❧ THE PAGEANT
ART EDITOR LITERARY EDITOR
C. HAZELWOOD SHANNON J. W. GLEESON WHITE
PUBLISHED BY MESSRS. HENRY AND COMPANY
93 ST. MARTIN’S LANE LONDON
MDCCCXCVI
❧THE BOOK IS PRINTED BY MESSRS. T. AND A. CONSTABLE. THE
LITHOGRAPH IS PRINTED BY MR. THOMAS WAY. THE HALF-TONE
REPRODUCTIONS ARE BY THE SWAN ELECTRIC ENGRAVING COMPANY.
THE COPYRIGHT OF THE PLATES ON PAGES 137, 161, 173 IS THE
PROPERTY OF MR. F. HOLLYER; THAT ON PAGE 77 IS THE PROPERTY
OF MESSRS F. WARNED AND CO.
❧ THE TITLE-PAGE IS DESIGNED BY SELWYN IMAGE, AND THE
END-PAPERS BY LUCIEN PISSARRO.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Front
Cover . .
. by Charles Ricketts
Endpapers . .
. by Lucien
Pissarro
Half Title
Page . [v]
Title
Page . .
. by Selwyn
Image . [vii]
Publishers
Note . [ix]
❧ LITERARY CONTENTS
A ROUNDEL OF
RABELAIS . .
. A. C. Swinburne
. 1
COSTELLO THE PROUD, OONA MACDERMOTT, AND THE BITTER
TONGUE,
. .
. W. B.
Yeats . 2
MONNA ROSA . .
. Paul
Verlaine . 14
NIGGARD
TRUTH . .
. John
Gray . 20
ET S’IL REVENAIT
. .
. Maurice
Maeterlinck . 37
ON THE SHALLOWS . .
. W. Delaplaine
Scull . 38
SONG . .
. W. E.
Henley (1877) . 46
THE DEATH OF
TINTAGILES . .
. Maurice
Maeterlinck . 47
(Translated by Alfred
Sutro)
DAVID GWYNN—HERO OR ‘BOASTING LIAR’?
. .
. Theodore
Watts . 72
THE WORK OF CHARLES
RICKETTS . .
. J. W.
Gleeson White . 79
A
DUET . .
. T. Sturge
Moore . 94
TALE OF A NUN . .
. Translated by L. Simons and L.
Housman . 95
A HANDFUL OF
DUST . .
. Richard
Garnett . 117
WILHELM
MEINHOLD . .
. F. York
Powell . 119
FOUR
QUATRAINS . .
. Percy
Hemingway . 130
INCURABLE . .
. Lionel
Johnson . 131
BY THE
SEA . .
. Margaret L.
Woods . 140
GROUPED
STUDIES . .
. Frederick
Wedmore . 142
THE SOUTH
WIND . .
. Robert
Bridges . 145
ALFRIC . .
. W. Delaplaine
Scull . 151
FLORENTINE RAPPRESENTAZIONI AND THEIR PICTURES,
. .
. Alfred W.
Pollard . 163
THE
OX . .
. John
Gray . 184
EQUAL
LOVE . .
. Michael
Field . 189
PALLAS AND THE CENTAUR,
after a picture by
Botticelli . .
. T. Sturge
Moore . 229
BE IT COSINESS . .
. Max
Beerbohm . 230
SOHEIL . .
. R. B. Cunninghame
Graham . 236
❧ ART CONTENTS
THE MAGDALENE AT THE HOUSE OF SIMON THE
PHARISEE,
Dante Gabriel Rossetti . Frontispiece
MONNA
ROSA . .
. Dante Gabriel
Rossetti . 17
THE DOCTOR—PORTRAIT OF MY BROTHER,
an original
lithograph . .
. James M’Neil
Whistler . 29
SYMPHONY IN WHITE, NO. III
. .
. James M’Neil
Whistler . 41
PSYCHE IN THE
HOUSE . .
. Charles
Ricketts . 53
ŒDIPUS, after a pen
drawing . .
. Charles
Ricketts . 65
LOVE, a brush
drawing . .
. Sir John Everett Millais, R.A. . 77
SIR ISUMBRAS AT THE
FORD . .
. Sir John
Everett Millais, R.A. . 89
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE,
a chalk drawing
. .
. Will
Rothenstein . 101
L’OISEAU BLEU, after a water-colour drawing . .
. Charles
Conder . 113
SIDONIA AND OTTO VON BORK ON THE WATERWAY TO STETTIN,
a pen
drawing . .
. Reginald
Savage . 125
ARIADNE . .
. G. F. Watts,
R.A. . 137
PAOLO AND
FRANCESCA . .
. G. F.
Watts, R. A. . 149
THE ALBATROSS (ANCIENT MARINER),
a pen
drawing . .
. Reginald
Savage . 161
THE SEA
NYMPH . .
. Sir
Edward Burne Jones . 173
PERSEUS AND
MEDUSA . .
. Sir Edward Burne
Jones . 187
DEATH AND THE BATHER,
after a pen
drawing . .
. Laurence Housman . 199
A ROMANTIC LANDSCAPE,
after a water-colour
drawing . .
. Charles H. Shannon . 211
PALLAS AND THE
CENTAUR . .
. Sandro
Botticelli . 227
THE WHITE
WATCH . .
. Charles H.
Shannon . 239
Advertisements:
A Selection from Messrs Henry & Co’s
Publications . [i-viii]
Ad for: Swan
Electric Engraving Company . [ix]
❧ THE MAGDALENE AT THE HOUSE OF
SIMON THE PHARISEE
by
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
❧ A ROUNDEL OF RABELAIS
THELEME is afar on the waters, adrift and afar,
Afar and afloat on the waters that flicker and gleam,
And we feel but her fragrance and see but the shadows that mar
Theleme.
In the sun-coloured mists of the sunrise and sunset that steam
As incense from urns of the twilight, her portals ajar
Let pass as a shadow the light or the sound of a dream.
But the laughter that rings from her cloisters that know not a bar
So kindles delight in desire that the souls in us deem
He erred not, the seer who discerned on the seas as a star
Theleme.
❧It is particularly requested that this poem should not be quoted as
a whole in any publication.
COSTELLO THE PROUD, OONA MACDERMOTT, AND THE BITTER TONGUE
COSTELLO had come up from the fields, and ‘Is it sleeping you are, Tumaus Costello, while better folk
break He was close to the door by now, and began slowly
dismounting, ‘Here is all the money in my bag,’ he said, at last dropping
a stream ‘And it is the good protection I must have, for if the
MacDermotts ‘I will make you my piper and my body servant’ said Costello,
‘and ‘And I will only tell my message’ said the other flinging the
saddle Costello brought him into the great rush-strewn hall where
were none ‘Will Oona MacDermott come to me, Dualloch O’Daly of the
Pipes?’ ‘Oona MacDermott will not come to you, for her father, Teig
Mac- ‘Fill my noggin again, for I would the day had come when all
the ‘Fill my noggin, I tell you, for no Costello is so great in
the world ‘Praise the O’Dalys if you will’ said Costello as he filled
the noggin, For the next few days Duallach went hither and thither,
trying to Then Costello went out himself, and, after listening to
many On the next evening they set out for Coolavin, Costello
riding a They tied their horses to bushes, for the number so tied
already ‘Tumaus Costello,’ said the old man, ‘you have done a good
deed ‘I come,’ answered Costello, ‘because, when in the time of
Eoha ‘If you come with evil thoughts and armed men,’ said
MacDermott ‘No,’ answered Costello, ‘I but come to dance a farewell
dance with MacDermott drew his hand out of his coat and went over to a
tall ‘Costello has come to dance a farewell dance, for he knows
that you The girl lifted her eyes and gazed at Costello, and in her
gaze was At last he saw that the moment to end had come, and, in a
pause She held the cup to her lips for a moment, and then said in a
clear, ‘I drink to my true love, Tumaus Costello.’ And then the cup rolled over and over on the ground, ringing
like a Costello’s hand had rested upon the handle of his sword, and
his ‘Well do you deserve, Teig MacDermott, to be as you are
this For the next few weeks Costello had no lack of news of Oona,
for Duallach would often pause to tell how the Lavells or Dunns
or One day a serving man rode up to Costello, who was helping
his two Costello threw down his scythe, sent one of the lads for
Duallach, When they came to MacDermott’s house it was late afternoon,
and ‘There is no one here,’ said Duallach, ‘for MacDermott of the
Sheep ‘It is not right that I stay here where there are none of her
kindred ‘It was a foolish man that called you Costello the Proud,’
Duallach cried Then Costello mounted and Duallach mounted, but when they
had ‘It is no wonder that you fear to offend Teig MacDermott of
the And Costello answered, flushing and looking towards the
house: ‘I swear by Maurya of the Seven Sorrows that I will never
return ‘It was a fool who begot you and a fool who bore you, and
they are With bent head Costello rode through the river and stood
beside ‘Tumaus Costello, I come to bid you again to Teig
MacDermott’s. Then Costello turned towards the piper Duallach O’Daly, and,
taking For some three weeks the wind blew still inshore or with too
great It is the burying of Oona MacDermott, and we are the
Macnamaras Costello went on towards the head of the procession, passing
men We are carrying Oona MacDermott, whom you murdered, to
be ‘Who is in this coffin?’ The three old MacDermotts from the Mountains of the Ox
caught When the procession had passed on Costello began to follow
again, He lay there all that night and through the day after, from
time to Just before dawn, the hour when the peasants hear his ghostly
voice ‘Oona MacDermott, if you do not come to me I will go and
never ‘Then go and never return.’ He would have followed and was calling out her name, when
the Costello got up from the grave, understanding nothing but
that he The next day a poor fisherman found him among the reeds upon
the
lay
upon the ground before the door of his
square tower, supporting his head
upon his
hands, looking at the sunset, and considering
the chances of
the weather. Though the
customs of Elizabeth and James, now going
out
of fashion in England, had begun to pre-
vail among the gentry, he still
wore the
great cloak of the native Irishry; and the
sensitive outlines
of his face and the greatness of his indolent body
showed a commingling of
pride and strength which belonged to a
simpler age. His eyes strayed in a
little from the sunset to where the
long white road lost itself over the
south-western horizon, and then
falling, lit upon a horseman who toiled
slowly up the hill. A few more
minutes and the horseman was near enough for
his little and shapeless
body, his long Irish cloak and the dilapidated
bagpipes hanging from
his shoulders, and the rough-haired garron under him,
to stand out dis-
tinctly in the gathering greyness. So soon as he had come
within
earshot he began crying in Gaelic,
their hearts on the great white roads? Listen to me,
Tumaus Costello
the Proud, for I come out of Coolavin, and bring a message
from Oona
MacDermott, and it is the good pay I must have, for the saddle
was
bitter under me.’
cursing the while by God, and Bridget and the
devil; for riding in all
weathers from wake to wedding and wedding to wake
had made him
rheumatic. Costello had risen to his feet, and was fumbling at
the
mouth of the leather bag, in which he carried his money, but it
was
some time before it would open, for the hand that had thrown so
many
in wrestling shook with excitement.
of French and Spanish silver into the hand of the
piper. ‘I got it
for a heifer down at Ballysumaghan last week!’ The other
bit a
shilling between his teeth, and went on,
lay their hands upon me in any boreen after sundown,
or in Coolavin
by
3
by broad day, I will be flung among the
nettles in a ditch, or hanged
upon the sycamore, where they hanged the
horse thieves out by Leitram
last Great Beltan four years!’ And while he
spoke he tied the reins
of his garron to a bar of rusty iron that was
mortared into the wall.
no man dare lay hands upon the man or the goat, or the
horse or the
dog protected by Tumaus Costello.’
on the ground, ‘in the corner of the chimney with a
noggin of Spanish
ale in my hand, and a jug of Spanish ale beside me, for
though I am
ragged and empty my forbears were well clothed and full until
their
house was burnt, and their cattle harried in the time of Cathal of
the
Red Hand by the Dillons, whom I shall yet see on the hob of hell,
and
they screeching,’ and while he spoke the little eyes gleamed and
the
thin hands clenched.
of the comforts which had begun to grow common among
the gentry,
but a feudal gauntness and bareness, and led him to the bench
in the
great chimney; and when he had sat down, filled up a horn noggin,
and
set it on the bench beside him, and set a great black-jack of
leather
beside the noggin, and lit a torch that slanted out from a ring in
the wall,
his hands trembling the while; and then turned towards him and
said,
Dermott of the Sheep, has set women to watch her, but she
bid me tell
you that this day sennight will be the eve of St. John and the
night of
her betrothal to Macnamara of the Lake, and she would have you
there,
that, when they bid her drink to him she loves best, as the way is,
she
may drink to you, oh Tumaus Costello, and let all know where her
heart
is and how little of gladness is in her marrying: and I myself bid
you
go with good men about you, for I saw the horse thieves with my
own
eyes, and they dancing the blue pigeon in the air.’ And then he
held
the now empty noggin towards Costello, his hand closing round it
like
the claw of a bird, and cried,
water in the world is to shrink into a periwinkle shell,
that I might
drink nothing but the poteen.’ Finding that Costello made no
reply,
but sat in a dream, he burst out,
that
4
that he should not wait upon an O’Daly,
even though the O’Daly travel
the road with his pipes and the Costello have
a bare hill, an empty
house, a horse, a herd of goats and a handful of
cows.’
‘for you have brought me a kind word from my love.’
raise a body guard; and every man he met had some
story of Costello,
how he killed the wrestler, when but a boy, by so
straining at the belt,
that went about them both, that he broke the back of
his opponent;
how, when somewhat older, he dragged the fierce horses of the
Dunns of
Shancough through a ford in the Unchion for a wager; how, when
he
came to maturity, he broke the steel horse shoe in Mayo; how he
drove
many men before him through Drumlease and Cloonbougher and
Druma-
hair, because of a malevolent song they had about his poverty;
and
of many another deed of his strength and pride; but he could find
none who would trust themselves with any so passionate and poor in
a
quarrel with careful and wealthy persons, like MacDermott of the
Sheep, and
Macnamara of the Lake.
excuses and in many places, brought in a big half-witted
fellow who
followed him like a dog, a farm labourer who worshipped him for
his
strength, a fat farmer whose forefathers had served his family, and
a
couple of lads who looked after his goats and cows, and marshalled
them before the fire in the empty hall. They had brought with them
their
stout alpeens, and Costello gave them an old pistol a-piece, and
kept them
all night drinking Spanish ale, and shooting at a white
turnip which he
pinned against the wall with a skewer. O’Daly sat on
the bench in the
chimney playing ‘The Green Bunch of Rushes,’ ‘The
Unchion Stream,’ and ‘The
Princes of Beffeny’ on his old pipes, and
railing now at the appearance of
the shooters, now at their clumsy shoot-
ing, and now at Costello because
he had no better servants. The
labourer, the half-witted fellow, the farmer
and the lads were all well
accustomed to O’Daly’s unquenchable railing, for
it was as inseparable
from wake or wedding as the squealing of his pipes,
but they wondered
at the forbearance of Costello, who seldom came either to
wake or
wedding, and, if he had, would scarce have been patient with a
scolding
piper.
tolerable horse and carrying a sword, the others upon
rough haired
garrons
5
garrons, and with their stout alpeens
under their arms. As they rode
over the bogs, and in the boreens among the
hills, they could see fire
answering fire from hill to hill, from horizon
to horizon, and everywhere
groups who danced in the ruddy light of the
turf, celebrating the bridal
of life and fire. When they came to
MacDermott’s house they saw
before the door an unusually large group of the
very poor, dancing
about a fire, in the midst of which was a blazing
cartwheel, that cir-
cular dance which is so ancient that the gods, long
dwindled to be
but fairies, dance no other in their secret places. From the
door, and
through the long loop-holes on either side, came the pale light
of
candles, and the sound of many feet dancing a dance of Elizabeth
and
James.
showed that the stables were full, and shoved their way
through a
crowd of peasants who stood about the door, and went into the
great
hall where the dance was. The labourer, the half-witted fellow,
the
farmer, and the two lads mixed with a group of servants, who were
looking on from an alcove, and Duallach sat with the pipers on their
bench;
but Costello made his way through the dancers to where
MacDermott of the
Sheep stood with Macnamara of the Lake, pouring
poteen out of a porcelain
jug into horn noggins with silver rims.
to forget what has been, and to fling away enmity and come
to the
betrothal of my daughter to Macnamara of the Lake.’
of the Heavy Sighs my forbears overcame your forbears, and
afterwards
made peace, a compact was made that a Costello might go with
his
body servants and his piper to every feast given by a MacDermott
for
ever, and a MacDermott with his body servants and his piper to
every
feast given by a Costello for ever.’
flushing, ‘no matter how strong your hands to wrestle
and to swing the
sword, it shall go badly with you, for some of my wife’s
clan have come
out of Mayo, and my three brothers and their servants have
come down
from the Mountains of the Ox,’ and while he spoke he kept his
hand
inside his coat as though upon the handle of a weapon.
your daughter.’
pale
6
pale girl who had been standing a little
way off for the last few
moments, with her mild eyes fixed upon the ground.
will never see one another again.’
that trust of the humble in the proud, the gentle in
the violent, which
has been the tragedy of woman from the beginning.
Costello led her
among the dancers, and they were soon absorbed in the
rhythm of the
Pavane, that stately dance which, with the Saraband, the
Gallead, and
the Morrice dances, had driven out, among all but the most
Irish of the
gentry, the quicker rhythms of the verse-interwoven,
pantomimic dances
of earlier days ; and while they danced came over them
the unutterable
melancholy, the weariness with the world, the poignant and
bitter pity,
the vague anger against common hopes and fears, which is the
exulta-
tion of love. And when a dance ended and the pipers laid down
their
pipes and lifted their horn noggins, they stood a little from the
others,
waiting pensively and silently for the dance to begin again and the
fire
in their hearts to leap up and to wrap them anew; and so they
danced
and danced through Pavane and Saraband and Gallead the night
through, and many stood still to watch them, and the peasants came
about
the door and peered in, as though they understood that they
would gather
their children’s children about them long hence, and tell
how they had seen
Costello dance with Oona MacDermott, and become,
by the telling, themselves
a portion of ancient romance; but through all
the dancing and piping
Macnamara of the Lake went hither and thither
talking loudly and making
foolish jokes, that all might seem well with
him, and old MacDermott of the
Sheep grew redder and redder, and
looked oftener and oftener at the doorway
to to see if the candles there
grew yellow in the dawn.
after a dance, cried out from where the horn noggins
stood, that his
daughter would now drink the cup of betrothal; then Oona
came over
to where he was, and the guests stood round in a half circle,
Costello
close to the wall to the right, and the labourer, the farmer, the
half-witted
man, and the two farm lads close behind. The old man took out
of a
niche in the wall the silver cup, from which her mother and her
mother’s
mother had drunk the toasts of their betrothals, and poured into
it a
little of the poteen out of a porcelain jug, and handed it to his
daughter
with the customary words, ‘Drink to him whom you love the best.’
7
soft voice,
bell, for the old man had struck her in the face, and it
had fallen in her
confusion; and there was a deep silence. There were many
of Macna-
mara’s people among the servants, now come out of the alcove, and
one
of them, a story teller and poet, a last remnant of the bardic order,
who
had a chair and a platter in Macnamara’s kitchen, drew a French
knife
out of his girdle, and made as though he would strike at Costello,
but in
a moment a blow had hurled him on the ground, his shoulder
sending
the cup rolling and ringing again. The click of steel had
followed
quickly had not there come a muttering and shouting from the
peasants
about the door, and from those crowding up behind them; and all
knew
that these were no children of Queen’s Irish or friendly
Macnamaras
and MacDermotts, but wild Lavells and Quinns and Dunns from
about
Lough Garra, who rowed their skin coracles, and had masses of
hair
over their eyes, and left the right arms of their children
unchristened,
that they might give the stouter blows, and swore only by St.
Atty and
sun and moon, and worshipped beauty and strength more than St.
Atty
or sun and moon.
knuckles had grown white, but now he drew it away, and,
followed by
those who were with him, strode towards the door, the dancers
giving
before him, the most angrily and slowly and with glances at the
mut-
tering and shouting peasants, but some gladly and quickly because
the
glory of his fame was over him; and passed through the fierce and
friendly peasant faces, and came where his good horse and the rough-
haired
garrons were tied to bushes; and mounted and bade his ungainly
body-guard
mount also, and rode into the narrow borreen. When
they had gone a little
way, Duallach, who rode last, turned towards the
house where a little group
of MacDermotts and Macnamaras stood next
to a far more numerous group of
peasants, and cried,
hour, a lantern without a candle, a purse without a penny,
a sheep
without wool, for your hand was ever niggardly to piper and fiddler
and
story teller and to poor travelling folk.’ He had not done before
the
three old MacDermotts from the Mountains of the Ox had run towards
their horses, and old MacDermott himself had caught the bridle of a
garron
8
garron of the Macnamaras, and was
calling to others to follow him; and
many blows and many deaths had been,
had not the Lavells and Dunns
and Quinns caught up still glowing brands
from the ashes of the fire,
and hurled them among the horses with loud
cries, making all plunge
and rear, and some break from their owners with
the whites of their eyes
gleaming in the dawn.
now a woman selling eggs or fowls, and now a man or a woman
on
pilgrimage to the holy well of Tubbernalty, would tell him how his
love
had fallen ill the day after St. John’s Eve, and how she was a
little
better or a little worse, as it might be; and though he looked to
his
horses and his cows and goats as usual, the common and uncomely
things, the dust upon the roads, the songs of men returning from fairs
and
wakes, men playing cards in the corners of fields on Sundays and
Saints’
Days, the rumours of battles and changes in the great world, the
deliberate
purposes of those about him, troubled him with an inexplic-
able trouble;
but the peasants still remember how when night had fallen
he would bid
Duallach O’Daly recite, to the chirping of the crickets,
‘The Son of
Apple,’ ‘The Beauty of the World,’ ‘The Feast of Bricriu,’
or some other of
those traditional tales, which were as much a piper’s
business as ‘The
Green Bunch of Rushes,’ ‘The Unchion Stream,’ or
‘The Chiefs of Breffany’;
and, while the boundless and phantasmal
world of the legends was
a-building, would abandon himself to the
dreams of his sorrow.
Quinns or O’Dalys, or other tribe near his heart, had come
from some
Lu, god of the leaping lightning, or incomparable King of the
Blue Belt
or Warrior of the Ozier Wattle, or to tell with many railings how
all the
strangers and most of the Queen’s Irish were the seed of some
misshapen
and horned Fomoroh or servile and creeping Firbolg; but
Costello
cared only for the love sorrows, and no matter whither the stories
wan-
dered, whether to the Isle of the Red Loch where the blessed are, or
to
the malign country of the Hag of the East, Oona alone endured their
shadowy hardships; for it was she, and no King’s daughter of old, who
was
hidden in the steel tower under the water with the folds of the
Worm of
Nine Eyes round and about her prison; and it was she who
won, by seven
years of service, the right to deliver from hell all she
could carry, and
carried away multitudes clinging with worn fingers to
the hem of her dress;
and it was she who endured dumbness for a year
because
9
because of the little thorn of
enchantment the fairies had thrust into her
tongue; and it was a lock of
her hair, coiled in a little carved box, which
gave so great a light that
men threshed by it from sundown to sunrise,
and awoke so great a wonder
that kings spent years in wandering, or
fell before unknown armies in
seeking, to discover her hiding place; for
there was no beauty in the world
but hers, no tragedy in the world
but hers: and when at last the voice of
the piper, grown gentle
with the wisdom or old romance, was silent, and his
rheumatic
steps had toiled upstairs and to bed, and Costello had dipped
his
fingers into the little delf font of holy water, and begun to pray
to Maurya of the Seven Sorrows, the blue eyes and star-covered
dress of the
painting in the chapel faded from his imagination, and the
brown eyes and
homespun dress of Oona MacDermott came in their
stead; for there was no
tenderness in the world but hers. He was of
those ascetics of passion who
keep their hearts pure for love or for
hatred, as other men for God, for
Mary and for the saints, and who,
when the hour of their visitation
arrives, come to the Divine Essence by
the bitter tumult, the Garden of
Gethsemane, and the desolate rood,
ordained for immortal passions in mortal
hearts.
lads to reap a meadow, gave him a letter and rode away
without a word;
and the letter contained these words in English: ‘Tumaus
Costello, my
daughter is very ill. The wise woman from Knock-na-shee has
seen
her, and says she will die unless you come to her. I therefore bid
you
to her, whose peace you stole by treachery—Teig MacDermott.’
who had become associated in his mind with Oona, and
himself saddled
his great horse and Duallach’s garron.
Lough Garra lay down below them, blue, mirrorlike, and
deserted; and
though they had seen, when at a distance, dark figures moving
about the
door, the house appeared not less deserted than the lake. The
door
stood half-open, and Costello rapped upon it again and again,
making
a number of lake gulls fly up out of the grass, and circle screaming
over
his head, but there was no answer.
is too proud to welcome Costello the Proud,’ and, flinging
the door open,
showed a ragged, dirty, and very ancient woman, who sat upon
the floor
leaning against the wall. Costello recognised Bridget Delaney, a deaf
and
10
and dumb beggar; and she, when she saw
him, stood up, made a sign to
him to follow, and led him and his companion
up a stair and down a
long corridor to a closed door. She pushed the door
open, and went a
little way off and sat down as before. Duallach sat upon
the ground
also, but close to the door, and Costello went and gazed upon
Oona
MacDermott asleep upon a bed. He sat upon a chair beside her and
waited, and a long time passed, and still she slept on, and then Duallach
motioned to him through the door to wake her, but he hushed his very
breath
that she might sleep on, for his heart was full of that ungovern-
able pity
which makes the fading heart of the lover a shadow of the
divine heart.
Presently he returned to Duallach and said,
for the common people are ever ready to blame the
beautiful.’ And
then they went down and stood at the door of the house and
waited,
but the evening wore on and no one came.
at last; ‘had he seen you waiting and waiting
where they left none but a
beggar to welcome you, it is Costello the Humble
he would have called you.
ridden a little way, Costello tightened the reins and made
his horse
stand still. Many minutes passed, and then Duallach cried,
Sheep, for he has many brothers and friends, and though he
is old he is
a strong man, and ready with his hands.’
there again if they do not send after me before I pass
the ford in the
Donogue,’ and he rode on, but so very slowly, that the sun
went down
and the bats began to fly over the bogs. When he came to the
river he
lingered a while upon the bank among the purple flag-flowers,
but
presently rode out into the middle, and stopped his horse in a
foaming
shallow. Duallach, however, crossed over and waited on the
further
bank above a deeper place. After a good while, Duallach cried
out
again, and this time very bitterly:
fools of all fools who say you come of an old and noble
stock, for you
come of whey-faced beggars, who travelled from door to door,
bowing
to gentles and to serving men.’
him
11
him, and would have spoken had not
hoofs clattered on the further bank
and a horseman splashed towards them.
It was a serving man of Teig
MacDermott’s, and he said, speaking
breathlessly like one who had
ridden hard,
When you had gone, Oona MacDermott awoke and
called your name,
for you had been in her dreams. Bridget Delaney, the
dummy, saw her
lips move and the trouble upon her, and came where we were
hiding
in the wood above the house, and took Teig MacDermott by the
coat
and brought him to his daughter. He saw the trouble upon her, and
bid me ride his own horse to bring you the quicker.’
him about the waist, lifted him out of the saddle, and
hurled him against
a grey rock that rose up out of the river, so that he
fell lifeless into the
deep place, and the waters swept over the tongue
which God had made
bitter that there might be a story in men’s ears in
after time; and
plunging his spurs into the horse, he rode away furiously
towards the
north-west, along the edge of the river, and did not pause
until he came
to another and smoother ford and saw the rising moon mirrored
in the
water. He paused for a moment irresolute, and then rode into the
ford
and on over the Mountains of the Ox, and down towards the sea,
his
eyes almost continually resting upon the moon, which glimmered in
the
dimness like a great white rose hung on the lattice of some
boundless
and phantasmal world. But now his horse, long dank with sweat
and
breathing hard, for he kept spurring it to utmost speed, fell
heavily,
hurling him into the grass at the road side. He tried to make it
stand
up, and, failing this, went on alone towards the moonlight; and came
to
the sea, and saw a schooner lying there at anchor. Now that he
could
go no further because of the sea, he found that he was very tired
and
the night very cold, and went into a shebeen close to the shore, and
threw
himself down upon a bench. The room was full of Spanish and
Irish
sailors, who had just smuggled a cargo of wine and ale, and were
waiting
a favourable wind to set out again. A Spaniard offered him a drink
in
bad Gaelic. He drank it greedily, and began talking wildly and rapidly.
violence, and the sailors stayed, drinking and talking and
playing cards,
and Costello stayed with them, sleeping upon a bench in the
shebeen,
and drinking and talking and playing more than any. He soon
lost
what little money he had, and then his horse, which some one had brought
from
12
from the mountain boreen, to a
Spaniard, who sold it to a farmer from
the mountains for a score of silver
crowns, and then his long cloak and
his spurs and his boots of soft
leather. At last a gentle wind blew
towards Spain, and the crew rowed out
to their schooner singing Gaelic
and Spanish songs, and lifted the anchor,
and in a little the white
sails had dropped under the horizon. Then
Costello turned homeward,
his empty life gaping before him, and walked all
day, coming in the
early evening to the road that went from near Lough
Garra to the
southern edge of Lough Cay. Here he overtook a great crowd
of
peasants and farmers, who were walking very slowly after two
priests,
and a group of well dressed persons who were carrying a coffin.
He
stopped an old man and asked whose burying it was and whose people
they were, and the old man answered,
and the MacDermotts and their following, and you are
Tumaus Costello
who murdered her.’
who looked at him with fierce eyes, and only vaguely
understanding
what he had heard, for, now that he had lost the quick
apprehension of
perfect health, it seemed impossible that a gentleness and
a beauty
which had been so long the world’s heart could pass away.
Presently he
stopped and asked again whose burying it was, and a man
answered,
buried in the island of the Holy Trinity,’ and the man
stooped and
picked up a stone and cast it at Costello, striking him on the
cheek, and
making the blood flow out over his face. Costello went on
scarcely
feeling the blow, and, coming to those about the coffin,
shouldered his
way into the midst of them, and, laying his hand upon the
coffin, asked
in a loud voice,
up stones and bid those about them do the same; and he
was driven
from the road covered with wounds, and but for the priests would
surely
have been killed.
and saw from a distance the coffin laid upon a large boat
and those
about it get into other boats and the boats move slowly over the
water
to Insula Trinitatis; and after a time he saw the boats return and
their
passengers mingle with the crowd upon the bank and all disperse by
many
13
many roads and boreens. It seemed to
him that Oona was somewhere
on the island smiling gently as of old, and,
when all had gone, he swam
in the way the boats had been rowed and found
the new-made grave
beside the ruined Abbey of the Trinity, and threw
himself upon it,
calling to Oona to come to him. Above him the
three-cornered leaves
of the ivy trembled, and all about him white moths
moved over white
flowers and sweet odours drifted through the dim air.
time calling her to come to him, but when the third
night came he had
forgotten, worn out with hunger and sorrow, that her body
lay in the
earth beneath; and only knew she was somewhere near and would
not
come to him.
crying out, his pride awoke and he called loudly,
return to the island of the Holy Trinity;’ and, before his
voice had died
away, a cold and whirling wind had swept over the island,
and he saw
many figures rushing past, women of the Shee with crowns of
silver and
dim floating drapery; and then Oona MacDermott, but no
longer
smiling gently, for she passed him swiftly and angrily, and as
she
passed struck him upon the face crying,
whole glimmering company rose up into the air, and, rushing
together
into the shape of a great silvery rose, faded into the ashen dawn.
had made his beloved angry, and that she wished him to
go, and, wading
out into the lake, began to swim. He swam on and on, but
his limbs
were too weary to keep him long afloat, and her anger was heavy
about
him, and, when he had gone a little way, he sank without a struggle
like
a man passing into sleep and dreams.
lake shore, lying upon the white lake sand with his arms
flung out as
though he lay upon a rood, and carried him to his own house.
And the
very poor lamented over him and sang the keen, and, when the time
had
come, laid him in the Abbey on Insula Trinitatis with only the
ruined
altar between him and Oona MacDermott, and planted above them
two
ash trees that in after days wove their branches together and
mingled
their trembling leaves.
W. B. YEATS.
MONNA ROSA
Elle est seule au boudoir Un pot bleu japonise Un flot mélodieux Elle, belle comme elles, La coupe ou, mieux, la cueille
En bandeaux d’or liquide,
En robe d’or fluide
Sur fond blanc dans le soir
Teinté d’or vert et noir.
Délicieusement
Dont s’élance gaiment
Dans l’atmosphère exquise
Oû l’âme s’adonise
Selon le rhythme juste—
De roses, chœur auguste,
Bouquet insidieux
Au conseil radieux!
Les roses, n’élit plus
Dans ses cheveux élus
Qu’une de ces fleurs belles
Comme elle, et de ciseaux
Prestes, tels des oiseaux,
Avec le soin charmant
D’y laisser joliment
La grâce d’une feuille
Verte comme le soir
Noir et or du boudoir.
Cependant
❧ MONNA ROSA
by
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Cependant que persiste PAUL VERLAINE. PARIS, Sept. 1895.
19
La splendeur, à côté,
Du plumage bleuté
De l’orgueil, qui s’attriste,
D’un paon jadis vainqueur
Aux jardins de ce cœur.
NIGGARD TRUTH
HARRIET came of farmers. The stout race
hesitated and hoped in the strong girl; at
last, for she never had any
children, finished
with her. Her mother had followed White-
field, and
Harriet held to the new Protestant-
ism; the men, decidedly retrograde
here,
were all for Pope Denys. At the time
when Harriet first had a
real existence,
symbolism might have called the grand-dad
Silenus, the
father Gambrinus, the brother Dionysos. These drank
and drank; oftenest in
their own complete and scandalous company;
but at all times they drank. She
said nothing, there being nothing
to say. Their cult brought her a new, at
times harassing, duty:
to see them laid out all three at night in the warm
kitchen, their
cravats loosened, and the fire safe extinguished. The
disgrace
of her family added little in the country to her own disgrace
of
Methodism. Her friends the Methodists found nothing surprising
in
the unregenerate state of men who had not come under the
only possible
saving influence. The farm went on, in a fashion,
thanks to Harriet. Had
she been less active and intelligent than she
was, she might have managed
it to profit, and her kinsmen might have
been her terrible luxury. Her
activity never hesitated to carry out
what a servant did other than to her
liking. Whatever her hands
touched was a pattern. Yes; but the
servants—especially as she was
kind, and often, of necessity,
ignorant—pandered to her mania to do her
own work herself. The farm, too
much for her, had at last to be let to
keep up the mortgages.
They had been rich, now they were poor. Harriet had nothing
in
her hands but work and care. The ‘pretty trio’ had the
management
of all else; their management followed its policy unhesitatingly
to the
logical end. Then the father and the brother died, and were
buried.
Silenus, missing them, became idiotic and eccentric. He took
liquor
in sudden aversion as a beverage; but, buying and getting what
he
could, he bottled and sealed drams which he buried all over the
country; and then, like a dog who would know how his hidden bone
putrefies,
he visited all the nooks strangely, staying out at night even
to follow his
poor fancy.
Harriet never ceased to work, either for gain and living, or
for mere
work’s
21
work’s sake. Once she had to repair
her stays ; she remade them. A
neighbour saw, admired, and had her own
renewed. Another and
another commission, and Harriet was proficient with a
definite occupa-
tion. She knew not how to mark time. Before long she had
dis-
covered an ‘improvement’ which made her wares famous, which later
she sold for a hardly bargained £600. She had her consolation in the
great
days of the patent, that she had fought hard for a good price,
bumpkin girl
as she was at the time of the sale.
Old Silenus died at last. Harriet, under contract to refrain
from
staymaking, was busy as ever with some equally ingenious
labour.
She never stopped to visit or idle, only going out to attend the
offices
of her church, or rather ‘chapel.’ There she was most punctual;
the
chapels life coincided evenly with hers.
The first time the new minister preached, Harriet selected
him for
a husband. It was Hugh Porter, the young man who came in
the face
of so many prejudices, being so young, and ugliness not
compensating
as much as it should. He had once had a kick in the face from
a
horse, whence a hideous malformation. He preached for an opening
with more than passion, with violence. Afterwards, and for many
weeks, he
was quiet, learned. Harriet watched him carefully; com-
pared, heard him
critically; at first thought him tactful, executing a
plan ; only found out
later that it was all accident, that the heaviness of
his beginnings was
but nervous defiance and waste of ammunition.
The sooner he had a calm
friend at his elbow the better for him; and
in addition she made a
memorandum in her mind—for use in their
married life, recognising a
radical fault.
They became acquainted. Harriet was very submissive to
her
‘minister,’ without shyness; in such a way that, in presence
of her
humility and deference, he forgot his regret that he was not a
clergy-
man. She did not mind his lack of judgment; he would have many
other lessons to learn. She took no umbrage at the rude way in which
he set
about his ‘inquiries’ into the conduct of her secluded life; and
he thought
himself so wise in this inquisition.
‘I never thought I should marry my minister.’ The pitch of
her
voice, the smile, the gravity which made her face look
thinner as she
said these words, almost gave him a glimpse of the future;
but the
marriage took place. It was soon found that he was extremely
deli-
cate. And the course of what are called unforeseen circumstances
turned strangely from the time of Hugh Porter’s marriage. Under-
hand
22
hand measures on the part of his
deacons threw him out, made him
redundant for a time, obliged to preach
every Sunday from a different
pulpit. Then it was he began to understand
Harriet. Then, for the
first time in his life, he wrote out his sermons
entire, and again and
again. Then, to patience and kindness in Harriet, he
rehearsed
delivery at oration pitch, and noted gesture. Shrewd Harriet! He
took
her advice, and refused the first offer of a pulpit as second in a
circuit,
alleging that he had some intention of going into a retreat, like
Saint
Paul into Arabia. In three months, the fame of his preaching was
ringing every week in The Recorder. Then a remarkable
event, what
in business is called a ‘deal,’ took place between the
Wesleyans and
the Methodists. A curious notion of Pan-Methodism was abroad,
and
a minister was exchanged for a great occasion in either body. Hugh
Porter was to preach in the great Walworth Road Church in London
to
Wesleyans. Harriet was present, in a place where Hugh could
not see her.
She heard his very low yet distinct preliminary announce-
ment: ‘My text
will be found. . . .’ Right! And then she waited for
the opening phrase,
almost performing mentally the process of sounding
a tuning-fork. Right
again! And he kept it up ; he showed what was
in him. Higher and higher the
flood of his oration swelled, and ever
the language grew more precise, the
argument stricter. Till the last
sentences came, sinking masterly to the
tone on which he began, and
the closing words sounded sweet and distinct as
the first. He took the
beef-tea she offered him in the vestry in silence.
Harriet could not
trust herself to speak, for joy.
