Zelindor was the
handsomest
and most foppish
of all the genii.
of all the genii.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v22 - Sac to Sha
"-
## p. 13079 (#513) ##########################################
SIR WALTER SCOTT
13079
Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Than reign our English queen.
"I read you, by your bugle-horn,
And by your palfrey good,
I read you for a Ranger sworn,
To keep the king's greenwood. ".
"A Ranger, lady, winds his horn,
And 'tis at peep of light;
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night. >>
Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay:
I would I were with Edmund there,
To reign his Queen of May!
-
"With burnished brand and musketoon,
So gallantly you come,
I read you for a bold Dragoon,
That lists the tuck of drum. ".
"I list no more the tuck of drum,
No more the trumpet hear;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,
My comrades take the spear.
And oh! though Brignall banks be fair,
And Greta woods be gay,
Yet mickle must the maiden dare
Would reign my Queen of May!
"Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
A nameless death I'll die:
The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead,
Were better mate than I!
And when I'm with my comrades met,
Beneath the greenwood bough,
What once we were we all forget,
Nor think what we are now.
Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer queen. "
## p. 13080 (#514) ##########################################
13080
SIR WALTER SCOTT
·
BONNY DUNDEE
T
O THE Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who spoke,—
"Ere the King's crown shall fall there are crowns to be
broke;
So let each Cavalier who loves honor and me
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Chorus: - Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;
Come open the West Port, and let me gang free,
And it's room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee! "
Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street:
The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat;
But the Provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let him be,—
The gude town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee. "
[Chorus.
As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow,
Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow;
But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee,
Thinking, Luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee!
[Chorus.
With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market* was crammed,
As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged:
There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e,
As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.
[Chorus.
These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears,
And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers;
But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free,
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
[Chorus.
He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock,
And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke:
:-
"Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three,
For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. "
[Chorus.
The Gordon demands of him which way he goes:—
"Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose!
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me,
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
[Chorus.
"There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth;
If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North;
*The place of public execution.
## p. 13081 (#515) ##########################################
SIR WALTER SCOTT
13081
There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three,
Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
"There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide;
There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside:
The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free,
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
"Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,—
Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the fox;
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee,-
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me! ”
The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust
The bloodless claymore is but reddened with rust;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.
He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown,
The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on;
Till on Ravelston's cliffs, and on Clermiston's lea,
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee.
The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.
[Chorus.
[Chorus.
O high-minded Moray! the exiled, the dear!
In the blush of the dawning the STANDARD uprear!
Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly,
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh!
[Chorus.
FLORA MAC-IVOR'S SONG
From Waverley'
TH
HERE is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael.
A stranger commanded,—it sunk on the land,
It has frozen each heart and benumbed every hand!
[Chorus.
But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last!
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays,
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.
## p. 13082 (#516) ##########################################
13082
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake?
That dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.
O sprung from the kings who in Islay kept state,
Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glengarry, and Sleat!
Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow,
And resistless in union rush down on the foe.
True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel,
Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel!
Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell,
Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!
Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail,
Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale!
May the race of Clan-Gillian, the fearless and free,
Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee!
Let the clan of Gray Fingon, whose offspring has given
Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven,
Unite with the race of renowned Rorri More,
To launch the long galley and stretch to the oar!
How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display
The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of gray!
How the race of wronged Alpine and murdered Glencoe
Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!
Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar,
Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More!
Mac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake,
For honor, for freedom, for vengeance awake!
Awake on your hills, on your islands awake,
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake!
'Tis the bugle-but not for the chase is the call;
'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons - but not to the hall.
'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death,
When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath;
They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe,
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.
Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire!
May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire!
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore!
Or die, like your sires, and endure it no more!
## p. 13083 (#517) ##########################################
13083
AUGUSTIN EUGENE SCRIBE
(1791-1861)
FTER the spirited comedy of Beaumarchais came a lull in
dramatic production in France. The public yawned over
long dull plays, or applauded mediocre work for its cheap
reflection of popular sentiment. Then Eugène Scribe came to the
rescue, having gradually found out what the public taste craved. He
had learned this through perhaps a dozen failures, when his shrewd
instinct guided him to seize upon vaudeville, and dignify it to the
rank of laugh-provoking comedy. His plot,
as ingeniously contrived as a Chinese puz-
zle, was a frame upon which he hung clever
dialogue, catchy songs, puns, popular allus-
ions, and manifold witticisms.
His first successful vaudeville, 'Une Nuit
du Garde National,' in one act, written in
collaboration with Poirson, another young
author, was played at the Gymnase in 1816,
and was the beginning of Scribe's astonish-
ing popularity.
EUGENE SCRIBE
For about forty years he was the master
playwright of France. He grew more and
more cunning in estimating his audience,
flattering their foibles, and reflecting con-
temporary interests. He was strictly unmoral, and offered no prob-
lems. His light frothy humor required no mental effort; he diverted
without fatiguing. So Paris loved Scribe, paid him a fortune, made
him a great social as well as literary light, and in 1836 admitted him
to the Academy. From his father, a prosperous silk merchant in
Paris, where he himself was born in 1791, he inherited decided busi-
ness talent. Perhaps no author has ever received fuller measure of
pecuniary success.
Wonderful tales are told of his intuitive comprehension of dramatic
possibilities. One day 'La Chanoinesse,' a dull five-act tragedy, was
read to him. Before the end had been reached, his mind had the
plot transformed into a witty one-act burlesque. He was less invent-
ive than skillful at adaptation, so he often borrowed ideas from
more fertile and less executive brains. For these, Scribe, always the
## p. 13084 (#518) ##########################################
13084
AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
honorable business man, gave due credit.
So it is said that many a
poverty-stricken writer was surprised to be claimed as collaborator by
the great M. Scribe, and to receive generous payment for ideas which
in their changed form he could hardly recognize as his own.
After 1840 Scribe partially deserted the clever buffoonery of his
vaudeville, and attempted serious five-act dramas. Of these, two of
the best 'Adrienne Lecouvreur' and 'La Bataille des Dames' (The
Ladies' Battle) were written with Legouvé; and in translation are
familiar to American playgoers.
-
Scribe turned his hand to most kinds of composition. He wrote
several volumes of charming tales. He was especially skillful in the
composition of librettos for the operas of Verdi, Auber, Meyerbeer,
and other composers. He was remarkably prolific, and about four
hundred pieces are included in the published list of his works; from
which, however, many waifs and strays of his talent are omitted.
Although most of his plays, once so cordially liked, are now obso-
lete, Scribe has a lasting claim to remembrance in that his mastery
of stage technique guided greater dramatists than himself to more
effective expression. Perhaps no one ever lived with a stronger
sense of scenic requirements. His plays could not drag. Although
often superficial in his effort to sketch lightly contemporary life, and
in his preoccupation with every-day general human interests, Scribe
anticipated the drama of realism.
