University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

“HIS DAUGHTER AND HIS DUCATS.”
Scene.—The garden of Sebastian's palace. On the right a flight of broad steps leading to the palace; on the left a stone seat.
Arnfeld discovered alone.
Arnfeld.
A malediction on the luckless hour
That led me to the halls of Schlafenstein,
To slave for this grim Duchess and her Duke!
A prince's court forsooth! A fiddlestick!
By Heaven, 'tis duller than the catacombs,
Without their quiet. Do I walk in sleep,
Or are we, in our antique garniture,
Forgotten travellers of an age outworn,
Left on the wayside by the wheels of time,
That pass and pass us? Oh, to play the man!
Come danger, revolution, anything,
Better than one bare swamp of nothingness,
Dotted with countless nothings for events!
And this old tattered windmill of a State—
Her sails stock-still, or only worked for show,
Click-clack, with idle winnowings of the air!
And see! what shifts to patch the paltry sham!
Why, here am I, a simple gentleman,
Count Arnfeld, chamberlain and chancellor,
Premier and Privy Council all in one,
Paymaster of the force, high almoner
(A title with no duties for the nonce),
My lady's messenger to all and some,
And scarce a doit to do with! What of that
Beside the thriftless, hard, unhappy lives,
All toil, no pleasures, and alas! no pay,
Led by our starving peasants? Were it not
For that sweet maid, the rose of Schlafenstein,
Fair blossom grafted on a graceless stem,
Who loves the poor—well, that is every one—
The light and fragrance of their dark, foul lives,
I would—What would I? lead them to revolt?
I know not, and belike 'tis fortunate
Arnfeld lacks time to think what he would do.
Well, I may snatch one moment for repose,
Now, while Prince Rudolph's love-ambassadors
Crave private audience—that's a mighty match,
If he be worthy, and her will be free;
But should she leave us, how could I endure
This multitude of petty miseries?
The “Arnfeld!” here, and “Arnfeld!” there—

Clarissa
(behind the scene).
Count Arnfeld!

Enter Clarissa.
Arnfeld.
Ah! that's another voice! Mistress Clarissa!
Why, how now? Never did you look so pale.

Clarissa.
Count Arnfeld, I came early to the copse—
By the south entrance—where the clearing is—
The Princess sent me, to pick flowers for Klein's
Poor dying daughter—she must have them wild—
When suddenly I overheard them say—

Arnfeld.
Heard whom?

Clarissa.
The woodcutters—“We will have bread:
If he refuse us—” Then they muttered low;
Till the cry rose, “Fell no more timber, men;
Fell root and branch, the stock of Schlafenstein!”
I tarried not the rest. Oh, here they come!

Arnfeld.
Child, get you quickly in, but let no breath
Of these wild rumours reach your lady's ear!
Farewell. Be secret; leave the rest to me.
[Exit Clarissa.
Are rash ejaculations heard in heaven?
My prayer for peril brings its answer quick.
Enter several Woodcutters, with axes, billhooks, etc.

Now, my men, this is a brave trick to frighten
ladies with; or is it, perchance, a merry frolic for the
Princess on her betrothal-day? Her Highness will
be grateful for this proof of your allegiance; she ever
loved the people, as you all know; and it is but meet
you show the envoys of the Prince, her future lord,

how dear you hold her. Shall I conduct you to
them?

Woodcutters
(a confused uproar of voices).

We want bread—mwore wages—we must live.
Down wi' the Duke an' Duchess. Teäke off them
taxes.

Arnfeld.

Softly! So many tongues wagging all at once, are
like the clashing of bells in a steeple: a man can
distinguish nothing but noise; and who is to know
whether they ring for a fire or a festival? How many
are there of you?

Klaus.

There be a dozen on us here.

Kuno.

An' plenty mwore where we come vrom.

Arnfeld.

Well, then, since one pair of ears can only listen
to one voice at once, a man must needs have four
and twenty, to understand you speaking all together.
Therefore, say I, appoint one of your number to
make known what you want, and I'll help you if I

can: the rest be silent. Come, now, who is to be
your spokesman?

