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-53.-^  {^f^J 


HARVARD 
COLLEGE 
LIBRARY 


.sO^) 


HARVARD 
COLLEGE 
LIBRARY 


A  Magazine  of  Letters 

EDITED  BY 

CHARLOTTE  PORTER 
HELEN  A.  CLARKE 


COMPILED  BY 

FRANK  R.  ftOLMES 


Volume  18 
1907 


AMS  REPRINT  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK,  N.  Y.   10003 


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Printed  in  USA. 


UME  XVIII  SPRING    I907  NUMBER  I 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  JORIO* 

A  Pastoral  Tragedy 
By  Gabriele  d'Annunzio. 

Translated  from  the  Italian  by  Charlotte  Porter^  Pietro  Isola 

and  Alice  Henry 

To  THE  Land  of  the  Abruzzi,  to  My  Mother,  to  My 
Sisters,  to  My  Brothers,  also  to  my  Father,  Entombed, 
to  All  My  Dead,  and  to  All  My  Race  between  the 
Mountain  and  the  Sea,  this  Song  of  the  Antique  Blood 
I  Consecrate. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONiE 

\ZARO  Di  Roio,  Father  of  Aligi. 

iNDiA  Della  Leonessa,  Mother  of  Aligi. 

ligi.  The  Shepherd-Artist. 

plendore,  Favetta,  Ornella,  AligVs  Sisters. 

lENDA  Di  Giave,  Aligi's  Bride. 

aria  Di  Glave,  Mother  of  the  Bride. 

eodula  Di  Cinzio,  La  Cinerella,  Monica  Della  Cogna,  Anna  Di 

BovA,  Felavia,  La  Catalana,  Maria  Cora  :  The  Kindred. 
ila  Di  Codra,  the  Daughter  of  Jorioy  the  Sorcerer  dalle  Fartu. 
EMO  Di  Nerfa. 
mNE  Dell  Eta. 
)NA  Di  Midia. 
be  Old  Herbwoman. 
RE  Saint  of  the  Mountain. 

^Co^yrigkl,  /907,  by  Dire/  St.  Cyr.     Stage  rights  reserved 
Copyright,  1904,  by  Gabriele  D*AnnunMio 


2  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

The  Treasure  Diviner. 

The  Devil-Possessed  Youth. 

A  Shepherd. 

Another  Shepherd. 

A  Reaper. 

The  Crowd  of  People. 

The  Chorus  of  the  Kindred. 

The  Chorus  of  Reapers. 

The  Chorus  of  Wailers. 

Scene  :    The  land  of  the  Abruzzi. 

Time  :  Many  years  ago.  (Placed  about  the  sixteenth  century  by  the 
Painter  Michetti,  who  designed  the  scenes  and  costumes  for  the  initial 
production  in  Milan. 


TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE 

This  English  translation  of  D'Annunzio's  greatest  work,  notable { 
among  his  dramas  for  purity,  we  have  set  neither  in  blank  verse.  Alexan- 
drines, nor  rhyme,  because  none  of  these  modes  would  be  true  to  D'An- 
nunzio's poetic  effects,  nor  be,  at  once,  both  sufficiently  simple  and  melo-^ 
dious  for  suitable  dramatic  speech  on  our  stage. 

We  have  sought  to  reproduce  in  English  rhythm  the  impression  of  the^ 
Italian  rhythm,  and  the  Italian  line-ending — ^which  is  not  rhyme  (in  tht\ 
English  sense)  but  has  a  falling  cadence  akin  to  it  in  recurrent  value.  Thisj 
cadence  is  usually  best  rendered  in  English  by  the  feminine  metrical  end-j 
ing  here  usually  employed.  We  have  made  the  lines  vary  in  length  and  in] 
stress,  as  they  do  in  the  original.  Both  end-rhyme  and  internal  rhymt 
we  have  used  where  they  were  used  by  D'Annunzio. 

Yet,  while  seeking  to  give  something  of  the  poetic  effect  of  the  Italian^ 
we  have  also  sought  to  depart  little,  if  any,  from  the  fidelity  of  a  prose^ 
translation,  and  we  have  been  enabled  to  follow  with  some  intimacy  (thanks^ 
to  Mr.  Isola's  familiar  knowledge  of  Italian  life  and  lore)  the  rich  allusionsl 
to  pagan  and  Christian  folk-custom,  and  the  significant  turns  of  phrase* 
and  figure  peculiar  to  the  poet.    These  are  in  this  play  especially  impor- 
tant because  it  is  both  simple  in  its  primitive  emotional  quality  and  exalted^ 
in  its  poetic  symbolism.     P'Annunzio,  in  this  play,  has  indeed  gone  far^ 
toward  proving  his  title  to  belong  to  those  super-poets  whose  ideals  ilium- ^ 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  3 

e  the  path  to  the  next  realm  in  human  evolution.  This  realm  is  instinct 
ith  a  new  progressive  force.  And  this  new  force  is  begotten  of  a  sym- 
Lthetic  fusion  of  pagan  and  Christian  ideals.  It  is  a  reconciliation  of 
leiTiy  embracing  both,  yet  distinct  from  either,  with  a  nature  of  its  own 
bra  ting  peculiarly  to  the  spiritual  needs  of  to-day. 

Xo  convey  the  spirit  and  vitality  of  the  play,  as  a  whole,  has  been  the 
aster-aim  of  this  translation,  and  all  attempts  to  reproduce  the  artistic 
apression  and  adhere  to  the  text  with  fidelity  we  have  regarded  but  as 
eans  toward  this  master-aim. 

Charlotte  Porter. 


ACT  I 

A     ROOM    on     the    ground    floor    of   a     rustic  house.       The 
large  entrance  door  opens  on  a  large    sun-lit   yard.     Across 
the  door  is  stretched^  to  prevent  entrance^   a  scarlet  woolen 
scarfs  held  in  place  at  each  end  by  a  forked  hoe  and  a  distaff. 
At  one  side  of  the  door  jamb  is  a  waxen    cross  to    keep    off 
evil    spirits.     A    smaller    closed    door^    with    its    architrave 
adorned    with    box-wood   green,    is    on    the   wall  at  the  righty  and     close 
Wgainst  the  same  wall  are  three  ancient  wooden   chests.       At   the   left,    and 
in  the  depth  of  the  walU  is  a  chimney  and  fire-place  with  a  prominent  hood; 
'  a  little  at  one  side,  a  small  door  and  near  this  an  ancient  loom.     In  the 
are  to  be  seen  such  utensils  and  articles  of  furniture  as  tables,  benches, 
spSf  a  swifty  and  hanks  of  flax  and  wool  hanging  from  light  ropes  drawn 
en  nails  or  hooks.     Also  to  be  seen  are  jugs,  dishes,  plates,  bottles  and 
ks  of  various  sizes  and  materials,  with  many  gourds,  dried  and  emptied. 
Iso  an  ancient  bread  and  flour  chest,  the  cover  of  it  having  a  carved  panel 
presenting  the  image  of  the  Madonna.     Beside  this  the  water  basin  and  a 
V  old  table.     Suspended  from  the  ceiling  by  ropes  is  a  wide,  broad  board 
Uen  with  cheeses.     Two  windows,  iron-grated  and  high  up  from  the  ground, 
light,  one  at  each  side  of  the  large  door,  and  in  each  of  the  gratings  a 
b  of  red  buckwheat  is  stuck  to  ward  off  evil, 

Splendore,  Favetta,  Ornella,  the  three  young  sisters,  are  kneeling 
in  front  of  one  of  the  three  chests  containing  the  wedding  dresses.     They 
'e  bending  over  them  and  picking  out  suitable  dresses  and  ornaments  for  the 
ide.     Their  gay,  fresh  tones  are  like  the  chanting  of  morning  songs. 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


Splendore. 

Favetta. 

Splendore. 


Ornella  [Singing]. 


Splendore. 


Favetta. 

Splendore. 

Ornella. 


What's  your  will,  our  own  Vienda? 

What's  your  will,  our  dear  new  sister? 

Will  you  choose  the  gown  of  woolen, 

Would  you  sooner  have  the  silken. 

Sprayed  with  flowrets  red  and  yellow? 

Only  of  green  shall  be  my  arraying. 

Only  of  green  for  San  Giovanni, 

For  mid  the  green  meadows  he  came  to  seek  me, 

Oili,  Oili,  Oila  ! 

Look  !     Here  is  the  bodice  of  wondrous  embroid 

And  the  yoke  with  the  gleaming  thread  of  silver 

Petticoat  rich  of  a  dozen  breadths'  fullness, 

Necklace  strung  with  hundred  beaded  coral, — 

All  these  given  you  by  your  new  mother. 

Ornella  [Singing].    Only  of  green  be  or  gown  or  bridal  chamber  ! 

Oili,  oili,  oila. 

What's  your  will,  our  own  Vienda? 
What's  your  will,  our  dear  new  sister? 
Pendant  earrings,  clinging  necklace. 
Blushing  ribbons,  cherry  red  ? 
Hear  the  ringing  bells  of  noon-day, 
Hear  the  bells  ring  out  high  noon  ! 
See  the  kindred  hither  coming. 
On  their  heads  the  hampers  bearing, 
Hampers  laden  with  wheat  all  golden. 
And  you,  yet  not  dressed  and  ready  ! 
Bounding,  rebounding. 
Sheep  pass,  the  hills  rounding. 
The  wolf,  through  valleys  winding, 
The  nut  he  seeks  is  finding, — 
The  pistachio  nut  is  finding. 
See,  the  Bride  of  the  Morning  ! 
Matinal  as  the  field-mouse 
Going  forth  at  the  dawning 
As  the  woodchuck  and  squirrel. 
Hear,  O  hear,  the  bells'  whirl ! 
[All  these  words  are  spoken  very  swiftly^  and  at  the  c/oj^Ornella  lau 

joyously y  her  two  sisters  joining  with  her,] 

The  Three  Sisters.  Oh  !  Aligi,  why  then  don't  you  come? 

Splendore.  Oh  !  in  velvet  then  must  you  dress? 


Splendore. 


Ornella. 


GAB  R  I  EL  E     D'ANNUNZIO 


f>n>ORE. 


NDORE. 


£TTA. 


ELLA. 


Seven  centuries  quite,  must  you  rest 

With  your  beautiful,  magical  Spouse? 

O,  your  father  stays  at  the  harvesting, 

Brother  mine,  and  the  star  of  the  dawning 

In  his  sickle-blade  is  showings — 

In  his  sickle,  no  rest  knowing. 

And  your  mother  has  flavored  the  wine-cup 

And  anis-seed  mixed  with  the  water, 

Sticking  cloves  in  the  rotist  meat 

And  sweet  thyme  in  the  cheeses. 

And  a  lamb  of  the  flock  we  have  slaughtered. 

Yea,  a  yearling,  but  fattened  one  season, 

With  head  markings  and  spottings  of  sable 

For  the  Bride  and  the  Bridegroom. 

And  the  mantle,  long  sleeved,  and  cowl-hooded, 
For  Astorgio  we  chose  it  and  kept  it — 
For  the  long-lived  gray  man  of  the  mountain. 
So  our  fate  upon  that  he  foretell  us. 

And  to-morrow  will  be  San  Giovanni, 
Dear,  my  brother  !  with  dawn,  San  Giovanni ! 
Up  the  Plaia  hill  then  shall  I  hie  me. 
To  behold  once  again  the  head  severed — 
In  the  sun's  disc,  the  holy  head  severed. 
On  the  platter  all  gleaming  and  golden, 
Where  again  the  blood  runs,  flows  and  babbles. 

Up,  Vienda  !  head  all  golden, 
Keeping  long  vigil ;  O,  golden  sweet  tresses  ! 
Now  they  harvest  in  the  grain-fields 
Wheat  as  golden  as  your  tresses. 

Our  mother  was  saying  :  Now  heed  me  ! 
Three  olives  I  nurtured  here  with  me ; 
Unto  these  now  a  plum  have  I  added. 
Ay !  three  daughters,  and,  also,  a  daughter. 

Come  Vienda,  golden-plum  girl ! 
Why  delay  you  ?    Are  you  writing 
To  the  sun  a  fair  blue  letter 
That  to-night  it  know  no  setting? 

[She  laughs  and  the  other  sisters  join  in  with  her.     From  the  small  door 
"J  their  mother j  Candia  Della  Leonessa.] 


ETTA. 


SNDORE. 


ELLA. 


6  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

Candia  [Playfully  chiding]. 

Ah  !  you  magpies,  sweet  cicales  ! 
Once  for  over-joy  of  singing 

One  was  buist  up  on  the  poplar. 

Now  the  cock's  no  longer  crowing 

To  awaken  tardy  sleepers. 
Only  sing  on  these  cicales, — 

These  cicales  of  high  noon-day. 

These  three  magpies  take  my  roof-tree — 

Take  my  door's  wood  for  a  tree-branch. 

Still  the  new  child  does  not  heed  them. 

Oh  !  Aligi,  Aligi,  dear  fellow  ! 
[The  door  opens.     The  beardless  bridegroom  appears.     He  greets  them 
with  a  grave  voice f  fixed  eyes^  and  in  an  almost  religious  manner.] 
Aligi.  All  praise  to  Jesus  and  to  Mary  ! 

You,  too,  my  mother,  who  this  mortal 

Christian  flesh  to  me  have  given. 

Be  you  blessed,  my  dear  mother  ! 

Blessed  be  ye,  also,  sisters. 

Blossoms  of  my  blood  ! 

For  you,  for  me,  I  cross  my  forehead 

That  never  there  come  before  us  to  thwart  us 

The  enemy  subtle,  in  death,  in  life. 

In  heat  of  sun,  or  flame  of  fire. 

Or  poison,  or  any  enchantment. 

Or  sweat  unholy  the  forehead  moistening. 

Father,  and  Saviour  and  Holy  Spirit ! 
[The  sisters  cross  themselves  and  go  out  by  the  small  door  carrying  thd 
ridal  dresses.     Aligi  approaches  his  mother  as  if  in  a  dream.] 
Candia.  Flesh  of  my  flesh,  thus  touch  I  your  fo^^head 

With  bread,  with  this  fair  wheaten  loaf  of  white  flourj 

Prepared  in  this  bowl  of  a  hundred  years  old, 

Born  long  before  thee,  bom  long  before  me. 

Kneaded  long  on  the  board  of  a  hundred  years  old 

By  these  hands  that  have  tended  and  held  you. 

On  the  brow,  thus,  I  touch  :  Be  it  sunny  and  clear  ! 

I  touch  thus  the  breast :  Be  it  free  from  all  sighing  ! 

I  touch  this  shoulder,  and  that :  Be  it  strong  ! 

Let  them  bear  up  your  arms  for  long  labor  ! 

Let  her  rest  there  her  head  gray  or  golden  ! 

And  may  Christ  to  you  speak  and  you  heed  him  ! 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  7 

[fFitb  the  loaf  she  makes  the  sign  of  the  cross  above  her  soriy  who  has  fallen 

s  knees  before  her.] 

I.  I  lay  down  and  meseemed  of  Jesus  I  dreamed, 

He  came  to  me  saying :  "  Be  not  fearful." 
San  Giovanni  said  to  me  : ''  Rest  in  safety. 
Without  holy  candles  thou  shalt  not  die." 
Said  he  :  "  Thou  shalt  not  die  the  death  accursed." 
And  you,  you  have  cast  my  lot  in  life,  mother, 
Allotted  the  bride  you  have  chosen  for  me, — 
Your  son,  and  here,  within  your  own  house,  mother, 
You  have  brought  her  to  couple  with  me. 
That  she  slumber  with  me  on  my  pillow. 
That  she  eat  with  me  out  of  my  platter.  .  .  . 
Then  I  was  pasturing  flocks  on  the  mountain. 
Now  back  to  the  mountain  I  must  be  turning. 

[His  mother  touches  his  head  with  the  palm  of  her  hand  as  if  to  chase 

f  evil  thoughts.] 

>IA.  Rise  up,  my  son  !    You  are  strangely  talking. 

All  your  words  are  now  changing  in  color 
As  the  olive  tree  changes  pressed  by  the  breezes. 

[He  rises f  as  if  in  a  daze.  ] 

;i.  But  where  is  my  father?     Still  nowhere  I  see  him. 

i>iA.  Gone  to  the  harvesting,  out  with  the  reapers. 

The  good  grain  reaping,  by  grace  of  our  Saviour. 

;i.  Once  I  reaped,  too,  by  his  body  shaded. 

Ere  I  was  signed  with  the  cross  on  my  forehead. 
When  my  brow  scarcely  reached  up  to  his  haunches. 
But  on  my  first  day  a  vein  here  I  severed, — 
Here  where  the  scar  stays.    Then  with  leaves  he  was 

bruising 
The  while  he  stanched  the  red  blood  from  flowing, 
"  Son  Aligi,"  said  he  unto  me,  "  Son  Aligi, 
Give  up  the  sickle  and  take  up  the  sheep-crook  : 
Be  you  a  shepherd  and  go  to  the  mountain."  .  .  . 
This  his  command  was  kept  in  obedience. 

>1A.  Son  of  mine,  what  is  this  pain  the  heart  of   you 

hurting? 
What  dream  like  an  incubus  over  you  hovers, 
That  these  your  words  are  like  a  wayfarer. 
Sitting  down  on  his  road  at  night's  coming. 


«  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

Who  is  halting  his  footsteps  for  knowing. 
Beyond  attaining  is  his  heart's  desiring. 
Past  his  ears'  hearing  the  Ave  Maria. 

Aligi.  Now  to  the  mountain  must  I  be  returning. 

Mother,  where  is  my  stout  shepherd's  sheep-hook 
Used  to  the  pasture  paths,  daily  or  nightly? 
Let  me  have  that,  so  the  kindred  arriving. 
May  see  thereupon  all  the  carving  I've  carved, 
[if  f  J  mother  takes  the  shepherd* s  crook  from  the  comer  of  the  fire-place. '\ 

Candia.  Lo  !  here  it  is,  son  of  mine,  take  it :  your  sisters 

Have  hung  it  with  garlands  for  San  Giovanni, 
With  pinks  red  and  fragrant  festooned  it. 

Aligi  [Pointing  out  the  carving  on  it\ 

And  I  have  them  here  on  the  bloodwood  all  with  me 
As  if  by  the  hand  I  were  leading  my  sisters. 
So,  along  they  go  with  me  threading  green  pathways 
Guarding  them,  mother, — these  three  virgin  damsels- 
See  !  three  bright  angels  here  over  them  hover, 
And  three  starry  comets,  and  three  meek  doves  alsG 
And  a  flower  for  each  one  I  have  carved  here. 
The  growing  half-moon  and  the  sun  I  have  carve< 

here; 
This  is  the  priestly  stole;  and  this  is  the  cup  sacra 

mental. 
And  this  is  the  belfry  of  San  Biagio. 
And  this  is  the  river,  and  this  my  own  cabin ;     \wit 

mystery i  as  if  with  second  sight] 
But  who,  who  is  this  one  who  stands  in  my  doorway 

Candia.  Aligi,  why  is  it  you  set  me  to  weeping  ! 

Aligi.  And  see  at  the  end  here  that  in  the  ground  enters, 

Here  are  the  sheep,  and  here  also  their  shepherd, 
And  here  is  the  mountain  where  I  must  be  going. 
Though  you  weep,  though  I  weep,  my  mother  ! 
[He  leans  on  the  crook  with  both  handSf  resting  his  head  upon  themy  los 

in  his  thoughts.  ] 

Candia.  But  where  then  is  Hope?    What  have  you  made  o 

her.  Son  ? 

Aligi.  Her  face  has  shone  on  me  seldom ; 

Carve  her,  I  could  not,  sooth  !  Mother. 
[From  Ae  distance  a  savage  clamor  rises.] 


GABRIELE    DANNUNZIO  9 

Mother,  who  shouts  out  so  loud  there? 

HA.  The  harvesters  heated  and  frenzied, 

From  the  craze  of  their  passions  defend  them, 
From  sins  of  their  blood  San  Giovanni  restrain  them  I 

[.  Ah  !    Who  then  has  drawn  but  that  scarf  there. 

Athwart  the  wide  door  of  our  dwelling, 
Leaning  on  it  the  forked  hoe  and  distaff. 
That  nought  enter  in  that  is  evil? 
Ah  !   Lay  there  the  plough-share,  the  wain,  and  the 

oxen. 
Pile  stones  there  against  both  the  door-posts, 
With  slaked  lime  from  all  of  the  lime-kilns. 
The  bowlder  with  footprints  of  Samson, 
And  Maella  Hill  with  its  snow-drifts  ! 

»IA.  What  is  coming  to  birth  in  your  heart,  son  of  mine? 

Did  not  Christ  say  to  you, — "  Be  not  fearful "? 
Are  you  awake?     Heed  the  waxen  cross  there. 
That  was  blessed  on  the  Day  of  Ascension, 
The  door-hinges,  too,  with  holy  water  sprinkled. 
No  evil  spirit  can  enter  our  doorway. 
Your  sisters  have  drawn  the  scarlet  scarf  'cross  it, — 
The  scarlet  scarf  you  won  in  the  field-match 
Long  before  you  ever  became  a  shepherd. 
In  the  match  that  you  ran  for  the  straightest  furrow  — 
(You  still  remember  it,  son  of  mine?)  There  have 

they  stretched  it 
So  that  the  kindred  who  must  pass  through  there 
Offer  what  gifts  they  choose  when  they  enter. 
Why  do  you  ask,  for  you  well  know  our  custom? 

;i.  Mother  !  Mother  !  I  have  slept  years  seven  hundred — 

Years  seven  hundred  !    I  come  from  afar  off. 
I  remember  no  longer  the  days  of  my  cradle. 

>IA.  What  ails  you,  son?   Like  one  in  a  dazement  you 

answer. 
Black  wine  was  it  your  bride  poured  out  for  you? 
And  perhaps  you  drank  it  while  yet  you  were  fasting» 
So  that  your  mind  is  far  off  on  a  journey? 
O  Mary,  blest  Virgin  !  do  thou  grant  me  blessing  I 

The  voice  o/Ornella  singing  the  nuptial  song. 

Only  of  green  shall  be  my  arraying. 


10 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


Splendore. 

Fa  V  ETTA. 

Ornella. 


Splendore. 


Ornella. 


Candia. 


Only  of  green  for  Santo  Giovanni. 
Oili,  oiliy  oila  ! 
[The  Bride  appears  dressed  in  green  and  is  brought  forward  joyousi 
by  the  sisters.'\ 

Lo  !  the  bride  comes  whom  we  have  apparelled 
With  all  the  joy  of  the  spring-time  season. 
Of  gold  and  silver  the  yoke  is  fashioned 
But  all  the  rest  like  the  quiet  verdure. 
You,  mother,  take  her  !  in  your  arms  take  her  ! 

0  dear  my  mother,  take  and  console  her  ! 
Shedding  tears  at  the  bedside  we  found  her, 
Thus  lamenting  for  thinking  so  sorely 
Of  the  gray  head  at  home  left  so  lonely. 
Of  the  jar  full  of  pinks  in  the  window 
Her  dear  face  not  again  shall  lean  over. 
You,  mother,  take  her  !  in  your  arms  take  her  I 
Daughter,  daughter,  with  this  loaf  in  blessing 

1  have  touched  my  own  son.    Lo  !  now  I  divide  it, 
And  over  your  fair  shining  head  I  now  break  it. 
May  our  house  have  increase  of  abundance  ! 

Be  thou  unto  the  dough  as  good  leaven 

That  may  swell  it  out  over  the  bread-board  ! 

Bring  unto  me  peace  and  ah  !  do  not  bring  strife  i 
me  ! 
The  Three  Sisters.   So  be  it !   We  kiss  the  earth.  Mother  ! 

[They  kiss  the  ground  by  leaning  over  and   touching   it  with   forefing 
and  middle  finger^  and  then  touching  their  lips.     Aligi  is  kneeling  on  one  su 
as  if  in  deep  prayer.  ] 
Candia.  O  now  daughter  mine  to  my  house  be 

As  the  spindle  is  unto  the  distaff; 

As  unto  the  skein  is  the  spindle ; 

And  as  unto  the  loom  is  the  shuttle  ! 
The  Three  Sisters.   So  be  it !   We  kiss  the  earth,  mother  ! 
Candia.  O  Vienda  !  new  daughter,  child  blessed  ! 

Lo  !  midst  home  and  pure  food  thus  I  place  you. 

Lo  !   The  walls  of  this  house — the  four  comers  ! 

God  willing,  the  sun  rises  there;  sinks  there,  G< 
willing ! 

This  is  the  northward,  this  is  the  southward. 

The  ridgepole  this,  the  eaves  with  nests  hanging. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO 


II 


NDORE. 


BLLA. 


STTA. 


And  the  chain  and  the  crane  with  the  andirons; 

There  the  mortar  the  white  salt  is  crushed  in, 

And  there,  too,  the  crock  it  is  kept  in. 

O  new  daughter  !  I  call  you  to  witness 

How  midst  home  things  and  pure  food  I  place  you 

Both  for  this  life  and  life  everlasting. 
Three  Sisters.   So  be  it  I    We  kiss  the  earth,  Mother  ! 
[ViENDA  rests  her  heady  weepings  on  the  shoulder  of  the  mother.    Candia 
aces  her^  still  holding  a  half-loaf  in  each  hand.    The  cry  of  the  reapers  is 
t  nearer.     Aligi  rises  like  one  suddenly  wakened  and  goes  toward  the 

The  sisters  follow  him.^ 
STTA.  Now  by  the  great  heat  are  the  reapers  all  maddened. 

They  are  barking  and  snapping  like  dogs  at  each 
passer. 

Now  the  last  of  the  rows  they  are  reaching, 

With  the  red  wine  they  never  mix  water. 

At  the  end  of  each  row,  they  are  drinking. 

In  the  shade  of  the  stack  the  jug  lying. 

Lord  of  heaven  !    The  heat  is  infernal,. 

At  her  tail  bites  the  old  gammer  serpent. 
ELLA  \chanting\   Oh,  for  mercy  !     Wheat  and  wheat,  and  stubble, 

stubble. 

First  in  sun  burn   the  sickles,  then  wounds  they 
trouble. 

Oh  mercy  for  father  !  for  his  arms  tired. 

And  all  his  veins  with  labor  swollen. 

O  Aligi !  you  saddest  of  grooms 

Keeping  yet  in  your  nostrils  sleep's  fumes  ! 

O,  you  know  very  well  the  rhyme  turned  about. 

You  have  placed  the  good  loaf  in  the  jug. 

You  have  poured  the  red  wine  in  the  sack. 

Lo  !  now  the  kindred  !    Lo  I  now  the  women  !  they 
are  coming. 

Up,  up.!  Vienda  !  and  cease  your  weeping. 

Mother  !  How  now  !    They  are  coming.  Set  her  free 
then. 

Up  !  Golden  tresses,  cease  your  weeping  ! 

You  have  Wept  too  long.     Your  fine  eyes  are  red- 
dened ! 
[Vienda  dries  her  tears  on  her  apron  and  taking  the  apron  up  by  the  two 


^NDORE. 


ELLA. 


ETTA. 


SNDORE. 


12  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

Corners  receivis  in  it  the  two  pieces  of  the  loaf  from  the  mother.  ] 

Candia.  In  blood  and  in  milk  return  it  to  me  ! 

Goldenhair,  come  now,  sit  on  the  settle. 
Oh  i  Aligi,  you  too,  come  sit  here  I  and  wake  up  t 
One  of  you  here,  one  of  you  there,  thus  stay  ye. 
Children,  thus,  at  each  side  of  the  door. 
Be  it  wide  open  for  all  to  see  in  there 
The  wide  bed  so  wide  that  in  order  to  fill  it — 
The  mattress  to  fill — I  used  up  the  straw-stack. 
Ay  !  the  whole  of  the  stack  to  the  bare  pole. 
With  the  crock  sticking  up  on  the  tiptop  I 
[Candia  and  Splendore  place  a  small  bench  each  side  of  the  door^  where 

the  couple  sit  composed  and  silent^  looking  at  each  other^  Ornella   and 

Favetta  looking  out  toward  the  road  at  the  large  door.     The  yard  is  in  dasb- 

zling  sunlight J\ 

Favetta.  See  !  They  are  coming  up  the  road  slowly 

In  single  file,  all :  Teodula  di  Cinzio 
And  Cinerella,  Monica,  Felavia, 
And  Catalana  delle  Tre  Bisacce, 
Anna  di  Bova,  Maria  Cora  • . .  but  who  is  the  last  one? 

Candia.  Come  on  then,  Splendore,  do  help  me  spread  out  now 

The  bedspread  I  wove  of  silk  doubled. 
Woven  for  you,  Vienda,  dear  green  bud. 
As  green  as  the  grass  of  the  meadow. 
The  sweet  grass,  early  bee,  where  you  hover. 

Ornella.  Who  is  last?  Can  you  tell  us,  Vienda? 

Oh  I  I  see  yellow  grain  in  the  hampers. 
And  it  glitters  like  gold.    Who  can  she  be  ? 
Gray  at  the  temple,  beneath  the  white  linen, 
Gray  as  the  feathery  bryony  branches. 

Favetta.  Your  mommy  !  dear  child,  is  she  your  mommy? 

[Vienda  rises  suddenly  as  if  to  rush  to  her  mother.    In  so  doing  she  lets 

the  bread  fall  from  her  apron.     She  stops^  shocked.     Aligi  rises  and  stands 

so  as  to  prevent  the  mother  from  seeing.] 

Ornella  [greatly  concerned^  in  a  frightened  voice]. 

O  Lord  save  us  I    Pick  it  up  again. 
Pick  it  up,  kiss  it,  ere  mamma  see  it. 
[Vienda,  terrified  and  overwhelmed  by  frightful  superstition^  is  stricken 

immovable f  rigid^  staring  at  the  two  half-loaves  with  glassy  eyes.] 

Favetta.  rick  it  up,  kiss  it,  sad  is  the  angel. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  13 

Make  a  vow  silently,  promise  greatly, 

Call  on  San  Sisto,  lest  Death  should  appear. 
[From  within  are  bear  J  the  blows  given  with  the  hand  on  mattress  and 
pillows  and  the  wind  carries  to  the  ear  the  clamor  of  the  reapers.] 
Ornella.  San  Sisto  I  San  Sisto  ! 

Oh  !  hear  ye,  and  list,  oh  ! 

Black  death,  evil  sprite. 

By  day,  by  night, 

Chase  from  our  walls  ! 

Drive  from  our  souls  ! 

Oh  !  crumble  and  tear 

The  evil  eye's  snare. 

As  the  sign  of  the  cross  I  make  ! 

J  While  murmuring  the  conjuring  words  she  rapidly  gathers  up  the  two 
oaveSf  pressing  each  to  Vienda's  lips^   kissing  them  herself^  and  then 
placinf  each  in  the  apron^  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  aoer  them.     She  then 
leads  the  bridal  couple  to  their  benches^  as  the  first  of  the  women  kindred  appears 
at  the  door  with  the  offerings^  stopping  in  front  of  the  scarlet  scarf.     The 
women  each  carry  on  the  head  a  hamper  of  wheat  adorned  with  flowing  ribbons 
of  various  colors.     On  each  basket  rests  a  loaf  of  bread  and  on  top  of  each  loaf 
T  i  wild  flower.    Ornella  and  Favetta  take  each  one  end  of  the  scarf  while 
^  still  leaving  hoe  and  distaff  in  place  against  the  wally  but  so  posed  as  to  bar 
I  entrance.] 

'  First  Woman,  Teodula  di  Cinzio. 

Ohe  !  Who  watches  the  bridges  ? 
Favetta  and  Ornella  [in  unison]. 

Love  open-eyed  and  Love  blind. 
Teodula.  To  cross  over  there  I  desire. 

Favetta.  To  desire  is  not  to  acquire. 

Teodula.  I  clambered  the  mountain  ridges. 

Now  down  through  the  valley  I'll  wind. 
Ornella.  The  torrent  has  taken  the  bridges, 

Too  swift  runs  the  river  you'll  find. 
Teodula.  Set  me  over  in  your  boat. 

Favetta.  She  leaks  too  fast  to  keep  afloat. 

Te(X>ula.  ril  calk  her  with  tow  and  resin. 

Ornella.  Leaks  full  seven  split  and  stove  her. 

Te(H>ula.  Then  I'll  give  you  pieces  seven. 

On  your  shoulder  bear  me  over. 
Favetta.  Oh,  no  I    Help  of  mine  you  must  lack. 


14  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

The  wild  water  fills  me  with  fright. 
Teodula.  Lend  me  a  lift  on  your  back. 

ril  give  you  this  silver  piece  bright. 
Ornella.  Too  little  I    Your  eight  bits,  indeed, 

Would  not  keep  my  ribbons  new. 
Teodula.  Tuck  up  your  skirt.     Plunge  in  bare-kneed. 

A  ducat  of  gold  Til  give  to  you. 

[The  first  woman^  Teodula,  gives  Ornella  a  piece  of  money.    Sk 
receives  it  in  her  left  handf  while  the  other  women  come  closer  to  the  door.     Tht 
bridal  pair  remain  seated  and  silent.    Candia  and  Splendore  enter  from 
the  small  door.] 
Ornella  and  Favetta  [in  unison]. 

Pass  on  then,  O  you  fair  Lady  ! 
And  all  these  in  your  company  ! 

[Ornella  puts  the  money  in  her  bosom  and  takes  away  the  distaff f 
Favetta  the  hoe^  they  then  leave  both  leaning  against  the  wall.  Ornella^ 
with  a  quick  movement^  withdraws  the  scarf  making  it  wave  like  a  slender  pen- 
nant. The  women  then  enter  one  by  one^  in  lincy  still  holding  their  baskets 
balanced  on  their  heads.] 
Teodula.  Peace  be  with  you,  Candia  della  Leonessa  ! 

And  peace,  too,  with  you,  son  of  Lazaro  di  Roio  \ 
And  peace  to  the  bride  whom  Christ  has  given  ! 

[She  places  her  basket  at  the  bride* s  feet  and^  taking  out  of  it  a  handful  o 
wheat f  she  scatters  it  over  Vienda's  head.  She  then  takes  another  hand f is. 
and  scatters  it  over  Aligi's.] 

This  is  the  peace  that  is  sent  you  from  Heaven  : 
That  on  the  same  pillow  your  hair  may  whiten, 
On  the  same  pillow  to  old  age  ending. 
Nor  sin  nor  vengeance  be  between  you. 
Falsehood  nor  wTath,  but  love,  love  only. 
Daily,  tilt  time  for  the  long,  long  journey. 

[The  next  woman  repeats  the  same  ceremony  and  action^  the  others  mean- 
while  remaining  in  line  awaiting  their  turn^  with  the  hampers  on  their  heads. 
The  last  oney  the  mother  of  the  bride^  remains  motionless  near  the  threshoUf 
and  dries  her  face  of  tears  and  perspiration.  The  noise  of  the  riotous  reapers 
increases  and  seems  to  come  nearer.  Besides  this  noise  from  time  to  timcy  m 
pauses y  now  and  again  the  ringing  of  bells  is  heard.] 

CiNERELLA.  For  this  is  peace  and  this  is  plenty. 

[Suddenly  a  woman* s  cry  is  heard  outside  coming  from  the  yard.] 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO 

Voice  of  the  Unknown  Woman. 

Help  !  Help  !  For  Jesus'  sake,  our  Saviour  ! 
People  of  God,  O  people  of  God,  save  ye  me  ! 
[Runntngf  panting  from  fright  and  exertion^  covered  with  dust  and  briars ^ 
I  hart  run  down  by  a  pack  of  hunting  dogs^  a  woman  enters.     Her  face  is 
ed  by  a  mantle.     She  looks  about  bewildered^  and  withdraws  to  the  corner 
the  fire-place^  opposite  to  the  bridal  pair. 
Unknown  People  of  God  !  O  save  ye  me  ! 

IAN.  The  door  there  !    O  shut  tight  the  door  there. 

Put  ye  up  all  the  bars  !     Securely. — 

They  are  many,  and  all  have  their  sickles. 

They    are    crazed, — crazed    with   heat    and    strong 
drinking. 

They  are  brutal  with  lust  and  with  cursing. 

Me  would  they  hunt, — they  would  seize  me; 

They  would  hunt  me,  they  would  seize  me,  me, — 

The  creature  of  Christ,  ay,  me, — 

The  unhappy  one,  doing  no  evil  ! 

Passing  I  was — alone — by  the  roadside. — 

They  saw  me. — They  cried. — They  insulted. 

They  hurled  sods  and  stones. — They  chased  me. — 

Ay  !  like  unto  hounds  that  are  hungry. 

They  would  seize  me  and  tear  me  and  torture. 

They  are  following  me,  O  most  wretched  ! 

They  are  hunting  me  down,  people  of  God  ! 

Help  ye  !    Save  me  !   The  door,  O  shut  it  to  ! 

The  door  ! — They  are  maddened — will  enter  ! 
They  will  take  me  from  here, — from  your  hearth- 
stone— 

(The  deed  even  God  cannot  pardon)  ! — 

From  your  hearthstone  that  blest  is  and  sacred 

(And  aught  else  but  that  deed  God  pardons) — 

And  my  soul  is  baptized, — I  am  Christian — 

Oh  !  help  !    O  for  San  Giovanni's  sake  help  me  ! 

For  Mary's  sake,  her  of  the  seven  dolors  ! 

For  the  sake  of  my  soul. — For  your  own  soul ! 
[She  stays  by  the  hearth^  all  the  women  gathering  at  the  side  opposite  her. 
a)A  close  to  her  mother  and  godmother.     Aligi  stands  outside  the  circle 
wedf  leaning  on  his  crook.     SuddenlyORSELLA  rushes  to  the  doory  closes 
i  bars  it.     A  somewhat  inimical  murmur  arises  from  the  circle  of  women.] 


i6 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


Ah  !  tell  me  your  name, — ^how  they  call  you, — 
Your  name,  that  wherever  I  wander. 
Over  mountains,  in  valleys  I  bless  it, 
You,  who  in  pity  are  first  here. 
Though  in  years  yours  are  least  in  the  counting  ! 
[Overcome  she  lets  herself  drop  on  the  hearth^  bowed  over  upon  hers, 
with  her  head  resting  on  her  knees.     The  women  are  huddled  together  It 
frightened  sheep.    Ornella  steps  forward  toward  the  stranger.] 


Anna. 
Maria. 


Monica. 

La  Cinerella. 

Anna. 

La  Catalana. 
Felavia. 


Who  is  this  woman  ?    Holy  Virgin  ! 
And  is  this  the  right  way  to  enter 
The  dwelling  of  God-fearing  people  ? 
And  Candia,  you  !   What  say  you  ? 
Will  you  let  the  door  stay  bolted  ? 
Is  the  last  to  be  bom  of  your  daughters. 
The  first  to  command  in  your  household  ? 
She  will  bring  down  upon  you  bad  fortune. 
The  wandering  she-dog,  for  certain  ! 
Did  you  mark?    How  she  entered  that  instant 
While  yet  Cinerella  was  pouring 
On  Vienda  her  handful  of  wheat  flour 
Ere  Aligi  had  got  his  share  fully? 
[Ornella  goes  a  step  nearer  the  wretched  fugitive.     Favetta  leaves 
circle  and  joins  her.] 

How  now  !    Are  we,  then,  to  remain  here. 
With  our  baskets  still  on  our  heads  loaded  ? 
Sure  it  would  be  a  terrible  omen 
To  put  down  on  the  ground  here  our  baskets 
Before  giving  our  offerings  to  them. 
My  daughter,  may  Saint  Luke  defend  you  ! 
Saint  Mark  and  Saint  Matthew  attend  you  ! 
Grope  for  your  scapulary  round  your  neck  hangin 
Hold  it  closely  and  offer  your  prayer. 
[Splendore,  toOf  comes  forward  and  joins  the  sisters.     The  three  gi 
stand  before  the  fugitive ^  who  is  still  prostrate^  panting  and  trembling  with  fei 
Ornella.  You  are  over  sore-pressed,  sister, 

And  dusty  and  tired,  you  tremble. 
Weep  no  more,  since  now  you  are  safe  here. 
You  are  thirsty.     Your  drink  is  your  tears. 
Will  you  drink  of  our  water  and  wine?    Your  fa 
bathe? 


Monica. 
Maria. 


Maria  di  Giave. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  17 

f  takes  a  small  bowly  draws  water  from  the  earthen  receptacle  and  pours 

nto  f/.] 

TTA.  Are  you  of  the  valleys  or  elsewhere  ? 

Do  you  come  from  afar?    And  whither 
Do  you  now  bend  your  steps,  O  Woman  ! 
All  desolate  thus  by  the  road-side  i 

i>ORE.  Some  malady  ails  you,  unlucky  one? 

A  vow  then  of  penitence  made  you  ? 
To  the  Incoronata  were  travelling? 
May  the  Virgin  answer  your  prayers  ! 

The  fugitive  lifts  her  bead  slowly  and  cautiously,  with  her  face  still 

I  in  the  mantle.] 

LLA  [offering  the  bowl]. 

Will  you  drink,  now,  daughter  of  Jesus? 

From  outside  a  noise  is  heard  as  of  bare  feet  shuffling  in  the  yard  and 

murmuring.  The  stranger,  again  stricken  with  fear,  does  not  drink  from 

offered  bowl  but  places  it  on  the  hearth  and  retires  trembling  to  the  further 

of  the  chimney.] 

Jnknown  One.  They  are  here,  O  they  come  !    They  are  seeking 

For  me  !    They  will  seize  me  and  take  me. 
For  mercy's  sake,  answer  not,  speak  not. 
They  will  go  if  they  think  the  house  empty. 
And  do  nothing  evil;  but  if  you 
Are  heard,  if  you  speak  or  you  answer 
They  will  certainly  know  I  have  entered. 
They  will  open  the  door,  force  it  open.  .  .  . 
With  the  heat  and  the  wine  they  are  frenzied. 
Mad  dogs  !  and  here  is  but  one  man, 
And  many  are  they  and  all  have  their  sickles, 
Their  scythes. — Oh  !  for  dear  pity's  sake. 
For  the  sake  of  these  innocent  maidens. 
For  your  sake,  dear  daughter  of  kindness  I  You, 
women  holy  ! 

)and  of  Reapers  [in  chorus  outside  at  the  door] 

The  dwelling  of  Lazaro  !     Surely 
Into  this  house  entered  the  woman. 
— They  have  closed  the  door,  they  have  barred  it ! 
— ^Look  out  for  her  there  in  the  stubble. 
— Search  well  in  the  hay  there,  Gonzelvo. 
— Hah  !  Hah  !     In  the  dwelling  of  Lazaro, 


i8  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

Right  into  the  maw  of  the  wolf.     Hah  i  Hah  I 
— O  !  Candia  della  Leonessa  ! 
Ho  i  all  of  you  there  !   Are  you  dead  ? 
[Tbey.  knock  at  the  door.] 

O  !  Candia  della  Leonessa  ! 

Do  you  offer  a  shelter  to  harlots? 

— ^Do  you  find  that  you  need  such  temptation 

To  still  the  fain  flesh  of  your  husband? 

— If  the  woman  be  there,  I  say,  open  ! 

Open  the  door,  good  folks,  give  her  to  us 

And  on  a  soft  bed  we  will  lay  her. 

— Bring  her  out  to  us  !     Bring  her  out  to  us. 

For  we  only  want  to  know  her  better. 

To  the  hay-cock,  the  hay-cock,  the  hay-cock  ! 

[They  knock  and  clamor.     Aligi  moves  toward  the  door.] 

The  Unknown  One  \whisperingly  imploring]. 

Young  man,  O  young  man,  pray  have  mercy  ! 

O  have  mercy  !    Do  not  open  ! 

Not  for  my  sake,  not  mine,  but  for  others. 

Since  they  will  not  seize  now  on  me,  only. 

Since  imbruted  are  they.    You  must  hear  it ! — 

In  their  voices? — How  now  the  fiend  holds  them? 

The  bestial  mad  fiend  of  high  noon-day, 

The  sweltering  dog-days'  infection. 

If  they  gain  entry  here,  what  can  you  do? 

[The  greatest  excitement  prevails  among  the  women^  but  they  restro 
themselves.] 

Catalana.  Ye  see  now  to  what  shame  we  all  are  submitted. 

We  women  of  peace  here,  for  this  woman. 
She  who  dares  not  show  her  face  to  us  ! 

Anna.  Open,  Aligi,  open  the  door  there. 

But  wide  enough  to  let  her  pass  out. 
Grip  hold  of  her  and  toss  her  out  there. 
Then  close  and  bar  the  entrance,  giving  praises 
To  Lord  Jesus  our  salvation. 
And  perdition  overtake  all  wretches  ! 
[The  shepherd  turns  toward  the  woman^  hesitating^  Ornella,  steppi 

forward y  stops  his  way;  making  a  sign  of  silence^  she  goes  to  the  door.  ] 

Ornella.  Who  is  there?    Who  knocks  at  the  door  there? 


GABRIELE    D^ANNUNZIO 


19 


I  ELLA. 

OICE. 
I  ELLA. 


''OICE. 
fELLA. 


:es  of  the  Reapers  [outsiJif  all  confusedly]. 

— Silence  there  !  Hush  up  !  Hush — sh  !  Hush — sh  ! 
— ^Within  there  is  some  one  who  is  speaking, 
— O  Candia  della  Leonessa, 
Is  it  you  who  are  speaking?    Open  !    Open  I 
— We  are  the  reapers  here  of  Norca, 
All  the  company  are  we  of  Cataldo. 
I  am  not  Candia.     For  Candia  is  busied  now. 
Abroad  is  she  since  early  morning. 
And  you?     Say  who  are  you  then? 
I  belong  to  Lazaro,  Omella, 
My  father  is  Lazaro  di  Roio. 
But  ye,  say  ye,  why  ye  have  come  here? 
Open,  we  but  want  to  look  inside  there. 
Open,  that  I  cannot.     For  my  mother 
Locked  me  in  here,  with  her  kindred 
Going  out,  for  we  are  marrying. 
The  betrothal  we  are  having  of  my  brother, 
Aligi,  the  shepherd,  who  is  taking 
To  wife  here,  Vienda  di  Giave. 
Did  you  then  not  let  in  a  woman. 
But  a  short  while  ago,  a  woman  frightened? 
A  woman  ?    Then  in  peace  go  away. 
Seek  ye  elsewhere  to  find  her. 
O  reapers  of  Norca  !     I  return  to  my  loom  here, 
For  each  cast  that  is  lost  by  my  shuttle 
Will  be  lost  and  can  never  be  gathered. 
God  be  with  you  to  keep  you  from  evil, 
O  ye  reapers  of  Norca  !    May  he  give  you 
Strength  for  your  work  in  the  grain  fields 
Till  by  evening  you  reach  the  end  of  labor, 
And  I,  also,  poor  woman,  the  ending 
Of  the  breadth  of  cloth  I  am  weaving. 
[SuJdenly  at  the  side  window  two  muscular  hands  seize  the  iron  bars  and 

rutal  face  peers  in.] 

E  Reaper,  [shouting  in  a  loud  voice]. 

Ho  !  Captain  !  the  woman  is  in  there  I 
She's  inside  !  She's  inside  I  The  youngster 
Was  fooling  us  here,  yes,  the  youngster  ! 
The  woman  is  in  there  !     See,  inside  there, 


'OICE. 


I  ELLA. 


20  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

In  the  comer.     I  see  her,  I  see  her  ! 
And  there  too  is  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom, 
And  the  kindred  who  brought  them  their  presents. 
This  is  the  feast  of  the  grain-pouring  spousal. 
Ah,  ho  !  Captain  !    A  fine  lot  of  girls  there  I 

Chorus  of  Reapers  [outside] 

— If  the  woman's  within,  we  say,  open  I 
For  you  it  is  shame  to  protect  her. 
— Send  her  out  here  !    Send  her  out  here  I 
And  we  will  give  her  some  honey. 
— Ho  !  open  there,  open,  you,  and  give  her  to  usi 
— To  the  hay-cock  with  her,  to  the  hay-cock. 
[They  clamor  and  shout.     The  women  inside  are  all  confused  and  ai 

tated.    The  unknown  one  keeps  in  the  shadow^   shrinking  close  to  the  wall^ 

if  she  sought  to  sink  herself  in  it  J] 

Chorus  of  Kindred. — O  help  us,  O  holy  Virgin  ! 

Is  this  what  the  vigil  gives  us. 

The  eve  of  Santo  Giovanni? 

— ^What  disgrace  is  this  you  give  us, — what  sorrow 

This  that  you  give  us.  Beheaded  one  ! — 

Just  today  of  all  days. 

— Candia,  have  you  lost  your  reason? 

— O  Candia,  have  you  lost  your  senses? 

— Omella,  and  all  your  sisters  with  you? 

— She  was  always  a  bit  of  a  madcap. 

— Give  her  up  to  them,  give  her,  give  her 

To  these  hungry,  ravening  wolves  ! 

The  Reaper  [still  holding  the  hars\ 

Shepherd  Aligi,  Oho  !  shepherd  Aligi, 

Will  you  give,  at  your  feast  of  espousal, 

A  place  to  a  sheep  that  is  rotten, — 

A  sheep  that  is  mangy  and  lousy? 

Take  care  she  infect  not  your  sheep-fold, 

Or  give  to  your  wife  her  contagion. 

O  Candia  della  Leonessa, 

Know  you  whom  in  your  home  there  you  harbor, 

In  your  home  there  with  your  new-found  daughter 

The  daughter  of  Jorio,  the  daughter 

Of  the  Sorcerer  of  Codra  ! 

She-dog  roamer  o'er  mountains  and  valleys, 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  21 

A  haunter  of  stables  and  straw-stacks, 
Mila  the  shameless  ?    Mila  di  Codra. 
The  woman  of  stables  and  straw-heaps, 
Very  well  known  of  all  companies ; 
And  now  it  has  come  to  be  our  turn, — 
The  turn  of  the  reapers  of  Norca. 
Send  her  out  here,  send  her  out  here  1 
We  must  have  her,  have  her,  have  her ! 
[Aligi,  pale  and  tremblings  advances  toward  the  wretched  woman  who 
ins  persistently  in  the  shadow;  and  pulling  off  her  mantle  he  uncovers 
ace.] 

i  DI  Codra.  No  !  No  !    It  is  not  true  !    A  cruel  lie  ! 

A  cruel  lie  !    Do  not  believe  him. 
Do  not  believe  what  such  a  dog  says  1 
It  is  but  the  cursed  wine  speaking 
And  out  of  his  mouth  bubbling  evil. 
If  God  heard  it,  may  He  to  poison 
Turn  his  black  words,  and  he  drown  in't ! 
No  !  It  is  not  true.    A  cruel  lie  ! 
\Tbe  three  sisters  stop  their  ears  while  the  reaper  renews  his  vituperations."] 
Reaper.  You  shameless  one  I  well-known  are  you 

Well-known  are  you  as  the  ditches. 
The  field-grass  to  dry  straw  turning. 
Under  your  body's  sins  burning. 
Men  for  your  body  have  gambled 
And  fought  with  pitch-forks  and  sickles. 
Only  wait  just  a  bit  for  your  man,  Candia, 
And  you'll  see  !     He'll  come  back  to  you  bandaged, 
For  sure  !    From  a  fight  with  Rainero, 
A  fight  in  the  grain-field  of  Mispa, — 
For  whom  but  for  Jorio's  daughter? 
And  now  you  keep  her  in  your  home,  here, 
To  give  her  to  your  man  Lazaro, 
To  have  him  find  her  here  all  ready. 
Aligi  I    Vienda  di  Giave  ! 
Give  up  to  her  your  bridal  bedstead  ! 
And  all  ye  women,  go  and  scatter  wheat-grains, — 
Upon  her  head  the  golden  wheat-grains  I 
We'll  come  back  ourselves  here  with  music, 
A  little  later  and  ask  for  the  wine-jug. 


22  THE    DAUGHTER    OF     JORIO 

[The  reaper  jumps  down  and  disappears  mid  an  outbreak  of  cO(ff^ 

laughter  from  the  other sJ^ 

Chorus  of  Reapers  \outside\  ; 

— Hand  us  out  the  wine-jug.    That's  the  custom, 
— The  wine-jug,  the  wine-jug  and  the  woman  I      j 
[Aligi  stands  rigid,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  floory  perplexed^  iftl 

holding  in  his  hand  the  mantle  he  has  taken."] 

MiLA.  O  innocence,  O  innocence  of  all  these 

Young  maidens  here,  you  have  heard  not 

The  filthiness,  you  have  heard  not, 

Oh  !  Tell  me  you  have  heard  not,  heard  not ! — 

At  least  not  you,  Omella,  O,  no,  not 

You  who  have  wished  to  save  me  ! 

Anna.  Do  not  go  near  her,  Omella  !    Or  would  you 

Have  her  ruin  you?    She  the  daughter  of  the  Soi 

cerer 
Must  to  every  one  bring  ruin. 

MiLA.  She  comes  to  me  because  behind  me 

She  sees  here  weeping  the  silent  angel — 
The  guardian  over  my  soul  keeping  vigil. 
[Aligi  turns  quickly  toward  Mil  a  at  these  words,  and  gazes  at  her  fixedly 

Maria  Cora.  Oh  !  Oh  !  it  is  sacrilege  !  Sacrilege  ! 

CiNERELLA.  Ha  !     She  has  blasphemed,  she  has  blasphemed, 

Against  the  heavenly  angel. 

Felavia.  She  will  desecrate  your  hearth-stone, 

Candia,  unless  hence  you  chase  her. 

Anna.  Out  with  her,  out,  in  good  time,  Aligi, 

Seize  her,  and  out  to  the  dogs  toss  her  ! 

La  Catalana.  Well  I  know  you,  Mila  di  Codra, 

Well  at  Fame  do  they  fear  you. 
And  well  I  know  your  doings. 
You  brought  death  to  Giovanna  Cametra, 
And  death  to  the  son  of  Panfilo. 
You  turned  the  head  of  poor  Alfonso, 
Gave  Tillura  the  evil  sickness, 
Caused  the  death  of  your  father,  even. 
Who  now  in  damnation  damns  you  ! 

Mila.  May  thou,  God,  protect  his  spirit 

And  unto  peace  his  soul  gather! 
Ah  !     You  it  is  who  have  blasphemed 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  23 

Against  a  soul  that  is  departed 
And  may  your  blaspheming  speeches 
Fall  on  you,  whenever  death  fronts  you  I 

J9DIA9  seated  on  one  of  the  chests j  is  sad  and  silent.    Now  she  risesy 

rough  the  restless  circle  ofwomen,  and  advances  toward  the  persecuted 

vljy  without  anger, ^ 

OF  Reapers.  Ahey  I  Ahey  !    How  long  to  wait? 

Have  you  come  to  an  agreement? 
— O  I  say,  shepherd,  ho  !  you  shepherd, 
For  yourself,  then,  do  you  keep  her? 
— Candia,  what  if  Lazaro  come  back  now? 
— Is  she  then  unwilling?     But  open. 
Open  !    A  hand  we  will  lend  her. 
And  meanwhile  give  us  the  wine-jug. 
The  wine-jug,  the  wine-jug's  the  custom  I 

totber  reaper  peers  in  through  the  grating."] 

APER.  Mila  di  Codra,  come  out  here  ! 

For  you  that  will  be  much  the  better. 

To  try  to  escape  us  is  useless. 

We'll  seek  now  the  oak-tree  shady. 

And  throw  dice  for  the  one  to  have  you, 

That  the  chance  for  us  all  he  equal. 

Now,  we  will  not  quarrel  for  you. 

As  Lazaro  did  with  Rainero, 

No,  we'll  have  no  useless  bloodshed. 

But,  now,  if  you  don't  come  out  here. 

Ere  the  last  one  turns  up  his  dice-box. 

Then  this  door  we  all  shall  break  open 

And  carry  things  here  with  a  free  hand. 

You  are  warned  now ;  best  heed  this  your  warning, 

Candia  della  Leonessa  ! 

e  jumps  down  and  the  clamor  is  much  abated.     The  ringing  of  the 

hurcb  hells  can  he  heard  in  the  distance.] 

Woman,  hear  me.    Lo,  I  am  the  mother 
Of  these  three  innocent  maidens. 
Also  of  this  youth,  the  bridegroom. 
We  were  in  peace  in  our  home  here. 
In  peace  and  in  rest  with  God's  favor. 
And  blessing  with  home  rites  the  marriage, 
You  may  see  the  wheat  still  in  the  baskets 


b4  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

And  in  the  blessed  loaf  the  fresh  flower  ! 
You  have  entered  in  here  and  brought  us 
Suddenly  conflict  and  sorrow. 
Interrupted  the  kindred's  giving, 
In  our  nearts  sowing  thoughts  of  dark  omen> 
That  have  set  my  children  weepine» 
And  my  bowels  yearn  and  weep  with  them. 
All  to  chaff  our  good  wheat  grain  is  turning. 
And  a  worse  thing  still  may  follow. 
It  is  best  for  you  to  go  now. 
Go  thou  with  God,  knowing  surely 
He  will  help  you,  if  you  trust  Him. 
Oh  I    There  is  cause  for  all  this  our  sorrow. 
We  would  fain  have  desired  your  safety. 
Yet  now,  turn  your  steps  hence,  swiftly, 
So  that  none  of  this  house  need  harm  you. 
The  door,  this  my  son  will  now  open. 
[The  victim  listens  in  humility  with  bent  heady  pale  and  trembli\ 
\ligi  steps  toward  the  door  and  listens.     His  face  shows  great  sorrow.  ] 
AiLAm  Christian  Mother,  lo  I  the  earth  here 

I  kiss  where  your  feet  have  trodden, 
And  I  ask  of  you  forgiveness. 
With  my  heart  in  my  hand  lying. 
In  the  palm  of  my  hand,  grieving. 
For  this  sorrow  of  my  bringing. 
But  I  did  not  seek  your  dwelling : 
I  was  blinded,  with  fear  blinded. 
And  the  Father,  He,  all-seeing. 
Led  me  here  thus  to  your  fireside. 
So  that  I  the  persecuted 
Might  find  mercy  by  your  fire-place, 
Mercy  making  this  day  sacred. 
O,  have  mercy.  Christian  Mother. 
O  have  mercy  1  and  each  wheat  grain 
Resting  here  within  these  hampers 
God  will  return  a  hundred-fold. 
i^ATALANA  \whispering]. 

Listen  not.    Whoever  listens 
Will  be  lost.    The  false  one  is  she. 
Oh  I  I  know  I     Her  father  gave  her 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  25 

To  make  her  voice  so  sweet  and  gentle 

Evil  roots  of  secret  magic. 
NA.  Just  see  now  how  Aligi's  spellbound  ! 

RIA  Cora.  Beware  !  beware  !  lest  she  give  him 

Fatal  illness.    O  Lord  save  us  ! 

Have  you  not  heard  what  all  the  reapers 

Have  been  saying  about  Lazaro? 
NICA.  Shall  we  stay  here  then  till  vespers 

With  these  baskets  on  our  heads  thus? 

I  shall  put  mine  on  the  ground  soon. 
[Candia  gaxes  intently  upon  her  son  who  is  fastened  upon  MiLA.     Sud^ 
ly  fear  and  rage  seize  her  and  she  cries  aloud.  ] 
roiA,  Begone,  begone,  you  sorcerer's 

Daughter  !    Go  to  the  dogs  !     Begone  ! 

In  my  house  remain  no  longer  ! 

Fling  open  the  door,  Aligi  I 
A.  Mother  of  Omella, — Love's  own  Mother ! 

All,  but  not  this  God  forgiveth. 

Trample  on  me,  God  forgiveth. 

Cut  off  my  hands,  yet  God  forgiveth. 

Gouge  out  my  eyes,  pluck  my  tongue  out, 

Tear  me  to  shreds,  yet  God  forgiveth. 

Strangle  me,  yet  God  forgiveth. 

But  if  you  now  (heed  me,  oh  heed  me  ! 

While  the  bells  are  ringing  for  Santo  Giovanni), 

If  now  you  seize  upon  this  body, — 

This  poor  tortured  flesh  signed  in  Christ's  name, 

And  toss  it  out  there  in  that  court-yard, 

In  sight  of  these  your  spotless  daughters, 

Abandoning  it  to  sin  of  that  rabble. 

To  hatred  and  to  brutal  lusting. 

Then,  O  mother  of  Omella, 

Mother  of  Innocence,  in  so  doing. 

Doing  that  thing,  God  condemns  you  ! 

She  was  never  christened,  never. 

Her  father  was  never  buried 

In  consecrated  ground ;  under 

A  thorn-bush  he  Hes.     I  swear  it. 

Demons  are  behind  you,  woman. 

Black  and  foul  and  false  your  mouth  is  I 


26 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


Catalana. 


Anna  di  Bova. 
Maria  Cora. 

CiNERELLA. 


Felavia. 


Monica. 


O  Candia,  hear  her,  hear  her. 

Curses  heaping  !     But  a  little. 

And  she'll  drive  you  from  your  dwelling. 

And  then  all  the  reapers  threatened 

Will  most  surely  fall  upon  us. 

Up,  Aligi  !     Drag  her  out  there  ! 

See  you  not  how  your  Vienda, 

Your  young  bride,  looks  like  one  dying? 

What  kind  of  a  man  are  you.^     Forsaken 

Thus  of  all  force  in  your  muscles.^ 

Is  the  tongue  within  your  mouth,  then, 

Dried  and  shrivelled  that  you  speak  not? 

You  seem  lost.     How  then  ?    Did  your  senses 

Go  astray  afar  off  in  the  mountain.^ — 

Did  you  lose  your  wits  down  in  the  valley? 

Look  !     He  hasn't  let  go  of  her  mantle, 

Since  the  time  he  took  it  from  her. 

To  his  fingers  it  seems  rooted. 

Do  you  think  your  son  Aligi's 

Mind  is  going?     Heaven  help  us  ! 

Aligi,  Aligi  !    You  hear  me? 

What  ails  you?    Where  are  you?    Gone 

senses  ? 
What  is  coming  to  birth  in  your  heart.  Son? 
[Taking  the  mantle  out  of  his  hand  she  throws  it  to  the  woman.^ 

I  myself  will  open  the  door ;  take  her 
And  push  her  out  of  here  straightway. 
Aligi,  to  you  I  speak.     You  hear  me? 
Ah  !  verily  you  have  been  sleeping 
For  seven  hundred  hundred  years. 
And  all  of  us  are  long  forgotten. 
Kindred  !  God  wills  my  undoing. 
I  hoped  these  last  days  would  bring  solace 
And  that  God  would  now  give  me  repose, 
That  less  bitterness  now  need  I  swallow; 
But  bitterness  overpowers  me. 
My  daughters  !    Take  ye  my  black  mantle 
From  out  of  the  ancient  chest  there. 
And  cover  my  head  and  my  sorrows. 
Within  my  own  soul  be  my  wailing  ! 


Catalana. 
Candia. 


y« 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  27 

[^be  son  shakes  his  heady  his  face  showing  perp  lexiiy  and  sorrow^  and 

*eaks  as  one  in  a  dream.] 

;i.  What  is  your  will  of  me,  Mother? 

Unto  you  said  I :    "  Ah  !  lay  there 
Against  both  of  the  door-posts  the  ploughshare, 
The  wain  and  the  oxen,  put  sods  there  and  stones 

there 
Yea,  the  mountain  with  all  of  its  snow-drifts." 
What  did  I  say  then?    And  how  answered  you? 
"  Heed  the  waxen  cross  that  is  holy 
That  was  blest  on  the  Day  of  Ascension, 
And  the  hinges  with  holy  water  sprinkled." 
O,  what  is  your  will  that  I  do?     It  was  night  still 
When  she  took  the  road  that  comes  hither. 
Profound,  then,  profound  was  my  slumber, 
O,  Mother  !  although  you  had  not  mingled  for  me, 
The  wine  with  the  seed  of  the  poppy. 
Now  that  slumber  of  Christ  falls  and  fails  me  : 
And  though  well  I  know  whence  this  proceedeth, 
My  lips  are  yet  stricken  with  dumbness. 
O,  woman  !  what  then  is  your  bidding? 
That  I  seize  her  here  now  by  her  tresses, — 
That  I  drag  her  out  there  in  the  court-yard, — 
That  I  toss  her  for  these  dogs  to  raven  ? 
Well!     So  be  it!     So  be  it !— I  do  so. 
[Aligi  advances  toward  Mila  but  she  shrinks  within  the  fire-place^  cling- 

for  refuge.] 

A.  Touch  me  not  I    Oh  !  you,   you  are  sinning, 

Against  the  old  laws  of  the  hearth-stone — 
You  are  sinning  the  great  sin  that's  mortal 
Against  your  own  blood  and  the  sanction 
Of  your  race,  of  your  own  ancient  kinfolk. 
Lo  I  over  the  stone  of  the  fire-place, 
I  pour  out  the  wine  that  was  given 
To  me  by  your  sister,  in  blood  bound. 
So  now  if  you  touch  me,  molest  me, 
All  the  dead  in  your  land,  in  your  country, 
All  those  of  the  long  years  forgotten, 
Generation  to  past  generation. 
That  lie  underground  fourscore  fathoms 
Will  abhor  you  with  horror  eternal. 


28 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


The  Chorus 
OF  Reapers. 


[Taking  the  bowl  of  wine  Mila  pours  it  over  the  inviolate  bearib.    1 

women  utter  fierce  and  frantic  cries. "] 

The  Chorus  O  woe  1    She  bewitches — bewitches  the  fire-plaa 

OF  Kindred.  — She  poured  with  the  wine  there  a  mixture. 

I  saw  it,  I  saw  her.     HTwas  stealthy  I 
— O  take  her,  O  take  her,  Aligi, 
And  force  her  away  from  the  hearth-stone. 
— By  the  hair,  oh,  seize  her,  seize  her  ! 
— Aligi,  fear  you  naught,  fear  nothing. 
All  her  conjuring  yet  will  be  nothing. 
— Take  her  away  and  shiver  the  wine-bowl  I 
Shiver  it  there  against  the  andirons. 
— Break  the  chain  loose  and  engirdle 
Her  neck  with  it,  three  times  twist  it. 
— She  has  surely  bewitched  the  hearth-stone. 
— ^Woe  !  Woe,  for  the  house  that  totters  ! 
Ah  !  What  lamenting  will  here  be  lamented  1 
Oho  there  !    All  quarrelling,  are  you? 
We  are  waiting  here  and  we're  watching. 
We  have  cast  the  dice,  we  know  the  winner. 
Bring  her  out  to  us,  you  shepherd  ! 
Yes,  yes  !    Or  the  door  we'll  break  down. 
[They  join  in  blows  on  the  door  and  in  clamoring.] 

Anna  di  Bova.  Hold  on  !     Hold  on  !  and  have  patience  a  little. 

But  a  little  while  longer,  good  men  folk. 
Aligi  is  taking  her.     Soon  you  will  have  her. 
[Aligi,  like  one  demented^  takes  her  by  the  wrists y  but  she  resists  and  tr 

to  free  herself.] 

Mila.  No  !  No  !  You  are  sinning,  are  sinning. 

Crush  under  your  foot  my  forehead 
Or  stun  it  with  blows  of  your  sheep-hook. 
And  when  I  am  dead  toss  me  out  there. 
No,  no  !    God's  punishment  on  you  ! 
From  the  womb  of  your  wife  serpents 
To  you  shall  be  bom  and  brought  forth. 
You  shall  sleep  no  more,  no  more, 
And  rest  shall  forsake  your  eyelids. 
From  your  eyes  tears  of  blood  shall  gush  forth. 
Ornella,  Ornella,  defend  me. 
Aid  me,  O  thou,  and  have  mercy 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  29 

Ye  sisters  in  Christ,  O  help  ye  me  ! 
[She  frees  herself  and  goes  to  the  three  sisters  who  surround  her.     BlinJ 
rage  and  horror  Aligi  lifts  his  hook  to  strike  her  on  the  head.    Immedi" 
f  his  three  sisters  begin  to  cry  and  moan.     This  stops  him  at  once;  he  lets 
fook  fall  on  his  knees  and  with  open  arms  he  stares  behind  her.} 
31.  Mercy  of  God  !    O  give  me  forgiveness  ! 

I  saw  the  angel,  silent,  weeping. 
He  is  weeping  with  you,  O  my  sisters  ! 
And  at  me  he  is  gazing  and  weeping. 
Even  thus  shall  I  see  him  forever. 
Till  the  hour  for  my  passing,  yea  !  past  it. 
I  have  sinned  thus  against  my  own  hearth-stone, 
My  own  dead  and  the  land  of  my  fathers; 
It  will  spurn  me  and  scorn  me  forever, 
Deny  rest  to  my  weary  dead  body  ! 
For  my  sins,  sisters,  purification. 
Seven  times,  seven  times,  I  do  ask  it. 
Seven  days  shall  my  lips  touch  the  ashes, 
And  as  many  times  more  as  the  tears  shed 
From  your  gentle  eyes,  O  my  sisters  ! 
Let  the  angel  count  them,  my  sisters. 
And  brand  on  my  heart  all  their  number  I 
It  is  thus  that  I  ask  your  forgiveness 
Before  God  thus  I  ask  you,  my  sisters. 
Oh  !  pray  you  for  brother  Aligi 
Who  must  now  return  to  the  mountain. 
And  she  who  has  suffered  such  shame  here, 
I  pray  you  console  her,  refresh  her 
With  drink,  wipe  the  dust  from  her  garments, 
Bathe  her  feet  with  water  and  vinegar. 
Comfort  her  !     I  wished  not  to  harm  her. 
Spurred  on  was  I  by  these  voices. 
And  those  who  to  this  wrong  have  brought  me 
Shall  suffer  for  many  days  greatly. 
Mila  di  Codra  !  sister  in  Jesus, 
O  give  me  peace  for  my  offences. 
These  flow' rets  of  Santo  Giovanni 
Off  from  my  sheep-hook  now  do  I  take  them 
And  thus  at  your  feet  here  I  place  them. 
Look  at  you  I  cannot.     I'm  shamefaced. 


30  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

Behind  you  I  see  the  sad  angel. 

But  this  hand  which  did  you  offence  here, 

I  bum  in  that  fire  with  live  embers. 
[Dragging  himself  on  his  knees  to  the  fireplace  he  bends  over  and  finis 
burning  ember.     Taking  it  with  his  left  hand  he  puts  the  point  of  it  in  the 
of  the  right.  ] 
MiLA.  It  is  forgiven.     No,  no.     Do  not  wound  yourself. 

For  me,  I  forgive  you,  and  God  shall  receive 

Your  penitent  prayer.     Rise  up  from  the  fire-place' 

One  only,  God  only  may  punish 

And  He  that  hand  hath  given  to  you 

To  guide  your  flocks  to  the  pasture. 

And  how  then  your  sheep  can  you  pasture 

If  your  hand  is  infirm,  O  Aligi.^ 

For  me,  in  all  humbleness,  I  forgive  you 

And  your  name  I  shall  ever  remember 

Morn,  eve,  and  midday  shall  my  blessing 

Follow  you  with  your  flocks  in  the  mountains. 
The  Chorus  of  Reapers  \outside\ 

— Oho,  there  !    Oho,  there  !     How  now? 

— ^What  is  the  row.^     Do  you  fool  us? 

— Ho  !     We'll  tear  down  the  door  there. 

— ^Yes,  yes  !    Take  that  timber,  the  plow-beam. 

— Shepherd,  we'll  not  have  you  fool  us. 

Now,  now,  that  iron  there,  take  it ! 

Down  with  it !    Crash  down  the  door  there  ! 

— Ho,  shepherd  Aligi  !    Now  answer  ! 

One,  then  !    Two  !    Three,  and  down  goes  it  ! 
\The  heavy  breathing  of  the  men  lifting  the  timber  and  iron  is  heard. '\ 
Aligi.  For  you,  for  me,  and  for  all  my  people, 

I  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  ! 
[Rising  and  going  towards  the  door  he  continues,^ 

Reapers  of  Norca  !    This  door  I  open. 
[The  men  answer  in  a  unanimous  clamor.     The  wind  brings  the  sou 
of  the  bells.     Aligi  draws  the  bars  and  bolts  and  silently  crosses  himself ^  thii 
he  takes  down  from  the  wall  the  cross  of  wax  and  kisses  it,] 

Women,  God's  servants,  cross  yourselves  praying. 
[All  the  women  cross  themselves  and  kneeling  murmur  the  litany.] 
Women  [together]. 

Kyrie  eleison  !  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  ! 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  31 

Christe  eleison  !  Christ  have  mercy  upon  us  I 

Kyrie  eleison  !  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  1 

Christe  audi  nos  !         O  Christ  hear  us  ! 
Christe  exaudi  nos  !      O  Christ  hearken  unto  us  1 

^y/?/  shepherd  then  lays  the  cross  on  the  threshold  between  the  hoe  and  the 

ff  and  opens  the  door.     In  the  yard  glittering  in  the  fierce  sun  the  linen^ 

reapers  appear.  ] 

I.  Brothers  in  Christ !     Behold  the  cross 

That  was  blessed  on  the  Day  of  Ascension  ! 
I  have  placed  it  there  on  the  threshold. 
That  you  may  not  sin  against  this  gentle 
Lamb  of  Christ  who  here  finds  refuge, 
Seeking  safety  in  this  fire-place. 

[The  reapers  struck  silent  and  deeply  impressed  uncover  their  heads.^ 

I  saw  there  standing  behind  her 
The  angel  who  guards  her,  silent. 
These  eyes  that  shall  see  life  eternal 
Saw  her  angel  that  stood  there  weeping. 
Look,  brothers  in  Christ,  I  swear  it ! 
Turn  back  to  your  wheat  fields  and  reap  them, 
Harm  you  not  one  who  has  harmed  you  never  I 
Nor  let  the  false  enemy  beguile  you 
Any  longer  with  his  potions. 
Reapers  of  Norca,  heaven  bless  you  ! 
May  the  sheaves  in  your  hands  be  doubled  ! 
And  may  San  Giovanni's  head  severed 
Be  shown  unto  you  at  the  sun-rise, 
If,  for  this,  to-night  you  ascend  the  hill  Plaia. 
And  wish  ye  no  harm  unto  me,  the  shepherd, 
To  me,  Aligi,  our  Saviour's  servant  I 

[The  ufomen  kneeling  continue  the  litanies y  Candia  invoking^  the  others 

nding.] 

HA  AND  Chorus  of  the  Kindred. 

Mater  purissima.  Mother  of  Purity, 

ora  pro  nobis.  pray  for  us. 

Mater  castissima,  Mother  of  Chastity, 

ora  pro  nobis..  pray  for  us. 

Mater  inviolata,  Mother  Inviolate, 
ora  pro  nobis.  pray  for  us. 

Thr  reapers  haw  themselveSy  touch  the  cross  with  their  hands  and  then 


32  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

touch  their  lips  and  silently  withdraw  toward  the  glittering  fields  outside^ 
Aligi  leaning  against  the  jamb  of  the  door  following  with  his  eyes  their  depap 
turey  the  silence  meanwhile  broken  only  by  voices  coming  from  the  country 
pathways  outside.^ 

First  Voice.  O  !  turn  back,  Lazaro  di  Roio. 

Another  Voice.         Turn  back,  turn  back,  Lazaro  ! 

\The  shepherd  startled  and  shading  his  face  with  his  hands  looks  towan 
the  path.] 

Candia  and  the  Women. 

Virgo  veneranda,  Virgin  venerated, 

Virgo  predicanda,  Virgin  admonishing, 

Virgo  potens,  Virgin  potential, 

ora  pro  nobis.  P^^X  for  us. 

Aligi.  Father,  father,  what  is  this?  Why  are  you  bandagedi 

Why  are  you  bleeding,  father.^    Speak  out  and  td 

me, 
O  ye  men  of  the  Lord  !    Who  wounded  him  ? 

[Lazaro  appears  at  the  door  with  his  head  bandagedy  two  men  in  whii 
linen  supporting  him.  Candia  stops  prayings  rises  to  her  feet  and  goes  to  th 
entrance.]  i 

Aligi.  Father,  halt  there  !    The   cross   lies    there    on   thj 

door-sill,  ^ 

You  cannot  pass  through  without  kneeling  down. 
If  this   blood   be   unjust   blood   you   cannot   pasi 
through. 

[The  two  men  sustain  the  tottering  man  and  he  falls  guiltily  on  his  knea 
outside  the  doorway.] 

Candia.  O  daughters,  my  daughters,  'twas  true  then  ! 

O  weep,  my  daughters  !  let  mourning  enfold  us ! 

\The  daughters  embrace  their  mother.  The  kindred  before  rising  pu^ 
their  hampers  down  on  the  ground.  MiLA  takes  up  her  mantle  and  still  kneel 
ing  wraps  herself  up  in  ity  hiding  her  face.  Almost  creeping  she  approach^ 
the  door  toward  the  jamb  opposite  that  where  Aligi  leans.  Silently  aii 
swiftly  she  rises  and  leans  against  the  wally  and  stands  there  wrapt  and  motion 
lessy  watching  her  chance  to  disappear.] 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  33 

ACT  II. 

mountain  cavern  is  seen  partially  protected  by  rough  boards^  straw  and 
nd  opening  wide  upon  a  stony  mountain  path.  From  the  wide  opening 
n  green  pastures^  snow-clad  peaks  and  passing  clouds.  In  the  cavern 
llets  made  of  sheep-peltSy  small  rude^  wooden  tables^  pouches  and  skins, 
ind  empty y  a  rude  bench  for  wood  turning  and  carvings  with  an  axe  upon 
raw-knife^  plane,  rasps  and  other  tools,  and  near  them  finished  pieces; 
r,  spoons  and  ladles,  mortars  and  pestles,  musical  instruments  and 
sticks.  A  large  block  of  the  trunk  of  a  walnut  tree  has  at  its  base  the 
nd  above  in  full  relief  the  figure  of  an  angel  hewn  into  shape  to  the  waist, 
e  two  wings  almost  finished.  Before  the  image  of  the  Virgin  in  a  depres- 
f  the  cavern  like  a  niche,  a  lamp  is  burning.  A  shepherd* s  bagpipe 
close  by.  The  bells  of  the  sheep  wandering  in  the  stillness  of  the  moun- 
ay  be  heard.     The  day  is  closing  and  it  is  about  the  time  of  the  autumnal 

X. 

he  treasure^seeker,  Malde,  and  Anna  Onna,  the  old  herb-gatherer,  are 
\sleep  on  the  felts  in  their  rags  without  covering.  CosMA,  the  saint, 
^  in  a  long  friars  frock  is  also  asleep,  but  in  a  sitting  posture  with  his 
lasped  about  his  knees  and  his  chin  bowed  over  on  them.  Aligi  is  seated 
ttle  bench,  intent  upon  carving  with  his  tools  the  walnut  block.  MiLA 
RA  is  seated  opposite,  gazing  at  him. 

Bided  mute  the  patron  angel 
From  the  walnut  woodblock  carven, 
Deaf  the  wood  staid,  secret,  sacred. 
Saint  Onofrio  vouchsafed  nothing. 

Till  said  one  apart,  a  third  one 
(O  !  have  pity  on  us,  Patron  !) 
Till  said  one  apart,  the  fair  one, 
Lo  !  my  heart  all  willing,  waiting  ! 

Would  he  quaff  a  draught  of  marvel? 
Let  him  take  my  heart's  blood,  quaff  it ! 
But  of  this  make  no  avowal. 
But  of  this  make  no  revealing. 

Suddenly  the  stump  budded  branches. 
Out  of  the  mouth  a  branch  sprang  budding, 

Every  finger  budded  branches. 
Saint  Onofrio  all  grew  green  again  ! 


34  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

She  bends  over  to  gather  the  chips  and  shavings  around  the  carved  block^i 

Aligi.  O  !  Mila,  this  too  is  hewn  from  the  stump  of  a  wabi 

Grow  green  will  it^Mila? — Grow  green  again? 

MiLA  [still  bent  over].  "  Would  he  quaff  a  draught  of  marvel 

Let  him  take  my  heart's  blood." — 

Aligi.  Grow  green  will  it,  Mila  ? — Grow  green  again  ? 

MiLA.  **  But  of  this  make  no  avowal, 

But  of  this  make  no  revealing." 

Aligi.  Mila,  Mila,  let  a  miracle  now  absolve  us  ! 

And  may  the  mute  patron  angel  grant  us  protecdi 
TTis  for  him  that  I  work,  but  not  with  my  chisel, 
Ah  !  for  him  do  I  work  with  my  soul  in  my  fingers  1 
But  what  are  you  seeking?     What  have  you 
there  ? 

Mila.  I  but  gather  the  shavings,  that  in  fire  we  bum  them 

With  each  a  grain  of  pure  incense  being  added. 
Make  haste,  then,  Aligi,  for  the  time  is  nearing. 
The  moonlight  of  September  fleeting,  lessening; 
All  of  the  shepherds  now  are  leaving,  departing. 
Some  on  to  Puglia  fare,  some  Romeward  faring; — 4 
And  whither  then  will  my  love  his  footsteps  m 

turning? 
Wherever  he  journeys  still  may  his  pathway 
Go  facing  fresh  pastures  and  springs,  not  winds  keed 

and  chilling,  I 

And  of  me  may  he  think  when  the  night  overtakcl 

him !  , 

Aligl  Romeward  faring  then  shall  go  Aligi, 

Onward  to  Rome  whither  all  roads  are  leading. 

His  flock  along  with  him  to  lofty  Rome. 

To  beg  an  indulgence  of  the  Vicar, 

Of  the  Holy  Vicar  of  Christ  our  Saviour, 

For  he  of  all  shepherds  is  the  Shepherd. 

Not  to  Puglia  land  will  go  Aligi 

But  to  our  blest  Lady  of  Schiavonia 

Sending  to  her  by  Alai  of  Avema 

These  two  candlesticks  of  cypress  wood,  only. 

And  with  them  merely  two  humble  tapers 

So  she  forget  not  a  lowly  sinner 


GABRIELE     D'ANNUNZIO  35 

She,  our  Lady,  who  guardeth  the  sea-shore. 

When  then  this  angel  shall  be  all  finished 

Aligi  upon  a  mule's  back  will  load  it, 

And  step  by  step  will  he  wend  on  with  it. 

O  hasten,    O  hasten  !  for  the  time  is  ripening. 

From  the  girdle  downward  very  nearly 

Sunk  in  the  wood  yet  and  lost  is  the  angel; 

The  feet  are  held  fast  in  the  knots,  the  hands 

without  fingers, 
The  eyes  with  the  forehead  still  level. 
You  hastened  indeed  his  wings  to  give  him. 
Feather  by  feather,  yet  forth  he  flies  not ! 
Gostanzo  will  aid  me  in  this,  the  painter, 
Gostanzo  di  Bisegna ;  the  painter  is  he 
Who  tells  stories  on  wood  in  color. 
Unto  him  I  have  spoken  already. 
And  he  will  give  unto  me  fine  colors. 
Perhaps,  too,  the  good  monks  at  the  abbey. 
For  a  yearling,  a  little  fine  gold  leaf 
For  the  wings  and  the  bosom  will  give  me. 
O  hasten  !     Hasten  !    The  time  is  rip'ning. 
Longer  than  day  is  the  night  already, 
From  the  valley  the  shades  rise  more  quickly. 
And  unawares  they  shut  down  around  us 
Soon  the  eye  will  guide  the  hand  no  longer. 
And  unsuccored  of  art  will  grope  the  blind  chisel  I 

C08MA  sttrs  in  his  sleep  and  moans.     From  a  distance  the  sacred  songs 

grims  crossing  the  mountain  are  heard.] 

Cosma  is  dreaming.     Who  knows  what  he's  dream- 
ing ! 
Listen,  listen,  the  songs  of  the  pilgrims 
Who  across  the  mountain  go  journeying. 
May  be  to  Santa  Maria  della  Potenza, 
Aligi, — towards  your  own  country, — toward 
Your  own  home,  where  your  mother  is  sitting. 
And  may  be  they  will  pass  by  very  near, 
And  your  mother  will  hear,  and  Omella, 
Mayhap,  and  they'll  say  : "  These  must  be  pilgrims 
Coming  down  from  the  place  of  the  shepherds ; 
And  yet  no  loving  token  is  sent  us  !" 


36  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

[Aligi  is  bending  over  his  work  carving  the  lower  part  of  the  block. 

ing  a  blow  with  the  axe  he  leaves  the  iron  in  the  wood  and  comes  /< 

anxiously.^ 

Aligi.  Ah  !  Why,  why  will  you  touch  where  the  heart  i 

hurting? 
Oh  !  Mila,  I  will  speed  on,  overtake  their  c 

bearer 
And  beg  him  bear  onward  my  loving  thoughts 

them. 
And  yet,  Mila,  yet — Oh  !  how  shall  I  say  it  MiU? 

MiLA.  You  will  say  :  "  O  good  cross-bearer,  I  prithee, 

If  ye  cross  through  the  valley  of  San  Biagio, 
Through   the  countryside  called  Acquanova, 
Ask  ye  there  for  the  house  of  a  woman 
Who  is  known  as  Candia  della  Leonessa, 
And  stay  ye  your  steps  there,  for  there  most  surely; 
Drink  shall  ye  have  to  restore  you,  and  may  be 
Much  beside  given.    Then  stav  there  and  say  ye : 
*  Aligi,  your  son,  sends  unto  you  greeting. 
And  to  his  sisters,  and  also  the  bride,  Vienda, 
And  he  promises  he  will  be  coming 
To  receive  from  your  hands  soon  your  blessing 
Ere  in  peace  he  depart  on  long  travels. 
And  he  says,  too,  that  he  is  set  free  now. 
From  her — the  evil  one — during  these  late  days; 
And  he  will  be  cause  of  dissension  no  longer. 
And  he  will  be  cause  of  lamenting  no  longer, 
To  the  mother,  the  bride,  and  the  sisters." 

Aligi.  Mila,  Mila,  what  ill  wind  strikes  you 

And  stirs  up  your  soul  in  you  thus.? — A  wind  sud 
A  wind  full  of  fearing  !     And  on  your  lips  dying 
Your  voice  is,  your  blood  your  cheek  is  draining. 
And  wherefore,  tell  me,  should  I  be  sending 
This  message  of  falsehood  to  my  mother? 

Mila.  It  is  the  truth,  it  is  the  truth,  I  tell  you, 

O  brother  mine  and  dear  to  the  sister. 
It  is  true  what  I  say;  as  true  is  it 
That  I  have  remained  by  you  untainted. 
Like  a  sacred  lamp  before  your  faith  burning. 
With  immaculate  love  before  you  shining. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  37 

It  is  the  truth,  it  is  the  truth  I  tell  you. 

And  I  say  :    Go,  go,  speed  ye  on  your  pathway 

And  meet  ye  the  cross-bearer  so  that  he  carry 

Your  greetings  of  peace  on  to  Acquanova. 

Now  come  is  the  hour  of  departure 

For  the  daughter  of  Jorio.     And  let  it  be  so. 

Yea,  verily,  you  have  partaken  of  honey,  wild  honey 

That  your  mind  is  thus  troubled  ! 

And  you  would  go  whither?    O,  whither,  Mila? 

Pass  on  thither  where  all  roads  are  leading. 

Ah  !  Will  you  come  then  with  me  ?  O,  come  ye  with 

me  ! 
Though  full  long  the  journey,  you,  also,  Mila, 
Will  I  place  on  the  mule's  back  and  travel. 
Cherishing  hope  toward  Rome  the  eternal ! 
Needs  be  that  I  go  the  opposite  way. 
With  steps  hurried,  bereft  of  all  hoping. 
ming  impatiently  to  the  sleeping  old  herlMvoman]. 

Anna  Onna  !    Up,  arouse  you  !  Go  and  find  me 

Grains  of  black  hellebore,  hellebore  ebon. 

To  give  back  to  this  woman  her  senses. 

O  be  not  angry,  Aligi,  for  if  you  are  angry — 

For  if  you  are  also  against  me  how  shall  I  live  through 

This  day  till  the  evening.?     For  behold  if  you  trample 

My  heart  beneath  you,  I  shall  gather  it  never  again  I 

And  I  to  my  home  shall  be  turning  never  again. 

If  not  with  you,0  daughter  of  Jorio, 

Mila  di  Codra,  my  own  by  the  Sacrament ! 

Aligi,  can  I  cross  the  very  threshold 

Whereon  once  the  waxen  cross  was  lying, 

Where  a  man  appeared  once  who  was  bloody? 

And  unto  whom  said  the  son  of  this  man  : 

**  If  this  blood  be  unjust  blood   you  cannot  pass 

through'*?  .  .  . 
High  noonday  'twas  then,  the  eve  of  the  day 
Of  Santo  Giovanni,  and  harvest  day. 
Now  in  peace  on  that  wall  hangs  the  idle  sickle; 
Now  at  rest  lies  the  grain  in  the  granary; 
But  of  that  sorrow's  sowing  the  seeds  are  still  grow- 
ing. 


38 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


[CosMA  moves  in  his  sleep  and  moans.] 
Aligi.  Know  you,  then,  one  who  shall  lead  you  by  the 

thither ! 
CosMA  [crying  out  in  his  sleep]. 

Of  do  not  unbind  him  !    No,  no,  do  not  unbind  him^ 
[The  sainty  stretching  his  armsy  lifts  up  his  face  from  his  knees J\ 
MiLA.  Cosma,  Cosma,  what  are  you  dreaming?    Tell  yoi 

dreaming  ! 
[CosMA  wakens  and  rises.  ] 


Aligi. 
CosMA. 


Aligi. 


What  have  you  been  seeing?    Tell  your  seeing ! 

The  face  of  Fear  was  turned  full  upon  me. 

I  have  beheld  it.     But  I  may  not  tell  it. 

Every  dream  that  cometh  of  God  must  be  chasten 

From  the  fire  of  it  first  before  giving. 

I  have  beheld  it.     And  I  shall  speak,  surely. 

Yet  not  now,  lest  I  speak  the  name  vainly 

Of  my  Lord  and  my  God,  lest  I  judge  now 

While  my  darkness  is  still  overpowering. 

0  Cosma,  thou  art  holy.    Many  a  year 
Have  you  bathed  in  the  melting  snow  water. 
In  the  water  overflowing  the  mountain. 
Quenching  your  thirst  in  the  clear  sight  of  Heave 
And  this  day  you  have  slept  in  my  cavern. 
On  the  sheep-skin  that's  steamed  well  in  sulphur 
So  the  spirit  of  evil  must  shun  it. 
In  your  dreaming  now  you  have  seen  visions. 
And  the  eye  of  the  Lord  God  is  on  you. 
Help  me  then  with  your  sure  divination  I 
Now  to  you  I  shall  speak.     You  will  answer. 
All  unready  am  I  in  wisdom, 
Nor  have  I,  O  youth,  understanding 
Of  so  much  as  the  stone  in  the  path  of  the  shephei 
O,  Cosma,  man  of  God,  heed  me  and  listen  I 

1  implore  by  the  angel  in  that  block  enfolded. 
Who  has  no  ears  to  hear  and  yet  heareth  ! 
Simple  words  speak  ye,  O  shepherd. 

And  repose  not  your  trust  in  me. 
But  in  the  holy  truth  only. 
[Malde  and  Anna  Onna  awaken  and  lean  upon  their  elbows  li^tenin^ 
Aligi.  Cosma,  this,  then,  is  the  holy  truth  : 


CosMA. 


Aligi. 


CosMA. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  39 

I  turned  from  the  mountain  and  Puglia  valley 

With  my  flock  on  the  day  Corpus  Domini, 

And  after  I  found  for  my  flock  good  shelter 

I  went  to  my  home  for  my  three  days'  resting. 

And  I  find  there  in  my  house  my  mother 

Who  says  unto  me  :     **  Son  of  mine,  a  companion 

For  you  have  I  found."    Then  say  I :    *  Mother, 

I  ever  obey  your  commandments."     She  answered  : 

"  Tis  well.     And  lo  !  here  is  the  woman." 

We  were  espoused.     And  the  kindred  gathered, 

Escorting  the  bride  to  our  threshold. 

Aloof  I  stood  like  a  man  on  the  other 

Bank  of  a  river,  seeing  all  things  as  yonder. 

Afar,  past  the  water  flowing  between. 

The  water  that  flows  everlastingly. 

Cosma,  this  was  on  a  Sunday.     And  mingled 

With  my  wine  was  no  seed  of  the  poppy. 

Why  then,  notwithstanding,  did  slumber  profound 

My  heart  all  forgetting  overpower? 

I  believe  I  slept  years  seven  hundred. 

We  awoke  on  the  Monday  belated. 

Then  the  loaf  of  the  Bridal  my  mother 

Broke  over  the  head  of  a  weeping  virgin. 

Untouched  had  she  lain  by  me.    The  kindred 

Came  then  with  their  wheat  in  their  hampers. 

But  mute  staid  I  wrapped  up  in  great  sadness 

As  one  in  the  shadow  of  death  I  was  dwelling. 

Behold  now  !  on  a  sudden,  all  trembling. 

There  appeared  in  our  doorway  this  woman. 

Hard  pursuing  and  pressing  her,  reapers, — 

Hounds  !  that  wanted  to  seize  her  and  have  her. 

Then  implored  she  and  pleaded  for  safety. 

But  not  even  one  of  us,  Cosma, 

Moved,  except  one,  my  sister,  the  littlest. 

Who  dared  rush  to  the  door  and  bar  it. 

And  lo,  now  by  those  dogs  was  it  shaken. 

With  uttering  of  curses  and  threatening. 

And  in  hatred  against  this  sad  creature 

Were  their  foul  mouths  unleashed  and  barking. 

To  the  pack  would  the  women  have  tossed  her. 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

But  she  trembling  still  by  the  hearth-stone, 
Was  pleading  us  not  to  make  sacrifice  of  her. 
I,  too,  myself,  seized  her  with  hatred  and  threatening 
Though  it  seemed  to  me,  then,  I  was  dragging 
At  my  own  very  heart,  the  heart  of  my  childhood. 
She  cried  out,  and  above  her  head  I  lifted 
My  sheep-hook  to  strike  her. 

Then  wept  my  sisters 
Then  behind  her  beheld  I  the  angel  weeping ! 
With  these  eyes,  O  saint,  the  angel  watching  ai 

weeping  mutely. 

E>own  on  my  knees  fell 
Imploring  forgiveness.     And  then  to  punish 
This,  my  hand,  I  took  up  from  the  fire-place 
A  burning  ember. 

"  No,  do  not  bum  it," 
She  cried  aloud, — this  woman  cried  to  me. 
— OCosma  !  saint  holy,  with  waters  from  snow-pea 
Purified  are  you,  dawning  by  dawning; 
You,  too,  woman,  who  know  all  herbs  growing 
For  the  healing  of  flesh  that  is  mortal. 
Yea,  all  virtue  of  roots  that  are  secret; 
— Malde,  you,  too,  with  that  branch  of  yours  forki 
May  fathom  where  treasure  is  hidden. 
Entombed  at  the  feet  of  the  dead  now  dead 
For  a  hundred  years,  or  a  thousand — true  is  it?— 
In  the  depths  of  the  depths  of  the  heart  of  the  moi 

tain. 
Of  ye  then,  I  ask,  of  ye  who  can  hear 
The  deep  things  within  that  come  from  afar. 
From   whence    came    that    voice, — ^from    what 

distance 
That  came  and  that  spake  so  Aligi  should  hear  it 
(O,  answer  ye  me  !) — ^When  she  said  unto  me  : 
"  And  how  then  your  flocks  can  you  pasture 
If  your  hand  is  infirm,  O  Aligi?" 
Ah  !  with  these  her  words  did  she  gather 
My  soul  from  my  body  within  me. 
Even  as  you,  O  woman,  gather  your  simples  I 
[MiLA  weeps  silently.] 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  41 

NNA.  There's  an  herb  that  is  red  and  called  Glaspi. 

And  another  is  white  called  Egusa. 
And  the  one  and  the  other  grow  up  far  apart. 
But  their  roots  grope  together  and  meet 
Underneath  the  blind  earth,  and  entwine 
So  closely  that  sever  them  never  could  ever 
Santa  Lucia.    Their  leaves  are  diverse. 
But  one  and  the  same  is  their  seven  years'  flower. 
But  all  this  is  their  record  in  records. 
It  is  Cosma  who  knoweth  the  power  of  the  Lord. 
Heed  me  then,  Cosma  !    The  slumber  of  forge tfulness 
Was  by  Commandment  sent  to  my  pillow. 
By  whom  ?    Closed  by  the  hand  of  Innocence 
Was  the  door  of  Safety.     Came  to  me  the  appari- 
tion— 
The  Angel  of  Counsel.     And  out  of  the  word 
Of  her  mouth  was  created  the  pledge  eternal. 
Who  then  was  my  wife,  before  ever 
Good  wheat,  holy  loaf  or  fair  flower? 

0  shepherd  Aligi !    God's  are  the  just  steelyards  of 

justice. 
God's  only  is  the  just  balance  of  Justice. 
Notwithstanding,  O  take  ye  counsel, 
From  the  Angel  of  Counsel,  who  gave  you  your 

surety. 
Yea,  take  pledge  of  him  for  this  stranger. 
But  she  left  untouched,  where  is  she.? 
For  the  sheep-stead  I  left  after  vespers. 
On  the  eve  of  Santo  Giovanni. 

At  daybreak 

1  found  myself  wending  above  Capracinta. 
On  the  crest  I  awaited  the  sunrise. 

And  I  saw  in  the  disc  of  its  blazing 
The  bleeding  head  that  was  severed. 

To   my   sheepfold 
Then   came   I,   and  again  I  began, — guarding  my 

sheep, — to  suffer. 
And  meseemed  that  sleep  still  overwhelmed  me. 
And  my  flock  on  my  life's  force  was  browsing. 
Oh  !  why  still  was  my  heart  heavy  laden? 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

O  Cosma  !  first  saw  I  the  shadow. 

Then  the  figure,  there,  there,  at  the  entrance^ 

On  the  morning  of  San  Teobaldo. 

On  the  rock  out  there  was  sitting  this  woman 

And  she  did  not  arise  for  she  could  not. 

So  sore  were  her  feet  and  bleeding. 

Said  she  :  **  Aligi, 
Do   you   know   me?'* 

I  answered  :  "  Thou  art  Mfla 
And  no  word  more  we  spoke,  for  no  more  were  wc 
Twain.     Nor  on  that  day  were  contaminated 
Nor  after,  ever. 

I  speak  but  the  truth. 

MA.  O  shepherd  Aligi !     You  have  verily  lighted 

A  holy  lamp  in  your  darkness. 
Yet  it  is  not  enkindled  in  limits  appointed. 
Chosen  out  of  old  time  by  your  fathers. 
You  have  moved  farther  off  the  Term  Sacred. 
How  then  if  the  lamp  were  spent  and  were  quench 
For  wisdom  is  in  man's  heart  a  well-spring 
Profound ;  but  only  the  pure  man  may  draw  oi 
waters. 

Gi.  Now  pray  I  great  God  that  he  place  upon  us 

The  seal  of  the  sacrament  eternal ! 
See  ye  this  that  I  do?     Not  hand  but  soul 
Is  carving  this  wood  in  the  simiUtude 
Of  the  Angel  apparition.     I  began 
On  the  day  of  Assumption.     Rosary  time 
Shall  it  be  finished.    This  my  design  is  : 
On  to  Rome  with  my  flock  I  shall  wander. 
And  along  with  me  carry  my  Angel, 
On  mule-back  laden.     I  will  go  to  the  Holy  Fai 
In  the  name  of  San  Pietro  Celestino, 
Who  upon  Mount  Morrone  did  penance. 
I  shall  go  to  the  Shepherd  of  shepherds. 
With  this  votive  offering,  humbly  imploring 
Indulgence,    that   the   bride,   yet   untouched, 

return 
To  her  mother,  set  free  thus  and  blameless; 
Then  as  mine  I  may  cherish  this  stranger. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO 


43 


lA. 


Who  knows  well  how  to  weep  all  unheeded. 

So  now  I  ask  this  of  your  deep-reaching  wisdom, 

Cosma;  will  this  grace  unto  me  be  conceded? 

All  the  ways  of  mankind  appear  the  direct  ways 

To  man  :  but  the  Lord  God  is  weighing  heart-secrets. 

High  the  walls,  high  the  walls  of  man's  stronghold, 

Huge  are  its  portals  of  iron ;  and  around  and  around  it 

Heavy  the  shade  of  tombs  where  grass  grows  pallid. 

Let  not  your  lamb  browse  upon  that  grass  grown 
pallid, 

O  shepherd  Aligi,  best  question  the  mother.  .  . 
OlCE  [calling  outside], 

Cosma,  Cosma  !     If  you  are  within,  come  forth  ! 
HA.  Who  is  calling  for  me?    Did  you  hear  a  voice  calling? 

Voice.  Come  forth,  Cosma,  by  the  blood  that  is  holy  ! 

O  Christian  brothers,  the  sign  of  the  cross  make  ye  ! 
MA.  Behold  me.     Who  calls  me?     Who  wants  me? 

[At  the  mouth  of  the  cavern  two  shepherds  appear^  wearing  sheep-skin 
J,  holding  a  youth  gaunt  and  sickly  whose  arms  are  bound  to  his  body  with 
ral  turns  of  a  rope.] 
ST  Shepherd.         O  Christian  brothers  !  The  sign  of  the  cross  make  ye  ! 

May  the  Lord  from  the  enemy  keep  you  ! 

And  to  guard  well  the  door  say  a  prayer. 

O  Cosma,  this  youth  is  possessed  of  a  demon. 

Now  for  three  days  the  devil  has  held  him. 

Behold,  O  behold  how  he  tortures  him  now. 

He  froths  at  the  mouth,  turning  livid  and  shrieking. 

With  strong  ropes  we  needed  to  tie  and  bind  him 

To  bring  him  to  you.     You  who  freed  before  now 

Bartolomeo  dei  Cionco  alia  Petrara,  do  you 

O  wise  man  of  mercy,  do  you  this  one  also 

Liberate  !     Force  now  the  demon  to  leave  him  ! 

O  chase  him  away  from  him,  cure  him  and  heal  him  ! 

What  is  his  name  and  the  name  of  his  father? 

Salvestro  di  Mattia  di  Simeone. 

Salvestro,  how  then,  you  will  to  be  healed? 

Be  of  good  heart,  my  son,  O  be  trustful ! 

Lo  !  I  say  unto  you,  fear  not ! 

And  ye 

Wherefore  have  ye  bound  him?    Let  him  be  free  ! 


:oND  Shepherd. 


SMA. 

^ST  Shepherd. 

SMA. 


44 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


Second  Shepherd.     Come  with  us  then  to  the  chapel,  Cosma. 

There  we  can  let  him  be  free.     He  would  flee  xwij^ 

here. 
He  is  frantic  always,  for  escape  ever  ready. 
And  sudden  to  take  it.     He's  frothing.    Come  on] 
then  ! 

CosMA.  That  will  I,  God  helping.     Be  of  good  heart,  my  son  1 

[The  two  shepherds  carry  the  youth  off.    Malde  and  Anna  Onna  follcw 

them  for  awhile  then  halt  gazing  after  them^  Malde  with  a  forked  olive 

branch  with  a  small  ball  of  wax  stuck  on  at  the   larger  endj   the  old  woman 

leaning    on    her   crutch    and  with   her   bag   of  simples  hanging  in  fronL 

Finally  they  also  soon  disappear  from  sight.     The  saint  from  the   doorway 

turns  back  toward  his  host.] 

CosMA.  I  go  in  God's  peace.  Shepherd  Aligi, 

For  the  comfort  I  found  in  your  cavern, 

May  you  be  blessed  !    Lo  !  now  they  called  unto  me 

And  therefore  I  answered.     Before  you  may  enter 

Upon  your  new  way,  the  old  laws  well  consider 

Who  will  change  the  old  ways  shall  be  winnowed. 

See  ye  guard  well  your  father's  commandment. 

See  ye  heed  well  your  mother's  instruction. 

Hold  them  ever  steadfast  in  your  bosom. 

And  God  guide  your  feet,  that  you  may  not  be  taken 

In  lariats  nor  into  live  embers  stumble  ! 

Cosma,  quite  well  have  you  heard  me.^    That  I  rc« 

main  sinless. 
Never  I  tainted  myself  but  kept  good  faith. 
Quite  well  have  you  heard  of  the  sign  God  Almight] 
Has  revealed  me  and  sent  here  unto  me? 
I  await  what  will  come,  my  flesh  mortifying. 
I  say  unto  you  :  Best  question  your  parents 
Ere  you  lead  to  your  roof-tree  this  stranger. 

A  Voice  [calling  from  outside]. 

Cosma,  don't  delay  longer  !  Surely  'twill  kill  him. 

CoSMA  [Turning  to  MiLA.] 

Peace  unto  you,  woman  !     If  good  be  within  you 
Let  it  pour  forth  from  you  like  tears  falling 
Without  being  heard.     I  may  soon  return. 

Aligi.  I  come.     I  follow.    Not  all  have  I  told  you. 

MiLA.  Aligi,  'tis  true  :  not  all  are  you  telling  ! 

Go  to  the  roadside.    The  cross-bearer  watch  for 


Aligi. 


Cosma. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  45 

And  implore  him  to  carry  the  message. 
^he  saint  goes  off  over  the  pasture  land.     The  singing  of  the  pilgrims  is 
^om  time  to  time.] 

Aligi,  Aligi :  Not  all  did  we  tell ! 

Yet  better  it  were  that  my  mouth  were  choked  up, 

Better  that  stones  and  that  ashes 

Held  me  speechless.     Hear  then  this  only 

From  me,  Aligi.     I  have  done  you  no  evil; 

And  none  shall  I  do  you.     Healed  and  restored  now 

Are  my  feet.     And  I  know  well  the  pathways. 

Now  arrived  is  the  hour  of  departure 

For  the  daughter  of  Jorio.    Now  then  so  be  it ! 

I  know  not,  you  know  not  what  hour  may  be  coming. 

Replenish  the  oil  in  our  lamp  of  the  virgin, 
Take  the  oil  from  the  skin.     Yet  some  is  within 

And  wait  for  me  here.     I  seek  the  cross-bearer, 

Right  well  what  to  say  unto  him  know  I. 

Aligi,  brother  of  mine  !    Give  me  your  hand  now  ! 

Mila,  the  road  is  but  there,  not  far  away. 

Give  me  that  hand  of  yours,  so  I  may  kiss  it. 

Tis  the  drop  that  I  yield  to  my  thirst. 
[coming  closer].  With  the  ember  I  wanted  to  burn  it,  Mila, 

This  sinful  hand  that  sought  to  oflfend  you. 

All  that  I  forget.     I  am  only  the  woman 
You  found  on  the  rock  there  seated. 

By  who  knows  what  roads  coming  hither  ! 
[coming  again  close]. 

Upon  your  face  your  tears  are  not  drying. 

Dear  woman.     A  tear  is  now  staying 

On  the  eyelashes ;  while  you  speak  trembles,  and  falls 
not. 

Over  us  hovers  deep  stillness.     Aligi,  just  listen  ! 

Hushed  is  the  singing.     With  the  grasses  and  snow- 
peaks 

We  arc  alone,  brother  mine,  we  are  alone. 

Mila,  now  you  are  unto  me  as  you  first  were 

Out  there  on  the  rock,  when  you  were  all  smiling. 

With  your  eyes  all  shining,  your  feet  all  bleeding. 

And  you, — you, — are  you  not  now  the  one  who  was 
kneeling, — 


46  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

Who  the  flowrets  of  Santo  Giovanni 

Put  down  on  the  ground  ?    Ah  !  by  one  were  they 

gathered 
Who  bears  them  yet,  wears  them  yet — ^in  her  scapi- 
lary. 
Aligi.  Mila,  there  is  in  your  voice  a  vibration 

That  while  it  consoles  me,  it  saddens. 
As  even  October,  when,  all  my  flocks  with  me, 
I  border  the  bordering  stretches  of  seashore. 
Mila.  To  border  them  with  you,  the  shore  and  the  mounts^ 

Ah  !  I  would  that  that  fate  were  my  fate   evcrmoi 
Aligi.  O  my  love,  be  preparing  for  such  way-faring ! 

Though  the  road  there  be  long,  for  that  is  Love  stror 
Mila.  Aligi,  I'd  pass  there  through  fires  ever  flaming, 

Onward  still  wending  by  roads  never  ending. 
Aligi.  To  cull  on  the  hill-top  the  blue  gentian  lonely. 

On  the  sea-shore  only  the  star-fish  flower. 
Mila.  There  on  my  knees  would  I  drag  myself  on 

Placing  them  down  on  the  tracks  you  were   markii 
Aligi.  Think,   too,  of  the  places  to  rest  when   the  nig 

should  overtake  us 
And  the  mint  and  the  thyme  that  would  be  yc 
pillows. 
Mila.  I  cannot  think.     No.     Yet  give  leave  this  one  nij 

more 
That  I   live  with  you,  here,  where  you  are  h 

breathing. 
That  I  hear  you  asleep  and  be  with  you. 
And  over  you  keep,  like  your  dogs,  faithful  vigil 
Aligi.  O  you  know,  O  you  know  what  must  await  us. 

How  with  you  must  I  ever  divide  the  bread,  salt : 

water. 
And  so  shall  I  share  with  you  also  the  pallet. 
Unto  death  and  eternity.    Give  me  your  hands 
[They  grasp  each  other  s  hands^  gazing  into  each  other  s  eyesJ^ 
Mila.  Ah  !  we  tremble,  we  tremble.  You  are  frigid, 

Aligi.     You  are  blanching.  .  .  .  O  whither 
Is  flowing  the  blood  your  face  loses? 
[She  frees  herself  and  touches  his  face  with  both  hands. '\ 
Aligi.  O,  Mila,  Mila,  I  hear  a  great  thundering. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  47 

All  the  mountain  is  shaking  and  sinking. 
Where  are  you?    Where  are  you?    All  is  veiled. 

le  stretches  out  his  hand  toward  her  as  one  tottering.     They  kiss  each 

They  fall  down  upon  their  knees j  facing  each  other.  ] 

Have  mercy  upon  us,  blessed  Virgin  ! 
Have  mercy  upon  us,  O  Christ  Jesus  ! 

'  deep  silence  follows.  ] 

:e  \outside\       Shepherd,  ho  !    You  are  wanted,  and  in  a  hurry. 

A  black  sheep  has  broken  his  shank. 

LIGI  rises  tottering ly  and  goes  toward  the  entrance.  ] 

You  are  wanted  at  once  and  must  hurry. 

And  there  is  a  woman  I  know  not. 

On  her  head  is  a  basket.     For  you  she  is  asking. 

LIGI  turns  his  head  and  looks  toward  Mila  with  an  all-embracing 
She  is  still  on  her  knees.] 

in  a  whisper].  Mila,  replenish  the  oil  in  our  lamp  of  the  Virgin. 

So  it  go  not  out.     See  it  barely  is  burning. 
Take  the  oil  from  the  skin.     Yet  some  is  within. 
And  await  me.     I  only  must  go  to  the  sheepfold. 
Fear  nothing  for  God  is  forgiving 
Because  we  trembled  will  Mary  forgive  us. 
Replenish  the  oil  and  pray  her  for  mercy. 

le  goes  out  into  the  fields.  ] 

O  Holy  Virgin  !    Grant  me  this  mercy : 

That  I  may  stay  here  with  my  face  to  earth  bowed> 

Cold  here,  that  I  may  be  found  dead  here, 

That  I  may  be  removed  hence  for  burial. 

No  trespass  there  was  in  thine  eyesight. 

No   trespass   there  was«     For  Thou  unto  us  wert 

indulgent. 
The  lips  did  no  trespass.     (To  bear  witness 
There  wert  Thou  I)    The  lips  did  no  trespass. 
So  under  Thine  eyes  I  may  die  here,  die  here  ! 
For  strength  have  I  none  to  leave  here,  O  Mother  I 
Yet  remain  with  him  here  lyf  ila  cannot ! 
Mother  clement  !  I  was  never  sinful. 
But  a  well-spring  tramped  on  and  trodden. 
Shamed  have  I  been  in  the  eyes  of  Heaven, 
But  who  took  away  from  my  memory 
This  ahame  of  mine  if  not  Thou,  Mary? 


48  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

Bom  anew  then  was  I  when  love  was  bom  m  mt 
Thou  it  was  willed  it,  O  faithful  Virgin  I 
All  the  veins  of  this  new  blood  spring  from  afar, 
Spring  from  far  off,  from  the  far  far  away, 
From  the  depths  of  the  earth  where  she  rests, 
She  who  nourished  me  once  in  days  long  ago,  longagp. 
Let  it  also  be  she  who  bears  now  for  me  witness 
Of  this  my  innocency  !    O  Madonna,  Thou  iltt 

bore  witness  ! 
The  lips  did  no  trespass  here  now  (Thou  wert  witnest)i 
No,  there  was  none  in  the  lips,  no,  in  the  lips  then 

was  none. 
And  if  I  trembled,  O  let  me  bear  that  trespass. 
Bear  ever  that  tremor  with  me  beyond  I 
Here  I  close  up  within  me  my  eyes  with  my  fingers 
[With  the  index  and  middle  finger  of  each  hand  she  presses  her  ejes^ 

hawing  her  head  to  the  earth.] 

Death  do  I  feel.    Now  do  I  feel  it  draw  closer. 
The  tremor  increaseth.    Yet  not  the  heart  ceaseth. 
[Rising  impetuously.] 

Ah,  wretch  that  I  am,  that  which  was  told  me 
To  do,  I  did  not,  though  thrice  did  he  say  it : 
**  Replenish  the  oil."    And  lo  !  now  'tis  dying  I 
[She  goes  toward  the  oiUskin  hanging  from  a  heam^  with  her  eye 

watching  the  dying  fiame^  endeavoring  to  keep  it  alive  with  the  murm\ 

prayer :] 

Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena,  Dominus  tecum. 
(Hail,  Mary,  full  of  grace,  the  Lord  be  with  thee.J 
[Opening  the  skin  it  flattens  in  her  hands.     She  searches  for  the  flask  Mi 

draw  off  the  oily  but  is  able  to  get  but  one  or  two  drops.] 

nris  empty  !    'Tis  empty  !     But  three  drops,  VirgiOfl 
For  my  unction  extreme  prithee  be  given  me. 
But  two  for  my  hands,  for  my  lips  the  other. 
And  all  for  my  soul,  all  the  three  ! 
For  how  can  I  live  when  back  he  retums  here. 
What  can  I  say.  Mother,  what  can  I  say?  i 

Surely  then  he  will  see,  or  ere  he  see  me. 
How  the  lamp  has  gone  out.     If  my  loving 
Sufficed  not  to  keep  the  flame  buming. 
How  pale  unto  him  will  this  love  of  mine.  Mo 
appear ! 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  49 

[Again  she  tries  the  skirty  looking  again  for  other  receptacles,  upsetting 
fihing  and  still  murmuring  prayers.] 

Cause  it  to  bum,  O  Mother  intrepid  ! 

But  a  little  while  longer,  as  much  longer  only 

As  an  Ave  Maria,  a  Salve 

Regina,  O  Mother  of  Mercy,  of  Pity  ! 
[In  the  frenzy  of  her  search  she  goes  to  the  entrance  and  hears  a  step  and 
^es  sight  of  a  shadow.     She  calls  aloud.  ] 

0  woman,  good  woman.  Christian  sister. 
Come  you  hither !  and  may  the  Lord  bless  you  I 
Come  you  hither  !     For  mayhap  the  Lord  sends  you. 
What  bear  you  in  your  basket  ?    If  a  little 

Oil,  O,  then  of  your  charity,  give  me  a  little  ! 
Pray  enter  and  take  of  all  these  your  free  choice. 
These  ladles,  spindles,  mortars,  distaffs,  any  ! 
For  need  that  there  is  here  for  Our  Lady, 
To  replenish  the  oil  in  her  lamp  there  hanging 
And  not  to  quench  it;  if  through  me  it  be  quenched, 

1  shall  lose  sight  of  the  way  to  Heaven. 
Christian  woman,  grasp  ye  my  meaning? 
Will  ye  do  to  me  this  loving  kindness? 

{The  woman  appears  at  the  en^ramej  hey  h^ad  and  face  covered  with  a 

.  ^ontle.     She  takes  dov:n  the  basket  from  htt  h:iad  without  a  word  and 

^^Pi  '^  on  the  ground  removes  the  clothy  takes  out  the  phial  of  oil  and  offers 

Ah  !  be  thou  blessed,  be  thou  olessed  !  Lord  God 

Reward  tnce  on  trarih,  and  in  Heaven  also  ! 

You  have  some  !    You  have  some  !     In  mourning 

are  you; 
But  the  Madonna  will  grant  it  to  you 
To  see  again  the  face  of  your  lost  one, — 
roi  All  for  this  deed  of  your  charity  done  me. 

'  ^^w  th^  phial  and  turns  anxiously  to  go  to  the  dying  lamp.] 
fy.  Ah  !  perdition  upon  me  !     TTis  quenched. 

n  '  ^^'^^  f^lls  from  her  hand  and  breaks.  For  a  few  seconds  she 
^  ^otionf^sj'9  stunned  with  the  terrible  omen.  The  woman  leaning 
'j  #  ^pill^^  <^il  touches  it  with  her  fingers  and  crosses  herself.  MiLA 
_  jy^omarM  xjuith  utter  sadness  and  the  resignation  of  despair  makes  her 

Pardon  me,  pardon.  Christian  pilgrim, 


50 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


The  Cloaked  One. 


MiLA. 

The  Cloaked  One. 

MiLA. 


This  your  charity  turned  to  nothing. 
The  oil  wasted,  broken  in  pieces  the  phial, 
Misfortune  upon  me  befallen. 
Tell  me  what  choose  ye?    All  these  things  here 
Were  fashioned  out  thus  by  the  shepherd. 
A  new  distaflf  and  with  it  a  spindle 
Wish  ye?    Or  wish  ye  a  mortar  and  pestle? 
Tell  me  I  pray.     For  nothing  know  I  any  more. 
I  am  one  of  the  lost  in  the  earth  beneath. 
Daughter  of  Jorio  !     I  have  come  unto  you, 
To  you,  bringing  here,  thus,  this  basket. 
So  I  a  boon  may  beseech  of  you. 
Ah  !  heavenly  voice  that  I  ever 
In  the  deeps  of  my  soul  have  been  hearing ! 
To  you  come  I  from  Acquanova. 
Omella,  Omella,  art  thou! 
[Ornella  uncovers  her  face.] 
Ornella.  The  sister  am  I  of  Aligi; 

The  daughter  am  I  of  Lazaro. 

I  kiss  your  two  feet  with  humility. 

That  have  carried  you  here  to  me 

So  that  again  your  dear  face  I  behold 

This  hour,  this  Ia£t  hour  of  my  mortal  sufFering- 

To  give  ine  pity  you  were  the  first  one. 

You  are  now,  too,  the  last  one,  Omella  I 

If  I  was  the  first,  penitence 

Gp;at  I  ha\e  siifTtred.     I  am  telling 

The  truth  to  you,    Mila  di  Codra. 

And  still  is  my  suffering  bitter. 

Oh  I  Your  voice  in  its  sweetness  is  quivering. 

In  the  wound  doth  the  knife  that  hurts  quiver. 

And  much  more,  ah  !  more  doth  it  quiver 

And  you  do  not  yet  know  that,  Omella  ! 

If  only  you  knew  this  my  sorrow  ! 

If  only  you  knew  how  much  sadness 

The  small  kindness  I  did  for  you  caused  me  ! 

From  my  home  that  is  left  desolated 

Come  I,  where  we  weep  and  are  perishing. 

Why  thus  are  you  vested  in  mouming? 

Who  is  dead  then  ?    You  do  not  answer. 


Mila. 


Ornella. 


Mila. 


Ornella. 


Mila 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  51 

Mayhap — mayhap— the  newly-come  sister? 

A.  Ah  !     She  is  the  one  you  wish  perished  ! 

No,  no.    God  is  my  witness.     I  feared  it, 
And  the  fear  of  it  seized  me  within  me. 
Tell  me,  tell  me  :  who  is  it.?    Answer  ! 
For  God's  sake  and  for  your  own  soul's  sake  ! 

.A.  Not  one  of  us  yet  has  been  taken 

But  all  of  us  there  are  still  mourning 

The  dear  one  who  leaves  us  abandoned 

And  gives  himself  up  to  his  ruin. 

If  you  could  behold  the  forsaken  one, 

If  our  mother  you  could  but  behold. 

You  would  quiver  indeed.     Unto  us 

Come  is  the  Summer  of  blackness,  come  is 

The  Autumn  bitter,  oppressive. 

And  never  a  circling  twelvemonth's  season 

Could  be  unto  us  so  saddening.     Surely 

When  I  shut  to  the  door  to  help  you  and  save  you 

And  gave  myself  up  to  my  ruin, 

You  did  not  then  seem  to  me  so  unfeeling, — 

You  who  implored  for  compassion's  sake, — 

You  who  sought  my  name  of  me 

That  you  might  in  your  blessings  whisper  it ! 

But  since  then,  my  name  is  shadowed  in  shame. 

Every  night,  every  day  in  our  household, 

I  am  railed  upon,  shunned,  cast  away. 

They  single  me  out.    They  pointing  cry  out : 

"  Lo  !  that  is  the  one,  behold  her. 

Who  put  up  the  bars  of  the  entrance 

So  that  evil  within  might  stay  safely 

And  hide  at  its  ease  by  the  hearth-stone." 

I  cannot  stay  longer.    Thus  say  I :  "  Far  rather 

Hew  at  me,  all,  with  your  knife-blades 

And  carve  me  to  shreds  and  cut  me  !"    This  now 

Is  your  blessing,  Mila  di  Codra  ! 

Just  is  it,  just  is  it  that  you 

Strike  me  thus  !    Just  is  it  that  you 

Make  my  lips  drink  thus  deep  of  this  bitterness  ! 

With  such  sorrow  be  accompanied 

All  these  my  sins  to  the  world  that's  beyond  ! 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


^RNELLA. 


fiLA. 


)rnella. 


Mayhap,  mayhap,  then,  the  stones  and  the  heatki 

And  the  stubble,  the  wood-block  dumb,  unfeeling, 

Shall  speak  for  me, — the  angel  here  silent. 

That  your  brother  is  calling  to  life  in  the  block  theie, 

And  the  Virgin  bereft  of  her  lamp-light. 

These  shall  all  speak  for  me  :  but  I — ^I — shall  speak 

Dear  woman,  indeed  how  around  you  [not  I 

Your  soul  is  your  body's  vestment. 

And  how  I  may  touch  it,  outstretching 

Towards  you  thus  my  hand  with  all  faith. 

How  then  did  you  do  so  much  evil 

To  harm  us  so  much — us — God's  people? 

If  you  could  behold  our  Vienda, 

Quiver,  indeed,  would  you.     For  shortly  the  skin  wi 

Over  the  bones  part  in  twain  for  its  dryness. 

And  the  lips  of  her  mouth  are  grown  whiter 

Than  within  her  white  mouth  her  white  teeth  are; 

So  that  when  the  first  rain  came  falling, 

Saturday,  Mamma,  seeing  her,  said  of  her. 

Weeping  :  "  Lo,  now  !    Lo  now  !  she  will  be  leavin 

She  will  break  with  the  moisture  and  vanish.** 

Yet  my  father  laments  not ;  his  bitterness 

He  chews  upon  hard  without  weeping. 

Envenomed  within  him  the  iron, 

The  wound  in  his  flesh  is  like  poison 

(San  Cresidio  and  San  Rocca  guard  us  !) 

The  swelling  leaves  only  the  mouth  free 

To  bark  at  us  daily  and  nightly. 

In  his  frenzy  his  curses  were  fearful, — 

The  roof  of  the  house  with  them  shaking. 

And  with  them  our  hearts  quaking.     Dear  woman 

Your  teeth  are  chattering.     Have  you  the  fever, 

That  you  shiver  thus  and  you  tremble? 

Always  at  twilight  and  sunset 

A  tremor  of  cold  overtakes  me 

Not  strong  am  I  in  the  nights  on  the  mountain, 

We  light  fires  at  this  time  in  the  valley, 

But  speak  on  and  heed  not  my  suffering. 

Yesterday,  by  chance,  I  discovered 

He  had  it  in  mind  to  climb  up  here, — 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  53 

This  mountain  to  climb,  to  the  sheep-stead. 

I  failed  through  the  evening  to  see  him, 

And  my  blood  turned  cold  within  me. 

So  then  I  made  ready  this  basket, 

And  in  this  my  sisters  aided  me, — 

We  are  three  who  are  born  of  one  mother, — 

All  three  of  us  born  marked  with  sorrow; 

And  this  morning  I  left  Acquanova, 

I  crossed  by  the  ferry  the  river, 

And  the  path  to  the  mountain  ascended. 

Ah  !  you  dear,  dear  creature  of  Jesus  ! 

With  what  illness  now  are  you  taken? 

How  can  I  bear  all  this  sorrow? 

What  can  I  be  doing  for  you? 

You  far  more  violently  tremble 

Than  when  you  sought  our  fire-place 

And  the  pack  of  the  reapers  were  hunting  you. 

And  since — Oh  !  since  have  you  seen  him?     Know 

you 
If  yet  he  has  come  to  the  sheep-stead  ? 
Be  certain,  Omella,  be  certain  ! 
Not  again  have  I  seen  him.    Nor  yet 
Do  I  know  if  he  came  up  the  mountain, — 
Since  much  did  he  have  for  the  doing 
At  Gionco.     Perhaps  he  came  not. 
So  do  not  be  frightened  !     But  hear  me, 
And  heed  me.     For  your  soul's  sake, 
To  save  it,  now,  Mila  di  Codra, 
Repent  ye  and  take  ye,  I  prithee. 
Away  from  us  this  evil  doing ! 
Restore  us  Aligi,  and  may  God  go  with  you, 
And  may  He  have  mercy  upon  you  ! 
Dear  sister  of  Aligi !    Content  am  I, — 
Yea,  always  to  hear  and  to  heed  you. 
Just  is  it  that  you  strike  me, 
Me,  the  sinful  woman,  me,  the  sorcerer's 
Daughter,  the  witch  who  is  shameless, — 
Who  for  charity  supplicated 
The  journeying  pilgrim  of  Jesus 
But  a  little  oil  to  give  her 


14 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


)rnella. 

IlLA. 


)rnella. 


To  feed  her  sacred  lamp-flame  I 

Perhaps  behind  me  the  Angel  is  weeping 

Again  as  before ;  and  the  stones  perhaps 

Will  speak  for  me,  but  I — shall  not  speak — 

Shall  not  speak.     But  this  say  I  only 

In  the  name  of  sister,  and  if  I  say  not. 

In  truth,  may  my  mother  arise 

From  her  grave,  my  hair  grasping. 

And  cast  me  upon  the  black  earth,  bearing 

Witness  against  her  own  daughter. 

Only  say  I :    I  am  sinless  before  your  brother 

Before  the  pallet  of  your  brother  clean  am  I ! 

Omnipotent  God  !    A  miracle  dost  thou  I 

But  this  is  the  loving  of  Mila. 

This  is  but  my  love  Ornella. 

And  more  than  this  I  shall  speak  not. 

Contented  am  I  to  obey  you. 

All  paths  knows  the  daughter  of  Jorio, 

Already  her  soul  ere  your  coming 

Had  started, — ere  now,  O  Innocent  One  I 

Do  not  distrust  me,  O  sister 

Of  Aligi,  for  no  cause  is  there. 

Firm  as  the  rock  my  faith  is  in  you. 

Brow  unto  brow  have  I  seen  in  you 

Truth.     And  the  rest  lies  in  darkness, 

That  I,  poor  one,  may  not  fathom. 

But  I  kiss  your  feet  here  humbly. 

The  feet  that  know  well  the  pathways. 

And  my  silent  love  and  pity 

Will  companion  you  on  your  journey. 

I  will  pray  that  the  steps  of  your  pathway 

Be  lessened,  the  pain  of  them  softened. 

And  the  pain  that  I  feel  and  I  suffer 

On  your  head  I  shall  lay  it  no  longer. 

No  more  shall  I  judge  your  misfortunes, 

No  more  shall  I  judge  of  your  loving, 

Since  before  my  dear  brother  sinless 

Are  you,  in  my  heart  I  shall  call  you 

My  sister,  my  sister  in  exile,  at  dawning 

My  dreams  shall  meet  you  and  often  shall  gree 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  55 

Ah,  in  my  grave  were  I  resting, 

With  the  black  earth  close  to  me  nestling. 

And  in  my  ears,  in  that  grave  lonely. 

These  words  were  the  last  words  sounding, — 

Their  promise  of  peace  my  life  rounding  ! 

A.  For  your  life  I  have  spoken,  I  witness. 

And  food  and  drink  to  restore  you, — 
That  at  least  for  the  first  of  your  journey, 
You  may  not  lack  something  of  comfort, — 
For  you  I  prepared  in  this  basket; 
Bread  placing  in  it  and  wine  (the  oil  is  now 
Gone  !)  but  I  did  not  place  there  a  flower. 
Forgive  me  for  that,  since  then  I  knew  not — 
A  blue  flower,  a  flower  of  the  blue  aconite — 
You  did  not  place  that  in  your  basket  for  me  I 
And  you  did  not  place  there  the  white  sheet  severed 
From  the  cloth  in  your  loom  at  home  woven 
That  I  saw  twixt  the  doorway  and  fire-place  ! 

A.  Mila  !  for  that  hour  wait  on  the  Saviour. 

But  what  still  keeps  my  brother?    Vainly 
I  sought  him  at  the  sheep-fold.    Oh  !  where  is  he? 
He  will  be  back  again  ere  nightfall  surely. 
Needs  be  that  I  hasten  !    O,  needs  be  ! 

A.  Do  you  mean  not  to  see  him — speak  again  to  him? 

Where  then  will  you  go  for  this  night  ?  Remain  here. 
I,  too,  will  remain.    Thus  doing  shall  we 
Be  together,  and  strong  against  sorrow, 
We  three —    Till  you  go  at  day-break 
On  your  path,  and  we  go  upon  our  path. 
But  already  too  long  are  the  nights.    Needs  be 
That  I  hasten, —  hasten  !     You  know  not. 
I  will  tell  you.     From  him  also  received  I 
The  parting  that's  not  to  be  given 
A  second  time.     Addio  !    Go,  seek  him. 
And  meet  him,  now,  in  the  sheep-fold,  surely. 
Detain  him  there  longer,  and  tell  him 
All  the  grief  that  they  suffer  down  there. 
And  let  him  not  follow  me  !    On  my  pathway 
Unknown,  I  shall  soon  be.     Rest  you  blessed 
Forever  rest  blessed  !    O,  be  you  as  sweet 


56  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

Unto  his  as  you  were  to  my  sorrow  ! 
Addio  !    Omella,  Omella,  Ornella  ! 
[While  speaking  thus  she  retires  toward  the  darkness  of  the  cavern  tiAik 

OrnellA)  softened  to  tearsy  passes  out.     The  old  herb-woman  then  appears 

at  the  opening  of  the  cavern.     The  singing  of  the  pilgrims  may  still  be  heari] 

but  from  a  greater  distance.     Anna  Onna  enters,  leaning  on  her  crutch  twA 

her  bag  hanging  by  her  side.  ] 

Anna  [breathless].       'Has  freed  him,  freed  him,  woman  of  the  valley 

'Has  freed  him  !    Ay  !  from  inside  him 
Chased  away  all  the  demons  did  he, — 
Cosma, — that  possessed  him.     A  saint  surely. 
He  gave  out  a  great  cry  like  a  bull's  roar, — 
Did  the  youth,  and  at  one  blow  fell  down 
As  if  he  had  burst  his  chest  open. 
You  didn't — don't  say  you  couldn't — ^hear  him? 
And  now  on  the  grass  he  is  sleeping. 
Deeply,  deeply  is  he  sleeping;  and  the  shepherds 
Stand  around  and  keep  watch  o'er  him. 
But  where  are  you?    I  do  not  see  you. 

Mila.  Anna  Onna,  put  me  to  sleep  ! 

O  Granny,  dear,  I'll  give  you  this  basket 
That  is  brimful  of  eating  and  drinking. 

Anna  Who  was  she  that  went  away  hurrying? 

Had  she  broken  your  heart  that  you  cried  so? 

— That  after  her,  so,  you  were  calling?  . 

Mila.  Granny,  O  listen  !    This  basket  I'll  give  you. 

That  one  on  the  ground,  to  take  with  you, — 
If  you'll  put  me  to  sleep, — make  me  go, — 
To  sleep,  with  the  little  black  seeds, — you  know— 
Of  the  hyoscyamus.    Go  off  then  !  be  eating  ifll 
drinking  ! 

Anna.  I  have  none.     I  have  none  left  in  my  bag  here  ! 

Mila.  The  skin  I  will  give  you,  too,  the  sheep-skin 

You  were  sleeping  on  here  to-day. 
If  you  give  me  some  of  those  red  seed-pods. 
The  red  pods  you  know — twigs  of  the  nasso. 
Go  off,  then,  go  off,  and  (ill  up  and  guzzle  I 

Anna.  I  have  none,  I  have  none  in  my  bag  here. 

Go  slower  a  bit,  woman  of  the  valley. 
Take  time,  go  slowly,  go  slowly. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  57 

Think  it  over  a  day,  or  a  month,  or  a  year. 

0  Granny  dear,  more  will  I  give  you  ! 
A  kerchief  with  pictures  in  color, 

And  of  woolen  cloth,  three  arms  lengths. 
If  you  give  me  some  of  the  herb-roots — 
The  same  that  you  sell  to  the  shepherds 
That  kill  oflF  the  wolves  so  swiftly — 
The  root  of  the  wolf-grass,  the  wolf-bane — 
Go  off  then.    Go  off  and  mend  up  your  bones  1 

1  have  none,  I  have  none  left  in  my  bag  here. 
Go  slower  a  bit,  woman  of  the  valley, 
Take  time,  go  slowly,  go  slowly. 

With  time  there  always  comes  wisdom. 

Think  it  over  a  day  or  a  month  or  a  year. 

With  the  herbs  of  the  good  Mother  Mountain 

We  can  heal  all  our  ailments  and  sorrows. 

You  will  not?    Very  well  then,  I  snatch  thus  from 

you. 
That  black  bag  of  yours.    Therein  Til  be  finding 
What  will  serve  for  me  well,  well  indeed  ! 
She  tries  to  tear  the  bag  away  from  the  tottering  old  woman.] 

No,  no.     You  are  robbing  me,  your  poor  old  granny^ 
You  force  me  !    The  shepherd — he'd  tear  me — 
Gouge  out  my  eyes  from  their  sockets. 
A  step  is  heard  and  a  man^s  form  appears  in  the  shadows.] 

Ah  !  it  is  you,  it  is  you,  Aligi ! 
Behold  what  this  woman  is  doing. 
^f  ILA  lets  fall  the  bag  which  she  had  taken  from  the  old  woman  and  sees 
in  looming  tall  in  the  dim  light  of  the  mountainy  but  recognizing  him  she 
refuge  in  the  depths  of  the  cavern.  Lazaro  di  Roio  then  enters^  silent^ 
'  rope  around  his  arm  like  an  ox  drover  about  to  tie  up  his  beast.  The 
of  Anna  Onna's  crutches  striking  against  the  stones  is  heard  as  she 
•j  in  safety.] 

to.  Woman,  O,  you  need  not  be  frightened. 

Lazaro  di  Roio  has  come  here. 
But  he  does  not  carry  his  sickle  : 
It  is  scarcely  a  case  of  an  eye  for  an  eye. 
And  he  does  not  wish  to  enforce  it. 
There  was  more  than  an  ounce  of  blood  taken 
From  him  on  the  wheat-field  of  Mispa, 
And  you  know  cause  and  end  of  that  bloodshed. 


THE     DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

Ounce  for  ounce^  then,  he  will  not  take  from  you 

Nor  wish  it,  for  all  the  wound's  smarting — 

The  cicatrice,  here  in  the  forehead. 

Raven  feather,  olive-twig  crook. 

Rancid  oil,  soot  from  the  chimney  shook. 

Morn  unto  eve,  eve  unto  mom, 

The  cursed  wound  must  healing  scorn  ! 

[He  gives  a  short,  malignant  laugh.] 

And  where  I  was  lying,  I  heard  ever 

The  weeping  and  wailing,  the  women, 

O  not  for  me,  but  this  shepherd, 

Spell-bound,  bewitched  by  the  witch  shrew 

Way  oflF  in  the  far-away  mountain. 

Surely,  woman,  poor  was  your  picking. 

But  my  grit  and  my  blood  are  back  again. 

And  many  words  I  shall  not  be  talking. 

My  tongue  is  dry  now  for  doing  it. 

And  all  for  this  same  sad  occasion. 

Now  then,  say  I,  you  shall  come  on  with  me. 

And  no  talk  about  it,  daughter  of  Jorio  ! 

Waiting  below  is  the  donkey  and  saddle, 

And  also  here  a  good  rope  hempen. 

And  others  to  spare,  God  be  praised  I  if  need  ' 

[MiLA  remains  motionless,  backed  up  against  the  rock  without  repl 

Did  you  hear  me,  Mila  diCodra? 
Or  are  you  deaf  and  dumb  now? 
This  I  am  saying  in  quiet : 
I  know  all  about  how  it  happened. 
That  time  with  the  reapers  of  Norca. 
If  you  are  thinking  to  thwart  me 
With  the  same  old  tricks,  undeceive  you  ! 
There's  no  fire-place  here,  nor  any 
Relations,  nor  Santo  Giovanni 
Ringing  the  bells  of  salvation. 
I  take  three  steps  and  I  seize  you. 
With  two  good  stout  fellows  to  help  me. 
So  now,  then,  and  I  say  it  in  quiet. 
You'd  better  agree  to  what  needs  be. 
You  may  just  as  well  do  as  I  want  you, 
For  if  you  don't  do  so,  you'll  have  to  ! 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  59 

What  do  you  want  from  me?    Where  already 
Death  was,  you  came.     Death  is  here,  even  now. 
He  stepped  one  side  to  let  you  enter. 
Withdrawing  awhile,  still  here  he  is  waiting. 
O,  pick  up  that  bag  there ;  inside  it 
Are  deadly  roots  enough  to  kill  ten  wolves. 
If  you  bind  it  onto  my  jaws  here 
I  would  make  of  it  all  a  good  mouthful; 
I  would  eat  therein,  you  would  see  me. 
As  the  good  hungry  mare  that  crunches 
Her  oats.     So  then,  when  I  should  be 
Cold,  you  could  take  me  up  there  and  toss  me 
And  pack  me  upon  your  donkey. 
And  tie  with  your  rope  like  a  bundle. 
And  shout  out :  ''  Behold  the  witch,  shameless. 
The  sorceress  !"    Let  them  bum  up  my  body, 
Let  the  women  come  round  and  benold  me. 
And  rejoice  in  deliverance.    Mayhap 
One  would  thrust  in  her  hand,  in  the  fire. 
Without  being  burned  in  the  flame. 
And  draw  from  the  core  of  the  heat  my  heart. 
[Lazaro,  at  her  first  biddings  takes  up  the  bag  and  examines  the  simples. 

then  throws  it  behind  him^  with  suspicion  and  distrust,^ 

^Ro.  Ah,  ah  !     You  want  to  spread  some  snare. 

What  crouch  are  you  watching  to  spring  on  me  ! 
In  your  voice  I  can  hear  all  your  slyness. 
But  I  shall  trap  you  in  my  lariat. 
[At  this  he  makes  his  rope  into  a  lariat S\ 

Not  dead,  neither  cold  do  I  want  you. 
Lazaro  di  Roio, — by  all  the  gods  ! — 
Mila  di  Codra,  will  harvest  you, — 
Will  go  with  you  this  very  October, 
And  for  this  all  things  are  ready. 
He  will  press  the  grapes  with  your  body, 

^.  Lazaro  will  sink  in  the  must  with  you. 

tth  u   s^inister  laugh  he  advances  toward  Mila  who  is  on  the  alert  to 

1^9  th^   man  following  closely^  she  darting  here  and  there^  unable  to 

Do  not  touch  me  !     Be  ashamed  of  yourself ! 
For  your  own  son  is  standing  behind  you. 


6o 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


Lazaro. 

Aligi. 

Lazaro. 


Aligi. 
Lazaro. 


Aligi. 
Lazaro. 


[Aligi  appears  at  the  end  of  the  cave.  Seeing  his  father  he  turns  pali, 
Lazaro,  halting  in  his  chase,  turns  toward  him.  Father  and  son  regard  each 
other  intently  and  ominously.] 

Hola  there,  Aligi !    What  is  it? 

Father,  how  did  you  come  hither? 

Has  your  blood  been  all  sucked  up  that  it's  made  you 

So  pale  ?    As  white  you  stand  there  in  the  light 

As  the  whey  when  they  squeeze  out  the  cheeses, 

Shepherd,  say,  why  are  you  frightened? 

Father,  what  is  it  you  wish  to  do  here? 

What  I  wish  to  do  here?    You  are  asking 

A  question  of  me,  a  right  you  have  not. 

I  will  tell  you,  however.    This  will  I : 

The  yearling  ewe  catch  in  my  lariat, 

And  lead  her  wherever  it  please  me. 

That  done  I  shall  sentence  the  shepherd. 

Father,  this  thing  you  shall  surely  not  do. 

How  dare  you  then  lift  so  boldly 

Your  white  face  up  into  mine  ?     Be  careful 

Or  I  shall  make  it  blush  of  a  sudden. 

Go  !  turn  back  to  your  sheep-fold  and  stay  there, 

With  your  flock  inside  the  enclosure. 

Until  I  come  there  to  seek  you. 

On  your  life,  I  say,  obey  me  ! 

Father,  I  pray  the  Saviour  to  keep  me 

From  doing  you  aught  but  obedience. 

And  you  are  able  to  judge  and  to  sentence 

This  son  of  your  own ;  but  this  one — 

This  woman,  see  that  you  leave  her  alone  ! 

Leave  her  to  weep  here  alone. 

Do  no  offence  unto  her.     It  is  sinful. 

Ah  !    The  Lord  has  made  you  crazy  ! 

Of  what  saint  were  you  just  speaking? 

See  you  not  (may  your  eyes  be  blind  forever  I) 

See  you  not  how  under  her  eyelashes, — 

Around  her  neck  lie  hidden 

The  seven  sins — the  mortal  sins? 

Surely,  if  there  should  see  her  only 

Your  buck  now  'twould  butt  her  and  you  here 

Are  frightened  lest  I  should  offend  her  ! 


Aligi. 


Lazaro. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  6i 

I  tell  you  the  stones  of  the  high  road 

By  man  and  by  beast  are  less  trodden 

Than  she  is  by  sin  and  shame  trampled. 

If  it  were  not  a  sin  unto  God  in  me, 

If  by  all  men  it  were  not  deemed  evil, 

Father,  I  should  say  unto  you  that  in  this  thing 

In  this  thing  you  lie  in  your  gullet ! 

takes  a  feu,*  steps  and  places  himself  between  his  father  and  thewoman^ 

her  with  his  body.] 

What's  that  you  say  ?    Your  tongue  in  you  wither  I 

Down  on  your  knees  there,  to  beg  me 

Forgiveness,  your  face  on  the  ground  there  ! 

And  never  dare  you  to  lift  up  your  body 

Before  me  !    Thus,  on  your  marrow-bones. 

Off  with  you  !     Herd  with  your  dogs  ! 

The  Saviour  will  judge  of  me,  father : 

But  this  woman  I  shall  not  abandon, 

Nor  unto  your  wrath  shall  I  leave  her, 

While  living.    The  Saviour  will  judge  me. 

I  am  the  judge  of  you.    Who 

Am  I  then  to  you,  blood  and  body  ? 

You  are  my  own  father,  dear  unto  me. 

I  am  unto  you  your  own  father,  and  to  you 

I  may  do  as  to  me  it  seem  pleasing 

Because  unto  me  you  are  but  the  ox 

In  my  stable ;  you  are  but  my  shovel 

And  hoe.     And  if  I  should  over  you 

Pass  with  my  harrow  and  tear  you 

And  break  you  in  pieces,  this  is  well  done  ! 

And  if  I  have  need  of  a  handle 

For  my  knife,  and  one  I  shall  make  myself 

Out  of  one  of  your  bones,  this  is  well  done  ! 

Because  I  am  the  father  and  you  are  the  son  ! 

Do  you  heed .?    And  to  me  over  you  is  given 

All  power,  since  time  beyond  time. 

And  a  law  that  is  over  all  laws. 

And  as  even  I  was  to  my  father. 

So  even  are  you  unto  me,  under  earth. 

Do  you  heed  i    And  if  from  your  memory 

This  thing  has  fallen,  then  thus  I  recall 


62  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

It  unto  your  memory.     Kneel  down  on  your  leu 

and  kiss  ye 
The  earth  on  your  marrow  bones 
And  go  oflF  without  looking  behind  you  I 

Aligi.  Pass  over  me  then  with  the  harrow; 

But  touch  not  the  woman. 
[Lazaro  goes  up  to  hirriy  unable  to  restrain  his  rage^  and  lifting  the  ro| 

strikes  him  on  the  shoulder. '\ 

Lazaro.  Down,  down,  you  dog,  down,  to  the  ground  with  you 

Aligi  [falling  on  his  knees]. 

So  then,  my  father,  I  kneel  down  before  you : 

The  ground  in  front  of  you  do  I  kiss. 

And  in  the  name  of  the  true  God  and  living 

By  my  first  tear  and  my  infant  wailing 

From  the  time  when  you  took  me  unswaddled 

And  in  your  hand  held  me  aloft 

Before  the  sacred  face  of  Lord  Christ, — 

By  all  this  I  beseech  you,  I  pray  you,  my  father. 

That  you  tread  not  thus  and  trample 

On  the  heart  of  your  son  sorrow-laden. 

Do  not  thus  disgrace  him  !     I  pray  you  : 

Do  not  make  his  senses  forsake  him 

Nor  deliver  him  into  the  hands  of  the  False  One — 

The  Enemy  who  wheels  now  about  us  ! 

I  pray  you  by  the  angel  there  silent. 

Who  sees  and  who  hears  in  that  wood  block  ! 

Lazaro.  Begone  !    Off  with  you  !    Off  with  you  ! 

I  shall  shortly  now  judge  of  you. 
Off  with  you,  I  bid  you.     Be  off  with  you  ! 
[He  strikes  him  cruelly  with  the  rope.     Aligi  rises  all  quivering.] 

Aligi.  Let  the  Saviour  be  judge.     Let  him  judge  then 

Between  you  and  me,  and  let  him  give  unto  me 
Light;  but  yet  I  will  against  you 
Not  lift  up  this  my  hand. 

Lazaro.  Be  you  damned  !     With  this  rope  I  will  hang  you. 

[He  throws  the  lariat  to  take  him  but  Aligi,  seizing  the  rope  with  a  sudc 

jerky  takes  it  out  of  his  fathers  hands.  ] 

Aligi.  Christ  my  Saviour,  help  Thou  me  ! 

That  I  may  not  uplift  my  hand  against  him. 
That  I  may  not  do  this  to  my  father  ! 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  63 

10  \furious,  goes  to  the  door  and  calls.] 

Ho,  Jenne  !  and  ho,  Femo  !    G>me  here  ! 

Come  here,  and  see  this  fellow, 

What  he  is  doing  (may  a  viper  sting  him  !) 

Fetch  the  ropes.     Possessed  is  he 

Most  surely.     His  own  father  he  threatens  I 

Running  appear  two  menj  big  and  muscular^  bearing  ropes.  ] 

He  is  rebellious,  this  fellow  ! 
From  the  womb  is  he  damned, 
And  for  all  his  days  and  beyond  them. 
The  evil  spirit  has  entered  into  him. 
See  !     See  !     Behold  how  bloodless 
The  face  is.    O,  Jenne  !    You  take  him  and  hold 
him. 

0  Femo,  you  have  the  rope,  take  it  and  bind  him, 
For  to  stain  myself  I  am  not  wishing. 

Then  go  ye  and  seek  out  some  one 
To  perform  the  exconjuration. 
The  two  men  throw  themselves  upon  Aligi  and  overpower  him.] 

Brothers  in  God  !    O,  do  not  do  this  to  me  ! 
Do  not  imperil  your  soul,  Jenne. 

1  who  know  you  so  well,  who  remember 
Remember  you  well  from  a  baby, 

Since  you  came  as  a  boy  to  pick  up  the  olives 
In  your  fields.    O,  Jenne  Dell  Eta  ! 
I  remember  you.     Do  not  thus  debase  me. 
Do  not  thus  disgrace  me  ! 
They  hold  him  tightly^  trying  to  bind  him^  and  pushing  him  on  towards 
trance.  ] 

Ah  !  dog  ! — The  pest  take  you  ! — 
No,  no,  no  ! — ^Mila,  Mila  !     Hasten  ! — 
Give  me  the  iron  there.    Mila  !    Mila  I 
fits  voicej  desperate  and  hoarse^  is  heard  in  the  distance  while  Lazaro 
Iila's  egress.] 

Aligi,  Aligi !     Heaven  help  you  ! 

May  God  avenge  you  !    Never  despair  ! 

No  power  have  I,  no  power  have  you. 

But  while  I  have  breath  in  my  mouth, 

I  am  all  yours  !     I  am  all  for  you  ! 

Have  faith  !     Have  faith  !     Help  shall  come  I 


64  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

Be  of  good  heart,  Aligi !    May  God  help  you  I 
[MiLA  gazes  intently  along  the  path  where  Aligi  was  borne  and  listens 
intently  for  voices.    In  this  brief  interval  Lazaro  scrutinizes  the  cavern  insii' 
iously.     From  the  distance  comes  the  singing  of  another  company  of  pilgrim 
crossing  the  valley. '\ 
Lazaro.  Woman,  now  then  you  have  been  seeing 

How  I  am  the  man  here.     I  give  out  the  law. 

You  are  left  here  alone  with  me. 

Night  is  approaching,  and  inside  here 

It  is  now  almost  night.    O  don't 

Be  afraid  of  me,  Mila  di  Codra, 

Nor  yet  of  this  red  scar  of  mine 

If  you  see  it  light  up,  for  now  even 

I  feel  in  it  the  beat  of  the  fever.  .  .  . 

Come  nearer  me.    Quite  worn  out  you  seem  to  be 

For  sure  you've  not  met  with  fat  living 
On  this  hard  shepherd's  pallet. 

While  with  me  you  shall  have,  if  you  want  it, 

All  of  that  in  the  valley ;  for  Lazaro 

Di  Roio  is  one  of  the  thrifty. 

But  what  do  you  spy  at  ?    Whom  do  you  wait  for? 
Mila.  No  one  I  wait  for.    No  one  is  coming  ! 

\She  is  still  motionless^  hoping  to  see  Ornella  come  and  save  her.     Dis 
simulating  to  gain  time^  she  tries  to  defeat  Lazaro's  intentions.^ 
Lazaro.  You  are  alone  with  me.    You  need  not 

Be  frightened.     Are  you  persuaded? 
Mila  [hesitatingly].      I'm  thinking,  Lazaro  di  Roio. 

I'm  thinking  of  what  you  have  promised. 

I'm  thinking.     But  what's  to  secure  me? 
Lazaro.  Do  not  draw  back.    My  word  I  keep, 

All  that  I  promise,  I  tell  you. 

Be  assured,  God  be  witness.    Come  to  me  I 
Mila.  And  Candia  della  Leonessa  ? 

Lazaro.  Let  the  bitterness  of  her  mouth  moisten 

Her  thread,  and  with  that  be  her  weaving ! 
Mila.  — The  three  daughters  you  have  in  your  house! 

And  now  the  new  one  ! — I  dare  not  trust  to  it.     j 
Lazaro.  Come  here  !    Don't  draw  back  !    Here  1     Fed  m 

Where  I  tucked  it.    Twenty  ducats,  1 

Sewed  in  this  coat.     Do  you  want  them?  \ 


^hoMi 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  65 

[He  feels  for  them  through  his  goat-skin  coat,  then  takes  it  off  and  throws 
^OM  Ae ground  at  her  feet.] 

Take  them  1    Don't  you  hear  them  clinking? 
There  are  twenty  silver  ducats. 
[LA.  But  first  I  must  see  them  and  count  them, 

First — before — Lazaro  di  Roio. 
Now  will  I  take  these  shears  and  rip  it. 
ZARO.  But  why  spy  about  so?    You  witch  !  surely 

You're  getting  some  little  trick  ready. 
You're  hoping  yet  you'll  deceive  me. 
[He  makes  a  rush  at  her  to  seize  her.     She  eludes  him  and  seeks  refuge 
tr  the  walnut  block.  ] 
LA.  No,  no,  no  !    Let  me  alone  !    Let  me  alone  ! 

Don't   you   touch   me !    See  I    See !    She  comes  ! 

See  !    See  !  she  comes 
Your  own  daughter — Omella  is  coming. 
[She  grasps  the  angel  to  resist  Lazaro's  violence.] 

No,  no  !    Omella,  Omella,  O  help  me  ! 
[Suddenly  Aligi  appears,  free  and  unbound,  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave. 
e  sees  in  the  dim  light  the  two  figures.     He  throws  himself  upon  his  father. 
tubing  sight  of  the  axe  driven  into  the  wood  he  seizes  it,  blind  with  fury  and 
rror.] 
LiGi.  Let  her  go  !     For  your  life  ! 

[He  strikes  his  father  to  death.  Ornella,  just  appearing,  bends  down 
d  recognizes  the  dead  body  in  the  shadow  of  the  angel.  She  utters  a  great  cry.  ] 
INELLA.  Ah  !  I  untied  him  !     I  untied  him  ! 

ACT  III 

A  large  country  yard,  in  the  farther  end  an  oak,  venerable  with  age,  beyond 
r  fields,  bounded  by  mountains,  furrowed  by  torrents;  on  the  left  the  house 
Lazaro,  the  door  open,  the  porch  littered  with  agricultural  implements;  on 
r  right  the  haystack,  the  mill  and  the  straw  stack. 

The  body  o/Lazaro  is  lying  on  the  floor  within  the  house,  the  head  resting, 
tording  to  custom,  on  a  bundle  of  grapevine  twigs ;  the  wailers,  kneeling, 
wround  the  body,  one  of  them  intoning  the  lamentation,  the  others  answering, 
h  times  they  bow  toward  one  another,  bending  till  they  bring  their  foreheads 
^eAer.  On  the  porch,  between  the  plow  and  large  earthen  vessel,  are  the  kindred 
IiWSplendore  and  Favetta.  Further  from  them  is  Vienda  di  Giave,  sitting 

fl  hewn  stone,  looking  pale  and  desolate,  with  the  look  of  one  dying,  her 


66 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


Ornella. 


mother  and  godmother  consoling  her.    Ornella  is  under  the  tree^  alom^  hi 
head  turned  toward  the  path.     All  are  in  mourning. 
Chorus  of  Wailers.  Jesu,  Saviour,  Jesu  Saviour  ! 

Tis  your  will.     Tis  your  bidding. 
That  a  tragic  death  accursed 
Lazaro  fell  by  and  perished. 
From  peak  unto  peak  ran  the  shudder, 
All  of  the  mountain  was  shaken. 
Veiled  was  the  sun  in  heaven. 
Hidden  his  face  was  and  covered. 
Woe  !    Woe  !    Lazaro,  Lazaro,  Lazaro  I 
Alas  !    What  tears  for  thee  tear  us  ! 
Requiem  aternam  dona  ei  Domine. 
(O  Lord  give  him  Rest  eternal !) 
Now,  now!    Coming!     Tis  coming !    FaroflF! 
The  black  standard  !    The  dust  rising  ! 
O  sisters,  my  sisters,  think,  oh  !  think 
Of  the  mother,  how  to  prepare  her  ! — 
That  her  heart  may  not  break.     But  a  little 
And  he  will  be  here.    Lo  !  at  the  near  turn. 
At  the  near  turn  the  standard  appearing  ! 
Mother  of  the  passion  of  the  Son  crucified. 
You  and  you  only  can  tell  the  mother, — 
Go  to  the  mother,  to  her  heart  whisper ! 
[Some  of  the  women  go  out  to  see.  ] 

Anna  di  Bove.  It  is  the  cypress  of  the  field  of  Fiamorbo. 

Felavia  Sesara.  It  is  the  shadow  of  clouds  passing  over. 

Ornella.  It  is  neither  the  cypress  nor  shadow 

Of  stormcloud,  dear  women,  I  see  it  advancing, 
Neither  cypress  nor  stormcloud,  woe's  me  I 
But  the  Standard  and  Sign  of  Wrong-Doing 
That  is  borne  along  with  him.     He's  coming 
The  condemned  one's  farewells  to  receive  here, 
To  take  from  the  hands  of  the  mother 
The  cup  of  forgetting,  ere  to  God  he  commend  hi 
Ah  !  wherefore  are  we  not  all  of  us  dying, 
Dying  with  him?    My  sisters,  my  sisters  ! 
[The  sisters  all  look  out  the  gate  toward  the  path.] 

Chorus  of  Wailers.  Jesu,  Jesu,  it  were  better 

That  this  roof  should  on  us  crumble. 


Splendore. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  67 

Ah  !    Too  much  is  this  great  sorrow, 
Candia  della  Leonessa. 
On  the  bare  ground  your  husband  lying, 
Not  even  permitted  a  pillow, 
But  only  a  bundle  of  vine-twigs, 
Under  his  head  where  he's  lying. 
Woe  !  woe  !  Lazaro,  Lazaro,  Lazaro  ! 
Alas  !  What  pain  for  thee  pains  us  ! 
Requiem  aternam  dona  eiy  Domine. 
DORE.  Favetta,  go  you;  go  speak  to  her. 

Go  you,  touch  her  on  the  shoulder. 
So  she  may  feel  and  turn.     She  is  seated 
Like  unto  a  stone  on  the  hearth-stone. 
Stays  fixed  there  without  moving  an  eyelash. 
And  she  seems  to  see  nothing,  hear  nothing; 
She  seems  to  be  one  with  the  hearth-stone. 
Dear  Virgin  of  mercy  and  pity  ! 
Her  senses  O  do  not  take  from  her  ! — ^Unhappy  one  I 
Cause  her  to  heed  us,  and  in  our  eyes  looking 
To  come  to  herself,  dear  unhappy  one 
Yet  I  have  no  heart  even  to  touch  her. 
And  who  then  will  say  the  word  to  her? 
O,  sister  !    Go  tell  her  :  "  Lo  !  he  is  coming  !'* 
Nor  have  I  the  heart.     She  affrights  me. 
How  she  looked  before  I  seem  to  forget. 
And  how  her  voice  sounded  before. 
Ere  in  the  deep  of  this  sorrow 
We  plunged.     Her  head  has  whitened 
And  it  grows  every  hour  whiter. 
Oh  !  she  is  scarcely  ours  any  more. 
She  seems  from  us  so  far  away. 
As  if  on  that  stone  she  were  seated 
For  years  a  hundred  times  one  hundred — 
From  one  hundred  years,  to  another — 
And  had  lost,  quite  lost  remembrance 
Of  us. — O  just  see  now,  just  see  now. 
Her  mouth,  how  shut  her  mouth  is  ! 
More  shut  than  the  mouth  that's  made  silent, — 
Mute  on  the  ground  there  forever. 
How  then  can  she  speak  to  us  ever? 


68 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


Splendore. 


The  Chorus 
OF  Wailers. 


Ornella. 


Anna  di  Bove, 


I  will  not  touch  her  nor  can  I  tell  her — 

"  Lo  !  he  is  coming  !"     If  she  awaken 

She'll  fall,  she'll  crumble.     She  affrights  me 

O  wherefore  were  we  bom»  my  sisters? 

And  wherefore  brought  forth  by  our  mother  i 

Let  us  all  in  one  sheaf  be  gathered 

And  let  Death  bear  us  all  thus  away  ! 

— ^Ah  !  mercy,  mercy  on  you,  Woman  ! 

— ^Ah  !  mercy  be  upon  you.  Women  ! 

— ^Up  and  take  heart  again  !    The  Lord  God 

Will  uplift  whom  he  uprooted. 

If  God  willed  it  that  sad  be  the  vintage 

Mayhap  He  wills,  too,  that  the  olives 

Be  sure.     Put  your  trust  in  the  Lord. 

— ^And  sadder  than  you  is  another. 

She  who  sat  in  her  home  well  contented 

In  plenty,  mid  bread  and  clean  flour. 

Entering  here,  fell  asleep,  to  awaken 

Amid  foul  misfortune  and  never 

Again  to  smile.     She  is  dying :  Vienda. 

Of  the  world  beyond  is  she  already. 

— She  is  there  without  wailing  or  weeping  ! 

Ah  !  on  all  human  flesh  have  thou  pity  I 

On  all  that  are  living  have  mercy  ! 

And  all  who  are  bom  to  sufi^er. 

To  suffer  and  know  not  wherefore  ! 

O,  there  Femo  di  Nerfa  is  coming. 

The  ox  driver,  hurriedly  coming. 

And  there  is  the  standard  stopping 

Beside  the  White  Tabernacle. 

My  sisters,  shall  I  myself  go  to  her 

And  bear  her  the  word? 

Woe  !      Oh  woe  !     If  she  does  not  remember 

What  is  required  of  her.    Lord  God 

Forbid  that  she  be  not  ready 

And  all  unprepared  he  come  on  her  and  call  her 

For  if  his  voice  strike  her  ear  on  a  sudden 

Then  surely  her  heart  will  be  broken,  broken  I 

Then  surely  her  heart  will  be  broken, 

Omella,  if  you  should  go  touch  her. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  69 

For  you  bring  bad  fortune  with  you. 
TTwas  you  who  barred  up  the  doorway, 
*Twas  you  who  unfettered  Aligi. 

Chorus  To  whom  are  you  leaving  your  ploughshare, 

^AiLERS.  Oh  !  Lazaro  !  to  whom  do  you  leave  it? 

Your  fields  who  now  will  be  tilling? 
Your  flocks  who  now  will  be  leading? 
Both  father  and  son  the  Enemy 
Has  snared  in  his  toils  and  taken. 
Death  of  infamy  !    Death  of  infamy  ! 
The  rope,  and  the  sack,  and  the  blade  of  iron  ! 
Woe  !  woe  !    Lazaro,  Lazaro,  Lazaro  ! 
Alas  !    What  torments  for  thee  torment  us  ! 
Requiem  aternam  dona  eiy  Domine. 

The  ox  driver  appears  panting.  ] 

)  Di  Nerfa.  Where  is  Candia  ?    O  ye  daughters  of  the  dead  one  I 

Judgment  is  pronounced.    Now  kiss  ye 
The  dust !    Now,  grasp  in  your  hands  the  ashes  ! 
For  now  the  Judge  of  Wrong  Doing 
Has  given  the  final  sentence. 
And  all  the  people  is  the  Executor 
Of  the  Parricide,  and  in  its  hands  it  has  him. 
Now  the  People  are  bringing  here  your  brother 
That  he  may  receive  forgiveness 
From  his  own  mother,  from  his  mother 
Receive  the  cup  of  forgetfulness. 
Before  his  right  hand  they  shall  sever, 
Before  in  the  leathern  sack  they  sew  him 
With  the  savage  mastiff  and  throw  him 
Where  the  deep  restless  waters  overflow  him  I 
All  ye  daughters  of  the  dead  one,  kiss  ye 
The  dust,  now ;  grasp  in  your  hands,  now,  the  ashes  1 
And  may  our  Saviour,  the  Lord  Jesus 
Upon  innocent  blood  have  pity  ! 

The  three  sisters  rush  up  to  each  other  and  then  advancing  slowly  remain 

heir  heads  touching  each  other.     From  the  distance  is  heard  the  sound 

muffled  drum.] 

I  Cora.  O  Femo,  how  could  you  ever  say  it? 

DI  Nerfa.  Where  Is  Candia,  why  does  she  not  appear  here? 

NERELLA.  On  the  hearthstone,  the  stone  by  the  fire-place 


70 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


Anna  di  Bova. 
La  Cinerella. 
Felavia  Sesara. 
La  Catalana. 


Femo  di  Nerfa. 


She  sits  and  gives  no  sign  of  living. 
And  there's  no  one  so  hardy  to  touch  her. 
And  affrighted  for  her  are  her  daughters. 
And  youy  Femo,  did  you  bear  witness? 
And  Aligiy  did  you  have  him  near  you? 
And  before  the  judge  what  did  he  utter? 
Monica della CoGNA. What  said  he?    What  did  he?    Aloud 

Did  he  cry?    Did  he  rave,  the  poor  unfortunate  or 

He  fell  on  his  knees  and  remained  so 

And  upon  his  own  hand  staid  gazing, 

And  at  times  he  would  say  '*Mea  culpa  '* ; 

And  would  kiss  the  earth  before  him. 

And  his  face  looked  sweet  and  humble. 

As  the  face  of  one  who  was  innocent. 

And  the  angel  carved  out  of  the  walnut  block 

Was  near  him  there  with  the  blood  stain. 

And  many  about  him  were  weeping, 

And  some  of  them  said,  "He  is  innocent.** 

And  that  woman  of  darkness,  Mila 

Di  Codra,  has  anyone  seen  her? 

Where  is  the  daughter  of  Jorio? 

Was  she  not  to  be  seen?    What  know  you? 

They  have  searched  all  the  sheep-folds  and  stables 

Without  any  trace  of  her  finding. 

The  shepherds  have  nowhere  seen  her, 

Only  Cosma,  the  saint  of  the  mountains. 

Seems  to  have  seen  her,  and  he  says 

That  in  some  mountain  gorge  she's  gone  to  cast  H 

bones  away. 
May  the  crows  find  her  yet  living 
And  pick  out  her  eyes.    May  the  wolf-pack 
Scent  her  yet  living  and  tear  her  ! 
And  ever  reborn  to  that  torture 
Be  the  damnable  flesh  of  that  woman  ! 
Be  still,  be  still,  Felavia,  silence,  I  say  ! 
Be  silent  now  !     For  Candia  has  arisen. 
She  is  walking,  coming  to  the  threshold. 
Now  she  goes  out.    O  daughters,  ye  daughterSt 
She  has  arisen,  support  her  ! 
[The  sisters  separate  and  go  toward  the  door.  ] 


Anna  di  Bova. 
La  Catalana. 
Femo  di  Nerfa. 


La  Catalana. 


Felavia  Sesara. 
Maria  Cora. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO 


71 


Chorus 

JAILERS. 


The  mother 
)rt  her.     She 

«DORE. 


TTA. 

:lla. 

lA. 


:lla« 


A  Cora. 

INERELLA. 
»IA. 


^a>ORE. 


»IA. 


Candia  della  Leonessa, 
Whither  go  you?    Who  has  called  you? 
Sealed  up  are  your  lips  and  silent, 
And  your  feet  are  like  feet  fettered. 
Death  you  are  leaving  behind  you» 
And  sin  you  find  coming  to  meet  you. 
Wheresoever  going,  wheresoever  turning, 
Thorny  everywhere  the  pathway. 
Oh  !  woe  !  woe  !  ashes,  ashes,  widow  ! 
Oh  !  woe  !  mother,  Jesu  !  Jesu  !  mercy  ! 
De  profundis  clamavi  ad  te  Domine. 
(Out  of  the  deep,  O  Lord,  I  cry  unto  Thee  H 
appears  at  the  threshold.     The  daughters  timidly  go  to 
gazes  at  them  in  great  bewilderment.  ] 

Mother,  dearest,  you  have  risen,  maybe 

You  need  something— refreshment— 

A  mouthful  of  muscadel,  a  cordial? 

Parched  are  your  lips,  you  dear  one. 

And  bleeding  are  they?    Shall  we  not  bathe  them? 

Mommy,  have  courage,  we  are  with  you. 

Unto  this  great  trial  God  has  called  you. 

And  from  one  warp  came  so  much  linen. 

And  from  one  spring  so  many  rivers. 

And  from  one  oak  so  many  branches. 

And  from  one  mother  many  daughters  ! 

Mother,  dear,  your  forehead  is  fevered.     For  the 

weather 
To-day  is  stifling  and  your  dress  is  heavy. 
And  your  dear  face  is  all  wet  with  moisture. 
Jesu,  Jesu,  may  she  not  lose  her  senses  ! 
Help  her  regain  her  mind,  Madonna  ! 
It  is  so  long  since  I  did  any  singing, 
I  fear  I  cannot  hold  the  melody. 
But  to-day  is  Friday,  there  is  no  singing. 
Our  Saviour  went  to  the  mountain  this  day. 
O  mother,  dear,  where  does  your  mind  wander? 
Look  at  us  !     Know  us  !    What  idle  fancy 
Teases    you?    Wretched    are    we !    What    is    her 

meaning? 
Here,  too,  is  the  stole,  and  here,  too,  is  the  cup 

sacramental. 


72 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


And  this  is  the  belfry  of  San  Biagio. 
And  this  is  the  river,  and  this  my  own  cabin. 
But  who,  who  is  this  one  who  stands  in  my  doorwa 
[Sudden  terror  seizes  the  young  girls.     They  draw  back  watching  th 

mother 9  moaning  and  weeping.] 

Ornella.  O  my  sisters,  we  have  lost  her  ! 

Lost  her,  also ;  our  dear  mother  ! 
Oh  !  too  far  away,  do  her  senses  stray  ! 
Unhappy  we  !    Whom  Grod's  malediction  left 
Alone  in  the  land,  orphans  bereft ! 
By  the  other,  a  new  grave  make  ready  near 
And  bury  us  living  all  unready  here  I 
No,  no,  dear  girls,  be  not  so  despairing 
For  the  shock  is  but  pushing  her  senses 
Far  back  to  some  time  long  ago. 
Let  them  wander  !  thence  soon  to  be  turning  I 
[Candia  takes  several  steps.] 


Splendore. 
Favetta. 


Felavia  Sesara. 


Ornella. 
Candia. 


Maria  Cora. 
Felavia  Sesara. 
La  Cinerella. 


Mother,  you  hear  me?    Where  are  you  going? 

I  have  lost  the  heart  of  my  dear  gentle  boy. 

Thirty-three  days  ago  now,  nor  yet  do  I  find  it; 

Have  you  seen  him  anywhere?    Have  you  met 
afar? 

— Upon  Calvary  Mountain  I  left  him, 

I  left  him  afar  on  the  distant  mountain, 

I  left  him  afar  in  tears  and  bleeding. 

Ah  !  she  is  telling  her  stations. 

Let  her  mind  wander,  let  her  say  them  ! 

Let  her  all  her  heart  unburden  ! 
Monica  della  Cogna.O  Madonna  of  Holy  Friday, 

Have  pity  on  her  !    And  pray  for  us  ! 
[The  two  women  kneel  and  pray.  ] 
Candia.  Lo  !  now  the  mother  sets  out  on  her  travels, 

To  visit  her  son  well  beloved  she  travels. 

— O  Mother,  Mother,  wherefore  your  coming? 

Among  these  Judeans  there  is  no  safety. 

— ^An  armful  of  linen  cloth  I  am  bringing 

To  swathe  the  sore  wounds  of  your  body. 

— ^Ah!  me!  had  you  brought  but  a  swallow  of  wa 

— My  son  ! — No  pathway  I  know  nor  well-sprin 

But  if  you  will  bend  your  dear  head  a  little 


GABRIELE     D'ANNUNZIO  73 

A  throatful  of  milk  from  my  breast  I  will  give  you. 
And  if  then  you  find  there  no  milk,  oh  so  closely 
To  heart  I  will  press  you,  my  life  will  go  to  you  ! 
— O  Mother,  Mother,  speak  softly,  softly — 
stops  for  a  moment j  then  dragging  her  words  cries  out  suddenly  with 
ing  cry.] 

Mother,  I  have  been  sleeping  for  years  seven  hundred^ 

Years  seven  hundred,  I  come  from  afar  oflF. 

I  no  longer  remember  the  days  of  my  cradle. 

uck  by  her  own  voice  she  stops  and  looks  about  bewildered^  as  if  sud^ 

akened  from  a  dream.     Her  daughters  hasten  to  support  her.     The 

U  rise.     The  beating  of  the  drum  sounds  less  muffled^  as  if  approach^ 

K.  Ah  !  how  she's  trembling,  how  she's  all  trembling  I 

Now  she  swoons.     Her  heart  is  almost  broken. 
Foi  two  days  she  has  tasted  nothing.    Gone  is  she  I 

RE.  Mamma,  who  is  it  speaks  within  you?    What  do  you 

feel, 
Speaking  inside  you,  in  the  breast  of  you? 

L.  Oh  !  unto  us  hearken ;  heed  us,  mother, 

Oh  !  look  upon  us  !    We  are  here  with  you  ! 

Nbrfa  [from  the  end  of  the  yard.  ] 

O  women,  women,  he's  near,  the  crowd  with  him. 
The  standard  is  passing  the  cistern  now. 
They  are  bringing  also  the  angel  covered. 

f  women  gather  under  the  oak  to  watch.] 

i  [in  a  loud  voice.] 

Mother,  Aligi  is  coming  now ;  Aligi  is  coming. 

To  take  from  your  heart  the  token  of  pardon. 

And  drink  from  your  hand  the  cup  of  forgetful  ness. 

Awaken,  awaken,  be  brave,  dear  mother; 

Accursed  he  is  not.    With  deep  repentance 

The  sacred  blood  he  has  spilled  redeeming. 

Tis  true;  oh  'tis  true.    With  the  leaves  he  was 

bruising 
They  stanched,  the  blood  that  was  gushing, 
"  Son  Aligi,"  he  said  then,  "  Son  Aligi, 
Let  go  the  sickle  and  take  up  the  sheep-crook. 
Be  you  the  shepherd  and  go  to  the  mountain.'* 
This  his  commandment  was  kept  in  obedience. 

RB.  Do  you  well  understand?    Aligi  is  coming. 


ff 
f» 


74  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

Candia.  And  unto  the  mountain  he  must  be  returning. 

What  shall  I  do?    All  his  new  clothing 
I  have  not  yet  made  ready,  Omella  ! 

Ornella.  Mother,  let  us  take  this  step.    Turn  now  unto 

here, 
In  front  of  the  house  we  must  await  him 
And  give  our  farewell  to  him  who  is  leaving,       j 
Then  all  in  peace  we  shall  lie  down  together, 
Side  by  side  in  the  deep  bed  below.  | 

[The  daughters  lead  their  mother  out  on  the  porch.] 

Candia  [murmuring  to  herself]. 

I  lay  down  and  meseemed  of  Jesus  I  dreamed. 
He  came  to  me  saying,  "  Be  not  fearful  / 
San  Giovanni  said  to  me,  "  Rest  in  safety.' 

The  Chorus  — O  what  crowds  of  people  follow  the  stands 

OF  Kindred.  The  whole  village  is  coming  after. 

— lona  di  Midia  is  carrying  the  standard. 

— O  how  still  it  is,  like  a  processional  ! 

— O  what  sadness  !    On  his  head  the  veil  of 

— On  his  hands  the  wooden  fetters. 

Large  and  heavy,  big  as  an  ox-yoke  ! 

Head  to  foot  the  gray  cloth  wraps  him,  he  is  barefi 

— ^Ah  !  Who  can  look  longer  !    My  face  I  bury, 

I  close  up  my  eyes  from  longer  seeing. 

— The  leathern  sack  Leonardo  is  bearing, 

Biagio  Gudo  leads  the  savage  mastiflF. 

— ^Mix  in  with  the  wine  the  roots  of  solatro 

That  he  may  lose  his  consciousness. 

— Brew  with  the  wine  the  herb  novella 

That  he  may  lose  feeling,  miss  suflFering. 

Go,  Maria  Cora,  you  who  know  the  secret, 

Help  Ornella  to  mix  the  potion. 

— ^Dire  was  the  deed,  dire  is  the  suffering. 

O  what  sadness  !     See  the  people  ! 

— Silently  comes  all  the  village. 

— ^Abandoned  now  are  all  the  vineyards. 

— To-day,  to-day  no  grapes  are  gathered. 

— Yes,  to-day  even  the  land  is  mourning. 

— ^Who  is  not  weeping?    Who  is  not  wailing? 

— See  Vienda  !    Almost  in  death's  agony. 


76  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

And  may  it  forever  be  lost  from  memory, 

By  the  grace  of  the  Lord,  from  son  to  soir,  henceforth. 

Now,  therefore,  the  penitent  one  we  lead  hither, 

That  he  may  receive  the  cup  of  forgetfulness 

From  you  here,  Candia  della  Leonessa, 

Since  he  out  of  your  flesh  and  your  blood  was  the 

issue, 
fo  you  'tis  conceded  to  lift  the  veil  of  sable, 
'Tis  yielded  you  lift  to  his  mouth  the  cup  of  forgetting 
Since  his  death  unto  him  shall  be  exceeding  bitter, 
^ave,  O  Lord,  these  thy  people.) 
Salvum  fac  populum  tuunij  Domine  ! 
Kyrie  eleison  ! 

The  Crowd.  Christe  eleisotij  Kyrie  eleison  ! 

[loNA  places  his  hand  on  Aligi's  shoulder.     The  penitent  then  takes  a 

step  toward  his  M other y  and  falls ^  as  if  broken  down,  upon  his  knees.'\ 

Aligi.  Praises  to  Jesus  and  to  Mary  ! 

I  can  call  you  no  longer  my  mother, 

TTis  given  me  to  bless  you  no  longer. 

This  is  the  mouth  of  hell — this  mouth  ! 

To  curses  only  these  lips  are  given. 

That  sucked  from  you  the  milk  of  life, 

That  from  your  lips  learned  orisons  holy 

In  the  fear  of  the  Lord  God  Almighty, 

And  of  all  of  his  law  and  commandments. 

Why  have  I  brought  upon  you  this  evil  ?  — 

You — of  all  women  bom  to  nourish  the  child. 

To  sing  him  to  sleep  on  the  lap,  in  the  cradle! 

This  would  I  say  of  my  will  within  me. 

But  locked  must  my  lips  remain. 

— Oh,  no  !    Lift  not  up  my  veil  of  darkness 

Lest  thus  in  its  fold  you  behold 

The  face  of  my  terrible  sinning. 

Do  not  lift  up  my  veil  of  darkness, 

No,  nor  give  me  the  cup  of  forgetting. 

Then  but  little  shall  be  my  suffering. 

But  little  the  suffering  decreed  me. 

Rather  chase  me  with  stones  away. 

Ay,  with  stones  and  with  staves  drive  and  chase  mc, 

As  you  would  chase  off  the  mastiff  even 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  77 

Soon  to  be  of  my  anguish  coinpanion> 
And  to  tear  at  my  throat  and  mumble  it. 
While  my  desperate  spirit  within  me 
Shall  cry  aloud,  '*  Mamma  !  Mamma  I" 
When  the  stump  of  my  arm  is  reeking 
In  the  cursed  sack  of  infamy. 

I  Crowd  \witb  bushed  voices]. 

— ^Ah  !  the  mother,  poor  dear  sdul !    See  her  ! 

See  how  in  two  nights  she  has  whitened  ! 

She  does  not  weep.     She  can  weep  no  longer. 

— Bereft  is  she  of  her  senses. 

— ^Not  moving  at  all.     Like  the  statue 

Of  our  Mater  Dolorosa.    O  have  pity  ! 

— O  good  Lord,  have  mercy  on  her  ! 

Blessed  Virgin,  pity,  help  her ! 

— Jesus  Christ  have  pity  on  her  ! 

Gi.  And  you  also,  my  dear  ones,  no  longer 

*Tis  given  me  to  call  you  sisters, 
*Tis  given  me  no  longer  to  name  you 
By  your  names  in  your  baptisms  christened. 
Like  leaves  of  mint  were  your  names  unto  me, 
In  my  mouth  like  leaves  that  are  fragrant, 
That  brought  unto  me  in  the  pastures 
Unto  my  heart  joy  and  freshness. 
And  now  on  my  lips  do  I  feel  them. 
And  aloud  am  I  fain  to  say  them. 
I  crave  no  other  consolation 
Than  that  for  my  spirit's  passing. 
But  no  longer  to  name  them  'tis  given  me. 
And  now  the  sweet  names  must  faint  and  wither, 
For  who  shall  be  lovers  to  sing  them 
At  eve  beneath  your  casement  windows? 
For  who  shall  be  lovers  unto  the  sisters 
Of  Aligi  ?    And  now  is  the  honey 
Turned  into  bitterness ;  O  then,  chase  me. 
And,  like  a  hound,  hound  me  away. 
With  staves  and  with  stones  strike  me. 
But  ere  you  thus  chase  me,  O  suffer 
That  I  leave  unto  you,  disconsolate. 
But  these  two  things  of  my  sole  possession. 
The  things  that  these  kindly  people 


8 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


'he  Crowd. 


Iligi. 


HE  Crowd. 


Carry  for  me  :  the  sheep-crook  of  bloodwood. 
Whereon  I  carved  the  three  virgin  sisters, 
In  your  likeness  did  I  carve  them. 
To  wander  the  mountain  pastures  with  me. 
The  sheep-crook,  and  the  silent  angel, 
That  with  my  soul  I  have  been  carving. 
Woe  is  me  for  the  stain  that  stains  it ! 
But  the  stain  that  stains  it  shall  fade  away 
Some  day,  and  the  angel  now  silent 
Shall  speak  some  day,  and  you  shall  hearken. 
And  you  shall  heed.     Suffer  me  suffer 
For  all  I  have  done  !    With  my  woe  profound 
In  comparison  little  I  suffer  ! 
Oh  !  the  children,  poor  dear  souls  !     See  them  ! 
See  how  pale  and  how  worn  are  their  faces  I 
— They  too  are  no  longer  weeping 
— They  have  no  tears  left  for  weeping 
Dry  their  eyes  are,  inward  burning. 
— Death  has  mown  them  with  his  sickle, — 
To  the  ground  laid  them  low  ere  their  d)dng. 
Down  they  are  mown  but  not  gathered. 
— Have  mercy  upon  them,  O  merciful  one  ! 
Upon  these  thy  creatures  so  innocent. 
— Pity,  Lord  Jesus,  pity  !     Pity  ! 
And  you  who  are  maiden  and  widow. 
Who  have  found  in  the  chests  of  your  bridal 
Only  the  vestment  of  mourning. 
The  combs  of  ebon,  of  thorns  the  necklace, 
Your  fine  linen  woven  of  tribulation. 
Full  of  weeping  the  night  of  your  nuptial. 
Full  of  weeping  your  days  ever  more. 
In  heaven  shall  you  have  your  nuptials. 
And  may  you  be  spouse  unto  Jesus  ! 
And  Mary  console  you  forever  ! 
O  poor  dear  one  !     Until  vespers 
Hardly  lasting,  and  now  drawing 
Her  last  breath.     Lost  her  face  is 
In  her  hair  of  gold  all  faded. 
Even  all  her  golden  tresses. 
— ^Now  like  flax  upon  the  distaff. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO 


79 


shade-grown  grass  for  Holy  Thursday. 
— ^Yes,  Vienda,  maiden-widow, 
Paradise  is  waiting  for  you. 
— If  she  is  not,  then  who  is  Heaven's  ? 
— May  Our  Lady  take  you  with  her  ! 
— Put  her  with  the  white  pure  angels  ! 
— Put  her  with  the  golden  martyrs  ! 

iMiDiA.  Aligi,  your  farewells  are  spoken, 

Rise  now  and  depart.     It  grows  late. 

Ere  long  will  the  sun  be  setting. 

To  the  Ave  Maria  you  shall  not  hearken. 

The  evening  star  you  shall  not  see  glimmer. 

O  Candia  della  Leonessa, 

If  you,  poor  soul,  on  him  have  pity. 

Give,  if  you  will,  the  cup,  not  dela)ang. 

For  the  mother  art  thou,  and  may  console  him. 

!rowd.  Candia,  lift  up  the  veil,  Candia  ! 

Press  his  lips  to  the  cup,  Candia, 
Give  him  the  potion,  give  him 
Heart  to  bear  his  suffering.     Rise,  Candia  ! 
— ^Upon  your  own  son  take  pity. 
—You  only  can  help  him;  to  you,  'tis  granted. 
— Have  mercy  upon  him  !    Mercy,  O  mercy  ! 

^^J^ELLA  hands  the  mother  the  cup  containing  the  potion.     Favetta 
^J-ENDORB  encourage  the  poor  mother.     Aligi,  kneeling^  creeps  to  the 
^he  bouse  and  addresses  the  dead  body.  ] 

Father,  father,  my  father  Lazaro, 

Hear  me.     You  have  crossed  over  the  river, 

In  your  bier,  though  it  was  heavier 

Than  the  ox-cart,  your  bier  was. 

And  the  rock  was  dropped  in  the  river. 

Where  the  current  was  swiftest,  you  crossed  it; 

Father,  father,  my  father  Lazaro, 

Hear  me.    Now  I  also  would  cross  over 

The  river,  but  I — I  cannot.     I  am  going 

To  seek  out  that  rock  at  the  bottom. 

And  then  I  shall  go  to  find  you  : 

And  over  me  you  will  pass  the  harrow. 

Through  all  eternity  to  tear  me. 


8o 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


The  Crowd. 


Through  all  eternity  to  lacerate  me. 

Father  of  mine,  full  soon  I'll  be  with  you. 
[The  mother  goes  toward  him  in  deep  horror.     Bending  down  she  /i] 
the  veilj  presses  his  head  upon  her  breast  with  her  left  hand^  takes  the  ci 
Ornella  offers  and  puts  it  to  Aligi's  lips.     A  confusion  of  muffled  vote 
rises  from  the  people  in  the  yard  and  down  the  path.] 
loNA  Di  MiDiA.  Suscipey  Domine^  servum  tuum. 

(Accept,  O  Lord,  this  thy  servant.) 

Kyrie  eleison. 

Christe  eleison^  Kyrie  eleison. 

Miserere,  Deus,  miserere. 

— ^Do  you  see,  do  you  see  his  face  ? 

This  do  we  see  upon  earth,  Jesus  I 

— Oh  !  Oh  !     Passion  of  the  Saviour  I 

— But  who  is  calling  aloud?    And  wherefore? 

— Be  silent  now  !     Hush,  hush  !    Who  is  calling? 

— The  daughter  of  Jorio  !    The  daughter  of  Jorio, 
Mi  la  diCodra  ! 

— Great  God,  but  this  is  a  miracle  ! 

— It  is  the  daughter  of  Jorio  coming. 

— Good  God  !     She  is  raised  from  the  dead  I 

— Make  room  !    Make  room  !    Let  her  pass  by ! 

— Accursed  dog,  are  you  yet  living? 

— Ah  !    Witch  of  Hell,  is  it  you? 

— She-dog  !     Harlot !    Carrion  I 

— Back  !     Back  !    Make  room  !    Let  her  pass  ! 

— Come,  she-thing,  come  !    Make  way  ! 

— ^Let  her  pass   through  !    Let  her  alone !    In 
the  Lord's  name  ! 
[Aligi  rises  to  his  feet,  his  face  uncovered.     He  looks  toward  the  clamo 
ing  crowd,  the  mother  and  sisters  still  near  him.    Impetuously  opening  k 
way  through  the  crowd.  Mil  a  appears. 
MiLA  DI  CoDRA.  Mother  of  Aligi,  sisters 

Of  Aligi,  Bride  and  Kindred, 

Standard-bearer  of  wrong-doing,  and  you 

All  ye  just  people  !    Judge  of  God  ! 

I  am  Mila  di  (Jodra. 

I  come  to  confess.    Give  me  hearing. 

The  saint  of  the  mountain  has  sent  me. 

I  have  come  down  from  the  mountain. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO 


8i 


[>lMlDIA. 


[. 


Crowd. 


i. 
i. 

I. 


I  am  here  to  confess  in  public 

Before  all.    Give  me  hearing. 

Silence  I    Be  silent  I    Let  her  have  leave 

To  speak,  in  the  name  of  God,  let  her. 

Confess  yourself,  Mila  di  Codra. 

All  the  just  people  shall  judge  you. 

Aligi,  the  beloved  son  of  Lazaro 

Is  innocent.     He  did  not  commit 

Parricide.     But  by  me  indeed  was  his  father 

Slain,  by  me  was  he  killed  with  the  axe. 

Mila,  God  be  witness  that  thou  liest  I 

He  has  confessed  it.     He  is  guilty. 

But  you  too  are  guilty,  guilty  with  him. 

To  the  fire  with  her  !    To  the  fire  with  her  !    Now, 

lona. 
Give  her  to  us,  let  us  destroy  her. 
— To  the  brush-heap  with  the  sorceress, 
Let  them  perish  in  the  same  hour  together ! 
No,  no  !    1  said  it  was  so.     He  is  innocent. 
He  confessed  it  I    He  confessed  it !    The  woman 
Spurred  him  to  do  it.     But  he  struck  the  blow. 
Both  of  them  guilty!    To  the  fire  !    To  the  fire  ! 
People  of  God  !    Give  me  hearing 
And  afterward  punish  me. 
I  am  ready.     For  this  did  I  come  here. 
Silence  !    All !    Let  her  speak  ! 
Aligi,  dear  son  of  Lazaro, 
Is  innocent.     But  he  knows  it  not. 
Mila,  God  be  witness  that  thou  liest. 
Omella  (oh  !  forgive  me  that  I  dare  to 
Name  you  !)  bear  thou  witness 
That  she  is  deceiving  the  good  people. 
He  does  not  know.    Aught  of  that  hour 
Is  gone  from  his  memory.     He  is  bewitched. 
I  have  upset  his  reason, 
I  have  confused  his  memory. 
I  am  the  sorcerer's  daughter.    There  is  no 
Sorcery  that  I  do  not  know  well. 
None  that  I  cannot  weave.     Is  there  one 
Of  the  kindred  among  you,  that  one 


82 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 


La  CxTALANil. 
MiLA. 


La  Catalana. 


MiLA. 


Chorus  of 
THE  Kindred. 


Who  accused  me  in  this  very  place. 

The  evening  of  San  Giovanni, 

When  I  entered  here  by  that  door  before  us? 

Let  her  come  forth  and  accuse  me  again  I 

I  am  that  one.     I  am  here. 

Do  you  bear  witness  and  tell  for  me 

Of  those  whom  I  have  caused  to  be  ill. 

Of  those  whom  I  have  brought  unto  death. 

Of  those  whom  I  have  in  suffering  held. 

Giovanni  Cametra,  I  know 

And  the  poor  soul  of  the  Marane, 

And  Afuso,  and  Tillura.     I  know, 

And  that  you  do  harm  to  everyone 

Now  have  you  heard  this  thing  all  you  good  peopk 

What  this  servant  of  God  hath  well  said  and  trul] 

Here  I  confess.    The  good  saint  of  the  mountain 

Has  touched  to  the  quick  my  sorrowing  consdenc 

Here  I  confess  and  repent.    O  permit  not 

The  innocent  blood  to  perish. 

Punishment  do  I  crave.    O  punish  me  greatly  ! 

To  bring  down  ruin  and  to  sunder 

Dear  ties  and  bring  joys  to  destruction. 

To  take  human  lives  on  the  day  of  the  wedding 

Did  I  come  here  to  cross  this  threshold. 

Of  the  fire-place  there  I  made  myself 

The  mistress,  the  hearth  I  bewitched. 

The  wine  of  hospitality  I  conjured, 

Drink  it  I  did  not,  but  spilled  it  with  sorceries. 

The  love  of  the  son,  the  love  of  the  father, 

I  turned  into  mutual  hatred. 

In  the  heart  of  the  bride  all  joy  strangled. 

And  by  this  my  cunning,  the  tears 

Of  these  young  and  innocent  sisters 

I  bent  to  the  aid  of  my  wishes. 

Tell  me  then,  ye  friends  and  kindred. 

Tell  me,  then,  in  the  name  of  the  Highest, 

How  great,  how  great  is  this  my  iniquity  ! 

It  is  true  !    It  is  true  !    All  this  has  she  done. 

Thus  glided  she  in,  the  wandering  she-dog  ! 

While  yet  Cinerella  was  pouring 

Her  handful  of  wheat  on  Vienda. 


GABRIELE    D^ANNUNZIO  83 

Very  swiftly  she  did  all  her  trickery. 

By  her  evil  wishes  overthrowing 

Very  swiftly  the  young  bridegroom. 

And  we  all  cried  out  against  it. 

But  in  vain  was  our  crying.     She  had  the  trick  of  it. 

It  is  true.    Now  only  does  she  speak  truly. 

Praises  to  Him  who  this  light  giveth  ! 
.IGI»  with  bent  bead^  his  chin  resting  on  his  breast^  in  the  shadcfw  of  the 
ntent  and  in  a  terrible  perturbation  and  contest  of  soulj  the  symptoms 
me  time  appearing  in  him  of  the  effect  of  the  potion J\ 

No,  no,  it  is  not  true ;  she  is  deceiving 

You,  good  people,  do  not  heed  her. 

For  this  woman  is  deceiving  you. 

All  of  them  here  were  all  against  her, 

Heaping  shame  and  hatred  on  her. 

And  I  saw  the  silent  angel 

Stand  behind  her.    With  these  eyes  I  saw  him. 

These  mortal  eyes  that  shall  not  witness 

On  this  day  the  star  of  vesper. 

I  saw  him  gazing  at  me,  weeping. 

O,  lona,  it  was  a  miracle, 

A  sign  to  show  me  her,  God's  dear  one. 

Oh  Aligi,  you  poor  shepherd  I 

Ignorant  youth,  and  too  believing ! 

That  was  the  Apostate  Angel ! 
hey  all  cross  themselves j  except  Aligi,  prevented  from  doing  so  by  bis 
ind  Ornella  whoj  standing  alone  at  one  side  of  the  porch j  goMis  in- 
n  the  voluntary  victim.] 

Then  appeared  the  Apostate  Angel 

(Pardon  of  God  I  must  ever  lack. 

Nor  of  you,  Aligi,  be  pardoned  I) 

He  appeared  your  ovm  two  eyes  to  deceive. 

It  was  the  false  and  iniquitous  angel. 
Cora.  I  said  it  was  so.     At  the  time  I  said  it. 

It  was  a  sacrilege  then,  I  cried. 
BRELLA.  And  I  said  it,  too,  and  cried  out 

When  she  dared  call  it  the  guardian  angel 

To  watch  over  her.     I  cried  out, 

''  She  is  blaspheming,  she  is  blaspheming  T' 

Aligi,  forgiveness  from  you,  I  know. 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

Cannot  be,  even  if  God  forgive  me* 

But  I  must  all  my  fraud  uncover. 

Omella,  oh  I  do  not  gaze  upon  me 

As  you  gaze.     I  must  stay  alone  ! 

Aligi,  then  when  I  came  to  the  sheep-stead. 

Then,  even,  when  you  found  me  seated 

I  was  planning  out  your  ruin. 

And  then  you  carved  the  block  of  walnut, 

Ah,  poor  wretch,  with  your  own  chisel. 

In  the  fallen  angel's  image  I 

nrhere  it  is,  with  the  white  cloth  covered, 

I  feel  it.)    Ah  !  from  dawn  until  evening 

With  secret  art  I  wove  spells  upon  you ! 

Remember  them,  do  you  not  now  of  me? 

How  much  love  I  bestowed  upon  you  ! 

How  much  humility,  in  voice  and  demeanor- 

Before  your  very  face  spells  weaving? 

Remember  them,  do  you  not  now  of  me  ? 

How  pure  we  remained,  how  pure 

I  lay  on  your  shepherd's  pallet? 

And  how  then  ? — how  (did  you  not  inquire  I) 

Such  purity  then,  such  timidness,  then. 

In  the  sinning  wayfarer 

Whom  the  reapers  of  Norca 

Had  shamed  as  the  shameless  one 

Before  your  mother?    I  was  cunning, 

Yea,  cunning  was  I  with  my  magic. 

And  did  you  not  see  me  then  gather 

The  chips  from  your  angel  and  shavings, 

And  bum  them,  words  muttering? 

For  the  hour  of  blood  I  was  making  ready. 

For  of  old  against  Lazaro 

I  nursed  an  old-time  rancor. 

You  struck  in  your  axe  in  the  angel, — 

O  now  must  you  heed  me,  God's  people  ! 

Then  there  came  a  great  power  upon  me 

To  wield  over  him  there  now  fettered. 

It  was  close  upon  night  in  that  ill-fated 

Lodging.    Lust-crazed  then  his  father 

Had  seized  me  to  drag  toward  the  entrance. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  85 

When  Aligi  threw  himself  on  us, 

In  order  to  save  and  defend  me. 

I  brandished  the  axe  then  with  swiftness. 

In  the  darkness  I  struck  him, 

I  struck  him  again.     Yea,  to  death  I  felled  him  I 

With  the  same  stroke  I  cried, "  You  have  killed  him." 

To  the  son  I  cried  out,  **  You  have  killed  him. 

Killed  him!"    And  great  in  me  was  my  power. 

A  parricide  with  my  cry  I  made  him— 

In  his  own  soul  enslaved  unto  my  soul. 

**  I  have  killed  him  !"  he  answered,  and  swooning, 

He  fell  in  the  bloodshed,  nought  otherwise  knowing. 
DIA,  with  a  jr antic  impulse f  seizes  with  both  hands  her  son,  become 
f  her  own.      Then,  detaching  herself  from  him^  with  wilder   and 
f  gestures f  advances  on  her  enemy ,  but  the  daughters  restrain  herS\ 
F  Kindred.  Let  her  do  it,  let  her,  Omella  ! 

— Let  her  tear  her  heart !    Let  her  eat 

Her  heart !    Heart  for  heart ! 

Let  her  seize  her  and  take  her 

And  under  foot  trample  her. 

— ^Let  her  crush  in  and  shiver 

Temple  to  temple  and  shell  out  her  teeth. 

Let  her  do  it,  let  her,  Omella  ! 

Unless  she  do  this  she  will  not  win  back 

Her  mind  and  her  senses  in  health  again. 

— lona,  lona,  Aligi  is  innocent. 

— ^Unshackle  him  I    Unshackle  him  ! 

— Take  off  the  veil !    Give  him  back  to  us  ! 

— The  day  is  ours,  the  people  do  justice. 

— The  righteous  people  give  judgment. 

— Command  that  he  now  be  set  free. 
A   retreats  near  the  covered  angeU  looking  toward  Aligi,  who  is 
ider  the  influence  of  the  potion.] 

