(Near Rozgony two peasants are raising a great
burial mound; beside it, at a smaller grave, Dávid broods.)

FIRST PEASANT
Do you know why we labor, brother András?

SECOND PEASANT
For pay. — Or, put more handsomely, so that
the Magyar has some place to lay his head. —

FIRST PEASANT
Not so — I’ve heard it whispered, every word:
this very night, from far, far-distant country,
warriors will come to council at this grave.

SECOND PEASANT
I too would dearly like to hear, in truth,
what they will say about the new-made king.
Is he to their taste?

FIRST PEASANT
Why fret yourself with that,
which breaks no bone of yours? Take up a hoe
and dig instead, meanwhile.

SECOND PEASANT
It’s big enough.
(To Dávid.)
Shall we lay turf upon it?

DÁVID
Leave it be. If, every
century, there’s cause to mourn this grave,
one man will come to weep his pains away
on Rozgony’s field, and turf will rise above it
holier than cypress, holier than the rose
of graves, for that the night’s dew only grows,
but this — the patriot tears of nobler hearts.
(He falls to brooding again.)

SECOND PEASANT
You saw how pale he is, and still so young —
I pity the poor wretch.

FIRST PEASANT
And yet you’ll grow
used to such faces now among the lords.
Tomorrow we shall raise a mound for him as well.
(They step back.)

DÁVID
Girl! Why do you live so deep within this breast?
Why do you scorch me so, when you are nothing
but a shard of ice? Why haunt me now — when I
came here to mourn my brothers, and you rob me
of my own tears?

MARGIT
(She comes trembling and looks about.)
The battlefield is here —
and I see no one. — (To the peasants.)
Hey, what mound is this?

FIRST PEASANT
A grave, my lady, of the Rozgony fight.

MARGIT
So large — and whose is this, the smaller one?

FIRST PEASANT
The palatine’s child.

MARGIT
(Dazed.)
Wicked boy!
Who ever saw him sleep in broad daylight,
and so alone?

SECOND PEASANT
Two of them lie here:
Aba and László.

MARGIT
Two? Why not six!
In one grave the whole palatine family
would lie — I’d lay their beaten father with them,
and fall down after. — Tell me, men, would not
such a grave be without its like on earth? —
How I begged you, my boys, do not go out;
but you would not heed your mother’s word,
and God’s chastisement overtook you for it. —
Away, away, my tear — you’ll only make mud,
I’ll slip, and my old knees will bend
over the wicked boys’ grave. — And why should it
not bend? — for my withered eye can scarcely
weep even for one as much as decency
demands, lest wicked men should speak ill of me.
And the other — what is left him? Hey, you, man,
why do you carve no cross upon this mound?

FIRST PEASANT
Because he’s cursed — the holy church cast him out.

MARGIT
Who said that! — the palatine’s own child —
why, a child does not know what it is doing!
You judges took him in the storming — rather
than running him through, why did you not take rods
and beat him back, back into my arms? —
My Aba, was the thrust in your heart, or in your head?
Your heart was good; only your head was at fault,
and that not even as Csák’s was, whom he obeyed,
who led him astray — the child-thief! —

DÁVID
(Approaching.)
Is it you weeping here, mother?

MARGIT
It is, my child.

SECOND PEASANT
Poor woman. — Come, friend, let’s go home;
I’d not be lord forever, now I see. —
I hear the clash of swords — the warriors come.
(Exit with his comrade.)
(Miklós, Domos, János, and somewhat later Csák, Erzsébet,
Zách, Drugeth, Berend, Zsámbokréti, and other lords
enter with armed men.)

MIKLÓS
Friends, let us thrust a marker by this grave,
lest a traveler take it for a pit!
(They thrust spears into the mound.)
Make merry with it, fallen comrades.

DOMOS
Will many of us gather here tonight?

MIKLÓS
Not many can; but men — whoever’s here.

DÁVID
(To Margit.)
Wipe away your tears.

MARGIT
True son,
why do I weep — when I have four sons here still.

MIKLÓS
(Whispering.)
Look, look, brother, our mother surely wants
to lure us home.

DOMOS
I fear it too.

CSÁK
(Entering.)
You have arrived, I see, my faithful ones.

MARGIT
Wicked boys — will not even one of you
speak a word of greeting to your broken mother?

SEVERAL
Who is this woman —

MIKLÓS
(Proudly.)
The widow of the palatine.

MARGIT
And the mother of these boys. —
(She takes them by the hand.)
Come, come away;
it was enough for me to lose two sons
to a dream.

CSÁK
Freedom’s hope is no dream,
or if it is, then it’s a dream of God’s.
And to me it is one with salvation itself.

MARGIT
To me salvation is my prayer. The earthly joy
is my fair children. — Ah, I learned long since
that all that freedom’s blessing ever does
is make the orphan, widow, and the beggar.

CSÁK
— For the peasant.

MARGIT
Proud man, the flame of your speech
has dug a grave with its seduction for two of my sons.
Let the rest go — be satisfied with these —
or take three more, and give me back but one,
so the world may not say, laughing: foolish mother,
you bore six children, and yet have no one
even to close your eyes.

CSÁK
You may all go.

MARGIT
You do not stir, boys?
Did you not hear that you may go?
Are you so spellbound by this giant
that a curse should shatter all your hopes,
that he should be a beggar, and the homeland too,
which has killed my soul and all my family?

CSÁK
Woman! Your words are green — go, leave our midst.

MIKLÓS
Go, my good mother.

DOMOS
Believe, a better day will come.

MARGIT
Then, when there is no longer on this broad earth
a safe place left for you, and you turn back,
I will keep this place for you until that day. —
O my dear children, must I go, then?
And must I go, indeed, alone like this?
(She staggers away.)

CSÁK
(To Dávid.)
You are weeping?

DÁVID
Do not blame me, if at times
you find me weaker, perhaps, than would befit.
There are some whom nature has endowed
with a softer heart: they feel
joy, sorrow, and then they weep them out —
but for that very reason, when a hard blow comes,
they do not fall, because their heart will bend;
while you, Csák, if you weep, the tear may choke you.

CSÁK
That may be so. — But now, off with your caps!
This is no mere grave of men,
but of a nation — and the great grave
of a lost glory, while we are shadow-souls
out of a better age, who now stand round it.
But away with grief — we came not for a requiem;
none of us could weep
as many tears as such two graves deserve,
and their heroic dwellers would rather have deeds.
So let us take counsel, comrades — what to do?

MIKLÓS
What we have done. — Why do you laugh, Zách Bódog?

ZÁCH
At this:
that what we have done, we can no longer do.

MIKLÓS
That, no; but something new.

ZÁCH
Do it, if you please.

MIKLÓS
And I cannot rest. I must keep vigil day
and night and struggle, just to stay alive.

ZÁCH
Be a night-watchman, then, and call the hour
to us who sleep at peace among our pillows.

MIKLÓS
Good, I’ll be one; but into your night-dreams
I’ll whisper the traitor’s name,
while at the gray of dawn I’ll cry out such things
that the Magyar will start awake at my voice.

ZÁCH
I, a traitor? — You say it, robber boy,
who made yourself hated with your extortions.

MIKLÓS
Shall I beat that word back down your throat, you screech-owl,
who go about with omens to torment us.

ZÁCH
And what are you, that you pulled off a few cowls,
put a few women to the sword out of bravado —
great heroism, truly.

CSÁK
Let there be peace.
Here too, division — Zách, brother Miklós,
why do you strike at kin? Our race is few
enough — let the lewd sparrow not at least
see, with malicious joy, the eagle
turn on its own.

MIKLÓS
Don’t mind it,
if you see us quarrel out of pure boredom.
Give me an enemy and we’ll strike together.
Your hand, Zách! — peace!

ZÁCH
There is no longer
a hand for you, for your scattered party
can hope for no success now without system.

MIKLÓS
Then let us seek not success, but the struggle;
the hare, the sparrow, can learn afterward
to fight by system — none can catch the eagle.

ZÁCH
Child’s talk. — Csák, I have come to you —
hear me out, I beg, the honest friend.

CSÁK
Speak, speak, Zách!

ZÁCH
Until now I was your fellow,
for right and law upheld our every step;
but now, when there’s an anointed king at last,
we must accept it.

MIKLÓS
We will not. —

ZÁCH
Csák is silent — and you, you worthless tools,
will you contrive to hinder my speech?
Alas, when raw children already
lead the old homeland. — Csák, I step out
from among you, for every soberer man
has bowed.

CSÁK
Soberer, perhaps not; but
the more dwarfish, yes.

ZÁCH
Good, I will not argue;
but the diet has judged between you.
Károly has won, and so you have no right
to criticize his person. Or if you do —
young, full of spirit, and a warrior — that he is,
you have proved on that field: that he is noble,
you prove now, for he grants you mercy.
None will be short of his estate
a single chain of land, and rank, distinction
he distributes among us as among friends.
He has already taken my daughter into his court,
and will see to her marriage.

CSÁK
And will all this be furnished from Italian soil?
For here is the homeland’s monarch — (he points to Erzsébet)
and let the Magyar’s name perish first,
let this small handful of a people sink to rest
in the round of earth, which has already been
grave-pit to so many peoples — sooner than
some foreign nation say, in mockery: the Magyar,
with sword in hand, bargained himself a peace
and, in exchange, denied
the last scion of Árpád’s blood.

ZÁCH
Woman was not created to govern.
She resigns her right.

CSÁK
By my God, she does not.

ZÁCH
You are not omnipotent, to speak so.

CSÁK
And your counsel is wiser, your word more measured,
than that the holy ardor should understand it.

ZÁCH
I see, Máté, I get nowhere with you.
Go, proud man, and seek out a region,
a wasteland, kingless; make in it
a puppet-man, and lift this girl above it,
since above us you no longer can.
And if you still say: I can — I’ll bring
a god-curse on your shoulder, to cripple your sinews.
I forsake you, rebel — perish in yourself.

MIKLÓS
Out, sword, you are afire at my side; quench
your flame with cool blood.

CSÁK
Miklós, stop.

MIKLÓS
Ah, Csák, the venom chokes me, or breaks out,
when I see how rigid you remain.

CSÁK
Don’t mind it;
do you not hear that he speaks of a rebel?
If you take fire, he’ll think it’s on his account,
whereas we are only defending the law.

ZÁCH
(Pointing to Erzsébet.)
I pity only this poor, pallid woman,
in whose eye goodness dwells,
who would deserve a fairer future,
in which she’d love and teach. —
That, like a blind instrument, for which so much blood
has already flowed, and so much ruin came upon the land,
for which our ancestral plots are laid waste
and the laborer gets a beggar’s staff for wages,
she will be only a stair for high ambition,
which, when it has soared to heaven, strikes itself to hell.

CSÁK
And this is meant of me?

ZÁCH
Of whom else, proud man,
who rose against Károly too for this:
that you cannot bear a man to stand above you —
and would your neck grow used to this girl’s yoke?

ERZSÉBET
O Csák, do not permit this dreadful speech;
it strikes down all my purposes.

CSÁK
Be strong;
his speech flies off, this sword remains.
(He strikes his sword.)

ERZSÉBET
Ah, what a dark field has opened before me!
A bloody specter walks along its length.
On its bone-brow my name is written; me
every wound cries out, that reddens on its breast,
and I on the field am only at play, while round me
the arms of unbridled spirits go on killing.
O Csák! O Csák!
(She swoons.)

CSÁK
Only courage, my lady.

ZÁCH
Well, now look at this woman, what she is worth,
who, over a free, vigorous people,
still longs to rule with coquettish charm:
hears one manly word — and swoons, and swoons.

MIKLÓS
Give way to my revenge, Csák, or it kills me.

CSÁK
I command you — leave, or be still.