Klaus.

Meäster Hans Klein, ee be the best spoāksheäver
in theäse peärts, leästways he wer, till the tax come
on ceärts an' ceärriages, an' sin' then he be out o'
work.

Arnfeld.

So, having all his life taught cart-wheels to go
round, you would have him lead a revolution of the
common weal! At his birth, methinks, Nature framed
a better craftsman than herself; for, in making him,
she made indeed a good felloe, but left out the nave.
But come, now, jesting apart, who is your leader?
Who is to speak for you? Kuno, you have a tongue
in your head, as your wife knows, and can use it, can't
he, Klaus?

Klaus.

Ay, an' a wonderfu' scholard is Kuno; he can
reäd and write.

Arnfeld.

Well, then, what have you all left your work and
come here for?

Kuno.

We wants bread, and wull ha' it.

Arnfeld.

Stay, you're too fast. You may loaf in the Duke's
garden till Doomsday, but you'll find no bread-trees
growing there. Well, what next?

Kuno.

We wants our weäges mended, we wants 'em riz.

Arnfeld.

Do you know what wages they give to traitors, that
come with weapons against their lawful rulers?

Kuno.

Ay, the gallus.

Arnfeld.

Just so, but the gallows are in good repair: therefore,
why have them mended? And where's the use
of raising what's high enough already?

Kuno.

You be larfen' at we.

Arnfeld.

Because I think you're acting foolishly; but I know
times are hard.

Kuno.

Ah! times be heärd, an' what's mwore, they be
getten heärder. My wold 'ooman, she zays to me,
“Kuno,” she zays, “we mun a' teäk the zweet with the
zour;” them's her words. “Ees,” zays I, “gammer,
I knows we mun. Noor I doon't vind noo vault wi'
it; but what I vinds vault wi' is this; us worken
vo'k gets, as a man may zay, a' the zour and none ov
the zweet; and that ain't squeäre-lik.”

A Voice.

We wants to bring a hamputation to 'is 'ighness.

Klaus.

A reputation, he meäns, yer honour.

Arnfeld.

(Aside)
The first is what I feared, the second is no
easy matter. (Aloud)
Yes, yes, a deputation; well,
I'll see if I can get you audience to-day, and we must
find out where the shoe pinches; but mind, no

violence. Meanwhile get back quietly to work, and
here's wherewith to sup to-night in honour of the
Princess. Now then, some of you were in the Duke's
body-guard till it was disbanded, and can obey
orders. Right about face! Quick march!

[The men retire, cheering in a desultory manner.
Duke
(from within).
Arnfeld!

Arnfeld
(aside).
So far, at least, so good.

Duke.
Arnfeld! I say.
Thunder and lightning! must I call till doom?

Arnfeld
(aside).
That may be nearer, Highness, than you think.

[Exit.
Enter Kauz from the bushes, where he has been listening.
Kauz.
All this shall to the Duchess, chamberlain,
If not for love of her, for hate of thee.
Thou took'st me napping once; I smarted for it.
But I have ta'en thee talking in thy nap,
That which, a little garbled, shall appear
Rank treason to the Duchess, and her schemes
For this fine marriage—which shall ne'er come off,
So my good timber-cutters know their trade.
Meanwhile I must be wary, wear two heads
Betwixt these shoulders—one, my own, for her,
Till she has wreaked my quarrel upon thee;
And one, a mask, wherein to spy, unspied,
Provoke to wilder tyrannies these tyrants,
And whet the axe till they be ripe to fall.

[Exit.
Enter Heinrich, disguised as a student, parting the boughs cautiously, and calling gently to Corcilius behind him.
Heinrich.
Corcilius! ho!

Corcilius
(behind the scene).
I come, my lord.

Enter Corcilius, similarly attired, with painting-gear and sketch of the landscape.
Heinrich.
Nay, nay,
Unlearn that formal deference, give me leave
To forget Traumberg and its mummeries,
Do off the prince and don the man; remember,
We are plain students on our travels now,
Karl and Corcilius merely. But what think you?
Whose battlements are these?

