University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

—A Room in Joseph's House.
Enter Meeta and Adolpha.
Adol.
What place is this, and wherefore am I here?

Meeta.
Art thou afraid of me, my sister?

Adol.
No.

Meeta.
Then fear not where I bring thee, nor the cause.
O! my new other self, were it a time,
I'd give thee vouchers of heart-coin'd words
To prove thy safety—good of every kind—
Dear to me—worlds, ay, worlds beyond my own.
Dost trust in me?

Adol.
I do.

Meeta.
Wilt do my bidding—
Wilt do't to-night, however questionable
Inexplicable, strange?

Adol.
Your words are darkness,
Which yet I trust myself to, with your looks
Of Truth and Love for guides. I'll do your will.

Meeta.
My sister, my dear sister, let me think,
And lay your cheek the while a space to mine;
There, there, thou prompt'st me sweetly with the touch
Of thy sweet cheek. I have comfort for thee, sister—
Our father will not die.

Adol.
How know you that?
The Governor has heard no tidings yet—
The distance greater, than his courier,
Despatch'd on the instant, with the prayer for mercy,
Could compass in a day!

Meeta.
He will not die.

Adol.
My sister!

Meeta.
What!

Adol.
Your words are oracles
I trust to, with a thousand human fears
To shake my heart.

Meeta.
Our father will not die!
Now listen. There will be a storm to-night—
Fierce rain with deluge, high uprooting wind,
Thunder and thunderbolts. Look in mine eyes,
And let them serve thee for interpreters,
To make my dark words clear. 'Twill break around
Our father's prison. There its rage will play,
Nor, till it bursts an entrance to his dungeon,
To set him free, stop smiting! Canst thou read,
Without a glossary? This house will be
Beyond its range!

Adol.
My husband, and my father!—
I cannot help it, he has been my father
In all things but my blood!

Meeta.
There's nothing wrong.
'Tis very right. I'll call him father too;
So think him, feel him too, for thy dear sake.
And now thy promise, sister! Weigh my words.
Thy husband and the Governor might fall;
Here they are safe.—Don't interrupt me, sister,
Time's brief and swift, and action must be instant,
Or not at all.—Thou must indite a letter,
Urging their prompt attendance here—alone—
On matter of as pressing moment as
Question of life or death. I know the thought
Thou wouldst give utterance to—'Tis not an act
Of treachery, but duty! Thou didst promise
Obedience to me.

Adol.
Hardly dost thou task me,
But I'll respect my word.

Meeta.
Then prove it straight,
Sit down and write the letter. O, my sister,
Confide in me! Do it without stint!—with cheer!—
That's right—you will!—go on!

Adolpha writes—Enter Joseph.
Jos.
The trusty friends
I told you of are come.

Meeta.
I thank you. Armed?

Jos.
A weapon each beneath his gaberdine.

Meeta.
How many are they?

Jos.
Twenty.

Meeta.
That is right;
Their number makes resistance idle. Yet
As courage does not take account of odds,
And slightest scath, to them, were wound, to us;
'Twere well they should disarm your visitors
On the unprepared instant. Is it not strange
I grow more calm as the dread crisis comes
Of this momentous night? You are aware
Whate'er befals, the motive of the act
Holds you absolved;—besides, it is not yours,
But mine!

Jos.
I take it all on mine own head.

Meeta.
There mustn't be a light when they come in,
Lest it betray thy friends! Go send me now
That servant of the Governor who came
Along with us. Is't written, sister?

Adol.
Yes.

Meeta.
Thank you, my sister; now direct it.
Enter Governor's Servant.
Sir, seek straight the Governor, and give him this.
[Servant goes out.
Now, sister, come, and be thou strong of heart:
I'll give thee clearer reasons, on the way.
This night of death shall bring us days of life.

[They go out.

SCENE II.