MERLIN'S PET FAIRY
O
NE night, Merlin, sad and dreamy, was gazing over the im-
mensity of heaven. He thought he heard a light sound
below him. A frightful tempest was upheaving the ocean.
The waves, piled mountain high, scattered salt water to the skies.
Merlin went higher to avoid a wetting; and by the light of the
stars he saw, like an imperceptible point on the summit of the
waves, a vessel about to sink. There was service to render, suf-
fering to relieve. Merlin forgot his dreams and darted forth,
but too late. Pitiless fate anticipated him; and the ship, dashed
against the cliffs, was flying in a thousand pieces.
All the passengers had perished except one woman, who was
still struggling. She held a little daughter in her arms whom
she tried to save.
"Protecting angels," she cried, "save her! watch over her! "
When her strength deserted her she disappeared, just as Mer-
lin descended from the clouds and touched the surface of the
## p. 13085 (#519) ##########################################
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13085
water. He heard the poor mother's last words, caught up her
child, and bore it back to the skies.
He warmed the little creature's chilled limbs in his hands.
Was she still breathing? In doubt, he recalled her to life or gave
her a new one by means of his magic power, with a ray of dawn'
and a drop of dew. Then Merlin gazed at the poor child with
delighted eyes.
"You shall be a fairy," he said to her. "You shall be my
pet fairy. The misfortune and death which presided over your
birth can never thenceforth touch you. "
The baby opened her eyes and smiled at him, and Merlin
carried his treasure to his crystal and flowery palace in the
clouds.
The young fairy was charming, and Merlin wished to endow
her with all gifts, all talents, all virtues. He gave her the heart
which loves and is loved; the mind which pleases and amuses
others, and the grace which always charms.
He gave her his own power (without making her his equal,
however), with only one condition: that she should love him,
and prefer him to all the sylphs and heavenly spirits, however
beautiful, who shone in Ginnistan. Mighty Alaciel, the supreme
genie presiding over this empire, loved the enchanter Merlin, and
consented to all his desires. All that he asked for the young
fairy was granted and immutably ratified by destiny.
Never had Merlin been more happy than while pretty Vivian
was growing up under his eyes. That was the name he had
given her, the name which was to make her immortal; for never
has love been more celebrated than that of the enchanter Mer-
lin for the fairy Vivian. All legends tell of it, all chronicles
attest it, and traces of it are still preserved on the walls of old
monuments.
Merlin had no other delight than in Vivian; and she knew no
joy apart from her benefactor. Although still very young, the
wit and intelligence with which she was endowed soon taught
her to appreciate his worth and all that she owed to him. Full
of gratitude for his goodness and admiration for his talents, she
listened to his lessons with an avidity and pleasure which flat-
tered the scholar's self-love; while, gracious and attentive, her
cares for. him delighted the old man's heart.
So she could not be separated from him, but accompanied
him in all his journeys and investigations, and shared all his
## p. 13086 (#520) ##########################################
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AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
labors, which were pleasures for her. She loved to soar through
space with him, admiring far off the stars, whose revolutions and
movements in heaven he explained to her; then redescending
toward earth, both invisible, they would hover over castles and
cottages, inspiring noble lords with kind thoughts for their vas-
sals, and bearing hope and consolation to the vassals. In sleep
they showed the poor mother her absent son; to the young girl
her lover; to all they sent golden dreams which later were real-
ized. Do you see that pilgrim worn out with heat and fatigue
sleeping under an elm on the wayside? He wakes consumed with
hunger and burning thirst, and sees over his head a bough loaded
with superb pears. O surprise! Where did this tree which he
had not noticed before, come from? Or rather, what changed
the sterile young elm into a fruit-tree during his sleep?
It was
Vivian!
And that young girl, how unhappy she is! Sitting on the
bank of a stream, she weeps and mourns! She had a gold cross,
her only ornament, her riches! Taking it off to clean it or look
at it, she has let it fall to the bottom of the deep water. Lost!
lost forever! And just then she feels around her neck a wet
ribbon, which an invisible hand has replaced; and at the end of
the ribbon shines the gold cross, which she thought never to see
again. The little fairy has plunged under the waves and brought
it back.
Another time a poor tenant, torn from his family, is being
dragged to prison because he owes a pitiless master ten crowns
rent, which he has not been able to pay! And suddenly his
sobbing wife, who accompanies him, finds in her apron pocket
twenty bright gold crowns which she does not remember ever
putting there! Who slipped them there? Vivian's little hand!
Oh, kind pleasant fairy, delighting in the good she does-and
Merlin still happier at seeing her do it!
Months and years succeeded each other. Fairies grow quickly.
Their beauty need not fear to ripen, as it is to endure always!
Nothing more charming than Vivian ever shone in Ginnistan.
Her pretty blonde hair, her blue eyes reflecting the sky, her
dainty figure, light and airy, her quick smile, set her above other
fairies.
As to character, hers was charming and impossible to define.
She was both reasonable and frivolous, equally serious over feasts
and toilets, good works and pretty dresses; knowing a great
## p. 13087 (#521) ##########################################
AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
13087
deal, and as amusing as if she knew nothing. Coquettish in
mind but not in heart, gracious and good, laughing and mis-
chievous, above all kind and beloved by every one,-such was
Vivian. With a word or a smile she triumphed over all resist-
ance, overturned all obstacles; and when her pretty little hand
caressed Merlin's white beard, the great enchanter could refuse
her nothing. Far more, he exercised all his art to discover her
tastes and anticipate her wishes! To him science had no longer
any end but that of creating pleasures for Vivian.
Thus, anticipating by magic the genius of future ages, he
devised wonders for her which we think we have discovered since
then, but which we have only refound. Our new inventions are
only copies, more or less able, of all Merlin's secrets. Among
them were prodigies compared with which those of steam are
only child's play,- the art of traversing air and directing one's
course at will on a cloud or winged dragon, and a thousand
other sorceries which we do not know yet.
Not content with creating palaces and aerial gardens for Viv-
ian, to please her he descended to the least details. Our pret-
tiest-I mean oddest - fashions, our most coquettish jewels, our
most precious fabrics, were then invented for her. Her crystal
palace was lighted by a thousand magical fires, which since we
have learned to call gas or electric light.
Within this palace he had raised a fairy temple, which many
centuries later we thought to invent under the name of Opera!
In rooms enriched with gold and velvet, Vivian and the court of
Ginnistan gave themselves to noble pleasures. Dancing and
music exerted all their allurements. There were delicious songs
still unknown to earth, which later Merlin revealed to Gluck, Mo-
zart, Rossini, Auber, Meyerbeer, unless indeed these stole them.
for themselves from heaven.
Thus Merlin watched over the amusements of his young fairy,
and still more over the happiness of her every minute; for he
had taught her never to be idle. Under her skillful fingers the
brush or the needle created little masterpieces, so perfect and
elegant that they gave rise to the expression "to work like the
fairies"!
