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MEDEA. Endure!

JASON. Lost! Lost!

MEDEA. Be patient!

JASON. Let me die!

MEDEA. I go, and nevermore thine eyes shall see
My face again!

[As she departs, winding her way among the tumbled rocks, the curtain falls.]

* * * * *

THE JEWESS OF TOLEDO

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS

By FRANZ GRILLPARZER

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

ALFONSO VIII., the Noble, King of Castile.

ELEANOR OF ENGLAND, Daughter of Henry II., his Wife.

THE PRINCE, their Son.

MANRIQUE, Count of Lara, Governor of Castile.

DON GARCERAN, his Son.

DOÑA CLARA, _Lady in Waiting to the Queen.

The Queen's Waiting Maid._

ISAAC, the Jew.

ESTHER, }

} his Daughters.

RACHEL, }

REINERO, _the King's Page.

Nobles, Court Ladies, Petitioners, Servants, and Other People.

Place, Toledo and Vicinity.

Time, about 1195 A.D._

THE JEWESS OF TOLEDO (1873)

TRANSLATED BY GEORGE HENRY DANTON AND ANNINA PERIAM DANTON

ACT I

In the Royal Garden at Toledo.
Enter ISAAC, RACHEL, and ESTHER.

ISAAC. Back, go back, and leave the garden!
             Know ye not it is forbidden?
             When the King here takes his pleasure
             Dares no Jew—ah, God will damn them!
             Dares no Jew to tread the earth here!

RACHEL (singing).

La-la-la-la.

ISAAC. Don't you hear me?

RACHEL. Yes, I hear thee.

ISAAC. Hear, and linger

RACHEL. Hear, yet linger!

ISAAC. Oh, Oh, Oh! Why doth God try me?
             To the poor I've given my portion,
             I have prayed and I have fasted,
             Unclean things I've never tasted
             Nay! And yet God tries me thus.

RACHEL (to ESTHER).
             Ow! Why dost thou pull my arm so?
             I will stay, I am not going.
             I just wish to see the King and
             All the court and all their doings,
             All their gold and all their jewels.
             He is young, they say, and handsome,
             White and red, I want to see him.

ISAAC. And suppose the servants catch thee

RACHEL. Then I'll beg until they free me!

ISAAC. Yes, just like thy mother, eh?
             She, too, looked at handsome Christians,
             Sighed, too, for Egyptian flesh-pots;
             Had I not so closely watched her
             I should deem-well, God forgive me!—
             That thy madness came that way,
             Heritage of mean, base Christians;
             Ah! I praise my first wife, noble!

(To ESTHER.)

             Praise thy mother, good like thee,
             Though not wealthy. Of the second
             Did the riches aught avail me?
             Nay, she spent them as she pleasured,
             Now for feasts and now for banquets,
             Now for finery and jewels.
             Look! This is indeed her daughter!
             Has she not bedeckt herself,
             Shines she not in fine apparel
             Like a Babel in her pride?

RACHEL (singing).
             Am I not lovely,
             Am I not rich?
             See their vexation,
             And I don't care-la, la, la, la.

ISAAC. There she goes with handsome shoes on;
             Wears them out—what does it matter?
             Every step costs me a farthing!
             Richest jewels are her earrings,
             If a thief comes, he will take them,
             If they're lost, who'll find them ever?

RACHEL (taking off an earring).
             Lo! I take them off and hold them,
             How they shine and how they shimmer!
             Yet how little I regard them,
             Haply, I to thee present them

(to ESTHER.)

Or I throw them in the bushes.

[She makes a motion as if throwing it away.]

ISAAC (running in the direction of the throw).
Woe, ah woe! Where did they go to?
Woe, ah woe! How find them ever?

ESTHER. These fine jewels? What can ail thee?

RACHEL. Dost believe me, then, so foolish
             As to throw away possessions?
             See, I have it in my hand here,
             Hang it in my ear again and
             On my cheek it rests in contrast.

ISAAC. Woe! Lost!

RACHEL. Father come, I prithee!
             See! the jewel is recovered.
             I was jesting.

