Kitabı oku: «The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06», sayfa 26

ACT V

A large room in the castle at Retiro, with one door in the centre and one at each side. Everywhere signs of destruction. In the foreground, at the left, an overturned toilet table with scattered utensils. In the background, at the left, another overturned table; above it a picture half torn from its frame. In the centre of the room, a chair. It is dark. From without, behind the middle wall, the sound of voices, footsteps, and the clatter of weapons, finally, from without—"It is enough! The signal sounds! To horse!" Sounds of voices and footsteps die out. Pause. Then Isaac comes from the door at the right, dragging along a carpet, which is pulled over his head, and which he later drops.

 
ISAAC. Are they then gone?—I hear no sound.
 

(Stepping back.)

 
                                            But yes—
             No, no, 'tis naught! When they, a robber band,
             Searched all the castle through, I hid myself,
             And on the ground all doubled up I lay.
             This cover here was roof and shield alike.
             But whither now? Long since I hid full well
             Here in the garden what I saved and gained;
             I'll fetch it later when this noise is past.—
             Where is the door? How shall I save my soul?
 

ESTHER enters from the door at the left.

ISAAC. Who's there? Woe's me!

ESTHER. Is't thou?

ISAAC. Is't thou, then, Rachel?

ESTHER. What mean'st thou? Rachel? Only Esther, I!

 
  ISAAC. Only, thou say'st? Thou art my only child—
             Only, because the best.
 
 
ESTHER. Nay, rather say,
             The best because the only. Aged man,
             Dost thou, then, nothing know of this attack,
             Nor upon whom they meant to vent their wrath?
 
 
ISAAC. I do not know, nor do I wish to know,
             For has not Rachel flown, to safety gone?
             Oh, she is clever, she!—God of my fathers!
             Why dost thou try me—me, a poor old man,
             And speak to me from out my children's mouths?
             But I believe it not! 'Tis false! No, no!
 

[He sinks down beside the chair in the centre, leaning his head against it.]

 
ESTHER. So then be strong through coward fearsomeness.
             Yet call I others what I was myself.
             For when their coming roused me from my sleep,
             And I went hurrying to my sister's aid,
             Into the last, remote, and inmost room,
             One of them seizes me with powerful hand,
             And hurls me to the ground. And coward, I,
             I fall a-swooning, when I should have stood
             And offered up my life to save my sister,
             Or, at the very least, have died with her!
             When I awoke, the deed was done, and vain
             My wild attempt to bring her back to life.
             Then could I weep, then could I tear my hair;
             That is, indeed, true cowardice, a woman's.
 

ISAAC. They tell me this and that. But 'tis not true!

 
ESTHER. Lend me thy chair to sit upon, old man!
 

[She pulls the chair forward.]

 
             My limbs grow weak and tremble under me.
             Here will I sit and here will I keep watch.
 

[She sits down.]

 
             Mayhap that one will think it worth his while
             To burn the stubble, now the harvest's o'er,
             And will return and kill what still is left.
 
 
ISAAC (from the floor).
             Not me! Not me!—Some one is coming. Hark!
             No, many come!—Save me—I flee to thee!
 

[He runs to her chair, and cowers on the floor.]

 
ESTHER. I like a mother will protect thee now,
             The second childhood of the gray old man.
             And, if death comes, then childless shalt thou die—
             I following Rachel in advance of thee!
 

The KING appears at the centre door, with his page, who carries a torch.

 
KING. Shall I go farther, or content myself
             With what I know, though still it is unseen?
             This castle all a-wreck, laid bare and waste,
             Shrieking from ev'ry corner cries to me
             It is too late, the horror has been done!
             And thou the blame must bear, cursed dallier,
             If not, forsooth, a party to the deed!
             But no, thou weepst, and tears no lies can tell.
             Behold, I also weep, I weep for rage,
             From hot and unslaked passion for revenge!
             Come, here's a ring to set your torch within.
             Go to the town, assemble all the folk,
             And bid them straight unto this castle come
             With arms, as chance may put within their reach;
             And I, when morning comes, with written word,
             Will bring the people here, at my command—
             Children of toil and hard endeavor, they,
             As an avenger at their head I'll go,
             And break down all the strongholds of the great,
             Who, half as servants, half again as lords,
             Serve but themselves and overrule their master.
             Ruler and ruled, thus shall it be, and I,
             Avenging, will wipe out that hybrid throng,
             So proud of blood, or flowing in their veins,
             Or dripping on their swords from others' wounds.
             Thy light here leave and go! I'll stay alone
             And hatch the progeny of my revenge.
 

