University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

—A Chamber in the Castle.
Enter Gesler, with Rodolph, Lutold, Gerard, and Officers.
Ges.
[To Rodolph.]
Double the guards. Stay! place your trustiest men
At the postern. Stop! You'd go with half your errand:
I'll tell you when to go! Let every soul
Within the walls be under arms! The sick
That do not keep their beds, or can rise from them,
Must take a weapon! Can they only raise
A hand, we've use for them. Away now. Tumult
[Rodolph goes out.
Under our very brows! The slaves will come,
In torrents from the hills, and, like a flood,
O'erwhelm us! Lutold, 'tis our final order,
On pain of death, no quarter shall be given!
Another word!—Let them be men, this once,
I promise them the sacking of the town!
Without reserve, I give it them—of property
Or soul! I've nothing further, sir. [Lutold goes out.]
I'll raze
Their habitations, hunt them from their hills,
Exterminate them, ere I'll live in fear!
What word now?

[To Rodolph, who re-enters.
Rod.
'Twas a false alarm. The people
Paid prompt submission to your order: one
Alone resisted, whom they have secured,
And bring in chains before you.

Ges.
So—I breathe
Again! 'Twas false, then, that our soldiers fled?

Rod.
'Twas but a party of them fled, my lord;
Which, reinforced, return'd, and soon o'erpower'd
The rash offender.

Ges.
What! fled they from one?
A single man? How many were there?

Rod.
Four,
With Sarnem.

Ges.
Sarnem! Did he fly?

Rod.
He did;
But 'twas for succour.

Ges.
Succour! One to four,
And four need succour? I begin to think
We're sentinell'd by effigies of men,
Not men themselves. And Sarnem, too! What kind
Of man is he that made a tiger cower?
Yea, and with backers! I should like to see
That man.

Rod.
He's here.

Ges.
I'm on the hills again!
I see their bleak tops looking down upon me,
And think I hear them ask me with a scowl
If I would be their master. Do not sheathe
Your swords!—Stand near me!—Beckon some of those
About me. I would be attended. If
He stirs, despatch him.

Rod.
He's in chains, my lord.

Ges.
I see—I see he is.

Enter Sarnem and Soldiers, with Tell in chains.
Sar.
Down, slave!
Behold the Governor. Down!—Down! and beg
For mercy!

Ges.
[Seated.]
Does he hear?

Sar.
Debate it not.
Be prompt. Submission, slave! Thy knee—thy knee!
Or with thy life thou playest.

Rod.
Let's force him to
The ground.

Ges.
Can I believe my eyes? He smiles!

Ger.
Why don't you smite him for that look?

Ges.
He grasps
His chains as he would make a weapon of them
To lay the smiter dead. What kind of man
Is this, that looks, in thraldom, more at large,
Than they who lay it on him?

Rod.
Lo you how
The caitiff scowls! Pull out his eyes!

Lut.
Lop off
A limb for him!

Ges.
A heart accessible as his to trembling
The rock or marble hath. They fear far more
To inflict than he to suffer. Each one calls
Upon the other to accomplish that
Himself hath not the manhood to attempt!
Why don't they take him from my sight? Behold!
He has brought them to a pause; and there they stand
Like things entranced by some magician's spell,
Wondering that they are masters of their organs,
And not their faculties. They gaze on me
As one expected to perform a part
Which he forgets to fill. [Rises.]
They must not see me
So lost. Come, draw thy breath with ease—thou'rt Gesler—
Their lord; and he's a slave thou look'st upon!
Canst thou not mulct the villain in his life?
Hast thou not tortures to requite him with?
'Tis only in the absence of thy wrath
He braves it. Let it show itself—at once
He's passive as the dust thou tread'st upon!
Why speak'st thou not?

Tell.
For wonder.

Ges.
Wonder!

Tell.
Yes,
That thou shouldst seem a man!

Ges.
What should I seem?

Tell.
A monster!

Ges.
Ha! Beware—Think on thy chains.

Tell.
Though they were doubled—Though they weigh'd me down
Prostrate to the earth, methinks I could rise up
Erect with nothing but the honest pride
Of telling thee, usurper, to the teeth,
Thou art a monster! Think upon my chains!
Show me the link of them, which, could it speak,
Would give its evidence against my word.
Think on my chains! They are my vouchers, which
I show to Heaven, as my acquittance from
The impious swerving of abetting thee
In mockery of its lord!—Think on my chains!
How came they on me?

Ges.
Darest thou question me?

Tell.
Darest thou not answer?

Ges.
Do I hear?

Tell.
Thou dost!

Ges.
Beware my vengeance!