WD.  — Praises  be  to  God  !    Glory  be  to  God  !    Glory  to 

the  Father ! 

— From  us  is  this  infamy  lifted. 

— Not  upon  us  rests  this  blood-stain, 

— From  our  generation  came  forth 

No  parricide.    To  God  be  the  glory  ! 

— Lazaro  was  killed  by  the  woman. 


86  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

The  stranger,  di  G>dra  Dalle  Fame. 

— ^We  have  said  and  pronounced  :  he  is  innocent 

Aligi  is  innocent.     Unbind  him  I 

— Let  him  be  free  this  very  moment  I 

— Let  him  be  given  unto  his  mother  I 

— lona,  lona,  untie  him  !    Untie  him  I 

Unto  us  this  day  the  Judge  of  wrong-doing 

Over  one  head  gave  us  full  power. 

— Take  the  head  of  the  sorceress  ! 

— To  the  fire,  to  the  fire  with  the  witch  ! 

— To  the  brush-heap  with  the  sorceress  I 

— O,  lona  di  Midia,  heed  the  people  ! 

Unbind  the  innocent !    Up,  lona  ! 

— To  the  brush-heap  with  the  daughter 

Of  Jorio,  the  daughter  of  Jorio  ! 

^ILA.  Yes,  yes,  ye  just  people,  yes,  ye  people 

Of  God  !    Take  ye  your  vengeance  on  me  1 
And  put  ye  in  the  fire  to  bum  with  me 
The  apostate  angel,  the  false  one, — 
Let  it  feed  the  flames  to  bum  me 
And  let  it  with  me  be  consumed  ! 

\ligi.  Oh  !  voice  of  promising,  voice  of  deceit, 

Utterly  tear  away  from  within  me 
All  of  the  beauty  that  seemed  to  reign  there. 
Beauty  so  dear  unto  me  !    Stifle 
Within  my  soul  the  memory  of  her  ! 
Will  that  I  have  heard  her  voice  never, 
Rejoiced  in  it  never  !    Smooth  cut  within  me 
All  of  those  furrows  of  loving 
That  opened  in  me,  when  my  bosom 
Was  unto  her  words  of  deceiving 
As  unto  the  mountain  that's  channelled 
With  the  streams  of  melting  snow  !    Close  up  in 
The  furrow  of  all  that  hope  and  aspiring 
Wherein  coursed  the  freshness  and  gladness 
Of  all  of  those  days  of  deceiving  ! 
Cancel  within  me  all  traces  of  her  ! 
Will  it  that  I  have  heard  and  believed  never  I 
But  if  this  is  not  to  be  given  me,  and  I  am  the  one 
Who  heard  and  believed  and  hoped  greatly. 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  87 

And  if  I  adored  an  angel  of  evil, 
Oh  I  then  I  pray  that  ye  both  my  hands  sever, 
And  hide  me  away  in  the  sack  of  leather 
(Oh  !  do  not  remove  it,  Leonardo), 
And  cast  me  into  the  whirling  torrent. 
To  slumber  there  for  years  seven  hundred. 
To  sleep  in  the  depths  there  under  the  water; 
In  the  pit  of  the  river-bed,  years  seven  hundred, 
And  never  remember  the  day 
When  God  lighted  the  light  in  my  eyes  ! 
LA  Mila,  Mila,  'tis  the  delirium, 

The  craze  of  the  cup  of  forgetfulness 
To  console  him  he  took  from  the  mother. 

ROWD.  — ^Untie  him,  lona,  he  is  delirious, 

— He  has  taken  the  wine  potion. 
— ^Let  his  mother  lay  him  down  on  the  settle. 
— Let  sleep  come  !    Let  him  slumber  ! 
— ^Let  the  good  God  give  him  slumber. 

ONAgwis  the  standard  to  another  and  comes  to  Aligi  to  untie  bim.'\ 

Yea,  for  a  little  while  free  me,  lona. 
So  that  I  may  lift  my  hand  against  her 
(No,  no,  bum  her  not,  for  fire  is  beautiful  I) 
So  that  I  call  all  the  dead  of  my  birthplace. 
Those  of  years  far  away  and  forgotten. 
Far,  far  away,  far,  far  away. 
Lying  under  the  sod,  four  score  fathom. 
To  curse  her  forever,  to  curse  her ! 

With  a  heart-rending  cry\ 

Aligi,  Aligi,  not  you  ! 

Oh  I  you  cannot,  you  must  not. 

'^reed  from  the  manacles j  the  veil  withdrawn^  Aligi  comes  forward  hut 
uk  unconscious  in  the  arms  of  his  mother ^  the  older  sisters  and  the  kin^ 
itbering  around  him.] 

^8  OF  Kindred.  You  need  not  be  frightened.     TTis  the  wine  only, 

Tis  the  vertigo  seizes  him. 
— Now  the  stupor  falls  upon  him, 
— Now  slumber,  deep  slumber,  o'erpowers  him, 
— ^Let  him  sleep,  and  may  God  give  him  peace  ! 
— ^Let  him  lie  down  !    Let  him  slumber  ! 


88  THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JORIO 

I, 

— ^Vienda,  Vienda,  he  is  yours  again. 

— From  the  other  world  both  will  return  now. 

Laus  Deo!    Laus  Deo!    Gloria  Patri! 
[loNA  puts  the  manacles  upon  Mila  who  offers  both  wrists  and  coders  hn 
bead  with  the  black  veil^  then  taking  the  standard  of  wrong  doing  he  pushes  her 
toward  the  crowd.  ] 
loNA.  I  give  to  you,  just  people, 

Into  your  hands,  Mila  di  Codra, 

The  daughter  of  Jorio,  that  one 

Who  does  harm  to  every  one. 

Do  you  perform  justice  upon  her, 

And  let  her  ashes  be  scattered. 

0  Lord,  save  thy  people. 
Kyrie  eleison. 

The  Crowd.  Christe  eleison  !     Kyrie  eleison  ! 

To  the  fire,  to  the  flames  with  the  daughter 

Of  Jorio  !    The  daughter  of  Jorio  ! 

And  to  the  fire  with  the  apostate  angel ! 

To  the  brush-heap  with  them  !    To  hell-fiie  widi 
them  ! 
Ornella  \with  full  voice  in  majesty], 

Mila,  Mila  !    My  sister  in  Jesus, 

1  kiss  your  feet  that  bear  you  away  ! 
Heaven  is  for  thee  ! 

Mila  \}rom  within  the  crowd]. 

The  flame  is  beautiful !    The  flame  is  beautiful ! 


HAUPTMANN'S  TREATMENT  OF 

GERMANIC  MYTHS 

By  Paul  H.  Grummann 

SCHILLER  has  given  us  an  excellent  key  to  his  method  of  util- 
izing mythological  material  in  'Die  Huldigung  der  Kunste. 
The  genius  says: 
'Hirten,  euch  ist  nicht  gegeben 
In  ein  schones  Herz  zu  schauen  1 
Wisset,  ein  erhabener  Sinn 
Legt  das  Grosze  in  das  Leben, 
Und  er  sucht  es  nicht  darin/ 
His  method  was  to  put  significant  meanings  into  the  myths,  or  in 
erman,  'er  schmiickte  sie  geistreich  aus.' 

Goethe  on  the  contrary  attempted  to  make  his  material  yield  its  own 
piificance.  He  interpreted  out  of  it,  not  into  it.  Goethe,  as  we  know, 
tame  the  model  of  Uhland,  and  it  would  be  a  profitable  task  to  trace  in 
tail  to  what  extent  Uhland  was  indebted  to  Goethe  for  his  interpreta- 
Nis  of  Germanic  myths. 

Wagner's  treatment  of  Germanic  myths  was  closely  allied  to  that 
'  the  authors  of  the  older  Edda.  He  realized  far  more  clearly  than 
€  mythologists  of  his  day  that  the  Eddas  contained  a  vast  amount  of 
)etical  material  which  could  only  be  termed  mythological  in  a  certain 
use.  In  our  own  day  Wundt  has  clearly  shown  that  the  influence  of 
dividual  poets  upon  the  mythology  of  the  race  is  far  greater  than  has 
xn  supposed.  Like  the  authors  of  the  Eddas,  Wagner  attempted  to 
ike  the  myth  express  a  large,  comprehensive  thought,  and  suppressed 
*  added  details  accordingly. 

With  the  strong  tendency  in  the  direction  of  individualism,  it  is  but 
itural  that  the  individual  conception  of  myths  and  superstitions  should  re- 
ive a  larger  share  of  attention. 

In  his  book  on  Zola  and  the  experimental  novel,  Vicenzo  Ricca  says 
at  the  novel  of  the  future  will  be  a  compromise  between  the  naturalistic 
id  idealistic  novel,  in  which  in  addition  to  the  phvsiological  side  of  the 
alysis  of  man  and  world,  also  the  psychological  will  find  its  justifica- 
n  in  a  deeper  sense.  These  words  are  so  applicable  to  Hauptmann  that 
e  almost  feels  that  they  might  refer  to  him  directly. 

89 


90     HAUPTMANN'S  TREATMENT  OF  GERMANIC  MYTHS 

From  the  beginning,  his  art  attempted  a  psychological  naturalisn. 
Every  character  is  depicted  with  special  reference  to  its  individual  pif* 
chology.  In  this  respect  he  differs  essentially  from  Zola,  Tolstoi  and 
Ibsen,  and  we  shall  not  be  far  afield  if  we  follow  his  own  suggestioo  and 
trace  his  art  largely  to  Bjame  Holmsen. 

As  we  know,  Hauptmann  draws  a  sharp  distinction  between  the 
poet  and  his  characters.  He  is  not  interested  in  the  dissemination  of  tome 
truth,  but  in  the  portrayal  of  characters.  Traditional  criticism  attem^ 
to  find  heroes  in  his  plays,  and  consequently  fails  to  detect  the  negative 
characteristics  in  many  of  his  characters.  This  type  of  criticism  fails  to 
see  the  hobbies  and  preconceived  notions  of  Alfred  Loth,  the  weakness 
of  Wilhelm  Scholz  and  the  hollowness  of  Johannes  Vockerat's  idealism, 
which  a  careful  reading  must  reveal. 

Hauptmann's  aim,  then,  is  to  deepen  naturalism  by  a  dose  study  of 
the  psychology  of  the  individual.  This  he  does  in  his  earlier  dramas 
and  also  in  ^Hannele'  and  'Versunkene  Glocke.'  The  transition  from 
Bahnwarter  Thiel  and  Robert  Scholze  to  Hannele  is  not  at  all  abnqit 
In  all  of  these  characters  he  shows  us  how  the  individual  consdousnesi 
is  affected  by  things  and  thoughts  with  which  it  comes  into  contact. 

The  realistic  description  of  the  poorhouse  in  ^Hannele'  oug^t  to  have 
been  a  warning  to  critics  who  were  eager  to  see  a  lapse  into  idealism  ia 
this  play.  The  dream  technique  simply  afforded  the  poet  an  opportun- 
ity of  presenting, — naturalistically, — the  subconscious  self  of  Hannele.  If 
in  this  characterization  Hannele's  fund  of  superstitions  and  myths  had 
been  ignored,  we  should  not  have  a  naturalistic  portrayal  at  aJL  The 
fact  which  critic  upon  critic  has  overlooked  in  the  discussion  of  *Hannde* 
is  that  Hauptmann  does  not  give  the  mythological  material  as  it  existed 
in  Hannele's  environment,  but  Hannele's  apperception  of  this  material 
Therefore  she  thinks  of  death  as  an  attractive  young  man  dad  in  black, 
not  as  the  traditional  Father  Time.  She  knows  that  she  is  an  il 
child  and  has  winced  under  the  nickname  Lumpenprinzess,  hence  she  i< 
tifies  herself  with  Cinderella.  To  her  Christ  is  not  the  Christ  of  the 
gospels,  but  he  has  many  traits  of  Gottwald,  her  schoolmaster,  whose 
name  is  not  without  significance  to  her.  When  this  Christ  appears  in 
her  dream,  he  is  primarily  concerned  with  her  wrongs  and  the  iniquidei 
of  Mattem.  She  has  her  individual  notion  of  Paradise,  founded,  but 
only  founded,  upon  what  she  heard  at  church,  at  school  and  from  her 
mother  concerning  the  Testament  story  and  the  Schlaranffenland  Marchen. 

Similarly  the  mythology  of  *Versunkene  Glocke'  is  not  the  mythology 
of  Hauptmann,  but  that  of  Heinrich.  As  Hannele  identifies  herseU 
with  Cinderella,  so  Heinrich,  a  far  more  complex  character,  identifies  him 
self  more  or  less  dosely  with  Baldr.     Just  as  Christian  and  pagan  de 


PAUL  H.  GRUMMANN  91 

inents  affect  Hannele  simultaneously,  Heinrich  makes  a  conglomerate  of 
Baldr,  Freyr  and  'der  tote  Heiland.'  He  even  refers  to  his  fancied  moun- 
tain as  Mount  Horeb,  in  a  passage  in  which  he  has  just  identified  himself 
with  Baldr. 

In  order  to  understand  the  myths  and  superstitions  of  Heinrich  it 
will  be  necessary  to  recall  the  essential  characteristics  of  the  bell  found- 
er.   He  is  a  craftsman  of  artistic  ideals.    Like  Faust,  *in  seinem  dunklen 
Drange'  he  has  been  striving  to  realize  the  highest  possibilities  of  his  art, 
and,  like  Faust,  'ist  er  sich  seiner  Tollheit  halb  bewusst.' 
As  a  bell  founder  he  thinks  concretely,  nay  plastically. 
*Wenn  ich  die  Hand,  wie  eine  Muschel,  lege 
So  mir  ans  Ohr  und  lausche,  hor  ich's  tonen 
Schliesz  ich  die  Augen  quillt  mir  Form  um  Form 
Der  reinen  Bildung  greifbar  deutlich  auf.' 
This  man  has  worked  in  the  village  in  outward  harmony  with  his 
avirooment,  the  pastor,  the  schoolmaster,  the  barber,  and  his  own  family, 
but  has  realized  that  this  environment  hampers  him  in  the  realization 
of  his  high  goal.    All  the  world,  to  him,  stands  in  a  definite  relationship 
to  his  art.     By  means  of  a  bell,  a  set  of  chimes,  a  temple,  he  would 
ttrive  to  emancipate  humanity.    The  supreme  God  to  him  is  'der  Glocken- 
giczer  der  mich  schuf  or  Mer  ewige  Wundertater.'     Rubezahl,  the  com- 
nonest  spirit  of  Silesian  folk-lore,  is  barely  mentioned  in  the  book,  be- 
Quse  he  is  of  no  significance  to  Heinrich  in  the  pursuit  of  his  ideals. 
\  All  forces  in  nature  that  Heinrich  brings  into  relation  to  his  art  and  his 
aims  are  imagined  concretely,  and  these  are  the  mythological  figures  of 
the  play.     It  must  be  remembered,  of  course,  that  these  characters  are 
^fted  upon  the  superstitions  and  myths  which  his  environment  offered 
Id  him.     It  is  therefore  quite  natural  that  not  a  single  mythological  char- 
acter in  'Versunkene  Glocke'  coincides  exactly  with  the  sources  to  which 
k  has  been  traced  so  well  by  such  men  as  Professor  Walz. 

Having  realized  secretly  that  his  environment  in  the  village  ham- 
pers his  full  development,  he  has,  in  contrast  to  these  Dunkelmanner, 
formed  the  conception  of  an  Urmutter  Sonne,  under  whose  dominion  he 
■light  realize  his  aspirations.     In  forming  this  conception  he  has  appro- 

Ciated  whatever  appealed  to  him  in  the  pagan  sun  myths  with  which  he 
s  come  into  contact.     As  the  Christ  figure  is  apperceived  by  Hannele, 
m  the  sun  myth  is  apperceived  by  Heinrich. 

In  his  artistic  striving  he  has  more  than  once  encountered  the  pres- 
BBoe  of  immutable,  inexorable  laws  of  nature.  They  cannot  be  overcome, 
bat  he  dreams  of  propitiating  them.  To  the  artist's  mind  they  assume 
I  concrete  form.  Naturally  the  village  hag  who  is  persecuted  by  the 
rOlagers,  and  whose  wisdom  he  has  learned  to  respect,  becomes  the  cen- 


92    HAUPTMANN'S  TREATMENT  OF  GERMANIC  MYTHS 

ter  around  which  this  conception  crystallizes.  This  explains  the  remark- 
able immediateness  with  nature  on  the  part  of  Wittichen,  the  air  of 
finality  about  her,  her  supreme  contempt  for  the  villagers  and  her  ob- 
jective attitude  toward  Heinrich. 

The  artist  has  also  felt  that  in  the  moments  when  the  creative  im- 
pulse has  been  upon  him,  an  indefinable  force  has  assisted  him,  has  tried 
to  propitiate  the  laws  of  nature  already  embodied  in  Wittichen.  Of 
this  force,  his  ideal,  he  again  forms  a  plastic  image,  the  fairy  of  his 
folk  lore  naturally  becoming  the  model,  although  she  also  has  certain 
characteristics  of  Frigg.  Like  Undine,  Rautendelein  longs  for  human  I^ 
lations,  not  because  Heinrich  has  read  Undine,  however,  but  became 
Heinrich  has  long  realized  that  the  ideal  can  accomplish  things  only 
when  it  is  linked  to  man.  He  has  also  reached  the  conclusion  that  the 
ideal  must  fall  into  worse  hands  if  the  master  does  not  attain  to  it, 
hence  Rautendelein  is  in  constant  danger  of  falling  into  worse  hands, 
in  this  case  descending  to  the  Nickelmann  and  Schrat. 

He  has  learned  that  certain  higher  forces  of  nature  can  be  over- 
come and  yoked  into  service  of  man  and  his  art.  From  his  folk  lore 
he  knew  of  a  wise,  but  cruel  water  sprite,  whose  general  diaracterisdcs 
on  the  whole  coincided  with  his  conception.  This  figure  again  is  brought 
into  vital  relations  with  his  aims.  He  is  forced  to  turn  water  whttli, 
wash  gold  and  raise  metals  for  him,  but  aside  from  this  he  does  not 
possess  many  of  the  common  characteristics  of  Mimir  and  the  traditional 
Nicker. 

While  sustained  efforts  will  control  the  higher  forces  of  nature  and 
bind  them  to  a  certain  servitude,  there  are  certain  lower  forces  whidi 
remain  in  a  state  of  rebellion.  In  spite  of  industry  and  ingenuity  cer- 
tain petty  hindrances  recur.  In  a  sense  they  are  'das  ewig  Gestrige*  to 
Heinrich,  and  suggest  the  figure  of  the  Schrat  to  him.  Naturally  he  is 
vulgar  and  sensuous  in  every  fibre.  Whatever  seems  sensuous  to  Hein- 
rich helps  to  make  up  this  figure,  not  only  what  is  found  in  folk  lore.  To 
Heinrich  a  short  pipe  gives  a  man  a  sensuous  appearance,  hence  the  Schrat 
smokes  one  in  spite  of  the  outcry  of  a  host  of  hostile  critics  who  see  an 
anachronism  in  this  detail. 

Rautendelein  stands  in  a  close  relationship  to  the  Wittichen,  since 
Heinrich  believes  that  the  ideal  tries  to  propitiate  the  laws  of  nature 
for  him.  The  Nickelmann  and  Schrat  both  woo  Rautendelein,  the  former 
with  a  sensuousness  not  altogether  base,  the  latter  with  open  vulgarity.  Each 
of  them  sees  in  her  but  a  reflex  of  his  own  nature,  each  one  imputes  his 
low  motives  into  the  actions  of  Heinrich.  It  is  strange  enough  that  some 
critics  have  had  views  not  altogether  unlike  those  of  the  Nickelmann 
and  Schrat  on  this  subject. 


PAUL  H.  GRUMMANN  93 

What  is  presented  to  us  before  Heinrich  staggers  upon  the  stage 
re  the  creatures  of  his  imagination  and  the  attitude  whi(£  they  assume 
3fward  each  other  and  toward  him.  His  accident  signifies  to  him  that 
lie  malicious  Schrat  is  at  work  again,  hence  we  hear  the  Schrat  telling  of 
be  disaster.  When  he  sees  the  hut  on  the  mountain  side,  his  mind  at 
Bce  reverts  to  the  Wittichen  and  Rautendelein,  and  falling  down  he 
ipses  into  the  vision  which  constitutes  the  remainder  of  the  play. 

The  vision  ends  at  the  end  of  the  play.  The  stage  direction  'Mor- 
[enrote'  in  which  many  commentators  have  tried  to  find  a  key  to  the 
ksdny  of  Heinrich,  is  nothing  but  the  poet's  statement  that  the  day  is 
Kttldng  and  the  vision  is  fading  with  the  morning.  It  fulfills  the 
ame  purpose  as  the  reappearance  of  the  poorhouse  in  Hannele.  The 
tal  badcground  of  the  play  is  the  mountain  side  and  the  hut  of  a  woman 
rho  has  me  reputation  of  being  a  witch. 

It  is  quite  safe  to  assume  the  dream  technique  for  ^Versunkene  Glocke.' 
[t  was  written  in  a  period  which  produced  ^Hannele'  and  'Elga.'  The 
)oet  withheld  the  publication  of  the  latter  play  until  he  was  about  to 
Niblish  another  drama  which  employs  the  same  technique — Tippa  tanzt.' 
[n  'Elga'  and  'Hannele,'  he  has  sketched  the  real  background  and  has  in- 
ficated  the  beginning  of  the  vision  clearly;  in  'Versunkene  Glocke'  and 
PIppa  tanzt'  he  has  indicated  it  indirectly.  But  these  external  reasons  may 
be  reinforced  by  an  examination  of  certain  difficulties  of  the  play  which 
Sod  an  adequate  interpretation  on  the  basis  of  dream  technique. 

A  question  which  has  been  asked  repeatedly  is  'Why  did  Hauptmann 
dioose  a  bell  founder  instead  of  a  poet  for  his  central  figure.'  He  want- 
ed a  man  of  artistic  temperament,  who  had  little  scholastic  training, 
one  who  felt  more  immediately  all  impressions  that  came  to  him, 
one  who  would  not  draw  a  distinct  line  between  his  real  and  imaginary 
cmeriences,  one  in  whom  a  certain  type  of  critical  thought  was  not  de- 
veloped; in  short  a  good  dreamer  and  one  who  dreams  concretely. 

Such  a  man  can  readily  identify  himself  with  Baldr,  but  he  will  de- 
velop a  Baldr  myth  wholly  unlike  the  conceptions  that  we  find  in  the 
Ed<hs  of  Saxo  Grammaticus.  To  him  Frigg  will  not  keep  her  traditiona 
characteristics.  She  may  still  have  red  hair  and  other  external  resem- 
bianceSf  but  in  all  essential  characteristics  she  must  necessarily  be  trans 
formed  into  a  creature  which  answers  to  Heinrich's  ideal.  Rautendelein 
accordingly  exacts  a  promise  from  all  the  powers  of  nature  not  to  harm 
Heinrich.  The  mistletoe  of  the  Eddas  and  the  Mistelteinn  of  Saxc 
Grammaticus  are  of  no  consequence  to  him,  although  there  is  a  my^ 
teriotts  arrow  which  is  called  up  by  one  of  Baldr-Heinrich's  foes — the  par- 
ton.  This  arrow,  however,  is  to  be  traced  to  Heinrich's  former  doubts 
and  fears  in  a  far  greater  measure  than  to  his  mythological  traditions. 


94  HAUPTMANN'S  TREATMENT  OF  GERMANIC  MYTHS 

Hodr  vanishes  from  the  myth  entirely,  for  Heinrich  feeb  that  bit 
enemies  are  human  conventions  and  the  lower  forces  of  nature.  Thoe 
take  shape  on  the  one  hand  in  the  parson,  the  schoolmaster,  the  barber, 
in  a  minor  sense  in  his  family;  and  on  the  other  hand  in  the  Nickct 
mann,  the  Schrat  and  only  in  an  indistinct  and  vague  manner  in  LokL 

One  of  the  most  interesting  elements  of  Hannele's  vision  is  the  clea^ 
ness  with  which  it  reveals  not  only  the  child's  former  experiences,  but 
also  her  antecedent  thoughts,  opinions  and  reflections.  Similarly  Rauten- 
delein  in  Heinrich's  vision  reveals  to  us  Heinrich's  antecedent 


upon  the  ideal.  At  times  he  has  felt  that  his  ideal  was  making  a  fool  I 
of  him.  *Er  ist  sich  seiner  ToUheit  halb  bewusst.'  This  is  temporary  | 
and  he  is  anxious  to  suppress  this  doubt.  Of  course  this  would  recur  in  ^ 
his  dream  and  we  find  him  saying  to  Rautendelein : 

'Du  armes  Ding! 
Ich  kenne  was  dich  gramt  1     Der  Kindersinn  f angt  mit  den 

Handen  bunte  Schmetterlinge  und  totet  lachend  was  er  zartlich 

liebt.     Ich  aber  bin  was  mehr  als  solch  ein  Falter.' 

Again  he  exclaims  to  her  'zerbrich  mir  nichtl' 

Whenever  he  has  encountered  difficulties  and  has  overcome  them  he 
has  been  led  in  the  direction  of  his  ideal.  He  therefore  looks  upon  the 
Schrat  as  a  blessing  in  disguise.     He  is  to  him,  in  a  sense, 

*Ein  Teil  von  jener  Kraft 
Die  stets  das  Bose  will  und  stets  das  gute  schafft.' 
With  this  in  mind  we  comprehend  more   fully  the  significance  of  the 
words  uttered  by  the  Schrat  to  Rautendelein  : 

'Hatt  ich  den  Glocken  wagen  nicht  gebrochen, 
der  Edelfalke  sasz  dir  nicht  im  Gam." 

It  has  already  been  suggested  that  the  Nickelmann  and  Schrat  woo 
Rautendelein,  because  Heinrich  has  felt  that  if  he  does  not  accompliih 
his  high  task,  the  ideal  will  fall  into  worse  hands.  When  he  breaks  ^^ 
lations  with  her  in  the  vision,  she  accordingly  goes  to  the  Nickelmann,  not 
without  calling  herself  *Mie  tote  Braut''  since  she  becomes  degraded  bf 
the  step.  This  is  due  to  Heinrich's  idea  that  the  ideal  adapts  itself  to 
the  nature  of  the  creature  who  espouses  it.  When  he  has  been  in  doubt 
concerning  his  ideal,  he  has  mused  over  the  possible  results  of  renoon^ 
ing  it.  He  has,  however,  reached  the  conclusion  that  to  come  to  an  open 
rupture  with  his  ideal  would  mean  that  he  would  never  be  able  to  recon- 
cile it  again.  In  bare  prose,  his  doubts  would  remove  him  in  a  great 
measure  from  inspired  work 

This  thought  is  reflected  very  clearly  in  the  vision.  Having  desert- 
ed Rautendelein,  he  has  gone  to  the  village,  but  his  longing  for  the  ideal 
drives  him  back  to  the  mountain.     Here   he  enlists   the   aafsistance  of 


PAUL  H.  GRUMMANN  95 

itdchen,  but  even  after  fulfilling  fixed  conditions  only  sees  Rautende- 
n  dimly. 

Rautendelein,  Wer  ruft  so  leise? 

Hetnrtch,    Ich  1 

Rauiendelein,  Wer  du? 

Heinrich,   Nun  ich. 

Komm  du  nur  naher,  so  erkennst  du  mich. 

Rauiendelein,  Ich  kann  nicht,  und  ich  kenne  dich  auch  nicht. 

Heinrich.  Du  marterst  mich  1    Komm  fiihle  meine  Hand 
so  Kennst  du  mich. 

Rauiendelein,  Ich  hab  dich  nie  gekannt. 

In  short,  breaking  with  the  ideal  and  losing  faith  in  it  to  Hein- 
ji  means  a  blind  staggering  between  the  ideal  and  his  traditional  ties 
vividly  expressed  in  the  dream  when  Heinrich  asks  Magda  for  the 
Met,  and  Rautendelein  actually  performs  the  service. 

This  goblet  signifies  death  to  him.     Rautendelein  has  already  said: 
"Geh,  denn  ich  tote  den,  der  mit  mir  spricht." 
II  of  this  is  to  be  traced  again  to  his  consciousness  of  the  vanity  of  his 
riving,  a  doubt  which  has  been  strengthened  by  his  neighbors  and  friends. 
bttractly  expressed,  the  ideal  is  fatal  to  him  who  embraces  it. 

The  three  goblets  of  wine  which  have  caused  so  much  discussion 
;ain  find  a  ready  explanation  if  we  try  to  interpret  them  from  the  ex- 
liences  and  convictions  of  Heinrich. 

In  his  attempt  to  find  the  ideal  again,  he  is  confronted  by  the  laws 
nature  (Whittichen).  He  has  learned  long  ago  that  an  advan- 
^  gained  from  nature  must  entail  all  the  consequences  of  such  an  ad- 
iitage.  Popularly  expressed  '*Wer  A  sagt  muss  auch  B  sagen.''  In 
e  vision  the  Wittichen  properly  expresses  this  causality  of  nature  to 
n  definitely  by  means  of  three  goblets.  What  he  himself  has  felt  very 
ten  simply  becomes  plastic  here  in  his  consciousness.  The  symbolism 
the  three  goblets  is  to  be  found  in  Heinrich,  and  it  has  a  general 
piiiicance  only  in  the  measure  in  which  the  individual  is  after  all  typical. 

So  also  the  dwarfs  of  the  fourth  act  have  a  significance  only  to 
cinrich  and  not  generally.  They  are  the  aids  which  come  to  him 
tough  Rautendelein's  assistance,  and  goaded  on  by  his  incipent  doubts, 
I  b  tyrannical  to  them.  Wholly  in  agreement  with  the  dream  technique 
e  dwarfs  that  have  been  helping  him  begin  to  voice  the  doubts  that  are 
tsent  in  Heinrich.  The  crowned  dwarf  is  but  his  plastic  conception 
the  idea  that  "a  time  will  come  when  these  forces  that  serve  me  unwill- 
^  will  crown  my  work." 

Many  details  of  'Hannele'  and  *Versunkene  Glocke'  lead  one  to  the 
tomption  that  Hauptmann  had  direct  or  indirect  knowledge  of  such 


1 

\ 


96  HAUPTMANN'S  TREATMENT  OF  GERMANIC  MYTHS 


works  as  Ludwig  Laistner's  'Das  Ratsel  der  Sphinx'  and  devoted  much 
attention  to  a  study  of  the  relation  of  the  dream  and  nightmare  to  myth- 
ology. That  he  seriously  studied  the  psychology  of  the  myth  is  evident 
from  the  fact  that  his  practice  coincides  with  the  theory  of  Wundt  as 
laid  down  in  his  'Mythus  und  Religion.'  (Erster  Teil.  Leipzig:  Engd- 
mann.  1905  p.  591)* 

'Und  auch  an  Zwecken  fehlt  es  dem  Mythus  niemals,  da  er  von  fruhe 
darauf  ausgeht,  alle  auszeren  Erlebnisse  mit  den  eigenen  Wunchen,  HoS- 
nungen  und  Befiirchtungen  des  Menschen  in  Beziehung  zu  setzen.' 

Again,  p.  602:  'Die  individuelle  Phantasie  dagegen  individualiiicrt 
auch  ihre  Schopfungen.  Sie  schildert  einzelne  konkrete  Eiiebnlsie  vd 
wandelt  damit  die  allgemeine  mythologische  Vorstellung  in  ein  einzdneii 
nur  einmal  gewesenes  Ereignis  um,  das  sie  an  bestinunte  Orte  und  Flo^ 
sonen  bindet  und  schliesslich  in  einen  zusammeniiangenden  Verlauf  wdtmr 
Ereignisse  einreiht' 

On  p.  603:  'Damit,  dasz  Marchen  und  Fabel  individualisierende 
Erzahlungen  sind,  manifestieren  sie  sich  ohne  weiteres  als  Dichtunacn, 
die  moglicher-weise  einen  mythischen  Hintergrund  haben,  selbst  aber  nidm 
mehr  zum  reinen  Mythus  gehoren.' 

Is  it  not  possible  to  assume  that  Hauptmann  also  conceived  of  the 
'Marchen'  as  'individualisierte  Mythen'  and  that  he  therefore  called  hii 
drama  'Die  versunkene  Glocke,  ein  Marchendrama/ 

At  the  beginning  of  his  career  Hauptmann  was  already  interested 
in  Germanic  myths.  Not  until  he  had  thoroughly  clarified  his  views  by 
a  study  of  myths  and  the  psychology  of  myths,  and  had  with  infinite  ptin 
worked  out  a  suitable  technique  in  'Hannele,'  did  he  make  use  of  thii 
material  in  'Versunkene  Glocke.'  I  can  only  reiterate  what  Richard 
Meyer  says  in  his  'Die  deutsche  Literatur  des  19  Jahr  hunderts'  that  we 
must  approach  'Versunkene  Glocke'  through  'Hannele.' 


IE  IDYL  OF  ISRAEL  KNOWN  AS 
THE   SONG   OF   SOLOMON 
OR  SONG  OF  SONGS 

By  Ruby  Archer 

N  the  bold,  barbaric  days,  nine  centuries  or  so  before  the  Christian 
era,  the  marriage  rites  in  Israel  were  celebrated  in  festivals  of  many 
dajrs.  Beautiful  songs  were  written,  dialogues  and  primitive  dramas, 
indudlng  many  a  graceful  dance  and  divertisement  by  soloist 
or  chorus.  There  was  a  naive  simplicity  in  the  arrangement 
of  the  parts,  which  were  few,  definite  in  their  intent,  and 
making  little  demand  of  the  audience — so  little,  that  the 
ttodacdon  could  be  divided  into  entertainments  for  the  several 
mj%  of  the  marriage  fete  without  losing  their  hold  on  public  feel- 
ing. To  this  age  of  splendid  tribal  unity  belongs  the  Song  of  Songs,  as 
certain  internal  evidence  in  the  allusion  to  the  city  of  Tirzah  justifies  us 
in  accepting, — ^Tirzah,  capital  of  the  kingdom  of  Israel,  disappeared  from 
Justory  when  Samaria  was  made  capital  by  Omri  in  923  B.  C.  This  puts 
creation  of  the  song  in  the  age  of  the  very  bloom  of  Arabic  power, 
before  the  religious  dreams  of  the  Christian  fathers.  The  God  of 
Semitic  tribes  was  the  terrible  avenger,  as  He  has  remained  with  a 
iin  caste  to  this  day.  So  that  the  dogmatic  interpretation  of  a  sim- 
pastoral  to  justify  the  God-love  theory  toward  the  chosen  people,  or 
church,  becomes  a  manifest  anachronism.  This  was  doubtless  devised 
a  measure  of  the  divines  in  retaining  in  the  canon  a  book  whose  antiq- 
gave  it  an  aura  of  sanctity.  The  arbitrary  ascribing  of  the  religious 
ificance,  though  in  the  eyes  of  many  a  devotee,  a  blessed  theory,  is  not 
icularly  interesting  to  the  sincere  student  of  the  work  as  a  piece  of 
lumental  Hebraic  literature,  a  thing  which  though  indeed  symbolic, 
its  best  claim  thereto  in  its  immediate  and  direct  structure.  Love  is 
theme,  human  love,  divinely  human.  It  is  neither  a  mystic-religious 
r  a  purely  erotic  writing,  however;  but  something  more  interesting  and 
di  a  better  claim  to  the  immortality  which  has  preserved  it  through  the 
Btories.  It  is  an  epithalamium,  or  marriage-song,  carrying  out  with  haunt- 
Mi  perfection  the  theme  of  the  triumph  of  love.  It  might  be  called  a 
■de  'morality'  on  the  motive  of  love-loyalty.    This  was  tentatively  sug- 


98  THE   IDYL  OF   ISRAEL 

gested  by  a  writer  in  the  eighteenth  century,  but  was  so  scouted  and 
culed  by  the  theologues  that,  until  Ernest  Renan,  no  one  dared  lift  \ 
voice  of  clearness  with  that  message.  And  the  churchmen  had  it  all  t 
own  way,  and  with  praiseworthy  earnestness  distorted  the  antique,  eler 
tal  lines  into  enigmatical  pietisms.  But  everybody  likes  the  Song,  or  C 
ide,  even  if  he  can't  apply  the  symbolisms  as  they  are  printed  at  the 
of  the  accepted  version.  This  same  version,  by  the  way,  is  often  emxu 
in  the  use  of  the  pronouns,  thus  increasing  the  difficulties  of  the  lay  m 
ber  In  the  English  reading.  But  Renan  has  mercifully  made  a  di 
translation  into  the  French  from  the  Hebrew,  and  William  M.  Thoir 
has  in  turn  done  Renan  into  English,  for  which  service  much  gratitud 
due. 

Tossed  backward  and  forward  from  critic  to  commentator  and  h 
a  score  of  exegeses,  all  equally  unacceptable,  have  been  evolved, 
dramatic  idea  has  vaguely  occurred  to  many,  but  was  finally  and  q 
desperately,  dismissed  by  the  majority,  in  favor  at  last  of  a  rather  dis 
nected  series  of  love-lyrics,  with  no  continuity  except  the  general  unit] 
theme.  Renan,  however,  bold  and  sensitive  student  brought  the  parts 
directly  joined  dialogue,  dividing  by  natural  denouements  into  sc 
and  acts.  He  has  added  nothing,  taken  away  nothing;  he  even  refra 
from  changing  the  order  of  the  scenes  to  what  would  appear  their  lo( 
sequence ;  and  thus  he  has  left  it  so  that  the  reader  will  allow  for  very  t 
trary  and  inverted  change  of  scene, — the  main  instance  of  this  being 
placing  of  the  arrival  of  Solomon  and  his  suite  at  Jerusalem,  far  alon 
the  drama  whose  central  action  depends  on  that  triumphant  entry  i 
the  new  beauty  of  the  north,  the  fair  Shulamite. 

This  brown  maid,   the  daughter  of  some  chieftain,   had  been 
prised  and  carried  away  by  the  minions  of  Solomon,  and  brought  ags 
her  will  to  the  harem  in  Jerusalem.     She  was  of  the  land  of  Lebano; 
lovely  being,  proud  and  free  of  spirit.     And  in  the  unfolding  of 
character  as  the  true  votary  of  a  pure  love,  in  contrast  to  the  voluptus 
of  the  court  of  King  Solomon,  lies  the  real  symbolism  of  the  poem. 

The  sultan  cannot  win  her,  with  all  his  palaces  and  jewel  gifts.    ' 
odalisques,  with  their  feverish  songs  and  dances,  cannot  change  her  fc 
to  her  beloved.    Let  us  consider  him  a  shepherd  of  her  own  country, 
that  her  heart  turns  to  him  in  her  rich  and  hateful  prison.    Then  the  1 
take  on  a  vital  meaning. 

The  oriental  figures  of  description,  so  childlike  in  their  franki 
have  been  vilified  by  the  purists,  who  have  herein  found  their  chief 
fence  for  attributing  everywhere  a  religious  application.     Now  in  t 
the  Song  contains  nothing  even  trending  on  vulgarity  or  coarseness, 
lines  applied  to  the  harem-life  are  intentionally  harsh,  as  the  writer — 


RUBY  ARCHER  99 

ns  by  no  means  Solomon — evidently  felt  a  cordial  hatred  toward  the 
folygamous  ways  of  the  capital — the  legalized  robbery  of  peasants'  daugh- 
imto  enrich  the  monarch's  household.  Some  of  the  critics  have  even 
Aid  so  absurd  a  thing  as  to  describe  the  Song  as  a  satire  against  the  en- 
ents  of  Solomon  by  Solomon  himself!     A  defense  of  monogamy 

die  husband  of  many  score  of  ladies.     Very  ingenious  of  the  critic, 

not  in  accord  with  the  famous  wisdom  of  the  sage.  The  writer  was 
all  likelihood  some  one  of  those  impassioned  poets  of  the  north  of 
g.Jestine,  from  whose  republican  sentiments  arose  the  rebellion  a  little 
Iter.  Indeed,  the  scenery  does  not  at  all  belong  to  the  somewhat  barren 
Itamicter  of  the  country  around  Jerusalem,  and  is  clearly  the  poetic  em- 
bellishment of  one  familiar  with  the  luxuriance  of  the  seasons. 

But  whatever  be  the  facts,  since  we  of  to-day  are  indebted  for  the 
Kservation  of  the  beautiful  composition,  to  its  assumed  allegorical  mean- 
tf,  and  more,  to  its  authorship  by  the  writer  of  Kings,  it  is  not  in  our 
unds  to  cavil  over  the  excuse  for  its  retention  in  the  canon. 

Suppose,  then  the  drama,  as  interpreted  by  Kenan,  to  contain  for 
mmaiis  personae  the  Shulamite,  her  shepherd  lover,  her  brothers,  yeomen 
Modates  of  his,  on  the  one  hand;  and  Solomon  and  his  ladies  of  Jeru- 
dcm  on  the  other.  Really  three  principal  characters  and  an  appropriate 
Imns  badcground.  One  of  the  quaintnesses  of  this  antique  drama  is  the 
idden  and  unprepared  change  of  scene ;  another  is  the  somewhat  narrative 
r  lyric  quality  which  takes  the  place  of  the  element  of  suspense  in  action 
ennain  to  the  drama  of  later  centuries,  beginning  with  the  inventions  of 
le  Greeks. 

The  first  scene  takes  place  in  the  harem,  the  opening  sentence  by  one 
f  the  odalisques:  'Let  him  kiss  me  with  a  kiss  of  his  mouth  I'  being  fol- 
l^cd  in  chorus  by  the  rest  of  the  harem,  *Thy  caresses  are  sweeter  than 
rme,*  etc  Evidently  amorous  tributes  to  the  King.  Just  here  the  cap- 
fft  is  brought  in.  The  burden  of  her  plaint  is,  'The  king  has  brought 
le  into  his  harem.'  The  wives  of  Solomon  continue  their  chorus  of  hom- 
f^  'Our  transports  and  our  delights  are  for  thee  alone,'  etc.  And  the 
pri  takes  up  her  story,  with  a  pathetic  little  appeal  to  these  women  for 
Inderation.  She  tells  how  the  suns  of  her  native  province  have 
imed  her,  while  she  was  working  in  the  vineyards  for  her  unkind  brothers. 
bd  she  closes  pen^'vely,  'But,  alas,  mine  own  vineyard  have  I  indeed 
■dly  kept.'  Some  .hinJc  she  is  alluding  here  again  to  her  beauty,  but 
iben,  and  more  reasonably,  perhaps,  that  she  alludes  to  her  maiden  free- 
bm.  This  may  be  said  to  end  the  first  scene.  But  the  girl,  in  a  measure 
fatrragfat  with  her  recent  experiences,  speaks  aloud  her  thought,  which 

ever  toward  her  beloved,  and  questions  him  whither  he  leads  his 


100  THE   IDYL  OF   ISRAEL 

sheep.  One  of  the  women  of  the  harem,  half  in  jest,  half  in  reproof,  « 
gests  that  if  she  desires  this  knowledge,  she  should  return  to  her  own  sh 
herding. 

Then  we  find  what  might  be  termed  the  Solomon  'motif,'  as  he 
gins  his  wooing  flattery,  and  promises  of  adomings.    Thus  ends  anot 
scene,  the  peasant  making  no  response. 

She  is  alone  now,  and  muses  again  of  her  beloved.  But  her  med 
tion  is  again  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Solomon,  this  time  with  ni 
urgent  compliments.  Her  fairness  and  her  dove-eyes  inspire  him.  But 
continues  addressing  her  absent  shepherd,  and  recalls  wistfully  their  ' 
of  green'  in  the  woodland  country  of  her  home.  Solomon  pursues 
way  equally  serenely,  and  recounts  the  richness  of  his  palace,  for  ( 
trast,  with  its  beams  of  cedar  and  panels  of  cypress. 

Here  the  maiden  may  be  supposed  to  believe  that  her  beloved 
even  come  so  far  to  rescue  her,  and  that  he  is  near.     She  lifts  her  vc 
m  a  snatch  of  song,  as  if  to  warn  him  of  her  presence: 

'I  am  the  rose  of  Sharon, 
The  lily  of  the  valleys.' . . 
And  the  immediate  response  of  the  shepherd,  who  breaks  into  the  ap 
ment,  takes  up  her  thought  with,  *As  a  lily  among  thorns,  so  is  my  bela 
among  the  maidens.'  The  Shulamite  forgets  everything  but  the  presc 
of  her  lover.  She  gives  him  sweet  words  for  his  sweet  ones,  exclaims 
her  longing  for  his  presence.  He  is  to  her  as  a  gracious  apple-tree,  ? 
pleasant  shadow  and  welcome  fruit.  We  picture  them  clasped  in  e 
other's  embrace,  while  she  goes  on  with  her  tranced  murmurings,  t 
imagining  that  they  are  back  at  the  farm,  and  that  he  has  brought  her  i 
the  familiar  wine-room.  Even,  in  her  faintness,  she  asks  to  be  *sta 
with  grapes,'  for  she  is  *dying  of  love.'  Then  follow  the  words  which 
indicative  of  her  sense  of  his  support  and  caressing  care,  even  as 
swoons  away.  And  her  lover,  addressing  the  harem,  now  gathering  aroi 
marks  a  natural  close  of  the  act  in  a  manner  similar  to  the  endings 
other  acts  farther  on  in  the  drama:  4  beseech  you,  O  daughters  of  J 
salem,  by  the  gazelles  and  the  hinds  of  the  fields,  awake  not,  awake 
my  beloved  until  it  pleases  her.'  This  meaning  is  entirely  lost  in  the 
cepted  version,  where  *her'  has  been  translated  *him.'  In  the  logical  i 
elusion  of  this  division  of  the  drama,  we  find  the  theme  of  love  regn 
as  in  each  of  these  divisions,  which  might  have  been  produced  on  dine 
days  of  the  fete. 

The  Peasant  girl  is  next  discovered  alone,  and  as  if  dreaming, 
hears  once  more  the  voice  of  her  beloved,  she  sees  him  spring  fawn- 
to  meet  her  on  the  hills.    And  now  she  even  attends  his  summoning  at 
window,  as  on  some  morning  in  spring  in  their  glad  freedom,  pleading  ^ 


RUBY  ARCHER  loi 

kr  to  make  holiday  with  him,  the  winter  being  gone,  and  the  time  of 
nins,  while  the  new  flowers  are  appearing.  With  delicate  touches  of  des- 
xiptive  power  he  sets  forth  the  charm  of  the  season.  It  is  nearly  the 
Mmg-time  of  the  mating  birds.  And  he  even  speaks  of  such  minor  de- 
ails  as  the  voice  of  the  turtle  in  the  fields  and  the  young  shoots  of  the 
Ig  tree.  Even  the  bloom  of  the  grape-vine,  and  its  fragrance,  are  not 
brgotten.  Thus  does  all  nature  seem  to  be  in  sympathy  with  their  glad 
ove,  and  her  invitation  mingles  with  the  song  of  the  lover.  He  names 
ler  well  his  Move,  nestled  in  the  clefts  of  the  rock,'  and  pleads  to  hear 
ler  voice.  Then  she  sings  happily  again,  just  a  snatch  of  melody  that 
s  familiar  to  them  both,  about  the  ^little  foxes  that  ravage  the  vines,'  and 
ihc  grants  him  her  countenance,  and  sends  him  to  his  flodcs  with  words  of 
love  and  sweet  promises  for  the  ^hour  when  the  day  shall  cool  and  the 
iiadows  lengthen.'  Thus  the  poet  has  given  us  a  glimpse  of  the  idyllic 
life  from  which  the  maid  has  been  ravished  away. 

There  is  much  controversy  about  the  next  scene  with  the  commenta- 
tors. Those  who  are  for  the  allegorical  significance  of  the  whole  drama 
interpret  this  passage  as  referring  to  the  displeasure  and  withdrawal  of 
God  when  his  people  have  been  remiss  Mn  watchfulness  and  prayer'  or 
have  held  on  to  'some  cherished  sin.'  This  night-wandering  of  the  young 
naid  in  quest  of  her  beloved,  'through  the  market  places  and  the  high- 
irays'  then  becomes  symbolic  of  the  pursuit  of  the  spirit.  But  to  the  pres- 
tat  student  the  scene  appears  to  be  merely  the  recounting  of  a  dream. 
rhe  opening  words,  indeed,  with  this  hypothesis,  give  the  needed  hint, 
On  my  bed  at  night,  I  sought  him  whom  my  heart  loveth ;  I  sought  him, 
md  I  found  him  not.'  She  then  dreamed  of  arising  and  going  forth  into 
ihe  strange  city  to  find  him.  This  of  course  she  would  not  have  done 
in  reality,  more  especially  as  the  shepherd  had  already  proven  his  abil- 
ity to  make  his  way  to  her  presence.  And  especially  does  this  version  be- 
UMne  probable  when  we  consider  the  ^^i'— -«-  episode  which  she  re- 
Ittet,  *I  laid  hold  of  him  and  would  not  let  him  ^o  until  I  had  brought  him 
Itto  my  mother's  house.'  This  was  her  childhood  home,  many  weary 
•ays  from  the  city  of  Jerusalem,  and  the  immediately  following  action 
mms  that  this  journey  was  not  made.  It  was  all  a  dream,  and  by  the 
(vious  mode  of  presentation,  not  at  all  out  of  order  with  the  unities 
for  her  to  relate  it  just  in  that  manner. 

The  next  scene,  showing  the  cortege  of  Solomon  arriving  in  Jeru- 
idem,  is  the  one  that  Kenan's  hand  trembled  over,  when  he  wanted  to 
jAudge  its  order  to  the  earlier  scenes  of  the  drama,  where  it  notably 
iioald  seem  to  belong.  Certain  nameless  citizens  may  be  supposed  to 
kote  its  approach,  and  by  their  lively  descriptive  sentences  give  a  realistic 
ricture  of  the  royal  palanquin  'giving  forth  the  fragrance  of  myrrh'  and 


102  THE   IDYL   OF  ISRAEL 

surrounded  by  swordsmen,  guarding  the  last  prize,  the  spariding  beau 
for  the  harem.  This  Idea  is  not  preserved  in  the  accepted  version,  wU 
runs,  'the  midst  of  it  paved  with  love' — a  perplexing  figure,  and  a  vc 
odd  carriage  1 

Then  of  a  sudden  this  lightning-change  action  is  bade  in  the  har 
and  we  have  a  series  of  elaborate  rhetorical  compliments,  which  are  c 
feringly  ascribed  to  Solomon  and  to  the  shepherd.  They  would  se 
rather  to  belong  to  Solomon,  and  to  represent  his  subtle  wooing, 
though  some  of  the  figures  of  speech  hark  back  to  the  country— <omp 
ing  her  eyes  to  doves,  her  teeth  to  *sheep,  newly  shorn,*  her  cheek  tc 
pomegranate  and  her  hair  to  a  flock  of  goats  'depending  from  the  sii 
of  Gilead.'  But  the  comparison  of  her  neck  to  'the  tower  of  David,  bui 
ed  to  serve  as  an  armory,  in  which  are  suspended  a  thousand  brea 
plates,  and  all  the  bucklers  of  the  valiant,'  shows  a  too  minute  knowlec 
of  civic  affairs  to  fit  the  simple  shepherd.  And  the  close,  'When  the  ( 
shall  cool,  and  the  shadows  lengthen,  I  will  get  me  to  the  mountains 
myrrh  and  to  the  hills  of  frankincense,'  might  well  be  the  sanguine  thouj 
of  Solomon  towards  his  bride,  just  brought  home  in  triumph  in  the  pal 
quin  with  'pilasters  of  gold  and  curtains  of  purple.' 

The  next  words  may  even  be  his  greeting  in  the  evening,  as  he 
proaches  her  with  beguilements,  'Thou  art  all  fair,  my  love,  and  then 
no  blemish  in  thee.'  But  here  breaks  in  an  impassioned  note,  altoget 
different  in  its  hurry  and  insistence.  This  will  be  the  shepherd,  call 
boldly  from  the  bottom  of  the  seraglio:  'Come  with  me,  my  spouse!'  e 
thus  with  his  pleading  interrupting  Solomon  in  the  very  hour  of  his  apf 
ent  triumph.  In  no  mild  terms  he  alludes  to  her  sumptuous  environm 
as  'the  depth  of  the  lions'  den'  and  'the  top  of  the  mountains  which 
leopards  inhabit.'  She  may  be  supposed  to  give  him  encouragement 
this  point,  by  looking  from  the  casement,  so  that  he  continues,  now  pie 
ing,  now  recalling  past  delights,  and  mingling  throughout  his  overpov 
ing  sense  of  her  charm,  which  would  have  mastered  him  though  but 
finitely  subdivided.  'Thou  hast  ravished  my  heart  with  one  of  thine  e; 
with  one  of  thy  ringlets  which  encircle  thy  neck.'  An  especial  tcn< 
ness  is  suggested  by  the  union  of  the  two  relations  in  the  lover's  mim 
'my  sister,  my  spouse' — which  refers  to  their  close  comradeship  in  tl 
native  province,  through  the  years  of  childhood  and  early  youth  until 
love-time.  His  confidence  in  her  loyalty  to  him  is  beautifully  expres 
in  the  words,  'a  garden  enclosed,  a  spring  shut  up,  a  fountain  sealed.'  1 
she  appeals  to  him  with  the  thousand  delicacies  of  the  fragrances  of 
forest  and  grove,  spikenard,  saffron,  calamus,  cinnamon  .  .  *with 
manner  of  sweet-smelling  plants.'  She  is  indeed  thus  sweet  to  the  sense 
his  soul.    There  is  something  of  the  abandon  of  the  Hebrew  poetry  ir 


RUBY   ARCHER  103 

ynndest  period  in  the  few  words :  'Awake,  north  winds,  come  south  winds ; 
fiow  upon  my  garden  that  its  fragrance  may  be  diffused.' 

The  Shulamite  gently  replies  to  his  ardors  with  a  complete  res^ 
ponse:  'Let  my  beloved  enter  his  garden,  and  let  him  taste  of  its  choicest 
miits.*  Then  if  we  suppose  them  to  have  embraced,  the  following  happy 
words  will  be  well  accounted  for:  *I  have  entered  my  garden,  my  sister, 
ny  spouse.  I  have  gathered  my  myrrh  and  my  balsam.  I  have  eaten  my 
Mreet  and  my  honey.  I  have  drunk  my  wine  and  my  milk.'  And  in  his 
peat  contentment,  his  heart  goes  out  to  the  world,  and  turning  to  the 
oonvenient  chorus,  he  bids  them  also  'Eat,  O  friends,  drink  abundantly' — 
in  their  own  gardens,  however,  we  will  surmise  I  The  act  thus  closes  with 
what  might  be  termed  the  burden  of  the  whole  song — the  baffling  of  Solo- 
■Km  in  his  selfish  desires,  and  the  triumph  of  faithful  love.  In  this  curious 
■Witence  and  return  to  the  same  ultimate  for  each  act  and  almost  for 
each  scene,  we  distinguish  most  markedly  the  difference  between  the  'paral- 
U*  scenes  of  the  andent  Hebrew  drama  and  the  'progressive  scenes'  of 
all  unce  the  Greek.  The  chorus  has  ancient  authority  for  its  employment, 
as  we  have  observed  by  even  its  slight  yet  effectively  sympathetic  use  in  the 
Song. 

The  fourth  act  opens  with  the  Shulamite  recounting  a  dream  and  a 
vision  to  the  women  of  the  harem — or  actually  going  forth — as  the  litera- 
Ests  would  have  us  believe — among  the  wild  dangers  of  the  great  city  at 
light,  the  abuses  of  the  threatening  watchmen,  and  her  own  wilder  fears. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  her  supposed  answer  to  the  query  of  the  chorus  as 
to  her  beloved's  personality  is  among  the  strongest  passages  of  the  drama. 
It  b  led  up  to  by  her  having  finally  answered  his  calling  at  her  window, 
where  he  waited  wearily,  *my  head  is  all  covered  with  dew,  the  locks  oir 
By  hair  are  all  dropping  with  the  night  mists.'  Here  occurs  that  exquisite 
gnoe  of  the  Hebrew  poetry,  in  which  the  sense  is  re-echoed  in  softly 
Asnging  words.  Then  mark  the  life  in  this,  'My  beloved  now  put  his 
hand  through  the  lattice,  and  my  bosom  quivered  thereat.  I  arose  to 
spcn  to  my  beloved.'  Then  the  realism  of  the  scene  is  enhanced  as  she 
touches  the  fastenings  on  which  his  hands  have  rested.  'My  hands  were 
found  to  be  dropping  with  myrrh,  my  fingers  with  liquid  myrrh,  which 
cmrered  the  handle  of  the  lock.'  What  sweet  dews  were  distilled  in  those 
oUen  nights  I 

As  we  were  saying,  she  distinguishes  him  by  her  glowing  description, 
sad  the  fondness  of  her  terms  doubtless  made  those  women  of  Jerusalem 
tnile,  they — ^with  their  sold  caresses  and  their  obedient  blandishments. — 

*My  beloved  is  white  and  ruddy ;  you  would  tell  him  amongst  a  thous- 
lad.  •  .  The  locks  of  his  hair  are  as  flexible  as  palm  leaves.  .  His  eyes 
are  as  doves'  eyes,  reflected  in  streams  of  running  water.  .  His  cheeks  are 


104  THE  IDYL  OF   ISRAEL 

like  a  bed  of  balsam.  .  His  legs  are  pillars  of  marble,  set  on  pedestals 
gold;  his  countenance  is  as  Lebanon,  beautiful  as  the  cedars.  From  i 
palate  is  diffused  sweetness;  his  person  is  altogether  lovely.  Such  is  ii 
beloved.'  Though  it  is  doubtful  if  he  could  from  this  be  identified  amonf 
a  thousand,  it  was  very  evident  that  there  was  none  to  compare  wi 
him  in  the  heart  of  the  Shulamite.  The  episode  concludes  once  mo 
with  the  triumph  of  love,  and  the  shepherd  'gathering  lilies.' 

We  may  assume  in  the  next  scene  that  Solomon  recommences  his  wo 
ing  of  the  fair  vine-dresser,  and  encounters  small  encouragement.  In  h 
proud  beauty  is  an  unusual  problem  for  the  much-wived  monarch.  S! 
looks  upon  him  with  such  disdain  that  he  finds  her  'as  terrible  as  an  am 
in  battle'  and  is  fain  to  ask,  'Turn  thine  eyes  away  from  me,  for  th 
distress  me.'  He  then,  in  keeping  with  the  poetic  character  of  the  son 
reiterates  his  former  figures  of  speech  in  praise  of  her  hair,  teeth  ai 
cheek. 

In  the  midst  of  his  entreaties,  the  peculiar  contrasting  of  the  chs 
acters  demands  the  interposition  of  the  shepherd  lover,  who  intemii 
the  king  with  a  still  warmer  speech,  in  which  he  places  the  worth  of  1 
'undefiled'  above  that  of  the  whole  household  of  Solomon — 'three-sco 
queens,  and  fourscore  concubines,  besides  young  maidens  without  nui 
ber.'  Her  womanly  sweetness  and  modesty  were  such,  moreover,  th 
far  from  feeling  envy  of  her,  'the  young  maidens  saw  her,  and  pi 
claimed  her  blessed;  the  queens  and  the  concubines  saw  her  and  prais 
her.'  Some  of  the  commentators  have  attributed  this  passage  to  Solom 
himself,  but  it  is  manifestly  unsuited  to  him,  as  it  speaks  of  the  g 
familiarly  in  her  own  home,  as  being  'the  chosen  one  of  her  who  ga 
her  birth.'  It  is  customary  for  the  shepherd  to  revert  to  these  cai 
scenes  in  which  they  had  so  much  in  common,  and  besides,  the  exigenc 
of  the  action  demand  his  symbolic  opposition  to  the  royal  'villain.' 

In  the  following  scene,  the  peasant  is  telling  the  story  of  how  s 
was  surprised  by  the  King's  soldiers  and  carried  away.  Her  wildwo< 
wanderings  show  her  to  be  a  real  child  of  nature:  'I  descended  into  tl 
garden  of  nuts,  to  see  the  herbs  of  the  valley,  to  see  whether  the  vine  hi 
budded,  whether  the  pomegranates  were  in  flower.'  Such  were  her  inn 
cent  pleasures.  'O  fatal  step!  that  this  caprice  should  plunge  me  ii^ 
the  midst  of  the  chariots  of  a  prince's  train.' 

The  women  of  the  harem  then  tease  her  playfully,  'turn  that  we  j^j 
look  on  thee,'  haply  rallying  her  on  the  charm  that  caused  her  abdv^^j^ 


given  uic  peasant,  wicn — wny  iook  at  tne  :>nuiamite,'  and  in  ^^r 
hood  she  poises  herself  lightly  in  the  middle  of  a  rich  rug  and  tK^  a^i 


RUBY  ARCHER 


Wk 


li 


a 
all 


icn 


^ler  best,  calling  forth  the  plaudits  of  all,  and  especially  a  rapturous  s 

ral  from  Solomon,  with  whom  she  is  apparently  a  well-established  fav< 
Ske  is  of  blood-ro3ral,  for  he  addresses  her  as  'Prince's  daughter,'  loc 
VJCfc  pleasure  at  her  beautiful  feet  in  their  little  sandals,  then  gives  his  q 
licet  revelry  up  her  charming  form,  the  curving  thighs,  the  snowy  boc 
the  lily-breasts,  the  ivory  throat,  the  lake-deep  eyes,  proud  nose,  ai 
trmes  fit  to  entangle  kings.  And  he  breathes  into  the  moment  ma 
I  passionate  memory  in  the  words,  'How  fair  and  pleasant  art  thou, 
wtf  love,  in  the  moments  of  embrace.  .  thy  mouth  is  like  the  most  < 

C'izc  wine,  which  droppeth  sweetly,  and  moistens  the    lips  of  the  eaj 
cr*'  Where  shall  we  find  such  warmth  in  love-words,  except  in  t 
koken  fragments  of  the  magic  Sappho's  lost  odes? 

Ilie  peasant  looks  on,  scarcely  realizing  the  full  meaning  of  tl 
yoluptnious  scene,  and  dreamily  still,  she  reverts  to  her  own  love-exp 
'^>^9  and  her  faithful  companion,  with  his  singleness  of  thought:  'I  t 
*y  beloved's,  and  he  is  mine.' 

w^    -And  at  last,  turning  resolutely  from  all  this  fever  and  unreality 

fj*^  *icr  thoughts  fly  like  a  homing  bird  to  that  pure-breathed  count 

Z?^^*    where  her  virtue  had  its  natural  environment  in  the  fresh  freedc 

k*^^*"^  undespoiled.     She  flees  to  her  lover's  side  and  urges  him  foi 

^'™   ^icr:  Xome,  my  beloved,  let  us  go  forth  into  the  fields,  let  us  sic 

■  th^    vineyard-'    She  longs  for  their  rural  interests.     'Let  us  arise  eai 

tJB^  ^o  the  vines;  let  us  see  whether  the  vine  stocks  have  budded,  whett 

~^Por»icgranates  are  in  flower.     There,'  she  sweetly  promises,  *will 

y^f   ^H^c  my  caresses.  .  At  our  gate  are  heaped  up  the  most  beautii 

^*^J  Hew  and  old,  I  have  guarded  them  for  thee,  O  my  beloved.'    H< 

^••^'^^ttlly  she  mingles  the  real  and  the  allegorical  here. 

The  following  words,  the  'formula'  employed  many  times  in  t 
J^***]^  to  dose  a  scene,  *His  left  hand  sustains  my  head,  and  his  right  e 
J**!*^  niCt'  and  the  shepherd's  admonition  to  the  chorus,  not  to  awake  I 
■j^'^^ji  *until  it  pleases  her,'  indicate  that  once  more  she  is  overcome 
■^  'Singled  emotions,  and  swoons  in  his  arms;  and  the  logical  change 
**^  to  the  approaches  of  the  village  home  indicate  that  he  has  bor 
^  ^^'^ightway  from  the  seraglio  and  made  the  journey  across  the  wild 
1**^  Even  to  the  apple-tree  at  her  mother's  door  he  carries  her,  a 
Acft  ^wakens  her  joyously  with,  'Behold  the  house  in  which  thy  motl 
cSW^ved  thee,  in  which  she  gave  thee  birth.'  The  girl,  now  becomi 
tn^%  conscious  of  the  preciousness  of  that  which  she  had  all  but  lo 
yftf^  into  a  final  strain  of  love-song,  praying  him — 'Set  me  now  as  a  s< 
Hp^  thy  heart,  as  a  bracelet  about  thy  arm,  for  love  is  strong  as  deat 
f*oii  inflexible  as  hell.'     (Thinking  of  the  scenes  through  which  she  h 


io6  THE  IDYL  OF  ISRAEL 

just  lived. )  'Its  brands  are  the  brands  of  fire,  its  arrows  the  fire  of  Jehovah.* 
(The  lightning.) 

The  moral  and  purport  of  the  Song  thus  makes  itself  dearly  evi- 
dent. And  even  more  so  in  this  bit  of  philosophy,  which  may  be  sup- 
posed to  be  spoken,  after  the  manner  of  those  ancient  dramas,  by  a  *Sage* 
who  makes  his  only  appearance  for  the  purpose:  'Great  waters  caimol 
quench  love,  rivers  cannot  extinguish  it.  If  a  man  seek  to  purchase  lovi 
at  the  sacrifice  of  his  whole  substance,  he  would  only  reap  confusion.' 

Here,  according  to  modem  dramatic  usages,  the  play  ends.  But  thii 
author  has  added  a  little  scene  between  the  peasant  and  ker  brothers 
in  which  she  meets  their  arrogant  pretensions  at  guardianship  with  bod 
gentleness  and  sarcasm;  and  the  Song  ends  with  final  reunion  of  tfai 
lovers  in  the  midst  of  the  village  rejoicings,  when  she  invites  hm 
how  fondly  at  last,  to  'be  like  unto  a  roe  or  to  a  hind's  fawn  upon  du 
mountains  of  spices.'  As  pretty  a  pastoral  as  ever  came  from  poet'i 
brain. 

With  the  removal  of  the  crust  of  theology,  the  antique  drama  is  sea 
in  all  its  honest  outlines,  immortally  young  and  fresh  as  the  newly^^a 
covered  frescoes  under  the  ages'  covering  of  dust  and  smoke.  Thesi 
characters  are  as  clearly  and  effectively  defined  one  against  another  a 
our  more  subtly  juxtaposed  types  of  to-day.  Only  the  ancient  way  o 
treating  them  seems  to  us  naively  abrupt  and  inconsequent.  But  tb 
peculiar  quality  of  each  is  retained  intact  throughout,  and  the  unity  o 
the  whole,  as  depending  on  the  furtherance  of  one  motive,  may  be  sai( 
to  be  well  maintained.  The  nature  of  Solomon  is,  truly,  not  very  flattei 
ingly  depicted,  nor  is  there  anything — ^to  our  cosmopolitan  tolerance — ver 
awful.  He  was  a  much-married  man,  and  did  more  than  his  share  o 
providing  veils  and  necklaces;  but  he  was  evidently  a  mild  monarch,  re 
warding  his  beloveds  with  rich  favors  and  abundant  tenderness.  But  ou 
author  evidently  had  a  grudge  against  him  for  plundering  the  provinces  o 
its  pretty  maids,  and  in  this  defense  of  plighted  love,  took  occasion  t 
show  up  the  ruler  of  the  earth  as  defeated  by  the  ruler  of  hearts.  Th' 
ladies  of  the  harem  are  evidently  of  one  thought — love  for  their  Sole 
mon.  They  are  not  of  a  possessing  turn,  for  the  new  member  of  th 
seraglio  is  not  looked  upon  at  all  unkindly;  on  the  contrary,  her  fail 
ness  is  at  once  generously  admitted  as  superlative.  The  shepherd  will  b 
remembered  for  his  frank  and  steadfast  wooing,  so  richly  embelli^e 
with  every  fancy  and  allusion  to  nature,  while  the  vine-dresser  hersd 
stands  forth  supreme  in  her  beauty  through  all  the  passing  centuries,  A 
ever-longed-for,  never-won,  yet  all-yielding  flower  of  life — incarnation  an 
symbol — ^the  complete  love  of  woman  when  she  knows  her  inmost  soul. 


TIPPA  PASSES'    ON  THE  STAGE 

By  David  Kelley  Lambuth 

rHE  dramatic  critics  disported  themselves  merrily  over  the  re- 
cent production  of  Browning's  Tippa  Passes'  on  a  New 
York  stage.  But  if  the  play  was  really  productive  of  such 
effervescent  facetiousness,  it  seems  ungrateful  to  have  called 
it  *Four  Long  Hours  of  Gloom  and  Browning.'  Judg- 
ing from  the  tone  of  the  'morning  after'  criticisms,  it  was 
anything  but  gloomy.  Jokes  about  the  author's  unintelligi- 
lity,  consecrated  by  immemorial  usage,  were  warmed  over,  like  the  Irish- 
ui*s  fatted  calf  that  had  been  saved  for  years,  and  served  under  French 
im  de  plumes,  but  some  original  humor  was  accidentally  perpetrated 
0,  and  sheds  new  light  upon  the  poet's  work.  Tippa'  wails  one  critic, 
atsed  by  a  variety  of  most  difficult  people,  and  we  got  the  variety,'  a 
Doad  announces  the  moral  of  the  Ottima-Sebald  scene  to  be  that  'when 
m  choose  a  man  to  murder  your  old  husband,  be  sure  not  to  get  one  with 
Id  feet/  while  a  third  declares  with  great  solemnity  that  Tippa  contin- 
Uy  passes,  and  every  time  she  passes  she  precipitates  a  catastrophe.' 
bere  is  as  much  truth  as  humor  in  all  of  these,  for  Sebald's  suicide,  leav- 
g  Ottima  to  face  the  consequences  alone,  is  cowardice  not  heroism,  on 
e  stage,  and  we  are  made  painfully  aware,  improper  though  it  may  be. 
It  on  the  stage  we  sympathize  with  Ottima  and  would  gladly  see  her 
ell  out  of  the  difficulty,  that  we  are  sure  of  the  foolish  quixotism  of 
lies  matrimonial  venture,  that  there  is  apparently  no  good  reason  why 
le  Intendent's  offer  should  tempt  the  Bishop,  and  finally  that  Pippa's 
les  as  sung  on  the  stage  seem  hopelessly  insufficient  to  bring  down  such 
omentous  consequences. 

Whether  this  production  be  thought  justified  or  no,  it  is  enlightening 
1  many  points,  and  we  are  indebted  to  the  enthusiasm  of  Mrs  Le  Moine 
r  getdng  it  on  the  stage,  and  to  Mr.  Henry  Miller  for  his  laborious 
ire  in  setting  and  presenting  it.  It  is  the  purpose  of  this  paper  to  deal 
ith  the  illumination  thrown  by  the  presentation  upon  the  poem,  not  with 
I  tedmical  theatrical  merits. 

The  fundamental  error  in  the  current  criticism  was  in  classification, 
e  must  be  a  visionary  indeed  who  could  imagine  Pippa  a  play  for  a 
ipolar  audience.  It  could  never  be  enticed  into  the  clothes  proper  to  a 
al  bred  stage  production  of  the  normal  sort.     Why  then  judge  it  by 

107 


io8  PIPPA  PASSES'    ON  THE  STAGE 

standards  foreign  to  its  kind  ?  Count  it  rather  an  attempt  to  clarify  by 
action  and  illuminate  by  skilled  delivery — ^and  it  was  skilled  ddtvery 
indeed — one  of  the  finest  productions  of  the  great  poet.  Mrs  Le  Moine 
said  in  an  interview:  "If  a  thing  is  beautiful  to  you,  it  should  be  more 
beautiful  when,  to  the  reading  of  the  eye,  are  added  the  cadence  of  the 
voice  and  the  artistic  environment  of  setting.*'  So  judged,  we  contend  it 
has  a  raison  J^etre. 

In  essentially  dramatic  thought  Browning  ranks  first  among  our  poets. 
He  presents,  with  only  minor  bits  of  external  action,  the  development 
of  a  career,  its  conflicting  forces,  and  the  sudden  turns  and  leaps  of 
thought,  which  emotionally  suggest  rather  than  prosaically  demonstrate 
its  course.  The  attention  is  held  by  the  contrast  in  thought  instead  of 
action.  It  is  evident  that  skill  in  the  presentation  of  such  dramatic 
thought  does  not  coincide  with  the  essential  qualities  of  a  successful  play- 
wright. Above  all,  a  glay  demands  some  sort  of  unity,  but  lack  of  muty 
is  the  chiefest  anathema  hurled  at  poor  Pippa.  This  is  all  too  true,  and 
yet  the  acted  play  does  show  a  certain  real  unity,  not  in  the  external 
characters  and  scenes,  but  in  the  proposition  made  and  proven  by  them. 
Browning,  with  characteristic  perversity  has  turned  the  thing  wrong  side 
out,  and  the  plot — if  it  will  forgive  us — is  really  an  intellectual  develop- 
ment in  the  mind  of  the  spectator,  from  proposition,  through  proof,  to 
conviction.  You  laugh  and  call  it  a  'syllogism;*  well,  I  admit  it,  but  a 
syllogism  considerably  dramatic  and  convincing.  Mind  you,  I'm  not 
defending  this  dramatic  gymnastic,  I  am  only  trying  to  act  the  expositor. 

On  the  stage  curtain  was  appropriately  displayed  the  motto:  'All 
service  ranks  the  same  with  God.  God's  puppets,  best  and  worst,  are  wc. 
There  is  no  last  nor  first.'  Simple  Pippa  believes  it  very  confidently  in 
the  morning,  but  in  the  evening  when  her  day  is  spent,  the  truth  seems 
dim.  How  far  from  her,  still,  are  those  great  ones  she  had  dreamed  of 
somehow  influencing  on  this  one  holiday  of  all  the  year!  But  the  doubt 
comes  to  Pippa,  not  to  us.  We  have  seen  how,  running  the  gamut  of 
human  passions  in  their  crises,  she  has  not  only  struck  the  light  of  con- 
science into  the  blinded  sensual  soul  of  Sebald,  not  only  set  Jules  to  an 
unselfish  devotion  to  the  girl  he  had  been  tricked  into  marrying,  not  only 
saved  Luigi  to  his  purposed  self-devotion  in  ridding  the  state  of  a  tyrant, 
but  even  caught  the  messenger  of  God  in  his  moment  of  temptation  and 
made  him  God's  anew.  So  from  lowest  to  highest  the  little  peasant  girl 
can  reach  with  a  cheery,  thoughtless  song.  Pippa  may  not  know,  but  to 
us  the  secret  has  been  revealed,  and  the  final  repetition  of  'no  last  nor 
first,'  as  Pippa  falls  asleep,  though  but  a  childish  fancy  to  her,  is  to  us  the 
C  major  that  ends  and  dominates  the  whole. 

Browning  consciously  devoted  himself,  as  he  says,  to  'poetry  always 


DAVID   KELLEY  LAMBUTH  109 

dramatic  in  principle/  and  to  this  are  due  the  popular  terrors  of  his  style, 
itther  than  to  this  much  abused  diction.  Herein  an  actual  presentation 
ii  enlightening.  We  call  him  glibly  a  dramatic  poet,  but  do  not  realize  the 
fall  extent  of  his  dramatic  form.  Of  marvelous  variety  is  his  utterance; 
krfdness,  sordidness,  pathos,  humor,  eagerness  trampled  upon  the  heels 
by  fatuous  indifference,  running  the  gamut  of  emotions  in  a  rapid  succes- 
iioa  infinitely  difficult  to  render,  yet  true  to  the  manner  of  human  thought ; 
more  like  the  spinning  moods  of  Shakespeare's  immortal  Cleopatra  than 
any  other.  Tennyson  writes  for  reading  or  declamation;  Browning  for 
nervous  though  rhythmic  speaking.  Lines  that  baffle  the  eye  alone  flash 
into  li^t  when  given  voice.  Pippa  on  the  stage  was  proof  of  the  essential 
vitality  of  frequent  passages,  which  not  only  gained  in  clarity  and  force, 
but  provided  room  for  a  play  of  dramatic  expression  not  surpassed  by  any 
poet  or  playwright*  It  was  to  me  an  ample  proof  that  his  conversation 
it  more  vivid  and  dramatic  as  conversation,  than  even  Shakespeare's. 
The  speeches  interpreted  themselves  into  the  external  of  gesture  and  ex- 
pression with  a  readiness  as  unusual  as  it  was  striking. 

No  unprejudiced  listener  could  deny  to  the  scenes  elements  of  con- 
findng  dramatic  power,  a  power  that  rises  from  a  clear  visual  imagining 
of  the  characters  and  their  movements,  leaving  the  least  possible  room 
for  the  introduction  of  any  original  stage  'business'  by  the  actors,  so  un- 
mistakably has  all  of  this  been  already  suggested  in  the  lines.     And  this 
was  natural.     The  drama  written  for  reading  rather  than  acting  must 
forego  the  larger  actions  that  so  much  occupy  the  stage,  since  these  can 
V  be  given  only  in  narration,  and  must  confine  itself  to  the  smaller  interpre- 
!    tive  movements,  gestures  and  expressions  which  can  be  subtly  and  rapidly 
|[   reflected  in  the  actors'  words.     Herein  lies  Browning's  peculiar  vividness, 
L   and  an   unusual   richness   on   the   stage;  but   here  also  the  tragic  fault. 
I  That  which  we  cannot  see  upon  the  stage,  the  quarrel  with  the  old  Luca, 
the  murder  and  the  terror  of  that  huddled  body,  or  the  sweeping  passion 
;  of  the  day  in  the  woods  with  the  climax  of  the  storm,  appeals  to  us  as 
dramatically,  when  we  read  the  lines,  as  the  cunning  playings  of  Ottima 
upon  the  uimerved  Sebald,  the  horror  at  the  red  wine,  or  the  sudden  in- 
terruption of  Pippa's  song;  but  in  acting  the  play  the  latter  alone  can  be 
^ven  on  the  stage,  and  the  story  is  robbed  of  the  strongest  elements  of 
t%  power.    The  unity  is  dissolved,  and  the  struggle  of  the  two  souls  to 
deal  with  their  guilt  looms  disproportionately  large  compared  with  the 
more  dramatic  portion  of  the  plot  which  falls  into  second  place  because 
it  cui  only  be  told. 

The  scene  between  Jules  and  Phene,  ^eing  half  an  hour  of  just  three 
onintemipted  speeches,  was,  we  confess,  hopeless,  though  the  strain  arose 
more  from  the  intolerably  long  silence  imposed  upon  the  other  actor  than 


no  *PIPPA   PASSES'    ON  THE   STAGE 

an  entire  lack  of  dramatic  change  in  the  speeches  themselves.  As  a  cridc 
suggested :  'One  does  not  make  long  distance  records  of  elocution  at  the 
crisis  of  one's  fate.'  Jules  breaking  up  his  old  casts  preparatory  to  setdog 
out  on  his  new  quest,  was  omitted,  probably  for  the  very  good  reason 
that  in  actual  practice  it  would  suggest  a  mad  house  instead  of  a  studio, 
but  it  sacrificed  almost  the  only  bit  of  action  in  the  scene. 

The  Luigi  and  his  mother  scene  was  cut  out  entire.  An  audience  of 
this  twentieth  century  cannot  be  cajoled  or  bull-dozed  into  publicly  eating 
its  assumed  moral  standards  and  crying :  ^God's  speed,  Luigi,  in  your  in- 
tended murder,'  any  more  than  it  enjoys  the  sport  of  Shylock's  agony  or 
admits  in  practice — ^which  is  not  just  the  same  as  theory — the  contention 
of  the  'Statue  and  the  Bust,'  that  to  have  sinned  boldly  is  better  than  to 
have  purposed  a  sin  and,  through  weakness,  not  committed  it.  We  are 
a  practical  people — ^when  we  do  not  stop  to  think  about  it — ^and  are  sure 
to  put  the  whole  weight  upon  consequence  not  intention. 

The  punning,  rhyming  and  arabic  inscription  farce  of  Bluphocks — 
which  the  critic  could  not  understand — was  obviously  intended  to  be 
unintelligible  and  shows  Browning  at  his  most  mischievous,  if  academic, 
humor.  But  the  end  of  the  scene  is  transfigured  with  that  insight  into 
the  indistinguishable  sources  of  good  and  evil  which  lays  the  trap  for 
Pippa's  entanglement  where  else  but  In  her  singing,  which  was  just  her 
glory?  The  stage  presentation  thrusts  this  home  with  force.  Browning 
has  a  searching  understanding  of  the  springs  of  human  action,  through 
an  Instinctive  intellect  which  springs  from  point  to  point  in  a  labyrinth 
no  mere  plodding  could  ever  traverse,  and  endows  him  with  subtle  insight 
into  the  processes  of  the  soul.  No  amount  of  technical  faults  can  obscure 
the  gripping  realism  in  the  scene  between  Ottima  and  Sebald.  This  is  not 
guesswork,  not  philosophical  theory.  It  Is  life. 

Daylight  filters  through  the  window's  chink,  of  the  shrub  house, 
upon  the  lovers  waking  In  the  gloom,  from  an  exhausted  sleep  to  conscious- 
ness of  last  night's  deed,  then,  as  the  rusty  shutter  is  thrown  open,  flashes 
bllndlngly  upon  them  like  a  sin  discovered,  while  the  quiet  hills  now 
visible  through  the  opened  window  and  the  sunshine  streaming  in,  give 
startling  confirmation  to  Sebald's  cry:  Tou  are  plotting  one  thing  here, 
nature,  another  outside.'  The  unstrung  woman  cuts  sarcastically  at  his 
clumsiness  in  opening  the  window,  shaking  the  dust  down  on  her,  breaking 
the  pots  on  the  ledge,  then  with  sudden  idealization  of  their  partnership  in 
guilt,  *KIss,  and  be  friends,  my  Sebald.' 

But  the  man  is  torn  by  that  terrible  reaction  from  evil  concerning 
which  we  have  blinded  ourselves  with  sentimental  words,  until  the  bladi 
reality  stares  at  us  through  its  mask.  *Our  passion's  fruit,'  he  cries,  *thc 
devil  take  such  cant!     Say,   always,  Luca  was  a  wittol,  I  am  his  cut- 


DAVID   KELLEY  LAMBUTH  iii 

tMt,  you  are — '  Against  him  she  plays  eager  commonplaces:  'I  can 
:  St  Mark's*  leaning  out  of  the  window;  ^Stop,  Vecenza  should  lie — ' 
1  with  a  cry  of  exultation :  'there's  Padua  plain  enough.'  She  presses 
le  upcm  him,  with  a  subtle  cunning  calling  it  'blade'  not  'red'!  That 
iras  red  is  evident  a  mome.nt  later  when  raising  it  to  Us  lips  he  catches 
:  blood-glint  of  it  and  dashes  it  to  the  ground,  calling  in  terror  for 
€  white  wine,  the  white  wine !'  Not  until  he  is  a  little  steadied  by  the 
ne  does  she  dare  attempt  the  hypnotic  power  of  physical  appeal,  of 
ituai  charm.  Did  Browning  ever  conceive  anything  more  dramatic  than 
It  by-play  with  the  hair?  'It  is  so  you  said  a  lode  of  hair  should  wave 
rest  my  neck  ?'  flinging  her  gleaming  hair  before  her  throat,  'this  way  ?' 
awing  it  higher,  'or  this?'  binding  it  about  her  brows.  Not  Cleopatra's 
If  could  play  so  terribly.  Browning  wanders  bade  again  and  again  to 
at  subtle  glint  of  demoniac  life  that  lurks  in  a  woman's  hair.  The  man 
ce  trapped  again,  she  sweeps  him  along  to  the  music  of  a  magnificent 
I,  attuned  to  the  hot  breath  of  summer  woods  and  the  searching  tempest, 
iking  him  drunk  with  her  breath,  which  is  'worse  than  wine,'  luring 
I  fingers  at  last,  on  pretext  of  binding  it  up,  into  the  gleaming  strands 

her  fallen  hair,  and  he  rushes  blindly  into  that  defiance  that  is  to  make 
in  hers  forever:  'My  Spirit's  Arbitress,  Magnificent  in  Sin.' 

Then  Pippa,  with  her  song;  and,  with  masterful  insight  into  the  ebb 
d  flood  of  sensual  passion,  Browning  makes  Sebald  shudder  back  from 
I  ^Great  White  Queen'  not  only  with  a  bitter  scorn  of  disillusionment,  a 
oral  waking,  but  with  a  sickening  physical  revulsion  too.  'Go,  get  your 
Jthes  cm.  Wipe  off  that  paint.  I  hate  you.  My  God,  and  she  is 
Bptied  of  it  now!     The  very  hair  that  seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  life 

it,  drops  a  dead  web.'  Pitifulest  of  all,  perhaps,  is  Ottima's  cry  from 
t  outer  dark:  'Speak  to  me,  not  of  me.' 

The  'Dramatic  Mirror,'  which  is  professionally  conservative,  says: 
liere  are  moments  in  the  play  when  dramatic  intensity  is  carried  to  a 
Not  reached  nowhere  else  on  the  English  stage  outside  of  Shakespeare.' 
his  18  high  praise,  for  it  is  evident  that  the  poet's  medium  limited  him 

the  embodiment  of  isolated  dramatic  situations  rather  than  a  unified 
amatic  movement.     Note  the  splendid  dramatic  insight  witnessed  to 

the  horror  at  the  infinitesimal  span  between  moral  victory  and  defeat 
It  thrills  through  the  Bishop's  frightened  call :  'My  people,  my  people', 
d  his  terrified  'Miserere  me,  Domini,  miserere  me,  Domini,'  as  with 
mbling  fingers  he  makes  and  remakes  the  sacred  cross.  Though,  it 
ist  be  confessed,  not  seeing  why  he  should  be  likely  to  yield,  we  cannot 
i  the  dramatic  power  of  the  terrified  recovery. 

Evidently  Pippa  is  not  so  undramatic  as  some  have  said.  But  what 
I  hurt,  was  its  realism  that  doyed  our  fancy  with  the  sordid.     Pippa 


112  *PIPPA  PASSES'    ON  THE  STAGE 

wakes  in  a  dingy  room,  in  an  undainty  bed,  and — shades  of  poetry!— 
climbs  into  some  unattractive  underclothes.  Once  dressed  she  is  sweet 
enough — ^but  those  rumpled  underclothes  I — In  the  poem  she  talks  and 
sings  as  she  dresses,  and  we  hear  her  song;  on  the  stage  she  sings  and 
dresses  and  we  see  her  dressing.  It  is  a  squalid  room  and  there  is  a 
brutal  reality  about  the  dressing,  from  nightgown  to  corsage,  This,  alas, 
is  not  the  Pippa  whom  we  knew.  We  all  wear  underclothes  in  real  life, 
but  even  there  we  don't  admit  it.  Convention,  after  all,  is  the  foundation 
of  the  stage,  the  fabric  of  poetry,  the  life-blood  of  imagination,  as  well 
as  about  three  fourths  of  reality.  Pippa  waking  out  of  the  dim  dawn 
into  the  glorious  sunshine  of  her  holiday,  transmuting  her  squalid  life 
with  the  vision  of  a  divine  truth,  playing  the  voice  of  God  to  a  struggling 
world — ^this  Pippa  is  no  mere  peasant  girl  of  Asolo,  but  some  tairy 
being,  flitting  like  a  dash  of  sunshine  across  men's  lives.  The  sordid 
reality  which  must  be  represented  on  the  stage  cuts  at  the  very  roots  of 
our  impressions;  the  truth  is  not  less  true  because  it  must  have  beauty  to 
enforce  it.  In  the  poem  we  see  the  girl  of  the  spinning  mills,  and  the 
being  instinct  with  divine  truth;  on  the  stage  we  see  the  peasant;  the 
spiritual  element  is  only  implied,  not  presented,  and  we  lose  the  key  to 
the  whole  secret — so  much  for  your  realism. 

Was  it  all  worth  while?  Undoubtedly!  Beyond  the  mere  pleasure 
there  was  illumination  of  the  author's  work.  We  must  realize,  as  we 
could  not  before,  the  expressional  richness  of  Browning's  work,  the 
dramatic  flashes  that  lay  bare  the  soul,  the  insight  with  which  the  hurry- 
ing moods  of  thought  rise  from  the  action  and  resolve  themselves  into 
action  again,  the  masterful  comprehension  of  the  elemental  forces  that 
dominate  life.  The  perception  of  the  dramatic  possibilities  of  thought 
and  the  minor  activities  that  interpret  thought  is  marvellous,  unexampled; 
the  inability  to  construct  a  plot  with  unity  and  a  genuinely  outer  not  merely 
inner  career,  that  really  inheres  in  the  action,  is  monumental.  *Pippa 
Passes'  is  a  splendid  dramatic  poem ;  it  is  not  a  drama. 


CURRENT  FRENCH  POETS  AND 

NOVELISTS 

By  Curtis  Hidden  Page 

^  jF  ISTRAL,  the  veteran  poet  of  La  Provence,  has  given  us 
m  /■  the  most  charming  and  I  think  the  most  poetic  book  of 
^k  /  I  the  year  1906,  in  Mes  Origines:  Memoir es  et  Recits  de 
^^  I  Frederic  Mistral.  The  book  holds  a  similar  place  in  the 
^  ▼  ^IL.      French  literary  history  of  the  year  to  that  of  Mr.  George 

Moore's  Memories  of  My  Dead  Life  in  England;  and 
serves  as  a  very  striking  illustration  of  the  fact  that 
7  still  *'do  those  things  better  in  France."  Some  of  its  ^^recits'*  are 
unples  of  delicate  poetic  narrative  with  which  Mr.  Moore's  ^'Lovers 
Orelay"  cannot  for  a  moment  be  compared,  and  which  are  worthy  to 
nd  beside  the  most  exquisite  and  brilliant  short  stories  of  Mistral's  life- 
Lg  friend,  Daudet — there  is  no  higher  praise  possible.  In  the  per- 
ud  part  of  the  Memoires,  Mistral's  lightness  of  touch,  his  cheeriness 
d  health,  contrast  strongly  with  Mr.  Moore's  heavy  gloom. 

Mistral  is  now  seventy-six  years  old,  but  he  seems  to  have  lost  nothing 
the  spirit  and  freshness  of  youth,  and  tells  the  story  of  his  early  days, 
d  of  the  "Young  Provengal"  movement,  with  its  company  of  enthusias- 
devotees — that  new  Pleiade  which  grouped  itself  around  Mistral  as  its 
itral  star,  just  three  hundred  years  after  Du  Bellay  and  his  friends  had 
thered  atx>ut  Ronsard  to  enlighten  the  France  of  the  Renaissance — ^with 
tsistible  verve.  Yet  this  charming  book,  telling  as  it  does  the  story 
an  important  poetic  movement  of  which  its  author  was  himself  the 
ider,  is  one  of  the  most  modest  of  autobiographies.  This  is  its  only 
ult —  it  is  modest  to  the  point  of  incompleteness;  and  those  who  wish 
aUy  to  know  the  role  which  Mistral  played  in  the  development  of  the 
w  Provencal  poetry  must  turn  either  to  the  excellent  volume  on  Mis- 
il,  published  in  America  a  few  years  ago  by  Mr.  Charles  A.  Downer, 
to  the  forthcoming  volume,  in  French,  by  Paul  Marieton.  Nothing, 
wever,  can  take  the  place  of  Mistral's  own  story,  incomplete  as  it  is, 
d  bringing  us  down  only  to  the  year  1869.  Certain  chapters  should 
ve  a  permanent  place  in  literature  as  exquisite  lyrics  or  childhood; 
lers  give  pictures  of  the  trials  of  the  school-life  to  an  over-sensitive 
f,  somewhat  similar  to  those  of  Daudet's  Le  Petit  Chose;  others  give 

"3 


•  :«  M   k-i 


114       cuRRE^^^  French  poets  and  novelists 

a  picture  of  Daudet  himself,  as  a  happy  young  vagabond,  overflowia 
with  life,  and  the  gayest  of  the  madcap  band  of  young  poets  who  traiq 
ed  the  roads  of  Provence  together,  and  took  by  storm  one  after  anodm 
the  best  inns  from  Aries  to  Tarascon. 

The  poetry  of  the  year  1906  in  France  has  not  been,  so  far  as  it  nor 
seems  possible  to  judge,  of  very  marked  importance.  The  sjrmbdii 
school  has  long  since  ceased  to  be  a  literary  cenacle  of  young  men  groopc 
together  in  pursuit  of  a  common  ideal.  Each  of  its  members  has  gone 
own  way,  and  several  of  them  have  been  producing,  each  on  his 
line,  work  of  permanent  value.  But  no  one  of  them  has  pi 
mass  of  poetic  work  that  is  really  of  the  first  importance.  This  m\ 
the  partial  failure  of  the  school — ^it  has  not  produced  individual 
who  by  the  strength  of  their  personality  and  the  mass  of  their  adu< 
ment  are  worthy  to  stand  beside  Leconte  de  Lisle  or  Sully  Prudht 
or  who  have  attained  the  final  artistic  perfection  of  Heredia.  This  is 
greater  pity  because  on  the  whole  the  symbolists  were  right  in  their 
action  against  the  narrowness,  the  over-severity,  and  the  somewhat 
ficial  finish  of  the  Parnassian  school;  and  they  did  introduce  new 
worthy  ideals  into  French  poetry — ideals  of  greater  freedom  and 
ness  of  form,  of  more  breadth  and  suggestiveness  in  substance, 
of  the  poets  of  the  group  have  published  new  volumes  during  the 
year.  Not  to  speak  of  the  Belgians,  who  gave  to  the  school  its  si 
est  poet,  in  Verhaeren,  and  in  Maeterlinck  its  greatest  prose-writer 
its  only  original  dramatist,  in  France  it  is  Henri  de  Regnier  who  contii 
to  sum  up  in  himself,  more  than  any  other  poet,  the  best  tendencies 
the  school;  he  has  given  us  in  1906  a  new  volume  of  poems.  La  Si 
ailee;  and  a  prose  volume,  Sujets  et  Paysages,  containing  sketches  of 
jects  so  different  as  Italy  and  Louisiana,  together  with  essays  on  Sten< 
Mallarme,  Villiers  de  I'lsle-Adam,  Barbey  d'Aurevilly,  and  Victor  Hi 
Younger  poets  seem  to  follow  rather  the  methods  and  ideals  of 
one  among  the  symbolists  than  those  of  the  group  as  a  whole;  the 
tesse  de  Noailles  is  almost  a  personal  disdple  of  Francis  Janunes, 
Alexandre  Amoux  of  Henri  de  Regnier.  Among  the  young  poets 
are  just  winning  their  spurs  may  be  mentioned  Emile  Despax,  ai 
of  La  Maison  des  Glycines;  Francois  Pordie,  author  of  A  Chaque  1 
and  Les  Suppliants;  Abel  Bonnard,  author  of  Les  Familiers;  and 
Larguier.  The  last  of  these  is  perhaps  the  most  promising.  He  has 
published  his  second  volume,  Les  Isolements.  It  is  noteworthy  that 
of  the  younger  poets  have  abandoned  the  vers  libre  and  returned  to 
more  usual  forms  of  French  versification.  Andre  Spire,  however,  w 
in  unrhymed  and  strongly  rhythmic  verse.  In  Les  Isolements,  one  of  ^ 
most  beautiful  poems  is  that  addressed  to  Pierre  de  Ronsard.     Ronstj^ 


CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE  115 

the  Pleiade  seem  not  only  to  be  more  and  more  recognized  as  mark- 
one  of  the  greatest  epochs  in  French  literary  history,  but  also  to  ap- 
morc  and  more  to  the  enthusiasm  of  the  poets  of  today.    The  most 
utiful  lines  in  another  volume  of  verse  just  published,  Le  Rhythme  de 
hVie  {C  Levy),  by  Gaston  Deschamps,  the  literary  critic  of  Le  Temps, 

Balso  addressed  to  Ronsard,  and  the  most  important  section  of  the 
iimc  is  devoted  to  Ronsard  and  the  ''dear  dead  women"  of  the  Renais- 
tce  whom  he  loved — Cassandre,  Marie,  and  Helene.  Beside  this  ex- 
Nte  series  of  sonnets,  called  Jardin  d' Amour,  it  is  amusing  to  find  an- 
Nher  series  called  Fleurs  d'Amerique,  which  celebrate  the  i^erican  ath- 
tec  girl  of  today,  and  which,  unfortunately — ^let  us  hope  it  is  not  on  ac- 
Dunt  of  the  subject — are  flat  and  prosaic  by  contrast. 

A  surviving  veteran  of  the  Parnassian  school,  Jean  Labor  (Henry 
azalis)  has  just  published  a  small  volume  of  brief  sayings  which  sum 
|»  the  attitude  toward  life  of  the  brave  pessimists  of  the  mid-century — 
lyings  taken  mostly  from  Hindu  literature,  of  which  he  has  written  the 
!it  history  in  French,  but  also  including  many  modem  ones,  and  called 
r  Breviaire  d*un  Pantheiste  et  le  Pessimisme  heroique.  The  work  of 
le  Parnassian  school  has  just  been  summed  up  in  the  first  volume  of  a 
sir  anthology,  Anthologie  des  Poetes  franqais  contemporains,  i866'igo6 
Delagnve),  which  is  to  be  complete  in  three  volumes,  bringing  us 
Mm  to  the  present  year.  The  first  volume  promises  well.  Starting 
ith  Gautier  and  Sainte^Beuve  as  predecessors  of  the  Parnassian  school, 
includes  sixty-nine  poets  (reminding  one  of  Kipling's  lines:  *'There 
ie  nine  and  sixty  ways  of  composing  tribal  lays.  And  every  single  one 
f  them  is  right")  down  to  Verlaine,  Rimbaud,  Bouchor  and  Bourget.  Le- 
ntc  de  Lisle  has  naturally  the  largest  place,  with  Catulle  Mendes  (not 
Bte  so  naturally)  a  dose  second;  next  come  Sully  Prudhomme  and  Ver- 
ine.  The  volume  has  the  almost  inevitable  fault  of  any  general  an- 
Kriogy;  of  the  greater  men,  not  enough  can  be  given  really  to  repre- 
nt  their  woric,  and  the  minor  poets  take  a  disproportionate  amount  of 
ttce.     For  instance,  of  Leconte  de  Lisle  none  of  the  great  poems  are 

iren,  such  as  the  "Venus  de  Milo,"  the  "Qain,"  or  "Dies  Irae;"  in 
id,  none  of  his  poems  dealing  with  the  classical  epoch,  except  "L'Enfance 
Herakles**,  to  which  we  should  certainly  prefer  the  "Venus  de  Milo," 
r  "Hypatic."  "Surya,"  which  is  given,  could  well  be  omitted  in  favor 
F  "Hypatie;"  and  certainly  place  should  have  been  found  for  the  four- 
en  lines  of  "Les  Montreurs,"  and  for  at  least  one  of  the  personal 
icms,  such  as  "Le  Nanchy."  It  is  easy,  however,  to  criticize  the  selec- 
ons  of  such  an  anthology;  it  must  necessarily  be  inadequate  for  the  greater 
Mtt,  but  it  is  the  best  source  through  which  to  know  the  minor  poets  of 


ii6         CURRENT  FRENCH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS 

the  epoch,  and  the  two  later  volumes,  still  to  appear,  will  be  especial) 
useful. 

The  definitive  edition  of  Victor  Hugo's  works,  now  being  printed  j 
the  Imprimerie  Nationale,  and  published  by  Ollendori!,  has  reached  i 
fifth  volume — ^the  first  of  La  Legende  des  Siecles.  Since  the  death  of  Pai 
Meurice,  the  editorship  has  been  taken  up  by  Gustave  Simon.  This 
practically  a  '^biographical  edition,''  each  work  being  fully  annotated  froi 
Hugo's  private  papers  and  letters,  and  provided  with  an  introduction  trea 
ing  of  its  origin  and  growth.  The  revelations  of  the  last  previous  volum 
Le  Rhin^  showing  Hugo's  rearrangement  of  facts  to  suit  his  artistic  pu 
poses,  were  remarkable,  and  serve  anew  to  suggest  that  the  effect  of  genii 
upon  Victor  Hugo's  veracity  was  much  the  same  as  that  of  the  southei 
sun  upon  Tartarin's. 

The  novelists  most  talked  of  in  France  today  are  three  women- 
the  Comtesse  de  Noailles,  Gerard  d'Houville,  and  Marcelle  Tinayr 
The  Comtesse  de  Noailles  is  also  well  known  as  a  poet,  especially  f( 
her  Coeur  Innombrable.  Marcel  Prevost,  who  does  not  admit  the  supe 
iority  of  women  in  the  novel,  assigns  her  the  first  rank  in  poetry.  '^Frani 
today,"  he  says,  **has  no  greater  poet  than  the  Comtesse  de  Noailles. 
This  seems,  to  say  the  least,  somewhat  exaggerated.  Those  who  wish  t 
judge  for  themselves  may  find  some  examples  of  her  work  in  a  serit 
of  eleven  important  poems  published  by  the  last  number  of  the  Revue  c 
Paris  (December  15),  and  an  example,  also,  of  the  way  in  which  poeti 
is  treated  by  the  best  French  reviews,  as  contrasted  with  its  treatment  i 
our  American  magazines.  Her  most  important  novels  are  La  nouvel 
Esperance,  Le  Visage  emerveille,  and  La  Domination  (C.  Levy).  Pe 
haps  M.  Prevost,  in  giving  her  the  first  rank  as  a  poet,  wishes  to  divert  a 
tention  from  her  work  in  his  own  particular  field,  in  which  she  is  a  formi< 
able  rival — the  detailed  analysis  of  women's  emotions.  Gerard  d'Houvil 
gives  rather,  in  L'Inconstante  and  L'Esclave,  pictures  of  the  passiona 
woman  entirely  dominated  by  her  love,  stopping  for  no  self-analysis,  hesit 
ting  at  no  obstacle.  Marcelle  Tinayre  is  the  most  talented  and  the  mo 
serious  of  the  three,  and  is  fast  coming  to  be  regarded  as  one  of  tl 
chief  figures  in  contemporary  French  literature.  Her  third  novel,  Hell 
was  crowned  by  the  French  Academy;  in  it  she  gives  the  picture  of 
young  girl  brought  up  as  a  thorough  pagan,  both  in  taste  and  principle 
by  her  uncle  and  guardian,  a  Greek  scholar,  who  despises  the  asceticis 
of  mediaeval  Christianity  and  its  legacies  to  modern  life;  of  her  momen 
ary  love  for  a  young  Parisian  poet  with  ideas  like  her  own;  and  of  h 
final  conquest  by  a  strong  and  thoroughly  modem  man  whose  life 
devoted  to  the  cause  of  social  reform.  UOiseau  d'Orage,  published  a  ye 
later,  is  the  not  uncommon  story  of  a  woman  who,  wearied  and  disillusions 


CURTIS   HIDDEN   PAGE  117 

by  the  selfishness  of  her  lover,  goes  back  to  her  husband  as  her  natural 
master  and  her  refuge  and  safeguard.  La  Maison  du  Peche  is  perhaps 
Madame  Tinayrc*s  masterpiece.  It  is  also  of  particular  interest  today  as 
showing  the  contrast  between  liberalism  and  the  old  religious  ideas  in  a 
typical  French  country  town ;  and  may  be  especially  recommended  to  Ameri- 
cuis  who  do  not  understand  the  conditions  of  the  present  struggle  between 
church  and  state  in  France.  But  it  is  naturally  her  last  novel,  La  Rebelle, 
who  has  aroused  the  most  discussion,  since  it  is  a  serious  study  of  the 
modem  woman,  emancipated  and  self-supporting,  and  frankly  in  rebellion 
against  the  conventions  of  society. 

Marcel  Prevost  is  once  more  the  author  of  the  most  successful  novel 
of  the  year,  from  the  point  of  view  of  sales.  His  Monsieur  et  Madame 
Moloch,  pictures,  for  the  French  of  today,  modern  Germany  under  the 
regime  of  militarism  and  commercial  expansion,  as  contrasted  with  what 
he  calls  the  former  and  truer  Germany  of  reverie  and  poetry  and  analysis. 
After  running  as  a  serial  in  the  Revue  des  deux  Mondes  it  was  published 
a  little  more  than  a  month  ago  in  book  form,  and  has  already  passed  its 
sixty-fifth  edition.  Loti's  novel  of  the  year,  Les  Desenchantees:  Roman 
d'Harem  Turc  contemporain,  was  also  first  published  as  a  serial  in  the 
Revue  des  deux  Mondes,  but  it  was  hardly  worthy  of  that  distinction.  In 
it  Lot!  returns  to  the  scene  of  his  early  triumph,  Aziyadiy  and  his  later 

I  Phantome  d'Orient^  but  the  vein  is  rather  worked  out,  and  the  vulgarity 
of  the  substance  is  no  longer  so  well  concealed  by  the  exotic  "atmosphere" 
which  Loti  sheds  so  thickly  over  his  paintings.  Other  novels  of  the  year 
arc  VIncendie,  by  £douard  Rod,  Les  A  ventures  du  Rot  Pausole  by  Pierre 
Louys,  and  a  collection  of  Nouvelles  by  Paul  and  Victor  Margueritte,  en- 
tidcd  Sur  le  Vtf.     There  have  also  been  published  translations  of  Du 

.;  Maurier's  Trilby;  of  The  Jungle,  under  the  attractive  title  Les  Empoison- 
:(   neurs  de  Chicago;  and  of  a  volume  of  Dr.  Van  Dyke^^s  Canadian  stories. 

I I  A  curious  echo  from  the  past  is  the  publication  of  a  new  novel  by  Henry 
.  I  Ccard,  Terrains  a  Vendre  au  Bord  de  la  Mer  (Fasquelle).  Ceard  was  one 
li  of  the  group  of  young  men  who,  with  Zola,  published  the  once  famous 
t  ^mrees  de  Medan  in  1880,  to  which  Zola  contributed  his  Attaque  du 
5 .  Moulin,  and  Maupassant  his  first  masterpiece,  Boule  de  Suif.  The  humor- 
;  008  incredulity  with  which  the  public  and  critics  have  greeted  the  idea  that 
s.  t  member  of  the  school  could  still  be  alive,  and  writing  in  the  same  manner, 
-    shows  how  completely  that  school  is  a  thing  of  the  past. 

^  The  drama  is  once  more,  after  the  temporary  domination  of  the  novel, 

r   recognized  as  the  chief  form  of  literature  in  France.    Unfortunately,  how- 

F    ever,  the  present  season  has  not  as  yet  produced  any  important  work  which 

seems  worth  analysing  as  an  example  of  contemporary  drama.     The  first 

new  play  given  at  the  Theatre  Fran?ais  this  fall  was  Paul  Adam's  Les 


ii8    CURRENT  FRENCH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS 

Mouettes,  a  problem  play  which    had    little    success.      Henri    Bat 
Poliche,  a  comedy  in  four  acts,  produced  at  the  same  theatre  in  Decc 
was  almost  a  complete  failure.     The  sensation  of  the  season,  thu 
is  Antoine's  production  of  Julius  Caesar  at  the  Odeon,  of  which  he  i 
director.    The  best  poetic  play  of  the  past  year  was  perhaps  CatuUe  M 
Glatignyj  given  at  the  Odeon  in  March.     In  it  the  veteran  poet  < 
Parnassian  school,  who  has  since  been  the  polygraph  of  all  school 
used  the  life  of  a  fellow-poet  of  the  Pamasse,  who  died  soon  aft 
first  partial  successes,  as  the  basis  of  a  play  in  which  he  has  attemp 
repeat  the  triumph  of  Cyrano  de  Bergerac  by  somewhat  the  same  m< 
which  Rostand  used.    In  fact  the  life  of  Glatigny,  distinctly  a  minor 
but  a  prince  of  vagabonds,  a  sort  of  Don  Quixote  or  rather  Capitain 
casse  of  the  nineteenth  century,  tilting  against  the  windmills  of  a  sd 
age,  and  repeatedly  beaten  in  his  battle  with  those  new  ''prejudices, 
not  unlike  that  of  Cyrano.     Mendes,  as  his  vivid  book  of  reminisc 
La  Legende  du  Pamasse  contemporain,  recently  showed,  is  as  full  a 
of  the  spirit  of  youth  and  poetry,  and  this  he  has  put  into  the  play;  es] 
ly  into  the  first  act;  for  unfortunately  the  mood  is  not  quite  sus 
throughout,  and  Mendes'  comedy  has  not  the  masterly  constructio 
constantly  renewed  dramatic  appeal  of  Rostand's.     Mendes'  desa 
of  the  literary  brasseries  of  Paris,  about  1865,  ^^  ^^^  unworthy  to 
beside  Rostand's  description  of  the  rotisserie  des  poetes  of  Ragueneau 
Derriere  les  billards,  et  loin  du  rigodon, 
Les  nouveaux.     Ceux  qui  font  des  sonnets,    qa  les  mene 
A  ne  diner,  tres  tard,  que  trois  fois  la  semaine. 
Des  enfants  presque.    On  dit:   "C'est  les  PamassiensI" 
Drole  de  nom.     lis  sent  tres  mal  vus  des  anciens. 
Pour  leur  barbe  blondine  et  leurs  fronts  sans  grisaille. 
Villiers.    Tous  ses  cheveux  dans  Toeil.    Une  broussaillc 
Du  feu  dessous.    Est-il  roi  des  Grecs?  c'est  le  hie. 
Heredia  ne  vient  jamais.     II  est  trop  chic. 
Comme  on  ferait  tourner  des  tables,  main  crispee, 
Tendus,  ils  font  le  rond  ver  Catulle  ou  Coppee. 
Catulle,  en  porcelaine,  a  des  airs  belliqueuxl 
L'autre  est  plus  doux.    Des  fois  je  m'assois  avec  eux; 
lis  parlent  de  Hugo,  d'Hamlet,  de  Rosalinde, 
De  I'amour,  de  la  mort,  de  la  Chine,  de  I'lnde, 
De  Leconte  de  Lisle  et  de  THimalaya; 
Ce  que  je  bailie  dans  les  bocks  qu'on  me  paya  I 
Tout  de  meme  on  sent  bien  qu'ils  sont  tout  autre  chose 
Que  des  bourgeois  qui  font  des  affaires  en  prose. 
Another  poetic  drama  worth  mentioning  is  the  brief  play  in  two  a 


CURTIS   HIDDEN   PAGE  119 

It  Samain,  the  most  exquisite  of  the  symbolists,  whose  premature  death 
a  great  loss  to  poetry.  His  Polypheme  was  performed  in  the  ancient 
lan  theatre  of  Orange  on  the  fifth  of  last  August,  with  Albert  Lambert 
n  the  title  role,  and  achieved  a  triumph.  It  has  now  been  published 
small  volume  by  the  Mercure  de  France. 

Dramatic  criticism  and  the  history  of  the  drama  have  been  assiduous- 
Itivated,  as  always  in  France,  during  the  past  year.  Peladan's  Origine 
sthetique  de  la  Tr  age  die  (E.  Sansot)  traces  the  history  of  the  drama 
\  the  mysteries  of  Eleusis  to  modem  times.  The  second  volume  of 
ilhac's  Histoire  general  du  Theatre  en  France  has  appeared,  and 
\  with  the  history  of  comedy.  The  first  volume  dealt  with  the  origin 
rama,  down  to  Comeille,  and  the  third  will  take  up  the  history  of 
:dy.  The  eighth  and  last  volume  of  Sarcey's  Quarante  Ans  de  Theatre 
liotheque  des  Annales)  has  now  been  published,  and  also  the  two 
lumous  volumes  of  Larroumet's  £tudes  de  Critique  dramatique 
chette).  Adolphe  Brisson,  who  has  succeeded  Sarcey  and  Larroumet 
le  dramatic  critic  of  Le  Temps,  has  already  begun  to  collect  his  feuiU 
s  in  Le  Theatre  et  les  Moeurs  (Flammarion) ;  and  Faguet,  the  critic 
(ic  Journal  des  Debats,  continues  the  publication  of  his  Propos  de 
itre,  (Societe  frangaise  d'imprimerie),  now  arrived  at  the  third  volume, 
les  the  two  lives  of  Moliere  which  have  recently  appeared  in  English, 
Ir.  TroUope  in  England  and  by  Mr.  Chatfield-Taylor  in  America,  we 
in  French  an  excellent  study  by  Henri  Davignon,  Moliere  et  la  Vie. 
z  pleasure  to  be  able  to  say  that  of  these  three  works  on  Moliere  the 
rican  is  unquestionably  the.  best. 

In  the  field  of  literary  reminiscences,  biography,  and  criticism,  a  large 
ber  of  important  books  and  articles  have  appeared  during  the  year, 
h  cannot  here  be  taken  up  in  detail.  It  must  suffice  to  mention  the 
notable  among  them.  Flaubert's  Lettres  a  sa  Niece  Caroline  have 
published  by  Fasquelle.  They  cover  the  years  1856  to  1880,  but 
especially  with  the  later  years,  during  which  he  was  composing  La 
ation  de  Saint  Antoine  and  Bouvard  et  Pecuchet.  They  show  again 
[evotion  to  art,  his  care  for  the  least  turn  of  phrase,  and  the  enormous 
t  which  his  writing  cost  him.  The  groanings  and  struggle  with  which 
icceeded  in  finishing  ten  pages  in  the  course  of  a  month  are  described  in 
1  in  these  letters.  Some  new  letters  of  Alfred  de  Vigny,  Correspond^ 
,  de  1816  a  1863  have  been  published,  but  are  not  of  especial  interest, 
he  other  hand  the  new  book  on  Musset,  Alfred  de  Musset:  Souvenirs 
I  Gouvernante,  contains  some  letters  which  are  masterpieces  of  epistolary 
m.  The  book  is  a  very  curious  one,  and  adds  a  good  deal  to  our 
dedge  of  Musset's  later  life.  We  have  also,  this  year,  Ernest  Renan*s 
\ers  de  Jeunesse,  18 45- 18 46;  and  there  have  been  published  in  America 


120    CURRENT  FRENCH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS 

the  letters  of  Madame  dc  Stael  to  Benjamin  Constant  (New  York,  Put- 
nam's) . 

The  most  interesting  volume  of  correspondence  of  the  year,  however, 
is  that  of  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse  with  the  Comte  de  Guibert,  published 
by  the  Comte  de  Villeneuve-Guibert,  the  great-grandson  of  Mademoiselle 
iie  Lespinasse's  too  favored  lover.  We  had  previously  had  the  Lettres  de 
MademoisAle  de  Lespinasse,  first  published  in  1809,  and  the  Nouvelles 
Lettres,  1820,  as  well  as  Le  Tombeau  de  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse,  a 
rare  volume  of  which  a  few  copies  only  were  published  in  1879  ^J  ^^ 
Bibliophile  Jacob  (Paul  Lacroix) ;  but  the  Correspondance  is  now  published 
for  the  first  time  in  full  and  correctly,  from  the  autograph  copies  of  the 
original  letters ;  and  the  interest  of  the  book  is  greatly  increased  by  the  addi- 
tion of  a  large  number  of  unpublished  letters  of  Guibert.  There  has  also 
appeared  an  important  volume  by  the  Marquis  de  Segur,  entitled  Julie  de 
Lespinasse.  M.  de  Segur  has  by  a  thorough  study  of  unpublished  docu- 
ments, family  papers,  and  letters  and  journals  of  several  of  her  contem- 
poraries, discovered  many  new  facts  about  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse; 
among  others  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  the  Comtesse  d'Albon  and  of 
Gaspard  de  Vichy,  who  later  married  the  legitimate  daughter  of  the 
Comtesse  d'Albon,  and  so  became  the  brother-in-law  of  his  illegitimate 
child,  Julie.  Her  father's  sister,  Madame  du  Deffand,  whose  salon  had 
long  been  a  centre  of  intellectual  life  in  Paris,  received  Julie  there,  but 
soon  grew  jealous  of  the  intelligence  and  charm  which  made  her  niece  the 
centre  of  that  salon's  renewed  life  and  attraction.  When  the  inevitable 
rupture  came,  and  Julie  established  a  salon  of  her  own,  many  of  the 
Marquise's  old  friends,  including  D'Alembert  himself,  abandoned  her  to 
follow  Julie.  The  story  of  D'Alembert's  devoted  friendship,  a  platonic 
passion  that  lasted  sixteen  years,  until  his  death,  is  well  known.  In  the 
meantime,  there  had  come  into  the  life  of  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse 
that  passion  of  another  kind  for  Guibert,  the  soldier  and  man  of  the  world, 
whose  character  was  anything  but  romantic,  of  which  these  letters  arc  the 
memorial.  They  are  also  a  reminder  of  the  literary  moods  of  the  time, 
and  one  of  the  most  striking  examples  of  the  influence  of  literature  upon 
life.  **You  will  think  me  mad,"  writes  Julie,  **but  read  one  of  Clarissa^s 
letters,  or  a  page  of  Jean  Jacques,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  understand  me. 
Not  that  I  claim  to  speak  their  language;  but  I  live  in  their  country,  and 
my  heart  beats  in  unison  with  the  sorrows  of  Clarissa."  Fortunately,  she 
does  not  "speak  their  language."  Her  letters  are  simple  and  genuine,  and 
are  the  most  touching  and  passionate  expression  of  woman's  love  that  has 
ever,  perhaps,  found  its  way  into  print. 

In  the  field  of  biography,  the  most  important  book  of  the  year  is 
Lanson's  Voltaire^  just  published  by  Hachette,  in  the  **Grands  Ecrivains" 


CURTIS   HIDDEN  PAGE  121 

ies.  It  was  a  difficult  task  to  condense,  within  the  limits  of  such  a  brief 
>graphy,  as  this  series  allows,  a  well-balanced  account  of  the  life  and 
>rk  of  the  chief  Frenchman  of  letters.  But  Professor  Lanson  has  suc- 
eded.  His  treatment  is  of  course  sympathetic,  and  his  marshalling  of 
cts  and  ideas  is  masterly.  A  life  of  Lamartine  by  Rene  Doumic  is  to  be 
iblished  in  this  san^^  series  early  in  the  coming  year.  The  volume  on 
ilzac  by  Brunetiere — Honore  de  Balzac,  lygg-iS^o  (C.  Levy) — stands 
ixt  in  importance,  but  it  must  be  admitted  that  it  is  in  some  ways  unsatis- 
ctory,  especially  in  that  it  dissociates  Balzac's  work  so  completely  from 
t  life,  and  even  from  his  epoch,  the  period  of  Romanticism,  which  Bru- 
ticre  calls  'Tecole  de  Tignorance  et  de  la  presomption."  On  the  other 
uid,  Brunetiere*s  analysis  of  the  Comedie  humaine  is  masterly,  and  he 
ell  brings  out,  though  perhaps  he  somewhat  exaggerates,  the  influence 
:  Balzac  upon  life  itself  and  upon  the  period  of  literature  which  was  to 
(llow.  "La  Comedie  humaine,''  he  says,  *'a  transforme  Ies  moeurs,  avant 
J  lenouveler  le  theatre,  le  roman,  et  Thistoire."  Two  interesting  works 
f  important  authors  of  the  romantic  school  have  been  published  by  Leon 
chc:  Alfred  de  Musset,  in  two  volumes;  and  Lamartine  de  18 16  a 
^30:  Elvire  et  Ies  Meditations.  These  are  not  exactly  biographies,  and 
n  perhaps  be  best  designated  as  scholarly  gossip.  Another  book,  this 
nc  a  definitive  biography  and  a  sympathetic  appreciation,  by  Gauthier 
MTicres,  deals  with  the  too  little  known  romanticist,  Gerard  de  Nerval. 
nally,  there  have  appeared  an  important  work  on  the  chief  of  the  Pamas- 
^»i  by  Marius  Leblond:  Leconte  de  Lisle,  d'apres  des  documents  noit- 
**J*/ and  two  books  which  together  give  a  complete  treatment  of  Maupas- 
^  s  lite:  La  Vie  et  Voeuvre  de  Guy  de  Maupassant,  by  £douard  Maynial 
^f'^^rc  de  France),  and  La  Maladie  et  la  mort  de  Maupassant,  by 
*«w  Thomas  (Herbert,  Bruges). 

in       u  ^^  ^^'^  ^^  literary  •history  the  most  important  books  which  have 

snrfi  i-^*^**^^  during  the  past  year  do  not,  as  it  happens,  deal  with  modem 

^iT^J^I^tcrature.    One  is  an  excellent  history  of  Italian  literature,  in  the 

9^^£^  Scries.     Another  is  a  monumental  volume  on  La  Revolution 

t^^^  ^^  l^^  poetes  anglais  (Hachette),  by  Charles  Cestre,  formerly  a 

Pri   ^'^^  instructor  at  Harvard,  and  now  at  the  University  of  Lyons. 

HfJ?^  on  the  title  page  his  Harvard  degree  of  A.  M. — ^perhaps  the 

p^^  that  an  American  university  has  received  such  mention  on  the 

!j  jj^^  of  a  French  book.     The  work  serves  to  illustrate  anew  how 

ice  r?^^cr  is  the  scholarship  which  leads  to  the  Doctorat  es  Lettres  in 

^  n^*  ^^1  that  which    the  German  or  American  Ph.  D.  represents.    Cov- 

of   .  absolute  t/jCP^^^yg^^^^^  an  important  modem  period  and  a  living 

"ica    ^^^8f  this  th^^^^  is,  as  the  doctorate  theses  of  Germany  and 

^^^7  nrely0X'^9    ^  ^^^1  ^o^J^  of  permanent  value  and  of  general 


•  (•<>     M. 


122        CURRENT  FRENCH   POETS  AND  NOVELISIS 

interest.  Another  important  work  of  French  scholarstup  is  the  new  and 
enlarged  edition  of  the  late  Gaston  Paris'  Esquisse  historique  de  la  Uttera- 
ture  franqaise  du  moyen  age,  which  now  brings  the  story  of  French  litera- 
ture down  to  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century.  On  the  sixteenth  century  we 
have  a  new  book  by  Zangroniz:  Montaigne,  Amyot,  Saliai. 

In  the  field  of  criticism  and  essays,  we  have  two  new  volumes  by  Henri 
Bordeaux:  Pay  sages  romanesques^  dealing  with  Heine,  Goethe,  Victor 
Hugo,  and  others;  and  Pelerinages  litter  aires,  dealing  with  Barres, 
Sainte-Beuve,  Daudet,  Faguet,  etc.  Faguet,  besides  his  dramatic  critidt 
has  given  us  one  volume  of  controversial  essays,  UAnticlericalisme,  and 
one  of  literary  gossip,  Amours  d'hommes  de  lettres.  The  second  of  these 
is  a  collection  of  essays  published  from  time  to  time  in  reviewing  the 
memoirs  and  collections  of  letters  of  which  so  many  have  appeared  in  the 
last  few  years,  and  deals  with  Georges  Sand,  Alfred  de  Musset,  Sainte- 
Beuve,  Merimee,  Lamartine,  Chateaubriand,  Mirabeau,  Pascal,  and  others. 
A  charming  book  of  essays,  Le  Reveil  de  Pallas  (E.  Sansot),  is,  I  think,  the 
first  book  of  a  young  critic,  Pierre  Fons.  The  last  book  of  an  older  critic, 
the  master  of  his  generation,  is  Brunetiere's  Questions  actuelles.  Brunetiere 
died  on  the  ninth  of  December,  after  an  illness  of  two  years,  during  which 
he  kept  persistently  at  his  work  up  to  the  last  moment,  editing  himself  the 
last  number  ( December  1 5 )  of  the  Revue  des  deux  mondes,  of  which  he 
had  been  for  thirteen  years  the  editor  and  for  thirty  years  a  contributor. 

THE  BOY  HOOD  OF  KEATS 

By  Agnes  Lee 

Bound  to  the  gods  whom  every  orb  enrings. 
And  passionate  as  mortal  children  are, 
He  paced  with  golden  footsteps  of  a  star, 
Lnheeded  yet  of  the  world's  garlanding. 
Science  drew  near  and  uttered  fateful  things. 
Traffic  rushed  by  upon  its  sounding  car. 
Ever  he  heard  the  Muse  that  from  afar 
Besought  him  in  a  secret  song  of  wings. 

Brother  of  beauty!     Dreamer  of  an  art 
That  was  to  limn  Hyperion  I     Boy  sublime  I 
Our  modern  day  is  yearning  back  to  thee. 
And,  with  its  heart  aglow  upon  thy  heart. 
Feels  the  warm  recentness  of  Milton's  time, 
And  Shakespeare,  closer  by  a  century! 


RECENT  GERMAN  POETRY  AND 

DRAMA 

By  Amelia  Von  Ende 

FOR  a  living  author  a  complete  edition  of  his  works  means 
a  landmark  in  his  career  indicating  the  attainment  of  majority. 
This  point  having  been  recently  reached  by  Gerhart 
Hauptmann,  Detlev  von  Liliencron  and  Richard  Dehmel,  it  is 
meet  to  look  back  upon  the  period  they  represent  and  to  take 
note  of  its  achievements  and  its  failures.  For  although 
Liliencron  never  directly  took  part  in  the  Revolution  der 
Uuratur  proclaimed  by  Karl  Bleibtreu,  he,  like  the  other  two,  is  a  product 
of  the  storm  and  stress  of  literary  production  following  Nietzsche's  re- 
Ttlnaticm  of  values  and  deeply  influenced  by  the  scientific  investigations 
of  the  time. 

The  paramount  issue  of  the  campaign  waged  against  the  old  ideals 
and  old  methods  by  the  young  generation  of  the  last  two  decades  has 
been  the  establishment  of  a  close  relation  between    literature    and    life, 
which  logically  implied  a  new  manner  of  presenting  its  problems.    It  needs 
but  a  glance  at  the  literature  of  the  periods  to  prove  that  this  new  manner, 
the  naturalism  no  longer  new  to  the  French,  was  soon  essentially  modified 
^d  in  time  more  thoroughly  exploited  and  abused  by  German  writers 
than  its  French  originators  had  dreamed  of.     With  their  fondness  for 
scientific  speculation  the  wildest  psychopathic  hypothesis  launched  by  a 
modem  scientist  was  not  exempt  from  being  treated  in  poetry,  drama  and 
ficdon,  and,  what  is  worse,  from  being  made  the  pivotal  point  of  criticism. 
Much  that  is  unsatisfactory  in  recent  German  letters  is  due  to  a  one-sided 
adherence  to  this  scientific  viewpoint  and  a  supreme  disregard  of  con- 
ventional ethics  and  sesthetical  effects.     There  are  passages  in  the  earlier 
plays  of  Hauptmann  and  there  are  poems  in  the  early  books  of  Liliencron 
and  Dehmel  which  owed  their  existence  directly  to  the  partizan  attitude 
of  their  generation  in  the  literary  struggle  for  truth.    Now  that  the  works 
of  Hauptmann  are  to  appear  in  six  volumes  and  those  of  Dehmel  in  ten 
(S.  Fischer,  Berlin),  while  those  of  Liliencron  are  already  collected  in 
fourteen  volumes  (Schuster   and   Loefiler,    Berlin),  it  will  be  possible  to 
forvey  the  achievement  of  these  men  as  a  whole  and  to  assign  to  them 
the  places  they  are  likely  to  occupy  in  the  literature  of  modem  Germany. 

123 


4  RECENT  GERMAN   POETRY  AND  DRAMA 

Hauptmann,  as  he  appears  to  us  to-day,  after  twenty  years  of  a 
remarkable  literary  career,  is  a  figure  bearing  the  marie  of  his  tihie,  ex- 
pressing even  in  the  deep  lines  of  his  face  die  tragedy  of  a  ccmflict,  of 
which  he  is  the  living  incarnation.  Whether  he  is  consaous  of  the  fact  or 
not,  that  a  period  of  transition  is  likely  to  produce  an  art,  which,  be  it 
ever  so  perfect,  is  doomed  to  be  of  transient  meaning  only — the  strug^ 
of  his  individual  creative  will  against  some  uncontrollable  power  without 
has  certainly  become  more  and  more  apparent  with  every  new  woik. 
''Und  Pippa  tanzf  has  some  wonderful  poetic  possibilities  and  not  a  few 
passages,  in  which  these  have  been  realized  to  the  full  extent.  But  viewed 
as  a  whole  the  play  is  a  chaos,  which  seems  untouched  by  the  breath  of 
a  creator.  Potentially,  it  holds  all  that  a  great  poet  might  pour  into  t 
work  to-day;  but  it  is  all  undelivered  and  unrelieved.  It  is  a  serious 
task  consistently  to  work  out  one  great  motive  and  give  it  perfect  poetic 
expression.  But  it  is  an  impossible  undertaking  to  crowd  into  the  compass 
of  a  single  work  a  variety  of  vital  motives  like  evolution,  socialism,  re- 
incarnation, monism  and  others,  without  blurring  the  outlines  and  destroy- 
ing the  unity  of  the  composition.  To  this  variety  of  motives  and  to  an 
over-scruplous  attention  to  detail  is  due  much  of  the  obscurity  which  mars 
the  work.  The  desire  to  say  something  on  every  timely  topic  within  the 
limits  of  a  literary  work  which  Is  supposed  to  survive  the  passing  interests 
of  the  day,  is  very  curious,  and  has  been  the  cause  of  the  defection  of 
Gustav  Frenssen,  whose  novels  suffer  from  being  overstocked  with  ideas. 
Why  Hauptmann  should  fail  to  eliminate  superfluous  motives  and  details 
in  order  to  preserve  the  large  lines,  the  great  lights  and  the  deep  shadows 
of  his  canvas,  is  difficult  of  comprehension. 

There  are  not  a  few  voices  in  Germany  to-day  that  openly  declare 
him  a  victim  of  capitalism.  When  the  commercialism  which  is  the  bane 
of  American  literature  is  discussed,  it  Is  customary  to  look  upon  Europe  as 
the  home  of  art,  free  from  considerations  of  commercial  value.  We  are 
as  familiar  with  conditions  abroad  as  we  are  with  our  own  deplorable  state 
of  affairs,  we  might  find  a  little  consolation  in  the  fact  that  the  world  is 
just  about  the  same  everywhere.  Hauptmann's  gradual  decline  since  his 
first  great  successes  Is  the  subject  of  much  concern  among  his  admirers  and  his 
career  Is  beginning  to  be  looked  upon  as  the  great  artist  tragedy  of  modem 
German  letters.  Yet  at  core  it  is  an  old  tragedy,  this  futile  struggle 
of  an  artist's  idealism  against  the  pressing  realities  of  daily  life.  Were 
Hauptmann  economically  as  independent  as  he  Is  not.  It  is  unthinkable, 
that  he  should  be  contented  with  giving  to  the  public  a  work,  showing 
such  unmistakable  evidence  of  haste.  Over-rapid  production  forced  upon 
him  by  manager's  contracts  may  in  a  large  measure  be  responsible  for  his 
recent  failures. 


AMELIA  VON  ENDE  125 

It  is  fortunate,  that  lyru  poetry,  at  least,  has  no  commercial  value 
and  cannot  become  the  object  of  speculation.  Individually  it  is  of  course 
to  be  regretted  and  no  one  has  had  more  cause  to  do  so  than  Detlev  von 
Liliencron,  whose  finances  only  a  few  years  ago  repeatedly  engaged  the 
attention  of  his  friends.  But  in  the  fourteen  books  produced  during  that 
period  of  poverty  there  is  not  the  slightest  suggestion  of  bitterness.  The 
luguine  temperament  of  the  poet  and  his  sane  acceptance  of  life,  unbiased 
by  tny  philosophical  theory,  have  given  his  poems  a  charm  of  health  and 
of  soundness  throughout,  quite  rare  in  the  writings  of  the  modem  Germans. 
Richard  Dehmel,  more  abstractly  intellectual  and  more  intensely  passion- 
Ite  than  his  friend,  does  not  present  in  his  poetry  quite  so  bright  an 
image  of  life;  although  as  he  passed  through  the  crucible  of  the  modem 
idiool  he  has  shed  some  of  the  morbid  growths  which  disfigured  his  early 
woriL,  he  is  still  an  individuality  reflecting  strongly  the  spiritual  conflicts 
which  have  been  convulsing  the  young  generation  in  Germany,  that  had 
pown  up  within  the  radius  of  the  great  iconoclast,  Nietzsche. 

Among  the  new  volumes  of  poetry  recently  published,  that  by  Paul 
Remer  deserves  notice:  In  golden  Fuelle  (Schuster  and  Loeffler,  Berlin). 
Remer*s  source  is  the  folksong;  in  that  school  he  has  learned  to  find 
kauty  in  simplicity,  and  to  clothe  simple  sentiments  in  the  simplest  terms 
possible.  This  has  given  his  verse  a  conciseness  and  concentration  rarely 
to  be  found  among  the  stylists  and  the  craftsmen,  whose  juggling  with 
words  18  meant  to  create  the  illusion  of  sentiment  and  thought.  He  is 
iscreet  and  refined,  and  has  an  exquisite  sense  of  poetic  values.  It  is 
curious  to  observe,  how  widely  artistic  individualities,  springing  from  the 
same  source,  differentiate  in  their  further  development.  Carl  Spitteler's 
Glockenlieder  (Eugen  Diederics,  Jena)  also  are  rooted  in  the  folksong; 
but  Spitteler's  poetry  is  the  vehicle  of  his  nature  thoughts,  his  philosophy, 
nd  to  give  expression  to  his  ideas,  he  sometimes  capriciously  disregards 
form,  while  in  other  instances  his  simplicity  strikes  the  reader  as  artificial. 
But  there  is  a  peculiar  charm  about  the  verse  of  this  man,  who  has  an  almost 
Whitmanesque  eye  for  the  mysteries  of  the  cosmos  and  with  marvelous 
plasticity  moulds  into  visible  images  the  fleeting  fancies  of  his  imagination. 

The  name  of  Fritz  Lienhard  stands  for  a  moment  in  the  literature 

of  modem  Germany,  which  is  the  logical  artistic  product    of    the    new 

nationalism:  Heimatskunst,     It  is  an  art  rooted  deeply  in  the  native  soil, 

ind  easily  degenerating  Into  provincialism.     Lienhard   has   been  an  active 

dttmpion  fot  this  new  art,  of  which  the  novels  of  Gustav  Frenssen  are  a 

food  example.     In  his  Gedichte  (Greincr  and  Pfeifer,  Stuttgart)    there 

^|ian  occasional  predominance  of  a  local  note,  but  the  general  impression 

H  that  of  a  poetry,  attempting  more  than  it  can  express.     The  book  is 

niore  ethical  than  artistic  in  its  essence;  it  is  full  of  noble  ethical  ideas 


126  RECENT  GERMAN  POETRY  AND  DRAMA 

sometimes  perfectly  worded,  at  other  times  rather  awkwardly  expressed. 
Lienhard  is  a  man  whose  creative  imagination  falls  behind  his  intellectual 
inspiration.  He  lacks  the  economic  sense  of  the  true  artist  and  spreads 
before  the  reader  a  moving  panorama  of  many  pictures,  in  which  one  im- 
pression effaces  and  neutralizes  the  other.  His  originality  is  often  far- 
fetched, his  language  stilted,  but  the  personality  behind  the  book  has  great 
and  noble  traits,  and  wherever  he  is  contented  with  a  simple  thought 
simply  told,  his  verse  has  a  rare  charm. 

Ernst  Knodt,  the  author  of  Ein  Ton  vom  Tode  und  ein  Lied  vom 
Leben  (Giessen,  Emil  Roth)  does  not  deny  in  his  verse  that  he  was 
once  struggling  with  the  dogmas  and  the  systems  of  theology.  The  former 
clergyman  is  still  given  to  serious  reflection  and  lacks  the  gift  of  direct 
suggestion.  His  is  the  personality  of  a  dreamer  and  a  fighter,  and  the 
contrast  between  the  two  is  not  always  harmoniously  attuned  in  the  v(Ma 
of  the  poet.  But  the  sentiment  is  genuine,  there  is  a  strong  personal  note^ 
and  an  occasional  dash  and  passionate  swing,  which  compensate  for 
passages,  in  which  the  poet's  desire  for  simplicity  tempts  him  to  admit 
into  serious  verse  phrases  of  an  almost  commonplace  prose.  A  newcomer, 
who  has  been  very  warmly  received,  is  Kranz  Karl  Ginzkey,  whose  volume 
of  verse  Das  heimliche  Laeuten  (L  Staackmann,  Leipzig)  shows  a  distinct, 
though  not  a  modem  physiognomy.  Ginzkey's  poetry  reaches  back  to  the 
masters  of  the  Swabian  school,  with  whom  he  shares  simplicity  and  purity 
of  sentiment  and  a  remarkable  mastery  of  the  form.  He  chooses  strong, 
clearly  defined  motives  and  has  the  gift  of  moulding  them  into  poems 
with  a  distinct  physiognomy.  There  is  a  charming  spontaneity  in  this 
first  book. 

Of  the  women  whose  poetical  products  have  recently  been  published, 
Irene  Forbes-Mosse  is  one  who  has  for  some  years  been  watched  with 
interest.  A  direct  descendant  of  the  Arnims  who  have  been  identified 
with  the  romantic  school  of  Germany  a  hundred  years  ago,  the  romanti- 
cism of  her  ancestors  is  still  in  her  blood  and  her  brain.  In  her  new  book 
Das  Rosenthor  (Leipzig,  Insel-Verlag)  she  gives  new  evidences  of  her 
marvelous  gift  oiF  welding  an  experience  into  a  rhythmic  word-image. 
Her  verse  has  distinction  of  style  and  is  full  of  charming  word-music 
But  the  keynote  of  her  poetry  is  a  sad,  sweet  resignation.  Hedda  Sauer  is 
also  a  poet  of  the  romantic  past,  but  her  romanticism  admits  a  hopeful 
to-morrow.  In  her  book  JVenn  es  rote  Rosen  schneit  (Prag,  Bellman) 
she  shows  the  tendency  to  turn  into  an  object  of  art  every  experience  of 
life;  she  recognizes  the  beauty  of  suffering.  Her  romanticism  springs 
from  an  intense  desire  for  a  beauty  which  has  no  trace  in  it  of  a  common- 
place workaday  atmosphere;  but  her  longing  does  not  waste  itself  in  futile 
plaint,  but  hopefully  looks  towards  the  future.      Another    writer    whose 


AMELIA  VON   ENDE  127 

s  familiar  to  the  critics  is  that  of  Else  Lasker  Schueler,  a  Jewess  by 
whose  poetry  is  full  of  a  strange  mysticism,  reveling  in  primitive 

feelings,  yet  clarified  and  controlled  by  a  strong  will  and  a  cool 

There  is  much  fanciful  orientalism  in  her  images,  but  they  are 

s  of  vital  ideas.    Altogether  she  is  the  most  remarkable  individuality 

three,  and  her  book  Der  siebente  Tag  ( Charlottenburg,  Verein 
inst)  stands  quite  apart  from  other  poetical  productions  of  the  past 
I. 

1  a  period  of  vulgar  smartness  and  cheap  commercialization,  it  is 
ble  to  meet  a  personality  of  the  aristocratic  reserve  and  the  artistic 
lent  of  Stefan  George.  Inspired  with  the  sanctity  of  the  artist's 
1,  as  perhaps  no  other  poet  in  modem  Germany,  he  has  for  about 

years  with  admirable  disregard  of  popularity,  fame  and  material 
upheld  the  cause  of  Vart  pour  Vart  in  an  exquisite  magazine  of  his 
)rivately  circulated  among  a  few  contributors  of  congenial  individ- 
Silently  resenting  the  curiosity  of  the  uncalled  and  uninitiated, 
(  worked  entirely  apart  from  the  crowd,  caring  not  for  timely 
cies  and  tastes.  But  his  seriousness  of  purpose  and  almost  solemn 
3n  to  the  work  could  not  long  remain  unnoticed  and  although  there 
K>me  critics  who  ridiculed  what  they  called  his  **preciosity''  and 
with  delight  upon  his  mannerisms  of  orthography  and  punctuation; 
re  delicacy  of  his  imagery  and  the  distinction  of  his  language  are 
able  and  have  few  parallels  among  the  poets  of  the  generation, 
exquisite  wordcraft  as  his  does  not  lend  itself  easily  to  a  foreign 

but  the  following  lines  in  praise  of  the  power  of  poetical  inspira- 
ay  convey  some  idea  of  the  art  of  Stefan  George : 

'Es  sanken  Haupt  und  Hand  der  mueden  Wericer, 
Der  Stoff  war  ungefuege,  sproed  und  kalt. .  . 
Da— ohne  Wunsch  und  Ziechen — bricht  im  Kerker 
Ein  Streif  wie  schieres  Silber  durch  den  Spalt. 

Es  hebt  sich  leicht,  was  eben  dumpf  und  bleiem, 
Es  blinkt  gel  aeutert,  was  dem  Staub  gezoUt. . . 
Ein  braeutliches,  beginnliches  Entschleiem . . . 
Nun  spricht  der  Ewige:  ich  willl    Ihr  soUtl' 

(The  worker's  hand  and  head  sank  wearily. 
For  brittle  was  the  metal,  hard  and  cold'  .  .  . 
When — unforeseen  and  unforetold — a  ray 
Of  silver  through  the  prison  window  broke. 


128  RECENT  GERMAN  POETRY  AND  DRAMA 

And  light  became  what  leaden  dull  had  been, 

And  brightly  gleamed  what  had  been  decked  with  dust 

And  as  a  bride  unveiling  stood  revealed. 

The  voice  eternal  spoke :    I  will  I    Thou  shalt !)  * 

The  latest  work  by  Stefan  George  is  a  volume  of  translations  of 
unusual  merit.  Zeitgenoessi  sche  Dichter  (George  Bondi,  Berlin),  in 
which  are  represented  among  others  Rossetti,  Swinburne,  Dowson,  Vcr- 
laine,  Verhaeren,  Mallarnie,  Rimbaud,  Regnier  and  D'Annunzio. 

A  number  of  anthologies  remain  to  be  mentioned,  which  owe  theic 
inception  to  the  Heimatskunst.  Foremost  among  them  is  the  Muenchener 
Almanack  (Muenchen,  R.  Piper  &  Co),  which  presents  specimens  of 
the  poetical  work  of  writers  resident  in  and  about  Munich,  among  them 
Wilhelm  von  Scholz,  the  poet-painter,  Leo  Greiner,  Emanuel  von  Bod- 
mann,  Georg  Fuchs  and  others.  The  Ost-Preussische  Dichterbuch  (Carl 
Reissner,  Dresden)  contains  poems  by  Arno  Holz,  George  Reicke,  A.  K.T. 
Tielo,  Marie  Madeleine  and  among  others  one  new-comer  of  promise, 
Walther  Heymann.  The  Braunschweiger  Dichterbuch  (Georg  Wcstcr- 
mann,  Braunschweig)  has  one  name  bound  to  attract  attention,  that  of 
Ricarda  Huch,  but  the  Sturmlied,  with  which  she  is  represented,  is  hanfly 
characteristic  of  her  strong  poetic  individuality.  Albert  Geiger,  himself  a 
poet,  of  considerable  talent,  is  the  editor  of  the  Badische  Dichter  (Karl- 
sruhe, G.  Braun)  which  covers  the  whole  history  of  poetry  in  that 
province  and  is  compiled  with  great  care  and  discrimination.  It  is  doubt- 
ful, however,  whether  the  true  cause  of  art  is  being  materially  helped  bf 
these  collections  of  poems,  meant  to  represent  and  to  perpetuate  provindid 
traits  in  literature. 

The  quality  of  dramatic  production  has  been  rather  inferior  during 
the  past  months.     Most  of  the  men  whose  dramatic  achievements  some 
years  ago  made  their  names  known  beyond  the  German  border,  seem  to 
be  unable  to  equal  their  early  successes.    The  causes  underlying  the  recent 
failures  of  Sudermann  and  Hauptmann  are  almost  too  complicated  to  be 
intelligible  to  the  outsider;  but  Sudermann  and  Hauptmann  are  not  the  only  L 
playwrights  of  modem  Germany  whose  work  is  strangely  uneven.    Arthur 
Schnitzler  whose  work  is  always  looked  forward  to  with  no  little  expecta-  . 
tion,  has  repeatedly  disappointed  his  admirers  with  his  recent  plays.    But  ] 
a  charming  burlesque  in  one  act,  played  in  Vienna  some  months  ago  hu 
redeemed  his  reputation  as  a  dramatic  poet  of  great  constructive  power 
and  a  master  of  brilliantly  sparkling  dialogue.     'Zutn  grossen  Wurstt  is 
a  bit  of  comedy  of  profound  and  admirably  sustained  symbolism.     The 
scene  is  the  Wurstlprater  of  Vienna,  a  jolly  crowd  following  with  intense 
interest  the  marionette-play  on  the  little  stage.    The  characters  of  this  play 


AMELIA  VON  ENDE  129 

laracters  from  the  poet's  dramas;  the  poet  himself  is  represented  as 
isly  pacing  about  and  arguing  with  the  stage  manager.  The  critics, 
3in  in  the  performance,  all  is  life  and  animation,  when  suddenly  a 
;er  in  a  black  cloak  appears,  sword  in  hand,  and  proceeds  to  cut  the 

of  the  figures.     One  by  one  they  topple    over,    until    actors    and 
ice  lie  lifeless  on  the  stage  and  the  curtain  falls.    A  srrotesque  idea 
lingly  expressed:  the  author  has  felt  the  humor  of  life's  tragedy  and 
ys  to  us  the  lesson  that  our  life  is  but  a  play  and  we  the  marionettes. 
The  dramatic  work  of  the  Austrians  is  characterized  by  a  stroi^er 

and  a  more  direct  reflection  of  real  life  than  that  of  the  writers  of 
anv,  whose  imagination  seems  to  be  hampered  by  what  they  know 
:  than  what  they  feel.  A  new  comer  who  has  aroused  considerable 
St  is  Hans  Mueller.  His  volume  of  one-act  plays,  Das  staerkere 
I  (Egon  Fleischel  &  Co,  Berlin)  is  a  remarkable  achievement 
I  der  Eitelkeiten  is  a  dramatic  poem  with  Savonarola  as  the  hero, 
as  ordered  the  destruction  of  all  vanities,  when  he  himself  falls  a 
1  to  the  temptation  of  woman,  the  greatest  of  all  vanities,  and  is 
^ed  by  her.  But  compared  with  the  greatness  of  his  mission  a 
nal  lie  is  trifling.  He  denies  her  charge  and  Elena  is  burned  by 
eople  on  the  pyre  built  for  the  vanities.  This  is  the  end  of  the  play 
I  book;  but  in  the  performance  at  Bruenn  which  preceded  the  publi- 
I  of  the  book,  Savonarola  confessed  his  guilt,  Elena  was  not  burned 
he  people  turned  away  from  the  false  prophet.  The  language  of 
lay  is  dignified  and  inspired,  the  idea  consistently  carried  through 
I  end,  which  is  a  victory  of  the  stronger  life  over  the  designs  of  the 
il  will. 

The  Flowers  of  Death  is  another  noteworthy  creation.  The  former 
of  an  artist  is  dying  of  a  wasting  illness.  Ten  years  afi;o  the  hus- 
s  development  seemed  arrested;  determined  to  rouse  his  creative 
its  by  a  desperate  effort,  she  had  feigned  infidelity  and  had  been 
ced  by  him.  She  had  not  known  a  day  of  health  since  their  separa- 
but  he  had  reached  the  goal  of  her  ambition,  had  become  famous. 

he  comes  to  bring  her  flowers,  meant  to  grace  the  coffin;  he  meets 
ipposed  rival  and  learns  the  facts.  Tortured  with  grief  at  having 
jcd  her,  he  rushes  into  her  room;  a  moment  of  suspense  for  the 

man— then  the  physician  emerges,  a  cry  is  heard  inside,  and  the 
ised  rival  learns,  that  there  is  a  possibility  of  saving  her  life,  now 
iie  reconciliation  has  taken  place.  Troubadour  deals  with  the  erotic 
jes  of  a  professor's  young  wife;  no  complicated  character  like  Hedda 
T,  but  simply  a  frivolous  little  flirt,  infatuated  with  the  anonymous 
ipant  in  a  prize  contest,  whose  lyrics  strike  her  as  being  the  direct 
MIS  of  a  passionate  yearning  youth.     Her  husband  favors  the  prose 


130  RECENT  GERMAN   POETRY  AND  DRAMA 

treatise  of  a  misogynist,  but  persuades  the  committee  to  divide  the  p; 
between  the  two,  who  in  his  absence  come  to  the  house  to  learn  the  deds 
Then  the  young  woman  learns,  that  '^troubadour"  is  the  father  of  cr^ 
children  and  rapidly  transfers  her  infatuation  to  the  misogynist,  who 
a  charming  fellow.  The  technique  reminds  very  much  of  French  mode^ 
but  the  dialogue  is  sprightly.  Die  Stunde  is  the  story  of  an  escape  pltim^ 
by  Napoleon  while  at  Longwood  and  frustrated  by  the  daughter  of  xbc 
governor.  It  is  the  weakest  of  the  four  plays,  being  unccmvindng  i> 
the  delineation  of  the  characters,  with  the  exception  of  that  of  Napoleoo. 
But  there  is  a  strong  individual  note  to  all  the  plays,  a  temperamentil 
note  easily  recognized  as  typically  Austrian. 

Another  Austrian  is  Alfred  Gold,  whose  Ausklang  (Bruno  Cassirer, 
Berlin)  is  a  family  tragedy,  quiet  and  subdued  in  tone,  discreet  in  the 
treatment  of  a  problem,  reminding  remotely  of  that  of  'John  Gabrid 
Borkmann.'  For  here,  too,  a  man  commits  the  one  unpardonable  sin, 
kills  love-life  in  a  woman.  Her  unsatisfied  desire  for  happiness  reap- 
pears potentially  raised  in  the  son;  when  he  receives  the  full  measure  of 
the  father's  tyranny,  she  plans  to  leave  the  husband  with  the  youth,  bat 
learns  that  his  heart  belongs  to  another  woman  and  finally  both  renounce. 
The  charm  of  his  play  is  in  its  reserve  force;  little  is  done  or  said,  but 
much  is  suggested.  Marie  Eugenie  delle  Grazie's  three-act  play  Ver 
sacrum  (Leipzig,  Breitkopf  &  Haertel),  also  depends  for  its  effect  more 
upon  the  impression  made  by  the  characters,  which  are  finely  delineated 
and  upon  the  truly  poetic  atmosphere,  than  upon  real  action  and  dramatic 
construction. 

Frank  Wedekind  is  temperamentally  more  closely  related  to  the 
Austrians  than  to  the  Germans.  A  unique  figure  among  the  writers  of 
young  Germany,  with  whom  he  shares  an  almost  exclusive  devotion  to 
erotic  problems,  he  has  been  called  by  Georg  Brandes  the  Mephistophelcs 
of  German  letters.  He  has  a  strong  sense  of  humor,  more  grotesque  than 
genial,  and  has  a  trick  of  treating  serious  problems  with  a  supreme  dis- 
regard for  consistency  of  character,  logical  sequence  of  action  and  natural 
sentiment.  During  his  active  participation  in  the  enterprise  of  Ermt 
von  Wolzogen,  the  Ueberbrettl,  Wedekind  acquired  the  habit  of  doing 
literary  stunts  and  in  his  latest  work  Todtentanz  (Albert  Langen,  Mo* 
nich)  proves  that  he  is  bound  to  be  orginal  and  startling  at  the  expense 
of  good  sense  and  taste.  With  this  purely  personal  aim  ever  in  his  mind, 
his  attempts  at  preaching  reforms  through  the  vehicle  of  his  plays,  r& 
main  unconvincing;  for  his  pictures  of  life  are  caricatures,  and  his  pofi- 
traits  are  gargoyles. 

Among  the  writers  who  ten  years  ago  promised  to  become  leaden 
in  the  German  drama,  Georg    Hirschfeld  was  one  of  the  most  signally 


AMELIA  VON  ENDE  131 

>^^^ful.  But  since  his  remarkable  debut  with  the  Muetter  he  has  esroer- 
^ftd  nothing  but  failures.  The  reason  why  his  Spaetfruehling  fell  short 
<  ^  expectations  the  author  and  his  friends  had  cherished,  was  not 
V  to  secL  The  reconciliation  of  a  divorced  couple  is  not  ^  problem 
*  pure  pathos ;  it  has  a  strong  element  of  humor.  This  a  Frenchman 
V^ooe  ot  our  modem  Celts  might  have  been  able  to  bring  forward;  but 
Sflchf eld's  touch  is  not  light  enough;  he  is  burdened  too  much  with  the 
l&ioqphere  of  the  sanitarium,  which  is  the  scene  of  the  play — in  itself 
i  mfortunate  dioice.  This  impairs  the  vitality  of  his  characters  and 
(lalyzes  the  flight  of  his  humor.    The  play  was  a  comedy  only  in  name. 

Max  Halbe  is  another  member  of  the  group  that  failed  to  fulfill 
;  promise  of  his  youth.  After  Jugend  and  Mutter  Erde  he  has  fail- 
again  and  again,  and  his  latest  effort.  Die  Insel  der  Seligen,  is  no  ex- 
tion.  To  the  initiated  reader  this  satire  upon  the  Neue  Gemeinschaft, 
ich  some  years  ago  in  a  suburb  of  Berlin  harbored  many  a  budding 
Big  genius  of  Germany  dissatisfied  with  life  on  conventional  lines,  is 
:  only  in  bad  taste,  but  becomes  thoroughly  unpleasant  reading  through 
note  of  personal  amimosity.  To  the  uninitiated  the  travesty  is  unin- 
figible.  Hence  the  play  entirely  fails  to  fulfill  its  purpose  both  as 
una  and  as  satire.  Thomas  Mann,  by  many  critics  looked  upon  as 
:  master  of  the  modem  German  novel,  has  turned  from  the  bourgeois 
lieo  of  a  Hanseatic  town  which  he  so  graphically  pictured  in  the  Bud- 
dirocks,  to  sensuous  Florence  in  the  time  of  Lorenzo.  Savonarola  is  the 
ro  and  the  heroine  Flore  symbolizes  the  gay  city.  Fiore  had  in  her 
Bth  rejected  Savonarola  and  become  the  mistress  of  Lorenzo.  This 
ned  to  hatred  the  sorrow  of  the  former  and  made  him  identify  wo- 
in  with  the  vanities  of  the  world.  Had  the  author  been  satisfied  with 
imatizing  the  human  story,  he  might  have  achieved  a  genuine  suc- 
a,  bat  the  allegory  which  he  wove  about  the  dramatic  plot  weakened 
effect. 

An  interesting  feature  of  recent  German  drama  is  the  part  played 
the  educator.  Otto  Emst's  Flachsmann  als  Erzisher  has  been  fol- 
red  by  several  plays,  in  which  the  hero  is  a  teacher  and  the  plot 
ats  the  problems,  how  he  can  reconcile  his  high  mission  in  society 
di  cxisdii^  economic  and  religious  conditions.  A  recent  addition  to  his 
mp  of  works  is  Wilhelm  Holzamer's  drama  in  three  acts  Urn  die  Zukunft 
Igon  Fleischel  &  Co,  Berlin),  recently  performed  in  Leipzig.  This 
(y  by  a  critic  and  ooet  of  refined  taste  is  well  constmcted,  yet  remark- 
I7  free  from  all  theatrical  tendencies,  and  its  effect  is  due  solely  to  its 
^cal  quality.  It  is  especially  remarkable  for  the  strong  portrayal  of 
!  characters  and  barring  a  too  pronounced  Tendenz  is  a  remarkable 
Tonnance. 


132  RECENT  GERMAN  POETRY  AND  DRAMA 

Another  young  dramatist  whose  development  is  watched  with  ger 
uine  interest  is  Johannes  Wiegand.  He  has  a  virile  grasp  of  his  sub 
jects  and  a  strong  gift  of  characterization.  A  powerful  one-act  drama 
The  Last  Trip,  was  performed  some  years  ago  by  the  American  Academ 
of  Dramatic  Arts  and  followed  by  a  performance  of  a  three-act  dram 
The  Conqueror,  in  which  Catherine  of  Russia  was  an  important  figun 
The  author  has  since  achieved  success  with  Das  Juengste  Gerichi,  a  pla 
founded  upon  a  catastrophe  which  filled  with  terror  the  people  of  i 
small  coast  town  in  the  year  looo.  His  handling  of  the  psychologj  os 
a  crowd,  swayed  with  the  fear  of  impending  judgment,  is  admirable.  Th 
figure  oJF  the  hermit,  preaching  trust  in  one's  own  nature  and  summcMidi|| 
the  populace  to  establish  a  kingdom  of  true  brotherhood,  has  impOH| 
traits.  The  whole  work  has  a  strong  poetic  quality.  The  book  is  pub* 
lished  by  Georg  Mueller,  Muenchen. 

A  play  founded  upon  the  hackneyed  story  of  Bluebeard  was  reoeil 
ly  the  occasion  of  a  demonstration  in  the  Lessing  Theater  of  Beilii^ 
which  recalled  the  excited  times  of  the  Freie  Buehne.  Ritter  Blauhart  faf 
Herbert  Eulenberg  (Egon  Fleischel  &  Co,  Berlin),  is  a  mild  attempt il 
treating  the  gruesome  romantic  tale  as  a  pathological  problem.  But  til 
means  employed  failed  to  convey  the  impression  aimed  at  and  even  ii 
the  most  dramatic  scenes  the  audience  was  apparently  unconvinced  aal 
unaffected.  The  enthusiastic  applause  of  Arthur  Schnitzler  and  Maai 
milian  Harden  made  a  sensation,  but  did  not  materially  affect  the  dicMl 
of  the  audience,  which  corresponds  with  that  of  the  readers.  The  fli 
vised  and  modernized  Bluebeard  is  no  addition  to  dramatic  litentidl 
likely  to  make  its  author  famous. 


CURRENT  ITALIAN  LITERATURE 

FOGAZZARO 

By  Pietro  Isola 

EW  among  foreign  travelers  have  heard  of  Vicenza  and  fewer 

H  still  have  ever  seen  it.  Today  the  eyes  of  all  Italy  are  turned 
toward  that  Veneto-Lombard  city,  because  it  reflects  the  gen- 
ius of  a  man  who  in  company  with  three  or  four  others  rep- 
resents the  leadership  of  the  literature  of  the  'Third  Italy.* 
Almost  any  city  of  Italy  may  prove  interesting  by  impressive 
beauty  and  picturesque  location;  by  the  imposing  vestiges  of 
te  dvilizations ;  by  the  inheritance  from  the  Middle-ages,  or  by  the 
nee  on  modem  life. 

Vicenza  is  proud  of  her  Antonio  Fogazzaro— Vicenza,  the  little  city 
!sdy  pointing  to  her  milestones  of  progress ;  from  the  Roman  bridges, 
ling  the  rapid  Bacchilione,  to  the  mediaeval  tower  of  the  Scaligers 
the  lofty  palaces  of  Palladio,  Scamozzi  and  Calderari.  The  impress 
remote  age  and  the  genius  of  the  renaissance  impart  to  Vicenza  an 
\f  refinement,  peace  and  enjoyment  of  well  earned  leisure.  Monte 
X)  towers  over  the  city,  eternal  sentinel,  crowning  her  with  the  ver- 
of  grape-vines  and  olives  and  the  sombre  erect  cypresses  descend 
the  crest  in  undulating  lines  to  the  valley,  where  Vicenza  lies  amid 
re  and  loveliness. 

Among  the  distant  moist,  cool  shadows  of  the  hills  an  occasional 
ysc  reveals  warm  touches  of  color  falling  upon  winding-stepped  paths 
ding  to  homes  and  villas  where  gardens  multiply,  rich  in  classic 
ces  and  fountains,  or  unchecked  in  baroque  exultations  and  gorgeous 
ry  of  color  and  form.  It  is  among  these  suburban  and  pensile  villas 
Fogazzaro  dwells,  works,  thinks  and  dreams. 

His  city  life  is  limited  to  a  few  weeks  during  the  inclement  weather, 
visits  to  Vicenza,  however,  are  a  daily  occurrence  for  the  discharge 
s  multifarious  duties  as  citizen,  as  father  and  as  an  intellectual  leader, 
daily  touch  of  the  writer  with  the  activities  of  others;  with  the  chiaro- 
o  of  life;  the  joys;  and  sorrows,  weeping  and  laughing,  constitute  a 
esome  nourishment  for  the  man  and  the  artist. 
Moreover  it  is  in  these  provincial  cities,  towns  and  villages  that  one 
yet  undefiled  the  racial  types,  and  in  Fogazzaro's  immediate  neighbor- 

133 


134  CURRENT  ITALIAN  LITERATURE 

hood  one  may  yet  enjoy  the  touch  of  Goldonian  figures.  In  the  ^^ 
town  one  is  held  more  firmly  within  its  general  life,  the  incidents  of 
the  narrow  provincial  foibles,  the  gossip  of  the  street  where  men 
women  bend  toward  each  other  in  whispering  groups;  where  the  hou 
decrepit,  rich  or  poor  lean  on  each  other  in  friendly  support;  window 
window,  door  gaping  upon  door,  balcony  to  balcony,  and  roofs  project 
to  meet  one  another;  all  simulating  the  living  groups  of  the  streets 
friendly  chats,  describing  little  dramas,  breathing  new  secrets  or  laughi 
over  the  little  comedies  unfolded  within  the  walls. 

It  is  in  such  an  atmosphere  that  our  Fogazzaro  was  bom  and  < 
veloped,  where  he  has  been  content  to  remain,  but  where,  with  h( 
touch  of  genius  he  has  achieved  the  great  in  the  midst  of  the  little;  s 
rounded  by  peace  he  has  divined  the  world's  tragedies;  in  little  Vicer 
he  has  fathomed  universal  life.  And  there  also  he  has  developed  t 
keen  humor  and  deep  sjrmpathy  that  from  his  studio  over  the  valley 
Silence  has  come  to  us  in  perfect  fusion  of  idealism  and  realism.  F 
tune  has  smiled  upon  this  writer  and  he  may  revel  in  the  peace  and 
spirations  of  sylvan  freshness,  architectural  beauty  and  the  color-lai 
gardens  of  the  villas  about  him.  His  life,  in  fact,  is  so  intimate  ^ 
his  surroundings  that  Valsolda,  Bassano,  Villa  Carre,  Villa  Roi,  Moi 
galdo  and  others  have  each  witnessed  the  birth  of  a  character  that 
illuminated  his  books. 

All  this  aiRuence  has  not  weakened  his  fibre,  and  culture  has  de^ 
oped  in  him  stronger  and  stronger  human  sympathy.  His  is  the  t 
interpretation  of  wealth  and  intellectual  supremacy.  Time  was  when  It 
had  vast  culture  and  with  a  certain  class  it  is  still  maintained,  but  in 
earlier  days  culture  represented  an  individual  acquisition,  a  private  or 
ment  or  was  used  for  the  aggrandizement  of  aesthetic  Italy.  Little  i 
ever  thought  of  the  amelioration  of  the  classes.  Now,  however,  Italy 
entered  a  new  era  and  her  sons  realize  that  culture  is  ephemeral  if  it  d 
not  go  hand  in  hand  with  social  service,  that  the  privilege  of  culture 
mental  superiority  imposes  greater  obligations  toward  their  fellowmen. 

Fogazzaro  represents  very  eminently  this  new  element.  He  d 
not  write  to  amuse  himself  nor  to  amuse  us.  He  is  a  hero  and  a  f 
less  combatant  for  the  highest  ideals — Matilde  Serao  calls  him :  'Caval 
dello  Spirito*  and  some  other  admirer  *The  poet  of  the  Ideal.'  He  wc 
for  the  unravelling  of  perplexing  problems;  to  bring  clarity  where  sc 
ing  darkness  reigns;  to  add  greater  dignity  to  man  by  enlarging 
mission  beyond  terrestrial  usefulness;  to  harmonize  progress  with 
faith. 

Translated  in  prose  the  few  following  lines  lose  much  of  their  p 
tic  beauty,  but  the  sentiment  still  remains — they  are  taken  from  his  *Nc 


PIETRO  ISOLA  135 

fcw  Verba'  and  may  be  called  his  'Credo' — 'Toward  the  din  of  battle  I 
mid  darkness,  thoughtful  and  armed.  Where  the  battle  rages  there 
(dace  is  reserved  for  me.  For  each  confronting  faith  that  from  dust 
freedom  rises;  for  each  strong  love,  for  each  wrath  by  that  faith 
led,  Onward  Soldier.'  Again  in  one  of  his  many  addresses  he  said: 
k  are  not  mounted  on  the  saddle  to  aspire  to  epaulets,  but  only  for 
ibat'  Is  is  invigorating  to  know  of  a  man  amojig  Italians  so  valiant, 
\  earnest  in  achieving  his  highest,  in  his  eifort  to  reach  new  worlds, 
V^fecting  tepid  luxuries;  noble  and  simple;  never  supine;  never  timorous 
tt  severing  obsolete  traditions,  but  ever  moving  forward  with  spiritual- 
Ijr  and  faith — and  indeed  he  needs  dignity  and  strength  to  remain  im- 
mive  under  all  the  attacks  that  envious  critics,  blatant  reds  and  blacks 
mdnually  make  against  him.  Italy  may  have  better  or  greater  poets 
Dong  her  sons,  but  she  has  not  a  stronger  artistic  conscience  than  he 
:  Valsolda  who  (as  some  one  has  said)  'has  known  how  to  extract  poetry 
om  life  and  give  life  to  poetry'.  Idealism  and  deep  sane  faith  form  the  es» 
Bce  of  his  life. 

Philosophically  he  is  a  follower  of  Rosmini,  and  in  his  art  has  fol- 
med  so  closely  that  other  rosminian,  Manzoni  that  he  is  called  the  last 
f  the  manzonians.  This  must  not  be  taken  too  literally  however,  be- 
nise  Fogazzaro  has  introduced  in  his  works  elements  that  Manzoni  never 
Km^t  of,  or  never  admitted,  which  is  but  natural  when  we  make  al- 
nrance  for  the  time  separating  them  and  the  totally  different  conditions 
(  Italy  at  the  present. 

This  may  be  further  illustrated  by  considering  the  books  that  in 
art  fill  the  shelves  of  Fogazzaro's  library.    He  says  himself : 

'In  my  library  are  reflected  the  different  phases  of  my  intellectual 
ndatioo,  besides  the  general  books  indispensable  to  any  collection.  Books 
B  Hypnotism  and  spiritualism  with  Proceedings  of  the  Society  of  Psy- 
hicd  Research,  lying  closely  to  Swedenborg,  Prel,  Brofferio,  etc.  The 
00k  of  Joseph  Lecomte  which  first  revealed  to  me  the  intimate  accord 
i  my  evolutionary  belief  and  my  religious  faith,  the  anonymous  little 
cok  ''Vestiges  of  Creation"  famous  in  the  history  of  Evolution;  Dar- 
rm,  Haeckel,  Spencer,  Wallace,  Mivart,  Grey,  Lyell  and  many  others 

Ksendng  the  school  of  Materialism,  Spiri.tualism  and  Evolution.  In 
sphy,  Rosmini,  little  else.  On  religion  and  religious  Questions  many 
Doks  including  Babel  and  Bibel,  Schell,  Loisy,  etc  Socialism,  Henry 
ieorge  and  a  few  others.  In  the  line  of  favorite  readings  at  one  time 
fontaigne,  Essays  of  Bacon  (my  vade  mecum).  Of  novels  not  many 
id  mo^y  English,  from  Walter  Scott  to  the  modem.  Of  Tolstoi  much, 
I  proportion,  and  not  a  little  of  Zola  which,  however,  I  shall  in  time  re- 


136  CURRENT  ITALIAN  LITERATURE 

duce  to  one  volume.     Stendhal  is  also  represented,  but  I  would  not  open 
it  now  any  more  than  I  dare  touch  the  frozen  body  of  a  larva.' 

Such  a  slight  knowledge  of  the  books  of  his  library  is  interndi^ 
and  illuminating  and  we  may  thus  follow  his  works  with  greater  intet 
ligence. 

In  Fogazzaro  we  have  poet,  novelist  and  social-philosophic  romallC^ 
writer.  He  is  not  a  colorist  and  although  he  has  given  virile  pages  of 
prose  and  exquisite  lines  of  poetry  he  appears  as  a  skilled  draughtsman 
or  a  chiseller  of  cameos,  masterfully  carved  in  depth  and  definition,  again 
almost  nebulous  in  dainty  modelling,  but  invariably  uniform  in  color.  He 
has  not  the  rich  palette  of  his  contemporary  D*Annunzio  who  can 
his  magic  pen  transform  words  into  marvelous  paintings.  In  fact  one 
in  pigments,  the  other  in  marble.  Fogazzaro  often  uses  and  abuses  the 
dialect ;  D* Annunzio  has  the  power  of  conveying  unmistakably  the  sonoritf, 
rapidity,  vehemence  and  picturesqueness  of  the  Abruzzi  speech  and  jet 
keeping  Italian.  This  is  eminently  illustrated  in  'The  Daughter  of  Jono* 
and  'The  Light  under  the  Bushel.* 

The  literary  career  of  Fogazzaro  began  as  a  poet  and  began  eiriy. 
'Miranda,*  'Valsolda,'  'Intermezzi,'  'Gavotte,'  'Eva,*  'Novissima  Vciba,* 
and  many  other  lyrics  contain  the  philosophy,  religious  faith,  and  enn- 
nence  of  thought  that  have  ever  preoccupied  this  writer,  neverdieless  hb 
lyrics  must  take  a  secondary  place  in  our  interest. 

Of  his  works  in  prose  we  may  begin  with  the  'Essays'  and  'Human 
Ascensions'   {Asoensioni  Umane)  in  which  the  effort  of  the  writer  to  t^ 
tablish  the  proper  harmony  between  science  and  religion  leads  us  to  recog- 1 
nize  at  once  the  fruits  of  his  studies  of  Le  Comte  and  others.     'Le  Poetc  j 
de  I'Avenir,'  a  conference  delivered  at  the  Sorbonne  in  Paris,  is  the  do^ : 
ing  chapter  of  'Human  Ascensions.'    In  'For  a  New  Science'   {Per  vm\ 
Nuova  scienza)  the  author  is  grasping  with  questions  of  Hypnotism  and 
Spiritualism. 

Among  the  novels  we  have  'Sonatine  bizzarre,'  'Brief  Stories'  (jR^- 
conti  brevi)y  and  'Fedele'.  In  all  these  may  be  found  gems  of  thought 
and  splendid  workmanship.  His  'Silver  Crucifix'  among  them,  an  ard^ 
tic  production  of  unusual  beauty,  'Pereat  Rochus'  may  also  be  mentioned 
as  one  of  his  best  productions  among  novels,  worthy  to  be  taken  as  dasac 
and  preminently  Fogazzarian. 

With  regard  'to  the  romances,  'Malombra,'  'Daniele  Cortis,'  and 
'Mysteries  of  the  Poet';  we  are  borne  in  'Malombra'  to  the  very  centre 
of  Spiritism  or  Occultism.  It  is  evident  that  Fogazzaro  is  reaching  out 
to  a  new  world  and  endeavors  to  assuage  internal  strife.  When  one  cfr 
ters  such  ground,  conditions  become  labyrinthian.  It  is  said  that  the  au- 
thor consumed  six  years  in  finishing  this  work,  therefore  it  must  not  sur- 


■J 


PIETRO  ISOLA  137 

ise  us  to  find  that  artist,  poet  and  thinker  are  at  variance  and  inter- 
ring with  each  other.  'Malombra'  contain  some  very  fine  descriptions 
f  nature;  the  language  at  times  fits  skilfully  the  mysticism  of  the  thought, 
at  the  story  lacks  movement;  it  is  unexplained  and  leaves  us  desirous  of 
;Feater  harmony  and  more  conviction.  It  is  also  peccant  of  the  melo- 
Inunadc  and  thus  a  book,  unfortunately  voluminous,  becomes  proportion- 
ktdy  wearisome. 

'Daniele  Cortis'  is  the  Idealist's  companion.  Written  twenty  or  more 
noun  ago  it  remains  exceedingly  interesting,  wholesome  and  hopeful. 
Dmniele'  is  'simpatico,'  as  the  Italians  would  say,  with  his  vigorous,  ac- 
Bve  idealism.  Daniele  and  Elena  (wife  of  a  worthless  aristocrat)  love 
each  other,  yet  they  move  about  in  such  a  refined,  dignified,  traditional 
ltmoq;>here  that  the  reader  has  full  confidence  they  will  not  be  dragged 
into  vulgarity.  The  contrast  of  the  two,  man  and  woman,  is  well  de- 
Eoed  and  psychologically  interesting.  Although  the  deus  ex  machina  ap- 
pears now  and  then,  it  is  tactfully  done.  The  whole  story  is  lofty  and  adds 
to  human  self  respect,  since  it  is  uninfluenced  by  the  filth-stained  canons  of 
other  writers. 

In  the  third  romance  'The  Mystery  of  the  Poet'  we  find  comparative- 
Iv  inferior  work.  We  move  once  more  in  the  realms  of  'Malombra ;'  but 
ne  subject  is  treated  with  less  skill.  We  meet  only  a  very  insipid  Poet 
vho«e  genius  is  not  patent  and  whose  moral  standard  is  rather  uncer- 
tain. We  may  still  hold  the  palm  for  'Daniele  Cortis,'  most  rich  in  all 
the  elements  that  form  a  work  of  art.  Philosophy,  psychology,  religion, 
poetry,  dignity  and  simplicity,  all  unfolded  in  a  pleasing  and  natural 


We  come  now  to  the  later  and  mature  period  of  Fogazzaro's  artistic 
and  useful  life.  The  Little  Old  World,'  The  Little  Modem  World,' 
lonn  with  his  last  book  'The  Saint'  a  trilogy  which  carries  us  again  to  the 
idd  of  observation  and  truth. 

Antonio  Fogazzaro  was  seventeen  years  old  in  1859,  a  period  as  we 
fdl  know  full  of  significant  preparations,  strife  and  final  victory  and  re- 
ionption.  Such  a  period  must  have  made  a  deep  and  lasting  impression 
■Mn  this  young  and  naturally  responsive  mind.  Thus  in  'The  Little  Old 
WcMld,*  we  have  the  conspiracies,  the  passions,  heroisms,  virtues,  faults 
and  Austrian  persecutions  of  that  time.  A  theme  indeed  JFuU  of  treacher- 
Ms  footfalls  for  the  romance  writer,  and  a  theme  that  leads  with  slip- 
pery facility  into  the  melodramatic,  a  fault  to  which  the  writer  suc- 
combs  but  is  fortunately  saved  by  other  and  excellent  features. 

Franco  Maironi  marries  Luisa  Rigey  and  the  marriage  is  bitterly  op- 
poied  by  the  family.  The  bitterness  or  this  opposition  is  very  intense, 
rbnnt  a  splendid  introduction  to  the  story  and  conveys  the  right  color- 


138  CURRENT  ITALIAN  LITERATURE 

ing  to  the  atmosphere  of  this  feverish  period.  The  analysis  of  the  tw 
characters  is  most  felicitous  in  its  delicate  delineation.  It  opens  to  th 
reader  the  soul  of  the  two  protagonists,  but  the  knowledge  is  gama 
through  what  surrounds  them,  rather  than  by  direct  information, 
book  is  of  course  ascetic  and  the  religious  question  is  ever  prevalent.  Fi 
deeply  religious,  Luisa  atheistic;  Franco  is  a  dreamer,  Luisa  the  con 
Franco  is  passive  and  Luisa  is  active.  Their  love  binds  them  to  each 
but  is  a  physical  love.  One  can  imagine  the  subtilties  of  contrast  necessary  ll 
explain  this  union.  The  study  of  Franco  is  also  interesting  in  comi 
it  with  the  other  idealist  Daniele  Cortis.  The  passive  idealism  of  J 
would  never  satisfy  the  energetic  idealism  of  the  other.  One  is  a 
er,  the  other  a  doer.  The  apathy  of  the  husband  is  in  continuous 
with  the  strength  of  the  wife.  Franco's  deep  faith  is  well  balanced 
Luisa*s  deep  sense  of  justice,  which  is  with  her  a  religicm.  And  in 
the  patriotism  is  so  strong  as  to  be  a  religion,  vivified  in  Franco  by 
idealism,  and  in  Luisa  by  the  sense  of  duty.  Fogazzaro  could  not 
stand  the  temptation  of  introducing  a  little  spiritism,  when  he  tries 
bring  Luisa  in  correspondence  with  the  spirit  of  her  dead  daughter,  M 
an  attempt,  however  soon  relinquished;  for  the  critic  within  Fogazzali 
saw  the  danger  to  the  unity  of  Luisa's  character.  J 

The  second  of  the  trilogy,  'The  Little  Modem  World,'  is  again  I 
ferior  in  texture  and  details.  In  this,  Piero  Maironi  and  Jeanne  Desa 
are  introduced  and  they  are  the  important  characters  of  the  last  bod 
But  Piero  Maironi  is  inferior,  in  interest,  to  Franco.  ( 

Fogazzaro's  works  are  in  their  artistic  value  like  the  flight  of  the  find 
continually  dipping  and  rising  in  its  transit  from  tree  to  tree.     Neyi^ 
theless  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  illustration  may  be  accepted  li 
for  this  writer  is  always  high  above  the  common  ground. 

Piero  Maironi  rises  again  in  'The  Saint'    (//  Santo).     In  this 
we  have  the  riepilogation  of  Fogazzaro's  works.     All  his  faith  is 
centrated  in  it.      Christian  Democracy,  born  in  the  idealistic  mind 
Daniele  Cortis  in  practice  with  the  old  Uncle,  in  the  first  book  of 
trilogy,  again  reappears,  and  is  preached  by  Piero  in  'The  Saint.' 
character  is  very  beautifully  drawn.     The  double  strength  of  the  hi 
and  the  spiritual  is  given  it;  and,  the  fact  that  Piero,  a  sinner  and  w 
ly  man  has  conquered  his  love  for  Jeanne  and  renounces  the  world, 
for  ascetic  retirement,  but  that  he  may  bring  strength  and  comfort 
his  fellowmen,  enhances  its  power.     Piero's  teachings    are    hardly 
though  still  unheeded,  and  many  may  incline  to  say  that  such  a  book 
no  place  in  fiction.     Yet  it  must  not  be  judged  too  superfidally. 
very  stage  of  Maironi's  developments  lends  significance  and  emmence 
The  Saint.' 


PIETRO   ISOLA  139 

If  the  scene  were  laid  elsewhere  it  might  indeed  lose  some  of  its 
ortance,  but  laid  in  Italy  and  in  Rome,  it  assumes  force.  It  establishes 
flection  of  progress,  an  atmosphere  of  thoughtfulness.  It  brings  new 
es  to  those  Italians  whose  traditional  religious  faith  is  tenacious  and 
ere,  yet,  who  see  the  wrongs  and  incompatibility  of  the  Roman 
irch ;  who  recognize  their  duty  as  Italian  citizens  to  strive  for  fraternity, 

who  wish  to  help  others.  They  are  not  blind  to  the  progress  of 
world  and  desire  to  march  with  it. 

Amid  the  vapid  literature  of  the  day  it  is  unusual  and  hopeful  to 
t  with  a  man  who  invites  you  to  meditate  and  to  consider  perplexing 
idons  of  conscience  and  polity.  'The  Saint'  has  been  placed  in  the 
gory  of  polemical  works  like  'J^^  Inglesant'  and  'Robert  Elsmere' 

this  is  Ii^rdly  just  to  its  breadth  of  subject,  finesse  of  drawing,  or 
s  rank  in  aesthetic  wridng. 

Let  it  not  be  compared  to  any  other  work,  but  let  it  be  accepted  as 
work  of  an  Italian,  written  in  Italian  and  for  Italians.    Let  it  represent 

dignified  message  of  a  man  who  feels  the  ambigous  conditions  of 
y  in  matters  of  faith. 

Though  it  be  admitted  to  be  at  variance    with    our    own    beliefs 

opinions,  still  it  will  always  demand  and  receive  our  sincere  admira- 
•  The  proper  relations  of  Church  and  State  have  ceased  to  be 
itical  in  Italy  and  have  become  ethical.  'The  Saint'  preaches  what 
ians,  blades  and  whites,  should  hear,  and  for  that  matter,  the  world 
uld  hear. 

There  is  a  strong  doubt  in  the  minds  of  many,  that  the  reformation 
the  Church  is  possible  with  a  promise  of  endurance;  but  if  our  minds 
broad  and  if  we  have  courage  a  doubt  may  be  a  starting  point  for 
:er  things.  Italy  needs  a  sane  religious  renaissance,  which,  without 
ig  too  radical  or  unracial,  will  place  her  in  the  front  line  of  progress 
happiness.  It  is  fortunate  therefore  that  Italy  has  a  noble  earnest  leader 
Antonio  Fogazzaro,  to  whom  we  speed  the  echo  of  his  words:  'Onward, 
b'cr.*  To  the  reader,  therefore,  we  offer  a  warm  exhortation  to  grace 
rympathetic  study,  the  works  of  this  gifted  writer  who  has  known 

to  temper  his  Latin  genius  with  the  refining  touch  of  English 
iture  and  thought. 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

IS  Tippa  Passes'  a  drama?  One  of  our  contributors  to  i 
number  of  Poet  Lore  after  a  most  sincere  and  unbiased  t 
of  Tippa'  at  the  bar  of  judgment  upon  its  stage  presental 
in  New  York,  concludes  that  it  is  not  a  drama  but  a  dram 
poem.  His  conclusion  has  suggested  two  lines  of  thought 
us;  first  whether  a  drama  must  necessarily  be  just  what  evi 
body  thinks  it  ought  to  be;  second,  if  it  is  a  dramatic  po 
why  should  not  a  dramatic  poem  have  a  stage  interpretation? 

4i  4i  *  t¥  t¥ 

Like  every  other  alive  form,  either  natural  or  artistic,  the  dra; 
just  by  dint  of  being  what  everybody  thinks  it  ought  to  be  has  assumei 
whenever  its  makers  and  hearers  were  not  sheep,  but  leaders — m 
different  shapes  under  different  hands.  Some  of  these  shapes  have  nc 
been  developed — so  far  as  the  history  of  literature  knows — in  all  tl 
inherent  capabilities.  And  this  has  happened  not  through  any  fault 
the  germinating  idea,  but  in  the  conditions  of  the  time.  The  seed  y 
good,  its  growth  desirable,  for  its  peculiar  dramatic  purpose  and  resi 
but  the  conditions  unfavorable. 

4i  4i  4i  4i  4i 

It  happens  that  the  dramatic  form  of  Browning's  Tippa  Pas 
is  one  of  the  most  interesting  in  its  capabilities  of  the  manifold  fo] 
that  pushed  their  way  in  the  ground  in  the  vigorous  dawn  of  our  mod 
European  Drama.  It  is  that  form  of  dramatic  story  which  is  allied 
our  very  earliest  Christian  dramatic  form.  It  was  enacted  yearly  in 
mediaeval  monasteries  and  churches  of  Christendom.  It  showed  fc 
the  stations  of  Christ's  progress  through  his  personal  passion,  and 
groups  affected  by  it,  to  the  tomb.  It  was  acted  out  by  showing,  pro 
sionally,  the  main  stages  of  the  life  of  a  single  overpowering  personal 
as  it  touched  other  lives. 

This  sort  of  medieval  processional  drama,  passing  through  a  sue 
sion  of  stage-settings,  represented  in  a  series  of  little  booth-like  staj 
whose  manifold  scenes  were  knit  together  and  unified  only  by  the  influ< 
of  one  and  the  same  personality  in  each  group  at  each  scene,  is 
extremely  interesting  medieval  dramatic  form  which  Browning  rcvivec 
Tippa  Passes.' 

It  seems  not  to  have  been  a  form  used  only  in  enacting  the  'Static 
But  this  is  one  of  the  most  prominent  exemplars  of  the  form,  wl 

140 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  141 

taces  are  still  extant.  The  'Stations'  are  still  told  yearly  in  the  Roman 
iiurch,  the  priest  and  his  little  group  of  hearers  still  passing  along  the 
isles  from  pillar  to  pillar  and  pausing  before  each,  where  hangs  the 

icture  showing  forth  a  scene  in  the  progressive  story  of  one  life's  eifects. 

^         *         *         *         n^ 

The  events,  the  side-issues,  the  complications  of  this  sort  of  drama, — 
s  everybody  knows — ^the  Shepherd  Kings,  Herod,  events  from  the 
oint  of  view  of  the  devil  and  his  imps,  and  his  buifoon,  the  Vice, 
rere  among  the  early,  so  to  speak,  'socializing'  results  of  secularizing 
lie  sacred  drama,  both  in  the  church  and  out  of  it.  Thence  many  another 
ariety  branched,  not  here  concerning  us.  But  the  point  is  that  this 
iramatic  form  which  Browning  revived  is  one  of  the  oldest  and  most 
ital  of  our  latent  undeveloped  forms  of  scenic  art.  And  because  it  is 
specially  adapted  to  bodying  forth  the  manifold  action  of  a  unitary 
«rson  and  principle,  therefore  the  new  and  original  phase  of  it  Browning 
truck  out  to  show  forth  one  day  of  an  innocent  unknown  girl's  life  is 
irtistically  flawless.  It  entirely  suits  the  dramatic  motive  that  occurred 
0  him  while  rambling  alone  through  the  Dulwich  woods  'of  someone 
iralking  thus  alone  through  life;  one  apparently  too  obscure  to  leave  a 
Tace  of  his  or  her  passage,  yet  exercising  a  lasting  though  unconscious 
influence  at  every  step  of  it.' 

41  4(  41  4(  41 

To  dramatise  this  motive  in  any  other  way  would  be  less  artistic. 
The  most  discouraging  aspects  of  the  accounts  of  this  play  which  some 
contemporaneous  critics  have  given  is  not  the  effect  of  their  words  upon 
the  poet  or  the  actors  or  even  the  audiences — for  not  everybody  in  any 
audience  can  be  blinded  by  any  critic.  No;  the  most  discouraging  aspect 
of  such  accounts  is  the  account  the  critic  gives  of  himself  as  one  not 
equipped  for  his  task  of  dramatic  criticism  by  that  open-minded  and 
thorough  knowledge  of  dramatic  origins  and  development  which  would 
forbid  him  to  hold  the  view  that  a  drama  must  seek  a  stereotyped 
external  form,  regardless  of  its  informing  motive. 

41  41  41  4(  41 

Now  as  to  the  second  point.  Our  contributor  felt  that  the  poetic 
itmosphere  of  Tippa'  disappeared  in  the  realism  of  presentation  on  the 
Rage.  We  do  not  believe  there  is  any  intrinsic  reason  why  the  poetry 
ihoald  disappear  in  this  way.  If  it  does,  it  is  because  the  realistic 
aethods  of  modem  stage-craft  are  used  in  presenting  things  of  the  spirit 
bat  require  more  ideal  methods  of  presentation.  Why  should  not  the 
ction  of  the  dramatic  poem  be  given  by  suggestion  just  as  it  is  in  opera? 
7e  all  know  how  operatic  heroines  start  off  on  long  journeys  in  the  dead 
'  winter  without  any  extra  wraps  but  a  lace  mantilla  thrown  over  the 


142  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

shoulders.  The  lace  mantilla  simply  stands  as  the  symbol  of  a  wrap  in 
a  world  where  all  is  symbolic.  So  the  poverty  of  the  little  silk-winder 
Pippa,  should  be  suggested  instead  of  shown  forth  in  all  its  ugly  realism. 
Similarly  with  her  dressing  I  She  may  be  already  nearly  dressed  and 
merely  add  a  few  external  things  to  her  toilette  to  suggest  dressings  and 
her  toilette  should  be  beautiful  in  color  and  form,  and  suggest  poverty 
only  by  the  simplicity  of  the  material.  We  know  by  experience  that  if 
the  first  and  last  scenes  in  which  Pippa  appears  are  treated  like  an  open 
rather  than  like  a  play,  the  poetic  atmosphere  is  preserved  intact. 

The  writer  had  the  pleasure  of  preparing  several  years  ago  a  presenta- 
tion of  Tippa  Passes'  for  The  Boston  Browning  Society.  Pippa's  room 
was  bare  and  simple  but  did  not  suggest  squalor,  and  as  the  sun  rose  and 
flooded  the  room  with  light  it  looked  almost  fairy-like.  Pippa  herself 
woke  up  in  this  rosy  light  and  sang  sleepily  and  then  louder  while  she 
merely  indicated,  by  the  way,  the  process  of  dressing,  which  so  troubles 
our  contributor.  The  poetic  atmosphere  was  maintained  throughout  and 
the  audience  felt  that  they  had  seen  Pippa  as  the  poet  sees  her,  not  as  the 
vulgar  crowd  might  see  her.  Though  not  in  point  here,  it  may  interest 
some  of  our  readers  to  know  that  the  remainder  of  the  scenes  were 
given  in  tableaux:  namely,  two  poses  before  Pippa's  song,  and  two  after 
her  song.  The  result  was  most  assuredly  not  modem  dramatic  realism 
but  it  was  certainly  beautiful,  and  uplifting.  The  question  is  are  we  to 
narrow  ourselves  down  to  a  single  conception  of  dramatic  presentation, 
or  are  we  to  regard  acting  as  a  medium  by  means  of  which  through  the 
development  of  more  subtle  methods  of  conveying  impressions  we  may 
present  poetic  or  divine  influences  symbolically  as  well  as  the  stark  realism 
of  every  day  life.  Shall  we  not  admit  into  our  category  of  legitimate 
dramatic  art  forms,  the  dramatic  poem  holding  a  place  midway  between 
the  drama  of  event  and  the  opera?  It  seems  to  us  there  can  be  but  one 
answer,  for  there  should  be  no  limit  in  the  possibilities  of  variaticm  in 
art  forms.  C.  P.  and  H.  A.  C. 


ME   XVIII  SUMMER    I907  NUMBER  II 

THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

A  Drama  in  Four  Acts 

By  Roberto  Bracco 
Translated  by  Dirce'St.  Cyr 

CHARACTERS 
Stephen 
Theresa 
Valentine 

The  Princess  Meralda  Heller 
An  Old  Beggar 
Don  Fausto 
Romolo  (a  servant) 

The  scene  is  laid  in  Naples^  at  the  present  time 

ACT  I 

The  Park  of  Posilipo,  On  the  right  is  Stephen  Baldi*s  little  villa, 
architecture  is  simple  but  in  very  good  taste.  The  one  door  leading 
the  villa  is  closed.  In  front  of  the  door  a  step  and  a  veranda  without 
lustrade.  Above  the  door^  three  small  windows.  On  the  window-sill 
\e  of  themy  a  vase  with  roses.  The  principal  entrance  of  the  villa  is 
osed  to  be  on  the  opposite  side.  On  the  lefty  trees  and  rose  bushes.  Up 
f  a  drive  and  as  background  a  wall  and  view  of  the  sea  On  the  vet  anfloy 
rs  and  chairs.  In  the  garden^  a  bench.  In  the  distance  on  the  lefty 
an  see  Vesuvius.  The  sun  gives  a  striking  light  to  the  scene  The 
full  of  gaiety. 

PoblUhed  in  Palmero,  June  10,  1906.     Privilege  of  Copyright  In  the  Unite  J  States  reserved 
he  Act  approved  March  3,  1905,  by  Roberto  Bracco  and  Remo  Sandron. 
^pjrright  1907,  by  Dirce  St.  Cyr. 


144  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

SCENE  I 

THERESA,    VALENTINE,   ROMOLO 

{Valentine y  a  man  about  forty y  hunchbacky  and  with  irregular 
features^  is  standing  at  the  window^  trying  to  revive  some  rosesj  which  an 
in  a  vase,  out  on  the  window-silL  Romolo^  a  typical  Italian  servant^  is 
standing  in  the  garden^  holding  by  the  collar  a  coaty  which  Theresa  is  cart' 
fully  brushing.  The  latter  is  a  woman  about  twenty^five,  very  sweet  and 
simple  in  her  manners). 

Theresa. —  We  are  better  out  here.  It  is  better  not  to  get  more  dust 
in  the  house. 

Valentine. —  I  say  Madame  Theresa,  what  are  you  doing  there  ? 

Theresa. —  Can  you  not  see  ?  I  am  brushing  Stephen's  clothes.  Hold 
it  up,  Romolo. 

Valentine. —  It  seems  to  me  that  Romolo  should  brush  his  master's 
clothes. 

Romolo. —  Madame  does  not  want  me  to  do  it. 

Valentine. —  It  is  because  you  are  not  obliging!  Of  course  a  servant 
whose  name  is  Romolo,  cannot  humiliate  himself  to  brush  the  clothes 
of  a  master,  whose  name  is  simply  'Stephen.'  But  don't  forget,  your 
master  is  not  an  ordinary  Stephen! — 

Romolo  (grumbling). —  Go  on,  go  on! 

Theresa  (reprimanding  him). —  Romolo! 

Valentine  {takes  the  roses  out  of  the  vascy  changes  the  water  and  puts  them 
backy  one  by  one). —  They  don't  last  very  long,  these  roses,  Madame  Theresa. 
They  are  already  beginning  to  wither. 

Theresa. —  You  gathered  them  two  days  ago. 

Valentine. —  Two  days  is  too  short  a  time! 

Theresa  {putting  the  folded  coat  on  a  chair y  to  Romolo). —  Now  the 
waistcoat. 

Romolo  (taking  the  waistcoat  from  a  chair  and  giving  it  to  Theresa). 

Theresa  {going  on  brushing  the  clothes.) 

Valentine. —  Sometimes,  you  are  able  to  keep  your  roses  fresh  for 
a  week. 

f  heresa. —  Why  do  you  keep  them  in  your  room  during  the  night? 

Valentine.-- 1  (ike  to  sleep  in  the  midst  of  the  perfume,  Madame 
Therci,a ! 

Theresa.—  A'^d  that  hurts  you  and  the  roses  (folding  the  waistcoat),    v 

Vohntini. —  In  other  words,  they  injure  me,  and  I  them. 

Theresa. —  That's  it,  Valentine  (giving  all  the  clothes  to  Romolo)r 
Take  everything  inside. 


t 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  145 

Romolo  {going  towards  the  Joor,  which  is  closed). 

Theresa. —  Where  are  you  going,  Romolo  ?     Did  I  not  tell  you  always  to 
out  and  in  by  the  back  door  ?     You  must  never  go  to  your  master's 
idy,  unless  you  are  called.     Don't  forget  again. 

Romolo. —  I  have  been  here  only  ten  days,  and  no  one  has  ever  told 
t  that. 

Valentine. —  I  told  you  of  it.  I,  who  consider  myself  your  immediate 
perior. 

Romolo  {shrugging  his  shoulders^  exit  behind  the  house). 

Valentine. —  What  shall  I  do,  Madame  Theresa,  everybody  laughs 
me. 

Theresa. —  Not  I,  though. 

Valentine. —  But  you  are  different  from  all  the  others. 

Theresa  {laughing). —  Ah!  ah  I  {picking  up  her  work  basket,  takes  out 
f  the  necessary  things  for  sewing). 

{A  silence.) 

Valentine  {still  at  the  window,  lights  his  pipe;  then,  as  if  seeing 
meone  coming  from  the  road). —  I  say,  whom  are  you  looking  for  ? 

Theresa. —  If  it  is  someone  who  wants  to  see  Stephen,  don't  let  him 
me  in.  It  is  not  time  yet.  I'll  hide  myself  {taking  her  work  basket  up 
icUy). 

Valentine. —  Leave  him  to  me. 

Theresa  {runs  away  to  the  back  of  the  house). 

SCENE  II 

VALENTINE,    DON   FAUSTO 

{Don  Fausto  who  has  not  heard  Valentine*s  call  enters  slowly  from 
e  alley,  leaning  on  his  cane.  He  is  a  stout,  elderly  man,  with  an  air  of 
ithority). 

Valentine  {calling  loudly). —  I  say,  Sir,  Sir. 

Don  Fausto  {who  begins  to  hear  a  little,  looks  around). 

Valentine. —  Here !  here !  look  up ! 

Don  Fausto  {at  last  raises  his  head). 

Valentine. —  Ah!  It  is  you,  Don  Fausto.  What  are  you  doing  here  ? 
ist  wait  a  second.  I'll  be  down  in  a  minute.  {After  a  second  he  appears 
the  garden). 

Don  Fausto. —  Why,  it  is  really  you!  From  down  here  I  could  not  see 
ir  shoulders,  and  I  did  not  know  who  you  were.  I  always  recognize 
ir  hump  better  than  your  face. 


146  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

Valentine. —  I,  on  the  other  hand,  can  recognize  you  from  evciy  si 
of  your  body. 

Don  Fausto. —  How  did  you  come  here  ? 

Valentine. —  I  did  not  come  here.  I  am  always  here.  I  am  employi 
by  Mr.  Stephen  Baldi.  I  am  his  secretary,  his  major-domo,  his  typewrite 
his  errand-boy.  It  is  true  that  in  reality  I  don't  do  much.  But  since  1 
gives  me  food,  shelter  and  tobacco  and  lets  me  have  my  freedom,  I  don 
mind  remaining  with  him  {comically).  When  I  was  with  you,  you  wishc 
to  pay  me  according  to  my  work.  Do  you  think  a  man  like  me  woul 
humiliate  himself  by  becoming  a  book-keeper  in  your  dirty  soap-factoiy 
Do  you  see  that  window  with  the  roses  ?  That's  my  room,  and  thei 
I  enjoy  myself.  When  you  came  in,  I  looked  at  you  and  thought  hoi 
superior  I  feel  now  to  you. 

Don  Fausto. — I  haven't  heard  a  word  of  what  you  said.  Do  me  di 
favor  to  speak  on  the  left  side.     I  can  no  longer  hear  with  my  right  ear. 

Valentine  {stepping  on  the  left  side  of  Don  Fausto). —  How   could 
know  you  had  lost  one  ear! 

Don  Fausto. —  I  am  astonished !  Eveiybody  knows  what  has  happene 
to  me. 

Valentine.—  I  did  not  hear  of  anything. 

Don  Fausto. — ^Yes,  eveiybody  knows  it,  because  I  wrote  an  artid 
in  the  newspapers. 

