And yet
Both beings are more swift, more strong, more mighty
In action and endurance than thyself,
And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 110
With thee.
Both beings are more swift, more strong, more mighty
In action and endurance than thyself,
And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 110
With thee.
Byron
_, 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.
The Sack of Rome was a great national calamity, and it was something
more: it was a profanation and a sacrilege. The literature which it
evoked was a cry of anguish, a prophetic burden of despair. "Chants
populaires," writes M. Emile Gebhart (_De l'Italie_, "Le Sac de Rome en
1527," 1876, pp. 267, _sq. _), "_Nouvelles_ de Giraldi Cintio, en forme
de Decameron . . . recits historiques . . . de Cesar Grollier, _Dialogues_
anonymes . . . poesies de Pasquin, toute une litterature se developpa sur
ce theme douloureux. . . . Le _Lamento di Roma_, oeuvre etrange,
d'inspiration gibeline, rappelle les esperances politiques exprimees
jadis par Dante . . . 'Bien que Cesar m'ait depouillee de liberte, nous
avons toujours ete d'accord dans une meme volonte. Je ne me lamenterais
pas si lui regnait; mais je crois qu'il est ressuscite, ou qu'il
ressuscitera veritablement, car souvent un Ange m'a annonce qu'un Cesar
viendrait me delivrer. '. . . Enfin, voici une chanson francaise que
repetaient en repassant les monts les soldats du Marquis de Saluces:--
"Parlons de la deffaiete
De ces pouvres Rommains,
Aussi de la complainete
De notre pere saint.
"'O noble roy de France,
Regarde en pitie
L'Eglise en ballance . . .
Pour Dieu! ne tarde plus,
C'est ta mere, ta substance;
O fils, n'en faictz reffus. '"
"Le dernier monument," adds M. Gebhart, in a footnote, "de cette
litterature, est le singulier drame de Byron, _The Deformed
Transformed_, dont Jules Cesar est le heros, et le Sac de Rome le
cadre. "
It is unlikely that Byron, who read everything he could lay his hands
upon, and spared no trouble to master his "period," had not, either at
first or second hand, acquainted himself with specimens of this popular
literature. (For _La Presa e Lamento di Roma_, _Romae Lamentatio_, etc. ,
see _Lamenti Storici dei Secoli xiv. , xv_. (Medin e Fratri), _Scelta di
Curiosita_, etc. , 235, 236, 237, Bologna, 1890, vol. iii. See, too, for
"Chanson sur la Mort du Connetable de Bourbon," _Recueil de Chants
historiques francais_, par A. J. V. Le Roux de Lincy, 1842, ii. 99. )
_The Deformed Transformed_ was published by John Hunt, February 20,
1824. A third edition appeared February 23, 1824.
It was reviewed, unfavourably, in the _London Magazine_, March, 1824,
vol. 9, pp. 315-321; the _Scots Magazine_, March, 1824, N. S. vol. xiv.
pp. 353-356; and in the _Monthly Review_, March, 1824, Enlarged Series,
103, pp. 321, 324. One reviewer, however (_London Magazine_), had the
candour to admit that "Lord Byron may write below himself, but he can
never write below us! "
For the unfinished third part, _vide post_, pp. 532-534.
ADVERTISEMENT
This production is founded partly on the story of a novel called "The
Three Brothers[201]," published many years ago, from which M. G. Lewis's
"Wood Demon"[202] was also taken; and partly on the "Faust" of the great
Goethe. The present publication[203] contains the two first Parts only,
and the opening chorus of the third. The rest may perhaps appear hereafter.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Stranger, _afterwards_ Caesar
Arnold.
Bourbon.
Philibert.
Cellini.
Bertha.
Olimpia.
_Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome,
Priests, Peasants, etc. _
THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED:[cv]
PART I.
SCENE I. --_A Forest_.
_Enter_ ARNOLD _and his mother_ BERTHA.
_Bert. _ Out, Hunchback!
_Arn. _ I was born so, Mother! [204]
_Bert. _ Out,
Thou incubus! Thou nightmare! Of seven sons,
The sole abortion!
_Arn. _ Would that I had been so,
And never seen the light!
_Bert. _ I would so, too!
But as thou _hast_--hence, hence--and do thy best!