The Recorder, a well-managed
paper, knowing the thoroughness
of the Wesleyan organ, came out
on Wednesday, not only with the
sermon at length, but with a leading
article upon it, headed: ‘That
Man!’ the phrase Hugh Porter had used and
repeated with such great
effect. This moment began Hugh’s life, though he
had had a hard
boyhood and harder youth. He thought he had known
struggling.
He found out what struggling means before he had learnt from
Harriet
where he stood towards his body and towards the world. She had
even in her extremity to use for the first time to him the words:
‘Take my advice.’ He had the wit to be wise. He had imagined,
when he
secured the wealthiest chapel in the Society, that the mil-
lennium for him
had come; that he had now only to enjoy his income,
have a library, go out
to tea, embroil himself with all the quarrels of
the laity under him, and
be master in his own house and out of it.
The
23
The time he gave to his sophistries,
otherwise directed, might have
made him half independent of Harriet; and
than this he desired
nothing more dearly. He wanted to love her and direct
her. He
aimed higher than he ever reached.
As it was, he held himself very quiet; it seemed Harriet did
not
make mistakes. The jealousies were not long appearing; the
mutter-
ings against ministers who interfere; the covert wonderings what
he
did with his income. It was hard for Hugh. His policy towards the
members was not of his own invention; he carried it out mechanically,
awkwardly; feared all the time it was right, the only policy. He
never
refused invitations to preach out of his own circuit, by Harriet’s
advice.
And let him not misunderstand: his sermons were to be
staid, even dull, on
no account sensational. He did as he was bidden.
Reasons for all this? A
dozen times he had almost asked: ‘And
what then?’ Well that he checked
himself. As it happened, it never
came to such a question, but how shocked
Harriet would have been!
How could she have told him what might be the
Lord’s inscrutable
will?
Once, vague gratitude supplanting perplexity, he was nigh
thanking
her watchfulness. He put down his awful commentary, and
pretended
to yawn. Harriet looked up with anxiety. (She was making a pair
of
stays.)
‘Well, my Hugh, what is it?’ He sighed a little, and
smiled
‘My poor Hugh is looking tired.’
‘No, Harriet,’ he said sententiously, as though giving out a
hymn,
‘not tired.’
‘Shall we talk then?’ and with that dawned the most terrible
hour
Hugh had ever known; hour which set stormily, misty, and
blurred
with tears. In brief, he must resign, give up his chapel. He
was
stupid, mouth agog, when he caught the intention of her slow, hard
sentences. She was mad; he said so, at last, after repeatedly checking
the
words on his lips. She gave no heed, made no answer; her calm
no whit
ruffled. He could not help himself; he thought it seriously.
Through the
torrents of his objections to each deliberate phrase he
followed his
thought: the possibility that she was a wild woman; like
the mad, gifted
with supernatural penetration.
Give up his ‘position’? Give up his thirty pounds a quarter?
‘Oh, Hugh, Hugh!’
And their little house, so comfortable, with fitted blinds
all through;
to
24
to go to some miserable place in the
country, perhaps! Useless to
talk; he knew this fully ten minutes before he
ceased to be coherent.
The circuit was too large for him. His early years
had been passed in
the country: it would do him good if he were sent back
to it.
Nothing was said next day. It was a Wednesday; and a
com-
mittee meeting after the service. Harriet did not wait for
Hugh in
the chapel as her custom was. She simply told him, as she gave
him
his comforter, that she had something to do; must go home.
The committee meeting began as usual with a prayer by the
eldest
of the deacons. This ceremony passed drily. Hugh
proceeded at
once to run over the accounts; threw the book on the table as
he
finished. There was the shadow of a pause.
‘And now, gentlemen,’ said Hugh,
‘I have something to tell you,
something which lies so heavily
on my heart that I shall be easier
when I have told it: it seems the Lord’s
will that I should leave this
circuit. The circuit is large, my health is
far from good, and I do not
flatter myself that you will have a great
difficulty to fill my place. I
hope you will be able to say, gentlemen,
that I have been a good
minister among you here present as deacons, and
among you all as
members/ He finished, much moved.
‘You are young, sir, to be our minister here . . .’ began a
younger
deacon.
‘Think it over a bit, sir,’ the doyen broke in, roughly. ‘I propose
a committee
meeting this day week, while you think it over, sir.’
‘No, my brethren,’ said Hugh, more humanly. ‘It is thought
over
already. I did not come here myself; I did not seek to come
here.
He who sent me hither now sends me hence. If we are allowed to
exercise our judgment, minister and members, in coming together, we
must
recognise His will above it all. I have to ask your permission
to
resign.’
‘Which we all refuse.’
‘No, brother, it need not take long; talk it over here and
now.
You will find me in the chapel when your decision is
taken.’ He suited
his action by leaving the vestry.
They accepted his resignation.
Hugh had a moment of satisfaction as he walked home.
This
hearty, blunt action of his came at the moment when a
long-nursed
grumble of his deacons was about finding vent. But his joy was
not
long-lived.
25
‘I have resigned,’ said Hugh. ‘The circuit is large, I don’t
say too
large, but they want mere age in their minister, these
people.’
For this announcement, he tried his uttermost to speak
without
expression, to leave Harriet in doubt whether he sulked
or not. A
touch of her fingers was all Harriet’s reply; save that she was
very
motherly that night, appearing almost in a new aspect.
Hugh was sent to a small west-country village, or rather to
two
villages, four miles apart. The Porters found a roomy bright
house
for them, rented by the Society, with a certain quantity of solid
furni-
ture in it. They felt quite wealthy when they were installed.
The
only difficulty was the distances to travel. This was soon felt
heavily,
for Hugh began to be suffering and more delicate from the first
week.
He lost his spirits, his appetite; grew restless at night. Harriet
kept
her head through this trouble; she knew almost all it was
necessary
for her to know, to guard him and tend him well. But there
re-
mained between them want of familiarity. When his ailing was so
far
confirmed that he could look upon it as a definite and more or
less
permanent thing, Hugh became nervous on the subject lest Harriet
might think he was malingering. She knew this anxiety of his; for
once was
baffled, not knowing how to reassure him.
Harriet urged her husband to take some pupils, to amuse him.
Two
boys were found, of eight and eleven. After a week Hugh
refused to
have anything to do with them. Harriet added to her tasks of
feeding
and grooming, that of training them. These boys turned out
wonder-
fully well. Harriet saw each of them make a fortune in
business.
Time came when Hugh left his wife for a whole week, to
conduct
a ‘revival’ at Bristol. When he came back, a shed
adjoining the house
had become a stable; the stable contained a mare. He
gave himself
over to surprise and delight. It so astonished him that
Harriet had
found such a smart, useful animal, that he forgot to ask what
had been
the price of her; and he never knew. The pleasure of his new
play-
thing made Hugh seem his old self for a time. It was a joy to see
him
grooming the mare, spreading her litter, feeding her. At length,
in-
evitably, came weariness of the work: the trouble of it spoilt the
advantage and pleasure of riding; Harriet was forced into suggesting
a man
to take this duty off Hugh’s hands. Henceforth a man was
supposed to attend
to the mare. Hugh never saw this man, nor did
he ever make any inquiry
concerning him. One thing remained, for
nearly a twelvemonth at least: the
distance between village and village
was
26
was no excuse between Hugh and the
fulfilment of his duties. Of
course, this had to come in the end. It began
with obstinacy to go
to the neighbouring village on nights so awful that
scarce ten souls
would be assembled for his ministrations in the chill shed
they called
a chapel; that, too, at times when his cough was deep, shaking
his
poor body, so hidden inside the inches of woollens and cloth in
which
Harriet kept him swathed. Then clear, sheer laziness, variously
dis-
guised or perfectly frank. Harriet soon exhausted what few words
of persuasion she could afford for such extremities, and passed without
pause to acts. The occasion was repeated when Hugh was disinclined
to go
take his service, away over the heath. No word; Harriet was up
to her room
and down again in five minutes.
‘Hugh, I shall be there before you,’ the thin woman’s voice
piped
cheerily, and she was out of the house. A mile and a half
of wet road,
and Hugh passed her at a trot; she let the hoof-strokes die
quite
away, then, with unaltered brisk step, turned about towards their
home;
she had so much to do in the house!
So Hugh grew more and more a child as he aged and
shrunk.
This in his mere personal manliness, for to the outside
he was more
and more each year the image of the ideal Harriet had set for
him,
though all their life she had never so much as said to him: ‘I am
ambitious for you.’ In town or country pupils were always passing
through
his house to success in the ministry, in business, and profes-
sions. He
edited Hugh Bourne, and had heard of Fox and William
Law. He composed test
papers for sprouting divinity. Above all, he
preached through the length
and breadth of England; few preachers
of the denomination were more sought.
A wretched block, which the
enterprising Recorder had had cut from a photograph of him, went the
round
of the Methodist press for years.
The Porters hardly took count of time. Their life together
had
been so long. The history of the world was narrowed for them
into
the span of their married life. Years were passing, though they
seemed to stand still. Not only was Mrs. Porter grown the thinnest
woman
imaginable, and her thin voice incredibly thinner, and more
quavering
almost than a voice can be; but Sophy, Mrs. Porter’s cousin,
had become
Miss Short, and staid at that.
It was at a period when, for the first time, she had the care
of six
pupils. Harriet dearly wanted a female in her house who
was not a
servant; some one worthy to receive her tradition, who in case of her
death
❧ THE DOCTOR — PORTRAIT OF MY BROTHER
an original lithograph
by
James M’Neil Whistler
The two women became a sort of society. They spoke so
little ‘We shall not have Mr. Porter with us much longer,’ startled
Sophy ‘What do you mean, Auntie?’ asked Sophy angrily. ‘How
can ‘Mark my words, dear, you will see.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘Mark my words.’ It seemed a foolish prediction, for Hugh had never been
better ‘That is just it,’ answered Harriet. ‘He is so
active.’ There was not a trace in her manner of any feeling other
than ‘Don’t be so active, Uncle, you make me cross.’ Hugh was bewildered, but Harriet laughed: ‘Don’t mind her, my dear; she is growing old.’ ‘Be more careful,’ Sophy persisted sullenly; ‘where’s your
skull-cap?’ Her prophecy came true quickly enough to surprise Harriet
her- ‘I have only to think now of following him,’ said Harriet. A
large Hugh had lain dead a whole week before burial, for certain
reasons. Against this (and the superficial may wonder), the corpse
upstairs Harriet was quite ready to take up her life again the very
hour However, she took care to set aside, for the time when she
was It seemed near, too, now. Sophy waited from day to day to
hear When Harriet was in this almost cataleptic condition—and at
last ‘Don’t be so stupid, Auntie. It’s nothing to laugh
at.’ Auntie thought she had the laugh, all the same. ‘Silver’ and
clocks ‘Now, Sophy, I want you to do something for me,’ said
Harriet. ‘You will be all right until I come back?’ said Sophy;
mere At the slam of the street door, Harriet was alone in the
house; All the silver in the cupboard beside her would be Sophy’s,
all
31
death could look after Hugh, in
all that phrase implied. She had cast
about in her memory: her cousin Sophy
must be fourteen; she gave
days to reflecting on the girl’s ‘breed’
(Harriet believed in breed);
felt sure in the end that, accidents apart,
she could make something of
Sophy. The child turned out, as she became a
woman, the very finest
bit of mortal clay Harriet had ever had the handling
of; so quiet, so
intractable; long-suffering, and so savage. Any impression
made on
such a character lasts. So Harriet thought, and was glad because
of
Sophy Short. There was always perfect accord between the two, but
never, never peace ; they were destined to be noble friends one day.
Such a
pupil for such a mistress!
except between themselves: they treated Hugh with such
equal kind-
ness that they were almost to him as one. Whatever he required
done
either of them did, with the same readiness, the same silence, the
same
perfection. He gave up at length distinguishing their names,
using
them indifferently; they fell in with this arrangement. Hugh
thought
he had reached beautiful old age. He was very white. Wherever
he
went the fuss about him was extraordinary, even for so mild and
ugly
an old gentleman, and so renowned a preacher. The Juggernaut
homages he had been accustomed to receive for years (let us say
this was
the cause) had led him to make a collection of the most
sickening cliches,
to which he made an occasional addition, about
‘getting nearer the light,’
and the like, phrases which sounded like
tinned Longfellow. Poor old Hugh!
But in pulpits he was different.
Once above the heads of a thousand
listeners, he found old fire to
recite old sermons. Harriet seldom heard
him; for one reason that
he rarely preached in his own circuit, where a
grateful Society gave
him more assistance than he required. When she did,
she was pro-
minent in the chapel, nodded vigorous approval, with more
than
punctuality, at each full period, constituting herself a silent
claque.
one quiet morning.
you be so stupid? How do you know?’
or
32
or livelier to Sophy’s knowledge.
She drew attention to this next
day.
satisfaction in her prophecy. Sophy was far less contented.
After
tea, when all three were sitting together, Hugh rose from his
chair
rather suddenly, and Sophy, on the watch, burst out at him:
self. The very morning following Hugh was not allowed to
get up;
congestion, pneumonia. The crowd at his burial was enormous.
The
grave-side encomiums were more sincere than grammatical.
subscription to support her widowhood was raised in the
Society.
Harriet was glad of this. Day after day the weather
seemed so bad
for Hugh to begin his sojourn under clay. Many a troubling
phrase
came from Harriet while he still lay upstairs; phrases the
heareis
excused, supposing them fruits of her excitement; troubling not
in
their sense but in the expression: Hugh among angels the subject,
right and pious enough as a notion; but the thin old woman had a
wild way
of knowing what she spoke of. Hugh, bright and young and
ransomed, in
spiritual company. But the companions were not so
feathered as sometimes
seen, and their locality to Harriet was never
vague or very distant. For
her they were in the house or the little
garden ; or against the corpse in
prayer. When they were in the
drawing-room, Harriet spoke of them, though
not in direct statement
as in a definite part of the room; and talking
currently and topically.
Sophy and chance women lost patience at last,
though they dared
not show this. Their materialism was low and timid.
was still Hugh. When it had been buried it was still
Hugh. Thrice,
while he waited for burial, his grave costume was changed;
finally he
went to rest in a long scarlet flannel robe, a passionate
Christian symbol
the excuse, that he might be warmer and look more
comfortable in the
earth, but chiefly that Harriet might see him better. Hints she dropped
of
33
of this intention were far too
obscure for Sophy to penetrate. None
remembered that Silenus lived again in
his granddaughter: the old
idiot who had intercourse with his dead through
the medium of
medicine-bottles full of brandy. But Silenus was crazed;
fancy broke
its bounds in his brain, so that he was obliged, with stiff
fingers, to
unearth the drams, to see if the dead had drunk, to drink with
them.
Hugh was put in the dust. Sophy allowed the household work
to
be resumed next day. It passed much as usual, only interrupted by
an occasional snivel of Sophy. Harriet loved facts. Sophy waited
patiently
for the old woman to return to such expressions as she had
used during the
week her husband lay dead—to criticise them, and
admonish her; but she
waited in vain. Only during that week had
any one heard Harriet speak of
the dead and glorified as she had then
spoken; both before and since, all
her utterances on such subjects were
strictly theological, and very scanty.
Her care was always for the
maintenance or improvement of material
surroundings. Here Sophy
seconded her with staunch intention. The two women
kept up their
house as though its inmates were twice as numerous, with as
much
enthusiasm as though they were on the threshold of life. Indeed,
now
Hugh was out of the way, there needed no mystery about the turning
out and scouring which he loathed. They might wash the chimney-
pots every
day, and no one would scowl and whimper, and take to bed
of ennui. Harriet had attained her very ideal of
housewifery, only to
find it hopelessly flawed by the fact that she could
not do all herself.
A failing frame fought her ravenous spirit of toil; for
hours, literally
straightened limbs forced her to idleness, while Sophy
never sat down,
never halted, the long day through: inventing epic tasks,
lifetime
tattings and microscopic patchworks, to employ the hours of
lamp-
light. The only seeming solace Harriet had was that she might
command idleness in Sophy; but how could she do that? Indeed,
Sophy might
refuse to obey her.
forced to sit down, certain employments to which repose was
no barrier.
Chief among these was the care of the ‘silver,’ the
electro-plate she
possessed. Her malice loved to see as much of the
‘silver’ used as
possible, on all occasions: dishes, covers, forks,
spoons, toast-rack,
cruets—such wealth of bright metal as Harriet thought
well nigh in-
credible. It was a joy of joys to her to be surrounded with
her
‘silver’;
34
‘silver’; lovingly to clean and
polish, and then wrap each object in
white tissue-paper, just as they had
been received from the shop.
‘What beautiful new spoons!’ ‘New spoons,’ she
would laugh, ‘well,
they are not very old; I have had them fifteen years.’
With all the
things in the house she valued it was the same. A great
jealousy lest
Sophy should interfere with them for any purpose. It would be
time
enough for her to touch the precious things when they were her
own.
There was never any question on the subject; it was so well
under-
stood that Sophy inherited all the possessions. And not exactly
inherit either; the goods, and that vague wealth in the funds, which
she
would have at Harriet’s death, would come as a life’s wages de-
ferred. For
this she had toiled, brain and hands, to the full of her
powers, for the
Porters. For this she had kept herself fast, never
suffering a thought of
marriage, for example, to loiter in her mind.
She knew, latterly, as she
grew to know Harriet somewhat, that her
legacy would be considerable. She
arrived queerly at this knowledge.
Harriet made no secret of the ‘wage’
understanding; she was finically
just; and she set a higher value on
thorough manual work than on
most things.
Harriet say, as she had said before: ‘I shall not be with
you long.
She had her angry answer ready, but it was never called for.
So
quickly as almost to be noticeable from one week to another,
Harriet
spent less and less of her day on her feet. Less and less too was
she
able to use her fingers. Her life drifted more every day towards
one
chair, one which had been her affectation somewhat, ever since
Hugh
was taken away. Sophy thought she had always a strange look when
sitting in it. It was true. Harriet loved, since she must be idle, to be
idle in that chair. From it—for it was never moved—the light of the
little
sitting-room favoured her seeing what passed before her mind
when she was
reflective. She would pause sometimes in her work of
cleaning the ‘silver,’
and sit with tea-pot and chamois leather quiet in
her hands, and a fixed
look in her eyes. She still persisted in cleaning
the ‘silver’; but as she
was able to take care of less, less was used.
it was characteristic—all offers of ministration, and all
inquiries from
Sophy, were met with thanks and: ‘I am just thinking. Sophy
would
wait to see if anything would be added. But only a twinkling
smile
answered her curiosity, or a vague sentence cut short in the middle,
changed
35
changed presently to some matter
of fact, to the valuables she would
leave at her death: ‘You had better
have all the silver replated, my
dear; then it will last for years. And you
must have the drawing-
room clock cleaned. Don’t be afraid to spend money
having every-
thing done up. Then it will be as though you were starting
for your-
self. I shall come back, perhaps, and see what you are doing; but
you
wont see me! Then such a funny little laugh.
and money in the funds she left Sophy; the rest she took with her, into
the grave and out
on the other side. Sophy would not see her; Sophy
would not see anything
but house-linen and spoons. Hugh had never
seen anything; question if he
saw much now; she saw him.
‘Address an envelope to the manager of the bank,’ Sophy
did this.
Harriet slipped into the envelope a folded letter. ‘I want you to
take
this to the bank. Give it to one of the clerks and wait for an
answer.’
courtesy, for Harriet wanted little most hours of the
twenty-four. She
went out into the scullery where a charwoman was soiling the flags, in
the language of her irony,
at two shillings a day, and sent her off. A
cynical precaution; Harriet was
practically helpless, and the woman
might ransack the house. Then she went
upstairs and dressed herself
out in all the best she had. She had never
felt so ‘silly’ in her life; one
moment excessively serious, as though she
were going to take posses-
sion of the bank as a symbol of untold fortune;
the next, as utterly
conscious before the glass, posing her bonnet upon her
flattened hair.
She had never before worn all
her best on a weekday. She went off
to the bank without saying good-bye; so
much did she realise the
perfection of her appearance. The letter she
carried contained only a
blank sheet of paper.
alone with the accumulations of her life. She looked
slowly round the
little sitting-room, resting on each object with the same
thought. The
square table would be Sophy’s, the round one too; the china in
the
corner cupboard, each piece of china singly. The cupboard itself
was
a possession. The canary in its cage before the window would be
Sophy’s, the maidenhair ferns and the variegated houseleek below it.
All
would be Sophy’s, every visible object. Through the wall there,
in
36
in the drawing-room, which she
knew so well that the partition wall
scarcely existed, the piano (which
would have to be tuned), the
inlaid sideboard, and the candlesticks and
stuffed birds upon it, would
be Sophy’s. Hugh’s presentation Bible would be
hers; the rugs, the
pictures on the walls, the curtains, the coal-box, the
gilt-legged chair,
all must be left behind. Sophy would have all. Down
below her feet,
through the floor, all the crockery on the dresser would be
Sophy’s.
All the brass on the high black mantelshelf, the warming-pan
hanging
by the dresser, the commoner knives, the old clock, all the pots
and
crocks would be Sophy’s. A mayor’s dinner might be cooked in that
kitchen. Upstairs, the great bedsteads, the presses full, crammed with
linen, would be Sophy’s. Whatever happened, Sophy would never
want’ linen.
She herself would want one nightdress between her bones
and her coffin:
they would hide her neck with a napkin, and cover her
feet with another;
all in the common way. She left no directions on
this point. The costume of
the dead calls for loving invention. Sophy
would not rise to this; she did
not know.
wrapped in tissue-paper and safe inside baize-lined boxes.
All would
be Sophy’s; the hassock under her feet, the chair in which she
sat, the
clothes she wore, the shawl about her head, her brooch, her
mittens,
her slippers. All tangible things in the house were nearly
Sophy’s
own now; very nearly. What was all the house, with walls so
thin
and frail, as earthly substance is, that her poor eyesight was
not
stopped by them, pierced them like clear water or clear air? The
lines
of the room threatened to fade altogether at the bold thought.
The
lines of the window-frame wavered and curved; the horizontal
arched,
the perpendicular lines curved outwards as they dropped. It was
not
much she was leaving; perhaps she was not leaving much behind
Something, too, she took away. She had told Sophy where her will
was, that
there was money invested. There were other secrets she had
not told her,
which Sophy now would never know. Her limbs stiffened,
or were senseless.
She had no pain. Only the captivation of her eyes
by the shapeless light
through the window troubled her. It called to
her, drew her eyes with
magnetic power. Something rose in her
throat; her eyes darkened; and
Harriet was gone.
ET S’IL REVENAIT
ET s’il revenait un jour
Que faut-il lui
dire?
— Dites lui qu’on l’attendit
Jusqu’à s’en mourir . .
.
Et s’il demande où vous êtes
Que faut-il
répondre?
— Donnez-lui mon anneau d’or
Sans rien lui répondre .
. .
Et s’il m’interroge encore
Sans me
reconnaître?
— Parlez-lui comme une soeur
Il souffre peut être . .
.
Et s’il veut savoir pourquoi
La salle est
déserte?
— Montrez-lui la lampe éteinte
Et la porte ouverte . .
.
Et s’il m’interroge alors
Sur la dernière
heure?
— Dites-lui que j’ai souri
De peur qu’il ne
pleure.
MAURICE MAETERLINCK.
ON THE SHALLOWS
‘RAT-TA-TA, Fa-la-la! Fa-la-fa-la-La!
Now
you remember my tune, don’t you, Fan-
tasio?’
‘Yes, Lady, I remember it now,’ said the
boy,
hesitatingly.
‘Listen, my Lord. You were saying
that no woman
had ever composed a good
tune, though ’tis every woman’s business to
play. I could touch it lightly on the string
myself were it not that I’ve
hurt my finger with a plaguy tapestry
needle. But I am minded to show you a
piece of my teaching also.
Fantasio can’t play as Peter does, but Peter was
a Court minstrel.
Why don’t you play, boy?’
For answer came a queer sound from the page’s throat, and
an
instant tinkle of the chords. Trembling was the little hand
that held
the neck of the cithara, and the fingers of the other wavered as
they
pulled at the tight lines, now firmly, now feebly. And as the
Fa-la-
fa-la-la hovered over the still water, a long trumpet-call floated
through
the air from the castle tower far away across the sand-flats, with
a dis-
cordance sufficiently potent to hurt the Lady Joana’s melody.
At her order then he stopped for an interval, and the slow
oars
dipped sluggishly. Once more the far trees on the edge of
the cham-
paign seemed to move; once more they passed, one in front of
another;
once more the low sound of spent waves turning on the beach was
lost
in the gurgle at the boat’s prow; once more the two squires
chattered,
in tones becomingly subdued, to the two waiting-maids as the
keel
glided over the shallows.
Far out to sea lay the same slumbrous level, a wonderful
shining
floor of tinted silver it seemed as the light flashes of
purple came at
times over its dull gleam of gradual blue. There were tawny
regions
for miles round the solitary boat, tawny regions of shoal and
quicksand,
which melted away into the warm greyish-green of the deeps. And
over all—shallows and deeps—lay the same great peace, until the eye
wandered past one ship lying becalmed and faint, like a summer ghost
of
some butterfly dead too soon; past the warm white spot of its distant
sails
. . . to the horizon, whose sharp edge would seem to show that
some breeze
was passing along it to the unseen countries of the newly-
found West. A
dot was on that line, and the dot moved. Mayhap it
held
❧ SYMPHONY IN WHITE No. III
by
James M’Neil Whistler
43
held a band of fiery spirits, who were
off on the quest for Eldorado,
mayhap only a cautious crew of
merchantmen,—still it moved. But
here all life had become smoothed into a
long pause: the white ship
lay motionless, the clarion’s call died away,
the water never stirred,
but only slept and shone, the sigh of waves on the
sandy shore was as
the scarce-heard breathing of a girl’s repose. . . .
‘They have done with their noise,’ said Lady Joana. ‘So play
my
tune again, Fantasio, and do it better.’
‘Yes, Lady,’ mumbled the boy.
He had control of himself now, and the dancing notes
poured
merrily forth as his nimble fingers shifted over the
instrument. Light
and gay it was, this melody of a woman’s composing, and
it set one’s
blood on tip-toe with its frolicsome thrill. The women tapped
their
shoes instinctively as a current of dance tingled in heel and sole;
the
men tattooed with their fingers on the plank. Lady Joana laughed,
they all laughed, and the sound of their laughter blending with the
sigh of
the shore seemed to take a dreamy pleasantness that was the
expression of a
universal harmony, lying lightly on the shallows.
‘You do not say what you think of it, my Lord.’
‘Faith, I hardly know what to say,’ replied the young noble,
beating
about in the thickets of his mind for a courtly
compliment, for he felt
the responsibility of keeping up the Court’s
reputation. Alas! it was
a pseudo-glory, the halo of a gay place
surrounding the dullest and
most cloddish of its frequenters; but then
these country people expected
wit from him, so he must make a great effort,
for he did not wish to lose
lustre in the lady’s eyes.
‘Faith, . . . it is the brightness of your mind which dazzles
my dis-
cernment. It is as though all the groves of Arcadia were
open to be
seen, and the sheep cast off their nature and danced with their
fair
mistress. It’s such a . . . such a tune as Phoebus might have
invented
to charm the frowns of the Muses into smiles . . . it is a music
that
might be the very food of love. . . .’
Lady Joana drank it in with pleasure. Her looks said ‘More!’
but
Lord Bertram could not gratify her; he only continued that
it was very
pretty, it was vastly pretty, that it could not but please
hugely every
one who had the good fortune to hear it.
As he said this his eye fell on the page, who still wrought
at the
melody with bent head, hiding as well as he could the
woebegone
look which he felt to be evident on his face. Suddenly Lady Joana
spoke,
44
spoke, and the sound of her voice
caused the boy to wince slightly, as
if he had memories of a clout on the
ear. But it was the faintest shade
of a shrink, and for this time
groundless. His mistress was ordering
him to play for her singing, with
intent to charm Lord Bertram further.
Tinkle-tankle, thrum-thrum—and to the accompaniment of
the
sweet notes she carolled forth a ditty of birds and groves,
and flowers
and loves, with a little chorus of Down, down, derry-down. As
Lord
Bertram, with some pains, accomplished another string of
compliments,
again the far clarion-call came across the warm air and water.
‘There are fresh guests,’ said Lady Joana then, with a
pleased look
in her eye, ‘and we will be returning to welcome
them. So take the
rudder, Hugh.’
While Hugh did his mistress’s bidding, the boy Fantasio grew
absent
of mind and touched the strings to a little simple tune,
very lightly and
low. Lord Bertram listened, nevertheless, and interrupted
him with
praise, saying that it was the best of all he had yet played.
But
Fantasio, instead of going on, stopped in confusion, and looked
uneasy.
‘Boy,’ said Lady Joana, all at once, ‘play my dance to the men’s
oars
as they row!’
And instantly Fantasio obeyed, with the same suggestion of
a
shrink. Dip, dip, dip went the blades, and the tune kept time
with them.
‘’Twas his own tune, that last,’ whispered the farthest rower
to his
neighbour alongside him in the broad boat where two men
sat a seat.
‘My Lady is none too pleased, I warrant.’
‘Nay, I like this one also,’ said the other, who had not long
been in
this service, ‘a merry tune, that makes me fit to
dance.’
‘It is the tune to which poor Jack’s father was beaten out of
his life,’
whispered the first man. ‘He offended my Lady
somehow, and was
basted to satisfy her, there in the castle-yard. And,
being weakly just
then, it finished him next day. Made him spit out his
heart in blood.
‘Twas then that Jack came into my Lady’s service, and got
his new
name. Therefore he remembers the tune.’
So to the playing of Fantasio the boat glided shorewards,
dragging
heavily over the shallows. The party landed and filed
over the plain
to the castle, and passed through the great gate.
And when Fantasio had followed his mistress through her
greetings,
and had held her train through court and hall and
passage, till they
were alone—he and she,—she turned upon him and dealt his
head a
heavy blow with her scented fist—another, and another, to which he
submitted
45
submitted silently. ‘Little, low-bred
fellow,’ she said, as she viciously
pinched his ear, ‘this is for being too
forward.’
However, when at last she was gone, he rubbed his face
quietly and
dried his eyes. Then he took up the cithara, and,
peering out to see
that he was quite alone, played softly to himself the
thoughts which
came to him in such sorrowful moments—wild little airs and
curious
fancies, which were his refuge, his aids to patient silence.
So for a time he forgot that he was here fast bound on the
shallows
a servant to the caprices of a vain fine lady.
W. DELAPLAINE SCULL.
SONG
O HAVE you blessed, behind the stars,
The blue sheen in the
skies,
When June the roses round her calls?—
Then do you know the light that falls
From her belovèd eyes.
And have you felt the sense of peace
That morning meadows
give?—
Then do you know the spirit of grace,
The angel abiding in her face,
Who makes it good to
live.
She shines before me, hope and dream,
So fair, so still, so
wise,
That, winning her, I seem to win
Out of the drive and dust and din
A nook of Paradise.
W. E. HENLEY (1877).
THE DEATH OF TINTAGILES
BY MAURICE MAETERLINCK Translated by ALFRED SUTRO
CHARACTERS
TINTAGILES,
YGRAINE, . . . .}
Sisters of TINTAGILES
BELLENGÈRE, . . .}
AGLOVALE,
THREE SERVANTS OF THE QUEEN.
ACT I SCENE— On the top of a hill overlooking the castle.
[Enter YGRAINE, holding TINTAGILES by the hand.
YGRAINE. Your first night will be sad, Tintagiles. The roar
of the sea
is already about us; and the trees are moaning. It is
late. The
moon is sinking behind the poplars that stifle the
palace. . . . We
are alone, perhaps; but here, one has ever to be on
one’s guard. They
seem to watch lest the smallest happiness come near. I
said to
myself one day, right down in the depths of my
soul—and God
himself could scarcely hear;—I said to myself one day
that I was feel-
ing almost happy. . . . There needed nothing more, and
very soon
after, our old father died, and our two brothers
disappeared, and not a
living creature can tell us where they are. I am here
all alone, with
my poor sister and you, my little Tintagiles; and I
have no confid-
ence in the future. . . . Come to me; let me take you
on my knees.
First kiss me; and put your little arms—there—right
round my neck
. . . perhaps they will not be able to unfasten them.
… Do you
remember the time when it was I who carried you in the
evening,
when the hour had come; and how frightened you were at
the
shadows of my lamp in the corridors, those long
corridors with not a
single window? I felt my soul tremble on my lips when
I saw you
again, suddenly, this morning. . . . I thought you
were so far away
and so well cared for. . . . Who made you come
here?
TINTAGILES. I do not know, little sister.
YGRAINE. Do you remember what they said?
TINTAGILES. They said I must go away.
YGRAINE. But why had you to go away?
TINTAGILES. Because the Queen wished it.
YGRAINE. Did they not say why she wished it ? — I am sure
they must
have said many things.
TINTAGILES. Little sister, I did not hear.
48
YGRAINE. When they spoke among themselves, what was it they said?
TlNTAGlLES. Little sister, they dropped their voices when
they spoke.
Ygraine. All the time?
TlNTAGlLES. All the time, sister Ygraine; except when they
looked at
me.
YGRAINE. Did they say nothing about the Queen?
TlNTAGlLES. They said, sister Ygraine, that no one ever saw her.
YGRAINE. And the people who were with you on the ship, did
they say
nothing?
TlNTAGlLES. They gave all their time to the wind and the
sails, sister
Ygraine.
YGRAINE. Ah ! . . . That does not surprise me, my child. . . .
TlNTAGlLES. They left me all alone, little sister.
YGRAINE. Listen to me, Tintagiles; I will tell you what I know. . . .
TlNTAGlLES. What do you know, sister Ygraine?
YGRAINE. Very little, my child. … My sister and I have
gone on
living here ever since we were born, not daring to
understand the
things that happened. . . . I have lived a long time
in this island, and
I might as well have been blind; yet it all seemed
natural to me. . . .
A bird that flew, a leaf that trembled, a rose that
opened . . . these
were events to me. Such silence has always reigned
here that a
ripe fruit falling in the park would draw faces to the
window. . . .
And no one seemed to have any suspicion . . . but one
night I
learned that there must be something besides. . . . I
wished to
escape and I could not. . . . Have you understood what
I am telling
you?
TlNTAGlLES. Yes, yes, little sister ; I can understand anything. . . .
YGRAINE. Then let us not talk any more about these things .
. . one
does not know. . . . Do you see, behind the dead trees
which poison
the horizon, do you see the castle, there, right down
in the valley?
TlNTAGlLES. I see something very black—is that the castle,
sister
Ygraine?
YGRAINE. Yes, it is very black. … It lies far down amid a
mass
of gloomy shadows. . . . It is there we have to live.
. . . They
might have built it on the top of the great mountains
which
surround it. . . . The mountains are blue in the
day-time. . . . One
could have breathed. One could have looked down on the
sea
and on the plains beyond the cliffs But they preferred
to build
it deep down in the valley ; too low even for the air
to come. . . .
49
It is falling in ruins, and no one troubles. . . . The
walls are crumb-
ling: it might be fading away in the gloom. . . .
There is only one
tower which time does not touch. . . . It is enormous:
and its
shadow is always on the house.
TlNTAGlLES. They are lighting something, sister Ygraine. . .
. See,
see, the great red windows! . . .
YGRAINE. They are the windows of the tower, Tintagiles; they
are the
only ones in which you will ever see light; it is
there that the
Queen has her throne.
TINTAGILES. Shall I not see the Queen?
YGRAINE. No one can see her.
TINTAGLES. Why can no one see her?
YGRAINE. Come closer, Tintagiles. . . . Not even a bird or a
blade of
grass must hear us.
TINTAGILES. There is no grass, little sister . . . [a moment’s silence].
What does the Queen do?
YGRAINE. That no one knows, my child. She is never seen. . .
. She
lives there, all alone in the tower; and those who
wait on her do not
go out by daylight. . . . She is very old; she is the
mother of our
mother, and she wishes to reign alone. . . . She is
suspicious and
jealous, and they say she is mad. . . . She is afraid
lest some one
should raise himself to her place; and it is probably
because of this
fear of hers that you have been brought here. . . .
Her orders are
carried out: but no one knows how. . . . She never
leaves the tower,
and all the gates are closed night and day. . . . I
have never seen
her, but it seems others have, long ago, when she was
young. . . .
TINTAGILES. Is she very ugly, sister Ygraine?
YGRAINE. They say she is not beautiful, and that her form is
strange.
. . . But those who have seen her dare not speak of
her. . . . And
who knows whether they have seen her? . . . She has a
power which
we do not understand, and we live here with a terrible
weight on our
soul. . . . You must not be unduly frightened, or have
bad dreams;
we will watch over you, little Tintagiles, and no harm
can come to
you; but do not stray far from me, or your sister
Bellangere, or our old
master Aglovale.
TINTAGILES. Aglovale, too, sister Ygraine?
YGRAINE. Aglovale too . . . he loves us . . .
TINTAGILES. He is so old, little sister!
YGRAINE. He is old, but very wise. . . . He is the only friend we have
50
left; and he knows many things. . . . It is strange; she
made you
come here, and no one was told of it. … I do not
know what
is in my heart. … I was sorrowful and glad to know
that you
were far away, beyond the sea. . . . And now … I was
taken by
surprise.
… I went out this morning to see whether the sun was
rising over
the mountains ; and I saw you on the threshold. … I
knew you at
once.
TlNTAGlLES. No, no, little sister; it was I who laughed first. . . .
YGRAINE. I could not laugh . . . just then. . . . You will
understand. . . .
It is time, Tintagiles, and the wind is becoming black
on the sea. . . .
Kiss me, before getting up; kiss me, harder, again,
again. . . . You
do not know how one loves. . . . Give me your little
hand. . . . I
will keep it in mine, and we will go back to the old
sick castle.
[They go out.
ACT II SCENE—A room in the castle, in which AGLOVALE
and YGRAINE are
seated.
[Enter BELLANGÈRE.]
BELLANGÈRE. Where is Tintagiles?
YGRAINE. He is here; do not speak too loud. He is asleep in
the
other room. He was a little pale, he did not seem
well. The
journey had tired him—he was a long time on the sea.
Or perhaps
it is the atmosphere of the castle which has alarmed
his little soul.
He was crying, and did not know why he cried. I nursed
him on my
knees; come look at him. . . . He is asleep in our
bed. . . . He lies
there, with one hand on his brow, looking very
serious, like a little
sorrowful king. . . .
BELLANGÈRE [suddenly bursting into
tears]. Sister! Sister! . . . my
poor sister! . . .
YGRAINE. Why are you crying?
BELLANGÈRE. I dare not tell what I know . . . and I am not
sure that
I know anything . . . but yet I have heard — that
which one could
not hear . . .
YGRAINE. What have you heard?
BELLANGÈRE. I was passing close to the corridors of the tower . . .
YGRAINE. Ah! . . .
