Each man must own a portion of the soil;
Thought move on lightning wings rending old veils;
The living must outnumber all the hosts
Of those who've perished in this deadly strife;
Life and prosperity must fill the place
Of death and ruin,- ere our work of blood
Can be atoned for!
Thought move on lightning wings rending old veils;
The living must outnumber all the hosts
Of those who've perished in this deadly strife;
Life and prosperity must fill the place
Of death and ruin,- ere our work of blood
Can be atoned for!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v15 - Kab to Les
Richardson.
## p. 8735 (#351) ###########################################
8735
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
(1812-1859)
RASINSKI was one of the three great poets of Poland through
whom the spirit of the submerged commonwealth found its
fullest expression. The golden age of Poland's literature
was coincident with the period of her deepest political humiliation,
and every Polish poet was a Polish patriot. It was a literature of
emigrants and exiles who found their poetic inspiration, and the main-
spring of all endeavor, in the love of country and the hope of see-
ing her restored to her ancient greatness. In the trio of poets who
represent this age Mickiewicz stands first,
and by his side the Dioscuri Slowacki and
Krasinski. Krasinski's position was a pecul-
iar and difficult one. He was the heir of
an old aristocratic family; his mother was
a princess of the house of Radziwill, and
he was brought up in the midst of feudal
traditions. In his breast burned the purest
patriotic fire, and merely to possess his
works exposed a man to Siberia or death;
and yet he was the only one of all the
patriot poets that taught the philosophy
of non-resistance and self-abnegation. With
serene confidence he left the future in the SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
hands of eternal justice, and insisted that
the moral regeneration of Poland must precede her political re-estab-
lishment. In all his works this note of lofty morality is struck, and
Christianity is put forward as the only reconciling power between
conflicting forces.
Sigismund Krasinski was born at Paris on February 19th, 1812.
His father, Count Vincent Krasinski, was an adjutant of Napoleon's:
when the hopes of Poland were shattered by the abdication of the
Emperor, Krasinski, acting under orders from the Czar, returned with
his family to Warsaw. Their home was the centre to which flocked
all the eminent men in literary and political life. In this circle
young Krasinski grew up, and the most loving care was bestowed
upon his education. At the age of fourteen he wrote two novels in
the style of his favorite author, Walter Scott; but his literary ambi-
tion was not encouraged, and he was destined for the law.
## p. 8736 (#352) ###########################################
8736
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
>
It was about this time that the crisis came which affected his
whole career. The leaders who in 1825 conspired against the Rus-
sian government were brought to trial in Warsaw; and from all
quarters of Europe the Polish members of the high tribunal hastened
to the capital to give their votes for their compatriots. Count
Krasinski was the only Pole that cast a vote in the Russian interest.
The relations between father and son remained cordial, and the poet
lived to see his father's appointment to the governorship of Poland
received with approbation by his countrymen; but from the ignominy
of his father's act he never recovered. His only reference to it is
in the touching appeal to Poland with which his weird vision entitled
(Temptation ends. Krasinski's works were all published anony-
mously or under assumed names; and it was years before the admir-
ing people learned the true name of the inspired teacher whom they
revered as “the anonymous poet of Poland. ”
Krasinski's frail state of health made long residence in the rigor-
ous climate of his native land impossible, even had the political con-
ditions been less unhappy. At Geneva in 1830 he met Mickiewicz,
who exerted a powerful influence upon his genius, and turned his
mind to poetry. In 1833 appeared his first poetic tale, Agay Han';
and in the same year in Rome he wrote one of his greatest works,
Nieboska Komedya' (The Undivine Comedy). It is a symbolic poem
in the dramatic form, and deals with the loftiest themes of social
and spiritual life: the deviation from the path of plain duty in pur-
suit of a phantom ideal; the conflict between the old world of aris-
tocracy and the new world of democracy, the futility of the triumph
of one over the other; the ultimate salvation wrought by Christianity,
through which reconciliation comes. The old aristocracy with its
spiritual ideals is represented by Count Henry; the aims and inspi-
rations of the materialized democracy are embodied in the character
of Pancras. The monologue in which for a moment Pancras doubts
the genuineness of his mission has been pronounced by Mickiewicz
one of the great soliloquies of the world's literature.
In this poem
Krasinski's philosophy is brought before us in concrete forms, with
sublime imagery and an insight into the future almost apocalyptic.
It is said that after the disasters of 1846 Krasinski exclaimed, “Ah!
why was I not a false prophet ? ”
The work which is regarded as the poet's highest achievement is ·
the half epic, half dramatic poem, Iridion. It was written likewise
in Rome and published in 1836. In glowing colors are contrasted the
degeneracy of Rome under the Cæsars and the enthusiastic patriotisın
of the Greeks who are plotting to avenge subjugated Hellas. In con-
ception and execution is displayed the same exalted originality tiiat
distinguished "The Undivine Comedy. ' The solution also is the same:
## p. 8737 (#353) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8737
Rome is pagan and the Greeks disregard Christianity, through which
alone their salvation can be wrought. Poland is always before the
poet's eye, and the application to her case is obvious. Krasinski was
no lover of art for art's sake; poetry must have a living purpose, and
in this spirit the Invocation to the Muse was written which opens
(The Undivine Comedy): «Thou ruinest wholly those who consecrate
themselves, with all they are, to thee alone, who solely live the voices
of thy glory. ”
Krasinski also wrote several prose works of a symbolic character,
but the prose is dithyrambic and impassioned. Pokusa' (Temptation)
has already been mentioned: a strange vision of grief and hope with
passages of thrilling power. Noc Letnia' (Summer Night) appeared
in the same year, 1841. In 1843 Krasinski returned to verse; and in
a series of beautiful canzone entitled Przedswit' (The Dawn) he
sang the praises of the moral elements of the Polish past, and again
proclaimed the necessity of reviving them. In the three famous
(Psalms of the Future (1845 and 1848) Krasinski glorified the heroism
of self-sacrifice and martyrdom. It was this that called forth the vio-
lent opposition of Slowacki and of the more ardent but less astute
patriots. Slowacki denounced the Psalms) as “lyric cowardice);
but Krasinski's teachings sank deep into the heart of his distressed
countrymen. The strange scene which took place at Warsaw in 1861
was typical of his influence. Infuriated by the sight of an unfurled
Polish banner, the Russian troops fired upon the populace; and the
Polish women and children and unarmed men bared their breasts to
the bullets in a frenzy of patriotic self-sacrifice. It has been said of
Krasinski that «he modified the character of an entire people. ”
He died in Paris on February 23d, 1859; and with him was extin-
guished the last star in the triad of great Polish poets.
___
(All the following selections are made from «The Undivine Comedy, and Other
Poems. Translated by Martha Walker Cook. Copyrighted 1875, by
J. B. Lippincott & Co. ]
INVOCATION
To POETRY
From «The Undivine Comedy)
TARS circle round thy head; and at thy feet
S,
A rainbow glides before thee, cleaving the clouds!
Whate'er thou look'st upon is thine! Coasts, ships,
Men, mountains, cities, all belong to thee!
XV-547
## p. 8738 (#354) ###########################################
8738
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
Master of Heaven as earth, it seems as naught
Could equal thee in glory!
-
To ears which heed thy lays, thou givest joys,
Raptures ineffable! Thou weavest hearts
Together, then untwin'st them like a wreath,
As wild caprice may guide thy flame-lit fingers!
Thou forcest tears, then driest them with a smile;
Thou scar'st away the smile from paling lips,
Perhaps but for a moment, a few hours,
Perhaps for evermore!
But thou ! - What dost thou feel, and what create ?
A living stream of beauty flows through thee,
But Beauty thou art not! woe, woe, to thee!
The weeping child upon its mother's breast,
The field-flower knowing not its perfumed gift,
More merit have before the Lord than thou!
Whence com'st thou, fleeting shadow ? to the Light
Still bearing witness, though thou know'st it not,
Hast never seen it, nor wilt ever see!
In anger or in mockery wert thou made ?
So full of self-deceit that thou canst play
The angel to the moment when thou fall'st,
And crawlest like a reptile upon earth,
Stifled in mud, or feeding upon dust!
Thou and the woman have like origin!
Alas! thou sufferest too, although thy pangs
Bring naught to birth, nothing create, nor serve!