That back of thine may bear its burthen; 'tis
More high, if not so broad as that of others.
_Arn. _ It _bears_ its burthen;--but, my heart! Will it
Sustain that which you lay upon it, Mother?
I love, or, at the least, I loved you: nothing 10
Save You, in nature, can love aught like me.
You nursed me--do not kill me!
_Bert. _ Yes--I nursed thee,
Because thou wert my first-born, and I knew not
If there would be another unlike thee,
That monstrous sport of Nature. But get hence,
And gather wood! [205]
_Arn. _ I will: but when I bring it,
Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are
So beautiful and lusty, and as free
As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me:
Our milk has been the same.
_Bert. _ As is the hedgehog's, 20
Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam
Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds
The nipple, next day, sore, and udder dry.
Call not thy brothers brethren! Call me not
Mother; for if I brought thee forth, it was
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by
Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out!
[_Exit_ BERTHA.
_Arn. _ (_solus_). Oh, mother! --She is gone, and I must do
Her bidding;--wearily but willingly
I would fulfil it, could I only hope 30
A kind word in return. What shall I do?
[_ARNOLD begins to cut wood: in doing this
he wounds one of his hands_.
My labour for the day is over now.
Accursed be this blood that flows so fast;
For double curses will be my meed now
At home--What home? I have no home, no kin,
No kind--not made like other creatures, or
To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed, too,
Like them? Oh, that each drop which falls to earth
Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have stung me!
Or that the Devil, to whom they liken me, 40
Would aid his likeness! If I must partake[206]
His form, why not his power? Is it because
I have not his will too? For one kind word
From her who bore me would still reconcile me
Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash
The wound.
[ARNOLD _goes to a spring, and stoops to wash
his hand: he starts back_.
They are right; and Nature's mirror shows me,
What she hath made me. I will not look on it
Again, and scarce dare think on't. Hideous wretch
That I am! The very waters mock me with 50
My horrid shadow--like a demon placed
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle
From drinking therein. [_He pauses_.
And shall I live on,
A burden to the earth, myself, and shame
Unto what brought me into life? Thou blood,
Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me
Try if thou wilt not, in a fuller stream,
Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself
On earth, to which I will restore, at once,
This hateful compound of her atoms, and 60
Resolve back to her elements, and take
The shape of any reptile save myself,
And make a world for myriads of new worms!
This knife! now let me prove if it will sever
This withered slip of Nature's nightshade--my
Vile form--from the creation, as it hath
The green bough from the forest.
[ARNOLD _places the knife in the ground, with
the point upwards_.
Now 'tis set,
And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance
On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like
Myself, and the sweet sun which warmed me, but 70
In vain. The birds--how joyously they sing!
So let them, for I would not be lamented:
But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell;
The fallen leaves my monument; the murmur
Of the near fountain my sole elegy.
Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall!
[_As he rushes to throw himself upon the knife,
his eye is suddenly caught by the fountain,
which seems in motion_.
The fountain moves without a wind: but shall
The ripple of a spring change my resolve?
No. Yet it moves again! The waters stir,
Not as with air, but by some subterrane 80
And rocking Power of the internal world.
What's here? A mist! No more? --
[_A cloud comes from the fountain. He stands gazing
upon it: it is dispelled, and a tall black
man comes towards him_. [207]
_Arn. _ What would you? Speak!
Spirit or man?
_Stran. _ As man is both, why not
Say both in one?
_Arn. _ Your form is man's, and yet
You may be devil.
_Stran. _ So many men are that
Which is so called or thought, that you may add me
To which you please, without much wrong to either.
But come: you wish to kill yourself;--pursue
Your purpose.
_Arn. _ You have interrupted me.
_Stran. _ What is that resolution which can e'er 90
Be interrupted? If I be the devil
You deem, a single moment would have made you
Mine, and for ever, by your suicide;
And yet my coming saves you.
_Arn. _ I said not
You _were_ the Demon, but that your approach
Was like one.
_Stran. _ Unless you keep company
With him (and you seem scarce used to such high
Society) you can't tell how he approaches;
And for his aspect, look upon the fountain,
And then on me, and judge which of us twain 100
Looks likest what the boors believe to be
Their cloven-footed terror.
_Arn. _ Do you--dare _you_
To taunt me with my born deformity?
