'On the soil of France he sleeps, as doesA hero on the shield he would not quit.'
'On the soil of France he sleeps, as doesA hero on the shield he would not quit.'
A few scattered extracts may in part exhibit some of these inferior personages to our readers, though they can afford us no impression of the Maid herself. Joanna's character, like every finished piece of art, to be judged of must be seen in all its bearings. It is not in parts, but as a whole, that the delineation moves us; by light and manifold touches, it works upon our hearts, till they melt before it into that mild rapture, free alike from the violence and the impurities of Nature, which it is the highest triumph of the Artist to communicate.
[TheDauphin Charles,with his suite: afterwardsJoanna.She is in armour, but without her helmet; and wears a garland in her hair.Dunois[steps forward].My heart made choice of her while she was lowly;This new honour raises not her meritOr my love. Here, in the presence of my KingAnd of this holy Archbishop, I offer herMy hand and princely rank, if she regard meAs worthy to be hers.Charles.Resistless Maid,Thou addest miracle to miracle!Henceforward I believe that nothing isImpossible to thee. Thou hast subduedThis haughty spirit, that till now defiedTh' omnipotence of Love.La Hire[steps forward]. If I mistake notJoanna's form of mind, what most adorns herIs her modest heart. The rev'rence of the greatShe merits; but her thoughts will never riseSo high. She strives not after giddy splendours:The true affection of a faithful soulContents her, and the still, sequester'd lotWhich with this hand I offer her.Charles.Thou too,La Hire? Two valiant suitors, equal inHeroic virtue and renown of war!—Wilt thou, that hast united my dominions,Soften'd my opposers, part my firmest friends?Both may not gain thee, each deserving thee:Speak, then! Thy heart must here be arbiter.Agnes Sorel[approaches].Joanna is embarrass'd and surprised;I see the bashful crimson tinge her cheeks.Let her have time to ask her heart, to openHer clos'd bosom in trustful confidenceWith me. The moment is arriv'd when IIn sisterly communion also mayApproach the rigorous Maid, and offer herThe solace of my faithful, silent breast.First let us women sit in secret judgmentOn this matter that concerns us; then expectWhat we shall have decided.Charles[about to go].Be it so, then!Joanna.Not so, Sire! 'Twas not the embarrassmentOf virgin shame that dy'd my cheeks in crimson:To this lady I have nothing to confide,Which I need blush to speak of before men.Much am I honour'd by the preferenceOf these two noble Knights; but it was notTo chase vain worldly grandeurs, that I leftThe shepherd moors; not in my hair to bindThe bridal garland, that I girt myselfWith warlike armour. To far other workAm I appointed: and the spotless virginAlone can do it. I am the soldierOf the God of Battles; to no living manCan I be wife.Archbishop.As kindly help to manWas woman born; and in obeying NatureShe best obeys and reverences Heaven.When the command of God who summon'd theeTo battle is fulfull'd, thou wilt lay downThy weapons, and return to that soft sexWhich thou deny'st, which is not call'd to doThe bloody work of war.Joanna.Father, as yetI know not how the Spirit will direct me:When the needful time comes round, His voiceWill not be silent, and I will obey it.For the present, I am bid complete the task.He gave me. My sov'reign's brow is yet uncrown'd,His head unwetted by the holy oil,He is not yet a King.Charles.We are journeyingTowards Rheims.Joanna.Let us not linger by the way.Our foes are busy round us, shutting upThy passage: I will lead thee through them all.Dunois.And when the work shall be fulfill'd, when weHave marched in triumph into Rheims,Will not Joanna then—Joanna.If God see meetThat I return with life and vict'ry fromThese broils, my task is ended, and the herdsmaidHas nothing more to do in her King's palace.Charles[taking her hand].It is the Spirit's voice impels thee now,And Love is mute in thy inspired bosom.Believe me, it will not be always mute!Our swords will rest; and Victory will leadMeek Peace by th' hand, and Joy will come againTo ev'ry breast, and softer feelings wakenIn every heart: in thy heart also waken;And tears of sweetest longing wilt thou weep,Such as thine eyes have never shed. This heart,Now fill'd by Heav'n, will softly openTo some terrestrial heart. Thou hast begunBy blessing thousands; but thou wilt concludeBy blessing one.Joanna.Dauphin! Art thou wearyOf the heavenly vision, that thou seekestTo deface its chosen vessel, wouldst degradeTo common dust the Maid whom God has sent thee?Ye blind of heart! O ye of little faith!Heaven's brightness is about you, before your eyesUnveils its wonders; and ye see in meNought but a woman. Dare a woman, think ye,Clothe herself in iron harness, and mingleIn the wreck of battle? Woe, woe to me,If bearing in my hand th' avenging swordOf God, I bore in my vain heart a loveTo earthly man! Woe to me! It were betterThat I never had been born. No more,No more of this! Unless ye would awake the wrathOfHimthat dwells in me! The eye of manDesiring me is an abominationAnd a horror.Charles.Cease! 'Tis vain to urge her.Joanna.Bid the trumpets sound! This loit'ring grievesAnd harasses me. Something chases meFrom sloth, and drives me forth to do my mission,Stern beck'ning me to my appointed doom.
[TheDauphin Charles,with his suite: afterwardsJoanna.She is in armour, but without her helmet; and wears a garland in her hair.
Dunois[steps forward].My heart made choice of her while she was lowly;This new honour raises not her meritOr my love. Here, in the presence of my KingAnd of this holy Archbishop, I offer herMy hand and princely rank, if she regard meAs worthy to be hers.
Charles.Resistless Maid,Thou addest miracle to miracle!Henceforward I believe that nothing isImpossible to thee. Thou hast subduedThis haughty spirit, that till now defiedTh' omnipotence of Love.
La Hire[steps forward]. If I mistake notJoanna's form of mind, what most adorns herIs her modest heart. The rev'rence of the greatShe merits; but her thoughts will never riseSo high. She strives not after giddy splendours:The true affection of a faithful soulContents her, and the still, sequester'd lotWhich with this hand I offer her.
Charles.Thou too,La Hire? Two valiant suitors, equal inHeroic virtue and renown of war!—Wilt thou, that hast united my dominions,Soften'd my opposers, part my firmest friends?Both may not gain thee, each deserving thee:Speak, then! Thy heart must here be arbiter.
Agnes Sorel[approaches].Joanna is embarrass'd and surprised;I see the bashful crimson tinge her cheeks.Let her have time to ask her heart, to openHer clos'd bosom in trustful confidenceWith me. The moment is arriv'd when IIn sisterly communion also mayApproach the rigorous Maid, and offer herThe solace of my faithful, silent breast.First let us women sit in secret judgmentOn this matter that concerns us; then expectWhat we shall have decided.
Charles[about to go].Be it so, then!
Joanna.Not so, Sire! 'Twas not the embarrassmentOf virgin shame that dy'd my cheeks in crimson:To this lady I have nothing to confide,Which I need blush to speak of before men.Much am I honour'd by the preferenceOf these two noble Knights; but it was notTo chase vain worldly grandeurs, that I leftThe shepherd moors; not in my hair to bindThe bridal garland, that I girt myselfWith warlike armour. To far other workAm I appointed: and the spotless virginAlone can do it. I am the soldierOf the God of Battles; to no living manCan I be wife.
Archbishop.As kindly help to manWas woman born; and in obeying NatureShe best obeys and reverences Heaven.When the command of God who summon'd theeTo battle is fulfull'd, thou wilt lay downThy weapons, and return to that soft sexWhich thou deny'st, which is not call'd to doThe bloody work of war.
Joanna.Father, as yetI know not how the Spirit will direct me:When the needful time comes round, His voiceWill not be silent, and I will obey it.For the present, I am bid complete the task.He gave me. My sov'reign's brow is yet uncrown'd,His head unwetted by the holy oil,He is not yet a King.
Charles.We are journeyingTowards Rheims.
Joanna.Let us not linger by the way.Our foes are busy round us, shutting upThy passage: I will lead thee through them all.
Dunois.And when the work shall be fulfill'd, when weHave marched in triumph into Rheims,Will not Joanna then—
Joanna.If God see meetThat I return with life and vict'ry fromThese broils, my task is ended, and the herdsmaidHas nothing more to do in her King's palace.
Charles[taking her hand].It is the Spirit's voice impels thee now,And Love is mute in thy inspired bosom.Believe me, it will not be always mute!Our swords will rest; and Victory will leadMeek Peace by th' hand, and Joy will come againTo ev'ry breast, and softer feelings wakenIn every heart: in thy heart also waken;And tears of sweetest longing wilt thou weep,Such as thine eyes have never shed. This heart,Now fill'd by Heav'n, will softly openTo some terrestrial heart. Thou hast begunBy blessing thousands; but thou wilt concludeBy blessing one.