MIKLÓS
(To his sword.)
Then why do I carry you, you lump of clay — by Hadúr,
we need a spindle; the sword is for women.

CSÁK
Raise the queen upon the shield.
(They raise her up.)
Let every Magyar see her and cry out —
if he’s degenerate — that he denies
Árpád’s last child, with her fathers and her homeland.
Then I step down, for to such a generation
I have no word, only my tears. —
(Erzsébet descends and leans upon the grave.)

BEREND
(To his people.)
Long live the king.

DRUGETH
(To his people.)
Let us slip away, friends, quietly.

ZSÁMBOKRÉTI
(To his people.)
We go too. —

ZÁCH
Let us be off, then; and when, one day,
you grovel before the degenerate king, I’ll laugh at you.

CSÁK
That will befall at the end of eternity.
(Exeunt Zách, Drugeth, Zsámbokréti, and others with their people.)

MIKLÓS
We are purged, Csák, but not diminished.

CSÁK
Domos! You were there on the Rákos field,
and though your heart’s a flame, your brow is cool;
tell the diet’s tale just as it was.
I must know what took place.

DOMOS
It’s true
that something happened there, but what it was,
I swear to God, I will not tell.

CSÁK
Why not?

DOMOS
Because I do not know the Latin tongue.
And there they spoke it so. The assembled nobles
just gaped, and supposed
all went most wisely, since they understood it not.
And if some priest grew strongly heated
and named Csák, they cheered him roundly;
only later it came out he’d spoken against you,
and the people scratched their heads, and held their peace.

CSÁK
And did no one speak in Hungarian?

DOMOS
Yes,
when they laid the tax upon the people.
A few lords did speak in the people’s interest,
but the Italian councillors marveled
what business that was of theirs; and the king resented it,
for he’s not used, he says, to such-like things.

MIKLÓS
(Striking his sword.)
And was there no one ready to break in?

DOMOS
They had laid their swords aside, because they clatter.

CSÁK
Enough, enough — I understand the whole.
Comrades, who until now have run with me
along one track, here our course breaks off:
they have dragged from us the shield of freedom;
from this moment we are rebels. —
The nation has judged that its most faithful son
is a rebel, and the nation judges holily.
They have called the curse of heaven down on our souls,
in Rome they have shut us out from the faithful,
and the holy father is infallible — looses, binds.
So flee, faithful people, run while you can see,
lest one day you say, when they ask you,
the reckoners on earth or in heaven:
Csák led me astray. — Go, go to your hearth;
perhaps prosperity and a warm breast wait there;
here your old parent, the forsaken homeland,
offers you only a grave and a worthless laurel.
What else could it give — a beggar itself;
a king’s reward is paid only out yonder,
a blood-reward, true, but what of that — it shines.
Why should you suffer, proud men,
for one weak woman, whose fathers
won this land on which you now rejoice;
but what of that — she is orphaned, forsaken,
Károly is mighty, and can show gratitude. —
Leave this flower to wither, to be broken
by the fury of the winds, before
it bears us seed:
a new Árpád, a new founder of the homeland.
Plant in its soil some rank foreign weed,
more lush than the old one — a creeping couch-grass
that will yet root the Magyar out,
so that a late descendant asks:
why have we no homeland, or why is it enslaved, if we have one.
And the page will blush, where our days are written:
the age will make of you an example,
because no dread will hold it back,
only I, by heaven, will not blush,
for I render a faithful account, when my sword
is called for by God at his heavenly footstool.
Is there among you any who cannot die?
Let him cross over and beg for pardon.
Here one must learn to die, for life
and freedom have not yet, in this century, ripened
into brotherhood.

BEREND
We can die too.

MIKLÓS
Lead on, Csák, I go.

DOMOS
Each one goes,
but look about, Csák, and say, what will become of us.

CSÁK
We stand alone, five, six of us,
exposed to the wings of the howling wind;
but that I do not even reckon — I have been so before.
Rome’s curse is likewise nothing new. —
But that the nation, having denied Csák,
fawns and clings to the Italian king,
and basks in the sun of his smile —
that is what nearly breaks my soul.
Boys, I never feared the scourge, nor tyrants,
for the Magyar — I know he shakes them off
when he finds the burden too much; but I feared
the favor that breeds division among them.
I feared it, once a people and its king speak in one tongue,
for the well-meant word of either
the translator basely twists awry:
and I feared still more, that the great lord
should forget his homeland’s tongue for the king’s,
because he would not understand
his forebears’ heroic deeds, their sense of freedom,
out of the old chronicles.

MIKLÓS
If we no longer fight a nation’s battle,
I’ll turn outlaw, hide myself in the hills,
free as the crag and the crag’s air,
and with my spear strike now and then, like a storm,
some degenerate Magyar, or a bloodsucking Jew.
Will you be my comrade, Trencséni?

CSÁK
I will not.
From my eagle’s nest I’ll watch who drives me out,
and a time will come when the Magyar understands
the foreign king is no good. He’ll come seeking,
and find me ready. — Or, if I’m deceived,
I’ll rise up once again, even then,
strike down all that I shunned,
and clasping Árpád’s daughter in my arms,
fall into the great burial pit
where freedom and the old nation sleep.
And now let us go to our fortresses.
(Exeunt all but Dávid and Erzsébet.)

DÁVID
Go on!
The ivy of victory does not draw me.
This young heart pleads for a love
such as mine — and if it finds none such,
if it finds none, what then — well, what then?

ERZSÉBET
(Kneeling at the grave.)
Who is to weep: the beloved or the queen?
For my dead youth, or for the many warriors,
am I to grieve? — The one lived for me,
these bled away because of me.
O heart, break, then I’ll share you out,
for one of them, I fear, I am betraying.
My Aba, sleep, and let your quiet dream
be embroidered with my image and the holy homeland.

DÁVID
(He steps to her.)
Beyond a mortal — an angel keeps vigil! Girl!
Only weep, weep out all your tears,
so that for me there stays
only the blessing-giving smile.

ERZSÉBET
Dávid, what do you seek?

DÁVID
When did the shade
part from its body?

ERZSÉBET
Go away!

DÁVID
Do not send me off with such frosted words, do not send me off.
The swan-breast was cold only once,
when the first sculptor shaped it,
and even then it did not stay so long,
for, seeing how lopsided the work was thus,
God breathed a spark into the stone-girl.

ERZSÉBET
Do not vex me in this holy place, sacrilegious one!

DÁVID
Was it not for this that night and day split into two,
that the timid man should seek his mate
and whisper in her ear his secret suffering?

ERZSÉBET
What would Csák say, if he heard!

DÁVID
Who, Csák?
What is he to me — I cannot bear him.
Perhaps he’s great, perhaps even virtuous,
but we dread even God when he thunders.
And one in whom we see no trace of our own frailties
will not understand us either, we may fear.
I am afraid of him, and he does not love me.

ERZSÉBET
That one who wears a rose in place of a sword,
who speaks of a girl and not of the homeland —
that him she does not favor, I do not wonder.

DÁVID
What should I say of the homeland? — it has fallen,
and in its night a guardian angel keeps watch.
Is that not enough, oh, is that not enough!
Bury me too, only weep over me —
you do not look me in the eye, you blush:
is this blush dawn for me, or dusk?

ERZSÉBET
It is a fleeting ray — for my love
was carried to the grave by this mound’s heroes.

DÁVID
And did they leave me no brother’s share?
Why, I do not ask for the bliss itself.
Give me my share of your grief as well,
I’ll carry it. And now hold out your hand,
that you are not angry at this heated speech.

ERZSÉBET
And my hand, if I hold it out, you’ll hurry off.

DÁVID
I will. — Oh, dear price for a moment’s bliss.
(He takes her hand and kisses her on the cheek.)
Now your face — even if my kiss
burns a scar onto it.

ERZSÉBET
This I did not permit.
You are terrible.

CSÁK
(Entering.)
Ha, stop, boy,
hold no wedding above these barren graves;
Árpád’s daughter does not suffer peasant kisses.

(A hall in Trencsén. On the walls and pillars, weapons and
coats of arms. Erzsébet sits in an armchair with needlework
in her hand; Dávid on his footstool plucks a lute. Miklós, Domos,
Berend, and a few more warriors drink at a table.)

ERZSÉBET
What you strike on your lute does not chime together.

DÁVID
Because the world too rings discordant for me:
ah, give it one sweet harmony.

ERZSÉBET
Where should I take it from? From the grave it would be mournful.

DÁVID
You mock again, and I, like a galley-slave,
endure your caprice and do not rise in revolt,
though — feel the blood within my arms,
it rushes like a madman who has snapped his chain,
so tremble, if it once asks you what you persecute.

ERZSÉBET
(Rising.)
I cannot hear such damnable speech.
(She moves to go.)

DÁVID
You cannot hear what I am able to bear;
God too must hear his people’s
anguish. In vain you flee, girl, I’ll catch you.
(Exit after Erzsébet.)

MIKLÓS
To do nothing is a cursed woman’s life.

DOMOS
To live one more summer like this, and my head
will be grayer than hemp.

MIKLÓS
By my God!
That I’ll not wait out. Tomorrow I’ll desert
from the tedium. — Just tell me, how long
have we been living here?

DOMOS
Four years since the Rozgony
battle was lost. Ah, it’s much, too much!

MIKLÓS
Four years I only stood; but from today
I’ll not sacrifice four more days
to idling, and to planning for the future.
Better our enemies had been the planners;
we’d have stayed on the field of action.

BEREND
True it is, life is short in any case,
it flies off among plans, as in a battle’s din.
But if Csák thinks this expedient —

MIKLÓS
Go on, don’t say it — or I’ll cease to believe in him!
He’d want otherwise, only the poor man waits,
and waits for nothing, uselessly.
Eh, wine here, now that this comes to mind:
I must drink, or go mad.

DOMOS
Whose health?

MIKLÓS
Let no one’s health be drunk, not even my own.
Let the race of man fall to ruin
and throttle each other, till not one remains,
and let not even that one outlive his comrades.

DOMOS
And Csák?

MIKLÓS
He stands above the beggared world.

JÁNOS
(Entering.)
Brother, brother, God bless you. — But merrily
you while away your time.

MIKLÓS
Very. — God’s welcome to you. — Truly we only
drag on, like the masterless dog;
the cuirass, the shield, are eaten through with rust,
and in the hollow of the war-helm a spider squats.
Life would have choked me long ago,
(Secretly.)
if now and then, while Csák is dreaming,
I did not steal out and pilfer for myself
a heroic blow or two, a merry day.
For we must rob a name for ourselves
while Csák is asleep; for once he wakes,
there is no glory in the homeland but his.

DOMOS
Easy for you, who are bony and ruddy;
it shows no one keeps watch on you in Szepes.

JÁNOS
My word keeps watch. I too live as a friend.

MIKLÓS
And does Károly not pursue you?

JÁNOS
No — does he you?

MIKLÓS
Either he takes no notice, or he fears us — who knows.

JÁNOS
Domos, you have wasted away. — And how is Trencséni?
How does this breast, so rich in energy of action,
endure the tedium of these little days?

DOMOS
He pines, poor man — and his flaming soul now and then
breaks out — but soon, like a well-broken
steed, returns, gentled, into itself.

JÁNOS
No more. It pains my soul to see thus
the mournful ruins of the old greatness.

MIKLÓS
Don’t think him a ruin; he is great even now,
and if, like a wing-clipped eagle, molted, he sits
in this rock-nest, and gazes sadly out
over the plain of his battles — in his look
a spark still burns toward the future. —
(Csák enters, agitated, with a burgher of Késmárk.)

CSÁK
So they have given Késmárk town to Zách?

