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-53.-^ {^f^J 




A Magazine of Letters 





Volume 18 


NEW YORK, N. Y. 10003 


nH-^t.^ O'-y^ 




New York, N. Y. 10003 

Printed in USA. 



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. 


\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 


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. 


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- ^ 


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. 


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. 





Ornella [Singing]. 





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? 








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.] 





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 ! 


[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 

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 

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. 


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< 

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

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.] 


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 

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 

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. 









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 ! 

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. 






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 

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, 


First in sun burn the sickles, then wounds they 

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 

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 






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. 


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. 


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.] 


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 

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.] 



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.] 



La Cinerella. 


La Catalana. 

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 


Maria di Giave. 


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, 


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 

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? 






: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, 




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, 


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 

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. 


[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 

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 


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 


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 


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 




Anna di Bova. 
Maria Cora. 




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 ! 




[^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 

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. 



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 


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. 


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 ! 


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 


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 


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 

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 

[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.] 



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 


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 ! 


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 

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 


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 !" 


[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 /< 


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

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

And beg him bear onward my loving thoughts 

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. 


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- 



[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. ] 



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. 

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 : 





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. 


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 

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 

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.] 


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? 

shepherd Aligi ! God's are the just steelyards of 

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

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? 


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 

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, 

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




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 

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. 


^ST Shepherd. 




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

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

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 




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 

Over us hovers deep stillness. Aligi, just listen ! 

Hushed is the singing. With the grasses and snow- 

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, — 


Who the flowrets of Santo Giovanni 

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

Who bears them yet, wears them yet — ^in her scapi- 
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 
Mila. I cannot think. No. Yet give leave this one nij 

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

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 : 

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. 


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 

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? 


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 ! 


[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. ] 

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, 



The Cloaked One. 


The Cloaked One. 


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. 







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 ! 





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, — 


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 

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 






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 


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 


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. 


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

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 

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. 


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 ! 


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. 








[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 ! 




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 


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 ! 


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 

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 


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? \ 



[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 
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 ! 


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 




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. 



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? 




The Chorus 
OF Wailers. 


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. 


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 



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. 





The mother 
)rt her. She 






A Cora. 




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 

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 

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




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.] 


Felavia Sesara. 


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 

— 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 


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 

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 

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. 



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 

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. 


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 

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 


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 



'he Crowd. 


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. 



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. 



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. 








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, 

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 



La CxTALANil. 

La Catalana. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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 ! 



— ^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. 

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 ! 



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. 



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 


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- 


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 

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. 


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. 


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 


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 




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.' 


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- 


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 

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 — 


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 


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 

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 ^ 


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 


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 


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 

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 


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 

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 






^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 


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 

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. 


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 



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 


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 


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- 


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 


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. 



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 


• :« 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^ 


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 


the epoch, and the two later volumes, still to appear, will be especial) 

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 


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 


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 


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 


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" 


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. 


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. 


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! 



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. 



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. 


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 


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 


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 

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. 


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 


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 


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 

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 


>^^^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 

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 


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. 



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- 



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 

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 


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- 


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 

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 

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- 



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- 


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.' 


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. 


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 



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 
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 


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. 



A Drama in Four Acts 

By Roberto Bracco 
Translated by Dirce'St. Cyr 


The Princess Meralda Heller 
An Old Beggar 
Don Fausto 
Romolo (a servant) 

The scene is laid in Naples^ at the present time 


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. 




{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 

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 

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. 



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 

Romolo {shrugging his shoulders^ exit behind the house). 

Valentine. — What shall I do, Madame Theresa, everybody laughs 

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 

Valentine. — Leave him to me. 

Theresa {runs away to the back of the house). 



{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 

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. 


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! 


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 


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 

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 

Don Fausto. — Seven hundred for the frame and five hundred for each 

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 


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. 



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 

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 ] 

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. 


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 


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. 


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 

Theresa {quite worried sits on the bench and begins to sew). 



{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! 


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 

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. 


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 — 


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. 



