



Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books





Transcriber's Notes:
  1. Page scan source:
     http://books.google.com/books?id=FZ8W-SIMSR4C&dq

  2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
  3. Greek words are transliterated in bracket [Greek: ].






Whole Vol. XII.  YEARLY, $2.50  EACH NUMBER, 65 CENTS.      No. 2

NEW SERIES IV.

                               POET-LORE

                A  QUARTERLY  MAGAZINE  OF  LETTERS


                             SECOND NUMBER.

                          VOL. IV. NEW SERIES.

                        April, May, June, 1900.


POETRY AND FICTION.

THE THREE HERON'S FEATHERS. Hermann Sudermann

MARAH OF SHADOWTOWN. Verses. Anne Throop

DIES IRAE. Verses. William Mountain


APPRECIATIONS AND ESSAYS.

GEORGE MEREDITH ON THE SOURCE OF DESTINY. Emily G. Hooker

THE TRAGEDY OF OPHELIA. David A. McKnight

CLEWS TO EMERSON'S MYSTIC VERSE. III. William Sloane Kennedy

A DEFENCE OF BROWNING'S LATER WORK. Helen A. Clarke


SCHOOL OF LITERATURE.

GLIMPSES OF PRESENT-DAY POETS. A Selective Reading Course. II. An
American Group: Edmund Clarence Stedman, Louise Chandler Moulton,
Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Louise Imogen Guiney, Richard Hovey, Bliss
Carman, Hannah Parker Kimball.


REVIEWS.

'Songs from the Ghetto' and 'A Vision of Hellas.' Harriott S.
Olive.--Col. Higginson's 'Contemporaries' and Mrs. Howe's
'Reminiscences.' Helen Tracy Porter.


LIFE AND LETTERS.

The Modern Unrest in Nations, Markets and Minds.--Its
Portent.--Goethe's Iphigenia at Harvard. H. S. O.--Is Browning a
Legitimate Member of the Victorian School? Mary M. Cohen.--Etc.

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                               POET-LORE

Vol. XII.                                                   No. 2

            --_wilt thou not haply saie,
            Truth needs no collour with his collour fixt,
            Beautie no pensell, beauties truth to lay:
            But best is best if never intermixt.
          Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
          Excuse no silence so, for 't lies in thee,
          To make him much outlive a gilded tombe:
             And to be praised of ages yet to be.
             Then do thy office_----




                      THE THREE HERON'S FEATHERS.

                         BY HERMANN SUDERMANN.

                               *   *   *

                              Characters.

The Queen of Samland.               Skoell,  \
The young Prince, her son.          Ottar,   >  The Duke's men.
Anna Goldhair, her attendant.       Gylf,   /
Coelestin, her Major-domo.           The Burial-wife.
The Chancellor.                     Miklas, a peasant.
Widwolf, Duke of Gotland.           An old fisherman, a page,
Prince Witte.                         councillors, men and women of the
Hans Lorbass, his servant.          Queen, the Duke's men, the
                                      people.

_The scene of the first and fifth acts is laid on the coast of Samland;
that of the second, third, and fourth acts in the capital city._

_Between the fourth and fifth acts a period of fifteen years elapses._




                                 ACT I.

_The coast of Samland. The background <DW72>s upward at right and left
to wooded hills. Between them is a gorge, behind which the sea
glitters. In the right foreground are graves with wooden head-boards
and crosses, overgrown with shrubbery. At the left is a stout
watch-tower with a door in it. Common household furniture stands about
the threshold._


                                Scene I.

Hans Lorbass _seated on a grave with spade and shovel, a freshly dug
mound behind him._

_Hans Lorbass_ [_sings_].

                  Behind a juniper bush,
                  On a night in July warm and red,
                  Was my poor mother of me brought to bed
   [_Speaking_].  And knew not how.

                  Behind a juniper bush,
                  Between cock's crow and morning red,
                  I struck in drink my father dead,
   [_Speaking_].  And knew not who.

                  Behind a juniper bush,
                  When all the vermin have had their bite,
                  I'll stretch myself out and give up the fight
   [_Speaking_].  Still I know not when.

Yet one thing I know: anywhere hereabouts, a mile-stone or a
cross-roads will do very well some day; I do not need a juniper bush.
Let us say a garden hedge, that is a pleasant spot. If some day it
should come into my head to lie down beneath one, in the tall grass,
nearby a grave, and quietly turn my back on this dry, burnt-out old
world, who--a plague upon him--would have aught to say against it? Here
I sit and munch my crusts, and hold carouse--on water; [_getting up_]
here I stand and dig graves, a free-will servant to weakness. I dig the
graves of the unnamed, unknown, when icy waves toss them rotting on the
shore, tangled in slimy sea-weed. Once all my thoughts were wont to
follow on the foeman's path, to cleave him through with my blithely
swinging sword, to carve my path straight through the solid rock; yet
now I stand here and smile submission at a woman. But I bide my time
until my master comes again knocking to set me free from my graveyard
prison and breathe new life into my frame. Him at whose side I once
stood guardian-like with fiercest zeal, him will I serve again with all
my love and life, and follow like a dog.... Like a dog, yes, but like a
master, too. For it is strength alone that wins the day at last, in all
the brave deeds done upon this earth. And only he who laughs can win.
The victory is never to the weakling whiner, nor to the man whose
rage can master him; as little does it crown the man whose mind is
woman-ruled; but less than these and least of all will it bless him
who dreams away his life. For that I stole and sweated to secure,--his
future good,--for that I sit now fixed firm within his soul,--I his
servant and avenger! Here comes the old one. Never yet have I owned
myself conquered by any soul on earth.... And yet--when she comes
peering into my affairs, I feel as though I might become--I don't know
what! I begin to know what strength is in sweet words; I feel a
readiness for any sort of bout; my spirits swell to bursting
roisteringness,--and yet I have not the shadow of a cause for any such
ideas.

_Burial-wife_ [_entering_]. Tell me, my little Hans, hast been
industrious? Hast made a fine soft bed?

_Hans_. I am no Hans of thine. My name is Hans Lorbass. A knave who
stalks stiff-necked and solemn up and down the world does not much
relish being treated like a child.

_Burial-wife_. Thou art my dear child none the less. Only grow old and
gray; and then shall thy body bear its scars and thy soul its sins back
to the old wife.

_Hans_. Not yet.

_Burial-wife_. Thou hast dug many a deep still grave for me; many a
wanderer will come and find rest, therein. Over the gray path of the
boundless sea will each one come bringing his life's sorrow to lay it
here upon my bosom. I open wide my arms to them as my father bade me,
and blessing them I thus absolve myself from suffering and penance.
Beneath my breath sin and crime straightway disappear;--and smilingly I
bear all my dear children to their rest.

_Hans_. Not me. What concern hast thou with me? It is true thou holdest
me here within thy grave-yard prison and compellest me to play the
grave-digger with blows and taunts; but let my prince once come this
way again, and not another hour of service shalt thou have.... My
prince, my gold-prince! My sweet lad! How I could burst with a single
leap straight to thy side through all the world, and with my
too-long-idle sword hurl down to hell the coward pack that presses
round thee!... And thou art all to blame,--yes, all. He had already
quite enough agonizing longings, unfulfilled desires; but thou must
needs fan the warmly glowing flames to a devouring blaze. It was thou
that lured him into that adventure, that willed his braving danger
singlehanded; and if he cracks the accursed nut, if I see the foam curl
again about his prow,--even if I clasp him to me and feel him safe
indeed,--who shall tell me that after all his prize is worth his pains?
Where is that woman thou hast showed to him, that pattern of beauty and
purity, that paragon of softness and strength, she who was born to
steal away his other longings,--where is she?--show her to me!

_Burial-wife_. My little Hans, my son, why stormest thou so?

_Hans_. Let me curse.

_Burial-wife_. Hush thee, and lie down here beside me on the straw, and
listen what I tell thee.

_Hans_. On the grave-straw? [_Lies down with a grimace._]

_Burial-wife_. There landed two men yonder on a golden spring day, and
wandered lost like wild things through the thicket. Who were they?

_Hans_. I and my master were the two. The villainy of his step-brother
had rent from him his throne and kingdom. He was too young, he was too
weak,--there lay the blame.

_Burial-wife_. Yet he was blustering and drew his sword and demanded
with storm and threat that I should grant a wish for him. Still thou
knowest him, my dear son?

_Hans_. Do I know him!

_Burial-wife_. "Thou desirest the fairest of women for thy bride?" I
said. "She is not here; but if thou dost not shrink before the danger,
I can show thee the way, my son."

_Hans_. The way to death!

_Burial-wife_. "There lies an isle in the northern seas, where day and
night are merged in dawn; never more shall he rejoice at sight of home
who loses his path there in a storm. There lies thy path. And there,
where the holy word is never taught, within a crystal house there lives
a wild heron, worshiped as a god. From that heron thou must pluck three
feathers out and bring them hither."

_Hans_. And if he brings them?

_Burial-wife_. Then I will make him conscious of miraculous power,
through which he shall find and bind her to himself who awaits him in
night and need; for by this deed he grows a man, and worth the prize.

_Hans_. And then? When he has got her, and sighs and coos and lies in
her bosom half a hundred years, when he turns himself a very woman, I
shall be the last to wonder at it. Look! [_he picks up a piece of
amber_] I shovelled this shining glittering bauble out of the
dune-sand. I have heaped up whole bushels of it in my greedy zeal. Now,
as I toss from me this sticky mass of resin, that borrows the name and
place of a stone, so with the act I hurl away in mocking laughter these
many- lies of womankind. [_He tosses the lump to the ground._]
Now go and brew my evening draught. I will to the sea to seek my
master. [_He goes out to the right. The_ Burial-wife _looks after him
grinning and goes into the tower._]

_Ottar_ [_sticking his head through the bushes_]. Holloa, Gylf!

_Gylf_ [_coming out_]. What is it? [_The others also appear._]

_Ottar_. Here is the tower, here lie the graves in a sandy spot; run
below to the Duke and tell him; not a man to be seen, not even a worm,
naught but a burying-ground, rooted up and worried as though we had
been haunting it ourselves. [Gylf _goes out._]

_Skoell_. Nay, for we would have saved some of our loved dead for the
raven, we would not have been so stingy as to bury them straightway.
[_They all laugh._]

_The First_ [_pointing out to sea_].--Ho--there!

_Ottar_. What's the matter?

_The First_. Does not the boat pass there that yesterday crossed our
path on the high seas, whose steersman threatened fight with our
dragon? How comes the bold rascal here?

_The Second_ [_who has raised up the lump of amber_]. I tell you,
comrades, let the fellow go, and look what I have found.

_Ottar_. Death and the devil! Then we are in Amberland.

_The Third_ [_staring_]. That is amber?

_Ottar_. Give it to me!

_The Second_. I found it--it is mine!

_Ottar_. Thou gorging maw!

_The Second_. Thieves! Flayers!

_Ottar_. Dog! I'll strike thee dead!

_Skoell_. Be quiet, fools, there is plenty more! Go look in the tower,
and you may curse me for a knave if you find the mouse-hole empty.

_The First_. Come.

_The Two Others_. Yes, come! [_The three go into the tower._]

_Skoell_. Thou dost not go along?

_Ottar_. Thou hadst gladly got us out of the way to dig all by thyself?
O, we all know thee, thou filthy fool!

_Skoell_ [_slapping him on the back_]. More pretty words, my friend? Go
on! When we are our own men on shore again, I will see what I can
do;--but till that time I spare my skin.

[_The three come reeling backwards out of the tower, followed by the_
Burial-wife _with raised fist._]

_Skoell_. What is this?

_Ottar_. What do you call this? Seize her!

_The First_. Seize her! Easy to say! Dost thou court the palsy?

_The Second_. Or fits, at least!

_Ottar_. Cowards! [_He advances upon her. The others, except_ Skoell,
_follow him yelling._]

_Hans_ [_snatches his sword, that hangs on a tree, and throws the
assailants into confusion with a blow or two_]. Ho, there! Let her
alone, or--

_Skoell_. Look! Hans Lorbass!

_The Others_. Who? Our Hans?

_Ottar_ [_rubbing his shoulder_]. How comest thou here? Thou still hast
thy old strength, I find!

_Skoell_. Tell us, old Hans, what brings thee here? Is she thy latest
love?

_All_ [_burst out laughing_]. Hans, Hans! Poor old Hans!

_Hans_. Bandits! Just come on once! [_To the_ Burial-wife.] How is it?
I hope they have not hurt thee.

_Burial-wife_. None can harm me, none molest me, who has not first
wronged himself and all his hopes.

_Ottar_ [_sings_]. Ho, Hans is playing with his love!

_Hans_. Have a care!

[_The_ Burial-wife _goes slowly into the tower._]

_Hans_. It is now scarce three years since we bore within the hall our
master in his ash-hewn coffin. He raised his hand already cold, and
pointed with his pallid, bony finger--not toward the bastard Danish
conqueror, but towards his own true son, Prince Witte; and him he left
his country's lord. The land was poor, the people rude, yet it had
preserved its pride and loyalty un stained through a thousand murderous
brawls. Three years ago as everybody knows, you would have murdered
our young lord at summons of the Bastard and his fair promises; and
now--what are you? Thieves, sand-fleas, loafers, riff-raff, haunting
the moors and hiding in the thickets. Stop! I will build a gallows for
you presently; my brave sword is too good for you. [_He throws down his
sword. They laugh._]

_Skoell_. Hanschen, has thou clean forgot who was the fiercest
bloodhound of us all? Who was it always shouted "I will do it, I!" till
everyone spread sail before him and left him to his work? Then wouldest
thou come, wiping thy bloody hand, and laugh, and say: "My work is
done!" And then one saw no more of thee. Now when we find thee and
rejoice at sight of thee, thou scornest us like a pack of thieves or
birds of such a feather, and playest the judge sitting above us;--fie,
Hanschen, 'tis not kind of thee.

_Hans_. Quite right! Give us thy fist!... No use to wrangle! [_Offers
his hand to one after the other. Looking at one suspiciously._] Thou
hast need of a little scouring first, I think. Children, what fine
fellows you would be, if only you were not such frightful rogues.
[_They laugh._] Tell me now, what have you been at so long?

_Ottar_ [_awkwardly_]. Who? We?

_Hans_. Yes, you!

_Ottar_. Thou wouldst draw us out then?

_Hans_. No need. I know that trade a thousand miles away. You are
wreckers!

_All_ [_laughing_]. Of course.

_Hans_ [_half to himself_]. See, see!

_Skoell_. Only the name is not quite right. We are wreckers hereabouts;
but we chiefly rob upon the high seas.

_Hans_. And your Duke?

_Ottar_. There's a man! He stands foremost in the attack. When the
grappling-irons lay hold, when the javelin whistles in the air, when
down upon the rashly canted dragon crashes the boarding-plank, when
above they wait like calves for the slaughter, then rings his
murder-cry: Ho huzzah!

_All_. Ho huzzah!

_Hans_ [_half to himself_]. It must be fine. [_Aloud._] Then in the
battle--how shows he there?

_Ottar_. In what battle? We have no more battles.

_Hans_. So, so! I just bethought myself. One question more: How come
you here?

_Skoell_. Hast thou not taken our measure, then? Take notice of my
sparkling glance--its tender fire: observe his air, like to a love-sick
cock's: Do we not smell of myrrh and balm! In short, we go to gaze upon
the bride.

_Hans_. Who, then?

_Ottar_. Who? Dost thou mock at us? Thou livest here and yet thou hast
not heard of the Amberqueen, the marvel of beauty who has sworn to
yield herself and her throne to the man that is victorious in a
tournament for life and death, and bears all her other suitors to the
earth? The fair one is a widow, the heir an orphan; so it is meat and
drink to him who throws the others by the heels.

_Hans_. Are you so sure of it?

_Ottar_. Well, where is the man who cares to try conclusions with our
Duke?

_Hans_ [_to himself_], I reared one who will strike him down some day.

[_Enter_ Duke Widwolf _and more of his men._]

_Duke_. Why stand you there? Did I send you ahead to chatter? On with
you! What stops your mouths? Clear the way! And if I find you sluggish
I will call out my cat-o'-nine-tails for you.

_Hans_ [_aside to the first man, who stands near him_]. He drubs you
then?

_The First_. Past bearing.

_Duke_. Who is that man that speaks with you? Why have you not already
struck him down?

_Skoell_. He is so droll, master, he would not let himself be killed.

_Duke_. Meseems ... Hans Lorbass--do I see aright? What--what?... Thou
knowest I am in thy debt for business secretly done. I love not debts
between master and man.

_Hans_. No need, my lord, I have my pay.

_Duke_. At first thou seemedst to serve me diligently; yet thou didst
slip as suddenly from my throne as though thou hadst an ailing
conscience.

_Hans_ [_gazing out to sea._] Perhaps. It may be.

_Duke_. Where hast thou stayed so long?

_Hans_ [_without stirring_]. I am a servant. I have served.

_Duke_. What drivest thou now?

_Hans_. I drive naught, my lord, I am driven.

_Duke_ [_threateningly_]. It pleases thee to jest.

_Hans_. And thee to be galled thereat.

_Duke_. That fellow's corpse was never found! Now clear thyself from
the suspicion.

_Hans_. Think what thou wilt. Covered with wounds I sunk it in the
ocean's depths.

_Duke_. I trust thee. If thou wilt swear thy truth to me, then come.
With me all is feasting and revelry.

_Hans_ [_looking out to sea again_]. Thank thee, my lord. I care not to
do murder, and I can play the robber by myself.

_Duke_. Seize him.

_Skoell_ [_beseechingly_]. Master, our dearest companion, who never yet
has played us false.

[Duke _draws his sword and makes as if to attack_ Hans.]

_Hans_ [_gripping his sword and flourishing it high in the air._] Thou
art the master and wonted to victory; but come too near, and thou hast
only been the master!

_Duke_. Well, leave him then upon the path where thou hast found him. I
had wellnigh killed instead of paying him.

[_He goes out. The others follow. Some of them shake_ Hans Lorbass
_furtively by the hand._]

_Hans_ [_alone_]. Then there is something holds his spirit in bonds;
will make his race a race of weaklings, will plunge the land itself in
guilt,--and yet they know not their own shame.... Right! Just now
I saw something. Did I not behold, not far from land a blood-red sail
a-dazzle against the blue night cloud? The keel bore sharply toward the
shore--how gladly would I believe the old wife there, when--truly, it
frets me so I must--[_He goes to the tower and is about to open the
door_. Prince Witte _appears in the background._]

_Hans_ [_casting himself at the_ Prince's _feet with a shout of
joy_]. Master!--Thou hast come! Art thou safe? Unharmed? Here is thy
nose--both ears--thy arm--and there thy sword! Thy voice alone is lost,
it seems.

_Prince_. Let me be silent, friend. The horror I have seen stands black
about me and takes the color from my joy.

_Hans_. What is that, now thou art here? [_Stammering._] And even if
thy journey were in vain, if thou hast not brought the heron's feathers
back with thee, what is--

_Prince_. I brought not the heron's feathers with me? My nightly
watches, twilight's scanty rest, the morning's ardent fiery prayers,
and more than all, the consecrated labor of the day, wherein what has
been obtained from God with tears, must be besieged anew with fierce
resolve, and conquered by the teeth-set "I will," won by obstinate
unshrinking,--sorrow--doubt--danger--struggle--unsuccess to-day and new
onslaught tomorrow--and so on and on--and always forward--have I all
this behind me, and yet have I returned without the feathers?

_Hans_. Thou hast the feathers? Are they really heron's feathers, from
the very bird?

_Prince_. Set thy fears at rest; the wonder is fulfilled, and all our
pains dispersed in thankful prayer.

_Hans_. Forgive me, dear my lord and master, that I forgot a moment the
bare fact itself, to thee so all-important. I knew thou wouldst never
have returned without them, however my heart thirsted after thee.

_Prince_. Thou wert right. I knew it well.

_Hans_. Where are they, master? Dost thou bear them in thy breast? I
feel thou wouldest. Chide me if thou wilt, but show them to me.

_Prince_. Look at my helmet. I understand thy eagerness. No sword can
cleave them from me, no rush of wind displace them. They are the
standard of my fortunes.

_Hans_. Thy story, master,--come, tell it to me!

_Prince_. Wait, Hans. The hour will come, at drinking-time, while the
dull camp-fire flickers to its end, and the fierce thirst of fighting
will not let us sleep,--then will I tell the tale and make it glow
anew.

_Hans_. Master, how changed thou art. Thy fire seems smothered, and thy
passions burn less fiercely, being self-controlled.

_Prince_. Thou art wrong, my friend; in me there dwells no calm. I stir
and seethe. Death itself, which I have conquered, reanimates in me.
Only henceforth I gain by firmer paths the end which I have chosen. My
country that betrayed me, lies small and half-forgotten in the
distance. I measure myself against the great henceforth. What are they?
Myself shall be the arbiter, and fate shall never again allure me with
her cruel "Take what I offer thee" to a starvation feast.

_Hans_. I look at thee in wonderment. I left thee a boy, I find thee a
man. And for this, though my sword has itched in my hand to answer to
my thoughts, though I have sat for hours on end in gnawing tedium and
spat into the sea, for this result I bless the old wife there. Once
more I may strike good blows for thee, once more be proud to guard thee
as before.

_Prince_ [_giving him his hand_]. It shall be so.... Yes, yes, my lad.
Since I have been gone--how long is it?

_Hans_. A good two years, master.

_Prince_. The old wife now, and quickly, that she may open to me all
the enchantment lurking in the feathers, to which I trusted and
surrendered myself. The time has come for this unmolded life to shape
itself after the law of its own desire. Why dost thou hesitate?

_Hans_. I will go.

_Prince_. But yet thou mutterest?

_Hans_. Do not blame me, master; I know of what I speak. First of all,
mistrust the old one. I fear her not ... but something horrible and
slimy crawled in my throat when I first saw her crouching in a grave,
all stiff, her brows drawn and her staring eyes turned inwards
lifelessly.... When a storm stood coal-black in the heavens and gave
the greedy coffins fresh food--lo, there she stood and bade me dig the
graves; and when the wave cast corpses up on the strand, she bore each
one up the hill pressed mother-like to her breast, shaken meanwhile
with a sly laugh; and thus she laughed until they all lay quietly at
rest beneath. Have a care for thyself!

_Prince_. Yet why? Her work is pious and she tends it faithfully.

_Hans_. But if she weaves enchantment, master?

_Prince_. I am the last from whom on that account a threat is fit. It
has turned to blessing for me. To him who chooses sacrifice for his
fate, there often comes the best of gifts,--to see deep into the
unsearchable, and smilingly to build as though within a pleasure-park,
upon the very boundary of the ideal. Once more--

_Hans_. And once more I stand broad-legged in thy unhappy path and
shout: Do not destroy thyself! Whoever runs after his desire shall
perish in the race; it only yields to him who hurls it from him. Thou
dost not know as yet the old wife's schemes; thou standest now above
enchantment, a young glowing god confiding in the magic of thine own
strength. What thou dost know is that thy prize is hidden, and that the
broad path of possibilities, on which thou thinkest to glide aloft, may
be choked all at once between black walls and leave thee fevered and
panting with the chase, with desire and loathing, eagerness and
shrinking, to hasten on forever and never gain the end.

_Prince_ [_pointing to his helmet with a smile_]. Look there!

_Hans_. Thou hast done well to bring them; if the fatal seed of death
does not draw thee down to eternal failure thou must do well indeed!
For now the secret purpose of thy path is about to reveal itself; now
thy proud and self-poised soul pants to mount aloft,--and here I stand
and counsel thee: Hurl away thy prize!

_Prince_. Thou ravest.

[_The_ Burial-wife _appears in the door of the tower, thrown into lurid
prominence by the fire that burns within on the hearth. It grows dark
rapidly._]

_Hans_. Too late. It has begun. [_Whispers._] It looks as if the
hearth-fire glowed straight through her parchment skin and wrapped her
bones in flame.

_Prince_. Burial-wife! Look me in the face!

_Burial-wife_. Thou hast come! Welcome, dear son!

_Prince_. Thy dear son--I am not. Thy creditor I am, and I demand my
own.

_Burial-wife_. What dost thou ask?

_Prince_. I forced from thee the words that taught me my way; the deed
thou hast demanded is accomplished, and I claim the prize!

_Burial-wife_. What I have promised thee, I will faithfully fulfil, my
child. A primal force lies within these white husks. They change their
form according to their owner's will. What, then, is thy desire? A
woman?

_Prince_. A woman? There are enough of women. More than one has borne
me down to earth in the snare of her supple limbs, and hampered my
soul's flight. What is a woman? A downfall and a heaviness, a darkness
and a theft of alien lights, a sweet allurement in the eternal void, a
smile without a thought, a cry for naught.

_Hans_. Bravo! Bravo!

_Prince_. What I demand now is that queen of women, after whom I have
thirsted even while drinking, by the side of whom my princely dignity
shall appear but as a herald; for whose voice my soul starves though I
sit in the wisest councils of the world; in whom I see our torturing
human weaknesses healed to a joyous beauty; that woman before whom I,
though mad with victory, must bend my proud knee in trembling and
affright; whose blushes shall bear witness to me how a longing heart
can shield itself in modesty; she who will stand in deepest need and
beg with me at the cross-roads; whose love can make death itself pass
me by; this woman, this deep peace, this calm still world in which when
lost I cannot lose myself, where wrong itself must turn to right,--this
woman,--mine--I now demand of thee.

_Burial-wife_. Snatch down the prize from thy helmet: I will announce
its promise to thee; unless thou art blind or deaf, thou shalt pierce
to the depth of the riddle. The first of the feathers is but a gleam
from the lights and shadows that brew about thee. When thou throwest it
into the fire, thou shalt behold her image in the twilight. The second
of the feathers,--mark it well--shall bring her to thee in love, for
when thou burnest it alone in the dying glow, she must wander by night
and appear before thee. And until the third has perished in the flame,
thy hand stretched forth shall bless her; but the third burning brings
her death: and therefore guard it well and think upon the end.

_Prince_. I will. Unwarned, I let them wave aloft in mad presumption;
but now I will hide them safe within my gorget. [_To_ Hans.] Why
shouldst thou look at me so grimly? I know myself to be quite freed
from sorrow; all I lack is a faithful companion on the way.... "When
thou throwest the first into the fire thou shalt behold her image in
the twilight." [_He pulls out one of the feathers and hastens toward
the tower._]

_Hans_ [_boldly opposing him_]. What wilt thou do?

_Prince_. Out of the way? [_He opens the door of the tower._]

_Hans_. Cursed witch, thou hast-- [_A sudden bright blaze within the
tower. A flare of yellow light goes up. The Prince comes back._] Art
thou singed?

_Prince_ [_looks about wildly_]. I see naught.

[Burial-wife _points silently to the background, where on the horizon
above the sea the dark outline of a woman's figure appears and glides
slowly from left to right._]

_Prince_. I see in the heavens a shadowy form, rosy with flame, pierced
through with light. If it be thou on whom my longing hangs, I pray thee
turn thy face and lighten me! Lift the veil from thine eyes! Remain,
ah, vanish not behind the stars,--step down that I may learn to love
thee!... She does not hear. When we part, say how I may know thee
again!... How shall I--? Her figure sways, it fades with the clouds--
was that the sign?

_Hans_. Thou hast bewitched him finely.

_Prince_. Still she is mine, as I know who I am! And should she never
long to come to me, yet my soul's longings shall be stronger than she
herself. Hans Lorbass, my brave fellow-soldier, take thy sword and arm
thyself straightway.

_Hans_. I am armed. [_To the_ Burial-wife.] The hangman--

_Prince_. Spare thy curses. She serves my happiness as best she can.
Farewell! We will seek the world over, and when the first promise is
fulfilled--Farewell!

_Hans_ [_grimly_]. Farewell!

[_They go out to the left._]

_The Burial-wife_ [_alone_]. Go, my children, face the combat, fight
boldly, wield the feathers unrestrained; when you weary, bring me back
your outworn bodies, cast them here upon my shore. But till the time
shall come when I will plant them like twigs in my garden, go and fight
and love and dance ... for I can wait.... I can wait!




                                ACT. II.

_Arcade on the first story of a Romanesque palace, separated in the
background by a row of columns from the court below, to which steps
lead down from the middle to right and left. On the platform between
them, facing the court, is a throne-chair, which later is covered with
a curtain. Walks lead right and left rectangularly toward the
background. On the right are several steps to the back, the principal
path to the castle chapel. On the left side-wall in front is a door
with a stone bench near it, and to the left of that another door. On
the right in front is an iron-bound outside door. Stone benches stand
between the columns. The back of the buildings surrounding the court
form the background of the scene. Early morning._


                                Scene I.

Skoell _with his spear between his knees, asleep on a bench_. Coelestin
_with a page holding a torch._

_Coelestin_. Put the link out, my son. It hangs on thy tired arm too
heavily.... Yes, yes, this morning many a one thinks of his bed....
What, an alarm so early? Man and steed armed?

_Skoell_ [_in his sleep_]. Brother--thy health!

_Page_. Look! The fellow is still drunk.

_Coelestin_. How else? Would, though, the filthy wretch and his Duke too
with his dissolute bravery, were smoked out of the country!... Still, I
am not anxious. The Pommeranian prince--there is a man of glorious
renown!--may win.

_Page_. I fear, my lord, thou art wrong. The horses of the Pommeranian
snort below. They look as though they were about to start.

_Coelestin_. Hast thou seen aright? The Pommeranian?

_Page_. Yes.

_Coelestin_. I feel as though the earth itself did sway, as though my
poor old head would burst in pieces. Now falls the Fatherland, which,
kingless, thought it might escape from rapine; yet all the while in its
own breast there stood the powerfullest of robbers. Here where a
continual harvest of peace once smiled, where inborn modesty of soul
once paired joyously with ingrown habit and youth grew guiltless to
maturity, the ruthless hand of tyranny will henceforth rest choking on
our necks, and-- [_Blows sound on the door to the right._] Who blusters
at the door? Go look.

_Page_ [_looking through the peep-hole_]. I see a spear-shaft glitter.
[_Calling._] What wilt thou without there?

_Hans Lorbass's Voice_. Open the door!

_Page_ [_calling_]. Why didst thou come up the steps? The entrance is
there below.

_Hans Lorbass's Voice_. I know that already. I did not care to sweat
there in the crowd. Open the door.

_Page_. What shall I do?

_Coelestin_. I am as wrung as though the fate of the whole country hung
on the iron strength of the lock.... Give him his way.

[_The_ Page _opens the door_, Hans Lorbass _enters._]

_Coelestin_. Who art thou, and what wouldst thou here? Speak!

_Hans_. My master, a brave knight and skilled in arms, born far in the
north, where he was betrayed in feud with his stepbrother, to atone has
undertaken a journey to the Holy Sepulchre. We have but just now
entered your kingdom, and crave for God's love, if not a refuge, at
least a resting place.

_Coelestin_. Thou hast done well, my friend. Every wanderer is a welcome
guest in this castle, for our Queen is one from whose soul there flow
deeds of boundless kindness to all the world. From to-day, alas!...
nay, call thy knight, and if he stands on two such good legs as his
servant, I warrant he has shivered many a spear.

_Hans_. And I warrant, my lord, that thou hast warranted rightly. [_He
goes to the door and motions below_. Coelestin _and the_ Page _look out
from behind him._]

_Skoell_ [_dreaming_]. Hans Lorbass--seize him!

[Prince Witte _enters._]

_Coelestin_. Here is my hand, my guest. And though thou comest here in
an unhappy hour, I look within thine eye, I gaze upon thy sword, and
feel as though thou hadst lifted a cruel burden from my oppressed soul.

_Prince_. I thank thee that thou holdest me worthy thy confidence. Yet
I fear that thou art misled; it was no fate drew us together, but only
chance. Thinkest thou that because I took this path I was sent to thee?

_Coelestin_. No, no! God forbid!--Well, unarm, my friend, ... so, so.

_Hans_. Whither then?

_Coelestin_. We have for our guests--they will show it to thee.

_Prince_. They crowd in early at your doors,--have I come to a
festival?

_Coelestin_. To a ...? Stranger, there burns in me a fever of speech ...
they chide the doting chatter of old men, and yet--

_Prince_. Thou hast chosen me for thy confidant ... I listen gladly.

_Coelestin_. Well then: our King, stricken with years, died and left us
unprotected and afraid, for we had no guide nor saviour. The Queen,
herself a child, carried trembling at her breast the babe she had borne
him.... It is six years ago, and all this time have birds of prey
scented the rich morsel from afar and come swooping down upon this fair
land, where unmeasured riches lie. The danger grows--the people clamor
for a master. And so our Queen, who had sat long sunk in modest grief,
now divined in anguish her soul's call, the echo of the kingly duty,
and guessed the sacrifice her land demanded. She tore in twain her
widow's garlands, and made a vow that he who could bear all other
suitors to her feet in battle, should be her lord and her country's
king. The day has come. The lists are hung, the people crowd into the
tournament. Woe to them! Their tears are doomed to fall, for all the
princes who came hither have fled faint-heartedly before a single one,
a man of terror, who is thus victorious without a struggle.

_Prince_. And this one--who is he?

[_A clamor in the court below. A_ Noble _enters._]

_Noble_. Sir Major-domo, I beg thee, hasten. The guard is in confusion.
The people are already mounting the newly built lists in a countless
throng.

_Coelestin_ [_pointing below_]. Look, there is the flock; but where is
the shepherd? Wait here, while I press into the thickest of the crowd
and give the people a taste of my severity ... though I doubt much if
it will aught avail. [_He hastens down by the middle way with the_
Noble _and the_ Page.]

_Prince Witte_. That which I long for lies not here. My sober judgment
whispers warningly within my breast of delay and thoughtless dalliance.
[_He seats himself on a bench to the right of the stage and looks up at
the sky._]

_Skoell_ [_in his sleep_]. Quite right.

_Hans_. What's that? Eh, there, sleepy-head, wake up!

_Skoell_. Leave me alone! When I sleep I am happy.

_Hans_ [_startled_]. What--Skoell?

_Skoell_. Hans Lor--

_Hans_. Hsh--sh!

_Skoell_. Well, old fellow, what wilt thou in this berth?

_Hans_. Thy master is here?

_Skoell_. Well, yes!

_Hans_. The devil take him! [_Looking round at the_ Prince.] What now?

_Skoell_. What now? Why now, we will have a drink.

