" said Marcel to his friend, after they
had finished an ambiguous repast served in a penny dish.
had finished an ambiguous repast served in a penny dish.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v18 - Mom to Old
And from
modification to modification, after greatly curtailing the item
cakes, and carefully revising and diminishing that of drinks, the
total expense was reduced to fifteen francs. The problem was
thus simplified but not solved.
"Well," said Rodolphe,
«< we must take strong measures: we
can't postpone it again this time. "
"Impossible," said Marcel.
"How long is it since I heard the story of Studzianka ? »
## p. 10477 (#305) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10477
"Almost two months. "
"Two months? good! that's a respectable interval. My uncle
shall have no cause for complaint. To-morrow I'll go and see
him, and ask for the battle of Studzianka. That will mean five
francs. "
"And," said Marcel, "I'll sell old Medicis 'A Deserted Manor':
that will be another five francs. If I've time to put in three
towers and a mill, it will very likely be ten francs, and then we
shall have just the sum required. "
The two friends went to sleep, and dreamed that the Princess
Belgioso asked them to change their reception days, in order not
to deprive her of her habitual guests.
Marcel got up very early, took a canvas, and diligently pro-
ceeded to construct 'A Deserted Castle,'— an article in great
demand by a broker in the Place du Carrousel. Rodolphe went
to call on his uncle Monetti, who excelled in narrating the retreat
from Moscow. Rodolphe, when things went badly with him,
procured his uncle the satisfaction of fighting his campaigns
over again some five or six times a year, in consideration for a
loan. If you showed a proper enthusiasm for his stories, the
veteran stove-maker and chimney-doctor was not unwilling to
make it.
About two o'clock, Marcel, with downcast look, carrying a
canvas under his arm, met Rodolphe in the Place du Carrou-
sel coming from his uncle's; his appearance also betokened ill
news.
"Well," asked Marcel, "what luck? "
"None. My uncle had gone to the Versailles Museum. And
you ? »
"That wretch of a Medicis doesn't want any more 'Ruined
Castles. ' He asked for a Bombardment of Tangiers. ""
"Our reputation's gone if we don't give the entertainment,'
grumbled Rodolphe. "What will my friend the influential critic
think, if I make him put on a white tie and light gloves for
nothing? "
They returned to the studio, a prey to the liveliest anxiety.
At that moment a neighbor's clock struck four.
"We've only three hours left," said Rodolphe.
"Well," exclaimed Marcel, going up to his friend, "are you
perfectly sure there's no money to be found here? "
## p. 10478 (#306) ##########################################
10478
HENRI MURGER
"Neither here nor elsewhere. Where could we have left any? "
"Let us search in the stuffing of the chairs. It is said that
the émigrés hid their treasure in Robespierre's time. Our arm-
chair may have belonged to an émigré. It's so hard that I've
often thought it must be metal inside. Will you make an autopsy
of it? "
"This is a mere farce," replied Rodolphe in a tone at once
severe and indulgent.
Suddenly Marcel, who had been prosecuting his search in
every corner of the studio, gave a loud shout of triumph.
"We are saved! " he exclaimed: "I felt sure there was some-
thing of value here. Look! " and he held up for Rodolphe's in-
spection a coin the size of a crown, half smothered in rust and
verdigris.
It was a Carlovingian coin of some artistic value.
"That's only worth thirty sous," said Rodolphe, throwing a
contemptuous glance at his friend's findings.
"Thirty sous well laid out will go a long way," said Marcel.
"I'll sell this Charlemagne crown to old Father Medicis. Isn't
there anything else here I could sell? Yes, suppose I take the
Russian drum-major's tibia. That will add to the collection. "
"Away with the tibia. But it's exceedingly annoying: there
won't be a single object of art left. "
During Marcel's absence, Rodolphe, feeling certain that his
party would come off somehow, went in search of his friend
Colline, who lived quite near.
"I want you," he said, "to do me a favor. As master of the
house, I must wear a dress coat, and I haven't got one. Lend
me yours. "
"But," objected Colline, "as a guest I must wear my dress
coat myself. "
"I'll allow you to come in a frock coat. "
"You know I've never had a frock coat. "
"Well, then, the matter can be arranged like this: You need-
n't come to the party, and you can lend me your dress coat. "
"But that'll never do. I'm on the programme.
I can't stay
>>>>
away. "
«< There'll be plenty of other things lacking," said Rodolphe.
"Lend me the dress coat; and if you want to come, come as you
are, in your shirt-sleeves. "
## p. 10479 (#307) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10479
«
"Oh, no,” said Colline, getting red. "I'll put on my great-
coat. But it's all exceedingly annoying " And perceiving that
Rodolphe had already laid hold of the dress coat, he exclaimed:
"Stay-there are one or two little things in the pockets. ”
Colline's coat deserves mention. First, it was blue, and it
was purely from habit that Colline talked about his black coat;
and as he was the only member of the band who possessed such
a garment, his friends were likewise accustomed to say when
speaking of the philosopher, Colline's black coat. Further, that
celebrated article of apparel had a particular shape of its own,
the most eccentric that can be imagined. The abnormally long
tails fastened to a very short waist possessed two pockets, verita-
ble abysses, in which Colline was accustomed to put about thirty
books he everlastingly carried about him, Thus it was said that
when the libraries were closed, scholars and literary men looked
up their references in the tails of Colline's coat, a library always
open to readers.
•
When Rodolphe returned he found Marcel playing quoits with
five-franc pieces, to the number of three.
He had sold the coin for fifteen francs.
The two friends immediately began their preparations. They
put the studio tidy, and lighted a fire in the stove. A canvas
frame, ornamented with candles, was suspended from the ceiling,
and did duty as a chandelier. A desk was placed in the middle
of the studio, to serve as a tribune for the speakers. In front
they put the one arm-chair, which was to be occupied by the
influential critic; and laid out on a table the books, novels,
feuilletons of the authors who were to honor the entertainment
with their presence. To avoid any collision between the differ-
ent parties of men of letters, they divided the studio into four
compartments; at the entrance were four hastily manufactured
placards inscribed -
POETS
PROSE-WRITERS
ROMANTIC
CLASSICAL
The ladies were to occupy a space reserved in the middle.
"Oh! " said Rodolphe, "there are no chairs. "
« Suppose
"There are plenty on the landing," replied Marcel.
we take those. "
"Of course," said Rodolphe, and proceeded calmly to take
possession of his neighbors' property.
## p. 10480 (#308) ##########################################
10480
HENRI MURGER
Six o'clock struck. The two friends went out for a hasty
dinner, and on their return proceeded to light up the rooms.
They could not help feeling dazzled themselves. At seven
o'clock Schaunard arrived, accompanied by three ladies, who had
forgotten their diamonds and their bonnets. Numerous steps
were heard on the staircase. The guests were arriving, and they
seemed surprised to find a fire in the stove.
Rodolphe's dress-coat went to meet the ladies, and kissed
their hands with a grace worthy of the Regency. When there
were about twenty persons present, Schaunard asked if they
couldn't have something to drink.
"Presently," said Marcel: "we are waiting for the influential
critic before we begin on the punch. "
By eight o'clock all the guests had come, and they began the
programme. Between each number came a round of some sort
of drink; but what it exactly was, has never transpired.
About ten o'clock the white waistcoat of the influential critic
appeared. He only stayed an hour, and was very sparing of
praise. At midnight, as it was very cold and there was no more
fuel, the guests who were seated drew lots for throwing their
chairs into the fire.
At one o'clock everybody was standing.
The greatest merriment held sway among the guests, and the
memorable evening was the talk of the neighborhood for a week.
THE WHITE VIOLETS
>
From The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter ›
A
BOUT this time Rodolphe was very much in love with his
cousin Angela, who couldn't bear him; and the thermome-
ter was twelve degrees below freezing-point.
