[_Knocking repeated. Opens the door_.
Well--Sir--your pleasure?
_Enter_ CARL _the Bavarian_.
_Carl_. Thanks most worthy Sir!
My pleasure, for to-night, depends on yours--
I'm weary, wet, and wayworn--without shelter,
Unless you please to grant it.
_Josepha_. You shall have it, 10
Such as this ruinous mansion may afford:
Tis spacious, but too cold and crazy now
For Hospitality's more cordial welcome:
But as it is 'tis yours.
_Werner_ (_to his wife_). Why say ye so?
At once such hearty greeting to a stranger?
At such a lonely hour, too--
_Josepha_ (_in reply to Werner_). Nay--he's honest.
There is trust-worthiness in his blunt looks.
_Werner_ (_to Josepha_).
"Trustworthiness in looks!" I'll trust no looks!
I look into men's faces for their age,
Not for their actions--had he Adam's brow, 20
Open and goodly as before the fall,
I've lived too long to trust the frankest aspect.
(_To Carl_) Whence come you Sir?
_Carl_. From Frankfort, on my way
To my own country--I've a companion too--
He tarries now behind:--an hour ago,
On reaching that same river on your frontier,
We found it swoln by storms--a stranger's carriage,
Despite the current, drawn by sturdy mules,
Essayed to pass, and nearly reached the middle
Of that which was the _ford_ in gentler weather, 30
When down came driver, carriage, mules, and all--
You may suppose the worthy Lord within
Fared ill enough:--worse still he might have suffered,
But that my comrade and myself rushed in,
And with main strength and some good luck beside,
Dislodged and saved him: he'll be here anon.
His equipage by this time is at Dresden--
I left it floating that way.
_Werner_. Where is he?
_Carl_. Hitherward on his way, even like myself--
We saw the light and made for the nearest shelter: 40
You'll not deny us for a single night?
You've room enough, methinks--and this vast ruin
Will not be worse for three more guests.
_Werner_. Two more:
And thou?--well--be it so--(_aside_) (tonight will soon
Be overpast: they shall not stay tomorrow)--
Know you the name of him you saved?
_Carl_. Not I!
I think I heard him called a Baron Something--
But was too chill to stay and hear his titles:
You know they are sometimes tedious in the reckoning,
If counted over by the noble wearer. 50
Has't any wine? I'm wet, stung to the marrow--
My comrade waited to escort the Baron:
They will be here, anon--they, too, want cheering:
I'll taste for them, if it please you, courteous host!
_Josepha_. Such as our vintage is shall give you welcome:
I'll bring you some anon. [_goes out_.
_Carl_ (_looking round_). A goodly mansion!
And has been nobly tenanted, I doubt not.
This worn magnificence some day has shone
On light hearts and long revels--those torn banners
Have waved o'er courtly guests--and yon huge lamp 60
High blazed through many a midnight--I could wish
My lot had led me here in those gay times!
Your days, my host, must pass but heavily.
Are you the vassal of these antient chiefs,
Whose heir wastes elsewhere their fast melting hoards,
And placed to keep their cobwebs company?
_Werner_ (_who has been absorbed in thought till the latter
part of his speech_). A Vassal!--I a vassal!--_who_ accosts me
With such familiar question?--(_checks himself and says
aside_)--Down startled pride!
Have not long years of wretchedness yet quenched thee,
And, suffering evil, wilt thou start at scorn? 70
(_To Carl_.) Sir! if I boast no birth--and, as you see,
My state bespeaks none--still, no being breathes
Who calls me slave or servant.--Like yourself
I am a stranger here--a lonely guest--
But, for a time, on sufferance. On my way,
From--a far distant city--Sickness seized,
And long detained me in the neighbouring hamlet.
The Intendant of the owner of this castle,
Then uninhabited, with kind intent,
Permitted me to wait returning health 80
Within these walls--more sheltered than the cot
Of humble peasants.
_Carl_. Worthy Sir, your mercy!
I meant not to offend you--plain of speech,
And blunt in apprehension, I do judge
Men's station from their seeming--but themselves
From acts alone. You bid me share your shelter,
And I am bound to you; and had you been
The lowliest vassal had not thanked you less,
Than I do now, believing you his better,
Perhaps my own superior--
_Werner_. What imports it? 90
What--who I am--or whence--you are welcome--sit--
You shall have cheer anon. (_walks disturbedly aside_)
_Carl_ (_to himself_). Here's a strange fellow!
Wild, churlish, angry--_why_, I know not, seek not.
Would that the wine were come! my doublet's wet,
But my throat dry as Summer's drought in desarts.
Ah--here it sparkles!
_Enter_ JOSEPHA _with wine in flask--and a cup. As she pours
it out a Voice is heard without calling at a distance_.
WERNER _starts_--JOSEPHA _listens tremulously_.
_Werner_. That voice--that voice--Hark!
No--no--tis silent--Sir--I say--that voice--
Whose is it--speak--
_Carl_ (_drinking unconcernedly_).
Whose is it? faith, I know not--
And, yet, 'tis my companion's: he's like you,
And does not care to tell his name and station. 100
[_The voice again and nearer_.
_Josepha_. 'Tis his--I knew it--Ulric!--Ulric!--Ulric!
[_She drops the wine and rushes out_.
_Carl_. The flask's unhurt--but every drop is spilt.
Confound the voice! I say--would he were dumb!
And faith! to me, he has been nearly so--
A silent and unsocial travelling mate.
_Werner_ (_stands in agitation gazing towards the door_).
If it be he--I cannot move to meet him.
Yes--it must be so--there is no such voice
That so could sound and shake me: he is here,
And I am--
_Enter_ STRALENHEIM.
_Werner_ (_turns and sees him_). A curse upon thee, stranger!
Where dids't thou learn a tone so like my boy's? 110
Thou mock bird of my hopes--a curse upon thee!
Out! Out! I say. Thou shalt not harbour here.
_Stralenheim_. What means the peasant? knows he unto whom
He dares address this language?
_Carl_. Noble Sir!
Pray heed him not--he's Phrenzy's next door neighbour,
And full of these strange starts and causeless jarrings.
_Werner_. Oh, that long wished for voice!--I dreamed of it--
And then it did elude me--then--and now.
_Enter_ ULRIC _and_ JOSEPHA. WERNER _falls on his neck_.
Oh God! forgive, for thou dids't not forget me.
Although I murmured--tis--it is my Son! 120
_Josepha_. Aye, 'tis dear Ulric--yet, methinks, he's changed, too:
His cheek is tanned, his frame more firmly knit!
That scar, too, dearest Ulric--I do fear me--
Thou hast been battling with these heretics,
And that's a Swedish token on thy brow.
_Ulric_. My heart is glad with yours--we meet like those
Who never would have parted:--of the past
You shall know more anon--but, here's a guest
That asks a gentle welcome. Noble Baron,
My father's silence looks discourtesy: 130
Yet must I plead his pardon--'tis his love
Of a long truant that has rapt him, thus,
From hospitable greeting--you'll be seated--
And, Father, we will sup like famished hunters.
JOSEPHA _goes out here_.
_Stralenheim_. I have much need of rest: no more refreshment!
Were all my people housed within the hamlet,
Or can they follow?
_Ulric_. Not to night I fear.
They staid in hope the damaged Cabriole
Might, with the dawn of day, have such repairs,
As circumstance admits of.
_Carl_. Nay--that's hopeless. 140
They must not only mend but draw it too.
The mules are drowned--a murrain on them both!
One kicked me as I would have helped him on.
_Stralenheim_. It is most irksome to me--this delay.
I was for Prague on business of great moment.
_Werner_. For Prague--Sir--Say you?--
_Stralenheim_. Yes, my host! for Prague.
And these vile floods and villainous cross roads
Steal my time from it's uses--but--my people?
Where do they shelter?
_Ulric_. In the boatman's shed,
Near to the ferry: you mistook the ford-- 150
Tis higher to the right:--their entertainment
Will be but rough--but 'tis a single night,
And they had best be guardians of the baggage.
The shed will hold the weather from their sleep,
The woodfire warm them--and, for beds, a cloak
Is swansdown to a seasoned traveller:
It has been mine for many a moon, and may
Tonight, for aught it recks me.
_Stralenheim_. And tomorrow
I must be on my journey--and betimes.