The groans of the unfortunate are weighed;
The lowest beggar's sighs counted in heaven,
Gathered and sung upon celestial harps:
But thy despair and sighs fall to the earth,
Where Satan gathers them; adds them with joy
To his own lies, illusions, mockeries!
The Lord will yet disown them, as they have
Ever disowned the Lord!
Not that I rise against thee, Poetry,-
Mother of Beauty, of ideal Life!
But I must pity him condemned to dwell
Within the limits of these whirling worlds,
In dying agonies, or yet to be
Doomed to sad memories, or prophecies,
Perchance remorse, or vague presentiments,–
## p. 8739 (#355) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8739
1
Who gives himself to thee! for everywhere
Thou ruinest wholly those who consecrate
Themselves, with all they are, to thee alone,
Who solely live the voices of thy glory!
Blessed is he in whom thou mak'st thy home,
As God dwelt in the world, concealed, unknown,
But grand and mighty in each separate part:
The unseen God, before whom creatures bow,
And kneeling cry, “Behold Him! He is here ! »
A guiding star, he bears thee on his brow,
And no unfaithful word will sever him
From thy true love! He will love men, and be
A man himself, encircled by his brothers!
From him who keeps not with thee perfect faith,
Betrays thee to the hour, or his own needs,
Devotes thee to man's perishable joys,
Painting the sensual with thy hues divine,
Thou turn'st away thy face, while scattering
Perchance upon his brow some fading flowers,
Of which he strives to twine a funeral crown,
Spending his life to weave a wreath of death!
He and the woman have one origin!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook
izá vipaa
PANCRAS'S MONOLOGUE
21
From The Undivine Comedy)
>
WY
Hy does the boldness of this haughty Count
Still trouble me? Me, ruler of the millions !
Compared with mine, his force is but a shadow.
'Tis true, indeed, some hundreds of his serfs
Cling round him, as the dog stays by his master
In trusting confidence. That is sheer folly! . .
But why do I so long to see this Count,
To subjugate him, win him to our side ?
Has my clear spirit for the first time met
An equal ? Does he bar its onward fight?
Arrest it in its full development ?
The only obstacle before me now
Is his resistance: that I must o'ercome!
And then . . . and afterwards . . . and then . . .
## p. 8740 (#356) ###########################################
8740
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
O cunning intellect, canst thou deceive
Thyself as thou dost others ? . . . Canst not ? - No? . . .
O wretchedness! . . . Why dost thou doubt thyself?
Shame! . . . thou shouldst know thy power! Thou art
the thought,
The reason of the people; Sovereign Lord!
Thou canst control the millions, make their wills,
With all their giant forces, one with thine!
The might of All incarnate is in thee;
Thou art authority and government!
What would be crime in others, is in thee
Glory and fame! Thou givest name and place
To men unknown; a voice, a faith to brutes
Almost deprived of mental, moral worth !
In thine own image thou hast made a world,
An age created, - art thyself its god!
And yet thou hesitatest,- doubt'st thyself ?
No, no! a hundred times! . . . Thou art sublime!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
COUNT HENRY'S MONOLOGUE
From «The Undivine Comedy)
M
IDNIGHT! It was at this same solemn hour,
Surrounded by like perils and like thoughts,
The latest Brutus met his Evil Genius;
And such an apparition I await!
A man who has no name, no ancestors,
Who has no guardian angel, faith, nor God,
Whose mission is destruction to the past,
Will yet — unless I'm strong enough to hurl
Him back into his primal nothingness-
Destroy society, its laws and faith;
Found a new era in the fate of man!
Such is the modern Cæsar I await!
Eagle of glory, hear! Souls of my sires,
Inspire me with that fiery force which made
You rulers of the world. Oh, give to me
The lion heart which throbbed within your breasts!
Your austere majesty gird round my brow!
Rekindle in my soul your burning, blind,
l'nconquerable faith in Christ, his Church,
## p. 8741 (#357) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8741
The inspiration of your deeds on earth,
Your hopes in heaven! Light it again in me,
And I will scathe our foes with fire and sword;
Will conquer and destroy all who oppose me,
The myriads of the children of the dust.
I, the last son of hundred generations,
Sole heir of all your virtues, thoughts, and faults!
PER
INTRODUCTION TO THE LAST ACT
From "The Undivine Comedy)
ERCHED like an eagle, high among the rocks,
Stands the old fortress, Holy Trinity. ”
Now from its bastions nothing can be seen,
To right, to left, in front, or in the rear,
A spectral image of that Deluge wrath
Which, as its wild waves rose to sweep o’er earth,
Once broke o'er these steep cliffs, these time-worn rocks.
No glimpses can be traced of vale beneath,
Buried in ghastly waves of ice-cold sea,
Wrapping it as the shroud winds round the dead.
No crimson rays of coming sun yet light
The clammy, pallid winding-sheet of foam.
Upon a bold and naked granite peak,
Above the spectral mist, the castle stands,
A solitary island in this sea.
Its bastions, parapets, and lofty towers
Built of the rock from which they soar, appear
During the lapse of ages to have grown
Out of its stony heart (as human breast
Springs from the centaur's back), - the giant work
Of days long past.
A single banner floats
Above the highest tower; it is the last,
The only Banner of the Cross on earth!
A shudder stirs and wakes the sleeping mist,
The bleak winds sigh, and silence rules no more;
The vapor surges, palpitates, and drifts,
In the first rays shot by the coming sun.
The breeze is chill; the very light seems frost,
Curdling the clouds that form and roll and drift
## p. 8742 (#358) ###########################################
8742
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
Above this tossing sea of fog and foam.
With Nature's tumult other sounds arise,
And human voices mingling with the storm
Articulate their wail, as it sweeps on.
Borne on and upward by the lifting waves
Of the cloud-surge, they break against the towers,
The castle's granite walls — voices of doom!
Long golden shafts transpierce the sea of foam;
The clinging shroud of mist is swiftly riven;
Through vaporous walls that line the spectral chasin
Are glimpses seen of deep abyss below.
How dark it looks athwart the precipice!
Myriads of heads in wild commotion surge;
The valley swarms with life, as ocean's sands
With writhing things that creep and twist and sting.
The sun! the sun! he mounts above the peaks!
The driven, tortured vapors rise in blood;
More and more clearly grow upon the eye
The threatening swarms fast gathering below.
The quivering mist rolls into crimson clouds;
It scales the craggy cliffs, and softly melts
Into the depths of infinite blue sky.
The valley glitters like a sea of light,
Throws back the sunshine in a dazzling glare;
For every hand is armed with sharpened blade,
And bayonets and points of steel flash fire;
Millions are pouring through the living depths, -
As numberless as they at last will throng
Into the valley of Jehoshaphat,
When called to answer on the Judgment Day.
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
ARISTOCRACY'S LAST STAND
From «The Undivine Comedy)
AT
T LAST I see you, hated enemies!
With my whole power I trace your cunning plans,
Surround you with my scorn. No more we meet
Within the realm of idle words, of poetry,
But in the real world of deadly combat,
Sharp sword to sword, the rattling hail of bullets
## p. 8743 (#359) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8743
Winged by the concentration of my hate!
No more with single arm and voice I meet you
The strength of many centres in my will.
It is a joyous thing to govern, rule,
Even were it solely at the price of death;
To feel myself the sovereign arbiter,
The master of so many wills and lives;
To see there at my feet my enemies
Leaping and howling at me from the abyss,
But all bereft of power to reach me here:
So like the damned, who vainly lift their heads
Toward Heaven!
I know . . . I know, a few hours more of time,
And I and thousands of yon craven wretches
Who have forgot their fathers and their God
Will be no more forever! Be it so!
At least I have a few days more of life,
To satiate myself with joy of combat -
The ecstasy of full command o’er others,
The giddy daring, struggle, victory, loss!
Thou, my last song, swell to a chant of triumph,
For death's the latest foe a man can conquer!
The sun sets fast behind the needled cliffs,
Sinks in a darksome cloud of threatening vapors;
His crimson rays light luridly the valley. -
Precursor of the bloody death before me,
I greet you with a fuller, gladder heart
Than I have e'er saluted ye, vain hopes
And promises of joy or blissful love!