―――――
Mademoiselle Angela was the daughter of Monsieur Monetti,
the chimney-doctor, of whom we have already had occasion to
speak. She was eighteen years old, and had just come from
Burgundy, where she had lived five years with a relative who
was to leave her all her property. This relative was an old lady
who had never been young, apparently,- certainly never hand-
some, but had always been very ill-natured, although-or per-
haps because-very superstitious. Angela, who at her departure
was a charming child, and promised to be a charming girl,
## p. 10481 (#309) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10481
came back at the end of the five years a pretty enough young
lady, but cold, dry, and uninteresting. Her secluded provincial
life, and the narrow and bigoted education she had received, had
filled her mind with vulgar prejudices, shrunk her imagination,
and converted her heart into a sort of organ limited to fulfilling
its function of physical balance-wheel. You might say that she
had holy water in her veins instead of blood. She received her
cousin with an icy reserve; and he lost his time whenever he
attempted to touch the chord of her recollections - recollections
of the time when they had sketched out that flirtation, in the
Paul-and-Virginia style, which is traditional between cousins of
different sexes. Still Rodolphe was very much in love with his
cousin Angela, who couldn't bear him; and learning one day
that the young lady was going shortly to the wedding-ball of
one of her friends, he made bold to promise Angela a bouquet
of violets for the ball. And after asking permission of her
father, Angela accepted her cousin's gallant offer-always on
condition that the violets should be white.
Overjoyed at his cousin's amiability, Rodolphe danced and
sang his way back to Mount St. Bernard, as he called his lodg
ing-why, will be seen presently. As he passed by a florist's in
crossing the Palais Royal, he saw some white violets in the show-
case, and was curious enough to ask their price. A presentable
bouquet could not be had for less than ten francs; there were
some that cost more.
"The deuce! " exclaimed Rodolphe; "ten francs! and only
eight days to find this fortune! It will be a hard pull, but never
mind; my cousin shall have her flowers. "
This happened in the time of Rodolphe's literary genesis, as
the transcendentalists would say. His only income at that period
was an allowance of fifteen francs a month, made him by a
friend, who after living a long while in Paris as a poet, had by
the help of influential acquaintances gained the mastership of
a provincial school. Rodolphe, who was the child of prodigality,
always spent his allowance in four days; and not choosing to
abandon his holy but not very profitable profession of elegiac poet,
lived for the rest of the month on the rare droppings from the
basket of Providence. This long Lent had no terrors for him;
he passed through it gayly, thanks to his stoical temperament,
and to the imaginary treasures which he expended every day
while waiting for the first of the month,- that Easter which
XVIII-656
## p. 10482 (#310) ##########################################
10482
HENRI MURGER
terminated his fast. He lived at this time at the very top of
one of the loftiest houses in Paris. His room was shaped like a
belvidere, and was a delicious habitation in summer; but from
October to April a perfect little Kamtchatka. The four cardinal
winds which penetrated by the four windows-there was one on
each of the four sides-made fearful music in it throughout the
cold seasons. Then, in irony as it were, there was a huge fire-
place, the immense chimney of which seemed a gate of honor
reserved for Boreas and his retinue. On the first attack of cold,
Rodolphe had recourse to an original system of warming: he cut
up successively what little furniture he had, and at the end of a
week his stock was considerably abridged,- in fact, he had only
a bed and two chairs left; it should be remarked that these three
articles were insured against fire by their nature, being of iron.
This manner of heating himself he called moving up the chimney.
It was January; and the thermometer, which indicated twelve
degrees below freezing-point on the Spectacle Quay, would have
stood two or three lower if moved to the belvidere, which
Rodolphe called indifferently Mount St. Bernard, Spitzenberg, and
Siberia. The night when he had promised his cousin the white
violets, he was seized with a great rage on returning home:
the four cardinal winds, in playing puss-in-the-corner round his
chamber, had broken a pane of glass- the third time in a fort-
night. After exploding in a volley of frantic imprecations upon
Eolus and all his family, and plugging up the breach with a
friend's portrait, Rodolphe lay down, dressed as he was, between
his two mattresses, and dreamed of white violets all night.
At the end of five days, Rodolphe had found nothing to help.
him toward realizing his dream. He must have the bouquet the
day after to-morrow. Meanwhile the thermometer fell still lower,
and the luckless poet was ready to despair as he thought that the
violets might have risen higher. Finally his good angel had pity
on him, and came to his relief as follows:
One morning, Rodolphe went to take his chance of getting a
breakfast from his friend Marcel the painter, and found him con-
versing with a woman in mourning. It was a widow who had
just lost her husband, and who wanted to know how much it
would cost to paint on the tomb which she had erected, a man's
hand, with this inscription beneath :-
"I WAIT FOR HER TO WHOM MY FAITH WAS PLIGHTED »
## p. 10483 (#311) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10483
To get the work at a cheaper rate, she observed to the artist
that when she was called to rejoin her husband, he would have
another hand to paint,-her hand, with a bracelet on the wrist,
and the supplementary line beneath:
«AT LENGTH, BEHOLD US THUS ONCE MORE UNITED≫
"I shall put this clause in my will," she said, "and require
that the task be intrusted to you. "
"In that case, madame," replied the artist, "I will do it at the
price you offer- but only in the hope of seeing your hand. Don't
go and forget me in your will. "
"I should like to have this as soon as possible," said the dis-
consolate one: "nevertheless, take your time to do it well; and
don't forget the scar on the thumb. I want a living hand. "
"Don't be afraid, madame, it shall be a speaking one," said
Marcel, as he bowed the widow out.
But hardly had she crossed the threshold when she returned,
saying:
"I have one thing more to ask you, sir: I should like to
have inscribed on my husband's tomb something in verse which
would tell of his good conduct and his last words. Is that good
style? »
"Very good style-they call that an epitaph - the very best
style. »
"You don't know any one who would do that for me cheap?
There is my neighbor M. Guérin, the public writer; but he asks
the clothes off my back. "
Here Rodolphe darted a look at Marcel, who understood him
at once.
"Madame," said the artist, pointing to Rodolphe, "a happy
fortune has conducted hither the very person who can be of
service to you in this mournful juncture. This gentleman is a
renowned poet; you couldn't find a better. "
"I want something very melancholy," said the widow; "and
the spelling all right. "
“Madame,” replied Marcel, "my friend spells like a book. He
had all the prizes at school. "
"Indeed! " said the widow: "my grandnephew has just had
a prize too; he is only seven years old. ”
"A very forward child, madame. "
«<
But are you sure that the gentleman can make very melan-
choly verses? "
## p. 10484 (#312) ##########################################
10484
HENRI MURGER
"No one better, madame, for he has undergone much sorrow
in his life. The papers always find fault with his verses for
being too melancholy. "
"What! " cried the widow, "do they talk about him in the
papers? He must know quite as much, then, as M. Guérin, the
public writer. "
"And a great deal more. Apply to him, madame, and you
will not repent of it. "
After having explained to Rodolphe the sort of inscription
in verse which she wished to place on her husband's tomb, the
widow agreed to give Rodolphe ten francs if it suited her—only
she must have it very soon. The poet promised she should have
it the very next day.
"Oh, good genius of an Artemisia! " cried Rodolphe, as the
widow disappeared. "I promise you that you shall be suited-
full allowance of melancholy lyrics, better got up than a duchess,
orthography and all. Good old lady! May Heaven reward you
with a life of a hundred and seven years-equal to that of good
brandy! "
"I object," said Marcel.
"That's true," said Rodolphe: "I forgot that you have her
hand to paint, and that so long a life would make you lose
money;" and lifting his hands he gravely ejaculated, "Heaven,
do not grant my prayer! Ah! " he continued, "I was in jolly
good luck to come here. "
"By the way," asked Marcel, "what did you want? "
"I recollect—and now especially that I have to pass the
night in making these verses, I cannot do without what I came
to ask you for: namely, first, some dinner; secondly, tobacco and
candle; thirdly, your polar-bear costume. "
"To go to the masked ball? »
"No indeed; but as you see me here, I am as much frozen
up as the grand army in the retreat from Russia. Certainly my
green frock coat and Scotch plaid trousers are very pretty, but
much too summery: they would do to live under the equator,
but for one who lodges near the Pole, as I do, a white-bear skin
is more suitable,—indeed, I may say necessary. "
"Take the fur! " said Marcel: "it's a good idea; warm as a
dish of charcoal,—you will be like a roll in an oven in it. ”
Rodolphe was already inside the animal skin.
