No More Learning

_ And that is something.

_Wer. _ True--to a peasant. [cn]

_Jos. _ Should the nobly born
Be thankless for that refuge which their habits
Of early delicacy render more 40
Needful than to the peasant, when the ebb
Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life?

_Wer. _ It is not that, thou know'st it is not: we
Have borne all this, I'll not say patiently,
Except in thee--but we have borne it.

_Jos. _ Well?

_Wer. _ Something beyond our outward sufferings (though
These were enough to gnaw into our souls)
Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, _now_.
When, but for this untoward sickness, which
Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and 50
Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means,
And leaves us--no! this is beyond me! --but
For this I had been happy--_thou_ been happy--
The splendour of my rank sustained--my name--
My father's name--been still upheld; and, more
Than those----

_Jos. _ (_abruptly_). My son--our son--our Ulric,
Been clasped again in these long-empty arms,
And all a mother's hunger satisfied.
Twelve years! he was but eight then:--beautiful
He was, and beautiful he must be now, 60
My Ulric! my adored!

_Wer. _ I have been full oft
The chase of Fortune; now she hath o'ertaken
My spirit where it cannot turn at bay,--
Sick, poor, and lonely.

_Jos. _ Lonely! my dear husband?

_Wer. _ Or worse--involving all I love, in this
Far worse than solitude. _Alone_, I had died,
And all been over in a nameless grave.

_Jos. _ And I had not outlived thee; but pray take
Comfort! We have struggled long; and they who strive
With Fortune win or weary her at last, 70
So that they find the goal or cease to feel
Further. Take comfort,--we shall find our boy.

_Wer. _ We were in sight of him, of every thing
Which could bring compensation for past sorrow--
And to be baffled thus!

_Jos. _ We are not baffled.

_Wer. _ Are we not penniless?

_Jos. _ We ne'er were wealthy.

_Wer. _ But I was born to wealth, and rank, and power;
Enjoyed them, loved them, and, alas! abused them,
And forfeited them by my father's wrath,
In my o'er-fervent youth: but for the abuse 80
Long-sufferings have atoned. My father's death
Left the path open, yet not without snares.
This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long
Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon
The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me,
Become the master of my rights, and lord
Of that which lifts him up to princes in
Dominion and domain.

_Jos. _ Who knows? our son
May have returned back to his grandsire, and
Even now uphold thy rights for thee?

_Wer. _ 'Tis hopeless. 90
Since his strange disappearance from my father's,
Entailing, as it were, my sins upon
Himself, no tidings have revealed his course.
I parted with him to his grandsire, on
The promise that his anger would stop short
Of the third generation; but Heaven seems
To claim her stern prerogative, and visit
Upon my boy his father's faults and follies.

_Jos. _ I must hope better still,--at least we have yet
Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim. 100

_Wer. _ We should have done, but for this fatal sickness;--
More fatal than a mortal malady,
Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace:
Even now I feel my spirit girt about
By the snares of this avaricious fiend:--
How do I know he hath not tracked us here?

_Jos. _ He does not know thy person; and his spies,
Who so long watched thee, have been left at Hamburgh.
Our unexpected journey, and this change
Of name, leaves all discovery far behind: 110
None hold us here for aught save what we seem.

_Wer. _ Save what we seem! save what we _are_--sick beggars,
Even to our very hopes. --Ha! ha!

_Jos. _ Alas!
That bitter laugh!

_Wer. _ _Who_ would read in this form
The high soul of the son of a long line?
_Who_, in this garb, the heir of princely lands?
_Who_, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride
Of rank and ancestry? In this worn cheek
And famine-hollowed brow, the Lord of halls
Which daily feast a thousand vassals?

_Jos. _ You 120
Pondered not thus upon these worldly things,
My Werner! when you deigned to choose for bride
The foreign daughter of a wandering exile.

_Wer. _ An exile's daughter with an outcast son,
Were a fit marriage: but I still had hopes
To lift thee to the state we both were born for.
Your father's house was noble, though decayed;
And worthy by its birth to match with ours.

_Jos. _ Your father did not think so, though 'twas noble;
But had my birth been all my claim to match 130
With thee, I should have deemed it what it is.

_Wer. _ And what is that in thine eyes?

_Jos. _ All which it
Has done in our behalf,--nothing.

_Wer. _ How,--nothing?

_Jos. _ Or worse; for it has been a canker in
Thy heart from the beginning: but for this,
We had not felt our poverty but as
Millions of myriads feel it--cheerfully;
But for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers,
Thou mightst have earned thy bread, as thousands earn it;
Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce, 140
Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes.

_Wer. _ (_ironically_). And been an Hanseatic burgher? Excellent!