Valentine. —  An  ardde! 

Don  Fausto. —  Yes,  against  that  doctor,  the  specialist,  who  mine 
my  ear. 

Valentine. —  Indeed  you  always  fought  for  your  rights  I 

Don  Fausto. —  You're  right  there!  I  always  punished  all  the  scoun 
drels!     But  please  repeat  to  me  now,  what  you  said  before. 

Valentine. —  Never  mind.  The  point  is,  I  am  employed  by  Ml 
Stephen  Baldi. 

Don  Fausto  {putting  his  hand  on  Valentine* s  shoulders). —  Thei 
perhaps  you  are  the  man  I  am  looking  for.  Have  you  any  influence  wit! 
this  rare  beast? 

Valentine. —  It  is  you,  who  are  the  rare  beast. 

Don  Fausto. —  Well,  I  mean  this  seductive  poet. 

Valentine. — Before  you  go  on,  you  must  withdraw  the  word  'seductive 

Don  Fausto. —  All  right!     Fll  drop  the  word  *  seductive.' 

Valentine. —  Those  who  live  at  the  expense  of  others  also  have  soin 
influence  over  them.  Moreover  I,  besides  living  at  his  expense,  am  relate 
to  him.     Yes,  we  come  from  the  same  tree! 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  147 

Don  Fausto. —  From  Adam  and  Eve  ? 

Valentine  {imitating  him). —  From  Adam  and  Eve  {caressing  his  chin). 
hat  a  nice  man  you  are! 

Don  Fausto. —  Don't  touch  me! 

Valentine. —  I  am  a  cousin  in  the  third  degree.    Take  off  your  hat  on 

at. 

Don  Fausto. —  FU  do  that  if  you  can  make  him  pay  me  the  seventeen 
indred  francs  he  owes  me. 

Valentine. —  Did  Stephen  buy  seventeen  hundred  francs'  worth  of  soap 
om  you  ? 

Don  Fausto. —  What  are  you  talking  about?  I  gave  up  my  soap- 
ctory  five  years  ago.  My  brother  in  law,  who  lost  his  position  at  the 
lUseum,  and  I  together  opened  a  store  for  antiques.  Did  you  not  know 
tat? 

Valentine. —  Who  would  lose  his  time  to  speak  about  you  ? 

Don  Fausto. —  But  I  wrote  an  article  in  the  papers  about  it. 

Valentine. —  What,  another  one  ? 

Don  Fausto. —  Nothing  funny  about  it!  What  are  the  newspapers 
r,  if  not  for  tales. 

Valentine. —  I  see  you  have  a  good  opinion  of  newspapers. 

Don  Fausto. —  Let  me  reach  my  point. 

Valentine. —  Yes,  do. 

Don  Fausto. — Eight  months  ago  your  cousin  in  the  third  degree  bought 
Mn  me  a  frame  and  two  chairs. 

Valentine. —  What !  seventeen  hundred  francs  for  a  frame  and  two 
tain? 

Don  Fausto. —  Seven  hundred  for  the  frame  and  five  hundred  for  each 
lair. 

Valentine. —  Heaven  knows  how  many  a  time  I've  sat  on  those  five- 
indred  franc  chairs  and  never  noticed  the  difference. 

Don  Fausto. —  I  wrote  him  more  than  twenty  letters. 

Valentine. —  And  he  ? 

Don  Fausto. —  He  ?    Exactly  as  if  I  had  never  written  to  him. 

Valentine  {putting  his  pipe  in  his  pocket). —  Don't  be  offended,  he  is 
nys  absent-minded. 

Don  Fausto  {angry). —  Absent-minded  ? 

Valentine. —  You  see,  all  the  poets  are  absent-minded. 

Don  Fausto  {louJly). —  But  I'll  cure  him! 

Valentine  {petting  him  as  one  would  a  horse). —  Good,  good  Don 
ustol 


148  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

Don  Fausto. —  Don't  touch  me. 

Valentine. —  One  of  these  days  FU  speak  to  him  about  it. 

Don  Fausto. —  Now  I  need  some  cash,  because  I  have  to  face  the 
payment  of  some  bills,  which  are  due  today.  Therefore,  by  twelve  o'dodi 
I  must  have  all  he  owes  me  without  fail. 

Valentine. —  It  will  be  hard  to  satisfy  you  at  twelve,  because  it  is  jutt 
the  hour  that  Stephen  is  shut  up  in  his  study  and  cannot  be  disturbed. 

Don  Fausto. —  Study  or  no  study,  if  in  an  hour  from  now  he  has  not 
paid  his  debt,  I'll  send  a  sheriff  and — 

Valentine  {quickly). —  Write  an  article  in  the  newspapers? 

Don  Fausto  (firmly). —  Yes. 

Valentine. —  Good,  and  then  Stephen  will  answer  you  in  poetry. 

Don  Fausto. —  And  I,  in  prose,  will  call  him  a  scoundrell 

Valentine. —  How  dare  you  ? 

Don  Fausto. — You  are  provoking  me. 

SCENE  III 

DON   FAUSTO,    VALENTINE,  THERESA 

Theresa  {coming  from  the  back  of  the  house). —  What  has  happened, ; 
Valentine  ? 

Valentine  {to  Fausto). —  This  is  his  wife.  Be  a  gentleman  with  her. 
{To  Theresa)  Nothing,  Madame  Theresa,  nothing  serious.  Here  is 
Don  Fausto  Cantajello,  who  claims  seventeen  hundred  francs  for  a  fraiM 
and  two  chairs. 

Don  Fausto. —  Yes,  two  large  armchairs  of  the  period  of  Henry  the 
Fourth. 

Valentine  {to  Theresa). —  Yes,  he  means  those  two  big  armchairs-- 
{makes  a  gesture). 

Don  Fausto. —  That's  right.  Henry  the  Fourth  himself  sat  in  those  ] 
armchairs. 

Valentine. —  No  doubt  about  it.  Yes,  one  can  still  see  his  impression  ■ 
on  them. 

Don  Fausto. —  The  frame  contained  the  first  painting  of  Napoleon  I. 

Valentine. —  I  understand  now  why  Stephen  put  his  — 

Theresa  {on  the  right  side  of  Don  Fausto). —  Yes,  but  I  don't  believe 
that  my  husband  can  pay  such  a  sum  today;  could  you  kindly  wait  a  few 
days  ? 

Don  Fausto  {who  did  not  quite  hear^  to  Valentine). —  What  did  she  say? 

Valentine. —  To  the  left,  to  the  left,  Madame  Theresa. 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  149 

Theresa. —  To  the  left  ? 

Valentine. —  He  is  deaf  in  the  right  ear.     Speak  to  him  in  the  left  one. 

Theresa  (going  to  the  left  side  of  Don  Fausto). —  I  said  kindly  to  wait 
few  days. 

Don  Fausto. —  Ah  no,  Madame,  I  have  already  explained  everything  to 
Mir  husband's  third  cousin. 

Theresa. —  Valentine. 

Valentine  (xealously). —  Well  ? 

Theresa  {aside). —  You  know,  Stephen  does  not  wish  you  to  be  known  as 
is  third  cousin. 

Valentine. —  It's  true!     I  always  forget  it. 

Theresa  (affectionately). —  We  have  to  respect  —  his  ideas  — 

Don  Fausto. —  Well,  Madame,  what  have  you  decided  about  it  ? 

Theresa. —  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  I  never  disturb  my  husband, 
hen  he  is  writing,  especially  today.  Yes,  as  soon  as  I  know  he  has  some 
oney  — 

Von  Fausto. —  'When  he  has  some  money?'  My  dear  lady,  it  will 
t  too  late  I  Fortunately  (taking  the  bill  from  his  pocket)  he  signed  this  bill, 
erefore  he  will  not  deny  it.     The  time  is  past,  and  I  can  now  act  at  once. 

Valentine. —  Sheriff  —  articles  in  the  newspapers. 

Theresa  (frightened). —  Heavens!    What  do  you  say  ? 

Don  Fausto. —  My  dear  lady,  I  reason  so!  Who  ever  can  afford  such 
pretty  villa  at  Posilipo,  built  expressly  for  himself,  which  I  know  has  cost 
m  a  great  deal  and  who  drives  in  a  carriage,  when  I  always  take  the  car — 

Valentine  (interrupting  him). —  It  must  be  trying,  you  who  are  so  fat. 

Don  Fausto  (angry). —  Yes,  I  who  am  so  fat,  go  on  foot,  but  I  cariy 
f  head  high.    What  surprises  me  is  that  Mr.  Stephen  Baldi  — 

Valentine  (interrupting  him). —  Drives  in  a  carriage  instead  with 
mn  cast  eyes. 

Don  Fausto. —  He  should  go  with  down  cast  eyes,  as  he  never  keeps 
I  word. 

Theresa. —  Sir,  you  offend  us! 

Don  Fausto. —  1  don't  mean  to  offend  anyone,  but  when  people  want 
take  away  from  me  the  little  I  have  made  out  of  my  own  efforts,  I'll 
(end  myself. 

Valentine. —  Did  you  make  Napoleon's  frame  by  — 
Don  Fausto. —  Precisely. 

Valentine. —  Then  of  course  you  are  right. 

Dan  Fausto. —  Dear  Madame,  you  see,  business  is  veiy  bad  at  present. 
lere  is  such  an  abundance  of  antiquities.    Yes,  people  want  to  be  in  the 


ISO  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

fashion^  and  I  hardly  make  my  living.  If  I  find  someone  wants  to  play 
me  a  trick  Fll  play  mine  first,  and  we  both  die  in  the  same  water.  For  eig^t 
months  your  husband  has  ignored  me,  now  it  is  time  for  me  to  act  at  once. 

Theresa  {trembling). —  For  pity's  sake,  no!     Listen — listen,  dear  sir,  I'll 
see  what  I  can  do. 

Don  Fausto. —  Fll  give  you  an  hour.  | 

Theresa. —  Dear  Valentine,  you  only  can  help  me.  ' 

Valentine. —  Fll  do  anything  for  you,  Madame  Theresa,  but  what  can 
I  do? 

Theresa. —  Do  you  know  any  pawn  shop  ? 

Valentine. —  Only  a  few  of  them. 

Theresa. —  Are  there  any  here  in  Posilipo  ? 

Valentine. —  It  is  here  that  they  are  most  flourishing. 

Theresa. —  How  much  do  you  think  I  can  get  for  these  earrings,  that 
I  am  wearing  ? 

Valentine. —  What  ?    Would  you  ?  — 

Theresa. —  It  is  the  only  thing  I  have. 

Valentine. —  It  is  too  great  a  sacrifice. 

Don  Fausto  {understanding  the  situation^  goes  up  stage^  so  as  to  let  them 
be  quite  free). 

Valentine  {looking  at  the  earrings). —  I  am  afraid  only  between  eleven 
hundred  and  twelve  hundred  — 

Theresa. —  I  have  a  hundred  and  ten  francs  saved  up. 

Valentine. —  It's  not  enough  yet. 

Theresa. —  An  idea!  Fll  borrow  it  from  my  aunt.  Yes!  yes!  You'll 
go  and  ask  for  me.     She  is  very  fond  of  you,  and  she  will  not  deny  you. 

Valentine. —  Do  you  think  your  aunt  will  give  the  money,  because  she 
is  fond  of  me  ? 

Theresa. —  She  was  always  so  good  to  me.  She  took  my  mother's 
place  when  I  was  left  an  orphan. 

Valentine. —  Yes,  she  squandered  the  little  you  had. 

Theresa. —  All  for  my  education. 

Valentine. —  How  credulous  you  always  are  — 

Theresa. —  Don't  let  us  lose  any  more  time.  I  cannot  bear  that  man's 
presence.  Go  with  the  earrings  first  {giving  her  earrings  to  Valentine  end 
taking  out  from  her  bosom  a  roll  of  bills).  And  here  are  die  hundred  and  ten 
francs.     I  had  saved  them  up  to  buy  a  present  for  Stephen. 

Don  Fausto  {looking  at  them). 

Valentine  {putting  everything  in  his  pocket). —  Let  us  hope  I  may  find 
your  aunt  in  a  good  humor. 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  151 

Theresa. —  For  pity's  sake,  don't  discourage  me. 

Valentine. —  I  don't  discourage  you,  I  said,  only  let  us  hope.  {Beckon- 
g  to  Don  Fausto)  I  say,  you  beast,  come  along  with  me. 

Don  Fausto  {approaching  him  and  pointing  to  his  left  ear). —  Well? 

Valentine. —  We  shall  pay  you. 

Don  Fausto. —  I  am  at  your  service  {turning  to  Theresa  and  taking 
*  his  hat  to  her),  Madame. 

Theresa. —  Good  morning,  sir. 

Valentine. —  For  once  the  sheriff  and  the  newspapers  will  have  a  holiday. 

Don  Fausto. —  I  can't  swear  to  that  yet. 

Valentine  {taking  him  by  the  arm,  and  dragging  him  away). —  You 
»st!     {Both  go  out  from  the  alley.) 

Don  Fausto. —  What  did  you  say  I  am  ? 

Valentine  {going  on  his  left  side  and  taking  his  left  arm). —  A  beast! 

Don  Fausto. —  If  you  wanted  to  say  that,  you  could  have  remained  on 
e  right  side. 

ralentine. — No,  no,  my  dear  friend ;  I'll  remain  on  the  left.    {Both  exit.) 

Theresa. —  Don't  stay  long,  Valentine. 

Valentine* s  voice  {from  outside). —  It  will  take  a  little  time. 

Theresa. —  But  my  aunt  does  not  live  far  from  here. 

Valentine's  voice  {from  outside). —  I  must  stay  on  the  left  side,  you 
>undrel! 

Theresa  {quite  worried  sits  on  the  bench  and  begins  to  sew). 

SCENE  IV 

THERESA,   STEPHEN 

{Enter  Stephen,  a  young  man  near  thirty,  very  handsome  and  attractive.) 

Stephen  {opening   the   door   and   putting   his   head   out). —  Theresa  ? 

Theresa  {sweetly)  Stephen  ? 

Stephen. —  I  heard  some  noise  —  some  voices  — 

Theresa. —  Yes!  —  It  was  Valentine  who  was  talking  with  a  man  — 

Stephen. —  Who  was  it  ? 

Theresa. A  friend  of  his,  I  believe  — 

Stephen. —  He  should  not  receive  his  friends  in  my  house.  They 
irayt  look  so  dirty.    I'll  ask  you  to  tell  him  so,  will  you  ? 

Theresa. —  As  you  wish. 

Stephen  {approaching  Theresa  and^  with  a  certain  vanity,  making  her 
M  a  letter f  which  he  holds  in  his  hands). 

Theresa. —  How  sweet  it  smells! 


152  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

Stephen. —  It  is  a  letter  from  the  Princess  Heller. 

Theresa. —  Who  is  the  Princess  Heller  ? 

Stephen  — You  never  seem  to  know  anything  that  goes  on  in  the  world. 
The  Pnncess  Heller  is  a  great  lady,  who  only  a  few  years  ago  came  to 
establish  herself  in  Naples.  Today  her  salon  is  considered  the  most 
intellectual,  elegant  and  brilliant  place  in  town. 

Theresa. —  How  should  I  know  it  {sewing).  You  have  never  spoken 
to  me  about  her  — 

Stephen. —  I  did  not  know  her  personally;  I  only  met  her  yesterday 
at  the  studio  of  the  artist  Ferrantini.     She  calls  on  him. 

Theresa  {without  meaning). —  You  met  her  yesterday  and  today  she 
writes  to  you  ? 

Stephen. —  She  invites  me  to  frequent  her  salon. 

Theresa  {sincerely). —  I  am  so  glad!     It  will  help  you  a  lot. 

Stephen  {a  little  provoked). — ^You  mean  to  say  my  presence  will  flatter 
her. 

Theresa  {a  little  mortified). —  I  said  it  will  help  you,  because  you  need 
a  little  distraction. 

Stephen  {in  good  humor). — Now  don't  make  the  matter  worse  by  excus- 
ing yourself.     I  am  quite  used  to  your  silly  every-day  remarks. 

Theresa  {sadly). — ^You  will  end  by  becoming  tired  of  me. 

Stephen. — Don't  fear  that.  Being  a  wife,  you  are  all  right  as  you  arc 
{gently).     I  always  liked  you  just  so. 

iheresa. —  Really  ? 

Stephen. —  Really. 

Theresa  {draws  herself  up  proudly). 

Stephen  {sitting  next  to  her,  in  a  loving  manner). —  Tell  me,  dear  litde 
wife,  what  are  you  making  ? 

Theresa. —  Some  aprons. 

Stephen. —  For  the  maid  ? 

Theresa. —  No,  for  myself. 

Stephen. —  For  you  ? 

Theresa. —  Yes,  because  when  one  is  busy  around  the  house  — 

Stephen. —  But  I  will  not  allow  that.  We  have  a  secretary,  a  maid, 
a  cook,  a  coachman,  a  man  — 

Theresa. —  The  more  servants  we  have,  the  less  we  can  trust  them; 
especially  the  cook,  who  takes  so  much  authority!  For  instance,  this 
morning  I  went  to  verify  the  fruit  he  had  bought  for  breakfast  and  — 

Stephen  {closing  her  mouth  with  the  palm  of  his  hand). —  No,  Theresa, 
I  don't  want  to  hear  anything  about  the  cook. 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  153 

Theresa. —  You  reminded  me  of  him.  Otherwise  I  should  never  have 
entioned  the  incident  to  you. 

Stephen  {caressint^  her  cheek). —  You  little  silly  girl! 

Theresa  (laughing). —  What  can  I  do? 

Stephen. —  You  do  not  even  understand  that  in  this  moment  I  should 
Le  to  see  you  stop  sewing. 

Theresa. —  Immediately,  dearest.  (Puts  back  everything  in  the  work 
isket.)     But  you  also  have  been  working  till  now,  haven't  you  ? 

Stephen. —  Yes,  but  there  is  a  slight  difference  between  my  work  and 
nirs,  don't  you  think  so  ? 

Theresa. —  Did  you  work  much  ? 

Stephen. —  Not  very.  I  am  working  now  at  a  very  trying  thing,  which 
kes  up  all  my  vitality.  One  has  to  sacrifice  himself  so  when  his  income 
so  meager.  How  I  suffer!  No,  it  cannot  go  on  like  this.  No!  no!  I 
el  that  this  practical,  narrow-minded  way  of  living  is  killing  my  inspiration, 
must  write  a  poem,  and  I  shall  call  it  'The  Need  of  Strength.'  I  am  sure 
will  make  a  sensation,  as  it  will  expose  all  the  struggling  ones,  all  the 
^er  minds,  all  the  cowards,  the  useless  beings,  the  silly  — 

Theresa  {interrupting  him). —  Then  me,  too? 

Stephen  (smiling) . —  Naturally. 

Theresa. —  What  do  I  care  if  you  write  against  me  ?  You  will  always 
main  my  husband. 

Stephen  (jokingly). —  What  do  you  mean? 

Theresa. —  It  means  that  you  belong  all  to  me. 

Stephen. —  I  beg  your  pardon,  not  all  to  you. 

Theresa. —  But  you  did  not  talk  like  that  last  night,  while  you  were 
ing  to  sleep,  with  your  head  resting  on  my  shoulder. 

Stephen. —  I  was  half  asleep  then,  and  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  saying. 

Theresa. —  Yes,  you  did. 

Stephen. —  It  seems  to  me  you  are  getting  a  little  pretentious. 

Theresa. —  I  ? 

Stephen  (becoming  serious). —  I  don't  like  that. 

Theresa. —  I  was  only  remembering  a  sentence  of  yours  which  had 
ide  me  very  happy. 

Stephen  (angrily). —  Then  you  had  better  not  repeat  it,  or  I  might 
worry  to  have  said  it. 

Theresa  (sadly). —  Stephen! 

Stephen. —  Your  favorite  topics  are:  The  aprons  for  the  maid,  the 
Af  or  the  usual  stupid  sentimentality. 

Theresa. —  But  Stephen  — 


154  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

Stephen. —  Please  don't  look  cross  now.  What's  the  matter  ?  Arc 
you  angry  because  I  reproved  you  ? 

Theresa. —  No,  never! 

Stephen. —  Then  smile,  Theresa! 

Theresa  {trying  to  smile). 

Stephen. —  I  want  this  day  to  be  a  beautiful  one.  All  night  I  have 
been  wishing  for  peace.  I  woke  up  suddenly  after  a  terrible  dream.  But 
see  how  the  sun  and  the  sea  smile  at  me.  How  brilliant  is  one  and  how 
quiet  is  the  other.  {Taking  Theresa  by  the  hand  and  leading  her  to  the  sea) 
Come,  come,  Theresa!    Tell  me,  do  you  love  this  beautiful  sea  ? 

Theresa. —  You  see  how  blue  the  water  is  and  how  clear!  How  I 
should  like  to  plunge  into  it  and  go  straight  to  the  bottom  and  touch  the 
sand  with  my  hand. 

Stephen. —  I,  instead,  should  like  to  sail  over  it  and  go  as  far  as  possible. 

SCENE  V 

THERESA,   STEPHEN,  THE   OLD   BEGGAR  AND   HIS   OLD  WIFE 

{The  old  man*s  voice  is  heard) 
Close  your  eyes  —  over  the  sea. 
Open  your  eyes  —  over  the  earth. 
On  the  earth  —  be  in  peace. 
Look  around  —  day  and  night. 
Stephen  {to  Theresa). —  Who  is  trying  to  make  verses  in  such  a  funnf 
way? 

Theresa. —  It  is  an  old  beggar,  who  comes  here  twice  a  month,  andio 
order  to  make  a  few  cents,  he  recites  a  few  verses  of  his  own  composition. 
Stephen. —  I  never  saw  him. 

Theresa. —  So  that  he  may  not  disturb  you,  every  time  he  comes 
Valentine  and  I  send  him  away  immediately. 

{The  old  man  still  heard  singing) 
Do  help  a  poor  sailor! 
Who's  without  boat  and  without  net. 
Who's  dying  of  hunger  and  of  thirst. 
Theresa  {going  towards  the  alley). —  No,  no,  not  today,  my  old  man. 
Stephen. —  Why  not  ?  —  Introduce  me  to  him. 

Theresa. —  All  right  {calling  him  back), — ^You  can  come,  don't  be  afraid. 
Stephen  {approaching  Theresa). —  And  who  is  that  old  woman  ? 
Theresa. —  His  wife.     Ah !  she  never  leaves  him. 

{The  old  couple  enter.     He  is  about  ninety,  wrinkled,  bent,  slow,  hut 
still  strong.     He  is  barefooted  and  wears  a  ragged  jacket.     On  his  bare  neck 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  155 

i  has  the  scapulaire  of  St.  Lucia.  He  wears  on  his  head  the  characteristic 
rherman^s  cap.  He  also  wears  earrings.  The  old  woman  who  accom* 
mies  him  is  less  vivacious ^  and  she  also  is  dressed  very  poorly). 

The  old  man. —  Good  day. 

The  old  woman. —  Good  day,  your  excellencies. 

Stephen   {sitting  on  the  steps). —  Come  in,  valiant  man.    Who  has 
ught  you  to  compose  poetry  ? 

The  old  man  (gaily). —  Hunger.     I  sell  my  prattlings  so  that  I  may  buy 
:ead  for  my  old  woman. 

Stephen. —  So  you  are  making  money  with  your  poetry.     How  much 
3  you  make  every  day  ? 

The  old  man. —  I  can't  complain.     Do  you  know  my  saying  ?  — 
'Who  has  a  hundred,  I  ask  three. 
Everything  for  you,  a  little  for  me.* 

Stephen. —  Before  you  became  a  poet  and  a  beggar,  were  you  a  sailor  ? 

The  old  man. —  I  was  a  fisherman. 

Stephen. —  Why  did  you  leave  your  trade  ?    Was  the  sea  unfaithful  to 

3U? 

The  old  man. —  No  Sir,  only  old  age.     {Pointing  to  the  sea)    The  sea 
a  never  been  unfaithful  to  anyone. 

Over  the  sea  —  don't  look, 
Qose  your  eyes  —  and  go  on. 
There  is  a  friend  —  near  by  you, 
Close  your  eyes  —  and  go  on. 
Stephen. —  And  who  is  the  friend  on  the  sea  ? 
The  old  man. —  I  am  only  prattling,  you  know. 
Stephen. —  Then  the  friend  does  not  exist  ? 
The  old  man. —  Yes,  he  does  exist  —  It  is  Death. 
Stephen. —  And  do  you  call  Death  a  friend  ? 

The  old  man. —  Yes,  Sir  {sweetly).     Because  it  is  God  who  sends  it. 
Stephen  {comically). —  You  are  all  right.     But  I  must  reward  your 
)etical  work.     Do  you  wish  some  money?    Much?  {giving  a  handful 
pennies.)    Take  them. 
The  old  man  {happy). —  God  bless  you!  — 
The  old  woman  {happy). —  God  bless  you!  — 

Theresa. —  Only  a  cent  from  me,  as  I  am  not  as  rich  as  he  is.     {Giving 
f  cent.) 

The  old  man  {quite  moved). —  But  you  are  always  good  to  us.     {Turning 
the  old  woman)  Ready! 

{The  old  man  begins  to  dance,  murmuring: 

Lla,  Ua,  Ua, 
Lla,  lla,  lla  — 


156  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

while  the  old  woman  keeps  him  in  time^  by  clapping  her  bands.) 

Stephen. —  What's  that  ? 

Theresa. —  They   always   express   their  thanks  with   a  little  dance. 
{To  the  old  people)  It  is  sufficient. 

Stephen  (laughing). —  Let  them  go  on,  they  are  quite  amusing. 

Theresa. —  No,  I  say  stop. 

(The  old  people  stop  immediately.     Valentine* s  voice  is  heard  outside). 

SCENE  VI 

STEPHEN,  THERESA,  THE   OLD  MAN,  THE   OLD  WOMAN 

AND    VALENTINE 

Valentine  (approaching). —  Victory,  victory,  Madame  Theresa! 
Victory! 

Theresa  (makes  a  movement  of  joy^  then  immediately  tries  to  contrd 
herself). 

Stephen. —  What's  the  trouble  with  Valentine  ? 

Valentine. —  Victory!  Victory!  (Enters  from  the  alley ^  and  seeinf 
Stephen  J  stops  suddenly  y  looking  embarrassed). 

(A  silence). 

Stephen  (to  Valentine). —  Will  you  please  tell  me  what  heroic  acaoo 
you  have  accomplished  ? 

Theresa  (behind  Stephen  makes  a  gesture  to  Valentine  so  as  to  keep  him 
quiet). 

Valentine  (to  Stephen). —  What  action? 

Stephen. —  Were  you  not  screaming  "Victory,  victory?" 

Valentine. —  I  was  screaming  *  Victory,  victory,*  because  I  was  quid 
excited  about  some  one  —  What's  his  name  ?  An  ex-officer,  a  good  boy  — 
A  friend  of  mine  ? 

Stephen. —  The  same  one  who  was  here  in  the  Park  ? 

Theresa  (makes  another  gesture  to  Valentine). 

Valentine. —  Yes,  that  same  one,  we  were  talking  about  war! 

Stephen. —  About  war! 

Valentine. —  It  is  you  who  have  inspired  me  to  talk  about  war,  am 
since  then  I  always  talk  about  arms,  war,  victory  — 

Stephen. —  What  stories  are  these,  Rigoletto  ?    Are  you  now  a  jester  i 

Valentine. —  We  do  what  we  can  to  please  your  majesty. 

Stephen. —  Be  careful,  you  have  a  competitor.  (Pointing  to  the  d 
man).     Your  colleague  amused  me  more. 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  157 

Valentine. —  As  a  beggar  and  a  jester  he  is  my  colleague,  but  as  a  poet 
be  becomes  yours. 

Stephen  {laughing). —  Don't  be  impertinent,  or  I'll  throw  you  into  the 
Prater. 

Valentine  (laughing). —  Heaven  knows!     Today  I  feel  like  jesting,  and 
[  might  throw  you  into  it  instead! 

Stephen  {still  laughing). —  And  would  you  dare  to  attack  your  master  ? 

Valentine. —  Yes,  with  both  my  hands. 

Stephen. —  You  scoundrel,  you  shall  be  sorry  for  talking  like  that! 

Valentine. —  Perhaps  I  will  tomorrow,  not  today. 

Stephen. —  FU  put  you  to  the  test. 

Valentine  {posing  like  a  gladiator). —  I  am  ready! 

Stephen  {runs  up  stage  and  sits  on  the  parapet^  turning  his  shoulders 
the  sea). 

Theresa. —  Be  careful,  Stephen. 

Stephen  {folding  his  arms  comically). —  Come  on,  if  you  have  the 
urage. 

Valentine  {running  to  him). —  Your  end  is  come! 

Theresa  {screaming). 

Valentine  {turning  quickly). —  Madame  Theresa  ?  — 

Stephen  {running  to  her). —  What's  the  matter? 

Theresa. —  No  —  no  —  don't  play  such  tricks  any  more!  {Very  pale). 
Ii,  my  God!  I  was  so  afraid!     It  was  horrible! 

Stephen. —  Are  you  serious  ? 

Valentine  {sorry). —  I  beg  your  pardon,  Madame  Theresa!  What 
fool  I  am! 

Stephen. —  Am  I  not  right  to  call  you  silly  } 

Theresa  {embraces  him). 

Valentine  {seeing  the  old  couple ^  who  are  still  waiting). —  What  are  you 
ing  here?  Are  you  going  to  stay  here  all  day?  Go  away,  go  away! 
he  old  couple y  without  answering^  exit  from  the  alley). 

Stephen  {to  Theresa^  caressing  her  hair). —  If  I  ran  into  danger,  what 
uld  you  do  ? 
Theresa. —  I  should  die. 

Valentine  {discreetly  exits  into  the  house). 

Stephen. —  Why  do  you  still  tremble  ?  Are  you  still  afraid  ?  —  I  am 
fc  —  You  are  embracing  me  —  holding  me  — 

Theresa. —  I  am  afraid  that  I  annoyed  you  with  my  childish  fear. 

Stephen  {affectionately). —  No,  Theresa,  this  time  you  did  not  annoy 
id  [with  pride).  You  will  never  annoy  me,  when  you  make  me  feel  how 
)uch  you  value  me  and  appreciate  my  intellect  and  what  I  can  do. 


158  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

Theresa. —  Oh,  Stephen!  What  a  comfort  this  is  to  me!  {kissing  kin 
gratefully). 

Valentine  {again  appears  at  the  window  with  his  pipe^  laughing).- 
What  are  you  doing  there  ? 

Stephen  {seeing  Valentine). —  Ah,  you  are  there,  rascal? 

Valentine. —  I  am  smoking!  {showing  the  pipe). 

Stephen. —  Down  the  pipe,  when  in  front  of  the  'Triumph  of  Love! 

Valentine. —  Down  Love  when  in  front  of  the  *  Triumph  of  a  pipe!' 

Stephen. —  I  defy  you!  {kissing  Theresa). 

Valentine. —  And  Til  crush  you  with  roses!  {throws  one  after  the  oth 
the  roses  he  has  on  his  window).  You  must  surrender!  Surrendc 
Surrender. 

Theresa  and  Stephen  {under  the  rain  of  rosesy  keep  on  kissing  ea 
other  and  laughing). 

Valentine  {laughing). —  Surrender! 

ACT  II 

Stephen  Baldi^s  studioy  very  elegant  and  artistic.  A  door  on  the  h 
one  on  the  rights  and  another  up  stage  on  the  rights  which  is  the  gent, 
entrance.  In  the  center  up  stage  a  large  door  which  opens  from  the  insi 
upon  the  same  terrace  seen  in  the  first  act.  There  is  a  step  outside^  whi 
must  not  he  omittedy  being  part  of  the  business.  The  room  is  very  qw 
There  are  book-cases  all  around  full  of  books.  On  the  left  side  a  large  dt 
beautifully  carved.  Almost  in  the  middle  a  sofa.  Here  and  there  valua 
bric-a-braCf  flowers,  etc.     It  is  night.     Only  one  electric  lamp  is  lighted. 

SCENE  I 

VALENTINE   AND    ROMOLO 

{Valentine  enters  from  the  terrace^  dressed  in  an  evening  suit,  wearing  w 
ity  a  rather  shabby  light  overcoat^  also  an  old  high  hat.     He  looks  quite  busy 

Romolo!  Romolo!  {rings  the  electric  hell).  Where  are  you  ?  —  Madai 
Theresa!  — 

Romolo  {enters  from  the  general  entrance,  with  his  habitual  indoh 
air). —  If  Madame  Theresa  does  not  answer,  it  means  she  is  not  in. 

Valentine. —  Impossible! 

Romolo. —  She  has  gone  out. 

Valentine. —  When  ? 

Romolo. —  An  hour  after  Mr.  Baldi. 

Valentine. —  That's  funny! 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  159 

Romolo. —  Why  ?    Had  she  to  ask  your  permission  ? 

Valentine. —  Don't  be  impertinent.  I  forbid  you  to  ask  me  questions, 
iemember  I  am  the  secretary  of  the  most  celebrated  poet. 

Romolo. —  All  —  right  — 

Valentine. —  Mind  your  own  business. 

Romolo. —  All  right! 

Valentine. —  Your  master  orders  you  to  put  on  your  livery,  to  light  up 
I  the  lanterns  in  the  Park,  illuminate  the  parlor,  as  he  will  be  here  shortly, 
ith  a  most  distinguished  person. 

Romolo. —  And  you,  are  you  going  to  put  on  your  livery  ? 

Valentine. —  Impertinent! 

Romolo  (exit  from  general  entrance). 

Valentine  {taking  off  his  hat^  comically). —  And  I  will  light  up  the  shrine. 
'urns  the  key  of  the  electric  light  full  force). 

SCENE  II 

VALENTINE   AND  THERESA 

{Enter  Theresa  from  the  general  entrance^  looking  quite  agitated  and 
iset.     Seeing  Valentine^  goes  quickly  to  him.) 

Theresa. —  Tell  me?  —  All  his  success  —  the  enthusiasm  — 

Valentine  {impressed  by  her  strange  manner). —  Why  do  you  say 
ithusiasm  ? 

Theresa. —  Because  I  am  sure  he  had  it. 

Valentine. —  By  the  way!     Did  not  the  Princess  Heller  invite  you  too  ? 

Theresa. —  Not  directly,  because  we  don't  know  each  other!  Yet  she 
ndly  told  Stephen  she  would  be  glad  to  see  me  too. 

Valentine.—  Well  ? 

Theresa. —  At  the  last  moment,  when  I  was  ready,  he  refused  to  take 
e  along. 

Valentine. —  Why  ? 

Theresa. —  My  dress  was  not  elegant  enough,  not  in  fashion,  I  looked 
ce  a  servant  girl. 

Valentine. —  Did  he  say  you  looked  like  a  servant  girl  ? 

Theresa. —  Yes. 

Valentine. —  Indeed  he  treats  you  badly! 

Theresa. —  No,  Valentine,  he  is  right,  and  no  one  should  judge  him. 
he  Princess  had  invited  all  the  very  best  people  in  his  honor.  What  would 
icy  have  said  about  us  if  they  had  seen  me  dressed  in  such  poor  taste  i 

Valentine. —  Then  you  should  not  be  so  stingy  about  yourself.     Why 


i6o  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

don't  you  ask  Stephen  to  give  you  a  few  thousand  francs,  and  then  < 
your  dresses  in  Paris  ? 

Theresa. —  Not  in  Paris,  but  Fve  already  found  a  good  dressm 
and  have  ordered  a  splendid  gown.  Now  that  Stephen  is  received  in  soc 
if  it  happens  that  I  am  asked,  I  shall  be  ready. 

Valentine. —  When  did  you  order  your  gown  ? 

Theresa. —  Tonight. 

Valentine. —  Did  you  go  out  for  that  ? 

Theresa. —  Yes. 

Valentine. —  Was  it  so  pressing  that  you  could  not  wait  till  tomon 

Theresa  {mortified j  trying  to  excuse  herself). —  When  I  remained  a 
I  felt  so  depressed,  humiliated!     I  tore  to  pieces  that  horrible  dress  w 

frevented  me  from  going  with  my  Stephen.  I  believe  I  even  fainted^ 
found  myself  lying  on  the  floor,  and  felt  a  strange  sensation  in  seeinj 
the  things  most  familiar  to  me.  But  as  soon  as  I  had  my  strength  ba* 
ran  to  the  dressmaker  immediately.     Do  you  see  anvthing  strange  in  tl 

Valentine. —  There  is  nothing  strange  about  that,  yet  it  worries 
Lately  you've  been  so  nervous  —  So  —  i  ou*re  taking  Stephen's  beha 
towards  you  too  much  to  heart. 

Theresa  (dissimulating). —  I  am  not  suffering. 

Valentine. —  Yes,  you  are,  you're  losing  your  health.    What  you 
told  me  confirms  what  I  said. 

Theresa. —  Please  don't  tell  Stephen  of  it  ? 

Valentine. —  Don't  worry,  besides  it  would  be  hard  now  to  speak  to 
about  such  details,  after  he  has  been  called  a  'Great  Poet'  by  die  Prin 
Heller! 

Theresa  (taking  off  her  hat). —  Tell  me,  did  he  look  happy  ? 

Valentine. —  I  should  think  so!     It  was  an  apotheosis! 

Theresa. —  A  well  deserved  one. 

Valentine. —  Perhaps.     For  my  part  I  never  understood  hb  vei 
and  tonight  when  he  recited  them,  still  less.     But  I  don't  count. 

Theresa. —  You  and  I  cannot  understand  him.     If  he  should  y^ 
only  for  us  he  could  not  be  called  a  genius. 

Valentine. —  There  were  a  good  many  prominent  people  there  at 
house  of  the  Princess  tonight.     Even  the  Secretary  — 

Theresa. —  Of  Public  Education  ? 

Valentine. —  No,  of  war.    This  princess,  whom  nobody  knows 
thing  about,  has  conquered  pretty  nearly  the  whole  world.     Her  he 
tonight  was  crowded  with  reporters,  writers,  artists;  even  an  editor 
come  expressly  from  Milan.    Several  dozens  of  marquises,  counts,  a  qi 


ROBERTO  BRACCX)  i6i 

f  of  beautiful  women  wearing  gowns  cut  as  low  as  that  {making  an  exag- 
rated  gesture).  And  everyone  surrounded  Stephen,  especially  after  he 
d  read  his  poem  ^The  Need  of  Strength/ 

Theresa  {quite  excited ^  interrupting  him). —  And  she  —  the  Princess  ?  — 

Valentine. —  A  queen  bowing  to  tfie  Emperor. 

Theresa. —  She  must  be  an  angel. 

Valentine. —  I  am  afraid  too  much  so. 

Theresa. —  They  say  she  is  beautiful. 

Valentine. —  So,  so,  you  shall  judge  because  she  is  coming  here  tonight. 

Theresa. —  Here  tonight?  {clapping  her  hands).  How  glad  I  am! 
cm  are  joking,  Valentine.    Are  you  ? 

Valentine. —  You  don't  think  I  am  capable  of  doing  so?  Princess 
leUer  has  expressed  a  desire  to  take  him  home  in  her  carriage,  and  to  visit 
is  studio. 

Theresa. —  Then  it  is  true  ? 

Valentine. —  Of  course. 

Theresa. —  But  you  don't  look  as  happy  as  I. 

Talentine. —  Of  course  I  am  {clapping  his  hands  as  she  had  done 
ffare).    How  glad  I  ami 

Theresa. —  We  must  prepare  everything. 

Valentine. —  I  came  expressly  in  advance  so  as  to  prepare  for  the 
Kepdon. 

Theresa  {looking  outside). —  I  see  the  lanterns  are  lighted. 

Valentine. —  Yes. 

Theresa. —  I  must  put  his  desk  in  order;  and  those  books  on  the  chair  — 

Valentine. —  Leave  them  —  they  make  the  room  more  interesting. 

Theresa. —  Did  you  give  your  orders  to  Romolo  ? 

Valentine. —  I  told  him  to  dress  for  the  occasion. 

Theresa. —  We  should  have  some  flowers. 

Valentine. —  This  is  not  a  wedding. 

Theresa. —  And  I  ?  —  With  this  shabby  dress  — 

Valentine. —  But  you  are  in  your  own  house. 

Theresa. —  Never  mind,  but  I  am  not  presentable. 

Valentine. —  To  my  mind,  yes. 

Theresa. —  Don't  forget  I  am  Stephen  Baldi's  wife! 

Valentine. —  You  have  a  hard  position. 

Theresa. —  You  are  only  his  secretary,  yet  you  are  wearing  your  evening 
lit? 

Valentine. —  I  can  lend  it  to  you. 

Theresa. —  Stop  joking.     I  must  go  and  dress,  I'll  be  back  in  a  moment. 

FaUniine. —  It  is  too  late,  I  hear  the  carriage  {running  to  the  door). 
In»  hoe  the  is. 


i62  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

Theresa. —  Dear  me,  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Valentine. —  Nothing  at  all.    Go  to  meet  them  as  you  are. 

Theresa. —  To  receive  them  ?    Never! 

Valentine. —  It  is  your  duty. 

Theresa. —  No!  no!    Stephen  might  scold  me! 

Valentine. —  You  are  worse  than  a  child ! 

Theresa  {trying  to  look  outside). —  How  beautiful  she  is! 

Valentine. —  I  told  you  she  was  so-«o.     But  she  uses  too  much  perfume. 

Theresa. —  And  how  happy  he  looks,  he  seems  taller,  thinner  — 

Valentine. —  Precisely!    In  three  hours  he  has  grown  thinner  and  taller. 

Theresa. —  Here  they  come,  I  must  hide  myself 

Valentine. —  You  must  stay. 

Theresa. —  Then  remain  also. 

SCENE  III 

THERESA,   VALENTINE,  STEPHEN,  MERALDA 

{Stephen  is  in  evening  dresSy  and  wearing  a  white  flower  in  his  buttmt' 
hole.  Meralda  is  a  beautiful  woman  past  thirty^  very  fascinating  and  very 
stylish.) 

Meralda* s  voice. —  Before  entering  your  sacred  temple,  how  I  wouli 
like  to  feel  worthy  of  your  intellect. 

Stephen  s  voice. —  It  is  I,  Princess,  who  am  not  worthy  of  your  kindnen. 

Meralda  {entering^  letting  her  beautiful  opera  cloak  slip  from  her  shouHers^ 
goes  to  his  desk  immediately). 

Stephen  {helps  her  with  the  cloak  immediatelvj  and  when  he  goes  to  pui 
it  on  the  chair y  he  sees  Theresa  and  Valentine). — I  thought  you  were  in  bedl 

Valentine  {interfering). —  She  was  anxious  to  know  all  about  it. 

Stephen. —  I  did  not  ask  your  opinion.     Go. 

{Valentine  exit.) 

Meralda  {who  has  heard  the  whisperings  turns). 

Stephen  {introducing  them  against  his  will). —  Princess  —  My  wife. 

Theresa  {advancing  timidly  and  bowing  awkwardly). — Princess. 

Meralda  {giving  her  hand  unaffectedly). —  I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you. 
I  often  tried  to  find  out  in  your  husband's  writings  something  which  would 
point  me  out  the  fortunate  woman  whom  he  had  chosen  as  his  companion 
{looking  at  her  steadily).  Fate  has  given  you  a  very  difficult  task,  indeed, 
which  however  is  envied  by  others. 

Theresa  {timidly). —  In  fact  I  am  very  happy. 

Meralda. —  And  very  proud  of  him,  I  am  sure. 

Theresa. —  Yes,  very  proud  1 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  163 

Meralda  (laughing  a  little  at  her). —  Or  perhaps  the  continual  intimacy 
ukes  you  undervalue  the  great  privilege  you  have. 

Theresa. —  No,  no!  —  on  the  contrary!  — 

Meralda. —  It  would  be  natural  if  you  felt  like  that,  though. 

Theresa. How  can  you  think  so  ? 

Meralda. —  You  might  have  wished  for  a  husband  less  immersed  in  his 
Icals,  less  independent,  more  a  home  body  — 

Theresa. —  We  have  always  been  good  comrades;  you  are  accusing  him 
ijustly. 

Stephen. —  Theresa,  you  don't  understand  what  the  Princess  means. 
OQ  should  not  defend  me. 

Theresa. —  I  know  you  don't  need  my  defense,  yet  I  must  do  it,  if  they 
mse  you. 

Stephen  {trying  not  to  lose  his  patience). 

Meralda. —  But  I  did  not  accuse  him. 

Theresa. —  I  should  not  like  — 

Stephen  {interrupting  her). —  Don't  insist,  Theresa. 

Meralda  {in  a  mocking  tone). —  Let  her  talk. 

Theresa  {to  Meralda). —  Ah!  you  are  becoming  my  friend.  {Taking 
urage.)  Please  be  seated.  Princess.  Pardon  me  for  not  offering  you  a  chair 
ion  {pointing  to  the  sofa).  Do  sit  there.  {Meralda  sits  on  the  sofa. 
heresa  taking  a  low  chair  sits  next  to  her  and  goes  on  talking  with  animation.) 
M  are  so  interested  in  my  Stephen,  that  I  must  explain  how  things  are, 
know  I  am  silly,  and  he  often  says  it  to  me,  yet  I  am  not  so  silly  as  not  to 
iderstand  that  he  is  not  an  ordinary  husband.  He  goes  here  and  there, 
tt  in  the  end  he  always  returns  to  his  little  wife  for  rest.  If  sometime  you 
mid  on^  see  him,  how  he  laughs  and  jests  like  a  child  and  falls  asleep  like 
dred  baby  {not  paying  any  attention  to  him).  What  more  could  I 
iih  ?    My  only  sorrow  is  that  I  have  no  children,  yet  — 

Stephen. —  Enough  1 

Meralda  {to  Stephen). —  But  why  ? 

Stephen. —  She  is  tiring  you. 

Meralda. —  Not  a  bit  of  it,  she  is  amusing  me. 

Theresa  {looking  at  her^  sadly  astonished  —  a  brief  silence). 

Meralda. —  Go  on. 

Theresa  {rising). —  No,  Princess,  no;  will  you  excuse  me  ? 

Meralda.—  Why  ? 

Theresa. —  I  am  not  feeling  well. 

Stephen  {looking  at  Theresa  severely). 

Meralda. —  Do  sit  again. 

Theresa  {trembling  under  Stephen's  looks). — Good  night, 


i64  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

Meralda. —  Good  by,  Madame. 
Theresa  {exit  from  right  door). 

SCENE  IV 

MERALDA,   STEPHEN 

Stephen. —  I  beg  of  you,  Meralda,  not  to  pity  me. 

Meralda. —  She  is  sweet.  She  must  be  very  affectionate  also  : 
good  — But  no  doubt  it  is  a  hybrid  union. 

Stephen. —  Let  us  speak  of  something  else,  Meralda. 

Meralda. —  If  I  am  your  friend  —  your  best  friend,  you  should  con 
in  me  the  mystery  of  your  choice. 

Stephen. —  Simply  hazard. 

Meralda. —  A  rebel  like  you  consented  to  obey  ? 

Stephen. —  I  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  rebel  in  this  episode,  to  wl 
I  do  not  attach  material  importance. 

Meralda. —  It  seems  to  me  this  episode  would  have  had  some  influc 
on  your  life. 

Stephen. —  I  never  allowed  a  woman  to  influence  my  life,  notevm  ] 
who  are  the  most  complete  woman  I  have  ever  known,  still  less  then, 
poor  creature  you  have  just  met.  Therefore  you  must  not  demand  f 
me  what's  against  my  nature.  When  I  married  I  did  not  know  my 
If  I  had  met  a  superior  woman  I  should  perhaps  have  found  courag 
tell  her  my  rights  of  supremacy;  but  even  at  that  time,  my  instinct  gu 
me.  Theresa's  humility  attracted  me.  You  may  detect  from  the  sir 
story  of  my  marriage  my  real  temperament.  I  warn  you  it  will  be  imposi 
to  change  me.     Are  you  satisfied  ? 

Meralda  {with  resignation). —  I  am  satisfied. 

Stephen. —  Is  it  peace  or  war  ? 

Meralda. —  Peace.  I  surrender.  I  lay  down  my  arms,  and  here  ii 
white  flag.  Vl\  accept  your  terms,  and  from  now  on,  if  you  wish  (s€ 
I'll  become  another  episode.  I  am  satisfied  that  the  artist  has  op< 
the  door  of  his  temple  to  me  and  am  resigned  to  the  man's  indifference. 

Stephen  (gallantly). —  Why  do  you  speak  about  indifference  ?  I  am 
far  from  sacrificing  all  the  facts  regarding  the  existence  of  love.  Indc 
wish  to  awaken  my  energy  again  and  to  become  the  slave  of  morality 
civilization.  I  say  to  the  woman:  *  If  you  come  to  me  to  put  a  limit  t« 
independence  I  repudiate  you,  but  if  you  will  be  a  source  of  triumph  ai 
you  will  nourish  my  ideals  with  your  sensibility,  you  are  welcome.  I 
waiting  for  you,  my  charming  guest.  So  long  as  you  are  mine,  you  wil 
feel  my  supremacy!' 


ROBERTO  BRACXX)  165 

Merclda. —  Well  (sighing)  —  the  most  complete  woman  whom    you 
J  ever  known  agrees  with  you  (Jetting  her  handkerchief  fall). 
Stephen  {picking  it  up,  kneels  in  front  of  her,  and  remains  in  this  position 
few  seconds). —  The  proudest  man  is  at  your  feet. 
Meralda. —  I  let  my  handkerchief  fall  so  as  to  have  that  illusion. 
Stephen. —  To  have  this  pretext,  I  pick  it  up  {offering  it  to  her). 
Meralda  {taking  it). 
Stephen  (kissing  her  hand). 
Meralda. —  Thank  you. 
Stephen  {rising). 

Meralda  {quickly  rising  too). —  Did  you  ever  ask  yourself  if  in  my 
»nality  there  is  something  different  from  what  people  see  in  me  ? 
Stephen. —  You  arc  as  I  see  you. 
Meralda. —  And  —  My  past  does  not  worry  you  ? 
Stephen. —  No. 

Meralda. —  Therefore  you  are  satisfied  to  know  what  everybody  knows; 
is  —  I  was  bom  in  a  small  town  near  Venice,  and  that  my  family,  though 
tf  were  poor;  and  that  very  young  I  married  a  rich  German  — 

Stephen. And  that  at  twenty-four  years  old   you  were  left  a 

Wf  noble,  a  millionaire,  and  alone.  It  seems  to  me  you  have  already 
t  mai^  details  of  your  past. 

Meralda  {trying  to  scrutinize  his  thoughts). —  Don't  you  mistrust  such 
meting  stoiy  ? 
Stephen. —  No. 
Meralda. —  I  am  sorry. 
Stephen.—  Why  ? 

Heralda. —  You  should  understand  that  a  woman  like  me  is  tormented 
iriosity  to  know  if  she  could  still  rely  on  the  affection  of  her  chosen 
I,  even  without  all  the  glitter  and  admiration  which  surrounds  her. 
Stephen. —  My  loyalty  to  you,  Meralda,  should  convince  you  of  my 
nents.  What  would  you  say  if  I  also  doubted  your  sincerity,  especially 
lit,  after  my  triumph,  after  the  admiration  which  I  was  able  to  arouse  in 
friends  ?  You  say  you  would  like  to  leave  your  title  for  a  day  or  an 
and  be  a  simple  woman.  But  why  underestimate  and  destroy  ydur 
r  ?    No  I    You  must  remain  as  you  are. 

4eralda  {disappointed). —  I  shall  obey  you  and  remain  as  I  am.     {In 
tged  tone.)     Will  you  take  me  to  the  carriage,  my  conqueror  ? 
*tephen. —  I  am  your  slave! 
ieroida  {smiles). 

'iephen. —  Sometimes  I  shall  be  more  obedient  than  a  slave. 
ieralda  {smiling  and  caressing  him  with  the  point  of  her  fan). —  My 
please. 


i66  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

Stephen  {takes  the  cloak  and  helps  her  with  it,  murmuring^  Are  ] 
mine?) 

Meralda. —  Alas,  yes! 

Stephen. —  And  I  ?  —  am  yours. 

Meralda. —  Alas,  no! 

Stephen  (offering  his  arm,  they  go  out  from  the  general  entrance).^-' 
is  the  shortest  way. 

Meralda. —  Out  ? 

Stephen. —  And  in. 

(Both  go  out) 

SCENE  V 

VALENTINE,  STEPHEN,  THERESA,  THEN  ROMOLO. 

Valentine  {enters,  laughing). —  Madame  Theresa!  The  Goddc 
gone!  {Comically)  The  wife  of  this  great  man  always  disapp 
{Exit  on  the  right,  calling  Madame  Theresea,  Madame  Theresaf) 

Stephen  {entering). —  Where  are  you  going? 

Valentine  {returning). —  I  saw  you  accompanying  the  Princess  t 
carriage.  I  came  back  here  to  talk  with  your  wife;  not  finding  her,  I 
to  hunt  her  up. 

Stephen. —  If  you  think  I  am  in  a  mood  now  to  listen  to  your  p 
you're  mistaken. 

Valentine. —  All  right! 

Stephen. —  If  you  only  knew  how  tired  I  am  of  always  listening  to 
silly  talk.     Ah,  the  joy  of  living  alone! 

Valentine  {earnestly). —  Listen  to  me:  when  Madame  Theresa  com 
please  don't  scold  her.     She  is  already  much  upset. 

Stephen. —  You  always  exaggerate! 

Valentine. —  If  you  knew  what  she  did  tonight! 

Stephen. —  What  did  she  do  ? 

Valentine. —  Hush,  here  she  comes! 

Theresa  {entering,  looking  pale,  as  if  she  had  been  crying; 
Stephen). — Did  you  call  me  ? 

Stephen  {trying  not  to  be  cross). —  No,  Theresa. 

Theresa. —  Do  you  wish  me  to  go  back  to  my  room  ? 

Stephen. —  We  have  nothing  to  say  to  each  other.  When  yoi 
excited  like  that  I  prefer  to  avoid  you. 

Theresa. —  Excited  ? 

Stephen. —  Yes,  Valentine  was  telling  me  how  strangely  you 
tonight. 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  167 

Valentine  {angry  at  his  imprudence). 

Theresa. —  I  was  happy  in  your  success. 

Stephen. —  And  why  are  you  crying,  then  ? 

Valentine  {aside). —  I  must  go,  or  there  will  be  trouble. 

{Exit  to  the  terrace). 

Theresa. —  The  Princess  offended  me. 

Stephen. —  She  had  no  intention  of  doing  so.  You  looked  so  awkward 
It  unwittingly  she  showed  her  impression.  You  will  learn  to  remain  in 
ir  room.  You  should  use  more  tact,  and  not  put  me  in  such  embarrassing 
ntions.     And  to  think  that  you  believe  yourself  a  perfect  wife! 

Theresa. —  I  haven't  that  illusion.  But  you  must  teach  me.  What 
dlldo? 

Stephen. —  I  haven't  the  time  to  teach  you  what  to  do.  Try  to  control 
irself. 

Theresa. —  I  should  like  to  know  in  what  I  displease  you  ? 

Stephen. —  For  instance,  now;  your  tears  provoke  me. 

Theresa. —  Then  I  shall  laugh.  Yes,  of  course  you're  right,  I  looked 
y  awkward.     And  now  I  must  laugh  {forcing  herself  to  laugh.) 

Stephen. —  It's  enough. 

Theresa. —  But  I  am  indeed  much  amused  1 

Valentine  {enters). —  When  I  am  not  here  they  are  in  good  humor. 

Theresa. —  I  say,  Valentine,  did  I  not  look  funny  ?  {Laughing  very 
xterically.) 

Valentine. —  She  is  hysterical. 

Stephen. —  Mind  your  business.  You  should  respect  met  {Theresa 
ps  laughing  at  once  and  falls  on  a  chair.) 

Valentine. —  I  always  try  to  respect  you. 

Stephen. —  I  am  not  speaking  about  you. 

Theresa. —  Then,  you  mean  me  ? 

Stephen. —  In  order  to  keep  up  my  work,  I  must  concentrate  all  my 
lughts,  all  my  ideals.  I  must  reject  all  affections,  all  the  silly  annoyances, 
ny  wife  was  not  such  an  ordinary  little  creature,  she  would  remain  at  my 
t  and  watch  me  silently.     Indeed,  that  would  be  a  proof  of  her  respect. 

Theresa. —  If  it  is  for  your  good,  I  shall  disappear  entirely. 

Stephen. —  Bravo!    Now  you  are  contemplating  suicide! 

Theresa. —  No,  Stephen,  not  that.     I  was  thinking  of  going  away. 

Suphen.—  Where  ? 

Theresa. —  I  don't  know  —  to  a  convent. 

Stephen. —  Convent  ? 

Theresa. —  Or  to  my  aunt's. 

Suphen. —  Naturally  —  I  —  I  could  not  prevent  you  from  going  there. 


i68  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

Of  course  not  for  always,  but  for  a  little  while.  She  lives  so  near  h 
Then  I  could  finish  my  work.  And  after  a  few  months  of  separation, 
would  come  back  a  better  wife. 

Theresa  (crying). —  I  shall  go  for  good.    You're  tired  of  me^  I  kna 

Stephen. —  Now,  don't  begin  to  cry  again! 

Valentine. —  Good  gracious !  You're  sending  her  away,  and  you  ( 
•want  her  to  cry! 

Stephen  (exasperated). —  Ah!  (exit  on  the  rights  slamming  the  Jw 

Theresa  (.crying). —  He  cannot  bear  my  presence  any  longer! 

Valentine.—  Tomorrow  morning  the  storm  will  be  past. 

Theresa. —  I'd  better  go.     I  am  not  worthy  of  him.     He  will  be  fr< 

Valentine. —  Tomorrow  morning  he  will  be  all  right  again. 

Theresa. —  I  must  go  now  or  tomorrow  morning  I  shall  not  havi 
courage  to  go. 

Valentine. —  You  must  not  go. 

Theresa. —  I  must  not  spoil  his  life,  or  I  shall  regret  it,  and  he  will 
me  like  an  enemy.     No,  I  must  go  (looking  strangely). 

Valentine. —  Now,  don't  excite  yourself. 

Theresa  (quite  excited). —  You  don't  see  anything,  but  I  seel— Q 
quick !  The  carriage  is  still  waiting  oustide,  I  must  take  this  opporti 
and  go  at  once!  (Taking  her  hat,  which  is  on  the  chair j  and  putting  . 
trembling.) 

Valentine. —  For  pity's  sake,  Madame  Theresa,  be  yourself.  (C 
to  the  door.)  Stephen!     Madame  Theresa  wants  to  go,  Stephen! 

Theresa. —  You  see,  he  does  not  answer. 

Valentine. —  Stephen!  — 

Theresa  (looking  at  the  door). 

Valentine  (anxiously  waiting  for  the  answer^  not  daring  to  call  ag 

(A  silence) 

Theresa  (with  resignation. —  He  does  not  answer. 

Valentine. —  After  all,  you  are  going  to  your  aunt,  you  say  for  ah 
but  I  am  convinced  only  for  one  night.  (Taking  hat  and  coat.)  And  I'll  ( 
with  you. 

iheresa. —  No,  I  want  you  to  remain  with  him.  He  is  so  ner 
tonight. 

Valentine. —  But  I'll  be  back  immediately. 

Theresa. —  I  shall  be  more  at  ease  if  you  remain. 

Valentine  (trying  to  follow  her). 

Theresa  (turning). —  I  implore  you  to  remain!  (Theresa  on 
threshold  of  the  door^  which  opens  upon  the  terrace.)  Tell  Stephen  —  th 
even  at  a  distance,  I  shall  only  live  for  him,  and  some  day  if  he  will  fb: 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  169 

^  for  having  annoyed  him,  I  shall  be  very  grateful  to  him.    Good  by, 
^ikntine. 

Falentine  (drying  a  tear). —  No,  this  will  never  do.     (Goes  to  the  door^ 
turmursj  she  is  gone.)     (Slowly  returns^  rings  the  hell.) 

(Enter  Romolo,  half  asleep) 

Falentine. —  Did  you  close  the  gate  ? 

Romolo. —  I  did. 

Falentine. —  You  can  go  to  bed.     Til  close  up  here. 

(Romolo  exit) 

Falentine  (closing  the  door). 
(Enter  Stephen^  wearing  a  smoking  jacket.     He  is  quite  agitated) 

Falentine. —  You're  too  late.     Madame  Theresa  is  gone. 

Stephen. —  I  heard  her. 

Falentine. —  She  took  your  carriage  to  go  to  her  aunt's. 

Stephen. —  I  thought  you  went  with  her. 

Falentine. —  She  refused  to  have  me.  (After    a    silence.)    You're 

igrateful. 

Stephen  (nervously). —  Ungrateful  ?    Why  ?    To  whom  ?    I  don't  owe 
ijrthing  to  anyone!    And  I  don't  need  anyone! 

Falentine. —  Not  even  her  ? 

Stephen. —  Her  less  than  the  others. 

Fmenitne. —  Yes,  and  why  then  do  you  look  so  worried } 

Stephen. —  I  am  worried,  because,  perhaps  she  is  suffering.     I  am  not 
\  hard  as  you  think.     But  she  is  not  indispensable  to  my  Hfe. 

Falentine  {firmly). —  The  humblest  woman  may  be  indispensable  to 
le  proudest  man. 

Stephen  (bitterly). —  Your  philosophy  is  absurd.     Go  to  the  devil! 

(A  silence) 

Stephen  (sitting  near  his  desk). 

Falentine. —  Are  you  going  to  work  ? 

Stephen. —  Yes. 

Falentine. —  Can  you  work  ? 

Stephen  (proudly ,  but  not  sincerely). —  Yes. 

Falentine  (lights  the  lamp  on  the  desk  and  puts  out  the  others). 

Stephen  (forcing  himself  to  write). 

Falentine. —  Grod     night.     (Going     out     leftj     stopping    suddenly) 
»phen! — Somebody  is  scratching  at  the  door! 

Stephen. —  Who  is  it  ? 

Falentine. —  The  noise  is  coming  from  there.     (Going  to  the  door.) 

Stephen  (pushing  him  aside^  opens  the  door  himself). 

Tneresa  (who  was  leaning  at  the  door^  convulsively,  without  her  hat,  her 


170  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

hair  hangings  as  soon  as  the  door  opens  falls  on  her  knees^  on  account  of  tk 
stepf  which  is  outside). 

Stephen  {screaming). —  Theresa!  {taking  her  in  his  armSf  carries  hir 
to  the  sofa). 

Valentine  {tremblingj  looking  at  them,  not  daring  to  approach  her). 

Theresa  {without  uttering  a  word,  with  her  eyes  open). 

Stephen. —  Theresa!  —  Why  don't  you  speak  ? 

Theresa  {almost  as  if  awakening). —  I  saw  —  I  saw  —  a  lost  child  a 
the  woods  {changing  tone)  —  The  wind  was  blowing.  {Sweedj.) 
Everything  in  the  world  is  beautiful. 

Stephen. —  Valentine!  —  What's  that  ? 

Valentine  {in  agony). —  Good  God! 

Theresa. —  Everything  in  the  world  is  beautiful. 

ACT  III 

The  same  scene  as  the  second  act.  The  action  takes  place  in  the  aftemotnu 
The  door  up  stage  is  open. 

SCENE  I 

VALENTINE,  THEN  THE  OLD  BEGGAR 

Valentine  {smoking  his  pipe,  while  he  is  busy  toasting  some  peptr 
on  a  cardboard.) —  Work  helps  a  man  to  be  noble,  theretore,  I,  being  a  man 
{holding  up  the  cardboard)  —  Yes,  it  looks  all  right,  it  is  large  enough  fbr 
all  the  words  I  wish  to  write  on  it  {laying  his  cardboard  on  the  floor  agaith 
begins  to  spell  with  his  finger  the  words  he  intends  to  write):  'From  todvff 
this  villa  tor  sale,  with  all  the  furniture/  No,  there  are  too  many  wor^ 
ni  cut  out '  From  today' ;  anyhow  they'll  understand  just  the  same.  {Risis 
and  takes  a  large  inkstand  and  a  brush,  then  begins  to  write.) 

The  old  mans  voice. —  Who  has  a  hundred,  I  ask  three  — 

Everything  for  you,  a  little  for  me. 

Valentine. —  Oh,  oh!    My  colleague  is  still  alive! 

The  old  man*s  voice. —  Do  help  a  poor  sailor. 

{He  appears,  coming  through  the  Park,  older  looking  and  more  tired.) 

Valentine. —  Come  in,  dear  colleague,  come  in.  I  cannot  come  tD 
welcome  you  in  the  Park,  because  I  am  busy  working.  You  never  woikr 
do  you  ?  If  you  will  honor  me  with  your  brilliant  conversation,  I  shall  be 
very  happy. 

The  old  man  {entering). —  Who's  without  boat  and  without  net. 

Who's  dying  of  hunger  —  and  of  thint. 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  171 

Valentine. —  This  is  the  old  stuff.  Have  you  invented  anything  new  ? 
I've  been  absent  for  two  years,  haven't  you  ? 

The  old  man. —  Yes,  two  years. 

Valentine. —  And  you  have  not  composed  anything  new  ? 

The  old  man. —  Vfhzt  do  you  say  ? 

Valentine. —  I  understand.  We  are  expecting  too  much  from  these 
ts.    And  where  is  your  charming  wife  ? 

The  old  man. —  She  is  dead. 

Valentine. —  That's  why  you  look  so  sad.    Well,  she  had  to  go  first,  she 

less  strong  than  you. 

The  old  man. —  She  did  not  die  a  natural  death. 

Valentine. —  How  did  she  die  ? 

The  old  man. —  Under  a  car. 

Valentine. —  Truly  ? 

The  old  man. —  Down  there,  at  the  turn  of  the  street. 

Valentine. —  It  was  horrible. 

The  old  man. —  If  God  had  called  her  naturally  —  but  die  in  that 
f  {crying)  —  No,  no. 

Valentine. —  And  why  did  you  not  come  here  any  more  ? 

The  old  man. —  That  same  day  they  put  me  in  prison. 

Valentine. —  In  prison  ? 

The  old  man. —  Yes,  at  the  old  man's  home. 

Valentine. —  I  see,  and  then  they  sent  you  away  ? 

The  old  man. —  No,  I  ran  away. 

Valentine. —  You  were  wrong.  At  least  you  had  a  bed  and  something 
»t. 

The  old  man. —  My  liberty,  sir,  my  liberty  first  of  all! 

Valentine. —  I  understand  one  has  to  live. 

The  old  man. —  There  are  so  many  kind-hearted  people  in  the  world 
o  are  ready  to  help  you.  If  one  says  *No,'  the  other  says  *Yes,'  and 
pod  many  never  say  'No.' 

Valentine  {putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket). —  I  generally  say  *no,* 
ause  I  don't  pretend  to  have  a  kind  heart,  but  today,  to  make  an  exception, 
ball  say  *  Yes'  {giving  him  a  cent).     And  now  go  {begins  to  work  again). 

The  old  man  {trying  to  dance  again). — 

Lla,  Ua,  11a. 
f  he  cannot  go  on). 

Valentine. —  Never  mind,  that's  all  right. 

The  old  man. —  I  cannot  do  it  any  more.     She  who  helped  me  is  gone. 

{A  pause) 

f^edentine. —  If  you  are  hoping  to  get  more  money  you  are  mistaken. 


172  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

Your  other  colleague  in  literature  is  not  at  home,  and  Madame,  I  am 
afraidy  will  never  recognize  you. 

The  old  man. —  You're  joking  (laughing). 

Valentine. —  No,  I  am  not. 

The  old  man. —  She  was  very  kind  to  me. 

Valentine. —  Things  do  not  always  go  as  we  want.  Down  there  your 
wife  died  under  a  car;  here  in  Posilipo  your  kind  lady  has  lost  her  mind. 

The  old  man. —  You  like  to  joke! 

Valentine. —  All  right. 

SCENE  II 

VALENTINE,  THE  OLD  MAN,  THERESA 

Theresa  (from  inside) . —  Who's  stepping  on  my  train  ?  You  are  spoilini 
my  beautiful  gown. 

The  old  man  (to  Valentine). —  Now  you  shall  see  how  kind  she  mil  h 
to  me. 

Theresa  (enters  from  the  right.  She  wears  a  beautiful  eveninr  gcwn 
Her  hair  is  untidy^  and  strangely  arranged  with  flowers  and  cuns.  Sh 
wears  a  pair  of  old  shoes,  walks  slowly,  looking  at  her  train.  She  is  vet 
pale,  hut  she  does  not  look  as  if  she  were  suffering). 

The  old  man  (bowing). —  I  am  the  poor  sailor  — 

Valentine. —  Keep  quiet  (to  Theresa).  Be  careful,  Madame  Theresa 
this  is  ink.  I  had  better  move  (picks  up  the  inkstand,  and  puts  everphini 
away  on  the  desk).     I  am  afraid  I  shall  spoil  your  dress. 

Theresa. —  You're  very  kind.     Who's  taught  you  to  be  so  ? 

Valentine. —  I  learned  it  from  you. 

Theresa. —  Where  did  you  meet  me  ? 

Valentine. —  I  believe  everywhere. 

Theresa. —  How  was  I  dressed  ? 

Valentine  (putting  aside  the  books  and  newspapers  so  as  to  make  a  pUc^ 
on  the  desk.) —  Not  like  today.     Today  you  are  very  elegant. 

Theresa. —  I  know  it. 

Valentine. —  You  have  a  beautiful  dress. 

Theresa. —  Thank  you  (looking  at  the  dress). 

The  old  man  (trying  to  attract  her  attention,  begins  to  recite). — 

Close  your  eyes  —  over  the  sea. 
Open  your  eyes  —  over  the  earth. 

Theresa  (when  she  hears  these  words,  she  turns  suddenly  around  an 
ends  the  strophe  in  the  same  monotonous  way  given  by  the  old  man)  — 

On  the  earth  —  be  in  peace. 
Look  around  —  day  and  night. 


ROBERTO  BRACCX)  173 

Valentine  {surprised j  aside). —  How  strange! 

The  old  man  {happy  to  be  remembered). —  You  see!     You  see! 

Theresa  {approaches  and  examines  him). 

Valentine  {much  interested ^  goes  to  her  so  as  to  make  another  experiment). — 
idame  Theresa,  do  you  wish  these  pennies  to  give  to  the  beggar  ?     {Giving 
money.) 

Theresa  {mechanically  takes  them^  and  looks  around  as  if  looking  for 
%ebody  else). 

Valentine  {pointing  to  the  old  man). —  There  he  is. 

The  old  man  {stretches  out  his  hand). 

Theresa  {smiles  at  him,  then  hesitating). 

Valentine.— Vfelli 

Theresa. —  By  and  by. 

The  old  man  {discouraged).—  I  have  no  more  luck  since  I  lost  my  old 
man. 

Valentine. —  She  said  by  and  by  she  will  give  them  to  you.  {To  Theresa.) 
>n't  you  ? 

Theresa  {sweetly). —  I  don't  know. 

Valentine. — ^Yes,  you  must;  you  were  one  of  those  who  never  said  *No.' 

Theresa. —  I  am  too  little!  — 

Valentine. —  Yes !  —  {looks  at  her  for  a  second,  then  shrugs  his  shoulders 
i  returns  to  work). 

'This  villa  is  for  sale  with  all  the  furniture.' 

Theresa  {to  the  old  man). — ^You  also  are  very  kind. 

SCENE  III 

VALENTINE,  THERESA,  THE   OLD  MAN,   STEPHEN 

{Enter  Stephen  from  the  terrace,  looking  thinner  and  sad.  He  does  not 
tice  the  old  man,  who  bows  to  him,  but  in  passing  near  Theresa  looks  at  her 
we  sharply  than  pitifully.     He  sits  down  immediately,  near  his  desk.) 

Valentine. —  Did  you  walk  much  ? 

Stephen. —  Yes. 

Theresa  {seeing  Stephen,  she  becomes  a  little  frightened  as  if  fearing 
may  scold  her.  rutting  her  finger  to  her  lips,  approaches  the  old  man). — 
ishlHush!  Come  with  me.  {Taking  him  by  the  arm,  both  exit  upon  the 
race,  she  murmuring,  dont  make  any  noise). 

Stephen  {patching  Theresa  from  the  comer  of  his  eyes). —  Has  she  been 
re  long? 

Valentine. —  Madame  Theresa  ? 

Stephen. —  Of  course! 


174  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

Valentine. —  Only  a  few  minutes. 

Stephen  {mistrustfully). —  Was  she  talking  —  to  the  old  man?  — 

Valentine. —  Yes,  to  him  and  to  me. 

Stephen. —  And  she  went  out  because  I  came  in  ? 

Valentine. —  I  am  afraid  one  would  become  insane  if  one  should  try  t 
find  any  connection  either  in  her  actions  or  in  your  words. 

Stephen. —  No,  if  she  does  that  there  is  a  connection. 

Valentine  {trying  to  change  the  conversation). —  Should  we  hang  this  c 
the  gate  or  in  the  window  ?  I  should  suggest  the  gate,  it  will  be  seen  mot 
Don't  you  think  it  looks  fine  ?  I  am  sure  we'll  get  a  lot  of  offers  as  soon ; 
we  put  it  out. 

Stephen. —  Don't  bother  any  more.     The  villa  is  sold. 

Valentine. —  What !  And  tor  once  I  worked  so  hard!  {throwing  asii 
the  cardboard.)  When  you  decided  to  sell  this  place,  had  you  already  i 
offer  ? 

Stephen. —  Yes,  a  very  good  one. 

Valentine. —  Then,  I  understand,  the  buyer  is  a  woman  ? 

Stephen. —  Don't  insinuate  so  idiotically. 

Valentine. —  I  may  be  an  idiot,  yet  Princess  Heller  was  very  enthusiast 
about  this  place,  and  if  you  sold  it  to  her  you  would  have  the  privilege 
seeing  it  again  often,  and  perhaps  find  a  commemorative  stone  set  in  yoi 
honor. 

Stephen. —  I  am  no  longer  on  good  terms  with  her,  since  the  scand 
which  revealed  her  origin  and  intrigues.  You  know  it,  still  you  take  pleasu 
in  throwing  the  whole  circumstance  in  my  face. 

Valentine. —  In  other  words,  I  am  a  tyrant!     But  I  was  speaking 
good  faith.     So  there  was  a  scandal  ?    And  your  friendship  is  brokei 
And  you  never  see  each  other?     My  congratulations!    Now,  I  am  on 
sorry  you  were  too  quick  in  arranging  the  deal. 

Stephen. —  The  purchaser  is  a  rich  man. 

Valentine. —  Who  is  he  ? 

Stephen. —  Mr.  Marcolini. 

Valentine. —  A  banker  ? 

Stephen. —  No,  a  brewer. 

Valentine. —  Dear  me!  I  should  have  preferred  at  least  a  banker, 
am  surprised  that  you  should  know  such  vulgar  people. 

Stephen. —  One  of  my  lawyer's  clients. 

Valentine. —  Is  it  that  fat  old  man  who  came  here  yesterday  with 
pretty  young  wife  ?     She  is  all  right,  she  will  enjoy  this  place. 

Stephen. —  You  seem  in  a  good  humor  today. 

Valentine. —  Well,  you  see,  I  depend  on  you. 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  175 

Stephen. —  And  do  you  expect  me  srill  to  go  on  taking  care  of  you  ? 

Valentine, —  Now  you  will  have  money  from  Mr.  Marcolini. 

Stephen. —  But  I  have  debts  to  pay  off. 

Valentine. —  But  if  you  sold  this  place  for  a  good  price  ?  It's  true  you 
^e  not  done  a  thing  for  two  years.  You  wished  so  much  liberty,  and 
m  you  got  it,  you  remained  without  inspiration.  (Trying  to  encourage 
r.)  You  will  be  all  right,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  soon  be  able  to  regain 
It  you  have  lost.  It  will  not  be  necessary  either  to  write  that  famous 
m  which  you  say  is  going  to  astonish  the  world.  Take  my  advice, 
ym  this  (taking  the  manuscript)  in  the  fire,  and  begin  life  anew.  You're 
I  well  known. 

Stephen. —  Ahl  I  am  still  well  known. 

Valentine. —  They  have  not  forgotten  you  yet.     I  often  read  your  name 
newspapers  and  magazines  — 

Stephen. —  They  only  remember  me  in  their  denunciation ;  they  reproach 
silence,  my  presumption,  my  incompetence. 

Valentine. —  Let  them  say  what  they  like,  but  do  something  else. 

Stephen. —  What  ? 

Valentine. —  Become  a  newspaper  man.  It  pays  well,  and  it  is  a  very 
y  profession. 

otephen. —  It  is  the  profession  of  4ies,'  and  to  be  a  good  liar  you  must 
re  talent. 

Valentine. —  But  you  have  that. 

Stephen. —  You  feel  it  is  your  duty  to  flatter  me  ?    Once  you  were  paid 

that,  but  no  more  now.     Flattery  hurts  me,  poisons  mel     Where  is 

talent  gone  ?  Where  ?  I  cannot  find  it,  either  for  the  poem  I  once 
lied  to  create  or  for  the  simplest  verse!  I  have  spent  night  after  night, 
1  you  know  it,  at  this  desk,  looking  for  an  idea,  but  in  vain.  I  am  in- 
>able  of  thinking.  I  feel  the  agony  of  my  poor  brain.  The  terrible 
th  is  that  my  machine  has  lost  its  *  power.' 

(A  silence) 

(From  outside  the  old  man  is  heard  singing) — 

Lla,  Ua,  Ua, 
Lla,  lla,  lla  — 

(Theresaj  also  from  outside^  repeats  the  song,  clapping  her  hands  so 
to  keep  time.) 

Lla,  lla,  lla, 
Lla,  lla,  lla. 

Valentine. —  It  is  she  (looking  outside). 

Stephen. —  What  is  she  doing  ? 

Valentine. —  She  goes  with  him  towards  the  gate,  and  the  old  man  is 
icing.     Evidently  she  gave  him  a  penny. 


176  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

Stephen. —  Is  she  clapping  her  hands  ? 
Valentine. —  Yes,  as  the  old  woman  used  to  do. 

Stephen. —  Is  it  not  the  old  woman  with  him  ? 
Valentine. —  No,  she  is  dead  {still  looking  outside).     Now  the  dai 
ceases,  she  speaks  to  him,  and  the  old  man  cries. 

Stephen. —  What  is  she  telling  him  ? 

Valentine. —  I  can't  hear,  they  are  so  far  away.     She  motioned  him 
sit  down  under  a  tree;  they  both  look  happy  now.     She  is  comforting  h 

Stephen  {sharply). —  Valentine,  come  herel 

Valentine. —  What's  the  matter  ? 

Stephen. —  You  are  annoying  me. 

Valentine. —  But  you  asked  me  to  tell  you  what  she  was  doing. 

Stephen. —  Don't   pay    any    attention    to   my    temper.     You   alw 
make  me  feel  my  inferior  position. 

Valentine. —  A  few  minutes  ago  you  said  I  was  flattering  you  — 

Stephen   {much  excited). —  Yes,  you  are  flattering  me  like  a  sb 
so  that  I  may  be  indulgent  towards  you.     What  am  I  to  you  ?    Nothi 
You've  more  mercy  for  that  old  man,  than  for  me!    You  are  telling  mc 
is  comforting  him,  therefore  he  deserves  more  pity  than  I  —  he  bccoi 
more  interesting  — 

Valentine. —  But  you  don't  want  to  be  pitied,  do  you  ? 

Stephen. —  No,  I  don't  want  to  be  pitied,  and  to  the  last  I  want  to 
that  I  don't  owe  anything  to  anyone.  You've  all  been  wishing  for  my  f 
That  was  your  kindness!  But  I  am  not  surrendering  myself,  nor  yieldi 
I'd  rather  disappear  {tearing  the  manuscript)  and  destroy  —  my  work  tl 
to  be  pitied.  No,  I  can  yet  despise  and  laugh  at  you!  {Pause^  thens 
porting  himself  with  his  desky  convulsively^  as  if  talking  to  his  conscien 
No!  —  It  is  not  so!  —  It  is  not  so!  — 

Valentine  {very  calm^  trying  not  to  he  seen  by  Stephen,  picks  up  the  * 
manuscript,  and  puts  everything  in  the  drawer). 

Theresa's  voice  {outside). —  You  see  that  fairy  going  towards  my  hoa 
She  walks  on  the  flower-beds,  without  spoiling  them! 

Stephen  {to  Valentine). —  Who  is  coming? 

Valentine  {goes  to  the  door  astonished). —  The  Princess  Heller! 

Stephen  {astonished). —  Why,  is  she  coming  here?  — 

Valentine. —  If  you  don't  want  to  see  her,  I'll  get  rid  of  her. 

Stephen  {after  a  second). —  No,  I'll  see  her. 

Valentine  {shrugging  his  shoulders). —  All  right. 

{Exit  right) 

Stephen  {going  to  meet  her,  but  she  appears  before  he  reaches  the  threshol 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  177 

SCENE  IV 

STEPHEN   AND  MERALDA 

Met  aid  a  {seriously). —  Will  you  give  me  a  few  minutes? 

Stephen, —  Yes. 

Meralda  {advances). 

Stephen  {closes  the  door). —  I  am  really  surprised  to  see  you. 

Meralda. —  If  I  had  sent  for  you,  would  you  have  come  ? 

Stephen. —  No. 

Meralda. —  Therefore  you  should  not  be  surprised  that  I  came.  I 
mted  to  ask  a  favor  from  you  before  going  away. 

Stephen. —  Are  you  going  away  ? 

Meralda. —  Yes,  I  leave  Naples. 

Stephen. —  For  always  ? 

Meralda. —  For  always. 

Stephen. —  Where  are  you  going  ^ 

Meralda. —  I  don't  know. 

{A  pause) 

Stephen. —  You  wanted  a  favor  from  me  ? 

Meralda. —  You  have  my  letters;  will  you  please  return  them  to  me? 
pnll  return  yours.     {Giving  her  letters.) 

Stephen  {opens  a  drawer  of  his  desk^  takes  out  a  hunch  of  lettersj  which 
offers  to  Meralda,  and  puts  back  his). 

Meralda. —  You  don't  ask  me  for  any  explanation  ? 

Stephen. —  There  is  nothing  to  say!  We  made  a  contract  on  *  Vanity.' 
Ml  were  the  great  lady  who  had  led  into  your  house  all  the  powers  and 
istocracy.  And  I  was  the  eminent  man  who  was  trying  to  conquer  that 
mc  crowd!  I  was  useful  to  your  vanity,  as  you  were  to  mine.  We 
iicd  our  egotism,  and  both  of  us  knew  we  were  lying  to  each  other!  But 
t  have  broken  the  conditions  of  our  contract.  I've  lost  my  power,  and 
ii'vc  let  one  of  your  former  lovers  reveal,  for  revenge,  all  your  story  of 
ur  adventurous  life;  therefore,  you  too,  have  come  down  from  your  *gold 
destal.'  You  are  ^oing  away  in  search  of  more  adventures  and  more 
s,  while  I  {without  energy)  remain  here,  to  contemplate  the  truth  of  my 
tastrophe!  What  explanation  should  I  ask  of  you  ?  Nothing  binds  us 
ly  longer! 

Meralda  {sitting). —  It  seems  to  me,  now  that  we  have  unmasked  each 
her,  we  are  still  bound  to  each  other  through  our  fall! 

Stephen. —  You  mean  ?  — 

Meralda. —  I  don't  deny  that  our  contest  was  *  Vanity.'  Yet  behind 
r  vanity,  there  was  the  woman;  eager,  anxious,  corrupted,  if  you  will,  but 


178  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

not  perverse.  She  often  tried,  without  success  though,  to  make  you  under- 
stand her  inner  thoughts.  You  say  I  am  going  in  search  of  other  bes. 
You're  mistaken,  I  am  tired  of  them,  I  assure  you.  I  returned  your  letters 
and  took  back  mine  expressly  because  these  documents  are  false.  Willi 
look  for  other  adventures  ?  Yes,  but  I  shall  look  again  for  what  even  a 
corrupted  woman  is  anxious  to  have  — Love! 

Stephen. —  You  could  not  ask  that  from  me,  who  never  understood 
love,  not  even  when  I  had  the  illusion  of  life. 

Meralda, —  It  was  of  that  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you.  Now  that  you'fe 
lost  your  illusions,  now  that  you're  suffering  because  your  ambition  has  been 
checked;  well,  take  a  new  road.  Begin  to  admit  that  precious  element  of 
joy  which  you  have  so  far  repudiated, 

Stephen. —  No,  Meralda,  everything  is  ended  for  me! 

Meralda. —  You're  mistaken,  and  I  will  prove  it  to  you. 

Stephen. —  How  I 

Meralda. —  I  wish  you  would  turn  your  back  upon  the  scepter  of 
*  Glory'  which  has  deceived  and  tortured  you.  I  wish  to  take  you  away 
from  this  idle  melancholy,  which  is  consuming  you.  I  wish  to  free  yo« 
from  this  tomb,  where  perhaps  you've  planned  your  mental  suicide. 

Stephen  (repellently). —  I  don't  understand  you.  I  don't  want  to 
understand  you. 

Meralda. —  I  want  you  to  associate  with  my  ideas,  and  look  at  life  in 
a  different  way.  To  go  out  in  the  world  care-free,  without  expecting  cither 
applause  or  homage.  To  break  entirely  with  all  social  laws,  and  every  day 
be  satisfied  with  a  new  sensation.  This  is  what  I  am  proposing  to  you, 
Stephen. 

Stephen. —  I  refuse. 

Meralda. —  So  you  are  hoping  to  work  again  ? 

Stephen. —  No! 

Meralda. —  And  then  (slowly)  ?  —  Will  you  be  satisfied  with  pity  ? 

Stephen  (quickly). —  So  you  came  here  for  that?  To  inflict  upon  roe 
your  railings!  You  came  here  to  remind  me  of  those  who  once  envied  roC| 
so  that  you  may  tell  them  you  saw  me  humiliated!  If  you  think  you  have 
accomplished  your  mission,  you're  mistaken.  You'd  better  leave  me  in  my 
tomb.     Go!  j 

Meralda  (rising  quickly). —  When  I  am  gone  you  will  be  sorry  that  you  j 
sent  me  away  (a  little  moved). —  You  know   that  I  loved    you,  and   that 
I  came  here  because  I  love  you.     In  this  moment  you  don't  know  exactty 
what  you  are  saying,  but  tomorrow  you  will  want  me  and  you  will  send 
for  me. 

Stephen. —  I  shall  not  send  for  you,  because  your  prospects  horrify  me^ 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  179 

Meralda. —  It  is  the  only  thing  which  will  help  you! 

Stephen, —  You  are  advising  me  to  run  away  like  a  coward,  and  associate 
yself  with  you,  who  are  richer  than  I  am. 

Meralda. —  Are  you  still  fighting  with  your  pride  ? 

Stephen. —  You  are  proposing  to  me  to  abandon  the  poor  insane  woman, 
lio  has  been  a  devoted  wife  to  me.  You  must  admit,  your*  advice  is 
volting! 

Meralda. —  I  don't  deserve  your  accusation,  as  my  egotism  was  never 
:e  yours,  that  is  blind  to  all  sacrifices  people  were  making  for  you.  After 
i,  my  idea  should  not  be  so  revolting,  as  you  do  not  exist  any  more  for  that 
or  unfortunate.  She  does  not  want  you,  she  does  not  speak  to  you,  nor 
n  she  recognize  you.  You  were  ready  to  abandon  her  when  she  needed 
u,  why  not  now,  when  your  presence  does  not  alleviate  her  sufferings  ? 
>u  want  to  remain  here  so  as  to  quiet  her  conscience  ?  But  a  Sister  of 
larity  or  a  nurse  would  be  of  more  help  to  her! 

Stephen  (sitting). —  I  must  admit  you  are  right.  You  make  me  realize 
e  ternble  truth.  I  must  now  find  a  means  of  earning  my  living.  I  shall 
II  lower  and  lower  — 

(A  pause) 

Meralda  (sure  of  herself ^  affectionately). —  Don't  decide  now,  you  are 
0  agitated,  think  it  over.     I  will  postpone  my  departure. 

otephen. —  Yes. 

Meralda. —  Au  revoir,  Stephen!  — 

Stephen  {does  not  answer). 

Meralda  (going  towards  the  terrace). 

SCENE  V 

STEPHEN,   MERALDA,  THERESA^ 

(When  Meralda  is  near  the  door  Theresa  enters y  looking  ecstatic.  Stephen 
ies  quickly,  and  trembles.  Meralda  also  is  a  little  frightened,  and  would 
le  to  go  at  once,  but  unwittingly  Theresa  prevents  her.) 

Theresa  (sweetly). —  Where  are-  you  going .^  —  How  are  you  made? 
>u  perfume  the  air!  —  Give  me  a  little  of  it!  (going  to  touch  her). 

Stephen  (quickly). —  No,  Theresa. 

Theresa  (sadly). —  Why? 

Meralda  (frightened,  takes  this  opportunity  to  make  her  escape). 

Theresa. —  Why  ? 

Stephen  (in  despair). —  Theresa!  —  Theresa!  —  Don't  you  under- 
nd  what  is  happening!  Can  you  not  see  me  ?  Can  you  not  see  what  I 
ve  become  now,  since  you  left  me  ?  (taking  her  by  the  arm).  Can  you 
t  find  a  word,  even  a  cursing  one,  so  as  to  detain  n\eV\«e\  — 


i8o  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

Theresa  {laughing). 

Stephen  (letting  her  arm  go). — Nothing!  Nothing!  (fFom  out^  falls 
a  chair).    Nothing! 

Theresa  {goes  on  laughing). 

ACT  IV 

Stephen  Baldi*s  studio.  The  room  now  has  a  squalid  appears 
It  is  night.  Only  the  electric  lamp  is  lighted  on  the  desk.  All  the  bri 
brae  has  been  removed^  and  also  there  are  no  more  books  nor  manuscripts 
the  desk.     On  the  -floor  there  are  some  boxesy  a  trunk  and  a  dress  suit  cast 

SCENE  I 

STEPHEN,   VALENTINE,  A   SERVANT  AND  TWO   PORTERS 

Stephen  {seated  at  his  desky  writing  letters;  he  looks  very  pale.  Fa 
tine  is  packing). 

Stephen  (without  raising  his  head). —  Qose  the  trunk  and  the  di 
suit  case,  and  give  me  the  keys. 

Valentine. —  Have  you  anything  else  to  put  in  ? 

Stephen. —  No. 

Valentine  {closes  the  trunk  and  the  dress  suit  case,  and  puts  the  key 
the  desk). 

Stephen  {putting  the  keys  in  his  pocket). —  Send  them  away. 

Valentine  {going  to  the  door  and  calling) : —  You  may  come  in. 

{Enter  a  servant  and  a  porter) 

Valentine. —  Take  the  trunk  and  the  dress  suit  case  to  the  stai 
immediately. 

Stephen  {to  the  servant). —  Tonio,  tell  the  Princess  that  Til  meet  he 
the  stauon  at  eleven,  but  the  train  goes  at  eleven  fifteen. 
{The  porter  goes  out  with  the  trunk  and  the  servant  with  the  dress  suit  a 

Valentine. —  So  you  are  both  going  away  tonight  ? 

Stephen. —  Yes. 

Valentine  {going  to  close  the  door). 

Stephen. —  Leave  the  door  open,  it  is  so  warm  here. 

{A  pause) 

Valentine  {going  on  packing), —  What  shall  I  do  with  all  these  bo 
and  manuscripts  ? 

Stephen. —  Take  them  home  with  you. 

Valentine. —  But  shall  I  have  a  home  ? 

Stephen. —  Sell  them  or  burn  them. 


ROBERTO  BRACCO  i8i 

Valentine. —  When  Mr.  Marcolini  comes  here  tomorrow  Fll  try  to  make 
un  buy  them.  It  is  true  that  he  told  me  he  never  read  a  book  in  his  life; 
Jt  there  is  his  wife  —  She  says  she  is  very  fond  of  animals;  maybe  she  is 
so  fond  of  literature. 

{A  silence) 

Stephen. —  Will  you  please  send  these  four  letters  ? 

Valentine  {counting  the  letters). —  But  there  are  five. 

Stephen. —  No,  that  large  envelope  contains  a  little  money  for  you  to 
e  while  you  are  looking  for  a  position. 

Valentine. —  Thanks. 

Stephen. —  Everything  has  been  arranged.  You  were  right  when  you 
id  that  after  paying  all  pressing  debts,  there  would  remain  little.  I  left 
erything  in  the  hands  of  my  lawyer,  who  will  pay  the  hospital  expenses. 
lid  not  leave  her  in  the  care  of  the  aunt,  because  I  don't  trust  her.  The 
perintendent  of  the  hospital  has  promised  me  to  take  good  care  of  Theresa 
id  tomorrow  morning  a  nurse  will  call  for  her.  Will  you  please  accompany 
em  too.  I  told  the  superintendent  you  were  a  relation  of  ours,  therefore 
cy  will  allow  you  to  visit  Theresa. 

Valentine. —  I  see  you  have  thought  of  everything. 

Stephen. —  Yes,  of  you  also. 

Valentine. —  I  have  already  thanked  you. 

Stephen. —  For  the  money. 

Valentine. —  Have  I  something  else  to  thank  you  for. 

Stephen. —  Yes,  I  have  arranged  for  you  to  see  her  sometimes. 

Valentine. —  Yes,  I  thank  you  especially  for  Theresa's  sake.  I  under- 
ind  she  will  be  well  cared  for,  but  it  will  always  be  among  strangers. 
ace  we  cannot  rely  on  her  aunt,  I  am  glad  I  shall  be  useful  to  her.  We 
id  she  does  not  distinguish  one  person  from  another  ?  I  am  not  quite 
re  about  that.  For  instance,  she  seems  so  far  away  from  you  —  just  as  if 
e  were  dead.  I  should  wager  anything,  that  afflicted  soul  is  hiding  its 
rrow.  It  must  be  so,  or  how  could  you  explain  the  phenomenon  of  her 
nstantly  repeating  the  verse  the  old  sailor  used  to  recite  at  the  time  when 
e  was  happy?  And  why  should  she  insist  upon  wearing  that  dress, 
lich  she  ordered  that  same  night  when  she  became  insane  ?  I  understand 
t  cannot  put  much  faith  in  these  facts.  Insanity  is  the  most  mysterious, 
penetrable  illness. 

Stephen  (rising). —  Yet  you  speak  as  if  you  had  penetrated  it  without 
dine  obsucles. 

Valentine. —  I !  — 

Stephen. —  You  don't  quite  admit  it,  yet  you  feel  you  will  be  a  comfort 
her.     Because  you're  convinced  that  in  her  own  soul  she  still  remembers 


i82  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

your  devotion.  So,  besides  having  the  opportunity  of  seeing  her,  yon  will 
have  the  privilege  of  being  a  comfort  to  her  and  the  hope —  no,  I  mean  the 
certainty,  of  being  her  favorite.    And  this  will  make  you  proud,  happy  I  — 

Valentine  {excusing  himself). —  But  Stephen! 

Stephen, —  Let  me  say  it!    I  envy  you! 

Valentine. —  Please  don't  mortify  me,  remember  I  was  your  servanL 

Stephen. —  Yes,  I  envy  you  for  what  you  will  be  tomorrow  and  for 
what  you  are  now.  You  never  had  any  ambition.  You  were  deformed,  yet 
you  were  satisfied;  you  were  weak,  yet  you  did  not  complain!  You  were 
my  servant,  yet  you  were  contented.  When  you  could  speak  to  the  woman 
who  adored  me,  you  were  happy.  And  when  later  she  became  insane,  yon 
had  the  privilege  of  watching  her  through  your  window,  while  she  was 
wandering  in  the  garden,  in  that  same  spot,  when  formerly  she  had  covered 
me  with  kisses.  Indeed,  you  must  feel  as  if  you  had  realized  your  dreami 
and  you  have  now  your  reward. 

Valentine  {casting  down  his  eyes). 

Stephen. —  Ah!  you  cast  down  your  eyes!  You  never  thought  that  I 
would  guess  everything,  and  that  I  should  honor  you  by  sp)ang  upon  your 
inner  thoughts  ? 

Valentine. —  You  had  not  the  right  to  do  that. 

Stephen. —  Why  ? 

Valentine. —  No,  you  had  not  the  right  to  do  that,  because  I  am  (mljra 
miserable  creature,  and  you  should  not  have  been  so  cruel. 

Stephen. —  Ah!  you  are  my  rival! 

Valentine  {quickly). —  You  are  a  coward! 

Stephen. —  You  dare  to  judge  me,  you  who  stand  there  waiting,  watching 
for  my  departure  in  order  to  seize  what  belonged  to  me  alone. 

Valentine. —  Don't  torment  me. 

Stephen. —  I  curse  you  for  all  you  have  made  me  suffer  and  for  aU  yoi 
have  made  me  say.  {Covering  his  face  with  both  hanis^  then  amirouinf 
himself  goes  to  his  desk.) 

Valentine  {does  not  move). 

SCENE  II 

STEPHEN,   VALENTINE,  THERESA 

{Enter  Theresa  from  right;  she  is  dressed  differently,  but  her  hair  is  stS 
hanging  down  and  has  some  ornaments  in  it.  She  drags  after  her^  with  Mi 
hand,  her  favorite  dress  of  the  third  act,  and  has  on  her  shoulders  laces  ed 
ribbons.) 

Stephen  {seeing  her  would  like  to  hide  himself). 


ROBERTO  BRACXX)  183 

Theresa  {to  Valentine). —  Did  you  see  my  new  dress  ?  Look,  is  it  not 
audful  ? 

Valentine  {trying  not  to  look  at  her). —  Yes,  yes  I  saw  it,  Madame 
heresa. 

Theresa.  —  And  I  am  going  to  put  on  it  all  these  ribbons  and  lace, 
at  why  don't  you  look  at  me. 

'Open  your  eyes,  on  the  earth!' 

Stephen. —  No  more,  no  morel  {Going  to  take  his  haty  which  is  on  a 
wfV.) 

Valentine  {going  to  him).  —  Let  me  convince  you.  Don't  be  so 
minate. 

Stephen  {stops). 

Valentine. —  Because  you  are  in  despair,  you're  going  to  run  after  a 
Oman  whom  you  loathe.  And  when  you  reahze  your  mistake  it  will  be 
o  late. 

Stephen. —  No. 

Valentine. —  All  her  money  will  disgust  you. 

Stephen. —  No. 

Valentine. —  Remain  here  and  let  me  go. 

Stephen. —  You ! 

Theresa  {has  seated  herself y  in  the  meantime^  on  one  of  the  boxes  and  is 
ranging  her  dress). 

Valentine. —  Yes,  yes  I,  the  intruder!  After  the  mortification  you  gave 
1 1  could  not  fulfil,  what  before,  I  called  my  duty  and  I  could  not  even  enjoy 
ur  money.  You  seem  to  be  astonished.  You  are  right,  as  I  have  never 
en  proud!  But,  how  funny!  It  came  all  at  once!  {Taking  out  from  his 
cket  the  envelope,  puts  it  on  the  desk.) 

Stephen  {gently). —  I  beg  of  you  to  take  back  that  money,  which  I  owed 
u  for  vour  services.  You  see  your  pride  should  not  be  hurt,  and  then 
rgive  the  bitter  words  which  I  have  just  uttered!  —  I  am  going  now. 

Valentine  {sincerely). —  Can  you  not  understand  that  you  can  save 
urself  only  by  remaining  here  ? 

Stephen. —  You  yourself  said,  *She  seems  so  far  away  from  you  —  just 
if  she  were  dead.' 

Valentine. —  Good  souls,  Stephen,  sometimes  leave  this  world,  so  as 
influence  us  from  a  disunce,  to  a  better  life,  and  we  don't  rebel  as  we  did 
ring  their  life. 

Stephen. —  No,  it  is  not  true!  If  I  remain  here  I  shall  die  of  a  broken 
ut  {embracing  him).    Good  by,  Valentine. 

Valentine. —  Good  by. 

Stephen  {impulsively  approaches  Theresa). 


i84  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 


Theresa  {rising  quickly). —  What  do  you  want? 
Stephen  (impulsively  embraces  her). —  I  wish  you  would  see  that  I  am 
crying. 

{Exit  quickly) 

SCENE  III 

THERESA,   VALENTINE 

I 

Theresa  {choosing  a  ribbon.     The  dress  is  lying  on  a  box). 

Valentine  {after  a  second  sits  down). 

Theresa  {taking  a  ribbon,  throws  it  into  the  air.  Not  succeeding  in 
catching  it,  she  utters  a  cry). —  Oh!  {to  Valentine).  You  {pointing  to  thi 
ribbon);   help  me! 

Valentine  {rises,  picks  up  the  ribbon  and  returns  it  to  Theresa,  avoiis 
looking  at  her). 

Theresa  (taking  back  the  ribbon). —  Are  you  afraid  of  me? 

Valentine. —  No,  Madame  Theresa. 

Theresa. —  Do  you  hate  me  ? 

Valentine. —  I  am  sorry  you  think  that. 

Theresa. 1  don*t  know  who  you  are. 

Valentine. —  I  am  only  a  hunchback ! 

Theresa. —  What  else  ? 

Valentine. —  A  parasite. 

Theresa.—  Why  ? 

Valentine. —  Because  I  make  profit  from  other  people's  misfortune. 
I  cannot  deny  that!  He  was  right  when  he  accused  me.  Yes,  I  even 
blushed.  It  seemed  to  me  then  that  I  should  no  longer  have  the  courage  to 
approach  you  —  To  speak  to  you  —  But  now  that  I  am  sure  no  one  is 
looking  at  me,  that  you  cannot  see  me  or  hear  me,  I  take  advantage  of  my 
opportunity.  Yes,  I  am  near  you.  I  am  looking  at  you;  I  can  speak  to 
you,  and  this  is  my  happiest  moment.  If  you  were  not  the  victim  ofsucli 
a  terrible  misfortune  I  could  not  be  here. 

Theresa. —  I  am  convinced  we  understand  each  other.  Let  us  talk 
(making  him  sit  down)  — Sit  here,  and  let  us  talk  as  if  we  were  friends. 

Valentine. —  Yes,  lik^  two  friends. 

SCENE  IV 

VALENTINE,   THERESA,    STEPHEN 

Stephen  s  voice  (outside). —  Valentine!     Valentine! —  | 


V 


ROBERTO  BRACCX)  185 

Valifitine  {rising  quickly^  as  if  afraid  of  being  found  with  Theresa). — 
6$?  — 

Stephen's  voice. —  I  am  here,  Valentine! 

V dentine  {going  to  the  door). 

Theresa  {rising  quickly^  picking  up  her  dress). —  No,  no!    Don't  let  him 
me  in ;  no  don't!    I  am  dressed  like  a  servant  —  I  must  be  dressed  up 
receive  this  «ntleman. 

Valentine  [remains  on  the  threshold). 

Stephen  {enters  and  throws  himself  in  Valentine's  arms). 

Theresa  {hiding  herself  in  a  comer  of  the  room). —  Send  him  away! 
nd  him  away! 

{A  brief  silence) 

Stephen. —  I  did  not  have  the  courage  to  do  it. 

Valentine  {faking  his  hat  from  him). 

Stephen. —  To  get  away  from  here,  I  foueht  like  a  wild  beast  that  tries 
break  the  bars  of  his  cage,  and  this  terrible  fight  has  exhausted  me.  I 
ve  no  more  strength.     {Exhausted  falls  onto  sofa,) 

Valentine. —  You've  spent  so  many  sleepless  nights.  Calm  yourself, 
id  tomorrow  you  will  be  strong  again.  No!  —  stronger  than  you  have 
er  been. 

Stephen. —  If  I  could  only  hope  so!  —  {Sees  Theresa  hidden  in  a  comer.) 

Valentine. —  Call  her. 

Stephen. — She  will  not  come  to  me. 

Valentine  {going  to  her). —  Do  you  wish  to  speak  with  that  gentleman  ? 

Theresa  {pointing  to  her  dress). —  What  will  he  think  of  me! 

Valentine. —  Make  some  excuse. 

Theresa. —  How  ? 

Valentine  {taking  her  by  the  hand,  and  bringing  her  to  Stehpen). —  Tell 
SI  you  have  another  dress.  Show  it  to  him.  You  want  to  see  the  dress, 
n't  you,  Stephen  ? 

Stephen. —  Yes. 

Theresa  {showing  her  dress). —  Do  you  like  it? 

Stephen  {sweetly). —  It  is  beautiful. 

Valentine. —  Sit  next  to  him. 

Theresa  {sitting  near  Stephen). 

Valentine. —  Tell  him  that  it  is  going  to  be  more  beautifuL 

Stephen. —  Yes,  tell  me  everything. 

Theresa. —  I'll  show  it  to  you.  {Taking  one  ribbon  and  putting  it  on 
f  lace.) 

Valentine. —  I  am  going  to  my  room  now,  Stephen. 

Stephen  {to  Theresa). —  There  is  a  bad  light  here,  you  will  spoil  your 


i86  THE  HIDDEN  SPRING 

Theresa  {smiling). —  No. 
Valentine  {exit  to  the  left). 

Stephen. —  Let  us  now  rest  together,  and  tomorrow  we  will  both  go 
back  to  our  work  —  I  shall  be  patient  —  like  you,  and  you  will  advise  me  — 
give  me  the  example.     You  shall  be  my  'Virtue.' 
Theresa. —  I  am  too  little  —  little  — 

Stephen  (repeating). —  Little  —  little  {timidly  embraces  her). 
Theresa  {not  objecting  to  his  embrace y  and  ceasing  to  work). 
Stephen  {embracing  her  and  putting  his  head  on  her  shoulder). —  So. 
Theresa. —  Why  are  you  tired  ?  —  Did  you  walk  much  ? 
Stephen. —  Yes. 

Theresa. —  Do  you  want  to  go  to  sleep  ? 
Stephen. —  Yes. 

{A  brief  silence) 
Stephen    {closing    his   eyes^    murmurs). —  Little    by    little    everything 
disappears.     I  only  see  you,  as  if  you  were  my  soul  —  I  see  you  so  quiet, 
so  quiet  —  Ah!  at  last  I  can  sleep! 

{A  silence) 
{Stephen  sleeps) 
Theresa  {gently  disengaging  herself  from  his  armSy  then  rises^  letting 
her  dress  fall  on   him.     Smiling,  draws  away  back.     All  at  once  begins  to 
re  peaty  in  the  same  monotonous  way  the  old  mans  verse). — 

Over  the  sea  —  don't  look. 
Close  your  eyes  —  and  go  on. 
{Exit  to  the  terracey  her  voice  is  heard  from  outside). — 

There  is  a  friend, —  near  by  you 
Close  your  eyes  —  and  go  on. 
Valentine^ s    voice    {outsidcy  in    despair). —  Run,  Stephenl      Madame 
Theresa  is  standing  on  the  parapet  stretching  her  hands  to  the  sea! 
Valentine  {enters  from  lefty  runs  to  the  terrace  and  exit). 
Valentine  {outside y  utters  a  cry  of  terrible  anguish). 

CURTAIN 


THE   SILVER  FLUTE 

{A  Chronicle  of  Ancient  Greece) 

By  Arthur  Upson 

EAR  the  strange  story  of  the  silver  flute: 
Beside  iEgean  waters  on  an  isle 
Of  what  fair  name  my  chronicle  is  mute 

Save  that  *twas  of  the  storied  Cydades  — 
Once  in  a  long-past  hour  on  Chronos'  dial 
There  dwelt  a  youth  in  bondage  of  that  lord 
Whose  grandsire  had  the  isle  for  his  reward 
In  some  old  war  when  Persians  swept  the  seas. 

This  youth  was  not  an  islander,  but  dwelt. 
Before  his  lord  had  bound  him,  under  skies 
Where  the  white  fanes  of  fair-limbed  gods  did  melt 

Within  the  still-fleeced  blue  of  Grecian  air. 
There  had  his  lips,  and  there  his  ardent  eyes, 
Their  lesson  of  all  beauty  spoke  or  writ, 
And  his  empassioned  heart  had  stored  the  wit 

Of  artists,  bards,  and  sages  gathered  there. 

Sold  out  of  Athens  for  a  paltry  debt! 
Seeking  a  father's  blemished  name  to  clear. 
He  willingly  his  hand  to  letters  set. 

Pledging  a  certain  weary  term  of  suns 
His  scholar-service;  then  with  feigned  cheer 
Clomb  a  tall  galley  of  his  master's  fleet. 
Turned  southward,  nor  looked  back  to  hillsides  sweet 

And  the  loved  sands  where  green  iEgina  runs. 

Then  all  the  afternoon  that  galley  sailed 

To  south  and  east  by  Attic  promontories, 

And  many  a  gleaming,  homeward  prow  was  hailed, 

Bound  for  Piraeus  and  familiar  rest. 
Well  knew  that  exile  youth  all  songs  and  stories 
Yon  fishers  loved  when  night  had  fetched  them  home, 


88  THE  SILVER  FLUTE 

And  often  had  he  longed  like  them  to  roam  — 
Yet  now  his  heart  lay  heavy  in  his  breast. 

Among  the  isles  dim,  purple  evening  came: 

With  sails  reefed,  cables  coiled,  and  slackened  oars» 

The  ship  still  glided  'neath  its  harbor  flame. 

Strange  port  that  was,  whose  black  unwelcoming  wharves, 
Heaped  high  with  spicy  spoils  from  Asian  shores. 
No  hillside  temple  whitely  overgleamed  — 
For  Trade  was  there  the  only  god  esteemed 

With  vodves  of  huge  bales  and  hideous  corves. 

Then  in  the  youth  an  agony  of  dread. 

Of  utter,  homesick  longing  searched  his  soul. 

He  cursed  his  honor  —  wished  he  had  lain  dead 

Or  e'er  he  bound  his  scholarship  to  be 
Counter  of  gains  to  such  a  lord.     He  stole 
Far  sternward  on  the  steady-moving  ship, 
Set  a  small  flute  unto  his  trembling  lip, 

And  made  a  little  Attic  melody. 

'Twas  a  boy's  song  he  oft  enough  had  sung 
In  golden  summers  with  Athenian  lads 
When,  under  leafy  temple  groves  they  flung 

Wave-weary  limbs  along  that  green  of  Pan 
Wherewith  her  rock  lone  Psyttaleia  clads; 
Full  many  a  faun-like  circle  had  he  trod 
Round  the  rough  statues  of  the  woodland  god 
Ere  swift  care  came  and  touched  him  into  man. 

As  now  that  wavering  air  fell  soothingwise 
Deep  in  his  painful  dream  of  merry  hours  — 
Air  mystically  fitting  to  these  skies, 

Though  framed  for  fairer  —  his  hot  tide  of  blood 
Ebbed  back  to  calmness:  so  from  Pan's  thick  bowers 
Young  bathers  watch  quick  storms  across  the  bay 
Subsiding  as  they  chant  their  joyous  lay 

Ere  they  plunge  homeward  through  the  quiet  flood. 


ARTHUR  UPSON  189 

He  felt  the  keel's  grate  and  the  prow's  impact; 

But  still  he  stood  alone  afolt  the  stern 

With  flute  to  lip,  and  yearning  eyes  that  tracked 

The  westward  crimson  of  that  fallen  day : 
Then,  pausing  'mid  the  stir,  he  chanced  to  turn 
And  met  the  passionate  gaze  of  one  in  whom 
Music  had  called  Hope,  shining  from  her  tomb, 

And  raised  warm  Memory  in  her  trodden  clay. 

What  dryad,  faun,  or  god  in  beechen  dell  — 
Same  say  'twas  Pan  himself — did  first  discover 
How  'neath  a  wooden  wand's  dissolving  spell 

Hope  trembles  into  life.  Despair  turns  Hope  ? 
Or  was  it  only  some  too-happy  lover  ? 
Or  sad  slave  toiling  on  in  Fate's  despite  ? 
For  Grief  and  Joy,  when  both  have  reached  their  height, 

Meet  in  the  calm  of  Music's  crowning  slope. 

'Twas  but  one  upward  glance  from  reeking  benches 
Deep  in  the  laboring  hulk  where  main  Despair 
Pulled  that  proud  galley  through  the  ocean  trenches; 

An  instant  —  it  was  gone :  and  nevermore 
Beheld  the  youth  again  those  eyes  of  care. 
He  stowed  his  flute,  and  through  the  lanterned  dark. 
With  other  cargoes  bidden  disembark. 

He  sought  the  untried  shadows  of  the  shore. 

And  now  through  month  on  month  his  fine  brain  tasks 
O'er  ledgers,  bonds,  and  countless  bills-of-lading  — 
From  dawn  to  dusk,  o'er  corves  and  oily  casks 

That  steam  the  warehouse  dock  with  odors  brute; 
But  often,  when  he  sees  fair  courage  fading. 
In  cool  of  night,  or  by  the  earliest  dawn. 
Ere  the  first  step,  or  afcer  all  have  gone. 

He  seeks  the  fiery  spirit  of  his  flute. 

So,  for  dull  vears  the  price  of  youth  he  flung 
To  the  dark  keeping  of  regardless  Time. 
Sole  thrift  of  all  that  wasteful  barter,  clung 
Those  golden  moments  of  the  night  and  morn 


I90  THE  SILVER  FLUTE 

When  crystal-limpid  melodies  would  climb 
Round  the  great  heart  of  Silence  from  his  lips; 
Or  when,  of  dusks,  he  boarded  galley  ships 
Fresh  from  Piraeus  with  their  wine  and  com. 

Just  gods  decree  that  naught  of  beauty  fades, 
Nor  ever  is  lost  in  this  deaf-seeming  world; 
Andy  if  sweet  sound  no  earthly  ear  persuades, 

Unto  its  breath  they  do  themselves  bend  low, 
And  in  their  heavenly  memories  keep  it  furled 
For  poets'  dreams;  or  else  they  make  sad  hearts 
Draw  near,  as  if  by  chance,  till  Music  starts. 

As  in  that  oarsman,  Hope's  diviner  glow. 

Oft  on  that  oarsman  mused  the  exile  youth. 
Still  vivid  in  his  thought  the  iRrst  surprise 
Of  that  revealing  face.     Yet  now  the  truth. 

As  long  years  labored  by,  became  more  plain 
And  a  new  meaning  looked  from  all  men's  eyes 
With  hints  of  old,  deep-sunken  loveliness. 
And,  under  toil's  coarse  mask,  the  slow  distress 

Of  godHke  dreams  crushed  down  and  dumb  in  pain. 

And  oft,  beneath  tall  pharos-fires  he  boarded 
Some  trader  in  the  harbor,  and  would  wend 
Fluting  among  dank  shrouds  and  cargoes  sordid. 

And  deep  into  foul  caverns  of  the  hold. 
Thinking  alway  perchance  to  touch  that  friend; 
But  never  thus  —  though  many  another  face 
Through  sooty  glooms  yearned  up  to  such  rare  grace. 

And  many  an  ear  drank  in  that  music's  gold. 

It  happened  so  one  night  he,  wandering  thus. 
Through  tender  stops  his  Attic  spirit  sighed 
While  the  great  summer's  moon  hung  luminous 

Like  a  clear  cresset  o'er  the  yarded  sail. 
Oarsmen  and  sailors,  weary  of  the  tide. 
Lay  moveless,  listening;  'twixt  the  toiling  morrows 
Music  and  rest  shut  down  upon  their  sorrows. 

And  through  their  limbs  did  kindly  sleep  prevail. 


ARTHUR  UPSON  191 

Then,  like  a  very  genius  of  dark  earth, 
Sudden,  the  island's  lord  before  them  rose  — 
Or  like  on  vineyard  hills  the  August  dearth, 

Or  olive-blight  when  boughs  droop  heaviest. 
Oh,  cruel  had  he  ever  been,  God  knows 
Cruel  to  man  and  beast,  and  even  cruel 
To  earth  whose  vintage,  metal,  oil,  and  fuel, 

He  wrung  from  her  with  miserly  unrest! 

"What  fellow  idles  here  with  piping  tune?" 

His  loud  cry  shattered  down  the  moonlit  hush. 

"Hence  to  thy  shed,  knave!    What,  thou'lt  have  me  soon 

Master  of  mock-men  and  slug-mountebanks!" 
No  more. —  Some  shrank  as  though  beneath  the  crush 
Of  powers  ancestral  who  proud  Persian  arms 
Had  beat  to  dust;  some  hid  their  base  alarms; 
While  others,  cursing,  writhed  upon  their  planks. 

Over  them  all  in  dignity  serene. 

With  flute  to  lip,  the  youth  paused  musefully. 

Arion  was  not  tranquiller  of  mien 

What  time  the  enchanted  dolphin  heard  his  lyre 
And  from  those  vile  Sicilians  on  the  sea 
Swept  him  afar;  nor  yet  more  certain-souled 
Amphion  was,  who  built  up  Thebes  of  old 

By  music  magical,  and  Orphean  fire! 

Silene,  poising  on  her  silver  path, 
Remembered  Phoebus'  fine  Thessalian  lute 
That  soothed  his  exile  when  their  father's  wrath 

Doomed  him  to  service  of  the  Shepherd  King; 
And  oh,  Endymion  with  a  herdboy's  flute 
Through  the  pale  valley  piping  to  his  sheep, 
Or  in  his  listless  Latmian  cave  asleep. 

Were  not  more  fair  than  he  of  whom  I  sing! 

Whether  or  no  the  dulcet  goddess  turned 
Into  the  youth's  warm  heart  some  yearning  thought. 
His  being  with  resistless  music  burned; 
Into  his  memoiy  crept  a  countiy  air. 


[92  THE  SILVER  FLUTE 

Of  an  old  minor  love-song  chiefly  wrought. 
But  mingled  with  the  laughter  and  the  sighs 
Of  half-forgotten  Attic  lullabies : 
Sweet  was  its  cadence  out  of  all  compare. 

And  this  he  played,  until  the  maddened  ear 
Of  one*s  own  past  would  stop  itself  for  woe; 
Then,  gliding  into  martial  measures,  near 

Burst  the  reechoing  heart  with  bounding  wars  — 
The  blaze  of  splendid  b«iitles  long  ago; 
Magnificence  of  Marathon;  wild  bliss 
Of  Mycnle,  Plataea,  Salamis, 

And  shattered  prows  on  Hellespontine  shores  1 

They  say  stones  leaped  along  the  Ilian  walls 

At  the  Phoebean  melodies;  then  how 

Might  human  blood,  e'en  though  it  sluggish  crawls 

Through  craven  limbs,  resist  so  sweet  appeal  ?  — 
Laconia  bred  that  lord;  yet  his  stem  brow 
Had  known  a  mother's  lips,  his  Spartan  breast, 
For  once,  had  panted  love,  ere  riches  pressed. 

And  Fortune  set  him  highest  upon  her  wheel. 

Still  he  stood  with  amazement,  all  the  bound 
Of  his  pride-withered  and  self-rooted  dreams 
Hot-surging  under  tides  of  sudden  sound: 

Child,  lover,  awoke;  his  grandsire  in  him  stirred  — 
(At  Artemisium  he  with  two  triremes 
Had  baffled  Persia!)  — Then  the  silence  fell. 
Resounding  silence.  Night's  blue-caverned  shell 

Treasuring  immortal  harmonies  unheard! 

All  this  the  youth  perceived :  not  vain  those  years 

Of  music's  ministry  to  secret  pain  — 

Not  all  for  naught  those  desperate  mortal  fears 

Searched  out  in  others'  lives  at  dawn  and  duck; 
Nor  were  the  exile  and  the  toil  in  vain. 
Beauty-remembered  is  a  fragrant  flower, 
But,  cherished  through  the  else-unlovely  hour, 

Elysium  hath  no  bloom  to  match  its  musk! 


ARTHUR  UPSON  193 

The  common  morning  of  a  common  morrow 

Succeeded  to  the  wonder  of  the  night. 

With  dawn  that  galley's  oars  began  to  furrow 

Old  fareways  of  eternal  amaranth; 
The  youth  beheld  the  slanting  lanteen's  flight 
From  his  black  island-wharf;  into  his  mind 
Strange  ports  arose,  his  feet  might  never  find, 

Piled  high  with  Tyrian  wools  and  tragacanth. 

Out  with  the  ship  the  island's  master  sailed, 

Boarding  her  sudden  at  the  front  of  dawn, 

Wherefore  none  knew    .     .     .    And  now  mild  Autumn  paled 

The  rose-red  passion  of  Summer  all  among 
Those  island-beds  of  purple  ocean-lawn. 
And  brought  the  day  ten  years  had  toiled  to  bring 
Whereon  the  youth's  release  should  shout  and  sing 

Within  him  —  yet  he  shouted  not  nor  sung. 

With  the  same  sun  when  that  long  term  was  full 
The  island  lord  returned  within  his  boat, 
Bearing  nor  tragacanth,  nor  Tyrian  wool. 

Nor  myrrh,  in  barter  for  his  fruit  and  oil. 
He  came  in  Antioch  linen,  all  his  coat 
Being  one  woven  piece,  and  in  his  hand 
He  bore,  soft-wound  in  many  an  azure  band, 

Some  hidden  Asian  thing  of  princely  spoil. 

Down  from  the  ship  he  stepped  along  the  wharf 
All  in  his  rich  array  and  stately  style: 
Then  calling  over  cask,  and  bale,  and  corf. 

He  summoned  the  Athenian  to  his  side. 
The  curious  village  folk  from  round  the  isle. 
Idlers,  and  merchants,  stood  there  wonder-smitten. 
And  so  the  youth  as  well,  at  what  lay  written 

Plain  in  that  countenance  of  cruel  pride: 

For  cruel  pride  was  gone,  and  in  its  stead 
A  meekness  dwelt,  as  strange  to  him  as  all 
The  sumptuous  vesture  that  so  richly  fed 
The  astonishment  of  people,  and  more  fit. 


194  THE  SILVER  FLUTE 

For  mildness  gave  him  looks  imperial. 
And  loftier  power  that  suited  with  a  lord. 
Of  glorious  descent.    With  one  accord 
They  hailed  him  in  awed  murmurs,  seeing  it. 

The  Athenian  ob^ed  with  courtesy. 
And  thus  it  fell:  That  costly  orient  vest. 
One  piece  of  woven  linen  flowing  free. 

From  his  own  shoulders  did  the  lord  remove. 
And  in  its  folds  his  bondman  rarely  dressed. 
Then,  from  its  swathings,  slow  the  marvel  came  — 
A  wondrous  flute,  wrought  out  by  toil  and  flame 

From  purest  silver  ever  smith  did  prove. 

For  these  that  ship's  whole  treasure  was  exchanged; 
For  these  men  searched  through  many  an  Asian  town, 
And  that  tall  galley  many  a  seaboard  ranged. — 
Today  thou'rt  free  again,"  the  master  spake. 

Tomorrow  shall  this  galley  bear  thee  down 
Between  the  aisles,  along  iEgina  foam, 
A  victor,  with  his  spoil,  returning  home. 

Tonight  for  me  thou  shalt  fair  sounds  awake." 

And  so  it  fell.    That  night  with  princely  feast 
The  master  entertained  his  ten-years'  slave. 
The  young  Athenian  fluted  on,  nor  ceased 

To  move  melodious  spirits  with  a  sigh. 
But  to  the  silver  flute  his  sweet  lip  gave, 
Till  white  waves  broke  around  them  in  the  dawn; 
And  through  east  windows,  loitering  and  wan 

Silene  listened  from  a  saffron  sky. 

So,  the  tale  goes,  among  the  Cyclades 

One  shining  temple  more  strove  heavenward; 

And  Beauty  again,  from  foam  of  sullen  seas 

Like  Aphrodite,  rose  to  regal  power. 
Thus  Music  moved  the  heart  of  that  great  lord. 
And  the  white  temple  on  his  island's  brow 
Cheered  many  a  mariner  over  many  a  prow 

For  full  a  thousand  years  from  that  far  hour. 


CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE  195 

In  the  gold  noontide  of  that  final  day 

Anchors  were  heaved,  smooth  dipped  a  hundred  oars. 

And  southern  winds  compelled  his  sail  away. 

That  son  of  Art. —  My  chronicle  is  mute 
About  his  after-deeds  on  other  shores: 
It  only  says  men's  hearts  could  long  discern 
Bright  vision  of  him  at  the  galley's  stern. 

And  the  clear  music  of  his  silver  flute. 


THE  LITANIES  OF  LOVE 

By  Curtis  Hidden  Page 

I 

Love  Suppliant 

Y  Lady,  hearken!    At  thine  altar-stairs 
I  sing  a  daily  litany  to  thee 
Of  loving  reverence  that  aspires  and  dares. 

Before  thy  shrine  I  sink  on  bended  knee, 
Yet  sing  with  lifted  forehead,  unafraid. 
At  once  a  song  of  triumph,  and  a  plea. 

w-knighted  by  love's  holy  accolade 

[  fear  not  foes  nor  fates;  and  yet  I  fear, 

d  kneel  before  thine  altar,  asking  aid. 

dear  my  Lady,  this  is  my  one  fear  — 
Lest  I  give  not  the  love  thou  meritest  •  •  • 
ach  me  all  perfect  love,  my  Lady  dear. 

blessed  Lady,  Beautiful  and  Best 

Teach  me  the  many  perfect  things  thou  art 

lat  make  up  perfect  love,  my  Lady  blest. 

)  thee  I  come,  to  thee  I  trust  my  heart  — 

Take  me  and  teach  me  ever  more  and  more  •  •  • 

>r  just  by  coming  I  have  learned  a  part. 


196  THE  LITANIES  OF  LOVE 

Lady  of  love  that  groweth  ever  more, 

That  "scattereth  yet  increaseth,"  giveth  all 
And  yet  by  giving  addeth  to  its  store  — 

Teach  me  thy  answer  to  the  highest  call. 

Teach  me  love's  greatest  joy,  O  Lady  of  love, 
The  joy  of  loving,  that  can  never  pall. 

My  love  streams  up  toward  thine  enshrined  above, 

My  love  strives  up  through  thoughts  and  dreams  and  prayers 
Praying  to  grow  like  thine,  O  Lady  of  Love. 

II 

Lady  of  Art 

Lady  of  Love,  and  beauty  that  love  brings. 
Lady  of  art's  revealings.  Lady  of  Truth, 
Teach  me  how  truth  in  beauty  speaks  and  sings. 

See,  on  thy  altar  I  have  laid  my  youth 

To  burn  with  love  and  art  and  beauty's  fires 
Until  it  be  refined  in  very  sooth  — 

Until  each  thought  of  art  and  self  expires. 

And  from  the  ashes  Phoenix-like  up-springs 
The  perfect  art,  that  greatens  and  inspires. 

Ill 

Lady  of  Sorrows 

Lady  of  sorrows,  still  you  bring  me  joy 

Out  of  your  pain,  and  smile  with  eyes  that  ache. 
Hiding  your  life-wounds,  like  the  least  annoy, 

With  beautiful  brave  laughter,  for  my  sake. 

Yet  deep  beneath,  I  feel  the  ceaseless  swell 
And  fall  of  waves  of  tears  —  nay,  let  them  break  .  .  . 

Yes  ...  let  them  break  .  .  .  The  ebb-tide  will  compel 

Their  tumult  into  calm,  and  bring  the  peace 
Of  moon-lit  waters,  murmuring:  all  is  well. 


CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE  197 

IV 

Lave  Celebrant 

If  I,  even  I,  have  won  thy  love  divine, 

O  Lady  of  love,  O  Laay  of  joy  and  peace, 
If  I  have  won  thy  love  and  made  thee  mine, 

Then  life  is  born  anew  of  love's  increase. 
Transfigured  by  love's  purifying  blaze. 
Doubts  fall  away,  darkness  and  sorrow  cease. 

And  all  is  bright  with  sun-light  and  love's  rays. — 

If  I  have  won  thy  love,  then  love  must  sing, 
If  I  have  won  thy  love,  then  life  must  praise  — 

Listen  I  triumphant  love  shall  wake  and  fling 

Great  floods  of  swelling  wild  exultant  song  — 
Then  sink  to  tender  love's  low  murmuring .... 

Oh,  love  is  gentlest  when  it  most  is  strong 

And  kneels  when  most  exulting  ...  let  me  grow 
Quite  dumb  before  thine  altar,  where  I  long 

To  stand,  thy  celebrant,  within  the  glow  •  •  • 

Or  but  to  light  the  candles  at  the  shrine  •  •  • 
Or  just  be  one,  and  burn  there  •  •  •  Even  so. 


THE  MOTHER-CRY 

By  KofTH  M.  Thomas 
In  mtm^jfj  of  IsaM 


HK  maiden-child,  whom  ioi^ 
Like  firstling  rose  upon  dbe 
U  forth  —  beyond  all  watcii 
1  hat  in  great  love  can  ever  be 


Mure  Nature's  deeps  have  raniid  her  98% 
Have  borne  her  form  none  kmiweik  wh 
Soiriir  |iarr,  «/#  loved,  with  earth  is  merged, 
Soiii«r  \$ykt\  hath  veiled  itself  in  air. 

lip  ^tit%  a  Cry,     a  far,  wild  Cry! 

fW<Tr«r  any  Heaven  built  in  starry  space, 
Now,  down  the  hritrht  and  riven  sky. 

Till-  lofit,  the  maidcn-child,  must  pace!) 

"Oh,  in  tliiTi*  nont*  who  understands  — 

Who  undrihtiiiulK  the  things  I  miss?  — 
I  In  vyvrs^  liri  lips,  hrr  little  hands, — 

I  In  h;indN  that  I  nuist  have,  to  kiss!'' 

Untcj  tlut  Mcithrr-Cry,  in  vain, 

All  ^MNwn  .  .  .  *'\n,  if  it  be  so 
TluHi  shall  not  have  \\vx  hands  again, 

Still,  tlum  the  Touch  shalt  surely  know! 

*'  rhtui  niayst  not  inci't  her  eyes  of  blue, 

riut  Nvnr  tltv  mom  and  even-light; 
N'rt       bv  no  pnislublr  view  — 

Thy  Sijyju  sltall  surely  meet  her  sight! 

"  Init  wluie  \  but  when  :"  —  "Not  in  this  Dreamt 

luit  when   llie  Real  of  Sight,  of  Sound, 
0\  iMevious   Touch,  stand  forth,  supreme, 

Aoove  the  Fleeting  Substance,  crowned!" 


SALOME 


A  Tragedy  in  One  Act 
Translated  from  the  French  of  Oscar  Wilde 

CHARACTERS: 

OD  Antipas,  Tetrarch  of  Judaea. 
kKAAN,  The  Prophet. 
Young  Syrian,  Captain  of  the  Guard. 
XLINUS,  a  young  Roman. 
^Mppadodan. 
mhian. 
^  Soldier 
nd  Soldier. 
Page  of  Herodias. 
;  Nazarenes,  Etc. 
^ave. 

MAN,  The  Executioner. 
ODIAS,  wife  of  the  Tetrarch. 
>ME,  daughter  of  Herodias. 
Slaves  of  Salome. 

SCENE 

GREAT  TERRACE  in  the  Palace  of  Herod,  set  above  the 
banqueting'halL  Some  soldiers  are  leaning  over  the  balcony. 
To  the  right  there  is  a  gigantic  staircase,  to  the  left,  at  the 
back,  an  old  cistern  surrounded  by  a  wall  of  green  bron%e. 
The  moon  is  shining  very  brightly. 

The  Young  Syrian.    How  beautiful  is  the  Princess  Salome  tonight! 

The  Page  of  Herodias.  Look  at  the  moon.  How  strange  the  moon 
IS !  She  is  like  a  woman  rising  from  a  tomb.  She  is  like  a  dead  wo- 
.    One  might  fancy  she  was  looking  for  dead  things. 

The  Young  Syrian.  She  has  a  strange  look.  She  is  like  a  little 
cess  who  wears  a  yellow  veil,  and  whose  feet  are  of  silver.  She 
ke  a  princess  who  has  little  white  doves  for  feet.  One  might  fancy 
was  dancing. 

The  Page  of  Herodias.  She  is  like  a  woman  who  is  dead.  She 
es  very  slowly. 

(Noise  in  the  banque ting-hall.) 

First  Soldier.  What  an  uproar!     Who  arc  those  wild  beasts  howl- 

Second  Soldier.  The  Jews.  They  are  always  like  that.  They  arc 
uting  about  their  religion. 

199 


200  SALOME 

First  Soldier.    Why  do  they  dispute  about  their  religion? 

Second  Soldier.  I  cannot  tell.  They  are  always  doing  it.  The  Ph 
tees,  for  instance,  say  that  there  are  angels,  and  the  Sadducees  decl 
that  angels  do  not  exist. 

First  Soldier.    I  think  it  is  ridiculous  to  dispute  about  such  things 

The  Young  Syrian.    How  beautiful  is  the  Princess  Salome  to-nig 

The  Page  of  Herodias.  You  are  always  looking  at  her.  You  I< 
at  her  too  much.  It  is  dangerous  to  look  at  people  in  such  fashi 
Something  terrible  may  happen. 

The  Young  Syrian.    She  is  very  beautiful  to-night. 

First  Soldier.     The  Tetrarch  has  a  sombre  aspect. 

Second  Soldier.    Yes;  he  has  a  sombre  aspect. 

First  Soldier.    He  is  looking  at  something. 

Second  Soldier.    He  is  looking  at  some  one. 

First  Soldier.    At  whom  is  he  looking? 

Second  Soldier.    I  cannot  tell. 

The  Young  Syrian.  How  pale  the  Princess  is!  Never  have  I  sc 
her  so  pale.    She  is  like  the  shadow  of  a  white  rose  in  a  mirror  of  silv 

The  Page  of  Herodias.  You  must  not  look  at  her.  You  look  t 
much  at  her. 

First  Soldier.     Herodias  has  filled  the  cup  of  the  Tetrarch. 

The  Cappadocian.  Is  that  the  Queen  Herodias,  she  who  wean 
black  mitre  sewed  with  pearls,  and  whose  hair  is  powdered  with  blue  du! 

First  Soldier.    Yes;  that  is  Herodias,  the  Tetrarch*s  wife. 

Second  Soldier.  The  Tetrarch  is  very  fond  of  wine.  He  has  w 
of  three  sorts.  One  which  is  brought  from  the  Island  of  Samothn 
and  is  purple  like  the  cloak  of  Csesar. 

The  Cappadocian.    I  have  never  seen  Caesar. 

Second  Soldier.  Another  that  comes  from  a  town  called  Cypi 
and  is  as  yellow  as  gold. 

The  Cappadocian.     I  love  gold. 

Second  Soldier.  And  the  third  is  a  wine  of  Sicily.  That  wini 
as  red  as  blood. 

The  Nubian.  The  gods  of  my  country  are  very  fond  of  blc 
Twice  in  the  year  we  sacrifice  to  them  young  men  and  maidens:  f 
young  men  and  a  hundred  maidens.  But  I  am  afraid  that  we  nc 
give  them  quite  enough,  for  they  are  very  harsh  to  us. 

The  Cappadocian.     In  my  country  there  are  no  gods  left. 
Romans  have  driven  them  out.     There  are  some  who  say  that  they  h 
hidden  themselves  in  the  mountains,  but  I  do  not  believe  it.    Three  ni| 
I  have  been  on  the  mountains  seeking  them  everywhere.     I  did  not 
them,  and  at  last  I  called  them  by  their  names,  and  they  did  not  come. 
think  they  are  dead. 


OSCAR    WILDE  201 

Firsi  Soldier.    The  Jews  worship  a  God  that  one  cannot  see. 

The  Cappadocian.    I  cannot  understand  that. 

First  Soldier.  In  fact,  they  only  believe  in  things  that  one  can 
aot  see. 

The  Cappadocian.     That  seems  to  me  altogether  ridiculous. 

The  Voice  of  lokanaan.  After  me  shall  come  another  mightier  thar 
L  I  am  not  worthy  so  much  as  to  unloose  the  latchet  of  his  shoes.  Wher 
lie  cometh  the  solitary  places  shall  be  glad.  They  shall  blossom  like  th< 
rose.  The  eyes  of  the  blind  shall  see  the  day,  and  the  ears  of  the  deal 
liuill  be  opened.  The  suckling  child  shall  put  his  hand  upon  the  dragon': 
kir,  he  shall  lead  the  lions  by  their  manes. 

Second  Soldier.  Make  him  be  silent.  He  is  always  saying  ridicu 
lous  things. 

First  Soldier.  No,  no.  He  is  a  holy  man.  He  is  very  gentle,  too 
Every  day  when  I  give  him  to  eat  he  thanks  me. 

The  Cappadocian.    Who  is  he? 

First  Soldier.     A  prophet. 

The  Cappadocian.    What  is  his  name? 

First  Soldier.    lokanaan. 

The  Cappadocian.    Whence  comes  he? 

First  Soldier.  From  the  desert,  where  he  fed  on  locusts  and  wih 
honey.  He  was  clothed  in  camel's  hair,  and  round  his  loins  he  had  : 
leathern  belt.  He  was  very  terrible  to  look  upon.  .  A  great  multitud 
wed  to  follow  him.     He  even  had  disciples. 

The  Cappadocian.    What  is  he  talking  of? 

First  Soldier.  We  can  never  tell.  Sometimes  he  says  things  tha 
airight  one,  but  it  is  impossible  to  understand  what  he  says. 

The  Cappadocian.    May  one  see  him? 

First  Soldier.     No.     The  Tetrarch  has  forbidden  it. 

The  Young  Syrian.  The  Princess  has  hidden  her  face  behind  he 
hn  I  Her  little  white  hands  are  fluttering  like  doves  that  fly  to  their  dove 
coci.    They  are  like  white  butterflies.    They  are  just  like  white  butterflies 

The  Page  of  Herodias.  What  is  that  to  you?  Why  do  you  lool 
at  her?    You  must  not  look  at  her.  .  .    Something  terrible  may  happen 

The  Cappadocian.    (Pointing  to  the  cistern.)   What  a  strange  prison 

Second  Soldier.    It  is  an  old  cistern. 

The  Cappadocian.  An  old  cistern  I  That  must  be  a  poisonous  plac 
m  which  to  dwell  I 

Second  Soldier.  Oh  no  I  For  instance,  the  Tetrarch's  brother,  hi 
dder  brodier,  the  first  husband  of  Herodias  the  Queen,  was  imprisons 
there  for  twelve  years.  It  did  not  kill  him.  At  the  end  of  the  twelv 
years  he  had  to  be  strangled. 

The  Cappadocian.     Strangled?     Who  dared  to  do  that? 


202  SALOME 

Second  Soldier.   {Pointing  to  the  Executioner,  a  huge  negro  J)    Thit 
man  yonder,  Naaman. 

The  Cappadocian.    He  was  not  afraid? 

Second  Soldier.    Oh  no  I     The  Tetrarch  sent  him  the  ring. 

The  Cappadocian.     What  ring? 

Second  Soldier.    The  death  ring.     So  he  was  not  afraid. 

The  Cappadocian.    Yet  it  is  a  terrible  thing  to  strangle  a  king. 

First  Soldier.    Why?     Kings  have  but  one  neck,  like  other  folk. 

The  Cappadocian.     I  think  it  terrible. 

The  Young  Syrian.  The  Princess  is  getting  up  I  She  is  leaving  the 
table  1  She  looks  very  troubled.  Ah,  she  is  coming  this  way.  Yes,  she  ii 
coming  towards  us.    How  pale  she  is  I    Never  have  I  seen  her  so  pale. 

The  Page  of  Herodias.     I  pray  you  not  to  look  at  her. 

The  Young  Syrian.  She  is  like  a  dove  that  has  strayed.  ...  She 
is  like  a  narcissus  trembling  in  the  wind.  .  .  .    She  is  like  a  silver  flower. 

{Enter  Salome.) 

Salome.  I  will  not  stay.  I  cannot  stay.  Why  does  the  Tetrafck 
look  at  me  all  the  while  with  his  mole^s  eyes  under  his  shaking  eyelids? 
It  is  strange  that  the  husband  of  my  mother  looks  at  me  like  that  I 
know  not  what  it  means.  Of  a  truth  I  know  it  too  well. 

The  Young  Syrian.    You  have  left  the  feast,  Princess  ? 

Salome.  How  sweet  is  the  air  here  I  I  can  breathe  here!  Withii 
there  are  Jews  from  Jerusalem  who  are  tearing  each  other  in  pieces  over 
their  foolish  ceremonies,  and  barbarians  who  drink  and  drink  and  ^ill 
their  wine  on  the  pavement,  and  Greeks  from  Smyrna  with  painted 
eyes  and  painted  cheeks,  and  frizzed  hair  curled  in  columns,  and  Egyptians 
silent  and  subtle,  with  long  nails  of  jade  and  russet  cloaks,  and  Romans 
brutal  and  coarse,  with  their  uncouth  jargon.  Ah  I  how  I  loathe  the 
komans!  They  are  rough  and  common,  and  they  give  themselves  the 
airs  of  noble  lords. 

The  Young  Syrian.    Will  you  be  seated.  Princess? 

The  Page  of  Herodias.  Why  do  you  speak  to  her?  Oh!  somr 
thing  terrible  will  happen.     Why  do  you  look  at  her? 

Salome.  How  good  to  see  the  moon  I  She  is  like  a  little  piece  of 
money,  a  little  silver  flower.  She  is  cold  and  chaste.  I  am  sure  she 
is  a  virgin.  She  has  the  beauty  of  a  virgin.  Yes,  she  is  a  virgin.  She 
has  never  defiled  herself.  She  has  never  abandoned  herself  to  men,  like 
the  other  goddesses. 

The  Voice  of  lokanaan.  Behold  I  the  Lord  hath  come.  The  Son  of 
Nfan  is  at  hand.  The  centaurs  have  hidden  themselves  in  the  rivers,  and 
the  nymphs  have  left  the  rivers,  and  are  lying  beneath  the  leaves  in  die 
forests. 

Salome.    Who  was  that  who  cried  out? 


OSCAR    WILDE  203 

Second  Soldier.  The  prophet,  Princess. 

Salome.  Ah,  the  prophet  1    He  of  whom  the  Tetrarch  is  afraid? 

Second  Soldier.     We  know  nothing  of  that,  Princess.     It  was  the 
prophet  lokanaan  who  cried  out. 

The  Young  Syrian.  Is  it  your  pleasure  that  I  bid  them  bring  your 
litter.  Princess?    The  night  is  fair  in  the  garden. 

Salome.    He  says  terrible  things  about  my  mother,  does  he  not? 

Second  Soldier.    We  never  understand  what  he  says,  Princess. 

Salome.    Yes;  he  says  terrible  things  about  her. 

{Enter  a  Slave.) 

The  Slave.     Princess,  the  Tetrarch  prays  you  to  return  to  the  feast. 

Salome.     I  will  not  return. 

The  Young  Syrian.  Pardon  me.  Princess,  but  if  you  return  not  some 
misfortune  may  happen. 

Salome.    Is  he  an  old  man,  this  prophet? 

The  Young  Syrian.  Princess,  it  were  better  to  return.  Suffer  me  to 
lead  you  in. 

Salome.    This  prophet  ...  is  he  an  old  man? 

Firsi  Soldier.    No,  Princess,  he  is  quite  young. 

Second  Soldier.  One  cannot  be  sure.  There  are  those  who  say  that 
lie  is  Elias. 

Salome.    Who  is  Elias  ? 

Second  Soldier.    A  prophet  of  this  country  in  bygone  days.  Princess. 

The  Slave.    What  answer  may  I  give  the  Tetrarch  from  the  Princess  ? 

The  Voice  of  lokanaan.  Rejoice  not,  O  land  of  Palestine,  because 
die  rod  of  him  whd  smote  thee  is  broken.  For  from  the  seed  of  the 
serpent  shall  come  a  basilisk,  and  that  which  is  bom  of  it  shall  devour  the 
birds. 

Salome.    What  a  strange  voice !    I  would  speak  with  him. 

First  Soldier.  I  fear  it  may  not  be,  Princess.  The  Tetrarch  docs 
not  suffer  anyone  to  speak  with  him.  He  has  even  forbidden  the  high 
priest  to  speak  with  him. 

Salome.    I  desire  to  speak  with  him. 

First  Soldier.    It  is  impossible.  Princess. 

Salome.    I  will  speak  with  him. 

The  Young  Syrian  .  Would  it  not  be  better  to  return  to  the  banquet  ? 

Salome.    Bring  forth  this  prophet. 

(Exit  the  Slave.) 

First  Soldier,     We  dare  not,  Princess. 

Salome.  {Approaching  the  cistern  and  looking  down  into  it.)  How 
Made  it  is,  down  there !  It  must  be  terrible  to  be  in  so  black  a  hole !  It 
IS  like  a  tomb.  .  .  .  {To  the  soldiers.)  Did  you  not  hear  me?  Bring 
out  the  prophet.    I  would  look  on  him. 


204  SALOME 

Second  Soldier.    Princess,  I  beg  you,  do  not  require  this  of  us. 

Salome.     You  are  making  me  wait  upon  your  pleasure. 

First  Soldier.  Princess,  our  lives  belong  to  you,  but  we  cannot  d» 
what  you  have  asked  of  us.  And  indeed  it  is  not  of  us  that  you  should  uk 
this  thing. 

Salome  (looking  at  the  young  Syrian).    Ah! 

The  Page  of  Herodias.  Ohl  what  is  going  to  happen?  I  am  suit 
that  something  terrible  will  happen. 

Salome.  {Going  up  to  the  young  Syrian.)  Thou  wilt  do  this  duot 
for  me,  wilt  thou  not,  Narraboth?  Thou  wilt  do  this  thing  for  me.  I 
have  ever  been  kind  towards  thee.  Thou  wilt  do  it  for  me.  I  would  faol 
look  at  him,  this  strange  prophet.  Men  have  talked  so  much  of  Um. 
Often  have  I  heard  the  Tetrarch  talk  of  him.  I  think  he  is  afraid  of 
him,  the  Tetrarch.    Art  thou,  even  thou,  also  afraid  of  him,  Narraboth? 

The  Young  Syrian.  I  fear  him  not.  Princess;  there  is  no  man  I  fear. 
But  the  Tetrarch  has  formally  forbidden  that  any  man  shall  raise  tiie 
cover  of  his  well. 

Salome,  Thou  wilt  do  this  thing  for  me,  Narraboth,  and  to-morrow 
when  I  pass  in  my  litter  beneath  the  gateway  of  the  idol-sellers  I  will  let 
fall  for  thee  a  little  flower,  a  little  green  flower. 

The  Young  Syrian.    Princess,  I  cannot,  I  cannot. 

Salome.  (Smiling.)  Thou  wilt  do  this  thing  for  me,  Nambodt 
Thou  knowest  that  thou  wilt  do  this  thing  for  me.  And  on  the  morrow 
when  I  shall  pass  in  my  litter  by  the  bridge  of  the  idol-buyers,  I  will  look 
at  thee  through  the  muslin  veils,  I  will  look  at  thee,  Narraboth,  it  may  be 
I  will  smile  at  thee.  Look  at  me,  Narraboth,  look  at  me.  Ah  I  thoa 
knowest  that  thou  wilt  do  what  I  ask  of  thee.  Thou  knowest  it.  .  .1 
know  thou  wilt  do  this  for  me. 

The  Young  Syrian.  (Signing  to  the  third  Soldier.)  Let  the  prophet 
come  forth.  .   .  The  Princess   Salome  desires  to  see  him. 

Salome.    Ah ! 

The  Page  of  Herodias.  Oh!  How  strange  the  moon  looks.  Like 
the  hand  of  a  dead  woman  who  is  seeking  to  cover  herself  with  a  shroud. 

The  Young  Syrian.  She  has  a  strange  aspect!  She  is  like  a  little 
princess,  whose  eyes  are  eyes  of  amber.  Through  the  clouds  of  muslin 
she  is  smiling  like  a  little  princess.  ( The  prophet  comes  out  of  the  cistern. 
Salome  looks  at  him  and  steps  slowly  back.) 

lokanaan.  Where  is  he  whose  cup  of  abominations  is  now  full? 
Where  is  he,  who  in  a  robe  of  silver  shall  one  day  die  in  the  face  of  all 
the  people?  Bid  him  come  forth,  that  he  may  hear  the  voice  of  him  who 
hath  cried  in  the  waste  places  and  in  the  houses  of  kings. 

Salome.    Of  whom  is  he  speaking? 

The  Young  Syrian.     No  one  can  tell.  Princess. 


OSCAR   WILDE  205 

lokanaan.  Where  is  she  who  saw  the  images  of  men  painted  on  the 
alls,  even  the  images  of  the  Chaldaeans  painted  with  colours,  and  gave 
srself  up  unto  the  lust  of  her  eyes,  and  sent  ambassadors  into  the  land  of 
haldaea? 

Salome.    It  is  of  my  mother  that  he  is  speaking. 

The  Young  Syrian.    Oh  no,  Princess. 

Salome.    Yes;  it  is  of  my  mother  that  he  is  speaking. 

lokanaan.  Where  is  she  who  gave  herself  unto  the  Captains  of 
Myria,  who  have  baldricks  on  their  loins,  and  crowns  of  many  colours 
I  their  heads?  Where  is  she  who  hath  given  herself  to  the  young  men 
'  the  Egyptians,  who  are  clothed  in  fine  linen  and  hyacinth,  whose  shields 
t  of  gold,  whose  helmets  are  of  silver,  whose  bodies  are  mighty?  Go, 
d  her  rise  up  from  the  bed  of  her  abominations,  from  the  bed  of  her 
cestuousness,  that  she  may  hear  the  words  of  him  who  prepareth  the 
ly  of  the  Lord,  that  she  may  repent  her  of  her  iniquities.  Tnough  she 
iU  not  repent,  but  will  stick  fast  in  her  abominations,  go  bid  her  come, 
r  the  fan  of  the  Lord  is  in  His  hand. 

Salome.    Ah,  but  he  is  terrible,  he  is  terrible. 

The  Young  Syrian.    Do  not  stay  here.  Princess,  I  beseech  you. 

Salome.  It  is  his  eyes  above  all  that  are  terrible.  They  are  like 
ick  holes  burned  by  torches  in  a  tapestry  of  Tyre.  They  are  like  the 
ick  caverns  where  the  dragons  live,  the  black  caverns  of  Egypt  in  which 
e  dragons  make  their  lairs.  They  are  like  black  lakes  troubled  by  fan- 
idc  moons.  .  .  Do  you  think  he  will  speak  again  ? 

The  Young  Syrian.  Do  not  stay  here,  Princess.  I  pray  you  do  not 
ly  here. 

Salome.  How  wasted  he  isl  He  is  like  a  thin  ivory  statue.  He  is 
x  an  image  of  silver.  I  am  sure  he  is  chaste,  as  the  moon  is.  He  is 
:e  a  moonbeam,  like  a  shaft  of  silver.  His  flesh  must  be  very  cold,  cold 
ivory.  .  .  I  would  look  closer  at  him. 

The  Young  Syrian.    No,  no.  Princess ! 

Salome.     1  must  look  at  him  closer. 

The  Young  Syrian.    Princess  1    Princess ! 

lokanaan.  Who  is  this  woman  who  is  looking  at  me?  I  will  not 
ve  her  look  at  me.  Wherefore  doth  she  look  at  me,  with  her  golden 
es,  under  her  gilded  eyelids?  I  know  not  who  she  is.  I  do  not  desire 
know  who  she  is.    Bid  her  begone.    It  is  not  to  her  that  I  would  speak. 

Salome.    I  am  Salome,  daughter  of  Herodias,  Princess  of  Judaea. 

lokanaan.    Back  I  daughter  of  Babylon  I     Come  not  near  the  chosen 

the  Lord.     Thy  mother  hath  filled  the  earth  with  the  wine  of  her 

quities,  and  the  cry  of  her  sinning  hath  come  up  even  to  the  ears  of 

Salome.    Speak  again,  lokanaan.    Thy  voice  is  as  music  to  mine  ear. 


2o6  SALOME 

The  Young  Syrian.    Princess !    Princess !    Princess ! 

Salome.  Speak  again !  Speak  again,  lokanaan,  and  tell  me  whit  1 
must  do. 

lokanaan.     Daughter  of  Sodom,  come  not  near  me  I     But  cover  tfa)  |i: 
face  with  a  veil,  and  scatter  ashes  upon  thine  head,  and  get  thee  to  the 
desert,  and  seek  out  the  Son  of  Man. 

Salome.  Who  is  he,  the  Son  of  Man  ?  Is  he  as  beautiful  as  thoo  art, 
lokanaan  ? 

lokanaan.    Get  thee  behind  me  I     I  hear  in  the  palace  the  beating  of  ^ 
the  wings  of  the  angel  of  death. 

The  Young  Syrian.    Princess,  I  beseech  thee  to  go  within. 

lokanaan.  Angel  of  the  Lord  God,  what  dost  thou  here  with  tb 
sword?  Whom  seekest  thou  in  this  palace?  The  day  of  him  who  ahiB 
die  in  a  robe  of  silver  has  not  yet  come. 

Salome.    lokanaan ! 

lokanaan.    Who  speaketh? 

Salome.  I  am  amorous  of  thy  body,  lokanaan  1  Thy  body  is  white, 
like  the  lilies  of  a  field  that  the  mower  hath  never  mowed.  Thy  body  b 
white  like  the  snows  that  lie  on  the  mountains  of  Judsa,  and  come  down 
into  the  valleys.  The  roses  in  the  garden  of  the  Queen  of  Arabia  are  not 
so  white  as  thy  body.  Neither  the  roses  of  the  garden  of  the  Queen  of 
Arabia,  the  garden  of  spices  of  the  Queen  of  Arabia,  nor  the  feet  of  the 
dawn  when  they  light  on  the  leaves,  nor  the  breast  of  the  moon  when  she 
lies  on  the  breast  of  the  sea.  .  .  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  so  white  u 
thy  body.    Suffer  me  to  touch  thy  body. 

lokanaan.  Back!  daughter  of  Babylon!  By  woman  came  evil  mto 
the  world.  Speak  not  to  me.  I  will  not  listen  to  thee.  I  listen  but  to 
the  voice  of  the  Lord  God. 

Salome.  Thy  body  is  hideous.  It  is  like  the  body  of  a  leper.  It  is 
like  a  plastered  wall,  where  vipers  have  crawled;  like  a  plastered  wall 
where  the  scorpions  have  made  their  nest.  It  is  like  a  whited  sepulchre, 
full  of  loathsome  things.  It  is  horrible,  thy  body  is  horrible.  It  is  of 
thy  hair  that  I  am  enamoured,  lokanaan.  Thy  hair  is  like  clusters  of 
grapes,  like  the  clusters  of  black  grapes,  that  hang  from  the  vine*trees  of 
Edom  in  the  land  of  the  Edomites.  Thy  hair  is  like  the  cedars  of  Ld>- 
anon,  like  the  great  cedars  of  Lebanon  that  give  their  shade  to  the  lioni 
and  to  the  robbers  who  would  hide  them  by  day.  The  long  black  nights, 
when  the  moon  hides  her  face,  when  the  stars  are  afraid,  are  not  so  blad 
as  thy  hair.  The  silence  that  dwells  in  the  forest  is  not  so  black.  There 
is  nothing  in  the  world  that  is  so  black  as  thy  hair.  .  .  .  Suffer  me  to  touch 
thy  hair. 

lokanaan.    Back,  daughter  of  Sodom !    Touch  me  not.     Profane  not 
the  temple  of  the  Lord  God. 


OSCAR  WILDE  207 

Salome.  Thy  hair  is  horrible.  It  is  covered  with  mire  and  dust.  It 
ike  a  crown  of  thorns  placed  on  thy  head.  It  is  like  a  knot  of  seipents 
led  around  thy  neck.  I  love  not  thy  hair.  .  .  .  It  is  thy  mouth  that  I 
are,  lokanaan.  Thy  mouth  is  like  a  band  of  scarlet  on  a  tower  of  ivory, 
is  like  a  pomegranate  cut  in  twain  with  a  knife  of  ivory. 
le  pomegranate  flowers  that  blossom  in  the  gardens  of  Tyre,  and  are 
Ider  than  roses,  are  not  so  red.  The  red  blasts  of  trumpets  that  herald 
t  approach  of  kings,  and  make  afraid  the  enemy,  are  not  so  red.  Thy 
»oth  is  redder  than  the  feet  of  those  who  tread  the  wine  in  the  wine-press, 
is  redder  than  the  feet  of  the  doves  who  inhabit  the  temples  and  are  fed 
the  priests.  It  is  redder  than  the  feet  of  him  who  cometh  from  a  forest 
lere  he  hath  slain  a  lion,  and  seen  gilded  tigers.  Thy  mouth  is  like  a 
inch  of  coral  that  fishers  have  found  in  the  twilight  of  the  sea,  the 
*al  that  they  keep  for  the  kings  I  .  .  .  It  is  like  the  vermilion  that  the 
oabites  find  in  the  mines  of  Moab,  the  vermilion  that  the  kings  take 
rni  them.  It  is  like  the  bow  of  the  King  of  the  Persians,  that  is  painted 
th  vermilion,  and  is  tipped  with  coral.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world 
red  as  thy  mouth.  .  .  .  Suffer  me  to  kiss  thy  mouth. 

lokanaan.  Never  I  daughter  of  Babylon  1  Daughter  of  Sodom  I 
rerl 

Salome.    I  will  kiss  thy  mouth,  lokanaan.    I  will  kiss  thy  mouth. 

The  Toung  Syrian.  Princess,  Princess,  thou  who  art  like  a  garden 
myrrh,  thou  who  art  the  dove  of  all  doves,  look  not  at  this  man,  look 
t  at  him  I  Do  not  speak  such  words  to  him.  I  cannot  endure  it.  .  .  . 
incess,  do  not  speak  these  things. 

Salome.     I  will  kiss  thy  mouth,  lokanaan. 

The  Young  Syrian.  Ah  I  {He  kills  himself,  and  falls  between 
lome  and  lokanaan. ) 

The  Page  of  Herodias.  The  young  Syrian  has  slain  himself  I  The 
Bug  captain  has  slain  himself  1    He  has  slain  himself  who  was  my  friend  I 

rive  him  a  little  box  of  perfumes  and  ear-rings  wrought  in  silver, 
now  he  has  killed  himself  I  Ah,  did  he  not  say  that  some  misfortune 
mid  happen?  I,  too,  said  it,  and  it  has  come  to  pass.  Well  I  knew 
It  the  moon  was  seeking  a  dead  thing,  but  I  knew  not  that  it  was  he 
lom  she  sought.  Ahl  why  did  I  not  hide  him  from  the  moon?  If  I  had 
Iden  him  in  a  cavern  she  would  not  have  seen  him. 

First  Soldier.    Princess,  the  young  captain  has  just  slain  himself. 

Salome.    Suffer  me  to  kiss  thy  mouth,  lokanaan. 

lokanaan.  Art  thou  not  afraid,  daughter  of  Herodias?  Did  I  not 
1  that  I  heard  in  the  palace  the  beatings  of  the  wings  of  tihe  angel  of 
ith,  and  hath  he  not  come,  the  angel  of  death? 

Salome.    Suffer  me  to  kiss  thy  mouth. 

lokanaan.    Daughter  of  adultery,  there  is  but  one  who  can  save  thee. 


2o8  SALOME 

It  is  He  of  whom  I  spake.  Go  seek  him.  He  is  in  a  boat  on  the  sea  o( 
Galilee,  and  He  talketh  with  His  disciples.  Kneel  down  on  the  shore  of 
the  sea,  and  call  unto  Him  by  His  name.  When  he  cometh  to  thee,  ui 
to  all  who  call  on  Him,  He  cometh,  bow  thyself  at  his  feet  and  ask  of 
Him  the  remission  of  thy  sins. 

Salome.    Suiler  me  to  kiss  thy  mouth. 

lokanaan.  Cursed  be  thoul  daughter  of  an  incestuous  mother,  be 
thou  accursed  I 

Salome.     I  will  kiss  thy  mouth,  lokanaan. 

lokanaan.  I  will  not  look  at  thee.  Thou  art  accursed,  Salome,  dioi 
art  accursed.     {He  goes  down  into  the  cistern.) 

Salome.    I  will  kiss  thy  mouth,  lokanaan ;  I  will  kiss  thy  mouth. 

First  Soldier.  We  must  bear  away  the  body  to  another  place.  The 
Tetrarch  does  not  care  to  see  dead  bodies,  save  the  bodies  of  those  wboo 
he  himself  has  slain. 

The  Page  of  Herodias.  He  was  my  brother,  and  nearer  to  me  dus 
a  brother.  I  gave  him  a  little  box  full  of  perfumes,  and  a  ring  of  agitie 
that  he  wore  always  on  his  hand.  In  the  evening  we  were  wont  to  waft 
by  the  river,  and  among  the  almond-trees,  and  he  used  to  tell  me  of  the 
things  of  his  country.  He  spake  ever  very  low.  The  sound  of  his  voice 
was  like  the  sound  of  the  flute,  of  one  who  playeth  upon  the  flute.  Abo 
he  had  much  joy  to  gaze  at  himself  in  the  river.  I  used  to  reproadi  him 
for  that. 

Second  Soldier,  You  are  right ;  we  must  hide  the  body.  The  Tetrardi 
must  not  see  it. 

Firsi  Soldier.  The  Tetrarch  will  not  come  to  this  place.  He  never 
comes  on  the  terrace.    He  is  too  much  afraid  of  the  prophet. 

{Enter  Herod,  Herodias,  and  all  the  Court.) 

Herod.  Where  is  Salome  ?  Where  is  the  Princess  ?  Why  did  she 
not  return  to  the  banquet  as  I  commanded  her  ?    Ah  1  there  she  is ! 

Herodias.  You  must  not  look  at  her !  You  are  always  looking  at 
her  I 

Herod.  The  moon  has  a  strange  look  to-night.  Has  she  not  i 
strange  look?  She  is  like  a  mad  woman  who  is  seeking  everywhere  foi 
lovers.  She  is  naked  too.  She  is  quite  naked.  The  clouds  are  seekinf 
to  cover  her  nakedness,  but  she  will  not  let  them.  She  shows  hersdl 
naked  in  the  sky.  She  reels  through  the  clouds  like  a  drunken  woman.  .  .  . 
I  am  sure  she  is  looking  for  lovers.  Does  she  not  reel  like  a  drunkct 
woman?     She  is  like  a  mad  woman,  is  she  not? 

Herodias.  No;  the  moon  is  like  the  moon,  that  is  all.  I..et  us  p 
within.  .    .    .  We  have  nothing  to  do  here. 

Herod.  I  will  stay  here!  Manasseh,  lay  carpets  here.  Ligh 
torches.    Bring  forth  the  ivory  tables,  and  the  tables  of  jasper.     The  ai 


OSCAR  WILDE  209 

re  is  sweet.  I  will  drink  more  wine  with  my  guests.  We  must  show 
i  honours  to  the  ambassadors  of  Cssar. 

Herodias.     It  is  not  because  of  them  that  you  remain. 

Herod.  Yes;  the  air  is  very  sweet.  G>me,  Herodias,  our  ^ests 
rait  us.  Ah  I  I  have  slipped.  I  have  slipped  in  blood.  It  is  an  ill 
lien.  It  is  a  very  ill  omen.  Wherefore  is  there  blood  here?  .  .  .  and 
is  body,  what  does  this  body  here?  Think  you  I  am  like  the  King  of 
Sypt,  who  gives  no  feast  to  his  guests  but  that  he  shows  them  a  corpse? 
^hose  is  it?     I  will  not  look  on  it. 

First  Soldier.  It  is  our  captain,  sire.  It  is  the  young  Syrian  whom 
u  made  captain  of  the  guard  but  three  days  gone. 

Herod.    I  issued  no  order  that  he  should  be  slain. 

Second  Soldier.    He  slew  himself,  sire. 

Herod.    For  what  reason  ?    I  had  made  him  captain  of  my  guard  I 

Second  Soldier.  We  do  not  know,  sire.  But  with  his  own  hand  he 
rw  himself. 

Herod.  That  seems  strange  to  me.  I  had  thought  it  was  but  the 
nnan  philosophers  who  slew  themselves.  Is  it  not  true,  Tigellinus,  that 
e  philosophers  at  Rome  slay  themselves? 

Tigellinus.  There  be  some  who  slay  themselves,  sire.  They  arc  the 
oics.  The  Stoics  are  people  of  no  cultivation.  They  are  ridiculous  people, 
myself  regard  them  as  being  perfectly  ridiculous. 

Herod.     I  also.     It  is  ridiculous  to  kill  one's  self. 

Tigellinus.  Everybody  at  Rome  laughs  at  them.  The  Emperor  has 
ritten  a  satire  against  them.    It  is  recited  everywhere. 

Herod.  Ah  I  he  has  written  a  satire  against  them?  Caesar  is  won- 
rful.  He  can  do  everything.  ...  It  is  strange  that  the  young  Syrian 
IS  slain  himself.  I  am  sorry  he  has  slain  himself.  I  am  very  sorry.  For 
:  was  fair  to  look  upon.  He  was  even  very  fair.  He  had  very  languorous 
es.  I  remember  that  I  saw  that  he  looked  languorously  at  Salome, 
ruly,  I  thought  he  looked  too  much  at  her. 

Herodias.    There  are  others  who  look  too  much  at  her. 

Herod.  His  father  was  a  king.  I  drave  him  from  his  kingdom. 
id  of  his  mother,  who  was  a  queen,  you  made  a  slave,  Herodias.  So  he 
IS  here  as  my  guest,  as  it  were,  and  for  that  reason  I  made  him  my 
ptain.  I  am  sorry  he  is  dead.  Ho!  why  have  you  left  the  body  here? 
most  be  taken  to  some  other  place.  I  will  not  look  at  it, — away  with 
'  {They  take  away  the  body.)  It  is  cold  here.  There  is  a  wind  blow- 
{.    Is  there  not  a  wind  blowing  ? 

Herodias.    No;  there  is  no  wind. 

Herod.  I  tell  you  there  is  a  wind  that  blows.  .  .  .  And  I  hear  in 
!  air  something  that  is  like  the  beating  of  wings,  like  the  beating  of  vast 
ngs.     Do  you  not  hear  it? 


2IO  SALOME 

Herodias.    I  hear  nothing. 

Herod.  I  hear  it  no  longer.  But  I  heard  it.  It  was  the  blowing  of 
the  wind.  It  has  passed  away.  But  no,  I  hear  it  again.  Do  you  not  hear 
it?    It  is  just  like  a  beating  of  wings. 

Herodias.    I  tell  you  there  is  nothing.    You  are  ill.    Let  us  go  within. 
Herod.     I  am  not  ill.     It  is  your  daughter  who  is  »ck  to  death. 
Never  have  I  seen  her  so  pale. 

Herodias.    I  have  told  you  not  to  look  at  her. 
Herod.     Pour  me  forth  wine.     {fVine  is  brought.)     Salome,  oomc 
drink  a  little  wine  with  me.     I  have  here  a  wine  that  is  exquisite.    Cesar 
himself  sent  it  me.    Dip  into  it  thy  little  red  lips,  that  I  may  drain  the  cop. 
Salome.    I  am  not  thirsty,  Tetrarch. 

Herod.    You  hear  how  she  answers  me,  this  daughter  of  yours? 
Herodias.    She  does  right.    Why  are  you  always  gazing  at  her? 
Herod.    Bring  me  ripe  fruits.     {Fruits  are  brought.)     Salome,  cone 
and  eat  fruits  with  me.     I  love  to  see  in  a  fruit  the  mark  of  thy  little 
teeth.    Bite  but  a  little  of  this  fruit,  that  I  may  eat  what  is  left. 
Salome.    I  am  not  hungry,  Tetrarch. 

Herod  {to  Herodias).  You  see  how  you  have  brought  up  tUi 
daughter  of  yours. 

Herodias.     My  daughter  and  I  come  of  a  royal  race.     As  for  thee, 
thy  father  was  a  camel  driver  I    He  was  a  thief  and  a  robber  to  boot  I 
Herod.    Thou  liest! 

Herodias.    Thou  knowest  well  that  it  is  true. 
Herod.    Salome,  come  and  sit  next  to  me.    I  will  give  thee  the  throne 
of  thy  mother. 

Salome.    I  am  not  tired,  Tetrarch. 
Herodias.    You  see  in  what  regard  she  holds  you. 
Herod.    Bring  me — ^What  is  it  that  I  desire?    I  forget.    Ah  I  ah  I  I 
remember. 

The  Voice  of  lokanaan.     Behold  the  time  is  come  I     That  wluch  I 
foretold  has  come  to  pass.    The  day  that  I  spake  of  is  at  hand. 

Herodias.  Bid  him  be  silent.  I  will  not  listen  to  his  voice.  TUi 
man  is  for  ever  hurling  insults  against  me. 

Herod.  He  has  said  nothing  against  you.  Besides,  he  is  a  very  great 
prophet. 

Herodias.  I  do  not  believe  in  prophets.  Can  a  man  tell  what  wiS 
come  to  pass?  No  man  knows  it.  Also  he  is  for  ever  insulting  int 
But  I  think  you  are  afraid  of  him.  ...  I  know  well  that  you  are  afraid 
of  him. 

Herod.    I  am  not  afraid  of  him.    I  am  afraid  of  no  man. 
Herodias.     I  tell  you  you  are  afraid  of  him.     If  you  are  not  afraid 
of  him  why  do  you  not  deliver  him  to  the  Jews  who  for  these  six  monthi 
past  have  been  clamouring  for  him? 


OSCAR    WILDE  211 

A  Jew.    Truly,  my  lord,  it  were  better  to  deliver  him  into  our  hands. 

Herod.  Enough  on  this  subject.  I  have  already  given  you  my 
(wer.  I  will  not  deliver  him  into  your  hands.  He  is  a  holy  man.  He 
ft  man  who  has  seen  God. 

A  Jew.  That  cannot  be.  There  is  no  man  who  hath  seen  God  since 
;  prophet  Elias.  He  is  the  last  man  who  saw  God  face  to  face.  In  these 
jrs  God  doth  not  show  Himself.  God  hideth  Himself.  Therefore 
eat  evils  have  come  upon  the  land. 

Another  Jew.  Verily,  no  man  knoweth  if  Elias  the  prophet  did  indeed 
t  God.    Peradventure  it  was  but  the  shadow  of  God  tnat  he  saw. 

A  Third  Jew.     God  is  at  no  time  hidden.     He  showeth  Himself  at 
times  and  in  all  places.     God  is  in  what  is  evil  even  as  He  is  in  what 
gcxkl. 

A  Fourth  Jew.  Thou  shouldst  not  say  that.  It  is  a  veiy  dangerous 
ctrine.  It  is  a  doctrine  that  cometh  from  Alexandria,  where  men  teach 
t  philosophy  of  the  Greeks.  And  the  Greeks  are  Gentiles.  They  are 
t  even  circumcised. 

A  Fifth  Jew.  No  man  can  tell  how  God  worketh.  His  ways  are 
ly  dark.  It  may  be  that  the  things  which  we  call  evil  are  good,  and 
It  the  things  which  we  call  good  are  evil.  There  is  no  knowledge  of 
ything.  We  can  but  bow  our  heads  to  His  will,  for  God  is  veiy  strong. 
I  breaketh  in  pieces  the  strong,  together  with  the  weak,  for  He  regardetti 
t  any  man. 

First  Jew.  Thou  speakest  truly.  Verily,  God  is  terrible.  He 
eaketh  in  pieces  the  strong  and  the  weak  as  men  break  com  in  a  mortar. 
It  as  for  this  man,  he  hath  never  seen  God.  No  man  hath  seen  God 
ice  the  prophet  Elias. 

Herodias.     Make  them  be  silent.     They  weaiy  me. 

Herod.  But  I  have  heard  it  said  that  lokanaan  is  in  very  truth  your 
Dphet  Elias. 

The  Jew.  That  cannot  be.  It  is  more  than  three  hundred  years 
ice  the  days  of  the  prophet  Elias. 

Herod.    There  be  some  who  say  that  this  man  is  Elias  the  prophet. 

A  Nazarene.     I  am  sure  that  he  is  Elias  the  prophet. 

The  Jew.     Nay,  but  he  is  not  Elias  the  prophet. 

The  Voice  of  lokanaan.  Behold  the  day  is  at  hand,  the  day  of  the 
rdy  and  I  hear  upon  the  mountains  the  feet  of  Him  who  shall  be  the 
riour  of  the  world. 

Herod.    What  does  that  mean  ?    The  Saviour  of  the  world  } 

Tigellinus.     It  is  a  title  that  Caesar  adopts. 

Herod.     But  Caesar  is  not  coming  into  Judaea.     Only  yesterday  I  re- 


212  SALOME 

ceived  letters  from  Rome.  They  contained  nothing  concerning  this  mz 
And  youy  Tigellinus,  who  were  at  Rome  during  the  winter,  you  h( 
nothing  concerning  this  matter,  did  you  ? 

Tigellinus.     Sire,  I  heard  nothing  concerning  the  matter.     I  was 
explaining  the  title.     It  is  one  of  Caesar's  titles. 

Herod,  But  Csesar  cannot  come.  He  is  too  gouty.  They  say  t 
his  feet  are  like  the  feet  of  an  elephant.  Also  there  are  reasons  of  st 
He  who  leaves  Rome  loses  Rome.  He  will  not  come.  Howbeit,  Ca 
is  lord,  he  will  come  if  such  be  his  pleasure.  Nevertheless,  I  think  he ' 
not  come. 

First  Naxarene.  It  was  not  concerning  Caesar  that  the  prophet  sp; 
these  words,  sire. 

Herod.     How  ? — it  was  not  concerning  Caesar  ? 

First  Naxarene.     No,  my  lord. 

Herod.     Concerning  whom  then  did  he  speak  ? 

First  Nazarene.     Concerning  Messias,  who  hath  come. 

A  Jew.     Messias  hath  not  come. 

First  Nazarene.     He  hath  come,  and  everywhere  he  worketh  mirad 

Herodias.  Ho!  ho!  miracles!  I  do  not  believe  in  miracles.  I  h: 
seen  too  many.     (To  the  Page.)     My  fan. 

First  Nazarene.    This  man  worketh  true  miracles.     Thus,  at  a  m 
riage  which  took  place  in  a  little  town  of  Galilee,  a  town  of  some  imp 
tance,  he  changed  water  into  wine.     Certain  persons  who  were  pres 
related  it  to  me.     Also  he  healed  two  lepers  that  were  seated  before 
Gate  of  Capernaum  simply  by  touching  them. 

Second  Nazarene,     Nay;  it  was  two  blind  men  that   he    healed 
Capernaum. 

First  Nazarene.  Nay;  they  were  lepers.  But  he  hath  healed  bl 
people  also,  and  he  was  seen  on  a  mountain  talking  with  angels. 

A  Sadducee.     Angels  do  not  exist. 

A  Pharisee.  Angels  exist,  but  I  do  not  believe  that  this  man  I 
talked  with  them. 

First  Nazarene.  He  was  seen  by  a  great  multitude  of  people  talk 
with  angels. 

Herodias.  How  these  men  weary  me!  They  are  ridiculous!  Tl 
are  altogether  ridiculous!  (To  the  Page.)  Well!  my  fan?  (The  P 
gives  her  the  fan.)  You  have  a  dreamer's  look.  You  must  not  drea 
It  is  only  sick  people  who  dream.     (She  strikes  the  Page  with  her  fan.\ 

Second  Nazarene.     There  is  also  the  miracle  of  the  daughter  of  Jail 

First  Nazarene.     Yea,  that  is  sure.     No  man  can  gainsay  it. 

Herodias.     Those  men  are  mad.     They  have  looked  too  long  on 


OSCAR    WILDE  213 

K>n.     Command  them  to  be  silent. 

Herod,    What  is  this  miracle  of  the  daughter  of  Jainis  ? 

First  Nazarene.  The  daughter  of  Jainis  was  dead.  This  Man  raised 
r  from  the  dead! 

Herod,     How!     He  raises  people  from  the  dead  ? 

First  Nazarene,     Yea,  sire;  He  raiseth  the  dead. 

Herod.  I  do  not  wish  Him  to  do  that.  I  forbid  Him  to  do  that, 
suffer  no  man  to  raise  the  dead.  This  Man  must  be  found  and  told 
at  I  forbid  Him  to  raise  the  dead.    Where  is  this  Man  at  present  ? 

Second  Nazarene.  He  is  in  every  place,  my  lord,  but  it  is  hard  to 
id  Him. 

First  Nazarene.     It  is  said  that  He  is  now  in  Samaria. 

A  Jew.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  this  is  not  Messias,  if  He  is  in  Samaria. 
:  is  not  to  the  Samaritans  that  Messias  shall  come.  The  Samaritans  are 
rcursed.    They  bring  no  offerings  to  the  Temple. 

Second  Nazarene.  He  left  Samaria  a  few  days  since.  I  think  that 
t  the  present  moment  He  is  in  the  neighborhood  of  Jerusalem. 

First  Nazarene.  No;  He  is  not  there.  I  have  just  come  from  Jcni- 
dem.     For  two  months  they  have  had  no  tidings  of  Him. 

Herod.  No  matter!  But  let  them  find  Him,  and  tell  Him,  thus 
lith  Herod  the  King,  'I  will  not  suffer  Thee  to  raise  the  dead.'  To 
lunge  water  into  wine,  to  heal  the  lepers  and  the  blind.  ...  He  mav 
B  these  things  if  He  will.  I  say  nothing  against  these  things.  In  truth 
hold  it  a  kindly  deed  to  cure  a  leper.  But  no  man  shall  raise  the  dead. 
.  .  It  would  be  terrible  if  the  dead  came  back. 

The  Voice  of  lokanaan.  Ah!  The  wanton  one!  The  harlot!  Ah! 
le  daughter  of  Babylon  with  her  golden  eyes  and  her  gilded  eyelids! 
Iius  saith  the  Lord  God,  let  there  come  up  against  her  a  multitude  of 
len.    Let  the  people  take  stones  and  stone  her.  .  .  . 

Herodias,     Command  him  to  be  silent! 

The  Voice  of  lokanaan.  Let  the  captains  of  the  hosts  pierce  her 
ith  their  swords,  let  them  crush  her  beneath  their  shields. 

Herodias.     Nay,  but  it  is  infamous. 

The  Voice  of  lokanaan.  It  is  thus  that  I  will  wipe  out  all  wickedness 
mn  the  earth,  and  that  all  women  shall  learn  not  to  imitate  her 
l>ominadons. 

Herodias.  You  hear  what  he  says  against  me  .^  You  suffer  him  to 
?vilc  her  who  is  your  wife! 

Herod.     He  did  not  speak  your  name. 

Herodias,  What  does  that  matter?  You  know  well  that  it  is  I 
bom  he  seeks  to  revile.    And  I  am  your  wife,  am  I  not  ? 


214  SALOME 

Herod.    Of  a  tnith,  dear  and  noble  Herodias,  you  are  my  wife 
before  that  you  were  the  wife  of  my  brother. 

HeroJias.  It  was  thou  didst  snatch  me  from  his  arms. 
Herod.  Of  a  truth  I  was  stronger  than  he  was.  .  .  .  But  1< 
not  talk  of  that  matter.  I  do  not  desire  to  talk  of  it.  It  is  the  cau 
the  terrible  words  that  the  prophet  has  spoken.  Peradventure  on  accou 
it  a  misfortune  will  come.  Let  us  not  speak  of  this  matter.  Noble  I 
diasy  we  are  not  mindful  of  our  guests.  Fill  thou  my  cup,  my 
beloved.  Ho!  fill  with  wine  the  great  goblets  of  silver,  and  the  ; 
goblets  of  glass.  I  will  drink  to  Caesar.  There  are  Romans  ben 
must  drink  to  Caesar. 

All.    Caesar!    Caesar! 

Herod.     Do  you  not  see  your  daughter,  how  pale  she  is } 

Herodias.    What  is  that  to  you  if  she  be  pale  or  not  ? 

Herod.    Never  have  I  seen  her  so  pale. 

Herodias.    You  must  not  look  at  her. 

The  Voice  of  lokanaan.    In  that  day  the  sun  shall  become  bladi 
sackcloth  of  hair,  and  the  moon  shall  become  like  blood,  and  the 
of  the  heaven  shall  fall  upon  the  earth  like  unripe  figs  that  fall  froo 
fig-tree,  and  the  kings  of  the  earth  shall  be  afraid. 

Herodias.    Ah  I  ah !   I  should  like  to  see  that  day  of  which  he  sp 
when  the  moon  shall  become  like  blood,  and  when  the  stars  shall 
upon  the  earth  like  unripe  figs.    This  prophet  talks  like  a  drunken 
.  .  .  but  I  cannot  suffer  the  sound  of  his  voice.     I  hate  his  voice.    ' 
mand  him  to  be  silent. 

Herod.     I  will  not.     I  cannot  understand  what  it  is  that  he 
but  it  may  be  an  omen. 

Herodias.    I  do  not  believe  in  omens.    He  speaks  like  a  drunken 

Herod.    It  may  be  he  is  drunk  with  the  wine  of  God. 

Herodias.  What  wine  is  that,  the  wine  of  God?  From  what 
yards  is  it  gathered?    In  what  wine-press  may  one  find  it? 

Herod  {From  this  point  he  looks  all  the  while  at  Salome).  Tigel 
when  you  were  at  Rome  of  late,  did  the  Emperor  speak  with  yc 
the  subject  of  ...  ? 

Tigellinus.     On  what  subject,  my  lord? 

Herod.  On  what  subject?  Ah  I  I  asked  you  a  question,  did  I 
I  have  forgotten  what  I  would  have  asked  you. 

Herodias.  You  are  looking  again  at  my  daughter.  You  mus 
look  at  her.     I  have  already  said  so. 

Herod.     You  say  nothing  else. 

Herodias.     I  say  it  again. 

Herod.  And  that  restoration  of  the  Temple  about  which  they 
talked  so  much,  will  anything  be  done?     They  say  that  the  veil  o 


OSCAR    WILDE  215 

8ftnctuary  has  disappeared,  do  thev  not? 

Herodias.     It  was  thyself  didst  steal  it.     Thou  speakest  at  random 
and  without  wit.    I  will  not  stay  here.    Let  us  go  within. 
Herod.     Dance  for  me,  Salome. 
Herodias.    I  will  not  have  her  dance. 
Salome.    I  have  no  desire  to  dance,  Tetrarch. 
Herod.    Salome,  daughter  of  Herodias,  dance  for  me. 
Herodias.     Peace.     Let  her  alone. 
Herod.    I  command  thee  to  dance,  Salome. 
Salome.    I  will  not  dance,  Tetrarch. 
Herodias  {Laughing).     You  see  how  she  obeys  you. 
Herod.    What  is  it  to  me  whether  she  dance  or  not?    It  is  nought 
to  me.    To-night  I  am  happy.     I  am  exceedingly  happy.     Never  have  I 
been  so  happy. 

First  Soldier.     The  Tetrarch  has  a  sombre  look.     Has  he  not  a 
sombre  look? 

Second  Soldier.    Yes,  he  has  a  sombre  look. 

Herod.     Wherefore  should  I  not  be  happy?     Caesar,  who  is  lord 

s*of  the  world,  Caesar,  who  is  lord  of  all  things,  loves  me  well.     He  has 

jvt  sent  me  most  precious  gifts.     Also  he  has  promised  me  to  summon 

to  Rome  the  King  of  Cappadocia,  who  is  mine  enemy.     It  may  be  that 

Rome  he  will  crucify  him,  for  he  is  able  to  do  all  things  that  he  has 

Dind  to.    Verily,  Caesar  is  lord.    Therefore  I  do  well  to  be  happy.     I 

littn  very  happy,  never  have  I  been  so  happy.     There  is  nothing  m  the 

7  world  that  can  mar  my  happiness. 

The  Voice  of  lokanaan.  He  shall  be  seated  on  his  throne.  He  shall 
\  be  clothed  in  scarlet  and  purple.     In  his  hand  he  shall  bear  a  golden 

Sfull  of  his  blasphemies.    And  the  angel  of  the  Lord  shall  smite  him. 
shall  be  eaten  of  worms. 

Herodias.  You  hear  what  he  says  about  you.  He  says  that  you 
i  shall  be  eaten  of  worms. 

Herod.     It  is  not  of  me  that  he  speaks.     He  speaks  never  against 

%  me.    It  is  of  the  King  of  Cappadocia  that  he  speaks;  the  King  of  Cappa- 

I  docia  who  is  mine  enemy.     It  is  he  who  shall  be  eaten  of  worms.     It  is 

not  I.     Never  has  he  spoken  word  against  me,  this  prophet,  save  that  I 

.  iumcd  in  taking  to  wife  the  wife  of  my  brother.     It  may  be  he  is  right. 

For,  of  a  truth,  you  are  sterile. 

Herodias.    I  am  sterile,  I  ?    You  say  that,  you  that  are  ever  looking 
I  at  my  daughter,  you  that  would  have  her  dance  for  your  pleasure?    You 
ipeak  as  a  fool.     I  have  borne  a  child.     You  have  gotten  no  child,  no, 
not  on  one  of  your  slaves.    It  is  you  who  are  sterile,  not  I. 

Herod.  Peace,  woman  I  I  say  that  you  are  sterile.  You  have  borne 
f  me  no  child,  and  the  prophet  says  that  our  marriage  is  not  a  true  marriage. 
i 


i 


2i6  SALOME 

He  says  that  it  is  a  marriage  of  incest,  a  marriage  that  will  bring  evik 
...  I  fear  he  is  right ;  I  am  sure  that  he  is  right.  But  it  is  not  the  hoor 
to  speak  of  these  things.  I  would  be  happy  at  this  moment.  Of  a  truth, 
I  am  happy.     There  is  nothing  I  lack. 

Herodias.  I  am  glad  you  are  of  so  fair  a  humour  to*niffht.  It  ii 
not  your  custom.  But  it  is  late.  Let  us  go  within.  Do  not  rorget  that 
we  hunt  at  sunrise.  All  honours  must  be  shown  to  Caesar's  ambassador!, 
must  they  not? 

Second  Soldier.    The  Tetrarch  has  a  sombre  look. 

First  Soldier.     Yes,  he  has  a  sombre  look. 

Herod.  Salome,  Salome,  dance  for  me.  I  pray  thee  dance  for  m% 
I  am  sad  to-night.  Yes,  I  am  passing  sad  to-night.  When  I  came  hither 
I  slipped  in  blood,  which  is  an  evil  omen;  also  I  heard  in  the  air  a  beat- 
ing of  wings,  a  beating  of  giant  wings.  I  cannot  tell  what  they  may 
mean.  ...  I  am  sad  tonight.  Therefore  dance  for  me.  Dance  for  mc, 
Salome,  I  beseech  thee.  If  thou  dancest  for  me  thou  mayest  ask  of  me 
what  thou  wilt,  and  I  will  give  it  thee.  Yes,  dance  for  me,  Salome,  and 
whatsoever  thou  shalt  ask  of  me  I  will  give  it  thee,  even  unto  the  half 
of  my  kingdom. 

Salome  (Rising).  Will  you  indeed  give  me  whatsoever  I  shall  ask 
of  you,  Tetrarch? 

Herodias.     Do  not  dance,  my  daughter. 

Herod.  Whatsoever  thou  shalt  ask  of  me,  even  unto  the  half  of 
my  kingdom. 

Salome,     You  swear  it,  Tetrarch? 

Herod.     I  swear  it,  Salome. 

Herodias.     Do  not  dance,  my  daughter. 

Salome.     By  what  will  you  swear  this  thing,  Tetrarch? 

Herod.  By  my  life,  by  my  crown,  by  my  gods.  Whatsoever  thou 
shalt  desire  I  will  give  it  thee,  even  to  the  half  of  my  kingdom,  if  thou 
wilt  but  dance  for  me.     O  Salome,  Salome,  dance  for  me! 

Salome.     You  have  sworn  an  oath,  Tetrarch. 

Herod.     I  have  sworn  an  oath. 

Herodias.     My  daughter,  do  not  dance. 

Herod.  Even  to  the  half  of  my  kingdom.  Thou  wilt  be  passing 
fair  as  a  queen,  Salome,  if  it  please  thee  to  ask  for  the  half  of  my 
kingdom.  Will  she  not  be  fair  as  a  queen?  Ah!  it  is  cold  here!  There 
is  an  icy  wind,  and  I  hear  .  .  .  wherefore  do  I  hear  in  the  air  this  beat- 
ing of  wings?  Ah!  one  might  fancy  a  huge  black  bird  that  hovers  over 
the  terrace.  Why  can  I  not  see  it,  this  bird?  The  beat  of  its  wings  is 
terrible.  The  breath  of  the  wind  of  its  wings  is  terrible.  It  is  a  diiD 
wind.  Nay,  but  it  is  not  cold,  it  is  hot.  I  am  choking.  Pour  water  oo 
my  hands.     Give  me  snow  to  eat.     Loosen  my  mantle.     Quick!  quidcl 


OSCAR    WILDE  217 

Dosen  my  mantle.  Nay,  but  leave  it.  It  is  my  garland  that  hurts  me, 
ny  garland  of  roses.  The  flowers  are  like  fire.  They  have  burned  my 
poirchead.  (He  tears  the  wreath  from  his  head,  and  throws  it  on  the 
\Ale,)  Ah  I  I  can  breathe  now.  How  red  those  petals  are!  They  are 
Ike  stains  of  blood  on  the  cloth.  That  does  not  matter.  It  is  not  wise 
jlP  find  symbols  in  everything  that  one  sees.  It  makes  life  too  full  of 
terrors.  It  were  better  to  say  that  stains  of  blood  are  as  lovely  as  rose- 
Mtals.  It  were  better  far  to  say  that.  .  .  .  But  we  will  not  speak  of  this. 
Mow  I  am  happy.  I  am  passing  happy.  Have  I  not  the  right  to  be 
bppy?  Your  daughter  is  going  to  dance  for  me.  Wilt  thou  not  dance 
for  me,  Salome?    Thou  hast  promised  to  dance  for  me. 

Herodias.     I  will  not  have  her  dance. 

Salome.     I  will  dance  for  you,  Tetrarch. 

Herod.  You  hear  what  your  daughter  says.  She  is  going  to  dance 
for  me.  Thou  doest  well  to  dance  for  me,  Salome.  And  when  thou  hast 
jhnced  for  me,  forget  not  to  ask  of  me  whatsoever  thou  hast  a  mind  to 
Itk.  Whatsoever  thou  shalt  desire  I  will  give  it  thee,  even  to  the  half 
tf  my  kingdom.     I  have  sworn  it,  have  I  not? 

Salome.     Thou  hast  sworn  it,  Tetrarch. 

Herod.  And  I  have  never  failed  of  my  word.  I  am  not  of  those 
irho  break  their  oaths.  1  know  not  how  to  lie.  I  am  the  slave  of  my 
irord,  and  my  word  is  the  word  of  a  king.  The  King  of  Cappadocia  had 
Ver  a  lying  tongue,  but  he  is  no  true  king.  He  is  a  coward.  Also  he 
^es  me  money  that  he  will  not  repay.  He  has  even  insulted  my  ambas- 
sadors. He  has  spoken  words  that  were  wounding.  But  Caesar  will 
rucify  him  when  he  comes  to  Rome.  I  know  that  Csesar  will  crucify 
lim.  And  if  he  crucify  him  not,  yet  will  he  die,  being  eaten  of  worms. 
Phc  prophet  has  prophesied  it.  Well !  Wherefore  dost  thou  tarry, 
klome  ? 

Salome.  I  am  waiting  until  my  slaves  bring  perfumes  to  me  and 
he  seven  veils,  and  take  from  off  my  feet  my  sandals.  {Slaves  brings 
Perfumes  and  the  sezen  veils,  and  take  off  the  sandals  of  Salome.) 

Herod.  Ah,  thou  art  to  dance  with  naked  feet !  'Tis  well !  'Tis 
i^cll!  Thy  little  feet  will  be  like  white  doves.  They  will  be  like  little 
Hiite  flowers  that  dance  upon  the  trees.  .  .  .  No,  no,  she  is  going  to  dance 
H  blood!  There  is  blood  spilt  on  the  ground.  She  must  not  dance  on 
lood.     It  were  an  evil  omen. 

Herodias.  What  is  it  tp  thee  if  she  dance  on  blood?  Thou  hast 
raded  deep  enough  in  it.  .  .   . 

Herod.  What  is  it  to  me  ?  Ah !  look  at  the  moon !  She  has  become 
rd.  She  has  become  red  as  blood.  .Ah!  the  prophet  prophesied  truly. 
le  prophesied  that  the  moon  would  become  as  blood.  Did  he  not 
ropnesy  it?     All  of  ye  heard  him  prophesying  it.     .And  now  the  moon 


2i8  SALOME 

has  become  as  blood.     Do  ye  not  see  it? 

Herodias.  Oh,  yes,  I  see  it  well,  and  the  stars  are  falling  like  unripe 
figs,  are  they  not?  And  the  sun  is  becoming  black  like  sackcloth  of  hair, 
and  the  kings  of  the  earth  are  afraid.  That  at  least  one  can  see.  The 
prophet  is  justified  of  his  words  in  that  at  least,  for  truly  the  kings  of 
the  earth  are  afraid.  .  .  .  Let  us  go  within.  You  are  sick.  They  wiD 
say  at  Rome  that  you  are  mad.     Let  us  go  within,  I  tell  you. 

The  Voice  of  lokanaan.  Who  is  this  who  cometh  from  Edom,  who 
is  this  who  cometh  from  Bozra,  whose  raiment  is  dyed  with  purple,  who 
shineth  in  the  beauty  of  his  garments,  who  walketh  mighty  in  his  great- 
ness?   Wherefore  is  thy  raiment  stained  with  scarlet? 

Herodias.  Let  us  go  within.  The  voice  of  that  man  maddens  me. 
I  will  not  have  my  daughter  dance  while  he  is  continually  crying  oat 
I  will  not  have  her  dance  while  you  look  at  her  in  this  fashion.  In  a  word, 
I  will  not  have  her  dance. 

Herod.  Do  not  rise,  my  wife,  my  queen,  it  will  avail  thee  nothing. 
I  will  not  go  within  till  she  hath  danced.     Dance,  Salome,  dance  for  me. 

Herodias.     Do  not  dance,  my  daughter. 

Salome.     I  am  ready,  Tetrarch. 

{Salome  dances  the  dance  of  the  seven  veils.) 

Herod.  Ah !  wonderful  I  wonderful !  You  see  that  she  has  danced 
for  me,  your  daughter.  Come  near,  Salome,  come  near,  that  I  may  give 
thee  thy  fee.  Ah  I  I  pay  a  royal  price  to  those  who  dance  for  my  pleasure. 
I  will  pay  thee  royally.  I  will  give  thee  whatsoever  thy  soul  desireth. 
What  wouldst  thou  have?     Speak. 

Salome  {Kneeling) .  I  would  that  they  presently  bring  me  a  silver 
charger.  .  .  . 

Herod  {Laughing).  In  a  silver  charger?  Surely  yes,  in  a  silver 
charger.  She  is  charming  is  she  not?  What  is  it  thou  wouldst  have  in 
a  silver  charger,  O  sweet  and  fair  Salome,  thou  that  art  fairer  than  aO 
the  daughters  of  Judxa?  What  wouldst  thou  have  them  bring  thee  in 
a  silver  charger?  Tell  me.  Whatsoever  it  may  be,  thou  shalt  receive 
it.  My  treasures  belong  to  thee.  What  is  it  that  thou  wouldst  have, 
Salome  ? 

Salome  {Rising).     The  head  of  lokanaan. 

Herodias.     Ahl  that  is  well  said,  my  daughter. 

Herod.     No,  no! 

Herodias.     That  is  well  said,  my  daughter. 

Herod.  No,  no,  Salome.  It  is  not  that  thou  desirest.  Do  not  listen  \ 
to  thy  mother's  voice.  She  is  ever  giving  thee  evil  counsel.  Do  not  j 
heed  her. 

Salome.     It  is  not  my  mother's  voice  that  I  heed.     It  is  for  ttiine 
own  pleasure  that  I  ask  the  head  of  lokanaan  in  a  silver  charger.      Yoi 


OSCAR    WILDE  219 

vc  swom  an  oath,  Herod.     Forget  not  that  you  have  sworn  an  oath. 

Herod.  I  know  it.  I  have  sworn  an  oath  by  my  gods.  I  know  it 
sll.  But  I  pray  thee,  Salome,  ask  of  me  something  else.  Ask  of  me 
e  half  of  my  kingdom,  and  I  will  give  it  thee.  But  ask  not  of  me  what 
f  lips  have  asked. 

Salome.     I  ask  of  you  the  head  of  lokanaan. 

Herod.     No,  no,  I  will  not  give  it  thee. 

Salome.    You  have  swom  an  oath,  Herod. 

Herodias.  Yes,  you  have  swom  an  oath.  Everybody  heard  you. 
>u  swore  it  before  everybody. 

Herod.     Peace,  woman!     It  is  not  to  you  I  speak. 

Herodias.  My  daughter  has  done  well  to  ask  the  head  of  lokanaan. 
t  has  covered  me  with  insults.  He  has  said  unspeakable  things  against 
^  One  can  see  that  she  loves  her  mother  well.  Do  not  yield,  my 
ughter.     He  has  swom  an  oath,  he  has  swom  an  oath. 

Herod.  Peace!  Speak  not  to  me!  .  .  .  Salome,  I  pray  thee  be  not 
ibbom.  I  have  ever  been  kind  toward  thee.  I  have  ever  loved  thee. 
.  .  It  may  be  that  I  have  loved  thee  too  much.  Therefore  ask  not  this 
ng  of  me.  This  is  a  terrible  thing,  an  awful  thing  to  ask  of  me.  Surely, 
rhink  thou  art  jesting.  The  head  of  a  man  that  is  cut  from  his  body 
ill  to  look  upon,  is  it  not?  It  is  not  meet  that  the  eyes  of  a  virgin 
Nild  look  upon  such  a  thing.  What  pleasure  couldst  thou  have  in  it. 
tere  is  no  pleasure  that  thou  couldst  have  in  it.  No,  no,  it  is  not  that 
lu  desirest.  Hearken  to  me.  I  have  an  emerald,  a  great  emerald  and 
ind,  that  the  minion  of  Cassar  has  sent  unto  me.  When  thou  lookest 
ough  this  emerald  thou  canst  see  that  which  passeth  afar  off.  Caesar 
iself  carries  such  an  emerald  when  he  goes  to  the  circus.  But  my 
erald  is  the  larger.  I  know  well  that  it  is  the  larger.  It  is  the  largest 
erald  in  the  whole  world.  Thou  wilt  take  that,  wilt  thou  not?  Ask 
3f  me  and  I  will  give  it  thee. 