Not through intrigue, through base or cunning skill,
Have I attained the aim of my desires;
But by a sudden bound I've leaped to fame,
As my persistent dreams told me I must.
Ruler o'er those but yesterday my equals,
Conqueror of death, since willingly I seek him,
I stand upon the brink; – eternal life, or sleep!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
## p. 8744 (#360) ###########################################
8744
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
THE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY
From The Undivine Comedy)
ANCRAS - The hour of rest has not yet struck for me!
The last sad sign of my last enemy
Marks the completion of but half my task.
Look at these spaces, these immensities,
Stretching between my thoughts and me.
Earth's deserts must be peopled, rocks removed,
Swamps drained, and mountains tunneled; trees hewn down;
Seas, lakes, and rivers everywhere connected,
Roads girdle earth, that produce circulate,
And commerce bind all hearts with links of gold.
Each man must own a portion of the soil;
Thought move on lightning wings rending old veils;
The living must outnumber all the hosts
Of those who've perished in this deadly strife;
Life and prosperity must fill the place
Of death and ruin,- ere our work of blood
Can be atoned for! Leonard, this must be done!
If we are not to inaugurate an age
Of social bliss, inaterial ease and wealth,
Our deeds of havoc, devastation, woe,
Will have been worse than vain!
Leonard — The God of liberty will give us power
For these gigantic tasks!
Pancras-
You speak of God!
Do you not see that it is crimson here?
Slippery with gore in which we stand knee-deep ?
Whose gushing blood is this beneath our feet ?
Naught is behind us save the castle court;
Whatever is, I see, and there is no one near. -
We are alone - and yet there surely stands
Another here between us. '
Leonard — I can see nothing but this bloody corpse!
Pancras -- The corpse of his old faithful servant - dead!
It is a living spirit haunts this spot!
This is his cap and belt; look at his arms;
There is the rock o'erhanging the abyss;
And on that spot it was his great heart broke!
Leonard — Pancras, how pale you grow!
Pancras -
Do you not see it ?
'Tis there! up there!
## p. 8745 (#361) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8745
Leonard -
I see a mass of clouds
Wild-drifting o'er the top of that steep rock
O'erhanging the abyss. How high they pile!
Now they turn crimson in the sunset rays.
Pancras — There is a fearful symbol burning there!
Leonard – Your sight deceives you.
Pancras
Where are now my people ?
The millions who revered and who obeyed me?
Leonari - You hear their acclamations, — they await you.
Pancras, look not again on yon steep cliff, -
Your eyes die in their sockets as you gaze!
Pancras - Children and women often said that He
Would thus appear,— but on the last day only!
Leonard — Who? Where?
Pancras
Like a tall column there he stands,
In dazzling whiteness o'er yon precipice!
With both his hands he leans upon his cross,
As an avenger on his sword! Leonard,
His crown of thorns is interlaced with lightning -
Leonard — What is the matter? - Pancras, answer me!
Pancras — The dazzling flashes of his eyes are death!
Leonard — You're ghastly pale! Come, let us quit this spot!
Pancras -- Oh! - Leonard, spread your hands and shade my eyes!
Press, press them till I see no more! Tear me away!
Oh, shield me from that look! It crushes me to dust!
Leonard (placing his hands over the eyes] —
Will it do thus ?
Pancras
Your hands are like a phantom's!
Powerless — with neither flesh nor bones!
Transparent as pure water, crystal, air,
They shut out nothing! I can see! still see!
Leonard -- Your eyes die in their sockets! Lean on me!
Pancras
Can you not give me darkness ? Darkness! Darkness!
He stands there motionless, — pierced with three nails, –
Three stars!
His outstretched arms are lightning flashes! — Darkness ! -
Leonard — I can see nothing! Master! Master!
Pancras
Darkness!
Leonard - Ho! citizens! Ho! democrats! aid! aid !
Pancras VICISTI GALILÆE!
[He falls dead. ]
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
## p. 8746 (#362) ###########################################
8746
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
APPEAL TO POLAND
From Temptation
O
MOTHER, many times murdered! When thou shalt waken
from sleep, and again. . . feel thy youth returning upon
thee, thou wilt remember thy long night of death, the ter-
rible phantoms of thy protracted agonies. Weep not then,
0
mother! weep not for those who fell in glorious battle, nor for
those who perished on alien soil; although their flesh was torn
by the vulture and devoured by the wolf, they were still happy!
Neither weep for those who died in the dark and silent dungeon
underground by the hand of the executioner: though the dismal
prison lamp was their only star, and the harsh words of the op-
pressor the last farewell they heard on earth, they too were happy!
But drop a tear, O Mother! one tear of tender pity for those
who were deceived by thy murderers, misled by their tissues
of glittering falsehood, blinded by misty veils woven of specious
deceptions, when the command of the tyrant had no power to
tear their true hearts from thee! Alas, Mother, these victims
have suffered the most of all thy martyred children! Deceitful
hopes, born but to die, like blades of naked steel forever pierced
their breasts! Thousands of fierce combats, unknown to fame,
were waging in their souls; combats fuller of bitter suffering
than the bloody battles thundering on in the broad light of the
sun, clashing with the gleam of steel, and booming with the roar
of artillery. No glory shone on the dim paths of thy deceived
sons; thy reproachful phantom walked ever beside them, as part
of their own shadow! The glittering eye of the enemy lured
them to the steep slopes of ice, down into the abyss of eternal
snow; and at every step into the frozen depths, their tears fell
fast for thee! They waited until their hearts withered in the
misery of hope long deferred; until their hands sank in utter
weariness; until they could no longer move their emaciated limbs
in the fetters of their invisible chain; still conscious of life, they
moved as living corpses with frozen hearts -— alone amidst a
hating people --- alone even in the sanctuary of their own homes
- alone forever on the face of the earth!
My Mother! When thou shalt live again in thy olden glory,
shed a tear over their wretched fate, over the agony of agonies;
and whisper upon their dark and silent graves the sublime word,
PARDON.
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
## p. 8747 (#363) ###########################################
8747
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(1811-1883)
THE literary pilgrim of two or three decades ago had desired
to pay his respects to the most delightful French teller of
fairy tales, he might have had to interrupt a session of the
Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, to disturb the wise men
of the Académie des Sciences Morales, to sit out a debate in the
Assemblée Nationale, or to attend the leisure of the distinguished
Professeur de Législation Comparée in the Collège de France; for all
these institutions laid claim to the assist-
ance of the profound scholar and philo-
sophic statesman, Édouard Laboulaye.
As, however, that eminent original math-
ematician and writer of many solid treatises
on numbers, Charles Dodgson, is to be re-
membered as the happy author of Alice in
Wonderland, so the jurisconsult and politi-
cal economist Laboulaye will live in grate-
ful remembrance for his Contes Bleus) and
Nouveaux Contes Bleus,' — stories of witch
and elf, of fairy and enchanter,— rather than
for his great services to learning.
He was born in Paris in 1811, under the
ÉDOUARD LABOULAYE
First Empire, at the height of its deceptive
splendor. His family was undistinguished, but intelligent and pro-
gressive. Educated in the usual French way, at school and college,
he turned his mature thoughts first to business, setting up a type
foundry with his brother Charles, who presently became an eminent
inventor. The scientific bent which characterized the family inclined
Édouard, however, to legal, historical, and philosophic investigations.
In his twenty-eighth year he made himself a distinguished name
among scholars by the publication of his Histoire du Droit de Pro-
priété Foncière en Occident' (History of Landed Property in Europe),
a work crowned by the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres.
The next year he brought out a remarkable book, Essai sur la Vie
et les Ouvrages de Savigny' (The Life and Doctrines of Savigny);
a memoir which not only introduced to French readers the great
2.
## p. 8748 (#364) ###########################################
8748
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(
German jurist and politician, but familiarized them with the new
comparative method in historical investigation.
Three years later appeared a still more famous volume, 'Recherches
sur la Condition Civile et Politique des Femmes depuis les Romains
jusqu'à nos jours (The Civil and Political Condition of Women
from the time of the Romans). This was the first scientific inquiry
into the causes and sources of the heavy legal disabilities of women,
affording a basis for the first ameliorative legislation. A remarkable
historical study, showing nice literary workmanship, it was crowned
by the Academy of Moral Sciences for its ethical value.