And note that before Vivian, fairies did nothing. Their only
diversion was to busy themselves with love affairs or intrigues
on earth. Their home was most monotonous, and they did not
know what to do with themselves in heaven. There, as in all
## p. 13088 (#522) ##########################################
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AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
courts of any rank, the receptions and companies almost killed
one with their dullness. Drawn up in a circle on feast days,
the fairies gazed upon each other in fixed beauty, which they
did not have even the fear of losing or seeing change.
As to the sylphs and genii who stood behind them, they too
yawned in their immortality. Judge then how they appreciated
the presentation to court of a witty, amiable, vivacious fairy.
She turned all heads, and drew all attention. They knew the
distractions of love; and the genii thought it would be delightful
to rob the old enchanter of the charming young girl he was
guarding.
One morning in Merlin's absence, Vivian found a satiny little
note on her dressing-table, containing a declaration of love,
signed Zelindor.
Zelindor was the handsomest and most foppish
of all the genii. In manner and bearing, in his least actions,
he concerned himself with only one thing,- to know if he was
admired; and his eyes, which were superb, seemed to have been
given him only to see whether or not he was being noticed.
That evening Vivian found in her work-basket a dozen other
little satiny papers.
As soon as Merlin returned, she carried him the whole col-
lection. The indignant enchanter wanted to rage.
"Read them first," she said.
He read, and then tremblingly asked what she thought of all
these demonstrations of affection.
"I think," she answered, "that they are very badly written. "
«< They say nothing to your heart? "
"Nothing. "
Merlin wore two rings on his left hand. One was an emer-
ald: when he took it off his finger and held it to his mouth, he
ceased to be invisible, and appeared under his true form to mor-
tal eyes. The other, more useful and more to be feared, was of
a single ruby. With this ring he could read hearts, and see
what every one was thinking.
He seized this ring, regarded it attentively, and was soon
convinced that Vivian had spoken the truth.
"Yes! yes! " he cried. "You are indifferent to Zelindor and
all the other sylphs, and prefer me. "
"Ah! that's unkind! " cried Vivian interrupting him, "very
unkind! "
"To convince myself of your friendship? "
## p. 13089 (#523) ##########################################
AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
13089
"No! But to surprise the secrets that I want to have the
pleasure of telling you. "
"Ah! you are charming! " cried Merlin, transported with joy.
"So you love me, then? "
"Aren't you my friend, my benefactor, my father, to whom I
owe everything? "
"Yes,—it is true," said the enchanter, only half satisfied: "and
I love you too, Vivian, ardently, passionately; and that is the
way I want you to love me. ”
"I don't understand," said Vivian. "I prefer you to all
whom I see or hear,-to all who are about us. "
"Yes," said Merlin to himself, "that is just what I once
asked from Alaciel, and which he has granted. But," he said,
speaking out loud without meaning to do so, "I made a great
mistake in not asking more. "
"And what more do you want? " she asked with an affection-
ate smile.
"When you are with me, does your heart beat more quickly? »
་
"No," answered Vivian in a pure, candid voice.
"And yet you love me a little ? "
"Better than all the world. "
"And you consent, dear child, to be mine? »
"Yes. "
Merlin kissed the fresh rosy cheek of the young fairy, and
trembling with emotion, let himself fall into a chair, gazing after
Vivian as she bounded away and disappeared behind the clumps
of lilacs.
THE PRICE OF LIFE
J
OSEPH, opening the parlor door, came to tell us the post-chaise
was ready. My mother and sister threw themselves in my
arms.
"It is not too late," they said. "Give up this journey. Stay
with us. "
«<< Mother, I am a gentleman; I am twenty years old; I must
have a name in the country. I must make my way, either in
the army or at court. "
"And when you are gone, what will become of me, Bernard ? »
"You will be happy and proud to hear of your son's success. "
XXII-819
## p. 13090 (#524) ##########################################
AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
13090
"And if you are killed in some battle? "
"What matters it? What is life? Does a man think of
that? When a man is twenty and a gentleman, he thinks only
of glory. In a few years, mother, I'll come back a colonel, or
marshal, or else with a fine office at Versailles. "
"Ah well! what will come of it if you do? "
"I shall be respected and thought much of. ”
"What then? "
"Then every one will salute me. "
"And then? ”
"Then I will wed my cousin Henrietta, and settle my young
sisters in marriage, and we will all live with you, tranquil and
happy in my Bretagne domain. "
"And why can't you begin to-day? Didn't your father leave
us the finest fortune in the country? Is there a richer domain
for ten leagues around, or a finer castle than Roche-Bernard?
Do not your vassals respect you? As you go through the village,
does any one fail to take off his hat? Don't leave us, my son!
Stay with your friends, your sisters, and your old mother who
may not be here when you come back. Don't squander in vain-
glory, or shorten by all kinds of cares and torments, the days that
roll so fast anyway. Life is so sweet, my boy, and the sun of
Bretagne so glorious! "
While speaking, she pointed through the windows at the
pretty paths of my park, the old chestnut-trees in blossom, the
lilacs and honeysuckles which perfumed the air. In the ante-
chamber the gardener and all his family had gathered sad and
silent, seeming to express-"Don't go, young master, don't go. "
Hortense, my elder sister, pressed me in her arms; and Amélie,
my little sister, who was looking at the pictures in a volume of
La Fontaine, offered me the book.
"Read, read, brother," she said weeping.
It was the fable of the two pigeons! I rose brusquely; I
pushed them all away.
"I am twenty, and a gentleman: I must have honor and
fame. Let me go. "
And I hurried into the court. I was stepping into the post-
chaise when a woman appeared on the steps. It was Henrietta.
She did not weep, she did not utter a word; but, pale and
trembling, she could scarcely support herself. With the white
## p. 13091 (#525) ##########################################
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13091
handkerchief in her hand she waved me a last good-by, then
fell unconscious. I rushed to her, lifted her, pressed her in my
arms, swore to love her always; and as she came to herself, leav-
ing her to the care of my mother and sisters, I ran to my car-
riage without stopping or turning my head. If I had looked at
Henrietta I could not have gone.
A few minutes later the post-chaise was rolling along the thor-
oughfare. For a long time I thought of nothing but my sisters,
my mother, and Henrietta, and all the happiness I was leaving
behind me. But as the towers of Roche-Bernard gradually van-
ished, these ideas faded; and soon dreams of glory and ambition
took possession of my mind. What projects, what castles in
Spain, what fine actions, I created for myself in my post-chaise!
Riches, honors, dignities, all kinds of success, I denied myself
nothing; I merited and received everything; finally, rising in
rank as I proceeded, I became duke, peer, provincial governor,
and marshal of France, before reaching my inn in the evening!
My servant's voice, modestly calling me "Monsieur," forced me
to return to myself and abdicate.
The following days the same dreams, the same intoxication,
for my journey was a long one. I was going to the neigh-
borhood of Sedan, to the Duke of C; an old friend of my
father, and patron of my family. He was to take me to Paris,
where he was expected at the end of the month; present me at
Versailles, and obtain for me through his influence a company
of dragoons.