BURGHER
Yes, my lord, the town that until now was free.
And what they do besides, in Szepes — everywhere!
Now the poor man dares not even raise a complaint,
for that is again a cause for fresh oppression.
He only glances now and then, stealthily, toward Trencsén,
and sighing asks: his one and only friend,
why can he rest so long?

CSÁK
Let no one ask any longer in vain.
Patience, patience, you cursed dwarf, you,
who cast the giant of the deed into the dust
and boast of it — away with you — I disown you. —
Four years I waited; my breast was shut
like a rock, I dared not laugh,
I dared not weep, lest anyone say:
Trencséni is stirring. I waited to see what would come.
Will Károly, who holds the power,
in whose path no one casts a hindrance,
know how to bring a people happiness too?
And will the ancient freedom of the people,
driven off, return into the holy lap of peace? —
And if they whispered: Trencséni perhaps trembles,
perhaps his conscience pains him,
that he dared to shed the blood of a few degenerates,
and from the bare battlefield the foul wind
perhaps slackens the muscles of his arm —
all this I endured — I held my peace — and what did I gain?
My poor homeland is more beggared than it was;
the roving soldier, lord, servant, and king
press the people down. The strong man laughs.
No matter, then — it can grow no worse —
I will rise up once more, and for the last time.

BURGHER
Trencséni, the townsfolk salute you!
I fly with the good news; and at your sign
we’ll try whether we can thunder,
to wring a good rain from the clouds. (Exit.)

JÁNOS
Have you weighed everything?

CSÁK
I have, and so
do not speak against me — follow, if you please,
or go.

DOMOS
I am yours and the holy cause’s.

MIKLÓS
I am only yours; lead me unconditionally.

CSÁK
Now scatter. — You, János, go back to Szepes;
gather the worthy Germans around you:
Miklós, you go by Gömör toward Bihar,
greet my old comrades — I trust
that though they are silent, they have not submitted:
Berend, range the lowland plain,
Domos go beyond the Danube. I myself
will look in on Buda. Is the courtier’s ear
so calloused that there’s no road from it
into the heart? I’ll see whether
the nation’s voice, before it reaches Buda,
does not die away in the antechamber.
And where is Dávid?

MIKLÓS
He can’t be used.

CSÁK
Perhaps. — I scolded the boy, foolishly,
for his daydreams; since then he flees, avoids me.
If you meet with him, deal
gently with the child. — Now let us go!
(Exeunt all but Csák, who stops, thinking.)
I must tell this to the girl as well.
If only she’d come. — Will it please her? —
Ah, perhaps she is already asleep, peacefully;
I’ll not disturb her butterfly-winged dreams,
for she’s a woman. The autumn evening’s frosty wind
harms a woman’s beauty, and a flower.
That is why there is a man — to keep vigil for her.
(He moves to go.)

ERZSÉBET
(Entering.)
You are whom I seek, Csák, but I find you so
like a bloodthirsty war-god, and I dread
that you’ll not understand me, that you range
beyond the round of earth, and the woman,
Trencséni, stays here below.

CSÁK
Only speak, my queen, your faithful subject
awaits your command. And if the battles
have perhaps tempered his form to roughness,
do not think for that his feeling has worn away.

ERZSÉBET
O Csák, when the ancient freedom of the people,
with its smiling face, appeared upon my dreams,
and you led me from the cloister to my throne,
I did not think that blood would dye my purple,
and that, for light, I’d have to throw the brand
of civil war into my quiet villages.

CSÁK
Not we, my queen — Károly did this.

ERZSÉBET
I would not have led my people to war,
reaping fame on fame, as my fathers did,
but to tend at home the lovely flowers
of peace was my desire, my hope.
And now, instead of these fair dream-images,
my name will be accursed. Late posterity
will look with horror on the dreadful girl
who raised herself a throne out of corpses,
to be the lord of a dead country. —
O Csák, I long to go back to solitude!

CSÁK
No more of this word, for my arm falls
just as I would raise it for a fresh battle.
Do not grow so pale!

ERZSÉBET
The man may defy;
it befits him — but the woman, renunciation.

CSÁK
The woman, perhaps — but oh, not the queen.

ERZSÉBET
O Csák, to win a throne is a fine thing;
to renounce it is a hundred times more godlike.
Grant me this glory, leave the blessing to me,
which a happy future will bring me
in exchange for my bloody throne.

CSÁK
Do not ask it!
You will win — you must win, with us;
the nation would be a coward, should you fall.

ERZSÉBET
Good Csák, it is hard for me to oppose you,
who were the one, among so numerous a people,
faithful to me, and held out a defending arm,
when, at my father’s grave, your queen stood,
forsaken, a pleading orphan.
And yet, you see, though you win with reason,
I feel the cloister is better for me.
(She weeps.)

CSÁK
Set me before an enemy, my queen,
only do not wish me to see a woman weep. —
A horse, boys! — Till we meet again. — A horse!
(Exit.)

ERZSÉBET
This man departs. Stop, stop! — In vain.
The voice of fate is no more tyrant than his.
Neither woman, for to become that is forbidden me,
nor man, for I have not the strength for it;
and yet a woman, for my soul desires to love,
longs for a home-hearth, for happiness;
and a man, for on the sea of my life
I must learn to do battle and to renounce.
What will become of me, my God, what will become!

DÁVID
(Entering.)
She weeps — how beautiful, eh, my God, how beautiful!
(He steps to her.)
You see, girl, if you see a man in despair,
standing like God upon the ruin of his world,
which a mightier God laid waste:
do not say, laughing — to weep is childish.
Now you too weep; your heart is not stone, then,
and you do not stand above us, like an unearthly woman.

ERZSÉBET
Ask Csák — he will tell you otherwise.

DÁVID
Again and again Csák! — A curse on him.
But let heaven and hell battle for you both;
the one I’ll drag down to earth, and to the other
I’ll do such a thing that it will cry out:
this is more hellish than hell — and it will be conquered.

ERZSÉBET
You rave — go away — I’ll call for help at once.

DÁVID
Not so fast. See, I’ve brought here a tiny
remedy, good for every pain
(He draws a dagger.)
but before I cure my own heart with it,
I’ll first examine yours with it.
This rough key will unlock it: whether there is
a tiny feeling in it. Then I’ll die —
what would I look for any longer in the dead world.

ERZSÉBET
Horrible man! — Alas, what shall I do!

DÁVID
Either give hope to this devastated breast,
or speak the word: man, I do not love you,
for this heart is not free. And then I’ll bend
my knee in prayer, to beg
the Creator to bless the peasant
whom you have made a god. — Speak, girl, whom do you love?
(Imploring.)

ERZSÉBET
Good youth, no one.

DÁVID
(Convulsively.)
Oh, you lie, you lie!
Why deceive me, woman — why, among all God’s
many worlds, there is no being without a mate;
the kiss of night and day is the daybreak,
the stars, these billion worlds,
hide themselves at dawn to whisper love,
and even God, in love’s rapture,
bore us a child for a redeemer.
And how should you alone be so senseless,
so degenerate a creature, that you should feel nothing?
Yes, you can love, and I believe it:
if the dog that comes fawning
to lick your foot, you do not spurn,
but, seeing it watches a smile upon your lips,
keeps watch for you, toils for you, breathes —
out of pity you even caress it:
then you cannot be a stranger to this heart.
(He takes her hand.)

ERZSÉBET
One moment and I am lost.

DÁVID
You struggle, oh, woman;
one kiss, and let us die in its rapture!
(He seizes her.)

ERZSÉBET
(Springing away.)
One kiss would kill my salvation. Run —
run, child. — No, no — oh, my God!
Strength for the woman. — Go, or I shall grow angry.

DÁVID
Again you drive me off.

ERZSÉBET
Come another time, rather.

DÁVID
But soon.

ERZSÉBET
Come whenever you wish,
only not now.

DÁVID
Good, at midnight I’ll be here.
(Exit.)

ERZSÉBET
(Sinking into a chair.)
Ah, my God! How weak, how weak the woman is.
My youth has not yet smoldered out below in the grave,
my heart has not yet even learned to forget,
and yet his mad love still interests me,
his devotion, that it corrupts me. —
At midnight. — What bold defiance from me again,
but no. By then my die must be cast.
Let it be a fresh cause for swift resolve.

JÁNOS
(Entering.)
My queen, I salute you!

ERZSÉBET
Oh, it is you,
János — God’s welcome — what news in Szepes?

JÁNOS
What there is everywhere in this homeland — only misery.

ERZSÉBET
And yet you mean to rise in revolt again.

JÁNOS
He is no rebel who fights for the law.

ERZSÉBET
But if no one wants their right,
if the people does not murmur in its chains,
and would rather live a slave in peace
than die free in war.

JÁNOS
That may be.

ERZSÉBET
To give salvation by force
is as tyrannous a principle as the chain. O knight,
answer me openly, sincerely:
how can an end be put to this discord,
what could curb this scourge of the nation?

JÁNOS
Only if a heavenly spirit descended to us.
Nothing else.

ERZSÉBET
Oh, weigh it well, knight.

JÁNOS
I have weighed it, my queen.

ERZSÉBET
Tell me, then,
what title will Csák have for a fresh uprising?

JÁNOS
Your right to the throne.

ERZSÉBET
Let him seek another title,
for I have measured out my fate. My homeland
can stand without a woman.

JÁNOS
My lady!
Is your word in earnest?

ERZSÉBET
Do you not understand?

JÁNOS
Oh, yes,
and I kneel, for behold, the heavenly spirit
has descended among us.

ERZSÉBET
Rise, good knight,
your queen awaits not homage, but a deed.
You have always clung to me staunchly;
do me the last service:
Csák bore me from the cloister to the throne, to suffer;
do you bear me from the throne into the cloister, to rest.

JÁNOS
My soul has turned, I feel, out of itself.
For the first time I do not know what to do —
what will become of us?

ERZSÉBET
More useful patriots.

JÁNOS
What of the homeland?

ERZSÉBET
It will flourish.

JÁNOS
Csák?

ERZSÉBET
His heart will break.

JÁNOS
And you, heavenly maiden?

ERZSÉBET
To wither to my grave.

JÁNOS
(Going.)
God bless you!

ERZSÉBET
No, no, you must not draw back, knight!
In such a storm, could you forsake a woman?
Midnight draws near — and with it, perhaps, my death.
Let us make haste, I beg you.
(She sobs.)

JÁNOS
Oh, do not weep; your tear
is a sign of grief — and you sacrifice yourself willingly. —
Go, then, my queen, dress yourself as a knight;
I leave the fortress at once in any case,
in my retinue you’ll be lost from sight, and I’ll bear you out —
in Moravia I know a cloister,
a quiet, dark place — —

ERZSÉBET
I am ready this instant.
(Exit.)

JÁNOS
What I do is no sin, that I well know,
why does it make me shudder, then, like a malefactor? —
Oh, alas, if I have laid the girl alive in the grave,
and yet the old troubles do not cease.
If Csák one day demands her of me —
and I cannot answer with the homeland’s good.
But what is Csák to me! — And yet I blush,
perhaps indeed before my very self.
(He muses.)

DÁVID
(Entering.)
If the dead man waits for the resurrection,
the prisoner, if he waits for a light, a sunbeam,
he does not wait more than I for midnight!
Ah, she loves me. — But then why not before?
For a woman’s love is not grown by age,
but paled by it. And is life so much,
that it is mere jest to throw away a few years.
What if she plays again? Then this heart
will rouse the world with its curses,
that no one will ever again believe in a woman.
She who could deceive even such a love…
But she loves me, only she dared not confess it.
Erzsébet, where are you?
(A horn sounds.)

JÁNOS
The horn calls us to the road.
God be with you, Dávid! Whom do you seek?

DÁVID
Erzsébet.

JÁNOS
She is not here — she has gone to the cloister.

DÁVID
Gone to the cloister. — You did this, Csák — stop!