It is not more than three days travel, hence, 160
To Mansfeldt Castle.
_Werner and Ulric_. Mansfeldt Castle!--
_Stralenheim_. Aye!
For thither tends my progress--so, betimes,
Mine host I would be stirring--think of that!
And let me find my couch of rest at present.
_Werner_. You shall Sir--but--to Mansfeldt!--
[ULRIC _stops his father and says aside to him_,
_Silence--father--_
Whate'er it be that shakes you thus--_tread down_--
(_To Stralenheim_) My father, Sir, was born not far from Prague,
And knows it's environs--and, when he hears,
The name endeared to him by native thoughts,
He would ask of it, and it's habitants-- 170
You will excuse his plain blunt mode of question.
_Stralenheim_. Indeed, perchance, then, he may aid my search.
Pray, know you aught of one named Werner? who
(But he no doubt has passed through many names),
Lived long in Hamburgh--and has thence been traced
Into Silesia--and not far from hence--
But there we lost him; he who can disclose
Aught of him, or his hiding-place, will find
Advantage in revealing it.
_Ulric_. Why so--Sir?
_Stralenheim_. There are strong reasons to suspect this man 180
Of crimes against the State--league with Swedes--
And other evil acts of moment:--he
Who shall deliver him, bound hand and foot,
Will benefit his country and himself:
I will reward him doubly too.
_Ulric_. You know him?
_Stralenheim_. He never met my eyes--but Circumstance
Has led me to near knowledge of the man.
He is a villain--and an enemy
To all men--most to me! If earth contain him,
He shall be found and fettered: I have hopes, 190
By traces which tomorrow will unravel,
A fresh clue to his lurking spot is nigh.
_Carl_. And, if I find it, I will break the thread.
What, all the world against one luckless wight!
And he a fugitive--I would I knew him!
_Ulric_. You'd help him to escape--is it not so?
_Carl_. I would, indeed!
_Ulric_. The greater greenhorn you!
I would secure him--nay--I will do so.
_Stralenheim_. If it be so--my gratitude for aid,
And rescue of my life from the wild waters, 200
Will double in it's strength and it's requital.
Your father, too, perhaps can help our search?
_Werner_. _I_ turn a spy--no--not for _Mansfeldt Castle_,
And all the broad domain it frowns upon.
_Stralenheim_. Mansfeldt again!--you know it then? perchance,
You also know the story of it's lords?
_Werner_. Whate'er I know, there is no bribe of thine
Can swerve me to the crooked path thou pointest.
The chamber's ready, which your rest demands.
_Stralenheim_ (_aside_).
'Tis strange--this peasant's tone is wondrous high, 210
His air imperious--and his eye shines out
As wont to look command with a quick glance--
His garb befits him not--why, he may be
The man I look for! now, I look again,
There is the very lip--short curling lip--
And the oerjutting eye-brow dark and large,
And the peculiar wild variety
Of feature, even unto the Viper's eye,
Of that detested race, and it's descendant
Who stands alone between me and a power, 220
Which Princes gaze at with unquiet eyes!
This is no peasant--but, whate'er he be,
Tomorrow shall secure him and unfold.
_Ulric_. It will not please you, Sir, then to remain
With us beyond tomorrow?
_Stralenheim_. Nay--I do not say so--there is no haste.
And now I think again--I'll tarry here--
Perhaps until the floods abate--we'll see--
In the mean time--to my chamber--so--Good Night!
[_Exit with_ WERNER.
_Werner_. This way, Sir.
_Carl_. And I to mine: pray, where are we to rest? 230
We'll sup within--
_Ulric_. What matter where--there's room.
_Carl_. I would fain see my way through this vast ruin;
Come take the lamp, and we'll explore together.
_Josepha_ (_meeting them_). And I will with my son.
_Ulric_. Nay--stay--dear mother!
These chilly damps and the cold rush of winds
Fling a rough paleness o'er thy delicate cheek--
And thou seem'st lovely in thy sickliness
Of most transparent beauty:--but it grieves me.
Nay! tarry here by the blaze of the bright hearth:--
I will return anon--and we have much 240
To listen and impart. Come, Carl, we'll find
Some gorgeous canopy, and, thence, unroost
It's present bedfellows the bats--and thou
Shalt slumber underneath a velvet cloud
That mantles o'er the couch of some dead Countess.
[_Exit_ CARL _and_ ULRIC.
_Josepha_ (_sola_). It was my joy to see him--nothing more
I should have said--which sent my gush of blood
Back on my full heart with a dancing tide:
It was my weary hope's unthought fulfilment,
My agony of mother-feelings curdled 250
At once in gathered rapture--which did change
My cheek into the hue of fainting Nature.
I should have answered thus--and yet I could not:
For though 'twas true--it was not all the truth.
I have much suffered in the thought of Werner's
Late deep distemperature of mind and fortunes,
Which since have almost driven him into phrenzy:--
And though that I would soothe, not share, such passions,
And show not how they shake me:--when alone,
I feel them prey upon me by reflection, 260
And want the very solace I bestowed;
And which, it seems, I cannot give and have.
Ulric must be my comforter--his father's
Hath long been the most melancholy soul
That ever hovered o'er the verge of Madness:
And, better, had he leapt into it's gulph:
Though to the Mad thoughts are realities,
Yet they can play with sorrow--and live on.
But with the mind of consciousness and care
The body wears to ruin, and the struggle, 270
However long, is deadly----He is lost,
And all around him tasteless:--in his mirth
His very laughter moves me oft to tears,
And I have turned to hide them--for, in him,
As Sunshine glittering o'er unburied bones----
Soft--he is here.----
_Werner_. Josepha--where is Ulric?
_Josepha_. Gone with the other stranger to gaze o'er
These shattered corridors, and spread themselves
A pillow with their mantles, in the least ruinous:
I must replenish the diminished hearth 280
In the inner chamber--the repast is ready,
And Ulric will be here again.--
THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED:
A DRAMA.
INTRODUCTION TO _THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED_.
The date of the original MS. of _The Deformed Transformed_ is "Pisa,
1822." There is nothing to show in what month it was written, but it may
be conjectured that it was begun and finished within the period which
elapsed between the death of Allegra, April 20, and the death of
Shelley, July 8, 1822. According to Medwin (_Conversations_, 1824, p.
227), an unfavourable criticism of Shelley's ("It is a bad imitation of
_Faust_"), together with a discovery that "two entire lines" of
Southey's--
"And water shall see thee,
And fear thee, and flee thee"--
were imbedded in one of his "Songs," touched Byron so deeply that he
"threw the poem into the fire," and concealed the existence of a second
copy for more than two years. It is a fact that Byron's correspondence
does not contain the remotest allusion to _The Deformed Transformed_;
but, with regard to the plagiarism from Southey, in the play as written
in 1822 there is neither Song nor Incantation which could have contained
two lines from _The Curse of Kehama_.
As a dramatist, Byron's function, or _metier_, was twofold. In
_Manfred_, in _Cain_, in _Heaven and Earth_, he is concerned with the
analysis and evolution of metaphysical or ethical notions; in _Marino
Faliero_, in _Sardanapalus_, and _The Two Foscari_, he set himself "to
dramatize striking passages of history;" in _The Deformed Transformed_
he sought to combine the solution of a metaphysical puzzle or problem,
the relation of personality to individuality, with the scenic rendering
of a striking historical episode, the Sack of Rome in 1527.
In the note or advertisement prefixed to the drama, Byron acknowledges
that "the production" is founded partly on the story of a forgotten
novel, _The Three Brothers_, and partly on "the _Faust_ of the great
Goethe."
