University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—The Outside of the Castle of Altorf.—Alpine Scenery in the Background.
Enter Waldman and Michael.
Wal.
Don't tell me, Michael! Thou dost lead a life
As bootless as a jester's—worse than his,
For he has high retaining. Every one
Calls thee his fool—the gallant and the boy,
The gentle-born and base! Thy graceless name
Is ever tagg'd to feasts, and shows, and games,
And saucy brawls, which men as young as thou
Discourse of with grave looks. What comes of this?
Will't make thee rich? Will't give thee place in life?
Will't buy thee honour, friendship, or esteem?
Will't get thee reverence 'gainst grey hairs?

Mic.
Good father!—

Wal.
The current of thy life doth counter run
To that of other men's. Thy spirits, which
Were reason in thee, when thou wast a child,
As tameless still, now thou'rt become a man,
Are folly! Thriftless life, that may be call'd
More rational, when in the nurse's lap,
Than when in manhood's chair. Survey those towers,
And act the revel o'er of yesternight!
Think of the tyrants whom they lodge, and then
Link hands with fools and braggarts o'er their wine!
Fancy the sounds their dungeons hear, and tell
Of such and such a joke of thine, that made
Thy wanton comrades roar!

Mic.
Dear father!

Wal.
Pshaw!
Thou canst not try to speak with gravity,
But one perceives thou wagg'st an idle tongue!
Thou canst not try to look demure, but, spite
Of all thou dost, thou show'st a laugher's cheek!
Thou canst not e'en essay to walk sedate,
But in thy very gait one sees the wag,
That's ready to break out in spite of all
Thy seeming!

Mic.
I'm a melancholy man,
That can't do that which with good will I would!
I pray thee, father, tell me what will change me?

Wal.
Hire thyself to a sexton, and dig graves.
Never keep company but at funerals.
Beg leave to take thy bed into the church,
And sleep there. Fast, until thine abstinence
Upbraid the anchorite with gluttony.
And when thou talk'st reflection, feast on naught
But water and stale bread. Ne'er speak, except
At prayers and grace; and as to music, be
Content with ringing of the passing-bell
When souls do go to their account.

Mic.
But if
The bells, that ring as readily for joy
As grief, should chance to ring a merry peal,
And they should drop the corse—

Wal.
Then take the rope,
And hang thyself. I know no other way
To change thee.

Mic.
Nay, I'll do some great feat yet.

Wal.
You'll do some great feat! Take me Gesler's castle!

Mic.
Humph! that would be a feat, indeed! I'll do it!

Wal.
You'll do it? You'll get married, and have children,
And be a sober citizen, before
You pare your bread o'the crust! You'll do it? You'll
Do nothing! Live until you are a hundred,
When death shall catch you, 'twill be laughing. Do it?
Look grave, talk wise, live sober, thou wilt do
A harder thing, but that thou'lt never do.
[Waldman goes out.

Mic.
Hard sentence, that! Dame Nature! gentle mother,
If thou hast made me of too rich a mould
To bring the common seed of life to fruit,
Is it a fault? Kind Nature, I should lie
To say it was. Who would not have an eye
To see the sun, where others see a cloud?
A skin so temper'd as to feel the rain,
Gave other men the ague, him refresh'd?
A frame so vernal, as, in spite of snow,
To think it's genial summer all year round;
And bask himself in bleak December's scowl,
While others sit and shiver o'er a hearth?
His worship's self, I've heard, when he was young—
Some fifty years ago—was even such
A man! Shall I upbraid my heart because
It hath been so intent to keep me in
An ample revenue of precious mirth,
It hath forgot to hoard the duller coin
That worldlings trade on? No, not I, no more
Than I would empt my coffers of their gold,
Were they so furnish'd, to make room for brass;
Or disenthrone the diamond of my ring—
Supposed the gemméd toy my finger wore—
To seat a sparkless pebble in its place!
Yet here comes that, despite my wealth of mirth,
Can make a beggar of me! Father, could
You see me now, you'd find me sans a smile
In all my jester's scrip!