❧ PSYCHE IN THE HOUSE
by
Charles Ricketts
55
BELLANGÈRE. One of the doors was ajar. I pushed it very
gently
. . . I went in . . .
YGRAINE. Where?
BELLANGÈRE. I had never seen. . . . There were other
corridors lighted
with lamps; and then low galleries, which seemed to
have no end. . . .
I knew it was forbidden to go farther. . . . I was
afraid and was
about to go back, but there was a sound of voices . .
. though one
could scarcely hear . . .
YGRAINE. It must have been the servants of the Queen; they
live at the
foot of the tower . . .
BELLANGÈRE. I do not know quite what it was. . . . There
must have
been more than one door between; and the voices came
to me like the
voice of some one who is being strangled. … I went
as near as I
could. . . . I am not sure of anything: but I believe
they were speak-
ing of a child who had arrived to-day, and of a crown
of gold. . .
They seemed to be laughing . . .
YGRAINE. They were laughing?
BELLANGÈRE. Yes, I think they were laughing . . . unless it
was
that they were crying, or that it was something that I
did not under-
stand; for one heard badly, and their voices were low.
. . . There
seemed to be a great many of them moving about in the
vault.
They were speaking of the child that the Queen wished
to see. . .
They will probably come here this evening . . .
YGRAINE. What? . . . this evening? . .’ .
BELLANGÈRE. Yes . . . yes. … I think so . . . yes . . .
YGRAINE. Did they not mention any name?
BELLANGÈRE. They spoke of a child—a little, little child . . .
YGRAINE. There is no other child here . . .
BELLANGÈRE. Just then they raised their voices a little, for
one of them
had doubted whether the day was come . . .
YGRAINE. I know what that means, and it will not be the
first time
that they have left the tower. . . . I knew but too
well why she made
him come . . . but I could not think that she would
show such
haste as this! . . . We shall see . . . there are
three of us, and we
have time . . .
BELLANGÈRE. What do you mean to do?
YGRAINE. I do not know as yet what I shall do, but I shall
surprise
her . . . do you know what that means, you who can
only tremble?
. . . I will tell you . . .
56
BELLANGÈRE. What?
YGRAINE. She shall not take him without a struggle . . .
BELLANGÈRE. We are alone, sister Ygraine . . .
YGRAINE. Ah! It is true we are alone! . . . There is only
one thing to
be done, and it never fails us! . . . Let us wait on
our knees as we
did before . . . Perhaps she will have pity! . . . She
allows herself to
Be moved by tears. . . . We must grant her everything
she asks; she
will smile perhaps; and it is her habit to spare all
those who kneel.
. . . All these years she has been there in her
enormous tower,
devouring those we love, and not a single one has
dared strike her in
the face. . . . She lies on our soul like the stone of
a tomb, and no
one dares stretch out his arm. . . . In the times
where there were men
here, they too were afraid, and fell upon their faces.
. . . To-day it
is the woman’s turn . . . we shall see. . . . It is
time that some one
should dare to rise. . . . No one knows on what her
power rests,
and I will no longer live in the shadow of her tower.
. . . Go away,
if you two can only tremble like this—go away both of
you, and
leave me still more alone. . . . I will wait for her .
. .
BELLANGÈRE. Sister, I do not know what has to be done, but I
will wait
with you . . .
AGLOVALE. I too will wait, my daughter. . . . My sould has
long been
ill at ease. . . . You will try . . . we have tried
more than once . . .
YGRAINE. You have tried . . . you also?
AGLOVALE. They have all tried. . . . But at the last moment
their,
strength failed them. . . . You too, you shall see. .
. . If she were
to command me to go up to her this very evening, I
would put
my two hands together and say nothing; and my weary
feet would
climb the staircase, without lingering and without
hastening, though
I know full well that none come down again with
unclosed eyes.
. . . There is no courage left in me against her . . .
out hands
are helpless, and can touch no one. . . . Other hands
than these
are wanted, and all is useless. . . . But you are
hopeful, and I will
assist you. . . . Close the doors, my child. . . .
Awaken Tintagiles;
bare your little arms and enfold him within them, and
take him
on your knees . . . we have no other defence . .
.
57
ACT III SCENE—The same room.
[YGRAINE and AGLOVALE]
YGRAINE. I have been to look at the doors. There are three
of them.
We will watch the large one. . . . The two others are
low and heavy.
They are never opened. The keys were lost long ago,
and the iron
bars are sunk into the walls. Help me close this door;
it is heavier
than the gate of a city. . . . It is very massive; the
lightning itself
could not pierce through it. . . . Are you prepared
for all that may
happen?
AGLOVALE [seating himself on the
threshold]. I will go seat myself on
the steps; my sword upon my knees. . . . I do not
think this is the
first time that I have waited and watched here, my
child; and there
are moments when one does not understand all that one
remembers.
. . . I have done all this before, I do not know when
. . . but I
have never dared draw my sword. . . . Now, it lies
there before me,
though my arms no longer have strength; but I intend
to try. . . .
It is perhaps time that men should defend themselves,
even though
they do not understand. . . .
[BELLANGÈRE, carrying TINTAGILES
in her arms, comes out of the
adjoining room.]
BELLANGÈRE. He was awake. . . .
YGRAINE. He is pale . . . what ails him?
BELLANGÈRE. I do not know . . . he was very silent. . . . He
was
crying. . . .
YGRAINE. Tintagiles. . . .
BELLANGÈRE. He is looking away from you.
YGRAINE. He does not seem to know me. . . . Tintagiles,
where you are
you?—Are you suffering any pain? . . .
TINTAGILES. Yes. . . .
YGRAINE. Where do you suffere pain?—Tell me, Tintagiles, and I will cure you. . . .
58
TlNTAGILES. I cannot tell, sister Ygraine . . . everywhere. . . .
YGRAINE. Come to me, Tintagiles. … You know that my arms
are
softer, and I will put them around you, and you will
feel better at
once. . . . Give him to me, Bellangere. … He shall
sit on my knees,
and the pain will go. . . . There, you see? . . . Your
big sisters are
here. . . . They are close to you … we will defend
you, and no evil
can come near. …
TINTAGILES. It has come, sister Ygraine. . . . Why is there
no light,
sister Ygraine?
YGRAINE. There is a light, my child . . . Do you not see the
lamp
which hangs from the rafters?
TINTAGILES. Yes, yes. . . . It is not large. . . . Are there
no
others?
YGRAINE. Why should there be others? We can see what we have
to
see. . . .
TINTAGILES. Ah! . . .
YGRAINE. Oh! your eyes are deep. . . .
TINTAGILES. So are yours, sister Ygraine. . . .
YGRAINE. I did not notice it this morning. . . . I have just
seen in your
eyes. . . . We do not quite know what the soul thinks
it sees. . . .
TINTAGILES. I have not seen the soul, sister Ygraine. . . .
But why is
Aglovale on the threshold?
YGRAINE. He is resting a little. . . . He wanted to kiss you
before
going to bed . . . he was waiting for you to wake. . .
.
TINTAGILES. What has he on his knees?
YGRAINE. On his knees? I see nothing on his knees. . .
TINTAGILES. Yes, yes, there is something. . . .
AGLOVALE. It is nothing, my child. . . . I was looking at my
old
sword; and I scarcely recognise it. . . . It has
served me many years,
but for a long time past I have lost confidence in it,
and I think it is
going to break. . . . Here, just by the hilt, there is
a little stain. . . .
I had noticed that the steel was growing paler, and I
asked myself.
. . .I do not remember what I asked myself. … My
soul is very
heavy to-day. . . . What is one to do? . . . Men must
needs live and
await the unforeseen. . . . And after that they must
still act as if
they hoped. . . . There are sad evenings when our
useless lives
taste bitter in our mouths, and we would like to close
our eyes. . . .
It is late, and I am tired. . . .
TINTAGILES. He has wounds, sister Ygraine.
59
YGRAINE. Where?
TINTAGILES. On his forehead and on his hands. . . .
AGLOVALE. Those are very old wounds, from which I suffer no
longer,
my child. . . The light must be falling on them this
evening. . . .
You had not noticed them before?
TINTAGILES. He looks sad, sister Ygraine. . . .
YGRAINE. No, no, he is not sad, but very weary. . . .
TINTAGILES. You too, you are sad, sister Ygraine. . . .
YGRAINE. Why no, why no; look at me, I am smiling. . . .
TINTAGILES. And my other sister too. . . .
YGRAINE. Oh no, she too is smiling.
TINTAGILES. No, that is not a smile . . . I know. . . .
YGRAINE. Come, kiss me, and think of something else. . . .
[She kisses
him.]
TINTAGILES. Of what shall I think, sister Ygraine? — Why do
you hurt
me when you kiss me?
YGRAINE. Did I hurt you?
TINTAGILES. Yes. . . . I do not know why I hear your heart
beat,
sister Ygraine. . . .
YGRAINE. Do you hear it beat?
TINTAGILES. Oh! Oh! it beats as though it wanted to . . .
YGRAINE. What?
TINTAGILES. I do not know, sister Ygraine.
YGRAINE. It is wrong to be frightened without reason, and to
speak in
riddles. . . . Oh! your eyes are full of tears. . . .
Why are you
unhappy? I hear your heart beating, now . . . people
always hear
them when they hold one another so close. It is then
that the heart
speaks and says things that the tongue does not know.
. .
TINTAGILES. I heard nothing before. . . .
YGRAINE. That was because. … Oh! but your heart! . . .
What is
the matter? . . . It is bursting! . . .
TINTAGILES [Crying]. Sister Ygraine! sister Ygraine!
YGRAINE. What is it?
TINTAGILES. I have heard. . . . They . . . they are coming!
YGRAINE. Who? Who are coming ? . . . What has happened ? . .
TINTAGILES. The door! the door! They were there! . . .
[He falls
backwards on to Ygraine’ s
knees].
YGRAINE. What is it? . . . He has … he has fainted. . . .
BELLANGÈRE. Take care . . . take care . . . He will fall . .
60
AGLOVALE [rising brusquely , his sword
in his hand]. I too can hear . . .
there are steps in the corridor.
YGRAINE. Oh! . . .
[A moment’s silence—they all listen.]
AGLOVALE. Yes, I hear. . . . There is a crowd of them. . . .
YGRAINE. A crowd . . . a crowd . . . how?
AGLOVALE. I do not know . . . one hears and one does not
hear. . . .
They do not move like other creatures, but they come.
. . . They
are touching the door. . . .
YGRAINE [clasping TlNTAGlLES in her
arms], Tintagiles! . . . Tinta-
giles! . . .
BELLANGÈRE [embracing him]. Let me, too! let me! . . . Tintagiles!
AGLOVALE. They are shaking the door . . . listen . . . do
not breathe.
. . . They are whispering. . . .
[A key is heard turning harshly
in the lock.]
YGRAINE. They have the key! . . .
AGLOVALE. Yes . . . yes. . . . I was sure of it. . . . Wait
. . . [He
plants himself, with sword outstretched, on the last
step. To the two
sisters]. Come! come both! . . .
[For a moment there is silence.
The door opens slowly. AGLOVALE
thrusts his
sword wildly through the opening, driving the
point between
the beams. The sword breaks with a loud
report under the
silent pressure of the timber, and the pieces of
steel roll down
the steps with a resounding clang. YGRAINE
leaps up,
carrying in her arms TlNTAGlLES,who has
fainted;
and she,
BELLANGÈRE, and AGLOVALE, putting forth all their
strength, try,
but in vain, to close the door, which slowly opens
wider and wider,
although no one can be seen or heard. Only,
a cold and calm
light penetrates into the room. At this
moment
TlNTAGlLES, suddenly stretching out Ins limbs,
regains
consciousness,
sends forth a long cry of deliverance, and
embraces his
sister—and at this very instant the door, which
resists no
longer, falls to brusquely under their pressure, which
they have not
had time to relinquish.]
YGRAINE. Tintagiles! [They look at each other with astonishment.]
AGLOVALE [waiting at the door]. I hear nothing now. . . .
YGRAINE [wild with joy]. Tintagiles! Tintagiles! Look! Look! . . .
61
He is saved! . . . Look at his eyes . . . you can see
the blue. . . . He
is going to speak. . . . They saw we were watching. .
. . They did not
dare. . . . Kiss us! . . . Kiss us, I say! . . . Kiss
us! . . . All! all!
. . . Down to the depths of our souls! . . . [All four , their eyes
full of tears, fall into each
other’s arms.]
ACT IV SCENE—A corridor in front of the room in which the last Act took place.
[Three SERVANTS of the Queen enter. They are all veiled, and
their
long black robes flow down to the
ground.
FIRST SERVANT. [listening at the door]. They are not watching. . . .
SECOND SERVANT. We need not have waited. . . .
THIRD SERVANT. She prefers that it should be done in silence. . . .
FIRST SERVANT. I knew that they must fall asleep. . . .
SECOND SERVANT. Quick! . . . open the door. . . .
THIRD SERVANT. It is time. . . .
FIRST SERVANT. Wait there . . . I will enter alone. There is
no need
for three of us. . . .
SECOND SERVANT. You are right: he is very small. . . .
THIRD SERVANT. You must be careful with the elder sister. . . .
SECOND SERVANT. Remember the Queen does not want them
to
know. . . .
FIRST SERVANT. Have no fear; people seldom hear my coming. . . .
SECOND SERVANT. Go in then; it is time.
[The FIRST SERVANT opens the door cautiously and goes into the
room.]
It is close on midnight. . . .
THIRD SERVANT. Ah! . . .
[A moment’s silence. The FIRST SERVANT comes out of the room.]
SECOND SERVANT. Where is he?
FIRST SERVANT. He is asleep between his sisters. His arms
are
around their necks; and their arms enfold him I cannot
do it
alone. . . .
SECOND SERVANT. I will help you. . . .
THIRD SERVANT. Yes; do you go together. . . . 1 will keep
watch
here. . . .
62
FIRST SERVANT. Be careful; they seem to know. . . . They
were all
three struggling with a bad dream. . . .
[The two SERVANTS go into the room.]
THIRD SERVANT. People always know; but they do not understand. . . .
[A moments silence. The
FIRST and SECOND SERVANTS come out
of the room again.]
THIRD SERVANT. Well?
SECOND SERVANT. You must come too . . . we cannot
separate
them. . . .
FIRST SERVANT. No sooner do we unclasp their arms than they
fall
back around the child. . . .
SECOND SERVANT. And the child nestles closer and closer
to
them. . . .
FIRST SERVANT. He is lying with his forehead on the elder
sisters
heart. . . .
SECOND SERVANT. And his head rises and falls on her bosom. . . .
FIRST SERVANT. We shall not be able to open his hands. . . .
SECOND SERVANT. They are plunged deep down into his sisters
FIRST SERVANT. He holds one golden curl between his
little
teeth. . . .
SECOND SERVANT. We shall have to cut the elder sister’s hair.
FIRST SERVANT. And the other sister’s too, you shall see. . . .
SECOND SERVANT. Have you your scissors?
THIRD SERVANT. Yes. . . .
FIRST SERVANT. Come quickly; they have begun to move. . . .
SECOND SERVANT. Their hearts and their eyelids are
throbbing
together. . . .
FIRST SERVANT. Yes; I caught a glimpse of the elder girl’s
blue
eyes. . . .
SECOND SERVANT. She looked at us but did not see us. . . .
FIRST SERVANT. If one touches one of them, the other two tremble.
SECOND SERVANT. They are trying hard, but they cannot stir.
FIRST SERVANT. The elder sister wishes to scream, but she cannot.
SECOND SERVANT. Come quickly; they seem to know. . . .
THIRD SERVANT. Where is the old man?
FIRST SERVANT. He is asleep—away from the others. . . .
❧ ŒDIPUS
after a pen drawing
by
Charles Ricketts
67
SECOND SERVANT. He sleeps, his forehead resting on the hilt
of his
sword. . . .
FIRST SERVANT. He knows of nothing; and he has no dreams. . . .
THIRD SERVANT. Come, come, we must hasten. . . .
FIRST SERVANT. You will find it difficult to separate their limbs. . . .
SECOND SERVANT. They are clutching at each other as though
they
were drowning.
THIRD SERVANT. Come, come. . . .
[They go in. The silence is broken only
by sighs and low murmurs
of suffering, held in thrall by
sleep. Then the three Servants
emerge very hurriedly from the
gloomy room. One of them
carries TlNTAGlLES, who is fast asleep, in her arms. From
his little hands, twitching in
sleep, and his mouth, drawn in
agony, a glittering stream of
golden tresses, ravished from the
heads of his sisters, flows down
to the ground. The SERVANTS
hurry on. There is perfect
silence; but no sooner have they
reached the end of the corridor
than TlNTAGlLES awakes, and
sends forth a cry of supreme
distress.]
TlNTAGlLES. [from the end of the corridor]. Aah! . . .
[There is again silence. Then,
from the adjoining room the two
sisters are heard moving about
restlessly.]
YGRAINE [in the room]. Tintagiles! . . . where is he?
BELLANGÈRE. He is not here. . . .
YGRAINE [with growing anguish].
Tintagiles! . . . a lamp, a lamp! . . .
Light it! . . .
BELLANGÈRE. Yes . . . Yes. . . .
[Ygraine is seen coming out of the room with the lighted lamp
in
her hand.]
YGRAINE. The door is wide open!
The voice of TlNTAGlLES [almost
inaudible in the distance]. Sister
Ygraine!
YGRAINE. He calls! . . . He calls! . . . Tintagiles! Tintagiles! . . .
[She rushes into the corridor.
BELLANGÈRE tries to follow, but>
falls fainting on the
threshold.]
68
ACT V SCENE—Before a great iron door in a gloomy vault.
[Enter Ygkaine, haggard and dishevelled , with a lamp in her hand.]
YGRAINE [turning wildly to and
fro] They have not followed me ! . . .
Bellangère! . . . Bellangère! . . . Aglovale! . . .
Where are they?—
They said they loved him and they leave me alone! . .
. Tintagiles! . . .
Tintagiles! . . . Oh! I remember . . . I have climbed
steps without
number, between great pitiless walls, and my heart
bids me live no
longer . . . These vaults seem to move . . . [She supports herself
against the pillars]. I am
falling . . . Oh! Oh! my poor life! I can
feel it . . . It is trembling on my lips—it wants to
depart . . .
I do not know what I have done . . . I have seen
nothing, I have
heard nothing . . . Oh, this silence! . . . All along
the steps and
all along the walls I found these golden curls; and I
followed them.
I picked them up . . . Oh! oh! they are very pretty! .
. . Little
childie . . . little childie . . . what was I saying?
I remember . . .
I do not believe in it . . . When one sleeps . . . All
that has no
importance and is not possible . . . Of what am I
thinking? . . .
I do not know . . . One awakes, and then . . . After
all—come, after
all—I must think this out . . . Some say one thing,
some say the
other; but the way of the soul is quite different.
When the chain is
taken off, there is much more than one knows. . . . I
came here with
my little lamp. . . . It did not go out, in spite of
the wind on the stair-
case . . . And then, what is one to think? There are
so many things
which are so vague . . . There must be people who know
them; but
why do they not speak? [She looks
around her.] I have never seen
all this before . . . It is difficult to get so
far—and it is all forbidden
How cold it is . . . And so dark that one is afraid to
breathe . . .
They say there is poison in these gloomy shadows . . .
That door
looks very terrible . . . [She
goes up to the door and touches it.] Oh!
how cold it is … It is of iron . . . solid iron—and
there is no lock
How can they open it? I see no hinges … I suppose it
is
sunk into the wall . . . This is as far as one can go
. . . There are
no more steps. [Suddenly sending
forth a terrible shriek.] Ah! . . .
more golden hair between the panels! . . . Tintagiles!
Tintagiles! . . .
I heard the door close just now . . . I remember! I
remember! . . .
It must be! [She beats frantically
against the door with hands and feet.]
Oh, monster! monster! It is here that I find you! . .
. Listen!
I blaspheme! I blaspheme and spit upon you!
69
[Feeble knocks are heard from the other
side of the door: then the voice
of TINTAGILES penetrates very feebly through the iron
panels.]
TlNTAGlLES. Sister Ygraine, sister Ygraine! . . .
YGRAINE. Tintagiles! . . . What! . . . what! . . .
Tintagiles, is it
you? . . .
TINTAGILES. Quick, open, open! . . . She is here! . . .
YGRAINE. Oh! oh! … Who? Tintagiles, my little Tintagiles .
. .
can you hear me? . . . What is it? . . . What has
happened? . . .
Tintagiles! . . . Have they hurt you? . . . Where are
you? . . .
Are you there ? . . .
TINTAGILES. Sister Ygraine, sister Ygraine! . . . Open for
me—or I
shall die . . .
YGRAINE. I will try—wait, wait . . . I will open it, I will open it. . . .
TINTAGILES. But you do not understand! . . . Sister Ygraine!
. . . There
is no time to lose! . . . She tried to hold me back! .
. . I struck her,
struck her . . . I ran . . . Quick, quick, she is
coming!
YGRAINE. Yes, yes . . . where is she?
TINTAGILES. I can see nothing . . . but I hear . . . oh, I
am afraid,
sister Ygraine, I am afraid . . . Quick, quick! . . .
Quick, open! . . .
for the dear Lords sake, sister Ygraine! . . .
YGRAINE [anxiously groping along the
door]. I am sure to find it . . .
Wait a little . . . a minute . . . a second. . .
.
TINTAGILES. I cannot, sister Ygraine . . . I can feel her
breath on me
now. . . .
YGRAINE. It is nothing, Tintagiles, my little Tintagiles; do
not be
frightened . . . if I could only see . . .
TINTAGILES. Oh, but you can see; I can see your lamp from
here . . .
It is quite light where you are, sister Ygraine . . .
Here I can see
nothing. . . .
YGRAINE. You see me, Tintagiles? How can you see? There is
not a
crack in the door . . .
TINTAGILES. Yes, yes, there is; but it is so small! . . .
YGRAINE. On which side? Is it here? . . . tell me, tell me
… or is
it over there?
TINTAGILES. It is here . . . Listen, listen! . . . I am knocking. . . .
YGRAINE. Here?
TINTAGILES. Higher up . . . But it is so small! . . . A
needle could not
go through! . . .
YGRAINE. Do not be afraid, I am here. . . .
70
TlNTAGILES. Oh, I know, sister Ygraine! . . . Pull! pull!
You must pull!
She is coming! . . . if you could only open a little .
. . a very little. . . .
I am so small!
YGRAINE. My nails are broken, Tintagiles . . . I have
pulled, I have
pushed, I have struck with all my might—with all my
might! [She
strikes again, and tries to shake
the massive door.] Two of my fingers
are numbed. . . . Do not cry. . . . It is of iron. . .
.
TlNTAGILES [sobbing in despair].
You have nothing to open with, sister
Ygraine? . . . nothing at all, nothing at all? . . . I
could get through
. . . I am so small, so very small . . . you know how
small I am. . . .
YGRAINE. I have only my lamp, Tintagiles. . . . There!
there! [She
aims repeated blows at the gate
with her earthenware lamp, which goes
out and breaks, the pieces falling
to the ground.] Oh! . . . It has all
grown dark! . . . Tintagiles, where are you? . . . Oh!
listen, listen!
Can you not open from the inside? . . .
TlNTAGILES. No, no; there is nothing. . . . I cannot feel
anything at
all. . . . I cannot see the light through the crack
any more. . . .
YGRAINE. What is the matter, Tintagiles? . . . I can
scarcely hear
you. . . .
TINTAGILES. Little sister, sister Ygraine. . . . It is too late now. . . .
YGRAINE. What is it, Tintagiles? . . . Where are you going?
TINTAGILES. She is here! . . . Oh, I am so weak. Sister
Ygraine,
sister Ygraine … I feel her on me! . . .
YGRAINE. Whom? . . . whom? . . .
TINTAGILES. I do not know . . . I cannot see. . . . But it
is too late
now . . She . . . she is taking me by the throat. . .
. Her hand is
at my throat Oh, oh, sister Ygraine, come to me!. .
.
YGRAINE. Yes, yes. . . .
TINTAGILES. It is so dark. . . .
YGRAINE. Struggle-fight-tear her to pieces! . . Do not be
afraid
. . .Wait a moment! . . . I am here . . . Tintagiles?
. . . Tintagiles!
answer me! . . . Help!!! . . . where are you? . . . I
will come to
you . . . kiss me . . . through the door . . .
here—here.
TlNTAGILES [very feebly]. Here . . . here . . . Sister Ygraine . . .
YGRAINE. I am putting my kisses on this spot here, do you
under-
stand? Again, again!
TINTAGILES [more and more feebly] Mine too—here . . .
sister
Ygraine! Sister Ygraine! . . . Oh!
[The fall of a little body is heard behind the iron door.]
71
YGRAINE. Tintagiles! . . . Tintagiles! . . . What have you done? . . .
Give
him back, give him back! . . . for the love of God, give him
back to me! .
. . I can hear nothing. . . . What are you doing with
him? . . . You will
not hurt him? . . . He is only a little child. . . .
He cannot resist. . .
. Look, look! . . . I mean no harm . . . I am
on my knees. . . . Give him
back to us, I beg of you. . . . Not for my
sake only, you know it well. . .
. I will do anything. . . . I bear no
ill-will, you see. . . . I implore
you with clasped hands. . . . I was
wrong. . . . I am quite resigned, you
see. . . . I have lost all I
had . . . You should punish me some other way.
. . . There are so
many things which would hurt me more . . . if you want
to hurt me.
. . . You shall see. . . . But this poor child has done no
harm. . . . What
I said was not true . . . but I did not know. . . . I know
that you
are very good. . . . Surely the time for forgiveness has come! . .
.
He is so young and beautiful, and he is so small! . . . You must see
that it cannot be! . . . He puts his little arms around your neck: his
little mouth on your mouth; and God Himself cannot say him nay
. . . You
will open the door, will you not? . . . I am asking so little
. . . I want
him for an instant, just for an instant. . . . I cannot
remember. . . . You
will understand. . . . I did not have time. . . .
He can get through the
tiniest opening . . . It is not difficult. . . .
[A
long inexorable silence] . . . Monster! . . . Monster! . . .
Curse
you! Curse you! . . . I spit on you!
[She sinks down and continues to sob softly, her arms
outspread against
the gate, in the gloom.]
DAVID GWYNN — HERO OR ‘BOASTING LIAR’?
(From ‘Historical Problems’)
I ‘A GALLEY lie’ ye call my tale; but he
Whose talk is with the deep kens mighty tales.
The man, I say, who helped to keep you free
Stands here, a truthful son of truthful Wales.
Slandered by England as a loose-lipped liar,
Banished from Ireland, branded rogue and thief,
Here stands that Gwynn, whose life of torments dire
Heaven sealed for England, sealed in blood and fire
Stands asking here Truths one reward, belief!
II I see—I see ev’n now—those ships of Spain
Gathered in Lisbon Bay to make the spring,
I feel the curséd oars, I toil again,
And trumpets blare, and priests and choir-boys sing;
And morning strikes with many a golden shaft,
Through ruddy mist, four galleys rowing out,
Four galleys built to pierce the English craft,
Each swivel-gunned for raking fore and aft,
Snouted like sword-fish, but with iron snout.
III And one we call The Princess, one The Royal,
Diana one; and last that fell Basana
Where I am toiling, Gwynn, the true, the loyal
Thinking of mighty Drake and Gloriana.
By Finisterre God sends a hurricane;
Down comes the captain, and quoth he to me—
His Hell-lit eyes blistered with spray and rain—
‘Freedom and gold are thine, and thanks of Spain,
If thou canst take the galley through this sea.’
❧Professor Laughtons introduction to ‘State Papers
relating to the defeat of the Spanish
Armada’ lends a revived interest
to David Gwynns ‘galley yarn,’ which the Professor repu-
diates. It is
treated by Motley as an important episode in the great naval struggle between
England and Spain.
73
IV Ay ! ay !’ quoth I. The fools unlock me straight,
And soon ’tis I give orders to the Don,
Laughing within to hear the laugh of Fate:
Soldiers must go below, quoth I, ‘each one!’
Death whispers thus: ‘While soldiers sit below
‘Twixt slaves, whose hate turns nails and teeth to
knives,
Seize thou the muskets; turn them on the foe;
But watch with me, before thou strike the blow,
Till thou canst free the stoutest from their gyves.’
V The four queen-galleys pass Cape Finisterre:
The Armada, dreaming but of ocean storms,
Thinks not of British slaves with shoulders bare
Chained, bloody-whealed, and pale on galley forms.
Each, as he rows, hath this my whispered plan
Deep-scriptured in his brain in words of fire:
‘Rise every man, and tear to death his man,
Yea, tear as only galley captives can,
When “Gods Revenge” sings loud to Oceans lyre.’
VI Past Ferrol Bay I see each galley stoop,
Shuddering before the Biscay demons breath—
Down goes a prow—down goes a gaudy poop:
‘The Dons Diana bears the Don
to death,
Quoth I, ‘and, see the Princess plunge and
wallow
Down purple troughs o’er snowy crests of foam:
See! see! the Royal, how she tries to
follow
By many a glimmering crest and shimmering hollow,
Where gull and petrel scarcely dare to roam.’
VII And now Death signs to me mid Oceans din;
The captain sees the skeleton and pales;
And when the slaves cry ‘Ho for Drake and Gwynn!’
‘Teach them,’ quoth I, ‘the way we swim in Wales!’
Sweet strokes are they we deal for old loves sake
When slaves are turned to lords, and lords to
slaves.
When captives hold the whip, let drivers quake!
Make every Don, athirst for blood of Drake,
Toast England’s Queen in wine of foaming waves.’
74
VIII Far off, the Royal’s captain sees the strife,
Her slaves see too—see Freedom coming on.
‘Ye scourge in vain,’ quoth I, ‘scourging for life
Slaves who shall row no more to save the Don.’
‘Captives,’ I cry, ‘your hour is coming swift:
Through David Gwynn God frees you from your pain;
Show Heaven and me your lives are worth the gift!’
Full soon the captured Royal rides adrift:
‘Ask Gwynn,’ quoth I,’for four queen-galleys, Spain—
IX Spain, who shalt tell, with ashen lips of dread,
The Welshmans tale—shalt tell in future days
How Gwynn, the galley slave, once fought and bled
For England, when she moved through perilous ways!’
And, now, ye Plymouth seamen, heroes sprung
From loins of men whose spirits haunt the sea,
Doth England, she who loves the loudest tongue,
Remember sons of hers whose deeds are sung
By yon green billows sworn to hold her free?
X To think the great new thought or do the deed
That gilds with richer light the mother-land,
Or lend her strength of arm in hour of need,
When eyes of Doom gleam fierce on every hand,
Is bliss to him whose bliss is working well—
Is goal and guerdon, too, though boasters loud
Make brazen music for the leaden crowd,
Dazzled and deafened by the babblers spell.
❧ LOVE
a brush drawing
by
Sir John Everett Millais, R.A.
THE WORK OF CHARLES RICKETTS
PRE-RAPHAELITE!—the term is accepted, and
a singularly individual movement of
roman-
ticism in literature and art must needs be
content with the
ill-formed adjective. But
when one sets out on a career of apprecia-
tion of an artist who restricts himself to
this method of expression that
is not, and
never was, sympathetic to the masses, it is
with no hope
of convincing any one who
chances to be prejudiced against it. In writing
of art, the critic
writes merely to convince himself. When he sees his
vague
beliefs formulated in a sort of creed, it strengthens his own
and he feels, no doubt, that he is right; thus he is assured of
one convert
at least.
But although Mr. Charles Ricketts would probably not refuse
to call
himself a Pre-Raphaelite, if forced to adopt the
nickname of a great
school, yet it is also certain that his definition of
the aims and ideals
conveyed by that word would differ entirely from the
current accepta-
tion. The original Brotherhood have recorded their own
intentions
often enough—a whole literature of misrepresentation has also
gathered
round the school—so that it is best here to insist that the
Pre-
Raphaelitism of Mr. Ricketts is best understood by study of his
work.
In place of attempting to define the expression and show how
loyally
the artist obeys its most stringent rules, it were best to call
attention to
his method and his achievements, and let those who will deduce
the
creed from the practice. For any direct statement of
Pre-Raphaelite
aims and ideals seems doomed to be misinterpreted; one has
but to
turn to a journalistic notice of the Arts and Crafts movement, or
of
the Kelmscott Press editions, or to the criticism of any work
concerned
with decorative intention, to discover that all the qualities
which chance
to conflict with the writer’s own standard of taste are dubbed
impar-
tially ‘Pre-Raphaelite’ or ‘Impressionist,’ although for the most
part
unconcerned with either.
Nor is it needful here to trace the evolution of the
Pre-Raphaelite
illustration, under the hands of various
exponents, from The Germ
until it was almost
totally neglected. The best men of the new move-
ment, that supplanted it
for a while, contented themselves with a quiet
effort to attain
naturalistic effects without striving to keep their work
intensely
80
intensely strained in its expression
and full of spirituality. The Pre-
Raphaelite ideal has always insisted on
a high degree of nervous
tension, and this may be taken as the boundary
between two domains.
In 1870 the Graphic was started,
and with it grew rapidly a new
influence which, for a time at
least, caused the Pre-Raphaelite ideal to be
no more sought after. No
longer was there even a desire to represent
things, with every possible
circumstance, closely knit together in a
design meant to be pleasant to the
eye. In its stead, character in
isolation was the ruling motive, with just
enough actuality in the back-
ground to convey time and space. The pages of
Good Words or Once
a Week show this gradual change of front in men
working simul-
taneously. The drawings by Boyd Houghton form a connecting
link
between the old and new methods, the work of Sir John Millais
shows
also instances of both manners achieved with equal perfection; but
the
majority are attracted by newer gods. After the death of Boyd
Houghton, Pinwell, and Fred Walker, Charles Keene alone remained
faithful
to an entirely naturalistic convention, which at the same time
escaped the
mere prettiness that rapidly degraded the style of others.
The Dalziel Bible Gallery, a monumental attempt to bring
black
and white up to the level of its earlier triumphs, must
not be forgotten.
It is curious to find how this book, which to-day appears
to be what
modern jargon would style an epoch-making document, excited
no
great sympathy when it was published in 1881, and apparently failed
to influence the younger men who might have been expected to swear
allegiance to its principles. If you compare those illustrations with the
average work at the moment of its publication, you cannot fail to
realise
how wide a field has been traversed by English draughtsmen,
and how often
and how irresponsibly they have changed their aims.
For this work, prepared
many years previously, and detained by acci-
dental circumstances, retained
the stately phrase of a grander style.
Although its contributors showed
singularly unequal merit, the best bade
fair, even from their
accomplishment therein, to be ranked ultimately
among the great black and
white artists, irrespective of locality or date.
In his children’s toy-books, which have given their author a
wider
Continental reputation than most people imagine, Mr.
Walter Crane
created a new impulse. Voluntarily enlisting themselves under
the
standard he then set up, some twenty years after a school of
followers
have tardily sprung into being with alarming fecundity, a school
that is
satisfied for the most part if it can be decorative, ingenuous, and quaint.
Its
81
Its followers display, it is true,
a
certain inept alacrity, and no little
dexterity of a cumbrous sort, but
for
the most part lack entirely the real
fancy, or the naive humour
which
distinguishes the work of Mr. Walter
Crane’s best period.
Quite recently we have welcomed
the drawings by
Sir Edward Burne-
Jones, cut in wood for the Kelms-
cott Press
editions, and here and
there, both in England and on the
Continent,
are to be seen the first
attempts at a new renaissance of
the
Pre-Raphaelite idea, which,
born in England, and peculiar to
our
country, is nevertheless still
regarded as exotic, even by those
who
could so easily be better in-
formed.
The prominent place of Mr.
Ricketts in this
movement need not
be discussed here; it is already evi-
dent to many,
and because a large
number of these chance to be re-
moved from the
parochial influences
of contemporary criticism, it seems only logical
to accept their opinion
as the foreshadowing of a futur English
verdict. Lookers-on see
most of the game; yet it would be foolish to
set the verdict of the Con-
tinent in opposition to that of the current
periodical, were it not that
the one is the expression of artists, while
the other is chiefly that of
journalists.
That much of Mr. Ricketts earlier work is not accepted by
its
author as representative in any way, need not be urged
against him or
it. The unfettered illustrations, produced for no programme,
and
regardless of exterior criticism, may be said to begin with The Dial,
No. 1
82
No. 1, a magazine privately published,
in conjunction with some friends,
by the artist, then under the age of
twenty-one, at The Vale, Chelsea.
This sumptuous quarto, although
technically a private enterprise, was
sold to the public, and its limited
edition exhausted speedily. It found
appreciation not merely at home but
abroad, and despite its restricted
issue, has had no little influence on
contemporary workers. This was
soon followed by The
House of Pomegranates, a book which contains
illustrations,
together with the rather unsuccessful cover of peacocks in
gold and ivory,
entirely (with the exception of the full-page plates)
from Mr. Ricketts
hand. These display, no less surely than the Dial
illustrations, the peculiar individuality of his style. Later
on, the
Poems of Lord de Tabley, clad in a cover from his
design, contained
five elaborate illustrations which show the more
dramatic, the more
substantial, and the more really Pre-Raphaelite aspect
of his talent, and
are evidence of the survival of the Pre-Raphaelite idea,
still possessing
the vigour of its first imagination.
All these so far are pen-drawings, reproduced by process full
of
intricate dexterity, and abounding in elaborate conceits both
of idea
and technique. But another side of Mr. Ricketts art that has
engrossed
his attention for some years, and still appears to fascinate him
most, is
conceived in a very different mood. This work, invariably
engraved, by
its author, is imbued with the spirit of early Italian
wood-cutting, and
faithful to the convention developed by the artists who
illustrated the
Hypnerotomachia, the Quadriregio, and other Venetian and Florentine
books. In the
Vale editions of Daphnis and Chloe, a reprint of
Thorn-
leys translation of Longus’ idyll, and Marlowe’s Hero and Leander, the
illustrations throughout are not merely
designed, but cut in wood, by
the artist; and in their complete unity of
idea and handling must needs
prove extremely interesting, even to those who
fail to sympathise with
the spirit of their design. The marriage of art
with craft is peculiarly
popular among people who talk about the applied
arts to-day; but the
union often enough appears to be ill-assorted and
temporary. Here so
absolutely integral is the line conceived and the line
resulting, that you
cannot dissever them, even in thought. These
illustrations are severe
in their direct statement, suave in curve, and
full of lavish invention;
yet their effects are always gained by the most
reticent expression of
the idea. Courteous and scholarly, they do not aim
to astonish, or to
betray mastery of technique. It is surprising, indeed,
to compare the
Œdipus (a pen-drawing in the possession of Sir
Frederick Leighton)
here
83
here
repro-
duced, with
one of the
illustrations
to the poem
of The
Sphinx. In
the earlier
work, min-
ute
decora-
tion, ela-
borate
symbolism,
exquisite
daintiness of
finish, are carried to their final
utterance;
in the other,
the adventurous idea is curbed, and the
prodigal imagination brought
within the most restrained limits. The one
leaves unrecorded no facet
of the flashing crystal of the idea itself: the
most ingenious student
can scarce elucidate the many-sided presentation of
the subject
which is always consistently elaborated to develop the central
motive
of the composition, while its main intention is apparent at the
most
casual glance. In the other, the main purpose of the imagined
poem
in line is directly insisted upon, and reiterated without any
comments
or similes. Each class appeals to students; but whereas merely
intelli-
gent patience may unravel the first, to grasp the intention of the
second
demands a poetic vision hardly less keenly sustained than that of
its
author. Such work never has been, and is never likely to be,
popular
with the multitude. The simplicity of the commonplace they
under-
stand; the perplexity of the complex is also sufficiently dazzling
to
charm, if not to convince, them; but the final simplicity which is not
to
be appreciated without equal renunciation on the part of the
spectator
equal knowledge of his unexpressed but deliberate ignoring of
all
but the essential that can never appeal to any but those already
in touch with the idea. Merely to be misunderstood is no proof of
genius;
84
genius; bad grammar, or infelicitous
expression, may accomplish as
much; but to be misunderstanded of the
careless or ignorant, and
yet understanded of artistic people, has often
been the reward of an
artist.