Arnaud, or Julian, the hero of _The Three Brothers_ (by Joshua
Pickersgill, jun., 4 vols., 1803), "sells his soul to the Devil, and
becomes an arch-fiend in order to avenge himself for the taunts of
strangers on the deformity of his person" (see _Gent. Mag._, November,
1804, vol. 74, p. 1047; and _post_, pp. 473-479). The idea of an escape
from natural bonds or disabilities by supernatural means and at the
price of the soul or will, the _un_-Christlike surrender to the tempter,
which is the _grund-stoff_ of the Faust-legend, was brought home to
Byron, in the first instance, not by Goethe, or Calderon, or Marlowe,
but by Joshua Pickersgill. A fellow-feeling lent an intimate and
peculiar interest to the theme. He had suffered all his life from a
painful and inconvenient defect, which his proud and sensitive spirit
had magnified into a deformity. He had been stung to the quick by his
mother's taunts and his sweetheart's ridicule, by the jeers of the base
and thoughtless, by slanderous and brutal paragraphs in newspapers. He
could not forget that he was lame. If his enemies had but possessed the
wit, they might have given him "the sobriquet of _Le Diable Boiteux_"
(letter to Moore, April 2, 1823, _Letters_, 1901, vi. 179). It was no
wonder that so poignant, so persistent a calamity should be "reproduced
in his poetry" (_Life_, p. 13), or that his passionate impatience of
such a "thorn in the flesh" should picture to itself a mysterious and
unhallowed miracle of healing. It is true, as Moore says (_Life_, pp.
45, 306), that "the trifling deformity of his foot" was the embittering
circumstance of his life, that it "haunted him like a curse;" but it by
no means follows that he seriously regarded his physical peculiarity as
a stamp of the Divine reprobation, that "he was possessed by an _idee
fixe_ that every blessing would be 'turned into a curse' to him" (letter
of Lady Byron to H. C. Robinson, _Diary, etc._, 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_, [oe]uvre 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._ No; that were a pity. But a word or two:
His stature is twelve cubits; would you so far
Outstep these times, and be a Titan? Or
(To talk canonically) wax a son
Of Anak?
_Arn._ Why not?
_Stran._ Glorious ambition!
I love thee most in dwarfs! A mortal of
Philistine stature would have gladly pared
His own Goliath down to a slight David:
But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show 300
Rather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged,
If such be thy desire; and, yet, by being
A little less removed from present men
In figure, thou canst sway them more; for all
Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt
A new-found Mammoth; and their cursed engines,
Their culverins, and so forth, would find way
Through our friend's armour there, with greater ease
Than the Adulterer's arrow through his heel
Which Thetis had forgotten to baptize 310
In Styx.
_Arn._ Then let it be as thou deem'st best.
_Stran._ Thou shalt be beauteous as the thing thou seest,
And strong as what it was, and----
_Arn._ I ask not
For Valour, since Deformity is daring.[219]
It is its essence to o'ertake mankind
By heart and soul, and make itself the equal--
Aye, the superior of the rest. There is
A spur in its halt movements, to become
All that the others cannot, in such things
As still are free to both, to compensate 320
For stepdame Nature's avarice at first.
They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of fortune,
And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar,[220] win them.
_Stran._ Well spoken! And thou doubtless wilt remain
Formed as thou art. I may dismiss the mould
Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to incase
This daring soul, which could achieve no less
Without it.
_Arn._ Had no power presented me
The possibility of change, I would
Have done the best which spirit may to make 330
Its way with all Deformity's dull, deadly,
Discouraging weight upon me, like a mountain,
In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders--
A hateful and unsightly molehill to
The eyes of happier men. I would have looked
On Beauty in that sex which is the type
Of all we know or dream of beautiful,
Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh--
Not of love, but despair; nor sought to win,
Though to a heart all love, what could not love me 340
In turn, because of this vile crooked clog,
Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have borne
It all, had not my mother spurned me from her.
The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort
Of shape;--my Dam beheld my shape was hopeless.
Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere
I knew the passionate part of life, I had
Been a clod of the valley,--happier nothing
Than what I am. But even thus--the lowest,
Ugliest, and meanest of mankind--what courage 350
And perseverance could have done, perchance
Had made me something--as it has made heroes
Of the same mould as mine. You lately saw me
Master of my own life, and quick to quit it;
And he who is so is the master of
Whatever dreads to die.
_Stran._ Decide between
What you have been, or will be.
_Arn._ I have done so.
You have opened brighter prospects to my eyes,
And sweeter to my heart. As I am now,
I might be feared--admired--respected--loved 360
Of all save those next to me, of whom I
Would be beloved. As thou showest me
A choice of forms, I take the one I view.
Haste! haste!
_Stran._ And what shall _I_ wear?
_Arn._ Surely, he
Who can command all forms will choose the highest,
Something superior even to that which was
Pelides now before us. Perhaps _his_
Who slew him, that of Paris: or--still higher--
The Poet's God, clothed in such limbs as are
Themselves a poetry.
_Stran._ Less will content me; 370
For I, too, love a change.
_Arn._ Your aspect is
Dusky, but not uncomely.[221]
_Stran._ If I chose,
I might be whiter; but I have a _penchant_
For black--it is so honest, and, besides,
Can neither blush with shame nor pale with fear;
But I have worn it long enough of late,
And now I'll take your figure.
_Arn._ Mine!
_Stran._ Yes. You
Shall change with Thetis' son, and I with Bertha,
Your mother's offspring. People have their tastes;
You have yours--I mine.
_Arn._ Despatch! despatch!
_Stran._ Even so. 380
[_The Stranger takes some earth and moulds it
along the turf, and then addresses
the phantom of Achilles_.
Beautiful shadow
Of Thetis's boy!
Who sleeps in the meadow
Whose grass grows o'er Troy:
From the red earth, like Adam,[222]
Thy likeness I shape,
As the Being who made him,
Whose actions I ape.
Thou Clay, be all glowing,
Till the Rose in his cheek 390
Be as fair as, when blowing,
It wears its first streak!
Ye Violets, I scatter,
Now turn into eyes!
And thou, sunshiny Water,
Of blood take the guise!
Let these Hyacinth boughs
Be his long flowing hair,
And wave o'er his brows,
As thou wavest in air! 400
Let his heart be this marble
I tear from the rock!
But his voice as the warble
Of birds on yon oak!
Let his flesh be the purest
Of mould, in which grew
The Lily-root surest,
And drank the best dew!
Let his limbs be the lightest
Which clay can compound, 410
And his aspect the brightest
On earth to be found!
Elements, near me,
Be mingled and stirred,
Know me, and hear me,
And leap to my word!
Sunbeams, awaken
This earth's animation![dc]
'Tis done! He hath taken
His stand in creation! 420
[ARNOLD _falls senseless; his soul passes into the shape
of Achilles, which rises from the ground; while
the phantom has disappeared, part by part,
as the figure was formed from the earth_.
_Arn._ (_in his new form_). I love, and I shall be beloved! Oh, life!
At last I feel thee! Glorious Spirit!
_Stran._ Stop!
What shall become of your abandoned garment,
Yon hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness,
Which late you wore, or were?
_Arn._ Who cares? Let wolves
And vultures take it, if they will.
_Stran._ And if
They do, and are not scared by it, you'll say
It must be peace-time, and no better fare
Abroad i' the fields.
_Arn._ Let us but leave it there;
No matter what becomes on't.
_Stran._ That's ungracious; 430
If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be,
It hath sustained your soul full many a day.
_Arn._ Aye, as the dunghill may conceal a gem
Which is now set in gold, as jewels should be.
_Stran._ But if I give another form, it must be
By fair exchange, not robbery. For they[223]
Who make men without women's aid have long
Had patents for the same, and do not love
Your Interlopers. The Devil may take men,[dd]
Not make them,--though he reap the benefit 440
Of the original workmanship:--and therefore
Some one must be found to assume the shape
You have quitted.
_Arn._ Who would do so?
_Stran._ That I know not,
And therefore I must.
_Arn._ You!
_Stran._ I said it ere
You inhabited your present dome of beauty.
_Arn._ True. I forget all things in the new joy
Of this immortal change.
_Stran._ In a few moments
I will be as you were, and you shall see
Yourself for ever by you, as your shadow.
_Arn._ I would be spared this.
_Stran._ But it cannot be. 450
What! shrink already, being what you are,
From seeing what you were?
_Arn._ Do as thou wilt.
_Stran._ (_to the late form of_ ARNOLD, _extended on the earth_).
Clay! not dead, but soul-less!
Though no man would choose thee,
An Immortal no less
Deigns not to refuse thee.
Clay thou art; and unto spirit
All clay is of equal merit.
