University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

—Hall in Rodolph's Palace.
Razman and Servitz seated at a Table, with Wine.
Raz.
O for a lonely grot beside a brook—
A table spread with only book and lamp,
A cruse well filled with water from the spring,
A larder stored with fruits and dainty roots,
And I should hang myself. In truth, good coz,
Thine is a drowsy court. Saving thy presence,
And the good wine ye give, a hermit
Need not wish a cell to 'scape from company.
Have ye no laughers here? or do ye make
Your good count's face a mirror for your own?

Ser.
Thine is such greedy mirth, it cannot brook
A serious hour in the whole year's course.

Raz.
When a man toils and starves, let him look sad—
'Tis vile ingratitude when toil is rare,
And recompence abundant, not to smile.
I've worn a merry face some thirty years,
And see, I have not won the jester's hire—
A threadbare doublet, and a bruised skin.
I hate the sight of tears, unless they roll
From joyousness. Sparkling laughter-tears,
There are no gems so bright—they're nought
But sunshine.

Enter Lutold, L. H.
Lut.
Count Rudolph, Servitz, doth require
Your presence instantly.

Ser.
I will attend his pleasure.

[Exit Lut. L. H.
Raz.
If he looks sad, I pray thee shut thine eyes.
Drink not his vinegar, and make wry faces.

Ser.
Take heed thy sweeter draught needs no repentance!

[Exit Servitz, L. H.
Raz.
If't does I will do penance, and that shall be
To keep no company but thine, my cousin.
Some call thee foe, good wine, but quaff thee still.
Where is the friend would give his blood, like thee,
To aid the current of another's heart?
Thou hail'st the needy ever with a smile;
Bid'st age forget his wrinkles, youth his fears;
Makest the happy lovers dream more bright,
And he that sighs o'er faithlessness and scorn
Forget his sorrows in thine honest kiss.
Come, soul with soul, we'll mingle! [Drinks.]
Thine is
A sweet one!
One more embrace! What though the lazy morn
Is scarce awake, thou'lt make the sun look brighter.
[Drinks again.
Art thou divining, mistress mine, or is your mixture
Of the ass and man—a thing of our dull earth?

Enter Gortz, L. H. timidly—a Basket on his arm, and a Pipe slung at his side.
Gortz.
Your pardon, noble sir. I'm a simple peasant—

Raz.
Therefore more welcome than the wisest sage.
Canst laugh?

Gortz.
Marry, aye, when I've occasion.

Raz.
Give me thine hand, then: I love laughter,
But 'tis a sport that here is out of date.
What can'st thou seek among those sober sirs?

Gortz.
My cousin Peter.

Raz.
I'm he!

Gortz.
Nay, sir, you jest—
Though 'tis five years—aye, five this vintage—
Since I saw him.

Raz.
Thine's a true memory—
'Tis just five years.

Gortz.
Dost thou know my cousin Peter?

Raz.
Am not I he? Thy name is—

Gortz.
Gortz, sir.

Raz.
So I would have said.

Gortz.
Go to, sir—my cousin
Is a smaller man than thee.

Raz.
Rather he was!
I am that Peter, but I have fed since then
On courtly airs, which swell a pigmy
Into a Colossus. The lacquey of to-day,
Who bends him to your very shoe-tie, deeming
It honour to remove its soil, the morrow
Finds big with the dignity of station,
And his late tone of meek submission
Chang'd to full breath'd, sound, and pompous
Wording. His eye, too's grown fix'd and fiery,
Not wandering from the earth unto your cap,
Then from your cap to earth again. He spurns
The fare he erst deem'd dainty, which now
His fashioned appetite condemns as only fit
For menial stomachs.
How doth my aunt,
Thy mother?

Gortz.
Well, I thank thee. But thou art
Not Peter. Yet how knew thee I'd a mother?

Raz.
A certain ancient usage of the world
Forbids that any should be born without one.

Gortz.
But art thou truly Peter?

Raz.
I'll prove it to thee
Thou play'st on the pipe!