Joanna.Dauphin! Art thou wearyOf the heavenly vision, that thou seekestTo deface its chosen vessel, wouldst degradeTo common dust the Maid whom God has sent thee?Ye blind of heart! O ye of little faith!Heaven's brightness is about you, before your eyesUnveils its wonders; and ye see in meNought but a woman. Dare a woman, think ye,Clothe herself in iron harness, and mingleIn the wreck of battle? Woe, woe to me,If bearing in my hand th' avenging swordOf God, I bore in my vain heart a loveTo earthly man! Woe to me! It were betterThat I never had been born. No more,No more of this! Unless ye would awake the wrathOfHimthat dwells in me! The eye of manDesiring me is an abominationAnd a horror.
Charles.Cease! 'Tis vain to urge her.
Joanna.Bid the trumpets sound! This loit'ring grievesAnd harasses me. Something chases meFrom sloth, and drives me forth to do my mission,Stern beck'ning me to my appointed doom.
Charles.How now?Knight.The enemy has pass'd the Marne;Is forming as for battle.Joanna[as if inspired]. Arms and battle!My soul has cast away its bonds! To arms!Prepare yourselves, while I prepare the rest![She hastens out[Trumpets sound with a piercing tone, and while the scene is changing pass into a wild tumultuous sound of battle.]
Charles.How now?
Knight.The enemy has pass'd the Marne;Is forming as for battle.
Joanna[as if inspired]. Arms and battle!My soul has cast away its bonds! To arms!Prepare yourselves, while I prepare the rest![She hastens out
[Trumpets sound with a piercing tone, and while the scene is changing pass into a wild tumultuous sound of battle.]
[The scene changes to an open space encircled with trees. During the music, soldiers are seen hastily retreating across the background.]Talbot,leaning uponFastolf,and accompanied bySoldiers.Soon after,Lionel.Talbot.Here set me down beneath this tree, and youBetake yourselves again to battle: quick!I need no help to die.Fastolf.O day of woe![Lionel enters.Look, what a sight awaits you, Lionel!Our General expiring of his wounds!Lionel.Now God forbid! Rise, noble Talbot! ThisIs not a time for you to faint and sink.Yield not to Death; force faltering NatureBy your strength of soul, that life depart not!Talbot.In vain! The day of Destiny is comeThat prostrates with the dust our power in France.In vain, in the fierce clash of desp'rate battle,Have I risk'd our utmost to withstand it:The bolt has smote and crush'd me, and I lieTo rise no more forever. Rheims is lost;Make haste to rescue Paris.Lionel.Paris has surrender'dTo the Dauphin: an express is just arriv'dWith tidings.Talbot[tears away his bandages].Then flow out, ye life-streams;I am grown to loathe this Sun.Lionel.They want me!Fastolf, bear him to a place of safety:We can hold this post few instants longer,The coward knaves are giving way on all sides,Irresistible the Witch is pressing on.Talbot.Madness, thou conquerest, and I must yield:Stupidity can baffle the very gods.High Reason, radiant Daughter of God's Head,Wise Foundress of the system of the Universe,Conductress of the stars, who art thou, then,If, tied to th' tail o' th' wild horse Superstition,Thou must plunge, eyes open, vainly shrieking,Sheer down with that drunk Beast to the Abyss?Cursed who sets his life upon the greatAnd dignified; and with forecasting spiritForms wise projects! The Fool-king rules this world.Lionel.O, Death is near you! Think of your Creator!Talbot.Had we as brave men been defeatedBy brave men, we might have consoled ourselvesWith common thoughts of Fortune's fickleness:But that a sorry farce should be our ruin!—Did our earnest toilsome struggle meritNo graver end than this?Lionel[grasps his hand]. Talbot, farewell!The meed of bitter tears I'll duly pay you,When the fight is done, should I outlive it.Now Fate calls me to the field, where yetShe wav'ring sits, and shakes her doubtful urn.Farewell! we meet beyond the unseen shore.Brief parting for long friendship! God be with you![Exit.Talbot.Soon it is over, and to th' Earth I render,To the everlasting Sun, the atoms,Which for pain and pleasure join'd to form me;And of the mighty Talbot, whose renownOnce fill'd the world, remains nought but a handfulOf light dust. Thus man comes to his end;And our one conquest in this fight of lifeIs the conviction of life's nothingness,And deep disdain of all that sorry stuffWe once thought lofty and desirable.
[The scene changes to an open space encircled with trees. During the music, soldiers are seen hastily retreating across the background.]
Talbot,leaning uponFastolf,and accompanied bySoldiers.Soon after,Lionel.
Talbot.Here set me down beneath this tree, and youBetake yourselves again to battle: quick!I need no help to die.
Fastolf.O day of woe![Lionel enters.Look, what a sight awaits you, Lionel!Our General expiring of his wounds!
Lionel.Now God forbid! Rise, noble Talbot! ThisIs not a time for you to faint and sink.Yield not to Death; force faltering NatureBy your strength of soul, that life depart not!
Talbot.In vain! The day of Destiny is comeThat prostrates with the dust our power in France.In vain, in the fierce clash of desp'rate battle,Have I risk'd our utmost to withstand it:The bolt has smote and crush'd me, and I lieTo rise no more forever. Rheims is lost;Make haste to rescue Paris.
Lionel.Paris has surrender'dTo the Dauphin: an express is just arriv'dWith tidings.
Talbot[tears away his bandages].Then flow out, ye life-streams;I am grown to loathe this Sun.
Lionel.They want me!Fastolf, bear him to a place of safety:We can hold this post few instants longer,The coward knaves are giving way on all sides,Irresistible the Witch is pressing on.
Talbot.Madness, thou conquerest, and I must yield:Stupidity can baffle the very gods.High Reason, radiant Daughter of God's Head,Wise Foundress of the system of the Universe,Conductress of the stars, who art thou, then,If, tied to th' tail o' th' wild horse Superstition,Thou must plunge, eyes open, vainly shrieking,Sheer down with that drunk Beast to the Abyss?Cursed who sets his life upon the greatAnd dignified; and with forecasting spiritForms wise projects! The Fool-king rules this world.
Lionel.O, Death is near you! Think of your Creator!
Talbot.Had we as brave men been defeatedBy brave men, we might have consoled ourselvesWith common thoughts of Fortune's fickleness:But that a sorry farce should be our ruin!—Did our earnest toilsome struggle meritNo graver end than this?
Lionel[grasps his hand]. Talbot, farewell!The meed of bitter tears I'll duly pay you,When the fight is done, should I outlive it.Now Fate calls me to the field, where yetShe wav'ring sits, and shakes her doubtful urn.Farewell! we meet beyond the unseen shore.Brief parting for long friendship! God be with you![Exit.
Talbot.Soon it is over, and to th' Earth I render,To the everlasting Sun, the atoms,Which for pain and pleasure join'd to form me;And of the mighty Talbot, whose renownOnce fill'd the world, remains nought but a handfulOf light dust. Thus man comes to his end;And our one conquest in this fight of lifeIs the conviction of life's nothingness,And deep disdain of all that sorry stuffWe once thought lofty and desirable.
EnterCharles;Burgundy;Dunois;Du Chatel;andSoldiers.Burgun.The trench is storm'd.Dunois.The victory is ours.Charles[observing Talbot].Ha! who is this that to the light of dayIs bidding his constrained and sad farewell?His bearing speaks no common man: go, haste,Assist him, if assistance yet avail.[Soldiers from the Dauphin's suite step forward.Fastolf.Back! Keep away! Approach not the Departing,Whom in life ye never wish'd too near you.Burgun.What do I see? Lord Talbot in his blood![He goes towards him. Talbot gazes fixedly at him, and dies.Fastolf.Off, Burgundy! With th' aspect of a traitorPoison not the last look of a hero.Dunois.Dreaded Talbot! stern, unconquerable!Dost thou content thee with a space so narrow,And the wide domains of France once could notStay the striving of thy giant spirit?—Now for the first time, Sire, I call you King:The crown but totter'd on your head, so longAs in this body dwelt a soul.Charles[after looking at the dead in silence]. It wasA higher hand that conquer'd him, not we.Here on the soil of France he sleeps, as doesA hero on the shield he would not quit.Bring him away.[Soldiers lift the corpse, and carry it off.And peace be with his dust!A fair memorial shall arise to himI' th' midst of France: here, where the hero's courseAnd life were finished, let his bones repose.Thus far no other foe has e'er advanced.His epitaph shall be the place he fell on.
EnterCharles;Burgundy;Dunois;Du Chatel;andSoldiers.
Burgun.The trench is storm'd.
Dunois.The victory is ours.
Charles[observing Talbot].Ha! who is this that to the light of dayIs bidding his constrained and sad farewell?His bearing speaks no common man: go, haste,Assist him, if assistance yet avail.
[Soldiers from the Dauphin's suite step forward.
Fastolf.Back! Keep away! Approach not the Departing,Whom in life ye never wish'd too near you.
Burgun.What do I see? Lord Talbot in his blood!
[He goes towards him. Talbot gazes fixedly at him, and dies.
Fastolf.Off, Burgundy! With th' aspect of a traitorPoison not the last look of a hero.
