University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—In the Mountains.
Bertha,
discovered.
“Thou art no woman, if thou canst not love.”
Methinks I've found my womanhood full soon,
Or, why the converse of three little days
With one I never knew ere then, should seem
The sweetest of my life? Why should I love?
That is a question many a maid hath ask'd
Her heart before, and found not a reply.
He's bold, and so are they who tread these hills,
He's sweet voic'd, and well favoured; so are they
Who've asked me for my heart, and I've refused it.
Yet do I turn at every tread I hear, and hope 'tis he;
Know, without looking on the dial's face,—
The hour of his daily walk; can tell his voice,—
If it but syllables a word. All this I've learn'd
In three short days! He's not that he doth seem!
My father says it, and he knows an Austrian.
Should he be one, I will not love him more.
Hate him I cannot—He comes, he comes!
And my heart flutters like a new cag'd bird,
Which dreads the hand that brings the food it loves.

Enter Albert, L. H.
Alb.
I cannot now mistrust thy medicine, Leech!
The fresh keen air that blows around these peaks,
Hath given me back more than my wonted strength,
And had the power to lend a brighter glow,
E'en to the cheek I thought was brightest.

Ber,
Fie, fie! to pay me then with such a coin
As flattery! I doubt the cure that is
So little worth. Your thanks have been too much.

Alb.
Too much! Too little, were my words all thanks.
I would not leave these hills, if I could deem
I might consume the day in thanking thee.

Ber.
Nay, sir, forgive me, if I doubt again
You have e'er been a nursling of the court,
And train'd to whisper well tuned phrases
In ears that prized their music. You would soon tire
Of telling homely truths. Time would be heavy wing'd
To one who found him fleeter than his wish.

Alb.
Time is not half the laggard in your hills
As in our drowsy courts; but mid the state
And ceaseless glitter of a courtier's life,
Fancy's fleet changes are too slowly made
To feed the palate with variety.
E'en the soldier tires amid his praise,
Or, dearer than that praise, the privilege
Of th'endless repetition of his deeds.
Yet, Bertha, they are men who are no braggarts,
Men who will live in times that follow them.

Ber.
Brave men should ever do so.—Think of Tell.
Yonder is Uri, where his country's love
Hath raised his monument; and if the dead
Have after conciousness, how blest to hear
His name for ever mingling with pray'rs
To the Eternal! Yonder is Rutlis
Where Tell and Melcthal, Furst, and Stadfacher,
Their holy meetings held, and planned the victory
Their after valour gain'd. Yonder the rock
On which the hero sprang, when heaven (as though
The deed to sanctify) the angry waters still'd,
And gave him power to guide his fragile bark
Thus far in safety. And here stands Kusnatch
Where Gesler fell, and Switzerland was free!

Alb.
If Switzerland contains so many fair
And sweet tongued heralds of her children's valour
The wonder is, not that she boasts a Tell
Methinks she would have nam'd a hundred.

Ber.
The stuff they are made of is too costly;
The world could not produce them!

Enter William at back.
Alb.
Bertha, thy soul is far too bright a gem
To burn amid these hills. O, if a love
So pure, its memory would not even foul
The snowiest of thy thoughts, where all is pure;
If the idolatry of every sense
Of him who kneels before thee can outweigh
The show of his defects, look but the hope,
And at thy father's feet he'd sue as humbly
As he doth at thine. Oh, Bertha, answer me!

[William advances between them.]
Wil.
I will for her father answer, not for her.
Arnold of Winkelried would take her hand
As I now take it, and, pointing to the lake
That lies beneath, would tell her its waters
Kiss a land whose freedom was gladly bought
By her forefather's blood from Austrian
Tyranny. He'd tell her that those hills
Are named Mogartem, where a Tell,
And some such other noble hearts and hands
Drove Austria's thousand steel-clad knights
Before them like the timid chamois.
Her answer I could once have prophesied;
I now can only wonder—

Ber.
William! Brother!
How meanly am I rated in your love,
Since you can wrong me even by a doubt!
'Tis thus that Arnold's daughter would reply:—
She'd tell him, that her love, her hope
Which are her all, were given to her country:
That Austria's proudest noble she would spurn,
As she does him, who would have tempted her
To ask a father's hate! Has your wonder ceas'd
Or would you question further?

