The Miscellaneous Works of Lord Byron. Containing Werner, a tragedy; Heaven and Earth; Morgante Maggiore; Age of Bronze; The Island; Vision of Judgment; and The Deformed Transformed

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. 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 VI

PREFACE.

. of mind and conception which it develops. 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 their 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 some where 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. Feb. 1822. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. Werner. Ulric. Stralenheim. Idenstein. Gabor. Fritz. Henrick. Eric. Arnheim. Meister. Rodolph. Ludwig. 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. 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 Until 'tis spilt or check'd — 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 1 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 !

Thou knovv'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 Thou namest — ay, 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 shelter'd from them all? Web. Yes. And from these alone. Jos. And that is something*.

Wer. True — to a peasant. Jos. Should the nobly born Be thankless for that refuge which their habits Of early delicacy render more 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 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 clasp'd 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. 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, 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 pennyless? Jos. We ne'er were wealthy. Wer. But I was born to wealth, and rank, and power ; Enjoy'd 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 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 outsteps 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 return'd back to his grandsire, and Even now uphold thy rights for thee ? Wer. 'Tis hopeless. Since his strange disappearance from my father's, Entailing, as it were, my sins upon Himself, no tidings have reveal'd 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. WERNER. 15 SC I. 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 track'd us here ? Jos. He does not know thy person; and his spies, Who so long watch'd thee, have been left at Hamburgh, Our unexpected journey, and this change Of name, leaves all disvovery far behind : 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-hollow'd brow, the lord of halls, Which daily feast a thousand vassals ? Jos. You Ponder-d not thus upon these worldly things, My Werner ! when you deign 'd 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 decay'd ; And worthy by its birth to match with ours. Jo s . Your father did not think so, though 'twas noble ; But had my birth been all my claim to match With thee, I should have deem'd 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 earn'd thy bread, as thousands earn it ; Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce, Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes. SC. I. WERNER. 17 Wer. (ironically). And been an Hanseatic burgher? Excellent ! Jos. Whate'er thou mightst 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 w eakness of my temper, 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, Chasten'd, 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 barr'd me from my father's house, The last sole scion of a thousand sires, (For I was then the last) it hurt me less Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother Excluded in their innocence from what c VOL. My faults deserved exclusion ; although then My passions were all living serpents, 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 In this lone spot of wintry desolation — The very desart saves man from mankind [She goes to the door. Enter Idenstein. Iden. A fair good evening to my fairer hostess And worthy what's your name, my friend ? Wer. Are you Not afraid to demand it? WERNER. 19 sc. i. Iden. Not afraid ? Egad ! I am afraid. You look as if I ask'd 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 Here in the prince's palace — (to be sure, His highness had resign'd 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. 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, 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. ACT I. WERNER. Cannot you humour the dull gossip till [Aside to Wer. We learn his purpose ? Iden. Well, I'm glad of that; 1 thought so all along, such natural yearnings Play'd round my heart — blood is not water, cousin ; And so let's have some wine, and drink unto Our better acquaintance : relatives should be Friends. Wer. You appear to have drank enough already, And if you had 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 happen'd, then? Jos. How should we ? Iden. The river has o'erflowed. Jos. Alas ! we have known That to our sorrow, for these five days ; since It keeps us here. SC. I. WERNER. 21 Iden. But what you don't know is, That a great personage, who fain would cross Against the stream and three postillions' wishes, Is drown'd below the ford, with five post-horses, A monkey, and a mastiff", and a valet. 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, As it is fit that men in office should be ; But, what is certain is, that he has swallow'd Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants ; And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller, Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd 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. 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, WERNER. ACT I 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 order'd fire and all appliances To be got ready for the worst — that is, In case he should survive. Jos. Poor gentleman ! I hope he will with all my heart. Wer. Intendant, Have you not learn'd his name ? My Josephine, [Aside to his wife. 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. Gab. If I intrude, I crave Iden. Oh, no intrusion ! This is the palace ; this a stranger like SC. I. W ERNE R. 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 doff'd mine for these, and came on hither) And has almost recover'd 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 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 1 should think the pillow Would please him better than the table after His soaking in your river : but for fear Your viands should be thrown away, I mean ACT I. WERNER. 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 help'd 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. I scarce should give myself the trouble. Iden. Pray, Good friend, and who may you be ? Gab. By my family, Hungarian. Iden. Which is call'd ? 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 ! 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 Hockcheimer, a green glass, Wreath'd with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices, O'erflowing with the oldest of yo* . vintage ; For which I promise you, in case you e'er Run hazard of being drown'd (although I own It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for you) 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 Iden WERNER. ACT I. Gab. (so Werner). This master of the ceremonies is The intendant of the palace, I presume ; 'Tis a fine building, but decay'd. Wer. The apartment Design'd for him you rescued will be found In fitter order for a sickly guest. Gab. I wonder then you occupied it not, For you seem delicate in health. Wer. (quickly). Sir ! Gab. Pray Excuse me : have I said aught to offend you ? Wer. Nothing: but we are strangers to each other. Gab. And that's the reason I would have us less so: I thought our bustling guest without had said You were a chance and passing guest, the counterpart Of me and my companions.

