University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—A Room in Joseph's House at Prague.
Enter Joseph and Ahab.
Ahab.
More gold!

Jos.
Yes, Ahab, more! The dross is mine,
Thou only hast the custody, and yet
Thou yield'st it me, as it were drops of blood
From thine own heart! I say I want more gold,
And more to follow, yet, if that suffice not;
And failing gold, I'll coin my parchments, plate,
Jewels, and furniture—my very roof—
But I shall find supplies!

Ahab.
And for a Christian?

Jos.
Thou art my brother-Jew. What couldst thou more
Than risk thy life for mine?

Ahab.
I do not know
What greater venture man can risk for man,
Than his own life.

Jos.
Wouldst thou risk thine for me?
Thou art honest, Ahab, though thou lov'st thyself
Better than any living thing beside.
Thou pausest to consider! Do not pause,
'Tis waste of time, which I will save thee. Ahab,
Thou wouldst not risk thy life for me. Now mark,—
When I suffer'd persecution, Ahab,
Ten years ago, in Spain,—where Christian men
In their Master's name, did that which never yet
Their Master's precepts warranted—I say it,
For it is written, Ahab, written plain,
That he who runs may read—when Christian men
Gave human, living flesh to roast, because
We held the old faith and eschew'd the new,—
The Christian father of this Christian child
Then saved my life at peril of his own!—
Get the gold, Ahab! He did that for me,
That was not of his creed, thou wouldst not do,
Who holdest it! Ahab, I, then, believed
The Master taught them right! He is my neighbour
That does a neighbour's office unto me!
The gold, and plenty on't—a hundred ducats!

Ahab.
A hundred ducats?

Jos.
'Tis the twentieth part
Of what remains! A portion of his life
He did not risk, but all. Resolve at once
To do my bidding, else my mind may change,
And I may bid thee fetch the whole,—the whole!
A prompt compliance, in a strait, is best.
Where others have the power to make conditions!
Resistance tires forbearance! Fetch the gold,
For the sake of him who saved the hands that made it
From the fire.—Look here! they are not cinders, Ahab,
But flesh; and thank a Christian. Fetch the gold!
[Ahab goes out.
Poor girl! how she has wasted since she first
Came here: yet how her spirit lasts, beyond
Her body: there she suffers no impairment!
My Rachel had been like her, had she lived,—
The face reminds me of her, as it shines
From the thick bower of her raven hair,
When, now and then, by chance, I see it down!
Enter Meeta.
What news, my girl?

Meeta.
None!—I have sped to-day
As yesterday! The names of “father,”—“child,”
Seem here to carry, to men's hearts, no import
Past that of lightest words. They hardly win
An audience for me! When they do, the eye
Of the listener, every other moment caught
By passing trivial'st things, admonishes
My tongue it only wastes an earnest suit
Upon a heedless ear. Once, as I thought,
My auditor was moved,—almost he seem'd
To give me hope,—I felt as if about
To cross the threshold of the prison, and
Blessings and thanks rose in my throat so thick,
That utterance quite fail'd me, and, except
For tears, that sudden came to my relief,
I had fallen at his feet,—yet at that very moment
Some antic, feat I saw not, but a wretch
Practised within his view, convulsed him straight
With laughter, 'mid the peals of which he left me,
As I had ne'er been standing there! A clap
Of thunder had not stunn'd me half so much.

Jos.
Was't a new warden?

Meeta.
Yes.

Jos.
Corrupt his heart,
With pity at the door to thrust it back,
And let the mood, it shrinks from, enter in!

Meeta.
They are all alike! See.

[Showing an empty purse.
Jos.
Thou hast emptied it?
Well, I can fill it again!

Meeta.
All gone, and naught
To show for it: a heart-full, too, of prayers!

Jos.
I fear there is no hope!

Meeta.
Don't say it! Though
For so far we have found men's hearts but stones,
Still will we turn them up. It cannot be
But we shall light on one that's flesh and blood.
I won't believe it! Yea, though from my hand
The hundred thousandth one dropp'd dead as flint,
I'd go to the next as though the human touch
Might meet me there! No! while my father lives,
I'll ne'er give up the hope to save his life!

Jos.
A girl—and proof against despondence thus!

