University of Virginia Library

ACT III

SCENE I.

—A Forest,
Enter Arnold supporting Eberhard, L. H.
Arn.
Cheer brother, cheer! 'Tis scarce an arrow's flight
To Stantz, beyond the forest; we have not journey'd
Half a hunter's day. How often have we trod
The mountain's side together, and thought the sun
A niggard of its light!

Eber.
I had a wife then,
And my Antoine to cheer me midst my toil;
I heeded not the blast that rudely smote
My cheek. I knew it reach'd not them, and midst
Its hollow howlings I could hear the lispings
Of my cherub, and the sweet tone of welcome
From her mother. Where are they now? where? where?
The echo in my heart is still; it dares
Not answer. Last night methought, Arnold, that
I stood again beside the little couch
Of my Antoine. She was once more a child;
Her mother at her head was kneeling, whilst
The joy of her full heart found vent in tears.
As o'er the slumberer's cheek the light of peace
Stole from its sunny home in her pure heart.
And as I gazed, methought a deadly asp
Circled her snowy neck, and spread its pois'nous venom
Through her veins., I woke in my fierce agony
And did curse the tears then warm upon my cheek,
For sorrowing at such a death.

Arn.
No more of this,
Or I shall play the woman, and we have need
To wear no hearts to day. We'll shed no tears
But drops of crimson hue, which our true
Swords shall draw!

Eber.
Thine are glorious hopes, Arnold.
Our country must be free, but I shall be
No sharer in her freedom. Mine will be
The freedom of the grave. Oh! my poor child
I thought thy hands would strew fresh flow'rs o'er me,
And thy tears bedew the turf upon my bosom!
But thou wilt wither with me!

Arn.
Put on the man!
Thine's not the only grief in Switzerland
Worth tears: am I no sharer in this sorrow?
Mine eye is tearless!
We should know no grief
That's selfish. How many eyes are sentinel's o'er us,
And can'st thou be a craven? The fates
Of thousands yet unborn are with us now,
The sluggish spirit of the cringing serf
Is most alive to nature's holy voice,
Will he not hug his offspring to his breast,
When whispering gossips anger o'er this tale,
Until the warmth of his affection thaws
The icy channels of his heart? His shade will grow
Too heavy for his arm, and his oppressor's words
Fall grating on his ear, until his thraldom
Poisons his cup and board, and leaves him nothing
But the bitterness of life.

Eber.
Bear with me, brother;
And deem me not unworthy of our land;
But she was all that time had left me;
The only stay that propp'd my sinking age.
I could gaze on her, when my heart was sad,
And far away, with my dead hopes, until
They seem'd to live again in her, but now I stand
Like to some blighted tree, around whose trunk
The creeping ivy stole, gave and to it
The semblance of a verdure; but a rude hand
Hath pluck'd its borrowed life, and left it
Nothing. Lend me thine arm, Arnold.
Her mother (when we meet in heaven) shall not
Reproach me, that her child could find no advocate.

Arn.
'Tis well, 'tis well. How icy is his grasp!
The fountain of his life is freezing up;
The sun is set that warmed it.

[Exit R. H.

SCENE II.

—Court of Rudolph at Stantz.
Rudolph, Hertman, and Officers discovered.
Rud.
They talk of freedom, do they? words kill not.

Hert.
Nor does the trumpet's blast: but it awakens
The slumbering resolution into
Action.

Rud.
They must be silenc'd, and that
Quickly; ere the infection spreads too wide.

Enter a Servant, L. H.
Servant.
A brother of the convent of St. Dominic
Hath brought this letter from the holy abbot,
And craves your lordship's instant reading.

[Gives letter—Rudolph signs to him to leave]
[Exit Servant, L. H.
Rud.
What means this, Hertman?

Hert.
I can opine not;
Unless the troops, despairing of their pay
Have foraged on the monks.

Rud.
(Reads.)
“To Lord Rudolph—
These:—a most unseemly outrage on our
Convent has been perpetrated;
The image of the blessed virgin broken;
The holy vessels of the church defiled
By bacchanal excesses” (no novelty
Methinks) A silver censor stolen, by your
Troops, as by a testimony most clearly
Proved; for which we ask reprisal at your hand.
“Gustavus, Abbot of St. Dominic.”

Hert.
The holy man is not o'er humble.