Dunois.Dreaded Talbot! stern, unconquerable!Dost thou content thee with a space so narrow,And the wide domains of France once could notStay the striving of thy giant spirit?—Now for the first time, Sire, I call you King:The crown but totter'd on your head, so longAs in this body dwelt a soul.
Charles[after looking at the dead in silence]. It wasA higher hand that conquer'd him, not we.Here on the soil of France he sleeps, as doesA hero on the shield he would not quit.Bring him away.[Soldiers lift the corpse, and carry it off.And peace be with his dust!A fair memorial shall arise to himI' th' midst of France: here, where the hero's courseAnd life were finished, let his bones repose.Thus far no other foe has e'er advanced.His epitaph shall be the place he fell on.
Another empty space in the field of battle. In the distance are seen the towers of Rheims illuminated by the sun.A Knight, cased in black armour, with his visor shut.Joannafollows him to the front of the scene, where he stops and awaits her.Joanna.Deceiver! Now I see thy craft. Thou hast,By seeming flight, enticed me from the battle,And warded death and destiny from off the headOf many a Briton. Now they reach thy own.Knight.Why dost thou follow me, and track my stopsWith murd'rous fury? I am not appointedTo die by thee.Joanna.Deep in my lowest soulI hate thee as the Night, which is thy colour.To sweep thee from the face of Earth, I feelSome irresistible desire impelling me.Who art thou? Lift thy visor: had not ISeen Talbot fall, I should have named thee Talbot.Knight.Speaks not the prophesying Spirit in thee?Joanna.It tells me loudly, in my inmost bosom,That Misfortune is at hand.Knight.Joanna d'Arc!Up to the gates of Rheims hast thou advanced,Led on by victory. Let the renownAlready gain'd suffice thee! As a slaveHas Fortune serv'd thee: emancipate her,Ere in wrath she free herself; fidelityShe hates; no one obeys she to the end.Joanna.How say'st thou, in the middle of my course,That I should pause and leave my work unfinish'd?I will conclude it, and fulfil my vow.Knight.Nothing can withstand thee; thou art most strong;In ev'ry battle thou prevailest. But goInto no other battle. Hear my warning!Joanna.This sword I quit not, till the English yield.Knight.Look! Yonder rise the towers of Rheims, the goalAnd purpose of thy march; thou seest the domeOf the cathedral glittering in the sun:There wouldst thou enter in triumphal pomp,To crown thy sov'reign and fulfil thy vow.Enter not there. Turn homewards. Hear my warning!Joanna.Who art thou, false, double-tongued betrayer,That wouldst frighten and perplex me? Dar'st thouUtter lying oracles to me?[The Black Knight attempts to go; she steps in his way.No!Thou shalt answer me, or perish by me![She lifts her arm to strike him.Knight[touches her with his hand: she stands immovable].Kill what is mortal![Darkness, lightning and thunder. The Knight sinks.Joanna[stands at first amazed: but soon recovers herself].It was nothing earthly.Some delusive form of Hell, some spiritOf Falsehood, sent from th' everlasting PoolTo tempt and terrify my fervent soul!Bearing the sword of God, what do I fear?Victorious will I end my fated course;Though Hell itself with all its fiends assail me,My heart and faith shall never faint or fail me.[She is going.
Another empty space in the field of battle. In the distance are seen the towers of Rheims illuminated by the sun.
A Knight, cased in black armour, with his visor shut.Joannafollows him to the front of the scene, where he stops and awaits her.
Joanna.Deceiver! Now I see thy craft. Thou hast,By seeming flight, enticed me from the battle,And warded death and destiny from off the headOf many a Briton. Now they reach thy own.
Knight.Why dost thou follow me, and track my stopsWith murd'rous fury? I am not appointedTo die by thee.
Joanna.Deep in my lowest soulI hate thee as the Night, which is thy colour.To sweep thee from the face of Earth, I feelSome irresistible desire impelling me.Who art thou? Lift thy visor: had not ISeen Talbot fall, I should have named thee Talbot.
Knight.Speaks not the prophesying Spirit in thee?
Joanna.It tells me loudly, in my inmost bosom,That Misfortune is at hand.
Knight.Joanna d'Arc!Up to the gates of Rheims hast thou advanced,Led on by victory. Let the renownAlready gain'd suffice thee! As a slaveHas Fortune serv'd thee: emancipate her,Ere in wrath she free herself; fidelityShe hates; no one obeys she to the end.
Joanna.How say'st thou, in the middle of my course,That I should pause and leave my work unfinish'd?I will conclude it, and fulfil my vow.
Knight.Nothing can withstand thee; thou art most strong;In ev'ry battle thou prevailest. But goInto no other battle. Hear my warning!
Joanna.This sword I quit not, till the English yield.
Knight.Look! Yonder rise the towers of Rheims, the goalAnd purpose of thy march; thou seest the domeOf the cathedral glittering in the sun:There wouldst thou enter in triumphal pomp,To crown thy sov'reign and fulfil thy vow.Enter not there. Turn homewards. Hear my warning!
Joanna.Who art thou, false, double-tongued betrayer,That wouldst frighten and perplex me? Dar'st thouUtter lying oracles to me?
[The Black Knight attempts to go; she steps in his way.
No!Thou shalt answer me, or perish by me![She lifts her arm to strike him.
Knight[touches her with his hand: she stands immovable].Kill what is mortal!
[Darkness, lightning and thunder. The Knight sinks.
Joanna[stands at first amazed: but soon recovers herself].It was nothing earthly.Some delusive form of Hell, some spiritOf Falsehood, sent from th' everlasting PoolTo tempt and terrify my fervent soul!Bearing the sword of God, what do I fear?Victorious will I end my fated course;Though Hell itself with all its fiends assail me,My heart and faith shall never faint or fail me.[She is going.
Lionel.Accursed Sorceress, prepare for battle:Not both of us shall leave the place alive.Thou hast destroyed the chosen of my host;Brave Talbot has breath'd out his mighty spiritIn my bosom. I will avenge the Dead,Or share his fate. And wouldst thou know the manWho brings thee glory, let him die or conquer,I am Lionel, the last survivorOf our chiefs; and still unvanquish'd is this arm.[He rushes towards her; after a short contest, she strikes the sword from his hand.Faithless fortune![He struggles with her.Joanna[seizes him by the plume from behind, and tears his helmetviolently down, so that his face is exposed: atthe same time she lifts her sword with the righthand].Suffer what thou soughtest!The Virgin sacrifices thee through me![At this moment she looks in his face; his aspect touches her; she stands immovable, and then slowly drops her arm.Lionel.Why lingerest thou, and stayest the stroke of death?My honour thou hast taken, take my life:'Tis in thy hands to take it; I want not mercy.[She gives him a sign with her hand to depart.Fly fromthee? Owetheemy life? Die rather!Joanna[her face turned away].I will not remember that thou owedstThy life to me.Lionel.I hate thee and thy gift.I want not mercy. Kill thy enemy,Who meant to kill thee, who abhors thee!Joanna.Kill me, and fly!Lionel.Ha! How is this?Joanna[hides her face].Woe's me!Lionel[approaches her].Thou killest every Briton, I have heard,Whom thou subdu'st in battle: why spare me?Joanna[lifts her sword with a rapid movement against him,but quickly lets it sink again, when she observes hisface].O Holy Virgin!Lionel.Wherefore namest thouThe Virgin?Sheknows nothing of thee; HeavenHas nought to say to thee.Joanna[in violent anguish]. What have I done!My vow, my vow is broke![Wrings her hands in despair.Lionel[looks at her with sympathy, and comes nearer].Unhappy girl!I pity thee; thou touchest me; thou showedstMercy to me alone. My hate is going:I am constrain'd to feel for thee. Who art thou?Whence comest thou?Joanna.Away! Begone!Lionel.Thy youth,Thy beauty melt and sadden me; thy lookGoes to my heart: I could wish much to save thee;Tell me how I may! Come, come with me! ForsakeThis horrid business; cast away those arms!Joanna.I no more deserve to bear them!Lionel.Cast themAway, then, and come with me!Joanna[with horror].Come with thee!Lionel.Thou mayst be sav'd: come with me! I will save thee.But delay not. A strange sorrow for theeSeizes me, and an unspeakable desireTo save thee.[Seizes her arm.Joanna.Ha! Dunois! 'Tis they!If they should find thee!—Lionel.Fear not; I will guard thee.Joanna.I should die, were they to kill thee.Lionel.Am IDear to thee?Joanna.Saints of Heaven!Lionel.Shall I everSee thee, hear of thee, again?Joanna.Never! Never!Lionel.This sword for pledge that I will see thee![He wrests the sword from her.Joanna.Madman!Thou dar'st?Lionel.I yield to force; again I'll see thee.[Exit.
Lionel.Accursed Sorceress, prepare for battle:Not both of us shall leave the place alive.Thou hast destroyed the chosen of my host;Brave Talbot has breath'd out his mighty spiritIn my bosom. I will avenge the Dead,Or share his fate. And wouldst thou know the manWho brings thee glory, let him die or conquer,I am Lionel, the last survivorOf our chiefs; and still unvanquish'd is this arm.