"Now," said he, "the thermometer is going to be sold a
trifle. "
## p. 10485 (#313) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10485
"Are you going out so?
" said Marcel to his friend, after they
had finished an ambiguous repast served in a penny dish.
"I just am," replied Rodolphe: "do you think I care for pub-
lic opinion? Besides, to-day is the beginning of carnival. "
He went half over Paris with all the gravity of the beast
whose skin he occupied. Only on passing before a thermometer
in an optician's window, he couldn't help taking a sight at it.
Having returned home, not without causing great terror to
his porter, Rodolphe lit his candle, carefully surrounding it with
an extempore shade of paper to guard it against the malice of
the winds, and set to work at once. But he was not long in
perceiving that if his body was almost entirely protected from
the cold, his hands were not; a terrible numbness seized his
fingers, which let the pen fall.
"The bravest man cannot struggle against the elements," said
the poet, falling back helpless in his chair. "Cæsar passed the
Rubicon, but he could not have passed the Beresina. "
All at once he uttered a cry of joy from the depths of his
bearskin breast, and jumped up so suddenly as to overturn some
of his ink on its snowy fur. He had an idea!
Rodolphe drew from beneath his bed a considerable mass
of papers, among which were a dozen huge manuscripts of his
famous drama, 'The Avenger. ' This drama, on which he had
spent two years, had been made, unmade, and remade so often
that all the copies together weighed fully fifteen pounds. He put
the last version on one side, and dragged the others towards the
fireplace.
"I was sure that with patience I should dispose of it some-
how," he exclaimed. "What a pretty fagot! If I could have fore-
seen what would happen, I could have written a prologue, and
then I should have more fuel to-night. But one can't foresee
everything. " He lit some leaves of the manuscript, in the flame
of which he thawed his hands. In five minutes the first act of
'The Avenger' was over, and Rodolphe had written three verses
of his epitaph.
It would be impossible to describe the astonishment of the
four winds when they felt fire in the chimney.
"It's an illusion," quoth Boreas, as he amused himself by
brushing back the hair of Rodolphe's bearskin.
"Let's blow down the pipe," suggested another wind, "and
make the chimney smoke. " But just as they were about to
## p. 10486 (#314) ##########################################
10486
HENRI MURGER
plague the poor poet, the south wind perceived Monsieur Arago
at a window of the Observatory threatening them with his finger;
so they all made off, for fear of being put under arrest. Mean-
while the second act of The Avenger' was going off with im-
mense success, and Rodolphe had written ten lines.
But he only
achieved two during the third act.
"I always thought that third act too short," said Rodolphe:
"luckily the next one will take longer; there are twenty-three
scenes in it, including the great one of the throne. " As the last
flourish of the throne-scene went up the chimney in fiery flakes,
Rodolphe had only three couplets more to write. "Now for the
last act. This is all monologue. It may last five minutes. " The
catastrophe flashed and smoldered, and Rodolphe in a magnifi-
cent transport of poetry had enshrined in lyric stanzas the last
words of the illustrious deceased. "There is enough left for
a second representation," said he, pushing the remainder of the
manuscript under his bed.
At eight o'clock next evening, Mademoiselle Angela entered
the ball-room; in her hand was a splendid nosegay of white vio-
lets, and among them two budding roses, white also. During the
whole night, men and women were complimenting the young girl
on her bouquet. Angela could not but feel a little grateful to her
cousin, who had procured this little triumph for her vanity; and
perhaps she would have thought more of him but for the gallant
persecutions of one of the bride's relatives, who had danced sev-
eral times with her. He was a fair-haired youth, with a magnifi-
cent mustache curled up at the ends, to hook innocent hearts.
The bouquet had been pulled to pieces by everybody; only the
two white roses were left. The young man asked Angela for
them; she refused-only to forget them after the ball on a
bench, whence the fair-haired youth hastened to take them.
At that moment it was fourteen degrees below freezing-point
in Rodolphe's belvidere. He was leaning against his window
looking out at the lights in the ball-room, where his cousin
Angela, who didn't care for him, was dancing.
## p. 10447 (#315) ##########################################
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SE MUSSET.
## p. 10451 (#319) ##########################################
10487
―――――――
ALFRED DE MUSSET
(1810-1857)
BY ALCÉE FORTIER
T
HE three greatest French poets of the nineteenth century are
Lamartine, Hugo, and Musset. The first one touches us
deeply by his harmonious and simple verses; the second
impresses us with the force of his genius; and the third is some-
times light and gay, and sometimes intensely passionate and sad.
Musset wrote several poems which cannot be surpassed by any in
the French language. He was highly nervous and sensitive, and
lacked Lamartine's spirit of patriotism and Hugo's well-balanced
mind. He was unfortunate, and led a reckless life, committing ex-
cesses which nearly destroyed his genius, and rendered it sterile for
the last ten years of his existence. It is, however, to his nervous
temperament—to the fact that he felt so deeply the misfortunes of
love that we owe his finest works. In the beginning of his career
-in 1828, when he was eighteen years old - we see him admitted
at Hugo's house, and considered by the poets of the famous Cénacle,
by the disciples of the Master, as their favorite child, as a Romantic
poet of great promise. He published at that time in a newspaper at
Dijon a poem, 'The Dream,' which was warmly received by his
brother poets and protectors. In 1830 appeared his first volume,
'Tales of Spain and Italy,' which are rather immoral in tone, and
somewhat ironical. The author followed still the precepts of the
Romantic school; but one may see already that he is not a true dis-
ciple of Hugo, not an idolater like Gautier. His famous 'Ballad to
the Moon' was intended as a huge joke, and is indeed wonderful in
its eccentricity. Musset speaks with great irreverence of the celes-
tial body which shone on Lamartine's immortal Lake. '
――――
The 'Ballad to the Moon' created a great sensation; and to this
day, Musset is better known to many people by his earliest poems
than by his magnificent 'Nights. ' It is true that his 'Tales of Spain
and Italy' are entrancing, in spite of their immorality, and contain
some beautiful verses. The last lines of Don Poez' are full of pas-
sion; but most of these poems are ironical. Portia is white-armed
like Andromache, but she is not faithful to her husband like Hector's
wife. The Chestnuts out of the Fire' is, without doubt, a parody
## p. 10452 (#320) ##########################################
WILHELM MÜLLER
10452
Away, away
From my margin stay,
Wicked maiden, lest from thy shadow he wake!
But throw me down
Thy kerchief brown,
So for his eyes I'll a bandage make!
Now good-night, now good-night!
Till all's made right,
Forget all thy hopes, and forget thy fate!
The moon shines bright,
The mists take flight,
And the heaven above me how wide and how great!
VINETA
F
ROM the sea's deep hollow faintly pealing,
Far-off evening bells come sad and slow;
Faintly rise, the wondrous tale revealing
Of the old enchanted town below.
On the bosom of the flood reclining,
Ruined arch and wall and broken spire,
Down beneath the watery mirror shining,
Gleam and flash in flakes of golden fire.
And the boatman, who at twilight hour,
Once that magic vision shall have seen,
Heedless how the crags may round him lower,
Evermore will haunt the charmed scene.
From the heart's deep hollow faintly pealing,
Far I hear them, bell-notes sad and slow,
Ah! a wild and wondrous tale revealing
Of the drowned wreck of love below.
There a world in loveliness decaying
Lingers yet in beauty ere it die;
Phantom forms across my senses playing,
Flash like golden fire-flakes from the sky.
Lights are gleaming, fairy bells are ringing,
And I long to plunge and wander free
Where I hear those angel-voices singing
In those ancient towers below the sea.
Translation of J. A. Froude.
I
2
8
## p. 10453 (#321) ##########################################
10453
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE
(CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK)
(1850-)
W
HEN Miss Murfree's first work appeared, not only was her
pseudonym, Charles Egbert Craddock, accepted by her edi-
tors without suspicion as her proper name, but the public
was equally deceived. The firm, quiet touch, the matter wholly free
from subjectiveness, the robust humor, and the understanding of
masculine life, had no trace of femininity.
Her first book, 'Where the Battle was
Fought,' which finally appeared in 1884,
was the effort of a very young writer, con-
taining more of promise than fulfillment,
though the peculiarities of style and char-
acter were prophetic of her later manner.