_Hans_. What draws you here!

_Skoell_. Thou knowest, thou rogue! We are the jolliest of jolly good
fellows ever found at a wedding.

_Hans_ [_to himself_]. Has he the strength for this redeeming act, and
would it break the bonds of the madness that holds him?

[_Enter a_ Herald _from the left, behind. Then the_ Queen, _holding the
young_ Prince _by the hand, and followed by her women. After them_,
Anna Goldhair.]

_Herald_. Way there, the Queen approaches!

_Skoell_ [_standing attention_]. We cannot speak when the Queen comes
by.

_Hans_ [_looking towards_ Prince Witte]. His soul dreams. The distance
holds him spellbound.

[_The_ Queen _and her attendants approach. She stops near_ Prince
Witte, _who is not conscious of her presence, and gazes at him long._]

_The Young Prince_ [_bustling up to him_]. Here, thou strange man, dost
thou not know the Queen? It is the rule that when she comes we all
should rise. I am the Prince, and yet I must do it too.

_Prince Witte_ [_rising and bowing_]. Then beg, friend, that the Queen
grant me her forgiveness.

_The Young Prince_. That I will gladly. [_He runs back to the_ Queen.]

[_The_ Queen _passes on and turns again at the corner to look at_
Prince Witte, _who has already turned his back. Then she disappears
with her women into the cathedral, from which the gleam of lights and
the roll of the organ come forth. The door is closed._]

_Hans_. Well, did she please thee? Hast thou found her worthy to awake
thy idle sword to deeds of battle?

_Prince_. It would be no less than idleness for me to unsheathe my
sword in her behalf; for my field of battle lies not here.

_Hans_. Then come. Thy path is hot. Thy path is broad!--Then hasten!
Already far too long hast thou delayed before this tottering throne,
from which an eye in speechless pleading calls for help.

_Prince_. At first, when my desires pointed from hence, didst thou not
beg me to delay?--and now!--

_Skoell_ [_aside to_ Hans]. Heaven save us! Brother, who is this? I
would know him a thousand miles away!

_Hans_ [_with a gesture towards_ Skoell, _to leave him alone_]. Perhaps
I wished to test thee, or perhaps--

_Skoell_. All good spirits praise--

_Prince_. Whatever it was, I will go gladly.

_Skoell_ [_crossing himself_]. All good spirits praise the Lord!
[_Bursts out through the door to the left._]

_Prince_. Why, who was that, that went out in such a hurry?

_Hans_. Who would it have been? Some body-servant about the castle,
perhaps, some--

_Prince_. Where are my--?

_Hans_. Here is thy shield. Quick, take it.

_Prince_. Where is that ape that just now--

_Hans_. Let the filthy rascal go, whoever he is, and come!

[_Enter_ Duke Widwolf. Skoell, _behind him, pointing to the_ Prince.]

_Duke_. Hans Lorbass, thou shalt pay for this!

_Hans_. For what, my lord? Here are the very bones whereon thine eyes
desired to feast themselves. It is true they are covered with flesh for
the present, but they are there inside, I swear to thee.

_Prince_. Silence, Hans! This man stands above thy mockery; for though
he stole my inheritance in despicable treachery, yet he wears the crown
of my fathers, and I bow before it. And until heaven's cherubim call on
me loudly to avenge the wrong, in practice for a better thing I bend
before him, and grind my teeth.

[Duke _bursts into a loud laugh._]

_Prince_. I see destruction naming in thine eyes,--thou laughest in
scorn.... Laugh on. For I shall not avenge myself, nor count it my duty
to shatter the fearful edifice of thy throne. So long as it will uphold
thee and thy blood-blinded sword, so long be thou and thy people worthy
of one another. Enough! Hans, set forth!

[Coelestin _and the other nobles come up the steps._]

_Duke_. Behold, ye noble gentlemen! Blood of the cross, what a hero we
have here! He halts here: makes a mighty clamor: naught has or ever can
delay his march of triumph:--and then on a sudden he makes a short
turn, breathes a deep sigh, and like the other poltroons, leaves the
field to me.

_Hans_ [_aside_]. Control thyself, master, all this can be borne.

_Coelestin_. What, stranger, art thou also of princely blood?

_Prince_. Whether princely or not, my blood is mine, and I myself must
be the judge of what suits it. My host, I thank thee.... I would right
gladly have rested here, gladly have sat down at thy hearth as a humble
guest--

_Coelestin_. Thou earnest on the day of the tournament; and therefore
thou hast come to free the Queen.

_Prince_. Thou callest me stranger, and will pardon me that I had heard
naught of thy Queen.

_Coelestin_. Still thou sawest her when she and her women--

_Prince_. I saw her, yes.

_Coelestin_. And yet thou thinkest of departure? Art thou made of stone
that thou hast not felt a thrust of pity like a knife, at the mere
sight of that pious grace, that spring-like mildness?

_Duke_. Who speaks of pity, when I myself protect her with my shield?
Pity?--how--wherefore? Have a care!

_Coelestin_. Thy threat hath no meaning today. Yet all the same I know
that wert thou king, thou wouldst lay my gray head at thy feet.

_Duke_. Perhaps. And again perhaps, if this braggart who was sent
hither and now crawls away again, did not quite take off that weak old
head of thine, he would just have thee hanged, out of pure pity.

_Coelestin_. Thou listenest in silence to this unmeasured raving? I ask
not now upon what throne thy father sat, I only ask the weakling: Art
thou a man? Is this body that glows in prideful youth, only a hardly
fed up paunch? Is the angry red painted upon thy brow, and yet canst
thou endure and not wipe out the insult thou hast received?

_Hans_ [_aside_]. Master, be stronger now than I have strength myself.
I have naught to say, not I. Only say to me: "Hans, we will go"--and I
will gulp down my rage; and never to the last day of my life shall a
look, a word, a motion of an eye-lash, remind thee of what befell
today.

_Prince_. Your eyes all hang in hopeful question on my broad-edged
sword; and yet I may not tell you why I wear it, but must endure what
ever you think. Still, know one thing; all the shame which he has
heaped today upon my dulled heart I will add to the need by which he
shattered my young days. I will reckon with him for those thirsting
nights wherein I drank the poison of renunciation,--when my trust in
mankind sank to ruin with my blood-defiled rights,--when in despair I
reckoned my coming manhood by my growing beard,--when my fate became a
lot of powerless shame,--and I will grope along the path where my
desires once ranged themselves when the rousing voice of hope rang out
of abyssmal blankness.... And thus the scorn I have received to-day
glides past my closed ears like unwelcome flattery; and silently I go
from hence.

[_The_ Queen _with the young_ Prince. Anna Goldhair _and her other
women come from the cathedral during the last words._]

_Queen_. O go not, stranger!

_A Noble_. Listen, the Queen!

_Another_. She who was never used to address a stranger.

_Queen_. A most unhappy woman stands before thee, and with streaming
eyes casts away all the shame that modesty and rank combine to weigh
her with, and prays thee: O go not! For behold! As I came to-day to
God's dwelling-house full of tormenting thoughts--I saw thee on the
way, thou scarce didst notice me--while I stood there before thy face
longing within me that a sign might be given me, it seemed as though
there flowed a something like light, like a murmuring through the
spacious place, as on a festal day the sacred miracle of His presence.
And a voice spoke in my heart: have faith, O woman, he came and he is
thine; to thy people whose courage failed them, he shall be a hero, to
thy child a father.... Then I fell thankfully upon my face. And now I
beg thee: O go not!

_Duke_. And I tell thee, my lady Queen, he goes! I answer for it with
my sword. If there is a prayer within the hero-soul of him, it runs
thus: dear God, graciously be pleased to spare my reputation only as
far as yonder door.

_Prince_. Thou liest.

_Hans_ [_whispers_]. Now defend thyself. Treason to thy being's
sanctuary is a half-voluntary deed.

_Prince_. Forgive me, Lady, if but hesitatingly I have sworn myself
into thy service. Behold, I tread a half-obscured path, and the dim
traces lead me into the far gray distance ... lead me--and I know not
whither. I know not whether that great night which descends upon the
crudest sorrow of our common day, bringing sleep to the wearied soul,
will wrap me also in its folds, or whether as reward for that
unquenched spirit in me that still must trust, endure, and spread its
wings, the sunshine of the heights at last will smile upon me. I am
Desire's unwearied son; I bear her token hidden in my breast, and till
that token fades or disappears, well canst thou say: "Come die for me,"
but never canst thou say: "Remain."

_Queen_. Then never shalt thou hear that bitter word, that word so full
of weakness, come from my trembling lips. The blessing of this hour
that passes now shall never rise to distract thee on thy path in the
gray distance. Yet there shall be a charm, rising unspoken in the soul
itself, which when thou pausest wearied on thy journey, shall whisper
to thee where a home still blooms for thee.... Where a balsam is
prepared to heal thy wounded feet, bleeding from the sharpness of thy
path ... where a thousand arms reach out to greet their loved one ...
whence those voices rise that call to thee out of the darkness ... and
where there waits a smile, smothered with joy, to say to thee: "I
charmed thee not."--I will be silent, lest thou shouldst be weary of my
speech; since all my words speak only this desire: it rings within
thine ears,--longing must find a resting-place.

_Prince_. O, that mine lay not so far from here! There, where the
clouds disperse in light, and the eternal sun kisses my brow, there ...
Enough. Since thou hast asked no more than chance has in a measure
forced me to, whether for good or evil I know not, I must needs grant
thy wish. Hans, arm me.

_Duke_ [_whispers_], Skoell, do not forget ... where are the others?

_Skoell_. Who knows?

_Duke_. But was there not a great feast to-night?

_Skoell_. Yes. But they flung us out just now.

_Duke_. Listen! And heed me well. As soon as that rascal has had enough
and grovels in the dust, shout out with all thy might "Hail to King
Widwolf!" Dost thou understand?

_Skoell_. Eh? Yes, indeed.

_Anna Goldhair_. Oh! dearest Lady, if I might speak I would beg thee to
go. The sight of all the horrors that gather round us will shake thee
sorely.

_Queen_. Who stays for me if I will not for him? And is it not fitting
for an unhappy mother to protect the head of her child even with her
own shattered arm? [_To the young_ Prince.] Listen, my darling. Thou
must go. [_To_ Anna Goldhair.] Take him to my waiting-women. Without
this sight his heart will all too soon burn with a thirst for blood.

_The Young Prince_. Ah, mother!

_Queen_. Nay, thou must. But nestle once again upon my breast, my dear
one, so!

_The Young Prince_ [_running up to_ Prince Witte]. Please, thou strange
man, be so good as to conquer for us!

_Prince_ [_smiling_]. If thou art good, my Prince!... How clear their
glances sparkle! From those eyes a world of sunshine bursts; alas, I am
not worthy of it! [_The young_ Prince _and_ Anna Goldhair _go out._]

[_The_ Chancellor _and a train of nobles come up the steps. After them
guards and two trumpeters. The_ Chancellor _makes obeisance and asks
the_ Queen _a question. The_ Queen _assents silently and mounts,
holding by the balustrade, to the platform on which the throne stands,
pushed to one side. The_ Chancellor _makes a sign to the trumpeters,
and they blow a signal, which echoes below, then he raises the sword,
which a page brings upon a cushion._]

_Chancellor_. Illustrious Lady, honored Queen, as chancellor of thy
appointed realm, I offer thee this sword whereon to take the oath: that
in thy hand, so strong because so weak, what first prevailed as thy
country's law, what now prevails, and what shall prevail again when
violence and lust cease to clutch after our soul's sanctuaries,--that
law on which we have relied, so mild it was, because created by a free
and happy fatherland--will be forever new and vigorous.

_Queen_. I swear it on the iron sword of my kingdom, and on the runes
carved thereupon; though nature has denied it to a woman to avenge a
violated oath with her own hand, yet I will never rest in my grave
unless all is fulfilled that I have spoken. I swore it solemnly, and on
this sword I will announce and reavow to you, that whosoever conquers
in this fight may claim me for his wife when he desires.... Speak now,
ye who cursed my mourning and my sorrow's backward glance: do I fulfill
your will with shuddering? Do I not give ye the King ye seek?

[_The nobles strike their shields with their swords in token of
approval._]

_Chancellor_. Now to you who stand prepared to ring the throne and
kingdom with the sharpness of your swords; before the land submits
itself to the victor, give answer who you are!


_Duke_. Thou knowest me well.

_Chancellor_. Who knows thee not? Flames spread before thee hither like
a banner, the vulture knows thee that shrieks after carrion, the auk
knows thee on the blood-furrowed sea; yet custom demands, the which
thou knowest not, that thou shalt name thyself at this hour.

_Duke_. I am the Duke of Gotland!

_Hans Lorbass_ [_highly excited, pointing to_ Prince Witte]. He is the
Duke of Gotland! [_Great disturbance and amazement._]

_Coelestin_. We are groping here in a black riddle.

_Chancellor_ [_to_ Prince Witte]. Witness thyself.

_Prince Witte_. If there is a man here in whom dwells a spirit of
sacrifice, a worship of the right, and not of power and bloody gain, to
him I speak, as to a stem of that ancient race which still springs from
Gotland's gods; I boldly say: "I am." But to that vicious misbegotten
wight who cringes in the dust and worships tyranny if it but prosper
him, to him I say: "No, I am not."

_Chancellor_. A lofty mind, bred in the bitterness which deep sorrow
brings, speaks in thy words and gives them weight. But yet--we know not
who stands before us as the Duke of Gotland.

_Duke_. It seems to me, my lords, that the sword will show.

_Chancellor_. True enough. If the Queen will.

[_The_ Queen _bows her head in assent. The_ Chancellor _gives a sign to
the trumpeters and they blow a signal which is answered below in the
court. The nobles make their obeisances to the_ Queen _and go down the
steps to the right and left._]

_Hans Lorbass_ [_meanwhile_]. Remember that thrust I showed thee once:
at the arm-joint where the leather is easily cut, thou canst--

_Prince Witte_ [_alarmed_]. Where are the feathers?

_Hans_. How--what--? That witch-work to distract thee now? Here is thy
sword, and there the foe! Play with him, tickle him, stroke his beard,
till he weeps blood out of his mouth, till--

_Prince_. They are quite safe.

_Hans_. Master!

[Prince Witte _goes last behind_ Duke Widwolf, _with a bow to the_
Queen _in passing. She watches him in agitation and follows him with
her eyes._]

_Queen_. How is the Prince?

_Anna Goldhair_. As children always are. At first he wept and tried to
slip away. Then he lay still and had his playthings brought. Now he
lies sprawling under a table, playing at dice, though he understands
them not.

_Queen_. While we go to throw upon his life.

[_The_ Queen, Coelestin, _the_ Chancellor, Anna Goldhair, _and the other
women go out. The guards draw the curtains behind the throne. The
applause of the people greeting the_ Queen _rises from the court. Then
silence._]

_Skoell_. Well, my heart's brother, so we are alone again.

[Hans Lorbass _without noticing_ Skoell, _tries to pass the_ First Guard
_after_ Prince Witte.]

_First Guard_. Back!

[Hans _tries on the other side of the curtain._]

_Second Guard_. Back! The passage is forbidden.

_Hans_. I am the Prince's servant!

_Second Guard_. That may all be; but hast thou not seen--

_Hans_. I counsel thee, take off thy hands!

_Skoell_ [_takes hold of his arm soothingly_]. Come, brother of my
heart, be sensible, stay in thy seat; down below there is just a mob of
women, and thou wouldst be no use at all.

_Hans_. True enough. [_The drums sound._] The third call! Now is the
time!

_Skoell_. Now I can put my hands in my pockets and let them break each
other's necks; if I only had something to drink, then--[_as_ Hans
_clutches him by the arm in excitement at the first clash of swords
sounding from below_] Ouch! Whew! The devil, what a grip thou hast!

_Hans_ [_accompanying the movements below with dumb-show, which is
accentuated by the noise of the crashing weapons_]. There! That was a
blow! Take that! [_Alarmed._] Guard thyself! Ah, that was good! Now
after him and strike!... He missed! [_To_ Skoell, _threateningly._] I
thought thou didst laugh!

_Skoell_. What should I do?

_Hans_. I tell thee, thou brute beast, thou calf, thou knave, thou
thief, as truly as I love thee as my brother, I will kill thee!

_Skoell_. Not so fierce!

_Hans_. There, which one of them drives the other in the corner, now?
Eh?

_Skoell_. What?... I will stand above both sides and wait to see which
one comes out ahead.

_Hans_. Ho, ho! How the rascal puffs! Yes, thou wilt learn to run, my
fine fellow! Another blow! He struck him not! Now for thy life!--What
is he thinking of? [_Shrieks out._] My master bleeds!

_Skoell_. Ei, ei!

_Hans_. Wipe it off! Whisk it away! That little blood-letting but
sharpens the anger, pricks the hate and--

_Skoell_. Look!

_Hans_. Now gather all thy powers together, master! And all my love for
thee turn into fire and flame, that--

[_Pause. Then a woman's shriek is heard, and the ringing fall of a
man's body. A dull murmur of many voices follows._]

_Skoell_. That was a blow! [_Shouting down._] Hail to King Wid--

_Hans_ [_seizes him like lightning and hurls him to the ground, then
springs on the bench, waving his sword above his head and shouting._]
Back from his body! You men below there, is there one that wears a
sword and armor?

_Voices_. I!--I!--I!

_Hans Lorbass_. He will break through the lists with me and drive away
this robber of Samland!

[_Cries of rage, together with the crashing of the lists_. Hans Lorbass
_storms upon the guards, who retreat to one side, and dashes below.
The_ Queen _comes upon the scene half unconscious, supported by_ Anna
Goldhair _and her other women. The_ Chancellor _and other nobles_.
Skoell _has squeezed himself behind the corner pillar on the right._]

_Coelestin_ [_turning from the_ Queen _to a group of men who stand
gazing down on the tumult below_]. How goes it now?

_Chancellor_. That man whose summons hurled the brand of mutiny among
us, look how great and small, man and woman crowd around him shouting
and hustle the Duke to the door! There, he is gone!--the other left!
Who was the devil?

[_The uproar grows fainter and seems to lose itself in the distance._]

_Coelestin_. I know not whether he was a devil or an angel; for without
his shriek of hate we should still be lying beneath the foot of
tyranny, bleeding and weaponless as he who lies below.

[Chancellor _motions to him, pointing towards the_ Queen, _who has
revived and is looking about her wildly._]

_Queen_. Where is the stranger? Why are you silent? I saw him fall ...
did he not conquer?

_A Messenger_ [_comes hurrying up the steps_]. Hail to our Queen! I
bring glad tidings: the accursed Duke has fled upon a stolen horse. The
people vent their long-stored spleen upon his rascally followers.

_Skoell_. Woe is me! Alas! [_He slips behind the church door and
disappears._]

_Queen_. And that youth who smiling received the sacrificial blow for
you--think you his life so valueless that no one even remembers him as
a poor reward? Why are you silent? Will no one speak?

_Chancellor_. We know not whether he is dead, or lives, though sorely
wounded. In every thrust he far over-reckoned the reach of his sword. A
more grievous trouble than this, my Lady Queen, avails to banish our
rejoicing; a broken oath is here, an unatoned-for--

_Coelestin_. Look! What a sight!

[Hans Lorbass _supports the sorely wounded_ Prince Witte _up the steps,
lets him sink upon the bench to the left, and stands before him with
drawn sword, like a guard._]

_Hans_. Away from here! Whoever loves his life, whether man or woman,
comes not too near!

_Queen_ [_approaching him_]. Not even I, my friend?

_Hans_ [_embarrassed, yielding_]. Thou, Lady,--yes.

_Queen_ [_takes off her veil, and wipes the blood from the face of the_
Prince]. Send for physicians that he may be saved.

_Hans_. He is saved! If he were not, I'd spring in the very face of
death for him,--I would spring down death's very throat; death and I,
we know each other well.

_Chancellor_. Thou who breathest out spume and fire as carelessly as
though hell itself had brought thee forth, I ask thee who thou art,
thou unclean spirit, who hast dared to raise this pious people to
revolt by thy furious onslaught, and taught them to poison for
themselves and the ensuing race the holy fount of justice?

_Hans_. And I will answer thee: I myself am that justice. I bear it on
my sword's point, I carry it here beneath my cap, I pour it forth in my
master's name, who gave it for his glory and his happiness. [_Signs of
anger._] If ye believe it not, then listen trembling to the thousand
toned joy that peals from far away like spring thunder quivering in the
air, and sweeps throughout the land the joyous message of deliverance:
we are free!

_Chancellor_. Speak, O Queen! Thy soldiers wait below. Methinks this
servant of the defeated one has too much confidence,--he speaks as
though he were instead our lord and victor.

_Queen_. Let him speak! He has the right! And even were he a thousand
times defeated, this man who lies before us bleeding, if he recover and
seek it from me, shall be our lord and conqueror. [_Great confusion and
excitement._]

_Prince Witte_ [_rousing from his unconsciousness and looking about him
painfully_]. There lies the heron! I have wrung his neck, I snatch my
prize, my salvation ... [_feeling on his head and in his breast with
anxious dismay_] where are the feathers?

_Queen_. What seekest thou, dear one?

_Hans_. Thou seest, O Queen, he speaks in fever. Do not listen, do not
heed his words.

_Prince_. Hans, Hans!

_Hans_ [_close by him_]. Take care what thou sayest.

_Prince_ [_whispers earnestly_]. I will away from here ... [_with a
glance at the_ Queen _half complainingly_] I must away!

_Hans_. When thou canst.




                                ACT III.

_A chamber in the castle. The two farther corners <DW72> away from the
front. In the left corner is a bay-window with a platform, to which
steps lead up. Burning torches are stuck in the branches of the pillars
which flank the steps. In the right corner is a fireplace. One can look
beyond into an ante-chamber, and farther on, through a wide door-way
whose curtains are drawn back, into a thickly planted garden, which at
the end of its middle path shows a little of the surrounding wall. In
the middle of the room is a table with seats about it. At the left in
front is a couch with furs and cushions on it. At the right is the door
to the sleeping apartments._


                                Scene I.

_The_ Queen _sits on the platform with her distaff before her, and
gazes dreamily into the red glow, which shines through the window. Two
old women sit spinning before the fire-place, in which a dying fire
glimmers_. Anna Goldhair _and the young_ Prince _on the steps of the
platform. Through the drawn curtains plays the red evening light._

_The Young Prince_. Say, mother, will the father come soon?

_Queen_. Of course.

_The Young Prince_. Will he come before my bed-time?

_Queen_. I do not know.

_The Young Prince_. The wood is full of darkness, is it not?

_Queen_. Where our King goes, there is always light!... What, Anna, art
thou eavesdropping? Must I blush before thee, because I voiced a cry
out of my soul's longing, which envious time would smother?

_Anna Goldhair_. Beloved Queen.... I know well that I am too young; my
little thoughts whisk twittering like swallows through my head,--

_The Young Prince_. And she pretends to me she is so wise!

_Queen_. Run, run, my child!

_The Young Prince_. I will get her by the hair first! [_He tugs at_
Anna's _hair_. Anna Goldhair _pushes him off laughing._] Just wait!
[_He runs from her to the spinning-women, and teases them._]

_Anna Goldhair_. But if thou hast need of any one to whisper to, in
whose breast at the still evening-time to plunge thine overflowing
soul--of anyone who if need were, could go for thee to her death as to
a feast,--thou knowest, dearest Queen, I am that one!

_Queen_ [_caressing her_]. Yes, deep in my heart I know that thou art
mine. [_She rises._] But if it be death here for any human being, I am
that one!

_Anna Goldhair_ [_frightened_]. What troubles thee, beloved Lady?
[_Three maidens, young and pretty, have entered shyly._]

_Queen_. It is nothing,--nothing!... Why, here! What seek you my
children?... What not a word? Have you a favor to be granted, a
complaint to make? If you cannot speak, why then you must go away
again!

_Anna Goldhair_. Mistress forgive them. They are of thy train, and they
have asked me to plead for them, lest their too eager speech should
lose for them the favor they desire.

_Queen_. Well?

_Anna Goldhair_. Dear Mistress, there is an old custom that runs thus:
when Easter-tide has come into the land, when the thorn bush grows
faintly green, when the blue wave shines bluer, when our desire takes
wing to sport among the flying things of spring,--that then, upon the
coming of the first full moon, the night must be watched out with sport
and dance. In a word they would sing.

_Queen_ [_smiling_]. Ah, yes!... But tell me, dear children, if you
knew it, then why did this custom vanish from the land so many years?

_Anna Goldhair_. We honored thy sorrow, my Queen.

_Queen_. Well, then, go out and dance and frolic and sing together all
night long! Know you the song that you should sing?

[_The maidens nod eagerly._]

_Queen_. Go out and drink the moonlight as it pours down through the
branches; I think we little know how blessed we are.

[_The maidens courtesy and kiss her hands and garments._]

_Queen_ [_as she turns away smiling_]. Why are you old ones shivering?
Why look you so strange? Is it cold? Then you must rake the fire!

_One of the Old Women_. Mistress, we spin our winding-sheets. Shall we
not be cold?

_Queen_ [_drawing the young_ Prince _to her_]. Do not listen to them!
[Coelestin _enters._]

_The Young Prince_. Oh, Uncle Coelestin! [_Runs to him._] What hast thou
brought me, Uncle Coelestin?

_Coelestin_ [_lifting him up_]. A great sandman, and a small goodnight!

_Queen_. The King is come? Thou wouldst announce him?

_Coelestin_. No, my Lady. We heard his horn in the distance, but it died
away again. I come before thee a gloomy messenger. In the great hall
beyond there waits the council of the realm....

_Queen_. Stop! You, my women, seek your rest; my son, to bed!

_The Young Prince_. And am I not to see the father again till morning?
Ah, mother, please!

_Queen_. If thou canst not sleep, Anna shall take thee up and bring
thee here. Is it well so, dear one?

_The Young Prince_. Yes.

_Queen_. And goodnight!

[_The_ Prince, Anna Goldhair, _and the women go out._]

_Queen_. We are alone ... yet what a pity with too cool reason to chill
the buds of the May evening, which plunges all the waking soul into
sweet sickness.... But speak!

_Coelestin_. Lady, I know not how I shall begin. The words come
stumbling from my lips. Thou knowest how we love him, and how, since
thou hast given him thyself, there is no single life but stands
prepared to serve him without a thought of self. And how does he reward
us? He shuns our glance, a smouldering suspicion breaks out whenever we
would speak in seriousness to him, and throws its shadows on us darkly.
The people idolize him. They greet him, great and small, with clapping
hands and waving kerchiefs,--why must we stand aloof? Is he ashamed of
us?--or of himself? I know not. A mysterious sadness clouds his eye so
falcon-bright, and even while our hearts still yearn upon him, he grows
a stranger to us, who was never our friend.

_Queen_. It is your too easily wounded love complains of him.

_Coelestin_. If that danger--

_Queen_ [_without listening to him_]. I see it, but I scarce can
blame it. I blame no one. I have built for myself out of dreams and
smiles a strong strong wall, outside of which you wait, thieves of my
happiness--nay, my friend, look not so grieved!--and out of which you
know not how to lure me, either by cunning or by clamor.

_Coelestin_. Still, hast thou never come upon that knowledge, deep
within thy heart, which tells thee how in everything that is and was
and needs must be throughout our lives, a never expiated wrong must
weigh us down?

_Queen_. Never, my friend! In my soul there rings but one harp-tone,
one voice, which says: be happy!

_Coelestin_. And thy oath, Lady?

_Queen_. My oath?

_Coelestin_. Didst thou not swear before us all and in the sight of
heaven that he who hurled his rival to the earth, not he who lay there
shameful in defeat, might dare approach thee as thy lord and king?

_Queen_. But tell me, my dear friend, did he not conquer?

_Coelestin_. What madness has so blurred events for thee?

_Queen_. I know he conquered, for he is here!

_Coelestin_. Here indeed he is, but with what right?

_Queen_. The right that raised for him in that dark hour when the cruel
wound gaped in his throat, a faithful servant to avenge him; a servant
whose brave shout and lifted blade have taught me this one thing: high
above the right there stands the sword, and high above the sword stands
love!

_Coelestin_. May this wisdom please the Omnipotent, and may he pity
thee, and all of us!

_Queen_. It was not given to everyone to know it; but it has brought
the King to me! Hark, do I hear a horn? How near it sounds! My King is
coming! My King is here!


                                Scene 2.

_The Same_. King Witte, _the_ Chancellor _and other councillors and
nobles_. Hans Lorbass _stands guard at the door, spear in hand, at
ease._

_King_ [_embraces the_ Queen _and kisses her on the forehead. Comes
forward with her, but turns back irritably_]. What do you want?

_Chancellor_. My lord, while thou didst tread the forest paths,
following the hunt, a fierce onslaught of new trouble came swooping
down upon our land.

_King_. Trouble, always trouble! Mouldy, gray and blear, it lives far
longer than one's whole life! Must you, even in the daytime, din your
night-song in my ears?

_Chancellor_. This time--

_King_ [_mocking_]. "This time "--I wager the state will crack in
pieces! [_Turning to the_ Queen.] If they had naught at which to fear,
I should have naught at which to laugh!

_Queen_. Dear one--!

_King_. Hush! It makes me glow with anger, only to look upon these gray
countenances, gloomy as the grave, full of foreboding, heavy with woes,
and yet with that little glint of malice in their half-lowered lids.
Must I suck in these complaints that fall drop by drop upon me? I might
lay about me recklessly--but what am I to dare it?

_Queen_. All art thou, all darest thou, all hearts bow before thee!
Canst thou not guess their dumb entreaties, not understand their timid
longings? Look, they give thee so much, they give with open hands;
their love enfolds thee, blooms everywhere for thee to pluck! Go down
among them, then, step into their hearts, and speak, I beg thee,
graciously and kindly.

_King_ [_softened_]. I will try, thanks to thee! Speak, as thou knowest
me: why does this anger and this curse fall daily and hourly over me?
My friends, mislike me not for my impatience, for one thing I know
right well, that I stand deeply in your debt. And now, speak!

_Chancellor_. My lord, I speak--not trembling, for long necessity has
wonted us to terrors as to daily bread--of the fate which I have long
seen approaching, and which now stands thirsting for blood before us.
Duke Widwolf--

King [_starting_]. Duke Widwolf!

_Chancellor_. Is mustering an army!

King [_feigning calmness_]. What then?

_Chancellor_. He makes his boast that when the ice on the northern sea
has turned to sheeted foam, he will descend with full a hundred ships
and fall upon us like an avenging spirit.

_King_. The avenging spirit is a worthy part for him to play.

_Chancellor_. Still thou knowest this once he serves a righteous cause.

_King_. What sayest thou?

_Chancellor_. Is not this realm, O King, forfeit to him as a reward of
victory?

_King_. May the word choke thee! As a reward of victory? Oh, stands it
so with you, my lords? Do you stare at me? What means the scorn that
lurks in your eyes? Have I been here too long? Do you already rue your
act?

_Chancellor_. We rue it not, my King!

_King_. Say yes, say yes! Why so much pains with one who lay in the
dust, whom you so mercifully raised up that everyone might value me as
he chose, not as he must? Was it that I should fawn upon you, stroke
and caress and flatter you, and die, instead of that one death I owed
you, a thousand daily deaths?

_Chancellor_. Thou hast seen no hatred in us. A reflection of thine own
feeling has deluded thee.

_Coelestin_. And if thou hast heard the word guilt, it was but thus: let
me be guilty with thee! [Queen _nods gratefully to him._]

_King_. Very fine! Quite beautiful! Accept my thanks! Hans! Come here
and tell me what thou sayest to all this.

_Hans Lorbass_ [_comes forward boldly_]. Lord Chancellor and Lord House
Marshal, you nobles, councillors, and wise men all, who let yourselves
be plagued with doubts like flea-bites,--if you permit it I will say
one thing to you: between sin and punishment, between right and wrong,
between hate and love, and good and bad, between sand and sea, and
swamp and stone, between flesh of women and dead men's bones, between
desire and possession, between field and furrow,--he goes, a man of
men, straight through,--looking to neither right nor left!

_King_ [_with a smile of satisfaction_]. Good words, for which we shall
reward him. Yes, if you all thought with him, then I might bravely, out
of the fulness of-- Enough! We each do what befits us and what it was
decreed that we should do. We can no more. Time came upon us undesired
and unasked,--even to-day. Each of us drags listlessly our weight of
humanity unto the grave. Farewell my lords.... Lay by your letters. I
will prove, as it stands I will-- Yes, and give your wisdom air, my
dear friends, for it grows musty! [Coelestin, _the_ Chancellor, _and the
other nobles go out._] Hans, stay!

_King_. Well, my wife?

_Queen_. Thou lookest at me so earnestly.

_King_. I am smiling.

_Queen_. Yet sorrow looks from all thy features. My friend, I fear that
thou canst never learn to yield thyself up to this country.

_King_. Yield thyself, thou sayest. Belie thyself,--it is the same. To
me it is a polished farce, at which I play and play and play myself
quite out, entangled sleepily in fog and mist. But sometimes comes a
wandering south wind, and plays faintly with its wings upon my wearied
soul, striking vague and half-audible dream tones.

_Queen_. Thou torturest thyself.

_King_. And thee, my wife,--forgive! I look at thee and know that thou
hast long hung in imploring anguish on my neck; it shames me, for see,
I love thee!

_Queen_ [_repeats half dreamily_]. I love thee.

_The Voice of the Young Prince_. Papa.

_King_. Art thou still awake, my son?

_The Voice of the Young Prince_. Papa, may I come in?

_King_. Thou mayst. [_Enter the young_ Prince _with_ Anna Goldhair.]

_The Young Prince_ [_running to the_ King]. Papa, papa!

_King_. My boy, didst thou do well to leave thy bed and run with such
haste to thy playfellow?

_Queen_. He begged me, and I let him.

_King_. So then. [_To himself._] Now calm, quite calm!

_The Young Prince_ [_running to the door_]. Hans, did they shoot much?

_King_. Thy name is Anna with the golden hair?

_Anna Goldhair_ [_shyly_]. They call me Goldhair--but--

_King_. Let it be, it is true. [_To the_ Prince.] Come here!

_The Young Prince_. Yes, father.

