to me, he has been nearly so--
A silent and unsocial travelling mate.
A silent and unsocial travelling mate.
Byron
]
[200] {446}["_Gab. _ I have yet an additional security. I did not enter
Prague a solitary individual; and there are tongues without that will
speak for me, although I should even share the fate of Stralenheim! Let
your deliberation be short. --_Sieg. _ My promise is
solemn--sacred--irrevocable: it extends not, however, beyond my own
walls. "--_Canterbury Tales_, 1838, ii. 268; see, too, pp. 269, 270. ]
WERNER
Nov. 1815.
[FIRST DRAFT. ]
ACT I.
SCENE I. --_A ruinous chateau on the Silesian frontier of Bohemia_.
_Josepha_. THE storm is at it's height--how the wind howls,
Like an unearthly voice, through these lone chambers!
And the rain patters on the flapping casement
Which quivers in it's frame--the night is starless--
Yet cheerly Werner! still our hearts are warm:
The tempest is without, or should be so--
For we are sheltered here where Fortune's clouds
May roll all harmless o'er us as the wrath
Of these wild elements that menace now,
Yet do not reach us.
_Werner_ (_without attending, and walking disturbedly,
speaking to himself_). No--'Tis past--'tis blighted, 10
The last faint hope to which my withered fortune
Clung with a feeble and a fluttering grasp,
Yet clung convulsively--for twas the _last_--
Is broken with the rest: would that my heart were!
But there is pride, and passion's war within,
Which give my breast vitality to suffer,
As it hath suffered through long years till now.
My father's wrath extends beyond the grave,
And haunts me in the shape of Stralenheim!
He revels in my fathers palace--I-- 20
Exiled--disherited--a nameless outcast!
[_Werner pauses_.
My boy, too, where and what is he? --my father
Might well have limited his curse to me.
If that my heritage had passed to Ulric,
I had not mourned my own less happy lot.
No--No--all's past--all torn away.
_Josepha_. Dear Werner,
Oh banish these discomfortable thoughts
That thus contend within you: we are poor,
So we have ever been--but I remember
The time when thy Josepha's smile could turn 30
Thy heart to hers--despite of every ill.
So let it now--alas! you hear me not.
_Werner_. What said you? --let it pass--no matter what--
Think me not churlish, Sweet, I am not well.
My brain is hot and busy--long fatigue
And last night's watching have oppressed me much.
_Josepha_. Then get thee to thy couch. I do perceive
In thy pale cheek and in thy bloodshot eye
A strange distemperature--nay, as a boon,
I do entreat thee to thy rest.
_Werner_. My _rest! _ 40
Well--be it so--Good Night!
_Josepha_. Thy hand is burning;
I will prepare a potion:--peace be with thee--
Tomorrow's dawn I trust will find thee healthful;
And, then, our Ulric may perchance--
_Werner_. _Our_ Ulric--thine and mine--our only boy--
Curse on his father and his father's Sire!
(For, if it is so, I will render back
A curse that Heaven will hear as well as his),
Our Ulric by his father's fault or folly,
And by my father's unrelenting pride, 50
Is at this hour, perchance, undone. This night
That shelters us may shower it's wrath on him--
A homeless beggar for his parent's sin--
Thy sin and mine--Thy child and mine atones--
Our Ulric--Woman! --I'll to no bed to-night--
There is no pillow for my thoughts.
_Josepha_. What words,
What fearful words are these! what may they mean?
_Werner_. Look on me--thou hast known me, hitherto,
As an oppressed, but yet a humble creature;
By birth predestined to the yoke I've borne. 60
Till now I've borne it patiently, at least,
In bitter silence--but the hour is come,
That should and shall behold me as I was,
And ought again to be--
_Josepha_. I know not what
Thy mystery may tend to, but my fate--
My heart--my will--my love are linked with thine,
And I would share thy sorrow: lay it open.
_Werner_. Thou see'st the son of Count--but let it pass--
I forfeited the name in wedding thee:
That fault of many faults a father's pride 70
Proclaimed the last and worst--and, from that hour,
He disavowed, disherited, debased
A wayward son----tis a long tale--too long--
And I am heartsick of the heavy thought.
_Josepha_. Oh, I could weep--but that were little solace:
Yet tell the rest--or, if thou wilt not, say--
Yet say--why, through long years, from me withheld,
This fearful secret that hath gnawed thy soul?
_Werner_. Why? had it not been base to call on thee
For patience and for pity--to awake 80
The thirst of grandeur in thy gentle spirit--
To tell thee what thou shouldst have been--the wife
Of one, in power--birth--wealth, preeminent--
Then, sudden quailing in that lofty tone,
To bid thee soothe thy husband--peasant Werner?
_Josepha_. I would thou wert, indeed, the peasant Werner;
For then thy soul had been of calmer mould,
And suited to thy lot----
_Werner_. Was it not so?
Beneath a humble name and garb--the which
My youthful riot and a father's frown, 90
Too justly fixed upon me, had compelled
My bowed down spirit to assume too well--
Since it deceived the world, myself, and thee:
I linked my lot irrevocably with thine--
And I have loved thee deeply--long and dearly--
Even as I love thee still--but these late crosses,
And most of all the last,--have maddened me;
And I am wild and wayward as in youth,
Ere I beheld thee--
_Josepha_. Would thou never hadst!
Since I have been a blight upon thy hope, 100
And marred alike the present and the future.
_Werner_. Yet say not so--for all that I have known
Of true and calm content--of love--of peace--
Has been with thee and from thee: wert thou not,
I were a lonely and self-loathing thing.
Ulric has left us! all, save thou, have left me!
Father and son--Fortune--Fame--Power--Ambition--
The ties of being--the high soul of man--
All save the long remorse--the consciousness,
The curse of living on, regretting life 110
Mispent in miserably gazing upward,
While others soared--Away, I'll think no more.
_Josepha_. But Ulric--wherefore didst thou let him leave
His home and us? tis now three weary years.
_Werner_ (_interrupting her quickly_).
Since my hard father, half-relenting, sent
The offer of a scanty stipend which
I needs must earn by rendering up my son--
Fool that I was--I thought this quick compliance,
And never more assuming in myself
The haught name of my house would soften him-- 120
And for our child secure the heritage
Forfeit in me forever. Since that hour,
Till the last year, the wretched pittance came--
Then ceased with every tidings of my son
And Sire--till late I heard the last had ceased
To live--and unforgiving died--Oh God!
_Josepha_. Was it for this our Ulric left us so?
Thou dids't deceive me then--he went not forth
To join the legions of Count Tilly's war?
_Werner_. I know not--he had left my father's castle, 130
Some months before his death--but why? --but why?
Left it as I did ere his birth, perchance,
Like me an outcast. Old age had not made
My father meeker--and my son, Alas!
Too much his Sire resembled----
_Josepha_. Yet there's comfort.
Restrain thy wandering Spirit--Ulric cannot
Have left his native land--thou dost not know,
Though it looks strangely, thy Sire and he
In anger parted--Hope is left us still.