No publisher desired it until the great favor
accorded to 'In the Tennessee Mountains'
opened the way. In the maturer story was
struck a more confident note. Miss Murfree
had found her field, and henceforth the
Tennessee mountains and their inhabitants
were to occupy her descriptive powers.
These men and women are for the first part
rude people, kept in unlikeness to the outside world not only by their
distance from civilization, but by the mist of tradition in which they
live. Here is a colony of people who have their own ideas of eti-
quette, and as strict a code as that of Versailles in the time of
Louis XIV. . - their own notions of comfort and wealth, and their own
civil and moral laws. Here they dwell in their mountain fastnesses,
distilling illicit whisky with as clear a conscience as they plant the
corn from which they make it, or as the Northern farmer makes
cider from his apples-in their opinion an exact parallel. Passion-
ately religious, full of picturesque poetry,-which they learn from
the Bible, their only familiar book,-no wonder the "Prophet of the
Great Smoky Mountain" thrilled his audiences when he described the
scenes enacted in the Old Testament as having been transacted on
the very hillsides where he preached, and that the majestic imagery
of the Book was heightened by the majestic surroundings.
MARY N. MURFREE
## p. 10454 (#322) ##########################################
10454
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE
But good material," in a literary sense, as are the Tennessee
mountaineers, no sort of idealization nor surface acquaintance, how-
ever aided by artistic intuition, could have made them natural to the
outside world. It was the office of one who knew them as Miss Mur-
free knew them, not only from the inside view but the view of a
social superior, which enabled her to give the picture a perspective.
Nowhere is this gift better indicated than in the artistic story 'Drift-
ing down Lost Creek,' in which the elements of interest are thor-
oughly worked up, the motive of the delicate romance touched with
a perfect consciousness of the author's audience; while there is such
a regard for the verities, that the whole story turns on the every-
day feminine loyalty of a mountain girl to her lover. 'On Big Injin
Mountain' is an episode of a sturdier kind, more dramatic both in
matter and in manner than 'Drifting down Lost Creek'; but at its
close, when the rude mountaineers display a tenderness for the man
they have misunderstood, the reader, gentle or simple, is perforce
thrilled into sympathy, for this is a passage to which the better
part of human nature, wherever found, responds.
-
In Miss Murfree's writings we are perhaps too often reminded of
the pictorial art which she undoubtedly possesses, by the effect she
evolves from the use of words. She has a clear vision and a dra-
matic temperament; and it is a temptation, not always resisted, to
emphasize physical surroundings in order to heighten situations. The
moment a lull occurs in the action of her personages, the mountain
solitudes come in to play their part, the sylvan glades, the chro-
matic hues, the foaming cataracts, the empurpled shadows. Even the
wild animals assume the functions of dramatis personæ, and are an
inarticulate chorus to interpret the emotions of the human actors.
But it is not given to a redundant and enthusiastic nature, a
youthful nature at least in her earlier stories,- for Miss Murfree was
born about 1850 in the township of Murfreesborough, Tennessee, a
town called after her respected and influential family,- always to use
one word when two or three seem to do as well. The normal mind
is more active in the details of human life than in the details of
landscape; but Miss Murfree, although she has not always accepted
this as a fact, has painted scenes where she has perfectly adjusted
her characters and their surroundings. In 'Old Sledge at the Settle-
mint,' the picture of the group of card-players throwing their cards
on the inverted splint basket by the light of the tallow dip and a
pitch-pine fire, while the moon shines without, and the uncanny
echoes ring through the rocks and woods, is as graphic as one of
Spagnoletto's paintings. And she has done a gentler and even more
sympathetic service in depicting the lonely, self-reliant, half mournful
life of the mountain women whom she loves; particularly the young
## p. 10455 (#323) ##########################################
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE
10455
women, pure, sweet, naïve, and innocent of all evil. The older women
"hold out wasted hands to the years as they pass,-holding them out
always, and always empty"; but in drawing her old women, Miss
Murfree lightens her somewhat sombre pictures by their shrewd fun
and keen knowledge of human nature. Mrs. Purvine is a stroke of
genius.
Nor could Miss Murfree's stories have won their wide popularity
with an American audience without a sense of huinor, which is to her
landscape as the sun to the mist. Her mountaineer who has been
restrained from killing the suspected horse-thief is rather relieved
than otherwise, having still a sense of justice: "The bay filly ain't
such a killin' matter nohow; ef it was the roan three-year-old
'twould be different. "
The novels which have most added to Miss Murfree's reputation,
perhaps, are 'In the Tennessee Mountains,' 'The Prophet of the Great
Smoky Mountain,' and 'In the Clouds,'-all stories of the Tennessee
mountains, told in her vigorous, dramatic manner.
THE DANCIN' PARTY AT HARRISON'S COVE
From In the Tennessee Mountains. Copyright 1884, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
UR ye see, Mis' Darley, them Harrison folks over yander ter
the Cove hev determinated on a dancin' party. "
"F"
The drawling tones fell unheeded on old Mr. Kenyon's
ear, as he sat on the broad hotel piazza of the New Helvetia
Springs, and gazed with meditative eyes at the fair August sky.
An early moon was riding, clear and full, over this wild spur of
the Alleghanies; the stars were few and very faint; even the
great Scorpio lurked vaguely outlined above the wooded ranges;
and the white mist that filled the long, deep, narrow valley be-
tween the parallel lines of mountains, shimmered with opalescent
gleams.
All the world of the watering-place had converged to that
focus the ball-room; and the cool, moonlit piazzas were nearly
deserted. The fell determination of the "Harrison folks to
give a dancing party made no impression on the preoccupied old
gentleman. Another voice broke his revery, -a soft, clear, well-
modulated voice; and he started and turned his head as his
own name was called, and his niece, Mrs. Darley, came to the
window.
"Uncle Ambrose, are you there? So glad! I was afraid
you were down at the summer-house, where I hear the children
―――――
## p. 10456 (#324) ##########################################
10456
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE
singing. Do come here a moment, please. This is Mrs. Johns,
who brings the Indian peaches to sell-you know the Indian
peaches? »
Mr. Kenyon knew the Indian peaches; the dark-crimson fruit
streaked with still darker lines, and full of blood-red juice, which
he had meditatively munched that very afternoon. Mr. Kenyon
knew the Indian peaches right well. He wondered, however,
what had brought Mrs. Johns back in so short a time; for
although the principal industry of the mountain people about the
New Helvetia Springs is selling fruit to the summer sojourners,
it is not customary to come twice on the same day, nor to
appear at all after nightfall.
Mrs. Darley proceeded to explain.
"Mrs. Johns's husband is ill, and wants us to send him some
medicine. "
Mr. Kenyon rose, threw away the stump of his cigar, and
entered the room. "How long has he been ill, Mrs. Johns? »
he asked dismally.
Mr. Kenyon always spoke lugubriously, and he was a dismal-
looking old man. Not more cheerful was Mrs. Johns: she was
tall and lank, and with such a face as one never sees except in
these mountains,- elongated, sallow, thin, with pathetic, deeply
sunken eyes, and high cheek-bones, and so settled an expression
of hopeless melancholy that it must be that naught but care
and suffering had been her lot; holding out wasted hands to the
years as they pass,- holding them out always, and always empty.
She wore a shabby, faded calico, and spoke with the peculiar
expressionless drawl of the mountaineer. She was a wonderful
contrast to Mrs. Darley, all furbelows and flounces, with her
fresh, smooth face and soft hair, and plump, round arms half
revealed by the flowing sleeves of her thin black dress. Mrs.
Darley was in mourning, and therefore did not affect the ball-
room. At this moment, on benevolent thoughts intent, she was
engaged in uncorking sundry small phials, gazing inquiringly at
their labels, and shaking their contents.
In reply to Mr. Kenyon's question, Mrs. Johns, sitting on the
extreme edge of a chair, and fanning herself with a pink calico
sun-bonnet, talked about her husband, and a misery in his side.
and in his back, and how he felt it "a-comin' on nigh on ter a
week ago. " Mr. Kenyon expressed sympathy, and was surprised
by the announcement that Mrs. Johns considered her husband's
## p.
modification to modification, after greatly curtailing the item
cakes, and carefully revising and diminishing that of drinks, the
total expense was reduced to fifteen francs. The problem was
thus simplified but not solved.