Gortz.
Certes, do I!
(It must be he—yet, mercy, how he's chang'd!
Cousin was stunted in his growth, but his hair
Was just that hue. I'll touch upon the twenty
Livres that we owe him. He seems in tune
To grant a longer day.) Well, cousin Peter—
If thou art really he—I've come to ask—
(No, I was not to ask 'till I had given)
[Shows Basket, and places it on the table.
I've brought thee, cousin Peter, a score of eggs,
A new cheese, and some rare nectarines.
Look at their rosy cheeks! fresh gather'd—
Every one pluck'd by this little hand.

Raz.
Most generous cousin!

Gortz.
Oh! I had nigh forgot—
My mother's blessing, too!

Raz.
Most thoughtful aunt!

Gortz.
And I was to ask thy patience for thy debt.

Raz.
What debt?

Gortz.
The twenty livres that my mother
Borrow'd.

Raz.
Speak not of them—I grant
The quittance of that debt.

Gortz.
(Runs to table.)
Thou art not Peter!
Give me back my cheese, my eggs, my fruit!
He could have never chang'd so much as this!
To give up claim to gold—full twenty livres!
Were it but a batz, he would have forced
Full payment of his coin!

Raz.
Look at this doublet!
Wore Peter such as this, when Peter lent
His money to thy mother?

Gortz.
Marry, no!

Raz.
The coat can change the man; so has it chang'd
Me from the thrifty griping thing I was
To that thou seest me. Twenty livres! pshaw!
The lacing of my vest cost twice that sum,
And think'st thou I'd wear lace and vex a kinsman
For a paltry debt? not I! Come, man, we'll try
The flavour of thy fruit, and thou shalt pledge me
In a brimming cup. [Fills.]
Health to our cousinship!
Servitz enters with a Packet in his hand.
[To Servitz.]
I've found a kinsman in this worthy youth,
And he would fain forswear me.

Gortz.
(Drinks.]
I'll ne'er again.

Raz.
Thou'lt join us in a cup?

Ser.
I heed not one,
Though “post haste” was my orders. [Drinks.]
A messenger
Has brought here tidings that Underwalden
And some other states are rising, and I'm despatch'd
To Gesler's quarters, with instant orders
To oppose the rebels.

Raz.
[Drinks.]
I'll with thee, then.
A mountain ride will help digestion.

Gortz.
(As they are going.)
Cousin! cousin!

Raz.
Oh, my blessing to my aunt!

[Exeunt Razman and Servitz, L. H.
Gortz.
(Looks after them.)
I've heard my grandmother, on winter nights,
Tell wondrous tales of fays and fairy lands,
Where men are chang'd to princes by a touch.
This must be it if that's my cousin Peter.
I feel myself a mighty difference.
When first I set my foot within this palace
My knees did smite each other, and my breath
Came but by parcels then; but now I feel
As valiant as a bull. Marry, this drink
Is no bad stirrer of one's valour. [Drinks.]
And have I
Not learned a secret of the state—seen
A dispatch that bears his lordship's seal,
And that within an hour? No marvel, then,
That he has grown so great. I'll home again!
How many a mouth will gape to hear my tale
Of cousin Peter and the State's affairs.

[Exit L. H.

SCENE II.

—The Mountains. Sunset.
Albert discovered, in the dress of a Hunter.
Alb.
Oh, mighty Nature! how powerful is the hold
Thou hast on our affections! The tinsel'd shows
And mockeries of the world may for a while
Win us from thy worship, but with what joy
We turn again to thee, no more to wander!
I am thy child, ye hills! I feel I love
Thy rugged forms as thing that memory
Hath hung with gems. The path I deemed
The nimble goat could not in safety tread,
My foot doth cleave to. I will not leave ye!
[The “Ranz de Vaches” is played at a distance.
That air! it was my mother's song, which sooth'd
My infant thoughts to slumber. Comes it now
To sound its sweet approval to my heart
For daring to be free? Oh, speak to me again!

[The Air is again played, and he stands listening attentively.
Enter Gortz, L. H.
Gortz.
The world's chang'd! human nature's chang'd!
Would I could change with them! Here have I
As grand a secret as ever fill'd the pate
Of a prime minister, and not a listener
Can I gain! “Psha!” says one. “Fool!” says
Another.
But none will listen, though 'tis a secret
Not for everyday carrying. Certes,
I sometimes lie; but then 'tis for their pleasure.
They like news, and if the world breeds it not
Fast enough for their stomach's, where's the harm
In fancying what might be? Yet now I'm “fool!”
Fool, quotha! If I've a tight shoe—take it off.
Ha! a stranger! hem! a good morrow, friend!
Bless me! he seems as deaf as Mount Righi!

