The
wandering
gypsy scans thy tender face.
Krasinski - The Undivine Comedy
Count Henry. I do not understand.
Countess. I prayed three days and nights : at last God
heard me.
Count Hefiry. How did He hear thee ?
Countess. After I lost thee,
There came a change o'er me. I cried Lord ! Lord !
And prayed unceasingly, and struck my breast,
And placed a blessed candle on my heart.
Did penance, cried : " Send inspiration down.
Within me light the flame of Poetry ! "
And on the third day I became a Poet !
Count Henry7' "Mary T '"' " ^
Countess. Thou surely wilt no more disdain me, Henry;
Nor leave me when the shades of evening fall,
Now that I am a Poet !
Count Henry. Nor night, nor day !
Countess. See if I do not equal thee in power ;
Grow like to thee. * I understand all things,
I am inspired, flash forth in words, in songs
Of victory ! I chant the seas, stars, clouds.
Battles and skies : yes, seas, and stars, and clouds.
And skies — but battles? — No. I never saw one.
An unknown word has fallen from my lips !
Take me where I can see one ! — watch men die ! —
* The Countess being mad from love, has but one thought in her deli-
rium : to grow worthy of her husband in gaining his poetic powers, and
winning the affection of him who had scorned her for their want. Under
the mysterious influence of this passion the imagination of the husband
has actually passed into herself and made her rnaa:~ -
17* -
194
THE UNDIVINE COMEDO.
I must describe them all ! The night-dew, moon,
Corpses, black plumes, hearses and swords, shrouds, blood,
Coffins and funerals, — I must sing them all !
Infinite space will spread about me ;
I must seek the farthest star,
Cleaving swift the air around me,
Seeking Beauty near and far.
Like an eagle onward cleaving
All the past behind me leaving.
Chaos dark around me lying.
Through its dimness lightly flying,
Through its infinite abysses.
On through darker worlds than this is.
Till I vanish in the depths
Of limitless black nothingness.
Count Henry. Horrible !
Countess {tJu-owing her arms around him). Henry, lam
so happy now !
Voice through the floor. With my own hand I've mur-
dered three crowned kings ;
Ten still remain : headsman and block await them.
I've killed a hundred priests who chanted mass. . . .
Voice from the left. The sun is going out : the stars
have lost
Their way and hurtle madly in the dark.
Woe! Woe!
Count Henry. The Day of Judgment is upon me I
Countess. Drive off the gloom that darkens thy dear
face !
It saddens me. What can be wanting still?
I know a secret which will make thee glad.
Count Henry. Tell me ! I will do all thou wouldst
have done.
Countess. Thy son will be a Poet 1
Count Hefijy. Mary ! Mary !
Countess. The priest, when he baptized him, gave him
first
The name you chose : you know, George Stanislas;
Then I rushed forward, — blessed him from my soul ;
Baptized him Poet ! Poet he will be !
This is my work; I have won this from God !
THE UNDIVINE COMEDY.
195
At last I cursed him should he not be Poet !
Oh, how I love thee, Henry !
Voice through the ceiling. Father, forgive ! they know
not what they do.
Countess. Hark ! Did you hear him ? He is surely
mad.
Is it not very strange men should go mad ?
Count Henry. Ay, strange indeed !
Countess. He knows not what he says ;
But I can tell you how it all would be
If God went mad !
The worlds would lose their way in space, and mount,
and mount ;
Then fall, and fall, crashing against each other !
Each creature, worm, would cry: ** Lo, I am God 1"
Then they would die, and lie in rottenness !
The comets and the suns would all go out ;
Christ would no longer save us.
Tearing His bleeding Hands from the great nails,
He'd fling His cross into the infinite Dark,
And with it blast the hopes of myriads of souls.
Hark ! how it crashes as it strikes the stars !
Bounding, rebounding, as it flashes, breaks, —
Its ruined fragments falling everywhere.
Until the dust darkens the Universe !
* * * * * * *
Only the Holy Virgin still prays on ;
The stars, her servants, keep their faith with her ;
But she must plunge with all the falling worlds !
Christ throws away his cross, and God is mad !
Count Henry. Mary, hast thou no wish to see thy
child ?
Come home !
Countess. He is not there. I gave him wings,
And sent him through the Universe to find
All that is terrible, sublime, and grand ;
Have dipped him in the sea, and in the clouds. . . .
He will return some day, and make thee happy.