Fire! _without_ which nought can live;
Fire! but _in_ which nought can live, 460
Save the fabled salamander,
Or immortal souls, which wander,
Praying what doth not forgive,
Howling for a drop of water,
Burning in a quenchless lot:
Fire! the only element
Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm,
Save the Worm which dieth not,
Can preserve a moment's form,
But must with thyself be blent: 470
Fire! man's safeguard and his slaughter:
Fire! Creation's first-born Daughter,
And Destruction's threatened Son,
When Heaven with the world hath done:
Fire! assist me to renew
Life in what lies in my view
Stiff and cold!
His resurrection rests with me and you!
One little, marshy spark of flame--[224]
And he again shall seem the same; 480
But I his Spirit's place shall hold!
[_An ignis-fatuus flits through the wood and rests
on the brow of the body. The Stranger
disappears: the body rises_.
_Arn._ (_in his new form_). Oh! horrible!
_Stran._ (_in_ ARNOLD'S _late shape_). What! tremblest thou?
_Arn._ Not so--
I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape
Thou lately worest?
_Stran._ To the world of shadows.
But let us thread the present. Whither wilt thou?
_Arn._ Must thou be my companion?
_Stran._ Wherefore not?
Your betters keep worse company.
_Arn._ _My_ betters!
_Stran._ Oh! you wax proud, I see, of your new form:
I'm glad of that. Ungrateful too! That's well;
You improve apace;--two changes in an instant, 490
And you are old in the World's ways already.
But bear with me: indeed you'll find me useful
Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce
Where shall we now be errant?
_Arn._ Where the World
Is thickest, that I may behold it in
Its workings.
_Stran._ That's to say, where there is War
And Woman in activity. Let's see!
Spain--Italy--the new Atlantic world[225]--
Afric with all its Moors. In very truth,
There is small choice: the whole race are just now 500
Tugging as usual at each other's hearts.
_Arn._ I have heard great things of Rome.
_Stran._ A goodly choice--
And scarce a better to be found on earth,
Since Sodom was put out. The field is wide too;
For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish scion
Of the old Vandals, are at play along
The sunny shores of the World's garden.
_Arn._ How
Shall we proceed?
_Stran._ Like gallants, on good coursers.
What, ho! my chargers! Never yet were better,
Since Phaeton was upset into the Po[226]. 510
Our pages too!
_Enter two Pages, with four coal-black horses_.
_Arn._ A noble sight!
_Stran._ And of
A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary,
Or your Kochlini race of Araby[de][227],
With these!
_Arn._ The mighty steam, which volumes high
From their proud nostrils, burns the very air;
And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies wheel
Around their manes, as common insects swarm
Round common steeds towards sunset.
_Stran._ Mount, my lord:
They and I are your servitors.
_Arn._ And these
Our dark-eyed pages--what may be their names? 520
_Stran._ You shall baptize them.
_Arn._ What! in holy water?
_Stran._ Why not? The deeper sinner, better saint.
_Arn._ They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be demons.
_Stran._ True; the devil's always ugly: and your beauty
Is never diabolical.
_Arn._ I'll call him
Who bears the golden horn, and wears such bright
And blooming aspect, _Huon_;[228] for he looks
Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest,
And never found till now. And for the other
And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles not, 530
But looks as serious though serene as night,
He shall be _Memnon_[229], from the Ethiop king
Whose statue turns a harper once a day.
And you?
_Stran._ I have ten thousand names, and twice
As many attributes; but as I wear
A human shape, will take a human name.
_Arn._ More human than the shape (though it was mine once)
I trust.
_Stran._ Then call me Caesar.
_Arn._ Why, that name
Belongs to Empire, and has been but borne
By the World's lords.
_Stran._ And therefore fittest for 540
The Devil in disguise--since so you deem me,
Unless you call me Pope instead.
_Arn._ Well, then,
Caesar thou shalt be. For myself, my name
Shall be plain Arnold still.
_Caes._ We'll add a title[df]--
"Count Arnold:" it hath no ungracious sound,
And will look well upon a billet-doux.
_Arn._ Or in an order for a battle-field.
_Caes._ (_sings_).
To horse! to horse! my coal-black steed
Paws the ground and snuffs the air!
There's not a foal of Arab's breed 550
More knows whom he must bear;
On the hill he will not tire,
Swifter as it waxes higher;
In the marsh he will not slacken,
On the plain be overtaken;
In the wave he will not sink,
Nor pause at the brook's side to drink;
In the race he will not pant,
In the combat he'll not faint;
On the stones he will not stumble, 560
Time nor toil shall make him humble;
In the stall he will not stiffen,
But be winged as a Griffin,
Only flying with his feet:
And will not such a voyage be sweet?
Merrily! merrily! never unsound,
Shall our bonny black horses skim over the ground!
From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly!
For we'll leave them behind in the glance of an eye.
[_They mount their horses, and disappear_.
SCENE II.--_A Camp before the walls of Rome_.
ARNOLD _and_ CAESAR.
_Caes._ You are well entered now.
_Arn._ Aye; but my path
Has been o'er carcasses: mine eyes are full[dg]
Of blood.
_Caes._ Then wipe them, and see clearly. Why!
Thou art a conqueror; the chosen knight
And free companion of the gallant Bourbon,
Late constable of France[230]; and now to be
Lord of the city which hath been Earth's Lord
Under its emperors, and--changing sex,
Not sceptre, an Hermaphrodite of Empire--
_Lady_ of the old world[231].
_Arn._ How _old?_ What! are there 10
_New_ worlds?
_Caes._ To _you_. You'll find there are such shortly,
By its rich harvests, new disease, and gold;
From one _half_ of the world named a _whole_ new one,
Because you know no better than the dull
And dubious notice of your eyes and ears.
_Arn._ I'll trust them.
_Caes._ Do! They will deceive you sweetly,
And that is better than the bitter truth.
_Arn._ Dog!
_Caes._ Man!
_Arn._ Devil!
_Caes._ Your obedient humble servant.
_Arn._ Say _master_ rather. Thou hast lured me on,
Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 20
_Caes._ And where wouldst thou be?
_Arn._ Oh, _at_ peace--_in_ peace!
_Caes._ And where is that which is so? From the star
To the winding worm, all life is motion; and
In life _commotion_ is the extremest point
Of life. The planet wheels till it becomes
A comet, and destroying as it sweeps
The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its way,
Living upon the death of other things,
But still, like them, must live and die, the subject
Of something which has made it live and die. 30
You must obey what all obey, the rule
Of fixed Necessity: against her edict
Rebellion prospers not.
_Arn._ And when it prospers----
_Caes._ 'Tis no rebellion.
_Arn._ Will it prosper now?
_Caes._ The Bourbon hath given orders for the assault,
And by the dawn there will be work.
_Arn._ Alas!
And shall the city yield? I see the giant
Abode of the true God, and his true saint,
Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into
That sky whence Christ ascended from the cross, 40
Which his blood made a badge of glory and
Of joy (as once of torture unto him),--
God and God's Son, man's sole and only refuge!
_Caes._ 'Tis there, and shall be.
_Arn._ What?
_Caes._ The Crucifix
Above, and many altar shrines below.
Also some culverins upon the walls,
And harquebusses, and what not; besides
The men who are to kindle them to death
Of other men.
_Arn._ And those scarce mortal arches,[232]
Pile above pile of everlasting wall, 50
The theatre where Emperors and their subjects
(Those subjects _Romans_) stood at gaze upon
The battles of the monarchs of the wild
And wood--the lion and his tusky rebels
Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust
In the arena--as right well they might,
When they had left no human foe unconquered--
Made even the forest pay its tribute of
Life to their amphitheatre, as well
As Dacia men to die the eternal death 60
For a sole instant's pastime, and "Pass on
To a new gladiator!"--Must it fall?
_Caes._ The city, or the amphitheatre?
The church, or one, or all? for you confound
Both them and me.
_Arn._ To-morrow sounds the assault
With the first cock-crow.
_Caes._ Which, if it end with
The evening's first nightingale, will be
Something new in the annals of great sieges;
For men must have their prey after long toil.
_Arn._ The sun goes down as calmly, and perhaps 70
More beautifully, than he did on Rome
On the day Remus leapt her wall.
_Caes._ I saw him.
_Arn._ You!
_Caes._ Yes, Sir! You forget I am or was
Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape,
And a worse name. I'm Caesar and a hunch-back
Now. Well! the first of Caesars was a bald-head,
And loved his laurels better as a wig
(So history says) than as a glory.[233] Thus
The world runs on, but we'll be merry still.