[The Air is heard again.
Alb.
It is some spell my mother's holy spirit
Hath shed around me. Again she speaks!

Gortz.
Mad, by the Virgin! That is the Ranz de Vaches.

Alb.
But 'twas my mother's song!

Gortz.
She kept cows, then,
Or goats, very likely. My mother does likewise.

Alb.
And keeps you as a dog to bark them home.
Prithee attend thy calling! send home the cows!

Gortz.
(Turns away.)
Dog! If I've a ducat—but, no matter—
He is the loser, not I. My secret
Will not grow musty. I'll to Arnold's cottage—
If it is of ill to Austria, he has ear for it.
I wish he would look this way, I'd play the dog,
And snarl at him. He knows not the dog's tale, though!

[Exit L. H.
Alb.
Methinks, my mother, thou art with me here,
I feel so like a child. A wild new joy
My reason can define not fills my soul,
Like that which filled it, when my infant thought
Compass'd its first expression. It was thy name,
My mother, that I breath'd, and o'er and o'er
I echoed the word (for thou has told me so)
As the first minstrel tried the new-born sound
From his rude lyre of shell. Each joy'd the more;
His, that the magic tone obey'd his touch—
Mine that thy smile rewarded the essay.
Enter Bertha, thoughtfully, L. H.
No joy is full till we have found a sharer
In the gift—

Ber.
Then I'm not her thou seek'st.
I can become a partner in no joy—
Scarcely in a sorrow: that which I have
Has grown so mighty it nigh bursts my heart.

Alb.
I should have spoke of freedom.

Bertha.
A fitting theme,
Where in our homes the spoiler breathes and taints
The freshest of our loves. We wither up
As the scorched leaf. We see the bold man weep
And do not thank his tears. Our women look
Behind them as they run, and at a brother's
Voice do tremble, till their eyes assure them
That the sound is harmless.

Alb.
These are old griefs!

Ber.
Almost too old! For men have looked them
Till they do scarce behold their ugliness!
Their swords within their sheaths should rattle,
And tell their thirst for vengeance!

Alb.
These are bold words, more fitted for the camp
And boastful soldiers' mouths, than these green hills
And lips whose dew might tempt the roving bee.

Ber.
Albert, thou hast my heart! I know not why—
But yet thou hast it! Let me not deem thee less
Than thou must be to avoid my hate.
The courtly dame may thank thee for this tune—
I ask the rough untutor'd language
Of manly honesty! Antoine is dead!
I cannot weep, for she is with the blest!

Alb.
And William—

Ber.
Sits like an unmated dove
Beside her, wreathing the faded flowers
She wore upon her bridal midst her hair,
Fit emblems of her love, and gems her cheek
With tears so quickly shed, the wearied hand
Doth cease to wipe them off!

Alb.
And Hertman lives!
Had I a thousand lives, each should be given
To avenge this injury! I will to Stantz,
He dares not for his soldier's honour
Refuse to meet my challenge.

Ber.
No, not to Stantz;
She needs not an avenger! already
Hath this wrong become the evening's tale
By every hearth. A single life will not repay it!
To-night the Lion League
Meet to concert the means for our deliverance!
Be thou amongst them, and let them find
Thy hand as ready as thy willing word.
Betray us not—my troth is pledged for thine.

Alb.
I will redeem it, Bertha! So rich a pledge
Could never be belied. Thou shall'st not blame
Thy love that it did fall into my keeping.

[Exeunt R. H.

SCENE III.