ISAAC. Then may God—
             Thus to tease me! And now, come!
RACHEL. Anything but this I'll grant thee.
             I must see his Royal Highness,
             And he me, too, yes, yes, me, too.
             If he comes and if he asks them,
             "Who is she, that lovely Jewess?"
             "Say, how hight you?"—"Rachel, sire!
             Isaac's Rachel!" I shall answer.
             Then he'll pinch my cheek so softly.
             Beauteous Rachel then they'll call me.
             What if envy bursts to hear it,
             Shall I worry if it vexes?

ESTHER. Father!

ISAAC. What

ESTHER. The court approaches.

ISAAC. Lord of life, what's going to happen?
'Tis the tribe of Rehoboam.
Wilt thou go?

RACHEL. Oh, father, listen!

ISAAC. Well then stay! But come thou, Esther,
             Leave the fool here to her folly.
             Let the unclean-handed see her,
             Let him touch her, let him kill her,
             She herself hath idly willed it.
             Esther, come!

RACHEL. Oh, father, tarry!

ISAAC. Hasten, hasten; come, then, Esther!

[Exit with ESTHER.]

RACHEL. Not alone will I remain here!
             Listen! Stay! Alas, they leave me.
             Not alone will I remain here.
             Ah! they come—Oh, sister, father!

[She hastens after them.]

Enter the KING, the QUEEN, MANTRIQUE DE LARA and suite.

KING (entering).
             Allow the folk to stay! It harms me not;
             For he who calleth me a King denotes
             As highest among many me, and so
             The people is a part of my own self.

(Turning to the QUEEN.)

             And thou, no meager portion of myself,
             Art welcome here in this my ancient home,
             Art welcome in Toledo's faithful walls.
             Gaze all about thee, let thy heart beat high,
             For, know! thou standest at my spirit's fount.
             There is no square, no house, no stone, no tree,
             That is not witness of my childhood lot.
             An orphan child, I fled my uncle's wrath,
             Bereft of mother first, then fatherless,
             Through hostile land—it was my own—I fled.
             The brave Castilians me from place to place,
             Like shelterers of villainy did lead,
             And hid me from my uncle of Leon,
             Since death did threaten host as well as guest.
             But everywhere they tracked me up and down.
             Then Estevan Illan, a don who long
             Hath slept beneath the greensward of the grave,
             And this man here, Manrique Lara, led me
             To this, the stronghold of the enemy,
             And hid me in the tower of St. Roman,
             Which there you see high o'er Toledo's roofs.
             There lay I still, but they began to strew
             The seed of rumor in the civic ear,
             And on Ascension Day, when all the folk
             Was gathered at the gate of yonder fane,
             They led me to the tower-balcony
             And showed me to the people, calling down,
             "Here in your midst, among you, is your King,
             The heir of ancient princes; of their rights
             And of your rights the willing guardian."
             I was a child and wept then, as they said.
             But still I hear it—ever that wild cry,
             A single word from thousand bearded throats,
             A thousand swords as in a single hand,
             The people's hand. But God the vict'ry gave,
             The Leonese did flee; and on and on,
             A standard rather than a warrior,
             I with my army compassed all the land,
             And won my vict'ries with my baby smile.
             These taught and nurtured me with loving care,
             And mother's milk flowed from their wounds for me.
             And so, while other princes call themselves
             The fathers of their people, I am son,
             For what I am, I owe their loyalty.

MANRIQUE. If all that now thou art, most noble Sire,
             Should really, as thou sayest, spring from thence,
             Then gladly we accept the thanks, rejoice
             If these our teachings and our nurture, thus
             Are mirrored in thy fame and in thy deeds,
             Then we and thou are equally in debt.

(To the QUEEN.)

             Pray gaze on him with these thy gracious eyes;
             Howe'er so many kings have ruled in Spain,
             Not one compares with him in nobleness.
             Old age, in truth, is all too wont to blame,
             And I am old and cavil much and oft;
             And when confuted in the council-hall
             I secret wrath have ofttimes nursed—not long,
             Forsooth—that royal word should weigh so much;
             And sought some evil witness 'gainst my King,
             And gladly had I harmed his good repute.
             But always I returned in deepest shame—
             The envy mine, and his the spotlessness.