_Stran. _ Were I to taunt a buffalo with this
Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary
With thy Sublime of Humps, the animals
Would revel in the compliment.
And yet
Both beings are more swift, more strong, more mighty
In action and endurance than thyself,
And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 110
With thee. Thy form is natural: 'twas only
Nature's mistaken largess to bestow
The gifts which are of others upon man.
_Arn. _ Give me the strength then of the buffalo's foot,[cw]
When he spurns high the dust, beholding his
Near enemy; or let me have the long
And patient swiftness of the desert-ship,
The helmless dromedary! --and I'll bear[cx]
Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience.
_Stran. _ I will.
_Arn. _ (_with surprise_). Thou _canst? _
_Stran. _ Perhaps. Would you aught else? 120
_Arn. _ Thou mockest me.
_Stran. _ Not I. Why should I mock
What all are mocking? That's poor sport, methinks.
To talk to thee in human language (for
Thou canst not yet speak mine), the forester
Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar,
Or wolf, or lion--leaving paltry game
To petty burghers, who leave once a year
Their walls, to fill their household cauldrons with
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee,--
Now _I_ can mock the mightiest. [cy]
_Arn. _ Then waste not 130
Thy time on me: I seek thee not.
_Stran. _ Your thoughts
Are not far from me. Do not send me back:
I'm not so easily recalled to do
Good service.
_Arn. _ What wilt thou do for me?
_Stran. _ Change
Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you;
Or form you to your wish in any shape.
_Arn. _ Oh! then you are indeed the Demon, for
Nought else would wittingly wear mine.
_Stran. _ I'll show thee
The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give thee
Thy choice.
_Arn. _ On what condition?
_Stran. _ There's a question! 140
An hour ago you would have given your soul
To look like other men, and now you pause
To wear the form of heroes.
_Arn. _ No; I will not.
I must not compromise my soul.
_Stran. _ What soul,
Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcase?
_Arn. _ 'Tis an aspiring one, whate'er the tenement
In which it is mislodged. But name your compact:
Must it be signed in blood?
_Stran. _ Not in your own.
_Arn. _ Whose blood then?
_Stran. _ We will talk of that hereafter.
But I'll be moderate with you, for I see 150
Great things within you. You shall have no bond
But your own will, no contract save your deeds.
Are you content?
_Arn. _ I take thee at thy word.
_Stran. _ Now then! --
[_The Stranger approaches the fountain, and turns to_ ARNOLD.
A little of your blood. [208]
_Arn. _ For what?
_Stran. _ To mingle with the magic of the waters,
And make the charm effective.
_Arn. _ (_holding out his wounded arm_). Take it all.
_Stran. _ Not now. A few drops will suffice for this.
[_The Stranger takes some of_ ARNOLD'S _blood in his
hand, and casts it into the fountain_.
Shadows of Beauty!
Shadows of Power!
Rise to your duty-- 160
This is the hour!
Walk lovely and pliant[cz]
From the depth of this fountain,
As the cloud-shapen giant
Bestrides the Hartz Mountain. [209]
Come as ye were,
That our eyes may behold
The model in air
Of the form I will mould,
Bright as the Iris 170
When ether is spanned;--
Such _his_ desire is, [_Pointing to_ ARNOLD.
Such _my_ command! [da]
Demons heroic--
Demons who wore
The form of the Stoic
Or sophist of yore--
Or the shape of each victor--
From Macedon's boy,
To each high Roman's picture, 180
Who breathed to destroy--
Shadows of Beauty!
Shadows of Power!
Up to your duty--
This is the hour!
[_Various phantoms arise from the waters, and pass
in succession before the Stranger and_ ARNOLD.
_Arn. _ What do I see?
_Stran. _ The black-eyed Roman,[210] with
The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er
Beheld a conqueror, or looked along
The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became
His, and all theirs who heired his very name. 190
_Arn. _ The phantom's bald; _my_ quest is beauty. Could I
Inherit but his fame with his defects!
_Stran. _ His brow was girt with laurels more than hairs. [211]
You see his aspect--choose it, or reject.
I can but promise you his form; his fame
Must be long sought and fought for.
_Arn. _ I will fight, too,
But not as a mock Caesar. Let him pass:
His aspect may be fair, but suits me not.