Corcilius.
I cannot tell,
Except they top Sebastian's ducal towers;
For at my call, by yon half-ruined farm
Amid the forest, a starved country lad,
Driving his solitary cow, whose sides
Showed like a bare-ribbed wreck with sea-weed strung,
Made answer we were come to Schlafenstein.

Heinrich.
Ne'er did mine eyes see such a wilderness;
But as I mused if forty years would end
Our desert wanderings, lo! the promised land.

Corcilius.
Nay, out of bosk and tangle so to light
On this fair garden is to plunge, methinks,
From the dark ages, while a man winks one,
To the broad stare of open-eyed to-day.

Heinrich.
Traumberg and Schlafenstein! You mind the song
That hushed our cradle-cries? How ran the rhyme?—
“Luck comes to lord of Dream-hill's castled steep,
When bruised he rises from the rock of sleep.”
I used to wish that I might walk and fall
And wake to fame, a child-somnambulist!
But that's all over; I have fallen, and waked
To failure, not to fame. Can heaven, I trow,
With all its sunshine make the mole love light?
Nor I the churl's heart sweetness. Who courts praise
Of such kills self-approval; and how stoop
To love that needs no winning—fruit o'er-ripe
Dropped in my very pathway? But the worst is
I may not wash my hands of it, nor ease
Myself of my own self an hour or twain,
But, like the travelling spider, still must spin
The cord that binds me to my hated home.
I am half-minded never to return,
Would Proszka, my poor Atlas of an hour,
But shift the whole sad burden to his back.
God knows I am weary of it.

Corcilius.
Courage, Karl!
Let Proszka's aid suffice thee; and meanwhile
Theirs, and not yours, the failure, whose dead heft
Outweighed your powers of lifting. Had you ruled
As doth Sebastian, if the world say sooth,
A pard fang-fastened on the camel's back—
That patient beast, his people—while he drains
Their dwindling life to glut his miser-maw;
Had you done this—a thought ridiculous,
To all your life-deeds cross and contrary—
Even then, so time remained for its undoing,
I would not bid you wholly to despair.
But now, forsooth, because the herded swine
Grunt heedless on, though Orpheus tune the lyre,
Or in dim pastures the slow-munching ox
Impassive hear the moon-struck nightingale,
For this to grieve—

Heinrich.
Stay, dear Corcilius, stay!
Thou dost but bend the willow, and my heart
Belike needs chiding more than words of cheer.
Come, let me drug this viper of the brain
With sweeter possets! Tush! man, let me see
Thy canvass. Hast thou learned to be so coy?

Corcilius.
'Tis roughly limned and all imperfect, sire.

Heinrich
(looking at picture).
Perfect in imperfection! A thing done
Stands to be judged; and faults and frailties then
Peep out for censure, prisoned past escape
By the close wall of sheer accomplishment.

Corcilius.
Ah, poet-like, you love the unrealized.

Heinrich.
As leaving scope for that ethereal power,
Imagination, life's own atmosphere,
That softens, melts, subdues, and mystifies
This earth's hard outline till it mix with heaven.
Why, what a thief art thou, that hast purloined
The light, the breath, the lineaments of Nature,
And lured them to thy service. The boughs toss,
The mist is curdling, and anon will blur
Those air-washed isles of sapphire. How yon spurt
Of water sways, blown outward on the fall,
Like rent white robes o' the flying Bacchanal,
Caught in some windy cleft! A churl am I,
To envy thee thy skill!

Corcilius.
What wonders next?
Karl envy poor Corcilius! Ye powers!
Who envies not the poet?

Heinrich.
I am none.
Anvil and forge are mute. Oh never, friend,
Is my heart hot within me, but the blasts
Of some distempered passion—fear, love, hate,
Remorse, ambition—through the furnace-doors
Unruly rush, and quench what they should kindle.
Or, like some snowy mistress of the mere,
My soul, still mirrored in the calm of thought,
Paints truly her own semblance; but one plash
Of the outer surface, one plunge inward, mars
Her image in the crystal. There, there, there!
Still brooding on this canker at the core!
'Tis like the blind heart of the Cretan maze;
All paths yield access, but none opens out.

