Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  They meet the seas,

  And shut out God from our beseeching eyes.

  Fly, son of Noah, fly! and take thine ease,

  In thine allotted ocean-tent;

  And view, all floating o’er the element,

  The corpses of the world of thy young days: 880

  Then to Jehovah raise

  Thy song of praise!

  A Mortal.

  Blesséd are the dead

  Who die in the Lord!

  And though the waters be o’er earth outspread,

  Yet, as his word,

  Be the decree adored!

  He gave me life — he taketh but

  The breath which is his own:

  And though these eyes should be for ever shut, 890

  Nor longer this weak voice before his throne

  Be heard in supplicating tone,

  Still blessed be the Lord,

  For what is past,

  For that which is:

  For all are his,

  From first to last —

  Time — Space — Eternity — Life — Death —

  The vast known and immeasurable unknown.

  He made, and can unmake; 900

  And shall I, for a little gasp of breath,

  Blaspheme and groan?

  No; let me die, as I have lived, in faith,

  Nor quiver, though the Universe may quake!

  Chorus of Mortals.

  Where shall we fly?

  Not to the mountains high;

  For now their torrents rush, with double roar,

  To meet the Ocean, which, advancing still,

  Already grasps each drowning hill,

  Nor leaves an unsearched cave. 910

  Enter a Woman.

  Woman.

  Oh, save me, save!

  Our valley is no more:

  My father and my father’s tent,

  My brethren and my brethren’s herds,

  The pleasant trees that o’er our noonday bent,

  And sent forth evening songs from sweetest birds,

  The little rivulet which freshened all

  Our pastures green,

  No more are to be seen.

  When to the mountain cliff I climbed this morn, 920

  I turned to bless the spot,

  And not a leaf appeared about to fall; —

  And now they are not! —

  Why was I born?

  Japh.

  To die! in youth to die!

  And happier in that doom,

  Than to behold the universal tomb,

  Which I

  Am thus condemned to weep above in vain.

  Why, when all perish, why must I remain?

  [The waters rise; Men fly in every direction; many are overtaken by the waves: the Chorus of Mortals disperses in search of safety up the mountains: Japhet remains upon a rock, while the Ark floats towards him in the distance.

  WERNER

  OR,

  THE INHERITANCE:

  A TRAGEDY.

  [Werner was produced, for the first time, at the Park Theatre, New York, in 1826. Mr. Barry played “Werner.”

  Werner was brought out at Drury Lane Theatre, and played, for the first time, December 15, 1830. Macready appeared as “Werner,” J. W. Wallack as “Ulric,” Mrs. Faucit as “Josephine,” and Miss Mordaunt as “Ida.” According to the Times, December 16, 1830, “Mr. Macready appeared to very great advantage. We have never seen him exert himself more — we have never known him to exert himself with more powerful effect. Three of his scenes were masterpieces.” Genest says that Werner was acted seventeen times in 1830-31.

  There was a revival in 1833. Macready says (Diary, March 20) that he acted “‘Werner’ with unusual force, truth, and collectedness … finished off each burst of passion, and, in consequence, entered on the following emotion with clearness and earnestness” (Macready’s Reminiscences, 1875, i 36.6).

  Werner was played in 1834, 5, 6, 7, 9; in 1841; in 1843-4 (New York, Boston, Baltimore, New Orleans, Cincinnati, Montreal); in 1845 (Paris, London, Glasgow, Belfast, Dublin); in 1846, 1847; in America in 1848; in the provinces in 1849; in 1850; and, for the last time, at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, January 14, 1851. At the farewell performance Macready appeared as “Werner,” Mr. Davenport as “Ulric,” Mrs. Warner as “Josephine,” Mrs. Ryder as “Ida.” In the same year (1851) a portrait of Macready as “Werner,” by Daniel Maclise, R.A., was on view at the Exhibition at the Royal Academy. The motto was taken from Werner, act i. sc. 1, lines 114, sq. (See, for a detailed criticism of Macready’s “Werner,” Our Recent Actors, by Westland Marston, 1881, i. 89-98; and for the famous “Macready burst,” in act ii. sc. 2, and act v. sc. 1, vide ibid., i. 97.)

  Werner was brought out at Sadler’s Wells Theatre, November 21, 1860, and repeated November 22, 23, 24, 28, 29; December, 3, 4, 11, 13, 14, 1860. Phelps appeared as “Werner,” Mr. Edmund Phelps as “Ulric,” Miss Atkinson as “Josephine.” “Perhaps the old actor never performed the part so finely as he did on that night. The identity between the real and ideal relations of the characters was as vivid to him as to the audience, and gave a deeper intensity, on both sides, to the scenes between father and son.” (See The London Stage, by H. Barton Baker, 1889, ii. 217.)