Ah, me !
Count Henry. Dost suffer pain ?
Countess. Some one has hung
196 THE UNDIVINE COMEDY.
A lamp up in my brain : it sways and flickers
So wilderingly ! Ah, me !
Count Henry. Beloved, be calm !
Countess. When one is Poet, life cannot be long !
{She faints. ^
Count Henry. Help ! Help ! Send the jDhysician
quickly here !
{Many ivomcn enter, followed by the wife of the physician. ')
Wife of the Physician. Pills ! Powders ! No ; she
cannot swallow them.
Run, Margaret, run quickly ; find the Doctor !
{To the Count. ) This is your fault, sir ; you have made
her ill.
My husband will be very angry with me, sir !
Countess. Henry, farewell !
Wife of the Physician. Then you, sir, are the Count ?
Count Henry. Mary ! Mary !
{Takes her in his arms, covering her with caresses. )
Countess. Darling, I'm well ! I die upon thy heart !
{Her head falls. )
Wife of the Physician. Her face is flushed ! The blood
o'erfloods her brain !
Count Henry. There is no danger, none! This will
be nothing. . . .
{The Physician enters and stands by the couch. )
Physician. Your words are truth, — for there is no-
thing here !
All's over ! She is dead !
THE UNDIVINE COMEDY. 197
THIRD PERIOD.
" Gemisch von Koth und Feuer. "
(" Compound of clay and fire. ")
Faust: Goethe.
Oh, child ! why lie thy toys neglected round thee? *
Why never leap astride a cane for horse
And gallop off? Why not impale the bright
Winged butterflies, enjoy their dying glitter?
Why never sport upon the grass, turn somersaults.
Steal sugar-plums, rob apple-trees, and wet
Thy alphabet, from A to Z, with tears?
Thou king of rabbits, dogs, bees, flies, and moths,
Of cowslips, daisies, marbles, kites, and tops ;
Thou royal friend of birds, of Punch, and puppets ;
Outlaw of petty mischiefs, — why resign
Thy kingdom? Poet's son, oh, wherefore art
Thou sad, — so like an angel in thy guise?
What meanings haunt the depths of thy blue eyes ?
Why do they seek the ground, as if weighed down
By drooping lashes, mournful memories.
Though they have only watched the violets
Of a few springs? Why heavily sinks thy head
Upon thy small white hands ? . . .
Like snow-drops burdened with the dews of night
Thy brow seems bent with weight of mystic thought.
And when thy pale cheek floods with sudden flush,
Red as a rose amidst its hundred leaves.
And, tossing back thy golden curls, thou gazest
* This Invocation is addressed to the son of the Count. This child,
whose father was the lover of phantoms, is himself but a phantom ; one
of those frail beings in whom the excessive development of internal
life exhausts and consumes the ext ernal envelj jpe. His soul, even before
quitting the body, Ts almost free from its ties with the body, and already
visits the invisible world. Two moral maladies, too common in our time,
are seen in the characters of the father and son. In the first, the per-
ception of the ideal is falsified and distorted ; in the second, it is exag-
gerated. The Count is a dreamer ; the son a clairvoyant. — Revue.
198
THE UNDIVINE COMEDY.
Into the skies, — tell me, what seest thou there,
What hearest, and with whom thou holdest converse?
For then the light and quivering wrinkles weave
Their living mesh across thy blue-veined brow
From distaff all unseen ; from viewless coils.
Like silken threads, the changeful web is wrought,
While in thine eyes still gleams an unknown flame,
Which none can ever trace or understand.
Thy nurse may call ; thou seemest not to hear ;
She vainly weeps, deeming thou lovest her not.
Thy cousins, friends, then cry to thee unheard.
And think thou dost not wish to recognize them.
Thy father speaks not, but observes thee closely,
Gloomy and silent, while the gathering tears
Swell 'neath his eyelids, — soon to disappear —
Perchance to fall upon his heart !
When the physician comes, he feels thy pulse,
Says thou art nervous as he counts its throbs.
The old godfather brings thee sugar-plums.
And pats thee on thy shoulder, saying : " George,
Thou' It be a statesman in thy native land ! "
The learned professor takes thee, runs his hand
Among thy ringlets, says thou wilt possess
A talent for the exact sciences !
The beggar, whom thou never pass'st without
Casting a coin into his tattered hat.
Foresees a lovely wife, a heavenly crown for thee.
