No More Learning

(Fifty years have elapsed. The aged Beowulf has died from the injuries
received in his struggle with the Fire Drake. His body is burned, and a
barrow erected. ]
A folk of the Geatmen got him then ready
A pile on the earth strong for the burning,
Behung with helmets, hero-knight's targets,
And bright-shining burnies, as he begged they should have
them;
Then wailing war-heroes their world-famous chieftain,
Their liege-lord beloved, laid in the middle.
Soldiers began then to make on the barrow
The largest of dead fires: dark o'er the vapor
The smoke cloud ascended; the sad-roaring fire,
Mingled with weeping (the-wind-roar subsided)


## p. 561 (#599) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
561
.
Till the building of bone it had broken to pieces,
Hot in the heart. Heavy in spirit
They mood-sad lamented the men-leader's ruin.
The men of the Weders made accordingly
A hill on the height, high and extensive,
Of sea-going sailors to be seen from a distance,
And the brave one's beacon built where the fire was,
In ten days' space, with a wall surrounded it,
As wisest of world-folk could most worthily plan it.
They placed in the barrow rings and jewels,
All such ornaments as erst in the treasure
War-mooded men had won in possession :
The earnings of earlmen to earth they intrusted,
The gold to the dust, where yet it remaineth
As useless to mortals as in foregoing eras.
'Round the dead-mound rode then the doughty-in-battle,
Bairns of all twelve of the chiefs of the people,
More would they mourn, lament for their ruler,
Speak in measure, mention him with pleasure;
Weighed his worth, and his warlike achievements
Mightily commended, as 'tis meet one praise his
Liege lord in words and love him in spirit,
When forth from his body he fares to destruction.
So lamented mourning the men of the Geats,
Fond loving vassals, the fall of their lord,
Said he was gentlest of kings under heaven,
Mildest of men and most philanthropic,
Friendliest to folk-troops and fondest of honor.
By permission of John Leslie Hall, the Translator, and D. C. Heath & Co. ,
Publishers
DEOR'S LAMENT
W*va
AYLAND often wandered in exile,
doughty earl, ills endur'd,
had for comrades care and longing,
winter-cold wandering; woe oft found
since Nithhad brought such need upon him, –
laming wound on a lordlier man.
That pass'd over, — and this may, too!
In Beadohild's breast, her brothers' death
wrought no such ill as her own disgrace,
when she had openly understood
11-36


## p. 562 (#600) ############################################

562
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
her maidhood vanished; she might no wise
think how the case could thrive at all.
That pass'd over, — and this may, too!
We have heard enough of Hild's disgrace;
heroes of Geat were homeless made,
and sorrow stole their sleep away.
That pass'd over, — and this may, too!
Theodoric held for thirty winters
Mæring's burg, as many have known.
That pass'd over, — and this may, too!
!
We have also heard of Ermanric's
wolfish mind; wide was his sway
o'er the Gothic race, - a ruler grim.
Sat many a man in misery bound,
waited but woe, and wish'd amain
that ruin might fall on the royal house.
That pass'd over, - and this may, too!
Sitteth one sighing, sunder'd from happiness;
all's dark within him; he deems forsooth
that his share of evils shall endless be.
Let such bethink him that thro’ this world
mighty God sends many changes:
to earls a plenty honor he shows,
ease and bliss; to others, sorrow.
Now I will say of myself, and how
I was singer once to the sons of Heoden,
dear to my master, and Deor was my name.
Long were the winters my lord was kind,
happy my lot, — till Heorrenda now
by grace of singing has gained the land
which the “haven of heroes” erewhile gave me.
That pass'd over, — and this may, too!
Translation of F. B. Gummere in the Atlantic Monthly, February, 1891: by
permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company


## p. 563 (#601) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
563
FROM THE WANDERER)
O
FT-TIMES the Wanderer waiteth God's mercy,
Sad and disconsolate though he may be,
Far o'er the watery track must he travel,
Long must he row o'er the rime-crusted sea-
Plod his lone exile-path--- Fate is severe.
Mindful of slaughter, his kinsman friends' death,
Mindful of hardships, the wanderer saith :-
Oft must I lonely, when dawn doth appear,
Wail o'er my sorrow - since living is none
Whom I may whisper my heart's undertone.
Know I full well that in man it is noble
Fast in his bosom his sorrow to bind.
Weary at heart, yet his Fate is unyielding -
Help cometh not to his suffering mind.
Therefore do those who are thirsting for glory
Bind in their bosom each pain's biting smart.
Thus must I often, afar from my kinsmen,
Fasten in fetters my home-banished heart.
Now since the day when my dear prince departed
Wrapped in the gloom of his dark earthen grave,
I, a poor exile, have wandered in winter
Over the flood of the foam-frozen wave,
Seeking, sad-hearted, some giver of treasure,
Some one to cherish me friendless — some chief
Able to guide me with wisdom of counsel,
Willing to greet me and comfort my grief.
He who hath tried it, and he alone, knoweth
How harsh a comrade is comfortless Care
Unto the man who hath no dear protector,
Gold wrought with fingers nor treasure so fair.
Chill is his heart as he roameth in exile -
Thinketh of banquets his boyhood saw spread;
Friends and companions partook of his pleasures -
Knoweth he well that all friendless and lordless
Sorrow awaits him a long bitter while;
Yet, when the spirits of Sorrow and Slumber
Fasten with fetters the orphaned exile,
Seemeth him then that he seeth in spirit,
Meeteth and greeteth his master once more,
Layeth his head on his lord's loving bosom,
Just as he did in the dear days of yore.