KING. A teacher, Lara, and a flatt'rer, too?
             But we will not dispute you this and that;
             If I'm not evil, better, then, for you,
             Although the man, I fear me, void of wrong,
             Were also void of excellence as well;
             For as the tree with sun-despising roots,
             Sucks up its murky nurture from the earth,
             So draws the trunk called wisdom, which indeed
             Belongs to heaven itself in towering branch,
             Its strength and being from the murky soil
             Of our mortality-allied to sin.
             Was ever a just man who ne'er was hard?
             And who is mild, is oft not strong enough.
             The brave become too venturesome in war.
             What we call virtue is but conquered sin,
             And where no struggle was, there is no power.
             But as for me, no time was given to err,
             A child—the helm upon my puny head,
             A youth—with lance, high on my steed I sat,
             My eye turned ever to some threat'ning foe,
             Unmindful of the joys and sweets of life,
             And far and strange lay all that charms and lures.
             That there are women, first I learned to know
             When in the church my wife was given me,
             She, truly faultless if a human is,
             And whom, I frankly say, I'd warmer love
             If sometimes need to pardon were, not praise.

(To the QUEEN.)

             Nay, nay, fear not, I said it but in jest!
             The outcome we must all await-nor paint
             The devil on the wall, lest he appear.
             But now, what little respite we may have,
             Let us not waste in idle argument.
             The feuds within our land are stilled, although
             They say the Moor will soon renew the fight,
             And hopes from Africa his kinsman's aid,
             Ben Jussuf and his army, bred in strife.
             And war renewed will bring distress anew.
             Till then we'll open this our breast to peace,
             And take deep breath of unaccustomed joy.
             Is there no news?—But did I then forget?
             You do not look about you, Leonore,
             To see what we have done to please you here.

QUEEN. What ought I see?

KING. Alas, O Almirante!
             We have not hit upon it, though we tried.
             For days, for weeks, we dig and dig and dig,
             And hope that we could so transform this spot,
             This orange-bearing, shaded garden grove,
             To have it seem like such as England loves,
             The austere country of my austere wife.
             And she but smiles and smiling says me nay!
             Thus are they all, Britannia's children, all;
             If any custom is not quite their own,
             They stare, and smile, and will have none of it.
             Th' intention, Leonore, was good, at least,
             So give these worthy men a word of thanks;
             God knows how long they may have toiled for us.

QUEEN. I thank you, noble sirs.

KING. To something else!
             The day has started wrong. I hoped to show
             You houses, meadows, in the English taste,
             Through which we tried to make this garden please;
             We missed our aim. Dissemble not, O love!
             'Tis so, and let us think of it no more.
             To duty we devote what time remains,
             Ere Spanish wine spice high our Spanish fare.
             What, from the boundary still no messenger?
             Toledo did we choose, with wise intent,
             To be at hand for tidings of the foe.
             And still there are none?

MANRIQUE. Sire—

KING. What is it, pray?

MANRIQUE. A messenger—

KING. Has come? What then?

MANRIQUE (pointing to the Queen).

Not now.

KING. My wife is used to council and to war,
The Queen in everything shares with the King.

MANRIQUE. The messenger himself, perhaps, more than
The message—

KING. Well, who is't?

MANRIQUE. It is my son.

KING. Ah, Garceran! Pray let him come.

(To the QUEEN.)

             Stay thou!
             The youth, indeed, most grossly erred, when he
             Disguised, slipped in the kemenate to spy
             Upon the darling of his heart—Do not,
             O Doña Clara, bow your head in shame,
             The man is brave, although both young and rash,
             My comrade from my early boyhood days;
             And now implacability were worse
             Than frivolous condoning of the fault.
             And penance, too, methinks, he's done enough
             For months an exile on our kingdom's bounds.

[At a nod from the QUEEN, one of the ladies of her suite withdraws.]

And yet she goes: O Modesty
More chaste than chastity itself!

Enter GARCERAN.

             My friend,
             What of the border? Are they all out there
             So shy with maiden-modesty as you?
             Then poorly guarded is our realm indeed!

GARCERAN. A doughty soldier, Sire, ne'er fears a foe,
             But noble women's righteous wrath is hard.

KING. 'Tis true of righteous wrath! And do not think
             That I with custom and propriety
             Am less severe and serious than my wife,
             Yet anger has its limits, like all else.
             And so, once more, my Garceran, what cheer?
             Gives you the foe concern in spite of peace?