Wer. Very true. Gab. Then, as we never met before, and never, It may be, may again encounter, why, I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here (At least to me) by asking you to share The fare of my companions and myself. Wer. Pray, pardon me ; my health Gab. Even as you please. I have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt In bearing. Wer. I have also served, and can Requite a soldier's greeting. Gab. In what service ? The Imperial ? Wer. (quickly, and then interrupting himself.) I commanded — no — I mean I served ; but it is many years ago, When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst The Austrian. Gab. Well, that's over now, and peace Has turn'd some thousand gallant hearts adrift To live as they best may; and, to say truth. Some take the shortest. Web. What is that? Gab. Whate'er They lay their hands on.

All Silesia and Lusatia's woods are tenanted by bands Of the late troops, who levy on the country Their maintenance : the Chatelains must keep Their castle walls — beyond them 'tis but doubtful Travel for your rich count or full-blown baron. ACT I WERNER. My comfort is that, wander where I may, I've little left to lose now. Web. And I — nothing. Gab. That's harder still. You say you were a soldier. Wer. I was. Gab. You look one still. All soldiers are Or should be comrades, even though enemies. Our swords when drawn must cross, our engines aim (While levell'd) at each other's hearts ; but when A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep The spark which lights the matchlock, we are brethren. You are poor and sickly — I am not rich but healthy; I want for nothing which I cannot want ; You seem devoid of this — wilt share it ? [Gabob pulls out his purse.

Web. Who Told you I was a beggar ? Gab. You yourself In saying you were a soldier during peace-time. Web. (looking at himwith suspicion). You know me not ? Gab. I know no man, not even Myself: how should I then know one I ne'er Beheld till half an hour since ? Web. Sir, I thank you. Your offer's noble were it to a friend, And not unkind as to an unknown stranger, Though scarcely prudent ; but no less I thank you. I am a beggar in all save his trade, And when I beg of any one it shall be Of him who was the first to offer what Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. [Exit Wer. Gab. (solus). A goodly fellow by his looks, though worn, As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure, Which tear life out of us before our time : I scarce know which most quickly ; but he seems To have seen better days, as who has not Who has seen yesterday ? — But here approaches Our sage intendant, with the wine ; however, For the cup's sake, I'll bear the cup-bearer.

Enter Idenstein. Iden. 'Tis here! the supernaculum! twenty years Of age, if 'tis a day. Gab. Which epoch makes Young women and old wine, and 'tis great pity Of two such excellent things, increase of years, ACT 1. WERNER. Which still improves the one, should spoil the other. Fill full — Here's to our hostess — your fair wife. [Takes the glass. Iden. Fair ! — Well, I trust your taste in wine is equal To that you show for beauty; but I pledge you Nevertheless. Gab. Is not the lovely woman I met in the adjacent hall, who, with An air, and port, and eye, which would have better Beseem'd this palace in its brightest days, (Though in a garb adapted to its present Abandonment) return'd my salutation — Is not the same your spouse ? Iden. I would she were ! But you're mistaken — that's the stranger's wife.

