — 
 
 Nora. How could you think I should 
 tell him? 
 
 Krogstad. Well, as a matter of fact, I 
 did n't think it. It was n't like my friend 
 Torvald Helmer to show so much courage — 
 
 Nora. Mr. Krogstad, be good enough to 
 speak respectfully of my husband. 
 
 Krogstad. Certainly, with all due re- 
 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 
 done. 
 
 Nora. Clearer than you could ever 
 make me. 
 
 Krogstad. Yes, such a bad lawyer as I — 
 
 Nora. What is it you want? 
 
 Krogstad. 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. 
 
 Krogstad. 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. 
 
 Krogstad. The whole thing can be set- 
 tled quite amicably. Nobody need know. 
 It can remain among us three. 
 
 ■Nora. My husband must never know. 
 
 Krogstad. How can you prevent it? 
 Can you pay off the balance? 
 
 Nora. No, not at once. 
 
 Krogstad. Or have you any means of 
 raising the money in the next few days? 
 
 Nora. None — that I will make use of. 
 
 Krogstad. 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 I O U. 
 
 Nora. Tell me what you want to do with 
 it. 
 
 Krogstad. I only want to keep it — to 
 have it in my possession. No outsider shall 
 hear anything of it. So, if you have any 
 desperate scheme in your head — 
 
 Nora. What if I have? 
 
 Krogstad. If you should think of leav- 
 ing your husband and children — 
 
 Nora. What if I do? 
 
 Krogstad. Or if you should think of — 
 something worse — 
 
754 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 NoBA. How do you know that? 
 
 Kbogstad. Put all that out of your 
 head. 
 
 Nora. How did you know what I had 
 in my mind? 
 
 Kbogstad. Most of us think of that at 
 first. I thought of it, too; but I had n't the 
 courage — 
 
 Nora [tondessly]. Nor I. 
 
 Krogstad [relieved]. No, one has n't. 
 You have n't the courage either, have you? 
 
 Nora. I have n't, I have n't. 
 
 Krogstad. Besides, it would be very 
 foolish. — Just one domestic storm, and 
 it's all over. I have a letter in my pocket 
 for your husband — 
 
 NoBA. Telling him everything? 
 
 Krogstad. Sparing you as much as 
 possible. 
 
 Nora [quicMy]. He must never read that 
 letter. Tear it up. I will manage to get the 
 money somehow — 
 
 Kbogstad. Pardon me, Mrs. Helmer, 
 but I believe I 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 
 get it. 
 
 Kbogstad. I demand no money from 
 your husband. 
 
 NoEA. What do you demand, then? 
 
 Krogstad. 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 
 need all the time; but I was content to fight 
 my way up, step by step. Now, I 've been 
 thrust down again, and I 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 me — 
 
 Nora. He will never do that! 
 
 Krogstad. 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 see! 
 Before a year is out I shall be the manager's 
 right hand. It won't be Torvald Helmer, 
 but Nils Krogstad, that manages the Joint 
 Stock Bank. 
 
 NoBA. That shall never be. 
 
 Krogstad. Perhaps you will — ? 
 
 NoBA. Now I have the courage for 
 it. 
 
 Krogstad. Oh, you don't frighten me! 
 A sensitive, petted creature like you — 
 
 NoBA. You shall see, you shall see! 
 
 Kbogstad. Under the ice, perhaps? 
 Down into the cold, black water? And 
 next spring to come up again, ugly, hairless, 
 um-ecognizable — 
 
 NoBA. You can't terrify me. 
 
 Kbogstad. Nor you me. People don't 
 do that sort of thing, Mrs. Helmer. And, 
 after all, what would be the use of it? I 
 have your husband in my pocket, all the 
 same. 
 
 NoBA. Afterwards? When I am no 
 longer — ? 
 
 Kbogstad. You forget, your reputation 
 remains in my hands ! [Nora stands speech- 
 less and looks at him.] Well, now you are 
 prepared. Do nothing foolish. As soon as 
 Hehner has received my letter, I shall 
 expect to hear from him. And remember 
 that it is your husband himself who has 
 forced me back agaia into such paths. That 
 I will never forgive him. Good-bye, Mrs. 
 Helmer. 
 
 [Goes out through the hall. Noba 
 hurries to the door, opens it a 
 little, and listens.] 
 
 Nora. He's going. He 'snot putting the 
 letter into the box. No, no, it would be im- 
 possible! [Opens the door further and further.] 
 What 's that. He 's standing still ; not going 
 downstairs. Has he changed his mind? Is 
 he — ? [A letter falls into the box. Kbog- 
 btad's footsteps are heard gradually receding 
 down the stair. Noba utters a suppressed 
 shriek, and rushes forward towards the sofa- 
 table; pause.] In the letter-box! [Slips 
 shrinkingly up to the hall door.] There it 
 lies. — Torvald, Torvald — now we are 
 lost! 
 
 [Maa Linden enters from the left mth the 
 costume.] 
 
 Mrs. Linden. There, I think it's all 
 right now. Shall we just try it on? 
 
 Nora [hoarsdy and sofUy]. Christina, 
 come here. 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 7SS 
 
 Mrs. Linden [throws down the dress on 
 the sofa]. What's the matter? You look 
 quite distracted. 
 
 Nora. Come here. Do you see that let- 
 ter? There, see, — through the glass of the 
 letter-box. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes, yes, I see it. 
 
 Nora. That latter is from Krogstad — 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Nora — it was Krogstad 
 who lent you the money? 
 
 Nora. Yes; and now Torvald will know 
 everything. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Believe me, Nora, it's the 
 best thing for both of you. 
 
 NoBA. You don't know all yet. I have 
 forged a name — 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Good Heavens! 
 
 Nora. Now, listen to me, Christina; you 
 shall bear me witness — 
 
 Mrs. Lindon. How " witness " ? What 
 am I to — 
 
 Nora. If I should go out of my mind 
 — it might easily happen — 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Nora! 
 
 Nora. Or if anything else should happen 
 to me — so that I could n't be here — ! 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Nora, Nora, you're quite 
 beside yourself! 
 
 Nora. In case any one wanted to take 
 it all upon himself — the whole blame — 
 you understand — 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes, yes; but how can 
 you think — ? 
 
 Nora. You shall bear witness that it's 
 not true, Christina. I'm not out of my 
 mind at all; I know quite well what I'm 
 saying; and I tell you nobody else knew 
 ansrthing about it; I did the whole thing, I 
 myself. Remember that. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I shall remember. But I 
 don't understand what you mean — 
 
 Nora. Oh, how should you? It's the 
 miracle coming to pass. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. "The miracle? 
 
 NoBA. Yes, the miracle. But it's so ter- 
 rible, Christina; it must n't happen for all 
 the world. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I shall go straight to 
 Ejrogstad and talk to him. 
 
 Nora. Don't; he'll do you some harm. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Once he would have done 
 anything for me. 
 
 Nora. He? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Where does he live? 
 
 Nora. Oh, how can I tell ? — Yes — 
 [Feels in her pocket.] Here's his card. But 
 the letter, the letter — ! 
 
 Helmer [knocking outside]. Nora! 
 
 Nora [shrieks in terror]. Oh, what is it? 
 What do you want? 
 
 Hedmbb. Well, well, don't be frightened. 
 We're not coming in; you've bolted the 
 door. Are you trying on your dress? 
 
 Nora. Yes, yes, I'm trying it on. It 
 suits me so well, Torvald. 
 
 Mrs. Linden [who has read the card]. 
 Why, he lives close by here. 
 
 Nora. Yes, but it's no use now. We are 
 lost. The letter is there in the box. 
 
 Mbs. Linden. And your husband has 
 the key? 
 
 NoEA. Always. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Krogstad must demand 
 his letter back, unread. He must find some 
 pretext — 
 
 NoEA. But this is the very time when 
 Torvald generally — 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Prevent him. Keep him 
 occupied. I shall come back as quickly as 
 I can. [She goes out hastily by the hall door.] 
 
 NoEA [opens Helmer' s door and peeps 
 in]. Torvald! 
 
 Helmer. Well, may one come into one's 
 own room again at last? Come, Rank, we'll 
 have a look — [In the doorway.] But how's 
 this? 
 
 NoBA. What, Torvald, dear? 
 
 Helmer. Rank led me to expect a grand 
 transformation. 
 
 Rank [in the doorway]. So I understood. 
 I suppose I was mistaken. 
 
 Nora. No, no one shall see me in my 
 glory till to-morrow evening. 
 
 Helmer. Why, Nora, dear, you look 
 so tired. Have you been practicing too 
 hard? 
 
 NoBA. No, I have n't practiced at all 
 yet. 
 
 Helmeb. But you'll have to — 
 
 NoBA. Oh, yes, I must, I must! But, 
 Torvald, I can't get on at all without your 
 help. I've forgotten everything. 
 
 Helmer. Oh, we shall soon freshen it up 
 again. 
 
7S6 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 NoBA. Yes, do help me, Torvald. You 
 must promise me — Oh, I'm so nervous 
 about it. Before so many people — This 
 evening you must give yourself up entirely 
 to me. You must n't do a stroke of work; 
 you must n't even touch a pen. Do promise, 
 Torvald, dear! 
 
 Helmbr. I promise. All this evening I 
 shall be your slave. Little helpless thing — ! 
 But, by the bye, I must just — 
 
 [Going to hall door.] 
 Nora. What do you want there? 
 Helmer. Only to see if there are any 
 letters. 
 
 Nora. No, no, don't do that, Torvald. 
 Helmer. Why not? 
 Nora. Torvald, I beg you not to. There 
 are none there. 
 Helmer. Let me just see. 
 
 [Is going. Nora, at the piano, plays 
 the first bars of the tarantella.] 
 [At the door, stops]. Aha! 
 
 NoBA. I can't dance to-morrow if I don't 
 rehearse with you first. 
 
 Helmer [going to her]. Are you really so 
 nervous, dear Nora? 
 
 Nora. Yes, dreadfully! Let me rehearse 
 at once. We have time before dinner. Oh, 
 do sit down and play for me, Torvald, dear; 
 direct me and put me right, as you used 
 to do. 
 
 Helmer. With all the pleasure in life, 
 since you wish it. 
 
 [Sits at piano. Nora snatches the 
 tambourine out of the box, and 
 hurriedly drapes herself in a long 
 parti-colored shawl; then, with a 
 bound, stands in the middle of the 
 floor.] 
 Nora. Now, play for me! Now I'll 
 dance! 
 
 [Helmbb plays and Nora dances. 
 Rank stands at the piano behind 
 Helmer and looks on.] 
 Helmeb [playing]. Slower! Slower! 
 Nora. Can't do it slower! 
 Helmer. Not so violently, Nora. 
 Nora. I must! I must! 
 Helmer [stops]. No, no, Nora, — that 
 will never do. 
 
 Nora [laughs and swings her tamhourine]. 
 Did n't I tell you so! 
 
 Rank. Let me play for her. 
 
 Helmbb [rising]. Yes, do, — then I can 
 direct her better. 
 
 [Rank sits down to the piano and 
 plays; Nora damces more and 
 more wildly. Helmer stands by 
 the stove and addresses frequent 
 corrections to her; she seems not 
 to hear. Her hair breaks loose, 
 and falls over her shoulders. She 
 does not notice it, but goes on 
 dancing.] 
 
 [Mrs. Linden enters and stands spellbound 
 in the doorway.] 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Ah — ! 
 
 Nora [dancing]. We're having such fun 
 here, Christina! 
 
 Helmbb. Why, Nora, dear, you're danc- 
 ing as if it were a matter of life and death. 
 
 NoBA. So it is. 
 
 Helmeb. Rank, stop! This is the merest 
 madness. Stop, I say! 
 
 [Rank stops playing, and Nora 
 comes to a sudden standstill.] 
 [Going toward her]. I couldn't have be- 
 lieved it. You've positively forgotten all 
 I taught you. 
 
 Nora [throws the tambourine away]. You 
 see for yourself. 
 
 Helmer. You really do want teaching. 
 
 Nora. Yes, you see how much I need it. 
 You must practice with me up to the last 
 moment. Will you promise me, Torvald? 
 
 Helmer. Certainly, certainly. 
 
 Nora. Neither to-day nor to-morrow 
 must you think of anything but me. You 
 mustn't open a single letter — mustn't 
 look at the letter-box. 
 
 Helmer. Ah, you're still afraid of that 
 man — 
 
 Nora. Oh, yes, yes, I am. 
 
 Helmeb. Nora, I can see it in your face 
 — there 's a letter from him in the box. 
 
 Noba. I don't know, I believe so. But 
 you're not to read anything now; nothing 
 ugly must come between us until all is 
 over. 
 
 Rank [softly, to Helmer]. You must n't 
 contradict her. 
 
 Helmer [putting his arm around her]. 
 The child shall have her own way. But 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 757 
 
 to-morrow night, when the dance is 
 over — 
 Nora. Then you shall be tree. 
 
 [Ellen appears in the doorway, right.] 
 
 Ellen. Dinner is on the table, ma'am. 
 
 NoHA. We'll have some champagne, 
 Ellen. 
 
 Ellen. Yes, ma'am. [Goes out.] 
 
 Helmer. Dear me! Quite a banquet. 
 
 Nora. Yes, and we 'U keep it up till morn- 
 ing. [Calling out.] And macaroons, Ellen, 
 — plenty, — just this once. 
 
 Helmer [seizing her hand]. Come, come, 
 don't let us have this wild excitement! Be 
 my own little lark again. 
 
 Nora. Oh, yes, I will. But now go into 
 the dining-room ; and you, too, Doctor Rank. 
 Christina, you must help me to do up my hair. 
 
 Rank [softly, as they go]. There 's nothing 
 in the wind? Nothing — I mean — ? 
 
 Helmer. Oh, no, nothing of the kind. 
 It 's merely this babyish anxiety I was tell- 
 ing you about. [They go out to the right.] 
 
 Nora. Well? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. He's gone out of town. 
 
 Nora. I saw it in your face. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. He comes 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. Oh, you can't understand. Go to 
 them in the dining-room; I shall come in a 
 moment. 
 
 [Mrs. Linden goes into the dining- 
 room. NoBA stands for a mo- 
 ment as though collecting her 
 thoughts; then looks at her watch.] 
 
 Five. Seven hours till midnight. Then 
 twenty-four hours till the next midnight. 
 Then the tarantella will be over. Twenty- 
 four and seven? Thirty-one hours to live. 
 
 [Helmer appears at the door, right.] 
 
 Helmer. What has become of my. little 
 lark? 
 
 Nora [runs to him with open arms]. Here 
 she is! 
 
 ACT III 
 
 The same room. The table, with the chairs 
 around it, in the middle. A lighted lamp on 
 the table. The door to the hall stands open. 
 Dance music is heard from the floor above. 
 
 [Mrs. Linden sits by the table and absently 
 turns the pages of a book. She tries to 
 read, but seems unable to fix her atten- 
 tion; she frequently listens and looks 
 anxiously toward the hall door.] 
 