Enter Gesler's Archers, escorting some Swiss Peasants, prisoners; they cross the Stage, and enter the Porch of the Castle, —Tell, at a short distance, following them.
Tell.
[To Michael, who is looking after them as they enter the porch.]
Do you know them?

Mic.
No.

Tell.
Nor I, thank Heaven! How like you that?

Mic.
What?

Tell.
That.

Mic.
I like it not.

Tell.
It might as well be you or I.

Mic.
It might.

Tell.
Do you live in Altorf?

Mic.
Yes.

Tell.
How go they on
In Altorf?

Mic.
As you see. What was a sight
A month ago, hath not the wonder now
To draw them 'cross the threshold!

Tell.
Would you like—

Mic.
What wouldst thou say to me?

Tell.
No matter, friend.
Something so slight, that in the thinking on't
'Twas gone. The field of Grutli, Tell!—The hour's
At hand. The spirits are expecting thee,
Shall bring thy country back the times again
She'd wonder this to see!

Mic.
Stay, friend! a word.
If of my mind thou haply art, and think'st,
When fortune will not make us theme of mirth,
Ourselves may take the task in hand—

Tell.
For mirth!—
Good day!

[Exit hastily.
Mic.
Acquaintance briefly broke as made!
Take Gesler's castle, did my father say?
Would I were well within the ramparts, and
At large as now! I might do such a thing.
Soft! Who comes here? Jagheli! Ha! a youth,
That's tender as a love-sick damsel's sigh.
What brings him sighing here? The Seneschal
Has a fair daughter! Friend Jagheli, mind
Thy secret. Half on't I have got already
Without thy leave; the rest thyself shalt give me.

[Retires.
Enter Jagheli and three Savoyards, with guitars.
Jag.
You know the air, I'm sure. 'Tis very sweet:
The young musician who composed it loved;
But 'twas a bootless flame! You must have heard
The story? It is said he taught the lady,
Who was of high degree, and made that strain
To sing to her the love he dared not speak:—
Don't you remember it? The sequel was
A mournful one! The lady liked the strain,
But did not see the tender minstrel's drift;
And still she'd have him sing it, which he did
With pining heart, o'er hopeless labour breaking!
He sung it till he died!—and then, at last,
The lady found his theme; when, strange to tell!
With sweet contrition she dissolved away,
And ne'er press'd bridal bed, save the cold one
They made for her beside him! Draw thy hand
Across the strings, and wake thy saddest chord:
Perchance 'twill mind me of it. Thou hast hit it!
See if the rhymes I've strung for it agree.

[Michael listens at the back of the stage, unseen by Jagheli and Savoyards.
AIR.—Savoyards.

Mic.
I pray you, have the ditty o'er again!
Of all the strains that mewing minstrels sing,
The lover's one for me! I could expire
To hear a man, with bristles on his chin,
Sing soft, with upturn'd eyes, and archéd brows,
Which talk of trickling tears, that never fall,
And through the gamut whine his tender pain;
While A and B and C such anguish speak,
As never lover felt for mistress lost.
Let's have the strain again!

Jag.
To make thee mirth?
When I'm thy lackey, honest Michael, I'll
Provide thee music. There, with thanks to boot.
[Gives money to Savoyards, who go out.
I am not in thy pay.

Mic.
No; but I mean
To take thee into it. Wilt thou hire with me?
Nay, hang thy coyness, man! Why, thinkest thou
Thou art the only man in Altorf knows
The Seneschal has a fair daughter?

Jag.
Fair
Or not, she's nought to me.

Mic.
Indeed? Oh, then,
I'll tell her so!

Jag.
You do not know her?

Mic.
No;
For any profit it can bring to thee.
I pray thee, tell me, hath she not black teeth?

Jag.
Thou know'st 'twould take the pearl to challenge them!

Mic.
Her nose, I think, is somewhat set awry?

Jag.
It sits like dignity on beauty's face!

Mic.
Her hair is a dull black?

Jag.
'Tis shining gold!

Mic.
Her figure's squat?

Jag.
Betwixt the full and slim—
A mould where vie the richest charms of both!