――――
I reached Sedan in the evening, and as it was late I post-
poned calling upon my patron until the morrow; and went to
lodge at the Arms of France, the finest hotel in the city, and
the usual rendezvous for officers. For Sedan is a garrisoned
town. The streets have a warlike aspect, and the citizens them-
selves a martial bearing, which seems to tell strangers, "We are
compatriots of the great Turenne. "
While chatting at the supper table I inquired the way to the
Duke of C's castle, which was about three leagues from the
town.
"Any one will tell you," they said. "It is well known about
here. It is there that a great warrior, a celebrated man,- Mar-
shal Fabert,- died. "
And the conversation turned to Marshal Fabert, as was quite
natural among young soldiers. They talked of his battles, his
-
## p. 13092 (#526) ##########################################
AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
13092
exploits, his modesty,- which made him refuse letters of nobil-
ity and the collar of his order offered him by Louis XIV. They
spoke especially of the remarkable good fortune which had made
the simple soldier-the son of a printer-a marshal of France.
At that time he was the sole example of such advancement,
which even during his life had seemed so extraordinary that the
vulgar had not hesitated to assign it to supernatural causes.
They said that from childhood he had busied himself with magic
and sorcery; that he had made a compact with the devil.
And our landlord, who added the credulity of the Breton to
the stupidity of a peasant of Champagne, assured us with great
coolness that in the castle where Fabert had died, a black man
whom no one knew had been seen to go into his room, and had
then disappeared, bearing with him the marshal's soul, which
belonged to him from an earlier purchase. He said that even
yet, in May, the time of Fabert's death, the black man appeared
at evening carrying a little light.
This story enlivened our dessert, and we drank a bottle of
champagne to Fabert's familiar demon, inviting him to take us
also under his protection, and to make us gain a few battles like
Colhoures and La Marféc.
The next day I rose early, and made my way to the castle of
the Duke of C; an immense Gothic manor which at another
time I might not have noticed especially, but which, remembering
the account of the evening before, I now regarded with curiosity
and emotion.
The valet to whom I addressed myself answered that he did
not know whether his master was at home, or if he could receive
me. I gave him my name, and he left me alone in a kind of
armory, hung with paraphernalia of the chase and family por-
traits.
I waited for some time, and no one came. So the career of
glory and honor I had dreamed began in the antechamber, I said
to myself; and grew discontented and impatient. I had counted
the family portraits and the beams of the ceiling two or three
times, when I heard a slight sound. A door not quite closed had
been blown ajar. I looked in, and saw a very pretty room, lighted
by a glass door and by two great windows which looked upon
a magnificent park. I took a few steps in this room, and then
stopped at a sight I had not yet noticed. A man with his back
toward me was lying on a sofa. He rose, and without noticing
## p. 13093 (#527) ##########################################
AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
13093
me, rushed to the window. Tears furrowed his cheeks. Pro-
found despair seemed printed on all his features. He stood
motionless for some time, with his head buried in his hands;
then he began to stride up and down. Now he saw me and trem-
bled. I, pained and abashed at my own indiscretion, wanted to
withdraw, murmuring words of excuse.
"Who are you? What do you want? he said in a strong
voice, holding my arm.
"I am Sir Bernard of Roche-Bernard; and I have just arrived
from Bretagne. "
"I know, I know," he said, and threw himself into my arms;
then made me sit beside him, talking so eagerly of my father
and all my family that I did not doubt he was the owner of the
castle.
"You are M. de C-? " I asked.
He rose and looked at me excitedly. "I was, but I am no
longer; I am nothing! " And seeing my astonishment, he ex-
claimed, "Not another word, young man: do not question me! "
"But, sir, I have unintentionally witnessed your sorrow; and
if my friendship, my devotion, can bring you any comfort-»
"Yes, yes, you're right. Not that you can change my fate,
but at least you can receive my last wishes. That is all I ask of
you! "
He closed the door; then sat down again beside me, who,
trembling and agitated, awaited his words. His physiognomy
bore an expression I had never seen on any one. The brow I
studied seemed marked by fatality. His face was pale; his black
eyes flashed; from time to time his features, changed by suffer-
ing, contracted with an ironic, infernal smile.
"What I am going to tell you," he continued, "will confound
your reason. You will doubt you will not believe I myself
still doubt very often, at least I try to: but there are the
proofs; and in all our surroundings in our very organization —
there are many other mysteries that we have to accept without
understanding. "
――――――
He stopped a moment as though to collect his ideas, passed a
hand over his brow, and went on:-
"I was born in this castle. I had two brothers, both older,
who would inherit the property and titles of our family. There
was nothing for me but an abbé's mantle; and yet thoughts of
glory and ambition fermented in my head, and made my heart
## p. 13094 (#528) ##########################################
13094
AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
beat. Unhappy in obscurity, hungry for renown, I dreamed only
how to acquire it, and was insensible to all the pleasures and
sweetness of life. The present was nothing to me; I lived only
in the future, and that presented itself to me in darkest colors.
"I was almost thirty, and had accomplished nothing. At that
time, in the capital, literary reputations whose fame reached even
our province were springing up everywhere.
"Ah! I often said to myself, if I could only win a name in
letters! That would give me the glory which is the only happi-
ness!
"As confidant of my sorrows I had an old servant, an aged
negro, who had been in the castle before I was born, and was
certainly the most ancient inmate, for no one remembered his
coming. The country people declared even that he had known
Marshal Fabert, and had witnessed his death. "
I started; and the speaker asked me what was the matter.
"Nothing," I answered; but I could not help thinking of the
black man about whom my landlord had been talking the evening
before.
M. de C continued: "One day, before Yago (that was the
negro's name), I yielded to the despair inspired by my obscurity
and useless existence, and cried out, I would give ten years of
my life to be placed in the first rank of our authors! '
"Ten years,' he said coldly: 'that is a great deal. That is
a large price for a slight thing. Never mind. I accept your ten
I will take them. Remember your promise; I will keep
years.
mine. '
"I cannot paint my surprise at hearing this. I thought the
years must have enfeebled his reason. I smiled and shrugged
my shoulders; and a few days later I left this castle to go to
Paris. There I found myself launched in literary circles. Their
example encouraged me; and I published several works whose
success I won't recount now. All Paris hastened to applaud
them; the journals resounded with my praises; the new name I
had adopted became famous: and even yesterday, young man,
you yourself were admiring it-»
Here another gesture of surprise from me interrupted him.
"Then you are not the Duke de C-? " I exclaimed.
"No," he answered coldly.
And I said to myself, "A celebrated author! -is he Marmon-
tel? is he D'Alembert? is he Voltaire ? "
## p. 13095 (#529) ##########################################
AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
13095
My unknown smiled; a sigh of regret and contempt touched
his lips, and he continued:-
"The literary reputation I had desired soon ceased to satisfy
a spirit as ardent as mine. I aspired to nobler success; and I
said to Yago, who had followed me to Paris: 'There is no real
glory or veritable fame except in the career of arms. What is
a man of letters, a poet? Nothing at all. Tell me of a great
captain, a general,- that is the destiny for me; and for a grand.
military reputation I would give ten of the years which remain
to me. '
"I accept them,' answered Yago. 'I take them. They be-
long to me.