 Mrs. Linden [looks at her watch]. Not 
 here yet; and the time is nearly up. If only 
 he has n't — [Listens again.] Ah, there he 
 is. [She goes into the hall and cautiously 
 opens the outer door; soft footsteps are heard 
 on the stairs; she whispers.] Come in; there 
 is no one here. 
 
 Krogstad [in the doorway]. I found a 
 note from you at my house. What does it 
 mean? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I must speak to you. 
 
 Krogstad. Indeed? And in this house? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. 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. 
 
 Krogstad [coming into the room]. Ah! 
 So the Helmers are dancing this evening? 
 Really? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes. Why not? 
 
 Krogstad. Quite right. Why not? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. And now, let us talk a little. 
 
 Krogstad. Have we two anything to 
 say to each other? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. A great deal. 
 
 Krogstad. I should not have thought so. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Because you have never 
 really understood me. 
 
 Krogstad. What was there to under- 
 stand? The most natural thing in the world 
 — a heartless woman throws a man over 
 when a better match offers. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Do you really think me 
 so heartless? Do you think I broke with 
 you lightly? 
 
 Krogstad. Did you not? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Do you really think so? 
 
 Krogstad. If not, why did you write 
 me that letter? 
 
7S8 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Was it not best? Since I 
 had to break with you, was it not right that 
 I should try to put an end to all that you 
 felt for me? 
 
 Krogstad [clenching his hands together]. 
 So that was it? And all this — for the sake 
 of money! 
 
 Mrs. Linden. You ought not to forget 
 that I had a helpless mother and two little 
 brothers. We could not wait for you, Nils, 
 as your prospects then stood. 
 
 Krogstad. Perhaps not; but you had 
 no right to cast me off for the sake of others, 
 whoever the others might be. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I don't know. I have 
 often asked myself whether I had the right. 
 
 Krogstad [more softly]. When I had lost 
 you, I seemed to have no firm ground left 
 under my feet. Look at me now. I am a 
 shipwrecked man clinging to a spar. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Rescue may be at hand. 
 
 Krogstad. It was at hand; but then you 
 came and stood in the way. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Without my knowledge, 
 Nils. I did not know till to-day that it was 
 you I was to replace in the Bank. 
 
 Krogstad. Well, I take your word for it. 
 But now that you do know, do you mean 
 to give way? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. No; for that would not 
 help you in the least. 
 
 Krogstad. Oh, help, help — ! I should 
 do it whether or no. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I have learned prudence. 
 Life and bitter necessity have schooled me. 
 
 Krogstad. And life has taught me not 
 to trust fine speeches. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Then life has taught you a 
 very sensible thing. But deeds you loill trust? 
 
 Krogstad. What do you mean? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. You said you were a 
 shipwrecked man, clinging to a spar. 
 
 Krogstad. I have good reason to say so. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I, too, am shipwrecked, 
 and clinging to a spar. I have no one to 
 mourn for, no one to care for. 
 
 Krogstad. You made your own choice. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. No choice was left rde. 
 
 Krogstad. Well, what then? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Nils, how if we two ship- 
 wrecked people could join hands? 
 
 Krogstad. What I 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Two on a raft have a 
 better chance than if each clings to a sep- 
 arate spar. 
 
 Krogstad. Christina! 
 
 Mrs. Linden. What do you think 
 brought me to town? 
 
 Krogstad. Had you any thought of me? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I must have work or I 
 can't bear to live. All my life, as long as I 
 can remember, I have worked; work has 
 been my one great joy. Now I stand quite 
 alone in the world, aimless and forlorn. 
 There is no happiness in working for one's 
 self. Nils, give me somebody and some- 
 thing to work for. 
 
 Krogstad. I cannot believe in all this. 
 It is simply a woman's romantic craving 
 for self-sacrifice. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Have you ever found me 
 romantic? 
 
 Krogstad. Would you really — ? Tell 
 me: do you know all my past? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes. 
 
 Krogstad. 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 another 
 man? 
 
 Krogstad. I am sure of it. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Is it too late? 
 
 Krogstad. Christina, do you know 
 what you are doing? Yes, you do; I see it in 
 your face. Have you the courage, then — ? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I need some one to be a 
 mother to, and your children need a mother. 
 You need me, and I — I need you. Nils, I 
 believe in your better self. With you I fear 
 nothing. 
 
 Krogstad [seizing her hands]. Thank 
 you — thank you, Christina. Now I shall 
 make others see me as you do. — Ah, I 
 forgot — 
 
 Mrs. Linden [listening]. Hush! The 
 tarantella! Go! Go! 
 
 Krogstad. Why? What is it? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Don't you hear the danc- 
 ing overhead? As soon as that is over they 
 will be here. 
 
 Krogstad. 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 Helmers. 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 759 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes, Nils, I do know. 
 
 KsoGSTAD. And yet you have the cour- 
 age to — ? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. I know to what lengths 
 despair can drive a man. 
 
 Krogstab. Oh, if I could only undo it! 
 
 Mrs. Linden. You could. Your letter 
 is still in the box. 
 
 Krogstad. Are you sure? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes; but — 
 
 Krogstad [looking to her searchingly]. Is 
 that what it all means? You want to save 
 your 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. 
 
 Krogstad. I shall demand my letter 
 back again. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. No, no. 
 
 Krogstad. Yes, of coiirse. I shall wait 
 till Helmer comes; I shall tell him to give it 
 back to me — that it's only about my dis- 
 missal — that I don't want it read — 
 
 Mrs. Linden. No, Nils, you must not 
 recall the letter. 
 
 Krogstad. But tell me, was n't that 
 just why you got me to come here? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes, in my first alarm. 
 But a day has passed since then, and in that 
 day I have seen incredible things in this 
 house. Helmer must know everything; 
 there must be an end to this unhappy se- 
 cret. These two must come to a fuU under- 
 standing. They must have done with all 
 these shifts and subterfuges. 
 
 Krogstad. Very well, if you like to risk 
 it. But one thing I can do, and at once — 
 
 Mrs. Linden [listening]. Make haste! 
 Go, go! The dance is over; we're not safe 
 another moment. 
 
 Krogstad. I shall wait for you in the 
 street. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes, do; you must see me 
 home. 
 
 Krogstad. I never was so happy in all 
 my life! 
 
 [Krogstad goes out by the outer 
 door. The door between the room 
 and the hall remains open.] 
 
 Mrs. Linden [arranging the room and 
 getting her outdoor things together]. What a 
 
 change! What a change! To have some 
 one to work for, to live for; a home to make 
 happy! Well, it shall not be my fault if I 
 fail. — I wish they would come. — [Lis- 
 tens.] Ah, there they are! I must get my 
 things on. [Takes bonnet and cloak.] 
 
 [Helmer's and Nora's voices are heard out- 
 side, a key is turned in the lock, and 
 Helmer drags Noba almost by force 
 into the hall. She wears the Italian cos- 
 tume with a large black shawl over it. 
 He is in evening dress and wears a black 
 domino, open.] 
 
 Nora [struggling with him in the doortvay]. 
 No, no, no! I won't go in! I want to go up- 
 stairs again; I don't want to leave so early! 
 
 Helmer. But, my dearest girl — ! 
 
 Nora. Oh, please, please, Torvald, I be- 
 seech you — only one hour more! 
 
 Helmer. Not one minute more, Nora, 
 dear; you know what we agreed. Come, 
 come in; you're catching cold here. 
 
 [He leads her gently into the room 
 in spite of her resistance.] 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Good-evening. 
 
 Nora. Christina! 
 
 Helmer. What, Mrs. Linden! You here 
 so late? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes, I ought to apologize. 
 I did so want to see Nora in her costume. 
 
 Nora. Have you been sitting here wait- 
 ing for me? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes; unfortunately, I 
 came too late. You had gone upstairs al- 
 ready, and I felt I could n't go away with- 
 out seeing you. 
 
 Helmer [taking Nora's shawl off]. .Well, 
 then, just look at her! I assure you she's 
 worth it. Is n't she lovely, Mrs. Linden? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes, I must say — 
 
 Helmer. Is n't she exquisite? Every 
 one said so. But she 's dreadfully obstinate, 
 dear little creature. What's to be done 
 Vfith her? Just think, I had almost to force 
 her away. 
 
 Nora. Oh, Torvald, you'll be sorry some 
 day that you didn't let me stay, if only 
 for one half-hour more. 
 
 Helmer. There! You hear her, Mrs. 
 Linden? She dances her tarantella with 
 wild applause, and well she deserved it, I 
 
760 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 must say, — though there was, perhaps, a 
 little too much nature in her rendering of 
 the idea, — more than was, strictly speak- 
 ing, artistic. But never mind — the point 
 is, she made a great success, a tremendous 
 success. Was I to let her remain after that 
 
 — to weaken the impression? Not if I 
 know it. I took my sweet little Capri girl 
 
 — my capricious little Capri girl, I might 
 say — under my arm; a rapid turn round 
 the room, a curtsy to all sides, and — as 
 they say in novels — the lovely apparition 
 vanished! An exit should always be effec- 
 tive, Mrs. Linden; but I can't get Nora to 
 see it. By Jove! it's warm here. [Throws 
 his domino on a chair and opens the door to 
 his room.] What! No light there? Oh, of 
 course. Excuse me — 
 
 [Goes in and lights candles.] 
 
 Nora [whispers breathlessly]. Well? 
 
 Mrs. Linden [softly], I've spoken to 
 him. 
 
 Nora. And — ? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Nora — you must tell 
 your husband everything — 
 
 Nora [tonelessly]. I knew it! 
 
 Mrs. Linden. You have nothing to fear 
 from Krogstad; but you must speak out. 
 
 Nora. I shall not speak! 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Then the letter will. 
 
 Nora. Thank you, Christina. Now I 
 know what I have to do. Hush — ! 
 
 Helmer [coming back]. Well, Mrs. Lin- 
 den, have you admired her? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes; and now I must say 
 good-night. 
 
 Helmer. What, already? Does this 
 knitting belong to you? 
 
 Mrs. Linden [takes it]. Yea, thanks; I 
 was nearly forgetting it. 
 
 Helmer. Then you do knit? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes. 
 
 Helmer. Do you know, you ought to 
 embroider instead? 
 
 Mrs. Linden, Indeed! Why? 
 
 Helmer. Because it's so much prettier. 
 Look, now! You hold the embroidery in 
 the left hand, so, and then work the needle 
 with the right hand, in a long, graceful 
 curve — don't you? 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Yes, I suppose so. 
 
 Helmer. But knitting is always ugly. 
 
 Just look — your arms close to your sides, 
 and the needles going up and down — 
 there's something Chinese about it. — 
 They really gave us splendid champagne 
 to-night. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Well, good-night, Nora, 
 and don't be obstinate any more. 
 
 Helmer. Well said, Mrs. Linden! 
 
 Mrs. Linden. Good-night, Mr. Helmer. 
 
 Helmer [accompanying her to the door]. 
 Good-night, good-night; I hope you'll get 
 safely home. I should be glad to — but 
 you have such a short way to go. Good- 
 night, good-night. [She goes; Helmer shiUs 
 the door after her and comes forward again.] 
 At last we've got rid of her: she's a terrible 
 bore. 
 
 Nora. Are n't you very tired, Torvald? 
 
 Helmer. No, not in the least, 
 
 Nora, Nor sleepy? 
 
 Helmer, Not a bit. I feel particularly 
 lively. But you? You do look tired and 
 sleepy, 
 
 Nora, Yes, very tired, . I shall soon sleep 
 now, 
 
 Helmer, There, you see, I was right, 
 after all, not to let you stay longer, 
 
 Nora, Oh, everything you do is right. 
 
 Helmer [kissing her forehead]. Now my 
 lark is speaking like a reasonable being. 
 Did you notice how jolly Rank was this 
 evening? 
 
 Nora, Indeed? Was he? I had no 
 chance of speaking to him, 
 
 Helmer, Nor I, much; but I have n't 
 seen him in such good spirits for a long 
 time, [Looks at Nora o little, then comes 
 nearer her.] It's splendid to be back in our 
 own home, to be quite alone together! — 
 Oh, you enchanting creature! 
 
 Nora, Don't look at me in that way, 
 Torvald, 
 
 Helmer. I am not to look at my dearest 
 treasure? — at all the loveliness that is 
 mine, mine only, wholly and entirely mine? 
 
 Nora [going to the other side of the table]. 
 You must n't say these things to me this 
 evening, 
 
 Helmer [following]. I see you have the 
 tarantella still in your blood — and that 
 makes you all the more enticing. Listen! 
 the other people are going now. [More 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 761 
 
 softty.] Nora — soon the whole hoiise will 
 be still. 
 
 Nora. Yes, I hope so. 
 
 Helmer. Yes, don't you, Nora, darling? 
 When we are among strangers, do you 
 know why I speak so little to you, and keep 
 so far away, and only steal a glance at you 
 now and then — do you know why I do it? 
 Because I am fancying that we love each 
 other in secret, that I am secretly betrothed 
 to you, and that no one dreams that there 
 is anything between us. 
 
 Nora. Yes, yes, yes. I know all your 
 thoughts are with me. 
 
 Helmer. And then, when the time 
 comes to go, and I put the shawl about your 
 smooth, soft shoulders, 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! All this evening I have 
 been longing for you, and you only. When 
 I watched you swaying and whirling in the 
 tarantella — my blood boiled — I could 
 endure it no longer; and that 's why I made 
 you come home with me so early — 
 
 Nora. Go, now, Torvald! Go away 
 from me. I won't have all this. 
 
 Helmer. What do you mean ? Ah, I see 
 you're teasing me, little Nora! Won't — 
 won't! Am I not your husband — ? 
 
 [A knock at the ovier door.\ 
 
 Nora [starts]. Did you hear — ? 
 
 Helmer \going toward the hall]. Who's 
 there? 
 
 Rank [outside]. It is I; may I come in 
 for a moment? 
 
 HJELMER [in a low tone, annoyed]. Oh! 
 What can he want just now? [Alovd.] Wait 
 a moment. [O'pens door.] Come, it's nice 
 of you to look in. 
 
 Rank. I thought I heard your voice, 
 and that put it into my head. [Looks round.] 
 Ah, this dear old place! How cozy you two 
 are here! 
 
 Helmer. You seemed to find it pleasant 
 enough upstairs, too. 
 
 Rank. Exceedingly. Why not? Why 
 shouldn't one take one's share of every- 
 thing in this world? All one can, at least, 
 
 and as long as one can. The wine was 
 splendid — 
 
 Helmer. Especially the champagne. 
 
 Rank. Did you notice it? It's incredi- 
 ble the quantity I contrived to get down. 
 
 Nora. Torvald drank plenty of cham- 
 pagne, too. 
 
 Rank. Did he? 
 
 Nora. 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? 
 
 Helmer. Well-spent! Well, I have n't 
 much to boast of in that respect. 
 
 Rank [slapping hion on the shoulder]. But 
 I have, don't you see? 
 
 Nora. I suppose you have been engaged 
 in a scientific investigation. Doctor Rank? 
 
 Rank. Quite right. 
 
 Helmer. Bless me! Little Nora talking 
 about scientific investigations! 
 
 Nora. Am I to congratulate you on the 
 result? 
 
 Rank. By all means. 
 
