Kurt.

This morsel, scarce enough to keep off hunger
For this day only--

How a parent's sorrow
Tears the heart open! How rejoicingly
Could I disclose my name at once-but no,
First must I try them-learn if their rash curse
Has been revoked-

Gertrude. (aside to Conrad.)

Conrad. (In answer.)
Gertrude. (Brushing off the snow.)

Kurt.

Conrad.

Kurt.
Conrad.

Conrad.

He looks so good!

Looks? is he?

'Twas lucky sir, the lawine's rushing masses
O'erwhelmed you not-your light is quite burned out.
Did you ascend the mount alone, in darkness?
The snow gave light-besides, I am no novice,
But used to clambering up the Alps' steep sides.
A son of Switzerland! Welcome, countryman!

[Offering his hand.

Oh this dear hand! O let me kiss this hand.
Not so-this hand, 'tis none of your devout ones!
'Tis rough and stern-inured to evil deeds-
If thou'rt yet free from guilt, avoid it!

Kurt. (aside) How broken words burst from his bitter feelings!
Come, you are weary-sit yourself down yonder,
And starve and freeze with us for company!
No fear of that! My knapsack here is full
Of baked and boiled-a flask of Kirschenwasser,
And two of Rhine wine.

Kurt.

Conrad. Kurt.

You seem a good liver!
Each for himself provides the best he may,
Be seated! Mother Gertrude, sit down here-
Gertrude. (surprised) Whence do you know my name?

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.
But for a toast-Here's to a peaceful end!
And to forgiveness, join your hands with mine.
Gertrude. How it can warm the blood, th' unwonted glow
Of the vine's fruit, that maketh glad the heart!
Come, eat too-here is bacon and a fowl,
That will refresh and strengthen.

Of the fowl

Kurt.

Conrad.

I will not eat!

Kurt.
Conrad.
Kurt.
Conrad.

Alas! I also cannot.

Why so?

No matter-eat.

I thank you, sir;

Kurt.

With your permission I prefer the wine,
It warms one

One thing you must lend me, mother,
A knife-I lost mine on the way—

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,
Sir Guest! what's past is past-who thinks more of it,
He is a fool.

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
The end that waits for us.

-not the deserved one.

Here's to a happy death that can assoil us
From every curse.

That I have drunk already!

You're a strange fellow-with your pistols there
And cutlass like a roving trooper-How

Did you find out the road by night?

I came

From Kandersteg-it was my wish to be
In Leuk to-morrow-so I hurried on.

Conrad. (Squeezing his hand.)

Kurt.

Then we will go together there, my friend.
Your gripe is cold as death-

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,
The Cantons' corps for ever!

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.
I've seen this house before-in all the canton
Was there no inn like this.

Conrad.

All things seem known to you-
Why, what the devil!

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
I will recount. Comrade, you are a soldier,

poor,

What's that to you?

What brought you down?

Gertrude.

And know already what a man can bear
And what he cannot-you seem restless too,
One like myself, curse-stricken.

O, forgive him!

It is the wine makes him forget himself.
Conrad. My hair is gray before its time;
It was not always so!

Kurt.
Conrad.
Kurt.

Conrad.

Kurt.

Conrad.

I was a soldier in my prime:
I bore me bravely in the strife,
And cleft the head of many a foe,
At last I sought a peasant's life.

My father, Christopher Curuth,

God help him, he was wild and wayward too,
This house belonged to him-

I was discharged-well, well-no more of what we can't undo!
This glass to your dead father's soul!

Pledge me forgiveness!

Not so!

No, I tell you, no!

The drops would burn like fire.
Stranger! I loved my sire:

I've seen the strife wax fierce amain,

Nor flinched amid the battle's fiery rain;
But when the curse descends upon his head
A man must tremble!

Hush!

No, let the whole be said.

