The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 03
TekstACT V
SCENE I
A common near Altdorf. In the background to the right the Keep of Uri, with the scaffold still standing, as in the Third Scene of the first Act. To the left, the view opens upon numerous mountains, on all of which signal fires are burning. Day is breaking, and distant bells are heard ringing in several directions.
RUODI, KUONI, WERNI, MASTER MASON, and many other country people, also women and children.
RUODI.
See there! The beacons on the mountain heights!
MASON.
Hark how the bells above the forest toll!
RUODI.
The enemy's routed.
MASON.
And the forts are storm'd.
RUODI.
And we of Uri, do we still endure
Upon our native soil the tyrant's keep?
Are we the last to strike for liberty?
MASON.
Shall the yoke stand, that was to curb our necks?
Up! Tear it to the ground!
ALL.
Down, down with it!
RUODI.
Where is the Stier of Uri?
URI.
Here. What would ye?
RUODI.
Up to your tower, and wind us such a blast
As shall resound afar, from peak to peak;
Rousing the echoes of each glen and hill,
To rally swiftly all the mountain men!
[Exit STIER OF URI—Enter WALTER FÜRST.]
FÜRST.
Stay, stay, my friends! As yet we have not learn'd
What has been done in Unterwald and Schwytz.
Let's wait till we receive intelligence!
RUODI.
Wait, wait for what? The accursed tyrant's dead.
And on us freedom's glorious day has dawn'd!
MASON.
How! Are these flaming signals not enough,
That blaze on every mountain top around?
RUODI.
Come all, fall to—come, men and women, all!
Destroy the scaffold! Burst the arches! Down,
Down with the walls, let not a stone remain!
MASON.
Come, comrades, come! We built it, and we know
How best to hurl it down.
ALL.
Come! Down with it!
[They fall upon the building on every side.]
FÜRST.
The floodgate's burst. They're not to be restrained.
[Enter MELCHTHAL and BAUMGARTEN.]
MELCH.
What! Stands the fortress still, when Sarnen lies
In ashes, and the Rossberg's in our hands?
FÜRST.
You, Melchthal, here? D'ye bring us liberty?
Are all the Cantons from our tyrants freed?
MELCH.
We've swept them from the soil. Rejoice, my friend,
Now, at this very moment, while we speak,
There's not one tyrant left in Switzerland!
FÜRST.
How did you get the forts into your power?
MELCH.
Rudenz it was who by a bold assault
With manly valor mastered Sarnen's keep.
The Rossberg I had storm'd the night before.
But hear what chanced! Scarce had we driven the foe
Forth from the keep, and given it to the flames,
That now rose crackling upwards to the skies,
When from the blaze rush'd Diethelm, Gessler's page,
Exclaiming, "Lady Bertha will be burnt!"
FÜRST.
Good heavens!
[The beams of the scaffold are heard falling.]
MELCH.
'Twas she herself. Here had she been
By Gessler's orders secretly immured.
Up sprang Rudenz in frenzy. For even now
The beams and massive posts were crashing down,
And through the stifling smoke the piteous shrieks
Of the unhappy lady.
FÜRST.
Is she saved?
MELCH.
'Twas not a time to hesitate or pause!
Had he been but our baron, and no more,
We should have been most chary of our lives;
But he was our confederate, and Bertha
Honor'd the people. So, without a thought,
We risk'd the worst, and rush'd into the flames.
FÜRST.
But is she saved?
MELCH.
She is. Rudenz and I
Bore her between us from the blazing pile,
With crashing timbers toppling all around.
And when she had revived, the danger past,
And raised her eyes to look upon the sun,
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.
FÜRST.
Where is the Landenberg?
MELCHTHAL.
Across the Brünig.
'Twas not my fault he bore his sight away,
He who had robb'd my father of his eyes!
He fled—I followed—overtook him soon,
And dragg'd him to my father's feet. The sword
Already quiver'd o'er the caitiff's head,
When from the pity of the blind old man,
He wrung the life which, craven-like, he begged.
He swore URPHEDE,[59] never to return
He'll keep his oath, for he has felt our arm.
FÜRST.
Oh, well for you, you have not stain'd with blood
Our spotless victory!