Salome.     I  demand  the  head  of  lokanaan. 

Herod.  Thou  art  not  listening.  Thou  art  not  listening.  Suffer 
to  speak,  Salome. 

Salome.    The  head  of  lokanaan. 

Herod.  No,  no,  thou  wouldst  not  have  that.  Thou  sayest  that  but 
trouble  me,  because  that  I  have  looked  at  thee  and  ceased  not  this 
ht.  It  is  true,  I  have  looked  at  thee  and  ceased  not  this  night.  Thy 
uty  has  troubled  me.  Thy  beauty  has  grievously  troubled  me,  and  I 
X  looked  at  thee  overmuch.  Nay,  but  I  will  look  at  thee  no  more, 
e  should  not  look  at  anything.  Neither  at  things,  nor  at  people  should 
look.  Only  in  mirrors  is  it  well  to  look,  for  mirrors  do  but  show  us 
iks.  Oh!  oh!  bring  wine!  I  thirst.  .  .  .  Salome,  Salome,  let  us  be 
friends.     Bethink  thee.  ...  Ah!  what  would  I  say?     What  was't? 


220  SALOME 

Ah  I  I  remember  it!  .  .  .  Salome, — nay,  but  come  nearer  to  me;  1 
thou  wilt  not  hear  my  words, — Salome,  thou  knowest  my  white  peai 
my  beautiful  white  peacocks,  that  walk  in  the  garden  between  the  m 
and  the  tall  cypress  trees.  Their  beaks  are  gilded  with  gold  am 
grains  that  they  eat  are  smeared  with  gold,  and  their  feet  are  st 
with  purple.  When  they  cry  out  the  rain  comes,  and  the  moon  i 
herself  in  the  heavens  when  they  spread  their  tails.  Two  by  two 
walk  between  the  cypress  trees  and  the  black  myrtles,  and  each 
slave  to  tend  it.  Sometimes  they  fly  across  the  trees,  and  anon  they 
in  the  grass,  and  round  the  pools  of  the  water.  There  are  not  in  a 
world  birds  so  wonderful.  I  know  that  Cassar  himself  has  no  bii 
fair  as  my  birds.  I  will  give  thee  fifty  of  my  peacocks.  They  will  I 
thee  whithersoever  thou  goest,  and  in  the  midst  of  them  thou  wilt  t 
unto  the  moon  in  the  midst  of  a  great  white  cloud.  ...  I  will  give 
to  thee,  all.  I  have  but  a  hundred,  and  in  the  whole  world  there 
king  who  has  peacocks  like  unto  my  peacocks.  But  I  will  give  th 
to  thee.  Only  thou  must  loose  me  from  my  oath,  and  must  not  : 
me  that  which  thy  lips  have  asked  of  me.     {He  empties  the  tup  of 

Salome,     Give  me  the  head  of  lokanaan. 

Herodias,     Well  said,  my  daughter!     As  for  you,  you  are  ridi 
with  your  peacocks. 

Herod,  Peace !  you  are  always  crying  out.  You  cry  out  like  i 
of  prey.  You  must  not  cry  in  such  fashion.  Your  voice  wearit 
Peace,  I  tell  you !  .  .  .  Salome,  think  on  what  thou  art  doing.  1 
be  that  this  man  comes  from  God.  He  is  a  holy  man.  The  fin 
God  has  touched  him.  God  has  put  terrible  words  into  his  mout 
the  palace,  as  in  the  desert,  God  is  ever  with  him.  ...  It  may  b 
He  is,  at  least.  One  cannot  tell,  but  it  is  possible  that  God  is  wit 
and  for  him.  If  he  die  also,  peradventure  some  evil  may  befa 
Verily,  he  has  said  that  evil  will  befall  some  one  on  the  day  wher 
dies.  On  whom  should  it  fall  if  it  fall  not  on  me?  Remember,  I  i 
in  blood  when  I  came  hither.  Also  did  I  not  hear  a  beating  of 
in  the  air,  a  beating  of  vast  wings?  These  are  ill  omens.  And  thcr 
other  things.  I  am  sure  that  there  were  other  things,  though  I  sa\ 
not.  Thou  wouldst  not  that  some  evil  should  befall  me,  Salome? 
to  me  again. 

Salome.     Give  me  the  head  of  lokanaan ! 

Herod.     \h !  thou  art  not  listening  to  me.     Be  calm.     As  f 
am  I  not  calm?     I  am  altogether  calm.     Listen.     I  have  jewels 
in  this  place — jewels  that  thy  mother  even  has  never  seen;  jewels  tl 
marvellous  to  look  at.     I  have  a  collar  of  pearls,  set  in  four  rows. 
are  like  unto  moons  chained  with  rays  of  silver.     They  are  even  ; 
a  hundred  moons  caught  in  a  golden  net.     On  the  ivory  breast  of  a 


OSCAR    WILDE  221 

If  have  rested.  Thou  shalt  be  as  fair  as  a  queen  when  thou  wearest 
ni.  I  have  amethysts  of  two  kinds;  one  that  is  black  like 
Lc,  and  one  that  is  red  like  wine  that  one  has  coloured  with 
bcr.  I  have  topazes  yellow  as  are  the  eyes  of  tigers,  and 
sizes  that  are  pink  as  the  eyes  of  a  wood-pigeon,  and  green  topazes 
t  are  as  the  eyes  of  cats.  I  have  opals  that  bum  always,  with  a  flame 
t  is  cold  as  ice,  opals  that  make  sad  men's  minds,  and  are  afraid  of 

shadows.     I  have  onyxes  like  the  eyeballs  of  a  dead  woman.     I  have 
onstones  that  change  when  the  moon  changes;  and  are  wan  when  they 

the  sun.  I  have  sapphires  big  like  eggs,  and  as  blue  as  blue  flowers. 
tc  sea  wanders  within  them,  and  the  moon  comes  never  to  trouble  the 
ic  of  their  waves.  I  have  chrysolites  and  beryls,  and  chrysoprases  and 
lies;  I  have  sardonyx  and  hyacinth  stones,  and  stones  of  chalcedony,  and 
irill  give  them  all  unto  thee,  all,  and  other  things  will  I  add  to  them, 
le  King  of  the  Indies  has  but  even  now  sent  me  four  fans  fashioned 
m  the  feathers  of  parrots,  and  the  King  of  Numidia  a  garment  of 
rich  feathers.  I  have  a  crystal,  into  which  it  is  not  lawful  for  a  woman 
look,  nor  may  young  men  behold  it  until  they  have  been  beaten  with 
Is.  In  a  coffer  of  nacre  I  have  three  wondrous  turquoises.  He  who 
ars  them  on  his  forehead  can  imagine  things  which  are  not,  and  he 
\o  carries  them  in  his  hand  can  turn  the  fruitful  woman  into  a  woman 
It  is  barren.  These  are  great  treasures  above  all  price.  But  this  is 
t  all.  In  an  ebony  coffer  I  have  two  cups  of  amber  that  are  like  apples 
pure  gold.  If  an  enemy  pour  poison  into  these  cups  they  become  like 
pies  of  silver.  In  a  coffer  incrusted  with  amber  I  have  sandals  in- 
tsted  with  glass.  I  have  mantles  that  have  been  brought  from  the 
id  of  the  Seres,  and  bracelets  decked  about  with  carbuncles  and  with 
le  that  come  from  the  city  of  Euphrates.  .  .  .  What  desirest  thou  more 
in  this,  Salome!  Tell  me  the  thing  that  thou  desirest,  and  I  will  give 
:hee.  All  that  thou  askest  I  will  give  thee,  save  one  thing  only.  I  will 
'e  thee  all  that  is  mine,  save  only  the  life  of  one  man.  I  will  give  thee 
;  mantle  of  the  high  priest.  I  will  give  thee  the  veil  of  the  sanctuary. 
The  Jews.    Oh !  oh  I 

Salome.     Give  me  the  head  of  lokanaan! 

Herod.    {Sinking  back  in  his  seat.)     Let  her  be  given  what  she  asks! 

a  truth  she  is  her  mother's  child!  {The  first  Soldier  approaches. 
radios  draws  from  the  hand  of  the  Tetrarch  the  ring  of  death,  and 
es  it  to  the  Soldier,  who  straightway  bears  it  to  the  Executioner.  The 
ecutioner  looks  scared.)  Who  has  taken  my  ring?  There  was  a  ring 
my  right  hand.  Who  has  drunk  my  wine?  There  was  wine  in  my 
.  It  was  full  of  wine.  Some  one  has  drunk  it !  Oh !  surely  some  evil 
I  befall  some  one.  {The  Executioner  goes  down  into  the  cistern.) 
\  wherefore  did  I  give  my  oath?    Hereafter  let  no  king  swear  an  oath. 


222  SALOME 

If  he  keep  it  not,  it  is  terrible,  and  if  he  keep  it,  it  is  terrible  also. 

Herodias.     My  daughter  has  done  well. 

Herod.    I  am  sure  that  some  misfortune  will  happen. 

Salome  {She  leans  over  the  cistern  and  listens).  There  is  no  so 
I  hear  nothing.  Why  does  he  not  cry  out,  this  man?  Ahl  if  any 
sought  to  kill  me,  I  would  cry  out,  I  would  struggle,  I  would  not  ii: 
.  .  .  Strike,  strike,  Naaman,  strike,  I  tell  you.  .  .  .  No,  I  hear  nod 
There  is  a  silence,  a  terrible  silence.  Ah  I  something  has  fallen  upon 
ground.  I  heard  something  fall.  It  was  the  sword  of  the  execudi 
He  is  afraid,  this  slave.  He  has  dropped  his  sword.  He  dares  not 
him.  He  is  a  coward,  this  slave  I  Let  soldiers  be  sent.  {She  sea 
Page  of  Herodias  and  addresses  him.)  Come  hither.  Thou  wert 
friend  of  him  who  is  dead,  wert  thou  not?  Well,  I  tell  thee,  there 
not  dead  men  enough.  Go  to  the  soldiers  and  bid  them  go  down 
bring  mc  (he  thing  I  ask,  the  thing  that  the  Tetrarch  has  promised  me 
thing  that  Is  mine.  {The  Page  recoils.  She  turns  to  the  soldiers.)  Hi 
ye  soldiers.  Get  ye  down  into  this  cistern  and  bring  me  the  head  of 
man.  Tetrarch,  Tetrarch  command  your  soldiers  that  they  bring  dm 
head  of  lokanaan. 

{A  huge  black  arm,  the  arm  of  the  Executioner,  comes  forth  j 
the  cistern,  bearing  on  a  silver  shield  the  head  of  lokanaan.  Salome  i 
it.  Herod  hides  his  face  with  his  cloak,  Herodias  smiles  and  fans 
self.     The  Nazarenes  fall  on  their  knees  and  begin  to  pray.) 

Ah!  thou  wouldst  not  suffer  me  to  kiss  thy  mouth,  lokanaan.  V 
I  will  kiss  it  now.  I  will  bite  it  with  my  teeth  as  one  bites  a  ripe  f 
Yes,  I  will  kiss  thy  mouth,  lokanaan.  I  said  it;  did  I  not  say  it?  I 
it.  Ahl  I  will  kiss  it  now.  .  .  .  But  wherefore  dost  thou  not  loo 
me,  lokanaan?  Thine  eyes  that  were  so  terrible,  so  full  of  rage 
scorn,  are  shut  now.  Wherefore  are  they  shut?  Open  thine  eyesi 
up  thine  eyelids,  lokanaan  I  Wherefore  dost  thou  not  look  at  me? 
thou  afraid  of  me,  lokanaan,  that  thou  wilt  not  look  at  me?  .  .  . 
thy  tongue,  that  was  like  a  red  snake  darting  poison,  it  moves  no  n 
it  speaks  no  words,  lokanaan,  that  scarlet  viper  that  spat  its  venom  \ 
me.  It  is  strange,  is  it  not?  How  is  it  that  the  red  viper  stirs  no  loflj 
.  .  .  Thou  wouldst  have  none  of  me,  lokanaan.  Thou  rejectedst 
Thou  didst  speak  evil  words  against  me.  Thou  didst  bear  thyself  ton 
me  as  to  a  harlot,  as  to  a  woman  that  is  a  wanton,  to  me,  Salome,  daag 
of  Herodias,  Princess  of  Judaea !  Well,  I  still  live,  but  thou  art  d 
and  thy  head  belongs  to  me.  I  can  do  with  it  what  I  will.  I  can  tb 
it  to  the  dogs  and  to  the  birds  of  the  air.  That  which  the  dogs  k 
the  birds  of  the  air  shall  devour.  .  .  .  Ah,  lokanaan,  lokanaan,  thou' 
the  man  that  I  loved  alone  among  men  I  All  other  men  were  hatcfc 
me.     But  thou  wert  beautiful  I     Thy  body  was  a  column  of  ivory 


OSCAR   WILDE  223 

feet  of  silver.  It  was  a  garden  full  of  doves  and  lilies  of  silver. 
\  a  tower  of  silver  decked  with  shields  of  ivory.  There  was  noth- 
the  world  so  white  as  thy  body.  There  was  nothing  in  the  world 
ck  as  thy  hair.  In  the  whole  world  there  was  nothing  so  red  as 
iOuth.  Thy  voice  was  a  censer  that  scattered  strange  perfumes, 
hen  I  looked  on  thee  I  heard  a  strange  music.  Ah  1  wherefore  didst 
lot  look  at  me,  lokanaan?  With  the  cloak  of  thine  hands,  and 
he  cloak  of  thy  blasphemies  thou  didst  hide  thy  face.  Thou  didst 
K)n  thine  eyes  the  covering  of  him  who  would  see  his  God.  Well, 
last  seen  thy  God,  lokanaan,  but  me,  me,  thou  didst  never  see.  If 
ladst  seen  me  thou  hadst  loved  me.  I  saw  thee,  and  I  loved  thee, 
ow  I  loved  thee  I  I  love  thee  yet,  lokanaan.  I  love  only  thee. .  .  . 
ithirst  for  thy  beauty;  I  am  hungry  for  thy  body;  and  neither  wine 
pples  can  appease  my  desire.  What  shall  I  do  now,  lokanaan? 
tr  the  floods  nor  the  great  waters  can  quench  my  passion.  I  was 
cess,  and  thou  didst  scorn  me.  I  was  a  virgin,  and  thou  didst  take 
rginity  from  me.  I  was  chaste,  and  thou  didst  fill  my  veins  with 
.  .  Ah  I  ah  I  wherefore  didst  thou  not  look  at  me?  If  thou  hadst 
I  at  me  thou  hadst  loved  me.  Well  I  know  that  thou  wouldst  have 
me,  and  the  mystery  of  Love  is  greater  than  the  mystery  of  Death. 
{erod.  She  is  monstrous,  thy  daughter;  I  tell  thee  she  is  monstrous, 
th,  what  she  has  done  is  a  great  crime.  I  am  sure  that  it  is  a 
against  some  unknown  God. 
ierodias.    I  am  well  pleased  with  my  daughter.    She  has  done  well. 

would  stay  here  now. 
Jerod  (Rising).     Ah!     There  speaks  my  brother's  wife!     Come! 

not  stay  in  this  place.  Come,  I  tell  thee.  Surely  some  terrible 
will  befall.  Manasseh,  Issachar,  Ozias,  put  out  the  torches.  I  will 
ok  at  things,  I  will  not  suffer  things  to  look  at  me.  Put  out  the 
il  Hide  the  moon!  Hide  the  stars!  Let  us  hide  ourselves  in 
ilace,  Herodias.     I  begin  to  be  afraid. 

The  slaves  put  out  the  torches.     The  stars  disappear.   A  great  cloud 
'  the  moon  and  conceals  it  completely.     The  stage  becomes  quite 

The  Tetrarch  begins  to  climb  the  staircase.) 
^he  Voice  of  Salome.     Ah!  I  have  kissed  thy  mouth,  lokanaan,  I 
Lissed  thy  mouth.    There  was  a  bitter  taste  on  thy  lips.    Was  it  the 
>f  blood?  .  .  .  Nay;  but  perchance  it  was  the  taste  of  love.  .  .  . 
say  that  love  hath    a    bitter    taste.  .  .  .  But    what    matter?    what 
?   I  have  kissed  thy  mouth,  lokanaan,  I  have  kissed  thy  mouth. 
A  ray  of  moonlight  falls  on  Salome  and  illuminates  her.) 
J  erod.     {Turning  round  and  seeing  Salome.)    Kill  that  woman! 
The  soldiers  rush  forward  and  crush  beneath  their  shields  Salome, 
let  of  Herodias,  Princess  of  Judaea.) 

(Curtain.) 


POETRY 

By  Louis  J.  Block 

^  O  people  has  been  so  rude  as  to  be  without  a  rhytl 

chant  or  chorus  of  some  kind,  which,  even  if  its  for 

made  it  seem  like  prose,  has  not  had  some  of  the  qi 

which  belong  to  verse.     The  northern  peoples  hav( 

of  their  long  and  terrible  winters  and  of  the  heroism 

has  snatched  from  the  very  jaws  and  grasp  of  the  ic 

the  means  of  subsistence  and  the  triumph  which  ha 

duced  the  arts  of  life  and  the  possibility  of  a  freer  and  better  cxi 

With  the  supremacy  of  the  higher  will  and  its  establishment  secur 

the  planes  of  combined  human  activity,   the  titanic  dynasties  of 

have  found  their  twilight  and  sunk  into  their  aboriginal  places  in  th 

void  and  absym  of  the  conquered  and  the  foredone.    The  southern  p 

dwelling  nearer  the  light  have  avowed  their  kinship  with  the  m 

and  through  their  poetry  shone  the  radiances  of  a  unity  with  the  < 

which  has  ennobled  the  individual  man  and  made  his  destiny  a  glory 

ing  from  below  the  sky  across  which  its  triumphant  passage  is  to  be 

Everywhere  and  at  all  times  the  spontaneous  songs  of  the  people 

sprung  from  their  innermost  hearts,  and  hope  and  aspiration  have 

been  left  without  their  melodious  utterance.    Hymns  have  everywhci 

raised  to  propitiate  deities  of  terrible  aspect,  or  to  give  thank-offeri 

gods  whose  smile  soothed  the  gloom  of  human  toilings  stern  and  ir 

to  achieve  a  permanent  possession  of  those  elements  which  alone  ma 

worth  the  living.     Of  all  the  arts  poetry  is  the  most  widespread,  th 

home-bred,  the  most  native  to  man,  the  most  winning,  the  most  con 

Master  of  all  the  powers  and  charms  which  belong  to  the  other  arts, 

is  the  very  sun  god  who  leads  the  train  of  the  Muses. 

The  other  arts  have  had  their  particular  periods  of  fruitio 
ascendency.  The  great  builders  of  the  Orient  and  of  Egypt  have  att< 
to  put  into  their  immense  structures  the  half-evolved  thoughts,  the 
and  mighty  dreams,  the  unanswered  questions,  which  dominated  thci 
and  fascinated  them  with  glimpses  of  spiritual  realms  not  yet  set 
occupied  by  humanity.  The  perfection  of  human  individuality,  the 
possession  of  self-poised,  self-equal  manhood,  the  gracious  and  ex 
union  of  life  and  nature,  the  bodily  beauty  an  exact  and  finished  repr 
tion  of  the  soul,  found  in  Greek  sculpture  the  perfect  art  which  as  ] 
says,  *is  the  one  thing  finished  in  this  hasty  world.'  The  mys 
ecstasies  of  monk  and  saint,  the  revelation  of  a  deeper  and  moi 
world  within  and  without  this  exterior  one  of  touch  and  sight,  the  suf 

224 


LOUIS  J.  BLOCK  225 

e  God-head  agonizing  for  the  safety  and  return  to  himself  of  his 
ering  and  desolate  children,  the  opulence  of  love  and  glory  flooding 
eavens  which  yearn  to  receive  the  restored  and  transfigured  into  its 
nd  calm  make  a  many  colored  pageant  of  splendor  in  the  painting  of 
liddle  age.     Even  Music  in  its  heights  and  successes  has  a  special 

I  and  almost  a  special  people  and  country;  it  had  to  wait  until  the 
It  age  when  the  reeling  of  the  unity  between  the  race  and  the  Divine 
le  so  profound  that  its  notes  of  exultation  have  built  themselves  into 
isure  house  where  the  voice  of  pain  and  grief,  in  discords  lost  and 
ated  around  the  prevailing  harmony,  sounds  only  as  a  reminiscence 
conflict  waged  to  a  victorious  issue,  and  hardly  touched  any  more 
the  pathos  of  regret.  But  poetry  has  not  been  confined  to  any  age 
jntry;  it  has  reached  its  meridian  again  and  again  side  by  side  with 
^er  arts;  what  they  have  said,  it  has  sung  with  freer  cadence,  with 
insight,  with  fuller  revelation. 

Poetry  possesses  thus  a  sort  of  universality  in  which  the  other  arts  are 
g.  It  appears  to  be  more  akin  to  the  thought  which  embodies  itself 
and  to  share  that  thought^s  power  and  omnipresence.  Wherever 
t  has  penetrated  to  those  depths  where  dwell  the  mysterious  Mothers, 
Faust  was  obliged  to  find  before  the  world  lay  explained  before 
wherever  discovery  has  touched  those  truths  which  make  the  maze 
IS  visible  scene  an  order  and  a  whole^  wherever  reason  has  found 
as  the  solvent  word  and  beneficent  substance  of  all,  poetry  in  the  first 
It  of  the  illumination  accorded  has  arisen  to  voice  the  triumphant 
ement.  While  the  other  arts  are  more  or  less  localized  and  have 
tted  to  various  temporal  conditions,  poetry  has  had  the  entire  globe 
s  own,  and  the  complete  expanse  of  the  ages  for  the  field  of  its 
ipment. 
ndeed  poetry  transcends  the  whole  of  space  and  time.     As  Emerson 

II  songs  have  been  written  before  time  was,  and  the  poet  penetrates 
I  regions  where  they  forever  are,  and  brings  thence  what  he  hears 
in  remember.  The  poet  reaches  the  eternal  and  necessary,  and  the 
ial  from  which  he  constructs  his  visions  partakes  of  that  necessity  and 
7.  Even  language,  itself  a  product  of  mind  and  throughout  reflecting 
ocesses  of  thought,  is  more  exterior  to  the  life  sought  to  be  expressed 
he  image  which  the  poet  uses,  and  in  which  that  thought  is  made 
ic  forth.  The  image  is  itself  spiritual,  contained  within  the  current 
I  spirit^s  movements,  and  lifting  the  art  which  uses  it  as  its  plastic 
liment  above  any  subservience  to  the  outer  sphere.     The  poet  dwells 

world  of  images,  these  are  already  more  or  less  generalized  repro- 
ns  of  the  scene  that  environs  humanity;  these  are  the  reeds  in  which 
e  of  thought  is  carried  from  nation  to  nation.  His  art  therefore 
es  a  plane  which  has  transformed  the  sensuous  into  the  spiritual, 
unfolds  the  beauty  resident  in  mind  alone. 


226  POETRY 

Again  each  of  the  other  arts  has  limits  which  it  is  perilous  for  it 
overleap.     The  noblest  of  cathedrals  can  but  suggest  thought;  scul] 
reproduce  the  heroic  and  supreme  individual;  painting  portrays  that 
moment  of  an  action  in  which  culminate  all  its  elements,  the  union  of 
presuppositions    and    the   beginning    of  the  catastrophe;  music  worb 
wonders  through  the  indirect  medium  of  the  emotions;  but  the  poet 
for  his  province  the  entire  reach  of  life;  there  is  nothing  which  it  is 
given  him  to  express;  movement,  thought,  the  past,  the  to-come,  pi< 
song,  all  are  his  to  weave  into  his  combinations,  and  to  make  of  them 
he  intends.    His  art  is  thus  an  infinite  one,  and  whatever  limits  it  has,  thq 
are  such  as  he  freely  sets  and  freely  uses.    As  Matthew  Arnold,  companf | 
the  poet  with  other  artists,  says : 

'For  ah !  he  has  so  much  to  do  I 
Be  painter  and  musician  too ! 
The  aspect  of  the  moment  show. 
The  feeling  of  the  moment  know ! 
The  aspect  not,  I  grant,  express. 
Clear  as  the  painter's  art  can  dress. 
The  feeling  not,  I  grant,  explore. 
So  deep  as  the  musician's  lore, — 
But  clear  as  words  can  make  revealing 
And  deep  as  words  can  follow  feeling. 
But  ah!  then  comes  his  sorest  spell 
Of  toil!  he  must  life's  movement  tell! 
The  thread  which  binds  it  all  in  one, 
And  not  its  separate  parts  alone  I 
The  movement  he  must  tell  of  life. 
Its  pain  and  pleasure,  rest  and  strife! 
His  eye  must  travel  down  at  full. 
The  long  unpausing  spectacle ; 
With  faithful  unrelaxing  force. 
Attend  it  from  its  primal  source; 
From  change  to  change  and  year  to  year, 
Attend  it  of  its  mid  career. 
Attend  it  to  the  last  repose. 
And  solemn  silence  at  its  close.' 

The  imagination  is  a  genuine  meeting  ground  of  ail  the  powers  wiucfc 
constitute  the  man.  The  sensuous  world  reappears  there  in  mudi  of  in 
complexity  and  differenced  life.  The  experiences  of  the  poet  need  to  be  of 
the  widest  in  order  that  this  inner  reproduction  of  the  multiform  woiU 
may  be  as  rich  in  combinations  and  fertile  in  new  growths  as  the  exterior 
and  real  one.    The  wider  the  range  of  his  excursions,  the  larger  the  realm 


LOUIS  J.  BLOCK  Z27 

mages  within  him,  the  nobler  will  be  the  work  which  he  is  competent 
k).     But  the  imagination  with  its  stores  of  figures  and  their  relations 

free  world.  In  the  scene  before  the  artist,  the  real  scene  out  there, 
mind  of  the  perceiver  must  yield  itself  to  the  relations  visible  before  it 
I  constructive  process  which  builds  up  in  the  soul  the  mountain  and 
im  and  valley  and  sky  is  brought  into  the  limits  which  nature  has  made, 
must  give  itself  up  to  them  if  it  wishes  to  know  them.  There  is  here 
dement  of  constraint,  an  authoritativeness  imposed  upon  the  spirit  from 
lout,  a  temporary  abnegation  of  freedom. 

Not  so  with  the  region  of  the  imagination  and  its  sceneries  and 
izens.  They  are  the  creation  of  the  free  spirit  and  possess  the  attributes 
ch  belong  to  that  freedom.  They  are  particular  events  or  times  or 
es  or  persons,  but  they  bear  upon  them  the  impress  of  the  freedom 
:h  created  them.    As  such,  they  are  no  longer  mere  creations  standing 

by  side  with  other  similar  concretions  in  a  realm  of  hard  fact,  but 
'  are  a  fluctuant,  moving  life,  through  which  freedom  is  reflected  in 
7  detail  and  change.  They  are  freedom,  so  to  speak,  made  sensible, 
y  are  what  nature  must  be  to  the  thought  which  created  it,  and  which 
it  as  flowing  forth  from  its  free  activity.  If  one  ventured  a  bold  flight, 
might  perhaps  say  that  the  science  of  the  world  and  its  poetry  would 
nately  coincide,  that  the  great  poem  of  the  universe  would  be  so 
illy  and  truly  reflected  in  the  verse  of  the  singer  that  the  creative 
cesses  would  appear  in  it  as  they  indeed  are. 

In  the  imagination  the  universality  and  the  particularity  of  man  come 
fruitful  nuptials.  It  is  like  the  enchanted  island  of  the  Tempest,  nay, 
I  that  enchanted  island  in  which  the  voices  of  the  spirit  are  heard  every- 
Te,  and  the  individual  man  becomes  conscious  of  deeps  upon  deeps 
!iin  him.  Hence  the  imagination  is  the  constant  maker  of  symbols; 
stotle  has  called  man  the  mimetic  or  symbol-making  animal;  I  suppose 
meant  that  he  was  the  fashioner  of  images,  which  in  their  limitedness 
tained  the  widest  significance,  which  were  hints  or  indexes  of  myriad 
inings  behind  and  beyond  them.  Thus  every  figure  built  up  by  the 
gination,  however  rich  may  be  its  special  content,  and  however  varied 
IT  be  the  relations  in  which  it  is  placed,  becomes  a  generalized  represen- 
on  of  the  problem  or  collision  for  which  it  stands  or  in  which  it  is  in- 
ired,  becomes  a  symbol  of  activities  which  transcend  time  and  space. 

The  whole  art  of  the  poet  plays  in  this  region  of  symbol.     Through 

gateway  of  words  he  leads  us  into  its  labyrinth,  and  if  we  wish  to 
ow  his  wanderings  we  must  give  ourselves  to  that  free  creation  of 
1  and  sea  and  men  which  is  the  condition  and  possibility  of  his  labors. 
t  imity  of  all  these  labors  is  to  be  found  in  the  thought  of  freedom. 
X  is  no  heavy  and  intractable  material  to  be  hewn  into  abstract  repre- 
ations  of  personality,  no  deceptive  canvas  on  which  depth  and  soft- 


228  POETRY 

ness  are  achieved,  by  a  four  de  force  of  the  artist,  no  enswathcmco 
in  a  succession  of  emotions  which  are  universality  only  in  its  immediiq 
in  its  large  consciousness  of  itself  without  the  background  of  detail  tt 
make  clear  what  in  truth  is.  But  everything  is  the  production  of  fra 
spirit,  freedom  is  the  living  creator,  and  is  seen  to  be  the  truth  froo 
which  the  all  has  come,  and  into  which  it  returns. 

But  the  imagination  is  not  an  individual  possession  and  its  creaticB 
are  not  the  isolated  things  which  belong  to  one  man,  and  have  their  sob 
interest  in  the  revelation  which  they  make  of  the  idiosyncrasies  of  i 
certain  person  having  such  and  such  a  place  in  the  world.  Prevalcoi 
criticism  seems  to  find  its  chief  function  in  discovering  those  elements  ii 
works  of  art  which  show  forth  their  purely  phenomenal  side,  but  it  t 
more  worthy  of  an  intelligence  itself  the  real  presupposition  of  the  work 
to  discover  relations  to  that  intelligence.  The  imagination  of  the  race  ii 
a  whole,  and  the  entire  range  of  thought  and  emotion  is  contained  in  it 
The  world  of  beauty  is  the  whole  world  so  disclosed  as  to  make  its 
manifestation  a  harmony  like  unto  itself,  a  shrine,  a  splendor,  a  glory,  as 
Plato  says,  of  the  Self-moved  One. 

The  thinking  of  the  race  has  passed  through  its  imaginative  stage. 
It  has  only  been  after  long  and  heavy  labors  that  the  power  of  thou^ 
has  emerged  into  clearness,  and  gained  command  of  its  resources  in  theii 
purity.  The  release  from  the  domination  of  the  image  has  only  been 
made  with  difficulty,  and  the  free  use  of  the  image  in  art  has  also  been 
one  of  the  long-deferred  and  late  achievements.  The  imaginative  think- 
ing or  rather  the  thinking  through  representations  gave  rise  to  the  mythol- 
ogies of  the  world,  and  they  are  the  heroic  efforts  of  mankind  to  recognize 
the  fullness  of  its  being  through  the  medium  of  picture  and  symbol.  With 
the  advance  into  the  height  of  pure  thinking,  the  mythologies  and  wonder- 
tales  remain  a  treasure-house  of  emblems  in  which  the  deepest  aspirations, 
the  noblest  fore-illuminations,  the  highest  intentions  have  so  to  speak  ccxu 
creted  themselves.  These  are,  therefore,  not  individual  embodiments  of 
the  idea,  whose  translation  might  be  a  task  of  some  difficulty  to  a  person 
other  than  its  maker,  but  the  forms  in  which  the  race  has  told  its  own  story 
to  itself,  a  treasure  house,  as  it  were,  into  which  all  may  go,  and  which  all 
may  own.  It  is  here  that  the  great  artist  finds  his  best  material.  One  must 
not  understand  that  this  making  of  forms  which  shall  serve  as  mediums  for 
the  transmission  of  the  artistic  thought  has  ever  ceased.  It  is  going  on 
now  as  it  has  always  been  going  on.  We  no  longer  make  mythologies; 
that  belonged  to  the  youth  of  the  race,  as  we  have  reached  the  sourer 
period  of  approaching  maturity;  but  we  constantly  make  tales  which  seize 
the  general  consciousness,  and  after  a  prolonged  transformation  arc  adapted 
to  the  need  intended  to  be  subserved  by  them.  One  has  only  to  study 
the  history  of  the  Faust   legend   to   see   how   it   was   hewn  into  shape  b) 


LOUIS  J.  BLOCK  229 

ineration  after  generation  to  become  at  last  the  vehicle  for  the  greatest 
iBong  the  modems ;  or  watch  the  resurgence  of  the  Niblung  story  into  the 
bnsdousness  of  the  time,  weaving  for  itself  a  garment  of  supernatural 
bdodies,  which  ear  had  before  not  heard. 

This  realm  of  world-images  belongs  to  all  artists,  and  from  it  painting 
nd  music  and  the  rest  take  what  belongs  to  them,  for  the  whole  of  this 
feftlm  belongs  to  each,  and  the  new  growths  there  may  be  pludced  by 
kiioever  can  bind  them  into  new  garlands.  The  one  and  the  many  are 
Icre  supremely  one  in  a  life  which  includes  both.  The  poet,  however,  is 
Ittive  here;  he  is  the  imagination  which  has  evoked  the  land  itself,  and 
ht  source  of  its  fertility.  He  is  of  imagination  all  compact ;  he  does  not, 
hoircvery  give  merely  to  airy  nothings  a  local  habitation  and  a  name;  he 
jpres  color  and  light  and  a  home  to  whatever  is  best  and  truest;  his  eye 
100  not  roll  in  a  fine  frenzy,  but  he  works  in  a  sad  sincerity  from  which 
it  has  no  desire  to  free  himself  because  it  is  the  very  spirit  in  which  all 
igh  work  must  be  done. 

The  whole  gold  and  bejewelled  panoply  in  which  poetry  is  clad,  the 
nterwoven  blaze  of  metaphor  and  simile  and  allegory  are  only  lighter 
tforts  of  the  same  creative  power.  About  the  figure  or  scene  evoked  by 
ike  poet  plays  the  flidcering  light  of  a  fancy  which  reproduces  in  lessening 
kpth  the  idea,  thus  given  an  investiture  which  is  in  truth  royal.  The 
Ktaphor  has  a  singular  efficacy  and  charm;  the  trope  by  uniting  in  one 
mage  two  widely  differenced  thoughts  intimates  a  unity  underlying  both, 
ttd  points  to  that  unity  which  underlies  all.  The  whole  realm  becomes 
Im  as  it  were  a  marvellous  world  of  echoes;  each  utterance  brings  with 
t  a  host  of  deeper  connections,  and  a  music  is  the  effect  which  is  the  very 
NMig  of  the  whole.  The  idea  penetrates  every  smallest  atom  of  the  material 
aed  in  the  structure;  what  is  so  difficult  to  see  in  the  vast  concretions  of 
lature  becomes  here  plain  and  clear,  and  the  visible  and  tangible  float  in 
lie  medium  of  a  transfiguring  thought. 

The  poet  is  therefore  one  of  those  great  personalities  in  which  the 
!ltire  potency  of  the  time  reveals  and  completes  itself.  He  belongs  to 
Jbose  forces  which  enlarge  the  world  as  we  know  it,  and  give  it  an  outlook 
farther  and  beyond.  The  conditions  for  his  appearance  are  manifold  and 
hty  need  all  to  be  fulfilled  if  he  is  to  do  his  work  successfully.  Singers 
ve  have  always  with  us;  they  are  greater  or  lesser  insights,  and  lift  the 
^^  from  a  mystery  here  and  there ;  they  may  recall  us  to  a  belief  in  many 
I  high  truth  from  whose  allegiance  we  have  been  wandering,  or  awaken 
9  us  again  feelings  whose  fire  has  been  smouldering  under  a  forgetfulness 
iduced  by  an  occupation  with  many  affairs.  These  constitute  always  a 
aninder  that  the  real  has  another  deeper  side,  that  life  has  a  within  as 
vll  as  a  without,  that  truth  is  more  than  appearance,  that  the  dream  is 
Mnetimes  better  than  the  thing. 


230  POETRY 

These  are  poets,  and  they  may  have  a  genuine  part  in  the  play  of  ctcr 
nity«  small,  it  may  be,  but  worthy ;  but  the  poet  comes  only  at  those  intervaii 
when  the  world  sums  itself  in  a  great  recognition  of  its  whole  life,  spiritinl 
and  temporal,  and  he  is,  with  others,  his  fellows  and  his  peers,  die  eye 
that  sees  and  the  voice  that  tells  the  story  in  the  way  given  to  lum.  He 
is  one  of  the  ways  in  which  man,  the  generic  man,  comes  to  an  under- 
standing of  himself.  His  thought  must  therefore  be  the  dominant  inflnenci 
of  the  age  in  which  he  flourishes ;  that  age  must  be  the  organ  of  great  and 
far-reaching  purposes;  in  it  must  culminate  many  thought  tendendes,  and 
in  it  must  arise  the  morning  red  of  newer  revelations.  The  progresi  d 
mankind  has  led  up  to  him  and  he  consummates  that  progress  in  his  poem. 

His  relation  to  the  world  is  therefore  dual.  Toward  die  past  he 
occupies  the  position  of  a  focus  in  which  all  rays  converge;  of  the  futoR 
he  is  the  beginner.  He  stands  side  by  side  with  the  philosopher,  die 
prophet,  the  wielder  of  affairs  in  the  fashioning  of  the  to  come.  The  age 
of  miracles  is  not  to  be  relegated  to  some  single  epoch  in  history;  it  is  ue 
ever-present  fact  which  meets  us  everywhere;  a  word,  a  song,  a  poem 
transforms  as  it  always  did  the  face  of  affairs,  gives  eye  to  the  blind,  feedi 
the  great  multitude,  awakens  the  dead.  It  is  just  as  true  today  as  it  ever 
was  that  no  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost  is  lost,  however  heedless  may  seen 
the  generation  hurling  its  way  through  the  corridors  of  life.  Shakespeare 
is  the  world's  poet  because  the  whole  world  is  in  him,  and  every  man  findi 
on  that  liberal  stage  himself,  his  neighbor,  and  all  that  belongs  to  them. 

What  poetry  thus  expresses  is  the  deepest  idea,  and  that  idea  in  forms 
which  it  has  made  for  itself.  The  whole  art  is  transparent  spirit  through- 
out; some  deep  emotion,  some  large  understanding,  some  refiguration  of 
great  actions  assumes  in  it  a  garb  which  is  only  themselves  freely  exter- 
nalized. There  prevail  therefore  unity,  relation,  organization  throughout; 
at  the  centre  is  a  reconstitution  of  thought,  and  it  develops  itself  in 
every  member  of  the  representation.  These  members  may  unfold  into  a 
completeness  which  is  a  relative  independence,  but  their  independence  dwelb 
in  reality  in  their  complete  reflection  of  the  central  sentiment.  In  a  greit 
play  every  character  is  great;  there  is  a  fullness  of  individuality  even  in  the 
so-called  minor  parts  which  make  them  the  centre,  often,  of  a  play  within 
the  play.  These  independencies  however  unite  in  the  general  action  which 
includes  and  permeates  the  whole. 

The  soul  of  poetry  is  in  its  creative  idea;  its  body  is  the  image  and 
melody.  Music  like  the  other  arts  brings  its  tribute  to  this  sovereign. 
Its  pomp  and  charm  accompany  the  march  of  the  poetical  eventualities. 
Rhythm,  sonorousness,  melody  belong  to  the  realm  of  enchantment.  They 
are  part  of  the  robe  which  the  art  wears  so  royally.  The  appearance  of 
rhyme,  whether  initial  or  final,  alliteration  or  end-syllable,  points  again  to 
the  oneness  which  makes  the  poem;  that  oneness  shows  itself  in  these 


LOUIS  J.  BLOCK  231 

^iCStraneous  details  as  the  life  of  a  tree  in  its  slightest  leaf.  The  dependence 
pf  rhythm  upon  the  recurrence  of  accented  syllables  throws  the  identity 
pf  the  poem  up  before  the  thought  inasmuch  as  the  significant  syllable  is 
Scdinanly  the  accented  one.  The  action  reflects  itself  anew  in  the  succes- 
jfion  of  syllables  receiving  the  greater  stress  of  the  voice. 

The  prose  romance  shows  the  same  free  tendency  in  the  use  of  its 

(mterials  as  the  poem.    The  mediaeval  romances  introduce  the  reader  into 

^  maze  of  commingled  scenes  and  actions  mingled.     It  is  sometimes  said 

$k^t  the  demands  of  verse,  especially  in  their  elaborated  and  later  forms, 

;4riiich  bring  into  play  all  the  resources  of  a  complex  and  many  keyed 

instrument,  fetter  the  freedom  of  the  poet,  and  the  use  of  a  less  artificial 

^pedium  would  leave  him  with  his  eyes  more  surely  fixed  on  his  subject, 

fsd  he  would  not  be  distracted  by  the  need    of    fulfilling    requirements 

Upptrently  antagonistic  and  either  one  alone  presenting  great  difficulties. 

.  |t  may  be  said  that  the  true  poet  wears  his  shackles  lightly,  and  finds  in 

|he  form  such  a  return  of    the   thought    of   the    poem    upon    itself    as 

lengthens  the  inspiration. 

The  modem  novel  sprang  from  the  romance  by  dropping  out  of  its 

i  domain  the  marvellous  element,  and  discovering  in  the  daily  and  actual, 
danents  of  beauty  and  sublimity  which  had  been  once  thought  to  belong 
Kilely  to  achievements  mediated  by  gods  or  creatures  possessing  superhuman 
powers.  The  gods  while  remaining  on  high  have  yet  been  found  eager 
to  descend  and  dwell  in  the  heart  of  man,  and  partake  of  his  domestic 
dicer  by  the  simple  winter  fireside.  But  the  romance  and  the  novel  differ 
from  the  poem  in  their  lack  of  unity ;  they  penetrate  into  the  infinite  recesses 
of  human  hopes  and  aspirations,  and  bring  thence  rich  freights  of  precious 
insights;  they  bind  these  together  after  all  only  in  a  more  or  less  external 
fuhion;  they  are  essentially  analytic;  they  deal  with  the  parts;  the  poem 
b  essentially  one ;  it  deals  with  the  whole. 

)^  ^       Poetry  has  followed  in  its  various  progresses  the  method  of  History; 
il  has  gone  from  an  absorption  in  the  objective  world  to  a  comprehension 
of  a  unity  of  the  world  within  and  the  world  without.     In  every  nation 
^  its  poetry  begins  with  long  narrative  poems,  and  poetry  shows  again  the 
J  passage  from  subservience  to  the  external  to  a  recognition  of  free  intemality 
;;  IS  the  source  and  end  of  all.     The  heroic  age  required  indeed  the  efforts 
of  ^ants  and  the  constant  interposition  of  supernatural  powers  to  assure 
victory  to  the  sore-beset  and  nascent  manhood  of  the  race.     The  labors 
of  a   Herakles  or  a  Theseus  were  more  than  needed  in  the  primitive 
conquest  of  nature  and  the  upbuilding  of  institutions.      They    were    the 
bearers  of  the  idea  of  the  world  and  their  deeds  were  the  salvation  of 
mankind. 

A    distinction    must    be    made    between    narrative    poems,    however 
elaborate  and  finished,  and  the  true  epic.    The  former  are  to  be  found  in 


232  POETRY 

indefinite  number  among  all  peoples  of  high  culture,  and  among  whoa 
the  arts  belong  to  the  graceful  amenities  of  life.  They  are  reflectivi 
representations  of  great  periods,  and  have  often  a  deep  and  real  content; 
but  the  true  epic  belongs  to  the  evolution  of  the  race,  and  appears  at  tin 
turning  points  of  events.  They  are  scattered  down  the  ages,  and  then 
authors  are  the  heroes  of  poetry.  Their  content  is  a  great  national  enter 
prise  which  is  at  the  same  time  a  world  enterprise;  for  the  time  tk 
particular  nation  has  concentrated  in  itself  the  hope  that  is  looking  fw 
ward  to  the  next  great  event  in  the  realization  of  the  destiny  of  the  race. 

In  the  great  epic  poems  the  heavens  are  opened ;  the  gods  or  God  an 
part  of  the  powers  that  bring  forth  the  issue;  in  the  artificial  epic  these 
appear  only  as  a  sort  of  convenient  machinery  which  operates  at  uncertaii 
although  important  junctures.  In  the  real  epic  the  temporal  world  ii 
encircled  by  the  eternal,  the  occurrences  transpire  in  heaven,  before  the] 
unroll  themselves  on  earth.  In  the  epic  all  events  appear  as  belonging  to 
a  system  which  is  under  the  direction  and  dominance  of  supematunl 
powers.  The  connection  between  the  earth  and  what  is  above  the  eartt 
is  open  and  messengers  descend  and  ascend  on  the  skyey  pathway  to  inter 
mediate  in  the  affairs  of  men. 

But  in  this  way  the  true  life  of  man  is  placed  outside  of  himself; 
after  all  he  has  no  substantial  ground  in  himself;  what  he  is,  and  whal 
he  may  become  blazes  up  there  in  glorious  effulgence,  but  it  is  yet  external 
to  himself.  Great  as  are  his  deeds,  heroic  as  is  his  character,  unparallelled 
as  is  his  bravery,  they  are  all  reflections  of  an  activity  nobler  than  his  own, 
and  dominating  him  without.  A  fatality  after  all  overshadows  the  epic; 
a  fatality  of  freedom,  for  the  gods  are  free,  but  a  fatality  nevertheless. 
The  gods  must  descend  from  their  seats  on  high,  and  take  up  their  abodca 
in  the  minds  and  hearts  of  men,  building  up  there  a  freedom  corresponsivc 
to  their  own,  abnegating  themselves  at  any  cost,  and  giving  to  the  man 
an  independence  like  unto  their  own.  This  freedom  or  subjectivity  reveab 
itself  in  the  lyric.  Aspiration,  longings,  passion,  revolt,  find  here  their 
expression.  The  unrestraint  of  the  soul  revelling  in  its  sense  of  superiority 
to  all  limits,  or  in  its  power  to  make  its  own  limits,  surges  in  outbursts  of 
song.  Caprice  pours  forth  the  delight  in  its  own  infinitude.  The  conscious- 
ness of  the  soul  that  it  has  within  itself  a  region  which  is  created  by  itsdf, 
that  in  opposition  to  the  bondage  which  life  perforce  would  have  it  submit 
itself  unto,  it  holds  the  secret  of  a  larger  being,  in  which  there  is  nothing 
that  is  not  the  result  of  its  own  action,  throws  itself  into  fierce  and  over- 
flowing expression.  The  consciousness  may  display  itself  as  negative  to 
the  established  and  the  institutional,  and  place  the  demand  for  freedom 
in  the  boldest  and  most  exaggerated  aspect. 

But  the  truest  lyrics  are  not  negative ;  the  recognition  in  them  is  mad 
of  the  unity  of  the  individual  soul  of  the  world,  and  this  theme  is  sunj 


LOUIS  J.  BLOCK  233 

the  most  varied  accents  and  under  the  color  of  the  most  diverse  moods, 
songs  which  spring  up  among  the  peoples,  who  shall  say  how,  are 
ressive  of  the  truest  national  life;  no  poet  seems  to  be  their  author; 
whole  nation  has  given  itself  utterance  in  them.  The  religious  long- 
the  deepest  and  most  sincere,  clothe  themselves  in  the  lyric  garb.  At 
t  crises  in  history,  the  patriotism  of  the  poet,  which  is  also  the  general 
iotism  of  the  time,  puts  on  its  singing  robes,  and  the  melodies  thus 
have  become  a  heritage  noble,  inspiring,  priceless. 
The  cultivated  lyric  knows  that  the  entirety  of  subjectivity  is 
jb  province,  and  also  that  under  cover  of  an  individual  mood,  it  holds  a 
ittversal  content.  It  recognizes  itself  as  the  mouthpiece,  the  instrument, 
[if  the  pervasive  emotion,  and  its  special  tone  becomes  part  of  the  form 
iriiich  it  uses.  In  a  prosaic  and  scientific  age,  it  may  recall  a  halting 
;|aiention  back  to  those  deeper  apprehensions  which  are  the  genuine  trend 
M  life.  The  lyric  revels  in  the  utmost  play  with  its  material,  devises  new 
ihythmic  modes  with  curious  avidity,  usurps  the  musician's  privilege  of  the 
itoovery  of  ever  new  and  exquisite  melodies.  The  epic  moves  on  with 
b  slow  and  stately  tread  or  rushes  like  a  cataract  over  its  precipice,  but 
itmains  within  the  rich  possibilities  of  a  single  metric  form;  the  lyric  in 
kt  form  is  as  differenced  as  its  moods,  and  obeys  only  that  inner  law  of 
hvmony  without  which  a  poem  would  cease  to  be  a  poem. 

In  the  drama  the  subjective  and  the  objective  confront  each  other 

and  proceed  to  their  reconciliation.     The  drama  must  have  a  thoroughly 

wrought  out  plot  like  the  epic,  but  each  character  appears  in  it  charged 

vith  an  intemality  that  seeks  to  impose  itself  on  the  others.    There  ought 

to  be  no  deus  ex  machina  who  is  to  appear  on  the  scene  of  action  when 

Ihe  knot  requires  loosening.     If  the  gods  appear,  they  are  themselves  a 

part  of  a  purpose,  which  is  no  doubt,  themselves,  but  which  they  do  not 

leek  to  impose  on  the  antagonists.     If  destiny  or  fate  still  hovers  in  the 

iltckground,  the  drama  has  not  yet    fully    emancipated    itself    from    the 

domination  of  earlier  poetry;  it  still  has  an  epical  tendency  from  which  it 

wiU  ultimately  purify  itself. 

The  drama  appears  invariably  to  have  arisen  in  connection  with 
ceremonies  and  in  its  earlier  forms  to  have  partaken  of  their 
solemnity.  The  great  heroes  of  the  national  mythologies  have  been  the 
igures  most  frequently  standing  forth  in  the  earlier  plays,  and  too  have 
been  the  representatives  of  great  principles  for  which  the  sacrifice  of  life 
iras  freely  given.  The  collision  portrayed  was  between  two  views  of  life, 
sacfa  asserting  its  infinitude,  and  consequent  absolute  justification,  and  lead- 
ng  in  the  denouement  to  the  supremacy  of  the  higher.  Character  appeared 
najectic,  grand,  somewhat  generalized.  Gradually  a  secularization,  so  to 
pnkt  takes  place;  the  characters  lose  somewhat  of  their  remoteness,  and 
coome  more  akin  to  those  we  meet  in  our  daily  life;  they  develop  a  deeper 


234  POETRY 

inwardness  and  a  more  pronounced  individuality;  they  are  more  themseh 
and  less  the  mere  carriers  of  ideas  which  include  far  more  than  themselv< 

In  comedy  is  found,  of  course,  a  collision  which  in  one  sense  is 
collision;  at  least  in  the  end  it  shows  itself  to  have  been  based  on 
illusion,  which,  being  removed,  all  things  fall  into  their  places  and  harmi 
is  restored;  or  it  contrasts  two  world-views,  the  inadequacy  of  both  or 
of  which  is  displayed  in  the  various  contradictions  and  follies  to  whi| 
it  leads.     The  illusion  which  it  portrays  may  indeed  be  a  very  profc 
one,  and  the  action  may  verge  on  the  delineation  of  discords  that  appi 
the   tragic,   but  the   clearing  up   at   the   end  shows  that  the   trials 
worriments  have  indeed  been  much  ado  about  nothing,  or  a  taking 
things  as  one  likes  them  rather  than  as  they  are.     The  mistake  of 
individual  or  the  nation  in  taking  that  for  reality  which  is  not  so,  n< 
the  laughter  of  the  comic  portrayal,  or  the  fierce  mirth  of  the  satirist 
dissipate  its  fumes  and  restore  the  atmosphere  into  those  clearer  conditio 
wherein  the  sight  may  behold  the  object  as  it  is. 

But  the  collision  of  fundamental  principles  both  of  which  must 
held  if  the  whole  truth  is  to  be  discovered  or  acted  forth  on  the  sts 
prepared  for  it  demands  something  deeper  for  its  solution;  the  clearer 
verities  are  seen,  the  profounder  becomes  the  allegiance  to  them  and 
more  imperative  the  call  for  the  supreme  sacrifice;  if  no  mediation 
be  found  for  them,  if  no  higher  and  more  organic  verity  continent  of  tl 
both  can  be  discovered,  if  they  are  seen  simply  in  the  relation  of  hij 
and  lower,  the  bearer  of  the  lesser  thought  perishes  in  the  establishiTK 
of  the  higher.  Or  the  subjectivity  of  the  individual  may  place  him  i^ 
antagonism  with  the  movement  of  things  around  him,  with  that  tend< 
in  the  world  which  may  be  called  its  necessary  movement;  if  he  canm 
adjust  himself  thereto,  if  he  remains  irreconcilably  outside  of  what  i 
essential,  his  disappearance  from  the  scene  of  action  cannot  but  ensue. 

But  the  meaning  of  the  modern  world  is  mediation;  more  and  moH 
we  are  learning  that  there  are  no  irreconcilable  contradictions;  that  oppoij 
rion  itself  Is  only  a  means  by  which  a  fuller  development  is  attained;  thei 
oppositions  are  real,  and  their  force  and  extent  must  not  be  diminished  M 
any  easy  and  light-hearted  attempts  to  make  them  synonymous  with  m 
illusory;  life  is  not  a  light-hearted  comedy,  but  it  assuredly  is  not  a  tragedy* 
The  Drama  which  recognizes  the  depth  and  validity  of  moral  antagonisnttj 
which  will  not  miminize  the  distinction  between  the  life  natural  and  thi 
life  spiritual,  which  knows  the  intensity  of  the  conflict  and  comes  to  itJ 
triumph  with  the  marks  of  the  struggle  upon  it,  but  which  yet  holds  abovl 
the  fiercest  of  the  peril  the  illumination  of  a  unifying  idea,  and  which  rl 
the  end  brings  both  antagonists  safe  and  ennobled  into  a  wider  life  thtf 
they  knew  before,  is  the  work  of  the  modern  world.  Tragedy  belong! 
to  the  past;  and  ever  since  the  thirteenth  century  life  has  been  a  profound 


LOUIS  J.  BLOCK  235 

livine  comedy  whose  termination  while  in  the  beatific  vision  has  yet 
nomenal  existence  in  all  the  realms  of  the  world  where  work  is  to  be 

for  our  fellows. 

The  poetic  realm  is  the  unfolding  of  man  in  his  completeness;  his 
St  aims,  his  noblest  aspirations,  his  deepest  thoughts,  his  conflicts,  his 
rics,  are  all  there ;  nature  in  all  her  splendor  is  there,  her  loveliest  land- 
s,  her  most  suggestive  scenes.  There  is  nothing  in  the  soul  of  man 
1  has  not  received  an  irradiation  from  the  poetic  setting  given  it  by 
»ne  who  felt  it  most  deeply  and  knew  it  most  adequately.     But  the 

looks  beyond  the  visible  and  the  temporal;  he  looks  beyond  even 
•-cry  highest  of  thought  and  emotion  that  have  been  reached  in  his 
he  has  ever  been  called  a  prophet  or  seer,  and  he  may  in  truth  be  said 
cupy  so  high  a  situation;  he  perceives  the  light  from  below  the  hori- 

he  forecasts  the  events,  the  realizations  that  are  to  be.  His  home 
the  Idea  of  the  world,  and  he  is  the  messenger  of  its  next  great  in- 
ition.  He  sums  up  what  has  been,  and  relates  what  is  to  be;  he  is 
rgislator  of  the  future. 

The  world  of  the  poet  is  the  ideal  world,  but  that  is  only  to  say  that 
the  real  world.  He  delineates  not  so  much  what  is,  as  what  ought  to 
f  one  cannot  find  in  the  outer  what  he  depicts,  it  is  only  because  the 

with  all  its  mighty  effort  and  strain  does  not  quite  reach  what  it 
ts  for.  In  this  region  of  the  imagination  the  unachieved  is  done, 
icight  climbed  which  appeared  so  difficult,  the  contradiction  solved 
1  wore  so  forbidding  a  face.  The  poetic  life,  which  he  who  reads 
mderstands,  must  make  his  own  is  in  that  complete  Idea  of  the  Whole 
1  is  its  true  being,  which  underlies  and  controls  it,  which  shapes  all 
I  and  thought  to  its  own  high  standard,  and  brings  everything  with 
fi  it  deals  into  conformity  with  the  perfect,  its  truth  and  essence. 
The  beauty  with  which  the  poet  is  ravished  is  thus  no  particular  beauty, 
the  beauty  of  the  all,  it  is  that  glory  which  the  absolute  wears  as  its  fit 
perfect  expression,  which  while  a  robe,  yet  is  itself  throughout  a 
and  so  reflects  the  infinite  truth  as  to  be  completely  one  with  it.  As 
Ima  said  to  Socrates:  "But  what  if  man  had  eyes  to  see  the  true 
y — the  divine  beauty,  I  mean,  pure  and  clear  and  unalloyed,  not 
;cd  with  the  pollutions  of  mortality,  and  all  the  colors  and  vanities  of 
m  life — thither  looking,  and  holding  converse  with  the  true  beauty, 
e  and  simple,  and  bringing  into  being  and  educating  true  creations 
rtue  and  not  idols  only?     Do  you  not  see  thaf  in  that  communion 

beholding  beauty  with  the  eye  of  the  mind,  he  will  be  enabled  to 
:  forth,  not  images  of  beauty,  but  realities;  for  he  has  hold  not  of  an 
c  but  a  reality,  and  bringing  forth  and  educating  true  virtue  to  be- 

the  friend  of  God,  and  be  immortal,  if  mortal  man  may?  Would 
be  an  ignoble  life?*' 


236  OTHELLO  AND  lAGO 

The  poet  is  the  great  namer;  his  appellatives  are  permanent;  whoe 
scientist  and  philosopher  grope,  he  is  at  once  at  the  goal ;  when  the  other 
work  of  time  in  which  he  has  appeared  is  obsolete  and  dead,  his  verses 
are  fresh  as  the  morning  and  as  joyous  as  the  spring.  The  sdence  o( 
Greece  is  a  mere  shadow ;  even  her  philosophies  have  been  merged  ii  r^ 
greater  and  fuller  thought ;  but  Homer  and  Aeschylus  can  never  lose  thdr 
strength  and  splendor,  and  Emerson  says  of  the  poet  that  he  is: 

'A  brother  of  the  world,  his  song 

Sounded  like  a  tempest  strong 

Which  tore  from  oaks  their  branches  broad, 

And  stars  from  the  ecliptic  road. 

Time  wore  he  as  his  clothing-weeds 

He  sowed  the  sun  and  stars  for  seeds.* 


'3t 


Lf 


THE  CHARACTERS  OF 
OTHELLO  AND  lAGO 

By  Katherine  G.  Blake 

TWO  marked  characters  stand  out  in  the  Play  before  us  for 
discussion:  those  of  Othello  and  lago.  The  first  is  by 
some  critics  esteemed  the  greatest  character  ever  drawn  bf 
our  dramatist.  I  propose  to  follow  out  the  development 
of  those  two  men :  both  of  whom  are  supremely  interesting. 
The  one  a  man  of  simplicity,  depth  and  nobility  of  cha^ 
acter:  the  other  a  very  devil  from  the  pit.  lagoS  hatred 
of  Othello  is  raised  to  white  heat  by  so  trifling  a  circumstance,  as  his  dis- 
appointment in  failing  to  get  a  good  position  on  Othello's  staff;  Cassio 
has  the  post  he  coveted,  while  lago  is  only  made  the  great  soldier's  ancient 
or  ensign. — lago  is  proud  of  his  own  meanness;  many  are  proud  of  their  vir- 
tues, and  defeat  the  moral  beauty  of  their  actions  by  their  self-conscious 
ness,  their  boastf ulness ;  but  few,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  delight  in  the  slough  of 
their  own  vileness.     Listen  to  lago: 

*In  following  him,  I  follow  but  myself.  Heaven  is  my  judge,  not 
I  for  love  and  duty,  But  seeming  so,  for  my  peculiar  end.  .  .  .  I  am  not, 
what  I  am.'  Does  an  incarnate  devil  speak  these  words?  Or  is  this  i 
man?  Now  we  watch  his  cunning,  when  Roderigo  goes  to  awaken  Bn- 
bantio  to  the  fact  that  his  daughter  is  not  under  his  roof.     lago  quiddy 


KATHERINE  G.  BLAKE  237 

lips  off  to  rejoin  his  detested  master. — *Tho*  I  do  hate  him  as  I  do  hell 
iftinSt  Yet  for  necessity  of  present  life,  I  must  show  out  a  flag  and  sign 
if  love.*  With  these  words  he  hies  him  away  to  Othello  I  In  the  second 
cene  we  find  him  with  his  master,  and  the  interest  heightens.  There  is 
lomething  which  appeals  to  a  strange  intellectual  sense  of  delight,  in  the 
vtudy  of  this  consummate  scoundrel;  he  is  the  apotheosis  of  villainy: 

*Tho'  in  the  trade  of  war  I  have  slain  men, 
Yet  do  I  hold  it  very  stuff  o*  the  conscience. 
To  do  no  contrived  murder;  I  lack  iniquity 
Sometimes  to  do  me  service.* 

He  sighs  as  it  were  with  admiration  of  his  own  tender  piety  1  It 
BTOuld  be  interesting  to  know  if  the  great  modem  delineator  of  human 
bearts,  Charles  Didkens,  had  studied  lago;  it  would  seem  as  if  Dickens 
bad  brooded  upon  lago,  while  he  evolved  his  serpent-like  Uriah  Heap! 
Next  comes  the  foul  aspersion  of  Othello  by  his  father-in-law.  What 
Tiore  insulting  accusation  could  a  man  make,  than  did  Brabantio  in  assert- 
ng  that  the  Moor  had  used  magic  to  draw  the  love  of  'the  gentle  Desde- 
nona.*  We  observe  the  composed  dignity  with  which  he  faces  this  foul 
ispersion.  A  lesser  man  must  have  met  it  with  a  blaze  of  temper;  not 
10  Othello.  A  large  nature  is  usually  composed  under  the  wasp-sting  of 
mall  minds.  We  follow  them  to  the  Council  Chamber  whither  the 
Moor  goes  to  obey  the  call  of  the  Duke;  and  the  maddened  Brabantio 
o  lay  his  charge  against  Othello  before  the  assembled  Council.  The 
K>ssibility  of  using  witchcraft  or  magic  was,  as  we  all  know,  absolutely 
lelieved  in  the  seventeenth  century,  hence  there  would  be  nothing  inherently 
bsurd  in  Brabantio's  assertion.  It  seems  both  from  Othello's  and  Iago*s 
enurks  that  the  Moor  was  much  his  wife's  senior;  but  this  was  of  course 
(Ot  the  chief  difficulty  in  Brabantio's  mind,  he  says:  'and  the  spite  of 
lature,  of  years,  of  country,  credit,  everything;'  observe  that  word,  every- 
hing: — Brabantio's  agony  of  passion  is  such,  that  words  fail  him.  and  he 
ises  a  vague  generality,  as  intemperate,  unbalanced  people  often  do,  when 
hey  have  no  stable  grounds  for  their  inflamed  assertions.  As  Brabantio 
raxes  hotter,  the  Duke  becomes  more  judicial,  and  with  the  balanced 
Ggnity  of  the  legal  mind,  he  requests  proofs,  something  stronger  than 
hese.* 

'Their  habits  and  poor  likelihood  of  modem  seeming.'  In  a  word 
e  implies  that  Brabantio's  tirade  is  insignificant  and  trifling.  'To  vouch 
bis  is  no  proof,  he  quietly  remarks.  Meanwhile  Othello  stands  in  silent 
ignity  under  Brabantio's  brutal  insults,  he  delivers  his  'round  unvarnished 
lie'  when  pressed  for  it.  He  is  so  strong  in  straight-forwardness,  so  sim- 
le-minded,  so  direct.    Can  any  plausible  explanation  be  given  for  so  strange 


238  OTHELLO  AND  lAGO 

a  thing  as  Desdemona^s  adoration  of  her  husband,  which  broke  the  tender 
bondage  of  home  life  and  turned  the  gentle,  pliant  girl  from  her  father 
whom  she  calls  'the  lord  of  duty,*  to  the  middle-aged,  rough  soldier!  It 
has  been  said  Othello  was  so  strong;  and  most  certainly  women  are  attract- 
ed by  strength,  be  it  physical,  or  intellectual,  or  moral  force.  May  it 
not  be  asserted  that  in  this  simple  soldier,  were  combined  all  three?  And 
thus  a  hero  is  revealed.  Even  so  we  have  not  bared  the  roots  of  this 
difficulty.  This  extraordinary  attraction  of  love,  or  of  friendship,  whit 
is  it?  What  mortal  has  fathomed  these  mysteries?  Othello  says:  'She 
loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  passed.*  'And  I  loved  her  that  she  did 
pity  them.*  Here  we  touch  the  ground  floor  of  metaphysics.  Then  was 
it  pity  only,  which  drew  the  gentle  maiden  to  Othello,  or  was  it  alone  his 
courage  which  she  deified  ?  No,  no,  a  thousand  times  no !  'Pitv  ia  akin  to 
love,*  we  all  know  the  trite  phrase,  but  does  this  cover  the  ground?  If  so 
to  what  a  paradox  we  are  led.  We  soon  touch  the  brick  wall  of  absurd- 
ity. Any  male  mortal  suffers  distressful  circumstances,  and  at  once  all  the 
sympathetically  minded  single  women,  to  say  no  hint  of  the  others,  are 
on  their  knees  to  him !  Can  bathos  go  farther?  We  must  leave  unravelled 
this  riddle  of  what  governs  the  magnetic  attractions  of  human  beingi 
These  things  are  among  the  mysteries  which  make  up  life;  which  form 
its  heights,  and  its  depths,  its  joys,  and  its  sorrows,  its  beauty  and  somt- 
times  its  terrors.  Before  them  we  can  but  bow  reverently,  we  can  only 
touch  the  hem  of  the  garment  which  veils  *the  open  secret.*  Is  this  mys- 
ticism?  Do  some  say,  *What  nonsense  is  this  talk  of  mystery,  and  rever- 
ence, and  what  not?  Let  us  tread  reasonably  the  highway  of  commoQ 
sense  and  away  with  such  flights!*  Be  it  so,  then  let  us  turn  our  badcs  on 
all  that  signifies  life  and  makes  it  so  exquisitely,  so  marvelously  beauti- 
ful. The  mountain  tops,  and  the  depths  of  the  valleys  are  not  for  us, — 
there  walk  Poetry,  and  her  sister  Religion ;  and  what  is  left  for  us  who  hold 
by  the  practical  highways?  We  have  food  and  drink  and  clothes  and 
money  making;  truly  we  have  it  all; — the  husks  of  life. 

^Getting  and  spending  we  lay  waste  our  powers.*  But  to  lay  irony 
aside,  and  to  return  to  Othello  and  Brabantio,  the  Duke  and  the  Sena- 
tors, where  in  the  Council  Chamber  they  await  the  dissecting  knife  of 
our  criticism.  Strained  as  is  the  scene,  where  palpitating  with  passion, 
an  injured  father  defends  his  pride  and  love,  and  calls  for  vengeance  on 
his  enemy;  nevertheless  tragedy  turns  her  face  from  us,  and  comedy  peeps 
round  the  corner,  when  Desdemona  rounds  on  the  miserable  Brabantio, 
with  her  incisive  unanswerable  argument. — 

4  am  hitherto  your  daughter;  but  here's  my  husband. 
And  so  much  duty  as  my  mother  show'd 
To  you,  preferring  you  before  her  father, 
So  much  I  challenge  that  I  may  profess. 
Due  to  the  Moor,  my  lord.* 


KATHERINE  G.  BLAKE  239 

And  the  unhappy,  defeated  father  cries,  'God  be  with  youl  I  have 
,  I  have  done,  my  lord.' 

Our  pity  for  Othello  is  raised  before  we  reach  the  end  of  this  scene 
IS  and  Desdemona's  opening  fortunes.  How  great  he  is  in  his  noble, 
le  trustfulness.     He  has  gained  his  point,  he  has  permission  for  his 

to  go  to  the  scene  of  war,  and  he  leaves  her  with  whole-hearted 
dence,  in  the  hands  of  that  specious  scoundrel  lago.  Yet  one  other 
I  of  the  Council  Chamber  scene  must  be  said.     Who  is  it  who  first 

the  seeds  of  hideous  jealousy  in  this  single-minded  man?  Not  lago, 
Roderigo;  who,  but  the  revengeful  father  Brabantio! 

'Look  to  her.  Moor,  if  thou  hast  eyes  to  see; 
She  has  deceived  her  father,  and  may  thee.' 

In  these  few  pregnant  words  Brabantio  in  his  selfishness  has 
I  the  wind,  and  will  of  necessity  reap  the  whirlwind!  Othello 
have  had  great  opportunities  of  knowing  men,  yet  how 
igely  blind  he  proves  himself;  again  and  again  he  turns  to  'honest 
.'     Certainly  so  devilish  a  character  as  this  clever  plotter  possessed, 

have  been  apparent  in  his  face.  True  he  is  but  twenty-eight,  hence 
Klious  passion  of  jealousy  and  envy  have  not  had  the  years  in  which 
irve  their  lines  upon  his  features;  yet  cunning  must  have  been  marked 
the  absence  of  openness  of  nobility,  even  though  thirty  years  had  not 
td  over  him. 

For  as  surely  as  the  Atlantic  rollers  marie  their  titanic  forces  on 
nrestem  coast  of  England,  so  inevitably  does  the  vivid  inner  life  of 
luman  being,  lay  day  by  day,  its  semblance  on  the  countenance;  form- 
sometimes  by  middle-age,  what  is  justly  called,  such  an  interesting 
;  or  on  the  contrary,  the  hard,  discontented  lines  of  the  self-centred, 
mpathetic  character;  and  all  lies  as  an  open  book  for  him  who  is 
sssed  of  perception;  there  it  is,  in  the  train,  the  tram-car,  aye,  even 
re  hurry  past  it  in  the  street,  and  receive  either  its  shadow,  or  its 
lination. — It  is  needless  to  comment  on  the  cleverness  of  lago's  plot, 
•aftily  woven,  so  ably  carried  out,  and  necessarily  followed  by  its  con- 
nation  of  hideous  tragedy!  Incidentally  this  man  reveals  to  us  some 
le  tender  beauty  of  Desdemona's  character.     She  undoubtedly  takes  a 

place  among  those  who  inhabit  Shakespeare's  Gallery  of  fair  women, 
listen  to  lago's  counsel  to  the  stricken  Cassio,  a  man  who,  standing 

in  self-respect,  is  broken  down  to  the  brink  of  despair  by  the  loss  of 
eputation.  lago:  'Confess  yourself  freely  to  her;  importune  her  help 
jt  you  in  your  place  again :  she  is  of  so  free,  so  kind,  so  apt,  so  bless- 

disposition,  she  holds  it  a  vice  in  her  goodness  not  to  do  more  than 
s  requested  I'  How  lovely,  how  divine  is  the  womanhood  that  is  here 
hed.     Sketched  too  by  the  hand  of  a  bad  man.     Hence  how  visible 


240  OTHELLO  AND  lAGO 

must  have  been  Desdemona's  angelic  disposition  that  it  should  im 
such  an  observer.  It  calls  to  mind  another  and  entirely  perfect  de 
tion  of  woman,  drawn  by  him  Vho  uttered  nothing  base/  whose  voia 
a  trumpet<aU  to  the  young  manhood  of  a  century  past 

'A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveUer  betwixt  life  and  death; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength  and  skill, 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned. 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright. 
With  something  of  an  angel  light.* — 

lago  could  appreciate  Desdemona^s  blessed  disposition,  yet  sudi  wai 
distorted  blackness  of  his  own,  that  he  did  not  hesitate  to  blast  so  f 
life.  There  are,  we  thankfully  know  such  tender  beings  who  ho 
a  Vice  in  their  goodness'  not  to  do  more  than  they  are  requested, 
lives  touch  the  circle  of  our  own,  and  we  are  blest.  We  reverence 
radiant  goodness,  and  receive  an  inspiration.  By  so  much  as  D 
mona  is  near  perfection,  by  so  much  more  is  lago  beneath  the  pa 
manhood.  For  what  is  the  nature  of  the  man  who  could  tarnish  sc 
a  fame?  And  what  is  the  root  from  which  his  seething  hatred 
grown?  What  but  envy?  And  what  is  envy,  but  another  facet  o 
detestable  selfishness  called  jealousy?  lago  envies  Othello  his  pos 
likewise  he  envies  Cassio  his:  further  he  has  a  slight  suspicion  oi 
attitude  in  which  Othello  has  stood  to  his  own  wife  Emilia.  A  susf 
so  faint  that  he  does  not  even  care  to  substantiate  it.  Had  the  man 
his  keen  intellect  nobly,  he  should  have  become  a  skillful  Ambass 
a  noted  Statesman,  a  leader  of  men!  But  the  lagos  of  humanity, 
their  backs  on  the  sunshine  of  life,  with  Milton's  magnificent  cres 
they  say  'Evil,  be  thou  my  good' ;  they  build  up  the  blade  shadows  ^ 
haunt  them,  they  walk  readily  into  the  hell  of  their  own  creation, 
overhear  with  an  interest  akin  to  pain,  the  trustful  words  of  that 
fellow  Cassio  in  his  interview  with  Desdemona,  and  her  cordial  assu; 
of  help.  This  woman  is  not  clever,  she  is  not  intellectual,  she  is 
something  of  a  moral  coward,  for  she  deceives  when  in  awkwar 
alarming  situations;  and  this  arises  from  her  sensitive  highly  nei 
nature;  but  she  is,  as  it  were  compact  of  love;  a  love  that  flows  oi 
every  being  she  meets.  Such  women  are  they  who  command  the  rev< 
worship  of  most  men.  We  see  how  ready  she  is  with  her  vow  of  fr 
ship  to  Cassio  which  she  will  ^perform  to  the  last  article';  partly  be( 
he  is  a  fellow-creature,  and  therefore  one  whom  she  rejoices  to  s 
but  mainly  because,  he  loves  her  adored  Othello.     All  our  chief 


KATHERINE  G.  BLAKE  241 

icters  are  blind  as  regards  lago;  he  must  have  possessed  that  rare  gift, 
diarm  of  manners.  Othello  by  no  means  stands  alone  in  trusting  his 
ancient.  Cassio  says:  'I  never  knew  a  Florentine  more  kind  and  honest  I' 
If  anyone  should  know  a  man^s  nature,  surely  that  one  should  be  his 
own  wife,  yet  Emilia  says:  'I  warrant  it  grieves  my  husband  As  if  the  case 
■rere  his.' 

And  the  trusting  Desdemona  replies:  'O,  that's  an  honest  feUow.' 
The  scene  that  next  ensues  between  her  and  Othello  is  exquisite  in  its  ten- 
derness. And  that  again  between  the  Moor  and  lago,  when  his  sus- 
picions are  first  raised,  is  a  marvel  of  intricacy,  of  Macchiavellian  ability, 
irhich  must  be  closely  studied  to  be  appreciated.  Surely  here  is  one  of 
Shakspere's  highest  flights  of  genius.  The  strong,  simple,  confiding  na- 
ture of  Othello,  played  on  so  skillfully  by  his  base  torturer,  who  plants 
I  jealousy  in  him  which  did  not  exist  previously/  How  pathetic  it  is  to 
WMtdk  the  efforts  of  this  agonized  soul  to  suppress  and  hide  its  growing 
torment  The  poison  works  swiftly,  we  can  even  watch  the  deterioration 
9t  this  noble  cnaracter.  He  bids  lago  to  observe  Desdemona,  to  play 
lie  detective.  Are  we  assisting  as  spectators  in  the  Court  at  a  vulgar 
ai9c,  which  appears  in  the  newspapers?  The  scene  draws  to  its  desired 
lose.  lago  personates  humility,  distrust  of  his  own  suspicions,  there- 
ly  clinching  Othello's. 

'Let  me  be  thought  too  busy  in  my  fears 
As  worthy  cause  I  have  to  fear  I  am.' 

:Ience  he  leaves  his  chief  with  the  impression  of  his  exceeding  honesty 
tnd  of  his  great  knowledge  of  human  dealings.  As  are  all  noble,  simple 
latures,  Othello  is  humble-minded,  self-distrustful;  while  at  the  same 
ime,  he  is  confident  in  his  self  control.  Tear  not  my  government,'  he 
lies.  A  perilous  condition  this,  and  one  certain  to  lead  under  such 
train  from  within,  and  pressure  from  without,  to  a  terrible  outbreak. 
desdemona  enters  to  her  husband,  who  is  alone  and  in  anguish;  in  a 
noment  his  better  self  is  in  the  ascendent;  the  demons  which  tear  him, 
urn  their  backs:  'If  she  be  false,'  he  murmurs,  'O  then  heaven  mocks 
Iself.  I'll  not  believe  it.'  Her  innocence  speaks  and  he,  not  yet  quite  mad, 
an  hear,  can  perceive;  but  for  the  moment  only,  while  the  aroma  of  her 
aire  presence  lasts:  then  the  demons  resume  their  sway;  the  passion  of 
he  drama  deepens,  the  dark  tragedy  closes  down,  and  we  echo  the  words 
f  this  most  miserable  man,  *The  pity  of  it,  lago,  O  lago.*  If 
)esdemona  be  not  intellectual,  love  has  sharpened  her  perception,  and 
rith  exquisite  insight  into  the  masculine  nature,  she  accounts  for,  and  ex- 
DSes  the  change  in  her  beloved  one,  reminding  herself  how  absurd  it  would 
e  to  expect  a  lover's  homage  from  her  busy  husband,  a  man  immersed 
1  state  affairs.    Did  she  expect  the  perfection,  the  powers  of  a  god  ?    She 


242  OTHELLO  AND  lAGO 

puts  this  as  so  absolutely  absurd  to  her  attendant ;  but  Emilia  has  a  keen, 
woman's  wit,  her  perceptions  too  are  quickened,  probably  by  her  love  for 
her  sweet  mistress,  and  she  lays  her  finger  on  the  true  solution  of  the 
enigma,  jealousy.  But  no  cause  exists,  and  we  mark  the  depth,  the  anas' 
ing  truth  contained  in  Emilia's  reply.  'But  jealous  souls  will  not  be  u* 
swered  so;  They  are  not  ever  jealous  (or  the  cause,  But  jealous  (orthqf 
are  jealous :  'tis  a  monster.  Begot  on  itself,  bom  on  itself.'  How  hideooi 
for  it  is  truth. — 

It  is  with  heavy  heart,  we  pursue  the  development  of  lago's  too  siK- 
cessful  plot.  When  Desdemona's  bewildered  sorrow  touches  despair,  the 
full  beauty  of  her  nature  blossoms.  She  is  absolutely  in  the  dark  as  ts 
the  cause  of  her  husband's  ghastly  accusations,  so  pure  a  nature  cannfll 
conceive  of  the  reality;  but  Emilia's  coarse  knowledge  of  the  workfi 
worst  side  enables  her  again  to  reveal  the  truth;  a  slanderer,  she  stomal 
out,  and  lago,  this  genius  among  actors,  retorts,  'There  is  no  such  tM 
it  is  impossible  I'  We  listen  with  hushed  breath  to  the  reply  of  thepe^ 
fected  saint  Desdemona,  'If  any  such  there  be,  heaven  pardon  him.'  An<i 
lastly  as  one  transformed  into  one  pure  flame  of  love  she  murmurs: 


'Unkindness  may  do  much; 
And  his  unkindness  may  defeat 
But  never  taint  my  love.' 


my  life, 


No  never,  in  good  truth;  a  man  may  be  unfaithful,  dnink- 
en,  dishonest,  may  even  strike  his  wife;  yet,  will  she  hold  to  him,  in  Or 
quisite  fulfilment  of  her  marriage  vow.  And  such  is  the  picture  of  tK 
woman,  which  every  one  in  any  way  worthy  the  name  will  stamp  as  abso- 
lute truth.  Such  is  woman  at  her  highest,  drawn  for  us,  revealed  to  us, 
by  a  man.  Men  often  with  self-satisfied  cynicism,  remark  'They  don't 
understand  women!'  Be  it  so,  they  do  not,  but  Shakspere  did;  and  io 
this  marvelous  power  perhaps  it  may  be  asserted,  lies  his  highest  claim  to 
the  position  of  the  mightiest  poet  this  world  has  ever  known.  A  whole 
paper  might  be  written  on  the  conversation  between  Desdemona  ani 
Emilia,  that  last,  piteous  conversation,  in  which  in  the  great  intimacy  « 
dual  solitude,  they  reveal  their  depths  to  each  other;  alas,  for  the  depth 
of  Emilia's  philosophy;  alas,  for  its  marvelous  truth.  One  last  glea^ 
from  that  heaven  of  beauty,  a  pure  woman's  heart;  we  listen  to  Destfc' 
mona's  exquisite  gentle  reply,  'Heaven  me  such  uses  send.  Not  to  pii 
bad  from  bad,  but  by  bad  mend.'  The  play  does  not  offer  to  us  alone  iti 
tremendous  lesson  to  avoid  the  stupid  sin  of  jealousy;  be  it  in  the  mighlf 
passion  of  love,  be  it  in  the  strong  bonds  of  friendship.  This  monster  *hfri 
got  on  itself,  born  on  itself,'  transforms  into  poison  the  wine  of  the  purfl^^ 
joy  of  life.  Another  lesson  far  more  closely  enwrapped  is  contained  i^ 
its  evolution  of  character. 


THOMAS  DICKINSON  243 

!ago,  a  merry  spirit,  a  young  man  of  but  eight  and 
Yi  has  killed  his  soul,  for  during  all  the  brief  tale  of 
^ears,  he  has  preferred  ugliness  rather  than  beauty.  For 
10  man  is  noble,  no  woman  is  pure.  He  has  fixed  his  observa- 
ipon  the  negatives  of  life,  rather  than  upon  its  affirmatives.  He 
les  amid  the  spring  of  conduct  for  mean  motives,  and  assuredly  he 
them;  such  a  search  invariably  commands  success.  His  depths  are 
td  in  slime,  in  the  magnificent  metaphor  of  scripture,  for  nim  'the 
is  as  darkness.' 

Terrible  as  is  the  tragedy  of  this  play,  evil  does  not  altogether  triumph, 
^mona  expires  with  an  exquisite  lie  upon  her  lips,  which  assuredly 
wording  angel  speedily  wafted  to  its  fitting  place.  Othello's  confi- 
and  love  are  fully  revived.  In  their  deaths  their  union  is  complete, 
aith  that  Goodness  reigns  is  restored.  Virtue  again  raises  her  beau- 
Pace,  while  Vice  sinks  dying  into  the  dust,  and  amid  ashes  of  its  own 


RISTORI  IN  AMERICA 

By  Thomas  Dickinson 

rHE  death  of  Ristori  comes  perhaps  with  less  of  a  shock  of  loss 
than  with  one  of  reminder  that  there  has  persisted  for  long 
in  our  latter  days  a  life  that  belonged  to  the  heroic  antiquity 
of  the  drama.  In  many  essential  respects  our  ways  are  far 
removed  from  those  of  the  fifties,  and  in  no  regard  is  our 
alienation  from  the  past  more  apparent  than  in  dramatic  art. 
o  the  newly-risen  generation  of  Americans  the  name  of  Ristori  is  but 
le  whispered  in  libraries  or  conned  in  the  reminiscences  of  their  fathers; 
}  the  elder  generation  her  name  is  a  memory  and  a  force.  By  its 
•ers  will  not  soon  be  forgotten  the  stimulating  influence  of  those  first 
ranees  in  the  French  Theatre,  now  just  forty  years  ago.  Ristori  made 
merican  Jebut  September  20,  1866,  in  Legouve's  Medea.  She  remained 
lerica  until  the  following  spring,  playing  such  plays  as  Schiller's  Mary 
V  Giacometti's  Elizabeth  and  Judith^  the  Phaedra  of  Racine,  Scribe's 
nne  Lecouvreur  and  the  Pia  de"  Tolamei  of  Carlo  Marenco.  The 
ing  year  she  returned  to  this  country  and  then  introduced  the  Marie 
nette  of  Giacometti,  Silvio  Pellico's  Francesca  da  Rimini^  Alfieri's 
^a  and  Bellini's  Norma.  In  later  tours  she  played  in  Lady  Macbeth 
Mcrezia  Borgia  in  addition  to  these. 


244  RISTORl  IN  AMERICA 

At  the  time  of  her  first  appearance  in  New  York,  Ristori  was  about  fort] 
five  years  of  age.  Her  artistic  primacy  had  been  sealed  in  all  the  countric 
of  Europe.  She  came  to  America  with  an  assurance  beyond  that  wU 
which  she  had  entered  any  other  foreign  land;  death  and  a  fickle  public b 
conspired  to  end  in  her  favor  the  feud  with  Rachel,  and  everywhere  shewat 
hailed  as  the  incomparable  tragedienne. 

Yet,  cordial  as  was  her  greeting  at  the  French  Theatre,  it  was  not  one 
of  unmixed  enthusiasm.  A  face  in  youth  of  singular  beauty  had  even  at 
this  time  received  the  signature  of  the  mimetic  tragedy  with  which  sheni2(k 
her  life.  The  reviews  of  the  first  performances  show  that  while  manf 
accorded  her  action  the  highest  praise,  others  left  the  theatre  oppressed  hf 
a  consciousness  that  something  that  had  been  desired  was  wanting.  Graot* 
ing  to  her  perfection  of  bearing  and  gesture  and  elocution,  certain  critia 
still  denied  to  her  the  mastery  of  force.  To  some  she  appeared  coU,  to 
others  too  intellectual,  and  others  held  that  native  fire  had  escaped  in  her 
pursuit  of  technic. 

The  disappointment  that  was  felt  in  some  portions  of  the  Americaa 
critical  public  was  not  peculiar  to  America.  The  artist  had  met  it  ii 
France  and  England,  and  the  critics  of  her  own  Turin  complained  that  she 
put  them  to  sleep.  In  the  case  of  the  former  localities,  the  criticism  may 
have  arisen  from  the  audiences'  familiarity  with  the  Rachel  school  of  acting. 
Turin  was  frankly  ungracious,  and  America  was  perhaps  untutored. 

Before  one  attempts  to  make  judgment  on  a  piece  of  art,  it  is  well  tt 
be  acquainted  with  the  artist's  desiderata.  When  an  American  critic  com 
plained  that  Ristori  was  perfectly  equipped  but  lacked  sufficient  inspirt 
tion  to  carry  her  heavy  parts,  he  neglected  to  consider  the  subtly  evolved  se 
of  artistic  regulations  the  artist  had  set  for  her  guidance.  Acting  is  ai 
older  art  in  Italy  than  it  is  in  the  United  States,  and  Ristori  was  endeavorinj 
further  to  attenuate  the  already  very  delicate  artistic  criteria  of  her  natiu 
land. 

To  the  American,  acting  was,  and  is,  almost  entirely  an  objectif  in] 
of  the  emotions  by  means  of  the  voice.  But  as  a  true  Italian,  Adelaid 
Ristori  had  enough  of  the  heritage  of  the  Greeks  to  believe  in  the  expressin 
power  of  action  as  well  as  elocution,  and  physical  attitude  as  well  as  vod 
modulation.  She  tells  us,  in  her  autobiography,  that  she  desired  to  uniff 
the  national  spontaneity  of  the  Italians  with  Greek  plasticity.  Mai) 
Anderson  bears  witness  that  she  studied  statues  and  feminine  drzpttfi 
and  knew  the  "language  of  every  line  and  fold."  And  Charlotte  Cushmal 
speaks  admiringly  of  her  free,  untrammelled,  graceful  attitudes,  and  e^ 
claims,  "Such  perfect  nature,  such  ease,  such  grace,  such  elegance  4 
manner,  such  as  befits  a  queen."  ' 

i 


THOMAS  DICKINSON  245 

As  poseusesj  there  could  be  no  choice  between  Ristori  and  Rachel, 
e  great  pupil  of  Sanson  surrendered  the  palm  to  no  one  for  physical 
ice.  But  in  respect  of  the  symbolic  treatment  of  emotion,  history  does 
:  hesitate  in  making  Ristori  its  favorite.  And  here  we  come  to  those 
ic-wom  terms,  the  natural  and  the  conventional  in  acting,  with  the  limita- 
^s  and  obscurities  of  each.  Naturalism  is  good  within  certain  limits, 
:  when  these  limits  are  over-passed  naturalism  is  not  good.  So-called 
i^entionalism  is  good  also  in  its  place.  Italy,  the  home  of  the  natural 
cx>l  of  acting,  made  the  young  Ristori  a  naturalist.  Her  own  artistic 
ae  taught  her  how  far  she  could  imitate  nature  and  get  beauty,  how  far 

could  study  facts  and  get  truth.  She  was  never  so  much  a  naturalist 
^  she  forgot  the  imperious  claims  of  beauty  in  her  art.  And  because 
t  knew  the  limitations  of  naturalism  she  was  called  in  England  and 
icrica  a  conventionalist. 

The  arristic  limitations  of  the  natural  school  of  acting  appear  most 
:>iigly  in  that  form  of  drama  which  Ristori  espoused.  In  comedy  there 
iittle  danger  of  naturalism  overstepping  the  hne.  But  in  high  tragedy 
B  danger  is  imminent,  and  all  the  more  insidious  for  the  fact  that  a  passion 
II  to  tatters  will  always  tickle  the  ears  of  the  groundlings. 

Ristori  brought  to  her  Myrrha  and  Phaedra  a  symbolism,  if  we  may 
call  it,  that  served  infinitely  to  soften  and  beaut^y  passions  which  in 
iiralistic  presentation  would  have  been  monstrous.  But  apart  from 
istening  unbeautiful  emotions,  Ristori  had  another  object  in  view.  She 
red  that  in  the  uncontrolled  expression  of  a  dominant  emotion  some  of 
subtler  currents  of  feeling  that  cross  and  recross  through  it,  enveloped 
it  yet  independent  and  vagrant,  would  be  lost.  Rachel  had  brought 
her  parts  (ire  and  energy,  even  passion  and  frenzy.  How  much  danger 
here  that  actor  and  audience,  borne  away  on  a  compelling  tide  of  feeling, 
I  miss  the  deeper  and  truer  meaning  that  underlies  the  turgid  surface, 
a  problem  of  incest,  such  as  is  presented  in  Myrrha^  there  are  finer 
ments  of  thought  and  feeling  entangled  with  the  energetic  passion  of 
ill-fated  daughter  that  would  be  quite  obscured  were  the  passion  alone 
phasized.  Besides  the  one  awful  passion,  there  are  baby  innocencies, 
lish  whimsies,  and  a  real  womanly  chasteness  to  be  revealed. 

This  leads  to  the  most  significant  defense  of  Ristori's  work.  She 
"ays  chose  the  harder  part.  In  art  we  may  express  what  is  seen  first: 
t  is  primitive  and  superficial.  The  great  artist  expresses  what  he  sees 
h  second  sight,  the  tints  that  stimulate  only  the  cultivated  sense.  So 
tori  was  never  satisfied  merely  to  feel  her  way  into  a  character.  To  her, 
character  was  revealed  by  the  power  of  intellect.  Of  Rachel,  Madame 
Idor  said,  "That  little  girl  has  received  of  heaven  a  great  gift,  but  witK 


246  RISTORI  IN  AMERICA 

it  she  has  neither  heart  nor  brains."  Of  Ristori  this  could  not  have  I 
spoken.  Throughout  her  autobiography,  she  lays  great  emphasis  on 
psychological  analysis  of  the  parts  she  played.  She  was  particularly  cai 
to  achieve  correctness  in  all  matters  of  archaeological  detail.  She  got 
great  artist  Ary  Scheffer  to  design  her  mantle  in  Medea.  On  her 
appearance  in  this  country,  the  papers  noticed  with  particular  surprise 
nice  attention  her  company  paid  to  court  and  stage  etiquette.  These  th 
are  significant  as  showing  the  ends  she  kept  ever  before  her  art,  an  art 
was  never  satisfied  with  sound  and  fury,  however  thrilling  these  might 

Though  she  was  well  able  to  carry  her  audience  uncompreheni 
before  the  flood  of  her  feeling,  Ristori  took  greatest  satisfaction  in  p 
that  did  not  strangle  the  intellect.  She  objected  heartily  to  the  use  of  s 
terms  as  energy^  forces  violencey  in  connection  with  the  character  of  Frana 
da  Rimini:  in  short,  she  saw  something  better  in  the  part.  When 
possible,  she  let  the  softer  side  of  her  nature  speak  in  interpreting  a  cl 
acter.  In  America  she  was  criticised  because,  when  representing  Ju« 
in  the  tent  of  Holofemes,  she  relied  on  her  woman's  tact  to  save  her  rai 
than  her  majesty  of  soul  and  the  strength  of  her  divine  calling.  But  w 
you  compare  the  two  methods,  how  full  of  delicate  possibilities  is  the  < 
how  hackneyed  is  the  other!  The  merest  tyro  would  thrill  at  the  op| 
tunity  to  dominate  a  situation  by  extra-human  power.  Again,  in  the  | 
of  Mary  Stuart  she  refused  the  adventitious  support  of  majesty  and  wr 
pity  from  the  heart  by  playing  a  woman-martyr. 

An  American  critic  tells  us  that  in  Ristori's  Medea  there  was  seen 
''adorable  fury."  Of  that  effect  she  would  have  been  proud,  but  neve 
uncontrollable  frenzy.  It  is  said  she  refused  to  play  the  part  of  Me 
until  Legouve  composed  a  version  of  the  play  in  which  mother-love  is 
poisoned  by  jealous  passion.  **  My  woes  come  from  the  gods,"  says  Me< 
From  the  moment  she  appears  at  Q)rinth,  in  the  fourth  scene  of  the  I 
act,  leading  her  children  by  the  hand,  until  the  pitiful  end  of  the  play, 
Medea  of  Ristori  is  more  woman  than  fury.  The  actress  plays  upon  e\ 
key  of  the  woman  soul.  Nothing  more  tender  has  been  seen  on  the  Ameri 
stage  than  her  abject  pleading  with  her  children  that  they  desert  Cre 
and  return  to  the  mother  bosom.  Only  as  she  stands,  bloody  daggei 
hand,  at  the  base  of  the  statue  of  Saturn,  and  answers  Jason's  thum 
struck  "Who  killed  them?"  with  an  explosive  "Thou!"  does  she  s( 
touched  by  the  divine  wrath  of  the  Eumenides. 


IN   ASOLO 

By  Lucy  S.  Conant 

)NE  day  I  heard  a  new  sound  in  Asolo,  where  we  had  climbed 
on  a  pious,  long-deferred  pilgrimage. 
*What  is  that!'   said    I,  leaning  over  a  worn  Dutch- 
door  (in  Italy!),  fastened  with  mediaevally  welded  iron 
bolt  across  a  rusty,  curved  iron  balcony. 

The  plain  of  Veneto  lay  wide  and  green  far  below  all 
the  bright  young  vine  leaves,  woven  outside  the  window, 
gans,  Bericiy  foot-hills,  knee-hills, —  all  broke  the  rich  carpet  or 
i  from  it,  but  close  at  hand  from  a  one-eyed  tower,  issued  a 
ig  and  a  creaking.  I  closed  my  eyes,  still  clinging  to  the  Dutch- 
ind  the  sound  was  like  that  the  miller  makes  when  he  grinds  the 
n  the  water-lands;  but  where  was  the  wind  song  in  the  sails  .^ 
t's  the  polentOy  grinding,  for  the  contadiniy  answered  the  padrona. 
lerself  desire  a  frittata  for  the  cena?* 

'ia!*  cried  I,  hungrily,  bobbing  into  a  fresh  dark  room  with  its 
iled  floor,  chairs  with  native-woven  seats  of  delightful  pattern,  broad 
)ell-pull  above  the  beds,  and  Robert  Browning  himself  on  the  wall, 
nay  we  not  have  a  frittura  as  well  V 

im  devoted  to  a  good  fritta  mista^  if  the  oil  be  right,  and  the  vege- 
fresh,  but  I  can  never  remember,  though  Donna  Nina  has  toiled 
iled  over  me,  whether  such  be  frittura  or  a  frittata.  If  I  order  the 
am  sure  to  receive  a  golden  omelette  (possibly  stuffed  with  arti- 
)  when  my  mind  is  dwelling  on  globular  visions  of  cauliflower  and 
kes,  neatly  disguised  in  brown  batter.  And  yet,  if  I  think  I  am 
ding  the  omelette,  in  comes  a  fry!  Therefore,  it  has  become  a  deal 
r  to  command  boch  and  thereby  compliment  Mistress  Nina's  cookery 

• 

'here  are  squash-flowers  today  —  fiori^^  she  announced  proudly, 
went  down  winding  stone  stairs,  past  the  sala  with  its  old  carved 
n  chests  and  cupboards  of  linen,  its  bright  flowers  in  the  clustered 
vs  over  the  street,  and  the  bellied  jar  of  golden  brown  that  hinted 
nza,  and  looked  its  age. 

eaned  by  the  dresser  in  the  dark  old  kitchen.     Nina  proudly  opened 

of  her  market  basket.     Above  the  gleam  of  green  peas  lay  a  light 

s  layer  of  golden  fragile  trumpet-shaped  squash  blossoms  and   the 


248  IN  ASOLO 

pale  green  calyx  which  would  be  cleft  from  its  bright  flower  and  cooked 
as  a  separate  delicacy. 

'And  what  else  have  you  for  the  fry?' 

*The  zuccheitiy  signora,  and  the  flowers,  and  hearts  of  the  artichoke, 
its  tips  too  old  at  present.' 

'Poi  —  the  peas  —  superb!  But,  Nina,  can't  you  cook  us  something 
else  purely  Italian?     Think  now  —  something  special?' 

Nina's  firm-cut  North  Italian  face  fell,  then  it  brightened  as  she 
suggested  —  *  A  nice  bit  of  veal,  on  the  spit!' 

I  laughed.     *Well,  for  today  only.' 

Margherita  was  already  blowing  twigs  and  blaze  together  on  the  raised 
stone  platform  of  the  hearth,  built  away  from  the  wall,  a  foot  high  at  least; 
spit,  crane,  chains  and  hooks,  and  enormous  steel  and  brass  fire  dogi 
adorning  it  beneath  a  vast  hood,  opening,  funnel-shaped,  into  the  chimn^. 
One  could  move  around  this  hearth,  gallop  about  it  if  a  small  boy,  cook 
from  lany  side  of  it.  It  was  built  in  the  room,  upon  the  floor.  Agamst  the 
nearest  curving  wall  swept  an  ingle  seat  where  a  dozen  peasants  might  sit 
in  the  winter,  feet  on  cosy  hearthstone,  and  doze  over  the  apples  at  their 
sputtering,  watching  spiced  wine  mellow  by  the  logs.  And  close  at  hand 
were  cinnamon,  clove  and  nutmeg  for  the  brew. 

It's  miles  beyond  up  into  Tyrol  or  even  the  Italian  Dolomites  where 
the  same  style  of  building  prevails.  You  must  stop  on  in  the  train 
until  after  Feltre  and  drop  off  at  Sedico  if  you  are  to  take  a  crazy  omnibus 
(but  better  a  carriage  from  Bellmio),  up  the  narrow  gulf  of  the  Canale 
d'Agordo  where  the  'mountain  cavalry'  descended  on  the  Austrians  in 
1848.  Italy,  through  her  least  contadiniy  strove  mightily  still  to  be  free, 
and  having  there  but  the  stones  of  hergfally  usd  them  well.  There,  in 
huddled,  smoke-blackened  mountain  towns,  wherever  fire  has  spared  the 
old  dwellings  with  their  piled  wooden  balconies,  artistic  woodpiles  and 
wooden  roofs,  you  will  find  the  same  sort  of  projecting  bay  above  the  chimneyi 
with  two  windows  giving  light  to  those  knitting  or  working  in  this  curious 
ingle  —  the  rotondo.  It  may  even  be  applied  high  up  on  a  house  wall, 
clinging  like  a  bat  below  the  outside  chimney.  Or  in  bright  Cadore  far 
up  and  up  the  lumber-crowded  Piave  river,  you  will  find  it  where  the  dark 
wood  of  settles  and  low  tables  is  polished,  and  the  great  hearth  is  washed 
each  day  or  two,  and  three  legged  bronzini  hang  by  ancient  brass  and  copper 
on  the  sooty  wall.  And  here  on  the  very  first  step  of  the  great  Alps,  in  little 
peaked  water-washed  Asolo,  rise  already  the  sheltered  fire  altars  of  the 
North  where  both  light  and  warmth  may  cheer  homekeepers.  Evening 
after  evening  now  through  the  pleasant  town,  we  could  see  the  bright  spark 


LUCY  S.  CONANT  249 

hear  the  crackle  as  thorn  and  furze  were  lit  for  evening  meal,  and  when 
lome,  could  hear  the  warning  bell  of  the  spit  as  its  little  clockwork  ran 
rn,  sending  attentive  Nina  on  a  run  to  rewind  and  then  baste  drippingly. 

We  passed  out,  no  other  entrance  or  exit,  through  the  common  eating 

drinking  room,  the  great  hearth  rising  in  its  dark  depths  like  a  shrine  — 
ugh  good  Saint  Anthony  of  Padua  town  had  his  own  on  the  wall  and 
rick  aglow  beneath  it,  for  it  was  his  week  of  praise, —  and  the  good 
wn  men  rose  from  their  mugs  with  a  *  Servo  sua!'  All  about  were  rows 
silver  pewter  below  old  coppers.  The  dresser  was  fine  with  Roman 
ps  and  tall  brass  candlesticks.  The  artist  who  decorated  Asolo's  theatre 
le  fifty  years  ago  (built  in  the  great  old  tower)  and  there  painted  Queen 
iierine  as  well,  did  here  to  the  life  certain  Asolan  types  of  that  day,  one, 
1  a  lass,  now  a  crone,  still  living.  After  dinner,  each  day  was  touched 
a  portrait  on  the  wall,  he  of  the  high  old  beaver,  she  of  the  coils  and 
lure  down  gaze;  and  here  they  stare  today,  each  new  plasterer  having 
red  all  outlines,  until  the  result  is  a  sort  of  gentle  intaglio! 

Marietta  came  in  for  a  glass  of  dark  red  wine,  her  baby  on  her  arm. 
ly  stood,  until  we  praised  it  well.  Then  she  hugged  it  tight,  asking 
r  and  over,  *  Quanta  mi  gusta  ben?  Quanta  V  ^Quarantay  whispered 
y  in  a  wee  voice,  hiding  its  head  in  her  neck,  ?.lreadv  taught  to  say  how 
ly  bagsful  it  loved  her.  King's  daughter,  in  Northern-folk-tale,  how 
:h  did  you  love  your  father }  Baby  made  us  her  farewell  prettily  — 
Ua  —  as  they  say.  We  lifted  the  striped  cotton  curtain  and  found  the 
:  waves  of  market  outside.  This  busy  Saturday-tide  pushed  meek 
lamessed  donkeys  into  corner  behind  light  carioles  where  they  stood 
cing  mournfuly  out,  zebraed,  pathetic,  constantly  entreating.  It  swept 
t  Pippa's  old  silk  mill,  now  a  lovely  spot  of  peaceful  work,  past  piles  of 

chestnut  leaves  from  which  rose  mighty  duckings  and  quackings  as 
lates'  bills  or  beaks  moved  fantically,  hurried  along  groups  of  women, 
chiefed  brightly,  ruddy,  robust,  and  broke  in  excitement  —  full  tide  — 
he  lower  piazza,  where  motley  and  medley  mingled  garish  in  the  sun. 

O  Robert  Browning,  did  you  not  find  color  and  types  in  this  little  spot .? 
ten  Catherine's  tower  (though  it  was  standing  when  she  first  rode  up  the 

way,  welcomed  and  cheered)  dominated  the  painted  battle  wall  of 
nicipio,  rich  shadows  in  arcade,  the  church  loggia.  The  usual  great 
i>rellas  rose  above  the  ordinary  booth  displays  of  cotton  lace,  intricate 
ty  razors,  suspenders,  kerchiefs  of  green  orange  and  vermillion,  sashes, 
IS  and  looking  glasses.  Virgins,  and  colored  prints  of  Garda  and  the 
omites,  the  new  Heir,  or  a  galaxy  of  Europe's  Queens.  Bright  faced 
len,  stalwart  young  farmers,  filled  the  piazza.     Among  them  moved 


250  IN  ASOLO 

bleared  and  bent  strange  figures,  degraded,  reminiscent  of  Callot's  dumping 
shapes  in  their  pendant  rags  and  knobbed  canes  —  here  a  banded  eye, 
there  a  sinister  leer.  Gobbo,  in  a  homespun  green  linen  coat,  ran  lighdjr 
through  the  crowd,  good-natured,  knowing  well  his  humped  presence 
meant  good  luck. 

The  Cleanest  Beggar,  who  had  already  won  our  respect  and  cash  l)jr 
her  aspect,  insinuated  her  spotless  linen  sleeve  and  wonderful  darns. 

'  Mightn't  she  carry  home  the  beautiful  pottery  for  the  excellent  ladies? 
for  we  had  fallen  on  a  four  cent  dish  of  rare  value  and  beauty  and  were 
clutching  it.     'Or  might  she  accept  a  token  of  their  esteem  ?' 

*But  I  gave  to  you  yesterday!' 

'Yes,  I  know,'  with  the  bright  old  smile,  leaning  on  her  crutch,  'but 
today  ?' 

Ah,  where's  the  polenta  of  yesterday  f  Here  was  a  suggestion.  Has 
the  beggar,  once  supposedly  satisfied,  but  acquired  a  bond  in  your  stock 
of  generosity,  and  must  one  (per)  cent  be  forever  after  the  daily  dividend? 
Dear  soul!  To  spend  her  nights  in  cheerful  patching  and  sousing,  and  by 
day  to  wander  the  pleasant  streets,  secure  of  immediate  effect  on  scientific 
philanthropists. 

Beyond  her  two  men  were  roaring  a  wild  drinking  song,  glass  and  bottle 
in  hand.  They  intoned  seriously,  fixing  each  an  eye  on  the  other,  while 
a  third  sold  off  a  mountain  of  artichokes,  bargaining  stiffly  with  the  crowd 
attracted  by  these  rhymthic  howls.  An  old  woman  watched  their  inflamed 
faces,  her  neck  channelled,  eyes  deep,  red  and  small,  hair,  grey  snarl,  hand, 
a  claw.  Here  was  a  real  countryman,  quietly  heavy,  serious,  beside  his  neat 
piles  of  wooden  bowls,  ladles,  spools  and  spindles,  lace  bobbins,  eggcups, 
and  dishes  of  all  sizes.  These  same  the  stout  hill-women  sell  throughout 
Liguria  in  the  gentle  winter  there,  bright-eyed  babies  topping  the  panien 
of  clean  lathe-turned  goods. 

There  shouted  Pantalon,  auctioning  off  his  yards  of  cotton,  denim  and 
sleasy  woolen  —  a  clown  of  a  fat  man !  Deft  to  smile,  haggle,  coax,  or  scold, 
marked  by  the  comic  lines,  creased  below  eyes  of  craft  and  humor,  touched 
by  a  very  sun  of  craziness.  Suffocating  below  an  extempore  mitre  of  pink 
calico,  tied  in  two  pink  elbows  by  a  red  string  above  his  two  red  cars,  his 
flushed  face  exhibited  surprise,  grief,  sympathy  or  mock  anger. 

'Two  metri  and  —  was  it  not  true,  O  saints,  sixty-five  centimetri 
good  measure,  of  this  most  extraordinary  blue  and  white.  And  where  in 
a  city  even,  a  city  of  competitions  and,  as  all  know,  of  excessive  rents  and 
unparalleled  exorbitances  in  price  of  oil  and  wine,  could  one  acquire  this 
combination  of  serviceable  and  becoming  stuff  for  a  blusa  at  such  a  price? 


LUCY  S.  CONANT  251 

^er  Bacco!  Seventy-five  centesimi  only  for  this  immaculate  remnant!' 
"le  smote  his  hands,  gazed  upon  an  impassible  crowd;  his  lip  quivered, 
le  folded  the  piece  carefully,  laid  it  away.  'Per  Bacco!  I  would  rather 
Mcp  it  for  my  own  daughter!' 

Facing  the  purling  fountain,  the  shaded  cherry  woman  and  knots  of 
Nixom  maids,  wicker  arks  of  pigeons  in  their  hands,  sat  a  real  swell  on  the 
afe  veranda.  He  well  became  bis  broad  hat,  white  trousers,  a  town  coat, 
ind  mournfully  sucked  the  top  of  his  Venetian  cane.  Beyond  him  a  Turk 
umed  the  corner  —  did  he  not  wear  a  red  fez  —  must  he  not  therefore 
x>me  from  the  land  of  minarets  and  bubble  domes }  Suddenly,  a  middle- 
nan  surged  across  the  upper  piazza  —  the  cattle  market  —  clutching  his 
>rey,  shoving  in  decision,  aided  by  a  convenient  stalwart  friend,  toward 
lie  cafe,  there  to  drink,  and  seal  the  bargain,  in  presence  of  the  real  owner 
if  ox  or  cow. 

The  Cleanest  Beggar  smiled  on  us  again,  suddenly  appearing  on  her 
apping  crutches.  A  youth  of  tatters  and  brown  skin  ran  up,  trying  to 
leil  shoe  strings  to  peasants  and  evidently  succeeding.  Rags  dripped 
Tom  him.  Scarecrow,  infant  offender,  what  a  sight!  He  wore  his  bandages 
ind  draped  breeks  airily,  festivelv.  It  was  indeed  a  festal  occasion  to  sell 
at  tails  of  black  leather  on  a  market  day,  this  we  felt.  Felt  also,  it  was  gala 
into  all.  Marketing  was  taken  by  vendor  and  by  housewife  alike,  not  as 
I  customarv  morning  of  toil  and  bad  temper.  Gaiety  and  good  humor 
leigned.  The  patient  woman  who  tried  for  an  hour  to  see  whether  she 
neally  liked  a  calf  well  enough  to  buy  it, —  the  bronzed  fellow  who  clapped 
m  every  straw  hat  in  the  pile  under  the  chestnut  shade  —  white,  orange, 
g;reen,  even  —  popping  his  own  on  again  discouragingly  after  each  trial, 
until  the  calm  dealer  coaxed  his  indecision  with  another  color  or  shape; 
die  clown,  who  later  sat  on  an  apparently  undiminished  bale  of  goods, 
peacefully  talking  politics  with  a  friend,  having  sold  his  pink  mitre  —  all 
enjoyed  the  day  and  life  to  the  full. 

Returning,  the  little  drinking  shops  gorged  with  guests,  children  sat 
on  knees;  fire  blazed  on  the  great  hearthstone;  soup  was  passed.  The 
town  did  a  grand  stroke  of  business. 

But  at  three  o'clock  all  was  silent.  The  musing  donkey  of  the  street 
cleaning  department  advanced  with  regular  halts  down  a  street  that 
turned  white  as  his  cart  grew  mountainous  with  litter.  The  burning  bright 
piazza  was  empty.  Only  a  vendor  of  pink  and  orange  cakes,  vanilla  beans 
ind  carefully  assorted  peanuts  lazed  in  the  colonnade.  Shop  shutters 
urere  closed,  blinds  drawn.  The  little  carioles  had  all  slid  down  hill  into 
he  heat  behind  their  mouse  colored  donkeys  carrying  empty  baskets; 
^oney  had  changed  hands.     Asolo  rested! 


252  IN  ASOLO 

Asking  for  a  post  card  or  two  at  the  office,  I  put  the  nervous  master 
into  a  state  of  fidget.  'Five  hundred  in  the  safe/  he  cried,  *in  a  new 
packet,  which  is  not  yet  opened.'  He  offered  to  go  himself  to  the  tobacco- 
nist, and  darted  off,  returning  unconsoled,  breathless.  'Their  cards  were 
also,  terminated!' 

'  Be  pleased  to  be  witness,'  prayed  the  assistant.  A  young  man  in 
shirt  sleeves  was  haled  in  from  a  near  shop,  luckily  open;  the  rural  postman 
stood  solemnly  by;  I  leaned  by  the  window;  the  bag  was  brought  from 
the  safe 

'  You  all  behold  that  the  seal  remains  untouched  ?'  We  nodded, 
silently.  The  seal  was  broken,  decently,  without  haste,  the  cord  conserved. 
Then,  an  accustomed  finger  ran  down  the  invoice,  and  we  watched  the 
counting  over  of  so  many  hundred  stamps  of  diecij  so  many  of  cinque^ 
of  venti'cinque  (not  many  husbands  in  America,  I  judge  —  so  few!),  die 
reckoning  up  of  postcards,  careful  enumeration  of  more  valuable  stamps  — 
documentary  and  otherwise.     We  drew  a  long  breath. 

*  It  is  in  order,'  he  cried  proudly,  *  a  thousand  lire  worth  for  the  mondi. 
A  thousand  thanks!' 

The  young  man  withdrew,  the  postman  slung  on  his  bag,  I  received, 
and  paid  for,  three  cards,  and  departed,  edified  and  enlightened. 

Returning,  Luca  was  at  his  loom  in  the  cool  basement  of  that  old  silk 
mill  whence  Pippa  passed  to  her  daily  singing.  What  does  he  not  weave 
on  that  old  loom  of  his,  first  set  up  a  hundred  years  ago,  now  worm-pierced, 
polished,  mended,  assisted!  He  weaves  the  lined  used  in  the  lace  school 
above  for  drawn  work  and  embroiderv,  chair  covers,  curtains  barred  in 
orange,  export  stuff  for  England,  covers  for  mattresses,  for  pillows,  linen 
for  the  resident  artists  to  stretch  and  tone  for  painting.  The  colored  hanks 
of  linen  are  dyed  in  the  town,  close  by  are  the  spindles.  Born  in  a  neigh- 
boring province,  he  lacks  the  soft  z,  the  slipshod  accent  of  Veneto,  is  there- 
fore proud.  His  honorable  seventy  years  bent  over  the  hundred  threads 
in  the  green  vine-lit  light  from  the  terraces,  stockinged  feet  beat  the  clanking 
treadles  —  winter  or  summer.  What  a  beautiful  toil!  spoke  out  his  bright 
eyes.     They  said  —  I  am  content.     The  world  has  gone  not  ill. 

La  Luca  stood  beside  him,  hale,  brown,  in  the  fifties.  How  many 
people  in  this  land  are  known  to  neighbor  and  associate  by  a  sort  of  cog- 
nomen—  parental  name  forgotten.  La  Luca,  il  Nero,  I'Avaro;  and  did 
not  Mario,  our  dark  young  vetturino  in  Casentino,  cry  once  in  pride  —  *  Ask 
anywhere  for  il  Romagnuolo!     They  will  know  it  is  my  father.' 

Luca  and  his  wife  had  reaped  no  dishonor  in  their  sowing.  She 
showed  gladly  the  broad  firm  lace  of  exquisite  pattern  their  daughter  had 
made  for  her  brother  —  a  young  priest. 


LUCY  S.  CONANT  253 

'Last  Sunday  he  sung  his  first  mass  here/  she  chattered.  'Eh,  but 
N2LS  fine!     And  the  presents!     Come  and  see.' 

We  gazed,  properly  excited,  on  silver  card  plate,  pink  glass  liqueur  set, 
Fee  cups,  lives  of  saints,  breviaries,  catechisms,  a  horseman  galloping 
vast  bronze  inkstand,  St.  Anthony  in  colors.  Madonna  in  a  frame, 
icifixes,  a  letter  from  Mr.  Browning,  telegrams,  hearty  good  wishes. 

'These  we  gave  him,  the  brass  clock  and  candlesticks.  Behold  this 
se!  There  are  of  books  for  two  hundred  francs!'  La  Luca  lived  in 
f.     It  was  as  if  she  had  married  off  her  son.     The  table  was  piled. 

'And  the  dinner!  Eleven  priests.  Forty-seven  of  us  in  all.  Had 
u  but  seen  the  board!  I  am  still  tired.  Forty-one  chickens  did  we 
Lick  and  baste,  and  there  were  minestra^  salads,  vegetables,  sweets  and 
flFee.     We  sat  down  at  four  and  at  eleven  had  we  finished. ' 

'And  the  vespers.?'     I  demanded. 

'  Eh,  they  ran  over  to  make  a  little  vespers  —  a  little  one  —  and  then 
turned.  Until  eleven.  Ah  —  and  the  good  wines  —  the  Asti  Spumante. 
5rc  is  the  empty  box  of  the  torta.  You  can  see,  there  is  still  bread  remain- 
g,'  she  dived  into  a  carved  chest,  unrolled  a  napkin,  and  behold  in  the 
urt,  four  chickens  still!'  Four  indeed,  spared  from  the  festival,  clucked 
consciously  in  a  wicker  cage. 

'Per  Diana!  that  was  a  dinner,'  mused  Luca.  'Now  we  will  go  back 
the  college  a  little.  He  will  take  his  examinations.  I  shall  lay  all  away 
fcly,  and  when  the  day  arrives  that  he  becomes  Parroco,  behold  —  all 
11  be  in  readiness!' 

We  went  through  the  bright  open  staircases  and  loggie  of  the  old  mill 
the  clean  fresh  upper  chamber  of  the  lace  school  which  Mr.  Browning 
s  founded  in  memory  of  his  father  —  Ml  poeta' — they  all  call  him, 
rerently,  simply.  I  understood  that  the  eder  Browning  had  already 
lUght  the  building  before  his  death.  A  column  of  mandorlata  is  in- 
rted  in  a  loggia  looking  sunsetward ;  a  terra-cotta  Madonnina  in  the  fa9ade, 
ines  skyey  white  and  blue  above  the  running  fountain.  The  workroom 
r  the  girls  has  tones  of  soft  light  green  on  shelves,  cupboards  and  work 
Itches,  the  color  most  restful  to  a  tired  eye.  The  soft  white  curtains  of 
ica's  make,  striped  with  green,  blow  lightly  over  pots  of  bright  leaves 
id  flowers.  Beyond  them,  vines  frame  the  faint  delicacy  of  the  Euganeans. 
ren  the  paper  on  which  the  girls'  designs  are  pricked  is  green.  At  Rapallo, 
remembered,  it  was  yellow,  and  the  bobbins  there  were  shorter,  the 
fhions  fatter,  the  work  less  firm.  There  were  perhaps  fifteen  girls 
»ent  with  room  for  full  twenty-four  at  the  usual  benches,  neat,  cleanly, 
jentive,  one,  deaf  and  dumb,  taking  pleasure  in  her  work,  little  ones 


254  IN  ASOLO 

beginning  to  plan  out  design  in  red  thread  for  drawn  work,  older  girls  playing 
bobbins  over  pins  in  difficult  patterns  with  ease  and  swiftness.  The  great 
beauty  of  the  work  lies  in  the  sobriety  and  artistic  value  of  the  designs, 
some  from  Museum  pieces,  others  from  old  drawings.  Old  altar  bee 
patterns  seemed  to  prevail.  Their  firm  rectitude  was  carried  out  in  absolute 
sincerity  and  nicety.  In  the  samples  from  which  orders  could  be  given,  in 
the  rolls  of  lace  for  sale,  was  the  same  united  beauty  of  design  and  work. 

It  was  pleasant  to  see  a  spontaneous  letter  from  Dean's  Yard,  West- 
minster, gratefully  praising  the  quality  of  large  orders  executed  here,  and 
wishing  all  good  to  the  school  and  its  shy  gentle  teacher,  who  has  studied 
at  Vienna,  and  comes  from  the  great  Dolomite  regions  of  Primiero,  as  she 
told  us  over  coffee  that  evening,  her  eyes  shining  in  memory  of  her  peaks. 

How  many  a  town  might  be  brightened  by  the  introduction  of  just 
such  schools,  and  their  endowment.  These  young  Italians  are  so  deft, 
can  be  so  easily  led  by  affection.  We  always  felt  the  Rapallo  counoy- 
women  to  be  especially  self-respecting  from  the  very  fact  that  they  are 
wage-earners.  Unusally  busy  at  their  lace,  in  shade  or  sun  before  the  door, 
according  to  season,  they  yet  find  time  to  be  neat,  to  keep  their  children 
clean.  The  lace-workers  in  Burano,  Predazzo,  and  Pellestrina  have  the 
same  definite  occupation.  In  Taormina  an  English  woman  has  given  the 
boys  a  chance  to  work  at  various  trades,  carving  and  the  like.  In  the 
Industrial  Home  for  Destitute  Boys  in  the  Cannaregio  in  Venice  the  boys 
are  recommended  even  by  priests  to  this  Protestant  school,  learning  type- 
setting, printing,  bookbinding,  shoemaking  and  carving  outside  their  lesson 
hours.  How  gladly  would  I  see  more  villages  and  towns  furnished  with  such 
chances  for  training  and  encouragement  —  beholding  how  widely  the 
future  race  is  to  gain  thereby.  Italy  is  eager  to  learn,  is  hard-working 
frugal,  industrious  by  nature,  given  the  chance.  From  the  laborer  in 
Naples  who  will  toil  cheerfully  sixteen  hours  a  day,  allow  him  but  his  siesti 
after  octupus  or  salad  at  noon,  to  the  women  of  Cadore,  moving  haystacks 
in  June  about  the  steep  hay  slopes,  tilling  the  soil  like  ants  while  their 
husbands  make  ready  the  home  in  America  —  all  have  the  industrious 
aptitude,  the  sense  of  the  duty  of  work. 

A  smile  rarely  fails  of  response  in  this  warm-hearted  country  of  the 
simpatica  trait.  I've  found  the  peasants  generous,  decent,  trusty,  trusting, 
as  a  whole.  Yet  in  certain  happy  spots  the  type  is  more  winning  than  in 
others,  and  in  welcoming  Poppi  the  light  of  hospitable  friendliness  is  so 
beautiful  upon  their  faces  that  one  longs  to  introduce  a  trade  or  two  to  their 
gentle  boys.  I  shall  never  forget  my  contadmi  up  Rapallo  river.  Our 
tears  have  fallen  together  over  little  Giovanni's  death.     I  must  always  be  j 


LUCY  S.  CONANT  255 

prateful  to  a  Browning  for  having  given  such  a  chance  to  the  young  girls 
£  fair-spoken  Asolo.  It  is  a  significant  touch, —  Pippa's  singing  seems 
o  have  consecrated  the  town. 

Blithe-hearted,  its  women  sew  the  little  coats  under  the  cool  arcades, 
3iacomo  or  Georgio  about  their  knees.  They  sit  at  twilight  under  the  figs 
irhile  the  bats  blunder  and  the  swallows  cry.  The  old  postman  bends, 
leading  them  the  evening  news.  It  grows  dark.  The  sound  of  the  many 
ibuntains  fills  a  quiet  air  and  folk  look  happily  up  at  the  old  tower  from 
aool  terraces  while  Berici  and  Euganeans  melt  into  the  grey  planes  of  the 
vast  land  of  vines  and  culture  at  Asolo's  feet. 

It  is  in  the  autumn  that  Asolo  flames.  Oak,  chestnut,  woodbine, 
bum  about  the  town  or  in  it,  up  the  slopes  of  Monte  Grappa,  toward  the 
cablelands  of  the  Sette  Comuni;  orange  and  red  are  massed  about  Canova's 
hx  white  dwelling  at  Possagno,  make  the  land  gay  seen  from  the  Villa 
ILrmeni,  where  boys  from  the  Venetian  Armenian  school  rollick  in  October 
lir.  Would  I  might  see  the  vintage  there!  For  from  the  tower  by 
Catherine's  ruined  walls  the  broad  campaign  is  seen,  massed  in  vines. 
From  the  heights  where  Luigi  leaned  by  the  wizened  wall-flowers,  one  can 
Me  the  same  broad  spread  beauty  il  poeta  loved  and  lingered  over,  never 
Hitiate.  When  first  he  happened  on  the  secluded  hill  town  in  that  youthful 
ivalking  trip  and  first  gazed  from  its  height  on  the  touch  of  white  that  is 
Venice,  the  northward  hint  of  serrated  Dolomites,  squat  castle,  arcaded 
Kreets  and  splendid  sunsets,  then  was  the  vision  of  Asolo  bathed  for  him 
b  that  glow  of  youth,  that  transcendent  illumination  that  Wordsworth  also 
Uty  yet  knew  would  fade. 

That  night  we  walked  in  the  Giardino  Inglese,  where  a  happy  man 
hat  made  a  home  for  his  houghts  and  charming  desires.  Roses  glowed 
Imt  thousands,  grass  paths  eased  the  glow  worm's  journeying,  bowers  and 
lUeys,  soft  turf  of  the  hollow  where  once  a  Roman  theatre  held  its  throng, 
bagments  of  their  seats,  quaint  conceits  of  eighteenth  century  dwarfish 
Wme  figures  —  all  made  rare  and  changing  setting  for  glimpses  of  far  vale 
ind  tower.  Give  me,  some  day,  in  some  existence,  the  mind  that  may 
fecquire  such  terraces  of  content. 

In  the  town,  small  boys  were  gravely  parading  advertisements  of  the 
svcning's  performance  of  Marionettes.     The  notices  were  thrilling: 

'Facanapa  in  Algeria.'  'Condemned  to  be  impaled  alive  by  the  Bhei.' 
Seraglio  of  five  hundred  Donne.'     'Come  and  see!' 

The  Turk,  his  wife,  their  baby  and  housemaid  were  taking  the  air. 
[)ver  the  curved  iron  balconies  hung  dark  haired  girls  from  Gothic  windows. 
rbe  ancient  solid  shutters  of  Asolo  were  all  flung  back  against  old  walls 


256  IN  ASOLO 

and  the  clean  air  entered.  A  very  festival  of  delightful  kittens  played  in 
the  street  and  even  trailed  a  first  mouse.  Children  drank  from  the  cold 
flowing  fountains.  *  Quanta  mi  gusta  ben?*  cried  Marietta  as  we  passed. 
She  was  hugging  the  baby! 

A  festa  in  Asolo  is  a  serious  thing.  And  a  procession  there  such  n 
Corpus  Domini  —  though  I  am  told  that  that  of  Good  Friday  is  far  finer— 
is  beautiful  to  see,  for  its  order,  impressive  faith  and  color.  We  were  so 
fortunate  as  to  have  fair  skies  to  shed  startling  light  on  the  rosy  and  white 
mass  of  priests  as  they  clustered  about  the  gold  brocade  canopy  under 
which  walked  the  old  priest  with  the  Host,  and  over  the  crowd  of  peasants 
and  townsfolk  preceding  and  following,  all  winding  up  the  hill,  and  bade 
by  the  market  piazza,  devout  and  silent,  save  for  chanting. 

First,  came  a  proud  small  boy,  staggering  under  the  weight  of  a  cross, 
then  his  fellows,  perhaps  the  most  spirited  of  the  assistants,  men  each  with 
four  great  candles  united,  the  priestly  throng,  the  women.  The  children 
of  Mary  well  became  their  fresh  white  robes.  The  three  chosen  for  angeb 
balanced  their  bobbing  wings  in  sangfroid.  All  held  little  basketsful  of 
red  and  white  rose  leaves  which  they  scattered  by  the  way. 

Such  an  exhibition  of  clean  well-brushed  gowns  among  the  womenl 
Such  lovely  draperies  of  black  or  white  lace  over  the  pretty  hair!    Some 
of  the  very  old  women  wore  embroidered  white  lace,  brought  from  a  laven- 
dered  oak  chest.     Their  chemises  were  white  at  wrist  and  throat.     There 
was  but  one  hat  to  be  seen.     Three  girls  in  pale  blue  and  long  white  vcib  ; 
bore  one  of  the  many  banners.     An  old  sexton  in  red  kept  the  file  in  perfect  1 
order,  prodding  with  his  long  prong  of  a  cross  as  the  Puritans  must  have  I 
used  the  rabbit  foot.     The  coupled  Carabinieri,  standing  at  ease,  superb»| 
nonchalant,  were  useless  but  for  the  splendid  note  of  their  costume.     Peas- 
ants unable  to  enter  the  church  knelt  on  the  stone  pavement  in  the  sun. 
The  organ  sounded  over  the  worshippers  within.     It  was  over.     The  while 
infants  were  trotted  into  the  Infant  School  and  issued  furnished  with  pictuit 
cards  by  the  good  nuns  as  reward  of  strenuous  virtue.     It  was  odd,  on  thr 
morrow,  to  recognize  one,  led  to  school  in  broad  hat  and  blue  and  white 
pinafore,  clutching  his  own  school  bag  in  the  bottom  of  which  lay  one 
smooth  white  egg  —  angel  no  more,  but  to  be  dealt  with  as  future  behavior 
should  warrant. 

Festa  over,  neatness  and  good  conscience  adorned  the  town.  I  won- 
dered if,  in  Catherine  Cornaro's  day,  the  inhabitants  of  Asolo  appeared 
to  her  as  demurely  cheerful,  virtuous  and  diligent.  Welcome  her  with 
shouts  of  pride  they  did,  as  the  rich  procession  wound  slowly  up  the  hillt 
bringing  her,  dethroned,  to  play  at  court.     But  did  she  hum  'Provincial!' 


LUCY  S.  CONANT  257 

ind  long  for  a  Venetian  hour  of  gala  ?  Did  she  not  rather  lean  from  the 
xywer,  half  imagining  the  mist  of  plain  below  to  be  indeed  the  purpled  sea 
liat  spreat  about  the  cliff  of  Cyprus  —  and  she  once  more  a  Queen!  But 
It  what  a  price!  Picture  that  premature  splendid  betrothal  before  the 
ttately  Doge;  her  youth,  begemmed,  empearled,  seen  as  through  a  haze  of 
brocaded  matrons;  that  final  ceremony,  four  years  later;  the  girl  full 
Uo8somed  on  the  stage  of  Bucentaur's  deck,  taking  graceful  leave  of  her 
Dcmvenient  aggregate  of  Fathers,  the  Senate!  And  then  remember  that 
irst  short  year,  blurred  by  intrigue,  hatred,  death  —  the  horror  of  her 
iridowed  heart  over  the  act  that  soon  left  her  childless.  Her  recall,  and 
nlendid  entry  from  Lido  to  Venice,  still  in  respected  state,  led  but  to  frank 
ibdication,  led  to  Asolo.  It  was  a  makeshift  court,  where  yet  she  might 
confide  in  German  doctor,  discourse  with  Cyprian  chaplain,  laugh  at 
fuips  and  pranks  of  dwarf,  and  gather  about  her  the  beloved  Fiammetta, 
ind  the  rest,  her  damigelle.  These  and  her  suite  would  accompany  her  to 
nde,  hunt,  and  idle  in  the  famous  summer  villa  at  Altivole  in  the  plains, 
inarvellously  gardened,  furnished  with  water  from  afar. 

What  stately  gowns  she  wore  we  know  through  Titian's  eyes  —  stiff 

C peeled  bands,  soft  veil,  a  crown  above  those  flashing  eyebrows  —  and 
hind,  the  hint  of  namesake's  martyrdom.  Mrs.  Bronson  has  presented 
i  portrait  of  her  to  the  museum  at  Asolo,  interesting  for  its  detail  of  costume, 
ind  also  a  larger  picture  of  her  reception  in  Venice,  the  historic  buildings 
nf  Piazza  and  Piazzetta  ranged  behind  the  welcoming  Senate,  Bucentaur 
Ittdng  on  its  oars  in  San  Marco's  basin.  Lido,  looming  large. 

Good,  they  termed  her.  In  gentle  Asolo,  she  praved  and  followed 
in  processions,  endowed  nunneries,  was  kindly,  generous.  Yet  why  should 
ifane  hang  heavily  ^  Let  us  dance  as  well  as  pray.  Her  brilliant  festivities 
■lould  make  fair  romances,  I  doubt  not.  Eleaonor,  Marchese  of  Aragon, 
inimeyed  thither  wich  a  full  two  hundred  in  train  of  ladies  and  gallant  men. 
There  were  visits  to  receive  and  pay.  She  must  greet  her  brother  George 
to  Brescia,  and  be  received  as  was  worthy.  Fiammetia,  she  endowed,  and 
toarried  off,  and  on  the  wedding  day,  bade  noble  guests  from  Venice  to  the 
Casde  to  make  gay  and  honorable  the  ceremony.  Bembo  came  as  well, 
Imened  to  them  all  conversing  cynically  or  praiseworthily  there  upon  Love, 
lemembered,  adjusted,  evolved  —  behold  his  Asolani! 

But  if  his  comments  on  the  great  passion  touch  off  only  too  truly 
Ae  age  and  its  usages  and  customs,  so  do  the  inspirations  Robert  Browning 
Hpially  owes  to  Asolo  illuminate  an  age  of  other  philosophy,  of  high  aim, — 
ikhough  Bembo  at  the  end  lifts  love  into  holy  air. 

'God  calls  each  one  of  us  — '     Browning  too  was  called.     In  sorrow, 


258  IN  ASOLO 

glorious  joy,  bereavement  or  age,  he  held  bravely  the  torch  of  life  of  which 
his  own  pen  writes.  Pippa  from  her  pure-aired  hills,  steps  through  many 
a  heart,  singing  her  hopeful  song  of  devotion  to  good.  *  Asolando,'  at  the 
last,  climbed  on.  The  century  that  produced  such  a  great  heart,  gives 
place  to  another,  full  already  of  terrifying  perplexities  of  nations  and  men. 
Could  but  the  touchstone  of  Pippa  be  applied!  and  monarch,  statesman, 
senator  and  bourgeois  turn  abashed,  afraid,  to  high  resolve.  But  it  cannot 
be  —  and  the  world  groans  as  it  climbs.  Though  sometimes  it  guessei 
half  a  truth  —  that  the  splendid  peasants  of  the  soil  in  each  land  are  perhaps 
those  most  truly  devoted  to  duty  and  to  endeavor,  and  that  the  bright  blood 
that  shines  in  Asolo  and  in  wild  hilly  hamlets  or  region  of  the  plain  in  land 
after  land  is  possibly  that  most  devoutly  at  a  nation's  service,  is  that  which 
will  flow  for  its  land's  freedom  and  safety,  will  be  proud  of  her  advancement, 
will  train  its  sons  to  be  brave  and  honorable. 

Blessed  Asolo!  in  which  eyrie  the  good  poet  Browning  must  have 
found  gentle  smiles  and  customs,  sobriety  and  religion,  welcoming  recog- 
nition of  a  stranger,  cleanliness  and  civic  pride,  for  they  still  flourish  and 
as  well,  lives  their  pride  in  his  affection  —  an  honored  memory. 

*So  he  came  feebly  at  the  last,'  they  said.  *Upon  the  arm  he  leaned. 
Here,  quietly,  he  wrote,  much  occupied.  Even  by  the  staircase  of  this 
shop  he  mounted  to  his  simple  room  —  no  veiw.  He  was  always  writing. 
Vi  scrisse  Asolando.' 

I've  seen  Nina  read  the  Italian  translation  of  *one  step  just  from  sea 
to  land'  with  astonishing  fervor  and  emotion,  with  increasing  approbation, 
the  soft  thrill  of  Veneto  quite  gone  out  of  her  voice. 

*  Why  r  she  repeated,  *why  ?  Oh,  I  am  not  talking  now,  I  am  readings 
reading  Italian.  Is  it  not  beautiful  —  listen  —  once  he  was  young,  and 
now  —  '  and  she  went  on, 

*  And  now  ?    The  lambent  flame  is  —  where  ? 

Lost  from  the  naked  world:  earth,  sky. 
Hill,  vale,  tree,  flower, —  Italia's  rare 

O'er-running  beauty  crowds  the  eye  — 
But  flame  ?     The  Bush  is  bare.' 


THE  FEELING  FOR  NATURE 


By  Max  Batt 

L         y    ATURE  in  her  manifold  aspects  has  ever  been  the  subject  of 

^L      I  poet's  song  among  civilized  people;  and,  it  may  be  added  at 

^^L  I         once,  the  more  cultured  the  nation  or  the  individual,  the 

^W  deeper  has  been  the   feeling    for    her.     Hence    there    is 

^  reflected  in  poetry  the  growth  of  general  cutlure  parallel 

with  the  development  of  the  nature  sense.     To  trace  this 

evolution    is  a    task    of  no   slight   dimension,  though  of 

^ding  import  and  interest,  implying  an  extraordinary  wide  range  of 

ng —  in  fact  a  task  which  but  few  men  have  had  the  courage  and 

equisite  preparation  to  bring  to  completion.     Among  these  very  few 

s    pre-eminently  Alfred  Biese  whose  monumental  work,  already  well- 

m    to  the   German    public,   has   recently   been   made  accessible   to 

ish  readers,  in  an  authorized  translation.* 

The  growth  of  the  nature-sense  is  most  notable,  of  course,  in  modem 
»,  largely  because  of  the  progress  of  science,  but  to  understand  its  full 
ficance  a  rapid  survey  of  this  feeling  as  recorded  in  ancient  and  medieval 
tare  should  be  made  at  the  outset. 

[f  the  attitude  toward  nature  as  found  in  the  poetry  of  India  is  com- 
1  with  that  of  the  Bible,  there  is  noticeable  at  once  a  remarkable  contrast, 
of  course,  to  their  differing  religious  beliefs.  Being  pantheistic,  the 
loo  writer  associates  most  intimately  with  plants  and  animals  and 
ibes  nature  for  her  own  sake,  while  for  the  Hebrew  mind  nature  has 
rule  no  independent  significance,  being  only  a  means  by  which 
vah  reveals  himself.  Thus  the  principal  character  in  Kalidasa's 
ntala  says:  "  I  really  feel  the  affection  of  a  sister  for  these  young  plants." 
elsewhere  this  description  is  found:  "The  heat  of  the  forest  has  been 
ved  by  the  sprinkling  of  new  water,  and  the  Kataka  flowers  have 
omed.  On  the  branches  of  trees  being  shaken  by  the  wind,  it  appears 
the  entire  forest  is  dancing  in  delight."  On  the  other  hand  Psalm  104 
Thou  coveredst  the  deep  as  with  a  garment;  the  waters  stood  above 


« 


^Thc  development  of  the  Feeling  for  Nature  in  the  Middle  Ages  and 
:rn  Times  by  Alfred  Biese,  Director  of  the  K.  K.  Gymnasium  at  Ncuwild. 
3n  and  New  York,  1905. 


26o  THE  FEELING  FOR  NATURE 

the  mountains.  At  thy  rebuke  they  fled;  at  the  voice  of  thy  thunder  thcjr 
hasted  away/' 

Very  different  from  this  feeling  for  nature  and  of  far  wider  range  than 
that  found  in  Indie  literature,  was  the  feeling  among  the  Greeks.  Homer, 
typical  of  early  culture  in  Greece,  uses  nature  in  clear-cut,  often  homely 
comparisons,  while  later  writers  delight  in  describing  her  more  at  length 
and  in  bringing  her  into  harmony  or  contrast  with  man's  thoughts  and 
actions.  Especially  is  this  true  of  Euripides,  who,  anticipating  Petrarch 
and  Rousseau,  lives  on  most  intimate  terms  with  nature.  He,  in  fact, 
ushers  in  that  sentimental,  idyllic  feeling  which  is  given  such  apt  expression 
by  Theocritus  and  Kallimachos,  and  which  forsooth  differs  but  slightly 
from  that  of  the  eighteenth  century,  when  pastoral  poetry  again  flourished. 
These  Greek  writers,  moreover,  influenced  Roman  literature  so  strongly  that 
but  little  originality  is  traceable  in  many  of  the  Latin  authors.  Vergp 
and  Horace,  like  Theocritus,  heap  endless  praise  on  the  charms  of  countiy 
life  and  appreciate  the  minutiae  of  nature,  but  neither  they  nor  their  felhm 
countrymen  see  beyond  the  Greek  horizon  —  their  eyes  are  holden  to  the 
beauty  and  grandeur  of  mountains  and  sea. 

What  contribution,  then,  if  any,  did  the  Middle  Ages  make  to  a  fuller 
appreciation  of  nature  ?  It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  with  the  introduction  of 
Christianity  emphasis  was  placed  on  spiritual  man  rather  than  physical, 
on  God,  rather  than  nature.  The  ascetic  life  left  no  room  for  the  contem- 
plation of  the  beautiful  in  nature.  Her  many  phenomena  were  at  first 
ignored,  and  ultimately  dreaded  and  abhored.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  not 
until  the  Renaissance  an  adequate  appreciation  of  nature  is  recorded  in  that 
vast  bulk  of  mediaeval  literature.  One  might  expect  that  Ivric  poetry,  at 
all  events,  would  show  a  closer  observation  and  a  deeper  love  of  nature  than 
any  other  writing,  but  even  here  the  range  is  exceedingly  narrow  —  joy  in 
spring  and  complaint  of  winter  are  the  ruling  motives.  Slight  and  isolated 
are  the  attempts  at  first  hand  observation  of  nature.  The  rule  is  that  poet 
and  painter  used  details  from  nature  in  a  conventional  way  as  ornament 

With  the  advent  of  the  Renaissance  comes  a  complete  change  of  attitude. 
The  world  is  once  wore  investigated,  and  enjoyment  follows  in  the  wake  of 
knowledge.  Man  becomes  critical.  He  is  no  longer  content  with  the 
general,  he  wants  the  particular.  He  individualizes.  His  closer  obser- 
vation of  nature  brings  about  a  deeper  love  for  her. 

Dante  was  the  harbinger  of  this  epochal  movement,  Petrarch  its  first 
great  interpreter. 

The  author  of  the  Divina  Commedia  has  a  keen  and  widely  ranging 
eye.     He  sees  the  eagle  and  the  hawk  and  speaks  of  the  rose  and  the  lily. 


MAX  BATT  261 

t  beholds  wide  vistas  and  delights  in  the  meandering  stream.  But  the 
rgest  use  of  nature  he  makes  in  his  numerous  comparisons.  In  the 
femoj  for  example,  he  says: 

As  sails  full  spread  and  bellying  with  the  wind 
Drop  suddenly  collapsed,  if  the  mast  split, 
So  to  the  ground  down  dropp'd  the  cruel  fiend, 
And  again: 

As  florets,  by  the  frosty  air  of  night 

Bent  down  and  closed,  when  day  has  blanch'd  their  leaves 
Rise  all  unfolded  on  their  spiry  stems. 
So  was  my  fainting  vigor  new  restored. 
It  is  Petrarch,  however,  who  forms  the  bridge  between  the  classic 
^ng  and  the  modern.     ''Many  Hellenic  motives  handed  on  by  Roman 
ets  reappear  in  his  poetry,  but  always  with  that  something  in  addition 
which  antiquity  showed  but  a  trace  —  the  modern  subjectivity  and 
lividuality."    This  is  evident  in  Sonnet  143: 

I  seem  to  hear  her,  hearing  airs  and  sprays. 
And  leaves,  and  plaintive  bird  notes,  and  the  brook 
That  steals  and  murmurs  through  the  sedges  green. 
Such  pleasure  in  lone  silence  and  the  maze 
Of  eerie  shadowy  woods  I  never  took. 
Though  too  much  tow'rd  my  sun  they  intervene. 
Petrarch's  ascent  of  Mt.  Ventoux  near  Avignon,  as  reported  in  a  letter 
April  26,  1335  and   addressed   to  his  confessor,  is  most  characteristic 
the  transitional  attitude  toward  nature.     The  poet  enjoyed  the  invigo- 
dng  climb  and  stood  on  the  summit  like  one  dazed  as  he  beheld  the  great 
recp  of  view  spread  out  before  him.     He  turned  his  eyes  towards  Italy, 
e  rugged  and  snow-capped  Alps,  the  Bay  of  Marseilles  —  and  he  began 
think  of  his  past  life.     Then  he  opened  The  Confessions  of  St.  Augustine 
id  read  that  men  forget  their  own  selves  while  admiring  mountains  and 
as  and  the  course  of  stars.     And  he  closed  the  book,  descended,  angry 
ith  himself  for  marveling  at  earthly  things,  when  he  should  have  known 
at  there  is  nothing  marvelous  save  the  soul.     Here,  indeed,  the  modem 
light  in  nature  bursts  forth  though  still  restrained  by  the  shackles   of 
cdieval  thought. 

But  actual  landscapes  are  not  described  in  detail  even  by  Pertarch. 

ore  than  a  hundred  years  roll  on  before  Aeneas  Sylinus  (Pope  Pius  II) 

^aks  with  unbounded  enthusiasm  of  his  country  residence  and  its  environs. 

May,  1462,  on  his  way  to  the  baths  of  Viterbo  he  descants  upon  the 

ing  beauties  about  him :  the  tremendous  quantity  of  genista  that  make 


262  THE  FEELING  FOR  NATURE 

the  field  look  like  a  mass  of  flowering  yellow,  and  the  puq>le  and  white 
and  the  thousand  different  colors  seen  on  shrub  and  grass;  the  vigil  of  crow 
and  ring  dove;  and  the  owl  uttering  lament  with  funeral  note.  Sudi 
thoroughly  sincere  delight  in  nature  at  Aeneas  Sylvieas  felt  and  expressed, 
is  not  heard  of  again  in  literature  until  the  era  of  Rousseau  and  Goethe. 

While  nature  came  thus  to  the  fore  in  Italian  literature,  she  began  in 
England,  too,  to  have  her  literary  interpreters.  Chaucer,  the  first  of  Englisii 
modern  writers,  a  contemporory  of  Pertarch,  treats  her  in  a  realistic  manner. 
His  is  the  agricultural  view.  He  loves  not  waywardness  or  irregulariqr, 
but  order  in  nature.  He  indulges  in  no  fantastic  descriptions,  as  doa 
Spensor  two  hundred  years  later,  but,  aided  by  a  keen  color  sense,  gives  u! 
accurate  pictures  of  natural  scenery. 

For  more  intense,  more  individual,  subjective,  was  Shakespeare's 
grasp  of  nature.  His  commentators,  almost  without  exception,  havi 
spoken  of  the  marvelous  use  he  makes  of  her  as  the  background  for  his 
dramas.  One  need  but  read  King  Lear  and  Romeo  and  ^Juliet  to  be  con- 
vinced of  Shakespeare's  genius  in  the  treatment  of  nature.  What  fittei 
accompaniment  could  there  be  co  the  old  King's  madness  than  a  storm 
on  the  heath,  and  to  Julia's  ardent  love  than  the  singing  of  the  nightingak 
in  the  pomegranate!  Or  what  locality  is  more  in  accord  with  melancholjr, 
brooding  Hamlet  than  a  land  of  mist  and  long  nights,  under  a  gloomy 
sky  (as  Boerne  says)  where  day  is  only  night  without  sleep,  and  the  tragedy 
holds  us  imprisoned  like  the  North  itself,  that  damp  dungeon  of  nature. 

In  Shakespeare's  sonnets  as  well  as  in  his  dramas  there  is  a  highly 
poetic  use  of  nature  —  such  treatment  as  is  found  previously,  perhaps 
only  in  Theocritus  and  Kallimachos.  Thus  we  read,  for  example,  in, 
Sonnet  33: 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 

Flatter  the  mountain  tops  with  sovereign  eye. 

Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green. 

Gliding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy 

Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 

With  ugly  rock  on  his  celestial  face, 

And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide. 

Stealing  unseen  to  West  with  this  disgrace: 

Even  so  mv  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine 

With  all  triumphant  splendor  on  my  brow 

But  out,  alack!  he  was  but  one  hour  mine; 

The  region  cloud  hath  mask'd  him  from  me  now. 

Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth; 

Suns  of  the  world  may  stain  when  heaven's  sun  staineth. 


MAX  BATT  263 

Parallel  with  this  growing  appreciation  of  nature  in  poetry,  and  even 
itedating  it,  is  the  development  of  landscape  in  painting.  Just  a  word 
out  it  in  passing.  In  the  early  works  of  Italian  art,  for  example ,  interest 
centered  in  man,  nature  is  altogether  ignored  or  receives  but  scant  treat- 
^t.  Observe,  for  instance,  Giotto,  and  even  the  early  Renaissance 
inters.  Later  man  and  nature  are  of  equal  importance,  the  latter  serving 
a  background.  Tintoretto's  work  illustrates  this  change.  Then,  as 
ture  is  more  closely  observed,  she  occupies  more  of  the  canvas,  and  the 
iman  figures  dwindle  in  proportion  until  at  last  they  disappear  altogether 
d  the  era  of  landscape  painting  is  ushered  in.  Think,  on  the  one  hand, 
Oaude  Lorraine  and  Salvator  Rosa,  and  on  the  other,  of  the  Dutch 
ftsters  with  Ruysdael  as  the  culminating  point. 

While  nature  receives  thus  full  artistic  expression  in  landscape  painting 
the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  she  has  to  wait  a  hundred  years 
>re  before  she  is  duly  appreciated  in  literature.  During  these  hundred 
arSy  the  Age  of  Louis  Avatorze,  court  life  absorbs  all  attention.  Emphasis 
laid  on  form  and  refinement.  Regularity  prevails  everywhere:  the 
rdens  of  Versailles  as  laid  out  by  the  famous  Le  Notre  typify  this  wonder- 
l\y  well.  The  appeal  in  literature  is  made  to  the  intellect  rather  than 
e  emotion.  Suppression,  not  expression,  of  feeling  is  carefully  fostered. 
ence  there  is  wanting,  in  the  treatment  of  nature,  firsthand  observation 
id  genuine  love  of  her  many  charms  as  well  as  of  her  awe-inspiring  mani- 
stations.  Opitz  in  Germany,  Pope  in  England,  and  Voltaire  in  France, 
t  the  leading  writers  of  this  period,  giving  fullest  utterance  co  the  thoughts 
'  their  generation. 

The  change  of  attitude  toward  nature,  the  awakening  of  feeling  for 
le  romantic,  is  distinctly  noticeable  about  the  middle  of  the  eightrenth 
mturv,  as  already  intimated.  Symptoms  of  this  return  to  nature  can  be 
jlt,  to  be  sure,  before  1750.  Such  poets  as  Gunther  and  Thomson  seek 
ature  for  solace  or  pleasure,  and  show  appreciation  even  of  her  sterner 
spects.  Night  and  winter,  for  example,  abhorred  by  their  predecessors 
nd  in  them  ardent  admirers,  Yet  they,  as  well  as  their  contemporaries 
bough  their  range  is  wider,  their  observation  closer,  and  their  expression 
lore  adequate,  fail  to  see  the  grandeur  and  majestic  beauty  of  mountains 
r  oceans.  These  phenomena  were  fully  appreciated  only  several  decades 
Iter  when  Rousseau,  Goethe  and  Byron  occupied  the  stage  of  European 
lought. 

Rousseau,  as  Biese  says,  was  the  real  exponent  of  rapture  for  the  high 
Ips  and  romantic  scenery  in  general.  Born  in  the  midst  of  most  beautiful 
Ipine  surroundings,  he  imbibed  with  his  every  breath  intense  love  for  those 


264  THE  FEELING  FOR  NATURE 

rugged,  snow-capped  mountains.  He  tells  us  how  on  one  of  his  mznf 
rambles,  it  was  in  1728  —  he  forgot  all  about  the  time.  "Before  me  woe 
the  fields,  trees,  flowers,  the  beautiful  lake,  the  hill  country,  and  hig|i 
mountains  unfolded  themselves  majestically  before  my  eyes.  I  gloam 
over  the  beautiful  spectacle  while  the  sun  was  setting.  At  last,  too  late^ 
I  saw  that  the  city  gates  were  shut.  His  Confessions  abound  with  glowint 
descriptions  of  Alpine  scenery,  surpassed  perhaps  only  by  those  recorded 
in  La  Nouvelle  Heloise.  But  for  a  scientific  as  well  as  aesthetic  appre- 
ciation of  the  Alps  one  must  wait  a  few  years  more  —  till  Goethe's  joumejf 
to  Switzerland  in  1779. 

And  this  brings  us  to  "  the  most  accurate,  individual,  and  universal 
interpreter  of  German  feeling  for  nature.  Goethe  had  given  ample  evidence 
of  his  transcending  genuis  in  his  novel  Werthers  Leiden^  where  the  hero 
runs  through  the  whole  gamut  of  emotional  experience  and  finds  correspond- 
ing moods  in  nature.  But  Goethe's  dramas  and  lyrics,  rather  than  hn 
novels,  are  of  the  greatest  import  from  our  present  point  of  view  Oneca 
trace  in  them  his  ever  widening  grasp  of  nature,  from  the  idyllic-pastonl 
to  the  pantheistic  conception,  and  thereby  understand  at  the  same  time  the 
true  source  of  his  greatness :  the  abandoning  of  any  standpoint  as  soon  ai 
he  passed  beyond  it.  Illustrative  verses  crowd  upon  one,  making  seledoo 
exceedingly  difficult;  yet  if  any  of  his  shorter  poems  were  to  be  singled  out 
to  show  that  close  communion  between  man  and  nature,  it  would  probably 
be  the  poetic  gem  Herbstgefuhly  which  runs  thus: 

Flourish  greener  as  ye  clamber, 

O  ye  leaves,  to  seek  my  chamber; 

Up  the  trellised  vine  on  high 

May  ye  swell,  twin-berries  tender, 

Jucier  far,  and  with  more  splendor 

Ripen,  and  more  speedily. 

O'er  ye  broods  the  sun  at  even. 

As  he  sinks  to  rest,  and  heaven 

Softly  breathes  into  your  ear 

All  its  fertilizing  fulness. 

While  the  moon's  refreshing  coolness. 

Magic-laden,  hovers  near. 

And  alas!  ye're  watered  ever 

By  a  stream  of  tears  that  rill 

From  mine  eyes  —  tears  ceasing  never. 
Tears  of  love  that  naught  can  still. 
Goethe,  according  to   Biese's  excellent  summary,  "not  only  trans 


MARY  LOUISE  DUNBAR  265 

the  unreal  feeling  of  his  day  into  real,  described  scenery,  and  inspired 
H  human  feeling,  and  deciphered  the  beauty  of  the  Alps,  as  no  one  else 
lone,  Rousseau  not  excepted ;  but  he  also  brought  knowledge  of  nature 
Ks^rmony  with  feeling  for  her,  and  with  his  wonderfully  receptive  and 
tiructive  mind  so  studied  the  earlier  centuries,  that  he  gathered  out  all 
^«^as  valuable  in  their  feeling/' 

Thus  nature  was  from  the  universal,  pantheistic  point  of  view  adequately 
preted  in  France  and  Germany.  But  erelong  there  arose  in  England, 
poets  who  voiced  their  deep  feeling  for  her  with  enthusiasm  that  knew 
►ounds.  To  Wordsworth,  Byron,  and  Shelley  we  are  immeasurably 
o^cd  for  some  of  the  most  beautiful  nature  poems  in  the  world's  literature. 
^^m  Abbey,  Childe  Haroldy  Ode  to  the  West  Wind,  give  the  fullest  expres- 

^o  our  modern  feeling  for  nature.  Later  poets  have,  on  the  whole, 
*ly  wrought  changes  upon  the  notes  struck  here.  This  is  true,  to  a  large 
'^^j  of  the  members  of  the  so-called  ^Romantic'  School.     Since  their 

^he  progress  of  science  has  had  a  noticeable  effect  on  the  feeling  for 
'^^e.  She  is  observed  today  not  only  with  enthusiasm  but  with  exceeding 
^racy;  and  deft  interpreters  are  not  rare  in  either  poetry  or  painting. 
^s  the  inspiring,  broadening  influence  of  nature  is  felt  perhaps  more 
^ngly  today  than  during  any  other  period  in  the  world's  history. 


PASTORAL   POETRY 

By  Mary  Louise  Dunbar 

rHE  true  pastoral  poem  is  no  longer  written.  It  had  its  birth 
in  a  primitive  age.  It  sang  of  youth  and  artless  love  in 
tune  with  the  beauty  of  the  world,  and  the  simplicity  of  the 
Golden  Age.  It  was  a  perfect  expression  of  that  happy 
time,  full  of  the  joy  of  existence,  of  the  freedom  of  Pagan 
man,  who  was  in  one  sense  almost  as  unmoral  and  irrespon- 
sible as  the  birds  of  the  air,  or  the  beasts  of  the  field. 
But  Keats,  who  gives  us  such  a  fresh  picture  of  Sylvan  joy  in  the 
;inning  of  the  Endymion,  tells  as  that  though  now  there  is 

'No  crowd  of  nymphs,  soft  voiced  and  young  and  gay. 
In  woven  baskets  bringing  ears  of  corn, 
Roses  and  pinks  and  violets  to  adorn 
The  shrine  of  Flora  in  its  early  May:' 


266  PASTORAL  POETRY 

yet  there  are  left  'delights  as  high  as  these'  and  he  finds  under  pleasant 
trees  where  Pan  is  no  longer  sought,  *a  free  and  leafy  luxury/  It  may  he 
that  nature  has  a  sweeter  balm  and  a  holier  uplifting  to  a  heart  weaiy  of 
the  rush  and  bustle  of  modern  life;  a  deeper  joy  than  any  hind  of  the  Golden 
Age  could  know  in  the  delight  of  mere  living  in  sunshine  and  sweet  air, 
under  soft  skies,  beside  rippling  brooks,  with  glimpses  of  the  far  wistfiil 
beauty  of  blue  hills.     The  world  is  too  old  for  real  Arcadian  simplicity. 

The  Greek  who  handed  down  the  pastoral  to  us  had  little  background 
of  Antiquity,  litde  knowledge  of  an  older  learning  and  poetry  than  his  own. 

From  the  beginning  he  saw  all  beauty,  all  loveliness  with  his  own  eyes; 
transplanted  to  Sicily  he  gives  to  us  the  freshness  of  his  own  impressions. 
One  *  the  heir  of  all  the  Ages '  realizes  more  of  the  sadness  of  life,  its  possi- 
bilities for  good  and  ill. 

In  America  we  have  inherited  the  Anglo-Saxon  gravity,  and  the  sense 
of  personal  responsibility.  From  our  christian  training  we  long  for  the 
Beatitudes  amid  the  beauty  of  the  world.  We  would  make  of  our  lives 
a  blessing. 

Social  questions  and  the  pity  of  human  suffering,  take  away  something 
of  the  ease  of  Sylvan  rest.  We  cannot  forget  that  our  leisure  is  only  a  tem- 
porary refreshing  in  the  midst  of  our  struggles  for  the  goal  that  is  set  before 
us.  If  Pan  were  still  abroad,  we  should  hear  the  cry  of  the  human  above  his 
pipings.  Some  of  us,  tired  of  vanities  and  artificial  conditions,  long  for 
the  simple  life.  We  theorize  about  it:  practice  for  a  while  and  take  notes 
of  our  experiences  in  it. 

Again,  we  are  consumed  with  a  grand  curiosity.  The  leisure  of  country 
life  is  full  of  it.  We  analyze  and  classify  the  flowers  by  the  wayside  and 
forget  the  bird  songs  in  eager  inquiry  as  to  the  lineage  of  the  singer,  while 
we  pry  into  his  domestic  arrangements  and  family  life.  It  is  good  that  there 
are  still  some  dreamers  whose  resting  time  is  full  of  the  fragrance  of  blossom- 
ing fields  and  dewy  woods;  of  the  *  multitudinous  laughter  of  the  sea/  or  its 
quiet  reveries;  who  'invite  their  souls'  to  be  soothed  by  soft  airs,  and 
unclassified  bird  songs;  and  who  listen  to  what  wandering  winds,  sighing 
pines  and  the  ramble  of  brooks  have  to  say  of  the  peace  of  God.  Our 
poets  philosophize  for  us,  and  find  that  nature  gains  in  interest  through 
its  subtle  influence  upon  the  heart  of  man.  The  pastoral  came  as  the 
morning  comes.     It  Hlted  itself  into  the  rosy  dawn  of  literature. 

While  it  grew  out  of  Shepherd  life,  it  was  evidently  born  of  the  beauty 
loving  Pagan  Greek  nature,  as  is  proved  by  the  different  influence  of  the 
conditions  of  that  life  upon  the  graver  Hebrew.  We  go  back  to  the  creation 
for  the  beginning  of  that  life.     While  the  first  ideal  of  human   happiness 


MARY  LOUISE  DUNBAR  267 

s  found  in  a  garden,  man  went  out  from  Eden  to  till  the  soil,  to  tend  flocks 
>n  the  uplands  and  in  green  valleys.  The  first  shepherd,  in  the  story, 
Keems  to  have  drawn  nearer  in  spirit  to  the  great  lost  garden  of  God,  than 
die  husbandman  who  delved  in  the  ground  to  make  another  garden  in 
a  waste  of  thorn  and  bramble.  Patience,  perserverance,  trust  in  the  God 
wrho  sends  the  sunshine  and  the  refreshing  shower  must  certainly  develop 
in  the  heart  of  the  gardener  who  is  in  right  lines  with  God's  purposes.  It  was 
in  a  very  different  spirit  that  the  first  tiller  of  the  earth,  and  the  first  guardian 
of  the  flocks,  undertook  the  young  world's  work.  Who  knows  but  Cain, 
impatient  with  the  conditions  which  sin  had  brought,  chose  in  the  right  of 
eldest  son,  to  toil  in  hopes  of  speedier  results  which  might  bring  back  the 
lost  joys  of  Eden. 

It  would  seem  that  Abel  had  the  better  part.  The  Shepherd  lived  in 
the  mysterv  of  long  nights  under  the  solemn  stars,  in  air  spiced  with  the 
perfume  of  flowers  which  send  out  their  souls  into  the  cool  dark.  He 
Mratched  for  the  day  dawn  while  the  pale  starlight  lingered  to  meet  the  first 
Bush  of  rose  and  pearl.  Immortal  meanings  must  have  been  revealed  to 
him  when  the  day  slowly  shimmered  around  him, —  a  new  creation. 

The  Hebrew  found  in  nature  the  entrance  to  the  unseen  presence  of 
God.  The  104th  pslam  is  a  rhapsody  of  adoration  in  the  midst  of  the  whole 
universe.  Forgetfulness  of  self  was  the  first  lesson  of  the  shepherd's  life. 
He  must  lead  his  flock.  Each  sheep  and  lamb  had  its  name  and  appealed 
to  Him  through  its  individual  need,  and  alone  under  the  stars  he  must  trust 
to  his  single  handed  bravery  in  defence  of  his  charge.  So  David  slew  the 
lion,  and  there  were  robbers  as  well  as  wild  beasts.  Amid  such  dangers 
uras  the  dignity  of  the  manhood  of  the  Shepherd  in  the  East  cultivated, 
[n  cold  and  heat,  storms  and  tempests,  he  had  no  thought  for  himself. 
Leading  back  the  straying,  seeking  the  lost,  binding  up  the  wounded, — 
dealing  the  sick,  strengthening  the  weak,  to  the  devout  Hebrew  his  care 
l>ecomes  the  best  type  of  Heavenly  love.  With  his  pipe  and  simple  song  he 
rheers  himself  in  hardship,  or  he  utters  heroic  notes  of  triumph  over  difii- 
nildes  and  dangers.  He  has  also  his  halcyon  days,  when  he  leads  his  flocks 
in  green  pastures,  and  beside  still  waters,  and  the  psalm  of  the  Shepherd 
ting  becomes  one  of  the  sweetest  comforts  of  the  world  today.  Moses 
>repares  for  his  great  work  of  leading  a  people  from  bondage,  tramp,  tramp, 
ramp,  keeping  sheep  in  Midian.  Truth  was  revealed  under  great  Egypt's 
tar  flamed  sky  to  Shepherds  tending  their  flocks,  the  truth  that  led  them 
o  the  manger  and  to  Christ.  Whether  in  myth  or  miracle  great  teachings 
lave  come  to  the  world  from  the  pastoral  life. 

To  a  Pagan  land,  where  the  profoundest  feelings  are  asleep  in  a  beauty 


268  PASTORAL  POETRY 

loving  people,  we  owe  a  different  debt.  The  Poet  whom  literature  claims 
as  the  leader  in  Pastorals  was  to  come  from  the  West,  though  he  had  Greek 
blood  and  was  nourished  upon  Greek  traditions. 

The  Greek,  seldom  a  colonist,  planted  himself  and  his  intellectual 
life  in  Sicily,  a  land  as  fair  as  his  own,  with  skies  as  clear  and  as  restful 
He  found  the  same  splendor  and  sweetness  of  roses,  the  same  resinous  odors 
of  cedars  as  in  the  violet  land  of  Greece.  It  was  at  the  time  of  his  greatest 
intellectual  power.  'His  minstrels  chanted  for  Kings  and  heroes;  the 
winner  of  the  Olympic  games  was  welcomed  by  hymns,  any  of  which  Pindar 
might  have  written.'  The  energy  and  the  thought  of  the  nation,  that  for 
centuries  gave  to  the  world  some  of  the  most  stirring  odes  of  patriodsm, 
and  the  most  exquisite  utterances  of  human  love,  ambition  and  sorrow,  were 
still  glorious.  Under  the  influence  of  the  Greek  Colonists  in  the  heights  rf 
Taronemion  and  in  Syracuse  we  see  the  Sikels  of  the  islands  advancing 
beyond  the  hill  fortress,  and  along  the  borders  of  the  purple  sea.  For  one 
hundred  and  fifty  years  this  emigradon  to  the  beautiful  island  continued. 
Its  inhabitants  were  no  longer  native  Sikels,  but  Sikliotes,  mixed  in  blood, 
traditions  and  customs.  What  interest  in  a  land  where  the  first  chapters 
of  a  historv,  which  is  not  yet  finished,  were  written  by  Thucydides.  It  was 
in  the  third  century  before  Chrisi  —  that  Theocritus  of  Greek  descent, 
began  to  write  his  'little  pictures'  in  words,  of  Shepherds.  Neatherds, 
fishermen,  and  the  pastoral  sprang  into  life,  bursting  in  the  Southern  warmth 
and  softness  at  once  into  bloom.  We  know  little  of  the  Ufe  of  Theocritus, 
save  allusions  in  his  own  works.  In  an  epigram  appended  to  his  poems, 
he  says:  'I  am  a  Syracusan,  son  of  Praxagoras  and  Philenna.'  Before  his 
genius  lifted  itself  into  song,  Athens  had  fallen  and  Greek  literature  had  so 
declined  as  to  seem  dead.  Its  inspiration  was  gone  with  the  heoric  kings 
and  the  epic  minstrels.  Greece  was  scarcely  more  than  the  western  portion 
of  a  divided  empire.  Alexandria  was  now  the  center  of  intellectual  life 
which  Athens  had  been.  Theocritus  wrote  of  simple  life  in  the  simplest 
ways.  His  song  was  in  harmony  with  the  great  voice  of  nature.  The 
undercurrent  of  human  love  and  sorrow,  hopes  and  disappointments,  blend 
with  the  humming  of  bees,  the  thrilling  of  birds,  the  plaintive  lowing  of 
cattle,  the  bleating  of  sheep,  the  rippling  of  water,  the  lilt  of  the  peasant 
in  the  fragrant  air.  He  was  a  rustic  minstrel  who  sometimes  touched 
deepest  themes,  and  he  wrote  not  alone  for  Shepherds,  but  for  the  culture 
of  Greece  and  Sicily.  His  rural  idyls  were  the  patterns  for  Virgil's  Eclogues 
and  all  later  pastorals.  When  he  borrowed  from  the  past  of  Greece,  it  was 
to  use  myth  or  legend,  with  which  the  Greek  Colonists  had  peopled  the 
rivers  and  hills  of  Sicily,  with  the  inspiration  which  he  found  in  the  nature 
all  about  him. 


MARY  LOUISE  DUNBAR  269 

The  first  idyl  of  Theocritus  suggests  that  its  form  may  have  been 
>iTowed  from  Greek  dialogue,  and  that  may  look  back  to  the  oriental 
ntiphonal  Chanting  which  was  found  before  his  time  in  Sicilian  Musical 
latches.  The  Shepherd  greets  the  goatherd  in  a  shady  place,  beside  a 
>ring.  'Sweet  is  the  whispering  sound  of  yonder  pine  tree,  goatherd, 
lat  murmureth  by  the  wells  of  water,  and  sweet  are  thy  pipings.'  We  can 
» them  sit  down  'among  the  tamarisks  on  sloping  knoll,  in  face  of  Priapus, 
Y  the  fountain  fairies,  where  the  oak  trees  are.'  The  goatherd  puts  down 
is  primitive  musical  instrument. 

Perhaps  the  wind  by  the  river  first  taught  the  use  of  the  simple  reed, 
nd  from  a  broken  one,  some  one  learned  to  pierce  it  with  holes  by  which 
»dy  fingers  produced  different  notes.  It  had  satisfied  many  a  rural 
lusician  for  ages  before  him,  and  he  knew  that  the  great  God  Pan  could 
eed  no  better.  With  rustic  hospitality  he  offers  the  Shepherd  a  charming 
y  wreathed  cup  full  of  goatsmilk;  a  cup  which  he  tells  him  he  'will  think 
as  been  dipped  in  the  well  spring  of  the  hours.'  Its  decorations  have 
iggestions  of  the  delights  of  woodland  and  sea.  What  a  Sicilian  picture 
I  Andrew  Lang's  rhymthic  prose!  What  would  it  be  in  the  sweet  Dorian 
>eech  ?  The  descriptions  of  the  carving  of  the  cup,  is  too  long  for  a  pastoral 
mg,  says  a  critic.  But  Theocriius  was  hampered  by  no  rules.  Men 
aw  make  rules  from  the  perfection  of  what  he  wrote.  Thyrsis  sings  at 
le  goatherd's  invitation  the  inherited  song  of  the  Greek  rural  hero  Daphnis. 
liat  miracle  of  various  work,  the  cup  carved  with  soft  Acanthus,  is  quaffed 
iree  times  by  the  singer  of  the  magical  chant  of  love  and  grief,  of  violets 
id  beautiful  waters,  and  Daphnis  dying  in  the  hate  of  Aphrodite.  Another 
lyl  with  the  same  form  of  song  and  response  between  love-lorn  Simaetha 
nd  her  handmaid  Thestylis  brings  us  to  a  garden  beneath  a  moonlit  sky, 
here  Simaetha  with  magic  wheel  and  barley  grain,  and  the  knitting  of 
right  red  wool  into  witch  knots,  tries  to  invoke  spells  to  bring  back  her 
andering  lover,  just  as  some  Sicilian  maiden  would  do  today,  perhaps 
ecause  Theocritus  has  here  imprisoned  in  verse  the  superstitions  of  Greece 
id  the  beautiful  island.  But  critics  who  find  Theocritus  affected,  his 
inds  too  sentimental  and  polite  in  their  wooing,  should  remember  that 
le  modem  Greek  goatherds  and  Shepherds,  still  passionate  and  refined, 
ng  in  a  Theocritan  strain  of  flowers,  and  bees,  the  music  of  waters,  che 
?eetness  of  pine  needles  in  some  fragrant  nook;  the  joy  of  existence  in 
inshine  and  soft  winds. 

The  fancy  of  the  Greek  could  still  understand  the  goatherd  who  leaves 
8  flock  on  the  hillsides  and  seeks  to  woo  Amaryllis  in  her  cavern  veiled 
ith  ferns  and  ivy,  and  full  of  the  old  traditions,  uses  the  tale  of  famous 


270  PASTORAL  POETRY 

lovers  of  ancient  Greek  days.  Is  there  anything  new  under  the  sun  ?  since 
then  the  lover  asks :  *  Loves  she :  Loves  she  not/  of  poppy  petals,  just  as  some 
New  England  maiden  might  question  the  magic  of  a  daisy.  The  Sicilian 
offends  the  critics  again  it  may  be»  for  the  pastorals  are  not  all  of  Shepherd 
life.  Sometimes  he  writes  of  simple  fisherman.  Two  herdsmen  who  are 
not  mere  Sikliote  rustics,  sing  of  the  Greek  Cyclops  Polyphemus  and  his 
love  for  Galatea,  in  a  musical  contest. 

Always  the  hinds  of  Theocritus  in  his  early  lines  voice  the  old,  old  story 
which  has  been  told  anew,  yet  the  same  through  the  ages,  that  human  love 
and  longing,  which  in  his  song,  binds  hearts  thai  are  dust,  with  the  loving, 
living  ones  today.  Later,  Theocritus  gave  sketches  of  contemporary  life 
a  little  more  conventional,  of  epithalamiums  chanted  bv  fair  maidens  with 
blooming  hyacinths  in  their  hair;  of  happy  bridegrooms  upon  whom  some 
good  spirits  had  sneezed  out  a  blessing.  The  maidens  'twine  a  wreath 
of  the  lotus  flowers  that  lowly  grow'  and  hang  it  on  a  shadowy  plane  tree, 
which  with  soft  oil  from  a  silver  phial  they  have  dedicated  co  the  bride. 
Sometimes  he  sings  of  poverty,  of  vengeance  and  murder,  discords  in  ihe 
pastoral,  though  through  ihe  songs  there  still  breathes  the  voice  of  nature. 
Perhaps  Theocritus  has  been  in  Alexandria,  and  amid  its  gaities,  its  magnifi- 
cence, luxury,  and  corruption,  has  taken  some  of  the  fever  of  its  life  into  his 
veins.  His  form  is  now  more  of  the  epic,  and  the  Greek  elegy.  At  first 
his  song  bubbles  and  gushes  with  the  freshness  of  the  Spring  Arethusa, 
leaping  from  its  bed  of  snow  into  the  sunlit  air,  which  the  Greek  Colonists 
found  more  than  seven  hundred  years  before  Christ,  near  the  coasi  of  Sicilv. 
It  was  a  spring  famous  for  its  sweetness  and  clearness,  until  one  day  the 
sea  broke  through  the  rocks,  and  mingling  with  its  waters  made  them 
brackish.  Arethusa  still  sparkles  in  its  rocky  Sicilian  bed,  but  its  waters 
are  bitter.     You  cannot  drink  of  it. 

But  on  green  banks,  in  air  scented  with  rose  and  cedar  you  can  still 
take  deep  draughts  from  the  magic,  word  embellished  cup  of  Theocritus, 
filled  with  the  sweetness  of  rural  life  before  the  weary  world  had  added  its 
wormwood  and  gall. 

Greek  movements  have  crumbled,  the  theories  of  its  philosophers 
moulder  to  nothing,  its  old  poets  are  dust,  but  the  loves  and  sorrows  of  its 
shepherds  and  neat  herds,  who  stood  in  the  dewy  grass  of  morning  in  the 
sweet  fields  and  on  the  hills  ages  ago,  through  the  crystal  verse  of  Theo- 
critus have  become  a  part  of  human  life  in  every  clime  and  country. 

Nowhere  else  has  the  transplanted  pastoral  become  so  domesucated 
as  in  England.  Strong  as  was  the  influence  of  Theocritus,  especially  upon 
Spenser,  there  is  no  doubt  that  many  of  the  English  pastorals  were  inspired 


MARY  LOUISE  DUNBAR  271 

some  of  the  imitators  of  the  Sicilian.  Certainly  Sidney  was  influenced  by 
nnazara,  though  his  Arcadia  is  less  artificial  than  the  affected  and  rather 
lipid  poem  of  the  same  name  by  the  Italian  poet.  Lope  de  Vega  gave 
m  and  flavor  to  English  pastorals  later,  but  he  took  his  inspiration  from 
nnazara  rather  than  Theocritus.  The  English  translations  of  Virgil 
lich  in  the  rennaissance  occupied  some  of  the  poets,  no  doubt  were  the 
latest  power  in  bringing  the  pastoral  to  England.  The  rebirth  of  old 
:hitecture  and  its  accompaniment  of  revival  of  classic  literature,  brought 
out  such  wonderful  erudition  as  we  read  of  in  the  nobles  of  the  time, 
Lady  Jane  Grey,  Elizabeth,  and  other  ladies  of  the  Court. 

Virgil,  who  very  nearly  realized  the  ambition  of  his  youth  to  be  the 
ilian  Theocritus,  was  not  a  bad  leader  into  the  field  of  English  pastoral. 
;  certainly  gives  a  Uving  voice  to  the  whole  charm  of  Italy.  But  the  world 
Virgil  was  older  than  that  of  Theocritus,  and  his  song  was  less  fresh  and 
ontaneous.  It  is  no  longer  a  lilc  in  the  early  morning.  The  infinite  sky 
lected  in  the  quiet  bay  was  the  same,  but  the  vines  clung  often  to  ruined 
ills,  though  the  bees  still  sipped  their  blossoms.  Just  such  birds  warble 
Italy,  as  Theocritus  heard  in  Sicily,  but  their  melody  appeals  to  a  mind 
3re  complex  in  quality  and  interest,  moved  profoundly  by  the  deep 
rrents  of  the  changing  world  at  one  of  the  most  critical  epochs  in  the 
story  of  man.  Peasant  girls  who  seem  a  part  of  the  sunshine  and  the 
auty  about  them,  are  like  the  loves  of  Sicilian  Shepherds;  but  they  stand 
the  shadow  of  historic  towers,  and  feel  something  of  the  influence  of  the 
ilse  beat  of  the  great  world  which  is  Rome.  Virgil  brought  to  the  court  of 
jgustus  from  the  green  shade  of  umbrella  pines  in  his  retreat  by  the  Bay 
Naples,  the  peace  of  the  unfathomable  sky,  the  glitter  and  splendor  of 
Iters  studded  with  emerald  and  Amethyst  islands.  He  idealized  the 
und  of  labor  of  the  Italian  peasant.  He  finds  the  brown  of  the  earth 
cher  and  deeper  in  the  ploughman's  furrows.  The  life  of  rustic  toil  is 
orified  by  the  beauty  of  Italy.  With  the  tillage  of  the  fields  is  associated 
le  lore  of  the  constellations,  the  changes  which  form  the  farmer's  calendar, 
he  human  interest  of  such  homely  subjects  as  the  cultivation  of  fields, 
le  rearing  of  flocks,  the  tending  of  bees,  is  in  the  Bucolics,  strengthened 
f  stories  of  the  farmer's  life.  His  Georgics  give  us  the  struggle  of  human 
reneth  with  the  forces  of  nature.  Life  was  more  strenuous  in  Italy  in 
irgil's  time,  than  in  Sicily  three  hundred  years  before. 

Some  of  the  Eclogues  are  purely  pastoral,  but  Virgil  is  no  servile  copyist, 
is  genuine  sentiment  for  nature  animates  whatever  is  imitaave.  In  the 
cond  Eclogue  it  is  true  that  he  takes  the  subject  from  Theocritus.  The 
lepherd  bov  Corvdon,  deeply  enamored  of  Alexis,  a  youth  of  great  beauty, 


272  PASTORAL  POETRY 

sings  under  the  scorching  sun,  and  calls  the  nymphs  to  bring  lilies  to  his 
love,  and  Nais  to  join  violets  and  poppies  to  the  sweet  smelling  dill.  He 
gathers  quinces  hoary  with  tender  down,  chestnuts  which  Amaryllis  loved* 
and  adds  plums  of  waxen  hue  in  the  real  Syracusan  strain.  Even  in  die 
beginning  of  the  fourth  eclogue  the  Sicilian  Muses  are  invoked,  yet  it  is  not 
so  Theocritan  in  character.  Its  stately  monotonous  rhvthm  fits  its  graver 
mood.  Its  ideas  are  derived  from  the  Greek  Golden  Age,  but  as  wdl 
from  the  later  Sibylline  prophesies.  The  great  world  of  Rome  read  between 
the  lines  a  message  from  the  Infinite,  a  prophesy  of  the  coming  Chrisc 
This  sentiment  had  its  origin  savs  Domenico  Camparetti  of  the  University 
of  Florence,  in  the  desire  of  the  Christians  to  assimilate  the  words  of  Virgil 
whom  they  admired,  with  the  ideas  impressed  upon  them  by  the  new  faidi, 
and  to  purify  him  from  what  they  considered  his  only  fault,  the  Pagan 
Spirit. 

Whether  Menalcus  and  Mopsus  celebrate  the  funeral  eulogium  of 
Daphnis;  or  Damon  mourns  the  loss  of  his  mistress;  or  the  charms  of  an 
enchantress  are  recorded ;  or  Gallus  the  martial  sings  of  his  love  for  Cytheria> 
you  feel  in  Virgil's  supreme  power  of  diccion  and  rhythm,  the  hand  of  the 
perfect  artist,  but  the  poetry  of  the  world  does  not  gush  and  ripple  and 
bubble  like  a  sturdy  little  spring  laughing  up  from  the  very  foundations  of 
the  world  as  in  Theocritus.  Afier  the  many  translations  of  Virgil  into 
English  he  was  no  longer  in  the  minds  of  people  the  Magician  superstidon 
had  made  him.  The  knowledge  of  him  and  his  work  helped  them  to  turn 
from  the  fancies  of  the  Middle  Ages  to  observe  and  love  the  beaut\'  all  abouc 
them.  Translated  to  the  colder  North,  the  sentiment  of  the  Sicilian  muse 
found  a  congenial  environment  in  the  beaucy  of  England's  lush  meadows» 
undulating  and  wooded  slopes,  its  old  forests,  its  willow  bordered  water 
courses.  Here  also  were  love  and  youth  and  rustic  wooing  to  which  it  was 
easy  to  link  the  self  abandon  of  an  earlier  time.  There  was  an  enchandng 
beauty  of  the  English  Springtime.  There  were  bleacings  on  the  hilltops 
and  lowings  in  the  vallevs.  The  ploughman's  furrows  laughed  in  rich 
harvests. 

But  the  Shepherds  of  England  in  the  Sixteenth  Century  were  very 
different  from  those  in  Sicily  almost  a  thousand  years  before.  The  real 
English  guardian  of  flocks  was  quite  likely  to  be  a  Saxon  Clown.  Pastoral 
poetry  is  simple,  rustic,  but  not  clounish.  The  singing  of  ancient  shepherds 
was  real  or  imagined,  in  the  leisure  of  a  softer  clime.  They  were  poetf 
then  as  they  are  now.  From  the  very  conditions  a  pastoral  could  no%.  be  so 
spontaneous  in  England,  and  a  poetry  which  is  imitative  must  be  to  some 
extent,  artificial.  Wyattand  Surrey  were  the  pioneers  in  a  new  poetic  life 
in  England. 


MARY  LOUISE  DUNBAR  273 

They  were  professed  imitators  of  Classic  Authors,  but  they  also 
tened  to  Petrarch,  and  their  own  Father  Chaucer,  who  had  no  doubt 
t  the  influence  of  French  songs.  They  really  owed  as  much  to  the 
ifteenth  century  as  to  the  first.  Surrey's  'Complaint  of  a  Dying  Lover' 
save  Henryson's  *Robine  and  Makyne/  the  first  pastoral  poem  in  the 
iglish  language. 

Dreams  of  Shepherd  life  became  a  fashion  of  the  day.  Fancy  dressed 
siything  in  this  rustic  garb.  Spenser  called  Raleigh,  whom  he  would 
nor,  'the  Shepherd  of  the  Ocean.'  When  Sidney  died  be  bewailed  him 
a  Shepherd  and  wrote  of  the  loves  of  Astrophel  and  Stella  in  the  sonnets  of 
Iney,  as  if  they  were  a  pastoral  story  of  rustic  lovers.  Sidney  in  his 
cadia  has  evidently  felt  the  influence  of  Venetian  painters  whom  he  saw, 
well  as  Sannazara,  whom  he  imitated.  In  the  groves,  uplands  and  gentle 
lleys  of  Arcadia  gather  courtly  people.  Brocades,  jewels,  velvets,  sweep- 
5  plumes  animate  the  scene.  It  might  be  a  large  canvas  of  Tintoretto  or 
ronese,  or  a  garden  party  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth,  with  a  dance  of  piping 
epherds  for  entertainment;  for  these  unties  were  likely  to  appear  at  any 
iment,  and  also  were  inclined  to  talk  poetry  and  metaphysics!  There 
no  simple  sentiment,  but  the  atmosphere  of  the  Court  of  pleasing  wit 
d  elegant  compliment. 

It  is  good  to  see,  however,  that  Sindey,  the  soul  of  courtesy,  the  Knight 
ithout  fear  and  without  reproach,'  whose  personal  charm  has  really 
me  down  through  the  ages,  writes  of  a  pure  love. 

It  is  generous,  platonic,  romantic.  In  Spenser  even  more  is  it  a  holy 
ng.  Lover  of  sensuous  beauty  as  he  is  he  has  a  deeper  feeling  for  moral 
auty. 

'  Love  is  Lord  of  truth  and  loalties 

Lifting  himself  out  of  the  lowly  dust. 
On  golden  plumes  up  to  the  purest  skies.' 

His  Shepherd's  Calendar  is  a  dreamy,  tender  pastoral,  yet  the  atmo- 
here  is  that  of  thinkers  and  poets.  Hearts  are  not  as  fresh  and  natural  as 
the  Golden  Age.  There  is  ecstacy  over  the  beauty  of  England,  though 
t  landscape  is  enchanied  with  the  fancy  of  the  poet.  If  Spenser  invokes 
t  Sicilian  muse  in  imitations,  he  is  also  inventive.  His  stanza  was  his 
m  creation.  Ingeniously  he  presents  twelve  eclogues  of  the  Shepherds 
e  in  a  Calendar  of  the  months,  and  so  close  and  loving  is  his  observation 
It  there  is  little  repetition  of  the  phases  of  nature.  His  Shepherds, 
wcvcr,  discourse  of  theology  and  politics  more  than  of  love.  He  writes 
English  Colin  Cloat,  and  has  the  good  sense  to  give  his  pastoral  people 
Iglish  rustic  names  like  Willy  and  Cuddy.     The  poem  is  national  though 


274  PASTORAL  POETRY 

often  inconsistent.     The  court  made  allegory  as  fashionable  in  the  da} 
Elizabeth,  as  the  pastoral  sham. 

Perhaps,  as  has  been  said,  ^an  artifical  style  and  a  grand  harmony^ 
natural  to  Spenser.'  He  never  sings  as  the  birds  sing.  After  him 
poets  of  nature  burst  out  into  melodious  carols.  The  song  penetrate 
like  the  morning  wind  that  has  swept  over  forests  and  fields.  Before 
time  of  the  Normans,  England  with  its  manv  sweet  church  bells  was  ca 
the  ringing-island.  It  might  well  have  been  named  the  singing  islan* 
the  days  of  Elizabeth  and  James.  Very  few  of  the  poets  who  ape 
pastoral  have  the  power  to  enchain  the  interest  of  readers  today,  who 
not  devoted  lovers  of  poetry.  It  is  the  gushing  song  of  nature,  perh 
bubbling  out  of  a  drama  or  an  epic  which  touches  our  hearts.  Who  < 
not  remember  Marlowe's  amorous  shepherds  invitation  'Come  live  wid" 
and  be  my  love,'  and  Raleigh's  half  mocking  reply;  or  the  purely  lyi 
songs  in  Shakespeare's  plays,  with  their  sweet  medley  of  meadow  flov 
bird  songs,  breezes  and  happy  milkmaids  in  the  tranquillity  of  rustic 
There  is  more  pastoral  feeling  in  Shakespeare's  *As  you  like  it,*  thai 
Sidney's  'Arcadia.'  Fletcher's  'Faithful  Shepherdess'  is  best  in  pu 
lyrical  parts.  The  songs  have  grace  and  airy  lightness.  Ben  Johi 
in  his  'Sad  Shepherd'  gives  us  mossy  vistas  in  Sherwood  Forest.  Tl 
is  no  time,  nor  inclination  to  trace  all  the  pastoral  touches  in  English  po 
for  years.  Even  that  'God  gifted  organ  voice  of  England,'  John  Mi 
gave  us  a  Masque  of  pastoral  sweetness  in  rarest  rhythm.  In  *L'Alle 
the  'milkmaid  sings  blythe,'  and  the  shepherd  tells  his  tale.  Nor  can 
note  the  many  essays  in  this  field  of  poetry.  'Britannia's  Pastorals 
William  Brown,  and  the  Shepherd's  Hunting  by  George  Withers  have  o 
excellencies,  as  well  as  the  essentials  of  simplicity,  brevity,  delic 
Thomas  Randolph's  Cotswold  Eclogue  is  one  of  the  best  in  the  langu: 
Herrick's  gift  of  song,  originality,  and  his  loving  eyes  for  rural  bea 
his  interest  in  homely  country  life,  make  the  pastoral  more  at  home 
England,  but  like  Lovelace  and  Suckling  he  sees  nature  on  a  small  sc 

It  is  good  to  get  away  from  the  English  midland  ditches,  to  the  c 
brown  burns  of  the  north  with  Allan  Ramsey.  Scotch  mannerS' 
motives  are  crystallized  in  his  'Gentle  Shepherd.'  You  feel  the  influc 
of  the  songs  and  ballads  of  old  Scotland.  The  beauty  of  earth  and 
are  not  forgotten  in  the  pathos  of  human  joy  and  sorrow.  The  poet  has  i 
Virgil  and  his  English  imitators,  or  he  would  not,  in  the  land  of  the  bagj 
make  lowland  Shepherds  play  upon  flutes  and  reeds;  but  his  verse  pres« 
the  nature  of  the  land,  where  'through  gowany  glens  the  burnies  sti 
and  is  still  a  favorite  among  lowland  reapers  and  milkmaids.     Po 


MARY  LOUISE  DUNBAR  275 

storals  written  when  he  was  only  sixteen  are  very  perfect  artificial  flowers, 
ley  have  the  pure  style  of  the  man  who  'set  his  efforts  to  correctness/ 
5  deplores  the  lyric  measure  of  Spenser  from  his  own  standpoint  of  devotion 
the  rhyhmed  couplet,  and  he  wonders  at  Spenser's  Calendar  of  the  ^Months 
which  nature  is  so  much  alike/  proving  that  Mr.  Alexander  Pope  studied 
ture  from  the  gardens  of  English  villas.  The  violent  little  man  after  an 
irective  against  the  sham  pastoral  of  Ambrose  Phillips  urged  Gay  to  '  paint 
Stic  life  with  the  gilt  off/  and  Gay  found  congenial  work  in  his  'Satire 
on  certain  insipid  young  men.'  He  certainly  cannot  be  charged  with 
loying  sweetness.'  His  shepherds  wear  hob  nailed  shoes,  and  dress  like 
wherds.  His  introduction  to  his  'Right  Simple  Eclogue  essayed  after 
e  too  ancient  guise  of  Theocritus,'  is  sufficiently  sincere.  *Thou  wilt 
t  find  my  Shepherdesses  playing  on  oaten  reeds,  but  milking  the  kine, 
ing  up  the  sheaves,  or  if  the  hogs  are  astray  driving  them  to  their  styes. 
y  Shepherd  sleepeth  not  under  myrtle  shades,  but  under  a  hedge,  nor 
th  he  vigilantly  defend  his  flocks  from  wolves,  for  there  are  none.'  Evi- 
ntly  the  pseudo-Greek  pastoral  was  passing. 

One  might  say  that  it  disappeared,  though  Eighteenth  Century  poets 
^re  still  slavishly  Classic.  For  a  long  time  fancy  had  fastened  itself  to 
e  Past.  It  accomplished  a  picture  of  the  Golden  Age,  of  which  one 
varies,  even  though  it  pressed  into  the  service  of  the  representation  all 
e  beauty  of  England's  landscapes,  the  murmur  of  its  streams,  the  music 
its  woods  and  winds. 

Perhaps  James  Thomson  was  the  first  to  break  the  classic  monotony 
th  a  new  note.  His  fresh  treatment  of  simple  country  life,  his  manly 
id  sincere  love  of  nature,  which  marked  every  detail  of  beauty  or  interest, 
ere  a  welcome  relief  from  poets  who  had  kept  themselves  so  long  remote 
Dm  every  day  life.  Not  only  the  loveliness  of  border  landscape  appealed 
him,  but  the  *  withered  hill  of  March  above  the  moist  meadow.' 

In  the  middle  of  the  Eighteenth  Century  there  was  born  a  singer  in 
x>tland  who  was  to  voice  nature,  as  he  himself  says,  Sn  the  melting  thrill 
id  kindling  fire'  of  the  song  which  burned  its  way  into  all  hearts.  Daily 
e  and  humble  duty  were  no  longer  common.  With  pathos  and  power 
obert  Burns  gave  to  manhood  its  dignity  and  possibilities.  His  genuis 
ished  to  the  world  the  intensest  feeling  of  a  passionate  heart.  All  the 
auty  of  the  world  poured  forth  in  a  flood  of  liquid  harmony,  sweeping 
ray  all  Classic  bounds. 

But  the  real  interpreter  of  English  nature  stood  at  the  beginning  of  the 
ineteenth  Century.  Not  only  did  he  'look  upon  the  hills  with  tenderness,' 
id  make  dear  friendship  with  the  streams,  groves  and  moors  of  his  West- 
>reland  home,  but  he  loved  the  very  humblest  of  his  fellow  men. 


276  PASTORAL  POETRY 

'Love  had  he  found  in  huts  where  poor  men  lie; 

His  daily  teachers  had  been  woods  and  rills. 
The  silence  that  is  in  the  starry  sky 

The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills/ 
To  him 

*The  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears/ 
Simple  and  childlike,  yet  free  and  fearless  as  the  Westmoreland  win 
with  a  deep  sympathy  for  shy  daffodils  and  daisies,  the  rustic  beauty  oft 
hedgerows  and  the  life  of  the  dalesman's  cottage,  he  was  intense  in  wild 
grander  moods. 

Another  Hebrew  he,  who,  like  the  one  of  old,  felt  an  unseen  prcsei 
in  nature. 

To  him  the  beauty  and  glory  of  the  world  in  his  little  mountain  nook, 
abroad  in  other  lands  was  an  expression  of  the  thought  of  God.  In  wo 
on  mountain  top  by  the  murmuring  Rothap,  or  under  the  solemn  eam 
stars,  he  was  in  the  very  presence  chamber  of  the  Infinite. 

Wordsworth,  was  the  right  interpreter  to  Englishmen  of  rural  Englai 
which  artistic  paganism  could  never  express.     Matthew  Arnold  says: 

He  found  us  when  the  Age  had  bound 
Our  souls  in  its  benumbing  round: 
He  spoke  and  loosed  our  hearts  in  tears, 
He  laid  us  as  we  laid  at  birth 
On  the  cool  flowery  lap  of  earth. 


*Our  foreheads  felt  the  wind  and  rain. 

Our  youth  returned:  .  .  . 
The  freshness  of  the  early  world.* 


THE  GOLDEN  BOUGH 

By  Edith  M.  Thomas 
A  mortal  maiden  to  Persephone^  while  descending  to  Avemus 

Cora  Persephone,  Goddess,  hearken  to  me! 
Give  me  an  entrance  into  thy  realm  beyond  sight! 
K)me  with  a  sign  from  Demeter,  thy  mother,  to  thee  — 
Yet,  I  come  for  myself,  seeking  Light  in  the  gift  of  the  Night. 

>r  lo!  when,  in  Enna,  of  thee  stem  Pluto  made  theft, 
My  love, —  a  young  shepherd,  was  grazing  his  flock,  unaware; 
id  he,  when  the  dumb,  stricken  earth  was  shaken  and  cleft, — 
Engulfed  by  thy  passing,  he,  too,  lost  the  light  and  the  air! 

ice,  on  the  earth,  has  my  day  darkened  down  in  its  mom, 
^d  the  hopes  of  the  summer  hath  frost  in  the  springtime  foredone 
ice  the  soul  of  my  soul  to  the  Kingdom  Unseen  hath  been  bome, 
[  seek  there  my  Light  more  dear  than  the  mortal-loved  sun! 

lou,  the  bereft, —  the  bereaver,  bring  I  to  thee 

This  bough,  all  golden,  from  woodlands  silent  with  gold!  — 

10U  hast  seen  the  faint  mist  of  the  leaf-buds  on  thicket  and  tree. 

But  the  grace  of  the  ripening  year  didst  never  behold! 

^r  this  hath  thy  sorrowing  mother  full  often  made  moan, 

As  she  sat  by  the  sheaves,  her  fair  head  buried  deep  in  her  hands: 

l^nt  to  me  only  in  springtime,  she  never  hath  known 

The  splendor  and  grief  chat  are  mine  in  these  harvest-bright  lands! 

ill  lifting  her  voice  (made  one  with  the  sighings  that  stir 
Through  sheaves,  ungathered,  amidst  some  desolate  field), 
^esaith,  "Who  will  carry  this  bough,  all  golden,  to  her. 
That  thus,  may  the  wealth  of  my  passioning  heart  be  revealed  ? 

Whoso  the  Realm  of  The  Shades  will  descend  with  my  gift. 
My  Sweet  One,  receiving,  will  surely,  the  bringer  requite; 

^  whoso  descendeth,  perchance,  not  again  shall  uplift 
A  welcoming  face  to  the  wide-raying,  mortal-lov'd  light!" 


278  THE  LADY  OF  TRIPOLI 

I  heard.     And,  leaving  all  those  that  sickle  or  glean, 

I  came  where  thy  mother  sat,  dread  in  her  grief,  and  besought  — 

"Give  me  thy  token,  to  bear  to  the  Kingdom  Unseen; 

For  wing'd  are  my  feet  with  desire,  and  of  fear  have  I  nought!*'  .  . 

Thus,  in  thy  hands  the  bough,  all  golden,  I  place. — 

Queen  of  the  Under-World,  give  the  reward  that  is  mine: 
Lift,  out  of  slumber  lethean,  one  only-loved  face. 
Whose  eyes  with  remembrance,  though  but  for  one  moment,  shall  shi 


THE  LADY  OF  TRIPOLI 

By  Curtis  Hidden  Page 
To  Geoffrey  Rudel 

Poet  far  across  the  seas^  my  poet^ 

I  have  heard  your  songs  of  adoration 

Brought  by  pilgrims  from  the  distant  country  — 
/  have  heardy  and  bowed  before  your  worships 
Bowed  before  Lovers  selfy  the  bright  divine  one. 