Meeta.
I often fear you deem me hard of heart.
Perhaps you think I do not weep enough?
It is not that I could not weep—it is
That I won't weep—that I won't give way—that I'll keep
My spirit up—my thoughts about me—waste
Naught that my father wants! I can't afford
To be a child and melt. No! I must be
A deliverer, and, to dissolvement, proof
As a rock. I have not shed a single tear
But as a prayer—except to-day, when I gasp'd,
And must have wept or dropp'd, and even then
It came of itself! Thou saidst just now thou fear'dst
There was no hope? But there is! I came resolved
To keep it from thee, promise had so oft
Enticed belief to balk it. I have a chance
To see the daughter of the Governor.

Jos.
How came this blessed chance?

Meeta.
Ha! blessed, say'st thou?—
Perhaps 'twill prove so!—The poor human heart,
How it doth build, and build on slightest grounds!
Words dropp'd by chance 'twill take for prophecies!
We'll pray it may be bless'd—We, then, may hope for't!
Well, I will tell you.

Jos.
Hope begins to dawn!

Meeta.
Didn't I say there was no fear of hope?
I went, as every day I yet have done,
To the Governor's. The man that oped the gate
Was a new warder. A new face, new hope!
I told my tale; and, when 'twas done, implored him
Prefer my poor petition to his lady,
To grant me briefest audience.

Jos.
To the daughter
Of the Governor?

Meeta.
To her!

Jos.
I see: go on!

Meeta.
Like all the rest, he show'd—not plainly though,
But by a hint—that charities were things
Of cost, and must be bought with more than thanks.
My purse was officeless, my last balk'd suit
Had of its trust absolved it quite—a wretch
Who bragg'd, to win my bribe, a power he had not,
And added savage mockery to the wrong!
I pleaded destitution. “What,” he cried,
“No toy, no trinket, you could turn to coin!”
And rudely snatching from its place my hood,
Which I had just unloosed, for want of air—
“Ha!” he exclaim'd, “what costly treasure's this!”
As, by the action from its band released,
My hair fell all around me!

Jos.
Thereof make they
High traffic. I have known a head of hair,
Of ordinary goodliness, to bring
A common peasant maid a little dower!
There scarce were price a woman might not set
On one so rich as thine.

Meeta.
Indeed! I would
I then had known its value—I had made
A surer bargain.

Jos.
Durst he ask it of thee?
Wretch! He shall never have it! Thou shalt take
A purse of ducats to him.

Meeta.
It is his
Already. With my leave he sever'd it,
As only 'twere the string that held it up,
And, glad, I gave it to him.

Jos.
I, at hand,
To fill thy purse! A quarter of an hour
Had ta'en thee here and back.

Meeta.
And in that time
His mind had changed, or he had been removed,
And in his place another put, and all
Had been to do again, and that, perhaps
With lessen'd chance.—Had he ask'd me for a limb,
He had had it—had it!—not one precious moment
Had I stay'd haggling with him. It had gone
As the hair of my head—ay—as a single hair.
'Tis time I go—

Enter Ahab.
Ahab.
Despatches have arrived.

Meeta.
They bring the order for my father's death.
I see it! Say it. You cannot tell me worse
Than I know.

Ahab.
The news is bad.

Meeta.
I'll not give up
While there is chance the substance of a thread—
A film! Although a thousand emperors
Had sworn to take the life of his grey hairs,
While it is in them, I will try and save it!

Jos.
Thou lookest faint! Some wine will hearten thee.

Meeta.
I'll have no wine but such as I draw hence,
From my heart! There's not such wine in all thy house
To strengthen me! There's plenty, and to spare!
What time is he to die?

Jos.
Tell her. No use
Withhold it from her. Her spirit is the arch
Which gaineth strength by that which burdens it.

Ahab.
He is to die within three days, although
The Governor his case reported so,
It might have gain'd for him a milder doom.

Meeta.
Did he? Did the Governor? Did you say
The Governor his case reported kindly?
The Governor? he?—he that's here?—here now
In Prague?—the very Governor of Prague?

Ahab.
The same; but some severe reverse, 'tis said,
Our arms have met with, so have overcast
The imperial mind, that clemency is quench'd,
And thus thy father's death, alas, decreed!

Meeta.
I would be here, and twenty leagues from this.

Jos.
Why twenty leagues from this?

Meeta.
That distance lives
A friend might give me help.