 Nora. It was good, then? 
 
 Rank. The best possible, both for doc- 
 tor and patient — certainty. 
 
 Nora [quickly and searchingly]. Cer- 
 tainty? 
 
 Rank. Absolute certainty. Was n't I 
 right to enjoy myself after that? 
 
 Nora. Yes, quite right, Doctor Rank. 
 
 Helmer. And so say I, provided you 
 don't have to pay for it to-morrow. 
 
 Rank. Well, in this life nothing is to be 
 had for nothing. 
 
 Nora. Doctor Rank — I'm sure you 
 are very fond of masquerades? 
 
 Rank. Yes, when there are plenty of 
 amusing disguises — • 
 
 Nora. Tell me, what shall we two be at 
 our next masquerade? 
 
 Helmer. Little featherbrain! Thinking 
 of your next already! 
 
 Rank. We two? I'll tell you. You must 
 go as a good fairy. 
 
 Helmer. Ah, but what costume would 
 indicate that ? 
 
 Rank. She has simply to wear her every- 
 day dress. 
 
 Helmer. Capital! But don't you know 
 what you will be yourself? 
 
762 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Rank. Yes, my dear friend, I am per- 
 fectly clear upon that point. 
 
 Hblmek. Well? 
 
 Rank. At the next masquerade I shall 
 be invisible. 
 
 Hblmeh. What a comical idea! 
 
 Rank. There's a big black hat — have 
 n't you heard of the invisible hat? It comes 
 down all over you, and then no one can see 
 you. 
 
 Hblmer [with a suppressed smile]. No, 
 you're right there. 
 
 Rank. But I 'm quite forgetting what I 
 came for. Helmer, give me a cigar — one 
 of the dark Havanas. 
 
 Helmer. With the greatest pleasure. 
 [Hands cigar-case.] 
 
 Rank [takes one and cuts the end off]. 
 Thank you. 
 
 Nob A [striking a wax match]. Let me 
 give you a light. 
 
 Rank. A thousand thanks. [She holds 
 the match. He lights his cigar at it.] And 
 now, good-bye! 
 
 Helmer. Good-bye, good-bye, my dear 
 fellow. 
 
 Nora. Sleep well, Doctor Rank. 
 
 Rank. Thanks for the wish. 
 
 Nora. Wish me the same. 
 
 Rank. You? Very well, since you ask 
 
 me — sleep well. And thanks for the light. 
 
 [He nods to them both and goes out.] 
 
 Helmer [in an imdertone]. He's been 
 drinking a good deal. 
 
 Nora [absently]. I dare say. [Helmer 
 takes his bunch of keys from his pocket and 
 goes into the hall.] Torvald, what are you 
 doing there? 
 
 Helmer. I must empty the letter-box; 
 it's quite full; there will be no room for the 
 newspapers to-morrow morning. 
 
 Nora. Are you going to work to-night? 
 
 Helmer. You know very well I am not. 
 — Why, how is this? Some one has been 
 at the lock. 
 
 Nora. The lock — ? 
 
 Helmer. I'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 
 yours. 
 
 Nora [quickly]. It must have been the 
 children — 
 
 Helmer. Then you must break them of 
 such tricks. — There! At last I've got it 
 open. [Takes contents out and calls into the 
 kitchen.] Ellen! — Ellen, just put the haU 
 door lamp out. 
 
 [He returns with letters in Ms hand, 
 and shuts the inner door.] 
 
 .lust see how they've accmnulated. 
 [Turning them over.] Why, what's this? 
 
 Nora [at the window]. The letter! Oh, 
 no, no, Torvald! 
 
 Helmer. Two visiting-cards — from 
 Rank. 
 
 Nora. From Doctor Rank? 
 
 Helmer \looking at them]. Doctor Rank. 
 They were on the top. He must just have 
 put them in. 
 
 Nora. Is there anything on them? 
 
 Helmer. There's a black cross over the 
 name. Look at it. What an unpleasant 
 idea! It looks just as if he were announcing 
 his own death. 
 
 Nora. So he is. 
 
 Helmer. What! Do you know any- 
 thing? Has he told you anything? 
 
 Nora. Yes. These cards mean that he 
 has taken his last leave of us. He is going to 
 shut himself up and die. 
 
 Helmer. Poor fellow! Of course, I knew 
 we could n't hope to keep him long. But 
 so soon — ■ ! And to go and creep into his 
 lair like a wounded animal — 
 
 Nora. When we must go, it is best to go 
 silently. Don't you think so, Torvald? 
 
 Helmer [walking up and down]. He had 
 so grown into our lives, I can't realize that 
 he is gone. He and his sufferings and his 
 loneliness formed a sort of cloudy back- 
 ground to the sunshine of our happiness. — 
 Well, perhaps it's best as it is — at any 
 rate, for him. [Starids still.] And perhaps 
 for us, too, Nora. Now we two are thrown 
 entirely upon each other. [Takes her in his 
 arms.] My darling wife! 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 [tears herself from him and says 
 firmly]. Now you shall read your letters, 
 Torvald. 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 763 
 
 Helmbr. No, no; not to-night. I want 
 to be with you, my sweet wife. 
 
 Nora. With the thought of your dying 
 friend — ? 
 
 Helmeb. You are right. This has shaken 
 us both. Unloveliness has cortie between 
 us — thoughts of death and decay. We 
 must seek to cast them off. Till then — we 
 will remain apart. 
 
 Nora [her arms round his neck], Torvald ! 
 Good-night! good-night! . 
 
 Helmer [kissing her forehead]. Good- 
 night, my little song-bird. Sleep well, Nora. 
 Now I shall go and read my letters. 
 
 [He goes with the letters in his hand 
 into his room and shuts the door.] 
 
 Nora [with mid eyes, gropes about her, 
 seizes Heuvibr's domino, throws it round her, 
 and whispers quickly, hoarsely, and brokenly] . 
 Never to see him again. Never, never, 
 never. [Throws her shawl over her head.] 
 Never to see the children again. Never, 
 never. — Oh, that black, icy water! Oh 
 that bottomless — ■ ! If it were only over! 
 Now he has it; he's reading it. Oh, no, no, 
 no, not yet. Torvald, good-bye — ! Good- 
 bye, my little ones — ! 
 
 [She is rushing out by the hall; at 
 the same moment Helmer flings 
 his door open, and stands there 
 vyith an open letter in his hand.] 
 
 Helmer. Nora! 
 
 NoBA [shrieks]. Ah — ! 
 
 Helmer. What is this? Do you know 
 what is in! this letter? 
 
 Nora. Yes, I know. Let me go! Let 
 me pass! 
 
 Helmer [holds her back]. Where do you 
 want to go? 
 
 Nora [tries to break away from him]. You 
 shall not save me, Torvald. 
 
 Helmer [falling back]. True! Is what he 
 writes true? No, no, it is impossible that 
 this can be true.' 
 
 NoBA. It is true. I have loved you be- 
 yond all else in the world. 
 
 Helmer. Pshaw — no siUy evasions! 
 
 Nora [a step nearer him]. Torvald — ! 
 
 Helmer. Wretched woman — what 
 have you done! 
 
 Nora. Let me go — you shall not save me! 
 You shall not take my guilt upon yourself! 
 
 Helmer. I don't want any melodramatic 
 airs. [Locks 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? 
 
 Nora [looks at him fixedly, and says with 
 a stiffening expression]. Yes; now I begin 
 fully to understand it. 
 
 Helmer [walking up and down]. Oh, 
 what an awful awakening! During all 
 these eight years — she who was my pride 
 and my joy — a hypocrite, a liar — worse, 
 worse — a criminal. Oh, the unfathom- 
 able hideousness of it all! Ugh! Ugh! 
 
 [Nora says nothing, and continues 
 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 silent! — all 
 your father's want of principle you have 
 inherited — no religion, no morality, no 
 sense of duty. How I am punished for 
 screening him! I did it for your sake; and 
 you reward me like this. 
 
 Nora. Yes — like this. 
 
 Helmer. You have destroyed my whole 
 happiness. You have ruined my future. 
 Oh, it's frightful to think of! I am in the 
 power of a scoundrel; he can do whatever 
 he pleases with me, demand 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 woman! 
 
 Nora. When I am out of the world, you 
 will be free. 
 
 Helmer. 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? 
 
 Nora [with cold calmness]. Yes. 
 
 Helmer. The thing is so incredible, I 
 can't grasp it, But we must come to an 
 understanding. Take that shawl off. Take 
 
764 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 it off, I say! I must try to pacify him in 
 one way or another — the matter must be 
 hushed up, cost what it may. — As for 
 you and me, we must make no outward 
 change in our way of life — no outward 
 change, you understand. Of course, you 
 will continue to live here. But the children 
 cannot be left in your care. I dare not trust 
 them to you. — Oh, to have to say this to 
 one I have loved so tenderly — whom I 
 still — ! But that must be a thing of the 
 past. Henceforward there can be no ques- 
 tion of happiness, but merely of saving the 
 ruins, the shreds, the show — [A ring; 
 Helmer starts.] What's that? So late! 
 Can it be the worst? pan he — ? Hide 
 yourself, Nora; say you are ill. 
 
 [Nora stands motionless. Helmer 
 goes to the door and opens it.] 
 
 Ellen [half dressed, in the hall]. Here is 
 a letter for you, ma'am. 
 
 Helmer. Give it to me. [Seizes the letter 
 and shuts the door.] Yes, from him. You 
 shall not have it. I shall read it. 
 
 Nora. Read it! 
 
 Helmer [by the lamp]. I have hardly the 
 courage to. We may both be lost, both 
 you and I. Ah! I miist know. [Hastily 
 tears the letter open; reads a few lines, looks 
 at an enclosure; with a cry of joy.] Nora! 
 [Noea looks inquiringly at him.] 
 
 Nora!— Oh! I must read it again. — Yes, 
 yes,itisso. lamsaved! Nora, I am saved! 
 
 Nora. And I? 
 
 Helmer. You, too, of course; we are 
 both saved, both of us. Look here — he 
 sends you back your promissory note. He 
 writes that he regrets and apologizes that a 
 happy turn in his life — Oh, what matter 
 what he writes. We are saved, Nora! No 
 one can harm you. Oh, Nora, Nora; but 
 first to get rid of this hateful thing. I '11 just 
 see — [Glances at the 1 U.] No, I will not 
 look at it; the whole thing shall be nothing 
 but a dream to me. [Tears the I U and 
 both letters in pieces. Throws them into the 
 fire and watches 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 hard fight for the 
 last three days. 
 
 Helmer. And in your agony you saw 
 no other outlet but — No; we won't think 
 of that horror. We will only rejoice and 
 repeat — it's over, all over! Don't you 
 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, I under- 
 stand; you cannot believe that I have for- 
 given you. But I have, Nora; I swear it. 
 I have forgiven everything. I know that 
 what you did was all for love of me. 
 
 Nora. That is true. 
 
 Helmer. You loved me as 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 no true man if this 
 very womanly helplessness did not make 
 you doubly dear in my eyes. You must n't 
 dwell upon the hard things I said in my first 
 moment of terror, when the world seemed 
 to be tumbling about my ears. I have for- 
 given you, Nora, — I swear I have forgiven 
 you. 
 
 Nora. I thank you for your forgiveness. 
 [Goes out, to the rights 
 
 Helmer. No, stay — • ! [Looking through 
 the doorway.] What are you going to do? 
 
 Nora [inside]. To take off my masquer- 
 ade dress. 
 
 Helmer [in the doorway]. Yes, do, dear. 
 Try to calm down, and recover your bal- 
 ance, my scared little song-bird. You may 
 rest secure. I have broad wings to shield 
 you. [Walking up and down near the door.] 
 Oh, how lovely — how cozy our home is, 
 Nora ! 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 all 
 this will seem quite different — everything 
 will be as before. I shall not need to tell 
 you again that I forgive you; you will feel 
 for yourself that it is true. How could you 
 think I could find it in my heart to drive 
 you away, or even so much as to reproach 
 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 
 
 76s 
 
 forgiven his wife — honestly forgiven her, 
 from the bottom of his heart. She becomes 
 his property in a double sense. She is as 
 though born again; she has become, so to 
 speak, at once his wife and his child. That 
 is what you shall henceforth be to me, my 
 bewildered, helpless darling. Don't be 
 troubled about anything, Nora; only open 
 your heart to me, and I will be both will 
 and conscience to you. 
 
 [Nora, enters in everyday dress.] 
 
 Why, what's this? Not gone to bed? 
 You have changed your dress? 
 
 Nora. Yes, Torvald;nowI have changed 
 my dress. 
 
 Helmer. But why now, so late — ? 
 
 Nora. I shall not sleep to-night. 
 
 Helmer. But, Nora, dear — ■ 
 
 Nora [hoking at her watch]. It's not so 
 late yet. Sit down, Torvald; you and I 
 have much to say to each other. 
 
 [She sits at one side of the table.] 
 
 Helmer. Nora — what does this mean? 
 Your cold, set face — 
 
 Nora. Sit down. It will take some time. 
 I have much to talk over with you. 
 
 [Helmer sits at the other side of 
 the table.] 
 
 Helmer. 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-night. No, don't inter- 
 rupt. Only listen to what I say. — We 
 must come to a final settlement, Torvald. 
 
 Helmeb. How do you mean? 
 
 Nora [after a short silence]. Does not one 
 thing strike you as we sit here? 
 
 Helmer. What should strike me? 
 
 Nora. We have been married eight years. 
 Does it not strike you that this is the first 
 time we two, you and I, man and wife, 
 have talked together seriously? 
 
 Helmer. Seriously! What do you call 
 seriously? 
 
 Nora. During eight whole years, and 
 more — ever since the day we first met — 
 we have never exchanged one serious word 
 about serious things. 
 
 Helmer. Was I always to trouble you 
 with the cares you could not help me to bear? 
 
 Nora. I am not talking of cares. I say 
 that we have never yet set ourselves seri- 
 ously to get to the bottom of an3rthing. 
 
 Helmer. Why, my dearest Nora, what 
 have you to do with serious things? 
 
 Nora. There we have it! You have 
 never understood me. — I have had great 
 injustice done me, Torvald; first by father, 
 and then by you. 
 
 Helmer. What! By your father and 
 me? — By us, who have loved you more 
 than all the world? 
 
 Nora [stuiMng her head]. You have never 
 loved me. You only thought it amusing to 
 be in love with me. 
 
 Helmer. Why, Nora, what a thing to 
 say! 
 
 Nora. Yes, it is so, Torvald. While I 
 was at home with father, he used to teU me 
 all his opinions, and I held the same opin- 
 ions. If I had others, I said nothing about 
 them, because he would n't have liked it. 
 He used to call me his doll-child, and played 
 with me as I played with my dolls. Then I 
 came to hve in your house — 
 
 Helmer. What an expression to use 
 about our marriage! 
 
 Nora [undisturbed]. I mean I passed 
 from father's hands into yours. You ar- 
 ranged everything according to your taste; 
 and I 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 your fault 
 that my life has come to nothing. 
 
 Helmer. Why, Nora, how unreasonable 
 and vmgrateful you are! Have you not 
 been happy here? 
 