Corcilius.
I hear some stir within the palace-doors,
And hark! a trumpet!

Heinrich.
Timely interlude,
To break fond musings! Let us lurk and watch.

[They withdraw behind the bushes.
Enter the Duke and Duchess of Schlafenstein, and Arnfeld.
Duke.
A million thalers, Duchess, did he say?
Castor and Pollux! what a pair of gems
Blazed on the envoy's finger! Sure his lord
Must needs be heir to Sultan Solyman!
The man's a Midas! Did he say a million?
Yes, 'twas a million thalers by the month!
It beggars Crœsus! Castles half a score,
And all for our Helene! I'll not grudge
His entertainment; no, by Heaven! not I.
We will impound such cattle as have strayed
Too near our pleasaunce with unlicensed hoof
From off the public pastures, and exact
A threefold forfeit. Arnfeld, do you hear?

Arnfeld.
I do, my liege. (Aside)
A murrain on his meanness!
Mice are the largest cattle that could browse
The thrice-shorn fields.

Duke.
And, Arnfeld, hark thee hither;
Go bid the groom lock fast my stable-bins,
And send me word what waste in them is made
By good Prince Rudolph's train: needs must the charge
Be heavy for so brave an equipage.
But 'tis a royal prince. (Arnfeld begins to retire.)
And, Arnfeld, see
That some post sentries at the buttery-bar:
No ale-cask to be broached but at my word,
To pay for this day's feasting. Look to it!

[Exit Arnfeld.
Heinrich.
No pard, Corcilius, but a vulture this,
Who fattens upon famine.

Duchess.
Fond old man!
Canst thou not strike a balance in thy tongue
'Twixt rank indulgence and bare parsimony,
But must be prating of our indigence
E'en to the Prince's messenger, revealing,
By niggard glance and hint inhospitable,
Our ducal state all patched and out at heels?
Pshaw! I could blush for shame, when I remember
“This melon is a monster; shall I cut it?
Or will you try the filberts? Yon Tokay
Would please your lordship. Ah, the cork is sealed,
Forgive our homely custom; 'tis a vintage
Too rare for general use—shall it be drawn?
Our water is much praised in Schlafenstein.”
As who should say, “Your lord is generous
To stoop so low; you see through our disguises.
Who weds my daughter, weds a beggar-girl.”

Duke.
Well, well, you should have warned me; for indeed
The banquet seemed to my poor apprehension,
Taken at unawares, a thought too lavish.
We cannot pit our table or our tastes
Against the richest prince in Christendom;
And at such odds to court comparisons,
Like children upon tip-toe, nape to nape,
Savours of ostentation. Then the dowry,
Duchess—you had forgot our daughter's dowry:
The Count had charge to ask no certain sum,
Nor saddle our slight means, to make them stumble,
If packed beyond their bearing: even so
Our ducal treasure scarce will bear the strain
Of twice ten thousand ducats; and to this,
As paltry, doubtless he had made demur,
But for my wise precautions. As it is,
By gentle force, the moment ere he mounted,
Amid the courtesies of our farewell
Taken at disadvantage, I constrained him
To bate me of five hundred.

Duchess.
Princely deed!
But I thank Heaven that all your scraping skill
Cannot erase the issue or file off
His seal upon the bargain. Have you told
Helene?

Duke.
No; nor you?

Duchess.
No; that is, not
Of its conclusion; but I make no doubt
To bring her to obedience. True, she hath
Bourgeois ambitions—whence derived I know not;
My house was ever royal—and at times
Affects a rustic low simplicity,
But scarce can be so foolish as to choose
Acorns for diamonds, or indeed prefer
Her May-queen splendours to a crown of gold.
Should she recoil, 'tis at her proper risk:
A maiden's fancies may be strong; my will
Is stronger, I believe; and well she knows
Whose fingers hold the reins in Schlafenstein.
Ah! she approaches.

Enter Helene and Clarissa.
Heinrich.
Well, what think you, friend?

Corcilius.
So far, the image is of iron and clay.