_Stran. _ Then you are far more difficult to please
Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus's mother, 200
Or Cleopatra at sixteen[212]--an age
When love is not less in the eye than heart.
But be it so! Shadow, pass on!
[_The phantom of Julius Caesar disappears_.
_Arn. _ And can it
Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone,[db]
And left no footstep?
_Stran. _ There you err. His substance
Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame
More than enough to track his memory;
But for his shadow--'tis no more than yours,
Except a little longer and less crooked
I' the sun. Behold another! [_A second phantom passes_.
_Arn. _ Who is he? 210
_Stran. _ He was the fairest and the bravest of
Athenians. [213] Look upon him well.
_Arn. _ He is
More lovely than the last. How beautiful!
_Stran. _ Such was the curled son of Clinias;--wouldst thou
Invest thee with his form?
_Arn. _ Would that I had
Been born with it! But since I may choose further,
I will _look_ further. [_The shade of Alcibiades disappears_.
_Stran. _ Lo! behold again!
_Arn. _ What! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round-eyed satyr,
With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect,
The splay feet and low stature! [214] I had better 220
Remain that which I am.
_Stran. _ And yet he was
The earth's perfection of all mental beauty,
And personification of all virtue.
But you reject him?
_Arn. _ If his form could bring me
That which redeemed it--no.
_Stran. _ I have no power
To promise that; but you may try, and find it
Easier in such a form--or in your own.
_Arn. _ No. I was not born for philosophy,
Though I have that about me which has need on't.
Let him fleet on.
_Stran. _ Be air, thou Hemlock-drinker! 230
[_The shadow of Socrates disappears: another rises_.
_Arn. _ What's here? whose broad brow and whose curly beard
And manly aspect look like Hercules,[215]
Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus
Than the sad purger of the infernal world,
Leaning dejected on his club of conquest,[216]
As if he knew the worthlessness of those
For whom he had fought.
_Stran. _ It was the man who lost
The ancient world for love.
_Arn. _ I cannot blame him,
Since I have risked my soul because I find not
That which he exchanged the earth for.
_Stran. _ Since so far 240
You seem congenial, will you wear his features?
_Arn. _ No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult.
If but to see the heroes I should ne'er
Have seen else, on this side of the dim shore,
Whence they float back before us.
_Stran. _ Hence, Triumvir,
Thy Cleopatra's waiting.
[_The shade of Antony disappears: another rises_.
_Arn. _ Who is this?
Who truly looketh like a demigod,
Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stature,
If not more high than mortal, yet immortal
In all that nameless bearing of his limbs, 250
Which he wears as the Sun his rays--a something
Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing
Emanation of a thing more glorious still.
Was _he e'er human only? _[217]
_Stran. _ Let the earth speak,
If there be atoms of him left, or even
Of the more solid gold that formed his urn.
_Arn. _ Who was this glory of mankind?
_Stran. _ The shame
Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war--
Demetrius the Macedonian, and
Taker of cities.
_Arn. _ Yet one shadow more. 260
_Stran. _ (_addressing the shadow_). Get thee to Lamia's lap!
[_The shade of Demetrius Poliorcetes vanishes: another rises_.
I'll fit you still,
Fear not, my Hunchback: if the shadows of
That which existed please not your nice taste,
I'll animate the ideal marble, till
Your soul be reconciled to her new garment
_Arn. _ Content! I will fix here.
_Stran. _ I must commend
Your choice. The godlike son of the sea-goddess,
The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks
As beautiful and clear as the amber waves
Of rich Pactolus, rolled o'er sands of gold, 270
Softened by intervening crystal, and
Rippled like flowing waters by the wind,
All vowed to Sperchius[218] as they were--behold them!
And _him_--as he stood by Polixena,
With sanctioned and with softened love, before
The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride,
With some remorse within for Hector slain
And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion
For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand
Trembled in _his_ who slew her brother. So 280
He stood i' the temple! Look upon him as
Greece looked her last upon her best, the instant
Ere Paris' arrow flew.
_Arn. _ I gaze upon him
As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon
Envelope mine.
_Stran. _ You have done well. The greatest
Deformity should only barter with
The extremest beauty--if the proverb's true
Of mortals, that Extremes meet.
_Arn. _ Come! Be quick!
I am impatient.