Not  to  me  those  songs  that  you  have  chanted  — 
Tou  have  loved  Lovers  selfy  and  sung  his  praises^ 
Lovey  O  Lovey  the  wine  of  God's  own  chalice y 
Lovey  O  LovCy  the  broken  bread  we  feed  on. 

Yet  to  me  you  sung  those  songs  of  Love's  selfy 
Even  of  me  you  thought  when  you  were  singings 
Even  to  me  you  sent  your  soul  in  music 
Over  the  far  waterSy  O  my  poet. 

You  have  throned  me  far  above  my  queenshipy 

You  have  crowned  mCy  who  so  crowned  of  women!  — 
You  have  shrined  mCy  to  myself  made  holy. 

If  you  knew  —  ahy  this  is  all  my  answer  — 

Would  that  you  might  knowy  might  know  it  sometime! 


CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE  279 

//  /  could  but  tell  you^  tell  you  somehow  — 
Not  in  song  —  /  ask  not  that  high  warrant  — 
Not  in  songf  but  in  this  simple  speakings 
Poet'kingf  that  I  am  Queen  and  woman  .  .  . 
/  am  woman,  and  the  woman  loves  you. 

Poet'king,  for  you  my  state  is  Queenly; 
I  am  beautiful  —  for  you,  my  poet; 
Priest  of  Love,  for  you  I  Keep  me  holy. 

Tet  in  dreams  I  must  leave  throne  and  altar. 
Wander  in  our  Eastern  gardens,  languorous. 
Whisper  to  the  lilies  **Now  I  love  him**  .  •  • 

/  am  beautiful  —  for  you,  my  lover; 
I  am  like  our  lilies,  faint  with  longing; 
I  am  like  the  roses,  fragrant,  fragrant  .  .  . 
/  am  like  your  violets,  waiting,  waiting. 

Till  you  come  .  .  . 

And  yet  one  hope  is  dearer  — 

//  /  might  —  oh  if  I  might  step  downward, 

Down  along  the  many  throne-steps,  toward  you  — 
Down  from  out  your  altar  s  incense,  toward  you  — 
Somehow  pass  the  long  dividing  waters 

And  come  forward,  upward,  to  you  waiting  — 
That  were  best,  the  best  of  all,  my  poet  .  •  . 
That  were  best,  the  best  of  all,  my  lover. 

Tou  should  take  me,  own  me,  change  me  over 
To  the  image  of  your  thought  and  longing. 
And  should  grant  me  one  desire,  one  only  — 

Tou  should  let  me  sit  down  on  your  foot^stool. 
Rest  my  head  against  your  knees,  look  upward, 
—  /  your  princess,  I  your  Eastern  princess  — 
And  sometimes  your  hand  should  cool  my  forehead 
And  your  lips  should  touch  my  hair,  so  softly  .  .  . 
Then  should  I  be  throned  and  crowned  forever^ 
0  my  poet'king,  my  poet4over. 


THE  GERMAN   BOOK  WORLD 

By  Amelia  von  Ende 

IT  is  curious  to  observe  how  the  creative  and  the  critical  forces  in 
the  world  of  letters  alternate  in  inverse  ratio.  As  soon  as  the 
former  spends  itself,  the  latter  steps  in  to  plough  and  plant  and 
about  the  possibilities  of  the  next  crop.  They  follow  as  regularly 
as  the  weed,  to  prepare  the  soil  for  the  new  harvest  and  to  utter 
prophesies  farmer's  seasons. 

Germany  seems  to  have  reached  the  stage  when  the  creative 
impetus  of  the  century's  end  has  been  exhausted  and  the  critical  reaction 
once  more  asserts  itself.  The  new  school  is  being  admitted  into  the 
histories  of  German  literature  and  has  become  the  subject  of  numerous 
critical  monographs.  In  the  third  and  revised  edition  of  Dr.  Richard 
M.  Meyer's  'Deutsche  Literaturgeschichte  des  19,  Jahrunderts'  (Georg 
Bondi,  Berlin),  there  are  few  omissions  from  the  long  list  of  contemporary 
writers;  it  is  as  inclusive  as  it  is  impartial.  The  grouping  may  not  always 
be  natural,  following  the  law  of  growth  from  within  outward,  nor  the 
sequence  logical.  But  a  historian  of  the  present  does  not  command  the 
distance  needed  to  see  contemporary  objects  in  correct  perspective.  That 
the  moderns  are  noticed  at  all,  before  time  has  assigned  to  them  their  per- 
manent place  in  the  Hterature  of  their  country,  is  cause  enough  for  rejoicing; 
for  it  is  a  significant  deviation  from  the  iron  rule,  a  triumph  the  living 
may  be  proud  of. 

In  his  'Gestalten  und  Probleme'  (Georg  Bondi,  Berlin),  the  same 
author  also  displays  a  sane  and  just  appreciation  of  phenomena  which  hardly 
bear  the  stamp  of  academic  approval.  Among  the  many  interesting  papers 
collected  under  that  title,  none  is  more  fascinating  than  that  on  Bogumil 
Goltz,  the  most  brilliant  exponent  of  the  'classical  ruffianism,'  of  which 
Laurence  Sterne  was  a  British  example.  But  in  reality  the  intellectual 
'Grobian'  is  as  much  indigenous  to  the  Teuton  soil  of  all  periods  as  the 
*  Berserker'  to  its  remote  past.  As  an  exemplar  of  that  type,  Goltz  was 
a  figure  occupying  a  unique  position  among  his  contemporaries  and  one 
deserving  of  being  remembered.  There  is  a  sympathetic  study  of  Theodor 
Fontane,  who  formed  a  link  between  the  old  and  the  new  school. 
There  is  also  a  tribute  to  Nietzsche,  who  is  credited  not  only  with  indel- 
ibly pressing  the  stamp  of  his  individualism  upon  the  modern  German  soul, 
but  also  with   changing   the   values    of  the   German    tongue.     No   man 


AMELIA  VON  ENDE  281 

^olutionized  German  prose  style  more  thoroughly  than  Nietzsche.  The 
bject  matter  of  these  papers  is  of  wide  range  and  they  are  loosely  grouped 
ider  headings  like  *  Romanticism,'  *  Transition/  *  New  Tendencies.' 

Of  the  numerous  monographs  published  recently  none  are  more  satis- 
ctory  both  as  to  substance  and  form,  than  the  little  volumes  brought 
It  by  Bard,  Marquardt  &  Co.,  Berlin,  under  the  collective  title  'Die 
iteratur,'  with  Georg  Brandes  as  editor  of  the  series.  In  topography, 
ustration  and  binding  they  are  exquisite  specimens  of  modern  German 
x>k-making.  One  of  the  most  recent  additions  is  a  double  volume, 
)ie  deutsche  Dichtung  seit  Heinrich  Heine'  by  Karl  Henckell.  It 
»mbines  the  features  of  a  historical  and  critical  review  with  those  of  an 
ithology;  for  the  estimate  of  the  poets  is  accompanied  by  numerous 
:amples  of  their  verse  embodied  in  the  text.  Thoroughly  familiar  and  in 
mpathy  with  his  subject,  Henckell  begins  with  Platen,  whom  he  calls 
sword-bearer  of  beauty,  and  passes  in  review  all  the  most  striking  figures 

German  verse  until  he  reaches  the  present  time  and  closes  with  an 
>preciation  of  Richard  Schaukal.  Himself  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  new 
hool,  Henckell  has  long  outgrown  its  limitations  and  proves  himself 
critic  of  mature  judgment  and  taste.     Only  his  language  partakes  of  some 

the  distinct  characteristics  of  the  group,  known  as  Young  Germany 
•day;  he  shares  with  his  colleagues  a  tendency  toward  far-fetched  imagery 
id  impressionistic  word-craft.  Nevertheless  the  picture  which  he  draws 
"  the  development  of  German  poetry  within  the  last  half  century,  is  clear 
id  many  of  the  portraits  which  he  limns  stand  out  in  bold  relief.  Heinrich 
euthold,  Heinrich  von  Reder,  Peter  Hille,  Richard  Dehmel,  Riehard 
rhaukal  and  some  others  have  never  before  been  as  strongly  and  sympa- 
lerically  characterized.  Among  the  illustrations  there  are  some  gems  and 
\e  facsimiles  also  add  to  the  interest  of  the  book. 

In  another  volume  of  the  series,  'Das  Nibelungenlied,'  Max  Burckhard 
ves  a  history  of  the  stories  of  Siegfried  and  Chriemhild,  Gunter  and  Brun- 
ild,  as  they  have  at  various  times  appeared  in  German  poetry,  either  in 
>ic  or  dramatic  form,  until  the  genius  of  Richard  Wagner  combined  the 
>d-myths  and  the  hero-lore  of  his  country  in  his  monumental  music 
rama  *Der  Ring  des  Nibelungen'  and  made  clear  the  eternally  human 
eaning  of  the  old  Sagas.  It  is  very  interesting  to  look  back  upon  the 
lomed  Siegfried'  of  Hans  Sachs  and  to  compare  Fouquee's  'Sigurd  der 
rhlangentoedter'  and  Raupach's  'Nibelungenhort'  with  later  works  on 
e  same  subject.  Raupach's  play  held  the  boards  of  the  Burgtheater  in 
ienna  as  late  as  the  year  1857,  and  for  a  long  time  prevented  Hebbel 
>fn  seeing  his  Nibelungen  performed.     Burckhard  does  not  think  much 


282  THE  GERMAN  BOOK  WORLD 

of  the  epic  version  by  Wilhelm  Jordan,  who  had  attempted  to  trace  the  ideas 
of  modern  Germany  to  the  source  of  the  old  Sagas  and  committed  maiqr 
anachronisms  in  the  effort.  He  also  censures  Jordan's  language,  both  for 
frequent  lapses  into  prose  and  platitude  and  for  its  affectations.  The  book 
has  a  bibliography  and  a  number  of  reproductions  of  wood-cuts  and  fac- 
similes from  old  editions  of  the  'Nibelungenlied.' 

A  little  volume  in  the  series,  called  'Die  Kultur'  and  edited  by  Dr. 
Cornelius  Gurlitt,  is  called  'Kant  und  Goethe'  and  is  an  interesting  studj 
of  their  relative  philosophy  by  Georg  Simmel.  Goethe's  monism  is  clea^ 
demonstrated  in  this  comparison  of  the  two  men.  While  Kant  is  occupied 
with  the  development  of  an  analytic  condition,  Goethe  devotes  himseUf  to 
a  synthetic  condition.  Goethe  stands  on  the  platform  of  undifferentiated 
unity,  which  is  the  starting-point  of  all  intellectual  movements;  Kant 
emphasizes  the  duality  into  which  this  unity  has  diverged. 

Almost  simultaneously  with  the  appearance  of  the  first  English  trans- 
lation of  Max  Stirner's  *Einzige  und  sem  Eigentum'  in  this  country  —  'The 
Ego  and  His  Own,'  translated  by  Steven  T.  Byington  (Benj.  R.  Tucker, 
New  York),  there  has  been  published  in  *  Die  Literatur'  a  brief  appreciadon 
of  Max  S timer  by  Max  Messer.  As  the  translator  may  have  struggled 
to  render  in  English  the  title  of  that  book,  so  Stirner  himself  according  to 
Messer  did  not  at  once  find  the  terms  to  suit  his  ideas.  Three  years  before 
the  appearance  of  his  great  work,  he  had  suggested  its  outlines  in  an  essaj 
on  Humanism  and  Religion,  in  which  he  called  'Der  Einzige'  'Der  Sitt- 
liche.'  Later  he  wavered  between  *  egotist'  and  '  personalist.'  The  trans- 
lator's choice  of  'The  Ego'  seems  very  happy.  Messer's  sympathetic 
estimate  of  the  philosopher,  whose  influence  upon  modern  German  thou^t 
is  rivalling  that  of  Nietzsche,  may  be  of  great  value  as  an  ijitroduction  to 
the  work  now  before  the  English-reading  world. 

There  is  a  breath  of  the  spirit  of  both,  Stirner  and  Nietzsche,  in  the 
poetry  of  Young  Germany.  They  strengthened  and  deepened  the  indi- 
vidualistic tendencies  of  the  time.  In  the  poetry  of  John  Henry  Mackay, 
to  whom  we  owe  the  re-discovery  of  Stirner,  of  Evers,  Dehmel,  and  others 
the  influence  of  those  master  minds  is  unmistakable.  Even  in  the  verse 
of  Karl  Henckell,  who  is  too  much  of  an  artist  to  burden  his  poetry  with 
philosophy,  there  is  an  occasional  suggestion  of  the  deep  underlying 
current  of  modern  thought,  which  in  Germany  means  a  reading  of  life  based 
upon  the  rights  of  the  ego.  In  Henckell's  latest  volume  of  verse,  'Schwin- 
gungen'  (Bard,  Marquardt  &  Co.,  Berlin),  this  is  mellowed  into  a  glad 
consciousness  of  self.  Henckell  is  a  poet  of  great  latitude.  His  lyre  has 
many  strings.    There  is  no  phase  of  life  that  he  does  not  embrace  with 


AMELIA  VON  ENDE  283 

npathetic  understanding.  He  spreads  before  the  reader  a  panorama  of 
nderful  images  and  calls  forth  in  the  soul  a  manifold  echo.  He  invests 
ture  with  a  fanciful  symbolism,  sometimes  clarified  into  the  dreamy 
enity  of  a  genuine  *Maerchen*  mood.  'Morgen  und  Abend  im  Walde' 
I  gem  in  sentiment  and  atmosphere.  '  Auf  Ruegen'  is  a  wreath  of  sonnets 
a  wide  variety  of  moods.  There  is  a  strong  personal  note  in  the  verse  of 
^nckelly  and  it  rings  clear  and  true.  There  are  also  some  exqusite 
mslations  of  poems  by  Verhaeren  and  Ada  Negri. 

Carl  Spitteler  is  a  unique  personality  among  the  lyric  poets  of  Germany, 
s  humor  is  more  grim  than  genial,  his  wit  more  mordant  than  brilliant; 
;  skepticism  is  apt  to  find  expression  in  bitter  sarcasm.  Yet  there  is 
pecuUar  charm  in  his  poetry,  a  certain  intellectual  fascination  hard  to 
fine.  Perhaps  it  is  the  intensity  of  his  individualism.  Spitteler  never 
cx)se8  the  broad  highway,  if  he  can  see  a  hidden  path  leading  to  the  same 
al.  He  calls  his  latest  volume  of  verse  '  Extramundana '  (Eugen  Diede- 
ihsy  Leipsic),  'cosmic'  poems,  and  indeed  they  are  of  universal  meaning. 
t  does  not  as  in  old  myths  offer  solution  for  the  problems  of  life,  but 
poetical  conception  thereof.  His  style  has  strength,  preciseness  and 
nplid^.  Though  the  decorative  element  is  absent  from  his  verse,  there 
music  in  it — the  rhythm  of  thought  and  word.  Every  line  is  fraught  with 
waning  and  in  the  images  which  elucidate  this  meaning  the  poet  draws 
on  many  sources  —  nature,  science,  art,  mythology. 

Albeit  Geiger's  poetry  is  of  quite  another  quality.  He  does  not  stand 
x>f  and  criticise  the  world,  like  Spitteler,  but  he  embraces  it  with  that 
eat  love  of  nature  which  is  identical  with  love  of  life.  There  is  nothing 
iUiant  in  the  world  of  Geiger's  ideas  and  images.  He  impresses  chiefly 
rough  breadth  of  line  and  delicacy  of  color,  and  a  rare  warmth  of  feeling, 
lich  he  communicates  to  his  readers.  As  he  sees  in  love  the  source  and 
t  essence  of  life,  so  he  sees  in  beauty  the  only  salvation  from  sorrow. 

'Even  thou,  my  heart. 

Must  weary  of  thy  grief; 

Bid  fall  asleep  thy  pain, 

Banish  thy  specter  train, 

And  but  into  the  peaceful  blue 

Eyes  of  beauty  thou  shalt  ever  gaze.' 
his  is  a  typical  Geiger  mood,  tender,  serene,  earnest.  The  line  of  his 
letical  evolution  begins  with  love  of  nature  and  culminates  in  the  love  of 
an  and  woman.  After  the  lyrical  preludes  in  the  volume  entitled  *  Duft, 
irbe.  Ton'  (J.  Bielefeld,  Karlsruhe),  his  'Tristan,'  a  love  drama  in  two 
iitSy  poetic  in  conception  and  diction,  dignified,  yet  playable,  is  a  remarkable 
Mevement. 


284  THE  GERMAN  BOOK  WORLD 

Theodor  Suse  is  recently  attracting  attention.  He  can  be  characterized 
as  a  modern  Minnesinger,  whose  poetry  has  all  the  purity  and  dignity,  the 
sweetness  and  the  simplicity  of  a  remote  past,  when  men  saw  reality  through 
the  lens  of  romance  and  the  images  created  by  their  intellect  were  quickened 
into  life  by  the  strong  beat  of  their  own  hearts.  In  the  world  of  Suse  senti- 
ment ever  triumphs  over  reason.  He  has  a  wonderful  sense  of  form  and 
his  verse  has  that  quality  of  melody,  which  invites  the  composer  to  translate 
his  words  into  music.  Like  Geiger  he  infuses  new  Hfe  into  old  myths,  as 
in  his  *MerHn-Salome-Pygmalion'  (S.  Hirzel,  Leipzig). 

Christian  Morgenstern's  'Melancholic'  (Bruno  Cassirer,  Berlin)  is 
a  book  of  lyrics  of  deep,  rich  mellowness  in  tone  and  color,  vibrating  with 
a  serenity  of  rhythm  remotely  suggesting  Goethe.  But  with  all  its  noble 
dignity  and  harmony,  the  poetry  of  Morgenstern  lacks  spontaneity;  it  is 
too  evidently  a  product  of  conscious  and  conscientious  labor;  the  poet 
trimmed  and  smoothed  out  all  the  creases  of  the  creative  process  before  he 
sent  his  book  into  the  world.     It  lacks  the  freshness  of  a  new  arrival. 

Georg  Sylvester  Viereck  has  added  a  few  poems  to  the  volume  pub- 
lished three  years  ago  and  calls  his  new  book  'Niniveh  und  andere  Gedichte' 
(J.  G.  Cotta,  Stuttgart).  Niniveh  stands  for  New  York.  In  its  magnitude 
and  its  magnificence,  its  wealth  and  its  vice  the  poet  sees  a  reincarnation 
of  Babylon.  He  succeeds  in  conveying  a  very  picturesque  and  vivid  impres- 
sion of  the  modern  metropolis;  but  it  betrays  the  limitations  of  his  vision. 
He  dwells  only  upon  one  side  of  its  life,  the  mad  chase  for  lust;  for  the 
other  side,  the  brave  struggle  for  bread,  he  has  not  a  word.  Otherwise 
so  alert  in  tracing  the  trend  of  time,  it  is  surprising  that  he  has  evidently  no 
interest  or  no  understanding  for  what  is  after  all  the  most  striking  trait 
of  the  modern  metropolis,  the  strenuous  struggle  for  mere  existence,  in  which 
its  millions  are  engaged.  The  absence  of  a  new  note  either  in  the  direction 
of  the  widening  of  his  horizon  or  the  deepening  of  his  sentiment,  is  to  be 
regretted,  for  it  proves  that  he  has  not  surpassed  his  first  truly  remarkable 
book.  Of  the  minor  poems  in  the  volume  not  included  in  the  first  'Ave 
Venus  Triumphatrix'  and  'Fruehlingssegen'  contain  images  of  great 
beauty,  but  are  too  labored  to  ring  true. 

Few  poets  nowadays  choose  the  epic  form.  One  of  the  most  remark- 
able efforts  in  this  line  is  the  *  Jesus*  by  Hermann  KroepeHn  of  Malchow, 
published  by  the  author.  The  poem  is  a  series  of  pictures  revealing  a  soul, 
the  soul  of  Jesus,  and  conveys  a  portrait,  which  if  not  historically  true, 
is  psychologically  probable  and  therefore  humanly  convincing.  The  poet 
shows  Jesus  grappling  with  the  problem  of  his  individual  mission,  striving 
for  peace  and  harmony  in  a  world  of  strife  and  discord.     He  pictures  Jesus 


AMELIA  VON  ENDE  285 

unconsciously  working  out  his  own  and  the  salvation  of  mankind,  as  if 
ived  by  an  unknown  power  pursuing  a  lofty  aim  in  the  evolution  of  man. 
lere  is  great  strength  in  the  conception  of  the  subject  and  warmth  and 
Tipathy  in  its  presentation. 

Two  Christ  dramas  have  also  been  published.  Karl  Weiser's  *  Jesus' 
h,  Redam,  Leipzig)  is  in  four  parts:  *  Herod/  'The  Baptist/  'The  Savior/ 
he  Passion.'  The  first  and  the  second  parts  are  the  strongest;  there 
;  poet  could  freely  shape  his  character;  but  where  Christ  appears  as  he  is 
own  to  us  by  the  gospels,  the  author's  strength  failed  him.  Jesus  is 
lero  of  the  living  word,  not  of  action,  therefore  not  a  dramatic  hero,  and 
sry  attempt  at  making  a  play  of  His  Hfe,  must  necessarily  fall  short  of  the 
et's  intentions.  Another  Christ  play,  *Das  Ewige'  by  Max  Semper 
gon  Fleischel  &  Co.,  Berlin)  is  in  two  parts,  of  which  only  the  first, 
he  Sacrifice,'  is  published.  This  drama,  too,  is  of  noble  conception  and 
th  in  its  proportions  and  its  diction  has  something  of  the  dignity  of  an 
itorio  rather  than  a  drama.  The  note  which  vibrates  through  this  work 
a  deep  resonant  organ  chord. 

Dramatic  production  has  received  much  encouragement  from  the 
waters  during  the  past  months;  but  although  plays  by  some  of  the  men 
ist  prominent  in  German  letters  today  were  produced,  not  one  of  them 
>ved  a  really  great  achievement.  Detlev  von  Liliencron's  *Knut  der 
;rr*  (Schuster  &  Loeffler,  Berlin),  written  twenty  years  ago,  corroborated 
t  impression  made  by  a  reading  of  the  book,  that  the  poet  presents  in  it 
series  of  intensely  dramatic  ballads  —  'Ballade'  in  the  German  sense  of 
t  word  —  upon  a  background  of  picturesquely  historical  atmosphere, 
t  fails  to  weld  them  into  a  structure  of  firm  dramatic  unity.  Ludwig 
Ida  calls  'Der  heimliche  Koenig'  a  romantic  comedy  and  it  has  indeed 
J  poetic  charm  of  a  '  Maerchen'  play.  But  the  success  with  the  audience 
s  not  so  much  due  to  the  literary  quality  of  the  play,  its  fluent  verse  and 
admirable  construction,  as  to  the  meaning  underlying  the  story.  It  is 
nild  satire  upon  royal  power,  cleverly  trifling  with  a  moderate  liberalism, 
t  daring  enough  to  create  something  of  a  sensation,  but  not  daring  enough 
convince  of  its  sincerity.  The  triangular  relation  between  the  royal 
rionette,  the  very  human  consort  and  the  bucolic  paramour,  has  an 
ment  of  opera  bouffe  in  it  which  did  not  fail  to  produce  its  eflPect. 

Frank  Wedekind,  poet,  actor  and  manager,  wrote  a  play  some  years 

»,  *  Fruehlings  Erwachen'  (Albert  Langen,  Munich),  which  was  recently 

formed  in  Berlin.     The  first  two  acts,  picturing  the  awakening  of  the 

instinct  in  young  people  growing  up  in  the  metropolis,  are  a  human 

ument  of  vital  importance,  treating  the  diflicult  problem  with  a  dignified 


286  THE  GERMAN  BOOK  WORLD 

pathos  and  convincing  realism.  But  in  the  third  act,  the  later  Wed< 
makes  his  entrance  with  the  knowing  grin  of  the  cynic  only  too  well  ki 
from  his  recent  works,  and  the  final  impression  left  by  the  play  is  decit 
unpleasant.  Hermann  Bahr,  the  facile  theorist  and  technician  oi 
moderns,  achieved  no  little  success  with  'Der  arme  Narr'  and  suf 
a  dismal  failure  with  his  '  Ringelspiel.'  The  first  play  has  an  interc 
conflict,  suggesting  the  basic  idea  in  d'Annunzio's  'Lazarus.'  Two 
are  placed  in  contrast,  that  of  a  musician,  who  after  a  life  ruled  by  the  s< 
and  by  his  erratic  impulses,  drifts  into  insanity,  and  that  of  his  brc 
a  man  of  stern  principles,  who  looks  upon  the  other's  defection  with  the 
satisfied  superciliousness  of  the  righteous.  But  the  musician's  chik 
joy  of  life  and  trust  in  man  make  the  man  of  duty  feel  that  after  all  h 
been  a  fool  to  go  through  life  without  joy  or  love.  The  play  is  well 
structed  and  the  characters  splendidly  protrayed.  Some  of  Paul  Scherl 
dramatical  grotesques  have  been  produced  and  in  spite  of  their  exotic  I 
found  favor  with  the  audience,  which  was  not  slow  in  discovering  their 
human  meaning.  The  scene  of  'Das  dumme  Luder'  is  the  p 
Jupiter;  that  of 'Der  Schornsteinfeger,'  a  satire  upon  European  civiliz 
and  the  custom  of  duelling  is  Constantinople.  There  was  also  a  pol 
play,  *  Der  Regierungswechsel,'  and  a  pathetic  tragedy,  *  Der  Herr  Kam 
diener  Kneetschke.' 

Georg  Hirschfeld,  hke  his  master,  Gerhart  Hauptmann,  is  v 
endeavoring  to  rise  to  the  standard  of  his  early  achievements  and  turns 
tragedy  to  comedy  to  court  success.  But  the  lack  of  genuine  humor  i 
apparent  in  both;  they  are  the  sad  children  of  a  sad  age.  Hirschfeld  < 
a  theme  in  his'Mieze  und  Maria,'  the  dramatic  possibilities  whereof 
not  yet  been  exhausted;  he  attempted  to  parodize  the  life  of  leisui 
aesthetic  lines,  which  is  aflPected  by  a  class  of  moderns  not  neces: 
intellectual.  In  the  artistic  Grunewald  villa  of  the  Weisachs,  life  is  a 
phony  of  form,  color,  and  tone  in  which  the  people  appear  as  Leitm< 
Into  this  world,  which  is  more  the  creation  of  the  stage  manager  and  pro 
man  than  of  the  poet,  Hirschfeld  by  way  of  contrast  introduces  a  po 
Berlin  type,  the  precocious  daughter  of  the  tenements  with  all  the  b 
frankness  and  common  sense  of  her  class.  Mieze  Hempel  is  the  illegiti 
child  of  the  aesthetic  hero  and  is  speedily  adopted  by  the  childless  i 
mental  wife.  Mieze  is  named  Maria  and  her  aesthetical  education  not 
gives  rise  to  many  ludicrous  episodes,  but  awakens  in  the  foster-pa 
human  instincts  that  had  long  been  slumbering.  When  the  girl  who  p 
not  easily  amenable  to  a  life  of  culture,  leaves  the  villa,  where  as  she 
she  has  only  been  a  piece  of  furniture,  the  play  ends  with  the  prosp< 


AMELIA  VON  ENDE  287 

egidmate  heir  —  or  heiress  —  to  the  aesthetic  house.  Too  much  bur- 
ned with  ideas,  that  demand  being  aired,  Hirschfeld  has  marred  the  simple 
es  of  this  comedy  by  the  introduction  of  philosophical  reflections,  critical 
narks  and  words  of  prophesy  and  his  desire  to  be  taken  seriously  even  in 
medy  works  his  defection. 

But  the  most  pathetic  spectacle  in  the  German  theatrical  world  was 
e  utter  failure  of  Gerhart  Hauptmann's  comedy  'Die  Jungfern  vom 
schofsberg'  (S.  Fischer,  Berlin).  Whether  it  is  the  ambition  of  the  artist, 
ilivious  of  his  limitations,  confident  of  being  able  to  rise  to  another  climax, 

whether  it  is  the  financial  necessity  of  a  man,  who  has  for  some  years 
ijoyed  a  large  income  from  royalties  and  suddenly  realizes  its  decrease, 
hich  drives  him  to  over-production  —  the  fact,  that  Hauptmann  gives 
"oof  upon  proof  of  his  declining  power  can  no  longer  be  denied  even  by 
8  warmest  admirers.  It  is  really  painful  to  see  him  struggling  in  every 
sw  work  with  the  sterility  which  has  set  in  and  which  he  seems  unable  to 
rercome.  There  is  a  discord  in  the  world  of  his  ideas,  ever  disturbing 
le  harmony  which  is  the  basic  principle  of  art.  Contrasts  which  his  inner 
eling  cannot  reconcile  crowd  upon  his  vision  and  his  creative  genius  fails 
I  supply  the  connecting  link.  The  dreamer  and  the  reasoner  are  in  silent 
mtroversy,  the  former  with  eyes  turned  upward  to  ideal  heights,  the  latter 
ith  an  eye  riveted  upon  the  box  office,  and  the  audience  feels  the  unworded 
ipute  and  turns  away  disappointed  and  offended.  The  happy  union  of 
dity  and  romance  in  'Hannele'  was  one  of  those  master  strokes  which 
innot  be  repeated.  It  seems  strange  that  Hauptmann  should  persist  in 
tempting  it  again  and  again.     For  it  is  this  same  problem  which  he  presents 

his  comedy. 

Into  the  home  of  the  maidens  on  the  Bischofsberg,  each  an  ideal  of 
mianhood,  all  living  an  ideal  still  life  in  the  seclusion  of  their  garden, 
t  awkward  courtship  of  their  provincial,  commonplace  suitors  brings 
)reath  of  realistic  burlesque.  The  sharp  contrast  of  the  two  worlds  thus 
ifronted  is  brought  out  by  amusing  incidents,  as  hackneyed  as  they  are 
ecdve,  but  they  are  not  knit  into  an  effective  whole;  they  lack  the  sur- 
inding  atmosphere  and  fall  asunder.  Nor  are  the  characters  consistent 
h  the  spirit  of  the  play.  With  the  exception  of  Agathe,  she  of  pensive 
bncholy,  and  Lux,  her  sister  with  the  joyfully  singing  soul,  the  figures 

unconvincing  and  do  not  move  with  spontaneity.  The  teacher  who  is 
lUt  to  win  Agathe  from  the  love  of  her  youth,  a  physician  whose  spirit  of 
enture  has  prompted  him  to  go  to  America,  is  overdrawn  and  too  plainly 
-ays  the  bitterness  with  which  Hauptmann  regards  this  type.  The  joke 
red  upon  this  representative  of  cultured  Philistia  by  Lux  and  her  young 


288  THE  GERMAN  BOOK  WORLD 

cousin,  who  represent  vagabondia,  is  stupid  and  tempts  Hauptmann  to 
resort  to  cheap  worn-out  tricks.  The  physician  himself,  who  returns  in 
time  to  claim  his  betrothed,  is  only  an  artificial  embodiment  of  a  cenain 
temperament.  The  scandalous  conduct  of  the  audience  during  the  perfor- 
mance adds  an  unpleasant  chapter  to  the  history  of  the  Berlin  stage;  and 
the  author's  appearance  before  the  curtain,  smiling  a  sad,  forced  smile,  was 
unspeakably  pathetic. 

The  world  of  fiction  has  been  enriched  by  a  number  of  remarkable 
books,  such  as  Hermann  Stegemann's  Alsatian  story  'Die  als  Opfer  Fallen* 
(Egon  Fleischel  &  Co.,  Berlin),  Hermann  DahFs  tsory  of  an  artistic  tem- 
perament 'Harald  Atterdal'  (F.  Fontane   &  Co.,  Berlin),  Clara  Viebigs 
strong  problem  novel  'Finer  Mutter  Sohn'  (Egon  Fleischel  &  Co.,  Berlin), 
Lulu  von  Strauss  and  Torney's  delightful  story  of  mediaeval  Dutch  super- 
stition *Das  Meerminneke*   (Egon  Fleischel    &  Co.,   Berlin),  Charlotte 
Knoeckel's  powerful  picture  of  factory  life  'Kinder  der  Gasse'  (S.  Fischer 
&  Co.,  Berlin)  and  others.     It  has  not  been  visibly  disturbed,  however,  by 
any  sensational  success  such  as  that  of  Frenssen's  'Hilligenlei'  a  year  ago, 
wlich  is  still  the  subject  of  much  controversy  in  the  magazines.     In  the 
mean  time  Frenssen  has  published  a  new  work  that  challenges  attention: 
*  Peter  Moor's  Fahrt  nach  Suedwest'  (G.  Grote,  Berlin).     It  is  the  shortest 
and  the  strongest  of  Frenssen's  works  of  fiction.     He  has  foregone  his  taste 
for  excursions  into  parts  foreign  to  the  story  and  has  produced  a  condensed 
and  uniform  narrative  of  experiences  in  the  African  colonies,  which  by  its 
simplicity  becomes  so  much  more  impressive.     It  sheds  much  light  upon 
the  conflict  between  the  natives  and  the  German  colonists  and  missionaries. 
He  points  out  the  discrepancy  between  the  teachings  of  the  former  and  the 
actions  of  the  latter.     The  settlers  that  come  to  the  African  colonies  under 
escort  of  troops  treat  the  natives  contrary  to  the  gospel  of  brotherly  love 
which  they  had  learned  from  the  pious  men.     Frenssen's  eye  for  the  beauties 
of  the  landscape  is  evident  in  many  passages;  but  he  has  learned  to  eliminate 
the  irrevelant  and  in  this  least  ambitious  of  his  works  has  reached  perhaps 
the  climax  of  his  power.     It  is  a  book  not  only  of  timely  import,  but  one  of 
such  artistic  merit  as  to  give  unalloyed  pleasure  to  the  reader. 


^ 


MMHMlte 


.UME   XVIII  AUTUMN    I907  NUMBER  HI 

AND  PIPPA  DANCES* 

{A  mystical  tale  of  the  glass-works^  in  four  acts) 

By  Gerhart  Hauptmann 
Translated  from  the  German  by  Mary  Homed 

CHARACTERS 

Tagliazoni,  skilled  Italian  glass-worker 

PiPPAy  his  daughter 

The  Manager  of  the  glass-works 

Old  Huhn,  a  former  glass-blower 

Michael  Hellriegel,  a  travelling  journeyman 

Wann,  a  mythical  personality 

Wende,  landlord  of  the  tavern  at  Redwater  Glen 

The  Bar-maid,  in  the  same  tavern 

Schaedler,  I         ^1 

A  ^    >  master  giass-painters 

Anton,  f  &        r 

First,  second,  third,  fourth  woodmen 

Jonathan,  deaf  and  dumb  servant  to  Wann 

Glass-blowers  and  glass-painters,  guests  at  the  tavern 

A  goitrous  player  on  the  ocarina 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  Silesian  mountains^  in  midwinter 

ACT  I 

The  bar-room  in  old  Wende* s  tavern  at  Redwater  Glen.  To  the  right 
id  in  the  background^  doorsy  the  latter  leading  into  the  entrance  hall.  In 
e  corner^  rights  the  stove  of  glazed  tiles;  left^  the  bar.  Very  small  windows 
nches  against  the  wallsy  ceiling  of  dark  timbers.  Three  tables  to  the  lefty 
f  occupied.  The  nearest  to  the  bar  is  occupied  by  woodmen.  They  are 
inking  schnaps  and  beer  and  smoking  pipes.  At  the  second  table  a  little 
rther  forward ^  are  seated  better  dressed  people:  the  master  glass-painters^ 

*Pippa  tanzt.  Ein  Glashiitten-marchen  in  4  akten  von  Gerhart  Hauptmann. 
Copyright  1906  by  S.  Fischer  Verlag. 
[>>pyright  1907  by  the  Poet  Lore  Company. 


290  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

Schaedler  and  Anton,  a  few  others  and  an  Italian  about  ffty  years  of  age^ 
named  Tagliazoniy  an  insolent-looking  man.  They  are  playing  cards. 
At  the  table  nearest  the  front  of  the  stage^  the  Manager  of  the  glass-works 
has  seated  himself;  he  is  a  tally  slender^  keen-looking  man  with  a  smaB 
heady  and  is  about  forty  years  of  age.  He  wears  riding-boots^  trousers,  ani 
jacket.  A  half  bottle  of  champagne  stands  in  front  of  him,  and  a  fine,  pointed 
wine  glass  filled  with  the  champagne.  On  the  table  near  them  lies  a  riding- 
whip.  It  is  after  midnight.  Outside,  the  weather  is  bitter  cold.  A  few 
lamps  spread  a  meager  light.  Moonlight  penetrates  through  the  windows 
into  the  smoky  room.  The  old  landlord  Wende  and  a  country  bar^maii 
serve  the  guests. 

Wende  {gray  haired,  with  an  impassive,  serious  face,  says  to  the  Math 
ager).    Another  half  bottle,  sir  ? 

The  Manager. —  What  else,  Wende  ?  —  A  whole  one!  —  Has  my  marc 
been  well  rubbed  down  ? 

Wende. —  I  saw  to  it  myself.  An  animal  like  that  deserves  good 
care;  it  looked  like  a  white  horse  it  was  so  covered  with  foam. 

The  Manager. —  Hard  riding! 

Wende. —  Government  horse. 

The  Manager. —  She  has  good  blood  in  her!  Several  times  she  stuck 
in  the  snow  up  to  her  belly.     Pushed  through,  every  time! 

Wende  {mildly  ironical). —  A  faithful  old  customer,  our  manager. 

The  Manager  {drums  on  the  table,  laughs  noisily). — It  is  queer,  isn't  it? 
A  two  hour  ride  through  the  woods,  in  January,  old  fellow  —  ludicrous 
devotion!    Are  my  trout  nearly  ready  ? 

Wende. —  A  good  thing  is  worth  waiting  for! 

The  Manager. —  True,  true,  true!  But  don't  be  disagreeable!  —  Is 
it  my  fault  that  you  are  here  in  this  half  Bohemian,  half  German  thieves' 
den,  Wende  ? 

Wende. —  Of  course  not,  sir!  At  the  most  it  could  only  be  your  fault 
if  I  have  to  get  out  of  here. 

The  Manager. —  You  old  grumbler,  stop  talking! 

Wende. —  Just  look  out  the  window  there! 

The  Manager. —  I  know  it  all  without  looking,  our  old  rival  factory 
all  in  ruins.     One  of  these  days  it  will  be  sold  for  the  material  in  it,  just 
so  that  they  won't  be  forever  starting  up  the  furnaces  again. —  What  have  »> 
you  to  complain  of.?     Business  is  very  good  here!    The  men  come  here  |j 
anyhow,  if  it  does  take  them  two  or  three  hours,  and  leave  their  money 
here,  heaps  of  it. 

Wende. — How  long  is  the  trouble  going  to  last  ?    When  the  glass-works 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  291 

ir  here  were  running  their  two  furnaces,  we  were  sure  of  eating  our 
;ad  in  peace  —  now  we  are  reduced  to  living  like  hogs. 

The  Manager. —  Oh,  you  old  sore-head !  Go  see  to  it  that  I  get  my 
le! 

(Wende  goes  away  shrugging  his  shoulders.  At  the  table  where  the 
xyers  are  an  altercation  has  arisen.) 

Tagliazoni  [violently). — Non,  signore!  non,  signore!  impossible!  I 
I  put  down  a  gold  piece.  Non,  signore!  You  are  mistaken!  Non, 
nore — 

Master  Schaedler. —  Hold  on  there!     That's  a  damned  lie! 

Tagliazoni. —  Non,  signore!  by  Bacco!  Thieves!  Thieves!  Murderers! 
1  kill  you! 

Master  Anton  (to  Schaedler). —  There  lies  your  money! 

Master  Schaedler  {discovers  the  missing  gold  piece). —  That  was  lucky 
•  you,  you  damned,  lousy  hedgehog! 

The  Manager  {calling  across  to  the  players). —  See  here,  you  scoundrels, 
len  are  you  going  to  stop  this  ? 

Master  Anton. —  When  our  manager  rides  home. 

The  Manager. —  By  that  time  very  likely  you'll  run  behind  my  nag 
iked,  for  you'll  have  gambled  the  shirts  off  your  backs. 

Master  Anton. —  We'll  see  about  that,  sir! 

The  Manager. —  This  all  comes  from  the  count's  allowing  you  to  make 
ch  a  sinful  amount  of  money.  I  shall  have  to  cut  your  wages  on  piece 
)rk.     The  more  you  have,  the  more  you  squander! 

Master  Anton. —  The  count  earns  money,  the  Manager  earns  money, 
d  the  master-painters  have  no  wish  to  starve  either. 

Tagliazoni  {has  shuffled  the  cards  and  now  begins  a  new  game.  Near 
ch  player  lie  actual  piles  of  gold). —  Enough!     Let  us  begin  now. 

The  Manager. —  Where  is  your  daughter  today  ? 

Tagliazoni. —  Asleep,  signore!     Time  for  her  to  be,  it  seems  to  me. 

The  Manager. —  Of  course !     Quite  right !     Yes,  yes ! 

{He  is  silentf  apparently  slightly  embarrassed.  In  the  meantime, 
ende  himself  places  the  trout  before  him  and  directs  the  bar-maid  who  brings 
the  potatoes  and  the  bottle  of  champagne  at  the  same  time.) 

The  Manager  {with  a  sigh). —  It's  abominably  dull  here  at  your  place 
lay,  Wende.     I  spend  such  a  lot  of  money  and  get  nothing  for  it. 

Wende  {stops  short  in  his  zealous  efforts  for  his  guest  and  says  churl' 
ly). —  Well,  in  future  you  better  go  elsewhere. 

The  Manager  {turns  round  and  looks  through  the  little  window  behind 
n). —  Who's  this  coming  jingling  over  the  snow?  —  It  sounds  as  if  he 
re  stamping  over  broken  glass. 


292  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

Wende  —  Well,  there's  plenty  of  broken  glass  around  the  old  tun 
down  glass-house. 

The  Manager. —  A  gigantic  shadow!    Who  can  it  possibly  be  ? 

Wende  (breathes  on  the  window). —  Most  likely  it's  Huhn,  the 
glass-blower.  Another  of  the  ghosts  from  the  old  glass-works  that 
neither  live  nor  die. —  You,  with  your  Sophienau  works,  have  ni 
business  here  sure  enough ;  why  don't  you  carry  this  on  as  a  branch  es 
lishment  ? 

The  Manager. —  Because  there's  no  profit  in  it,  and  it  costs  a  dev 
lot  of  money.  {Continuing  to  look  out  of  the  window.)  Thermon 
at  zero!  Clear!  Bright  as  broad  day-light!  The  heavens  so  fill 
stars  they  drive  you  mad!  Blue,  everything  blue!  {He  turns  and  b 
over  his  plate.)  Even  the  trout  —  Lord,  how  the  little  wretches  str 
their  mouths! 

{A  gigantic  man  enters.  He  has  longy  red  hair,  red^  bushy  eyeb\ 
and  red  beard ^  and  is  coveted  from  top  to  toe  with  rags.  He  puts  off 
heavy  wooden  clogSy  stares  around  with  red-rimmed^  watery  eyes^  at  the  s 
time  muttering  to  himself  and  opening  and  closing  moist^  puffy  lips.) 

The  Manager  {eating  the  trout  evidently  without  appetite). — 
Huhn!  He  is  muttering  something  to  himself.  Get  old  Huhn  a  good 
grog,  Wende!  —  Well,  why  do  you  keep  your  eyes  fastened  on  me  ? 

{Still  muttering  to  himself  and  staring  at  the  Manager^  old  Huhn 
pushed  himself  behind  an  empty  table  standing  against  the  right  wall  bem 
the  stove  and  the  door.) 

First  Woodman. —  He  won't  believe  it,  that  there's  no  more  w 
here  in  Redwater  Glen. 

Second  Woodman. —  They  say  he  often  comes  round  and  haunts 
old  place  over  there  at  all  hours  of  the  night  alone. 

First  Woodman. —  He  makes  himself  a  fire  there,  in  a  chilled  fumj 
and  stands  in  front  of  his  old  furnace  door  and  blows  great  big  glass  b: 

Second  Woodman. —  His  lungs  are  like  a  pair  of  bellows.  No  one  < 
could  ever  come  up  to  him  at  that,  I  know! 

Third  Woodman. —  What's  old  Jacob  doing,  Huhn  ?  That's  his  w 
he  never  talks  to  a  human  being  but  he  has  a  jackdaw  at  home  and  he  ta 
to  him  the  whole  day  long. 

The  Manager. —  Why  is  the  fellow  idle,  why  doesn't  he  come  to  i 
He  could  have  work  at  the  Sophienau  furnaces. 

First  Woodman. — That's  too  far  out  in  the  great  world  for  him. 

The  Manager. —  When  you  look  at  the  old  man  and  think  of  Pa 
you  don't  believe  in  Paris. 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  293 

Wende  (seats  himself  modestly  at  the  Manager  s  table).  —  Have  you  been 
Paris  again  ? 

The  Manager. —  I  came  back  just  three  days  ago.  Got  some  big 
lersi 

Wende. —  Well,  that  was  worth  while. 

The  Manager. —  Worth  while! — You  spend  money  and  get  some: 
\y  more!  —  Everything  seems  crazy  when  you  get  to  Paris,  Wende: 
staurants  all  lighted  up!  duchesses  in  gold  and  silk  and  Brussels  lacel 
e  ladies  of  the  Palais-Royal !  on  the  tables  our  glasses,  the  finest  crystal; 
Ings  which  perhaps  a  hairy  giant  like  that  one  made!  —  Thunderation, 
lat  a  sight  it  is!  To  see  a  real  slender,  delicate  hand  lift  one  of  these 
iss  flowers,  one  of  these  precious  ice  flowers  over  the  bare  bosom  to  the 
ty  painted  lips,  with  passionate  glances:  —  you  wonder  that  the  glasses 
n't  melt  away  under  such  a  sinful  glance. —  Your  health!  {He  drinks.) 
iVLT  health,  Wende!  The  things  that  come  from  our  works  are  not 
x>gnizable  there. 

The  Bar-maid  {setting  the  grog  down  in  front  of  old  Huhn). —  Don't 
ich  it!     Hot! 

{Old  Huhn  picks  up  the  glass  and  gulps  down  the  grog  without  further 

o*) 

The  Manager  {noticing  this). —  Good  Lord,  preserve  usl 

{The  woodmen  burst  out  laughing.) 

First  Woodman. —  Just  pay  for  another  half  quart  and  you  can  see 
en  swallow  glowing  coals. 

Second  Woodman. —  He  hits  a  ocer  mug  —  breaks  it  to  pieces,  nibbles 
the  broken  bits  as  if  they  were  sugar  and  swallows  them. 

Third  Woodman. —  But  you  should  just  see  him  dance  with  the  litttle 
ilian  girl  when  blind  Francis  plays  the  ocarina. 

The  Manager. —  Come,  Francis,  bring  out  your  ocarina !  {Calls  to 
fglioTsoni).     Ten  lire,  if  Pippa  dances. 

Tagliaxoni  {playing). —  It  won't  go.     Impossible,  signore  padrone. 

The  Manager. —  Twenty  lire!  —  Thirty —  ?  — 

Tagliaxoni. —  No! 

Wende. —  She  is  having  such  a  good  sleep,  sir. 

The  Manager  {without  waverings  suddenly  vehement). —  Forty  ?  — 
I  let  a  little  of  hell  loose  for  awhile!  It's  so  dull  here!  What  do  I  come 
re  for?  Not  even  a  lousy  Gypsy  girl!  I'll  not  set  foot  again  in  this 
ugglers'  nest!       {Offering  more,)      Fifty  lire! 

Tagliaxoni  {continues  playing y  says  obstinately  over  his  shoulder). — 
I  no!  no!  no!  no!  no! 


294  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

The  Manager. —  A  hundred  lire! 

Tagliazoni  {curtly). —  A  hundred,  yes! 

(He  twists  himself  aroundy  and  skillfully  catches  a  blue  banknote  which  I 
the  Manager  tosses  to  him).  I 

The  Manager  (losing  something  of  his  equanimity). —  Has  my  lioness 
had  anything  to  eat  ? 

The  Bar-maid. —  Certainly,  sir,  the  dog  has  eaten. 

The  Manager  (roughly). —  Be  quiet. 

The  Bar-maid. —  When  you  ask  a  question,  I  certainly  have  to 
answer. 

The  Manager  (curtly y  with  suppressed  anger) . —  Be  still,  hold  your 
dirty  tongue!  —  Don*t  smoke  such  asafoetida,  you  pack!  —  How  is  die 
child  to  breathe  here. 

Tagliazoni  (has  risen  and  gone  to  the  hall  door  from  which  he  cJls 
harshly  to  the  upper  part  of  the  house). — Pippa!  Pippa!  Come  down  heft 
right-away!  Pippa!     Come  here!  —  Come  along! 

The  Manager  (rises  indignantly). —  Hold  your  tongue,  let  her  sleep, 
you  Dago  scoundrel! 

Tagliazoni. —  Pippa ! 

The  Manager. —  Keep  your  money,  fellow,  and  let  her  sleep  1  Keep 
your  money,  fellow,  I  don't  want  her! 

Tagliazoni. —  As  you  wish.     Thank  you,  signore!  — 

(With  a  fatalistic  shrug  of  the  shoulders  he  takes  his  place  again  uncoth 
cemedly  at  the  card-table.) 

The  Manager. —  Saddle  my  horse,  Wende!  Get  the  nag  out  of  the 
stable! 

(Pippa  appears  in  the  doorway;  she  leans  sleepily  and  timidly  against 
the  door-post.) 

The  Manager  (notices  her  and  says  with  some  embarrassment).  —  Here 
she  is,  now!  —  Pshaw,  Pippa,  go  and  have  your  nap  out!  —  Or  haven't 
you  been  asleep  ?  —  Come,  wet  your  lips,  moisten  your  lips,  here's  som^ 
thing  for  you. 

(Pippa  comes  obediently  to  the  table  and  sips  from  the  glass  of  chanh 
pagne.) 

The  Manager  (holding  toward  her  the  richly  ornamented  glass^  from 
which  he  drinks). —  Slender  convolvulus!  Slender  convolvulus!  It,  too, 
is  a  Venetian!  —  Does  it  taste  good  to  you,  little  one  i  — 

Pippa. —  Thank  you,  it  is  sweet! 

The  Manager. —  Do  you  want  to  sleep  again,  now  ? 

Pippa. —  No. 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  295 

The  Manager. —  Are  you  very  cold  ? 

Pippa. —  I  am  cold  here,  most  of  the  time. 

The  Manager. —  Make  a  roaring  fire,  there!  —  It  does  not  surprise 
e  in  the  least  that  you  are  so  cold,  you  delicate,  graceful  tendril,  you! 
>ine,  sit  down,  put  my  cloak  around  you!  You  must  have  sprung  from 
e  glass  furnaces;  at  least,  I  dreamed  you  had,  yesterday. 

Pippa. —  Brr!    I  like  to  sit  close  to  the  glass  furnaces. 

The  Manager. —  In  my  dream,  you  liked  best  to  sit  right  in  them. 

ou  see,  I  am  a  foolish  fellow!     An   old  ass  of  a  manager,  who,  instead 

casting  up  accounts,  dreams.     When  the  white-hot  glow  breaks  from 

e  furnace  doors,  I  often  see  you  before  me,  quivering  salamanderlike 

the  glowing  air.     Only  as  the  furnace  light  grows  dim,  do  you  slowly 

nish. 

OU  Huhn. —  I  too,  have  had  beautiful  dreams  before  the  furnace 
ors. 

The  Manager. —  What  is  that  monster  muttering,  now  ? 

(Pippa  turns  her  little  head  persistently  and  looks  at  the  old  man^  and 
the  same  time^  pushes  her  heavy^  fairy  unbound  hair  over  her  shoulder 
th  her  right  hand.) 

Old  Huhn. —  Shall  we  dance  again,  little  spirit  ? 

The  Manager  (roughly). —  What  are  you  talking  about!  I  no  longer 
re  for  the  dancing!  (Asidey  to  Pippa.)  I  am  satisfied  just  to  have 
u  here,  charming  child! 

The  Bar-maid  (behind  the  bar^  to  the  inn-keeper). —  Now  the  Manager 
in  a  good  humor  again. 

Wende. —  Well,  if  he  is,  what  business  is  it  of  yours  } 

The  Manager. —  Tired!  Go  sleep,  poor  thing!  You  belong  in  courts 
th  the  fountains!  —  And  you  have  to  stay  in  this  gin  shop.  Shall  I  take 
u,  just  as  you  are,  lift  you  on  my  black  horse  and  ride  away  with  you  ? 

(Pippa  shakes  her  head  slowly  no.) 

The  Manager. —  So  you  like  it  better  here  ?  Well,  at  any  rate,  you 
i  shaking  your  little  head  no  again. —  How  long  have  you  been  living 
this  house  ? 

Pippa  (reflects^  stares  at  him  blankly). —  I  don't  know. 

The  Manager. —  And  before  you  came  here,  where  did  you  live  ? 

Pippa  (reflectSy  laughs  at  her  ignorance). —  It  was  —  Why,  haven't 
Iways  been  here  ? 

The  Manager. —  You?  in  the  midst  of  dumb  and  talking  tree  trunks! 
Pitpa. —  What .? 

The  Manager. —  In  this  frozen,  snow-bound  land  of  barbarians  ? — 


296  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

{Calling  across   to   Tagliazoni.)      Where  did   you    say  her    mother  carac 
from  ? 

Tagil azoni  (over  his  shoulder), —  Yes,  signore!    Pieve  di  Cadore. 

The  Manager, —  Pieve  di  Cadore,  is  that  so  ?  That  is  on  the  other 
side  of  the  great  water-shed. 

Tagliazoni  {laughing). — We  are  relatives  of  the  great  Tiziano,  signore. 

The  Manager, —  Well,  little  one,  then,  perhaps  we  too,  are  kindred, 
for  he  looks  like  my  uncle,  the  Commissioner  of  Woods  and  Forests.  So 
you  really  belong  half  and  half  here  too;  but  the  wind  blows  your  gpU 
hair  elsewhere! 

{A  goitrouSy  tattered  little  man  comes  /n,  playing  the  ocarina^  and  plants 
himself  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  He  is  greeted  with  a  halloo  by  the  tiW- 
men  who  are  sitting  round  one  of  the  tables  smoking  and  drinking  schnafs) 

First  Woodman. —  Huhn  must  dance! 

Second  Woodman. —  The  little  one  must  dance! 

Third  Woodman. —  If  she'll  dance,  I'll  give  a  nickel  toward  it. 

Fourth  Woodman, —  Just  look  what  faces  Huhn  is  making! 

The  Manager. —  There's  not  going  to  be  any  dancing,  you  clod- 
hoppers!    Do  you  understand  me.? 

First  Woodman, — You  wanted  it  yourself,  sir! 

The  Manager, —  The  devil  take  me!     Well,  now  I  don*t  want  it! 

{Huhn  rises  to  his  full  height  and  starts  to  come  out  from  behind  thi 
tabhy  but  never  takes  his  eyes  from  Pippa^  staring  at  her  feverishly  all  thi 
time,) 

The  Manager, —  Sit  down,  Huhn! 

Wende  (comes  forward  resolutely  and  determinedly  and  seizes  Huhns 
arm), —  Sit  down!  Not  a  twitch!  —  You'll  stamp  through  my  floor  next 
thing.  (To  the  ocarina  player).  Stop  your  silly  tootling.  (Huhn  remains 
standing,  staring  stupidly  as  before.     The  ocarina  is  silent,) 

{The  card  players  have  finished  another  game,  Tagliazoni  pockets 
a  little  pile  of  gold.  Master-painter  Anton  jumps  up  suddenly  and  thumps 
the  table  with  his  fist,  so  that  the  gold  pieces  roll  all  round  the  room.) 

Master-painter  Anton. —  There's  someone  among  us  who's  cheating! 

Tagliazoni.—  Who  ?  I .?  I  ?     Tell  us!     Who  .? 

Master-painter  Anton. —  I  don't  say  who  it  is!  I  only  say  someone 
is!     There's  some  trickery  here. 

First  Woodman, —  Well,  any  one  who  plays  with  these  Italians  may 
expect  a  little  of  the  black  art  thrown  in. 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  My  money  has  disappeared,  the  last 
piece  of  my  money  is  missing. 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  297 

First  Woodman. —  Just  look  out,  the  lamp's  going  out  in  a  minute! 
le'll  probably  put  up  some  nice  little  game  on  you. 

The  Manager. —  Well,  don't  let  rascals  hold  the  bank! 

Tagliazoni  {scooping  in  the  money  unconcernedlyy  turning  half  round 
7  the  manager), — Altro!  The  others  are  rascals,  not  I.  Enough!  Let*s 
p  to  bed!     Pippa,  go  on!     Come  along! 

A  faster-painter  Anton, —  What  ?  Now  he  wants  to  go  to  bed,  now, 
vhen  he  has  gotten  our  money  away  from  us  ?  You'll  stay  here!  There^s 
»ping  to  be  some  more  playing  now! 

Tagliazoni. —  Oh,  very  well!  Why  not  ?  I'll  play  with  you!  As  you 
mshl     As  you  wish,  signori! 

{The  bar-maidy  the  inn-keeper^  the  ocarina  player^  one  of  the  glass 
winters  and  one  of  the  woodmen  pick  up  the  gold  pieces  from  the  floor,) 

Second  Woodman  {at  the  table), —  I  won't  help  look  for  money  in  this 
3lace,  because  later,  they're  sure  to  say  some  of  it  is  missing. 

{Michael  Hellriegely  a  travelling  journeyman^  about  twenty-three  years 
My  enters  from  the  hall;  he  carries  a  thin  visor  capy  and  a  small  knapsack 
with  a  brush  buckled  on  it;  his  coat  as  well  as  his  vest  and  trousers  are  still 
^airly  respectabUy  his  shoesy  on  the  contraryy  are  worn  out.  The  effects  of 
a  long  and  fatiguing  walking  tour  are  plainly  shown  in  the  wan  and  exhausted 
Koo^j  and  movements  of  the  youth.  His  features  are  delicatey  not  common- 
placey  indeed  almost  distinguished.  On  his  upper  lip  there  is  the  soft  down 
0/  a  first  mustache.  There  is  a  suggestion  of  the  visionary  and  also  a  sug- 
gestion of  sickliness  in  the  slender  figure.) 

The  Bar-maid, —  Oh,  Lord,  here's  a  journeyman  yet,  at  this  time 
:>r  night! 

Hellriegel  {stands  in  the  circle  of  light  cast  by  the  lampSy  blinded  by 
fhe  biting  smokey  winking  and  looking  out  feverishly  from  under  his  long 
ashes;  he  twists  his  cap  with  his  hands  and  makes  an  effort  to  conceal  how 
nuch  his  hands  and  feet  ache  with  the  frost), —  Is  there  a  night's  lodging  here 
Smt  a  travelling  journeyman  ? 

The  Manager, —  A  queer  fellow,  Pippa,  isn't  he  ?  {Humming  ironi- 
ally.)  To  those  whom  God  wishes  to  show  great  favor,  he  sends  —  and 
o  on.  This  fellow  sings,  too,  when  he  has  his  wits  about  him.  I  bet  him 
hirteen  bottles  of  champagne,  he  even  has  poems  of  his  own  in  his  knapsack! 

Pippa  {rises  mechanically,  and  with  a  certain  embarrassmenty  looks 
\cf%v  at  the  lady  now  helplessly  at  the  rest  of  the  men  around  her;  suddenly 
hr  runs  up  to  the  Manager), —  Padrone!  Padrone!  the  stranger  is  weeping! 

The  Manager. —  Weak  and  fine 

Is  not  in  my  line! 


298  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

Master'painter  Schaedler  {comes  over  from  the  card  table  and  stanis 
in  a  military  position  before  the  Manager). —  I  am  a  man  of  honor,  sir! 

The  Manager. —  Well,  what  then  ?  Why  do  you  say  that  to  me  now, 
after  midnight,  in  this  Iser  mountain  tavern  ? 

Master-painter  Schaedler  {wipes  the  cold  sweat  from  his  forehead)." 
I  am  an  irreproachable  master-workman. 

The  Manager. —  Well,  what  of  it  ? 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  I  would  like  to  have  some  money  advanced 
me. 

The  Manager. —  Do  you  think  I  drag  the  office  safe  around  with  mc 
in  my  riding-coat  ? 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  On  your  own  account!  — 

The  Manager. —  On  my  own  account  Vl\  not  think  of  it!  I  shouU 
only  help  to  ruin  you  completely. 

Master-painter  Schaedler. — That  dog  has  fleeced  everyone  of  us. 

The  Manager. —  Why  do  you  play  with  him  ?  Have  nothing  more  to 
do  with  the  scoundrel. 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  We'll  have  something  to  do  with  him 
later,  all  right! 

The  Manager. —  You  have  a  wife  and  children  at  home  — 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  We  all  have  them,  sir,  but  when  the 
devil  gets  loose  here  — 

ihe  Manager. —  No!  Til  not  back  you  up  in  any  such  madness. 

{Schaedler  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  betakes  himself  to  Wende^  who  is 
behind  the  bar.  It  is  seen  that  he  urges  him  to  advance  him  the  monejf 
that  Wende  refuses  for  a  long  time^  but  finally  yields.  The  joumeymath 
in  the  meanwhile^  drinks  greedily  the  hot  grog  which  the  bar-maid  has  put 
on  the  bench  in  front  of  htm.     Now  she  brings  him  foody  and  he  eats.) 

The  Manager  {raises  his  glass  and  says  to  the  lad). —  Well,  you  behited 
swallow!    Your  health! 

{Hellriegel  risesy  in  courteous  acknowledgment^  his  glass  in  his  hanii 
drinks  and  sits  down  again.) 

The  Manager. —  Your  castle  in  the  air  is  still  pretty  far  away. 

Hellriegel  {who  is  about  to  sit  downy  jumps  up  again). —  But  I  have 
the  wish  to  do  and  perseverance! 

The  Manager. —  And  you  spit  blood! 

Hellriegel. —  A  little  doesn't  matter! 

The  Manager. —  No.  If  you  only  knew  what  you  wished  to  do.  Why 
do  you  constantly  start  up  so  strangely,  just  as  if  you  had  felt  an  electric 
shock  ? 


GERHART  HAUPTMANM  299 

Hellriegel. —  Often  I  seem  to  be  actually  hurled  on  with  impatience. 

The  Manager. —  Like  a  child  in  a  dark  room,  eh  ?  When  dear  mamma 
n  the  other  side  of  the  door  is  lighting  the  first  candles  on  the  Christmas 
:ee  ?     Right  now,  right  now!     But  Rome  wasn't  built  in  a  day! 

Hellriegel. —  Everything  must  be  changed. —  The  whole  world! 

The  Manager. —  And  first  of  all,  your  highness!  {To  Pippa.)  This  is 
stupid  fellow,  child,  one  of  the  very  clever  kind  that  we  used  to  see  only 
1  preserving  glasses!  {To  Hellriegel.)  "And  shouldst  thou  take  the 
rings  of  the  dawn — '*  briefly,  your  journey  has  its  difficulties.  {To 
Uppa).  Gallop,  gallop,  over  stick  and  stone  {he  tries  to  draw  her 
own  on  his  kneesy  she  resists  and  looks  at  Hellriegel.  Hellriegel  starts  up 
nd  grows  red  in  the  face). 

Hellriegel. —  I  would  like  to  be  permitted  a  direct  remark! 

The  Manager. —  Has  something  new  come  into  your  head  ? 

Hellriegel. —  Not  just  at  this  minute. 

The  Manager. —  Well,  perhaps  confusion  will. 

(Michael  looks  at  the  Manager  vacantly  and  forgets  to  sit  down.) 

fFende. —  Why  not?  for  money  and  fair  words.  {As  the  lad  looks 
jund  and  finds  no  vacant  seat.)  Sit  on  the  schnaps  keg  here,  and  count 
ut  your  money  on  the  stove-bench.  If  there's  anything  else  you  want  — 
icre's  room  enough  there. 

First  Woodman. —  Where  are  you  going  so  late,  journeyman  ? 

The  Manager. —  Into  the  land  where  milk  and  honey  flow! 

Hellriegel  {bowing  humbly^  first  to  the  woodman^  then  to  the  Manager). — 
was  anxious  to  get  over  the  mountains  into  Bohemia. 

The  Manager. —  What  is  your  trade  ? 

Hellriegel. —  The  art  of  glass-making. 

Second  Woodman. —  He  doesn't  seem  to  be  quite  right  in  his  head. 
^o  climb  over  the  mountains  in  such  bitter  cold  weather,  and  here,  where 
lere  is  no  road  and  no  foot-path  ?  Does  he  want  to  be  a  snowman  over 
lere,  and  die  miserably  trying  to  be  one  ? 

Wende. —  That's  his  affair,  it  doesn't  concern  us! 

Third  Woodman. —  You  certainly  don't  come  from  the  mountains, 
ohnny  ?    You  can't  know  anything  of  the  winters  here  ? 

{Hellriegel  has  listened  with  modest  courtesy;  now  he  hangs  up  his 
ip  decorously^  takes  off  his  little  knapsack  and  puts  it  and  his  stick  to  one 
de.  He  then  takes  his  seat  on  the  kegy  as  directed^  shudders^  bites  his  teeth 
igether  and  runs  his  fingers^  spread  aparty  through  his  hair.) 

The  Manager. —  If  your  papers  are  all  right,  why  do  you  want  to 
>  over  into  Bohemia  ?    We  make  glass  here  in  Silesia,  too. 


300  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

Hellriegel  {jumps  up). —  I  would  like  to  learn  something  unusual! 

The  Manager, —  Pshaw,  you  don*t  say  so!  And  what  might  that  be? 
To  make  clear  water  into  balls  with  just  your  hands,  perhaps  ? 

{Hellriegel  shrugs,  his  shoulders.) 

The  Manager. —  Well,  we  can  do  that  here,  too,  with  snow! 

Hellriegel. —  Snow  is  not  water.     I  want  to  see  the  world. 

The  Manager, —  Aren't  you  in  the  world  here  with  us  ? 

Hellriegel. —  I  am  looking  for  something. 

The  Manager. —  Have  you  lost  anything  .^ 

Hellriegel. —  No!  I  think,  that  I  can  attain  to  something.  {Hdl 
standing  and  propping  himself  up  wearily^  he  looks  around  tuith  wide^fen^ 
astonished  eyes.)     I  really  don't  know  just  where  I  am  . 

The  Manager. —  Yes,  yes,  that's  the  way !  In  the  morning  brimful  of 
joy,  in  the  evening  not  a  sound  bone  in  your  body. 

Hellriegel. —  Am  I —  am  I  in  Bohemia  now,  good  landlord  ? 

First  Woodman  {laughing). —  Are  you  }  Does  it  seem  a  bit  Bohemian 
to  you  here  ? 

{Hellriegel  has  sunk  hack  on  the  little  keg^  his  arms  are  spread  out  m 
the  stove-benchy  his  hands  under  his  forehead^  he  conceals  his  face  and  groom 
surreptitiously.) 

Third  Woodman. —  He  hasn't  been  away  from  his  mother  more  than 
three  days! 

{Pippay  who  has  been  standing  at  the  Manager  s  tahle^  has  watchei 
the  newcomer  continually.  She  now  goes  over  to  him^  and  sitSy  apparendj 
absorbed  in  thought,  on  the  bench,  not  far  from  the  place  where  his  head  rests^ 
her  hands  in  her  lap,  thoughtfully  swinging  her  legs  back  and  forthy  and 
looking  down  on  him  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes.) 

{Pippa  picks  up  a  little  leather  strap  and  strikes  the  Manager  sharply 
across  his  hand.) 

The  Manager. —  Ow! 

{Pippa  laughs  and  looks  at  Hellriegel,  who,  his  eyes  fastened  on  her, 
has  forgotten  everything  around  him.  His  lips  move,  though  no  sound 
comes  from  them.) 

The  Manager  {holding  out  his  hand). —  Do  it  again,  Pippa!  {Pipp^ 
strikes  him.)  Ow,  but  that  was  hard!  All  good  things  go  by  threes;  now 
the  third  time!  {She  strikes  with  all  her  mighty  laughing.)  There!  Now 
I  am  instructed  and  punished.  If  at  any  time  another  little  bird  falls  out 
of  the  nest,  at  least  I  know  what  I  have  to  do. 

{In  the  meantime  old  Huhny  who  had  sat  down  again,  lies  bent  over 
he  table y  his  arms  stretched  way  outy  and  beckons  Pippa  to  him  with  his 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  301 

thickj  hairy  finger.  As  she  does  not  come  or  pay  any  attention  to  him^  after 
he  has  watched  the  play  between  her^  the  Manager  and  Hellriegel  long  enough^ 
he  rises  and  dragging  his  feet  along j  goes  up  to  the  journeyman j  stares  at  him^ 
lifts  his  long  gorilla4ike  arms  which  have  been  hanging  limply  at  his  side, 
and  puts  his  outspread  hands  on  the  lad*s  breast,  pushing  him  slowly  back 
onto  his  keg;  then  he  turns  round,  beckons  slyly  to  Pippa  and  lifts  his  elbows 
in  a  peculiar  fashion,  reminding  one  of  an  eagle  balancing  on  the  perch  of 
a  cage;  at  the  same  time  he  steps  out  inviting  her  to  dance  with  him.) 

The  Manager. —  What  has  gotten  into  your  head,  you  old  dromedary  ? 

The  Woodmen  (all  shout  at  the  same  time). —  Dance,  litttle  one!  Dance, 
little  one! 

The  Bar-maid  {takes  a  small  tambourine  from  the  shelves  where  the 
hrandy^ottles  stand,  and  throws  it  to  Pippa,  who  catches  it). — ^There,  little 
chit,  don't  have  to  be  coaxed,  don't  put  on  airs;  you're  no  candy  princess! 

{Pippa  looks  first  at  the  Manager,  then  at  Hellriegel,  and  finally,  with 
a  spiteful  look  she  measures  the  giant  from  head  to  foot.  Suddenly  beginning, 
she  at  once  makes  the  little  drum  jingle  and  glides  dancing  up  to  Huhn, 
at  the  same  time  intending  to  elude  him  and  dance  past  him.  The  ocarina 
starts  up  and  the  old  man,  too,  begins  to  dance.  The  dance  consists  in  some- 
thing huge  and  awkward  trying  to  catch  something  agile  and  beautiful;  as 
if  a  bear  were  to  try  to  catch  a  butterfly  which  flitted  around  him  like  a  bit  of 
opalescence.  Whenever  the  little  one  eludes  him,  she  laughs  a  bell4ike  laugh. 
ohe  saves  herself  several  times,  whirling  round  and  round,  and  in  so  doing 
her  red'gold  hair  becomes  wrapped  around  her.  When  pursued,  the  noises 
she  makes  in  her  throat  are  just  childish  squeals,  which  sound  like  ai.  The 
old  man  hops  about  grotesquely  and  ridiculously  like  a  captive  bird  of  prey. 
He  lies  in  wait  for  her,  misses  her,  and  begins  to  pant,  growing  more  and 
more  excited  and  muttering  louder  and  louder.  Pippa  dances  more  and  more 
ecstatically.  The  woodmen  have  risen.  The  card-players  have  discontinued 
their  game  and  watch  the  dance  intently.  Tagliazoni,  whom  the  proceedings 
Jo  not  interest,  takes  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to  scoop  in  money  and  to 
manipulate  his  cards.  Without  his  noticing  it,  he  is  carefully  watched  by 
Master-painter  Schaedler.  Now  it  seems  as  if  Pippa  could  no  longer  escape 
the  monster;  she  screams,  and  at  the  same  moment  Schaedler  seizes  Tagliazoni 
by  the  left  wrist  with  both  his  fists.) 

Master-painter  Schaedler  {above  all  the  other  noise). —  Stop! 

Tagliazoni. —  What  is  the  matter,  signore  ? 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  Matter  here,  matter  there :  there's  cheating 
being  done!    Now  we  have  the  scoundrel  in  the  trap! 

Tagliazoni. —  He  is  mad!  Diavolo!  I  am  a  son  of  Murano.     Does 
he  know  la  casa  di  coltelli  ? 


302  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  Cold  hell  or  hot  hell,  neither  of  them  can 
help  you  herel  Anton,  hold  him  fast  over  there,  now  he'll  be  paid  back  aD 
right!  {Master-painter  Anton  holds  Tagliazoni^s  other  hand  firmly.)  He 
has  smuggled  in  extra  cards  and  on  these  two  here  has  put  his  mark. 

{Every  one  present,  except  Hellriegel  and  Pippa,  who  stand  in  the 
corner  pale  and  breathing  heavily,  presses  round  the  card  table.) 

The  Manager. —  TagHazoni,  didn't  I  tell  you  not  to  push  things  too  far! 

Tagliazoni. —  Let  me  go,  or  I  bites  you  in  the  face! 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  Spit  and  bite  as  much  as  you  want,  but 
you'll  have  to  hand  out  our  money  again,  you  scoundrel! 

All  of  the  players, —  Yes  sir,  every  penny,  every  scrap  of  the  money! 

Tagliazoni. —  Curse  it!  I  does  nothings  of  the  sort!  Damned 
German  beasts,  you  crazy,  bad,  low-down  beasts!  What  has  I  to  do  with 
you,  you  Germans. 

First  Woodman. —  Knock  his  skull  in  for  him,  the  ass! 

Second  Woodman. —  Hit  him  on  the  noddle  with  the  wagon-shaft,  so 
that  he  sees  blue  sulphur  before  his  eyes!  You  can't  answer  these  DagQS 
any  other  way  in  German. 

Wende. —  Be  quiet,  you  men;  I  won't  have  this! 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  Pull  the  cards  out  of  his  fingers,  Wende! 

Tagliazoni. —  I  murders  you  all,  every  one  of  you! 

Master-painter  Anton  {resolutely). — Good! 

Second  Woodman. —  Look  at  all  the  rings  the  blackguard  has  on  his 
hands! 

Tagliazoni. —  Padrone,  I  calls  you  to  witness!  I  am  treacherously 
attacked  here;  I  makes  no  new  contract!  I  works  no  more,  not  a  bit  more. 
I  lets  the  work  standing  as  it  is,  right  now!  Carabinieri!  Police!  Beastly 
foolishness! 

First  Woodman. —  Roar  away,  you;  there  are  no  police  here! 

Second  Woodman. —  Far  and  wide  there's  nothing  but  snow  and  pine 
trees. 

Tagliazoni. —  I  call — call  the  police!  Brigands!  Signore  Wende! 
Pippa!  run! 

The  Manager. —  I  advise  you  to  give  in  to  them,  man!  If  you  don't 
I  can't  answer  for  the  consequences. 

Tagliazoni. —  Ugly  beasts!     Enough  of  this! 

{Unexpectedly,  as  quick  as  lightning,  Tagliazoni  frees  himself,  draws 
out  a  dagger  and  takes  refuge  behind  a  table.  For  a  moment  his  assailants 
are  stunned.) 

Third  Woodman. —  A  knife!     Lay  him  out,  the  dog! 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  303 

All  {speaking  at  once). —  Now,  he  must  be  killed!  Now  it's  all  up  with 
m! 

The  Manager. —  Don't  you  smash  up  Tagliazoni  for  me!  I  need  him 
3  much  in  the  glass-works!     Don't  do  anything  you'll  be  sorry  for  to- 

JITOW! 

(Tagliazoni  now  recognizes  instinctively  the  frightful  danger  of  the 
jment  and  rushes  past  his  assailants  out  of  the  door.  The  card-players 
id  woodmen  plunge  after  hiniy  calling:  "Down^  down^  down  with  himV* 
r  they  go  outy  the  glitter  of  several  knives  is  seen.) 

The  Manager. —  I  hope  they  won't  kill  the  fellow  off  for  me,  yet  awhile! 

Wende. —  If  they  do,  they'll  shut  up  my  shop  for  me. 

The  Bar-maid  {looking  out  of  an  open  window). —  They're  running 
:e  mad  over  into  the  wood;  he's  fallen!  He's  up  again!  They're  stiU 
ter  him! 

The  Manager. —  I'll  set  the  great  Danes  loose,  and  scatter  the  gang. 

fFende. —  I  won't  be  responsible  for  anything!  I  won't  answer  for 
ything. 

The  Manager. —  What  is  that  ? 

The  Bar-maid. —  One  of  them  is  left  behind,  lying  in  the  snow.  The 
tiers  are  keeping  on  into  the  woods. 

{A  fearful y  marrow-penetrating  scream  is  heard y  deadened  by  distance.) 

Wende. —  Qose  the  window,  the  lamp  is  going  out! 

{^he  lamp  goes  out  in  facty  the  bar^maid  slams  the  window  to.) 

The  Manager. —  That  doesn't  sound  well.     Come  with  me,  Wende! 

Wende. —  I  won't  be  responsible  for  anything!  I  won't  answer  for 
ything.     {fie  and  the  Manager y  the  latter  precedingy  go  out.) 

The  Bar-maid  {in  her  perplexity  says  roughly  to  Hellriegel). —  Get  up 
jrc!  Help!  Help!  Fall  to  and  help!  Everybody  ought  to  help  here! 
le  damned  card  playing!  {She  gathers  up  the  cards  from  the  table  and 
igs  them  into  the  fire.)  You  must  go,  they've  murdered  a  man!  He 
Ings  bad  luck  and  won't  even  help  to  make  it  good! 

{Hellriegel  jumps  upy  and  half  of  his  own  accordy  half  pulled  and  half 
shed  by  the  bar-maidy  he  stumbles  through  the  hall  door.  He  and  the 
r^maid  go  out. 

{Huhn  still  stands  in  almost  the  same  position  as  he  did  when  the  dance 

s  so  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  outbreak  of  the  brawl.  His  eyes  have  followed 

proceedings  watchfullyy  uneasily.     Now  he  tries  to  peer  into  the  darkness^ 

ning  slowly  round  and  round.     He  does  noty  howevery  discover  Pippa^ 

o,  cowering  with  horrory  is  sitting  on  the  groundy  squeezed  into  a  comer. 

draws  out  some  matches,  strikes  them  and  lights  the  lamp.     He  looks 


304  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

around  again  and  discovers  the  child.  Standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room^ 
he  beckons  to  her  with  horrible  friendliness.  Pippa  looks  at  him  dumUj^ 
like  a  bird  that  has  fallen  out  of  the  nest  and  been  taken  captive.  As  he  comes 
toward  her^  she  whimpers  softly.  The  little  window  is  pushed  open  from 
outside  and  the  Managers  voice  calls  in-) 

The  Manager  s  voice. —  Pippa,  Pippa !  She  cannot  stay  here.  I  wiD 
take  her  with  me. 

(The  Manager  has  hardly  left  the  window  when  Huhn  plunges  toward 
the  child y  who  has  jumped  upy  catches  hery  and  lifts  her  up  in  his  arms; 
whereupon  Pippa  gives  a  shorty  sighing  little  cry  and  faints j  and  Huhn 
says  at  the  same  time.) 

Huhn. —  After  all,  he  didn't  get  yout 

\^fFith  this  he  hurries  out  of  the  door.) 

The  Manager  s  voice  {again  at  the  window). —  Pippa,  Pippa,  are  you 
still  in  there  ?     Don't  be  afraid,  no  one  shall  touch  a  hair  of  your  head! 

{The  bar-maid  comes  back.) 

The  Bar-maid. —  Not  a  soul  here  ?  Not  a  soul  comes  back,  and  out 
there  lies  a  man  bleeding  to  death. 

ACT  II 

The  interior  of  a  solitary  hut  in  the  mountains.  The  large,  low  room 
is  neglected  to  a  degree  not  to  be  surpassed.  The  ceiling  is  black  from  smoh 
and  age.  One  beam  is  broken,  the  rest  are  bent,  and  where  it  has  been  absolutdy 
necessary  they  have  been  propped  up  with  unheum  tree  trunks.  Little  boards 
have  been  pushed  under  these.  The  floor  is  of  clay,  worn  into  ridges  ani 
hollowSy  only  around  the  broken-down  stove  is  it  paved  with  bricks.  A 
blackened  and  charred  bench  runs  along  the  wall  under  the  three  small  quad- 
rangular window  openings y  of  which  two  are  filed  up  with  straWy  mosSf 
leaves  and  boards;  the  third  contains  a  window  with  three  dirty  panes y  and 
instead  of  the  fourth,  boards  and  moss  again.  By  the  same  vuall,  in  tin 
comer  near  the  stovCy  but  farther  forward,  the  mended  table.  In  the  back 
wall,  a  door.  Through  the  door  can  be  seen  the  dark  hallway  with  beams 
propped  up  like  those  in  the  room,  and  a  slanting,  ladder-like  stairway  leading 
to  the  garret. 

A  low  board  partition  enclosing  a  space  filled  with  birchy  beech  and  oak 
leaves  on  which  lie  a  few  rags  of  clothing  and  bed-covers  is  old  Huhns 
resting  place  for  the  night,  for  the  hut  belongs  to  him.  On  the  wall  hanf 
an  old  firearm,  a  ragged  slouch  hat,  pieces  of  clothing  and  several  little  pictures 
cut  from  periodicals.  A  great  many  leaves  are  lying  on  the  floor.  In  thi 
comer  is  a  pile  of  potatoes;  bunches  of  onions  and  dried  mushrooms  hanf 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  305 

Ti  the  ceiling.  One  single  ray  of  bright  light  from  the  clear  moonlit  night 
hout  penetrates  through  the  window. 

Suddenly  it  grows  bright  in  the  hallway.  Loud  sneezing  and  heavy 
athing  are  heard.  Immediately  after  old  Huhn  is  seen,  still  carrying 
t>pa  in  his  arms.  He  enters  the  room  and  lays  Pippa  down  on  the  bed 
leavesy  covering  her  with  the  rags  that  are  lying  there.  Then  he  brings 
th  from  a  comer  an  old  stand  for  burning  pine  chips  in,  he  puts  the  chips 
and  lights  them;  he  is  very  much  excited  and  while  doing  this  stares  in 

direction  of  the  child.     The  first  blasts  of  an  approaching  storm  are 

ird.     Snow  whirls  through  the  hallway.     Huhn  now  takes  a  bottle  from 

helf  and  pours  some  brandy  down  Pippa* s  throat.     She  breathes  heavily^ 

covers  her  more  carefully^  hurries  over  to  the  stove  and  with  the  heaps 

brushwood  lying  around^  he  builds  a  fire. 

Huhn  {rises  suddenly^  listens  at  the  door^  and  calls  with  insane  haste 
J  secrecy). —  Come  down,  come  down,  old  Jacob!  —  Old  Jacob,  I  have 
>ught  something  with  me  for  you.  {He  listens  for  the  answer  and  laughs 
himself.) 

Pippa  {moansy  revived  by  the  stimulant;  suddenly  she  draws  herself 
into  a  sitting  posture^  looks  around  her  in  horror^  presses  her  hands  in 
nt  of  her  eyeSj  takes  them  away  again^  moans ^  jumps  up  and  like  a  frightened 
d  runs  blindly  against  the  wall  of  the  room). —  Mrs.  Wende,  Mrs.  Wende, 
lere  can  I  be  ?  {Clawing  at  the  wall  in  her  horror^  she  looks  behind  her^ 
s  Huhn,  and  in  a  new  attack  of  despairing  terror,  she  runs  blindly,  now 
V,  noiw  there,  against  the  walls).  I  am  smothering!  Help  me!  Don't 
ry  me!  Father!  Padrone!  Oh  dear,  oh  dear!  Help!  Mrs.  Wende,  I 
{  dreaming! 

Huhn  {trots  up  to  her,  and  immediately  she  reaches  out  her  hands  to 
ri  him  off  in  speechless  horror). — Be  still,  be  still!  Old  Huhn  won't  do 
ything  to  you !  —  And  as  far  as  that  is  concerned,  old  Jacob  is  kindly 
his  way,  too.  {As  Pippa,  who  is  completely  paralyzed,  does  not  change 
"  defensive  position,  he  takes  a  few  uncertain  steps  toward  her,  but  suddenly 
nds  still  again,  deterred  by  her  expression  of  unconscious  horror). —  O, 
s  won't  do!  —  Well }  —  Say  something!  — Don't  bruise  yourself  so  against 
t  walls!  —  It  is  fine  in  here  with  me;  outside  death  lurks!  {He  stares 
her  for  awhile  searchingly  and  expectantly,  suddenly  a  thought  occurs  to 
n.)  Wait  a  minute!  —  Jacob,  bring  down  the  goat!  —  Jacob — ! — 
lats'  milk  warms!  Goats'  milk  will  be  good.  {He  imitates  the  loud  and 
J  bleating  of  a  sleepy  flock  of  goats  and  sheep  in  the  stables.)  Ba,  baa, 
I  —  Listen,  they  are  coming  down  the  steps.     Jacob,  Jacob,  bring  them  in! 

{Pippa* s  glance  has  fallen  on  the  door  and  recognized  it;  she  starts  in 


3o6  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

and  rushes  toward  it  instinctively^  in  order  to  slip  away.      Huhn  steps 
in  her  way.) 

Huhn. —  I  will  not  catch  you!  I  will  not  touch  you,  little  girl!  Yet 
with  me  you  must  —  with  me  you  must  remain. 

Pippa. —  Mrs.  Wende!  Mrs.  Wende!  {She  stands  still  and  buriis 
her  face  in  her  hands.) 

Huhn. —  Don't  be  afraid!  —  Something  has  been  —  and  something 
will  be!  —  Snares  are  frequently  set  in  spring — and  the  yellow-hamnien 
are  not  caught  until  winter!  {He  takes  a  deep  draught  from  the  brandj 
bottle.) 

{At  this  moment,  a  goat  sticks  its  head  in  at  the  door.) 

Huhn. —  Wait  a  minute,  Jacob,  let  Liesla  stand  outside  there!  She 
will  give  me  a  drop  of  milk,  she  will!  {He  picks  up  a  little  stooly  trots  into 
the  hallway  and  milks  the  goaty  placing  himself  so  that  he  blocks  up  the 
doorway  at  the  same  time.  In  the  meantime,  Pippa  seems  to  have  gmm 
a  little  more  composed.  In  her  crying  and  moaning  there  is  a  note  of  helpless 
resignation;  she  feels  the  chill  again  and  is  drawn  toward  the  bright  spot 
on  the  wall,  the  reflection  of  the  fire  in  the  stove;  there  she  seems  to  thaw  out 
so  as  to  be  able  to  think,  and  kneeling  on  the  ground,  she  stares  into  the  crackling 
blaze.) 

Pippa. —  O,  santa  Maria,  madre  di  dio!  O,  madre  Maria!  O,  santa 
Anna!    O,  mia  santa  madre  Maria! 

{Old  Huhn  finishes  his  milking  and  enters  the  room  again.  Pippas 
distress  and  fear  rise  immediately,  but  he  goes  toward  her,  puts  the  little  jug 
of  milk  down  at  some  distance  from  her  and  moves  back  again.) 

Huhn. —  Drink  the  goats  milk,  you  little  gold  darling,  you! 

{Pippa  looks  at  Huhn  doubtfully  and  summons  up  sufficient  courage 
to  drink  with  eager  haste  from  the  little  jug  that  has  been  set  before  her.) 

Huhn. —  That's  the  way  babies,  too,  suck  in  their  milk! 

Old  Huhn  {slapping  his  knees  with  both  hands  breaks  out  into  fl 
hoarse,  triumphant  laughter). —  Now  she  has  drunk  her  fill,  now  her  strength 
will  come  back  to  her!  {At  this,  he  takes  himself  off,  pulls  forth  a  litde 
sack  from  behind  the  stove,  shakes  out  some  crusts  of  bread  onto  the  tahUj 
draws  from  the  oven  a  part  of  a  broken  iron  pot  in  which  are  potatoes,  ani 
puts  these  with  the  crusts;  drinks,  puts  the  brandy  bottle  also  on  the  table 
and  sits  down  himself  to  his  meal  on  the  bench  behind  the  table.  A  fresh 
blast  of  wind  comes  against  the  house  with  great  force:  with  wild  defiance, 
Huhn  answers  it,  as  it  were.)  Oh,  verj^  well,  you  can  come,  keep  right  on 
coming,  for  all  I  care;  just  try,  try  and  see  whether  you  can  get  her  away 
from  here! 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  307 

Pippa. —  Huhiiy  old  Huhn,  let  me  go  away!  I  know  you,  rm  sure 
it's  you:  you  are  father  Huhn!  What  has  happened?  Why  am  I  here 
with  you  ? 

Huhn. —  Because  that's  the  way  things  happen  In  this  world,  some- 
times. 

Pippa. —  What  happens  this  way  ?    What  do  you  mean  ? 

Huhn. —  What  a  man  hasn't,  he  has  to  get  for  himself! 

Pippa. —  What  do  you  mean  ?    I  don't  understand  you! 

Huhn. —  Don't  touch  me,  or  my  heart  will  beat  itself  out  of  my 
body!  {He  grows  paliy  trembles ^  breathes  hard  and  moves  away  because 
Pippa  touches  his  hand  with  her  lips.) 

Pippa  {starts  backy  runs  away  and  throws  herself  against  the  closed 
^oor).— Help!     Help! 

Huhn. —  Useless!  No  one  can  get  through  there!  You  are  to  stav 
with  me,  and  it's  fine  here,  if  you  lived  with  the  emperor  —  you  wouldn  t 
find  things  any  finer!    And  you  must  listen  to  me,  you  must  be  obedient. 

Pippa. —  Father  Huhn,  Father  Huhn,  you  won't  do  anything  to  me, 
wiU  you  ? 

Huhn  {shaking  his  head  decidedly). —  And  no  one  else  shall  touch 
a  hair  of  your  head!  No  father  and  no  manager.  You  are  safe  here  and 
jou  are  mine. 

Pippa. —  Am  I  to  be  buried  here,  forever  ? 

Huhn. —  A  caterpillar,  a  chrysalis,  a  butterfly!  Wait  awhile:  you 
will  soon  open  this  grave  for  us.  Listen,  listen,  the  devil  is  coming!  Stoop 
down!  The  devil  is  coming  down  from  the  mountains!  You  hear  how 
die  little  children  are  crying  out  there,  now.  They  are  standing  naked 
on  the  cold  stones  in  the  hallway  and  wailing.  They  are  dead!  Because 
dic^  are  dead,  they  are  frightened.  Stoop  down,  put  your  little  hood  on; 
or  he  will  seize  you  by  the  hair  with  his  fist  and  (God  have  mercy  on  you) 
out  into  the  whirlwind  you  will  have  to  go.  Come  here,  I'll  hide  you! 
Ill  wrap  you  up!  Just  listen,  how  the  wind  howls  and  spits  and  miaus; 
down  it  comes  from  the  roof  with  the  few  wisps  of  straw  there!  For  all 
I  care,  keep  on  pulling  until  you  have  everything  off  the  roof. —  Now> 
he  has  gone  by!  That  was  a  ghost,  wasn't  it  ?  I  am  a  ghost  and  you  are 
a  ghost,  all  the  world  are  ghosts  and  nothing  but  ghosts!  But  sometime, 
perhaps,  it  will  be  different. 

{A  wild  wave  of  storm  has  raged  by.  Again  Pippa* s  face  shows  a 
horror  that  almost  robs  her  of  consciousness.  Huhn  still  stands  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  even  in  the  deep  and  uncanny  silence  that  follows.  And  now 
a  voice  is  heard  outside^  and  a  distinct  knocking^  at  first  on  one  of  the  nailed-up 


3o8  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

windowSy  later  on  one  of  the  glass  panes  which  is  darkened  by  a  shadow, 
Huhn  starts  convulsively  and  stares  at  the  new  apparition.) 

A  voice  (from  without^  muffled). —  Halloo,  ho  there!  Confound  kp 
that  was  an  infernal  morning  breeze!  wasn't  it?  Does  anyone  live  heief 
My  very  best  God  bless  you!  Do  me  no  harm,  and  I'll  do  you  none!  Just 
give  me  some  hot  coffee  and  let  me  sit  by  your  stove-door  until  daylight! 
Yours  most  humbly,  a  frozen  journeyman! 

Huhn  (rigid  with  rage). —  Who  wants  anything  here  ?  Who's  hanging 
around  old  Huhn's  little  house  ?  What  man  ?  What  spirit  i  111  help 
you  to  get  away  from  here.  (He  seizes  a  heavy  club  and  plunges  out  0/ 
the  door,) 

(With  a  sigh  Pip  pa  closes  her  eyes.  Now  it  seems  as  if  something 
like  a  ringing  current  of  air  breathed  through  the  dark  room.  Then^  while 
the  musicy  ever  increasing  in  volume^  ebbs  and  flowSy  Michael  Hellriegd 
appears  in  the  doorway.  Nervously  and  cautiously  he  moves  into  the  cirdi 
of  light  made  by  the  burning  chipSy  his  eyes  searching  the  darkness  distrust" 

HellriegeL — This  is  certainly  a  rather  harmonious  murderers'  den! 
Hello,  is  anybody  at  home  ?  It  must  be  a  meal-worm  that's  playing  the 
harmonica  ?  Hello,  is  anyone  at  home  ?  (He  sneezes.)  That  seems 
to  be  musical  hellebore.  (Pippa  sneezes  too.)  Was  that  I  or  was  it  some- 
one else  ? 

Pippa  (half  asleep). —  Someone  must  be  —  playing  the  harmonica  — 
here  ? 

Hellriegel  (listenings  without  seeing  Pippa). —  You  are  quite  right 
it  is  a  meal-worm  in  my  opinion!  "Go  to  sleep,  dear  little  babe;  what 
is  rustling  in  the  straw  V*  If  a  rat  gnaws  at  night,  you  think  it  is  a  saw-mill, 
and  if  a  little  draught  blows  through  a  crack  in  the  door  and  rubs  two 
dried  beech  leaves  together,  you  think  at  once  that  you  hear  a  beautiful 
maiden  whispering  softly  or  sighing  for  her  deliverer!  Michael  Hellriegel, 
you  are  very  clever!  You  hear  the  grass  growing  even  in  winter!  But, 
I  tell  you,  you  better  take  care  of  the  things  in  your  head;  your  mother 
is  right:  don't  let  your  fancy  run  over  like  a  milk  pan!  Don't  believe 
firmly  and  absolutely  in  everything  that  is  not  true,  and  don't  run  a  hundred 
miles  and  more  after  a  flying  cobweb!  Good  evening!  My  name  is 
Michael  Lebrecht  Hellriegel!  (He  listens  awhile^  there  is  no  answer) 
I  begin  to  be  surprised  that  nobody  answers  me,  because  there  is  a  first- 
class  fire  in  the  stove  —  and  because  one  is  certainly  led  to  expect  som^ 
thing  decidedly  unusual  here  —  the  place  has  that  look.  If,  for  example,  I 
should  see  a  parrot  here,  sitting  on  a  pot  on  the  stove,  stirring  sausage  broth 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  309 

th  a  cooking  spoon,  and  he  should  scream  at  me:  rascal,  pickpocket, 
»rse-thief;  that  would  really  be  the  least  that  I  should  expect.  I  waive 
y  claim  to  a  man-eater;  or  if  I  have  one,  then  there  must  be  an  enchanted 
mcess  too,  whom  an  inhuman  and  accursed  monster  keeps  in  a  cage: 
e  pretty  little  dancing  girl,  for  instance, —  Hold,  something  clever  has 
St  occurred  to  me:  I  bought  an  ocarina!  I  bought  the  ocarina  of  the 
urvy  old  fellow  at  the  tavern  who  played  for  the  dancing,  paid  for  it  with 
y  last  dollar  —  which  was  also  very  clever!  Why  do  I  want  it  —  I 
in*t  really  know,  myself!  Perhaps  because  the  name  sounds  so  queer, 
I  imagine  that  the  little  red-haired  nixie  is  inside  of  it  and  wherever 
issible,  she  slips  out  and  dances  when  anyone  plays  on  it  ?  I  am  going 
make  the  experiment,  right  now. 

{Michael  Hellriegel  puts  the  ocarina  to  his  mouthy  looks  round  inquiringly 
d  plays.  At  the  -first  noteSy  Pippa  rises,  her  eyes  closed,  trips  into  the 
fiter  of  the  room  and  assumes  a  dancing  pose,) 

Pippa. —  Yes,  father,  I  am  coming!     Here  I  am! 

{Michael  Hellriegel  takes  the  ocarina  from  his  mouth,  stares  at  her  with 
€n  mouth,  dumbfounded  with  surprise.) 

Hellriegel. —  There,  Michael,  that's  what  you  get  out  of  this  business! 
3w  you  are  stark  mad! 

Pippa  {opens  her  eyes,  as  if  awakening). —  Is  there   someone   here  ? 

Hellriegel. —  No,  that  is  nobody  but  me,  if  you  will  permit  me. 

Pippa. —  Who  is  talking  then  ?     And  where  am  I  ? 

Hellriegel. —  In  my  tired  brain,  tired  from  a  sleepless  night! 

Pippa  {remembers  having  seen  Hellriegel  in  the  tavern  in  the  woods, 
J  flies  into  his  arms). —  Help  me!     Help  me!     Save  me! 

{Hellriegel  stares  down  at  the  magnificent  Titian^ed  hair  of  the  little 
ad  that  has  hidden  itself  on  his  shoulder.  He  does  not  move  his  arms 
Pippa  holds  hers  clasped  tightly  around  him.) 

Hdlriegel. —  If  now,  I  —  if,  now,  I  —  for  instance:  I  suppose,  if  I 
d  my  arms  free,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  mother  doesn't  like  to  see 
s  do  It,  I  should  write  a  short  memorandum  in  my  little  book;  it  is  even 
ssible  it  might  be  in  verse.  But  I  can  not  get  my  hands  free!  My 
lagination  has  bound  me  so  tightly!  It  has  bound  me  —  woe  betide  me! — 
ti^tly  and  so  confoundedly  queerly  that  my  heart  thumps  in  my  throat 
d  makes  a  bunch  of  red  hair  in  front  of  me! 

Pippa. —  Help  me!  Help  me!  Rescue  me!  Save  me  from  that  old 
>nster,  that  awful  creature! 

Hellriegel. —  What  may  your  name  be  ? 

Pippa. —  Pippa ! 


310  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

HellriegeL — Right,  of  course!  I  heard  the  fellow  vrith  the  ridinf 
boots  call  you  that.  Then  the  fellow  went  away;  he  made  himself  scant 
When  they  massacred  the  Dago  dog,  he  preferred  to  be  somewhere  dst 
And  you  were  gone,  too,  when  I  —  that  is  to  say,  when  ive  came  back 
with  the  dying  Italian;  at  least,  I  didn't  find  you  downstairs  and  I  didn't 
go  up  into  his  sleeping  quarters  with  them.  I  would  have  liked  to  vk 
him  about  you,  but  he  had  forgotten  his  Italian!  — 

Pippa. —  Come  away,  come  away  from  here!     Oh,  don't  leave  mcl 

HellriegeL — No!  You  may  be  quite  at  ease  as  to  that,  we  twowil 
never  leave  each  other  again.  He  who  once  has  a  bird  as  I  have,  doesn't 
readily  let  it  fly  away  again.  So,  Pippa,  sit  down,  compose  yourself,  and 
we  will  consider  the  situation  seriously  for  the  moment,  as  if  there  were  no 
screws  loose! 

{He  frees  himself  gently;  with  knightly  grace  and  modesty  he  takis 
Pippa*s  little  finger  between  his  first  finger  and  thumb  and  leads  her  ink 
the  circle  of  light  cast  by  the  stove  to  a  little  stool  on  which  she  seats  hersdf.) 

Hellriegel  {standing  before  Pippa  making  fantastic  gesticulations),— 
So  a  dragon  kidnapped  you  —  I  thought  so,  right  away,  up  there  in  the 
tavern  —  spirited  you  away  from  the  Dago  magician;  and  because  I  am 
a  travelling  artist,  I  was  at  once  sure  that  I  was  to  rescue  you;  and  forth- 
with I  too  ran  out  into  the  open,  wholly  without  end  or  aim. 

Pippa, —  Where  did  you  come  from  ?    Who  are  you  ? 

HellriegeL —  A  son  of  the  widow  Hellriegel,  the  fruit-woman. 

Pippa, —  And  where  do  you  come  from  ? 

HellriegeL —  Out  of  our  Lord's  great  sausage  boiler! 

Pippa  {laughs  heartily). —  But  you  talk  so  strangely! 

HellriegeL —  I  have  always  distinguished  myself  in  that  way. 

Pippa, —  But  see  here,  I  am  certainly  made  of  flesh  and  blood!  and  that 
crazy  old  Huhn  is  an  old,  discharged  glass-blower,  nothing  more.  His 
goiter  and  his  balloon  cheeks  probably  come  from  the  blowing;  and  there 
are  no  fiery  dragons  any  more. 

HellriegeL — You  don't  say  so!     Why  not? 

Pippa, —  Hurry!  Bring  me  back  to  Mother  Wende!  Come  along 
with  me;  I  know  the  way  to  the  Redwater  tavern.  I'll  guide  you!  We 
won't  lose  our  way!  {As  Hellriegel  shakes  his  head  no.)  Or,  are  you  going 
to  leave  me  alone  again  ? 

Hellriegel  {denying  this  vigorously). —  I  will  not  sell  my  ocarina! 

Ptppa  {laughs^  pouts^  presses  closely  and  anxiously  up  to  him). —  What 
is  this  about  the  ocarina  ?  Why  won't  you  say  anything  sensible  ?  You 
talk  nonsense  all  the  time!     Really,  you  are  so  stupid,  Signore  Hellriegell 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  311 

(Kissing  him  fondly^  half  weeping.)    I  don't  understand  you  at  all,  you 
ate  so  stupid  I 

Hellriegel. —  Wait    a   minute!     I   begin  to  sec  more  dearly,   now! 
ffl^   takes  ner  head  in  his  hands^  looks  intently  into  her  eyes^  and  with 
^tdm    decision^    presses    his   lips   long   and   passionately  against  hers). — 
'  Michael  does  not  let  himself  be  made  a  fool  of  I 

{Without  separating^  they  look  at  each   other  with  embarrassment  and 
mmuthinr  of  uncertainty.) 

Hellriegel. —  Something  is  happening  inside  of  me,  little  Pippa,  a 
•tnufige  change! 

Pippa. —  Oh,  good  — 
Hellriegel  (finishing). —  Michael. 
Pippa. —  Michael,  what  are  you  doing  ? 

Hellriegel. —  I  am  quite  perplexed,  myself!     Please  excuse  me  from 
-  Ae  answer!    Aren't  you  angry  with  me  for  doing  it  ? 
Pip  fa. —  No. 

Hellriegel. —  Perhaps  we  could  do  it  again  then,  right  now  ? 
Pippa. —  Why  should  we  ? 

Hellriegel. —  Because  it  is  so  simple!  It  is  so  simple  and  is  so  mad 
and  so  —  so  altogether  lovely,  it  is  enough  to  drive  one  crazy. 
Pippa. —  I  think,  good  Michael,  you  are  that  already. 
Hellriegel  {scratching  himself  behind  the  ear). —  If  I  could  just  be  sure 
of  that!  I  say  there  is  nothing  sure  in  this  world!  Do  you  know,  another 
idea  has  just  occurred  to  me!  Let  us  take  plenty  of  time!  We'll  go  to 
the  bottom  of  the  matter,  this  time!  Come,  sit  down  here,  here  near  me. 
So,  first  of  all,  this  is  a  hand  here!  Permit  me,  we  will  come  at  once  to 
die  main  thing:  whether  there  is  a  main-spring  in  the  clock-works.  {He 
f&ts  his  ear  to  her  chesty  like  a  physician.)  You  are  cenainly  alive,  you 
certainly  have  a  hean,  Pippa! 

Pippa. —  But,  Michael,  did  you  doubt  that  ?  — 

Hellriegel. —  No,  Pippa !  —  but  if  you  are  alive  —  then  I  must  get 

9y  breath.     {Actually  struggling  for  breathy  he  steps  back  from  her.) 

'>.        Pippo- —  Michael,  indeed  we  haven't  any  time!     Listen  to  that  heavy 

I  keathing  outside,  and  how  someone  is  stamping  round  and  round  the  house! 

',  Be  has  passed  the  window  three  times,  now.     He  will  strike  you  down  dead, 

if  be  finds  us  here,  Michael.     Look,  he  is  staring  in  here  again! 

Hellriegel. —  O  you  poor  little  princess  "I-am-afraid'M  Ah,  you 
tim't  yet  know  my  mother's  son!  Don't  let  that  old  gorilla  bother  you! 
iTyou  wish,  a  boot  shall  fly  at  his  head !  — 

Pippa. —  No,  Michael,  don't  do  that,  Michael ! 


312  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

Hellriegel, —  Certainly!  —  Or  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  we  will  b^ 
the  new  life  some  other  way.  First  of  all,  we  will  establish  ourselves  calmljr 
and  sensibly  in  the  world.  We  will  cleave  to  reality,  Pippa,  won't  wc? 
You  to  me  and  I  to  you!  But  no:  I  dare  hardly  say  that  aloud  became 
you  are  like  a  blossom  on  a  pliant  stem,  so  fragrant  and  so  fragile!  Enotig|i 
child,  no  day-dreaming!  {Takes  off  his  knapsack  and  unbuckles  it) 
Here  in  my  knapsack  is  a  box.  Now,  pay  attention;  Michael  Hellriegd 
brought  with  him  into  the  world  a  real  inheritance  of  mother  wit,  for  use 
in  all  cases.  (He  holds  out  a  very  small  box.)  Practical!  In  here  arc 
three  practical  things:  first  of  all,  this  is  an  enchanted  tooth-pick,  you 
see:  fashioned  like  a  sword;  with  it  you  can  stab  to  death  giants  and 
dragons!  Here,  in  this  little  flask,  I  have  an  elixir,  and  with  this,  well 
pay  oflF  the  filthy  fellow;  it  is  a  so-called  sleeping  potion  and  is  indispen- 
sable for  use  against  giants  and  magicians!  You  don't  recognize  what 
this  little  ball  of  yarn  here  is,  but  if  you  tie  one  end  fast  here,  the  little  roD 
will  immediately  tumble  down  in  front  of  you,  and  skip  along  ahead  of  you, 
like  a  little  white  mouse,  and  if  you  will  only  follow  the  yarn  on  and  on, 
you  will  come  straight  into  the  promised  land.  One  more  thing,  here 
is  a  little  doll's  table;  but  that  isn't  of  much  consequence,  Pippa:  it  is  just 
a  "  Little  table  —  set  —  thyself."  Am  I  not  a  clever  fellow  f  You  ha?c 
confidence  in  me  now,  haven't  you  ? 

Pippa Michael,  I  don't  see  any  of  those  things! 

Hellriegel. —  Just  wait,  I  shall  have  to  open  your  eyes  for  you  before 
you  can! 

Pippa. —  I  believe  it  all!     Hide  yourself,  the  old  man  is  coming! 

Hellriegel. —  Tell  me,  Pippa,  where  were  you  born  ? 

Pippa. —  I  believe,  in  a  city  by  the  water. 

Hellriegel. —  You  see,  I  thought  so  right  away!  Was  it  as  windy 
there  as  here  ?    And  were  there  generally  clouds  in  the  sky  there  too  ? 

Pippa. —  I  have  never  seen  any  there,  Michael,  and  day  after  day, 
the  dear  sun  shone! 

Hellriegel. —  So !  That's  the  kind  of  person  you  are !  Do  you  think  my 
mother  would  believe  that  ?  —  Now,  tell  me,  just  once,  do  you  believe  in  me  ? 

Pippa. —  Ten  thousand  times,  Michael,  in  all  things. 

Hellriegel. —  Beautiful!  Then  we  will  cross  the  mountains  —  and 
of  course  that's  only  a  little  thing  to  do!  I  know  every  highway  and  byway 
here  —  and  on  the  other  side  spring  will  have  begun! 

Pippa, —  O,  no,  no,  no !  I  can  not  go  with  you !  My  father  is  very 
wicked,  he  will  shut  me  up  again  for  three  days,  and  give  me  nothing  but 
water  and  bread  to  eat! 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  313 

Hellriegel. —  Well,  Pippa,  your  father  is  very  kind  now;  his  manner 
is  very  quiet  now;  he  is  astonishingly  meek!  I  marvelled  that  he  was 
•o  patient,  quite  cool-headed,  not  at  all  like  an  Italian.  Soft!  He  will 
never  again  hurt  a  fly!  Do  you  understand  just  what  it  is  I  would  say» 
little  Pippa!  Your  father  has  played  and  won  so  long,  and  now  at  last, 
he  has  lost.  After  all,  everybody  loses  in  the  end,  Pippa!  That  is,  so 
to  speak  —  your  father  is  dead. 

Pippa  {more  laughing  than  weepings  "flings  her  arms  around  Michael 
HMriegeVs  neck). —  Dear  me!  Then  I  have  nobody  left  to  me  in  the 
world,  nobody  but  you! 

Hellriegel. —  ^d  that  is  quite  enough,  Pippa!  I  sell  myself  to  you 
skin  and  bones,  from  the  crown  of  my  head  to  the  soles  of  my  feet,  just 
as  I  am!  —  And  huzza!    Huzza!    Now  we  shall  wander  as  we  please. 

Pippa. —  You  will  take  me  with  you,  you  will  not  leave  me  r 

Hellriegel. —  I,  leave  you?  I,  not  take  you  with  me?  And  now, 
I  ¥rill  guide  you;  now,  rely  on  me!  You  shall  not  hit  your  foot  against 
s  stone!  Hear,  how  the  glass  rings  on  the  mountain  pines!  Do  you  hear  ? 
The  long  cones  jingle.  It  is  only  a  little  while  before  daylight  but  bitter 
cdd.  I  will  vnrap  you  up,  I  will  carry  you;  we  will  warm  each  other, 
non't  we?  And  you'll  be  surprised  at  how  fast  we  get  away!  Already 
a  litttle  bit  of  light  is  creeping  in  here!  Look  at  the  tips  of  my  fingers; 
diere  is  even  now  a  bit  of  sunlight  on  them.  A  bit  that  can  be  eaten,  it 
must  be  licked  off!  You  can't  forego  that  and  keep  hot  blood!  Do  you, 
too,  hear  birds  singine,  Pippa  ? 

Pippa. —  Yes,  Michael. 

Hellriegel. —  Peep,  peep!  That  may  be  a  mouse,  a  yellow  hammer  or 
a  door  hinge  —  it  doesn't  make  any  diflference  which;  all  notice  something! 
The  old  house  creaks  through  and  through !  Many  times  my  spirit  becomes 
absolutely  exalted  to  the  skies  when  the  tremendous  event  occurs  and 
the  ocean  of  light  pours  forth  from  the  hot,  golden  pitcher!  — 

Pippa. —  Don't  you  hear  voices  calling,  Michael  ? 

Hellriegel. —  No,  I  hear  only  one  voice;  that  sounds  like  a  steer 
bellowing  in  the  pasture! 

Pippa.— It's  old  Huhn!    It's  terrible! 

Hellriegel. —  But  what  he's  calling  is  very  strange! 

Pippa. —  There  he  stands,  Michael,  don't  you  see  him  ? 

Hellriegel  (standing  with  Pippa  at  the  window). —  Yes,  it  seems  to 
be  some  frightful  wood  god  —  his  beard  and  his  eyelashes  full  of  icicles, 
his  outspread  hands  extended  upwards;  he  stands  there  and  does  not 
moire,  his  closed  eyes  turned  toward  the  East! 


314  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

Pippa. —  Now  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  shine  on  him  I 

Hellriegel. —  And  again  he  cries  out! 

Pippa, —  Do  you  understand  what  he  is  calling  ? 

Hellriegel. —  It  sounded  like  —  it  sounds  like  —  like  —  a  proclamadoo. 

{A  peculiar  call  in  slow  and  powerful  crescendo  becomes  audible;  it  is 
uttered  by  old  Huhn^  and  sounds  like  jumalai.) 

Hellriegel. —  It  sounds  to  me  like  ju  —  jumalai. 

Pippa. —  Jumalai  ?    What  does  that  mean  ? 

Hellriegel. —  I  don*t  know,  little  Pippa,  just  exactly  what.  But  it 
seems  to  me  it  means:  Joy  for  all! 

(yA^  cally  Jumalaiy  is  repeated  louder^  while  the  room  grows  lighter^ 

Pippa. —  Are  you  weeping,  Michael  ? 

Hellriegel. —  Come,  little  Pippa,  you  misunderstand! 

{Closely  intertwined^  Pippa  and  Hellriegel  move  out  of  the  door.  Tin 
curtain  fallsy  and  the  music^  which  began  with  the  light  on  HellriegeFs  finger^ 
swells  forth  and  depicts  as  it  increases  the  mighty  rising  of  the  winter  sun.) 

ACT  III 

The  interior  of  a  snow-bound  cabin  on  the  crest  of  the  mountains.  A 
largCy  lowy  comfortable  room  enclosed  in  timbered  walls  and  with  a  timbeni 
ceiling  is  seen.  There  are  three  small y  well  protected  double  windows  in 
the  left  wall;  under  them  runs  a  bench  which  is  fastened  to  the  wall.  The 
back  wall  is  broken  by  a  little  door  which  leads  into  the  hallway.  Gajlj 
painted  peasant  cupboards  form  a  comfortable-looking  comery  left.  Clean^ 
carefully  arranged  cooking  utensils  and  bright-colored  plates  adorn  the  uppety 
open  half  of  one  of  the  cupboards.  To  the  right  of  the  door  is  the  usual  large 
stove  of  glazed  tiles  with  its  bench.  The  fire  crackles  cheerily  in  it.  The 
stove-bench  meets  the  bench  fastened  to  the  right  wall.  In  the  comer  thus 
formed  stands  a  largey  massivcy  brown  peasants  table;  over  it  hangs  a  lamp; 
gayly  painted  wooden  chairs  surround  it.  The  brass  pendulum  of  a  largty 
Black-forest  clock  near  the  door  swings  slowly.  Thus  far  the  room  shows 
a  character  peculiar  to  the  dwellings  of  the  mountaineers  of  the  better  class. 
Unusualy  is  a  table  in  the  foregroundy  lefty  with  a  reading  desky  on  which 
is  an  old  booky  open;  the  table  is  covered  with  all  sorts  of  other  books  and 
strange  objectSy  such  as  a  lamp  between  cobblers^  magnifying  globesy  a  glass' 
blower  s  lamp  with  glass  tubeSy  old  medicine  bottlesy  a  stuffed  king-fishery 
etc;  beside  thescy  against  the  wallsy  are  a  number  of  objects  that  have  been 
unearthed:  stone  kniveSy  hammers  and  spear-headsy  belonging  to  the  so- 
called  stone  age;  and  a  collection  of  common  hammers  for  geological  purposes. 
More  unusual  still  is  a  delicately  made  model  of  a  Venetian  gondola^  which 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  315 

rests  on  a  stand  in  front  of  the  reading  desky  as  well  as  other  models  of  ancient^ 
nudiaeval  and  modem  vessels  for  river  and  ocean  navigation^  which  hang 
from  the  ceilings — and  a  large  telescope  with  its  stand.  On  the  deal  floor 
tU  splendid  oriental  carpets.  The  little  windows  in  the  room  glow  in  the 
Ught  of  the  setting  sun^  which  light  also  makes  all  the  objects  in  the  room  stand 
oti/  sharp  and  fantastically.     There  is  a  door  in  the  right  wall. 

(Jonathan^  an  unkempt  deaf  mute  of  about  thirty,  is  washing  plates  in 
a  small  wooden  tub  which  stands  on  two  stools  near  the  stove.  Someone 
knocks  several  times  at  the  hall  door.  The  deaf  mute  does  not  turn,  and  so 
Ae  door  is  opened  and  the  Manager  appears,  masquerading  as  a  mountaineer, 
his  gun  hung  over  his  shoulder,  and  snow  shoes  under  his  arm.) 

The  Manager. —  Jonathan,  is  your  master  in  the  house  ?  Jonathan! 
You  booby,  answer  me!  The  devil  take  you  if  he  is  not  at  home!  What  ? 
Perhaps  he  has  gone  out  to  pick  ice  flowers,  or  to  catch  white  moths  with 
butteifly  nets?     Bit,  it's  beastly  cold  out-of-doors!     Jonathan! 

{Much  startled,  Jonathan  turns  in  alarm  and  delight,  dries  his  hands 
on  his  blue  apron  and  kisses  the  Manager's  right  hand.) 

The  Manager. —  Is  the  old  man  at  home?  Jonathan,  old  Wann? 
(Jonathan  utters  some  sounds  and  makes  gestures.)  You  thick-headed 
lOCMindrel,  you;  express  yourself  more  plainly!  (Jonathan  takes  greater 
pains,  points  vehemently  out  of  the  window  as  a  sign  that  his  master  has 
gone  out;  then  runs  to  the  clock,  which  points  to  quarter  of  five;  shows  with 
his  finger  that  his  master  had  intended  to  return  at  half  past  four;  shrugs 
his  shoulders  in  surprise  that  he  has  not  come  back  yet;  hastens  back  to  the 
window,  presses  his  nose  against  it,  shades  his  eyes  with  his  hand  and  looks 
oui).  Very  good,  Fve  taken  that  all  in!  He  has  gone  out  and  will  return 
ioimediately,  really  ought  to  be  back  here  now!  {The  mute  goes  wow,  wow, 
woWf  imitating  a  dog.)  Just  so,  he  took  his  two  St.  Bernard  dogs  with  him, 
I  understand.  Beautiful!  Wanted  to  give  himself  and  the  dogs  some 
exercise t  Brush  me  off,  knave,  I  am  going  to  stay  here!  {As  he  looks 
just  like  a  snowman,  he  steps  back  into  the  hall,  stamps  and  beats  the  snow 
off  himself,  the  deaf  mute  helping  zealously.) 

{Meanwhile  a  dignified  old  man  enters  almost  noiselessly  by  the  door 
to  the  right.  He  is  tall  and  broad-shouldered,  and  long,  flowing,  white 
hair  covers  his  powerful  head.  His  stem,  beardless  face  is  covered  as  it 
were  with  runes.  Bushy  eyelashes  overshadow  his  large,  protruding  eyes. 
The  man  seems  to  be  ninety  years  old  or  more,  but  in  him  old  age  is  as  it  were 
strength,  beauty  and  youth  raised  to  a  higher  power.  His  dress  is  a  blouse 
of  coarse  linen  with  wide  sleeves,  which  reaches  below  his  knees.  He  wears 
rounded,  red  woolen,  laced  shoes,  and  a  leather  girdle  around  his  loins.     In 


3i6  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

this  girdle y  when  he  enters^  rests  his  large^  splendidly  formed  right  hani. 
It  is  JVann.) 

{JVann  directs  an  attentive  and  smiling  glance  into  the  hall^  striia 
quietly  through  the  roomy  and  seats  himself  behind  the  table  at  the  readini 
desk.  He  rests  his  elbows  on  the  tabUy  running  his  fingers  thoughtJuUj 
through  his  hairy  whose  white  locks  flow  over  the  open  folio  on  which  he  keefi 
his  eyes  fixed.  Having  peeled  off  his  overcoaty  the  Manager  enters  agan. 
He  does  not  notice  Wann  at  first.) 

The  Manager. —  O,  you  gazelles  —  sweet  twins  I  So,  now  we  wiB 
make  ourselves  as  comforuble  as  possible  here  while  we  are  waiting  for 
the  old  sly-boots! 

Wann. —  I  think,  too,  we  will;  and  whilst  so  doing  we'll  drink  some 
black  Falernian. 

The  Manager  {surprised). —  Damn  it!  Where  did  you  come  from  so 
suddenly  ? 

Wann  (smiling). —  Ah,  the  man  who  knew  just  exactly  whence,  mf 
dear  sir!     Welcome  to  this  green  land!     Jonathan! 

The  Manager. —  Quite  true!  Everything  is  green  and  blue  befoie 
your  eyes  after  you  have  slid  down  and  clambered  up  for  four  hours!  I  bJ 
on  black  glasses,  but  in  spite  of  that,  my  organ  of  vision  seems  to  me  lib 
a  pond,  to  whose  bottom  I  have  sunk  and  over  which,  above  me,  litde 
colored  islands  are  constantly  swimming. 

Wann. —  And  you  would  like  to  get  up  on  one  of  them  ?  Had  I  better 
hunt  up  a  fishing  line  ? 

The  Manager. —  What  for  ? 

Wann. —  Oh,  just  something  that  shot  through  my  head.  At  all  events 
you  are  a  master  hand  at  snow-shoeing  and  as  daring  as  a  stag,  for  instancCi 
is  mainly,  only  in  November;  and  the  sparrow-hawk  is,  only  when  he  ii 
engaged  in  the  pursuit  of  a  victim  and  the  heat  of  the  chase  has  made  hifli 
blind  and  deaf  to  all  dangers;  it  struck  me  with  amazement  when  I  sa« 
you  slide  down  like  a  bird  from  the  top  of  the  Skull-cap.  And  as  you  are 
human,  I  hit  upon  a  third  human  possibility:  you  might,  perhaps,  wish 
to  sweat  out  some  sort  of  disease. 

The  Manager. —  What  doesn't  the  man  think  of  who,  summer  anJ 
winter,  in  all  kinds  of  weather,  has  nothing  more  to  do  in  all  the  worU 
than  go  walking  on  the  milky  way. 

Wann  (laughing). —  I  admit  that  I  often  ride  my  hobby-horse  a  littk 
high  and  that  by  so  doing  I  have  grown  something  far-sighted;  but  I  also 
see  very  well  near  by!  For  example,  this  lovely  child  of  Murano  here^ 
and  the  beautiful  crystal  decanter  full  of  black  wine  that  Jonathan  is  bringing 
us  for  our  comfort. 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  31; 

(Jonathan  brings  in  on  a  large  silver  tray  two  magnificenty  large^  olc 
Venetian  goblets  and  a  cut-glass  decanter  full  of  wine  and  places  them  on  tht 
'^ttUe,     JVann  himself  fills  the  glasses  carefully.     Each  of  the  men  takes  om 
mfihem  and  lifts  it  up  solemnly  toward  the  still  faintly  glimmering  window.) 

The  Manager. —  Monies  chrysocreos  fecerunt  nos  dominos!  {Gold- 
hearing  mountains  have  made  us  lords!)  Do  you  know  how  you  often 
impress  me,  Wann,  as  one  of  those  mythical,  gold-hunting  fellows,  whom 
the  sauer-kraut-gobblingy  piggishly-filthy,  common  rabble  of  our  mountains 
call  foreigners  ? 

JVann. —  Indeed  ?    And  how  might  that  be,  my  dear  fellow  ? 

The  Manager. —  One  who  possesses  an  Arabian  fairy  palace  of  gold 
and  jasper  in  Venice,  in  the  midst  of  the  waters,  who  yet  takes  up  his  abode 
here  among  us,  and  acts  as  if  he  couldn't  count  up  to  three  and  eats  any 
old  moldy  crust  of  bread. 

Wann. —  Your  health!  Let's  drink  on  that,  my  dear  fellow!  {They 
drink  to  each  other  and  then  laugh  heartily.) 

Wann. —  So,  that*s  what  you  think  of  me!  Well,  setting  aside  the 
bread  crusts,  for  my  conscience  is  quite  clear  of  that  hypocrisy,  there  is, 
perhaps,  a  grain  of  truth  in  the  surmise.  If  I  am  not  exactly  one  of 
those  Venetian  manikins  with  their  magic  power,  who  sometimes  appear 
to  the  woodmen  and  other  dreamers,  who  possess  gold  caves,  grottoes  and 
casUes  in  the  interior  of  the  earth,  still,  I  do  not  deny  that  these  mountains 
do   in  a  certain  sense  actually  contain  gold  for  me! 

The  Manager. —  Dear  me,  if  one  could  but  be  as  resigned  as  you  are 
to  such  quiet  enjoyment  of  life  in  the  midst  of  snow  and  ice,  Master  Wann  I 
No  anxiety  about  your  daily  bread,  no  business,  no  wife  —  way  above  all 
torts  of  follies  which  still  give  people  of  our  sort  the  headache;  and  so 
absorbed  in  scholarly  pursuits  that  you  don't  see  the  forest  for  the  trees: 
it  is  a  really  ideal  state! 

Wann. —  I  see,  my  portrait  still  varies  at  times  in  your  managerial 
soul.  At  times,  I  am  to  you  a  mythical  personality  who  has  a  house  in 
Venice,  then  again,  an  old  retired  major  who  squanders  his  old  age  income 
harmlessly. 

The  Manager. —  Well,  God  knows  it  is  not  just  exactly  easy  to  form 
the  right  conception  of  you ! 

Vrann. —  Jonathan,  light  the  lamps!  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  you  can 
see  through  me  somewhat  better  in  the  light! 

(A  short  pause  occurs^  in  which  the  Manager's  uneasiness  increases.) 
The  Manager. —  What  are  you   really  waiting  for  up  here,  year  in, 
jear  out,  Wann  ? 


3i8  AND  PIPPA  DANCIS 

Wann. —  For  many  things! 

The  Manager. —  They  are,  for  example  ? 

Wann. —  All  that  the  compass-card  brings:  clouds,  perfumes,  crystdi 
of  ice;  for  the  noiseless  double  lightnings  of  the  great  Pan-fires;  for  die 
little  flames  that  leap  up  from  the  hearth;  for  the  songs  of  the  dead  in  die 
water-fall;  for  my  own  happy  end;  for  the  new  beginning  and  the  entrance 
into  a  diflferent,  musical,  cosmic  brotherhood. 

The  Manager. —  And,  in  the  meantime,  are  you  never  bored  up  hoe, 
all  alone  ? 

Wann. —  Why  should  I  be  ?  If  thou  wilt  be  alone  thou  wilt  be 
wholly  thine  own.     And  boredom  exists  only  where  God  is  not! 

The  Manager. —  That  would  not  satisfy  me,  my  master!  I  alwajn 
need  external  stimulation. 

Wann. —  Well,  it  seems  to  me  that  that  which  sustains  in  its  roaring 
the  delight  of  a  great  veneration  is  also  external. 

The  Manager. —  Yes,  yes,  all  very  well !  But  for  me,  now  that  I  am 
so  old,  there  must  always  be  something  youthful,  gay,  lively  in  the  game. 

Wann. —  As,  for  example,  these  lady-bugs  here.  All  winter  long  I 
have  them  here  on  my  table  for  company,  in  the  midst  of  all  sorts  of  phy- 
things.  Just  observe  a  little  beast  like  this  for  awhile.  When  I  do  I 
actually  hear  the  spheres  thunder!     If  it  strikes  yoxi,  you  are  deaf. 

The  Manager. —  This  tack,  I  don't  understand. 

Wann. —  It  is  quite  simple:  the  little  beast  on  my  finger  does  not 
divine  me,  does  not  divine  you.  And  yet  we  are  there,  and  the  world 
around  us,  which  it,  confined  within  its  own  sphere,  is  not  able  to  conceive. 
Our  world  lies  outside  of  its  consciousness.  Think  of  what  lies  outside 
of  ours!  For  example,  is  your  eye  able  to  tell  you  how  the  brook  murmurs 
and  the  cloud  rumbles  ?  That  this  is  so,  you  would  never  learn,  if  you 
had  not  the  sense  of  hearing.  And  again,  if  you  had  the  finest  sense  of 
hearing,  you  would  still  know  nothing  to  all  eternity  of  the  magnificent 
outbursts  of  light  in  the  firmament. 

The  Manager. —  Thank  you,  for  the  private  lecture!  I  would  rather 
have  it  some  other  time!  I  can't  sit  still  today.  I  hinted  at  something 
quite  different  — 

Wann  {lifts  his  glass). —  To  the  lovely  child  of  Murano,  probably! 

The  Manager. —  Well,  if  I  did  I     How  did  you  know  it  i 

Wann. —  Of  what  use  is  an  observatory  three  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea  in  central  Germany  }  Of  what  use  is  a  telescope  with  a  lens  made 
by  yourself,  if  you  can't  look  down  sometimes  on  this  old  sublunary  world 
and  keep  a  strict  eye  on  its  children }  And  finally,  the  man  whose  shoe 
doesn't  pinch  —  doesn't  go  to  the  cobbler! 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  319 

The  Manager. —  Good!  If  you  really  are  such  a  confounded  physicist, 
utdng  your  cobbling  aside  for  the  time,  I  admit  that  the  shoe  pinches 
le  in  several  places  —  then  please  tell  me,  what  happened  last  night  in 
id  Wende's  tavern  ? 

fFann. —  An  Italian  was  stabbed! 

The  Manager, —  Then  why  do  you  consult  the  book  ? 

Wann. —  A  registrar  is  certainly  needed  in  the  end ! 

The  Manager. —  And  are  the  details  noted  in  the  book,  too  ? 

Wann. —  For  the  time  being,  no. 

The  Manager. —  Well  then,  your  telescope  and  your  proud  folios 
nount  to  nothing!  —  I  can*t  forgive  myself  for  this  business!  Why 
dn't  I  watch  more  closely!  I  wanted  to  buy  her  from  the  dog,  ten  times  — 
—  That's  what  happens,  when  one  is  really  tender-hearted  once  in  awhile. 

{lie  jumps  up  and  walks  around  the  room  very  much  agitated;  finally 
*  stops  behind  the  telescope^  turns  it  around  on  its  stand  and  directs  it  toward 
e  different  night-barkened  windows  one  after  the  other.) 

{The  wind  whistles,) 

The  Manager. —  Senseless,  how  I  always  feel  up  here,  as  if  I  were 
a  ship's  cabin  in  a  storm  on  the  great  ocean! 

fFann. —  Doesn't  that  also  express  most  accurately  the  situation  into 
bich  we  are  born  ? 

The  Manager. —  That  may  be!  But  with  phrases  of  this  kind  nothing 
ill  ever  be  gotten  at.  This  doesn't  pull  me  out  of  my  particular  dilemma! 
would  be  different  if  one  could  see  anything  through  your  telescope; — 
It  alas,  I  notice  that  that,  too,  it  gives  but  a  misrepresentation  of  facts! 

fFann. —  But  it  is  pitch  dark  night,  dear  sir! 

The  Manager. —  By  daylight,  I  don't  need  a  thing  like  that! 

{He  leaves  the  telescopey  walks  back  and  forth  again  and  finally  stops 
front  of  fFann.) 

fFann. —  Well,  out  with  it!    Whom  are  you  seeking .? 

The  Manager. —  Her! 

fFann. —  You  lost  sight  of  her  after  the  affair  ? 

The  Manager. —  I  hunt  for  her  but  do  not  find  her!  I  have  had 
Migh  of  this  nonsense.  Master  Wann!  if  you  are  one  of  these  crazy 
ack-salvers,  pull  the  thorn  out  for  me!  I  can  not  live  and  I  can  not 
^  Take  a  scalpel  in  your  hand  and  search  for  the  poisoned  arrow-head 
lich  is  sticking  somewhere  in  my  cadaver  and  forcing  itself  further 
with  every  minute.  I  am  tired  of  the  distress  and  irritation,  of  the 
eplessness  and  poor  appetite.  I  should  be  willing  to  become  a  papal  singer, 
t  to  be  rid  for  one  moment  of  this  accursed  longing  which  torments  me. 


320  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

{He  sinks  down  on  a  chaify  breathing  heavily^  and  wipes  the  sweat  from 
his  forehead.     JVann  rises  with  some  ceremoniousness.) 

fVann. —  And  you  are  in  earnest  about  the  cure?  You  will  really 
give  yourself  into  my  hands  ? 

The  Manager. —  Of  course  I  will!    What  else  did  I  come  here  for? 

fFann. —  And  you  will  hold  still  even  if  it  is  necessary  to  pull  from 
your  soul  with  a  jerk  the  whole  of  the  evil  growth  with  all  the  roots  that 
branch  out  into  the  very  tips  of  your  toes  ? 

The  Manager. —  And  if  it  be  horse  physic! 

fVann. —  Well,  then  be  so  kind  as  to  pay  attention,  my  dear  fellows. 
Now  I  clap  my  hands  the  first  time!  {He  does  it.)  If  the  graybeard 
could  not  do  more  than  the  man,  what  were  the  meaning  of  old  age  ? 
{He  draws  forth  a  longf  silken  cloth.)  Now  I  clap  my  hands  the  second 
time.  {He  does  it.)  Afterward  I  bind  this  cloth  over  my  mouth,  as  the 
Parsee  does  when  he  prays  — 

The  Manager  {impatiently). —  And  then  I  shall  go  my  way,  for  I  see 
you  are  mocking  me.  Master  Wann! 

fFann. and  then:  incipit  vita  nova  {the  new  life  begins)^  dear  sir! 

{He  slips  the  bandage  over  his  mouth  and  claps  his  hands  vigorously.) 

{Immediately^  as  if  called  there  by  magicy  Pippa^  half  frozen  and  strug- 
gling for  breathy  rushes  in;  a  cloud  of  fog  penetrates  the  room  after  her 
entrance.) 

Pip  pa  {rushes  forward  y  crying  out  hoarsely). —  Save  him!  Save  him  I 
Help,  you  men!  Thirty  steps  from  here,  Michael  is  dying  in  the  snow! 
He  is  lying  there,  suffocating!  He  cannot  stand  up!  Bring  light!  He 
is  freezing  to  death;  he  can  go  no  further!  The  night  is  fearful!  G>me 
with  me,  come  with  me! 

The  Manager  {stares  in  boundless  amazementy  now  at  Pippa^  now  at 
his  host). —  Are  you  the  devil  himself,  Wann  ? 

Wann. —  The  cure  is  beginning.  Don't  plead  any  weariness!  A  rope! 
Tie  that  end  fast  here,  Jonathan! 

{Pippa  seizes  Wann  by  the  hand  and  drags  him  out.  The  Manager 
follows  as  if  stupefied.  The  room  is  empty  and  the  storm  roars  through  the 
hally  sweeping  clouds  of  snow  through  with  it.  All  at  once  the  head  of  old 
Huhn  is  visible  in  the  hall  door.  After  the  old  man  has  assured  himself 
that  there  is  no  one  in  the  roomy  he  steals  in.  He  stares  at  the  objects  in  the 
roomy  and  when  the  voice  of  the  returning  Wann  is  heardy  he  hides  himself 
behind  the  stove.) 

Wann  {still  in  the  hallwayy  drawing  the  others  after  him  along  the  rope).-^ 
Bolt  the  doors  securely,  Jonathan !  — 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  321 

{Now  the  half-frozen  Michael  Hellriegely  supported  by  Wann  and  the 
anageTf  is  seen.  He  is  brought  into  the  room  and  laid  on  the  bench  by  the 
ve;  Pippa  draws  his  shoes  off  and  the  Manager  rubs  his  chest,) 

Wann  {to  Jonathan). — A  cup  full  of  hot  black  coffee  mixed  with  cognac! 

The  Manager. —  Thunder  and  hail!     It's  cold  enough  to  freeze  your 

)Uth  shut!     The  air  outside  there  stings  like  needles  and  butcher  knives! 

Wann. —  Yes,  it  is  a  night!  You  know,  at  least,  when  you  gasp  for 
eath  in  these  black  Hades-flames  that  you  are  a  fighter  and  still  a  long 
stance  away  from  the  paradises  of  light.  Only  one  little  spark  from 
ere  has  found  the  way!  Bravely,  little  one,  hast  thou  fought  thy  way 
rough ! 

Pippa. —  Michael,  signore,  Michael,  not  I. 

Wann. —  How  do  you  feel,  sir  ? 

The  Manager. —  What  kind  of  a  man  you  are,  I  know  not!  But  in 
her  respects,  I  am  as  amused  as  if  I  were  at  a  hanging!  After  all,  it  is 
st  as  wonderful  that  a  fly  should  soil  my  shirt  collar,  as  that  you  or  anyone 
;e  should  bring  about  such  an  occurrence. 

Wann. —  Instead  of  one  there  has  grown  to  be  two  of  them! 

The  Manager. —  Thank  you!  Even  my  brain  can  still  grasp  that! 
3  be  sure,  my  suspicions  rested  on  Huhn,  and  then  ?  instead  of  him  it 
a  simpleton!     Jonathan,  my  snow-shoes,  quick! 

Wann. —  Going  already  ? 

The  Manager. —  Two  are  enough!  The  third,  too  many!  True  it  is 
a  way  new  to  me  to  carry  out  generosity  to  its  highest  power,  but  it  is 
)t  the  right  vocation  for  me  permanently!  Don't  you  think  so,  too,  little 
ippa  ? 

Pippa  {weeping  softly^  is  drying  and  rubbing  MichaeVs  feet  with  her 
lir). —  What  is  it,  signore  ? 

The  Manager. —  You  know  me,  don't  you  }  (Pippa  shakes  her  head 
)).  Haven't  you  seen  me  somewhere  before  ?  {Pippa  again  shakes  her 
*ai  in  deniaL)  Didn't  some  good  uncle  bring  you  for  three  or  four  years 
igar-plums,  pretty  corals  and  silk  ribbons  ?  {Pippa  shakes  her  head 
fifidentlyy  in  denial  of  this.)  Bravo!  I  thought  so!  Didn't  you  have 
father,  who  is  dead  ?     {Pippa  shakes  her  head.) 

Wann. —  Do  you  notice  anything,  sir .? 

The  Manager. —  Do  I  notice  anything! 

Wann. —  What  a  powerful  old  magician  has  taken  a  part  in  this  ? 

The  Manager. —  Of  course,  that's  understood!  Jolly  Chinese  puzzle, 
lat's  the  world!  {Tapping  on  MichaeFs  forehead  with  his  third  finger.) 
bu,  in  here,  when  you  waken,  knock  again  at  heaven's  gate,  perhaps  the 


322  AND   PIPPA  DANCES 

good  God  will  say:  come  in!  Good-by!  Rub  Michael  back  to  life!  ( 
the  hall.)  I  wish  you  may  all  sup  well!  I  have  been  helped!  I  am  cun 
Hurrah!     May  the  devil  himself  unbar  hell! 

{The  opening  of  the  house-Joor  is  heard  and  then  the  Manager  s  hum 
repeated  several  times  out^f -doors,) 

Hellriegel  {opens  his  eyes,  jumps  up  and  at  the  same  time  calls  out). 
Hurrah!     Hurrah,  there  we  have  it,  little  Pippa! 

Wann  {steps  back,  astonished  and  amused). —  Eh!     What  is  it  that 
have,  if  I  may  ask  ? 

Hellriegel. —  Oh,  so  we  are  not  alone,  little  Pippa!  Tell  me,  whi 
did  the  old  man  come  from  so  suddenly  ? 

Pippa  {timidly,  aside). —  Oh,  I  didn't  know  what  else  to  do! 

Hellriegel. —  But,  wasn't  it  splendid!     Isn't  it  a  delight  to  you, 
climb  up  like  that  through  storm  and  winter  ?     To  go  merrily  forward  hai 
in  hand  ? 

Wann. —  Where  are  you  journeying,  if  one  may  ask  ? 

Hellriegel. —  Ah,  old  man!  Who  is  going  to  be  so  curious  ?  Do  I  a: 
you  why  you  muffle  yourself  up,  up  here,  keep  yourself  warm  and  eat  bat 
apples  ? 

Wann. —  This  is  certainly  a  devil  of  a  fellow  that  you  have  here,  dc 
child! 

Hellriegel. —  To  wander  always  and  never  to  think  of  the  goal!  It 
deemed  too  near  or  it  is  deemed  too  far.  Besides  I  surely  feel  my  bon 
tingling. 

Pippa  {timidly). —  Michael,  couldn't  we  perhaps  be  a  little  gratef 
to  the  friendly  old  man,  or  do  you  think  not } 

Hellriegel. —  Why  should  we  be  ? 

Pippa. —  Why  he  saved  us  from  freezing! 

Hellriegel. —  Freezing  ?  Michael  will  take  good  care  not  to  do  th 
yet  awhile!  If  we  had  just  missed  this  place  of  refuge,  well,  we  would  no 
be  ten  good  miles  further  on  our  way.  Think,  Pippa,  ten  miles  nearertl 
goal!  When  a  man  possesses  the  magic  ball  of  twine  and  has  receive 
unequivocal  signs  from  above,  in  great  numbers,  that  he  is  called  to  sonn 
thing  —  called  to  discover  at  the  very  least  kneadable  glass! 

Wann. —  You  laugh,  my  little  one:  do  you  believe  that  he  is  ?  {Pipf 
looks  up  at  Wann  with  belief  in  her  eyes  and  nods  her  head  emphatically  i 
the  affirmative.)  Indeed  ?  Well,  he  certainly  speaks  in  a  way  that  awaken 
belief.  Now,  have  a  good  talk  together,  I  won't  disturb  you!  {He  taki 
his  seat  behind  his  book-tablcy  but  watches  the  two  surreptitiously;  at  th 
same  time  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  large  volume.) 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  323 

Pip  pa  {confidentially). —  Look  around,  Michael,  see  where  we  are! 

HellriegeL —  In  just  the  right  place,  it  this  moment  occurs  to  me.  The 
m  has  led  us  just  right.  Didn't  you  notice  how  it  drew  us  ever  forward 
d  out  of  the  storm  ? 

Pippa, —  But  that  was  the  old  man's  rope,  Michael ! 

Hellriegel —  Eh,  it  is  not  as   you  imagine  it,  little  one!     In  the  first 

ice,  we  had  to  come  here  in  any  case.     To  begin  with,  I  saw  the  light 

the  time  we  were  climbing.     But  even  if  I  had  not  seen  the  light,  an 

esistible  power  within  me  dragged  and  tugged  me  onward  toward  this 

Electing  roof! 

Pippa. —  I  am  so  glad  that  we  are  safe,  and  yet,  I  am  still  a  little  bit 
aid! 

HellriegeL — What  are  you  afraid  of? 

Pippa. —  I  don't  know  what!  I  wonder  whether  the  doors  are  shut 
ht.? 

Wann  {who  has  heard  this). —  They  are  locked  tight! 

Pippa  {says  to  Wann  simply  and  innocently). —  Oh  sir,  you  are  good, 
;ee  it  in  your  face!  But  for  all  that  —  we  must  go  on  —  mustn't  we, 
ichael  ? 

Wann. —  Why  must  you  ?    Who  is  on  your  trail  ? 

Hellriegel. —  No  one!  At  least  no  one  who  causes  us  any  concern! 
It  if  you  want  to  go  away  from  here,  then  come,  little  Pippa! 

Wann. —  Do  you  really  think  I  shall  let  you  go  away  } 

Hellriegel. —  Certainly !     How  would  you  keep  us  here  ? 

Wann. —  I  am  not  wanting  in  means!  I  do  not  ask  you  whither  you 
e  going;  whither  you  are  bound  with  this  frightened  little  moth  that  has 
wn  against  my  lamp;  but  through  this  night,  you  shall  remain  here. 

Hellriegel  {planting  himself  in  the  middle  of  the  room^  his  legs  spread 
art). —  Hello!     Hello!     Here  is  still  another! 

Wann. —  Who  knows  what  sort  of  a  bird  you  are!  Perhaps  one  who 
dressed  to  learn  shivering:  have  patience,  you  will  learn  it   soon  enough! 

Hellriegel. —  Don't  get  angry,  dear  uncle,  the  house  is  still  standing, 
my  little  mother  says.     But  whether  we  go  or  stay  is  our  aflfair! 

Wann. —  You  must  have  very  big  notions  of  yourself  in  your  knapsack! 

Hellriegel. —  Indeed  ?  Do  I  look  as  though  I  had  something  of  that 
rt  in  my  pack!  It  is  quite  possible!  Think  of  it!  Well,  enough  of 
It!  My  knapsack  answers  pretty  well,  though  there  are  other  things  in 
than  a  few  paltry  notions.  So  if  my  cap  sets  that  way,  we  will  go;  and 
u  can  keep  us  here  as  little  as  you  could  two  swans  who  journey  under 
mackerel  sky  like  two  points  travelling  toward  the  South. 


3^4  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

Wann, —  I  grant  you  that,  young  cloud-dweller!  But  somedmes  I 
succeed  in  enticing  those  birds  to  my  little  trough,  and  that,  for  example, 
is  what  I  have  done  to  you. 

(Jonathan  sets  out  the  table  near  the  stove  with  southern  fruits^  steaming 
wine  and  cakes.) 

Hellriegel. —  The  little  trough !  We  are  not  hungry,  we  will  not  eat! 
Michael  is  not  dependent  on  anything  like  that! 

Wann, —  Since  when  isn't  he  ? 

Hellriegel. —  Since  —  since  he  found  river-gold  in  mud  I 

Wann  {to  Pippa). —  And  you  ? 

Pippa. —  I  am  not  hungry  either! 

Wann.—  No  ? 

Pippa  {aside  to  Michael). —  You  have  your  table  set  thyself,  of  course! 

Wann. —  So  you  won't  do  me  the  honor  ? 

Hellriegel. —  I  notice  that  you,  too,  are  one  of  those  who  have  not  the 
slightest  suspicion  of  who  Michael  Hellriegel  is.  What  do  I  care;  and  what 
good  would  it  do  to  discuss  it  with  you  ?  You  must  know  that  the  archangel 
Michael  is  a  hero  and  conqueror  of  dragons;  you  do  not  doubt  that.  Now, 
however,  I  simply  need  to  go  on  and  for  all  I  care  swear  ten  oaths,  I  have 
witnessed  miracle  upon  miracle  since  yesterday  and  have  come  off  victorious 
from  an  adventure  just  as  astonishing,  and  you  will  say:  why  not,  here  is 
a  man  who  plays  the  ocarina.     I  need  only  to  tell  about  my  knapsack  — 

Wann. —  O,  Michael,  you  delightful  child  of  God!  Had  I  suspected 
that  it  was  you,  I  have  been  following  with  my  telescope  since  daybreak, 
today,  and  enticing  to  my  little  bowl  filled  with  hot  blood  for  souls'  food; 
I  had  decorated  my  hue  festively  and  received  you  —  that  you  might  sec 
that  I,  too,  am  something  of  a  musician  —  received  you  with  quintets  and 
roses!  Be  peaceful,  Michael,  be  friendly!  And  I  advise  you  to  eat  a  little 
something!  Well  filled  though  you  may  be  with  heaven's  blue,  only  the  soul 
can  be  satisfied  with  that;  never  the  body  of  a  big,  tall  fellow  like  you! 

Hellriegel  (goes  up  to  the  tahUy  takes  a  plate  from  it^  eats  eagerly  ani 
says  in  an  aside  to  Pippa). —  The  food  goes  against  me,  I  don't  want  it! 
I  just  eat  it  to  get  away  politely  — 

Wann. —  Eat,  Michael,  eat,  don't  argue  about  it!  It  doesn't  do  any 
good  to  dispute  with  the  Lord  God  because  you  have  to  breathe  and  eat 
and  swallow!     Afterward  you  float  and  flutter  so  much  the  more  beautifully! 

Pippa  (steals  over  to  Wann,  while  Michael  is  absorbed  in  eatings  ani 
whispers  to  him  with  great  delight). —  I  am  so  glad  Michael  is  eating. 

Wann. —  He  is  eating  in  his  sleep,  so  don't  waken  him!  or  he  will  let 
his  knife  and  fork  fall,  will  plunge  three  thousand  feet  high  in  the  air  and 
probably  break  his  n?ck  and  legs. 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  325 

{He  takes  from  the  table  carefullyj  in  both  hands,  a  model  of  a  Venetian 
xdola.) 

Wann. —  Can  you  tell  me  what  this  represents  ? 

Pippa. —  No. 

Wann, —  Think !  Has  there  never  glided  through  yourjdreams  a  black 
»sel  like  this  ? 

Pippa  (quickly). —  Yes,  sometime,  a  long  time  ago,  I  remember! 

Wann, —  Do  you  know,  too,  what  a  powerful  tool  it  is  ? 

Pippa  {meditatively). —  I  know  only,  that  once  I  used  to  glide  between 
uses,  at  night,  in  a  barque  like  that. 

Wann. —  That's  it!  {To  Michael).  Now,  for  all  I  care,  you  can  prick 
your  ears,  too,  so  that  little  by  little,  you  may  arrive  at  the  knowledge 
It  there  is  someone  here  beside  yourself  who  understands  something  of 
:onautics  and  many  other  things. 

Hellriegel. —  Well,  out  with  what  you  have  to  say! 

Wann. —  Well  then,  this  little  craft  created  the  mystical  city  between 
3  skies,  that  is  the  city  at  the  heart  of  the  earth,  wherein  you  too,  good 
Idy  were  bom.  For  you  come  out  of  a  mystery  and  will  return  into  it 
lin. 

Hellriegel. —  Hop!  There  comes  something  flying!  Hop!  Again, 
>ther  picture!  a  rat!  a  salt-herring,  a  girl!  a  miracle!  Gather  them  all 
jether:  an  ocarina!  Always  hop,  hop,  hop!  When  I  went  away  from 
'  mother,  on  a  tramp,  well  as  I  was  prepared  for  all  sorts  of  hocus-pocus 
1  though  I  went  to  meet  it  skipping  with  joy,  still  even  now  the  cold 
cat  often  comes  out  on  my  forehead.  {With  his  knife  and  fork  in  his 
ff  he  stares  thoughtfully  straight  in  front  of  him.)  So  he  knows  the  city 
ere  we  wish  to  go! 

Wann. —  Of  course  I  know  it,  and  —  if  you  had  confidence  in  me  — 
ould  do  something  for  you  and  with  advice  and  suggestion  point  out  to 
1  the  way  thither.  In  the  end,  who  knows,  perhaps  something  more  than 
t!  For,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  when  I  observe  you  very  carefully,  doubts 
come  to  me  whether  you  really  do  float  in  the  sky  so  high,  so  secure  and 
certain  of  vour  goal!  You  have  something  in  you,  how  shall  I  say  it, 
nething  of  birds  who  have  been  beaten  out  of  their  course,  and  are  driven 
plessly  in  the  direction  of  the  North  Pole.  At  the  mercy  of  every  wind, 
to  speak!  Don't  start,  Michael,  don't  become  excited!  You  won't 
n  up  to  it  that  you  are  horribly  played  out  and  tired,  nor  will  you  own 
to  the  undefined  fear,  the  dread  that  still  takes  possession  of  you  at 
les,  although  you  have  in  a  measure  escaped  the  terrors  of  a  winter-night 
ht. 

(At  the  mention  of  flight  and  fear,  Hellriegel  springs  up  and  Pippa  and 


326  AND  PTPPA  DANCES 

he  look  at  each  other  anxiously,     Nowj  he  moves  uneasily  toward  the  door 
of  the  room  and  listens  into  the  hall.) 

Hellriegel, —  Just  be  calm,  Michael!  That's  the  main  thing!  I  take 
it  that  the  doors  are  properly  locked  and  bolted  ?  —  Then  at  any  rate  wc 
have  nothing  to  fear!  {He  comes  hack.)  For  all  I  know  —  it  may  be  that 
perhaps  you  are  something  unusual!  In  any  case,  you  may  be  sure  we  are 
going  CO  eat  oranges  tomorrow  afternoon  in  the  beautiful  water-  and  glass- 
makers'  city,  where  the  water  bursts  forth  into  glass  blossoms;  in  the  citf 
of  whose  every  little  bridge,  flight  of  steps  and  narrow  street,  I  have  dreamed 
accurately  all  my  life  long  —  in  any  case,  you  may  be  sure  —  but  for  aD 
I  care:  how  far  have  we  still  to  go? 

Wann. —  That  depends,  Michael,  on  how  you  travel. 

Hellriegel. —  Let  us  say  in  practical  fashion. 

Wann  {smiling). —  Then  you  will  probably  never  get  there.  But  if 
you  travel  in  this  little  vessel  in  which  the  first  pile-drivers  rode  out  into 
the  lagunes  and  out  of  which,  as  out  of  a  floating  incense  bowl,  fantastic 
smoke,  Venice,  the  artist's  dream,  arose,  in  which  the  showy,  stone  dty 
was  precipitated  as  a  crystal  is  in  lye,  —  Yes,  if  you  travel  in  this  little  vessel 
and  by  means  of  the  miracle  that  you  have  experienced,  then  you  can  at 
once  see  everything  your  longing  soul  aspires  to  see. 

Hellriegel. —  Hold!  I  must  first  engage  in  a  silent  communion  with 
my  own  thoughts.  But  give  me  the  thing  in  my  hand!  {He  takes  the  litde 
boat  and  holds  it  in  his  hands.)  So  I  am  to  travel  in  this  nut-shell  ?  Oh 
yes!  How  wise  our  old  host  is  after  all,  and  what  an  ass  is  Michael!  But 
just  how  do  you  accomplish  the  getting  into  this  ?  O  please,  I  am  no 
spoil-sport!  Now  I  see  through  the  matter:  I  am  only  afraid  I  shall  lose 
my  way  in  the  little  boat!  If  I  am  really  to  go  this  way,  then  I  would 
prefer  to  take  with  me  my  two  sisters,  my  six  older  brothers,  my  uncles 
and  the  rest  of  my  relatives,  who,  thank  God,  are  all  tailors. 

Wann. —  Courage,  Michael!  When  you  are  once  out  of  the  harbor, 
there  is  no  going  back:  you  must  go  on,  out  into  the  high  billows.  And 
you  {to  Pippa)  must  give  him  the  magic  wind  for  his  sails! 

Hellriegel. —  That  pleases  me,  that  will  be  a  queer  voyage! 

Wann  {guiding  Pippa^s  little  finger  around  the  edge  of  a  Venetian 
glass). —  Sail  away,  sail  away,  little  gondoletta!     Repeat  it  after  me. 

Pippa. —  Sail  away,  sail  away,  Httle  gondoletta! 

Wann. — 

From  night  of  winter,  from  ice  and  snow, 
Away  from  storm-shaken  cabins  go! 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  327 

Pippa  {laughing), — 

From  night  of  winter,  from  ice  and  snow, 
Away  from  storm-shaken  cabins  go! 
Wann. — 

Sail  away,  sail  away,  little  gondolettal 
{From  the  glass  whose  edge  Pippa  is  rubbing  there  comes  a  low  tone 
hich  grows  louder  and  louder  until  other  tones  join  with  it  and  the  harmony 
en  formed  swells  and  grows  into  a  short  but  powerful  musical  storm^  which 
ddenly  recoils  and  becomes  silent,  Michael  Hellriegel  falls  into  a  hypnotic 
fip^  with  his  eyes  open,) 

Wann, — 

Now  Michael  solitary  sails  above  the  clouds. 
Silent  the  journeying,  for  at  that  lofty  height 
Sound  dieth,  since  it  findeth  no  resistance  there. 
Where  art  thou  ? 

Hellriegel, — 

Proudly  I  sail  through  the  dawn's  red  glow! 

Wann, — 

And  on  what  wonders  new  and  strange  dost  thou  now  gaze  ? 

Hellriegel, — 

On  more  than  soul  of  man  can  ever  grasp,  I  gaze. 
And  over  hyacinthine  seas  I  wing  my  flight! 

Wann, — 

Only  thy  ship  is  sinking  downward  now!  —  or  no  ? 

Hellriegel. — 

I  know  not.     All  the  mountains  of  the  earth,  it  seems. 
Mount  up  to  me.     Gigantic  towers  up  the  world. 

Wann. — 

And  now } 

Hellriegel, — 

Now  I  am  sinking  downward  noiselessly. 

And  now  my  skiff  'mid  gardens  rushes  silently. 

Wann, — 

Thou  call'st  these  gardens  that  thou  see'st .? 

Hellriegel, — 

Yes!  but  of  stone. 

The  marble  blossoms  all  are  mirrored  in  blue  plains. 

And  the  white  columns  tremble  in  the  emerald  ground. 


328  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

Wann, — 

Halt  there,  good  ferryman.     And  tell  us  where  thou  art! 
Hellriegel. — 

On  stairways  now  I  set  my  foot,  on  tapestries. 
And  in  a  hall  of  coral  now  I  tread  my  way! 
And  now,  at  golden  portals  do  I  knock  three  times! 
fFann. — 

And  tell  me,  on  the  knocker  what  words  readest  thou  ? 
Hellriegel. — 

Montes  chrysocreos  fecerunt  nos  dominos! 
{Gold-bearing  mountains  have  made  us  lords!) 
Wann, — 

What  happens  when  the  echoes  of  thy  knocking  cease  ? 
{Michael  Hellriegel  does  not  answer^  instead  he  begins  to  groan  as  if  hi 
had  nightmare.) 
Pippa.— 

Oh,  waken  him,  please  waken  him,  dear,  wise,  old  man! 
Wann  {as  he  takes  the  little  boat  out  of  Michael* s  hands). — 
Enough!    To  this  secluded  cabin  come  once  more. 
Return  again  to  us,  snowbound  and  exiled  here. 
And  quake  and  shake  the  golden  spoils  of  voyages 
Into  our  laps,  while  we  sit  here  repining. 
{Michael  Hellriegel  wakens^   looks   around  perplexedly^    and  tries  to 
remember.) 

Hellriegel. —  Hello!  Why  does  that  confounded  old  gninting-ox, 
Huhn,  stand  at  the  gate,  threaten  me  and  refuse  to  let  me  enter  ?  Just  slip 
the  golden  key  out  to  me  through  the  grating,  Pippa!  I  will  steal  in  through 
a  little  side  door!  Where  ?  Pippa !  Confound  it!  No!  Where  am  I  ?  Par- 
don me,  old  man,  it  is  better  not  to  swear  when  anything  of  this  kind  — when 
after  all,  you  have  been  hoaxed!  Into  what  sort  of  an  infernal  box  have 
I  slid  .?  Hang  it  all,  what  is  going  on  here  ?  Where  is  Pippa  ?  Have  you 
still  the  golden  key  ?  Here!  give  it  here!  We  will  open  the  door  quickly! 
Pippa. —  Wake  up,  Michael!  You  are  just  dreaming!  Try  to  think! 
Hellriegel. —  But  I  would  rather  be  a  dreamer  than  wake  up  in  such 
a  mean  way,  fourteen  miles  deep  down  in  the  puddle.  I  can*t  see  my  hand 
before  my  eyes  here!  What  does  it  mean?  Who  is  pressing  his  thumbs 
into  my  throat  ?  Who  is  crushing  the  happiness  out  of  my  breast  with 
a  mountain-load  of  fear  ? 

fVann. —  Have  no  fear!  no  fear  at  all,  good  Michael!     Everything  in 
this  house  is  in  my  power,  and  there  is  nothing  in  it  that  can  harm  you. 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  329 

HellriegeL —  But  why,  oh  why,  Master,  did  you  call  me  back  so  soon 
:o  this  grave-hole  ?  Why  didn't  that  ragged,  old  wild  beast  let  me  into 
r  magic,  water-castle  ?  It  was  the  very  one  I  have  always  wished  for,  the 
ry  same  one!  I  recognized  it  perfectly  as  the  one  I  dreamed  of  when  I 
is  a  little  boy  and  sat  in  front  of  the  stove, —  and  Pippa  looked  out  of  the 
ndow, —  and  the  water  played  delightfully,  like  roulades  on  the  flute, 
>und  the  walls  below  her!  Let  us  make  the  journey  once  again!  Make 
a  present  of  your  charming  little  gondola,  and  without  hesitating  —  I 
er  you  for  it  my  whole  knapsack  with  all  its  precious  contents! 

fVann. —  No,  Michael,  not  yet!  Have  patience!  For  the  present, 
u  are  much  too  hotblooded  to  suit  me!  And  I  beg  you  both  to  still  your 
ating  hearts  and  not  to  be  afraid.  Believe  me  there  will  be  another 
y  tomorrow.  There  are  many  guest  chambers  in  my  house,  I  beg  you, 
-ly  until  morning  with  me!  Grant  me  the  pleasure  of  harboring  for  one 
ght  perfect,  young  hope!  Tomorrow,  you  shall  journey  on,  and  God  be 
th  you!     Jonathan  show  the  stranger  upstairs! 

HellriegeL —  We  belong  together,  we  will  not  be  separated! 
Wann. —  Arrange  it  as  you  wish  to  or  will,  good  Michael,  sleep  will 
Birays  take  her  out  of  your  hands  and  you  will  have  to  leave  her  to  her  fate 
id  God! 

(Hellriegel  takes  Pippa  in  his  arms.     He  looks  at  her  and  sees  that  she 
\s  almost  lost  consciousness  from  her  great  fatigue:  so^  as  she  has  fallen 
leepj  he  lays  her  down  on  the  bench  by  the  wall,) 
HellriegeL —  And  you  stand  security  for  her  ? 
Wann. —  Solemnly! 

Hellriegel  {kisses  Pippa  on  the  forehead). —  Until  morning,  then! 
Wann. —  Sleep  well!    Good  night!    And  far  away  on  the  Adriatic 
cams  a  house  that  waits  for  new  and  youthful  guests. 

(Jonathan  stands  in  the  door  with  a  light.     Hellriegel  tears  himself  away 
i  disappears  with  him  in  the  hallway.     Wann  looks  at  Pippa  for  awhile 
fvelj  and  thoughtfully;  then  he  says): 
Wann. — 

Into  my  winter  cabin,  magic  forced  his  way. 
My  wisdom's  wall  of  ice,  he  broke  through  robber-like. 
By  gold  enticed.    A  shelter  safe  I  furnished  him 
From  out  my  soul  paternal,  with  old  malice  full. 
Who  is  the  fop  that  he  should  wish  to  make  his  own 
This  child  divine  who  makes  my  vessels  sail  for  me  — 
They  creak  and  crack  and  swing  so  gently  to  and  fro. 
The  old  dry  hulls  archaeologically  hung!  — 


330  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

Why  then  do  I  put  him,  this  Michael,  in  my  ship, 
Instead  of  sailing  forth  myself,  triumphantly. 
Forth  in  my  galleon,  commanding  my  whole  fleet, 
To  subjugate  abandoned  heavens  once  again. 
O,  ice  on  my  old  forehead,  ice  in  my  old  blood! 
You  thaw  before  a  sudden  breath  of  happiness. 
Thou  holy  breath,  O,  kindle  not  in  my  old  breast 
Consuming  (ires  of  greed,  of  avarice  and  wild  lusts, 
Till  I  must  swallow  mine  own  children,  Saturn-like. 
Sleep!    Over  your  sleep  I  watch,  for  you  I  guard 
What  fleets  away.     As  pictured  forms  ye  float  by  me. 
So  long  as  my  own  soul  remains  a  picture  still. 
Not  Being, —  not  clear,  viewless  element  alone. 
Moulder,  ye  hulls!  for  journeys  new  I  have  no  thirst. 
(He  has  raised  the  sleeping  girl^  supported  her  and  led  her  slowly  and 
with  fatherly  solicitude  into  the  chamber  to  the  right.     After  he  and  Pipf^ 
have  disappeared^  Huhn  comes  out  from  behind  the  stove  and  stands  in  the 
middle  of  the  room^  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  chamber  door.     fFann  comes  out  of 
the  chamber  backward^  pulls  the  door  shut  after  him^  and  speaks  withwt 
noticing  Huhn.     He  turns  toward  the  models  of  the  ships  and  in  so  doing 
sees  Huhn.     At  firsts  doubting  the  reality  of  the  vision^  he  holds  his  hands 
above  his  eyes  to  investigate;  when  he  lets  it  drop^  his  every  muscle  tightens 
and  both  men  measure  each  other  with  eyes  filled  wtth  hatred.) 

Wann  (slowly y  quivering  with  rage). —  No  —  road  —  passes  —  througii 
—  here  I  — 

Huhn    (in    the    same    manner). —  No  —  word  — passes  —  muster  — 
here !  — 

fFann. —  Come  on! 

(Huhn  pushes  forward  and  they  stand  opposite  each  other  in  wresders 
positions.) 

Huhn. —  This  is  all  mine!  —  all  mine,  all  mine,  all  mine! 
Wann. — 

You  black,  bloodthirsty  bundle!     Night-born  lump  of  greed, 
You  yet  gasp  forth  some  sounds  that  seem  like  words! 
(Old  Huhn  attacks  him  and  they  wrestle;  suddenly  old  Huhn  utters 
a  frightful  shriek  and   immediately  afterward  hangs  defenceless  in  fFann  s 
arms.     fFann  lets  the  gasping  old  man  sink  gently  to  the  floor.) 
fFann. — 

Thus  must  it  come  to  pass,  giant  uncouth!     O  thou 
Sick,  wild,  strong  animal!  —  Break  open  stables  then! 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  331 

Here  is  no  provender  for  prowling  beasts  of  prey  — 
Here  in  this  snowbound  house  of  God! 


ACT  IV 

{This  act  immediately  follows  the  third  act,  in  the  same  room.     Old 

uhn  lies  on  the  bench  by  the  stove^  the  sound  of  the  death-rattle  in  his  throat 

loud  and  horrible.     His  chest  is  barey  his  long  rust-red  hair  falls  to  the 

ound.     Old  Wann  stands  by  him^  upright^  his  left  hand  laid  on  Huhns 

fast. 

Pippa^  shy  and  tremblings  an  expression  of  great  fear  on  her  facey  comes 
\t  of  the  door  to  the  right.) 

Wann. —  Come  in,  you  little  trembling  flame,  you,  come  right  in! 
here  is  now  no  further  danger  for  you,  if  you  are  a  little  cautious! 

Pippa. —  I  knew  it!  O,  I  knew  and  felt  it,  signore!  Hold  him  down! 
nd  him  fast! 

Wann. —  So  far  as  he  can  be  bound,  I  can  bind  him. 

Pippa. —  Is  it  old  Huhn,  or  isn*t  it  ? 

Wann. —  The  torture  disfigures  his  face.  But  if  you  look  at  him  more 
>scly  — 

Pippa. —  Then  he  looks  almost  like  yourself! 

Wann. —  I  am  a  human  being  and  he  wants  to  be:  how  did  you  happen 
notice  it  ? 

Pippa. —  I  do  not  know,  signore! 

{Hellriegel  appears  in  the  hall  door^  frightened.) 

Hellriegel. —  Where  is  Pippa  ?  I  had  a  foreboding  that  the  lousy 
lot  would  be  at  our  heels!  Pippa!  God  be  thanked  that  you  are  again 
ider  my  protection! 

Wann. —  Nobody  touched  a  hair  of  her  head  even  when  you  were  not 
re! 

Hellriegel. —  It  is  better,  however,  for  me  to  be  here! 

Wann. —  May  it  please  Heaven!  Fetch  me  in  a  bucket  full  of  snow! 
ing  snow!  We  will  lay  snow  on  his  heart,  so  that  the  poor,  captive  beast, 
ating  its  wings  in  his  breast,  may  be  calmed! 

Hellriegel. —  Is  he  hurt  ? 

Wann. —  It  may  well  be! 

Hellriegel. —  What  do  we  gain  by  it  if  he  recovers  his  strength  ?  He 
[1  strike  around  him  with  his  fists  and  beat  us  all  three  into  mincemeat! 

Wann. —  Not  me!  and  not  anvone  else,  if  you  are  sensible! 

Pippa. —  It  is  he,  I  am  sure  of  it!    It  is  the  old  glass-blower,  Huhn! 


332  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

Wann. —  Do  you  recognize  him,  now:  the  guest  who  came  so  late,  to 
await  here  a  higher  than  he  ?  Come  close  to  him,  little  one,  don't  be  afraid, 
your  pursuer  is  now  himself  the  pursued!  (Hellriegel  brings  in  a  bucket 
full  of  snow.)  What  did  you  see  out  there,  Michael  ?  You  are  as  white 
as  a  sheet! 

Hellriegel. —  I  did  not  know  what  it  was!  {While  the  ice  is  being  laid 
on  Huhns  breast.)  It  isn't  the  old  mountain  with  the  forest  of  hair  that 
danced  and  jumped  around  with  you  in  the  tavern  and  from  whom  fortu- 
nately I  carried  you  off;  it  isn't  he  at  all. 

Pippa. —  Look  at  him  more  closely,  I  am  sure  it  is  he! 

Wann. —  But  he  has  become  our  brother! 

Pippa. —  Was  it  the  matter  with  you,  Michael  ?     How  you  do  look! 

Wann. —  What  did  you  see  outside  there  that  made  you  as  white  as 
a  sheet? 

Hellriegel. — ^Well,  for  all  I  care:  I  saw  pretty  little  things!  It  was, 
so  to  speak,  like  a  wall  of  snapping,  fishmouthed  women's  visages,  pretty 
terrifying,  pretty  dreadful!  I  wouldn't  like  to  have  them  here  in  the  room. 
That's  the  way,  when  you  go  from  a  bright  light  into  the  dark!  — 

Wann. —  You  will  yet  learn  shivering! 

Hellriegel. —  At  all  events,  it  is  no  pleasure  to  be  outside  there.  Ap- 
parently the  ladies  have  sore  throats  —  you  see  it  in  their  swollen,  twitching, 
violet-black  throats!  And  for  what  other  reason  were  their  necks  wound 
round  with  a  thick  neckerchief  of  long,  slavering  worms! 

Wann. —  Pshaw,  Michael,  you  are  looking  around  for  protection! 

Hellriegel. —  If  only  those  tricksy  little  angels  don't  squeeze  through 
the  wall! 

Wann. —  Michael,  couldn't  you  go  out  of  doors  once  more,  and  call 
into  the  dark  in  a  loud  voice,  that  he  is  to  come  ? 

Hellriegel. —  No!     That's  going  too  far  for  me,  I  won't  do  that! 

Wann. —  You  are  afraid  of  the  lightning  that  is  to  save  1  Then  prepare 
yourself  to  hear  God's  praise  howled  in  a  manner  to  freeze  the  marrow  in 
your  bones,  since  not  otherwise  is  the  invasion  of  the  pack  to  be  prevented! 

(Such  a  shriek  of  pain  comes  from  old  Huhn  that  Pippa  and  Hellriegd 
break  into  a  sympathetic  weeping  andy  carried  away  by  their  sympathy y  the  J 
impulsively  hasten  to  him  to  bring  him  help.) 

Wann. —  No  hurry!  It  is  useless!  Here  is  no  pity!  Here  the  poi- 
sonous tooth  and  the  white-hot  wind  rage,  so  long  as  he  rages!  Here 
typhonic  powers  press  out  the  piercing  scream  of  torture,  the  torture  of 
frantic  recognition  of  God.  Blind,  without  compassion,  they  stamp  it 
out  of  the  soul  howling,  yet  speechless  with  horror. 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  333 

Hellriegel. —  Can't  you  relieve  him,  then,  old  man  ? 
Wann. —  Not  without  him  whom  you  do  not  choose  to  call. 

Pippa  {trembling). —  Why  is  he  so  stretched  on  the  rack?  I  have 
ared  him,  and  have  hated  him,  but  why  is  he  pursued  with  such  wrath 
id  merciless  hatred  ?  —  I  do  not  ask  it! 

Huhn. —  What  do  you  want?  Let  go!  Let  go!  Don't  strike  your 
ngs  into  my  neck!  Let  go!  Let  go!  Don't  tear  the  bones  from  out  my 
ins!  Don't  tear  my  body  open!  Don't  rend  me,  don't  rend  my  soul  in 
eces! 

HeUfiigel. —  Great  heavens!  What  if  this  should  be  a  trial  of  strength; 
the  great  fish-blooded  one  thinks  to  impress  anyone  with  this  —  at  all 
ents,  he  doesn't  impress  me!  or  at  most  only  with  his  force!  Has  he  no 
ore  respect  for  his  creation,  or  can't  he  help  striking  something  low  and 
lall  every  moment  ?  And  in  such  a  peculiar  way,  which  it  is  to  be  hoped 
not  the  only  fun  there  is  for  him  in  the  matter. 

Wann. —  The  principal  thing  now  is  really,  Michael,  that  one  of  us 
ould  go  and  find  out  where  he,  whom  we  await  so  longingly,  is  staying. 
>ur  talking,  you  know,  brings  us  no  further. 

Hellriegel. —  You  go  out!     I  shall  stay  here. 

Wann. —  Good!     {To  Pippa.)     But  don't  dance  with  him! 

Hellriegel. —  O  Heavens!  When  anyone  can  make  jests  in  such  a 
tical  situation,  what  is  one  to  say  to  such  a  disaster  ? 

Wann. —  Take  care  whom  you  trust!  At  all  events,  give  heed  to  the 
ild!     {Wann  goes  out  through  the  hall.) 

Pippa. —  Oh,  if  we  were  only  away  from  here,  Michael! 

Hellriegel. —  I  have  wished  that  too!  God  be  thanked,  that  at  all 
5nts  we  are  now  at  the  top!  Tomorrow,  at  daybreak,  we  can  rush  down 
I  southern  slope  —  for  all  I  care,  we  can  go  on  sleds,  that  would  be  fine! 
len  we  shall  be  out  of  this  region  of  foreigners  and  assassins  and  grunting 
boons,  forever! 

Pippa. —  Oh,  if  he  only  wouldn't  scream  again! 

Hellriegel. —  Let  him  scream!  Even  if  he  does,  it  is  still  better  inside 
re:  the  silence  outside  screams  more  horribly. 

Huhn  {with  heavy  tongue). —  Murder!     Murder! 

Pippa. —  He  has  spoken  again !  I  believe  the  old  toy-dealer  has  injured 
n  in  some  way! 

Hellriegel. —  Cling  to  me!     Press  close  to  my  heart. 

Pippa. —  O  Michael,  you  pretend  to  be  so  calm,  and  your  heart  beats 
furiously! 

Hellriegel. —  Like  your  own! 


334  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

Pippa. —  And  his!  I  hear  his  beating,  too!  How  hard  it  hborsi 
It  seems  strained  to  the  utmost! 

Hellriegel. —  Is  it  that  ?    Is  it  really  a  heart  that  pounds  like  that  ? 

Pippa. —  What  else  can  it  be  ?  Just  listen,  what  else  can  be  pounding 
like  that  ?  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  feel  it  all  through  me,  so  painfully— 
it  hurts  me  clear  down  to  the  tips  of  my  toes  —  at  every  stroke,  it  seems  as 
if  I  must  help  it. 

Hellriegel. —  Look,  a  chest  like  a  cannibal's!  Doesn't  it  look  like 
a  bellows  all  covered  with  matted  red  hair  ?  And  as  if  it  ought  always  to  be 
blowing  something  like  a  small  forge  fire. 

Pippa. —  O,  how  the  poor  little  captive  bird  keeps  jumping  against 
his  ribs  in  its  fright!     Shall  I  lay  my  hand  on  him  for  a  minute,  Michael? 

Hellriegel. —  You  have  my  permission!  There  can  be  nothing  in  all 
the  world  which  would  be  so  miraculously  effectual  ? 

Pippa  {laying  her  hand  on  Huhns  heart). —  I  hadn't  the  least  idea 
that  under  all  his  rags,  old  Huhn  was  as  white  as  a  young  girl!  — 

Hellriegel. —  There  you  see  it  does  work!  He  is  quieter  already! 
And  now  we  will  give  him  a  little  wine  besides,  so  that  he  may  meet  death 
sleeping  peacefully. 

{He  goes  to  the  table  to  pour  out  some  wine.  Pippa  allows  her  hand  to 
remain  on  Huhns  breast.) 

Huhn. —  Who  lays  her  little  hand  on  my  breast?  I  sat  vnthin  my 
house  —  in  the  darkness  —  we  sat  in  the  darkness!  The  world  was  cold! 
Daylight  came  no  more,  the  morning  never  came!  We  sat  there  round 
a  cold  glass  furnace!  And  the  people  came  there,  yoop>  yoop — They 
came  there  from  far  away,  creeping  across  the  snow!  They  came  from  far 
away  because  they  were  hungry :  they  wanted  to  have  a  little  bit  of  b'ght 
on  their  tongues,  they  wanted  to  absorb  a  little  bit  of  warmth  into  their 
benumbed  bones!  It  is  true!  And  they  lay  around  the  glass-works  all 
night!  I  heard  them  groan;  I  heard  them  moan.  And  then  I  rose  and 
poked  around  in  the  ash  pits  —  all  at  once  there  arose  a  single  little  spark  — 
a  tiny  spark  arose  out  of  the  ashes!  O  Jesus,  what  shall  I  do  with  the 
little  spark  that  has  all  at  once  risen  again  out  of  the  ashes  ?  Shall  I  make 
you  a  servant,  little  spark,  shall  I  capture  you  ?  Shall  I  strike  at  you, 
little  spark  ?     Shall  I  dance  with  you,  tiny  little  spark  ? 

Hellriegel. —  Say  yes,  say  yes,  don't  oppose  him !  But  tell  us,  you, 
the  rest  of  your  story!  Here,  first  take  a  swallow,  old  Mr.  What's-your- 
name!  Today,  you  —  tomorrow,  me!  We  will  hold  together,  because  in 
my  inmost  heart,  I  too  am  something  of  a  snowbound,  ghostly  glass-maker. 

Huhn   {after  he  has  drunken). —  Blood!     Black   blood   tastes  good! 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  335 

it,  what  the  wise  man  makes,  I  make  too!  I  too  make  glass!  Oh  dear, 
s,  what  is  there  that  I  haven't  brought  out  of  the  glass  furnaces!  Beads! 
recious  stones!  Magnificent  goblets!  Ever  in  with  the  blowpipe  and 
le  blast  into  it!  Enough  of  that!  I  will  dance  with  you,  little  spark! 
^ait  a  moment:  I'll  start  up  my  furnace  again!  How  the  white  heat 
"caks  from  the  doors!  No  one  ever  comes  up  to  old  Huhn!  Did  you  see 
tr  dancing  round  in  the  air  over  the  fire  ? 

Hellriegel. —  Whom  do  you  mean  ? 

Huhn. —  Whom  ?  Who  would  it  be  ?  He  doesn't  know,  he  doesn't, 
at  the  girl  springs  from  the  glass  furnaces! 

Hellriegel  {chuckling). —  Just  listen,  Pippa,  you  spring  from  the  glass 
maces! 

Pippa. —  Oh,  Michael,  I  feel  like  weeping. 

Huhn. —  Dance,  dance!  that  it  may  grow  a  little  lighter!  Go  here, 
'  there,  that  the  people  may  get  light!  ICindle  the  fire,  kindle  the  fire! 
e  will  go  to  work! 

Hellriegel. —  Just  listen!  When  such  an  opportunity  offers,  I  would 
ally  like  to  join  you!  The  devil  take  me,  if  I  wouldn't,  and  not  with 
St  a  journeyman's  piece  of  work  — 

Huhn. —  We  stood  around  our  glass  furnaces  and  around  about  us  out 
the  starless  night  crept  fear!  iJHe  gasps  harder.)  Mice,  dogs,  beasts 
id  birds  crept  into  the  fire.  It  grew  smaller  and  smaller  and  was  going 
t!  We  said  to  each  other  and  said  constantly  —  O  Jesus,  the  terror 
it  —  into  the  little  fire!  Then  it  fell  apart!  Then  we  screamed!  A 
tie  blue  light  came  again!  Then  we  screamed  again!  And  then  it  was 
t!  I  $at  in  my  house,  over  my  cold  fire!  I  saw  nothing!  I  poked  around 
the  ashes!  All  at  once  a  little  spark  flew  up,  a  single  little  spark  flew 
» in  front  of  me.     Shall  we  dance  again,  little  spark  ? 

Pippa  (fleeing  to  Michael). —  Michael,  are  you  still  there? 

Hellriegel. —  Yes,  of  course!     Do  you  think  that  Michael  is  inclined 
be  a  shirker?    This  old  man,  however,  is  something  more  than  a  dis- 
arged  glass-blower,  God  knows!     Just  see,  what  a  bloody,  agonizing 
asm  is  shown  in  his  face! 

Pippa. —  And  how  his  heart  wrestles,  and  how  it  pounds! 

Hellriegel. —  Like  an  eternal  forge-dance  with  the  forge-hammer. 

Pippa. —  And  at  every  stroke,  I  feel  my  own  breast  torn  and  burned ! 

Hellriegel. —  I  do  too!     I  feel  it  tremendously  through  all  my  bones, 
d  it  tugs  at  me  until  it  seems  I  must  work  and  pound  with  it! 

Pippa. —  Listen,  Michael,  it  seems  exactly  as  if  the  same  stroke  struck 
^p  down  and  knocked  on  the  earth. 


336  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

HellriegeL —  You  are  right,  the  same  terrible  blow  of  the  forge-hammer 
strikes  deep  down! 

Huhn. —  Shall  I  dance  with  you,  little  spirit  ? 

(JJndergroundy  thunderous  rumblings.) 

Pippa. —  Michael,  did  you  hear  that  rumbling  underground  ? 

HellriegeL —  No!  Come!  You  had  better  take  your  hand  away  from 
his  heart.  If  everything  is  going  to  rock,  and  the  earth  is  going  to  tremble 
and  we  are  going  to  shoot  out  like  an  involuntary  meteor,  who  knows 
whither  into  space,  then  it  is  certainly  better  for  us  to  clamp  ourselves 
together,  shortly,  into  an  indissoluble  knot.     I  am  only  joking! 

Pippa. —  Oh,  Michael,  don't  joke  now! 

HellriegeL — Tomorrow,  we  will  both  joke  about  this! 

Pippa, —  Do  you  know,  I  feel  almost  as  if  I  were  only  a  single  spark 
and  as  if  I  hovered  around,  lost  and  quite  alone,  in  endless  space! 

HellriegeL — A  dancing  star  in  the  heavens,  Pippa!  and  why  not? 

Pippa  (whispering). —  Michael,  Michael,  dance  with  me!  Hold  roe 
fast,  Michael,  I  don't  want  to  dance!     Michael,  Michael,  dance  with  me! 

HellriegeL —  I  will  do  it,  so  help  me  God,  as  soon  as  we  are  out  of  this 
scrape!  Think  of  something  beautiful!  As  soon  as  this  night  is  over, 
I  have  promised  myself:  that  from  then  on,  you  shall  walk  only  on  roses 
and  tapestries.  And  we  shall  laugh,  as  soon  as  we  are  down  there,  in  the 
little  water-palace  —  we  shall  go  there,  I  assure  you — and  then  I  shall  lay 
you  in  your  little  silken  bed  —  and  then  I  shall  bring  you  sweetmeats  all 
the  time  —  and  then  I  shall  cover  you  up  and  tell  you  creepy  stories  — 
and  then  you  will  burst  out  laughing,  so  sweetly,  that  the  delicious  sound 
will  be  pain  to  me.  And  then  you  will  sleep,  and  I  shall  play  all  night  long, 
softly,  softly,  on  a  glass  harp. 

Pippa. —  Michael! 

HellriegeL — Yes,  Pippa! 

Pippa. —  Where  are  you  ? 

HellriegeL —  Here  beside  you!     I  hold  you  tightly  clasped! 

Huhn. —  Shall  we  dance  again,  little  spirit  ? 

Pippa. —  Hold  me,  Michael  —  don't  let  me  go!  He  drags  me  to 
him!  —  I  am  being  dragged!  If  you  let  me  go  I  must  dance!  I  must 
dance !  —  or  else  I  shall  die  I     Let  me  go ! 

HellriegeL —  Really  .?  Well,  I  think  it  will  be  well,  in  the  midst  of  all 
these,  in  a  way  really  nightmarish  things,  to  bethink  myself  of  my  brave 
old  Swabian  blood!  If  all  your  limbs  twitch  to  do  it,  why  shouldn't  you 
dance  this  last  dance  with  a  poor  wretch  who  attaches  so  much  value  to 
your  doing  it .?     In  my  opinion  there  can't  be  anything  so  bad  in  that.    Not 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  337 

nothing,  have  there  been  jolly  fellows  who  have  conjured  away  Satan's 
l-fire  from  under  his  tail  and  lighted  their  pipes  with  it.  Why  shouldn't 
e  strike  up  a  tune  for  him  to  dance  ?  {He  takes  out  his  ocarina.)  Rum- 
m-pum,  rum-pum-pum!  How  does  the  time  go?  Very  well,  for  all  I 
:e,  get  ready  to  dance,  sweet  Pippa.  If  it  must  be  —  we  dare  not  be 
rticular  about  the  place  and  the  hour  in  this  world!  (Trills  and  runs 
the  ocarina.)  Dance  away,  and  dance  till  you  are  tired!  It  is  far 
»m  being  the  worst  thing  you  can  do :  to  be  joyous  with  one  who  is  mortally 
licted. 

{To  the  tones  of  the  ocarina^  which  Michael  plays^  Pippa  makes  some 
u;,  painful  dance  movements,  that  have  something  convulsive  about  them, 
ftle  by  little  the  dance  grows  wilder  and  more  bacchanalian.  A  rhythmic 
mbling  stirs  the  body  of  old  Huhn.  In  addition  to  this,  he  drums  frantically 
th  his  fists,  keeping  time  with  Pippa* s  dance  rhythm.  At  the  same  time 
seems  to  be  shaken  by  a  terrible  chill,  like  some  one  coming  out  of  a  cutting 
nd  into  the  warmth.  From  the  depths  of  the  earth  muffled  sounds  force 
*ir  way  up:  rumblings  of  thunder,  triangles,  cymbals  and  kettle-drums, 
nally  }Fann  enters  through  the  hall  door.) 

Huhn. —  I  am  making  a  little  glass!  I  am  making  it.  {Fastening 
\ook  of  hate  on  Wann.)  I  shall  make  it  and  knock  it  to  pieces  again! 
>me  —  with  —  we  —  into  —  the  dark  —  little  spark.  {He  crushes  the 
'nking  glass  which  he  still  holds  in  his  hand,  and  the  pieces  clatter  to  the 
or.) 

{Pippa  shivers  and  then  grows  suddenly  rigid.) 

Pippa. —  Michael! 

{She  reels  and  Wann  catches  her  in  his  arms.     She  is  dead.) 

Wann. —  Have  you  achieved  your  purpose  in  spite  of  me,  old  corybant  ? 

Hellriegel  {stops  playing  on  his  ocarina  for  a  few  seconds). —  Good! 
op  a  moment  to  get  your  breath,  Pippa! 

Huhn  {with  an  effort,  looks  Wann  full  in  the  eyes,  triumphantly.  Then 
ere  comes  from  his  lips  with  difficulty,  but  powerfully,  the  call) —  Jumalai !  !  ! 
mmediately  after  it  he  sinks  back  and  dies.) 

Hellriegel  {is  about  to  begin  playing  on  his  ocarina  again). —  What 
IS  that?  I  have  it!  I  heard  that  cry,  yesterday  morning!  What  do 
u  say  to  that,  old  wizard  ?  But  anyhow,  it  is  well  that  you  have  come, 
r  otherwise  we  would  have  galloped  away,  over  knives  and  pieces  of 
[)ken  glass  into  the  unknown,  on  and  on,  who  knows  where!  Have  you 
md  him  at  last  ? 

Wann. —  Most  certainly ! 

Hellriegel  {after  a  trill), —  Well,  where  did  you  find  him  ? 


338  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

Wann. —  I  found  him  behind  a  snow-drift.  He  was  tired.  He  said 
his  load  of  work  was  too  enormous.  I  had  to  persuade  him  a  long  while. 
{Looking  down  on  Pip  pa,)     And  now  it  seems  that  he  misunderstood  mc. 

Hellriegel  {after  a  trill). —  But  at  least  he  is  coming  now? 

Wann, —  Didn't  you  see  him  .?     He  came  in  just  before  me! 

Hellriegel, —  I  didn't  see  anything,  to  be  sure,  but  I  felt  something 
when  the  old  man  yelled  out  his  silly  foreign  word,  something  that  stu 
hums  in  my  bones. 

Wann. —  Do  you  hear  the  echo  still  making  a  hubbub  outside  ? 

Hellriegel  (goes  up  close  to  Huhny  curiously). —  Truly!  The  old  cloven 
hoof  will  stamp  no  more.  I  must  say,  a  weight  has  fallen  from  my  soul! 
I  hope  that  at  last  the  old  hippopotamus  is  in  a  safe  place.  Tell  me,  you 
probably  injured  his  backbone  for  him,  didn't  you  ?  But  perhaps  that 
wasn't  really  necessary,  although  it  is  possible  that  it  may  have  saved  us. 

Wann, —  Yes,  Michael,  if  you  are  saved,  it  would  certainly  have  been 
difficult  to  accomplish  it  in  any  other  way. 

Hellriegel, —  Yes,  thank  God,  I  feel  that  we  are  over  the  worst  of  it 
For  that  reason  I  won't  mope  any  longer  because  the  old  man  —  he  is 
really  past  the  time  for  boyish  tricks!  —  because  the  old  man  has  died 
of  his  love  affair,  and  can  not  have  what  I  possess.  Every  man  for  himself 
and  God  for  us  all!  In  what  way  does  the  affair  concern  me  after  all! 
Pippa!  !  How  does  it  happen  that  you  have  two  lights  to  the  right  and  left 
of  you,  one  on  each  shoulder  ? 

Wann  {with  Pippa  in  his  arms), —  Ecce  deus  fortior  me,  qui  veniens 
dominabitur  mihi!  {Behold  a  god  stronger  than  /,  who  when  he  comes 
will  have  dominion  over  me!) 

Hellriegel, —  I  don't  understand  that!  {With  his  head  bent  forward 
he  gazes  searchingly  for  a  few  seconds  at  Pippa  as  she  lies  in  WanriLs  arms.) 
Oh,  now  something  tugs  so  as  my  breast  again,  now  I  am  again  shaken 
with  impatience,  so  painfully  sweet  that  it  seems  as  if  I  must  be  at  the 
same  time  here  on  this  spot  and  millions  of  years  away.  Everything  is 
rosy-red  round  about  me!  (He  playsy  then  interrupts  himself  and  says) 
Dance,  child!  Rejoice!  Rejoice,  for  with  the  help  of  the  never-ceasing 
light  in  my  breast,  we  have  found  the  way  through  the  gloomy  labyrinth, 
and  when  you  have  tired  of  leaping  and  feel  calm  in  the  certainty  of  happi- 
ness, then  we  will  immediately  (to  Wann)  with  your  permission,  glide 
down  over  the  clear  snow,  at  if  we  went  by  post,  into  spring's  ravine,  down 
there. 

Wann. —  Yes,  if  you  see  spring's  ravine  down  there,  good  Michael, 
certainly! 


I 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  339 

Hellriegel  {with  the  motions  of  a  blind  man  who  sees  only  what  is  within 
himself;  standing  at  the  pitch-dark  window). —  Ho,  I  see  it  well,  spring's 
ravine!  I  am  not  blind !  A  child  can  see  it!  From  your  cabin,  you  ancient 
inn-keeper,  you  can  overlook  the  whole  land  —  for  a  distance  of  fifty  miles. 
I  absolutely  will  not  sit  here  any  longer,  like  the  spirit  in  the  glass  bottle, 
lying  corked  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  Once  upon  a  time  —  just  give  us 
die  golden  key  and  let  us  go  away! 

Wann. —  When  the  sun  shines  forth  suddenly  in  winter,  it  is  apt  to 
make  people  blind! 

Hellriegel. —  Or  give  them  the  all-seeing  eye!  I  could  almost  believe 
myself  in  a  dream:  so  mysteriously  am  I  charmed  by  the  mountains,  white 
in  the  light  of  the  morning's  flaming  splendor,  and  by  the  enchanting  haze 
over  the  peninsulas,  inlets  and  gardens  of  the  ravine,  and  really,  it  seems 
as  if  I  were  on  another  star! 

Wann. —  That's  the  way  it  always  is  when  the  mountains  are  bathed 
in  the  light  of  the  great  Pan's  games  with  the  fires  of  St.  Elmo. 

Hellriegel. —  Pippa ! 

Wann. —  She  is  even  now,  again,  far  from  us  on  her  own  pilgrimage! 
And  he,  the  restless  barbarous  old  giant  is  again  pursuing  her.  {fie  lays 
Pippa  down  on  the  bench.  Afterward  he  calls.)  Jonathan!  Again  the 
invisible  hand  that  reaches  through  walls  and  roofs  has  frustrated  my 
schemes  and  made  them  his  booty.  Jonathan!  He  is  even  now  cold! 
The  glowing  crater  is  extinguished.  What  does  the  hunter  hunt?  It  is 
not  the  animal  that  he  slays !  What  does  the  hunter  hunt  ?  Who  can  answer 
me? 

Hellriegel  (at  the  black  window). —  Pippa,  just  look  down  there,  the 
tongues  of  land  are  covered  with  golden  cupolas  —  and  do  you  see:  there 
is  our  water-palace  —  and  the  golden  steps  that  lead  up  to  it! 

Wann. —  Then  rejoice!  Rejoice  over  what  you  see,  Michael,  and  over 
what  is  hidden  from  you! 

Hellriegel. —  The  sea!  Oh,  there  is  another,  upper  sea  forming:  this 
other  sea  gives  back  to  the  lower  sea  millions  of  twinkling  stars!  O  Pippa  — 
and  look,  still  a  third  sea  forms!  There  is  an  infinite  mirroring  and  immer- 
sion of  light  in  light!  We  swim  through  it  all,  between  ocean  and  ocean, 
M  our  rustling  gold  galley! 

Wann. —  Then,  of  course,  you  will  no  longer  need  my  little  vessel! 
Throw  back  the  shutters,  Jonathan! 

i^onathany  who  has  looked  /n,  opens  the  house  door  and  the  first  faint 
gleam  of  morning  comes  in  through  the  hall.) 

Hellriegel. —  Pippa ! 


340  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

Wann. —  Here  she  is,  take  each  other's  hands!  {He goes  up  to  Michad^ 
who  is  standing  with  the  expression  of  a  blind  seer  on  his  face^  and  makes 
motions  as  if  Pip  pa  stood  near  him  and  as  if  he  laid  Michael*  s  hand  in  hers) 
There!  I  marry  you!  I  marry  you  to  this  shadow!  He  who  is  marrid 
to  shadows  marries  you  to  this  one! 

HellriegeL —  Not  bad,  Pippa,  you  are  a  shadow! 

Wann, —  Go  forth,  go  out  with  her  into  the  wide  world  —  to  your 
water-palace,  I  meant  to  say!  And  here  you  have  the  key  to  it!  That 
monster  can  no  longer  prevent  your  entering!  And  outside  a  sleigh  with 
two  curved  horns  stands  ready  — 

Hellriegel  {with  great  tears  on  his  cheeks). —  And  there  I  shall  make 
water  into  balls! 

Wann. —  You  are  doing  it  now  with  your  eyes!  Now  go!  Dont 
forget  your  ocarina! 

Hellriegel. —  O  no!     I  shall  not  forget  my  sweet,  beloved  little  wife! 

Wann. —  For  it  may  yet  be  possible,  that  sometime  you  will  have  to 
play  and  sing  here  and  there  before  people's  doors.  But  don't  lose  your 
courage  because  of  that.  For  in  the  first  place,  you  have  the  little  key  to 
the  palace,  and  when  it  grows  dark,  you  have  this  torch  which  Pippa  may 
carry  on  before  you;  and  then  you  will  surely  and  certainly  come  to  the 
place  where  joy  and  peace  await  you.  Only  sing  and  play  bravely  and  do 
not  despair. 

Hellriegel. —  Hurrah!     I  sing  the  song  of  the  blind! 

Wann. —  What  do  you  mean  by  that .? 

HellriegeL —  I  sing  the  song  of  the  blind  people  who  do  not  see  the 
great  golden  stairs! 

Wann. —  So  much  the  higher  will  you  mount  the  scala  d'oro,  the  scala 
dei  Giganti! 

Hellriegel. —  And  I  sing  the  song  of  the  deaf! 

Wann. —  Those  who  do  not  hear  the  stream  of  the  universe  flowing! 

Hellriegel.— Yes\ 

Wann. —  Be  sure  you  do  it!  But,  Michael,  when  they  are  not  touched 
and  when  they  threaten  you  with  hard  words  or  with  stone-throwing,  which 
is  pretty  sure  to  happen,  then  tell  them  how  rich  you  are  —  a  prince  on 
a  journey  with  his  princess!  Talk  to  them  of  your  water-palace  and  beg 
them  for  God's  sake  to  direct  you  to  the  next  milestone  on  your  road! 

Hellriegel  {chuckling). —  And  Pippa  shall  dance! 

Wann. —  And  Pippa  dances! 

(//  has  now  become  broad  daylight,  Wann  puts  a  cane  into  the  hand 
of  the  blind  and  helpless  Michael^  puts  his  hat  on  and  leads  him  to  the  outside 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  341 

\€^y  feeling  his  way^  but  chuckling  softly  and  happily.  Now  Michael  puts 
e  ocarina  to  his  mouth  and  plays  a  heart-breakingly  sad  melody.  In  the 
illy  Jonathan  takes  charge  of  the  blind  man  and  Jrann  comes  back.  He 
stens  to  the  ocarina^  as  the  melody  dies  away  farther  and  farther  into  the 
'stance^  takes  the  little  gondola  from  the  table^  looks  at  it  and  says  with 
ained  renunciation  in  his  tones). — 

Sail  away,  sail  away,  little  gondoletta! 


THE  LITERATURE    OF   PORTUGAl 


By  Isabel  Moore 


I 

SINCE  the  time  of  Robert  Southey  almost  no  attention  has 
paid  to  the  literature  of  Portugal.  Yet  Portugal,  the  *medi 
Hispanica'  (marrow  of  Spain,  as  it  has  been  called)  has 
only  a  vast  but  an  exceedingly  beautiful  literature,  end] 
distinctive  from  the  Spanish  of  which  it  is  so  often  and  ei 
neously  considered  a  part.  Like  the  country  itself,  the  lit 
ature  has  been  peculiarly  insecure  and  yet  peculiarly  lasting. 

