when you deigned to choose for bride
The foreign daughter of a wandering exile.
The foreign daughter of a wandering exile.
Byron
these swoln silkworms masters.
"
("Silkworm," as a term of contempt, is an Italianism. )
_Werner_, act iii. sc. 1, lines 288, 289--
"I fear that men must draw their chariots, as
They say kings did Sesostris'. "
_Age of Bronze_, line 45--
"The new Sesostris, whose unharnessed kings. "
_Werner_, act iii. sc. 3, lines 10, 11--
". . . while the knoll
Of long-lived parents. "
_Childe Harold_, Canto III. stanza xcvi. lines 5, 6--
". . . is the knoll
Of what in me is sleepless. "
(Byron is the authority for the use of "knoll" as a substantive. )
Or, compare the statement (see act i. sc. 1, line 213, _sq. _) that "A
great personage . . . is drowned below the ford, with five post-horses, A
monkey and a mastiff--and a valet," with the corresponding passage in
_Kruitzner_ and in Byron's unfinished fragment; and note that "the
monkey, the mastiff, and the valet," which formed part of Byron's
retinue in 1821, are conspicuous by their absence from Miss Lee's story
and the fragment.
Space precludes the quotation of further parallels, and for specimens of
a score of passages which proclaim their author the following lines must
suffice:--
Act i. sc. 1, lines 163-165--
". . . although then
My passions were all living serpents, and
Twined like the Gorgon's round me. "
Act iii. sc. 1, lines 264-268--
". . . sound him with the gem;
'Twill sink into his venal soul like lead
Into the deep, and bring up slime and mud.
And ooze, too, from the bottom, as the lead doth
With its greased understratum. "
_Did_ Byron write _Werner_, or was it the Duchess of Devonshire?
(For a correspondence on the subject, see _Literature_, August 12, 19,
26, September 9, 1899. )
TO
THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE
BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS,
THIS TRAGEDY
IS DEDICATED.
PREFACE
The following drama is taken entirely from the _German's Tale,
Kruitzner_, published many years ago in "Lee's _Canterbury Tales_"
written (I believe) by two sisters, of whom one furnished only this
story and another, both of which are considered superior to the
remainder of the collection. [159] I have adopted the characters, plan,
and even the language of many parts of this story. Some of the
characters are modified or altered, a few of the names changed, and one
character (Ida of Stralenheim) added by myself: but in the rest the
original is chiefly followed. When I was young (about fourteen, I
think,) I first read this tale, which made a deep impression upon me;
and may, indeed, be said to contain the germ of much that I have since
written. I am not sure that it ever was very popular; or, at any rate,
its popularity has since been eclipsed by that of other great writers in
the same department. But I have generally found that those who _had_
read it, agreed with me in their estimate of the singular power of mind
and conception which it developes. I should also add _conception_,
rather than execution; for the story might, perhaps, have been developed
with greater advantage. Amongst those whose opinions agreed with mine
upon this story, I could mention some very high names: but it is not
necessary, nor indeed of any use; for every one must judge according to
his own feelings. I merely refer the reader to the original story, that
he may see to what extent I have borrowed from it; and am not unwilling
that he should find much greater pleasure in perusing it than the drama
which is founded upon its contents.
I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 1815, (the first I
ever attempted, except one at thirteen years old, called "Ulric and
Ilvina," which I had sense enough to burn,) and had nearly completed an
act, when I was interrupted by circumstances. This is somewhere amongst
my papers in England; but as it has not been found, I have re-written
the first, and added the subsequent acts.
The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape adapted, for the
stage[cm].
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
MEN.
WERNER.
ULRIC.
STRALENHEIM.
IDENSTEIN.
GABOR.
FRITZ.
HENRICK.
ERIC.
ARNHEIM.
MEISTER.
RODOLPH.
LUDWIG.
WOMEN.
JOSEPHINE.
IDA STRALENHEIM.
SCENE--Partly on the Frontier of Silesia, and
partly in Siegendorf Castle, near Prague.
Time--_The Close of the Thirty Years' War_[160].