(At Visegrád. A hall in Zách Bódog’s dwelling. Klára,
with Margit’s help, is at her toilette.)

KLÁRA
Lace me tighter, please, aunt, at the waist.
Now I am still more slender, am I not,
than the queen’s ladies-in-waiting,
those coquettish, fiery-eyed Italian women.

MARGIT
With whom you’ll soon enough be set to vie,
when you step out among them like a new star.
But take good care of yourself, my little sister. —
What will you put in your hair, pearl or flower?

KLÁRA
The flower is so quick to wither — not that;
it would remind me how we cast it off
once it has faded in our overheated air.

MARGIT
A pearl, then?

KLÁRA
Not that either — like a frozen tear
is the jewel. It might be an omen.

MARGIT
Embrace me, sister. May my God bless you,
and keep you long with such a virgin spirit,
till I bring you a bridegroom.

KLÁRA
Whom, I wonder, aunt?

MARGIT
And can you not guess?
I still have four sons, all gallant lads.

KLÁRA
Ah, and just for that they’ll not forsake
Csák and his banner for a worthless girl.

MARGIT
And if they should, Klári?

KLÁRA
I would not respect them.

MARGIT
Trencsén is beginning to grow very dull.

KLÁRA
A husband, too, can come to be dull,
and shall we leave him there? Fine morals, auntie.
I’ve seen the like from Duke Kázmér,
who’s wearied of two ladies-in-waiting already.

ZÁCH
(Entering.)
Good morning, my little Klára! Well, well, who’d think
your lips were better skilled at slandering
than at kissing.

KLÁRA
That too she will learn,
but just now she has a better feeling for this.

ZÁCH
You damn Kázmér, and it’s not he who’s at fault,
but the woman, who in this present world,
like a shop-front, displays all her treasures,
sets a trap for the buyer — and the shop stays empty.
But what was the talk about?

KLÁRA
About a bridegroom.

ZÁCH
Well, well! I’ll bring you one myself.

KLÁRA
God forbid — what should I do with so many?
Aunt Margit brings me one, and you, good father!
The queen, as she said, will get me one,
and perhaps I too shall choose for myself.

ZÁCH
You said, the queen — — and did she perhaps
let drop something about Kázmér — speak —
was that why you named him just now?

MARGIT
Brother, for God’s sake, where does ambition
carry you off to again?

ZÁCH
Why, sister?
Does Zách Bódog’s daughter stand so low
that from a duke’s throne-footstool
she could not be embraced? — But hear this:
set my house in order, please, as best you can;
we may see a high guest here today.
(Exit Margit.)
And now, my daughter, not in jest I tell you,
only leave off all those fine bridegrooms,
I’ll bring you one as dark as your own shadow.

KLÁRA
I’ll have none, father.

ZÁCH
Why?

KLÁRA
Because he’d be false.

ZÁCH
Perhaps you think a girl’s shadow is false too.

KLÁRA
Not that. But you see, father, on a fair clear day,
when everything smiles, my shadow follows me,
but bad weather comes, and I look about
to find a man, a shadow, or something else
to chatter out my vexation to,
and you see, father, my shadow is nowhere.
Would not this be a treacherous bridegroom?

ZÁCH
You little simpleton!

KLÁRA
And changeable too,
for now here, now there, I see my shadow,
according as the sun shines from Buda or Trencsén.

ZÁCH
The sun shines neither from here, girl, nor from there,
but from on high. — Foolish fancies,
away with you! — So I’ll bring you, my little Klára,
a handsome bridegroom from among my friends.

KLÁRA
You’ll bring a crooked one.

ZÁCH
You speak clumsily.

KLÁRA
At least I’ve never seen a straight one.
They stand bent over in the antechamber,
and at the waist their words are crookeder still.
If sometimes you say: the king is gracious,
they sigh it too: oh, gracious, truly.
And if you sometimes say: the king is false,
sly, cruel — they are echoes of it, but
perhaps even ready to sell. — Oh, father,
do not draw your brow into a frown. I’ve prattled.

ZÁCH
Girl!

KLÁRA
Forgive me!

ZÁCH
Oh, if ever — —
But no, no, he would not dare against me —
and if he did — then at one blast of my horn
my kindred take up arms, and twenty thousand
shields would thunder, calling for a reckoning. —
My kindred? — Oh, oh, girl, girl,
what did you say — what are my friends? — To children
God prompts the word. The world’s worthless vapor
does not yet cloud the clear mirror
of their young breast. —
Away, phantom — he is dependent upon me,
yes, and he is so good, so gracious a king.

ZSÁMBOKRÉTI
(Entering.)
He who salutes you; and while he turns aside
into your hall to rest, he sends you this small writing.

ZÁCH
He rests in his own; his servant waits.
(Exit Zsámbokréti.)
I said it well — like God, he blesses even there
where we have sinned.

KLÁRA
Why do you rejoice, father?

ZÁCH
He gives me three villages again,
out of Csák’s estate. My little Klára,
this shall be your wedding-gift.

KLÁRA
Leave it, father!
Or buy me a veil, one so thick,
so dark, that through it not a glance
can reach back into my past.

ZÁCH
Why, girl?

KLÁRA
Because I had scarcely learned
to clasp my childish hands, scarcely
grasped half of my half-spoken prayer,
when you taught me to stammer it for Csák,
imploring a blood-curse on the head of all
who were against him and the homeland.
I grew so used, you see, to this child’s prayer,
that it wakes me at night, if I neglect it,
and now I must fear that God has heard it.
Buy me, then, father, buy me a brown veil,
and instead of your three villages, give me that.

ZÁCH
Ha, child! —

KLÁRA
Oh, do not vex me; for it may be
that what was once good is wicked the next moment,
as the rotten apple, savory before,
turns sickening. I do not understand
the reasonings of wise men,
but neither can I forget the prayer.

ZÁCH
I shall go mad. — Oh, girl, who told you
so to torment me. — Confess, confess, who hires you
to hunt me, like a wounded beast, to the death? — —
Who told you, my daughter, say, who told you,
that I betrayed Csák?

KLÁRA
You yourself.
Why did you kneel last evening, too?

ZÁCH
Where, my daughter?

KLÁRA
To the king.

ZÁCH
Oh, you lie.
Shall Zách kneel before a king
whom he himself has made? —

KLÁRA
Ah, I saw you well.
He doubted you, and said, laughing:
you sold Csák, and you can sell me too.
You swore on your knees.

ZÁCH
Well, why not?
I did not do it for nothing — I was paid for it. —
(Klára steals away.)
Pride sinks with the years of youth;
the old man can only grumble, for his arm is poor,
and rather submits to the greater force
than goes wandering, like an old fool,
for right is there, where force and profit are. —
What did Trencséni gain, that his proud neck
(A horn sounds.)
he could not bend to a bow — and now an outlaw!
Ha, the king. —
(Csák enters.)

CSÁK
It is not he. May God bless
every Magyar — and if you are one, you too.

ZÁCH
(In confusion.)
It is long since I saw you, but now do not take it ill
that I speak openly — I do not love you here.

CSÁK
I see it; your face is sallow and you tremble.
And yet why, that your old comrade
asks the rights of a guest for a single night? —
O Zách, what a foul prison-stench is this,
in this fair hall! My breast was full
not of empty words, but of manly feeling,
and now, as if this vault oppressed me here,
it shrinks back, frightened, into my heart’s vein
and is afraid to come out, lest it fall captive.

ZÁCH
(Aside.)
Why does he not thunder, why does his word
not strike my breast like lightning!
I too could rage, could find accusations,
while this calm of his abases me to the dust.
(Aloud.)
Why, this is all very well, but perhaps you don’t know
that Károly hunts here, and at any moment
may come in.

CSÁK
I know it well, but I believe
you can protect your guest.
(Gently.)
And if I’m not mistaken, I am dearer
to you even now than he. — You do not speak. —
The spirit of our youth perhaps hovers
before you. It was a fairer world, was it not,
that has gone to the grave, and over it, like a cross,
tear-bringing, unable to weep,
I stand for a sign.

ZÁCH
Mercy — no more. —
I might call the bailiff, see — I do not.
Take a sword, let us fight before God and heaven,
let us settle the final reckoning;
I feel I cannot live without it.

CSÁK
Away with the sword. Suicide is forbidden,
and would I not be murdering my own past,
if I killed the better half of my young soul? —
But this better half has dozed off — apparently dead;
I came to shake it awake to new life.

ZÁCH
Do not tempt me, Csák! — Reckless youth
sees the world in fabled colors,
creates for itself dream-images
and drives them on across the wilderness,
until, wearied, wing-broken, it falls.

CSÁK
You speak truth, Zách. — Oh, youth
is a mighty God, and like the blazing sun,
embroiders gold upon the threadbare world.
But tell me, then, which afterward is the truth?
Is the young man’s vision only fancy,
or is it the old eye that’s grown calloused over,
that it sees a pall over the world?

ZÁCH
No more — I swore fidelity to Károly
and I keep it.

CSÁK
You swore,
while the broken sanctity of the oath
sworn to the homeland still clung to your lips.

ZÁCH
This too I did for the homeland’s good.

CSÁK
Do not blaspheme — so exalted an idea
as the homeland asks no disgrace.

ZÁCH
You wanted blood of it, and Károly too — blood.
You pulled it this way, and he another.
It dwindled in its treasure, as in strength,
for you plundered it, each outdoing the other,
and it stood there between you, panting in its blood,
at every moment ready to sink to the ground.
I saw all this, and said: enough;
perhaps the exhausted one will come to strength again,
and then shake off the one who burdens it.
Say yourself, then — was I at fault?

CSÁK
Yes,
because you wanted to guide fate with a human hand
and gave bold counsel
to him who decides over being and non-being.
Did you not feel, say, a shame
in falling fellow to every bungler
who, with a one-day, limited understanding,
boasts of working upon late centuries? —
Let no one be wiser than his age.
If, as an instrument, he fulfills his calling,
he was a good instrument. If he sets up as a prophet,
he is either a madman, or they do not believe his word.
And do you think, if it does not please you, you can shake off
what now, out of cunning, you took upon yourself?
If you have stepped one step down from the strict
road of the law, you never find it again,
never, never. You get into a thicket of thistles,
from which, if one catches on your clothing
and you shake it off, fifty new ones take its place.

BOHÓC (the Jester)
(Entering.)
God grant you a smile, a tear,
to take out at any time.
A shameless face, a sharp eye,
never yet left me in the mire.
Bold with the women,
eye-rolling with the priests,
finds fortune and trust
with me, who always give.

ZÁCH
How went the hunt — was there good luck?

BOHÓC
For us it’s only good to hunt
where our king shoots wide;
and the huntsman may laugh well,
when the disgrace is another’s,
but he pays well,
and that’s a kingly deed.

ZÁCH
Was there game?

BOHÓC
Game enough, but we did not hunt.
Wild is wild — what a barbarous notion!
Let him who knows how, tame it.
And the ladies are already so tame
that one had likewise to make them wild.
Fine sport for a prince —
the jesters swallow it in silence.

CSÁK
This is a thunderbolt of a boy!

BOHÓC
Why do you stare, friend?

CSÁK
You know me?

BOHÓC
Do I know you? Why, don’t you know
that one fool can sense another?
We both were chasing truth,
only you with a sword,
like the greater fool, who goes
to hunt a hare with pipe and drum,
and you’d very nearly scared
truth right off the earth,
just as I lifted my cap,
and caught it — it had crept beneath.

CSÁK
Oh, grief, jester, that your word is true.

BOHÓC
Friend Máté, there was a child,
the poor thing had two nurses,
both of them loved it,
the child laughed,
and the two nurses fell to blows,
each jealous, keeps it far from the other,
and the child weeps for it.

