 | William Tell |  |
ACT II.
SCENE I.
—Tell's Cottage on the right of a Mountain—a distant view of a Lake, backed by Mountains of stupendous height, their tops covered with snow, and lighted at the very points by the rising Sun, the rest of the distance being yet in shade—on one side a Vineyard.Enter Emma, from the Cottage.
Emma.
O, the fresh morning! Heaven's kind messenger,
That never empty-handed comes, to those
130
Who loads it still, and bids it constant run
The errand of his bounty!—Praise be to him!
We need his care that on the mountain's cliff
Lodge by the storm, and cannot lift our eyes,
But piles on piles of everlasting snows,
O'erhanging us, remind us of his mercy!
Albert appears on an eminence.
Alb.
My mother!
Emma.
Albert!
Alb.
[Descending.]
Bless thee!
Emma.
Bless thee, Albert!
How early were you up?
Alb.
Before the sun.
Emma.
Ay, strive with him. He never lies a-bed
When it is time to rise. He ever is
The constant'st workman, that goes through his task,
And shows us how to work by setting to't
With smiling face; for labour's light as ease
To him that toils with cheerfulness. Be like
The sun.
Alb.
What you would have me like, I'll be like,
As far as will to labour join'd, can make me.
Emma.
Well said, my boy! Knelt you when you got up
To-day?
Alb.
I did; and do so every day!
Emma.
I know you do! And think you, when you kneel,
To whom you kneel?
Alb.
To Him who made me, mother.
Emma.
And in whose name?
Alb.
The name of Him who died
For me and all men, that all men and I,
By trust in him, might live.
Emma.
Remember that!
Forget all things but that—remember that!
'Tis more than friends or fortune; clothing, food;
All things of earth; yea, life itself. It is
To live when these are gone, where they are nought
With God!—My son, remember that!
Alb.
I will!
Emma.
You have been early up, when I, that play'd
The sluggard, in comparison, am up
Full early; for the highest peaks alone,
As yet, behold the sun. Now tell me what
You ought to ponder, when you see the sun
So shining on the peak?
Alb.
That as the peak
Feels not the pleasant sun, or feels it least!
So they, who highest stand in fortune's smile,
Are gladden'd by it least, or not at all!
131
The lesson that remember'd pays the teacher!
And what's the profit you should turn this to?
Alb.
Rather to place my good in what I have,
Than think it worthless, wishing to have more;
For more is not more happiness, so oft
As less.
Emma.
I'm glad you husband what you learn.
That is the lesson of content, my son;
He who finds which, has all—who misses—nothing!
Alb.
Content is a good thing.
Emma.
A thing, the good
Alone can profit by.
Alb.
My father's good.
Emma.
What say'st thou, boy?
Alb.
I say my father's good.
Emma.
Yes; he is good! What then?
Alb.
I do not think
He is content—I'm sure he's not content;
Nor would I be content, were I a man,
And Gesler seated on the rock of Altorf!
A man may lack content, and yet be good.
Emma.
I did not say all good men find content.—
I would be busy; leave me.
Alb.
You're not angry?
Emma.
No, no, my boy.
Alb.
You'll kiss me?
Emma.
Will I not!
The time will come you will not ask your mother
To kiss you!
Alb.
Never!
Emma.
Not when you're a man?
Alb.
I would not be a man to see that time:
I'd rather die, now that I am a child,
Than live to be a man, and not love you!
Emma.
Live—live to be a man, and love your mother!
[They embrace—Albert runs off into the cottage.
Why should my heart sink? 'tis for this we rear them!
Cherish their tiny limbs; pine if a thorn
But mar their tender skin; gather them to us
Closer than miser hugs his bag of gold;
Bear more for them than slave, who makes his flesh
A casket for the rich purloinéd gem—
To send them forth into a wintry world
To brave its flaws and tempests!—They must go;
Far better, then, they go with hearty will!
Be that my consolation.—Nestling as
He is, he is the making of a bird
Will own no cowering wing. 'Twas fine—'Twas fine
To see my eaglet, on the verge o' the nest,
Ruffling himself at sight of the huge gulf
He feels anon he'll have the wing to soar!
132
What have you there?
Alb.
My bow and arrows, mother.
Emma.
When will you use them like your father, boy?
Alb.