—A Valley.
Time, Twilight—which gradually changes to moonlight. A rude bier on one side, on which are laid the bodies of Eberhard and Antoine, covered with a mantle. Peasantry cross at back.
Arnold
discovered.
A change comes o'er the land. Men wear their eyes
More to their fellow's faces, and when they pause
They look towards heaven, as if in gratitude
For some expected blessing, thanking the hope
They deem forerunner of the coming good.
Hand grasps hand as though an asseveration
Was by the pressure seal'd irrevocably.
And yet the oppressor's tread is heavier
On their necks than ever. Still they look glad,
And seeming smile. 'Tis the convulsive joy beam
Fear, when expiring, lends to his scarce living victim.
[Merry music is heard without
Methinks a wail should be the only music
Switzerland should hear—a lament for the
Living,
[Laugh of the Peasantry is heard
Now they are slaves who thus do laugh;
The worst of slaves, for they are bondsmen here,
In the very land their fathers left them free,
They feel the shackle and the whip, and yet they laugh—
But their joy's empty as the airy globe
An infant's breath doth blow in pastime up,
Which hath a moment's life, and then 'tis gone!
A Male and Female Peasant enters with Gortz, playing on his Pipe, U. E. R. H.
Peace, minstrel! peace, I pray thee! art thou Swiss?

Gortz.
I am—thou knowest me, Arnold—I'm Gortz!

Arn.
Ye look like men— [Turns from them.]
—but yonder fleecy clouds
Will sometimes shape themselves to things of life
And still are only vapour. Get home! get home!

Gortz.
Marry, Arnold, you wrong us. Men are we—
At least those that wear a beard upon their chins.

Arn.
(Thoughtfully.)
Thou wast at my son's wedding?

Gortz.
Most truly
Have I cause to memory that day.

Arn.
And so have I.

Gortz.
What didst thou expend
Thine all in ribbons, paints, and buckles?

Arn.
Aye, all to the last mite!

Gortz.
I saw them not!

Arn.
No, no, I wore them here—my heart was dressed
In all hope's brightest colours. My poor boy!
How have they faded! You, I said, was there
When my boy wedded.

Gortz.
And I denied it not.

Arn.
You saw the strife between the lammer-geyer
And the poor goat?

Gortz.
I had no eyes else.

Arn.
Tell the story, as you journey on,
Among your absent fellows, and remember
The weak one conqured!

Gortz.
I will.

Arn.
Now get ye home,
And look upon your children at their play—
[Peasants cross to L. H.
And think what ye would do, if from the hills
A ravenous wolf assailed them! Think and act.
[Exeunt Gortz and Peasants, L. H.
Enter Walter, Martin, and other Confederates, U. E. R, H.
Brothers! this looks like action, when old men
Leave their beds to mark the dial's face
When shadow'd by the moon. Welcome, brothers!

Wal.
Sleep hath lost its charms in Underwalden.
Men there are whose stern and reverend looks
Tell not the reveller stirring; and youths
Who wear their twentieth summer green on
Their unwrinkled brows, walk silently along
Fearing to break the stillness by their breath.

Mar.
A minstrel brought this pipe to me, and said
It was a useless bauble; that men now frown'd
Upon him and his tune, who erst had given
Them both a welcome. He bade me keep it—
(For it was the pipe his grandsire used to play),
As men now seemed to love the bell-like sound
Of glittering iron better than his reed.

Arn.
'Tis well, brothers! I this morning stood
Beside a peasant's door, and saw his child
Neglect its fitting toys to march in mimic war,
Shouldering his father's sword—a rough tool, methought
For infant hands to grasp.

Wal.
This new oppression
Doth outstrip the wind.

Confederates.
What's that you speak of?

Arn.
The Convent of St. Dominic at Endelberg
Has been broke open—the holy vessel's stolen—
The refectory strew'd with remnants of a feast—
The image of the blessed mother torn
From its pedestal, and strewn in fragments
O'er the sacred floor; a soldier's belt,
Mark'd with the symbol of the state, was left;
Yet will our honest rulers see not this,
But stamp the ignominy of this deed
On us! Nay, more—they did not dare refuse
To make the holy father's reparation;
But to meet the charge, an edict is put forth,
Compelling all to labour for the State
One day in seven, or redeem their absence
By payment of a tax. To-morrow is the day
Appointed for the trial of this trick—
They'll find more labourers than they wot of
For the State's good. We only wanted this,
Or some such grievance to decide the act
That should redeem us.

Mar.
Then it is welcome,
Since 'twill mould to good.

Arn.
To-night will prove it. [Dead march.]