CHILDREN (running across the stage with fragments of wood).
We're free! we're free!
FÜRST.
Oh! what a joyous scene! These children will
Remember it when all their heads are gray.
[Girls bring in the cap upon a pole. The whole stage is filled with people.]
RUODI.
Here is the cap, to which we were to bow!
BAUM.
What shall we do with it? Do you decide!
FÜRST.
Heavens! 'Twas beneath this cap my grandson stood!
SEVERAL VOICES.
Destroy the emblem of the tyrant's power!
Let it be burnt!
FÜRST.
No. Rather be preserved;
'Twas once the instrument of despots—now
'Twill of our freedom be a lasting sign.
[Peasants, men, women, and children, some standing, others sitting upon the beams of the shattered scaffold, all picturesquely grouped, in a large semicircle.]
MELCH.
Thus now, my friends, with light and merry hearts,
We stand upon the wreck of tyranny;
And gloriously the work has been fulfilled
Which we at Rootli pledged ourselves to do.
FÜRST.
No, not fulfilled. The work is but begun:
Courage and concord firm, we need them both;
For, be assured, the king will make all speed,
To avenge his Viceroy's death, and reinstate,
By force of arms, the tyrant we've expell'd.
MELCH.
Why let him come, with all his armaments!
The foe's expelled that press'd us from within;
The foe without we are prepared to meet?
RUODI.
The passes to our Cantons are but few;
These with our bodies we will block, we will!
BAUM.
Knit are we by a league will ne'er be rent,
And all his armies shall not make us quail.
[Enter RÖSSELMANN and STAUFFACHER.]
RÖSSELMANN (speaking as he enters).
These are the awful judgments of the Lord!
PEASANT.
What is the matter?
RÖSSELMANN.
In what times we live!
FÜRST.
Say on, what is't? Ha, Werner, is it you?
What tidings?
PEASANT.
What's the matter?
RÖSSELMANN.
Hear and wonder!
STAUFF.
We are released from one great cause of dread.
RÖSSEL.
The Emperor is murdered.
FÜRST.
Gracious Heaven!
[PEASANTS rise up and throng round STAUFFACHER.]
ALL.
Murder'd!—the Emp'ror? What! The Emp'ror! Hear!
MELCH.
Impossible! How came you by the news?
STAUFF.
'Tis true! Near Bruck, by the assassin's hand,
King Albert fell. A most trustworthy man,
John Müller, from Schaffhausen, brought the news.
FÜRST.
Who dared commit so horrible a deed?
STAUFF.
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.
MELCH.
What drove him to so dire a parricide?
STAUFF.
The Emp'ror kept his patrimony back,
Despite his urgent importunities;
'Twas said, he meant to keep it for himself,
And with a mitre to appease the duke.
However this may be, the duke gave ear
To the ill counsel of his friends in arms;
And with the noble lords, Von Eschenbach,
Von Tegerfeld, Von Wart and Palm, resolved,
Since his demands for justice were despised,
With his own hands to take revenge at least.
FÜRST.
But say—the dreadful deed, how was it done?
STAUFF.
The king was riding down from Stein to Baden.
Upon his way to join the court at Rheinfeld—
With him a train of high-born gentlemen,
And the young Princes John and Leopold;
And when they'd reach'd the ferry of the Reuss,
The assassins forced their way into the boat,
To separate the Emperor from his suite.
His highness landed, and was riding on
Across a fresh plough'd field—where once, they say,
A mighty city stood in Pagan times—
With Habsburg's ancient turrets full in sight,
That was the cradle of his princely race.
When Duke John plunged a dagger in his throat,
Palm ran him thro' the body with his lance,
And Eschenbach, to end him, clove his skull;
So down he sank, all weltering in his blood,
On his own soil, by his own kinsmen slain.
Those on the opposite bank beheld the deed,
But, parted by the stream, could only raise
An unavailing cry of loud lament.
A poor old woman, sitting by the way,
Raised him, and on her breast he bled to death.
MELCH.
Thus has he dug his own untimely grave,
Who sought insatiably to grasp at all.
STAUFF.