WERNER; OR, THE INHERITANCE.
ACT I.
SCENE I. --_The Hall of a decayed Palace near a small
Town on the Northern Frontier of Silesia--the Night
tempestuous_.
WERNER _and_ JOSEPHINE, _his Wife_.
_Jos. _ My love, be calmer!
_Wer. _ I am calm.
_Jos. _ To me--
Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried,
And no one walks a chamber like to ours,
With steps like thine, when his heart is at rest.
Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy,
And stepping with the bee from flower to flower;
But _here! _
_Wer. _ 'Tis chill; the tapestry lets through
The wind to which it waves: my blood is frozen.
_Jos. _ Ah, no!
_Wer. _ (_smiling_). Why! wouldst thou have it so?
_Jos. _ I would
Have it a healthful current.
_Wer. _ Let it flow 10
Until 'tis spilt or checked--how soon, I care not.
_Jos. _ And am I nothing in thy heart?
_Wer. _ All--all.
_Jos. _ Then canst thou wish for that which must break mine?
_Wer. _ (_approaching her slowly_).
But for _thee_ I had been--no matter what--
But much of good and evil; what I am,
Thou knowest; what I might or should have been,
Thou knowest not: but still I love thee, nor
Shall aught divide us.
[WERNER _walks on abruptly, and then approaches_ JOSEPHINE.
The storm of the night,
Perhaps affects me; I'm a thing of feelings,
And have of late been sickly, as, alas! 20
Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my Love!
In watching me.
_Jos. _ To see thee well is much--
To see thee happy----
_Wer. _ Where hast thou seen such?
Let me be wretched with the rest!
_Jos. _ But think
How many in this hour of tempest shiver
Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain,
Whose every drop bows them down nearer earth,
Which hath no chamber for them save beneath
Her surface.
_Wer. _ And that's not the worst: who cares
For chambers? rest is all. The wretches whom 30
Thou namest--aye, the wind howls round them, and
The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier,
A hunter, and a traveller, and am
A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of.
_Jos. _ And art thou not now sheltered from them all?
_Wer. _ Yes. And from these alone.
_Jos. _ 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.
("Silkworm," as a term of contempt, is an Italianism. )
_Werner_, act iii. sc. 1, lines 288, 289--
"I fear that men must draw their chariots, as
They say kings did Sesostris'. "
_Age of Bronze_, line 45--
"The new Sesostris, whose unharnessed kings. "
_Werner_, act iii. sc. 3, lines 10, 11--
". . . while the knoll
Of long-lived parents. "
_Childe Harold_, Canto III. stanza xcvi. lines 5, 6--
". . . is the knoll
Of what in me is sleepless. "
(Byron is the authority for the use of "knoll" as a substantive. )
Or, compare the statement (see act i. sc. 1, line 213, _sq. _) that "A
great personage . . . is drowned below the ford, with five post-horses, A
monkey and a mastiff--and a valet," with the corresponding passage in
_Kruitzner_ and in Byron's unfinished fragment; and note that "the
monkey, the mastiff, and the valet," which formed part of Byron's
retinue in 1821, are conspicuous by their absence from Miss Lee's story
and the fragment.
Space precludes the quotation of further parallels, and for specimens of
a score of passages which proclaim their author the following lines must
suffice:--
Act i. sc. 1, lines 163-165--
". . . although then
My passions were all living serpents, and
Twined like the Gorgon's round me. "
Act iii. sc. 1, lines 264-268--
". . . sound him with the gem;
'Twill sink into his venal soul like lead
Into the deep, and bring up slime and mud.
And ooze, too, from the bottom, as the lead doth
With its greased understratum. "
_Did_ Byron write _Werner_, or was it the Duchess of Devonshire?
(For a correspondence on the subject, see _Literature_, August 12, 19,
26, September 9, 1899. )
TO
THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE
BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS,
THIS TRAGEDY
IS DEDICATED.