  On the afternoon of June 1, 1887, Werner (four acts, arranged by Frank Marshall) was performed at the Lyceum Theatre for the benefit of Westland Marston. [Sir] Henry Irving appeared as “Werner,” Miss Ellen Terry as “Josephine,” Mr. Alexander as “Ulric.” (See for an appreciation of Sir Henry Irving’s presentation of Werner, the Athenæum, June 4, 1887.)]

  INTRODUCTION

  Werner; or, The Inheritance, was begun at Pisa, December 18, 1821, and finished January 20, 1822. At the end of the month, January 29, Byron despatched the MS., not to Murray, but to Moore, then in retreat at Paris, intending, no doubt, that it should be placed in the hands of another publisher; but a letter from Murray “melted him,” and on March 6, 1822 (Letters, 1901, vi. 34), he desired Moore to forward the packet to Albemarle Street. The play was set up in type, and revised proofs were returned to Murray at the end of June; but, for various reasons, publication was withheld, and, on October 31, Byron informed John Hunt that he had empowered his friend Douglas Kinnaird to obtain Werner, with other MSS., from Murray. None the less, milder counsels again prevailed, and on Saturday, November 23, 1822, Werner was published, not in the same volume with Heaven and Earth, as Byron intended and expected, nor by John Hunt, as he had threatened, but by itself, and, as heretofore, by John Murray. Werner was “the last of all the flock” to issue from Murray’s fold.

  In his Preface to Werner (vide post, ) Byron disclaims all pretensions to originality. “The following drama,” he writes, “is taken entirely from the ‘German’s Tale, Kruitzner,’ published … in Lee’s Canterbury Tales…. I have adopted the characters, plan, and even the language, of many parts of this story.” Kruitzner seems to have made a deep impression on his mind. When he was a boy of thirteen (i.e. in 1801, when the fourth volume of the Canterbury Tales was published), and again in 1815, he set himself to turn the tale into a drama. His first attempt, named Ulric and Ilvina, he threw into the fire, but he had nearly completed the first act of his second and maturer adaptation when he was “interrupted by circumstances,” that is, no doubt, the circumstances which led up to and ended in the separation from his wife. (See letter of October 9, 1821, Letters, 1901, v. 391.)

  On his leaving England for the Continent, April 25, 1816, the fragment was left behind. Most probably the MS. fell into his sister’s hands, for in October, 1821, it was not forthcoming when Byron gave directions that Hobhouse should search for it “amongst my papers.” Ultimately it came into the possession of the late Mr. Murray, and is now printed for the first time in its entirety (vide post, pp. -466: selections were given in the Nineteenth Century, August, 1899). It should be borne in mind that this unprinted first act of Werner,
which synchronizes with the Siege of Corinth and Parisina, was written when Byron was a member of the sub-committee of management of Drury Lane Theatre, and, as the numerous stage directions testify, with a view to stage-representation. The MS. is scored with corrections, and betrays an unusual elaboration, and, perhaps, some difficulty and hesitation in the choice of words and the construction of sentences. In the opening scene the situation is not caught and gripped, while the melancholy squalor of the original narrative is only too faithfully reproduced. The Werner of 1821, with all its shortcomings, is the production of a playwright. The Werner of 1815 is the attempt of a highly gifted amateur.

  When Byron once more bethought himself of his old subject, he not only sent for the MS. of the first act, but desired Murray “to cut out Sophia Lee’s” (vide post, ) “German’s Tale from the Canterbury Tales, and send it in a letter” (Letters, 1901, v. 390). He seems to have intended from the first to construct a drama out of the story, and, no doubt, to acknowledge the source of his inspiration. On the whole, he carried out his intention, taking places, characters, and incidents as he found them, but recasting the materials and turning prose into metre. But here and there, to save himself trouble, he “stole his brooms ready made,” and, as he acknowledges in the Preface, “adopted even the language of the story.” Act ii. sc. 2, lines 87-172; act iii. sc. 4; and act v. sc. 1, lines 94-479, are, more or less, faithful and exact reproductions of pp. 203-206, 228-232, and 252-271 of the novel (see Canterbury Tales, ed. 1832, vol. ii.). On the other hand, in the remaining three-fourths of the play, the language is not Miss Lee’s, but Byron’s, and the “conveyance” of incidents occasional and insignificant. Much, too, was imported into the play (e.g. almost the whole of the fourth act), of which there is neither hint nor suggestion in the story. Maginn’s categorical statement (see “O’Doherty on Werner,” Miscellanies, 1885, i. 189) that “here Lord Byron has invented nothing — absolutely, positively, undeniably nothing;” that “there is not one incident in his play, not even the most trivial, that is not to be found in the novel,” etc., is “positively and undeniably” a falsehood. Maginn read Werner for the purpose of attacking Byron, and, by printing selected passages from the novel and the play, in parallel columns, gives the reader to understand that he had made an exhaustive analysis of the original and the copy. The review, which is quoted as an authority in the editions of 1832 (xiv. pp. 113, 114) and 1837, etc., p. 341, is disingenuous and misleading.

