University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

—The Outskirts of General Torstenson's Camp.
Enter Rodolph, Gerold, Lodowick, and others.—Soldiers dragging in Joseph.
Ger.
He is a spy!

Lod.
Drag him along to the guard.
Let him be tried at once and executed.

Ger.
Nay, kill him without trial. He's a Jew
Blasphemer, reprobate, extortioner!

Jos.
Nay, sirs; but hear me!

Rod.
Hear him.—Let him speak.
Give him fair play.

Ger.
Fair play, and to a Jew!

Jos.
You give a thief fair play—a murderer—
And why not me, who neither kill nor steal?

Ger.
Not steal!

Rod.
Have patience!

Jos.
Have I stolen from you?
What have you lost, to lay to my account?
Is it your charity—I have it not;
But I will spare you some of mine! Perhaps
The stock to serve a Christian may be small,
Yet such as 'tis, it would not let me use
A Christian, though a thief or murderer,
As you use me!

Ger.
You hear him! Leave him, sirs,
To me. I'll do his business!

Jos.
A brave man!

Ger.
Leave him to me, sirs; I account a Jew
But as I would a rat!

Jos.
Obey him, sirs.
Let go your hold of me, and loose the rat,
Before that dog! I have known a cur to turn
Before as small a thing! I mean it, sirs.
But as you leave a rat to use his teeth,
Nor arm the dog you set upon a rat,
So that, whate'er the odds, 'tis bite 'gainst bite,—
Give me equality of weapons too,
Hand against hand, at large, and arm'd or not,
And see, if, be the Jew indeed a rat,
The Christian nearer doth approach the man!

Rod.
The Jew has fairly said.

Jos.
Will fairly do,
Give him fair play! Sirs, you are Christian men!
A Christian father lies in jeopardy
In Prague—a reverend teacher of your faith.
Man hath summ'd up his days; the number's out
On Saturday, unless Heaven sends him aid;
He has an only daughter, who essays
To succour him, and spies salvation here,
But cannot come to bring't—a Christian too—
So she must send for't; and thereto employs
A friend, whose counsel, coffers, roof, hands, blood,
She has, and welcome too, at her command;
And Christian men—You, sirs!—won't suffer him
To do her will, because he is a Jew!

Ger.
We knew not this!

Jos.
You would not know it, sirs!
You would not hear me!—would not let me speak!
Laid you not hands upon me one and all?
Vied you not in reviling me? with death
Did you not threaten me, nor till now give time,
To put a word of deprecation in,
Because I am a Jew!

Lod.
We have wrong'd the Jew.

Ger.
I fear we have.

Rod.
Nay, sirs, I know we have,
So let's ask pardon of the honest man.

Jos.
Ask me no pardon—It is given, ere ask'd.
A venial fault 's atoned for, when 'tis own'd.
And pray you, sirs, if you have friends yourselves—
As friends, however fenced in this world, lie
Within the leap of danger—bring me straight
To one call'd Roselheim, who beareth rank
Among your forces.

Rod.
Here the very man
Comes, as he knew your need. You'll not complain?

Jos.
I never break my word, although a Jew.
[Rodolph and the rest go out
Enter Rupert, Madame Roselheim, and Esther.
Do I not speak to Major Roselheim?

Rup.
You have named me, friend!

Jos.
Thanks, sir, to call me so.

Rup.
You have an errand for me—have you not?

Jos.
Yes; but a messenger more welcome far
Than I, this letter, sir, will tell it you—
I say more welcome—though it brings bad news.

Mad. Ros.
From Meeta, is it not?

Rup.
Yes, mother.

Mad. Ros.
What
Says Meeta?

Rup.
Presently!—I'll tell you all
Anon!

Mad. Ros.
I read the letter in your face;
The old man's doom is seal'd,—not quite, but yet
Almost as sure?

Rup.
You have guess'd it, mother.

Mad. Ros.
Rupert,
Is there no chance for him?

Rup.
There is a chance.

Mad. Ros.
What is't, my son?

Rup.
I may not tell you, madam.

Mad. Ros.
Were it a breach of confidence?

Rup.
No, mother,—
Of duty only. Movements, which are language
To a soldier, give me hopes, and these I am free
To share with you, and do so—not their cause.