CSÁK
Boy, you are mocking me. —

BOHÓC
Oh, don’t believe it, friend!
Who would write your epitaph, if not I —
do you think some courtier would dare?

CSÁK
And what if you should die before me?

BOHÓC
Longest of all lives the fool,
he does not fret, does not pine;
ambition, intrigue, cheated hope
bury you others all.

CSÁK
Let us see, then, that epitaph already.

BOHÓC
On Károly’s grave there’ll be a long inscription,
to eke out
the dwarf who plays the giant,
so there can be something there —
long signboard, short tavern,
long blessing, bad supper. —
For you, comrade, this cap
I’ll lay upon your grave only,
and they’ll know: for holy ideas
he struggles, who gets such a garland.

ZÁCH
Be silent now, or you’ll get the lash instead.
And if you tell what you saw, woe to you,
I tell you in advance, I’ll beat you black and blue.

BOHÓC
I’ll be silent, and again I’ll be wiser
than the dull Magyar,
who likewise knows the lash,
yet growls, yet still keeps biting. — (A horn.)

ZÁCH
Ha, the king — come, Csák, I’ll hide you.

CSÁK
Lead on, then.

ZÁCH
If he finds you here, I’m lost.
(He leads Csák out by a side door.)

BOHÓC
Aside, fool, the greater comes,
aside, hovel, the house comes.
A great lord, still, is the king,
he turns one pale, and strikes, like fever. (He stands aside.)
(Róbert Károly, Drugeth, Zsámbokréti, and others enter.)

ZÁCH
King, be welcome!

KÁROLY
That was a fine day indeed.
Why did you not come out, Zách — are you ill, perhaps? —

ZÁCH
Yes, my king.

KÁROLY
I’m sorry for you, but for me
likewise, instead of the promised rest,
your fortress only breeds care and labor.
I’ve just had news that Csák again
rises up, and sends mighty hosts
to lay waste the rich Vág country.

DRUGETH
He has long been hatching new schemes.

KÁROLY
Could I but call that Trencsén, that rock-nest,
mine at last, I’d sleep well.

BOHÓC
I can easily help you with that, friend.

KÁROLY
How, jester?

BOHÓC
I give it to you as a gift.

KÁROLY
But it isn’t yours — and how do I get into it?

BOHÓC
Seize it with the sword.

KÁROLY
Oh, fool, fool!

BOHÓC
And did our holy father not do the same with your throne,
as I propose to you? And he was wise,
and I a fool. — You ungrateful friend!

KÁROLY
Fool, no more. — Now, now, men,
good counsel is precious. — My army is worn out,
my treasury empty.

BOHÓC
Here too I’ll help.
Is there still in your country a well-filled wallet?

KÁROLY
How should there not be!

BOHÓC
And can you cut it
from its owner’s neck?

KÁROLY
How not — I’ve mercenaries enough.

BOHÓC
Then the stuffed wallet is all yours!
Don’t fret, you’re lord — empty it boldly,
you can give it back loaded with blessing,
for a beggar’s pouch that too will do.

KÁROLY
Out of the room! Here there is no need
of a fool.

BOHÓC
Perhaps there are enough inside as it is.
(He stands aside.)

KÁROLY
Now, wise lords, you tested men,
out with the good counsel.

ZÁCH
Oh, king!
There were days when I fought against you,
and it was not your arm, but your mercy, that conquered me.
Call upon Csák, draw a veil over the past,
and give his flaming soul room to act in the future;
I believe he’ll come round, though he’s a proud man.

ZSÁMBOKRÉTI
Would not everyone be a rebel,
seeing that this road leads to favor and greatness?

ZÁCH
No, Zsámbokréti. Not all are falcons,
that strike at their prey on proud wing.
You can hunt the owl, for it’s an owl. Teach
the falcon to love, and it will hunt
for you. Do not kill it, and do not envy
the kingly desire its nobler heart.

ZSÁMBOKRÉTI
Out of the old complicity, I think,
a tender echo still in Zách’s speech.

ZÁCH
I’ll choke the word in your throat.

KÁROLY
Quiet.
Do you too rise against each other,
when half the country is the enemy anyway?
But it’s I myself, I see, who am at fault,
making the rebel the subject of a bilious quarrel,
one his country has long since condemned,
whom our holy father has twice cursed,
and still we suffer it.

ZÁCH
Pardon him.

ZSÁMBOKRÉTI
To the gallows with the brazen outlaw.

DRUGETH
One thing only I beg, hear me, my king:
if he must fall, since the public good
so demands it, let us keep all decency,
so that late generations may not say,
how the shining star of our age
we set, to its disgrace, upon the gibbet.

BOHÓC
So you’ve decided, wise lords, on his death?
Then the fool will add a fable to it;
the eagle was king, but his people,
provoked by his extortions,
proclaimed a diet of the realm,
and resolved the eagle’s death;
but alas, who was to carry it out?
No man could be found.
They called upon the bold owl-lord,
who but now spat fire with his words,
and look — my man slinks off — —
The wise council gaped after him,
he ran off like a coward, wherever he could see,
for the eagle, like a storm, is suddenly there.
(He opens the side door.)

CSÁK
(Stepping forward.)
Here he is already. — But Trencséni’s face
is not death — why do you grow so pale!

KÁROLY
(With scorn.)
Ah, Zách, you are a good host; in return,
if you come to me, I’ll wait for you too with a merry feast.

ZÁCH
Mercy, great king — I did not summon him,
and he came one moment before you.

KÁROLY
Good. I know.

CSÁK
He speaks the truth, believe it, he’s not at fault.
I came to his fortress, and I’ll go at once,
for I slept well there, where you will keep vigil
trembling. This only I ask:
recall your decree, for an uncondemned Magyar noble
must not be judged unheard. Now I am here,
hear me out — and then you may judge.

DRUGETH
He asks what’s lawful; I take his part.

KÁROLY
What’s this, you too, Drugeth? — Why am I king,
then, if my will weighs nothing?

DRUGETH
On the contrary, it weighs — if it is lawful.

KÁROLY
And shall my vassal decide this?
Why, this is brazen rebellion again.

DRUGETH
Do not think, king, your enemy is the one
whom you see as a barrier, in passion prompted by the moment,
but the one who would weep, and yet smiles,
and out of a slave’s fear can only applaud.

CSÁK
I have waited long already — perhaps it’s enough.

KÁROLY
Go, go, do not provoke me, take this paper,
I annul everything — only let us not see you.

CSÁK
(Looking at his sword.)
There’s no notch on it. — Till our next meeting.
(Exit.)

KÁROLY
No, here I’ll not sleep, nor safely anywhere.
O rebel nation, am I to trust you?
Am I to entrust my welfare to you, stiff-necked Magyar,
who look to old law, and not to your king?
You seek a compact, not homage, favor?
Who, though you call yourself loyal too,
open your dwelling to the exiled fugitive. —
A curse on you, oh, hydra, hydra-breed,
your face starts me out of all my dreams. —
Brave warrior-people! How many of you were there?
Five — six — seven, and he was one, and went off alive! —

DRUGETH
We do not know assassination, my king.

KÁROLY
I believe it, I believe it. You are a brave people, are you not?
But the loyal people understand everything that’s good
for the prince.

ZÁCH
On the battlefield you’ll see
whether we don’t strike him down.

KÁROLY
Ah, I’ll strike him down first. — Mário! —
(Mário enters.)
Did you look well at this man?

MÁRIO
Well, my lord.

KÁROLY
Do you dare cross blades with him?

MÁRIO
As is my custom.
Why not. In his sleep — at a church threshold.

KÁROLY
Good. — Ten thousand forints for Csák’s hide. Now
go where you can; and if you dare to come
before my eyes till then, the hangman impales you.

MÁRIO
This arm has never yet missed its mark —
it’s all one, to kill Csák or a child,
the heart beats on the left, and the steel is hard.

DÁVID
(Who has meanwhile entered.)
But does your heart stand its ground, peasant?
(He falls to his knees.)
Merciful lord, I do you homage, trembling,
scarcely hoping for pardon any more.

KÁROLY
Who are you, man!

DÁVID
Omodé’s son.

KÁROLY
This fortress is a hell, that every minute
the devils slip into it. — Are more
of you coming, Zách?

DÁVID
You err, king; against you
I fought till now; now I came
to beg for pardon.

KÁROLY
(Going.)
At home I’ll think it over.

DÁVID
(Detaining him.)
Not so, not so. One instant is my world.
I must hurry, I cannot wait longer,
for if another forestalls me — I am lost.
Otherwise I ask not for ancestral estates,
not treasures, rank, distinction,
only one thing I plead: through this broad homeland
let me wander, an outlaw. Give me a line of writing
to your captains, that they may not harm me.
And this too I ask not for nothing — I’ll bring
what this peasant promises but cannot do,
for Csák’s eye strikes him to the dust.

KÁROLY
From me you may go anywhere, especially
if you accomplish what your mouth babbles. —
(To Zách.)
Is the boy not mad?

ZÁCH
If not, he will be.

KÁROLY
And why have you become such a cat to this dog?
Why, until now you lapped blood from one dish.

DÁVID
You see how it has tempered my breast. I can bear
scorn, filth. — Oh, you should have tried it another time! —
Now my flight is beyond such dull talk. —
Do not ask why I hate Csák Máté,
enough for you to know I have cause.
My fate has made me the beggar’s beggar,
and torn apart the sinews of my heart. —
You too desire to put him to death,
but you have no right to it, king!
You have no right, with deliberation,
to kill the age’s great man for the common good.
That would be a great sin — and how would your soul answer?
And why would you do it? Because he filched
a few stones from your crown? — A scurvy pretext —
from me he stole the very sun of my world,
and startled me out of my heavenly dreams
in the wilderness. — So leave him to me.
And if you should yet lay your murderous hand on him,
I’d curse you off the earth, out of heaven,
so that your wandering soul would sob with the wind,
and the grave would cast up your weary bones,
for he belongs to me alone! And if he cheats me,
hides from me, or is the quicker hand,
and it is I who die: I’ll beg God so long,
or make so much sin, uproar, blasphemy
in heaven, that, wearied of me at last,
He strikes me down to earth, and I begin again to live
and hunt Csák, until — until —

KÁROLY
Youth,
you are not in your senses. Go, go where you please,
neither I nor any other touches the fool.
(He moves to go with his retinue.)

DÁVID
(Laughing.)
What I am, only I myself know.
What I was, let no one know it.
What I shall become — the world will see.

(At Trencsén. A hall, as in the

. Csák,
Miklós, János, Berend, and others, armed, arriving from the road.)

CSÁK
You have come back, I see, on time.
Has each one faithfully gone his round,
spying out the heart’s throbbing
and feeling the pulse,
like a careful physician? Oh, what does its beat say?
Will the patient recover, or die?
But there, I do not see Domos — where did he stay?
To keep us waiting is not this boy’s habit.

MIKLÓS
He went aside to visit his mother,
and the boy keeps the hero there a little.

CSÁK
A noble prisoner, and her his jailer too.
But come, Berend, do you tell the first news;
it may be a good omen for the rest.
For from the lowland no bad news can come;
how should its blue plains breed
a slave’s bent in the human heart.
Always the lowland was my strength and hope.
Say, then, what wind blows now above it?

BEREND
Such a wind, Csák, as only sobs in secret.
I went into every most hidden refuge,
where I might hope to find a fugitive,
or a patriot withdrawn and waiting.
And find them I did, but no resolute partisan.
Many there are whose brow is furrowed with care,
who look with tearful eye on the orphaned homeland
and yearningly crave a better future; what good is it,
if there’s no one who, with manly steadfast arms,
dares seize the reins of fate. —
Hard times go round; this one and that one
aches for everyone — so no feeling stays
for the more distant pain of the nation.
He’s glad if, like a skilled boatman, he saves
his life and his goods from the raging waves,
but for the common wealth he has no thought.