[He rushes towards her; after a short contest, she strikes the sword from his hand.
Faithless fortune![He struggles with her.
Joanna[seizes him by the plume from behind, and tears his helmetviolently down, so that his face is exposed: atthe same time she lifts her sword with the righthand].Suffer what thou soughtest!The Virgin sacrifices thee through me!
[At this moment she looks in his face; his aspect touches her; she stands immovable, and then slowly drops her arm.
Lionel.Why lingerest thou, and stayest the stroke of death?My honour thou hast taken, take my life:'Tis in thy hands to take it; I want not mercy.[She gives him a sign with her hand to depart.Fly fromthee? Owetheemy life? Die rather!
Joanna[her face turned away].I will not remember that thou owedstThy life to me.
Lionel.I hate thee and thy gift.I want not mercy. Kill thy enemy,Who meant to kill thee, who abhors thee!
Joanna.Kill me, and fly!
Lionel.Ha! How is this?
Joanna[hides her face].Woe's me!
Lionel[approaches her].Thou killest every Briton, I have heard,Whom thou subdu'st in battle: why spare me?
Joanna[lifts her sword with a rapid movement against him,but quickly lets it sink again, when she observes hisface].O Holy Virgin!
Lionel.Wherefore namest thouThe Virgin?Sheknows nothing of thee; HeavenHas nought to say to thee.
Joanna[in violent anguish]. What have I done!My vow, my vow is broke![Wrings her hands in despair.
Lionel[looks at her with sympathy, and comes nearer].Unhappy girl!I pity thee; thou touchest me; thou showedstMercy to me alone. My hate is going:I am constrain'd to feel for thee. Who art thou?Whence comest thou?
Joanna.Away! Begone!
Lionel.Thy youth,Thy beauty melt and sadden me; thy lookGoes to my heart: I could wish much to save thee;Tell me how I may! Come, come with me! ForsakeThis horrid business; cast away those arms!
Joanna.I no more deserve to bear them!
Lionel.Cast themAway, then, and come with me!
Joanna[with horror].Come with thee!
Lionel.Thou mayst be sav'd: come with me! I will save thee.But delay not. A strange sorrow for theeSeizes me, and an unspeakable desireTo save thee.[Seizes her arm.
Joanna.Ha! Dunois! 'Tis they!If they should find thee!—
Lionel.Fear not; I will guard thee.
Joanna.I should die, were they to kill thee.
Lionel.Am IDear to thee?
Joanna.Saints of Heaven!
Lionel.Shall I everSee thee, hear of thee, again?
Joanna.Never! Never!
Lionel.This sword for pledge that I will see thee![He wrests the sword from her.
Joanna.Madman!Thou dar'st?
Lionel.I yield to force; again I'll see thee.[Exit.
The introduction of supernatural agency in this play, and the final aberration from the truth of history, have been considerably censured by the German critics: Schlegel, we recollect, calls Joanna's end a 'rosy death.' In this dramaturgic discussion, the mere reader need take no great interest. To require our belief in apparitions and miracles, things which we cannot now believe, no doubt for a moment disturbs our submission to the poet's illusions: but the miracles in this story are rare and transient, and of small account in the general result: they give our reason little trouble, and perhaps contribute to exalt the heroinein our imaginations. It is still the mere human grandeur of Joanna's spirit that we love and reverence; the lofty devotedness with which she is transported, the generous benevolence, the irresistible determination. The heavenly mandate is but the means of unfolding these qualities, and furnishing them with a proper passport to the minds of her age. To have produced, without the aid of fictions like these, a Joanna so beautified and exalted, would undoubtedly have yielded greater satisfaction: but it may be questioned whether the difficulty would not have increased in a still higher ratio. The sentiments, the characters, are not only accurate, but exquisitely beautiful; the incidents, excepting the very last, are possible, or even probable: what remains is but a very slender evil.
After all objections have been urged, and this among others has certainly a little weight, theMaid of Orleanswill remain one of the very finest of modern dramas. Perhaps, among all Schiller's plays, it is the one which evinces most of that quality denominatedgeniusin the strictest meaning of the word.Wallensteinembodies more thought, more knowledge, more conception; but it is only in parts illuminated by that ethereal brightness, which shines over every part of this. The spirit of the romantic ages is here imaged forth; but the whole is exalted, embellished, ennobled. It is what the critics call idealised. The heart must be cold, the imagination dull, which theJungfrau von Orleanswill not move.
In Germany this case did not occur: the reception of the work was beyond example flattering. The leading idea suited the German mind; the execution of it inflamed the hearts and imaginations of the people; they felt proud of their great poet, and delighted to enthusiasm with his poetry. At the first exhibition of the play in Leipzig,Schiller being in the theatre, though not among the audience, this feeling was displayed in a rather singular manner. When the curtain dropped at the end of the first act, there arose on all sides a shout of "Es lebe Friedrich Schiller!" accompanied by the sound of trumpets and other military music: at the conclusion of the piece, the whole assembly left their places, went out, and crowded round the door through which the poet was expected to come; and no sooner did he show himself, than his admiring spectators, uncovering their heads, made an avenue for him to pass; and as he waited along, many, we are told, held up their children, and exclaimed, "That is he!"[36]
This must have been a proud moment for Schiller; but also an agitating, painful one; and perhaps on the whole, the latter feeling, for the time, prevailed. Such noisy, formal, and tumultuous plaudits were little to his taste: the triumph they confer, though plentiful, is coarse; and Schiller's modest nature made him shun the public gaze, not seek it. He loved men, and did not affect to despise their approbation; but neither did this form his leading motive. To him art, like virtue, was its own reward; he delighted in his tasks for the sake of the fascinating feelings which they yielded him in their performance. Poetry was the chosen gift of his mind, which his pleasure lay in cultivating: in other things he wished not that his habits or enjoyments should be different from those of other men.
At Weimar his present way of life was like his former one at Jena: his business was to study and compose; his recreations were in the circle of his family, where he could abandon himself to affections, grave or trifling, and in frank and cheerful intercourse with a few friends. Of the latter he had lately formed a social club, the meetings of which afforded him a regular and innocent amusement. He still loved solitary walks: in the Park at Weimar he might frequently be seen wandering among the groves and remote avenues, with a note-book in his hand; now loitering slowly along, now standing still, now moving rapidly on; if any one appeared in sight, he would dart into another alley, that his dream might not be broken.[37]'One of his favourite resorts,' we are told, 'was the thickly-overshadowed rocky path which leads to theRömische Haus, a pleasure-house of the Duke's, built under the direction of Goethe. There he would often sit in the gloom of the crags, overgrown with cypresses and boxwood; shady hedges before him; not far from the murmur of a little brook, which there gushes in a smooth slaty channel, and where some verses of Goethe are cut upon a brown plate of stone, and fixed in the rock.' He still continued to study in the night: the morning was spent with his children and his wife, or in pastimes such as we have noticed; in the afternoon he revised what had been last composed, wrote letters, or visited his friends. His evenings were often passed in the theatre; it was the only public place of amusement which he ever visited; nor was it for the purpose of amusement that he visited this: it was his observatory, where he watched the effect of scenes and situations;devised new schemes of art, or corrected old ones. To the players he was kind, friendly: on nights when any of his pieces had been acted successfully or for the first time, he used to invite the leaders of the company to a supper in the Stadthaus, where the time was spent in mirthful diversions, one of which was frequently a recitation, by Genast, of the Capuchin's sermon inWallenstein's Camp. Except on such rare occasions, he returned home directly from the theatre, to light his midnight lamp, and commence the most earnest of his labours.
The assiduity, with which he struggled for improvement in dramatic composition, had now produced its natural result: the requisitions of his taste no longer hindered the operation of his genius; art had at length become a second nature. A new proof at once of his fertility, and of his solicitude for farther improvement, appeared in 1803. TheBraut von Messinawas an experiment; an attempt to exhibit a modern subject and modern sentiments in an antique garb. The principle on which the interest of this play rests is the Fatalism of the ancients: the plot is of extreme simplicity; a Chorus also is introduced, an elaborate discussion of the nature and uses of that accompaniment being prefixed by way of preface. The experiment was not successful: with a multitude of individual beauties thisBride of Messinais found to be ineffectual as a whole: it does not move us; the great object of every tragedy is not attained. The Chorus, which Schiller, swerving from the Greek models, has divided into two contending parts, and made to enter and depart with the principals to whom they are attached, has in his hands become the medium of conveying many beautiful effusions of poetry; but it retards the progress of the plot; it dissipates and diffuses our sympathies; the interest we should take in the fate and prospects of Manuel andCæsar, is expended on the fate and prospects of man. For beautiful and touching delineations of life; for pensive and pathetic reflections, sentiments, and images, conveyed in language simple but nervous and emphatic, this tragedy stands high in the rank of modern compositions. There is in it a breath of young tenderness and ardour, mingled impressively with the feelings of gray-haired experience, whose recollections are darkened with melancholy, whose very hopes are chequered and solemn. The implacable Destiny which consigns the brothers to mutual enmity and mutual destruction, for the guilt of a past generation, involving a Mother and a Sister in their ruin, spreads a sombre hue over all the poem; we are not unmoved by the characters of the hostile Brothers, and we pity the hapless and amiable Beatrice, the victim of their feud. Still there is too little action in the play; the incidents are too abundantly diluted with reflection; the interest pauses, flags, and fails to produce its full effect. For its specimens of lyrical poetry, tender, affecting, sometimes exquisitely beautiful, theBride of Messinawill long deserve a careful perusal; but as exemplifying a new form of the drama, it has found no imitators, and is likely to find none.