Wil.
Bertha, I've wrong'd thee!
Back to your court, and tell them what you deem
Is freedom's price! I'll send a guide to lead you
From our hills. Farewell, sir! [Going.]


Alb.
Bertha, one word!
The times are fraught with peril; another day
May see the hungry vulture's appetite
Allay'd by human blood. Promise to me,
That should your father's home become no shelter,
And your father's arm no safeguard to thee,
That he who peril'd thee, shall only shield thee,

Ber.
Think'st thou I have one father only?
The cause would give me thousands, Or that the land
He'd gladly die for, has but one sepulchre?
Look at yon ravine!

[Exeunt William and Bertha, R. H.
Alb.
There must be more in freedom than we deem
Who, nurs'd among the servile slaves of power,
Would bend all wills to ours, since it can lend
So much of nature's majesty to those
The mountain tops have only school'd and cradled.

[Exit L. H.

SCENE II.

—Exterior of Arnold's Cottage.
Arnold disoovered at a Table beneath the projecting caves.
Arn.
(Rises,)
Well, well! ingrate Berne may play the craven;
Another Laupen yet may come, and swords be
Wanting. Uri, Schwytz, Lucerne, and Underwalden—
We need not Berne! but let her from her hills
Behold the conflict, and blush to think no sword
Of her's is there to aid the cause of Freedom.
But when, oh! when will Switzerland be roused
And bid us tread these mountains free
As our great fathers left them.

Enter Eberhard, 2 E. L. H. hastily—he seizes Arnold's arm and looks wildly at him.
Eber.
Is yon blue arch the heavens? Is this the earth
We stand on? Look I the thing called man?
Or have I dream'd of such a world, or now
Talk but the thoughts of one who sleeps aloud?
Shake me Arnold! Shake this torpor from me,
That I may wake to consciousness.

Arn.
My friend
This wildness—

Eber.
I am changed then! you see it?
'Tis a reality, and now we'll talk of vengeance;
You have a daughter Bertha?

Arn.
What of her?

Eber.
You love her?

Arn,
As my hopes—What then? Speak man!
Nor let me read your looks into my death!

Eber.
If Austrian lust should rob you of her?

Arn.
They dare not—by Heaven they dare not!
A miracle would save her! Th'insensate
Avalanche would be endued with reason,
And desolate the world to save my child
From such a living hell—'Tis impossible!

Eber.
Thus did I deem, until my only child
Became a damning proof that it was possible.
This morn I stood beside my Chalet's door,
Lost in a vision of our expected peace,
Peopling the vale beneath me with the free,
When one wild cry broke through my waking dream:
'Twas my Antoine's voice; though now so fraught
With mad distress, none but a parent's ear
Had traced her wonted sound in that exclaim.
Age from my limbs its iron grasp relax'd,
And gave me back the vigour of my youth:
Another moment found me by my child.
Her eyes were tearless—her deep agony
Had dried their fountains up; but they were fixed
In such a look of madness and despair,
That my blood curdled in my veins from fear.
I gazed around, not knowing what I sought,
When down the steep I saw the stranger who was
At her wedding. Not he who slew the vulture.
I strove to call for help—my tongue refused
Its office—My limbs seem'd chang'd to marble
I felt as one who, on a drifting wreck,
Watches the lessening sail of lone a bark
Which could have rescued him.
A deep groan from
My child brought me again to reason; anon
She seem'd to burst from some absorbing trance
That had been all of horror in her hand
She claps'd this jewel. The truth flashed on me!
Yes, Arnold she, that a few days past
Thou blest in innocence as William's wife,
The spoiler hath destroy'd.

Arn.
And Bertha?

Eber.
May be the next for immolation!

Arn.
The next! not gone, then! Praise, praise Heaven, praise!
Oh, selfish nature how gladly do we snatch
The cup of grief from lips we love the most,
Nor care whose hand receives the draught from ours!

Eber.
Do not rejoice Arnold, 'till thou hast dug a cave
In some far mountain's side, and there thy child
Inhum'd, and piled another mountain on her tomb,
Until corruption has consumed her form.
Nought else can save her. Virtue's no safeguard;
More peril than she's fair; mine was pure as lovely.
How have I trembled when disease has marr'd
A while her infant cheek, lest its rude touch
Should leave a trace behind. It had been kindness
To have sear'd it o'er with burning irons,
Though her cries benumb'd her parent's ear for ever.