## p. 564 (#602) ############################################

564
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
But he awaketh, forsaken and friendless,
Seeth before him the black billows rise,
Seabirds are bathing and spreading their feathers,
Hailsnow and hoar-frost are hiding the skies.
Then in his heart the more heavily wounded,
Longeth full sore for his loved one, his own,
Sad is the mind that remembereth kinsmen,
Greeting with gladness the days that are gone.
Seemeth him then on the waves of the ocean
Comrades are swimming, — well-nigh within reach,
Yet from the spiritless lips of the swimmers
Cometh familiar no welcoming speech.
So is his sorrow renewed and made sharper
When the sad exile so often must send
Thoughts of his suffering spirit to wander
Wide o'er the waves where the rough billows blend.
So, lest the thought of my mind should be clouded,
Close must I prison my sadness of heart,
When I remember my bold comrade-kinsmen,
How from the mede-hall I saw them depart.
Thus is the earth with its splendor departing --
Day after day it is passing away,
Nor may a mortal have much of true wisdom
Till his world-life numbers many a day.
He who is wise, then, must learn to be patient -
Not too hot-hearted, too hasty of speech,
Neither too weak nor too bold in the battle,
Fearful, nor joyous, nor greedy to reach,
Neither too ready to boast till he knoweth —
Man must abide, when he vaunted his pride,
Till strong of mind he hath surely determined
Whether his purpose can be turned aside.
Surely the wise man may see like the desert
How the whole wealth of the world lieth waste,
How through the earth the lone walls are still standing,
Blown by the wind and despoiled and defaced.
Covered with frost, the proud dwellings are ruined,
Crumbled the wine-halls the king lieth low,
Robbed of his pride - and his troop have all fallen
Proud by the wall — some, the spoil of the foe,
War took away — and some the fierce sea-fowl
Over the ocean - and some the wolf gray
Tore after death — and yet others the hero
Sad-faced has laid in earth-caverns away.


## p. 565 (#603) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
565
Thus at his will the eternal Creator
Famished the fields of the earth's ample fold-
Until her dwellers abandoned their feast-boards,
Void stood the work of the giants of old.
One who was viewing full wisely this wall-place,
Pondering deeply his dark, dreary life,
Spake then as follows, his past thus reviewing,
Years full of slaughter and struggle and strife:-
“Whither, alas, have my horses been carried ?
Whither, alas, are my kinspeople gone?
Where is my giver of treasure and feasting ?
Where are the joys of the hall I have known ?
Ah, the bright cup- and the corseleted warrior -
Ah, the bright joy of a king's happy lot!
How the glad time has forever departed,
Swallowed in darkness, as though it were not!
Standeth, instead of the troop of young warriors,
Stained with the bodies of dragons, a wall
The men were cut down in their pride by the spear-
points —
Blood-greedy weapons — but noble their fall.
Earth is enwrapped in the lowering tempest,
Fierce on the stone-cliff the storm rushes forth,
Cold winter-terror, the night shade is dark'ning,
Hail-storms are laden with death from the north.
All full of hardships is earthly existence
Here the decrees of the Fates have their sway-
Fleeting is treasure and fleeting is friendship-
Here man is transient, here friends pass away.
Earth's widely stretching, extensive domain,
Desolate all — empty, idle, and vain. ”
In Modern Language Notes): Translation of W. R. Sims.
THE SEAFARER
SO
Ooth the song that I of myself can sing,
Telling of my travels; how in troublous days,
Hours of hardship oft I've borne!
With a bitter breast-care I have been abiding:
Many seats of sorrow in my ship have known!
Frightful was the whirl of waves, when it was my part
Narrow watch at night to keep, on my Vessel's prow
When it rushed the rocks along. By the rigid cold


## p. 566 (#604) ############################################

566
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
Fast my feet were pinched, fettered by the frost,
By the chains of cold. Care was sighing then
Hot my heart around; hunger rent to shreds
Courage in me, me sea-wearied! This the man knows not,
He to whom it happens, happiest on earth,
How I, carked with care, in the ice-cold sea,
Overwent the winter on my wander-ways,
All forlorn of happiness, all bereft of loving kinsmen,
Hung about with icicles; flew the hail in showers.
Nothing heard I there save the howling of the sea,
And the ice-chilled billow, 'whiles the crying of the swan.
All the glee I got me was the gannet's scream,
And the swoughing of the seal, 'stead of mirth of men;
Stead of the mead-drinking, moaning of the sea-mew.
There the storms smote on the crags, there the swallow of the
sea
Answered to them, icy-plumed; and that answer oft the earn
Wet his wings were — barked aloud.
None of all my kinsmen
Could this sorrow-laden soul stir to any joy.
Little then does he believe who life's pleasure owns,
While he tarries in the towns, and but trifling ills,
Proud and insolent with wine — how out-wearied I
Often must outstay on the ocean path!
Sombre grew the shade of night, and it snowed from north-
ward,
Frost the field enchained, fell the hail on earth,
Coldest of all grains.
Wherefore now then crash together
Thoughts my soul within that I should myself adventure
The high streamings of the sea, and the sport of the salt
waves!
For a passion of the mind every moment pricks me on
All my life to set a faring; so that far from hence,
I may seek the shore of the strange outlanders.
Yes, so haughty of his heart is no hero on the earth,
Nor so good in all his giving, nor so generous in youth,
Nor so daring in his deed, nor so dear unto his lord,
That he has not always yearning unto his sea-faring,
To whatever work his Lord may have will to make for him.
For the harp he has no heart, nor for having of the rings,
Nor in woman is his weal, in the world he's no delight,
Nor in anything whatever save the tossing o'er the waves!
Oh, forever he has longing who is urged towards the sea.