CSÁK
And our friends — how did they receive you?

BEREND
Like the rich man his impoverished debtor.
Be many a good friend, while our sun shines;
when the cold sets in, they all hide away.
One looks for lawsuits, or trembles at a lawsuit,
another is richly blessed with children,
these need an office — what is he to do
against the glitter of the court? —

CSÁK
Enough, enough. Now, Miklós, you are restless,
as though you held a better piece of news.
But the lightning of your eye says otherwise.

MIKLÓS
It’s only this chatter, Csák, that made me restless,
this scholar’s mulling-over of our affairs.
Who could have expected otherwise? — Did we not know long since
that the brave are few, the coward many,
but that does not count here or there alike:
the great mass is always the victor’s.
Why should I say, then, what Bihar feels?
I’ve brought a band of lads with me,
resolved to die — and no great loss it’ll be
if they lie in the mud. Tomorrow others turn up. —
If others do the same, perhaps something will come of us.

CSÁK
Well said, Miklós! Why did I wait so long,
why did I rattle at the coward’s door, the courtier’s,
when my arm can still hurl a spear,
and the homeland bears a child every day
who’s made to beg or to rob,
who can lose nothing, and so will be my man.
Oh, for the rich man fears to take the field,
lest his wheat-fields be confiscated.
A beggar-host, then, well starved out,
no matter which — that can hurl
some brand or lance. And into the soft rich man’s dwelling
who flings a brand more gladly than a beggar? —
Then what I win with this worthless host,
he too will enjoy who reviles me,
and will cheer me as the homeland’s true son.
That too is a fine reward, for him who hungers for it;
I do not need it, but this I cannot bear,
that on Saint Stephen’s throne should sit a man
who starts at the sound of Csák’s hunting-horn.

MIKLÓS
Then one who’d refuse to be afraid?

CSÁK
Nor such a one, perhaps — only if he’d been
born to be my lord. — And now, brother Miklós!
Go up to the rampart, sound the war-horn,
so that the Mátra’s crag re-echoes it again,
let the Magyar start awake from his sleep,
he’s slept too long already. Go, make haste.
Plenty of fodder now for my war-steeds,
throw open the long-shut armory and
drag out from there banners, swords,
drag out everything that kills. —
Are you still standing here?

MIKLÓS
I dread the waking.

CSÁK
Don’t fear, Miklós — it’s another’s turn to sleep! —
János! Did you bring people out of Szepes?

JÁNOS
I brought no one.

CSÁK
Why — is there no rascal there,
beggar, thief, if the better sort are deaf?

JÁNOS
Oh, there is indeed, and even the good are not deaf,
but I turned them back, that they not come with me
to fall a useless blood-sacrifice.
I am here, because my oath binds me — what more is needed?

CSÁK
János, I don’t understand you — but you’ll explain it
later. I must hasten now — do you not know
where the queen is?

JÁNOS
Csák! We have no queen.

CSÁK
Capricious man! — And András’s daughter, then?

JÁNOS
Ah, far, far away.

CSÁK
Where?

JÁNOS
She has gone to a convent.

CSÁK
You are mad, János! Where did your mouth say?

JÁNOS
In a convent, Csák!

CSÁK
Who sent her there?
Who sent her there?

JÁNOS

I.

CSÁK
And still you embrace me!
But I don’t believe it. Lie, boy, just once,
and for this sin I’ll sacrifice my heaven.
I’ll add to yours the half of my heart,
for even half a heart is enough to break. —
The girl in a convent. — Downy boys!
You couldn’t protect a single woman?
For that you didn’t send her off, I know;
who’d have done so monstrous a folly. —
But the holy angels stole her, perhaps,
that in the heavens she might be lady of the dead,
for the better half of her people
is there already. — Bewildered spirits!
Is it fitting that you keep here on earth
a fence’s shop, a cold cloister,
where you bury our girls alive,
and with them the bliss-dreams of poor men. —
But János, say truly, where is the girl?

JÁNOS
Shall I repeat it?

CSÁK
Don’t — this silence
tells me the truth terribly. —
So I am finished. Csák has lived out his life.
Let whoever pleases struggle, but Csák is worn out.

MIKLÓS
Do not say that word. Shall I never again see
the unshaken Trencséni, never see
him wield his sword, like a war-giant?

CSÁK
No more — for he is no more that.
A guardian spirit hovered till now over our tents,
that shed light on us, strength to our arm,
and hallowed our work; now that
this spirit has flown, there is no right with us,
and I never fight without right.

MIKLÓS
And is one weak, one pallid girl
who personifies the life and all the right
of a people? No — if she is dead,
our race is not yet so barren, thank God,
that it cannot beget a new Árpád.

CSÁK
And shall we struggle for one yet to be born?
Or struggle because a few vagabonds
desire it? Why? — That, instead of Károly,
we raise some Swabian, some Czech, to our throne?
Or set up, indeed, a republic?
Who among you could sustain it?
This homeland is no Rome, whose martial spirit
found a citizen’s virtue in renunciations.
Here every heart begs after forints,
and if there’s no strong fist above them,
they’ll rob each other, hunt each other down.
A republic is only the homeland of saints,
and the one we live in — oh, this is a homeland of thieves. —
Why, I know well it was not always so.
From eternity and to eternity it will not be so,
but when will this be, when will this come to pass!
Csák will not live to see it. He has run his course,
for there’s no one to fight for — the girl.

JÁNOS
Do not give yourself so to the grief
that would make you childish in the sight
of one who does not know your soul as I do,
and does not know it was not one girl, but the welfare
of the homeland, that drove you to the battlefield. —
And if now this or that must fall,
since fate does not let them flourish together:
are we to kill ourselves for the girl,
so that a new people may possess Canaan? —
Ten years of our war has trampled thousands;
only one battle more is needed, in which they defeat us,
or in which we conquer — there’s no more Magyar,
and over the bones we can raise up our king.

CSÁK
No more, traitor. The smooth tongue
no longer licks out the poisoned wound
its sting made in my heart. —
Miklós, disband our companies,
loose my steed, let it be free,
let it not wear a bridle-strap on its neck till death.
Lock my armory tight again.
Cast its key into the Vág. Smash my horn,
for, like the soul of my homeland, it has run out,
so mine runs out too, that blared into it. —
God be with you, János! — You spoke from the heart,
that I see; ah, but still — forgive me —
this heart, fixed in its principle, hates. —
It may be that all is as you say;
no matter, I’ll not have it, I do not believe it.
God be with you — let me see you no more.

JÁNOS
Oh, alas! You can punish dreadfully, Csák!
For you make our own selves our punishment. — (Exit.)

CSÁK
This sword, with which I was able to conquer — see,
I can scarcely break it. (He breaks it.) Away with it.

MIKLÓS
Why did you break it — could you not give it to me?

CSÁK
What use, to kill uselessly with it?
Or with my weapon to fight for Károly? —
This holy steel, which swam across
the waves of the Volga, which in my forefather’s hand
cut, unnotched, through a mountain,
made kings, conquered peoples,
am I now to give it to you, to fight
against our Moses’ daughter? — To that, perhaps,
I have not yet sunk after all. — Why, you are young,
you still need deeds, battle, and excitement,
you will fight for Károly, once I
step down. Go — let me not see you. —
But my sword I cannot give.
(All withdraw but Csák and Miklós.)

MIKLÓS
You are mistaken.
I asked only to lay it in a church,
and grave two words on it: Csák — and this: freedom.

CSÁK
Grave the last in your heart; and the first
on this little fragment. And if you ever see
that no column stands upon my grave — nail it there.
But now, make haste. —

MIKLÓS
You are weak — who will
lead you?

CSÁK
No one.

MIKLÓS
Csák, do you drive me off?

CSÁK
You are a good boy. — See, my knee is broken,
lead me, then, into the open, and —

MIKLÓS
Where?

CSÁK
Ah, far — far away.
(He totters.)

MIKLÓS
And then what shall we do?

CSÁK
You’ll come back — I’ll stay there.

MIKLÓS
And shall I forsake forever this hand,
that guided my youth? — Then
I’ll not go.

CSÁK
When I tell you.

MIKLÓS
I’ll not go. —
Don’t be so foolish, Csák — or do you think
you’ll pitch your tent under the woodland leaves,
and among the blackthorn-spines pursue
the exalted dream you once beheld with me
in the shadow of spears?
You’ll not fit, believe me, on the cool turf-bed
where the peasant rests from his labor.
And the spirit, which was your people’s,
God will not let you rob it of.

CSÁK
What is the people to me — what is the homeland! —
You deserved your fate, for the oath
your forefathers spoke on the field of Szer
you broke. — And yet, and yet I weep for you,
for you are dear. And I weep the more sorely
that you dug your own grave yourself;
than if fate had crushed you to ruin:
for an empty homeland one Béla brings to light,
but a degenerate people, no one.

MARGIT
(She rushes in and falls at Csák’s feet.)
O Csák, help! You are my guardian angel.

CSÁK
Do not flatter, woman — a guardian angel I
was not, and never will be.
How could that one go about with bloody hands?

MARGIT
So goes the angel of the people’s freedom.

MIKLÓS
Mother! What stroke of fate has brought you here?

CSÁK
Rise — let me not see a woman on her knees.
Say, what can the stepson of fate
do for his brother?

MARGIT
Protect me from assassins.

CSÁK
And who sets them on you?

MARGIT
Károly.

CSÁK
Why?

MARGIT
Because he’s king.

CSÁK
So. And on whose eye a hundred thousand
voluntary hangmen lie in wait — and keeps them on pay besides?
But say, what happened? —

MIKLÓS
Say, say, I tremble.

MARGIT
Zách is no more — his fair daughter is no more.
They bore the Záchs’ broken coat of arms
into the vault. This stem has sunk in blood.
Kin and friend they now hunt down,
hired killers lie in wait for their lives,
and whoever has one beating drop in his veins
of the Záchs’ heroic blood, they search it out
in the depth of the heart, to spill it for the dogs. —

CSÁK
Great heaven, I did not pray this on the faithless one,
and your judgment dismays even me. —
But say, what was it, what brought this on.

MARGIT
You know the court, Csák, perhaps, you too.
There is nothing there but servant and jester.
Zách, the stubborn, the Magyar who felt his worth,
could not become one with them, and supposed
that the princely favor smiling on him
was a wage earned by many merits,
for which he need not debase himself. —
He believed his daughter’s virgin charm
stood with the safety of an altar-image
against the venomous serpents of seduction,
though seduction wore a crown.
He was mistaken, and died for his blind faith,
that he sought the knightly virtue there
where a broken oath had brought himself;
and forsook you, whom he had betrayed.

MIKLÓS
Dreadful, dreadful! And you too, mother,
they’ve now hunted down, as a kin of Zách.

CSÁK
But where is Domos, or are you defenseless?
I suspect something dreadful.

MARGIT
He lives no more.
As a hero the hired mob struck him down.

CSÁK
Rest in peace, the worthy man.

MIKLÓS
Great God!
Who says now that I cannot endure.

CSÁK
You feared, my people, that I’d root you out;
there’s another hoe-man who does it for me. —
You see, Margit! All this is the work of him
whom you too desired for king.

MARGIT
Do not vex me,
do not vex me further. I am beggar enough.
I have paid in any case for my womanhood,
for in your camp there was no assassination,
only splendor and glory. I, foolish woman,
feared for my children — I paid for it.
Can you forgive the broken woman?

CSÁK
Your hand on it. — Would that a common solace,
not grief, were what brings us together.
But so heaven willed it, and we yield. —
And now lay your hand on your heart and tell me:
you had six children, half are dead,
two for your homeland, one by your king;
which grieves you most?