Some time, I hope.
Emma.
You brag! There's not an archer
In all Helvetia can compare with him!
Alb.
But I'm his son; and when I am a man,
I may be like him. Mother, do I brag
To think I some time may be like my father?
If so, then is it he that teaches me;
For ever as I wonder at his skill,
He calls me boy, and says I must do more
When I become a man!
Emma.
May you be such
A man as he!—If Heaven wills, better!—I'll
Not quarrel with its work; yet 'twill content me
If you are only such a man!
Alb.
I'll show you
How I can shoot. [Shoots.]
Look, mother! there's within
An inch!
Emma.
O fy! it wants a hand.
[Going into the cottage.
Alb.
A hand's
An inch for me. I'll hit it yet. Now for it!
[Shoots again.
[While Albert continues to shoot, the light gradually approaches the base of the mountains in the distance, and spreads itself over the lake and valley.
Enter Tell, watching Albert some time in silence.
Tell.
That's scarce a miss that comes so near the mark!
Well aim'd, young archer! With what ease he draws
The bow! To see those sinews, who'd believe
Such vigour lodged in them? Well aim'd again!
There plays the skill will thin the chamois' herd,
And bring the lammer-geyer from the cloud
To earth. Perhaps do greater feats—Perhaps
Make man its quarry, when he dares to tread
Upon his fellow-man! That little arm,
His mother's palm can span, may help, anon,
To pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat,
And from their chains a prostrate people lift
To liberty! I'd be content to die,
Living to see that day!—What, Albert!
Alb.
Ah!—
My father!
[Running to Tell, who embraces him.
Emma.
[Running from the cottage.]
William!—Welcome, welcome, William!
I did not look for you till noon, and thought
How long 'twould be ere noon would come! You're come—
133
When you are absent from me, I count time
By minutes; which, when you are here, flies by
In hours, that are not noted till they're out!
Now this is happiness! Joy's doubly joy
That comes before the time—It is a debt,
Paid ere 'tis due, which fills the owner's heart
With gratitude, and yet 'tis but his own!
And are you well? and has the chase proved good?
How has it fared with you? Come in; I'm sure
You want refreshment, William.
Tell.
No; I shared
A herdsman's meal, upon whose lonely chalet
I chanced to light. I've had bad sport! My track
Lay with the wind, which to the startlish game
Betray'd me still. One only prize; and that
I gave mine humble host. You raise the bow
Too fast. [To Albert, who has returned to his practice.]
Bring't slowly to the eye—
[Albert shoots.
You've miss'd.
How often have you hit the mark to-day?
Alb.
Not once yet.
Tell.
You're not steady. I perceived
You waver'd now. Stand firm!—Let every limb
Be braced as marble, and as motionless.
Stand like the sculptor's statue on the gate
Of Altorf, that looks life, yet neither breathes
Nor stirs. [Albert shoots.]
That's better!
Emma.
William! William!—O!
To be the parents of a boy like that!—
Why speak you not—and wherefore do you sigh?
What's in your heart to keep the transport out
That fills up mine, when looking on our child,
Till it o'erflows mine eye?
[Albert shoots.
Tell.
You've miss'd again!
Dost see the mark? Rivet your eye to it!
There let it stick, fast as the arrow would,
Could you but send it there!
Emma.
Why, William, don't
You answer me?
[Albert shoots.
Tell.
Again! How would you fare,
Suppose a wolf should cross your path, and you
Alone, with but your bow, and only time
To fix a single arrow? 'Twould not do
To miss the wolf! You said, the other day,
Were you a man, you'd not let Gesler live—
'Twas easy to say that. Suppose you, now,
Your life or his depended on that shot!—
Take care! That's Gesler! Now for liberty!
Right to the tyrant's heart! [Albert shoots.]
Well done, my boy!
Come here!—Now, Emma, I will answer you:
134
Is not that cottage dear to me, where I
Was born? How many acres would I give
That little vineyard for, which I have watch'd
And tended since I was a child? Those crags
And peaks—what spiréd city would I take
To live in, in exchange for them?—Yet what
Are these to me? What is this boy to me?
What art thou, Emma, to me—when a breath
Of Gesler's can take all!
Emma.
O, William, think
How little is that all to him—too little
For Gesler, sure, to take. Bethink, thee, William,
We have no treasure.