## p. 567 (#605) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
567
Trees rebloom with blossoms, burghs are fair again,
Winsome are the wide plains, and the world is gay-
All doth only challenge the impassioned heart
Of his courage to the voyage, whosoever thus bethinks him,
O'er the ocean billows, far away to go.
Every cuckoo calls a warning, with his chant of sorrow!
Sings the summer's watchman, sorrow is he boding,
Bitter in the bosom's hoard. This the brave man wots not of,
Not the warrior rich in welfare — what the wanderer endures,
Who his paths of banishment, widest places on the sea.
For behold, my thought hovers now above my heart;
O'er the surging flood of sea now my spirit flies,
O'er the homeland of the whale – hovers then afar
O'er the foldings of the earth! Now again it flies to me
Full of yearning, greedy! Yells that lonely flier;
Whets upon the Whale-way irresistibly my heart,
O’er the storming of the seas!
Translation of Stopford Brooke
THE FORTUNES OF MEN
Ful
'Ull often it falls out, by fortune from God,
That a man and a maiden may marry in this world,
Find cheer in the child whom they cherish and care for,
Tenderly tend it, until the time comes,
Beyond the first years, when the young limbs increasing
Grown firm with life's fullness, are formed for their work.
Fond father and mother so guide it and feed it,
Give gifts to it, clothe it: God only can know
What lot to its latter days life has to bring.
To some that make music in life's morning hour
Pining days are appointed of plaint at the close.
One the wild wolf shall eat, hoary haunter of wastes:
His mother shall mourn the small strength of a man.
One shall sharp hunger slay; one shall the storm beat down;
One be destroyed by darts, one die in war.
One shall live losing the light of his eyes,
Feel blindly with fingers; and one, lame of foot,
With sinew-wound wearily wasteth away,
Musing and mourning, with death in his mind.
One, failing feathers, shall fall from the height
Of the tall forest tree: yet he trips as though flying,
Plays proudly in air till he reaches the point


## p. 568 (#606) ############################################

568
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
Where the woodgrowth is weak; life then whirls in his brain,
Bereft of his reason he sinks to the root,
Falls flat on the ground, his life fleeting away.
Afoot on the far-ways, his food in his hand,
One shall go grieving, and great be his need,
Press dew on the paths of the perilous lands
Where the stranger may strike, where live none to sustain.
All shun the desolate for being sad.
One the great gallows shall have in its grasp,
Stained in dark agony, till the soul's stay,
The bone-house, is bloodily all broken up;
When the harsh raven hacks eyes from the head,
The sallow-coated, slits the soulless man.
Nor can he shield from shame, scare with his hands,
Off from their eager feast prowlers of air.
Lost is his life to him, left is no breath,
Bleached on the gallows-beam bides he his doom;
Cold death-mists close round him called the Accursed.
One shall die by the dagger, in wrath, drenched with ale,
Wild through wine, on the mead bench, too swift with his
words;
Through the hand that brings beer, through the gay boon
companion,
His mouth has no measure, his mood no restraint;
Too lightly his life shall the wretched one lose,
Undergo the great ill, be left empty of joy.
When they speak of him slain by the sweetness of mead,
His comrades shall call him one killed by himself.
Some have good hap, and some hard days of toil;
Some glad glow of youth, and some glory in war,
Strength in the strife; some sling the stone, some shoot.
One shall handle the harp, at the feet of his hero
Sit and win wealth from the will of his Lord;
Still quickly contriving the throb of the cords,
The nail nimbly makes music, awakes a glad noise,
While the heart of the harper throbs, hurried by zeal.
Translation of Henry Morley.


## p. 569 (#607) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
569
FROM JUDITH
THEY
[The Assyrian officers, obeying the commands of Holofernes, come to the
carouse. ]
HEY then at the feast proceeded to sit,
The proud to the wine-drinking, all his comrades-in-ili,
Bold mailed-warriors. There were lofty beakers
Oft borne along the benches, also were cups and flagons
Full to the hall-sitters borne. The fated partook of them,
Brave warriors-with-shields, though the mighty weened not
of it,
Awful lord of earls. Then was Holofernes,
Gold-friend of men, full of wine-joy:
He laughed and clamored, shouted and dinned,
That children of men from afar might hear
How the strong-minded both stormed and yelled,
Moody and mead-drunken, often admonished
The sitters-on-benches to bear themselves well.
Thus did the hateful one during all day
His liege-men loyal keep plying with wine,
Stout-hearted giver of treasure, until they lay in a swoon.
(Holofernes has been slain by Judith. The Hebrews, encouraged by her,
surprise the drunken and sleeping Assyrians. ]
Then the band of the brave was quickly prepared,
Of the bold for battle; stepped out the valiant
Men and comrades, bore their banners,
Went forth to fight straight on their way
The heroes 'neath helmets from the holy city
At the dawn itself; shields made a din,
Loudly resounded. Thereat laughed the lank
.
Wolf in the wood, and the raven wan,
Fowl greedy for slaughter: both of them knew
That for them the warriors thought to provide
Their fill on the fated: and flew on their track
The dewy-winged eagle eager for prey,
The dusky-coated sang his war-song,
The crooked-beaked. Stepped forth the warriors,
The heroes for battle with boards protected,
With hollow shields, who awhile before
The foreign-folk's reproach endured,
The heathens' scorn; fiercely was that