—Another Room in Joseph's House.
Enter Hans.
Hans.
I wonder when the honeymoon begins!
I'm one day married, and no glimpse on't yet!
Or shall I ever have a honeymoon?
Or is there such a thing? Until I see it,
I'll not believe it. Twenty leagues of travel
Is not a honeymoon! Strange company,
That care no doit for me, nor I for them,
Are not a honeymoon! A dinner snapp'd,
Not eaten, can't be call'd a honeymoon!
'Tis Esther's fault! No sooner were we married,
Than off she sets for Prague—nor leaves me choice,
Except to stay behind, or come with her.
Of course I do the latter, as beseems
A married man. I know my duty, but
I see no honeymoon, or chance of it!
No merry-making!—not a soul I know
To give me joy! No presents, visitings,
Feastings, and dancing, as, I know, are wont
At other people's marriages, with scores
Of little tricks and rogueries they play.
I have not had a laugh—and here I'm left,
Five hours alone! Is this a honeymoon!
And if it is, I would I ne'er had been
A married man! I'm fit to hang myself!

Esther.
[Entering.]
Husband!

Hans.
Well, wife?

Esther.
You look not happy!

Hans.
No.

Esther.
And why, dear chuck?

Hans.
Because I am not so.

Esther.
Not happy!

Hans.
No.

Esther.
Why, am not I thy wife?
Do I not treat thee kindly, lovingly?
Do I not call thee hubby, spouse, and chuck,
And every other kind of tender names?
What want'st thou to content thee, dearest love?

Hans.
I want a honeymoon.

Esther.
A honeymoon?
Why this is it! 'Tis on, my honey-love,
And almost all to come.

Hans.
'Tis on? 'Tis not!
Be this the honeymoon, I'm sick of it!
I want no more of it! Will have no more.

Esther.
O cruel—cruel Hans.

Hans.
If I had thought
To pass such honeymoon as this, I ne'er
Had married.

Esther.
Would you have me break my heart?

Hans.
I have no comfort with thee!

Esther.
Do I live
To hear thee say so!

Hans.
No delight in thee!

Esther.
No, Hans? You'll make me wish that I were dead!

Hans.
I took thee for a helpmate—thou art none!
I scarce set eyes upon thee! Thou art out,
Five hours and more, and hast not told me where.

Esther.
I went on business, Hans, that's not my own.

Hans.
Thou hast no business with such business! Fit
I mope at home, and have a wife that ought
To keep me company! I'm fairly turn'd
From honey into gall! What business was it,
Took thee away?

Esther.
I may not tell.

Hans.
You must!

Esther.
I won't!

Hans.
I'll show her, I'll be master! Now,
Or never—I'm resolved! One whisper'd me,
As from the chaplain's we came out—“Beware!—
Look to your wife, sir!”—'twas the corporal who
Had, ne'er, beguiled me—“mind! or she'll put on
What is no proper part of woman's gear!”
So I'll begin in time! What bus'ness was it
Took thee away?

Esther
[gently].
I will not tell thee, Hans!

Hans
[angrily].
You won't?

Esther
[more angrily].
I won't, Hans!—Mind what you're about!
You know me!

Hans
[angrily].
Yes!—but yet you know not me!—
I will not have it!—won't allow it!

Esther.
What?

Hans.
To have thee gadding in the honeymoon—
If honeymoon it be!

Esther.
If honeymoon
It be?

Hans.
I say it is no honeymoon!—
Where is the wine?—where are the cakes?—where are
The sports and games?—where are the friends and neighbours?
Why are we here, and not in Mariendorpt?
I thought we should go thither, when I made
A wife of thee!

Esther.
You made a wife of me?
You say it, sir?—'Twas I made you a husband!

Hans.
And if you did, I'll keep myself a husband—
I will be master!

Esther.
Hear him!

Hans.
Lord!

Esther.
O dear!

Hans.
And lord of that, I'll not be left alone,
Again!—I won't!—to fret myself from wine
To vinegar!

Esther.
Look, sir!

Hans.
Look, ma'am!

Esther.
I tell you—

Hans.
And I tell you!

Esther.
I'll make you know yourself!

Hans.
You will?—I'll run away to Mariendorpt!

Esther.
[Frightened.]
You won't, dear Hans?

Hans.
I'll be divorced—I will!

Esther.
You'll kill me, Hans!

Hans.
I'll take another wife!

Esther.
[Crying.]
O dear! O dear!
Was it for this, I let you win my heart—
O'ercome my hatred of your tyrant sex—
And, from my state of happy singlehood,
Transform me to a miserable wife?—
O Esther! Esther!—woman never knows
When she's well off, until she is undone!