  The original story may be briefly retold. The prodigal and outlawed son of a Bohemian noble, Count Siegendorf, after various adventures, marries, under the assumed name of Friedrich Kruitzner, the daughter of an Italian scholar and man of science, of noble birth, but in narrow circumstances. A son, Conrad, is born to him, who, at eight years of age, is transferred to the charge of his grandfather. Twelve years go by, and, when the fortunes of the younger Siegendorf are at their lowest ebb, he learns, at the same moment, that his father is dead, and that a distant kinsman, the Baron Stralenheim, is meditating an attack on his person, with a view to claiming his inheritance. Of Conrad, who has disappeared, he hears nothing.

  An accident compels the count and the baron to occupy adjoining quarters in a small town on the northern frontier of Silesia; and, again, another accident places the usurping and intriguing baron at the mercy of his poverty-stricken and exiled kinsman. Stralenheim has fallen asleep near the fire in his easy-chair. Papers and several rouleaux of gold are ranged on a cabinet beside the bed. Kruitzner, who is armed with “a large and sharp knife,” is suddenly confronted with his unarmed and slumbering foe, and though habit and conscience conspire to make murder impossible, he yields to a sudden and irresistible impulse, and snatches up “the portion of gold which is nearest.” He has no sooner returned to his wife and confessed his deed, than Conrad suddenly appears on the scene, and at the very moment of an unexpected and joyous reunion with his parents, learns that his father is a thief. Kruitzner pleads “guilty with extenuating circumstances,” and Conrad, who either is or pretends to be disgusted at his father’s sophistries, makes the best of a bad business, and undertakes to conceal his father’s dishonour and rescue him from the power of Stralenheim. The plot hinges on the unlooked-for and unsuspected action of Conrad. Unlike his father, he is not the man to let “I dare not wait upon I would,” but murders Stralenheim in cold blood, and, at the same time, diverts suspicion from his father and himself to the person of his comrade, a Hungarian soldier of fortune, who is already supposed to be the thief, and who had sought and obtained shelter in the apartments of the conscience-stricken Kruitzner.

  The scene changes to Prague. Siegendorf, no longer Kruitzner, has regained his inheritance, and is once more at the height of splendour and prosperity. A service of thanksgiving is being held in the cathedral to commemorate the signature of the Treaty of Prague (1635), and the count is present in state. Suddenly he catches sight of the Hungarian, and, “like a flash of lightning” feels and remembers that he is a thief, and that he might, however unjustly, be suspected if not accused of the murder of Stralenheim. The service is over, and the count is recrossing “Muldau’s Bridge,” when he hears the fatal word Kruitzner, “the seal of his shame,” spoken in his ear. He returns to his castle, and issues orders that the Hungarian should be arrested and interrogated. An interview takes place, at which the Hungarian denounces Conrad as the murderer of Stralenheim. The son acknowledges the deed, and upbraids the father for his weakness and credulity in supposing that his escape from Stralenheim’s machinations could have been effected by any other means. If, he argues, circumstances can palliate dishonesty, they can compel and justify murder. Common sense even now demands the immediate slaughter of the Hungarian, as it compelled and sanctioned the effectual silencing of Stralenheim. But Siegendorf knows not “thorough,” and shrinks at assassination. He repudiates and denounces his son, and connives at the escape of the Hungarian. Conrad, who is banished from Prague, rejoins his former associates, the “black bands,” which were the scandal and terror of the neighbouring provinces, and is killed in a skirmish with the regular troops. Siegendorf dies of a broken heart.

  The conception of The German’s Tale, as Byron perceived, is superior to the execution. The style is laboured and involved, and the narrative long-winded and tiresome. It is, perhaps, an adaptation, though not a literal translation, of a German historical romance. But the motif — a son predestined to evil by the weakness and sensuality of his father, a father punished for his want of rectitude by the passionate criminality of his son, is the very key-note of tragedy.

  If from haste or indolence Byron scamped his task, and cut up whole cantles of the novel into nerveless and pointless blank verse, here and there throughout the play, in scattered lines and passages, he outdoes himself. The inspiration is fitful, but supreme.

  Werner was reviewed in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, December, 1822, vol. xii. pp. 710-719 (republished in Miscellanies of W. Maginn, 1885, i. 189); in the Scots Magazine, December, 1822, N.S. vol. xi. pp. 688-694; the European Magazine, January, 1823, vol. 83, pp. 73-76; and in the Eclectic Review, February, 1823, N.S. vol. xix. pp. 148-155.

  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. 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 tha
t 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.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

  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.

  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!