_Werner_. The best hope that I ever held in youth, 140
When every pulse was life, each thought a joy,
(Yet not irrationally sanguine, since
My birth bespoke high thoughts,) hath lured and left me.
I will not be a dreamer in mine age--
The hunter of a shadow--let _boys hope_:
Of Hope I now know nothing but the name--
And that's a sound which jars upon my heart.
I've wearied thee--Good night--my patient Love!
_Josepha_. I must not leave thee thus--my husband--friend--
My heart is rent in twain for thee--I scarce 150
Dare greet thee as I would, lest that my love
Should seem officious and ill timed:--'tis early--
Yet rest were as a healing balm to thee--
Then once again--Good night!
_Voice Without_. What Ho--lights ho!
SCENE II.
_Josepha_. What noise is that? 'tis nearer--hush! they knock.
[_A knocking heard at the gate_--WERNER _starts_.
_Werner_ (_aside_). It may be that the bloodhounds of the villain,
Who long has tracked me, have approached at last:
I'll not be taken tamely.
_Josepha_. 'Twas the voice,
The single voice of some lone traveller.
I'll to the door.
_Werner_. No--stay thou here--again!
[_Knocking repeated. Opens the door_.
Well--Sir--your pleasure?
_Enter_ CARL _the Bavarian_.
_Carl_. Thanks most worthy Sir!
My pleasure, for to-night, depends on yours--
I'm weary, wet, and wayworn--without shelter,
Unless you please to grant it.
_Josepha_. You shall have it, 10
Such as this ruinous mansion may afford:
Tis spacious, but too cold and crazy now
For Hospitality's more cordial welcome:
But as it is 'tis yours.
_Werner_ (_to his wife_). Why say ye so?
At once such hearty greeting to a stranger?
At such a lonely hour, too--
_Josepha_ (_in reply to Werner_). Nay--he's honest.
There is trust-worthiness in his blunt looks.
_Werner_ (_to Josepha_).
"Trustworthiness in looks! " I'll trust no looks!
I look into men's faces for their age,
Not for their actions--had he Adam's brow, 20
Open and goodly as before the fall,
I've lived too long to trust the frankest aspect.
(_To Carl_) Whence come you Sir?
_Carl_. From Frankfort, on my way
To my own country--I've a companion too--
He tarries now behind:--an hour ago,
On reaching that same river on your frontier,
We found it swoln by storms--a stranger's carriage,
Despite the current, drawn by sturdy mules,
Essayed to pass, and nearly reached the middle
Of that which was the _ford_ in gentler weather, 30
When down came driver, carriage, mules, and all--
You may suppose the worthy Lord within
Fared ill enough:--worse still he might have suffered,
But that my comrade and myself rushed in,
And with main strength and some good luck beside,
Dislodged and saved him: he'll be here anon.
His equipage by this time is at Dresden--
I left it floating that way.
_Werner_. Where is he?
_Carl_. Hitherward on his way, even like myself--
We saw the light and made for the nearest shelter: 40
You'll not deny us for a single night?
You've room enough, methinks--and this vast ruin
Will not be worse for three more guests.
_Werner_. Two more:
And thou? --well--be it so--(_aside_) (tonight will soon
Be overpast: they shall not stay tomorrow)--
Know you the name of him you saved?
_Carl_. Not I!
I think I heard him called a Baron Something--
But was too chill to stay and hear his titles:
You know they are sometimes tedious in the reckoning,
If counted over by the noble wearer. 50
Has't any wine? I'm wet, stung to the marrow--
My comrade waited to escort the Baron:
They will be here, anon--they, too, want cheering:
I'll taste for them, if it please you, courteous host!
_Josepha_. Such as our vintage is shall give you welcome:
I'll bring you some anon. [_goes out_.
_Carl_ (_looking round_). A goodly mansion!
And has been nobly tenanted, I doubt not.
This worn magnificence some day has shone
On light hearts and long revels--those torn banners
Have waved o'er courtly guests--and yon huge lamp 60
High blazed through many a midnight--I could wish
My lot had led me here in those gay times!
Your days, my host, must pass but heavily.
Are you the vassal of these antient chiefs,
Whose heir wastes elsewhere their fast melting hoards,
And placed to keep their cobwebs company?
_Werner_ (_who has been absorbed in thought till the latter
part of his speech_). A Vassal! --I a vassal! --_who_ accosts me
With such familiar question? --(_checks himself and says
aside_)--Down startled pride!
Have not long years of wretchedness yet quenched thee,
And, suffering evil, wilt thou start at scorn? 70
(_To Carl_. ) Sir! if I boast no birth--and, as you see,
My state bespeaks none--still, no being breathes
Who calls me slave or servant. --Like yourself
I am a stranger here--a lonely guest--
But, for a time, on sufferance. On my way,
From--a far distant city--Sickness seized,
And long detained me in the neighbouring hamlet.
The Intendant of the owner of this castle,
Then uninhabited, with kind intent,
Permitted me to wait returning health 80
Within these walls--more sheltered than the cot
Of humble peasants.
_Carl_. Worthy Sir, your mercy!
I meant not to offend you--plain of speech,
And blunt in apprehension, I do judge
Men's station from their seeming--but themselves
From acts alone. You bid me share your shelter,
And I am bound to you; and had you been
The lowliest vassal had not thanked you less,
Than I do now, believing you his better,
Perhaps my own superior--
_Werner_. What imports it? 90
What--who I am--or whence--you are welcome--sit--
You shall have cheer anon. (_walks disturbedly aside_)
_Carl_ (_to himself_). Here's a strange fellow!
Wild, churlish, angry--_why_, I know not, seek not.
Would that the wine were come! my doublet's wet,
But my throat dry as Summer's drought in desarts.
Ah--here it sparkles!
_Enter_ JOSEPHA _with wine in flask--and a cup. As she pours
it out a Voice is heard without calling at a distance_.
WERNER _starts_--JOSEPHA _listens tremulously_.
_Werner_. That voice--that voice--Hark!
No--no--tis silent--Sir--I say--that voice--
Whose is it--speak--
_Carl_ (_drinking unconcernedly_).
Whose is it? faith, I know not--
And, yet, 'tis my companion's: he's like you,
And does not care to tell his name and station. 100
[_The voice again and nearer_.
_Josepha_. 'Tis his--I knew it--Ulric! --Ulric! --Ulric!
[_She drops the wine and rushes out_.
_Carl_. The flask's unhurt--but every drop is spilt.
Confound the voice! I say--would he were dumb!
And faith!
to me, he has been nearly so--
A silent and unsocial travelling mate.
_Werner_ (_stands in agitation gazing towards the door_).
If it be he--I cannot move to meet him.
Yes--it must be so--there is no such voice
That so could sound and shake me: he is here,
And I am--
_Enter_ STRALENHEIM.
_Werner_ (_turns and sees him_). A curse upon thee, stranger!
Where dids't thou learn a tone so like my boy's? 110
Thou mock bird of my hopes--a curse upon thee!
Out! Out! I say. Thou shalt not harbour here.
_Stralenheim_. What means the peasant? knows he unto whom
He dares address this language?
_Carl_. Noble Sir!