Hans.
Don't cry! 'Twill spoil your eyes! My wrath is soothed,
I'm your own Hans again—your loving Hans!
I'm pacified—I'm calm'd. The storm's blown o'er;
All's smooth and still, no ripple now, nor breath.

Esther.
I'll tell thee all, Hans.

Hans.
No, you shan't!—I say
I will not hear a word—a syllable,
As I'm your husband.—Let her have her way,
So that she keeps to wearing her own clothes!

Esther.
I thank you, Hans. I see you love me still.

Hans.
Love you?—Adore you!—Idolize you!—But
'Twill never do to want our honeymoon!

[They retire.
Enter abruptly General Kleiner and Idenstein, followed by Joseph.
Gen. Kle.
What means this violence?—What men were those
Disarm'd us in the hall? The lady where,
That sent for us?

Jos.
No ill is meant you, sir,
But good. The men disarm'd you, are your guards,
Trusty for you, to death. The lady's gone.

Gen. Kle.
'Tis all thy wife's contriving, Idenstein.

Iden.
You know the value of a thousand ducats?

Jos.
I do.

Iden.
I'll give you them to set us free.

Jos.
Took I the sum, 'twould be to peril that
Were worth it to you, countless times—your lives!

Iden.
Our lives!

Jos.
They are in my care.

Gen. Kle.
Look, honest friend;
Wilt thou consent to set us free at once,
There's not a unit in two thousand ducats,
But I will count thee down.

Iden.
Thou art a Jew,
And wilt not list to reason?

Jos.
Not such reason
As that. There's not in Prague that bulky sum
Could weigh—the matter of a line—the scale
Wherein my pledge to keep you here is put—
My love—my gratitude—my principle—
Which I respect, my lord, although a Jew!

Gen. Kle.
Dost thou reflect that I'm the Governor?
That I can punish thee? That I can throw thee
Into a dungeon?—put thee to the rack?
Load thee with chains, consign thee to the galleys?—
Hang thee, good Jew?

Jos.
I know it very well.
I know thou hast the power, although thou lack'st
The will, to execute a cruel deed;
And when befits the penalty to fall,
Usest the keen sword with a melting eye.
Every one knows the Governor of Prague!

Gen. Kle.
Every one knows him for the fool he is!

Jos.
Although I am a Jew, I honour you, sir.
The hospitality I force upon you—
Except compulsion—I have taken care
Should stand acquitted of all disrespect.
That room presents refreshment—that beyond
Repose. This night alone you are my guest,
And shall, to-morrow, fully learn the cause
Why you are here; and then be free to go.
So pray you find contentment, if you can,
Where profit cannot come of discontent.

[Goes out.
As Esther and Hans are following, Idenstein beckons the former.
Iden.
Hark you, fair lady, you are beautiful.

Esther.
I know I am.

Hans.
She knows she is.

Iden.
She is;
And beauty argues goodness—and if goodness
Be not made up, 'mongst other precious things,
Of generosity, 'tis negative,
And proves of no account!

Hans.
What's negative?

Iden.
A diamond necklace clasp'd around your neck,
A score of ducats for each several drop,
And each the twentieth fraction of the set,
Would not be out of place.—Is there a window
Whence one might drop himself into the street?

Hans.
No, there is not! You put no necklace, sir,
About her neck! 'Tis mine, and not her own!
Go, Esther!

Esther.
Sir, I am not to be bribed.

Hans.
That's right—but go!

[Esther goes out.
Iden.
You are her husband, friend?

Hans.
I am.

Iden.
And well she chose you.

Hans.
So she did.

Iden.
Art thou in service?

Hans.
Yes.

Iden.
Wouldst thou not rather
Be thy own master?

Hans.
Who would not?

Iden.
Wouldst like
To be a hero?

Esther
[without].
Hans!

Hans.
I'm coming!—Yes,
[To Idenstein.
Knew I a way, was safe.

Iden.
You have a scruple
To be a soldier?

Hans.
A small scruple.

Esther
[without].
Hans!

Hans.
I'm coming.

Iden.
Would you like to have a farm?
Have your own serving-men and serving-maids?
Keep your own swine and kine? Ride your own horse?—
You'd look a man on horseback!

Hans.
So I would!