I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) 80
Slay his own twin, quick-born of the same womb,
Because he leapt a ditch ('twas then no wall,
Whate'er it now be); and Rome's earliest cement
Was brother's blood; and if its native blood
Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red
As e'er 'twas yellow, it will never wear
The deep hue of the Ocean and the Earth,
Which the great robber sons of fratricide
Have made their never-ceasing scene of slaughter,
For ages.
_Arn._ But what have these done, their far 90
Remote descendants, who have lived in peace,
The peace of Heaven, and in her sunshine of
Piety?
_Caes._ And what had _they_ done, whom the old
Romans o'erswept?--Hark!
_Arn._ They are soldiers singing
A reckless roundelay, upon the eve
Of many deaths, it may be of their own.
_Caes._ And why should they not sing as well as swans?
They are black ones, to be sure.
_Arn._ So, you are learned,
I see, too?
_Caes._ In my grammar, certes. I
Was educated for a monk of all times, 100
And once I was well versed in the forgotten
Etruscan letters, and--were I so minded--
Could make their hieroglyphics plainer than
Your alphabet.
_Arn._ And wherefore do you not?
_Caes._ It answers better to resolve the alphabet
Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman,
And prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchymist,
Philosopher, and what not, they have built
More Babels, without new dispersion, than
The stammering young ones of the flood's dull ooze, 110
Who failed and fled each other. Why? why, marry,
Because no man could understand his neighbour.
They are wiser now, and will not separate
For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood,
Their Shibboleth--their Koran--Talmud--their
Cabala--their best brick-work, wherewithal
They build more----
_Arn._ (_interrupting him_). Oh, thou everlasting sneerer!
Be silent! How the soldier's rough strain seems
Softened by distance to a hymn-like cadence!
Listen!
_Caes._ Yes. I have heard the angels sing. 120
_Arn._ And demons howl.
_Caes._ And man, too. Let us listen:
I love all music.
_Song of the Soldiers within_.
The black bands came over
The Alps and their snow;
With Bourbon, the rover,
They passed the broad Po.
We have beaten all foemen,
We have captured a King[234],
We have turned back on no men,
And so let us sing! 130
Here's the Bourbon for ever!
Though penniless all,
We'll have one more endeavour
At yonder old wall.
With the Bourbon we'll gather
At day-dawn before
The gates, and together
Or break or climb o'er
The wall: on the ladder,
As mounts each firm foot[dh], 140
Our shout shall grow gladder,
And Death only be mute[235].
With the Bourbon we'll mount o'er
The walls of old Rome,
And who then shall count o'er[di]
The spoils of each dome?
Up! up with the Lily!
And down with the Keys!
In old Rome, the seven-hilly,
We'll revel at ease. 150
Her streets shall be gory,
Her Tiber all red,
And her temples so hoary
Shall clang with our tread.
Oh, the Bourbon! the Bourbon[236]!
The Bourbon for aye!
Of our song bear the burden!
And fire, fire away!
With Spain for the vanguard,
Our varied host comes; 160
And next to the Spaniard
Beat Germany's drums;
And Italy's lances
Are couched at their mother;
But our leader from France is,
Who warred with his brother.
Oh, the Bourbon! the Bourbon!
Sans country or home,
We'll follow the Bourbon,
To plunder old Rome. 170
_Caes._ An indifferent song
For those within the walls, methinks, to hear.
_Arn._ Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But here comes
The general with his chiefs and men of trust[dj].
A goodly rebel.
_Enter the Constable_ BOURBON _"cum suis," etc., etc._
_Phil._ How now, noble Prince,
You are not cheerful?
_Bourb._ Why should I be so?
_Phil._ Upon the eve of conquest, such as ours,
Most men would be so.
_Bourb._ If I were secure!
_Phil._ Doubt not our soldiers. Were the walls of adamant,
They'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery. 180
_Bourb._ That they will falter is my least of fears.
That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for
Their chief, and all their kindled appetites
To marshal them on--were those hoary walls
Mountains, and those who guard them like the gods
Of the old fables, I would trust my Titans;--
But now----
_Phil._ They are but men who war with mortals.
_Bourb._ True: but those walls have girded in great ages,
And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth
And present phantom of imperious Rome[dk] 190
Is peopled with those warriors; and methinks
They flit along the eternal City's rampart,
And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands,
And beckon me away!
_Phil._ So let them! Wilt thou
Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows?
_Bourb._ They do not menace me. I could have faced,
Methinks, a Sylla's menace; but they clasp,
And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike hands,
And with their thin aspen faces and fixed eyes
Fascinate mine. Look there!
_Phil._ I look upon 200
A lofty battlement.
_Bourb._ And there!
_Phil._ Not even
A guard in sight; they wisely keep below,
Sheltered by the grey parapet from some
Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might
Practise in the cool twilight.
_Bourb._ You are blind.
_Phil._ If seeing nothing more than may be seen
Be so.
_Bourb._ A thousand years have manned the walls
With all their heroes,--the last Cato[237] stands
And tears his bowels, rather than survive
The liberty of that I would enslave. 210
And the first Cassar with his triumphs flits
From battlement to battlement.
_Phil._ Then conquer
The walls for which he conquered and be greater!
_Bourb._ True: so I will, or perish.
_Phil._ You can _not_.
In such an enterprise to die is rather
The dawn of an eternal day, than death.
[_Count_ ARNOLD _and_ CAESAR _advance_.
_Caes._ And the mere men--do they, too, sweat beneath
The noon of this same ever-scorching glory?
_Bourb._ Ah!
Welcome the bitter Hunchback! and his master,
The beauty of our host, and brave as beauteous, 220
And generous as lovely. We shall find
Work for you both ere morning.
_Caes._ You will find,
So please your Highness, no less for yourself.
_Bourb._ And if I do, there will not be a labourer
More forward, Hunchback!
_Caes._ You may well say so,
For _you_ have seen that back--as general,
Placed in the rear in action--but your foes
Have never seen it.
_Bourb._ That's a fair retort,
For I provoked it:--but the Bourbon's breast
Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 230
In danger's face as yours, were you the _devil_.
_Caes._ And if I were, I might have saved myself
The toil of coming here.
_Phil._ Why so?
_Caes._ One half
Of your brave bands of their own bold accord
Will go to him, the other half be sent,
More swiftly, not less surely.
_Bourb._ Arnold, your
Slight crooked _friend's_ as snake-like in his words
As his deeds.
_Caes._ Your Highness much mistakes me.
The first snake was a flatterer--I am none;
And for my deeds, I only sting when stung. 240
_Bourb._ You are brave, and _that's_ enough for me; and quick
In speech as sharp in action--and that's more.
I am not alone the soldier, but the soldiers'
Comrade.
_Caes._ They are but bad company, your Highness;
And worse even for their friends than foes, as being
More permanent acquaintance.
_Phil._ How now, fellow!
Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege
Of a buffoon.
_Caes._ You mean I speak the truth.
I'll lie--it is as easy: then you'll praise me
For calling you a hero.
_Bourb._ Philibert! 250
Let him alone; he's brave, and ever has
Been first, with that swart face and mountain shoulder,
In field or storm, and patient in starvation;
And for his tongue, the camp is full of licence,
And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue
Is, to my mind, far preferable to
The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration
Of a mere famished sullen grumbling slave,[dl]
Whom nothing can convince save a full meal,
And wine, and sleep, and a few Maravedis, 260
With which he deems him rich.
_Caes._ It would be well
If the earth's princes asked no more.
_Bourb._ Be silent!
_Caes._ Aye, but not idle. Work yourself with words![dm]
You have few to speak.
_Phil._ What means the audacious prater?
_Caes._ To prate, like other prophets.
_Bourb._ Philibert!
Why will you vex him? Have we not enough
To think on? Arnold! I will lead the attack
To-morrow.
_Arn._ I have heard as much, my Lord.
_Bourb._ And you will follow?
_Arn._ Since I must not lead.
_Bourb._ 'Tis necessary for the further daring
Of our too needy army, that their chief
Plant the first foot upon the foremost ladder's
First step.
_Caes._ Upon its topmost, let us hope:
So shall he have his full deserts.
_Bourb._ The world's
Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow.[dn]
Through every change the seven-hilled city hath
Retained her sway o'er nations, and the Caesars
But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics
Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest.