## p. 570 (#608) ############################################

570
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
At the ash-spear's play to them all repaid,
All the Assyrians, after the Hebrews
Under their banners had boldly advanced
To the army-camps. They bravely then
Forthright let fly showers of arrows,
Of battle-adders, out from the horn-bows,
Of strongly-made shafts; stormed they aloud,
The cruel warriors, sent forth their spears
Among the brave; the heroes were angry,
The dwellers-in-land, with the loathèd race;
The stern-minded stepped, the stout-in-heart,
Rudely awakened their ancient foes
Weary from mead; with hands drew forth
The men from the sheaths the brightly-marked swords
Most choice in their edges, eagerly struck
Of the host of Assyrians the battle-warriors,
The hostile-minded; not one they spared
Of the army-folk, nor low nor high
Of living men, whom they might subdue.
By consent of Ginn & Co. Translation of Garnett.
THE FIGHT AT MALDON
[The Anglo-Saxons under Byrhtnoth are drawn up on one side of Panta
stream, the Northmen on the other. The herald of the Northmen demands
tribute. Byrhtnoth replies. )
T*
HEN stood on the stathe, stoutly did call,
The wikings' herald, with words he spake,
Who boastfully bore from the brine-farers
An errand to th' earl, where he stood on the shore:-
" To thee me did send the seamen snell,
Bade to thee say, thou must send to them quickly
Bracelets for safety; and 'tis better for you
That ye this spear-rush with tribute buy off
Than we in so fierce a fight engage.
We need not each spill, if ye speed to this:
We will for the pay a peace confirm.
If thou that redest, who art highest in rank,
If thou to the seamen at their own pleasure
Money for peace, and take peace from us,
We will with the treasure betake us to ship,
Fare on the flood, and peace with you confirm. ”
Byrhtnoth replied, his buckler uplifted,


## p. 571 (#609) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
571
Waved his slim spear, with words he spake,
Angry and firm gave answer to him:-
“Hear'st thou, seafarer, what saith this folk?
They will for tribute spear-shafts you pay,
Poisonous points and trusty swords,
Those weapons that you in battle avail not.
Herald of seamen, hark back again,
Say to thy people much sadder words:-
Here stands not unknown an earl with his band,
Who will defend this father-land,
Æthelred's home, mine own liege lord's,
His folk and field; ye're fated to fall,
Ye heathen, in battle. Too base it me seems
That ye with our scats to ship may go
Unfought against, so far ye now hither
Into our country have come within;
Ye shall not so gently treasure obtain;
Shall spear and sword sooner beseem us,
Grim battle-play, ere tribute we give. ”
(The Northmen, unable to force a passage, ask to be allowed to cross and
fight it out on an equal footing. Byrhtnoth allows this. )
«Now room is allowed you, come quickly to us,
Warriors to war; wot God alone
Who this battle-field may be able to keep. ”
Waded the war-wolves, for water they recked not,
The wikings' band west over Panta,
O'er the clear water carried their shields,
Boatmen to bank their bucklers bore.
There facing their foes ready were standing
Byrhtnoth with warriors: with shields he bade
The war-hedgel work, and the war-band hold
Fast 'gainst the foes. Then fight was nigh,
Glory in battle; the time was come
That fated men should there now fall.
Then outcry was raised, the ravens circled,
Eagle eager for prey; on earth was uproar.
Then they let from their fists the file-hardened spears,
The darts well-ground, fiercely fly forth:
The bows were busy, board point received,
Bitter the battle-rush, warriors fell down,
On either hand the youths lay dead.
By consent of Ginn & Co. Translation of Garnett.


## p. 572 (#610) ############################################

572
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
CÆDMON'S INSPIRATION
H*
E [CÆDMON] had remained in the secular life until the time
when he was of advanced age, and he had never learned
any song. For that reason oftentimes, when it was decided
at a feasting that all should sing in turn to the accompaniment of
the harp for the sake of entertainment, he would arise for shame
from the banquet when he saw the harp approaching him, and
would go home to his house. When he on a certain occasion had
done this, and had left the house of feasting, and had gone to
the stable of the cattle, which had been intrusted to his care for
that night; and when he there, after a reasonable time, had
arranged his limbs for rest, he fell asleep. And a man stood by
him in a dream, and hailed him, and greeted him, and called
him by name, and said: "Cadmon, sing something for me. ”
Then he answered and said: "I cannot sing; I went out from
the feast and came hither because I could not sing. ” Again said
the one who was speaking with him: “Nevertheless, thou canst
sing for me. ” Said Cædmon, "What shall I sing? ”
Said he,
Sing to me of creation. ”
When Cædmon received this answer, then began he soon to
sing in glorification of God the Creator, verses and words that he
had never before heard.
Then he arose from sleep and he had fast in his memory all
those things he had sung in his sleep; and to these words he soon
added many other words of song of the same measure, worthy
for God.
Then came he in the morning to the town-reeve, who was his
aldorman, and told him of the gift he had received. And the
reeve soon led him to the abbess, and made that known to her
and told her. Then bade she assemble all the very learned men,
and the learners, and bade him tell the dream in their presence,
and sing the song, so that by the judgment of them all it might
be determined what it was, and whence it had come. Then it
was seen by them all, just as it was, that the heavenly gift had
been given him by the Lord himself.
Alfred's Bede): Translation of Robert Sharp.
----