The slight degree of failure or miscalculation which occurred in the present instance, was next year abundantly redeemed.Wilhelm Tell, sent out in 1804, is one of Schiller's very finest dramas; it exhibits some of the highest triumphs which his genius, combined with his art, ever realised. The first descent of Freedom to our modern world, the first unfurling of her standard on the rocky pinnacle of Europe, is here celebrated in the style which it deserved. There is no false timsel-decoration aboutTell, no sickly refinement, no declamatory sentimentality. All is downright, simple,and agreeable to Nature; yet all is adorned and purified and rendered beautiful, without losing its resemblance. An air of freshness and wholesomeness breathes over it; we are among honest, inoffensive, yet fearless peasants, untainted by the vices, undazzled by the theories, of more complex and perverted conditions of society. The opening of the first scene sets us down among the Alps. It is 'a high rocky shore of the Luzern Lake, opposite to Schwytz. The lake makes a little bight in the land, a hut stands at a short distance from the bank, the fisher-boy is rowing himself about in his boat. Beyond the lake, on the other side, we see the green meadows, the hamlets and farms of Schwytz, lying in the clear sunshine. On our left are observed the peaks of the Hacken surrounded with clouds: to the right, and far in the distance, appear the glaciers. We hear therance des vachesand the tinkling of cattle-bells.' This first impression never leaves us; we are in a scene where all is grand and lovely; but it is the loveliness and grandeur of unpretending, unadulterated Nature. These Switzers are not Arcadian shepherds or speculative patriots; there is not one crook or beechen bowl among them, and they never mention the Social Contract, or the Rights of Man. They are honest people, driven by oppression to assert their privileges; and they go to work like men in earnest, bent on the despatch of business, not on the display of sentiment. They are not philosophers or tribunes; but frank, stalwart landmen: even in the field of Rütli, they do not forget their common feelings; the party that arrive first indulge in a harmless little ebullition of parish vanity: "Weare first here!" they say, "we Unterwaldeners!" They have not charters or written laws to which they can appeal; but they have the traditionary rights of their fathers, and bold hearts and strong arms to make them good. The rules bywhich they steer are not deduced from remote premises, by a fine process of thought; they are the accumulated result of experience, transmitted from peasant sire to peasant son. There is something singularly pleasing in this exhibition of genuine humanity; of wisdom, embodied in old adages and practical maxims of prudence; of magnanimity, displayed in the quiet unpretending discharge of the humblest every-day duties. Truth is superior to Fiction: we feel at home among these brave good people; their fortune interests us more than that of all the brawling, vapid, sentimental heroes in creation. Yet to make them interest us was the very highest problem of art; it was to copy lowly Nature, to give us a copy of it embellished and refined by the agency of genius, yet preserving the likeness in every lineament. The highest quality of art is to conceal itself: these peasants of Schiller's are what every one imagines he could imitate successfully; yet in the hands of any but a true and strong-minded poet they dwindle into repulsive coarseness or mawkish insipidity. Among our own writers, who have tried such subjects, we remember none that has succeeded equally with Schiller. One potent but ill-fated genius has, in far different circumstances and with far other means, shown that he could have equalled him: theCotter's Saturday Nightof Burns is, in its own humble way, as quietly beautiful, assimplex munditiis, as the scenes ofTell. No other has even approached them; though some gifted persons have attempted it. Mr. Wordsworth is no ordinary man; nor are his pedlars, and leech-gatherers, and dalesmen, without their attractions and their moral; but they sink into whining drivellers besideRösselmann the Priest,Ulric the Smith,Hans of the Wall, and the other sturdy confederates of Rütli.
The skill with which the events are concatenated inthis play corresponds to the truth of its delineation of character. The incidents of the Swiss Revolution, as detailed in Tschudi or Müller, are here faithfully preserved, even to their minutest branches. The beauty of Schiller's descriptions all can relish; their fidelity is what surprises every reader who has been in Switzerland. Schiller never saw the scene of his play; but his diligence, his quickness and intensity of conception, supplied this defect. Mountain and mountaineer, conspiracy and action, are all brought before us in their true forms, all glowing in the mild sunshine of the poet's fancy. The tyranny of Gessler, and the misery to which it has reduced the land; the exasperation, yet patient courage of the people; their characters, and those of their leaders, Fürst, Stauffacher, and Melchthal; their exertions and ultimate success, described as they are here, keep up a constant interest in the piece. It abounds in action, as much as theBride of Messinais defective in that point.
But the finest delineation is undoubtedly the character of Wilhelm Tell, the hero of the Swiss Revolt, and of the present drama. In Tell are combined all the attributes of a great man, without the help of education or of great occasions to develop them. His knowledge has been gathered chiefly from his own experience, and this is bounded by his native mountains: he has had no lessons or examples of splendid virtue, no wish or opportunity to earn renown: he has grown up to manhood, a simple yeoman of the Alps, among simple yeomen; and has never aimed at being more. Yet we trace in him a deep, reflective, earnest spirit, thirsting for activity, yet bound in by the wholesome dictates of prudence; a heart benevolent, generous, unconscious alike of boasting or of fear. It is this salubrious air of rustic, unpretending honesty that forms the great beauty in Tell's character: all is native, all is genuine; he does not declaim: he dislikes to talk of noble conduct, he exhibits it. He speaks little of his freedom, because he has always enjoyed it, and feels that he can always defend it. His reasons for destroying Gessler are not drawn from jurisconsults and writers on morality, but from the everlasting instincts of Nature: the Austrian Vogt must die; because if not, the wife and children of Tell will be destroyed by him. The scene, where the peaceful but indomitable archer sits waiting for Gessler in the hollow way among the rocks of Küssnacht, presents him in a striking light. Former scenes had shown us Tell under many amiable and attractive aspects; we knew that he was tender as well as brave, that he loved to haunt the mountain tops, and inhale in silent dreams the influence of their wild and magnificent beauty: we had seen him the most manly and warm-hearted of fathers and husbands; intrepid, modest, and decisive in the midst of peril, and venturing his life to bring help to the oppressed. But here his mind is exalted into stern solemnity; its principles of action come before us with greater clearness, in this its fiery contest. The name of murder strikes a damp across his frank and fearless spirit; while the recollection of his children and their mother proclaims emphatically that there is no remedy. Gessler must perish: Tell swore it darkly in his secret soul, when the monster forced him to aim at the head of his boy; and he will keep his oath. His thoughts wander to and fro, but his volition is unalterable; the free and peaceful mountaineer is to become a shedder of blood: woe to them that have made him so!
Travellers come along the pass; the unconcern of their every-day existence is strikingly contrasted with the dark and fateful purposes of Tell. The shallow innocent garrulity of Stüssi the Forester, the maternal vehemence ofArmgart's Wife, the hard-hearted haughtiness of Gessler, successively presented to us, give an air of truth to the delineation, and deepen the impressiveness of the result.