_Jos. _ Whate'er thou mightest have been, to me thou art
What no state high or low can ever change,
My heart's first choice;--which chose thee, knowing neither
Thy birth, thy hopes, thy pride; nought, save thy sorrows:
While they last, let me comfort or divide them:
When they end--let mine end with them, or thee!

_Wer. _ My better angel! Such I have ever found thee;
This rashness, or this weakness of my temper, 150
Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine.
Thou didst not mar my fortunes: my own nature
In youth was such as to unmake an empire,
Had such been my inheritance; but now,
Chastened, subdued, out-worn, and taught to know
Myself,--to lose this for our son and thee!
Trust me, when, in my two-and-twentieth spring,
My father barred me from my father's house,
The last sole scion of a thousand sires
(For I was then the last), it hurt me less 160
Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother
Excluded in their innocence from what
My faults deserved-exclusion; although then
My passions were all living serpents,[161] and
Twined like the Gorgon's round me.
[_A loud knocking is heard_.

_Jos. _ Hark!

_Wer. _ A knocking!

_Jos. _ Who can it be at this lone hour? We have
Few visitors.

_Wer. _ And poverty hath none,
Save those who come to make it poorer still.
Well--I am prepared.

[WERNER _puts his hand into his bosom, as if
to search for some weapon_.

_Jos. _ Oh! do not look so. I
Will to the door. It cannot be of import 170
In this lone spot of wintry desolation:--
The very desert saves man from mankind.
[_She goes to the door_.

_Enter_ IDENSTEIN.

_Iden. _ A fair good evening to my fair hostess
And worthy----What's your name, my friend?

_Wer. _ Are you
Not afraid to demand it?

_Iden. _ Not afraid?
Egad! I am afraid. You look as if
I asked for something better than your name,
By the face you put on it.

_Wer. _ Better, sir!

_Iden. _ Better or worse, like matrimony: what
Shall I say more? You have been a guest this month 180
Here in the prince's palace--(to be sure,
His Highness had resigned it to the ghosts
And rats these twelve years--but 'tis still a palace)--
I say you have been our lodger, and as yet
We do not know your name.

_Wer. _ My name is Werner[162].

_Iden. _ A goodly name, a very worthy name,
As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board:
I have a cousin in the lazaretto
Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore
The same. He is an officer of trust, 190
Surgeon's assistant (hoping to be surgeon),
And has done miracles i' the way of business.
Perhaps you are related to my relative?

_Wer. _ To yours?

_Jos. _ Oh, yes; we are, but distantly.
(_Aside to_ WERNER. ) Cannot you humour the dull gossip till
We learn his purpose?

_Iden. _ Well, I'm glad of that;
I thought so all along, such natural yearnings
Played round my heart:--blood is not water, cousin;
And so let's have some wine, and drink unto
Our better acquaintance: relatives should be 200
Friends.

_Wer. _ You appear to have drunk enough already;
And if you have not, I've no wine to offer,
Else it were yours: but this you know, or should know:
You see I am poor, and sick, and will not see
That I would be alone; but to your business!
What brings you here?

_Iden. _ Why, what should bring me here?

_Wer. _ I know not, though I think that I could guess
That which will send you hence.

_Jos. _ (_aside_). Patience, dear Werner!

_Iden. _ You don't know what has happened, then?

_Jos. _ How should we?

_Iden. _ The river has o'erflowed.

_Jos. _ Alas! we have known 210
That to our sorrow for these five days; since
It keeps us here.

_Iden. _ But what you don't know is,
That a great personage, who fain would cross
Against the stream and three postilions' wishes,
Is drowned below the ford, with five post-horses,
A monkey, and a mastiff--and a valet[163].

_Jos. _ Poor creatures! are you sure?

_Iden. _ Yes, of the monkey,
And the valet, and the cattle; but as yet
We know not if his Excellency's dead
Or no; your noblemen are hard to drown, 220
As it is fit that men in office should be;
But what is certain is, that he has swallowed
Enough of the Oder[164] to have burst two peasants;
And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller,
Who, at their proper peril, snatched him from
The whirling river, have sent on to crave
A lodging, or a grave, according as
It may turn out with the live or dead body.

_Jos. _ And where will you receive him? here, I hope,
If we can be of service--say the word. 230

_Iden. _ Here? no; but in the Prince's own apartment,
As fits a noble guest:--'tis damp, no doubt,
Not having been inhabited these twelve years;
But then he comes from a much damper place,
So scarcely will catch cold in't, if he be
Still liable to cold--and if not, why
He'll be worse lodged to-morrow: ne'ertheless,
I have ordered fire and all appliances
To be got ready for the worst--that is,
In case he should survive.

_Jos. _ Poor gentleman! 240
I hope he will, with all my heart.