Leaving for a moment the directly pictorial work, one has
only to
study his designs for covers, and the printed pages of
books produced
under his direction, to discover even stronger evidence of
his influence
upon younger men. True it is, that the new crusade to bring
together
the harmony of the type and its decoration cannot be credited
solely
to Mr. Ricketts in face of the achievements of the Kelmscott
Press.
But the artist, in the daring of youth, has combined intense loyalty
to
precedent, with experiment based on tradition. Saturated with know-
ledge of the past, his Pegasus has nevertheless shaken its wings and
essayed fresh flights. For his first manner, one has but to turn to a
prospectus issued to announce the advent of a new Dial, or to the
title-page of Silverpoints, or to still earlier books for which he is respon-
sible, to find absolutely new arrangements of older motives. Fantastic,
bizarre, and with splendid audacity, the unalterable tesserae of the
printers type are arranged in mosaics that depart from no single
tradition,
and yet reunite to display a score of fresh devices. In later
examples of
this class there is a marked change; despite the success of
his
improvisations, the importance of style is now more obviously felt,
obedience rather than invention is the aim. For this newer work,
despite
its original appearance, is built on ancient models to an extent
scarce
suspected by chance observers, because the artist has explored
the past
very thoroughly and discovered new models worthy of revival,
and deduced
from them new rules unsuspected heretofore. The
legerdemain of a Houdin,
prince of jugglers, dealt with gorgeous but
impossible objects cubes and
cones wrought with mystic devices, and
all the tinselled paraphernalia of
the property-man; that of the great
modern exponent of sleight-of-hand
astounds you the more, although
he juggles with the commonest objects of
the household. All your
wonder is called forth by the sheer artistry of the
consummate master,
and by no extraneous adjuncts. Mr. Ricketts effects, so
far, belong
to the latter class. From the ordinary types of the best
founders he
has evolved new triumphs, austere yet seductive, in detail
absolutely
obedient to self-imposed rules, but in massing and
architectural
arrangement, novel and vivid, as, for instance, in the Silverpoints before
mentioned.
Cloth-binding
85
Cloth-bind-
ing, but lat-
terly a thing
of horror, has
suddenly be-
come
illumi-
nated with
intelligence;
and for this
no second
name need be
coupled with
that of Mr.
Ricketts. In
his
splendid
decorations
for many mod-
ern books, too
familiar
to
people of taste
to need cata-
loguing here,
he has set
up
new stand-
ards that have
been largely
appreciated,
and unluckily
as largely imitated. Take, for instance, a
beautiful cover to one
of these books, with its three rigidly
symmetrical trees, and you will
see that a distinctly Eastern flavour
pervades it, yet the spirit of the
Renaissance infuses all to a sober
simplicity. The richness is obtained
by using certain contours and forms
sublimated to their most naive
expression. The straight lines of the tree
trunks, the absence of
any definition of the individual leaves, the
domestic fascination of the
tiny
86
tiny flowers, that might have been
raised in the garden oi a jeweller
all are contrived to afford a curiously
romantic pattern, that is old-world
in its essence but not in its handling.
For these covers contain an
entire rule of his own as to how metal stamps
should be understood in
the decoration of a book. If one looks at merely
technical facility in
employing the material wisely, the absence of any
pictorial detail, the
gorgeous effect of plain masses of gold upon the
subtly coloured cloths
chosen to receive the metal stamped upon its surface
all these sub-
ordinate items are worthy of appreciative study, for they
are not
accidental matters, left to the tradesmans fancy.
In the designs themselves one discovers sufficient material to supply
a
whole army of hungry designers, and leave many basketsful of
fragments to
be gathered up. Only a fellow-decorator can fully
appreciate this single
by-path of Mr. Ricketts art: only one who
has studied pattern-making can
entirely realise the new impetus he
has given to the craft. Hence it would
be foolish to indulge in
rhapsodies which would be superfluous to those who
know, and unin-
telligible to the rest.
That his work is prized abroad has been stated here before.
That
his wood-cutting is a sustained effort to preach anew a
truth out of
favour at present, is also patent enough; but in returning to
Mr.
Ricketts pictures in black and white, one must not forget to insist
on
the importance of recognising in them a gift of narrative that is
happily
allied to the research of handling. Invention and technique are
poised
in masterly balance. On purely typographical grounds one must
dis-
sect them, and note the well-arranged changes of line to suit the
type
destined to be set with the woodcut. Thus when the pictures (as
in
Lord de Tableys poems) are inserted as full-page plates, they fulfil
a
distinct pictorial convention, and hardly consider the type-page;
but
when (as in The Sphinx ) they are embedded
in the text, they are intensely
conventional, and entirely disdain the
naturalistic circumstances and
intricate workmanship of the earlier book.
Yet all the same they
equal the earlier fancies in complexity of idea and
intensity of situa-
tion. Planted among the type they forbear to arrogate
supreme
importance to themselves. Although dominating the page they do
so
with a courteous affectation of being merely decorative adjuncts;
yet
all the time they maintain their dignity unimpaired. In the
illustra-
tions to The Sphinx, where the type,
sparsely planned to decorate large
pages, supplies a modicum of text, the
pictures are also in delicate
lines,
❧ SIR ISUMBRAS OF THE FORD
by
Sir John Everett Millais, R.A.
91
lines, with masses of white to balance
and accord with the matter of
the book. The mere spacing of the pages and
the placing of the
pictures and text in this one volume would suffice, did
space permit, to
demonstrate the principle of balance and harmony which it
is the
peculiar aim of Mr. Ricketts to secure.
So much for their technical fascination. In their pictured
fancies
accompanying Poems Dramatic and
Lyrical, by Lord de Tabley,
you are not, as it were, confronted
by the plane of the white page.
Through it, you gaze into time and space
far removed from everyday
associations; and the glimpses of things scarce
known before brand
themselves deep into the memory, with all the
fascination of things seen
for the first time; for the artists power of
re-edifying the crumbled
palaces beyond the gates of ivory is akin to the
cunning of a slave of
the lamp. Take, for instance, the ‘Nimrod,’ and note
how the impas-
sivity of the stricken hero, with all the accidents of cloud
and flame, is
rendered more impressive by the oak-sprig in his girdle,
plucked from
the tree which has since fallen behind him. The lightning
still playing
on his crown, upon every metallic surface of his spear, and
the decora-
tion of his garments, leaves no doubt of the source of the
catastrophe.
Nor must one fail to recognise the tact of the artist in
closing the eyes
of the man, who seems to be the only thing remaining alive
when all
has crumbled about him. To analyse these more minutely, it is
interesting to compare the different treatment of the nerveless hand of
the
Nimrod who has dropped his shield with the searching hands
of the figure
that represents Death (in the frontispiece ‘Death of
the Old King’). Nor
should one fail to notice the fantasy that
depicts this figure picking a
laurel wreath to pieces, leaf by leaf, nor
the admirable conceit in
crowding his lap full of love-letters and locks
of hair.
The designs for a forthcoming edition of Apuleius’ Golden Ass,
some of which are here
given before being cut on the wood, fulfil
very different conditions. There
is an ingenious touch in making
Psyche pensive before the painted
representatives of the Loves
of the Gods, and one that does not lack
humour, elsewhere a not
unusual quality in the artists work, although
rarely evident on the
surface.
But it would be almost impertinent to attempt to compile a
guide-
book to the wonderland of Mr. Ricketts imagination. Only
a poet can
fully gauge the whole of a poets meaning. One must remember that
months
92
months of patient thought in
elaborating the germ of an idea, and then
presenting it in a way purposely
sublimated and reduced to its most
meagre essentials, leave no result that
he who runs may read. Great
ideas slowly shaped require no little study to
realise their concealed
variety.
As a last word, it may be wise to say that, in the
illustrations here
reproduced, we see but one side of Mr.
Ricketts art. For, with a single
exception, they are all reproductions of
pen-drawings made for process,
or drawings intended to be, but not already,
cut on wood. The little
dragon on the roof affords a solitary example of
his most expressive
manipulation of the yet unappreciated line of the
wood-block. The
etchers line has been the subject of many rhapsodies; but
the line of
the great wood-engraver is still to be commemorated by a
perfect
eulogy. A line that varies from that of Diirer to the white line
of
Linton, that can imitate the nervous accent of the brush of
Hokosai,
or accord gracefully with the labial fluid curves of the great
Italians, a
line that ranges from the wooden inelegance of the journeyman
en-
graver to the sentient, emotional touch of Mr. Ricketts, is of no
slight
importance. It can be the meanest or the most beautiful of
lines,
according to the handling of the one who cuts it, and let us not
forget
that, unlike the Japanese engraver and the dexterous American
en-
gravers, Mr. Ricketts invents the work to be cut; that, even in
the
past, such men are few in number, and that he already has his
following.
It is of less importance to decide whether the art of
wood-cutting
is dying out for popular use, or is being restricted to the
highest
employment only from the commercial rivalry of process work.
While an artist so accomplished and withal so reticent in the
mere
virtuosity of his craft handles it as Mr. Ricketts can, one
need not fear
for its immediate future, or doubt that the end of the
nineteenth century
will leave new masterpieces for the cabinets of
future collectors.
The apparently unproductive years, since the last Vale
books
appeared, do not imply cessation of creative work, but
rather denote
the conception and elaboration of a new enterprise. Amid the
group
of books not merely illustrated, but planned in every detail by
Mr.
Ricketts which are on the eve of publication, with a type of his
own
designing, will be found some notable works that will more than
justify
the appreciation here set down clumsily, if truly.
The courage of ones convictions has been unduly praised; the
really
praiseworthy
93
praiseworthy attitude is surely to
possess the undoubted conviction
of one’s courage. Yet as the first person
who tells the truth before its
time is usually held to be a proved liar
thereby perhaps it would
have been more seemly to refrain from an attempt
to formulate opinions
not yet accepted by all men of light and leading,
although one has no
doubt of the final verdict. For an artist so individual
and distinctly
true to his own ideals, no matter what they may be, as Mr.
Ricketts
assuredly is, will certainly receive complete appreciation
ultimately from
those who can consider his work dispassionately, with full
documentary
evidence of the influence it exerted on his successors, and its
relative
position among contemporaneous efforts.
GLEESON WHITE.
A DUET
‘FLOWERS nodding gaily, scent in air,
Flowers posied, flowers in the hair,
Sleepy flowers, flowers bold to stare—’
‘Oh, pick me some.’
‘Shells with lip, or tooth, or bleeding gum,
Tell-tale shells, and shells that whisper
“Come,”
Shells that stammer, blush, and yet are
dumb—’
‘Oh, let me hear.’
‘Eyes so black they draw one trembling near,
Brown eyes, caverns flooded with a tear,
Cloudless eyes, blue eyes so windy clear—’
‘Oh, look at me.’
‘Kisses sadly blown across the sea,
Darkling kisses, kisses fair and free,
Bob-a-cherry kisses ’neath a tree—’
‘Oh, give me one.—’
Thus sang a queen and king in Babylon.
❧ TALE OF A NUN
SMALL good cometh to me of making rhyme;
so
there be folk would have me give it up,
and no longer harrow my mind
therewith.
But in virtue of her who hath been both
mother
and maiden, I have begun the tale
of a fair miracle, which God without
doubt
hath made show in honour of her who fed
him with her milk.
Now I shall begin and tell the tale of a nun.
May
God help me to handle it well, and bring it to a good
end, even so
according to the truth as it was told me by Brother
Giselbrecht, an
ordained monk of the order of Saint William; he, a
dying old man, had found
it in his books.
The nun of whom I begin my tale was courtly and fine in
her
bearing; not even nowadays, I am sure, could one find
another to be
compared to her in manner and way of looks. That I should
praise her
body in each part, exposing her beauty, would become me not
well; I
will tell you, then, what office she used to hold for a long time
in the
cloister where she wore veil. Custodian she was there, and whether
it
were day or night, I can tell you she was neither lazy nor slothful.
Ever
was she quick to do her work, ringing the bell in church, making
ready
with the ornaments and lights, and causing the whole convent to
rise
in due time.
This maiden was not free from Love, who is wont to work so
great
wonders over all the world. Sometimes he bringeth shame
and torment
and sorrow ; sometimes joy and happiness. Who is wise he maketh
so
foolish that he must needs come to grief whether willing or
unwilling.
Another he so vanquisheth that he knows no more whether to speak
or
to be dumb be to his boon. Many a one he trampleth under foot, who
may not rise but when he giveth leave. Others Love causeth to be
generous
❧The ‘Tale of a Nun,’ given here in an English form, is translated from
the verse of a
mediaeval Dutch legend, written probably about the year 1320
by an author whose name is now
unknown. The origin of the legend is to be
found in Caesarii Cisterciencis inonachi in
Heisterbacho, Dialogus miraculorum, where, in Distinctio Septima, cap. xxxv., a short story
of the Virgin’s
miraculous intervention is given. Readers of mediaeval French literature,
who
know Méon’s collection of Fabliaux, will be
able to compare the French and Dutch versions,
and no doubt will agree that
the latter has the better claim to a rendering into English.
generous who would fain keep their gifts to themselves, were it not for
Love
inspiring them. Also one shall find folk so true one to the other,
that
whatsoever Love bringeth them, be it little or great, bliss, joy, or
sorrow, they bear it both together. Such Love I call true.
Nor could I ever tell you of all the happiness and misery
that flow
out of the brooks of Love. Therefore one should not
condemn the nun
that she could not escape from Love, which kept her fast in
his net. For
the fiend seeketh always to tempt man, and taketh no rest
night or day,
but bringeth all his wiles to work.
By vile cunning, as best he could, so did he tempt the nun
that she
believed she must die. Unto God she bade, and implored
Him that He
should comfort her by His grace. ‘How burdened I am by strong
love
and wounded, He knoweth to Whom all things are open, from Whom
naught is hidden, nor how that this weakness shall lead me astray. I
must
lead a new life; I must lay off this garment.’
Now, hearken, how she fared further on:
She sent word to the young lord to whom she bore such deep
love,
with a letter full of sweet passion, praying him to make
haste to come to
her, and it should be to his boon. The messenger went to
where dwelt
the young lord, who took the letter and read what his friend
had sent
to him. Then he was joyful in his mind and hastened to come to
her.
Ever since they had been twelve years old, had these two borne
love
together, suffering great dole from it.
So fast as he could, he rode unto that nunnery where she was
to be
found. Before the little window he sat down, and would
fain see her and
speak to his love, if that might be. No long time did she
tarry, but came
before the little window which was crossed all over with
bars of iron.
Many a time they heaved a sigh, he sitting without and she
within,
so deep was the love that troubled them. For so long a
while did they
sit there that I could not tell you how oft she changed her
colour. ‘Oh,
me!’ she said; ‘Oh, my sweet friend, my chosen love, I am in
such grief;
do speak unto me one word or two that may comfort my heart! I
am
so longing for thy solace, the arrow of love stings so in my heart,
that
heavy dole have I to suffer; never may I be glad again till thou
hast
drawn it forth.’
He answered her soothingly. ‘You know quite well, dear love,
how
long we have borne love to each other all our days, and yet never
was
97
was so much leisure ours that we might
kiss each other for once. May
God doom our Lady Venus, the goddess who hath
so steeped our
senses with this longing, in that she causes two such tender
flowers to
fade and to wither away! If only I could entreat you to lay
down
your veil and name a set time when you would give me leave to
lead
you hence, I would fare out at once and get you made fine costly
attire,
of woollen cloth lined with fur—mantle, skirt, and tunic. Never in
any
distress will I forsake thee; with thee, my love, will I adventure
life,
its sweetness and sourness: take, now, my troth in plight!’
‘My well-beloved, dear friend,’ quoth the damsel, ‘most
gladly will I
take from thee that pledge, and go so far away
with thee that no one
in this cloister shall know whither we have fled.
To-night—a week on—
come here, and wait for me outside, in yonder orchard
under a sweet-
briar! There wait for me, and I will come out to be your
bride, and
go with you wheresoever you choose. Unless it be that
sickness
trouble me, or other hindrance make it too heavy for me, be
well
assured that I shall be there, and I beseech thee to be there
also,
my lief lord!’
So they made promises each unto other. Then he took leave,
and
went where his steed stood saddled, and, without tarrying,
took horse
and rode away in haste across green meadows till he came to the
city.
There in naught was he forgetting of his dear love. On the
morrow,
going his round of the city, he bought for her blue and
scarlet cloth,
and had it made into a fine mantle and cape, with skirt and
tunic to
match, each of them well lined, the best that might be. No one
ever
saw better stuff worn under lady’s attire; they that looked on it
all
praised it. Knives, girdles, pouches, both good and costly, did he
buy;
gold rings, head-gear, and many kinds of treasure ; all those
treasures
did he purchase that are becoming to a well-bred bride. Also he
took
with him five hundred pounds of silver, and one night at dusk
went
forth from the town by stealth. All that costly gear he carried
with
him, well piled on the back of his steed, and so rode on to the
nunnery
till he came into the orchard under a sweet-briar, as she had said.
Then he sat down on the grass and waited for his well-beloved
to
come forth.
Of him now I shall not speak for a while, but will tell you
about
that fair, dainty she.
98
Before midnight she rang the bells to first prime, and was in
great
dole through love. Then when matins had been sung by all
the nuns,
elder and younger of the convent, and when all had retired to
their
common dormitory, she alone remained in the choir, muttering her
prayer as she was wont to do. She knelt down before the altar, and in
deep
dread spake she:
‘Maria, Mother, name sweet, no longer may my body wear
this
habit. All ways and at all times thou knowest the heart and
soul of
man. I have fasted and prayed and done myself bodily grief, yet it
is
all in vain that I chasten myself. Love has me in thrall, and I
must
take me to the world’s ways. So verily, as Thou, my dear Lord,
hast
been hung between two thieves, and hast been stretched along the
Cross,
and hast brought resurrection to Lazarus while he lay a dead man in
his
grave, so must Thou know my pains, and pardon my misdoing. I must
fall deeply into heavy sin.’
After this she turned from the choir unto a statue of Our
Lady,
before which she knelt down and said her prayer. ‘Maria,’
spake she
without fear, ‘night and day have I cried, and meekly laid my
sorrow
before thee; yet I have never been one straw the better for it.
My
mind would give way altogether were I to remain any longer in this
habit.’ So she put off her veil and laid it upon the altar of the Blessed
Virgin; her shoes she untied, and behold, the keys of the Sacristy she
hung
before the statue of Mary. This she did, as I will explain to you,
in order
that they might be found with ease when sought for at early
prime, for none
would ever pass by the statue of Mary but would cast
a glance thereto, and
mutter ‘Ave’ before going thence.
Clad only in her smock, driven thereto by necessity, she went
out
by a door which was known to her: she opened it cunningly,
and
passed through it by stealth without making a sound. Trembling she
came into the orchard, and was seen then by the young lord, who, draw-
ing
near, said: ‘Yea, sweet one, do not fear; it is your friend whom you
meet
here.’ But as they were standing thus, she was covered with
shame, because
she had on naught save her smock. Howbeit, said he,
‘O body most fair, far
better would beautiful attire and rich raiment
befit you: if you will not
be angry with me, therefore, I will give them
straightway into your hands.’
So they went together under the sweet-
briar, and there he gave to her
whatsoever she might need in two
changes of clothes (blue was the one which
there she put on, and well
it
❧ ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
a chalk drawing
by
Will Rothenstein
103
it fitted her). Lovingly looked he on
her, and said: ‘My beloved, far
better does the blue suit you than did ever
the grey!’ Also she
put on two silk stockings, and two shoes of Cordova
leather, that
became her better than the lappet-shoes she had worn before.
Also
he gave her a head-gear of white silk to throw over her head.
Then
the young lord kissed her lovingly on the mouth; and it seemed to
him while thus she stood before him that the day unveiled itself in
beauty.
In haste he went to his steed, and made her mount before him
in
the saddle; and on they rode together till, in the gathering
light, they
saw that none followed after them. And as day began to shine in
the
east, she said, O Lord, solace of all the world, now Thou must
have
charge of us, for day is breaking! Ah! if I had not come out unto
thee, I should have been ringing the bells for first mass, as I was wont
to
do in the convent. Great fear have I that I shall live to repent this
flight. The world holds so ill to its word; ‘tis like the cunning hawker
who sells counterfeit gold rings for true ones.’
‘Ah, me! what sayest thou, my pure one? May God damn me
if
ever I should forsake thee! Whithersoever we go, I shall not
leave
thee, unless it be that Death bring severance between us! How is
it
thou shouldst be doubting of my good faith? Thou hast not
found me
a man cunning or untruthful toward thee. From that
moment, when I chose you
to be my. love, not even an empress could
have won hold on my mind; and
even were I worthy of her, I would
not leave thee for her sake. Be full
sure of this, dear love! With me
I bear five hundred pounds of white
silver: of all these shalt thou be
mistress, sweet. And though we go to a
foreign country, we shall have
no need to pledge anything till a seven year
be gone.’
Thus riding on, they came that morning near to a forest
wherein
were birds making great melody among themselves. So
loudly did
they pipe, one might hear it any way off. Each sang according to
its
kind. In the green grass stood beautiful flowers, full-blown,
shedding
abroad their sweet scents. The sky was clear and bright; and many
a
tall tree flourishing in full leaf stood there.
The young lord looked at the pure maid, for whom he bore love
so
constantly, and said: ‘Dear love, if so it pleaseth thee, why
should
we not get down and gather flowers? So fair seems this place,
let
us here play the game of love!’ ‘What sayest thou, villain churl?
Shall I lie down on the grass like a vile woman that must sell her body
for
104
for gold; then must I have little
shame in me! Never wouldst thou
have spoken to me so, if thou were not
basely bred. Well may it
cause me pain; may God damn one who could think of
such a thing!
Now, speak not again of it; but listen to the birds in the
valleys how
they sing and are glad; and the time shall not be long to thee.
When
once I am lying with thee naked on a well-appointed bed, ay then
thou mayst do as thou longest and as thy heart desires; but great pain
have
I at heart that thou shouldst have put this to me now.’
Quoth he, ‘My dear, nay, do not scorn me thus: it was
Venus
herself that did inspire me. God may bring me to shame and
grief if
ever I let speak of it again! And spake she, ‘Then I will forgive
thee.
Thou art my solace above all men that live under Heaven. If fair
Absolom were alive now, and I full sure that I might live with him a
thousand years in exceeding joy and rest, I should not wish for it.
Beloved, so I set thee before all, that nothing might be offered me for
which I would forsake thee. Were I sitting in Heaven, and thou here
on
earth, surely I would come down to thee. Nay, God, punish me
not for that I
have talked thus foolishly! To the least of the joys of
Heaven no earthly
joy may compare; there so perfect is the smallest
joy, that the soul longs
not but to worship God without end. All
earthly things are but poor, and
not worth a hair as against those one
meets with in Heaven. Well are they
counselled that suffer for it,
though I have to go astray and fall into
deep sin for thee, my well-
beloved, my beautiful friend.’
Thus they spake and exchanged sayings as they rode
across
mountains and valleys. Naught would it behove me to tell
you what
passed between them. On they rode till they were come to a
town’s
gate lying in a valley. So well did they like that place that
they
remained there for seven years, leading a joyous life in the embraces
of
love, and had together two children. Then after those seven years,
when all their money was spent, they had to live on the goods which
they
had brought with them; clothes, ornaments, and horses, these
they sold at
half their value; and soon they had again spent all. And
now they knew not
by what means to live; for not even a skirt could
she spin, or by that
something might have been earned.
And there came a time when meat and wine and provisions and
all
things that are for food grew very dear; and much suffering
they had
to
105
to bear. Far rather had they died
than begged for bread; and poverty
brought parting between them, though it
grieved them sore. The
man it was who first broke troth; he left her behind
him in heavy
sorrow, and went back again into his own land. Never they
beheld
each other again; there remained with her two children very
beautiful
to look upon.
Said she: ‘Now at last that has happened which was ever
my
dread early and late; I have remained behind in bitter
suffering. He
in whom I had placed all my trust has forsaken me. Mary,
Virgin, if
thou would but pray for me and my two little ones, that we may
not
perish with hunger! But what shall I, wretched woman, begin to do?
Both body and soul I must foul by wrong-doing. Ay, Virgin Mary,
come to
mine aid! Even if I could spin a skirt, I would not make by
it one loaf of
bread in a fortnight. I cannot help myself; I must go
outside the walls,
and in the fields earn money with my body, where-
with to buy meat. For my
two children I may not forsake.’
And thus she entered into a sinful life. In truth, I have
been told
that for seven years she lived as a common woman, and
became laden
with many a sin. Dearly did she loathe it, and was hard pushed
from
it; but did it for a poor wage, by which she made provision for
her
children. What good would come were I to tell you them all—the
shameful and heavy sins in which she thus lived for fourteen years?
Yet whatever sorrow or repentance befell, never did she
forget, but
every day said the Seven Dolours in honour and
praise of our Lady,
praying to her to be set free from those acts of sin
wherewith she was
burdened.
Now, when the fourteen years of her sinful life with her
beloved
knight, and that which followed, were ended, God put
into her heart
such deep contrition that she would rather have had her head
cut from
her body by a bare sword than again give up her flesh to sin as
she
had been wont. Night and day she cried, with eyes never dry from
tears; and said she: ‘Mary, Cradle of God, highest fountain of all
womanhood, do not thou forsake me in my distress! I call upon thee,
Our
Lady, to witness how I sorrow for my sins, and how deep is the
grief they
cause me; so many they be, I cannot tell where or with
whom they were done.
Alas, what shall be my fate! Well may I
tremble for the last judgment
where all sins will appear revealed,
whether
106
whether of poor or of rich, and all
those will be punished that have not
before been told in confession and
done penance for. Well do I know
this, and can have no doubt of it;
therefore do I live in such great
dread. Even if I went about in sackcloth,
crawling upon bare feet and
hands from place to place, I could not win
absolution unless thou,
Mary, were to take pity upon me. Fount of Mercy, so
many hast thou
stood by! Yea, though I am a sinful woman, a wretched
caitiff, yet
remember, Mary, that whatever life I led, never did I forget
to read a
prayer in honour of thee. Be gracious unto me, for I am one full
of
woe and in great need of thy solace; therefore I do well to implore
it.
Thou Bride, chosen of God, thy Son when He made annunciation of
Himself to thee at Nazareth, sent thee a salutation such as never mes-
senger before had spoken; therefore are these same words so well
favoured
of thee that whosoever hath it in his heart to say to thee,
“Ave Maria!” to
him thou avowest thanks. Were he fallen into deepest
sin thou wouldst gain
grace for him, and be advocate for him with thy
Son.’
To such prayers and bewailings the sinner gave herself for
many
days. At last she took a child in each hand, and wandered
with them
in great poverty from place to place living upon charity. So far
did
she traverse the country that at last she found herself back again
near
the convent where she had lived as a nun. At a late hour, after the
sun
had set, she came to the house of a widow, and begged that, for the
sake
of charity, she might rest there for the night. ‘I could not very
well
send you away with your little ones,’ said the widow. ‘How tired
they
look! Do you sit down, and take some rest; and I will give you of
what the good Lord has bestowed on me, for the honour of His dear
Mother.’
Thus she stayed with her two children, and would fain have
known how
matters stood in her old convent. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘my
good woman, is
this a nuns’ convent?’ ‘In truth, yes,’ answered she,
‘and, on my faith, a
magnificent one it is, and rich. Nowhere would one
find another to equal
it. The nuns that live there have not their like
for virtue; never did I
hear tell of any of them a rumour to their
shame.’
The woman, sitting there beside her children, said: ‘How
canst
thou say such a thing? for I have heard much talk of late
about a
certain nun; if I mistake not she must have been monitress here.
She
that told me spake no lie; fourteen years it must be now since she fled
from
107
from the convent, and no one has
heard tell of her since, nor knows
where she may have died.’ Then the widow
grew angry, and said: ‘It
seems to me as if thou wert mad; nor will I have
thee here to repeat
such evil things about the monitress. All that time she
has been here,
and never did she fail in her duty unless her health gave
way. He
would be worse than a vile dog who could say anything of her but
good.
She has as pure a mind as ever nun had; were you to search all
the
cloisters that are built between the river Elbe and the Garonne I
am
sure you could find no nun that leads a holier life.’
The woman who had so long been soiled by sin,—ay, how
wonderful
this talk seemed to her! And she spake thus: ‘Wilt
thou make known
to me by what names her father and her mother were called?’
Then
she named them both, and Beatrice knew well that it was herself
that
was meant. O God! how she wept at night, kneeling before her bed,
and praying. ‘No other pledge,’ she cried, ‘but my deep penitence
have I to
offer thee; and yet, O Mary, come to mine aid! Such grief
have I for my
sins that if I saw a furnace hot and red, so burning and
fiery that the
flames tongued out of its mouth, I would be fain to creep
therein, could
that but free me from my sins. Lord, Thou art loath to
see man in misery;
on this I will put my trust, and will ever hope for
solace, though I be in
anguish and great dread. Thy loving-kindness
cannot be brought to an end,
no more than one can scoop out the great
sea in one day, and lay bare its
nether deeps. Never was sin so terrible
that could not win pardon by Thy
grace; how, then, shall I be shut
away from Thy mercy, since my sins are so
hateful to me.’
While she was thus stretched in prayer, a heaviness came on
all her
limbs, and, without knowing, she fell asleep. And while
thus she was
lying in her sleep, it seemed, in a vision, that a voice
called to her:
‘Woman, so long hast thou lifted thy lamentation that Mary
has
taken pity on thee, and has prayed for thee that thou mayst be
free
from condemnation. Now, get thee in haste unto this cloister; the
doors, the same through which thou fleddest with thy love, thou shalt find
opened wide. And all thine attire thou shalt find lying upon the altar,
the
veil, and the habit, and the shoes; thou shalt put them on without
fear.
Then for all this thou shalt render Mary high thanks. The keys
also of the
sacristy which thou didst lay before her statue on that night
when thou
wentest away, so well hath she cared for them that in all
these
108
these years no one has found thee
missing. So well is Mary thy friend,
that in the very image of thee she
took up thine office. This, O
sinner, hath our Lady of Heaven done for
thee. By her command
thou shalt return unto thy cloister: there is no one
on thy bed there.
Hearken, it is in God’s name that I speak unto thee.’
It was not long after this that she started out of her sleep.
‘God,
Lord Almighty,’ quoth she, ‘nay, do not let the fiend
throw me into
heavier grief than that from which I now suffer! If I were
now to go
into that convent and be taken for a thief, then I should be in
yet
deeper shame than when first I left the nunnery, I beseech thee,
good
Lord, by Thy precious Blood which ran out of Thy side, if the
voice
that has spoken be really to my boon, then let it not cease, but
make
me to hear it once again; yea, even a third time; then shall I
know
that I may return to the cloister, and will extol and praise Mary
for
it without end.’
Now hearken, the next night a voice seemed to come
thus
admonishing her: ‘Woman, thou makest too long tarrying!
Go
back into thy convent, there God shall solace thee. Do what Mary
commandeth thee. Her messenger I am, Doubt it not any more.’
But although this was the second message bidding her to
return,
even yet dared she not venture. A third night she waited
and
prayed. ‘If it be fiend’s folly that is practised upon me, then put
an
end to the devil’s power and malice. And if so be he appear again
to-night, Lord, put him to such confusion that he must fly out of the
house, having no power to do me harm. Now, Mary, be thou my
help. If thou
hast sent a voice to bid me back into the nunnery, by
thy Child, I beseech
thee, make me hear it a third time to-night.’
So she watched a third night: and a voice came forth from
the
power of God, with an all-prevailing light, saying: ‘Thou
doest wrong
not to fulfil what I have commanded thee, for it is Mary who
speaks
through me. Thou mayst tarry all too long. Go into the cloister
without trembling: the door stands wide open for thee, so thou mayest
pass
where thou wilt: and thou shalt find thine attire waiting for thee
upon the
altar.’
When the voice had thus spoken, the sinner beheld the
radiance;
and she said: ‘Now I may doubt no longer; this voice
is my Lord’s,
and
109
and this message is Mary’s. It comes
to me in a radiance so beautiful,
well, now, may I feel sure! And therefore
I will not be disobedient; I
will go into the cloister and do this with a
good faith in our Lady’s
solace. My children I will commend to God, our
Father; in His care
they will be safe.’
Then she took off her clothes and covered them with them
silently
so that they should not wake; and kissing them both on
the lips:
‘Children, fare you well!’ said she, ‘I leave you here in our
Lady’s
good keeping. Had she not pleaded for me and given me release,
I
would never have forsaken you for all the riches of Rome.’
Hear what she did next. In a trance, all alone, she went
toward
the nunnery. When she came through the orchard she found
the door
open for her, and went in without trembling: ‘Mary, I thank
thee,
now I am safely within these walls; may God make good adventure
befall me further on!’
Wherever she came the door stood wide open for her; and in
the
chapel, where on the altar she had laid off her habit
fourteen years ago,
truly I tell you, that on the same spot she found it
all again, shoes, and
habit, and veil. She put them on in haste, and
kneeling down cried:
‘Lord of the realm of Heaven, and thou, Virgin Mary,
Immaculate,
blessed must ye be! Thou, Mary, art the flower of all virtue.
In thy
pure maidenhood thou borest a Child without sorrow, that shall
be
Lord for evermore. Thou art the chosen of Grace; thy Child made
heaven and earth; the Lord, our Saviour, thou mayst command as
Mother, and
He may greet thee, His well-beloved daughter. For all this
I live in better
ease; for whosoever seeketh grace from thee, he findeth
it though he may
come late. Thy help is so high that my sorrow and
grief in which I have
been living so long have been changed by thee
into joy and blessing. Well
may I give blessing unto thee!’
And before our Lady’s statue, where she had hung them once,
lo!
she found again the keys of the sacristy. She hung them upon
her
belt, and went into the choir, where she found the lamps burning
in
every corner. Thence she went to the place of the prayer-books, and
laid each one on its own desk, as often she had done before; and again
she
prayed to Mary to save her from all misfortune, and have her poor
children
in good keeping, whom she had left at the widow’s house in
great sorrow.
Meanwhile the night had worn away, and the clock began to
strike,
sounding
110
sounding the midnight chime. And now
she caught hold of the bell-
rope and began to ring for matins, so
regularly as to be clearly heard
all over the convent. And those who had
been sleeping in the dormi-
tory came down all without tarrying, and none
of them knew what had
happened. Thus she stayed in the convent without
reproach or dis-
grace. The sinner was saved in honour of Mary, the Virgin
of Heaven,
who never forsakes her friends in their distress and anxiety.
This lady having now turned to be a nun as before, I will not
forget
her two children whom she had left behind at the widow’s
house in
great need. Neither bread nor money had they; and I could ill
tell
you into what deep grief they fell when they no longer found
their
mother. The widow came and sat by them in true pity; and said
she:
‘I will take these two children to the abbess of the convent; God
will
certainly put it into her heart to be good to them.’ Then she
dressed
them in their clothes and shoes, and took them with her to the
convent.
Quoth she: ‘My lady, see the need of these two orphans; their
mother has left them at my house, and has gone her way—I know not
whether
to east or west: and now these poor ones are helpless,
though I would fain
do for them what I could.’ The abbess answered,
‘Keep them with you, I will
recompense you for it; and you shall not
complain that they have been left
with you. Every day they shall
receive of God’s charity. Send some one here
daily for meat and
drink, and, should they be in want of anything, forget
not to let me
know.’
Full glad was the widow now that all this had thus come
about;
she took the children with her, and cared well for them.
And now how
happy was the mother who had nursed them and suffered for
them,
when she knew them to be in such good keeping; from that time
she
needed no longer to have for them any fear or dread.
But while she was thus leading a holy life, much sighing
and
trembling was hers night and day; for the bewailing of her
great sins
lay heavily upon her, yet dared she not avow them, or openly
make
confession of them.
At length one day there arrived an abbot who was wont to
visit the
sisterhood once a year to know whether anything
shameful had
happened which might bring blame on them. The same day
that
he came, the sinner lay down in deep prayer within the choir, wrought
with
❧ L’OISEAU BLUE
after a water-colour drawing
by
Charles Conder
115
with doubt and inward struggle. But
the devil so pressed her with heavy
shame that she dared not lay bare her
sinful deeds before the abbot.
While thus she lay and prayed, she saw
moving toward her a youth
who was all in white. Naked in his arms lay a
child that to her
seemed to be quite dead. The youth was throwing an apple
up and
down and catching it before the child, playing to it. This the nun
at
her prayers saw well, and said: ‘Friend, if so be thou art a
messenger
of Heaven, in God’s name I do beseech thee to tell me and not
hide
from me why thou art thus playing to the child with yon fair red
apple, while yet it lies a dead body in thine arms? Thy playing,
therefore,
cannot move it one hair.’ ‘Forsooth, dame, thou speakest
truly; the child
does not know of my playing little or much. It is
dead, and hears not nor
sees. Even so, God knoweth not how thou
prayest and fastest. It is all
labour lost to chastise thyself. So deeply
art thou buried in sin that God
cannot hear thy prayer. I admonish
thee, go straightway to the abbot, thy
father, and make confession of
all thy sins without cloak or deceit. Do not
be misled by devils
prompting! Absolution of all thy sins shalt thou
receive from the holy
abbot. Shouldst thou not dare to speak, the Lord will
punish thee
heavily for them.’ With that the youth disappeared, nor even
showed
himself again.
Well had she understood all that he said. So, early the next
morn-
ing, she went and found the abbot, and prayed him to hear
her con-
fession from word to word. The abbot was a full wise man, and
said
he: ‘Dear daughter, I will certainly not refuse this. Examine
thyself
well of all, so that thou hide from me nothing of thy sins.’ Then,
at
that moment she went and set herself down by this holy father, and
opened to him her whole life. Whatsoever thing had befallen her she
hid it
not then; and what she knew in the depth of her heart, she
made it all
known to the wise abbot. When she had now finished her
full confession the
abbot spoke: ‘Daughter, I will give thee remission
of the sins that trouble
thee, of which thou hast now made confession.