MARGIT
Ah, Domos!

CSÁK
Learn, then — the woman should not sit and weep,
when she sees a sword in her child’s hand
that his homeland asks for, to strike to success.
But come, let us set out, I cannot tarry.
My road is long and my life now short. —
Miklós, my son! Now lead the two of us.
We once vied for you, and behold, on your arm
we now lean, with shamed eyes. —

MIKLÓS
Only lean on me, Csák — lean on me, mother!
I can still bear you — if I can bear my life.
(They set out.)

DÁVID
(He enters in disorder.)
Man, stop! — You’ll not go one step,
tell me, tell me, where did you hide Erzsébet?

CSÁK
You rave, fool. You know well she’s gone far away.
(They go off.)

DÁVID
What do I see, oh, mother! Good, that she does not know me —
there’s nothing left in me of what was hers.
Ah, that I know, I know well, she’s gone far away…
Who would not know it, when the soul is lost?
When the sun of one’s life is snatched away? (With scorn.)
And who did all this? Csák, that glorious hero,
whom a country marvels at, the people adore,
whom only I abhor, and have the right to. —
He lured me from my nest, and I saw my father’s
broad estates confiscated at once,
but all that is nothing — treasure gives no bliss.
I saw my brothers lying in their blood,
but even that’s no harm — the dead feel nothing.
Only I, only I. — To die, to live — are one;
but to live, that we may die a hundred thousand times —
and each time feel the death-agony,
a damnation more dreadful than damnation.
The murderous bungler, for he only kills a body
that’s dust in any case. But to freeze the soul’s hope,
the bliss, the love,
this engine, grown heavy because they’ve driven out
its life-ray, and joyless,
turned to a statue, and to drag it through
a whole lifetime, Csák! — to this you alone compel me. (With feeling.)
Erzsébet, fair Erzsébet! Why did you pray
the dawn’s colors onto your face,
if you do not shine for your fellow men?
(Mounting steadily.)
Why did you grow your snow-white arm,
if there’s only a crucifix in it, no man?
Do you not fear, on your breast, that the spent
Redeemer warms through and revives? —
(Cast down.)
Erzsébet, fair Erzsébet, shall I see you
once more? — Then you’ll wipe away this tear
I now weep for you — oh, you’ll wipe it away
with your death-pale veil, and closing
this yearning eye, you’ll throw it over it,
like a shroud. — But, coward! What are you saying?
Can you do nothing but weep and lament?
Have you no arm, to bring down the convent,
and drag out the damned angel? —
(Grimly.)
In vain — there too the dark Csák will be there.
This man-giant will steal her again.
(With passion.)
A dagger for him! — Did I not promise it?
Did I not say he has no right to her
before God and the world — only I.
(Coldly.)
To kill him — and why not — he is a man too,
like me — he has but one heart.
(He looks out the window.) Ha, what is this?
The people throng, sobbing they take their leave,
kerchiefs flutter — Csák looks back once more,
and gallops off — a dust-cloud rises and hides him. —
Why do you weep, loyal people — surely not for Csák,
but for the aching wound his sword has cut. —
Go, then, go, my murderer, I’ll yet reach you,
though you flee to the world’s edge.

JÁNOS
(He enters, dejected.)
It is over.

DÁVID
What is over?

JÁNOS
Csák has taken his leave —
no one on this earth will see him more.

DÁVID
Yet I shall see him, yet I must see
him, though he be as dark
as night itself. Away, away, after him!
(He rushes off.)

JÁNOS
Brother, stop! — He does not hear, he hurries away.
Oh, would I had never seen this dwelling,
rather than be torn from it like this.

(A barren field in Moravia. In the distance a convent is seen.)

ANTONIO
(Entering.)
How did he get here? — Perhaps indeed
he’s set out for Rome, for absolution of sin. —
I scarcely believe it, for Csák too is the kind of man
who commits even his sin with surer conscience
than another man his virtue.
But what can he be after here? Pah, well,
the blood ran cold in me, when he stopped
and looked at me — good thing he did not know me.
Truly it was long ago that he scared me.

MÁRIO
(Coming toward him.)
Whom do I see! The codfish.

ANTONIO
Herring, is it you?
Come, kiss me well, for now I do believe
that even among rascals there’s a kinship of souls.
Where do you wander? — I’m glad we’ve met! —
How are you? Eh, but you’ve grown lean! —
It shows on your face, the water-drinking.
Look at me! —

MÁRIO
If you ask so much
at once, I cannot answer.

ANTONIO
Let’s go in order, then. Tell me, have you money?

MÁRIO
Not a farthing.

ANTONIO
That’s bad.

MÁRIO
And you?

ANTONIO
I have none either.

MÁRIO
Eh, you lie, your eye is shining.

ANTONIO
I washed it, and a drop of water clung to it. —
But tell me honestly, my friend,
how is it you have no blunted knife,
no broken arm, no rheumy eye;
and yet you come a beggar out of so fair a world
as now blooms for us beyond the Leitha?
Where, still panting from toil and revenge,
a party-king and two men eyeball each other like wolves,
where you had access right up to the throne.
And besides this, the good God endowed you
with a stronger nervous system than mine. —

MÁRIO
Out of this: that, unlike you, I’ll be no bungler.
To cheat a foolish woman, to steal a chicken,
I never sank so low. And though the world
is yours now, I know, I, in my self-respect
striving higher, would rather go hungry. —
I’ve grown weary, you see, even of killing
for a few forints. And the longing of my soul,
which yearns for glory and for fame,
I cannot fatten on the groans
of weeping little girls, of orphaned children.
I undertook one work, for ten thousand
Hungarian forints.

ANTONIO
Holy Virgin, what money! —
How much, say? Ten thousand! Perhaps that much
I’ve never even seen. Wait, let me reckon it up.
Ten times ten a hundred, ten times a hundred ten thousand.
Mathematics goes no further!

MÁRIO
Don’t reckon it,
I didn’t win it!

ANTONIO
Then woe to me and you!

MÁRIO
Only woe to me, for the best of my life
I’ve squandered. Three long years
lying in wait for him.

ANTONIO
Pickpocket, three years
and not reach your goal! — Throw away your dagger,
and get a clasp-knife from the Jew; to slit
the bag of peasants and journeymen.

MÁRIO
(Drawing his dagger.)
Come, then, let’s see which is the artist!
If I don’t find your heart dead center,
then I’ll have myself called a clasp-knifer.

ANTONIO
Well, I believe you’d hit it. Though
even if you stab my belly, it’s all one. —

MÁRIO
Then say no more that it’s a small thing
to kill Csák. And I don’t even know
where he’s roving.

ANTONIO
Stop, I know it well.

MÁRIO
You lie.

ANTONIO
I know it — only put away your weapon,
for its glitter still dazzles my belly.

MÁRIO
Tell me, then, where I’ll find him?

ANTONIO
In the Carpathians
I was foraging, and there I met with him.
Heaven watched over me, that I can tell it now.

MÁRIO
(Taking his hand.)
Come back with me, then — lead me to his lodging.

ANTONIO
But I have good reason
never to go back beyond the Leitha.
Since I’ve dodged the gallows-post so far,
I’ve no mind to go seeking it out again.
And then, why, it was long ago he camped there.
I told you only to show I know him.
But what’ll you give me — I’ll play him into your hands
here and today still.

MÁRIO
I’ll give two pints of wine.

ANTONIO
So — go find him yourself, then.

MÁRIO
Then I’ll give
a hundred good forints from my pay.

ANTONIO
And there stay
ninety, and nine hundred, for you.

MÁRIO
Why reckon another’s money.

ANTONIO
Give me
another fifty of it.

MÁRIO
Be it so.

ANTONIO
Listen, then.
I saw him here just now, with a warrior.
I left him yonder in that willow-grove. He can scarcely
walk, he’s so dreadfully weary, sick.
If you don’t hurry, the ten thousand forints
he’ll steal out of your grasp, and die himself.

MÁRIO
Get ready, then, we’ll attack him.

ANTONIO
That we will not.
I told you there are two, and one of them
is more brawny than the devil himself. On his left arm
he carries Csák as easily as we
a goose-leg. And there’s a sword at his side.

MÁRIO
We’ll duck down,
and fall on him by stealth.

ANTONIO
Not so. Here there’s no bush beside the road,
and in the grass he’ll see us. I know a better way.
There in the convent lives András’s daughter;
Csák, I think, is going to visit her.
Hide yourself beside the door,
and I’ll keep watch from afar by the walls.

MÁRIO
What clothes has he?

ANTONIO
Threadbare and dusty.

MÁRIO
Come, then.

ANTONIO
First let’s turn in for a glass.
There’s a tavern standing not far off.

MÁRIO
Good. First
we’ll drink the two pints of toast.
Two pints of toast for Trencséni.
(They go off.)

DÁVID
(He enters in wanderer’s dress, with a ravaged face.)
How long must I go on, how long lie in wait!
Is there a limit set to my road?
There is one: the grave. But I don’t yet know
whether Csák or Dávid will rest in it.
The giant energy of action, or feeling? —
I believe it’s this — the flame consumes itself; —
and the energy of action is ice, that glitters and stays rigid. —
And then, too, Csák is not merely a giant,
but a serpent too, that slips from my grasp,
and while I hunt him without end,
he lives indestructible, I know well,
in this old convent, and like a goblin
guards his ward, fattens on her tears,
which she perhaps weeps for me by stealth. —
But we shall see him yet, and he shall reckon. (Exit.)

CSÁK
(He enters, led by Miklós.)
On, on. — Miklós, tell me, do you see
its towers already?

MIKLÓS
Not yet.

CSÁK
Step up on this mound.
Oh, alas, my eye is weak now, good brother!
Sharpen yours well and look — over there,
do you see nothing? Look well, for if not,
Csák will never see it in his life.

MIKLÓS
Now I see it.

CSÁK
Don’t kill me yet, joy! Not yet,
I haven’t tasted you.

MIKLÓS
What a mournful place this is!
How dark! Even the sun’s ray
trembling avoids its cupolas.

CSÁK
Ah, every grave is so. Narrow, bleak. —
How shall I fit in it? — I, only I,
but the girl, how does she fit in a cramped pit
that a holy nun, and not her homeland, dug.
And instead of a million people hastening
on pilgrimage to adore her ashes,
a soft requiem will hum above her. —
Away, away, dread thought. — Lead me, boy,
to her, to her! — Why do you hold me so hard?
Foolish one, you see I can still manage a few
steps toward her by myself.
(Exit with Miklós.)

SCENE-CHANGE
(The dim forecourt of the convent. Nuns, with organ
accompaniment, sing a psalm, while Erzsébet kneels silently
in the middle before a small altar. The nuns withdraw, and meanwhile)

ERZSÉBET
(Rising.)
Almighty being! God of peoples!
It is no selfish desire, no bliss of my own self,
that wrings a prayer to you from my heart. —
For to weep out what fills a girl’s
breast, what wipes away her sins,
needs no cloister and no whole lifetime. —
But the queen needs it, and even that is little,
who would beg off the sins of her people. —
God! Who, as once Israel,
took the Magyar too for a chosen people,
led him out from the savage wilderness,
brought him into fertile Canaan,
gave him Árpád for a Moses,
and yet do not now let him enjoy
what your benevolent hand has heaped upon him. —
Have not our best died, one by one,
in long struggle, have not a hundred thousand
hearts broken for the consecrated homeland?
Like the presumptuous elders of the Jews,
that, carried away by earthly pride,
they may not say, tyrant-like: behold, it was we
who won a homeland for Israel’s race. —
What sacrifice is still needed, my God? — —
We have no Moses, to die on the border
beyond which his people reaches salvation. —
But I, the daughter of the Hun-Moses,
sink down at your footstool and pray:
take me up for such a sacrifice,
only let my people afterward be made happy.
(A bell rings outside.)