Mad. Ros.
Tell me his plight in every circumstance.

Rup.
Learn it in one, he dies within two days,
Unless—

Mad. Ros.
What, Rupert?

Rup.
Learn the rest from hope!
Mother, you said the Governor of Prague
Was schoolfellow and choice comrade of my father,
From boyhood even to majority,—
That golden age of life, when hearts that join
Are riveted by metal, weatherproof,
That shines and keeps, while those it holds decay.
You would have sent to him; nay, gone yourself;
But, save in extreme need, I would not have it.
Send now—indite a letter—state your claim,
And crave delay to the last fraction
Of time that duty will allow—and let
Our Esther be the bearer, under guidance
Of this good man. Come there no other profit,
'Twill place her nearer Meeta—should she need her.
She ne'er divines my care had conn'd this news.
[Aside.
Before this herald brought it.

Mad. Ros.
Esther!

Esther.
Madam?

Mad. Ros.
Fear you to go to Prague?

Esther.
To no place, madam,
For you.

Mad. Ros.
'Tis with a letter to the Governor.

Esther.
I'll take it, madam: I'll do anything
To leave the camp.

Mad. Ros.
Why, what's the matter, Esther?

Esther.
That boy—that Hans, is going fast to ruin.
Before they stop, they'll make a soldier of him.
Already has he got their swagger, madam;
Drinks, swears,—yes, madam, on my life he does!
I'll never take the poor lad home again
The simple thing he was.

Mad. Ros.
Then, Esther, take
The boy along with you.

Esther.
I thank you, madam!—
Not that I care for Hans; but innocence
Is a rare thing, and should not be corrupted,
While those who know its value can prevent it.
So as you think it right that the poor lad
Be placed in safety, while it can avail him,
I'll take him with me, madam.

Mad. Ros.
Do so, Esther;
Go, find him straight, then come at once to me.

[Goes out.
Rup.
I have a charge for thee, concerning Meeta;
But this at once—should any one you love
Remain in Prague on Friday night, take care
They keep the house. You understand me, Esther?

Esther.
Humph! Yes, I think I do! But where is Hans?
Upon my life, I quite forget myself
With care for him. It fits not he and I
Should go together, and be nothing more
Than Hans and Esther! I have quite forgot
Appearances. And what will people say?
Here's a dilemma! If I leave the lad
Behind me, he is ruin'd. They'll be putting,
'Mongst other things, sweethearts into his head.
And I am ruin'd if I take him with me,
And he no right to me, nor I to him!
I could not pass him for my brother—None
Would credit that the selfsame mother bore us!
'Tis out of nature he could be my son.
What shall I do for sake of the poor lad?
There's no contrivance I can hit upon,
But to make Hans my husband. Well-a-day!
To think that ever it should come to this;
But, if it can't be help'd, as well be done
To-day as this day year. 'Tis very plain
I must be sacrificed, or Hans be lost,—
And that were cruelty—That must not be!
And so my mind's made up! I'll marry him!

SCENE II.

—Another part of the Camp.
Enter Hans and Rodolph.
Hans.
And you have been in battle?

Rod.
Yes.

Hans.
How often?

Rod.
A dozen times.

Hans.
And never got a wound?

Rod.
Only a scratch.

Hans.
I would not mind a scratch,—
I would not mind a dozen scratches! If
It went no further, bayonets and swords
To me were things I'd take no more account of
Than pins and needles. Where, though, was the scratch?

Rod.
In the left side—a bayonet grazed me there.

Hans.
Odds, that was near! Wasn't it? Very near!
I should not mind one in the foot or leg,
The hand or arm—but when you come to that,
Fighting is very dangerous! I don't think
That I should like to be a soldier.

Rod.
Yet
You are the very cut of one.

Hans.
The cut?
Am I though?

Rod.
One could see it with half an eye.

Hans.
It must be very plain.

Rod.
You were intended,
By nature, for a soldier.

Hans.
Isn't it strange
That nature never told me so?

Rod.
She left you
To find it out yourself, it is so plain.

Hans.
And I to live to five-and-twenty years
And not to see it—No!—Nor any one
To tell me on't till you did!

Rod.
Friends are few;
One may go far ere find one.