Pray heed him not--he's Phrenzy's next door neighbour,
And full of these strange starts and causeless jarrings.
_Werner_. Oh, that long wished for voice! --I dreamed of it--
And then it did elude me--then--and now.
_Enter_ ULRIC _and_ JOSEPHA. WERNER _falls on his neck_.
Oh God! forgive, for thou dids't not forget me.
Although I murmured--tis--it is my Son! 120
_Josepha_. Aye, 'tis dear Ulric--yet, methinks, he's changed, too:
His cheek is tanned, his frame more firmly knit!
That scar, too, dearest Ulric--I do fear me--
Thou hast been battling with these heretics,
And that's a Swedish token on thy brow.
_Ulric_. My heart is glad with yours--we meet like those
Who never would have parted:--of the past
You shall know more anon--but, here's a guest
That asks a gentle welcome. Noble Baron,
My father's silence looks discourtesy: 130
Yet must I plead his pardon--'tis his love
Of a long truant that has rapt him, thus,
From hospitable greeting--you'll be seated--
And, Father, we will sup like famished hunters.
JOSEPHA _goes out here_.
_Stralenheim_. I have much need of rest: no more refreshment!
Were all my people housed within the hamlet,
Or can they follow?
_Ulric_. Not to night I fear.
They staid in hope the damaged Cabriole
Might, with the dawn of day, have such repairs,
As circumstance admits of.
_Carl_. Nay--that's hopeless. 140
They must not only mend but draw it too.
The mules are drowned--a murrain on them both!
One kicked me as I would have helped him on.
_Stralenheim_. It is most irksome to me--this delay.
I was for Prague on business of great moment.
_Werner_. For Prague--Sir--Say you? --
_Stralenheim_. Yes, my host! for Prague.
And these vile floods and villainous cross roads
Steal my time from it's uses--but--my people?
Where do they shelter?
_Ulric_. In the boatman's shed,
Near to the ferry: you mistook the ford-- 150
Tis higher to the right:--their entertainment
Will be but rough--but 'tis a single night,
And they had best be guardians of the baggage.
The shed will hold the weather from their sleep,
The woodfire warm them--and, for beds, a cloak
Is swansdown to a seasoned traveller:
It has been mine for many a moon, and may
Tonight, for aught it recks me.
_Stralenheim_. And tomorrow
I must be on my journey--and betimes.
It is not more than three days travel, hence, 160
To Mansfeldt Castle.
_Werner and Ulric_. Mansfeldt Castle! --
_Stralenheim_. Aye!
For thither tends my progress--so, betimes,
Mine host I would be stirring--think of that!
And let me find my couch of rest at present.
_Werner_. You shall Sir--but--to Mansfeldt! --
[ULRIC _stops his father and says aside to him_,
_Silence--father--_
Whate'er it be that shakes you thus--_tread down_--
(_To Stralenheim_) My father, Sir, was born not far from Prague,
And knows it's environs--and, when he hears,
The name endeared to him by native thoughts,
He would ask of it, and it's habitants-- 170
You will excuse his plain blunt mode of question.
_Stralenheim_. Indeed, perchance, then, he may aid my search.
Pray, know you aught of one named Werner? who
(But he no doubt has passed through many names),
Lived long in Hamburgh--and has thence been traced
Into Silesia--and not far from hence--
But there we lost him; he who can disclose
Aught of him, or his hiding-place, will find
Advantage in revealing it.
_Ulric_. Why so--Sir?
_Stralenheim_. There are strong reasons to suspect this man 180
Of crimes against the State--league with Swedes--
And other evil acts of moment:--he
Who shall deliver him, bound hand and foot,
Will benefit his country and himself:
I will reward him doubly too.
_Ulric_. You know him?
_Stralenheim_. He never met my eyes--but Circumstance
Has led me to near knowledge of the man.
He is a villain--and an enemy
To all men--most to me! If earth contain him,
He shall be found and fettered: I have hopes, 190
By traces which tomorrow will unravel,
A fresh clue to his lurking spot is nigh.
_Carl_. And, if I find it, I will break the thread.
What, all the world against one luckless wight!
And he a fugitive--I would I knew him!
_Ulric_. You'd help him to escape--is it not so?
_Carl_. I would, indeed!
_Ulric_. The greater greenhorn you!
I would secure him--nay--I will do so.
_Stralenheim_. If it be so--my gratitude for aid,
And rescue of my life from the wild waters, 200
Will double in it's strength and it's requital.
Your father, too, perhaps can help our search?
_Werner_. _I_ turn a spy--no--not for _Mansfeldt Castle_,
And all the broad domain it frowns upon.
_Stralenheim_. Mansfeldt again! --you know it then? perchance,
You also know the story of it's lords?
_Werner_. Whate'er I know, there is no bribe of thine
Can swerve me to the crooked path thou pointest.
The chamber's ready, which your rest demands.
_Stralenheim_ (_aside_).
'Tis strange--this peasant's tone is wondrous high, 210
His air imperious--and his eye shines out
As wont to look command with a quick glance--
His garb befits him not--why, he may be
The man I look for! now, I look again,
There is the very lip--short curling lip--
And the oerjutting eye-brow dark and large,
And the peculiar wild variety
Of feature, even unto the Viper's eye,
Of that detested race, and it's descendant
Who stands alone between me and a power, 220
Which Princes gaze at with unquiet eyes!
This is no peasant--but, whate'er he be,
Tomorrow shall secure him and unfold.
_Ulric_. It will not please you, Sir, then to remain
With us beyond tomorrow?
_Stralenheim_. Nay--I do not say so--there is no haste.
And now I think again--I'll tarry here--
Perhaps until the floods abate--we'll see--
In the mean time--to my chamber--so--Good Night!
[_Exit with_ WERNER.
_Werner_. This way, Sir.
_Carl_. And I to mine: pray, where are we to rest? 230
We'll sup within--
_Ulric_. What matter where--there's room.
_Carl_. I would fain see my way through this vast ruin;
Come take the lamp, and we'll explore together.
_Josepha_ (_meeting them_). And I will with my son.
_Ulric_. Nay--stay--dear mother!
These chilly damps and the cold rush of winds
Fling a rough paleness o'er thy delicate cheek--
And thou seem'st lovely in thy sickliness
Of most transparent beauty:--but it grieves me.
Nay! tarry here by the blaze of the bright hearth:--
I will return anon--and we have much 240
To listen and impart. Come, Carl, we'll find
Some gorgeous canopy, and, thence, unroost
It's present bedfellows the bats--and thou
Shalt slumber underneath a velvet cloud
That mantles o'er the couch of some dead Countess.
[_Exit_ CARL _and_ ULRIC.
_Josepha_ (_sola_). It was my joy to see him--nothing more
I should have said--which sent my gush of blood
Back on my full heart with a dancing tide:
It was my weary hope's unthought fulfilment,
My agony of mother-feelings curdled 250
At once in gathered rapture--which did change
My cheek into the hue of fainting Nature.
I should have answered thus--and yet I could not:
For though 'twas true--it was not all the truth.