## p. 13079 (#513) ##########################################
SIR WALTER SCOTT
13079
Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Than reign our English queen.
"I read you, by your bugle-horn,
And by your palfrey good,
I read you for a Ranger sworn,
To keep the king's greenwood. ".
"A Ranger, lady, winds his horn,
And 'tis at peep of light;
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night. >>
Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay:
I would I were with Edmund there,
To reign his Queen of May!
-
"With burnished brand and musketoon,
So gallantly you come,
I read you for a bold Dragoon,
That lists the tuck of drum. ".
"I list no more the tuck of drum,
No more the trumpet hear;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,
My comrades take the spear.
And oh! though Brignall banks be fair,
And Greta woods be gay,
Yet mickle must the maiden dare
Would reign my Queen of May!
"Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
A nameless death I'll die:
The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead,
Were better mate than I!
And when I'm with my comrades met,
Beneath the greenwood bough,
What once we were we all forget,
Nor think what we are now.
Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer queen. "
## p. 13080 (#514) ##########################################
13080
SIR WALTER SCOTT
·
BONNY DUNDEE
T
O THE Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who spoke,—
"Ere the King's crown shall fall there are crowns to be
broke;
So let each Cavalier who loves honor and me
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Chorus: - Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;
Come open the West Port, and let me gang free,
And it's room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee! "
Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street:
The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat;
But the Provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let him be,—
The gude town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee. "
[Chorus.
As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow,
Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow;
But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee,
Thinking, Luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee!
[Chorus.
With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market* was crammed,
As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged:
There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e,
As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.
[Chorus.
These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears,
And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers;
But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free,
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
[Chorus.
He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock,
And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke:
:-
"Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three,
For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. "
[Chorus.
The Gordon demands of him which way he goes:—
"Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose!
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me,
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
[Chorus.
"There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth;
If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North;
*The place of public execution.
## p. 13081 (#515) ##########################################
SIR WALTER SCOTT
13081
There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three,
Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
"There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide;
There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside:
The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free,
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
"Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,—
Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the fox;
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee,-
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me! ”
The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust
The bloodless claymore is but reddened with rust;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.
He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown,
The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on;
Till on Ravelston's cliffs, and on Clermiston's lea,
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee.
The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.
[Chorus.
[Chorus.
O high-minded Moray! the exiled, the dear!
In the blush of the dawning the STANDARD uprear!
Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly,
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh!
[Chorus.
FLORA MAC-IVOR'S SONG
From Waverley'
TH
HERE is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael.
A stranger commanded,—it sunk on the land,
It has frozen each heart and benumbed every hand!
[Chorus.
But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last!
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays,
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.
## p. 13082 (#516) ##########################################
13082
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake?
That dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.
O sprung from the kings who in Islay kept state,
Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glengarry, and Sleat!
Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow,
And resistless in union rush down on the foe.
True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel,
Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel!
Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell,
Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!
Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail,
Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale!
May the race of Clan-Gillian, the fearless and free,
Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee!
Let the clan of Gray Fingon, whose offspring has given
Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven,
Unite with the race of renowned Rorri More,
To launch the long galley and stretch to the oar!
How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display
The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of gray!
How the race of wronged Alpine and murdered Glencoe
Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!
Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar,
Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More!
Mac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake,
For honor, for freedom, for vengeance awake!
Awake on your hills, on your islands awake,
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake!
'Tis the bugle-but not for the chase is the call;
'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons - but not to the hall.
'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death,
When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath;
They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe,
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.
Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire!
May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire!
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore!
Or die, like your sires, and endure it no more!
## p. 13083 (#517) ##########################################
13083
AUGUSTIN EUGENE SCRIBE
(1791-1861)
FTER the spirited comedy of Beaumarchais came a lull in
dramatic production in France. The public yawned over
long dull plays, or applauded mediocre work for its cheap
reflection of popular sentiment. Then Eugène Scribe came to the
rescue, having gradually found out what the public taste craved. He
had learned this through perhaps a dozen failures, when his shrewd
instinct guided him to seize upon vaudeville, and dignify it to the
rank of laugh-provoking comedy. His plot,
as ingeniously contrived as a Chinese puz-
zle, was a frame upon which he hung clever
dialogue, catchy songs, puns, popular allus-
ions, and manifold witticisms.
His first successful vaudeville, 'Une Nuit
du Garde National,' in one act, written in
collaboration with Poirson, another young
author, was played at the Gymnase in 1816,
and was the beginning of Scribe's astonish-
ing popularity.
EUGENE SCRIBE
For about forty years he was the master
playwright of France. He grew more and
more cunning in estimating his audience,
flattering their foibles, and reflecting con-
temporary interests. He was strictly unmoral, and offered no prob-
lems. His light frothy humor required no mental effort; he diverted
without fatiguing. So Paris loved Scribe, paid him a fortune, made
him a great social as well as literary light, and in 1836 admitted him
to the Academy. From his father, a prosperous silk merchant in
Paris, where he himself was born in 1791, he inherited decided busi-
ness talent. Perhaps no author has ever received fuller measure of
pecuniary success.
Wonderful tales are told of his intuitive comprehension of dramatic
possibilities. One day 'La Chanoinesse,' a dull five-act tragedy, was
read to him. Before the end had been reached, his mind had the
plot transformed into a witty one-act burlesque. He was less invent-
ive than skillful at adaptation, so he often borrowed ideas from
more fertile and less executive brains. For these, Scribe, always the
## p. 13084 (#518) ##########################################
13084
AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
honorable business man, gave due credit.
So it is said that many a
poverty-stricken writer was surprised to be claimed as collaborator by
the great M. Scribe, and to receive generous payment for ideas which
in their changed form he could hardly recognize as his own.
After 1840 Scribe partially deserted the clever buffoonery of his
vaudeville, and attempted serious five-act dramas. Of these, two of
the best 'Adrienne Lecouvreur' and 'La Bataille des Dames' (The
Ladies' Battle) were written with Legouvé; and in translation are
familiar to American playgoers.
-
Scribe turned his hand to most kinds of composition. He wrote
several volumes of charming tales. He was especially skillful in the
composition of librettos for the operas of Verdi, Auber, Meyerbeer,
and other composers. He was remarkably prolific, and about four
hundred pieces are included in the published list of his works; from
which, however, many waifs and strays of his talent are omitted.
Although most of his plays, once so cordially liked, are now obso-
lete, Scribe has a lasting claim to remembrance in that his mastery
of stage technique guided greater dramatists than himself to more
effective expression. Perhaps no one ever lived with a stronger
sense of scenic requirements. His plays could not drag. Although
often superficial in his effort to sketch lightly contemporary life, and
in his preoccupation with every-day general human interests, Scribe
anticipated the drama of realism.