Tell.
Have we not? Have we
No treasure? How! No treasure? What!
Have we not liberty?—that precious ore,
That pearl, that gem, the tyrant covets most;
Yet can't enjoy himself—for which he drains
His coffers of their coin—his land of blood;
Goes without sleep—pines himself sallow-pale—
Yea, makes a pawn of his own soul—lacks ease—
Frets, till the bile gnaws appetite away—
Forgets both heaven and hell, only to strip
The wearer of it! Emma, we have that,
And that's enough for Gesler!
Emma.
Then, indeed,
My William, we have much to fear!
Tell.
We have;
And best it is we know how much. Then, Emma,
Make up thy mind, wife! Make it up! Remember
What wives and mothers on these very hills
Once breathed the air you breathe. Helvetia
Hath chronicles, the masters of the world,
As they were call'd—the Romans—kept for her;
And in those chronicles I've heard 'tis writ—
And praise set down by foes must needs be true—
'Tis writ, I say, that when the Rhetians—
They were the early tenants of those hills—
Withstood the lust of Roman tyranny,
With Claudius Drusus, and a certain Nero,
Sons-in-law of Octavius Cæsar, at
Its head—the Rhetian women—when the men
By numbers overmatch'd at last gave way—
Seeing that liberty was gone, threw life
And nature, too, as worthless, after it;
Rush'd through the gaping ranks of them that fled,
And on the dripping weapons of the red
Resistless van impaled themselves and children!
Emma.
O, William!
Tell.
Emma, let the boy alone!
Don't clasp him so—'Twill soften him! Go, sir!
135
To-day. Some friend, perchance, may need thy guidance.
Away! [Albert goes out.]
He's better from thee, Emma! The time
Is come, a mother on her breast should fold
Her arms, as they had done with such endearments,
And bid her children go from her, to hunt
For danger—which will presently hunt them—
The less to heed it!
Emma.
William, you are right.
The task you set me I will try to do.
I would not live myself to be a slave—
I would not live to be the dam of one!
No! woman as I am, I would not, William!
Then choose my course for me. Whate'er it is,
I will say, ay, and do it, too—Suppose
To dress my little stripling for the war,
And take him by the hand, and lead him to't!
Yes, I would do it at thy bidding, William,
Without a tear—I say that I would do it—
Though, now I only talk of doing it,
I can't help shedding one!
[Weeps.
Tell.
Did I not choose thee
From out the fairest of the maids of Uri,
Less that in beauty thou didst them surpass,
Than that thy soul that beauty overmatch'd?
Why rises on thy matron cheek that blush,
Mantling it fresh as in thy virgin morn,
But that I did so? Do I wonder, then,
To find thee equal to the task of virtue,
Although a hard one? No, I wonder not!
Why should I, Emma, make thy heart acquainted
With ills I could shut out from it—rude guests
For such a home! Here, only, we have had
Two hearts; in all things else—in love, in faith,
In hope, in joy—that never had but one!
But henceforth we must have but one, here, also.
Emma.
O, William, you have wrong'd me—kindly wrong'd me!
When ever yet was happiness the test
Of love in man or woman? Who'd not hold
To that which must advantage him? Who'd not
Keep promise to a feast, or mind his pledge
To share a rich man's purse? There's not a churl,
However base, but might be thus approved
Of most unswerving constancy. But that
Which loosens churls, ties friends! or changes them,
Only to stick the faster. William! William!
That man knew never yet the love of woman,
Who never had an ill to share with her!
Tell.
Not even to know that would I in so
Ungentle partnership engage thee, Emma,
136
The master yet of will, how strong soe'er,
Compels me, prove thee. When I wedded thee,
The land was free! O! with what pride I used
To walk these hills, and look up to my God,
And bless him that it was so! It was free!—
From end to end, from cliff to lake 'twas free!—
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys, without asking leave;
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow,
In very presence of the regal sun!
How happy was I in it then! I loved
Its very storms! Yes, Emma, I have sat
In my boat at night, when, midway o'er the lake,
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge
The wind came roaring—I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own!