Jos.
Then suffer me
To be thy second self, and see that friend.

Meeta.
He is an enemy to Prague.

Jos.
And Prague
An enemy to thee—and I'm thy friend!
Trust me, my child.

Meeta.
My father told me this,
O thou good man—Thou Christian!—Pardon me.

Jos.
Pardon thee, child? I thank and honour thee:
Thou canst not praise me more than call me that
Thy heart esteemeth best.

Meeta.
Then come with me,
And I'll instruct thee on the way. 'Tis time
I see the servant of the Governor.
Three days we have from this—That's three whole days—
He dies on Saturday— [Ruminating]
—He shall not die!

[They go out.

SCENE II.

—An Apartment in the Governor's.
Enter Baron Idenstein and Adolpha.
Iden.
Indeed, indeed, it was not wisely done!
'Tis wrong that pity should be sufferer
By her sweet nature, as she is, enduring
Its gentle throes in vain—which are relieved
When of avail to those for whom they're borne;
Else, pain incontinently! 'Twas not right
To promise audience to her, her affliction
Past help! What canst thou give her but thy tears?
And what are they? They cannot ope for her
Her father's prison-door, nor wash away
The writing of the warrant which decrees
His term of life. Thou shouldst have sent her word
“It could not be”—“It was of no avail.”
'Twas rending thy own heart, without repair
Of hers! 'Twas idle waste of agony!
'Twas feeding hope thou knew'st was sure to die!

Adol.
Is there no hope?

Iden.
There! Were it fate herself
Said “No,” thy sanguine nature would not rest,
But ask again with thought she'd change her mind.
His doom is fix'd—within three days, he dies.

Adol.
On Saturday?

Iden.
Yes; Saturday's the day.

Adol.
Take me from Prague! I would not be in Prague
That day! I see the reverend old man
Dragging along the street, as on the day
I saw him first—by accident approaching
The casement as he pass'd!—his silver'd head
Uncover'd, an unseemly sight, beset,
As 'twas, by fierce array of threatening arms,
In hands wherein the pith of life was fresh,
Which better, far, it had become to give
Protection to him than oppose offence.
'Twas only for a moment, but the form
Of the old man has never left me since.
I will not be in Prague the day he dies;
I wish I could forget when that day comes!—
What day is this!—When will be Saturday!
O to have time, 'twixt this and after then,
A blank, that I might pass that cruel day,
Nor know on't till 'twas gone!

Iden.
My sweet Adolpha,
A strange and wondrous compound is thy heart,
Frame of all moods, from gravest to most light;
And all in like extreme! Thy mirth defies
All other wing!—Thy sadness dives a depth
Where none can follow thee! No eye such stores
Of tears! No cheek such treasury of smiles!
Most natures have their bias, thine hath none,
Save goodness which directs and poises all!
My love! thou shalt not be in Prague, that day.

Adol.
But must it come?

Iden.
See there again! Thy heart
Will take no answer, save what pleases it;
And, yet, is positive, as well as I,
It cannot have.

Adol.
My father's Governor!

Iden.
The Emperor is his master.

Adol.
Let him be!
Were I my father, in a case like this,
I would gainsay the Emperor!—refuse
To do his bidding, or evade obedience—
Do anything but take the old man's life!
'Tis murder, Idenstein! He was no spy!—
Came on no hostile mission!—nothing did
Could threaten damage to the Emperor's cause—
Only fulfill'd an act of private duty,
To her whom once he served! Why should he die
For that? What reason that a giant hand
Be laid on him to crush him to the grave!
A breach of duty were true duty here,
Where duty, done, is breach of all things, else.
For all thou say'st, I can't believe he'll die,
Knowing, as I know, he has no right to die;
I'll see my father.

Iden.
Counsel treason to him?

Adol.
That is not treason, which is not unright!

[Goes out.
Iden.
Her virtuous will, will never own a let;
What it desires, she ever counts upon
The power to do. [Listens.]
Ha!—Now she pleads to him.
That were well urged, if earnestly were well!—
I do not hear his answer, but by the tone
'Tis “No!” She comes to the attack again!
A friend in need, Adolpha, with a chance
In thy favour—Here thou hast none!—Again, I guess
His answer by the tone!—He will not yield—
Nor still will she give up—No advocate
Like one that pleads with heart!—What! Tears?—I'm sure
She weeps!—This rain, Adolpha, won't avail!
Duty 's a stern defendant; thou must lose
Thy suit:—Here comes the governor!—Kind heart!
What sun is there!—No cloud can keep it out;
But, lower it ne'er so thick, some beam breaks through.