I have much suffered in the thought of Werner's
Late deep distemperature of mind and fortunes,
Which since have almost driven him into phrenzy:--
And though that I would soothe, not share, such passions,
And show not how they shake me:--when alone,
I feel them prey upon me by reflection, 260
And want the very solace I bestowed;
And which, it seems, I cannot give and have.
Ulric must be my comforter--his father's
Hath long been the most melancholy soul
That ever hovered o'er the verge of Madness:
And, better, had he leapt into it's gulph:
Though to the Mad thoughts are realities,
Yet they can play with sorrow--and live on.
But with the mind of consciousness and care
The body wears to ruin, and the struggle, 270
However long, is deadly----He is lost,
And all around him tasteless:--in his mirth
His very laughter moves me oft to tears,
And I have turned to hide them--for, in him,
As Sunshine glittering o'er unburied bones----
Soft--he is here. ----
_Werner_. Josepha--where is Ulric?
_Josepha_. Gone with the other stranger to gaze o'er
These shattered corridors, and spread themselves
A pillow with their mantles, in the least ruinous:
I must replenish the diminished hearth 280
In the inner chamber--the repast is ready,
And Ulric will be here again. --
THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED:
A DRAMA.
INTRODUCTION TO _THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED_.
The date of the original MS. of _The Deformed Transformed_ is "Pisa,
1822. " There is nothing to show in what month it was written, but it may
be conjectured that it was begun and finished within the period which
elapsed between the death of Allegra, April 20, and the death of
Shelley, July 8, 1822. According to Medwin (_Conversations_, 1824, p.
227), an unfavourable criticism of Shelley's ("It is a bad imitation of
_Faust_"), together with a discovery that "two entire lines" of
Southey's--
"And water shall see thee,
And fear thee, and flee thee"--
were imbedded in one of his "Songs," touched Byron so deeply that he
"threw the poem into the fire," and concealed the existence of a second
copy for more than two years. It is a fact that Byron's correspondence
does not contain the remotest allusion to _The Deformed Transformed_;
but, with regard to the plagiarism from Southey, in the play as written
in 1822 there is neither Song nor Incantation which could have contained
two lines from _The Curse of Kehama_.
As a dramatist, Byron's function, or _metier_, was twofold. In
_Manfred_, in _Cain_, in _Heaven and Earth_, he is concerned with the
analysis and evolution of metaphysical or ethical notions; in _Marino
Faliero_, in _Sardanapalus_, and _The Two Foscari_, he set himself "to
dramatize striking passages of history;" in _The Deformed Transformed_
he sought to combine the solution of a metaphysical puzzle or problem,
the relation of personality to individuality, with the scenic rendering
of a striking historical episode, the Sack of Rome in 1527.
In the note or advertisement prefixed to the drama, Byron acknowledges
that "the production" is founded partly on the story of a forgotten
novel, _The Three Brothers_, and partly on "the _Faust_ of the great
Goethe. "
Arnaud, or Julian, the hero of _The Three Brothers_ (by Joshua
Pickersgill, jun. , 4 vols. , 1803), "sells his soul to the Devil, and
becomes an arch-fiend in order to avenge himself for the taunts of
strangers on the deformity of his person" (see _Gent. Mag. _, November,
1804, vol. 74, p. 1047; and _post_, pp. 473-479). The idea of an escape
from natural bonds or disabilities by supernatural means and at the
price of the soul or will, the _un_-Christlike surrender to the tempter,
which is the _grund-stoff_ of the Faust-legend, was brought home to
Byron, in the first instance, not by Goethe, or Calderon, or Marlowe,
but by Joshua Pickersgill. A fellow-feeling lent an intimate and
peculiar interest to the theme. He had suffered all his life from a
painful and inconvenient defect, which his proud and sensitive spirit
had magnified into a deformity. He had been stung to the quick by his
mother's taunts and his sweetheart's ridicule, by the jeers of the base
and thoughtless, by slanderous and brutal paragraphs in newspapers. He
could not forget that he was lame. If his enemies had but possessed the
wit, they might have given him "the sobriquet of _Le Diable Boiteux_"
(letter to Moore, April 2, 1823, _Letters_, 1901, vi. 179). It was no
wonder that so poignant, so persistent a calamity should be "reproduced
in his poetry" (_Life_, p. 13), or that his passionate impatience of
such a "thorn in the flesh" should picture to itself a mysterious and
unhallowed miracle of healing. It is true, as Moore says (_Life_, pp.
45, 306), that "the trifling deformity of his foot" was the embittering
circumstance of his life, that it "haunted him like a curse;" but it by
no means follows that he seriously regarded his physical peculiarity as
a stamp of the Divine reprobation, that "he was possessed by an _idee
fixe_ that every blessing would be 'turned into a curse' to him" (letter
of Lady Byron to H. C. Robinson, _Diary, etc. _, 1869, in. 435, 436). No
doubt he indulged himself in morbid fancies, played with the
extravagances of a restless imagination, and wedded them to verse; but
his intellect, "brooding like the day, a master o'er a slave," kept
guard. He would never have pleaded on his own behalf that the tyranny of
an _idee fixe_, a delusion that he was predestined to evil, was an
excuse for his shortcomings or his sins.
Byron's very considerable obligations to _The Three Brothers_ might have
escaped notice, but the resemblance between his "Stranger," or "Caesar,"
and the Mephistopheles of "the great Goethe" was open and palpable.
If Medwin may be trusted (_Conversations_, 1824, p. 210), Byron had read
"_Faust_ in a sorry French translation," and it is probable that
Shelley's inspired rendering of "May-day Night," which was published in
_The Liberal_ (No. i. , October 14, 1822, pp. 123-137), had been read to
him, and had attracted his attention. _The Deformed Transformed_ is "a
_Faustish_ kind of drama;" and Goethe, who maintained that Byron's play
as a whole was "no imitation," but "new and original, close, genuine,
and spirited," could not fail to perceive that "his devil was suggested
by my Mephistopheles" (_Conversations_, 1874, p. 174). The tempter who
cannot resist the temptation of sneering at his own wiles, who mocks for
mocking's sake, is not Byron's creation, but Goethe's. Lucifer talked
_at_ the clergy, if he did not "talk like a clergyman;" but the "bitter
hunchback," even when he is _solus_, sneers as the river wanders, "at
his own sweet will. " He is not a doctor, but a spirit of unbelief!
The second part of _The Deformed Transformed_ represents, in three
scenes, the Siege and Sack of Rome in 1527. Byron had read Robertson's
_Charles the Fifth_ (ed. 1798, ii. 313-329) in his boyhood (_Life_, p.
47), but it is on record that he had studied, more or less closely, the
narratives of contemporary authorities. A note to _The Prophecy of
Dante_ (_Poetical Works_, 1901, iv. 258) refers to the _Sacco di Roma_,
descritto da Luigi Guicciardini, and the _Ragguaglio Storico . . . sacco
di Roma dell' anno_ MDXXVII. of Jacopo Buonaparte; and it is evident
that he was familiar with Cellini's story of the marvellous gests and
exploits _quorum maxima pars fuit_, which were wrought at "the walls by
the Campo Santo," or on the ramparts of the Castle of San Angelo.
