The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Yes, my gracious lord.
GESSLER.
Hast any more of them?
TELL.
Two boys, my lord.
GESSLER.
And, of the two, which dost thou love the most?
TELL.
Sir, both the boys are dear to me alike.
GESSLER.
Then, Tell, since at a hundred yards thou canst Bring down the apple from the tree, thou shalt Approve thy skill before me. Take thy bow-- Thou hast it there at hand--make ready, then, To shoot an apple from the stripling's head!
But take this counsel--look well to thine aim, See, that thou hit'st the apple at the first, For, shouldst thou miss, thy head shall pay the forfeit.
[_All give signs of horror_.]
TELL.
What monstrous thing, my lord, is this you ask?
What I from the head of mine own child!--No, no!
It cannot be, kind sir, you meant not that-- G.o.d, in His grace, forbid! You could not ask A father seriously to do that thing!
GESSLER.
Thou art to shoot an apple from his head!
I do desire--command it so.
TELL.
What, I!
Level my cross-bow at the darling head Of mine own child? No--rather let me die!
GESSLER.
Or thou must shoot, or with thee dies the boy.
TELL.
Shall I become the murderer of my child!
You have no children, sir--you do not know The tender throbbings of a father's heart.
GESSLER.
How now, Tell, on a sudden so discreet?
I had been told thou wert a visionary-- A wanderer from the paths of common men.
Thou lov'st the marvelous. So have I now Cull'd out for thee a task of special daring.
Another man might pause and hesitate;-- Thou dashest at it, heart and soul, at once.
BERTHA.
Oh, do not jest, my lord, with these poor souls!
See, how they tremble, and how pale they look, So little used are they to hear thee jest.
GESSLER.
Who tells thee that I jest?
[_Grasping a branch above his head_.]
Here is the apple.
Room there, I say! And let him take his distance-- Just eighty paces--as the custom is-- Not an inch more or less! It was his boast That at a hundred he could hit his man.
Now, archer, to your task, and look you miss not!
HARRAS.
Heavens! this grows serious--down, boy, on your knees, And beg the governor to spare your life.
FuRST (_aside to_ MELCHTHAL, _who can scarcely restrain his indignation_).
Command yourself--be calm, I beg of you!
BERTHA (_to the governor_).
Let this suffice you, sir! It is inhuman To trifle with a father's anguish thus.
Although this wretched man had forfeited Both life and limb for such a slight offence, Already has he suffer'd tenfold death.
Send him away uninjured to his home; He'll know thee well in future; and this hour He and his children's children will remember.
GESSLER.
Open a way there--quick! Why this delay?
Thy life is forfeited; I might dispatch thee, And see, I graciously repose thy fate Upon the skill of thine own practised hand.
No cause has he to say his doom is harsh Who's made the master of his destiny.
Thou boastest thine unerring aim. 'Tis well!
Now is the fitting time to show thy skill; The mark is worthy and the prize is great.
To hit the bull's eye in the target;--that Can many another do as well as thou; But he, methinks, is master of his craft, Who can at all times on his skill rely, Nor lets his heart disturb or eye or hand.
FuRST.
My lord, we bow to your authority; But oh, let justice yield to mercy here.
Take half my property, nay, take it all, But spare a father this unnatural doom!