_Wer. _ Intendant,
Have you not learned his name? (_Aside to his wife_. ) My Josephine,
Retire: I'll sift this fool. [_Exit_ JOSEPHINE.

_Iden. _ His name? oh Lord!
Who knows if he hath now a name or no?
'Tis time enough to ask it when he's able
To give an answer; or if not, to put
His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought
Just now you chid me for demanding names?

_Wer. _ True, true, I did so: you say well and wisely.

_Enter_ GABOR. [165]

_Gab. _ If I intrude, I crave----

_Iden. _ Oh, no intrusion! 250
This is the palace; this a stranger like
Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home:
But where's his Excellency? and how fares he?

_Gab.
_ Wetly and wearily, but out of peril:
He paused to change his garments in a cottage
(Where I doffed mine for these, and came on hither),
And has almost recovered from his drenching.
He will be here anon.

_Iden. _ What ho, there! bustle!
Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad!
[_Gives directions to different servants who enter_.
A nobleman sleeps here to-night--see that 260
All is in order in the damask chamber--
Keep up the stove--I will myself to the cellar--
And Madame Idenstein (my consort, stranger,)
Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel; for,
To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of this
Within the palace precincts, since his Highness
Left it some dozen years ago. And then
His Excellency will sup, doubtless?

_Gab. _ Faith!
I cannot tell; but I should think the pillow
Would please him better than the table, after 270
His soaking in your river: but for fear
Your viands should be thrown away, I mean
To sup myself, and have a friend without
Who will do honour to your good cheer with
A traveller's appetite.

_Iden. _ But are you sure
His Excellency----But his name: what is it?

_Gab. _ I do not know.

_Iden. _ And yet you saved his life.

_Gab. _ I helped my friend to do so.

_Iden. _ Well, that's strange,
To save a man's life whom you do not know.

_Gab. _ Not so; for there are some I know so well, 280
I scarce should give myself the trouble.

_Iden. _ Pray,
Good friend, and who may you be?

_Gab. _ By my family,
Hungarian.

_Iden. _ Which is called?

_Gab. _ It matters little.

_Iden. _ (_aside_). I think that all the world are grown anonymous,
Since no one cares to tell me what he's called!
Pray, has his Excellency a large suite?

_Gab. _ Sufficient.

_Iden. _ How many?

_Gab. _ I did not count them.
We came up by mere accident, and just
In time to drag him through his carriage window.

_Iden. _ Well, what would I give to save a great man! 290
No doubt you'll have a swingeing sum as recompense.

_Gab. _ Perhaps.

_Iden. _ Now, how much do you reckon on?

_Gab. _ I have not yet put up myself to sale:
In the mean time, my best reward would be
A glass of your[166] Hockcheimer--a _green_ glass,
Wreathed with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices,
O'erflowing with the oldest of your vintage:
For which I promise you, in case you e'er
Run hazard of being drowned, (although I own
It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for you,) 300
I'll pull you out for nothing. Quick, my friend,
And think, for every bumper I shall quaff,
A wave the less may roll above your head.

_Iden. _ (_aside_). I don't much like this fellow--close and dry
He seems,--two things which suit me not; however,
Wine he shall have; if that unlocks him not,
I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. [_Exit_ IDENSTEIN.

_Gab. _ (_to_ WERNER). This master of the ceremonies is
The intendant of the palace, I presume:
'Tis a fine building, but decayed.

_Wer. _ The apartment 310
Designed for him you rescued will be found
In fitter order for a sickly guest.

_Gab. _ I wonder then you occupied it not,
For you seem delicate in health.

_Wer. _ (_quickly_). Sir!

_Gab. _ Pray
Excuse me: have I said aught to offend you?

_Wer. _ Nothing: but we are strangers to each other.

_Gab. _ And that's the reason I would have us less so:
I thought our bustling guest without had said
You were a chance and passing guest, the counterpart
Of me and my companions.

_Wer. _ Very true. 320

_Gab. _ Then, as we never met before, and never,
It may be, may again encounter, why,
I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here
(At least to me) by asking you to share
The fare of my companions and myself.

_Wer. _ Pray, pardon me; my health----

_Gab. _ Even as you please.
I have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt
In bearing.

_Wer. _ I have also served, and can
Requite a soldier's greeting.

_Gab. _ In what service?
The Imperial?

_Wer. _ (_quickly, and then interrupting himself_).
I commanded--no--I mean 330
I served; but it is many years ago,
When first Bohemia[167] raised her banner 'gainst
The Austrian.

_Gab. _ Well, that's over now, and peace
Has turned some thousand gallant hearts adrift
To live as they best may: and, to say truth,
Some take the shortest.

_Wer. _ What is that?