Long,  long  ago  —  when  the  Spanish  Peninsular  was  in  the  making 
a  certain  Alfonso,  ruler  of  Leon,  conquered  his  brothers,  Garcia  of  GaB( 
and  Coimbra,  and  Sancho  of  Castile,  and  was  himself  crowned  king 
Castile,  Leon,  Galicia  and  Coimbra.     His  father  was  Don  Fernando 
conferred  the  honor  of  knighthood,  in  the  great  Mosque  of  Coimbra,  u] 
Rodrigo  Diaz  de  Bivar,  the  redoutable  Cid,  Champion  of  Christens 
and   hero  of  Spanish   Mediaeval  history.     And  Alfonso  —  after  he  hi 
adjusted   his  domestic  supremacy  to  his  liking  —  had  proceeded  to 
conflict  against  his  religious  and  territorial  foes,  the  Moors,  who,  since 
defeat  of  Roderick  the  Goth  in  the  Battle  of  the  Guadelette,  had  ravaj 
the  Peninsular.     He  was  successful  to  the  extent  of  winning  Santarem  ai 
Lisbon  from  the  Lusitanian  Moors,  but  was  finally  in  such  straits  and 
with  such  crushing  reverses  that  he  called  upon  other  Christian  princes 
help  him.     Among  those  to  respond,  was  Count  Henry  of  Burgundy, 
whom  Alfonso  gave  the  countries  of  Oporto  and  Coimbra  in  1095  as  a  rewafl 
for  his  services  and  assistance.     And  with  this  grant  of  lands  began  ti^ 
Kingdom  of  Portugal. 

Alfonso  Henriques,  the  first  King  of  Portugal,  was  the  son  of 
French  Prince;  and  the  establishment  of  a  Burgundian  dynasty  introdu< 
French  words  into  the  Coimbrian  dialect,  such  as  never   found  their 
into  the  Galician:  —  although,  in  the  main,  the  dialects  remained  for  a  1< 
time  practically  the  same.     It  was  only  in  Coimbra,  however,  after  it  becai 
an  integral  part  of  Portugal,  that  there  was  a  Court;  and,  therefore,  it 
in  Coimbra  that  the  common  dialect  acquired  a  separate  and  distin< 
literature:  taking  precedence  and  wielding  together  the  different  elemeol 
that  went  to  the  forming  of  the  Portuguese  national  language. 


ISABEL  MOORE  343 

Though,  until  the  existence  of  Portugal  as  a  nation,  we  cannot  consider 
ST  literature  as  separated  from  the  Castilian,  there  is  every  probability 
tat  songs  were  sung  in  the  Portuguese  dialect  long  before  they  were  in  the 
aistilian.  The  oldest  Portuguese  poetry  of  which  we  have  authentic 
cord,  however,  are  three  curious  fragments  given  by  Manuel  de  Faria, 
f  Sousa  in  his  Europa  PortuguesOy  written  by  Gonzalo  Hermiguez  and 
nz  Moniz  Coelho;  two  poets  who  are  said  to  have  lived  during  the  reign 
:  Alfonso  Henriques,  although  some  authorities  maintain  they  came  a  little 
icr.  Ticknor,  however,  is  confident  that  their  verse  can  not  be  placed 
icr  than  1200,  and  says:  'Both  show  that  the  Galician  in  Portugal,  under 
K  favorable  circumstances  than  those  which  accompanied  the  Castilian 
I  Spain,  rose  at  the  same  period  to  be  a  written  language  and  possessed, 
srhaps  quite  as  early,  the  materials  for  forming  an  independent  literature/ 
Ifonso  Henriques,  himself,  was  a  poet  as  well  as  an  able  ruler,  though 
Mie  of  his  verse  has  survived  for  our  estimation;  and  Spain  and  Portugal 
nre  in  common  the  still  extant  fragment  of  a  poem  said  to  have  been  found 
1 1 187,  in  a  condition  so  injured  by  time  that  little  more  than  thirty  lines 
ire  legible,  ascribed  to  Roderick  the  Last  of  the  Goths:  —  coeval,  then, 
jtti  the  Arab  conquest  of  the  Peninsular  in  the  beginning  of  the  eighth 

kmiiy. 

It  is  a  cause  for  wonder  that  Arabian  poetry  left  no  more  trace  than  it 
18  to  have  done  on  Spanish  versification,  and  no  trace  at  all  —  that  is 
ible  in  our  day,  at  least  —  on  the  Portuguese.  Probably  it  enriched 
Peninsular  dialects  somewhat  but,  apparently,  not  much.  It  has  been 
that  the  Spanish  ballads  are  imitations  of  the  Arabian;  and,  of 
^y  as  it  was  inevitable  that  there  should  be,  there  were  many  Spanish 
ler  ballads  concerned  with  Moorish-Spanish  international  episodes  and 
lents.  But  this  was  more  particularly  the  case  after  the  Fall  of  Grenada, 
cause  for  rejoicing  over  a  vanquished  foe  most  naturally  found 
^ression.  That  there  was  little  interchange  of  imitation  is  readily  proved 
die  internal  simplicity  of  each.  The  Spanish  ballads,  particularly,  are 
simple  in  form  and  so  direct  in  feeling  that  they  could  hardly  be  anvthing 
the  almost  personal  result  of  a  popular  need.  Furthermore,  it  is  easy 
believe  that  a  chivalrous  and  energetic  people  would  naturally  evolve 
own  ballad  expression  as  they  would  their  own  architectural  or  political 
»res8ion;  and  the  evidence  to  corroborate  this  natural  belief  is  the  fact 
It  not  one  single  Arabic  original  has  been  found  in  the  great  mass  of 
lish  ballads.  Although  Arabian  poetry  is  almost  entirely  lyrical  — 
pd  the  tyrical  appeal  was  peculiarly  poignant  to  the  early  Spanish,  and 
I  to  the  Portuguese  of  all  time  —  each  nation  held  to  a  most  ardent  appre- 


344  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

ciation  of  the  beauty  of  its  own  speech.  This  was,  doubtless,  a  most 
desirable  state  of  affairs,  contributing  to  the  consolidation  of  what  may  be 
called  national  individualism  in  the  poetry  of  Spain  and  Portugal;  yet  we 
cannot  but  regret  to  a  degree  that  such  a  delightful  possession  of  the  Arabsi 
for  example,  as  the  'trembling  meter* — iambics,  rhyming  in  the  same 
syllable  throughout:  a  measure  which,  according  to  the  Arabs,  resembles 
the  trot  of  a  camel  —  found  no  place  in  either  Spanish  or  Portuguese  verse. 
'The  beautiful  poetry  with  which  Allah  has  adorned  the  Muslim'  is  a  thing 
apart;  requiring  independent  appreciation  and  consideration. 

The  twelfth  century  has  been  likened  unto  a  dusky  dawn  in  which 
could  be  heard  a  few  twittering  birds  that  have  awakened  before  their  mates. 
There  had  come  into  existence  what  has  been  called  'a  state  of  European 
consciousness.'  All  civilized  Europe  awoke,  and  every  creature  proceeded 
to  produce  after  his  kind.  The  Troubadour  movement  was  the  first 
symmetrical  expression  in  Art  of  Chivalry — that  adventurous  service  of  God 
and  woman  —  as  the  Crusades  were  its  first  expression  in  action.  Love  of 
external  nature,  elemental  emotion,  simple  sentiment,  were  the  well-springs 
of  their  lyric  utterance;  bubbling  up  into  being  from  long-hidden,  tranqufl 
depths  of  feeling.  And,  as  the  Romance  languages  —  composed  of  the 
Latin  and  the  Teutonic  tongues  —  in  the  first  place  all  sprang  from  pc^ular 
and  not  from  classic  Latin,  so,  likewise,  in  turn,  the  Troubadours  found 
their  expression  in  the  homely  speech  of  the  common  people  after  the  bar- 
baric invasions  had  led  to  the  complete  destruction  of  the  Latin  culture. 
'They  rank, '  writes  one  modern  critic,  *  in  the  scale  between  music  and  usual 
verse.'  And,  again:  'Their  words  are  like  musical  notes,  not  so  much  signs 
of  thought  as  symbols  of  feeling,  which  almost  defy  an  arbitrary  interpre- 
tation and  must  be  rendered  in  part  by  the  temperament  of  the  performer.' 

That  was  it:  —  the  Troubadours  were  the  temperamental  element  of 
their  age,  whether  of  noble  birth  or  of  humble  origin.  St.  Francis  of  Assisi 
himself,  the  typical  saint  of  the  Middle  Ages,  was  at  heart  a  bit  of  a  tempera- 
mental tramp  as  he  went  from  village  to  village  with  a  number  of  friars, 
singing  the  Canticle  of  the  Sun,  Most  truly  did  William  of  Poitiers  — the 
reputed  father  of  Provencal  song  —  express  the  impulse  of  the  day  in  his 
verse  beginning: 

'Desire  of  song  hath  taken  me!' 

'Desire  of  song,' — yea,  verily.  And  the  'desire'  would  not,  could 
not,  be  denied.  It  found  its  voice,  first  of  all  and  for  the  longest  period, 
in  fair  Provence,  that  'home  of  song,'  where  from  1 194-1209  the  Court  of 
Raimon  VI  of  Toulouse  was  thronged  with  poets.  It  flourished  in  France 
from  1080  on.      Alfonso  II  of  Arragon,  who  died  in  Portugal  while  trying 


ISABEL  MOORE  345 

>  arrange  a  general  league  against  the  Moors,  was  the  Troubadour-King 
1  whose  reign  Troubadour  poetry  reached  its  finest  outburst  in  Arragon. 
ilfonso  X  of  Castile  was  a  devoted  patron  of  the  Gaya  Sciencia.  His 
^antigas  in  honor  of  the  Madonna  —  strange  minglings  with  regard  to  the 
dl-Mother  of  the  original  Pagan  and  overlaid  Christianity  —  we  still  have 

>  the  number  of  four  hundred  and  one.  They  are  in  the  Galician  dialect, 
earing  somewhat  the  impress  of  the  Proven9al9  and  are  the  oldest  extant 
pecimens  of  Galician  verse  as  distinct  from  the  Portuguese  with,  possibly, 
le  exception  of  the  ballad  called  *The  Fight  of  the  Figwood/ 

It  has  been  said  that  Portugal  did  not,  strictly  speaking,  belong  to  the 
^roubadour  world,  and  it  is  true  that  the  name  and  poem  of  only  one 
ndoubtedly  Portuguese  Troubadour  of  the  earliest  period  has  survived  — 
oao  de  Penda  (i  145-1204).  But,  although  the  individual  record  is  meager, 
^ortugal  in  reality  became  even  more  Proven9al  that  Castile,  for  in  Castile 
lere  soon  sprang  up  a  strong  French  influence.  The  Troubadours  — 
lost  of  them  —  spent  their  lives  visiting  difl^erent  Courts,  and  the  Court  of 
^ortugal  was  so  pleasant  and  welcoming  that  they  frequently  lingered  there 
>r  a  long  time.  Of  these  wandering  minstrels  who  reached  Portugal, 
le  French  Marcabrun  is  the  most  famous  of  this  early  period.  He  visited 
^ortugal  in  1 147,  while  Alfonso  Henriques  was  in  the  prime  of  his  glory, 
nd  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  of  the  French  Troubadours  to  cross  the 
yrenees.  The  similarity  in  the  literary  languages  of  Castile  and  Portugal 
ndoubtedly  led  to  considerable  intercourse  between  the  two  countries,  and 
:  is  on  record  that  the  later  Portuguese  Troubadours,  Pero  Gomez  Barroso, 
'aye  Gomez  Charrinho  and  Concalo  Eames  do  Vidal,  were  received  with 
oners  at  the  Castilian  Court.  Among  the  Galician  poets  who  frequented 
le  Court  of  Portugal  during  the  reign  of  Sancho  I  (i  185-12 1 1)  were  Alfonso 
iomez,  Fernam  Con9alves  de  Senabria  and  Joao  Soares  de  Paiva;  whose 
imous  Proven9al  rivals  were  Peire  Valeria,  Gavandan  o  Velho  and  Peire 
'idal,  —  the  Peire  Vidal  of  whom  it  was  said  that  *  he  was  the  best  singer 
1  the  world  and  a  good  finder;  and  that  he  was  the  most  foolish  man  in  the 
rorld  because  he  thought  everything  tiresome  except  verse.'  And  it  is 
iteresting  evidence  of  the  community  of  feeling  in  the  Troubadour  world 

>  remember  that  Bonifaci  Calvo,  a  Troubadour  of  Genoa,  lived  at  the 
!asulian  Court  for  a  long  period,  and  that  two  of  his  seventeen  extant  poems 
re  in  the  Portuguese  language;  and  that  another  Italian,  Sordel  —  Brown- 
ig's  Sordello  —  visited  the  Courts  of  the  Peninsluar  in  1260,  meeting 
fcrywhere  with  courteous  welcome.  In  Portugal  he  gained  an  honor 
rcorded  no  other  foreign  troubadour :  —  a  place  in  their  song  b  ooks. 
\s  much  —  no  more  —  one  lives  as  one  enjoys,'  he  sang. 


346  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

It  is  quite  possible  that  the  Portuguese  preceded  the  Casdlians  in  epic 
or  heroic  poetry  as  well  as  in  lyric  verse.  An  earlier  Castilian  Alfonso  than 
he  of  the  Cantigas  —  Alfonso  III  —  had  fostered  the  Franco-Provenpl 
school  in  his  kingdom  by  bringing  with  him  from  France,  Trouveres  as  wdl 
as  Troubadours.  Among  these  was  Alfonso  Lopez  de  Bayan,  who  wrote 
the  first  gesta  in  the  Portuguese  language,  a  gesta  de  Maldizer.  But,  althoug|i 
such  names  as  Rodriguez  Lobo,  ^loi  de  Sa  Sotonayor  and  Pires  de  Rebello— 
of  a  little  later  day  —  made  this  form  of  verse  illustrious,  the  heroic  romance 
never  became  thoroughly  naturalized  in  Portugal  and  chiefly  found  its  way 
through  Spain.  Narrative  romance  never  seems  to  have  been  so  esteemed 
by  the  Portuguese  as  by  their  Castilian  neighbors. 

In  1208  came  the  Albigensian  Crusade  in  which  Folquet  de  MarseiUa, 
himself  once  a  Troubadour  but  since  become  Abbott  of  La  Thoronet, 
assisted  Simon  de  Montfort  against  Toulouse  in  the  siege  that  resulted  in 
the  decisive  battle  of  12 13  in  which  the  Midi  were  conquered.  'The  stream 
must  fall  into  the  sea,'  as  Mistral  sang  of  this  event.  Tides  of  fugitives  fled 
beyond  the  Pyrenees.  Echoes  of  the  Troubadour  world  reverberated  the 
length  of  Castile  and  Galicia  and  Portugal.  Spain  —  used  in  a  generic 
sense  —  was  their  refuge  and  their  dream.  The  Court  of  Dom  Sancho  II 
of  Portugal,  particularly,  was  filled  with  gay  and  young  knights  and  trou- 
badours who  had  been  under  the  most  direct  Proven9al  influence. 

But  the  times  were  rapidly  changing:  the  old  order  giving  place  to 
the  new.  Men's  ideas  were  expanding  and  becoming  big  with  other  plans 
that  found  expression  in  other  forms.  Dante,  when  he  came,  was  a  typical 
troubadour  spiritualized.  ///  Paradiso  is  the  culmination  of  the  troubadour 
feeling,  as  in  Boccacio  culminated  the  art  of  the  Trouveres.  Yet,  though 
the  troubadour  spirit  has  now  become  itself  a  fugitive,  there  are  even  unto 
this  day  survivals  and  even  revivals,  and  will  ever  be,  so  long  as  lyric  poeny 
lives  in  human  hearts:  lyric  poetry  being  the  very  quintessence  of  human 
sympathy  and  love  and  hope  and  the  joy  of  life  and  the  worship  of  nature. 
No  matter  that  it  only  lingers  in  the  secret  places:  that  the  form  is  changed: 
that  it  is  overshadowed  by  the  big  worldly  things  of  men.  It  is  with  the 
troubadour  spirit,  as  found  among  the  folk-tales  and  folk-songs  of  a  people, 
as  it  was  with  the  little  maid  in  the  old  Portuguese  folk-tale,  who  sings: 

*  Prince  of  love, 
I  have  come  many  leagues 
To  see  thee,  O  my  Lord! 
My  shoes  are  torn: 
My  staff  is  travel-worn : 
Yet  here  I  am  come  back  to  thee!' 


ISABEL  MOORE  347 

II 

The  Kingdom  of  Portugal  was,  however,  rather  to  one  side  of  the  track 
::hange  and  the  old  spirit  lingered  there  for  some  time  after  the  reign  of 
icho  II,  although  with  the  passing  of  the  thirteenth  century  the  political 
iditions  changed  entirely  from  a  period  of  war  and  territorial  expansion 
one  of  consolidation,  preluding  the  Idade  d^Ouro  of  heroic  exploration 
1  Asiatic  conquest.  It  was  a  certain  poised  period :  a  stopping  to  take 
*ath  before  a  new  and  vigorous  burst  of  enterprise :  a  lying  fallow  unto 
!  end  of  renewed  life  and  activity. 

During  the  fourteenth  century  there  were  hardly  any  writers  of  verse 
Portugal  except  members  of  the  royal  family;  and  of  these,  by  far  the 
«t  illustrious  was  the  earliest,  Dom  Dinez  (1279-1325)  *  Brave  Dinez'as 
moens  called  him.  He  was  a  lover  of  letters  and  a  true  poet,  promoting 
:  literature  of  his  country  in  much  the  same  fashion  as  did  his  contempo- 
y,  Alfonso  X,  that  of  Castile.  Not  only  did  he  found  the  great  University 
It  afterwards  moved  from  Lisbon  to  Coimbra,  but  he  and  his  poetic 
irtiers  developed  the  Portuguese  dialect  into  a  beautiful  and  flexible 
Tary  language.  His  own  verse  shows  the  influence  of  the  Troubadours 
her  than  that  of  the  Trouveres  who  had  come  into  evidence  at  his  father's 
urt:  but,  as  time  went  on,  he  more  and  more  threw  off  the  trammels  of 

Proven9al  forms  and,  perceiving  the  beauty  of  his  people's  lyrics,  wrote 
ne  quaint  and  graceful '  Pastorellas '  in  which  —  as  in  almost  all  pastoral 
5try  —  the  buccolic  touch  is  easily  conformable  to  the  primitive  religious 
ling  of  the  people.  The  poems  of  Dom  Dinez  are  to  be  found  only  in  old 
nuscripts.  They  are  collected  into  Cancioneiros^  two  in  number,  the 
t  containing  his  Cantigas  to  the  Virgin  —  another  touch  in  common  with 

Castilian  contemporary  —  and  the  second  his  temporal  works. 
Besides  Dom  Dinez,  of  the  royal  poets,  his  son,  Alfonzo  IV,  wrote  verse 
it  has  never  been  printed,  and  the  sonnet  in  praise  of  Vasco  de  Lobeira 
said  to  have  been  written  by  him,  although  some  authorities  attribute  it 
Pedro,  the  son  of  John  the  Great.  This  Lobeira  deserves  particular 
ndon  because  there  is  little  doubt  that  he  gave  to  the  literary  world  the 
t  version  of  Amadis  of  Gauly  though  the  earliest  version  we  now  have  is 
:  Spanish  of  Garci-Ordonez  de  Montalvo  which  was  written  about  1495. 
ere  is  proof  that  the  story  of  Amadis  existed  as  early  as  1325  and,  until 

end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  a  manuscript  copy  of  Lobeira's  work  was 
the  possession  of  the  Dukes  of  Aveiro  at  Lisbon.  It  was  probably  in 
se,  but  this  is  not  known  with  certainty  and  it  has  been  lost  sight  of  since 

middle  of  the  eighteenth  century.     Rather  curiously,  the  last  of  the  line 


348  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

of  the  Amadis  romances,  as  well  as  the  first,  is  attributed  to  a  Portuguese  and 
was  entitled  '  Penalava.'  It  is  supposed  to  have  dealt  with  the  last  expkxtt 
and  death  of  Lisuane,  King  of  Greece;  but,  if  it  ever  really  existed,  no  copy 
of  it  seems  ever  to  have  been  seen. 

The  second  series  of  great  Spanish  romances  —  that  of  the  Pal- 
merins  —  was  for  a  long  time  supposed  to  have  had  a  Ponuguese  origin. 
This  was  an  error,  however,  arising  from  a  misunderstanding  of  a  stat^ 
ment  on  the  part  of  its  translator  from  the  Spanish.  But  the  Seventhi 
Eighth  and  Ninth  (the  Ninth  being  the  last)  of  the  Palmerin  sequence  wen 
wntten  by  Ponuguese;  the  Eighth  and  Ninth  by  Balth;  Gon^alvez  Lobato^ 
and  the  Seventh  (which  has  never  been  translated  into  any  other  language) 
by  Diogo  Fernandez. 

It  was  King  Alfonzo  IV  (1325-1357),  son  and  successor  of  Dom  Dinei, 
whose  forces,  united  with  those  of  Alfonzo  of  Castile,  won  the  great  victoiy 
over  the  Moors  in  the  battle  of  the  Salado  that  was  the  inspiration  of  die 
first  Portuguese  epic  by  Alfonzo  Giraldes,  the  forerunner  of  Camoens.  The 
year  1348  of  his  reign  was  marked  by  the  Black  Death;  and  the  next  to  the 
last  of  his  reign  by  the  tragedy  of  Inez  de  Castro,  which  has  been  the  subject 
of  many  poems  in  many  tongues. 

The  whole  story  of  Inez  de  Castro  is  one  of  fierce  passions  of  love  and 
hate,  of  cruelty  and  of  tenderness,  and  of  a  wild  disloyalty  that  was  superbly 
loyal.  She  was  a  Castilian  in  the  suite  of  Beatrice  of  Castile,  wife  of  Alfonzo 
IV,  with  whom  their  son,  Dom  Pedro,  fell  deeply  in  love.  Inez  became 
the  mistress  of  Pedro,  living  in  a  house  of  Coimbra,  of  which  a  few  ruined 
walls  are  all  that  now  remain.  Tradition  says  that  Pedro  visited  her  through 
a  conduit  that  ran  from  the  Fonte  dos  A  mores  (Fountain  of  Love)  that  was 
in  the  Quinta  das  Lagrimas  (Garden  of  Tears).  Constancia,  the  wife  of 
Pedro,  died  of  grief;  and,  the  affair  coming  to  the  knowledge  of  the  King 
Inez  de  Castro  was  murdered  by  his  order. 

Such  is  the  briefest  possible  outline  of  the  epiosde;  and,  it  must  be 
admitted,  that  in  outline  it  is  in  no  way  distinctive  from  the  usual  amours 
of  princes.  But  the  sequel  is  what  raises  it  above  their  level  and  places  it, 
humanly,  among  the  great  love  tragedies  of  the  world.  No  passing  fancy 
had  it  been  on  the  part  of  Dom  Pedro.  His  first  act  on  ascending  the  throne, 
two  years  later,  was  to  punish  the  murderers  of  Inez.  Alvero  Gonsalves 
and  Pedro  Coelho  were  slowly  tortured  to  death  before  the  eyes  of  Dom 
Pedro  in  front  of  the  royal  palace  of  Coimbra;  but  the  third,  Pacheco, 
succeeded  in  escaping  to  England.  The  marriage  with  Inez  was  then 
pronounced  valid.  Her  body  was  disinterred;  taken  from  the  royal 
monastery  of  AIcoba9a;  and  placed  on  a  magnificent  throne,  elevated  on 


ISABEL  MOORE  3^ 

^^pmiy  steps,  in  front  of  the  great  altar  of  the  Cathedral  of  G)imbra.  H( 
VHNes  were  regal;  a  veil  concealed  her  visage;  a  crown  was  on  her  hea< 
WMr  hands  were  gloved,  one  grasping  a  scepter.  Pedro  stood  on  the  rigl 
*  *  of  the  throne,  in  complete  armour  and  bare-headed.  The  herak 
laimed  the  titles  of  Inez  and  called  upon  all  true  subjects  to  do  hone 
eir  Queen.  The  two  young  princes,  her  sons,  advanced  and,  it  is  saic 
nt  shrank  back ;  but  sustained  and  encouraged  by  the  monks  knelt  on  th 
and  kissed  the  dead  hand  that  was  raised  and  extended  to  them  by  th 
relating  Bishops.  The  clergy.  Ministers  of  State,  officers  of  the  Palac< 
*«s  of  the  Court,  hereditary  nobles  of  the  land,  followed.  Not  a  word  wa 
en,  not  a  sound  heard,  until  the  trumpets  proclaimed  that  the  royal  ord 
was  accomplished  and  the  Queen  Consort  of  Portugal  acknowledged  b 
subjects.  Then,  attended  by  every  symbol  of  sovereignty,  the  dead  bod 
Inez  de  Castro  was  conducted  from  Coimbra  back  to  the  Alcoba9 
nastery  —  fifty-two  miles  —  the  road  all  the  way  being  lined  with  peopi 
both  sides,  who  bore  lighted  torches.  The  funeral  procession  was  le< 
Dom  Pedro  and  his  sons;  attended  by  all  the  great  of  the  kingdom,  th 
tlemen  dressed  in  long  mourning  robes,  the  ladies  in  white  moumin 


^     Once  again  was  Inez  de  Castro  taken  from  her  grave.     The  secon 
"^       was  by  the  French  soldiers,  during  the  Peninsular  War,  who  dragge< 
body  and  Pedro's  forth  in  the  mercenary  hope  of  discovering  conceale< 
isure.     Pedro  was  a  mere  skeleton  in  royal  robes;  but  Inez  had  bee; 
skillfully  embalmed  that,  it  has  been  recorded,  'her  beautiful  face  wa 
irely  unchanged,  and  her  magnificent  hair  of  a  light  lustrous  auburr 
^  ^^Hiich  had  been  the  marvel  of  the  whole  nation  during  her  life,  so  enriches 
length  and  volume  that  it  covered  her  whole  figure  even  to  her  feet  an( 
:cited  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  the  very  spoilers  who  tore  away  th< 
XKh  jewels  by  which  her  death  garments  were  clasped.' 

This  story  has  been  an  inspiration  to  many  literatures;  an( 
the  best  literary  version  —  with  the  exception  of  Camoens'  episode  and 
possibly,  the  dramas  of  the  Spaniard,  Bermudez  —  is  the  Portuguese  tradeg] 
'Castro'  by  Dr.  Antonio  Ferreira,  which  is  also  the  first  Portuguese  versior 
In  it  is  a  Hymn  to  Love  that  is  most  lyrically  beautiful  and  that,  perhaps 
bdongs  here  as  illustrative  of  the  subject  that  was  its  inspiration,  althougl 
Ferreira  belongs  to  a  later  period  and  to  a  distinct  school.  It  closes  the 
First  Act  of  the  drama,  and  Bouterwek  gives  the  following  two  stanzas: 

'Quando  Amor  naceo, 
Claros  rayos  ao  Sol,  luz  as  estrellas. 
O  Ceo  resplandeceo. 


350  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

E  de  sua  luz  vencida 

A  escuridao  mostrow  ascousas  bellas. 

Aquella,  que  subida 

Esta  na  terceira  esphera, 

Do  bravo  nar  nascida 

Amor  ao  Mundo  da,  doce  amor  gera. 

Por  Amor  s'orna  a  terra 

D'agoas  e  de  verdura, 

As  arvores  da  folhas,  cor  as  flores. 

Em  doce  paz  a  guerra, 

A  dureza  em  brandura. 

E  mil  odios  converte  em  mil  amores 

Quanta  vidas  a  dura: 

Morte  desfaZy  renova: 

A  fermosa  pintura 

Do  mundo.  Amor  a  tem  inteira»  e  nova.' 
Dom  Pedro  himself  wrote  verse  in  both  the  Castilian  and  the  Portu- 
guese. He  used,  almost  entirely,  the  measure  of  the  Italian  canzone^  indi- 
cating that  the  Italian  influence  was  felt  at  an  early  period  in  Portugal; 
although,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  at  that  time  but  very  slight.  With 
Dom  Pedro  passed  the  period  of  the  royal  poets.  Royalty  continued  to 
encourage  literature  with  varying  degrees  of  enthusiasm,  but  the  rulers  who 
loved  best  the  enterprises  of  discovery  seem  to  have  had  little  time  for  song  or 
inclination  for  song. 

M.  £.  M.  has  made  the  following  translations  of  three  Cantigas  by 
Dom  Pedro  I: 


'When  shall  my  love  be  blest? 

When  shall  my  grief  be  o'er  ? 
When  shall  my  fears  find  rest, 

Ne'er  to  awaken  more  ? 

Doubt  lets  not  grief  depart; 

Fear  is  still  abiding; 
Changeful  Fate  checks  my  heart 

From  its  warm  confiding. 

Vainly  doth  Hope  bestow 
A  sunny  smile  on  me: 


ISABEL  MOORE  351 

Ne'er  doth  my  deep  love  know 
Blessed  Certainty.' 


*  Long-sighed  for  Peace!  that  all  my  pain 

Cans't  soothly  end, 
Hope  would  not  smile  on  me  in  vain 
Wert  thou  my  friend. 

Be  but  my  friend!     So  wilt  thou  turn 

My  pain  to  pleasure; 
And  for  the  trials  I  have  borne 

Due  guerdon  measure. 

Firm  Faith  can  conquer  Grief  —  e'en  now 

My  griefs  shall  end; 
And  grim  Despair  will  die,  if  thou 
Wilt  be  mv  friend.' 

3 

'First  of  Earth's  Fair!  how  duly  thine 

Is  the  best  homage  of  the  heart; 
I  speak  thy  name  as  word  divine, 
To  me  the  joy  of  life  thou  art. 

Now  by  thy  worth,  thy  charms,  I  give 

Thee  all  my  love;  so  full,  so  free. 
That,  self-unloving,  now  I  live 

Forgetting  self,  to  think  of  thee. 

Faith,  in  thine  eyes,  doth  far  outshine 

All  that  Earth's  brightest  joys  impart; 
So,  my  life's  wealth!  like  one  divine 

I'll  shrine  thee  in  my  faithful  heart.' 

)w  accurate  in  feeling  these  translations  are,  the  present  writer  does 
)w,  nor  who  M.  E.  M.  was.  The  originals  are  very  difficult  of  access 
?re  has  been  no  opportunity  to  compare  them  with  the  translations, 
are  certain  indications  that  the  spontaneity  of  feeling  has  been  sacri- 


352  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

(iced  to  the  necessities  of  English  verse,  but  this  may  not  be  so.    Onhf, 
translations  should  be  approached  with  a  chastened  and  careful  spin^ 
invalidate,  so  far  as  possible,  the  Italian  saying  that  'A  translation ii 
betrayal!'     *Of  all  species  of  poetry,'  says  Sismondi,' perhaps  the  lyric 
bucolic  are  least  susceptible  of  being  rendered  into  another  tongue, 
lose  the  very  essence  of  their  beauty.' 

There  is  a  poetical  lament  in  Spanish  of  Dom  Pedro's  that  comes 
us  out  of  the  Past  in  a  great  cry  of  anguish,  an  almost  literal  transbti 
of  which  is  : 

'  Blood  of  my  heart,  heart  that  belonged  to  me,  heart  that  hath 
been  stricken,  who  could  dare  strike  thee  f    His  heart  I  will  tear  out!' 

There  is  a  certain  direct  and  personal  wail  of  love  and  rage  and 
in  this  —  barbaric  and  passionate  —  that  brines  Dom  Pedro  the  man, 
even  Dom  Pedro  the  poet,  possibly  Dom  Pedro  the  King, —  into  a 
intimate  sympathy  with  the  universality  of  human  sufFerine.  The 
seems  to  have  not  been  considered :  there  is  none  of  the  objectivity  to  ^ 
verse,  even  direct  and  emotional  verse,  is  usually  bound:  and,  consequent^ 
on  Carlyle's  principle  'see  deeply  enough  and  you  see  musically'— tk 
spontaneous  form  is  essentially  and  inevitably  poetic. 

Ill 

'Sail  toward  the  setting  sun  until  you  come  to  an  island'  was  tk 
instruction  given  by  Prince  Henry  of  Portugal  to  one  of  the  early  explorcn: 
and  that  is  what  the  Portuguese  proceeded  to  do,  only  they  went  in  ik 
direction  of  the  rising  sun  also,  and  came  to  continents  as  well  as  islands. 
Portugal's  'Idade  d'Ouro'  was  her  period  of  maritime  greatness  and  cob' 
cided,  in  essential  points,  with  the  similar  period  in  Spain.  Both  nations 
became  too  intent  on  affairs  of  action  to  be  immediately  creative  in  literatuit 
With  the  exception  of  the  old  ballads  that  continued  to  be  sung  in  the  hearts 
of  the  common  people,  there  was  no  verse  to  speak  of  written;  and  that  of 
the  earlier  times  did  not  receive  the  attention  that  it  merited.  Both  the 
Castilian  Court  under  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  and  the  Portuguese  Court 
under  John  the  Great  were  filled  with  the  noteworthy  men  of  the  da)". 
warriors,  statesmen,  discoverers,  inventors;  and,  so  far  as  it  existed,  the 
literary  movement  was  also  patronized  by  these  sovereigns;  but,  in  Portugal 
certainly,  it  was  not  until  the  succeeding  reign  of  Dom  Emmanuel  that  it 
consisted  of  anything  except  such  fugitive  ballad  literature  as  already  existed 
and  historical  chronicles.  But,  as  Prince  Henry  the  Navigator  had  prepared 
the  way  for  the  illustrious  discoveries  of  the  reign  of  Dom  John  II,  so,  ^ 


ISABEL  MOORE  353 

n,  did  Dom  John  II  prepare  the  way  for  the  literary  glories  of  the  reign 
Emmanuel.  The  story  of  nations  shows  that  a  Golden  Age  of  literature 
pt  to  follow  very  closely  a  Golden  Age  of  national  glory  and  accomplish- 
nt;  and  the  growth  of  Portuguese  greatness  as  a  whole  was  an  unbroken 
scendo  of  achievement.  Emmanuel  himself  (1495-1521)  did  little  to 
ourage  the  literary  activity  of  his  country;  but  the  inevitable  outburst 
ne  to  its  fulfillment  during  his  time.  Rather  curiously,  perhaps,  its  two 
srunners  were  also  echoes  of  the  age  just  passed. 

Christoval  Falcao  is  the  earlier,  and  most  of  his  poems  belong  to  the 
5s  of  the  Castilian  villancicos  and  consist  chiefly  of  Cantigas  or  glossed 
ttoes  called  Esparcas.  Like  most  poets  —  and,  indeed,  some  ordinary 
rtals  —  he  had  his  vital  love  affair;  becoming  enamored  of  the  young 
I  beautiful  Maria  Brandam,  daughter  of  Diogo  Brandam,  the  Royal 
usurer,  and  likewise  a  graceful  and  pathetic  poet.  The  lovers  were 
arated  by  her  family,  and  the  lady  placed  in  a  Convent  from  which  she 

E>ed  with  Falcao  and  reached  in  safety  the  town  of  Elvas,  not  far  from 
cao's  native  Pontalegre,  where  they  were  privately  married.  He  thus 
rurred  not  only  the  enmity  of  her  faimly,  but  of  the  Church,  for  eloping 
'h  the  inmate  of  a  Convent;  and  for  five  years  was  imprisoned  upon  false 
irges.  During  this  imprisonment,  he  wrote  various  Cantigas  and  also, 
his  Maria,  a  poetic  epistle  superscribed:  'A  Letter  of  Chrisfal,  which, 
lile  a  prisoner,  he  addressed  to  a  Lady  whom  he  had  privately  married, 
itrary  to  the  will  of  her  relatives.'  His  longest,  principal,  and  probably 
it,  composition  was,  however,  an  eclogue  of  ninety  stanzas  interspersed 
th  cantigas.  It  is  entitled  *Los  Amores  de  Chrisfal'  and  is  a  history  of 
^  love  passages  between  himself  and  his  beloved,  whom  he  celebrated  by 
r  own  name.  A  pretty  touch  is  at  the  end,  when  a  nymph,  who  has  heard 
^  complaints  of  Chrisfal,  inscribes  them  on  a  poplar  tree,  in  order  that 
ly  may  grow  with  the  tree  to  a  height  beyond  the  reach  of  vulgar  ideas. 
£.  M.  gives  this  translation: 

'The  Shepherd  sang  his  sad  farewell. 

A  wood-nymph,  listening  to  his  vow. 
Caught  up  the  fond  words  as  ihey  fell 

And  carved  them  on  a  poplar  bough. 
It  was  a  young  and  growing  tree; 

And  there  she  wrote  the  words  of  love 
That  rising  with  it,  they  might  be 
Placed  high  this  sordid  earth  above:  — 
Where  no  low  thought  could  e'er  attain 
To  desecrate  the  poet's  strain  I' 


354  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

Notices  of  Falcao  are  few  and  his  works  rare.  His  simplidtv  has  be 
likened  to  that  of  a  Grecian  statue,  'equally  unclad,  but  equally  chaste  a 
pure. '  One  of  his  little  versifications  is  an  odd  specimen  of  antithesis  ai 
repetition : 

*Then  let  the  end  begin  its  ending; 

Since  end,  beginning  works  within:  — 
I  know  not  how  my  fate  is  tending, 
Whether  to  end  or  to  begin!' 
A  greater  than  Falcao  was  Bernardim  Ribeyro.  Indeed,  he  is  the  ma 
celebrated  of  the  Portuguese  poets  of  the  fifteenth  century;  and  his  Eclogue 
preceding  those  of  Juan  del  Enzina  of  Castile,  who  lived  about  the  san 
time  —  have  the  original  touch  of  representing  pastoral  life  as  the  pod 
model  of  human  life,  and  as  the  ideal  point  from  which  every  passion  an 
sentiment  ought  to  be  viewed.  He  is  said  to  have  been  in  love  with  tb 
Infanta  Dona  Beatrice;  and,  under  cover  of  little  pastoral  pictures,  reveal 
certain  events  and  romantic  situations  of  the  Lisbon  Court.  Not  only  wai 
Ribeyro  a  married  man  at  the  time,  but  the  King's  daughter  could  nevt 
become  anything  to  him  except  his  ideal,  the  inspiration  of  his  verse;  sh 
seems,  however,  to  have  served  this  purpose  satisfactorily  to  one  of  th 
most  temperamental  of  poets.  Several  of  Ribeyro's  poems  were  the  direc 
result  of  his  hopeless  passion;  the  most  beautiful  being  that  beginning: 

*My  sorrows  led  me  forth  one  day,' 
and,  possibly  this  was  the  day  when  he  witnessed  the  departure  of  the  Infano 
to  be  married  to  the  Duke  of  Savoy;*  an  occasion  that  the  historian  Resende 
calls  *a  very  lustrous  affair.' 

But,  aside  from  the  merit  of  Ribeyro's  Eclogues,  and  the  interest 
attached  to  them  as  being  the  oldest  examples  of  the  eclogue  in  either 
Spanish  or  Portuguese  verse,  the  graceful  little  prose  fragment  left  by  him 
unfinished  and  published  about  1500,  is  even  more  worthy  of  preservatioo 
and  recognition.  It  is  entitled  *Menina  e  Mouca,'  **  small  and  young, 
or  —  not  quite  so  literally  in  form  but  more  literally  in  meaning  —  'A Young 
and  Innocent  Maid.'  It  is  a  specimen  of  romantic  prose  that  is  both 
pastoral  and  chivalric,  and  that  can  be  most  favorably  compared  with  the 
*Rosylinde'  of  Thomas  Lodge,  which  served  Shakespeare  in  his  creation 
of  *As  You  Like  It.'  There  is  what  is  called  the  new  edition  of  *Meninae 
Mouca,'  published  by  a  descendant  of  the  poet,  in  Lisbon,  1785.  But  the 
old  edition  of  1559  is  by  far  the  more  interesting  and  valuable  because  the 
Appendix  includes  the  Eclogue  and  Falcao's  *  Chrisfal,'  as  well  as  a  colleaion 
of  poems  by  other  early  Portuguese  authors.  For  both  Falcao  and  Ribeyio 
had  their  followers  and  imitators.     And  this  early  group  devoted  itselftc 


ISABEL  MOORE  355 

lyric  expression  of  its  nativity,  only  very  slightly  touched  by  the  passion 
Latin  versification  that  prevailed  in  the  Spanish  Peninsular  as  well  as 
taly  toward  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century.     They  were  free  from 

desire  to  model  their  verse  after  antique  classic  forms;  and,  though 
'  occasionally  wrote  Latin  verse,  the  vernacular  tongue  and  forms  not 
^  were  not  despised  nor  neglected,  but  were  actually  all-sufficient. 

Portugal  is  without  doubt  the  native  home  of  romantic  pastoral  poetry. 
Portugal  it  became  truly  national.  The  Portuguese  are  given  to  the 
ranee  of  their  emotions.  'They  are  a  gesticulating  people,  and  have 
art:  —  and  wear  it  on  their  sleeve,'  has  been  justly  said  of  them.     The 

that  leads  directly  on  from  national  characteristics  to  national  literature, 

been  aptly  noted  by  Bouterwek,  who  says :  '  They  pastoralize  their 
itions,  whether  of  joy  or  sorrow.' 

IV 

The  introduction  of  the  Italian  influence  upon  Ponuguese  literature 
unaccompanied  by  any  remarkable  struggle  or  sensation:  but  it  is  of 
importance  because  of  its  influence  on  those  poets  who  formed  what 
lUea  the  Classic  School  of  Portuguese  literature,  two  of  whom,  and  the 
icipal  two,  gave  certain  personal  touches  of  style  to  Castilian  literature 
eturn  for  the  Italian  influence  which  doubtless  reached  Portugal  through 
tilian  sources.  Indeed,  to  George  Montemayor  (1520-1561)  is  attributed 
introduction  into  Spain  of  the  prose  pastoral:  and  both  Montemayor 
Sa  de  Miranda  belong  to  Castilian  literature  almost  as  much  as  they 
to  Ponuguese.  At  this  time  the  Castilian  was  held  in  such  literary 
em  in  Portugal  that  many  Portuguese  poets,  without  undervaluing  their 
her-tongue,  frequently  wrote  in  the  Castilian,  so  as  to  be  regarded  as 
ters  of  the  poetic  art.  One  sonnet  of  Montemayor's  can  be  read  as 
er  Spanish  or  Portuguese,  so  versatile  did  he  become  in  writing  the  two 
^ages  at  once.  Yet,  though  six  out  of  his  eight  Eclogues  are  in  the 
dlian,  his  pastorals  are  not  all  in  the  manner  of  Boscan  and  Garcilasse, 
sometimes  favor  the  ancient  short  meter  and  have  great  simplicity  .of 

George  Montemayor  was  born  near  Coimbra  and  became  a  common 
ier  with  a  gift  of  music  and  having  a  fine  voice  as  well  as  being  a  poet, 
rfida,  a  Castilian  lady  for  whom  he  seems  really  to  have  cared,  was  also 
divinity  of  his  verse:  but,  after  the  manner  of  such  divinities,  she 
ried  somebody  else,  and  thus  —  as  in  the  case  of  Ribeyro  —  his  theme 
e  readily  to  hand.     'Dis  "Diana"  ("Diana  Enamorada"),'says  Boater- 


356  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

wek»  *  is  the  soul  of  himself.  He  succeeds  in  conveying  the  joys  and  sor 
of  his  own  heart  in  forms  of  general  interest/  In  this  unfinished  pas 
there  is  a  series  of  lyric  poems,  partly  in  the  Italian  and  partly  in  the  Cast 
style,  of  one  of  which  Sismondi  gives  the  following  translation : 

*  Never  beloved,  but  still  to  love  a  slave, 

Still  shall  I  love,  though  hopeless  is  my  suit; 

I  suffer  torments,  which  I  never  gave. 

And  my  unheeded  sighs  no  ear  salute: 

Complaint  is  sweet  though  we  no  favor  know, 

I  reaped  but  shame  in  shimmering  love's  pursuit: 

Forgetfulness  alone  I  suffer  not  — 

Alas!  unthought  of,  can  we  be  forgot?' 
His  Diana  really  lived :  a  rich  and  beautiful  woman  of  Valencia, 
is  spoken  of  by  Lope  de  Vega  in  his  *  Dorotea/ 

Sa  de  Miranda  (1494-1558)  wrote  so  much  in  the  Castilian  and 
so  marked  an  influence  on  the  Castilian  School  that  he  is  often  consic 
as  a  Castilian  poet:  but,  in  reality,  with  the  exception  of  the  pastoral  pc 
the  greater  part  of  his  verse  is  in  the  Portuguese  language.  He  wrote 
Eclogues  in  Castilian  and  only  two  in  Portuguese:  of  the  first  of  whic 
tells  us  that  it  is  'A  Pastoral  Dialogue  in  tercets  concerning  love  am 
difference,  happiness  and  unhappiness.'  He  wrote  sonnets  in  both  Casi 
and  Portuguese;  the  best  of  which  in  the  latter  language  are  consic 
to  be  those  to  Diogo  Bernades  and  to  Dom  Manuel  of  Portugal.  He  ^ 
a  beautiful  Elegy  on  the  death  of  his  son.  Under  the  general  headii 
'Poesias  Varias'  he  produced  innumerable  sonnets,  elegies,  redondi 
cantigasy  sextinasj  esparsasy  that  are  all  exceedingly  simple  and  grac 
and  two  comedies,  'Os  Estrangeiros'  and  *Os  Vilhalpandos  first  pri 
in  Lisbon  (1595)  by  Manoel  de  Lyra.  His  popular  songs  are  in  the 
ancient  forms  of  Portuguese  versification.  They  repeat  the  idea  o 
motto,  differently  turned  and  applied,  but  with  its  text  not  literally  i 
woven  with  the  variations:  and  this  is  precisely  the  difference  that 
tinguishes  the  older  Portuguese  cantigas  from  the  Spanish  villam 
Sa  de  Miranda  spent  most  of  his  life  on  his  estate  of  Tapada  near  Pon 
Lima.  He  was  particularly  fond  of  country  life  and,  best  of  all,  coi 
life  in  his  own  country.  Its  romantic  pastoral  world  was  the  native  on 
his  muse,  and,  whether  he  used  the  Castilian  language  of  the  Portug 
the  scenes  of  his  pastorals  were  always  laid  in  Portugal.  He  wrote 
so  little  regard  for  the  accepted  rules  of  versification  and  with  so  indivi 
a  style  as  to  be  the  despair  of  critics.  He  tried  all  forms  as  well  as 
regarded  all  forms.     Sometimes  his  pastorals  are  hke  the  Italian  can: 


ISABEL  MOORE  357 

td  sometimes  like  the  Latin  ode.  His  style  has  been  ridiculed  as  '  the 
sso-Hispano-Italiano  blending.'  Aside  from  the  eminence  attained  by 
is  Classic  School  in  itself»  however,  the  influence  of  the  Italian  upon  Portu- 
icse  versification  can  never  be  deplored  even  by  the  most  patriotic^  for 
bat  the  Italian  enabled  Montemayor  and  Miranda  and  the  others  of  the 
oup  to  do,  was  to  perfect  and  refine  the  possibilities  of  the  old  Portuguese 
^le  into  more  beautiful  and  completed  forms. 

It  is  sometimes  said  that  with  Sa  de  Miranda  the  literary  history  of 
le  Portuguese  drama  commenced.  Certainly,  in  spite  of  the  emotional 
ndencies  of  the  Portuguese,  no  special  efFon  at  dramatic  writing  is  to  be 
Hind  in  Portugal,  as  there  is  not  in  Spain,  until  the  latter  half  of  the  fifteenth 
entury:  and  Juan  de  la  Enzina  must  be  regarded  as  the  founder  of  the 
Wuguese  as  well  as  of  the  Castilian  drama.  But  Gil  Vicente  is  really  the 
Portuguese  author  most  closely  concerned  with  the  establishment  of  the 
ttional  theater.  He  was  bom,  probably,  twenty  years  before  the  close  of 
le  fifteenth  century,  during  the  reign  of  Emmanuel;  but  Emmanuel's  son 
lid  successor,  Dom  John  III,  was  the  acknowledged  patron  of  Gil  Vicente 
id  he  was  a  contemporary  of  Torres  Naharro  in  Spain,  who  did  practically 
«  same  for  the  Spanish  drama  as  Vicente  did  for  the  Ponuguese.  Like 
[omemayor  and  Miranda,  he  is  to  be  numbered  among  the  Spanish  writers 

well  as  among  those  of  his  native  land  for,  of  all  his  plays,  ten  are  in  the 
istilian  language  and  fifteen  partly  so,  while  seventeen  are  entirely  Portu- 
icse.  In  the  judgment  of  Bouterwek,  the  farces  of  Gil  Vicente  are  the 
St  of  his  productions;  and  he  certainly  is  the  representative  of  the  Portu- 
lese  classic  humor. 

The  reign  of  John  III  saw  the  full  flower  of  the  Classic  School.     Dr. 
ifonio  Ferreira   (1528- 1564),  another  of  the  group,  began  his  literary 
bits  by  avowing  a  great  loyalty  to    his  mother-tongue.     He  even  once 
dared  that  he  would  write  in  no  other  language.     But  he  was  hardly  as 
Clonal  as  he  intended  to  be.     The  influence  of  the  Italian  was  irradicable; 
df  although  he  did  much  to  maintain  the  independent  spirit  of  his  coun- 
t's literature,  his  predilection  for  classic  forms  was  too  strong  for  him  to 
thstand.     His  genius  had  dignity,  but  neither  sublimity  nor  great  origi- 
lity.     His  taste  was  sound,  but  his  fancy  circumscribed.     There  was 
dnee  of  pedantry,  a  sort  of  Latinized  air,  in  his  writings,  which  prevented 
1  being  a  popular  poet  or,  indeed,  what  is  much  more  vital,  a  great  poet  ! ' 

his  113  sonnets,  the  best  are  those  addressed  to   'The   Lady  of  His 
loughts';  particularly  the  one  beginning: 

'Who  hath  seen  burning  snow,  or  fire,  Hke  mine? 

Cold  while  it  flames!  what  living  man  e'er  stood 
Within  Death's  gate,  singing  in  joyous  mood?' 


358  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

His  odeSy  not  being  lyric  or  truly  dramatic,  are  not  so  fine  as  his  s< 
yet  he  set  an  example  to  writers  of  odes  in  his  own  language  in  mu 
same  way  as  did  his  Spanish  contemporary,  Luis  de  Leon,  to  his  co 
men.  The  elegies  of  Ferreira  are  considered  to  be  very  beautiful 
up  to  the  time  of  their  appearance,  were  a  new  form  in  Portugues< 
position,  with  the  exception  of  one  by  Sa  de  Miranda.  That  on  I 
as  follows: 

Vem  Mayo  de  mil  hervas,  de  mil  flores 

As  frontes  coroado,  e  riso,  e  canto. 

Com  Venus,  com  Cupido,  cos  Amores. 
Venca  o  prazer  a  dor,  o  riso  ao  pranto 

Vase  longe  daqui  cuidado  duro, 

Em  quanto  o  ledo  mez  de  Venus  canto. 
Eis  mais  alva  a  menham,  mais  claro,  e  puro 

Do  Sol  o  rayo:  eis  correm  mais  fermosas 

Nuvens  afugentando  o  ar  grosso  e  escuro. 
Sae  a  branda  Uiana  entre  as  lumiosas 

Estrellas  tal,  qual  ja  ao  pastor  fermoso 

Veo  pagar  mil  horas  saudosas. 
Mar  brando,  sereno  ar,  campo  cheiroso, 

Foge  a  Tristeza,  o  Prazer  folto  voa, 

O  dia  mais  dourado,  e  vagaroso. 
Tecendo  as  Gracas  vao  nova  coroa 

De  Mythro  a  May,  ao  filho  mil  Spiritos. 

O  fogo  resplandece,  a  al  jaba  soa. 
Mil  versos,  e  mil  vozes,  e  mil  gritos 

Todas  de  doo  amor,  e  de  brandura 

Huns  s'ouvem,  huns  nos  troucos  Ream  escritos. 
Ali  soberba  vem  a  Fermosura, 

Apos  ella  a  AiFeicao  cega,  e  cativa, 

Quanto  huma  mais  chorosa,  outra  mais  dura. 
Ah  manda  Amor  assi;  assi  quer  ue  viva 

Contente  a  triste,  do  que  sen  Deos  manda, 

De  seja  inda  mais  dor,  pena  mais  viva. 
Mas  quanto  o  mo^o  encruece,  a  may  abranda, 

Ella  a  peconha,  e  o  fogo  Ihe  tempera: 

Assi  senhora  de  mil  almas  anda. 
Ali  o  Engano  em  seu  mal  cego  espera 

Hum'  hora  doce;  ali  o  Encolhimento 

Sem  causa  de  si  mesmo  desespera. 
Aos  olhos  vem  atado  a  Pensamento. 


ISABEL  MOORE  359 

Nao  voa  a  mail  quali  tern  presente, 
E  em  tanto  mal,  tudo  he  contentamento. 
E  risoy  em  festa  corre  a  leda  gente, 
Tras  o  fermoso  fogo  em  que  sem  pr'arde, 
Cada  hum,  quanto  mais  arde,  mais  contente. 
Manda  Venus  ao  Sol  menham  e  tarde. 
Que  sens  crespos  cabellos  loure,  e  estenda, 
Qu'em  vir  s'  apresse,  qu'  em  se  tornar  tarde. 
Ao  brando  Norte,  que  assopre,  e  defenda 
Do  ardor  da  sesta  a  branda  companhia, 
Em  quanto  alcam  de  myrtho  fresca  tenda, 
Corre  por  toda  parte  clara,  e  tria 

Agoa ;  cae  doce  sombra  do  alto  Louro, 
Canta  toda  ave  canto  d'alegria; 
Ella  a  neve  descobre,  e  solta  o  ouro; 

Banham-na  as  Gracas  na  mais  clara  fonte; 
Aparece  d*  Amor  rico  thesouro, 
Caem  mil  flores  da  dourada  fronte, 
Arde  d'Amor  o  bosque,  arda  a  altra  serra, 
Aos  olhos  reverdence  o  campo,  e  o  monte. 
Despende  Amor  sens  tiros,  nenhum  erra. 
Mil  de  baixo  metal,  algum  do  fino. 
Pica  de  saus  despojos  chea  a  terra. 
Vencida  d'huma  molher,  e  d'hum  minino. 
But  the  real  fame  of  Dr.  Antonio  Ferreira  rests  on  his  tragedy  of 
stro,'  for  which  he  had  no  other  model  than  the  ancients  and,  possibly 
sino's  'Sophonisba,'  the  first  tragedy  of  modem  times.     It  is  difficult  in 
,  but  written  in  very  beautiful  language,  with  what  may  be  called  a 
ek  Chorus  of  Coimbrian  women :  and,  to  fully  appreciate  the  importance 
be  epoch  marked  by  its  appearance,  we  must  remember  that  at  this 
:  neither  France  nor  England  knew  anything  of  the  drama  beyond  the 
teries  and  moralities. 

Yet  others  of  the  Classic  School  of  Miranda  were  Diogo  Bernardes, 
Poet  of  Lima'  and  his  brother  Agostinho  Bernardes  who  finally  became 
»rmit  of  the  Arrabida.  Southey  considered  Diogo  Bernardes  one  of 
>est  of  the  Portuguese  Poets.  His  life  was  a  romance.  He  was  a  native 
onte  de  Lima  and  particularly  loved  the  scenery  of  the  river  Lima, 
most  characteristic  work  being,  perhaps,  the  poem  *0  Lyma,'  first 
ished  in  1596. 

*Lone  by  soft  murmuring  Lyma  oft  I  stray,' 

he  sings. 


36o  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

He  went  to  Lisbon,  and  there, 

'Where  the  Tagus  loses  tide  and  name 
And  freshness,  Love  robbed  me  of  my  life's  best  days'; 
he  says  in  an  epistle  to  his  intimate,  Ferreira.     From  his  captivity 
Moors  in  Africa,  he  writes : 

Still  lovely  to  my  troubled  thoughts  shall  seem 

My  own  regretted  Lyma,  dear  for  ever; 
E'en  if  Oblivion's  spell  be  in  its  stream. 

It  hath  no  power  on  me,  forgetting  never. 
Its  soft  low  murmur  could  not  lull  to  rest. 
Remembrance,  ever  wakeful,  in  my  breast!' 
The  river  Lima  is  the  Lethe  of  the  ancient  world,  and  there  is  an  in 
ing  legend  of  it  about  Decimus  Brutas  and  his  superstitious  soldiery. 
In  later  years  Bernardes  wrote  a  good  deal  of  devotional  verse, 
addressed  to  the  Virgin  partakes  curiously  of  the  love  song  element 
becomes  for  the  time  most  romantically  spiritual;  and  the  Virgin 
'Lady'  in  all  human  attributes  as  well  as  being  his  divinity.    One 
songs  not  addressed  to  the  Virgin,  but  to  his  Soul,  is  written  in  t 
national  Ponuguese  Endechasj  a  kind  of  plaintive  verse: 

'Soul,  why  self-deceiving. 

Self-forgetting  be  ? 
To  mortal  life  thus  giving 
Triumphs  over  thee. 

Life  maltreats,  betrays  thee. 

Yet  thou  lov'st  it  —  why 
E'en  for  that  which  slays  thee 

Dost  thou  gladly  die  ? 

All  that  Life,  requiring. 

Seeks,  or  can  obtain. 
Given  to  its  desiring 

Were  but  brief  and  vain. 

Whence  proceeds  the  erring 

And  perverted  will; 
To  certain  good  preferring 

But  too  certain  ill  ? 

Joys,  like  flowers  late  blooming 
(Born  of  quick  decay) 


ISABEL  MOORE  361 

Pinions  like  assuming. 
Pass  like  winds  away/ 
For  a  long  time  Diogo  Bernardes  was  under  a  cloud  among  literary 
>ple  on  account  of  having  been  accused  of  plagerism  from  Camoens. 
lere  seems,  however,  to  be  no  particular  foundation  for  this,  and  late 
dents  have  exonerated  him.  What  we  do  know  with  cenainty  —  and 
lat  may  have  given  rise  to  the  accusation  —  is,  that,  when  Camoens' 
;t  poems  appeared,  Bernardes  was  the  only  one  of  the  classicists  who 
blicly  avowed  his  high  appreciation  of  them. 

Jeronymo  Cortreal  and  Pedro  Andrade  Caminha  were  two  others  of 
i  Classic  School,  though  little  more  than  imitators  of  Ferreira.  Francisco 
inuel  do  Nascimento  was  another,  who  developed  much  more  individuality 
style.  And  one  interesting  human  thing  to  note  about  this  group  of 
rtuguese  writers  is  that  there  remains  now  no  record  to  show  that  there 
a  existed  among  them  any  literary  jealousy.  They  seem  to  have  been 
friends  and  co-workers.  The  last  of  the  distinctive  classicists  was 
Klriguez  Lobo,  born  in  Leiria  about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
great  a  scholar  was  he  and  so  lasting  an  influence  had  he  on  romantic  prose 
It  he  has  been  ranked  next  to  Camoens  and  Miranda.  Little  is  known 
him  personally  except  that  he  lived  in  retirement  in  Santarem  and  met 
\  death  by  drowning  in  the  Tagus  which  he  loved  and  so  often  had  cele- 
sited  in  verse.  He  wrote  ten  eclogues  in  Ponuguese  and  about  a  hundred 
mances  in  Spanish  and  founded  that  excessive  accumulation  of  pastoral 
etry  existing  in  Portugal,  doing  all  in  his  power  to  fix  the  national  taste 
that  direction.  His  *  Court  in  the  Country '  was  the  first  book  of  classic 
ose  to  be  produced  in  Ponugal;  and  he  also  wrote  three  connected 
istoral  romances  that  are  pronounced  by  Bouterwek  to  be  *the  most 
xuriant  blossoms  of  this  old  branch  of  Portuguese  poetry.'  They  are  very 
Qg;  set  in  a  framework  of  prose;  and  entitled  ^Primavera'  ('Spring') 
)  Pastor  Peregrine'  ("The  Wandering  Shepherd'),  and  'O  Desengando' 
The  Disenchanted').  They  contain  several  beautiful  lyrics :  the  following 
sng  from  'Prima vera'  (translated  by  M.  E.  M.). 

'Now  the  wished-for  sun  is  bringing 

Life  to  day,  and  tints  to  earth; 
Leads  the  shepherd,  gaily  singing, 

To  his  flocks  that  wait  him,  forth. 
Now  chill  night  succeeds,  and  chases 

Golden  luster  from  the  skies; 
Bright-eyed  dawn  the  night  replaces 
while  its  radiance  glads  our  eyes. 


362  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

Learn  we  thus  (and  not  in  vain) 
Suns  but  set  to  rise  again. 

One  day  flies  —  the  rest  that  follow 
Reach  us,  but  are  mocking  fleet; 

Laughing  at  my  hopes  so  hollow. 
And  my  visions  false,  yet  sweet. 

Still,  however,  my  fate  may  thwart  me 
Unconvinced,  unchanged,  I  live; 

From  those  dreams  I  cannot  part  me 
That  such  dear  delusions  give; 

Hoping  yet  in  countless  years 
One  bright  day  unstained  with  tears/ 
There  are  other  poets  of  this  period  who  do  not  belong  to  the  Classic  School 
notably,  Jorge  Ferreira  de  Vasconcellos,  Rodriguez  de  Castro,  GabfU 
Pereira  de  Castro,  and  Lobe  de  Soropito.  Vasconcellos  wrote  sefol 
comedies  and  a  romance  of  the  Round  Table,  Rodriguez  de  Castro  fiid 
in  Italy  a  good  deal  and  wrote  sonnets,  odes  and  eclogues;  Gabrid  it 
Castro  wrote  the  heroic  poem  *  Ulissea ' ;  and  Soropito's  chief  claim  to  dis- 
tinction is  that  he  published  the  miscellaneous  poems  of  Camoens. 

Such  epics  as  'Ulissea'  and  the  'Malacca  Conquestada'  of  FrancoGO 
de  Sa  de  Menzes  gave  rise,  to  a  cenain  extent,  to  the  authentic  histom 
which  came  into  evidence  about  this  time.  The  'Asia'  of  John  de  Ban« 
was  the  first  great  work  containing  genuine  information  relating  to  the 
Portuguese  possessions  in  Asia.  Lopez  de  Castenheda  and  Antonio 
Bocarro  gave  histories  of  the  Portuguese  conquests  of  India.  Alfonso 
Albuquerque  wrote  his  Commentaries:  Damio  de  Goez  compiled  his 
account  of  the  reign  of  Dom  Emanuel:  Bernardo  de  Brito  wrote  his  *Moii- 
archia  Lusitana':  Jerome  Osorio  wrote  his  history:  and  last  but  by  no 
means  least,  Manuel  de  Faria  e  Sousa  wrote  his  'Europa  Portuguesau' 
Although  he  was  the  author  of 'Divinas  y  Humanas  Elores,'  he  was  a  finer 
historian  than  poet;  and  also  produced  a  valued  commentary  on  the 
miscellaneous  poems  of  Camoens.  With  him  pastoral  poetry  went  into  its 
grotesque  state,  as  will  be  seen  was  inevitable  from  his  remark  to  the  eflFect 
that  'the  only  (observe  the  only)  things  required  in  poetry  are  invention, 
imagery,  pathos,  and  a  display  of  every  kind  of  knowledge.'  It  is  interesting 
to  compare  this  wich  the  opinion  of  the  Marquis  of  Santillana  who,  in  his 
remarkable  and  well-known  letter,  speaks  of  poetry  as  'an  invention  of  useful 
things  which,  being  enveloped  in  a  beautiful  veil,  are  arranged,  exposed 
and  concealed,  according  to  a  certain  calculation,  measurement  and  weight' 
To  such  straits  had  poetry  come!     Although  the  influence  of  the  Qassic 


ISABEL  MOORE  363 

School  lingered  long  in  Portuguese  literature,  it  became  extinct  about  the 
dose  of  the  sixteenth  centuiy,  and  all  Portuguese  literature  was  about  to 
be  stricken  temporarily  dumb. 

The  wave  of  national  prosperity,  material  and  intellectual,  was  receding. 

Several  events  had  transpired  that  were  lost  sight  of  at  the  immediate  time, 

but  that  had  a  most  disastrous  effect  on  the  national  life.    In  1540  the  Jesuits 

had  been  introduced.    During  the  reign  of  John  III  the  Inquisition  had 

been  established,  with  the  Holy  Office  in  Lisbon.    The  Jews  were  finally 

enpelled  from  the  Peninsular.    The  growth  of  the  absolute  monarchial 

pnndple;  the  evils  of  the  slave  trade;  and  the  depopulation  due  to  the 

emigrations  to  the  newly  established  colonies;  had  all  sapped  the  vigor  of 

the  kingdom.    Then  came  the  misplaced  ambition  of  Dom  Sebastian  to 

geonquer  Africa  and  his  complete  defeat  in  1578:  with  the  enuiled  Spanish 

■Dftptivinr  (1580-1640).     It  had  long  been  a  veriuble  'castle  in  Spain' 

Ifpiui  Philip  II  to  subjugate  Portugal  and,  Sebastian's  death  havine  left  the 

^Sbrtuguese  throne  open  to  various  pretenders,  he  now  availed  himself  of 

his  neighbor  to  accomplish  his  desires. 

A  few  there  were  who  foresaw  the  utter  downfall  of  Portuguese  greatness 
and  independence;  who  could  stand  aside  and  objectively  view  the  unhappy 
trend  of  comine  events.  Camoens  was  one  of  diese;  and,  just  before  the 
g^p  of  Spain  killed  the  material  prosperity  and  lyric  life  of  the  Portuguese 
people,  he  lifted  up  his  voice  —  like  the  fabled  song  of  the  expiring  swan  — 
and  gave  to  all  the  world  his  great  poem  *  Os  Lusiads.' 


Camoens  can  no  more  be  dealt  with  in  short  space  than  can  Shakespeare. 
He  is  the  climactic  arrival;  the  whole  that  conuins  the  lesser  parts;  the 
hat  of  the  adventurous  spirits;  the  master  of  Ponuguese  literature. 

Briefly,  Luiz  de  Camoens  came  of  a  good  Galician  family  and  was 
bom  in  Lisbon,  in  the  'Mouraria'  or  Moorish  pan  of  the  city,  in  1524* 
Hit  university  days  were  spent  in  Cbimbra,  where  an  uncle  of  his  was  the 
principal  Chancellor  of  the  University.  They  were  probably  the  happiest 
jfean  of  his  life.  Then  came  his  love  aflFair.  On  a  Good  Friday,  in  the 
Church  of  Christ's  Wounds  in  Lisbon,  on  April  nth,  1542,  he  first  beheld 
IXma  Caterina  de  Ataide,  one  of  the  Queen's  ladies-in*waiting.  Laws 
at  that  time  were  *  very  severe  upon  anyone  who  encouraged  amours  within 
the  palace'  and  because  of  some  misdemeanor  in  connection  with  his  love 
aflFair,  Camoens  was  banished  from  Court.  This  formed  a  pretext  for  the 
family  of  the  lady  to  terminate  all  intercourse  between  them;  but,  in  the 
hour  of  parting,  Caterina  confessed  her  love.     It  was  natural  that  in  his 


364  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

banishment  he  should  seek  the  country  of  the  'Ribatejo'  or  banks  of  tk 
Tagus  above  Lisbon,  for  his  mother  Dona  Anna  de  Sae  Macedo»  was  of  tk 
noble  family  of  the  Macedos  of  Santaren.  From  his  redrement  he  soug^ 
and  obtained  permission  to  accompany  King  John  III  against  the  Aftian 
Moors,  in  which  expedition  Camoens  lost  his  right  eye  from  splintets  (nm 
the  deck  of  the  ship  on  which  he  was  stationed.  His  conduct  was  so  hnn, 
that  he  was  at  last  recalled  to  G>un:  —  only  to  learn  of  the  death  —  at  dx 
age  of  twenty  —  of  his  Caterina.  After  this  he  became  a  voluntary  wanderer 
and  exile.  The  so-called  cave  in  which  Camoens  is  said  to  have  writta 
his  great  poem  of  the  Lusiads  is  still  shown  in  Macao,  in  Portuguese  India, 
in  a  garden  just  above  the  church  of  St.  Antonio.  From  it  there  is  a  view 
of  the  sea  and  the  dim  outlines  of  fair  islands.  To  the  south  and  west  lies 
the  Inner  Harbor;  to  the  nonh  the  Barrier  and  small  walled  town.  In 
1569  Camoens  returned  to  his  native  land,  to  find  the  Plague  raging  in  Lb- 
bon.  He  survived  his  return  eight  years,  Miving  in  the  knowedge  of  mainr 
and  the  society  of  few'  and  dying  at  the  age  of  fifty-five.  Of  his  countiyi 
sad  estate  he  had  so  clear  a  vision  that  he  wrote  to  his  friend.  Dr.  Francesco 
de  Almeida,  a  few  days  before  his  death :  '  You  will  all  see  that  I  so  loved 
my  mother  country,  that  I  came  back,  not  only  to  die  in  it,  but  with  it' 
And  only  one  year  after  his  death,  Philip  II  of  Spain  was  proclaimed  King 
of  Portugal.  It  is  recorded  that  on  his  entrance  into  Lisbon,  Philip  asked 
for  Camoens  and  was  grieved  at  hearing  of  his  death. 

The  last  days  of  Camoens,  like  those  of  many  another  gifted  man, 
were  spent  in  neglect  and  poverty.  Antonio,  his  Javanese  servant,  remained 
with  him  to  the  end,  actually  begging  in  the  streets  for  bread:  and  the 
winding  sheet  in  which  he  was  wrapped  was  obtained  in  alms  from  the 
house  of  D.  Francesco  de  Portugal.  On  his  gravestone  in  the  Francescan 
Convent  Church  of  Sta.  Anna  is  carved: 

'  Here  lies  Luiz  Camoens :  Prince  of  the  Poets  of  his  time. 
He  lived  poor  and  miserable,  and  so  he  died.' 
In  the  first  edition  of  the  Lusiads  there  was  a  note,  written  by  one  who 
was  present  at  his  death-bed.     The  book  was  left  by  this  person,  F.  Josepe 
Judio,  in  the  convent  of  the  bare-footed  Carmelites  at  Guadalaxara,  and 
is  now  in  Lord  Holland's  collection.     It  reads: 

'What  can  be  more  lamentable  a  thing  than  to  see  so  great  a  genius 
ill  rewarded!  I  saw  him  die  in  a  hospital  at  Lisbon,  without  a  winding 
sheet  to  cover  him,  after  having  triumphed  in  India  and  sailed  5500  leagues 
by  sea.  What  a  great  lesson  for  those  who  weary  themselves  day  and  night 
in  studying  without  profit,  as  a  spider  is  weaving  its  web  to  catch  flies.' 
As  a  rule,  the  Portuguese  do  not  seem  to  think  so  much  of  the  minor 


ISABEL  MOORE  365 

ems  of  Camoens.    They  are  apt  to  neglect  his  smaller  compositions  and 
undervalue  their  originality  of  sentiment  and  the  beauty  of  their  expres- 
>n.     But,  as  Viscount  Strangford  has  truly  pointed  out,  the  real  circum- 
mces  of  Camoens'  life  are  mostly  to  be  found  in  his  own  minor  com- 
sicions :  and  Roben  Southey  is  of  the  opinion  *  that  to  most  imaginations, 
imoens  will  never  appear  so  interesting  as  when  he  is  bewailing  his  first 
re.     It  is  in  these  moments  that  he  is  most  truly  a  poet/    Southey  has 
mself  translated  one  of  the  sonnets  of  this  emotion : 
*  Meet  spirit,  who  so  early  didst  depan. 
Thou  an  at  rest  in  Heaven:  I  linger  here 
And  feed  the  lonely  anguish  of  my  heart; 
Thinging  of  all  that  made  existence  dear. 
All  lost!    If  in  that  happy  world  above 
Remembrance  of  this  mortal  world  endure. 
Thou  wilt  not  then  forget  the  perfect  love 
Which  still  thou  seest  in  me, —  O  spirit  pure! 
And,  if  the  irremediable  grief. 
The  woe,  which  never  hopes  on  earth  relief, 
May  merit  aught  of  thee;  prefer  thy  prayer 
To  God,  who  took  thee  early  to  his  rest. 
That  it  may  please  him  soon  among  the  blest 
To  summon  me,  dear  maid,  to  meet  thee  there/ 
other  poem  on  the  death  of  D.  Caterina  is  as  follows  : 
'Those  charming  eyes,  within  whose  starry  sphere 
Love  whilom  sat  and  smiled  the  hours  away. 
Those  braids  of  light  that  shamed  the  beams  of  day. 
That  hand  benignant,  and  that  heart  sincere; 
Those  Virgin  cheeks,  which  did  so  late  appear 

Like  snow-banks,  scattered  with  the  blooms  of  May, 
Turned  to  a  little  cold  and  worthless  clay. 
Are  gone  —  forever  gone  —  and  perish  here: 
But  not  unbathed  by  Memory's  warmest  tear! 
Are  gone  —  forever  gone  —  and  perish  here : 
But  not  unbathed  by  Memory's  warmest  tear! 
Death!  thou  hast  torn,  in  one  unpitying  hour. 
That  fragrant  plant,  to  which,  while  scarce  a  flower. 
The  mellower  fruitage  of  its  prime  was  given; 
Love  saw  the  deed  —  and,  as  he  lingered  near. 
Sighed  o'er  the  ruin,  and  returned  to  heaven!' 


366  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

And  yet  a  third  has  an  unmistakably  direct  bearing  on  his  *  affair  of  the  heait' 
'Sweetly  was  heard  the  anthem's  choral  strain. 
And  myriads  bow'd  before  the  sainted  shrino 
In  solemn  reverence  to  their  Sire  divine. 
Who  gave  the  Lamb  for  guilty  mortals  slain; 
When,  in  the  midst  of  God's  eternal  fane. 
Ah,  little  weening  of  his  fell  design! 
Love  bore  the  heart  (which  since  hath  ne'er  been  mine) 
To  one  who  seemed  of  heaven's  elected  train : 
For  sanctity  of  place  or  time  were  vain, 

'Gainst  that  blind  archer's  soul-consuming  power. 
Which  scorns  and  soars  all  circumstance  above, 
O,  lady!  since  I've  worn  thy  gentle  chain 

How  oft  have  I  deplored  each  wasted  hour 
When  I  was  free:  —  and  had  not  learned  to  love!' 
Two  of  what  may  be  called  his  nature  sonnets  are  peculiarly  indicative  of 
Camoens'  temperamental  nature,  the  one  beginning: 
'Mondego,  thou,  whose  waters  cold  and  clear 
Gird  those  green  banks  where  fancy  fain  would  stay,' 
and  the  lyric  cry  that  has  been  translated  by  Richard  Gamett: 

'O,  for  a  solitude  so  absolute. 

Rapt  from  the  spite  of  Fate  so  far  away. 
That  foot  of  man  hath  never  entered,  nay. 
Untrodden  by  the  foot  of  every  brute: 
Some  wood  of  aspect  lowering  and  mute. 
Or  lonely  glen  not  anywhere  made  gay. 
With  plot  of  pleasant  green,  or  water's  play; 
Such  haunt,  in  fine,  as  doth  my  anguish  suit! 
Thus  is  the  entrail  of  the  mountain  locked. 
I,  sepulchred  in  life,  alive  in  death. 
Freely  might  breathe  my  plaint:  perceiving  there 
The  grief  whose  magnitude  nought  measureth 
Less  by  the  brilliance  of  the  bright  day  mocked. 
Soothed  by  the  dark  day  more  than  otherwise.' 
There  are  many  random  lines  throughout  his  writings  that  give  insight 
to  Camoens  the  man  as  well  as  to  Camoens  the  poet.     Observe,  as  examples: 

*In  lonely  cell  bereaved  of  liberty, 

Error's  meet  recompense,  long  time  I  spent: 
Then  o'er  the  world  disconsolate  I  went, 
Bearing  the  broken  chain  that  left  me  free.' 

Sonnet  5. 


ISABEL  MOORE  367 

*  But  my  disastrous  star  whom  now  I  read :  — 
Blindness  of  death,  and  doubtfulness  of  life, 
Have  made  me  tremble  when  I  see  a  joy/ 

Sonnet  5. 
'All  things  from  hand  to  hand  incessant  pass/ 

Sonnet  195. 
'And  wind  hath  taken  what  to  wind  was  given/ 

Sonnet  173. 
'Thought  built  me  castles  soaring  from  the  ground, 
That  ever,  when  the  cope-stone  should  be  laid. 
Crumbled  and  lay  upon  the  earth  as  dust/ 

Sonnet  177. 
'Ocean  I  roamed  and  isle  and  continent. 
Seeking  some  remedy  for  life  unsweet. 
But  he  whom  fortune  will  not  frankly  meet. 
Vainly  by  venture  woos  her  to  his  bent/ 

Sonnet  100. 
'Summoning  the  number  of  the  wasted  days; 
They  pass  like  shadows  on  the  silent  ways, 

Nor  fruit  of  them  doth  their  slow  march  reveal. 
Save  this  —  they  are  no  more!* 

Sonnet  355  (Composed  in  prison). 
'  But  the  free  soul,  how  far  soe'er  it  range. 
Thought-winged,  flies  lightly  over  land  and  sea. 
And  in  your  current  doth  her  plumage  lave/ 

Sonnet  133. 
'Yet  am  I  storing  up  in  sunny  hour 
Sweet  thought  of  thee  against  the  cloudy  day/ 

Sonnet  136  (On  revisiting  Cintra, 
after  the  death  of  Caterina). 
'Confessing  with  a  silent  tear 
That  heaven  and  hell  are  wondrous  near!' 

Canzonet. 
'It  was  a  little  smile  that  stole 
The  cherished  sweets  of  rest/ 

Canzonet. 

ens  wrote  many  of  his  minor  poems  in  Spanish,  and  some  in  a  blend 

two  languages  when  he  walks  —  as  he  expresses  it  — '  with  one  foot 

rtugal  and  the  other  in  Spain/     The  sonnets  have  been  translated 

ny  diflPerent  scholars  and  poets.     His  lyrics  fall  into  two  main  cb*  ses, 


368  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

according  to  Burton,  those  written  in  Italian  meters  and  those  in  the  trochaic 
lines  and  strophic  forms  of  the  Peninsular.  The  first  class  is  contained 
in  the  'Parnasso/  which  comprises  358  sonnets,  22  canzones,  27  ekgie% 
12  odes,  8  octaves,  15  idyls,  —  all  of  which  tesify  to  the  strong  influenoe 
of  the  Italian  School  and,  especially,  of  Petrarch.  The  second  class  ii 
contained  in  the  '  Cancioneiro, '  or  song  book,  and  includes  more  than  150 
compositions  in  the  national  peninsular  manner.  He  never  prepared  u 
edition  of  his  ^Rimas'  and  the  manuscript  he  is  said  to  have  arranged  durii^ 
his  sojourn  in  Mozambique  from  1567  to  1569  is  said  to  have  been  stolen,  b 
1595  Femao  Rodrigues  Lobo  Soropita  collected  from  Portugal  and  Indii, 
and  published  in  Lisbon,  a  volume  of  172  songs  by  Camoens,  fourofwhidi 
are  not  by  Cameons  and  others  of  which  are  doubtful. 

All  Camoens'  lyrics  have  been  translated  into  German  by  Dr.  \^lheliii 
Storck  of  the  University  of  Munster:  and  in  English  there  are  innumerable 
versions.  But,  as  we  all  know,  'translation  for  the  most  part  is  an  expedient 
equally  fallacious  and  impotent.'  And  Lord  Byron  observed  that  'it  is  to 
be  remarked  that  the  things  given  to  the  public  as  poems  of  Camoens' 
are  no  more  to  be  found  in  the  original  Portuguese  than  in  the  Songs  of 
Solomon.' 

This  holds  particularly  good  with  regard  to  the  versions  given  by  Lord 
Viscount  Strangford,  the  British  Plenipotentiary  at  Lisbon  during  the 
War  of  the  Spanish  Succession.  Burton  says  amusingly:  'There  is,  how- 
ever, nothing  objectionable  in  his  excerpts  from  Camoens'  except  their 
perfect  inadequacy.' 

Strangford,  indeed,  cannot  be  called  a  translator.  He  was  an  adapter. 
Camoens  suggested  to  him  a  motif  for  his  own  gallant  and  amorous  experi- 
ences. Says  Strangford  of  the  minor  poetry  of  Camoens':  *The  general 
characteristic  is  ease:  not  the  studied  carelessness  of  modem  refinement, 
but  the  graceful  and  charming  simplicity  of  a  Grecian  muse.'  This  ease  — 
the  first  kind  —  Strangford  presumes  upon  and  applies  to  his  own  renderings 
of  Cameons'  meanings,  the  most  flagrant  example  being,  perhaps,  'The 
Lady  who  Swore  by  Her  Eyes.'  It  is  a  very  pleasing  little  poem — as 
Strangford's.  It  is  also  very  pleasing  in  the  Portuguese  of  Camoens'. 
But  they  are  very,  very  diflFerent  from  each  other. 

Camoens  somewhat  admits  of  this  sort  of  juggling.  In  his  minor  verse 
he  has  the  simplicity  of  the  Troubadours  with  the  elegance  of  the  lulian 
School.  He  was  fond  of  the  Troubadour  poetry;  and,  in  the  days  of  his 
young  manhood,  there  was  a  certain  Peninsular  revival  of  interest  in  the 
Troubadour  forms,  brought  about  through  the  Counts  of  Barcelona  be- 
coming by  marriage  Counts  of  Provence. 


ISABEL  MOORE  369 

Strangford's  little  volume  of  translations  was  most  severely  criticised, 
only  after  it  appeared,  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  (1803)  and  a  literal 
Tsion  given  of  one  of  the  poems  by  Camoens  with  Strangford's  paraphrase, 
imoens  reads: 

'When  the  sun,  overcast,  is  showing  to  the  world  a  tranquil  and  dubious 
^t,  to  go  along  a  beautiful  meadow,  figuring  to  myself  my  enemy  —  here 
ive  I  seen  her  composing  her  tresses  —  here,  with  her  face  upon  her  hand, 
>  beautiful  —  here  talking  cheerfully  —  there  thoughtful  —  now  standing 
ill  —  now  walking  —  here  was  she  seated  —  there  she  beheld  me,  as  she 
ised  those  eyes,  so  indifferent — here  somewhat  she  moved —  there  secure — 
tte  she  grew  sorrowful  —  there  she  smiled.  —  And,  in  short,  in  these 
eary  thoughts  I  pass  this  vain  life,  which  lasts  forever/ 

Camoens  seems  to  have  taken  this  from  Petrarch;  and  Strangford 
inks  that  Petrarch  may  be  indebted  for  the  idea  to  Ovid.  Strangford's 
ndering  is: 

'When  day  has  smiled  a  soft  farewell. 

And  night-drops  bathe  each  shutting  bell. 
The  shadows  sail  along  the  green. 
And  birds  are  still,  and  woods  serene, 
I  wander  silently. 

And  while  my  lone  step  prints  the  dew. 

Dear  are  the  dreams  that  bless  my  view. 
To  memory's  eye  the  maid  appears, 

For  whom  have  sprung  my  sweetest  tears. 
So  oft,  so  silently. 

I  see  her  as,  with  graceful  care. 

She  binds  her  braids  of  sunny  hair; 
I  feel  her  harp's  melodious  thrill 

Strike  to  my  heart;  —  and  thence  be  still. 
Re-echoed  faithfully. 

I  meet  her  mild  and  quiet  eye, 

Drink  the  warm  spirit  of  her  sigh. 
See  young  love  beating  in  her  breast 

And  wish  to  mine  its  pulses  prest. 

God  knows  how  fervently! 


370  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

Such  are  my  hours  of  dear  deh'ght. 

And  noon  but  makes  me  wish  for  night, 
And  think  how  swift  the  minutes  flew 
When,  last  among  the  dropping  dew, 
I  wandered  silently/ 
Pleasing  as  such  versification  may  be  in  itself,  there  can  be  no  apologr 
adequate  to  excuse  calling  it  a  translation,  and  the  only  explanation  of  suck 
a  proceeding  is  that  in  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century,  when  die 
attention  of  all  Europe  was  fixed  on  the  Spanish  Peninsular  because  of  die 
Napoleonic  wars,  Portugal  became  the  literary  fashion  in  England,  and, 
because  hitherto  so  unknown,  English  writers  felt  that  almost  any  extrafs- 
gance  might  be  perpetrated  in  her  name.     On  a  par  with  Strangford's  so- 
called  translations,  is  Mrs.  Browning's  extravaganza  of  emotion  which  she 
called  'Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,'  and  which  never  had  any  origin  in 
Portuguese  literature,  save  that  the  Portuguese  have  ever  written  sonnets 
and  are  impassioned  in  their  love. 

A  translation  by  Strangford  that  is  much  more  accurate  in  both  feeling 
and  expression  than  the  foregoing,  is  this  Canzonet: 

*I  whispered  her  my  last  adieu, 
I  gave  a  mournful  kiss; 
Cold  showers  of  sorrow  bathed  her  eyes, 
And  her  poor  heart  was  torn  with  sighs; 
Yet  strange  to  tell  —  'twas  then  I  knew 
Most  perfect  bliss. 


For  love,  at  other  times  suppress'd. 
Was  all  betrayed  at  this  — 
I  saw  him  weeping  in  her  eyes, 
I  saw  him  breathe  amongst  her  sighs, 
And  every  sob  which  shook  her  breast 
Thrilled  mine  with  bliss. 

The  sigh  which  keen  affection  clears, 
How  can  it  judge  amiss  ? 
To  me  it  pictured  hope;  and  taught 
My  spirit  this  consoling  thought, 
That  Love's  sun,  though  it  rise  in  tears. 
May  set  in  bliss!' 
And  a  Rondeau,  that  seems  to  have  been  suggested  by  a  hint  from  Ac 
Troubadour   Ausian    March,  is   too    charming   to  be    omitted,    even  in 


s 


:.h: 

»G 


I"*!.- 


:.i 


ISABEL  MOORE  371 

ngford's  translation  —  indeed,  how  far  because  of  Strangford's  trans- 
iiy  is  an  open  question. 

*  Just  like  Love  is  yonder  rose, 

Heavenly  fragrance  round  it  throws; 
Yet  tears  its  dewy  leaves  disclose. 
And  in  the  midst  of  briars  it  blows. 
Just  like  Love. 

Culled  to  bloom  upon  the  breast, 

Since  rough  thorns  the  stem  invest 
They  must  be  gathered  with  the  rest 

Andy  with  it,  to  the  heart  be  press'd. 
Just  like  Love. 

And  when  rude  hands  with  twin-buds  sever, 
They  die  —  and  they  shall  blossom  never  — 

Yes,  the  thorns  be  sharp  as  ever. 
Just  like  Love, 
ngford  never  translated  the  Lusiad,  except  a  few  stanzas.  This  great 
n  deals  with  the  adventures  of  Vasco  de  Gama  and  is,  almost  incidentally 
epitome  of  the  achievements  of  the  Portuguese  nation.  Camoens  dedi- 
d  it  to  Dom  Sebastian.  The  three  greatest  episodes  in  it  are  the  Legend 
he  Floating  Island,  The  Spirit  of  the  Cape  and  Inez  de  Castro.  La 
pe,  who  figures  as  one  of  the  French  translators  of  the  Lusiads,  says 
,  although  it  lacks  ^action,  character  and  interest'  as  a  whole,  he  prefers 
veil-known  episode  of  Dona  Inez  de  Castro  to  the  whole  of  'Paradise 
t.'  Voltaire  has  also  criticised  the  machinery  of  the  Lusiads.  But 
taire  has  also  made  Cameons  born  a  Spaniard  and  a  comrade  of  Vasco 
jama  who,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  died  before  Camoens  was  born.  Southey, 
ough  a  Spanish  scholar,  was  better  acquainted  with  Mickle's  poor 
;lish  heroic  couplets  than  with  the  Portuguese  of  the  Lusiads.  La  Harpe 
not  know  Portuguese  at  all  (so  says  Sir  Richard  Burton),  his  so-called 
slation  being  nothing  more  than  a  new  rendering  of  the  literal  version 
D'Hermilly:  and  Voltaire  knew  the  Lusiads  only  through  Mickle's 
slation.  Adamson  says  (in  1820)  that  there  are  one  Hebrew  translation 
he  Lusiads,  five  Latin,  six  Spanish,  four  Italian,  three  French,  four 
man,  and  two  English.  The  oldest  English  version  is  by  Sir  Richard 
shaw  (1655)  who  was  the  English  Embassador  sent  to  Lisbon  to  arrange 
the  marriage  of  Charles  II  of  England  with  Catherine  of  Braganza. 
the  time  of  the  third  Centennial  Celebration  in  Portugal  of  the  death 


372  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

of  Camoens  (1580-1880)  there  were  seven  complete  English  transbtioiis. 
At  this  time,  also,  there  was  brought  out  in  Lisbon  the  best  complete  edidoD 
of  Camoens'  works,  the  *  Bibiiotheca  Camoneana/  by  Juromenha,  in  se?eo 
volumes.  It  contains  a  list  of  all  works  upon,  and  translations  of,  Camoens. 
Of  the  various  translations  of  Camoens  Burton  says  ^  all  are  meager  in  the 
extreme,  they  follow  like  a  flock  of  sheep,  they  reflect  one  another  like 
a  band  of  Chinamen.' 

Sir  Richard  Burton's  own  translations  of  the  Lusiads  and  the  Lyrics 
of  Camoens  deserve  by  far  the  most  consideration,  as  being  entirely  scholady. 
It  so  happened  that  his  own  personal  travels  formed,  as  he  says,  'a  running 
and  reaUstic  commentary  upon  the  Lusiads.'  And  again,  'I  have  not  only 
visited  almost  every  place  named  in  the  Epos  of  Commerce;  in  many  I 
spent  months  and  even  years.'  Burton  speaks  of  'my  Master,  Camoens' 
and  finds  in  him  much  of  the  Orient;  its  'havock  and  its  all  splendor. 
And  —  regarding  his  translation  —  he  naively  remarks  that  *  after  all,  » 
speak  without  due  modesty,  my  most  cogent  reason  for  printing  this  trans- 
lation of  my  Master  is,  simply,  because  I  prefer  it  to  all  that  have  appeared.' 

Yet  with  all  our  faith  in  Richard  Burton,  we  feel  the  need  —  when 
reading  his  Camoens  —  of  his  wife's  strenuous  assertions :  not  that  thqr 
convince  us;  indeed,  their  very  insistance  merely  confirms  our  worst  fears: 
but  we  need  something  to  explain  at  least  why  certain  mannerisms  were 
allowed  to  interfere  with  usual  lucidity  of  feeling  and  expression  of  the 
original  text.  She  says:  'This  translation  is  not  a  literary  tour  de  force 
done  against  time  or  to  earn  a  reputation:  it  is  the  result  of  a  daily  act  of 
devotion  of  twenty  years.'  So  far,  so  good.  The  scholarly  devotion  of 
Burton  has  never  been  questioned.  But,  *  Whenever  my  husband  has 
appeared  to  coin  words,  or  to  use  impossible  words,  they  are  the  exact 
rendering  of  Camoens;  in  every  singularity  or  seeming  eccentricit}'  die 
Disciple  has  faithfully  followed  his  Master:  —  his  object  having  been  not 
simply  to  write  good  verse,  but  to  give  a  literal  word  for  word  rendering 
of  his  favorite  hero.  And  he  has  done  it  to  the  letter,  not  only  in  the  words, 
but  in  the  meaning  and  intention  of  Camoens.'  And  again,  *To  the 
unaesthetic,  to  non-poets,  non-linguists,  non-musicians,  non-artists,  Bunon's 
Lusiads  will  be  an  unknown  land,  an  unknown  tongue,' 

Even  in  the  face  of  such  an  impeachment,  one  cannot  refrain  from 
questioning  the  'literal  word  for  word  rendering,'  and  —  what  is  of  far 
greater  importance  —  the  'meaning  and  intention  of  Camoens'  in  certain 
lines.  Not  to  be  too  prolix  on  the  subject  it  is  but  neressary  to  compare 
the  following  lines  from  the  sonnets: 


ISABEL  MOORE  373 

'Amor,  com  a  esperanca  ja  perdida/  —  Camoens. 
(Amor,  with  Esperance  now  for  aye  forlore.)  —  Burton. 

*Com  grandes  esperancas  ja  cantcy/ — Camoens. 
(While  ere  I  sang  my  song  with  hope  so  high.)  —  Burton. 

'  Amor,  que  o  gesto  humano  na  Alma  Enscreve.'  —  Camoens. 
(Amor,  who  human  geste  on  soul  doth  write.) —  Bunon. 

'Tamo  de  meu  estado  mecho  inceno.' — Camoens. 
(I  find  so  many  doubts  my  state  enfold.)  —  Burton. 

'Transforma  se  o  amador  na  cousa  amada.'  —  Camoens. 

(Becomes  the  Lover  to  the  Loved  transformed.)  —  Burton, 
at  enough  about  Burton's  methods.  One  either  likes  Burton  or  one  does 
It.  With  regard  to  our  consideration  of  Camoens  himself,  we  must 
ways  remember  that  the  epic  was  in  its  infancy.  Trissino  had  attempted 
le  liberation  of  Italy  from  the  Goths,  but  with  poor  success.  Ariosto  and 
s  followers  had  thrown  enchantment  around  the  fictions  of  Chivalry, 
asso's  'Jerusalem  Delivered'  had  appeared  only  the  year  before  'Os 
usiads.'    Verily,  Camoens  was,  as  Gerald  Massey  said: 

'  the  poet  of  weary  wanderers 
In  perilous  lands;  and  wide-sea  voyagers.' 

VI 

By  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century  the  most  brilliant  period  of  Portu- 
lese  poetry  had  passed  away.  The  Spanish  Captivity  was  like  a  death- 
ow,  yet  Ponuguese  literature  could  not  die.  When  Philip  II  of  Spain 
inexed  Portugal,  it  had  produced  Vasco  de  Gama  and  Alfonso  de  Albur- 
lerque;  and  its  language  had  been  developed  from  a  Romance  dialect 
to  a  literary  language  by  Miranda  and  Camoens.  There  was  too  much 
dividual  strength  for  Portugal  to  become  lost  in  Spain.  The  period 
580-1640)  was  one  of  deep  national  depression  and  humiliation:  but  it 
d  not  become  the  permanent  established  order.  When,  at  last,  the  revolt 
;ainst  Spanish  oppression  had  been  victorious  and  the  Portuguese  dynasty 
lumed  Its  sway  with  John  V,  the  first  of  the  House  of  Braganza,  the  treaty 
offense  and  defense  between  Portugal  and  her  ol  dally,  England,  was 
dewed;  and  the  crushed  national  life  of  Portugal  again  lifted  up  its  head. 

In  literature,  her  people  turned  naturally  to  the  period  of  their  past 
eatness,  and  followers  of  Camoens  imitated  his  great  works.  A  few 
ironides  were  written.     But  the  new  life  was  sluggish.     One  of  the  forms 


374  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

it  took  was  a  sort  of  buflFooneiy  in  the  sonnet  writing:  and,  while  most  of 
this  composition  is  weak  and  ridicuiousy  the  burlesquing  of  the  old  pastoral 
poetry  by  Freire  de  Andrade  is  said  to  be  often  witty  and  just.  This  cra^ 
and  bombastic  writing  was  called  by  Matheus  Ribeyro  the  *  Posia  Incuravd' 
But  Portugal  produced  no  Cervantes. 

Though  much  was  written,  not  much  was  written  that  was  fine.  Pocor 
gained  little  from  the  recrudescence.  Lyric  art  in  the  old  national  syllabic 
meters  was  entirely  abandoned.  Patriotic  feeling  again  found  its  way  ioto 
Portuguese  life  and  letters,  but,  in  the  verse  of  Ribeiro  de  Macedo  and  Conea 
de  la  Cerda,  it  became  verily '  flat,  stale  and  unprofitable.'  This  also  applies 
to  the  verse  of  Violante  de  Ceo,  a  nun  in  the  Convent  da  Rosa  in  Lisbon  and 
the  first  woman  whose  name  occurs  in  the  annals  of  Portuguese  literature. 
Alveres  da  Cunha  and  Jeronymo  Bahia  also  wrote  a  corrupt  form  of  versifi- 
cation. 

There  are,  however,  a  few  exceptions  to  the  general  deplorable  conditioo; 
notably,  Barbosa  Barcellar  (1610-1663)  who  produced  some  good  sonneo 
in  the  style  of  Camoens,  his  most  remarkable  writings  being  a  kind  of  ekgf 
of  romantic  aspiration  called  Saudades. 

But  the  Poetic  Muse  lay  gasping  for  breath.  She  could  not  seem  id 
recover  from  her  bondage.  In  addition  to  this  enfeebled  state,  was  the 
fact  that  a  strong  tide  of  French  influence  set  in  among  Portuguese  men  of 
letters  and  the  life  of  the  Court.  Poor  Portugal!  So  many  foreign  in- 
fluences had  been  brought  to  bear  upon  her  at  various  times;  and  yet,  whik 
recognizing  and  to  a  degree  accepting  each,  she  had,  nevertheless,  held  her 
own  individuality  aloof.  Now,  however,  exhausted  and  almost  desperate, 
she  succumbed  just  when  she  was  on  the  eve  of  a  new  birthright.  From 
the  Gothic  and  Romanic  she  had  arisen;  borne  herself  triumphantly  in  the 
presence  of  the  Arabian,  the  Italian,  the  Castilian;  now  to  droop  quickhr 
before  the  French.  This  French  influence  is  the  characteristic  of  tha 
period  of  Portuguese  poetry.  Toward  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century 
there  was  a  total  decay  of  even  the  half-hearted  attempts  of  the  sonneteen 
and  the  satirists. 

The  first  part  of  the  eighteenth  century  saw  a  slightly  improved  state 
of  things.  Although  the  divinely  creative  instinct  had  gone,  apparent^ 
never  to  return,  an  historical  and,  to  a  certain  extent,  literary  revival  did 
take  place.  The  so-called  Age  of  Sonnets  was  succeeded  by  the  Age  of 
Academies.     But  when  did  Academies  ever  produce  poetry  ? 

In  1720  the  Academy  of  History  was  founded  in  Lisbon  by  John  V, 
during  the  reign  of  whose  son,  Joseph  Emmanuel  (i 750-1 777),  lived  the 
the  Marquis  of  Pombal,  who  was  a  patron  of  literature  and  music.    Pombal 


ISABEL  MOORE  375 

founded  the  Acadia  ie  Lisboa  in  17579  two  years  after  the  great  earthquake 
that  demolished  the  greater  part  of  Lisbon  and  which  Voltaire  describes 
so  g;raphically  in  'Candide/  He  it  was,  too,  who  expelled  the  Jesuits, 
thereby  removing  —  for  a  time  at  least  —  one  incubus  off  the  heaving 
breast  of  his  mother  country.  The  Arcadia  ie  Lisboa  was  followed  by  the 
Academia  Real  des  Sciences  in  I779f  which  pubUshed  many  of  the  old 
Portuguese  Chronicles.  In  17 14  an  Academia  Portugueza  had  been  formed 
on  the  model  of  the  French  Academy  with  a  view  to  improve  the  taste  for 
Poetry;  and  offered  prizes  to  serve  this  end.  Other  Academies,  on  the 
Italian  plan,  followed.  There  was  undoubtedly  a  great  spirit  of  advance- 
ment abroad,  but  it  worked  for  the  most  part  through  the  Academicians. 

Among  the  earlier  were  Antonio  Diniz  da  Cruz  e  Silva,  who  took  the 
name  of  Elpino  Monacrense,  and  whose  best  work  is  his  translation  of  the 
Pindaric  Odes:  Joao  Xavier  de  Matos,  who  translated  a  play  by  M.  TAbbe 
Genest  and  called  it  'Penelope'  and  who  wrote  a  play  'Viriacia':  Sebastao 
Francisco  Mendo  Trigozo,  who  translated  Racine;  Hippolyto,  who  trans- 
lated Euripides :  Domingos  dos  Reis  Quinta,  who  wrote  a  three-act  tragedy 
<m  Inez  de  Castro  and  was  well-known;  Pedro  Antonio  Correa  Garc^o, 
who  wrote,  odes,  satires,  epistles,  sonnets  and  two  dramas,  and  won  the 
distinciton  of  being  the  first  of  the  moderns  to  appreciate  the  purity  of  his 
native  language:  and  Francesco  Manoel  de  Nascimento  who  took  the  name 
of  Elysio  on  joining  the  Academicians  and  who,  escaping  the  earthquake 
and  the  Inquisition,  was  exiled  to  France.  Among  the  historians  who  lived 
at  this  time  were  Alessandro  Herculano,  whose  history  of  Portugal  is 
regarded  as  the  highest  authority,  the  Visconde  de  Santarem,  and  Augusto 
Rebello  da  Silva.  Among  the  dramatists  was  Manoel  Maria  Barbosa  du 
Bocage,  who  wrote  the  tragedies  of 'Viriato,*  'Alfonso  Henriques'  and  *  Vasco 
da  Gama.'  Among  the  poets  were  Luis  Augusto  Palmei rim,  Jose  Soares  de 
Passos,  Jose  da  Silva,  Mendes  Leal,  Antonio  Feliciano  de  Castildo,  Fran- 
cesco de  Pina  de  Mello,  Joaquim  Fonunado  de  Valdares  Gamboa,  Nicolao 
Tolendno  de  Almeida,  Joao  Baptista  Gomes,  Louren^o  Caminha,  and 
Paulino  Cabral  de  Vasconcellos.  Two  others  —  Joao  Bapdsta  de  Almeida 
Garrett  and  D.  Francesco  Xavier  de  Menzes,  Conde  of  Ericeira  —  stood 
head  and  shoulders  above  their  compeers.  The  former  wrote  a  ten-canto 
poem  on  Camoens  and  intended  to  collect  the  popular  romance  poetry  of 
rortugal  as  Scott  did  the  minstrelsy  of  the  Border,  but  failed  to  do  so, 
although  he  left  an  interesting  letter  on  the  subject  in  his  romance  of 
'Adozindo':  and  the  latter  was  altogether  the  most  voluminous  writer  and 
most  brilliant  literary  character  of  his  time,  succeeding  more  than|}his 
contemporaries  in  keeping  free  from  the  French  influence,  holding  aloof 


376  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

and  following  more  the  traditions  of  the  sixteenth  century  of  Portuguese 
literature. 

During  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  century  conditions  became  even 
better.  Francisco  Vasconcellos,  a  native  of  Madeira,  belonged  to  dm 
period.  Diogo  de  Monroy  e  Vasconcellos,  Thomas  de  Sousa,  Luis  Simoes 
de  Azevadoy  Diogo  Camacho»  Jacinto  Freire  de  Andrade,  Simao  Toiezio 
Coelho,  Duarte  Kibeiro  de  Macedo,  Fernam  Correa  de  la  Cerda,  Antonio 
Telles  da  Silva  and  Nunes  da  Silva,  some  of  whose  songs  and  sonnets  are 
really  worthier  of  a  better  day,  are  all  named  of  writers  who  have  soug^ 
accomplishment. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  their  vast  endeavor  and  past  achievement,  we  cannot 
but  realize  the  truth  of  what  one  who  knows  and  loves  the  Portuguese^ 
has  written: 

'Portuguese  poetry  is  like  a  time-honored  olive  that  in  its  prime  was 
rich  in  luxuriant  leaves  and  fair  fruit,  but  is  now  drooping  to  decay;  ia 
foliage  thinned,  its  fruit  degenerated,  and  giving  no  sign  of  throwing  op 
vigorous  sapplings  from  its  roots.  .  .  It  is,  however,  sometimes  pleasant  id 
let  memory  recall,  in  its  declining  age,  the  flourishing  time  of  the  good 
old  tree.' 


HILLIGENLEI 

By  Warren  Washburn  Florer 

THE  earlier  writings  of  Gustav  Frenssen,  the  pastor  poet  of 
Germany,  have  influenced  thousands  of  German  homes, 
because  the  German  people  understand  them.  Frenssen's 
books  sing  of  nature  and  human  life,  grand,  strong,  and 
true;  of  confidence  in  man,  in  the  eternal  powers,  in  God. 
They  sing  of  a  simple,  original  Christianity  —  the  religion 
of  Christ,  the  Man  of  Galilee.  In  these  writings,  the 
essential  source  of  which  is  experience  with  men,  with  their  sorrows,  their 
sufferings,  their  needs,  and  their  hopes,  Frenssen  fearlessly  attacked  the 
sinsy  the  customs,  and  the  laws  of  family,  church,  sute,  which  lay  as  a  heavy 
wei^t  upon  humanity. 

The  language  of  these  writings  is  simple,  direct,  and  natural.  The 
diaracters  are  natural,  consistent  men  and  women,  therefore  psychologically 
true.  They  show  development  of  observation  and  personally,  and  there- 
fere  growth.  They  betray  a  search  for  the  truth,  sometimes  uncertain  in 
its  results,  therefore  at  times  obscurity  is  evident.  This  is  especially 
Dodceable  in  the  means  emplcnred  to  throw  light  on  the  characters,  as  is 
seen  in  the  stories  uken  too  often  from  the  fable  world.  But  withal  they 
are  powerful  books  and  their  very  weaknesses  give  hopes  of  future  develop- 
ment. 

After  four  years  of  additional  observation,  research  and  seeking  after 
the  truth,  Frenssen  gives  his  Marger  parish'  *  Hillieenlei,'  the  theme  of  which 
is  a  search  in  the  mires  and  struggles,  hopes  and  aspirations  of  humani^, 
for  a  Holy  Land.  (Hilligenlei  means  Holy  Land.)  One  still  hears  the  echo 
of  the  critics,  each  one  striking  the  note  corresponding  to  his  education  and 
diaracter,  therefore  to  his  attitude  to  literature  and  the  problems  of  humanity, 
especialty  to  religion  which  is  the  foundation  of  the  book.  Perhaps  no  book 
in  the  history  of  German  literature  has  evoked  such  a  storm  of  criticism. 

Frenssen  unfolds  in  this  epochmaking  work  many  phases  of  life  of  the 
entire  German  people.  It  contains  so  much  that  the  reader  is  unable  to 
grasp  the  content,  and  often  one  loses  the  numerous  threads  of  action  which 
permeate  the  book.  In  fact  these  threads  are  at  times  apparently  broken, 
or  at  least  disconnected.  One  becomes  lost  in  the  network  of  the  experiences 
of  Kai  Jans  and  the  other  leading  characters.  However,  there  is  evident 
a  mastery  of  character  development  in  the  powerful  Pe  Ontjes  Lau,  in  the 

377 


378  HILLIGENLEI 

brilliant,  but  deceptive  Tjark  Dusenschon,  in  the  proud  and  passionate 
Anna  Boje,  and  in  the  beautiful  friend  of  Kai  Jans  —  Heinke  Boje. 

The  character  of  Kai  Jans  is  not  intended  to  be  *  fertig/  His  endie 
life  is  a  restless  search  for  the  Holy.  It  is  a  manifold  development.  He 
is  uncertain,  introspective  and  lacks  confidence.  He  sees  his  lofty  con- 
ception of  human  nature  marred  at  every  turn  bv  the  actions  of  men  and 
the  cnielqr  of  man  to  man.  In  the  portrayal  of  Kai  Jans,  Frenssen  showi 
strength  and  consistency,  not  literaiy  weakness. 

The  reader  who  considers  'Schwung,*  freely  translated  *' well-rounded 
sentences,'  as  an  essential  characteristic  of  good  style  will  take  exceptioo 
to  the  simple,  direct  language.  He  will  criticize  also  the  figures  and  meta- 
phors employed  to  interpret  ideas  and  characters.  An  undesirable  feature^ 
mdeed,  is  the  copious  use  of  adjectives  in  description.  A  lack  of  discrimi- 
nation in  the  language  used  by  the  different  characters  is  a  decided  weaknett. 
This  causes  a  certain  smoothness  of  style,  but  it  is  obtained  at  the  cott 
of  individualiqr. 

Men  are  unfortunately  not  interested  in  child  life,  which  is  but  man's 
life  in  miniature,  and  so  the  introductory  chapters  may  seem  monotonom. 
Men  are  not  interested  in  the  accounts  of  the  life  of  Christ  in  the  New 
Testament,  so  the  'manuscript'  with  all  its  beauties  and  power  may  pioie 
to  be  tedious.  Again  one  may  smile  at  the  fictitious  village  Hilligenld, 
with  its  peculiar  characters,  classes,  institutions  and  episodes,  but  it  is  true 
to  nature.  One  may  observe  similar  incidents  and  condidons  in  one's 
own  town. 

Those  who  do  not  know,  as  Goethe  said  in  defense  of  his  ClarcheiH 
that  there  is  a  class  between  a  'Gottin'  and  a  'Dime,'  will  find  manyi 
choice  morsel  to  roll  under  their  tongues  in  this  book  which  treats  naive 
human  impulses  of  strength  and  purity.  Many  who  have  experienced 
but  little  of  the  world  will  deem  much  which  is  so  commonplace  as  impossible^ 
firmly  convinced  that  only  that  is  possible  which  they  meet  in  their  narrow 
walks  of  life.    The  life  which  Frenssen  unfolds  to  them  will  be  but  a  Marchea 

It  is  true  that  Frenssen  has  treated  Sinnengier,  not  because  he  '  delighted 
to  depict  the  errors  and  sin  of  youth  and  men,  but  out  of  pity,  in  order  that 
one  might  be  able  to  see  the  healthy  and  the  natural.'  The  poet  reformer 
unveils  a  picture  of  social  conditions  which  is  appalling,  and,  if  true,  will 
eventually  lead,  unless  improved,  to  a  disintegration  of  German  society  and 
government,  for  these  conditions  are  gnawing  at  the  very  foundation  of  al 
society  and  government  —  the  home. 

Frenssen's  purpose  is  to  uplift  humanity.  Strengthened  by  the  con- 
ception that  art  has  a  moral  purpose,  he  continues  to  attack  the  conditions 


WARREN  WASHBURN  FLORER  379 

which  tend  to  dull  the  moral  sense  of  the  people  and  to  retard  a  healthy 
development  of  the  individual.  Frenssen's  ideal  is  that  men  and  women 
thould  enjoy  the  good  and  strong  impulses  of  nature  given  them  by  the 
eternal  powers;  should  live  a  natural,  therefore  a  moral  life;  should  always 
endeavor  to  search  for  a  Holy  Land,  even  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death.  The  rod  and  staff  of  comfort  are  wanting,  because  the  people 
have  no  religion.  Yea,  even  worse,  the  youth  laugh  at  religion  and  have 
no  respect  for  Christ. 

Hilligenlei  will  not  appeal  to  the  average  novel  reader  of  our  countiy. 
It  c^ers  too  serious  food  for  thought  and  reflection.  As  a  work  of  art  it 
will  not  satisfy  many  aesthetic  readers.  As  in  Germany  it  will  evoke  the 
mme  opposition  from  the  orthodox  pastors  of  the  land.  But  to  men 
interestea  in  the  progress  of  man  and  m  the  evolution  of  social  conditions 
k  will  prove  to  be  a  book  full  of  rich  treasures,  a  book  which,  if  heeded, 
will  be  a  boon  to  our  country,  inasmuch  as  it  treats  conditions  which  are 
already  influencing  American  life. 

At  the  very  first  the  poet  treats  the  old  problem  of  society  and  literature, 
die  preying  upon  the  natural  instincts  of  human  nature,  the  result  of  which 
ii  too  often  illegitimate  offspring.  This  offspring  robbed  of  its  natural 
li^ts  is  either  bitter  or  unscrupulous.  Likewise  the  poet  condemns  'Sitte* 
(conventional  morality)  as  one  of  the  enemies  of  home  life  and  the  primary 
cause  of  the  Juneweibemot  throughout  the  land. 

The  dire  influences  of  the  saloon  upon  the  inhabitants  of  Hilligenlei 
and  upon  the  workmen  in  Berlin  are  depicted.  In  Hilligenlei  one  finds 
die  saloon  the  moving  factor  in  the  affairs  of  the  village.  Here  are  as- 
•embled  both  old  and  young  men.  One  beholds  the  hundreds  who  pass 
Ml  the  highways  of  Slesvig-Holstein,  lazy  and  intoxicated.  One  witnesses 
die  untimefy  death  of  the  teacher  Boje,  just  because  a  man  was  drunk. 
The  sad  faces  of  women  and  children  relate  the  influences  of  drink,  drink 
which  fills  the  asylums  and  prisons,  and  poisons  the  morals  and  health  of 
ODondess  thousands. 

The  young  men,  corrupted  by  these  conditions,  have  false  conceptions 
of  happiness  and  success.  They  strive  for  mere  honor  and  money.  The 
imnaple  of  Tjark  Dusenschon,  'one  must  take  money  wherever  one  can 
fee  it/  the  principle  of  graft,  is  true  for  hundreds  of  young  men  of  this 
generation  and  is  encouraged  by  business  men  and  by  society.  However, 
m  this  age  of  unsafe  finance,  one  hears  the  wise  words  of  the  merchant  who 
never  forgot  the  highest  standard  of  his  profession.  He  cared  that  no  goods 
riiould  perish  and  that  the  wares  of  the  earth  should  be  distributed  over  the 
Mitire  world  for  the  welfare  of  all,  that  they  should  become  useful  to  men, 
ward  off  need  and  increase  the  joys  of  life. 


38o  HILLIGENLEI 

Frenssen  treats  the  conflicts  of  the  rich  and  the  poor.  He  traces  die 
underlying  causes  of  the  existing  hatred  and  distrust,  for  example,  die 
excessive  riches  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  abject  pover^,  as  seen  m  At 
tenements  of  large  cities.  He  believes  that  men  are  the  real  cause  of  urn 
and  suflPerings  in  that  they  deprive  their  fellowmen  of  land  and  force  Am 
to  live  in  the  pitiless,  narrow  streets.  At  the  same  time  he  cannot  undcF 
stand  why  the  men  do  not  desire  to  go  out  into  the  countiy,  into  Holy  hod, 
where  the  fresh  air  is  like  unto  the  breath  of  God,  where  the  sunny  housei 
are  situated  in  the  open  fields  and  on  forest  edges,  where  men  have  strong 
clear  eyes  and  lofty,  peaceful  thoughts.  He  knows  what  stands  in  the  mj 
of  the  progress  of  the  workingmen.  They  avoid  and  hector  one  another. 
In  no  class  is  there  so  much  jealousy  as  in  the  workingman's  chiss.  Tk 
life  they  lead  drives  earnestness  out  of  the  daily  work  and  reverence  out  of 
life.  There  is  no  desire  to  progress.  Looking  for  relief,  they  stare  upoe 
the  officials  and  academicians.  They  should  know  that  active  energy  an 
further  their  cause  more  than  plodding  learning. 

Frenssen  righdy  discerns  the  importance  of  the  economic  revolutioii 
of  Germany.  A  revoludon  which  is  affecdng  all  classes,  yes,  springing  from 
all  classes.  A  revolution  evident  in  eveiy  artery  of  German  life.  Akxig 
with  this  great  economic  revolution  comes  the  worst  religious  confttsioB 
at  the  very  time  when  scientific  investigation  has  undermined  the  dogmas  of 
churches.  Men  are  without  religion,  and  therefore  bitter  and  discontented. 
He  emphasizes  the  confusion  in  the  entire  domain  of  morals,  in  art,  in  edu- 
cation and  how,  as  in  every  century,  there  passes  a  spirit  of  unrest  through 
the  people  —  a  fever,  but  a  fever  which  leads  to  health.  He  has  caunt 
the  longing  of  the  people  to  rejuvenate  the  three  powerful  forces  which 
it  begets  —  government,  religion,  morality.  He  has  observed  a  will,  a  wish, 
permeating  the  people  to  come  to  nature,  to  a  simple  religion,  to  social 
justice,  to  a  noble  Germanic  humanity.  Frenssen  holds,  however,  that 
a  regeneration  is  impossible  as  long  as  the  foundation  upon  which  it  roust 
rest  is  false.     For  him  this  foundation  is  religion,  the  faith  of  Christ,  the  ma& 

In  '  Jorn  Uhl'  Frenssen  attacks  the  pastors  in  the  pulpit  because  thor 
do  not  know  life  and  the  needs  of  the  hearers.  In  'Hilligenlei*  he  reveak 
the  attitude  of  the  people  toward  religion.  This  attitude  is  a  pitiful  one 
and  has  its  natural  causes.  One  may  shudder,  but  it  is  true,  not  only  for 
Hilligenlei  and  Berlin,  but  for  America. 

The  children  make  God  the  servant  of  their  own  will,  and  half  of  them 
do  not  believe  what  is  said  in  the  confirmation  class.  The  words  of  Anna 
Boje,  as  a  child,  are  touching  and  natural:  'I  believe  everything  because 
the  pastor  says  it.     But,  do  you  know  what  makes  me  sad  ?     God  is  really 


WARREN  WASHBURN  FLORER  381 

'  a  triune  God,  not  so  ?    Sometimes  I  am  so  afraid,  because  at  night  I  am  so 

^  tired  and  do  not  keep  the  right  order.    I  believe  I  pray  least  to  the  Holy 

'  Ghost,  and  he  certainly  is  angry  with  me/ 

Even  the  common  workingmen  question  the  teachings  about  the  Virgin 

'  Mary,  deeming  them  impossible.  They  do  not  respect  the  teachings  of 
Chnst  because  the  church  does  not  represent  the  Savior  as  human,  but  as 
a  golden  image.  Again,  the  church  seems  to  be  on  the  side  of  the  rich  and 
has  not  a  word  or  deed  for  the  poor. 

All  progressive  elements  among  the  people  —  the  workingmen,  the 
•eamen,  the  merchants,  the  students,  the  scholars  and  the  artists  question 
the  dogmas  of  the  church.  The  entire  folk  is  falling  away  from  the  old 
fiuth  of  the  church.  The  foundation  of  life  is  false,  because  the  people 
have  no  faith.  The  minds  of  men  go  restlessly  from  one  meaning  to  another. 
The  priests  have  a  false  control  over  men,  and  error  reigns  supreme. 

Frenssen  relates  of  one,  who  in  the  midst  of  these  conditions,  restless 
and  full  of  hope,  is  searching  for  the  Holy.  He  thus  advances  another  step. 
In '  Jom  Uhr  he  demonstrated  that  the  trials  our  people  undergo  for  us  are 
worui  the  trouble*  and  that  simple,  deep  life  is  worth  relating  and  struggling 
for.  Here  amidst  all  these  struggles  is  an  additional  one,  a  search  for  the 
Holy  from  childhood  on,  the  task  of  Kai  Jans,  the  task  of  Gustav  Frenssen. 
Step  by  step  Frenssen,  with  almost  laborious  painstaking,  prepares 
Kai  Jans  to  write  the  life  of  Christ.  Kai  Jans  experiences  the  need  and 
oppression  of  a  long  life  and  of  the  entire  nation.  The  poet  equips  him 
with  those  pictures  of  life  which  Christ  must  have  witnessed  from  childhood 
aOf  in  the  country,  in  the  village,  and  in  the  city.  He  initiates  him  into 
the  advance  guard  of  higher  criticism.  But  with  all  his  learning  Kai  Jans 
retains  his  childlike  faith  and  simple  heart.  He  also  experiences  the  secret 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  God's  nature,  the  love  of  a  pure  girl.  But,  in  order 
to  write  the  life  of  Christ,  which  is  a  drama,  Kai  Jans  is  not  permitted  to 
be  happy  in  this  love.  Otherwise  his  Frau  Sorge  would  leave  him,  and 
therewith  his  interest  in  humanity  as  a  whole.  Peculiar  admixture  —  this 
preparation  for  'The  Life  of  Christ,  represented  according  to  German 
investigations  —  the  foundation  of  German  regeneration.' 

The  'manuscript,'  the  twenty-sixth  chapter,  which  is  absolutely 
necessary  as  an  organic  pan  of  the  novel,  is  the  storm  center  of  criticism. 
It  has  been  attacked  by  hardshelled  orthodoxy,  higher  criticism  and  atheism. 
It  has  been  received  with  misgivings  and  exultant  joy.  Withal  it  is  a  natural 
product  of  the  religious  reformation  which  is  abroad  in  Germany.  Thou- 
sands of  Germans  have  read  this  life  of  Christ  as  Heinke  Boje  did.  Their 
thoughts  have  run  to  him  of  whom  they  have  read,  to  the  pure,  vigorous 


382  HILLIGENLEI 

man,  the  most  beautiful  of  the  children  of  men.  Their  faith  has  dung  as 
a  vine  to  his  faith.  Many  good  people  have  fallen  away  from  the  poet  of 
'  Jorn  Uhl.'  And  some  who  stood  in  awe  before  the  eternal  Son  of  God 
have  lost  this  fear  and  have  entered  upon  evil  ways.  This  chapter  has  left 
a  deep  impression  upon  the  minds  of  Germany  and  upon  the  religious 
revolution. 

It  is  a  powerful  chapter,  full  of  the  very  life  of  Christ,  full  of  Christ's 
grand  teachings.  It  leads  us  away  from  Slesvig-Holstein  to  the  eoonoj 
in  which  Christ  lived,  wandered  and  taught.  We  feel  a  faith,  pure,  stioiig 
and  good.  We  see  the  intense  conflicts  of  that  social  revolution  which  has 
left  its  impression  on  the  development  of  humanity.  We  behold  the  simple 
and  grand  life  of  Christ.  We  shudder  at  the  strongly  affecting  deadi  of 
Christ.  We  are  carried  away  in  joy  and  compassion  by  this  drama  of  life^ 
stripped  of  wonders  and  supernatural  elements.  It  leads  us  to  the  footsteps 
and  back  again  to  our  own  decade  and  to  our  own  life. 

The  heart  of  the  reader  beats  with  the  heart  of  the  poet.  But,  we  foDour 
the  poet's  own  advice  in  *  Jorn  Uhl,'  read  through  Matthew  and  Marie  to 
see  whether  or  not  the  poet  has  swallowed  a  goodly  piece  of  the  evangel  and 
misinterpreted  another;  to  see  whether  the  connecting  links  are  not  too 
short.     Involuntarily  we  are  searching  for  the  Holy. 

When  one  looks  upon  the  'Life'  as  a  whole,  one  naturally  thinks  of 
Frenssen's  criticism  of  the  world's  great  philosophers  and  applies  it  to 
himself:  *  There  is  much  "Dunkles  und  Kindlich-Wirres'  in  him/  When 
one  thinks  of  the  poet's  criticism  of  Paul,  how  under  the  inspiration  of  his 
wonderful  vision  he  made  out  of  Christ  a  divine  being,  an  eternal  wonder- 
man,  one  fears  that  Frenssen  is  likewise  transported  by  his  ^Marchen'  of 
nature  and  human  life. 

One  wishes  that  Frenssen  had  rewritten  his  epitome  of  the  histoiy  of 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  years;  that  he  had  left  to  the  reason  of  the  reader 
the  firstly  and  secondly  of  the  preacher  and  the  eliminations  of  the  debater; 
that  he  had  left  to  the  future  his  exultant  prophecy.  If  this  faith  is  certain, 
if  this  foundation  is  solid,  school  children,  youih,  artists,  scholars,  pastors, 
state  and  Christianity  will  experience  the  joys  prophesied. 

Is  the  foundation  which  Frenssen  gives  cenain  and  solid  ?  We  fear 
not.  The  writer  himself  was  too  uncertain.  He  was  too  *  grubelnd.'  Wc 
miss  the  inspiration  of  Paul,  the  certainty  of  the  angry  Luther,  the  insight 
of  the  sceptical  old  philosopher  of  Weimar,  the  exactness  of  modem  scholar- 
ship, the  fullness  of  life  of  a  forceful  man.  But  as  we  lay  this  novel  aside, 
so  full  of  treasures  for  the  future  of  the  German  people  and  literature,  we 
carry  with  us  the  encouraging  assurance:  'Neues  Korn  spriesst  auf.  * 


►EER  GYNT— AN  INTERPRETATION 

By  Jane  Dransfield  Stone 

AFTER  writing  *  Brandy  Ibsen  went  into  southern  Italy, 
and  threw  himself  into  the  composition  of  *Peer  Gynt.* 
*  It  is  wild  and  formless/  he  writes  of  it '  and  written  without 
regard  to  consequences/  Yet  as  with  all  his  dramas, 
it  had  lain  a  long  time  in  embryo  in  the  poet's  mind.  The 
same  mood  of  indignation  against  his  countrymen,  the 
same  criticism  of  the  Norwegian  character  which  had 
ssulted  in  *BranJ^  gave  birth  also  to  ^Peer  Gynt';  though  Ibsen  himself 
auxely  realized  this,  and  said  in  a  letter  to  Hegel,  that  if  ^  the  Norwegians 
r  the  present  day  recognize  themselves  in  the  character  of  Peer  Gynt,  that 
the  good  people's  own  affair/"^  The  pure  poetry  of  his  creation  appealed 
I  him  more  than  its  polemic,  and  he  constantly  pleaded  for  the  book  to 
e  enjoyed  as  a  work  of  the  imagination.  He  writes,  *  I  learn  that  the  book 
reated  much  excitement  in  Norway.'  This  does  not  trouble  me  in  the 
ast;  but  both  there  and  in  Denmark  they  have  discovered  much  more 
itire  in  it  than  was  intended  by  me.  Why  can  they  not  read  the  book  as 
poem  ?  For  as  such  I  wrote  it.'**  The  criticism  of  its  art  form  he  met 
ith  a  prophetic  sense  of  its  future  justification.  *  My  book  is  poetry,  and 
'  it  18  not,  then  it  will  be.  The  conception  of  poetry  shall  be  made  to  con- 
mn  to  the  book.'*** 

Thus  it  is  not  strange  that  two  works  of  such  seemingly  diverse  char- 
:ter  should  have  been  produced  at  the  same  period  of  development,  and 
t  so  short  an  interval.  *  Brand*  was  published  in  March,  1866:  Peer 
•ynt'  in  November,  1867.  Yet  though  similar  in  ethical  bearing,  the 
tiiiosphere  of  the  two  poems  is  totally  different.  *  Brand'  is  deep:  *Peer 
ynt*  is  wide.  *  Brand'  is  cold,  clear-cut,  and  defined.  The  ice  winds  of 
le  north  blow  down  through  it,  chilling  us  to  the  soul.  *Peer  Gynt'  is 
arm,  glowing  with  color,  the  strange  flowering  of  a  rich  imagination. 
lie  greatness  of  the  work  grows  upon  one.  Upon  first  reading  it,  one  may 
5  carried  away  with  the  bewildering  conceits,  the  play  of  wit,  the  droll 
tuations,  the  abandonment  to  the  spirit  of  pure  fantasy;  but  it  is  only 
ter  study  that  the  deeper  meanings  come  to  light,  and  the  work  is  lifted 

•  S4th  February,  1868.  •*  Ibid.  —  To  Bjomson,  9th  December,  1867. 

383 


384  PEER  GYNT  —  AN  INTERPRETATION 

out  of  its  provincial,  or  Scandinavian  aspect  to  its  position  as  the  greatest 
drama  since  *  Faust.*  So  Scandinavian  in  tone  that  Ibsen  feared  it  would 
not  be  understood  out  of  Norway  and  Denwark,  yet  it  has  made  its  appeal  to 
all  peoples  through  its  deep  searching  into  the  human  heart. 

Who  and  what  then  is  Peer  Gynt  ?  The  poem  has  its  roots  deep  in 
the  folk-lore  of  the  north.  Ibsen  describes  his  hero  as  'one  of  those  half- 
mythical,  fanciful  characters  existing  in  the  annals  of  the  Norwegian 
Peasantry  of  modem  times/  and  again  as  a  '  real  person  who  lived  in  Giid- 
randsdal,  probably  at  the  end  of  the  last,  or  the  beginning  of  this  cenouj. 
His  name  is  still  well-known  among  the  peasants  there:  but  of  his  expkxii 
not  much  more  is  known  than  is  to  be  found  in  Asojomsen's  *  Norwegia 
Fairy-Tale  Booky  in  the  section.  *  Pictures  from  the  mountains/  Thus 
I  have  not  had  very  much  to  build  upon,  but  so  much  the  more  liberty  Ins 
been  left  me.'"^  The  man  Peer  Gynt,  therefore,  is  so  enshrouded  in  the 
mists  of  oblivion  that  the  character  Peer  Gynt  is  far  more  real  and  we  fed 
that  in  him  Ibsen  has  added  another  to  the  great  living  fictitious  personages 
of  all  time. 

Peer's  character,  as  always  in  Ibsen,  has  marked  inherited  trails. 
Descended  from  a  formerly  well-to-do  familj^  of  the  upper  peasant  chss, 
Peer  and  his  mother  live  in  a  poverty  lighted  only  by  memories  of  fomia 
magniiicance.  Ibsen  says  that  there  is  much  in  the  poem  reminiscent  of  his 
own  youth,  and  consequently  in  the  pictures  of  the  feasts  in  the  hall  of  the 
rich  old  Jon  Gynt  the  poet  may  be  said  to  have  harked  back  to  the  time 
when  his  father  was  a  wealthy  merchant  of  Skein,  and  he  lived  in  the  midst 
of  a  prodigal  display.  We  have  his  own  word,  too,  that  his  mother,  with 
necessary  exaggerations,  served  as  model  for  Ase.  Perhaps  this  may  account 
for  the  kindly  touch  with  which  old  'Ase  is  drawn.'  A  foolish,  fond,  scold, 
loving  her  son,  but  never  disciplining  him,  abusing  him  roundly  to  his  face, 
but  his  staunchest  ally  in  his  absence,  praying  in  the  same  breath  that  he 
may  be  punished,  and  may  be  saved  from  punishment.  She  has  imphdt 
faith  in  his  future  and  his  own  dreams  of  greatness. 

*Thou  an  come  of  great  things.  Peer  Gynt, 
And  great  things  shall  come  of  thee.' 

When  we  first  see  Peer,  he  is  a  strong  young  man  of  twenty,  a  roman- 
cing, ragged  braggadocio,  with  a  lilt  on  his  tongue,  and  a  gleam  in  his  eye,— 
a  good-for-nothing,  who  has  never  learned  an  honest  trade,  and  cannot  even 
mend  the  broken  window  panes  in  his  mother's  house.  He  can  tell  you 
a  fine  tale,  however.     Listen  to  that  ride  of  his  over  Gendean  Edge,  and  his 

•To  F.  Hegel,  8th  August,  1867. 


JANE  DRANSFIELD  STONE  385 

wild  leap  on  the  buck's  back  from  the  mountain-top  down  into  the  black 
tmm  so  far  below. 

'Buck  from  over,  buck  from  under, 
In  a  moment  clashed  together. 
Scattering  foam-flecks  all  around.' 
So  potent  is  the  spell  he  cast  upon  his  auditors  that  you  do  not  wonder 
Itts  mother  believes  him  until  suddenly  it  dawns  upon  her  that  her  son's 
wonderful  experience  is  only  the  rehearsal  of  a  folk  tale  she  had  told  him 
lierself,  in  those  days  when  she  craned  fairy  tales  to  him  to  drown  their 
of  wretchedness  and  care. 
And  why  does  he  tell  this  story }    To  save  himself  a  scolding,  since  for 
weeks,  in  the  busiest  season  of  the  year,  he  has  been  lurking  in  the 
mountains  on  a  fruitless  hunting  trip,  returning  without  gun,  without  game, 
and  with  clothes  torn,  having  lost  meantime  his  chance  to  win  a  rich  girl, 
Ilig;rid  of  Hegstad,  for  his  bride,  since  even  now  the  wedding  is  going  on. 
Even  so  early  in  his  career,  he  tries  to  elude  the  unpleasant  consequences 
of  his  own  acts,  a  trait  he  inherits.     'It's  a  terrible  thing  to  look  fate  in  the 
cjresy'  says  Ase  and  to  her  son  it  becomes  constantly  harder. 

Throughout  the  first  act,  the  picture  of  Peer  is  that  of  a  pure  romancer, 
indulging  in  day-dreams  of  his  own  future  greatness,  when  he  shall  have 
become  emperor  of  the  whole  world,  exploiting  his  wonderful  adventures 
before  his  incredulous  companions,  reckless,  heedless,  and  daring,  but  as 
j€t  undebased.  When  Solveig  comes  in,  with  her  modest  downcast 
flbnces,  and  her  psalm-book  wrapped  in  a  handkerchief,  her  purity  attracts 
nim  irresistibly,  and  could  he  have  been  content  to  have  won  her  gendy, 
be  might  have  found  in  her  then  his  '  kaiserdom,'  might  in  her  have  become 
great.  But  Solveig  rejects  his  too  swift  advances.  His  companions  laugh 
at  his  tales,  and  their  laughter  bites.  Scorn  and  rejection  wound  his  pride, 
forcing  him  to  do  some  daring  deed.  Some  of  old  Ase's  tales  had  been  of 
bride-rape.  The  least  hint  is  enough,  and  the  act  closes  with  Peer  stealing 
Ingrid  from  the  store-house,  shouldering  her  bodily,  and  running  oflF  with 
her  up  the  hill,  old  Ase  left  scolding  below. 

In  the  second  act  a  subtle  change  for  the  worse  comes  over  Peer.  The 
descent,  however,  is  gradual.  He  tires  of  Ingrid,  and  deserts  her,  but 
still  remembers  Solveig. 

*  Devil  take  the  tribe  of  women 
All  but  one.' 
When  he  plunges  into  the  low  amours  with  the  three  saeter  girls,  it  is 
'Heavy  of  heart,  and  wanton  of  mind, 
The  eyes  full  of  laughter,  the  throat  of  tears.' 


386  PEER  GYNT— AN  INTERPRETATION 

After  his  escapade  with  the  Dovre  king's  daughter,  however,  die 
Green  Clad  One,  there  is  little  to  like  in  Peer  except  his  very  human  manoeu- 
vering  always  to  come  out  on  the  top.  The  Troll  philosophy  dominans 
him,  even  though  he  repudiates  the  idea  of  complete  subjection  to  troUdom. 

It  may  be  well  to  pause  here,  to  consider  the  significance  of  the  trol 
element  of  the  play.  The  Dovre  kingdom  seems  as  funny  a  topsy-turrjr 
world  as  any  creation  of  Lewis  Carrol's,  but  with  far  more  meaning.  Tidb 
are  creatures  of  purely  northern  mythology,  corresponding  in  their  miUar 
aspects  to  the  English  brownies.  But  Ibsen  uses  them  as  the  expooenB 
of  absolute  selfishness  —  that  part  of  human  nature  which  never  rises  above 
itself,  sees  nothing  but  as  it  desires  to  see  it,  and  has  no  will  but  self-wilL 
The  Dovre  king's  motto,  *  Troll  to  thyself  be  enough,'  and  the  Boygfs 

*  roundabout'  are  the  keynotes  of  their  philosophy. 

The  Boyg  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  puzzling  elements  of  die 
play.  Archer  says  that  'the  idea  of  this  vague,  shapeless,  ubiquitous, 
inevitable,  invulnerable  thing  was  what  chiefly  fascinated  the  poet's  imap- 
nation  in  the  legend  of  Peer  Gynt*  When  it  is  killed  it  is  still  alive,  on- 
wounded  when  hurt,  is  both  out  and  in,  forward  and  back,  conquers  without 
force.  It  is  a  lion  and  women  in  one,  yet  whatever  it  is,  it  is  ever  itself, 
and  is  only  vanquished,  not  by  physical  might,  but  troll-fashion,  by  the 
power  of  the  spirit,  symbolized  in  the  ringing  of  church  bells,  and  the 
prayers  of  women. 

Recalling  ^ Brandy*  Georg  Brandes  identifies  this  mysterious  being 
with  the  spirit  of  Compromise.  Mr.  Wicksteed,  viewing  it  in  the  light  of 
Scene  12,  Act  IV,  calls  it  the  sphinx-riddle  of  life.  One  hesitates  to  cata- 
gorize  so  vague  a  thing,  and  to  each  attentive  reader  the  Boyg  must  make 
a  different  appeal.     To  me  it  means  St.  Paul's  carnal  mind  of  maxi— 

*  mortal  mind '  —  a  Christian  Scientist  would  say  —  that  element  in  man 
which  is  purely  human,  which  baffles  his  best  desires,  which  suggests  that 
he  go  *  roundabout'  to  escape  his  difficulties,  rather  than  through  them, 
and  which  is  only  overcome  through  spirituality.  It  ever  vaunts  itself  to  be 
a  great  /,  a  great  myself y  but  is  in  reality  nothing. 

The  third  act  shows  further  the  deterioration  in  Peer's  character,  and 
his  inability  to  face  the  unpleasant.  Banished  to  the  woods  as  an  outlaw 
in  consequence  of  the  bride-rape,  Peer  has  never  been  forgotten  by  Solveig^ 
who  though  rejecting  his  too  swift  advances  has  nevertheless  established 
in  her  soul  an  ideal  of  Peer,  which  she  worships.  Thinking  it  was  the  real 
Peer  she  loves,  she  forsakes  her  dear  father,  mother,  and  sister,  and  comes 
to  him  in  the  forest;  Peer  greets  her  with  joy. 

'Solveig!  let  me  look  at  you  —  but  not  too  near! 
Only  look  at  you!     Oh,  but  you  are  bright  and  pure, — 


JANE  DRANSFIELD  STONE  387 

f  Let  me  lift  you, —  Oh,  but  you  are  fine  and  light. 

:  Let  me  carry  you  Solveig  —  and  I'll  never  be  tired/ 

I  But  in  the  midst  of  his  rejoicing,  along  comes  the  Green  Clad  One 
iwith  an  ugly  little  boy,  and  tells  him  that  this  is  his  child,  Mame  in  his  leg, 
las  Peer  was  lame  in  his  soul,'  begotten  only  of  lustful  thoughts  and  desires, 
[fjhe  way  of  generation  in  the  Dovre  kingdom.  She  tells  Peer  he  may  marry 
Solveig  if  he  will,  but  that  she  is  his  wife,  and  must  have  her  seat  by  his  side, 
(liough  Solveig  be  there  too.  In  this  predicament,  what  is  Peer's  course  ? 
Repentance  ?  The  word  comes  to  him  from  long-forgotten  years,  and  has 
fKyw  no  meaning.  Expiation  i  Why,  it  would  take  whole  years  to  fight 
his  way  through.  The  Boyg  said,  *  roundabout,'  and  the  Boyg  philosophy 
conquers.  Without  a  word  of  explanation,  bidding  her  only  wait  his  return. 
Peer  takes  to  his  heels,  leaving  the  woman  who  loves  him  to  bear  alone  the 
long  years  of  life.  Probably  it  was  better  for  Solveig  that  he  did,  never- 
theless that  does  not  exonerate  Peer. 

Solveig  is  the  beautiful  element  of  the  play.  Every  scene  in  which  she 
appears  is  lifted  at  once  into  the  realm  of  pure  poetry.  She  is  so  pure  and 
90  good.  As  Agnes  might  have  been  Brand's  salvation,  bringing  peace 
to  his  restless  soul,  could  he  but  have  accepted  her  vision  of  life,  so  she, 
who  made  it  a  holy  day  when  one  looked  at  her  might  have  uplifted  Peer 
had  he  been  capable  of  being  true  to  her. 

This  third  act  contains  another  great  scene  —  the  death  scene  of  Ase, 
one  of  the  strangest  death  scenes  in  all  literature  —  fantastic,  tender,  weird, 
yet  infinitely  pathetic  and  real.  Poor  ugly  old  Ase!  Because  her  son  has 
been  declared  an  outlaw,  all  her  property,  such  as  she  had,  has  been  taken 
from  her  by  the  bailiflF.  Even  the  house  is  hers  only  until  her  death,  and 
now  she  lies  on  the  little  hard  board  bed  Peer  used  as  a  child,  moaning  and 
tossing,  and  longing  to  see  Peer  once  more  before  she  dies.  Not  a  word  of 
reproach  shall  he  have  from  her.  It  was  not  his  fault.  It  was  the  drink 
at  the  wedding  feast  that  crazed  his  head.  So  Peer  enters  to  look  in  upon 
his  mother  for  the  last  time,  before  embarking  for  some  foreign  land.  He 
sees  his  mother's  condition,  but  death  is  horrible  to  him,  as  we  see  in  Act  V 
in  his  interview  with  the  Strange  Passenger.  He  will  listen  to  no  word  of 
parting,  ignores  her  request  for  the  comfort  of  the  prayer-book,  will  chat 
only  of 'thisi  and  that,'  and  finally,  seeing  her  great  distress,  mounts  a  chair, 
and  spirits  her  away  on  the  'fleet  foot  horses'  to  the  world  beyond. 

*To  the  castle  west  of  the  moon  and  the  castle  east  of  the  sun  — 
To  Soria-Moria  Castle.' 
where 

*The  King  and  the  Prince  give  a  feast.' 


388  PEER  GYNT— AN  INTERPRETATION 

Here,  too,  Peer  is  unable  to  face  the  unpleasant.  Nevertheless, 
bends  over  his  mother,  kissing  her  thanks  for  both  *  beatings  and  lull; 
we  find  him  infinitely  more  human  than  Brand,  cruelly  deserting  his  m 
in  her  last  hour,  from  rigid  devotion  to  principle. 

Between  acts  three  and  four  nearly  thiny  years  elapse,  and  when 
we  see  Peer  he  is  a  handsome  ponly  gentleman  of  fifty.  All  the  glai 
of  the  youthful  Peer  has  vanished.  He  is  still  a  romancer,  but  die  t 
of  poetry  is  gone.  He  still  dreams  of  becoming  *  kaiser'  of  the  whole  w 
but  now  on  a  basis  of  gold.  He  has  become  rich,  selling  slaves  to  Aim 
and  idols  to  China.  He  has  picked  up  learning,  and  a  cosmopolitan 
from  every  country  of  Europe.  He  has  grown  pious,  too,  keeping  a 
of  debit  and  credit  with  God,  so  that  for  every  export  of  idols  to  Qiii 
the  spring,  he  sent  out  missionaries  in  the  fall. 

*  What  could  I  do  ?    To  stop  the  trade 

With  China  was  impossible. 

A  plan  I  hit  on  —  opened  straightway 

A  new  trade  with  the  self-same  land. 

I  shipped  off  idols  every  spring. 

Each  autumn  sent  forth  missionaries. 

Supplying  them  with  all  they  needed. 

As  stockings,  Bibles,  rum,  and  rice.' 
Mr.  Cotton. — 

^Yes,  at  a  profit  ? ' 
Peer.— 

*Why,  of  course. 

It  prospered.     Dauntlessly  they  toiled. 

For  every  idol  that  was  sold 

They  got  a  coolie  well  baptized. 

So  that  the  effect  was  neutralized.' 
Vain  and  ridiculous  as  Peer  has  become,  we  laugh  at  him  not 
him,  as  in  a  series  of  brilliant  kaleidoscopic  scenes,  we  seen  him  sto 
on  the  Moroccan  coast,  because  his  sycophant  friends  have  run  ofl 
his  gold :  —  treed  by  monkeys  in  the  desert:  —  plucked  by  Anitra,  hii 
bian  amour;. — and  finally  crowned  as  'kaiser'  in  a  mad  house  in  < 
The  Gyntish  Self  stands  complete.  Imagining  himself  master  of 
situation,  he  is  in  reality  but  the  merest  will-of-the-wisp,  drifting 
and  thither  on  every  wind  of  chance.  Yet  he  considers  himself  a  su 
for  has  he  not  always  been  himself? 

This  'being  one's  self  is  the  keynote  of  the  poem.  What  does 
mean  :     That  to  him  it  was  the  paramount  issue  of  life,  there  is  little  < 


JANE  DRANSFIELD  STONE  389 

B  writes  to  Bjomson  —  *So  to  conduct  one's  life  as  to  realize  one's  self — 

Is  seems  to  me  the  highest  attainment  possible  to  a  human  being.     It  is 

e  task  of  one  and  all  of  us«  but  most  of  us  bungle  it/"^    And  again, —  *  I 

lieve  that  there  is  nothing  else  and  nothing  better  for  us  all  to  do  than 

spirit  and  in  truth  to  realize  our  selves.'**    And,  *The  great  thing  is 

I)ecome  honest  and  truthful  in  dealing  with  one's  self —  not  to  determine 

do  this  or  determine  to  do  that,  but  to  do  what  one  must  do  because  one 

CMie's  self.'*** 

The  character  of  Peer  Gynt  is  the  negative  working  out  of  this  theme. 

Peer  we  see  that  'being  one's  self  is  not.     To  Peer,  to  *be  himself 

Kant  to  carry  out  each  momentary  impulse:  never  to  burn  a  bridge  behind 

m,  but  always  to  evade  responsibility,  to  blame  not  himself  for  his  failures, 

it  circumstances. 

*To  stand  with  choice-free  foo 
Amid  the  treacherous  snares  of  life, — 
To  know  that  ever  in  the  rear 
A  bridge  for  our  retreat  stands  open 
This  theory  has  borne  me  on. 
And  given  my  whole  career  its  color.' 
More  or  less  we  are  all  of  us  Peer  Gynts.     Our  lives  are  not  determined 
a  willed  fidelity  to  an  ideal,  but  like  Peer  we  are  tossed  here  and  there 
fleeting  ambitions    and  momentary  desires.     Ibsen  has  no  sympathy 
th  his  trifling  attitude  toward  life.     In  his  early  plays,  especially  the 
Btorical  series,  he  talks  much  of  fulfilling  one's  calling,  of  one's  divine 
ission  in  life.     Is  every  one,  then,  destined  to  a  great  career  ?    The  poem 
IS  two  direct  answers  to  this  question.     First,  in  the  episode  of  the  poor 
^sant  who  cut  off  his  finger,  thereby  incapacitating  himself  for  mihtary 
rvice  for  which  he  was  drafted,  because  he  knew  he  was  needed  at  home. 
'No  patriot  was  he.     Both  for  church  and  state 
A  fruitless  tree.     But  there,  on  the  upland  ridge. 
In  the  small  circle  where  he  saw  his  calling. 
There  he  was  great,  because  he  was  himself.' 
lis  is  Goethe's  'In  der  Beschrankung  zeigt  sich  erst  der  Meister' — and 
atthew  Arnold's —  *In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring.' 

Solveig's  faith  is  also  an  answer.  After  the  scene  in  which  Peer  is 
eced,  then  deserted  by  Anitra,  for  an  instant  we  are  transported  again 
the  north,  and  look  upon  Solveig,  now  a  middle-aged  woman,  sitting 
Fore  the  door  of  the  hut  Peer  had  built  in  the  forest  and  singing  as  she  spins. 

•8th  AnfCQst,  1882.  ••ToTheodor  Carpari,  27th  June,  1884.  «»«To  Laon 

ler,  11th  June,  1870. 


390  PEER  GYNT— AN  INTERPRETATION 

*  Maybe  both  the  winter  and  spring  will  pass  by. 
And  the  next  summer  too,  and  the  whole  of  the  year:  — 
But  thou  wilt  come  one  day,  that  I  know  full  well: 
And  I  will  await  thee  as  I  promised  thee  of  old. 

[Calls  the  goatSf  spinSj  and  sings  again!\ 

God  strengthen  thee,  whereso  thou  goest  in  the  world  1 

God  gladden  thee,  if  at  his  footstool  thou  stand! 

Here  will  I  await  thee  till  thou  comest  again: 

And  if  thou  wait  up  yonder,  then  there  we'll  meet,  my  friend/ 

In  her  beautiful  fidelity  to  the  ideal  Peer  within  her  heart,  lies  Solveig't 

greatness,  and  finally  Peer's  salvation.     So  that  we  see  that  Ibsen's  idei 

is  neither  selfish  idealism,  as  Brand's,  nor  selfish  realism,  as  Peer  Gym's, 

but  the  unselfish  working  out  of  the  best  in  us:  —  the  attainment  of  spiritiiil 

liberty,  and  wholeness  of  life. 

The  founh  act  is  clever  satire,  the  fifth  pure  and  great  poetiy.  So 
slender  are  the  threads,  however,  that  bind  it  to  earth,  that  the  reader  ii 
inclined  to  regard  its  events  as  merely  symbolic.  Such  was  not  Ibsen's 
intention.  Even  Mr.  Clemens  Petersen's  statement  that  the  Strange 
Passenger  symbolized  terror  aroused  Isben's  anger.  *He  (Clemens  Peter- 
sen) says  that  the  Strange  Passenger  is  symbolic  of  terror.  Supposing  that 
I  had  been  about  to  be  executed  and  that  such  an  explanation  would  have 
saved  my  life,  it  would  never  have  occurred  to  me.  I  never  thought  of  such 
a  thing.  I  stuck  in  the  scene  as  a  mere  caprice.  And  tell  me  now,  is  Pc^ 
Gynt  himself  not  a  personality  complete  and  individual  ?  I  know  that 
he  is.'* 

Briefly,  the  fifth  act  may  be  outlined  as  follows:  Peer,  now  a  miserly 
old  man,  is  returning  to  Norway.  Just  off  the  coast  he  is  shipwrecked,  and 
saves  his  life  by  knocking  the  ship's  cook  off  the  little  boat  to  which  they 
were  both  clinging.  Peer  escapes,  and  returns  to  his  old  home,  where  be 
finds  himself  but  a  tradition.  He  seeks  the  forest,  the  scene  of  his  oudawiy, 
where  he  comes  upon  Solveig  still  waiting  for  him,  but  he  flees  from  htf. 
The  Button-Moulder  comes  along  with  his  casting-ladle,  looking  for  one 
Peer  Gynt,  whom  his  master  has  ordered  him  to  melt  up  along  with  other 
spoilt  goods  into  something  new.  Peer  resents  this  *Gynt-cessation'  with 
all  his  heart.  Either  one  of  two  things  he  must  prove  to  save  himself, 
either  that  he  has  always  been  himself,  or  that  he  is  an  exceptional  sinner. 
Peer.  — 

One  question  only: 
What  is  it,  at  bottom,  this  "being  one's  self"  ^ 

•  To  Bjomson,  9th  December,  1867. 


JANE  DRANSFIELD  STONE  391 

The  Buttoft'-Moulier. — 

n*o  be  one  self  is :  to  shy  oneself. 
But  on  you  that  answer  is  doubtless  lost: 
And  therefore  we'll  say:  to  stand  forth  everywhere 
With  Master^s  intention  displayed  Kke  a  signboard/ 
Peer  can  not  claim  he  has  been  himself  accordmg  to  this  standard : 
r  can  he  prove  himself  a  great  sinner. 
The  Button-'Moulier. — 

'You're  not  one  thing  nor  the  other  then,  only  so-so. 
A  sinner  of  reaify  grandiose  style 
Is  nowadays  not  to  be  met  on  the  highways. 
It  VTants  much  more  than  merely  to  wallow  in  mire. 
For  both  vigor  and  earnestness  go  to  a  sin.' 
there  no  one  in  heaven  or  hell,  then,  to  save  him  ?    In  his  terror  he  remem- 
rs  the  one  against  whom  he  has  really  sinned.     Surely  Solveig  will  have 
sin-Kst  for  him,  but  when  he  throws  himself  before  her  to  hear  his  doom, 
t  has  no  word  of  blame  for  him. 
Pier.— 

*Cry  out  all  my  sins  and  my  trespasses!' 
Solveig. — 

'In  nought  hast  thou  sinned,  oh  my  own  only  boy!' 
Peer.— 

*Cry  aloud  my  crime!' 
Solveig. — 

niiou  hast  made  all  my  life  as  a  beautiful  song. 
Blessed  be  thou  that  at  last  thou  hast  come!' 
le  Button-Moulder  disappears,  and  the  poem  ends  with  Peer  lying  in 
Iveig's  arms,  a  saved  man. 

In  the  fifth  act,  then,  is  the  binh  of  the  true  Peer  Gynt.  His  conception 
mrs  in  the  conversation  with  the  Strange  Passenger  during  the  shipwreck, 
len  there  is  presented  for  the  first  time  to  his  mind  the  idea  of  dread^  or 
Mr.  Archer  has  it  in  the  footnote  to  his  translation  of  this  passage  (the 
inslation  I  should  like  to  state  I  have  used  throughout)  'the  conviction 
sin.'  It  is  the  moral  sense  of  the  soul's  obligation  to  goodness.  Peer 
es  not  express  this  at  once,  however,  and  it  is  found  first  definitely  in  his 
nous  comparison  of  himself  to  an  onion,  which  like  himself  is  but  an 
inite  number  of  swathings,  with  never  a  kernel.  Solveig's  fidelity  to 
n  makes  him  realize,  but  too  late,  that  in  her  heart  had  been  his  kaiser- 
m,  and  the  exquisite  thread-ball  scene  in  which  the  thoughts  he  should 
vt  thought,  and  the  deeds  he  should  have  done  rise  to  reproach  him. 


392  PEER  GYNT— AN  INTERPRETATION 

begins  with  his  own  searching  analysis  of  himself  as  a  'whited  sepuidue* 
with  'earnest  shunned'  and  'repentance  dreaded/  At  last  he  sees  thatlm 
life  has  been  unworthy  of  perpetuation. 

'So  unspeakably  poor,  then,  a  soul  can  go 

Back  to  nothingness,  into  the  grey  of  the  mist. 

Thou  beautiful  earth,  be  not  angry  with  me 

That  I  trampled  thy  grasses  to  no  avail. 

Thou  beautiful  sun,  thou  hast  squandered  away 

Thy  glory  of  light  in  an  empty  hut.' 
Mr.  Brandes  declares  that  the  thread-ball,  and  this  scene,  are  out  of 
harmony  with  the  rest  of  Peer's  character,  and  are  consequently  to  be  taken 
as  expressions  of  Ibsen's  own  regret.  It  is  true  that  the  old  Peer  Gynt  cooU 
not  have  spoken  thus,  but  the  new  soul  growing  within  him  can,  and  doei. 
It  has  been  claimed,  too,  that  Peer's  final  salvation  is  too  romantic  an  endiif 
to  be  in  accord  with  Ibsen's  usual  teachings.  The  logical  place  for  Peer 
Gynt  seems  to  be  the  casting-ladle,  yet  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  eico 
Peer  was  not  saved  until  there  had  come  upon  him  the  realization  of  hii 
own  impotence  and  need. 


i 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  GREEN* 

By  Jeannette  Marks 

HERE  in  the  sylvan  ragged  woods  and  fields  is  some  natural 
magic  of  the  wind  and  of  the  world,  some  power  incarnate 
in  sound;  in  the  clapping  of  the  little  leaves  upon  the 
treetop,  the  harsh  noise  of  blown  leaves,  the  broken  song 
of  naked  apple  boughs,  the  little  voice  in  the  valley  and 
the  tiny  piping  over  bare  pastures,  the  windage  of  the 
uplands  with  the  great  rushing  wind  and  the  little  rustling 
wind,  the  big  far-travelling  wind  and  the  distant  battling  wind  with  its 
hdlow  sound  of  moving  waters  and  its  speech  of  destiny.  Here,  too,  is 
iome  natural  magic  in  this  transformation  from  the  clear  green  of  spring 
ID  the  old  gold  of  autumn,  in  those  fields  and  sunny  avenues  and  endless 
alleys  of  marching  apple  trees,  in  this  glade  of  yellow  ferns  and  tall  white 
birches  crowned  with  yellow  autumn  leaves,  and  in  these  maple  trees, 
bare  now,  their  spaces  filled  with  the  grays  and  azures  of  the  varying  skies. 
Even  the  little  stone  that  has  rolled  out  of  its  socket  of  earth  arrests  the  eye 
with  a  sense  of  something  beyond  the  immediate  presence  of  that  which  is 
seen*    An  ethereal  touch  has  come  and  pleasure  no  longer  waits,  as  in 

Sring,  on  the  beauty  of  detail :  the  appearance  of  a  starry  flower,  or  some 
int  change  in  color,  or  the  coming  of  a  new  bird  song.  Flowers  there 
still  are  amidst  the  fluff  of  blown  thistles  and  purple  asters,  and  in  the 
morning  the  meadow  lark  still  sings  its  song.  But  every  little  incident 
no  longer  binds  the  eyes  by  its  beauty  and  its  youth  to  earth;  here  is  some 
power  invisible,  and  separable  from  our  lives.  The  trees  denuded  of  leaves, 
of  the  exquisite  incident  of  blooming  life,  the  meadows  stripped  of  their 
wavering  linked  grass,  the  fields  razed  of  their  burden  ot  grain, —  the 
imagination  becomes  supreme. 

And  when  in  the  blue  mist  of  twilight,  red  apples  gleam,  the  mind 
looks  forward  into  the  Wague  land.'  It  is  as  if  life  had  been  filled  with 
the  loveliness  of  concrete  objects, —  earth  enamelled  with  the  bright  beauty 
if  g^een  fields  and  blue  slues  and  golden  sun,  and  now,  with  the  light 
^mmering  through  the  trees  on  the  hill-horizon  far  away,  and  the  somber 
irabesque  of  moss  underfoot,  changing  swiftly  to  the  monotones  of  dusk. 
iVide  flumes  of  shadow  reach  up  the  darkening  hills,  little  shadows  lie 
notionless,  the  wind  steps  softly  amongst  the  corn  and  its  sentinel  shadows, 
ind  in  the  chill  luster  of  moonshine  stars  hang  on  the  bare  branches. 

*  Copyright  by  Jeannette  Marki,  1907. 

393 


394  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  GREEN 

Life  —  with  the  subduing  of  the  colors  of  autumn,  the  metsnnorphotis 
crimsons  and  glowing  yellows  to  the  little  pale  flames  and  dun  colors 
the  wide-spread  meadows  and  woods,  with  the  wind  in  the  com,  and 
shaken  cry  of  the  owl  at  night  —  life  grows  suddenly  tenuous,  suflFe 
a  change  into  that  which  abides  elsewhere.     With  the  thou^t  of 
repeated  bloom  and  decay  of  nature,  its  unceasing  revolutions^  of  nai 
existence,  the  mind  dwells  more  and  more  on  that  which  is  shaped  id 
spirit,  and  clouds  and  seas  and  mountains  disappear,  as  with  Midi 
in  that  greater  sea  which  is  the  soul  of  man,  boundless  and  dim, 
trade-wmds  Trom  eternity/    One  feels  the  vitality  of  nature  apart 
its  beauty.     Even  the  very  mist  is  haunted  by  a  shadow  of  that  which  i 
beyond. 

The  mind  broods  on  something  out  of  its  perception,  something 
dwells  unseen  in  the  far  sound  of  the  pines,  in  the  wail  of  the  wind,  in 
surging  of  branches,  in  the  twitching  of  littk  shadows  m  a  twiltt  roo 
something  inscrutable  and  yet  mirrored  in  the  settling  dusky  fight  and 
in  the  altering  silences.  Beyond  the  eye,  invisible  to  the  eye,  a  pr 
passes,  the  mind  alone  beholding  the  land  of  its  quiet  light,  its  spectral  f< 
of  unknown  hills,  and  the  rush  of  its  eternal  winds.  And  gray  in  the  midst 
that  procession  there  is  one  figure^  vast,  pervasive,  followed  by  a  multitude,! 
their  thoughts  obedient,  their  hearts  sighing.  And  on  the  path  behfnd  is 
eddy  as  of  whirling  leaves  and  the  sound  of  them  is  like  the  clatter  of  die 
winter  wind.  Here  with  the  force  of  great  moments  when  one  stands  face 
to  face  with  the  inexplicable,  here  is  the  unrelieved  meaning  to  the  end 
life.  Sucked  into  that  path  of  the  wind,  swept  toward  those  unknown 
hills  the  spirit  seems  suddenly  captive  and  powerless.  Then  for  the  first 
times  come  that  pitiful  severance  between  our  hearts  and  the  nature  about 
us;  and  we  are  touched  with  home  sickness  ever  after,  knowing  that  die 
beat  of  the  vine  on  the  window  pane  has  been  no  measure  of  a  human  pulse. 
The  division  between  our  being  and  nature's  is  present  with  us;  because 
we  came  we  must  go. 

This  is  a  season  of  great  natural  drama;  now  one  is  aware  of  the  direc- 
tion of  all  the  forces  which  have  been  growing,  the  working  out  of  law. 
But  there  lies  something  in  that  dreamy  haze,  that  pensive  level  Kght  which 
finds  no  sensuous  expression  —  an  incommunicable  idea,  pelluad,  misty, 
like  little  treetops  caught  for  an  instant  in  crystal  presence  on  a  dusky  hrD. 
Even  the  shadows  have  a  kind  of  transparency  pale  and  thin  with  a  spiritual 
effect  of  receding.  And  beyond  the  hills  beneath  the  strips  of  level  green 
sky  is  the  underlight  of  an  unseen  sea.  There,  in  that  somewhat  of  which 
nothing  is  known,  is  one's  certainty  of  hope  —  acknowledged  ignorance 
potent  with  faith. 


THREE   DAYS 

By  Helen  Sharpsteen 

I 

S  lilies  'neath  the  feet  of  May 

Sprang,  marking  where  she  trod. 
So  springs  each  year  a  flower-sweet  day 
Beneath  the  smile  of  God. 

And  it  is  ours  to  bend  each  year 
And  pluck  the  warm  sweet  rose, 

Renewing  memories  fragrant,  dear, 
The  day's  heart  doth  enclose. 


II 

Dear  hands  I  loved  when  long  ago 
You  took  my  heart  and  me. 

Dear  eyes  through  which  alone  I  know 
The  joys  of  things  to  be ;  — 

Take  once  again,  in  symbolwise. 
This  day  —  which  doth  renew 

The  fragrance  of  those  memories, — 
All  that  belongs  to  you. 


Ill 

Three  days  that  mark  the  sum  of  life, 

Marking  the  sum  of  love, 
A  trinity  with  meanings  rife 

For  us  to  take  thereof. 

One  day  that  opened  life  with  love, 
One  day  love's  own  caress. 

And  one  the  sum  of  all  to  prove. 
To  crown,  confirm,  and  bless. 

395 


THE    POETRY    OF    ROBERT    LOUIS 

STEVENSON 

By  Alexander  Jessop 

LCX)KING  at  the  features  of  Stevenson,  one  is  tempted  to 
exclaim,  in  the  language  of  the  painter  enraptured  befoie 
the  respondent  model,  'Character,  character,  is  what  he 
has!'  As  it  is  true  of  the  man  himself,  so  may  it  be  said 
of  his  writings,  'Character,  character  is  what  they  have!' 
Plainly,  Stevenson  is  a  writer  with  a  style  —  a  writer  for 
the  sake  of  a  style,  some  have  been  heard  to  expostulatt 
In  truth,  Stevenson  is  a  writer  with  several  styles,  each  one  of  which  is  best 
adapted  to  set  forth  the  message  of  its  own  particular  subject.  Yet,  though 
the  glow  and  glitter  of  language  are  music  to  him,  they  make  but  tunes  afm 
all;  still  more  to  him,  one  imagines,  are  the  meanings  that  sing  to  theOi 
the  life  he  depicts.  '  I  never  cared  a  cent  for  anything  but  art,  and  ne?er 
shall,'  says  Stevenson's  Loudon  Dodd,  in  'The  Wrecker.'  An  impiessioD 
that  one  gets  from  reading  Stevenson  is  that  he  cares  as  much  for  art  and 
as  much  for  life,  each,  as  Loudon  Dodd  cared,  he  says,  for  art  alone.  Stev- 
enson's two  animating  passions  are  youth  and  courage,  if  indeed  they  are 
two,  and  not  rather  (as  Stevenson  makes  us  think)  one  and  indissoluble. 

All  Stevenson's  writings  have  certain  characteristics  in  common.  The 
poetry  of  Stevenson  displays  the  same  animation  of  youth  and  courage, 
the  same  felicity  of  word  and  phrase  that  his  prose  does.  But  it  has  in 
addition  other  qualities  that  his  prose  writings  do  not  share.  Some  of  these 
qualities  are,  doubtless,  those  which  make  the  distinction  between  prose 
and  poetry,  beyond  the  mere  form  of  utterance.  Similarly,  his  poetry  may 
be  said  to  lack  some  of  the  enticing  aspects  of  his  prose  writings.  For 
example,  'The  Vagabond,'  beginning: 

Give  to  me  the  life  I  love. 
Let  the  lave  go  by  me. 
Give  the  jolly  heaven  above 
And  the  byway  nigh  me, 
has  almost  exactly  the  qualities  that  are  to  be  felt  in  his  essays.   Walking 
Tours,'  'iEs  Triplex,'  and  others.     That  poem  might  just  as  well  have  been 
written  in  prose.     Not  that  its  qualities  are  not  excellent,  but  that  they  are 
dittVrent  from  those  of  pure  poetry.     But  the  best  of  Stevenson's  poems 
embody  the  poetry  that  cannot  be  or  cannot  be  so  well  expressed  in  prose, 

396 


ALEXANDER  JESSOP  397 

7e\l  as  his  other  qualities;  the  poem,  'The  Unforgotten/  for  example, 
nning: 

She  rested  by  the  Broken  Brook, 

She  drank  of  Weary  Well, 
She  moved  beyond  my  lingering  look, 
Ah,  whither  none  can  tell! 
It  poem  has  qualities  that  could  be  expressed  not  only  not  so  well  in 
;e,  but  perhaps  not  at  all.     The  first  stanza  (the  one  quoted),  at  least, 
a  lyric  spontaneity  united  with  a  grave  simplicity  that  is  fully  equal 
Vordsworth's : 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways. 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 
And  very  few  to  love. 
:  advantage,  of  course,  that  even  such  a  poem  as  'The  Vagabond'  has 
prose  utterance  on  the  same  theme  is,  that  poetry  is  more  quintessential, 
try  is  a  more  concise  vehicle  of  expression  than  prose.     That  is  one 
on  why  it  is  so  much  easier  to  discern  Stevenson's  particular  char- 
risdcs  in  his  poems  than  in  his  other  writings. 

In  common  with  those  of  Wordsworth  and  many  other  writers  many  of 
enson's  poems  are  strongly  impressionistic.  The  tendency  to  impres- 
ism  is  now  increasingly  apparent  both  in  poetry  and  prose;  and,  on 
ivhole,  literature  gains  by  it.  It  is  in  the  direction  of  emancipation  — 
otest  against  academicism  and  conventionali^.  Conventionality  never 
lid  anything  for  literature,  and  never  will.  On  the  other  hand,  it  may 
aid  that  impressionism,  if  too  freely  followed,  is  itself  in  danger  of 
ming  a  convention.  But  it  is  most  effective  when  applied  sparingly, 
I  this  poem  by  Stevenson  which  bears  no  title: 

Bright  is  the  ring  of  words 

When  the  right  man  rings  them, 
Fair  the  fall  of  songs 

When  the  singer  sings  them. 
Still  they  are  caroled  and  said  — 

On  wings  they  are  carried  — 
After  the  singer  is  dead 
And  the  maker  buried. 

Low  as  the  singer  lies 

In  the  field  of  heather. 
Songs  of  his  fashion  bring 

The  swains  together. 


398   THE  POETRY  OF  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON   I 

And  when  the  west  is  red  I|^ 

With  the  sunset  embers,  l^e 

The  lover  lingers  and  sings  1^ 

And  the  maid  remembers.  |bi 

The  first  two  lines  of  the  second  stanza  are,  to  my  thinking,  the  most  eflFiecDtllii 
ones  in  that  poem,  and  all  the  more  so  from  their  position  among  lines  Bllb 
so  strongly  stamped  with  the  impressionistic  hall-mark.     Through  c**?!^ 
true  lover  of  poetry,  reading  that  poem  for  the  first  time,  a  wave  of  coin|i»|B 
hension  and  emotion  surely  passes  as  he  comes  to  those  lines.     The  cffeol 
and  purpose  of  such  impressionism  is,  of  course,  to  make  one  feel  whatil*^ 
described  or  hinted  at.     Thus  it  may  be  seen  that  it  is  bound  up  withdit|d 
very  essence  of  utter  poetry,  which  does  not  appeal  primarily  to  the  intdkal 
(as  academic  traditions  would  have  us  think)  but  to  something  more  subtk-l 
the  emotions  of  the  heart  and  of  the  soul.     The  reason  why  this  impressxA-l 
istic  writing,  especially  in  poetry,  is  most  effective  when  sparingly  appMI 
doubtless  is  because,  giving  as  it  does  of  the  very  essence  of  poetry,  the  I 
note  cannot  be  sustained  for  any  length  of  time,  even  by  the  greatest  poetkl 
geniuses.     Sometimes  it  is  so  sustained,  and  then  a  perfect  poem  is  the  resuk  I 
But  most  poems  have  to  depend  for  their  effect  on  a  charm  that  is  to  be  fek 
as  the  total  result,  rather  than  as  sustained  at  every  point. 

Various  academic  writers  have,  at  intervals  during  several  thousand 
years,  endeavored  to  formulate  definitions  and  theories  of  what  constitutes 
poetry.  These  specifications  have  been  very  useful,  no  doubt:  but  without 
a  doubt,  too,  they  have  been  felt  as  a  fetter  to  originality  rather  than  as  an 
aid  and  inspiration.  It  is  just  what  has  been  written  outside  of  such  rules, 
without  precedent,  that  has  proved  of  greatest  value  in  poetry.  Yet  diflPer- 
ence  is  not  always  excellence;  even  originality  may  be  trivial  or  grotesque 
The  difference,  in  order  to  be  worth  while,  must  be  excellent  difference. 
When  a  high  degree  of  both  difference  and  excellence  is  to  be  found  in 
the  same  piece  of  writing  we  may  be  sure  that  something  has  been  written 
that  mankind  will  not  willingly  forget  or  value  slightly. 

Stevenson's  poetry  is  excellent,  and  it  is  largely  different  from  the  poetn' 
of  any  other  poet.  Like  all  good  poetry,  it  has  something  in  common  with 
the  work  of  other  poets,  great  or  fine  —  it  contains  the  universal  prime 
essence.  But  Stevenson's  point  of  view  is  highly  original.  That  it  is  which 
constitutes  his  claim  to  remembrance  in  this  highest  department  of  literan* 
art.  All  single  definitions  must  partly  fail  when  the  attempt  is  made  to 
foist  one  of  them  upon  so  wide  and  intangible  a  thing  as  poetry.  Yet,  if 
I  were  to  gi^^e  a  definition  of  poetry's  quintessence  in  a  single  sentence, 
from  a  single  point  of  view,  I  should  say,  *The  spirit  of  poetry  is  loneliness, 


ALEXANDER  JESSOP  399 

iporld-aloofness/  In  the  midst  of  commonness  we  feel  the  uncommon  — 
s  stars  are  above  the  plain,  and  in  the  midst  of  sordidness  we  feel  the  ideal 
ckoning  on.  The  puq>ose  of  poetry,  then,  is  to  represent  the  ideal  as  it 
to  be  found  in  the  ordinary  —  that  is,  in  life.  If  we  consider  the  highest 
j^ts  of  poetry  in  this  age,  or  in  any  age,  we  will  find  that  they  all  more  or 
HI  uphold  that  definition.  Other  definitions,  too,  might  be  truthfully 
l^fied;  but,  as  I  have  already  tried  to  indicate  implicitly,  suggestiveness 
iihe  finest  quality  not  only  of  poetry  but  of  prose  definitions  about  it. 

For  melody,  for  successful  impressionism,  for  utter  pathos,  Stevenson's 
Pandering  Willie'  is  unsurpassed,  not  only  among  his  own  poems  but  in 
poetry: 
Home  no  more  home  to  me,  whither  must  I  wander  ? 

Hunger  my  driver,  I  go  where  I  must. 
Cold  blows  the  winter  wind  over  hill  and  heather; 

Thick  drives  the  rain,  and  my  roof  is  in  dust. 
Loved  of  wise  men  was  the  shade  of  my  roof-tree, 

The  true  word  of  welcome  was  spoken  in  the  door  — 
Dear  days  of  old,  with  the  faces  in  the  firelight. 
Kind  folks  of  old,  you  come  again  no  more. 

Home  was  home,  then,  my  dear,  full  of  kindly  faces. 

Home  was  home,  then,  my  dear,  happy  for  the  child. 
Fire  and  the  window  bright  glittered  on  the  moorland; 

Song,  tuneful  song,  built  a  palace  in  the  wild. 
Now,  when  day  dawns  on  the  brow  of  the  moorland, 

Lone  stands  the  house,  and  the  chimney-stone  is  cold. 
Lone  let  it  stand,  now  the  friends  are  all  departed, 

The  kind  hearts,  the  true  hearts,  that  loved  the  place  of  old. 

Spring  shall  come,  come  again,  calling  up  the  moor-fowl, 

Spring  shall  bring  the  sun  and  rain,  bring  the  bees  and  flowers; 
Red  shall  the  heather  bloom  over  hill  and  valley, 

Soft  flow  the  stream  through  the  even-flowing  hours; 
Fair  the  day  shine  as  it  shown  on  my  childhood  — 

Fair  shine  the  day  on  the  house  with  open  door; 
Birds  come  and  cry  there  and  twitter  in  the  chimney  — 

But  I  go  forever  and  come  again  no  more. 

o  not  mean  the  word  'pathos'  in  its  original  Greek  sense,  of  course,  but 
its  modern  English  application.     Does  this  poem  somewhat  pale  beside 


1 


400   THE  POETRY  OF  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

such  supreme  achievements  treating  of  a  similar  subject  as  TennysoD'tl^ 
'A  Farewell/  'In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz/  'Break,  Break,  Break/  *Tcan»|' 
Idle  Tears/  etc.  ?    The  difference  between  those  poems  and  Stevensoi 
is  a  difference  in  kind  rather  than  in  quality.     The  greatest  poetry  appdk 
to  the  universal  soul  of  man;  somewhat  below  these  highest  peaks  of  so^ 
comes  that  poetry  that  appeals  primarily  to  the  heart;  the  lofwer  hei^ 
are  occupied  by  the  dreary  academicism  whose  appeal  is  mostly  to  tk 
intellect.     What  might  be  very  effective  in  prose  may  be  wholly  out  of  phce 
as  poetry. 

The  truth  may  as  well  be  confessed.  Wonderfully  impressionistic  as 
is  Stevenson's  poetry  at  its  best,  its  appeal  is  rather  to  the  emotions  of  the 
heart  than  of  the  soul.  His  poetry,  even  at  its  best,  is  somewhat  lacking 
in  austerity.  This  quality  at  times  comes  perilously  near  to  academidsn  I 
and  pretentiousness.  But,  at  its  truest  and  best,  it  is  of  the  essence  of  the 
greatest  song.  Stevenson,  to  be  sure,  writes  a  good  deal  about  austeritf. 
But  that  does  not  make  his  art  austere.  But  what  the  poems  of  Stevemoi 
lack  in  austerity  they  make  up  in  their  warmth  of  human  appeal;  thqriR 
the  intimate  poetry  of  personal  relations.  That  is  what  constitutes  thar 
uniqueness. 

If  'Wandering  Willie*  has  a  rival  among  Stevenson's  poems,  it  is  the 
one  entitled  'In  Memoriam.     F.  A.  S.': 

Yet,  oh,  stricken  heart,  remember,  oh,  remember, 
How  of  human  days  he  lived  the  better  part. 

April  came  to  bloom  and  never  dim  December 
Breathed  its  killing  chills  upon  the  head  or  heart. 

Doomed  to  know  not  Winter,  only  Spring,  a  being 
Trod  the  flowery  April  blithely  for  a  while. 

Took  his  fill  of  music,  joy  of  thought  and  seeing. 

Came  and  stayed  and  went,  nor  ever  ceased  to  smile. 

Came  and  stayed  and  went,  and  now  when  all  is  finished. 

You  alone  have  crossed  the  melancholy  stream. 
Yours  the  pang,  but  his  —  oh,  his  the  undiminished, 

Undecaying  gladness,  undeparted  dream. 
All  that  life  contains  of  torture,  toil,  and  treason. 

Shame,  dishonor,  death,  to  him  were  but  a  name. 
Here,  a  boy,  he  dwelt  through  all  the  singing  season 

And  ere  the  day  of  sorrow  departed  as  he  came. 

I  have  not  attempted  to  speak  of 'A  Child's  Garden  of  Verses/    The 
best  of  their  kind,  those  'poems'  are  not  to  be  judged  as  poetry  proper  so 


SARA  TEASDALE  401 

:h  as  delightful  reminiscences  of  childhood,  which  happen  to  be  written 
erse.     The  remarks  in  the  present  essay  do  not,  therefore,  apply  to  them. 

Stevenson's  poetry  is  not  very  reminiscent  of  the  work  of  other  poets. 

it  is  reminiscent  of  all  the  more  tender  and  animated  aspects  of  life  — 
intimate,  vital  emotions  of  the  heart.  And,  as  its  best,  the  charm  and 
10s  of  it  are  irresistible.  As  long  as  idealism  and  romance  are  unfailing 
heir  appeal  it  will  not,  it  cannot,  be  forgotten. 


SILENCE 

By  Sara  Teasdale 
To  EUonora  Duse 


E  are  anhungered  after  solitude, 

Deep  stillness  pure  of  any  speech  or  sound, 
Soft  quiet  hovering  over  pools  profound; 
The  silences  that  on  the  desert  brood; 
Above  the  windless  hush  of  empty  seas. 
The  broad  unfurling  banners  of  die  dawn; 

A  faery  forest  where  there  sleeps  a  Faun; 

Our  souls  are  fain  of  solitudes  like  these. 

O  woman  who  divined  our  weariness. 

And  set  the  crown  of  silence  on  your  art. 

From  what  undreamed  of  depths  within  your  heart 

Have  you  sent  forth  the  hush  that  makes  us  free 

To  hear  an  instant,  high  above  earth's  stress. 

The  silent  music  of  infinity  ? 


HYMN  TO  THE  WINGED  NIKE 

By  Florence  Kiper 

I 

N  earth-bound  priestess,  hampered  and  secure, 
I  scarcely  dare  approach  thee,  sovereign  form, 
I  scarcely  dare  essay  the  rapturous  joy 
Of  movement  and  of  (ire  that  is  thy  heart. 

Yet  know 
There  burns  in  me  the  glow. 
The  restless  glow  that  feedeth  thy  desire, — 
Pulsating,  winged  heart  of  joy  and  (ire. 

I  too  aspire 
As  thou,  O  goddess;  I  too  feel  the  urge 
Of  passions  and  of  utterances  high 
That  break  through  to  the  In(inite  and  cry 
Against  the  clouds  their  pulsing  movements  vast. 
My  soul  has  wings  like  thine. 
And  those  full  limbs  that  flaunt 
The  fluttering  drapery 
And  that  deep  bosom  free 

Are  mine,  are  mine! 

II 

What  quickeneth  the  urge 

Within  thee  ?  —  dost  thou  feel  the  sweep  and  surge 

Of  the  vast  flowing  of  illimitable  life, 

Life  beyond  life,  and  striving  beyond  strife  ? 

Ah,  from  what  amplitude  of  powers  emerge 

That  stern  and  glorious  strength  that  thrills  through  theCi 

Thou  vivid,  burning  song  of  victory! 

Large  freedom's  high  imagination  thou. 

Sweeping  the  cleaved  air  with  haughty  stroke. 

As  if  thy  great  life  broke 

Free  from  our  prisoning  cells  that  bruise  and  bow. 

The  poet  thou, — 
The  poet's  soul  all  vivid  things  above, — 

102 


I 


FLORENCE  KIPER  4^3 

More  vivid  and  more  vital  in  its  love 
Than  love  of  woman  who  has  waked  to  love. 
Triumph  of  burning  justice  and  its  might! 
Triumph  of  soul  and  its  august  decrees: 

Triumph  of  right! 
Ah,  what  vast  things  to  be  are  in  thy  sight! 

Ill 

Art  thou  indeed  the  Godhead,  molded  strong 
In  the  calm  marble  which  must  needs  be  white 
Because  it  focuses  all  shades  of  light 
The  crimson  passion  and  the  yearning  hue 

Of  the  pale  spiritual  blue! 

Dost  all  to  thee  belong  ?  — 
Emotion  and  emotion,  strong  or  weak  ?  — 

All  powers  and  shades  of  song  ? 

Ah,  could'st  thou  speak: 
Speak  to  me,  bend  above  me,  touch  my  lips. 
Anoint  me  with  thy  presence,  consecrate 

My  soul  unto  thy  state. 
And  I  shall  burst  into  such  power  of  words 
As  men  have  waited  for  with  eager  hearts 
Since  last  the  gods  walked  big  among  us. 

It  may  not  be! 
I  may  not  see  thee  naked-free  and  pure, — 
An  earth-bound  priestess,  hampered  and  secure.| 

'Tis  but  for  me  to  see 
The  splendor  keen  that  darts 
From  out  thy  garment  folds; 
Some  touch  upon  my  hand  I  know,  same  far 

Faint  rustle  of  thy  gown. 

And  yet  my  quick  heart  holds 
Its  yearning,  aching,  passionate  dream  of  thee. 


RECENT  WORKS    BY  GERMAN 

WRITERS 

By  Amelia  von  Ende 

IKT   T^  EW  works  by  authors  who  have  long  passed  the  zenith  of 

L     J^     /        their  powers  make  one  realize  the  rapid  pace  at  which  it 

^ /^k  /         are  moving  along  in  the  procession.     It  seems  but  yester- 

Wf     Wf  day  that  students  of  German  were  ravished  by  the  poetic 

^       ^  sentiment  and  verbal  beauty  of  *  Die  braune  Erika/     Yet 

what  a  distance  Wilhelm  Jensen  has  covered  since  the 
publication  of  that  exquisite  little  story,  and  from  what 
a  distance  the  readers  look  back  to  him,  who  was  then  thirty-one,  now  that 
he  has  reached  his  threescore  and  ten  and  has  one  hundred  and  fifty  volumes 
to  his  credit.  It  must  be  admitted,  also,  that  although  the  radiance  of  his 
name  may  at  intervals  have  been  totally  eclipsed  by  the  newer  and  noisier 
fame  of  novices,  the  sound  of  it  still  falls  upon  the  ear  with  something  of 
a  tender  caress,  for  it  recalls  visions  of  beauty  which  at  that  time  only  his 
pen  was  able  to  evoke.  Jensen  visualized  upon  the  printed  page  atmosphere^ 
color,  lights  and  shadows,  as  the  painter  does  on  canvas.  He  introduced 
in  fiction  the  element  of  nature  study  and  limned  with  genial  realism  the 
scientist  type,  which  had  previously  been  the  butt  of  satire.  The  formid- 
able quantity  of  his  works  is  hardly  more  bewildering  than  the  versatility  of 
his  mind.  The  poet's  temperament,  the  painter's  vision,  the  philosopher's 
perspective,  the  scholar's  knowledge,  the  earthborn's  experience — all 
these  enter  into  his  work,  which  with  crystalline  transparency  reflects  his 
serious  reading  of  life. 

The  dominant  quality  of  his  verse,  collected  some  time  ago  under 
the  title  *  Fom  M  or  gen  zum  Abend*  and  recently  re-issued  in  a  new  edidoo 
(B.  Flischer,  Leipzig)  is  sincerity.  With  remarkable  fearlessness  he  gives 
utterance  to  religious  heresies,  but  even  in  his  combative  mood  there  b 
never  a  touch  of  indelicacy.  One  of  the  most  interesting  poems  in  the 
book  is  *Lilith.'  In  her,  the  prototype  of  woman,  the  mother  of  life,  the 
poet  sees  the  supreme  spiritual  power  of  mankind.  But  Adam  could  not 
grasp  her  greatness;  he  begged  the  Creator  to  give  him  only  a  woman,  not 
a  goddess,  one  who  would  willingly  receive,  not  imperiously  demand. 
So  Lilith  was  left  alone  with  her  great  longing  to  love  and  to  render  happy 
the  man  whose  companionship  she  was  to  share.  In  her  despair  she  tore 
out  of  her  heart  this  longing  and  implanted  it  in  the  hearts  of  the  human 

404 


AMELIA  VON  ENDE  405 

ce  that  was  to  be.  In  time  this  heirloom  of  Lilith  became  the  great 
namic  force  which  spurs  man  forever  to  seek  some  far-off  goal,  and  the 
urce  of  the  greatest  sorrows  and  the  greatest  joys  of  life.  For  originality 
conception  and  dignity  of  expression  this  poem  is  a  rare  achievement, 
lere  are  other  poems  in  the  volume  full  of  the  mature  wisdom  of  noble 
inhood.  Many  readers  familiar  with  the  'Lieder  aus  Frankreich-von 
lem  deutschen  Soldaten/  which  were  considered  the  best  poetical  monu- 
mt  of  the  war  of  1870,  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that  these  peoms  are  not 
rluded  in  the  book.  Jensen  is  one  of  the  few  German  writers  of  the  older 
neradon  whom  the  material  prosperity  of  the  country  has  not  made 
lensible  to  its  spiritual  poverty.  The  new  empire  not  having  fulfilled 
ideal  promises,  his  patriotism  would  not  allow  those  songs  to  be  re- 
blished. 

While  the  appearance  of  Jensen's  poems  must  be  welcomed  both  as 
human  document  and  an  artistic  achievement,  one  can  but  regret  the 
blication  of  the  poems  of  two  other  seniors  among  the  German  writers, 
rely  an  author  of  such  high  standing  as  novelist  and  dramatist,  as  Adolf 
ilbrandt,  should  hesitate  to  give  to  the  public  a  volume  of  verse  so  little 
culated  to  enhance  his  reputation,  as  ^Lieder  und  Bilder*  (Cotta,  Sutt- 
rt).  The  book  is  mainly  composed  of  occasional  poems  of  which  Ger- 
iny  has  already  more  than  all  the  other  countries  combined.  Birthday 
^ngs,  even  if  they  are  addressed  to  Bismarck,  lines  sent  with  a  bouquet 
be  worn  at  a  ball,  verses  written  for  festival  monographs  or  special  editions 
ma^zines,  or  for  recitation  at  some  solemn  celebration,  are  not  likely 
be  mspired  bv  a  spark  of  true  fire.  There  is  much  of  this  inartistic 
leliness  in  the  book  of  Rudolf  von  Gottschall:  Spaete  Lieder*  (Gcbr. 
etel,  Berlin).  These  prologues  for  Schiller  davs,  for  a  navy  festival, 
various  occasions  lend  themselves  to  a  display  of  resonant  phrases  which 
y  strike  a  responsive  chord  in  masses  keyed  up  to  the  mood  of  the  ocea- 
ns but  when  the  spell  of  the  moment  is  past,  the  hollowness  of  their  ring 
romes  almost  painful.  Genial  spirit  and  fluent  form  do  not  save  either 
these  books  from  bearing  the  stamp  of  mediocrity. 

Of  quite  another  character  is  the  book  of  verse  by  Georg  von  Ocrtzen. 
5  *Memorien  des  Zuf alls'  (F.  Bielefeld,  Freiburg  i.  B.)  reflect  a  somewhat 
ust,  but  lovable  personality.  The  poet  is  an  octogenarian,  but  he  has  not 
t  the  sense  of  values.  He  offers  impressions  and  confessions  full  of  sane 
eptance  of  reality,  a  virile  joy  of  life.  A  sage  who  sees  the  meaning  of 
passing  show,  who  bravely  lashes  the  follies  and  sympathetically  pictures 
sufferings  of  his  fellow-beings,  there  is  a  strength  and  a  spontaneity  in 
book,  which  sharply  contrasts  with  the  weary  senility  of  some  of  the 


4o6  RECENT  WORKS   BY  GERMAN  WRITERS 

junior  poets  of  his  country.  Prince  Scheonaich-Carolath,  too,  shows  no 
signs  of  age  in  his  ^Gedichte*  (Goeschen,  Leipzig).  In  his  early  formame 
period  he  drank  deep  of  the  fountain  of  folk-song  and  has  derived  from  that 
source  an  admirable  simplicity.  His  is  a  religious  nature;  there  are 
moments  when  he  speaks  like  one  inspired  with  a  mission  to  raise  mankiol 
to  a  higher  spiritual  level.  In  his  purely  personal  moods  he  often  striko 
lyric  notes  of  rare  charm.  Maurice  Reinhold  von  Stern's  new  vdiune 
^Donner  und  Lerche*  (Literarische  Bulletin,  Leipzig)  proves  him  to  be 
a  nature  poet  of  distinction,  whose  spiritual  searchings  into  the  mysteries  of 
being  have  revealed  to  him  the  secret  bonds  between  the  universe  and  dx 
individual  soul.  He  gives  plastic  utterance  to  his  abstract  imaginings,  jet 
always  preserves  a  rare  delicacy  of  outline  and  intimacy  of  feeling. 

Ernst  von  Wolzogen  has  been  so  identified  with  the  spirit  of  modcn 
Germany,  even  in  its  most  absurd  manifestation,  the  ill-starred  Uebtrbrdit 
that  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  him  to  have  reached  the  age,  when  the  humae 
mind  is  inclined  to  ramble  over  the  road  of  the  yesterdays.  His  new  book, 
*  Verse  zu  meinem  Leben  *  (Fontane,  Berlin)  maintains  his  reputation  fii 
originality.  It  is  a  sort  of  diary  with  poetical  annotations.  Were  it  not 
for  the  biographical  material  they  contain,  some  of  the  verses  might  as  wel 
have  remained  unwritten;  but  the  preface  of  the  author  justifies  their 
publication.  The  portrait  of  the  author,  whose  hearty  humor  and  refreshing 
Bohemianism  have  made  him  a  favorite  figure  among  contemporaif 
writers,  smiles  at  one  through  the  pages  of  his  curious  book.  Otto  Ecidi 
Hartleben,  too,  was  an  amiable  Bohemian,  but  his  posthumous  volume 
*Meine  Verse*  (S.  Fischer,  Beriin)  reflects  his  Dionysian  joy  of  living  witk 
the  measured  cadence  and  the  tempered  tone  of  classical  tradition.  Unlike 
his  stories  and  his  plays,  which  tackle  social  problems  with  sparkling  humor 
or  with  mordant  satire,  his  verse  expresses  his  reading  of  life  but  indirecdf. 
It  is  a  book  which  deserves  to  be  taken  more  seriously  than  that  of  the 
confrere  who  survives  him,  but  it  lacks  the  intimate  personal  charm  of  the 
other. 

As  a  self-made  artist  Christian  Wagner  once  bid  fair  to  be  ranked  with 
Conrad  Deubler,  the  Austrian  poet-philosopher,  whose  prose  was  read  and 
whose  presence  was  sought  by  men  of  distinction  in  many  walks  of  life 
But  his  poetic  fund  soon  gave  out  and  spoiled  by  his  critics  he  became 
artificial.  Now  he  has  made  a  selection  from  his  poems  under  the  titk 
*Ein  Blumenstrauss'  (Germann's  Verlag,  Schwaebisch-Hall),  which  is 
remarkable  both  for  philosophical  content  and  poetic  form.  There  arc  W 
German  writers  today  who  have  caught  the  undertones  in  the  harmony  of 
nature  with  such  a  sympathetic  ear.  The  book  is  radiant  with  a  serene 
acceptance  of  fate  and  a  solemn  faith  in  eternity. 


AMELIA  VON  ENDE  407 

Among  the  newcomers  are  two  poets  of  an  originality  as  distinct  as  it 
is  divergent:  Ernst  Lissauer  and  Alfons  Paquet.  Lissauer  takes  up  in 
his  book,  Der  Acker*  (Hugo  Heller,  Vienna),  one  segment  of  life  and  makes 
Vt  the  pivotal  point  for  a  panorama  of  symbols,  clear,  strong,  vital  and 
tangible,  moving  with  admirable  consistency  in  the  narrow  compass  of  his 
vision,  yet  opening  vistas  into  the  larger  world.  Paquet,  whose  book  bears 
a  no  less  significant  title,  *Auf  Erden  *  (published  by  subscription  and  already 
out  of  print),  roves  and  loafs  over  the  earth  with  the  Wanderlust  of  a  true 
worldling,  embracing,  owning,  sensing  all  and  seeking  its  meaning.  Lissauer 
Kmits  himself  to  the  traditional  meter  and  form;  his  lines  and  his  stanzas 
sre  short,  his  style  is  terse,  and  in  some  instances  he  arrives  at  that  finality 
of  expression  which  is  the  artist's  ultimate  aim.  Paquet  listens  with  ear 
intent  to  the  song  of  life,  as  his  wheel  whirrs  at  midnight  through  the  valleys 
of  his  native  land,  as  he  stands  on  the  railroad  bridge,  or  gazes  mto  the  glare 
of  a  foundry,  or  peers  into  the  infinitude  of  the  steppe,  or  hails  the  bewil- 
dering vastness  and  activity  of  the  new  world.  And  as  he  listens,  the  lines 
be  speaks  echo  it  all,  and  the  plaint,  of  toil,  the  clarion  of  strife,  the  chant 
of  faith,  the  cancan  of  pleasure  and  the  monody  of  death  become  a  many- 
voiced,  endless  canon,  sung  over  an  organ-point  of  multifarious  machinery, 
beating  the  time  and  holding  the  key  in  an  awesome,  mysterious  hum. 
Paquet  recalls  Whitman;  his  horizon  is  as  large,  his  conception  as  demo- 
cratic; the  rhythm  of  the  '  Leaves  of  Grass'  vibrates  in  his  lines  and  his  style 
often  becomes  diffuse.  Both  Lissauer  and  Paquet  have  been  the  first  in 
lome  years  to  strike  a  new  note  in  the  poetry  of  Germany;  they  are  both 
unusually  virile  individualities.  Men  who  have  encompassed  experience, 
diey  sing  of  vital  things  and  their  songs  ring  convincingly  true. 

The  dramatic  production  of  the  past  months  has  not  been  great,  but 
it  has  brought  at  least  one  surprise.  When  a  writer  belonging  to  an  older 
generation  achieves  a  genuine  dramatic  success  by  means  as  old  as  they 
are  naive,  before  an  audience  as  sophisticated  as  that  of  the  Schauspielhaus 
of  Berlin,  the  world  has  cause  to  wonder.  Ernst  von  Wildenbruch  has  long 
iwod  for  an  interpreter  of  truths  through  the  medium  of  historical  images. 
A  certain  fraction  of  German  theatergoers  never  fails  to  respond  to  the 
patriotic  appeal  which  his  works  convey,  be  it  ever  so  indirectly.  But  *Die 
Kabensteineririy  which  was  given  shortly  before  the  close  of  the  season,  is 
not  a  historical  but  a  romantic  drama,  the  plot  whereof  is  childishly  simple 
and  the  treatment  almost  trite.  Yet  the  secret  of  his  success  is  not  far  to 
leek.  Wildenbruch  is  the  last  heir  of  the  Schiller  tradition;  with  him  it 
nay  die,  unless  a  revival  is  close  at  hand.  He  is  a  poet  who  has  remained 
foung  at  heart  in  the  very  hotbed  of  premature  senility.     He  has  kept  the 


4o8  RECENT  WORKS   BY  GERMAN  WRITERS 

holy  lamp  ever  burning  before  the  ideals  of  his  younger  days.  In  lot 
flamboyant  enthusiasm  there  is  no  false  note;  he  is  thoroughly  in  eamett 
and  he  is  always  sincere.  The  ring  of  this  sincerity  finds  response  in  the 
hearts  of  the  people  and  wins  the  favor  of  his  audiences.  There  is  no  odier 
man  today  who  could  risk  the  experiment  of  presenting  in  the  Schauspielhaai 
a  play  on  the  same  lines;  for  no  other  man  would  be  credited  with  hanng 
a  spark  of  the  spirit,  of  which  Schiller  is  the  embodiment. 

Nor  is  his  success  entirely  due  to  this  element  in  his  work.  Wildenbnich 
is  an  admirable  technician;  he  has  an  architect's  eye  for  construction,  a 
almost  infallible  instinct  for  building  up  situations  with  a  logical  assurance 
that  makes  them  appear  natural  and  even  necessary,  and  for  reaching 
a  final  dramatic  climax.  His  treatment  of  the  masses  is  theatrical,  but  its 
effective,  and  under  the  spell  of  the  dramatic  moment  the  audience  asks  not 
for  psychology.  One  motive  enters  into  the  plot  of  *Die  Rabensteinmn^ 
which  claims  the  attention  of  American  readers.  When  the  scion  of  the  old 
patrician  Welser  family  has  succeeded  in  winning  for  his  bride  the  daughter 
of  the  robber-barons,  the  father,  hurt  in  his  Welser  pride,  but  impressed 
by  the  racial  traits  of  the  young  woman,  decides  that  they  should  work  oat 
their  salvation  in  the  new  world.  This  final  chord  is  a  fine  psychological 
touch,  emphasizing  at  once  the  gulf  between  two  generations  and  pointing 
the  way  out  of  the  inevitable  conflict.  The  play  is  published  by  Grotei 
Berlin. 

Eberhard  Koenig's  'Stein'  (Egon  Fleischel  &  Co.,  Berlin)  was  written 
for  the  Lutherfestspiel  verein  and  perhaps  not  intended  for  anything  but 
a  festival  play.  But  the  work  deserves  notice,  not  only  for  its  good  work- 
manship but  for  its  national  meaning.  The  central  figure  is  Stein,  the 
Prussian  diplomat  and  patriot,  so  prominent  during  the  momentous  period 
of  1806-13.  Although  the  poet  has  by  no  means  exhausted  the  dramatic 
possibilities  of  the  life  of  Stein,  he  has  conveyed  the  idea  of  a  nation's 
regeneration  through  the  ideals  of  a  hero  convincingly  and  effectively. 
His  language  is  dignified  and  powerful.  The  success  at  the  initial  per- 
formance in  Jena  was  due  more  to  the  poet  who  has  profoundly  touched 
by  his  stirring  scenes  and  gripping  words  the  patriotic  chord,  than  to  the 
dramatist  who  had  previously  proved,  that  he  is  able  to  do  better  work. 