Iden.
All these are thine, wilt go an errand first.

Hans.
Where?

Esther
[without].
Hans!

Hans.
I'm coming, Esther.

Esther.
Come along!

Hans.
Where?

Esther.
[Appearing at the door.]
Hans!

Hans.
I'm coming, Esther.

Esther.
Come at once!

[Pulls him off.
Iden.
We are a pair of birds, sir, in a cage.

Gen. Kle.
Birds?—We are fools! This comes of my good-nature!
It still has been my ruin! I was made
A dunce by my mother, for my fondness of her!
What lack'd in spoiling me, aunts made up—
I was so docile, biddable to them!
My sisters brought me to destruction by
Improving my good temper, which they made
Their ready scape-goat in all kinds of scrapes;
And which their gentle friends in dimity
Employ'd, to get me into divers straits,
From which to extricate myself were only
Entanglement anew! My wife completed
My ruin! My sweet disposition made her
So fond of me, to please her I would feign
Sickness, that she might play my nurse. One thing
Alone was wanting to my quite undoing—
A child, and that, as nature would not find me,
I must provide myself with—thy Adolpha—
Who, for her own ends, keeps us prisoners here!
What's to be done?

Iden.
To bear what must be borne.
They, that command us, are a host to one.

Gen. Kle.
Let's in, then, and submit.

Iden.
I follow, sir.

Gen. Kle.
No fool, so trick'd as a good-natured man!

[They go out.

SCENE THE LAST.

—A Dungeon.
Muhldenau asleep on a couch—Meeta sitting near, with Adolpha kneeling by her, sleeping with her head on Meeta's lap.
Enter Lieutenant.
Meeta.
Softly!—They sleep!—Your news is bad?

Lieut.
It is. The answer is arrived. With fruitless search
They have sought the Governor. Not finding him,
On me, as second in command, devolved
The painful task to break the packet open,
Which gives no hope of life.

Meeta.
It was expected:
We are prepared.—So, please you softly tread,
As you depart again.— [Lieutenant goes out.]
—He has awaked her!—
Sleep, sister, sleep!

Adol.
[Starting.]
What time of night is it?

Meeta.
It is no longer night, but morning, sister.

Adol.
Morning?

Meeta.
The chimes of a new day have struck
Again and yet again!

Adol.
How often, sister?

Meeta.
Thrice.

Adol.
It is very still.

Meeta.
Too still, but we shall hear
The sound of stirring shortly.

Adol.
You are sure?

Meeta.
I am.

Adol.
You comfort me!—you are so calm!

Meeta.
Sister, we both had need be calm!—Look there!

Adol.
How sound our father sleeps!—Knows he our hope?

Meeta.
No!—it might draw his thoughts from better hope:
From hope that doth ever in possession end;
Hope that hath naught of earth in it, to crumble
I' the grasping. Sister, you don't know my father!—
On earth, he has lived in heaven;—Don't fear for him!
He is that happy man, who is prepared
To live or die!

Adol.
He will not die!

Meeta.
Speak softly!
He is awaked! It can't be help'd. Dear sister,
Let it not melt thee, should he talk of death.
For tears are catching things, and nature's nature,
Long as it breathes. Let's countenance the calm
Which his pure spirit keeps.

Muhl.
Meeta.

Meeta.
Here, father.

Muhl.
What, both my children!—both!—Adolpha, too!
Is not this merciful, to have you here?
That my last earthward sigh I am permitted
To breathe upon your heads in blessing you?
What is the time, my Meeta?—How far on
Is my last day within this prison-house?
These walls of clay, in which the spirit's pent—
That's going back to him who lodged it here!
'Tis nothing else! How easy, then, to die,
To him who thinks it so! What is the time?

Meeta.
Another day is onward.

Muhl.
To that window
Comes the first beam that's herald of the sun—
See if there's sign of the fair messenger,
Or shall I do't, my child?

Meeta.
No, father.

Muhl.
Well,
How is it?—Is there mark on the horizon—
A blending as of light with darkness, or
Something that's plainer?—Tell me, child! Mine eye
Is fix'd on day, to which noonday is night!

Meeta.
'Tis early morning—a dun glow—almost
A streak.