_Stran. _ As a youthful beauty
Before her glass. _You both_ see what is not, 290
But dream it is what must be.
_Arn. _ Must I wait?
_Stran.
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.
The Sack of Rome was a great national calamity, and it was something
more: it was a profanation and a sacrilege. The literature which it
evoked was a cry of anguish, a prophetic burden of despair. "Chants
populaires," writes M. Emile Gebhart (_De l'Italie_, "Le Sac de Rome en
1527," 1876, pp. 267, _sq. _), "_Nouvelles_ de Giraldi Cintio, en forme
de Decameron . . . recits historiques . . . de Cesar Grollier, _Dialogues_
anonymes . . . poesies de Pasquin, toute une litterature se developpa sur
ce theme douloureux. . . . Le _Lamento di Roma_, oeuvre etrange,
d'inspiration gibeline, rappelle les esperances politiques exprimees
jadis par Dante . . . 'Bien que Cesar m'ait depouillee de liberte, nous
avons toujours ete d'accord dans une meme volonte. Je ne me lamenterais
pas si lui regnait; mais je crois qu'il est ressuscite, ou qu'il
ressuscitera veritablement, car souvent un Ange m'a annonce qu'un Cesar
viendrait me delivrer. '. . . Enfin, voici une chanson francaise que
repetaient en repassant les monts les soldats du Marquis de Saluces:--
"Parlons de la deffaiete
De ces pouvres Rommains,
Aussi de la complainete
De notre pere saint.
"'O noble roy de France,
Regarde en pitie
L'Eglise en ballance . . .
Pour Dieu! ne tarde plus,
C'est ta mere, ta substance;
O fils, n'en faictz reffus. '"
"Le dernier monument," adds M. Gebhart, in a footnote, "de cette
litterature, est le singulier drame de Byron, _The Deformed
Transformed_, dont Jules Cesar est le heros, et le Sac de Rome le
cadre. "
It is unlikely that Byron, who read everything he could lay his hands
upon, and spared no trouble to master his "period," had not, either at
first or second hand, acquainted himself with specimens of this popular
literature. (For _La Presa e Lamento di Roma_, _Romae Lamentatio_, etc. ,
see _Lamenti Storici dei Secoli xiv. , xv_. (Medin e Fratri), _Scelta di
Curiosita_, etc. , 235, 236, 237, Bologna, 1890, vol. iii. See, too, for
"Chanson sur la Mort du Connetable de Bourbon," _Recueil de Chants
historiques francais_, par A. J. V. Le Roux de Lincy, 1842, ii. 99. )
_The Deformed Transformed_ was published by John Hunt, February 20,
1824. A third edition appeared February 23, 1824.
It was reviewed, unfavourably, in the _London Magazine_, March, 1824,
vol. 9, pp. 315-321; the _Scots Magazine_, March, 1824, N. S. vol. xiv.
pp. 353-356; and in the _Monthly Review_, March, 1824, Enlarged Series,
103, pp. 321, 324. One reviewer, however (_London Magazine_), had the
candour to admit that "Lord Byron may write below himself, but he can
never write below us! "
For the unfinished third part, _vide post_, pp. 532-534.
ADVERTISEMENT
This production is founded partly on the story of a novel called "The
Three Brothers[201]," published many years ago, from which M. G. Lewis's
"Wood Demon"[202] was also taken; and partly on the "Faust" of the great
Goethe. The present publication[203] contains the two first Parts only,
and the opening chorus of the third. The rest may perhaps appear hereafter.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Stranger, _afterwards_ Caesar
Arnold.
Bourbon.
Philibert.
Cellini.
Bertha.
Olimpia.
_Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome,
Priests, Peasants, etc. _
THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED:[cv]
PART I.
SCENE I. --_A Forest_.
_Enter_ ARNOLD _and his mother_ BERTHA.
_Bert. _ Out, Hunchback!
_Arn. _ I was born so, Mother! [204]
_Bert. _ Out,
Thou incubus! Thou nightmare! Of seven sons,
The sole abortion!
_Arn. _ Would that I had been so,
And never seen the light!
_Bert. _ I would so, too!
But as thou _hast_--hence, hence--and do thy best!
That back of thine may bear its burthen; 'tis
More high, if not so broad as that of others.
_Arn. _ It _bears_ its burthen;--but, my heart! Will it
Sustain that which you lay upon it, Mother?