[200] {446}["_Gab. _ I have yet an additional security. I did not enter
Prague a solitary individual; and there are tongues without that will
speak for me, although I should even share the fate of Stralenheim! Let
your deliberation be short. --_Sieg. _ My promise is
solemn--sacred--irrevocable: it extends not, however, beyond my own
walls. "--_Canterbury Tales_, 1838, ii. 268; see, too, pp. 269, 270. ]
WERNER
Nov. 1815.
[FIRST DRAFT. ]
ACT I.
SCENE I. --_A ruinous chateau on the Silesian frontier of Bohemia_.
_Josepha_. THE storm is at it's height--how the wind howls,
Like an unearthly voice, through these lone chambers!
And the rain patters on the flapping casement
Which quivers in it's frame--the night is starless--
Yet cheerly Werner! still our hearts are warm:
The tempest is without, or should be so--
For we are sheltered here where Fortune's clouds
May roll all harmless o'er us as the wrath
Of these wild elements that menace now,
Yet do not reach us.
_Werner_ (_without attending, and walking disturbedly,
speaking to himself_). No--'Tis past--'tis blighted, 10
The last faint hope to which my withered fortune
Clung with a feeble and a fluttering grasp,
Yet clung convulsively--for twas the _last_--
Is broken with the rest: would that my heart were!
But there is pride, and passion's war within,
Which give my breast vitality to suffer,
As it hath suffered through long years till now.
My father's wrath extends beyond the grave,
And haunts me in the shape of Stralenheim!
He revels in my fathers palace--I-- 20
Exiled--disherited--a nameless outcast!
[_Werner pauses_.
My boy, too, where and what is he? --my father
Might well have limited his curse to me.
If that my heritage had passed to Ulric,
I had not mourned my own less happy lot.
No--No--all's past--all torn away.
_Josepha_. Dear Werner,
Oh banish these discomfortable thoughts
That thus contend within you: we are poor,
So we have ever been--but I remember
The time when thy Josepha's smile could turn 30
Thy heart to hers--despite of every ill.
So let it now--alas! you hear me not.
_Werner_. What said you? --let it pass--no matter what--
Think me not churlish, Sweet, I am not well.
My brain is hot and busy--long fatigue
And last night's watching have oppressed me much.
_Josepha_. Then get thee to thy couch. I do perceive
In thy pale cheek and in thy bloodshot eye
A strange distemperature--nay, as a boon,
I do entreat thee to thy rest.
_Werner_. My _rest! _ 40
Well--be it so--Good Night!
_Josepha_. Thy hand is burning;
I will prepare a potion:--peace be with thee--
Tomorrow's dawn I trust will find thee healthful;
And, then, our Ulric may perchance--
_Werner_. _Our_ Ulric--thine and mine--our only boy--
Curse on his father and his father's Sire!
(For, if it is so, I will render back
A curse that Heaven will hear as well as his),
Our Ulric by his father's fault or folly,
And by my father's unrelenting pride, 50
Is at this hour, perchance, undone. This night
That shelters us may shower it's wrath on him--
A homeless beggar for his parent's sin--
Thy sin and mine--Thy child and mine atones--
Our Ulric--Woman! --I'll to no bed to-night--
There is no pillow for my thoughts.
_Josepha_. What words,
What fearful words are these! what may they mean?
_Werner_. Look on me--thou hast known me, hitherto,
As an oppressed, but yet a humble creature;
By birth predestined to the yoke I've borne. 60
Till now I've borne it patiently, at least,
In bitter silence--but the hour is come,
That should and shall behold me as I was,
And ought again to be--
_Josepha_. I know not what
Thy mystery may tend to, but my fate--
My heart--my will--my love are linked with thine,
And I would share thy sorrow: lay it open.
_Werner_. Thou see'st the son of Count--but let it pass--
I forfeited the name in wedding thee:
That fault of many faults a father's pride 70
Proclaimed the last and worst--and, from that hour,
He disavowed, disherited, debased
A wayward son----tis a long tale--too long--
And I am heartsick of the heavy thought.
_Josepha_. Oh, I could weep--but that were little solace:
Yet tell the rest--or, if thou wilt not, say--
Yet say--why, through long years, from me withheld,
This fearful secret that hath gnawed thy soul?
_Werner_. Why? had it not been base to call on thee
For patience and for pity--to awake 80
The thirst of grandeur in thy gentle spirit--
To tell thee what thou shouldst have been--the wife
Of one, in power--birth--wealth, preeminent--
Then, sudden quailing in that lofty tone,
To bid thee soothe thy husband--peasant Werner?
_Josepha_. I would thou wert, indeed, the peasant Werner;
For then thy soul had been of calmer mould,
And suited to thy lot----
_Werner_. Was it not so?
Beneath a humble name and garb--the which
My youthful riot and a father's frown, 90
Too justly fixed upon me, had compelled
My bowed down spirit to assume too well--
Since it deceived the world, myself, and thee:
I linked my lot irrevocably with thine--
And I have loved thee deeply--long and dearly--
Even as I love thee still--but these late crosses,
And most of all the last,--have maddened me;
And I am wild and wayward as in youth,
Ere I beheld thee--
_Josepha_. Would thou never hadst!
Since I have been a blight upon thy hope, 100
And marred alike the present and the future.
_Werner_. Yet say not so--for all that I have known
Of true and calm content--of love--of peace--
Has been with thee and from thee: wert thou not,
I were a lonely and self-loathing thing.
Ulric has left us! all, save thou, have left me!
Father and son--Fortune--Fame--Power--Ambition--
The ties of being--the high soul of man--
All save the long remorse--the consciousness,
The curse of living on, regretting life 110
Mispent in miserably gazing upward,
While others soared--Away, I'll think no more.
_Josepha_. But Ulric--wherefore didst thou let him leave
His home and us? tis now three weary years.
_Werner_ (_interrupting her quickly_).
Since my hard father, half-relenting, sent
The offer of a scanty stipend which
I needs must earn by rendering up my son--
Fool that I was--I thought this quick compliance,
And never more assuming in myself
The haught name of my house would soften him-- 120
And for our child secure the heritage
Forfeit in me forever. Since that hour,
Till the last year, the wretched pittance came--
Then ceased with every tidings of my son
And Sire--till late I heard the last had ceased
To live--and unforgiving died--Oh God!
_Josepha_. Was it for this our Ulric left us so?
Thou dids't deceive me then--he went not forth
To join the legions of Count Tilly's war?
_Werner_. I know not--he had left my father's castle, 130
Some months before his death--but why? --but why?
Left it as I did ere his birth, perchance,
Like me an outcast. Old age had not made
My father meeker--and my son, Alas!
Too much his Sire resembled----
_Josepha_. Yet there's comfort.
Restrain thy wandering Spirit--Ulric cannot
Have left his native land--thou dost not know,
Though it looks strangely, thy Sire and he
In anger parted--Hope is left us still.
_Werner_. The best hope that I ever held in youth, 140
When every pulse was life, each thought a joy,
(Yet not irrationally sanguine, since
My birth bespoke high thoughts,) hath lured and left me.