MERLIN'S PET FAIRY
O
NE night, Merlin, sad and dreamy, was gazing over the im-
mensity of heaven. He thought he heard a light sound
below him. A frightful tempest was upheaving the ocean.
The waves, piled mountain high, scattered salt water to the skies.
Merlin went higher to avoid a wetting; and by the light of the
stars he saw, like an imperceptible point on the summit of the
waves, a vessel about to sink. There was service to render, suf-
fering to relieve. Merlin forgot his dreams and darted forth,
but too late. Pitiless fate anticipated him; and the ship, dashed
against the cliffs, was flying in a thousand pieces.
All the passengers had perished except one woman, who was
still struggling. She held a little daughter in her arms whom
she tried to save.
"Protecting angels," she cried, "save her! watch over her! "
When her strength deserted her she disappeared, just as Mer-
lin descended from the clouds and touched the surface of the
## p. 13085 (#519) ##########################################
AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
13085
water. He heard the poor mother's last words, caught up her
child, and bore it back to the skies.
He warmed the little creature's chilled limbs in his hands.
Was she still breathing? In doubt, he recalled her to life or gave
her a new one by means of his magic power, with a ray of dawn'
and a drop of dew. Then Merlin gazed at the poor child with
delighted eyes.
"You shall be a fairy," he said to her. "You shall be my
pet fairy. The misfortune and death which presided over your
birth can never thenceforth touch you. "
The baby opened her eyes and smiled at him, and Merlin
carried his treasure to his crystal and flowery palace in the
clouds.
The young fairy was charming, and Merlin wished to endow
her with all gifts, all talents, all virtues. He gave her the heart
which loves and is loved; the mind which pleases and amuses
others, and the grace which always charms.
He gave her his own power (without making her his equal,
however), with only one condition: that she should love him,
and prefer him to all the sylphs and heavenly spirits, however
beautiful, who shone in Ginnistan. Mighty Alaciel, the supreme
genie presiding over this empire, loved the enchanter Merlin, and
consented to all his desires. All that he asked for the young
fairy was granted and immutably ratified by destiny.
Never had Merlin been more happy than while pretty Vivian
was growing up under his eyes. That was the name he had
given her, the name which was to make her immortal; for never
has love been more celebrated than that of the enchanter Mer-
lin for the fairy Vivian. All legends tell of it, all chronicles
attest it, and traces of it are still preserved on the walls of old
monuments.
Merlin had no other delight than in Vivian; and she knew no
joy apart from her benefactor. Although still very young, the
wit and intelligence with which she was endowed soon taught
her to appreciate his worth and all that she owed to him. Full
of gratitude for his goodness and admiration for his talents, she
listened to his lessons with an avidity and pleasure which flat-
tered the scholar's self-love; while, gracious and attentive, her
cares for. him delighted the old man's heart.
So she could not be separated from him, but accompanied
him in all his journeys and investigations, and shared all his
## p. 13086 (#520) ##########################################
13086
AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
labors, which were pleasures for her. She loved to soar through
space with him, admiring far off the stars, whose revolutions and
movements in heaven he explained to her; then redescending
toward earth, both invisible, they would hover over castles and
cottages, inspiring noble lords with kind thoughts for their vas-
sals, and bearing hope and consolation to the vassals. In sleep
they showed the poor mother her absent son; to the young girl
her lover; to all they sent golden dreams which later were real-
ized. Do you see that pilgrim worn out with heat and fatigue
sleeping under an elm on the wayside? He wakes consumed with
hunger and burning thirst, and sees over his head a bough loaded
with superb pears. O surprise! Where did this tree which he
had not noticed before, come from? Or rather, what changed
the sterile young elm into a fruit-tree during his sleep?
It was
Vivian!
And that young girl, how unhappy she is! Sitting on the
bank of a stream, she weeps and mourns! She had a gold cross,
her only ornament, her riches! Taking it off to clean it or look
at it, she has let it fall to the bottom of the deep water. Lost!
lost forever! And just then she feels around her neck a wet
ribbon, which an invisible hand has replaced; and at the end of
the ribbon shines the gold cross, which she thought never to see
again. The little fairy has plunged under the waves and brought
it back.
Another time a poor tenant, torn from his family, is being
dragged to prison because he owes a pitiless master ten crowns
rent, which he has not been able to pay! And suddenly his
sobbing wife, who accompanies him, finds in her apron pocket
twenty bright gold crowns which she does not remember ever
putting there! Who slipped them there? Vivian's little hand!
Oh, kind pleasant fairy, delighting in the good she does-and
Merlin still happier at seeing her do it!
Months and years succeeded each other. Fairies grow quickly.
Their beauty need not fear to ripen, as it is to endure always!
Nothing more charming than Vivian ever shone in Ginnistan.
Her pretty blonde hair, her blue eyes reflecting the sky, her
dainty figure, light and airy, her quick smile, set her above other
fairies.
As to character, hers was charming and impossible to define.
She was both reasonable and frivolous, equally serious over feasts
and toilets, good works and pretty dresses; knowing a great
## p. 13087 (#521) ##########################################
AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
13087
deal, and as amusing as if she knew nothing. Coquettish in
mind but not in heart, gracious and good, laughing and mis-
chievous, above all kind and beloved by every one,-such was
Vivian. With a word or a smile she triumphed over all resist-
ance, overturned all obstacles; and when her pretty little hand
caressed Merlin's white beard, the great enchanter could refuse
her nothing. Far more, he exercised all his art to discover her
tastes and anticipate her wishes! To him science had no longer
any end but that of creating pleasures for Vivian.
Thus, anticipating by magic the genius of future ages, he
devised wonders for her which we think we have discovered since
then, but which we have only refound. Our new inventions are
only copies, more or less able, of all Merlin's secrets. Among
them were prodigies compared with which those of steam are
only child's play,- the art of traversing air and directing one's
course at will on a cloud or winged dragon, and a thousand
other sorceries which we do not know yet.
Not content with creating palaces and aerial gardens for Viv-
ian, to please her he descended to the least details. Our pret-
tiest-I mean oddest - fashions, our most coquettish jewels, our
most precious fabrics, were then invented for her. Her crystal
palace was lighted by a thousand magical fires, which since we
have learned to call gas or electric light.
Within this palace he had raised a fairy temple, which many
centuries later we thought to invent under the name of Opera!
In rooms enriched with gold and velvet, Vivian and the court of
Ginnistan gave themselves to noble pleasures. Dancing and
music exerted all their allurements. There were delicious songs
still unknown to earth, which later Merlin revealed to Gluck, Mo-
zart, Rossini, Auber, Meyerbeer, unless indeed these stole them.
for themselves from heaven.
Thus Merlin watched over the amusements of his young fairy,
and still more over the happiness of her every minute; for he
had taught her never to be idle. Under her skillful fingers the
brush or the needle created little masterpieces, so perfect and
elegant that they gave rise to the expression "to work like the
fairies"!