GARCERAN. With bloody wounds, O Sire, as if in play,
             On this side of the boundary and that
             We fought, yet ever peace resembled war
             So to a hair, that perfidy alone
             Made all the difference. But now the foe
             A short time holdeth peace.

KING. 'Tis bad!

GARCERAN. We think
             So too, and that he plans a mightier blow.
             And rumor hath it that his ships convey
             From Africa to Cadiz men and food,
             Where secretly a mighty army forms,
             Which Jussuf, ruler of Morocco, soon
             Will join with forces gathered over seas;
             And then the threat'ning blow will fall on us.

KING. Well, if they strike, we must return the blow.
             A king leads them, and so a king leads you.
             If there's a God, such as we know there is,
             And justice be the utt'rance of his tongue,
             I hope to win, God with us, and the right I
             I grieve but for the peasants' bitter need,
             Myself, as highest, should the heaviest bear.
             Let all the people to the churches come
             And pray unto the God of victory.
             Let all the sacred relics be exposed,
             And let each pray, who goeth to the fight.

GARCERAN. Without thy proclamation, this is done,
             The bells sound far through all the borderland,
             And in the temples gathereth the folk;
             Only, alas, its zeal, erring as oft,
             Expends itself on those of other faith,
             Whom trade and gain have scattered through the land.
             Mistreated have they here and there a Jew.

KING. And ye, ye suffer this? Now, by the Lord,
             I will protect each one who trusts in me.
             Their faith is their affair, their conduct mine.

GARCERAN. 'Tis said they're spies and hirelings of the Moors.

             KING. Be sure, no one betrays more than he knows,
             And since I always have despised their gold,
             I never yet have asked for their advice.
             Not Christian and not Jew knows what shall be,
             But I alone. Hence, by your heads, I urge—

[A woman's voice without.]

Woe, woe!
KING. What is't?

GARCERAN. An old man, Sire, is there,
             A Jew, methinks, pursued by garden churls,
             Two maidens with him, one of them, behold,
             Is fleeing hither.

KING. Good! Protection's here,
             And thunder strike who harms one hair of hers.

(Calling behind the scenes.)

Hither, here I say!

RACHEL comes in flight

RACHEL. They're killing me!
My father, too! Oh! is there none to help?

[She sees the QUEEN and kneels before her.]

             Sublime one, shelter me from these. Stretch out
             Thy hand and hold it over me, thy maid,
             Not Jewess I to serve thee then, but slave.

[_She tries to take the hand of the _QUEEN who turns away.]

RACHEL (rising).
             Here, too, no safety? Terror everywhere?
             Where shall I flee to?
             Here there stands a man
             Whose moonbeam glances flood the soul with peace,
             And everything about him proves him King.
             Thou canst protect me, Sire, and oh, thou wilt!
             I will not die, I will not, no, no, no!

[She throws herself on the ground before the KING and seizes his right foot, bending her head to the ground.]

KING (to several who approach).
Let be! Her senses have ta'en flight through fear,
And as she shudders, makes me tremble, too.

RACHEL (sits up).
And everything I have,

(taking off her bracelet)

this bracelet here, This necklace and this costly piece of cloth,

(taking a shawl-like cloth from her neck)

             It cost my father well-nigh forty pounds,
             Real Indian stuff, I'll give that too—if you
             Will leave me but my life: I will not die!

[She sinks back to her former position.]

ISAAC and ESTHER are led in.

KING. What crime has he committed?

MANRIQUE. Sire, thou know'st,
The entrance to the royal gardens is
Denied this people when the court is here.

KING. And I permit it, if it is forbidden.

ESTHER. He is no spy, O Sire, a merchant he,
In Hebrew are the letters that he bears,
Not in the Moorish tongue, not Arabic.

KING. 'Tis well, I doubt it not.
(Pointing to RACHEL.) And she?

ESTHER. My sister!

KING. Take her and carry her away.

RACHEL (as ESTHER approaches her).
                                           No, no!
             They're seizing me, they're leading me away
             To kill me!

(Pointing to her discarded finery.)

See, my ransom. Here will I
Remain a while and take a little sleep.

(Laying her cheek against the KING's knee.)

Here safety is; and here 'tis good to rest.