Meantime the enthusiastic student had been admitted to the bar
and begun to practice. He found time, however, to write various
books on jurisprudence - Roman Criminal Law, Literary Property
in France and England, The State and its Limits,' with many
minor treatises and studies. A Liberal by conviction, he set himself
to propagate Liberal opinions under the repressive conditions of the
Second Empire. Finding his ideal in the republican institutions of
America, he wrote as a tract for the times A Political History of
the United States. During the Civil War his ardent friendship for
this country prompted him to produce 'The United States and
France,' an eloquent plea for the Union; and (Paris in America,' a
brilliant allegorical satire which passed through numberless editions.
Indefatigable, he translated into French the works of William Ellery
Channing, edited the biography and correspondence of Benjamin
Franklin, wrote treatises on Germany and the Slavonic countries and
on the political philosophy of Alexis de Tocqueville, poured forth
reminiscences of travel, essays on slavery, religious liberty, constitu-
tional republicanism, or political economy, and published anonymous
satires on the government.
This then was the public-spirited citizen, the learned jurist and
accomplished scholar, who yet found time to write three volumes of
delightful fairy stories for the pleasure of his grandchildren. Of the
first of these, Abdallah,' he once said, “This little volume cost me
more than a year's study. There is not a detail in it that is not
borrowed from some volume of Eastern travel; and I read the Koran
twice through (a wearisome task) in order to extract therefrom a
morality that might put Christians to the blush, though it is practiced
by Arabs. ” In the same way he has filled his national fairy stories —
Russian, Hungarian, Bohemian, Spanish — with local color and race
characteristics. In many of them the brilliant censor who wrote
Paris in America and Prince Caniche) uses the grotesque and
whimsical to veil a searching satire. But so delicate is his art that
while the offenders may see themselves in the mirror he holds up to
nature, the innocent read for the story alone. Full of wit, humor, and
## p. 8749 (#365) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8749
invention, finely imaginative, and written in a graceful and charining
style, these fairy tales would alone have given their author a place
among distinguished French writers. Unfortunately it is only the less
important which are short enough to be cited in this volume.
When Laboulaye died, in 1883, the Republic for which he had
labored lavished on him the tributes of her foremost scholars and
statesmen. But the memorial he himself desired was the affectionate
remembrance of the children to whom he had revealed an ideal
world. Experience will teach you only too quickly,” he said, ad-
dressing them, that the truest and sweetest things in life are not
those which we see, but those of which we dream. Then, in repeat-
ing my tales to the young folks whom I shall never see, perhaps you
will find pleasure in talking to them of the old man who delighted
in trying to amuse children. I desire no other fame. This immor-
tality suffices me. ”
»
THE TWELVE MONTHS
A BOHEMIAN TALE
From the Fairy Book. )
Translated by Mary L. Booth, and published by
Harper & Brothers
HERE
was
once
a woman who was left a widow with two
children. The elder, who was only her stepdaughter, was
named Dobrunka; the younger, who was as wicked as her
mother, was called Katinka. The mother worshiped her daugh-
ter, but she hated Dobrunka simply because she was as beautiful
as her sister was ugly. Dobrunka did not even know that she
was pretty, and she could not understand why her stepmother
flew into a rage at the mere sight of her. The poor child was
obliged to do all the work of the house; she had to sweep,
cook, wash, sew, spin, weave, cut the grass, and take care of
the cow, while Katinka lived like a princess, — that is to say,
did nothing
Dobrunka worked with a good will, and took reproaches
and blows with the gentleness of a lamb; but nothing soothed
her stepmother, for every day added to the beauty of the elder
sister and the ugliness of the younger. « They are growing
up,
► thought the mother, and suitors will soon appear, who will
refuse my daughter when they see this hateful Dobrunka, who
grows beautiful on purpose to spite me. I must get rid of her,
cost what it may. ”
)
## p. 8750 (#366) ###########################################
8750
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(
»
>
One day in the middle of January, Katinka took a fancy for
some violets. She called Dobrunka, and said, "Go to the forest
and bring me a bunch of violets, that I may put them in my
bosom and enjoy their fragrance. ”
“Oh, sister, what an idea! answered Dobrunka: « as if there
were any violets under the snow!
"Hold your tongue, stupid fool," returned her sister, "and do
as I bid you.
If you do not go to the forest and bring me back
a bunch of violets, I will beat you to a jelly. ” Upon this the
mother took Dobrunka by the arm, put her out of the door, and
drew the bolt on her.
The poor girl went to the forest weeping bitterly. Every-
thing was covered with snow; there was not even a footpath.
She lost her way and wandered about, till, famishing with hunger
and perishing with cold, she entreated God to take her from this
wretched life.
All at once she saw a light in the distance.
She went on,
climbing higher and higher, until at last she reached the top of
a huge rock, upon which a great fire was built. Around the fire
were twelve stones; and on each stone sat a motionless figure,
wrapped in a large mantle, his head covered with a hood which
fell over his eyes. Three of these mantles were white like the
snow, three were green like the grass of the meadows, three
were golden like the sheaves of ripe wheat, and three were pur-
ple like the grapes of the vine. These twelve figures, gazing
at the fire in silence, were the Twelve Months of the year.
Dobrunka knew January by his long white beard.
He was
the only one that had a staff in his hand. The poor girl was
terribly frightened. She drew near, saying in a timid voice,
"My good sirs, please to let me warm myself by your fire: I am
freezing with cold. ”
January nodded his head. “Why have you come here, my
child ? ” he asked. “What are you looking for ? ”
"I am looking for violets,” replied Dobrunka.
« This is not the season for them: there are no violets in the
time of snow,” said January in his gruff voice.
“I know it,” replied Dobrunka sadly; “but my sister and
mother will beat me to a jelly if I do not bring them some. My
good sirs, please to tell me where I can find them. ”
Old January rose, and turning to a young man in a green
mantle, put his staff in his hand, and said to him, "Brother
March, this is your business. ”
(
## p. 8751 (#367) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8751
»
March rose in turn, and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames rose, the snow melted, the buds put forth on
the trees, the grass turned green under the bushes, the flowers
peeped through the verdure, and the violets opened - it was
spring
"Make haste, my child, and gather your violets,” said March.
Dobrunka gathered a large bouquet, thanked the Twelve
Months, and joyfully ran home. You can imagine the aston-
ishment of Katinka and the stepmother. The fragrance of the
violets filled the whole house.
“Where did you get these fine things? ” asked Katinka in a
disdainful voice.
“Up yonder, on the mountain,” answered her sister. It
looked like a great blue carpet under the bushes. ”
Katinka put the bouquet in her bosom, and did not even
thank the poor child.
The next morning the wicked sister, as she sat idling by the
stove, took a fancy for some strawberries. “Go to the forest and
bring me some strawberries,” said she to Dobrunka.
“O sister, what an idea! as if there were any strawberries
under the snow! »
"Hold your tongue, stupid fool, and do as I bid you.
don't go to the forest and bring me back a basket of strawberries,
I will beat you to a jelly. ”
The mother took Dobrunka by the arm, put her out of the
door, and drew the bolt on her.
The poor girl returned to the forest, looking with all her
eyes for the light that she had seen the day before.
She was
fortunate enough to spy it, and she reached the fire trembling
and almost frozen. The Twelve Months were in their places,
motionless and silent.
My good sirs,” said Dobrunka, "please to let me warm my-
self by your fire: I am almost frozen with cold. ”
“Why have you returned ? " asked January.
« What are you
looking for ? »
“I am looking for strawberries," answered she.
« This is not the season for them,” returned January in his
gruff voice: “there are no strawberries under the snow. ”
“I know it,” replied Dobrunka sadly; "but my mother and
sister will beat me to a jelly if I do not bring them some. My
good sirs, please to tell me where I can find them. ”
If you
## p. 8752 (#368) ###########################################
8752
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(C
»
(
Old January rose, and turning to a man in a golden mantle,
he put his staff in his hand, saying, “Brother June, this is your
business. ”
June rose in turn, and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames rose, the snow melted, the earth grew green,
the trees were covered with leaves, the birds sang, and the
flowers opened - it was summer. Thousands of little white stars
enameled the turf, then turned to red strawberries; looking, in
their green cups, like rubies set in emeralds.
"Make haste, my child, and gather your strawberries,” said
June.