_King_. Listen! If thou hast that in thee that seethes and bubbles and
strives to burst out, then smother it! When others take to themselves
the cream from off thy cup of life, do not curse and slay them! Smile
and be calm,--quite calm, there still remains in my breast, I fear, a
little of that former passion and unrest; I will employ it to shield
this calmness of thine.

_The Young Prince_. Have I been bad, father? When thou lookest at me
so, I am afraid.

_Queen_. Come!

_The Young Prince_. The father is angry.

_Queen_. The father jests.

_The Young Prince_. Good night!

_King_. Good night!

_Queen_. I cannot find the key that harmonizes with thy mood; though
once I knew how to resolve into harmony all the dissonance in the
world. Perhaps the knowledge will come back again.

_King_. Perhaps.

_Queen_. And good night! [_They clasp hands. The_ Queen, _the_ Prince,
_and_ Anna Goldhair _go out._]

_King_. No statue stands in the cathedral gates as stony as thou art.
Hatred grazes thee, envy seeks to belittle thy worth. But thou smilest
not. Thou movest in silent resignation, so tense, so ... Say, how canst
thou?

_Hans Lorbass_. I serve.

_King_. Is that the reason?

_Hans Lorbass_. A servant has no choice. Else had I torn from off its
nail my spear which the worms are conquering, burnished my shield and
mail, and with a shout of righteous anger which has gnawed its chain
for years, I would leap forth--where? Thou knowest, master!

_King_ [_smiling bitterly_]. What use? He serves a righteous cause.

_Hans Lorbass_. Master, I will not look longer upon this farce! Lay
about thee, kindle flames, slay, torture, make a harvest of the
people,--but laugh and feel thyself a man once more!

_King_. A man? A husband! That is the word! That is my office. And my
virtue. Wouldst thou soar? Then load a burden on thy back. Art thou
hungry? Then toss away thy food. Dost thou hear thy heart clamor within
thee after freedom? Seek a prison, and lay thee down therein.

_Hans Lorbass_. Dost thou hate her so?

_King_. Hate her? Her--from whose soul a mildness like honey drops on
mine? Her, in whose golden beauty the loveliness about her pales to a
shadow? If I knew a blot which she had hidden from me, a single grain
of dust upon the mirror of her soul, a single pretext however bald or
hollow, then I should have a weapon with which to pierce my shame, to
free me from this need of speaking out my humility--oh, might I hate
her, my God, it would be well for me! But at that glance of sorrowing
goodness with which she smiles on all our faults, all trace of defiant
courage dies in me, and I am weaponless because she is.

_Hans Lorbass_. Then come, escape!

_King_ [_smiling wearily_]. True, the door stands open.

_Hans Lorbass_. And when we have once passed the border, thou canst
learn to forget.

_King_. Perhaps! It may be! But can I learn to hope again? I went forth
a conqueror; joyous self-confidence was my companion on the way--my
bright horizon stretched itself to the boundless heavens. And now? I
wear a sickly crown, which did not fall to me as victor, but fell upon
me as I fell myself; and this fall has so sweated it to me that neither
help of hands nor curses, but only death itself can tear it from my
head.

_Hans Lorbass_. Well, at least thou hast it; thou hast a crown, thou
art king.

_King_. King am I? Wilt thou mock me? Dost thou think I am so besotted
as not to know my state? Yea, I might be king, were not the youth
already ripening to maturity for whom I guard his throne from harm
until he occupies it!

_Hans Lorbass_. But every man holds what he has and hopes to have, in
security, in pawn, as it were, for his children.

_King_. Yes, for his own, not for a stranger's.

_Hans Lorbass_. Then get some of thy own.

_King_. To beg their bread? Thou knowest that in this whole kingdom of
which I am king, there is not a single crust of bread, not a rag, that
I may call my own. It is all his.

_Hans Lorbass_. What is in thy head?

_King_. Say naught! A man may wear his shame, may panting draw it
draggled after him, and yet in spite of it he can hunger, thirst, and
draw his sword. But when he must say to himself besides: thou hast
squandered thy own happiness in shameful dalliance,--to whom then, dare
he show his face? Yes, thou canst do all!... Yet one thing thou canst
not do: thou never canst give back to the world its face of bloom. The
great festal day that lay red and golden over all the earth, on which I
closed my eyes when I lay down to rest, which roused me to joyous labor
with its fanfare, which cast on toil itself a glorious light,--that,
thou canst never bring back to me. Never.... Never again. The
spring-time gleams to-day in vain. In vain the blossoms crowd to show
their splendor to me, in vain do autumn's golden apples bow to my hand.
Another hand will pluck them, while I descend my narrow path, hedged in
with poverty, weighed down with despair, shut in with duties as with
graves, and see my own grave stretched across the end. Thus I go on and
on, so quietly,--yet all the time I stifle in my throat a cry, a
shriek,--oh, save me from my daily burden, friend!

_Hans_ [_to himself_]. A last hope,--but dare I venture it? I must.
Lest he languish and slip hither beneath my eye. [_Aloud._] Master, if
thou cherishest a grief, thou hast then forgot the talisman--

_King_. The what?

_Hans Lorbass_ [_watching him_]. The feathers thou didst once possess.

_King_ [_feeling in his breast. Angrily_]. Be still.

_Hans Lorbass_. Since thou still wearest them on thy heart, why--

_King_. Be still, I tell thee, churl!

_Hans Lorbass_ [_bursts out_]. Cursed be the churl that dog-like yields
himself to thee. Yet I will be thy dog, that I may howl, for at least I
have that right.

_King_. No one shall speak of them,--neither I nor thou. The door is
closed upon the past. All is done, is spent, and these feathers are
nothing but a mark of my violent downfall, a monument to my dead
longing.

_Hans Lorbass_. It is dead, then? It lives and cries aloud,--so loud
that even the deaf could hear! Have courage, wield the magic power, and
call thy unknown bride to thee.

_King_. Here?

_Hans Lorbass_. Where else? I trust in the charm thou hast wrung from
the witch-wife. I remember it well. [_Repeating_] "The first of the
feathers"--no, it is burned. [_Repeating_] "The second feather, mark it
well, shall bring her to thee in love; for when thou--burnest--it"--
[_Stops._]

_King_. "Alone in the dying glow, she must wander by night and appear
before thee."

_Hans Lorbass_. Well?

_King_ [_in great agitation_]. The thought thou hast thrown out in
faring jest, has lain a last hope, deep within my hearts shrinking
depths.

_Hans Lorbass_. Why hast thou when so devil-ridden, not yielded to the
strain?

_King_. Hast thou forgot what else she said?

_Hans Lorbass_. What she said--she spoke of the third feather.

_King_ [_repeating_]. "Until the third has perished in the flame, thy
hand stretched forth shall bless her"--

_Hans Lorbass_ [_going on_]. "but the third burning brings her death"--

_King_. Suppose she should come now and vanish again?

_Hans Lorbass_. But why?

_King_. Ask thyself what it means--my hand stretched forth shall bless
her--if I have and hold her? Would fate withdraw her gift a second time
and leave me no security? Does a new misery lie in wait behind the dark
disguise of these words? Thus I have delayed the deed, hoping I might
be new-redeemed, by my own strength, without the laming weakness of
enchantment, to see and win the woman of whom my soul has dreamed. All
that is past.... The broken pinion can no longer unfurl itself....
[_listening._] I hear laughter outside. What is it?

_Hans Lorbass_ [_lifting the curtain_]. Only our maidens, who sport
outside, modest and chaste as their land's innocence.

_King_. I will employ this hour of rest, while they dance there beneath
the birches, to set the charm to work, and call my long-dead happiness
as guest. Now go!

_Hans Lorbass_. Thou knowest, master, danger often comes from business
such as this.

_King_. Danger--for whom?

_Hans Lorbass_. Let me stay with thee! Crouched in the farthest
corner--

_King_. The charm says it must be done alone.

_Hans Lorbass_. Well then! I will hold a watch outside. [_Goes out._]

The King [_alone. Looks about distrustfully, then draws the feathers
from his corselet, puts one back and goes toward the fireplace with the
other_]. The fire dies down? Then thou canst strive to brighten it, as
thou hast the flames of my will.... Too late! Naught but this lazy,
luke-warm heap of sodden ashes. What is to be done now?--The torch,
a-flicker there! Though thy dim mocking glimmer has often frightened me
in the forest it smiles alluringly at me now. And look, above, the
parchments which so long have made my life a hell--now I know how to
use you! Out of the paper sorrows of my country I will kindle for
myself a glad new morning,--a new sun shall rise for me in their light!
[_He hurls the torch among the rolls and they take fire._] And now!
[_He tosses the feather into the flames. A violet lightning flashes
high above the stone chimney-piece. A light peal of thunder follows,
with a long roll like the noise of rattling chains. The door on the
right has sprung open. As the_ King _stares wildly about, the_ Queen
_enters, at first not seen by him, and stands with closed eyes near the
door._]

_King_ [_turning round_]. What wilt thou here?

_Queen_ [_opening her eyes_]. Didst thou not call?

_King_. I--call thee?... But hush!... No, nothing, nothing! No shadow
climbs the starred blue sky ... no light ... only the moon laughs in
the green water, and laughs ... and laughs.... The world is drained
quite empty. Thou hast done well, Maria ... thou holdest thy watch
faithfully. No spy could have done better.

_Queen_. I came because thou--

_King_. Hast called me? Was that it? I knew it well.

_Queen_. And if thou hadst not called--

_King_. Thou wouldst still have come, to see that no thief was gliding
up the steps of thy throne [_aside_] alone, alas, alone--a thief of
fortune, such as pious women like thyself, whose longings form but to
be granted, brew spectre-like in their porridge pots. Wouldst thou not?

_Queen_. For God's sake, what burns there?

_King_. My manhood! Let it burn, child, let it burn! While I sat
piously amid thy flock, there came a flame of piety upon me, burning
more fiercely than myself, and burned and burned, until I was consumed
with piety.... But thou, woman, that thou mayst know how in this dark
hour thou hast snatched the cup of freedom from my longing lips,--I ask
thee, woman, what have I done to thee? What have I done, that thy
love-longing--I will not mock, else I had said love-lust--should force
me, who was naught to thee, to grovel in the dust here at thy feet?
Now hast thou what thou wilt. Here stands thy spouse, the second
father of thy son,--thy mock, thy love potion and thy sleeping-draught,
catch-poll of the great, butt of the small, and to both a vent for
every scorn. Yes, gaze upon me in my pride! This am I, this hast thou
made of me!--speak, then, and stand not staring into space! Strike
back, defend thyself; that is the way with happy married folk.... Well?

_Queen_. Witte, Witte!

_King_. Well?

_Queen_. Witte, Witte!

_King_. So piteously thou callest me, child! Thus piteously stands thy
image in my soul's midst.

_Queen_. No more.

_King_. Well, then?

_Queen_. It is past. It must be past. Alas, how many a night have I
pictured myself thy happiness, thy refuge, thy solace,--oh, pardon me!
I had so much love to give to thee, so wholly lay my trembling soul
within thy hand, such streams of light and glory leaped and played
about me,--how could I know that what was so precious and so dear to me
was naught at all to thee? Now I know how I have deceived myself; it
grieves me sorely, and for many a year must I endure and sorrow. But to
thee I grant the one gift left for me to give,--thy freedom. Take it,
but ah, believe, I love thee!

_King_. Shall I be free, Maria?

_Queen_. Free; and more than that; thou shalt be happy. I shall know
thee so glad, so radiant, so buoyantly poised heaven-high above all
black necessity, whether here or far away, so unfalteringly turned
toward the light upon the eagle wing of thy desire, that a reflection
of thy radiance shall laugh into my lonely darkness.

_King_ [_takes her head between his hands and gazes at her steadily_].
Listen, Maria! Should I say: I thank thee,--how raw 'twould sound!...
And yet I feel thy meaning; as I drank in thy words, there slipped away
and fell from my breast a ... Maria, thou art weeping!

_Queen_ [_smiling_]. What slipped away, what fell? Thou art silent
again.

_King_. Look, what thou givest, thou Lady Bountiful, is not thine to
give. But thou hast given so freely of thy kindness, that at thy words
something like happiness itself flowers out of black necessity itself,
whose slave I am. I may not be free in very truth; but thou hast so
generously hidden my chains, so mercifully forborne all blame of my
weak struggle for self-redemption, that freedom's self seems near. I
welcome her, and feel new blood course through my tainted and
empoverished frame.

_Queen_. Why should I judge thee, and not rather love? For why else am
I thy wife?

_King_. Come here! Come to me! Sit down--nay, here!... How strange it
is! I thought to flee before thee, and only fled with all my pain
straight to thy arms.

_Queen_. So shouldst thou! And so long as thou needest me, so long will
I be at thy side.... But when thou sayest: "Enough! I ride abroad to
seek my happiness," then all silently will I vanish from thy path.

_King_. And thus thou gavest me thy life, without condition or return;
and with sweet service snatched me from the grave. But when I was whole
once more, I felt so confined within the hedge thy tenderness had built
about me, so twined about with thy gentle arms, so dazed by weakness
and by shame, that I seized eagerly, as on a penance, upon thy offered
throne. My deed seems voluntary now, and like a weak submission to the
fate that bore me, the faithless one, here to thy feet. Thou art no
less than I its victim,--then forgive me if for a moment I rebelled at
the sight of my last hope strewn to the winds.

_Queen_. We sit here hand in hand, and, third in our company sits
misery.

_King_ [_shaking his head_]. Nay, if a man has found a friend whose
voice is gentle, whose soul speaks harmony and keeps sweet accord with
his in that holy hour which turns our griefs to calm, whose love rings
true in sorrow and in joy,--such a man is far from deepest misery.

_Queen_. Thou speakest so gently now, and yet thou couldst speak so
cruelly before! Nay, I mean no reproach, no blame. I have hung so long
upon the hope of being thy happiness, that even the smallest change
upon thy face has become to me a consciousness of some fault of mine.
And when I saw a laugh in thine eye, a smile, or even a single friendly
beam, the whole broad world lay straightway in sunshine. Yet do not
tell me that I am too fond. It is not that ... or only a very, very
little. For look, I have a child; and my heart has the same gift for
him. Thou canst believe there was a struggle there. And just because I
yearned for thee so deeply, there fell a shadow over thine ... it was
the child's!

_King_. No.

_Queen_. I thought that he was dear to thee.

_King_. That he is. Yes.

_Queen_. How many times hast thou beguiled the time in play and frolic
with him, at all the little dreams that make his. Thou hast poured into
his the strength of thy own soul.

_King_. Let the child be. I love him, thou knowest it. A little
unwillingly, but what is that? He is not of my blood.... Let be. Speak
of thyself. With every word thou drawest a thorn out of my soul.

_Queen_. What shall I say? Am I so powerful, then? And yet--I am!
Thou gavest my power to me! Nay, before that--I learned it from a
gray-haired man. Still half a child, I owed my love to him; and gave
it, though as yet I knew not how to love.

[_The swinging maidens outside have begun to sing._]

_King_. Hark! What is that? Some one is singing. How their voices exult
together, as if they mocked the sound!... The air thrills as with the
tremulousness of virgin bells on Sunday from a far-off lonely height.

_Queen_ [_who has drawn aside the curtain. On the moonlit sward the
white-robed maidens are singing_]. Are they not fair, thy singing land,
thy moonlit house?

_King_. Come back! Let the curtain fall! Give me thy hand, and I will
drink therefrom a draught of deep forgetfulness. Lay it upon my burning
forehead, ah, so coolingly! So rests the snow upon the <DW72>s in my
childhood's home.... My home ... what is it to me now?... A balmy wind
blows over me ... it rises from a blue flower-besprinkled spot, far,
far away, where happiness begins ... it seems so very long. I have not
slept. I think ... [_He sleeps._]

_Queen_ [_after she has tenderly pillowed and covered him_]. I hold
thee to my breast, beloved prisoner; at this hour thou art mine, even
if tomorrow thou wouldst tread me in the dust. Until tomorrow is a long
respite, to have thee and to hold thee, to give to thee a thousand
golden gifts--if thou desirest them. How many joyous fountains might
leap to the light of day from their deep sleep in my heart's depths.
Alas that no word breaks their enchantment! They must sink back again
from whence they came. Never will sunshine build its seven-hued bridge
between my dream and the reality, between to-day and happiness. Thou
wilt go from me, I must see but cannot hinder it; but tonight thou
still art mine,--I may protect the slumber of my sleeping child.

[_Before going out, she draws the curtain so that the moonlight streams
in_. Hans Lorbass, _spear in hand and quite motionless, is visible for
a moment, and steps aside at the approach of the_ Queen.]




                                ACT IV.

_A vaulted tower in the castle. In the centre of the background is a
landing with stairs going up and down. Beyond, a corridor that loses
itself in the distance. In the left foreground a window, and next to it
a vaulted passage. In the right foreground a door bound with iron, and
next to it a chimney-piece. In the middle of the room is a table with
the remains of a feast upon it. Overturned goblets, burned-out lights,
stringed instruments, garments, etc., about. On the left side of the
stage is the throne, with the King's arms hanging upon it. Night, and
half-darkness. The wind wails faintly in the chimney._


                                Scene 1.

Anna Goldhair _cowering with covered face in the shadow of the throne_.
Hans Lorbass _and_ Coelestin _enter from the landing._

_Hans Lorbass_. Master!... No answer.

_Coelestin_. His lair is empty. The hall seems forsaken. Nothing, but
the sighing of the autumn wind. Not even a trace of the women that herd
with him.

_Hans Lorbass_. And before the door, the foe.

_Coelestin_. We are to suffer for his sins.

_Hans Lorbass_. Pah!--We!

_Coelestin_. Since he so far betrayed morality as to draw to his lustful
embraces the young maid with the golden hair, even from the very feet
of his most virtuous spouse, it has gone ill with him and us. For half
a year this shameless wanton bond has blazoned itself beneath this
roof.

_Hans Lorbass_. If I choose to cry him down, why it is my affair. I
advise thee, old man, to let it be.

_Coelestin_. Have I ever yet mingled with the crowd that boldly raise
their heads against him? But now the foe hangs at our very heels,--and
he, instead of showing fist in need, buries a thorn in our own flesh;--
must I still be silent?

_Hans Lorbass_. Gabble or not, as thou choosest. Dost thou think the
slime out of thy old mouth can make him slippery enough to--

_Coelestin_. Hark! [_A muffled drum-beat_]. The morning signal of the
foe!

_Hans Lorbass_ [_stretching out his arms_]. Come, mighty hour!

_Coelestin_. There is one way ... some one might ... with more influence
than I ... seek out the King and fetch him here. The tardy day still
lies in heavy sleep . . wilt thou go? [Hans Lorbass _nods._]

_Coelestin_. Good! [_Going out._] I am cold.

_Hans Lorbass_. What? All empty?... Thou shadow there, give answer what
thou art. What, Goldhair, thou? Asleep here on the stones? Where is the
King?... The King, where is he?

_Anna Goldhair_ [_gets up trembling_]. I do not know.

_Hans Lorbass_. Is he asleep somewhere?

_Anna Goldhair_. No.

_Hans Lorbass_. Where have the women gone, then,--those wanton
flaunting blossoms of his?

_Anna Goldhair_. He sprang up from the table to-night and drove them
out with scourging.

_Hans Lorbass_. How was he before that?

_Anna Goldhair_. His greeting long since stiffened into silence and
sternness. All night long his feet have wandered up and down the
echoing passages.

_Hans Lorbass_. And to-night--which way did he go?

[Anna Goldhair _motions towards the left._]

_Hans Lorbass_. Give me a light.

_Anna Goldhair_ [_as she takes a taper from the table and gives it to
him_]. Hans!

_Hans Lorbass_. Well?

_Anna Goldhair_. Hans--dost thou know what the Queen says of me?

_Hans Lorbass_. Queens are no friends of thine; the women will have
none of thee now. Thou'dst best befriend thyself, and be thine own
queen. [_He goes out._]

[Anna Goldhair _cowers down again in the shadow of the throne. Then,
from behind, the_ King._]

_King_ [_coming forward_]. When I was yet a little boy I loved to put
my ear down to the earth and shudder at the danger coming toward me in
the thunder of the horses' hoofs. Even so now, the voice of the north
wind wails aloud in the chimney how grim-visored death stands
threatening upon my outer wall.... Was it for this the sea once rolled
in music to my feet, for this my drawn sword thrilled in my hand, for
this a woman beckoned me from out the clouds,--that here in this corner
my young and lusty body should rot away to naught? Patience yet! I know
my revenge! Though every broil burst out here, though my life itself
were forfeit, though I became a very brute, scurvy and bleeding, goaded
to despair, yet justice should be done! Only wait! I will die right
joyfully, but fight--I will not. [_He sees_ Anna Goldhair.] What,
Goldhair, thou awake? Come here!--Come, I command thee! Thou wast no
joyous guest at the feast, I warrant. Nor I.... Do not speak,
Goldhair.... Hush! Lest they believe I vaunt my sin. But then, what
they believe is naught to me. Come, give me thy hand. Thou art fettered
to me,--yet thou wast only a plaything, only a splinter of glass
wherein I saw my image, only the last string of a broken lute.... Lean
down. I will entrust something to thy care: here, under my doeskin
corselet I carry a treasure. It is not much to see, neither gold nor
precious stone,--only a feather. I won it once, it was a prize,--that
was long since.... Enough, that it was precious to me. If I should come
to harm to-day, take it and throw it in the fire. Wilt thou?

_Anna Goldhair_. Yes, sire.

_King_. I thank thee. [_Caressing her._] Why dost thou shroud thy
pretty hair with a grey veil? It is still golden. Dost thou thus seek
to shroud dreams of the past? What look'st thou at so? [_Whispers._] Is
thy sorrow for thy Queen.

[Anna Goldhair _hides her face in her hands, shuddering._]

_King_. Then cease thy grief ... methinks the sword already clangs
without to bring thee peace.

_Hans Lorbass_. Master.

_King_. Thou, Hans, here in my tower, which thou hast so avoided? What
brings thee here?

_Hans Lorbass_. We are attacked. The Duke has surrounded the castle by
night with a thousand men. The battering-ram and beam had even begun
their cursed work, when suddenly there came a lull, and by the glow
of torches we saw upon the plain a white flag held aloft upon a
lance-point. We held communication a spear's length from the camp.
There he stood, murder in his glance, and there stood Skoell and Gylf,
and all the other vermin that have crawled to his feet; and he rolled
his eyes, gnashing his teeth like a nut-cracker--Heaven send we're not
the nut!

_King_. What offer did he make?

_Hans Lorbass_. A respite until day-break, in which time to yield
thyself and me into his hands.

_King_. Me, Hans, and alone.

_Hans Lorbass_ And if they yield he will allow his heart to melt with
pity; he will butter on both sides the bread of all the people who will
shout for him. That is his way; all innocence, like the rest of us.

_King_. And if?

_Hans Lorbass_. If not? He swore,--and here his spleen burst out--that
let a single sword be raised against him, a single spear be laid in
rest, and he would hang and quarter every living, breathing thing,
without mercy. This he calls choking rebellion in the seed.

_King_. And what was the decision of the people?

_Hans Lorbass_. The people will fight.

_King_. Will fight? Will fight? This flock of nestlings, lacking in
every sort of strength, inspired by no courage-breeding fire, wanting
in power, in discipline,--

_Hans Lorbass_. Like their King himself.

_King_. Like their King himself. Quite true. The shadow of a King, set
on the throne by woman's love, is not the man to lead a forlorn hope.

_Hans Lorbass_. Though his people offer themselves to the sword for
him.

_King_. Take care; I have outgrown thy scorn. [_Knocking on the door to
the right._]

_Coelestin_ [_outside_]. Open the door for the King's son.

_Hans Lorbass_. Shall I?

_King_. Thou must. This house is his; and if he chose to, he could
drive me hence.

[Coelestin _enters, leading in the young_ Prince _by the hand. It is
gradually growing light._]

_The Young Prince_ [_running to_ Anna Goldhair]. Anna! Ah, Anna, art
thou here? The mother told me thou wast dead. Say. Anna, art thou vexed
with me? I eat my supper all alone, I say my prayers and go to bed all
alone. I sing alone, I play alone,--and oh, the mother weeps so much!
They said my father had been cruel to her,--how sorry he would be to
see her weep! Anna, dear Anna, come and help us, for we are so sad!

[Anna Goldhair _kneels down before him and sobs on his neck._]

_King_. What now?

_Coelestin_. My Prince, my little Prince!

_King_. Well?

_Coelestin_. Nay, with her thou canst have no concern. Thou knowest to
whom thy mother sent thee, and what she graved so deep upon thy heart.

_The Young Prince_ [_timidly approaching the_ King]. My mother called
me very early, and bid me come to thee before my breakfast with Uncle
Coelestin, and kneel down here before thee, and ask thee--something,--I
forget.

_Coelestin_. Then, my lord, according to the measure of my wisdom I must
speak here for this child, who in his innocence cannot comprehend how
basely thou hast forsaken thy people. I must embolden myself to speak a
last warning to thee. I speak not of the sins that now already weigh
thee down: eternal God shall judge them, for thou mayst not sin and not
atone. But even now thy spirit, corroded with rancorous spite, hast
turned the edge of our ancestral sword against thy honor and thy
manhood. Lo, there it glistens in thy burning grasp; and to that
all-avenging sword I make my prayer: to the arm where still resides
our safety: to the eyes from which looks out an unquenched thirst of
fighting: that thou wilt lead to victory thy broken people, who
surround the tower and call upon thee in their need.

_King_. The sword that I unthinking raised--led thereto by occasion
only--I will lay down still clean. Thou callest it the all-avenging;
and it shall win that praise itself. Let the foe mow you down in
sheaves, it shall be naught to me,--it comes too late.

_Coelestin_. Good! Though thou so hatest thy people--

_King_. I hate ye not.

_Coelestin_. As to appease thy long-cherished revenge by scornful
laughter in their hour of need, yet one thing I shall never think, sir
King,--that thou wilt yield without a struggle, and give up thy
weaponless body to the slaughter.

_King_. What can I otherwise? In whose blood shall I dip this body to
make it consecrate? With what right shall I plunge this sword into
fiery service? He who stands without there serves a righteous cause. So
sayest thou. The Chancellor, likewise. You all agree. Therefore I
counsel thee: be wise, rescue your country and make clean your house.
There is still time ... the storm yet lulls. The Duke has need of me;
deliver me to him.

_Coelestin_. All my strength is broken against this madness, which
destroys itself.... And the hour presses.... What can I do? The crowd
shrieks lamentations in my ear. Kneel down, my child, stretch out thy
arms,--perhaps, that silent picture will reach this heart. [_He makes
the young_ Prince _kneel down._]

_King_. Stand up. . . Come here. . . Thou hast stood in my way, and yet
I loved thee. A madness, an absurdity! [_Aside._] Suppose: if thou wert
not,--if in this coming hour I might but strike a blow for my own
throne.... Where now?

_The young Prince_ [_clinging to_ Hans]. I am afraid.

_Hans Lorbass_ [_gazing at the_ King]. There is the pinch. [_Going up
to him, aside_]. And if---

_King_. If--what?

_Hans Lorbass_. If through some chance, quite unforseen, this land
should all at once become thine own, entirely thine?

_King_ [_bewildered_]. What dost thou mean?

_Hans Lorbass_. Well then, if that should disappear that stands in thy
way? [_Bursting out._] Then wouldst thou take thy sword in both thy
hands and storm exulting on the foe?... Well?

_King_. I understand thee not.

_Hans Lorbass_. Then--

_King_. Silence, silence! Thou knowest I have quenched the last embers
of my desires. Thinkest thou to kindle a new blaze thereon by victory
and sin? A fire must run from heaven, must mount from hell, to light a
new life in my fading course. A thing of horror must first come to
pass; whence it came would be as naught to me, if it could but rise
wonder-like upon my sight. Alas, from out these ashes no miracle can
rise for me! I can no longer hope and struggle.... The door stands open
to the upper room.... Once more I mount up to the height, once more
behold the gray dawn turn to gold in rosy glory--

_Hans Lorbass_. Wilt thou come back?

_King_. Nay, didst thou not think so? I--[_As Coelestin with the young
Prince puts himself in the way._] Away with the child!--I must die!
[_Goes out._]

_Hans Lorbass_ [_to himself_]. "A thing of horror must first come to
pass." And then, "If I might strike a blow for my own throne." "If thou
wert not." And looked at him with such eyes!--Coelestin, if I had
something to ask--thou knowest, perhaps, the King will yield to
me--more than--in short, I am beloved by him--

_Coelestin_. Good reason for it.

_Hans Lorbass_. Yes. Then what if I knew how to goad him into harness,
so that even before the hour had struck, he had the Bastard by the
throat with your all-avenging sword?

_Coelestin_. It would be possible? Thou couldst?

_Hans Lorbass_. Yes. But I need the Prince.

_Coelestin_. The Princeling,--why?

_Hans Lorbass_. With him by the hand I would sit there on the landing
and hold watch till he came down.

_Coelestin_. And then?

_Hans Lorbass_. Then, Major-domo,--that is my affair.

_Coelestin_. The Queen left him in my care. But I know, Hans Lorbass
that thou lovest him. Wilt thou, my little Prince?

_The Young Prince_. Dost thou ask me? I love to stay with him,--he
teaches me to fight. [_He runs to him._]

_Coelestin_. And may God bless thee in thy task.

_Hans Lorbass_. Much thanks. [_Turning to_ Anna Goldhair.] I do not
want her. Take her with thee.

_Coelestin_. Come, poor wench.

_The Young Prince_. May Anna stay here, too?

[Hans Lorbass _hushes him._]

_Anna Goldhair_. Oh, Coelestin, if I could hide somewhere, and see my
dear Queen pass by just once!

_Coelestin_. Spare me thy plaints.... Well, wait, I will hide thee here
behind the curtains of the door; stay there, and do not move, and when
she goes to the cathedral--come, come!

[Coelestin _and_ Anna Goldhair _go out._]

_Hans Lorbass_ [_grimly_]. My Prince!

_The Young Prince_ [_tenderly_]. My Hans!

_Hans Lorbass_. And still it grips me cruelly hard.

_The Young Prince_. What is it thou grumblest in thy beard? Come, let
us fight.

_Hans Lorbass_. Let us fight, child! If thou knewest how to fight
indeed!

_The Young Prince_. How strange thou art to-day? Say, Hans, is it true
that a cruel enemy stands before the gate?

_Hans Lorbass_. Quite true.

_The Young Prince_. Will he come inside?

_Hans Lorbass_. Not yet. Before long.

_The Young Prince_. How long?

_Hans Lorbass_. Until the drums sound the attack.

_The Young Prince_. Soon?

_Hans Lorbass_. Very soon.

_The Young Prince_. Oh, that is splendid! And why did the father go up
to his tower?

_Hans Lorbass_. Because ... If I knew whether this young blood would be
poured out in vain. To every foulness God created he has given a tongue
to shriek: "Behold my purpose!" And such a deed as this to-day ... but
no! "If thou wert not!"

_The Young Prince_. If I were not,--what then?

_Hans Lorbass_. Wha--? Why? His sick desires, his failing deeds, the
dreams that mock his brain, that make the right seem wrong,--if he
might see a wish of his become a fact, as if by magic power, perhaps
that knowledge of renewed strength might scatter his gloom to its
accursed source and set him free. Now show thy worth and bleed here
quietly on my breast--what dost thou there!

_The Young Prince_ [_playing about meanwhile has drawn the sword from
its sheath_]. I am learning to carry the King's sword. Forward! Hasten,
the foe will come! Very well. Then I shall be the victor.

_Hans Lorbass_. Put it down!

_The Young Prince_. Ah, no!

_Hans Lorbass_. Put it down!

_The Young Prince_. Oh-oo! That is sharp!

_Hans Lorbass_. Thou knowest who alone may carry that?

_The Young Prince_. The King.

_Hans Lorbass_. Well then.

_The Young Prince_. But he left it there!

_Hans Lorbass_ [_sternly_]. To take it up again. [_Draws his sword._]

_The Young Prince_. Wait! I will kill thee! [_He has grasped the sword
in both hands, and thrusting at Hans, who does not see him, he wounds
him on the hand._]

_Hans Lorbass_ [_laughing grimly_]. The fiend torment--

_The Young Prince_. Thou bleedest--O me!

_Hans Lorbass_. The very weakness of this child avenges itself in
death.

_The Young Prince_. Wilt thou not scold me! [_Unfastening his
neckerchief_] Take my kerchief,--ah, please! Wrap it about thy hand.
Quick!

_Hans Lorbass_. Is it intended for a sign to me to turn back in my
path? The wish was there, but who knows when he cherished it, whether
he was not so rent by torment, so quite unmanned as to harbor a thought
that sprang therefrom? He must ... Yea, and I must. The hour will slip
away.... [_Drums sound in the distance._] Hark, hark! There it is,--the
time has come. [_Drums._] Again!

_The Young Prince_. Is that the signal?

_Hans Lorbass_. What signal?

_The Young Prince_. For the attack?

_Hans Lorbass_. Yes. For the attack and--

_The Young Prince_. What happiness! Is it not, Hans! If I were grown!
If I were a man!

_Hans Lorbass_. Come here!

_The Young Prince_. Why dost thou look at me so sternly? Just like the
father.... Wouldst thou strike me? No, thou shalt not.... I am a king's
son.

_Hans Lorbass_. Come here!

_The Young Prince_. I am not afraid. [_Goes to him._] Just think, the
people say the father hates me. I believe it not. Whatever he should
do, I know right well he loves me,--even as much as thou, my Hans.
[_Throws his arms around him._]

_Hans Lorbass_. How dost thou know?

_The Young Prince_. What, Hans?

_Hans Lorbass_. About the father.

_The Young Prince_. Listen! One night, quite lately, when I had been a
little while in my bed, and was all alone, only think!--he came very
softly within my chamber. I was afraid, because I had not seen him in
so long, and all the people said: "The King is wicked." But he stood
there before my bed and looked at me,--Hans, what is all that noise?

_Hans Lorbass_. Hasten,--thou knowest not what it means to thee!

_The Young Prince_. And looked at me so stern and wild that I was
frightened and pretended that I slept. Then he leaned over me, so low
that I had nearly died of fright, and then,--only think, my Hansel,--he
kissed me. Here on my forehead, on my hair and both my cheeks, and then
very softly went away.