The crippled soldier, tossing thee in air,
Declares thou art to be a general.
The wandering gypsy scans thy tender face.
Traces the lines upon thy little hands,
Seeking in vain to read thy destiny.
Looks sadly at thee, sighs and turns away.
And will not take the gold-piece offered her.
The magnetizer strokes thy sunny curls, _
And makes his passes round thy wondering face,
But stops affrighted as he feels that he,
Listead of thee, is falling into sleep.
And Father Benjamin, preparing thee
For thy confession, felt like kneeling down
THE UNDIVINE COMEDY. 199
Before thee as before a holy image.
A painter caught thee in a heady rage,
Stamping thy tiny feet upon the floor,
And in his picture of the Judgment Day
He painted thee among the infant demons :
A rebel cherub !
Meanwhile, thou grow'st apace,
More and more beautiful each passing hour !
Not in the childish bloom of rose and snow,
But in the spiritual loveliness
Of thoughts far and mysterious, which seem
To come to thee from unseen worlds.
And though thy cheek is sometimes pale, thine eyes
With saddened gaze droop wearily their fringes.
Thy breast contracted, — all who meet thee stop
To gaze, exclaim : " How beautiful ! an angel ! "
If some frail flower, already fading, had
A breath from Heaven and a glittering soul ;
And if on every leaf bending towards earth.
In place of dew-drop hung an angel's thought,
Infant ! such flower would most resemble thee !
Perchance such blossoms bloomed in Paradise
Before the fall of Adam !
SCENE I. (Count Henry and George in a grave-yard,
seated near a Gothic tomb. ~)
Count Henry. Take off thy hat, my son, and pray for rest
To thy dead mother's soul !
George. Hail Mary, full of grace !
Hail, Queen, who scent'st the flowers, fringest the
streams . . .
Couftt Henry. Hast thou forgot the words, that thus
thou chang'st the prayer?
Pray for thy mother, George, who died so young :
Died at this very hour ten years ago.
George. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,
And the angels bless !
Ah ! when thou glid'st across the sky, each plucks
Bright rainbow plumage from his sparkling wings.
200 THE UNDIVINE COMEDY.
And casts it at thy feet ! Thou floatest on,
As though the ocean waves bore thee along !
Count Hefiry. George ! George !
George. Do not be angry with me, father !
When these words come to me, they hurt my head.
And I must say them.
Count Henry. Rise, George ! Such prayers will never
reach our God.
Thou hast no memory of thy mother ; so
Thou canst not love her. . . .
George. I often see mamma.
Count Henry. Thou seest mamma ! Where dost thou
see her, George ?
George. In dreams, — not quite in dreams, — before I
sleep !
I saw her yesterday.
Count Henry. What say'st thou, boy?
George. She looked so pale and thin.
Count Henry. But did she speak?
George. It seemed to me she wandered up and down
Alone in a vast Dark ; but she was white.
She sang to me last night ; I know the song :
Say, shall I sing it, Father ?
(Sings. ) "I wander through the Universe,
I search through infinite sjjace,
I pass through chaos, darkness.
To bring thee light and grace:
I listen to the angel's song.
To catch the heavenly tone ;
Seek every form of beauty.
To bring to thee, mine own !
" I seek from highest spirits,
From those of lower might,
Rainbow colors, depths of shadow.
Burning contrasts, dark and bright ;
Rhythmed tones and hues from Eden
Hoating through the heavenly bars,
Sages' wisdom, seraphs' loving,
Mystic glories from the stars ;
THE UNDIVINE COMEDY. 20I
That thou mayst be a poet, richly gifted from above,
To win thy father's inmost heart, and ever keep his love. "
Thou seest my mother dear does speak to me ;
That I remember all she ever says !
Count Henry {leaning against one of the pillars of the tomU).
Mary, wilt thou destroy thine own fair child,
And crush me 'neath the weight of two such sepulchres?
*******
I rave ! she is as safe and calm in Heaven
As she was sweet and pure upon the earth I . . .
My poor boy dreams ! , . .
George. I hear her now, but cannot see mamma !
Count He firy. Where? . . . Whence comes the voice?
George. It seems to come
From yon two cypress-trees, now glittering in
The sun's last rays :
(Sings. ') "I pour through thy spirit
Music and might ;
I wreathe thy pale forehead
With halos of light ;
E'en if blind, I would show thee
Blest forms from above,
Floating far through the spaces
Of infinite love,
Which the angels in Heaven, and men on the earth
Know as Beauty. I've sought since the day of thy birth
To waken thy spirit,
My darling, my own,
That the hopes of the father
May rest on his son !