_Gab. _ Whate'er
They lay their hands on. All Silesia and
Lusatia's woods are tenanted by bands
Of the late troops, who levy on the country
Their maintenance: the Chatelains must keep 340
Their castle walls--beyond them 'tis but doubtful
Travel for your rich Count or full-blown Baron.
My comfort is that, wander where I may,
I've little left to lose now.

_Wer. _ And I--nothing.

_Gab. _ That's harder still. You say you were a soldier.

_Wer. _ I was.

_Gab. _ You look one still. All soldiers are
Or should be comrades, even though enemies.
Our swords when drawn must cross, our engines aim
(While levelled) at each other's hearts; but when
A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 350
The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep
The spark which lights the matchlock, we are brethren.
You are poor and sickly--I am not rich, but healthy;
I want for nothing which I cannot want;
You seem devoid of this--wilt share it?
[GABOR _pulls out his purse_.

_Wer. _ Who
Told you I was a beggar?

_Gab. _ You yourself,
In saying you were a soldier during peace-time.

_Wer. _ (_looking at him with suspicion_). You know me not.

_Gab. _ I know no man, not even
Myself: how should I then know one I ne'er
Beheld till half an hour since?

_Wer. _ Sir, I thank you. 360
Your offer's noble were it to a friend,
And not unkind as to an unknown stranger,
Though scarcely prudent; but no less I thank you.
I am a beggar in all save his trade;
And when I beg of any one, it shall be
Of him who was the first to offer what
Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. [_Exit_ WERNER.

_Gab. _ (_solus_). A goodly fellow by his looks, though worn
As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure,
Which tear life out of us before our time; 370
I scarce know which most quickly: but he seems
To have seen better days, as who has not
Who has seen yesterday? --But here approaches
Our sage intendant, with the wine: however,
For the cup's sake I'll bear the cupbearer.

_Enter_ IDENSTEIN.

_Iden. _ 'Tis here! the _supernaculum! _[168] twenty years
Of age, if 'tis a day.

_Gab. _ Which epoch makes
Young women and old wine; and 'tis great pity,
Of two such excellent things, increase of years,
Which still improves the one, should spoil the other. 380
Fill full--Here's to our hostess! --your fair wife!
[_Takes the glass_.

_Iden. _ Fair! --Well, I trust your taste in wine is equal
To that you show for beauty; but I pledge you
Nevertheless.

_Gab. _ Is not the lovely woman
I met in the adjacent hall, who, with
An air, and port, and eye, which would have better
Beseemed this palace in its brightest days
(Though in a garb adapted to its present
Abandonment), returned my salutation--
Is not the same your spouse?

_Iden. _ I would she were! 390
But you're mistaken:--that's the stranger's wife.

_Gab. _ And by her aspect she might be a Prince's;
Though time hath touched her too, she still retains
Much beauty, and more majesty.

_Iden. _ And that
Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein,
At least in beauty: as for majesty,
She has some of its properties which might
Be spared--but never mind!

_Gab. _ I don't. But who
May be this stranger? He too hath a bearing
Above his outward fortunes.

_Iden. _ There I differ. 400
He's poor as Job, and not so patient; but
Who he may be, or what, or aught of him,
Except his name (and that I only learned
To-night), I know not.

_Gab. _ But how came he here?

_Iden. _ In a most miserable old caleche,
About a month since, and immediately
Fell sick, almost to death. He should have died.

_Gab. _ Tender and true! --but why?

_Iden. _ Why, what is life
Without a living? He has not a stiver. [co]

_Gab. _ In that case, I much wonder that a person 410
Of your apparent prudence should admit
Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion.

_Iden. _ That's true: but pity, as you know, _does_ make
One's heart commit these follies; and besides,
They had some valuables left at that time,
Which paid their way up to the present hour;
And so I thought they might as well be lodged
Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them
The run of some of the oldest palace rooms.
They served to air them, at the least as long 420
As they could pay for firewood.

_Gab. _ Poor souls!

_Iden. _ Aye,
Exceeding poor.

_Gab. _ And yet unused to poverty,
If I mistake not. Whither were they going?

_Iden. _ Oh! Heaven knows where, unless to Heaven itself.
Some days ago that looked the likeliest journey
For Werner.

_Gab. _ Werner! I have heard the name.
But it may be a feigned one.

_Iden. _ Like enough!
But hark! a noise of wheels and voices, and
A blaze of torches from without. As sure
As destiny, his Excellency's come. 430
I must be at my post; will you not join me,
To help him from his carriage, and present
Your humble duty at the door?

_Gab. _ I dragged him
From out that carriage when he would have given
His barony or county to repel
The rushing river from his gurgling throat.
He has valets now enough: they stood aloof then,
Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore,
All roaring "Help! " but offering none; and as
For _duty_ (as you call it)--I did mine _then_, 440
Now do _yours_. Hence, and bow and cringe him here!

_Iden.