And note that before Vivian, fairies did nothing. Their only
diversion was to busy themselves with love affairs or intrigues
on earth. Their home was most monotonous, and they did not
know what to do with themselves in heaven. There, as in all
## p. 13088 (#522) ##########################################
13088
AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE
courts of any rank, the receptions and companies almost killed
one with their dullness. Drawn up in a circle on feast days,
the fairies gazed upon each other in fixed beauty, which they
did not have even the fear of losing or seeing change.
As to the sylphs and genii who stood behind them, they too
yawned in their immortality. Judge then how they appreciated
the presentation to court of a witty, amiable, vivacious fairy.
She turned all heads, and drew all attention. They knew the
distractions of love; and the genii thought it would be delightful
to rob the old enchanter of the charming young girl he was
guarding.
One morning in Merlin's absence, Vivian found a satiny little
note on her dressing-table, containing a declaration of love,
signed Zelindor.
Zelindor was the handsomest and most foppish
of all the genii. In manner and bearing, in his least actions,
he concerned himself with only one thing,- to know if he was
admired; and his eyes, which were superb, seemed to have been
given him only to see whether or not he was being noticed.
That evening Vivian found in her work-basket a dozen other
little satiny papers.
As soon as Merlin returned, she carried him the whole col-
lection. The indignant enchanter wanted to rage.
"Read them first," she said.
He read, and then tremblingly asked what she thought of all
these demonstrations of affection.
"I think," she answered, "that they are very badly written. "
«< They say nothing to your heart? "
"Nothing. "
Merlin wore two rings on his left hand. One was an emer-
ald: when he took it off his finger and held it to his mouth, he
ceased to be invisible, and appeared under his true form to mor-
tal eyes. The other, more useful and more to be feared, was of
a single ruby. With this ring he could read hearts, and see
what every one was thinking.
He seized this ring, regarded it attentively, and was soon
convinced that Vivian had spoken the truth.
"Yes! yes! " he cried. "You are indifferent to Zelindor and
all the other sylphs, and prefer me. "
"Ah! that's unkind! " cried Vivian interrupting him, "very
unkind! "
"To convince myself of your friendship? "
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"No! But to surprise the secrets that I want to have the
pleasure of telling you. "
"Ah! you are charming! " cried Merlin, transported with joy.
"So you love me, then? "
"Aren't you my friend, my benefactor, my father, to whom I
owe everything? "
"Yes,—it is true," said the enchanter, only half satisfied: "and
I love you too, Vivian, ardently, passionately; and that is the
way I want you to love me. ”
"I don't understand," said Vivian. "I prefer you to all
whom I see or hear,-to all who are about us. "
"Yes," said Merlin to himself, "that is just what I once
asked from Alaciel, and which he has granted. But," he said,
speaking out loud without meaning to do so, "I made a great
mistake in not asking more. "
"And what more do you want? " she asked with an affection-
ate smile.
"When you are with me, does your heart beat more quickly? »
་
"No," answered Vivian in a pure, candid voice.
"And yet you love me a little ? "
"Better than all the world. "
"And you consent, dear child, to be mine? »
"Yes. "
Merlin kissed the fresh rosy cheek of the young fairy, and
trembling with emotion, let himself fall into a chair, gazing after
Vivian as she bounded away and disappeared behind the clumps
of lilacs.
THE PRICE OF LIFE
J
OSEPH, opening the parlor door, came to tell us the post-chaise
was ready. My mother and sister threw themselves in my
arms.
"It is not too late," they said. "Give up this journey. Stay
with us. "
«<< Mother, I am a gentleman; I am twenty years old; I must
have a name in the country. I must make my way, either in
the army or at court. "
"And when you are gone, what will become of me, Bernard ? »
"You will be happy and proud to hear of your son's success. "
XXII-819
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"And if you are killed in some battle? "
"What matters it? What is life? Does a man think of
that? When a man is twenty and a gentleman, he thinks only
of glory. In a few years, mother, I'll come back a colonel, or
marshal, or else with a fine office at Versailles. "
"Ah well! what will come of it if you do? "
"I shall be respected and thought much of. ”
"What then? "
"Then every one will salute me. "
"And then? ”
"Then I will wed my cousin Henrietta, and settle my young
sisters in marriage, and we will all live with you, tranquil and
happy in my Bretagne domain. "
"And why can't you begin to-day? Didn't your father leave
us the finest fortune in the country? Is there a richer domain
for ten leagues around, or a finer castle than Roche-Bernard?
Do not your vassals respect you? As you go through the village,
does any one fail to take off his hat? Don't leave us, my son!
Stay with your friends, your sisters, and your old mother who
may not be here when you come back. Don't squander in vain-
glory, or shorten by all kinds of cares and torments, the days that
roll so fast anyway. Life is so sweet, my boy, and the sun of
Bretagne so glorious! "
While speaking, she pointed through the windows at the
pretty paths of my park, the old chestnut-trees in blossom, the
lilacs and honeysuckles which perfumed the air. In the ante-
chamber the gardener and all his family had gathered sad and
silent, seeming to express-"Don't go, young master, don't go. "
Hortense, my elder sister, pressed me in her arms; and Amélie,
my little sister, who was looking at the pictures in a volume of
La Fontaine, offered me the book.
"Read, read, brother," she said weeping.
It was the fable of the two pigeons! I rose brusquely; I
pushed them all away.
"I am twenty, and a gentleman: I must have honor and
fame. Let me go. "
And I hurried into the court. I was stepping into the post-
chaise when a woman appeared on the steps. It was Henrietta.
She did not weep, she did not utter a word; but, pale and
trembling, she could scarcely support herself. With the white
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handkerchief in her hand she waved me a last good-by, then
fell unconscious. I rushed to her, lifted her, pressed her in my
arms, swore to love her always; and as she came to herself, leav-
ing her to the care of my mother and sisters, I ran to my car-
riage without stopping or turning my head. If I had looked at
Henrietta I could not have gone.
A few minutes later the post-chaise was rolling along the thor-
oughfare. For a long time I thought of nothing but my sisters,
my mother, and Henrietta, and all the happiness I was leaving
behind me. But as the towers of Roche-Bernard gradually van-
ished, these ideas faded; and soon dreams of glory and ambition
took possession of my mind. What projects, what castles in
Spain, what fine actions, I created for myself in my post-chaise!
Riches, honors, dignities, all kinds of success, I denied myself
nothing; I merited and received everything; finally, rising in
rank as I proceeded, I became duke, peer, provincial governor,
and marshal of France, before reaching my inn in the evening!
My servant's voice, modestly calling me "Monsieur," forced me
to return to myself and abdicate.
The following days the same dreams, the same intoxication,
for my journey was a long one. I was going to the neigh-
borhood of Sedan, to the Duke of C; an old friend of my
father, and patron of my family. He was to take me to Paris,
where he was expected at the end of the month; present me at
Versailles, and obtain for me through his influence a company
of dragoons.