## p. 573 (#611) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
573
FROM THE CHRONICLE)
Selection from the entry for the year 897
T'
THEN Alfred, the King, ordered long ships built to oppose the
war-ships of the enemy. They were very nearly twice as
long as the others; some had sixty oars, some more. They
were both swifter and steadier, and also higher than the others;
they were shaped neither on the Frisian model nor on the Danish,
but as it seemed to King Alfred that they would be most useful.
Then, at a certain time in that year, came six hostile ships to:
Wight, and did much damage, both in Devon and elsewhere on
the seaboard. Then the King ordered that nine of the new ships
should proceed thither. And his ships blockaded the mouth of
the passage on the outer-sea against the enemy. Then the Danes
came out with three ships against the King's ships; but three of
the Danish ships lay above the mouth, high and dry aground;
and the men were gone off upon the shore. Then the King's.
men took two of the three ships outside, at the mouth, and slew
the crews; but one ship escaped. On this one all the men were
slain except five; these escaped because the King's ship got
aground. They were aground, moreover, very inconveniently,
since three were situated upon the same side of the channel with
the three stranded Danish ships, and all the others were upon the
other side, so that there could be no communication between the
two divisions. But when the water had ebbed many furlongs
from the ships, then went the Danes from their three ships to
the King's three ships that had been left dry upon the same side
by the ebbing of the tide, and they fought together there. Then
were slain Lucumon, the King's Reeve, Wulfheard the Frisian,
and Æbbe the Frisian, and Æthelhere the Frisian, and Æthel-
ferth the King's companion, and of all the men Frisians and Eng-
lish, sixty-two; and of the Danes, one hundred and twenty.
But the flood came to the Danish ships before the Christians
could shove theirs out, and for that reason the Danes rowed off.
They were, nevertheless, so grievously wounded that they could
not row around the land of the South Saxons, and the sea cast
up there two of the ships upon the shore. And the men from
them were led to Winchester to the King, and he commanded
them to be hanged there. But the men who were in the remain-
ing ship came to East Anglia, sorely wounded.
Translation of Robert Sharp.


## p. 574 (#612) ############################################

574
GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO
(1864-)
ITALIAN poet and novelist of early promise, who has
become a somewhat unique figure in contemporary litera-
ture, Gabriele d'Annunzio is a native of the Abruzzi, born
in the little village of Pescara, on the Adriatic coast. Its picturesque
scenery has formed the background for more than one of his stories.
At the age of fifteen, while still a student at Prato, he published his
first volume of poems, Intermezzo di Rime) (Interludes of Verse):
«grand, plastic verse, of an impeccable prosody,” as he maintained
in their defense, but so daringly erotic that their appearance created
no small scandal. Other poems followed at intervals, notably Il
Canto Nuovo' (The New Song: Rome, 1882), 'Isotteo e la Chimera'
(Isotteo and the Chimera: Rome, 1890), Poema Paradisiaco,' and
'Odi Navali' (Marine Odes: Milan, 1893), which leave no doubt of
his high rank as poet. The novel, however, is his chosen vehicle of
expression, and the one which gives fullest scope to his rich and
versatile genius. His first long story, 'Il Piacere! (Pleasure),
appeared in 1889. As the title implies, it was pervaded with a
frank, almost complacent sensuality, which its author has since been
inclined to deprecate. Nevertheless, the book received merited praise
for its subtle portrayal of character and incident, and its exuberance
of phraseology; and more than all, for the promise which it sug-
gested. With the publication of L'Innocente,' the author for the
first time showed a real seriousness of purpose. His views of life
had meanwhile essentially altered:–«As was just,” he confessed,
“I began to pay for my errors, my disorders, my excesses: I began
to suffer with the same intensity with which I had formerly enjoyed
myself; sorrow had made of me a new man. ” Accordingly his later
books, while still emphatically realistic, are chastened by an under-
lying tone of pessimism.
Passion is no longer the keynote of life,
but rather, as exemplified in "Il Trionfo della Morte,' the prelude of
death. Leaving Rome, where, “like the outpouring of the sewers,
a flood of base desires invaded every square and cross-road, ever
more putrid and more swollen,” D'Annunzio retired to Francovilla-
al-Mare, a few miles from his birthplace. There he lives in seclus-
ion, esteemed by the simple-minded, honest, and somewhat fanatical
peasantry, to whose quaint and primitive manners his books owe
much of their distinctive atmosphere.
In Italy, D'Annunzio's career has been watched with growing
interest. Until recently, however, he was scarcely known to the
--