{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 

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 


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 


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 — 


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). 




Valentine (approaching). — Victory, victory, Madame Theresa! 

Theresa (makes a movement of joy^ then immediately tries to contrd 

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 

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. 


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 

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 

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. 


Theresa. — Oh, Stephen! What a comfort this is to me! {kissing kin 

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 

Theresa and Stephen {under the rain of rosesy keep on kissing ea 
other and laughing). 

Valentine {laughing). — Surrender! 


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. 



{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! 


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). 



{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 


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 

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 


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 

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 

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. 


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. 



{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 

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 


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 

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, 


Meralda. — Good by, Madame. 
Theresa {exit from right door). 



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!' 


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 


Stephen {takes the cloak and helps her with it, murmuring^ Are ] 

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) 



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 


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 

Stephen. — I haven't the time to teach you what to do. Try to control 

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 

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. 


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 . 

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 

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: 


^ for having annoyed him, I shall be very grateful to him. Good by, 

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 


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 


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. 


The same scene as the second act. The action takes place in the aftemotnu 
The door up stage is open. 



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. 


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 

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. 


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. 



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. 


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 

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 

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. 



{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! 


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 

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. 


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. 


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 




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 


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. — 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^ 


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 

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 
agitated, think it over. I will postpone my departure. 

otephen. — Yes. 

Meralda. — Au revoir, Stephen! — 

Stephen {does not answer). 

Meralda (going towards the terrace). 



(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\ — 


Theresa {laughing). 

Stephen (letting her arm go). — Nothing! Nothing! (fFom out^ falls 
a chair). Nothing! 

Theresa {goes on laughing). 


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 



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 

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. 


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 


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). 



{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 

Stephen {seeing her would like to hide himself). 


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 

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 

Valentine {going to him). — Let me convince you. Don't be so 

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). 


Theresa {rising quickly). — What do you want? 
Stephen (impulsively embraces her). — I wish you would see that I am 

{Exit quickly) 




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. 



Stephen s voice (outside). — Valentine! Valentine! — | 



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 


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). 



{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, 


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. 


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 


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. 


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. 


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! 


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. 


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. 


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. 


By Curtis Hidden Page 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 



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. 


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!" 


A Tragedy in One Act 
Translated from the French of Oscar Wilde 


OD Antipas, Tetrarch of Judaea. 
kKAAN, The Prophet. 
Young Syrian, Captain of the Guard. 
XLINUS, a young Roman. 
^ Soldier 
nd Soldier. 
Page of Herodias. 
; Nazarenes, Etc. 

MAN, The Executioner. 
ODIAS, wife of the Tetrarch. 
>ME, daughter of Herodias. 
Slaves of Salome. 


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. 



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. 


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? 


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 

Salome. Who was that who cried out? 


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 

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. 


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. 


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 

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. 


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. 


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 

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. 


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. 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 


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? 


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 

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 

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? 


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 

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- 


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 

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 


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 

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 ? 


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 


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. 



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 


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 


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 


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? 


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 


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. 


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 


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.) 



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 



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 
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. 


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 


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- 


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) 


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. 


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 


^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 
bea re r s of the idea of the world and their deeds were the salvation of 

A distinction must be made between narrative poems, however 
elaborate and finished, and the true epic. The former are to be found in 


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 


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 


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 


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?*' 


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.* 




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 


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 

'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 


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.* 


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 


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 


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 


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. 


!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 


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. 


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 

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." ' 



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 


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. 


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 


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 


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 


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 

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? 


^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! 


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. 


'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 


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 


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 


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!' 


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, 


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.' 


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. 


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. 


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 


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. 


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 

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 


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 


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. 


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:' 


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 


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 


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. 


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 


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 


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, 


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 

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 

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. 


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 

' 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 


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 


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. 


'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.* 


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!" 


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 


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! 


// / 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^ 
my poet'king, my poet4over. 


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 


^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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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< 


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 


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. 





{A mystical tale of the glass-works^ in four acts) 

By Gerhart Hauptmann 
Translated from the German by Mary Homed 


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 


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. 