 Nora. No, never. I thought I was; but 
 I never was. 
 
 Helmer. Not — not happy! 
 
 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, just as at home I 
 used to be papa's doll-child. And the chil- 
 dren, in their turn, have been my dolls. I 
 
766 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 thought it fun when you played with me, 
 just as the children did when I played with 
 them. That has been our marriage, Tor- 
 vald. 
 
 Hblmer. There is some truth in what 
 you say, exaggerated and overstrained 
 though it be. But henceforth it shall be 
 different. Play-time is over; now comes the 
 time for education. 
 
 Nora. Whose education? Mine, or the 
 children's? 
 
 Helmbr. Both, my dear Nora. 
 
 Nora. Oh, Torvald, you are not the man 
 to teach me to be a fit wife for you. 
 
 Hblmer. And you can say that? 
 
 Nora. And I — how have I prepared 
 myself to educate the children? 
 
 Helmbr. Nora! 
 
 NoBA. Did you not say yourself, a few 
 minutes ago, you dared not trust them to 
 me? 
 
 Helmeb. In the excitement of the mo- 
 ment! Why should you dwell upon that? 
 
 NoBA. 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 are not the man to 
 help me in that. I must set about it alone. 
 And that is why I am leaving you. 
 
 Helmbb [jumping up]. What — do you 
 mean to say — ? 
 
 NoEA. I must stand quite alone if I am 
 ever to know myself and my surroundings; 
 so I caimot stay with you. 
 
 Helmbr. Nora! Nora! 
 
 Nora. I am going at once. I dare say 
 Christina will take me in for to-night — 
 
 Helmeb. You are mad! I shall not al- 
 low it! I forbid it! 
 
 Nora. It is of no use your forbidding me 
 anything now. I shall take with me what 
 belongs to me. From you I will accept 
 nothing, either now or afterwards. 
 
 Helmeb. 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. 
 
 Helmbr. Oh, in your blind inexperi- 
 ence — 
 
 Nora. I must try to gain experience, 
 Torvald. 
 
 Helmbr. To forsake your home, your 
 
 husband, and your children! And you 
 don't consider what the world will say. 
 
 NoBA. I can pay no heed to that. I only 
 know that I must do it. 
 
 Hblmer. This is monstrous ! Can you 
 forsake your holiest duties in this way? 
 
 Nora. What do you consider my holiest 
 duties? 
 
 Helmeb. Do I need to tell you that? 
 Your duties to your husband and your 
 children. 
 
 Nora. I have other duties equally 
 sacred. 
 
 Helmbr. Impossible! What duties do 
 you mean? 
 
 Nora. My duties toward myself . 
 
 Helmeb. Before all else you are a wife 
 and a mother. 
 
 Noba. That I no longer believe. I be- 
 lieve that before all else I am a human 
 being, just as much as you are — or at 
 least that I should try to become one. I 
 know that most people agree with you, 
 Torvald, and that they say so in books. 
 But henceforth I can't be satisfied with 
 what most people say, and what is in books. 
 I must think things out for myself, and try 
 to get clear about them. 
 
 Helmeb. Are you not clear about your 
 place in your own home? Have you not an 
 infallible guide in questions like these? 
 Have you not religion? 
 
 NoBA. Oh, Torvald, I don't really know 
 what religion is. 
 
 Helmeb. What do you mean? 
 
 NoBA. I know nothing but what Pastor 
 Hansen 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 is 
 right, or, at any rate, whether it is right for 
 me, 
 
 Helmeb. Oh, this is unheard of! And 
 from so young a woman! But if religion 
 cannot keep you right, let me appeal to 
 your conscience — for I suppose you have 
 some moral feeling? Or, answer me: per- 
 haps you have none? 
 
 Nora. Well, Torvald, it's not easy to 
 say. I really don't know — I am all at sea 
 about these things. I only know that I 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 767 
 
 think quite differently from you about 
 them. I hear, too, that the laws are differ- 
 ent from what I thought; but I can't be- 
 lieve that they can be right. It appears 
 that a woman has no right to spare her 
 dying father, or to save her husband's life! 
 I don't believe that. 
 
 Helmer. You talk like a child. You don't 
 understand the society in which you live. 
 
 Nora. No, I do not. But now I shall try 
 to learn. I must make up my mind which 
 is right — society or I. 
 
 He-lmbb. Nora, you are Ul; you are fev- 
 erish; I almost think you are out of your 
 senses. 
 
 Nora. I have never felt so much clear- 
 ness and certainty as to-night. 
 
 HeIiMer. You are clear and certain 
 enough to forsake husband and children? 
 
 Nora. Yes, I am. 
 
 Helmer. 'Then there is only one expla- 
 nation possible. 
 
 Nora. What is that? 
 
 Helmer. You no longer love me. 
 
 Nora. No; that is just it. 
 
 Helmer. Nora! — Can you say so! 
 
 Nora. Oh, I'm so sorry, Torvald; for 
 you've always been so kind to me. But I 
 can't help it. I do not love you any longer. 
 
 Helmer [mastering himself mth difficulty]. 
 Are you clear and certain on this point too? 
 
 Nora. Yes, quite. That is why I will 
 not stay here any longer. 
 
 Helmer. And can you also make clear 
 to me how I have forfeited your love? 
 
 Nora. Yes, I can. It was this evening, 
 when the miracle did not happen; for then 
 I saw you were not the man I had imagined. 
 
 HiLMER. Explain yourself more clearly; 
 I don't understand. 
 
 Nora. I have waited so patiently all 
 these eight years; for, of course, I saw 
 clearly enough that miracles don't happen 
 every day. When this crushing blow threat- 
 ened me, I said to myself so confidently, 
 "Now comes the miracle!" When Krog- 
 stad's letter lay in the box, it never for a 
 moment occurred to me that you would 
 think of submitting to that man's condi- 
 tions. I was convinced that you would say 
 to him, "Make it known to all the world"; 
 and that then — 
 
 Helmer. Well? When I had given my 
 own wife's name up to disgrace and 
 shame — ? 
 
 Nora. Then I firmly believed that you 
 would come forward, take everything upon 
 yourself, and say, " I am the guilty one." 
 
 Helmer. Nora — ! 
 
 Nora. 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 that that I 
 wanted to die. 
 
 Helmer. 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 loves. 
 
 Nora. Millions of women have done so. 
 
 Helmer. 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 had 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. 
 [Stands up.] Torvald — in that moment 
 it burst upon me that I had been living 
 here these eight years with a strange man, 
 and had borne him three children. — Oh, 
 I can't bear to think of it! I could tear 
 myself to pieces! 
 
 Helmer [sadly]. I see it, I see it; an 
 abyss has opened between us. — But, Nora, 
 can it never be filled up? 
 
 Nora. As I now am, I am no wife for you. 
 
 Helmer. I have strength to become an- 
 other man. 
 
 Nora. Perhaps — when your doll is 
 taken away from you. 
 
 Helmer. To part — to part from you ! 
 No, Nora, no; I can't grasp the thought. 
 
 Nora [going into room on the right]. The 
 more reason for the thing to happen. 
 
 [She comes back with outdoor things 
 and a small traveling-bag, which 
 she places on a chair.] 
 
768 
 
 CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 Helmer. Nora, Nora, not now! Wait 
 till to-morrow. 
 
 Nora [putting on cloak], I can't spend 
 the night in a strange man's house. 
 
 Helmer. But can we not live here, as 
 brother and sister — ? 
 
 Nob A [fastening her hat]. You know very 
 well that would n't last long. [Puts on the 
 shawl] Good-bye, Torvald. No, I won't 
 go to the children. I know they are in bet- 
 ter hands than mine. As I now am, I can 
 be nothing to them. 
 
 Helmer. But some time, Nora — some 
 time — ? 
 
 Nora. How can I tell? I have no idea 
 what will become of me. 
 
 Helmer. But you are my wife, now and 
 always! 
 
 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 
 your ring. Give me mine. 
 
 Helmer. That, too? 
 
 Noka. That, too. 
 
 Helmer. Here it is. 
 
 Nora. 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 brought 
 
 with me from home. I will have them sent 
 after me. 
 
 Helmer. All over! All over! Nora, will 
 you never think of me again? 
 
 Nora. Oh, I shall often think of you, 
 and the children, and this house. 
 
 Helmer. May I write to you, Nora? 
 
 Nora. No — never. You must not. 
 
 Helmer. But I must send you — 
 
 Nora. Nothing, nothing. 
 
 Helmer. I must help you if you need it. 
 
 Nora. No, I say. I take nothing from 
 
 Helmer. Nora — can I never be more 
 than a stranger to you? 
 
 Nora [taking her traveling-bag]. Oh, 
 Torvald, then the miracle of miracles would 
 have to happen — 
 
 Helmee. What is the miracle of mir- 
 acles? 
 
 Nora. Both of us would have to change 
 so that — Oh, Torvald, I no longer believe 
 in miracles. 
 
 Helmer. But / will believe. Tell me! 
 We must so change that — ? 
 
 Noka. That communion between us 
 shall be a marriage. Good-bye. 
 
 [She goes out by the hall door.] 
 
 Helmer [sinking into a chair by the door 
 with his face in his hands.] Nora! Nora! 
 [He looks round and rises.] Empty. She is 
 gone. [A hope springs up in him.] Ah! The 
 miracle of miracles — ? 
 
 [From below is heard the reverbera- 
 tion of a heavy door dosing.] 
 
APPENDIX 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 I, NOTES ON THE AUTHORS 
 
 .gESCHYLUS 
 
 _ ^scHTLUB, the earliest of the great Greek tragic poets, was born in Athens B.C. 525. Tradi- 
 tion asserts that he fought at Marathon and at Salamis. He brought out his first tragedy when 
 he was about twenty-five; and we have the titles of seventy-nine of his plays, of which only 
 seven survive. He was the father of Greek tragedy, which had been almost wholly lyrical 
 before him, with only a single actor. .lEsehylus made use of a second performer, causing the 
 pair of them to assume as many characters as he might need. In the later plays he followed the 
 example of Sophocles and utilized three actors. He wrote on an average two plays every year; 
 and he diminished the portion of pure lyric while intensifying the action, the clash of will, 
 which is the essential element of drama. To him we owe the trilogy, the linking of three plays 
 together, presenting successive parts of the same long story. He took the first prize at least 
 thirteen times ; and his constant success was due to the lofty elevation of his choral odes, to his 
 masterly presentation of character at the moment of crisis, and to his intensifying of the dra- 
 matic interest of his plots, which, simple as they may seem to us, were more effective than any 
 that the Athenians had earlier been familiar with. He died in B.C. 456, and was buried at Gela 
 in Sicily. Upon his tombstone were placed two lines which may have been written by the poet 
 himself: "Beneath this stone lies .ffisohylus, son of Euphorion, the Athenian, who perished in 
 the wheat-bearing land of Gela; of his prowess the grove of Marathon can speak, and the long- 
 haired Persian, who knows it well." 
 
 SOPHOCLES 
 
 Sophocles, the second of the great Athenian tragic poets was born at Colonus about B.C. 495. 
 He was therefore about thirty years younger than jEschylus. His life covers the most splendid 
 period of the Athenian Empire. It is believed that he was the leader of the chorus of boys at 
 the celebration of the victory of Salamis; and it is recorded also that he served as a general with 
 Pericles 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 
 seventy tragedies besides nearly a score of satyric after-pieces. Of these only seven tragedies 
 and a large portion of one satyr-play are extant. His tragedies called for the service of three 
 actors, whereas .^schylus in tus earlier plays had utilized only two performers, .^schylus had 
 elaborated the dramatic action while still preserving the predominance of the lyric element out 
 of which tragedy had been evolved ; and Sophocles still further strengthened the plot and made 
 his choral odes subordinate to the dramatic struggle and yet helpful to its effect. He also devel- 
 oped the spectacular possibilities of tragic performance; and he was highly skillful in the train- 
 ing of his actors and in the drilling of his chorus in their circlings about the altar. He is a master 
 of the art of construction, and the best of his plots are as skillfully articulated as those in the 
 pieces of the most adroit of the modem plajrwrights. He combines as did no other Greek the 
 utmost technical accomplishment with largeness of vision, with loftiness of poetic outlook, and 
 with imaginative energy. 
 
 EURIPIDES 
 
 The third of the great Attic tragedians was bom probably in b.o. 484, perhaps eleven years 
 after Sophocles and forty-one after .Sschylus. He is credited with the authorship of at least 
 ninety tragedies, of which eighteen survive; and there is also extant one of his half-dozen or 
 more satyric dramas. All through his career as a dramatist he was overshadowed by the fame 
 of his two mighty predecessors in playmaking. He sought to broaden the scope of Attic trag- 
 edy, to relax its austerity, to widen its circle of subjects, to get closer to everyday humanity. 
 As a result of his departure from the traditional path in which -iEschylus and Sophocles had 
 been content to walk, he seemed to his contemporaries as a daring and disrespectful innovator 
 deliberately lowering the tone of tragedy and often descending to overt melodrama. To the 
 Greeks of a later generation his appeal was more immediate than to his contemporaries; and to 
 many more recent critics, he has appeared as the least Attic of the great Greek dramatists and 
 
772 APPENDIX 
 
 therefore as the most modern of them all. After his death and when the taste of the Greeks had 
 been transformed, he became more popular than Sophocles or iEschylus; and it is due to this 
 belated appreciation that we have now more of his plays than those of his two rivals taken 
 together. Euripides departed intentionally from the noble form constantly exemplified in 
 Sophocles, and for this he was violently attacked by Aristophanes, yet modem criticism recog- 
 nizes that the older tragedy was no longer possible in the changing order at Athens ; and it has 
 tended toward a more sympathetic appreciation of Euripides for what he actually accomplished, 
 and to refrain from depreciation for his failure to abjure his own personality. He died B.C. 406. 
 
 ARISTOPHANES 
 
 Aristophanes is the only one of the writers of Greek comedy of whom we now have a group 
 of complete plays. He was born about B.C. 446 ; and if so he was nearly forty years younger than 
 Euripides. Hisearliestplayis the .^.ofeifWKiTis, produced when he was apparently only twenty- 
 one. Eleven of his comedies are extant; and more than thirty others are known by name and 
 sometimes by a few fragments. Except the latest, — Plutus, produced in 388, about which 
 date he died, — all the existing pieces belong to what is known as Old Comedy, a type of play 
 peculiar to Athens and to be likened only to our latter-day theatrical review, in that it com- 
 bined parody, burlesque, comic situation, and comic character. This nondescript form exactly 
 suited the fertility and the variety of the genius of Aristophanes, who was supremely endowed 
 for these different departments of literature. He was a soaring lyrist with a fecundity and an 
 ethereal elevation which can be paralleled only in Shelley; he was a scourging and scorching 
 satirist with a vehemence akin to that of Juvenal; and he was a bold and robust humorist with 
 an earthy streak as broad as that of Rabelais. In politics he was a bitter reactionary; and when 
 the liberties of the Athenians were restricted the license of the stage-satirists was curbed. In 
 Plutus, probably his last play, he deals with a theme of permanent and universal interest, — 
 the power of money, — eschewing altogether his customary incursions into contemporary and 
 local politics. Plutus is an example of the so-called Middle Comedy which prepared the way 
 for the New Comedy of Menander, a type approximating more obviotisly to the modem idea 
 of that comedy of contemporary manners which reaches its culmination in Molifere. 
 