"Well," said Rodolphe,
«< we must take strong measures: we
can't postpone it again this time. "
"Impossible," said Marcel.
"How long is it since I heard the story of Studzianka ? »
## p. 10477 (#305) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10477
"Almost two months. "
"Two months? good! that's a respectable interval. My uncle
shall have no cause for complaint. To-morrow I'll go and see
him, and ask for the battle of Studzianka. That will mean five
francs. "
"And," said Marcel, "I'll sell old Medicis 'A Deserted Manor':
that will be another five francs. If I've time to put in three
towers and a mill, it will very likely be ten francs, and then we
shall have just the sum required. "
The two friends went to sleep, and dreamed that the Princess
Belgioso asked them to change their reception days, in order not
to deprive her of her habitual guests.
Marcel got up very early, took a canvas, and diligently pro-
ceeded to construct 'A Deserted Castle,'— an article in great
demand by a broker in the Place du Carrousel. Rodolphe went
to call on his uncle Monetti, who excelled in narrating the retreat
from Moscow. Rodolphe, when things went badly with him,
procured his uncle the satisfaction of fighting his campaigns
over again some five or six times a year, in consideration for a
loan. If you showed a proper enthusiasm for his stories, the
veteran stove-maker and chimney-doctor was not unwilling to
make it.
About two o'clock, Marcel, with downcast look, carrying a
canvas under his arm, met Rodolphe in the Place du Carrou-
sel coming from his uncle's; his appearance also betokened ill
news.
"Well," asked Marcel, "what luck? "
"None. My uncle had gone to the Versailles Museum. And
you ? »
"That wretch of a Medicis doesn't want any more 'Ruined
Castles. ' He asked for a Bombardment of Tangiers. ""
"Our reputation's gone if we don't give the entertainment,'
grumbled Rodolphe. "What will my friend the influential critic
think, if I make him put on a white tie and light gloves for
nothing? "
They returned to the studio, a prey to the liveliest anxiety.
At that moment a neighbor's clock struck four.
"We've only three hours left," said Rodolphe.
"Well," exclaimed Marcel, going up to his friend, "are you
perfectly sure there's no money to be found here? "
## p. 10478 (#306) ##########################################
10478
HENRI MURGER
"Neither here nor elsewhere. Where could we have left any? "
"Let us search in the stuffing of the chairs. It is said that
the émigrés hid their treasure in Robespierre's time. Our arm-
chair may have belonged to an émigré. It's so hard that I've
often thought it must be metal inside. Will you make an autopsy
of it? "
"This is a mere farce," replied Rodolphe in a tone at once
severe and indulgent.
Suddenly Marcel, who had been prosecuting his search in
every corner of the studio, gave a loud shout of triumph.
"We are saved! " he exclaimed: "I felt sure there was some-
thing of value here. Look! " and he held up for Rodolphe's in-
spection a coin the size of a crown, half smothered in rust and
verdigris.
It was a Carlovingian coin of some artistic value.
"That's only worth thirty sous," said Rodolphe, throwing a
contemptuous glance at his friend's findings.
"Thirty sous well laid out will go a long way," said Marcel.
"I'll sell this Charlemagne crown to old Father Medicis. Isn't
there anything else here I could sell? Yes, suppose I take the
Russian drum-major's tibia. That will add to the collection. "
"Away with the tibia. But it's exceedingly annoying: there
won't be a single object of art left. "
During Marcel's absence, Rodolphe, feeling certain that his
party would come off somehow, went in search of his friend
Colline, who lived quite near.
"I want you," he said, "to do me a favor. As master of the
house, I must wear a dress coat, and I haven't got one. Lend
me yours. "
"But," objected Colline, "as a guest I must wear my dress
coat myself. "
"I'll allow you to come in a frock coat. "
"You know I've never had a frock coat. "
"Well, then, the matter can be arranged like this: You need-
n't come to the party, and you can lend me your dress coat. "
"But that'll never do. I'm on the programme.
I can't stay
>>>>
away. "
«< There'll be plenty of other things lacking," said Rodolphe.
"Lend me the dress coat; and if you want to come, come as you
are, in your shirt-sleeves. "
## p. 10479 (#307) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10479
«
"Oh, no,” said Colline, getting red. "I'll put on my great-
coat. But it's all exceedingly annoying " And perceiving that
Rodolphe had already laid hold of the dress coat, he exclaimed:
"Stay-there are one or two little things in the pockets. ”
Colline's coat deserves mention. First, it was blue, and it
was purely from habit that Colline talked about his black coat;
and as he was the only member of the band who possessed such
a garment, his friends were likewise accustomed to say when
speaking of the philosopher, Colline's black coat. Further, that
celebrated article of apparel had a particular shape of its own,
the most eccentric that can be imagined. The abnormally long
tails fastened to a very short waist possessed two pockets, verita-
ble abysses, in which Colline was accustomed to put about thirty
books he everlastingly carried about him, Thus it was said that
when the libraries were closed, scholars and literary men looked
up their references in the tails of Colline's coat, a library always
open to readers.
•
When Rodolphe returned he found Marcel playing quoits with
five-franc pieces, to the number of three.
He had sold the coin for fifteen francs.
The two friends immediately began their preparations. They
put the studio tidy, and lighted a fire in the stove. A canvas
frame, ornamented with candles, was suspended from the ceiling,
and did duty as a chandelier. A desk was placed in the middle
of the studio, to serve as a tribune for the speakers. In front
they put the one arm-chair, which was to be occupied by the
influential critic; and laid out on a table the books, novels,
feuilletons of the authors who were to honor the entertainment
with their presence. To avoid any collision between the differ-
ent parties of men of letters, they divided the studio into four
compartments; at the entrance were four hastily manufactured
placards inscribed -
POETS
PROSE-WRITERS
ROMANTIC
CLASSICAL
The ladies were to occupy a space reserved in the middle.
"Oh! " said Rodolphe, "there are no chairs. "
« Suppose
"There are plenty on the landing," replied Marcel.
we take those. "
"Of course," said Rodolphe, and proceeded calmly to take
possession of his neighbors' property.
## p. 10480 (#308) ##########################################
10480
HENRI MURGER
Six o'clock struck. The two friends went out for a hasty
dinner, and on their return proceeded to light up the rooms.
They could not help feeling dazzled themselves. At seven
o'clock Schaunard arrived, accompanied by three ladies, who had
forgotten their diamonds and their bonnets. Numerous steps
were heard on the staircase. The guests were arriving, and they
seemed surprised to find a fire in the stove.
Rodolphe's dress-coat went to meet the ladies, and kissed
their hands with a grace worthy of the Regency. When there
were about twenty persons present, Schaunard asked if they
couldn't have something to drink.
"Presently," said Marcel: "we are waiting for the influential
critic before we begin on the punch. "
By eight o'clock all the guests had come, and they began the
programme. Between each number came a round of some sort
of drink; but what it exactly was, has never transpired.
About ten o'clock the white waistcoat of the influential critic
appeared. He only stayed an hour, and was very sparing of
praise. At midnight, as it was very cold and there was no more
fuel, the guests who were seated drew lots for throwing their
chairs into the fire.
At one o'clock everybody was standing.
The greatest merriment held sway among the guests, and the
memorable evening was the talk of the neighborhood for a week.
THE WHITE VIOLETS
>
From The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter ›
A
BOUT this time Rodolphe was very much in love with his
cousin Angela, who couldn't bear him; and the thermome-
ter was twelve degrees below freezing-point.
