Wilhelm Tell (Act 5 Scene 2)

Interior of TELL'S cottage. A fire burning on the hearth.
The open door shows the scene outside.

HEDWIG, WALTER, and WILHELM.

HEDWIG.
Boys, dearest boys! your father comes to-day.
He lives, is free, and we and all are free!
The country owes its liberty to him!

WALTER.
And I too, mother, bore my part in it;
I shall be named with him. My father's shaft
Went closely by my life, but yet I shook not!

HEDWIG
(embracing him).
Yes, yes, thou art restored to me again.
Twice have I given thee birth, twice suffered all
A mother's agonies for thee, my child!
But this is past; I have you both, boys, both!
And your dear father will be back to-day.

[A monk appears at the door.

WILHELM.
See, mother, yonder stands a holy friar;
He's asking alms, no doubt.

HEDWIG.
Go lead him in,
That we may give him cheer, and make him feel
That he has come into the house of joy.

[Exit, and returns immediately with a cup.

WILHELM (to the monk).
Come in, good man. Mother will give you food.

WALTER.
Come in, and rest, then go refreshed away!

MONK
(glancing round in terror, with unquiet looks).
Where am I? In what country?

WALTER.
Have you lost
Your way, that you are ignorant of this?
You are at Buerglen, in the land of Uri,
Just at the entrance of the Sheckenthal.

MONK
(to HEDWIG).
Are you alone? Your husband, is he here?

HEDWIG.
I momently expect him. But what ails you?
You look as one whose soul is ill at ease.
Whoe'er you be, you are in want; take that.

[Offers him the cup.

MONK.
Howe'er my sinking heart may yearn for food,
I will take nothing till you've promised me——

HEDWIG.
Touch not my dress, nor yet advance one step.
Stand off, I say, if you would have me hear you.

MONK.
Oh, by this hearth's bright, hospitable blaze,
By your dear children's heads, which I embrace——

[Grasps the boys.

HEDWIG.
Stand back, I say! What is your purpose, man?
Back from my boys! You are no monk,—no, no.
Beneath that robe content and peace should dwell,
But neither lives within that face of thine.

MONK.
I am the veriest wretch that breathes on earth.

HEDWIG.
The heart is never deaf to wretchedness;
But thy look freezes up my inmost soul.

WALTER (springs up).
Mother, my father!

HEDWIG.
Oh, my God!

[Is about to follow, trembles and stops.

WILHELM (running after his brother).
My father!

WALTER
(without).
Thou'rt here once more!

WILHELM
(without).
My father, my dear father!

TELL
(without).
Yes, here I am once more! Where is your mother?

[They enter.

WALTER.
There at the door she stands, and can no further,
She trembles so with terror and with joy.

TELL.
Oh Hedwig, Hedwig, mother of my children!
God has been kind and helpful in our woes.
No tyrant's hand shall e'er divide us more.

HEDWIG
(falling on his neck).
Oh, Tell, what have I suffered for thy sake!

[Monk becomes attentive.

TELL.
Forget it now, and live for joy alone!
I'm here again with you! This is my cot
I stand again on mine own hearth!

WILHELM.
But, father,
Where is your crossbow left? I see it not.

TELL.
Nor shalt thou ever see it more, my boy.
It is suspended in a holy place,
And in the chase shall ne'er be used again.

HEDWIG.
Oh, Tell, Tell!

[Steps back, dropping his hand.

TELL.
What alarms thee, dearest wife?

HEDWIG.
How—how dost thou return to me? This hand—
Dare I take hold of it? This hand—Oh God!

TELL
(with firmness and animation).
Has shielded you and set my country free;
Freely I raise it in the face of Heaven.

[MONK gives a sudden start—he looks at him.

Who is this friar here?

HEDWIG.
Ah, I forgot him.
Speak thou with him; I shudder at his presence.

MONK
(stepping nearer).
Are you that Tell that slew the governor?

TELL.
Yes, I am he. I hide the fact from no man.

MONK.
You are that Tell! Ah! it is God's own hand
That hath conducted me beneath your roof.

TELL
(examining him closely).
You are no monk. Who are you?

MONK.
You have slain
The governor, who did you wrong. I too,
Have slain a foe, who late denied me justice.
He was no less your enemy than mine.
I've rid the land of him.

TELL
(drawing back).
Thou art—oh horror!
In—children, children—in without a word.
Go, my dear wife! Go! Go! Unhappy man,
Thou shouldst be——

HEIWIG.
Heavens, who is it?

TELL.
Do not ask.
Away! away! the children must not hear it.
Out of the house—away! Thou must not rest
'Neath the same roof with this unhappy man!

HEDWIG.
Alas! What is it? Come!

[Exit with the children.

TELL
(to the MONK).
Thou art the Duke
Of Austria—I know it. Thou hast slain
The emperor, thy uncle, and liege lord.

DUKE JOHN.
He robbed me of my patrimony.

TELL.
How!
Slain him—thy king, thy uncle! And the earth
Still bears thee! And the sun still shines on thee!

DUKE JOHN.
Tell, hear me, ere you——

TELL.
Reeking with the blood
Of him that was thy emperor and kinsman,
Durst thou set foot within my spotless house?
Show thy fell visage to a virtuous man,
And claim the rites of hospitality?

DUKE JOHN.
I hoped to find compassion at your hands.
You also took revenge upon your foe!