_Hans Lorbass_. Thy good angel put the words into thy mouth! Could he
do so, my little man, then 'twas a fever in his blood that spoke
to-day,--no hate of thee!... It seems as though thou wert even dearer
to me now,--and yet my thoughts have scarce deserved it. [_Clasps him
to him._] Now let me, let ... There below they call upon thy father,
and he ... I have it! I will take thee in my arms and show thee to the
leaderless throng below, him who shall lead them when his form rears
itself kinglike and his brow darkens. Come then! Friend, if thy King
fights not for thee to-day, then fight thou for thy King! [_He raises
him in his arms and hurries with him down the steps._]


                                Scene 2.

Anna Goldhair _comes timidly from the right, pushed into the room.
After her, the_ Chancellor, Coelestin, _nobles and ladies, who stand so
as to form a passage. Then, the_ Queen. _After her, other ladies_. Anna
Goldhair _in a shrinking attempt to hide herself, crouches near the
door, behind those coming in._

_Chancellor_. Away, lest the Queen see thee! Out of the way, wench!

_Queen_ [_observing that someone is concealed from her_]. Who--? [_She
motions them to let her see. The group separates. She looks silently
down upon the kneeling_ Anna, _whose face is bowed to the earth, and
strokes her hair._] Much evil has come upon us both; therefore be it
unto thee according to thy sorrow, not according to thy deed. [_She
raises her and gives her over to her women._]

_Chancellor_ [_meanwhile aside to_ Coelestin
]. Send above to the King
straightway. I cannot yet forbear to hope that when he--dost thou hear?

_Coelestin_ [_who is looking in anxious search toward the background_].
Where is the Prince?

_Murmur of Voices_. The King comes.

[_The_ King _comes down the steps._]

_King_ [_startled, bewildered_]. Why do ye stand there so amazed? Do ye
not know me? I am he, your King, your much-loved King, he with whose
hero-tread treason has entered in your flock, into your hearts.

_Queen_ [_coming forward_]. My King!

_King_ [_reeling back_]. Thou! Thou hast come here,--into this den
where lust holds sway? Burst open all the windows wide! Perfume the air
with fine resin! Fetch sage and thyme and peppermint, that the fumes of
this place may not attaint her breath! Hasten! Faded and withered, let
them--

_Coelestin_ [_whispers_]. My lord, where hast thou left the Prince?

_King_. What? Who? The--the--am I the Prince's keeper?

_Queen_. My King, the battle rages now already about the castle walls.
The door still holds. The people wait, counting their heart-throbs till
thou comest, trusting in thee still. There is yet time. There lies the
kingly sword and waits for thee.

_King_ [_to himself_]. If Hans understood me rightly--

_Queen_. Stoop to it. It is worth the stooping for.

_King_. Thinkest thou?... Still?... And that this hand is worthy, too,
to raise it?

_Queen_. I trust in it as in immortal life.

_King_. Believest thou also that miracles still come to pass?

_Queen_. I believe in thee.

_King_. Then--[_he stoops, but starts back with a shriek._] Blood!
There is blood on it! Coelestine! Approach, lean down. Nearer. Thou hast
asked me just now, only in pretence, where I ... I ask thee, with whom
hast _thou_ left the Prince?

_Coelestin_. Hans Lorbass was with him.

_King_. Alone?

_Coelestin_. Alone.

_King_. Yes?... It is well.... See how the red shines bright on the
gray steel! The life that coursed within this blade cannot die--it
lives--it lives and drags me down, a death-devoted man, unto a doubly
shameful end.

_Chancellor_ [_to the_ Queen]. Speak again before this madness gains
upon him!

_Queen_. My King.

_King_. Ha! The angel of destruction broods over us.... Where is thy
child? Where is thy child?

_Queen_. I know that he is safe, for the most faithful of the faithful
guards him. Think of thyself and of thy sword.

_King_. An hour since was this blade still clean.... I seemed too
great--nay, nay, too small--to wield it; doubted and cursed myself and
you and all the world. And yet defiance still blazed high in me; I
could be a warrior, perhaps a hero, and knew it not ... ah, cursed
fool!... Now I gaze in envy at that man, could even kiss his feet, who
with accusing conscience and hand yet free from blood-guiltiness, stood
a transgressor here within this hall. O were this sword still clean,
how might I wield it! What miracles exultingly perform! But for me now
no saving miracle can come to pass ...

[_The smothered tumult in the court becomes suddenly louder._]

_Two Nobles_ [_at the window_]. God be merciful! Fly!--Save yourselves!

[Hans Lorbass, _the young_ Prince _in his arms, rushes up the steps._]

_Hans Lorbass_ [_breathless_]. Here--take the child! The foe is close
at hand--within the court!

_King_ [_in frenzied joy throwing himself upon the_ Prince]. My
miracle!

_Hans Lorbass_. If you would save yourself, barricade this door,
strengthen it ten-fold with beams, break off stones from the roof, roll
them down and heap them up--

_King_. Thou art wrong, my friend. The door--fling open!

[Hans Lorbass _tears open the door with a joyous shout. They hear the
approaching battle-cry of the enemy._]

_King_ [_who has seized the sword and shield_]. To me, man of the
righteous cause!

[_The_ Duke _rushes on the_ King _with a shout of laughter, behind him
his men, among them_ Skoell, Ottar, Gylf, _held in check by_ Hans _with
upraised sword, stand crowded together at the door. Short conflict.
The_ Duke _falls._]

_King_ [_to the crowd, his foot upon the prostrate body_]. On your
knees. [_The foremost sink upon their knees, the rest shrink back._]


_King_ [_during a long silence looks furtively at the_ Queen, _and the
councillors. Then to the crowd_]. Carry this man's body outside the
door.... Let everyone submit himself unto the peace of God, which
henceforth only he who courts his death will violate. Before we part, I
will come down to you, and under the free air of heaven I, your Duke,
will receive your oath and your allegiance. Away!

[_The_ Duke's _men seize the body and hurry out._]

_Hans Lorbass_ [_tickling_ Skoell _under the nose with his
sword-blade_]. Who has it now, thou clown?

_Chancellor_ [_approaching hesitatingly_]. My gracious Lord and King, I
would say: Forgive us, but the strength of all our words must break
against thy glorious victory. I only say: We are returned to thee. No
reproaches or regrets shall cheapen our return; we only ask [_with a
glance at the_ Queen] that honor be spared, and once again, after the
cruel conflict of to-day, we offer thee our country's throne in faith
and loyalty.

_King_. I thank you noble lords, and put it from me.

_Chancellor_. A second time thou turnest thy happiness and ours to
lamentation.

_King_. Stay! Let not a poisoned word pollute this moment, for now at
last the riddling clouds of fate prepare to fall. I may slip the
fetters from my body, which weakness, shame, unwilling gratitude,
sorrow, and mistaken kindnesses, combined to weave about me. I dare to
speak, for now the sword has freed me.... For that I have shrunk from
thee, my wife, forgive me. Didst thou know how shudderingly I sent
myself into an exile of inexpiable guilt! From thence I now return,
love-empty; and still the harmony of thy grace, the breath of thy
self-forgetful love, wafts like a summer breeze about my head, heavy
with blessings. Yes, if I dared to stay, how much of all I have ...
Hush!... I know not the path that I must choose. I only know the end. I
only know that faint and far away there sounds a voice reproaching my
delay. It calls me back into the eternal gray,--that boundless country
where thy blessing ends, where no guiding star rises to lead me on.
Farewell. Forgive me if thou canst. If not ... I know no word to say
that can lift the load of guilt from off my soul.... I must endure and
bear it with me silently.

_Queen_. Nay, my friend.... If thou hast laden thy life with guilt so
heavily, then must thou give me of thy burden a share to bear. I think
that all we leave unspoken to-day will burn our souls forever; and
therefore I make free confession: I have failed thee sorely. I saw thy
misery, I saw the torture growing on thy pale brow, and yet I had but
one thought; one alone; how to beguile him from that path on which his
soul delays and hesitates, but whither his stumbling feet turn of
themselves,--that he might leave me never again, whether in love or
hate ... this was my thought ... and as a bridal pair stand at the
altar and exchange their rings, while the deep church-bells lull them
into a smiling dream, so we in parting near each other, and offer,
smiling, guilt for guilt. [_She reaches out her hand to him with a
faint smile, and sinks back into the arms of her women._]

_King_ [_kissing her hand, overcome with feeling_]. I thank thee.

_The Young Prince_ [_timidly_]. Papa!

_King_ [_recovering himself_]. Thou too, my son! Come here! I made thee
poor return--and had he not [_motioning toward_ Hans] known me better
than I myself ... give him thy hand; for thanks to him, I lay down
undefiled this borrowed sword. [_Gives the sword over to the_
Chancellor.] Hans!

_Hans Lorbass_. Here, master! [_He hands the_ King _his old sword,
which he seizes eagerly._]

_King_. Farewell.




                                 ACT V.

_The scene of the first act. Early spring. March. The trees and bushes
are still bare, but tipped with the delicate red of young leaf-buds. In
the background, upon the <DW72>s, is still snow, in the foreground fresh
young grass. The church-yard has grown larger. The crosses and
headboards reach back to the sand-hills. Sun-set. A blue haze hangs
over the sea._


                               Scene I.

_Out of a freshly dug grave on the right an invisible hand throws clods
of earth, but stops as_ Coelestin _enters on the right, led by two young
men. Behind them_, Miklas _and an old_ Fisherman.

_Fisherman_. This is the place, my lord.

_Coelestin_ [_much aged and broken_]. I thank thee, friend! That is the
tower?

_Fisherman_ [_nodding_]. And above it cross on cross.

_Coelestin_. Let me rest a little, I am dizzy. The way hither was hard.
Yet I rejoice to know that worn-out as I am, I still may serve our
young Prince. And more than him, our dear and holy lady, our Queen.
Else surely I had--remained at home.

_Fisherman_ [_has meantime shaken the door of the tower_]. The tower
seems empty. The door is barred. There was a storm quite late.... Who
knows where she wanders now, scouting for new graves.

_Coelestin_. Who speaks of graves? Fie! The hour will ripen all too soon
for us to yield our withered sinful bodies to the worms. Build a fire
for me, since we must wait. The evening lowers and this March wind
blows cold on me. Make haste. [_To the old_ Fisherman.] Run thou to our
sovereign Lady, who so honored thee as to share thy hut, and tell her I
beg her wait therein until we come to fetch her as she said.

_Fisherman_. Yes, my lord. [_Goes out._]

_Coelestin_ [_to_ Miklas _while the young men build the fire_]. And
thou, Miklas, tell us thy story again and on thy faith. It was last
night the strangers knocked at thy door?

_Miklas_. Yes, my lord.

_Coelestin_. How many?

_Miklas_. Two.

_Coelestin_. And thou didst open it?

_Miklas_. Yes. I had lain a long time in bed, but I arose. The
moonlight fell bright through the window-bars. I saw them and was
afraid.

_Coelestin_. Why?

_Miklas_. The first had long white hair hanging all wild and shaggy
about a gloomy brow. One leg was hacked off, and a wooden one replaced
it.

_Coelestin_. Thou will still--?

_Miklas_. Whoever looked into that eye, must know, my lord: Hans
Lorbass stood before me.

_Coelestin_. And the other?

_Miklas_. It is hard to say.

_Coelestin_. Still thou knowest him?

_Miklas_. As I know myself, my lord.

_Coelestin_. Consider. Full fifteen years have flown since that hour
when he slew the cruel Duke.

_Miklas_. Yes, my lord. His step indeed was heavier, his face was
paler; and a gnawed and ragged beard hung about his mouth, stiffened
with blood and sweat. Yet it was he, our King, our star, at very
thought of whom our hearts must leap, to whose heroic deed we sing
triumphant songs,--it was he, and that I swear by God the Father.

_Coelestin_. Go on.

_Miklas_. Yet, mindful of what happened once, I made as though I had
never seen the two; and when they asked whether there was a path that
led to the sea and to the Burial-wife, and did not touch at town or
capital, I said: "Oh, yes; yet it is difficult to follow it, and not
wander lost by night among the bushes. Come in and sleep beside my
hearth, and I will play the host and spread the straw for you, and
early in the morning, for your sake and for God's sweet service my son
will lead you to the witch-wife." It was said and done. The fire of
pine chips had scarcely burned to ashes,--heigho!--I ran to the stable
and flung the saddle on the horse; and when the early dawn of the March
morning lay abroad white and misty on the hedges, I held my rein before
your castle,--"To the Queen" my cry. Thou wert with me for the rest.

_Coelestin_. Thinkest thou thy son--?

_Miklas_. Set thyself at rest, My son has always been a clever youth
and I answer for it they will be upon the spot before the sun there
dips beneath the sea. Yes, if I mistake not ... but wait! [_He runs to
the top of the hill, looks to the right and motions furtively._] Come
here! But crouch down well, that they may not spy us.

_Coelestin_. My God, my God, how my old limbs do tremble! It is joy!
[_He goes up the <DW72>, assisted by his attendant._] I see three
coming.

_Miklas_. The small one is my boy. The other two--thou knowest them?

_Coelestin_. My eyes have failed me a little, else I might. [_Coming
back down._] My God, if it were they! If the evening of my life might
shine so clear that before I closed my eyes in death they might rest
upon the Queen, their heart, their light, pleasured in happiness
without alloy! At such a sight I think I could not die.... Come, come!
Let us announce what we have seen; then may that bond once so
shamefully severed in wrong and need, be solemnly renewed, before we
turn our joyous bark toward home. Come, come! [_They all go out at the
left._]

[_The_ King _and_ Hans Lorbass _come in at the right from above, both
unkempt and in rags like two wayfarers_. King _grown gray, lean, and
sallow, comes down forward silent and gloomy._]

_Hans Lorbass_ [_with hair grown quite white, and a wooden leg,
carrying a sack on his back, calls into the wing_]. There, take it,
rascal, it is the last! And leave! [_Coming down._] The clown has led
us twelve whole hours without a path through bushes and morass. He knew
well enough why he did it!

_King_. Dost thou think--

_Hans Lorbass_. Oh let it be, no matter!

_King_. Here is a fire. Is there corn in the sack?

_Hans Lorbass_ [_opening the sack_]. Wait.... Yes.

_King_. Good! I am hungry.

_Hans Lorbass_. I am not, too?

_King_. The corn was dear. Sometimes it costs us money, sometimes
blood.

_Hans Lorbass_. We do not pay the blood.

_King_. We pay more. We give out bit by bit from our own souls for our
lives' nakedest necessities, and pay for each mouthful with a shred of
joy--if indeed there be joy in clinging like a pitiable miser to one's
last vacant remnants of hopeless hope.

_Hans Lorbass_. If it be not happiness it is life.

_King_. What a life!

_Hans Lorbass_. Our wants are over now. I wager if I climbed up to the
top of the hill, I should find not one but three ships to take us to
Gotland.

_King_. Cook us our supper first.

_Hans Lorbass_. Good, good! [_During the foregoing he has been fetching
cooking utensils, partly from the sack and partly from the outer wall
of the tower, where they lie among tree-stumps, etc._]

_King_. I shall come soon enough to Gotland, and soon enough shall see
that refuge whence I once bore to save them those most daring wishes of
my powerless youth.

_Hans Lorbass_. Until a heron came.

_King_. Hans, be still!

_Hans Lorbass_. How can I, here in this place, where the sea and
churchyard, yes, even the sea-wind itself, that strips the boughs with
knife-like tongue, all vie with each other to tell us of that day when
an old doting witch-wife with her cursed chatter, betrayed thee from
thy confident path, to pause and play the hero?

_King_. Where is she hiding, that I may rip that shriveled skin of hers
about her ears?

_Hans Lorbass_. She who played our fate in the world is not at home
when we come back so worsted by it.

_King_. Burial-wife!

_Hans Lorbass_ [_laughs mockingly_]. Yes, call away, my friend!... Come
here instead and sit down on this tub. The fire is singing,--the water
will soon boil; come warm thyself.

_King_. Thou art right. This cold sea wind pants like a bloodhound
through the gorge. [_He sits down by the fire._] The country-people say
that spring is coming. Is it true, I wonder?

_Hans Lorbass_. What?

_King_. Why, that spring is coming.

_Hans Lorbass_. Then I believe it, for my leg that I lost begins to
pain me.

_King_. Listen! Back in the hedge a shepherd pipes upon his willow
whistle. The streams are beginning to thaw and run down hill.... Brown
buds come out on all the branches. The very sunsets are different.
Look, high up in the blue the wild geese fly in their triangle.
Northward they go. Not I.... I must. We both must, Hans, for we have
grown old.

_Hans Lorbass_. Because our heads are white? Thou art wrong, master. I
dare venture many a conflict lies in our path before thou goest to thy
fathers' lofty house, and anointest thyself with thy fathers' honors.

_King_. Honors are the mail-coat of the weary. I have need of them.

_Hans Lorbass_. Thou?

_King_. More than thou thinkest for. [_Goes up, laughing bitterly._]

_Hans Lorbass_. Whither now?

_King_. Do not ask.

_Hans Lorbass_. Thou lookest toward the south,--what seekest thou
there? Hast thou not known it all long since? That sunny land, those
blue, flower-sown havens, whither thy hasting step once fled? Thou
knowest they are full of stench and lamentation. Those beauteous women,
fairest of the fair,--or passing as the fairest,--to bow in whose
impious slavery once compassed all thy thoughts? Thou knowest they are
all as empty as drained-out casks. And so, because the desire was
lacking in thee to fill them with thy own soul, thou hast sourly turned
away and sought perfection farther on. Thou hast come hither over lands
and seas, and climbest up into the star-teeming void. Yet thou wilt
never, never reach thy star. And that vailed enchanting distance
itself, if it would once unmask and let thee reach it, how miserable it
would look! Every conflict there would seem only a wrangle, every woman
but a doll! Come now, lay aside thy shoulder-belt stretch thyself out
and eat thy supper.

_King_. Let be, old grumbler! I seek naught in the distance.... But
near by, floating in the haze of the spring evening, I think I see a
dim shape of white battlements.

_Hans Lorbass_. It may well be. The town is only three miles farther
on, and the air is clear. Still I advise thee, do not think upon the
past.

_King_. Why?

_Hans Lorbass_. It was an evil-omened year. The worst of all, I think.
It taught thy wild untrammeled spirit to circle-hopping in a cage, to
limp instead of fly.

_King_. Thou art wrong, my friend. Something wakes in me at sight of
those roofs.... There the wings of happiness once grazed my cheek,
there, though in the midst of torture joy ripened to summer in my
heart. Let me gaze on the place where imploring trustfulness once
confessed itself to me by joyous sacrifice, and the purest of womankind
yielded herself up in sweet urgency, and an oppressed country confided
in me as a master; where even victory surrendered me her standard; let
me gaze upon the spot, and then, instead of stretching forth my kingly
hand in love and gratitude, I must slip past it outlawed, like a beggar
or a thief. I stand here now and gaze through tears at that white glow
of light, and gnaw my lips to bleeding.

_Hans Lorbass_. Master!

_King_. It is nothing,--nothing! All I have ever desired, all my soul's
treasure, all I could not attain, can be spoken in one word. And that I
may not speak. In silence I decide, and put it from me. I tear it from
my breast, where it has clung so long; and with it all my longing pain
blows like a faded leaf a world away.--Now I will lie down and sleep;
for I am weary.

_Hans Lorbass_. And do thy pains and desires all come to an end thus?
Look! Above there, where the sandy turf broadens among frozen clods
past the sun-pierced snow. The wisest of womankind has prepared a bed
for pilgrims such as we. Look!

_King_ [_going toward the open grave_]. I see. It is just suited to a
guest like me. Here, where--[_He starts back in alarm._] Hans!

_Hans Lorbass_. What is the matter?

_King_. Come here. The grave is ready, but it is not empty. Look down
and tell me what thou callest it, crouched there gray in the sand, that
leers at me with staring eyes. Is it a corpse? Is it a spirit?

_Hans Lorbass_. Oh look at it! The badger is at work. Thou hast her
now.

_King_. The Burial-wife? [Hans Lorbass _nods._]

_King_. Out with her!

_Hans Lorbass_ [_stopping him_]. Listen to me. Thou knowest I have
known her longer than thou. Leave her alone. She was wont to lie thus
for hours and days, and heed no words nor prayers; but seemed as dead.
She is proof then against all summons and all blows; but when her time
comes, then her limbs will stir, and she will come up out of the grave.

[Coelestin _and the train with the young_ Prince _enter._]

_Coelestin_. There they stand!

_King_ [_turning fiercely and raising his sword_]. What do you want? A
quarrel? We two are snarling dogs. We blindly seize on everybody near.
Now come on! Speak!

_The Young Prince_. My father!

_King_. Wha--?

_The Young Prince_. My King!

_King_ You would mock the man that fled from you?

_The Young Prince_. Down on your knees and honor him as I do!

_King_ [_dazed_]. Hans!... But stand up!... Am I King? A hapless
wretch,--naught but my man, my sword, and that pot of soup there, to
call my own. I have no more. My very crown, the gloomy throne of
Gotland must be fought for anew; stand up my son. [_He raises him, and
will embrace him, but suddenly pales, staring past the men in great
agitation._] Hans! Dost thou see who stands there in the twilight of
the wood--how spirit-like, how severed from this world--[_He shrieks._]

[_Enter the_ Queen. _Behind her at a short distance, two of her
women._]

_Queen_. Witte!

_King_. Go! I know thee not. And yet--I know thee. Thou art my--peace.
Thou art ... Naught art thou more for me.... My body withers and my
strength is fallen asunder. Therefore I may not say: "Thou art." ...
Only "Thou wast." Still thou wast once of a surety--my wife.

_Queen_. I am to-day--I am a thousandfold! Hast thou forgot what I
promised thee the day thou gavest thyself with hesitation to my
service? I search thy face. I know thou turnest wearied back to thy
northern home. Dost thou forget then where a balsam is prepared to heal
thy bruised feet, dost thou forget where a thousand arms reach out to
greet their loved one? Knowest thou not where thy home stands and calls
to thee? Knowest thou not how well-nigh breathless with its joy my
smile says unto thee: "I charm thee not?"

_King_. Nay, charm me not. I am not worthy. Life has seared me, and put
a shameful kiss upon my brow.

_Queen_. Then let me cool it with my health-bringing hand, and thou
wilt never feel the scar again.

_King_. How can I feel that scar or even the happiness after which I
longed, now that those hours are past which knew thy love for me?

_Queen_. In no other have I trusted. I guarded thy son for thee; and
still thy throne stands empty, waiting its master.

_King_. Then thou hast waited fifteen years and sorrowed not. So shalt
thou learn my mystery. Two kingdoms I have won, to pleasure me; the
first has vanished into air, the second is my shame. Justice became a
mock,--all gifts a usury; and everywhere I turned a murderous laugh
pursued me. Then purity plunged in the mire, then honor mocked its own
best gift: all this the magic of the heron wreaked upon me.... Yea, now
thou knowest; a charm was all my crime and all my fate, year after
year. It blinded me to love and life, to wife and child; it hunted me
away from thee, and drove me from place to place; and when a lucent
flight of happiness sprang up from heaven after my downfall, it drowned
its glory in a flood of tears. Behold! [_He tears open his gorget and
draws out the last of the heron's feathers._] The enchantment's last
beguiling pledge I hold here in my hand. When this feather shrivels in
the flame there sinks an unblessed woman to her death, that woman whose
wraith stood in the heavens for me to gaze upon,--that woman whom I
sought and never found! Behold! I bury the madness in its grave, and
with the act I put the longing from me. [_He tosses the feather into
the flames. There is a flash of lightning, and a roll of thunder
follows it._]

_Queen_ [_sinks down, whispering with failing strength_]. Now are we
two protected from all mischance.... I still ... have been thy
happiness ... even in ... death. [_She dies._]

_Prince_. Mother! Speak one word to me!

_King_. It was thou? It was thou? [_He throws himself upon her body._]

_The Young Prince_ [_in tears_]. Ah, Mother!

_Coelestin_. She has gone, and I, the shadow of a shadow, stay behind.

_The Men_ [_murmur among themselves_]. His is the blame! Tear him from
off her body! [_They draw their swords to attack the_ King.]

_Hans Lorbass_ [_blocking the way with drawn sword_]. Away there!

[_The Burial-wife mounting solemnly out of the open grave._]

_Burial-wife_. Children, cease your strife! Can you not see his spirit
wanders far? He is wrapped about with the whisperings of eternity. The
message of death is on the way, the stone of sacrifice doth reek for
blood. Long has this man belonged to me; and now--[_she raises her arm
and lets it fall_]--I come into my own. [_The_ King _breathes heavily,
stirs, and dies._]

_Hans Lorbass_ [_kneels down beside him with a cry_]. Master, master!

_Burial-wife_. Thus from lust and guilt and sorrow have I cleansed his
soul. To both of them it shall be as though they had not been. Wrap
them about with linen, bear them to my dark abode; then go in silent
thought from hence, for my work is done.

_Hans Lorbass_ [_rises, in anguished bitterness_]. Mine must begin
anew. How gladly have I ever braved fresh dangers as my darling's
slave! That service, too, is past; but now his kingdom calls loudly on
my sword for aid. [_Pointing seaward._] Northward there lies a land
debauched, crying from out its shame for justice, for a righteous law,
for vengeance, for salvation; for a master,--and that shall the man
become!

                               _Translated by Helen Tracy Porter_.




                          MARAH OF SHADOWTOWN.

      The days pass by in Shadowtown
      Wearily, wearily;--
      And Bitter-Sweet Marah of Shadowtown
      Sighs drearily, drearily.

     "Mother, tell him to come to me
      While my hair is gold and beautiful
      And my lips and eyes are young
      While the songs that are welling up in my heart
      May still be sung.

     "The days go by so wearily
      Like crooked goblins, eerily,
      Like silly shadows, fast and still,
      Wind-driven and drearily.

     "Like the gray clouds are my eyes gray, mother,
      Like them, heavy as things grown old
      Only the clouds' tears are but dream-tears--
      Lifeless, cold.

     "Last night I had the strangest dream,--
      It seemed I stood on a barren hill
      Where the wings of the ragged clouds went by
      Hurrying and still.

     "And all of a sudden the moon came out
      Making a pathway over the down,--
      And turned my hair to a gold mist, mother,
      To light the way to Shadowtown.

     "But when I did not see him coming,
      And because the clouds grew dark and gray
      I walked through the shadows down the hillside
      To help him better to find the way.

     "And in some wise I came to a forest
      When all around was so strange and dim,--
      That I thought, 'If I should be lost in the darkness,
      How could my hair be light for him?'

     "But groping, I found I was on a pathway
      Where low soft branches swept my face,--
      When suddenly, close beside, and before me
      I knew dim forms kept even pace.

     "They were so cowering, shivering, white
      That I felt some ill thing came behind
      And I heard a moan on the wind go by
      'Ah, but the end of the path to find!'

     "Then I looked behind, and saw that near
      Like a wan marsh-fog, came a cloud
      Hurrying on,--and I knew it wrapped
      A dead love--as a shroud.

     "And guiltily the figures went,
      Like coward things in a guilty race
      And not one dared to look behind
      For fear he knew that dead love's face.

     "Then suddenly at my side I knew
      He I loved went;--but, for my hair,
      Shadowed and blown about my face,
      He knew me not beside him there.

     "And he, too, cowered with shaking hands
      Over his eyes, for fear to meet
      Haunting and still, my pallid face
      In that strange mist of winding-sheet.

     "So on the shadowy figures went
      Hurrying the loathed cloud before,--
      Seeking an end of a fated path
      That went winding evermore.

     "Oh, Mother, that path was hideous,--
      Long and ill and hideous--
      And the way was so near to Shadowtown,--
      Fairer to Shadowtown--
      But the gold of my hair shall not light the way
      For anyone else to Shadowtown."

      Gray-eyed Marah of Shadowtown
      Turns away wearily, wearily
      Weaving her gold hair back and forth,
      Thus she sings, and drearily--
     "Little Love, when you shall die, then so shall I,
      Ha, merrily!

     "Then let them put us in some deep spot
      Where one the growing of trees' roots hears
      And you at my heart, all wet with tears,
                               All wet with tears.

     "Your wings are draggled and limp and wet,--Little Love,--
      From what rainy land have you come, and far,--
      Or who that has held you was crying so,--
      Who, little Love--?
      My eyes are heavy and wet with tears
      Whose eyes besides are heavy so--?
      --Oh, little Love, how dumb you are!--

     "Then, poor Love, that has lived in my heart
      Come, take my hand, we will go together,
      Hemlock boughs are full of sleep
      Out of the way of the weather.

     "For a cavern of cold gray mist is my heart
      Will not the hemlock boughs be better
      Over our feet and under our heads
      Keeping us from the weather?"

      Her gold hair duskily glints in her hands
      Marah of Shadowtown sings--"Together,--
      You, little Love, and I, will go
      Into the Land of Pleasanter Weather."

                                              _Anne Throop._




                               DIES IRAE.

      Go fight your fight with Tagal and with Boer,
      Cheer in the lust of strength and brutal pride;
      Beat down the lamb to fatten up the fox,
      Shout victory o'er the prostrate shape of truth.

      Take cross and pike and gold and sophistry,
      To pray and <DW8> and purchase, wheedle, wile;
      Stamp out the roses in a waste of weeds,
      Shout while the trembling voice of truth is hushed.

      Shatter with iron heel the poet's dream,
      The prophet's protest, and the ages' hope,
      Of brotherhood and light and love on earth--
      Of peace and plenty and a perfect race.

      Tear down the fabric of ten thousand years,
      The world's best wisdom woven in its woe;
      Lift ruthless hands to rend the fairy fane
      That holds the heart hopes of humanity.

      Let loose greed, envy, lust, and avarice,
      The myriad throated dragon of desire;
      Let might rule, riot, batten on the meek,
      The tyranny of man o'er man seem right.

      Forget the Lord Christ smiled, forgave, and died;
      Frowned down every appeal to brutish strength;
      Bade man put up the sword, lest by the sword
      He perish; prayed evil might be paid by good.

      Forget he turned cheek to the coward blow,
      Cried "Pardon!" yes, seven and seventy times! "Judge not;
      Do not condemn; give coat as well as cloak;
      Resist not evil, wrong's not made right by wrong."

      Forget each drop of blood burns in the race,
      Cries for atonement while the last man lives;
      That murder for the state is murder still,
      The gilded not less guilty though more great.

      Forget, and flay and flame; in din grow deaf
      To piteous cries without, and voice within;
      Conquer, triumph, and when the world is won,
      Turn terroring towards the demon in your heart.

                                         _William Mountain_.


                           *   *   *   *   *


                    GEORGE MEREDITH ON THE SOURCE OF
                                DESTINY.


If, as has so often been said, literature is an expression of life,
surely we may study literature to discover the laws of life. Not all
our writers, but all our masters, have given us records from which we
may learn what has been discerned and accepted concerning life by the
race.

The scientific study of our day has led men to consider genius from the
modern point of view. Is genius a natural product? If so, whence comes
it, and what are its laws? These are among the most interesting
questions of the present time. Formerly, men contented themselves with
calling the literary faculty a "gift," the result of "inspiration." Of
late we have been told that it is a natural race impulse which finds
expression in some individual. Personally, we believe genius to be the
heated, pregnant condition of a great mind under the influence of a
great enthusiasm. However our definitions of genius may differ, on one
point we all agree. We are all sure that genius is true to life, that
genius teaches us the truth.

In its formed philosophical theories it may err, but not in its
perceptions of life. Shelley may teach atheistic views in 'Queen Mab,'
and he may err, for intellectual belief is a matter of opinion.
Nevertheless Shelley's inspired interpretation of life can but be
accepted as real. George Meredith may teach in his 'Lord Ormond and his
Aminta' doctrines of free love, resulting from an attempt to separate
what can not be separated in our human lives,--the physical and the
spiritual loves; and in doing this he may err. Nevertheless, in his
inspired representations of life and character, coming not from thought
alone but from his whole nature, Meredith cannot err.

Those of us who read thoughtlessly, without formed theory, accept
literature as real. Have you never, when asked: "Did you ever know of a
case of love at first sight?" answered carelessly: "Oh, yes! There's
Romeo and Juliet, you know?" Or have you never instanced, as the most
persuasive oration you ever heard, Mark Antony's speech in 'Julius
Caesar?'

Thinkers who claim a natural mental origin for the literary gift must
believe in its reality as a matter of course. Those who speak
reverently of its "inspiration" claim a spirit of truth, not of error,
for its parent. Even those who enjoy comparisons of the states of
genius and insanity, ranging from Shakespeare, with his words: "The
fool, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact" to the
masterly modern treatment of John Fiske, agree that the sharp division
line of truth and error separates the two. They confess that while the
insane mind may accept hallucinations, the mind of genius deals only
with the truth. The results of both are imaginative; only those of
insanity are imaginary.

All thinkers, then, accept the masterpieces of literature as among
life's real phenomena. Whether Meredith's novels hold this high place
is at present a matter of opinion. For men do not know Meredith very
well. A knowledge of his position on this question of Destiny will help
us to learn whether or not he ranks among the elect.

In our great literature there has always appeared a close sequence
between wisdom and success, righteousness and happiness, and, on the
other hand, between the choice of moral evil and suffering. This
sequence has been not merely expressed in words, but built into the
very structure of the plot through the workings of the imagination
kindled by genius. The law of this succession, and its relationship
with other laws, philosophers have always been seeking. It is this
search that has led men into the mazy discussions of freedom and
fatalism. For in this law lies the crucial point of the question of
human destiny.

'Beowulf,' our first epic, tells us not only much of the manner of life
of our rude Saxon ancestors, but also much of their thought. The note
of fatalism in its chord of life is no weak one. "A man must bear his
fate," the hero says when about to go into a dangerous combat. Yet even
in 'Beowulf' we find the contrasting element, the character choice
appearing.

As a child boldly states a problem as though it were a solution,
Beowulf naively says: "Fate always aids the undoomed man, if his
courage holds out." This expression side by side of the two elements of
the question has never been surpassed, and is, in its way, matchless.

Have we learned much more to-day? We cannot fail to recognize the
duality of the truth, but have we been able yet to join the two sides
into one, to discover the unity that surely lies behind the seeming
contrast?

Each side of the question has been largely developed. Some, in a narrow
spirit, have echoed merely Beowulf's, "Fate always aids the undoomed
man"; while others, often as narrowly, have answered, "A man succeeds,
if his courage holds out." Ever in our greatest literature the two
elements have appeared side by side. The mystery has always been
recognized.