The country round is fill'd 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 untouch'd,
Arm'd with the thunders of the ban, to wreak
Dire vengeance for her parent's royal blood
On the whole race of those that murder'd him—
Their servants, children, children's children—yea,
Upon the stones that built their castle walls.
Deep has she sworn a vow to immolate
Whole generations on her father's tomb,
And bathe in blood as in the dew of May.
MELCH.
Is't known which way the murderers have fled?
STAUFF.
No sooner had they done the deed, than they
Took flight each following a different route,
And parted ne'er to see each other more.
Duke John must still be wand'ring in the mountains.
FÜRST.
And thus their crime has borne no fruit for them.
Revenge bears never fruit. Itself, it is
The dreadful food it feeds on; its delight
Is murder—its satiety despair.
STAUFF.
The assassins reap no profit by their crime;
But we shall pluck with unpolluted hands
The teeming fruits of their most bloody deed.
For we are ransomed from our heaviest fear;
The direst foe of liberty has fallen,
And, 'tis reported, that the crown will pass
From Habsburg's house into another line;
The Empire is determined to assert
Its old prerogative of choice, I hear.
FÜRST and several others.
Is any named?
STAUFFACHER.
The Count of Luxembourg's
Already chosen by the general voice.
FÜRST.
'Tis well we stood so staunchly by the Empire!
Now we may hope for justice, and with cause.
STAUFF.
The Emperor will need some valiant friends. He will 'gainst Austria's vengeance be our shield.
[The peasantry embrace. Enter SACRISTAN with Imperial messenger.]
SACRIST.
Here are the worthy chiefs of Switzerland!
RÖSSELMANN and several others.
Sacrist, what news?
SACRISTAN.
A courier brings this letter.
ALL (to WALTER FÜRST).
Open and read it.
FÜRST (reading).
"To the worthy men
Of Uri, Schwytz, and Unterwald, the Queen
Elizabeth sends grace and all good wishes!"
MANY VOICES.
What wants the queen with us? Her reign is done.
FÜRST (reads).
"In the great grief and doleful widowhood,
In which the bloody exit of her lord
Has plunged the queen, still in her mind she bears
The ancient faith and love of Switzerland."
MELCH.
She ne'er did that in her prosperity.
RÖSSEL.
Hush, let us hear!
FÜRST (reads).
"And she is well assured,
Her people will in due abhorrence hold
The perpetrators of this damnèd deed.
On the three Cantons, therefore, she relies,
That they in nowise lend the murderers aid;
But rather, that they loyally assist,
To give them up to the avenger's hand,
Remembering the love and grace which they
Of old received from Rudolph's royal house."
[Symptoms of dissatisfaction among the peasantry.]
MANY VOICES.
The love and grace!
STAUFF.
Grace from the father we, indeed, received,
But what have we to boast of from the song
Did he confirm the charter of our freedom,
As all preceding emperors had done?
Did he judge righteous judgment, or afford
Shelter, or stay, to innocence oppress'd?
Nay, did he e'en give audience to the men
We sent to lay our grievances before him?
Not one of all these things did the king do,
And had we not ourselves achieved our rights
By our own stalwart hands, the wrongs we bore
Had never touch'd him. Gratitude to him!
Within these vales he sowed no seeds of that;
He stood upon an eminence—he might
Have been a very father to his people,
But all his aim and pleasure was to raise
Himself and his own house: and now may those
Whom he has aggrandized, lament for him;
FÜRST.
We will not triumph in his fall, nor now
Recall to mind the wrongs that we endured.
Far be't from us! Yet, that we should avenge
The sovereign's death, who never did us good,
And hunt down those who ne'er molested us,
Becomes us not, nor is our duty. Love
Must be a tribute free, and unconstrain'd;
From all enforced duties death absolves,
And unto him we owe no further debt.
MELCH.
And if the queen laments within her bower,
Accusing Heaven in sorrow's wild despair;
Here see a people, from its anguish freed,
To that same Heav'n send up its thankful praise.
Who would reap tears must sow the seeds of love.
[Exit the Imperial Courier.]
STAUFFACHER (to the people).
But where is Tell? Shall he, our freedom's founder,
Alone be absent from our festival?
He did the most—endured the worst of all.