I love, or, at the least, I loved you: nothing 10
Save You, in nature, can love aught like me.
You nursed me--do not kill me!
_Bert. _ Yes--I nursed thee,
Because thou wert my first-born, and I knew not
If there would be another unlike thee,
That monstrous sport of Nature. But get hence,
And gather wood! [205]
_Arn. _ I will: but when I bring it,
Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are
So beautiful and lusty, and as free
As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me:
Our milk has been the same.
_Bert. _ As is the hedgehog's, 20
Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam
Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds
The nipple, next day, sore, and udder dry.
Call not thy brothers brethren! Call me not
Mother; for if I brought thee forth, it was
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by
Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out!
[_Exit_ BERTHA.
_Arn. _ (_solus_). Oh, mother! --She is gone, and I must do
Her bidding;--wearily but willingly
I would fulfil it, could I only hope 30
A kind word in return. What shall I do?
[_ARNOLD begins to cut wood: in doing this
he wounds one of his hands_.
My labour for the day is over now.
Accursed be this blood that flows so fast;
For double curses will be my meed now
At home--What home? I have no home, no kin,
No kind--not made like other creatures, or
To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed, too,
Like them? Oh, that each drop which falls to earth
Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have stung me!
Or that the Devil, to whom they liken me, 40
Would aid his likeness! If I must partake[206]
His form, why not his power? Is it because
I have not his will too? For one kind word
From her who bore me would still reconcile me
Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash
The wound.
[ARNOLD _goes to a spring, and stoops to wash
his hand: he starts back_.
They are right; and Nature's mirror shows me,
What she hath made me. I will not look on it
Again, and scarce dare think on't. Hideous wretch
That I am! The very waters mock me with 50
My horrid shadow--like a demon placed
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle
From drinking therein. [_He pauses_.
And shall I live on,
A burden to the earth, myself, and shame
Unto what brought me into life? Thou blood,
Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me
Try if thou wilt not, in a fuller stream,
Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself
On earth, to which I will restore, at once,
This hateful compound of her atoms, and 60
Resolve back to her elements, and take
The shape of any reptile save myself,
And make a world for myriads of new worms!
This knife! now let me prove if it will sever
This withered slip of Nature's nightshade--my
Vile form--from the creation, as it hath
The green bough from the forest.
[ARNOLD _places the knife in the ground, with
the point upwards_.
Now 'tis set,
And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance
On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like
Myself, and the sweet sun which warmed me, but 70
In vain. The birds--how joyously they sing!
So let them, for I would not be lamented:
But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell;
The fallen leaves my monument; the murmur
Of the near fountain my sole elegy.
Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall!
[_As he rushes to throw himself upon the knife,
his eye is suddenly caught by the fountain,
which seems in motion_.
The fountain moves without a wind: but shall
The ripple of a spring change my resolve?
No. Yet it moves again! The waters stir,
Not as with air, but by some subterrane 80
And rocking Power of the internal world.
What's here? A mist! No more? --
[_A cloud comes from the fountain. He stands gazing
upon it: it is dispelled, and a tall black
man comes towards him_. [207]
_Arn. _ What would you? Speak!
Spirit or man?
_Stran. _ As man is both, why not
Say both in one?
_Arn. _ Your form is man's, and yet
You may be devil.
_Stran. _ So many men are that
Which is so called or thought, that you may add me
To which you please, without much wrong to either.
But come: you wish to kill yourself;--pursue
Your purpose.
_Arn. _ You have interrupted me.
_Stran. _ What is that resolution which can e'er 90
Be interrupted? If I be the devil
You deem, a single moment would have made you
Mine, and for ever, by your suicide;
And yet my coming saves you.
_Arn. _ I said not
You _were_ the Demon, but that your approach
Was like one.
_Stran. _ Unless you keep company
With him (and you seem scarce used to such high
Society) you can't tell how he approaches;
And for his aspect, look upon the fountain,
And then on me, and judge which of us twain 100
Looks likest what the boors believe to be
Their cloven-footed terror.
_Arn. _ Do you--dare _you_
To taunt me with my born deformity?
_Stran. _ Were I to taunt a buffalo with this
Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary
With thy Sublime of Humps, the animals
Would revel in the compliment.