Still the world's masters! Civilised, barbarian,
Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus
Have been the circus of an Empire. Well!
'Twas _their_ turn--now 'tis ours; and let us hope
That we will fight as well, and rule much better.
_Caes._ No doubt, the camp's the school of civic rights.
What would you make of Rome?
_Bourb._ That which it was.
_Caes._ In Alaric's time?
_Bourb._ No, slave! in the first Caesar's,
Whose name you bear like other curs----
_Caes._ And kings!
'Tis a great name for blood-hounds.
_Bourb._ There's a demon
In that fierce rattlesnake thy tongue. Wilt never
Be serious?
_Caes._ On the eve of battle, no;--
That were not soldier-like. 'Tis for the general
To be more pensive: we adventurers
Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should we think?
Our tutelar Deity, in a leader's shape,
Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from hosts!
If the knaves take to thinking, you will have
To crack those walls alone.
_Bourb._ You may sneer, since
'Tis lucky for you that you fight no worse for 't.
_Caes._ I thank you for the freedom; 'tis the only 300
Pay I have taken in your Highness' service.
_Bourb._ Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay yourself.
Look on those towers; they hold my treasury:
But, Philibert, we'll in to council. Arnold,
We would request your presence.
_Arn._ Prince! my service
Is yours, as in the field.
_Bourb._ In both we prize it,
And yours will be a post of trust at daybreak.
_Caes._ And mine?
_Bourb._ To follow glory with the Bourbon.
Good night!
_Arn._ (_to_ CAESAR). Prepare our armour for the assault,
And wait within my tent.
[_Exeunt_ BOURBON, ARNOLD, PHILIBERT, _etc._
_Caes._ (_solus_). Within thy tent! 310
Think'st thou that I pass from thee with my presence?
Or that this crooked coffer, which contained
Thy principle of life, is aught to me
Except a mask? And these are men, forsooth!
Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's bastards!
This is the consequence of giving matter
The power of thought. It is a stubborn substance,
And thinks chaotically, as it acts,
Ever relapsing into its first elements.
Well! I must play with these poor puppets: 'tis 320
The Spirit's pastime in his idler hours.
When I grow weary of it, I have business
Amongst the stars, which these poor creatures deem
Were made for them to look at. 'Twere a jest now
To bring one down amongst them, and set fire
Unto their anthill: how the pismires then
Would scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, ceasing
From tearing down each other's nests, pipe forth
One universal orison! ha! ha! [_Exit_ CAESAR.
PART II.
SCENE I.--_Before the walls of Rome.--The Assault:
the Army in motion, with ladders to scale the walls_;[238]
BOURBON _with a white scarf over his armour, foremost_.
_Chorus of Spirits in the air_.
I.
'Tis the morn, but dim and dark.[do]
Whither flies the silent lark?
Whither shrinks the clouded sun?
Is the day indeed begun?
Nature's eye is melancholy
O'er the city high and holy:
But without there is a din
Should arouse the saints within,
And revive the heroic ashes
Round which yellow Tiber dashes. 10
Oh, ye seven hills! awaken,
Ere your very base be shaken!
II.
Hearken to the steady stamp!
Mars is in their every tramp!
Not a step is out of tune,
As the tides obey the moon!
On they march, though to self-slaughter,
Regular as rolling water,
Whose high-waves o'ersweep the border
Of huge moles, but keep their order, 20
Breaking only rank by rank.
Hearken to the armour's clank!
Look down o'er each frowning warrior,
How he glares upon the barrier:
Look on each step of each ladder,
As the stripes that streak an adder.
III.
Look upon the bristling wall,
Manned without an interval!
Round and round, and tier on tier,
Cannon's black mouth, shining spear, 30
Lit match, bell-mouthed Musquetoon,
Gaping to be murderous soon;
All the warlike gear of old,
Mixed with what we now behold,
In this strife 'twixt old and new,
Gather like a locusts' crew.
Shade of Remus! 'tis a time
Awful as thy brother's crime!
Christians war against Christ's shrine:--
Must its lot be like to thine? 40
IV.
Near--and near--and nearer still,
As the Earthquake saps the hill,
First with trembling, hollow motion,
Like a scarce awakened ocean,
Then with stronger shock and louder,
Till the rocks are crushed to powder,--
Onward sweeps the rolling host!
Heroes of the immortal boast!
Mighty Chiefs! eternal shadows!
First flowers of the bloody meadows 50
Which encompass Rome, the mother
Of a people without brother!
Will you sleep when nations' quarrels
Plough the root up of your laurels?
Ye who weep o'er Carthage burning,
Weep not--_strike_! for Rome is mourning![239]
V.
Onward sweep the varied nations!
Famine long hath dealt their rations.
To the wall, with hate and hunger,
Numerous as wolves, and stronger, 60
On they sweep. Oh, glorious City!
Must thou be a theme for pity?
Fight, like your first sire, each Roman!
Alaric was a gentle foeman,
Matched with Bourbon's black banditti!
Rouse thee, thou eternal City;
Rouse thee! Rather give the torch
With thine own hand to thy porch,[dp]
Than behold such hosts pollute
Your worst dwelling with their foot. 70
VI.
Ah! behold yon bleeding spectre!
Ilion's children find no Hector;
Priam's offspring loved their brother;
Rome's great sire forgot his mother,
When he slew his gallant twin,
With inexpiable sin.
See the giant shadow stride
O'er the ramparts high and wide!
When the first o'erleapt thy wall,
Its foundation mourned thy fall. 80
Now, though towering like a Babel,
Who to stop his steps are able?
Stalking o'er thy highest dome,
Remus claims his vengeance, Rome!
VII.
Now they reach thee in their anger:
Fire and smoke and hellish clangour
Are around thee, thou world's wonder!
Death is in thy walls and under.
Now the meeting steel first clashes,
Downward then the ladder crashes, 90
With its iron load all gleaming,
Lying at its foot blaspheming!
Up again! for every warrior
Slain, another climbs the barrier.
Thicker grows the strife: thy ditches
Europe's mingling gore enriches.
Rome! although thy wall may perish,
Such manure thy fields will cherish,
Making gay the harvest-home;
But thy hearths, alas! oh, Rome!-- 100
Yet be Rome amidst thine anguish,
Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish!
VIII.
Yet once more, ye old Penates!
Let not your quenched hearts be Ates!
Yet again, ye shadowy Heroes,
Yield not to these stranger Neros!
Though the son who slew his mother
Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother:
'Twas the Roman curbed the Roman;--
Brennus was a baffled foeman. 110
Yet again, ye saints and martyrs,
Rise! for yours are holier charters!
Mighty Gods of temples falling,
Yet in ruin still appalling!
Mightier Founders of those altars,
True and Christian,--strike the assaulters!
Tiber! Tiber! let thy torrent
Show even Nature's self abhorrent.
Let each breathing heart dilated
Turn, as doth the lion baited! 120
Rome be crashed to one wide tomb,
But be still the Roman's Rome![240]
[BOURBON, ARNOLD, CAESAR, _and others, arrive at the foot
of the wall_. ARNOLD _is about to plant his ladder_.
_Bourb._ Hold, Arnold! I am first.
_Arn._ Not so, my Lord.
_Bourb._ Hold, sir, I charge you! Follow! I am proud
Of such a follower, but will brook no leader.
[BOURBON _plants his ladder, and begins to mount_.
Now, boys! On! on!
[_A shot strikes him, and_ BOURBON _falls_.
_Caes._ And off!
_Arn._ Eternal powers!
The host will be appalled,--but vengeance! vengeance!
_Bourb._ 'Tis nothing--lend me your hand.
[BOURBON _takes_ ARNOLD _by the hand, and rises; but
as he puts his foot on the step, falls again_.
Arnold! I am sped.
Conceal my fall[241]--all will go well--conceal it!
Fling my cloak o'er what will be dust anon; 130
Let not the soldiers see it.
_Arn._ You must be
Removed; the aid of----
_Bourb._ No, my gallant boy!
Death is upon me. But what is _one_ life?
The Bourbon's spirit shall command them still.
Keep them yet ignorant that I am but clay,
Till they are conquerors--then do as you may.
_Caes._ Would not your Highness choose to kiss the cross?
We have no priest here, but the hilt of sword
May serve instead:--it did the same for Bayard[242].