Rud.
Humility ne'er looks from 'neath a cowl
Perchance the eye of cringing supplication
May glisten there, fed by the hopes of gain
But ne'er humility no monarch like a monk,
Who rules men by their fears and makes their sins
The taxers of their wealth. Your rousing friar
Is the only king. He lives right jollily
His head ne'er throbs with racking cares of state:
The only ache he knows is from the fumes
Of the past night's o'er spiced wassail,
A thriving wooer he; for such ready sinners
In their hearts are women 'tis only love
To err and be forgiven. Now I'd be sworn,
The leanest of their brood they send as
Messenger, lest well fed sides and ruby cheeks
Should tell of well paid dues, and their ill uses.

Hert.
(R. H.)
But they're no jesters, when the laugh costs gold.

Rud.
(R. H.)
True Hertman, we must provide the means
To satisfy their claim. Their wily tongues
Are stronger than our swords. I'd rather fight
The devil than Sir Priest, arm'd with book and
Bead.

Hert.
'Twere easy to transfer, the robber's title
From the state's soldiery to the state's serfs,
And to repay the charges of these monks.
Compel the grumbling slaves to toil and tax
So leave your treasury a gainer.

Rud.
Thanks.
My better genius. The holy men
Will only note the produce of the mine,
Nor think upon the workers of the ore.
To night the walls of good St. Dominic
Shall echo with the praises of our love.
So largely will we pay with others gold.
I fain would be at vespers with them, Hertman;
The bell that rings them there to night will be
Of brighter metal than their matin's call;
The grape's rich tears will be more freely pour'd
Than penitental drops. Should we lose
Our honours in the state, we will turn monk
And be a king indeed.

Enter Servant, L. H.
Servant.
My lord, two men without are clamorous
For admittance. They're from the mountains,
And say they have sustained much wrong
Which they will not divulge to any ear
But thine.

Rud.
Methinks they are over nice!
I like the thought on't. Goatherds, sirs, at court?
Look to your daughters, barons, or ye'll have
Perchance some lusty sons-in-law. For ourself
We needs must learn to doff our cap with grace
To welcome them with all due courtesy. [To Servant.]

Back to the slaves, and tell them they forget
Their breeding strangely. Swine and deer ne'er herd
Together that I wot of. The times are chang'd
My lords, and we must heed the aspect of them.
You, Gesler, have the memory of an act,
That left your great grandfather childless,
And men whose hair is white, have heard their sires
Tell o'er the wounds they got from hunters spears,
[Arnold without L. H.]
Strike at your peril! I do not hunt the wolf
With childhood's spear of lath.

Rud.
This looks revolt
When even to our beards they breathe their threats.
Enter Arnold with a staff in his hand supporting Eberhard, who appears overpowered with fatigue and grief,]
How is it, sirs? Some kid has gone astray
And you do need our yagers to reclaim
The wanderer,—or perchance the tempest
Has uptorn your vineyards—or the chase
Been unsuccessful, and ye would our coffers
Drain? Is it not so? I pray ye not to lack
The breath to ask it.

[Arnold places Eberhard against a pillar and presses his hand encouragingly.]
Arn.
Thinkst thou our only ills
Are those of Heaven's decreeing? Would they were so,
We should know their justice! If the tempest
Eats into our wealth, we know it is impartial;
If the chase leaves us an empty board,
We think upon the plenty of the past, and hope
The future will repay us. We come not now
To ask the beggar's mite. We have a debt
Your master's kingdom would not half repay
To our full bosoms. This old man's whole wealth
Of heart is gone, to feed the craving lust
Of one among your court retainers.

Rud.
How know ye that?

Arn.
The eyes that now are veil'd
In honest shame beheld him. A father's eye
Doth never look upon his offsprings wronger
But to convey the memory to the brain
Indelible and true.
His child has had her innocence pluck'd out
To please your wills. The casket now is empty,
And she so lacks the jewel it contain'd,
She has gone mad with weeping for the gem.

Eber.
(Starts.)
Mad, Arnold! my child mad?

Arn.
Aye, brother,
That mind, the summer of thy life was given
To train to beautiful perfection
Is now a waste!

Eber.
(Falls.)
Oh, powers of mercy!

[Attendants advance to raise him.]
Arn.
Back! fellows! back! his garments shall not smell
E'en of your touch.

Eber.
(L. H.)
Arnold, those words were kindly
Spoken, for they have snapp'd the slender thread
Which held my spirit to this earth—my child! [Dies]


Arn.
(C.)
Eberhard! old friend—old friend
[Places his hand on Eberhard's hand.]
All is still!
He has outran me in the race of life.