 PLAUTUS 
 
 We do not know the date or the place of the birth of Titus Maccius Plautus — possibly in 
 B.C. 254 and in Umbria. After failing in business, as a result of which he sank into extreme 
 poverty, he commenced playwright when he was about thirty. More than a hundred playg 
 have been credited to him, probably without warrant. Twenty of these have been preserved. 
 Before his death, in B.C. 184, he had witnessed the splendid expansion of Rome, from its posi- 
 tion as the foremost city of Italy to its empire over all the shores of the Mediterranean ; and his 
 life covers also the period when the subtler Greek intellect made its abiding impression on the 
 Bolider Latin character. The coarse Roman farces, which might have been l3ted into literature, 
 — as Moliere elevated the improvized comedy-of-masks of the Italians, — had its evolution 
 inhibited by the importation of the fully developed comedy of the Athenians. All the plays of 
 Plautus are adaptations of Attic comedies, chiefly Menander's; and yet the Latin playwright 
 managed to give to his pieces an intensely Roman flavor, a recognizable Latin local color in 
 spite of their Greek plots and their Greek characters. Even though the scene of the story might 
 be Athens or some other Greek city, Plautus abounded in allusions to Roman conditions; and 
 he often suggested the aroma of tenement-house life in the Italian metropolis. His humor is 
 bold and broad; and his style is racy. He knew the unlettered spectators of Rome, so different 
 from the cultivated audiences of Athens; and he was fertile in devices for evoking the hearty 
 laughter of these illiterate playgoers. 
 
 TERENCE 
 
 Publius Terentius Afer was a native of Carthage and he was born between b.o. 190 and 185 
 a few years before Plautus died. He was brought to Rome as a slave to a member of the noble 
 family of Terentius. His master early recognized his intellect, in consequence of which he had 
 Terence educated and set him free. Terence seems to have established himself as a dramatist 
 some years before he was thirty; and he was early admitted into the society of the cultivated 
 Romans newly taken captive by the charm of Greek literature. We do not possess a complete 
 list of his comedies, of which only six have come down to us. Apparently most of them were 
 adaptations from Menander, far closer to the original than the few paraphrases of Plautus 
 They are also far less comic than the farces of his Latin predecessor — or even than their 
 Greek originals, if we may credit the saying of Julius Cffisar that Terence was " onlv a half 
 Menander. He died about bc 158. Plautus is primarUy a playwright, desirous above aU 
 else of stimulating the mterest of the mde mob of Roman playgoers in the theater itself and 
 
APPENDIX 773 
 
 as careless of the subsequent approval of the reader in the library as was Shakespeare. Terence, 
 on the other hand, although he reveals his disappointment at the comparative non-success of 
 his plays on the stage, is essentially a man of letters, wishful more especially of the approval 
 of his fellow men of letters. Where Plautus complicates his plot and descends to horseplay to 
 amuse the rough Koman audiences, Terence refines his style and seeks to be as Greek as possi- 
 ble, more or less contemptuous of the spectators whose suffrage he was seeking. In other words, 
 Plautus is akin to Labiche, and even to Molifere, whereas Terence is rather to be likened to 
 C^ngreve. 
 
 LOPE DB VEGA 
 
 Lope Felix de Vega Carpio was born in Madrid in 1562. He studied at Aloala; he went on 
 the expedition to the Azores; and he served in the Armada. He became the most popular as 
 he W£is the most prolific of men of letters. He put forth a constant succession of epistles and 
 elegies, sonnets and romances, pastorals and epics; and one of these last, La Dragontea, had 
 Sir Francis Drake for the hero-villain. In 1608 or 1609 Lope, then the undisputed master of 
 the Spanish stage, delivered a metrical address on the "New Art of Writing Plays in those 
 Times," in which he admitted the validity of the classicist code of dramatic doctrine and 
 defended himself for his disregard of these rules by pleading the necessity of pleasing the un- 
 learned spectators. He had found the drama more or less formless and more or less unliterary. 
 He re-formed it, reducing the customary number of acts from four to three, choosing themes of 
 higher import, constructing plots with more dexterous workmanship, and indulging to the full 
 the Spanish tendency toward ornaje grandiloquence. Some of his pieces were improvized with 
 breathless speed — on orte occasion five in a single fortnjght; others were more deliberately 
 planned and elaborated. He is said to have composed nearly eighteen hundred plays, of which 
 more than four hundred have been preserved! He had a career as rich in adventure (military, 
 political, and amorous) as that of any of his heroes. Late in life he became a familiar of the 
 Inquisition; and the Pope ma^le him a doctor of theology. He died in August, 1635, mourned 
 by all Spain. 
 
 CALDERON 
 
 Pedro Calderon de la Barca was bom in Madrid in January, 1600; he was thus nearly forty 
 years the junior of his great rival. Lope de Vega. He was educated at the Jesuit College of his 
 native city; and he studied laWat Salamanca. He accepted the formulas of the Spanish drama 
 as these had been developed by Lope de Vega ; and he proved himself almost equally fecund. 
 He was not as vigorously creative as Lope was; and not a few of his plays are only rehandlings 
 of pieces by his predecessors, generally with an intensifying of their dramatic power. His 
 Alcalde of Zaiamea, for example, is a far firmer and more vital drama than the hasty play by 
 Lope on which it was founded. In fact, in niany cases Calderon did very much what Shake- 
 speare had done in making his tragic masterpieces, Hamlet and King Lear, out of melodramas 
 already popular on the stage. Yet even Calderon's masterpieces tend to be melodramatic — 
 that is to say, he is often willing to sacrifice veracity of character to the immediate effectiveness 
 of situation. And he is often content to utilize the stock characters employed by Lope and Tirso 
 de Molina. He is an adroit playwright even if he is rarely a subtle psychologist; and he is a 
 genuine poet, although he overindulges in the flowery flamboyance which is a common charac- 
 teristic of Spanish literature. Toward the end of his career he returned to his early intention of 
 joining the priesthood. He was appointed prebend of Toledo in 1635; and in 1663 he became 
 honorary chaplain to Philip IV. Despite his immense popularity he seems to have passed the 
 final years of his life in poverty. He died in May, 1681. 
 
 CORNEILLE 
 
 Pierre Comeille was bom at Rouen in June, 1606. Educated by the Jesuits, he was admitted 
 to the bar. His first piece was presented in 1629. He went up to Paris and was one of the five 
 authors who wrote plays under the direction of Richelieu. After composing several comedies 
 and dramas in accord with the practice of his predecessors, he was advised to learn Spanish. 
 It was from Spanish playwrights that he derived the plots of his first important tragedy/tte 
 Cid, acted in 1637, and of his first important comedy, the Liar, acted in 1644. FromRoman 
 history he tooS^ne themes of Horatius, produced in 1640; Cinna, produced in the same year, 
 and Polyeucte, produced in 1643. When he commenced playwright he had not heard of the 
 so-called "rules of the drama" elaborated by the Italian theorists; but after the Cid he accepted 
 these as binding, although he constantly, chafed against their restrictions. It was Corneille 
 who established the formula of French tragedy as [Lope de Vega had established the formula 
 of the Spanish cloak-and-sword dramf. He prided himself justly on his adroitness in compos- 
 ing the mechanism of a plot; and he was a bom playwright, with an instinctive insistence upon 
 
774 APPENDIX 
 
 the stark assertion of the human will. Toward the end of his career his powers weakened and 
 his plays became less spontaneous and more obviously mechanical in the conduct of their 
 stories. In the last years of his life he sank into honorable poverty; and he had the pain of 
 seeing popular preference go to the plays of his younger rival, Racine. He died in September, 
 
 1684. 
 
 MOLIERE 
 
 Jean Baintiste Poq yelin was born in Paris in January, 1622. His father was a prosperous 
 tradesman and he was sent to the best school in Paris, the Jesuit College de Clermont. He 
 studied law; but when he was twenty-one he turned actor, taking the name of Molifere. After 
 vain struggles in Paris the company which he had joined began its strolling in the provinces; 
 and it did not return to Paris until 1658. Molifere had become the foremost of French comic 
 actors; he was the chief of the company; and he was already known as a play^mght. He brought 
 out in Paris under the patrona^gejjlJjQuisJPCV' the two or three plays already presented in the 
 provinces, brisk comic pieces which attained an immediate popularity. In the next fifteen 
 years he wrote nearly thirty other plays, steadily revealing a firmer technic, a richer humor, 
 and a deeper understanding of humanity. He took an unexpected step forward in 1664 when 
 Tartuffe was first performed. He followed this in 1665 with the Festin de Pierre, in wiucE Don 
 Juan was the chief character. In 1666 he produced the Misanthrope, generally accepted by 
 French critics as his masterpiece and as the model of modem comedy. In 1672 he brought out 
 the Femmes Savantes (the "Learned Ladies"); and it is in these four plays that his loftiest 
 power is most amply displayed. But while he climbed to these heights he recurred again and 
 again to the humbler type of comic piece, the aim of which was to arouse irresistible laughter; 
 and he also wrote pieces to order to please the king. His last play was the I mamnaru Inva lid, 
 first seen in February, 167.3; and at the fourth performance of this he had a seizure, breaking a 
 blood-vessel. He died onTebruary 17, 1673. He had made many enemies by his attacks on 
 pretense and hypocrisy in medicine, in religion, and in society; apd his wife had to throw herself 
 at the king's feet to obtain permission for a Christian burial. 
 
 RACINE 
 
 Jean Racine was born at La FertS-Milon in December, 1639, being just a third of a century 
 younger than Corneille. He was educated at the Jansenist school at Port-Royal ; and he became 
 an accomplished Gyeek scholar. Intended for the Church, he was lured into literature; and he 
 quarreled ungratefully with his Jansenist teachers. His first play was brought out in 1664 by 
 Molifere's company, and so was his second the next year. But Racine again showed his ingrati- 
 tude by surreptitiously taking this piece to a rival company. Andromache produced in 1667, 
 was the first of his tragedies to be triumphantly successful; and in the next ten years it was 
 followed by six others of which the last was Pheedra, acted in 1677. Disheartened by attacks 
 upon him, Racine suddenly renounced the drama, although he yielded in 1689 and in 1691 to 
 the appeal of Mme. de Maintenon and composed, for the pupils of her school at Saint-Cyr, 
 two plays on religious themes, Esther and AthcUiah. He had been appointed historiographer to 
 Louis XIV in 1677. In the later years of his life he was reconciled to the Jansenists and he bit- 
 terly repented his earlier errors. He died in April, 1699. He had begun by imitating Corneille, 
 but he had soon discovered that his genius weis not, like Corneille's, fitted for sturdy historic 
 contentions. He developed a unique gift for the subtle and searching analysis of passion at the 
 moment of climax. His plots are seemingly simple, but they are articulated with meticulous 
 skill. The English critics who have dismissed his plays as empty and cold have merely dis- 
 closed their incapacity to peer beneath the surface and to perceive the fiery lava that flows 
 through the veins of the characters immeshed in a plot in which the action is internal rather 
 than external. 
 
 BEAUMARCHAIS 
 
 Pierre Augustin Caron was born in Paris in 1732. He was a watchmaker and a musician. 
 When he married in 1756 he took the name of Beaumarchais from a small fief belonging to Ws 
 wife. In 1764 he made a trip to Spain to vindicate a sister who had been engaged to a man 
 named Clavijo; and his brilliant account of his successful adventure served Goethe as the basis 
 of Clavigo. Beaumarchais's first play, a drama called EiigSnie (brought out in 1767) met with 
 only moderate success; and his second, the Two Friends (produced in 1770), failed. They were 
 serious and sentimental pieces; and they did not display his special qualities — invention 
 ingenuity, briskness, brilliance. Involved in a long litigation he issued a series of witty memoirs 
 which made him one of the most popular personalities in Paris. In 1775 he brought out the 
 Barber of Senile which was instantly triumphant. And almost immediately he undertook a 
 vast enterprise for supplying the revqlted American colonies with arms, ammunition, and sup- 
 
APPENDIX 775 
 
 plies; and he published a complete edition of Voltaire. Then he wrote a sequel to the Barber, 
 the Marriage of Figaro, which was so daring in its satire that its production was not permitted 
 until 1784, when the crush at the first performance was such that three persons were stifled to 
 death. Thereafter he wrote the libretto for Salieri's Tarare, and also a heavy play, the Guilty 
 Mother, which had only a slight success. He survived the^ French Revolution, dying in 1799. 
 
 VICTOR HUGO 
 
 Victor Hugo was bom at Besangon in 1802. When scarcely more than a boy he began to 
 publish both in verse and in prose, displaying a precocious eloquence. His first story, Hans of 
 Iceland, appeared in 1823; and he was soon acclaimed as the chief of the insurgent Romanti- 
 cists. His unactable drama, Cromwell, was published in 1827 with a preface which set forth the 
 doctrines of the new school. Marion de Lorme, intended for acting, was prohibited in 1828; and 
 not until 1830, with the production of Hernani, did he win the success on the stage which was 
 necessary for the triumph of the new doctrines of dramatic art. After three plays in verse 
 Hugo wrote three dramas in prose, returning to verse in Ruy Bias, which was brought out in 
 1838 and which still holds the stage by the side of the earlier Hernani. Because of the chilly 
 greeting given to the Burgraves, in 1843, Hugo declined again to submit to the fiery ordeal of 
 the footlights; but he continued to pour forth poetry and fiction; and he aspired also after 
 eminence in public life. After Louis Napoleon made lumself Emperor in 1852, Hugo went into 
 exile, returning to France at the downfall of the Empire in 1870. Thirty years after Notre 
 Dame de Paris had been published (in 1831), he followed it with another mighty prose-fiction, 
 Les Miserables (issued in 1862). Unfailingly fecund in oratory, in history, in poetry, and in 
 fiction, Hugo survived to be more than fourscore, dying at last in May, 1885. His body lay in 
 state under the Arch of Triumph ; and his funeral was a superb manifestation of national appre- 
 ciation. 
 
 EMILE AUGIER and JULES SANDEAU 
 
 Augier was bom at Valence in 1820, a grandson of Pigault-Lebrun. He was well educated 
 and studied for the bar. His first play, the Hemlook Draft, acted in 1844, 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 Adventuress, produced in 1848. In 1854 he brought forth the Son-in- 
 law of M. Poirier, written in collaboration with Jules Sandeau (who had been bom in 1811', and 
 who died in 1883) . Augier had other collaborators, Alfred de Musset, Labiche, and Edouard 
 Foussier; but he was always the senior partner in the joint undertaking, and all the plays which 
 he wrote in partnership are stamped with his trademark. After the younger Dumas had set 
 the example of social satire on the stage, Augier was stimulated to a series of keen analyses of 
 French society as he saw it in the final years of the Second Empire and in the early years of 
 the Third Republic. His last play was the Fourohambault, produced successfully in 1878; and 
 he did not die until 1889. Certain characteristics mark all his plays — a frank sincerity, and 
 an engaging honesty, a hearty manliness, an abiding regard for the home and the family, and a 
 total absence of false sentimentality. As a pla3rwright he was fertile and dextrous, with the 
 power of projecting character sharply and powerfully. He utilized the framework of the "well- 
 made play " to carry a social message ; and he may be considered as the most important factor 
 in the development of the social drama between Scribe and Ibsen. 
 