Tell.
Can it more than kill?

Ges.
Enough, it can do that.

Tell.
No; not enough!
It cannot take away the grace of life—
Its comeliness of port that virtue gives—
Its head erect with consciousness of truth—
Its rich attire of honourable deeds—
Its fair report that's rife on good men's tongues!
It cannot lay its hands on these, no more
Than it can pluck his brightness from the sun,
Or with polluted finger tarnish it.

Ges.
But it can make thee writhe?

Tell.
It may!

Ges.
And groan?

Tell.
It may; and I may cry.
Go on, though it should make me groan again!

Ges.
Whence comest thou?

Tell.
From the mountains. Wouldst thou learn
What news from thence?

Ges.
Canst tell me any?

Tell.
Ay!
They watch no more the avalanche.

Ges.
Why so?

Tell.
Because they look for thee! The hurricane
Comes unawares upon them; from its bed
The torrent breaks, and finds them in its track.

Ges.
What do they, then?

Tell.
Thank heaven, it is not thou!
Thou has perverted nature in them. The earth
Presents her fruits to them, and is not thank'd!
The harvest sun is constant, and they scarce
Return his smile! their flocks and herds increase,
And they look on as men who count a loss!
They hear of thriving children born to them,
And never shake the teller by the hand;
While those they have, they see grow up and flourish,
And think as little of caressing them,
As they were things a deadly plague had smit!—
There's not a blessing Heaven vouchsafes them, but
The thought of thee converts into a curse,
As something they must lose—and richer were
For ever to have lack'd!

Ges.
That pleases me!
I'd have them like their peaks, that never smile,
Though joyous summer tempt them ne'er so much.

Tell.
Nay, but they sometimes smile.

Ges.
Ay!—when is that?

Tell.
When they discourse of vengeance.

Ges.
Vengeance! Dare
They talk of that?

Tell.
Ay, and expect it, too.

Ges.
From whence?

Tell.
From Heaven!

Ges.
From Heaven?

Tell.
And from the hands
Which they lift up to it on every hill
For justice on thee!

Ges.
Where is thy abode?

Tell.
I told thee—in the mountains.

Ges.
How lies it?—North or south?

Tell.
Nor north, nor south.

Ges.
Is't to the east or west, then?

Tell.
Where it lies
Concerns thee not.

Ges.
It does!

Tell.
And if it does,
Thou shalt not learn.

Ges.
Art married?

Tell.
Married!—Yes.

Ges.
And hast a family?

Tell.
A son.

Ges.
A son!
Sarnem!

Sar.
My lord, the boy!

[Gesler signs to Sarnem to keep silence, and whispering, sends him off.
Tell.
The boy!—What boy?
Is't mine?—and have they netted my young fledgeling?
Now Heaven support me, if they have! He'll own me,
And share his father's ruin! But a look
Would put him on his guard—yet how to give it!
Now, heart, thy nerve: forget thou'rt flesh—be rock!
They come—They come!—That step!—
That step!—So light upon the ground!
How heavy does it fall upon my heart!
I feel my child!—'Tis he!
We can but perish.

Enter Sarnem with Albert, whose eyes are riveted on Tell's bow, which Sarnem carries.
Alb.
[Aside.]
Yes; I was right. It is my father's bow!
For there's my father! I'll not own him, though!

Sar.
See!

Alb.
What?

Sar.
Look there.

Alb.
What would you have me see?

Sar.
Thy father.

Alb.
That is not my father, sir.

Tell.
My boy—my boy!—my own brave boy! He's safe!

Sar.
[Aside to Gesler.]
They're like each other.

Ges.
Yet I see no sign
Of recognition to betray the tie
That binds a father and his child.

Sar.
My lord,
I'm sure it is his father. Look at them:
That boy did spring from him; or never cast
Came from the mould it fitted! It may be
A preconcerted thing, 'gainst such a chance,
That they survey each other coldly thus.
Besides, with those who lead the mountain life,
The passions are not taken by surprise
As ready as with us. They commune still,
From day to day, with nature's wonders; till
They see her fiercest terrors without awe,
And catch, from her, her stern and solemn look,
That e'en their mirth seems thoughtful.

Ges.
[Rises.]
We shall try.
Lead forth the caitiff!

Sar.
To a dungeon?

Ges.
No;
Into the court.

Sar.
The court, my lord?

Ges.
And tell
The headsman to make ready. Quick! He dies!
The slave shall die! You mark'd the boy?

Sar.
I did.
He started—'Tis his father!

Ges.
We shall see.
Away with him!

Tell.
Stop!—stay!