[The servant puts his torch into the ring beside the door and withdraws.]

 
KING (taking a step forward).
             What moves there? Can it be there still is life?
             Give answer!
 
 
ISAAC. Gracious Lord ill-doer, O,
           O, spare us, good assassin!
 
 
KING. You, old man?
             Remind me not that Rachel was your child;
             It would deface her image in my soul.
             And thou—art thou not Esther?
 

ESTHER. Sire, I am.

KING. And is it done?

ESTHER. It is.

 
KING. I knew it well,
             Since I the castle entered. So, no plaints!
             For know, the cup is full; an added drop
             Would overflow, make weak the poisonous draught.
             While she still lived I was resolved to leave her,
             Now dead, she ne'er shall leave my side again;
             And this her picture, here upon my breast,
             Will 'grave its image there, strike root within—
             For was not mine the hand that murdered her?
             Had she not come to me, she still would play,
             A happy child, a joy to look upon.
             Perhaps—but no, not that! No, no, I say!
             No other man should ever touch her hand,
             No other lips approach her rosy mouth,
             No shameless arm—she to the King belonged,
             Though now unseen, she still would be my own.
             To royal might belongs such might of charms!
 

ISAAC. Speaks he of Rachel?

 
ESTHER. Of thy daughter, yes.
             Though grief increase the value of the loss,
             Yet must I say: Too high you rate her worth.
 
 
KING. Think'st thou? I tell thee, naught but shadows we—
             I, thou, and others of the common crowd;
             For if thou'rt good, why then, thou'rt learned it so;
             If I am honest, I but saw naught else;
             Those others, if they murder,—as they do—
             Well, so their fathers did, came time and need!
             The world is but one great reëchoing,
             And all its harvest is but seed from seed.
             But she was truth itself, ev'n though deformed,
             And all she did proceeded from herself,
             A-sudden, unexpected, and unlearned.
             Since her I saw I felt myself alive,
             And to the dreary sameness of my life
             'Twas only she gave character and form.
             They tell that in Arab desert wastes
             The wand'rer, long tormented in the sands,
             Long tortured with the sun's relentless glare,
             Some time may find a blooming island's green,
             Surrounded by the surge of arid waves;
             There flowers bloom, there trees bestow their shade,
             The breath of herbs mounts soothing in the breeze
             And forms a second heav'n, arched 'neath the first.
             Forsooth the serpent coils among the brush;
             A famished beast, tormented by like thirst,
             Perchance comes, too, to slake it at this spring;
             Yet, tired and worn, the wand'rer doth rejoice,
             Sucks in with greedy lips the cooling draught,
             And sinks down in the rank luxuriant growth.
             Luxuriant growth! In faith! I'll see her now—
             See once again that proud and beauteous form,
             That mouth which drew in breath and breathed out life,
             And which, now silenced ever, evermore,
             Accuses me of guarding her so ill.
 
 
ESTHER. Go not, O Sire! Now that the deed is done,
             Let it be done. The mourning be for us!
             Estrange thyself not from thy people, Sire.
 
 
KING. Think'st thou? The King I am—thou know'st full well.
             She suffered outrage, but myself no less.
             Justice, and punishment of ev'ry wrong
             I swore upon my coronation day,
             And I will keep my oath until the death.
             To do this, I must make me strong and hard,
             For to my anger they will sure oppose
             All that the human breast holds high and dear—
             Mem'ries from out my boyhood's early days,
             My manhood's first sweet taste of woman's love,
             Friendship and gratitude and mercy, too;
             My whole life, roughly bundled into one,
             Will stand, as 'twere against me, fully armed,
             And challenge me to combat with myself.
             I, therefore, from myself must first take leave.
             Her image, as I see it here and there,
             On every wall, in this and every corner
             Shows her to me but in her early bloom,
             With all her weaknesses, with all her charm.
             I'll see her now, mistreated, wounded, torn;
             Will lose myself in horror at the sight,
             Compare each bloody mark upon her form
             With this, her image, here upon my breast.
             And learn to deal with monsters, like to like.
 

