GABOR (interrupting him).
Nay-but hear me to the end!
Now you must do so.-I conceived myself
Betray'd by you and him (for now I saw
There was some tie between you) into this
Pretended den of refuge, to become
The victim of your guilt; and my first thought
Was vengeance: but though arm'd with a short poniard
(Having left my sword without), I was no match
For him at any time, as had been proved
That morning-either in address or force.
I turn'd, and fled-i' the dark chance, rather than
Skill, made me gain the secret door of the hall,
And thence the chamber where you slept-if I
Had found you waking, Heaven alone can tell
What vengeance and suspicion might have prompted;
But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night.
I'll take it for so much.
SIEGENDORF (points to ULRIC's sabre, still upon the
ground).
Take also that—
I saw you eye it eagerly, and him
Distrustfully.
GABOR (takes up the sabre).
I will; and so provide
To sell my life-not cheaply.
[GABOR goes into the turret, which SIEGENDORF closes. SIEGENDORF (advances to ULRIC).
Now, Count Ulric! For son I dare not call thee-What say'st thou?
The value of your secret.
And you did well to listen to it: what
We know we can provide against. He must
Be silenced.
Ay, with half of my domains; And with the other half, could he and thou Unsay this villany.
As Stralenheim is. Are you so dull As never to have hit on this before? When we met in the garden, what except Discovery in the act could make me know His death? or had the prince's household been
No more to learn or hide: I know no fear,
And have within these very walls men who
(Although you know them not) dare venture all things.
You stand high with the state; what passes here
Will not excite her too great curiosity:
Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye,
Stir not, and speak not;-leave the rest to me:
We must have no third babblers thrust between us.
[Exit ULRIC.
Am I awake? are these my father's halls?
And you my son? My son! mine! who have ever
Abhorr'd both mystery and blood, and yet
Am plunged into the deepest hell of both!
I must be speedy, or more will be shed—
The Hungarian's!-Ulric-he hath partisans,
It seems: might have guess'd as much. Oh fool!
Wolves prowl in company. He hath the key
(As I too) of the opposite door which leads
Into the turret. Now then! or once more
To be the father of fresh crimes-no less
Than of the criminal! Ho! Gabor! Gabor!
[Exit into the turret, closing the door after him.
That I should act what you could think? We have done You pledged your honour for my safety!
The Deformed Transformed;
THIS production is founded partly on the story of a Novel, called « The Three Brothers,» published many years ago, from which M. G. Lewis's «Wood Demons was also taken-and partly on the « Faust» of the great Goethe. The present publication contains the first two Parts only, and the opening chorus of the third. The rest may perhaps appear hereafter.
STRANGER, afterwards CESAR. ARNOLD.
Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome, Priests, Peasants, etc.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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,
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.
And shall I live on,
A burthen 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
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 wither'd slip of nature's nightshade-my
Vile form-from the creation, as it hath
The green bough from the forest.
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.
To taunt me with my born deformity?
Were I to taunt a buffalo with this
Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary
[ARNOLD places the knife in the ground, with With thy sublime of humps, the animals
the point upwards.
Now 't is 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 warm'd 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 falling 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,
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?-
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: 't was only
Nature's mistaken largess to bestow
The gifts which are of others upon man.
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.
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 caldrons with
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee,-
Now I can mock the mightiest.
Thy time on me: I seek thee not.
Your thoughts
Are not far from me. Do not send me back:
I am not so easily recall'd to do
Good service.
What wilt thou do for me?
Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you;
Or form you to your wish in any shape.
Oh! then you are indeed the demon, for
Nought else would wittingly wear mine.
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