PREFACE
The following drama is taken entirely from the _German's Tale,
Kruitzner_, published many years ago in "Lee's _Canterbury Tales_"
written (I believe) by two sisters, of whom one furnished only this
story and another, both of which are considered superior to the
remainder of the collection. [159] I have adopted the characters, plan,
and even the language of many parts of this story. Some of the
characters are modified or altered, a few of the names changed, and one
character (Ida of Stralenheim) added by myself: but in the rest the
original is chiefly followed. When I was young (about fourteen, I
think,) I first read this tale, which made a deep impression upon me;
and may, indeed, be said to contain the germ of much that I have since
written. I am not sure that it ever was very popular; or, at any rate,
its popularity has since been eclipsed by that of other great writers in
the same department. But I have generally found that those who _had_
read it, agreed with me in their estimate of the singular power of mind
and conception which it developes. I should also add _conception_,
rather than execution; for the story might, perhaps, have been developed
with greater advantage. Amongst those whose opinions agreed with mine
upon this story, I could mention some very high names: but it is not
necessary, nor indeed of any use; for every one must judge according to
his own feelings. I merely refer the reader to the original story, that
he may see to what extent I have borrowed from it; and am not unwilling
that he should find much greater pleasure in perusing it than the drama
which is founded upon its contents.
I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 1815, (the first I
ever attempted, except one at thirteen years old, called "Ulric and
Ilvina," which I had sense enough to burn,) and had nearly completed an
act, when I was interrupted by circumstances. This is somewhere amongst
my papers in England; but as it has not been found, I have re-written
the first, and added the subsequent acts.
The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape adapted, for the
stage[cm].
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
MEN.
WERNER.
ULRIC.
STRALENHEIM.
IDENSTEIN.
GABOR.
FRITZ.
HENRICK.
ERIC.
ARNHEIM.
MEISTER.
RODOLPH.
LUDWIG.
WOMEN.
JOSEPHINE.
IDA STRALENHEIM.
SCENE--Partly on the Frontier of Silesia, and
partly in Siegendorf Castle, near Prague.
Time--_The Close of the Thirty Years' War_[160].
WERNER; OR, THE INHERITANCE.
ACT I.
SCENE I. --_The Hall of a decayed Palace near a small
Town on the Northern Frontier of Silesia--the Night
tempestuous_.
WERNER _and_ JOSEPHINE, _his Wife_.
_Jos. _ My love, be calmer!
_Wer. _ I am calm.
_Jos. _ To me--
Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried,
And no one walks a chamber like to ours,
With steps like thine, when his heart is at rest.
Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy,
And stepping with the bee from flower to flower;
But _here! _
_Wer. _ 'Tis chill; the tapestry lets through
The wind to which it waves: my blood is frozen.
_Jos. _ Ah, no!
_Wer. _ (_smiling_). Why! wouldst thou have it so?
_Jos. _ I would
Have it a healthful current.
_Wer. _ Let it flow 10
Until 'tis spilt or checked--how soon, I care not.
_Jos. _ And am I nothing in thy heart?
_Wer. _ All--all.
_Jos. _ Then canst thou wish for that which must break mine?
_Wer. _ (_approaching her slowly_).
But for _thee_ I had been--no matter what--
But much of good and evil; what I am,
Thou knowest; what I might or should have been,
Thou knowest not: but still I love thee, nor
Shall aught divide us.
[WERNER _walks on abruptly, and then approaches_ JOSEPHINE.
The storm of the night,
Perhaps affects me; I'm a thing of feelings,
And have of late been sickly, as, alas! 20
Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my Love!
In watching me.
_Jos. _ To see thee well is much--
To see thee happy----
_Wer. _ Where hast thou seen such?
Let me be wretched with the rest!
_Jos. _ But think
How many in this hour of tempest shiver
Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain,
Whose every drop bows them down nearer earth,
Which hath no chamber for them save beneath
Her surface.
_Wer. _ And that's not the worst: who cares
For chambers? rest is all. The wretches whom 30
Thou namest--aye, the wind howls round them, and
The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier,
A hunter, and a traveller, and am
A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of.
_Jos. _ And art thou not now sheltered from them all?
_Wer. _ Yes. And from these alone.
_Jos. _ 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.