And yet
Both beings are more swift, more strong, more mighty
In action and endurance than thyself,
And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 110
With thee. Thy form is natural: 'twas only
Nature's mistaken largess to bestow
The gifts which are of others upon man.
_Arn. _ Give me the strength then of the buffalo's foot,[cw]
When he spurns high the dust, beholding his
Near enemy; or let me have the long
And patient swiftness of the desert-ship,
The helmless dromedary! --and I'll bear[cx]
Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience.
_Stran. _ I will.
_Arn. _ (_with surprise_). Thou _canst? _
_Stran. _ Perhaps. Would you aught else? 120
_Arn. _ Thou mockest me.
_Stran. _ Not I. Why should I mock
What all are mocking? That's poor sport, methinks.
To talk to thee in human language (for
Thou canst not yet speak mine), the forester
Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar,
Or wolf, or lion--leaving paltry game
To petty burghers, who leave once a year
Their walls, to fill their household cauldrons with
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee,--
Now _I_ can mock the mightiest. [cy]
_Arn. _ Then waste not 130
Thy time on me: I seek thee not.
_Stran. _ Your thoughts
Are not far from me. Do not send me back:
I'm not so easily recalled to do
Good service.
_Arn. _ What wilt thou do for me?
_Stran. _ Change
Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you;
Or form you to your wish in any shape.
_Arn. _ Oh! then you are indeed the Demon, for
Nought else would wittingly wear mine.
_Stran. _ I'll show thee
The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give thee
Thy choice.
_Arn. _ On what condition?
_Stran. _ There's a question! 140
An hour ago you would have given your soul
To look like other men, and now you pause
To wear the form of heroes.
_Arn. _ No; I will not.
I must not compromise my soul.
_Stran. _ What soul,
Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcase?
_Arn. _ 'Tis an aspiring one, whate'er the tenement
In which it is mislodged. But name your compact:
Must it be signed in blood?
_Stran. _ Not in your own.
_Arn. _ Whose blood then?
_Stran. _ We will talk of that hereafter.
But I'll be moderate with you, for I see 150
Great things within you. You shall have no bond
But your own will, no contract save your deeds.
Are you content?
_Arn. _ I take thee at thy word.
_Stran. _ Now then! --
[_The Stranger approaches the fountain, and turns to_ ARNOLD.
A little of your blood. [208]
_Arn. _ For what?
_Stran. _ To mingle with the magic of the waters,
And make the charm effective.
_Arn. _ (_holding out his wounded arm_). Take it all.
_Stran. _ Not now. A few drops will suffice for this.
[_The Stranger takes some of_ ARNOLD'S _blood in his
hand, and casts it into the fountain_.
Shadows of Beauty!
Shadows of Power!
Rise to your duty-- 160
This is the hour!
Walk lovely and pliant[cz]
From the depth of this fountain,
As the cloud-shapen giant
Bestrides the Hartz Mountain. [209]
Come as ye were,
That our eyes may behold
The model in air
Of the form I will mould,
Bright as the Iris 170
When ether is spanned;--
Such _his_ desire is, [_Pointing to_ ARNOLD.
Such _my_ command! [da]
Demons heroic--
Demons who wore
The form of the Stoic
Or sophist of yore--
Or the shape of each victor--
From Macedon's boy,
To each high Roman's picture, 180
Who breathed to destroy--
Shadows of Beauty!
Shadows of Power!
Up to your duty--
This is the hour!
[_Various phantoms arise from the waters, and pass
in succession before the Stranger and_ ARNOLD.
_Arn. _ What do I see?
_Stran. _ The black-eyed Roman,[210] with
The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er
Beheld a conqueror, or looked along
The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became
His, and all theirs who heired his very name. 190
_Arn. _ The phantom's bald; _my_ quest is beauty. Could I
Inherit but his fame with his defects!
_Stran. _ His brow was girt with laurels more than hairs. [211]
You see his aspect--choose it, or reject.
I can but promise you his form; his fame
Must be long sought and fought for.
_Arn. _ I will fight, too,
But not as a mock Caesar. Let him pass:
His aspect may be fair, but suits me not.
_Stran. _ Then you are far more difficult to please
Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus's mother, 200
Or Cleopatra at sixteen[212]--an age
When love is not less in the eye than heart.