Come—to his dwelling let us all repair,
And bid the 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.
HEDWIG, WALTER, and WILLIAM
HEDWIG.
My own dear boys! your father comes today;
He lives, is free, and we, and all are free;
The country owes its liberty 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 flinch'd.
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 today.
[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 will give you food!
WALTER.
Come in and rest, then go refresh'd away!
MONK (glancing round in terror, with unquiet looks).
Where am I? In what country? Tell me.
WALTER.
How!
Are you bewildered, that you know not where?
You are at Bürglen, in the land of Uri,
Just at the entrance of the Shechenthal.
MONK. (to HEDWIG).
Are you alone? Your husband, is he here?
HEDWIG.
I am expecting him. But what ails you, man?
There's something in your looks, that omens ill!
Whoe'er you be, you are in want—take that.
[Offers him the cup.]
MONK.
Howe'er my sinking heart may yearn for food,
Nought will I taste till you have promised first—
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.]
HEDWIG.
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 (springs up).
Mother, here's father!
HEDWIG.
Oh, my God!
[Is about to follow, trembles and stops.]
WILLIAM (running after his brother).
My father!
WALTER (without).
Here, here once more!
WILLIAM (without).
My father, my dear father!
TELL (without).
Yes, here once more! Where is your mother, boys?
[They enter.]
WALTER.
There at the door she stands, and can no further,
She trembles so with terror and with joy.
TELL.
Oh Hedwidg, 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 (falling on his neck).
Oh, Tell, what anguish have I borne for thee!
[Monk becomes attentive.]
TELL.
Forget it now, and live for joy alone!
I'm here again with you! This is my cot!
I stand again upon mine own hearth stone!
WILLIAM.
But, father, where's your cross-bow? Not with you?
TELL.
Thou shalt not ever see it more, my boy.
Within a holy shrine it has been placed,
And in the chase shall ne'er be used again.
HEDWIG.
Oh, Tell! Tell!
[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—Oh God!
TELL (with firmness and animation).
Has shielded you and set my country free;
Freely I raise it in the face of Heaven.
[MONK gives a sudden start—he looks at him.]
Who is this friar here?
HEDWIG.
Ah, I forgot him;
Speak thou with him; I shudder at his presence.
MONK (stepping nearer).
Are you the Tell who slew the governor?
TELL.
Yes, I am he. I hide the fact from no man.
MONK.
And you are Tell! Ah! it is God's own hand,
That hath conducted me beneath your roof.
TELL (examining him closely).
You are no monk. Who are you?
MONK.
You have slain
The governor, who did you wrong. I, too,
Have slain a foe, who robb'd me of my rights.
He was no less your enemy than mine.
I've rid the land of him.
TELL (drawing back).
You are—oh, horror!
In—children, children—in, without a word,
Go, my dear wife! Go! Go! Unhappy man,
You should be—
HEDWIG.
Heav'ns, who is it?
TELL.
Do not ask.
Away! away! the children must not hear it.
Out of the house—away! You must not rest
'Neath the same roof with this unhappy man!
HEDWIG.
Alas! What is it? Come.
[Exit with the children.]
TELL (to the MONK).
You are the Duke
Of Austria—I know it. You have slain
The Emperor, your uncle, and liege lord.
JOHN.
He robb'd me of my patrimony.
TELL.
How!
Slain him—your king, your uncle! And the earth
Still bears you! And the sun still shines on you!
JOHN.
Tell, hear me, ere you—
TELL.
Reeking with the blood
Of him that was your Emperor, your kinsman,
Dare you set foot within my spotless house,
Dare to a 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 confound the crime
Of blood-imbued ambition with the act
Forced on a father in mere self-defence?
Have you to shield your children's darling heads,
To guard your fireside's sanctuary—ward off
The last, the direst doom from all you loved?
To Heaven I raise my unpolluted hands,
To curse your act and you! I have avenged
That holy nature which you have profaned.
I have no part with you. You murdered, I
Have shielded all that was most dear to me.
JOHN.
You cast me off to comfortless despair!
TELL.
I shrink with horror while I talk with you.
Hence, on the dread career you have begun,
Cease to pollute the home of innocence!
[JOHN turns to depart.]