The hollow way at Küssnacht. You descend from behind amid rocks; and travellers, before appearing on the scene, are seen from the height above. Rocks encircle the whole space; on one of the foremost is a projecting crag overgrown with brushwood.Tell[enters with his bow].Here through the hollow way he'll pass; there isNo other road to Küssnacht: here I'll do it!The opportunity is good; the bushesOf alder there will hide me; from that pointMy arrow hits him; the strait pass preventsPursuit. Now, Gessler, balance thy accountWith Heaven! Thou must be gone: thy sand is run.Remote and harmless I have liv'd; my bowNe'er bent save on the wild beast of the forest;My thoughts were free of murder. Thou hast scar'd meFrom my peace; to fell asp-poison hast thouChanged the milk of kindly temper in me;Thou hast accustom'd me to horrors. Gessler!The archer who could aim at his boy's headCan send an arrow to his enemy's heart.Poor little boys! My kind true wife! I willProtect them from thee, Landvogt! When I drewThat bowstring, and my hand was quiv'ring,And with devilish joy thou mad'st me point itAt the child, and I in fainting anguishEntreated thee in vain; then with a grimIrrevocable oath, deep in my soul,I vow'd to God in Heav'n, that thenextaimI took should be thy heart. The vow I madeIn that despairing moment's agonyBecame a holy debt; and I will pay it.Thou art my master, and my Kaiser's Vogt;Yet would the Kaiser not have suffer'd theeTo do as thou hast done. He sent thee hitherTo judge us; rigorously, for he is angry;But not to glut thy savage appetiteWith murder, and thyself be safe, among us:There is a God to punish them that wrong us.Come forth, thou bringer once of bitter sorrow,My precious jewel now, my trusty yew!A mark I'll set thee, which the cry of woeCould never penetrate: totheeit shall notBe impenetrable. And, good bowstring!Which so oft in sport hast serv'd me truly,Forsake me not in this last awful earnest;Yet once hold fast, thou faithful cord; thou oftFor me hast wing'd the biting arrow;Now send it sure and piercing, now or never!Fail this, there is no second in my quiver.[Travellers cross the scene.Here let me sit on this stone bench, set upFor brief rest to the wayfarer; for hereThere is no home. Each pushes on quick, transient,Regarding not the other or his sorrows.Here goes the anxious merchant, and the lightUnmoneyed pilgrim; the pale pious monk,The gloomy robber, and the mirthful showman;The carrier with his heavy-laden horse,Who comes from far-off lands; for every roadWill lead one to the end o' th' World.They pass; each hastening forward on his path,Pursuing his own business: mine is death![Sits down.Erewhile, my children, were your father out,There was a merriment at his return;For still, on coming home, he brought you somewhat,Might be an Alpine flower, rare bird, or elf-bolt,Such as the wand'rer finds upon the mountains:Now he is gone in quest of other spoilOn the wild way he sits with thoughts of murder:'Tis for his enemy's life he lies in waitAnd yet on you, dear children, you aloneHe thinks as then: for your sake is he here;To guard you from the Tyrant's vengeful mood,He bends his peaceful bow for work of blood.[Rises.No common game I watch for. Does the hunterThink it nought to roam the livelong day,In winter's cold; to risk the desp'rate leapFrom crag to crag, to climb the slipp'ry faceO' th' dizzy steep, glueing his steps in's blood;And all to catch a pitiful chamois?Here is a richer prize afield: the heartOf my sworn enemy, that would destroy me.[A sound of gay music is heard in the distance; it approaches.All my days, the bow has been my comrade,I have trained myself to archery; oftHave I took the bull's-eye, many a prizeBrought home from merry shooting; but todayI will perform my master-feat, and win meThe best prize in the circuit of the hills.[A wedding company crosses the scene, and mounts up through the Pass. Tell looks at them, leaning on his bow; Stüssi the Forester joins him.Stüssi.'Tis Klostermey'r of Morlischachen holdsHis bridal feast today: a wealthy man;Has half a score of glens i' th' Alps. They're goingTo fetch the bride from Imisee; tonightThere will be mirth and wassail down at Küssnacht.Come you! All honest people are invited.Tell.A serious guest befits not bridal feasts.Stüssi.If sorrow press you, dash it from your heart!Seize what you can: the times are hard; one needsTo snatch enjoyment nimbly while it passes.Here 'tis a bridal, there 'twill be a burial.Tell.And oftentimes the one leads to the other.Stüssi.The way o' th' world at present! There is noughtBut mischief everywhere: an avalancheHas come away in Glarus; and, they tell me,A side o' th' Glarnish has sunk under ground.Tell.Do, then, the very hills give way! On earthIs nothing that endures.Stüssi.In foreign parts, too,Are strange wonders. I was speaking with a manFrom Baden: a Knight, it seems, was ridingTo the King; a swarm of hornets met himBy the way, and fell on's horse, and stung itTill it dropt down dead of very torment,And the poor Knight was forced to go afoot.Tell.Weak creatures too have stings.[Armgart's Wife enters with several children, and places herself at the entrance of the Pass.Stüssi.'Tis thought to bodeSome great misfortune to the land; some blackUnnatural action.Tell.Ev'ry day such actionsOccur in plenty: needs no sign or wonderTo foreshow them.Stüssi.Ay, truly! Well for himThat tills his field in peace, and undisturb'dSits by his own fireside!Tell.The peacefulestDwells not in peace, if wicked neighbours hinder.[Tell looks often, with restless expectation, towards the top of the Pass.Stüssi.Too true.—Good b'ye!—You're waiting here for some one?Tell.That am I.Stüssi.Glad meeting with your friends!You are from Uri? His Grace the LandvogtIs expected thence today.Traveller[enters]. Expect notThe Landvogt now. The waters, from the rain,Are flooded, and have swept down all the bridges.[Tell stands up.Armgart[coming forward].The Vogt not come!Stüssi.Did you want aught with him?Armgart.Ah! yes, indeed!Stüssi.Why have you placed yourselfIn this strait pass to meet him?Armgart.In the passHe cannot turn aside from me, must hear me.Friesshardt[comes hastily down the Pass, and calls into the Scene].Make way! make way! My lord the LandvogtIs riding close at hand.Armgart.The Landvogt coming![She goes with her children to the front of the Scene. Gessler and Rudolph der Harras appear on horseback at the top of the Pass.Stüssi[to Friesshardt].How got you through the water, when the floodHad carried down the bridges?Friess.We have battledWith the billows, friend; we heed no Alp-flood.Stüssi.Were you o' board i' th' storm?Friess.That were we;While I live, I shall remember 't.Stüssi.Stay, stay!O, tell me!Friess.Cannot; must run on t' announceHis lordship in the Castle.[Exit.Stüssi.Had these fellowsI' th' boat been honest people, 't would have sunkWith ev'ry soul of them. But for such rakehells,Neither fire nor flood will kill them. [He looks round.] WhitherWent the Mountain-man was talking with me?[Exit.GesslerandRudolph der Harrason horseback.Gessler.Say what you like, I am the Kaiser's servant,And must think of pleasing him. He sent meNot to caress these hinds, to soothe or nurse them:Obedience is the word! The point at issue isShall Boor or Kaiser here be lord o' th' land.Armgart.Now is the moment! Now for my petition![Approaches timidly.Gessler.This Hat at Aldorf, mark you, I set upNot for the joke's sake, or to try the heartsO' th' people; these I know of old: but thatThey might be taught to bend their necks to me,Which are too straight and stiff: and in the wayWhere they are hourly passing, I have plantedThis offence, that so their eyes may fall on't,And remind them of their lord, whom they forget.Rudolph.But yet the people have some rights—Gessler.Which nowIs not a time for settling or admitting.Mighty things are on the anvil. The houseOf Hapsburg must wax powerful; what the FatherGloriously began, the Son must forward:This people is a stone of stumbling, whichOne way or t'other must be put aside.[They are about to pass along. The Woman throws herself before the Landvogt.Armgart.Mercy, gracious Landvogt! Justice! Justice!Gessler.Why do you plague me here, and stop my way,I' th' open road? Off! Let me pass!Armgart.My husbandIs in prison; these orphans cry for bread.Have pity, good your Grace, have pity on us!Rudolph.Who or what are you, then? Who is your husband?Armgart.A poor wild-hay-man of the Rigiberg,Whose trade is, on the brow of the abyss,To mow the common grass from craggy shelvesAnd nooks to which the cattle dare not climb.Rudolph[to Gessler]. By Heaven, a wild and miserable life!Do now! do let the poor drudge free, I pray you!Whatever be his crime, that horrid tradeIs punishment enough.[To the Woman] You shall have justice:In the Castle there, make your petition;This is not the place.Armgart.No, no! I stir notFrom the spot till you give up my husband!'Tis the sixth month he has lain i' th' dungeon,Waiting for the sentence of some judge, in vain.Gessler.Woman! Wouldst' lay hands on me? Begone!Armgart.Justice, Landvogt! thou art judge o' th' land here,I' th' Kaiser's stead and God's. Perform thy duty!As thou expectest justice from above,Show it to us.Gessler.Off! Take the mutinous rabbleFrom my sight.Armgart[catches the bridle of the horse].No, no! I now have nothingMore to lose. Thou shalt not move a step, Vogt,Till thou hast done me right. Ay, knit thy brows,And roll thy eyes as sternly as thou wilt;We are so wretched, wretched now, we care notAught more for thy anger.Gessler.Woman, make way!Or else my horse shall crush thee.Armgart.Let it! there—[She pulls her children to the ground, and throws herself along with them in his way.Here am I with my children: let the orphansBe trodden underneath thy horse's hoofs!'Tis not the worst that thou hast done.Rudolph.Woman! Art' mad?Armgart[with still greater violence].'Tis long that thou hast trodden.The Kaiser's people under foot. Too long!O, I am but a woman; were I a man,I should find something else to do than lieHere crying in the dust.