Dobrunka filled her apron, thanked the Twelve Months, and
joyfully ran home. You may imagine the astonishment of Ka-
tinka and the stepmother.
## p. 8735 (#351) ###########################################
8735
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
(1812-1859)
RASINSKI was one of the three great poets of Poland through
whom the spirit of the submerged commonwealth found its
fullest expression. The golden age of Poland's literature
was coincident with the period of her deepest political humiliation,
and every Polish poet was a Polish patriot. It was a literature of
emigrants and exiles who found their poetic inspiration, and the main-
spring of all endeavor, in the love of country and the hope of see-
ing her restored to her ancient greatness. In the trio of poets who
represent this age Mickiewicz stands first,
and by his side the Dioscuri Slowacki and
Krasinski. Krasinski's position was a pecul-
iar and difficult one. He was the heir of
an old aristocratic family; his mother was
a princess of the house of Radziwill, and
he was brought up in the midst of feudal
traditions. In his breast burned the purest
patriotic fire, and merely to possess his
works exposed a man to Siberia or death;
and yet he was the only one of all the
patriot poets that taught the philosophy
of non-resistance and self-abnegation. With
serene confidence he left the future in the SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
hands of eternal justice, and insisted that
the moral regeneration of Poland must precede her political re-estab-
lishment. In all his works this note of lofty morality is struck, and
Christianity is put forward as the only reconciling power between
conflicting forces.
Sigismund Krasinski was born at Paris on February 19th, 1812.
His father, Count Vincent Krasinski, was an adjutant of Napoleon's:
when the hopes of Poland were shattered by the abdication of the
Emperor, Krasinski, acting under orders from the Czar, returned with
his family to Warsaw. Their home was the centre to which flocked
all the eminent men in literary and political life. In this circle
young Krasinski grew up, and the most loving care was bestowed
upon his education. At the age of fourteen he wrote two novels in
the style of his favorite author, Walter Scott; but his literary ambi-
tion was not encouraged, and he was destined for the law.
## p. 8736 (#352) ###########################################
8736
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
>
It was about this time that the crisis came which affected his
whole career. The leaders who in 1825 conspired against the Rus-
sian government were brought to trial in Warsaw; and from all
quarters of Europe the Polish members of the high tribunal hastened
to the capital to give their votes for their compatriots. Count
Krasinski was the only Pole that cast a vote in the Russian interest.
The relations between father and son remained cordial, and the poet
lived to see his father's appointment to the governorship of Poland
received with approbation by his countrymen; but from the ignominy
of his father's act he never recovered. His only reference to it is
in the touching appeal to Poland with which his weird vision entitled
(Temptation ends. Krasinski's works were all published anony-
mously or under assumed names; and it was years before the admir-
ing people learned the true name of the inspired teacher whom they
revered as “the anonymous poet of Poland. ”
Krasinski's frail state of health made long residence in the rigor-
ous climate of his native land impossible, even had the political con-
ditions been less unhappy. At Geneva in 1830 he met Mickiewicz,
who exerted a powerful influence upon his genius, and turned his
mind to poetry. In 1833 appeared his first poetic tale, Agay Han';
and in the same year in Rome he wrote one of his greatest works,
Nieboska Komedya' (The Undivine Comedy). It is a symbolic poem
in the dramatic form, and deals with the loftiest themes of social
and spiritual life: the deviation from the path of plain duty in pur-
suit of a phantom ideal; the conflict between the old world of aris-
tocracy and the new world of democracy, the futility of the triumph
of one over the other; the ultimate salvation wrought by Christianity,
through which reconciliation comes. The old aristocracy with its
spiritual ideals is represented by Count Henry; the aims and inspi-
rations of the materialized democracy are embodied in the character
of Pancras. The monologue in which for a moment Pancras doubts
the genuineness of his mission has been pronounced by Mickiewicz
one of the great soliloquies of the world's literature.
In this poem
Krasinski's philosophy is brought before us in concrete forms, with
sublime imagery and an insight into the future almost apocalyptic.
It is said that after the disasters of 1846 Krasinski exclaimed, “Ah!
why was I not a false prophet ? ”
The work which is regarded as the poet's highest achievement is ·
the half epic, half dramatic poem, Iridion. It was written likewise
in Rome and published in 1836. In glowing colors are contrasted the
degeneracy of Rome under the Cæsars and the enthusiastic patriotisın
of the Greeks who are plotting to avenge subjugated Hellas. In con-
ception and execution is displayed the same exalted originality tiiat
distinguished "The Undivine Comedy. ' The solution also is the same:
## p. 8737 (#353) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8737
Rome is pagan and the Greeks disregard Christianity, through which
alone their salvation can be wrought. Poland is always before the
poet's eye, and the application to her case is obvious. Krasinski was
no lover of art for art's sake; poetry must have a living purpose, and
in this spirit the Invocation to the Muse was written which opens
(The Undivine Comedy): «Thou ruinest wholly those who consecrate
themselves, with all they are, to thee alone, who solely live the voices
of thy glory. ”
Krasinski also wrote several prose works of a symbolic character,
but the prose is dithyrambic and impassioned. Pokusa' (Temptation)
has already been mentioned: a strange vision of grief and hope with
passages of thrilling power. Noc Letnia' (Summer Night) appeared
in the same year, 1841. In 1843 Krasinski returned to verse; and in
a series of beautiful canzone entitled Przedswit' (The Dawn) he
sang the praises of the moral elements of the Polish past, and again
proclaimed the necessity of reviving them. In the three famous
(Psalms of the Future (1845 and 1848) Krasinski glorified the heroism
of self-sacrifice and martyrdom. It was this that called forth the vio-
lent opposition of Slowacki and of the more ardent but less astute
patriots. Slowacki denounced the Psalms) as “lyric cowardice);
but Krasinski's teachings sank deep into the heart of his distressed
countrymen. The strange scene which took place at Warsaw in 1861
was typical of his influence. Infuriated by the sight of an unfurled
Polish banner, the Russian troops fired upon the populace; and the
Polish women and children and unarmed men bared their breasts to
the bullets in a frenzy of patriotic self-sacrifice. It has been said of
Krasinski that «he modified the character of an entire people. ”
He died in Paris on February 23d, 1859; and with him was extin-
guished the last star in the triad of great Polish poets.
___
(All the following selections are made from «The Undivine Comedy, and Other
Poems. Translated by Martha Walker Cook. Copyrighted 1875, by
J. B. Lippincott & Co. ]
INVOCATION
To POETRY
From «The Undivine Comedy)
TARS circle round thy head; and at thy feet
S,
A rainbow glides before thee, cleaving the clouds!
Whate'er thou look'st upon is thine! Coasts, ships,
Men, mountains, cities, all belong to thee!
XV-547
## p. 8738 (#354) ###########################################
8738
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
Master of Heaven as earth, it seems as naught
Could equal thee in glory!
-
To ears which heed thy lays, thou givest joys,
Raptures ineffable! Thou weavest hearts
Together, then untwin'st them like a wreath,
As wild caprice may guide thy flame-lit fingers!
Thou forcest tears, then driest them with a smile;
Thou scar'st away the smile from paling lips,
Perhaps but for a moment, a few hours,
Perhaps for evermore!
But thou ! - What dost thou feel, and what create ?
A living stream of beauty flows through thee,
But Beauty thou art not! woe, woe, to thee!
The weeping child upon its mother's breast,
The field-flower knowing not its perfumed gift,
More merit have before the Lord than thou!
Whence com'st thou, fleeting shadow ? to the Light
Still bearing witness, though thou know'st it not,
Hast never seen it, nor wilt ever see!
In anger or in mockery wert thou made ?
So full of self-deceit that thou canst play
The angel to the moment when thou fall'st,
And crawlest like a reptile upon earth,
Stifled in mud, or feeding upon dust!
Thou and the woman have like origin!
Alas! thou sufferest too, although thy pangs
Bring naught to birth, nothing create, nor serve!
The groans of the unfortunate are weighed;
The lowest beggar's sighs counted in heaven,
Gathered and sung upon celestial harps:
But thy despair and sighs fall to the earth,
Where Satan gathers them; adds them with joy
To his own lies, illusions, mockeries!
The Lord will yet disown them, as they have
Ever disowned the Lord!
