University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

—A Forest.
Enter Arnold and his mother Bertha.
Bert.
Out, Hunchback!

Arn.
I was born so, Mother!

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
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!

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,
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
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.
Accurséd 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,
Would aid his likeness! If I must partake
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
My horrid shadow—like a demon placed
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle
From drinking therein.
[He pauses.
[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
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
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.
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
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
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
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,
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
Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience.

Stran.
I will.

Arn.
(with surprise).
Thou canst?

Stran.
Perhaps. Would you aught else?

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.

Arn.
Then waste not
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!
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
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.
[The Stranger approaches the fountain, and turns to Arnold.

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—
This is the hour!
Walk lovely and pliant
From the depth of this fountain,
As the cloud-shapen giant
Bestrides the Hartz Mountain.
Come as ye were,
That our eyes may behold
The model in air
Of the form I will mould,
Bright as the Iris
When ether is spanned;—
Such his desire is,
[Pointing to Arnold.
Such my command!
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,
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, 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.

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.
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 Cæsar. 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,
Or Cleopatra at sixteen—an age
When love is not less in the eye than heart.
But be it so! Shadow, pass on!

[The phantom of Julius Cæsar disappears.
Arn.
And can it
Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone,
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?

Stran.
He was the fairest and the bravest of
Athenians. 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! I had better
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!

[The shadow of Socrates disappears: another rises.
Arn.
What's here? whose broad brow and whose curly beard
And manly aspect look like Hercules,
Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus
Than the sad purger of the infernal world,
Leaning dejected on his club of conquest,
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
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,
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?

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.

Stran.
(addressing the shadow).
[The shade of Demetrius Poliorcetes vanishes: another rises.

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,
Softened by intervening crystal, and
Rippled like flowing waters by the wind,
All vowed to Sperchius 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
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,
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
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 curséd 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
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.
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
For stepdame Nature's avarice at first.
They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of fortune,
And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar, 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
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
In turn, because of this vile crookéd 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
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
Of all save those next to me, of whom I
Would be belovéd. 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;
For I, too, love a change.

Arn.
Your aspect is
Dusky, but not uncomely.

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.
[The Stranger takes some earth and moulds it along the turf, and then addresses the phantom of Achilles.

[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;
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
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,
Not make them,—though he reap the benefit
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.
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,
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:
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—
And he again shall seem the same;
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,
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—
Afric with all its Moors. In very truth,
There i small choice: the whole race are just now
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.
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,
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?

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; 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,
But looks as serious though serene as night,
He shall be Memnon, 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 Cæsar.

Arn.
Why, that name
Belongs to Empire, and has been but borne
By the World's lords.

Stran.
And therefore fittest for
The Devil in disguise—since so you deem me,
Unless you call me Pope instead.

Arn.
Well, then,
Cæsar thou shalt be. For myself, my name
Shall be plain Arnold still.

Cæs.
We'll add a title—
“Count Arnold:” it hath no ungracious sound,
And will look well upon a billet-doux.

Arn.
Or in an order for a battle-field.

Cæs.
(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
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,
Time nor toil shall make him humble;
In the stall he will not stiffen,
But be wingèd 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.