That even Shakespeare is reverent before fate, yet believes in the
influence of character on a man's life can easily be seen from words
like Helena's in 'All's Well that Ends Well':--

     "Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie
      Which we ascribe to heaven; the fated sky
      Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull
      Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull."

'Macbeth,' with its successive steps of unhappiness following one
critical evil choice is sufficient proof of Shakespear's belief in the
determining power of character. 'King Lear,' with its sad result of
folly shows his belief in the influence of the critical foolish
decision. In the uncrowned king's conversation with his fool, occur
these words:

_Lear_. Dost thou call me fool, boy?

_Fool_. All thy other titles thou hast given away; that thou wast born
with.

In Robert Browning literature has brought even up to the present time
the old mystery, the ever continuing struggle between fatalism and
freedom. But to him, as to most thinkers of his day, fate has become
the instrument of a God, a divine Providence rules the world, while
man, too, has his little realm of choice.

At the present time this discussion is carried to a greater extent than
ever before. The one side finds its expression in our modern idealistic
philosophy, the other in our modern sceptical science. Idealistic
philosophy, since Kant, has been trying to lay the responsibility for
all life upon the free moral choice. It has been seeking to prove that
the spiritual is the source of life.

Modern science, on the other hand, with its keen, wide-opened eyes, has
tried to lay all the necessary sequence of law, forgetting at times
that law is but the explanation of the phenomena. Science sometimes
refuses to consider such phenomena as require a new point of view,
beyond the physical and mental,--a moral point of view. By this refusal
to recognize the spiritual part of man, science attempts to avoid a
second mystery. The mystery of the union of the physical and mental
realms it has been forced, long since, to accept. It would shun the
moral realms because that, too, entails its mystery of connection.

Once accept physical life, and science is, in so far, free from
impassable gulfs. Once accept mental life and that realm also becomes
capable of study. Let the free moral nature once be accepted, and again
we shall have reached firm footing. But to cross between these realms
by law, by reason, is impossible; for life, any kind of life, is its
own only explanation.

While the problem of freedom becomes simple for one who, like Meredith,
will take this view, there are many who will not or cannot do so, and
the very impossibility of the question from reason's point of view
makes the path a very labyrinth for them. We all try to solve the
question, and different personalities arrive at different answers; but
all are partial. They vary from the logical, but dead outcome of
Swinburne: "There is no bad nor good," to the struggling faith of Omar
Khayyam:

           "The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
            But here or there as strikes the Player goes;
            And he that toss'd you down into the Field,
            He knows about it all--He knows--He knows."

At such a time as this of ours it is especially helpful to study a
writer like George Meredith, who far from ignoring the many sides of
the problem, yet clings firmly to his faith in character. With no
doubtful accent, he tells us that Character is the Source of Destiny.

As any great writer of the day must do, Meredith accepts much in the
arguments of the fatalists. He does not refuse to see that nature and
circumstances are strong to mould life. He recognizes the great power
of environment and the absolute power, within its realm, of heredity.
Like Beowulf, like Shakespeare, like Browning, he is reverent before
human destiny. Yet in spite of all this, he accepts the moral with its
necessary result of freedom. He declares that, although the laws of
necessity rule up to the crisis of the moral choice, that very choice
sets all the laws of intellect and body working according to itself.

All the stronger for his acceptance of life's necessity becomes his
belief in life's freedom. All the stronger for his concessions becomes
his final dictum. The more intricate the machine, the greater its
master's mind. The narrower the realm of choice, the greater power must
that choice have, to move life as it does.

To show that the same peculiar mixture of belief in fatalism and in the
determining power of character on life exists in Meredith's writings as
in Beowulf and in Shakespeare, let me quote a few words from 'Evan
Harrington':

"Most youths, like Pope's women, have no character at all, and indeed a
character that does not wait for circumstances to shape it, is of small
worth in the race that must be run."

Again he says:

"When we have cast off the scales of hope and fancy, and surrender our
claims on made chance: when the wild particles of this universe consent
to march as they are directed, it is given them to see if they see at
all that some plan is working out: that the heavens, icy as they are to
the pangs of our blood, have been throughout speaking to our souls;
and, according to the strength there existing, we learn to comprehend
them."

That Meredith, although very reverent before human destiny, is not, on
the other hand, one of those who lay the responsibility for their own
lives on "the stars," or "fate," or "Providence," may be shown by a
study of the characters into whose mouths he puts such sentiments.

In 'Rhoda Fleming' who is it but Algernon, "the fool," who says:

"I'm under some doom. I see it now. Nobody cares for me. I don't know
what happiness is. I was born under a bad star. My fate's written."

It is of Algernon, likewise, that the author says:

"Behind the figures he calculated that, in all probability, Rhoda would
visit her sister this night. 'I can't stop that,' he said: and hearing
a clock strike, 'nor that.' The reflection inspired him with fatalistic
views."

In 'The Tragic Comedians,' who is it but Clotilde, "the craven," who
lays the successive steps which lead to the tragedy in her life, now to
fate, now to other people's power or lack of insight, now to
Providence? She reaps, as Meredith plainly shows us, simply what she
sows.

In 'Sandra Belloni,' it is Mr. Barrett, that sentimentalist of the
better order, of which class the author says: "We will discriminate
more closely here than to call them fools," who lets his whole life be
crushed with the melancholy thought that he is under the influence of
some baneful star. His death, which he lets chance bring or keep away,
is a fitting conclusion to his story. He shuts two pistols up together
in the same case overnight, knowing that one of them is loaded, the
other not. In the morning he takes out one, prepared to fire it upon
himself, in case his beloved does not keep tryst. She does not come, he
fires, the pistol happens to be loaded, and so comes death. It shows
that the "star" of which he thought was not a real star burning clear
in the high heavens. It was rather but a will-o'-the-wisp, born of the
marshy exhalations of his own morbid brain. Meredith reverences the
real star. He kindly ridicules the will-o'-the-wisp.

But there is still another class of fatalists in Meredith's novels. He
recognizes also the fatalism of youth. Such is that of the young
Wilfrid in 'Sandra Belloni,' concerning whom the author informs us that
we "shall see him grow." Meredith is too great a thinker not to see
that this tendency toward fatalism does not belong merely to the
"fool," the "craven," and the "sentimentalist," but that it is a
tendency of our youth. We are all weak when we are growing, he assures
us. Is not ours preeminently a growing age?

But we must not linger too long on the negative side of Meredith's
belief. We have seen that he is willing to recognize that there is a
wonderful, mysterious power governing human destiny. We have seen,
also, that he does not side in the least with those who lay the
responsibility for their own lives on fate. Let us seek for his
positive message.

In the 'Adventures of Harry Richmond' he says:

"If a man's fate were as a forbidden fruit, detached from him, and in
front of him, he might hesitate fortunately before plucking it; but, as
most of us are aware, the vital half of it lies in the seed paths he
has traversed."

This is certainly a very definite statement of a strong belief in a
man's choice of his own destiny. Again, in 'Modern Love' we find the
following:

                  "In tragic life, God wot,
            No villain need be! Passions spin the plot;
            We are betrayed by what is false within."
                 "I take the hap
            Of all my deeds. The wind that fills my sails
            Propels; but I am helmsman. Am I wrecked,
            I know the devil has sufficient weight
            To bear; I lay it not on him, or fate.
            Besides, he's damned. That man I do suspect
            A coward, who would burden the poor deuce
            With what ensues from his own slipperiness."

The main issue between freedom and fatalism lies in just this question:
Is a man's life determined by what he is or by what he does? Does his
nature, received through inheritance, moulded by circumstance,
determine his acts and so his life? Or does his moral choice determine
these?

Extreme fatalists declare that the former is true. Moralists,
idealists, believers in freedom, support the latter view.

Now Meredith leaves us no doubt as to his position on the point. Again
and again we see his characters choosing their lives. And their choices
rest on no inherited nature, but on character. Thus our author
declares, by his plots, as in plain words, that "Our deathlessness is
in what we do, not in what we are."

As we have said, a writer's thought of life can be best understood from
his plots. He builds life, consciously or unconsciously, as he believes
that nature builds it. Does he let the righteous perish and the evil
man prosper in the end? Then he either does not believe in this law of
ours, or in its present successful working. Perhaps, like Victor Hugo,
he teaches a higher law, that of self-sacrifice. Perhaps, like some
little modern writers, he teaches a lower law of the temporary success,
at times, of hypocrisy and deceit. Whatever he believes in and likes to
think of, his structure will disclose.

Now one very marked thing about Meredith's structure is the agreement
of the two crises, that of character and that of circumstances. When
any one of his characters chooses for good or evil, for wisdom or
folly, at that very time, and by that very choice, he decides his
future happiness and success, or unhappiness and failure. Therein lies
the decision of the question whether that particular novel shall be a
tragedy or a comedy.

When Dahlia Fleming chooses evil, she chooses unhappiness. No kind
Providence intervenes to save her from her harvest. How many of our
little writers of to-day would have caused her marriage with Edward to
take place in the end! Is not Meredith's conclusion far more true to
life?

When Diana of the Cross-Ways resists Percy's temptings and is led by
her hatred of his evil to betray his secret, she chooses for her own
happiness in the end. The storms through which she goes to reach it are
the natural result of her impulsive, unbalanced mind.

Stronger still is the teaching in 'The Tragic Comedians.' When Clotilde
chooses the craven's part to play, she chooses also the craven's
reward.

It is in his scientific insight into moral life that Meredith's growth
beyond Beowulf, Shakespeare, and even Browning appears. We of the
nineteenth century would be sorry to think that we had not one master
who goes even deeper into our modern life than these. We believe that,
as men of the later twentieth century look back upon our day, they will
call George Meredith our greatest literary exponent.

Beowulf asserts the general truth that Circumstance and Character
determine Destiny.

Shakespeare has not gone very much farther in the philosophy of life.
He teaches that character determines character, and that circumstance
determines circumstance; and that, in some way, circumstance obeys
character.

Browning would advance a step and teach us, as his age taught the
world, that the dependence of the external upon the spiritual comes
about through the agency of a personal God.

But Meredith takes up the cry of our scientific age, and says: "The god
of this world is in the machine, not out of it."

This is no irreverent teaching, for Meredith is not irreverent. It is
simply the search for primary causes. It is the result of the same
tendency that leads us to be dissatisfied with calling typhoid fever a
"dispensation of Providence," and to lay it to bad drains. Like
evolution in the physical world, this theory does not tend to remove
God, but to explain more fully his agency and methods. It is no new
theory. But the manner of its teaching is as new as this latter
nineteenth century of ours.

If one were to compare Meredith with Shakespeare on this subject, one
would naturally coordinate Macbeth and Rhoda Fleming, Diana of the
Cross-Ways and King Lear.

'Rhoda Fleming' is, like 'Macbeth,' a tale with a moral purpose. The
dependence of fate on the moral choice is its chief thought. The
book gains force, as all these novels do, from its striking
characterizations. We see Dahlia, the fair-haired one, whose great
failing is weakness,--the fault of a negative character. And we see
plainly the long process of pain to which she thereby subjects herself
in the course of her purification.

Rhoda, her sister has, on the other hand, the defects of the positive
character. She is head-strong, over-proud. It is from these
characteristics that she suffers or leads others to suffer. "The Fates
that mould us, always work from the main-spring."

In her relations with Anthony Hope, Rhoda takes the part of the
tempter. The interview between the two shows such wonderful insight
into character that from this passage alone Meredith might be ranked as
great. Rhoda discovers that she has sold her sister in marriage to a
brute. In her head-strong desire to buy her off from him, she goes to
her uncle to beg for a large sum of money. Anthony, although a poor man
in reality, has always delighted in deceiving his brother and his
nieces on that point. Rhoda finds him struggling with the greatest
temptation of his life. He has carried home money belonging to the bank
of which he is a trusted employee. His love of money, his former
deceit, make him very weak before Rhoda. So he falls. She is allowed to
take with her the money she wants. As the reader looks back over the
story, he sees that the money will prove useless for her ends, and that
his fall will ruin her uncle's life. Meredith here shows himself a
master of tragedy.

The life of the strong, impulsive, young Robert is not so dependent
upon the crises of temptation. For he knows himself and lives with a
constant purpose to conquer himself. His purpose is stronger than his
passions. In respect to his obedience to Socrates's favorite maxim, he
is a man rare even in our self-conscious age. What shall we say of
Edward, "villain and hero in one"? Like Dahlia he loses his life's
happiness through his besetting sin. Several times a courageous word
said that ought to be said, or a brave deed done that should have been
done might have saved him. And each time he proves himself a coward,
until it is too late. Like the children of Israel he would not enter
the promised land for fear of the inhabitants thereof. Like them too,
he atoned by spending his forty years in the wilderness, and there
laying down his life.

We must not neglect the "fascinating Peggy Lovell,"--a coquette whose
charm even a woman can feel. Avarice and love of pleasure are her
besetting sins. And avarice leads her to her fate. She has chosen to
sow her wild oats and to accrue her debts. These she pays, as we all
must in one way or another, with herself. Her way is to marry the man
who can pay them rather than the man she loves.

One and all, major and minor characters, they come to the crises of
their destinies. One after another chooses according to his character
his life. This is Meredith's teaching.

But our author is not always sounding the very depths of life. He is no
preacher, but a painter of human nature. The power of mind has a large
place in his books. "Drink of faith in the brains a full draught," he
tells us; and again:--"To read with a soul in the mirror of mind Is
man's chief lesson."

'Diana of the Cross-Ways' teaches the partial failure, the temporary
unhappiness, that result from lack of mental balance. It is the story
of a charming, brilliant, but impulsive woman who makes many mistakes
and who suffers from them. Diana is capable of loving one unworthy of
her, and for such lack of wisdom she pays dearly. Yet she holds firmly
and purely to the right and so wins happiness in the end. She is
foolish sometimes, but she is not a fool. Hence her story is not a
tragedy.

This novelist-philosopher has taught us, then, that folly tends to
bring failure, but that righteousness is stronger than folly. He is not
content to stop in his teachings even here. In 'The Tragic Comedians'
he goes still further, and deals with the interrelations of the moral
and intellectual. For character rules intellect, as intellect reacts
upon character.

'The Tragic Comedians' begins with the birth of a love. With Clotilde,
daughter of a highly respectable, but very conventional citizen, Alvan,
a Jew and demagogue, a man of widespread and somewhat notorious
reputation, falls in love. Clotilde is a beautiful, bright woman;
interesting, but cowardly. Like all Meredith's heroes and heroines, she
has her besetting sin.

To this sudden, overpowering new love Clotilde yields her heart, but
will not yield her actions. She is afraid. While Alvan would go at once
to her parents to ask for her hand, Clotilde, seeing only too plainly
how little hope there is of obtaining their consent, prefers to dally
with matters, and insists on his postponing the interview. Alvan's
straightforward nature cannot understand such half-way measures. He
leaves her unsought for a time, and begins to fade out of Clotilde's
mind. Suddenly, when in the mountains with a friend, she hears that
Alvan is near. She wants him then, and goes to seek him. Again he
misunderstands her. This time he asks her to run away with him, but she
refuses, seeming not so much shocked as afraid. She answers, not in a
womanly, straightforward way, but with an evasion. Then she consents to
let him speak to her father and mother. She addresses them first on the
subject, but is met with a torrent of angry words. The poor thing
cannot stand that. In her weakness she makes her next great mistake,
and runs away to Alvan, beseeching him to marry her secretly. The woman
who would not listen to his request for this very thing but a day or
two before now begs for it. She finds that it is too late. Her lover,
in his pride, has determined to meet her parents on their own ground.
He will win her, he now declares, by conventional methods. So he takes
her to a friend's home. It is there that the chief crisis of the book
takes place, a crisis which is one of the most interesting I know in
literature. It is a moral crisis.

Clotilde has come to it through various steps of weakness. Alvan has
reached it through pride and its reaction from his former shady life to
a desire for conventionalism. A strong man who had before obeyed
conventional rules might there have thrown them aside. To Alvan, on
account of their long disuse, they seemed more precious than they need.

So Alvan meets the crisis overconfident in his strength. Clotilde meets
it afraid, cowering in her weakness. Of her state Meredith says:

"Men and women alike, who renounce their own individuality by cowering
thus abjectly under some other before the storm, are in reality
abjuring their idea of that other, and offering themselves up to the
genius of Power in whatsoever direction it may chance to be manifested,
in whatsoever person. We no sooner shut our eyes than we consent to be
prey, we lose the soul of election."

Alvan handed Clotilde back to her parents. She meekly did what he said.
She was hurt. She could not understand his action. Had she but stood up
against this mistake, he might have had pity on her even yet. Or, had
he not changed his own rigid determination, the action might have
prevented that worst result, the weakening of her belief in him. There
is nothing like cowardice to destroy one's faith in others. There is
nothing like courageous action to clear away those mists of doubt.
Clotilde's "craven" will began to demoralize her mind.

But her chance is not over yet. She may still cling to Alvan. Doubtless
he will seek her, he has not given her up. Ah, but circumstances were
too strong. For the craven they are always too strong. By a short
imprisonment, by family storms and prayers, Clotilde is reduced to
external subjection. The disorder of her mind increases.

While submitting to her father's command, while writing words of
dismissal to Alvan, and even accepting the attentions of a former
suitor, she still says in her heart of hearts that she will always be
loyal to him. How peculiar seems the twisting, "serpentine" nature! She
still waits for Alvan to save her from the chains she daily forges for
herself. Meanwhile Alvan does his best. He uses all means,--
conventional and otherwise. He finally forces permission from
Clotilde's father to hold a free interview with Clotilde. She is to
tell him openly and freely whether she will marry him or not. So he
hopes to free her of coercion.

So far as circumstances are concerned, there is now nothing to prevent
a happy ending; but from moral causes it is impossible.

The chains she has forged for herself are too strong. Her fancies have
become diseased by long straining to a cowardly deceit. She think's
Alvan's messengers deceitful too.

So she refuses. She throws away thereby her last chance. And yet--can
we believe it?--she still hopes. Alvan has done his best and has
failed. His friends have tried to help him. Circumstance has given away
before them. And she has thrown away their help--yet she still hopes.
Alvan sends a challenge to her father. Prince Marko accepts it, and now
her shuddering trust is in Providence. Marko will be killed. Now Alvan
shall have her hand. But "Providence" does not save her. Alvan is
killed, and Prince Marko returns Clotilde cannot understand it. She is
stunned, but recovers sufficiently to marry Prince Marko.

"Not she, it was the situation they had created which was guilty," she
had thought.

"The craven with desires expecting to be blest is a zealot of the faith
which ascribes the direction of events to the outer world."

Of Alvan's death, Meredith says some very characteristic words. Let me
quote once again:

"He perished of his weakness, but it was a strong man that fell."

"He was 'a tragic comedian,' one of the lividly ludicious, whom we
cannot laugh at, but must contemplate, to distinguish where their
character strikes the note of discord with life; for otherwise, in the
reflection of their history, life will seem a thing demoniacally
inclined by fits to antic and dive into gulfs."

This, then, is George Meredith's message. We have eaten of the fruit of
the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and the power to choose
between the two has entered into our souls. We are under the rule of a
great overhanging law. Destiny's wheels we cannot stop, but through our
capacity for moral choice, our hands lie on the button that moves the
whole machine in its relation to our own individual lives.

This is a great lesson. How strong in its likeness to the teachings of
our great masters of the past! How needful in its new scientific form
to-day! How suggestive as to the universe! Does it not follow that as
our lives are planned so is this universe planned in which we live!
Does it not follow that the spiritual is the central life upon which
all else depends? It is the teaching of the childhood of the race,
broadened through knowledge of life's passion, humbled and heightened
through sight of God's hand, strengthened and widened through the
opening of our eyes in modern science to a fuller and clearer
knowledge, not only of the machinery of the universe, but also of its
motive power.

                                          _Emily G. Hooker_.




                        THE TRAGEDY OF OPHELIA.

                             RENUNCIATION.


The "Tragedy of Hamlet" has its origin in the murder of Hamlet's
father, its development in Hamlet's preparation for revenge, and its
consummation in the murderer's death. It is well summed up in the
Anglicized title of the old German play, 'Fratricide Punished,'
('Hamlet,' Variorum Edition, Furness, Vol. II., p. 121). In the
progress of this tragedy Ophelia's own sad story has no part or lot.
She is in it, but not of it, and her relationship to it is an episode.
Like 'The Murder of Gonzago,' however, it is a tragedy within the
tragedy, but it turns wholly upon the loves of Hamlet and Ophelia,
their interruption, and its result. For this reason it is greatly shorn
of detail, and therefore doubtless it has always been regarded as a
mystery.

"The Tragedy of Ophelia" opens with a narrative of Hamlet's ardent
pursuit of Ophelia with vows of love, the surrender of her maiden heart
to him, and their free and bounteous interviews thereafter. Here the
action of the drama begins, and her father, doubting the integrity of
Hamlet's purpose, forbids her further reception of his attentions, and,
apparently without explanation made to Hamlet, she obeys him. Of what
Hamlet thinks or says of this we are not in terms informed, and can
only infer it from his conduct towards her afterwards. But that conduct
was of a most extraordinary character, seeming to many students of the
play to be inexplicable. The explanations of others may be resolved
into three theories, each of which deserves a passing notice. It has
been claimed that insanity will account for it, and indeed Hamlet's
treatment of Ophelia has been the chief argument advanced in proof of
his insanity; but it is incredible that Shakespeare should have devoted
the only two interviews which he had with her, and which had so
important an influence upon her life, to the mere vaporings of a
madman. It has been suggested that he is putting on "an antic
disposition," as he had foretold he would, with a view to deceiving the
King concerning his intentions, and such conduct would have been
fitting with the temptress in Belleforest's 'Hystorie,' (_Ibid_., 91);
but Shakespeare has transformed the creature of that story into
Hamlet's gentle sweetheart, and so to lacerate her soul by way of
subterfuge would have been an act of unjustifiable brutality, of which
he could by no means have been guilty. It has been urged that his
mind's eye is jaundiced by his mother's gross behavior, and that
thereupon he turns distrustfully from womankind; but long after his
mother's wicked marriage, perhaps a month afterwards, he is reveling in
Ophelia's love,--a balm that gracious Nature often pours on bleeding
hearts. And further, from either of these points of view, the sudden
and extravagant change in Hamlet's feelings towards Ophelia, the cruel
harshness of his speech to her soon after, and his subsequent complete
indifference to her, are beyond the requirements of the situation, and
the theories therefore seem rather to perplex than to explain.

Undoubtedly the cause of this is that they seek the solution of the
riddle in the effect on Hamlet's relations to Ophelia of prior
incidents in the play, his father's murder, his mother's marriage to
the murderer, and the ghostly mission of revenge. But there are in the
situation at the end of Act I of 'Hamlet' and wholly unconnected with
these incidents, all the elements of a tragedy, few and simple, but
profoundly significant. Thus, we have a prince who is an ardent lover,
a court lady who has as ardently returned his love, the lady's sudden
and unexplained refusal to see or hear from him, her ambitious and
time-serving courtier father, and for a King a "remorseless,
treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain." Let but a spark of jealous
suspicion reach such a mixture, and there must be an explosion; with a
war-hardened Othello-like titanic rage and murder, but with the softer
Hamlet renunciation and reproach, and with poor Ophelia, who represses
her feelings always, heart-break, insanity, and death.

Now, Hamlet is pictured as one of the most suspicious of men, and in
particular at this juncture about his mortal enemy the King. In
addition, he is very proud and very revengeful, as he admits, and there
is every indication that he has been passionately fond of Ophelia. When
therefore she persistently denies herself to him in private, though
doubtless a regular attendant at the functions of the court, his
suspicions are excited, his pride wounded, his anger aroused; and, with
"the pangs of despis'd love" in his heart, and in his mind a tumult of
conflicting thoughts, he suddenly presents himself before her, resolved
to know the truth. "What damned moments counts he o'er Who dotes, yet
doubts,--suspects, yet fondly loves." In Quarto I she says: "He found
me walking in the gallery, all alone"; that is, in the gallery of the
King's palace,--(compare lines 673 and 803),--and of course within
reach of the King; and, though Shakespeare afterwards transferred this
scene to her chamber in her father's house, it may not be overlooked
that the remarkable interview of which Ophelia tells was conceived
originally as occurring on the impulse of the moment and under stress
of feeling caused apparently, by Hamlet's unexpected and dumbfoundering
discovery:

           "He took me by the wrist and held me hard.
            Then goes he to the length of all his arm,
            And, with his other hand thus o'er his brow,
            He falls to such perusal of my face
            As he would draw it. Long time stayed he so.
            At last--a little shaking of my arm,
            And thrice his head thus waving up and down--
            He raised a sigh so piteous and profound
            As it did seem to shatter all his bulk
            And end his being. That done, he lets me go,
            And with his head over his shoulder turned
            He seemed to find his way without his eyes;
            For out o' doors he went without their help,
            And to the last bended their light on me."

In that harsh grip is anger, in that long study of her face the search
for truth, in his silence the wounded pride that cannot utter his
suspicions, in the triple nod the confirmation of their verity, in the
sigh the efflux of his love, in the hand-shaking a farewell, and in the
retroverted face a hope yet lingering but doomed to disappointment. For
Ophelia still utters no word of explanation, and Hamlet the lover
leaves her forever.

The renunciation of Ophelia at this interview is generally conceded,
but the reason assigned for it is the incompatibility of Hamlet's
passion for her with his mission of revenge;--a most unsatisfactory
explanation, because after the Ghost's command was laid on him he still
pursued her, for it was after that that she says: "I did refuse his
letters and denied his access to me." There is apparently an interval
of two months between Acts I and II of Hamlet, and during this period
Hamlet has evidently been brooding over his father's murder and
considering the means of executing his dread command, and he has
doubtless been vexing his soul over the conduct of Ophelia until he can
stand the strain no longer. In immediate sequence in the play his
silent interview with her follows upon her denial of herself to him,
and an echo of the bitter feeling then aroused in him is subsequently
heard, when he tells her that the prologue to the players' scene is
brief "as woman's love";--sometimes mistakenly supposed to refer to the
Queen, whose defection did not occur for more than thirty years after
her marriage. If Hamlet's belief in an intrigue between her and the
King be assumed, it fully explains his conduct before, at, and after
his renunciation of Ophelia, and it would seem that no other theory can
explain it adequately.

When Othello is brooding over the supposed delinquencies of Desdemona,
tortured by commingled love and hate, in his wrath he strikes her.
Afterwards he demands: "Let me see your eyes; look in my face"; and as
she does so, and he searches there for her innocence and finds it not,
he bitterly adjures her: "Swear thou art honest," though all the while
assured that she is "false as hell." And he weeps and laments over her
at the very moment that he determines upon an eternal separation.
Othello's interview with Desdemona and this interview of Hamlet's with
Ophelia are identical in outline, and they differ in detail only as the
character of the two men differ. Shakespeare has told us in words that
Othello is jealously suspicious of Desdemona, and with equal
faithfulness he has depicted jealous suspicion in the acts of Hamlet.

This mute interview between Hamlet and Ophelia reminds one of the "Dumb
Shew," which precedes the scene from the drama of 'Gonzago's Murder';
and as in the latter instance the Duke and Duchess afterwards put into
words the thoughts which the pantomime foreshadows, so on examination
will this be found to be the case in the second interview between
Hamlet and Ophelia, which immediately follows upon his great soliloquy.

This second interview concludes Scene i of Act III in Quarto II and in
the Folios, but in Quarto I it is in Act II, and logically it belongs
there. Act I of 'Hamlet' was designed to disclose the relation of the
several characters to each other, and the command imposed on Hamlet to
avenge his Father's death upon the King; and Act II was originally
intended to exhibit Hamlet erratically making ready to obey the Ghost's
command, and the various artifices which the King employs to detect his
hidden purpose. When Ophelia tells her father of Hamlet's wordless
interview with her, Polonius promptly goes to the King with the story
of their amours and his termination of them, and with the announcement
that Hamlet is mad for his daughter's love; and, after hearing his
reasons for this opinion, being impressed by them, naturally the first
thought of the King is: "How may we try it further?" To this Polonius
replies: "I'll loose my daughter to him" during one of his walks in the
gallery here, whilst you and I, unseen but seeing, will witness their
encounter. In Quarto I the meeting between Hamlet and Ophelia follows
at once, and when it fails Polonius undertakes to board him, and when
that fails Rosencrantz and Guildenstern assay him. Afterwards
Shakespeare saw fit to change the order of these scenes, but this
particular scene may properly be considered now, and before others
which it logically precedes.

In the interpretation of this interview, as of the former, commentators
have been misled by the assumption that it is in some way connected
with Hamlet's mission of revenge, and consequently they have found it,
as has been suggested, a veritable _pons asinorum_. Apart from the
three theories above referred to, there is an attempt to explain it on
the hypothesis that when Hamlet meets Ophelia in the palace, whither he
has been sent for by the King for the express purpose of meeting her,
but "as 'twere by accident," he at once suspects the ruse, and
therefore talks in the extraordinary manner recorded of him; that is,
that he is rude and brutal, and refuses to yield to his feelings of
affection, in order to deceive the King, who he well knows is within
hearing, or to punish Ophelia, who he is assured is spying on him. But
this theory seems to be wholly without support in the text. In the
first place, there is not a word which indicates that he suspects the
King's presence, and, on the contrary, the delivery of the soliloquy,
the admission that he is revengeful and ambitious, and the covert
threat to kill the King, all tend to prove that he does not suspect it.
Further, such a suspicion could reasonably originate only in the fact
that the King had sent for him, and that instead of the King he found
Ophelia, but it is to be remembered that in Quarto I the King does not
send for him, and that the meeting is in fact accidental. Conceding the
suspicion, however, for argument's sake, whilst it might induce Hamlet
to be reticent or cautious in his speech, it does not explain why
Shakespeare put into his mouth the denunciatory language he employs,
and this is after all the vital question. It cannot have been in order
to deceive the King by concealing his love for Ophelia, for such
concealment must necessarily undeceive him; the King, Queen, and
Polonius are all deluded into believing him mad for Ophelia's love, and
this test is expected to confirm them in it; but we know that in fact
the King is undeceived, for his comment is: "Love! His affections do
not that way tend; Nor what he spake, though it lack'd form a little,
Was not like madness." Were he profuse in his protestations of love,
the King might indeed be deceived into believing that it is not his
conduct, but Ophelia's, which troubles Hamlet; for herein the situation
differs from that narrated by Belleforest, the lady there being a mere
vulgar temptress, whose preconcerted blandishments Hamlet shrewdly
refuses to yield to. As for Ophelia's spying on him, it is untenable;
for she also expects that Hamlet will exhibit affection for her, and,
were he to do so, instead of betraying his secret, she would aid him in
concealing it. It seems plain from his inquiry that Hamlet sees
Polonius during the interview, but it is not probable that he believes
Ophelia to be cognizant of his presence; her answer is a denial of such
knowledge, and Hamlet's succeeding sarcastic speech is meant for the
conscience of Polonius, not for hers. The worst that he could say to
her is said before the discovery of her father, and before her
falsehood, and hence the discovery and the falsehood do not serve to
explain it. Nothing can explain it satisfactorily, but Hamlet's
conviction that she has transferred her affections to the King.

After Hamlet has for some time been in the King's chamber, whether it
is with or without the King's request, he meets Ophelia there, and he
finds her apparently waiting for some one, and whiling away the time by
reading. So it has been pre-arranged, and so it seems to him. Plainly
she has not been waiting for him, for, though he himself has been
waiting, she has not addressed him, and in the end he first accosts
her. Indeed, it has been planned that their meeting shall seem to him
to be "by accident," and, so seeming, the idea of her waiting for him
is precluded. Hence to him, already suspicious of her integrity, she
must have come to meet the King. But he has before this been convinced
of such an intrigue, as above shown, and because of it has renounced
her; and accordingly he petitions her lightly, if not ironically:
"Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd." Their meeting is on
the same day as, or certainly not more than one day later than, the
speechless interview; but Ophelia ignores that, and ignores his
petition also, and inquires into the state of his health "for this many
a day,"--that is, since Polonius has separated them,--to which he
responds gravely, and without show of affection. Thereupon ensues the
following conversation:

     "_Oph_.  My lord, I have remembrances of yours
              That I have longed long to redeliver;
              I pray you now receive them.

     "_Ham_.                   No, not I;
              I never gave you aught.

     "_Oph_.  My honor'd lord, you know right well you did,
              And with them words of so sweet breath compos'd
              As made the things more rich. Their perfume lost,
              Take them again; for to the noble mind
              Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind."

It seems clear that Ophelia returns these remembrances in pursuance of
her father's orders, express or implied; that Hamlet repudiates them
because, proud and sensitive, he would blot their old associations from
his memory; and that Ophelia insists on their return with a sad and
tender recollection of those music-vows of love that he has made so
often. But why she should accuse him of unkindness towards her is not
so clear, since it is she who has broken off their intimacy. Her
meaning is not doubtful in Quarto I, where this reference to Hamlet's
unkindness follows upon his comments on her honesty, and evidently
refers to them. But in Quarto II Shakespeare changes the order of the
conversation, and so apparently intends to make Ophelia's suggestion of
unkindness refer to Hamlet's visit to her closet. Hence he had not only
frightened her at that interview, as she informed her father, but he
had hurt her, she realizes that he had renounced her, and in this
gentle way she now upbraids him. But Hamlet, wrought to sudden fury by
the reminiscence, like Othello, can see nothing but the supposed wrong
which she has done him, and, like Othello, charges her with unchastity,
without indicating the suspected man:

     "_Ham_.  Ha, ha! are you honest?

     "_Oph_.  My lord?

     "_Ham_.  Are you fair?

     "_Oph_.  What means your lordship!

     "_Ham_.  That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit
of no discourse to your beauty.

     "_Oph_.  Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with
honesty?

     "_Ham_.  Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform
honesty from what it is to a bawd, than the force of honesty can
translate beauty into his likeness. This was sometime a paradox, but
now the time gives it proof."

Though expressed figuratively, there can be no doubt of Hamlet's
intention in this passage to warn Ophelia against some temptation then
assailing her, which is attacking her virtue through the medium of her
beauty, and which will probably prevail over it. It concerns her
"honesty,"--a virtuous woman being honest in respect of others who have
claims on her, and chaste in respect of herself,--and undoubtedly it
refers to the temptation which assails all women who win unscrupulous
admirers by their charms, and to which they sometimes succumb. In
Ophelia's case it has been to Hamlet an impossible possibility that she
could prove unfaithful to him, but here and now, since he has
discovered her secret visit to the King, it has become reality.