_Bourb._ Thou bitter slave! to name _him_ at this time! 140
But I deserve it.
_Arn._ (_to_ CAESAR). Villain, hold your peace!
_Caes._ What, when a Christian dies? Shall I not offer
A Christian "Vade in pace[243]?"
_Arn._ Silence! Oh!
Those eyes are glazing which o'erlooked the world,
And saw no equal.
_Bourb._ Arnold, shouldst thou see
France----But hark! hark! the assault grows warmer--Oh!
For but an hour, a minute more of life,
To die within the wall! Hence, Arnold, hence!
You lose time--they will conquer Rome without thee.
_Arn._ And without _thee_.
_Bourb._ Not so; I'll lead them still 150
In spirit. Cover up my dust, and breathe not
That I have ceased to breathe. Away! and be
Victorious.
_Arn._ But I must not leave thee thus.
_Bourb._ You must--farewell--Up! up! the world is winning.
[BOURBON _dies_.
_Caes._ (_to_ ARNOLD). Come, Count, to business.
_Arn._ True. I'll weep hereafter.
[ARNOLD _covers_ BOURBON'S _body with a mantle,
mounts the ladder, crying_
The Bourbon! Bourbon! On, boys! Rome is ours!
_Caes._ Good night, Lord Constable! thou wert a Man.
[CAESAR _follows_ ARNOLD; _they reach the battlement;_
ARNOLD _and_ CAESAR _are struck down_.
_Caes._ A precious somerset! Is your countship injured?
_Arn._ No. [_Remounts the ladder_.
_Caes._ A rare blood-hound, when his own is heated!
And 'tis no boy's play. Now he strikes them down! 160
His hand is on the battlement--he grasps it
As though it were an altar; now his foot
Is on it, and----What have we here?--a Roman?
The first bird of the covey! he has fallen [_A man falls_.
On the outside of the nest. Why, how now, fellow?
_Wounded Man_. A drop of water!
_Caes._ Blood's the only liquid
Nearer than Tiber.
_Wounded Man_. I have died for Rome. [_Dies_.
_Caes._ And so did Bourbon, in another sense.
Oh, these immortal men! and their great motives!
But I must after my young charge. He is 170
By this time i' the Forum. Charge! charge!
[CAESAR _mounts the ladder; the scene closes_.
SCENE II.--_The City_.--_Combats between the Besiegers and
Besieged in the streets_. _Inhabitants flying in confusion_.
_Enter_ CAESAR.
_Caes._ I cannot find my hero; he is mixed
With the heroic crowd that now pursue
The fugitives, or battle with the desperate.
What have we here? A Cardinal or two
That do not seem in love with martyrdom.
How the old red-shanks scamper! Could they doff
Their hose as they have doffed their hats, 'twould be
A blessing, as a mark[244] the less for plunder.
But let them fly; the crimson kennels now
Will not much stain their stockings, since the mire 10
Is of the self-same purple hue.
_Enter a Party fighting_--ARNOLD _at the head of the Besiegers_.
He comes,
Hand in hand with the mild twins--Gore and Glory.[dq]
Holla! hold, Count!
_Arn._ Away! they must not rally.
_Caes._ I tell thee, be not rash; a golden bridge
Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee
A form of beauty, and an
Exemption from some maladies of body,
But not of mind, which is not mine to give.
But though I gave the form of Thetis' son,
I dipped thee not in Styx; and 'gainst a foe 20
I would not warrant thy chivalric heart
More than Pelides' heel; why, then, be cautious,
And know thyself a mortal still.
_Arn._ And who
With aught of soul would combat if he were
Invulnerable? That were pretty sport.
Think'st thou I beat for hares when lions roar?
[ARNOLD _rushes into the combat_.
_Caes._ A precious sample of humanity!
Well, his blood's up; and, if a little's shed,
'Twill serve to curb his fever.
[ARNOLD _engages with a Roman, who retires
towards a portico_.
_Arn._ Yield thee, slave!
I promise quarter.
_Rom._ That's soon said.
_Arn._ And done---- 30
My word is known.
_Rom._ So shall be my deeds.
[_They re-engage_. CAESAR _comes forward_.
_Caes._ Why, Arnold! hold thine own: thou hast in hand
A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor;
Also a dealer in the sword and dagger.
Not so, my musqueteer; 'twas he who slew
The Bourbon from the wall.[245]
_Arn._ Aye, did he so?
Then he hath carved his monument.
_Rom._ I yet
May live to carve your better's.
_Caes._ Well said, my man of marble! Benvenuto,
Thou hast some practice in both ways; and he 40
Who slays Cellini will have worked as hard
As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks.
[ARNOLD _disarms and wounds_ CELLINI, _hit slightly:
the latter draws a pistol, and fires; then
retires, and disappears through the portico_.
_Caes._ How farest thou? Thou hast a taste, methinks,
Of red Bellona's banquet.
_Arn._ (_staggers_). 'Tis a scratch.
Lend me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape me thus.
_Caes._ Where is it?
_Arn._ In the shoulder, not the sword arm--
And that's enough. I am thirsty: would I had
A helm of water!
_Caes._ That's a liquid now
In requisition, but by no means easiest
To come at.
_Arn._ And my thirst increases;--but 50
I'll find a way to quench it.
_Caes._ Or be quenched
Thyself.
_Arn._ The chance is even; we will throw
The dice thereon. But I lose time in prating;
Prithee be quick. [CAESAR _binds on the scarf_.
And what dost thou so idly?
Why dost not strike?
_Caes._ Your old philosophers
Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of
The Olympic games. When I behold a prize
Worth wrestling for, I may be found a Milo.[246]
_Arn._ Aye, 'gainst an oak.
_Caes._ A forest, when it suits me:
I combat with a mass, or not at all. 60
Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine;
Which is just now to gaze, since all these labourers
Will reap my harvest gratis.
_Arn._ Thou art still
A fiend!
_Caes._ And thou--a man.
_Arn._ Why, such I fain would show me.[dr]
_Caes._ True--as men are.
_Arn._ And what is that?
_Caes._ Thou feelest and thou see'st.
[_Exit_ ARNOLD, _joining in the combat which still
continues between detached parties. The
scene closes_.
SCENE III.--_St. Peter's--The interior of the Church--The Pope
at the Altar--Priests, etc., crowding in confusion, and
Citizens flying for refuge, pursued by Soldiery_.
_Enter_ CAESAR.
_A Spanish Soldier_. Down with them, comrades, seize upon those lamps!
Cleave yon bald-pated shaveling to the chine!
His rosary's of gold!
_Lutheran Soldier_. Revenge! revenge!
Plunder hereafter, but for vengeance now--
Yonder stands Anti-Christ!
_Caes._ (_interposing_). How now, schismatic?
What wouldst thou?
_Luth. Sold._ In the holy name of Christ,
Destroy proud Anti-Christ.[247] I am a Christian.
_Caes._ Yea, a disciple that would make the founder
Of your belief renounce it, could he see
Such proselytes. Best stint thyself to plunder. 10
_Luth. Sold._ I say he is the Devil.
_Caes._ Hush! keep that secret,[ds]
Lest he should recognise you for his own.
_Luth. Sold._ Why would you save him? I repeat he is
The Devil, or the Devil's vicar upon earth.
_Caes._ And that's the reason: would you make a quarrel
With your best friends? You had far best be quiet;
His hour is not yet come.
_Luth. Sold._ That shall be seen!
[_The Lutheran Soldier rushes forward: a shot
strikes him from one of the Pope's Guards,
and he falls at the foot of the Altar_.
_Caes._ (_to the Lutheran_). I told you so.
_Luth. Sold._ And will you not avenge me?
_Caes._ Not I! You know that "Vengeance is the Lord's:"
You see he loves no interlopers.
_Luth. Sold._ (_dying_). Oh! 20
Had I but slain him, I had gone on high,
Crowned with eternal glory! Heaven, forgive
My feebleness of arm that reached him not,
And take thy servant to thy mercy. 'Tis
A glorious triumph still; proud Babylon's
No more; the Harlot of the Seven Hills
Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth
And ashes! [_The Lutheran dies_.
_Caes._ Yes, thine own amidst the rest.
Well done, old Babel!
[_The Guards defend themselves desperately, while the
Pontiff escapes, by a private passage, to the
Vatican and the Castle of St. Angelo_.[248]
_Caes._ Ha! right nobly battled!