Heinrich
(seeing Helene).
My God! pure gold to crown it!

Duchess.
Daughter, welcome!
Clarissa, we would speak with the Princess.

[Exit Clarissa.
Duke.
Good news, my fair one! take our gratulations,
And give us thine; ay, wish me what you make me,
The richest man and happiest—Yet I know not;
The people call me “miser,” for they say
I have some secret treasures, though in truth
'Tis hard enow to eke our substance out,
For thrift's a vice in princes; but methinks
I shall grow miser now in my old age,
And grudge to lose thee, dear.

Helene.
To lose me, father?

Duchess.
Helene, heed not what his Highness saith.
You will have guessed our tidings; the alliance
That knits your country to a royal house
Richer, not more illustrious, than my own,
Is now assured; you are the happy link;
Be wise and grateful. Child, I give you joy.

Helene.
Mother, that gift is past impossible.
Did I not tell you that I loved him not?

Duchess.
Love him? Why, no; you have but seen him once;
But 'tis of daily proof that woman's love
Buds later, and blooms longer, than the man's.

Helene.
A maiden may not promise, till she love;
Or, if she do, her love, outliving his,
But yields the harvest of the seed she sowed.

Duchess.
Well, well, you may be wiser by-and-by.
Believe me, girl, you prate of what you know not,
A new-fledged bird, that lately from the nest
Up-borne to some safe distance, all too soon
With saucy pinion trusts her downy strength
To dare the empyrean.

Helene.
Father, mother,
Trust me, it is not of mere waywardness
That I, perverse or peevish, thwart your will.
Yoke me to any service, howso' hard,
That may beseem a maiden and your child,
Then blame, if I deny you; nay, subject me
To some harsh mistress, as her scullion-drudge,
In rags to dress, and feed on menial fare,
Rough blows for wage, and, mother, I will do it—
Ay, bear it without murmur, if I may;—
But this one thing I may not.

Duchess.
And yet this
One thing you must, or be for ever named
A child undutiful, unnatural,
Ruthless and reckless of her father's fame,
Who, from the high beach gazing, saw the bark
Of all his fortunes founder, and yet spared
To soil her dainty fingers with the rope
That else had saved it from the swallowing sea.

Helene.
Bid them clutch fire, my fingers should not shrink;
But thou wouldst wind this rope about my soul.

Duchess.
Among the princes who is Rudolph's peer?
What is there of man's having he hath not?
Young, valiant, noble, and of stainless name,
For riches and renown incomparable,
A monarch's heir—search through the starry maze
Of hopes that fill your maiden firmament,
And tell me what is lacking.

Helene.
All is lacking:
There lacks the sacred fire, the spark from heaven,
That gilds the planets and inflames the suns,
Making dull clods celestial.

Duke.
Sure, my child,
A million thalers by the month would make
Some twinkling in the darkness.

Helene.
What is wealth,
Or rank, or title, but a gaudy frame
Outside the picture, whether foul or fair?
If foul, what virtue hath the frame to mend?
If fair, what vice to mar it? In my heart,
Wed who wed may, love only can be lord,
And at no other shrine no priest but his
Shall spill its costliest treasure. What care I
For all the pomp of all the tawdry throng,
That slay the soul to Mammon? Can gilt horns
Or showy garlands make the victim glad?
Fie on the folly and the sin of it!
Oh, mother, pardon: in your love for me
You have forgotten what it is to love.

Duchess.
I humbly thank you. In these latter days,
So spins the world, our poor weak heads grow giddy:
Crazed and decrepit ere the noon of life
Our ripe experience raves like doting eld,
While scarce-weaned babies from the cradles jump,
And serve their sires for crutches. Your good sermon
Was well conceived, and passing well digested;
For like a practised preacher, whose quick wit
Plays through the skies of his discourse, at first
Remote, innocuous, with dull muffled peals
Of warning thunder, till, probation passed,
The rent heaven crumbles to the crack of doom,—
So treasured you your nimblest flash to blind,
Your loudest clap to stun us at the close.

Helene.
What mean you, mother?