Rud.
(R. H.)
He is not dead?

Arn.
As surely as thou liv'st
To judge between us, let not his spirit
Appeal to heaven to right his sum of wrong;
And though the living evidence is not,
This bauble, which the struggling victim pluck'd
[Shows a jewel.]
From her destroyer's breast, may testify
Against him.

Hert.
My lord, what show of injury
These men do bring attaches to myself.

Arn.
Is this a man, and does he own this deed
Without a deeper tint than dyes his cheek
At pray'rs or acts of godliness?
I fain would touch thee, sir; that I may know
Thou art of mortal substance; and no shadow
Thou seemest of us; perchance thy form is given
As sculptur'd marble o'er the mouldering dead,
To hide the foulness of the thing within.

Rud.
Reserve thy wonder for thy fellow's ears
What would you ask of us? gold?

Arn.
Gold! if gold
Can link the subtleties of reason
Again together in the perfect chain
Their giver left them, or resuscitate
The dead that lies before thee, or pluck out
The gnawing sorrows of a hopeless life—
The gift were welcome. Were the vast world
Of thrice refined gold,—its hills all heaps
Of time defying diamond, the least of that
It could not purchase, would its worth outweigh,
The deity you worship so devoutly
Is not the one we bow to on the hills!
What would ye demand, if that good old man
Had been the partner of your glad boyhood.
The steady friend of life's maturer years,
The expected partner of your autumn's peace
And thus he lay struck by a random shaft,
And I the shooter? Pause ere you reply;
And mark how well the sinewy limbs are formed;
How much the lofty brow proclaims the man;
And let thy fancy conjure back the fire
That life could give to those still glassy orbs.
Then look around the nobles of your court
And point me one he did not more than peer!

Rud.
What boaster's this, my lords, that dares to placo
The carrion with the eagle's of the land?

Rud.
Arnold of Winkelried.

Rud.
Arnold the rebel!
Whose tongue is ever wagging of some ill.
His trait'rous thought alone is father to.
Our spies have made that name not over welcome.

Arn.
Ah!

Rud.
And he who could have been so much to thee
Is Eberhard of Lucerne? Said I not rightly?

Arn.
Most rightly; and since you know his worth,
Repay it on this man!

Rud.
It is repaid
The rebel's death hath paid the rebel's deeds;
And thank our mercy that the braggart breath
Thou hast to day so prodigally spent
Is left thee to recount.

Arn.
Your mercy!
I'll use it sirs, for that; I'll lay this corse
Before his children's eyes, and bid them thank
Your mercy for the quiet of the grave!

Rud.
Hurl out the prating slave!

Arn.
(He raises the body of Eberhard up.)
Thou'rt deaf! Thou'rt deaf!
And hear'st not that I'm called slave by a slave?

Rud.
Why am I not obey'd? Away with him!

[An attendant advances to Arnold.]
Arn.
Lay but a finger on me, cringing hound!
And I will lay thee prostrate at my feet!
Slave! Let me take my burthen.

[As Arnold raises the body of Eberhard, the scene closes.]

SCENE III.

The Valley.
Enter William from his Cottage—Time sunset.
Wil.
Not yet at rest? Oh, thou untiring sun,
When wilt thou leave to night her empire?
Thou art too bright for misery to gaze on.
It would have all things dreary as its hopes!
Joy is thy comrade, who with elastic bound
Springs from his couch to hail thee, feeling thy light
Attuned to all his thoughts, bright and gladsome,
And runs with thee his daily course of toil,
Nor breathes a sorrow but in bidding thee
Good night! How I have lov'd thee, when at eve
I've watch'd the peak, thou'st circled with a crown
The ores and gems of earth could ne'er have equall'd!
And thought when next thou camest to light the world,
I should be there to hail both thee and her whom
Each succeeding day left more worth loving. [Turns to window.]

There she sits, like one of those ethereal beings
Weeping hearts deem the lov'd dead are chang'd to,
Moveless and wordless as a stone Niobe!

[He stands gazing at the window.]
Enter Bertha, 1 E. R. H.
Ber.
Is there no sound beyond the power of words?
No signs, beyond our tears, and smiles, to tell
To those who sorrow that we hope, but have not?
Weep my brother, weep; grief from her tears
Comfort alone distils, The music of thy mind
Is like an untuned harp, the sweetest minstrel
Could only waken discord by his touch
Yet I must speak to thee; my heart's so charg'd
With love and sorrow, that I feel I need
Myself a comforter when I should play it.
William! Brother!