Praised and blessed be Mary
our Mother, most holy.’ With that he
laid his hand upon her head and gave
her pardon. And quoth he: ‘In
a sermon will I tell thy whole story, and
devise it so cunningly that on
thyself and thy children no blame shall
fall. It would be unjust to
withhold this miracle which God hath done in
honour of His Mother.
Everywhere will I tell it, in good hope that thereby
many a man may
be converted and learn to honour our blessed Lady.’
Before
116
Before he went he told to all the sisterhood what had
happened
unto a nun, but there was no one that knew who she was;
a close
secret did it remain. And when he made farewell, both her
children
he took with him, and clothed them in grey; and both of them
became
good monks. Their mother’s name was Beatrice.
Give praise to Mary and to her Son our Lord whom she
nursed,
for that she brought to pass this fair miracle, and
freed her from all her
pains. And we all of us that hear or read it, let us
pray that Mary
may be our advocate in the sweet valley where God shall sit
and doom
the world. AMEN.
A HANDFUL OF DUST
A TRAVELLER wandered by night amid the
ruins of an immense forsaken palace.
Through portals, of marble and
passages
of porphyry, he at length attained a little
inner court which
had been the private
garden of the princess, underneath the
window of
her chamber. The degenerated
shoots of the rose and myrtle were still
contending for existence with the strang-
ling crop of wild plants;
otherwise, it retained no trace of ancient
culture but a mutilated tomb and
a dry fountain. The traveller
seated himself upon the former, and remained
absorbed in medita-
tion, until the setting moon admonished him that he
must with-
draw if he would not lose the light which had hitherto guided
him
among the intricacies of the ruins. Starting up, he sought for
some
fragment of agate or malachite from the tomb to bear away as a
relic. Seeing nothing of this kind, he thrust his hand through a
cavity in
the side of the sepulchre and seized the first object that
met his grasp,
which proved to be a handful of dust. As he with-
drew his hand it was
sharply caught by a long ragged briar spring-
ing on an adjoining mound,
which seemed to urge its growth
in the direction of the sepulchre, as
though to surmount and
clasp it. The smart was so severe that his hand
unclosed, and
shed its contents on the hillock, but he instantly stooped
and picked
them up, mingled with some of the brown and fetid mould
which
bestrewed the latter. He then enclosed the entire handful in a
silken
pouch, and quitted the ruins. On regaining his own country he
deposited the sepulchral relic in a jasper urn, and placed this in a
niche
in his sleeping apartment.
The traveller’s dwelling was situated in the midst of a large
garden,
remote from the noise of the busy capital. The land was
southern,
with a genial climate, and warm, brilliant nights. Hence, he
was
accustomed to late vigils — times of meditation on what he had
seen and learned. The seclusion of the site, the tranquillity of the
scene,
and the nature of his reflections, contributed to enkindle a
naturally
exalted spirit, and to attune perceptions originally refined,
until the
mystic harmonies and rarely apprehended accents of Nature
gradually became
familiar to him. He would hearken and strive to
interpret
118
interpret the rustling of leaves, the
stirring of insects, the vague
lispings of the night wind; nay, he
sometimes seemed to surprise
stray notes of the entrancing music which
accompanies the sublime,
but for most the silent, procession of the stars.
It was, therefore,
with the less astonishment that he one night heard tones
distinctly
proceeding from the jasper urn that contained the handful of
dust. He
listened intently, and clearly distinguished two voices: one a
woman’s,
plaintive and distressed; the other a man’s, imperious and
exulting.
‘Little, disdainful Princess, didst thou deem that it would
ever
be thus!’
‘Alas, no!’ sighed the other voice.
‘The slave thou didst so scorn is now as closely blended with
thyself
as thy spirit with thy frame. The eyes are as the eyes
on which they
gazed, the neck is as the foot that trod it into the dust.’
‘Wretch!’ rejoined the other speaker. ‘Know that whatever
disaster
may have overtaken the Princess’s frame, her spirit is
still her own
and lives on to spurn, to detest, to defy thee.’
‘Detestation and defiance sound marvellously well in my
ears,’
rejoined the slave. ‘Time was when thou didst but
despise.’
‘As I do now,’ replied the Princess.
‘Not so. Detest thou mayest, despise thou canst not.
Thy
bondage galls too sore, and escape from it there is none.
Were our
atoms flung upon the hurricane, mine should pursue thine upon
its
wings; were we strewn upon the ocean, its billows should bear us
away together. Nothing can wholly sunder us but that which shall
one day
subdue all, the elemental strength of Fire.
‘O, Fire!’ exclaimed the Princess, ‘at whose bidding wilt
thou resolve
me into my essence, and purge me from the stain of
this abhorred
companionship?’
‘At mine!’ cried the traveller; and, arising hastily, he
seized the
urn, and poured the contents into the flame of his
lamp. A jet of
light flashed up, and immediately divided itself into two
fiery tongues,
one white with a dazzling lustre, the other murky and lurid.
For a
moment the traveller seemed to have a confused perception of
some-
what ethereal borne upwards, and of some wingless thing falling
heavily
to earth; but instantly the flames sank, his lamp resumed its
accustomed
steady radiance, and no sound disturbed his musings as he sat
gazing
on the jasper urn, now devoid of every particle of dust.
R. GARNETT.
WILHELM MEINHOLD (27 Jan. 1797 — Nov. 31, 1851)
THE historic novel might be set aside
as
wholly inartistic and impossible were it not
for a few examples of
distinct beauty and
power in this singular form. Defoe’s
Memoirs of a Cavalier, though not one of
his
finest works, is yet excellent in parts.
Balzac has greatly triumphed in
this style.
Scott does not approach the intensity of
Balzac, though
his historic novels made
an epoch and are, of course, remarkable. With
Dumas the local
colour is barely more than a convention. The essence of the
Three
Musketeers is not their costume but the play of
incident and charac-
ter. Some of our modern English hands have essayed the
adventures
of the historic romance with quite respectable success, but
scarcely
with complete victory. As far as we know, neither in Italy
nor
Spain has any man gone near these in excellence; but, and this is
passing strange, considering the signal badness of German novels (that
most
miserable Ekkehart, for example), a Pomeranian pastor of this
century has
written two of the very first rank. Naturally, with German
taste as it
is—and as, in spite of French and Norwegian influence, it is
likely to be
for some time—Meinhold has been little honoured in his own
country, though
Göthe gave him sound advice when he asked for it; and
Frederick William IV.
of Prussia not only understood the wonderful
power of his work, but with
princely courtesy printed one of his two
great stories for him unasked. The
Bavarian king has earned the
poet’s praise and the musician’s love by his
real sympathy with the
highest art, but cases such as this and that of
Rückert should plead
favourably for the Hohenzollern.
Wilhelm Meinhold’s was a curious personality: fiercely
individual as
Beddoes, with an instinct that brought him not
only to assimilate details,
but to enter easily into the very life and
feeling of the past, as it has
been given to few men to do. One, too, that
saw through the vulgar
popular ideas of his day, and took refuge from cant
and noisy insincerity
and cowardly lack of patriotism in historic studies
and intellectual
interests, not without turning occasionally to smite the
yelping curs
he despised. Small wonder that a man of his sympathies, who
of
course scorned the futilities of Lutheran apologetic, should have
felt
drawn toward the old Church of the West, with its more antique,
more
120
more dignified, more mysterious
associations. He wanted an atmo-
sphere more highly charged with the
supernatural than the hard, dry,
cast-iron traditions of his own sect could
supply.
The portrait (prefixed to the edition of 1846 of his
collected works)
shows a type not uncommon in Ireland: round
head domed up from
a fine brow; keen level eyes behind the student’s
glasses; straight
well-shaped nose, not of the largest; good firm mouth,
and well-turned
chin. Shrewd, obstinate, not to be convinced save by
himself, persistent,
observant, and keen in feeling and word and deed—so
one would judge
the nature from the face.
That Meinhold should have deigned to use his two notable
stories as
controversial weapons against his uncritical and
bemused adversaries is
curious enough, but it is not necessary to suppose
that Sidonia and
Maria were composed for the sole purpose of puzzling the
Sadducees. In
the case of the Cloister Witch, he
had the story in hand as far back as
1831, and two of his early poems come
from the drama he had first
written; while the censor, with instinctive
dread of true talent, of course
withheld his favour from the Pastor’s Daughter, a play founded on the
story
that was to grow into the Amber Witch.
It was not till after a fair amount of poetical and controversial work
that
our author, in 1843, issued his Amber Witch in
book-form, and had
the wonderful luck to find a gifted woman to clothe it
in appropriate
English form. There is lying at my hand a little pocket
Tasso, with
the pretty autograph, ‘Lucie Duff Gordon, Wurtzburg, 1844,’ a
relic of
the girl whose pen naturalised at once a work that is probably
more
widely known here, and far better appreciated, thanks to her, than
in
Germany. Meinhold gracefully appreciated his translator’s skilful
work,
and Sidonia was dedicated, on its first
appearance in 1848, to
der jungen geist-reichen Uebersetzerin
der Bernstein-Hexe.
It was not Sarah Austin’s daughter, but Mrs. R. W. Wilde,
the
Speranza of the Nation,
who turned the Cloister Witch into English, and
she, too, had well earned a dedication if the novelist had lived to com-
plete his last work—’Der getreue Ritter oder Sigismund Hager von
und zu
Altensteig und die Reformation, in Briefen an die Gräfin Julia von
Oldofredi-Hager in Lemberg’—which was issued at Regensburg in 1852
with a
preface by Aurel, his son, and has not yet, to our knowledge,
found a
translator.
So
120
So much for the circumstances and the man. As to his two
famous
romances, it would be difficult to over-praise them;
within their limits
they are almost perfect; and of what work of art can
more be said ? The
life of Maria Schweidler, the Amber Witch, is supposed
to be told by her
father—a kindly, cowardly, honest old creature, who
writes the story of
the providential escape of his beautiful, brave, and
clever daughter from
the fiendish malice of her enemies at the time of the
Thirty Years’ War.
The plot is the simple scheme of an English melodrama
(as Mr. Jacobs
has noticed), where villainy uses occasions to drive an
innocent heroine
into dire stresses, till the lover, long delayed, manages
to rescue her
at the eleventh hour. It was, however, necessary that the
plot should
be simple and easy to grasp, when there is so much action in
the
detail. Appropriate setting, delicate touches of character, most
skil-
fully enhance the nobility of the helpless innocent child, and draw
the
warmest sympathy from us for her unmerited suffering from the
ignor-
ance, envy, and lust of her persecutors, who urge her charity,
her
learning, and her courage against her as proofs of the horrid guilt
of
which they accuse her. The pretty episodes of the glorious Swedish
king, and of the ring of Duke Philippus, the grim matter-of-fact narra-
tive of the famine, are in Defoe’s vein; but the serious, beautiful charm
of the girl is somewhat beyond his range, though the method by which
it is
indicated is one of which the author of Robinson
Crusoe and Moll
Flanders was a past master. It would be interesting
to learn what
knowledge of his famous predecessor Meinhold possessed; he
must at
least have read of ‘poor Robin.’ But the Pomeranian has qualities
the
Briton never possessed; Defoe’s ghosts and spirits are vulgar, and
he
cannot deal with the supernatural so as to arouse horror or terror;
he
does not meddle save with sordid crime, which remains sordid under
his
hand. Meinhold has the true Elizabethan power of shocking the
reader’s
soul with the repulsion and the sympathy he can arouse by his
present-
ment of depths of sin and abysses of dread. And this without
Tour-
neur’s extravagance, without the mere sham and unreal taste for
blood
and bogeys that long haunted the childish Teutonic mind, and
inspired
the absurdities of the German romantic drama. This man is no
Walpole
with vapid, ill-begotten rococo invention; no Monk Lewis with
crude,
Surrey-side imaginings. He is of the true stock of Kyd and
Webster
and Shakespeare. He can mix you broad humour with horror, and
banal incident with the most pitiful tragedy, so that the relief enables
the catastrophe to tell the more surely and vividly.
Sidonia
122
Sidonia is far more ambitious,
certainly in some respects finer than
the Amber Witch, illustrating its author’s rare qualities in fuller
mea-
sure. Astonishing for breadth and power is the conception of
Sidonia
herself—the true adventuress nature—with her hatred for the
pretences
about her, proud of her own birth, and full of disdain for those
below
her, with eager greed and envy for all that was out of her reach,
but
had come to others without an effort, and armed in that selfish,
revenge-
ful cruelty and callousness for others’ sufferings that belong to
the
habitual criminal, who urges pretended right to punish a society
so
constituted as to show symptoms of not existing mainly for his ease
and comfort. There is something of Becky in her petty malignity, her
indomitable courage, her elaborate and long-prepared schemes, her
quick
change of plan when it becomes obvious she is on the wrong
track, her
contempt for plain-dealing and honesty, which she accounts
crass animal
stupidity. Yet Meinhold rises far higher than Thackeray
ever could; the
little Mayfair tragedy shrinks beside the monstrous
crime of Saatzig; even
Regan or Goneril might have recoiled from
ordering the merciless torment
that Sidonia never scrupled to inflict.
It is a feat to have imagined and
put into being a creature so devilish
and yet so human as the Cloister Witch. For such is Meinhold’s
marvellous
skill that he forces us to pity her, and rejoice that Diliana’s
pleading
won a painless death for the wretched old sinner who had
suffered so
terribly, both in soul and body, before the inevitable end
came. Dr.
Theodorus Plonnies is a less pronounced figure than Pastor
Schweidler, and
this rightly, for the story he has to relate is twice as
lonog as the
Caserow cleric’s, and the adventures of his incomparable
heroine fill his
canvas; but his dogged fidelity to the bestial hog-like
brood of dukes that
reign over Pomerania, and his infantile credulity,
are distinctly marked.
One recalls scene after scene of wonderful
graphic force, ingeniously
various in tone, but always lit with that spark
of humour which alone could
make so much horror endurable—the swift
and unforeseen end of the mighty
young standard-bearer on the ice;
the aimless beery revolt of the town
rascalry; the squalid encounters
on the boat by which the outraged father
and the brutal paramour
are brought to their deaths: the devout ending of
young Appelmann;
the boisterous horseplay of the castle, with death ever
close at the
heels of drunken idle mirth; the futile squabbles of the
peasants
and the hangman over the gipsy witch; the bear-hunt; the
ridiculous
fray with the treacherous malignant Jews, followed by the impres-
sive
❧ SIDONIA AND OTTO VON BORK ON
THE WATERWAY TO STETTIN
a pen drawing
by
Reginald Savage
127
sive conjuration of the Angel of the
Sun; the bits of half-comic,
squalid convent-life; the haughty ceremonies
of the feudal court ; the
cruel martyrdom of the innocent ‘dairy-mother,’
and the vulgar
quarrels of the girls in the ducal harem. But wherever the
uncon-
querable Sidonia comes on his scene the author rises to tragic
heights,
and his work grows in power and gains in colour. Admirably
rendered
is the mischievous fooling and insolent mockery of the wanton
artful beauty who brings lust and hate and impiety in her train, wither-
ing all that is good wherever her influence spreads, so that, till accident
foils her, she pulls the wires of the wooden-headed court-puppets, defies
Her silly Grace and the honest chamberlain, and is blessed by the very
victims she has bespelled. That midnight incident should surely find
an
illustrator where the brave-hearted maiden, cross in hand, has
chased the
werewolf out of the church into the churchyard, and lo! at
the touch of the
holy symbol, the foul beast has suddenly disap-
peared, and there stands
Sidonia trembling, with black and bloody lips,
in the clear thin moonlight
beside an open grave. The climax of her
career is reached with the
coffin-dance, when the ‘devil’s harlot’ sang
the 109th Psalm, and took her
revenge while the hymn was pealing
through the church above, and the plank
beneath her feet quivering
with the death-agony of the girl-mother who had
stood her friend in
the midst of her disgrace when even her own kinsfolk
had cast her off.
Nor is it possible to forget Sidonia, crouching in her
wretched
cell in the witches’ tower, with the black scorched
half-roasted head
and cross-bones of her miserable accomplice flung on the
floor beside
her; Sidonia writhing and shrieking in impotent rage and agony
on
the rack at Oderburg; Sidonia, perhaps even more pitiful to
remember,
as she curses and blasphemes in her despair over her lost
beauty
and ruined life, when the court painter, Mathias Eller, brings the
por-
trait of her youth to be completed by the likeness, at sixty
years’
interval, of her hideous senility. Sidonia, it is always Sidonia!
She
haunts the mind and shakes the imagination, long after one has
laid
down the book that has created her. She is complete; her awful
life
from childhood to age one unbroken tissue of impressive
wickedness,
with only the gleams of courage and wit and recklessness, and
instinctive
loathing for pretentious folly, to lighten its dark web. Once
only is she
repentant; for a brief moment she pities the child she has
orphaned.
But her end is a relief, when, not without the kind of dignity
with which
Dekker or Webster can bestow upon the foulest criminal, Meinhold’s
fearful
128
fearful heroine makes her last exit. ‘
At length the terrible sorceress
herself appears in sight, accompanied by
the school, chanting the death-
psalm. She wore a white robe seamed with
black [the death-shift that
her worst sin had brought her]. She walked
barefoot, and round her
head a black fillet flowered with gold, beneath
which her long white
hair fluttered in the wind/ So she passes to her
doom.
After which, most fit and congruous is the epilogue, wherein,
with true
Shakesperean craft, Meinhold soothes his readers’
tense nerves with soft
melancholy, and shows us the faithful servant by his
master’s coffin in
the vaults of the castle-church of Stettin on the
anniversary of his
burial, with the paper bearing the record of that burial
in his hand.
‘But my poor old Pomeranian heart could bear no more; I placed
the
paper again in the coffin, and, while the tears poured from my eyes
as
I ascended the steps, these beautiful old verses came into my head,
and I could not help reciting them aloud:—
In the grave lie desolate.
He who wore the kingly crown
With the base worm lieth down,
Ermined robe and purple pall
Leaveth he at Death’s weird call.
Fleeting, cheating, human life,
Souls are perilled in thy strife;
Yet the pomps in which we trust,
All must perish!—dust to dust.
God alone will ever be;
Who serves Him reigns eternally.’
Has such weird tragedy been written in Europe since the
Elizabethan
stage was silenced by the Puritan, as this of
Sidonia? When we
compare it with Victor Hugo’s Notre
Dame de Paris the Frenchman’s
raw colouring is almost ludicrous,
and his coarse conventional scene-
painting ceases to impress. Scott’s
diablerie and magic is child’s play,
mere
gossamer, beside Meinhold’s firm, strong, natural work. Marryat
has
produced some coarse half-wrought effects; Barham and Stevenson
have done
well within restrained limits; Poe is too fantastic, for all his
talent ;
Emily Bronte had the requisite power, but hardly attained to
the exquisite
art. Not Michelet with the splendid glow of his romantic
effects, not
Flaubert for all his rich and elaborate prose, not Huysmans
with his artful
chameleon embroidery of phrase and shrill neurotic
narrative
129
narrative, have been able to attain
to Meinhold’s marvellous creations.
Only Balzac’s Succube ceste ange froissée par des meschans hommes’
—a tale
(like Maria Schweidler’s) of pitiful charity brutally betrayed
to torture
and death,—this tiny masterpiece of a great master, is fit to
stand beside
them. It would seem that upon this German pastor of
the nineteenth century
there had descended the skirt of Marlowe’s
mantle. He who drew the pride of
Tamerlane, the ambition of Faust,
the greed of Barabbas, was the true
ancestor of the creator of Sidonia,
and we must go back to the time of Ford
to find a right parallel
among English men of letters to him that portrayed
the meekly borne
sufferings and soft courage of the Amber Witch.
F. YORK POWELL.
FOUR QUATRAINS
YE cannot cheat the Master of your fate!
Proclaim the goal to which your feet are set,
He who knows all is the Compassionate,
Often His wisdom prompts Him to forget.
❧
WHY weep for days irrevocably dead,
For flaunting hopes in envious battle slain?
The bravest soldier frankly looks ahead,
Knowing he dare not fight the past again.
❧
TO-NIGHT old poets through the city go,
Doors shake and windows rattle at their tread,
The empty streets are noisy with the woe
Of sad immortals banished to the dead.
❧
THE future lies before us rich with gold,
Only the foolish backward gaze and fret:
What laughter lurks in stories still untold,
What solemn songs await the singer yet!
PERCY HEMINGWAY.
INCURABLE
MIST hung gray along the river, and upon the fields. From the
cottage,
little and lonely, shone candlelight, that looked sad to the
wanderer
without in the autumnal dark: he turned and faced the
fields, and the dim
river. And the music, the triumphing music, the
rich voices of the violin,
came sounding down the garden from the
cottage. His mood, his mind, were
those of the Flemish poet, who
murmurs in sighing verse:
Et je suis dans la nuit. . . . Oh! c’est si bon la
nuit!
Ne rien faire . . . se taire . . . et bercer son
ennui,
Au rhythme agonisant de lointaine musique. . . .
For this was the last evening of his life: he felt sure of
that: and,
foolish martyr to his own weakness that he was, he
fell to meditating
upon the sad scenery and circumstance of his death. The
gray mist
upon river and field, the acrid odours of autumn flowers in the
garden,
the solitariness of melancholy twilight, these were right and
fitting: but
there, in the cottage behind him, was his best friend,
speaking with
him through music, giving him his Ave
atque Vale upon the violin. A
choice incident! And instinctively
he began to find phrases for it,
plangent, mournful, suitable to the
elegiac sonnet. True, his friend was
not all that he could have wished: an
excellent musician of common
sense, well dressed and healthy, with nothing
of Chopin about him,
nothing of Paganini. But the sonnet need not mention
the musician,
only his music. So he looked at the dim river and the misty
fields,
and thought of long, alliterative, melancholy words.
Immemorial,
irrevocable, visionary, marmoreal. . . .
The Lyceum was responsible for
this. That classic journal, reviewing
his last book of verses,
had told him that though he should vivisect
his soul in public for
evermore, he would find there nothing worth
revealing, and nothing to
compensate the spectators for their painful and
pitying emotions. He had
thought it a clumsy sarcasm, ponderous no
less than rude: but he could not
deny its truth. Tenderly opening his
book, he lighted upon these lines:
Ah, day by swift malignant day,
Life vanishes in vanity:
Whilst I, life’s phantom victim, play
The music of my misery.
Draw near, ah dear delaying Death!
Draw near, and silence my sad breath.
The
132
The lines touched him; yet he could not think them a valuable utter-
ance:
nor did he discover much fine gold in his sonnet, which began:
Along each melancholy London street,
Beneath the heartless stars, the indifferent moon,
I walk with sorrow, and I know that soon
Despair and I will walk with friendly feet.
It was good, but Shakespeare and Keats, little as he could
comprehend
why, had done better. He sat in his Temple chambers,
nursing these
dreary cogitations, for many hours of an October day, until
the musician
came to interrupt him: and to the violinist the versifier
confessed.
‘I am just thirty,’ he began, ‘and quite useless. I have a
good
education, and a little money. I must do something: and
poetry is
what I want to do. I have published three volumes, and they
are
entirely futile. They are not even bad enough to be interesting. I
have
not written one verse that any one can remember. I have tried a
great
many styles, and I cannot write anything really good and fine in any
one
of them.’ He turned over the leaves with a hasty and irritated
hand.
‘There, for instance!’ This is an attempt at the sensuous
love-lyric:
listen!
Sometimes, in very joy of shame,
Our flesh becomes one living flame:
And she and I
Are no more separate, but the same.
Ardour and agony unite;
Desire, delirium, delight:
And I and she
Faint in the fierce and fevered night.
Her body music is: and ah,
The accords of lute and viola,
When she and I
Play on live limbs love’s opera!
It’s a lie, of course: but even if it were true, could any
one care to
read it? Then why should I want to write it? And why
can’t I
write better? I know what imagination is, and poetry, and all the
rest
of it. I go on contemplating my own emotions, or inventing them,
an
nothing comes of it but this. And yet I’m not a perfect fool. That,
said the musician, ‘is true, though it is not your fault: but you soon
will
133
will be, if you go on maundering like
this by yourself. Come down to
my cottage by the river, and invent a new
profession.’ And they went.
But the country is dangerous to persons of weak mind, who
examine
much the state of their emotions; they indulge there in
delicious
luxuries of introspection. The unhappy poet brooded upon his
futility,
with occasional desperate efforts to write something like the
Ode to Duty
or the Scholar Gypsy: dust and ashes! dust and ashes! Suddenly the
horror of a long life spent in following the will-o’-the-wisp, or in
questing
for Sangrails and Eldorados, fell upon him: he refused to become
an
elderly mooncalf. The river haunted him with its facilities for
death,
and he regretted that there were no water-lilies on it: still, it
was cold
and swift and deep, overhung by alders, and edged by whispering
reeds.
Why not? He was of no use: if he went out to the colonies, or
upon
the stock exchange, he would continue to write quantities of
average
and uninteresting verse. It was his destiny: and the word pleased
him.
There was a certain distinction in having a destiny, and in defeating
it
by death. He had but a listless care for life, few ties that he
would
grieve to break, no prospects and ambitions within his reach.
Upon
this fourth evening, then, he went down to the end of the garden,
and
looked towards the river.
The sonnet was done at last, and he smiled to find himself
admiring
it. In all honesty, he fancied that death has inspired
him well. He had
read, surely he had read, worse sestets.
‘I shall not hear what any morrow saith:
I only hear this my last twilight say
Cease thee from sighing and from bitter breath,
For all thy life with autumn mist is gray!
Dirged by loud music, down to silent death
I pass, and on the waters pass away.’
A pity that it should be lost: but to leave it upon the bank
would
be almost an affectation. Besides, there was pathos in
dying with his
best verses upon his lips: verses that only he and the
twilight should
hear. Night fell fast and very gloomy, with scarce a star.
Leaning
upon the gate, he tried to remember the names of modern poets
who
have killed themselves: Chatterton, Gerard de Nerval. They, at
least,
could write poetry, and their failure was not in art. Yet he could
live
his poetry, as Milton and Carlyle, he thought, had recommended: live
it
by dying, because he could not write it. ‘What Cato did and Addison
approved’ had its poetical side: and no one without a passion for poetry
would
134
would die in despair at failure in it.
The violin sent dancing into the
night an exhilarating courtly measure of
Rameau: ‘The Dance of
Death!’ said the poet, and was promptly ashamed of so
obvious and
hackneyed a sentiment. At the same time, there was something
strange
and rare in drowning yourself by night to the dance-music of
your
unconscious friend.
The bitter smell of aster and chrysanthemum was heavy on the
air;
‘balms and rich spices for the sad year’s death,’ as he had
once written:
and he fancied, though he could not be sure, that he caught a
bat’s thin
cry. The ‘pathetic fallacy’ was extremely strong upon him, and
he
pitied himself greatly. To die so futile and so young! A minor
Hamlet
with Ophelia’s death! And at that, his mind turned to
Shakespeare,
and to a famous modern picture, and to the Lady of Shalott.
He
imagined himself floating down and down to some mystical mediaeval
city, its torchlights flashing across his white face. But for that, he
should be dressed differently; in something Florentine perhaps: certainly
not in a comfortable smoking-coat by a London tailor. And at that, he
was
reminded that a last cigarette would not be out of place: he lighted
one,
and presently fell to wondering whether he was mad or no. He
thought not:
he was sane enough to know that he would never write
great poetry, and to
die sooner than waste life in the misery of vain
efforts. The last wreath
of smoke gone upon the night, not without a
comparison between the wreath
and himself, he opened the garden gate,
and walked gently down the little
field, at the end of which ran the
river. He went through the long grass,
heavy with dew, looking up at
the starless sky, and into the impenetrable
darkness. Of a sudden, with
the most vivid surprise of his life, he fell
forward, with a flashing sensa-
tion of icy water bubbling round his face,
blinding and choking him; of
being swirled and carried along-, of river
weeds clinging round his head;
of living in a series of glimpses and
visions. Mechanically striking out
across stream, he reached the bank,
steadied and rested himself for an
instant by the branch of an overhanging
alder, then climbed ashore.
There he lay and shivered; then, despite the
cold, tingled with shame,
and blushed; then laughed; lastly, got up and
shouted. The shout rose
discordantly above the musician’s harmonies, and he
heard some one
call his name. ‘It’s that moon-struck poet of mine,’ said
he, and went
down to the gate. ‘Is that you?’ he cried, ‘and where are
you?’ And
out of the darkness beyond came the confused and feeble
answer
fell into the river—and I’m—on the wrong side.’ The practical man
wasted
❧ ARIADNE
by
G. F. Watts, R.A.
139
wasted no words, but made for the
boathouse, where he kept his punt:
and in a few minutes the shivering poet
dimly descried his rescuer in
mid-stream. The lumbering craft grounded, and
the drowned man, with
stiff and awkward movement, got himself on board.
‘What do you
mean,’ said the musician, ‘by making me play Charon on this
ghostly
river at such an hour?’ ‘I was—thinking of things,’ said the poet,
‘and
it was pitch dark—and I fell in.’ They landed; and the dewy field,
the
autumnal garden, the rich night air, seemed to be mocking him. His
teeth chattered, and he shook, and still he mumbled bits of verse. Said
the
musician, as they entered the little cottage: ‘The first thing for you
to
do is to take off those things, and have hot drinks in bed, like Mr.
Pickwick.’ Said the doomed man, quaking like an aspen: ‘Yes, but I
must
write out a sonnet first, before I forget it.’ He did.
LIONEL JOHNSON
BY THE SEA
THE mariners sleep by the sea.
The wild wind comes up from the sea,
It wails round the tower and it blows through the grasses,
And it scatters the sand o’er the graves where it passes,
And the salt and the scent of the sea.
The white waves beat up from the shore,
They beat on the church by the shore,
They rush round the gravestones aslant to the leeward,
And the wall and the mariners’ graves lying seaward,
That are banked with the stones from the shore.
For the huge sea comes up in the storm,
Like a beast from the lair of the storm,
To claim with its ravenous leap, and to mingle
The mariners’ bones with the surf and the shingle
That it rolls round the shore in the storm.
There is nothing beyond but the sky,
But the sea and the slow-moving sky,
Where a cloud from the grey lifts the gleam of its edges,
Where the foam flashes white from the shouldering ridges,
As they crowd on the uttermost sky.
The mariners sleep by the sea.
Far away there’s a shrine by the sea;
The pale women climb up the path to it slowly
To pray to Our Lady of Storms ere they wholly
Despair of their men from the sea.
141
The children at play on the sand,
Where once from the shell-broidered sand
They would watch for the sails coming in from far places,
Are forgetting the ships and forgetting the faces
Lying here, lying hid in the sand.
When at night there’s a seething of surf,
The grandames look out o’er the surf,
They reckon their dead and their long years of sadness,
And they shake their lean fists at the sea and its madness,
And curse the white fangs of the surf.
But the mariners sleep by the sea.
They hear not the sound of the sea,
Nor the hum from the church when the psalm is uplifted,
Nor the crying of birds that above them are drifted.
The mariners sleep by the sea.
GROUPED STUDIES
Mildred.
Four various impulses do battle in the heart of
Mildred—wage
in that breast of hers their long, uncertain fight.
A girl of her
intelligence must crave, at times, for steady intellectual
progress. It is
natural that she should feel the fascination of present
pleasure. All the
best of her womanhood finds itself at peace in the
consciousness of
tender deeds. Blind instinct drives her to be fashionable.
Charged
with ideals so unstable, so many, and so much at variance, how can
she
quite succeed? May not life, so weighted, tend to be little else than
an
unwilling compromise—a concession, graceless after all, and finally
barren?
The Basis of Friendship.
Heyburn’s remark to me that ‘a community of intellectual
interests
is the real basis for friendship,’ has, of course, its
truth; yet it shows
too, to some extent, the limitations of the person who
makes it—shows
most of all the absence in him of imperious instinct or
profound
emotion. Friendly acquaintance, not real friendship, is that which
is
based, oftenest, on ‘community of interests,’ whether
‘intellectual,
the condition Heyburn, to do him justice, bargains for or
whether,
on a lower level, merely material. On common intellectual
interests,
no doubt, some friendships are established; but with how many
have
they nothing to do! Instinctive liking, the discovery, either slow
or
immediate, that your temperaments understand one another, that your
natures can fuse—this, more than anything you can define or intel-
lectually justify, is the basis of associations in which affection must
have a large, unstinted part.
A Living Sacrifice.
They sit, row after row—those common women penitents—in
their
own corner of the church, never looking to this side or
that. There
stay they, rarely lifting an eye-some of them pasty, some of
them
fresh coloured; all of them in their dull brown shawls and plain
unribboned bonnets; their clothes, their ways, and most of their
dull lives
a continuous unsuccessful apology for the things of which (by
some mistake
of Providence) Humanity too much consists.
Patriot.
143
Patriot.
The man has been so desperately busy in merely getting
his
place, it would be unreasonable to expect that he should
have had
any time in which to make ready to fill it.
Lover.
I see—he likes resistance; and, though it would vex him in
the
end if the woman of his ideal should prove impregnable, it
would
disappoint him in the process did he discover that she was not
strongly
fortified.
Critic and Painter.
Yet, after all, is there a straw to choose between the two?
For,
though you know the painter to be indeed a blithe, degraded
com-
pound of ingratitude and vanity, the worst has not been said of
his
critic when you have called him—and have called him accurately—
unsatisfactory and diffuse. He is much more than that. It is his
destiny to
quit the commonplace, only to arrive at the untrue.
Provence: Morning.
‘La terrible lumiere du Midi’—Barbey d’Aurevilly’s
phrase-
gleams to-day at its fiercest, though it is early yet.
From the
eucalyptus that rises by the window, and all along the plain to
the
great sapphire water and the two islands, whitened gold, upon the
far
horizon, everything is positive, no detail unrevealed. The wind
from
the north-west—invisible but potent visitor—has swept and scoured
the
world, and, in white glare and throbbing heat, the shining land—a
rapture of pure colour—burns itself away.
Provence: Evening.
The chain of mountains—the whole jagged Esterel, stretched
to
the sea—looks, from the place whence I behold it, a great
peaked
promontory; and, now the sun is down, the whole chain, flushed
before
with dusty gold, turns in an instant one chill, ghastly grey—like
a
sad woman’s face on which there falls, quite suddenly, the shock of
irretrievable, unlooked-for loss.
144
Sufferers.
Commonplace folk air their kindness of heart by pitying
profusely
the incompetence of fools. Had Heaven granted them a
wider vision,
they would have some pity to spare for the capable, on whom
fools
wreak their mischief.
A Death.
She lay so quiet: stately almost, for it was not only still.
On
features wont to be changeful-responding quickly to the
action of
her mental life—the soul had thrown its last mould : the last of
all its
impulses had settled and stayed. An aspect of suffering, was
it?—of
sorrow, regret at the leaving? Scarcely. Yet much was
abandoned.
And she lay quiet—content, one must think, with the change.
FREDERICK WEDMORE
THE SOUTH WIND
I The south wind rose at dusk of the winter day
The warm breath of the western sea
Circling wrapp’d the isle with his cloke of cloud,
And it now reach’d even to me, at dusk of the day,
And moan’d in the branches aloud:
While here and there, in patches of dark space,
A star shone forth from its heavenly place,
As a spark that is borne in the smoky chase;
And, looking up, there fell on my face—
Could it be drops of rain
Soft as the wind, that fell on my face?
Gossamers light as threads of the summer dawn,
Suck’d by the sun from midmost calms of the main,
From groves of coral islands secretly drawn,
O’er half the round of earth to be driven,
Now to fall on my face
In silky skeins spun from the mists of heaven.
II Who art thou, in wind and darkness and soft rain
Thyself that robest, that bendest in sighing pines
To whisper thy truth? that usest for signs
A hurried glimpse of the moon, the glance of a star
In the rifted sky?
Who art thou, that with thee I
Woo and am wooed?
That, robing thyself in darkness and soft rain,
Choosest my chosen solitude,
Coming so far
To tell thy secret again,
As a mother her child, in her folding arm
Of a winter night by a flickering fire,
Telleth the same tale o’er and o’er
With gentle voice, and I never tire,
So imperceptibly changeth the charm,
As
146
As Love on buried ecstasy buildeth his tower
—Like as the stem that beareth the flower
By trembling is knit to power:—
Ah! long ago
In thy first rapture I renounced my lot,
The vanity, the despondency, and the woe,
And seeking thee to know
Well was’t for me; and evermore
I am thine, I know not what.
III For me thou seekest ever, me wondering a day
In the eternal alternations, me
Free for a stolen moment of chance
To dream a beautiful dream
In the everlasting dance
Of speechless worlds, the unsearchable scheme,
To me thou findest the way,
Me and whomsoe’er
I have found my dream to share
Still with thy charm encircling; even to-night
To me and my love in darkness and soft rain
Under the sighing pines thou comest again,
And staying our speech with mystery of delight,
Of the kiss that I give a wonder thou makest,
And the kiss that I take thou takest.
R.B.
❧ PAOLO AND FRANCESCA
by
G. F. Watts, R.A.
ALFRIC
THERE were shouts that horribly clove the
night air—the ring of axes on heavily
smitten shields—every now and then a
crash
that meant a crushed head, and a cry that
was not the full,
defiant voice of onset but
the stifled note of one who sinks
earthward.
And then Alfric saw that in a short while—
a moment or two
at most—he would be
ringed round by the men whose ill-fame
had come
swiftly from Northumberland—the torturers of King Ella.
He had fought hard
while his friends remained standing, and had seen
them go down one after
another, a fate which is good and honour-
able for every one, and which he
himself would have chosen as his
own, had choice been. But now, that for a
breathing-space he stood
over the body of the Dane he had cut down, he had
a vision of the
story that had come from the North, of Ella lying face
downwards
alive—while his exulting foes opened his ribs into the form of a
spread
eagle . . . and then he swore mightily that never should these
men
have that triumph over him.
Swift was the thought, and instantly he hurled shield and
bill at
the oncoming assailant, smiting him backward; then
turned, with his
knife between his teeth, fled like a hare to the water’s
edge, out of the
fiery circle shed by the burning homestead; then shot out
into the
black water and thick fenland mist, followed by all who dared,
and
they were very many.
With an instinctive cunning which is bred in the bone by
such
ravagous times, he turned the very instant he had come to
the end of
his long forward shoot, and dived sharply to his right hand,
swimming
under water as far as his breath would hold out. He did this as
one
who had lived an amphibious life ever since his birth, and who was
not afraid of any strange things that might be sleeping in the depths
he
threaded, who wished to get away from his fellow-men who had
burnt his
home, cut his friends to pieces, and intended in all likelihood
a
disgraceful end for himself.
