The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06

KING (to his attendants).             Quick, to work! And after that,             Mourning that hath no end!

[He goes away in the other direction.]

The curtain falls for a moment, and, when it rises again, discloses a wild and lonely region surrounded by forest and by lofty crags, at the foot of which lies a mean hut. A rustic enters.

RUSTIC. How fair the morning dawns! Oh, kindly gods,             After the storm and fury of the night,             Your sun doth rise more glorious than before!

[He goes into the hut.]

(JASON comes stumbling out of the forest and leaning heavily on his sword.)

JASON. Nay, I can go no farther! How my head             Doth burn and throb, the blood how boil within!             My tongue cleaves to the roof of my parched mouth!             Is none within there? Must I die of thirst,             And all alone?—Ha! Yon's the very hut             That gave me shelter when I came this way             Before, a rich man still, a happy father,             My bosom filled with newly-wakened hopes!

[He knocks at the door.]

             'Tis but a drink I crave, and then a place             To lay me down and die!

[The peasant comes out of the house.]

RUSTIC. Who knocks?—Poor man,             Who art thou? Ah, poor soul, he's faint to death!JASON. Oh, water, water! Give me but to drink!             See, Jason is my name, famed far and wide,             The hero of the wondrous Golden Fleece!             A prince—a king—and of the Argonauts             The mighty leader, Jason!RUSTIC. Art thou, then,             In very sooth Lord Jason? Get thee gone             And quickly! Thou shalt not so much as set             A foot upon my threshold, to pollute             My humble dwelling! Thou didst bring but now             Death to the daughter of my lord the King!             Then seek not shelter at the meanest door             Of any of his subjects!

[He goes into the hut again and shuts the door behind him.]

JASON. He is gone,             And leaves me here to lie upon the earth,             Bowed in the dust, for any that may pass             To trample on!—O Death, on thee I call!             Have pity on me! Take me to my babes!

[He sinks down upon the ground.]

MEDEA makes her way among some tumbled rocks, and stands suddenly before him, the Golden Fleece flung over her shoulders like a mantle.

MEDEA. Jason!

JASON (half raising himself).             Who calls me?—Ha! What spectral form             Is this before me? Is it thou, Medea?             Ha! Dost thou dare to show thyself again             Before mine eyes? My sword! My sword!

[He tries to rise, but falls weakly back.]

             Woe's me!             My limbs refuse their service! Here I lie,             A broken wreck!MEDEA. Nay, cease thy mad attempts             Thou canst not harm me, for I am reserved             To be the victim of another's hand,             And not of thine!

JASON. My babes!—Where has thou them?

MEDEA. Nay, they are mine!

JASON. Where hast thou them, I say?

MEDEA. They're gone where they are happier far than thou             Or I shall ever be!

JASON. Dead! Dead! My babes!

MEDEA. Thou deemest death the worst of mortal woes?             I know a far more wretched one—to be             Alone, unloved! Hadst thou not prized mere life             Far, far above its worth, we were not now             In such a pass. But we must bear our weight             Of sorrow, for thy deeds! Yet these our babes             Are spared that grief, at least!JASON. And thou canst stand             So patient, quiet, there, and speak such words?MEDEA. Quiet, thou sayst, and patient? Were my heart             Not closed to thee e'en now, as e'er it was,             Then couldst thou see the bitter, smarting pain             Which, ever swelling like an angry sea,             Tosses, now here, now there, the laboring wreck             That is my grief, and, veiling it from sight             In awful desolation, sweeps it forth             O'er boundless ocean-wastes! I sorrow not             Because the babes are dead; my only grief             Is that they ever lived, that thou and I             Must still live on!

JASON. Alas!

MEDEA. Bear thou the lot             That fortune sends thee; for, to say the truth,             Thou richly hast deserved it!—Even as thou             Before me liest on the naked earth,             So lay I once in Colchis at thy feet             And craved protection—but thou wouldst not hear!             Nay, rather didst thou stretch thine eager hands             In blind unreason forth, to lay them swift             Upon the golden prize, although I cried,             "'Tis Death that thou dost grasp at!"—Take it, then,             That prize that thou so stubbornly didst seek,             Even Death!             I leave thee now, forevermore.             'Tis the last time-for all eternity             The very last—that I shall speak with thee,             My husband! Fare thee well! Ay, after all             The joys that blessed our happy, happy youth,             'Mid all the bitter woes that hem us in             On every side, in face of all the grief             That threatens for the future, still I say,             "Farewell, my husband!" Now there dawns for thee             A life of heavy sorrows; but, let come             What may, abide it firmly, show thyself             Stronger in suffering than in doing deeds             Men named heroic! If thy bitter woe             Shall make thee yearn for death, then think on me,             And it shall comfort thee to know how mine             Is bitterer far, because I set my hand             To deeds, to which thou only gav'st assent.             I go my way, and take my heavy weight             Of sorrow with me through the wide, wide world.             A dagger-stroke were blest release indeed;             But no! it may not be! It were not meet             Medea perish at Medea's hands.             My earlier life, before I stooped to sin,             Doth make me worthy of a better judge             Than I could be—I go to Delphi's shrine,             And there, before the altar of the god,             The very spot whence Phrixus long ago             Did steal the prize, I'll hang it up again,             Restore to that dark god what is his own—             The Golden Fleece—the only thing the flames             Have left unharmed, the only thing that 'scaped             Safe from the bloody, fiery death that slew             That fair Corinthian princess.—To the priests             I'll go, and I'll submit me to their will,             Ay, though they take my life to expiate             My grievous sins, or though they send me forth             To wander still through some far desert-waste,             My very life, prolonged, a heavier weight             Of sorrow than I ever yet have known!

[She holds up the gleaming Fleece before his eyes.]

             Know'st thou the golden prize which thou didst strive             So eagerly to win, which seemed to thee             The shining crown of all thy famous deeds?             What is the happiness the world can give?—             A shadow! What the fame it can bestow?—             An empty dream! Poor man! Thy dreams were all             Of shadows! And the dreams are ended now,             But not the long, black Night!—Farewell to thee,             My husband, for I go! That was a day             Of heavy sorrows when we first did meet;             Today, 'mid heavier sorrows, we must part!             Farewell!

JASON. Deserted! All alone! My babes!

MEDEA. Endure!

JASON. Lost! Lost!

MEDEA. Be patient!

JASON. Let me die!

MEDEA. I go, and nevermore thine eyes shall seeMy face again![As she departs, winding her way among the tumbled rocks, the curtain falls.]* * * * *

THE JEWESS OF TOLEDO

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTSBy 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.]