When my service time expired,
Home I turned my steps once more,
And to father's house retired,
For his daily toil was sore-

I was not yet past my youth,
Of world's goods I had to spare,
And I sought to plight my truth

To one who weaf and woe might share.
Many a maid I might have won!
But my heart beat true to one,
Unto her that's sitting there-
Learned she is, and she was fair.
A good pastor's child was she-
Who in dying to her left
Nought but books and honesty,
She by me of that was reft!
Friendless she was left and poor,
I was rich in worldly store,
Could I hate her, that she fell,
That she loved me all too well?
He who yields to passion's force,
Must not falter in his course!
Briefly, she became my bride-

Gertrude. 'Gainst his father's will-ah, me!
Nought but woe did it betide.

Kurt.

On the four and twentieth day

Of February, at midnight,

And the winter moon shone bright,
As I homeward took my way.

I had come from a gay merry meeting,
My heart with wild joy was beating;
My wife at her labours was busy,
The old man would not be easy,
But full of his rage and spite,

Had abused and reviled her the livelong night:
My blood was raging like fire,

I madly threatened my sire;

She wept-damnation! I know it was wrong,
But to see her abused-the dear one-loved long,
The helpless one-what do you think-your eyes
Are swimming in tears!

We never should give way
To the dark thoughts that rise from hell's abyss.

Conrad. You are a prudent man and wise

O had I thought on this!

But passion mastered me-meanwhile
I raged, and feigned to smile!

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,
"The grass will grow and it must be mown,
We'll let old daddy bluster on,

I'll sing in chorus!" and as the scythe I whet,
A silly song I sung-I have it yet:

A hat on his head,
With feather of red,
A herdsman's vest

With ribbons drest."

So sang I merrily-the old man raved the more,

He foamed at the mouth with anger, and cursed, and swore';
At last, as though determined to make me feel,

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,
And your love's fruit! Her time was drawing nigh
With her first-born-then struggled fearfully,

Rose up in yonder chair and loudly cried,
A father's curse come on thee and thy bride!
Curse on thy offspring-may they murderers be,
And murdered, as I'm murdered now by thee!"
Then a fit seized on him-the spirit of hell
Rose up within me on that spot he died.

What is the matter, sir?
[To Kurt, who seems deeply affected.

'Twas the sad story-and perhaps the wine-
'Tis gone-Come drink with me! Beyond those stars
The curse comes not-

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,
He in his youth no doubt did worse than that.
Once when o'ercome with wine, he told us children
That his old father, who had often vexed him,
He seized on once, and hurled him to the earth-
I only hurled the knife there at his head.
He died, 'tis true; but did he die of that?
He was an aged man-Who shall determine?
Men say that if a son shall strike his father,
The hand he dealt the blow with will grow up
Out of his grave-'Tis folly. Many a time
I've seen my father's grave-grass had sprung from it,
But never a hand.

You were about to tell me
How it befel that you were brought to want?
Conrad. Aye, strange it was, but from that very moment
Good fortune left us, and it seems for ever.
We lived along, a true and loving couple,

But 'twas as though his spirit came between us
From the very instant that he spoke that curse.
Soon after, and a son was born to us-
God pity us-he bore the mark of Cain
On his left arm-a scythe as red as blood.

Her head, no doubt, was full of this sad business,
And so the boy bore the mark too.

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.
Five years thereafter there was born to us
A daughter. Lovely as an angel was
The child!

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
The girl was two years old, her brother seven,
'Twas on the day of father's death--the knife
Lay on the ground, the children played about,
My woman there had just then killed a chicken.
Gertrude. Ay, even yet I tremble when I think on't,
It shrieked before me like our dying father
As he lay there and cursed us--

Conrad.

Kurt.

Conrad.

The boy saw
The chicken killed, and turning to his sister,
Come, says he, let's play cooks-you be the chicken,
I'll be the cook-he turned and seized the knife-
I forward rushed-too late, the deed was done;
The girl lay in her blood, her throat cut by
Her brother-weepest thou? Ay, I've suffered much
Thereon you cursed him--

Ha! you've guessed aright.