―――――
Mademoiselle Angela was the daughter of Monsieur Monetti,
the chimney-doctor, of whom we have already had occasion to
speak. She was eighteen years old, and had just come from
Burgundy, where she had lived five years with a relative who
was to leave her all her property. This relative was an old lady
who had never been young, apparently,- certainly never hand-
some, but had always been very ill-natured, although-or per-
haps because-very superstitious. Angela, who at her departure
was a charming child, and promised to be a charming girl,
## p. 10481 (#309) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10481
came back at the end of the five years a pretty enough young
lady, but cold, dry, and uninteresting. Her secluded provincial
life, and the narrow and bigoted education she had received, had
filled her mind with vulgar prejudices, shrunk her imagination,
and converted her heart into a sort of organ limited to fulfilling
its function of physical balance-wheel. You might say that she
had holy water in her veins instead of blood. She received her
cousin with an icy reserve; and he lost his time whenever he
attempted to touch the chord of her recollections - recollections
of the time when they had sketched out that flirtation, in the
Paul-and-Virginia style, which is traditional between cousins of
different sexes. Still Rodolphe was very much in love with his
cousin Angela, who couldn't bear him; and learning one day
that the young lady was going shortly to the wedding-ball of
one of her friends, he made bold to promise Angela a bouquet
of violets for the ball. And after asking permission of her
father, Angela accepted her cousin's gallant offer-always on
condition that the violets should be white.
Overjoyed at his cousin's amiability, Rodolphe danced and
sang his way back to Mount St. Bernard, as he called his lodg
ing-why, will be seen presently. As he passed by a florist's in
crossing the Palais Royal, he saw some white violets in the show-
case, and was curious enough to ask their price. A presentable
bouquet could not be had for less than ten francs; there were
some that cost more.
"The deuce! " exclaimed Rodolphe; "ten francs! and only
eight days to find this fortune! It will be a hard pull, but never
mind; my cousin shall have her flowers. "
This happened in the time of Rodolphe's literary genesis, as
the transcendentalists would say. His only income at that period
was an allowance of fifteen francs a month, made him by a
friend, who after living a long while in Paris as a poet, had by
the help of influential acquaintances gained the mastership of
a provincial school. Rodolphe, who was the child of prodigality,
always spent his allowance in four days; and not choosing to
abandon his holy but not very profitable profession of elegiac poet,
lived for the rest of the month on the rare droppings from the
basket of Providence. This long Lent had no terrors for him;
he passed through it gayly, thanks to his stoical temperament,
and to the imaginary treasures which he expended every day
while waiting for the first of the month,- that Easter which
XVIII-656
## p. 10482 (#310) ##########################################
10482
HENRI MURGER
terminated his fast. He lived at this time at the very top of
one of the loftiest houses in Paris. His room was shaped like a
belvidere, and was a delicious habitation in summer; but from
October to April a perfect little Kamtchatka. The four cardinal
winds which penetrated by the four windows-there was one on
each of the four sides-made fearful music in it throughout the
cold seasons. Then, in irony as it were, there was a huge fire-
place, the immense chimney of which seemed a gate of honor
reserved for Boreas and his retinue. On the first attack of cold,
Rodolphe had recourse to an original system of warming: he cut
up successively what little furniture he had, and at the end of a
week his stock was considerably abridged,- in fact, he had only
a bed and two chairs left; it should be remarked that these three
articles were insured against fire by their nature, being of iron.
This manner of heating himself he called moving up the chimney.
It was January; and the thermometer, which indicated twelve
degrees below freezing-point on the Spectacle Quay, would have
stood two or three lower if moved to the belvidere, which
Rodolphe called indifferently Mount St. Bernard, Spitzenberg, and
Siberia. The night when he had promised his cousin the white
violets, he was seized with a great rage on returning home:
the four cardinal winds, in playing puss-in-the-corner round his
chamber, had broken a pane of glass- the third time in a fort-
night. After exploding in a volley of frantic imprecations upon
Eolus and all his family, and plugging up the breach with a
friend's portrait, Rodolphe lay down, dressed as he was, between
his two mattresses, and dreamed of white violets all night.
At the end of five days, Rodolphe had found nothing to help.
him toward realizing his dream. He must have the bouquet the
day after to-morrow. Meanwhile the thermometer fell still lower,
and the luckless poet was ready to despair as he thought that the
violets might have risen higher. Finally his good angel had pity
on him, and came to his relief as follows:
One morning, Rodolphe went to take his chance of getting a
breakfast from his friend Marcel the painter, and found him con-
versing with a woman in mourning. It was a widow who had
just lost her husband, and who wanted to know how much it
would cost to paint on the tomb which she had erected, a man's
hand, with this inscription beneath :-
"I WAIT FOR HER TO WHOM MY FAITH WAS PLIGHTED »
## p. 10483 (#311) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10483
To get the work at a cheaper rate, she observed to the artist
that when she was called to rejoin her husband, he would have
another hand to paint,-her hand, with a bracelet on the wrist,
and the supplementary line beneath:
«AT LENGTH, BEHOLD US THUS ONCE MORE UNITED≫
"I shall put this clause in my will," she said, "and require
that the task be intrusted to you. "
"In that case, madame," replied the artist, "I will do it at the
price you offer- but only in the hope of seeing your hand. Don't
go and forget me in your will. "
"I should like to have this as soon as possible," said the dis-
consolate one: "nevertheless, take your time to do it well; and
don't forget the scar on the thumb. I want a living hand. "
"Don't be afraid, madame, it shall be a speaking one," said
Marcel, as he bowed the widow out.
But hardly had she crossed the threshold when she returned,
saying:
"I have one thing more to ask you, sir: I should like to
have inscribed on my husband's tomb something in verse which
would tell of his good conduct and his last words. Is that good
style? »
"Very good style-they call that an epitaph - the very best
style. »
"You don't know any one who would do that for me cheap?
There is my neighbor M. Guérin, the public writer; but he asks
the clothes off my back. "
Here Rodolphe darted a look at Marcel, who understood him
at once.
"Madame," said the artist, pointing to Rodolphe, "a happy
fortune has conducted hither the very person who can be of
service to you in this mournful juncture. This gentleman is a
renowned poet; you couldn't find a better. "
"I want something very melancholy," said the widow; "and
the spelling all right. "
“Madame,” replied Marcel, "my friend spells like a book. He
had all the prizes at school. "
"Indeed! " said the widow: "my grandnephew has just had
a prize too; he is only seven years old. ”
"A very forward child, madame. "
«<
But are you sure that the gentleman can make very melan-
choly verses? "
## p. 10484 (#312) ##########################################
10484
HENRI MURGER
"No one better, madame, for he has undergone much sorrow
in his life. The papers always find fault with his verses for
being too melancholy. "
"What! " cried the widow, "do they talk about him in the
papers? He must know quite as much, then, as M. Guérin, the
public writer. "
"And a great deal more. Apply to him, madame, and you
will not repent of it. "
After having explained to Rodolphe the sort of inscription
in verse which she wished to place on her husband's tomb, the
widow agreed to give Rodolphe ten francs if it suited her—only
she must have it very soon. The poet promised she should have
it the very next day.
"Oh, good genius of an Artemisia! " cried Rodolphe, as the
widow disappeared. "I promise you that you shall be suited-
full allowance of melancholy lyrics, better got up than a duchess,
orthography and all. Good old lady! May Heaven reward you
with a life of a hundred and seven years-equal to that of good
brandy! "
"I object," said Marcel.
"That's true," said Rodolphe: "I forgot that you have her
hand to paint, and that so long a life would make you lose
money;" and lifting his hands he gravely ejaculated, "Heaven,
do not grant my prayer! Ah! " he continued, "I was in jolly
good luck to come here. "
"By the way," asked Marcel, "what did you want? "
"I recollect—and now especially that I have to pass the
night in making these verses, I cannot do without what I came
to ask you for: namely, first, some dinner; secondly, tobacco and
candle; thirdly, your polar-bear costume. "
"To go to the masked ball? »
"No indeed; but as you see me here, I am as much frozen
up as the grand army in the retreat from Russia. Certainly my
green frock coat and Scotch plaid trousers are very pretty, but
much too summery: they would do to live under the equator,
but for one who lodges near the Pole, as I do, a white-bear skin
is more suitable,—indeed, I may say necessary. "
"Take the fur! " said Marcel: "it's a good idea; warm as a
dish of charcoal,—you will be like a roll in an oven in it. ”
Rodolphe was already inside the animal skin.
"Now," said he, "the thermometer is going to be sold a
trifle. "
## p. 10485 (#313) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10485
"Are you going out so?