(As ESTHER has risen.)

 
             Speak not a word to me! I will! This torch
             Shall, like myself, inflamed, illume the way;
             Gleaming, because destructive and destroyed.
             She is in yonder last and inmost room,
             Where I so oft—
 

ESTHER. She was, and there remains.

 
KING (has seized the torch).
             Methinks 'tis blood I see upon my way.
             It is the way to blood. O fearful night!
 

[He goes out at the side door to the left.]

ISAAC. We're in the dark.

 
ESTHER. Yes, dark is round about,
             And round about the horror's horrid night.
             But daylight comes apace. So let me try
             If I can thither bear my weary limbs.
 

[She goes to the window, and draws the curtain.]

 
             The day already dawns, its pallid gleam
             Shudders to see the terrors wrought this night—
             The difference 'twixt yesterday and now.
 

(Pointing to the scattered jewels on the floor.)

 
             There, there it lies, our fortune's scattered ruin—
             The tawdry baubles, for the sake of which
             We, we—not he who takes the blame—but we
             A sister sacrificed, thy foolish child!
             Yea, all that comes is right. Whoe'er complains,
             Accuses his own folly and himself.
 
 
ISAAC (who has seated himself on the chair).
             Here will I sit. Now that the King is here
             I fear them not, nor all that yet may come.
 

The centre door opens. Enter MANRIQUE, and GARCERAN, behind them the QUEEN, leading her child by the hand, and other nobles.

 
MANRIQUE. Come, enter here, arrange yourselves the while.
             We have offended 'gainst his Majesty,
             Seeking the good, but not within the law.
             We will not try now to evade the law.
 
 
ESTHER (on the other side, raising the overturned table with a quick movement).
             Order thyself, disorder! Lest they think
             That we are terrified, or cowards prove.
 

QUEEN. Here are those others, here.

 
MANRIQUE. Nay, let them be!
             What mayhap threatens us, struck them ere now.
             I beg you, stand you here, in rank and file.
 

QUEEN. Let me come first, I am the guiltiest!

 
MANRIQUE. Not so. O Queen. Thou spak'st the word, 'tis true,
             But when it came to action thou didst quake,
             Oppose the deed, and mercy urge instead,
             Although in vain; for need became our law.
             Nor would I wish the King's first burst of rage
             To strike the mighty heads we most revere
             As being next to him, the Kingdom's hope.
             I did the deed, not with this hand, forsooth—
             With counsel, and with pity, deep and dread!
             The first place, then, is mine. And thou, my son—
             Hast thou the heart to answer like a man
             For that which at the least thou hinder'dst not,
             So that thy earnest wish to make amends
             And thy return have tangled thee in guilt?
 
 
GARCERAN. Behold me ready! To your side I come!
             And may the King's first fury fall on me!
 
 
ESTHER (calling across).
             You there, although all murderers alike,
             Deserving every punishment and death—
             Enough of mischief is already done,
             Nor would I wish the horrors yet increased!
             Within, beside my sister, is the King;
             Enraged before he went, the sight of her
             Will but inflame his passionate ire anew.
             I pity, too, that woman and her child,
             Half innocent, half guilty—only half.
             So go while yet there's time, and do not meet
             Th' avenger still too hot to act as judge.
 

MANRIQUE. Woman, we're Christians!

 
ESTHER. You have shown you are.
             Commend me to the Jewess, O my God!
 
 
MANRIQUE. Prepared as Christians, too, to expiate
             In meek submission all of our misdeeds.
             Lay off your swords. Here now is first my own!
             To be in armor augurs of defense.
             Our very number makes submission less.
             Divide we up the guilt each bears entire.
 

[_All have laid their swords on the floor before _MANRIQUE.]