Ges.
What would you?

Tell.
Time,—
A little time to call my thoughts together!

Ges.
Thou shalt not have a minute.

Tell.
Some one, then,
To speak with!

Ges.
Hence with him!

Tell.
A moment, stop!
Let me speak to the boy.

Ges.
Is he thy son?

Tell.
And if
He were, art thou so lost to nature as
To send me forth before his face to die?

Ges.
Well, speak with him. Now, Sarnem, mark them well.

[Albert goes to Tell.
Tell.
Thou dost not know me, boy; and well for thee
Thou dost not. I'm the father of a son
About thy age. I dare not tell thee where
To find him, lest he should be found of those
'Twere not so safe for him to meet with. Thou,
I see, wast born, like him, upon the hills;
If thou shouldst 'scape thy present thraldom, thou
Mayst chance to cross him; if thou shouldst, I pray thee
Relate to him what has been passing here,
And say I laid my hand upon thy head,
And said to thee—If he were here, as thou art,
Thus would I bless him: Mayst thou live, my boy,
To see thy country free, or die for her
As I do!

Sar.
Mark!—He weeps.

Tell.
Were he my son,
He would not shed a tear! He would remember
The cliff where he was bred, and learn'd to scan
A thousand fathoms' depth of nether air!
Where he was train'd to hear the thunder talk,
And meet the lightning eye to eye! Where last
We spoke together—when I told him, death
Bestow'd the brightest gem that graces life,
Embraced for virtue's sake,—He shed a tear!
Now, were he by, I'd talk to him, and his cheek
Should never blanch, nor moisture dim his eye,—
I'd talk to him!—

Sar.
He falters.

Tell.
'Tis too much!
And yet it must be done! I'd talk to him—

Ges.
Of what?

Tell.
[Turns to Gesler.]
The mother, tyrant, whom thou dost make
A widow of! I'd talk to him of her!
[Turns to Albert.
I'd bid him tell her, next to liberty,
Her name was the last words my lips pronounced;
And I would charge him, never to forget
To love and cherish her, as he would have
His father's dying blessing rest upon him!

Sar.
You see, what one suggests, the other acts.

Tell
[aside].
So well he bears it, I, almost, give way!
My boy! my boy!—O, for the hills!—the hills!
To see him bound along their tops again,
With liberty, so light upon his heel,
That, like the chamois, he flings behind him—

Sar.
Was there not all the father in that look?

Ges.
Yet 'tis against nature.

Sar.
Not if he believes
Owning the boy, the son belike might share
The father's fate.

Ges.
I did not think of that!
I thank thee, Sarnem, for the thought. 'Tis well
The boy is not thy son. He is about
To die along with thee.

Tell.
To die! For what?

Ges.
For having braved my power, as thou hast! Lead
Them forth.

Tell.
He's but a child.

Ges.
Away with them!

Tell.
Perhaps an only child.

Ges.
No matter.

Tell.
He
May have a mother.

Ges.
So the viper hath;
And yet who spares it for the mother's sake?

Tell.
I talk to stone! I talk to it as though
'Twere flesh, yet know 'tis none! No wonder! I've
An argument might turn as hard a thing
To flesh—to softest, kindliest flesh, that e'er
Sweet Pity chose to lodge her fountain in!—
But, still, 'tis naught but stone! I'll talk to it
No more! Come, my boy! I taught thee how to live!—
I'll show thee how
To die—

Ges.
He is thy child!

Tell.
[Bursting into tears, and embracing Albert.]
He is my child!

Ges.
I've wrung a tear from him! Thy name?

Tell.
My name?
It matters not to keep it from thee, now:
My name is Tell.

Ges.
What!—William Tell?

Tell.
The same.

Ges.
What! he so famed 'bove all his countrymen
For guiding o'er the stormy lake the boat?
And such a master of his bow, 'tis said
His arrows never miss?—Indeed!—I'll take
Exquisite vengeance!—Mark!—I'll spare thy life,
Thy boy's, too.—Both of you are free—on one
Condition.

Tell.
Name it.

Ges.
I would see you make
A trial of your skill with that same bow
You shoot so well with.

Tell.
Please you, name the trial
You would have me make.

Ges.
You look upon your boy
As though instinctively you guess'd it.

Tell.
Look
Upon my boy!—What mean you? Look upon
My boy as though I guess'd it!—Guess'd the trial
You would have me make! Guess'd it, instinctively!
Instinctively! You do not mean?—No!—No!—
You would not have me make a trial of
My skill upon my child! Impossible!
I do not guess your meaning.

Ges.
I would see
Thee hit an apple at the distance of
A hundred paces.