Duchess.
How! so innocent?
I “have forgotten what it is to love;”
In your young mind the memory seems fresh.
Who is the happy shepherd that shall pipe
Upon the hill-slopes at Helene's side?

Helene.
I love but one man in the world.

Duchess.
And he?—

Helene.
Is somewhere in this garden.

Duchess.
Gracious heaven!

Helene
(looking towards the Duke).
Can you not see him?

Duchess.
Nay; this passes bearing.
Think you to fool me with your pleasantries?
But I shall yet find means to make you saner.
I know who fosters that unruly spirit,
Uses your puling pity to inflame
The smouldering heart of rebeldom, distilling
Soft drops of flattery into treason's ear;
All this I know, and more. Do you turn pale?
There may be cause anon. Meanwhile I leave you
To thrive on your fine scruples, as you may,
And without arms, men, money, or allies,
By winning manners to win off the tide
Of Rudolph's vengeance.

[Exit.
Duke.
Nay, you must not kiss me:
I have been worse, more cruel, than your mother,
More deaf to nature, and more dead to sense.
Forgive me, dearest; I am very poor,
Nor wist how paltry to my soaring bird
Would seem the glitter of a golden cage.
But, come what may, we will not have it so.
I am not worthy of thee. Gold, gold, gold,
That—that it is I thirst for, live for, pray for,
Think of, and dream of; ay, sometimes I dream
That there are buried treasures, which I visit
Even in the dead of night, and wake to lose,
Till horror takes me that my wits are crazed;
But looking in thine eyes I do not fear it,
For still I find my costliest treasure there.

Helene.
We are alone now, father, quite alone:
May I unburden all my heart to you,
And ease its aching?

Heinrich.
Stop your ears, Corcilius,
On your allegiance.

Corcilius.
Does Duke Heinrich bid?

Heinrich.
No, no; but Karl implores thee.

Corcilius.
Well, then, see,
They are almost sound-tight.

Heinrich.
Let no word leak in.

Duke.
Is it about thyself?

Helene.
Not altogether:
Why love you gold? It does not make you happy.

Duke.
No, child; nor wine the drunkard, yet he loves it.

Helene.
Oh, let me woo thee back to thine old self,
Untwist the threads, this spider avarice,
With unseen shuttle coursing to and fro,
Hath woven about thy heart!

Duke.
Too late, too late!

Helene.
Then, would you have me wed Prince Rudolph, father?

Duke.
Nay, since you love him not.

Helene.
But if I loved him?

Duke.
Then I should lose thee, and be left alone,
And, though but now I knew it not, that loss
Would quench the splendour.

Helene.
Then, 'tis not too late;
The love of me against the love of gold—
Love matched with love, the stronger love must win.
Thou hast made choice betwixt us.

Duke.
Ah! child, child,
This way or that, my life-days are eclipsed:
For either needy clouds usurp the sun,
Or thou, the finger of my dial-plate,
Half-gilded by his beams, a shade wilt cast
From hour to hour, and all the hours are mine.

Helene.
I would that thou couldst love the people more:
Their wealth, the common wealth, would make thee happier.

Duke.
I cannot. They are base, rebellious, hateful:
Unthrifty, they have brought my land to ruin;
Disloyal, they have made me what I am.

Helene.
Be what you were, not what you are, dear father,
Except to me. Long years ago I mind me
Of one sweet morn in summer, when you rode
Hunting or hawking on the mountain-side,
And met your little maiden flushed with flowers,
And trailing flowers at every wasteful step,
And stooping plucked her to your side, and kissed,
And called her fairest of them all, and said
That she was more than the wide world to you.
Do you remember, father?

Duke.
Ay, my child.

Helene.
Tread back, obliterate the dead past, that lies
Betwixt that living moment and to-day.

[The Duke bows his head upon her shoulder.
Heinrich.
Corcilius, is the secret spoken?

Corcilius.
Ay,
This moment ended.

Heinrich.
Thou hast listened, then.

Enter Arnfeld.
Arnfeld.
A deputation waits to see your Highness;
Shall they have audience, sire?

Duke.
From whom?