Enter General Kleiner.
Gen. Kle.
I can't endure it!—won't—Give me a siege,
With a starved garrison and gaping breach!
Foundations honeycomb'd with mines!—the foe
A hundred men to one!—Or give me a battle
With bayonets cross'd, and cannon, mouth to mouth,
And I'm myself! I know my duty, and
Can act the man!—But save me from the eyes
Of a woman, when she weeps, and I the cause,
And cannot stop her tears!—'Sdeath! would they drown me,
I'd thank them! In the name of patience, why
Cannot one make a woman list to reason?
Why does that drive her mad which keeps us sane?
Talk reason to her, and her wits are gone!
'Sdeath! I can govern Prague; but not a woman!

Iden.
Why, what has happen'd, General?

Gen. Kle.
Don't call
Me General!—call your wife General!—she knows
My duty better than I know it myself!
Tell her of customs, order, penalties,—
You talk of things that she can treat as the thread
She cuts with her hus'ife scissors! I have served
For fifty years—for more than half that time
Have managed men by units, tens, and hundreds,
And tens of hundreds!—I can't rule a woman!
Rule her?—That's not the question!—Would it were!
She must rule me!

Iden.
But what's the matter?

Gen. Kle.
Matter?
That wife of yours—that girl—that waxen doll—
Adolpha! Is she not your wife; and don't
You know it? Did you ever say her “nay,”
And prosper?—ever know her to give up
The point her heart was fix'd on? She'd make hay
In December! Mars—a profitable wife!
She'd have the Helder thaw with a north wind
In January, when the frost is biting
With all its teeth! She'd stop the tide half in,
When it runs strongest. She would stop the sun,
The moon, and all the stars!

Iden.
What has she done, sir?

Gen. Kle.
Desired me ope the prison-door that's shut
By the Emperor's order—let its tenant out—
Laugh at the warrant for his death, that's seal'd
By the Emperor's hand! When I refuse her that—
Which, did I grant her, I should lose my head,
And that were falling somewhat grievously
Short of my due proportions—she insists
Upon a respite, while she goes herself
To plead his cause before the Emperor!
She'd do it! And when I refuse her that,
She prays me set my wits to work, and pass
A fiction off for fact—not killing him,
Although he seem to die! She'd make me out
A necromancer! When she's balk'd of that—
Which on as valid reason I refuse
As one to weave with gyves upon his hands,
She opens on me volleys of loud sobs,
With showers of tears, that try my mettle more
Than hail of lead! I wish you'd rule your wife—
Cut her right short, when she's unreasonable—
Say “No” to her, and nothing else for a year!
You spoil her, Idenstein!—A woman never
Should have her own way!

Iden.
Sir, you gave it her
Before I did.

Gen. Kle.
A fool, sir, has a use!
He is a beacon to a man, that's wise
Enough to profit by him.

Iden.
All her fault
Is but excess of too sweet nature, sir,
Which ever makes another's griefs her own.

Gen. Kle.
And mine, too! Punishment is done away
In Prague! Offenders 'scape, or I must smart
For their penalties! Nor ends it there. No ache,
For ten miles round, but I must share a twinge,
Chance it to come unto her knowledge!—I
Expire with woes of orphans, widows, maids
Forsaken, wives in childbirth—all degrees
Of human, female sufferings—I am in
Articulo mortis, every day of my life,
And not a pang my own!

Iden.
And then you die, sir,
A good man's death with benisons all round you!

Gen. Kle.
I'd waive the benisons to 'scape the death!

Iden.
Indeed—I know you better, sir!—you would not.

Gen. Kle.
I would!—But who comes here?

Iden.
As I believe,
The daughter of the prisoner, sir. Adolpha
Has promised her an audience.

Gen. Kle.
We are attack'd
In flank and rear—Tell her it won't avail!
Persuade her to retreat! Say we have taken
Our ground, and we will keep it, stand or fall!

Iden.
Had not you better do it, sir?

Gen. Kle.
Not I!
I'm a recruit, against their mode of fighting.