For I have brought two pleaders in our cause,
Who with their wordless eloquence shall shake
Their very souls!
Look! look, my friends! is freedom but a shade,
When at her call a thousand hearts are found
Piled on her altar stone, though death stands by?
Death bears nature's seal, but slavery
Is most unnatural, or God would ne'er
Have equaliz'd man's power with man's so finely.
It was a demon's thought that first conceived it
For bad men's purposes! 'Twas nurtured on the ill
And damning passions of our nature 'till it grew
So monstrous on its appetites, the world
Itself could scarce allay them.

Wal.
It feeds not here
While we have hearts and hands to drive it hence.

[The Peasantry appear again and descend on the Stage, and form at back.]
Arn.
(Advances to bier.)
Mountaineers! the hour has arrived when hearts
Must prove the stuff they're made of.
Here, my friends, are two I have wept over,
A sire and a child; draw near and gaze on them!
See, how fair she was; worthy the parent stem
She sprung from! One blow killed both! one blow!
[To a Peasant.]
You weep, old man? Does she resemble your own
Sweet child? Be wary of her! The bow that shot
This shaft has yet another resting on the string
With the same power to bend it, and the will!
'Twas done for pastime by our rulers, sirs!
Nay, by an old man's word, I swear 'twas so!
It pleased them; she was fair; they pluck'd the bud,
And so it withered! The old man died from grief.

Omnes.
Tyrants!

Arn.
The dead do stir ye, then! I'm glad of it;
For tyranny could not. For years the chain
Hath rusted with your blood, distill'd by drops,
Which had ye freely pour'd had eat it through.
My countrymen! Oppression's at its height!
Switzerland's a name alone, and that of scorn.
Her ancient laws usurp'd; her fruitfulness
Converted to the means of her destruction!
Her rulers aliens, and her children slaves!
What's to be done? the forest oak's unscath'd
By summer winds. The wedge alone divides it.
Our entreaties fall upon our ruler's hearts
As dew on adamant—the sword alone
Can reach them. How speaks Helvetia's children
To Helvetia's question? Will ye strike for freedom?

Omnes.
We will; we will!

Arn.
Swear with me here, that whilst a vein contains
Its flood of life, to struggle in this cause!
Spread out your hands to the broad sky o'er us,
That heaven may see they're stainless yet with blood—
That that which shall hereafter redden them
Will be from the oblations to our country.

Omnes.
(Kneeling.)
We swear! [They all rise.]


Alb.
(To Arnold.)
My more than father—for you have given me
A title to the freedom of these hills—
A hundred brothers in these noble men—
A right to wield a sword in this just cause—
Here in thy hands I place the price another sold
His freedom for! use it to aid the gaining of our own.

[Gives a purse.
Arn.
You hear him, friends; he nobly gives you gold!
Speak, do the swords ye bring require a purchase?

Omnes.
No! no! we strike for liberty!

Arn.
Albert, you hear their answer! what would tyrants give
For hands so fill'd? their gold could never buy them!

Alb.
Oh, noble hearts! worthy the glorious land
That heaven hath given you!

Arn.
William! my boy!
Hast thou no words?

Wil.
(Points to the bier.)
Here is my eloquence,
In the pale face of this sleeping angel!
The spirit that inhabited this form
Is now her country's advocate in heaven.

Wal.
See, Arnold, our messenger from Berne returns—
Heaven send they're with us! This speed looks well.

Enter a Peasant.
Arn.
How answers Berne?

Peasant.
As you divined—
They said their answer was already given.

Arn.
So much the better! the glory will be greater,

Peasant.
Orders have been given to one
Of Rudolph's messengers to speed unto the hills
With letters to Lord Gesler, the bitterest foe
Our country numbers.

Arn.
Too well I know it. [To Peasant.]

We must to action, then! Fire the beacon!
[William ascends the rock.
And may our sacrifice find favour, heaven!
[The glare of the Beacon falls on the Stage, and other fires appear successively on the distant hills.]
Behold their ready answer!
[A horn is sounded at a distance, answered until end of Act.]
Another, too!
Unsheath your swords, and boldly to the question,
And think upon the glorious prize ye fight for!
Freedom to Helvetia! [Omnes shout.—Picture.]