 
             So let us wait. Or rather, let one go
             To urge upon the King most speedily,
             The country's need demands, this way or that,
             That he compose himself; and though it were
             Repenting a rash deed against ourselves!
             Go thou, my son!
 

GARCERAN (turning around after having taken several steps).

Behold, the King himself!

[The KING rushes out of the apartment at the side. After taking a few steps, he turns about and stares fixedly at the door.]

QUEEN. O God in Heaven!

MANRIQUE. Queen, I pray be calm!

[The KING goes toward the front. He stops, with arms folded, before old ISAAC, who lies back as if asleep, in the armchair. Then he goes forward.]

 
ESTHER (to her father).
             Behold thy foes are trembling! Art thou glad?
             Not I. For Rachel wakes not from the dead.
 

[The KING, in the front, gazes at his hands, and rubs them, as though washing them, one over the other. Then the same motion over his body. At last he feels his throat, moving his hands around it. In this last position, with his hands at his throat, he remains motionless, staring fixedly before him.]

MANRIQUE. Most noble Prince and King. Most gracious Sire!

 
KING (starting violently).
             Ye here? 'Tis good ye come! I sought for you—
             And all of you. Ye spare me further search.
 

[He steps before them, measuring them with angry glances.]

MANRIQUE (pointing to the weapons lying on the floor).

We have disarmed ourselves, laid down our swords.

 
KING. I see the swords. Come ye to slay me, then?
             I pray, complete your work. Here is my breast!
 

[He opens his robe.]

QUEEN. He has't no more!

KING. How mean you, lady fair?

QUEEN. Gone is the evil picture from his neck.

KING. I'll fetch it, then.

[He takes a few steps toward the door at the side, and then stands still.]

QUEEN. O God, this madness still!

 
MANRIQUE. We know full well, how much we, Sire, have erred—
             Most greatly, that we did not leave to thee
             And thine own honor thy return to self!
             But, Sire, the time more pressing was than we.
             The country trembled, and at all frontiers
             The foemen challenged us to ward our land.
 
 
KING. And foemen must be punished—is't not so?
             Ye warn me rightly; I am in their midst.
             Ho, Garceran!
 

GARCERAN. Thou meanest me, O Sire?

 
KING. Yea, I mean thee! Though me thou hast betrayed,
             Thou wert my friend. Come to me then, I say,
             And tell me what thou think'st of her within!
             Her—whom thou help'dst to slay—of that anon.
             What thoughtst thou of her while she still did live?
 

GARCERAN. O Sire, I thought her fair.

KING. What more was she?

GARCERAN. But wanton, too, and light, with evil wiles.

KING. And that thou hidst from me while still was time?

GARCERAN. I said it, Sire!

 
KING. And I believed it not?
             How came that? Pray, say on!
 
 
GARCERAN. My Sire—the Queen,
             She thinks 'twas magic.
 
 
KING. Superstition, bah!
             Which fools itself with idle make-believe.
 

GARCERAN. In part, again, it was but natural.

 
KING. That only which is right is natural.
             And was I not a king, both just and mild—
             The people's idol and the nobles', too?
             Not empty-minded, no, and, sure, not blind!
             I say, she was not fair!
 

GARCERAN. How meanest, Sire?

 
KING. An evil line on cheek and chin and mouth.
             A lurking something in that fiery glance
             Envenom'd and disfigured all her charm.
             But erst I've gazed upon it and compared.
             When there I entered in to fire my rage,
             Half fearsome of the mounting of my ire,
             It happened otherwise than I had thought.
             Instead of wanton pictures from the past,
             Before my eyes came people, wife, and child.
             With that her face seemed to distort itself,
             The arms to rise, to grasp me, and to hold.
             I cast her likeness from me in the tomb
             And now am here, and shudder, as thou seest.
             But go thou now! For, hast thou not betrayed me?
             Almost I rue that I must punish you.
             Go thither to thy father and those others—
             Make no distinction, ye are guilty, all.
 

MANRIQUE (with a strong voice).

And thou?