Then, as the scene proceeds, Hamlet in a breath admits and denies his
former love for her, thus plainly repudiating any present affection.
(This conclusion is entirely consistent with his declaration "I lov'd
Ophelia" in the grave-yard scene). Here he renounces her in words, as
formerly he had renounced her by signs. Then he denounces himself and
his "old stock" as being without virtue, and concludes the subject by
declaring: "We are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us. Go thy ways
to a nunnery." Here he unmistakeably warns her against the King, for of
that old stock only they two are left. To the blandishments of both she
has yielded, as he supposes, and since Hamlet no longer loves her, and
the King but lusts after her, her only safe retreat is in a nunnery. In
those old days a nunnery was often the only refuge for a woman who was
fancied by a king, if she would retain her purity.

At this juncture Hamlet discovers Polonius, as is evident by his
suggestion that he had better remain at home when he desires to play
the fool; if the remark were not intended for his ear, it would be
absurd. Of course he realizes that Polonius has been listening to their
conversation, but he does not betray his knowledge, though the rest of
his comments are perhaps more particularly intended for Polonius's ear.
His words turn "wild and whirling," Ophelia notes the change, and her
responses change in tone accordingly. He protests that though she
marries she must lose that immediate jewel of her soul of which Iago
prates, or that she will transform her husband into the horned monster
of Othello's fears. And then he inveighs against wanton womankind in
general, but in such terms as might befit the woman he supposes that
she has become. He puts on "an antic disposition" for the benefit of
Polonius, but under it all is the pointed notice to Ophelia that their
past relationship can never be renewed, and the masked charge that it
is her adoption of the ways of her frail sisters that has made him
mad,--as her words indicate that she supposes him to be,--and that has
wrecked the future happiness of both of them.

When Hero is charged by Claudio with unchastity, she fancies that
something must be wrong with him, and says: "Is my lord well, that he
doth speak so wild?" Of Othello's accusation Desdemona thinks that
"something, sure, of state ... Hath puddled his clear spirit." In a
similar frame of mind Ophelia entreats: "Ye heavenly powers restore
him," and bewails the overthrow of Hamlet's reason. These three tender
hearted women are singularly alike in their mental attitudes under the
accusation, and but too willing to extenuate the cruel blow and to
forgive it. But both Hero and Desdemona defend themselves against the
charge, whilst Ophelia, maintaining her habitual reticence, neither
admits nor denies anything, and Hamlet's conviction of her wrongdoing
with the King remains unchanged.

Thus far Hamlet has made no direct charge of the transfer of Ophelia's
affections from him to another, but he seems to do this at their next
interview, which takes place at the time of the play of 'Gonzago's
Murder.' There is a bitterness towards her in his speech, a brutality
in his obscene allusions, and a degree of heartlessness in it all,
which can be excused--if indeed it be deemed excusable--only on the
theory that he believes her to have herself become a heartless, wicked
woman. When he is commenting on the facts of the play, and Ophelia
suggests that he is "as good as a chorus," he snarlingly replies: "I
could interpret between you and your love if I could see the puppets
dallying." Everything which Hamlet says is pregnant with meaning, and
Ophelia evidently regards this as a keen thrust at her, which it
plainly is. Both of them know that they two are no longer lovers, and
each of them therefore understands that the allusion is to some other
man with whom she treads "the primrose path of dalliance." As usual
Ophelia does not deny the charge, and it would not be singular if
Hamlet were to accept her silence as an admission of its truth. To whom
she thinks that he refers does not appear, but there can be no doubt
that his conviction is that her new lover is the King.

The next incident indicating this conviction is the interview in which
Polonius undertakes with much complacency to "board" the Prince:

     "_Pol_.  Do you know me, my lord?

     "_Ham_.  Excellent well; you are a fishmonger.

     "_Pol_.  Not I, my lord.

     "_Ham_.  Then I would you were so honest a man.

     "_Pol_.  Honest, my lord?

     "_Ham_.  Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one
man picked out of ten thousand.

     "_Pol_.  That's very true, my lord.

     "_Ham_.  For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god
kissing carrion--Have you a daughter?

     "_Pol_.  I have, my lord.

     "_Ham_.  Let her not walk i' the sun. Conception is a blessing,
but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to it.

     "_Pol_.  How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter. Yet
he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger. He is far gone,
far gone." [_aside_].

There has been much discussion of this passage, but no satisfactory
solution of it. It is a good sample of the enigmatic style of speech
characteristic of Hamlet, which presumably the audiences of
Shakespeare's day comprehended, which of course the astute Polonius did
not understand, and which puzzles later generations because they have
lost the ancient significance of certain words. Polonius is so
prejudiced in favor of his theory that it was "the very ecstacy of
love" that troubled Hamlet, that he does not even attempt to fathom his
allusions. And yet Hamlet's last remark, warning him about his
daughter, rivets his attention, and he demands to know what is meant by
it; but it is only for an instant, his illusion again diverts him from
the matter, and the chance of explanation thus escapes.

Malone says that "fishmonger" was a cant term for a "wencher"; and in
Barnabe Rich's 'Irish Hubbub' is the expression "senex fornicator, an
old fishmonger." Possibly this is its primary significance in Hamlet's
mind, for shortly afterwards he satirically says of Polonius to the
players: "He's for a jig, or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps." In
several instances Shakespeare similarly alludes to "fishing"; as in
'Measure for Measure,' i, 2, 91: "Groping for trouts in a peculiar
river"; 'Winter's Tale,' i, 2, 195: "And his pond fish'd by his next
neighbor"; and possibly in 'Antony and Cleopatra,' i, 4, 4: "He fishes,
drinks, and wastes the lamps of night in revels." The word "monger" in
compound words, as used by Shakespeare, does not always mean a trader
in the article, but sometimes one who merely indulges in the act; as in
'Love's Labour's Lost,' ii, 1, 253: "Thou art an old love-monger";
in 'Romeo and Juliet,' ii, 4, 30: "These strange flies, these
fashion-mongers"; and in 'Measure for Measure,' v, 1, 337: "Was the
Duke a fleshmonger?" In common usage the word has this double
significance, indeed, dependent upon whether its adjunct refers to a
thing or to an act; as, for example, cheesemonger and scandalmonger,
and other similar compounds which will readily suggest themselves.
Hence "fishmonger" means both one given to "fishing" and a trader in
fish. And doubtless the latter is its most important significance in
Hamlet's mind, when Polonius denies that he is a fishmonger, namely
that he is a trader in a food which from time immemorial has been
supposed to be an aphrodisiac. Wherefore we are to understand Hamlet as
meaning that Polonius is not so honest a man as the fishmonger that
Polonius has in mind, or the senex fornicator that he originally
had in mind, but that he is a fleshmonger,--a pander, as Tieck puts
it;--"traders in flesh" such persons are termed in 'Troilus and
Cressida,' v, 11, 46. It is supposed by Tieck that the allusion is to
the way in which Polonius threw Hamlet and Ophelia together, by Friesen
that it refers to his pandering to the desires of Claudius and the
Queen before the old King's death, and by Doering that it points to his
promotion of the o'er-hasty marriage of the King and Queen. But the
foregoing discussion shows that the secondary thought in Hamlet's mind
is that for some personal end Polonius permits Ophelia to accept the
King's attentions, knowing the necessary effect of her youth and beauty
on his licentious nature; for at his last interview with her he saw her
father also, though apparently hiding from both of them, and therefore
believes that he was cognizant of the fact that she had gone to the
palace privately to meet the King. It is evidently this belief which
inspires him with the contempt which he afterwards exhibits towards
Polonius.

His next speech manifests this contempt in a notable degree, but it has
been unappreciated because of the failure to perceive the significance
of the word "sun." It is an argument intended to enforce what he had
already said, and, supplying the omitted portion, the whole runs thus:
You are not honest, and you cannot be honest; "for if the sun (in the
sky) breed maggots in a dead dog, being a (heavenly) god kissing
carrion," even so will the sun of this realm (the King) engender
misdeeds in you, a corrupt man caressed by an earthly god. In
characteristic fashion Shakespeare uses "sun" in a double sense, as he
has just used "fishmonger," and again the occult reference is to
Polonius as a procurer for the King.

And Hamlet follows this up by the warning concerning Ophelia; "Let her
not walk i' the sun (shine of the King's favor); conception is a
blessing, but not as your daughter may conceive (if she does so)."
"Sun" in this passage means "sunshine" or "sunlight," as in ordinary
usage it often does, but it is the light of the sun of royalty that he
has just mentioned.

Hamlet's meaning is made so plain by this construction, that it
scarcely needs argument to enforce it. It may however be remarked that,
assuming its correctness in respect of the declaration that Polonius is
not so honest as a fishmonger, its correctness as to the sun's breeding
maggots in carrion and causing conception in Ophelia necessarily
follows. The three enigmatical statements, thus interpreted, complement
and explain each other, and therefore tend to prove each other; and the
proof is strengthened by the fact that they are the sequelae of a
single thought, namely, his belief in an intrigue between Ophelia and
the King. On the other hand, conceding such a belief, a man of Hamlet's
character would most naturally think these thoughts, and utter them in
characteristic style to Ophelia's father:--The King breeds corruption
in you as does the sun in a carrion dog, you are risking your
daughter's honor to win his favor, and the experiment will probably end
in her dishonor. Hence Hamlet's alleged belief, deduced from his three
interviews with Ophelia, and these three resulting comments tend to
prove each other's correctness.

Again, the sun is plainly credited by Hamlet with a double function,
namely, corruptly breeding life in a dead dog and in a living woman,
and the only possible means of harmonizing the two' statements, and of
making sense out of the latter, is to assume that some man is typified
by the second sun. It is generally admitted that an uncompleted
argument is introduced by the particle "for," and, such being the case,
it is a fair assumption that that also shall contain a reference to
"the sun" as doing something which a man may do. On such an assumption,
the argument is readily followed up: "For if the sun breed maggots in a
dead dog," so must "the sun" breed dishonesty in you, and so may "the
sun" cause your daughter to conceive. These three propositions are
consistent, the logical connection between them is perfect, and their
reason and purpose is clear, if the term "sun" may figuratively
indicate "the King."

Now, it is to be observed that Shakespeare not infrequently refers to
kings as suns, and likens them to gods. When the King has pardoned her
son, the Duchess of York exclaims: "A god on earth thou art"; 'Richard
II,' v, 3, 136. "Kings are earth's gods," says Pericles; 'Pericles,' i,
1, 103. And again he says of the King, his father, that he "Had princes
sit like stars about his throne, And he the sun, for them to
reverence," _Ibid_., II, iii, 40, In 'Henry VIII,' i, 1, 6, Buckingham,
referring to the meeting of the Kings of England and France on the
Field of the Cloth of Gold, styles them "Those suns of glory, those two
lights of men." And Norfolk tells of the wondrous deeds done there,
"when these suns (For so they phrase them) by their heralds challenged
The noble spirits to arms"; _Ibid_., i, 1, 33. Again, adverting to the
manner in which Cardinal Woolsey overshadows all other men in the
King's favor, Buckingham says: "I wonder That such a keech can with his
very bulk Take up the rays o' th' beneficial sun, And keep it from the
earth"; _Ibid_., i, 1, 56. When the Cardinal has procured the King to
arrest him, Buckingham foresees his speedy death, and again uses this
metaphor in a passage which has been much misunderstood, _Ibid_., i. 1,
236: "I am the shadow of poor Buckingham, Whose figure even this
instant cloud puts on By dark'ning my clear sun"; that is, whose body
was even that moment entombed by the darkening of the King's
countenance against him; he was already a dead man. (Compare the
thought: "Darkness does the face of earth entomb When living light
should kiss it"; 'Macbeth,' ii, 4, 10).[1] In like manner, in 'King
John,' ii, i, 500, the Dauphin of France refers to himself as King,
when he says to his father that his shadow, visible in the eye of the
Princess, "Becomes a sun and makes your son a shadow." In Richard II,'
iii, 2, 50, the King, likening himself to the sun, says that, as the
"eye of heaven" reveals the dark deeds of night when he fires the proud
tops of the eastern pines, "So when this thief, this traitor,
Bolingbroke ... Shall see us rising on our throne, the east, His
treasons will sit blushing in his face." And again, _Ibid_., iv, 1,
260, transferring the metaphor to Bolingbroke, he wails: "O, that I
were a mockery King of snow Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke, To
melt myself away in waterdrops." In '1 Henry IV,' iii, 2, 79, the King
speaks of "sunlike majesty, When it shines seldom in admiring eyes." In
'Richard III.' i, 1, 1, Gloster says, referring to the King: "Now is
the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York."
In 'Hamlet,' i, 2, 67, the King asks Hamlet: "How is it that the clouds
still hang on you?" and he ironically replies: "Not so, my lord, I am
too much i' the sun." Here again "sun" means "sunshine," and Hamlet,
choosing to understand the King literally, and referring to the fact
that clouds are dissipated by a genial sun, sneeringly protests that he
is too much in the sunshine of royalty to have clouds hanging about
him. Referring to a different effect of the sun's warmth, Prince John
speaks of "The man that sits within a monarch's heart And ripens in the
sunshine of his favor"; '2 Henry IV,' iv, 2, 12. There are other
similar uses of the word "sun," which need not now be cited.

The last reference to Ophelia's supposed relation to the King occurs
when Polonius comes to announce the presence of the players:

     "_Ham_.  'O Jephthah, judge of Israel,' what a treasure hadst
thou!

     "_Pol_.  What treasure had he, my lord?

     "_Ham_.  Why 'One fair daughter, and no more, the which he loved
passing well.'

     "_Pol_.  Still on my daughter [_aside_].

     "_Ham_.  Am I not i' the right, old Jephthah?

     "_Pol_.  If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that
I love passing well.

     "_Ham_.  Nay, that follows not.

     "_Pol_.  What follows then, my lord?

     "_Ham_.  Why, 'As by lot, God wot.'"

Here Hamlet again mystifies Polonius about his daughter, quoting from
an old English ballad. Jephthah is pilloried in history as the man who
sacrificed his daughter in payment for his worldly success. Shakespeare
also refers to him in '3 Henry VI,' v, 1, 91: "To keep that oath were
more impiety than Jephthah's when he sacrificed his daughter." Hamlet
dubs Polonius "Jephthah," because he believes that he has paid for
political preferment by yielding his daughter to the King. And when
Polonius says that, if he is to be called Jephthah, he admits that like
Jephthah he loves his daughter, Hamlet replies in characteristic vein,
"Nay, that follows not"; meaning that it follows instead that like
Jephthah he has sacrificed her. But when Polonius presses him to say
what does follow, he conceals his real meaning, as his custom is, and
diverts the old man's mind by answering the line from the ballad. As
was the case with regard to Ophelia, Hamlet is reluctant to make the
open charge against her father.

Thus in every instance in which Hamlet comes in contact with Ophelia,
or refers to her, his actions and his words consistently point to the
fact that he renounces her because he believes her to have thrust him
aside while engaging in an intrigue with the King. And the fact that
from this point of view there is a connected story of their relations
told by the several interviews above discussed, that Hamlet's conduct
and language in them all are adequately explained, and that a single
belief of his accounts for each of them, is strong confirmation of the
theory's correctness. It is in harmony with the general scheme of the
drama also, all of whose important movements hinge on "purposes
mistook"; and it furnishes Hamlet with an adequate motive for his
treatment of Ophelia, and removes from him the stigma of mere
brutishness or insanity. Coleridge well says that there must have been
"some profound heart truth" under the story, and the theory herein
advanced seems to disclose it.      _David A. McKnight_.

Washington, D. C., February 26, 1898.


                           *   *   *   *   *


                    CLEWS TO EMERSON'S MYSTIC VERSE.

                            (Third Paper.)

"When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a man's good wit
seconded with the forward child understanding, it strikes a man more
dead than a great reckoning in a little room."--_Touchstone_.


The phantasmal lords of life of the poem 'Experience,' which we
considered at the close of the last paper, were presumably suggested to
Emerson by the following lines from Tennyson's 'Mystic,' published in
1830 (Emerson imported these early volumets of young Tennyson, and
never tired of praising them to his friends):--

           "Always there stood before him, night and day,
            Of wayward vary- circumstance
            The imperishable presences serene,
            Colossal, without form, or sense, or sound,
            Dim shadows but unwaning presences
            Four-faced to four corners of the sky."

The "silent congregated hours," "daughters of time, divinely tall,"
with "severe and youthful brows," in this same poem of Tennyson gave
Emerson his "daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days," congregated in
procession. Tennyson's mystic, who hears "time flowing in the middle of
the night" recalls Emerson's 'Two Rivers,' in which the living All, the
Infinite Soul, is figured as a stream flowing through eternity:--

           "I hear the spending of the stream,
            Through years, through men, through nature fleet,
            Through love and thought, through power and dream."

At the close of the poem 'Wealth' there is a bit of scientific
nature-ethics which is a little obscure. The greater part of the
poem is a series of graphic pictures, detailing the process of
world-development through the geologic ages down to the advent of man.
Suddenly, at the end,--just as at the end of the prose essay on the
same subject,--he remembers his manners and makes his bow to the august
Soul, kindles a light in the Geissler tube of nature, sets it aglow
interiorly with spiritual law:--

           "But, though light-headed man forget,
            Remembering Matter pays her debt:
            Still, through her motes and masses, draw
            Electric thrills and ties of Law,
            Which bind the strength of Nature wild
            To the conscience of a child."

The logical link connecting this part with the rest has dropped out in
the poem, but is clear enough in the essay. The lines mean simply this:
that, though man may forget to obey the laws of the universe, Nature
never forgets her debt of obedience; she bites and stings the
transgressor and caresses and soothes him who obeys. In her own
submission to law she has that artlessness and quasi-moral sense that
affines her to the moral nature of a child. The "awful victors" and
"Eternal Rights" of 'Voluntaries' are only "remembering Matter" in
another mask: with all their innocent obedience they are themselves
terrible executors:--

           "They reach no term, they never sleep,
            In equal strength through space abide;
            Though, feigning dwarfs, they crouch and creep,
            The strong they slay, the swift outstride."

In the following high pantheistic strain the seer chants the old rune
that God is all:--

           "The living Heaven thy prayers respect,
            House at once and architect,
            Quarrying man's rejected hours,
            Builds therewith eternal towers;
            Sole and self-commanded works,
            Fears not undermining days,
            Grows by decays,
            And, by the famous might that lurks
            In reaction and recoil,
            Makes flame to freeze and ice to boil;
            Forging, through swart arms of Offence,
            The silver seat of Innocence."

                                               --'Spiritual Laws.'

When the Living Universe builds a house, it builds it out of its own
soul substance; while man sleeps and loiters, the Unconscious
ceaselessly toils. In the phrase "grows by decays," Emerson embodies, I
believe, the law of the conservation of energy. The magazine of divine
power is exhaustless; does energy sink out of sight here, it is only to
reappear yonder; the tree decays, but out of its fertilizing substance
new plants may spring up; the coal under the steam boiler of the
locomotive is consumed, but the swart goblin has lost no whit of his
might: he just slips darkling up into the steam, makes the driving-rods
his swift-shuttling arms, and, grasping with his steel fingers the
felloes of the wheel, whirls you half a thousand miles over the green
bulge of the earth ere set of sun, The mystic Power grows by decays;
and also, by "the famous might that lurks in reaction and recoil,"
reconciles apparent antinomies and opposites, and is the agent that
visits evil upon the head of the evil doer and mercy upon the merciful.
If a heavy body be rolled up an inclined plane, it acquires potential
and kinetic energy just equal to the force expended in getting it
there, and in reaction develops such a famous might that, if massive
enough, it will knock you down if you stand in its way. If you lift the
big pendulum of the clock in the corner, you also confer latent, or
reactionary, energy upon it. Only it is of course hyperbolical for the
poet to say that reaction is potent enough to actually freeze flame and
make ice boil your kettle. That is only one of Emerson's rhetorical
Chinese crackers, his startling thaumaturgic way of illustrating his
thesis.

The key-thought of the essay 'Spiritual Laws,' to which the occult
lines we are considering were prefixed, is, Be noble; for, if you are
not, your face and life will, by the law of reaction and return,
publish your lapse. Punishment and reward are fruits that ripen
unsuspected in the deeds of men.

The pertinency and application of many of Emerson's titles are not at
once apparent.

In 'Merops' the bard affirms that in his high philosophical soarings he
cares not whether he can at once ticket his intuitions and perceptions
with names or not. Merops was changed into an eagle, says Ovid, and
placed among the constellations,--hence, I suppose, is selected by
Emerson as a good type of the kind of soaring thinker he is describing.
That he also has in mind that Merops was the putative father of
Phaethon is shown perhaps by the allusion (in the last stanza) to
Phaethon's mishap:--

           "Space grants beyond his fated road
              No inch to the god of day,
            And copious language still bestowed
              One word, no more, to say."

'Alphonso of Castile' is a dramatic monologue containing a whimsical
suggestion for compounding a Man out of ordinary weak-timbered manikins
by killing nine in ten of them and "stuffing nine brains in one hat."
It is put into the mouth of Alphonso, King of Castile, born in 1221,
called _El Sabio_, "The Wise." He was a man who suffered much in his
life. He wrote a famous code of laws, and first made the Castilian a
national language by causing the Bible to be translated into it.
Emerson chooses him as the vehicle of his own whimsey about the
condensed homunculus chiefly on account of one famous sentence
attributed to him: "Had I been present at the creation, I could have
given some useful hints for the better ordering of the universe."
Emerson, in his rhymed soliloquy, put into Alphonso's mouth,
sarcastically twits Nature with her depleted stocks, her run-out
strains of lemons, figs, roses, and men. The remedy proposed in the
case of man, and outlined above, has the true Emerson-Swift bouquet, is
 and veined with a right Shakespearian scorn of the mob.

'Mithridates' is a monologue put into the mouth of Mithridates the
Great, King of Pontus, who is said to have discovered an antidote for
poisons which made him poison-proof against his many enemies:--

           "I cannot spare water or wine,
              Tobacco-leaf, or poppy, or rose;
            From the earth-poles to the line,
              All between that works or grows,
            Everything is kin of mine.

            Give me agates for my meat;
             Give me cantharids to eat;
            From air and ocean bring me foods,
            From all zones and altitudes."

As late as 1787 "mithridate" was the name for an antidote against
poison included in the London pharmacop[oe]ia. In Jonson's 'Every Man
in his Humour,' Kitely, thinking he is poisoned, calls for mithridate
and oil. It was composed of many ingredients and given in the form of
electuaries. In our modern pharmacopoeias we have plenty of antidotes
against virulent poisons; _e. g_., atropine for the deadly amanita
mushroom. And counter-poisons are often used, as the tincture of
foxglove for aconite, atropine for morphia, or morphia for belladonna.
According to the tradition, Mithridates gradually inured his system to
counter-poisons, and became poison-proof. At any rate, Emerson uses him
for his metaphor, which, in untropical speech, is this: "lam tired of
the nambypamby and goody-goody; give me things strong and rank; give me
evil for a change and a spur.

           "Too long shut in strait and few,
            Thinly dieted on dew,
            I will use the world, and sift it,
            To a thousand humors shift it,
            As you spin a cherry.
            O doleful ghosts and goblins merry!
            O all you virtues, methods, mights,
            Means, appliances, delights,
            Reputed wrongs and braggart rights,
            Smug routine, and things allowed,
            Minorities, things under cloud!
            Hither! take me, use me, fill me,
            Vein and artery, though ye kill me!"

In brief, "I have run the gauntlet of experience, sounded all the
depths of passion, joy, woe, evil. I am dipped in Styx, more
invulnerable than Siegfried, and strong now to use the world and be
used by it." The mood of the poem is the wild longing that sometimes
comes over the good man to break loose and have his fling, come what
may, cry, _Vive la bagatelle!_ or run amuck and tilt at all he meets.
It is needless to say that the staid Emerson never carried this mood
farther than to smoke a cigar now and then, or take an Adirondack
outing. His contemporary, the untrammelled Whitman, could both preach
and practise (within the bounds of reason) the Mithridatic doctrine;
and he was a more many-sided and symmetrical man in consequence.

The last two lines of 'Mithridates,' as printed from the autograph
copy, were,--

           "God! I will not be an owl,
            But sun me in the Capitol."

These lines Emerson wisely dropped.

'Forerunners' ("Long I followed happy guides)" mean one's brave hopes
and ideals of good to come, our dreams and aspirations. The lines

           "No speed of mine avails
            To hunt upon their shining trails"

Thoreau evidently utilized as text for his well-known fable in 'Walden'
of the lost hound, bay horse, and turtle-dove.

The portrait of Hermione, the patient-sweet wife of Leontes in 'The
Winter's Tale' of Shakespeare, serves Emerson, in his poem 'Hermione,'
as the model of a perfect wife, and a more acceptable one to this age
than Chaucer's abject Griselda. Such a lady as Shakespeare's Hermione,
beautiful in person and of rare self-control and virtue, is an
adumbration or epitome of the universal beauty. Looking at nature, the
American poet finds the features of his Hermione there: "mountains and
the misty plains, Her colossal portraiture." I suppose that this
sketch, tender and delicately toned as if with a silver point, is
autobiographical, and is a shadowing forth of the character of
Emerson's first wife, the ethereal souled Ellen Tucker, who died of
consumption after only a year and a half of married life. When her
"meteor glances came," he says, he was "hermit vowed to books and
gloom," and dwelling alone. In the lines

           "The chains of kind
            The distant bind;
            Deed thou doest she must do,"

he anticipates (does he not?) the telepathy of our days,--kindred minds
seeking similar places and thinking like thoughts, although in this
case, to be sure, the kindred soul is thought of as merged with the
inorganic world,--the winds and waterfalls and twilight nooks.

Search the whole world through, you shall find no predecessor of
Emerson the poet. The only verse resembling his in general style is
that of the enigmatic 'Phoenix and the Turtle,' attributed to
Shakespeare, and much admired by Emerson:--

           "Let the bird of loudest lay,
            On the sole Arabian tree.
            Herald sad and trumpet be,
            To whose sound chaste wings obey."

Emerson's verses have also a slight Persian tinge now and then, caught
from his studies of Saadi and Hafiz. In his fine lyric cry 'Bacchus,'
in which he calls for a wine of life, a cup of divine soma or amrita,
that shall sinew his brain and exalt all his powers of thought and
action to a godlike pitch,--

           "Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
            In the belly of the grape,

            *   *   *   *

            That I intoxicated,
            And by the draught assimilated,
            May float at pleasure through all natures;

            *   *   *   *

            Quickened so, will I unlock
            Every crypt of every rock,"--

he unconsciously gave his lines, I think, the outward form of some
verses by Hafiz, in which that singer intimates that, give him the
right kind of wine, and he can perform wonders as if with Solomon's
ring or Jemschid's wine-cup mirror. Emerson himself in one of his early
editions gives a spirited verse translation of Hafiz's poem. Mr.
William R. Alger ('Specimens of Oriental Poetry,' Boston, 1856)
translates Hafiz thus:--

           "Bring me wine! By my puissant arm
            The thick net of deceit and of harm
            Which the priests have spread over the world
            Shall be rent and in laughter be hurled.
            Bring me wine! I the earth will subdue.
            Bring me wine! I the heaven will storm through.
            Bring me wine, bring it quick, make no halt!
            To the throne of both worlds will I vault.
            All is in the red streamlet divine.
            Bring me wine! O my host, bring me wine!"

'Etienne de la Boece' gets its title (with Emersonian variations) from
the name of one of Montaigne's most intimate friends,--Estienne de la
Boetie. Montaigne tells us about him in Chapter xxvii of his Essays,
affirming that he would have accomplished miracles, had he lived. He
died when only thirty-three at Bordeaux (1563). His scholarship was
solid, his translations from the Greek excellent. He was so eager to
read Greek that he copied whole volumes with his own hand. A French
critic says, "Les qualites qui brillaient en lui imprimaient a toute
sa personne un cachet distingue et un charme severe." Yet he seems to
have been something of an imitator of his great friend; and it is in
this aspect of his life that Emerson regards him, using him, perhaps
somewhat unjustly to his powers and developing genius, as the type of a
too imitative disciple:--

           "I serve you not, if you I follow,
            Shadowlike, o'er hill and hollow;

            *   *   *   *

            Vainly valiant, you have missed
            The manhood that should yours resist."

Probably most Americans, if asked to explain the relevancy of the title
of Emerson's poem 'Guy,' would be unable to answer offhand. The verses
celebrate the lucky man:--

                     "The common waters fell
            As costly wine into his well.
            The zephyr in his garden rolled
            From plum-trees vegetable gold.
            Stream could not so perversely wind
            But corn of Guy's was there to grind."

The reference, of course, is to a man well known in England,--Thomas
Guy (d. 1724), founder of Guy's Hospital in London. He was the George
Peabody of his day. Beginning life as a bookseller, he made a good deal
of money in printing Bibles, but acquired most of his enormous fortune
by financial speculations. He was extremely economical; for example,
always ate his dinner on his shop counter, first spreading out a
newspaper to catch the crumbs. His charities were boundless. To his
hospital he gave $1,000,000; and at his death his will was found to
contain an enormous number of special benefactions, including bequests
to over ninety cousins. Emerson in his poem compares Guy to Polycrates,
who was King of Samos some five hundred years before Christ. He says
that Polycrates "chained the sunshine and the breeze"; that is, the
very elements seemed to be in his pay. This run of luck was without a
break up to his death; his fleet of a hundred ships was the largest
then known; he conquered all his enemies, and amassed great treasure.
His ally, Amasis, King of Egypt, was so alarmed at his prosperity,
fearing the envy of the gods, that he advised him to make some
noteworthy sacrifice. The story goes that Polycrates accordingly threw
his emerald signet-ring into the sea, but it came back to his kitchens
in the belly of a large fish, as in the Arabian Nights story. The fears
of Amasis were finally justified; for the Persian satrap Or[oe]tes
enticed Polycrates to the mainland, and crucified him.

'Xenophanes' embodies poetically the doctrine of the earnest old
Greek agnostic and monist of that name, that God, or the All, is
uncreated, immovable, and one,--not immovable in its parts, but as a
whole, and just because it is all. Xenophanes saw the grandeur and
incomprehensibility of the universe, he violently opposed what seemed
to him the disgraceful polytheism of Homer, and anticipated the modern
atomic theory and the doctrine of the unity of life as revealed by the
spectroscope and the discovery of the conservation and mutual
convertibility of forces. Or, as Emerson puts it in his haunting
numbers,--

           "By fate, not option, frugal Nature gave
            One scent to hyson and to wall-flower,
            One sound to pine-groves and to waterfalls,
            One aspect to the desert and the lake.
            It was her stern necessity."

The title of the poem 'Hamatreya' seemed at first to baffle a perfect
and indubitable explanation. The word can be found in no English or
foreign dictionary that the largest libraries afford. We are indebted,
however, to Col. T. W. Higginson (_The Critic_, Feb. 18, 1888) for not
only giving us a clew to the title, but for pointing out the portion of
the Vishnu Purana (Wilson's translation, 1840) on which Emerson based
his 'Earth Song' in 'Hamatreya,' and, in fact, got the hint for the
whole poem; namely, at the close of Book IV. Maitreya is a disciple of
Parasara, who relates to Maitreya the Vishnu Purana. Among other things
he tells Maitreya of a chant of the Earth, who said, "When I hear a
king sending word to another by his ambassador, 'This earth is mine:
immediately resign your pretensions to it,' I am moved to violent
laughter at first; but it soon subsides in pity for the infatuated
fool." Again, the Purana says, "Earth laughs, as if smiling with
autumnal flowers, to behold her kings unable to effect the subjugation
of themselves"; which is Emerson's

           "Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys
            Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs."

And again: "These were the verses, Maitreya, which Earth recited, and
by listening to which ambition fades away, like snow before the sun."
Here are Emerson's lines:--

           "When I heard the Earth-song,
            I was no longer brave;
            My avarice cooled
            Like lust in the chill of the grave."

Colonel Higginson suggests that Emerson may also have had in mind, in
writing 'Hamatreya,' Psalm, xlix. 11. As he rightly says, the title
evidently is meant to give a hint of the Hindoo source of the argument
of the poem. It is in line with the uniform custom of Emerson in giving
historical catch-words, especially proper names, as his titles. After
an exhaustive search through all the Hindoo scriptures, I have reached
a conviction which approaches absolute certainty that Hamatreya is
Emerson's imperfect recollection of Maitreya or that he purposely
coined the word. Emerson, it is nearly certain, read the Vishnu Purana,
translated by H. H. Wilson (a large and costly work), by the copy then
in the Harvard Library or the Boston Athenaeum, perhaps taking brief
notes, but omitting to write down "Maitreya." In his exhaustive index
of proper names, appended to the Vishnu Purana, Wilson has no such word
as Hamatreya, nor does it occur anywhere in the book. To clinch the
argument, Prof. Charles R. Lanman, the well-known Sanskrit scholar of
Harvard University, writes me that "Hamatreya is not a Sanskrit word."
"The Atreyas," he says, "were the descendants of Atri." "It is an easy
mistake to make _Hamatreya_ out of _Maitreya_. I really think you will
have to assume a simple slip here."

Emerson is not wilfully obscure. But he comes dangerously near to being
so in the demand he often makes upon his readers for out-of-the-way
knowledge. 'Casella' is the title of an Emersonian quatrain,--

           "Test of the poet is knowledge of love,
            For Eros is older than Saturn or Jove.
            Never was poet, of late or of yore,
            Who was not tremulous with love-lore."

The reference is to Dante's friend Casella ("Casella mio"), whom he
meets in Purgatory, and who sweetly sings (as of yore on earth he was
wont) a canzone by Dante himself,--"_Amor, che nella mente mi
ragiona_." Emerson's favorite poet, Milton, in his sonnet to Henry
Lawes, alludes, as Mr. Norton points out, to this friendship:--

           "Dante shall give fame leave to set thee higher
            Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing
            Met in the milder shades of Purgatory."

The title [Greek: adakrun nemontai aiona] is from Pindar, I believe.
Emerson took it from _The Dial_, where (July, '43) it appears as the
motto to a poem by Charles A. Dana on 'Manhood.' It means, literally,
"They pass a tearless life"; or, very freely rendered, "They live a
life of smiles,"--a sentiment explained by the first lines,--

           "A new commandment, said the smiling Muse,
            I give my darling son, Thou shalt not preach."