[The music of the Wedding is heard again, at the top of the Pass, but softened by distance.Gessler.Where are my servants?Quick! Take her hence! I may forget myself,And do the thing I shall repent.Rudolph.My lord,The servants cannot pass; the place aboveIs crowded by a bridal company.Gessler.I've been too mild a ruler to this people;They are not tamed as they should be; their tonguesAre still at liberty. This shall be alter'd!I will break that stubborn humour; FreedomWith its pert vauntings shall no more be heard of:I will enforce a new law in these lands;There shall not—[An arrow pierces him; he claps his hand upon his heart, and is about to sink. With a faint voiceGod be merciful to me!Rudolph.Herr Landvogt—God! What is it? Whence came it?Armgart[springing up].Dead! dead! He totters, sinks! 'T has hit him!Rudolph[springs from his horse].Horrible!—O God of Heaven!—Herr Ritter,Cry to God for mercy! You are dying.Gessler.'Tis Tell's arrow.[Has slid down from his horse into Rudolph's arms, who sets him on the stone bench.Tell[appears above, on the point of the rock].Thou hast found the archer;Seek no other. Free are the cottages,Secure is innocence from thee; thou wiltTorment the land no more.[Disappears from the height. The people rush in.Stüssi[foremost].What? What has happen'd?Armgart.The Landvogt shot, kill'd by an arrow.People[rushing in].Who?Who is shot?[Whilst the foremost of the wedding company enter on the Scene, the hindmost are still on the height, and the music continues.Rudolph.He's bleeding, bleeding to death.Away! Seek help; pursue the murderer!Lost man! Must it so end with thee? Thou wouldst notHear my warning!Stüssi.Sure enough! There lies hePale and going fast.Many Voices.Who was it killed him?Rudolph.Are the people mad, that they make musicOver murder? Stop it, I say![The music ceases suddenly; more people come crowding round.Herr Landvogt,Can you not speak to me? Is there nothingYou would entrust me with?[Gessler makes signs with his hand, and vehemently repeats them, as they are not understood.Where shall I run?To Küssnacht! I cannot understand you:O, grow not angry! Leave the things of Earth,And think how you shall make your peace with Heaven![The whole bridal company surround the dying man with an expression of unsympathising horror.Stüssi.Look there! How pale he grows! Now! Death is comingRound his heart: his eyes grow dim and fixed.Armgart[lifts up one of her children].See, children, how a miscreant departs!Rudolph.Out on you, crazy hags! Have ye no touchOf feeling in you, that ye feast your eyesOn such an object? Help me, lend your hands!Will no one help to pull the tort'ring arrowFrom his breast?Women[start back].Wetouch him whom God has smote!Rudolph.My curse upon you![Draws his sword.Stüssi[lays his hand on Rudolph's arm].Softly, my good Sir!Your government is at an end. The TyrantIs fallen: we will endure no farther violence:We are free.All[tumultuously]. The land is free!Rudolph.Ha! runs it so?Are rev'rence and obedience gone already?[To the armed Attendants, who press in.You see the murd'rous deed that has been done.Our help is vain, vain to pursue the murd'rer;Other cares demand us. On! To Küssnacht!To save the Kaiser's fortress! For at presentAll bonds of order, duty, are unloosed,No man's fidelity is to be trusted.[Whilst he departs with the Attendants, appear six Fratres Misericordiæ.Armgart.Room! Room! Here come the Friars of Mercy.Stüssi.The victim slain, the ravens are assembling!Fratres Misericordiæ[form a half-circle round the dead body, and sing in a deep tone].With noiseless tread death comes on man,No plea, no prayer delivers him;From midst of busy life's unfinished plan,With sudden hand, it severs him:And ready or not ready,—no delay,Forth to his Judge's bar he must away!
The hollow way at Küssnacht. You descend from behind amid rocks; and travellers, before appearing on the scene, are seen from the height above. Rocks encircle the whole space; on one of the foremost is a projecting crag overgrown with brushwood.
Tell[enters with his bow].Here through the hollow way he'll pass; there isNo other road to Küssnacht: here I'll do it!The opportunity is good; the bushesOf alder there will hide me; from that pointMy arrow hits him; the strait pass preventsPursuit. Now, Gessler, balance thy accountWith Heaven! Thou must be gone: thy sand is run.
Remote and harmless I have liv'd; my bowNe'er bent save on the wild beast of the forest;My thoughts were free of murder. Thou hast scar'd meFrom my peace; to fell asp-poison hast thouChanged the milk of kindly temper in me;Thou hast accustom'd me to horrors. Gessler!The archer who could aim at his boy's headCan send an arrow to his enemy's heart.
Poor little boys! My kind true wife! I willProtect them from thee, Landvogt! When I drewThat bowstring, and my hand was quiv'ring,And with devilish joy thou mad'st me point itAt the child, and I in fainting anguishEntreated thee in vain; then with a grimIrrevocable oath, deep in my soul,I vow'd to God in Heav'n, that thenextaimI took should be thy heart. The vow I madeIn that despairing moment's agonyBecame a holy debt; and I will pay it.
Thou art my master, and my Kaiser's Vogt;Yet would the Kaiser not have suffer'd theeTo do as thou hast done. He sent thee hitherTo judge us; rigorously, for he is angry;But not to glut thy savage appetiteWith murder, and thyself be safe, among us:There is a God to punish them that wrong us.
Come forth, thou bringer once of bitter sorrow,My precious jewel now, my trusty yew!A mark I'll set thee, which the cry of woeCould never penetrate: totheeit shall notBe impenetrable. And, good bowstring!Which so oft in sport hast serv'd me truly,Forsake me not in this last awful earnest;Yet once hold fast, thou faithful cord; thou oftFor me hast wing'd the biting arrow;Now send it sure and piercing, now or never!Fail this, there is no second in my quiver.[Travellers cross the scene.
Here let me sit on this stone bench, set upFor brief rest to the wayfarer; for hereThere is no home. Each pushes on quick, transient,Regarding not the other or his sorrows.Here goes the anxious merchant, and the lightUnmoneyed pilgrim; the pale pious monk,The gloomy robber, and the mirthful showman;The carrier with his heavy-laden horse,Who comes from far-off lands; for every roadWill lead one to the end o' th' World.They pass; each hastening forward on his path,Pursuing his own business: mine is death![Sits down.
Erewhile, my children, were your father out,There was a merriment at his return;For still, on coming home, he brought you somewhat,Might be an Alpine flower, rare bird, or elf-bolt,Such as the wand'rer finds upon the mountains:Now he is gone in quest of other spoilOn the wild way he sits with thoughts of murder:'Tis for his enemy's life he lies in waitAnd yet on you, dear children, you aloneHe thinks as then: for your sake is he here;To guard you from the Tyrant's vengeful mood,He bends his peaceful bow for work of blood.[Rises.
No common game I watch for. Does the hunterThink it nought to roam the livelong day,In winter's cold; to risk the desp'rate leapFrom crag to crag, to climb the slipp'ry faceO' th' dizzy steep, glueing his steps in's blood;And all to catch a pitiful chamois?Here is a richer prize afield: the heartOf my sworn enemy, that would destroy me.[A sound of gay music is heard in the distance; it approaches.
All my days, the bow has been my comrade,I have trained myself to archery; oftHave I took the bull's-eye, many a prizeBrought home from merry shooting; but todayI will perform my master-feat, and win meThe best prize in the circuit of the hills.
[A wedding company crosses the scene, and mounts up through the Pass. Tell looks at them, leaning on his bow; Stüssi the Forester joins him.
Stüssi.'Tis Klostermey'r of Morlischachen holdsHis bridal feast today: a wealthy man;Has half a score of glens i' th' Alps. They're goingTo fetch the bride from Imisee; tonightThere will be mirth and wassail down at Küssnacht.Come you! All honest people are invited.
Tell.A serious guest befits not bridal feasts.
Stüssi.If sorrow press you, dash it from your heart!Seize what you can: the times are hard; one needsTo snatch enjoyment nimbly while it passes.Here 'tis a bridal, there 'twill be a burial.
Tell.And oftentimes the one leads to the other.
Stüssi.The way o' th' world at present! There is noughtBut mischief everywhere: an avalancheHas come away in Glarus; and, they tell me,A side o' th' Glarnish has sunk under ground.
Tell.Do, then, the very hills give way! On earthIs nothing that endures.
Stüssi.In foreign parts, too,Are strange wonders. I was speaking with a manFrom Baden: a Knight, it seems, was ridingTo the King; a swarm of hornets met himBy the way, and fell on's horse, and stung itTill it dropt down dead of very torment,And the poor Knight was forced to go afoot.
Tell.Weak creatures too have stings.
[Armgart's Wife enters with several children, and places herself at the entrance of the Pass.
Stüssi.'Tis thought to bodeSome great misfortune to the land; some blackUnnatural action.
Tell.Ev'ry day such actionsOccur in plenty: needs no sign or wonderTo foreshow them.
Stüssi.Ay, truly! Well for himThat tills his field in peace, and undisturb'dSits by his own fireside!
Tell.The peacefulestDwells not in peace, if wicked neighbours hinder.
[Tell looks often, with restless expectation, towards the top of the Pass.
Stüssi.Too true.—Good b'ye!—You're waiting here for some one?
Tell.That am I.
Stüssi.Glad meeting with your friends!You are from Uri? His Grace the LandvogtIs expected thence today.