 
KING (after a pause).
             The man is right; I'm guilty, too.
             But what is my poor land, and what the world,
             If none are pure, if malefactors all!
             Nay, here's my son. Step thou within our midst!
             Thou shalt be guardian spirit of this land;
             Perhaps a higher judge may then forgive.
             Come, Doña Clara, lead him by the hand!
             Benignant fortune hath vouchsafed to thee
             In native freedom to pursue thy course
             Until this hour; thou, then, dost well deserve
             To guide the steps of innocence to us.
             But hold! Here is the mother. What she did,
             She did it for her child. She is forgiv'n!
 

[As the QUEEN steps forward and bends her knee.]

 
             Madonna, wouldst thou punish me? Wouldst show
             The attitude most seeming me toward thee?
             Castilians all, behold! Here is your King,
             And here is she, the regent in his stead!
             I am a mere lieutenant for my son.
             For as the pilgrims, wearing, all, the cross
             For penance journey to Jerusalem,
             So will I, conscious of my grievous stain,
             Lead you against these foes of other faith
             Who at the bound'ry line, from Africa,
             My people threaten and my peaceful land.
             If I return, and victor, with God's grace,
             Then shall ye say if I am worthy still
             To guard the law offended by myself.
             This punishment be yours as well as mine,
             For all of you shall follow me, and first,
             Into the thickest squadrons of the foe.
             And he who falls does penance for us all.
             Thus do I punish you and me! My son
             Here place upon a shield, like to a throne,
             For he today is King of this our land.
             So banded, then, let's go before the folk.
 

[A shield has been brought.]

 
             You women, each do give the child a hand.
             Slipp'ry his first throne, and the second too!
             Thou, Garceran, do thou stay at my side,
             For equal wantonness we must atone—
             So let us fight as though our strength were one.
             And hast thou purged thyself of guilt, as I,
             Perhaps that quiet, chaste, and modest maid
             Will hold thee not unworthy of her hand!
             Thou shalt improve him, Doña Clara, but
             Let not thy virtue win his mere respect,
             But lend it charm, as well. That shields from much.
 

[Trumpets in the distance.]

 
             Hear yet They call us. Those whom I did bid
             To help against you, they are ready all
             To help against the common enemy,
             The dreaded Moor who threats our boundaries,
             And whom I will send back with shame and wounds
             Into the and desert he calls home,
             So that our native land be free from ill,
             Well-guarded from within and from without.
             On, on! Away! God grant, to victory!
 

[_The procession has already formed. First, some vassals, then the shield with the child, whom the women hold by both hands, then the rest of the men. Lastly, the KING, leaning in a trustful manner on _GARCERAN.]

 
ESTHER (turning to her father).
             Seest thou, they are already glad and gay;
             Already plan for future marriages!
             They are the great ones, for th' atonement feast
             They've slain as sacrifice a little one,
             And give each other now their bloody hands.
 

[Stepping to the centre.]

 
             But this I say to thee, thou haughty King,
             Go, go, in all thy grand forgetfulness!
             Thou deem'st thou'rt free now from my sister's power,
             Because the prick of its impression's dulled,
             And thou didst from thee cast what once enticed.
             But in the battle, when thy wavering ranks
             Are shaken by thy en'mies' greater might,
             And but a pure, and strong, and guiltless heart
             Is equal to the danger and its threat;
             When thou dost gaze upon deaf heav'n above,
             Then will the victim, sacrificed to thee,
             Appear before thy quailing, trembling soul—
             Not in luxuriant fairness that enticed,
             But changed, distorted, as she pleased thee not—
             Then, pentinent, perchance, thou'lt beat thy breast,
             And think upon the Jewess of Toledo!
 

(Seizing her father by the shoulder.)

 
Come, father, come! A task awaits us there.
 

[Pointing to the side door.]

 
ISAAC (as though waking from sleep).
             But first I'll seek my gold!
 
 
ESTHER. Think'st still of that
             In sight of all this misery and woe!
             Then I unsay the curse which I have spoke,
             Then thou art guilty, too, and I—and she!
             We stand like them within the sinners' row;
             Pardon we, then, that God may pardon us!
 

[With arms outstretched toward the side door.]

CURTAIN