You know the jutting cliff round which a track
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow
To such another one, with scanty room
For two a-breast to pass? O'ertaken there
By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat, along;
And while gust follow'd gust, more furiously,
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink,
And I have thought of other lands, whose storms
Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just
Have wish'd me there—the thought that mine was free
Has check'd that wish, and I have raised my head,
And cried in thraldom to that furious wind,
Blow on! This is the land of liberty!
Emma.
I almost see thee on that fearful pass,
And yet, so seeing thee, I have a feeling
Forbids me wonder that thou didst so.
Tell.
'Tis
A feeling must not breathe where Gesler breathes,
But may within these arms! List, Emma, list!
A league is made to pull the tyrant down!
E'en from his seat upon the rock of Altorf.
Four hearts have staked their blood upon the cast,
And mine is one of them.
Emma.
I did not start!—
Tell me more, William!
Tell.
I will tell thee all.—
Alb.
[without].
O, father!
Old Melchtal
[without].
Tell!—Tell!—William!
Emma.
Don't you know
That voice!
Enter Old Melchtal, blind, led by Albert.
Old M.
Where art thou, William?
137
Who is it?
Emma.
Do you not know him?
Tell.
No!—It cannot be
The voice of Melchtal!
Alb.
Father, it is Melchtal!
Emma.
What ails you, Tell?
Alb.
O, father, speak to him!
Emma.
What passion shakes you thus?
Tell.
His eyes!—Where are they?
Melchtal has eyes.
Old M.
Tell! Tell!
Tell.
'Tis Melchtal's voice.
Where are his eyes? Have they put out his eyes?
Has Gesler turn'd the little evening of
The old man's life to night, before its time?
To such black night as sees not with the day
All round it! Father, speak! Pronounce the name
Of Gesler!
Old M.
Gesler.
Tell.
Gesler has torn out
The old man's eyes! Support thy mother! Erni?
Where's Erni? Where's thy son? Is he alive?
And are his father's eyes torn out?
Old M.
He lives, my William,
But knows it not.
Tell.
When he shall know it! O! Heavens,
When he shall know it!—I am not thy son,
Yet—
Emma.
[Alarmed at his increasing vehemence.]
William!—William!
Alb.
Father!
Tell.
Could I find
Something to tear—to rend, were worth it!—something
Most ravenous and bloody!—something like
Gesler!—a wolf;—No, no! A wolf's a lamb
To Gesler! It is a natural hunger makes
The wolf a savage; and, savage as he is,
Yet with his kind he gently doth consort.
'Tis but his lawful prey he tears; and that
He finishes—not mangles, and then leaves
To live! I'd let the wolf go free, for Gesler!—Water!
My tongue cleaves to my roof!
Old M.
What ails thee, William?
I pray thee, William, let me hear thy voice!
That's not thy voice!
Tell.
I cannot speak to thee!
Emma.
[Returning with a vessel of water.]
Here, William!
Tell.
Emma!
Emma.
Drink!
Tell.
I cannot drink!
Emma.
Your eyes are fix'd.
138
Melchtal!—He has no eyes!
[Bursts into tears.
The poor old man!
[Falls on Melchtal's neck.
Old M.
I feel thee, Tell! I care not
That I have lost my eyes! I feel thy tears—
They're more to me than eyes! When I had eyes,
I never knew thee, William, as I know
Thee now, without. I do not want my eyes!
Tell.
How came it, father? briefly, father!—quick
And briefly! Action! action! I'm in such glee
For work—so eager to be doing—have
Such stomach for a task, I've scarcely patience
To wait to know what 'tis—Here, here: sit down.
Now, father!
[Old Melchtal sits down.—Tell kneels.
Old M.
Yesterday, when I and Erni
Went to the field, to bring our harvest home,
Two soldiers of the tyrant's came upon us,
And, without cause alleged, or interchange
Of word, proceeded to unyoke the oxen.
Tell.
Go on!
Old M.
As one stunn'd by a thunder-clap
Stands sudden still, nor for a while bethinks him
Of taking shelter from the storm; so we,
Confounded by an act so bold, a while
Look'd on in helpless silence; till at length
Erni, as sudden as the hurricane,
That lays the oak uprooted, ere you see
Its branches quiver, bounding on the spoilers,
Wrench'd from their grasp the yoke, and would have smote
Them dead, had they not ta'en to instant flight!
Tell.
Did he pursue them?
Old M.