JOHN.
I cannot and I will not live this life!
TELL.
And yet my soul bleeds for you. Gracious Heaven,
So young, of such a noble line, the grandson
Of Rudolph, once my lord and emperor,
An outcast—murderer—standing at my door,
The poor man's door—a suppliant, in despair!
[Covers his face.]
JOHN.
If you have power to weep, oh let my fate
Move your compassion—it is horrible!
I am—say, rather was—a prince. I might
Have been most happy, had I only curb'd
The impatience of my passionate desires:
But envy gnaw'd my heart—I saw the youth
Of mine own cousin Leopold endow'd
With honor, and enrich'd with broad domains,
The while myself, of equal age with him,
In abject slavish nonage was kept back.
TELL.
Unhappy man, your uncle knew you well,
When from you land and subjects he withheld!
You, by your mad and desperate act have set
A fearful seal upon his wise resolve.
Where are the bloody partners of your crime?
JOHN.
Where'er the avenging furies may have borne them;
I have not seen them since the luckless deed.
TELL.
Know you the Empire's ban is out—that you
Are interdicted to your friends, and given
An outlaw'd victim to your enemies!
JOHN.
Therefore I shun all public thoroughfares,
And venture not to knock at any door—
I turn my footsteps to the wilds, and through
The mountains roam, a terror to myself.
From mine own self I shrink with horror back,
If in a brook I see my ill-starr'd form.
If you have pity or a human heart—
[Falls down before him.]
TELL.
Stand up, stand up! I say.
JOHN.
Not till you give
Your hand in promise of assistance to me.
TELL.
Can I assist you? Can a sinful man?
Yet get ye up—how black soe'er your crime—
You are a man. I, too, am one. From Tell
Shall no one part uncomforted. I will
Do all that lies within my power.
DUKE JOHN (springs up and grasps him ardently by the hand).
Oh, Tell,
You save me from the terrors of despair.
TELL.
Let go my hand! You must away. You cannot
Remain here undiscover'd, and, discover'd,
You cannot count on succor. Which way, then,
Would you be going? Where do you hope to find
A place of rest?
DUKE JOHN.
Alas! I know not where.
TELL.
Hear, then, what Heaven unto my heart suggests.
You must to Italy—to Saint Peter's City—
There cast yourself at the Pope's feet—confess
Your guilt to him, and ease your laden soul!
JOHN.
Will he not to the avengers yield me up?
TELL.
Whate'er he does, accept it as from God.
JOHN.
But how am I to reach that unknown land?
I have no knowledge of the way, and dare not
Attach myself to other 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.
DUKE 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 terrors, 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 whelm'd beneath the drifted snows,
That from the frozen peaks come sweeping down,
You'll reach the bridge that's drench'd with drizzling spray.
Then if it give not way beneath your guilt,
When you have left it safely in your rear,
Before you frowns the gloomy Gate of Rocks,
Where never sun did shine. Proceed through this,
And you will reach a bright and gladsome vale.
Yet must you hurry on with hasty steps,
You must not linger in the haunts of peace.
JOHN.
O Rudolph, Rudolph, royal grandsire! thus
Thy grandson first sets foot within thy realms!
TELL.
Ascending still, you gain the Gotthardt's heights,
Where are the tarns, the everlasting tarns,
That from the streams of Heaven itself are fed,
There to the German soil you bid farewell;
And thence, with swift descent, another stream
Leads you to Italy, your promised land.
[Ranz des Vaches sounded on Alp-horns is heard without.]
But I hear voices! Hence!
HEDWIG (hurrying in).
Where art thou, Tell?
My father comes, and in exulting bands
All the confederates approach.
DUKE JOHN (covering himself).
Woe's me!
I dare not tarry 'mong these happy men!
TELL.
Go, dearest wife, and give this man to eat.
Spare not your bounty; for his road is long,
And one where shelter will be hard to find.
Quick—they approach!
HEDWIG.
Who is he?
TELL.
Do not ask!
And when he quits you, turn your eyes away,
So that they do not see which way he goes.
[DUKE JOHN advances hastily toward TELL, but he beckons him aside and goes out. When both have left the stage, the scene changes.]