 ALEXANDRE DUMAS Fils 
 
 Alexandre Dumas was bom in Paris in July, 1824, a natural son of the author of Monte 
 Crista and the Three Guardsmen by whom he was acknowledged and legitimated. His school- 
 days left painful memories, which he utilized in his Affaire CUmenceau. As a young man he 
 shared his father's alternations from penury to extravagance. Determined to be independent, 
 he turned author, issuing a volume of verse and half a dozen novels, of which only one had 
 any vitality. This was the Lady of the Camellias, published in 1848; it was dramatized by its 
 author and ultimately performed in 1852. It has held the stage not only in France,, but all over 
 the world, for, more than threescore years. His next play was also a dramatization of a novel of 
 his own, Diane de Lys. Then in 1855 he brought out a wholly original play, the Outer Edge of 
 Society; and thered.fter his position was secure as the wittiest and most adroit of dramatists, 
 as a writer of comedy in its higher aspect, second only to Augier. In later years he began to 
 charge his plays with a more or less paraded moral purpose. When this overt didacticism over- 
 weighted the dramatic effectiveness, the play failed, as was the case with the Ideas of Madame 
 Aubray; but in most instances his mastery of the craft of playmaking served him in good stead. 
 In Denise he rehandled the theme of Madame Aubray; he modified the plot only a little, but he 
 strengthened the emotional appeal, so that the later play was immediately successful, He pre- 
 
J'76 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 fixed suggestive prefaces to his several plays when he issued them in a complete edition.^ His 
 last piece Francillon, a comedy brisk in its action, brilliant in its dialogue, and biting m its 
 social satire, was produced in 1887. He died in November, 1895. 
 
 GOLDONI 
 
 Carlo Goldoni was born in Venice in February, 1707. His boyhood^was spent in Perugia and 
 Rimini. He studied law for a few months; he joined a company of strolling players; he wrote 
 satires and even tragedies. At last, after having come under the influence of Moliere, whom he 
 revered always as the master of modern comedy, he turned to the comic drama. He became 
 the salaried playwright of a Venetian theater; and there was one year in which he provided it 
 with sixteen plays, most of them in the local dialect of Venice. In 1761 he went to Paris, 
 writing pieces for the Italian company and teaching Italian. One of his best comedies, the 
 Benevolent Bear, was composed in French. He received a pension from the king of France; and 
 he amused his old age by writing a lively autobiography. When the Revolution broke out his 
 pension was taken away, and he sank into abject penury. He died at Versailles in February. 
 1793, having attained to more than fourscore years. Goldoni is justly regarded as the father of 
 modern comedy in Italy. He profited greatly by his constant admiration for Moliere; and the 
 influence of the great French dramatist is evident even in his lighter Venetian sketches. And 
 it is in these unpretending pieces, in which he sets on the stage the swarming life of his native 
 city, that he is seen at his best. He is ingenious in intrigue, fresh in invention, easy in the por- 
 trayal of character, and lively in the action of the stories he has devised. 
 
 LESSING 
 
 Ephraim Gotthold Lessing was born in Kamenz, in Saxony, in January, 1729. His father 
 was a pastor and Lessing was intended for the ministry. He went to the University of Leipzig 
 to study theology, but he felt stronger attractions toward medicine and literature. His first 
 play was acted before he was twenty; and his second. Miss Sara Sampson, was successfully 
 brought out at Frankfort in 1755. He supported himself by criticism, by editing and by hack- 
 work of various kinds, seizing every opportunity to broaden his knowledge and to deepen his 
 scholarship. In 1766 he published his Laocoon, the most stimulating of all eighteenth-centuiy 
 contributions to aesthetic doctrine; and the year after he issued his best comedy, Minna von 
 Bamhelm. Almost immediately he went to Hamburg to serve as adviser and critic to a short- 
 lived theatrical enterprise ; and to this we owe his illuminating articles on dramatic art, in which 
 he combated the influence of the French classicists. His discussion of the fundamental princi- 
 ples of dramaturgy are more fragmentary than his analysis of sesthetie principles; but they are 
 almost as significant, and they formed the solid basis of the Romanticist revolt under Goethe 
 and Schiller. He continued to wander and to study and to write. He published Emilia Galotto 
 in 1772 and Nathan der Weise in 1779. He had married in 1776 a widow to whom he had long 
 been attached ; and she died two years thereafter to his abiding grief. The later years of his life 
 were occupied largely with theological controversy, in which he revealed himself as independent 
 and as acute as he had shown himself in aesthetic and dramatic discussion, desirous always of 
 piercing to the center and of getting at the kernel of truth. His health failed, partly in conse- 
 quence of overwork; and he died in February, 1781. 
 
 GOETHE 
 
 Johann Wolfgang Goethe was born in Frankfort-on-the-Main in August, 1749. He studied 
 law at Leipzig and later at Strassburg; but he took little interest in legal history, devoting his 
 mind to literature. In 1772 he published his first play, Goetz von Berlichingen. Two years later 
 he issued his first novel, the Sorrows of Werther, following it almost immediately by another 
 play, Clavigo. In 1775, on the invitation of Karl August, he moved to Weimar, where he was 
 to make his home for the rest of his life. He was already, at twenty-six, the most famous of 
 German authors. He had the large fecundity of genius, and he was constantly attracted by the 
 stage, having played with a puppet-show in his boyhood and becoming in early manhood the 
 manager of the ducal theater at Weimar. He wrote many plays, Tasso, Iphigenie, Egmont; 
 and his most important poem, Faust, originally issued in 1790, is cast in dramatic form. But 
 although he was the greatest poet of his country and of his century, he was not a born play- 
 wright. His comments on acting, on stage management, on dramatic construction are often 
 very acute; but he lacked a large share of the native gift of playmaking. Technically Clavigo 
 is probably the play of his which is most skillfully put together. Even after his friendship with 
 Schiller, who was more richly endowed with the dramaturgic instinct, he was still groping for a 
 satisfactory dramatic formula. In his later years he gave himself whole-heartedly to scient^c 
 studies. He outlived all his contemporaries, surviving until March, 1832. 
 
APPENDIX 777 
 
 SCHILLER 
 
 Johann Christoph Friedrich Schiller was born at Marbach in November, 1769. He studied 
 at a military school, and when this was transferred to Stuttgart, he was allowed to devote him- 
 self to medicine. He became an army surgeon in 1781; and the next year he published and saw 
 acted his first play, the Robbers, a drama of ardent revolt, composed while he was still a student. 
 
 J r ^^ ^^ attached to the theater at Mannheim, where he brought out Fiesco and Intrigue 
 and Lme. His first play in verse, Don Carlos, was published in 1787; it conformed to the French 
 classicist type; and it is evidence that Schiller, like Goethe, then and later suffered from the 
 cnaotic conditions of the contemporary German theater, and especially from the absence of 
 native traditional formulas wherein German dramatists could express themselves spontane- 
 ously. In 1793 Schiller wrote a History of the Thirty Years' War; and the next year he began 
 the memorable friendship with Goethe, which ultimately led him to settle in Weimar and to 
 ?^'?t.<J^the in the management of the ducal theater. Under the stimulus of Goethe's compan- 
 K>nship Schiller wrote a series of superb ballads, of which the best and the best known is the 
 ■'"irrni, '?5 ^*''" ^^ returned to his early love of the drama, publishing his trilogy of Wallenstein 
 ■" 1799, hjs Mary Stuart in 1800, his Maid of Orleans in 1801, and his Bride of Messina in 1803 
 — the la^t being an attempt to emulate the stern severity of the Attic tragedians. His last 
 drama WiUiam Tell, was issued in 1804. His health broke in these final years at Weimar; and 
 ne died there in May, 1805. 
 
 HOLBERG 
 
 Ludwig Holberg was bom at Bergen, in Norway, in December, 1684. He studied for a little 
 while at the University of Copenhagen; but his real education was rather the result of his in- 
 cessant travels in England, France, and Italy. His earlier writings were historical; and they 
 were m Danish. This was a departure from the practice of Scandinavian men of letters who 
 were wont to write only in Latin; and it is perhaps not too much to say that Holberg's writings 
 were as influential in the founding of Danish literature as Dante's were in Italian, Chaucer's 
 m English, and Luther's in German. Holberg not only founded Scandinavian literature; he 
 was also its foremost and most fecund contributor, pouring forth prose and verse in abundance. 
 In 1718 he became a professor at the University of Copenhagen; and there he dwelt for the rest 
 of his life. In 1722 the attempt was made to organize a company of Danish actors to perform 
 in their native tongue; and Holberg was appointed manager of the new theater erected in 
 Copenhagen. As there were no plays in Danish, Holberg turned playwright and disclosed a 
 striking talent for the drama; and during the five years that the theater was able to keep its 
 doors open, Holberg composed twenty-eight pieces, most of them comedies. As Goldoni was to 
 do later, Holberg wisely patterned himself upon the incomparable master of modem comedy, 
 and as Goldoni is the Italian Moliere, so Holberg is the Danish Moliere, — with a large share 
 of Moliere's simplicity of plot, swiftness of action, naturalness of dialogued and insight into 
 character. When the theater reopened a few years later, Holberg composed for it five more 
 comedies. He continued to write books in almost every department of literature until the day 
 of his death, which took place in January, 1754. 
 
 HENRIK IBSEN 
 
 Henrik Ibsen was bom at Skien, in Norway, in March, 1828. He served for seven years 
 as apprentice to a druggist. When he was twenty-two he entered the university at Christiania; 
 and he began to write verse. He managed to get a play on the stage ; and he contributed to the 
 newspapers. Then in 1851 he became connected with the theater at Bergen, where he remained 
 five years 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 Bergen, and after- 
 ward at a ChjTstiania theater of which he became manager, he brought out several poetic 
 dramas, more or less in imitation of the Danish plajrwrights, Oehlenschlager and Hertz. His 
 first modem play. Love's Comedy, written in rhymed verse, was published in 1862. Two years 
 later, after vain struggles, he left Norway to settle in Rome, where he wrote Brand and Peer 
 'Gynt. In 1868 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 wars between Denmark and 
 Prussia, Prussia and Austria, and Prussia and France forced him to revise his conceptions of 
 the social organization. Abandoning the historical and poetic drama and relinquishing verse, 
 he wrote a dozen social dramas in prose, beginning with the Pillars of Society (1877) and the 
 Doll's House (1879), including Ghosts (1881), Hedda Gdbler (1890), the Master Builder (1892), 
 and ending with When we Dead Awaken (1900). In 1901 he returned to Norway; and it was in 
 his native land that he died in May, 1906. 
 
II. NOTES ON THE PLAYS 
 
 AGAMEMNON 
 
 Agamemnon is the first play of a trilogy, of three pieces dealing with successive stages of a 
 tragic story. This is the only Greek trilogy which survives complete. It was not brought out 
 until B.C. 458, possibly after the poet's death. The story of the whole trilogy has a striking 
 similarity to that of Hamlet, as it presents the murder of a king by the paramour of the queen, 
 and the subsequent vengeance taken by the son of the murdered man. In the Agamemnon, we 
 see the king return from Troy, to be welcomed treacherously by his false wife and to be slain 
 by her and her accomplice. In the second play of the series, the Choephori, we are made spec- 
 tators of the vengeance of Orestes, the son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, with the slaying 
 of the assassins; and in the third piece, the Eum^nides, we see the atonement made by Orestes 
 for his matricide. Of all the extant tragedies of jEsehylus, the Agamemnon is probably the most 
 effective when acted before a modern audience. Simple as the plot is, it abounds in moments of 
 tense suspense; and the thick horror of the unseen murder of the king can be paralleled only 
 by the similar moment in Macbeth. 
 
 In reading the tragedies of .SIschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides an attempt should be made 
 to visualize a performance at Athens with thousands of citizens seated in tiers on the sides of 
 the hill on which the Acropolis still stands. In the center of the semicircular orchestra stood 
 the altar; and in this leveled space the actors and the chorus stood and moved, spoke and 
 chanted, their figures relieved against the long, narrow building which took the place of a stage. 
 On the roof of this biulding stood the solitary Watchman, waiting and looking for the distant 
 beacon-fire which announced the fall of Troy. A central door in this building served as the 
 entrance to the palace of the king. 
 
 Although the Attic dramatist could people his play with as many characters as he chose, he 
 was allowed only three actors; and he had so to construct his plot that no more than three 
 persons should appear at once. The protagonist or most important actor would impersonate 
 the most important character, although he might also undertake one or more of the minor 
 parts. The other characters were divided between the deuteragonist and the tritagonist. In 
 Aga-memnon, there can be but little doubt that the protagonist impersonated only Clytem- 
 nestra, leaving the deuteragonist the briefer parts of the Herald, Cassandra, and .^gisthus, 
 and to the tritagonist the Watchman and Agamemnon. 
 
 (EDIPUS THE KING 
 
 This play has been recognized by the most competent critics from Aristotle to Jebb as the 
 mighty masterpiece of Greek tragedy,, the supreme effort of the consummate technician who 
 was also an inspired poet, capable of seeing life steadily and seeing it whole. Its plot is intri- 
 cate; and yet there is no moment when the spectator does not follow its dear unrolling with 
 understanding and with breathless interest. Its movement is as straightforward as it is massive; 
 and the doom which finally overtakes the hero is felt to be inevitable. The characters are pro- 
 jected simply yet powerfully; they reveal themselves instantly; and they are artfully contrasted. 
 There are frequent moments of acute suspense, but the weight of the impending catastrophe 
 is never weakened by any shock of mere surprise. The choral odes are ingeniously utilized to 
 heighten the force of the action itself and to interpret the message of the story to the spectators. 
 And the poetry which is omnipresent is always direct, elevated, and imaginative. Even to-day, 
 twenty-five centuries after it was originally composed, the tragedy meets the ultimate test of 
 a play, — that it is even more appealing on the stage than in the study. In a French transla- 
 tion it is kept in the repertory of the Theatre Franpais; and in QSdipus Mounet-Sully found 
 his most powerful part. At the original performance in Athens the protagonist impersonated 
 OEdipus only, the deuteragonist probably assuming the parts of locasta, the Priest, the Herds- 
 man, and the Second IMessenger, while to the tritagonist was entrusted Creon, Teiresiaa and 
 the First Messenger. ' 
 
 MEDEA 
 
 In this play we can discover all the chief characteristics of Euripides as a playwright. The 
 story is moving and picturesque; the situations are violent to the verge of melodrama; the'chai^ 
 aoters are strong of purpose and intense in passion; and the spectacular possibilities of the 
 
APPENDIX 779 
 
 theme are skillfully utilized. The choral odes have a less integral and intimate relation to the 
 action, such as we perceive in the plays of Sophocles; and they seem sometimes to be introduced 
 only in deference to the tradition of Attic drama. They are beautiful lyrics, which, like our 
 modern interact music, serve to fill the intervals between the episodes. While the loftier trage- 
 dies of Sophocles have an obvious likeness to the massive music-dramas of Wagner, the more 
 realistic plays of Euripides resemble rather the operas which Meyerbeer and Halfevy composed 
 to librettos by Scribe, also a most ingenious deviser of effective plots. Like the Agamemnon 
 and the (Edijms, Medea has proved itself to be impressive when adequately represented in 
 the modern theater. Indeed, Medea herself is akin to a host of modern heroines in that she 
 IS "a woman with a past." Probably the protagonist played only Medea, the deuteragonist 
 doubling" the Nurse and Jason, and the tritagonist being charged with four parts, the 
 Teacher, Creon, iEgeus, and the Messenger. 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 
 building that Medea stood before she was swung through the air in a dragon-chariot, — which 
 was perhaps a decorated basket raised and lowered by a crane. 
 