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 


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 

(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. 


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. 


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 

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 


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! 


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 

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 

(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 

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. 


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 


OU Huhn. — I too, have had beautiful dreams before the furnace 

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 ? — 


{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 

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. 


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! 


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 

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 ? 


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. 


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 

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 


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 ? 


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 

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 

First Woodman. — Roar away, you; there are no police here! 

Second Woodman. — Far and wide there's nothing but snow and pine 

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! 


All {speaking at once). — Now, he must be killed! Now it's all up with 

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- 


(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 

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 


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. 


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 


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 

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 


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 

{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 

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! 


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- 

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 


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 


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 ! 


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 


(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 ! 


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! 


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! 


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.) 


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 


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 


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. 


(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 

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 ? 


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! 


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. 


{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 

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 ! — 


{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 


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 

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 

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.) 


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 

HellriegeL — What are you afraid of? 

Pippa. — I don't know what! I wonder whether the doors are shut 

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. 


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. 


{He takes from the table carefullyj in both hands, a model of a Venetian 

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 

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 

(At the mention of flight and fear, Hellriegel springs up and Pippa and 


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! 


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. 


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.) 

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 

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. 


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! — 


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 

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! 


Here is no provender for prowling beasts of prey — 
Here in this snowbound house of God! 


{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 


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 

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! 


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. 


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 

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 

Hellriegel. — Like your own! 


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! 


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 

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. 


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 


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 

{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 

{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 ? 


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 

Wann. — Yes, if you see spring's ravine down there, good Michael, 



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 

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 ! 


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 


\€^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! 


By Isabel Moore 


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. 


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 


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- 


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 


> 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. 


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!' 



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 


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 


^^p miy 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. 


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: 


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.' 


'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- 


(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. 


'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, ^ 


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' 


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 


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.' 


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- 


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: 


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?' 


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. 


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. 


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) 


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. 


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 


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 


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 


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!' 


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. 


* 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!' 

'It was a little smile that stole 
The cherished sweets of rest/ 


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, 


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 

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. 


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! 


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 







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 


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: 


'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.' 


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 


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- 

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 


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 


and following more the traditions of the sixteenth century of Portuguese 

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^ 

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.' 


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- 

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 



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 


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. 


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 


' 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 


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 

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. * 


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. 



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. 


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.' 


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, — 


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.' 

*The King and the Prince give a feast.' 


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 ? ' 

*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 < 


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. 


* 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. 


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. 

*Cry out all my sins and my trespasses!' 
Solveig. — 

'In nought hast thou sinned, oh my own only boy!' 

*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. 


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. 



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. 



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 

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. 


By Helen Sharpsteen 


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. 


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. 


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. 




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, 



7e\l as his other qualities; the poem, 'The Unforgotten/ for example, 

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. 


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, 


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 
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 



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 

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 


: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. 


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 ? 


By Florence Kiper 


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! 


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, — 




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! 


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. 



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 



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- 

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 


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 

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. 


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 


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 

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 


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 

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- 


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( 

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{ 


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. 


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. 



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. 



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 

'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 



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 


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. 



^ {A drama in four acts) 

^ By Leonid Andreieff 

Translated from the Russian by Dr. A. Goudiss 


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. 


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 

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. 


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 

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, 


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. 


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! 


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 

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 


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 ? 


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. 


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 

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! 


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! 


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, 

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. 


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 

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 

{A pause. The storm and the hell.) 

Zhitoff {not turning). — Are you going to Canada with Sergius Nik - 
aevitch to see the eclipse ? 


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 .? 


Ferchovtxeff (weakly). — Don't — worry, mother; it's a trifle — my 

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 


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 

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! 


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. 


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 

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. 


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 

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. 


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 

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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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 

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 ? 


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. 


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 

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 


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 

Sergius. — Do you see the inscription {pointing to the front of the 
\servatory.) Haec domusUraniae est. Curae procul este profanae. Teneni" 
r hie humilis tellu