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GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO
575
world at large, when a few poems, translated into French, brought
his name into immediate prominence. Within a year three Paris
journals acquired rights of translation from him, and he has since
occupied the attention of such authoritative French critics as Henri
Rabusson, René Doumic, Edouard Rod, Eugène-Melchior de Vogüé,
and, most recently, Ferdinand Brunetière, all of whom seem to have
a clearer appreciation of his quality than even his critics at home.
At the same time there is a small but hostile minority among the
French novelists, whose literary feelings are voiced by Léon Daudet
in a vehement protest under the title Assez d'Étrangers' (Enough
of Foreigners).
It is too soon to pass final judgment on D'Annunzio's style, which
has been undergoing an obvious transition, not yet accomplished.
Realist and psychologist, symbolist and mystic by turns, and first
and always a poet, he has been compared successively to Bourget
and Maupassant, Tolstoi and Dostoievsky, Théophile Gautier and
Catulle Mendès, Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Baudelaire. Such com-
plexity of style is the outcome of his cosmopolitan taste in literature,
and his tendency to assimilate for future use whatever pleases him
in each successive author. Shakespeare and Goethe, Keats and Heine,
Plato and Zoroaster, figure among the names which throng his pages;
while his unacknowledged and often unconscious indebtedness to
writers of lesser magnitude, - notably the self-styled (Sar' Joseph
Peladan — has lately raised an outcry of plagiarism. Yet whatever
leaves his pen, borrowed or original, has received the unmistakable
imprint of his powerful individuality.
It is easy to trace the influences under which, successively,
D'Annunzio has come. They are essentially French. He is a French
writer in an Italian medium. His early short sketches, noteworthy
chiefly for their morbid intensity, were modeled largely on Maupas-
sant, whose frank, unblushing realism left a permanent imprint upon
the style of his admirer, and whose later analytic tendency probably
had an important share in turning his attention to the psychological
school.
'Il Piacere,' though largely inspired by Paul Bourget, contains as
large an element of Notre Cæur) and (Bel-Ami' as of 'Le Disciple
and Cæur de Femme. In this novel, Andrea Sperelli affords us
the type of D'Annunzio's heroes, who, aside from differences due to
age and environment, are all essentially the same,- somewhat weak,
yet undeniably attractive; containing, all of them, "something of a
Don Juan and a Cherubini,” with the Don Juan element preponder-
ating. The plot of 'Il Piacere is not remarkable either for depth
or for novelty, being the needlessly detailed record of Sperelli's rela-
tions with two married women, of totally opposite types.


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576
GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO
Giovanni Episcopo' is a brief, painful tragedy of low life, written
under the influence of Russian evangelism, and full of reminiscences
of Dostoievsky's 'Crime and Punishment. ' Giovanni is a poor clerk,
of a weak, pusillanimous nature, completely dominated by a coarse,
brutal companion, Giulio Wanzer, who makes him an abject slave,
until a detected forgery compels Wanzer to flee the country. Epis-
copo then marries Ginevra, the pretty but unprincipled waitress at his
pension, who speedily drags him down to the lowest depths of degra-
dation, making him a mere nonentity in his own household, willing
to live on the proceeds of her infamy. They have one child, a boy,
Ciro, on whom Giovanni lavishes all his suppressed tenderness. After
ten years of this martyrdom, the hated Wanzer reappears and installs
himself as husband in the Episcopo household. Giovanni submits in
helpless fury, till one day Wanzer beats Ginevra, and little Ciro inter-
venes to protect his mother. Wanzer turns on the child, and a spark
of manhood is at last kindled in Giovanni's breast. He springs upon
Wanzer, and with the pent-up rage of years stabs him.
L'Innocente,' D'Annunzio's second long novel, also bears the
stamp of Russian influence. It is a gruesome, repulsive story of
domestic infidelity, in which he has handled the theory of pardon,
the motive of numerous recent French novels, like Daudet's La
Petite Paroisse) and Paul Marguerite's "La Tourmente. '
In another extended work, (Il Trionfo della Morte (The Triumph
of Death), D'Annunzio appears as a convert to Nietzsche's philoso-
phy and to Wagnerianism. Ferdinand Brunetière has pronounced it
unsurpassed by the naturalistic schools of England, France, or Russia.
In brief, the hero, Giorgio Aurispa, a morbid sensualist, with an in-
herited tendency to suicide, is led by fate through a series of circum-
stances which keep the thought of death continually before him.
They finally goad him on to Aing himself from a cliff into the sea,
dragging with him the woman he loves.
The Vergini della Rocca' (Maidens of the Crag), his last story, is
more an idyllic poem than a novel. Claudio Cantelmo, sickened with
the corruption of Rome, retires to his old home in the Abruzzi, where
he meets the three sisters Massimilla, Anatolia, Violante: «names
expressive as faces full of light and shade, and in which I seemed
already to discover an infinity of grace, of passion, and of sorrow. ”
It is inevitable that he should chose one of the three, but which ?
And in the dénouement the solution is only half implied.
D'Annunzio is now occupied with a new romance; and coming
years will doubtless present him all the more distinctively as a writer
of Italy on whom French inflences have been seed sowed in fertile
ground. The place in contemporary Italian of such work as his is
indisputably considerable.