That his love warm and glowing
Unchanging may shine ;
And his heart, infant poet,
Forever be thine ! "
Count Henry. Do the last thoughts of dying mortals live
And torture them in their eternal homes?
Can blessed spirits still be mad in Heaven,
18
202 THE UNDIVINE COMEDY.
And take tlieir place among Thy angels, God ?
Insanity make part of immortality?
George. Her voice grows ever fainter and more faint :
Father, it dies behind the grave-yard wall.
Father, down there ! . . .
Mamma is still rej)eating as she goes :
"That his love warm and glowing
Unchanging may shine;
And his heart, little poet,
Forever be thine ! "
Cojnit JTcjiry {kneeling). O God, have pity on our in-
nocent child !
Hast Thon predestinated hivi in wrath
To sickness, madness, to an early death?
Oh, rob him not of reason ! Leave not void
The sanctuary Thou hast built, O God,
In Thine own Image for a holy temple !
Look down upon my restless agony !
Yield not this angel to the fiends in Hell !
I pray not for myself, for Thou hast given
Me strength to bear the weight of passions, thoughts;
But pity him ! poor fragile little being !
One thought would snap his slender thread of life !
O God ! my God !
For ten long years I've known no hour of peace !
Many have envied me my happiness ;
They did not know how fast as cutting hail.
Tempests of agony Thou'st driven on me;
Gloomy presentiments, illusions, woes!
My reason Thou hast left, but Thou hast stricken,
Hardened my heart ! Thy benefits have been
All for my mind ; none for my freezing soul.
God ! suffer me to love my son in peace !
And let a covenant be made between
The Creator and His creature. . . .
* * * + * (^Rises. )
My son, now cross thyself, and come with me.
Eternal rest be with ihy mother's soul !
{^Exit with George. )
THE UNDIVINE COMEDY. 203
SCENE II. A public square. Ladies and gentlemen
walking about. A Philosopher. Count Henry.
Philosopher. I must repeat it, and it is in me
An absolute, intuitive conviction,
The time is near for the emancipation
Of negroes and of women.
Count Henry. You are right.
Philosopher. And from a social transformation, both
In general and particular, I deduce
A greai regeneration of our race,
TbfOtt^v-Uloodiihed, and dc:struction of old forms !
Count Henry. YoIftTunk so ?
Philosopher. As on its axis oscillates
Our globe, lifting itself and sinking, by a course
Of sudden evolutions, we . . . • , •,
Count Henry. See you this rotten tree standmg beside
us?
Philosopher. With the young leaves upon its branches ?
Coimt Henry. Yes.
How long do you suppose it still will stand ?
Philosopher. How can I know ? Perhaps a year or two.
Count Henry. Although its roots are dead, it still puts
forth
A few green leaves.
Philosopher. What does that prove ?
Count Henry. Nothing, except that it will surely fall,
Be cast into the fire, because not fit
To bear the moulder's chisel, rotten at heart.
Philosopher. I cannot see how that concerns our sub-
ject.
Count Henry. I pray you pardon me : it is your image.
As that of your disciples, theories.
And of our century. . . . {They pass out of sight. )
SCENE III. A gorge in the midst of the mountains.
Count Henry alone.
Count Henry. I've sought through many weary years to
find
The last word of all science, feelings, thoughts,
To solve the problem of our destiny ;
204
THE UNDIVINE COMEDY.
And in the depths of my own heart I've found
The tomb's dark nothingness !
I know the names of all the human feelings,
But \feel nothing !
Nor faith, desire, nor love throbs in my soul !
Some dim presentiments still haunt its desert :
I know my son will soon be wholly blind ;
That this society in which I live
Is even now in pangs of dissolution :
And I am wretched as our God is happy;
That is to say in me, and for myself alone.
Voice of the Guat'dian Angel. Comfort thy hungry and
despairing brothers !
Love thy poor neighbor as thou dost thyself!
And thus thou shalt be saved.
Count Henry. Who was it spoke ?
Mephistophelcs {passing). Your very humble servant.
Sometimes I
Amuse myself by drawing the attention
Of travelers by a gift I hold from nature.
I'm a ventriloquist.
Count Henry {touching his hat with his hafid^.