Even in so slight a matter as choosing a name for his verses 'To Rhea,'
Emerson's philosophical belief is glimpsed; for Rhea was the mother of
gods, and such he believed all women to be. The thought of this
remarkable poem, which its author feigns to have received from the
thousand chattering tongues of the poplar-tree, is extremely subtle and
somewhat difficult to formulate. The analysis is this. If you, a wife,
have lost your supremacy in your husband's affections, take a strange
and noble revenge, not by hating, but, in a kind of calm altruistic
despair, endowing him with all the gifts and blessings at your command.
The poem is headed 'To Rhea' (Rhea being the wife of the cruel Saturn,
who devoured his own children) as to a wife whose husband had merely
"drank of Cupid's nectar cup," married her from sex-instinct alone, and
then, the "bandages of purple light" fallen from "his eyes," treated
her with indifference. But she continues to love him; and more the poet
gives her the advice just noted, illustrating by the supposed case of a
god loving a mortal maid, and warily knowing that she, with her
inferior ideals, can never adequately requite his love, yet nobly
endowing her with all gifts and graces, which are the hostages he pawns
for freedom from "his thrall." He does this in an altruistic spirit, in
order by her to "model newer races" and "carry man to new degrees of
power and comeliness." But what thrall? We must walk warily here. In
order not to seem to give his verses an autobiographical cast (although
the god, the "wise Immortal," of them is really such a type as the seer
Emerson himself), he withdraws into dim recesses and speaks in subtlest
metaphors. The thrall, I think, is the bondage a lover or husband is in
to his beloved, in whom the solecisms and disenchantments of possession
have supplanted the poetic illusions of romantic love. The man of
supreme wisdom, by the magic of self-sacrifice and boundless profusion
of gifts turns the trap or prison in which nature has caught him into a
bower of Eden. By the road of generosity he escapes. He cunningly
builds up in her mind gratitude and friendship in place of the lost
romanticism. There is in this treatment of love a touch of the
coldblooded philosophy of the Emersonian critique of friendship. But if
it is not a marriage of ideal kind, such as that of the Brownings,
which he celebrates, he at least embodies in his verse the shrewd
love-philosophy of the practical-poetical Englishman, united to the
average woman for the furtherance of the ends of the species.

Mr. George Brown, in his Emerson primer, thinks that the key-thought of
'Rhea' is in these lines from 'The World-Soul' about the gods:--

           "To him who scorns their charities
            Their arms fly open wide."

But the parallelism somewhat halts. For mark: In the one case
Napoleon's maxim is embodied, that God is on the side of the strongest
battalions. The one who scorns the favoritisms and alms of Heaven, and
yet, will he nill he, receives its aid, is really the strong God
himself in mask, the noble and resolute man executing his will in time
and space. But in the case supposed in 'Rhea,' of husband and wife, the
ones who scorn love are those not deserving of gifts at all (although
Nature finds her account in them), but persons who receive gifts in
charity from one altruistically nobler than themselves. It is just this
idea of sublime self-sacrifice that gives to 'Rhea' its strange
subtlety and its uniqueness among poems on love. There is a consolatory
under-thought in the palimpsest, too. By his illustration of the god
and the mortal maid the poet wishes Rhea to divine that, if wives make
moan over husbands' lost love, husbands no less often have reason to
lament the cooled affection of wives.

The central idea in 'Uriel' is that there is no such thing as evil.
This thesis is put into the mouth of Uriel, one of the seven
archangels, because he was the "interpreter" of God's will. So Milton
says, in the _locus classicus_ on Uriel in Book III of 'Paradise Lost.'
He also says he was

           "The sharpest-sighted spirit of all in heav'n."

His station was in the all-viewing sun. Uriel, in Milton, tells how,
when the universe was yet chaos,

           "Or ever the wild Time coined itself
            Into calendar months and days,"

he saw the worlds a-forming,--earth, sun, and stars. Emerson (or
"Sayd") takes Milton at his word, and leads us back into that dark
backward and abysm of time, and lets us overhear a conversation between
Uriel and the other seraphs. At his speech "the gods shook," because if
there is no sin, if all comes round to good, even a lie, then good-bye
gods, hells and heavens, and their punishments. But note that, though
the All turns your wrong to good in the end, yet you, an individual,
suffer for your wrongdoing.

In a genial paper in the _Andover Review_ for March, 1887, Dr. C. C.
Everett says that Dr. Hedge suggested to him that 'Uriel' probably took
its origin in the discussions of the Boston Association of Ministers on
the theme (then rife), "There is no line in nature": all is circular,
and by the law of reaction every deed returns upon the doer. At any
rate, it was written in 1838, soon after his Divinity School Address.
('Emerson in Concord,' by Edward Emerson.)

The god of boundaries in ancient Rome--Terminus--gives his name to the
cheeriest of monodies or anchoring songs sung by the gayest of old
sailors on the sea of eternity, and at last approaching port. Terminus,
like Hermes, the Greek god of bounds, was shown in his statues without
hands or feet, to indicate that he never moved. Was Emerson a little
rusty in his classical lore, or did he boldly and knowingly defy
classical verities when he says the divinity came to him "in his fatal
rounds"? He seems to have attributed to Terminus patrolling functions
like those of his own New England village fence-viewers. Or, rather,
speaking in noble and more adequate terms, has he not added to the
world's mythologies a new and poetical deity,--the god of the bounds of
human life, a kind of avant-courier or Death's dragoman to announce to
men their approaching end? 'Terminus' was written about 1866, when
Emerson was in or near his sixty-third year, and sixteen years before
his death.                               _William Sloane Kennedy._


                           *   *   *   *   *


                  A DEFENCE OF BROWNING'S LATER WORK.

If a defence of Browning's work were to include all he has written
since the date when Edmund Gosse said his books were chiefly valuable
as keeping alive popular interest in the poet, and as leading fresh
generations of readers to what he had already published, it would needs
begin as far back as 1868; and considering the amount of work done
since that time would require at least a volume to do the subject
justice.

Fortunately it has long been admitted that Homer sometimes nods,
though not with such awful effect as was said to attend the nods of
Jove--Hence, in spite of Mr. Gosse's undoubted eminence as a critic, we
may dare to assume that in this particular instance he fell into the
ancient and distinguished trick of nodding.

If Mr. Gosse were right, it would practically put on a par with a mere
advertising scheme many poems which have now become household
favorites. Take, for example, 'Herve Riel.' Think of the blue-eyed
Breton hero whom all the world has learned to love through Browning,
tolerated as nothing more than an index finger to 'The Pied Piper of
Hamelin!' Take, too, such poems, as 'Donald,' whose dastardly
sportsmanship is so vividly portrayed that it has the power to arouse
strong emotion in strong men, who have been known literally to break
down in the middle of it through excess of feeling; 'Ivan Ivanovitch,'
in which is embodied such fear and horror that weak hearts cannot stand
the strain of hearing it read; the story of the dog Tray who rescued a
drowning doll with the same promptitude as he did a drowning child--at
the relation of whose noble deeds the eyes of little children grow
eager with excitement and sympathy. And where is there in any poet's
work, a more vivid bit of tragedy than 'A Forgiveness!'

And would not an unfillable gap be left in the ranks of our friends of
the imaginative world if Balaustion were blotted out? The exquisite
lyric girl, brave, tender and with a mind in which wisdom and wit are
fair playfellows.

As Carlyle might say, "Verily, verily Mr. Gosse, thou hast out-Homered
Homer, and thy nod hath taken upon itself very much the semblance of a
snore."

These and many others which might be mentioned as having appeared since
the date when Mr. Gosse autocratically put up the bars to the poet's
genius are now so universally accepted that any defence of them would
be absurd.

There are again others whose tenure of fame is still hanging in the
balance like 'The Red Cotton Night-cap Country,' 'The Inn Album,'
'Aristophanes' Apology,' 'Fifine at the Fair'; but as they have had
already some able defenders, I shall not attempt any defence of them
further than to say, in passing, that the longer I know them, and the
more I read them, the more I am impressed with their masterly portrayal
of human motives as they either reflect a given social environment or
work contrary to it. Only a genius of the greatest power could have
grasped and moulded into palpitating life beings of the calibre of the
brilliant complex and illogical Aristophanes, or the dunderheaded, well
meaning and equally illogical Miranda and set them to act out their
little parts in a living historical environment--one in decadent Athens
with her petty political and literary rivalries and dying religion; the
other in ultramontane France where superstition and materialism were
fighting for the mastery. Such art as is illustrated in these poems on
in 'Fifine at the Fair' or in 'The Inn Album,' may not be of the kind
to give one direct ideals for the conduct of life; but it represents
the most splendid realism from which as from life itself deep moral
lessons may be drawn. There is an actuality of realism in these poems
of Browning's that puts into the shade, that of the great apostle of
realism, Zola, for his realism too often presents what I venture to
call obverse idealism--evil apotheosized, not evil struggling toward
good as it invariably appears in life.

Among the poet's later works, 'Ferishtah's Fancies' and 'The Parleyings
with Certain People of Importance in Their Day' have perhaps been more
obscured by mists of non-appreciation than any others. I shall,
therefore, confine myself for the present to making here and there a
rift in these mists in the hope that some glimpses of the splendor of
the giant form behind them may be gained.

Without particularizing either critics or criticism, it may be said
that criticism of these poems divides itself into the usual three
branches,--one which objects to their philosophy, one which objects to
their art, one which finds them difficult of comprehension at all. This
last criticism may easily be disposed of by admitting it as in part
true. The mind whose highest reaches of poetic inspiration are
ministered unto by such simple and easily understandable lyrics as
'Twinkle, twinkle little star' might not at once grasp the significance
of the Parleying with George Bubb Dodington. Indeed, it may be surmised
that some minds might sing upon the starry heights with Hegel and
fathom the doctrine of the equivalence of being and non-being and yet
be led into a slough of despond by this same cantankerous George.

But a poetical slough of despond may be transfigured in the twinkling
of an eye--after a proper amount of study and hard thinking--into an
elevated plateau with prospects upon every side, grand or terrible or
smiling.

Are we never to feel spurred to any poetical pleasure more vigorous
than dilly-dallying with Keats while we feast our eyes upon the
wideness of the seas? Or lazily floating in a lotus land with Tennyson,
say, among the meadows of the Musketaquid, in canoes with silken
cushions? Beauty and peace is the reward of such poetical pleasures.
They fall upon the spirit like the "sweet sound that breathes upon a
bank of violets, stealing and giving odor," but shall we never return
from the land where it is always afternoon? Is it only in such a land
as this that we realize the true power of emotion? Rather does it
conduce to the slumber of emotion; for progress is the law of feeling
as it is the law of life, and many times we feel,--yes--feel--with
tremendous rushes of enthusiasm like climbing Matterhorns with great
iron nails in our shoes, with historical and archaeological, and
philosophical Alpen-stocks in our hands, and when we reach the summit
what unsuspected beauties become ours.

Advancing a step more seriously into the subject, I may say that these
two series of poems form the key-stone to Browning's whole work. They
are like a final synthesis of the problems of existence which he has
previously made analyses of from myriad points of view in his dramatic
presentation of character. It has been said that in these poems his
philosophy loses its intuitional and assured point of view, to become
hard-headed and doubting. But does not a careful comparison with his
early work disprove this assertion?

In his two early poems, 'Pauline' and 'Paracelsus,' before the poet's
personality became merged in that of his characters, he presents us
with his poetic creed and his theory of the universe in no mistakable
terms. In 'Pauline' we get a direct glimpse of the poet's own artistic
temperament, and may literally put our fingers upon those qualities
which were to be a large influence in moulding his work.

As described by himself the poet of 'Pauline' was

           "Made up of an intensest life
            Of a most clear idea of consciousness
            Of self, distinct from all its qualities,
            From all affections, passions, feelings, powers;
            And thus far it exists, if tracked, in all:
            But linked in me to self-supremacy,
            Existing as a centre to all things,
            Most potent to create and rule and call
            Upon all things to minister to it."

This sense of an over-consciousness is the mark of an objective
poet--one who sympathizes with all the emotions and aspirations of
humanity,--interprets their actions through the light of this sympathy,
and at the same time keeps his own individuality distinct. The poet of
this poem discovers that he can no longer lose himself with enthusiasm
in any phase of life; but what does that mean to a soul constituted as
his? It means that the way has been cleared for the birth of that
greater, broader love of the fully developed artist-soul which, while
entering into sympathy with all phases of life, finds its true
complement only in an ideal of absolute Love.

This picture of the artist aspiring toward the absolute by means of his
large human sympathy may be supplemented by the theory of man's
relation to the universe involved in 'Paracelsus' where it is shown
that the Absolute cannot be fully realized by mankind either through
knowledge or love. Aprile's doctrine has an element of fatalism in it.
He sees and loves God in imperfection, but does not seem to have much
notion of progress. On the other hand, Paracelsus sees God only in
perfected Mankind, until he is really made wise to know that

           "Even hate is but a mask of love's
            To see a good in evil and a hope
            In ill success,"

and so is led to combine his own former standpoint with Aprile's by
perceiving God and God's love in progress from lesser to ever greater
good, and that evil and failure are the spurs that send man onwards to
a future where joy climbs its heights "forever and forever."

From this point in his work Browning, like the Hindu Brahmah, becomes
manifest not as himself, but in his creations. The poet whose portrait
we get in 'Pauline' is the same poet who sympathetically presents a
whole world of human experiences to us, keeping his own individuality
for the most part intact, and the philosopher whose portrait is drawn
in 'Paracelsus' is the same who interprets these human experiences in
the light of the great life-theories therein presented.

But as the creations of Brahmah return into himself, so the human
experiences Browning has entered into artistic sympathy with return to
enrich his completed view of the problems of life, when like his own
Rabbi Ben Ezra, he reaches the last of life for which "the first was
planned" in these 'Fancies' and 'Parleyings'.

Though these two groups of poems undoubtedly express the poet's own
mature conclusions, they yet preserve the dramatic form. Several things
are gained in this way. First, the poems are saved from didacticism,
for the poet expresses his opinion as an individual and not as a seer,
trying to implant his theories in the minds of disciples. Second,
variety is given and the mind is stimulated by having opposite points
of view presented, while the thought is infused with a certain amount
of emotional force through the heat of argument.

It has, of course, been objected that philosophical and ethical
problems are not fit subjects for discussion in poetry. It should be
remembered, however, that there is one point the critic of AEsthetics
has not yet learned to realize; namely, that the law of evolution is
differentiation, in art as well as in cosmic, organic, and social life.
It is just as prejudiced and unforeseeing in these days to limit poetry
to this or that subject, or say that nothing is dramatic that does not
deal with immediate action, as it would have been for Homer to declare
that no poem would ever be worthy the name that did not contain a
catalogue of ships.

These facts exist! We have dramas dealing merely with action, dramas,
in which character development is of prime importance; dramas, wherein
action and character are entirely synchronous; and those in which the
action means more than appears upon the surface, like Hauptmann's
'Sunken Bell,' or Ibsen's 'Master Builder,' then why not dramas of
thought and dramas of mood when the brain and heart become the stage of
action instead of an actual stage. Surely, such dramas are a natural
development of this Nineteenth Century. As the man in 'Half Rome' says

"Facts are facts and lie not, and the question 'How came that purse i'
the poke o' you admits of no reply.'" Art has a great many forms of
drama in its poke already, so we would better be careful how we make
authoritative statements on the subject.

Another advantage, gained from the dramatic form and this is most
important, is that the poet has been enabled by means of it to hold the
mirror up to the turmoil of thought that has racked the brains and
hearts of the last half of the Nineteenth Century. Victorian England in
its thought phases lives just as surely in these poems as Renaissance
Italy in its art phases in 'Fra Lippo Lippi,' 'Andrea del Sarto,'
'Pictor Ignotus' and 'The Bishop orders his Tomb at St. Praxed's;' and
this is true though the first series is cast in the form of Persian
Fables and the second, in the form of Parleyings with worthies of past
centuries.

We who have grown up under the dispensation, so to speak, of the
doctrine of evolution, now acknowledged to be the guiding principle in
every department of knowledge find it hard to enter into the spirit of
that mid-century Sturm and Drang period which resulted upon the
publication of Darwin's 'Origin of Species.' This book is the landmark
of the century, and commemorates at once the triumph of knowledge, and
its failure. The triumph of science in the realm of phenomena, its
failure to pierce into the ultimate causes of these phenomena. What a
hard fight scientific methods of investigating the phenomena of nature
and life had had up to that time, in the teeth of opposition from the
less instructed religious world, has been summarized for us in the
fascinating pages of Andrew D. White's 'Warfare Between Theology and
Science.' One by one, Science won the outposts held by prejudice and
conservatism. It had to be admitted that the earth was not flat and
that it did not float upon an infinite sea supported on the back of a
tortoise. It had to be admitted, even, that it did not occupy the chief
seat in the synagogue of the firmament, but went rolling about the sun
like any common little asteroid. Finally, the great guns of science
were trained upon man himself and he was forced to retire from his
lofty position of Lord of Creation to the much more humble one of
outcome of creation.

To a large proportion of mankind it seemed as if, should these things
be admitted as truth, the whole fabric of society must fall to pieces
and religion become a mockery. Those who felt so fought, as for their
life, against the conclusions of science. There was a large minority,
however, which, intellectually constrained to accept the conclusions of
science, yet differed much in temperament and were by consequence,
affected in very different ways by the new truths. There were men like
Matthew Arnold who no longer believed in the revelations of the past,
yet who clung to the beauty of religious forms, in despair at the
thought of the wilderness life would be without them. There were others
like George Eliot, who became positivists, and gained comfort only in
the thought of a religion of humanity and an immortality of nothing
more tangible than human influence. There were those like William
Morris who accepted cheerfully this life as being all and who devoted
their energies to making it as lovely as possible and working to make
it more lovely for the future. There were still others, like Clifford,
entirely hopeless, but who like Childe Roland put the slug horn to
their lips, and lived brave, noble lives in the certainty of coming
annihilation; a divine melancholy seized upon some, such as we see
reflected in much of Tennyson's verse.

But there were a few who beheld the triumph of science undismayed, for
they saw that her sway could not pass beyond the realm of phenomena,
that the failure of the intellect to penetrate behind the mysteries of
nature and life must be the saving of religion. Herbert Spencer is
among scientists undoubtedly the greatest of this type of mind.
Whatever misunderstandings and vituperations he may have been subjected
to, from the positivist who thinks him inconsistent for his religious
tone to the religionist who dubs him an atheist, the fact still remains
that his was the genius that stood out against the advancing flood of
materialism saying "Thus far shalt thou go and no farther." He it was
who declared that underlying phenomena was an Infinite power that
transcended all human faculties of imagination, and that this fact was
the most certain intuition of the human mind.

So great an upheaval of thought, changing, as it finally has, man's
whole outlook upon the universe from one more or less static with fixed
codes of morals and standards of art to one that is dynamic and
progressive, brought in its wake the consideration of many ethical as
well as philosophical problems.

Nothing bears upon the grounds of moral action more disastrously than
blind fatalism, and while there have been many evil forms of this
doctrine in the past there has probably been none worse than the modern
form because it seems to have scientific sanction in the doctrines of
the conservation of energy, the persistence of heredity and the
survival of the fittest, and tends to positive atrophy of the will.
Even wise and thoughtful men now-a-days take such a philosophic view of
events that they hesitate to throw in their voice on either side in the
solution of a national problem because things are bound to follow the
laws of development either way. This is equivalent to admitting that
you are simply a heap of burnt out ashes in the furnace of life, and
that you have no longer any part to play in the combustion that leads
to progress. In the first of 'Ferishtah's Fancies,' a strong plea is
made for those human impulses that lead to action. The will to serve
the world is the true force from God. Every man, though he be the last
link in a chain of causes over which he had no control, can at least
have a determining influence upon the direction in which the next link
shall be forged. Ferishtah appears upon the scene, himself, a fatalist,
leaving himself wholly in God's hands until he is taught by the dream
God sent him that man's part is to act as he saw the eagle act,
succouring the helpless, not to play the part of the helpless birdlings
who were taken care of. Another phase of the same thought is touched
upon in 'A Camel Driver.' The discussion turns upon punishment and the
point is, if, as Ferishtah declares, the sinner is not to be punished
eternally, then why should man trouble himself to punish him. The
answer amounts to this. Man must regard sin from the human point of
view as something evil and to be got rid of and must, therefore, will
to work for its annihilation. It follows then that the sinner should be
punished as that is a means for teaching him to cease sinning.

Another doctrine upon which the Nineteenth Century belief in progress
as the law of life has set its seal is that of the pursuit of
happiness, or the striving for the greatest good of the whole number
including oneself. With this Browning shows himself in full sympathy in
'Two Camels,' wherein Ferishtah contends that only through the
development of individual happiness and the experiencing of many forms
of joyousness can one help others to happiness and joyousness, while in
'Plot Culture,' the enjoyment of human emotion as a means of developing
the soul is emphasized.

The relations of good and evil have also had to be re-considered in the
light of Nineteenth Century thought, the dualism of the past not being
compatible with the evolutionary doctrine that good and evil are
relative, a phrase which we sometimes forget must be understood in two
ways:--first, that good and evil are relative to the state of society
in which they exist, and what may be good in one phase of society, may
become evil in a more developed phase. Second, were it not for evil, we
should never be able to appreciate the superiority of good and so to
work for good, and in working for it to bring about progress. To his
pupil worried over the problem of evil Ferishtah points out in 'Mihrab
Shah' that evil in the form of bodily suffering has given rise to the
beautiful sentiments of pity and sympathy. But though it be recognized
that good comes of evil, shall evil be encouraged? No! Ferishtah
declares, Man bound by man's conditions is obliged to estimate as "fair
or foul Right, wrong, good, evil, what man's faculty adjudges such,"
therefore the man will do all he can to relieve the suffering of poor
Mihrab Shah with a fig-plaster. The answers, then, that Browning gives
to the ethical problems of the century growing out of the acceptance of
modern scientific doctrines, are, in brief, that man shall use that
will-power of which he feels himself possessed, and which really
distinguishes him from the brute creation, in working against whatever
appears to him evil; while the good for which he shall work is the
greatest happiness of all.

What of the philosophical doctrines to which Browning gives expression
in the remaining poems of the group? We find it insisted upon in
'Cherries', 'The Sun', in 'A Bean Stripe also Apple Eating', and
especially in that remarkable poem 'A Pillar at Sebzevar' that
knowledge fails. Knowledge the golden is but lacquered ignorance, as
gain to be mistrusted. Curiously, enough, this contention of Browning's
has been the cause of most of the criticisms against him as a
philosopher, yet as far as I have been able to discover, there has been
no deep thinker of this century, and there have been many in other
centuries, who has not held in some form or another the opinion that
intellect was unable to solve the mysterious problems of the universe.
Even the metaphysicians who build very wonderful air castles on _a
priori_ ideas declare that these ideas cannot be matters of mere
intellectual perception, but must be intuitions of the higher reason.
Browning, however, does not rest in the assertion that the intellect
fails. He draws immense comfort from this failure of knowledge. Though
it is to be distrusted as gain, it is not to be mistrusted as means to
gain. "Friend" quoth Ferishtah in 'A Pillar at Sebzevar'

            "As gain--mistrust it! Not as means to gain:
            Lacquer we learn by: cast in firing-pot,
            We learn,--when what seemed ore assayed proves dross--
            Surelier true gold's worth, guess how purity
            I' the lode were precious could one light on ore
            Clarified up to test of crucible.
            The prize is in the process: knowledge means
            Ever-renewed assurance by defeat
            That victory is somehow still to reach."

For men with minds of the type of Spencer's, this negative assurance of
an infinite ever on before is sufficient, but human beings, as a rule,
will not rest satisfied in such cold abstractions. Though Job said
thousands of years ago "Who by searching can find out God," mankind
still continues to search.

Now comes Browning and says that it is in that very act of searching
that the absolute becomes most directly manifest. From the earliest
times of which we have any record man has been aspiring toward God.
Many times he has thought that he had found God, but later discovered
it to be only God's image built up out of his own human experiences.
This search is very beautifully described in the Fancy called 'The
Sun,' under the symbol of the man who seeks the prime giver that he may
give thanks where it is due for a palatable fig. This search for God
Browning calls Love, meaning by that the moving, aspiring force of the
whole universe, and many are its manifestations, from the love that
goes forth in thanks for benefits received, through the aspirations of
the artist toward beauty, of the lover toward human sympathy, even of
the scientist toward knowledge, to the lover of humanity like
Ferishtah, who declares "I know nothing save that love I can
boundlessly, endlessly."

The poet argues from this that if mankind has with ever increasing
fervor aspired toward a God of Love, and has ever developed toward
broader conceptions of human love, it is only reasonable to infer that
in his nature God has something which corresponds to human love, though
it transcend our most exalted imagining of it. In John Fiske's recent
book 'Through Nature to God' he advances a theory identical with this,
evidently unaware that Browning had been before him, for he claims it
as entirely original. Fiske's originality consists in his having based
his proof upon analogies drawn from the evolution of organic life in
following out the law of the adjustment of inner to outer relations.
For example, since the eye has through aeons of time gradually adjusted
itself into harmony with light, why should not man's search for God be
the gradual adjustment of the soul into harmony with the infinite
spirit. Other modern thinkers have advanced the idea that love was the
ruling force of the universe; nor need we confine ourselves to the
moderns, for like nearly every phase of thought, it had its counterpart
or at least its seed in Greek thought. Thus we find that Empedocles
declared that the ruling forces of the universe were Love and Strife
and that the conflict between these was necessary for the continuance
of life. As far as I know, however, no other thinker or poet has
emphasized with such power the thought that the only true basis of
belief is the intuition of God that comes from the direct revelation of
feeling in the human heart, and which has been at once the motive force
of the search for God and the basis of a conception of God's nature. A
natural corollary of such a theory is that every conception man has had
of the Infinite had its value as a partial image since it grew out of
the divine impulse planted in man, but that in the Christian ideal, the
highest symbolical conception was attained through the mystical
unfolding of love in the human soul.

The thought of the 'Fancies' is optimistically rounded out in 'A Bean
Stripe also Apple Eating' in which Ferishtah argues that life, in spite
of the evil in it, seems to him on the whole good, and he cannot
believe that evil is not meant for good ends since he is so sure that
God is infinite in love.

From all this it will be seen that our poet accepts with Spencerians
the negative proof of God growing out of the failure of intellect, but
adds to it the positive proof derived from emotion.

It was a happy thought of the poet to present such problems in Persian
guise, for Persia stands in Zoroastrianism for the dualism which
Ferishtah denies in his recognition of the part evil plays in the
development of good, and through Mahometanism for the Fatalism,
Ferishtah learned to cast from him. The Persian atmosphere is preserved
throughout not only by the introduction constantly of Persian allusions
traceable to the great Persian epic the Shah Nameh, but by the telling
of fables in the Persian manner to point the morals intended. With the
exception of the first Fancy, which is derived from a fable of
Bidpai's, we have the poet's own word that all the others are
inventions of his own, but they are none the worse for this. These
clever stories make the poems lively reading, and we soon find
ourselves growing fond of the wise and clever Ferishtah, who like
Socrates is never at a loss for an answer, no matter what bothersome
questions his pupils may propound.

If we see the thoughtful and brilliant Browning in the 'Fancies'
proper, we perhaps see even more clearly the emotional and passionate
Browning in the lyrics which add such variety and charm to the whole.
This feature is also borrowed from Persian form, a beautiful example of
which has been given to English readers in Edwin Arnold's 'Gulistan' or
'Rose Garden' of the poet Sa' di. In fact Sa' di's preface to his 'Rose
Garden' evidently gave Browning the hint for his humorous prologue, in
which he likens the poems to follow to an Italian dish made of ortolans
on toast with a bitter sage leaf, symbolizing sense, sight and song

           "Sage-leaf is bitter-pungent--so's a quince:
            Eat each who's able!
            But through all three bite boldly--lo, the gust!
            Flavor--no fixture--
            Flies, permeating flesh and leaf and crust
            In fine admixture.
            So with your meal, my poem masticate
            Sense, sight, and song there!
            Digest these, and I praise your peptics' state,
            Nothing found wrong there."

Similarly Sa' di says "Yet will men of light and learning, from whom
the true countenance of a discourse is not concealed, be well aware
that herein the pearls of good counsel which heal are threaded on
strings of right sense; that the bitter physic of admonition is
constantly mingled with the honey of good humor, so that the spirits of
listeners grow not sad, and that they remain not exempt from blessings
of acceptance."

A further interest attaches to these lyrics because they form a series
of emotional phases in the soul-life of two lovers whom I think, we may
be justified in regarding as Mr. and Mrs. Browning themselves. I always
think of them as companion pictures to 'The Sonnets from the
Portuguese.' In these the sun-rise of a great love is portrayed with
intense and exalted passion while the lyrics in 'Ferishtah's Fancies'
reflect the subsequent development of such a love, through the
awakening of whole new realms of feeling, wherein love for humanity is
enlarged, criticism from the one beloved, welcome; all the little
trials of life dissolved in the new light; and divine love realized
with a force never before possible. Do we not see a living portrait of
the two poets in the lyric 'So the head aches and the limbs are faint'?
Many a hint may be found in their letters to prove that Mrs. Browning
with just such a frail body possessed a fire of spirit that carried her
constantly toward attainment while he, with all the vigor of splendid
health could with truth have frequently said "In the soul of me sits
sluggishness." These exquisite lyrics which, whether they conform to
Elizabethan models or not, are as fine as anything ever done in that
line, are crowned by the epilogue in which we hear the stricken husband
crying out to her whom twenty years earlier he had called his "lyric
love" in a voice doubting, yet triumphing in the thought that his
optimism is the light radiating from the halo which her human love had
irised round his head.

In 'The Parleyings' the discussions turn principally upon artistic
problems and their relation to modern philosophy, four out of the seven
being inspired by artist, poet, or musician. The forgotten worthies
whom Browning rescued from oblivion, make their appeal to him upon
various grounds that connect them with the present. Bernard de
Mandeville evidently caught Browning's fancy because in his satirical
poem 'The Grumbling Hive' he forestalled, by a defence of the Duke of
Marlborough's war policy, the doctrine of the relativity of good and
evil. One might have imagined that this subject had been exhausted in
'Ferishtah's Fancies,' but it seems to have had a great fascination for
Browning, probably because the idea was a new one and he felt the need
of thinking his way through all its implications. Fresh interest is
added in this case because the objector in the argument was a
contemporary of Browning's--Carlyle, whose well-known pessimism over
the existence of evil is graphically presented. Browning clenches his
side of the argument with an original and daring variation upon the
Prometheus myth led up to by one of the most magnificent passages in
the whole range of his poetry, and probably the finest example anywhere
in literature of a description of nature as interpreted by the laws of
cosmic evolution. He describes the effect of the sun-light in
developing the life upon the earth, tracing it as far as the mind of
man. But the mind of man is not satisfied with the purely physical and
phenomenal.

           "What avails sun's earth-felt thrill
            To me? Mind seeks to see,
            Touch, understand, by mind inside me,
            The outside mind--whose quickening I attain
            To recognize--I only."

But Prometheus offered an artifice whereby man's mind is satisfied. He
drew Sun's rays into a focus plain and true. The very sun in little:
made fire burn and henceforth do man service. Denuded of its scientific
and mystical symbolism Browning makes the Prometheus myth teach his
favorite doctrine, namely that the image of love formed in the human
heart by means of the burning glass supplied by sense and feeling is a
symbol of infinite love.

Daniel Bartoli, an extremely superstitious old Jesuit of the 17th
century is set up by Browning in the next poem, simply to be knocked
down again on the ground that all the legendary saints he worshipped
could not compare with a real woman the poet knows. The romantic story
of this lady is told in Browning's most fascinating narrative style, so
rapid and direct that it has all the force of a dramatic sketch. Her
claim upon his admiration consists in her recognition of the sacredness
of love which she will not dishonor for worldly considerations, and
finding her betrothed love incapable of attaining her height of
nobleness, she leaves him free. This story only bears upon the poet's
philosophy as it reflects his attitude toward human love, which he
considers so clearly a revelation, that any treatment of it not
absolutely noble and true to the highest ideals is a sin against heaven
itself.

George Bubb Dodington is the black sheep of these later poems and gives
the poet an opportunity to let loose all his subtlety and sarcasm; and
the reader a chance to use his wits in discovering that the poet
_assumes_ to agree with Dodington that when one is serving his state,
he should at the same time have an eye to his own private welfare, that
he _pretends_ to criticise only Dodington's method of attaining this--
which is to disclaim that he works for any other good than the state's,
nobody would ever believe that. He then gives what purports to be his
own opinion on the correct method of successful statesmanship--that is,
to pose as a superior being with a divine right to rule, treating
everybody as his puppet and entirely scornful of their opinion of him.
If he will adopt this attitude he may change his tactics every year and
the people instead of suspecting his sincerity will think that he has
wise reasons beyond their insight for his changes. Browning is said to
have had Lord Beaconsfield in mind when he described this proper method
for the statesman. Be that as it may the type is not unknown in this
day. Having discovered all this, the wit of the reader may now draw its
inferences--which will doubtless be that the whole poem is a powerful,
intensely cynical argument, against what we to-day call imperialism and
in favor of liberal government which means the development of every
individual so that he will be able to see for himself whether this or
that policy be right instead of depending upon the leadership of the
over-man, whose intentions are unfortunately too seldom to be trusted.

The poet Browning calls out from the shades is Christopher Smart, who
was celebrated for having only once in his life composed a great poem,
'The Song of David,' that put him on a par with Milton and Keats.
Perhaps we might not altogether agree with this decision, but critics
have loved to eulogize its great beauties and whether Browning actually
agreed with their conclusions or not makes little difference, for the
fact furnishes him with a text for discussing the problem of beauty
versus truth in art. Should the poet's province simply be to record his
visions of the beauty and strength of nature and the universe, that
come to him in moments of inspiration such as that which came once to
Christopher Smart? "No," says Browning, whose feet are always firmly
based upon the earth. These visions of poets should not be considered
ends in themselves but the materials for greater ends. He asks such
poets if they would

                                   "Play the fool,
            Abjuring a superior privilege?
            Please simply when your function is to rule--
            By thought incite to deed? Ears and eyes
            Want so much strength and beauty, and no less
            Nor more, to learn life's lesson by."