Now, priest! now, soldier! the two great professions, 30
Together by the ears and hearts! I have not
Seen a more comic pantomime since Titus
Took Jewry. But the Romans had the best then;
Now they must take their turn.
_Soldiers_. He hath escaped!
Follow!
_Another Sold._ They have barred the narrow passage up,
And it is clogged with dead even to the door.
_Caes._ I am glad he hath escaped: he may thank me for't
In part. I would not have his bulls abolished--
'Twere worth one half our empire: his indulgences
Demand some in return; no, no, he must not 40
Fall;--and besides, his now escape may furnish
A future miracle, in future proof
Of his infallibility. [_To the Spanish Soldiery_.
Well, cut-throats!
What do you pause for? If you make not haste,
There will not be a link of pious gold left.
And _you_, too, Catholics! Would ye return
From such a pilgrimage without a relic?
The very Lutherans have more true devotion:
See how they strip the shrines!
_Soldiers_. By holy Peter!
He speaks the truth; the heretics will bear 50
The best away.
_Caes._ And that were shame! Go to!
Assist in their conversion.
[_The Soldiers disperse; many quit the Church, others enter_.
_Caes._ They are gone,
And others come: so flows the wave on wave
Of what these creatures call Eternity,
Deeming themselves the breakers of the Ocean,
While they are but its bubbles, ignorant
That foam is their foundation. So, another!
_Enter_ OLIMPIA, _flying from the pursuit--She springs
upon the Altar_.
_Sold._ She's mine!
_Another Sold._ (_opposing the former_).
You lie, I tracked her first: and were she
The Pope's niece, I'll not yield her. [_They fight_.
_3d Sold._ (_advancing towards_ OLIMPIA). You may settle
Your claims; I'll make mine good.
_Olimp._ Infernal slave! 60
You touch me not alive.
_3d Sold._ Alive or dead!
_Olimp._ (_embracing a massive crucifix_). Respect your God!
_3d Sold._ Yes, when he shines in gold.
Girl, you but grasp your dowry.
[_As he advances_, OLIMPIA, _with a strong and sudden
effort, casts down the crucifix; it strikes the
Soldier, who falls_.
_3d Sold._ Oh, great God!
_Olimp._ Ah! now you recognise him.
_3d Sold._ My brain's crushed!
Comrades, help, ho! All's darkness! [He dies.
_Other Soldiers_ (_coming up_).
Slay her, although she had a thousand lives:
She hath killed our comrade.
_Olimp._ Welcome such a death!
You have no life to give, which the worst slave
Would take. Great God! through thy redeeming Son,
And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as 70
I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, and thee!
_Enter_ ARNOLD.
_Arn._ What do I see? Accursed jackals! Forbear!
_Caes._ (_aside and laughing_). Ha! ha! here's equity! The dogs
Have as much right as he. But to the issue!
_Soldiers_. Count, she hath slain our comrade.
_Arn._ With what weapon?
_Sold._ The cross, beneath which he is crushed; behold him
Lie there, more like a worm than man; she cast it
Upon his head.
_Arn._ Even so: there is a woman
Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such,
Ye would have honoured her. But get ye hence, 80
And thank your meanness, other God you have none,
For your existence. Had you touched a hair
Of those dishevelled locks, I would have thinned
Your ranks more than the enemy. Away!
Ye jackals! gnaw the bones the lion leaves,
But not even these till he permits.
_A Sold._ (_murmuring_). The lion
Might conquer for himself then.
_Arn._ (_cuts him down_). Mutineer!
Rebel in hell--you shall obey on earth!
[_The Soldiers assault_ ARNOLD.
_Arn._ Come on! I'm glad on't! I will show you, slaves,
How you should be commanded, and who led you 90
First o'er the wall you were so shy to scale,
Until I waved my banners from its height,
As you are bold within it.
[ARNOLD _mows down the foremost; the rest throw down their arms_.
_Soldiers_. Mercy! mercy!
_Arn._ Then learn to grant it. Have I taught you _who_
Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements?
_Soldiers_. We saw it, and we know it; yet forgive
A moment's error in the heat of conquest--
The conquest which you led to.
_Arn._ Get you hence!
Hence to your quarters! you will find them fixed
In the Colonna palace.
_Olimp._ (_aside_). In my father's 100
House!
_Arn._ (_to the Soldiers_). Leave your arms; ye have no further need
Of such: the city's rendered. And mark well
You keep your hands clean, or I'll find out a stream
As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism.
_Soldiers_ (_deposing their arms and departing_). We obey!
_Arn._ (_to_ OLIMPIA). Lady, you are safe.
_Olimp._ I should be so,
Had I a knife even; but it matters not--
Death hath a thousand gates; and on the marble,
Even at the altar foot, whence I look down
Upon destruction, shall my head be dashed,
Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man! 110
_Arn._ I wish to merit his forgiveness, and
Thine own, although I have not injured thee.
_Olimp._ No! Thou hast only sacked my native land,--
No injury!--and made my father's house
A den of thieves! No injury!--this temple--
Slippery with Roman and with holy gore!
No injury! And now thou wouldst preserve me,
To be----but that shall never be!
[_She raises her eyes to Heaven, folds her robe round her,
and prepares to dash herself down on the side of
the Altar opposite to that where_ ARNOLD _stands_.
_Arn._ Hold! hold!
I swear.
_Olimp._ Spare thine already forfeit soul
A perjury for which even Hell would loathe thee. 120
I know thee.
_Arn._ No, thou know'st me not; I am not
Of these men, though----
_Olimp._ I judge thee by thy mates;
It is for God to judge thee as thou art.
I see thee purple with the blood of Rome;
Take mine, 'tis all thou e'er shalt have of me,
And here, upon the marble of this temple,
Where the baptismal font baptized me God's,
I offer him a blood less holy
But not less pure (pure as it left me then,
A redeemed infant) than the holy water 130
The saints have sanctified!
[OLIMPIA _waves her hand to_ ARNOLD _with disdain, and
dashes herself on the pavement from the Altar_.
_Arn._ Eternal God!
I feel thee now! Help! help! she's gone.
_Caes._ (_approaches_). I am here.
_Arn._ Thou! but oh, save her!
_Caes._ (_assisting him to raise_ OLIMPIA). She hath done it well!
The leap was serious.
_Arn._ Oh! she is lifeless!
_Caes._ If
She be so, I have nought to do with that:
The resurrection is beyond me.
_Arn._ Slave!
_Caes._ Aye, slave or master, 'tis all one: methinks
Good words, however, are as well at times.
_Arn._ Words!--Canst thou aid her?
_Caes._ I will try. A sprinkling
Of that same holy water may be useful. 140
[_He brings some in his helmet from the font_.
_Arn._ 'Tis mixed with blood.
_Caes._ There is no cleaner now
In Rome.
_Arn._ How pale! how beautiful! how lifeless!
Alive or dead, thou Essence of all Beauty,
I love but thee!
_Caes._ Even so Achilles loved
Penthesilea;[249] with his form it seems
You have his heart, and yet it was no soft one.
_Arn._ She breathes! But no, 'twas nothing, or the last
Faint flutter Life disputes with Death.
_Caes._ She breathes.
_Arn._ _Thou_ say'st it? Then 'tis truth.
_Caes._ You do me right--
The Devil speaks truth much oftener than he's deemed: 150
He hath an ignorant audience.
_Arn._ (_without attending to him_). Yes! her heart beats.
Alas! that the first beat of the only heart
I ever wished to beat with mine should vibrate
To an assassin's pulse.
_Caes._ A sage reflection,
But somewhat late i' the day. Where shall we bear her?
I say she lives.
_Arn._ And will she live?
_Cas._ As much
As dust can.
_Arn._ Then she is dead!
_Caes._ Bah! bah! You are so,
And do not know it. She will come to life--
Such as you think so, such as you now are;
But we must work by human means.
_Arn._ We will 160
Convey her unto the Colonna palace,
Where I have pitched my banner.
_Caes._ Come then! raise her up!
_Arn._ Softly!
_Caes._ As softly as they bear the dead,
Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting.
_Arn._ But doth she live indeed?
_Caes._ Nay, never fear!
But, if you rue it after, blame not me.
_Arn._ Let her but live!