And as he twisted and kicked his feet out of the water with
the
dive, as a duck turns up its tail, there came what he had
forethought
a sleet of arrows pelting fast, cutting the water with a sharp
‘phit-phit,’
along the oily wake he had left behind, and far out beyond it
into the
darkness.
152
darkness So very prompt had the
Northmen been with their bows,
and so very nearly had they guessed his
exact whereabouts that one
of these messengers of the Raven stuck quivering
into the sole of his
upturned foot as he went down, and five or six more
clove the place
where his head had been an instant previously. He felt the
sting in is
heel and snorted angrily at it, trailing behind him and wagging
its
point about in his wound as he swam on in the depths; soon,
doubling
together for a second, he plucked it out of the leather shoe that
ha
stayed the steel from inflicting a serious hurt, and stuck it in his
gird
for further use; then feeling his pent-up breath becoming a
painful
weight at his heart, he rose and swam stealthily as an otter,
holding
little more than his nose above the surface, with a pang of
wrath
losses, and exultation at his escape.
Not one of those who had entered after him could he see.
So he swam on and on, thinking of nothing but speed and
silence,
for he knew they would row over a wide surface if they
could find the
boat betimes—still, it was well hidden. The mist was heavy
on the
face of the great mere, he could hardly see a hand’s-breadth
before
him but from behind he heard faint whooping and yelling, and a
splash
of oars that died gradually as he slid along. So they had found
that
boat, and were exploring. They were prompt indeed but his trick
had
succeeded, evidently; they were on the wrong track. Therefore he
took his knife from his teeth and placed it in his girdle, as being no
longer needed for instant use, then raised his head out of the water and
settled down to a swinging stroke that could be kept up for a very long
while.
Once he brushed against some great soft mass that
quivered
suddenly and swished away in a hurry; once as he
skirted a thicket of
deep-growing rushes, where of old an island had been,
some writhing
thing began softly to twine round his leg, and instantly he
drew back
his limb with a swift twist, and darted off at full speed. After
a long
interval of strokes that seemed to bring him nowhere, he slid
quietly
into a group of some great waterfowl, sleeping with their huge
bills on
their backs. One or two awoke, and brandished these formidable
things
as a man will wave a broad blade, but quickly he sank below the
surface, and there was no cry of surprise from them. Perhaps they
thought
him only a floating corpse—such a sight being too
common to arouse appetite
in birds who had supped well—anyhow,
he rose beyond them, and renewed his
course into the unknown with-
out
153
out their betraying his whereabouts
to any who might yet be after
him.
Into the Unknown.
For he had quite lost his bearings, and could only hope he had not
taken
some unnoticed turn and was not going back to the ravaged
shore. . . . The
submerged islet he seemed to know, but even that
indicated the edge of a
region whither he had never extended his
fishing journeys—a place of
water—water, and little else, on whose
farther side the moon arose at this
time of the year; a place said to be
haunted by a Grendel, which had so far
met with no Beowulf to
destroy it . . . and as he thought of these things,
lo! his fenland eye
felt a slightly lesser darkness over against his face,
and he knew, as no
dweller inland could have known, that the moon was
there, and that he
was indeed swimming out into the region of Fear.
Yet little he cared for Grendel in his present mood of fury
against
those he had eluded; to meet the Marsh Demon in all his
dreadfulness
of clutching arms and serpent head would be but the honourable
end
of a warrior: as he swam he growled in fierce grief to think of
the
spread eagle which, perhaps, was even then being inflicted on some
wounded friend. Visions of return at the head of a troop, and the
sweet
word Revenge, danced about in his head, until the hopelessness of
them
trailed its chilling certainty across all such rosy dreams. The
fever of
fighting was being cooled by the autumn water, and he fancied
every now and
then that henceforth he must be a dweller among
strange faces, content if
he could keep unharmed. So suddenly came
this spasm of cold upon him, that
he felt as if some weight were
pressing his shoulders and trying to drown
him . . . Grendel, perhaps!
stealthily arisen behind . . .?
Sturdily he plucked his knife from his girdle and twisted
round
with all the force of his body. No! there was no claw on
his back, no
Grendel with eyes like torches, as the tale went. It was all
fancy; he
was still alone on the face of the deep mere, with nothing
visible
above or around, just as if he were hung in the middle of the
sky.
However, that vigorous twist had sent his blood stirring up and
down
him; he pushed the knife again into his girdle, and forward once
more
with the long, steady stroke, keeping on towards the feeble
greyness,
which he felt rather than saw, in that one spot of the thick fen
mist.
How long he thus persevered he could not tell—hours, it seemed.
Until something black arose before him, came close, and
looked into
his
154
his face. It was very large, its big
eyes were mild and wondering, also
it had a pair of tusks, and moustaches
long and sweeping-white, like
the lip-clothing of some barrow-ghost that
once had been a king of the
northern seas. Whether it were man, or beast,
or Grendel, it gazed
awhile at Alfric as he hung there in the water with a
beating heart,
overshading him with its bulk. Then, instead of attacking
him, it
went again on its way, uncertainly, as one that is far from home
and
lost, with a gentle groan, so that Alfric felt a sorrow for it which
he
could not understand, but which might be of his own thought that he
also had lost his kinsfolk: and he knew that it was no Grendel, what-
ever
else it might be.
After which, the chill of the water came creeping into all
his bones
and weighed upon him as before, until he kicked and
twisted smartly,
recovering his strength with difficulty for the task of
going onward to
a place he did not know. Once or twice he felt a sudden
anger at all
his swimming being so apparently vain, and beat the water
furiously,
lying on his side as a ship does when the wind blows strongly
abeam,
cleaving the cold surface with a great rush and bubbling; but at
last
he had to pause, and turn over to float and get a little rest, feeling
in
those intervals as if the slightest hair-weight more would send him
down
to the bottom like a stone, without his being able to move a finger.
But then he would recover from staring up into the grey
nothingness
aloft, struggle round on his face, and toil on,
though now it was as if he
were pulling himself with difficulty through a
vast heap of wet wool, so
spent did he know himself to be after the fight
and the long swimming.
And still he came to nothing—nothing at all; still the
everlasting
grey mist; still he hung poised, to all seeming, in
a sky with nothing
all round him, though the end was below if he were to
hold up his
hands and take no breath.
Then he felt a mortal weariness of moving, and wondered why
he
so persisted in the strife for what he did not know, when all
he cared
for were lying with cloven skulls on the far sandbank. Straight
at
that thought he held up his arms, and sank like a stone. . . .
All at once, as the water covered his descending head, his
foot
touched soft mud. He might have stayed there to drown, but
the
feel of earth in those depths stirred in him a fresh desire of life;
and a
beat of his hand, weak though it was, brought him again to the
surface.
And now, as once more he painfully drew in his arms and put
them
forth
155
forth through the entangling water,
he saw a great reed standing
sentinel in front, causing the life-longing to
glow red within him. Soon
he reached it, and was aware of many others
behind—huge stems, with
purple tassels high over him. Never before had he
seen such giants,
standing like a water-forest, drooping their sword-like
blades. He
grasped one, and it cut his softened flesh, but he was very
glad, and
catching at each stem helped himself on into shallower water. So
at
last he wound his way through them into a swamp, lying flat on his
back to keep from the sucking mud, and slowly dragging himself along.
Thus
he came to lumps of earth on which grew grass, over which he
crawled,
sinking a little at times, until it was firmer under him, and the
soil
appeared dry between the rushes, which here were small and low.
And then he
tried to stand upright, but fell again with a sting in his
heel and lay
there exhausted, at last to sleep heavily. . . .
The daylight filled his eyes as he awoke. There was a hand
upon
his shoulder, lightly pressing—the hand of a woman.
Wonderingly
he gazed up at the tall figure of a maiden dressed in some
grass-woven
garment, a cross dangling from her breast, her hair hanging
down to
her waist, and waving over him like a golden veil as she stooped
to
look at his face. Her blue eyes showed the good Saxon blood; she
was very beautiful to see, much as the angels the priests had discoursed
of
when he was in the land of living men. ‘It is Saint Alchfrida,’
murmured
he.
‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Whence come you?’
‘I was Alfric, son of Beortric, till I came to my end in the
deep
water. The Danes broke in upon us, and I slew my man, maybe
more.
Nor were they able to take me, O Saint. Have I not done rightly?’
‘Indeed I know not,’ she said, wondering also and with pity.
Then she vanished, as it seemed, and he slept.
But again he awoke, and she stood there once more, with a
white-
headed man by her side, dressed in an old grey cassock.
‘Canst rise,
stranger, and come with us ?’ said this figure; ‘or is thy
body too weak
for one more trial? It is but a little way.’
At that Alfric arose with difficulty, and went with the pair
as one
in a dream, over the grass and through a reedway, until
he came to a
cleared space where stood a hut, on whose roof was a rude
cross of
osier, of which material the dwelling also was made.
He now knew that he was alive, and that these were of his
race,
living here unknown and unmolested.
156
They gave him food and water, and made him rest all that day
on
a couch of leaves in the corner, whence at times as he lay he
saw the
maiden passing to and fro. And once, when his eyes were nearly
closed, so that one might think he slept, she came and stood at the
door
with hands pensively clasped, watching him with a face full of
pity, until
he looked up, when she withdrew to some labour in the
border of the
clearing.
After a while, as evening came on, she entered and prepared
the
meal, and he spoke to her to hear her voice, the sound of
which was
low and peaceful as a morning breeze between the green
waterways.
She asked him of his home, and he told her; but his place was
not
known to her, nor was his name, nor that of any of his kin, nor
any-
thing that he knew. So, too, in her turn she could tell him
nothing,
save that she had always been here since the Day of Flame, as
she
called it, and had no desire to go elsewhere than where her father was.
These things Alfric heard gladly, because of the sweetness of
her
voice, though it made him think for a while of his homestead
and of
other good things lost. Then as his heart came back to peace from
that
thought, and he watched her placing food in the bowls, the old
man
entered and greeted him Christianly, turning next to bless the board.
Tell me, Father,’ said Alfric, ‘is there any truth in what
men say of
the Grendel that haunts these fens?’
‘I know not, my son,’ replied the priest. ‘The Lord allows
strange
things to be, and so that may be of them. I have been
here for
twenty years with this child of a murdered kinsman. Only we
two
escaped, and our Lord brought us safely here, where we abide
gladly,
secure as I trust. Indeed, I had heard of the terrible Grendel, and
had
I not been in fear of life for Christiana and myself, might have
feared
the Thing that men said was in this place. But in despair I
came,
deeming that the Marsh Demon could not be more cruel to us than
the
Danes, and have not seen him through all these years; wherefore I
believe that he lets us be, or is not.’
‘It is very peaceful to be here,’ said Alfric regretfully;
‘indeed I
would fain stay always, if it were not that my
kinsfolk’s blood cries for
avenging at my hand.’
‘Yet God is great, and full of purpose. Why shouldst thou go,
my
son? To kill many foes will not avail to make thy kinsfolk
live.’
‘That is true,’ said Alfric musingly, with his eyes on the
face of
Christiana.
157
So the days passed over the isle in the haunted fen where
the
fugitive had found refuge, and as he laboured for the old
man of failing
strength and the daughter of his adoption, a peace settled
upon his
heart as new bark grows over the gashed tree; sometimes also,
when
he spoke to her alone, the thirst for revenge so abated that he
almost
felt content to leave it in the hands of God.
But these were seldom, and at last came an unrest that gave
him
trouble. One day he entered the little hut which he had
built for him-
self, and sat long in thought, now that he understood what
ailed him—
so deep and so full of doubt it was that he forgot to go to the
midday
meal with his hosts. Therefore at last a shadow fell over his
face—two
shadows; the pair were standing before him in his own hut, and
the
radiance of Christiana’s hair seemed to fill its dusk as the light of
a
torch. ‘What ails thee, friend Alfric?’ asked the priest.
‘I will speak plain words,’ said Alfric huskily as he rose,
‘yet I am
full of more than words can carry forth. I see thy
face, Christiana,
wherever I go, though thou be not at hand; it is an angel
s face always,
as first I saw it, and yet it is now so dear to me that it
gives me a pain
I never felt before. This I have held down with my hand for
many
days; but now my hand and my breast are too small for it, and
know-
ing that it is love for thee . . . I will say it and then go to the
place of
danger and of strange men, leaving thee at peace as thou shouldst
be.
For I know also full well of myself that I am not worthy to be a
mate
of thine, being rough and blood-stained. Farewell, kind friends!
He held out his two hands and hung his head.
The priest took them, while Christiana stood apart with
fingers
clasped and bent face. ‘Nay,’ said he, ‘this is a
strange thought.
Canst thou not forget the ills that are past, and wouldst
thou seek
again the dangers that have allowed thee to escape? The times
over
there are very evil.’
‘True’, said Alfric, ‘but I am of them, not of you, and I
would not
bring them here to those that have befriended me ; and
for all I desire
I cannot keep wild thoughts out of me. The wolf cannot
live with the
deer. She is too tender a flower for my rough grasp. Let me
go,
Father.’
‘Yet if she would teach thee ways of peace, thinkest thou she
could,
my son?’
‘Ay, . . . ay, indeed. I would be as patient a scholar as a
man
can be. I would do . . . what would I not? . . . But how can that
be?
158
be? Let me go, Father, for I cannot
forget my slain kinsmen. Fare-
well!’
‘Nay, let her speak first. Speak, dear daughter!’
Then the girl raised her face, and met the young man’s
disturbed
eyes with a look so frank and kind that the vision of
blood faded from
his heart. ‘No, do not leave us, Alfric!’ she said.
So Alfric stayed; and the priest joined their hands, and the
lesson
of happiness lasted for many pleasant hidden years in the
isle none
dared approach because of the evil repute it had.
At Yuletide feasts and other gatherings, when the night drew
on
and the mists took weird shapes, men told tales of the fiend
that
haunted the water and entered halls in mid-dark and snatched away
the bravest, tearing them to pieces as he went — a monster with eyes of
flame and dragon claws. And all believed and shuddered and repeated
these
things . . . while Alfric and Christiana sat hand in hand over
their lesson
in the twilight.
W. DELAPLAINE SCULL.
❧ THE ALBATROSS (ANCIENT MARINER)
a pen drawing
by
Reginald Savage
FLORENTINE RAPPRESENTAZIONI AND THEIR PICTURES
BETWEEN the twelfth and the six-
teenth century nearly every country
in
Europe possessed some sort of a
religious drama, which in many cases
has lingered on, nearly or quite, to
the present day. Even in England—
in Yorkshire, in Dorset and Sussex,
and perhaps in other counties—the
old Christmas play of St. George and
the Dragon is not quite extinct,
though in its latter days its action
has been rendered chaotic by the
introduction of King George III.,
Admiral Nelson, and other national
heroes, whose relation to either the Knight or the Dragon is a little
difficult to follow. The stage directions, which are fairly numerous
in
most of the old plays which have been preserved, enable us to
picture to
ourselves the successive stages of their development with
considerable
minuteness. In some churches the ‘sepulchre’ is still
preserved to which,
in the earliest liturgical dramas, the choristers
advanced, in the guise of
the three Maries, to act over again the scene
on the first Easter-day;
while of that other scene, when at Christmas the
shepherds brought their
simple offerings, a cap, a nutting stick, or a
bob of cherries, to the Holy
Child, a trace still exists in the representa-
tion, either by a
transparency or a model, of the manger of Bethlehem,
still common in Roman
Catholic churches, and not unknown in some
English ones. When the scene of
the plays was removed from the
inside of the church to the churchyard, we
hear of the crowds who
desecrated the graves in their eagerness to see the
performance; and
later still, when the craft-guilds had burdened themselves
with the
expenses of their preparation, we have curious descriptions of
the
waggons upon which each scene of the great cycles ‘of matter from
the
beginning of the world to the Day of Judgement,’ was set up, in
order
that scene after scene might be rolled before the spectators at the
street
corners or the market place, throughout the length of a
midsummer
day. Artists with an antiquarian turn have endeavoured to picture
for
164
for us these curious stages. In
Sharp’s Dissertation on the Coventry
Mysteries there is a frontispiece giving an imaginary
view of a perfor-
mance; and only a few years ago an article was published
in an
American magazine, with really delightful illustrations, depicting
the
working of the elaborate stage machinery behind the scenes, as well
as
the effects with which the spectators were regaled. But of
contempor-
ary illustrations the lack remains grievous and irreparable. In
England
we have nothing at all for the Miracle Plays, while for the
moralities
by which they were superseded, the only manuscript illustration
is
a picture of the castle in the Castle of
Perseverance, in which, with the
aid of his good angels, its
occupant, Man, was set to resist the attacks
of the deadly sins and all the
hosts of hell! The later moralities,
printed by Wynkyn de Worde and his
contemporaries early in the six-
teenth century, have occasionally a few
figures on the face or back of
the title-page, to which labels bearing the
names of the characters are
attached. But these were venerable cuts, which
had done duty on
previous occasions for other subjects; and so far from
being specially
designed to represent the players on an English stage, were
really
French in their origin, and only imported into England from the
old
stock of Antoine Verard.
In France we have much the same tale. It is true that so many
of
the old French Mysteries still remain in manuscript,
unexplored, that
there is a possibility of some pleasant surprise in store
for us. But the
printed plays were either not illustrated at all, or sent
forth with only
a handful of conventional cuts, some of which, as we have
seen, soon
afterwards found their way to our own country. One little ray of
light,
however, we have in the pictures, especially of the Annunciation to
the
Shepherds and their Adoration, in many of the numerous editions of
the Hours of the Blessed Virgin (the lay-folk’s
prayer-books, as they
have been called, of those days), which, from 1490
onwards, attained
the same popularity in print which they had previously
enjoyed in
manuscript. In these illustrations we see the shepherds, with
their
women-folk about them, as they watched their flocks, till
startled
by the angel’s greeting, and again crowding round the manger
at
Bethlehem. In one edition they even bear on labels the names Gobin
le gai, le beau Roger, Mahault, Aloris, etc., by which they were known
in
the plays.
But however ready we may be to trace the influence of the
miracle
plays in these pictures, as illustrations of the plays
themselves they are
very
165
Il Opretta di frate Girolamo de ferrara della ozatione mentale della ozatione mentale
I
very
inadequate;
and the fact re-
mains that in only
one country,
and
practically only
in one city in that
country (for the
Sienna editions
are merely re-
prints) did the
religious
plays,
which in one
form or another
were then being
acted
all over
Europe, receive
any contemporary illustration.
This one city was Florence; and
alike for the special form
in which the religious drama was there de-
veloped, for
the causes which contributed to its popularity at the turn of
the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries, and for its close connection with
the popular art
of the day, the subject is one of considerable interest.
On its literary
and religious side, the late John Addington Symonds dis-
cussed it in Studies of the Italian Renaissance with his usual
ability,
and many of the plays have been reprinted by Signor Ancona. Of
late
years the little pictures by which they are illustrated have also
received
attention, a fact amply attested by the extraordinary rise in
their
market value. But it is worth while to bring together, even if only
in
outline, the pictures and the plays to which they belong, more
closely
than has hitherto been attempted, and this is my object in the
present
paper.
Book-illustration in Italy began very early with the
publication in
1467, by Ulric Hahn, at Rome, of an edition of
the Meditations of
Cardinal
166
II
Cardinal
Torque-
mada on the
Life and
Passion of
Christ. For
the next
twenty years
its progress
was only
sporadic, and
though we
find illustra-
tions of
greater
or
less artis-
tic value
in books
printed at
Naples,
Rome, Ferrara, Verona and Venice, we can only
group them together in
twos and threes; there is absolutely no trace
of any school of illustrators.
From this sporadic growth Florence was not
entirely excluded, for
besides a treatise on geography we find in the 1477
edition of Bettini’s
Monte Santo di Dio, and the famous 1480 Dante, pictures of very con-
siderable interest.
They differ, however, from those of the illustrated
books of other Italian
towns, in being cut not on wood but on copper,
and it is a remarkable fact
that until the year 1490 no Florentine book
is known which contains a cut.
The signs of wear in a woodcut of the
dead Christ which appears early in
that year, has given rise to a belief
that there may have been some
previous illustrated edition, now lost; but
it is more probable that the
picture had only been printed separately for
pasting into books of
devotion. In any case, it stands apart, with
but one other cut, slightly
later in date, from all other Florentine work,
and
167
III
and must be
looked
on only as an ex-
ample of the spor-
adic illustrations
of
which we have
spoken as appearing
in other districts.
But
from the 28th
of September, 1490,
onwards for twenty
years, we
have a
succession of wood-
cuts which, amid
all the
differences
which give them
individuality, are
yet closely
linked
together in style,
and which form, on
the whole, by
far the finest series of book-illustrations of early date.
The
popularity which these woodcuts attained is attested by the
repeated
editions of the works in which they appear; while the suddenness
with
which they sprang up, the general similarity of style, and the nature
of
the books they illustrate, all suggest that we have here to deal with
a
conscious and carefully directed movement as opposed to the
haphazard
use of illustrations in other cities during the previous twenty
years. The
book in which the first characteristic Florentine woodcut
appears is an
edition of the Laudi of Jacopone
da Todi, printed by Francesco Buonac-
corsi; and both the choice of the
book and the name of the printer
offer a tempting basis for theory-making.
Printing, we must remember,
though it had been in use for more than a third
of a century, was even
then a new craft, and was still taken up sometimes
as a side-employ-
ment by many persons who had been bred to other trades or
professions.
Our own Caxton, as we all know, was a mercer; the first
printer at St.
Albans, a schoolmaster; Francesco Tuppo, of Naples, a
jurist;
Joannes Philippus de Lignamine, of Rome, a physician; and so on. In
natural
168
natural continuation, however, of the
work of the Scriptorium in many
monasteries, we find that a large number of
the early printers were
members of monasteries or priests, and it was to
this latter order that
the Buonaccorsi who printed the Laudi belonged. Now, the name
Buonaccorsi is the name of the
family of Savonarola’s mother. A
few months before the appearance of the
Laudi the great Dominican
had been recalled
to Florence by Lorenzo de’ Medici, and his first
public sermon there—a
sermon which had stirred the whole city
to its depths—had been preached on
the previous 1st of August. In
IV
the
next year we find Buonaccorsi printing the first edition of That this should be the case would not be surprising.
Savonarola
the Libro della vita viduale, the earliest dated Savonarola
tract o
which I know; and I have not been able to resist hazarding the
conjecture that between the preacher-monk and the priest-printer
there may
have been some tie of blood, and that it was to Savona-
rola that the
splendid series of Florentine illustrated books owe
their origin.
was no Puritan, or rather he was like the Puritans of
the better sort,
and loved art so long as it was subservient to the main
object of man s
being. The pamphlets with which he flooded Florence during
the next
few years are, for the most part, decorated with a cut on their
first page
or
169
V
VI
170 We have said that the choice of the work in which
appeared
or title; and if the subject were ever
worked out, it would probably be
found that this was uniformly the case
with the original editions, and
those issued with the author’s supervision;
while the unillustrated copies
are mere reprints, which the absence of any
law of copyright made it
possible for any printer, who thought it worth his
while, to issue, with
or without the author’s leave. The woodcuts to the
Savonarola tracts
number from forty to sixty, according as we include or
reject variants
on the same subject, and fall naturally into three
divisions, illustrating
respectively the Passion of Christ, the duties of
Prayer and Preparation
for Death, and various aspects of Savonarola’s
activity, in which, how-
ever, the representations of him are always
imaginary, never drawn from
life. As an example of these cuts, I give that
which decorates the title-
page of an undated edition (circa 1495) of the
Operetta della oratione
mentale. I have had occasion to use this before in my
little work on
Early Illustrated Books, but there is a certain
largeness of pictorial effect
about it which gives this cut, I think, quite
the first place in the series,
and makes me unwilling to take any other as
an example. The cuts in
the Rappresentazioni are
seldom quite as good as this, but they form a
parallel series to those of
the Savonarola tracts, occasionally borrowing
an illustration from those on
the Passion of Christ, and evidently
inspired by the same aims. The same
types (our only means of
fixing the printers of these dateless little
books), were used in many
of the works of both the series, and it does not
seem fanciful to
believe that Savonarola, either directly or through some
trusted disciple,
was nearly as intimately connected with the one as he
undoubtedly was
with the other.
the first typical Florentine woodcut was not without
interest for our
subject. Jacopone da Todi, whom the cut exhibits kneeling
in an
ecstasy of prayer before a vision of the Blessed Virgin, was a
Franciscan
mystic, eccentric to the verge of madness in his manners, but a
spiritual
poet of no mean ability, and the reputed author of the Stabat Rater.
He died in 1306, and was probably
old enough to have remembered
that strange epidemic of the Battuti, when thousands of frenzied men
and women
marched from city to city, scourging themselves almost to
death for the
sinfulness of the world, till their career had to be stopped
by the free
use of the gallows. When the frenzy was past, those who
survived it formed
themselves into companies for the continuance of
their religious exercises
in a more moderate form, and from their meet-
ing
❧ THE SEA NYMPH
by
Sir Edward Burne Jones
175
VII
ing
together to sing their In an edition of the Laudi of the
first of these two writers, seen by Unlike the northern Miracle Plays, which are almost without
excep- The earliest Rappresentazione
printed was the Abraham of the
Maffeo,
Laudi, hymns of a peculi-
arly personal fervour,
in
the chapels of their
guilds, they obtained the
name Laudesi. Of the
writers of these Laudi,
Jacopone da Todi was
the greatest, and
it was
out of the Laudi that the
later
Rappresentazioni
were gradually
developed.
In his excellent account
of the Rappresentazioni,
to which I have already
alluded, Mr. J.
A.
Symonds seems to me
to have laid rather undue
stress on the
manner in which this development took place, as offering a
contrast to the history of the religious drama in other countries.
It
is true that in England the plays which have come down to us
belong
almost exclusively to the great cycles which unrolled the
history of man
from the creation till the crack of doom, but we have
mention of several
plays on the lives of the Saints—e.g.one on St.
George
and the Dragon, and another (which survives) on St. Mary
Magdalene,
and the popularity at one time of these Miracle Plays, properly
so
called, is witnessed by the fact that it is their name under which
the
cycles of Scriptural dramas generally passed. At Florence these
longer
dramas were not wholly unknown, but they seem to have been
acted
only in pantomime or dumb-show, in the great pageants on St.
Johns
Day; the shorter plays developing from the Laudi just as, at an earlier
period, the liturgical dramas had
developed in France and England out
of the dramatic recital of the gospel
of the day. It is worth noting, by
the way, that the Laudi themselves were not superseded, but continued to
be
written and sung when the Rappresentazioni were
already becoming
popular.
176
popular. Two of the writers of them
during this period have a special
interest for us—Maffeo Belcari, as the
author also of the earliest printed
Rappresentazioni, and Girolamo Benivieni, as the
friend and disciple of
Savonarola, whose doctrine and prophecies he
defended in 1476 in a
tract, printed, this also, by Buonaccorsi.
Mr. Symonds, but which I am
unlucky enough never to have come
across, there is an interesting cut
representing the Laudesi, standing
before a
crucifix, singing their praise. In course of time dramatic
divisions had
been admitted into the Laudi, and under the name of
Divozioni they were recited with appropriate action
in dialogue form.
The actors were for the most part boys, who were formed
into confra-
ternities, while the expenses of the plays were doubtless
defrayed by
their parents. As the dramatic element in the performances
became
more decided, the plays came at last to be generally termed Rappresen-
tazioni, and under this name they attained a great
popularity during the
last quarter of the fifteenth century, and the first
of its successor.
tion anonymous, the majority of the earliest Rappresentazioni which
have come down to us
contain the names of their authors, and in
editions separated by half a
century the text remains substantially un-
altered In English plays the
text often appears to have grown up by
a process of accretion, so that a
cycle, or even a single play, in the form
in which it has survived, could
hardly with justice be assigned to a
single author, even if we knew the
name of the first writer concerned in
it. The difference is not
unimportant, and is one of numerous small
signs which tell us that the
religious drama in Florence, at least in this
stage of its development, was
less popular, less spontaneous, than in our
own country, and more the
result of deliberate religious effort.
or Feo, Belcari, whom we have already mentioned. It was
printed in
1485 the year after Belcari’s death at a good old age (he was
born in
1410), so that the whole of Belcari’s plays were published
posthumously.
Among them are plays on the Annunciation, on St.John the
Baptist
visited by Christ in the Desert, and on St. Panuntius. Of the last
two
of these I have seen fifteenth-century editions—the one at the
British
Museum, the other at the Bodleian Library, each with a single
charm-
ing woodcut. No less a person than Lorenzo de’ Medici was the
author
of the play of S. Giovanni e S. Paolo,
which has also come down to us
in
VIII
178 Almost invariably the plays begin with a Prologue spoken by
an Of the literary value of the Rappresentazioni it is not possible to
in its original edition with a
graceful cut; and Bernardo Pulci, who died
in the first year of the
sixteenth century, produced a play on the legend
of Barlaam and Josaphat.
But the most prolific of these dramatists
seems to have been a woman,
Bernardo’s wife Antonia, to whose pen
we owe plays on the Patriarch Joseph,
the Prodigal Son, S. Francis
of Assisi, S. Domitilla, S. Guglielma, etc.
The names of a few other
writers are known; but there were also numerous
anonymous plays,
written very much on the same lines, to some of which we
shall have to
allude.
Angel, who is represented in the title-cut of Lorenzo de’
Medici’s San
Giovanni e San Paolo as standing behind the two
saints in a kind of
pulpit. In other early plays the Angel is represented
in a separate
woodcut whose lower border is cut off, so as to fix on to the
border of
the special title-cut of the play. Later on, another design was
substi-
tuted for this, without any border at all. I think it probable that
these
angelic prologuisings were mostly spoken from some machine at
the
back of the stage, especially contrived for celestial appearances.
In
other respects, the services of the stage-carpenter do not seem to
have
been much called for. The plays were acted, we are told, either in
the
chapel of the guild or confraternity, or in the refectory of a
convent,
and the arrangements were probably very similar to those in modem
school-plays, the imagination of the spectators being often required
to
take the place of a change of scene. In the so-called ‘Coventry’
Plays
we hear of a device by which a new scene, or perhaps rather a
new
centrepiece, with the actors all in their places, could be wheeled
round
to the front; but more often the whole of the dramatis personce
were
grouped at the back or sides, and individual actors merely stepped
for-
ward when their turn came. In the play of San
Lorenso we are
expressly told that two scenes were shown
simultaneously on different
parts of the stage, Decius and his satellites
offering their heathen
sacrifices on the one side, while Pope Sixtus
comforts the faithful against
the coming persecution on the other. This
combination of two scenes
in one is a familiar feature in mediaeval art,
and is not unknown even in
these Florentine woodcuts, small as they are:
witness our fourth cut, in
which the bartering at the pawnshop, and the
indignities offered to the
sacred wafer, tell the story of the play by
means of its two most
prominent scenes.
speak
179
speak with much enthusiasm. From a
literary standpoint, indeed, the
lives of the Saints, with which most of
them have to do, are a difficult
and not very promising subject. Most
stories of heroism are best told
in ten lines at longest; and to attempt to
spin them out into several
hundred, without any considerable material in
the way of authentic
detail, leads inevitably to weakness and exaggeration.
In this respect
the Rappresentazioni are neither
much worse nor much better than the
average Legenda
Sanctorum in verse or prose. They follow these, in
fact, with
remarkable fidelity, and as they are written for the most part
IX
in
the familiar octava rima, it is only by the speeches
being made in the Both these plays belong to the fifteenth century, and, as is
mostly This play of the Corpo di Christo
is an Italian version of a miracle
first person, instead of in historical narration, that
they differ very greatly
from them. Thus, to take the plays from which we
have chosen our
illustrations, that of S. Francis of Assisi, by Antonia
Pulci, faithfully
records all the main incidents as told in the legends—the
colloquy with
the beggar during which he was stricken with compunction, the
theft
from his father of money to repair a church, the founding of his
Order,
the conference with the Pope, and the reception of the stigmata;
this
last being, as might be expected, the subject chosen by the artist for
the
woodcut on the title. The play of S. Lorenzo
shows us the martyrdom
of Pope Sixtus in the Decian persecution, and then
the torture and
death
180
death of S. Laurence for his refusal
to surrender the treasure which the
Pope had bequeathed to the poor of the
church. Both of the woodcuts
to these two plays are of great beauty. The
first probably follows the
traditions of the many pictures on the subject
rather than that of the
stage, though it was, no doubt, for a scene like
this that the stage-
managers of the day used their utmost resources. In
the martyrdom of
S. Laurence, on the other hand, we may be sure that we
have a very
exact picture of the scene as played on some convent stage.
the case in the earliest editions, have only a rough
woodcut each. This
was not invariably so, as in the Bodleian Library there
are copies of
editions of the plays of Stella
and S. Paulino, which have every appear-
ance of
having been printed before 1500, but yet have sets of several
cuts, all
obviously designed especially for them. These, however, are
exceptions; and
as a rule where we find several cuts, it is easy to trace
most of them
back, either to other plays, or to other illustrated books
of the time,
such as the Epistole e Evangelii, the Fior di Virtù, Pulci’s
Morgante Maggiore, etc. Thus, of the two cuts given
here as illustra-
tions to the curious Rapresentatione
duno miracolo del corpo di Christo,
the first alone occurs in
the fifteenth-century edition, while in that of
(probably sixty years
later) this original cut reappears, with three
others added to it. The
first, here shown, representing a drinking
scene, is borrowed, I strongly
suspect, from the Morgante Maggiore;
while the
second, which shows a man being burnt, and the third, in
which a king is
consulting his council, may be called stock-pictures, and
reappear with
frequency.
which was constantly being
reported during the middle-ages, and was
often the excuse for a cruel
persecution of the Jews. The well-known
‘Croxton’ Play
of the Sacrament is cast on the same lines, and a
detailed
comparison of the two would yield some points of interest. In
the Rappresentazione the story is well told, and with
unusual vivacity.
After the angelic prologue there is an induction, in
which a miracle of a
consecrated wafer, dripping blood, is announced to
Pope Urban, who
discourses on it with a cardinal and with S. Thomas Aquinas
and S.
Bonaventura. The play then begins with a drinking scene, in w
ic
a wicked Guglielmo squanders his money, and then takes his wife’s
cloak to the Jewish pawnshop to get more. The poor woman goes
herself to
the Jew to try to get her cloak back, and is then persuaded to
filch
181
filch a wafer at mass and bring it to
the Jew, on his promise to restore
her garment. Her horror at his proposal
is overcome by the pretext
that his object is to use the Host as a charm to
heal his sick son, and that
if this succeeds he and all his family will
become Christians. This, of
course, is a mere fiction, but it serves the
woman in good stead; for when
the Jew is discovered by the unquenchable
flow of blood from the wafer
he maltreats, he is promptly burnt, while the
Judge is warned by a
X
special
revelation to spare the life of his accomplice, whose guilt might An edition of the play of S.
Cecilia, probably printed about 1560, One point in the text of the S.
Cecilia deserves noting. In the main Whatever the shortcomings of the Rappresentazioni, their
popularity As the Rappresentazioni and their
illustrations are connected with the As to the authors of these charming woodcuts, we know
absolutely ALFRED W. POLLARD.
easily be
represented as the greater of the two.
affords a good
example of the gradual addition of cuts in later reprints.
This little
tract of about twenty pages has no less than eighteen pictures
in it, three
of which, however, are only repetitions of one of the most
familiar cuts in
the whole series of Rappresentazioni—a Christian
virgin
dragged before a king; while three other well-worn cuts are
each
repeated twice, so that the number of blocks used was only
thirteen,
though these yielded eighteen impressions. As might be expected,
the
little pictures are often dragged in with very little
appropriateness.
Thus, the Roman soldiers sent to arrest Cecilia gave the
publisher an
excuse to show a party of knights riding in the country, and
so on. On
the other hand, the little picture here shown of a disputation,
though un-
doubtedly executed in the first instance for some other work, probably
gives
182
gives us a very correct representation
of the costume and grouping of
the actors, and the same may be said of the
companion picture from the
play of S.
Orsola.
it resembles
very closely indeed the legend as it is known to lovers of
English poetry
from the version which Chaucer made in his early days
and afterwards
inserted, with little revision, into the Canterbury
Tales.
But when Cecilia has gone through the form of marriage
with the
husband who is forced upon her, and is proceeding with him to
his
home, the lads of the neighbourhood bar their passage with a demand
for petty gifts, to which the virgin submits with good grace—a
fragment
of Florentine life thus cropping up amid the rather unreal
atmosphere
of the old legend.
was very great, and they were reprinted again and
again throughout the
sixteenth century. Naturally the woodcuts suffered
from continual use,
and the stock-subjects, like that of a general
martyrdom shown in cut 8,
are often found in the later editions with their
little frames or borders
almost knocked to pieces. Recutting was also
frequent, and in the
same edition of the play of S. Mary Magdalene, from
which, for the sake
of the unusual freedom in the handling, I have taken
the title-cut as
one of our illustrations, it is repeated later on from a
new block, clumsily
cut in imitation of the old one.
Savonarola tracts on the
one hand, so on the other we find them
influencing some less dramatic forms
of literature. Thus, among the
early Florentine illustrated books we find a
number of Contrasti—the
contrast of men and
women, of the living and the dead, of riches and
poverty, etc. These were
rather poems than plays, but the name
Rappresentazione is sometimes applied to them in
later editions. This
is so, for instance, with the famous Contrasto di Carnesciale e la Quare-
sima, from which the first of the two cuts is here
given, the second
representing a visit to the fish and vegetable market for
Lenten fare
when the days of Carnival are over. Again we find the same
methods
of illustration applied to the Giostre
of Giuliano and Lorenzo de’ Medici,
the story of Orpheus, by Angelo
Politiano, which forms part of the
former, being adorned with no less than
ten admirable woodcuts, of
which the picture here reproduced, of Orpheus
frightened by a fury from
attempting a second time to visit Hell in quest
of his lost Eurydice, is
quite
183
quite one of the finest. The same
methods of illustration were also
used in the novelle and other secular chapbooks, which have nothing
either
religious or dramatic about them. It is clear, however, that the
religious
use was the earlier of the two, and that while the writers of the
Laudi
anticipated the practice of later revivalists in adapting profane
songs and
tunes into hymns of devotion, it was the secular literature
which was the
borrower in the matter of illustrations.
nothing. Dr. Paul Kristeller has lately attempted to
trace out three or
four distinctive schools of style in them, but no name
of any artist can
be connected with them; and we can only conjecture that
there were one
or two special workshops in Florence where they were
designed and
executed, and that printers and publishers applied to these
workshops
when they were in need of cuts.
XI
THE OX
THE holy night that Christ was born
The ox stood reverently apart,
Both ruminating eaten corn,
And pondering within his
heart.
There be (he pondered) certain beasts,
Which stand about Jehovah’s
throne,
Which hearken to the Lord’s behests,
Which have no thought but Him
alone.
Now I am surely one of these.
And, since He comes to my
abode,
‘Tis fitting I should bow my knees
Before the Holy Child of God.