Arn
Nay cheer thee, man, nor bend thus to thy grief,
For if we weigh our blessings with our ills,
How much we all are debtors for some good.

Eber.
But picture thy loved child the thing she is,
And what mine has become—oh, it is misery!

Arn.
No more, no more! I feel its full extent,
Though I have strove to hide mine own from thee
Beneath the mockery of a seeming patience.
I dare not think upon the desolated hopes
Of my poor William, for it would madden me.
We will to Stantz, brother, with this wrong;
And if these forms of men have hearts within
Of human mould or substance, we'll be avenged
By their own meted justice. If not, no man
In Switzerland but is a sharer
In this our cause; and on each hill shall blaze
The funeral pyre of Austria's tyranny.

[Exeunt R. H.

SCENE III.

—Interior of William's Cottage.
Antoine and Bertha, discovered.
Ant.
Hark! 'tis his footsteps! where shall I hide me!
I cannot look upon my husband more.
No, he comes not. The lightning's not more sure
Of searing where it strikes, than is this tale
To wither up his heart. Oh, William! [Weeps]


Ber.
Sister be calm, I pray thee love, be calm.

Ant.
I will—as lies the wreck upon the treach'rous sea,—
Like to a bird asleep, but in a moment sinks
Into its yawning grave. I will be calm. [Horn sounds.]

Ah! that is his horn! where is the joyous thrill
Which at that sound did vibrate in my heart
Until my cheek did blush at mine own joy?
How chang'd, cold, cold as the death I sigh for!
My cheek burns as though a living story
Of my shame was written there so palbably
The veriest child might read it. [Horn sounds again.]

It tells him nearer; but no joy—no joy!

Ber.
I know not what to urge; these mighty griefs
O'erpower each feeble barrier love would stay
Their desolating course with. Sister be firm
Nor let my brother's misery be enlarged,
By deeming all is lost together.

Ant.
Aye!
The poison'd cup were better lost than tasted.
Oh my brain, my brain! it seems to snap and burn!

Ber.
Sister, dear sister!

Ant.
That's he! that's he!
I know him by the jewel in his cap.
Approach me not. I'll leap this precipice!
A serpent round me seems to wreath its coils
Where his accurs'd arms embraced me!
Are there no spots upon my cheek! I feel
His kisses burning here and here; his pois'nous breath
Still floats around my nostrils, would it could kill!

[Falls into chair.]
Ber.
Did not their fathers bless them, when they wedded?
But good men's prayers have lost their power.

Ant.
Who wedded? Ay, I was a bride but yesterday,
Where are the flowers they twin'd among my hair?
Gone! I'll gather others, or he I wedded
Will say I prize him not. [To Bertha.]
I should know this face?

Ber.
'Tis Bertha, thy loved companion, sister.

Ant.
Hark! heard ye not footsteps? no, no.
Do not tremble, girl; 'twas but my fancy.
But I have cause to dread a heavier tread
Than thine. And so thou art in love,
And would'st be wedded? I'll be your bridesmaid:
I'll gather weeds and nettles for thy braid,—no flowers;
They cradle wasps.

Ber.
This doth overpower my strength!

Ant.
(Sings.)
I forgot the rest—it tells of happiness,
No marvel that its memory is gone!

Ber.
Oh, my poor brother! thou wilt come anon
As one who watches for the home bound bark
That holds the treasured inmates of his heart,
And finds upon the beach a shattered wreck
To tell the mournful fate of those he loved!

Ant.
Austrian! I say I'm a Switzer's wife,
Who will not tamely brook a wrong like this!

Ber.
There is no Austrian here—none but thy Bertha!
There—lay thy burning brow upon my bosom
And we will seek the cool and fresh'ning air.

Ant.
Aye, to the peak! the loftiest peak that rears
Its head among the clouds—we can weep there
And none will mock our tears—Come William, come!
[William calls without “Antoine!”]
Ah! he calls my name and I dare not reply!

[Falls on the ground—William enters and stands horror stricken.]