Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

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.

  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, 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.

  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.

  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 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.

  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?