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GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO
577
THE DROWNED BOY
From "The Triumph of Death)
A“
LL of a sudden, Albadora, the septuagenarian Cybele, she who
had given life to twenty-two sons and daughters, came
toiling up the narrow lane into the court, and indicating
the neighboring shore, where it skirted the promontory on the
left, announced breathlessly :-
"Down yonder there has been a child drowned ! »
Candia made the sign of the cross. Giorgio arose and ascended
to the loggia, to observe the spot designated. Upon the sand,
below the promontory, in close vicinity to the chain of rocks
and the tunnel, he perceived a blotch of white, presumably the
sheet which hid the little body. A group of people had gathered
around it.
As Ippolita had gone to mass with Elena at the chapel of the
Port, he yielded to his curiosity and said to his entertainers:-
"I am going down to see. ”
“Why? ” asked Candia. "Why do you wish to put a pain in
your heart ? »
Hastening down the narrow lane, he descended by a short cut
to the beach, and continued along the water. Reaching the spot,
somewhat out of breath, he inquired:-
«What has happened? ”
The assembled peasants saluted him and made way for him.
One of them answered tranquilly:-
« The son of a mother has been drowned. ”
Another, clad in linen, who seemed to be standing guard over
the corpse, bent down and drew aside the sheet.
The inert little body was revealed, extended upon the unyield-
ing sand.
It was a lad, eight or nine years old, fair and frail,
with slender limbs. His head was supported on his few humble
garments, rolled up in place of pillow,- the shirt, the blue
trousers, the red sash, the cap of limp felt. His face was but
slightly livid, with flat nose, prominent forehead, and long, long
lashes; the mouth was half open, with thick lips which were
turning blue, between which the widely spaced teeth gleamed
white. His neck was slender, flaccid as a wilted stem, and
seamed with tiny creases. The jointure of the arms at the
shoulder looked feeble. The arms themselves were fragile, and
covered with a down similar to the fine plumage which clothes
11-37


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GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO
the bodies of newly hatched birds. The whole outline of the
ribs was distinctly visible; down the middle of the breast the
skin was divided by a darker line; the navel stood out, like a
knot. The feet, slightly bloated, had assumed the same sallow
color as the little hands, which were callous and strewn with
warts, with white nails beginning to turn livid. On the left arm,
on the thighs near the groin, and further down, on the knees and
along the legs, appeared reddish blotches of scurf. Every detail
of this wretched little body assumed, in the eyes of Giorgio, an
extraordinary significance, immobile as it was and fixed forever
in the rigidity of death.
“How was he drowned ? Where? ” he questioned, lowering
his voice.
The man dressed in linen gave, with some show of impatience,
the account which he had probably had to repeat too many times
already. He had a brutal countenance, square-cut, with bushy
brows, and a large mouth, harsh and savage. Only a little while
after leading the sheep back to their stalls, the lad, taking his
breakfast along with him, had gone down, together with a
comrade, to bathe. He had hardly set foot in the water, when
he had fallen and was drowned. At the cries of his comrade,
some
one from the house overhead on the bluff had hurried
down, and wading in up to the knees, had dragged him from
the water half dead; they had turned him upside down to make
him throw up the water, they had shaken him, but to no pur-
pose.
To indicate just how far the poor little fellow had gone
in, the man picked up a pebble and threw it into the sea.
“There, only to there; at three yards from the shore !
The sea lay at rest, breathing peacefully, close to the head of
the dead child. But the sun blazed fiercely down upon the sand;
and something pitiless, emanating from that sky of flame and
from those stolid witnesses, seemed to pass over the pallid corpse.
“Why,” asked Giorgio, do you not place him in the shade,
in one of the houses, on a bed ? »
“He is not to be moved,” declared the man on guard, “until
they hold the inquest. ”
“At least carry him into the shade, down there, below the
embankment! »
Stubbornly the man reiterated, “He is not to be moved. ”
There could be no sadder sight than that frail, lifeless little
being, extended on the stones, and watched over by the impassive


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GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO
579
brute who repeated his account every time in the selfsame words,
and every time made the selfsame gesture, throwing a pebble
into the sea:
“There; only to there. ”
A woman joined the group, a hook-nosed termagant, with
gray eyes and sour lips, mother of the dead boy's comrade. She
manifested plainly a mistrustful restlessness, as if she anticipated
some accusation against her own son. She spoke with bitterness,
and seemed almost to bear a grudge against the victim.
“It was his destiny. God had said to him, “Go into the sea
and end yourself. »
She gesticulated with vehemence. «What did he go in for, if
he did not know how to swim ? ”
A young lad, a stranger in the district, the son of a mariner,
repeated contemptuously, “Yes, what did he go in for? We, yes,
who know how to swim - »
Other people joined the group, gazed with cold curiosity, then
lingered or passed on. A crowd occupied the railroad embank-
ment, another gathered on the crest of the promontory, as if at a
spectacle. Children, seated or kneeling, played with pebbles, toss-
ing them into the air and catching them, now on the back and
now in the hollow of their hands. They all showed the same
profound indifference to the presence of other people's troubles
and of death.
Another woman joined the group on her way home from mass,
wearing a dress of silk and all her gold ornaments. For her also
the harassed custodian repeated his account, for her also he indi-
cated the spot in the water. She was talkative.
"I am always saying to my children, Don't you go into the
water, or I will kill you! ' The sea is the sea. Who can save
himself ? »
She called to mind other instances of drowning; she called to
mind the case of the drowned man with the head cut off, driven
by the waves all the way to San Vito, and found among the rocks
by a child.
"Here, among these rocks. He came and told us, "There is
a dead man there. ' We thought he was joking. But we came
and we found. He had no head. They had an inquest; he was
buried in a ditch; then in the night he was dug up again. His
flesh was all mangled and like jelly, but he still had his boots on.
The judge said, "See, they are better than mine! ' So he must