Not that I rise against thee, Poetry,-
Mother of Beauty, of ideal Life!
But I must pity him condemned to dwell
Within the limits of these whirling worlds,
In dying agonies, or yet to be
Doomed to sad memories, or prophecies,
Perchance remorse, or vague presentiments,–
## p. 8739 (#355) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8739
1
Who gives himself to thee! for everywhere
Thou ruinest wholly those who consecrate
Themselves, with all they are, to thee alone,
Who solely live the voices of thy glory!
Blessed is he in whom thou mak'st thy home,
As God dwelt in the world, concealed, unknown,
But grand and mighty in each separate part:
The unseen God, before whom creatures bow,
And kneeling cry, “Behold Him! He is here ! »
A guiding star, he bears thee on his brow,
And no unfaithful word will sever him
From thy true love! He will love men, and be
A man himself, encircled by his brothers!
From him who keeps not with thee perfect faith,
Betrays thee to the hour, or his own needs,
Devotes thee to man's perishable joys,
Painting the sensual with thy hues divine,
Thou turn'st away thy face, while scattering
Perchance upon his brow some fading flowers,
Of which he strives to twine a funeral crown,
Spending his life to weave a wreath of death!
He and the woman have one origin!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook
izá vipaa
PANCRAS'S MONOLOGUE
21
From The Undivine Comedy)
>
WY
Hy does the boldness of this haughty Count
Still trouble me? Me, ruler of the millions !
Compared with mine, his force is but a shadow.
'Tis true, indeed, some hundreds of his serfs
Cling round him, as the dog stays by his master
In trusting confidence. That is sheer folly! . .
But why do I so long to see this Count,
To subjugate him, win him to our side ?
Has my clear spirit for the first time met
An equal ? Does he bar its onward fight?
Arrest it in its full development ?
The only obstacle before me now
Is his resistance: that I must o'ercome!
And then . . . and afterwards . . . and then . . .
## p. 8740 (#356) ###########################################
8740
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
O cunning intellect, canst thou deceive
Thyself as thou dost others ? . . . Canst not ? - No? . . .
O wretchedness! . . . Why dost thou doubt thyself?
Shame! . . . thou shouldst know thy power! Thou art
the thought,
The reason of the people; Sovereign Lord!
Thou canst control the millions, make their wills,
With all their giant forces, one with thine!
The might of All incarnate is in thee;
Thou art authority and government!
What would be crime in others, is in thee
Glory and fame! Thou givest name and place
To men unknown; a voice, a faith to brutes
Almost deprived of mental, moral worth !
In thine own image thou hast made a world,
An age created, - art thyself its god!
And yet thou hesitatest,- doubt'st thyself ?
No, no! a hundred times! . . . Thou art sublime!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
COUNT HENRY'S MONOLOGUE
From «The Undivine Comedy)
M
IDNIGHT! It was at this same solemn hour,
Surrounded by like perils and like thoughts,
The latest Brutus met his Evil Genius;
And such an apparition I await!
A man who has no name, no ancestors,
Who has no guardian angel, faith, nor God,
Whose mission is destruction to the past,
Will yet — unless I'm strong enough to hurl
Him back into his primal nothingness-
Destroy society, its laws and faith;
Found a new era in the fate of man!
Such is the modern Cæsar I await!
Eagle of glory, hear! Souls of my sires,
Inspire me with that fiery force which made
You rulers of the world. Oh, give to me
The lion heart which throbbed within your breasts!
Your austere majesty gird round my brow!
Rekindle in my soul your burning, blind,
l'nconquerable faith in Christ, his Church,
## p. 8741 (#357) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8741
The inspiration of your deeds on earth,
Your hopes in heaven! Light it again in me,
And I will scathe our foes with fire and sword;
Will conquer and destroy all who oppose me,
The myriads of the children of the dust.
I, the last son of hundred generations,
Sole heir of all your virtues, thoughts, and faults!
PER
INTRODUCTION TO THE LAST ACT
From "The Undivine Comedy)
ERCHED like an eagle, high among the rocks,
Stands the old fortress, Holy Trinity. ”
Now from its bastions nothing can be seen,
To right, to left, in front, or in the rear,
A spectral image of that Deluge wrath
Which, as its wild waves rose to sweep o’er earth,
Once broke o'er these steep cliffs, these time-worn rocks.
No glimpses can be traced of vale beneath,
Buried in ghastly waves of ice-cold sea,
Wrapping it as the shroud winds round the dead.
No crimson rays of coming sun yet light
The clammy, pallid winding-sheet of foam.
Upon a bold and naked granite peak,
Above the spectral mist, the castle stands,
A solitary island in this sea.
Its bastions, parapets, and lofty towers
Built of the rock from which they soar, appear
During the lapse of ages to have grown
Out of its stony heart (as human breast
Springs from the centaur's back), - the giant work
Of days long past.
A single banner floats
Above the highest tower; it is the last,
The only Banner of the Cross on earth!
A shudder stirs and wakes the sleeping mist,
The bleak winds sigh, and silence rules no more;
The vapor surges, palpitates, and drifts,
In the first rays shot by the coming sun.
The breeze is chill; the very light seems frost,
Curdling the clouds that form and roll and drift
## p. 8742 (#358) ###########################################
8742
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
Above this tossing sea of fog and foam.
With Nature's tumult other sounds arise,
And human voices mingling with the storm
Articulate their wail, as it sweeps on.
Borne on and upward by the lifting waves
Of the cloud-surge, they break against the towers,
The castle's granite walls — voices of doom!
Long golden shafts transpierce the sea of foam;
The clinging shroud of mist is swiftly riven;
Through vaporous walls that line the spectral chasin
Are glimpses seen of deep abyss below.
How dark it looks athwart the precipice!
Myriads of heads in wild commotion surge;
The valley swarms with life, as ocean's sands
With writhing things that creep and twist and sting.
The sun! the sun! he mounts above the peaks!
The driven, tortured vapors rise in blood;
More and more clearly grow upon the eye
The threatening swarms fast gathering below.
The quivering mist rolls into crimson clouds;
It scales the craggy cliffs, and softly melts
Into the depths of infinite blue sky.
The valley glitters like a sea of light,
Throws back the sunshine in a dazzling glare;
For every hand is armed with sharpened blade,
And bayonets and points of steel flash fire;
Millions are pouring through the living depths, -
As numberless as they at last will throng
Into the valley of Jehoshaphat,
When called to answer on the Judgment Day.
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
ARISTOCRACY'S LAST STAND
From «The Undivine Comedy)
AT
T LAST I see you, hated enemies!
With my whole power I trace your cunning plans,
Surround you with my scorn. No more we meet
Within the realm of idle words, of poetry,
But in the real world of deadly combat,
Sharp sword to sword, the rattling hail of bullets
## p. 8743 (#359) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8743
Winged by the concentration of my hate!
No more with single arm and voice I meet you
The strength of many centres in my will.
It is a joyous thing to govern, rule,
Even were it solely at the price of death;
To feel myself the sovereign arbiter,
The master of so many wills and lives;
To see there at my feet my enemies
Leaping and howling at me from the abyss,
But all bereft of power to reach me here:
So like the damned, who vainly lift their heads
Toward Heaven!
I know . . . I know, a few hours more of time,
And I and thousands of yon craven wretches
Who have forgot their fathers and their God
Will be no more forever! Be it so!
At least I have a few days more of life,
To satiate myself with joy of combat -
The ecstasy of full command o’er others,
The giddy daring, struggle, victory, loss!
Thou, my last song, swell to a chant of triumph,
For death's the latest foe a man can conquer!
The sun sets fast behind the needled cliffs,
Sinks in a darksome cloud of threatening vapors;
His crimson rays light luridly the valley. -
Precursor of the bloody death before me,
I greet you with a fuller, gladder heart
Than I have e'er saluted ye, vain hopes
And promises of joy or blissful love!
Not through intrigue, through base or cunning skill,
Have I attained the aim of my desires;
But by a sudden bound I've leaped to fame,
As my persistent dreams told me I must.
Ruler o'er those but yesterday my equals,
Conqueror of death, since willingly I seek him,
I stand upon the brink; – eternal life, or sleep!
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
## p. 8744 (#360) ###########################################
8744
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
THE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY
From The Undivine Comedy)
ANCRAS - The hour of rest has not yet struck for me!