Mic.
Well, then, she hobbles in her gait?

Jag.
She moves the light and flexile chamois—
If you could lend the chamois her beauty,
And add to that her modest stateliness!

Mic.
You are a hopeful painter, sir! How well
You've drawn the daughter of the Seneschal!

Jag.
Good Michael, thou'rt a jester; but thou'rt kind.
Thy mirth doth feast at every man's expense;
Yet with such grace of frankest confidence,
That none begrudge thee. Wilt thou be my friend?
I love the daughter of the Seneschal;
Help me to see her.

Mic.
Come to church with me
Next Sunday.

Jag.
I was there last Sunday, Michael—
And Sunday before last—and Sunday, too,
Preceding that. I ne'er miss church, for there
I see the daughter of the Seneschal.

Mic.
How wondrously devout thou'rt grown of late!
They say there is a young man in the church
That has his prayers by heart—unless, indeed,
He reads them in a certain angel's face;
On which he looks, and says them word for word,
From end to end, nor e'er is seen to turn
To other page. Can it be thou they mean?
Thou'lt have a name for most rare sanctity!

Jag.
Good Michael, canst thou help me?

Mic.
If I knew
The lady.

Jag.
What! dost thou not know her, then,
With what impediments is love environ'd!

Mic.
Why, that's love's gain! It would not else be love.
Love's the impediments that lovers meet;
Or wherefore sing it, as your poets do,
A thing that lives in plots and stratagems?
They know not love who need but woo to wed,
But they who fain would wed, but dare not woo!
That's to be sound in love—to feel it from
The heart's deep centre to the fingers' ends!
As sweetest fruit is that which is forbid,
So fairest maid is she that is withheld.
Whene'er I fall in love, I'll pick a maid
Whose sire has vow'd her to a nunnery;
And she shall have, moreover, for her warders,
Two maiden aunts, past wooing; and to these
I'll add an abigail, who has stood bridesmaid
To twenty younger cousins, yet has ne'er
Been ask'd herself; and under her I'll set
A male retainer of the family,
For twenty years or more, as surly as
A mastiff on the chain; and, that my fair
May lack no sweet provocative of love,
Her tempting lattice shall be grated, and
Her bower shall be surrounded with a wall
Full ten feet high, on which an iron row
Of forkéd shrubs shall stand and frown on me:
And then I'll be a lover!

Jag.
Show me how
Thou'dst win thy love by winning mine for me.

Mic.
Hush! here's the servant of the Seneschal;
A dog he sends on errands, without brains
To take them half a yard? What wouldst attempt
To win the daughter of the Seneschal?
Wouldst enter Gesler's castle?

Jag.
Yes!

Mic.
The man—
The very man for me!—Aside, and mark!

[They retire.
Enter Braun, from Porch.
Bra.
Three yards of buckram—Right! Thread thereunto—
But how much thread?—A hank? A hank's too much
To sew three yards of buckram! It must be
A skein. A skein it is!—Right there. What next?
Twelve buckles with the straps—That is, twelve straps,
Oh, very right! In the fourth place, a score
Of needles—Twenty needles to the score.
I'm right again, by that! And lastly—What
Comes lastly? Something is behind, I know,
For I bethought me of my fingers, to
Enter Seneschal.
Remember, there were five things I should get;
And what's the fifth? Or have I counted wrong?
There's buckram, one—thread, two—a skein of thread,
Twelve buckles, and the straps—The straps and they
Do go together—three: the fourth thing is
A score of needles. There's my little finger
Remaining yet. I'd give my hand to know
For what that finger stands.

Sen.
What stands it for?

Bra.
Dear master!

Sen.
Dolt!

Bra.
Kind master!

Sen.
Jackanapes!
What stands it for?

Bra.
I'll tell, but give me time.

Sen.
What time? a day? a week? a month? a year?
Or till my daughter's dead?

Bra.
I was to fetch
A leech to cure your daughter.

Sen.
Wast thou so?
Wilt thou forget again?

[Shaking his cane at him.
Bra.
No, sir!

Sen.
Thou wilt!
Or that, or something else.