Hans.
Tell me what
You mean by the cut of a soldier, that hereafter
I know myself.

Rod.
A sharp eye—a smart nose.

Hans.
Have I such eye and nose?

Rod.
You have.

Hans.
Indeed?
I never dreamt on't! I have a smart nose
And a sharp eye? Now would I give a crown
That this were told to Esther! So! Go on.

Rod.
You have a pair of shoulders.

Hans.
La! you jest!
Speak you the truth now? mean you what you say?
Have I indeed a pair of shoulders?

Rod.
Yes.

Hans.
'Tis plain I never knew myself before!
A sharp eye, a smart nose, and pair of shoulders
I wonder what would Esther say to this!
Anything more?

Rod.
Ay marry! many a thing.
A chest that's high and full—a front-rank chest.

Hans.
Never mind that—I like the rear rank better.
Were I a soldier, I would always fight
In the rear rank—I could do wonders there—
Incredible and never-heard-of things!
What call you those who fight upon their knees
And stomachs, or ensconce themselves behind
Hedges and trees, and when the enemy
Advances, make a run of it, and leave
The rest to fight the battle out?

Rod.
We call them
Sharp-shooters.

Hans.
That's the very name! I'll be
A sharp-shooter. A sharp-shooter had need
Have a sharp eye, and I have one, you know:
Haven't I? I'm contented with a chest
That's high and full, but not a front-rank one:
And so a sharp-shooter if anything!
We've settled that—Go on—Were Esther here!
She little dreams that Hans is such a man!

Rod.
Your limbs are set right under you.

Hans.
They are? You do not say so?
And have I got straight legs with all the rest?
Odds what a man I am! I think I'll be
A soldier.

Rod.
You'd be sure of it, but once
You saw yourself dress'd in your uniform.

Hans.
'Twould make a little change.

Rod.
A little, say you!
'Twould make a hero of you.

Hans.
I should like
To see myself a hero! What was that?

[A shot without.
Rod.
Only a shot.

Hans.
O, was it nothing more?
A shot! I thought it was something else! Who minds
A shot?

Rod.
'Tis clear you do not.

Hans.
No—not I!
I fired a shot once when I was a boy,
And kill'd a sparrow—as I live I did!
I to be startled by a shot! [Shot again.]
Odds life!
That's shameful waste of powder, and in time
Of war too.

Rod.
Here! put on this cap of mine,
And show me how you look in it.

Hans.
I please you?

Rod.
Gods, sir, you make a show more warlike far
Than would a whole platoon with shoulder'd arms
And bayonets fix'd.

Hans.
What were I did you add
My body to my head!

Rod.
To go by rule,
You would be worth a regiment! How fine
Your eye looks when it rolls! Here, take my sword
And flourish it.

Hans.
What think'st me match to now?

Rod.
A whole brigade—Foot—Horse—Artillery,
To sweep a field!

Hans.
I'll be a soldier.

Esther—entering and aside.
Esther.
Hans!

Rod.
Then take the bounty.

Esther.
Take it if he dares!

Hans.
I never said I'd take it.

Rod.
But you said
You'd be a soldier.

Hans.
Yes; with Esther's leave.

Esther.
O! was it so?—What do you with that cap?
Take't off, or I will put one on your head
Will fit it better! Flourishing a sword!
Have you a mind the boy should cut himself,
You man of war?—Give back the sword and cap.
Sir, you may sell your own limbs if you like,
You know the worth of them; but for the lad's,
They're not his own; and not for market, sir.

Rod.
And is the bargain off?

Hans.
And don't you hear
What Esther says?—It were a valiant man
Would gainsay her!—I would not for my head!

Rod.
[Looking alternately at Esther and Hans.]
I see!

Hans.
We'll talk of it another time
When she's not by.

Rod.
[To Esther.]
Well I'll let off the lad,
So that I get a kiss?

Hans.
[Placing himself between them.]
You get not that!
Nay, an I die for it, you get not that!
Nay, an you come with swords and bayonets,
Bullets and cannon-balls, you get not that!

Esther.
Hans is a man!—Take my advice, and know
[To Rod.
A lion without proving of his fangs.
Touch me! and better for you you had been
In prison-keeping than at large to-day.
Man never kiss'd me yet, sir.