TELL.
Unhappy man! And dar'st thou thus confound
Ambition's bloody crime with the dread act
To which a father's direful need impelled him?
Hadst thou to shield thy children's darling heads?
To guard thy fireside's sanctuary—ward off
The last, worst doom from all that thou didst love?
To heaven I raise my unpolluted hands,
To curse thine act and thee! I have avenged
That holy nature which thou hast profaned.
I have no part with thee. Thou art a murderer;
I've shielded all that was most dear to me.

DUKE JOHN.
You cast me off to comfortless despair!

TELL.
My blood runs cold even while I talk with thee.
Away! Pursue thine awful course! Nor longer
Pollute the cot where innocence abides!

[DUKE JOHN turns to depart.

DUKE JOHN.
I cannot live, and will no longer thus!

TELL.
And yet my soul bleeds for thee—gracious heaven!
So young, of such a noble line, the grandson
Of Rudolph, once my lord and emperor,
An outcast—murderer—standing at my door,
The poor man's door—a suppliant, in despair!

[Covers his face.

DUKE JOHN.
If thou hast power to weep, oh let my fate
Move your compassion—it is horrible.
I am—say, rather was—a prince. I might
Have been most happy had I only curbed
The impatience of my passionate desires;
But envy gnawed my heart—I saw the youth
Of mine own cousin Leopold endowed
With honor, and enriched with broad domains,
The while myself, that was in years his equal,
Was kept in abject and disgraceful nonage.

TELL.
Unhappy man, thy uncle knew thee well,
When he withheld both land and subjects from thee;
Thou, by thy mad and desperate act hast set
A fearful seal upon his sage resolve.
Where are the bloody partners of thy crime?

DUKE JOHN.
Where'er the demon of revenge has borne them;
I have not seen them since the luckless deed.

TELL.
Know'st thou the empire's ban is out,—that thou
Art interdicted to thy friends, and given
An outlawed victim to thine enemies!

DUKE JOHN.
Therefore I shun all public thoroughfares,
And venture not to knock at any door—
I turn my footsteps to the wilds, and through
The mountains roam, a terror to myself.
From mine own self I shrink with horror back,
Should a chance brook reflect my ill-starred form.
If thou hast pity for a fellow-mortal——

[Falls down before him.

TELL.
Stand up, stand up!

DUKE JOHN.
Not till thou shalt extend
Thy hand in promise of assistance to me.

TELL.
Can I assist thee? Can a sinful man?
Yet get thee up,—how black soe'er thy crime,
Thou art a man. I, too, am one. From Tell
Shall no one part uncomforted. I will
Do all that lies within my power.

DUKE JOHN
(springs up and grasps him ardently by the hand).
Oh, Tell,
You save me from the terrors of despair.

TELL.
Let go my band! Thou must away. Thou canst not
Remain here undiscovered, and discovered
Thou canst not count on succor. Which way, then,
Wilt bend thy steps? Where dost thou hope to find
A place of rest?

DUKE JOHN.
Alas! alas! I know not.

TELL.
Hear, then, what heaven suggested to my heart,
Thou must to Italy,—to Saint Peter's city,—
There cast thyself at the pope's feet,—confess
Thy guilt to him, and ease thy laden soul!

DUKE JOHN.
But will he not surrender me to vengeance!

TELL.
Whate'er he does receive as God's decree.

DUKE JOHN.
But how am I to reach that unknown land?
I have no knowledge of the way, and dare not
Attach myself to other travellers.

TELL.
I will describe the road, and mark me well
You must ascend, keeping along the Reuss,
Which from the mountains dashes wildly down.

DUKE JOHN
(in alarm).
What! See the Reuss? The witness of my deed!

TELL.
The road you take lies through the river's gorge,
And many a cross proclaims where travellers
Have perished 'neath the avalanche's fall.

DUKE JOHN.
I have no fear for nature's terrors, so
I can appease the torments of my soul.

TELL.
At every cross kneel down and expiate
Your crime with burning penitential tears
And if you 'scape the perils of the pass,
And are not whelmed beneath the drifted snows
That from the frozen peaks come sweeping down,
You'll reach the bridge that hangs in drizzling spray;
Then if it yield not 'neath your heavy guilt,
When you have left it safely in your rear,
Before you frowns the gloomy Gate of Rocks,
Where never sun did shine. Proceed through this,
And you will reach a bright and gladsome vale.
Yet must you hurry on with hasty steps,
For in the haunts of peace you must not linger.

DUKE JOHN.
Oh, Rudolph, Rudolph, royal grandsire! thus
Thy grandson first sets foot within thy realms!

TELL.
Ascending still you gain the Gotthardt's heights,
On which the everlasting lakes repose,
That from the streams of heaven itself are fed,
There to the German soil you bid farewell;
And thence, with rapid course, another stream
Leads you to Italy, your promised land.

[Ranz des Vaches sounded on Alp-horns is heard without.

But I hear voices! Hence!

HEDWIG
(hurrying in).
Where art thou, Tell?
Our father comes, and in exulting bands
All the confederates approach.

DUKE JOHN
(covering himself).
Woe's me!
I dare not tarry 'mid this happiness!

TELL.
Go, dearest wife, and give this man to eat.
Spare not your bounty. For his road is long,
And one where shelter will be hard to find.
Quick! they approach.

HEDWIG.
Who is he?

TELL.
Do not ask
And when he quits thee, turn thine eyes away
That they may not behold the road he takes.

[DUKE JOHN advances hastily towards TELL, but he beckons
him aside and exit. When both have left the stage, the
scene changes, and discloses in—