Tell.
Is my boy to hold it?

Ges.
No.

Tell.
No!—I'll send the arrow through the core!

Ges.
It is to rest upon his head.

Tell.
O, Nature!
Thou hear'st him!

Ges.
Thou dost hear the choice I give—
Such trial of the skill, thou'rt master of,
Or death to both of you, not otherwise
To be escaped.

Tell.
Oh, monster!

Ges.
Wilt thou do it?

Alb.
He will! he will!

Tell.
Ferocious monster! Make
A father murder his own child!

Ges.
Take off
His chains, if he consents.

Tell.
With his own hand!

Ges.
Does he consent?

Alb.
He does.

[Gesler signs to his Officers, who proceed to take off Tell's chains, Tell all the while unconscious of what they do.
Tell.
With his own hand!—
Murder his child with his own hand!
The hand I've led him, when an infant, by!
'Tis beyond horror—'Tis most horrible!
Amazement!—'Tis too much for flesh and blood
To bear!—I should be made of steel to stand it!
And I believe I am, almost, about
To turn to some such thing; for feeling grows
Benumb'd within me, that I seem to lose
Almost the power of hating him, and all's
A calm, where all, but now, was raging tempest!
[His chains, which they have been employed in unloosing, fall off.
What!—Do you make me ready, while I wist not?
[Lifts the manacles from the ground, and holds them to the soldiers.
Villains! put on my chains again. My hands
Are free from blood! and have no gust for it,
That they would drink my child's!—Here!—Here!—I'll not
Murder my boy for Gesler!

Alb.
Father—Father!
You will not hit me, father!

Tell.
Hit thee!—Send
The arrow through thy brain!—or, missing that,
Shoot out an eye!—or, if thine eye escapes,
Mangle the cheek I've seen thy mother's lips
Cover with kisses!—Hit thee!—Hit a hair
Of thee, and cleave thy mother's heart! Who's he
That bids me do it!—Show him me,—the monster!
Make him perceptible unto my reason
And heart! In vain my senses vouch for it!
I hear he lives!—I see it!—but it is
A prodigy that nature can't believe!

Ges.
Dost thou consent?

Tell.
Give me my bow and quiver.

Ges.
For what?

Tell.
To shoot my boy!

Alb.
No, father! no,
To save me!—You'll be sure to hit the apple.
Will you not save me, father?

Tell.
Lead me forth!—
I'll make the trial!

Alb.
Thank you!

Tell.
Thank me!—Do
You know for what?—I will not make the trial,
To take him to his mother in my arms,
And lay him down a corse before her!

Ges.
Then
He dies this moment; and you, certainly,
Murder the child, whose life you have a chance
To save, and will not use it.

Tell.
Well—I'll do it:
I'll make the trial.

Alb.
[Runs up to Tell and embraces him.]
Father!

Tell.
[Putting Albert behind him.]
Speak not to me!
Let me not hear thy voice!—Thou must be dumb:
And so should all things be!—earth should be dumb!
And heaven!—unless its thunders mutter'd at
The deed, and sent a bolt to stop it! Give me
My bow and quiver!

Ges.
When all's ready.

Tell.
Ready!—
I must be calm, with such a mark to hit!
[Albert is about to take Tell's hand.
Don't touch me, child!—Don't speak to me!—Lead on!

[Tell suddenly stops.
Ges.
Why do you stop?

Tell.
We have forgot!—'Tis dusk!
Look at that mountain-peak! The sun is down
To all below—will soon be down to that!
You wish to see a trial of my skill,
You ask for one, harder a thousand times
Than e'er the hardest, yet, I e'er essay'd!
You would not have me shoot, without my eyes?
'Twere just the same to shoot, without the light!
The peak, you see, is now gone out!—The court's
To reach—The ground 's to choose—The distance
Has to be measured. Then, the boy's to place,
The mark to be adjusted—Where is it?
Where is the apple!—Ere all's ready, 'twill
Be night. As well expect me, were I dead,
To draw a bow, as now!—To-morrow, Gesler.

Ges.
Hadst thou not linger'd!—

Tell.
It were done—I know
It shall be done to-morrow, wilt thou grant
The time?—'Tis night already!

Ges.
Well!—To-morrow!
Take them to separate dungeons!

Tell.
To the same!
He's but a child!—He has his part to play!
I would prepare him for it!—It may be
His last night. Let him spend it with his father!

Ges.
To the same dungeon!

Tell.
Now, my child, thy hand!

[They go out severally.

SCENE II.