Thomas  Mann's  ' Ftorenza'  has  at  last  been  performed  in  Frankfurt 
and  has  proved  not  only  a  poetic  drama  of  power,  but  a  thoroughly  playable 
play.  Eduard  Stucken's  'Gawan'  is  another  proof  that  even  in  Germany 
the  poetic  drama  often  has  to  go  begging  before  it  finds  a  stage  to  undertake 
its  performance.  'Gawan'  (S.  Fischer,  Berlin)  has  been  performed  in 
Munich.     The  play  is  based  upon  the  English  poem  of  Sir  Gawain,  the 


AMELIA  VON  ENDE  409 

nain  outline  of  which  has  been  faithfully  adhered  to  until  the  end,  when 
he  'green  knight'  becomes  death.  Obeying  an  order  from  the  Lord  and 
issisted  by  the  Virgin  Mary^  who  lends  her  shape  to  the  seductive  chatelaine 
ii  the  poem,  the  hero  is  tempted.  He  promptly  repents  of  his  failure  and 
ays  down  the  magic  girdle  before  the  statue;  this  rapidly  changes  into 
he  living  Virgin^  who  wards  off  death  from  the  penitent,  unveils  the  Grail 
ind  offers  him  the  sacred  draught.  By  this  conclusion  the  sub-title  of  the 
ilay  —  a  mystery  —  is  justified.  The  play  could  not  fail  to  find  favor 
ivith  various  portions  of  the  audience  by  its  appeal  to  the  taste  for  gruesome 
lecapitationSy  which  have  recently  proved  so  effective,  by  its  introduction 
rf*  Parsifal  motives  and  by  the  exquisite  stage  management. 

Franz  Duelberg  is  a  writer  on  art  belonging  to  the  younger  Munich 
chool,  whose  dramatic  attempts  always  excite  some  controversy.  His 
magination  is  exotic,  his  language  affected  and  his  composition  lacks  the 
ample  lines  of  a  great  work  of  art.  But  he  has  an  abundance  of  ideas  and 
le  expresses  them  in  myriads  of  images,  and  although  it  is  difficult  to  find 
me's  way  through  the  maze,  he  succeeds  to  impress  with  a  semblance  of 
K>wer.  His  * Korallenkettlin*  (Egon  Fleischel  &  Co.,  Berlin)  has  a  mediae- 
ral  plot  of  great  strength,  the  theatrical  resources  of  which  have  been 
iioroughly  exploited  and  even  exaggerated  by  the  author.  Yet  the  play 
sends  to  confirm  the  hope  that  Duelberg  will  some  time  learn  to  discipline 
lis  gifts  and  use  them  to  better  results  than  at  the  present  time. 

Whether  he  writes  lyric  verse  or  little  stories,  like  the  exquisite  *  Ge- 
ichichten  vom  lieben  Gott,'  Rainer  Maria  Rilke  is  always  a  poet  of  noble  dis- 
tiiiction.  But  his  first  dramatic  attempt  has  hardly  conveyed  the  impression 
chat  he  is  also  a  dramatist  of  power.  He  has  written  a  series  of  well- 
sonstnicted,  but  detached  scenes,  in  which  the  dialogue  takes  the  place  of 
iction.  Although  the  psychology  was  convincing  enough  and  the  suggestion 
9f  undercurrents  of  thought  and  feeling  admirable,  these  dynamics  of  the 
^drame  intime'  did  not  save  the  play  from  failure  through  the  lack  of  a  firm 
groundwork. 

In  the  fiction  recently  published  there  is  one  volume  by  Rudolf  von 
Gottschall  which  ranks  high  above  the  poems  of  the  monogenarian  author. 
Yet  it  does  give  one  a  peculiar  feeling  to  see  the  vast  difference  in  manner 
nnore  than  matter,  which  separates  him,  who  was  once  the  champion  of 
a  young  Germany  against  the  conventionalities  of  an  older  generation, 
from  the  young  writers  of  the  day.  In  *Neue  Erzaehlungen*  (Gebr.  Paetel, 
Berlin),  he  has  retained  much  of  the  ardor  and  of  the  combativeness  of  his 
younger  days;  but  even  in  these  stories  he  cannot  ignore  an  opportunity 
to  vent  his  wrath  upon  the  mutual  booming  society  which  the  young  gener- 


410  RECENT  WORKS  BY  GERMAN  WRITERS 

ation  of  German  literati  seems  to  have  organized.  He  calls  them  a  noe  i 
'blase  megalomaniacs,  fed  on  false  philosophisms  and  suffering  bm 
congested  mysticism/  Though  there  is  some  truth  in  his  remarb,  thf 
mar  the  tenor  of  stories  otherwise  harmless.  Still  he  cannot  be  doni 
a  mastery  of  narrative  style,  a  language  full  of  color  and  mobili^  and  pm 
constructive  power.  He  was  always  a  landscapist  of  no  mean  order,  vi 
the  setting  of  the  stories  lends  itself  to  charming  descriptions.  The  ok 
of  the  first  two  stories  is  the  present,  the  scene  of  the  last  is  Silesia  sIkxiI^ 
before  the  peace  of  Tilsit. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  trace  the  connection  between  the  new  chaptf 
of  psychology,  which  is  called  child-study,  and  the  new  chapter  of  litenoR 
which  has  given  us  the  child  in  drama  and  fiction.  Among  the  writenwii 
have  treated  the  child  types  in  their  works  from  the  standpoint  of  supcni 
psychological  knowledge,  Franziska  Mann  is  likely  to  be  ranked  first  Hff 
insight  into  the  growth  and  the  workings  of  a  child  soul  is  admirable;  Jk 
watches  over  her  little  men  and  women  as  a  mother  over  her  brood,  s 
a  sculptor  over  his  shapes  of  clay.  There  is  a  tender  solicitude  in  the  wi^ 
she  reveals  to  her  readers  some  rare  individuality,  still  in  the  making  Ink 
already  endowed  with  all  the  instincts  and  impulses  of  the  adult  hiuoa 
being.  The  stories  in  her  latest  book,  *  Kinder*  (Axel  Juncker»  Berlin)  aie 
sketchy,  her  portraits  are  not  finished;  but  neither  are  her  modeb  and  die 
lives  in  which  they  will  figure.  The  little  book  has  a  tantalizing  charm  o( 
suggestiveness. 

Frau  Viebig  has  in  her  latest  novel  returned  to  an  older  manner. 
*Absolvo  te'  (Egon  Fleischel  &  Co.,  Berlin),  the  story  of  a  young  giri, 
married  by  her  mother  to  a  wealthy  old  man,  is  told  with  the  directness 
which  has  once  made  the  author  rank  with  the  greatest  disciples  of  Zob 
in  Germany.  The  daughter  of  a  schoolmaster,  the  heroine  has  a  modest 
education  and  can  claim  a  refinement  quite  unusual  in  the  country  place, 
whither  she  has  come  as  wife  of  Herr  Tiralla,  a  typical  Gutshesitzer  of  the 
province  of  Posen,  good-natured,  ignorant  and  coarse.  The  mother  did 
not  long  witness  the  material  prosperity  and  marital  misery  of  her  child 
The  young  wife  had  in  her  youth  been  inclined  toward  a  senii-spiritual, 
semi-sensuous  devotion  to  the  church,  and  never  forgiven  the  mother  foi 
marrying  her  to  an  old  brute  of  bibulous  habits.  Even  when  a  little  gir 
is  born  to  them,  the  parents  remain  strangers.  The  child  has  inheritec 
the  mother's  religious  nature  and  as  she  grows  up,  shows  symptoms  ol 
religious  hysteria.  While  she  has  heavenly  visions  in  her  room,  the  fathei 
in  his  apartment  consumes  greater  and  greater  quantities  of  liquor.  The 
idea  of  getting  rid  of  him  becomes  an  idiosyncrasy  with  Frau  Tiralla,  lon{ 


AMELIA  VON  ENDE  4" 

before  her  unspent  woman  love  finds  a  worthy  object  in  the  friend  of  her 
Step-son.  All  this  is  told  with  a  virile,  but  not  repulsive  realism.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  story  is  hot  with  the  breath  of  strife  in  the  breast  of  Frau 
Tiralla  and  Martin  Becker.  When  death  comes  to  the  old  man  by  his  own 
Juinds,  and  Martin  leaves  the  house,  Frau  Tiralla  reads  in  the  ecstatic 
-Mres  of  her  daughter  that  forgiveness,  which  even  her  confessor  might  deny 
me  unfortunate  woman.     'Ahsolvo  te*  is  a  very  powerful  book. 

Books  on  Schiller  are  still  appearing  on  the  market.  An  important 
Ittde  volume  was  recently  added  to  the  series  called  'Die  Kultur'  (Bard, 
Marquardt  &  G).,  Berlin).  It  is  entitled  *  Schiller's  fFeltanschauung  und 
tmnsere  Zeit^*  and  the  author  is  Alexander  von  Gleichen-Russwurm.  Calling 
poets  the  conscience  of  their  nation,  he  is  of  the  opinion  that  Germany  has 
failed  to  reach  the  goal  which  Schiller  had  cherished.  His  ideal  reading 
of  life  lacks  the  material  character  of  the  present  time.  It  is  constructive, 
m^ile  the  present  is  destructive.  He  was  a  builder  who  would  have  hedged 
in  with  walls  whatever  he  thought  worthy  of  reverence.  Our  generation 
€M[i  the  contrary  tears  down  the  walls.  The  author  defines  Schiller's  idea 
of  freedom,  and  emphasizes  the  fact,  that  the  poet  deemed  only  him  capable 
of  becoming  a  liberator,  who  had  the  proper  amount  of  reverence.  In 
Schiller's  ideas  about  the  aesthetical  education  of  mankind  the  author  sees 
a  valuable  ethical  factor.  He  would  have  the  poet  remain  our  leader  in 
the  world  of  beauty.  The  references  to  Schiller's  international  influence 
are  interesting.  Among  other  illustrations  there  is  the  reproduction  of 
a  miniature  of  Schiller  which  had  been  in  the  possession  of  Charlotte 
von  Kalb. 


TWO  SONNETS 

By  Harry  T.  Baker 

The  Elizabethans 

'Attempt!  attempt!'  the  inner  Genius  cried. 
Then  eager,  vast,  unconquerable  youth 
Opened  the  flood-gates,  and  the  crimson  tide 
Came  rushing,  heart  to  hand.    Tameless,  in  truth. 
Their  utterance,  yet  no  man  had  seen  of  yore 
The  virile  splendor  that  flashed  o'er  their  page. 
Bounds  they  admitted  none,  but  more  and  more 
Dared  and  accomplished  till  it  seemed  dull  age 
Could  ne'er  overtake  them.    To  the  verge  o*  the  world 
Quested  their  voyagers  of  soul  and  sea. 
Barbarians,  gods,  with  credulous  lips  uncurled. 
They  wrote,  unwitting,  for  eternity. 

Earth  bloomed  anew,  and,  while  these  voices  rang. 
The  primal  morning-stars  together  sang. 

After  Reading  Shakespeare* s  Sonnets 

Are  these  but  trifles  of  his  empty  hours, 
His  cold  convention  after  passionate  flame 
In  Romeo  and  Antony  ?    These  but  flowers 
Of  artifice,  and  love  a  dainty  name  ? 
Rather,  the  poet's  mighty  heart  beat  on 
In  truest  music,  murmuring  his  woe 
O'er  passion  Profitless  and  hope  forgone. 
Or  sounding  the  deep  joy  that  comrades  know. 
His  unrecording  century  stands  aloof, 
Austere  in  silence.     Cherish,  then,  the  few 
Inestimable  strains  what  whisper  proof 
Not  always  did  he  shun  our  eager  view: 

Though  Lear  and  Hamlet  mirrored  not  his  mind, 
Here  without  mask  he  greeted  all  mankind. 


412 


FIDELITY 

By  Catulle  Mendes 
Translated  by  R.  T.  House 

A  GOD  was  a  rich  shepherd  of  the  plain.  His  wife  left  her 
pitcher  on  the  earth  upon  a  day  when  the  sun  was  like 
fire.  She  laid  her  down  in  the  shade  of  a  tree,  and  there 
came  a  dream  to  her: 
She  dreamed  that  she  slept  sweetly  and  awoke 
hearing  the  voice  of  Agod  speaking  thus  and  commanding: 
Let  us  arise;  for  I  sold  to  the  dealers  of  Segor,  a  year  and  half  a  year 
in  the  pasty  five  score  of  sheep;  they  owe  me  yet  more  than  a  third  part 
>f  the  purchase-money.  I  am  old  and  my  feet  are  heavy;  the  debtors  are 
iar  hence.  Who  will  go  for  me  and  claim  the  debt  from  them  ?  How  may 
[  find  a  faithful  messenger  ?  Bring  thou  the  twenty  silver  pieces;  for  thus 
t  is  better.* 

His  docile  helpmeet  urged  not  the  lonely  desert,  nor  its  hungry  wild- 
>eastSy  nor  its  cruel  robbers.  'I  am  thy  servant/  she  said,  'speak  thy  will/ 
^ith  arm  extended,  *  Thither'  said  the  shepherd;  and  then  without  loss  of 
ime  she  took  her  mantle  of  wool  and  departed.  Her  feet  were  heavy  in 
lie  way;  for  the  path  was  filled  with  sharp  stones.  Her  foot-soles  shed 
>lood  and  her  eyes  shed  tears;  but  she  went  morning  and  evening  and 
laused  never  at  all.  The  terrible  night  came,  and  everything  was  black  and 
tilent;  but  she  went  and  paused  not.  Then  she  heard  a  dreadful  cry, 
ind  a  hand  of  iron  covered  her  mouth,  and  one  tore  her  mantle  and  thrust 
I  great  knife  into  her  breast  with  a  sure  thrust. 

She  awoke  in  great  fear  and  all  her  body  trembled.  Then  she  saw  her 
lusband  at  her  side,  and  he  said :  '  I  sold  to  the  dealers  of  Segor,  a  year 
ind  half  a  year  in  the  past,  five  score  of  sheep ;  they  owe  me  yet  more 
han  a  third  part  of  the  purchase-money.  I  am  old  and  my  feet  are  heavy; 
he  debtors  are  far  hence.  Who  will  go  for  me  and  claim  the  debt  from 
hem .?  How  may  I  find  a  faithful  messenger }  Bring  thou  the  twenty 
ilver  pieces;  for  thus  it  is  better.' 

The  faithful  helpmeet  answered,  'My  lord  and  master  has  spoken;  I 
im  ready.'  She  called  her  sons.  The  older  was  a  noble  boy,  and  she 
>ut  her  right  hand  about  his  neck.  And  she  kissed  the  little  brother,  and 
ook  her  mantle  of  wool  and  departed  without  loss  of  time. 

413 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  „ 

IT  of«„  occurs  .  OS  d,«  i„  *»  ,ga  when  e.^  o«  •«.  «».*,  Jl 
to  say  and  wants  to  say  it  to  as  many  people  as  possible,  and  coh 
versely  nobody  is  especially  anxious  to  hear  what  any  one  his  • 
say,  that  we  are  terribly  in  need  of  some  cheaper  way  of  nfuxh 
ducing  our  thoughts  than  printing.  With  a  maximum  of  onitoo 
or  sages  or  seers  and  a  minimum  ot  audience  of  laymen  it  is  nottt 
impossible  ro  sell  enough  copies  of  anything  at  twenty-five  cents  to  payAe 
printer's  bills,  let  alone  any  pay  for  the  kindly  sages  and  seere.  A  Vff^ 
writing  machine  which  when  one  played  upon  it  would  engrave  plates,  to  be 
run  off  by  oneself  on  a  hand  press,  would  convert  every  man  into  his  om 
printer  and  he  might  then  market  his  ideas  at  even  a  small  profit. 

♦        ♦        ♦ 

These  thoughts  have  been  inspired  by  the  appearance  of  a  new  infandk 
magazine  published  at  66  Cornhill,  and  called  '  The  Inquisitor/  It  conceak 
its  identity  behind  the  terrors  of  anonymity  like  the  inquisitors  of  old,  and 
frankly  admits  that  the  editors  are  not  millionaires,  and  though  not  'is- 
quisitioning'  for  money  they  would  be  grateful  for  as  many  'quarters' v 
possible.  We  have  no  quarter  for  them,  but  we  should  like  to  be  able  • 
present  them  with  the  sort  of  type-writing  machine  it  is  our  dream  tbc 
somebody  will  some  day  invent,  for  we  sincerely  believe  that  all  the  p€<>dk 
who  have  things  to  say  should  be  encouraged  to  say  them,  principally  fiir 
their  own  good,  for  after  a  while  they  will  suddenly  wake  up  to  the  fad 
that  millions  of  people  have  been  saying  similar  things  for  thousands  of 
years  and  after  that  whatever  they  say  will  be  said  with  becoming  modestVi 
or  at  least  with  some  consciousness  that  their  ideas  are  not  entirely  new  and 
startling. 

'The  Inquisitor'  warns  us  not  to  decide  positively  whether  we  likck 
or  not  on  the  first  issue  and  we  are  not  going  to.  We  will  only  fill  up  ns 
last  page  with  remarks  as  it  invites  us  to  do. 

♦         ♦         ♦ 

Its  editorial  platform  is  spiritual  freedom.  This  is  good!  But  it 
contends  that  the  world  has  well-nigh  freed  itself  from  physical  slavery, 
but  is  not  yet  spiritually  free.  Our  own  observations  of  society,  on  the 
contrary,  would  lead  us  to  the  exactly  opposite  conclusion,  namely  that 
there  is  a  vast  deal  more  of  physical  slavery  in  one  form  or  another  today) 
than  there  is  of  spiritual  slavery.     Another  article  pleads  for  the  living  of 

414 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  415 

life  instead  of  the  realization  of  it  at  second  hand  through  novels  and  plays. 
Ic  does  not  appear  to  us  that  any  such  plea  is  needed.  We  should  rather 
hMvt  thought  that  quite  an  alarming  number  of  people  were  experimenting 
Id  their  own  lives  upon  the  ideas  which  modem  plays  and  novels  present 
tl>  them  and  with  effects  so  disastrous  that  they  ought  to  be  learning  by  this 
dine  that  life  is  not  intended  to  be  experimented  with,  but  to  be  fashioned 
into  as  perfect  a  work  of  art  as  the  raw  material  will  permit.  Be  it  said 
fjtat  the  experimenters,  who  think  they  are  living  life,  dodge  the  palpable, 
tmgjc  consequences  which  an  Ibsen  or  a  Sudermann  or  a  Hauptmann 
always  lay  upon  the  altar  of  the  eternally  right;  the  tragedy  with  these 
nrould-be  livers-of-life  is  the  gradual  killing  out  of  all  desire  for  that  which 
b  holy  and  true  and  beautiful  in  life,  and  the  sinking  into  contentment  with 
die  shams  of  emotional  phenomena.  But  possibly  the  writer  has  in  mind 
mty  plays  that  tell  of  noble  and  great  actions;  perhaps  he  would  like  to  be 
i  John  the  Baptist,  rather  than  a  Peer  Gym,  or  at  least  the  highway-man 
hi  the  'Girl  from  the  Grolden  West'  rather  than  the  sheriff. 

♦        ♦        ♦ 

Still  another  writer  doesn't  agree  with  Burbank  that  a  change  of 
mvironment  may  change  the  nature  ot  a  human  being.  The  point  he  makes 
m  both  subtle  and  interesting;  he  writes,  *  While  doing  homage  to  the  insight 
fpanifested  in  Burbank's  book,  we  would,  nevertheless,  submit  for  con- 
lideration  exactly  the  opposite  view  of  the  relation  of  environment  and  the 
pife  force,  to  wit:  that  so-called  environment  has  no  reactionary  causal  effect 
irhatever  on  the  life-force,  but  that  an  apparent  effect  is  produced  by  the 
manifestation  of  this  life-force  through  a  different  environment,  as  flame 
ivould  appear  in  varied  forms  through  iron  gratings  of  different  patterns. 
Under  this  view,  change  of  environment  would  in  no  way  alter  the  nature 
[>f  the  human  being,  but  would  merely  supply  it  a  different  medium 
ibr  expression.  The  apparent  practical  effects  might  be  the  same, 
but  the  point  of  view  of  the  observer  or  experimenter  would 
be  quite  different.'  It  strikes  us  that  the  difference  of  opinion  here 
is  more  apparent  than  actual.  Burbank  would  not  claim,  for  example,  that 
i  cactus  could  be  changed  into  a  rose,  only  that  the  cactus  nature  may  be 
10  changed  that  it  will  become  a  much  nicer  cactus  —  all  its  fine  points 
emphasized,  all  its  unpleasant  ones  suppressed.  Similarly,  given  a  child 
that  shows  a  tendency  to  cruelty  and  bravery,  if  trained  one  way  it  might 
grow  up  into  an  abnormally  daring  and  cruel  man,  trained  another  way, 
3ie  cruelty  might  be  completely  suppressed  and  the  bravery  emphasized 
io  that  when  it  attained  to  the  full  exercise  of  its  own  will,  it  would 
find  itself  possesed  of  the  fine  quality  of  bravery  to  work  unhampered   by 


4i6  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

cruelty.  That  people  do  actually  develop  and  do  not,  upon  a  change  of 
environment,  revert  to  past  modes  of  Action,  but  do  truly  gain  control  of 
their  bad  environment,  shows  that  environment  is  more  that  a  mere  mediuoi 
of  expression  to  the  fully  conscious  being.  Consequently,  to  the  growing 
consciousness,  environment  may  be  made  a  means  of  permanently  tumiflg 
the  nature  into  channels  for  its  best  development. 

♦  ♦        ♦ 

Another  article  plunges  bravely  into  a  discussion  of  free-will,  the 
writer  deciding  according  to  his  own  temperament,  as  this  subject  has  alwajs 
been  settled  time  out  of  mind. 

Discussions  in  the  realm  of  philosophy  are  always,  however,  absorbingly 
interesting,  if  only  for  the  play  of  intellectual  faculty  which  they  bring  foidi. 
We  hope  this  will  be  a  regular  feature  of  the  magazine. 

♦  ♦        ♦ 

As  usual  with  writers  of  the  day,  when  the  subject  of  women  is  toadied 
upon,  the  opinions  expressed  give  a  rather  appalling  revelation  of  the  statu 
of  the  masculine  mind  in  this  regard.  There  is  a  poem  not  bad  in  expressioi 
but  made  according  to  the  most  commonplace  of  receipts:  An  ounce  of 
love,  twenty-five  ounces  of  pain,  and  the  delights  of  secret  passion  accordiif 
to  taste.  Can  it  be  possible  that  the  latest-day  poets  have  no  other  con- 
ception of  love  but  this,  or  is  it  a  disease  of  youth  ?  The  expression  of  a 
belief  in,  or  at  least  an  inspiration  toward  a  noble,  whole-hearted,  dignified 
love  would  be,  at  least,  a  pleasant  change.  Perhaps  the  day  may  come 
when  poets  will  be  as  much  ashamed  of  these  diseases  of  the  emotional 
nature  as  they  are  now  at  intellectual  or  physical  degeneracy. 


^irOLUMB   XVIII  WINTER    1907  NUMBER   IV 

,  TO  THE  STARS* 

^  {A  drama  in  four  acts) 

^  By  Leonid  Andreieff 

Translated  from  the  Russian  by  Dr.  A.  Goudiss 

CHARACTERS 

SergiusNikolaievitchTernovsky,  a  Russian  scientist  living  abroad, 
rtor  of  an  observatory,  renowned,  member   of  many  academies  and 
^laentific  societies.     He  is  a  man  of  about  fifty-six  years  of  age,  but  looks 
inger,  with  easy,  quiet,  and  very  precise  movements.     His  gesticulations, 
»9  are  reserved  and  correct  —  nothing  superfluous.     He  is  polite  and 
iiitive,  but  with  it  all  he  appears  cold. 
Inna  Alexandrovna,  his  wife,  of  about  the  same  age. 
Anna,  their  daughter,  a  young  lady  of  about  twenty-five,  handsome  and 
1;  dresses  unbecomingly. 
Petia  (Peter),  their  son,  a  youth  aged  eighteen,  pale,  delicate,  graceful, 
with  dark,  wavy  hair,  wears  a  white  turned-down  collar. 

Nikolai  (Nicholas),  their  son.     A  young  man,  aged  twenty-seven. 
Verchovtzeff,    Valentine    Alexeievitch,    Annans    husband.    A 
red-haired  man  of  thirty;  self-confident,  commanding,  sarcastic,  and  at 
^mes  coarse.     A  civil  engineer. 

Marusia  (Mary),  a  handsome  young  lady  of  twenty,  Nikolai's  bride. 
Pollock,  a  tall,  bony  man,  thirty-two  years  old,  with  a  large,  hairless 
liead.     Correct;  mechanical.     Smokes  cigars.     Ternovsky's  assistant. 

LuNTZ,  YosiPH  Abramovitch,  a  young  man  of  Jewish  extraction, 
aged  twenty-eight.  From  handling  mathematical  instruments  he  has 
acquired  the  habit  of  being  precise  and  reserved  in  his  movements,  but 
'^en  provoked  he  forgets  himself  and  gesticulates  with  all  the  passion  of  a 
Soultemer-Semite.     Ternovsky's  assistant. 

*CoPy right,  1907.  by  Tht  Poet  Lore  Company.     AU  rights  reserved. 


41 8  TO  THE  STARS 

Zhitoff,  Vassily  Vassilievitch,  a  large,  hairy,  awkward  (bearlike) 
gentleman,  of  an  undetermined  age.  He  is  constantly  sitting.  Good 
looking  in  a  certain  sense.     Ternovsky's  assistant. 

TRErrcH,  a  workman,  aged  thirty,  dark,  slender,  and  very  handscHoe. 
Has  deeply  arched  brows;  farsighted.  Unassuming,  serious,  and  not 
communicative. 

ScHTOLTZ,  young,  little,  with  small  but  regular  features;  dresses  neadjTi 
speaks  with  a  thin  voice.     Has  an  insignificant  appearance. 

Minna,  a  maid-servant. 

Frantz,  a  male-servant. 

An  old  woman. 

ACT  I 

An  observatory  in  the  mountains^  night.  Two  rooms;  the  first  is  a  kini 
of  dining-room  with  thicky  white  walls;  the  windows^  through  %vhich  sonU' 
thing  white  is  seen  tossing  about  in  the  darkness^  have  very  vuide  sills;  a  hutt 
fireplace  with  burning  blocks;  the  room  is  furnished  in  a  simple  and  sind 
fashion^  lacking  soft  furniture  and  curtains;  a  few  engravings  on  the  wJlSf 
portraits  of  astronomersy  and  the  Men  of  the  East  appearing  before  Ckrish 
attracted  by  the  star.  A  staircase  leading  into  Ternovsky's  library  and  studio 
The  next  is  a  large  working  studioy  resembling  the  front  one  hut  vuithout  thi 
fireplace.  A  few  tables;  photographs  of  stars  and  the  surface  of  the  moon  of 
the  walls;  some  simple  astronomical  instruments.  In  the  front  room^  seaiei 
at  the  tabUy  Ternovsky's  assistanty  Pollock,  is  seen  working;  Petia  is 
reading;  Luntz  nervously  paces  the  room;  outside  the  mountain  a  snowstorm 
is  heard  whistling  and  wailing;  the  wood  is  crackling  in  the  fireplace;  thi 
German  cook  is  making  coffee.  Ths  signal  bell  is  ringing  rhythmically  and 
monotonously  calling  lost  ones. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Ringing,  ringing,  but  of  no  use.  Four  days 
have  passed  and  not  a  soul  has  shown  up.  You  wait  and  wait  and  wonder 
if  the  people  are  alive  at  all. 

Petia  {raising  his  head). —  But  who  should  come  .^  And  who  would 
come  up  here  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  One  can't  tell;  somebody  might  come  up  from 
below. 

Petia. —  The  people  are  not  disposed  to  climb  mountains. 

Zhitoff. —  Yes,  the  situation  is  rather  an  embarrassing  one.  no  roads, 
and  we  are  as  if  in  a  besieged  city, —  neither  out  nor  in. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  And  in  a  few  days  we'll  have  nothing  to  cat, 
either. 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  419 

Zhitoff. —  Then  we'll  do  without. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk  that  way. 
ftssily  Vassilievitch,  you  can  live  on  your  own  fat  for  days,  but  what  is 
^rgius  Nikolaievitch  going  to  do  ? 

Zhitoff. —  Well,  put  some  provisions  away  for  him  and  the  rest  will 
ive  to  do  without.  I  say,  Luntz,  O  Luntz,  you'd  better  sit  down !  (Luntz 
)€!  not  reply  J  and  keeps  on  pacing.) 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  What  a  country.  Just  wait  a  moment.  I  think 
me  one  is  knocking.  Just  a  moment!  {Listens.)  No,  I  was  mistaken. 
liat  a  storm !     You  seldom  see  such  storms  in  your  region. 

Zhitoff. —  Yes,  we  have  them  in  the  Stepps. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  I  don't  know.  I  never  lived  in  the  Stepps. 
ow  the  windows  are  shaking! 

Petia. —  You  are  waiting  in  vain,  mamma,  no  one  will  come. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  But  perhaps  ?  {A  pause.)  Think  I'd  better 
ftd  the  old  papers  again.  But  I've  read  them  a  dozen  times.  Yosiph 
>nimovitch,  you  haven't  heard  anything,  have  you  ? 

Luntz  {stopping). —  Where  in  the  world  can  I  get  news  from  .?  What 
-ange  questions  you  ask.  By  God,  it  is  unbearable!  Just  ask  yourself, 
lere  could  I  obtain  news. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Come,  come,  Luntz,  don't  be  angry.  My 
art  bleeds  when  I  think  of  what  is  going  on  there.     O  Grod ! 

Zhitoff. —  They're  fighting. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  They're  fighting!  It  is  so  easy  for  you  to  say 
aty  for  none  of  your  own  are  fighting.  But  I  have  children  there!  And 
le  is  shut  off  from  the  world  as  though  living  in  the  woods, —  worse  than 
at,  for  in  the  woods  one  can  at  least  see  a  bird  flying  by,  or  a  rabbit  jump 
out,  but  here 

Luntz  {pacing  the  floor). —  Maybe  they  have  already  won  a  complete 
::tory.  Perhaps  they  have  already  erected  a  new  structure  upon  the  ruins 
the  old  one. 

Zhitoff. —  I  don't  think  so.     At  any  rate,  it  didn't  look  like  it  some  days 

Petia. —  Why  do  you  doubt  it  ?  Haven't  you  read  in  the  papers  of  the 
signation  of  the  ministry,  and  don't  you  know  that  the  city  has  been 
irricaded  and  the  people  are  already  in  possession  of  the  Town  Hall,  and 
five  days  a  great  many  more  changes  may  have  taken  place  ? 

Zhitoff. —  Well,  it  may  be,  it  is  hard  to  tell.  Luntz,  you'd  better  sit 
rwn.  According  to  my  estimation  you've  made  for  the  last  couple  of  days 
least  two  hundred  miles. 


420  TO  THE  STARS 

Luntz. —  Please  let  me  alone!  I  don't  interfere  with  your  affairs,  and 
let  me  mind  my  own,  also.  How  rude  it  is  to  force  oneself  into  the  soi 
of  another.  Why  don't  I  say  to  you  *  Wake  up,  Zhitoff  I  Don't  be  sleepiii| 
all  the  time;  you've  already  slept  away  a  lifetime.'     I  don't  say  that. 

(Petia  approaches  Luntz  anJ  addresses  him  in  a  subdued  voice;  At 
walk  alongside  each  other^  exchanging  words  occasionally.) 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {whispering  to  Zhitoff). —  How  touchy  he  is!  Wdl 
Vassily  Vassilievitch,  why  not  have  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  drown  our  sonoi 
as  the  saying  is  ? 

Zhitoff. —  I'd  rather  have  tea. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  yes!  so  would  I,  but  where  can  you  get  it 
I  should  certainly  enjoy  a  cup  of  tea  myself,  especially  with  raspberry  jinoe,- 
it's  delicious! 

Zhitoff. —  Oh,  sugar  would  do  for  me. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Isn't  it  strange,  Vassily  Vassilievitch,  how  I  pi 
used  to  everything  here;  the  mountains,  the  society  of  people, —  in  a  iron 
to  everything.  But  there  is  one  thing  that  I  cannot  quite  forg^,  and  dot 
is  the  birch  grove.  As  soon  as  I  recall  it,  and  begin  to  brood  over  it,  I  get 
so  nervous  that  I  must  cry  for  a  couple  of  hours.  We  had  in  our  estate  ij 
mansion,  built  upon  a  hill  and  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  birch  grove.  (% 
what  a  grove!  After  the  rain  it  would  give  off  such  a  delicious  fragrance tht 
that {wipes  her  eyes). 

Zhitoff. —  Why  shouldn't  you  take  a  trip  to  Russia  for  a  few  months? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  how  can  I  leave  him  alone  ?  He  has  triJ 
to  persuade  me  to  go  many  a  time,  but  it  is  impossible.  He  may  be  suddenif 
taken  sick;  we  are  youngsters  no  more,  you  know. 

Zhitoff. —  ril  take  care  of  him. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  no!  there  it  is  no  use  talking:  I  won't  go.  M 
for  the  birch  grove,  I'll  try  to  get  along  without  it.  I  merely  mentioned < 
in  passing.     It  is  not  so  bad  here,  after  all.     Spring  is  coming 

Zhitoff. —  And  if  he  were  sent  away  to  Siberia,  would  you  follow  him? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  And  why  not?  I  suppose  there  are  people • 
Siberia,  too. 

Zhitoff. —  You  are  a  darling,  Inna  Alexandrovna. 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {gently). —  And  you,  stupid  boy,  mustn't  talkA* 
way  to  an  old  woman.  By  the  way,  why  don't  you  get  married?  Yd 
could  live  with  your  wife  right  here  with  us. 

Zhitoff. —  Oh,  no,  how  can  I  ?  You  know  I  am  a  nomadic  anitni 
Can  hardly  remain  in  one  plac6. 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {smiling). —  Oh,  yes!  you  look  it! 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  421 

Zhitoff. —  I  am  here  to-day — maybe  somewhere  else  to-morrow.  I 
lU  soon  give  up  astronomy,  too.     I  must  see  Australia  yet  I 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  What  for  ? 

Zhitoff. —  Well,  just  to  see  how  some  people  live  in  this  world  of  ours. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  But,  Vassily  Vassilievitch,  you  have  no  money. 
ily  those  can  afford  to  travel  who  have  plenty  of  coin. 

Zhitoff. —  I  am  not  going  to  travel.  I  shall  try  to  get  some  employment 
the  railroad  or  in  a  factory. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  What,  an  astronomer  ? 

Zhitoff. —  Oh,  it  is  not  so  difficult  to  accomplish.  I  am  familiar  with 
ichanics  and  not  being  spoiled,  —  I  need  but  very  little. 

{A  pause.     The  storm  is  raging  harder.) 

Petia. —  Mamma,  where  is  papa  ?    Is  he  working  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Yes;  he  asked  not  to  be  disturbed. 

Petia  {shrugging  his  shoulders). —  I  can't  understand  how  he  can  work 
such  a  time. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Well,  you  see  he  can.  You  think  it  would  be 
Iter  for  him  to  sit  around  idle  ?    Here  is  Pollock  working,  too! 

Petia. —  Oh,  well,  Pollock!  Who  says  anything  about  him  —  Pollock! 
ETIA  whispering  to  Luntz.) 

Zhitoff. —  Pollock  is  a  man  with  talent.  I  predict  he'll  become  famous 
about  five  years  from  now.  An  energetic  fellow!  (Inna  Alexandrovna 
tmiling.) 

What  are  you  laughing  about  i    Don't  you  think  I  am  right  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  I  am  not  laughing  at  your  words.  But  I  must 
^  Pollock  is  very  odd  looking.  I  know  it  is  not  right  to  laugh,  but  one 
n't  control  oneself  at  times.  He  reminds  me  of  some  instrument, —  by 
t  way,  what  instrument  do  we  have  that  looks  like  him  ? 

Zhitoff. —  I  don't  know. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  An  astrolabe,  I  think. 

Zhitoff. —  I  don't  know.  I  must  say  it  is  certainly  a  mystery  to  me  how 
u  allow  yourself  to  laugh. 

Inna  Alexandrovna  (sighing). — Let  me  tell  you  one  can't  do  without 
ighing  at  times.  A  good  hearty  laugh  is  very  beneficial  under  certain 
xmmstances.  Let  me  relate  to  you  a  very  amusing  incident  of  mine.  It 
ppened  during  our  journey  from  Russia.  Times  were  very  bad  with  us. 
tsides  our  traveling  expenses  we  had  but  very  little  money  to  spare.  And 
lat  do  you  think  I  did  ?  Lost  our  tickets.  And  how  it  ever  happened  —  I 
1  puzzled  to  this  very  day.  I  had  never  lost  a  pin  in  my  life  before  and 
w 


422  TO  THE  STARS 

Zhitojf. —  Where  did  it  happen  —  in  Russia  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  If  it  only  had  been  in  Russia.  No,  we 
already  abroad.  Here  we  were,  the  whole  bunch  of  us,  surrounded  by  A 
kinds  of  bundles,  waiting  in  some  Austrian  station, —  and  as  I  was  ths 
sitting  brooding  over  our  condition  —  I  accidentally  cast  my  eyes  upon  oat 
of  our  bundles  —  a  pillow,  I  think  it  was, —  and  was  seized  with  such  a  Ct 
of  laughter  that  upon  my  word  I  am  ashamed  of  it  yet  I 

Zhitojf, —  Tell  me,  Inna  Alexandrovna,  I  have  never  been  able  to  ibri 
out,  why  has  Sergius  Nikolaievitch  been  banished  from  Russia  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  No,  he  wasn't;  he  left  the  country  of  his  om 
accord.  He  had  a  misunderstanding  with  some  of  the  authorities;  thcf 
wanted  him  to  sign  some  kind  of  a  disagreeable  paper,  which,  of  coune, 
he  flatly  refused  to  do.  Then  he  had  a  few  sharp  words  with  the  minister 
himself,  telling  him  what  he  thought  of  him.  So  we  left  the  countiy. 
Meanwhile  he  had  been  offered  this  observatory;  and  here  we  are,  sir,  liTing 
upon  these  rocks  some  twelve  years  already. 

Zhitoff. —  Then  he  can  go  back,  if  he  wants  to  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  But  what  for  ?  You  know  you  can't  find  such  ii 
observatory  in  Russia. 

Zhitoff. —  But  the  birch  grove  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  don't  talk  nonsense.  Wait,  some  one  is 
knocking  {wailing  of  the  storm). 

Zhitoff. —  No,  no;  you  are  only  imagining. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  But  perhaps  —  Minna  dear,  suppose  you  go 
down  and  find  out  if  anybody  has  arrived.  Oh,  that  infernal  bell  will  drive 
me  crazy,  I  always  imagine  that  some  one  is  coming  or  going.  HarkI 
{The  bell  is  heard  ringingy  the  storm  raging.) 

Zhitoff. —  Yes,  these  March  storms  are  very  violent,  as  a  rule.  Down 
below  the  people  are  enjoying  spring,  and  we  are  in  the  midst  of  winter 
up  here.     I  reckon  the  almonds  are  through  blossoming  already. 

Minna. —  No  one  has  come,  madame! 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  what  is  happening  there  ?  A^^at  is  going  on 
there  ?  I  am  so  anxious  for  my  Kolenka  [Nicholas].  I  know  him  so  weD; 
he  wouldn't  stop  for  anything  —  a  gun,  a  cannon  —  he  doesn't  cart 
O  God!  I  can  hardly  think  of  it!  If  I  could  only  get  a  word  from  him. 
Four  anxious  days  passed  —  just  like  being  in  a  grave. 

Zhitoff. —  Please  stop  worrying.  You'll  soon  be  able  to  find  out  every- 
thing.    The  barometer  is  rising. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  If  he  were  only  fighting  for  his  own  country's 
cause.  But  to  fight  in  a  foreign  land  and  for  a  strange  people — what 
business  has  he  to  do  it  ? 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  423 

Petia  {passionately). —  Nicholas  is  a  hero!    He  is  for  all  the  oppressed 
and  the  downtrodden,  whosoever  they  may  be.    All  men  are  equal  and  it 
^matters  not  what  countiy  they  belong  to. 

■•        Luntz. —  Strangers!    Country,  government  —  I   cannot  comprehend. 

Wfhzt  do  you  mean  by  strangers,  government  ?     It  is  these  divisions  and 

'^iBparadons  that  create  so  many  slaves,  for  when  one  house  is  being  pillaged 

^%lid  robbed,  the  people  of  the  next  one  look  on  quietly;  and  while  people  of  one 

house  are  being  murdered  the  people  of  the  next  one  say,  '  That  does  not 

'iboncemus.'     Our  own.     Strangers!     Here  I  am  —  a  Jew;  have  no  country 

€lf  my  own  —  therefore  I  must  be  a  stranger  to  all  ?    No,  not  at  all.    I  am 

'  a  brother  to  all !    Yes !  (pacing)  yes ! 

^  Petia. —  Indeed  it  is  absurd  to  divide  this  earth  of  ours  into  districts. 

Luntz  {pacing  nervously). — Yes,  all  you  hear  is  our  own.  Strangers! 
Niggers !  Jews ! 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Again!  again  you  are  singing  the  same  old  song! 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourselves!  Did  I  say  anything?  Do  I  say 
that  Kolenka  is  not  doing  the  right  thing }  Haven't  I  urged  him  myself, 
•a3ang: '  Gfo,  Kolenka  dear,  make  haste,  for  you'll  only  torture  yourself  here.' 
O  God!  I  blaming  my  Kolenka,  I  merely  say  that  I  am  sick  at  heart. 
Don't  forget  what  a  miserable  and  weary  week  I've  passed.  You  are  all 
resting  peacefully,  but  I  am  passing  sleepless  nights,  always  watching,  always 
Kstening  —  but  always  to  the  same  thing:  to  the  storm  and  the  bell,  the  bell 
and  the  storm  —  wailing  as  though  burying  somebody.  No,  I  fear  I  shall 
never  behold  dear  Kolenka !     {The  storm  and  the  bell.) 

Petia  {tenderly). —  Don't  worry,  mamma  dear,  please  don't!  Every- 
diing  will  turn  out  all  right.  He  is  not  alone  there;  and  what  makes  you 
think  that  something  will  necessarily  happen  to  him  }     Be  calm,  please. 

Zhitoff. —  Besides,  Marusia  and  Anna  with  her  husband  are  there  also. 
They'll  take  care  of  him.  Then  you  know  how  he  is  beloved  by  every  one, 
and  like  a  general  he  is  surrounded  by  a  staff  that  will  protect  him  all  right. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  I  know  it,  I  know  it,  but  I  can't  help  it!  But 
pray,  don't  bring  in  Marusia  as  an  example.  Anna  is  prudent,  but  Marusia 
—  she'll  run  to  the  front  ahead  of  others!     I  know  her. 

Petia. —  What  would  you  want  her  to  do .?  You  surely  don't  expect 
Marusia  to  hide  herself.^ 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Again!  Go  ahead  and  fight  as  long  as  you 
please,  I  don't  object  to  it.  Only  don't  try  to  comfort  me  as  though  I  were  a 
child.  I  know  what  I  know  —  I  am  no  baby.  Some  years  ago  I  had  a 
fight  with  wolves  myself.     There  you  have  it! 

Zhitoff. —  What,  you  fighting  wolves  ?  I  didn't  expect  you  to  be  such 
a  heroine!    How  did  you  come  to  do  it  ?    Tell  us. 


424  TO  THE  STARS 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  nonsense.  I  was  returning  home  one  win- 
ter night  on  horseback,  when  suddenly  I  was  attacked  by  a  bunch  of  then. 
I  frightened  them  off  with  my  gun. 

Zhitoff. —  What,  you  can  shoot,  too  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Vassily  Vassilievitch,  one  living  a  life  like  om 
must  learn  everything.  I  have  accompanied  Sergius  Nikolaievitch  on  a 
expedition  to  Turkestan  and  rode  fifteen  hundred  miles  on  horsebadi 
manlike  fashion.  But  that  isn't  all.  I  have  had  some  other  adventuies: 
Was  once  drowning,  twice  burning.  .  .  .  Let  me  tell  you,  hoi^ever,  Vasdf 
Vassilievitch,  there  is  nothing  more  terrible  in  this  world  than  a  sick  dnli 
Once  during  an  expedition,  Kolushka  (Nicholas)  was  taken  sick  widi  i 
sore  throat.  We  thought  at  first  it  was  diphtheria.  You  can  imagiiie  ott 
anxiety.  Without  a  physician,  without  medicine,  the  nearest  village  bdv 
some  fifty  miles  off.  I  ran  out  from  the  tent  and  threw  myself  on  the  gioimd 
with  such  force  that  it  is  even  awful  to  think  of  it  now.  I  had  already  ktt 
two  children,  you  know,  one  at  the  age  of  seven,  Serge  was  his  name;  die 
other  when  quite  a  baby. 

Anuto  [Anna],  too,  once  nearly  died;  but  why  recall  those  days  ?  Haid 
is  the  lot  of  a  mother,  Vassily  Vassilievitch !  Thank  God  for  having  given 
me  at  least  good  children. 

Zhitoff. —  Yes,  your  Nicholas  is  a  wonderful  young  man! 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Nicholas,  oh,  yes!  I  have  seen  a  good  many 
people  in  my  life,  but  have  never  met  such  a  noble  soul.  I  said  a  while  ago 
he  had  no  business  to  fight  for  other  people's  cause  —  one  can  see  at  once 
that  I  am  selfish;  but  Kolenka,  if  he  saw  a  lion  destroying  an  anthill— I 
assure  you  he  would  rush  at  him  with  bare  arms.  That's  his  nature.  Obi 
what  is  happening  there  ?     What  is  going  on  there  ^ 

Zhitoff. —  If  I  could  only  give  up  the  idea  of  going  to  Australia. 

Pollock  {entering). —  Perhaps  you  will  have  a  cup  of  black  coffee, 
esteemed  Inna  Alexandrovna. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Why  certainly,  certainly!     Minna!  {appearing)- 

Zhitoff. —  Well,  how  are  things,  colleague  ? 

Pollock. —  Quite  well.     What  are  you  doing  ?     Idle  as  ever  ? 

Zhitoff. —  Look  at  the  weather;  how  can  one  work.  Besides,  the 
events 

Pollock. —  You'd  better  say  Russian  indolence. 

Zhitoff. —  It  might  be  indolence.     Who  can  tell  ? 

Pollock. —  It  isn't  right,  dear  comrade.  Luntz,  have  you  finished 
Sergius  Nikolaievitch's  mathematical  tables  yet  ? 

Luntz  {sharply). —  No! 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  4^5 

Pollock. —  Too  bad ! 

Luntz. —  Bad  or  good  —  that  does  not  concern  you.  You  are  only  an 
sistant  like  myself  and  have  no  right  to  reprimand  me.    Yes! 

Pollock  (turning  aside  and  shrugging  his  shoulders). —  Order  the  coffee 
be  brought  into  my  room,  will  you,  Zhitoif  i 

Zhitojf. —  All  right.     What  is  Sergius  Nikolaievitch  working  on  now  ? 

Pollock. —  Oh,  he  has  lots  of  work  on  hand.  I  am  a  hard  worker 
Ifself,  but  I  certainly  admire  his  tenacity  and  power  of  intellect.  He  has 
nronderful  brain,  Zhitoif!  It  seems  to  be  able  to  withstand  the  hardest 
nd  of  friction,  just  like  some  of  our  instruments.  He  works  with  the 
gularity  of  a  clock,  too.  I  am  certain  one  couldn't  find  one  single  error 
all  his  calculations,  embracing  some  thirty  years'  labor. 

Luntz  {listening). —  He  is  not  only  a  worker,  he  is  a  genius. 

Pollock. —  Quite  true.  .His  figures  and  calculations  are  living  and 
irching  like  soldiers. 

Luntz. —  With  you  everything  is  brought  down  to  a  discipline.  I  can't 
derstand  your  codet  —  poesy 

Pollock. —  Without  discipline  —  there  is  no  victory,  my  dear  Luntz. 

Zhitoff. —  True^ 

Luntz. —  I  can  appreciate  Sergius  Nikolaievitch  much  better  than  you 
n.     I  am  sure  he  sees  infinity  as  plain  as  we  see  our  walls,  yes! 

Pollock. —  I  have  no  objection  to  that.  By  the  way,  is  the  revolution 
ded  ?    Have  you  any  information  ? 

Zhitoff. —  How  can  you  get  any  information  ?  Don't  you  hear  what  is 
ing  on  outside  ? 

Pollock. —  I  never  thought  of  the  weather. 

Petia. —  According  to  the  latest  reports 

Pollock. —  Never  mind  the  latest  reports,  you  just  tell  me  when  it  will 
end;  I  don't  care  to  go  into  details. 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {entering).  — ^No,  no  one  has  arrived.  I  wanted  to 
nvince  myself. A  regular  desert. 

Pollock. —  You'll  be  so  kind,  dear  Inna  Alexandrovna,  as  to  send  the 
Bfee  into  my  room. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Very  well,  very  well.  Go  on  with  your  work, 
ork  at  present  is  simply  a  blessing.     {Exit  Pollock.) 

Petia. —  But  I  think  there  are  moments  in  our  life  when  one  has  to 
crifice  his  work,  it  being  dishonorable  to  work 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Petia,  Petia! 

Petia. —  I  can  stand  it  no  longer!  Why  don't  you  let  me  go  there  ?  I 
all  go  insane  here  —  in  this  hole! 


426  TO  THE  STARS 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  But,  Petia  dear,  you  are  too  young.  Yoa  as 
barely  eighteen  years  old. 

Petia. —  Nikolai  had  already  been  in  prison  at  the  age  of  nineteen. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  And  what  good  do  you  see  in  that  ? 

Petia. —  He  worked ! 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  mercy;  well,  speak  to  your  father  abottk; 
if  he  consents  —  very  well. 

Petia. —  He  told  me  to  go. 

Zhitoff.—  Well,  why  didn't  you  ? 

Petia. —  Oh,  I  don't  know,  can't  do  it.  There  is  such  a  great  stnig^ 
going  on  there,  but  I  —  I  can't  do  it!    (Exit.) 

Luntz. —  Petia  is  getting  nervous  again.     You  ought  to  take  good 
of  him.     {Follows  Petia.) 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  But  what  can  I  do  with  him  ?     Oh, 
Father! 

Zhitoff. —  Nonsense,  it  will  blow  over. 

Inna  Alexandrovna.  He  is  so  delicate,  so  frail,  just  like  a  girl.  HflV 
can  he  go  ?  He  has  so  much  changed  lately!  And  here  is  this  LunOi 
instead  of  calming  him  down,  he 

Zhitoff. — Oh,  well,  Luntz, — he  himself  looks  as  if  he  were  going  to  haie 
a  fit  of  hysterics  some  of  these  days. 

Inna  Alexandrovna, —  I  see  it  myself.  Thank  the  Lord  that  you  arc  at 
least  calm  and  peaceful, —  otherwise  there  would  be  but  one  place  for  me; 
rest  in  the  grave. 

Zhitoff. —  Oh,  I  am  always  calm,  was  probably  bom  that  w^ay.  WouU 
gladly  enjoy  an  occasional  'nervous  spell,'  but  it  won't  work. 

Inna  Alexandrovna, —  An  excellent  temperament. 

Zhitoff, —  Oh,  I  don't  know,  rather  a  convenient  one.  What  a  pityi«c 
didn't  get  the  papers.     I  enjoy  reading  about  the  excitement  of  other  peopfe 

Inna  Alexandrovna, —  Did  you  know  that  Luntz  lost  his  parcnc 
some  four  years  ago  while  he  was  away  abroad  studying  ?  They  weit 
killed  during  a  Jewish  massacre. 

Zhitoff, —  Yes,  I  have  heard. 

Inna  Alexandrovna, —  He  never  talks  about  it  himself.  He  can't  bear 
it.  What  an  unfortunate  young  man;  it  breaks  my  heart  whenever  I  look 
at  him.     Knocking  again  ? 

Zhitoff,—  No. 

Inna  Alexandrovna, —  Some  three  years  ago,  on  just  a  day  like  this» 
a  peddler  'dropped  in';  he  was  almost  frozen  to  death,  but  he  soon  revived 
and  at  once  commenced  doing  business. 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  427 

Zhitoff. —  I  may  go  out  peddling  myself  to  Australia. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  But  how  can  you  ?  You  don't  understand  the 
nglish  language. 

Zhitoff. —  I  understand  a  little^ —  picked  it  up  in  California. 

Inna  Alexandrovna, —  Well,  I  think  FU  read  the  papers  again.  Can't 
link  of  anything  else  to  do  at  present,  anyhow.  You  ought  to  read  some, 
o,  Vassily  Vassilievitch. 

Zhitoff. —  I  don't  feel  like  it.     I'd  rather  sit  at  the  fireplace. 

(Inna  Alexandrovna  puts  on  her  glasses  and  looks  over  the  papers. 
HrroFF  moves  to  the  fireplace.  Pollock  is  seen  working.  The  storm  is 
ford  ragingy  the  bell  ringing.) 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  I  wonder  what  my  Sergius  Nikolaievitch  is 
>ing  ?  I  haven't  seen  him  for  a  couple  of  days  already.  He  eats  and 
rinks  in  his  studio.     Doesn't  want  to  see  anybody. 

Zhitoff. —  Y-yes !     {A  pause. ) 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {reading). —  What  dreadful  things!  What  is  a 
achine-gun,  Vassily  Vassilievitch  ? 

Zhitoff. —  It  is  a  kind  of  quick-firing  gun  {a  pause;  Minna  is  seen  carry- 
\g  coffee  to  Pollock). 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  I  should  like  to  use  that  peculiar  machine 
yself. 

Zhitoff. —  Y-yes,     It  is  a  dangerous  article  {a  pause). 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  How  it  is  storming!  It  is  impossible  to  read. 
*h,  don't  go  to  Australia,  Vassily  Vassilievitch;  I  shall  certainly  miss  you 
jry  much.     You  won't  go,  will  you } 

Zhitoff. —  Impossible.  I  am  of  a  restless  nature.  I  would  like  to  trot 
1  over  the  globe  and  see  what  the  earth  is  made  of.  From  Australia  I  may 
>  to  India.     I  should  like  to  see  some  tigers  in  a  wild  state. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  What  do  you  want  tigers  for } 

Zhitoff. —  I  don't  know  myself.  I,  Inna  Alexandrovna,  like  to  see  and 
:amine  things.  There  was  a  small  hill  in  the  village  where  I  was  bom; 
used  to  mount  that  hill  when  I  was  a  little  boy  and  sit  there  for  hours 
atching  things.  I  even  took  up  astronomy  with  the  intention  of  seeing  and 
oking  at  things.  I  don't  care  much  for  calculations;  it  really  makes  no 
fference  whether  it  be  twenty  millions  or  thirty.  I  don't  like  to  talk 
uch,  either. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  All  right.  I  won't  bother  you.  Keep  on 
oking. 

{A  pause.     The  storm  and  the  hell.) 

Zhitoff  {not  turning). —  Are  you  going  to  Canada  with  Sergius  Nik  - 
aevitch  to  see  the  eclipse  ? 


428  TO  THE  STARS 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  to  Canada!  Why  certainly  1  How  can  he 
go  without  me  ? 

Zhitoff. —  You  will  have  a  hard  journey.     It  is  rather  far  off. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Nonsense.  If  things  should  only  turn  out  here 
satisfactorily.  O  God!  It  is  awful  to  think  of  it.  {Silence.  The  storm. 
The  bell.) 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Vassily  Vassilievitch! 

Zhitoff. —  Ma'ame. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Did  you  hear  ? 

Zhitoff.— No\ 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  I  must  have  been  mistaken  again  {a  pausi). 
Vassily  Vassilievitch »  don't  you  hear  ? 

Zhitoff.—  What  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  A  shot,  I  think. 

Zhitoff. —  Who  is  going  to  fire  guns  here  ?    It  is  simply  an  halludnatioD. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  But  I  heard  it  so  distinctly.  (A  pause.  A  distent 
shot  is  heard.) 

Zhitoff. —  Oh,  oh!  shooting,  indeed! 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {running  and  shouting). —  Minna,  Minna!  Frana 
(Zhitoff  rises  slowly;  Petia  and  Luntz  hurriedly  pass  through  the  room. 
Another  shot  not  far  off.) 

Petia. —  Well,  what  is  it  ? 

Luntz. —  Don't  know.     Come! 

(Zhitoff  stands  at  the  window  listening.  Pollock  turns  around  his 
heady  looks  into  the  vacant  room  and  resumes  his  work  again.  Slamminf 
of  the  door  and  barking  of  dogs  are  heard.) 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {entering). —  I  sent  out  the  men  with  Vulcan  [a  dog]; 
somebody  must  have  been  lost. 

Zhitoff. —  Yes,  but  the  bell  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  The  wind  blows  in  our  direction.  You  heard 
how  distinct  the  gunshots  were. 

Pollock. —  May  I  be  of  any  service  to  you  ?  Not  yet.  Let  us  prepare 
something  hot  anyhow.  {Slamming  of  the  door.  A  murmuring  is  heerl 
Accompanied  by  allj  enter^  wrapped  up  and  covered  with  snoWf  Anna  end 
Treitch  carrying  Verchovtzeff.) 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {on  the  threshold). —  What  is  it,  Anna  ? 

Anna  {taking  off  her  shawl). —  Mamma,  hurry  up,  please;  get  ready 
something  hot.  We  are  nearly  dead.  I  am  afraid  Valentine  is  frostbitten. 
Quick.     {Falls  on  the  chair  fainting,) 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {hurrying  towards  Verchovtzeff). —  Valentinei 
what's  the  matter .? 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  4^9 

Ferchovtxeff  (weakly). —  Don't  —  worry,  mother;  it's  a  trifle  —  my 
jt 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Who  is  this  gentleman  ? 

Treitch. —  A  friend. 

Inna  Alexandrovna  (looking  around  terror  stricken). —  Where  is  Kolia 
icholas]?     (A  pause.     Petia  with  tears  in  his  eyes  throws  himself  on 

NA  AlEXANDROVNA.) 

Petia. —  Mamma,  dearest  mamma!  Don't  be  frightened.  Nothing 
s  happened,  nothing! 

Inna  Alexandrovna  (pushing  him  off  gently;  rather  calmed). —  But 
lere  is  he  ? 

Anna  (having  recovered  and  now  busying  herself  with  her  wounded 
sband). —  O  mamma,  there  is  nothing  serious.     He  is  in  prison. 

Luntx. —  What  does  it  mean  ?  Wait,  just  wait!  I  can't  understand  it; 
means  then  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  In  prison!     In  what  prison  ? 

Anna. —  My  Gfod!  Can't  you  understand?  We  have  escaped  and 
at's  all !    We  have  come  here  for  shelter. 

Pollock. —  Is  the  revolution  ended  ? 

Luntz. —  I  can't  understand  it.     Is  it  possible  ? 

Treitch. —  Yes,  we  are  defeated  (a  pause). 

Anna. —  Mamma,  why  don't  you  see  to  it  that  we  get  something  stimu- 
ting.  Have  you  any  hot  water,  brandy  ?  Have  you  some  wadding  in  the 
»use? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  You  shall  have  everything  in  a  moment.  (CalU 
g.)     Minna!     (The  latter  appearing.)     In  prison! 

Zhitoff. —  Why  don't  you  let  Sergius  Nikolaievitch  know  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  I  shall  send  for  him  in  a  minute. 

Pollock. —  Pray  tell  us  how  it  all  happened  —  Mr.  —  Mr. 

Treitch. —  Treitch  is  my  name. 

Verchovtxeff  (feebly). —  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Treitch  I  should  have 
;rished.     Anna,  don't  be  so  busy.     I  am  feeling  excellent. 

Anna. —  I  fail  to  understand  how  we  ever  reached  the  place.  It  was 
•mething  awful!  We  have  been  struggling  in  the  mountains  ever  since 
ght  o'clock  in  the  morning;  the  whole  day.  We  had  a  miraculous  escape 
I  the  frontier. 

Luntz. —  I  can't  believe 

Petia. —  Valentine,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?    Have  you  any  pain  ? 

Verchovtxeff. —  My  feet  are  'peeled  oflF*  a  little  —  with  a  piece  of  shell  — 
so  my  head  —  Nonsense! 


430  TO  THE  STARS 

Luntx. —  Have  they  been  using  shells  on  you  ? 

Verchovtzejf. —  The  bourgeois  —  defended  themselves  —  pretty  fair. 

Anna. —  Valentine^  you  mustn't  talk!  Oh,  what  a  horriblet  whit  a 
ghastly  sight  it  was.  Shells  were  bursting  all  around,  killing  and  woundiflg 
thousands  of  people.     I  saw  myself  heaps  of  dead  at  the  town  hall. 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {approaching). —  What  about  Nicholas  ?  Tdl  me 
where  he  is  ? 

Anna. —  Actually  speaking,  no  one  knows  where  he  is. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  What  ?  didn't  you  say 

Petia. —  And  Marusia  is  absent  too!  You  are  concealing  something 
from  us.     And  didn't  you  say,  Luntz  ? 

Luntz. —  Petia,  Petia!     But  I  did  not  think  —  I  can't  believe  it 

Anna. —  But  there  is  no  necessity  to  conceal  things. 

Treitch. —  Calm  yourself,  Madame  Temovsky.  I  am  sure  Nikolai 
is  alive. 

Anna. —  Treitch  will  tell  us  all  about  it.  He  fought  with  ^^chohs 
side  by  side. 

Treitch. —  He  was  wounded  at  the  last  moment,  when  the  barricade 
was  almost  in  the  hands  of  the  soldiers.  He  stood  alongside  of  me  and  I 
saw  him  fall. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  My  God !  Dangerously  wounded  ?  Perhaps 
he  was  killed.     Oh,  speak! 

Treitch. —  I  don't  think  he  was  wounded  dangerously. 

Frantz. —  The  professor  told  me  to  tell  you  that  he'll  be  here  directly. 

Anna. —  Of  course,  what's  the  use  of  hurrying! 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Please  go  on. 

Treitch. —  He  was  wounded  in  the  back,  either  with  a  bullet  or  a  pica 
of  shell.  At  first  he  was  conscious,  but  soon  fainted  away.  I  picked  him  up 
and  carried  him  to  a  little  street,  but  here  I  encountered  a  detachment  of 
dragoons;  seeing  that  my  resistance  would  be  useless,  and  that  it  would  only 
expose  Nikolai  to  their  bullets,  I  left  them  the  body  and  went  back  to  ours. 
He  is  probably  now  in  prison. 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {crying). —  Kolushka,  Kolushka!  and  here  wc 
didn't  know  anything  about  it.  Oh,  my  heart  was  telling  me  all  the  time  — 
you  don't  think  he  is  dangerously  wounded  ?    Tell  me,  do  you  .? 

Treitch. —  I  don't  think  so. 

Petia. —  How  about  Marusia  ?  You  don't  mention  her  at  all.  Is  she 
killed  ? 

Anna. —  Oh,  no!     Valentine,  do  you  want  some  water  with  brandy? 

Treitch. —  We  saw  her  many  times.  She  remained  there  in  order  to 
find  out  comrade  Nikolai's  whereabouts. 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  431 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  Manisia  dear^  you  are  a  darling,  upon  my 
)rd.  That's  the  way  to  do,  that's  the  way  to  act.  Just  think  of  it.  That's 
girl  for  you!  Treitch,  don't  you  want  a  little  brandy  ?  Why,  you  look 
:e  a  ghost.  Take  some,  my  dear,  I  would  fain  kiss  you,  but  I  know  you 
Ik  don't  like  these  sentimentalities. 

Treitch, —  I  should  consider  it  a  great  honor  {kissing  each  other).     You. 

Inna  Alexanirovna. —  O  Marusia,  Marusia!  And  that  one,  too  — 
inna!  (Exit.) 

Luntx  {almost  crazed). —  Then  all  was  in  vain  ? 

Pollock. —  It  looks  that  way. 

Luntz. —  In  vain  then  all  the  blood  shed,  all  the  thousands  of  useless 
orifices,  the  glorious  and  matchless  struggle,  the  —  the  —  oh,  curse  I 
hy  didn't  I  lay  down  my  head  together  with  my  fallen  brothers  ? 

Verchovtzeff. — ^Why,  you — expect  the — bourgeois — to  give  up  at  once 
-  his  hold  upon  the  earth  i  The  bourgeois  -  -  is  not  so  foolish  —  you'll 
Lve  a  chance  yet  to  die. 

Treitch. —  The  struggle  isn't  over  yet. 

Pollock. —  Are  you  a  workman,  Mr.  Treitch  ? 

Treitch. —  Yes,  sir.  By  the  way,  I  haven't  informed  Madame  Temov- 
y,  not  wishing  to  worry  her,  that  Nikolai  might  be  shot  to  death. 

Petia. —  Shot  to  death! 

Treitch. —  Already  on  my  way  here  a  rumor  reached  my  ears  that  they 
e  executing  all  the  prisoners  without  even  a  trial.  They  don't  even  spare 
e  wounded. 

Petia  {shudders  and  covers  his  face  with  his  hands). —  What  a  horrible 
ing. 

Luntz. —  Beasts!  They  are  ever  thirsty  for  human  blood.  They  have 
eir  belly  full  now. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Yes  —  they  never  were  —  vegetarians,  you  know. 

Luntz. —  How  can  you  jest  ? 

Anna. —  You  mustn't  talk,  Valia  [Valentine]. 

Verchovtzeff. —  It  is  these  skinned  feet  —  of  mine  —  that  make  me  — 
)  merry.  I'll  shut  up  now,  Anna,  I  am  tired.  I  am  very  —  anxious  to 
e  —  the  face  of  the  —  star-gazer. 

Treitch. —  Hush !  (Inna  Alexandrovna  enters).  They  are  quarreling 
id  we,  of  course,  cannot  dictate  terms  to  them. 

Zhitoff. —  Here  is  Sergius  Nikolaievitch.  (Sergius  Nikolaievftch 
ipears  at  the  top  of  the  staircase  and  speaks  while  descending.) 

Sergius. —  What  is  the  matter  ?     Where  is  Nicholas  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. — Don't  be  alarmed,  papa;  he  is  in  prison,  wounded. 


432  TO  THE  STARS 

Sergius  {stopping  for  a  moment). —  Do  they  kill  each  other  yet  ?  Do 
they  still  have  prisons  ? 

Verchoiutuff  {maliciously). —  He  fell  —  down  —  from  heaven! 

ACT  n 

A  spring  morning  in  the  mountains;  the  sky  is  fair  and  clear;  the  sun  is 
shining  brightly.  In  the  center  —  a  courtyard  with  paved  walks.  Theyari 
is  uneven  and  slanting^  fenced  off  in  the  back  by  a  low  stone  wall  with  a  gate 
in  it. 

A  range  of  mountains  is  seen  at  a  distance^  but  not  higher  than  the  om 
upon  which  is  situated  the  observatory.  To  the  rights  a  comer  of  the  observe 
tory  structure^  tapering  off  into  a  high  tower.  To  the  left^  a  comer  of  the  house 
with  a  stone  porch. 

A  total  absence  of  vegetation.  From  the  time  of  the  first  act  three  weeks 
have  elapsed.  Verchovtzeff  is  sitting  in  a  rolling-chair;  Anna  is  wheeling 
him  to  and  fro.  Zhitoff  is  sitting  near  the  wally  warming  himself  in  the  sun. 
All  are  dressed  in  springlike  fashion^  save  Zhitoff,  who  has  a  coat  on. 

Zhitoff  {sitting). —  Let  me  wheel  him  a  little,  Anna  Sergeievna. 

Anna. —  No,  keep  still.  I  don't  like  to  bother  anybody.  Are  you 
comfortable,  Valia  ? 

Verchovtzeff. —  Yes,  but  what  is  the  use  of  '  turning  about '  like  rats 
in  a  trap  ?  Place  me  alongside  of  Zhitoff:  I  also  want  to  derive  some  benefit 
from  the  sun.     That's  right;  thank  you! 

Anna. —  Why  are  you  not  working,  Zhitoff  ? 

Zhitoff. —  It  is  the  fault  of  the  weather;  as  soon  as  spring  comes  I  can't 
remain  in  the  house  to  save  my  soul.  I  warm  myself  and  warm  mysdf 
and 

Verchovtzeff. —  Aren't  you  a  Turk,  Zhitoff } 

Zhitoff. —  No,  sir. 

Verchovtzeff. —  But  it  would  certainly  become  you  to  sit  thus  and  med- 
itate —  as  they  do  in  Turkey. 

Zhitoff. —  No,  I  am  no  Turk. 

Verchovtzeff. —  I  understand  you;  it  is  so  nice  to  sit  in  the  sun.  What  a 
pity  Nicholas  can't  have  that  pleasure.  Oh,  I  know  that  Stemburg  prison; 
it  is  never  visited  by  a  ray  of  sunlight,  nor  can  one  see  the  sky.  I  have  spent 
in  that  prison  but  one  month,  but  when  I  came  out  I  looked  like  a  wet  sponge 
from  the  dampness.     Horrible! 

Anna. —  I  am  glad  that  he  is  at  least  alive.  I  thought  surely  he  had 
been  shot  to  death. 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  433 

Verchavtxeff. —  Just  take  your  time;  they  are  not  through  with  him 
t.  Let's  wake  Marusia,  I  am  anxious  to  find  out  what  has  taken  place 
ere. 

Zhitoff. —  She  arrived  very  late  last  night. 

Verchovtzeff. —  I  heard  her.  She  woke  up  the  whole  house  with  her 
iging.  I  was  wondering  who  could  have  sung  in  that  mausoleum.  I 
oudit  it  was  Pollock,  having  discovered  a  new  star. 

Lhitoff. —  Her  singing  must  be  taken  as  a  good  sign. 

Anna. —  I  can't  understand  how  any  one  can  allow  himself  to  sing 
len  others  are  asleep. 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {appearing  on  the  veranda), —  Hasn't  Luntz  come 
ick  yet  ? 

Anna. —  No. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  But,  heavens!  what  can  that  mean  ?  Sergius 
ikolaievitch  needs  him.  What  shall  I  say  to  him  ?  Scattered  like  sheep, — 
ily  one»  Pollock,  is  working.  Marusia  dear  was  singing  last  night.  When 
leard  her  —  my  breath  almost  failed  me.    Well,  I  think 

Verchovtzeff. —  Suppose  you  wake  her  up,  mother. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  no.     Not  for  anything!     Let  her  sleep  all 

Verchovtzeff. —  Well,  wake  up  Schtoltz,  then. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  I  am  not  going  to  disturb  him,  either.  The  man 
tired,  has  brought  us  such  good  news,  and  it  would  be  a  sin  on  my  part 
bother  him.  You'd  better  send  me  in  Luntz  as  soon  as  he  shows  up 
^arts  to  gOy  then  stops  at  the  door).  How  are  you,  Vassily  Vassilievitch  ? 
arming  yourself  in  the  sun  ?  I  filled  the  box  this  morning  with  fresh 
rth  and  planted  some  radishes.  Let  them  grow, —  perhaps  somebody 
11  enjoy  them.     (Exit.) 

Verchovtzeff. —  What  an  energetic  old  woman.  She  even  thinks  of 
dishes  {a  pause). 

Anna. —  Are  you  thinking  of  anything  when  you  sit  and  look  that  way  ? 

Zhitoff. —  No.     What  is  the  use  of  thinking  ?     I  just  look  and  that's  all. 

Verchovtzeff. —  You  are  not  telling  the  truth,  how  can  one  help  thinking  ? 
you  are  not  thinking  —  then  you  must  be  recollecting  something. 

Zhitoff. —  I  have  no  recollections  whatsoever.  Oh,  yes,  I  once  had  a 
:e  rime  in  New  York.  I  was  stopping  in  a  hotel  in  one  of  the  liveliest 
eets.     I  even  had  a  balcony. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Well,  what  of  it  ? 

Zhitoff. —  Well,  I  say  I  had  a  nice  time;  I  was  sitting  on  the  balcony, 
Itching  the  people:  how  they  walk,  how  they  ride.  And  the  elevated 
Iroad!     In  a  word,  very  interesting. 


434  TO  THE  STARS 

Anna. —  Have  the  Americans  a  high  degree  of  culture  ? 

Zhitoff. —  I  don't  mean  that.  It  is  simply  very  interesting  {a  pause). 
Indeed,  where  is  Luntz  ? 

Anna. —  He  went  into  the  mountains  with  Treitch  last  night. 

Verchovtzeff. —  For  investigations. 

Zhitoff. —  what  investigations  ? 

Verchovtzeff. —  Treitch  is  always  investigating  something.  He  has 
probably  already  explored  your  temple  of  Uranus  and  found  it  to  be  a  first- 
class  armory.  Now  he  is  investigating  the  mountains;  he  is  probably 
looking  for  a  place  to  establish  a  firearm  works. 

Anna. —  Treitch  is  a  dreamer. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Well,  not  altogether.  His  dreams  have  a  kind  of 
strangeness  about  them,  but  with  all  their  apparent  absurdity  they  somehow 
become  realized.  At  any  rate,  he  is  an  interesting  fellow.  Talks  little,  but 
is  a  most  excellent  propagandist.  He  can  inflame  the  moon  herself —  to  use 
an  astronomical  expression.    Where  did  Nicholas  get  him  from  ? 

Petia  {entering). —  Good  morning. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Why  are  you  so  gloomy,  young  rooster  ? 

Petia. —  Don't  know. 

Anna. —  Are  you  aware  that  Nicholas  is  in  prison  ? 

Petia. —  Yes,  mamma  told  me. 

Anna. —  I  can't  understand  why  you  are  so  sour.  One  would  suppose 
that  you  are  full  of  vinegar.     I  hate  to  look  at  you. 

Petia. —  You  needn't  to. 

Zhitoff. —  Petia,  come,  let's  go  to  Austraha. 

Petia. —  What  for } 

Anna. —  You  are  asking  questions  just  like  a  child.  'What  for! 
What  for  ?*  He  was  invited  yesterday  into  the  mountains,  but  the  first 
question  he  asked  was  'What  for }  *     Well,  what  are  you  earing  for  ? 

Petia. —  I  don't  know.     Let  me  alone,  Anna! 

Verchovtzeff. —  I  can't  say  that  you  are  very  polite,  my  friend.  {Poinh 
ing  to  Luntz  ^in^  Treitch,  who  appear  covered  with  dust.)  Ah,  there  they 
are.     Luntz,  the  star-gazer,  is  looking  for  you.     Look  out,  you'll  get  it! 

Luntz. —  Oh,  to  the  —  with  him.     Pardon  me,  Anna  Sergevna. 

Anna. —  Never  mind.  I  am  not  a  very  exemplary  daughter,  and  am 
willing  to  share  your  wishes. 

Petia, —  How  vulgar. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Well,  Treitch,  have  you  had  a  nice  walk  ?  Have  you 
found  anything .? 

Treitch. —  A  very  nice  place,  indeed. 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  435 

Anna. —  And  do  you  know  that  Marusia  arrived  last  night  ? 
Treitch  {excitedly). —  You  don't  say  so.     How  is  Nicholas^  how  is  he  ? 
Verchovtzeff, —  Oh,  he  is  shot,  he  is  hanged;  he's  been  tortured  to  death. 
Anna. —  Oh,  don't  mind  him;  he  is  alive,  he  is  living  (near  the  window 
ARUSIA  is  heard  singing  and  playing). 

'  In  prison  dark  behind  iron  bars  there  sits  a  young  eagle  bom  free.' 

Treitch. —  He  is  in  prison  }    Saved  } 

Marusia. —  *  My  comrade  is  sad,  he  is  waving  his  wings,  his  bloody 
)d  near  the  window  he  picks.' 

Verchovtzeff. —  *  He  is  picking  and  stopping  and  through  the  window  he 
>ks,  as  though  tiying  my  thought  to  catch;  with  his  voice  and  his  looks  he 
ges  me  on,  as  though  wanting  to  say  —  let  us  fly  away,  away ! ' 

Marusia  {appearing  —  passionately). —  'Free  birds  are  we!  and  the 
ne  has  come,  comrade,  to  fly  far  away  beyond  the  clouds  where  the  moun- 
n  peers  white;  away  where  we  can  behold  the  blue  sea,  away,  where,  alone, 
t  wind  and  I  rejoice  together.' 

Treitch. —  Marusia! 

Anna. —  What  an  out  of  place  concert! 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {following  Marusia,  wiping  her  eyes). —  You  dear 
glets  of  mine ! 

Verchovtzeff. —  You,  mother,  are  pronouncing  these  words  just  in  the 
me  manner  as  you  would  *  You  dear  chicks  of  mine.' 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Yes,  chicks,  if  you  please;  especially  you  who 
ve  been  plucked  as  though  ready  for  the  soup. 

Marusia. —  Anna,  how  do  you  do  ?     {To  Treffch.)     A  kiss  for  you. 

Treitch  {rapidly  covering  his  eyes  with  his  hand  and  immediately  re* 
tving  it.) —  I  am  the  happiest  mortal. 

Marusia. —  Kisses  to  all,  to  all  —  and  you,  too,  invalid! 

Verchovtzeff. —  Have  you  seen  him  ? 

Marusia. —  Let  us  fly  away! 

Luntz. —  That's  not  right.     We  are  all  anxious  to  know 

Marusia. —  Yes,  I  have  seen  him  and  all.  This  gentleman  here  is  Mr. 
htoltz;  allow  me  to  introduce  him  to  you.  He  is  a  wonderful  man.  At 
esent  he  is  employed  in  some  bank,  but  in  time  he'll  be  of  great  service  to 
»  revolution.  He  looks  very  much  like  a  spy  and  has  therefore  rendered 
I  great  service.     Come,  Schtolz,  make  a  bow  to  them. 

Schtoltz. —  It  gives  me  great  pleasure.     Good  morning. 

Marusia. —  Petia,  dear  boy,  why  are  you  so  sad  ? 

Verchovtzeff. —  This,  Marusia,  speaking  modestly,  is  very  mean  of  you. 


436  TO  THE  STARS 

Marusia. —  G>ine9  come,  cripple,  don't  get  excited.  How  can  one  get 
angry  to-day  ?    Well,  he  is  in  the  Stemburg  prison. 

AIL —  We  know,  we  know! 

Marusia. —  Further,  they  are  going  to  shoot  him. 

I  una  Alexandrovna. —  God!    Whom,  Kolia  [Nicholas]? 

Marusia. —  Don't  worry,  mamma  dear.  It  will  never  come  to  that 
I  am  the  G>untess  Morritz,  don't  you  know,  of '  awfully '  high  birth  ?  Mj 
patrimonial  estates,  of  course,  being  there  (raising  and  waving  her  hand  in 
the  air).    And  they  are  very  malicious,  but  awfully  stupid. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Yes,  so  they  are. 

Marusia. —  The  most  difficult  thing  was  to  find  out  his  whereabouts. 
They  hide  the  names  of  the  prisoners  so  that  they  may  have  an  opportunity 
to  dispose  of  them  quietly  without  a  trial.  But  here  Schtoltz  gave  me  a  hand. 
Schtoltz,  bow  to  them. 

{Enter  Sergius  Nikolaievitch.  He  has  an  old  overcoat  on  with  i 
small  fur  cap;  all  meet  him  cordially  but  coldly.) 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Papa,  listen  to  what  Marusia  is  telling  us;  they 
were  going  to  shoot  him. 

Marusia. —  No,  it  is  too  long  a  story  to  tell.  In  a  word :  I  have  threat- 
ened, I  have  pleaded,  pointed  out  to  them  European  public  opinion;  also  his 
father's  importance  in  the  scientific  world  —  and  at  last  the  execurion  has 
been  postponed.     I  was  in  prison,  too. 

Verchovtzejf. —  Well,  how  is  he  } 

Marusia  {confusedly). —  He  is  —  rather  sad,  but  that  will  pass  away. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  And  the  wound  ^ 

Marusia. —  Oh,  that's  nonsense,  already  healing;  he  is  a  strong  fellow,— 
you  know.  But  the  cell  —  well, —  it  is  a  kind  of  dirty  hole,  for  which  it  is 
difficult  to  find  an  adequate  name. 

Verchovtzeff. —  I  know  it.     I  have  been  there  before. 

Marusia. —  And  I  have  raised  such  a  storm  that  they  had  to  promise 
me  to  transfer  him  to  a  better  room.  To  you,  Sergius  Nikolaievitch,  he  sends 
his  best  regards,  wishing  you  success  in  your  researches,  and  is  very  inter- 
ested to  know  how  things  are  in  general. 

Anna. —  To  be  in  such  a  position,  and  yet  to  think  of  trifles. 

Sergius  Nikolaievitch, —  Dear  boy!     I  am  ever  so  thankful  to  you. 

Anna. —  How  grateful! 

Luntz. —  How  about  yourself  ?     How  did  you  manage  to  escape  ? 

Marusia. —  I  did  not  escape;  the  soldiers  caught  me  that  same  day,  but 
I  cried  and  sobbed  so  much  about  my  sick  grandmother,  who  was  expecting 
me  from  the  store,  that  they  finally  let  me  go;  one  soldier,  however,  struck 
me  slightly  with  the  butt  of  his  gun. 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  437 

Luntz. —  How  abominable  I 

Marusia. —  And  I  had  under  my  dress  the  flag  —  our  flag. 

Verchavtxeff, —  Is  it  all  right  ? 

Marusia. —  I  have  pinned  it  with  English  pins,  but  it  is  so  heavy  I  have 
3ught  it  here.  This  time  it  has  served  Schtoltz  as  a  kind  of  jacket.  If 
htoltz  were  only  not  so  small 

Verchovtxejf, —  Then  he  would  be  big.  Why  did  not  you  fetch  the  flag 
re  ^    I  should  like  to  look  at  it  —  our  flag!     Oh,  the  deuce! 

Marusia. —  No,  I  am  going  to  unfold  it  when  we  fight  another  battle, 
eitch,  do  you  know  who  betrayed  us  } 

Treitch. —  Yes. 

Schtoltz. — Betrayers  and  traitors  ought  to  be  punished  by  death.  (Mar- 
ia is  laughing.    Treitch  is  smiling.) 

VerchtAjtxijf. —  How  bloodthirsty  you  are,  Mr.  Schtoltz. 

Schtoltz. —  One  can  kill  with  electricity,  then  there  will  be  no  blood. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  What  about  Kolushka  } 

Marusia. —  Nicholas  1  Well,  listen.  Is  there  no  one  here  ^  How 
outvour  servants  }    Well,  all  right.     Listen  —  he  must  escape. 

Treitch. —  I  am  going  with  you. 

Marusia. —  No,  Treitch.  Kolia  ordered  you  to  remain  here.  You 
ow  how  you  are  being  searched  for. 

Treitch. —  That  doesn't  matter. 

Marusia. —  But  you  are  not  needed.  I  have  already  arranged  every- 
ing.  As  for  you,  youil  find  something  to  do  here,  on  the  frontier,  Treitch. 
1  we  want  is  money  —  and  plenty  of  it.  Nicholas  takes  with  him  a  soldier 
d  a  keeper.  Of  course  he'll  come  here  —  that's  understood.  I  must  be 
parting  to-day  —  we  can't  afford  to  lose  a  minute. 

Verchovtzejf. —  Bravo,  Marusia ! 

Marusia. —  Dear  friend,  I  am  so  happy! 

Inna  Alexandrovna  (looking  at  Sergius  NiKOLAiEvrrcH). —  Money  ? 

Sergius  Nikolaievitch  (gazing  at  Inna  Alexandrovna). —  Inna,  you  are 
*  cashier  —  have  we  any  money  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna  (embarrassed). —  Only  those  three  thousand 

Marusia. —  But  five  are  needed. 

Inna    Alexandrovna. —  And     even     these (gazes     at     Sergius 

KOLAiEvrrCH,  who  is  silently  nodding  his  head,  joyfully). —  Well,  we  have 
'ee  thousand  roubles  already,  thank  God! 

Zhitoff  (confused). —  We'll  make  a  collection.  I  have  three  hundred 
ibles  myself. 

Luntz. —  Pollock  is  a  rich  fellow;  very  rich. 


438  TO  THE  STARS 

Anna. —  I  don't  feel  like  appealing  to  him;  he  is  so  peculiar. 

Verchovtzejf. —  Nonsense.  Those  are  the  very  people  that  ought  to  be 
*  skinned.'  Petia,  go  and  fetch  Pollock.  Tell  him  very  important  business, 
otherwise  he  wouldn't  come. 

Marusia. —  Well,  the  main  thing  is  done;  we  have  got  the  moncjl 

(Sings.)     *  With  his  voice  and  his  look  he  is  urging  me  on,  as  though  wishing 
to  say  let  us  fly  away.' 

Treitchy  I  want  to  speak  a  word  to  you.     How  dirty  you  are !  where  were 

you  f    (Exit.) 

Ltmtz. —  Ohy  what  a  girl!  she  is  a  sun.  She  is  a  whirlwind  of  igneous 
powers.     She  is  a  Judith! 

Anna. —  Yes,  rather  too  much  fire.  A  revolution  is  not  in  need  of 
your  whirlwinds,  explosions, —  a  revolution  is  a  profession,  if  you  please, 
requiring  lots  of  patience,  perseverance,  and  calmness. 

Luntz. —  A  revolution  requires  talent. 

Anna. —  It  may  be;  but  some  people  are  very  much  abusing  this  word 
'  talent,'  nowadays.  One  performing  tricks  on  a  rope  is  talented.  One 
gazing  all  his  life  at  the  stars 

VerchovtT^jf. —  Yes,  and  how  are  the  affairs  in  heaven,  esteemed  Sergius 
Nikolaievitch  ? 

Sergius. —  All  right.     And  how  are  the  affairs  on  earth  ? 

Verchovtzeff. —  Very  bad,  as  you  see.  Things  are  always  nasty  on  this 
earth  of  ours,  esteemed  star-gazer.  There  is  always  somebody  here  who  is 
after  another  fellow's  throat.  One  is  crying,  another  betraying.  My  feet 
hurt  me.     Oh,  we  are  very  far  from  the  harmony  of  the  heavenly  spheres. 

Sergius, —  We  don't  always  have  harmony;  there,  too,  catastrophes  arc 
inevitable. 

Verchovtzeff, —  Very  sad;  it  means  we  can  have  no  hope  for  heaven, 
either.     What  are  you  thinking  of  Mr.  —  Mr.  —  Schtoltz  ? 

Schtoltz. —  I  am  thinking  that  every  man  should  be  strong. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Well,  well;  are  you  strong  } 

Schtoltz, — Unfortunately  nature  deprived  me  at  birth  of  certain  quali- 
ties that  go  to  make  up  strength.     For  example,  I  am  afraid  of  blood 

Verchovtzeff, —  And  spiders  ?  By  the  way,  do  you  buy  your  clothes 
ready  made,  or  do  you  have  them  made  to  order  ? 

Pollock  {entering), —  Good  morning,  gentlemen,  what  can  I  do  for  you? 

Verchovtzeff, —  Listen,  Pollock;  we  need  two  thousand  roubles — it  is 
not  a  loan,  because  I  don't  believe  anybody  will  ever  pay  it  back  to  you 

Pollock. —  May  I  ask  you  for  what  purpose  ? 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  439 

Verchovtzejf. —  To  effect  Nikoli's  escap  efrom  prison.  Are  you  willing 
advance  ? 

Pollock. —  With  pleasure. 

Verchovtzejf. —  He 

Pollock. —  Noy  no;  without  details,  please.  Esteemed  Sergius  Nik- 
lievitchy  may  I  use  your  refractor  to-day  ? 

Sergius. —  Help  yourself.  I  have  a  holiday  to-day,  (Pollock  goes 
t  bowing.) 

Verchovtzejf. —  That's  a  learned  man  for  you.  Isn't  he,  Sergius 
kolaievitch  ? 

Sergius. —  He  is  a  very  capable  fellow. 

Anna. —  Of  what  use  is  astronomy  } 

Verchovtzejf. —  To  know  how  to  compose  almanacs,  I  suppose.  (Ma- 
fSlA  and  Treitch  approaching.) 

Marusia. —  I  hope  you'll  do  it,  Treitch.  Sergius  Ni kolaievitch,  they 
t  criticising  you.  Anna  hates  astronomy  as  much  as  though  that  science 
!re  her  personal  enemy. 

Sergius. —  I  am  used  to  that,  Marusia. 

Anna. —  I  have  no  personal  enemies  —  you  know  that  very  well.  And 
e  reason  I  don't  like  astronomy  is  because  I  can't  understand  how  people 
n  devote  so  much  time  to  the  study  of  heaven,  when  this  earth  of  ours 
eds  so  much  attention. 

Zhitojf. —  Astronomy  is  the  triumph  of  reason. 

Anna. —  But  reason  in  my  opinion  would  be  more  triumphant  if  there 
',re  less  hungry  people  on  this  earth. 

Marusia. —  Oh,  what  beautiful  mountains!  Look  at  the  beautiful 
n.  How  can  you  argue,  how  can  you  quarrel  when  the  sun  is  shining  so 
igniiicently!     You  are  evidently  against  science,  Anna  Sergeievna  i 

Anna. —  Not  against  science  am  I,  but  against  the  scientists  who  use 
ence  as  a  pretext  to  evade  public  duty. 

Schtoltz. —  A  man  must  say  *  I  will ';  duty  is  but  slavery. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  I  don't  like  these  'smart'  discussions.  What 
*asure  is  there  in  arousing  each  other's  temper.  Vassily  Vassilievitch, — 
II  you  ever  get  up  ?  Here  (takes  him  aside) ;  don't  you  give  any  of  your 
>ney.  We  have  enough.  Pollock  is  a  generous  young  man  and  if  need 
—  (Laughs).     But  he  looks  like  an  astrolabe  all  the  same. 

Zhitojf. —  How  about  your  Canadian  expedition  now  ?    No  money 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  we'll  get  some.  We  have  a  whole  year  yet. 
lave  a  talent  for  getting  money.  They  will  probably  again  attack  my  old 
in, —  they  are  glad  he  is  silent, —  let  me  therefore  ask  you  as  a  friend, 
issily  Vassilievitch,  to  stand  up  for  him. 


440  TO  THE  STARS 

Zhitoff.—  I  will. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  I  must  go,  I  have  so  much  work  to  do.  Ko- 
lushka  needs  some  underwear.  {Exit.) 

Sergius  {continuing), —  I  am  fond  of  listening  to  good  conversation.  In 
every  speech  I  can  discern  sparkles  of  light, —  and  these  are  veiy  beautiful  — 
just  like  the  milky  way.  What  a  pity  that  people  for  the  most  pan  taft 
nonsense. 

Anna. —  Veiy  often  eloquent  words  are  used  by  some  people  as  aa 
argument  for  not  working. 

Verchovtzeff. —  What  a  peaceful  individual  you  are,  Sergius  Nikolai^ 
vitch.  I  wonder  if  you  ever  get  insulted.  Have  you  ever  cried  ?  I  dcm't 
mean,  of  course,  during  that  happy  age  when  you  were  running  around  in 
your  little  shirt, —  I  mean  at  the  present  time  ? 

Sergius. —  Oh,  yes,  I  am  very  emotional. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Indeed. 

Sergius. —  When  I  first  discerned  the  comet  Bela,  foretold  by  Galileo,— 
I  cried. 

Verchovtzeff. —  A  worthy  cause  for  crying,  undoubtedly,  although 
beyond  my  comprehension.     What  is  your  opinion,  gentlemen  r 

Luntz. —  Well,  certainly,  but  Galileo  could  have  made  a  mistake. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Well,  in  that  case,  one  would  have  to  tear  out  his  hair 
in  despair,  I  suppose. 

Marusia. —  You  are  exaggerating,  Valentine. 

Anna. —  And  when  his  son  was  nearly  shot  he  remained  tranquil. 

Sergius. —  Every  second  some  human  being  perishes  in  the  world,  and 
probably  every  second  a  whole  world  is  destroyed  in  the  universe.  How, 
then,  can  one  cry  and  despair  over  the  loss  of  one  human  being  ? 

Verchovtzeff. —  Good!  Don't  you  think,  Schtoltz,  it  is  a  very  powerful 
argument  ?  So  then,  in  case  Nicholas  does  not  succeed  in  escaping  from 
prison  and  they 

Sergius. —  Of  course,  that  will  be  very  painful,  but 

Marusia. —  Please  don't  joke  that  way,  Sergius  Nikolaievitch,  it  hurts 
me  to  hear  such  jests. 

Sergius. —  But  I  wasn't  jesting.  I  was  never  able  to  crack  jokes, 
although  I  sometimes  enjoy  other's  joking,  Valentine's  for  example. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Thank  you. 

Zhitoff. —  It  is  true,  Sergius  Nikolaievitch  never  jokes. 

Marusia. —  So  much  the  worse. 

Verchovtzeff. —  How  convenient  it  must  be  to  stop  one's  ears  with 
astronomical  cotton !  Everything  would  be  nice  and  quiet.  Let  the  whole 
world  howl  like  a  dog 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  441 

Luntz. —  When  young  Buddha  once  beheld  a  hungry  tigress  he  offered 
(nself  to  her.     Yes.    He  did  not  say:  I  am  God»  I  am  occupied  with  very 

Eortant  matters,  and  you  are  but  a  hungry  beast;  nay,  he  offered  himself 
er! 

Sergius. —  Do  you  see  the  inscription  {pointing  to  the  front  of  the 
\servatory.)  Haec  domusUraniae  est.  Curae  procul  este  profanae.  Teneni" 
r  hie  humilis  tellusl  Hinc  itur  ad  astrat  That  means :  This  is  the  temple 
Uranus.  Away » ye  earthly  cares !  Low  earth  is  being  trampled  upon  here, 
ence  to  the  stars. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Very  well,  but  what  do  you  understand  by  earthly  cares, 
teemed  star-gazer  ?  Here  I  am  with  injured  feet,  the  flesh  being  destroyed 
th  a  piece  of  shell  almost  to  the  bone;  is  this  in  your  opinion  also  an  earthly 
re  or  an  earthly  vanity  ? 

Anna. —  Of  course. 

Sergius. —  Yes,  death,  injustice,  misfortune, —  all  the  dark  shadows 
the  earth  are  but  earthly  cares. 

Verchovtzejf.' — If  a  new  Napoleon  should  appear  to-morrow,  a  new 
spot  who  was  to  crush  the  whole  world  with  his  iron  feet  —  would  that, 
o,  be  an  earthly  vanity  ? 

Sergius. —  I  think  so;  yes. 

Verchcvtxe^. —  {Looks  around  inquiringly  and  utters  a  harsh  laugh). 
h,  that's  what  it  is! 

Anna.^^  This  is  outrageous.  These  are  the  kinds  of  gods  who  don't 
re  how  much  people  suffer  so  long  as  they  themselves 

Marusia. —  Treitch.     Why  don't  you  make  some  reply  ? 

Treitch. —  I  am  listening. 

Ferchovtzeff. —  Only  those  can  entertain  such  ideas  who  receive  a  fat 
lary  from  the  government  and  perch  safely  on  their  roof. 

Sergius  {blushing). —  Not  always  safely,  Valentine.  Galileo  died  in 
ison.  Giordano  Bruno  perished  at  the  stake.  The  road  to  the  stars  has 
ways  been  sprinkled  with  blood. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Oh,  that  doesn't  matter.  The  Christians  too  were  once 
^rsecuted,  but  that,  however,  did  not  stop  them  in  turn  from  '  frying'  some 
'  the  astronomers  alive. 

Anna. —  Papa  even  has  some  relics  which  he  keeps  under  lock. 

Sergius. —  Anna!  that  isn't  right. 

Verchovtzejf. —  What  nonsense  is  that .? 

Anna. —  A  piece  of  brick  from  some  old  observatory  and  scraps  of 
me  original  manuscript. 

Marusia. —  Anna!  how  can  you  ?  Nicholas  would  never  allow  himself 
be  so  rude  — — 


442  TO  THE  STARS 

Anna. —  Nicholas  is  too  kind  and  gentle;  that's  his  weakness.  (Petia 
approaches  unobserved  and  silently  places  himself  by  the  wall.) 

Verchovtxejf  {irritably). —  Therefore  they  beat  us  at  every  step 

Marusia. —  Never  mind!  never  mind!     Treitch,  what  do  you  say? 

Treitch  (reservedly). —  We  must  go  forward.  Some  one  here  mentioDed 
defeats,  but  I  fail  to  see  them.  I  only  know  of  victories.  The  earth  is  but  a 
piece  of  wax  in  man's  hands.  We  must  knead  it,  squeeze  it  —  create  nev 
forms.  But  we  must  go  forward.  If  we  encounter  a  wall,  it  must  be 
destroyed.  If  we  encounter  a  mountain  it  must  be  removed.  Should  we 
encounter  an  abyss, —  we  must  fly  across  it.  If  we  have  no  wings — we 
must  make  them. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Good,  Treitch,  we  must  construct  wings! 

Marusia. —  Oh,  I  feel  as  though  I  had  wings  already. 

Treitch  {reservedly). —  We  must  go  forward.  If  the  earth  splits  under 
our  feet, —  we  must  fasten  her  together  with  irons.  If  she  begins  to  fall  to 
pieces,  we  must  solder  her  with  fire.  If  heaven  begins  to  press  on  our  heads, 
—  we  must  raise  our  arms  and  toss  it  off, —  thus!  {Tosses  it  off.  Others 
involuntarily  imitate  the  attitude  of  Treitch,  that  of  Atlas  supporting 
the  world.)     But  we  must  go  forward  so  long  as  the  sun  is  shining. 

Luntz. —  But  the  sun  will  be  extinguished. 

Treitch. —  Then  we  must  kindle  a  new  one. 

Verchovtzeff. —  All  right;  go  on. 

Treitch. —  And  so  long  as  it  keeps  on  burning,  for  ever  and  everlast- 
ingly,—  we  must  go  forward.     Comrades,  the  sun  too  is  but  a  proletariat! 

Verchovtzeff. —  This  is  what  I  call  astronomy.     Oh,  the  deuce! 

Luntz. —  Forward,  forever  and  everlastingly. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Forward!  oh,  the  devil!  {All  form  themselves  into  groups 
in  their  excitement.) 

Luntz  {nervously) — Gentlemen,  I  beg  of  you — we  have  no  right  to 
abandon  the  cause.  And  the  killed!  No,  gentlemen,  not  only  those  who 
have  heroically  fought  and  perished  for  liberty,  but  the  — victims.  There  are 
billions  of  them,  and  they  are  not  guilty.     And  they  were  killed.      {Silence.) 

Marusia  {crying  out). —  I  swear  before  thee, —  ye  mountains!  I  swear 
before  thee, —  ye  sun :  I  shall  set  free  Nicholas!  Have  these  mountains  an 
echo  ? 

Luntz. —  No.     If  they  had  they  would  say  '  Amen!' 

Anna  {to  Zhitoff) —  How  sentimental.      I  can't  understand  Valentine. 

Zhitojf. —  That's  nothing.  You  know  I  have  postponed  my  trip  to 
Australia.     I  am  anxious  to  see  Nicholas  Sergievitch  myself. 

Marusia  {looking  up). —  Oh,  I  should  like  to  fly! 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  443 

Verchovtzeff. —  This  is  what  I  call  astronomy!  Well,  star-gazer,  do  you 
:e  such  astronomers  ? 

Sergius. —  Yes ;  I  like  them.     His  name  is  Treitch,  if  I  am  not  mistaken  ? 

Verchovtzeff, —  Yes,  he  is  as  much  Treitch  as  I  am  Bismarck.  The 
svil  himself  doesn't  know  his  real  name. 

Luntz  {running  from  one  group  to  another). —  I  am  so  happy.  I  am  so 
ippy.  You  know,  my  parents, —  they  were  killed.  And  my  sister,  too. 
did  not  care  —  I  have  never  cared  to  talk  about  it.  Why  talk  ?  thought 
Let  it  remain  deeply  buried  in  my  soul,  and  I  alone  know  it.  And 
yw  —  Do  you  know  how  they  were  killed  ?  Treitch,  do  you  understand 
te  ?     I  never  cared. 

Petia  {to  Zhitoff). —  What  is  the  use  of  all  that  ? 

Zhitoff. —  No,  it's  not  pleasant. 

Petia. —  What's  the  use,  when  all  will  perish, —  you  and  I  and  the 
lountains.  {All  remain  standing  in  groupSy  except  Sergius  NiKOLAiEvrrcH, 
'Ao  is  standing  alone.) 

Verchovtzejf  {to  Marusia,  joyfully). —  Treitch  deserves  to  hang. 
!apital  fellow!  Where  did  Nicholas  fish  him  out.^  Well,  Marusia,  but 
e'll  escape,  won't  he  ? 

Marusia  {musing). —  I  am  afraid  of  another  thing 

Ferchovtzeff. —  What  else  ? 

Marusia. —  No,  it  isn't  worth  while  talking  about  —  a  trifle. 

Ferchovtzeff. —  But  what  is  the  matter  ?  What  are  you  meditating 
^er  ? 

Marusia  {doesn*t  reply;  then  suddenly  starts  to  laugh  and  sing). —  'Come, 
way  let  us  fly.' 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {looking  through  the  window). —  My  eaglets! 
inner  is  ready. 

Ferchovtzeff.—  Chick  —  Chick  —  Chick! 

Marusia. —  We'll  drink  champagne!     Have  you  any,  mamma  dear? 

All. —  Yes,  yes,  champagne! 

Sergius. —  There  isn't  any  champagne,  but  we  have  cherry  wine. 
{Laughter;  exclamations.) 

Sergius  {taking  Marusia  aside). —  Well,  Marusia,  I  am  going  to  leave 
ou.     I  don't  care  to  be  in  your  way,  folks. 

Marusia. —  Oh,  no,  stay  with  us;  we  are  so  merry  to-day. 

Sergius. —  Yes;  I  was  going  to  take  a  little  holiday  off  for  your  sake; 
ut  I  have  changed  my  mind. 

Marusia. —  Won't  you  dine  with  us  ? 

Luntz  {shouting). —  Fetch  Pollock.  He  is  an  honorable  man,  and  a 
cry  nice  fellow.     I  am  going  after  him. 


444  TO  THE  STARS 

f^oir^j.— Pollock!  Pollock! 

Sergius. —  I  am  not  going  to  stay. 

Marusia. —  I  am  very  sorry.  Inna  Alexandrovna  will  be  veiy  muck 
disappointed. 

Sergius. —  Tell  her  I  am  busy.  Stop  in  to  see  me,  Marusia,  before  yon 
leave.     {Leaves  without  being  noticed.) 

Marusia. —  Schtoltz»  where  are  you  ?  You  will  be  my  partner.  I  haie 
to  talk  some  matters  over  with  you.     Doesn't  he  look  like  a  spy,  gentlemeii? 

Anna. —  Marusia  is  getting  to  be  impolite. 

Marusia. —  You  know  I  was  once  going  to  stay  over  night  in  his  house 
but  he  flatly  refused  it»  saying,  '  I  am  living  with  a  respectable  Genxuui 
family,  and  have  promised  them  not  to  bring  in  women  nor  dogs.' 

Schtoltz. —  They  don't  want  anybody.  I  have  in  my  room  a  brand 
new  sofa,  and  what  do  you  think  they  do  f  Almost  every  night  they  come 
to  find  out  if  there  is  anybody  lying  on  it.     Awful  people! 

Verchovtzeff. —  Why  don't  you  leave  them  ?    What  the  devil  I 

Schtoltz. —  Can't  do  it;  I  have  to  pay  them  in  advance. 

Anna. —  You  oughtn't  to  do  it. 

Schtoltz. —  Impossible.     They 

Luntz  (is  leading  PoLLOCK  —  shouting). —  He  is  he!  I  could  hardlf 
tear  him  away  from  the  refractor;  he  stuck  to  it  like  a  leach! 

Pollock. —  Gentlemen,  it  is  an  outrage!     I  have  some  work  to  finish 

Marusia. —  Dear  Pollock !  We  are  so  merry  to-day.  And  you  arc 
such  a  dear  good  fellow,  and  are  so  much  liked  by  everybody. 

Pollock. —  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that,  but  I  can't  understand  why  you 
are  so  merry.     The  revolution  turned  out  to  be  a  failure. 

Verchovtzeff. —  But  we  have  a  new  scheme;  we 

Pollock  (ironically). —  Oh,  yes,  certainly,  I  believe  you,  I  believe  you. 

Marusia. —  Here  is  to  Astronomy  (drinking).     Long  live  the  orbit! 

Pollock. —  I  am  very  sorry  I  can't  drink  any  alcoholic  beverages.  It 
makes  me  sick  at  the  stomach  and  gives  me  the  headache. 

Verchovtzeff. —  The  best  drink  for  Pollock  would  be  machine  oil. 
Pollock,  will  you  drink  it  ? 

Marusia. —  No,  we  are  going  to  drink  cherry  wine,  good  wine,  too. 

Luntz, —  Come  along,  comrade,  you  are  a  good,  honest  fellow. 

Inna  Alexandrovna  (looking  out  through  the  window). —  Why  don't  you 
get  a  move  on  you  ?     I  am  tired  calling  you. 

Marusia. —  Right  away.  Mamma,  dear,  right  away.  Pollock  refuses 
to  come.  Well,  gentlemen,  we  mustn't  be  so  solemn.  ZhitofF,  can  you 
sing } 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  445 

Zhitoff. —  Not  much. 

Luntx. —  The  Marseillaise! 

Marusia. —  No»  no;  the  Marseillaise  and  the  flag  must  be  reserved  for 
le  new  battle. 

Treitch. —  I  second  the  motion.  There  are  certain  songs  that  should 
nly  be  sung  in  a  temple. 

Ferchovtzeff. —  Oh»  do  sing  something  cheerful.  Oh,  how  the  sun  is 
arming  up. 

Anna. —  Valentine,  don't  uncover  your  feet. 

Marusia  (singing). —  *  The  sky  is  so  dear,  the  sun  is  so  dear, —  the 
m  18  inviting'  {all  join  in^  save  Petia). 

•  When  we  work  with  pleasure,  we  no  more  think  of  care, —  forward, 
comrades. 

'  Glory  to  the  Merry  Sun! 
For  he  is  the  worker  of  the  Earth. 
Glory  to  the  Merry  Sun! 
For  he  is  the  worker  of  the  Earth! ' 

Verchovtzeff. —  Move  on,  Anna.  You  are  wheeling  me  as  though  I 
ere  dead. 

All  singing.     (Pollock  leads  the  chorus  seriously  and  reservedly.) 

'  Storms  and  tempests  the  serene  sky  cannot  vanquish; 
Beneath  the  cover  of  the  tempest,  within  its  dark  heart. 
Lightning  is  flashing! 
Glory  to  the  mighty  sun, 
The  ruler  of  the  Earth ! ' 

iXhe  last  words  of  the  song  are  repeated  behind  the  corner  of  the  house* 
BTIA  remains  alone  and  is  gloomily  looking  about  him.) 
All. —  {Behind  the  curtain.) 

'Glory  to  the  Mighty  Sun, 
The  ruler  of  the  Earth ! ' 

ACT  III 

A  target  dark  sitting-roomy  scantily  furnished;  absence  of  soft  furniture; 
o  book  cases.  A  piano;  in  the  back  walU  o,  door  and  two  large  windows 
tding  to  the  porch.  The  door  and  the  windows  are  open^  through  which  is 
sible  the  darkj  almost  black  sky^  studded  with  unusually  bright  glimmering 
vrs;  on  a  table  in  the  corner y  near  the  walU — a  lamp  with  a  dark  shade. 


446  TO  THE  STARS 

Inna  Alexandrovna  is  sifting  at  the  table  reading  the  papers^  Amhis 
sewing;  LuNTZ  nervously  paces  the  room;  Verchovtzeff  on  cruuhis  is 
standing  at  one  of  the  bookcases  trying  to  get  a  book  out;  deep  silence]  tht 
silence  keeps  up  for  a  few  moments  after  the  curtain  rises. 

Verchovtzeff  {muttering  to  himself). —  Oh,  the  deuce! 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Are  you  aware  that  the  President  has  refused  to 
pardon  Kassowsky  ? 

Verchovtzeff. —  Yes. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  What  does  that  mean  ? 

Verchovtzeff. —  Death ! 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  merciful  God!  How  long  will  these  things 
last  ?    Haven't  there  been  enough  victims  already  ? 

Verchovtzeff  {carrying  a  book  under  the  arm;  drops  it). —  Oh,  the  deuce 
with  you !     Anna,  pick  it  up  i 

Anna  {rising  slowly). — Right  away.  (LuNTZ  picks  up  the  took  siletdj^ 
puts  it  on  the  table  and  keeps  on  pacing.) 

Verchovtzeff  {sitting  down  awkwardly). —  Will  you  ever  cease  pricldng 
at  that  ? 

Anna. —  Well,  one  must  be  doing  something. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Can't  you  read }  (Anna  makes  no  reply.  Silence) 
No,  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  What  a  devilish  silence  there  is  here^ 
like  a  grave!  Another  week  like  this  and  I  shall  throw  myself  overboard, 
get  drunk,  or  lick  Pollock. 

Luntz  {nervously). — An  awful  silence.  As  though  Byron's  dream  had 
been  realized:  the  sun  is  extinguished,  everything  on  earth  is  dead,  and^n 
are  the  last  creatures. 

Verchovtzeff. —  ZhitofF,  what  are  you  doing  up  there  } 

Zhitoff  {from  the  porch). —  I  am  looking. 

Verchovtzeff  {with  contempt). —  I  am  looking!      {Silence)  I  can't  be  idk! 

Anna. —  Be  patient,  it  can't  be  helped. 

Verchovtzeff. —  You  can  have  all  the  patience  you  want,  but  I — the 
deuce  {reading). 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {is  sitting  meditating). —  Serge  would  have  been 
twenty-one  years  old  now.  He  was  a  pretty  child,  looked  like  Nicholas. 
Do  you  remember  him,  Anna  ? 

Anna. —  No. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  But  I  remember  him  well.  You  used  to  beat 
him,  Anna.  You  were  a  mischievous  little  girl.  Death  certainly  snatched 
him  away  suddenly;  he  was  only  sick  about  three  days.  Appendicitis  in 
such  a  little  child!  When  they  started  to  cut  his  abdomen  open,  will  you 
believe  me,  Josiph  Abramovitch 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  447 

Verchovtzejf. —  Mother,  will  you  ever  stop  that  ?  The  idea  of  spending 
iprhole  evening  discussing  dead  people!  He  is  gone  —  well,  let  him  go; 
» much  the  better  for  him !    Come  over  here,  ZhitofF. 

Zhitojf. —  Right  away. 

Luntz. —  What  anguish ! 

Verchovtzejf. —  What  is  Marusia  writing,  Inna  Alexandrovna  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {sighing). —  A  whole  lot,  but  I  can't  make  anything 
it  of  it.  First  she  promises  to  come  in  about  a  week,  then  something  keeps 
tr  back,  then  again  in  about  a  week.    Yesterday's  letter  is  the  same. 

Verchovtzejf. —  I  know  that;  thought  perhaps  you  had  something  new. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  I  am  afraid  Kolushka  is  not  well. 

Verchovtzejf. —  What  next  ?    Why,  don't  you  think  he  is  dead  ? 

Luntz. —  Then  Marusia  would  steal  his  corpse  and  bring  it  here. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  what  dreadful  things  you  are  saying! 

Zhitojf  {entering). —  Well,  what  do  you  want  me  to  say  ? 

Verchovtzeff. —  Take  a  seat.     What  have  you  been  doing  there  ? 

Zhitojf. —  Gazed  at  the  stars.  How  beautiful  and  restless  they  look 
h-day.  (Petia  entering;  he  is  seen  passing  through  the  scene  several  times 
yuring  the  act.) 

Luntz. — Somehow  I  can't  bear  the  stars  to-night;  I  don't  know  where  to 
iin  away  from  them.  I  would  hide  myself  in  a  cellar,  but  they'll  haunt  me 
lercy  too.  Do  you  understand  —  I  feel  as  though  there  were  no  empty 
>ace;  as  though  all  these  monsters,  the  living  and  dead,  have  crowded  above 
le  earth,  and  are  pushing  towards  her,  and  there  is  something  in  them  —  I 
on't  know  —  {p^^^^  nervously y  continuing  gesticulating). 

Zhitojf. —  The  atmosphere  here  is  very  clear,  but  in  California 

Verchovtzeff. —  Have  you  been  in  California  ? 

Zhitojf. —  Yes.  At  the  Lick  Observatory,  in  California,  one  feels  a 
tde  shaky, —  looking.     Indeed ! 

Petia. —  Mamma,  who  is  the  old  woman  in  the  kitchen  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna, — Which  one  ?  Oh,  that  one.  She  just  came  in 
id  I  told  them  to  take  care  of  her.  She  belongs  down  below, —  in  the 
illey.     I  reckon  she  is  a  beggar.     Can't  understand  her,  she  is  deaf. 

Petia. —  How  did  she  ascend  the  mountain  ?    How  could  she  do  it  ? 

Verchovtzejf. —  Mother,  you  ought  to  establish  a  poorhouse  up  here. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Well,  I  may  do  it  yet,  if  only  Sergius  Nikolaie- 
tch  gives  his  consent.     You  ought  to  read. 

Petia  {insistingly). —  But  how  did  she  get  up  here,  mamma  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  I  don't  know,  dear.  You  should  read  what 
lanisia  is  writing  about  the  hungry  little  ones.     *  Mamma  dear,  give  us  a 


448  TO  THE  STARS 

piece  of  bread/  they  would  cry.  Mamma  goes  out  to  hunt  for  some  biead  — 
how  she  gets  it  is  not  worth  while  telling  —  but  when  she  got  back  the  poor 
child  was  dead. 

Petia. —  Let  them  die.     Joseph,  you  seem  very  sad  to-day. 

Luntz. —  Yes,  Petia,  I  am  feeling  bad.  Oh,  it  is  such  a  strange  iiif|x; 
can't  understand  what  is  the  matter  with  it.  A  night  full  of  visions,  nm 
you  looked  at  the  stars  to-night  i 

Petia. — And  I,  on  the  contrary,  feel  perfectly  happy!  {Plays  sonugij 
tune  on  the  piano.) 

Verchovtzejf  (to  Petia). —  Stop  that! 

Petia  (singing  and  playing). —  I  am  so  merry! 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Petia  dear,  stop  it,  please. 

(Petia  noisily  closes  the  piano  and  rushes  out  on  the  porch.) 

Luntz. —  Will  Treitch  soon  return  ? 

Verchovtzejf. —  They  did  not  succeed;  therefore  he  may  come  at  aiif 
time.     ZhitofF,  why  are  you  so  silent  ? 

Zhitoff. —  Don't  know;  don't  feel  like  talking  to-day. 

Luntz. — Oh,  I  have  such  unpleasant  thoughts!  such  unpleasant  thoughts! 
One  feels  like  committing  suicide! 

Verchovtzeff. —  Nonsense.     Astronomers  never  commit  suicide. 

Luntz. —  I  am  a  poor  astronomer,  very,  very  poor,  indeed. 

Anna, —  So  much  the  better;  then  you  may  occupy  yourself  with  som^ 
thing  more  useful. 

Luntz, —  I  fear  the  stars  to-night.  I  sit  and  think;  how  huge  and  in- 
different they  are,  and  they  don't  seem  to  care  a  bit  for  us, —  and  I  fed  so 
small,  so  insignificant  —  just  like  a  chick  that  hid  himself  in  a  comer  during 
the  Jewish  massacre;  there  it  sits,  not  understanding  what  is  going  on 
(Petia  entering). 

Verchovtzeff. —  The  stars  —  and  the  Jewish  massacre  —  what  a  peculiar 
combination! 

Inna  Alexandrovna  (warningly  motioning  her  head  to  Verchovtzeff),-^ 
We  have  all  undergone  a  severe  nervous  strain  lately  —  and  it  is  no  won- 
der you  are  moody.  Just  think  of  it;  already  a  month  and  a  half  have 
passed  since  Marusia  went  —  and  no  result  whatsoever.  I  am  beginning 
to  'shake'  myself,  although  I  am  used  to  all  kinds  of  weather 

Luntz. — The  feathers  are  spreading  all  around,  the  window  panes  are 
crackling,  but  he  remains  sitting,  and  what  is  he  thinking  about  ? 

Verchovtzeff. —  He  is  thinking  of  nothing.     He  thinks  it  is  snowing. 

Luntz, —  I  fear  infinity.  What  endless  space.  Why  infinity  ?  Here 
I  am  looking  at  the  stars;  one,  ten,  a  million  —  there  is  no  end.  My  God! 
To  whom  shall  I  complain  ? 


LEONID  AnDREIEFF  449 

Verchovtzejf. —  Why  complain  ? 

Luntz. —  Here  I  am  a  little  Jew.     {Paces  the  roontf  nervously  gesticu^ 

Pollock  {entering). —  Good  morning,  gentlemen!  May  I  join  your 
mpany  ?    Hope  I  am  not  intruding 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Why  certainly!  make  yourself  comfortable. 

Pollock. —  The  magnetic  arrow  is  oscillating  very  much,  Luntz.  We 
DSt  make  some  observation  of  the  sun  to-morrow  [Luntz  is  muttering 
meihing].  You,  ZhitofF,  have  probably  given  up  the  idea  of  working 
together,  so  there  is  no  use  in  talking  to  you  about  it.  Are  you  going  to 
ive  us  ? 

Zhitojf. —  Yes,  in  a  couple  of  days. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  But  you  don't  mean  that  ?  Didn't  you  say, 
issily  Vassilievitch,  that  you  were  going  to  wait  until  Nicholas  got  back  ? 
nd  why  have  you  changed  your  mind  so  suddenly  ? 

Zhitoff. —  Oh,  I  must  go.     Have  been  hanging  around  here  too  long! 

Verchovtzejf. —  The  place  will  get  more  lonesome  after  you  go.  Why 
in't  you  send  your  Zealand  to  the  devil } 

Zhitoff. —  No,  I  must  go. 

Anna. —  How  is  it  that  you  are  not  working,  Mr.  Pollock  f 

Pollock. —  I  am  in  a  dreamy  mood  to-day,  esteemed  Anna  Sergeievna. 
tm  just  thirty-two  years  old  to-day  —  this  very  minute.  I  was  bom  in  the 
«ning,  10.37  ^-  ^'  Making  some  allowance  for  time  {looks  at  his  watch) 
get  exactly  10.16  —  ten  hours  sixteen  minutes. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Congratulate  you! 

Pollock. —  At  my  age  of  thirty-two  I  think  I  have  done  a  great  deal  for 
ience;  have  also  a  name.  However,  I  don't  care  to  go  into  details.  In  a 
:>rd,  I  already  have  a  right  to  think  of  myself. 

Verchovtzeff. —  What }  are  you  really  going  to  get  married  .^  That's 
cboy! 

Pollack. —  Yes,  you  are  right.     I'll  soon  be  married. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  That's  right;  you  are  doing  the  right  thing, 
sar  boy.     I  only  hope  you'll  get  a  good  wife. 

Pollock. —  My  bride  is  graduating  from  the  university  this  year,  and 
letty  soon,  esteemed  Inna  Alexandrovna,  your  comfortable  house  is  going 
miss  me. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  How  secretive!  The  rascal  never  dropped  a 
>rd> 

Petia  {harshly). —  I'll  soon  be  married,  too.  I  have  already  a  bride  — 
e  is  a  beauty! 


450  TO  THE  STARS 

Pollock. —  Indeed  ?    You  are  joking  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Petial  (Petia  giggles  and  goes  out  on  tk 
porch). 

Anna. —  What  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  I  can't  understand  his  condua 
lately. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. — I  don't  know  what  to  think  of  it  myself.  He  bi 
changed  ever  since  you  arrived  here.  Josiph  Abramovitch,  you  are  alwaji 
with  him.  Can  you  tell  us  what  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  I  am  leaDf 
getting  anxious  about  him. 

Luntz. —  Petia, —  why  he  is  a  good  boy,  he  is  an  honest  boy.  He,  ta^ 
is  haunted  by  some  disagreeable  thoughts. 

Pollock. —  Go  on,  gentlemen,  don't  you  sec  I  am  in  a  peculiar  mood 
to-day  and  will  gladly  listen  to  your  discussions  ? 

Luntz  (muttering). —  The  stars,  the  stars! 

Pollock. —  What  can  you  tell  us  about  the  stars,  dear  Luntz  ? 

Luntz. — Then  too  they  were  shining  way  above  the  clouds;  ipdiileiie 
were  sitting,  waiting  and  thinking  that  ours  have  gained  a  complete  victoiy,— 
and  they  are  shining  now.     One  is  likely  to  go  mad. 

Verchovtzejf. —  Work!  we  must  work;  and  here  in  this  devilish  hole  one 
is  chained  like  a  dog.  The  deuce!  {Limps  about  the  roontj  making  for  Hu 
windowj  looks  through  the  window  for  a  few  minutes  and  goes  back.)  I  think 
Treitch  is  coming. 

Pollock. —  I  like  Treitch  very  much.  He  seems  to  be  a  veiy  nia 
gentleman. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  That  means  failure  again! 

Verchovtzejf  {roughly). —  What  else  did  you  expect  ?  Didn't  they  write 
you  It  wasn't  a  success  ? 

Inna  Alexandrovna. — Oh,  merciful  Father!  Kolushka,dear!  Kolushka, 
my  own!  I  don't  think  I'll  ever  see  you  again.  .  .  .  My  heart  tells  inc 
that   .    .    .    {weeping). 

Treitch  {entering^  greeting  all  and  seating  himself). —  Good  evenings 
folks. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  You  are  probably  tired,  my  dear  boy;  arc  you 
hungry  ? 

Treitch, —  No,  thank  you.     I  had  some  lunch  on  my  way  here. 

Verchovtzeff, —  Anything  new  ? 

Treitch, —  Numerous  arrests.  You  of  course  all  know  that.  Zanko 
was  hanged. 

All. —  Is  that  possible  ^    Zanko }    No.     When  was  that .? 

Verchovtzeff. —  Poor  fellow!     How  is  he  ?  •    .    . 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  451 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  He  was  so  young!  .  .  .  Wasn't  he  here  with 
(Jushka  last  year  ?    Dark  complexioned  with  small  mustaches. 

Anna. —  Yes,  he  was. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  He  kissed  my  hand.  .  .  •  He  was  so  young, 
su  he  a  mother  ? 

Anna. —  Oh,  mammal —  Do  you  know,  Treitch,  if  he  disclosed  any  of 
e  secrets  ? 

Treitch. —  He  met  his  fate  like  a  hero,  but  they  acted  disgracefully 
ean  towards  him.  He  asked  them  to  give  his  lawyer  permission  to  be 
lesent  at  the  execution.  They  granted  the  request,  but  never  kept  their 
omise.  And  all  he  saw  at  the  last  were  the  face  of  the  hangman  and  a 
9V  stars   .    .    .   {silence). 

Luntz. —  Stars !    Stars  I 

Treitch. —  In  Ternach  the  soldiers  killed  some  two  hundred  workmen, 
so  many  women  and  children.  In  the  Stemburg  district  famine  is  raging. 
bere  is  a  rumor  abroad  that  some  have  eaten  human  corpses. 

Verchovtzejf. —  You  are  the  black  messenger,  Treitch. 

Treitch. —  In  Poland  Jewish  massacres  have  broken  out. 

Luntz. —  What,  again  ? 

Pollock. —  What  barbarism!  what  foolish  people! 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  it  may  only  be  a  rumor.  A  good  many 
>ries  are  circulating 

Verchovtzejf. —  But  what  about  ours  ^ 

Treitch  {shrugging  his  shoulders). —  Well,  I  am  going  there  to-morrow. 

Anna. —  They'll  hang  you,  too.  That's  what  you'll  get.  We  must 
lit. 

Verchovtzejf. —  I  am  going  with  you!    The  deuce  take  it  all. 

Anna. —  But  how  can  you  go  with  these  feet  of  yours  ?  Bethink 
urself,  Valentine;  you  are  not  a  child. 

Verchovtzejf. —  Oh! 

Treitch. —  How  are  your  feet,  anyhow  f 

Anna. —  Bad! 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Anything  concerning  Kolushka  ? 

Treitch. —  No  one  showed  up  at  the  appointed  hour  and  of  course  I 
derstood  that  the  affair  had  been  posponed.  I  don't  know  what  to  make 
it  myself.     I  am  going  there  to-morrow. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. — May  God  help  you,  my  dear  boy.  Let  me  bless 
u  as  I  would  my  own  son.     (Treitch  kisses  her  hand.) 

Pollock  {to  Zhitoff). —  Just  think  of  it,  a  common  workman  and  how 
11  bred.     I  am  certainly  surprised. 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  453 

I  do!  And  I  can  also  see  all  those  that  were  burnt,  that  were  mur- 
edy  that  were  torn  to  pieces.  Murdered  —  because  they  gave  birth  to  a 
nstf  to  the  prophets,  and  to  a  Mary.  I  see  them.  They  gaze  at  me 
ough  the  window — these  cold,  mutilated  corpses;  they  are  standing 
yve  my  head  while  I  am  asleep  and  they  ask  me,  '  Are  you  going  to 
bw  science,  Luntz  ? '      No !    No ! 

Inna  Alexandrovna, —  My  dear  boy,  may  God  help  you! 
..  Luntz, —  Yes,  God.     I  am  a  Jew  and  tlierefore  I  appeal  to  the  God  of 
I  Jews;  God  of  Vengeance,  Lord  God  of  Vengeance,  reveal  yourself! 
ie»  O  Judge  of  the  Earth,  and  render  vengeance  to  the  proud  and  the 
dked.     God  of  Vengeance!     Lord  God  of  Vengeance!     Reveal  yourself! 

Verchovtzejf. —  Vengeance  to  the  hangmen! 

(Luntz  shakes  his  fist  silently  and  departs.) 

Treitch. —  What  do  you  think  of  him  ? 

Pollock. —  What  an  unfortunate  young  man.  It  is  so  painful  when  one 
M  science  and  is  unable  to  follow  it.  I  was  so  happy,  but  when  he  began 
talk  on  this  subject  I  couldn't  keep  from  crying,  esteemed  Inna  Alexan- 
9vna. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Don't  talk  about  it.  My  heart  is  breaking. 
H  this  misery  ever  end  ?  I  don't  think  I'll  ever  see  a  bright  day  in  all  my 
t    What  life! 

Zhitoff. —  Painful,  indeed. 

(Treitch  takes  Verchovtzeff  aside  and  cautiously  pointing  to  Inna 
JBXANDROVNA  whispers  something  to  him;  Verchovtzeff  draws  his  head 
:k  and  utters  loudly). 

Verchovtzeff. —  I  don't  believe  it.     Nicholas! 

Treitch. —  t-ss  (whispering). 

Pollock. —  Let  us  have  hope  in  God,  esteemed  Inna  Alexandrovna. 
t  the  God,  however,  of  Vengeance,  whom  the  unfortunate  Luntz  has 
ntioned,  but  the  God  of  Love  and  Mercy. 

Zhitoff. —  Yes,  there  are  different  gods  and  they  are  used  for  different 
poses. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Oh,  children!     A  great  misfortune  has  befallen 
(Sergius  Nikolaievitch  entersj  greeting). 

Sergius. —  You  are  here,  too.  Pollock  } 

Pollock. —  To-day  is  my  birthday,  esteemed  Sergius  Nikolaievitch. 

Sergius. —  I  congratulate  you  {shakes  his  hand). 

Pollock. —  I  have  also  had  the  honor  to-day  to  inform  my  friends  of  my 
ragement  to  Miss  Fanny  Herstrem. 

Sergius. —  I  didn't  know  you  were  such  a  lucky  fellow. 


454  TO  THE  STARS 

Pollock. —  I  am  going  to  have  a  companion,  now,  esteemed  Setgm 
Nikolaievitch  {laughs), 

Sergius. —  Once  more  let  me  congratulate  you.  By  the  way,  is  that 
anything  new  concerning  Nicholas  ? 

Pollock. —  It  appears  that  the  escape  has  been  postponed. 

Verchovtzejf. —  If  you  only  knew  what  was  going  on  upon  the  eaitk, 
esteemed  star-gazer  I 

Sergius. —  Well  ?    Again  some  misfortune  ? 

Verchovtzeff. —  Yes  —  Earthly  vanity,  {fiends  his  head  on  one  sUt) 
When  I  look  at  you  thus,  I  can't  help  asking  you:  Have  you  any  friends, or 
are  you  alone  in  this  world  ? 

Sergius  (pointing  to  Inna  Alexandrovna). —  There  is  my  friend. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Don't  make  me  blush,  Sergius  Nikolaievitch— 
you  know  you  need  a  different  friend. 

Verchovtzeff. —  That's  all  right.     Who  else  ? 

Sergius. —  I  have  others,  too,  but,  just  imagine  1  I  have  never  seen 
them.  One  lives  in  South  Africa,  he  has  an  observatory;  another —in 
Brazil;  and  a  third  —  I  don't  know  where. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Why  ?     Did  he  vanish  ? 

Sergius. —  He  died  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago.  I  have  srill  another 
one,  but  this  one  I  don't  know  at  all,  although  I  like  him  very  much.  He 
isn't  bom  yet.  He  will  be  born  approximately  seven  hundred  and  fiftjr 
years  hence,  and  I  have  already  authorized  him  to  examine  some  of  mf 
observations. 

Verchovtzeff. —  And  are  you  sure  he'll  do  it } 

Sergius, —  Yes. 

Verchovtzeff. —  What  a  strange  collection.  You  ought  to  donate  it  to 
some  museum !     Don't  you  think  so,  Treitch  ? 

Treitch. —  I  like  Mr.  Temovsky's  friends. 

(Petia  enters  hurriedly^  looks  around,) 

Petia, —  Where  is  Luntz  ?     Are  all  here  ?     Good!     Where  is  Luntz? 

Inna  Alexandrovna, —  He  must  be  in  his  room,  Petia;  go  in  and  enter- 
tain him;  he  is  so  nervous  and  excited  to-day. 

Petia, —  Gentlemen,  kindly  remain  where  you  are;  I  am  going  to  arrange 
some  little  entertainment;  it  is  not  out  of  place  to-day. 

Pollock, —  Probably  fireworks  ?  Eh  ?  Oh,  you  shrewd  boy!  But  it  is 
rather  out  of  place  even  to-day. 

Petia, —  I'll  be  back  directly  {exit  Petia). 

Sergius  {pacing  slowly), —  How  is  the  barometer  to-day.  Pollock  ? 

Pollock, —  Very  low,  esteemed  Sergius  Nikolaievitch. 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  455 

Sergius. —  Yes,  one  feels  it. 

Pollock. —  Judging  from  the  oscillation  of  the  arrow  there  must  be  a 
'done  in  southern  latitudes. 

Sergius. —  Yes.     It  is  not  quiet. 

Anna  {to  Inna  Alexandrovna). —  Petia  must  be  up  to  some  mischief 
rain,  mamma,  you  ought  not  to  encourage  these  things. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  But  what  can  I  do  with  him  ?  You  see  yourself 
lat  he 

Verchovtzejf  {going  with  Treffch  to  the  table). —  Oh,  how  devilish 
jiet  it  is  here  —  like  the  grave. 

Sergius. —  You  think  so  ?     It  seems  to  me  it  is  rather  noisy  down  here. 

Treitch  {to  Verchovtzeff). —  Remember  if  I  don't  return,  you'll  tel' 
IT  that 

Verchovtzeff. —  I  understand.     Oh,  how  close  it  is! 

Anna. —  And  I  think  it  is  rather  cool. 

Verchovtzeff. —  Close,  cool  —  the  same  devil.  If  I  am  to  stay  here 
lother  week 

Pollock. —  Gentlemen,  let  us  select  for  our  discussion  some  topic  in 
hich  all  could  participate.     Our  chairman  is  going  to  be 

Luntz  {entering). —  Who  was  calling  me  ?    You,  Sergius  Nikolaievitch  f 

Sergius. —  No. 

Luntz. —  Why  did  Petia  tell  me  so,  then  ?     {Starts  to  go  out.) 

Pollock. —  Remain  here,  dear  Luntz.  Now,  since  you  have  calmed 
»urself  down  a  little,  let  me  tell  you  that  I  don't  agree  with  your  views  con- 
ming  science. 

Luntz. —  Oh,  let  me  alone!     Sergius  Nikolaievitch,  let  me  tell  you  tha 
am  going  to  quit  the  observatory  (Petia's  voice  is  heard  outside  the  room: 
Pages  fling  the  door  widely  open  for  the  duchess!  ") 

Pollock  {laughing). —  Oh,  that's  Petia.  What  a  mischievous  boy! 
isten,  Listen! 

{The  door  is  flung  open;  Petia  enters  with  the  old  woman.  She  is  almost 
ubled  up  and  can  hardly  walk. —  An  awful  spectacle  of  poverty j  old  age^  and 
reichedness.  Petia,  arm  in  arm  with  her,  steps  forward  solemnly.  At  the 
or  stand  Minna,  Frantz,  and  other  servants,  smiling.) 

Petia. —  Gentlemen,  allow  me  to  introduce  to  you  my  pretty  bride, 
elen. 

Verchovtzeff  {laughing  roughly). — ^What  a  fool! 

Anna. —  Didn't  I  tell  you  ? 

Pollock  {getting  up). —  This  is  an  insult!  I  will  not  allow  him  to  insult 
Y  bride! 

Petia  {loud). —  Pretty  Helen,  bow  to  the  audience  {the  old  woman 
ikes  a  bow). 


456  TO  THE  STARS 

Pollock. —  I  protest!    It  is  an  insult. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  He  is  only  joking.  Petia  dear,  you  must  not 
poke  fun  at  old  people;  it  is  not  nice. 

Luntz. —  Oh,  no,  it  isn't  a  joke!   I  understand!   Oh,  oh,  I  understand! 

Petia. —  There.  Now,  let's  have  a  talk,  pretty  Helen.  How  old  an 
you  ?  {The  old  woman  does  not  replyj  only  shakes  her  head.)  Did  you  nj 
seventeen  ?  You  are  seventeen  years  old,  pretty  maiden.  Do  your  parents 
—  the  Duke  and  the  Duchess  consent  to  your  marriage  ?  iXhe  old  woman 
does  not  reply  —  only  shakes  her  head). 

Pollock. —  Esteemed  Sergius  Nikolaievitch,  I  am  being  insulted  in 
your  own  house 

Luntz  {almost  crazed). —  What  do  you  want  ?  Who  cares  for  your 
idiotic  bride  .^ 

Pollock. —  Mr.  Luntz,  I'll  hold  you  responsible  for  these  words! 

Luntz. —  The  stars,  the  stars! 

Petia. —  How  happy  am  I,  pretty  Helen!  Can  you  smell  the  odor  of 
roses  ?  Do  you  hear  the  music  of  the  nightingale  in  the  garden  ?  He  ii 
eulogizing  our  love,  pretty  Helen. 

Luntz. —  Cursed  stars. 

Petia. —  Your  fragrant  little  mouth,  pretty  Helen 

Luntz. —  Yes,  yes! 

Petia. —  Your  pearly  teeth 

Luntz. —  Yes,  yes! 

Petia, —  Your  dainty  face  —  I  am  desperately  in  love  with  you,  pretty 
Helen!    Why  have  you  cast  down  your  enchanted  eyes  so  modestly  ? 

Luntz. —  Shame!    And   aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself.  Pollock? 
Science!    And  do  you  see  that  ?    That's  my  mother,  that's  my  mother! 

Pollock. —  I  don't  understand. 

Petia. —  Raise  your  beautiful  head  and  proudly  proclaim  yourself  my 
bride,  enchanting  Helen.  In  your  embrace,  my  restless  soul  will  find 
everlasting  peace !     (The  old  woman* s  head  is  shaking.) 

Anna. —  They  are  all  fit  for  an  insane  asylum. 

Verchovtzeff  (frightened). —  Anna,  keep  still! 

Pollock. —  This  is  a  kind  of 

Luntz. —  Hold  your  tongue,  bourgeois!  —  or  I'll  —  She  is  my  mother. 
{to  the  old  woman).  Old  woman!  {pushes  away  Petia).  Listen  to  me. 
Here  I  am  on  my  knees  before  you.  You  are  my  mother,  and  let  mc  —  te 
me  kiss  your  hand 

Petia  {shouting). —  She  is  my  bride! 

Luntz. —  She  is  my  mother!     Let  her  alone! 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  457 

Anna. —  Water! 

Luntz. —  Old  woman!    Forgive  me!    I  loved  science,  foolish   Jew! 

Verchovtzeff  (to  Treitch). —  Something  must  be  done! 
I  Treitch. —  Never  mind. 

r  Luntz. —  I  love  only  you  now,  dear  old  woman.     Take  my  head  and 

I  jny  heart.    Oh,  cursed  stars!    Damned  stars! 

Treitch. —  Are  you  going  with  me,  Luntz  ? 
'  Petia  {shouting). —  She  is  my  bride. 

*  Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Merciful  God !     Petia  dear !    He  is  fainting. 
Anna. —  Water! 

*  Luntz. —  I  am  going  with  you.    And  I  swear  by  God 

Verchovtzeff. —  Will  you  ever  shut  up  ? 

■  (Petia  is  writhing  with  convulsions.    Ally  save  TRErrcH,  rush  up  to 
him.    Sergius  NiKOLAiEvrrcH  makes  a  few  steps  but  stops  and  looks  at 

■  Luntz.) 

Luntz  {on  his  knees). —  Old  woman,  you  seel    I  am  crying,  old  woman; 
'  I  am  a  little  Jew  who  loved  science.    You  are  my  mother,  and  I  swear  by 
^  God  to  devote  all  my  time  to  you,  my  dear  old  woman,  I  am  crying  — 
cursed  stars! 


ACT  IV 

On  the  right  the  observatory  \domej  the  larger  part  of  which  is  visible 
'  ffom  the  stage;  the  dome  is  surrounded  by  a  gallery  with  an  iron  railing;  the 
lower  part  of  the  stage  —  some  portion  of  a  roof  joined  to  the  main  structure  of 
■  the  observatory^  and  a  faint  view  of  the  mountains;  the  rest  —  a  vast  portion 
*  of  the  night  sky;  constellations;  inside  the  dome  —  complete  darkness;  to  the 
uft  are  faintly  visible  the  outlines  of  a  huge  refracting  telescope;  two  tables  upon 
E  which  stand  two  lamps  with  darky  non-transparent  globes. 

The  shutter  of  the  dome  is  open,  through  which  is  visible  the  starry  sky; 
a  staircase  leading  to  the  dome;  silence;  the  monotonous  tick  of  the  metronome. 

Sergius  Nikolaievitch,  Pollock,  and  Petia. 

Pollock. —  And  so,  esteemed  Sergius  Nikolaievitch,  you'll  kindly  watch 
die  camera.     I  must  go  and  finish  my  tables. 

Sergius. —  Go  on,  keep  on  working.     Good  by. 

Pollock  {addressing  Petia). —  Well,  how  are  we  feeling  to-day,  young 
priest  of  the  Goddess  Uranus  ? 

Petia. —  All  right,  thanks. 

Pollock. —  And  we  are  not  going  to  poke  any  more  fun  at  poor  Pollock 
for  being  anxious  to  get  married  ? 


458  TO  THE  STARS 

Pitta. —  Upon  my  word,  I  didn't  wish 

Pollock. —  I  understand,  I  understand 


Sergius. —  He  was  already  indisposed  then 


Pollock. —  I  am  only  joking,  esteemed  Sergius  Nikolaievitch.    St 
enough,  I  have  discovered  a  great  deal  of  humor  in  myself  lately. 
Frantz  spilled  some  milk  the  other  day  I  said  to  him,  '  Frantz,  you 
leaving  behind  you  a  milky  way,'  and  he  laughed  very  much    {laughing 
But  I  don't  care  to  go  into  details.     Good  by.     (Exit.) 

Petia. — What  a  funny  fellow  Pollock  is.     Papa,  shall  I  disturb  you 
I  remain  up  here } 

Sergius.  —  No,  my  boy. 

Pctia. —  I  don't  feel  like  going  downstairs.     It  is  so  lonesome  A 
there  now.     You  know  we  have  received  a  telegram  from  ZhitoflF;  it 
from  Cairo.     He  wrote:  *  I  am  sitting  gazing  at   the   pyramids.'    H* 
you  ever  seen  the  pyramids  ? 

Sergius. —  I  am  afraid  mamma  will  miss  you,  Petia. 

Petia. —  She  is  sleeping  now.     But  I  spend  a  great  deal  of  time  with  be 
throughout  the  day.     She  worries  a  great  deal  about  Nicholas,  papa. 

Sergius. —  But  nothing  is  known  yet.     Has  Anna  written  anything  ? 

Petia, —  No.  She  does  not  like  to  write  letters.  Of  course  nothing  ij 
known  yet,  and  I  keep  on  telling  that  to  mother,  but  you  know  how  difficoH 
it  is  to  argue  with  women  —  I  don't  want  to  disturb  you.  Are  you,  to(H 
going  to  do  some  calculations  now .? 

Sergius, —  Yes,  some.     I  am  rather  tired. 

Petta, —  And  I  am  going  to  read  awhile.  By  the  way,  papa,  I  wn 
reading  in  some  journal  yesterday  that  you  have  made  some  very  important 
discovery  in  relation  to  the  nebulae,  and  that  that  places  you  on  a  level 
with 

Sergius, —  The  discovery,  my  boy,  was  made  by  me  some  ten  yean 
ago.  Astronomical  fame  comes  rather  late.  Very  few  are  interested  fl 
astronomy  and  astronomers. 

Petia, —  And  I  did  not  know  it! 

Sergius, —  We  still  remain  isolated,  like  the  Egyptian  priests,  althougl 
against  our  will. 

Petia, —  How  foolish!  Papa,  why  did  you  order  me  brought  up  hen 
when  I  was  ill  ?     I  certainly  must  have  disturbed  you  ^ 

Sergius. —  No.  But  if  anything  becomes  precious  to  me  —  I  alway 
like  to  lift  it  up  here.  I  have  a  very  funny  notion,  Petia:  I  think  that  here 
among  the  stars,  there  can  be  no  suffering,  no  disease. 

Petia, —  Once,  one  night  I  woke  up  and  saw  you  looking  at  the  stars 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  459 

mce  reigned  all  around  and  you  were  looking  at  the  stars.  And  then  I 
nprehended  something  —  nay,  I  felt  it.  I  don't  know  what,  I  am  unable 
explain.  I  felt  as  though  we  were  alone  in  this  world :  you,  the  stars,  and 
LS  if  we  were  already  dead.  But  I  did  not  have  any  apprehension;  on  the 
itrary,  I  felt  good,  tranquil,  and  pure.  I  have  such  a  desire  to  live  now  — 
:  why!  I  don't  understand  the  meaning  of  life,  old  age,  and  death  any 
re  than  I  did  before.  However,  go  on  with  your  work,  papa;  I  am  not 
ng  into  details,  as  Pollock  would  put  it. 

Sergius. —  Yes,  man  thinks  only  of  his  life  and  his  death  —  hence  he  is 
ipprehensive  toward  life,  and  weary  and  lonesome, —  like  a  lost  flea  in  a 
lit.  In  order  to  fill  out  this  awful  emptiness  he  invents  much  that  is 
utiful  and  is  powerful,  but  in  his  creations  he  only  thinks  of  his  death  and 
lis  life.  And  he  resembles  a  keeper  of  a  museum  of  wax  figures, —  yes, 
eeper  of  a  museum  of  wax  figures.  During  the  day  he  chats  with  his 
tors  and  collects  money  from  them,  and  when  night  comes  he  wanders 
dy,  full  of  fright,  amid  death,  among  the  soulless  and  the  lifeless.     If  he 

Y  knew  that  life  is  everywhere! 

Petia^ —  Do  you  know  what  frightened  me  once  ?  Why,  only  a  simple 
ir.  I  saw  once  a  chair  in  an  empty  room,  and  suddenly  I  got  so  fright- 
d  that  I  screamed ! 

Sergius. —  Man's  thought  is  an  eagle  —  the  mighty  and  powerful  king 
pace,  but  he  has  tied  its  wings  and  put  it  in  a  poultry  yard  with  wire  and 
melessly  lying  walls.     And  the  sky  peeping  through  the  wire  netting  is 

Y  teasing  and  irritating  it,  and  it  quarrels  with  the  other  birds,  thus  getting 
I  and  stupid,  instead  of  soaring  to  the  skies. 

Petia. —  Poor  bird ! 

Sergius. —  Yes,  all  is  endowed  with  life.  And  when  man  comprehends 
t, —  he'll  grow  to  be  happy  like  the  Greek,  like  the  heathen.  Once  more 
nymphs  will  appear  upon  the  earth,  again  will  the  elves  dance  in  the 
>nlight.  Man  will  walk  through  the  woods  conversing  with  the  trees, 
1  the  flowers.  He  will  never  be  alone,  for  all  is  endowed  with  life; 
als,  the  stones,  the  trees. 

Petia  {laughing). —  You  are  very  funny,  papa! 

Sergius. —  But  why  .? 

Petta. —  You  are  so  polite  with  the  chairs,  yes,  it's  true;  and  you  are 
te  with  all  objects.  When  you  take  some  object  into  your  hand  —  you 
t  so  carefully, — I  don't  know  how  to  explain  myself.  You  are  very  absent 
ided,  but  you  walk  so  cleverly  that  you  never  stumble  over  things;  you 
er  run  into  or  drop  anything.  When  the  chairs,  the  cupboard,  and  the 
iblers  gather  together  in  the  night,  as  in  Andersen's  fairy  tale,  to  have 
Ik  with  each  other  —  they  probably  praise  you  very  much. 


46o  TO  THE  STARS 

Sergius. —  You  think  so  ?    Then  I  am  very  glad  the  chairs  do  talk. 

Petia. —  And  here  when  you  leave,  what  takes  place  ?  Most  Itkeij 
everything  sings. 

Sergius. —  Everything  sings  in  my  presence,  too. 

Petia. —  The  chimney  in  a  basso  voice  ?    Yes  ? 

Sergius. —  Do  you  know,  my  boy,  that  the  stars  sing  ? 

Petta. —  No. 

Sergius. —  Yes,  they  sing,  and  their  melody  is  as  mysterious  as  eternity 
itself.  Whosoever  has  but  once  heard  that  melody,  issuing  from  the  depdi 
of  unfathomed  regions,  becomes  the  son  of  eternity!  The  son  of  eternity! 
—  yes,  Petia,  thus  will  man  be  called  in  the  future. 

Petia  (laughing). —  Papa  dear,  don't  get  angry;  do  you  mean  to  say 
that  Pollock,  too,  is  the  son  of  eternity  ? 

Sergius. —  Maybe. 

Petia. —  But  he  is  such  a  fool,  so  narrow  minded.  No,  no!  I  won't 
say  anything  else.  I  am  going  to  sit  down.  There  is  a  peculiar  air  in  here. 
The  air  of  our  rooms  is  different.     You  are  still  meditating,  papa  ? 

Sergius. —  Yes,  my  boy. 

Petia. —  Well,  go  on  meditating.  And  I  am  reading  {silence).  To-day 
it  is  exactly  three  weeks  since  Luntz  left  us. 

Sergius. —  Is  it  i 

{Silence;  Petia  is  reading.  Sergius  NlKOLAiEvncH  awakens  from 
hts  revery  and  starts  working,) 

Petia. —  During  the  first  nights,  while  I  was  having  that  fever,  I  used  to 
fear  the  refractor  very  much.  It  would  move  along  the  circle  tracing  some 
star.  Once  when  I  opened  my  eyes  and  looked  at  it,  it  appeared  to  me  like 
a  huge,  dark  eye  —  with  a  long  coat  on 

{Silence.  Sergius  Nikolaievitch  stops  working  and  supporting  his 
chin  on  his  hand  is  musing  again.  Down  below  a  few  plaintive  strains  of 
music  are  heard:  *  /  am  sitting  behind  iron  walls  in  the  prison  dark.*) 

Petia  {leaping  up), —  What  is  that  music  }  Who  can  it  be  ?  There  is 
no  one  down  there  but  mamma. 

Sergius  (turning  around), —  Yes,  maybe  it  is  Marusia. 

Petia  (shouting), —  Marusia  has  come!  lil  be  back  in  a  minute! 
(Runs  down,) 

(Petia  and  Marusia  appear  on  the  staircase  leading  to  the  dome.) 

Marusia, —  Stop  crying.  What  is  the  use  .^  You'd  better  go  to  mamma 
(Petia  is  weepings  restraining  himself  from  sobbing).  Go,  Petia,  go!  She 
is  alone.     You  must  comfort  her  —  you  are  a  man! 

Petia, —  And  you  ^, 

Marusia. —  Never  mind.  Go!  (Kisses  him  on  the  head.  They  go  ojj 
in  different  directions,) 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  461 

"K  Sergius. —  Manisia  dear,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  again.     You  don't 

I  believe —  I  know  —  that  I  can  feel  too.     I  have  been  thinking  of  your 
coming  all  day  to-day. 

marusia. —  How  do  you  do,  Sergius  Nikolaievitch  ?    Are  you  working  ? 
Sergius.  —  How  is  Nicholas  ?     Has  he  escaped  from  prison  ? 
Marusia. —  Yes.     He  has  left  the  prison. 
Sergius. —  Is  he  here  ? 
Er  Marusia. —  No. 

II  Sergius. —  But  he  is  out  of  danger,  Marusia  1 
If           Marusia. —  Yes. 

Sergius.  —  Poor  Marusia!    You  are  probably  so  tired.     I  have  been 
g  diinking  of  you  all  day  long  —  of  you  and  of  him  —  I  don't  dare  to  talk 
about  you  — you  are  like  music.     Marusia!     I  am  so  glad!     Allow  me  to 
kiss  your  hands  —  your  gentle  and  delicate  hands  that  had  to  handle  so 
1'   many  iron  locks  and  rusty  gratings  {kisses  her  hands  ceremoniously). 
i  Marusia  {pointing  to  the  gallery  of  the  dome). —  Let's  go  there. 

i  Sergius. —  I   am  so  glad  —  I'll  fetch   a  chair  for  you  —  you  are  so 

dred,  Nlarusia  {both  go  out  on  the  gallery).    There,  sit  down.     Isn't  it  nice 
4    out  here  ? 

Marusia. —  Yes,  ver}'  nice,  indeed! 

Sergius. —  I  have  been  sitting  here  with  Petia ;  he  is  such  a  nice  boy. 
^  He  is  reminding  me  of  Nicholas  lately 

Marusia. —  Yes. 
•Ji  Sergius. —  Petia  is  so  feminine,  so  frail,  and  I  am  very  anxious  about 
^  him  at  times.  But  Nicholas  —  he  is  so  daring  and  full  of  energy!  How 
^  harmonious  and  well  shaped  everything  is  in  him;  how  tender  and  how 
strong!  He  is  an  excellent  specimen  of  manliness,  a  rare  beautiful  form 
^  which  nature  shatters,  in  order  not  to  have  any  repetitions. 
^  Marusia. —  Yes,  shatters.     I  was  going  to  say 

Sergius. —  He  is  as  captivating  as  a  young  god,  he  has  a  charm  which  no 
J   one  can  withstand.     He  is  beloved  by  everybody,  Marusia  —  even  by  Anna 
—  even  by  Anna.     And  he  is  so  handsome.     It  may  seem  ridiculous  to  you, 
Manisia;  he  reminds  me  of  the  starry  heaven  —  the  starry  heaven  at  dawn. 
^  Marusia. —  Yes,  the  starry  heaven  at  dawn. 

Sergius. —  He  couldn't  help  escaping.  Of  that  I  was  quite  sure. 
,  Prison!  What  is  a  prison  —  these  rusty  locks  and  stupid  rotten  gratings! 
^  I  wonder  how  they  could  have  kept  him  thus  long.  They  should  have 
^   smiled  and  cleared  the  way  for  him  —  as  to  a  young  happy  prince! 

(Marusia  falls  on  her  knees  in  despair.) 

Marusia. —  Oh,  father,  father,  how  terrible! 

Sergius. —  What!  what's  happened,  Marusia  ? 


462  TO  THE  STARS 

Marusia. —  Shattered  is  the  beautiful  form!  Shattered  is  the  beautiful 
form,  father! 

Sergius. —  Is  he  dead  ?  Oh,  why  don't  you  speak  ? 
Marusia. —  He  —  his  reason  has  left  him.  {Silence,  leaping  up) 
What  is  it  ?  Cursed  life!  Where  is  the  God  of  that  life  ?  Whither  is  he 
looking  ?  Cursed  life.  It's  better  to  exhaust  oneself  with  tears,  to  die,  to 
depart!  What's  the  use  of  living  when  the  best  perish  ?  When  the  b^u- 
tiful  form  is  shattered!  Do  you  understand  it,  father?  Life  isn't  worth 
living,  it  isn't  worth  while  living. 
Sergius. —  Tell  me  all  about  it. 

Marusia. —  What  for  ?  Do  you  think  it  possible  to  tell  that  ?  To  be 
able  to  tell  it  —  one  must  comprehend  it.  And  do  you  think  one  can 
comprehend  it } 

Sergius. —  Go  on. 

Marusia. —  He  has  been  my  banner.     When  the  barbarians  threw  him 
into  prison  —  I  thought:    You  are  but  barbarians  —  but  he  is  the  sun.    I 
thought :     Pretty  soon  all  that  are  like  him  will  rise  and  shatter  the  prison 
walls,  and  my  sun  will  shine  once  more!  my  sun! 
Sergius. —  How  did  it  happen  ? 

Marusia. —  How  is  a   star  extinguished  ?    How  does   a    bird  die  in 
captivity  ?    He  ceased  singing,  grew  pale  and  sad,  but  kept  on  comforting 
me.     Only  once  he  said :  *  I  can't  understand  the  iron  grating.     What  is  an 
iron  grating  ?     It  is  between  me  and  the  sky.' 
Sergius. —  Between  me  and  the  sky  .? 

Marusia. —  And  just  at  this  time  they  beat  him  unmercifully.  The 
prisoners  raised  a  little  mutiny  and  the  result  was  that  the  keepers  forced  the 
doors  open  and  beat  them  one  by  one.  They  beat  them  with  their  fists, 
they  trampled  upon  them  with  their  feet.  They  beat  them  terribly  and  for 
a  long  time  —  these  stupid,  cold-blooded  beasts.  And  they  did  not  spare 
your  son,  either.  When  I  saw  him  his  face  was  something  awful.  The  dear, 
beautiful  face  that  used  to  smile  to  the  whole  world!  They  had  torn  his 
mouth  —  the  beautiful  lips  that  had  never  uttered  a  falsehood.  Had  nearly 
gouged  his  eyes  out  —  the  eyes  that  saw  only  the  beautiful.  Do  you  under- 
stand that,  father  ?  Do  you  approve  of  it  ? 
Sergius. —  Go  on. 

Marusia. —  Already  in  prison  there  awakened  in  him  this  terrible, 
deadly  melancholy.  He  didn't  blame  anybody;  he  even  defended  the  keep- 
ers —  his  murderers.  But  the  black  anguish  grew  larger  and  larger.  His 
soul  was  dying.  But  he  kept  soothing  and  pacifying  me,  and  once  he  said 
to  me,  *  I  carry  within  my  soul  the  sorrow  of  the  whole  world.' 


'f^ 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  463 

Sergius. —  Go  on. 

Marusia. —  First  his  memory  began  to  fail  him ;  then  he  ceased  talking. 
t  would  come  out  silent,  would  remain  so  while  I  would  talk  to  him,  and  go 
ray  silently.  His  eyes  grew  larger  and  darker,  as  if  they  contained  within 
em  the  anguish  of  all  the  world  —  and  father,  such  beauty  I  have  never 
held  before !  When  I  went  to  see  him  to-day  —  he  had  already  been  taken 
the  hospital.  When  they  took  him  out  for  a  walk  yesterday  —  he  wanted 
throw  himself  out  through  the  window,  but  he  was  caught  in  time.  Then 
madness,  the  straight  jacket  —  and  that's  all. 

Sergius. —  Have  you  seen  him  ? 

Marusia. —  Yes,  I  saw  him.  But  I  am  not  going  to  say  anything 
out  it.     I  can't.     Shattered  is  the  beautiful  form! 

Sergius. —  They  have  ever  stoned  their  prophets. 

Marusia. —  Father!  But  how  can  one  live  among  these  who  slay  their 
ophets  ?  Whither  shall  I  go!  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  I  can  no  longer 
>k  at  man's  countenance  —  it  frightens  me!  Man's  countenance  —  how 
rrible!  Man's  countenance!  I  have  cried  out  all  my  tears  already.  Tlie 
me  anguish  ahead  of  me!  The  last  mortal  anguish.  You  see  —  I  am 
iet.     Look  how  many  stars!  {A  pause.) 

Sergius. —  Does  Inna  know  it  ? 

Marusia. —  Yes. 

Sergius. —  What  do  the  doaors  say  ? 

Marusia. —  They  say :     An  idiot. 

Sergius. —  Nicholas  —  an  idiot  ? 

Marusia. —  Yes.  He'll  live  long;  he'll  grow  indifferent;  will  eat  and 
ink  lots;  will  grow  stout.     Yes,  he'll  live  long.     He'll  be  happy 

Sergius. —  Nicholas  —  an  idiot !  How  difficult  it  is  to  imagine  that, 
lis  beautiful  man,  this  harmonious,  luminous  spirit  plunged  into  darkness, 
0  wearisome,  miserable,  barely  movable  chaos.  He  must  have  grown  ugly 
w,  Marusia  ? 

Marusia  (bitterly). —  Yes,  he  is  ugly.     Do  you  care  ? 

Sergius. —  I  am  glad  that  you  are  so  calm.  I  didn't  think  you  were  so 
ong. 

Marusia. —  Day  after  day  for — for  a  whole  month,  I  have  been  under- 
ng  this  continuous  strain  and  torture.  I  have  grown  used  to  it.  What 
labit,  father  ?    It  must  be  a  kind  of  insanity  too 

Sergius. —  What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ? 

Marusia. —  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  thought  of  it  yet.  I  would  be 
lamed  of  myself,  father,  to  think  of  my  life,  my  new  life,  when  the  grave  is 
fresh  in  my  memory.  It  takes  some  time  even  for  a  dog  to  forget  her  dead 
ps. 


464  TO  THE  STARS 

Sergius. —  I  shall  take  care  of  Nicholas  now,  he  needs  but  veiy  litt 
and  you,  Manisia,  must  not  go  to  see  him.     Don't  go  at  all. 

Marusia. —  No,  sir,  I  am  going  to  do  it. 

Sergius. — That's  scoffing;  that's  not  right,  any  more  than  it  would  be 
keep  a  corpse  in  one's  room.     G>rpses  are  to  be  destroyed  by  fire. 

Marusia. —  I  would  even  keep  a  corpse  in  my  room. 

Sergius. —  What  for  ? 

Marusia. —  Do  you  know  pretty  Helen  ?  Well,  I  am  going  to  take  k 
with  me. 

Sergius. —  Are  you  against  anybody  ? 

Marusia. —  I  don't  know, —  against  you. 

Sergius. —  Against  me  ? 

Marusia. —  Yes,  I  have  hit  it;  I  know  what  I  am  going  to  do  now. 
shall  build  a  city  and  shall  people  it  with  all  the  old,  like  pretty  Helen,  wi 
all  the  wretched  and  the  crippled,  the  insane,  and  the  blind.     There  sh: 
also  be  there  the  deaf  and  dumb,  the  lepers  and  the  palsied.     I  am  al 
going  to  have  murderers 

Sergius. —  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Marusia. 

Marusia. —  I  am  also  going  to  people  it  with  traitors  and  liars,  ai 
creatures  like  man,  but  more  terrible  than  beasts.  And  the  houses  n 
resemble  the  dwellers  therein  —  crooked,  hunchbacked,  blind,  disease 
dwellings  of  murderers  and  traitors.  And  they  will  collapse  upon  the  hea 
of  those  who  will  occupy  them.  They  will  lie  and  stifle  with  ease.  And  y 
are  going  to  have  constant  murders,  famine,  and  mourning.  I  shall  appoi 
as  king  Judas  Iscariot,  and  I  shall  name  the  city  *  To  the  stars!  ' 

Sergius, —  Poor  Marusia,  I  am  very  sorry  for  you. 

Marusia, —  You  are  not  sorry  for  your  son. 

Sergius, —  I  have  no  children.     All  human  beings  are  alike  to  me. 

Marusia, —  How  heartless.     No,  I  shall  never  understand  you. 

Sergius, —  This  is  because  I  think  of  all.  I  think  of  the  past,  also  of  tl 
future.  I  think  of  the  earth  and  the  stars  —  of  all,  and  in  the  mist  of  tl 
past  I  can  see  myriads  that  have  perished,  and  in  the  mist  of  the  future  I  a 
also  see  myriads  of  those  who  are  going  to  perish;  and  I  see  the  Cosmo 
and  I  see  everywhere  about  me  endless  rejoicing  life  —  therefore  I  caniu 
mourn  the  loss  of  one! 

(Inna  Alexandrovna  and  Petia  appear  on  the  staircase.  She  wall 
with  difjicultyy  supporting  herself  on  Petia.  They  slowly  pass  through  th 
dome,) 

Inna  Alexandrovna  {throwing  herself  upon  her  husband). —  Our  Ko 
lushka,  Kolushka! 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  465 

In  Sergius  {makes  her  sit  down  gently^  straightens  out  and  shouts). —  They 

fobbed  us  of  our  sonl    Imbeciles;  fools;  raising  their  own  hands  upon  them- 
•dves. 
ji         Inna  Alexandrovna. — It's  nothing,  papa.     We'll  manage  to  get  along. 

^  Kolushka  dear,  Kolushka 

Sergius. —  They  would  extinguish  the  sun  if  they  could  reach  it  —  so  as 

to  die  in  darkness.     They  took  our  son  away!    They  took  him  away.    They 

^  have  taken  our  light  away.     {Stamps  with  his  foot.    Petia  and  Marusia 

^  crying,  fall  on  their  knees  and  are  caressing  Inna  Alexandrovna.     Sergius 

KiKOLAiEvrrCH  walks  off  a  few  paces  and  returns.) 

Marusia. —  Forgive  me,  father. 

Sergius. —  You  must  not  cry.    You  mustn't.     We  possess  thought; 
L  we  possess  reason.     Oh,  do  help  us!    Yes,  I  am  probably  getting  old. 
J  Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Kolushka! 

Sergius. —  That's   nothing.     Life,   life   is  everywhere.     Just   at  this 
t,  moment  —  yes   at  this  very  moment!    Somebody  is  bom;  it  may  be  a 
Nicholas, —  nay,  better  than  he,  for  nature  does  not  repeat  herself. 

Marusia. —  Is  bom  to  go  mad,  to  perish.  Is  bom  only  to  be  moumed 
.,  bjr  his  mother.     Is  that  what  you  want  to  say  ? 

.  Sergius. —  Life,  like  a  gardener,  cuts  off  the  best  flowers, —  but  their 

.(fragrance  fills  the  earth.   .    .    .  Look  there;  into  that  infinite  space,  into 

that  inexhaustible  ocean  of  creative  energy.     Look,  how  peaceful.     But  if 

*^]POU  could  only  hear  through  space  and  see  through  etemity — you  would 

^  perhaps  die  with,  perhaps  be  inflamed  with  joy.     With  cold  frenzy,  obedient 

"^to  the  iron  will  of  gravitation,  countless  worlds  whirl  around  in  space  alons 

their  orbits  —  and  over  them  all  there  rules  but  one  great,  one  immortal 

spirit. 

Marusia  {getting  up). —  Don't  talk  to  me  about  a  God. 
^         Sergius. —  I  talk  of  a  creature  like  ourselves,  who  is  also  suffering  and 

*  thinking,  also  searching  and  seeking.     I  don't  know  him,  but  I  like  him  as  a 
'^  friend,  as  a  comrade. 

•  When  at  the  casual  meeting  of  two  mysterious  powers  the  first  life 
flamed  up,  the  tiny,  infinitesimal  life  of  the  amoeba,  protoplasm, — already 
I  It  that  moment  these  huge,  luminous  bodies  had  found  their  master. 
'  This  is  —  we  who  are  here  and  those  who  are  there. 

Mighty  space  of  heaven!  ancient  mystery!  you  are  above  my  head, 
jrou  are  within  my  soul,  and  you  are  also  at  my  feet, —  at  the  feet  of  your 
master! 

Marusia. —  It  is  silent,  father!     It  laughs  at  you! 

Sergius. —  Yes,  but  I  will  —  and  it  speaks! 


466  TO  THE  STARS 

Thither,  into  that  ocean  blue,  my  searching  glance  I  send  forth,  and 
gliding  from  space  to  space  it  comprehends  and  conceives  things  whidi  no 
man  has  ever  seen. 

I  call  —  and  from  the  darkest  crevices  of  the  earth  crawl  forth,  obedient 
to  my  command,  trembling  mystery.  She  writhes  from  fear  and  aiigff» 
she  threatens  me  with  her  bifurcated  tongue,  blinks  her  blind  eyes  —  pomts- 
less,  pitiful  monster, —  and  then  I  rejoice,  and  I  say  unto  space  and  time: 
'  Hail  to  you,  son  of  eternity !    Hail  to  you,  my  unknown,  distant  friend! ' 

Marusia. —  But  death,  madness,  and  the  wild  orgy  of  slaves  ?  Fathefi 
I  cannot  leave  this  earth;  I  don't  want  to  leave  it.  She  is  so  unfortunate. 
She  breathes  anguish  and  horror  —  but  she  gave  me  life,  and  I  cany  in  mj 
blood  her  sufferings  and  her  sorrows,  and  like  a  wounded  bird,  my  soul  is 
ever  falling  towards  the  earth. 

Sergius. —  There  is  no  death. 

Marusia. —  And  Nicholas  f    And  your  son  ? 

Sergius. —  He  is  in  you,  he  is  in  Petia,  he  is  in  me  —  he  is  in  all  of  us, 
who  keep  sacred  the  fragrance  of  his  soul.     Is  Giordano  Bruno  dead  ? 

Marusia. — ^He  was  great. 

Sergius. —  Only  beasts  die,  for  they  have  no  soul.  Only  those  die  who 
murder,  but  the  murdered,  the  tortured,  the  burnt, —  these  live  forever. 
Man  is  immortal!  there  is  no  death  for  the  Son  of  eternity! 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Kolushka!     Kolushka! 

Sergius. —  In  the  temples  of  the  ancients  an  everlasting  fire  was  kept 
The  wood  turned  into  ashes,  the  oil  burned  up,  but  the  flame  was  kept  up 
forever. 

Don't  you  feel  it  here, —  everywhere  }  Don't  you  feel  within  you  its 
pure  flame  }  Who  gave  you  this  gentle  soul }  Whose  thought  that  flew  out 
from  some  mortal  body  is  abiding  within  you .?  Can  you  say  that  that  b 
your  thought  ?  Your  sou!  is  but  an  altar  upon  which  the  Son  of  eternity  is 
performing  divine  services.  {Holding  out  his  arms  towards  the  stars.)  Hail 
to  you,  to  you,  my  unknown,  my  distant  friend! 

Marusia. —  I  shall  go  forth  into  life. 

Sergius. —  Go.  Return  to  life  that  which  you  have  taken  from  her. 
Give  back  to  the  sun  her  warmth.  You  shall  perish  as  has  perished  Nicholas 
and  as  are  perishing  all  those  whose  measureless  happy  souls  are  destined  to 
support  the  everlasting  fire.  But  by  your  death  you  shall  find  immortalit)'. 
To  the  Stars! 

Petia. —  You  are  crying,  father.     Let  me  kiss  your  hands,  let  me ! 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Don't.  Don't  cry,  papa.  We'll  manage  to  get 
in  —  somehow. 


LEONID  ANDREIEFF  467 

Marusia. —  I  shall  go.  I  shall  keep  sacred  all  that  has  been  left  of 
Hcholas  —  his  noble  thoughts,  his  tender  love,  his  gentle  soul.  Let  them 
rain  and  again  kill  him  within  me,  but  high  above  my  head  I  shall  carry 
18  pure,  uncorrupted  soul. 

Sergius  {holding  out  his  hands  towards  the  stars). —  Hail  to  you,  my 
nknown,  distant  friend ! 

Marusia  {holding  down  her  hands  towards  the  earth). —  I  greet  thee, 
\y  dear,  my  suffering  brother. 

Inna  Alexandrovna. —  Nicholas  —  Nicholas 


THE  LYRIC  ORIGINS  OF  SWINBURNE 

By  Van  Tynb  Brooks 

MR.  GOSSE  has  said  of  Keats  that  at  the  time  of  his  death 
he  was  *  rapidly  progressing  towards  a  ciystallization  inlD 
one  fused  and  perfect  style  of  all  the  best  elements  of  the 
poetry  of  the  ages.'  It  is  only  because  Swinburne's  in- 
dividuality is  always  the  pre-eminent  thing,  because  he 
somehow  submerges    and    transforms  into   Swinburne  aD 

S'fts  of  phrase  and  mood,  that  this  may  not  obviously  be  applied  to  him  alsa 
e  has  been  sensitive,  as  a  great  poet  must  be,  to  all  the  elements  of  the 
world's  anthology.     He  has  detected  all,  assimilated  all,  identified  all. 

Most  preromantic  poets  were  the  product  of  some  single  school,  had 
some  one  principal  prototype.  Milton  could  hardly  have  written  without 
Virgil,  Dryden  without  Juvenal,  Johnson  without  Seneca,  Congreve  without 
Moliere.  But  scholarship  was  almost  a  hindrance  to  the  romanticists. 
What  Sappho  might  have  sung  of  the  passions  of  life  could  have  no  vital 
literary  effect  on  a  Shelley  whose  own  emotions  and  whose  cwn  genius  for 
expression  were  in  such  intimate  relationship.  Mode  was  cast  aside, 
precedent  was  of  no  avail;  it  was  the  individual  singing  to  the  individual  — 
neither  a  product  of  evolution,  both  essentially  primitive.  It  was  thus  that 
Burns  found  an  audience,  that  Byron  threw  aside  the  ideal  Greece  for  the 
Greece  of  reality. 

Keats  was  not  scholarly  enough  to  apprehend  the  phrase  of  other  litera- 
tures. He  interpreted  the  Greek  feeling,  without  reading  a  word  of  the 
Greek  language;  he  was  a  Spenserian  by  instinct,  a  Provencal  by  tempen- 
ment.  Browning  and  Tennyson  were  reactionaries.  The  scholarship  that 
returned  with  them  did  not,  like  Johnson's,  destroy  the  poetry:  the  poetiy 
that  was  in  them,  did  not,  as  in  Burns,  destroy  the  scholarship.  Rather 
the  scholarship  and  the  poetry  were  co-ordinate  and  always  imperfectly  fused. 
But  Swinburne  liquifies  and  welds  both  elements.  He  is  a  great 
scholar  in  the  greatest  sense  —  a  great  artist  in  scholarship.  He  conceals 
the  traces  of  midnight  oil,  he  grows  more  and  more  human.  The  whok 
world  of  poetry  seems  to  have  passed  into  him,  and  to  have  come  forth  es- 
sentially his  own.  I  deny  neither  Browning's  subtler  penetration  nor 
Tennyson's  extraordinary  range  of  human  appeal.  But  I  assert  that  Swin- 
burne, greater  or  less  than  they,  is  far  more  typically,  more  purely  a  poet 

468 


Van 


''yNt: 


ove  poem 


Si^'?>°«u„.....    .^"""ftJfc?^  "'" 


Pedes,r**^ 'it,*  :!^  »Od^  '^ork.     f 

•Ticn,  which 


•  Sh^nZ^^*^  of     'J  f^at  6    '1  Hants'  ^  *5*^.^  it  into  anarch 


fn J        ^  ^^'^Un^^*'      T^  *'*^*t^  ^  apotheosis  of  man :  and 


'^'^P»thy,  f^  P^'-sona.yPoo  ^*  .v^^*  for  their  sake.' 


of  .#.  r*'*=  sanje  •/  '     '^3pr>k  '**^<*»'*i,>\^'  "^i*-         ^  not  love  thee: 

•/  svl'!'  **«inct  .-'"^^^ts  Cl!^  'V^- V  I^         ^*^^  and  memories  ache, 


*e'i?"*'  "^^'ei-  in  ^*  ^*            Volutionaty  chants,  the 

ni_   ^O^^ightln       *nioiw  ^d  bristling  with  lavish  p 

!Sjft^*'>e  C^f  ies, '''^•«''  •  Song  of  Italy,'  a  Benel 

ilj  j|^*^'  ^'^d  /q/^^  ^t  Sea  '  ^Uments  of  the  universe,  the 

?  On  ^  ^^^^e  W'^^  '^otes  J^  ^gnify  him  forever.     There  it 

ff   ^  ^^h  a//  ,.if'd  ^inps^  ^Uics  and  criticism  of  Swinburn 

i^L-'^^^'"'          ^^Se  ^  ^ered  the  sweet  mouth  of  song.' 

3        /^^  a  w              ^  ^>  *^l  heritage  of  Shelley  and  Byron 

nh^'        '      A^^f^'^^^^  ^^                *^  Liberal,  not  a  pure  religionist 

^d^k^  t/)e      '^cf  a^  "^^^^                 •  to  be  a  poet  and  becomes  a  pamp! 

*    ^^^»  if  ^^^^  to  this  humanistic  and  revolutior 

^                      ''^^  i  aspect  of  Nationalism.     He  is  at 

thT^Sod^  if  occasional  hymns  to  the  brother! 

^f^^sb^^f^  y^^  f^r  example,  in  the  history  of  En 

-   ^^'  ^'^d  that  exists  between  Swinburne  and  th 


470  THE  LYRIC  ORIGINS  OF  SWINBURNE 

I  know  them  since  my  spirit  had  first  in  sight 
The  small  dark  body's  Lesbian  loveliness 
That  held  the  fire  eternal/ 
It  was  in  Swinburne's  early  years  of  'Poems  and  Ballads'  that  Wak 
Whitman  also  became  the  expression  of  a  new  pantheism.     In  Sappho 
as  in  Wordsworth  there  was  the  instinctive  sense  of  being  identical  with 
nature.     But  to  one  who  had  become  in  so  many  ways  the  product  of  com- 
plex conditions,  life  could  no  longer  be  wholly  natural,  and  there  was  even 
a  certain  violence  in  this  conscious  return  from  the  superficial  to  the  funda- 
mental : 

*  1  will  go  back  to  the  great  sweet  Mother, 

Mother  and  lover  of  men,  the  sea, 
I  will  go  down  to  her,  I  and  none  other, 

Qose  with  her,  kiss  her,  and  mix  her  with  me/ 
The  sense  of  identity  is  gone,  and  there  is  the  demand  for  a  forced  retunt 
In  this  momentarily  decadent  touch  one  sees  the  turning  of  the  blade,  the 
exquisite  difference  between  the  really  primidve  and  that  which  tries  to  be 
once  more,  the  beginning  of  the  circle  and  the  ending,  the  spirit  that  came 
before  evolution,  the  spirit  that  has  come  after. 

When  Swinburne  emerges  from  these  elements  and  assumes  more 
definite  intellectual  form,  it  is  as  the  poet  of  love.  And  here  the  decadent 
tinge  is  very  deep  in  the  poems  of  his  early  years.  Two  lines  from  '  Anac- 
toria'  may  be  taken  to  stand  for  his  conception  of  love  at  this  time: 

*  Ah,  ah,  thy  beauty!  like  a  beast  it  bites, 
Stings  like  an  adder,  like  an  arrow  smites.' 

This  is  neither  Sappho  nor  Swinburne.  It  is  Baudelaire.  Frequent  aiid 
emphatic  as  this  strain  is  throughout  the  *  Poems  and  Ballads,'  it  is  really  the 
distorted  view  of  a  partially  submerged  identity.  In  *Felise*  we  find  an 
experiment  in  Gautier,  the  battledore  and  shuttlecock  of  half-playful  senti- 
ment; the  old-rose  memories,  the  lavender  regrets.  Yet  all  this  tortuous, 
sinuous  anguish  of  passion,  all  this  stale  and  soggy  counterfeit  of  love  mete 
and  flows  again  in  the  heat  of  more  genuine  sympathy  with  Shelley,  'the 
chalice  of  love's  fire,'  Spenser  and  Landor,  Catullus  and  Bums.  For  the 
genius  of  Swinburne  is  too  white-hot  and  throbbing  to  have  anything  last- 
ingly in  common  with  the  work  of  Baudelaire. 

*  sick  flowers  of  secrecy  and  shade, 

Green  buds  of  sorrow  and  sin,  and  remnants  gray, 

Sweet-smelling,  pale  with  poison.' 
Now  it  is  in  *  Thalassius,'  the  pinnacle  of  Swinburne's  expression,  that  wt 
find  his  final  view  of  love,  that 


I  VAN  TYNE  BROOKS  471 

'  Should  live  for  love's  sake  of  itself  alone, 
Though  spirit  and  flesh  were  one  thing  doomed  and  dead.' 
And  in  one  of  the  poems  of  his  later  years  this  poet  of  vipers  and  bitings 
ij  can  sing  of  the  love  that  casts  out  fear. 

I  More  numerous  if  much  less  inspired  than  the  love  poems,  Swinburne's 

^  poems  on  Man  form  another  great  division  of  his  work.     He  is  a  revolu- 
.  lionist  of  the  old  French  type : 

^  '  God,  if  a  God  there  be,  is  the  substance  of  men,  which  is  man,' 

I '  lie  cries,  adding  with  a  final  frenzy, 

'  Glory  to  man  in  the  highest!  for  man  is  the  master  of  things. 
And  this  doctrine  he  expands  at  length,  forced  by  it  into  anarchy  and  atheism: 

*  A  creed  is  a  rod, 

And  a  crown  is  of  night : 
But  this  thing  is  God, 
To  be  man  with  thy  might.' 
^  For  man  contains  in  himself  all  that  is  needful  to  salvauon.     For  this  reason 
'    Swinburne  is  bitterly  defiant  of  all  established  codes  and  modes.     He  is 
''  Elijah  deriding  the  prophets  of  Baal: '  Cry  aloud,  for  your  God  is  a  God  I ' 
^    And  he  always  attacks  the  orthodox  in  the  orthodox  phrase.     The  priests 

are  standing  between  God  and  man,  he  says, 
^  *  Because  of  whom  we  dare  not  love  thee: 

^^  Though  hearts  reach  back  and  memories  ache, 

'  We  cannot  praise  thee  for  their  sake.' 

^  This  hatred  of  priests  is  allied  to  his  apotheosis  of  man:  and  finally  bursts 
out  in  a  whole  volume  of  wild  revolutionary  chants,  the  'Songs  before 
Sunrise,'  dedicated  to  Mazzini  and  bristling  with  lavish  pseans  to  '  our 
^  prophet  and  our  priest.'  In  the  *  Song  of  Italy,'  a  Benedicite  is  recited^ 
^  exhorring  all  Italian  cities,  all  the  elements  of  the  universe,  the  skies  and  the 
\  scars,  to  praise  Mazzini  and  magnify  him  forever.  There  is  somehow  an 
^  element  of  the  absurd  in  the  politics  and  criticism  of  Swinburne : 

*  Wrath  has  embittered  the  sweet  mouth  of  song.' 
He  loses  for  awhile  the  essential  heritage  of  Shelley  and  Byron.     He  is  not  a 
Utopian,  but  a  Parliamentary  Liberal,  not  a  pure  religionist,  but  an  and- 
ecclesiastic,  in  short,  ceases  to  be  a  poet  and  becomes  a  pamphleteer. 

In  many  ways  allied  to  this  humanistic  and  revolutionary  aspect  of 
Swinburne's  work  is  the  aspect  of  Nationalism.  He  is  at  all  times  an 
Englishman,  in  spite  of  occasional  hymns  to  the  brotherhood  of  man. 
Nothing  is  better  known,  for  example,  in  the  history  of  English  criticism 
than  the  great  bond  that  exists  between  Swinburne  and  the  Elizabethan 


472  THE  LYRIC  ORIGINS  OF  SWINBURNE 

dramatists,  and  the  splendid  service  he  has  rendered  them.  In  verse  akj 
they  have  inspired  his '  Sonnets  on  the  English  Dramatists,'  and  a  longsenil 
of  prologues  to  isolated  plays. 

Quite  independent  of  everything  else  in  Swinburne  is  his  aspect  aspect 
of  children.  It  has  elsewhere  been  said  that  babies  are  not  the  natunl 
offspring  of  such  passions  or  such  women  as  Dolores,  Fausdne,  or  Fdnt 
Babies  seem  with  Swinburne  to  be  quite  extraneous,  quite  independentrf 
any  logical  human  bonds,  and  most  of  the  poems  seem  rather  exercises k 
dainty  words  than  anything  more  sincere  or  substantial.  It  is  to  Blake  tb 
we  look  for  the  prototype  in  spirit  to  such  lines  as  these : 

*  Baby,  flower  of  light. 
Sleep  and  see 
Brighter  dreams  than  we 
Till  good  day  shall  smile  away  good  night/ 
In  Oliviy  baby  verse  is  treated  more  philosophically.     Here  is  less  of  Bhk 
and  so  singularly  much  of  Wordsworth  that  I  must  quote  the  last  two  stam 
of  this  poem  entire : 

*  Babes  at  birth 
Wear  as  raiment  round  them  cast. 
Keep  as  witness  toward  their  past. 
Tokens  left  of  heaven;  and  each. 
Ere  its  lips  learn  mortal  speech. 

Ere  sweet  heaven  pass  on  past  reach. 
Bears  in  undiverted  eyes 
Proof  of  unforgotten  skies 
Here  on  earth. 

*  Quenched  as  embers 
Quenched  with  flakes  of  rain  or  snow 
Till  the  last  faint  flame  burns  low. 
All  those  lustrous  memories  lie 
Dead  with  babyhood  gone  by: 

Yet  in  her  they  dare  not  die 
Others,  fair  as  heaven  is,  yet. 
Now  they  share  not  heaven,  forget 
She  remembers/ 
Just  as  we  have  been  able  to  range  the  content  of  Swinburne's  lyrical 
work  under  four  chief  headings,  as  poems  of  love,  of  man,  of  nationality, 
and  of  children,  so  now  distinct  subdivisions  become  apparent  in  the  sources 
of  his  phraseology.     And  these  may  be  considered  in  their  chronological 


"^  VAN  TYNE  BROOKS  473 

*.^ order:  the  Greek,  the  Latin,  the  Oriental,  the  French,  old  and  modem,  the 
"'^  Italian,  and  the  English. 

In  the  literature  of  Greece  he  has  two  chief  models;  Sappho,  in  the 
■*  Ijrrics  of  love,  iEschylus  in  the  choruses  of  tragedy.  *Anactoria*  and  *Thalas- 
"  aius,'  as  we  have  seen,  are  often  based  on  the  actual  words  of  Sappho,  and 
■*  they  always  give  signs  of  his  fundamental  sympathy  with  her.  Technically 
r  Swinburne's  Greek  sense  is  superb.  He  makes  many  metres  idiomatic 
'  in  our  language,  Sapphics  and  Choriambics,  which  had  never  seemed  pos- 
*  aible  before.  How  singularly  he  embodies  the  Greek  spirit  is  felt  in  his 
treatment  of  Christianity,  at  least  before  the  mad  days  of  anri-priesthood. 
In  the  *  Hymn  to  Proserpina*  we  feel  it . 

'  For  these  give  labour  and  slumber,  but  thou, 
Proserpina,  death.' 
And  elsewhere  he  says : 

'  Peace,  rest,  and  sleep  are  all  we  know  of  death.' 
It  is  to 

*  ^schylus,  ancient  of  days. 
Whose  word  is  the  perfect  song,' 
that  he  turns  for  the  choruses  of  his  Greek  tragedies,  finding  in  him  most 
of  the  vague,  primordial,  gigantic  mysticism  which  he  has  so  wonderfully 
reproduced. 

A^th  the  Latin  poets  he  has  less  in  common.  Catullus  is,  of  course, 
his  favorite,  but  there  is  little  direct  quotation,  beyond  the  phrase  *  Ave 
atque  Vale,'  which  has  gained  a  new  life  with  him.  He  imitates  Horace 
only  in  the  phrase, 

*  Verona,  fairer  than  thy  mother  fair. 
But  of  Lucretius  he  writes  in  his  poem  on  the  '  Feast  of  Giordano  Bruno:' 

'  From  bonds  and  torments  of  the  ravening  flame 
Surely  thy  spirit  of  sense  rose  up  to  greet 
Lucretius,  where  such  only  spirits  meet 
And  walk  with  him  apart  till  Shelley  came 

To  make  the  heaven  of  heavens  more  heavenly  sweet. 
And  mix  with  yours  a  third  incorporate  name.' 
When  we  turn  to  the  influence  of  Oriental  literature,  we  find  little  apart 
from  the  Bible.    His  poems  to  Richard  Burton  show  a  sense  of  the  voluptu- 
ous beauty  of  the  '  Arabian  Nights.'    In  the  poem  *  Hertha,'  the  old  Hindu 
idea  is  curiously  adapted  to  meet  the  present: 

*  Man  equal  and  one  with  me,  man  that  is  made  of  me,  man  that  is  L' 
But  this  poem  itself  is  based  not  upon  the  Oriental  form  direct,  but  indirectly 
through  the  *  Brahma'  of  Emerson,  in  which  occur  these  lines: 


474  THE  LYRIC  ORIGINS  OF  SWINBURNE 

*  They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out; 

When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings;  ■, 

I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt,  |^ 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings/ 
Similarly  Swinburne  says,  I0 

'  I  am  stricken  and  I  am  the  blow,'  |] 

and  again, 

*  I  the  mark  that  is  missed. 
And  the  arrows  that  miss/ 
The  chief  Oriental  influence  on  Swinburne,  however,  is  the  Bible, 
which  his  actual  relations  are  most  singular.     Throughout,  he  takes  a  con- 
stantly rational  view,  and  the  Bible  is  merely  a  phrase-book  to  him.   It  is 
an  interesting  sidelight  that  he  left  Oxford  without  taking  a  degree  beause, 
though  he  knew  more  Greek  than  his  examiners,  he  was  ploughed  in  Saip- 
ture.    But,  however  that  may  be,  he  understood  the  quality  of  Isaiah  andtf 
the  Song  of  Solomon  and  could  make  good  use  of  their  methods  and  maa* 
ners.     In  one  of  his  earliest  lyrics,  *  A  Ballad  of  Life,'  occur  these  lines: 

*  Even  she  between  whose  lips  the  kiss  became 
As  (ire  and  frankincense; 
Whose  hair  was  as  gold  raiment  on  a  king. 
Whose  eyes  were  as  the  morning  purged  with  flame. 
Whose  eyelids  as  sweet  savour  issuing  thence.' 
And  among  innumerable  passages,  this  also  recalls  Solomon's  song: 

'  Her  beds  are  full  of  perfume  and  sad  sound. 
Her  doors  are  made  with  music,  and  barred  round 
With  sighing  and  with  laughter  and  with  tears. 
With  tears  whereby  strong  souls  of  men  are  bound.' 
Most  significant  of  Swinburne's  scholarship  is  his  habit  of  imitating  the 
phrase  of  the  Bible  in  a  spirit  wholly  antagonistic  to  its  original  sense.    In 
such  lines  as 

*  The  people's  nail-pierced  hands 
The  people's  nail-pierced  feet,' 

he  is  able  to  emphasize  his  hatred  of  Christianity,  as  also  in 

*  These  have  not  where  to  lay  their  head.' 

And  it  is  curious  in  spite  of  this  to  see  how  exquisitely  for  merely  artistic 
purposes  his  '  Christmas  Antiphones'  can  catch  the  spirit  of  the  Church. 
The  language  of  the  Bible  constantly  impresses  him.  Every  stanza  of 
*  A  Watch  in  the  Night '  begins  with  the  line: 

'  Watchman,  what  of  the  night .? ' 


VAN  TYNE  BROOKS  475 

In  Italian  literature  Swinburne  is  principally  concerned  with  Dante 
A  Boccaccio.  From  Dante's  Stelli  he  has  borrowed  the  device  by  which 
he  concludes  nine  of  his  seventeen  lyrical  volumes,  besides  innumerable 
■ini^e  pieces,  with  the  word  sea.  He  seems  to  see  Boccaccio  through  Chau- 
cer —  at  least  the  tales  that  he  retells  are  in  the  manner  of  the  *  Canterbury 
Tales.'     From  Leopardi,  among  more  recent  Italians,  he  has  taken  the  lines, 

'  O  patria  mia,  vedo  le  mura  e  gli  archi. 
Ma  la  gloria  non  vedo,' 
^firhich  he  imitates  in  Siena: 

*  The  weary  poet,  thy  sad  son. 
Saw  all  Italian  things  save  one  — 
Italia:  this  thing  missed  his  eyes.' 
Swinburne  is  affected  by  both  the  old  French  and  the  modem  French 
literatures.     Yet  there  is  no  profound  community  of  feeling  between  him 
jind  Villon.     Swinburne's  touch  is  seldom  delicate,  in  the  French  sense  —  he 
is  too  vital,  too  intense,  has  too  much  even  of  the  uncouth  about  him.     '  A 
Oentury  of  Roundels'  are  thus  his  own  heavy,  often  highly  charged  ideas 
encased  in  trinkets  of  verse,  singularly  inappropriate. 

When  we  turn  to  the  French  of  the  nineteenth  century  we  find  the 
sources  of  that  deep  tinge  of  decadence  which  colors  the  Toems  and  Bal- 
lads.'   Typical  of  this  are  such  lines  as  those  from  '  Laus  Veneris': 

*  LOf  she  was  thus  when  her  clear  limbs  enticed 
All  lips  that  now  grow  sad  with  kissing  Christ.' 
But  he  has  outgrown  this  when  he  finds  in  Victor  Hugo  a  brother  in  the 
cause  of  Man. 

Naturally  enough  Swinburne's  greatest  and  most  comprehensive 
sympathy  lies  with  the  literature  of  England.  It  is  in  his  imitations  of  the 
eariy  ballads  that  we  find  his  connection  with  the  Preraphaelites,  and  he  has 
admirably  revived  the  old  Border  spirit.  The  structure  of  the  '  Masque  of 
Queen  Bersabe'  is  also  Early  English,  as  is  the  passage  in  *  Saint  Dorothy ' 
where  the  heathen  king  quotes  Saint  Luke,  as  Adam  quotes  Saint  John  in 
the  miracle  play.  Saint  Dorothy  herself  reminds  one  constantly  of  the 
Prioress,  as  she  appears  in  Chaucer's  Prologue: 

*  Her  mercy  in  her  was  so  marvelous 
From  her  least  years,  that  seeing  her  school-fellows 
That  read  beside  her  stricken  with  a  rod. 
She  would  cry  sore  and  say  some  word  to  God 
That  he  would  ease  her  fellow  of  his  pain. 
There  is  no  touch  of  sun  or  fallen  rain 
That  ever  fell  on  a  more  gracious  thing.' 


476  THE  LYRIC  ORIGINS  OF  SWINBURNE 

And  this  is  an  example  of  his  general  knowledge  of  mediaeval  tradidoe. 
More  than  once  he  employs  figures  that  stand  for  stories  of  the  prinmin 
church  —  as,  for  instance,  this  reference  to  the  legend  of  TannhaCiser  and 
ultimately  of  Saint  Christopher: 

*  Until  this  day  shred  staff,  that  hath  no  whit 
Of  leaf  or  bark,  bear  blossom  and  smell  sweet. 

Seek  thou  not  any  mercy  in  God's  sight, 
For  so  long  shalt  thou  be  cast  out  from  it/ 
Among  the  dramatists,  next  to  Shakespeare,  he  worships  Mariowe. 
'  What  hour  save  this  should  be  thine  hour  and  mine, 
If  thou  have  care  of  any  less  divine 
Than  thine  own  soul,  if  thou  take  thought  of  me, 
Marlowe,  as  all  my  soul  takes  thought  of  thine/ 
And  in  those  lines  from  *  Laus  Veneris: ' 

*  I  see  the  marvelous  mouth  whereby  there  fell 
Cities  and  peoples  whom  the  gods  loved  well. 
Yet  for  her  sake  on  them  the  fire  gat  hold. 
And  for  their  sakes  on  her  the  fires  of  Hell,' 

we  recognize  at  once  an  imitation  of  the  marvelous  soliloquy  in  'Doctor 
Faustus,' 

*  Is  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand  ships  ?  ' 

By  Milton's  manner,  Swinburne  is  not  seriously  influenced.  But  be 
uses  frequently  and  with  great  effectiveness  the  stanza-form  of  the  *  Nativitf 
Ode/     In  those  vivid  lines  from  '  Dolores': 

'  Ringed  round  with  a  flame  of  fair  faces 
And  splendid  with  swords,* 
there  is  a  certain  reminiscence  of  Milton's  celebrated 

*  With  dreadful  faces  thronged  and  fiery  arms/ 

In  his  hatred  of  priests  also,  we  are  reminded  of  the  rancour  of  Milton: 

*  Lo,  they  lie  warm  and  fatten  in  the  mire/ 
he  says,  recalling  Milton's 

*  But  swollen  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw. 
Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread/ 

The  influences  of  contemporary  poetry  were  again  rather  on  the  side 
of  phrase  than  of  spirit.  Tiny  fragments  of  Browning's  philosophy  are 
interspersed  through  Swinburne's  earlier  work.  Those  exquisite  lines  in 
'  The  Oblation,' 

*  I  that  have  love  and  no  more 

Give  you  but  love  of  you,  sweet, 
He  that  hath  more,  let  him  give;' 


VAN  TYNE  BROOKS  477 

d  similarly  the  lines  from  his  first  *  Dedication:' 

'  They  are  many,  but  my  gift  is  single. 
My  verses,  the  first-fruits  of  me,' 
tly  recall  Browning's 

'  This  of  verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me; 
Verse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to  give  you/ 
But  the  *  Triumph  of  Time'  is  Swinburne's  great  unconscious  tribute 
Browning.    The  poem  ends  with  a  sort  of  resignation  that  reminds  one  of 
*  Abt  Vogler.'    As  to  the  style,  where  it  is  not  splendidly  Swinburne's  own, 
Ji  few  quotations  will  indicate  whose  it  is : 

*  These  will  no  man  do  for  your  sake,  I  think, 

What  I  would  have  done  for  the  least  word  said. 
I  had  wrung  life  dry  for  your  lips  to  drink. 
Broken  it  up  for  your  daily  bread.' 
.And  in  another  place  he  says : 

*  To  have  died  if  you  cared  I  should  die  for  you,  clung 
To  my  life  if  you  bade  me,  played  my  part 
As  it  pleased  you  —  these  were  the  thoughts  that  stung 
The  dreams  that  smote  with  a  keener  dart 
Than  shafts  of  love  or  arrows  of  death.' 
In  many  isolated  poems,  other  models  seem  to  have  been  in  Swinburne's 
mind:  there  is  something  of  William  Morris  in  the  *  Garden  or  Proserpina' 
mnd  in  the  archaisms  of  Laus  Veneris';  the  constant  use  of  the  word  reiterate 
is  a  trick  of  Rossetti's.    And  one  of  the  most  curious  examples  of  remote 
influence  appears  in 

'  Whence  thy  fair  face  lightens,  and  where  thy  soft  springs  leap,' — 
fines  that  recall  roe's 

*  Where  thy  dark  eye  glances 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams.' 
The  changes  in  Swinburne's  philosophy,  the  mad  phases  of  lascivious- 
nesSy  of  rebellion  and  revolution,  of  patriotism,  are  never  more  than  super- 
ficialy  however  much  they  may  mar  the  actual  content  of  his  poems.  It  is 
the  sea  that  lies  behind  him,  above  him,  beneath  him,  the  symbol  of  all 
passion  and  grandeur  and  beauty: 

*  I  would  not  rise  from  the  slain  world's  tomb 
If  there  be  no  more  sea.' 
And  this,  far  beyond  any  sense  of  the  liberation  of  the  French,  of  the 

Sjuality  of  man  or  the  golden  days  of  romance,  is  his  bond  with  Victor 
ugo,  the  great  French  poet  of  the  sea.  And  this  is  the  bond  between 
Swinburne  and  Landor,  that  they  are  able  to  say  each  of  the  other,  in  Lan- 
der's words : 

*  We  are  what  suns  and  winds  and  waters  make  us.' 


HEWLETT  AND  HEARN:  TWO  TYPES 

OF  ORIENTALISTS 

By  Eugenie   M.   Fryer 

THERE  are  always  at  least  two  points  of  view,  two  types  flf 
people  and  things,  two  forces  progressive  and  Fetrogressiic^ 
two  species  in  essence  the  same,  in  development  antipathetic. 
This  is  essentially  true  of  Hewlett  and  Heam.  Both  an 
artists,  both  colorists,  both  Orientalists,  both  aesthetic  ynx- 
shipers  of  beauty.  Yet  Hewlett  is  swamped  in  color,  Heam 
is  uplifted  by  it;  Hewlett  is  steeped  in  Oriental  sensuousness,  Heam  ii 
enveloped  in  the  spiritual  world  of  Eastern  thought;  Hewlett  is  full  of  die 
art  for  art's  sake  spirit  which  tends  to  realism;  Heam  is  enwrapped  ii 
mystic  idealism. 

Their  ideas  of  art  reflect  largely  their  ideas  of  life,  and  these  two  to- 
gether portray  the  personality  of  each.  Hewlett  sees  in  nature,  in  peopki 
a  sentient  beauty  and  reproduces  it.  To  him  art  is  tangible — opaque 
beauty.  But  Heam  views  nature  and  people  in  their  relation  to  the  spiiit 
world  which  surrounds  them.  To  him  art  is  ethereal,  evanescent  —  tram- 
lucent  beauty.  Hewlett  portrays  a  personal  side  of  art,  her  subtleties,  her 
beauty,  her  charm,  but  underlying  all  pulsates  the  worship  of  the  physical  — 
the  hidden  note  of  realism.  Heam's  attitude  to  art  is  far  more  impersonal 
Beauty  to  him  is  not  merely  exquisite  form  or  color,  but  the  veil  which  en- 
velopes the  deeper,  spiritual  things.  In  beauty,  in  art,  in  nature,  it  is  not 
the  exterior  loveliness  alone,  but  the  inner  meaning  of  it  all  that  appeals  so 
strongly  to  him.  He  sees  into  the  soul  of  things,  his  vision  is  far-reaching. 
Hewlett  sees,  absorbs,  and  reproduces,  but  his  vision  is  curtailed — it  could 
never  pierce  the  veil  of  the  '  Blue  Ghost.'  His  vision  is  blunted  by  realism; 
Hearn's  is  sharpened  by  idealism.  Both  these  men  are  keenly  sensitive  to 
atmospheric  surroundings,  but  Heam  is  far  more  delicately  poised  than 
Hewlett.  Hewlett's  sensitiveness  lies  more  in  an  impressionistic  way. 
He  absorbs  the  spirit  of  a  sceoe  like  a  sponge,  and  as  quickly  reproduces  it 
tingling  with  life.  He  lets  himself  go  and  for  the  time  is  completely  lost. 
But  Heam's  sensitiveness  is  quickened  by  restraint.  He  may  quiver  with 
emotion,  he  may  be  lifted  to  the  ineffable  *  Blue  Ghost '  and  beyond,  yet 
he  never  loses  himself.  His  is  an  aesthetic  emotion  that  perforce  must  ex- 
press itself  because  it  is  bom  of  suffering. 