I will not be a dreamer in mine age--
The hunter of a shadow--let _boys hope_:
Of Hope I now know nothing but the name--
And that's a sound which jars upon my heart.
I've wearied thee--Good night--my patient Love!
_Josepha_. I must not leave thee thus--my husband--friend--
My heart is rent in twain for thee--I scarce 150
Dare greet thee as I would, lest that my love
Should seem officious and ill timed:--'tis early--
Yet rest were as a healing balm to thee--
Then once again--Good night!
_Voice Without_. What Ho--lights ho!
SCENE II.
_Josepha_. What noise is that? 'tis nearer--hush! they knock.
[_A knocking heard at the gate_--WERNER _starts_.
_Werner_ (_aside_). It may be that the bloodhounds of the villain,
Who long has tracked me, have approached at last:
I'll not be taken tamely.
_Josepha_. 'Twas the voice,
The single voice of some lone traveller.
I'll to the door.
_Werner_. No--stay thou here--again!
[_Knocking repeated. Opens the door_.
Well--Sir--your pleasure?
_Enter_ CARL _the Bavarian_.
_Carl_. Thanks most worthy Sir!
My pleasure, for to-night, depends on yours--
I'm weary, wet, and wayworn--without shelter,
Unless you please to grant it.
_Josepha_. You shall have it, 10
Such as this ruinous mansion may afford:
Tis spacious, but too cold and crazy now
For Hospitality's more cordial welcome:
But as it is 'tis yours.
_Werner_ (_to his wife_). Why say ye so?
At once such hearty greeting to a stranger?
At such a lonely hour, too--
_Josepha_ (_in reply to Werner_). Nay--he's honest.
There is trust-worthiness in his blunt looks.
_Werner_ (_to Josepha_).
"Trustworthiness in looks! " I'll trust no looks!
I look into men's faces for their age,
Not for their actions--had he Adam's brow, 20
Open and goodly as before the fall,
I've lived too long to trust the frankest aspect.
(_To Carl_) Whence come you Sir?
_Carl_. From Frankfort, on my way
To my own country--I've a companion too--
He tarries now behind:--an hour ago,
On reaching that same river on your frontier,
We found it swoln by storms--a stranger's carriage,
Despite the current, drawn by sturdy mules,
Essayed to pass, and nearly reached the middle
Of that which was the _ford_ in gentler weather, 30
When down came driver, carriage, mules, and all--
You may suppose the worthy Lord within
Fared ill enough:--worse still he might have suffered,
But that my comrade and myself rushed in,
And with main strength and some good luck beside,
Dislodged and saved him: he'll be here anon.
His equipage by this time is at Dresden--
I left it floating that way.
_Werner_. Where is he?
_Carl_. Hitherward on his way, even like myself--
We saw the light and made for the nearest shelter: 40
You'll not deny us for a single night?
You've room enough, methinks--and this vast ruin
Will not be worse for three more guests.
_Werner_. Two more:
And thou? --well--be it so--(_aside_) (tonight will soon
Be overpast: they shall not stay tomorrow)--
Know you the name of him you saved?
_Carl_. Not I!
I think I heard him called a Baron Something--
But was too chill to stay and hear his titles:
You know they are sometimes tedious in the reckoning,
If counted over by the noble wearer. 50
Has't any wine? I'm wet, stung to the marrow--
My comrade waited to escort the Baron:
They will be here, anon--they, too, want cheering:
I'll taste for them, if it please you, courteous host!
_Josepha_. Such as our vintage is shall give you welcome:
I'll bring you some anon. [_goes out_.
_Carl_ (_looking round_). A goodly mansion!
And has been nobly tenanted, I doubt not.
This worn magnificence some day has shone
On light hearts and long revels--those torn banners
Have waved o'er courtly guests--and yon huge lamp 60
High blazed through many a midnight--I could wish
My lot had led me here in those gay times!
Your days, my host, must pass but heavily.
Are you the vassal of these antient chiefs,
Whose heir wastes elsewhere their fast melting hoards,
And placed to keep their cobwebs company?
_Werner_ (_who has been absorbed in thought till the latter
part of his speech_). A Vassal! --I a vassal! --_who_ accosts me
With such familiar question? --(_checks himself and says
aside_)--Down startled pride!
Have not long years of wretchedness yet quenched thee,
And, suffering evil, wilt thou start at scorn? 70
(_To Carl_. ) Sir! if I boast no birth--and, as you see,
My state bespeaks none--still, no being breathes
Who calls me slave or servant. --Like yourself
I am a stranger here--a lonely guest--
But, for a time, on sufferance. On my way,
From--a far distant city--Sickness seized,
And long detained me in the neighbouring hamlet.
The Intendant of the owner of this castle,
Then uninhabited, with kind intent,
Permitted me to wait returning health 80
Within these walls--more sheltered than the cot
Of humble peasants.
_Carl_. Worthy Sir, your mercy!
I meant not to offend you--plain of speech,
And blunt in apprehension, I do judge
Men's station from their seeming--but themselves
From acts alone. You bid me share your shelter,
And I am bound to you; and had you been
The lowliest vassal had not thanked you less,
Than I do now, believing you his better,
Perhaps my own superior--
_Werner_. What imports it? 90
What--who I am--or whence--you are welcome--sit--
You shall have cheer anon. (_walks disturbedly aside_)
_Carl_ (_to himself_). Here's a strange fellow!
Wild, churlish, angry--_why_, I know not, seek not.
Would that the wine were come! my doublet's wet,
But my throat dry as Summer's drought in desarts.
Ah--here it sparkles!
_Enter_ JOSEPHA _with wine in flask--and a cup. As she pours
it out a Voice is heard without calling at a distance_.
WERNER _starts_--JOSEPHA _listens tremulously_.
_Werner_. That voice--that voice--Hark!
No--no--tis silent--Sir--I say--that voice--
Whose is it--speak--
_Carl_ (_drinking unconcernedly_).
Whose is it? faith, I know not--
And, yet, 'tis my companion's: he's like you,
And does not care to tell his name and station. 100
[_The voice again and nearer_.
_Josepha_. 'Tis his--I knew it--Ulric! --Ulric! --Ulric!
[_She drops the wine and rushes out_.
_Carl_. The flask's unhurt--but every drop is spilt.
Confound the voice! I say--would he were dumb!
And faith!
to me, he has been nearly so--
A silent and unsocial travelling mate.
_Werner_ (_stands in agitation gazing towards the door_).
If it be he--I cannot move to meet him.
Yes--it must be so--there is no such voice
That so could sound and shake me: he is here,
And I am--
_Enter_ STRALENHEIM.
_Werner_ (_turns and sees him_). A curse upon thee, stranger!
Where dids't thou learn a tone so like my boy's? 110
Thou mock bird of my hopes--a curse upon thee!
Out! Out! I say. Thou shalt not harbour here.
_Stralenheim_. What means the peasant? knows he unto whom
He dares address this language?
_Carl_. Noble Sir!
Pray heed him not--he's Phrenzy's next door neighbour,
And full of these strange starts and causeless jarrings.