—Supposed to be in the Vicinity of the Castle.
Enter Waldman and Michael.
Wal.
I sore mistrust thee, Michael! If thou play'st
The trifler with me now—

Mic.
Dear father, fear not.

Wal.
But I do fear thee, boy; and, if not thee,
I fear this stormy night. Dost hear the thunder?

Mic.
I do; but it is distant.

Wal.
There again!

Mic.
It sounds in the direction of the lake.

Wal.
Why hast thou brought me hither?

Mic.
Worthy sire,
Thou said'st I ne'er would marry till my teeth
Were gone. To show thee, to thy heart's content,
The prophecy was wrong, I've brought thee hither
To play her escort to my gentle bride,
Whom thou shalt see anon.

Wal.
He's past all hope!
Am I thy butt to play a jest upon?
Is this a place to jest?

Mic.
No place more safe;
No sentinel is here to mar a jest,
Were I disposed for one.

Wal.
The storm comes on.
Wouldst hold me here to bide its pelting?

Mic.
Hush!
Dear father, hush, unless you'd spoil my wedding,
And mar the only chance of making me
A sober man. And, look, my bridesmen come.

Enter Jagheli, with Theodore, and a band of Young Men, with a rope-ladder.
Mic.
Welcome, Jagheli! Father, my chief man,
Who means to take example by your son—
Marry a wife, and ever after live
The gravest man in Altorf.

Wal.
Let me see
Thy bride, and I'll believe thou mean'st to wed.
It cannot be! There's not a man in Altorf
Would take thee for his son-in-law!

Mic.
No man
In Altorf shall call me his son-in-law.

Wal.
Where wilt thou get thy bride, then?

Mic.
Thou shalt see.
Ha! there's the light—Jagheli, that's the casement!
Come on! Friends, stay you here. And, father, pray
Command your patience, till I give you proof,
Such as shall full content you, that I mean
With all my heart to be a sober man.

[Michael and Jagheli go out with the rope-ladder.
Wal.
Friends, can you help me to a clue to find
This riddle out?

The.
We're sworn to secrecy,
And may not answer you.

Wal.
I see—I see—
He's not content to make a jest of me,
But brings his friends to join him in the laugh!
He wed!—He take a wife!—He'll bring some boy,
Dress'd in his sister's gown and tucker, with
His voice upon the crack—to pass him off
For 's bride upon me. I'll begone, and balk
[More thunder.
His most irreverent humour! Friends, adieu!
I give you joy of this fair sport.

[Going.
Enter Michael and Agnes—Jagheli and Anneli.
Mic.
Sweet love,
Fear not! I'll give thee to safe warding, till
I take thee to mine own. Fair Anneli,
Go with thy cousin. Father, to thy care
We trust these jewels, that shall keep us rich
For life! Don't wonder, Sweet—There's not a care
This day may cost thee, but each after-day
Shall bring as many golden joys as hours
To pay thee for.

Ann.
I trust they mean us honest!

Wal.
A woman, as I live!

Agn.
Honest or not,
No matter now, dear coz; our fortune's told—
We're caught!

Wal.
A woman, too.

Mic.
By hands so kind!—
So loving in their tendance on their prize,
You'd not exchange captivity for freedom.

Agn.
Don't try us!

Mic.
Not unless you choose.

Ann.
Dear coz!
Let us go back.

Agn.
Nay, coz, we'll e'en go on.
These gallants trusted once, to trust them on,
They say, is sometimes to secure the debt.

Wal.
Fair lady, I will be his bail, to see
Due payment made—if you will trust to me.

Mic.
Dear father, when you hear me jest again,
You'll drink your grandson's health that is to be,
And pardon me for him.—Away!—Away!
These heads demand a kinder canopy
Than this rough sky affords.

Wal.
Go you not with us?

Mic.
No; our brides forbid.
Nor may we see them till we bring the priest
To visit them to-morrow; and, besides,
We've comrades here, bright gallants, as ourselves
Were once, of whom we'd take a handsome leave.
This hour, that parts us thus, we'll soon forgive,
For the fair fellows that shall follow it.
Good night—Sound sleep—Sweet dreams—good night—good night—
[Waldman, Agnes, and Anneli go out.
Now, friends, the casement! There the ladder hangs;
Climb fast, but silently. The chamber on
The postern opens, and is lock'd, within.
Thence we can watch the motions of our friends,
And at the moment lend our sudden aid,
When most it may avail.—On—On and up!
[Young Men go out.
Now, Michael, here's the closing of thy jests,
Or making of thee!—Fortune hold thy friend,
There's not a sober man in Altorf but
To own thy brows, would wear the cap and bells!

[Goes out.