+78 


EUGENIE  M.  FRYER  479 

li 

With  Hewlett  life  is  subservient  to  art.  Art  is  everywhere;  it  is  the  goal. 
But  ^ith  Heam  art  is  the  interpreter  of  life;  by  it  he  seeks  hidden  things; 
k  is  the  path  leading  to  the  goal.  Heam  sees  in  the  hurrying  crowds  the 
Boysteiy  of  life,  psychological  enigmas  and  problems  to  be  met  and  solved. 
Hcfwlett  sees  in  them  men  and  women  alive  and  palpitating,  and  reproduces 
dbem  faithfully,  really,  wonderfully.  He  is  filled  with  the  beauty  and  the 
romance  of  past  glories  that  pervade  the  atmosphere  of  Italy  and  France 
Itad  he  plunges  us  into  a  sea  of  color  —  vivid,  throbbing  with  vitality,  ex- 
MiUite.  Heam's  color  scheme  is  as  aesthetically  delicate  as  the  '  pearl 
nits '  of  the  evening  sky  that  he  describes  in  '  Chita,'  and  this  exquisite 
Idicacy  of  expression  is  the  very  keynote  of  his  outlook  on  life.  For  while 
ippredating  the  outward  beauty  and  loveliness,  yet  to  him  nature,  people, 
md  things  are  but  the  outward  sign  of  deeper  things,  and  therefore  art 
llftould  be  the  symbolistic  expression  of  these  inner  things.  It  is  the  inner 
amotions  that  interest  him,  and  in  art  he  deals  with  its  symbolistic  side. 
He  dissects  these  emotions  one  by  one;  Hewlett  reproduces  them.  Hewlett 
viewing  life  from  the  art  for  art's  sake  standpoint,  makes  realism  —  coarse- 
ness and  sensuality  —  artistic,  and  therefore,  according  to  his  thinking, 
juMifiable.  Heam's  aesthetic  nature,  heightened  by  his  contact  with  the 
East,  shrinks  back  from  the  least  suggestion  of  coarseness  and  sensuality. 
Hewlett's  ideal  of  art  is  extreme, —  yet  a  Western  viewpoint;  Heam's  is 
entirely  Eastern. 

Hewlett's  personality  always  protrudes,  his  individuality  is  ever  in  the 
Ibreground.  Heam,  largely  because  of  his  exotic  poignancy,  keeps  his 
personality  in  the  background;  his  individuality,  though  distinctive,  is 
nerged  in  the  *  multiplicity  incalculable.'  Hewlett  gives  us  rugged  pic- 
tures of  scenes,  places,  and  events  that  catch  our  fancy  and  linger  in  our 
nemory.  He  dazzles  us  by  his  strong,  audacious  handling  of  his  materials. 
Heam  opens  up  endless  avenues  of  thought  which  stimulate  our  minds  and 
leave  us  eager  to  seek  further.  He  holds  us  by  his  very  sensitiveness  and 
restraint.  Hewlett  is  a  teller  oftales  and  a  fine  one,  but  Heam  is  a  thinker, 
ririle  and  strong. 

Hewlett  is  full  of  a  childish  simplicity  and  candor.  Heam  is  full  of  a 
limplicity  that  springs  from  nobility  of  soul,  a  soul  that  has  suffered  much 
in  the  pursuit  of  Truth.  For  Hearn's  fine  pride  was  as  sensitive  as  his 
perception,  and  life  led  him  often  by  thorny  paths  and  rough  ways.  Yet 
he  never  lost  his  sweetness;  there  is  never  a  note  of  rancor  or  bittemess. 
His  song,  though  minor  sometimes,  is  never  discordant.  Hewlett  is  com- 
fortably happy.     Though  he  is  sensitive  to  surroundings,  and  affected  by 


48o  HEWLETT  AND  HEARN:  TWO  TYPES  OF  ORIENTALISTS 

them»  his  organism  is  not  so  finely  strune  as  Heam's.  He  is  aesthetic  bi 
he  lacks  the  spirituality  of  the  latter.  He  is  the  Moorish  ty^  of  Oiienali 
content  to  bask  in  the  sunlight,  in  an  atmosphere  of  luxurious  ease  absocbiif 
the  beauty  all  about  him.  He  is  buoyant,  he  is  gay,  revelling  in  brig^ttnaii 
seeking  to  escape  the  shadow.  But  Heam  typifies  the  Oriental  of  the  far 
East,  reserved,  controlled,  melancholy.  He  is  ever  struggling  in  the  shadoil 
the  shadow  of  another  world,  with  unseen,  unknown  forces.  He^rfett  is  Ae 
gay  troubadour  of  Provence  singing  of  love  in  the  '  thrust-hills  of  Ae 
Vexin,'  and  his  song  is  beautiful,  melodious,  full  of  passion.  Heaia'i 
song  is  the  weird,  mysterious  music  of  the  East,  pathetic,  yet  inexpreis3)lf 
sweet,  the  echo  of  the  silveiy  song  of  the  Kusa-Hibari.  Suffering  broodi 
out  his  truest,  sweetest  notes,  and  developed  in  him  not  only  a  rare  sympatsfi 
but  also  a  power  that  Hewlett  with  all  his  skill  cannot  reproduce. 


AMONG  THE  GERMAN  WRITERS 

By  Amelia  von  Ende 

LONGEVITY  is  not  one  of  the  characteristics  of  the  generation 
of  German  writers,  who  barely  twenty-five  years  ago 
rose  above  the  horizon  as  '  Jugend^  die  dem  Aufschwung 
vorangehtJ*  Some  did  not  even  live  to  see  the  change  in  the 
canons  of  art,  which  they  had  heralded.  Hermann  Conradi, 
who  died  in  the  very  beginning  of  the  new  storm  and  stress 
jmiody  has  been  followed  by  an  astonishing  number  of  his  comrades:  Lud- 
irig  Jjicobowski,  Franz  Held,  Peter  Hille,  Wilhelm  von  Polenz,  I.  I.  David, 
Ind  others.  Last  year  one  of  the  founders  of  the  new  school,  Heinrich 
flart,  was  called  away  in  the  midst  of  a  critical  activity,  which  had  begun  to 
surpass  his  creative  efforts  in  lyric  and  epic  verse.  Now  Wilhelm  Holzamer, 
mother  poet  and  critic  distinguished  for  the  refinement  and  the  dignity  of 
lis  work,  has  laid  down  his  pen.  Soon  every  one  of  the  guild  of  youth 
n^ich  stirred  up  the  stagnant  waters  of  German  poetry  in  the  eighties  will 
lave  passed  through  the  gates  of  death,  which  according  to  popular  belief 
idmit  the  poet  and  artist  into  the  temple  of  fame. 

Almost  simultaneous  with  the  announcement  of  a  collected  edition  of 
iie  works  of  Heinrich  Hart,  of  which  Julius  Hart,  A\^lhelm  Boelsche,  and 
K^lhelm  Holzamer  were  the  editors,  comes  the  publication  of  some  post- 
lumous  volumes  of  young  authors,  whose  work  was  known  only  to  a  limited 
arde  of  their  friends,  yet  possesses  those  qualities  which  claim  the  attention 
if  a  larger  audience.  Walter  Cale  was  a  typical  product  of  the  unsettled 
liought  of  a  transition  period.  Bom  at  a  time  when  the  atmosphere  of 
jrermany  was  rife  with  ideas  of  an  intellectual  renascence,  he  ended  his  life 
It  the  age  of  twenty-two.  The  volume  of  posthumous  prose  and  verse  is  as 
ragmentary  as  was  his  life.  Yet  the  intellectuality  of  Cale  is  so  typical  of 
he  generation  to  which  he  belonged,  that  the  book  has  the  interest  of  a 
rurious  document.  Cale  had  developed  at  an  amazingly  rapid  pace.  His 
knowledge  was  surprising.  Familiar  with  all  the  philosophies  of  the  world, 
le  was  a  searcher  for  abstract  general  truths.  He  typified  every  individual 
experience  and  removed  it  from  the  actual  world  into  the  realm  of  ideality. 
K>  erratic  as  to  be  untractable,  so  versatile  as  to  be  diffuse,  he  was  unable  to 
cash  and  to  discipline  his  gifts,  and  the  result  was  disastrous  to  his  achieve- 
nent.  The  fatalistic  note  of  his  lyrics  is  significant  of  the  intellectual 
LTTOgance  of  his  reading  of  life: 

481 


482  AMONG  THE  GERMAN  WRITERS 

'  But  I  am  unperturbed 
And  strong  as  destiny. 
The  network  of  the  spider 
I  follow  placidly. 

My  faithful  pencil  (irmly 

Line  upon  line  does  trace 

Off  the  errant  path  of  delusion 

And  the  lying  shadow-world.' 
Perversely  resigned  to  the  role  of  a  passive  onlooker,  he  revelled  b  the 
knowledge  that  the  black  rider  was  waiting  without,  ready  to  cany  hii 
whither  he  willed,  but  that  he  preferred  to  stay  within.  It  is  a  cuiioai 
motive  recurring  with  the  insistence  of  an  idiosyncrasy  in  the  Nachgi 
assene  Schriften  (S.  Fischer,  Berlin). 

The  other  young  poet  whose  premature  death  induced  his  friends  to 
collect  his  verse,  is  the  Tyrolese  Anton  Renk.  Nursed  upon  the  clear,  sweK 
air  of  his  native  mountains,  upon  the  lore  and  the  history  of  his  countiy,  hii 
art  reflects  a  personality  of  robust  strength  and  simplicity.  His  view  i 
life  was  wholesome.  Deeply  religious  and  patriotic,  he  was  not  the  man  id 
indulge  in  mere  poetic  speculation,  but  often  sounded  the  clarion  notes  of 
the  champion,  challenging  his  people  to  scale  the  heights  of  the  ideal.  The 
earthy  flavor  of  some  of  his  lyrics  makes  them  rank  among  the  best  speci- 
mens of  Heimatskunsty  that  Austria  has  prodced  of  late,  and  justifies  the 
publication  of  the  two  volumes  under  the  auspices  of  Jungtirol  and  the  im- 
print of  Georg  Mueller,  Leipzig. 

Aurelius  Polzer,  professor  at  the  university  of  Graz,  is  the  author  of  1 
book  of  verse,  In  Sturmnacht  und  Sonnenschein  (Graz,  Janotta),  whick 
is  also  distinctly  patriotic.  Polzer  is  almost  robust  in  his  faith  in  life  and 
his  attachment  to  his  native  soil.  He  sings  the  praise  of  the  German 
country  and  the  German  people,  of  German  speech  and  German  wine. 
Sometimes  he  eff^ectively  strikes  a  pantheistic  note,  as  in  the  poem  Gott  in 
der  Natur  and  in  Sonnentod.  Georg  von  Oertzen,  whose  new  book  Vvi 
der  eigenen  Tuer  (I.  Bielefeld,  Freiburg)  bears  the  subtitle  Deutsche  Sorgin 
und  Gedankeuy  succeeds  in  giving  his  patriotism  a  distinctly  individual  ex- 
pression. As  the  titles  suggest,  his  attitude  towards  his  country  is  critical; 
his  love  for  his  people  is  not  blind  to  the  weaker  sides  of  the  national  charac- 
ter and  especially  to  some  of  the  darker  shadows  that  lurk  beneath  the 
glaring  light  of  material  prosperity.  That  this  poet  of  the  older  generation 
should  obstinately  refuse  to  join  in  the  paean  to  the  glory  of  the  new  Empire 
and  bravely  point  out  wherein  its  much-praised  culture  fails  to  fulfill  ideal 


AMELIA  VON  ENDE  483 

requirements,  is  significant  enough  to  give  him  a  place  by  himself  in  the 
ranks  of  German  poets.  Yet  Georg  von  Oertzen  is  no  radical  or  reformer, 
applying  the  standards  of  some  Utopian  dream  to  the  actual  Germany  of 
toniay.  He  is  simply  a  German  patriot  of  the  old  school,  and  it  is  well  to 
add,  an  aristocrat,  appalled  by  the  parvenu  love  of  ^tter  and  the  insin- 
Derity  apparent  to  the  serious  and  faithful  observer.  There  is  little  verbal 
beauty  in  this  volume  of  verse,  but  there  is  an  abundance  of  verbal  strength, 
with  here  and  there  a  touch  of  genuine  Old-German  Berserker  wrath. 

Hermann  Stegemann's  volume  of  verse  Fita  Somnium  Breve  (Egon 
Fleischel  &  Co.,  Berlin)  is  not  to  be  measured  by  the  standard  of  excellence 
irliich  his  fiction  has  reached.  Its  simple  dedication,  Meinen  Freunden^ 
luggests  that  it  may  be  one  of  those  books  which  a  man  of  unusual  strength 
and  wealth  of  mind  can  produce  in  an  interval  of  rest  from  more  ambitious 
labors.  Yet  it  is  not  without  distinction,  and  although  it  shows  little  of  the 
dramatic  power  which  characterizes  his  Alsatian  stories,  reveals  other  sides 
li  his  artistic  individuality.  There  are  some  lyric  gems  which  should  de- 
light a  composer,  for  they  have  just  enough  of  that  strong  undercurrent  of 
ieep  sentiment,  and  their  language  has  the  delicate  imagery  and  the  liquid 
tioce  which  makes  great  songs.  Sonnenwende  and  Verhlueht  are  far  above 
the  longer  and  more  serious  poems  in  the  book  for  genuine  lyrical  feeling. 

Of  the  group  of  dramatists  that  once  were  considered  likely  to  rival 
Hauptmann,  Max  Halbe  was  one  of  the  most  promising.  But  since  the 
luccess  ofjugend  and  Mutter  Erde  he  has  repeatedly  disappointed  his  audi- 
snces  and  his  critics.  The  new  play  Das  wahre  Gesicht  (Albert  Langen, 
Munich),  will  not  rehabilitate  him  in  their  esteem.  It  is  a  most  elaborate 
xrork,  a  tragedy  in  five  acts  and  a  prelude,  remotely  suggesting  a  hero  of  the 
K^allenstein  ^pe,  but  thoroughly  unconvincing.  The  dramatic  construction 
ind  the  scenic  reauirements  show  the  author's  mastery  of  the  technique  of 
lis  art,  but  he  fails  to  interest  in  his  characters.  The  atmosphere  of  the 
KX>k  is  frigid  and  artificial.  Not  even  the  national  historic  background 
Nfill  be  able  to  save  the  play. 

A  tragedy  with  a  strong  satirical  color  is  A uf stand  in  Syrakus^  by  Lud- 
prig  Bauer,  contained  in  a  volume,  called  Theater  and  published  by  Bruns 
»f  Minden.  But  the  work  which  is  far  more  likely  to  raise  the  author  to  a 
>rominent  rank  among  our  dramatists  is  a  masterpiece  in  one  act,  contained 
n  the  same  book:  AutomobiL  In  this  little  comedy  a  segment  of  modem 
lociety  is  satirized  so  keenly  and  so  forcibly,  that  It  may  stand  as  the  final 
expression  of  a  passing  phase  as  seen  through  the  glasses  of  a  modern  Juve- 
lal.  The  style  is  admirably  well  chosen;  the  characters  are  so  simple  in 
lutline  as  to  seem  mere  charcoal  sketches;  but  the  types  are  so  tangibly  real 


484  AMONG  THE  GERMAN  WRITERS 

as  to  become  living  personalities.  Paul  Schueler's  Nachtstuecke  (Schoct- 
laender,  Breslau)  are  also  an  interesting  group  of  plays,  but  they  are  rather 
the  work  of  a  thoughtful  poet,  giving  his  reading  of  life,  than  that  of  a  man 
writing  for  the  stage  of  to-day.  The  problems  he  treats  are  vital  and 
eternally  human,  yet  he  has  the  rare  gift  of  suggesting  a  haunting  sense 
of  remoteness  from  the  material  limitations  of  life  and  the  delusions  of  flesh. 

The  one-act  play  has  become  a  favorite  with  the  dramatists  of  Gennanj. 
Felix  Doermann  has  written  a  delightful  volume  under  the  collective  tide^ 
Das  staerkere  Geschlecht  (Wedekind  &  Co.,  Berlin).  The  sex  relations  aie 
the  Leitmotiv,  but  he  directs  the  shafts  of  his  satire  against  men  and  women, 
because  in  those  relations  both  are  likely  to  show  their  weakness.  Two  of 
the  plays  are  transcriptions  from  life,  painfully  true  of  social  conditions  in 
modem  Germany,  as  elsewhere.  The  degrading  commercialization  of  sex 
relations  is  treated  with  mordant  sarcasm  and  yet  with  a  touch  of  grim 
humor,  a  philosophical  acceptance  of  the  situation  which  cannot  fail  to 
appeal  to  the  audience.  The  other  plays  in  the  book  have  less-  of  that  ele- 
ment of  popularity  in  them,  both  treating  unusual  problems.  Hagithy  widi 
its  mediaeval  plot  and  atmosphere,  remotely  suggests  Arme  Heinrich  and 
Mona  Vanna.  It  is  an  exquisite  dramatic  poem,  although  it  is  not  quite 
convincing.  Die  fFeberfluessigen  is  an  ideal  specimen  of  the  drame  intinu. 
A  young  girl,  member  of  an  artist  household,  is  loved  by  the  two  men  of  the 
family  and  stands  between  the  husband  and  his  lovable,  faithful  wife,  and 
between  father  and  son.  There  is  no  action;  nothing  happens  to  break  up 
the  family;  for  the  girl,  knowing  that  in  either  case  two  people,  to  whom 
she  is  devoted,  would  be  made  miserable,  quietly  leaves  the  house,  the 
peace  whereof  she  has  innocently  disturbed.  The  bare  statement  of  the 
plot  gives  no  idea  of  the  dramatic  intensity  of  this  little  soul  tragedy. 

Max  Bernstein's  book,  deriving  its  title,  Der  Goldene  Schluessel  (S. 
Fischer,  Berlin),  from  the  play  which  Kainz  has  successfully  presented,  is 
of  very  unequal  merit.  The  title  play  is  an  exceedingly  clever  theatrical 
tour  de  force.  In  Die  gruene  Schnur  the  author,  who  is  a  prominent  lawyer 
in  Munich,  has  written  a  capital  satire  upon  German  law,  which  has  been 
a  popular  subject  since  the  days  of  Kleist's  Zerhrochene  Krug.  Like  Doer- 
mann, Bernstein  reaches  the  highwater  mark  in  his  book  in  one  of  those 
dramatic  miniatures,  where  within  the  smallest  possible  compass  of  time 
and  place  a  segment  of  human  life  is  pictured  at  one  of  those  crucial  moments 
that  turn  the  tide  of  fate.  A  man  eloping  with  the  wife  of  another;  a  waiting- 
room  in  a  railway  station  between  the  arrival  of  two  express  trains  —  that 
is  all.  Nothing  happens;  yet  during  that  brief  interval  the  souls  of  both 
live  through  their  whole  past  and  meet  in  the  present,  into  which  fall  the 


AMELIA  VON  ENDE  485 

rthadows  of  the  future.  It  is  a  remarkable  achievement  both  for  its  psy- 
sdiology  and  its  style.  Hermann  Bahr,  too,  has  published  a  volume  of  one- 
pict  plays  ^hich  are  proof  of  his  splendid  workmanship  and  are  wonderfully 
fi suggestive:  Grotesken  (Karl  Konegen,  Vienna).  No  stronger  satire  upon 
I  modem  life  has  been  written  than  his  *  Klub  der  Erioeser.'  The  wrath  of  the 
I  individual  that  has  outgrown  the  limitations  of  caste  still  maintained  by 
[church  and  state,  but  almost  extinct  in  the  spirit  of  the  people,  seethes  in  this 
jday.  There  is  a  prince,  who  would  relinquish  all  prerogatives  of  his  rank 
and  courts  the  favor  of  an  anarchist;  and  there  is  this  descendent  of  genera- 
tions of  proletaires,  who  cannot  forget  how  his  forebears  were  wronged  by 
die  ancestors  of  the  other  man:  '  That  I  should  be  so  homely!  With  the 
pfofile  of  Rafael  I  would  have  been  a  saint.  But  —  not  to  dare  to  face  a 
minor!  And  through  the  fault  of  your  forefathers!  Your  people  have  in 
die  remote  past  for  many  hundreds  of  years  so  tortured  and  hunted  my 
Fathers,  that  we,  the  grandchildren,  still  bear  the  traces  of  secret  rage  and 
hatred  in  our  distorted  features.' 

A  curiously  interesting  and  powerful  play  is  Franz  Duelberg's  four-act 
drama,  Korallenkettlin  (Egon  Fleischel  &  Co.,  Berlin).  The  author  has 
chosen  a  subject  of  the  utmost  sociological  importance:  prostitution;  but  he 
has  saved  it  from  being  unpleasantly  realistic  and  suggestive  of  a  sermon  by 
usine  a  picturesque  mediaeval  setting.  The  plot,  too,  is  original.  The 
heroine,  absolutely  ignorant  of  life,  has  fled  from  the  tyranny  of  the  parental 
home  to  a  house  of  ill  repute,  and  kills  the  first  man  who  approaches  her. 
Imprisoned  and  sentenced  to  death,  she  is  rescued  by  the  reigning  prince, 
who  returns  from  abroad  and  on  finding  his  city  excited  about  the  strange 
crime,  takes  a  fancy  to  the  girl.  But  a  fanatic  priest  confuses  her  with  his 
eadiortations  of  penance  and  expiation,  and  disappointed  in  everything  that 
life  seems  to  hold  for  her,  conscious  of  being  only  a  toy  even  to  her  royal 
deliverer,  who  has  placed  her  upon  the  throne,  she  commits  suicide.  The 
play  is  well  constructed  and  the  seriousness  of  spirit  evident  in  the  discreet 
treatment  of  the  unpleasant  theme  merits  special  notice. 

There  has  been  a  flood  of  fiction  from  the  pens  of  old  favorites  and 
newcomers.  Rosegger  has  satisfied  the  demand  for  a  book  of  humor  by 
culling  from  his  works  all  the  stories  of  those  delightful  provincials,  which  he 
calls  Abelsbergevy  and  offering  them  under  the  title  of  Die  Abelsherger 
Chronik  (L.  Etaackmann,  Leipzig).  It  is  a  book  worthy  to  rank  with  the 
Schildbuerger  as  an  inexhaustible  source  of  amusement.  Marie  Ebner- 
Eschenbach's  book,  Aus  meinen  Schrifien  (Gebrueder  Poetel,  Berlin), 
is  also  a  selection  from  her  writings  made  for  her  young  friends.  It  con- 
tains some  of  her  most  charming  stories,   as  Krambambambuli  and  Die 


486  AMONG  THE  GERMAN  WRITERS 

Spitzittf  a  number  of  tales  and  parables,  some  poems  and  a  bunch  of  aphor- 
isms. Otto  Ernst  has»  since  the  success  of  his  play  Flachsmann  als  Eniehir 
and  the  novel  Asmus  Sempers  JugenJ  written  some  volumes  of  short  stories, 
sketches,  and  causeriesj  full  of  a  homely  mature  wisdom  and  a  genial  whole- 
some humor.  Vom  geruhigen  Leben  (L.  Staackmann»  Leipzig),  is  his 
latest  edition  to  this  department  of  his  works.  Wilhelm  Scharrelmaniif 
who  will  be  remembered  for  his  controversy  with  the  school  authorities  of 
Bremen,  and  as  one  of  the  authors  of  that  powerful  play  Krieg^  which  was 
given  under  a  Russian  pseudonym  and  attributed  to  one  of  the  younger 
writers  of  that  unfortunate  country^  has  written  a  book  of  short  stories  and 
sketches.  Die  Fahrt  ins  Leben  (Egon  Fleischel  &  Co.,  Berlin),  which  givct 
ample  proof  of  his  strength  as  an  observer  and  painter  of  eveiy*day  life 
But  his  vision  is  not  bounded  by  the  world  of  the  senses;  he  is  a  seeker  of 
spiritual  values  even  in  the  material  stress  of  the  workaday  world.  This 
gives  his  stories  from  real  life  as  well  as  his  imaginative  tales  an  ethical 
significance  which  few  of  the  modern  German  realists  can  claim  for  their 
works. 

Hermann  Hesse's  volume,  Diesseits  (S.  Fischer,  Berlin),  contains  five 
stories  of  a  retrospective  character  and  probably  autobiographical.  Thq 
are  reminiscences  of  youth  narrated  with  a  charming  simplicity.  The 
note  is  personal,  but  throughout  sincere  and  genuine.  Aus  KinJerzeiun 
is  the  record  of  a  child's  first  impression  of  sickness  and  death,  psychologi- 
cally true,  but  told  with  such  a  delicacy  of  feeling  and  with  such  a  strong 
suggestion  of  its  spiritual  meaning  as  to  make  it  a  poem  in  prose.  Die 
Marmorsaege  and  Uer  Lateinschueler  are  tales  of  youthful  love;  sweet  and 
wholesome,  yet  thoroughly  individual  in  plot  and  treatment,  they  strike 
the  reader  as  anomalous  in  a  period  when  morbid  eroticism  alone  seems  to 
engage  the  attention  of  the  literary  world.  The  book  has  dignity  and 
charm. 

Among  women  writers  Charlotte  Knoeckel  is  a  newcomer  of  great 
promise.  Her  Kinder  der  Gasse  secured  for  her  a  hearing,  and  her  second 
book.  Die  Schwester  Gertrud  (S.  Fischer,  Berlin),  shows  remarkable  pro- 
gress. It  is  a  problem  story  of  serious  meaning.  The  author  handles  the 
difficult  question,  whether  a  nurse  is  justified  in  abbreviating  the  suffering 
of  a  patient  whose  death  is  only  a  question  of  days,  perhaps  hours,  with 
great  discretion  and  with  a  rare  insight  into  the  working  of  the  human  soul. 
Sister  Gertrude  is  a  living  personality.  The  author's  strength  shows  not  only 
in  her  portrayal  of  character,  but  also  in  her  suggestion  of  the  milieu.  She 
knows  the  art  of  economy;  there  is  in  the  story  not  one  superfluous  detail. 


GABIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 

By  Pietro  Isola 

)NE  of  the  peculiarities  of  conditions  in  Italy  may  be  said  to 
consist  in  the  labyrinth  of  dialects  pervading  the  whole 
peninsula.  This  logically  indicates  a  distinction  of  sections, 
which  as  we  all  know  exist  and  thrive.  These  conditions, 
remaining  so  pronounced  as  they  are,  after  almost  fifty  years 
of  political  unity,  have  alarmed  many  Italians  and  foreigners, 
ve  concluded  that  the  unity,  which  cost  so  much  blood  and  effort, 
proved  a  success. 

aving  the  political  question  aside  and  examining  into  that  of  dialects, 
esentatives  of  varying  sections,  I  incline  to  assume  that  in  their  ex- 
lies  the  promise  of  future  Italian  literature.  This  for  various  reasons : 
ncipal  one  being  that  in  these  conditions  a  perennial  source  of  in- 
tn  Mrill  be  found,  a  wealth  of  color,  a  strong  and  distinct  sense  of 
that  will  give  originality  by  finding  and  forming  new  and  newer 
)  enrich  our  literature  and  art.  It  will  also  give  the  wealth  of  vocabu- 
at  Mrill  maintain  the  language  living,  glowing,  and  beaudful.  Our 
;  have  ever  been  vigorous,  sparkling,  life  injecting;  while  our  uni- 
>r  literary  language  has  often  been  dead.  Porta  Meli,  Guadagnoli, 
a  few  at  random,  and  surely  the  incomparable  Goldoni,  have  been 
;,  not  according  to  Academic  standards  and  measurements,  but  for 
n  total  of  life  they  gave  out;  while  the  pedants  groped  about  in  the 
darkness  of  grammar  or  rhetoric.  The  language  was  the  Academy,  the 
Life.  Goldoni  had  little  to  do  with  language  and  much  with  life. 
>f  the  Academicians  were  like  the  writers  that  Giuseppe  Giusti  says: 
ican  IJEstro  Sulla  Falsariga.  Our  earliest  writers,  those  of  the 
or  thirteenth  century,  are  still  interesting  and  a  source  of  inspiration 
ecause  we  find  them  so  near  the  people  in  form  and  thought.  They 
incere  as  their  great  contemporaries  the  painters.' 
ith  our  new  life,  with  our  new  aspirations  it  was  necessary  that, 
ig  barbaric  influences  and  senile  pedantrv,  a  man  should  rise  to  fuse 
je  and  life  into  a  new  form  embodying  what  we  have  now  to  express. 

487' 


488  GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 

Italy  has  been  fortunate.  Two  men  have  appeared  to  promote  and  perfect 
the  necessary  change:  Giosue  Carducci  and  Gabriele  D'Annunzio.  Its 
not  my  task  to  draw  any  comparisons  between  these  two  men  nor  to  pnne 
which  of  the  two  has  the  greater  claim  upon  his  countiy. 

D'Annunzio  has  surely  given  us  a  new  language  and  a  new  impetus. 
He  has  reaffirmed  our  national  conscience.  He  has  revealed  ail  the  potency, 
the  glowy  the  color,  the  life,  and  the  heretofore  almost  unknown  beauties  cf 
our  tongue.  For  years  we  have  been  servile  imitators  of  our  neighbon; 
we  have  gorged  ourselves  with  Gallicisms,  not  deeming  our  language  capabk 
of  expressing  all  that  others  could  express.  D'Annunzio  has  chang^  d 
that.  He  has  given  us  immeasurable  power.  He  stands  to-day  as  our 
great  Stylist.  He  has  felt  and  feels  the  civic  dignity  of  the  writer— 'no 
longer  to  be  considered  as  the  subtile  ornament  of  an  industrious,  laborion 
civilization,  but  as  the  first  among  its  citizens;  as  the  highest  example  of 
the  product  of  a  people;  as  the  interpreter,  the  witness,  and  the  messeng^of 
his  time.' 

When  still  very  young,  D'Annunzio  heard  two  words  that  came  to  him 
from  over  the  Alps:  *  Latin  Renaissance.*  It  was  Melchior  de  Vogue  who 
uttered  those  words  after  reading  some  of  D'Annunzio's  latest  works.  The 
Italians,  still  perplexed  between  pedantry  and  new  necessities,  had  nettf 
addressed  to  him  such  inspiring  words  as  these;  words  that  filled  him  with  a 
new  power;  with  ambition  to  achieve  and  lift  himself  to  the  exalted  position 
of  leader,  nay,  a  regenerator  of  Italian  literature. 

Has  he  succeeded  ?  Do  his  countrymen  accept  him  as  a  leader  ?  Alas! 
'  Nemo  propheta  in  patria.'  There'is  not  a  man  in  Italy  more  disliked  than 
Gabriele  D'Annunzio.  Yet,  there  is  not  a  man  who  has  discharged  his 
task  more  diligently  or  has  kept  his  word  more  faithfully.  Notwithstandii^ 
his  defects,  and  they  are  many  and  grave,  let  us  give  him  due  credit;  let  us 
be  unstinted  in  the  praise  he  deserves;  if  we  cannot  offer  him  all  the  love 
and  admiration  we  should  like  to  bestow  upon  a  noble  man  and  leadeit 
we  must  hail  him  as  a  great  factor  in  our  contemporary  literature.  He  has 
given  us  a  greater  prose,  he  has,  as  he  promised,  rehabilitated  and  dignified 
our  narrative  and  descriptive  prose;  he  has  given  us  unsurpassable  poetic 
gems;  he  has  commanded  attention  and  admiration  by  a  branch  of  art  of 
which  we  knew  little, —  dramatic  art;  he  has  achieved  all  this,  not  by  any 
*  happy  fortuitous  interference,  but  by  hard  work,  a  virtue  not  too  common 
with  us,  who  love  to  sparkle  rather  than  seek  for  an  increasing  power  within: 
and  when  the  desire  for  glory  overtakes  us,  we  believe  that  the  conquest  of 
Art  resembles  the  siege  of  a  turreted  city,  when  trumpets,  clarion,  and 
clamor  aid  the  courage  of  the  assailants;  while  only  that  Art  endures  which 


PIETRO  ISOLA  489 

rows  amidst  austere  silence;  slow,  indomitable  pertinacity^  the  solitaiy 
oncentration  and  the  dedication  of  spirit  and  soul  to  the  Ideal  which  we 
esire  to  endow  with  a  dominating  power  among  men/  It  is  only  by  such 
iscipline  that  he  has  been  able  to  gain  the  high  position  he  holds  everywhere. 

In  his  art  D'Annunzio  has  been  very  versatile;  delightfully  eclectic,  he 
as  been  realist,  psychologist,  symbolist,  mystic.  He  has  learned  much 
f  all  writers;  Doumic,  Mendes,  Rabusson,  Maupassant,  Baudelaire, 
Lossetti,  Tolstoy,  and  others  among  the  Russians.  In  style  and  defects  he 
Bcms  to  have  a  strong  afRnity  with  Theophile  Gautier.  He  has,  in  fact, 
een  called  a  Frenchman  writing  in  Italian,  but  what  Italian!  By  some 
e  has  been  called  an  imitator,  by  others  a  plagiarist.  These  of  course 
re  the  accusations  ^a  la  mode  du  jour*  He  has  too  much  individuality  to  be 
n  imitator.  He  is  an  omnivorous  reader;  his  culture  is  vast  and  he  can  read 
lost  authors  in  the  originals;  he  is  versed  in  the  classics  and  he  has  assim- 
ated  the  literature  and  lore  of  his  whole  country  and  has  fathomed  its 
leaning  and  beauty.  He  lacks  originality,  and  in  '  Piacere'  Andre 
perelli  shows  this  point  very  clearly,  when  D'Annunzio  makes  him  say: 
Almost  always  before  beginning  to  write  he  needed  a  certain  musical  in- 
>narion  coming  to  him  from  some  other  poet,  and  he  usually  sought  it 
mong  the  old  Tuscans;  an  hemistich  by  Lapo  Gianni  or  Cavalcanti  or 
Sno  retrarch  or  Lorenzo;  a  note;  a  La  as  a  foundation  for  his  first  harmony.' 
!liat  is  also  what  D'Annunzio  needs,  which,  let  us  admit,  is  very  far  from 
nitation.  No  one  accuses  Raphael  of  imitation  or  plagiarism,  yet  even  in 
is  greatness  he  needed  similar  intonation.  It  is  what  takes  place  within; 
be  transformation  wrought  by  genius  that  renders  the  work  original. 
YhxiTixxmAO  is  Italian,  his  land  is  of  the  Abruzzi,  and  he  is  himself:  therefore, 
lie  pollen  gathered  among  the  flowers  of  Italian  or  European  literature 
ould  only  bring  forth  blossom  with  special  characteristics  and  coloring. 

As  a  writer  he  has  been  so  long  before  the  public  that  very  few  realize, 
ot  how  old  he  is,  but  rather  how  young.  He  was  bom  at  Pescara,  on  the 
Adriatic  coast,  in  1864,  and  his  first  verses, '  Primo  Vere  and  In  Memoriam' 
^re  published  in  1880,  or  when  sixteen  years  of  age.  His  subsequent 
erses,  *  II  Canto  Nuovo,'  were  published  before  his  twentieth  year.  This 
^uld  mean  very  little  but  for  the  fact  that  those  verses  proclaimed  him  a 
oet  and  placed  him  in  the  front  rank  of  literature.  Moreover,  those  verses 
smain  unsurpassed,  — his  best.  We  have  greater  erudition,  more  arristry, 
rider  view  of  life  (right  or  wrong);  but  those  verses  remain  unmatched  for 
pontaneity,  fluidity,  and  richness.  They  reveal  in  him  a  fine  sensibility 
ibrating  under  the  slightest  touch,  fragrance,  or  sight. 


490  GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 


L'Isotteo  e  La  Chimera'  were  offered  to  the  public  in  1885  and  1889. 
In  these  we  find  evidence  of  the  study  of  our  earkest  literature  and  we  are 
carried  back  to  the  limpid  language  of  the  Trecentisti.  All  the  ballads  and 
songs  are  exquisite  and  notablei  among  them  the  thirteenth  ballad  de- 
scribing Isaotta  drinking  at  the  spring;  *  lo  f  inghirlanio  o  fonte,'  also  the 
fourth  ballad  describing  Isaotta's  hand.  This  is  beautiful  in  itself  and 
interesting  as  the  fundamental  theme  for  his  other  verses  in  '  Hortus  Lar- 
varum/  *  Le  Mani,'  and  finally  the  tragic  incident  in  *  Gioconda.*  The 
hand  is  ever  an  interesting  theme  with  D'Annunzio,  who,  when  possessed  of  a 
thought  or  image,  returns  to  it,  time  after  time,  with  renewed  energy  and 
enthusiasm.  Is  this  due  to  his  lack  of  invention  ?  The  hands  are  full  of 
meaning  to  him.  For  instance,  in  the  christening  of  Innocente:  '  Giovanni 
held  the  child  on  his  right  arm,  upon  the  hand  that  on  the  previous  day  had 
scattered  the  seed,  the  left  rested  among  the  ribbons  and  laces,  and  those 
hands,  bony,  thin,  brown,  that  seemed  cast  in  a  living  bronze:  those  hands 
hardened  upon  the  implements  of  the  field,  sanctified  by  the  good  they  had 
spread,  by  the  vast  work  they  had  performed,  now,  in  holding  the  infant, 
evinced  a  delicacy,  almost  a  timidity,  so  gentle  that  I  could  not  withhold  my 
gaze.'  Elsewhere  he  describes  the  hand  and  gesture  of  the  sower  and  the 
hands  of  Violante. 

His  v/erses  *  L'Aprile,'  in  *  Hortus  Larvarum,'  are  very  beaudful  in 
form  and  conception  and  the  music  is  exquisite. 

*  Socchiusa  e  la  finestroy  sul  giardino 

un  ora  passa  lentOy  sonnolenta 

Ed  elloy  cWera  attentat  s^addormenta 

a  quella  voce  che  giu  si  lamentaj 

—  che  si  lamenta  in  fondo  a  quel  giardtno.* 
Many  other  verses  of  this  collection  represent  the  best  of  this  author's  worb 
in  that  line,  but  they  defy  translation.  His  *  Odi  Navali'  should  also  be 
considered  as  well  as  all  his  later  verses.  He  has  become  the  Pindar  of 
Italy  and  beginning  with  his  *  Ode  to  Admiral  Saint-Bon,'  he  has  been 
called  upon  to  sing  all  our  best  men:  Garibaldi,  Bellini,  Verdi,  Carducd, 
and  others. 

But  I  must  leave  his  poetic  works  and  give  an  idea  succinctly  of  his 
prose  work,  later  of  his  dramas.  In  these  we  shall  find  exhibited  his  great 
talent;  his  power  among  the  Italians;  his  artistic  shortcomings  and  other 
unenviable  characteristics  and  limitations.  Of  his  prose  works  I  shall 
for  the  sake  of  brevity,  consider  only  three,  and  these  I  shall  consider  through 
the  prefaces.  These  are  '  Piacere'  (1889),  *  Giovanni  Episcopo'  (1892)1 
Trionfo  della  Morte  (1889). 


PIETRO  ISOLA  491 

Interesting  as  the  preface  to  a  book  is,  it  becomes  an  important  docu- 
ent  with  these  three  works.  The  preface  to  *  Piacere'  is  in  the  form  of  a 
ter  to  Francesco  Paolo  Michetti,  the  eminent  artist  and  intimate  friend  of 
e  author. 

*  To  you  I  owe  the  development  of  one  of  the  most  noble  among  man's 
tellectual  faculties;  I  owe  you  the  habit  of  observation,  and  I  owe  you  also 
^thod.  I  am  now  convinced,  as  you  are,  that  there  is  for  us  but  one  single 
Ti  of  study;  one  single  object, —  Life.  I  smile  when  I  realize  that  this 
ok  in  which  I  study  with  deep  sadness  so  much  corruption,  depravity, 
btlety,  falsity,  and  cruelty,  was  written  in  the  midst  of  the  simple  and 
rene  peace  of  your  home,  between  the  last  songs  of  the  harvest  and  the 
rly  pastorals  of  winter  snows, —  Ave,  friend,  and  teacher/ 

Now  what  is  the  result  of  this  observation  of  life  ?  What  is  the  method 
d  what  constitutes  the  book  ?  I  have  already  remarked  that  D'Annunzio 
:ks  originality  or  inventiveness.     And  we  find  no  plot  in  any  of  his  stories. 

In  *  Piacere'  we  have  simply  a  large  canvas  upon  which  the  artist  has 
awn  one  salient  figure  and  two  accessory  ones.  Andrea  Sperelli,  a  most 
isuous,  abject  being;  Donna  Elena  Muti,  a  perverse,  sensuous,  handsome 
mature;  Donna  Maria  Fleres,  a  woman  of  high  ideals  and  culture,  soon  to 
1  in  the  mire  at  the  feet  of  Andrea.  The  scene  opens  with  Andrea  Sperelli 
his  apartment,  which  he  calls  the  *  buen  retiroy*  awaiting  the  arrival  of 
ena  Muti,  his  mistress.  This  apartment  is  described  by  D'Annunzio 
th  great  art,  painstaking  minuteness,  in  fact,  marvellous  virtuosity,  so  as 
prepare  us  to  accept  Andrea  Sperelli  as  a  man  of  vast  culture,  of  ultra 
ined  tastes,  an  artist,  a  poet.  Elena  arrives  and,  instead  of  ministering  to 
\  desires,  informs  Andrea  that  she  is  married  and  their  relations  must 
ise.  This  sudden  change  in  her  position  seems  to  awaken  some  chagrin 
him,  but  he  soon  realizes  that  this  marriage  would  add  new  piquancy  to 
nr  relation  and  makes  such  advances  that  Elena  asks  him:  *  Could  you 
fFer  to  share  me  with  another  ? '  This  seems  for  an  instant  to  abash 
idrea,  but  only  for  an  instant,  because  a  few  pages  further  in  the  book  we 
ve  to  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  would  be  perfectly  willing  to  share  her 
th  another.  Still  more,  those  lofty  words  of  Elena  must  not  be  taken  too 
"iously.  She  is  soon  revealed  as  having  formed  a  new  liaison  with  a  young 
)man.  The  separation,  however,  is  inevitable  on  the  part  of  Elena,  and 
idrea  Sperelli  tries  to  comfort  himself  by  giving  way  to  a  life  of  dissipation 
d  dominating  passions,  a  life  that  is  in  strong  contrast  with  his  high  thoughts 
d  splendid  gifts.  Andrea  makes  love  to  innumerable  women  and  they 
variably  succumb  to  his  desires.  For  him  there  is  nothing  sacred  in 
»man;  she  is  simply  a  means  of  satisfying  his  passions.    Andrea  has  a 


492  GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 

quarrel  with  a  young  Roman  of  his  ilk  and  is  dangerously  wounded.  Con- 
valescence follows  the  long  illness  and  brings  with  it  that  period  ^cd 
*  life  is  so  sweet  after  the  suffering  of  the  body'  —  the  convalescence  that  is 
a  *  purification,  a  new  birth.  At  this  point  his  cousin  Donna  Franceses 
D'Ateleta  invites  him  to  her  Villa  Schifanoia.  This  cousin,  a  fine  woman, 
is  a  secondary  character.  She  is  merely  the  means  of  causing  the  meeting 
of  Andrea  and  Donna  Maria  Fleres,  whom  she  has  invited  to  her  villa. 
Donna  Francesca  is  a  little  suspicious  of  Andrea  as  a  guest  in  her  home 
when  she  expects  her  intimate  friend  to  visit  her,  and  in  a  good-natured, 
friendly  way  chides  Andrea  about  his  many  love  adventures.  Andrea 
assures  her  that  since  his  illness  he  has  completely  changed.  He  is  now 
a  *  Vas  Spiritualisy  but  notwithstanding  this  affirmation  on  his  part,  no 
sooner  does  he  see  Donna  Maria  than  he  is  enamored  of  her,  makes  love 
to  her,  and  finally,  she  is  another  victim  added  to  his  long  list.  The  pages 
describing  the  development  of  their  love  or  passion,  their  conversations, 
their  critical  dissertations  on  music,  art,  or  letters,  the  long  walks  taken 
in  the  country,  the  beauties  of  the  vistas,  the  trees  and  ponds  of  Schifanoia 
are  among  the  most  exquisite  pages  of  D'Annunzio's  works.  I  have  oven 
the  bare  facts,  now  let  us  analyze  this  new  love  of  Andrea  for  Maria.  Docs 
he  love  Maria  ?  Let  us  not  speak  of  Love.  Does  he  even  desire  Maria  for 
herself }  No,  and  why .?  Andrea  has  loved  or  enjoyed  his  relation  with 
Elena  Muti.  A  woman  of  great  beauty,  she  attracted  him;  it  pleased  him 
to  be  pointed  out  as  the  lover  of  the  handsome  Elena  Muri.  Nevertheless 
he  would  have  cruelly  discarded  her  at  any  time,  but  circumstances  were 
such  that  she  forestalled  him  and  married.  She  broke  her  relations  with 
him,  and  yet  she  accepted  another.  From  that  moment  a  new  passion 
was  born  in  him,  a  new  diabolical,  irresistible  desire  to  possess  her  again. 
He  laments  her  loss,  he  sees  and  thinks  of  nothing  but  Elena  Muti;  he 
throws  himself  into  the  vortex  of  dissipations;  he,  the  noble  scion,  so  artistic, 
so  poetic,  walks  among  men  and  women  who  are,  mentally  at  least,  infinitely 
below  him;  yet  he  can  breathe  that  polluted  atmosphere  with  ease  and 
satisfaction;  but  Elena  Muti  remains,  spectre  like,  always  before  him, 
desired  but  unobtained,  once  possessed,  now  irretrievably  lost.  Elena,  Elena! 
and  we  know  what  Elena  is. 

He  is  near  unto  death,  he  is  convalescent,  a  '  Vas  Spirttualisy  he  meets 
Donna  Maria,  a  pure  woman,  a  wife,  a  mother;  noble,  beautiful  in  all  her 
moral  and  physical  attributes  and  he  loves,  whom  does  he  love  ^  Maria  ? 
No.  In  all  his  perverse  siege  of  Donna  Maria,  the  other  has  been  omni- 
present. Maria  is  only  a  veil  through  which  he  sees  the  other,  she  who  is 
lost  to  him.     He  discovers  in  Maria  a  bisexual  voice  — '  androginal, —  one 


PIETRO  ISOLA  493 

quality,  the  other,  the  feminine  timbre^  reminds  him  of  Elena,  she  who  is 
constantly  before  him.  He  seduces  Maria  that  he  might  imagine  himself 
to  possess  the  other,  and  when  poor  Maria  is  at  last  conquered  and  is  lavish- 
ing passionate  caresses  upon  him,  she  hears  him  utter  the  name  Elena. 

In  his  preface  D'Annunzio  told  us  that  there  was  only  one  study  for 
him,  only  one  object.  Life!  Is  it  Life  he  gives  us  ?  When  bitterly  attacked 
by  his  cridcs,  he  asserted,  and  most  impudently,  that  in  Andrea  he  had 
portrayed  the  ideal  type  of  a  Roman  nobleman  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
That  is  false,  of  course.  Art  does  not  recognize  classes  in  Italy.  There 
may  have  been  one  such  man  in  Ronie  as  there  is  but  one  D'Annunzio,  but 
no  more.  I  say  one  D'Annunzio,  because,  notwithstanding  all  his  plati- 
tudes about  depravity  and  duplicity,  he  portrays  with  so  much  spirit,  with 
so  much  minuteness,  he  lingers  on  the  character  with  so  much  gusto  that 
we  are  compelled  to  realize  that  in  the  mind  of  the  writer  Andrea  is  not  half 
bad.  All  the  moral  baseness,  all  the  moral  stench  and  soul  putrefaction 
of  the  profligate  Andrea  is  put  into  language  that  is  as  beautiful  and  limpid 
as  the  mountain  springs  and  as  sweet  and  fragrant  as  the  violets  and  roses 
of  our  hills.  That  is  not  Art,  because  it  is  not  art  to  give  us  what  is  abnor- 
mal and  solitary,  as  representative,  beautiful  life.  Therein  is  contained  the 
immoralinr  of  the  book;  it  is  not  the  erotic  element  it  contains  that  renders  it 
immoral,  but  what  is  false,  the  creation  of  a  neurouc  mind. 

The  second  interesting  preface  is  that  to  *  Giovanni  Episcopo,'  also  in 
the  form  of  a  letter  to  Matilde  Serao.  D'Annunzio's  letters,  whether  private 
or  public,  are  invariably  lengthy.     I  condense  this  letter. 

*  The  fragile  central  organs  are  placed  at  the  service  of  Art  by  mys- 
terious and  marvelous  activities  which  little  by  little  elaborate  the  almost 
amorphous  material  received  through  exterior  forces,  and  reduce  it  to  fornn 
and  hfe  superior.' 

He  then  proceeds  to  explain  the  conception  of '  Giovanni  Episcopo.' 

*  One  evening  in  January,  alone,  in  a  rather  dismal,  large  room,  I  was 
turning  over  my  notes;  narrative  material  partly  used,  partly  still  new.  A 
singular  disquietude  possessed  me.  Although  apparently  occupied  in  the 
reading  my  sensibiUties  were  extraordinarily  vigilant  in  that  silence,  and  ] 
could  realize  that  my  brain  had  an  unusual  facility  in  forming  and  associating 
the  most  varied  images.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  I  had  observed  sucF 
a  phenomenon  in  myself,  but  it  had  never  reached  such  a  degree  of  intensity 
I  was  beginning  to  see  as  in  reality,  when  the  name  of  Giovanni  Episcopi 
met  my  eyes;  in  one  moment  and  as  in  the  sudden  dazzle  of  lightning,  ] 
saw  the  figure  of  that  man  before  me,  not  only  in  his  bodily  form  but  als( 
in  the  moral.     It  appeared  by  I  know  not  what  comprehensive  intuirior 


494  GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 

which  was  not,  it  seemed,  engendered  by  the  sudden  awakening  of  a  stratum 
of  my  memoiy,  but  by  the  secret  concurrence  of  physical  elements  at  that 
time  unexplained/ 

This  is  interesting  because  it  shows  D'Annunzio  to  be  singularly  open 
to  sensation  from  the  exterior  world.  What  he  explains  seems  to  be  veiy 
close  to  hallucination.  It  is  the  singular  gift  of  the  artist  to  observe  things 
with  more  or  less  attention  and  to  receive  profound,  though  unconsdous, 
impressions,  which  may  suddenly  be  revived  by  sound,  touch,  or  sight 
Thus  at  the  sight  of  the  name,  D'Annunzio  saw  everything:  Giovanni, 
Ginevra,  Wanzer,  Cico,  all  their  voices,  gestures,  everything.  The  sensible 
world  was  evoked  by  the  internal  image. 

This  novel  was  undoubtedly  written  under  Russian  influence,  and 
although  it  is  only  separated  by  three  years  from  *  Piacere*  it  exhibits 
changes  in  style  and  thought.  I  wish  very  much  that  it  were  given  me  to 
say  that  the  changes  were  for  the  better. 

As  usual  there  is  no  plot,  although  the  characters  are  more  numerous 
and  complex.  Giovanni  Episcopo,  the  principal  and  important  character, 
is  an  epileptic,  a  neurotic,  or  anything  else  that  a  professional  man  may 
wish  to  call  him.  He  is  diseased  mentally.  He  has,  however,  the  lucidity 
in  seeing  certain  things  that  is  characteristic  of  similar  sufferers  of  nervous 
afflictions.  His  speech  is  also  incoherent,  spasmodic,  lachrymose.  The 
author  informs  us  that  Giovanni  has  read  much  and  thought  much;  but  we 
fail  to  discover  it  from  his  speech.  Nor  would  the  selection  of  his  com- 
panions and  his  manner  of  living  lead  us  to  attribute  to  him  the  qualities 
resulting  from  reading  and  thinking.  He  has  visions  and  is  in  constant 
dread  of  them.  He  finally  comes  under  the  sway  or  incubus  of  a  man,  one 
of  his  companions,  named  Wanzer.  He  is  a  rude,  vociferous,  brutal  man, 
who  succeeds  in  completely  subjugating  the  timid  Giovanni.  One  night 
as  they  are  alone  in  the  room  he  commands  Giovanni  to  marry  the  serving 
maid,  Ginevra.  This  must  be  hypnotism.  Giovanni  accepts  the  command 
and  goes  forth  toTivoli,  where  he  finds  the  girl  and  proposes  to  her.  She 
accepts  this  unexpected  and  unsuspecting  lover  and  bids  him  ask  the  consent 
of  her  parents.  Giovanni  goes.  As  he  ascends  the  stairway  leading  to  the 
parents'  apartments,  he  hears  a  door  opened  and  a  woman's  voice  pouring 
out  foul  abuse.  At  the  same  time  a  man  is  descending,  shuffling,  groaning, 
and  whimpering  under  the  wide  brim  of  a  hat  that  shades  his  face.  When 
this  man  passes  by  Giovanni  he  looks  up  and  reveals  a  pair  of  goggles  pro- 
jecting over  a  revolting  face,  red  and  sore  like  a  piece  of  raw  meat.  That 
is  the  father  of  his  future  wife.  Giovanni,  however,  is  not  shocked  by  such 
a  face  and  all  that  it  may  portend,  but  proceeds  upon  his  errand.     During 


PIETRO  ISOLA  495 

the  engagement  he  realizes  the  true  character  of  his  hancee»  but,  inert  as  he 
is»  and  as  all  of  D'Annunzio's  characters  are>  he  goes  on,  intrepid,  toward  his 
fate.     They  are  married  and  we  hear  him  say: 

*  At  least  one  week,  not  one  year,  not  one  month,  just  one  week!  No; 
no  mercy,  she  did  not  even  wait  one  day  but  immediately  began  to  torment 
me.  If  I  Hved  a  hundred  years  I  could  not  forget  the  bitter  shrill  laughter 
that  chilled  me,  in  the  darkness  of  our  room,  while  she  mocked  my  timidity. 
From  that  moment  I  realized  what  a  poisonous  creature  breathed  at  my  side/ 

But  Giovanni  tolerates  his  wife's  shamelessness.     He  even  accepts  the 
money  she  earns  from  it.     He  has  a  son  Cico,  whom  at  times  he  seems  to 
adore  while  at  others  this  affection  is  not  patent.      Cico  has  grown  and 
begins  to  see  and  understand  the  shame  that  pollutes  the  home,  and  although 
iR^ak  and  sickly,  there  is  a  certain  power  in  him  that  succeeds  in  counter- 
acting Wanzer's  fatal  influence  over  the  father.      Cico  sees  Wanzer  strike 
his  mother  and  hears  him  abuse  her  in  foul  language.     He  goes  and  tells 
the  fpther,  and  together  they  go  home,  but  find  the  house  empty.    Cico  is  in 
bed  sick  and  feverish.     Giovanni  says, '  Cico  was  lying  on  his  bed  and  I  sat 
!  by  him  holding  his  wrist  under  my  thumb,  his  heart  beat  wildly,  we  did  not 
I  speak,  we  thought  we  heard  all  sorts  of  noises  but  in  reality  it  was  only  the 
»  coursing  of  the  blood  in  our  veins.' 

f  Giovanni  left  the  bedside  to  go  and  fetch  a  glass  of  water.     The  key 

'  turns  in  the  lock  of  the  outer  door,  and  Wanzer  creeps  in  and  softly  calls 
Ginevra.  Hearing  no  answer,  he  advances  into  the  room  where  Cico  is 
lying.  A  piercing  shriek  from  Cioco.  Giovanni  enters  the  room  with  a 
1ong*bladed  knife  in  his  hand  and  discovers  Cico  wrestling  with  Wanzer's  hand, 
the  hand  of  that  man  on  his  child;  he  rushes  forward  and  plunges  the  weapon 
in  the  back  of  his  enemy.  The  remembrance  of  the  murdered  man  is 
terrible  to  Giovanni : 

*  Did  you  see  the  dead  body  f  Was  there  not  something  awful  in  that 
lace  and  in  those  eyes  ?  But  the  eyes  were  closed,  no,  no, —  not  both  of  them, 
— I  know  I  must  die  that  I  may  be  reHeved  from  that  impression  on  my  fingei 
of  that  eye  that  would  not  close.  1  still  feel  it,  as  if  some  vestige  of  the  skin 
Still  adhered  to  my  finger.' 

Cico  dies:  *  Yes,  he  is  dead,  he  has  been  dead  fourteen  days  and  I  am 
tdll  here.  But  I  must  die,  and  soon;  he  is  calling  me.  Every  night  he 
comes,  sits  beside  me  and  gazes  at  me.  He  is  barefooted,  dear  Cico,  and 
every  day  after  dark  I  listen  for  his  coming.  When  his  foot  touches  the 
threshold  it  is  as  if  he  pressed  it  on  my  heart,  but  oh!  so  gently,  so  softly,  he 
does  not  hurt  me. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  in  the  depiction  of  Giovanni  Episcopo  the  author 


496  GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 

has  proved  himself  a  master  analyzer  of  the  mysterious  conditions  of  that 
man's  soul.  In  such  cases  D'Annunzio  demonstrates  his  power  to  give 
form,  reality,  vividness  to  v^hat  is  vague  and  unseizable.  There  are,  on  the 
other  hand,  useless  revolting  descriptions;  he  seems  most  obstinate  in  giving 
us  all  the  minuteness  and  repulsive  details  of  purulence,  whether  it  exudes 
from  the  body  or  the  heart,  without  ever  offering  a  single  warm  spark  of 
sympathy.  He  is  the  cold-hearted  scientist  who  sees  nothing  human  before 
him,  but  only  a  subject  to  analyze  at  his  pleasure. 

In  reading  *  Giovanni  Episcopo,'  although  at  times  we  are  moved  to 
admiration  by  the  keenness  of  introspection  and  the  dramatic  power  ex- 
hibited, we  end  it  feeling  dejected  at  so  much  misery,  and,  what  is  sadder, 
such  lack  of  human  sympathy.  The  author  is  too  scientific,  and  D'Annun- 
zio  as  a  scientist  will  never  convince  us,  although  he  said  in  his  preface  that 
we  must  study  man  and  things  at  first  hand,  we  feel  that  he  has  not  given  us 
Man,  but  rather  man  abnormal  and  diseased. 

The  preface  to  the  *  Trionfo  della  Morte'  is  the  simplest  and  most 
direct  of  all.  In  that  we  find  explained  what  use  he  will  make  of  obsen'a- 
tion,  life,  and  method.  It  is  his  aim,  he  says,  to  enrich  the  vocabulary 
of  our  language,  to  fit  the  word  to  the  meaning,  and  to  re-establish  the  nar- 
rative and  descriptive  prose  of  Italy.  Here  he  has  triumphed.  Universal 
verdict  accords  him  that  honor.  Brunetiere  pronounced  *  Trionfo'  a  work 
unsurpassed  bv  any  of  the  naturalistic  school.  With  no  plot  whatever,  but 
on  the  usual  broad  canvas,  the  figure  of  Giorgio  Aurispa  is  put  before  us. 
There  is  nothing  to  be  learned  from  the  book  except  how  to  speak  and  write 
Italian  with  the  utmost  virtuosity.  The  character  of  Giorgio  is  weak,  un- 
sound. It  is  plain  that  unqualifiedly  inert  love,  impure  love  is  the 
theme.  That  is  all  this  author  ever  sees.  Only  once  has  he  given  us  Love» 
and  that  is  in  '  The  Daughter  of  Jorio.' 

Giorgio  loves  Ippolita  Sanzio,  a  married  woman.  Giorgio  is  a  voluptu- 
ous person  who  gives  way  to  passion  and  calls  it  love.  Ippolita  has  in  her 
all  the  germs  of  corruption  and  her  lover  soon  corrupts  her  body  and  soul. 

The  story  does  not  describe  the  development  of  this  passion  between 
the  two.  It  already  exists.  Thus  we  are  not  conscious  whether  even  in 
Ippolita's  love  is  a  true  flame.  It  had  to  be  the  usual  vicious  love,  so  as  to 
bring  in  adultery,  and  this  to  prove  that  Giorgio's  interest  in  this  woman 
had  lessened  since  the  death  of  her  husband.  She  is  free.  So  then  begins  the 
development  of  Giorgio's  malady.  She  begins  to  assume  in  this  mind, 
attributes,  which,  sensual,  vicious  as  they  are,  become  obnoxious  to  him. 
As  his  malady  progresses  she  becomes  to  him  the  enemy.  Finally,  over- 
powered by  his  suicidal  propensities  he  dnnvns  himself  and  the  woman. 


PIETRO  ISOLA  497 

idoubtedly  the  reader  will  deem  it  an  exaggeration  on  my  part  to  condense 
;toiy  of  four  hundred  and  ninety  pages  into  a  dozen  lines;  but  that  is  the 
lole  story.     It  is  not  discharging  it  with  levity. 

Giorgio  is  a  morbid  person,  full  of  hallucinations,  with  a  culture  and  a 
nd  keen,  at  times  clear.  Suicidal  tendency  is  his  malady  and  he  knows  that 
is  hereditary  in  the  Aurispa  family.  In  other  respects  Giorgio  is  young, 
althy  in  body,  attractive,  accomplished.  The  scene  opens  with  a  suicide, 
man  has  thrown  himself  out  of  a  window.     Giorgio  and  Ippolita  pass  by. 

*  What  has  happened  ? '  asks  Ippolita. 

*  A  man  has  killed  himself,'  some  one  answers. 

A  large  crowd  had  gathered  there.  All  these  people  are  gazing  at  the  spot 
ley  are  mostly  idle  workmen.  Their  faces,  so  varied,  did  not  in  a  single 
se  express  pity  or  sorrow  or  sadness.  A  youth  arrived,  anxious  to  see. 
[e  is  not  there,'  a  man  says  to  him,  and  there  lingered  in  his  voice  a  certain 
(definable  tone  as  of  derision  or  jubilance  at  the  knowledge  that  the  youth 
uld  not  satisfy  his  curiosity.  *  He  is  not  there,  he  has  been  taken  away.' 
i^ere?'  *To  Santa  Maria  del  Popolo.'  *Dead?'  *Dead.'  Another 
m  asks,  *  what  is  there  left  ? '  *  A  little  blood.'  *  What  else  ? '  *  Hair.' 
Vhat  color?'    'Blond.' 

Giorgio,  let  us  go,  begged  Ippolita,  a  little  pale,  pulling  back  the  lover 
ID  was  looking  intently,  attracted  by  the  scene.    They  passed  on  in  silence  I 

*  Giorgio  says:  **  Happy  the  dead  because  they  doubt  no  longer." 

*  And  Ippolita  says:  "  It  is  true  —  Poor  love!  " 
'  "What  love  ? "  asks  Giorgio. 

*  "Our  love." 

*  "  Do  you  then  feel  its  end  ?  " 

*  *TMot  in  me." 

*  "In  me,  then  ? "  A  poorly  repressed  irritation  seemed  to  dwell  in 
I  voice  and  he  repeated,  gazing  at  her  intently,  "  In  me  ?    Answer." 

*  She  remained  silent,  lowering  her  head. 

*Then  after  some  moments  in  which  the  two  seemed  to  wish,  with 
expressible  anxiety,  to  read  each  other's  soul,  he  continued,  "  It  is  thus: 
t  end  begins.  You  do  not  realize  it  yet;  but  I,  since  you  have  returned, 
lave  watched  you,  and  I  see  a  new  sign." 

'  "What  sign  .?  " 

*  "A  bad  sign,  Ippolita.  What  a  terrible  thing  it  is  to  love  and  yet  to 
vc  this  change  so  lucid  before  me." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  and  frowned.  Once  more,  as  at  other  times, 
B  two  lovers  become  hostile. 

We  have  in  this  the  relation  and  mental  condition  of  the  lover.     There 


498  GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 

are  several  pages  given  to  the  reminiscences  of  Giorgio,  all  introduced  to 
mark  his  malady.  When  he  returns  home  he  sees  again  the  room  where 
his  uncle  Demetrio  had  died,  a  suicide.  He  still  sees  him  on  the  bed;  his 
face  covered  by  a  linen  cloth.  He  is  pallid,  only  one  purplish  spot  on  the 
side  where  the  bullet  had  entered. 

Another  description  of  interest  as  it  reacts  upon  Giorgio's  morbidity,  is 
that  of  the  drowned  boy,  the  *  son  of  a  mother.' 

*  How  was  he  drowned  i  where  ? '  To  show  the  very  spot  where  the 
child  had  fallen,  the  man  took  up  a  pebble  and  tossed  it  into  the  sea.  'There, 
only  theie.  Only  three  yards  from  the  shore.  The  calm  sea  breathed 
softly,  close  to  the  little  one,  but  the  sun  beat  fiercely  upon  the  pebbly  beach 
and  something  pitiless  fell  from  the  fiery  sky  and  from  those  stolid  witnesses, 
upon  that  pallid  corpse.  And  nothing  could  be  sadder  than  the  sight  of 
that  frail  little  being  extended  on  the  stones  and  watched  by  that  impassive 
brute,  who  described  the  accident  again  and  again  with  the  selfsame  words, 
with  the  selfsame  gesture,  "  There,  only  there." ' 

D'Annunzio  has  delineated  with  diligence  and  affection  the  character 
of  Giorgio  Aurispa;  his  restlessness,  his  morbidity  are  drawn  with  astounding 
precision;  the  psychic  element,  the  progress  of  the  malady,  the  ever-increasing 
hallucinations  are  rendered  with  dreadful  minuteness.  The  tone  of  the 
whole  book  where  Giorgio  is  described  has  the  darkness,  the  density,  the 
sinister  element  that  presages  the  imminent  breaking  of  the  storm.  We  arc 
taken  into  that  atmosphere  with  consummate  power,  slowly  but  relentlessly} 
so  that  when  at  last  Aurispa  drowns  himself  and  Ippolita,  we  feel  relieved, 
as  when  we  wake  from  a  dreadful  dream  and  find  it  was  not  reality.  The 
book  could  have  been  shorter  by  more  than  half,  but  in  that  case  it  would 
not  be  D^Annunzian. 

We  should  have  lost,  in  that  case,  pages  and  pages  of  beautiful  prose. 
D'Annunzio  absorbs  things  as  a  painter,  as  a  sculptor  (especially  of  the 
medallion),  as  a  poet,  as  a  seer,  and  in  *  Trionfo'  he  has  shown  a  most 
marvelous  affinity  with  music.  The  interpretation  of  *  Tristen  and  Iseult' 
would  proclaim  him  a  musician.  He  is  as  rich  as  Dante  himself  in  similes, 
often  felicitous,  and  at  times  great.  The  old  poet  could  hardly  have  ex- 
pressed better  the  sound  of  the  ebb,  '  like  a  flock  of  sheep  drinking  in  at 
the  spring.'  Again:  *The  waves  would  push  on  toward  the  massive  shore 
with  all  the  strength  of  love  and  anger,  dashing  upon  it  with  a  roar,  spread- 
ing, foaming,  gurgling,  penetrating  its  most  hidden  recesses.  It  was  as 
if  some  imperial  Soul  in  Nature  were  breathing  its  passion  into  a  vast  many- 
tongued  instrument,  striking  all  its  chords,  touching  its  every  key  of  joy  or 
sorrow.' 


PIETRO  ISOLA  499 

The  pilgrimage  to  Casalbordtno  is  one  of  the  most  magnificent  de- 
criptions  in  the  book  in  beauty  and  dramatic  action.  D'Annunzio  has 
herein  surpassed  himself.  He  shows  himself  as  the  complete  master,  and 
ideed  we  may  say  he  is,  like  his  own  Icarus, '  Solo  fui^  solo  t  alato  nelV  im" 
tensita.^ 

This  description  inspired  one  of  the  finest  modem  paintings.  It  is  by 
'rancesco  Paolo  Michetti,  and  is  called  *  II  Voto.'  Only  those  who  have 
raveled  and  understand  the  South  of  Italy  can  appreciate  the  truth,  power, 
nd  sadness  of  such  a  scene  as  this,  described  by  U'Annunzio. 

*  Hundreds  of  pilgrims  are  standing,  kneeling,  or  supine  before  the 
hrine  of  the  Virgin,  ciying,  "  The  Grace,  the  Grace."  Those  cries  that 
eemed  to  rend  the  bosoms  from  which  they  burst;  those  two  words:  '"  the 
;race,  the  grace,''  were  reiterated  ceaselessly  with  the  same  trusting  and 
inconquerable  persistence;  the  dense  smoke  from  the  numberless  tapers 
dvanced  heavier  and  heavier  like  the  cloud  foretelling  the  storm — with  the 
lose  contact  of  the  bodies  —  the  mingling  of  breath ;  the  sight  of  blood  and 
ears  — the  multitude  was  at  the  same  time  as  if  possessed  by  a  single  soul. 
t  became  a  single  being,  miserable,  yet  terrible.  It  had  one  gesture,  one 
Y>ice,  one  quiver,  one  passion.  All  the  evils  became  one  sole  evil  that  the 
%gin  must  destroy.  All  the  hopes  became  one  sole  hope  that  the  Virgin 
nust  fulfill.  **  The  grace,  the  grace,"  and  under  the  refulgent  Image,  the 
lame  of  the  tapers  swayed  before  that  great  storm  of  passion.' 

'  When  the  lovers,  exhausted,  frightened,  sickened,  leave  that  horrid 
cene,  Giorgio  takes  Ippolita's  hand,  and  kissing  it  passionately, exclaims: — 
'  Behold!    See  the  beautiful  wheatfield.     Let  us  purify  our  eyes." 

'  Here  and  there,  on  both  sides  of  the  path,  spread  the  wheat,  vast  and 
•are;  ripe  for  the  sickle;  tall  and  dense,  breathing  through  the  myriads  of 
lender  blades  and  barbs;  it  seemed  at  times  to  blaze  as  if  converted  into 
n  interminable  sea  of  evanescent  gold.  Solitary  under  the  limpid  arch  of 
leaven,  it  exhaled  so  much  spiritual  purity  that  the  two  sorrowed  and  op- 
pressed hearts  received  great  consolation.' 

Giorgio  again  is  in  the  garden  of  his  home  with  his  married  sister,  who 
as  been  telling  him  of  her  sorrows  and  new  maternal  expectarions: 

*  She  ceased  speaking,  sat  intent,  as  if  to  seize  a  palpitating  pressage 
f  the  new  life  within  her.  Giorgio  held  her  hand,  and  they  remained  thus 
eated,  silent,  brother  and  sister,  oppressed  by  their  very  existence.  Before 
hem  the  garden  lay  solitary,  abandoned;  the  young  cypresses,  tall  and  erect, 
iftcd  themselves  to  heaven,  with  sanctity,  like  votive  tapers;  the  breeze 
arely  scattered  the  petals  of  some  over-ripe  rose;  now  and  then  the  sound 
f  the  instrument  came  to  them  from  the  house.' 


500  GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 

Of  a  more  joyful  character  are  the  scenes  of  vintage  and  farm  labor: 
*  Blessed  are  the  women  that  sing  sweet  songs  and  bring  in  the  jars  of 
old  wine.  There  was  a  cry  of  delight  as  they  [the  laborers]  turned  round 
and  saw  the  band  of  women  drawing  near,  bringing  the  last  bounties  of 
the  reaped  fields.  They  advanced  in  double  file,  carrying  large  painted 
jars  of  wine  upon  their  arms,  and  they  sang  as  they  walked.  Through  the 
olive  groves,  as  through  a  colonnade  upon  a  background  of  sparkling  sea, 
they  appeared  like  one  of  those  processions  so  harmoniously  carved  upon 
the  frieze  of  temples  or  around  the  bases  of  sarcophagi.' 

This  book  abounds  in  beautiful  descriptions,  and  the  language  is  ever 
adequate  and  harmonious.  All  the  sapiency  of  D'Annunzio  as  a  psycholo- 
gist does  not  satisfy  us.  Although  we  discover  a  great  power  of  observa- 
tion, the  poet  and  literatteur  ever  predominate  over  the  scientist.  I  should 
like  to  say  that  *  Trionfo'  is  a  great  book  for  the  sum  of  relevant  and  useful 
truth  it  reveals  to  us.  But  I  cannot.  I  can  say,  however,  that  it  reveak 
the  great  arrist,  and  as  such,  no  student  of  literature  should  let  this  book 
pass  unread. 


PASCOLI  AND  RECENT  ITALIAN 

POETRY 

By  Gertrude  E.  T.  Slaughter 

[N  his  introduction  to  the  Study  of  Modern  Italian  Poets,  Mr.  Howells 
said:  *  I  do  not  know  Carducci  and  his  school/  and  he  added  later; 
*  Carducci  seems  to  be  an  agnostic  flowering  from  the  old  stock  of 
Romanticism/  The  first  of  these  statements  is  the  only  possible 
explanation  of  the  second.  Mr.  Howells  could  not  have  read  Car- 
ducci's  prose  or  poetry  without  perceiving  that,  according  to  any 
ceptable  distinction  between  classicism  and  romanticism,  Carducci  is 
larly  on  the  side  of  classicism.  It  is  his  glory  to  have  diffused  through 
ily  a  breath  of  the  Hellenism  that  has  blown  over  Europe  and  has  com- 
led  with  the  humanitarian  impulse  to  produce  the  modem  spirit. 

Italian  writers  have  begun  to  allude  to  the  intellectual  reawakening 
long  them,  of  which  the  signs  are  unmistakable  at  the  present  time,  as  a 
w  Risorgimento.  When  Italy  had  gained  her  independence  and  unity. 
t  patriots  who  had  rescued  the  nation  looked  to  see  her  become  straightway 
istrious  as  in  the  days  when  she  had  been  the  intellectual  stimulus  and 
t  aesthetic  inspiration  of  Europe.  Disillusionment  was  inevitable,  for  the 
tion  had  not  only  suffered  but  grown  old  and  weak  in  bondage.  The 
w  nation  was  indeed  but  the  child  of  the  old;  compelled  to  take  its  place  in 
t  world  as  a  child  and  go  to  school  for  a  time  before  it  would  be  capable 
mature  effort.  For  an  entire  century  literature  and  politics  had  gone 
nd  in  hand.  Whatever  literature  the  country  had  produced  had  been 
voted  with  unprecedented  singleness  of  purpose  to  the  regeneration  of  the 
herland;  and  it  was  largely  by  means  of  that  literature  that  the  restoration 
s  accomplished.  Men  took  up  the  pen  or  the  sword  as  occasion  de- 
mded,  knowing  well  that  their  writings  would  die  on  the  battlefield,  but 
ring  only  that  the  battle  should  be  won  and  their  country  should  live, 
le  nation  which  had  typified  art  and  beauty  to  the  civilized  world  did  not 
>ert  literature  in  its  fiercest  struggle,  but  it  made  Italy  the  object  of  all  art 
i  united  in  the  cry,  LItalia  avanti  tuttOy  Ulialia  sopra  tutto.  It  was 
rd  to  accept  the  necessities  that  followed.  Not  only  was  the  young  nation 
trained  and  uneducated,  but  it  was  poor,  and  among  rich  nations  it  was 
ced  to  toil  for  its  bread.     And  now,  when  it  has  at  length  attained  to  a 

501 


502  PASCOLI  AND  RECENT  ITALIAN  POETRY 

certain  degree  of  material  prosperity,  foreigners  look  on  and  smile  at  a 
commercial  Italy  and  wonder  what  Petrarch  would  have  thought!  The 
Italians,  too,  have  felt  more  keenly  the  contrast  between  their  present  lowly 
state  and  their  past  glories  than  they  have  realized  the  youth  and  promise 
of  a  new  Italy.  Many  of  them  have  still  held  to  their  old  faith,  but  not 
without  something  of  the  bitterness  voiced  by  Carducci  when  he  said: 
'  If  Italy  has  been  reborn  into  the  world  to  become  a  museum  or  a  music  hall  or 
a  pleasure  resort  for  idle  Europeans;  if  it  aspires  to  be  at  best  a  marketplace 
where  the  lucky  man  can  sell  for  ten  what  he  has  snatched  up  for  three; 
then,  per  Dio!  it  avails  little  to  have  carried  the  height  of  San  Martino  three 
times  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet,  and  it  were  better  never  to  have  disturbed 
the  sacred  quiet  of  the  Roman  ruins  with  the  trumpet  of  Garibaldi/ 

It  may  be  said  without  exaggeration  that  what  Mazzini  was  to  the 
political  Risorgimento,  Carducci  is  to  the  intellectual.  He  is  the  prophet 
and  leader  of  the  literary  and  educational  forces  of  his  country.  The  im- 
pulses of  the  present  generation  toward  letters  is,  to  a  great  extent,  the  resuk 
of  his  influence.  His  appeals  to  the  youth  of  the  nation,  calling  upon  them 
to  *  re-create  the  moral  and  intellectual,  the  living  and  true  Italy,  for  which 
their  fathers  endured  prison  and  exile  and  death;'  his  timely  counsel  to 
writers,  warning  them  against  the  servile  imitation  of  foreigners,  on  the 
one  hand,  and  the  unsafe  methods  of  the  Veristi,  on  the  other;  his  constant 
plea  for  sounder  methods  of  historical  and  literary  criticism;  these  have 
been  only  less  effective  than  the  severe  style,  the  sober  and  salutary  quality, 
of  his  own  writitigs.  The  future  of  Italian  poetry  is  in  the  hands  of  those 
of  the  present  generation  who  acknowledge  him  as  their  leader  and  master, 
and  who,  not  because  they  imitate  him  or  even  resemble  him,  but  because 
they  owe  their  earliest  inspiration  to  him  and  are  bent  upon  carrying  on  his 
work,  may  be  called  the  *  school  of  Carducci.'  *  The  whole  family  of  livinig 
poets,'  says  a  prominent  Italian  critic,  *  proceed,  with  but  two  exceptions, 
from  the  example  and  reforming  spirit  of  Carducci.' 

The  imposing  figure  of  this  venerable  poet  and  scholar,  representative 
at  once  of  the  old  patriotic  school  and  herald  of  new  ideas  to  a  new  Italy,  has 
become  familiar  almost  everywhere;  but  among  his  followers,  only  one,  and 
he  the  least  reassuring,  is  known  outside  of  Italy.  And  yet  they  include 
three  poets  who,  according  to  the  critic  already  quoted,  excite  the  admiration 
and  expectation  of  their  fellow-countrymen  more  than  any  other  living 
writers:  Gabriele  D'Annunzio,  Giovanni  Marradi,  and  Giovanni  Pascoli. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  three  contemporaries  more  divergent  in 
their  tendencies  than  D'Annunzio,  Marradi,  and  Pascoli,  and  it  is  not  easy 
to  see  at  first  how  they  can  have  owed  their  inspiration  to  the  same  literan' 


GERTRUDE  E.  T.  SLAUGHTER  503 

aster.  Yet  they  are  closely  associated  together  in  their  services  to  Italian 
erature.  They  are  united  in  their  effort  to  '  restore  the  purity  of  antique 
rm  and  raise  the  mind  to  a  solemn  contemplation  of  the  truth/  They 
e  fellow-contributors  to  a  Roman  magazine,  the  avowed  object  of  which  is 

0  call  forth  the  younger  writers  from  their  solitary  gardens  where  each  one 
s  cultivating  his  own  sorrow,  and  unite  them  into  a  militant  force  which 
ay  avail  to  rescue  something  ideal  and  beautiful  from  the  wave  of  vulgarity 
at  is  sweeping  over  this  fair  land  where  Leonardo  created  his  imperious 
>men  and  Michael  Angelo  his  indomitable  heroes/ 

Marradi  is  less  significant  than  the  others.  He  is,  for  the  most  part, 
pleasing  and  genial  singer,  with  a  facile  poetic  gift.  Like  so  many  of  his 
ntemporaries  he  is  burdened  by  the  illustrious  past  of  Italy,  and  contem- 
ates  her  former  glories  in  a  mood  of '  deep,  immense,  inexorable  melan- 
oly,*  and  yet  he  writes :  *  I  shall  never  be  a  Titan  to  carry  the  world  on 
f  shoulders,  nor  the  Prometheus  of  a  new  age.  I  am  content  if  I  may 
ar  the  voices  of  things  that  Shelley  heard.' 

Whatever  may  be  one's  judgment  upon  D'Annunzio,  one  cannot  fail 
be  both  fascinated  and  repelled  by  the  strange  power  of  his  genius.  His 
€tic  dramas  have  proved  him  capable  of  beautiful  creations,  and  of  the 
mention  of  strong  dramatic  situations.  He  is  master,  moreover,  of  that 
tful  kind  of  simplicity  that  the  English  Pre-Raphaelites  studied  to  produce. 
Is  lines  haunt  the  memory  like  the  fragrance  of  some  delicate  exotic  flower: — 

Mila  di  CodrOy  sorella  im  Gesu 

10  to  hacio  i  tuoi  ptedi  che  vanno. 

11  Paradiso  e  per  te. 

In  spite  of  his  power  over  words,  enabling  him  to  produce  all  the  effects 
a  Wagnerian  orchestra,  he  is  always  artificial  under  the  restraint  of 
^ter.  His  lyric  verse  lacks  the  merits  as  well  as  the  faults  of  his  prose 
1e, —  a  style  which  is  able  to  carry  one  forward  as  on  a  rushing  current, 
to  refine  itself  into  some  gentle  and  caressing  thing,  or  to  astound  and  ter- 
Y  by  the  vividness  of  its  imagery.  It  passes  from  the  most  exquisite  deli- 
zy  to  the  most  hideous  ferocity.     What  wonder  that  his  contemporaries 

1  troubled  by  the  presence  of  this  genius  among  them,  and  that  they  dis- 
ist  even  his  literary  ideals  and  believe  him  to  be  less  sincere  when  he 
>ires  to  become  *  the  voice  of  the  national  consciousness  '  than  when  he 
:lares :  — 

*  O  World !  thou  art  mine. 
I  will  pluck  all  thy  fruit,  O  World! 
I  will  press  out  thy  juice  for  my  thirst, — 
For  my  ever  unquenchable  thirst.' 


504  PASCOLI  AND  RECENT  ITALIAN  POETRY 

In  his  '  Laus  Vitae  '  D'Annunzio  hails  Carducci  as  the  leader  whom  he 
follows,  as  the  standard  bearer  of  the  newly  awakened  paganism  whidi  he 
proclaims.  Carducci  is,  in  fact,  a  genuine  pagan.  He  attempts  no  re- 
conciliation between  Hebraism  and  Hellenism,  but  boldly  leads  one  foith 
from  the  sanctuary  into  the  sunshine.  The  classical  spirit  which  he  repre- 
sents is  the  very  antithesis  of  D'Annunzio's  riotous  hedonism.  It  would 
imply  more  than  a  misunderstanding  of  the  '  Hymn  to  Satan  ^  —  it  wouM 
imply  a  total  misconception  of  Carducci's  work  to  hold  him  responsible  for 
the  pseudo-paganism  of  this  consummate  egoist.  D'Annunzio  declares 
that  reading  Carducci's  odes  made  him  a  poet.  But  it  is  a  far  cry  from  the 
calm,  clear  spirit  of  the  master  to  the  utter  aestheticism  of  the  most  highly 
gifted  of  his  disciples. 

Side  by  side  with  world-weariness  and  decay  there  exists  always  in 
Italy  the  freshness  and  dear-eyed  simplicity  of  youth.  And  it  is  scarcely  a 
surprise  in  the  complexity  of  modem  Italy  to  find  among  the  avowed  fol- 
lowers of  an  apostle  of  Hellenism  this  man  who  calls  himself  the  Annuncia- 
tion Angel,  but  who  belongs  by  temperament  to  the  Italy  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  his  fellow-poet,  Giovanni  Pascoli,  one  who  so  combines  in  his 
nature  "the  deep-rooted  poetry  of  mere  sight  and  touch**  with  moral  ear- 
nestness and  the  love  of  men,  that  he  has  been  called  a  St.  Francis  among 
modern  poets. 

It  is  indicative  of  an  important  difference  in  their  temperaments,  that, 
in  their  common  efforts  to  unify  and  expand  the  Italian  language,  D'Annun- 
zio  would  reenforce  it  by  the  study  of  medieval  documents,  while  Pascoli 
would  counteract  the  tendency  toward  a  too  limited  Tuscan  by  accepting 
available  forms  from  the  various  dialects.  D'Annunzio  turns  instinctively 
to  the  past  and  to  books  for  inspiration.  He  has  revived  antiquated  aesthetic 
forms  in  his  dramas  in  such  a  way  as  to  produce  rare  and  picturesque 
effects,  and  his  power  of  assimilation  is  incomparable.  Pascoli  turns  to  the 
present  and  to  reality,  to  life  and  nature.  He  is  less  brilliant  than  D'Annun- 
zio.  He  has  less  range  and  power.  His  genius  is  more  reticent,  his  charm 
more  subtle.  But  his  poetry  possesses  the  essential  lyrical  qualities  which 
are  wanting  in  D'Annunzio's;  fine  poetical  insight,  spontaneity,  and  sin- 
cerity. Some  of  his  poetry  has  the  lightness  and  singing  quality  of  folk- 
songs. More  of  it  carries  a  weight  of  meaning.  But  it  is  always  strongly 
marked  by  the  poet's  individuality  and  even  when,  as  in  the  volume  of  1904, 
its  themes  are  taken  from  Greek  mythology,  it  represents  his  own  vision  of 
things  as  they  are.     It  is  characteristic  and  original. 

Pascoli  is,  nevertheless,  a  man  of  learning.  He  is  a  Dante  scholar,  a 
translator  of  Homer,  a  literary  critic,  and  the  successor  of  Carducci  in  the 


GERTRUDE  E.  T.  SLAUGHTER  505 

chair  of  Latin  literature  at  Bologna.  As  a  literary  scholar  the  mantle  of 
Carducci  seems  to  have  fallen  upon  him.  He  has  the  same  zeal  for  the  en- 
lightenment of  his  countrymen,  the  same  stem  faith  in  sanity  and  right 
reason,  the  same  industry  of  scholarship. 

Pascoli  has  related  his  first  acquaintance  with  Carducci  in  words  that 
breathe  the  devotion  of  the  disciple  to  the  master.  He  tells  the  story  of  how 
he  had  come  up  to  Bologna  from  the  little  village  in  Romagna,  where  he 
lived  with  his  orphaned  brothers  and  sisters,  sent  thither  by  the  aid  of  an 
elder  brother,  to  take  part  in  a  contest  for  scholarships.  Every  schoolboy 
knew  the  name  of  Carducci,  and  Pascoli  tells  with  what  trepidation  he 
awaited  the  entrance  of  the  great  poet;  with  what  kindliness  Carducci 
assisted  in  conduaing  the  examinations,  and  how,  on  a  later  day,  when  the 
boys  sat  together  waiting  to  hear  the  announcement  of  the  successful  candi- 
dates, the  poor  boy  from  Romagna,  convinced  of  failure,  thought  only  of 
how  he  could  endure  to  hear  the  last  name  read  and  know  that  he  must 
return  to  his  home,  his  few  lire  gone,  and  nothing  to  hope  for.  In  the  hush 
of  expectancy  the  first  name  was  read.  It  was  his  own.  At  the  same 
moment  he  was  aware  that  the  face  of  the  great  poet  was  illuminated  with 
the  gleam  of  a  kindly  smile,  and  he  adds:  '  That  poor  boy  has  since  become 
one  of  Carducci's  oldest  students.  He  has  heard  him  evoke  in  his  chaii 
dead  ages  and  vanished  spirits.  He  has  heard  him  elucidate  the  great  poets 
with  a  word,  a  phrase,  a  gesture.  He  has  seen  him  preparing  in  his  stud) 
those  shining  and  mortal  arrows  with  which  he  is  wont  to  strike  the  enemies, 
not  of  himself,  but  of  his  ideals.  He  has  heard  him  improvise  over  the 
wine  cups  among  his  friends  and  students.  He  has  heard  from  his  lips,  in 
the  religious  silence  of  the  classroom,  the  first  of  the  great  "  Barbaric  Odes.'' 
He  has  heard  him  pronounce  his  famous  eulogy  of  Garibaldi.  But  of  all 
these  cherished  memories,  there  is  none  he  so  gladly  recalls  as  the  memory 
of  that  smile  —  that  smile  of  sympathy  with  a  grief^  which  he  had  lessened, 
with  a  life  which  he  had  saved.' 

And  yet  it  was  not  Carducci's  odes  that  made  Pascoli  a  poet.  He 
would  claim  attention,  apart  from  schools  and  movements,  for  the  quality 
of  his  lyrics.  Our  interest  in  him  is  enhanced  by  the  fact  that  he  embodies, 
more  tnan  any  other  living  poet,  the  spirit  which  Carducci  has  striven  tc 
awaken.  But  it  is  because  he  is  so  genuine  a  poet,  more  than  for  any  othei 
reason,  that  he  is  able  to  carry  on  the  work  which  Carducci  has  held  out  to 
the  youth  of  Italy. 

Italians  write  poetry  with  a  fatal  facility.  Their  very  language  is  poetry. 
They  have  but  to  say,  *  rimmensita  del  cielo  axzurro^  or  *  rinfinito  marij 
and  the  poetic  mood  is  produced.     And  what  does  is  matter  about  the 


5o6  PASCOLI  AND  RECENT  ITALIAN  POETRY 

nature  of  a  poet's  thought  if  he  can  call  his  thought  //  pensiero  ?  It  is  small 
wonder  that  they  are  easily  contented  with  //  verso  che  suona  e  non  area. 
Against  the  limitations  which  such  a  tendency  implies  Carducci  and  his 
followers  have  resolutely  set  themselves.  They  have  striven  for  a  vigorous 
expression.  They  have  often  chosen  harsh  and  rugged  sounds  as  a  health- 
ful reaction  against  the  too  mellifluous  strains  of  facile  poetizers.  To  Pascoli 
verse  is  but  a  medium.  Its  expressiveness  is  its  most  important  quality. 
He  has  made  so  many  innovations  in  the  language  of  cultivated  Italians  that 
in  one  volume  he  has  felt  obliged  to  add  a  glossary  to  the  text!  He  has 
managed  a  great  variety  of  meters.  The  critic,  Dino  Mantovani,  who  is 
much  impressed  with  the  combination  in  Pascoli  of  the  genuine  country- 
man, the  rustic,  with  the  artist  and  the  scholar,  has  said  of  him: 

*  This  solitary  dreamer,  who  knows  all  the  life  of  the  country,  who 
listens  to  the  conversations  of  birds,  and  knows  all  the  sounds  that  vibrate 
and  sing  in  the  open  air,  he  is  also  an  artist  of  exquisite  perceptions,  one  who 
knows  the  virtues  of  words  and  of  rhythm,  one  who  is  a  skilled  workman 
in  the  subtle  industry  of  style.  When  he  writes  he  forgets  the  example  of 
others  and  writes  in  his  own  way.  But  into  that  writing  is  distilled  the 
innumerable  precepts  of  a  learned  art  governed  by  a  delicate  taste.  Such  a 
genius,  united  to  such  a  character,  produces  a  poetry  that  is  unique  in  our 
times.' 

This  poetry,  which  is  indeed  unique,  has  two  qualities  which  must 
disturb,  one  imagines,  the  Italian  reader  with  his  native  sense  of  good  form. 
One  of  them  is  an  over-simplicity.  Led  by  his  desire  for  reality,  the  poet 
has  been,  at  times,  too  frankly  imitative  of  the  sounds  of  nature.  He  has 
reproduced  the  language  of  birds  with  unmistakable  success  as  in  the  '  Song 
of  March,'  when  the  birds  come  chirping  back  and 

*  Cinguettano  in  loro  linguaggio 
Ch'  e  cio  che  ct  vuolcy  Sty  cio  che  ci  vuole,^ 

The  other  quality  of  his  verse  which  troubles  Italian  readers  is  its  over- 
subtlety  and  occasional  obscurity.  The  poet  combines  the  observation  of  a 
scientist  with  the  perceptions  of  a  mystic.  He  sees  a  significance  in  the 
smallest  detail,  and  he  produces  a  certain  indefinable  suggestiveness  which 
has  its  own  charm.  It  leaves  in  the  mind  that  mingling  of  clear  outlines 
with  indefinite  blendings  which  the  contemplation  of  the  actual  world  pro- 
duces. But  it  results  often  in  a  degree  of  lyric  vagueness  that  is  a  proof  of 
inability  to  find  the  fitting  medium  of  expression.  It  is  the  kind  of  lyric 
vagueness  of  which  Shelley  is  often  guilty.  But  Shelley  had  the  gift  of 
moulding  the  subtlest  fancy  into  images  as  clear  cut  and  definite  as  Shake- 
spearian metaphor.     We  are  more  surprised  to  find  that  the  vagueness  and 


GERTRUDE  E.  T.  SLAUGHTER  507 

subtlety  of  the  northern  lyrist  are  paralleled  in  the  Italian  Pascoli  than  that 
he  never  quite  attains  to  Shelley's  finality  of  expression.  But  it  will  lead 
us  less  far  afield  if  we  compare  the  form  of  Pascoli  with  that  of  other  Italian 
poets.  And  it  is  safe  to  assert  that,  in  spite  of  this  fine  thread  of  symbolism, 
he  approaches  very  near,  at  times,  to  the  simple  dignity  and  force  of  a  line  of 
Dante. 

*  Uanima  mia  tu  percuotesti^  e  il  mio 
Corpo  di  tanto  e  tal  dolor  cWe  d^ogni 
Dolce2za  assai  piu  dolce  ora  Vohlio* 

*  My  soul  thou  hast  tormented  and  my  body 
With  such  and  so  great  grief  that  now  at  last 
Sweeter  than  any  sweetness  is  oblivion.' 

The  total  effect  of  this  poetry  is  to  convey  the  feeling  of  a  close  intimacy, 
an  almost  mystical  touch  between  man  and  nature.'  It  possesses  that 
modem  faculty  for  truth  which  is  recognized,  it  has  been  said,  as  'the  power 
of  distinguishing  and  fixing  delicate  and  vanishing  detail.'  But  it  does 
more.  The  poems  are  not  mere  pictures.  They  do  not  merely  reproduce 
certain  harmonies  of  the  natural  world.  They  are  not  alone  what  their 
author  calls  them,  'the  flutter  of  wings,  the  rustling  of  cypresses,  the  echo 
of  distant  bells.'  They  are  saturated  with  the  meaning  and  mystery  under- 
lying outward  manifestations.  A  somber  sense  of  the  inscrutability  of 
man's  place  in  the  universe  pervades  them  not  unlike  the  background  of 
fate  and  death  which  the  Greek  poet  always  felt  even  when  he  sang  of  joy 
and  beauty.  Yet  Pascoli's  temperament  is  not  that  of  the  Greek,  of  whom 
he  himself  writes,  who  is  'happy  if  the  heavens  sing  to  him  and  the  earth 
sends  up  her  odors.'  He  is  far  too  modem  to  escape  from  a  consciousness 
of  the  whole  world's  weal  or  woe.  And  yet  he  does  not  seek  relief  in  nature 
for  his  own  overwrought  feelings.  He  does  not  personify  her  and  long  to 
'lie  down  like  a  tired  child  and  weep  away  this  life  of  care'  on  her  bosom. 
He  does  not  even  seek  in  nature  'that  blessed  mood  in  which  the  burden  of 
the  mystery  is  lightened,'  nor  does  he  seek  'escape'  into  a  world  of  dreams 
and  unrealities.  His  first  desire  is  for  realities.  The  lark  does  not,  like 
Meredith's  thrush,  sing  to  htm  of  'the  new  time  and  the  life  ahead.'  But 
he  sings  of  the  real  life  around  him;  he  sings  the  songs  of  all  forests  and  all 
gardens,  of  all  times  and  seasons,  and  of  the  labor  of  men.  Keenly  sensitive 
to  the  sights  and  sounds  about  him,  Pascoli  is  always  in  the  reflective  mood 
Not  even  Leopardi  had  a  more  constant  realization  of  the  insignificance  of 
man  in  the  universe,  of  his  solitude  and  misery,  his  chance  and  ephemeral 


5o8  PASCOLI  AND  RECENT  ITALIAN  POETRY 

existence.  But  Leopardi  could  have  had  no  abiding  love  of  nature,  for  he 
took  no  joy  in  her.  His  nearest  approach  to  joy  was  when  he  looked  out 
over  the  world  and  said, '  Sweet  is  shipwreck  in  such  a  sea.'  Pascoli  is  free 
from  the  personal  weariness  and  satiety  of  that  poet  of  the  fFeltschmin. 
He  is  one  of  those  who,  having  early  learned  that  the  fruit  of  life  is  bitter, 
cannot  fail  to  see  that  its  flowers  are  sweet.  His  mood  is  one  of  reconcilia- 
tion with  nature  because  he  has  found  it  possible  to  'satisfy  his  cy^s  with 
beauty.' 

Approaching  the  world  with  the  unconscious  intimacy  of  a  child  and 
with  the  contemplative  mind  of  a  sage,  he  finds  it,  first  of  all,  pervaded  with 
mystery:     '  Questo  mondo  odorato  di  mistero*     He  says  in  an  early  poem: 

Qimb  high  in  thought  the  steep  and  lonely  fastness 
Where  nests  the  eagle,  and  the  mountain  stream, 
And  stand  remote  mid  solitude  and  vastness, 
O  Man  of  Wisdom ! 


Send  far  adown  the  obscure,  unfathomed  spaces 
Of  the  abyss  thine  eye's  most  piercing  beam. 
Ever  more  near  will  draw  what  thine  eye  traces  — 
Shadow  and  mystery! 

Sometimes  the  mood  of  the  sage  contemplating  the  significance  oi 
things  is  quite  forgotten  in  the  child's  delight,  and  the  poet  sings  some 
simple  nature  song,  like  the  *  Song  of  April.' 

A  phantom  you  come 
And  a  mystery  you  go. 
Are  you  near  ?    Are  you  far  ? 
For  the  pear  trees  are  bursting. 
The  quince  trees  are  budding 
Anew. 

The  bank  is  resounding 
With  tomtits  and  finches. 
Are  you  there  in  the  ash  trees  ? 
Is  it  you  in  the  brushwood  } 
A  dream  or  a  soul  or  a  shadow  — 
Is't  you  ? 


ik 


k 

i\ 


a- 

iir 


^j 


GERTRUDE  E.  T.  SLAUGHTER  509 

I  call  you  each  year 
With  a  heart  palpitating. 
You  come  and  I  smile. 
You  depart  and  you  leave 
Only  tears  and  my  sorrow 
Renew. 

This  year,  ah,  this  year 
A  joy  has  come  with  you. 
Already  I  hear 
If  my  senses  deceive  not 
That  echo  of  echoes. 
It  is  you  I  hear  singing 
Cu-Cu. 

ometimes  a  bit  of  scenery  or  an  incident  is  described  with  realistic 
less,  like  the  description  of  the  people  pouring  out  of  a  little  church 
limbing  down  the  hill  in  the  soft  May  evening,  while  the  houses  of  the 
s  stand  closed  and  sleeping,  waiting  for  them  in  the  valley,  and  up 
,  among  the  birch  trees,  the  little  church  gleams  red  in  the  Alpine  si- 

and  the  rumble  of  the  sones  of  praise  still  vibrates  in  the  air  and  the 
)f  incense  mingles  with  the  broomflower  and  the  mint, 
n  the  *  Fountain  of  Castelvecchio '  the  water  sings  to  the  girls,  who  come 
ig  jars  on  their  heads,  of  its  life  in  the  cool  and  silent  woods,  before  it 
le  a  prisoner,  and  asks  them  for  news  of  the  beautiful  world  which  it 
3  longer  see,  and,  especially,  of  the  good  old  woman  who  used  to  come 
Iter  to  the  spring  in  the  woods,  always  chattering  to  herself,  while  the 
;  chattered  even  faster  and  filled  her  vessel,  and  they  talked  on  to- 
',  as  a  voice  in  the  shady  valley  talks  to  its  echo. 

'his  little  poem  is  one  of  many  that  take  the  reader  into  the  country 
ly  and  make  him  feel  that  Italian  peasant  life  is  as  near  to  the  life  of 

and  herds,  of  bees  and  flowers,  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  Theocritus  or 
The  peasants  of  these  poems  love  the  beauty  even  while  they  bend 

the  labor  of  the  country.  They  are  close  to  the  invisible  spirits  in 
The  bells  have  a  thousand  messages  of  hope  and  fear  and  joy  and 
while  'white  dawn  scatters  the  flocks  over  the  fields'  or  *a  star  leads 
clambering  home.'  The  farmer  hears  the  song  of  the  cricket  telling 
11  night  long  that  it  is  time  to  sow  his  seed.  It  is  a  country  far  re- 
1  from  that  land  of  Arcadia  which  Tasso  and  his  followers  peopled 
die  swains  piping  in  perennial  sunshine  to  fair-haired  shepherdesses. 


510  PASCOLI  AND  RECENT  ITALIAN  POETRY 

It  is  a  country  of  incessant  toil.  Man  and  nature  are  forever  at  work.  Bur 
they  are  not  the  labor-laden  peasants  of  Millet's  paintings.  They  have  the 
temper  of  the  poet's  own  sunny  Romagna  —  'Romagna  solatia^  dolce  paest! 
We  see  them  at  the  plow  and  at  their  prayers.  We  hear  the  sounds  of  the 
fista  coming  down  the  steep  mountain  side,  and  the  low  peal  of  the  Ave 
Maria  which  calls  them  from  labor  in  the  fields,  or  from  the  dance  on  the 
green  hilltop,  into  the  quiet  church.  The  old  woman  says: '  Che  disse  patu^ 
disse  pene*  yet,  cheerfully,  with  her  daughters  she  bakes  and  washes  and 
bleaches  and  spins  and  gathers  herbs  and  brings  home  wood,  and  when  the 
evening  bells  sound,  while  the  mute  spirits  of  the  fountain  tremble  at  the 
echoes  that  fill  the  air  and  disappear  over  the  mountains,  she  seems  to  hear 
in  their  tumult  a  prayer  to  God,  who  made  the  crops  and  the  life  of  man, 
that  He  will  bless  their  harvest  and  the  labor  of  their  hands.  The  fanner 
says:  'Give  me  a  spade,  and  with  God  be  the  rest,'  and  after  the  long  day's 
labor,  he  sits  down  with  his  family,  and  while  the  distaffs  are  brought  out 
and  the  young  hunter,  who  is  his  daughter's  lover,  listens,  he  talks  of  the 
affairs  of  his  daily  life.  He  talks  of  the  grain  and  the  vine,  of  how  the  grain 
sings  to  him:  '  I  am  thy  life,'  and  the  grape:  *  I  am  thy  joy,'  how  he  loves 
both  the  fragrance  of  the  oven  and  the  sounds  of  the  winepress,  the  bread 
of  a  day  and  the  wine  of  a  year.  And  he  loves  his  old  olive  trees  planted  by 
his  grandfather,  whose  white  spirit  still  comes  back  to  pour  out  oil  and  urge 
on  their  labors.  He  loves  the  hedge  about  his  little  piece  of  landf  which  is 
like  the  ring  his  wife  wears,  which  tells  him  that  she  is  his.  And  because 
he  has  sown  his  seed  betimes  he  sleeps  soundly  and  does  not  hear  the  rain 
that  pours  down  in  the  night. 

The  external  landscape  is  Italian,  not  because  of  descriptions  of  definite 
places,  but  touches  of  color  and  outline,  contrasts  of  warm  sunshine  and 
heavy  shadows,  softened  by  an  atmosphere  of  harmonious  melancholy. 
One  is  never  taken  into  rugged,  massive  regions,  into  the  solitude  of  enor- 
mous forests.  One  is  always  near  to  the  life  of  the  people.  The  orange 
trees  that  shine  in  the  sun  and  the  dark  poplars  that  file  along  the  stream  are 
not  far  away  from  the  narrow  street  filled  with  old  women  at  their  spinning 
and  children  at  their  play.  The  sounds  of  life,  the  murmuring  voices  of 
fishermen,  bringing  in  their  boats  through  the  limitless  blue  of  a  morning 
on  the  Adriatic,  or  the  chatter  of  the  Tuscan  women  whose  wooden  shoes 
rattle  on  the  cobblestones  of  the  marketplace,  alternate  with  the  hush  of 
the  noon  hour  or  the  stillness  of  night,  when  the  'slow  hours  are  dropping, 
dropping  down  into  the  eternal  silence.'  Long  roadswind  around  old  castles 
through  immovable  fir  trees  and  swaying  pines,  where  a  fountain  sighs 
eternally,  and  over  the  wall,  near  the  bust  of  a   Roman  emperor,  climb 


GERTRUDE  E.  T.  SLAUGHTER  511 

rel  and  rose  trees,  while  yellow  broom  and  blue  cornflowers  and  poppies 
>ke  the  paths.  The  grasshoppers  are  intoxicated  with  the  sun  and  the 
irds  creep  out  to  bask  at  the  noon  hour.  On  a  green  hillside,  from  which 
I  looks  down  into  the  plain  and  sees  a  long  line  of  towns  and  villas  lying 
I  a  serpent  lulled  by  the  ocean,  up  against  the  evening  sky,  like  a  dark 
f  in  a  roseate  sea,  stands,  black  and  still  as  a  mystery,  the  donkey  and  his 
t.  In  some  homely  barnyard,  enclosed  by  hedges  of  pomegranates  and 
:kets  of  tamarisk,  with  the  turkey  strutting  over  the  stubble  and  the  duck 
the  pond,  the  duck  so  well  described  as  ^Vanatra  irridatay  and  the  ponds 
^gli  siagni  lustre ggi ant iy  we  look  on  at  the  yoking  and  unyoking  of  the 
in;  or  we  go  forth  into  wide,  aerial  spaces  and  watch  the  interchange  of 
r  and  night.  Nothing  could  better  reproduce  the  silent  hour  of  dawn 
n  //  Transito: 

A  swan  sings  in  the  infinite  silence  of  a  polar  night.  Above  the  level 
>r  of  the  sea  rise  mountains  of  eternal  ice.  The  swan  sings  and,  slowly, 
aint  green  light  rises  in  columns  and  colors  the  heavens.  Like  a  harp 
ched  lightly  sounds  the  clear  metal  of  that  voice.  As  the  color  grows,  a 
at,  iridescent  arch  arises  in  the  dark  sky  and  Aurora  opens  her  mighty 
tals.  The  arch  glows  green  and  red;  arrows  of  light  dart  forth  and  with 
sound  of  the  first  morning  bell  the  swan  spreads  his  wings  and  soars  into 
distance,  pure  white  in  the  boreal  light. 

Midway  between  descriptive  poems  like  this  one  and  those  that  have  a 

inite  significance  are  others  which  convey  merely  a  feeling,  weird  and 

sterious,  never  ghastly  and  grim,  partly  by  sounds  and  repetitions,  after 

manner  of  Poe,  and  partly  by  the  picture  presented  to  the  imagination. 

e  of  them  is  entitled '  In  the  Mist.' 

I  looked  into  the  valley.     Every  form 

Was  lost,  immersed  in  a  vast  level  main, 
Waveless  and  shoreless,  gray  and  uniform. 

No  sound  emerged  from  out  the  misty  plain 

Save  wild,  thin  voices  crying  on  the  air 
Of  lost  birds  wand'ring  through  the  world  in  vain. 

In  the  dim  sky  above  I  was  aware 

Of  skeletons  of  trees  and  shadows  drear 
Of  hermit  solitudes  suspended  there. 

And  shades  of  silent  ruins.     I  could  hear 

A  distant  bay  of  hounds,  and  down  below 
A  sound  of  footsteps  neither  far  nor  near. 


5ia  PASCOLI  AND  RECENT  ITALIAN  POETRY 

Footsteps  that  echoed  neither  fast  nor  slow 

Eternally.    No  form  could  I  dissever 
Of  living  creature  moving  to  and  fro. 

The  skeletons  of  trees  were  asking:    '  Never 
Will  he  arrive  ?    The  ruins  seemed  to  say: 
And  who  art  thou  who  roamest  thus  forever  ?  * 

And  then  I  saw  a  shadow  wandering  alway 

And  bearing  on  its  head  a  burden.     Again 
I  looked  and  it  had  vanished  away. 

Only  the  unquiet  birds  calling  in  vain 

And  distant  baying  hounds,  I  seemed  to  hear, 

And  ever  through  the  waveless,  shoreless  main 
Echoes  of  footsteps  neither  far  nor  near. 

Another  characteristic  bit  of  poetry  is  *  The  Great  Aspiration/  which 
describes  the  futile  effort  of  trees  struggling  away  from  their  roots  in  the 
earth  toward  the  radiant  liberty  of  the  sun, —  la  raggiante  libertd  del  sole. 

O  trees  enslaved,  you  turn  and  twist  like  one 
In  desperation,  spreading  across  the  heavens 
The  slow,  imprisoned  shadow  of  your  limbs. 

'  Ah!  had  we  wings  instead  of  branches,  feet 
Instead  of  ignorant,  blindly  groping  roots,' 
Your  flowers  seem  to  chant  melodiously. 
And  man,  O  trees,  man,  too,  is  a  strange  tree. 
He  has,  'tis  true,  the  power  to  move  but  naught 
Besides  of  all  his  longing.     We,  too,  are  slaves. 
Our  vain  dream  is  of  flowers,  yours  of  words. 

Very  often  the  symbolism  of  these  poems  is  strained.  They  are  too 
plainly  allegorical.  A  wandering  knight  arrived  at  a  castle  in  search  of 
Feliciti  is  told  that  he  pursues  a  shadow  and  that  by  the  magic  of  the  castle 
she  cannot  be  seen  when  she  is  there,  and  only  when  she  is  not  there  can  she 
be  seen;  and  if,  at  length,  he  finds  a  book  and  reads  therein  words  none  have 
ever  told,  he  shall  see  her,  but  on  the  instant,  the  castle,  which  is  life,  will 
vanish. 


GERTRUDE  E.  T.  SLAUGHTER  513 

Sometimes  the  symbolism  is  of  a  higher  order,  being  but  an  expression 
the  inward  meaning  of  human  things  which  really  exists  for  those  who 
*  The  Virgin's  Dream'  and  *  The  Sleep  of  Odysseus/  which  show 
:  poet  at  his  best)  are  symbolic  only  in  this  general  sense,  and  in  'The 
nd  Bard  of  Chios/  the  atmosphere  and  the  delicate  sympathy  with  which 
persons  of  the  poem  are  portrayed  have  so  great  a  charm  that  one  is  not 
ipted  to  search  out  further  meaning.  The  first  part  of  this  poem,  in 
ich  blind  Homer  speaks  to  the  young  girl  who  leads  him,  may  be  quoted: 

'  O  Delias  1    O  thou  slender  branch  of  palm 
At  lofty  Cynthus'  feet,  close  by  the  stream 
Of  singing  Anapus,  O  child  of  Palma! 
What  gift  of  mine  can  bring  thy  heart  delight  ? 
For  thou  didst  shake  thy  locks  indifferently 
When  young  men  sought  thee,  and  didst  turn  from  them* 
And  found'st  thy  joy  even  in  this  gray  old  man 
Whose  strength  falls  back  while  his  desire  advances. 
Him  hast  thou  led  beside  thine  own  light  footsteps 
To  cool  and  shady  lawns,  and  to  soft  beds 
Of  murmuring  leaves,  in  midst  of  sounding  pines 
Whose  rustle,  as  of  freshening  summer  rain. 
Is  mingled  with  the  music  of  the  sea. 
Nor  couldst  thou  all  conceal  thy  beauty  from  him  — 
Thy  beauty  seen  of  none  but  him,  a  blind  man. 
And  the  solitary,  silent  halcyons. 
What  gift  of  mine,  O  Delias,  ere  I  go 
Whithersoever  the  black  ship  shall  bear  me. 
What  gift  of  mine  can  gladden  thy  young  heart  ? 
For  I  have  nothing  left  in  all  the  world 
Except  mine  ancient,  torn,  and  ragged  wallet 
And  this  mine  ivory  lyre.    The  gift  of  song 
Has  yielded  naught  for  all  my  labor  save 
A  flowing  cup  of  wine,  a  morsel  of  fat 
Boar's  flesh,  and,  when  the  song  I  sing  is  ended, 
A  long,  long  echo  of  joy  within  the  soul.' 

But  Pascoli  is  not  a  poet  of  objective  lyric  only.  The  theme  of  many 
lis  works  is  the  tragedy  of  his  childhood,  and  his  conception  of  life  and  the 
rid  is  easily  traceable  to  the  effect  of  that  experience  on  his  temperament, 
sometimes  seems  to  be  the  solitary  poet  of  his  own  lines  who  had  learned 


514  PASCOLI  AND  RECENT  ITALIAN  POETRY 

but  one  note  from  the  nightingale, —  the  note  which  *  fills  the  heart  ^i4 
memories  of  things  that  are  no  more.'  He  does  not  cry  out  against  fate  or 
nature.  He  identifies  his  suflFering  with  that  of  humanity,  and  the  intensitjl 
of  his  grief  heightens  the  contrast  between  the  natural  beau^  of  thingii 
which  he  loves  and  craves  and  the  misery  which  the  cruelty  of  man  bs 
caused.  And  because  be  believes  that  all  mankind  has  caused  this  miseiji 
and  that  all  mankind  suffers  the  wrong,  he  does  not  hesitate  to  take  las 
readers  into  the  intimacy  of  a  personal  grief.  He  tells  again  and  again» 
by  many  references  and  recollections,  the  story  of  the  mysterious  murder 
of  his  father,  a  mystery  which  was  never  explained  and  hung  like  the  shadow 
of  a  dark  Fate  over  his  childhood.  He  tells  of  the  destitution  and  friendless- 
ness  into  which  that  one  moment  reduced  the  family,  of  how  the  sense  of 
injustice  done  the  father  embittered  their  already  bitter  state,  of  the  deatl 
of  his  mother  after  a  year  of  mourning,  followed  by  the  death  of  four  brothefi 
and  sisters,  to  whom  he  says:  'You  have  preserved  half  of  your  life  in  me,  as 
I  have  lost  half  of  mine  in  you.'  His  earliest  poetic  impulse  was  his  desire 
to  make  them  live  on  in  the  world.  *  A  man/  he  says,  in  one  of  his  notes, 
'unknown  and  unpunished,  has  willed  that  an  entire  family  should  miserablj 
die.  But  I  will  that  thev  shall  not  die.  And  if  what  I  have  written  shall 
increase  in  any  degree  the  hatred  of  cruelty  and  injustice,  then  will  they, 
even  in  their  tomb,  be  rendering  good  for  evil/  Of  two  sisters  who  weit 
left  to  his  care,  one  of  them  is  herself  a  poetess.  He  has  given  us  numerous 
pictures  of  her  in  his  verse  and  has  printed  two  of  her  poems  with  his  own. 

Of  the  four  large  volumes  of  Pascoli's  verse  which  have  appeared  since 
1892,  when  he  was  thirty-five  years  of  age,  there  is  nothing  more  powerful 
and  original  than  the  poem  entitled  //  Giorno  Jet  Mortiy  in  which  the  poet 
visits  in  imagination,  on  a  dark  and  stormy  day  of  the  dead,  the  Camposanto, 
which  is  the  sad  dwelling  place  of  his  family,  and  while  the  wind  moans  and 
the  wreaths  on  the  crosses  drop  tears  of  rain,  the  family  draw  together  under 
the  cypress  tree,  as  they  used  to  gather  about  the  fire,  and  utter  their  lamen- 
tations and  their  prayers.  The  father  speaks  to  his  sons,  and  tells  them  of 
hij^  death,  of  how  in  that  last  instant  of  life  he  loved  them  for  a  whole  eternity, 
and  how  he  prayed  that  his  sons  might  not  lack  bread,  begging  that  God 
would  hear  the  dying  prayer  of  a  murdered  father.  And  he  prayed  for 
pardon  for  his  murderer,  saying:  *  If  be  has  no  sons,  ah,  God!  he  knows  not. 
And  if  he  has  sons,  in  their  name  pardon  him.  Only  let  my  sons  not  lack 
bread! '  It  is  a  poem  in  which  nature  and  man,  the  living  and  the  dead,  are 
mourning  a  common  grief,  and  the  effect  is  to  produce  that  high  mood  which 
is  created  by  all  deep  harmonies  whether  of  joy  or  grief. 

Gradually,  this  personal  grief  becomes    universalized,  and  he  writes 


GERTRUDE  E.  T.  SLAUGHTER  515 

'  //  Focolarii  in  which  he  describes  a  mass  of  human  beings  moving  through 
m  snowy  night  past  gleams  of  lamplight  until  the  darkness  drowns  them» 
moving  on  and  on,  each  one  lamenting  but  not  hearing  the  complaints  of 
others,  towards  a  single  light  that  shines  from  a  hut  in  the  desert.  And  they 
enter,  saying:  '  At  last  I  shall  rest,' — they  who  have  come  from  the  four 
winds  and  know  each  other  not.  While  the  tempest  roars  outside  they 
gather  about  the  hearth  only  to  find  that  its  fire  is  spent.  But  as  the  poor 
creatures  huddle  together  and  one  talks  to  the  others  who  listen,  they  find 
one  another  out,  they  hear  each  other's  heart  beats,  and  they  seem  to  find 
m  warmth  in  the  spent  fire,  for  they  have  found  the  comfort  and  sweetness 
of  a  common  destiny. 

In  another  poem  the  simple  story  is  told  of  two  children  who  have 
quarreled  over  their  playthings  and  been  sent  to  bed,  and  as  their  sobs  die 
out,  in  their  dread  of  the  darkness  and  silence  they  draw  near  to  each  other, 
mnd  fall  asleep  in  each  other's  arms,  and  the  mother,  going  later  with  a  lamp, 
finds  them  so;  and  then  the  poet  turns  from  them  and  says: '  O  Man,  think 
of  the  darkness  of  the  unknown  destiny  that  surrounds  us,  of  the  deep  silence 
that  reigns  beyond  the  brief  sound  of  your  actions  and  the  clashing  of  your 
wars.  Think  that  on  this  earth  too  great  is  the  mystery  and  only  he  who 
seeks  out  brothers  in  his  fear,  errs  not.' 

It  is  thus  that  out  of  the  poet's  preoccupation  with  death  and  mystery 
grows  a  very  fair  philosophy  of  life.  Out  of  his  sense  of  injustice  in  the 
early  days  came  the  belief  that  the  one  evil  from  which  we  all  suffer  is  a 
residuum  of  cruelty  left  in  the  race.  '  If  it  must  continue  thus,'  he  says, 
*  Let  us  open  the  social  cage  in  which  the  wild  beasts  are  more  ferocious  and 
less  able  to  defend  themselves.  Or,  let  us  tame  the  beasts,  and  then  we  shall 
no  longer  have  need  of  a  cage.'  Out  of  the  sense  of  beauty  comes  the  gradual 
softening  of  the  bitter  feeling  of  injustice  into  pity.  Leopardi  knew  not 
virhether  to  laugh  at  the  race  of  men  or  pity  them.  Pascoli  has  only  pity. 
And  he  more  and  more  longs  to  satisfy  his  eyes  with  beauty  and  reveal  it  to 
others,  because  the  cure  for  the  evil  is  simply  the  recognition  of  the  realities 
of  life.  '  I  call  upon  you,'  he  says,  *  to  bless  life,  which  is  beautiful,  all 
beautiful;  or,  rather,  it  would  be  all  beautiful  if  we  did  not  spoil  it  for  our- 
selves and  others.  Beautiful  it  would  be  even  in  sorrow,  for  our  weeping 
ViTOuld  be  as  dew  beneath  clear  skies,  not  as  the  crashing  of  a  tempest  {la 
rugiada  di.  sereno  non  scroscio  di  tempesta).  Beautiful,  even  in  the  last 
moment,  when  the  eyes,  tired  with  too  much  gazing,  close  themselves  as  if 
to  draw  in  the  vision  and  shut  it  within  the  soul  forever.  But  men  have 
loved  darkness  rather  than  light,  and  the  evil  of  others  more  than  their  own 
good.     And  for  their  own  voluntary  evil  they  wrongly  lay  the  blame  on 


5i6  PASCOLI  AND  RECENT  ITALIAN  POETRY 

Nature^  Madre  dolcissimaj  who,  even  in  extinguishing  us,  seems  to  rock  » 
and  lull  us  to  sleep.  Ah  I  let  us  leave  it  all  to  her,  for  she  knows  what  sk 
is  doing  and  she  wishes  us  well/ 

In  one  of  his  later  poems  Pascoli  represents  Homer  as  describing  iiow 
his  blindness  came  upon  him.  He  says  that  before  he  was  blind  he  pluckd 
the  flowers  of  things,  which  still  breathed  their  perfume  on  the  dark  silence. 
And  when  the  goddess  who  had  caused  his  blindness  came  to  him  with 
softened  heart  and  wished  to  make  a  blessing  out  of  his  misfortune,  she 
granted  him  the  happiness  of  seeing  into  the  long,  immense,  invk>ble 
shadow,  in  the  pale  light  of  sunset.  And  Pascoli  would  be  himself  a  poet  who 
sees  the  beauty  in  the  shadow  as  well  as  in  the  sunlight.  The  tears  of  thingi 
and  the  flowers  of  things  —  these  are  always  near  together  in  his  poetiy. 
And  the  flower  is  no  *  fretful  orchid  hot-housed  from  the  dew.'  It  grom 
in  the  open  air  under  the  low-hanging  Italian  sky.  His  conception  of 
beauty  is  very  different  from  that  of  D'Annunzio,  who  represents  his  heroes 
as  going  madly  on  through  life  from  destruction  to  destruction,  led  by  the 
fatal  instinct  for  beauty.  And,  with  a  very  different  view  of  humanity  froo 
D'Annunzio's,  who  thinks  that  the  most  we  can  do  is  to  offer  music  and 
flowers  to  a  dying  man,  Pascoli,  from  having  always  seen  *  the  dim  face  of 
beauty  haunting  all  the  world,'  comes  to  see  in  it  the  light  that  lightens  the 
darkness.     The  spirit  of  poetry  says : 

*  I  am  the  lamp  that  bumeth  tranquilly 
In  thy  darkest  and* loneliest  hours, 
In  the  saddest  and  heaviest  shadows. 
The  gleam  of  my  pure  ray  shineth 
Afar  on  the  wanderer  treading 
By  night  with  a  heart  that  is  weeping 
The  pallid  pathway  of  life. 
He  stops,  and,  anon,  he  beholdeth 
The  gleam  of  my  light  in  the  Soul. 
He  takes  up  again  his  dark  journey 
And  Id!  he  is  singing.* 

Pascoli  declares  that  the  thought  of  death  is  religion,  and  without  it 
life  would  be  a  delirium.  He  thinks  that  man  has  returned  by  the  guidance 
of  science  to  that  sad  moment  when  he  first  became  conscious  of  his  mor- 
tality, before  he  had  set  up  illusions  and  denied  death.  And  now  poeti; 
must  join  hands  with  science  in  the  fearless  recognition  and  veneration  (rf 
our  Destiny.  It  is  true  that  the  poet  does  not  quite  believe  in  the  religion  of 
Death.     For,  when  he  sees  a  sprout  shooting  out  of  an  old  lichen-covered 


GERTRUDE  E.  T.  SLAUGHTER  517 

g,  he  wonders  if  perhaps  death,  too,  is  not  a  dream.  And  when  he  goes 
It  under  the  stars  and  looks  up  among  the  myriads  of  worlds  as  he  does 
[  the  very  striking  poem,  *  II  Cioccoj  he  says :  ^  Because  the  time  will 
ime  when  I  must  close  my  eyelids,  the  vision  will  not  be  therefore  ended 
^on  perd  sia  la  vision  finita).*  And  when  our  life,  which  is  but  a  speck  of 
List  on  the  wing  of  a  moth  that  flits  about  a  light  which  itself  is  but  one  of  a 
lyriad  of  lights,  when  that  is  scattered  and  our  earth  has  perished  and  suns 
ftve  contended  with  suns,  when,  after  all  the  storms  of  the  universe,  the 
ow  snows  of  eternity  have  destroyed  the  suns  and  silence  has  entered  into 
le  sepulchre  of  dead  stars  and  fossil  worlds,  even  then,  he  thinks,  the 
rreat  Spirit  will  take  up  new  constellations  in  his  hand  and  fling  them  anew 
)  be  shipwrecked  in  the  sea  of  ether,  to  endure  ever  new  death  and  ever  new 
Fe.  Even  then  some  one  searching  for  truth  through  the  G)smos  may  find 
I  the  spectrum  of  a  ray  the  trace  of  human  thought. 

iust  as  he  who  declares  the  religion  of  death  believes  in  life,  even  so 
o  strives  for  realities  and  would  have  poetry  join  hands  with  science, 
t  is,  like  all  true  poets,  a  believer  in  dreams.  His  Hermit  says:  'There  are 
wo  vanities,  the  shadow  of  things  and  the  shadow  of  dreams.  And  the 
ladow  of  things  is  darkness  for  him  who  would  see,  and  the  shadow  of 
reams  is  grateful  shade  for  the  tired  soul.'  And  Alexander  the  Great, 
le  doer  of  deeds,  when  he  thinks  of  the  mountains  he  has  climbed  and  the 
vers  he  has  crossed,  exclaims: 

'  O  azure-tinted  mountains!  and  you,  too, 
O  Rivers!  blue  as  skies  and  seas  are  blue; 
Better  it  were  to  stand  by  you  and  dream 
Nor  look  beyond. 
Dream  is  the  infinite  shadow  of  the  true.* 

'The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead,'  and  if  one  sometimes  grows  alarmed 
the  form  it  assumes  in  the  mind  of  a  D'Annunzio,  one  may  turn  with 
assurance  to  the  work  of  a  poet  like  Pascoli.  It  would  be  a  serious  mis- 
ke  to  suppose  that  the  future  of  poetry  in  Italy  is  in  the  hands  of  trivial 
)etasters  whose  only  aim  is  to  relieve  the  tediousness  of  modem  life  by 
norous  songs  and  figments  of  enchantment.  The  fatherland  is,  indeed, 
>  longer  the  poet's  theme.  His  interest  is  in  humanity.  He  has  become 
ismopolitan  in  spirit  even  while  he  remains  a  native  bom.  In  the  univer- 
ility  of  his  spirit  Pascoli  goes  back  to  Leopardi  and  bridges  the  gulf  be- 
^cen.  And,  yet,  he  is  typically  modern.  Carducci  represents  a  transition. 
I  Pascoli  the  modem  spirit,  with  its  desire  of  reality  and  its  scorn  of  illusion 


5i8  PASCOLI  AND  RECENT  ITALIAN  POETRY 

and  its  sentiment  of  universal  pity,  is  fully  awake.  Pascoli  is  a  child  of 
nature  who  longs  to  '  enclose  the  turbid  universe  in  lucid  words/  But  he 
bums  with  the  ardor  of  Lucretius  to  free  men  from  their  doubts  and  thdr 
fears  and  their  self-inflicted  torments.  He  yearns  toward  a  new  era  ^vfaa 
poetry  shall  take  up  the  sceptre  of  the  priest  and  become  the  pacifier  ui 
purifier  of  humanity. 


PLINrS  AUTHORS 

By  G.  S.  Bryan 

■"RlTING  on  one  occasion  to  Sosius  Senecio,  the  persist- 
^    ^^     jft      /     ently  amiable  Pliny  Minor  begins:  'This  year  has  pro- 


W' 


duced  a  great  crop  of  poets.  During  the  whole  month  of 
April  there  was  hardly  a  day  when  somebody  was  not 
giving  a  reading.'  It  might  be  possible  here  to  detect  a 
tone  of  mild  protest.  In  the  law  courts  April  was  the 
busiest  of  months,  and  Pliny  was  a  considerable  advocate  and  a  student  of 
professional  detail.  He  somewhat  prides  himself  on  deferring  his  readings 
to  non-term  in  July.  Even  then,  once,  when  his  guests  had  already  assem* 
bled,  he  was  suddenly  summoned  in  a  matter  of  counsel,  and  after  an  ex- 
culpatory address  left  his  audience  to  attend  to  it.  Upon  his  return,  how- 
ever, he  made  compensation  by  a  two  days'  reading  from  a  collecrion  of  his 
verse.  The  listeners  insisted,  he  says,  and  on  fair  warning  he  read  straight 
trough  without  skipping. 

Pliny's  '  Letters'  allude  frequently  to  these  author's  readings;  contem- 
porary writers  refer  to  them;  Horace  satirizes  the  '  troublesome  reader'  as 
reciring  to  death  those  luckless  enough  to  fall  into  his  clutches.  They  seem 
to  have  had  no  prominence  in  the  republic,  but  in  imperial  times  they  formed 
sm  important  literary  phenomenon,  whether  from  the  concentration  of  power 
and  consequent  comparative  decline  of  interest  in  public  affairs,  or  from 
other  cause.  Nowadays  authors'  readings  are  for  the  greater  part  limited 
to  those  whose  previous  popular  success  makes  them  profitable  as  lyceum 
attractions.  Generally,  the  reader  employs  published  material  already 
familiar,  to  which  new  interest  is  supposed  to  be  gjven  by  an  intimate  and 
peculiar  interpretation.  In  Pliny's  Rome,  conditions  were  practically  the 
reverse.  The  book-selling  of  the  dme  did  not  have  the  complex  present 
organizarion.  It  did  not  seek  out  and  encourage  the  'literary  deluge';  there 
were  no  publishers'  readers  critically  to  examine  and  appraise  submitted 
works:  more  than  all,  perhaps,  the  subtle  art  of  what  Macaulay,  in  the  his- 
toric Edinburgh  essay  on  Montgomery,  describes  as  '  puffing,'  was  not 
invented.  Hence,  the  aspiring  author  sought  another  method  to  determine 
the  availability  of  his  work  for  publication;  in  the  event  of  approval,  to  have 
that  work  already  widely  known;  and  generally  to  bring  himself  to  attention. 
The  author's  reading,  having  been  introduced  by  the  author,  critic,  and 
collector,  Asinius  Pollio,  found  extensive  acceptance.  Evidently  it  was 
not  easy  for  even  the  indefatigable  Pliny  to  keep  up  with  the  schedule; 
519 


520  PLINY'S  AUTHORS 

though  he  boasts  that  indeed  in  this  record-breaking  April  he  ^  failed  scans 
any  one/  The  method  is  not  dissimilar  in  substance  to  that  by  which  worb 
are  sometimes  now  'privately  printed'  in  limited  editions,  distributed  fa 
criticism  and  suggestions,  and,  in  case  of  a  suitable  receprion,  placed  in  tk 
regular  channels  of  publicadon. 

Of  course,  the  material  of  these  readers  was  not  always  in  mda. 
Pliny's  inaugural  address  as  consul,  for  example,  was  elaborated  and  cs- 
larged  into  a  volume,  and  thus  recited  for  three  consecutive  days.  Pl^ 
sumably,  all  the  usual  forms  of  prose  were  introduced.     But  it  was  a  sort  of 

*  culture'  to  essay  to  build  the  lofty  rime.  '  Unequipped  and  equipped, 
indiscriminately  we  write  verses,'  Horace  had  long  before  written;  anddds 
became  truer  as  time  passed.  Emperors,  statesmen,  jurists,  and  warrion 
would  enter  the  lists  of  '  incorrigible  amateurs.'  In  Pliny's  rime  there 
seems  to  have  been  a  good  deal  of  monotonous  imitation  of  the  Augustans. 
Of  Silius  Italicus,  who  composed  a  *  Punic  War,'  Pliny  feels  constrained  to 
say  that  he  '  wrote  verses  with  more  painstaking  than  talent  and  sometimo 
tested  people's  opinion  by  giving  readings  from  them.  Audiences,  ac- 
cording to  the  same  authority,  became  increasingly  ungracious.  'Very 
many,'  he  says,  'sit  in  the  lounging  places  and  while  away  vnth  gossip  the 
dme  when  they  should  be  hearing  the  reading;  and  they  order  it  reported  to 
them  from  time  to  time  whether  the  reader  has  already  put  in  an  appearance, 
—  has  made  his  prefatory  remarks, —  has  unrolled  a  large  portion  of  his 
manuscript.  Then  at  length,  and  even  then  slowly  and  loiteringly,  thev 
come.  Nor  yet  do  they  stay  through,  but  withdraw  before  the  end, —  some 
covertly  and  stealthily,  others  openly  and  freely.'  This  was  the  Silver  Age, 
and  already  the  well-worn  discussion  of  the  *  slump  in  poetry  '  was  beginning. 
Other  more  obvious  humors  were  not  wanting.  The  useful  Pliny  also  tells 
how  a  scholarly  equestrian  was  reading  from  a  book  of  elegies,  and  opened 
one  with  a  complimentary  reference  to  lavolenus  Priscus*  a  patron  of  his. 

*  Priscus,  you  bid  me,' — he  began.  Now  Priscus,  who  was  present, — per- 
haps in  one  of  the  chairs  which  were  apparently,  like  those  on  present-day 
platforms,  reserved  for  distinguished  guests,  —  had  either  dozed  or  wandered 
afield;  and,  recalled  by  this  sudden  mention  of  himself,  blurted  out,  '  Bid 
you  ?  Not  r  (as  who  should  say,  *  Not  guilty  '),  to  the  great  amusement 
of  many.  Possibly  the  good  Priscus  was  weary  of  elegies;  these  verse- 
readings  might,  as  has  been  suggested,  be  lengthy  affairs.  *  This  is  the  third 
day,'  writes  Pliny, '  that  I  have  had  the  utmost  pleasure  in  attending  a  read- 
ing by  Sentius  Augurinus,' — the  same  consisting  of  a  series  of  brief  poems. 
However,  Pliny  solemnly  observes  that  Priscus  (a  distinguished  jurisconsult) 
is  certainly  of  doubtful  sanity,  though  not  yet  compelled  to  withdraw  from 
his  activities. 


G.  S.  BRYAN  521 

Yet  why  speculate  whether  the  flatteries  of  clients  or  the  applause  of 
eell-drilled  claque  such  as  a  patron  was  ready  to  supply  along  with  an 
litorium,  inflated  minor  bards  and  injured  literary  art  ?  It  was  all  in  a 
hion  rather  like  the  English  time  when  everybody  turned  Pope-ian 
iplets,  and  many  efl^ectively.  There  was  a  good  bit  of  sound  study  of 
best  literature,  and  of  connoisseurship  in  it.  To  maintain  such  a  degree 
ippredation  was  at  least  something.  As  to  imitation,  it  is  unlikely  that 
cti  of  it  was  so  servile  as  that  of  Silius.  It  is  to  be  noted  that  Pattison 
ught  what  Pope  frankly  styled  ^  The  Satires  and  Epistles  of  Horace 
itated  *  *  among  the  most  original  of  his  writings.'  Puny,  for  example, 
»ws  his  imitation  of  Cicero,  and  his  letters  are  quite  apparently  patterned 
the  Gceronian;  yet  they  are  also  quite  unique. 

After  that  busied  April,  Pliny  assures  Senecio  that  he  is  going  into 
rement,  to  compose  something  he  will  not,  in  his  turn  recite, —  lest  he 
m  to  have  been  rather  a  creditor  than  an  auditor.  Perhaps  along  the 
:umnus,  or  looking  out  from  Laurentum  across  the  Tyrrhenian  Sea,  he 
Y  have  repeated  these  lines  of  one 

'  .    .    .  who  never  dare  recite 
To  crowds  the  humble  verse  I  write;* 
benic  poetry,  its  *  common  sense'  tinged  not,  indeed,  with  the  Vergilian 
fulness,  yet  with  its  own  philosophic  melancholy. 

*  Scattered  the  snows;  the  grasses  to  the  plain 

Return,  leaves  to  the  tree. 
The  seasons  change,  and  in  their  bounds  again 

Slack  streams  run  peacefully; 

The  sister  Graces,  three. 
By  nymphs  attended,  lead  the  choral  strain. 
The  circling  year  —  yea,  and  the  hour  that  flies. 

Hastening  the  genial  day. 
Alike  against  immortal  hopes  advise. 

The  west  winds  waft  away 

The  cold ;  spring  cannot  stay. 
For  close  treads  summer,  and  full  shortly  dies 
When  fruited  autumn  has  its  stores  displayed; 

Then  winter's  hush.     Yet,  though 
The  moon  may  wane  in  heaven,  it  does  not  fade. 

We,  when  to  realms  below 

With  good  and  great  we  go. 
Are  but  a  mound  of  dust,  a  fleeting  shade.' 


THE  MIDSUMMER'S  NIGHTS  DREAM! 

A  Conception 
By  Catherine  Postell 

ALONG  in  midsummer,  the  full-blown  rose  of  the  year,  wba 
the  earth  creaks  slowly  on  its  axis,  when  the  theaters  it 
London  were  closed,  and  London  itself  grown  intoleraUt^ 
Shakespeare  was  in  the  habit  of  going  up  to  Stratford  on  die 
Avon  to  rest.  There  came  one  midsummer,  perhaps  in  159I 
when  he  sought  the  coolness  and  the  shade  with  more  doi 
his  usual  avidity.  Perhaps  he  was  more  than  usually  jaded.  It  may  haie 
been  that  both  work  and  winter  had  been  unusually  severe.  He  Yak 
written  and  presented  the  three  parts  of  Henry  the  Sixth,  Titus  Andronicoi» 
G)medy  of  Errors,  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Richard  the  Second,  ani 
Richard  the  Third.  Stage  manager  as  well  as  playwright,  actor  as  well  at 
critic,  more  than  the  day  s  work  had  to  be  crowded  into  the  day.  If  to  ds 
overwork  inside  must  be  added  the  fog  and  the  smoke  and  the  cold  (rf'dK 
London  winter,  can  you  imagine  with  what  joy  he  heard  again  the  laug^ 
of  summer  in  the  cool  green  shade  of  Stratford  ?  He  must  have  laij^^ 
himself  as  he  talked  back  to  the  babbling  Avon. 

He  was  a  man  of  a  broad,  generous,  kindly  spirit,  and  the  fog  and  die 
smoke  rolled  away  from  his  soul  at  the  first  touch  of  kindly  nature.  He 
loved  nature,  her  flowers,  her  suns,  her  blue  horizons,  her  long  hot  happf 
days.  He  loved  the  night  also,  and  often  went  to  sit  at  the  close  of  day  in 
his  old-fashioned  garden  to  watch  the  stars  come  out  and  the  children  at 
play  among  the  flower  beds. 

One  day  when  the  heat  had  been  more  oppressive  than  usual  and  die 
night  more  welcome,  he  went  in  the  dusk  to  sit  in  the  garden  in  that  summer 
house. 

*  Quite  over-canopied  with  luscious  woodbine, 
With  sweet  musk-roses  and  with  eglantine.' 

The  moon  threw  her  silver  fretwork  on  the  wall,  and  some  faint  stan 
trembled  in  the  west.  Susanna  and  her  mother  were  sitting  on  a  nearby 
bench  talking  over  household  matters,  their  voices  making  a  pleasing  back- 
ground for  his  idle  thoughts.  Judith  was  romping  about  watering  her 
flowers,  scolding  the  gardener,  pulling  her  gossip,  sweet  Mistress  Pnie,  into 
the  summer-house,  and  calling  upon  her  father  to  settle  her  monstrous 
troubles:  the  gardener,  that  old  Matthew  Crabapple,  had  pulled  up  her 
dear  wild  thyme;  sweet   Prue  would  think  her  cowslips  prettier  than  her 

522 


CATHERINE  POSTELL  523 

""riolets;  the  dog,  Don  Roderick,  had  stepped  on  her  biggest  rose, —  then 

before  he  could  answer,  she  was  away  like  a  spirit,  drawing  the  gentle  Prue 

after  her,  to  throw  themselves  down  on  a  bank  of  sweet  warm  earth.     She 

was  at  that  half  age, —  thirteen, —  a  child,  a  woman,  a  fairy.    The  father 

plaughs  to  see  the  two  girls  so  careless,  so  happy.     He  heaves  a  long  sigh  of 

iiesc.    This  is  better  than  London,  better  than  writing  plays,  better  than 


3         By  and  by  the  air  changes,  the  slothful  breeze  has  a  coolness  in  it,  the 
udew  is  heavy.  The  good  Anne  and  Susanna  go  heavily  indoors,  the  children 
■call  a  sleepy  good  night.    The  father  thinks  to  go  inside  himself.     He  can 
■keep  early  hours.     He  is  an  idler,  too,  an  inconsequent  loiterer  on  the  sum- 
i  mer  sea.     He  lingers  a  moment  to  let  the  hush  sink  into  his  tired  spirit, —  but 
I  in  that  moment  something  happens.     The  night  tiptoes  up  to  him  with  her 
■  finger  on  her  lips.    She  touches  him  with  her  perfumes,  her  sighs,  her  awful 
t  scars.     The  unreal  gets  into  blood  and  rides  his  brain.     Vainly  he  puts 
I  up  his  hand  to  ward  off  his  thick-coming  fancies.     But  no,  the  starry  night 
I  eves  him  no  rest.     His  imagination  '  bodies  forth  the  forms  of  thines  un- 
I  Enown,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing  a  local  habitation  and  a  name.      He 
I  cannot  stop  the  shuttle  from  weaving-     A  wonderful  web  spins  itself  from 
his  brain,  and  into  this  web  evetvthmg  is  caught  up  and  becomes  part  of 
[  the  mesh, —  the  old  actor-life  in  London,  the  classic  mythologies  that  have 
enamored  him  in  leisure  hours,  the  children  at  play,  the  moonlight  fretting 
his  wall.    A  pea-blossom,  a  shivering  cobweb  bright  with  dew,  a  fluttering 
moth,  a  mustardseed  rocking  in  its  yellow  cradle,  are  beings  from  the  over- 
world.     Judith  is  Titania,  lying  on  a  bank  *  whereon  the  wild  thyme  grows,' 
and  again  she  is  the  woman  Hermia,  and  Prue  is  Helena  with  lovesick  pas- 
sions.   The  little  Hamneth,  now  two  years  dead,  besieges  for  his  small 
place  in  the  weaving. 

Then  Shakespeare  takes  the  whole  thing,  broken  bits  of  plays,  lovers' 
intrigues  and  quarrels,  fairy  themes, —  the  whole  tangled  web,  and  drops  it 
hy  the  Thradan  sea.  England  is  too  real,  too  workaday.  That  uttle 
land  of  Greece,  the  last  resort  of  fauns  and  satyrs,  nymphs  and  sprites,  the 
only  home  of  belated  gods  and  goddesses,  gives  a  warm  welcome  to  the  gossa- 
mer creation  of  his  brain.  Romance  breathes  here  her  native  air,  and 
Poetry  and  Fancy  are  not  afraid  to  walk  hand  in  hand  through  the  Athenian 
groves. 

It  was  too  sweet  a  tangle  to  unravel  and  weave  again  bv  law  and  rule, 
and  yet  the  great  dramatist  could  not  but  put  it  in  a  play.  What  wove  itself 
to  music  in  the  brain  of  Mendelssohn  or  to  pictures  in  Raphael,  in  Shake- 
speare translates  itself  through  that  sublimest  art  which  leaps  red  hot  from 


524  THE  MIDSUMMER'S  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

heart  to  heart.  In  this  play  no  less  than  four  distinct  parts  clamored  far 
entrance.  How  to  weave  these  together  into  one  harmonious  whole  2d 
keep  the  parts  distinct  yet  blended, —  who  could  have  done  this  but  SMkt 
speare  i  Then,  with  a  genius  all  his  own,  he  lifted  the  fabric  out  of  the  icah 
of  criticism  and  placed  it  in  that  world  of  lawlessness  —  the  world  of  dreans. 

'  If  we  shadows  have  oflTended, 
Think  but  this  and  all  is  mended, 
That  you  have  but  slumbered  here, 
While  these  visions  did  appear.' 

*  Midsummer's  Night's  Dream '  has  perhaps  never  been  very  sat- 
cessfuUy  presented  on  the  stage.  It  was  presented  in  a  crude  way  in  the 
time  of  Shakespeare,  and  we  have  authentic  information  that  it  was  once 
performed  on  Sunday  at  the  house  of  the  Bishop  of  Lincoln,  and  that  the 
actor  who  took  the  part  of  Bottom  was  condemned  by  a  Puritan  tribunil 
to  sit  twelve  hours  in  the  porter's  room  of  the  palace  wearing  an  ass'  head. 

The  sober  love  affair  of  Theseus  and  his  bouncing  Amazonian  bride, 
the  tangled  passions  of  the  four  Athenian  lovers,  the  comic  interlude  of  die 
play  within  the  play,  and  the  coming  and  going  of  the  little  fairy  people 
mark  the  four  motifs  that  frisk  in  and  out,  now  one  and  then  another  holding 
the  center  of  the  stage.  There  is  no  strong  plot,  no  earnest  modve,  no  deej 
passion,  but  a  light  and  joyous  theme,  tangled,  grotesque,  now  up,  now 
down,  fantastical, —  a  midsummer  night's  dream. 

Shakespeare  could  not  resist  his  subtile  satire  on  life  in  his  delineatioo 
of  the  part  of  the  four  Athenian  lovers.  Lysander  and  Demetrius  both  laj 
their  devotions  at  the  feet  of  Hermia,  making  the  beautiful  Helena  that 
desperate  thing, —  a  woman  scorned.  The  little  people  of  the  over-world 
are  called  in  to  set  the  music  straight  between  these  mortals.  Oberon  is 
overcome  with  pity  for  the  unfortunate  Helena,  and  makes  a  desperate 
effort  to  set  right  her  wrongs,  but  Puck,  who  is  Destiny,  pours  the  lov^ 
compelling  foment  into  the  wrong  ear,  and  a  new  crisscross,  more  unhappy 
than  the  first,  is  his  only  reward.  The  dear  intermeddler  finds  the  swe<t 
bells  jangled  yet  more  harshly  out  of  tune. 

Within  the  play  Shakespeare  introduces  a  second  play,  the  tragedy  of 
Pyramus  and  Thisbe.  He  is  fond  of  doing  this.  It  is  his  amusement. 
Held  back  by  potent  reasons  from  using  the  scalping  knife  on  those  who 
murdered  his  lines  in  the  real  play,  in  the  mock  play  he  can  let  himself  go> 
shaking  with  laughter  doubtless,  as  he  dares  to  write  down  their  foolish 
boastfulness,  their  ludicrous  importance,  their  unconscious  stupidity.  In 
Hamlet  occurs  a  notable  instance  of  a  play  within  a  play,  the  instructions 
to  the  actors  so  deftly  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  melancholy  Dane  being, 


CATHERINE  POSTELL  525 

tdoubtless,  intended  for  some  of  the  hopeless  mouthers  of  his  own  tragedies. 
t  A  choice  bit  of  humor  lightens  the  somber  play  when  old  Polonius>  making 
[Us  foolish  boast,  says,  *  I  was  accounted  a  good  actor;  I  did  enact  Julius 
I  Caesar:  I  was  killed  in  the  Capitol:  Brutus  killed  me/ 

To  enact  the  tragedy  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  Shakespeare  calls  in  the 
Athenian  workman,  the  joiner,  the  carpenter,  a  weaver,  a  bellows-mender, 
a  tinker,  and  a  tailor,  thus  turning  it  into  one  of  the  most  laughable  bits  of 
comedy  within  the  pages  of  Shakespeare.  In  this  charming  bit  the  merry 
hits  at  his  actor  experience  in  London  make  one  of  the  finest  parts  of  the 
play,  and  give  us  at  the  same  time  a  comic  glimpse  into  the  life  and  nature 
of  Shakespeare.  I  can  imagine  him  roaring  with  laughter  when  Snug  the 
joiner  wants  the  lion's  part  written  out. 

*  Have  you  the  lion's  part  written  ?   Pray  you,  if  it  be,  give  it  me, 

for  I  am  slow  of  study.' 
Or  when  Flute,  the  bellows-mender,  says,  '  Don't  let  me  play  the  woman, 
for  I  have  a  beard  coming,'  did  any  one  guess  the  laugh  behind  it  ?  Most  of 
all  he  must  have  liked  putting  the  officious,  ubiquitous  Bottom  down  on 
paper.  We  have  all  seen  Bottom,  sometimes  as  a  man,  sometimes  as  a 
woman,  always  as  the  fellow  that  wants  the  best  part  and  all  the  parts  in 
life.  He  is  given  the  hero's  part,  but  he  wants  the  heroine's  also.  *  Let 
me  play  Thisbe,  too.  I'll  speak  in  a  monstrous  little  voice.  ''Thisbe, 
Thisbe.  Pyramus,  my  lover  dear,  thy  Thisbe  dear,  and  lady  dear."  '  He 
even  tries  to  take  the  lion's  part  from  Snug, — *  I  will  roar  that  I  will  make  the 
Duke  say,  '*  Let  him  roar  again.  Let  him  roar  again." '  When  it  is  objected 
that  he  will  make  the  ladies  shriek  if  he  makes  so  much  noise,  he  says, '  But 
I  will  aggravate  my  voice  so,  that  I  will  roar  you  as  quietly  as  any  sucking 
dove,  I  will  roar  an'  twere  any  nighringale.' 

Bottom  does  not  wear  his  asinine  appendages  so  conspicuously  outside 
the  play,  but  our  Titanias  fall  in  love  with  him  just  the  same,  and  dote  upon 
him  —  ad  nauseam.    We  have  all  heard  her  raptures:  — 

'  Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flowery  bed. 
While  I  thy  amiable  cheeks  do  coy. 
And  srick  musk-roses  in  thy  sleek,  smooth  head. 
And  kiss  thy  fair,  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy.' 

It  is  well  for  her  if  she  does  not  discover  that  the  fair,  large  ears  are  ass' 
ears,  and  that  her '  gentle  joy'  has  a  soul  only  for  good  dry  oats. 

I  know  not  how  it  is  in  England,  if  the  nightingales  sing  there,  but  in  the 
far  south,  if  the  moon  be  shining,  along  towards  midnight  the  mocking- 
bird wakes  with  first  a  hint,  a  flutey  note  that  breaks  in  two,  and  stops,  and 


526  THE  MIDSUMMER'S  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

then  goes  on  again,  and  stops,  and  you  turn  on  your  pillow  and  think  to  gon 
sleep  again,  when  lo!  outside  your  window  such  a  burst  of  music  as  oidf 
angels  can  imagine.  Perhaps  they  sing  so  in  England.  Perhaps  the  soo{ 
of  the  nightingales  made  such  breaks  and  beats  in  Shakespeare's  dream. 
His  great  heart  swayed  to  music  as  seolian  strings  tremble  to  the  touch  of  the 
wind.  Even  in  his  tragedies  he  cannot  hold  it  back,  notably  in  one  of  the 
greatest  of  them  all  : 

*  Canst  thou  hold  up  thy  heavy  eyes  awhile. 
And  touch  thy  instrument  a  strain  or  two  ? ' 

asks  Brutus  of  the  drowsy  child,  as  he  sits  in  his  tent  on  that  sleepless  night 
before  Philippi.  In  his  present  lightsome  and  gladsome  theme  the  music 
got  tangled  up  in  his  thoughts,  and  we  have  Titania  saying, 

'  Come,  now,  a  roundel  and  a  fairy  song.' 
'  .   .   .  Come  sing  me  asleep.' 

Even  Bottom  says,  when  he  wakes  with  his  ass'  head,  '  I  will  walk  up 
and  down  here  and  I  will  sing,  that  they  shall  hear  I  am  not  afraid.'  His 
gentle  braying  wakes  Titania,  who  says : 

*  What  angel  wakes  me  from  my  flowery  bed  ? 
I  pray  thee  gentle  mortal  sing  again; 

Mine  ear  is  much  enamored  of  thy  note.' 

'  I  do  love  thee;  therefore  do  thou  go  with  me, 
ril  give  thee  fairies  to  attend  on  thee. 
And  sing,  while  on  pressed  flowers  thou  dost  sleep. 
Wilt  thou  hear  some  music,  my  sweet  love  ? ' 

Bottom,  whom  the  soul  of  Titania  has  not  touched  to  finer  issues,  replies 
from  the  ass'  standpoint,  *  I  have  a  reasonable  good  ear  in  music;  let  us  have 
the  tongs  and  bones.' 

Oberon,  when  he  would  cast  deep  sleep  upon  the  Athenian  lovers, 
commands: 

*  Titania,  music  call! 
Music,  ho  music,  that  charmeth  sleep! ' 

When  the  iron  tongue  of  midnight  had  told  twelve,  and  Titania  and  her 
train  come  to  bless  the  bridal  home  of  the  Athenian  lovers,  hand  in  hand 
they  dance  trippingly  through  the  house  singing  as  they  go. 

What  Shakespeare  saw  on  that  moonlight  night  in  his  garden  we  shall 
never  know.  Mortal  words  cannot  contain  the  immortal  visions  of  the  seer. 
Caught  up  into  that  seventh  heaven,  it  is  given  to  no  man  to  hold  back  the 
curtain  that  others  may  enter  too.     At  best  he  can  bring  back  but  a  frag- 


CATHERINE  POSTELL  527 

^1  ment  of  the  palace  wrought  of  living  stones,  a  single  note  of  that  tide  chorus 

jthat  caught  him  up  as  on  living  vrings.     He  can  only  hold  to  us  a  glass^ 

•i  through  which  we  see  darkly,  a  broken  lens  that  casts  queer  shadows, —  a 

iV.hint  of  tenderness  overcrowded  with  grotesqueness,  a  tragic  strain  changing 

J  to  impish  laughter.     In  the  love  scenes  of  Midsummer   Night's    Dream 

I  the  strength  and  bitterness  limp  and    halt,  turn    suddenly  from  hopeless 

love  *  wild  with  all  regret'  to  a  disgraceful  squabble  between  two  women 

erstwhile  friends  and  schoolmates  over  a  man  scarcely  worth  the  thought 

of  either. 

^  *  Helen,  I  love  thee ;  by  my  life  I  do. 

^  I  swear  by  that  which  I  will  lose  for  thee. 

To  prove  him  false  that  says  I  love  thee  not. 

Compare  this  with  the  noble  passion  of  Troilus  for  Cressida. 

*  I  am  giddy:  expectation  whirls  me  round. 
The  imaginary  relish  is  so  sweet 
That  it  enchants  my  sense;  what  will  it  be 
When  that  the  watery  palate  tastes  indeed 
Love's  thrice-reputed  nectar  ?    Death,  I  fear  me; 
Swooning  destruction;  or  some  joy  too  fine, 
Too  subtle-potent,  tuned  too  sharp  in  sweetness^ 
For  the  capacity  of  my  ruder  powers. 
I  fear  it  much.' 
On    that  night  of  Shakespeare's  dream  there  hovered  about  Judith 
in  the  moonlit  garden,  a  faint  shadow,  playing  when  she  played,  laughing 
as  she  laughed,  holding  a  little  aloof  from  her  wilder  sports,  lingering  long 
after  the  others  had  gone,  sitting  soberly  in  the  summer-house,  with  a  face 
made  of  starlight,  sometimes  casting  wistful  glances  back  at  the  father  in  the 
shade, —  Judith's  twin  brother,  the  little  Hamnet,  now   two  years    dead. 
He  drifts  into  the  dream,  a  fragrance,  a  hint,  a  touch  of  passionate  longing: — 

'  I  did  but  beg  of  thee  a  little  changeling  boy 
To  be  my  henchman.     Give  me  that  boy!  * 

We  come  to  the  Midsummer's  Night's  Dream,  not  to  cavil,  not  to  study, 
not  to  understand,  but  to  revel,  to  enjoy.  It  is  a  poet's  holiday  fancy  when 
his  genius  lies  stretched  in  lawlessness  on  summer  clouds.  It  is  a  mid- 
summer night,  an  interlude,  a  dazzle  of  irresponsible  brilliance,  a 
many-hued  rainbow  spanning  the  under-world.  It  is  laughter  and  love 
and  music  and  song  and  the  dance  of  the  fairies.  The  ivory  gates  swing 
open.     We  drift  into  the  land  of  Shakespeare's  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 


THE  ROSE 

By  Walter  H.  Mann 

O  Sire,  for  thou  didst  knight  me,  send  me  forth. 
To  thee  do  I  bring  word  the  quest  is  lost! 
And  yet  so  nearly  won  I  tremble  now 
To  think  how  close  I  ventured  on  success. 
This  is  the  story  of  the  quest  I  lost, 
Perhaps  to-morrow  I  may  ride  and  win. 

Twas  on  a  May-day  many  a  year  agone, 

That  forth  I  rode,  strong  steel  and  stronger  youth. 

All  music  of  the  Maytime  in  my  heart. 

And  on  my  lips  a  song  of  love  I  knew  not. 

Full  easy  seemed  the  quest  and  short  the  way 

As  under  blooming  orchard  trees  I  rode 

The  narrow  way  that  broadens  to  the  world. 

And  many  a  day  I  rode  and  sweet  it  seemed 

Till  on  a  sudden,  came  a  desert  land 

Stretching  away  in  yellow  sandy  leagues 

And  seemed  no  dwelling  place  for  man  or  beast. 

• 

But  soon  I  came  on  children  playing;  hard 

Their  faces  seemed,  eaten  with  bitter  dust; 

Bleared  were  their  eyes,  yet  as  they  plied  their  games 

Some  of  the  ways  of  childhood  did  I  note, 

For,  when  I  asked  them  what  they  wrought,  one  cried 

"  We  build  a  mountain  of  the  shining  gold!  *' 

And  lo!  the  little  heaps  of  dirty  sand. 

I  said,  "  O  children  know  you  of  the  land 

That  lieth  in  the  distance  like  a  dream  ?  " 

They  looked  and  spake,  "  We  know  of  no  such  land; 

And  what  are  dreams  and  whither  would'st  thou  fare  i 

Is  there  not  yellow  gold  in  plenty  here  ?  " 

Then  I  clapped  spurs  to  horse  and  rode  away. 

And  clouds  of  acrid  dust  arose  behind. 

But  on  the  morrow  when  the  desert  grew 

Trackless  and  waste,  I  came  upon  a  troop 

Of  men  and  damsels  all  deformed  and  foul 

528 


THE  ROSE 

Pelting  each  other  with  the  horrid  sand. 

And  the  harsh  laughter  of  the  wantons  seemed 

Bitter  as  gall,  and  much  I  loathed  the  land. 

Yet  I  bespake  them:  **  See  you  not  the  wood 

A  glimmer  o'er  the  desert  like  the  dawn  ?  '* 

And  then  they  cried:  "  What  desert  meanest  thou  ? 

Here  is  no  desert  but  a  land  of  love." 

So  rode  I  on  till  in  mid-afternoon. 

The  hot  sun  burned  aslant  the  gleaming  sand, 

Were  men  and  women  digging  in  the  fields 

And  near  them  others  binding  into  sheaves. 

And  sage  and  cactus  were  the  sheaves  they  bound. 

Angry  that  men  should  toil  so  hard  for  naught 

I  cried,  **  What  make  you  in  this  arid  place 

When  in  the  distance  lies  a  joyous  land 

Where  trees  are  green  and  living  waters  spring  ?  " 

And  straight  they  looked  upon  me,  and  cried,  **  Fool 

Here  is  the  garden,  desert  lies  beyond.'* 

So  rode  I  seven  days  and  seven  nights. 

And  all  so  boundless  did  the  desert  seem 

That  all  the  stars  in  heaven  'gan  to  pale, 

And  hope  had  sunk  so  far  down  in  my  heart 

That  seemed  the  universe  a  sandy  waste. 

And  men  and  women  idle  mockeries. 

But  on  the  seventh  evening  near  to  dusk, 

I  came  upon  some  old  men  by  the  way. 

And  these  were  all  asleep  in  the  hot  sand. 

**  How  many  leagues  to  reach  the  happy  land 

Behind  whose  hills  we  see  the  purple  sky  ?  " 

They  rubbed  their  eyes,  and  looked  at  me  askance: 

**  Why  thou  art  in  a  fair  land  even  now, 

Where  old  men  slumber  on  soft  beds  of  flowers! 

What  woulds't  thou  more  ?    That  thou  dost  see  beyond 

Is  but  a  land  of  lies  and  mockeries, 

Chimeras  and  vile  monsters  habit  it. 

And  fill  its  valleys  with  the  bones  of  men. 

Venture  not  thither;  bide  thou  here  with  us. 

Here  are  cool,  mossy  beds  for  weary  limbs. 

And  sweet  repose  for  who  have  journeyed  far." 

And  there  they  lay,  couched  on  the  bitter  sand. 


WALTER  H.  MANN 

With  serpents  of  the  desert  coiled  about  them. 

Contented  to  be  one  with  creeping  things. 

Transformed  by  foulness  till  the  foul  seemed  fair. 

Dust-blinded  to  the  beauty  of  the  world! 

So  all  night  long  I  rode  and  knew  not  where. 

But  let  my  charger  bear  me  where  he  would; 

Yet  well  he  bare  me,  for  at  break  of  day, 

At  the  first  hint  of  dawning  in  the  East, 

Brake  all  about  me  in  the  leafy  world 

Singing  of  myriad  birds,  and  at  my  feet 

A  spring  of  living  water  gurgled  by. 

And  on  my  armor  gleamed  the  gracious  dew. 

There  rested  I  all  day  and  through  the  night. 

But  when  another  dawning  woke  the  world, 

I  rose  and  journeyed  on,  for  still  the  quest 

Blazed  like  a  beacon  o'er  the  morning  mist. 

But  perilous  the  way  began  to  grow; 

Chasms  and  grottoes,  and  dim  precipices 

Lurked  in  the  shadows  on  the  narrow  path; 

My  charger  left  behind,  I  crept  along 

Painfully  clambering  from  stone  to  stone 

Slowly  toward  the  summit.     Far  below 

Faintly  the  world  gleamed,  insignificant. 

The  desert  shrunk  and  was  a  little  thing, 

For  well  I  knew  the  end  was  near  at  hand. 

And  onward,  ever  upward  I  did  climb 

By  dim  defiles,  o'er  cavernous  recesses 

Till  almost  past  endurance  grew  the  way, 

When  suddenly,  on  looking  up,  I  saw 

Far  overhead  a  blossom  in  the  sun 

The  perfect  Rose  of  beauty,  large  and  full, 

Yet  inaccessible,  too  high,  too  fair! 

O  Sire,  my  heart  cried  out  to  win  the  Rose 

As  though  it  were  the  chalice  of  our  Lord; 

So  when  I  failed  to  reach  it  life  grew  dim 

And  meaningless  and  futile  all  attempts 

To  strive  for  other  beauty  in  the  world. 

Oh  many  a  way  I  sought  to  reach  the  Rose; 

First,  piling  stone  on  stone  and  climbing  up, 

Almost  I  reached  it,  almost  touched,  and  fell 


THE  ROSE 

And  night  closed  round  me  and  without  a  star 

Crept  through  the  long,  still  hours  and  found  the  dawn. 

And  lo!  the  Rose's  heart  was  full  of  dew: 

And  as  I  strove  again  to  reach  it,  fell 

Upon  my  burning  forehead  one  cool  drop 

And  kissed  away  the  fever  of  despair. 

Then  woke  the  soul  unto  a  wondrous  peace, 

Saw  in  an  instant  what  a  better  thing 

It  is  to  fall  upon  the  highest  quest 

Seeking  the  perfect  beauty,  than  to  win 

Aught  that  is  less  than  all.     And  strength  withal 

Came  vrith  the  consciousness  of  failure.     Strength 

To  ride  forever  on  the  quest,  nor  swerve 

From  the  fixed  path.     And  as  I  stumbled  down 

Found  my  good  charger  and  set  forth  again 

Over  the  desert  to  thy  court,  O  Sire, 

Lo!  All  the  waste  had  vanished;  in  its  stead 

Blossomed  the  fair  rose-garden  of  the  world. 

For,  Sire,  the  Rose  breaking  in  blossom  there 

Upon  the  utmost  border  of  the  land. 

Made  all  the  world  a  fragrance,  made  the  sky 

Bluer  and  deeper,  yet  how  near  to  earth. 

And  on  my  lips  trembled  a  joyous  song. 

Lo!  As  I  rode,  O  Sire,  across  the  land. 
Tall  roses  bending  o'er  my  saddle  bow. 
Rich,  creamy  blossoms  of  the  sweets  of  life. 
And  passion  bursting  into  scarlet  bloom. 
And  pain  that  turns  to  beauty  crimson  clad. 
And  gentle  nun-like  sisters  all  in  white, 
Bending  before  me  in  humility. 
Half-opened  dewy  buds  and  fully  blown, 
And  some  whose  petals  fluttered  to  the  ground. 
All  sound  and  sweet,  no  canker  in  their  hearts. 
Each  seemed  a  far  reflection  of  the  Rose, 
Like,  yet  unlike,  as  men  resemble  gods. 
And  as  I  rode  through  flowery  fields  I  saw 
Old  age  a  slumber  in  a  magic  garth 
Amid  the  roses  underneath  the  stars. 
And  farther  on  were  men  within  the  fields. 


532  WALTER  H.  MANN 

Caretakers  of  the  garden  of  the  earth, 
Binding  the  golden  sheaves  through  sunny  hours 
While  in  their  hearts  the  happy  harvest  sang. 
And  far  beyond  them  in  a  flowery  mead 
Roses  of  love  break  into  perfect  bloom, 
Kissing  sweet  kisses  of  eternity. 
And  Sire,  I  saw  the  children  playing  there, 
Even  where  once  they  played  in  loathsome  sand. 
But  in  their  hair  the  yellow  rose-gold  clung 
And  blossomed  in  their  cheeks  the  blood  of  roses ; 
While  far  before  them  gleamed  the  shining  way 
Across  the  fair  rose-garden. 

Sire,  I  come, 
Knowing  this  miracle,  and  knowing  too, 
That  though  the  world  be  all  rose-garden,  still 
Blossoms  for  me  but  one,  the  sovereign  Rose. 
And  I  would  fare  again  across  the  world. 
Be  it  rose-garden  still,  or  waste  of  sand. 
All  one  to  me  so  I  behold  the  Rose 
There  where  the  heavens  meet  the  earth,  and  make 
Earth  all  that  we  desire.    And  so  farewell  I 


THE  FAITHLESS 

Translated  from  the  French  of  Sully  Prudhomtne 

By  Edith  Summers 

I  love  you  while  I  wait  my  destined  bride. 

She  who  will  come  her  arm  in  mine  to  twine 

In  those  far  isles  where  none  may  lonely  pine, 

And  friendship's  joy  and  love's  first  bliss  abide. 

Adown  the  valley  rolling  green  and  wide, 

Where  walk  thy  vanished  sisters  of  all  time 

Will  come  that  one  whose  soul  was  made  for  min<t, 

And  all  unmarked  of  thee  I  leave  thy  side. 

For  thou  thyself  wilt  follow  his  first  call 

Whose  heart  leaps  up  within  him  at  thy  view; 

Our  future  lives  will  fade  and  vanish  all, 

And  we  will  pass  from  each  as  travelers  do 

Whom  the  same  ship  brings  home  through  calm  and  squall 

To  part  —  and  soon  forget  their  friendships  new. 


533 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

THE  play  by  the  Russian  writer,  Leonid  AndrcMffy  piinfeiii 
this  issue,  has,  it  seems  to  us,  greater  strength  and  beaui^ilii 
any  Russian  play  yet  printed  in  Poet  Lore.  Iinlccd,  k 
the  nearest  to  being  a  work  of  real  inspiration  and 
any  Russian  play  we  have  yet  met  with  anywhere,  h 
same  lack  of  dramadc  construcrion  —  at  least  accordrngt 
our  ideas  —  which  seem  to  be  characteristic  of  Russian  plays.  Theieca 
hardly  be  said  to  be  any  acdon  in  the  dramatic  sense  at  aU;  onhr  an  cpisok 
in  Russian  governmental  oppression,  and  the  revealing,  by  means  of  da 
episode,  of  the  characters  of  an  intensely  interesting  group  of  people  whoat 
watching  far  up  upon  the  mountains  in  a  lonely  observatory  the  progitsiof 
events.  But  with  what  an  exquisite  touch  of  penetration  and  sympadqr  n 
the  various  and  on  the  whole  lovable  people  brought  before  us.  The  madir 
so  human,  brave,  and  gentle,  and  with  a  delicious  sense  of  humor;  thefadii 
grandly  living  aloft  and  misunderstood  among  his  stars,  and  yet  with  a  pcf* 
sonality  that  calls  out  the  utmost  devotion  from  such  finer  natures  as  lon^ 
Marusia,  and  Petia.  Then  there  is  the  poetic  and  excitable  young  Jcw,aBi 
Petia  with  his  wild,  symbolic  devotion  to  his  bride,  down-trodden  Rasa. 
The  hero  of  the  episode  is  Nicholas,  whom  we  never  see,  yet  we  grow  idqb 
and  more  conscious  of  his  power  through  the  suspense  and  anxiety  of  all  ii 
regard  to  his  fate;  and  who  is  there  among  us  who  can  hear  Marusia  tdl dm 
fate  in  the  last  act  without  a  thrill  of  overwhelming  feeling  as  though  for  die 
loss  of  one  we  know  and  love  ?  The  effect  of  this  scene  is  beyond  ^orfs 
wonderful. 

Here  is  a  play  in  which  there  is  no  hero  that  appears,  no  villain  except  die 
far-off  Russian  government,  no  iovemaking,  no  strangling  psychological 
conflicts  between  old  and  new  ideals  of  love,no  dramatic  action  to  speak  of; 
a  play  in  which  every  one  is  fine,  true,  and  loyal.  Yet  with  none  of  the  c^ 
ments  a  play  is  supposed  to  have  it  is  one  of  the  most  stirring  things  we  have 
ever  read  and  with  fine  acting  might  hold  an  audience  spellbound.  It  is  fuD 
of  pathos,  of  universal  human  feeling,  and  of  an  uplifting  philosophy.  An- 
dreieff  is  to  be  thanked  for  writing  a  truly  great  play  that  leaves  us  with 
only  an  uplifted  outlook  upon  life,  symbolized  in  the  greatness  of  soul  of  the 
three  to  whom  Nicholas  was  nearest:  his  father,  with  an  all-seeing  philoso- 
phy born  of  the  stars,  that  puts  suffering  and  sorrow  among  the  fleeting 
phenomena  of  existence;  his  wife,  whose  grief  makes  her  henceforth  the 
servant  of  suffering  humanity,  and  his  mother,  whose  heart  will  weep  eter- 
nally— so  should  the  spirit,  the  will,  and  the  heart  hold  itself  toward  suffering 
otherwise  too  great  to  be  borne,  until  that  time  when  there  shall  be  a  new 
heaven  and  a  new  earth. —  H.  A.  C. 

534 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  535 

OOKS  into  which  their  author  has  artistically  put  his  true  self 

stay  with  you.    Their  power  is  beyond  your  realization  when 

you  first  read  them.    The  force  instilled  is  more  important 

than  the  story,  the  situations  or  their  coloring,  the  characters 

or  ideas.     Like  the  impression  of  a  personality,  it  remains  as 

the  essential  fact  behind  features,  face,  and  figure. 

'  The  Disciple  of  a  Saint,*  by  Vida  D.  Scudder,  is  such  a  rare  book  — 

I  strong  and  beautiful  book,  having  a  beauty  and  influence  that  is  spiritual 

ind  individual. 

While  you  read  it,  you  may  consciously  taste  its  distinctive  beauty  of 
ihrase,  its  balanced  threefold  structure,  with  the  bud  and  bloom  of  the  whole 
tory  shown  in  Prologue  and  Epilogue;  you  may  realize  its  culture,  picture- 
isqueness,  and  historic  bearing  upon  the  past  of  Italy,  or  the  interest  of  its 
:onflicring  characters  and  the  emotion  of  their  love  or  piety.  You  may  be 
|uite  carried  away  with  it,  delighting  in  Neri's  sudden  rescue  from  the  angry 
:rowd  in  Bologna,  in  Catherine's  miraculous  breadmaking,  or  haunted  by 
he  charm  of  the  beauriful  Ilaria  in  the  grotto  of  the  White  Lady,  and  the 
dgnificance  of  the  contrast  with  Catherine's  radiant  social  energy.  Or  pos- 
sibly, if  you  are  captious,  you  may  criticize  some  passing  episode  or  pietistic 
nanner  catching  your  notice  over-dominantly.  ooth  these  results  have  been 
Felt  by  its  readers,  sometimes  both  by  one  and  the  same  reader.  Inter- 
change of  impressions  among  a  group  interested  in  the  book  attests  this. 
But  the  main  great  thing  about  it  is  that  after  you  have  closed  it  and  effaced 
its  details  you  feel  subconsciously  its  characteristic  compulsion  of  ardor. 

Like  a  drama  or  a  poem  worthy  the  name,  *  The  Disciple  of  a  Saint ' 
has  what  too  few  modem  works  of  fiction  have, —  a  motive,  not  a  *  purpose/ 
quite  a  different  thing;  an  inner  vital  motive  that  artistically  pervades, 
unifies,  and  uplifts  it.  If  one  may  venture  to  define  it,  it  is  a  sense  of  the 
conflict  between  sensuous  and  intellectual  desires  and  joys,  and  desires  and 
joys  more  compelling  than  these,  because  more  spiritually  potent.  This 
conflict  is  embodied  in  the  hero,  Neri,  and  it  is  made  socially  and  historically 
significant  by  its  implied  application  to  a  similar  conflict  stirring  all  Italy  in 
the  fourteenth  century  between  the  desires  and  joys  of  the  reborn  pagan 
rulture  and  those  promised  by  the  Church  for  social  regeneration  through 
;elf-denial  and  sacrifice. 

Neri*s  beautiful  cousin,  Ilaria,  offspring  like  himself  of  pagan  Italy,  is 
:he  impersonation  of  joys  transcended  by  the  joys  of  the  spirit,  breathing 
ittraction  through  the  ardent  soul  of  St.  Catherine  of  Siena.  The  love  story 
>f  the  book  is  the  story  of  the  sacrifice  of  Ilaria's  mere  sweet  humanity  to  the 
livine  triumph  of  the  saint  in  the  soul  of  her  disciple.     But  Neri,  like  his 


536  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

spiritual  mother,  Catherine,  is  said  to  have  ^practised,  not  the  mysticism  of 
abstraction  derived  from  the  Orient,  dear  to  the  hermits  of  Lecceto  and  to 
many  other  mediaeval  contemplatives,  but  that  other  mysticism  which  in  die 
whole  world  of  visible  being  sees  Love  made  manifest  to  sense.  The  eaidi 
was  to  him  no  finality  on  the  one  hand,  no  illusion  on  the  other,  but  image  or 
sacrament  of  the  Unseen/ 

The  contest  and  division  the  story  has  been  at  pains  to  draw  between 
the  joys  of  the  seen  and  the  unseen  is  close  upon  fusion  and  unity  in  sudi 
mysticism  as  this.  There  is  a  modem  plane  of  life  upon  which  the  aspira- 
tions of  sense  and  spirit  complement  each  other.  Perhaps  of  this  life  sudi 
a  life  as  Neri*s  is  the  seed. —  C.  P. 


N'^AZIMOVA  as  Hedda  Gabler.  What  a  vista  of  emotions  she 
opens  up  to  me;  what  others  try  so  hard  to  do,  so  obvious^ 
hard,  she  does  with  so  much  ease  and  dripping  nicety. 
This  is,  I  think,  the  expression,  for  her  effects  fall  from  her 
with  almost  greasy  ease  and  facility.  Nazimova  is  die 
obvious  genius  who  does  seemingly  without  effort  what 
others  try  and  fail  so  abjectly  to  do.  She  wades  through  a  rich  sea  of  art; 
wades  languorously  with  an  almost  disconcerting  surety.  Characteristically 
she  goes  at  once  to  the  meat  of  the  matter.  Boredom  is  the  major  note  of 
Hedda's  infinite,  minute,  petty  boredom.  In  this  she  gets  sympathy  from 
her  audience;  it  is  a  disease  as  fashionable  as  appendicitis.  By  an  un- 
erring master  stroke  she  makes  Hedda  stir  vrith  unutterable  boredom  as 
she  dies;  that  even  in  her  death  — the  supreme  moment  of  interest  in  her 
life — she  is  a  trifle  ennui.  Maybe  the  glimpse  of  the  new  she  is  entering 
is  disappointing  ?  Would  it  be  sacrilegious  to  suggest  this  ?  It  is  one  of 
our  pet  theories  that  an  actor  should  act  all  over.  Nazimova  acts  from  her 
head  down.  Her  back  speaks:  her  arms  describe  emotions  and  paint 
ideas:  her  hands  and  fingers  punctuate,  emphasize  points,  and  spread  out 
her  tones;  her  feet  keep  time  with  her  thoughts;  are  slow,  restless,  quick,  or 
impatient,  as  the  case  may  be.  Her  eyelids  speak  louder  and  more  vehe- 
mently than  most  actors  do  with  their  whole  beings:  her  eyes  are  a  drama  in 
themselves.  Nazimova  is  an  actress  I  charming  personalities  we  have  in 
plenty:  accomplished  virtuosoes  are  numerous,  but  an  actress!  one  who 
can  paint  opposite,  antagonistic  individuals  and  portray  them  through  the 
same  medium.  These  one  can  count  on  one  hand  and  at  that  would  the 
thumb  be  called  into  service  ?  —  Arthur  Row 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  537 

■  ^  ■  ^HERE  is  a  dainty  book,  published  not  so  very  long  ago,  which 
B  ^  I  ^  will  have  a  perennial  charm  as  a  tiny  Browning  anthology. 
t  H  It  is  made  up  of  Mrs.  Browning's  *  Sonnets  from  the  Portu- 

li  I  guese/  and  six  other  of  her  lyrics  begotten  of  the  emotion 

If         «^B^        aroused  by  Robert  Browning's  wooing,  together  with  all  the 

very  few  poems  wherein  Robert  Browning  himself  may  cer- 

II  tainly  be  caught  indirectly  unlocking  his  heart.      It  was  Mr.  R.  W.  Gilder's 

iri  happy  idea  to  group  these  autobiographical  poems  in  this  attractive  shape,  and 

^  he  prefixed  a  sympathetic  and  interesting  introduction  to  the  love-history 

i  thus  written  in  poems.   He  supplies  from  their  letters,  and  from  other  sources, 

dates  and  many  another  item  of  interest,  supplementing  the  record  of  'the 

most  perfect  example  of  wedded  happiness  in  the  history  of  literature  — 

perfect  in  the  inner  life  and  perfect  in  its  poetical  expression.' 

Commenting  on  the  Sonnets,  which  Browning  was  first  to  praise  when 
J  he  said,  *  I  dared  not  reserve  to  myself  the  finest  sonnets  written  in  any  lan- 
V  guage  since  Shakespeare's,'  Mr.  Gilder  says: 

,  *  Every  one  of  the  forty-four  "  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese  "  follows  the 

g  Italian  method  rather  than  the  English  or  Shakesperian  sonnet  form.  Within 
,  the  form  chosen  they  have  an  interesting  mingling  of  regularity  with  irregu- 
brity.  In  only  seven  of  the  sonnets  (Sonnets  iv,  viii,  xiii,  xvi,  xxvii,  xxxv, 
and  xliii)  is  there  a  full  pause  at  the  end  of  the  octave.  Otherwise  there  is 
a  great  regularity,  the  whole  forty-four  poems  having  the  same  scheme  of 
rhymes,  there  being  uniformly  but  two  rhymes  in  the  octave  and  two  in  the 
sestet  (arranged  thus:  i,  2,  2,  i;  i»  2,  2,  i;  3,  4,  3,  4,  3,  4).  In  the  seven 
•onnets  where  there  is  a  full  pause  at  the  end  of  the  octave,  six  of  these  are 
true  pauses,  but  in  one  (Sonnet  xliii)  there  are  other  pauses  which  break  the 
effect  of  the  octave.  Again,  in  only  three  of  these  seven  (Sonnets  iv,  xiii,  and 
idiii)  are  the  quatrains  of  the  octave  marked.  Speaking  technically,  then. 
Sonnets  iv  and  xiii  are  the  nearest  perfection,  though  as  poems  they  rank  no 
higher  than  others  in  the  series.  In  this  series,  though  there  are  such  rhymes 
ms  "  bum  "  and  "  scorn,"  "  desert  "  and  "  heart,"  "  south  "  and  "  truth," 
the  writer  has  fortunately  not  ventured  upon  such  extreme  experiments  in 
rhyming  as  earlier  she  conscientiously  pursued.  It  may  be  further  noted 
that  in  fourteen  of  her  other  group  of  forty-four  sonnets,  all  in  the  Italian 
form,  she  rhymes  differently  in  the  sestet.  ... 

'  No  technical  analysis  can  discover  the  elements  of  endless  attraction 
and  power  of  inspiration  contained  in  these  poems.  It  would  seem  as  if  the 
breaking  down  of  the  barrier  between  octave  and  sestet,  in  this  case,  was  by 
instinctive  and  fortunate  choice,  and  in  accordance  with  the  peculiar  and 
individual  flow  of  thought  and  diction  ....  in  their  profound  vision,  their 


538  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

flaming  sincerity,  the  eloquence  with  which  they  express  the  self-abi 
no  less  than  the  self-assertion  of  genuine  love,  they  transcend  the 
dons  of  sex  and  proclaim  authentically  not  only  the  woman's 
also  that  which  is  common,  in  the  master  passion,  to  both  woman 

Besides  *  One  Word  More,'  *  Prospice,'  and  the  *  Lyric  Love ' 
from  *  The  Ring  and  the  Book,'  Mr.  Gilder  was  almost  half-mind< 
to  the  poems  representing  Browning's  lyric  expression  of  his  love,  dj 
poem  *  My  Star,'  the  more  so  as  he  found  in  the  Love  Letters  his 
thority  for  saying  that  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  was  his  *  Star^'^'^^^y^ 
letter  to  her,  postmarked  November  lo,  1845.  *  I  believed,'  1^"  r^ 
wrote,  *  in  your  glorious  genius  and  knew  it  for  a  true  star  from  thcjv^/^;^^ 
I  saw  it;  long  before  I  had  the  blessing  of  knowing  it  was  my  star-p^^o^ 
fortune  and  futurity  in  it.'  In  the  midst  of  his  querying  aboy^*^  [f^ 
Edmund  Gosse  sent  Mr.  Gilder  a  letter  giving  his  view  upon  it  asfiPP>J^y7^ 

*  I  cannot  for  a  moment  consent  to  beUeve  that  "  My  Star  T^ ^<^/^  //^ 
E.  B.  B.     Wh2Lt  is  the  analysis  of  the  symbol  ?    Somebody  or  sqf  ^'^yag, 
like  spar — an  object  hiding  in  a  dark  place,  absolutely  invisible  <P^^**^^  ' 
nary  gazer,  but  flashing  (to  the  poet, —  who  stands  or  moves  at  ajP  ,       .  ^ 
angle  — )  "  now  a  dart  of  red,  now  a  dart  of  blue."    The  poet  hdm  '  n    ^"? 
this  ""  star,"  and  has  praised  it  so  loudly  and  so  long  that  his  i^^j^^^  •    / 
round  and  "  would  fain  see  it  too.  ..."     But  he  cannot  sh^^^  ^^^ 
invisible  to  any  eye  but  his,  and  they  must  solace  themselves  ^^^ican  civ 
licity  of  Saturn.     All  this  is  incompatible  with  the  idea  of  E.  B.  4j^g  fishei 
a  famous  poet,  extremely  before  the  public,  herself  a  "  Saturn  V^em  time 
R.  B.  knew  her.  .  .  .  My  own  conviction  has  always  been  that  1^  ^f  j^^r 
indicate  a  person  at  all  by  "  My  Star."     I  think  he  meant  a  certa*^  <  Sonj> 
individual  quality  of  beauty  in  verse,  or  something  analogous.      r^  tallow 
that  it  flashed  its  red  and  blue  at  him,  was  a  bird  to  him  and  a  fl<y  of  the 
despaired  (this  is  quite  an  early  poem)  of  making  his  contempc^,  '-ri^e 
They  must  solace  themselves  with  Wordsworth  or  with  Tennjif  Ji^-^ 
the  famous  and  popular  E.  B.  B.,  or  with  the  recognized  and  hi  S^. 
of  aesthetic  beauty.    Some  years  ago  I  came  across  by  accident  a  c  x-      ^^^ 

.     He  said:        L  art,  c  est  cette  etoile:  _    p.  ,    ^' 
Was  not  R.  B.  thinking  of  this  ?    Prea_  ^^"''^  ^1 
few  years  his  senior.     I  have  never  made  use  of  this,  but  I  give  1^   1"^^  ^'^ 
(I  think)  important.      That  the  Star  had  nothing  whatever^^ . '^^c/} 
E.  B.  B.  I  regard  as  absolutely  certain.'  ^  "  "^  ^^pp> 

■  -■"-';  ^asth 
Smil, 


French  sculptor  Preault 
vous  ne 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  539 

rHE  PILGRIMS,'  a  poem,  which  is  a  series  of  poems,  Ameri- 
can even  in  its  separable  unity,  has  grown  up  under  Mn 
Nathan  Haskell  Dole's  cultured  and  affluent  fancy,  in  fulfil- 
ment of  the  request  made  him  to  write  the  commemorauve 
poem  for  the  exercises  of  last  August,  at  the  laying  of  the 
cornerstone  of  the  Pilgrim  monument,  at  Provincetown. 
An  extremely  original  and  interesting  plan  underlies  this  poedc  work, 
scheme  is  to  knit  together  in  a  composite  national  song  poems  of  the  un- 
entious  daring  of  the  early  Pilgrims,  their  Mayflower  voyage,  and  historic 
arion  of  democracy  with  poems  of  the  multifarious  achievements  of  their 
;  in  the  New  World. 

The  triumphant  progress  of  the  nation  and  the  march  of  the  centuries 
ear  suggestively  in  the  four  movements  of  this  symphonic  poem.  The 
depicts  the  voyage  of  the  Mayflower  and  its  significance.  The  second 
tes  to  the  signing  of  the  famous  compact  off  Provincetown  and  its  im- 
ance  as  herald  of  democracy.  The  third  is  a  dramatic  scherzo  in  which 
ain  Pilgrims,  having  reached  old  age,  describe  to  their  grandchildren  the 
dents  of  the  first  landing.  The  fourth  movement  would  be  called  in 
;ic  a  '  free  fantasia.'  It  tells  in  about  forty  poems  of  varying  lengths  and 
:hms  of  the  outgrowth  of  the  Pilgrim  settlement.  They  give  a  history  and 
ure  of  American  civilization.  There  is  a  *  Song  of  Labor,'  describing  the 
eriences  of  the  fishermen  off  shore  and  on  the  Banks;  of  roadmakers  in 
:n  and  modem  times;  of  the  newspaper  as  picturing  all  phases  of  life. 
:re  are  songs  of  holidays:  July  Fourth,  Labor  Day,  Lincoln's  Birthday, 
There  is  a  *  Song  of  Light,'  picturesquely  tracing  the  spread  of  ilium- 
ion  from  the  tallow  *  dip  '  and  the  bayberry  candle  down  to  electricity, 
ire  is  a  *  Song  of  the  Fleet.' 

One  of  the  ingenious  enhancements  of  the  celebration  of  the  voyage  of 
Pilgrims  to  this  new  land  is  a  little  cycle  of  songs  of  other  historic  i mi- 
its  whose  adventure  was  the  seed  of  great  civilizations:  son^  of  the 
enician  and  Norse  sailors,  and  of  Greek  and  Roman  exiles,  i  he  easy 
atility  of  Mr.  Dole  appears  throughout  the  work  in  the  variety  of  meters 
rly  redeeming  the  verse  from  monotony.  These  are  skilfully  selected 
uit  the  genius  of  each  race.  The  song  of  the  Ionian  exiles,  for  instance, 
ritten  in  graceful  sapphics.     Here  are  the  first  five  stanzas: 

*  Thin  was  the  soil  our  mountain-vale  offered. 
Sloping  down  sharply  where  the  sea-margin 
Curved  in  and  out  with  numberless  islets 
Smiling  in  sunshine. 


540  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

*  Here  lived  our  fathers,  peaceful  and  happy; 
Here  stood  the  temples  carved  of  white  marblci 
Facing  the  sea,  the  azure  £gean, 

Home  of  Poseidoni. 

*  Room  has  grown  scanty,  forth  we  must  wander. 
Seeking  new  lands  where  cities  may  flourish, 
Buildingnew  shrines  for  Zeus,  Aphrodite, 

rallas,  Apollo. 

*  Farewell,  Ionia,  marble-rich  homeland ! 
We  from  Sikelia,  gazing  with  homesick 
Hearts,  full  of  longing,  oft  will  remember 

All  the  old  legends. 

*  We  will  remember  streamlet  and  mountain. 
Unto  the  new  land  bear  the  old  place-names. 
Build  us  like  temples,  white-marble-columned. 

Carve  us  like  statues.' 
The  serious  purpose  of  the  whole  is  to  inspire  patriotism,  to  waken 
civic  pride  to  picture 

*  The  comedy,  the  tragedy,  the  strife. 

The  passion,  the  enormous  labor;  to  rehearse 
The  daily  history;  to  show  in  terse 
Dramatic  narrative  three  centuries  rife 
With  infinite  growth,  Life  personal,  World-Life. 
What  marvelous  choice  for  poet's  triumph-verse! 

*  Only  a  segment  of  the  circle  grand, 
Only  one  billow  from  the  boundless  Main, 
From  off  the  beach  only  one  grain  of  sand; 

Yet  in  that  segment,  billow,  crystal  grain, 
Somewhat  of  the  beauty  one  can  understand. 
And  so  the  labor  is  not  wholly  vain ! ' 

Mr.  Dole  has  been  laureate  American  for  a  number  of  civic  and  historic 
occasions,  and  some  five  or  six  other  poems  and  odes  are  included  in  the 
extremely  handsome,  privately  printed  volume  of '  The  Pilgrims  and  Other 
Poems,'  issued  this  December.  This  is  his  third  book  of  verse,  '  The  Haw- 
thorn Tree  '  and  '  The  Building  of  the  Organ  '  preceding.  Although  the 
most  serious  and  substantial,  it  is  his  most  varied  and  flexible  poetic  achieve- 
ment. 


INDEX  TO  VOLUME  XVIII 


^prins— )i^tnter,  1907 

The  complete  plays  in  this  volume  are  D*Annunxio*s  **  Daughter  ofjorio,"  Bracco*s 
"  Hidden  Spring:*  ffUde's  "  Salome,*'  Hauptmann's  *'And  Pippa  Dances,"  and 
Andreiefs  "  To  the  Stars." 

PAGE 

And  Pippa  Dances,  a  Mystical  Tale  in  Four  Acts  —  Gerhardt  Hauptmann         289 
AndreiefF,  Leonid  —  To  the  Stars,  a  Drama  in  Four  Acts  417 

Archer,  Ruby  —  The  Idyl  of  Israel 97 


Baker,  HanyT. —  Two  Sonnets  ..... 
Batt,Max  —  The  Feeling  for  Nature  .... 
Bhke,  Katharine  G. —  The  Characters  of  Othello  and  lago  . 

Bloch,  Louis  J. —  Poetry 

Bnicco,  Roberto  —  The  Hidden  Spring,  a  Drama  in  Four  Acts 
Brooks,  Van  Tyne  —  The  Lyric  Origins  of  Swinburne 
Biyan,  G.  S.  —  Pliny's  Authors 

Qarke,  Helen  A. —  Life  and  Letters  .... 


lyAnnunzio,  Gabriel  —  The  Daughter  of  Jorio,  a  Pastoral  Tragedy 

—  Pietro  Isola 
Daughter  of  Jorio,  The  —  Gabriel  D'Annunzio 
Dickinson ,  Thomas  —  Ristori  in  America 
Dunbar,  Mary  Louise  —  Pastoral  Poetry  . 


Faithless,  The  —  Sully  Prudhomme 

Fidelity  —  Catulle  Mendes 

Florer,  Warren  Washburn  —  Hilligenlei    . 

French  Plays  and  Novelists,  Current  —  Curtis  Hedden  Pagp 

Fryer,  Eugenie  M.—  Hewlett  and  Heam :  Two  T)rpes  of  Orienulists 

German  Book  World,  The  —  Amelia  Von  En  de 
German  Poetry  and  Drama,  Current  —  Amelia  Von  Ende 
^»  German  Writers,  Among  the  —  Amelia  Von  Ende 
m  German  Writers,  Recent  Works  of — Amelia  Von  Ende 

■rf  Golden  Bough,  The  — Edith  M.  Thomas  .... 

mi  Grummann,  Paul  H. —  Hauptmann's  Treatment  of  Germanic  Myths 

S  541 


412 
259 

224 

143 
468 

519 


138,414,534 


I 

487 

I 
265 


533 
413 
377 
"3 
47« 

28c 

123 

481 

404 

a77 
89 


543t 


INDEX  TO  VOLUME  XVIII 


Hauptmann,  Gerhardt  —  And  Pippa  Dances,  a  Mystical  Tale  in  Four  Acts 
Hauptmann's  Treatment  of  Germanic  Myths  —  Paul  H.  Gnimmann 
Hewlett  and  Heam :  Two  Types  of  Orientalists  —  Eugenie  M.  Fryer 
Hidden  Spring,  The,  Drama  in  Four  Acts  —  Roberto  Bracco 
Hilligenlei  —  Warren  Washburn  Florcr     .... 
Hymn  to  the  Winged  Nike  —  Florence  Kiper 


lago,  The  Characters  of  Othello  and  —  Katherine  G.  Blake 

Idyl  of  Israel,  The  —  Ruby  Archer  . 

In  Asole  —  Lucy  S.  Conant     .... 

Isola,  Pietro  —  Current  Italian  Literature 

—  Gabriel  D'Annunzio 
Italian  Literature,  Current  —  Pietro  Isola 

Jessop,  Alexander  —  The  Poetry  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


47I 

377 
401 

236 

97 
M7 

»3> 
487 
»3« 

396 


Keats,  the  Boyhood  of  —  Agnes  Lee.         ..... 

Kiper,  Florence  —  Hymn  to  the  Winged  Nike    .... 

Lady  of  Tripoli,  The  —  Curtis  Hedden  Page      .... 

Lambreth,  David  Kelley  —  Pippa  Passes  on  the  Stage 

Lee,  Agnes  —  The  Boyhood  of  Keats         ..... 

Life  and  Letters         ...  ..... 

Litanies  of  Love  —  Curtis  Hedden  Page    ..... 

Literature  of  Portugal,  The  —  Isabel  Moore       .... 

Lyric  Origins  of  Swinburne  —  Van  Tyne  Brooks 

Mann,  Walter  H. —  The  Rose  ...... 

Marks,  Jeannette  —  The  Passing  of  the  Green    .... 

Mendes,  Ca  tulle  —  Fidelity     ....... 

Midsummer's  Night's  Dream,  The,  a  Conception  —  Catherine  Postell 
Moore,  Isabel — The  Literature  of  Portugal       .... 

Mother's  Cry,  The  —  Edith  M.  Thomas    ..... 

Nature,  The  Feeling  for  —  Max  Batt         ..... 

Othello  and  lago,  the  Characters  of —  Katharine  G.  Blake   . 

Page,  Curtis  Hedden  — Current  French  Plays  and  Novelists 

— Litanies  of  Love.  .... 

— The  Lady  of  Tripoli      .... 

Pascoli  and  Recent  Italian  Poetry  —  Gertrude  E.  T.  Slaughter 

Passing  ofthe  Green,  The  —  Jeannette  Marks    .... 

Pastoral  Poetry  —  Mary  Louise  Dunbar    ..... 


i38> 


lai 
402 

27S 
107 
122 

414,  S3J 
195 
342 
468 

528 

393 
413 

5" 
342 
198 

259 
236 

"3 

195 
278 

501 

393 
265 


INDEX  TO  VOLUME  XVIII 


543 


Gynt,  an  Interpretation  —  Jane  Dransfield  Stone 

a  Passes  on  the  Stage  —  David  Kelley  Lambreth 

^'s  Authors  —  G.  S.  Bryan         .... 

ry  —  Louis  J.  Block  ..... 

ry  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  —  Alexander  Jessop 

tr,  Charlotte  —  Life  and  Letters 

jgal,  The  Literature  of  —  Isabel  Moore 

;ll,  Catherine  —  The  Midsummer's  Night's  Dream,  a  Conception 

homme,  Sully  —  The  Faithless 

ivi  in  America  —  Thomas  Dickinson  . 

,The  —  Walter  H.Mann  .... 

ne,  a  Tragedy  in  One  Act  —  Oscar  Wilde    . 

psteen,  Helena  —  Three  Days   .... 

ce  —  SaraTeasdale  ..... 

r  Flute,  The  —  Arthur  Upson    .... 

rhter,  Gertrude  E.  T. —  Pascoli  and  Recent  lulian  Poetry 

5,  Jane  Dransfield  —  Peer  Gynt,  An  Interpretation 

bume.  The  Lyric  Origins  of  —  Van  Tyne  Brooks 

dale,  Sara  —  Silence 

tias,  Edith  M.  —  The  Golden  Bough 

—  The  Mother  Cry    . 
eDays  —  Helena  Sharpsteen     .... 
t  Surs,  a  Drama  in  Four  Acts  —  Leonid  AndreieflP 
Sonnets  —  Harry  T.Baker       .... 

n,  Arthur  —  The  Silver  Flute    .... 

Ende,  Amelia  —  Recent  German  Poetry  and  Drama 

—  The  German  Book  World 

—  Recent  Works  by  German  Writers 

—  Among  the  German  Writers 


383 
107 

519 
224 

396 

138.414,533 
342 
522 

533 

243 
528 

199 

395 
401 

187 
501 

383 
468 

401 
277 
198 

395 

417 
412 

187 

123 
280 

404 
481 


J,  Oscar  —  Salome,  a  Tragedy  in  One  Act  . 


99 


I 


I