" said Marcel to his friend, after they
had finished an ambiguous repast served in a penny dish.
"I just am," replied Rodolphe: "do you think I care for pub-
lic opinion? Besides, to-day is the beginning of carnival. "
He went half over Paris with all the gravity of the beast
whose skin he occupied. Only on passing before a thermometer
in an optician's window, he couldn't help taking a sight at it.
Having returned home, not without causing great terror to
his porter, Rodolphe lit his candle, carefully surrounding it with
an extempore shade of paper to guard it against the malice of
the winds, and set to work at once. But he was not long in
perceiving that if his body was almost entirely protected from
the cold, his hands were not; a terrible numbness seized his
fingers, which let the pen fall.
"The bravest man cannot struggle against the elements," said
the poet, falling back helpless in his chair. "Cæsar passed the
Rubicon, but he could not have passed the Beresina. "
All at once he uttered a cry of joy from the depths of his
bearskin breast, and jumped up so suddenly as to overturn some
of his ink on its snowy fur. He had an idea!
Rodolphe drew from beneath his bed a considerable mass
of papers, among which were a dozen huge manuscripts of his
famous drama, 'The Avenger. ' This drama, on which he had
spent two years, had been made, unmade, and remade so often
that all the copies together weighed fully fifteen pounds. He put
the last version on one side, and dragged the others towards the
fireplace.
"I was sure that with patience I should dispose of it some-
how," he exclaimed. "What a pretty fagot! If I could have fore-
seen what would happen, I could have written a prologue, and
then I should have more fuel to-night. But one can't foresee
everything. " He lit some leaves of the manuscript, in the flame
of which he thawed his hands. In five minutes the first act of
'The Avenger' was over, and Rodolphe had written three verses
of his epitaph.
It would be impossible to describe the astonishment of the
four winds when they felt fire in the chimney.
"It's an illusion," quoth Boreas, as he amused himself by
brushing back the hair of Rodolphe's bearskin.
"Let's blow down the pipe," suggested another wind, "and
make the chimney smoke. " But just as they were about to
## p. 10486 (#314) ##########################################
10486
HENRI MURGER
plague the poor poet, the south wind perceived Monsieur Arago
at a window of the Observatory threatening them with his finger;
so they all made off, for fear of being put under arrest. Mean-
while the second act of The Avenger' was going off with im-
mense success, and Rodolphe had written ten lines.
But he only
achieved two during the third act.
"I always thought that third act too short," said Rodolphe:
"luckily the next one will take longer; there are twenty-three
scenes in it, including the great one of the throne. " As the last
flourish of the throne-scene went up the chimney in fiery flakes,
Rodolphe had only three couplets more to write. "Now for the
last act. This is all monologue. It may last five minutes. " The
catastrophe flashed and smoldered, and Rodolphe in a magnifi-
cent transport of poetry had enshrined in lyric stanzas the last
words of the illustrious deceased. "There is enough left for
a second representation," said he, pushing the remainder of the
manuscript under his bed.
At eight o'clock next evening, Mademoiselle Angela entered
the ball-room; in her hand was a splendid nosegay of white vio-
lets, and among them two budding roses, white also. During the
whole night, men and women were complimenting the young girl
on her bouquet. Angela could not but feel a little grateful to her
cousin, who had procured this little triumph for her vanity; and
perhaps she would have thought more of him but for the gallant
persecutions of one of the bride's relatives, who had danced sev-
eral times with her. He was a fair-haired youth, with a magnifi-
cent mustache curled up at the ends, to hook innocent hearts.
The bouquet had been pulled to pieces by everybody; only the
two white roses were left. The young man asked Angela for
them; she refused-only to forget them after the ball on a
bench, whence the fair-haired youth hastened to take them.
At that moment it was fourteen degrees below freezing-point
in Rodolphe's belvidere. He was leaning against his window
looking out at the lights in the ball-room, where his cousin
Angela, who didn't care for him, was dancing.
## p. 10447 (#315) ##########################################
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## p. 10450 (#318) ##########################################
SE MUSSET.
## p. 10451 (#319) ##########################################
10487
―――――――
ALFRED DE MUSSET
(1810-1857)
BY ALCÉE FORTIER
T
HE three greatest French poets of the nineteenth century are
Lamartine, Hugo, and Musset. The first one touches us
deeply by his harmonious and simple verses; the second
impresses us with the force of his genius; and the third is some-
times light and gay, and sometimes intensely passionate and sad.
Musset wrote several poems which cannot be surpassed by any in
the French language. He was highly nervous and sensitive, and
lacked Lamartine's spirit of patriotism and Hugo's well-balanced
mind. He was unfortunate, and led a reckless life, committing ex-
cesses which nearly destroyed his genius, and rendered it sterile for
the last ten years of his existence. It is, however, to his nervous
temperament—to the fact that he felt so deeply the misfortunes of
love that we owe his finest works. In the beginning of his career
-in 1828, when he was eighteen years old - we see him admitted
at Hugo's house, and considered by the poets of the famous Cénacle,
by the disciples of the Master, as their favorite child, as a Romantic
poet of great promise. He published at that time in a newspaper at
Dijon a poem, 'The Dream,' which was warmly received by his
brother poets and protectors. In 1830 appeared his first volume,
'Tales of Spain and Italy,' which are rather immoral in tone, and
somewhat ironical. The author followed still the precepts of the
Romantic school; but one may see already that he is not a true dis-
ciple of Hugo, not an idolater like Gautier. His famous 'Ballad to
the Moon' was intended as a huge joke, and is indeed wonderful in
its eccentricity. Musset speaks with great irreverence of the celes-
tial body which shone on Lamartine's immortal Lake. '
――――
The 'Ballad to the Moon' created a great sensation; and to this
day, Musset is better known to many people by his earliest poems
than by his magnificent 'Nights. ' It is true that his 'Tales of Spain
and Italy' are entrancing, in spite of their immorality, and contain
some beautiful verses. The last lines of Don Poez' are full of pas-
sion; but most of these poems are ironical. Portia is white-armed
like Andromache, but she is not faithful to her husband like Hector's
wife. The Chestnuts out of the Fire' is, without doubt, a parody
## p. 10452 (#320) ##########################################
WILHELM MÜLLER
10452
Away, away
From my margin stay,
Wicked maiden, lest from thy shadow he wake!
But throw me down
Thy kerchief brown,
So for his eyes I'll a bandage make!
Now good-night, now good-night!
Till all's made right,
Forget all thy hopes, and forget thy fate!
The moon shines bright,
The mists take flight,
And the heaven above me how wide and how great!
VINETA
F
ROM the sea's deep hollow faintly pealing,
Far-off evening bells come sad and slow;
Faintly rise, the wondrous tale revealing
Of the old enchanted town below.
On the bosom of the flood reclining,
Ruined arch and wall and broken spire,
Down beneath the watery mirror shining,
Gleam and flash in flakes of golden fire.
And the boatman, who at twilight hour,
Once that magic vision shall have seen,
Heedless how the crags may round him lower,
Evermore will haunt the charmed scene.
From the heart's deep hollow faintly pealing,
Far I hear them, bell-notes sad and slow,
Ah! a wild and wondrous tale revealing
Of the drowned wreck of love below.
There a world in loveliness decaying
Lingers yet in beauty ere it die;
Phantom forms across my senses playing,
Flash like golden fire-flakes from the sky.
Lights are gleaming, fairy bells are ringing,
And I long to plunge and wander free
Where I hear those angel-voices singing
In those ancient towers below the sea.
Translation of J. A. Froude.
I
2
8
## p. 10453 (#321) ##########################################
10453
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE
(CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK)
(1850-)
W
HEN Miss Murfree's first work appeared, not only was her
pseudonym, Charles Egbert Craddock, accepted by her edi-
tors without suspicion as her proper name, but the public
was equally deceived. The firm, quiet touch, the matter wholly free
from subjectiveness, the robust humor, and the understanding of
masculine life, had no trace of femininity.
Her first book, 'Where the Battle was
Fought,' which finally appeared in 1884,
was the effort of a very young writer, con-
taining more of promise than fulfillment,
though the peculiarities of style and char-
acter were prophetic of her later manner.