Hans.
Only Hans.

Esther.
Nor e'er shall kiss me, sir!

Hans.
Save I'm the man.

Esther.
I like a smirking swaggering turkey-cock,
That eyes a woman, as he need but look
And swallow her!

Rod.
I'll see your spark again.

[Goes out.
Esther.
See he don't prove a fire and scorch you, sir!
Hans, you have acted like a man to-day,
You're a good lad; but you were never made
Match for a world like this, to get through it,
By yourself.—A pity 'tis you have not aunt,
Sister, nor mother, that would look to you,
Nor honest woman that might serve for such,
And, maybe, love you better!

Hans.
Esther!—Esther!

Esther.
Why, bless me, Hans! you're always saying that,
'Tis very plain there's something you would have,
But what that something is, not quite so clear;
Speak out, Hans, and take heart—I cannot read
The stars, you know; I'm not a conjurer,
Or a diviner, or a doctor, who
Finds hidden ailments out. I'm nothing but
An honest simple woman, that would do
A kind turn for thee, knew she but the way;
So want'st thou anything, speak out, good Hans.

Hans.
I want a wife.

Esther.
You do not say so!

Hans.
Yes,
I do.—Now, wanted you a husband, Esther,
How well we should be match'd!

Esther.
I want a husband!—
But, then, you want a wife—that makes a change.
And though I do not want a husband, Hans,
Yet I might bring myself, you know, to take one,
To save the wits or life of a poor lad
Like you, that has no mother, sister, aunt,
To look to him! Know you where bides the chaplain
O' the regiment?

Hans.
I do.

Esther.
I'll talk with him.
Do you not lead the way?
What, are you not in haste to get a wife?
I thought you were.

Hans.
I am; but am so pleased,
I know not what to do!—to go or stay,
To laugh or cry, to talk or hold my tongue.

Esther.
Poor honest lad! A pity 'twere the world
Should take thee in! Thou ought'st to have a wife,
If but to look to thee! 'Twould not be right
To leave thee without one, a day, an hour;
And such a friend as I'm to thee, at hand.
Would it, Hans? The poor lad! he's quite confounded!
How interesting does he look!—Come, Hans!
You know the way to the chaplain's—I believe—
I think—I'm almost sure I'll take you, Hans!

[They go out, Esther leaning upon him.

SCENE III.

—The Fortress of Prague—A Room.
Gen. Kleiner
[without].
Wait you without.

Adol.
[without].
We will, sir.

Gen. Kle.
[without].
Idenstein,
Keep guard upon her.

Iden.
[without].
There's no need, sir.

Gen. Kle.
No—
A wife most docile—let her have her way!
[Enters with the Lieutenant-Governor.
Bring here the prisoner. Do not say 'tis I
That want to see him, nor apprise him how
I am accompanied—
[Lieutenant-Governor goes out.
I had hoped this task
Would have been wholly spared me,—so relapse
Of consciousness succeeded to relapse,
When nature once gave way, till nearly half
The interval that spares him life was out.
But she recovers and at once demands
Fulfilment of my word.—What now my course?
A veteran take the field without a plan—
Or take the field at all with mutiny
In the ranks! How come I here? What brought me here?
A regiment of foot, or horse, or what?
Can I believe I came of mine own will?
With aid of mine own limbs, when I would be
A thousand miles away? I must be mad,—
I, that can't bear to see a caged bird!
Mad for a hundred ducats! I would give
That sum—ay, twice as much, to any one,
Would bind me hand and foot and take me hence!

[Re-enter Lieutenant, with Muhldenau.
Lieut.
The prisoner.

Gen. Kle.
Leave us, good Lieutenant. [Lieutenant goes out.]
Sir—

Muhl.
Your pleasure?

Gen. Kle.
Pleasure, sir? I have no pleasure!
I'm an unhappy man, that with the power
To do his pleasure, cannot do it, sir.
I know the track I ought to take, and would,
Yet always go the way that's contrary.
Sir, were a fever next door to me, and
I knew removing further would prevent me
From taking it, I would remove next door!
There is in some men a fatality
That knowledge is more loss than profit to them;
For what appears their bane as clear as day,
Is ever sure to be the thing they do,—
As sight of a descending shell, 'tis known,
Will fix the man, who sees it, to the spot,
Where he is sure to die, with limbs at large
As his that walks or runs.