_Werner_. Oh, that long wished for voice! --I dreamed of it--
And then it did elude me--then--and now.
_Enter_ ULRIC _and_ JOSEPHA. WERNER _falls on his neck_.
Oh God! forgive, for thou dids't not forget me.
Although I murmured--tis--it is my Son! 120
_Josepha_. Aye, 'tis dear Ulric--yet, methinks, he's changed, too:
His cheek is tanned, his frame more firmly knit!
That scar, too, dearest Ulric--I do fear me--
Thou hast been battling with these heretics,
And that's a Swedish token on thy brow.
_Ulric_. My heart is glad with yours--we meet like those
Who never would have parted:--of the past
You shall know more anon--but, here's a guest
That asks a gentle welcome. Noble Baron,
My father's silence looks discourtesy: 130
Yet must I plead his pardon--'tis his love
Of a long truant that has rapt him, thus,
From hospitable greeting--you'll be seated--
And, Father, we will sup like famished hunters.
JOSEPHA _goes out here_.
_Stralenheim_. I have much need of rest: no more refreshment!
Were all my people housed within the hamlet,
Or can they follow?
_Ulric_. Not to night I fear.
They staid in hope the damaged Cabriole
Might, with the dawn of day, have such repairs,
As circumstance admits of.
_Carl_. Nay--that's hopeless. 140
They must not only mend but draw it too.
The mules are drowned--a murrain on them both!
One kicked me as I would have helped him on.
_Stralenheim_. It is most irksome to me--this delay.
I was for Prague on business of great moment.
_Werner_. For Prague--Sir--Say you? --
_Stralenheim_. Yes, my host! for Prague.
And these vile floods and villainous cross roads
Steal my time from it's uses--but--my people?
Where do they shelter?
_Ulric_. In the boatman's shed,
Near to the ferry: you mistook the ford-- 150
Tis higher to the right:--their entertainment
Will be but rough--but 'tis a single night,
And they had best be guardians of the baggage.
The shed will hold the weather from their sleep,
The woodfire warm them--and, for beds, a cloak
Is swansdown to a seasoned traveller:
It has been mine for many a moon, and may
Tonight, for aught it recks me.
_Stralenheim_. And tomorrow
I must be on my journey--and betimes.
It is not more than three days travel, hence, 160
To Mansfeldt Castle.
_Werner and Ulric_. Mansfeldt Castle! --
_Stralenheim_. Aye!
For thither tends my progress--so, betimes,
Mine host I would be stirring--think of that!
And let me find my couch of rest at present.
_Werner_. You shall Sir--but--to Mansfeldt! --
[ULRIC _stops his father and says aside to him_,
_Silence--father--_
Whate'er it be that shakes you thus--_tread down_--
(_To Stralenheim_) My father, Sir, was born not far from Prague,
And knows it's environs--and, when he hears,
The name endeared to him by native thoughts,
He would ask of it, and it's habitants-- 170
You will excuse his plain blunt mode of question.
_Stralenheim_. Indeed, perchance, then, he may aid my search.
Pray, know you aught of one named Werner? who
(But he no doubt has passed through many names),
Lived long in Hamburgh--and has thence been traced
Into Silesia--and not far from hence--
But there we lost him; he who can disclose
Aught of him, or his hiding-place, will find
Advantage in revealing it.
_Ulric_. Why so--Sir?
_Stralenheim_. There are strong reasons to suspect this man 180
Of crimes against the State--league with Swedes--
And other evil acts of moment:--he
Who shall deliver him, bound hand and foot,
Will benefit his country and himself:
I will reward him doubly too.
_Ulric_. You know him?
_Stralenheim_. He never met my eyes--but Circumstance
Has led me to near knowledge of the man.
He is a villain--and an enemy
To all men--most to me! If earth contain him,
He shall be found and fettered: I have hopes, 190
By traces which tomorrow will unravel,
A fresh clue to his lurking spot is nigh.
_Carl_. And, if I find it, I will break the thread.
What, all the world against one luckless wight!
And he a fugitive--I would I knew him!
_Ulric_. You'd help him to escape--is it not so?
_Carl_. I would, indeed!
_Ulric_. The greater greenhorn you!
I would secure him--nay--I will do so.
_Stralenheim_. If it be so--my gratitude for aid,
And rescue of my life from the wild waters, 200
Will double in it's strength and it's requital.
Your father, too, perhaps can help our search?
_Werner_. _I_ turn a spy--no--not for _Mansfeldt Castle_,
And all the broad domain it frowns upon.
_Stralenheim_. Mansfeldt again! --you know it then? perchance,
You also know the story of it's lords?
_Werner_. Whate'er I know, there is no bribe of thine
Can swerve me to the crooked path thou pointest.
The chamber's ready, which your rest demands.
_Stralenheim_ (_aside_).
'Tis strange--this peasant's tone is wondrous high, 210
His air imperious--and his eye shines out
As wont to look command with a quick glance--
His garb befits him not--why, he may be
The man I look for! now, I look again,
There is the very lip--short curling lip--
And the oerjutting eye-brow dark and large,
And the peculiar wild variety
Of feature, even unto the Viper's eye,
Of that detested race, and it's descendant
Who stands alone between me and a power, 220
Which Princes gaze at with unquiet eyes!
This is no peasant--but, whate'er he be,
Tomorrow shall secure him and unfold.
_Ulric_. It will not please you, Sir, then to remain
With us beyond tomorrow?
_Stralenheim_. Nay--I do not say so--there is no haste.
And now I think again--I'll tarry here--
Perhaps until the floods abate--we'll see--
In the mean time--to my chamber--so--Good Night!
[_Exit with_ WERNER.
_Werner_. This way, Sir.
_Carl_. And I to mine: pray, where are we to rest? 230
We'll sup within--
_Ulric_. What matter where--there's room.
_Carl_. I would fain see my way through this vast ruin;
Come take the lamp, and we'll explore together.
_Josepha_ (_meeting them_). And I will with my son.
_Ulric_. Nay--stay--dear mother!
These chilly damps and the cold rush of winds
Fling a rough paleness o'er thy delicate cheek--
And thou seem'st lovely in thy sickliness
Of most transparent beauty:--but it grieves me.
Nay! tarry here by the blaze of the bright hearth:--
I will return anon--and we have much 240
To listen and impart. Come, Carl, we'll find
Some gorgeous canopy, and, thence, unroost
It's present bedfellows the bats--and thou
Shalt slumber underneath a velvet cloud
That mantles o'er the couch of some dead Countess.
[_Exit_ CARL _and_ ULRIC.
_Josepha_ (_sola_). It was my joy to see him--nothing more
I should have said--which sent my gush of blood
Back on my full heart with a dancing tide:
It was my weary hope's unthought fulfilment,
My agony of mother-feelings curdled 250
At once in gathered rapture--which did change
My cheek into the hue of fainting Nature.
I should have answered thus--and yet I could not:
For though 'twas true--it was not all the truth.