 THE FROGS 
 
 In the Knights Aristophanes attacked Cleon and in the Clouds he assailed Socrates. In the 
 Frogs the shining mark of his satire is Euripides, whom he selects, perhaps 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 spectators, and partly because of a conservative dislike for the 
 novelties of realism, of sentimentalism, and of sensationalism which he found in the plays of 
 Euripides and which seemed to him degrading to the austere nobility of Greek tragedy as ex- 
 emplified in the works of jGschylus and of Sophocles. The adventures of Bacchus and of his 
 attendant, Xanthias, on their way to Hades are rich in fun ; they combine the humor of char- 
 acter and situation with the wit of dialogue; and the final trial-at-law is a masterly example of 
 parody, proving the existence of a high degree of literary cultivation and aesthetic understanding 
 in the Attic audience. The criticism of the methods of Euripides may be a little unfair, but it 
 is imfailingly acute. In spite of the delicacy of the literary criticism, the general tone of the 
 original performance was probably not very different from that of a rollicking undergraduate 
 burlesque with its topical songs, its local hits, and its atmosphere of boyish high-spirits. 
 
 THE CAPTIVES 
 
 The prologue of the Captives was probably prefixed twenty or thirty years after the death of 
 Plautus and after the Roman audiences had so degenerated in attention and in intelligence 
 that it was held to be necessary to explain the plot in advance to lazy-minded spectators, many 
 of whom might be only doubtfully familiar with Latin. The Captives has been chosen to repre- 
 sent Plautus in this volume because it is by far the cleanest of his plays, the author himself in 
 the final lines drawing attention to the inoffensiveness of the story. Lessing was emphatic in 
 his praise of the piece, and probably Plautus owed this merit to the Greek dramatist from whom 
 he took over the play. The comedy is less comic than the other plays of Plautus; in fact the 
 humor is centered in the traditional character of the Parasite, always hungry and always in 
 search of a gratuitous meal. The other plays are rather robust and ingenious farces, only rarely 
 attaining the higher level of comedy. The Captives is akin to our modern " domestic dramas," 
 with a finer sentiment 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 residences of 
 three different characters, if need be. 
 
 PHORMIO 
 
 Phormio is an exception among Terence's comedies in that it is an adaptation not from 
 Menander, but from another Athenian comic dramatist of the same school, ApoUodorus. It is 
 an exception also in that its plot is more truly comic than the plots of most of the other plays, 
 with an ingeniiity of situation which makes its performance amusing even on the modern stage. 
 Its two chief characters are a parasite, a variant of the traditional type, and an intriguing slave, 
 one of the stable figures of Greek comedy, which was transmitted through the Latin comic 
 drama to the Italian comedy-of-masks and from that to the French stage. Geta is the remote 
 ancestor of Molifere's Mascarille and Beaumarchais's Figaro; and Phormio, which Terence took 
 over from ApoUodorus, supplied a part of the plot of Molifere's Fourberies de Scapin. It may 
 be noted also that Terence's earliest play, Andria, was utilized by Moliere's pupil, Baron, in 
 his Adrienne, and afterward by Steele in his Conscious Lovers, In the plays of 'Terence, as in 
 those of Plautus (and probably also in the comedies of Menander) , the scene is laid in the open 
 street, where all the characters may meet and where they do not hesitate to discuss their most 
 
78o APPENDIX 
 
 private affairs. Here the dramatists are observing the customs of the country; and even to-day 
 in southern Italy the lower classes seem to use their homes only for sleeping purposes, carrying 
 on the business of life in the streets, where they converse, cook, and court. 
 
 THE STAR OF SEVILLE 
 
 No play of Lope's is more characteristic of his method than the Star of Senile. It is a typical 
 example of the comedy-of-cloak-and-sword, with its high-strung hero, its high-strung heroine, 
 its traditional comic servant, allowed to comment at will on the story as it unrolls itself. There 
 is a swift succession of situations, always effective, in spite of the occasional artificiahty by 
 which they are brought about — ■ situations effective because they have been artfully prepared 
 for, skillfully led up to, and powerfully handled when at last they are presented. The dialogue 
 is sometimes stiff with rhetorical embroidery; but in general it is easy with the freedom almost 
 of improvisation. Throughout the play we cannot fail to perceive the facility and the felicity 
 of the born playwright, joying in his task, carrying on his story with a light hand and yet hold- 
 ing with a firm grasp. Lope adjusts his plays to the conditions of the theater in Madrid, — a 
 stage bare of scenery, a courtyard in which the ruder sort of spectators stood, and a stand of 
 seats at the back of the courtyard for the richer element of the audience. As there was no scen- 
 ery, there could be no other indication of a change of place than that afforded by the dialogue 
 of the characters who entered after the stage had been left empty; — this leaving of the stage 
 empty seeming to serve as a conventional notice to the spectators that the next scene would 
 be laid in a different place. 
 
 LIFE IS A DREAM 
 
 This play was published in 1636 or 1637, when Calderon was not yet forty; and it represents 
 his work when he was in the full maturity of his power both as playwright and as poet. The 
 story is interesting and the structure is skillful, although it reveals that the Spanish drama had 
 not even then departed very widely from the primitive methods of the mediaeval theater. The 
 theme is a mediseval anecdote; and the implied moral is also a little mediseval. The characters 
 are effectively projected and boldly contrasted. Clarin, the graaioso, is the equivalent of the 
 Elizabethan comic character, who is more or less characterless, serving only as a mouthpiece 
 for miscellaneous and irrelevant witticisms, frequently bald puns. The dialogue is often & 
 tissue of grandiloquent figures of speech, in which the lyrist recklessly revels in flowers and birds 
 and stars. The more heroic characters are sometimes ultra-heroic in their high-flown exuber- 
 ance of rhetoric. Sometimes again they voice sentiments of universal appeal in language that 
 is at once lofty and direct. 
 
 THE CID 
 
 Although Corneille borrowed the plot of the Cid from a Spanish play by Guillen de Castro, 
 he revealed his own individuality and his own originality in the changes he imposed upon the 
 Spanish story. In his hands the three acts of the Spanish piece became five; the story was 
 simplified and strengthened; and it was made to possess a unity of purpose foreign to the looser 
 methods of the Spanish stage. Moreover, the characters are reduced in number and raised in 
 energy, in self-will_ and in recognition of duty. They have an accent of veracity and a faculty 
 of self-analysis which may be sought in vain in the Spanish drama. In Corneille's play they 
 all know what they ought to do in obedience to moral obligation, and they are highly resolved 
 to do it, at whatever conflict with their own passions and at whatever cost to their own desires. 
 The serried arguments which we find in the vibrating dialogue of Corneille's play have little or 
 no counterpart m the speeches of the persons in Guillen de Castro's piece. The influence of the 
 Spamsh ongmal, and perhaps also of the French mediaeval drama, is seen in the affluence of 
 the lyrical stanzas. And a careful reading will reveal the fact that Corneille frankly lays his 
 scene on the stage of the semi-mediseval French theater, — a bare stage, with hangings at the 
 back and sides and with doors and other properties which serve to localize the residences of 
 different characters. The stage is a neutral ground, nowhere in particular, where all the char- 
 acters can meet at will without asking where they are. 
 
 TARTUFFE 
 
 In the spring of 1664 Louis XIV gave a series of sumptuous entertainments at Versailles in 
 the course of which Mohfere presented the first three acts of Tartuffe. The king immediately 
 prohibited its further performance as likely to be offensive to the devout. Molifere thereupon 
 gave readings of it at the houses of important personages; and in 1667, believing that the inter- 
 
APPENDIX 781 
 
 diet on the play had been raised, he ventured to produce it at his own theater in the Palais 
 Royal, having made various modifications and calling it then the Imposter. It was again for- 
 bidden; and not until 1669 was its performance permitted, the definite version taking again 
 the original title. Tartuffe is the model of modern comedy; it is the first comedy which deals 
 deeply and sincerely with society in its more serious aspects; and it has served as the pattern 
 for every social drama which has since been written, not only in French, but in all the other 
 modern languages. Its abiding influence can be seen in the School for Scandal of Sheridan and 
 the Marriage of Figaro of Beaumarohais, in the Outer Edge of Society of the younger Dumas, 
 and in the Son-in-law of M. Poirier of Augier and Sandeau, in the Pillars of Society of Ibsen 
 and the Second Mrs. Tangueray of Pinero. The plot is knotted with the utmost adroitness; and 
 especially noteworthy is the skill by which Tartuffe's hypocrisy is made evident to the specta- 
 tors in spite of the fact that he is not permitted to have a single aside in which to reveal his 
 true self. 
 
 PH^DRA 
 
 When Racine began to write for the stage he was fortunate in finding ready to his hand the 
 tragic formula devdoped by Corneille; and the younger poet accepted this pattern, but shifted 
 the interest from the action to the chief character, or rather to delineation of the single over- 
 inastering passion by which that character was driven to destruction. Racine's plots are far 
 simpler than Corneille's, simpler even than those of Eufipides which he borrowed. In Pfiaedra 
 the story is taken up so close to its culmination that one might almost say that very little hap- 
 pens in the play itself, and that we are shown only the inevitable and irresistible results of 
 what has already taken place. The action is internal ; and it is concentrated so as to set forth 
 only the final moments of that struggle between desire and duty, in the fire of which the heroine 
 is finally consumed. Beneath the stately courtesies of characters whose language and whose 
 manners are contemporary with Louis XIV, there is an almost brutal realism of emotional ex- 
 pression perhaps all the more burning because of the moderation of the terms in which it is 
 expressed. In Phcedra, as in most of Racine's other plays, the "star-part" demands all our 
 attention and the other characters are "feeders," who exist only to set off the sufferings of the 
 heroine. Aricia is introduced only to give Phaedra cause for jealousy; Theseus is reported 
 dead only so that she may avow her love ; and the return of Theseus is only to compel her to 
 send Hippolytus to his death. « 
 
 THE BARBER OF SEVILLE 
 
 When it was produced originally the Barber was welcomed and denounced as a bold novelty,' 
 partly because it was in prose and partly because it departed widely from the tj^e of a comedy 
 then prevalent on the French stage. Yet it was only a return to the manner of Regnard and 
 even of Moliere in his lighter plays. Its story was one which had been utilized more than once 
 by both Regnard and Moliere. What was indisputably new was the individuality of Beau- 
 marchais himself, his wit, his satire, his irony, his incessant and effervescent liveliness. The 
 play reveals all his characteristics as a comic dramatist; it has perfect clarity of plot, swiftness 
 of exposition, ingenuity of intrigue, briskness of action, and a consummate understanding of 
 theatrical effect. These qualities are all displayed perhaps even more amply in the Marriage 
 of Figaro; and it is partly from a study of Beaumarchais that Scribe acquired his methods of 
 dramatic construction out of which he developed the formula of the "well-made play," in which 
 the closely knit sequence of situations was made all-sufficient unto itself and in which the char- 
 acters were only profile figures. 
 
 HERNANI 
 
 The first performances of Hernani were a series of pitched battles between the partisans of 
 the outworn classicist formulas and the youthful advocates of the Romanticist doctrines. The 
 play was full of juvenile ardor ; it had an impetuous energy unknown on the French stage since 
 the Cid of Corneille; 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 imliterary theaters, 
 relying upon the splendor of his verse to supply Uterary merit. The story itself is straggling 
 and the successive situations are monotonous; the characters are stage t3T)es, lending them- 
 selves to fervent acting; and not 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 the attention of the aver- 
 age spectator and to hold his interest unflagging to the highly wrought and exquisitely phrased 
 death of the hero and heroine. It is true that the interest dies down a little in the fourth act 
 and that the monologue of the king seems interminably tedious. 
 
783 APPENDIX 
 
 THE SON-IN-LAW OF M. POIRIER 
 
 The source of this masterly comedy is a novelette by Jules Sandeau; and it is probable that 
 Sandeau was more or less responsible for the caressing portrait of the heroine. But if we may 
 judge from the plays which Sandeau wrote alone and from the plays which Augier wrote alone, 
 the vigor and the veracity of this play due to their collaboration must be credited to Augier. 
 It is the masterpiece of French comedy in the nineteenth century; and it is unmatched in the 
 dramatic literature of any other language. It is the chief modern exemplar of high comedy, of 
 which Molifere first made the pattern in Tartuffe and the Learned Ladies. The story is interest- 
 ing; the plot is simple, moving, and adroitly articulated; the characters are few, veracious, and 
 sharply contrasted; and the struggle which sustains the action is clearly presented in the 
 opening scenes and steadily maintained to the end. It proves that Augier had inherited the 
 large tradition of the comedy of Molifere, than which there can be no higher commendation. 
 
 THE OUTER EDGE OF SOCIETY 
 
 It is not easy to find an approximate translation for dem.i-monde, as Dumas used it originally. 
 Monde means "Society" in the narrow sense of fashionable circles; and perhaps the nearest 
 approach to an exact rendering of the French compound word would be " Near-Society." It is 
 into a highly specialized circle in the Paris of the middle of the nineteenth century that Dumas 
 takes us and that he makes us understand. In no other of his comedies did he more fully utilize 
 his mastery of stagecraft. His exposition is immediate and clear; his characters reveal them- 
 selves at once by word and by act; his situations are logically knit together and they steadily 
 increase in effectiveness; and his dialogue is almost too incessantly glittering. It is true that 
 after many years we may now feel that themethod is a little old-fashioned, that the plotting 
 is 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 is seen to be 
 inferior to its chief rival, the Sonr4n-law of M. Poirier, because the segment of society that it 
 presents so sharply is far more limited. 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF THE INN 
 
 Goldoni's gift of playmaking is amply revealed in this unpretending little comedy. Simple 
 as it is in story, its successive episodes are effectively put together; and its lively situations fol- 
 low one another with effortless ease and with unfailing vivacity. It is above all an actable 
 piece, with its four men all cajoled and managed and maneuvered by the single 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 characters are 
 sharply drawn and boldly contrasted. They are all easy to act and they all reward the actor's 
 endeavor. Yet, amusing as the play is in the reading, no mere reader can conceive of its bril- 
 liancy when the incomparable Duse impersonated the fascinating Mandolina. 
 