Gab. And by her aspect she might be a prince's : Though time hath touch'd her too, she still retains Much beauty, and more majesty. Iden. And that Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein, At least in beauty : as for majesty, She has some of its properties which might Be spared — but never mind ! Gab. I don't. But who May be this stranger ? He too hath a bearing- Above his outward fortunes. Iden. There I differ. He's poor as Job, and not so patient ; but Who he may be, or what, or aught of him, Except his name (and that I only learn'd To-night) I know not. Gab. But how came he here? Iden. In a most miserable old caleche, About a month since, and immediately Fell sick, almost to death. He should have died. Gab. Tender and true ! — but why? Iden. Why, what is life Without a living? He has not a stiver.

Gab. In that case, I much wonder that a person Of your apparent prudence should admit Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion. Iden. That's true ; but pity, as you know, does make One's heart commit these follies ; and besides, They had some valuables left at that time, Which paid their way up to the present hour, And so I thought they might as well be lodged Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them The run of some of the oldest palace rooms. ACT I. 32 WERNER. They served to air them, at the least as long As they could pay for fire wood. Gab. Poor souls ! Iden. Ay, Exceeding poor. Gab. And yet unused to poverty, If I mistake not. Whither were they going ? Iden. Oh! Heaven knows where, unless to heaven itself. Some days ago that look'd the likeliest journey For Werner. Gab. Werner ! I have heard the name, But it may be a feign'd one.

Iden. Like enough ! But hark ! a noise of wheels and voices, and A blaze of torches from without. As sure As destiny, his excellency's come. I must be at my post : will you not join me, To help him from his carriage, and present Your humble duty at the door ? Gab. I dragg'd him From out that carriage when he would have given His barony or county to repel The rushing river from his gurgling throat. He has valets now enough : they stood aloof then, Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore, All roaring, " Help !" but offering none ; and as For duty (as you call it) I did mine then, Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him here ! Iden. I cringe ! — but I shall lose the opportunity — Plague take it ! he'll be here, and I not there ! [Exit Idenstein. hastily. Re-enter Werner. Web. (so himself.)

I heard a noise of wheels and voices. How All sounds now jar me ! Still here ! Is he not [Perceiving Gabor. A spy of my pursuer's? His frank offer, So suddenly, and to a stranger, wore The aspect of a secret enemy; For friends are slow at such. Gab. Sir, you seem rapt, And yet the time is not akin to thought. These old walls will be noisy soon. The baron, Or count (or whatsoe'er this half-drown'd noble May be) for whom this desolate village, and Its lone inhabitants, show more respect Than did the elements, is come. i> ACT I. WERNER. Iden. (without.) This way — This way, your excellency : — have a care, The staircase is a little gloomy, and Somewhat decay'd ; but if we had expected So high a guest — pray take my arm, my lord ! Enter Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants, partly his own, and partly retainers of the domain of which Idenstein is Intendant.

Steal. I'll rest me here a moment. Iden. (to the servants). Ho! a chair! Instantly, knaves! [Stralenheim sits down. Wer. (aside). 'Tis he! Stral. I'm better now Who are these strangers ? Iden. Please you, my good lord, One says he is no stranger. Wer. (aloud and hastily). Who says that? [They look at him tvith surprise. Iden. Why, no one spoke of you, or to you] — but Here's one his excellency may be pleased To recognise. [Pointing to Gabor Gab. I seek not to disturb His noble memory. Stral. I apprehend WERNER. 35 SC. I. This is one of the strangers to whose aid I owe my rescue. Is not that the other ? [Pointing lo Werner. My state when I was succour'd must excuse My uncertainty to whom I owe so much. Iden. He ! — no, my lord ! he rather wants for rescue Than can afford it. 'Tis a poor sick man, Travel-tired, and lately risen from a bed From whence he never dream'd to rise.