The last sad sign of my last enemy
Marks the completion of but half my task.
Look at these spaces, these immensities,
Stretching between my thoughts and me.
Earth's deserts must be peopled, rocks removed,
Swamps drained, and mountains tunneled; trees hewn down;
Seas, lakes, and rivers everywhere connected,
Roads girdle earth, that produce circulate,
And commerce bind all hearts with links of gold.
Each man must own a portion of the soil;
Thought move on lightning wings rending old veils;
The living must outnumber all the hosts
Of those who've perished in this deadly strife;
Life and prosperity must fill the place
Of death and ruin,- ere our work of blood
Can be atoned for! Leonard, this must be done!
If we are not to inaugurate an age
Of social bliss, inaterial ease and wealth,
Our deeds of havoc, devastation, woe,
Will have been worse than vain!
Leonard — The God of liberty will give us power
For these gigantic tasks!
Pancras-
You speak of God!
Do you not see that it is crimson here?
Slippery with gore in which we stand knee-deep ?
Whose gushing blood is this beneath our feet ?
Naught is behind us save the castle court;
Whatever is, I see, and there is no one near. -
We are alone - and yet there surely stands
Another here between us. '
Leonard — I can see nothing but this bloody corpse!
Pancras -- The corpse of his old faithful servant - dead!
It is a living spirit haunts this spot!
This is his cap and belt; look at his arms;
There is the rock o'erhanging the abyss;
And on that spot it was his great heart broke!
Leonard — Pancras, how pale you grow!
Pancras -
Do you not see it ?
'Tis there! up there!
## p. 8745 (#361) ###########################################
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
8745
Leonard -
I see a mass of clouds
Wild-drifting o'er the top of that steep rock
O'erhanging the abyss. How high they pile!
Now they turn crimson in the sunset rays.
Pancras — There is a fearful symbol burning there!
Leonard – Your sight deceives you.
Pancras
Where are now my people ?
The millions who revered and who obeyed me?
Leonari - You hear their acclamations, — they await you.
Pancras, look not again on yon steep cliff, -
Your eyes die in their sockets as you gaze!
Pancras - Children and women often said that He
Would thus appear,— but on the last day only!
Leonard — Who? Where?
Pancras
Like a tall column there he stands,
In dazzling whiteness o'er yon precipice!
With both his hands he leans upon his cross,
As an avenger on his sword! Leonard,
His crown of thorns is interlaced with lightning -
Leonard — What is the matter? - Pancras, answer me!
Pancras — The dazzling flashes of his eyes are death!
Leonard — You're ghastly pale! Come, let us quit this spot!
Pancras -- Oh! - Leonard, spread your hands and shade my eyes!
Press, press them till I see no more! Tear me away!
Oh, shield me from that look! It crushes me to dust!
Leonard (placing his hands over the eyes] —
Will it do thus ?
Pancras
Your hands are like a phantom's!
Powerless — with neither flesh nor bones!
Transparent as pure water, crystal, air,
They shut out nothing! I can see! still see!
Leonard -- Your eyes die in their sockets! Lean on me!
Pancras
Can you not give me darkness ? Darkness! Darkness!
He stands there motionless, — pierced with three nails, –
Three stars!
His outstretched arms are lightning flashes! — Darkness ! -
Leonard — I can see nothing! Master! Master!
Pancras
Darkness!
Leonard - Ho! citizens! Ho! democrats! aid! aid !
Pancras VICISTI GALILÆE!
[He falls dead. ]
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
## p. 8746 (#362) ###########################################
8746
SIGISMUND KRASINSKI
APPEAL TO POLAND
From Temptation
O
MOTHER, many times murdered! When thou shalt waken
from sleep, and again. . . feel thy youth returning upon
thee, thou wilt remember thy long night of death, the ter-
rible phantoms of thy protracted agonies. Weep not then,
0
mother! weep not for those who fell in glorious battle, nor for
those who perished on alien soil; although their flesh was torn
by the vulture and devoured by the wolf, they were still happy!
Neither weep for those who died in the dark and silent dungeon
underground by the hand of the executioner: though the dismal
prison lamp was their only star, and the harsh words of the op-
pressor the last farewell they heard on earth, they too were happy!
But drop a tear, O Mother! one tear of tender pity for those
who were deceived by thy murderers, misled by their tissues
of glittering falsehood, blinded by misty veils woven of specious
deceptions, when the command of the tyrant had no power to
tear their true hearts from thee! Alas, Mother, these victims
have suffered the most of all thy martyred children! Deceitful
hopes, born but to die, like blades of naked steel forever pierced
their breasts! Thousands of fierce combats, unknown to fame,
were waging in their souls; combats fuller of bitter suffering
than the bloody battles thundering on in the broad light of the
sun, clashing with the gleam of steel, and booming with the roar
of artillery. No glory shone on the dim paths of thy deceived
sons; thy reproachful phantom walked ever beside them, as part
of their own shadow! The glittering eye of the enemy lured
them to the steep slopes of ice, down into the abyss of eternal
snow; and at every step into the frozen depths, their tears fell
fast for thee! They waited until their hearts withered in the
misery of hope long deferred; until their hands sank in utter
weariness; until they could no longer move their emaciated limbs
in the fetters of their invisible chain; still conscious of life, they
moved as living corpses with frozen hearts -— alone amidst a
hating people --- alone even in the sanctuary of their own homes
- alone forever on the face of the earth!
My Mother! When thou shalt live again in thy olden glory,
shed a tear over their wretched fate, over the agony of agonies;
and whisper upon their dark and silent graves the sublime word,
PARDON.
Translation of Martha Walker Cook.
## p. 8747 (#363) ###########################################
8747
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(1811-1883)
THE literary pilgrim of two or three decades ago had desired
to pay his respects to the most delightful French teller of
fairy tales, he might have had to interrupt a session of the
Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, to disturb the wise men
of the Académie des Sciences Morales, to sit out a debate in the
Assemblée Nationale, or to attend the leisure of the distinguished
Professeur de Législation Comparée in the Collège de France; for all
these institutions laid claim to the assist-
ance of the profound scholar and philo-
sophic statesman, Édouard Laboulaye.
As, however, that eminent original math-
ematician and writer of many solid treatises
on numbers, Charles Dodgson, is to be re-
membered as the happy author of Alice in
Wonderland, so the jurisconsult and politi-
cal economist Laboulaye will live in grate-
ful remembrance for his Contes Bleus) and
Nouveaux Contes Bleus,' — stories of witch
and elf, of fairy and enchanter,— rather than
for his great services to learning.
He was born in Paris in 1811, under the
ÉDOUARD LABOULAYE
First Empire, at the height of its deceptive
splendor. His family was undistinguished, but intelligent and pro-
gressive. Educated in the usual French way, at school and college,
he turned his mature thoughts first to business, setting up a type
foundry with his brother Charles, who presently became an eminent
inventor. The scientific bent which characterized the family inclined
Édouard, however, to legal, historical, and philosophic investigations.
In his twenty-eighth year he made himself a distinguished name
among scholars by the publication of his Histoire du Droit de Pro-
priété Foncière en Occident' (History of Landed Property in Europe),
a work crowned by the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres.
The next year he brought out a remarkable book, Essai sur la Vie
et les Ouvrages de Savigny' (The Life and Doctrines of Savigny);
a memoir which not only introduced to French readers the great
2.
## p. 8748 (#364) ###########################################
8748
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(
German jurist and politician, but familiarized them with the new
comparative method in historical investigation.
Three years later appeared a still more famous volume, 'Recherches
sur la Condition Civile et Politique des Femmes depuis les Romains
jusqu'à nos jours (The Civil and Political Condition of Women
from the time of the Romans). This was the first scientific inquiry
into the causes and sources of the heavy legal disabilities of women,
affording a basis for the first ameliorative legislation. A remarkable
historical study, showing nice literary workmanship, it was crowned
by the Academy of Moral Sciences for its ethical value.
Meantime the enthusiastic student had been admitted to the bar
and begun to practice. He found time, however, to write various
books on jurisprudence - Roman Criminal Law, Literary Property
in France and England, The State and its Limits,' with many
minor treatises and studies. A Liberal by conviction, he set himself
to propagate Liberal opinions under the repressive conditions of the
Second Empire. Finding his ideal in the republican institutions of
America, he wrote as a tract for the times A Political History of
the United States. During the Civil War his ardent friendship for
this country prompted him to produce 'The United States and
France,' an eloquent plea for the Union; and (Paris in America,' a
brilliant allegorical satire which passed through numberless editions.