 MINNA VON BARNHELM 
 
 Although Lessing, in his desire to disestablish the sovereignty of French drama in Germany, 
 was inchned to underestimate Moliere, his Minna von Bamhelm reveals the result of his careful 
 study of the founder of modern comedy. In fact, the German had to go to the Frenchman for 
 a model, as there was no other for him to profit by. Minna is less comic than MoliSre's lighter 
 plays and it is less weighty than Molifere's major masterpieces. But Lessing's comedy is like 
 the best of Mqlifere's in that it is interesting in story, clear in action, effective in acting, 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 so-called 
 "unity of place," since all the sets represent rooms in the same inn. It is a comedy of manners 
 rather than a comedy of intrigue; and it presents us with a gallery of figures veraciously studied 
 from contemporary German life. It may be noted also that Lessing is as frank as Shake- 
 speare in causing his heroines, both mistress and maid, Minna and Fanoiska, to display their 
 readiness to make advances to their male wooers. 
 
 GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 
 
 _ Goetz was not written with an eye to immediate performance. It was the result of Goethe's 
 discovery of Shakespeare; and its model is the disjointed Elizabethan chronicle-play of which 
 Henry V is an example. But in writing his series of English "histories " Shakespeare was utiliz- 
 ing a form made popular in the playhouse of his predecessors, whereas Goethe in borrowing its 
 loose framework was using a form unknown in his time and entirely foreign to the traditions 
 
APPENDIX 783 
 
 of the contemporary German theater. Moreover, Shakespeare, even in the loose-jointed 
 chronicle-play, is always a "theater-poet," — to employ Goethe's own term, — thinking out 
 his succession of scenes in accord with the existing conditions of his own theater, whereas 
 Goethe paid far too little attention to the exigencies or to the possibilities of the actual play- 
 house. Goethe confessed to Eckermann 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 unmanageable. What trouble have I taken with Goetz — but it will not go right as an 
 acting play." And therefore, although Goetz himself, strong-willed and self-reliant, is a most 
 promising hero for a stage-play of compelling power, the merits of Geothe's piece are rather 
 literary than dramatic. Even if it is not a well-knit piece, with its single action sweeping stead- 
 ily forward to an inevitable culmination, it is a stirring evocation of life in the Middle Ages, 
 a picturesque panorama of an epoch unduly neglected. It is the herald of the Romanticist 
 revival of the drama; and its influence upon the Waverley Novels is indisputable. 
 
 WILLIAM TELL 
 
 As a poet Schiller is less liberally endowed than Goethe ; but as a maker of plays he is more 
 richly gifted. He has in a larger degree than Goethe the intuitive feeling for effective situations 
 and the instinctive faculty for combining them so as to stir the emotions of an audience. Yet 
 he is never a strenuous seeker for technical victory, to be won only by unrfelenting conscientious- 
 ness of attention to the details of construction, exposition, and climax. His dramas impress us 
 by their mass and by their fire, wherein they reveal the innate dramatic power of the born 
 playwright. In William Tell 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 he is careful in the characterization of his hero, he is even more concerned 
 with the characterization of the Swiss patriots as representatives of a forward movement for 
 human freedom. 
 
 RASMUS MONTANUS 
 
 Holberg was the first man to compose a play in Danish for Danish actors; and his comic 
 dramas have the primitive simplicity which might be expected under these circumstances. This 
 play has the straightforward directness of certain of Molifere's lighter pieces, such as the 
 Physician in Spite of Himself. There is no complexity of plot-making; the characters are drawn 
 in the primary colors; and the story moves forward with the swift simplicity of a fable. It dis- 
 closes Holberg's intimate understanding of the rustic Danes who take part in the action and a 
 knowledge equally intimate of the dwellers in the semi-rural capital of Denmark before whom 
 it was to be performed. Holberg follows Molifere in letting his characters reveal themselves 
 freely in explanatory soliloquies, addressed obviously to the spectators. But it is interesting 
 to note that Holberg in this play, written in 1731, anticipated Lessing in changing his scenes 
 only between the acts, using always the same set throughout the act. 
 
 A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 Prior to the production of the Doll's House, Ibsen had composed several dramatic poems and 
 poetic dramas; and he had also brought out two or three plays in prose dealing with contempo- 
 rary society. Yet in no one of these had he amply revealed his individuality or given promise 
 of his later mastery over the modern drama. And the Doll's House itself, up to the middle of 
 the third act, is not much more than an ingeniously invented story, departing in its content 
 only a little from the formula worked out in France by Augier and Dumas. The effective 
 incident of the 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 play changes and a deeper 
 note is struck for the first 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 DoU's House, Ibsen is only one of a group of accomplished 
 playwrights; whereas in the succession of social dramas following the DoU's House, he takes his 
 position as the foremost and most powerful dramatist of the later nineteenth century. 
 
III. A READING LIST IN EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 
 
 No attempt has been made to provide an exhaustive bibliography. Books are cited for 
 availability and general usefulness. 
 
 The Aht of the Drama. 
 
 Recent discussions of the principles of the dramatist's art are Brander Matthews, A Study of 
 the Drama (1910); William Archer, Playmaking; a Manual of Craftsmanship (1913); and 
 Clayton Hamilton, The Theory of the Theater (1910), and Studies in Stagecraft (1913). Much 
 that is significant can be gleaned in Jjessing's Hamburg Dramaturgy (English translation in 
 Bohn's Library). Important also are three Publications of the Dramatic Museum of Columbia 
 University, The Law of the Drama, by Brunetifere, with an introduction by Henry Arthur Jones; 
 The Autobiography of a Play, by Bronson Howard, with an introduction by Augustus Thomas; 
 and Robert Louis Stevenson as a Dramatist, by Sir Arthur Wing Pinero, with an introduction by 
 Clayton Hamilton. There is a translation of Freytag's Technic of the Drama, but the theories 
 it sets forth are now discredited. 
 
 HiSTOHIES OF THE DhAMA. 
 
 In Bohn's Library there is a translation of SchlegeVs Lectures on Dramatic Literature. In Sir 
 Walter Scott's miscellaneous works will be found an interesting account of The Drama. The 
 only recent book which attempts to cover the entire history of the art is Brander Matthews, 
 TAe Development of the Drama (1903). 
 
 The Greek Drama. 
 
 An account of the Greek theater and of its methods will be found in Bamett, Greek Drama 
 (1900); in Haigh, The Attic Theater (3d edition, 1908), and in the first volume of Mantzius, 
 History of Theatrical Art (1904). Very useful also is Butcher, Aristotle's Theory of Poetry and 
 Fine Art (2d edition, 1898). Haigh, The Tragic Drama of the Greeks (1899), may be heartily 
 recommended. There is unfortunately no translation of Patin, Les Tragiques Grecs. The 
 Athenian dramatists are admirably dealt with in Jebb, Primer of Greek Literature (18'77), and in 
 Gilbert Murray, Ancient Greek Literature (1897). See also the Lectures on Greek Literature, 
 Columbia University Press (1911), for discussions of Greek tragedy by J. R. Wheeler and of 
 Greek comedy by Edward Capps. 
 
 .^SOHTLUS. 
 
 There are translations of all the tragedies by Swanwick, Morshead, Campbell. 
 Among the translations of separate plays may be mentioned Agamemnon, by Browning, 
 and Prometheus, by Mrs. Browning. 
 
 Sophocles. 
 
 There are translations of all the tragedies by Franklin, Potter, Plumptre, and Lewis Camp- 
 bell. 
 
 Among the translations of separate plays may be mentioned CEdipus the King, by Gilbert 
 Murray. 
 
 In the series of Classical Writers there is a study of Sophocles by Lewis Campbell. 
 
 Euripides. 
 
 There are translations of all or of most of the tragedies by A. S. Way, E. P. Coleridge and 
 Gilbert Murray. ' 
 
 There is a_ version of Alcestis included in Browning's Balaustion. 
 
 In the series of Classical Writers there is a study of Euripides by J. P. MahaSy. 9ee also 
 Gilbert Murray's Euripides and his Age (1913). 
 
 Aristophanes. 
 
 There are translations more or less complete by Hickie, Mitchell, Hookham Frere, and B. B. 
 Rogers. Gilbert Murray has translated the Frogs. 
 
 The Latin Drama. 
 
 There is unhappily no book about the Roman theater as satisfactory as Haigh's Attic Theater. 
 Perhaps the account most easily available is that in the first volume of Mantzius, History of 
 Theatrical Art. The most useful history of Latin literature is Mackail's (1895). 
 
APPENDIX 785 
 
 Plautus. 
 
 There are translations by Bonnell Thorton and by Sugden. A volume in Ancient Classics for 
 English Readers, .by W. L. Collins deals with Plautus and Terence. 
 
 Terence. 
 There is a translation by George Colman the elder. 
 
 The Spanish Drama. 
 
 George Ticknor 3 History of Spanish Literature (last edition, 1863) is still the most authorita- 
 tive account; but it can be supplemented by Fitzmaurice-Kelly's more recent volume. See, also, 
 George Henry Lewes, The Spanish Drama (1846) , and H. A. Rennert, The Spanish Stage in the 
 Time of Lope de Vega (1912). * 
 
 Lope de Vega. 
 
 A translation of the Gardener's Dog, by W. H. H. Chambers, will be found in Bates, The 
 Drama (1903) ; and a translation of Castelvines and Montreses, by F. W. Cosens, was privately 
 printed in 1869. W. T. Brewster's rendering of Lope's New Art of Writing Plays in these Times 
 was issued in 1914 as the first of the Publications of the Dramatic Museum of Columbia 
 University. The amplest and the latest biography is H. A. Rennert's Life of Lope de Vega (1904). 
 
 Calderon. 
 
 There are translations of a dozen of Calderon's plays by Dennis Florence Mac-Carthy. 
 Edward FitzGerald made free versions of six of Calderon's dramas. See, also, Trench's study 
 (1880), and E. 3. Hasell's brief critical biography in Foreign Clasps for English Readers (1879). 
 
 The French Drama. 
 
 It is to be regretted that there is no English translation of Brunetifere's suggestive and stim- 
 ulating Epochs of the French Drama; nor is there any history in English of the development of 
 the French drama as thorough as that by Lentilhac now in course of completion. But attention 
 should be called to the brief account of the beginnings of the French theater in the fourth 
 volume of Mantzius, History of Theatrical Art (1905). For Hugo, Augier, Dumas ^Js, and their 
 contemporaries, see Brander Matthews, French Dramatists of the 19th Century (3d edition, 
 enlarged, 1901). 
 
 CORNEILLE. 
 
 Apparently the Cid is the only one of Comeille's plays which has been translated into Eng- 
 lish. Consult Dorothy Canfield, CorneiUe and Racine in England, for a record of stage-adapta- 
 tions. 
 
 There are complete prose translations of MoliJire's plays by Van Laun, Waller, and C. H. Wall 
 (in Bohn's Library); and Curtis Hidden Page has admirably rendered several of the most 
 important comedies into English verse. The most recent biographies are by H. C. Chatfield- 
 Taylor (1906) and by Brander Matthews (1910). See also the fourth volume of Mantzius, 
 History of Theatrical Art (1905). 
 
 There is a complete translation by R. B. Boswell in Bohn's Library. An excellent critical 
 consideration of Racine by Professor F. M. Warren will be found in Warner's Library of the 
 World's Best Literature. 
 
 Although most of the plays of Beaumarchais have been acted in English adaptations, there 
 is no complete translation. Lomenie's Beaumarchais and his Times is not recent, and it may be 
 supplemented by Austin Dobson's biographical sketch prefixed to his Clarendon Press Edition 
 of the Barber of Seville. 
 
 ■There are translations of several of Hugo's plays by Mrs. Newton Crosland and F. L. Slous 
 in Bohn's Library. A brief biographical sketch by Swinburne will be found in the Encyclopmdia 
 Britannica (11th edition). There is a semi-autobiography entitled Victor Hv^o Narrated by a 
 Witness of his Life. An acute analysis of the plays will be found in Archer's About the Theater 
 (1886). 
 
786 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 AuGiER and Sandeatj. 
 
 Neither the plays written by Augier and Sandeau nor the plays written by either of them 
 separately have been completely rendered into English. The only available translation ia 
 Barrett H. Clark's Four Plays by Emile Augier (1915), with a preface by Brieux. 
 
 Dumas fiU. 
 
 Very few of the plays of Dumas have been translated for readers, although most of them at 
 one time or another have been seen on the English-speaking stage in mangled perversions. Two 
 essays will be found in Henry James, Notes on Novelists (1914). 
 
 The Italian Drama. 
 
 The account of Italian dramatic literature given in most of the histories is likely to be mis- 
 leading in that it discusses various closet-dramas as if they had contributed to the development 
 of a genuine drama. The peculiarities 'of the improvised comedy-of-masks are described in 
 John Addington Symonds's introduction to his translation of Gozzi's Memoirs and in Chatfield- 
 Taylor's Life of Goldoni. 
 
 GOLDONI. 
 
 There are many English, translations of different plays by Goldoni ; four of them edited by 
 Helen Zimmern were published in 1892 in a volume of a series called Masterpieces of Foreign 
 Authors. The most illuminating life is that by H. C. Chatfield-Taylor (1913). To his abridged 
 edition of Goldoni's autobiography W. D. Howells prefixed a biographical criticism. 
 
 The German Drama. 
 
 The most recent and the most acute history of German literature is that by Calvin Thomas 
 (1909). 
 
 Lessino. 
 
 Lessing's comedies and tragedies, translated by Ernest Bell, fill two volumes in Bohn's 
 Library. There is a brief biography by Helen Zimmern and a larger life by James Sime. Atten- 
 tion must also be called to the stimiilating essay by James Russell Lowell. 
 
 Goethe. 
 
 In his biography of Goethe, George Henry Lewes pays especial attention to the dramatic 
 works. Translations of Goethe's plays fill one volume of Bohn's Library. See also the paper 
 on Goethe in H. H. Boyesen, Essays on German Literature (1892). 
 
 Schiller. 
 
 The latest and most satisfactory biography of Schiller is that by Calvin Thomas (1901). 
 Translations of his plays are to be found in two volumes of the Bohn Library. 
 
 The Scandinavian Drama. 
 
 There does not exist in English anywhere an adequate account of the origin and evolution of 
 the drama in Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. 
 
 Holbero. 
 
 A translation by Oscar James Campbell and Frederic Schenok of three of Holberg's plays 
 was published in New York in 1914, by the American-Scandinavian Foundation. To be noted 
 also are O. J. Campbell's the Comedies of Holherg (1914) and the article by W. M. Payne in 
 Warner's Library of the World's Best Literature. 
 
 Ibsen. 
 
 Nearly all of Ibsen's plays have been rendered into English by different hands; the most 
 nearly completed edition is that edited by William Archer (1900-01). The latest biography is 
 that by Edmund Gosse (1907). H. H. Boyesen issued in 1892 a Commentary on Ibsen. Very 
 suggestive are the extracts from the author's manuscripts entitled From Ibsen's Workshov 
 translated by A. G. Chater (1911).