No publisher desired it until the great favor
accorded to 'In the Tennessee Mountains'
opened the way. In the maturer story was
struck a more confident note. Miss Murfree
had found her field, and henceforth the
Tennessee mountains and their inhabitants
were to occupy her descriptive powers.
These men and women are for the first part
rude people, kept in unlikeness to the outside world not only by their
distance from civilization, but by the mist of tradition in which they
live. Here is a colony of people who have their own ideas of eti-
quette, and as strict a code as that of Versailles in the time of
Louis XIV. . - their own notions of comfort and wealth, and their own
civil and moral laws. Here they dwell in their mountain fastnesses,
distilling illicit whisky with as clear a conscience as they plant the
corn from which they make it, or as the Northern farmer makes
cider from his apples-in their opinion an exact parallel. Passion-
ately religious, full of picturesque poetry,-which they learn from
the Bible, their only familiar book,-no wonder the "Prophet of the
Great Smoky Mountain" thrilled his audiences when he described the
scenes enacted in the Old Testament as having been transacted on
the very hillsides where he preached, and that the majestic imagery
of the Book was heightened by the majestic surroundings.
MARY N. MURFREE
## p. 10454 (#322) ##########################################
10454
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE
But good material," in a literary sense, as are the Tennessee
mountaineers, no sort of idealization nor surface acquaintance, how-
ever aided by artistic intuition, could have made them natural to the
outside world. It was the office of one who knew them as Miss Mur-
free knew them, not only from the inside view but the view of a
social superior, which enabled her to give the picture a perspective.
Nowhere is this gift better indicated than in the artistic story 'Drift-
ing down Lost Creek,' in which the elements of interest are thor-
oughly worked up, the motive of the delicate romance touched with
a perfect consciousness of the author's audience; while there is such
a regard for the verities, that the whole story turns on the every-
day feminine loyalty of a mountain girl to her lover. 'On Big Injin
Mountain' is an episode of a sturdier kind, more dramatic both in
matter and in manner than 'Drifting down Lost Creek'; but at its
close, when the rude mountaineers display a tenderness for the man
they have misunderstood, the reader, gentle or simple, is perforce
thrilled into sympathy, for this is a passage to which the better
part of human nature, wherever found, responds.
-
In Miss Murfree's writings we are perhaps too often reminded of
the pictorial art which she undoubtedly possesses, by the effect she
evolves from the use of words. She has a clear vision and a dra-
matic temperament; and it is a temptation, not always resisted, to
emphasize physical surroundings in order to heighten situations. The
moment a lull occurs in the action of her personages, the mountain
solitudes come in to play their part, the sylvan glades, the chro-
matic hues, the foaming cataracts, the empurpled shadows. Even the
wild animals assume the functions of dramatis personæ, and are an
inarticulate chorus to interpret the emotions of the human actors.
But it is not given to a redundant and enthusiastic nature, a
youthful nature at least in her earlier stories,- for Miss Murfree was
born about 1850 in the township of Murfreesborough, Tennessee, a
town called after her respected and influential family,- always to use
one word when two or three seem to do as well. The normal mind
is more active in the details of human life than in the details of
landscape; but Miss Murfree, although she has not always accepted
this as a fact, has painted scenes where she has perfectly adjusted
her characters and their surroundings. In 'Old Sledge at the Settle-
mint,' the picture of the group of card-players throwing their cards
on the inverted splint basket by the light of the tallow dip and a
pitch-pine fire, while the moon shines without, and the uncanny
echoes ring through the rocks and woods, is as graphic as one of
Spagnoletto's paintings. And she has done a gentler and even more
sympathetic service in depicting the lonely, self-reliant, half mournful
life of the mountain women whom she loves; particularly the young
## p. 10455 (#323) ##########################################
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE
10455
women, pure, sweet, naïve, and innocent of all evil. The older women
"hold out wasted hands to the years as they pass,-holding them out
always, and always empty"; but in drawing her old women, Miss
Murfree lightens her somewhat sombre pictures by their shrewd fun
and keen knowledge of human nature. Mrs. Purvine is a stroke of
genius.
Nor could Miss Murfree's stories have won their wide popularity
with an American audience without a sense of huinor, which is to her
landscape as the sun to the mist. Her mountaineer who has been
restrained from killing the suspected horse-thief is rather relieved
than otherwise, having still a sense of justice: "The bay filly ain't
such a killin' matter nohow; ef it was the roan three-year-old
'twould be different. "
The novels which have most added to Miss Murfree's reputation,
perhaps, are 'In the Tennessee Mountains,' 'The Prophet of the Great
Smoky Mountain,' and 'In the Clouds,'-all stories of the Tennessee
mountains, told in her vigorous, dramatic manner.
THE DANCIN' PARTY AT HARRISON'S COVE
From In the Tennessee Mountains. Copyright 1884, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
UR ye see, Mis' Darley, them Harrison folks over yander ter
the Cove hev determinated on a dancin' party. "
"F"
The drawling tones fell unheeded on old Mr. Kenyon's
ear, as he sat on the broad hotel piazza of the New Helvetia
Springs, and gazed with meditative eyes at the fair August sky.
An early moon was riding, clear and full, over this wild spur of
the Alleghanies; the stars were few and very faint; even the
great Scorpio lurked vaguely outlined above the wooded ranges;
and the white mist that filled the long, deep, narrow valley be-
tween the parallel lines of mountains, shimmered with opalescent
gleams.
All the world of the watering-place had converged to that
focus the ball-room; and the cool, moonlit piazzas were nearly
deserted. The fell determination of the "Harrison folks to
give a dancing party made no impression on the preoccupied old
gentleman. Another voice broke his revery, -a soft, clear, well-
modulated voice; and he started and turned his head as his
own name was called, and his niece, Mrs. Darley, came to the
window.
"Uncle Ambrose, are you there? So glad! I was afraid
you were down at the summer-house, where I hear the children
―――――
## p. 10456 (#324) ##########################################
10456
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE
singing. Do come here a moment, please. This is Mrs. Johns,
who brings the Indian peaches to sell-you know the Indian
peaches? »
Mr. Kenyon knew the Indian peaches; the dark-crimson fruit
streaked with still darker lines, and full of blood-red juice, which
he had meditatively munched that very afternoon. Mr. Kenyon
knew the Indian peaches right well. He wondered, however,
what had brought Mrs. Johns back in so short a time; for
although the principal industry of the mountain people about the
New Helvetia Springs is selling fruit to the summer sojourners,
it is not customary to come twice on the same day, nor to
appear at all after nightfall.
Mrs. Darley proceeded to explain.
"Mrs. Johns's husband is ill, and wants us to send him some
medicine. "
Mr. Kenyon rose, threw away the stump of his cigar, and
entered the room. "How long has he been ill, Mrs. Johns? »
he asked dismally.
Mr. Kenyon always spoke lugubriously, and he was a dismal-
looking old man. Not more cheerful was Mrs. Johns: she was
tall and lank, and with such a face as one never sees except in
these mountains,- elongated, sallow, thin, with pathetic, deeply
sunken eyes, and high cheek-bones, and so settled an expression
of hopeless melancholy that it must be that naught but care
and suffering had been her lot; holding out wasted hands to the
years as they pass,- holding them out always, and always empty.
She wore a shabby, faded calico, and spoke with the peculiar
expressionless drawl of the mountaineer. She was a wonderful
contrast to Mrs. Darley, all furbelows and flounces, with her
fresh, smooth face and soft hair, and plump, round arms half
revealed by the flowing sleeves of her thin black dress. Mrs.
Darley was in mourning, and therefore did not affect the ball-
room. At this moment, on benevolent thoughts intent, she was
engaged in uncorking sundry small phials, gazing inquiringly at
their labels, and shaking their contents.
In reply to Mr. Kenyon's question, Mrs. Johns, sitting on the
extreme edge of a chair, and fanning herself with a pink calico
sun-bonnet, talked about her husband, and a misery in his side.
and in his back, and how he felt it "a-comin' on nigh on ter a
week ago. " Mr. Kenyon expressed sympathy, and was surprised
by the announcement that Mrs. Johns considered her husband's
## p.