QUEEN. Will you not go?

KING. You see that I am caught.

QUEEN. If you are caught, I still am free, I go!

[Exit with her women.]

KING. And now that, too! That which they would prevent
They bring to pass with their false chastity.

(Sternly to RACHEL.)

Arise, I tell thee—Give her back her shawl,
And let her go.

RACHEL. O, Sire, a little while.

My limbs are lamed,—I cannot, cannot walk.

[She props her elbow on her knee and rests her head in her hand.]

KING (stepping back).

And is she ever thus, so timorous?

ESTHER. Nay, for, a while ago, presumptuous,
In spite of us, she wished to see thee, Sire.

KING. Me? She has paid it dear.

ESTHER. At home, as well,
             She plays her pranks, and jokes with man or dog,
             And makes us laugh, however grave we be.

KING. I would, indeed, she were a Christian, then,
             And here at court, where things are dull enough;
             A little fun might stand us in good stead.
             Ho, Garceran!

GARCERAN. Illustrious Sire and King!

ESTHER (busy with RACHEL).

Stand up! Stand up!

RACHEL (rising and taking off ESTHER's necklace, which she adds to the other jewels).
And give, too, what thou hast,
It is my ransom.

ESTHER. Well, so be it then.

KING. What think you of all this?

GARCERAN. What I think, Sire?

KING. Dissemble not! You are a connoisseur,
Myself have never looked at women much
But she seems beautiful.

GARCERAN. She is, O Sire!

KING. Be strong then, for you shall accomp'ny her.

RACHEL (who stands in the middle of the stage with trembling knees and bent head, pushing up her sleeve).
             Put on my bracelet. Oh you hurt me so.
             The necklace, too-indeed, that still hangs here.
             The kerchief keep, I feel so hot and choked.

KING. Convey her home!

GARCERAN. But, Sire, I fear—

KING. Well, what?

GARCERAN. The people are aroused.

KING. Ay, you are right.
Although a royal word protection is,
'Tis better that we give no cause to wrong.

ESTHER (fixing RACHEL's dress at the neck).

Thy dress is all disturbed and all awry.

KING. Take her at first to one of those kiosks
There scattered through the garden, and at eve—

GARCERAN. I hear, my liege!

KING. What was I saying? Oh! Are you not ready yet?

ESTHER. We are, my lord.

KING. At evening when the people all have gone,
Then lead her home and that will make an end.

GARCERAN. Come, lovely heathen!

KING. Heathen? Stuff and nonsense!

ESTHER (to RACHEL, who prepares to go).

And thankst thou not the King for so much grace?

RACHEL (_still exhausted, turning to the _KING).
My thanks, O Sire, for all thy mighty care!
O were I not a poor and wretched thing—

(with a motion of her hand across her neck)

             That this my neck, made short by hangman's hand,
             That this my breast, a shield against thy foe—
             But that thou wishest not!

KING. A charming shield!
             Now go, and God be with you.—Garceran,

(more softly)

             I do not wish that she, whom I protect
             Should be insulted by improper jests,
             Or any way disturbed—

RACHEL (with her hand on her brow).

I cannot walk.

KING (as Garceran is about to offer his arm).
             And why your arm? The woman can assist.
             And do thou, gaffer, watch thy daughter well,
             The world is ill! Do thou protect thy hoard.

[Exeunt RACHEL and her kin, led by GARCERAN.]

KING (watching them).
She totters still in walking. All her soul
A sea of fear in e'er-renewing waves.

(Putting down his foot)

             She held my foot so tightly in her grasp,
             It almost pains me. Strange it is, a man
             When cowardly, with justice is despised—
             A woman shows her strength when she is weak.
             Ah, Almirante, what say you to this?

MANRIQUE. I think, the punishment you gave my son,
             Is, noble Sire, both subtle and severe.

KING. The punishment?

MANRIQUE. To guard this common trash.

KING. Methinks the punishment is not so hard.
Myself have never toyed with women much,

(Pointing to his suite.)

             But these, perchance, think otherwise than you.
             But now, avaunt all pictures so confused!
             And dine we, for my body needs new strength,
             And with the first glad draught this festal day,
             Let each one think—of what he wants to think.
             No ceremony! Forward! Hasten! On!