No; I threw myself
Between!
Tell.
Why didst thou save them?
Old M.
'Twas my son
I saved! I clasp'd his knees—I calm'd his rage,
I forced him from me to the caverns of
Mount Faigel, William, till the tyrant's wrath
Might cool, or be diverted. 'Twas my son
I saved: for, scarcely was he out of sight,
And I within my cottage, when the cries
Of Gesler's bands beset it, calling for
The blood of Erni! William, he was safe!—
Clear of their fangs! My son was safe! O, think—
Think, William, what I felt to see his lair—
His very lair—beset, and know my boy,—
My lion boy, was safe! Enough! They seized me,
And dragg'd me before Gesler.
Tell.
Say no more!
His life cost you your eyes! 'Tis worth a pair
Of eyes, but not your eyes, old man! No, no;
He would have given it ten times over for
139
O' the lash! My bow and quiver! He was by?
Old M.
Was by.
Tell.
More arrows for my quiver.
And looking on?
Old M.
And looking on.
Tell.
[Putting the arrows into his quiver.]
'Twill do!
He would dine after that, and say a grace!
He would! To tear a man's eyes out, and then
Thank God!—My staff!—He'd have his wine, too. How
The man could look at it, and drink it off,
And not grow sick at the colour on't! Enough;
Put by the rest. [To Emma, who has brought him a bundle of arrows.]
I'll grow more calm!
My flask—I want it fill'd; and put provision
Into my pouch—I thank thee for that look!
Now seem'st thou like some kind o'er-seeing angel,
Smiling as he prepares the storm, that, while it
Shakes the earth, and makes its tenants pale,
Doth smite a pestilence. Thou wouldst not stay me?
Emma.
No!
Tell.
Nor thy boy, if I required his service?
Emma.
No, William!
Tell.
Make him ready, Emma.
Old M.
No!
Not Albert, William!
Emma.
Yes; even Albert, father.
Thy cap and wallet, boy—thy mountain staff,—
Where hast thou laid it? Find it—haste! Don't keep
Thy father waiting. He is ready, William!
[Leading Albert up to Tell.
Tell.
Well done—Well done! I thank you, love—I thank you!
Now mark me, Albert! Dost thou fear the snow,
The ice-field, or the hail-flaw? Carest thou for
The mountain mist, that settles on the peak
When thou'rt upon it? Dost thou tremble at
The torrent roaring from the deep ravine,
Along whose shaking ledge thy track doth lie?
Or faint'st thou at the thunder-clap, when on
The hill thou art o'ertaken by the cloud,
And it doth burst around thee? Thou must travel
All night!
Alb.
I'm ready. Say all night again.
Tell.
The mountains are to cross; for thou must reach
Mount Faigel by the dawn!
Alb.
Not sooner shall
The dawn be there than I.
Tell.
Heaven speeding thee!
Alb.
Heaven speeding me!
Tell.
Show me thy staff.—Art sure
O' the point? I think 'tis loose. No—Stay—'Twill do!
140
Examine well the crevice—Do not trust
The snow! 'Tis well there is a moon to-night.
You're sure o' the track?
Alb.
Quite sure.
Tell.
The buskin of
That leg 's untied. Stoop down and fasten it.
You know the point where you must round the cliff?
Alb.
I do.
Tell.
Thy belt is slack—Draw't tight.
Erni is in Mount Faigel. Take this dagger,
And give it him. You know its caverns well.
In one of them you'll find him. Bid thy mother
Farewell. Come, boy! We go a mile together.
Father, thy hand.
[Shakes hands with Old Melchtal.
Old M.
How firm thy grasp is, William!
Tell.
There is a resolution in it, father,
Will keep.
Old M.
I cannot see thine eye, but I know
How it looks!
Tell.
I'll tell thee how it looks. List, father,
List. Father, thou shalt be revenged! My Emma,
Melchtal's thy father. That's his home till I
Return. Yes, father, thou shalt be revenged!
Lead him in, Emma, lead him in. The sun
Grows hot—The old man's weak and faint! Mind, father,
Mind, thou shall be revenged! In, wife—In—In.
Thou shalt be sure revenged! Come, Albert!
[Emma and Melchtal enter the cottage.—Tell and Albert go out hastily.
END OF ACT II.
| William Tell | |