Kurt. This morsel, scarce enough to keep off hunger How a parent's sorrow Gertrude. (aside to Conrad.) Conrad. (In answer.) Kurt. Conrad. Kurt. Conrad. He looks so good! Looks? is he? 'Twas lucky sir, the lawine's rushing masses [Offering his hand. Oh this dear hand! O let me kiss this hand. Kurt. (aside) How broken words burst from his bitter feelings! Kurt. Conrad. Kurt. You seem a good liver! Kurt. Conrad. Among these heights Gertrude's a common name He's a strange fellow! Kurt. (aside) How Joy and Grief dispute my heart between them! Host, I drink to you-Pledge me! [Produces three drinking-horns from his knapsack and fills them, and continues to refill Conrad's glass as fast as he empties it, which Conrad does continually, and, as it were, unconsciously. Conrad. Kurt. 'Tis not fair That thus the guest should entertain the host. Of the fowl Kurt. Conrad. I will not eat! Kurt. Alas! I also cannot. Why so? No matter-eat. I thank you, sir; Kurt. With your permission I prefer the wine, One thing you must lend me, mother, Conrad. (To Gertrude.) Reach here Kurt. Gertrude. (Gertrude hands Kurt the large knife from the wall.) Not this one! Have you then no other? It is our only one. Kurt. (aside.) No It still is there, The bloody stain-Would I had ne'er been born! Conrad. You see it then? Kurt. Conrad. The blood-spot? Blood-spot! hem! You know perhaps then that this spot is blood? Kurt. (Embarrassed.) No-but it looked so red— Conrad. Fill up your glass, Drink then! Health to your son Kurt. If you have any― Gertrude, Kurt. Oh! Mother! Conrad. Enough of that Gertrude. Kurt. Conrad. Kurt. He has reached his end-and may we also reach -not the deserved one. Here's to a happy death that can assoil us That I have drunk already! You're a strange fellow-with your pistols there Did you find out the road by night? I came From Kandersteg-it was my wish to be Conrad. (Squeezing his hand.) Kurt. Then we will go together there, my friend. Do you fear him? No-I have often looked him in the face; I was a soldier. Conrad. Kurt. Conrad. Ha! a toast then, comrade, You must tell me Kurt. Conrad. Some tale of arms and strife-I too have need To arm me for a conflict-for my last one. You had a son? No more! Gertrude. Conrad. Be still-no more of this! Kurt. If you wish stories, set me the example. Conrad. All things seem known to you- Kurt. Now you look You talk of want-of woe Kurt. Conrad. A toast-a soldier's life! Conrad. Well, since you seem to know so much already poor, What's that to you? What brought you down? Gertrude. And know already what a man can bear O, forgive him! It is the wine makes him forget himself. Kurt. Conrad. Kurt. Conrad. I was a soldier in my prime: My father, Christopher Curuth, God help him, he was wild and wayward too, I was discharged-well, well-no more of what we can't undo! Pledge me forgiveness! Not so! No, I tell you, no! The drops would burn like fire. I've seen the strife wax fierce amain, Nor flinched amid the battle's fiery rain; Hush! No, let the whole be said. When my service time expired, I was not yet past my youth, To one who weaf and woe might share. Gertrude. 'Gainst his father's will-ah, me! Kurt. On the four and twentieth day Of February, at midnight, And the winter moon shone bright, I had come from a gay merry meeting, Had abused and reviled her the livelong night: I madly threatened my sire; She wept-damnation! I know it was wrong, We never should give way Conrad. You are a prudent man and wise O had I thought on this! But passion mastered me-meanwhile My father raved, and cursed, and swore, I still was cool-he raged the more; Said I with a smile, "This does not avail," And reached down yonder scythe from the nail, I'll sing in chorus!" and as the scythe I whet, A hat on his head, With ribbons drest." So sang I merrily-the old man raved the more, He foamed at the mouth with anger, and cursed, and swore'; He called her "strumpet !"-I could bear no more The knife-that cursed thing yonder-with which I was sharpening the steel, I hurled at his head, and wished it might strike him dead on the spot, But God be thanked it hit him not! Was it not so? Aye! But rage brought on the stroke of death—and blue He turned-A curse, cried he, come on your wife and you, Rose up in yonder chair and loudly cried, What is the matter, sir? 'Twas the sad story-and perhaps the wine- Hear'st thou ? That's something like, Thanks for the cheering word-I think so too: Kurt. The old man, I have said, was rough and churlish, You were about to tell me But 'twas as though his spirit came between us Her head, no doubt, was full of this sad business, With him I had my troubles-but I do forgive him. Kurt. (hastily.) Do you? Conrad. I do; for, God be thanked, he's dead. Kurt. [Kurt rises suddenly. What do you wish? Nothing I never Can keep long in one place. [Begins walking up and down the room, which he continues to do during the following narrative. Conrad. Kurt. Conrad. 'Tis cold enough here. Aye! In one February Conrad. Kurt. Conrad. The boy saw Ha! you've guessed aright. |