But be it so! Shadow, pass on!
[_The phantom of Julius Caesar disappears_.
_Arn. _ And can it
Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone,[db]
And left no footstep?
_Stran. _ There you err. His substance
Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame
More than enough to track his memory;
But for his shadow--'tis no more than yours,
Except a little longer and less crooked
I' the sun. Behold another! [_A second phantom passes_.
_Arn. _ Who is he? 210
_Stran. _ He was the fairest and the bravest of
Athenians. [213] Look upon him well.
_Arn. _ He is
More lovely than the last. How beautiful!
_Stran. _ Such was the curled son of Clinias;--wouldst thou
Invest thee with his form?
_Arn. _ Would that I had
Been born with it! But since I may choose further,
I will _look_ further. [_The shade of Alcibiades disappears_.
_Stran. _ Lo! behold again!
_Arn. _ What! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round-eyed satyr,
With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect,
The splay feet and low stature! [214] I had better 220
Remain that which I am.
_Stran. _ And yet he was
The earth's perfection of all mental beauty,
And personification of all virtue.
But you reject him?
_Arn. _ If his form could bring me
That which redeemed it--no.
_Stran. _ I have no power
To promise that; but you may try, and find it
Easier in such a form--or in your own.
_Arn. _ No. I was not born for philosophy,
Though I have that about me which has need on't.
Let him fleet on.
_Stran. _ Be air, thou Hemlock-drinker! 230
[_The shadow of Socrates disappears: another rises_.
_Arn. _ What's here? whose broad brow and whose curly beard
And manly aspect look like Hercules,[215]
Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus
Than the sad purger of the infernal world,
Leaning dejected on his club of conquest,[216]
As if he knew the worthlessness of those
For whom he had fought.
_Stran. _ It was the man who lost
The ancient world for love.
_Arn. _ I cannot blame him,
Since I have risked my soul because I find not
That which he exchanged the earth for.
_Stran. _ Since so far 240
You seem congenial, will you wear his features?
_Arn. _ No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult.
If but to see the heroes I should ne'er
Have seen else, on this side of the dim shore,
Whence they float back before us.
_Stran. _ Hence, Triumvir,
Thy Cleopatra's waiting.
[_The shade of Antony disappears: another rises_.
_Arn. _ Who is this?
Who truly looketh like a demigod,
Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stature,
If not more high than mortal, yet immortal
In all that nameless bearing of his limbs, 250
Which he wears as the Sun his rays--a something
Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing
Emanation of a thing more glorious still.
Was _he e'er human only? _[217]
_Stran. _ Let the earth speak,
If there be atoms of him left, or even
Of the more solid gold that formed his urn.
_Arn. _ Who was this glory of mankind?
_Stran. _ The shame
Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war--
Demetrius the Macedonian, and
Taker of cities.
_Arn. _ Yet one shadow more. 260
_Stran. _ (_addressing the shadow_). Get thee to Lamia's lap!
[_The shade of Demetrius Poliorcetes vanishes: another rises_.
I'll fit you still,
Fear not, my Hunchback: if the shadows of
That which existed please not your nice taste,
I'll animate the ideal marble, till
Your soul be reconciled to her new garment
_Arn. _ Content! I will fix here.
_Stran. _ I must commend
Your choice. The godlike son of the sea-goddess,
The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks
As beautiful and clear as the amber waves
Of rich Pactolus, rolled o'er sands of gold, 270
Softened by intervening crystal, and
Rippled like flowing waters by the wind,
All vowed to Sperchius[218] as they were--behold them!
And _him_--as he stood by Polixena,
With sanctioned and with softened love, before
The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride,
With some remorse within for Hector slain
And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion
For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand
Trembled in _his_ who slew her brother. So 280
He stood i' the temple! Look upon him as
Greece looked her last upon her best, the instant
Ere Paris' arrow flew.
_Arn. _ I gaze upon him
As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon
Envelope mine.
_Stran. _ You have done well. The greatest
Deformity should only barter with
The extremest beauty--if the proverb's true
Of mortals, that Extremes meet.
_Arn. _ Come! Be quick!
I am impatient.
_Stran. _ As a youthful beauty
Before her glass. _You both_ see what is not, 290
But dream it is what must be.
_Arn. _ Must I wait?
_Stran.
