University of Virginia Library

WERNER.

Nov. 1815.

[First Draft.]

ACT I.

Scene I.

—A ruinous chateau on the Silesian frontier of Bohemia.
Josepha.
The storm is at it's height—how the wind howls,
Like an unearthly voice, through these lone chambers!
And the rain patters on the flapping casement
Which quivers in it's frame—the night is starless—
Yet cheerly Werner! still our hearts are warm:
The tempest is without, or should be so—
For we are sheltered here where Fortune's clouds
May roll all harmless o'er us as the wrath
Of these wild elements that menace now,
Yet do not reach us.

Werner
(without attending, and walking disturbedly, speaking to himself).
No—'Tis past—'tis blighted,
The last faint hope to which my withered fortune
Clung with a feeble and a fluttering grasp,
Yet clung convulsively—for twas the last—
Is broken with the rest: would that my heart were!
But there is pride, and passion's war within,
Which give my breast vitality to suffer,
As it hath suffered through long years till now.
My father's wrath extends beyond the grave,
And haunts me in the shape of Stralenheim!
He revels in my fathers palace—I—
Exiled—disherited—a nameless outcast!
[Werner pauses.
My boy, too, where and what is he?—my father
Might well have limited his curse to me.
If that my heritage had passed to Ulric,
I had not mourned my own less happy lot.
No—No—all 's past—all torn away.

Josepha.
Dear Werner,
Oh banish these discomfortable thoughts
That thus contend within you: we are poor,
So we have ever been—but I remember
The time when thy Josepha's smile could turn
Thy heart to hers—despite of every ill.
So let it now—alas! you hear me not.

Werner.
What said you?—let it pass—no matter what—
Think me not churlish, Sweet, I am not well.
My brain is hot and busy—long fatigue
And last night's watching have oppressed me much.

Josepha.
Then get thee to thy couch. I do perceive
In thy pale cheek and in thy bloodshot eye
A strange distemperature—nay, as a boon,
I do entreat thee to thy rest.

Werner.
My rest!
Well—be it so—Good Night!

Josepha.
Thy hand is burning;
I will prepare a potion:—peace be with thee—
Tomorrow's dawn I trust will find thee healthful;
And, then, our Ulric may perchance—

Werner.
Our Ulric—thine and mine—our only boy—
Curse on his father and his father's Sire!
(For, if it is so, I will render back
A curse that Heaven will hear as well as his),
Our Ulric by his father's fault or folly,
And by my father's unrelenting pride,
Is at this hour, perchance, undone. This night
That shelters us may shower it's wrath on him—
A homeless beggar for his parent's sin—
Thy sin and mine—Thy child and mine atones—
Our Ulric—Woman!—I'll to no bed to-night—
There is no pillow for my thoughts.

Josepha.
What words,
What fearful words are these! what may they mean?

Werner.
Look on me—thou hast known me, hitherto,
As an oppressed, but yet a humble creature;
By birth predestined to the yoke I've borne.
Till now I've borne it patiently, at least,
In bitter silence—but the hour is come,
That should and shall behold me as I was,
And ought again to be—

Josepha.
I know not what
Thy mystery may tend to, but my fate—
My heart—my will—my love are linked with thine,
And I would share thy sorrow: lay it open.

Werner.
Thou see'st the son of Count—but let it pass—
I forfeited the name in wedding thee:
That fault of many faults a father's pride
Proclaimed the last and worst—and, from that hour,
He disavowed, disherited, debased
A wayward son — — tis a long tale—too long—
And I am heartsick of the heavy thought.

Josepha.
Oh, I could weep—but that were little solace:
Yet tell the rest—or, if thou wilt not, say—
Yet say—why, through long years, from me withheld,
This fearful secret that hath gnawed thy soul?