――――
I reached Sedan in the evening, and as it was late I post-
poned calling upon my patron until the morrow; and went to
lodge at the Arms of France, the finest hotel in the city, and
the usual rendezvous for officers. For Sedan is a garrisoned
town. The streets have a warlike aspect, and the citizens them-
selves a martial bearing, which seems to tell strangers, "We are
compatriots of the great Turenne. "
While chatting at the supper table I inquired the way to the
Duke of C's castle, which was about three leagues from the
town.
"Any one will tell you," they said. "It is well known about
here. It is there that a great warrior, a celebrated man,- Mar-
shal Fabert,- died. "
And the conversation turned to Marshal Fabert, as was quite
natural among young soldiers. They talked of his battles, his
-
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exploits, his modesty,- which made him refuse letters of nobil-
ity and the collar of his order offered him by Louis XIV. They
spoke especially of the remarkable good fortune which had made
the simple soldier-the son of a printer-a marshal of France.
At that time he was the sole example of such advancement,
which even during his life had seemed so extraordinary that the
vulgar had not hesitated to assign it to supernatural causes.
They said that from childhood he had busied himself with magic
and sorcery; that he had made a compact with the devil.
And our landlord, who added the credulity of the Breton to
the stupidity of a peasant of Champagne, assured us with great
coolness that in the castle where Fabert had died, a black man
whom no one knew had been seen to go into his room, and had
then disappeared, bearing with him the marshal's soul, which
belonged to him from an earlier purchase. He said that even
yet, in May, the time of Fabert's death, the black man appeared
at evening carrying a little light.
This story enlivened our dessert, and we drank a bottle of
champagne to Fabert's familiar demon, inviting him to take us
also under his protection, and to make us gain a few battles like
Colhoures and La Marféc.
The next day I rose early, and made my way to the castle of
the Duke of C; an immense Gothic manor which at another
time I might not have noticed especially, but which, remembering
the account of the evening before, I now regarded with curiosity
and emotion.
The valet to whom I addressed myself answered that he did
not know whether his master was at home, or if he could receive
me. I gave him my name, and he left me alone in a kind of
armory, hung with paraphernalia of the chase and family por-
traits.
I waited for some time, and no one came. So the career of
glory and honor I had dreamed began in the antechamber, I said
to myself; and grew discontented and impatient. I had counted
the family portraits and the beams of the ceiling two or three
times, when I heard a slight sound. A door not quite closed had
been blown ajar. I looked in, and saw a very pretty room, lighted
by a glass door and by two great windows which looked upon
a magnificent park. I took a few steps in this room, and then
stopped at a sight I had not yet noticed. A man with his back
toward me was lying on a sofa. He rose, and without noticing
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me, rushed to the window. Tears furrowed his cheeks. Pro-
found despair seemed printed on all his features. He stood
motionless for some time, with his head buried in his hands;
then he began to stride up and down. Now he saw me and trem-
bled. I, pained and abashed at my own indiscretion, wanted to
withdraw, murmuring words of excuse.
"Who are you? What do you want? he said in a strong
voice, holding my arm.
"I am Sir Bernard of Roche-Bernard; and I have just arrived
from Bretagne. "
"I know, I know," he said, and threw himself into my arms;
then made me sit beside him, talking so eagerly of my father
and all my family that I did not doubt he was the owner of the
castle.
"You are M. de C-? " I asked.
He rose and looked at me excitedly. "I was, but I am no
longer; I am nothing! " And seeing my astonishment, he ex-
claimed, "Not another word, young man: do not question me! "
"But, sir, I have unintentionally witnessed your sorrow; and
if my friendship, my devotion, can bring you any comfort-»
"Yes, yes, you're right. Not that you can change my fate,
but at least you can receive my last wishes. That is all I ask of
you! "
He closed the door; then sat down again beside me, who,
trembling and agitated, awaited his words. His physiognomy
bore an expression I had never seen on any one. The brow I
studied seemed marked by fatality. His face was pale; his black
eyes flashed; from time to time his features, changed by suffer-
ing, contracted with an ironic, infernal smile.
"What I am going to tell you," he continued, "will confound
your reason. You will doubt you will not believe I myself
still doubt very often, at least I try to: but there are the
proofs; and in all our surroundings in our very organization —
there are many other mysteries that we have to accept without
understanding. "
――――――
He stopped a moment as though to collect his ideas, passed a
hand over his brow, and went on:-
"I was born in this castle. I had two brothers, both older,
who would inherit the property and titles of our family. There
was nothing for me but an abbé's mantle; and yet thoughts of
glory and ambition fermented in my head, and made my heart
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beat. Unhappy in obscurity, hungry for renown, I dreamed only
how to acquire it, and was insensible to all the pleasures and
sweetness of life. The present was nothing to me; I lived only
in the future, and that presented itself to me in darkest colors.
"I was almost thirty, and had accomplished nothing. At that
time, in the capital, literary reputations whose fame reached even
our province were springing up everywhere.
"Ah! I often said to myself, if I could only win a name in
letters! That would give me the glory which is the only happi-
ness!
"As confidant of my sorrows I had an old servant, an aged
negro, who had been in the castle before I was born, and was
certainly the most ancient inmate, for no one remembered his
coming. The country people declared even that he had known
Marshal Fabert, and had witnessed his death. "
I started; and the speaker asked me what was the matter.
"Nothing," I answered; but I could not help thinking of the
black man about whom my landlord had been talking the evening
before.
M. de C continued: "One day, before Yago (that was the
negro's name), I yielded to the despair inspired by my obscurity
and useless existence, and cried out, I would give ten years of
my life to be placed in the first rank of our authors! '
"Ten years,' he said coldly: 'that is a great deal. That is
a large price for a slight thing. Never mind. I accept your ten
I will take them. Remember your promise; I will keep
years.
mine. '
"I cannot paint my surprise at hearing this. I thought the
years must have enfeebled his reason. I smiled and shrugged
my shoulders; and a few days later I left this castle to go to
Paris. There I found myself launched in literary circles. Their
example encouraged me; and I published several works whose
success I won't recount now. All Paris hastened to applaud
them; the journals resounded with my praises; the new name I
had adopted became famous: and even yesterday, young man,
you yourself were admiring it-»
Here another gesture of surprise from me interrupted him.
"Then you are not the Duke de C-? " I exclaimed.
"No," he answered coldly.
And I said to myself, "A celebrated author! -is he Marmon-
tel? is he D'Alembert? is he Voltaire ? "
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My unknown smiled; a sigh of regret and contempt touched
his lips, and he continued:-
"The literary reputation I had desired soon ceased to satisfy
a spirit as ardent as mine. I aspired to nobler success; and I
said to Yago, who had followed me to Paris: 'There is no real
glory or veritable fame except in the career of arms. What is
a man of letters, a poet? Nothing at all. Tell me of a great
captain, a general,- that is the destiny for me; and for a grand.
military reputation I would give ten of the years which remain
to me. '
"I accept them,' answered Yago. 'I take them. They be-
long to me.