A NUN
(Entering.)
At the door a pilgrim stands.

ERZSÉBET
Let him in.
(Exit the nun. Dávid enters, and stops trembling.)
A dreadful figure! — Whence, poor pilgrim?

DÁVID
From the grave to new life, perhaps.

ERZSÉBET
Truly,
that your word is grave, I half believe.

DÁVID
And should I jest? — Oh, oh, my lady! —
And does not Scripture teach
that the road to life is through death?
A living-dead man I was, long, long,
for one moment’s bliss I came to this convent,
and if I win it, I’ll release
my promised eternity, and be annihilated. —

ERZSÉBET
I see you are sick — come with me, and rest. —
You do not stir — are you not weary?

DÁVID
No.

ERZSÉBET
Speak!
Do you beg, perhaps — do you need money?

DÁVID
No.

ERZSÉBET
Or are you hungry?

DÁVID
Not that either.

ERZSÉBET
What do you need, then?

DÁVID
Nothing, or if I need it,
then it is more than a nun and God can give.

ERZSÉBET
Then what do you seek here?

DÁVID
Only a little word.
Answer me, answer, but truly,
as at the Judgment, at God’s footstool:
is your breast at peace within these dark walls?
Does no rebel life-craving rage in it? —
And does the throbbing blood not bring up again
dream-images out of your cheated past?

ERZSÉBET
No.

DÁVID
Then I have no more word with you.

ERZSÉBET
Why does your knee shake so, why does your face pale?
Either you are playing, or you are sick. — Back from me!
Step no nearer.

DÁVID
Holy maiden, do you cast me off, then?
Is this your mercy? Why, my plea is slight,
and perhaps the last: lift up your veil!

ERZSÉBET
Man of sin! You are bold, to drop so perverse
a word. — Go from these consecrated walls.

DÁVID
Lift up your veil, and I depart.

ERZSÉBET
Shameless beggar!
(She moves to go.)

DÁVID
(Taking her hand.)
Stop, why do you run?
You cannot climb a rock, cannot walk
on burning sand, as I can. Flight
will not save you. (He throws back the veil.)
I draw down your brown veil —
is there a sun in the cloud; and any redness
on the convent-maiden’s cheek? — Oh, alas, what is this?
Are you a fairy, that time storms past you
without a trace? — What have I done!
Why did I open the consecrated seal,
that my past should rise again from the grave? —
Why, I might have known that angel-faces
are always young faces — and the devil’s, dark —
the older it grows, the darker.
Behold, my eye’s brightness has run dry,
from the heat of the withered flame in my breast. —
Erzsébet, say, do you still know me.

ERZSÉBET
Not I.

DÁVID
Then let not even God know me,
who made me, to a new life, that He may not call me
to weep forever for you. — Let me forget
too, as you have forgotten me. —
You do not know me, no. Ah, ah, and, girl, you think
that I too am as blind a being as you?
Though your silken hair had grayed,
your slow-turning eye were blind,
your face had grown wrinkled, like your dress,
and the charm had died from your lips.
Or had your body crumbled to a heap of dust,
scattered through the wide world,
I’d still know its every eye,
I’d know even the little flower
that grew from this dust, for this little flower
would poison my being, just as you did.
And yet I’d drink its poison with delight. —
You don’t know me?

ERZSÉBET
Now I know who you are,
your wild nature has betrayed you. — Go home,
and do not disturb the dwelling of peace. —
(Exit.)

DÁVID
(He stares after her.)
She leaves me. — Why should I stay longer?
Away, away, where the curse of my fate drives me.
Only one guiding star has forsaken me,
the pale, the deceiving — love.
Away with it, away, I’ll tear out my heart too,
throw it to the crows — or why should it torment?
If heartless men should find it,
let them see what torment they make for themselves with it. —
Then I have still my other star,
mightier and a surer guide,
a bloody comet — and this is revenge.
Trencséni lives. I’ve lost nothing yet,
for work and a life’s-aim beckon me.
This last desire of my soul rouses up
every passion of my dead heart,
and unites all my life-forces.
My soul, which perhaps dwelt in this lean body
only to move it,
to make it breathe, now grows young again, takes fire. —
I go, then, I go, on without end,
till I wear my legs down to the knee. —
And like an eagle with its eyes put out, soaring to heaven,
undisturbed, higher, higher I’ll fly,
till either I reach the dwelling of the stars,
or my wing drops off — my body bursts apart.
(He moves to go out. In the doorway Mário, who has crept up
beforehand, stabs him.)
Fool! Why do you strike me?
(He sinks down. Csák and Miklós enter.)

MIKLÓS
(Seizing Mário.)
Ha, murderer, do not stir! —
Who bleeds here? —

MÁRIO
Trencséni Csák.

DÁVID
(Raising his head.)
Not he. —

MIKLÓS
This voice is a brother’s voice. — Dávid, good brother,
wait a little, do not die, till I have
this villain strung up for a signboard.
(Exit with Mário.)

CSÁK
Poor boy — must you die for me, of all?

DÁVID
Don’t grieve — it is you who’d have died by me,
had fate not made a league with you. —
But it is good, if I couldn’t lay you in the grave,
let my curse now be that you live long,
live without end, and all your hopes
bury, one after another, just as you
buried Erzsébet and my love. —

CSÁK
Speak with sense — why, her too they stole
from before me, your brother János did.

DÁVID
Truly?
You do not lie before a dying man. —
Oh, Csák, if that is so, then I die twice over.
In my life till now there was sense and direction,
now it has turned to madness and blind chaos.
Revenge had grown so into my soul
that beyond the grave too it wove its images,
and only my body bled; now death
descends alike on soul and body.
(He dies.)

CSÁK
Are you still living? — You are rigid. — The dagger swiftly
runs into our heart, but grief kills slowly.
(He rings.)

MIKLÓS
(Returning and feeling Dávid.)
I’m too late. — Hey! Away with this dead sufferer.
Did we find him only to bury him? —
(A few armed men carry out the corpse. A nun enters.)

CSÁK
Holy maiden! Does she still live, the Magyar girl,
who years ago forsook her homeland
and dwells among you?

NUN
Erzsébet?

CSÁK
She. —

NUN
She lives.

CSÁK
Tell her: Csák Máté waits for her.
(Exit the nun.)
A bleak dwelling, this, oh, Miklós — to live in it,
nay, even to die in it.

ERZSÉBET
(Entering swiftly.)
Father Máté!

CSÁK
My ward! — My queen! —

ERZSÉBET
Oh, you here — —
Forgive me, God, that once in my life
my arm has reached out to embrace a man. —
Csák, dear Csák! — You live still, and how long you’ve lived,
that you do not come to me. — Ha, but why do you sway,
why does your face pale, Csák? —

CSÁK
I am not he.
Csák’s road ended at this threshold.
There he broke off, like a sinking ship.
With a cold, judging eye I can look now,
like an otherworldly spirit, back on Csák,
who was — but is no more.

ERZSÉBET
What talk is this!
Look up into my eye.

CSÁK
Turn away, girl! —
And do not look at me. He on whom the Lord’s eye
rests cannot die — and I came to die
in your dwelling.

ERZSÉBET
(Seizing him.)
God forbid!

CSÁK
It is so, it is so. —
And now, my soul, go out of these withered arms,
go from my feet — from my breast — enough!
Stay yet a while in my lungs, for I must speak
one word to the girl. —
(He totters to the altar-step.)

MIKLÓS
Csák, stop, your last
breath I’ll drink up, let not
the god-spark fly aloft — let it stay here
for the people of the earth, that’s poor enough as it is.
(He kneels beside him.)

ERZSÉBET
Go, it belongs to me.
(She too kneels beside him.)

MIKLÓS
To die here with you?
I carry the last word of his nation.

CSÁK
Girl, do not weep, for so you do not befit
among the saints. There is nothing to mourn in one Csák. —
Save your tears for when
you yourself die, for then a whole age
of your nation has run its course; and who knows
if there’ll be a tear among your people for you still. —
The world bears a common man daily,
but when they bury you,
a country’s coat of arms is cast into your grave,
and will there be one who dares to dig it up,
and plant it on the triple mountain’s crest? — —
Erzsébet! In Trencsén still, in better days,
you read me a tale.
When we made ready for battle, I loved
to listen. Tell it to me now, I beg. —

ERZSÉBET
How shall I tell a tale now, when my strength
is taken up by the grand present. —
How shall I weep over the past, when my heart
cannot bear even its own worthy grief. —

CSÁK
I’ll not ask much longer now.

ERZSÉBET
Hear it, then.
I read the story of the last Roman,
who, boldly facing
the petty-minded age of servitude,
raised up on his banners the eternally young,
most holy name of freedom.
He fought for the people, who did not deserve it
and did not grasp it, until at Philippi
the hero closed his eyes. But the guardian spirit
of right and freedom keeps watch over him.

MIKLÓS
Tell me,
what was the hero’s name? Accursed was the age,
I know, that forsook him.

ERZSÉBET
Accursed,
for sin and chains came upon the world,
instead of the people’s freedom and of Brutus.

CSÁK
Ah, he was happy, for with his ideas,
with his age, he too went to the grave to rest,
but me, as the last of his nation,
God leaves here, to weep over it.

ERZSÉBET
Why would you weep? Oh, do not sin, good father,
there are enough who will weep in your stead.

CSÁK
True, true, I have no cause to complain.
All loved me, and thank my God,
there was scarcely one who falsely betrayed me.
And now too my chief enemy’s son,
brother Miklós, it is you who have come, to close
my eyes in friendship. This is my pride. —
But you see, if I too fall to no purpose,
like that Roman hero:
will a guardian spirit one day keep watch
over me too? Or will my grave be bleak,
when your tears dry and you follow me. —

ERZSÉBET
Believe me: it will, as long as a Magyar lives.

CSÁK
Oh, thanks, my guardian spirit, that you’ve eased me.
And not with frosty reason, but with the strong
faith’s word, which you cannot feign,
and which carries me away. — Yes, yes, my friends,
my death would not be so easy, if
resurrection did not await me with my nation. —
Miklós! You are young, ruddy, strong,
you’ll live long, do what I ask.

MIKLÓS
Say it — as if it were already done.

CSÁK
I repent that I came away from home,
for here the air is very cold, oppressive,
not so free as on Pannonia’s hills. —
I thought it would be sweeter to rest
in one region with Erzsébet. Ah, it’s not so! —
It’s hard there too, and here; there she is missing,
here the homeland. Brother, divide me, then!
Leave the bones here, sweep up the dust,
and when the wind begins to roar, a handful at a time
scatter it, let it fly into the foaming Danube,
from the Danube into the sea, and everywhere,
wherever it reaches, let it find the Scythian race.
Scatter it on the Rákos, that I may watch there
when the king will swear in my people’s
tongue, and whether he keeps the sworn word.
Whether the homeland is grown mighty and free.
And if I should see it has not, I’ll watch
why it has not — and who made it so it should not be! —
My breast tightens. — —

ERZSÉBET
Oh, alas, this is death!

CSÁK
Lead me toward the open window. —
Let my last glance linger on the borders
of my holy homeland — and sink into them. —
The sun has set — oh, may there be
a brighter dawning, though I do not see it. —
(He bows his head into Erzsébet’s lap.)
In your lap rest is sweet, my queen, — —
in your lap the Árpáds sleep.
(He dies.)

MIKLÓS
It is over now.

ERZSÉBET
Oh, alas, oh, alas for me! —

MIKLÓS
Wipe away your tear by stealth, do not vex
the dead sufferer with a woman’s grief.
I’ll cry it out on Gellért’s hill:
the unconquerable conquered himself. —
And I’ll consecrate his grave — for I act.