Muhl.
The boundary of yesterday
Is cross'd some hours. Come hither, both of you.
Kneel down! The longest time that man may live,
The lapse of generations of his race,
The continent entire of time itself,
Bears not proportion to eternity,
Huge as the fraction of a grain of dew
Co-measured with the broad unbounded ocean!
There is the time of man—his proper time:
Looking at which, this life is but a gust,
A puff of breath, that's scarcely felt ere gone!
Then comes a calm that lasts. My youngest one,
Least known, but not less loved—My Meeta—

Meeta.
Father,
Am not I part of both?

Muhl.
My noble child!
My Christian-trainéd child! I did thee wrong
To fear exception thou mightest take at that
Which made my children equal. My found one!
My blessings on thee full as upon her,
That never left my side. Join hands with her!
Love her for ever! as thyself. Two hearts
That join in truth, become a wall of rock,
'Gainst which the surges of the world may lash,
But only break themselves.

Adol.
I hear a noise!
'Tis—

Meeta.
Sister, peace. What heeds a noise?

Muhl.
I think
I heard it too—and understand it; but
Whate'er it is, it matters not to me.
I see—the light comes on. Meeta, my child,
Thy father gives thee thanks for hours and hours
Of happiness. You have let fall her hand—
Take it again—never let go the love
That now unites thy sister's hand to thine!
And take thy father's blessing, free and full,
Which Heaven attests that thou hast merited,
Who never wast but dutiful to me!

[Noises nearer.
Adol.
Hear you the sounds again, and louder?

Meeta.
Peace!
Dear sister, if it is to come, it will.

[Noises again, and nearer yet.
Muhl.
What, Meeta? These are not accustom'd sounds.
There is a shining something in thine eye,
That looks like hope—and thine, my other child!
My children! is there hope? I'm human still!
I'll live for you, my children.— [Noises again.]
Those are shouts.
They move not with such sounds who come to see
The spectacle of an untimely death—
For human nature, howsoever wild,
Is human still.

[Noise very loud, as of a general attack.
Meeta.
Yes, father, there is hope!
Enter Lieutenant.
What come you for?

Lieut.
The prisoner

Meeta.
For what?

Lieut.
To place him in securer keeping.

Meeta.
Hence!
He's in his children's arms—or leave him here,
Or take us altogether.

[Shouts, and reports of musketry and cannon.
Soldier enters.
Soldier.
You are call'd for
[To Lieutenant.
To look to our defence! They come upon us
A thousand men to once—the castle's lost!

Adol.
He's saved—

Meeta.
Not yet!

[Noise as of something giving way and falling.
Adol.
Hear you—They burst the gates!

Meeta.
It may be something else.

Muhl.
Ah, now to die—
[Noise as of people ascending.
Were pain!

Adol.
The rush of steps!

Rup.
[without].
Burst in the door.

Meeta.
'Tis Rupert's voice—My father's saved—He lives!

Rup.
[Bursting in with others.]
My Meeta! honour'd father!—we have come
With life and liberty!

Meeta.
We thank you, Rupert!
Rupert, I knew you would not let him die!
How far is Prague your own?

Rup.
This quarter, Meeta,
Which yet commands the rest! This post was long
Our general's aim! yet he so doubtful kept
His eagle hovering, the mighty pounce
Your strait accelerated, none could guess,
Until his fated quarry felt its power!

Meeta.
Send trusty friends, and strong, along with me;
Speak not, but let thy answer be the act.

Rup.
Dismiss your care! It is not needed, Meeta.
The faithful Hebrew met me in advancing,
And took in charge a chose band to watch
Success, and bring thy friends to thee.—By this
I doubt not they are here—
Enter Joseph, conducting General Kleiner and Idenstein.
The Governor?

Gen. Kle.
Yes, sir,—but not your prisoners—that honour
These ladies claim.

Adol.
Forgive us, father!

Gen. Kle.
What!
Now thou hast found thy father?

Adol.
Father still!

Muhl.
Give me the Hebrew's hand—the Christian's friend—
His elder brother, though with difference.

Jos.
All men should thus be brothers.

Hans.
We shall have
Our honeymoon at last.

Esther.
Be silent, Hans.

Meeta.
Let all be silent, save the grateful hearts,
That speak in humble confidence to you.

[To the audience.