Werner.
Why? had it not been base to call on thee
For patience and for pity—to awake
The thirst of grandeur in thy gentle spirit—
To tell thee what thou shouldst have been—the wife
Of one, in power—birth—wealth, preeminent—
Then, sudden quailing in that lofty tone,
To bid thee soothe thy husband—peasant Werner?

Josepha.
I would thou wert, indeed, the peasant Werner;
For then thy soul had been of calmer mould,
And suited to thy lot—

Werner.
Was it not so?
Beneath a humble name and garb—the which
My youthful riot and a father's frown,
Too justly fixed upon me, had compelled
My bowed down spirit to assume too well—
Since it deceived the world, myself, and thee:
I linked my lot irrevocably with thine—
And I have loved thee deeply—long and dearly—
Even as I love thee still—but these late crosses,
And most of all the last,—have maddened me;
And I am wild and wayward as in youth,
Ere I beheld thee—

Josepha.
Would thou never hadst!
Since I have been a blight upon thy hope,
And marred alike the present and the future.

Werner.
Yet say not so—for all that I have known
Of true and calm content—of love—of peace—
Has been with thee and from thee: wert thou not,
I were a lonely and self-loathing thing.
Ulric has left us! all, save thou, have left me!
Father and son—Fortune—Fame—Power—Ambition—
The ties of being—the high soul of man—
All save the long remorse—the consciousness,
The curse of living on, regretting life
Mispent in miserably gazing upward,
While others soared—Away, I'll think no more.

Josepha.
But Ulric—wherefore didst thou let him leave
His home and us? tis now three weary years.

Werner
(interrupting her quickly).
Since my hard father, half-relenting, sent
The offer of a scanty stipend which
I needs must earn by rendering up my son—
Fool that I was—I thought this quick compliance,
And never more assuming in myself
The haught name of my house would soften him—
And for our child secure the heritage
Forfeit in me forever. Since that hour,
Till the last year, the wretched pittance came—
Then ceased with every tidings of my son
And Sire—till late I heard the last had ceased
To live—and unforgiving died—Oh God!

Josepha.
Was it for this our Ulric left us so?
Thou dids't deceive me then—he went not forth
To join the legions of Count Tilly's war?

Werner.
I know not—he had left my father's castle,
Some months before his death—but why?—but why?
Left it as I did ere his birth, perchance,
Like me an outcast. Old age had not made
My father meeker—and my son, Alas!
Too much his Sire resembled—

Josepha.
Yet there's comfort.
Restrain thy wandering Spirit—Ulric cannot
Have left his native land—thou dost not know,
Though it looks strangely, thy Sire and he
In anger parted—Hope is left us still.

Werner.
The best hope that I ever held in youth,
When every pulse was life, each thought a joy,
(Yet not irrationally sanguine, since
My birth bespoke high thoughts,) hath lured and left me.
I will not be a dreamer in mine age—
The hunter of a shadow—let boys hope:
Of Hope I now know nothing but the name—
And that 's a sound which jars upon my heart.
I've wearied thee—Good night—my patient Love!

Josepha.
I must not leave thee thus—my husband—friend—
My heart is rent in twain for thee—I scarce
Dare greet thee as I would, lest that my love
Should seem officious and ill timed:—'tis early—
Yet rest were as a healing balm to thee—
Then once again—Good night!

Voice Without.
What Ho—lights ho!

Scene II.

Josepha.
What noise is that? 'tis nearer—hush! they knock.

[A knocking heard at the gate—Werner starts.
Werner
(aside).
It may be that the bloodhounds of the villain,
Who long has tracked me, have approached at last:
I'll not be taken tamely.

Josepha.
'Twas the voice,
The single voice of some lone traveller.
I'll to the door.

Werner.
No—stay thou here—again!
[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,
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,
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,
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:
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.
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
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?
(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
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?
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.

[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?
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!

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:
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.
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—
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,
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,
[Ulric.]
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—
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
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,
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,
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,
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,
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?
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
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
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,
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,
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
In the inner chamber—the repast is ready,
And Ulric will be here again.—