I hold it for a solemn troth
I shall no more be sacrificed.
For when to prophethood He groweth,
I cease to symbolise the
Christ,
Who is the noble Holocaust
As anciently Himself did plan
Himself to be the Holy Host,
To feed and succour fallen
man.
I cannot tell the Mother dear
My joy; but softly if I low,
The noble Infant Christ will hear
His bullock praise him. He will
know.
❧ PERSEUS AND MEDUSA
by
Sir Edward Burne Jones
EQUAL LOVE
BY MICHAEL FIELD
CHARACTERS
JUSTINIAN . .
Emperor of the East and West
THEODORA . .
His Empress
ZUHAIR . .
. An Arab Boy
ANTONIA
. . Wife of Belisarius, attending on Theodora
PHOCAS .
. . Keeper of the Prisons
A MAGE
GUARDS and ATTENDANTS
SCENE—A private apartment of the royal palace, Byzantium.
It is surrounded by golden columns, from which purple curtains are
hung,
drawn back so as to discover the walls of the apartment that are
inlaid
with mosaics of formal blossoming shrubs on a golden ground. To the
right , there is a door leading to the Empress’s bedchamber; to the left,
a
little private door. The narrow aisle, running between the walls
and
columns, is continued in front of a row of windows at the back:
they
command a view of Byzantium and the Straits. Oriental Arabesques
cover the ceiling; the floor is paved with green marble. In front, at
the
extreme right, a bronze statue of Ariadne Sleeping is placed opposite
a
bronze Saint Chrysostom, with gilded mouth, that stands on the
left.
A little table of silver and pearl in the middle of the room supports
an
incense-burner; near it stretches a throne-like couch, resting on
peacocks,
iv r ought in precious stones. A cradle, covered with a pall, has
been
placed toward the farther end of the room, close to another table
on
which are flowers and leaves.
ANTONIA [as she binds a wreath] The child is dead,
Justinian’s sickly daughter it is well.
The mother never kissed it, though sometimes
She would steal in, and ask me with sharp looks
If it were grown: it should have been a boy!
But she is timorous and pitiful
Beside it; and I fear to let her see
How small it looks and pinched, now it is dead.
The charge was irksome to me; but a mistress
Like Theodora must not be denied.
1. The real name of this woman was Antonina.
190[Enter THEODORA]
THEODORA Is the child still asleep?
ANTONIA [moving between Theodora and the cradle] You must not look.
THEODORA Why are the doors ajar?
Why is the room so chill? Why have you put
The food away? And you are binding flowers!
Give me the violet wreath. [She goes towards the cradle
with wreath,
stops, turns back, and tosses it to
Antonia].
No; take it, girl,
I cannot look on death.
ANTONIA Be comforted.
It was a babe almost to put away,
Ill-shapen and a girl; the emperor scarcely
Had cared to own such issue.
THEODORA It was mine!
The little sighing breath, and the soft head
Against my breast. You think the courtesan
Still lives on in the mother?
ANTONIA No, the pride
Of a great empress: you had quickly hidden
My feeble nursling within convent walls.
I would not be a girl, born of your blood,
Denied your freedom there is such a force
Of nature in you. It died quietly,
Without a struggle.
THEODORA Is there no more hope,
Antonia, is there no more hope for me?
The midwife said you put your hand across
Her mouth; but, oh, I heard it as a curse
She said I should not bear a child to live.
If that be so
ANTONIA But once, there is a rumour
That once you bore a son.
THEODORA A living son;
Ay, ay, a living son. And what is this?
A masque, an effigy, an alien,
That gives no answer to the quivering
Wild cries and ecstasies within my flesh,
That disenchants me.
191
ANTONIA You will soon forget.
THEODORA Those grips, those wanton fondlings?
ANTONIA In a while,
When you are more yourself.
THEODORA Yes, but the fever
So clings about me.
ANTONIA When the milk is gone
You will grow tranquil. You have evil dreams;
Last night you woke me, talking in your sleep.
THEODORA Talking!—Of what?
ANTONIA That night before the games. . . .
You raved and bit the sheets.
THEODORA Oh, I remember!
I must indeed be sick, so to be haunted
By those tremendous days of revelry
In the arena.
ANTONIA Come, those days were good
As any days in youth. Why be ashamed
To speak of them? We had so many lovers,
We did not stay to choose.
Sweet Cyprian, now,
When I beheld you, fragrant from the bath,
On the low bed you love, shaded by plumes
Of jewelled peacocks, with pearl-braided linen,
And that dull mantle sewn with golden bees,
I picture to myself how I have seen you,
After some signal triumph at the games,
Wiping the sweat from forehead and from lips,
To give and take fresh kisses. Mother Ida,
Those were the days that smacked of very life;
We may not hope to mend them.
THEODORA I have never
Dreamed of that past till just two months ago,
After my babys birth. I hear the cries
Of ribaldry, the stillness, the applause,
The leaps of laughter. You must hear these dreams;
I cannot keep them to myself. . . . Zuhair!—
ANTONIA You speak of him?
THEODORA Yes, in the dream.
192
ANTONIA The wretch
Who turned you out of doors?
THEODORA Oh, how I hate him!
Hate, hate! I have been hating all my life
The lovers——
ANTONIA Who rejected you?
THEODORA Not those;
All who enjoyed my favours, hating them,
Wishing them ill. But do you say Zuhair,
That Eastern youth I met in Africa,
Abandoned me? He drove me from his house
In a mad pang of jealousy. My child
Remained with him. You say, a living son:
But, doubtless, he has perished—how my breasts
Ache with the milk!—for they would let him starve
When I was driven forth.
The dream begins:
I was half-dead with hunger, and the night
Was drawing on; it was a desert place,
Lonely as Egypt in its solitudes,
When suddenly there came a cry; I heard—
I lying there in Africa—my name
Borne on in triumph by a shouting crowd.
Oh, it was breath of life to me! I woke
So chill and lonely. . . . And my babe is dead!
Give me the violet crown.
The eyes were dark—
Do you remember?
ANTONIA Theodora, fair,
Fair as your own.
THEODORA Then I have quite forgotten. . . .
A little thing of yesterday, a rose
How sweet!
ANTONIA Oh, fie! you will forget its sweetness;
The past is nothing.
THEODORA While the summer lasts:
Oh, nothing, nothing! How I loved the child!
[Looking up with a strange illumination on her
face]
My daughter! Ay, the perfect Theodora,
193
Born in the purple: there had been romance
To me in everything she did or said,
Saw or enjoyed. You see this little cap
Studded with jewels, so I had it stitched,
Pearl crushing pearl, to take revenge on fate
For all the misery thrust on my pride
When first I found my body beautiful,
My raiment poor and vile. Antonia, once—
How children suffer!—I was in such rags
I crept to a lone garden, where great boughs
Of yellow roses glittered on a wall,
And stript myself, and wreathed them in such garlands
Round waist, and neck, and shoulders, that my breasts
Took the light shadows of the leaves. The perfume,
The splendour!
ANTONIA But it was not poverty
Caused you the pain; I rather think a power
Wrought in you, craving for expansion, such
A power as gives a man by miracle
Grip over hostile kingdoms. I remember
The day I saw you first, an orphan child,
Sent with your sister Comito to beg
For bread in the arena. Both the factions—
At least, the hated faction of the Greens—
Broke into laughter at the little maids.
Comito wept, and hid her face; but you
Said you would entertain the crowd, and after,
Ask. for their coins. You cleared a little space,
Then, saying when your father kept the beasts
That you had learnt their antics, set to gambol
Like the young lions, gave the languid sprawl
Of dozing tigers, and the jackal’s laugh;
Or grew into a serpent, one of those
With eyes so dead they draw you close to them
To see if they be very death indeed.
And then . . .
THEODORA Yes, then the Blues broke in acclaim,
Poured coin on me; I called to Comito
To pick it up, but I pressed to their midst
194
And asked for kisses. Oh, to be caressed
By very strangers, to be found so sweet
Just in myself! I never had an art
To sing or dance; but this pure mimicry,
This daring to become ridiculous,
Putting the charms that other women guard
So jealously to any monstrous use—
Oh, it worked spells with men!
ANTONIA You need applause,
The breath of many lovers. Would you listen
To me, you would not pine to be a mother,
Diverting interest to a younger race;
You would again grow beautiful that way
You cannot master when you give no love,
Delicious as the ripening fruit to those
For whom it ripens: drag your worshippers
From those deep prison-cells to which you fling them,
For just a glance with speech in it, a breath
Too hot upon your hand. You must recall them,
To feed your beauty, or Justinians eyes
Will mark these wrinkles. I, too, have a husband
I honour to the full; yet, in his absence—
THEODORA I know how you deceive him. But Justinian—
Simply to say his name brings back the dream
For which I live, the dream that he possesses
Of a pure consort brought him from the gods,
Herself a deity.
Was he befooled?
I swear he was not. From the hour he sought
My love, and laid that awful hand on me
God lays upon the sinner that he dooms
To suffer his redemption, I have sinned
No carnal sin.
And now I fall away,
And now I feel a riot in my blood,
Questions that will not be put by, and murmurs
That breed and breed. It is this motherhood
Baulked in me. Oh, I fear! A great temptation,
195
That I was free to plunge into and live,
Cut from me in an instant.
[Enter JUSTINIAN]
JUSTINIAN Theodora!
THEODORA [standing between him and the cradle]
Hush, do not look beyond, the babe is dead.
JUSTINIAN [formally blessing the child]
My child, my
daughter. [To THEODORA] Dearest!
THEODORA No; you seem
Dead like the child; you cannot comfort me.
I have grown jealous, lonely; a new passion
Has crept into my nature.
JUSTINIAN All the city
Will mourn with us.
THEODORA Pshaw! If Byzantium mourn
In any wise—what should a city care
Save for its own prosperity!—but if
It can conceive of anything beyond,
It mourns that you, wedding a courtesan,
Ay, so you treat me, I am that to you,
If you imagine me incapable
Of plumbing my own misery; it mourns
That I, your empress, who by day and night,
Brood on your hopes, conceive your policy,
Maiming your enemies, and binding fast
The nations of your rule, am now the means
Of drawing your great empire to its close.
JUSTINIAN You do these things, you are the deity
Bringing these things to pass: our laws will live,
Men will obey them.
THEODORA Is it possible
That can content you? And you do not think
How soon when we are dead—
JUSTINIAN [enfolding her] Think of the
future?
And you are here, the future!
THEODORA Emperors wed,
To found great empires.
JUSTINIAN And I wedded you
Not even to be great, though I had ruled,
196
Save for the joy you bring me and the force,
With faltering ambition; wedded you,
To found a rapture in my life, a glory,
To travel with the sun. You speak of children,
Of gifts—
THEODORA I do. How righteously your mother
Opposed our marriage, and foretold this doom
Of sickly offspring, or the barren curse.
My majesty is gone.
JUSTINIAN Your majesty
Is in my worship, in our constant love.
Theodora, let us speak of those first days
We met each other, not as virgin souls,
As weary, cynical.
THEODORA You speak of them?
I will not let you speak. My youth is buried
Entire, as in an instant, by a shock
Of earthquake a whole city in the gulf.
I have no past. Justinian, it becomes
[looking wildly at the cradle, and then out towards the
sea]
Almost necessity I should look out,
On to the future.
JUSTINIAN Talk to me of love,
Our love; while that endures there is no time
Save for the terror that to-day should end.
Augusta!
THEODORA Oh, that name!
JUSTINIAN We met in God:
The day is precious to me as to saint
The day of his conversion. From a troop
Of libertines, who boasted of your love,
I heard praise of your beauty, and I came
Coldly to take my pleasure.
When I saw you
I wept, and bowed my head.
THEODORA How tremulous
The air grew! There was passing of a wind
That moved like fire between us, and I cried
❧ DEATH AND THE BATHER
after a pen drawing
by
Laurence Housman
201
Go from me! As you passed, my soul rose
up
Strong as a fiend to follow you.
JUSTINIAN That look!
THEODORA My women found me senseless on the floor;
And when at last the light flowed back on me,
I watched it resting on the vulgar walls,
The vulgar statues, on the tapestries,
With all their jaded colour, on my flesh
Oh, you are pitiless! I turned and fled
From my polluted house.
JUSTINIAN To find that cell,
A holy hermits cell, half ruinous . . .
THEODORA Where I took refuge.
JUSTINIAN Where my life began.
THEODORA It was without the city. I could see
The ring of sombre verdure, the deep curve
Of palaces and temples: when the lights
Flashed out, the torch processions, ay, even then,
I looked on to the sea, and in my heart
I said, except he find me, there I find
The grave and fathomless oblivion.
Oh, I had quickly died—
JUSTINIAN As I, beloved,
If my mad quest had failed.
THEODORA These weary hours
Of fasting, diligence, and solitude!
I bought great bales of wool, I learnt to spin:
At eventide, when my appointed task
Was done, I looked forth on the glittering domes
And tried to pray.
As Danae in her tower
I prayed, I was shut up.—Deliverer!
JUSTINIAN That hermits cell! Love, we will build a church
Above the sacred spot where I was guided
By Him who guides the stars, where solemnly
I took you for my wife, planting in you
My hope, my honour, drawing from your love
The peace man draws when he is told of God
He is become His servant.
202
THEODORA Give me more,
More of this miracle!
JUSTINIAN One joy remained
In store for me—to make you fellow-ruler
With me of half the world. As one who builds
A temple of rich stones, and in the magic
Of strange new lights and perfumes pours his prayer,
I, through the purple and the diadem
It is my glory to invest you with,
Find in my faith fresh splendour, further scope
For adoration.
THEODORA [lying back] You have given me pleasure:
Dressed delicately, sleeping the long sleeps
I love, in sunny leisure by the sea
Idling my hours away—
JUSTINIAN But vigilant
Each instant for my welfare.
THEODORA What! no more
Than that scant praise, no more than vigilant?
And I have cleansed my love each day as gold
Is cleansed. Oh, you are dull!
JUSTINIAN To apprehend
All you have suffered?
THEODORA All that you enjoy.
Mine is a converts strength: most converts fall
Into strange lapses; I have never lapsed.
THEODORA Antonia, take
The child and bury it. . . . There! How your wish
Is my most living will.
[Attendants are summoned , and carry out
the
body of the child followed by Antonia]
JUSTINIAN [looking at Theodora with an
expression of intense pride]
You cannot fail.
I am as sure of you as in campaign
Of Belisarius; but this victory
Won in my sight—
THEODORA Beloved!
203
JUSTINIAN Emboldens me
To pray that you at once should leave these chambers
Haunted by death. At noon there is a council;
But it is still fresh morning. . . . Come with me,
Come with me to our rooms, and let us work
At the great laws together.
THEODORA I will come.
[She looks round the room; her eyes rest on the child’ s jewelled
cap]
Lift me, I am not strong. Oh, what a toy
To take such hold of me ! It is not that. . . .
I need the air—a voyage. How the sails
Flitter along! There is a little one
Just on the verge far off. You cannot see. . . .
JUSTINIAN Theodora, it is well the child is dead.
THEODORA You think it would have brought me back to nature?
Doubtless! To look out on the future now,
Is looking on a sea that has no sail.
JUSTINIAN The future is not sudden, nor of chance,
Nor like those gusty waters that are crossed
As tempests may determine. You and I
Shall rule on as they cannot rule who put
Their hope in offspring; rule on as the gods
Who never derogate. We can ourselves
Write on the brows of time, Earths wisest sons
Interpreting our wisdom.
THEODORA So I dream,
So I have always dreamed. But you must keep me
Close to your side.
[Re-enter Antonia]
ANTONIA Madam, there is a youth—
No, a mere boy, almost a child, so slight
Across the shoulders—who has forced his way
Far on into the palace and persists
That he must see you.
THEODORA What! a boy, a child,
Antonia?
ANTONIA Yes; I caught him by the head,
And put my arms right round him; for the guards
204
Had bruised, had even pricked him with their spears.
His cheek was bleeding.
THEODORA And that frightened you—
You cannot look on blood.
ANTONIA He did not hear
Their angry shouts, but from between my hands
Stared up intently in my face, then smiled.
No, you are not the Empress; you must promise
To give me sight of her.
JUSTINIAN The lad is crazed.
Have him removed.
ANTONIA [appealing to Theodora] But yet to quiet him—
And I have promised.
JUSTINIAN You had other charge—
With spices to prepare for burial—
THEODORA Enough! Antonia, I will see the lad.
[Exit Antonia
What need of all this violence? I have quelled
The angriest street tumult as I passed
By just an instant drawing back my veil.
Leave us, Justinian; you are grown impatient.
Those laws! I will be with you in an hour.
We left off at a knotty point concerning
The marriage-contract. There must be more freedom
For women, as I urged. You will return
And lock me in your study?
JUSTINIAN In an hour.
THEODORA I almost wish I had gone back with him
To the dear common life where, with our books
And thoughts and love yes, with our very whims
And spites and jealousies, we were so happy.
There is no occupation in the world
That is not ours. What wars we fight! In those
I am the general. He is architect
Of St. Sophia from the base to dome.
And in theology—the heresies
I make alluring. But the laws, the laws!
Those mornings that I cannot wake my soul
When he arouses his, what narrow edicts
205
Are made, what cautious limitations set!
And then my inroad and the burst of light. . .
I will not be a fool and let mere nature
Hold me in slavery.
[Antonia returns with the boy]
THEODORA You kiss my feet;
You force your way to me. You have some courage!
[Eyeing him more closely]
Or are you clinging to me for protection?
I cannot give protection. If your crime
Offend the state, or if you have intruded
Into my palace to fulfil some vow
And boast that you have touched an Empress robe,
You shall live long—I will not take your life—
Beneath those chambers where my prisons stretch.
Now, answer me! [ToANTONIA] He does not even
listen—
Not hear me—he is mad.
ANTONIA It is your beauty
Holds him in awe: be patient.
THEODORA [trying not to meet the boy’s eyes]
He is mad.
Young children sometimes utter prophecies,
And sometimes they are sent with words of doom
Their innocence makes awful. Take him off!
I am too weak to bear this. [To the boy] What!
you shed
Free tears, you let them trickle down your cheek,
Taking no shame to hide them ? Are you wronged?
I can be gentle. If you are an orphan—
ANTONIA He sobs!
THEODORA Believe me, half those tears are false;
The shame hurts and the hunger. Have him fed.
ANTONIA Speak, child!
ZUHAIR I cannot.
THEODORA [as if in the past] But some eyes were kind
That day I begged; and some one praised my hair—
Rich silky hair like his. [Stooping over the child and taking his
chin]
You are an orphan?
Come, now your story?
206ZUHAIR I have none.
THEODORA Then why?—
[Suddenly softening] Child, you are
welcome!
ZUHAIR Ah, at last I hear
The golden voice! Far off in Araby
I heard its praise. I was a lonely lad,
Ill-used, neglected; when I joined in talk
With other boys, I found they were ambitious
To dive for pearls, to see the pyramids,
To conquer Italy. I only thought
Of seeing you. What mystery of rose
Flushes across your cheek!
THEODORA You do not mark
My gems, my palace.
ZUHAIR For I did not hear,
O Empress, of Byzantium; I heard
Of a sweet woman with a silver laugh,
Like Venus laughter.
THEODORA Who should speak of this?
ZUHAIR A stranger who had seen you at the games
Long years ago. It seemed so wonderful
That he had heard your laughter. A free girl,
He said, you stood and simply shook your sides
With laughter and the whole world echoed it:
But afterward, when each man had returned
Into his house, the music came again
And rippled down his memory. No flute—
And yet it was not that so much—
O Empress!
THEODORA What is it? Let me look at you ? You come,
You say, on some great errand.
ZUHAIR Pity me;
I have no lying words. Give me some comfort,
Some strength, as if I were your very son.
I have no mother: I have stood and watched
How mothers kiss their sons, stood by the tent
And sobbed and turned away.
THEODORA I have no son;
But if I had—now tell me all the rest.
207
Yes, you may put your arms quite round my neck
And sit beside me.
ZUHAIR When my father died,
He drew me to him and he said such things
Down in my ear, I could not understand;
If he were raving—
You unloose your clasp!
Oh then, I dare not speak.
THEODORA [rising] Why should I care
What any madman says ? You are my son;
We do not need a slave in evidence:
This silky hair, and all this mystery
Of rose that flushes, fades across the cheek!
You are my son. Is this the news you bring
Touching the Emperors honour?
ZUHAIR I am yours,
Your child, O mother!
[Re-enter Justinian]
THEODORA And I give you up.
[She violently flings ZUHAIR from her and addresses JUSTINIAN]
I have unbosomed him, an innocent
Conspirator who comes to claim our throne
Because I am his mother. It is true;
I am his mother.
ZUHAIR But it is not true
That I am come to ask for anything
That is not mine of right. You loved the Empress
Before she was the Empress; so I love her,
So I would fight for her, so die to serve her;
My life is in her hands.
JUSTINIAN It is well said.
The Empress shall determine if your life
Is for her honour and our empires peace.
Theodora, you are judge of this.
THEODORA How judge?
I do not judge, I cannot. You, like God,
Can put my past away.
JUSTINIAN Surrounding you
With its most live temptations.
THEODORA You are cruel.
How white you stand, like marble. Take your victim;
I will not flinch.
JUSTINIAN My victim. Had you been
As other women, had you felt the instincts
And honour of my wife, you had not suffered
My eyes upon the bastard.
THEODORA [defiantly, as she takes the boy by the hand and
scrutinises
him]
He inherits
My beauty, I am proud of him—those brows,
Wide as the rim of ocean on the verge . . .
My brows! And, oh, those eyes of mine, before
The world had darkened them! You lose your senses
In jealousy; but, if you had true sight,
You would behold in him the very prince
The kingdom craves for, fashioned line by line.
JUSTINIAN His fate is in your hands.
THEODORA You will not sentence:
That were too great an honour. Then you leave
The harlot to determine if this piece
Of lovely flesh and blood shall drink the air
And ripen in the sun.
You hurt the boy,
You bring the quick blood to his cheeks; he winces.
He cannot suffer shame about his life,
He is too like his mother.
JUSTINIAN Shame! She speaks
Of shame as unendurable!
THEODORA [dragging ZUHAIR to
JUSTINIAN’s feet]
Remove him!
I give him up. Justinian, on my knees
I pray you send him to some distant province,
Train him a soldier, test the make of him,
Let the young Arab perish, if he must,
Unknown, on some far field where there are kingdoms
Still in revolt.
❧ A ROMANTIC LANDSCAPE
after a water-colour drawing
by
Charles H. Shannon
213
ZUHAIR [flushing] To fight, to earn my death
On the wide plains a free man!
JUSTINIAN [to Theodora] Excellent!
Acutely reasoned. From my sombre wars
I should return to find Byzantium
Ablaze in celebration of some slight
Advantage won on Transylvanian hills
Over the Gepidae; or, worse, be met
By Theodora abject in petition
I should adopt her son.
THEODORA You injure me.
JUSTINIAN Then learn the simple truth: one absent look,
One glance of roving interest in your eyes,
If once I should surprise it, were enough . . .
THEODORA Yes; I have failed to act my part but once,
Once in my life. I cannot be forgiven:
I know the custom—hoot me from the stage,
Heap shame upon me!
JUSTINIAN Still you speak of shame,
You who have brought me in estate more low
Than if I had been drawn on through the streets
Of my own city by a jeering crowd.
THEODORA Oh, if you wake my hatred, I am back
In the arena! I have seen such
things,
As once—a tigress with one paw across
Her last, unravished cub. Ah, there
indeed
Was majesty! [Throwing her arms round ZUHAIR]
And I can mimic fools,
Who threaten and do nothing. I could
make
Byzantium laugh by just presenting you
Judicial and so lofty. [To ZUHAIR]
Trust to me.
[As she continues, JUSTINIAN stands rigid with clenched hands,
then turns his back on her and walks through the corridor
with a beckoning gesture. In a few moments he returns
with his guards]
THEODORA I hate to see you standing there and making
No motion for your life. You do not know
You have a power—the Emperor standing there
214
With his fixed eyes and sullen, vacant face,
Cannot conceive. Oh, you were safe with me,
If you would try your arts. Ask for your life,
I prompt you—ask!
ZUHAIR [in a low voice] I do not wish to live:
If I might choose the manner of my death—
THEODORA A boon! Why, so!—Gods, anything! [He whispers in
her ear]
My child!
[Her manner suddenly loses its elasticity , and she
says mechanically]
Remove him, guards; let him be kept in prison,
The deepest prison, where the jailer feels
About to find his captive, gropes and gropes
And murders in a blindness.
ANTONIA [throwing herself before JUSTINIAN]
Never, never!
Rather despatch him quickly. Oh, my lord!
My mistress is still weak, delirious,
Full of repining that her babe is dead.
THEODORA What babe? His babe? I had forgotten it—
JUSTINIAN [pointing to the guard, and addressing THEODORA]
They wait for your command.
THEODORA [taking the boy by the shoulders and advancing towards
the
guards] Remove him,
guards!
But, if a hair of his be harmed—
[Passing her hand over the boy’s body, and speaking to
him in a
low, excited voice]
You mean—
You dare this?
ZUHAIR Oh, be great!
THEODORA With my own hands?
They tingle—what, to handle you myself!
[The boy is borne off: she looks after him, a covetous
frenzy in her
face]
O Mother Ida! I am shaken through
As by the clash of cymbals!
Ecstasy!
Ay, so to mutilate myself. [Suddenly, in a loud voice,
to ANTONIA]
Oh, see
215
That he is safe; he is my only hope,
The apple of my eye. [Exit
Antonia
JUSTINIAN [rising] So you have chosen.
THEODORA Chosen!
Oh, kill me, kill me, make an end!
I can do nothing.
JUSTINIAN Then we are divorced.
THEODORA Impossible! Divorced? That shall not be,
That were annihilation. You may kill
And bear me as a thorn about your heart,
Long as you live; I have no fear of death:
But if you dis-espouse me, have you thought
How I must perish? There will be grey hell
About me everywhere. And you—divorced!
JUSTINIAN I shall go forth to solitary rule.
THEODORA Forgetting me?
JUSTINIAN No: for my shame is branded—
Cursing the day we met, razing the churches
You built, the convents for the prostitutes
You thought to cleanse; destroying in my empire
And home each record of you.
THEODORA [wringing her hands] But what more
Could I have done?
JUSTINIAN Is there no more to do?
THEODORA Kill me—I fail you.
JUSTINIAN No, you do not fail,
You bring my life to failure I break up.
I cannot kill you. It has been mirage,
This dream of mine. I thought you were a gift
As veritable and as fresh from God
As Eve herself.
THEODORA [crouching close to Justinian] You thought—say everything
Before we are divorced: to punish me,
Say all.
JUSTINIAN I will. I thought you were a woman
So tempered, so acute she wove the visions
For unborn eyes to see; a woman swift
As an archangel to dissever truth
From heresy, miraculously guided
216
In her intelligence, and of a beauty
Thrilling the air as a doves holy wings—
A woman chosen to present to men,
Mysteriously, an image of the Church
Christ waits to greet in Paradise.
[THEODORA rises, holding his hand, and absorbed by his
words]
All this
I dared to think.
THEODORA [retaining his hands and kissing them]
Would you but give me time—
Justinian, I am weak, you leave me free?
If you believed that I could do this thing,
It would be so much easier. [Bowing her head on Ins arm]
God, divorced!
[Looking up] Promise, you never will abandon
me;
Never, if I should fail.
JUSTINIAN I cannot pardon;
There is such justice in me.
THEODORA That is well;
For now I do not doubt that I shall live
Through all this day and on through many years,
Live, by your side, your Empress. [To Attendants] Bid them bring
The boy back to my presence. [To JUSTINIAN] Do not touch me:
Tis I myself; you cannot give me help—
JUSTINIAN No help; I shall not even pray for you,
As if I feared you would not do this thing
You will not fail, you cannot.
Theodora
How great I am in you!
THEODORA Lay me some weapon
For use, beside the throne.
[Re-enter ANTONIA with ZUHAIR]
What! they have bound him!
Trust me, you shall not see his face again!
But leave us.
JUSTINIAN As I leave you with the crowds
Of courtiers who adore you: you are free
And in your freedom the security
You will not fail, you cannot; my worst foe
217
Dare not assail my honour.
[JUSTINIAN lays his sword by the throne and goes out]
THEODORA[turning toward Zuhair, and beckoning him to approach]
O my boy,
How your eyes follow me! Is this the welcome
After so long a journey? Do the chains
Gall these young wrists? How soft you are to touch,
How sweet! Do you rebel?
ZUHAIR Strike off these bonds,
I will not let you fawn upon a slave.
THEODORA No: as a lioness her netted cubs,
I fondle you and you are helpless. There! [Loosing his
chains]
Now you can give me free caresses, cling
Close, close. You thought I should have azure eyes?
And mine, you see, are grey. I cannot move you:
What shall I do with you in all the world?
Why, I might banish you. Arabia
The sun itself basks there. Will you return?
ZUHAIR Arabia!
THEODORA Does it seem a thousand years
Back in your life? You sigh so wearily;
So much has happened since the morning sun.
Zuhair So much must happen.
THEODORA I have lost a child,
And my wide realms are left without an heir
If—
Yet I were a fool to banish you;
For, if I let you go, this blood of mine
Would never filter through the arid plains
And lose itself. The kingdoms would grow dark
One day about my borders with the pressure
Of alien tribes and a usurpers sword.
[Perceiving the passion in ZUHAIR’S face]
What, part with you! put you away! Your name—
I
mean the name before you were a prince;
You shall be re-baptized.
ZUHAIR Then you must choose
My name, you are my mother; and to-day
My life begins. I have not lived before.
THEODORA Can you feel that?
Antonia, take the boy,
Give him rich clothing and that broidered cap
Starry with sapphires.
ANTONIA That I begged of you
In vain.
THEODORA Well, he may wear it.
[Exeunt ZUHAIR with
ANTONIA
Why, he has
My very soul—can take new dignities
As easily as I. He must not come
In his young royalties to dazzle me,
Or I shall hail him THEODORUS—give him
To one of our great generals to train
Into a soldier.
[Going to a secret door and calling]
Phocas!
[He enters stealthily]
Are the prisons
Quite empty?
PHOCAS Madam, there are still a few
Sick prisoners it would be more merciful
To execute at once.
THEODORA There is the sea!
I know that secret passage to the cliff
And the blue hollow at the end. Despatch
Those prisoners: light the passage— I may have
Myself some business there.
PHOCAS If you would trust me
With those offenders, they should find their graves
Within their cells. The stain across the water
Sometimes
betrays.
THEODORA Go forth and murder them.
I would I had your task. One as another,
What are these captives to you? Do you ever
Pause at their cries and tremble?
PHOCAS [with a deep inclination] I obey.
THEODORA [pacing the room distractedly]
With my own hands! He craved it as a boon;
I will not falter. I will take him down
219
Through the dark rocky fissure to the sea
And bid him leap! But if his corse should rise?
Oh, it were best——
Phocas, for all I said,
Do nothing suddenly. Remain at hand.
This evening, after I have left my rooms
Search them. When all you have to do is done,
Alter the tapestries, let lamps be lit. [Exit PHOCAS
With my own hand! This deed must be my own;
I have been left sole mistress of myself
Since I have been myself.
[Re -enter Antonia]
ANTONIA The boy is lovely,
Drest in the colours that you love and wearing
Simply for ornament that broidered cap.
His one thought is to please you. While I sorted
His suit of raiment, he was full of talk—
Oh, your Zuhair, he is the sweetest lad
Was ever born!
THEODORA Zuhair, is that his name?
ANTONIA The youth you loved
And prayed to, doting.
THEODORA How I hate Zuhair!
I will not see the boy; how dare he breathe
A word to any one but me!
ANTONIA I asked
His name and kissed him.
THEODORA I have done that too,
And kissed him after for so sweet a name.
ANTONIA Do not be jealous.
THEODORA He shall die to-night.
ANTONIA He shall not. Theodora, are you mad?
THEODORA Since you have spurred me on!
ANTONIA Come now, what need
Is there to murder him? I have a son,
A son my husband has no mind to slay,
Though he is not his father.
THEODORA Do not speak
Of those old shameful days.
ANTONIA Why, they are here
In living evidence.
THEODORA The sea will wash
All clean to-night: you have condemned the boy.
You think I have such weakness! Do not come
About me any more.
[Exit ANTONIA, as if some
new thought had struck her:
THEODORA opens the secret door
Phocas, I said
Not till to-night; be vigilant and still.
Is the Mage in the palace?
VOICE OF PHOCAS On the spot.
[THEODORA follows PHOCAS an instant, then returns]
THEODORA—This Mage, who always has predicted woe
And peril to the Emperor, if his kingdom
Should ever find an heir.
[Re-enter ANTONIA with ZUHAIR]
ANTONIA Madam, the prince
Prays to attend you.
ZUHAIR Empress!
[He kneels, she holds
him up in her arms, going over every point of
his dress as she speaks to him]
THEODORA Have you heard
I keep my courtiers in dark ante-rooms,
Patient for days, before I summon them
Into my presence?
ZUHAIR But I enter it.
Oh, I have been with you so often, seen you
On your great days of state, or when the factions
Were hostile to you. I have heard report
Of your great courage—
THEODORA Has that passed to you?
D o you
inherit that?
ZUHAIR How you had rather
Die than survive your honour; how you find
The throne a glorious sepulchre for kings.
Yes, I inherit all your qualities,
But chief your courage.
THEODORA What! you do not mean—
It is not possible! So mere a boy. . . .
[Re-enter PHOCAS with MAGE]
ZUHAIR Mother, your son!
{Glancing toward MAGE.] Is there no
privacy?
I would enjoy a little time with you.
Let us dismiss these mutes.
THEODORA Take all your will.
ZUHAIR [to MAGE] Leave us!
MAGE But I am summoned by the Empress.
ZUHAIR And I, the Empress’ son, dismiss you—go!
MAGE The Empress’ son then that calamity,
Foretold by mystic science, that the throne
Should be imperilled by a bastard . . .
THEODORA Stay!
I will not bear the insult.
ZUHAIR Comes to pass.
We will avert the danger. [Going up reverently to
the MAGE]
By all spells,
All magic influence, make the coming hour
Propitious to the sacrifice. [Exit MAGE. ZUHAIR
goes straight up
to the Empress and kisses her]
We lose
Together our ill names when I am dead.
Be firm: ere evening you must be restored
To the great Emperor’s love. I have no fear,
I die, not by the executioner,
Not secretly, for we two take together
An open, frank farewell. We have been spoiled
As son and mother; I am just the victim,
And you the priest—the god.
[Leading her towards her chamber]
I have learnt little
Of any faith; I knew that for great deeds
One must be still and arm oneself: prepare!
[He lifts the arras—their eyes meet. THEODORA
passes out]
How terrible it is to be alone
In these wide palaces, I almost shriek
Now I have let her go from me.
For ever,
For ever she is gone; and I am left
Beside these golden columns. Araby,
With the black tents I love, the neighing horses,
With Gamul, my own horse. . . . What brought me here
I am quite sure she called me in a dream
Across the desert, for I knew her voice
Soon as she spoke; she will not speak again,
She is grown dumb for ever. Oh, to rush
One instant to the shore and feel the wind!
She is so long in coming.
[Re-enter Antonia]
Are you there,
My good Antonia?
ANTONIA Why?
ZUHAIR There is a service
That you must do for me.
ANTONIA My mistress is—
ZUHAIR Within: go to her.
ANTONIA But I dare not go:
She has forbidden me about her person.
ZUHAIR Go to her, quick! It is so terrible
To be alone.
ANTONIA But you are gasping.
ZUHAIR Go!
ANTONIA I dare not.
ZUHAIR Dare not! Say I have a boon,
That she should dress herself in all her state,
As she comes forth to greet the Emperor,
Her crown a ruby fire, and all her gems.
It is my will.
ANTONIA [panic-struck] Give me another message.
Are you a baby, longing to be dazzled
By crowns and gems? When Theodora wears them
They are lost sight of. She becomes a stranger,
Soon as her hand is on her purple robes,
The kind of stranger that one dare not question
Lest he should be a god. You must not do it;
You cannot face her in her strength and live.
223
You think because you dared the guard, and fought
Your way through to the palace—
ZUHAIR [steadily] I am changed.
Go to her.
ANTONIA [with a cry] Oh, my child! [Exit
ZUHAIR How I am kindled,
And yet how weak I am; how mere a mortal
Waiting to be consumed. I can but pray
That there may be a moment of clear sight
Before my blood rush in and cover all.
[Re-enter Antonia]
Where is she? I am dazed.
ANTONIA [hurriedly] She cannot come;
She cannot give you up; you must escape
With me, it is her will. Phocas will swear
He flung you from the rocks.
[She struggles with ZUHAIR; he resists]
ZUHAIR She laid no charge
Upon me to keep silence?
ANTONIA Not a word!
She is not thinking now about herself,
Her honour.—Oh, she loves you!
ZUHAIR Then you lied,
Saying she bade me fly.
ANTONIA She has not spoken
Except now to dismiss me.
ZUHAIR On what errand?
No base one—I am glad.
ANTONIA She has no weapon—
Prince, if you would not kill her, down the stair!
ZUHAIR [going to the centre table]
Here is a weapon. Take it to the Empress;
Tell her, I chose.
ANTONIA This is Justinian’s sword.
ZUHAIR Then this is best.
[Re-enter THEODORA in
imperial array . She stands by the columns
rigid. ZUHAIR, turning
round sharply, perceives her]
Oh, stay! she is resolved.
[[She advances . He looks up at her with one look of
terrified
worship, then presents the sword]
Now we meet worthily.
[THEODORA takes the sword and stabs him.
ANTONIA falls down,
and hides her face against the couch]
THEODORA How fast the blood
Keeps flowing, flowing! . . . Now the eyes are blind;
There is a spasm.—Was it not his voice
Cried out a moment back, Justinians sword?
[Taking the sword from the wound]
It is dyed deep.
What! do the eyes unclose,
Does speech flow through them?
[She bends over him; he dies; she
rises]
I have fixed a smile
In the dead face. Antonia, cover him!
[THEODORA watches ANTONIA till she has
entirely covered the
corpse with a rich mantle that has been lying on the couch,
then she speaks]
THEODORA Summon the Emperor! [Exit
ANTONIA
So at last Zuhair
The infidel has perished.
[She stands at the right of the corpse.
Re-enter JUSTINIAN. She
presents the sword]
JUSTINIAN O my strength,
My empire’s strength—ours is an equal love.
❧ PALLAS AND THE CENTAUR
by
Sandro Botticelli
a picture recently found
PALLAS AND THE CENTAUR
AFTER A PICTURE BY BOTTICELLI
‘CENTAUR, sweet Centaur, let me ride on you!’
Her face set forward t’ward delightful hours,
On feet uncertain as spring’s dancing showers,
This Pallas like pale April finds things new;
Yet, conscious-half of much forgotten too,
Asks sparkling questions—tentative of powers
Visits her doings as bees visit flowers.—
‘Centaur, sweet Centaur, scatter far the dew!