[Retires hastily, and sits down near a table.
Enter Meeta and a Servant.
Serv.
[Speaking low to Meeta.]
I'll tell her you are here.

[Goes out.
Iden.
You wish to see
The daughter of the Governor?

Meeta.
I come
To see her. I am promised I should see her.
She said it, as I am inform'd,—indeed
As I am sure she did. She is a lady:
She cannot break her word. A noble lady,
She would not break her word! A lady, sweet
And pitiful—she will not break her word!

Iden.
She will not; but I pray you for her sake,
Absolve her from it, and forego your suit,
Which will avail you nought. It will not lead
To what you want; what is the worth on't, then?
And wherefore shouldst thou urge it?

Meeta.
I am come
To see the daughter of the Governor;
Come on her promise, as I have been told,
And thou just now hast granted. If she wills
To break her word, then as I came I go!
But if she waits for me to give it back,
She'll wait till I am dead—and then she's free,
As death solves all accounts.

Iden.
Why give her pain;
And bootlessly?

Meeta.
My father is in prison,
And he is doom'd to die within three days,
And I his child, with the faculty of speech,
Stand not acquitted if I hold my tongue;
But, could I find for it no audience else,
Must make it ring to stones for mercy to him
While yet he breathes! how then should I be dumb
To human hearts, that are not hard as stones—
At least should not be so.

Iden.
Leave me to plead
Thy cause to her. Instruct me what thou'dst have,
I'll urge it to her, and with reasons back
Which thou wouldst never dream of,—be there but
A glimpse of hope, I'll see it and point out,
And make it clear to her, and if her heart
Misgives her, I'll encourage her. I'm her friend—
Her husband.

Meeta.
You are not my father's child!
You would give up, where I would still go on!
That which would make me plead the heartier,
Would silence you! O, sir, in such a case,
Would you petition for your father's life
At second-hand? But help me! O do that!
And I will pay you with a life of thanks!
And pardon me that I reject your counsel.—
I cannot take it, sir!—Indeed I cannot!
My heart, and mind, and sense, are capable
Of nothing but one thing—to try all means,
However light or weighty, feasible
Or unfeasible, rational, or wild, or mad,
Allow'd or disallow'd—short of a stain
Would spot my soul—to save my father's life!

Gen. Kle.
'Sdeath! am I chain'd here, that would be hence,
Yet lack the power to go!

Iden.
The lady comes.
So—speak to her, since you will have it so.
Enter Adolpha and Servant, who goes out.
This is the daughter of the prisoner.

Meeta.
[Running up to Adolpha, and kneeling.]
Bless thee!

Adol.
Poor girl!—No! Not thy knees!—Thy arms! Here are mine.

Meeta.
O no! my knee! my knee!—Or would you lift
My body up, lift first my heart, that's low
As misery can lay it! I have a father,
And he's in prison, and I must not see him.
I am his only child, and I have travell'd
Hundreds of miles, and when I reach the gate,
'Tis shut on me, and human beings keep it!
He dies on Saturday, and they can tell me
I shall not see his living face again,
And nothing has he done why they should kill him!
Nothing!—no more than you have! An old man
With a pale brow, sweet face, and silver hair,
That would not hurt a fly!—and he must perish,
And no one to console him, and his daughter
Within the wall's breadth of him;—She must not touch him,
See him, or speak to him!—You are a child!
You have a father! Think of me and mine!
Speak for me! Will you? Pray the Governor
To bid him let me in and see him! Won't you?
Are you going? Will you speak for me? Will you get them
To let me see my father! Do—or here
I'll lie at your feet for ever!

[Falls prostrate.
Gen. Kle.
Idenstein,
Can't you stop crying?

Iden.
Sir, can you?

Adol.
[Going to General Kleiner.]
My father!

Gen. Kle.
I'll not be shaken.

[Crossing her—she holds him on the other side, kneeling to him.
Meeta.
[Partly raising herself and missing Adolpha.]
Has she gone to do it,
Or means she to escape me?—Ha! she's there
Kneeling to some one!—'Tis the Governor!
Mercy—O—mercy!

Gen. Kle.
They are taking me
By storm! The citadel is theirs! I see
No use in holding out!—Eh! Idenstein?
Must I surrender? She shall see her father!

[Meeta falls swooning at his feet—Picture—Scene drops.