Muhl.
I know you, sir!
The gracious man they took me first before,
Who pitied me; with patient audience heard me;
Enjoin'd them gently to entreat me, and,
Far as their duty warranted, to make
The pains of bondage light.

Gen. Kle.
Have they obey'd me?

Muhl.
They have.

Gen. Kle.
You want no comforts they can give you?

Muhl.
They have done all they could to comfort me,
And Heaven has done the rest. I am to die
On Saturday—I ask'd not at what hour?
Will't please you tell me, sir?

Gen. Kle.
Sir?

Muhl.
I perceive
It gives you pain to do't. Don't heed, for me—
He feels not death that uses life to die!
The hour, sir?

Gen. Kle.
Nine o'clock.

Muhl.
What kind of death
Am I to suffer?

Gen. Kle.
Sir?

Muhl.
I merely ask,
Because there's something in the form of death
To poor humanity, however brave
To meet it. I would know it ere it comes,—
Look at it—meet it with accustom'd eye,—
Not to be startled by it at the time
I should be all myself—not that I trust
In my own strength—I have a firmer stay.
What death am I to die?—Is't by the sword?

Gen. Kle.
It is!

Muhl.
I'm sorry, sir, to give you pain.

Gen. Kle.
Sir, I can fight!—I love the fight. I think
The blast of a trumpet music!—Beat a drum
In concert with the shrill throat of fife,
And my heart dances!—It is mirth to me
To hear the running roar of musketry
From wing to wing, along the blazing line!
And when the cannon thunders, clap on clap,
So thick, there's not a breath of pause between,
I tower as I myself could rule the bolts!
I have seen death on every side of me,
And given it not a thought! I have ta'en wounds,
And never felt them, in the battle's heat!
But I can't bear to look upon a man
About to die, and in cold blood! I own
I am a coward there! Forgive me, sir!
Have you a friend, sir, whom you wish to see?

Muhl.
Is there one near me? You're a merciful,
Considerate man—you would not, idly, raise a hope—
You would not raise but to kill it straight!
Sir, I had learn'd to think a boundary,
'Twixt me and all things living 'neath the sun,
Was drawn, and no more to be cross'd by me
Than the dark frontier of the grave, once pass'd!
But you have breathed a word, and it is gone!
I have a child, sir!—If she knows my plight,
She's here in Prague!—she's at my prison-door!
Is she?—Is it of her you speak?—That sob—
In the next room! Is it my daughter's heart
That's bursting there?—Is it?—My Meeta!—Come!—
Thou know'st thy father!—Fear not for him—Come!
He has strength enough to bear the sight of thee;
But not to want it longer, when he thinks
Thou'rt near him! Come to him! Come—Come! my child!

[Meeta enters, rushing into her father's arms; Adolpha and Idenstein following.
Meeta.
You bear it, father!—See!—and so do I!
O, I was right!—No door that man can shut,
But Heaven can open! Day succeeded day!
In vain chance, chance; and mock'd me still! Yet, spite of all,
I cherish'd hope, nor suffer'd it to dwindle;
And 'tis fulfill'd! I have pass'd your prison-door!
I see you!—hear you!—I am in your arms!

[Muhldenau and Meeta retire.
Gen. Kle.
What can Adolpha mean, and Idenstein?
What can they be about? What do they mean
By staying here? Why don't they call me hence?
How cool they stand!—How very cool!—while I
Am writhing!—Ay!—A pair of callous hearts!
They would be thought to weep—and if they do,
They like it! Cough, and seem to wipe your eyes!
Do! Can't you go, if you can't bear it? Don't
You know there is a door? and can't you go,
And take me with you?—Idenstein!—Adolpha!

Adol.
Sir!

Gen. Kle.
Madam!

Iden.
General!

Gen. Kle.
Sir!—I hope you're pleased?

Adol.
At what, dear sir?

Gen. Kle.
To see two human hearts
Bleeding, that you stay here as you were wood,
Or lead, or stone, instead of flesh and blood!

Adol.
We thought your duty, sir—

Gen. Kle.
My duty!—Pshaw!
You know you never let me do my duty!