Bra.
Indeed, sir, no!

Sen.
Then say thy errand o'er again! Say't out!
See thou are right in every tittle on't,
Or look to't. Now!

Bra.
Three yards of buckram—

Sen.
No!
Begin with the leech.

Bra.
I set the leech against
My little finger, sir.

Sen.
Begin with him!

Bra.
My little finger, sir, stands for the leech.

Sen.
I say, begin with the leech!

Bra.
I will! I will!
Well, then, the leech. I go to bring him to
My lady, your daughter; for she's sick.

Sen.
Go on.

Mic.
[Aside to Jagheli.]
Jagheli, thou must play the leech! Away!

[Jagheli goes out.
Sen.
Go on.

Bra.
Three yards of buckram, I'm to fetch;
Twelve buckles and the straps; and to conclude,
A score of needles.

Sen.
[Striking him.]
Rascal, where's the thread
To sew the buckram? Bring'st thou needles, fool!
And not the thread? Eh, starling? Eh? Wilt sew
The buckram without thread?

Mic.
[Coming forward, and striking him.]
Eh? rascal! Eh?
Heard ever mortal man the like of this?
Eh, platter! tankard! nightcap! good for naught
Except to eat, and drink, and sleep! Forget
Thy errand! Serve thy worthy master thus!
Thy patient master! thy kind master!—Get
Three meals a day, thy lodging, clothing, hire,
And civil words to boot; and yet not be
Trustworthy to the fetching of a skein
Of thread! Eh! Stomach!—Master Seneschal,
I'll run your errand straight. A leech; three yards
Of buckram; thread; a skein; a gross of needles—
Bring needles without thread! Eh? gullet!—and
A dozen buckles with the straps.

Sen.
Good lad!
What art thou, prithee?

Mic.
Sir, a sober youth,
Son to a worthy burgher of the town;
Was brought up in a monastery, has
Read Greek and Latin, knows to cast accounts,
And writes a hand as good as any clerk's
In Altorf, sir, with sundry other gifts,
As people say, but which 'twere not discreet
In me to speak of.

Sen.
Why, a modest lad.
Dost want a service?

Mic.
Not as varlets want
A service, sir, who let their duty out
For coin; I have enough: but I would serve
For love at any time, especially
The Seneschal of Altorf. Shall I run
Your errand?

Sen.
Why, a model of a youth!
Thou shalt. Give him the money, sir.

Bra.
The money!

Mic.
Ay, Sit-over-meals! can I provide the things
Without the money?

Sen.
Rascal, where's the money?

Bra.
I put it in this pocket, sir, I'm sure
I put it in this pocket!

[Feeling for it.
Sen.
Empty it, sir.

Mic.
[Searching the pocket.]
What's this?
A crust of cheese! O ne'er-content!

Sen.
Well! where is it?

Bra.
Or could it be in this?

Sen.
Out with't.

Mic.
[Searching the other pocket.]
What's here? a head of garlic, and
A capon's leg! O cormorant!

Sen.
The money!

Bra.
Yes, sir!

Sen.
Thy vest, try that! The money, sirrah!

Bra.
Good sir, this instant!

Sen.
Instant, dog! Wilt swear
Thou'lt find it in an hour?

Mic.
Or in a day.
Eh? lack-grace! knave! incorrigible knave,
To chafe so sweet a temper'd gentleman—
What's that thou keep'st the last three fingers of
Thy careful hand upon?

Bra.
The money!—There's
The money.

[Opens his hand slowly, and shows the money.
Sen.
Give it him!

Mic.
A patch, a rag,
The tatter of a serving man! To carry
His master's money in his greasy hand,
Or think of thrusting it into his poke—
Receptacle of musty eatables—
Cheese, garlic, scraps of meat, to wit; instead
Of lodging't in a safe and comely purse.
I'll run your errand, sir. Three yards of buckram;
A skein of thread; a score of needles, and
Twelve buckles with straps; not to forget
To bring a leech to cure your daughter, sir.
A turnspit cur—I'll run your errand, sir!

[They go out severally.