Arnfeld.
Your serfs.

Duke.
No, not to-day.

Helene.
Yes, father, yes.

Duke.
Admit them.

[Exit Arnfeld.
Heinrich.
Corcilius, I must throw myself before her—
She is a goddess—and declare my love,
My name, my state; for I am hers, hers only.

Corcilius.
Ay, but she is not thine. What, Karl, art mad?
Remember Rudolph—nay, you shall not go,
By Heaven! Be patient, or you ruin all.

Re-enter Arnfeld, introducing Kuno, and Kauz disguised as a peasant.
Arnfeld.
These men, sire, crave permission but to read
A brief memorial to your Highness, drawn
Roughly, 'twould seem, and with untutored wit
By peasants of your land, who treat therein
Of certain wrongs alleged, and grievances.
Will't please you they should read?

Duke.
First call the Duchess.

Arnfeld.
Her Highness, sire, but now has left the palace.

Kauz
(aside).
The less risk of discovery, Kauz, for thee.

Helene
(after whispering with the Duke).
You have permission, friends; I pray you read.

Kuno
(reads).

“Yer Highness,

“'Tis a lang leäne as 'as noo turnen, but
us be well nigh come to b'leeve that ours is jist that
langth. There doon't zeem no pertikler zign ov a bend
i't, nother to the right han', noor yet to the left; and
us be mwost tired o' gooen on straïght. It doon't
zeem to be leäden noowheres, noor it doon't gi'e us
nothen to live vor. Out ov our creädles, if us 'ad
any, into our greäves, if us can get un, us toddles vu'st,
an' then walks a bit, an' then toddles ageän. Why us
was iver aborn there doon't zeem no reäson; leästwäys

why us wasn't aborn wi' vour lags, lik the quarry-beds
as you meäkes us. There ain't no tax as ain't tacked
on to us; mwore pertikler, there's the winder-tax comes
heärd i' zummer, an' the vire-tax i' winter. Parzon
zays there be winders i' heaven, becoz it's i' the Bible,
an' likwise vire i' hell; but there ain't no tax on the
winders there, as he iver heärd on, an' if zo be there
be vire-taxes i' hell, why, the vo'k woon't grudge 'em.
The stump-end o' the meätter is this: as us doon't
get a liven here, but oonly a dyen, there ain't no call
to be pertikler what us does, noor how us dies. Zome
kinds o' doen leäds to the gallus, us knows; but the
gallus is quicker than this here blessed lang leäne;
an' if yer Highness can't clap up zome zort ov a geäte
or geäp vor us poor vo'k to get out on't, there be
them among us, as wull breäk drough the venses vor
theirzelves. Our wages is bad, an', what there is ov
un, us can't keep: you puts vood into our mouths wi'
woone han', an' you teäkes it out wi' t'other: zo this
here's the zong we zing—

“What us axes, what us axes,
Is to be rid o' them there taxes;
Us can't zee what mortal crittur
Is vor them woone bit the better;
Noor there ben't a man what knows
Where the tarnal taxes goes.”

[He gives the paper into the Duke's hand.
Duke.

Well, my ragged friend, when all's said, you are
scarce so poor for a delver as I for a duke, nor sunk
so low neither as he they call his Highness, when he
listens to such words as yours. We will consider your
petition; but bring not that scowling ruffian with you,
when next you come, unless his legs lack hose; for
we are scarce so poor yet, but we shall find stocks to
fit him.

[Exeunt Kuno and Kauz.
Duke.
These are the people whom you bid me love!

Helene.
Yes, father; then they would not be so wretched.

Duke.
Who were they? Do you know?

Helene.
The man who read
Was Kuno, a poor woodcutter; the other
I know not, but his mien was villainous,
And made me shudder.

Heinrich.
Thou art right, Corcilius;
I will take office with this pauper-duke,
And earn the sight of her by daily toil.

Corcilius.
It must be, then, for love.

Heinrich.
For love indeed;
What hire so rich? But peace! and follow me.

[They come out of hiding.
Duke.
Ah! strangers in our presence?