Indefatigable, he translated into French the works of William Ellery
Channing, edited the biography and correspondence of Benjamin
Franklin, wrote treatises on Germany and the Slavonic countries and
on the political philosophy of Alexis de Tocqueville, poured forth
reminiscences of travel, essays on slavery, religious liberty, constitu-
tional republicanism, or political economy, and published anonymous
satires on the government.
This then was the public-spirited citizen, the learned jurist and
accomplished scholar, who yet found time to write three volumes of
delightful fairy stories for the pleasure of his grandchildren. Of the
first of these, Abdallah,' he once said, “This little volume cost me
more than a year's study. There is not a detail in it that is not
borrowed from some volume of Eastern travel; and I read the Koran
twice through (a wearisome task) in order to extract therefrom a
morality that might put Christians to the blush, though it is practiced
by Arabs. ” In the same way he has filled his national fairy stories —
Russian, Hungarian, Bohemian, Spanish — with local color and race
characteristics. In many of them the brilliant censor who wrote
Paris in America and Prince Caniche) uses the grotesque and
whimsical to veil a searching satire. But so delicate is his art that
while the offenders may see themselves in the mirror he holds up to
nature, the innocent read for the story alone. Full of wit, humor, and
## p. 8749 (#365) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8749
invention, finely imaginative, and written in a graceful and charining
style, these fairy tales would alone have given their author a place
among distinguished French writers. Unfortunately it is only the less
important which are short enough to be cited in this volume.
When Laboulaye died, in 1883, the Republic for which he had
labored lavished on him the tributes of her foremost scholars and
statesmen. But the memorial he himself desired was the affectionate
remembrance of the children to whom he had revealed an ideal
world. Experience will teach you only too quickly,” he said, ad-
dressing them, that the truest and sweetest things in life are not
those which we see, but those of which we dream. Then, in repeat-
ing my tales to the young folks whom I shall never see, perhaps you
will find pleasure in talking to them of the old man who delighted
in trying to amuse children. I desire no other fame. This immor-
tality suffices me. ”
»
THE TWELVE MONTHS
A BOHEMIAN TALE
From the Fairy Book. )
Translated by Mary L. Booth, and published by
Harper & Brothers
HERE
was
once
a woman who was left a widow with two
children. The elder, who was only her stepdaughter, was
named Dobrunka; the younger, who was as wicked as her
mother, was called Katinka. The mother worshiped her daugh-
ter, but she hated Dobrunka simply because she was as beautiful
as her sister was ugly. Dobrunka did not even know that she
was pretty, and she could not understand why her stepmother
flew into a rage at the mere sight of her. The poor child was
obliged to do all the work of the house; she had to sweep,
cook, wash, sew, spin, weave, cut the grass, and take care of
the cow, while Katinka lived like a princess, — that is to say,
did nothing
Dobrunka worked with a good will, and took reproaches
and blows with the gentleness of a lamb; but nothing soothed
her stepmother, for every day added to the beauty of the elder
sister and the ugliness of the younger. « They are growing
up,
► thought the mother, and suitors will soon appear, who will
refuse my daughter when they see this hateful Dobrunka, who
grows beautiful on purpose to spite me. I must get rid of her,
cost what it may. ”
)
## p. 8750 (#366) ###########################################
8750
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(
»
>
One day in the middle of January, Katinka took a fancy for
some violets. She called Dobrunka, and said, "Go to the forest
and bring me a bunch of violets, that I may put them in my
bosom and enjoy their fragrance. ”
“Oh, sister, what an idea! answered Dobrunka: « as if there
were any violets under the snow!
"Hold your tongue, stupid fool," returned her sister, "and do
as I bid you.
If you do not go to the forest and bring me back
a bunch of violets, I will beat you to a jelly. ” Upon this the
mother took Dobrunka by the arm, put her out of the door, and
drew the bolt on her.
The poor girl went to the forest weeping bitterly. Every-
thing was covered with snow; there was not even a footpath.
She lost her way and wandered about, till, famishing with hunger
and perishing with cold, she entreated God to take her from this
wretched life.
All at once she saw a light in the distance.
She went on,
climbing higher and higher, until at last she reached the top of
a huge rock, upon which a great fire was built. Around the fire
were twelve stones; and on each stone sat a motionless figure,
wrapped in a large mantle, his head covered with a hood which
fell over his eyes. Three of these mantles were white like the
snow, three were green like the grass of the meadows, three
were golden like the sheaves of ripe wheat, and three were pur-
ple like the grapes of the vine. These twelve figures, gazing
at the fire in silence, were the Twelve Months of the year.
Dobrunka knew January by his long white beard.
He was
the only one that had a staff in his hand. The poor girl was
terribly frightened. She drew near, saying in a timid voice,
"My good sirs, please to let me warm myself by your fire: I am
freezing with cold. ”
January nodded his head. “Why have you come here, my
child ? ” he asked. “What are you looking for ? ”
"I am looking for violets,” replied Dobrunka.
« This is not the season for them: there are no violets in the
time of snow,” said January in his gruff voice.
“I know it,” replied Dobrunka sadly; “but my sister and
mother will beat me to a jelly if I do not bring them some. My
good sirs, please to tell me where I can find them. ”
Old January rose, and turning to a young man in a green
mantle, put his staff in his hand, and said to him, "Brother
March, this is your business. ”
(
## p. 8751 (#367) ###########################################
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
8751
»
March rose in turn, and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames rose, the snow melted, the buds put forth on
the trees, the grass turned green under the bushes, the flowers
peeped through the verdure, and the violets opened - it was
spring
"Make haste, my child, and gather your violets,” said March.
Dobrunka gathered a large bouquet, thanked the Twelve
Months, and joyfully ran home. You can imagine the aston-
ishment of Katinka and the stepmother. The fragrance of the
violets filled the whole house.
“Where did you get these fine things? ” asked Katinka in a
disdainful voice.
“Up yonder, on the mountain,” answered her sister. It
looked like a great blue carpet under the bushes. ”
Katinka put the bouquet in her bosom, and did not even
thank the poor child.
The next morning the wicked sister, as she sat idling by the
stove, took a fancy for some strawberries. “Go to the forest and
bring me some strawberries,” said she to Dobrunka.
“O sister, what an idea! as if there were any strawberries
under the snow! »
"Hold your tongue, stupid fool, and do as I bid you.
don't go to the forest and bring me back a basket of strawberries,
I will beat you to a jelly. ”
The mother took Dobrunka by the arm, put her out of the
door, and drew the bolt on her.
The poor girl returned to the forest, looking with all her
eyes for the light that she had seen the day before.
She was
fortunate enough to spy it, and she reached the fire trembling
and almost frozen. The Twelve Months were in their places,
motionless and silent.
My good sirs,” said Dobrunka, "please to let me warm my-
self by your fire: I am almost frozen with cold. ”
“Why have you returned ? " asked January.
« What are you
looking for ? »
“I am looking for strawberries," answered she.
« This is not the season for them,” returned January in his
gruff voice: “there are no strawberries under the snow. ”
“I know it,” replied Dobrunka sadly; "but my mother and
sister will beat me to a jelly if I do not bring them some. My
good sirs, please to tell me where I can find them. ”
If you
## p. 8752 (#368) ###########################################
8752
ÉDOUARD RENÉ LEFEBVRE LABOULAYE
(C
»
(
Old January rose, and turning to a man in a golden mantle,
he put his staff in his hand, saying, “Brother June, this is your
business. ”
June rose in turn, and stirred the fire with the staff, when
behold! the flames rose, the snow melted, the earth grew green,
the trees were covered with leaves, the birds sang, and the
flowers opened - it was summer. Thousands of little white stars
enameled the turf, then turned to red strawberries; looking, in
their green cups, like rubies set in emeralds.
"Make haste, my child, and gather your strawberries,” said
June.
Dobrunka filled her apron, thanked the Twelve Months, and
joyfully ran home. You may imagine the astonishment of Ka-
tinka and the stepmother.