Round the grey sea, beyond the haunted rocks,
Crunching clean pebbles call on Magdalen
And Egypt’s Mary clothed in woolly locks;
Clamber on clouds to Mary-Mother then,
Who, virgin still, there in a palace dwells,
Its roof one silver mass of mellow bells!’
BE IT COSINESS
IN the year of grace 1890, and in the
beautiful
autumn of that year, I was a freshman at
Oxford. I remember
how my tutor asked
me what lectures I wished to attend, and
how he
laughed when I said that I wished
to attend the lectures of Mr. Walter
Pater.
Also I remember how, one morning soon
after, I went into Rymans
to order some
foolish engraving for my room, and there
saw, peering
into a portfolio, a small, thick, rock-faced man, whose top-
hat and gloves
of bright dog-skin struck one of the many discords
in
that little city of learning or laughter. The serried bristles of
his
moustachio made for him a false-military air. Was ever such
cunning
as twinkled in his narrow eyes? I think I nearly went down
when
they told me that this was Pater.
Not that even in those more decadent days of my childhood
did
I admire the man as a stylist. Even then I was angry that he
should
treat English as a dead language, bored by that sedulous ritual
where-
with he laid out every sentence as in a shroud—hanging, like a
widower,
long over its marmoreal beauty or ever he could lay it at
length
in his book, its sepulchre. From that laden air, the so
cadaverous
murmur of that sanctuary, I would hook it at the beck of any
jade.
The writing of Pater had never, indeed, appealed to me,άλλ αίεί, having
regard to the couth solemnity of
his mind, to his philosophy, his rare
erudition,τινα
φϖτα μέуαν χαί χαλόν έδέγμην. And I suppose it was
when at
length I saw him that I first knew him to be fallible.
At school I had read Marius the
Epicurean in bed and with a dark
lantern. Indeed, I
regarded it mainly as a tale of adventure, quite as
fascinating as Midshipman Easy, and far less hard to understand,
because there were no nautical terms in it. Marryat, moreover, never
made
me wish to run away to sea, whilst certainly Pater did make me
wish for
more ‘colour’ in the curriculum, for a renascence of the Farrar
period,
when there was always ‘a sullen spirit of revolt against the
authorities’;
when lockers were always being broken into and marks
falsified and small
boys prevented from saying their prayers, insomuch
that they vowed they
would no longer buy brandy for their seniors.
In some schools, I am told,
the pretty old custom of roasting a fourth-
form boy, whole, upon Founders
Day still survives. But in my school
there
231
there was less sentiment. I ended by
acquiescing in the slow revolu-
tion of its wheel of work and play. I felt
that at Oxford, when I
should be of age to matriculate, a ‘variegated
dramatic life’ was wait-
ing for me. I was not a little too sanguine, alas!
How sad was my coming to the university! Where were
those
sweet conditions I had pictured in my boyhood? Those
antique
contrasts? Did I ride, one sunset, through fens on a palfrey,
watching
the gold reflections on Magdalen Tower? Did I ride over
Magdalen
Bridge and hear the consonance of evening-bells and cries from
the
river below? Did I rein in to wonder at the raised gates of
Queens,
the twisted pillars of St. Marys, the little shops, lighted with
tapers ?
Did bull-pups snarl at me, or dons, with bent backs, acknow-
ledge my salute? Any one who knows the place as it is, must see
that such
questions are purely rhetorical. To him I need not explain
the
disappointment that beset me when, after being whirled in a cab
from the
station to a big hotel, I wandered out into the streets. On
aurait dit a bit of Manchester through which Apollo
had once passed;
for here, among the hideous trams and the brand-new bricks
here,
glared at by the electric-lights that hung from poles, screamed at
by
boys with the Echo and the Star—here, in a riot of vulgarity, were
remnants
of beauty, as I discerned. There were only remnants.
Soon also I found that the life of the place, like the place,
had lost
its charm and its tradition. Gone were the contrasts
that made it
wonderful. That feud between undergraduates and dons—latent,
in
the old days, only at times when it behoved the two academic grades
to unite against the townspeople—was one of the absurdities of the
past.
The townspeople now looked just like undergraduates, and the
dons just like
townspeople. So splendid was the train-service between
Oxford and London
that, with hundreds of passengers daily, the one
had become little better
than a suburb of the other. What more could
extensionists demand? As for
me, I was disheartened. Bitter were
the comparisons I drew between my
coming to Oxford and the coming
of Marius to Rome. Could it be that there
was at length no beautiful
environment wherein a man might sound the
harmonies of his soul?
Had civilisation made beauty, besides adventure, so
rare? I wondered
what counsel Pater, insistent always upon contact with
comely things,
would offer to one who could nowhere find them. I had been
wonder-
ing that very day when I went into Rymans and saw him there.
When the tumult of my disillusioning was past, my mind
grew
clearer.
232
clearer. I discerned that the scope of
my quest for emotion must
be narrowed. That abandonment of one’s self to
life, that merging
of one’s soul in bright waters, so often suggested in
Paters writing,
were a counsel impossible for to-day. The quest of emotions
must be
no less keen, certainly, but the manner of it must be changed
forthwith.
To unswitch myself from my surroundings, to guard my soul
from
contact with the unlovely things that compassed it about, therein
lay
my hope. I must approach the Benign Mother with great caution.
And
so, while most of the freshmen were doing her honour with
wine and song and
wreaths of smoke, I stood aside, pondered. In
such seclusion I passed my
first term—ah, how often did I wonder
whether I was not wasting my days,
and, wondering, abandon my
meditations upon the right ordering of the
future! Thanks be
to Athene, who threw her shadow over me in those moments
of weak
folly!
At the end of term, I came to London. Around me seethed
swirls,
eddies, torrents, violent cross-currents of human
activity. What uproar!
Certainly I could have no part in modern life—yet,
yet for a time it was
fascinating to watch the lives of its children. To
watch the portentous
life of the Prince of Wales fascinated me above all;
indeed, it still
fascinates me. What ‘experience’ has been withheld from
His Royal
Highness? He has hunted elephants through the jungles of India,
boar
through the forests of Austria, pigs over the plains of
Massachusetts.
He has marched the Grenadiers to chapel through the white
streets of
Windsor. He has ridden through Moscow, in strange apparel, to
kiss
the catafalque of more than one Tzar. From the Castle of
Abergeldie
he has led his Princess into the frosty night, Highlanders
lighting with
torches the path to the deer-larder, where lay the wild
things that had
fallen to him on the crags. For him the Rajahs of India
have spoiled
their temples, and Blondin has crossed Niagara on the
tight-rope, and
the Giant Guard done drill beneath the chandeliers of the
Neue Schloss.
He has danced in every palace of every capital, played in
every club.
How often has he watched, at Newmarket, the scud-a-run of
quivering
homuncules over the vert on horses, or, from some night-boat,
the
burning of great wharves by the side of the Thames; raced through
the
blue Solent; threaded les coulisses! Is he
fond of scandal? Lawyers are
proud to whisper secrets in his ear. Gallant?
The ladies are at his
feet. Ennuyé? All the
wits, from Bernal Osborne to Arthur Roberts,
have jested for him. He has
been ‘present always at the focus where
the
233
the greatest number of forces unite
in their purest energy,’ for it is his
presence that makes those forces
unite.
‘Ennuyé?’ I asked. Indeed he never
is. How could he be when
Pleasure hangs constantly upon his arm?
It is those others, overtaking
her only after arduous chase, breathless and
footsore, who quickly sicken
of her company, and fall fainting at her feet.
And for me, shod neither
with rank nor riches, what folly to join the
chase! I began to see how
small a thing it were to sacrifice those
external‘experiences,’ so dear to
the heart of Pater, by a rigid, complex
civilisation made so hard to
gain. They gave nothing but lassitude to those
who had gained them
through suffering. Even to the kings and princes, who
so easily gained
them, what did they yield besides themselves? I do not
suppose that, if
we were invited to give authenticated instances of
intelligence on the
part of our royal pets, we could fill half a column of
the Spectator. In
fact, their lives are so full
they have no time for thought, the highest
energy of man. Now, it was to
thought that my life should be
dedicated. Action, apart from its absorption
of time, would war other-
wise against the pleasures of intellect, which,
for me, meant mainly the
pleasures of imagination. It is only (this is a
platitude) the things one
has not done, the faces or places one has not
seen, or seen but darkly,
that have charm. It is only mystery—such mystery
as besets the eyes
of children—that makes things superb. I thought of the
voluptuaries I
had known—they seemed so sad, so ascetic almost, like poor
pilgrims,
raising their eyes never or ever gazing at the moon of
tarnished
endeavour. I thought of the round, insouciant faces of the monks
at
whose monastery I once broke bread, and how their eyes sparkled
when
they asked me of the France that lay around their walls. I thought,
pardie, of the lurid verses written by young men who,
in real life,
know no haunt more lurid than a literary public-house. It
was,
for me, merely a problem how I could best avoid ‘sensations,’
‘pulsa-
tions,’ and ‘exquisite moments’ that were not purely
intellectual.
I was not going to attempt to run both kinds together, as
Pater
seemed to fancy a man might. I would make myself master of
some
small area of physical life, a life of quiet, monotonous simplicity,
exempt
from all outer disturbance. I would shield my body from the
world that my
mind might range over it, not hurt nor fettered. As yet,
however, I was in
my first year at Oxford. There were many reasons
that I should stay there
and take my degree, reasons that I did not
combat. Indeed, I was content to
wait for my life.
234
And now that I have made my adieux to the Benign Mother,
I
need wait no longer. I have been casting my eye over the
suburbs of
London. I have taken a most pleasant little villa in ———ham, and
here
I shall make my home. Here there is no traffic, no harvest. Those
of
the inhabitants who do anything go away each morning and do it
elsewhere. Here no vital forces unite. Nothing happens here. The
days and
the months will pass by me, bringing their sure recurrence
of quiet events.
In the spring-time I shall look out from my
window and see the laburnum
flowering in the little front garden.
In summer cool syrups will come for
me from the grocers shop.
Autumn will make the boughs of my mountain-ash
scarlet, and, later,
the asbestos in my grate will put forth its blossoms
of flame. The
infrequent cart of Buzzard or Mudie will pass my window at
all seasons.
Nor will this be all. I shall have friends. Next door, there
is a retired
military man who has offered, in a most neighbourly way, to
lend me
his copy of the Times. On the other side
of my house lives a charming
family, who perhaps will call on me, now and
again. I have seen them
sally forth, at sundown, to catch the
theatre-train; among them walked
a young lady, the charm of whose figure
was ill concealed by the neat
waterproof that overspread her evening dress.
Some day it may be . . .
but I anticipate. These things will be but the
cosy accompaniment of
my days. For I shall contemplate the world.
I shall look forth from my window, the laburnum and the
mountain-
ash becoming mere silhouettes in the foreground of my
vision. I shall
look forth and, in my remoteness, appreciate the distant
pageant of the
world. Humanity will range itself in the columns of my
morning
paper. No pulse of life will escape me. The strife of politics,
the
intriguing of courts, the wreck of great vessels, wars, dramas,
earthquakes,
national griefs or joys; the strange sequels to divorces,
even, and the
very mysterious suicides of land-agents at Ipswich,—in all
such pheno-
mena I shall steep my exhaurient mind. Delicias quoque bibliothecae
experiar. Tragedy, comedy,
chivalry, philosophy will be mine. I
shall listen to their music
perpetually and their colours will dance
before my eyes. I shall soar from
terraces of stone upon dragons with
shining wings and make war upon
Olympus; from the peaks of hills
I shall swoop into recondite valleys and
drive the pigmies to their
caverns; wander through infinite parks wherein
the deer rest or wander
at will; whisper with prophets under the elms, or
bind children with
daisy-chains, or, with a lady, thread my way through the
acacias. I shall
swim
235
swim down rivers into the sea and
outstrip all ships. Unhindered I
shall penetrate all sanctuaries and snatch
the secrets of every dim
confessional.
Yes! among books that charm, and give wings to the mind, will
my
days be spent. I shall be ever absorbing the things great men
have
written; with such experience I will charge mind to the full. Nor
will
I try to give anything in return. Once, in the delusion that Art,
loving
the recluse, would make his life happy, I wrote a little for a
yellow
quarterly—and had that succès de fiasco
which is always given to a young
writer of talent. But the stress of
creation soon overwhelmed me.
Only Art with a capital H gives any
consolations to her henchmen.
And I, who crave no knighthood, shall write
no more. I shall write no
more. Already I feel myself to be a trifle
outmoded. I belong to the
Beardsley period. Younger men, with months of
activity before them,
with fresher schemes and notions, with newer
enthusiasm, have pressed
forward since then. Cedo
junioribus. Indeed, I stand aside with no
regret. For to be
outmoded is to be a classic, if one has written well. I
have acceded to the
hierarchy of good scribes and rather like my niche.
SOHEIL
SOHEIL is the Arabic name of the star Canopus,
to which a curious belief attaches. It appears
that in some fashion known alone to Allah,
the fate of the Arab race is bound up with
the star. Where it sheds its light their
empire flourishes, and only there. Why this
is so even faith is powerless to explain, but
so it is.
Doubts and questionings, changes of
costume and religion, striving for ideals, improvements, telegraphs and
telephones, are well enough for Christians, whose lives are passed in
hurry and in hunting after gold. For those who have changed but
little for the last two thousand years, in dress, in faith and customs,
it is enough to know that Soheil is a talismanic star. Let star-gazers
and those who deal in books, dub the star Alpha (or Beta), Argo,
it is all one to Arabs. If you question knowledge, say the Easterns,
it ceases to be knowledge. If this is so, the empiric method has
much to answer for. Knowledge, and virtue, and a horses mouth,
should not pass through too many hands. Even argument itself, that
argument which is almost deified in latter days, when applied too
roughly, takes off authenticity from knowledge, as the bloom of
peaches falls from rubbing in a basket.
Of one thing there can be no doubt whatever. When in the Yemen,
ages before the first historian penned the fable known as history-, the
Arabs, watching their flocks, observed Soheil, it seems to have struck
them as a star unlike all others.
Al Makkari writes of it on several occasions. The Dervish Abder-
ahman Sufi of Rai in his Introduction to the Starry Heavens remarks
that at the feet of the Soheil is seen, in the neighbourhood of Bagdad,
‘a curious white spot.’ The ‘curious white spot’ astronomers have
thought to be the greater of the two Magellan clouds. Perhaps it is so,
but I doubt if the Arabs, as a race, were concerned about the matter,
so long as they saw the star. From wandering, warring tribes,
Mohammed made a nation of them. Mohammed died, and joined the
wife in paradise of whom he said, ‘by Allah, she shall sit at my right
hand, because when all men laughed, she clave to me.’ Then came
Othman, Ali, and the rest, and led them into other lands; to Irak,
Damascus, El Hind, to Ifrikia, lastly to Spain, and still their empire
waxed
❧ THE WHITE WATCH
by
Charles H. Shannon
241
waxed even across the ‘Black Waters’ of the seas, and still Soheil was
there to shine upon them. In the great adventure, one of the few in
which a people has adventured, when first Tarik landed his Berbers on
the rock which bears his name; at the battle on the Guadalete, where
the King Don Roderick disappeared from the eyes of men, leaving his
golden sandals by a stream; to Seville, Cortuba, and Murcia, the land
of Trodmir Ben Gobdos to which the Arabs gave the name of Masr,
right up to Zaragoza, Soheil accompanied the host. A curious host it
must have been with Muza riding on a mule and with but two-and-twenty
camels to carry all its baggage. Thence to Huesca of the Bell, where
King Ramiro, at the instigation of good Abbot Frotardo (a learned
man), cut off his nobles heads when they had come to give him their
advice about the celebrated bell, to be heard all over Aragon, across
the Pyrenees to France, to the spot in Aquitaine whence Muza sent to
Rome to tell the Pope he was about to come and take him by the
beard in the name of God. Then the wise men who always march
with armies, looking aloft at night, declared the star was lost. Although
they smote the Christian dogs, taking their lands, their daughters,
horses and gold, on several occasions as Allah willed it, yet victory
was not so stable as in Spain. Perhaps, beyond the mountains, their
spirits fell from lack of sun.
When the conquering tide had spent itself and flowed back into
Spain, at Zaragoza, almost the first Moorish state that rose to eminence
was founded. A1 Makkari writes that at that time Soheil was visible
in Upper Aragon, but very low on the horizon. Again the Christians
conquered, and the royal race of Aben Hud fled from the city. Ibn
Jaldun relates that, shortly after, Soheil became invisible from Zaragoza.
The Cid, Rodrigo Diaz, he of Vivar (may God remember him), pre-
vailed against Valencia, and from thence the star, indignant, took its
departure. And so of Jativa, Beni Carlo, and Alpuixech.
Little by little, Elche with its palm woods, and even Murcia, bade it
good-bye, as one by one, in the course of the struggle, prolonged for
centuries, the Christians in succession conquered southward. At last,
the belief gained ground that, only at one place in Spain, called from
the circumstance, Soheil, could it be seen. At Fuengirola, between
Malaga and Marbella, exists the little town the Arabs called Soheil, lost
amongst sand, looking across at Africa, of which it seems to form a
part; cactus, olive, cane, and date palms form the vegetation; in
summer, hot as Bagdad, in winter sheltered from the winds which come
from
242
from Christendom by the sierras of the Alpujarra and Segura. Surely
there, the star would stop and let the Arab power remain to flourish
under its influence. There, for centuries, did it stand stationary. The
City of the Pomegranate was founded, the Alhambra, the Generalife,
the brilliant Court; the poets, travellers, and men of science, gathered
at Granada, Córdoba and at Seville. Al Motacim, the poet king of
Cordoba, planted the hills with almond trees to give the effect of snow,
which Romaiquia longed for. He wrote his Kasidas, and filled the
courtyard full of spices and sugar for his queen to trample on, when she
saw the women of the brick-makers kneading the clay with naked feet,
and found her riches but a burden. Averroes and Avicenna, the doctors
of medicine and of law, laid down their foolish rules of practice and of
conduct, and all went well. Medina-el-Azahara, a pile of stones where
shepherds sleep and make believe to watch their sheep, where once
the Caliph entertained the ambassador from Constantinople and
showed him the basin full of quicksilver ‘like a great ocean,’ rose
from the arid hills, and seemed eternal. Allah appeared to smile
upon his people, and in proof of it let his star shine. Jehovah,
though, was jealous. A jealous God, evolved by Jews and taken
upon trust by Christians, could not endure the empire of the Arabs.
Again, town after town was conquered—Baeza, Loja, Antequera,
Guadix, and Velez Malaga, even to Alhama, ‘Woe is me, Alhama’;
lastly Granada. Then came the kingdom of the Alpujarra, with the
persecutions and the rebellions—Arabs and Christians fighting like
wolves, and torturing one another for the love of their respective gods.
The fighting over, tradition said that at Fuengirola the talisman yet
was in view, and whilst it still was seen, there still was hope. A
century elapsed, and from Gibraltar—from the spot where first they
landed—the last Moors embarked. In Spain, where once they ruled
from Iaca to Tarifa, no Moor was left. Perhaps about the mountain
villages of Ronda a few remained, for, even to this day, the peasants use
the Arab word ‘Eywah’ for ‘yes’ in conversation. But they were not
the folk to think of stars or legends, so no one (of the true) faith could
tell if Soheil still lingered over Spain.
Trains, telegraphs with bicycles and phonographs, adulterated
foods, elections, elementary schools, and other herbage (otras yerbas),
give a sort of superficial air of Europe to the land. The palm trees,
cactus, canes, and olives; the tapia walls, the women’s walk and
eyes, the songs and dances, the Paso Castellano of the horses, the
Andujar
243
Andujar pottery, the norias, and the air of fatalism over all, give them
the lie direct.
The truth is, that the empire of the Arabs, though fled in fact, retains
its influence. The hands that built the mosque at Córdoba, the Giralda,
the Alhambra, and almost every parish church in Southern Spain are
gone; their work is mouldering or struggling with the restorer; and yet
from every ruined aqueduct and mosque they seem to beckon to the
Christian as if derisively. The reason, is it not set forth at length by
economists, ethnographers, tourists, and by those whose business it is to
write, for people who know nothing, of things they do not understand
themselves? The real reason is, because at Cadiz Soheil is still in sight,
though making southward day by day and night by night. That is why
Spain is still an eastern country, and why the ways of Europe have no
real hold upon her. Let her take heart of grace, the precession of the
equinoxes will put things right.
In the dull future, when stucco is our only wear with Harris-tweeds
and macintoshes, when Juan shall be as Pedro, Pedro as John or
Hans or Pierre, and all apparelled in one livery; when trains shall run
up every hill, and Volapuk be spoken from Hammerfest to Cartagena,
Soheil will cross the straits, and all go as it should in Spain, as now it
does in England, where gloom obscures all stars. There still remains
Ifrikia; at Mequinez and Fez, and in the little towns which nestle in the
‘falda’ of the Atlas amongst the cedar forests, it may be that even the
equinoxes may have mercy on Soheil, and let it rest.
Long may it shine there, and shine upon the wild old life, upon the
horseman flying across the sands, upon the weddings where the women
raise the curious cry of joy which pierces ears and soul, upon the solemn
stately men who sit and look at nothing all a summers day, upon the
animals so little separated from their owners, and upon the ocean which
is called the desert.
In the Sahara, Soheil will shine forever upon the life as in the times
of the Mualakat when first the rude astronomers observed the star, and
framed the legend on some starry night all seated on the ground.
R. B. CUNNINGHAME GRAHAM.
THE END
❧ A SELECTION FROM MESSRS HENRY AND COS PUBLICATIONS
SIR ANTHONY VAN DYCK
His Life and Work
By Jules Guiffrey.
Translated from the French by WILLIAM ALISON.
❧Folio, Cloth.
Edition: 250 Copies, numbered,
£4. 4s. net.
10 Copies on Japanese Vellum , £12. 12s.
net.
❧This important, exhaustive biography of the great
Flemish painter
is based on the researches of the highest authorities, and
notably on a
valuable anonymous manuscript in the Louvre, which presents
the life
and work of Van Dyck in an entirely new light, and which has
been
overlooked by every other historian of the Flemish school of
Painting.
M. Guiffrey’s volume contains a full and complete catalogue
of all
Van Dyck’s works—paintings, etchings, drawings, etc.
(including many
known only through the engravings of Bolswert, Vorsterman,
Pontius,
de Jode, and others), and of all engravings and etchings after
his
paintings. This covers a total of over 1500 paintings and 3000
prints.
In every instance the present whereabouts of each picture is
stated,
with its number in the latest published catalogue of the collection
in
which it is to be found.
In selecting the illustrations for the text of the book, it
has been
thought best, instead of giving reproductions of the
numerous masterly
engravings after Van Dyck, which would inevitably have
suffered by
reduction, to reproduce in facsimile upwards of a hundred
original
drawings from the hand of the artist himself.
In addition to these facsimiles in the text, the book is
illustrated
by a number of important works of Van Dyck
reproduced by the
Dujardin heliogravure process, as well as by nineteen
original etchings,
which will be of especial interest, inasmuch as they are
after paintings
by the master which have never been etched before. These
etchings
are the work of such well-known artists as Gaujean, Boulard,
Noel
Masson, Courtry, Salmon, Milius, Fraenkel, and Hecht.
THE
❧THE HISTORY OF MODERN PAINTING.
By Richard Mutiier, Professor of Art History at the University of
Breslau, Late Keeper of the Royal Collection of Prints and
Engrav-
ings at Munich.
❧Three Volumes, Imperial 8 vo, with 2304 pages and
over 1300 illus-
trations.
Issued in the following forms:—
In 36 monthly
parts, at 1s. net.
In 16 monthly parts, at 2s. 6d. net.
In 3 volumes,
cloth, gilt top and lettering, at £2. 15s. net.
Vol. I. 1 8s. net.
Vol. II. 1 8s. 6d. net.
Vol. III. 1 8s. 6d. net. [Feb. 1896.
In
three volumes, library edition, half-morocco, gilt lettering and top,
other
edges uncut, at £3. 1 5s. net.
❧SOME PRESS NOTICES.
The Times, August 15, 1895.—‘Professor Muther’s
elaborate work on
The History of Modern Painting, which has for some
years held a posi-
tion of authority on the Continent of Europe, is now
being translated
into English by the competent hands of Messrs. Ernest
Dowson, G. A.
Greene, and A. C. Hillier, and we are glad to welcome the
first volume,
which brings the work down as far as Meissonier and Menzel.
It is a
large volume of 600 pages, with some hundreds of “process”
illustra-
tions, mostly of small size, which . . . are useful as presenting
memo-
randa of the pictures. The English is good, and the book does
not
read like a translation, and especially not like a translation from
the
German, so that it may be read with pleasure as well as consulted
for
the information it conveys. There need be no hesitation in
pronounc-
ing this work of Muther’s the most authoritative that exists on
the
subject, the most complete, the best informed of all the general
histories
of Modern Art. . . . Professor Muther makes the most
praiseworthy
attempts to hold the balance with the dignified impartiality
proper to
the historian, but, like the majority of modern writers and
artists, his
own sympathies are distinctly on the side of the forward
movement—
for Delacroix as against Ingres, for Manet as against Bouguereau
and
Jules Lefebvre.’
❧The Magazine of Art, August 1895—‘We have for
years been wait-
ing for a history of modern painting—not merely a list of
modern
painters, or a réchauffe of biographical
notices of the great men of all
countries,
III
countries, but a careful work which would
take in European art of the
present day in its purview, and lay before the
reader a systematic criti-
cism of all the modern schools of art,
synthetical in arrangement, and
just and unprejudiced in its estimate. Such
a work as we have hoped
for promises to be that of which the first two
parts lie before us. If it
carries out that promise, it will not only
fulfil the conditions we had
laid down, but it will have the further
advantage of being thoroughly
popular in tone—popular in the best sense, to
the point of attracting by
its inherent interest the general reader, for
whom aesthetics are dry, if
not altogether vain and distasteful. Dr. Muther
is not better equipped
by his learning than by his natural capacity for
taking a broad, critical
view of men and their works, and placing them in
their proper place in
his comprehensive survey. . . . Eschewing the
refinements of technical
phraseology as far as may be, Dr. Muther sets out
on his inquiry on a
clearly defined basis. His plan is to subdivide his
subject rather by
movements than men, rejecting the greatest painters of
any one country
if they are overtopped by greater in another, judging each
man from
the point of view of the aims and aspirations of each, testing the
success
of those aspirations closely and strictly, with a judgment
philosophical
in its exercise and acute in application. In short, he
exercises the
function of a true critic in attractive language—a little
flamboyant at
times, it is true, but lively and picturesque, and eminently
readable.
Looking on the European art as a whole, Dr. Muther regards
England
as the fountain-head of the movement which instituted the line of
de-
marcation at which modern art begins, or at least the true
demonstrator
of the fact that to nature and not to convention and pure
tradition must
the artist go for his inspiration both of subject and
treatment. He then
deals broadly with the English school of painters in a
way that shows
his mastery of facts and theories, regarding them not with
the eyes of a
foreigner, nor quite of an Englishman, but with that
cosmopolitanism
and freedom from prejudice of favour which form the chief
merit of his
book. . . . We await the completion of the work with
interest.’
❧The Westminster Gazette, August 19, 1895.—‘It
is well that we
should have a translation of Professor Muther’s History of
Modern
Painting , if only because it is the sole book in existence which
professes
to take anything like a historical survey of European art during
the last
hundred years. It is not conceivable that any man in existence
should
take a balanced and critical view of all the schools of Europe,
still less
that he should anticipate permanent judgments on modern art. The
critic
iv
critic who could be absolutely impartial
between Diisseldorfers,
Munichers, modern Frenchmen, and Eighteenth-Century
Englishmen
is not born, nor likely to be. But Professor Muther travels over
the
ground with great conscientiousness, and he provides material which
is
indispensable for students of art history. Though his style and
method
are unmistakably German, his way of looking at art is in large part
not
at all what the detractors of German art would expect from that
source.
He is on the side of the forward movement as against the
so-called
classicist, for the free and temperamental as against the strict
and
mechanical schools. He is not a little touched with the
art-for-art’s-
sake theory. . . . The arrangement is exceedingly
German-professorial ;
but within it, or in spite of it, Professor Muther
manages to give us good
brief biographies when they are to the point, some
useful criticism,
and not a few interesting general remarks. The present
volume is a
large and handsome one of 600 pages, and contains many
“process”
illustrations.’
❧The Glasgow Herald, August 29, 1895.—‘This
volume, the first of the
three in which he intends to deal in an exhaustive
manner with The
History of Modern Painting, is a powerful and
effective witness to the
completeness and thoroughness of the Professor’s
equipment as an art
critic and art historian. His knowledge is wide and
deep; he has sym-
pathy with many varying phases of art expression; he
understands the
causes, the meanings, and the limits of what are called “
movements ” in
art, which are sometimes the result of serious aspiration
and effort, and
on the other hand are frequently merely the outcome of
vague discon-
tent with, and stammering, half-articulate protest against,
the conven-
tions of the day. Professor Muther is evidently a man of
learning in
the right sense of the word: catholic in his tastes, broad in
his outlook,
accurate in his knowledge, and not afraid to set forth the
truth accord-
ing to his convictions. . . . The first volume from its
excellence certainly
makes us look forward with pleasant anticipations to
the remaining two.
Professor Muther states that his book stands alone among
similar books
on modern art, in virtue of its “embracing the history of
European
painting in the nineteenth century,” and this statement is amply
borne
out by the contents of the volume. Chapter I. of Book I., entitled
“The
Eegacy of the Eighteenth Century,” deals with the commencement of
modern art in England, and points out the great part played by Eng-
lish
artists in cutting out and preparing the way “ along which the nine-
teenth
century should advance in art.” . . . The chapters on classicalism
in
v
in France and Germany, on the art of Munich
under King Ludwig I.,
and on the Dusseldorfers are especially valuable, and
show that the
Professor can take a very fair view of art and its progress
within the
borders of his own country. He is singularly impartial in his
judg-
ments. He deals so far with the notable “generation of 1830,” as
well
as with some of their forerunners, but for his full treatment of this
most
interesting part of his subject we must wait for the succeeding
volumes.
The text is profusely illustrated with portraits and reproductions
of
pictures. These deserve, as a rule, high praise. . . . The book is
handsomely got up.’
❧Messrs. HENRY have pleasure in announcing that they have made
arrangements to publish
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.
In eleven volumes, Demy
8vo.
Edited by ALEXANDER TlLLE, Ph.D., Lecturer in German Language and
Literature
at the University of Glasgow, author of Von Darwin
bis
Nietzsche, etc. etc.
, and issued under the
supervision of the ‘Nietzsche Archiv,’ at
Naumburg.
❧VOL. XI. THE CASE OF WAGNER. NIETZSCHE CONTRA WAGNER.
THE TWILIGHT
OF THE IDOLS. THE ANTICHRIST. Translated
by THOMAS COMMON.
To appear in January 1896. Price 10s. 6d. net.
Vol. VIII. Thus Spake
Zarathustra. Translated by Alexander
TILLE, Ph.D. To appear in April 1896. Price
17s. net.
Vol. X. A GENEALOGY OF
MORALS. Translated by WILLIAM A.
HAUSSMANN, Ph.D. POEMS. Translated
by JOHN GRAY.
To appear in July 1896. Price 8s. 6d. net.
Vol. IX. BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL.
Translated by Helen
ZIMMERN. To appear in October 1896.
Price 10s.
6d. net.
Vol. VI. DAWN OF THE
DAY. Translated by JOHANNA VOLZ.
To appear in February 1897.
Price 13s.
net.
The remaining six volumes to appear successively within
two or three
years.
❧FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, Ph.D., Emeritus Professor of the University
of
Bale, is one of the most prominent representatives of that movement
of
contemporary opinion to which Huxley gave the name of the New
Reformation.
vi
Reformation. Within the last ten years he has
acquired an influence
over modern Continental culture equalled by no
philosopher since
Hegel. His works have created an independent school of
thought;
and in Germany, Austria, Holland, France, and Scandinavia a
whole
literature has sprung into existence bearing directly upon his
work.
Although his adversaries are as many in number as his followers,
his
significance has been recognised by the institution of courses of
lectures
on his philosophy at various German universities. Though
treating
the same problems of modern civilisation as Spencer, Stephen,
Huxley,
Wallace, Williams, Morison, and Balfour in Great Britain, he
starts
from a different point of view, and arrives at very different
conclusions,
which, should they prove final, will overthrow many pillars of
modern
thought, more especially of modern ethics. His endeavours to
bring
about a perfect concord between our moral convictions and
feelings
and our knowledge of the world lead him to a severe criticism of
the
former. In the course of this criticism he re-discovers a morality
the
cultivation of which has been neglected by the Germanic nations
for
about twelve hundred years; he calls it master-morality, and shows
it to be synonymous with that taught by the modern doctrine of
evolution.
While engaged upon his great work on the Transvaluation of all
Values, he was surprised by an insidious disease
which hopelessly dis-
abled him from completing the task of his life. An
aristocratic philo-
sopher in the midst of our democratic age; a master of
aphorism such
as Europe has not known since Larochefoucauld, and yet a
systematic
philosopher and popular writer of the first rank; a literary
warrior and
artist; a dreamer absorbed in thought, and yet the herald of
the gospel
of health and the joy of life; mortally hostile to the
Neo-Christianity of
Tolstoi, socialism and endaemonistic utilitarianism,
and yet pointing to
a higher stage of humanity—he expresses his thoughts in
manifold
forms, from the epic prose poem, after the fashion of the
Tripitaka, to
lyrical song, learned treatise, and the collection of
aphorisms and
apophthegms. Running directly counter to most of the ideas
and feel-
ings which pervade British philosophy, fiction and periodical
literature,
and yet closely akin to the British national character in its
moral
conception of superiority—an ethical genius of immense vigour, and
a
strong personality on whose generous character full light is thrown
by
his struggles with rationalism, pessimism in philosophy and music,
clericalism and moralism, and yet one who penetrates with rare sagacity
into
vii
into the most intimate affairs of the time,
exposing its pudeurs with
pungent wit; a philosopher of profound learning,
and a poet of ravish-
ing lyrical power; he stands a un ique figure in the
arena of modern
thought.
The questions he has raised are the problems of our time
imperi-
ously demanding solution. It is no longer possible to
neglect and
avoid them; it is preferable to look them straight in the face,
and to
accept as the foundation of all our operations those new factors
which,
as Nietzsche shows, have now become inevitable. Perhaps the
wide
outlook into the future of mankind which he has opened up may
help
to lead the race to its final goal.
❧THE PENTAMERONE; or, THE TALE OF TALES. Being
a Translation by the late SIR RICHARD BURTON, K.C.M.G.,
from
the Neapolitan of Giovanni Battista Basile, Count of
Torone
(Gian Alessio Abbattutis).
❧Two volumes, Demy 8vo.
Edition: A limited Edition, £3. 3s. net.
150 Large-paper Copies on hand-made
paper, £5. 5s. net.
❧FOUR CHRISTMAS BOOKS FOR CHILDREN.
❧STORIES FROM THE BIBLE.
By E. L. FARRAR. With an
introductory chapter on the unspeakable value of early
lessons
in Scripture, by the Ven. F. W. FARRAR, D.D., Dean of
Canterbury.
With 12 illustrations printed in colour, and a binding
designed by
Reginald Hallward. Crown 4to, 5s.
❧THE
TYRANTS OF KOOL SIM. By J. M’LAREN COBBAN,
author of The Red Sultan. With 6
illustrations, and a binding
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5s.
❧THERE WAS ONCE A PRINCE. By MARY E. MANN, author
of Susannah. With 6 illustrations
by Mary Bertie Mann. Large
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VAN HOYTEMA. With 20 illus-
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SIX
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GODS, SOME MORTALS AND LORD WICKENHAM.
By John Oliver Hobbes, author of Some
Emotions and a Moral.
With a title-page and binding designed by Walter
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‘To her numerous admirers the statement that this new book
of
hers is her best will be in itself sufficient
recommendation.’— Mr.
Edmund Gosse in The St. James’ s
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❧BOCONNOC: A ROMANCE OF WILD OAT CAKES. By
HERBERT VIVIAN, co-author of The Green
Bay Tree.
‘This book is at times as beautiful as it is clever.’—Mr.
Richard Le
Gallienne in The
Star.
❧SUSANNAH. By MARY E. MANN, author of There was once a
Prince.
‘Open it where you will, and you will not fail to find
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THE HOUSE OF THE STRANGE WOMAN. By F. NORREYS
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reader of a certain keen
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❧AN IMPRESSION
CALLED ‘THE IMAGINATION OF
THEIR HEARTS.’ By MICHAEL DURE.
SWAN ELECTRIC ENGRAVING COMPANY,
Northumbria House, 116 Charing Cross Road, London.
❧ Art Reproducers
in PHOTOGRAVURE and HALF-TONE, from
pictures, photographs, or drawings.
The highest class of illustration work executed in Great Britain. See
the
eighteen half-tone blocks in this volume.
❧ Sir John Millais speaks of the Swan Company’s work in terms of
high
praise. His son, Mr. J. G. Millais, writes:—
‘The last of your proofs have arrived to-day, and I can only say how
very
much pleased I am with the quality of work which you have main-
tained in
reproducing the large number of illustrations I have submitted
to you. The
“Electrogravures” are particularly excellent; in fact, my
father, who has
had a wide experience in black-and-white illustration,
recently said to me
that they were the very best reproductions he had
ever seen in his life,
and that he did not see how any artist’s original
drawing could possibly be
more truthfully interpreted. The “Swantype”
process seems to me also
first-rate, especially for body-colour drawings.
I have just sent your
proofs of my father’s drawing, “The Last Trek,” to
him, and will let you
have his letter in reply, when you can judge for
yourself whether he is
pleased or not with the reproduction.’
Mr. Rudolf Lehmann, the portrait painter, writes
‘I am delighted with the two photogravure reproductions of my
portraits of
Browning and Lady Martin. They are far and away the
best of the many that
have been attempted.’
Mr. Joseph Pennell, in Pen Drawing and Pen Draughtsmen
(Mac-
millan), says:—
‘This drawing (a George Thomson) was made in pen and wash, and
has been most
faithfully reproduced by the Swan Company. Their
success with half-tone is
surprising.
‘I have seen some marvellous blocks after Sainton’s silver-points by
the
Swan Electric Engraving Co.’
Mr. P. Wilson Steer writes ….
‘I have great pleasure in testifying to the entire satisfaction given me
by
the careful way in which my work has been reproduced by the
“ Swan ”
process. It is invaluable to know of a firm where one can
rely on work
being reproduced without alteration or touching up.
MLA citation:
The Pageant, vol. 1, 1896. Pageant Digital Edition, edited by Frederick King and Lorraine Janzen Kooistra, 2019-2021. Yellow Nineties 2.0, Ryerson University Centre for Digital Humanities, 2021. https://1890s.ca/pag1-all/