Wil.
Speak not to me, Bertha,
I would forget the present, and the past:
For they do mock each other, and thy voice
Brings them in mad collision. The hopes
Of my young life are overthrown by to day's
Miseries. Things that I once did love
Are now become so hateful to my thinking,
That I do loathe the very air I breathe,
Because it blows so freshly. I would have it
Clogg'd with enfeebling breaths, till memory
Became lost in the brain's confusion.
May curses—

Ber.
Hold, William! man's curses smite
No head but his who breathes them—you are but man;
Nor show yourself below thy name's dignity
In striving to o'ertop it. The maniac talks
Alone of empires that the earth hath not
As his possessions. Be thou content to be
That which your father is—truly a man
Go! tell your wrongs aloud, until our hills
Do ring their echo round throughout the land.

Wil.
And tell her shame. [Crosses R. H.]


Ber.
Whom do we pity,
The fool who madly leaps the precipice
Or him the avalanche overwhelms?
They would strike with thee, aye, and weep with thee;
And no swords dimm'd by tears of pity's shedding!

Enter Arnold hastily, averting his face from William, L. H.
Arn.
How fares Antoine?

Wil.
As the tree, father,
The lightning's blasted, that still wears some show
Of life though sear'd and blacken'd.

Arn.
Oh, for an eagle's course without its appetites!
To fly around the world without a master;
To look into the fulness of the sun,
And blink not; to take my rest upon some craig
No foot hath trod but mine, and ruff my plumage
In the fresh'ning air I never breath'd—a slave!

Ber.
Father!
You look not as you wont. So wild,
I do nigh tremble!

Arn.
Dost thou, girl, at me?
That's well! would I could change my nature.
I blush for that call'd human. I could be
Any beast, so that it had the power of killing.
Eberhard is dead.

Wil. and Ber.
Dead!

Arn.
Aye, dead!
Why should you doubt it? are we so safely hous'd
That it, should seem impossible?

Wil.
When died he?

Arn.
When his life was of most worth, to day,
In the court of Rudolph. Before their eyes
He fell lifeless from grief, now mark their justice!
They offered for the dead their paltry gold;
The living spurn'd it, and then (oh, mighty
Mercy) they bid us thank them for a quiet grave
And call'd me slave!

Ber.
My father, slave!

Wil.
Go on, sir, pray go on. It is so glad a tale
I would all Switzerland were here to hear it.
I deemed my soul had only own'd one shrine:
I was mistaken. Prithee go on, sir.

Arn.
I said the thing they called me—'Tis true
I knew that long ago; but did not think
Others dare name me so. 'Twas loudly said
Some fifty ears were listeners round about.
Would those that I could name had heard it too.
Mine tingle with it now.

Ber.
And mine father!

Arn.
We have spies too, feeding on our words.

Wil.
Oh, for an Austrian throat within my grasp
[Looks off R. H.]
Great heaven! dost thou approve my wish, or do my
Senses,
O'er wrought by these afflictions shape the air
Into my mind's desire? It is, it is—an Austrian!

[Rushes out R. H.]
Ber.
'Tis Albert! Father! father! heed'st thou not
What William said? Save him! save him!
He has him by the throat—they near the brink—
A fall would lose them both.

Arn.
One is our foe,
Heaven will shield the other.

Ber.
They're parted
He flies this way!

Arn.
Who flies!

Ber.
William!

Arn.
Flies
Before an Austrian! how now! a craven?

Enter William, with a miniature, R. H.
Wil.
Is not this my mother?

Arn.
Like, very like
The soul is absent; the eyes are far too tame
How camest thou by it?

Wil.
The Austrian wore it.
Around his neck it hung, and as my eye
Fell on it, my mother's voice rang in mine ear;
Its euphony again and still'd my wrath.

Albert runs in.
Alb.
William and Arnold! I ask mine own again
Or by my troth I'll have a recompense. [Draws.]

I would not ye should pay—I hold my life
More valueless than that ye have despoiled
Me of. It is my mother's picture, sirs.

Arn.
Enough! 'tis here. Now answer me I pray thee
Your name is Eyloff?

Alb.
How know you that, sir?

Arn.
By that same evidence you call your mother.
Her Sister was the mother of this boy.

Alb.
She was then of the mountains?

Ber.
(Faintly.)
Thank God! Thank god!

Arn.
My child! [Bertha sinks into Arnold's arms.]