Traveller[enters]. Expect notThe Landvogt now. The waters, from the rain,Are flooded, and have swept down all the bridges.[Tell stands up.
Armgart[coming forward].The Vogt not come!
Stüssi.Did you want aught with him?
Armgart.Ah! yes, indeed!
Stüssi.Why have you placed yourselfIn this strait pass to meet him?
Armgart.In the passHe cannot turn aside from me, must hear me.
Friesshardt[comes hastily down the Pass, and calls into the Scene].Make way! make way! My lord the LandvogtIs riding close at hand.
Armgart.The Landvogt coming!
[She goes with her children to the front of the Scene. Gessler and Rudolph der Harras appear on horseback at the top of the Pass.
Stüssi[to Friesshardt].How got you through the water, when the floodHad carried down the bridges?
Friess.We have battledWith the billows, friend; we heed no Alp-flood.
Stüssi.Were you o' board i' th' storm?
Friess.That were we;While I live, I shall remember 't.
Stüssi.Stay, stay!O, tell me!
Friess.Cannot; must run on t' announceHis lordship in the Castle.[Exit.
Stüssi.Had these fellowsI' th' boat been honest people, 't would have sunkWith ev'ry soul of them. But for such rakehells,Neither fire nor flood will kill them. [He looks round.] WhitherWent the Mountain-man was talking with me?[Exit.
GesslerandRudolph der Harrason horseback.
Gessler.Say what you like, I am the Kaiser's servant,And must think of pleasing him. He sent meNot to caress these hinds, to soothe or nurse them:Obedience is the word! The point at issue isShall Boor or Kaiser here be lord o' th' land.
Armgart.Now is the moment! Now for my petition![Approaches timidly.
Gessler.This Hat at Aldorf, mark you, I set upNot for the joke's sake, or to try the heartsO' th' people; these I know of old: but thatThey might be taught to bend their necks to me,Which are too straight and stiff: and in the wayWhere they are hourly passing, I have plantedThis offence, that so their eyes may fall on't,And remind them of their lord, whom they forget.
Rudolph.But yet the people have some rights—
Gessler.Which nowIs not a time for settling or admitting.Mighty things are on the anvil. The houseOf Hapsburg must wax powerful; what the FatherGloriously began, the Son must forward:This people is a stone of stumbling, whichOne way or t'other must be put aside.
[They are about to pass along. The Woman throws herself before the Landvogt.
Armgart.Mercy, gracious Landvogt! Justice! Justice!
Gessler.Why do you plague me here, and stop my way,I' th' open road? Off! Let me pass!
Armgart.My husbandIs in prison; these orphans cry for bread.Have pity, good your Grace, have pity on us!
Rudolph.Who or what are you, then? Who is your husband?
Armgart.A poor wild-hay-man of the Rigiberg,Whose trade is, on the brow of the abyss,To mow the common grass from craggy shelvesAnd nooks to which the cattle dare not climb.
Rudolph[to Gessler]. By Heaven, a wild and miserable life!Do now! do let the poor drudge free, I pray you!Whatever be his crime, that horrid tradeIs punishment enough.[To the Woman] You shall have justice:In the Castle there, make your petition;This is not the place.
Armgart.No, no! I stir notFrom the spot till you give up my husband!'Tis the sixth month he has lain i' th' dungeon,Waiting for the sentence of some judge, in vain.
Gessler.Woman! Wouldst' lay hands on me? Begone!
Armgart.Justice, Landvogt! thou art judge o' th' land here,I' th' Kaiser's stead and God's. Perform thy duty!As thou expectest justice from above,Show it to us.
Gessler.Off! Take the mutinous rabbleFrom my sight.
Armgart[catches the bridle of the horse].No, no! I now have nothingMore to lose. Thou shalt not move a step, Vogt,Till thou hast done me right. Ay, knit thy brows,And roll thy eyes as sternly as thou wilt;We are so wretched, wretched now, we care notAught more for thy anger.
Gessler.Woman, make way!Or else my horse shall crush thee.
Armgart.Let it! there—
[She pulls her children to the ground, and throws herself along with them in his way.
Here am I with my children: let the orphansBe trodden underneath thy horse's hoofs!'Tis not the worst that thou hast done.
Rudolph.Woman! Art' mad?
Armgart[with still greater violence].'Tis long that thou hast trodden.The Kaiser's people under foot. Too long!O, I am but a woman; were I a man,I should find something else to do than lieHere crying in the dust.
[The music of the Wedding is heard again, at the top of the Pass, but softened by distance.
Gessler.Where are my servants?Quick! Take her hence! I may forget myself,And do the thing I shall repent.
Rudolph.My lord,The servants cannot pass; the place aboveIs crowded by a bridal company.
Gessler.I've been too mild a ruler to this people;They are not tamed as they should be; their tonguesAre still at liberty. This shall be alter'd!I will break that stubborn humour; FreedomWith its pert vauntings shall no more be heard of:I will enforce a new law in these lands;There shall not—
[An arrow pierces him; he claps his hand upon his heart, and is about to sink. With a faint voice
God be merciful to me!
Rudolph.Herr Landvogt—God! What is it? Whence came it?
Armgart[springing up].Dead! dead! He totters, sinks! 'T has hit him!
Rudolph[springs from his horse].Horrible!—O God of Heaven!—Herr Ritter,Cry to God for mercy! You are dying.
Gessler.'Tis Tell's arrow.
[Has slid down from his horse into Rudolph's arms, who sets him on the stone bench.
Tell[appears above, on the point of the rock].Thou hast found the archer;Seek no other. Free are the cottages,Secure is innocence from thee; thou wiltTorment the land no more.[Disappears from the height. The people rush in.
Stüssi[foremost].What? What has happen'd?
Armgart.The Landvogt shot, kill'd by an arrow.
People[rushing in].Who?Who is shot?
[Whilst the foremost of the wedding company enter on the Scene, the hindmost are still on the height, and the music continues.
Rudolph.He's bleeding, bleeding to death.Away! Seek help; pursue the murderer!Lost man! Must it so end with thee? Thou wouldst notHear my warning!
Stüssi.Sure enough! There lies hePale and going fast.
Many Voices.Who was it killed him?
Rudolph.Are the people mad, that they make musicOver murder? Stop it, I say!
[The music ceases suddenly; more people come crowding round.
Herr Landvogt,Can you not speak to me? Is there nothingYou would entrust me with?
[Gessler makes signs with his hand, and vehemently repeats them, as they are not understood.
Where shall I run?To Küssnacht! I cannot understand you:O, grow not angry! Leave the things of Earth,And think how you shall make your peace with Heaven!
[The whole bridal company surround the dying man with an expression of unsympathising horror.
Stüssi.Look there! How pale he grows! Now! Death is comingRound his heart: his eyes grow dim and fixed.
Armgart[lifts up one of her children].See, children, how a miscreant departs!
Rudolph.Out on you, crazy hags! Have ye no touchOf feeling in you, that ye feast your eyesOn such an object? Help me, lend your hands!Will no one help to pull the tort'ring arrowFrom his breast?
Women[start back].Wetouch him whom God has smote!
Rudolph.My curse upon you![Draws his sword.
Stüssi[lays his hand on Rudolph's arm].Softly, my good Sir!Your government is at an end. The TyrantIs fallen: we will endure no farther violence:We are free.
All[tumultuously]. The land is free!
Rudolph.Ha! runs it so?Are rev'rence and obedience gone already?[To the armed Attendants, who press in.You see the murd'rous deed that has been done.Our help is vain, vain to pursue the murd'rer;Other cares demand us. On! To Küssnacht!To save the Kaiser's fortress! For at presentAll bonds of order, duty, are unloosed,No man's fidelity is to be trusted.
[Whilst he departs with the Attendants, appear six Fratres Misericordiæ.
Armgart.Room! Room! Here come the Friars of Mercy.
Stüssi.The victim slain, the ravens are assembling!
Fratres Misericordiæ[form a half-circle round the dead body, and sing in a deep tone].With noiseless tread death comes on man,No plea, no prayer delivers him;From midst of busy life's unfinished plan,With sudden hand, it severs him:And ready or not ready,—no delay,Forth to his Judge's bar he must away!
The death of Gessler, which forms the leading object of the plot, happens at the end of the fourth act; the fifth, occupied with representing the expulsion of his satellites,and the final triumph and liberation of the Swiss, though diversified with occurrences and spectacles, moves on with inferior animation. A certain want of unity is, indeed, distinctly felt throughout all the piece; the incidents do not point one way; there is no connexion, or a very slight one, between the enterprise of Tell and that of the men of Rütli. This is the principal, or rather sole, deficiency of the present work; a deficiency inseparable from the faithful display of the historical event, and far more than compensated by the deeper interest and the wider range of action and delineation, which a strict adherence to the facts allows. By the present mode of management, Alpine life in all its length and breadth is placed before us: from the feudal halls of Attinghausen to Ruodi the Fisher of the Luzern Lake, and Armgart,—