Adol.
We will withdraw, if you will let us, father!

Gen. Kle.
“Let us!”—You never do but what you're let!

[General Kleiner, Idenstein, and Adolpha, move softly towards the door.
Muhl.
Who is that?

Meeta.
Which?

Muhl.
She that's moving towards the door!

Meeta.
The lady that obtain'd admittance for me.

Muhl.
Bid her stop!

Meeta.
My father?

Muhl.
Lady, stop! The face,
Well as the form!—I saw thy mother's form,
And now I see her face! Do you not see
Your mother?

Meeta.
Father, you forget—She died
When I was but an infant!

Muhl.
True!—You're right!
I had forgot! Then see your mother now—
As she was at your age, Meeta!—Yes!—my child!

Meeta.
Sir!—Father!—'tis the daughter of the Governor!

Iden.
His mind is shaken by imprisonment!

Muhl.
No, sir! my heart is struck!—struck by the form
And face of one that's dead—long dead—yet stands
Alive again before me!

Meeta.
Dearest father,
It is the daughter of the Governor.
The Governor that's there!

Muhl.
I beg her pardon,
I beg her pardon, Meeta, yet I feel,
As I were asking pardon of my child.
Sir, were those eyes your wife's?—Those perfect arches,
As though Art set a copy unto Nature,
To try her cunning!—and that domy forehead
Of feeling, speaking marble!—and the rest
O' the features, with the form therewith consorting!
Were they your wife's? If so, they once belong'd
To mine!—I cannot look on her and think
She's not my child.

[Turns up.
Iden.
Why are you lost, Adolpha?

[Aside.
Adol.
I cannot help it! I am strangely moved.

[Aside.
Iden.
At what, my love?

Adol.
[aloud].
To hear a father's voice,
As never did it sound to me before!

Muhl.
What saidst thou, Meeta?

Meeta.
'Twas the lady spoke.

Muhl.
The voice too! It recalls to me my home,
As from my hearth it came—my very hearth!
But she's the daughter of the Governor!

[Retires to the back of the stage, and sits.
Meeta.
As drops his heart the hope, mine takes it up!

Gen. Kle.
Idenstein—

Iden.
Sir—

Gen. Kle.
Let us go.

Iden.
Adolpha!

Meeta.
Stop!
No!—Not a trait! No more resembles him
Than I!—while as I look at her, methinks,
Touches, as of a face I can't recall,
Yet feel as once I knew, start forth from it!
You're troubled, sir—nor yet are you at ease,
[To Idenstein.
So many tokens call him owner, yet
The precious thing that bears them not his own!
Incredible! impossible—my heart
Protests against it!—yearns for her! cries out
She's his and mine, and will not be gainsaid!
Are you the daughter of the Governor?

Adol.
I am—I am his only child!—

Meeta.
You are!
I kiss your hand and ask your pardon! but—
What scar is this upon your wrist?—No knife
Could make this wound, and in your father's house
How came you by it? Was it by a knife?

Adol.
No, by a sword.

Meeta.
When?

Adol.
When I was an infant.

Meeta.
Where?

Adol.
At the siege of Magdeburg!

Meeta.
The siege
Of Magdeburg! How came you there?

Adol.
I know not.

Meeta.
[To General Kleiner.]
Sir, are you—
Are you her father?—Is he, her father? [To Idenstein]
—Both
Look doubt at one another! Providence!
What can this mean? Why are you silent, sir?
If she you call your daughter—Look at me!
Don't turn away!—If she you call your child
Was in the siege of Magdeburg, I lost
A sister there.—Is this she? O, a word
To save my heart from bursting! Her nurse, whose hand
I held by, carried her,—a soldier seized
The woman by the hair—

Gen. Kle.
I smote him down,
And saved the child! [Muhldenau rushing forward, throws himself at the Governor's feet, clasping his knees.]


Meeta.
'Tis she! She's ours! She's found! My sister!

Muhl.
Meeta!
Thy sister! What! in one another's arms!
Give her to me!

Meeta.
Here, take her to thy heart!
Into it, father!—Sister!—Father!—Heaven!

[Muhldenau and Adolpha embrace—Meeta rushes up to them, and kneeling, clasps them both.—Act ends.