## p. 580 (#618) ############################################

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GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO
have been a rich man. And it turned out that he was a dealer
in cattle. They had killed him and chopped off his head, and ad
thrown him into the Tronto. ”
She continued to talk in her shrill voice, from time to time
sucking in the superfluous saliva with a slight hissing sound.
“And the mother? When is the mother coming ? ”
At that name there arose exclamations of compassion from all
the women who had gathered.
« The mother! There comes the mother, now! ”
And all of them turned around, fancying that they saw her in
the far distance, along the burning strand. Some of the women
could give particulars about her. Her name was Riccangela; she
was a widow with seven children. She had placed this one in a
farmer's family, so that he might tend the sheep, and gain a
morsel of bread,
One woman said, gazing down at the corpse, “Who knows how
much pains the mother has taken in raising him! ” Another said,
“To keep the children from going hungry she has even had to
ask charity. ”
Another told how, only a few months before, the unfortunate
child had come very near strangling to death in a courtyard in a
pool of water barely six inches deep. All the women repeated,
« It was his destiny. He was bound to die that way. ”
And the suspense of waiting rendered them restless, anxious.
The mother! There comes the mother now! )
Feeling himself grow sick at heart, Giorgio exclaimed, “Can't
you take him into the shade, or into a house, so that the mother
will not see him here naked on the stones, under a sun like this ? ”
Stubbornly the man on guard objected:—He is not to be
touched. He is not to be moved — until the inquest is held. ”
The bystanders gazed in surprise at the stranger,— Candia's
stranger. Their number was augmenting. A few occupied the
embankment shaded with acacias; others crowned the promon.
tory rising abruptly from the rocks. Here and there, on the
monstrous bowlders, a tiny boat lay sparkling like gold at the
foot of the detached crag, so lofty that it gave the effect of the
ruins of some Cyclopean tower, confronting the immensity of
the sea.
All at once, from above on the height, a voice announced,
« There she is. ”
Other voices followed:—“The mother! The mother! »


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GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO
581
All turned. Some stepped down from the embankment.
Those on the promontory leaned far over. All became silent,
in expectation. The man on guard drew the sheet once more
over the corpse.
In the midst of the silence, the sea barely
seemed to draw its breath, the acacias barely rustled. And
then through the silence they could hear her cries as she drew
near.
The mother came along the strand, beneath the sun, crying
aloud. She was clad in widow's mourning. She tottered along
the sand, with bowed body, calling out, "O my son! My son! ”
She raised her palms to heaven, and then struck them upon
her knees, calling out, “My son! ”
One of her older sons, with a red handkerchief bound around
his neck, to hide some sore, followed her like one demented,
dashing aside his tears with the back of his hand. She ad.
vanced along the strand, beating her knees, directing her steps
toward the sheet. And as she called upon her dead, there
issued from her mouth sounds scarcely human, but rather like
the howling of some savage dog. As she drew near, she bent
over lower and lower, she placed herself almost on all fours; till,
reaching him, she threw herself with a howl upon the sheet.
She arose again. With hand rough and toil-stained, hand
toughened by every variety of labor, she uncovered the body.
She gazed upon it a few instants, motionless as though turned
to stone. Then time and time again, shrilly, with all the power
of her voice, she called as if trying to awaken him, “My son!
My son! My son! ”
Sobs suffocated her. Kneeling beside him, she beat her
sides furiously with her fists. She turned her despairing eyes
around upon the circle of strangers. During a pause in her
paroxysms she seemed to recollect herself. And then she began
to sing. She sang her sorrow in a rhythm which rose and
fell continually, like the palpitation of a heart. It was the
ancient monody which from time immemorial, in the land of
the Abruzzi, the women have sung over the remains of their
relatives. It was the melodious eloquence of sacred sorrow,
which renewed spontaneously, in the profundity of her being,
this hereditary rhythm in which the mothers of bygone ages
had modulated their lamentations.
She sang on and on:- "Open your eyes, arise and walk, my
son! How beautiful you are! How beautiful you are! ”


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GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO
She sang on:-“For a morsel of bread I have drowned you,
my son! For a morsel of bread I have borne you to the
slaughter! For that have I raised you! ”
But the irate woman with the hooked nose interrupted her:-
“It was not you who drowned him; it was Destiny. It was not
you who took him to the slaughter. You had placed him in the
midst of bread. ” And making a gesture toward the hill where
the house stood which had sheltered the lad, she added, “They
kept him there, like a pink at the ear. ”
The mother continued:—“O my son, who was it sent you;
who was it sent you here, to drown? ”
And the irate woman: «Who was it sent him ? It was our
Lord. He said to him, “Go into the water and end yourself. »
As Giorgio was affirming in a low tone to one of the by-
standers that if succored in time the child might have been
saved, and that they had killed him by turning him upside down
and holding him suspended by the feet, he felt the gaze of the
mother fixed upon him. "Can't you do something for him, sir? ”
she prayed. "Can't you do something for him ? »
And she prayed:—“O Madonna of the Miracles, work a mir-
acle for him! ”
Touching the head of the dead boy, she repeated:—“My
son! my son! my son! arise and walk !