He goes on to insist that the poet should find his inspiration in the
human heart and climb to heaven by its means, not investigate the
heavens first. He evidently does not sympathize with Emerson's attitude
that the poet has some mysterious connection with the divine mind which
enables him to become at one bound a seer who may henceforth lead
mankind. Rather must the poet diligently study mankind and teach as a
man may through this knowledge. Space does not permit me to dwell on
the beautiful opening of this poem which recalls the imaginative
faculty of the visions in 'Christmas Eve' and 'Easter Day.'

In 'Francis Furini' the subject is the nude in art, and Browning vows
he will never believe the tale told by Baldinucci that Furini ordered
all his pictures of this description burned. He expresses his
indignation vigorously at some length, showing plainly his own
sympathies then makes Furini pray a very beautiful prayer, then deliver
before a supposed cultured London audience a long and decidedly
recondite speech containing an attack upon that species of agnosticism
that allies itself with positivism and Furini's refutation. The upshot
of it all is that Furini declares the only thing he is certain of is
his own consciousness and the fact that it had a cause behind it,
called God.

           "Knowledge so far impinges on the cause
            Before me, that I know--by certain laws
            Wholly unknown, what'ere I apprehend
            Within, without, me, had its rise: thus blend
            I, and all things perceived in one effect."

Readers of philosophy will recognize in this an echo from Descartes.
This fact of the human consciousness he further develops into an
argument that the painter should paint the human body, just as it was
argued the poet should study the human heart.

A Philippic against Greek art and its imitation is delivered by the
poet in the 'Parleying with Gerard de Lairesse' whom he makes the
scape-goat of his strictures, on the score of a book Lairesse wrote in
which was described a walk through a Dutch landscape transmogrified by
classic imaginings. To this good soul an old sepulchre, struck by
lightning became the tomb of Phaeton, and an old cart wheel half buried
in the sand near by, the Chariot of the Sun. In a spirit of bravado
Browning proceeds to show what he himself could make of a walk provided
he condescended to illuminate it by classic metaphor and symbol, and a
remarkable passage is the result. It occupies from the eighth to the
twelfth stanzas. It is meant to be in derision of the grandiloquent,
classically embroidered style but so splendid is the language, so
haunting the pictures, the symbolism so profound that it is as if a God
were showing some poor weakling mortal how not to do it--and through
his omniscience must perforce create something wondrously beautiful.
The double feeling one has about this passage only adds to its
interest. After thus classicizing in a manner that might make Euripides
himself turn green with envy, he nonchalantly remarks--

           "Enough, stop further fooling,"

and to show how a modern poet greets a landscape he flings in the
perfectly simple and irresistible little lyric

           "Dance, yellows, and whites and reds."

The poet's strictures upon classicism are entirely in line with his
philosophy, placing as it does the paramount importance on living
realities.

          "'Do and no wise dream,' he exclaims
           'Earth's young significance is all to learn;
            The dead Greek lore lies buried in its urn
            Where who seeks fire finds ashes.'"

The 'Parleying with Charles Avison' is more a poem of moods than any of
the others. The poet's love for music is reflected in his claiming it
as the highest expression possible to man; but sadness comes to him at
the thought of the ephemeralness of its forms, a fact that is borne in
on him by the inadequateness of Avison's old March styled "grand." He
finally makes of music the most perfect symbol of the evolution of
spirit of which the central truth remains always permanent, while the
form though ever changing is of absolute value to the time when the
spirit found expression in it.

Even this does not quite satisfy the poet's desires for the supremacy
of music, and his final conclusion is that if we only get ourselves
into a proper historical frame of mind, any form will reveal its
beauty, This is a truth which needs especially to be recognized in
music, for we too often hear people objecting to Haydn or Mozart and
even Beethoven because they are not modern, never realizing that each
age has produced its distinctive musical beauty.

But Browning means it of course to have the largest significance in
relation to all forms of truth and beauty of which every age has had
its living example--thus--his last triumphant mood is, "Never dream
that what once lived shall ever die."

I have been able to throw out only a few general suggestions as to
these late masterpieces. There are many subtleties of thought and
graces of expression which reveal themselves upon every fresh reading,
and each poem might well be made the subject of a special study.

I have said nothing about the Prologue and Epilogue to the Parleyings,
not because I love them less, but because I love them so much that I
should never be able to bring this paper, already too long, to a close
if I once began on them. I hope, however, I have said enough not only
to prove the point that these poems give complete expression to the
thought of the age, but that Browning appears in them, to borrow an apt
term from Whitman, as the "Answerer" of the age. That he has
unquestioningly accepted the knowledge which science has brought and
recognizing its relative character, has yet interpreted it in such a
way as to make it subserve the highest ideals in ethics, religion, and
art, and that far from reflecting any degeneration in Browning's
philosophy of life, these poems put on a firmer basis than ever the
thoughts prominent in his poetry from the first, and which constantly
find illustration indirectly and sometimes directly in his dramatic
poems.

I am just as unable to find any fault with their subject matter as with
their form. The variety in both is remarkable. Religion and fable,
romance and philosophy, art and science all commingled in rich
profusion. Everything in language--talk almost colloquial, dainty
lyrics full of exquisite emotion, and grand passages which present in
sweeping images now the processes of cosmic evolution, now those of
spiritual evolution, until it seems as if we had indeed been conducted
to some vast mountain height, whence we could look forth upon the
century's turbulent seas of thought, into which flows many a current
from the past, while suspended above between the sea and sky like the
crucifix in Simons' wonderful symbolistic picture of the Middle Ages,
is the mystical form of Divine Love.            _Helen A. Clarke._




                         SCHOOL OF LITERATURE.

       GLIMPSES OF PRESENT DAY POETS: A SELECTIVE READING COURSE.

                   II. A Group Of American Poets.[2]

1. Edmund Clarence Stedman.

_Readings from Stedman_:--'Hebe,' 'A Sea Change.' New York Scenes:
'Peter Stuyvesant,' 'Pan in Wall Street,' 'The Door Step.' A Sheaf of
Patriotic Poems: 'The Pilgrims,' 'Old Brown,' 'Wanted a Man,'
'Treason's Device,' 'Israel Freyer,' 'Cuba.' (In 'Poems' Household
Edition. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co. $1.50.)

_Query for Discussion_.--Are Mr. Stedman's local and patriotic themes
inconsistent with the highest degree of lyric grace, or does his poetic
gift appear to best advantage when enlivened by familiar home
interests?

2. Louise Chandler Moulton.

_Readings_:--'A Quest,' 'The House of Death.' Sonnets: 'The New Day,'
'One Dread,' 'Afar,' 'Love's Empty House,' 'The Cup of Death,' 'Before
the Shrine,' 'As in Vision,' 'Though We Were Dust,' 'Were but My Spirit
Loosed Upon the Air,' 'The New Year Dawns,' 'Aspiration,' 'The Secret
of Arcady,' 'Her Picture.' (The first two selections and first three
sonnets are in 'Swallow Flights.' New edition of poems of 1877 with
additional poems; the four following are in 'The Garden of Dreams'; and
the four last sonnets and the other poems in 'At the Wind's Will.'
Boston: Little, Brown & Co. $1.25 each. For general review of work see,
also, 'The Poetry of Louise Chandler Moulton.' Contemporary Writer
Series in _Poet-lore_. Vol. IV. New Series. Opening Number, 1900, pp.
114-125.)

_Query for Discussion_.--Is Mrs. Moulton too narrowly restricted to
emotional themes and emotional means of expression for bounteous poetic
cheer, or is the perfect alliance of her emotional range and
workmanship the very source of her lyric excellence.

3. Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

Readings:--'Unsung,' 'Nameless Pain,' 'Quits,' 'Andromeda,' 'Baby
Bell,' 'An Untimely Thought,' 'Bagatelle,' 'Palabras Carinosas,' 'On an
Intaglio of Head of Minerva.' Sonnets: 'Books and Seasons,' 'The
Poets,' 'On Reading William Watson's "The Purple East."' (In Poetical
Works. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co. $2.00.)

_Queries for Discussion_.--Does Mr. Aldrich escape the usual penalty
for laying emphasis on delicacy of finish so that the result is
satisfying in its happy precision? Or does he seem cold and elaborately
superficial? Does he, so to speak, carve cherry-stones oftener than he
engraves cameos?

4. Louise Imogen Guiney.

_Readings_:--'Peter Rugg,' 'Open Time,' 'The Still of the Year,'
'Hylas,' 'The Kings,' Alexandrina, I, x, and xiii. 'The Martyr's Idyl,'
'Sanctuary,' 'Arboricide,' 'To the Outbound Republic,' 'The Perfect
Hour,' 'Deo Optimo Maximo,' 'Borderlands.' (From 'A Roadside Harp' are
selected the first five poems and the Alexandrina, from 'The Martyr's
Idyl and Shorter Poems' the others. $1.00 each. Boston: Houghton,
Mifflin & Co.)

_Queries for Discussion_.--Is Miss Guiney's scholasticism too dominant
in her work? Does she lack human warmth? Or are her restraint and good
taste the index of deeper feeling? Does her cultured thought and chaste
concentrated power of expression lift her above the ranks of the minor
poets?

5. Richard Hovey.

_Readings_:--'Spring,' an Ode, 'The Wander-lovers.' 'Taliesin,' Second,
Third, Movements. Sonnets: 'Love in the Winds,' 'After Business Hours,'
Act V from 'The Marriage of Guenevere.' ('Spring' first published in
_Poet-lore_, is included in 'Along the Trail' ($1.25), which also
contains the sonnets here selected. 'Taliesin' also originally
published in _Poet-lore_, Vol. VIII, old series, January, February, and
June, 1896, pp. 1-14, 63-78, 292-306, is recently published in 1 vol.
uniform with 'The Marriage of Guenevere' ($1.50). 'The Wander-lovers'
appears in 'Vagabondia.' Boston: Small, Maynard & Co. A general review
of Hovey's work will be the second of the 'Contemporary Writer Series'
in next _Poet-lore_.)

_Queries for Discussion_.--Has Hovey's way of telling the story of
Guenevere and Launcelot an advantage realistically over Tennyson's, but
none either poetically or ethically? (See on this query, 'The Disloyal
Wife in Literature: Comparative Study Programme,' _Poet-lore_, Vol. I.,
new series, pp. 265-274, Spring Number, 1897.) Does Hovey attain
greatness by his liveliness and human quality joined to varied and
skilful metrical effects? Is 'Taliesin' his best work, or is his best
work done in his short pieces?

6. Bliss Carman.

_Readings_:--'Spring Song,' 'A More Ancient Mariner,' 'Envoy,' 'Beyond
the Gaspereau,' 'Behind the Arras,' 'The Cruise of the Galleon,' 'A
Song before Sailing,' 'The Lodger,' 'Beyond the Gamut,' 'The Ships of
St. John,' 'The Marring of Malyn.' (The first, second, and third are
in 'Vagabondia'; the fourth in _Poet-lore_, Vol. I., new series, pp.
321-329, Summer Number, 1897; the next five in 'Behind the Arras'
($1.50); the others in 'Ballads of Lost Haven' ($1.00). Boston: Small,
Maynard & Co.)

_Query for Discussion_.--Is Carman better in his earlier descriptive
lyrics, or better in his later symbolical lyrics because these being
richer in interest are stronger to hold the deeper reader?

7. Hannah Parker Kimball.

_Readings_:--'Revelation,' 'The Smoke,' 'The Sower,' 'Consummation,'
'Glory of Earth,' 'Primitive Man,' 'Man to Nature,' 'Eavesdroppers,'
'Social Appeal,' 'The Quiet Land Within,' 'The Saving of Judas
Iscariot.' (The first four of the poems named are in 'Soul and Sense,'
75 cents; the last in _Poet-lore_, Vol. I., new series, pp. 161-168,
Spring Number, 1897; the others in 'Victory and Other Poems.' Boston:
Copeland & Day, now Small, Maynard & Co.)

_Queries for Discussion_.--Does Miss Kimball's portraiture of Judas
Iscariot reveal a capacity for dramatically creating development in
character? Are her lyrics too grave, or is it their especial blend of
high seriousness and intellectual insight with unforced expression
which gives them unusual richness?

                                              _The Editors._


                           *   *   *   *   *


                 SONGS FROM THE GHETTO AND A VISION OF
                                HELLAS.

Conceived amid the heat and discomfort of the sweating-shops, born in
poverty and squalid surroundings, growing up with hunger and despair
and failure, and at last an honored guest at the table of ease and
culture--such is the history of the 'Songs from the Ghetto' by Morris
Rosenfeld. Mr. Rosenfeld was born of poor parents in Poland in 1862.
Wandering in search of work in England and Holland, he at length found
a scanty means of support as a tailor in the sweating-shops of New
York. Of miserable origin, poorly educated, struggling for the barest
necessities of life, there was yet in him a poet's soul, struggling for
expression.

The poems of Mr. Rosenfeld, written in the Judeo-German dialect, which
he has brought to great literary perfection, have been collected,
translated into English prose and edited by Professor Leo Wiener,
instructor in Slavic languages at Harvard.

The songs in this little volume are very beautiful, but whether they
sing of labour or nature, of the shop or the country, there is in every
one a strain of sadness, the melody of each is broken with tears. For
the beauty of which the poet sings, the birds and the flowers, are only
dreams from which he wakes to the misery in his life. It is not the
bitter sadness of hate and rebellion, but the sadness of the Jewish
race, resigned and oppressed, expecting no happiness among an alien
people, but looking for a life of peace in a new Jerusalem.

"Again your lime will be fragrant, and your orange will gleam," he
comforts the wanderer, "again God will awaken and bring you thither.
You will sing Shepherd songs as you will herd your sheep; you will live
again, live eternally, without end. After your terrible wanderings you
will again breathe freely; there will again beat a hero's heart under
the silent mountain Moriah."

The songs are not all of labour, or of the sorrows of the Jews. In
lighter vein is 'The Nightingale to the Labourer,' 'The Creation of
Man'--which contains the pretty idea that the poet alone was given
wings, and an angel stood always "ready day and night to attach the
wings to him whenever his holy song will rise."

The last song in the little volume, called 'In the Wilderness,' is
typical of the poet's spirit; but not, we believe, of his place in the
world. For the world is always ready to listen to a song that carries
with it the impress of truth and beauty.

"In a distant wilderness a bird stands alone and looks about him,
sadly, and sings a beautiful song.

"His heavenly-sweet voice flows like the purest gold, and wakens the
cold stones and the prairie wide and deserted.

"He wakens the dead rocks and the silent mountains round about,--but
the dead remain dead, and the silent remain silent.

"For whom, sweet singer, do your clear tones resound? Who hears you,
and who feels you? And whose concern are you?

"You may put your whole soul into your singing. You will not awaken a
heart in the cold, hard rock!

"You will not sing there long,--I feel it, I know it: your heart will
soon burst with loneliness and woe.

"In vain is your endeavour, it will not help you, no! Alone you have
come, and alone you will pass away!"

'A Vison of New Hellas' is one of the books that is destined to be more
important than interesting, more noteworthy than popular. The
conception is certainly very beautiful and very wonderful even if the
author does not always reach the height of expression towards which he
aims. But it is a book which can only appeal to the few, who are ready
to search beneath the covering of fantastic imagery and strange verse
forms which clothe a high poetic purpose and ideal. Even those who come
to the work with a knowledge of the songs of old Hellas and the
philosophy of Plato must feel deeply grateful for the elucidating of
the meaning of the book in an argument which the author has kindly
supplied to forestall the vain imaginings of the uninitiated.

The poet's aim is as serious as was that of Milton or Dante--"to
realize as best he can such visions of beauty as may be vouchsafed to
him," that through his work he may "make richer the human world in
things of the spirit that quicken and delight."

In contemplation the poet rises above the mists of sordidness which
rise from the struggle of trade and industry, beyond the clouds of
pessimism and religious doubt, and on the Pisgah heights of Hellenic
culture he sees a vision of the new life that shall come to man.

Through the beautiful world-myth, the story of Demeter and Persephone
and Dionysus, the poet is taught the lesson of the immortality of the
race, of its ceaseless progression toward a nobler and more beautiful
future. To celebrate their happiness at the discovery that Aidoneus,
dread King of Death, is none other than the Lord of Life "leader of the
blessed to the highest heaven," they resolve to bring about the
redemption of the world.

This is made possible through the union of Aphrodite, Beauty of Form,
with Apollo, Light of the Mind. From them shall spring a new race of
Gods, typifying the new ideals which shall uplift man until he is
fitted for fellowship at the banquet of the Immortals. Thence will rise
"a nobler, a larger mankind," wakened at length from "the night of
toil, unhallowed by joy in the task." Through Aphrodite will come
"feeling and loving--and art that bids death defiance," and through
Apollo "seeing and knowing and man's life-mastering science." Thence
shall come

           "The lover's rapture Elysian,
            The poet's fury, the prophet's vision,
            The serene world-sight of the thinker."

This vision typified the future regeneration of America and through her
of the race. From the sordid reality of present conditions man must
advance ever nearer to the "eternal ideal"; from mean conditions,
inspired by lofty emotions and holy enthusiasms, shall come new
standards of life and of art.

Mr. Guthrie's work indicates in its form some of the characteristics of
the new literary art. Though his theories are undoubtedly good, the
expression is as yet too crude to form much idea of its possibilities.
Whatever may be the age of the author, his work indicates a certain
inexperience and lacks the grasp and finish of the skilled workman. His
work is too reminiscent; he has not sufficiently assimilated his
sources and impressed them with his own individuality, giving them a
distinctive unity of conception and expression. Though we are quite
willing to accept his assurance that he "did not intend his work to
resemble any known performance," we are continually reminded of
passages in other writers who had inspired him. At times we are struck
with admiration at his power for catching the very trick of his model.

His work is as "oddly suited" as was Portia's lover. For he suggests to
us--Homer and the Greek tragedians of course in theme and expression;
Milton and Dante with their lofty ideals; Piers Ploughman dreaming
about his "fair field full of folk." For the conception he owes much to
Shelley's 'Prometheus,' whose theme is very similar, but his methods
are more modern, with verse theories of Whitman, philosophy of
Browning, a Wagnerian idea of rhythm, making each rhythmical theme
represent a peculiar mood or image, which is frequently very effective
but sometimes forced.

                                        _Harriott S. Olive._

(Songs from the Ghetto, by Morris Rosenfeld. With Introduction, Prose
Translation, and Glossary. By Leo Weiner, Instructor in the Slavic
Languages at Harvard University. Boston: Small, Maynard & Co.--A Vision
of New Hellas--Songs of American Destiny. William Norman Guthrie.
Clarke Publishing Company. Chicago: $2.50.)


                           *   *   *   *   *


               COL. HIGGINSON'S 'CONTEMPORARIES' AND MRS.
                        HOWE'S 'REMINISCENCES.'

Colonel Higginson might have added to his 'Contemporaries' as a
sub-title: 'Our Nineteenth Century Roll of Honor,' for he makes
mention, either brief or extended, in his book, of nearly all the men
and women of the age who would be entitled to a place on such a roll.
It gives one's patriotism a thrill, on looking down the list, to see
how long and splendid a one it is, to note what fine thoughts,
emotions, and achievements stand representative in the brief sketches
of the period of our national existence which the author has observed
and shared in. Patriotic fervor for the past, and, arguing from the
past, a renewed hope in the national future, are the dominant feelings
the book begets. Not that the author has emphasized the bequests of
statesmen and reformers to the country, to the neglect of other
influences. The volume contains nineteen sketches; and the poet, the
philosopher, the scientist, the man of private though beneficent life,
have all places therein; yet all is woven into a whole with one aspect,
the national one.

All of the sketches are, as the preface states, reprinted pieces first
published in different periodicals any time during the past fifty
years. Since from this point of view the volume can have little or no
consecutiveness, it is noteworthy that a picture of the times is
nevertheless obtained unbroken in its continuity. Every sketch, however
fragmentary a part of the life of its subject, has the vigor of its
surroundings; and the papers upon the men and women of the Abolitionist
period and the Civil War, though most of them have been somewhat
revised for their present publication, have the heart-beats of the
"times that tried men's souls" throbbing in them true and loud.

One paper, upon John Brown's Household, printed in 1859 and quite
unaltered, preserves by the splendid restraint of its simple language
the very spirit of the iron endeavor and concentred force it describes.

The value of an author's judgment upon his contemporaries, is
unquestioned; the advantage of a personal share in the lives and
actions of the men who form his theme, added to our already confidence
in his critical judgment, give it worth over other proved biography. On
the deeds of many of the men whose work he commemorates, Fame has yet
to pronounce lastly: their services are too recent for a perfect
judgment. But testimony such as this will surely have value in a
decision.

One feels a little inclined to quarrel with the author that there is so
little "I" in his book, that there are so few really personal glimpses,
but of course this is too much to ask of a book which is really a
compilation of scattered sketches; and perhaps Colonel Higginson will
remedy the lack in the future.

It is seldom that one has the pleasure of reading so satisfying and
delightful a piece of autobiography as Mrs. Howe's 'Reminiscences.' One
hardly knows, when the last page is turned, which of two capacities of
the mind has been more completely filled and brimmed over: that of
intellectual appreciation, or the well where abides the feeling of
delighted enthusiasm which is inspired by our friend. We respond to the
pleasure the reading gives us with a really personal sense of
gratitude.

The subject matter of the book could not have been of other than deep
interest. Mrs. Howe's long and beautiful life has been lived in
surroundings of the highest culture of her time; the events of which
she has written are those which will take their place in the history of
the century just closing; and finally, the men and women who were her
friends and in whose labors she shared, were the men and women whose
opinions have largely moulded the events. But it is not all this, of
unfailing interest though it must be, that gives the book its finest
quality, and that makes one wish to read it over the moment one has
read it through. It is, instead, that we have learned so much of a
beauty-gifted and beauty-giving life in words at once so simple and so
satisfying. Cheeriness and healthiness--if by the latter word one may
express a certain poise and normalness of outlook--are the
characteristics of the narrative. The great and the small of life each
receive their just due; perhaps it is by her treatment of the small
that we are best assured we have read into an intimacy with Mrs. Howe.
That perennial question as to the feminine lack of humor, which has
lately been re-threshed in the newspapers, should receive final and
silencing reply--had it ever deserved a reply at all--in the
'Reminiscences.' The narrative twinkles with keen appreciation of the
humorous, the ludicrous, even of the deliciously nonsensical; also
abounding in that larger sort of humor which does not consist in seeing
the point to a joke, but which makes life bearable and judgments tender
under conditions least likely to keep them so.

Assuredly Mrs. Howe did not put together the recollections of her life
with primarily didactic purpose, just as assuredly she did not write
them down primarily for the benefit of the American young woman. Yet in
view of the cause to which she has given the work of her latter years,
it is permitted me to say that no greater encouragement could be given
it for the future than the words from which we learn her personal
services to it and to the other causes which she has aided with brain
and hands throughout her life.               _Helen Tracy Porter._

(Contemporaries, By Thomas Wentworth Higginson. Boston and New York:
Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1899. $2.00. Reminiscences: Julia Ward Howe.
Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Boston and New York. $2.50.)


                           *   *   *   *   *


                           LIFE AND LETTERS.

----The last scenes in the present-day epoch of commercialism promise
to be like the last scenes in the old-time epoch of feudalism,
picturesque, violent, and significant rendings and tearings of the
whole body politic prior to a re-formation on the basis of a larger
unity. Then they portended the unification of England under the Tudors,
or the unification of France under the eleventh Louis. Now they
portend--what?

Some larger, more spiritual unity, it may be guessed, that shall
quietly and with unprecedented swiftness make use of the materialistic
objects which the short-sighted leaders of commercialism now have in
mind, and after a manner they no more dream is implied in their success
than the royal dynasties of England and France dreamed that the bloody
heads of kings would be the fruit of the new nationality.

                               *   *   *

----To the leaders of the commercial world-movement, their
materialistic objects are ends in themselves, very substance of very
substance. But the Time-spirit already laughs them to scorn and tosses
them, as mere tools out of place, to some more convenient corner of her
spacious work-shop, where they make but one with a mass of other such
tools awaiting the mastery of her history-shaping hand.

The tumults of South Africa and China are but signs of the vaster
tumult in which these tumults shall be devoured and assimilated.

                               *   *   *

----In the world of faith, too, how restless is the aggregate organism!
Ruptures and dissolutions are splitting and fusing orthodoxies and
heterodoxies.

And in the withdrawn and secret world of the human consciousness the
ferment of new desires and potencies, opposed by all the organized and
settled forces of opinion, is permeating thought, and stirring the
slumbering soul to try the unguessed faculties of its idealism, as if
the real king of the total Unquietness held there his throne.

The world of politics and commerce, the world of faith and intelligence
tend, it would seem, already, towards that synthetic development
foreseen in 1855, by one whom the obtuse world may yet have reason
enough to recognize as one of the clearest-brained statesmen of the
nineteenth century, though her trade was poetry not politics--Elizabeth
Barrett Browning, when she said of the future:

"What I expect is a great development of Christianity in opposition to
the churches, and of humanity generally in opposition to the nations."

                               *   *   *

                     GOETHE'S IPHIGENIE AT HARVARD.

It is an age of the universality of genius. Not only the treasures of
our own literature in our own day, but the best that has been written
in all lands in all ages, the best that is being thought and sung in
every tongue to-day is ours. And the test of what is good is no longer
that it appeals to the people of a certain period or race, but that it
appeals to and expresses the spirit of humanity, that it fills a place
in a _Welt-Litteratur_.

A striking instance of the power of the present to interpret the spirit
of the past was the performance of Goethe's Iphigenie at Harvard on the
sixty-eighth anniversary of Goethe's death. Professor Kuno Franke,
writing in the New York Evening Post speaks of Iphigenie as "the
worthiest production of artistic genius to represent German ideals to a
distinctly academic audience at the foremost of American universities."
This it seems to us Iphigenie emphatically is _not_. In conscious
imitation of Greek tragedy in the literary form and expression, as well
as in the details of the story, it is Greek; in its psychological
treatment, in the idea that personal salvation comes only through
self-sacrifice, it is distinctively modern, but not German, in subject,
expression or treatment.

Although the choice of Iphigenie as a representative German play was
not justified, certainly nothing could have better expressed the genius
of the greatest of German poets. The greatness of Goethe!--that was the
fact of all others demonstrated by the performance of Iphigenie. He has
given us a play which realizes the ideals of the Greek poets and
sculptors, a play instinct with the deepest reverence of the Greek
religion, yet at the same time a play which expressed the deepest
emotions of a great spiritual revolution in his own life; a play which
may be considered as a presentation of the very spirit of that
Christianity which findeth its soul in losing it. One of its leading
critics says of Iphigenie--"its ideals are not those of Greece or of
Germany, or of any nationality or time, but rather the realization of
the highest and noblest aspirations of mankind in all lands and all
tongues."

A universal literature is but the child of a universal religion, of
that yearning toward the good and beautiful and true which has been the
guiding star of man since the world began. The struggle in his own
soul; the mystic meaning of a pagan faith, that in passing has touched
all succeeding ages with some measure of its radiant beauty; the poet's
vision of the future spiritual triumph of the race; all these Goethe
united in one artistic expression, and the result is one of the great
poems of the world.

The presentation of the play at Harvard was a marvellous exhibition of
the power of a great artistic conception to carry an audience with it
in enthusiastic appreciation of the spirit, without the necessity for
an understanding of the medium of expression. Back of all expression is
the spirit of its author, and as a beautiful voice interprets the
meaning of the song written in an unknown tongue, so these German
actors by the power of an art statuesque in its beauty, musical in
expression, deeply spiritual in its interpretation of the poet's soul,
revealed to the audience the wondrous charm of Iphigenie. In a foreign
tongue they portrayed the emotions of mythical heroes long dead in a
distant land, and as we watched and listened the mythical dead became
living mortals, and we understood their suffering and their heroism,
saw the agony of the spiritual struggle, realized the force of the
great temptation, knew the joy of the final victory.

A great poet, a drama of transcendent power and beauty, actors of
consummate art, an enthusiastic audience,--nothing was lacking to make
the event a memorable one.                              _H. S. O._

                               *   *   *

----At a recent debate at the 'Philadelphia Browning Society' Miss Mary
M. Cohen, the founder and first president of the Society and now one of
its vice-presidents, opened the discussion with the following bright
paper written to the question:--

Is Browning to be ranked as a legitimate member of the Victorian
School?

Certainly he is. If any one tries to prove that he is not entitled to
the claim, it must be because the poet has so much more of brilliant
mental make-up than most of the Victorian writers that the critics are
dazzled.

They want to cut and fit a man's ability and achievement to a
particular class of work, to press him down, as it were, into a
jelly-mould and say, "There, take that shape and mind, not a drop of
you is to spill over!" It is a good deal like a woman when asked her
age; she often says, "I am twenty"; so she is, dear thing, and
frequently much more, besides. Our poet is a Victorian poet and
gloriously transcends them all. "If this be treason, make the most of
it." My opponent is no doubt carefully writing down this challenge with
a view to crushing me later, but unlike my sex in general, I do not
want the last word, if I can only get the first. "He laughs best who
laughs last" has always had rather a prejudiced sound in my ears; on
the contrary, he who makes the first score has often a tremendous
advantage. A charming young artist, a friend of mine, has thrown a
certain light upon the subject of this debate: She said, "Victorian
always suggests to me something housekeepery and mutton-choppy: Is
Browning mutton-choppy?" I suppose that the adversary will answer this.

In one of the popular manuals of English literature, we find Tennyson
and Browning described as the two masters of Victorian poetry. My
definition of a poet of the Victorian School would be that he should
combine a musical versification with ethical, philosophical and
artistic thought. I believe that Tennyson is generally received as an
example. If Shelley be accepted as a Victorian School poet, then it is
absolutely certain that Browning, having absorbed Shelley until poetic
inspiration was fused to a white heat, may be held to represent the
Victorian School in gigantic and overwhelming form. Although it has
been said that "until late years Browning has been entirely at variance
with the tendencies of his time and for nearly forty years represented
that opposition to the poetry of the age which has recently been made
prominent by a small band of poetical innovators of whom Swinburne is
the most extreme," still I feel justified in my claim. Browning
incorporated the introspective philosophy of his period in his work,
and also displayed in many of his writings the musical sweetness which
is supposed especially to mark the Victorian poets. Think of his poem
of 'Saul,' forceful, yet melodious, suffused with the intense interest
of the Biblical story, glorified by the superb imagery of a mind
dwelling in a time of psychological inquiry. Almost the whole of
'Asolando' is musical. Remember the poem 'Reverie':

           "I know there shall dawn a day
               --Is it here on homely earth?
            Is it yonder, worlds away,
            Where the strange and new have birth
            That Power comes full in play?"

Note the influence which contemporary events must have on a man like
Browning: in 1851 the great Exhibition, the first of the series held
later in different countries, and stimulating in its effects upon the
intellectual, social and spiritual culture of the poet: in 1854 the
Crimean War, conducted with France against Russia who had appropriated
the Turkish principalities of Moldavia and Wallachia, and made famous
by such battles as Alma, Balaklava and Inkermann. In 1853 came Florence
Nightingale with her reform in hospital service. In 1858 the Atlantic
cable was laid. In 1888 came the "Philadelphia Browning Society." No
one of the Victorian poets was mentally organized by these events, the
last excepted, as was Browning. The critic Alexander has said "A man's
work is determined not only by the character of his genius, but also by
the conditions of his age. Homer would not write a great epic, were he
alive now, nor Shakespeare great dramas."

'Prospice' is another instance of melodious verse, expressing thought
exalted, philosophical and spiritual.

Who is not impressed with the strength and sweep of 'Cristina'?

   "There are flashes struck from mid-nights, there are fire-flames
       noon-days kindle,
    Whereby piled-up honors perish, Whereby swollen ambitions dwindle."

We cannot ignore the graceful flow of 'Confessions':

           "How sad and bad and mad it was--
            But then, how it was sweet!"

I must also quote what seems to me a very vital tribute to his genius:

"Browning is one of the very few men--Mr. Meredith excepted--who can
paint women without idealization or degradation, not from the man's
side, but from their own; as living equals, not as goddesses or as
toys." His poetry has been described as "superb landscape painting in
verse." Swinburne differentiates Browning's work as marked by decisive
and incisive faculty of thought, sureness and intensity of perception,
rapid and trenchant resolution of aim. 'The Ring and the Book' is the
masterpiece of this great Victorian master.

If then it be remembered that Browning ranks high as a humorist, that
he has brilliant and subtle qualities, that he could appreciate and
translate into poetry the stirring events of both sacred and profane
history; that he drew Religion in all shapes to his side, that
Mythology and Orientalism were his boon companions; that he moulded Art
to his purpose, allured Music by his call, won Philosophy by his gaze,
looked Truth in the eyes; there can be little or no doubt that he was
the greatest of all the poets of the Victorian School and in his single
person united all the highest characteristics of his literary
contemporaries. Through him the Victorian School was raised to a height
and deepened to a depth that without him it never would have had.

                                                  _Mary M. Cohen._

                               *   *   *

----Is there anything that so forcibly brings home to us the foreign
point of view or rather the point of tongue and point of ear that makes
a Frenchman's expression alien to ours, than to see how he explains the
proper English pronunciation of English? Here is the way, for example,
that he elaborately spells out the sound of 'Much Ado About Nothing' in
a dictionary of Foreign Names and Phrases: "Meutch a-dou a-boutt'
neuth' igne." And of course our point of ear is quite as droll to him.



FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 1: In 'The Broken Heart,' John Ford, 1633, Calantha,
addressing the dead body of her betrothed husband, says: "Now turn I to
thee, thou shadow Of my departed lord." Antony refers to his dead body
as "a mangled shadow"; 'Antony and Cleopatra,' iv., 2, 27. Shakespeare
elsewhere refers to disembodied spirits as "shadows"; as in 'Richard
III,' i, 4, 53; _Ibid_., v, 3, 216; 'Cymbeline, v, 4, 97; and 'Titus
Andronicus,' I, 1, 126.]

[Footnote 2: For 'I. A Group of British Poets' see _Poet-lore_, Vol.
III. (New Series), End Year Number 1899. Pp. 610-612.]







End of Project Gutenberg's The Three Heron's Feathers, by Hermann Sudermann

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