Heinrich.
Pardon, sire,
We are poor travellers, and, I fear, intruders,
Who, from the forest issuing suddenly
On this trim garden, almost dare to think
We stand before the enchanter Prospero
And fair Miranda.

Duke.
Sir, your voice and bearing
Seem courtlier than your dress; but rather deem
This lady here the enchantress, who would strive,
Medea-like, with cauldron-witcheries
To blanch the shrivelled kernel of old age
Back to the pink-white of the almond-flower.

Helene.
Nay, sir, be thou the wizard, I thy daughter,
And these the waifs and jetsam of the storm
Thy spells have conjured.

Duke.
May we know your names?

Heinrich.
This is my friend Corcilius, at your service,
Artist and scholar; and men call me Heinrich—
That is, my name is—Karl.

Corcilius.
May it please your Highness,
My wayfellow so counterfeits in person
The likeness of my lord the Duke of Traumberg,
From whom we come, that he in merry sport
Dubbed him his namesake.

Arnfeld.
Wherefore came ye hither?

Heinrich.
To seek some other service, for alas!
The Duke our master hath of late been swayed
By such strange humours of dark melancholy,
That he hath doffed awhile the load of state,
And, to his court a stranger, courts repose.
This letter, by his Highness penned and sealed,
Be warrant for us both. Will't please you read it?

Duke
(reading).
“To all whom it may concern, greeting.

“Be it known that the bearer of this letter is a trusty
and right loyal servant to ourself, the Duke of Traumberg,
and that there is no person in all our court
whom we love so well. His friend, who accompanies
him, is, though less highly esteemed by us, full worthy

of regard and commendation; and both alike are
diligent, deserving, and apt for any honourable employment.

(Signed) “Heinrich.”

I fear I shall not stead you in this business,
Good gentlemen, desire it as I may.
We keep but slender state in Schlafenstein,
And, to be plain without discourtesy,
Our revenues of late have ebbed so low,
That I am well-nigh grounded, nor may risk
To lade my vessel with a larger freight.

Heinrich.
Thanks, sire. If I may answer you as plainly,
We come as willing workers, not for hire;
My lord of Traumberg was so liberal
To all his servants, most of all to me,
That we, well stored for many months to come,
Ask but the freedom of your Highness' court,
To do what service may be serviceable.

Duke.
I take your offer, then. Count Arnfeld, tell me
What offices are vacant.

Arnfeld.
All, my lord,
Save those of major-domo, chamberlain,
Chancellor, page, and privy counsellor,
With what beside I, charlatan in chief
Unto your Highness, have these many years
Made shift, and multiplied myself to fill.

Corcilius.
Might I presume so far to make suggestion,
Within the forest's heart, some miles to northward
Of this your palace, as we journeyed hither,
We passed from hour to hour, with scarce a break,
Such tall tree-columns roofed with verdurous gloom,
That, blinded by the interminable files
Of leafy veterans on their moveless march,
Our eyes grew dizzy, and we marvelled why
Such wealth of timber, such gigantic girths,
Ringed with the watermarks of ages, stood
To whet the boar's tusk, and defy mankind.

Heinrich.
There, sire, are pines enow for all the masts
That ever rocked o'er Spanish galleons,
And oaks to rib their armaments, or serve
The sea-beleaguered Hollanders for piles,
To found their ooze-built cities; and all these
Wait but the magic axe to make them gold.

Duke.
Gold? sayst thou gold?

Heinrich.
Were I your forester,
And good Corcilius here to second me,
Backed by a thousand of your stoutest arms,
We should, by traffic with some neighbouring prince,
So underbid the merchants, I doubt not,
As both to flood the coffers of your State,
Enrich the country, strike at discontent,
And make the desert sweet and habitable.

Duke.
It shall be done. Helene child, go in,
Make ready for our friends—we have too long
Been blind, or dreaming. But I pray you, sirs.
Clip not the market-value; no, no, no;
Labour is cheap in Schlafenstein, but scarce
So plenty as of old—full price, full price!

[Helene goes slowly up palace steps, but turns with appealing look to her father as she hears his closing words.
Curtain.