I have much suffered in the thought of Werner's
Late deep distemperature of mind and fortunes,
Which since have almost driven him into phrenzy:--
And though that I would soothe, not share, such passions,
And show not how they shake me:--when alone,
I feel them prey upon me by reflection, 260
And want the very solace I bestowed;
And which, it seems, I cannot give and have.
Ulric must be my comforter--his father's
Hath long been the most melancholy soul
That ever hovered o'er the verge of Madness:
And, better, had he leapt into it's gulph:
Though to the Mad thoughts are realities,
Yet they can play with sorrow--and live on.
But with the mind of consciousness and care
The body wears to ruin, and the struggle, 270
However long, is deadly----He is lost,
And all around him tasteless:--in his mirth
His very laughter moves me oft to tears,
And I have turned to hide them--for, in him,
As Sunshine glittering o'er unburied bones----
Soft--he is here. ----
_Werner_. Josepha--where is Ulric?
_Josepha_. Gone with the other stranger to gaze o'er
These shattered corridors, and spread themselves
A pillow with their mantles, in the least ruinous:
I must replenish the diminished hearth 280
In the inner chamber--the repast is ready,
And Ulric will be here again. --
THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED:
A DRAMA.
INTRODUCTION TO _THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED_.
The date of the original MS. of _The Deformed Transformed_ is "Pisa,
1822. " There is nothing to show in what month it was written, but it may
be conjectured that it was begun and finished within the period which
elapsed between the death of Allegra, April 20, and the death of
Shelley, July 8, 1822. According to Medwin (_Conversations_, 1824, p.
227), an unfavourable criticism of Shelley's ("It is a bad imitation of
_Faust_"), together with a discovery that "two entire lines" of
Southey's--
"And water shall see thee,
And fear thee, and flee thee"--
were imbedded in one of his "Songs," touched Byron so deeply that he
"threw the poem into the fire," and concealed the existence of a second
copy for more than two years. It is a fact that Byron's correspondence
does not contain the remotest allusion to _The Deformed Transformed_;
but, with regard to the plagiarism from Southey, in the play as written
in 1822 there is neither Song nor Incantation which could have contained
two lines from _The Curse of Kehama_.
As a dramatist, Byron's function, or _metier_, was twofold. In
_Manfred_, in _Cain_, in _Heaven and Earth_, he is concerned with the
analysis and evolution of metaphysical or ethical notions; in _Marino
Faliero_, in _Sardanapalus_, and _The Two Foscari_, he set himself "to
dramatize striking passages of history;" in _The Deformed Transformed_
he sought to combine the solution of a metaphysical puzzle or problem,
the relation of personality to individuality, with the scenic rendering
of a striking historical episode, the Sack of Rome in 1527.
In the note or advertisement prefixed to the drama, Byron acknowledges
that "the production" is founded partly on the story of a forgotten
novel, _The Three Brothers_, and partly on "the _Faust_ of the great
Goethe. "
Arnaud, or Julian, the hero of _The Three Brothers_ (by Joshua
Pickersgill, jun. , 4 vols. , 1803), "sells his soul to the Devil, and
becomes an arch-fiend in order to avenge himself for the taunts of
strangers on the deformity of his person" (see _Gent. Mag. _, November,
1804, vol. 74, p. 1047; and _post_, pp. 473-479). The idea of an escape
from natural bonds or disabilities by supernatural means and at the
price of the soul or will, the _un_-Christlike surrender to the tempter,
which is the _grund-stoff_ of the Faust-legend, was brought home to
Byron, in the first instance, not by Goethe, or Calderon, or Marlowe,
but by Joshua Pickersgill. A fellow-feeling lent an intimate and
peculiar interest to the theme. He had suffered all his life from a
painful and inconvenient defect, which his proud and sensitive spirit
had magnified into a deformity. He had been stung to the quick by his
mother's taunts and his sweetheart's ridicule, by the jeers of the base
and thoughtless, by slanderous and brutal paragraphs in newspapers. He
could not forget that he was lame. If his enemies had but possessed the
wit, they might have given him "the sobriquet of _Le Diable Boiteux_"
(letter to Moore, April 2, 1823, _Letters_, 1901, vi. 179). It was no
wonder that so poignant, so persistent a calamity should be "reproduced
in his poetry" (_Life_, p. 13), or that his passionate impatience of
such a "thorn in the flesh" should picture to itself a mysterious and
unhallowed miracle of healing. It is true, as Moore says (_Life_, pp.
45, 306), that "the trifling deformity of his foot" was the embittering
circumstance of his life, that it "haunted him like a curse;" but it by
no means follows that he seriously regarded his physical peculiarity as
a stamp of the Divine reprobation, that "he was possessed by an _idee
fixe_ that every blessing would be 'turned into a curse' to him" (letter
of Lady Byron to H. C. Robinson, _Diary, etc. _, 1869, in. 435, 436). No
doubt he indulged himself in morbid fancies, played with the
extravagances of a restless imagination, and wedded them to verse; but
his intellect, "brooding like the day, a master o'er a slave," kept
guard. He would never have pleaded on his own behalf that the tyranny of
an _idee fixe_, a delusion that he was predestined to evil, was an
excuse for his shortcomings or his sins.
Byron's very considerable obligations to _The Three Brothers_ might have
escaped notice, but the resemblance between his "Stranger," or "Caesar,"
and the Mephistopheles of "the great Goethe" was open and palpable.
If Medwin may be trusted (_Conversations_, 1824, p. 210), Byron had read
"_Faust_ in a sorry French translation," and it is probable that
Shelley's inspired rendering of "May-day Night," which was published in
_The Liberal_ (No. i. , October 14, 1822, pp. 123-137), had been read to
him, and had attracted his attention. _The Deformed Transformed_ is "a
_Faustish_ kind of drama;" and Goethe, who maintained that Byron's play
as a whole was "no imitation," but "new and original, close, genuine,
and spirited," could not fail to perceive that "his devil was suggested
by my Mephistopheles" (_Conversations_, 1874, p. 174). The tempter who
cannot resist the temptation of sneering at his own wiles, who mocks for
mocking's sake, is not Byron's creation, but Goethe's. Lucifer talked
_at_ the clergy, if he did not "talk like a clergyman;" but the "bitter
hunchback," even when he is _solus_, sneers as the river wanders, "at
his own sweet will. " He is not a doctor, but a spirit of unbelief!
The second part of _The Deformed Transformed_ represents, in three
scenes, the Siege and Sack of Rome in 1527. Byron had read Robertson's
_Charles the Fifth_ (ed. 1798, ii. 313-329) in his boyhood (_Life_, p.
47), but it is on record that he had studied, more or less closely, the
narratives of contemporary authorities. A note to _The Prophecy of
Dante_ (_Poetical Works_, 1901, iv. 258) refers to the _Sacco di Roma_,
descritto da Luigi Guicciardini, and the _Ragguaglio Storico . . . sacco
di Roma dell' anno_ MDXXVII. of Jacopo Buonaparte; and it is evident
that he was familiar with Cellini's story of the marvellous gests and
exploits _quorum maxima pars fuit_, which were wrought at "the walls by
the Campo Santo," or on the ramparts of the Castle of San Angelo.
