No More Learning

“But where is what you killed ? ” finally asked Luisa, when
she could make herself heard.
“Here, aunt," answered Braulio; and with the aid of his
betrothed he began to undo the bundle, saying something to the
girl which I could not hear. She looked at me in a very strange
way, and brought out of the house a little bench for me, upon
which I sat and looked on. As soon as the large and velvety
skin had been spread out in the court-yard, the women gave a
cry; but when the head rolled upon the grass they were almost
beside themselves.
“Why, how did you kill him? Tell us,” said Luisa. A11
looked a little frightened.
)


## p. 8056 (#252) ###########################################

8056
JORGE ISAAKS
“Do tell us,” added Lucía.
Then José, taking the head of the jaguar in his hands, said,
« The jaguar was just going to kill Braulio when the Señor gave
him this ball. ” He pointed to the hole in the forehead. All
looked at me, and in each one of those glances there was recom-
pense enough for an action which really deserved none. José
went on to give the details of the expedition, meanwhile attend-
ing to the wounds of the dogs, and bewailing the loss of the
three that had been killed. Braulio and Tiburcio wrapped up the
skin.
The women went back to their tasks, and I took a nap in the
little parlor on the bed which Tránsito and Lucía had improvised
for me upon one of the benches. My lullaby was the murmur of
the river, the cries of the geese, the lowing of the cattle pastured
on the hills near by, and the songs of the girls washing clothes
in the brook. Nature is the most loving of mothers when grief
has taken possession of our souls; and if happiness is our lot she
smiles upo
us.


## p. 8057 (#253) ###########################################

8057
HELEN FISKE JACKSON
«H. H.
(1831–1885)
HE brilliant woman who bore the pen-name of “H. H. ” was
endowed with a personality so impressive, a temperament
so rich, a mind so charming, that her admirers were ready
to prophesy for her as large a measure of immortality as falls to
the lot of any preoccupied modern singer who serves the Muse with
half-vows. It was only after her radiant presence was withdrawn
that they perceived her genius to have been greater than her talent,
and saw that, fine as was her ear and delicate as was her taste, her
craftsmanship sometimes failed her. More-
over, her strong ethical bias often turned
her genuine lyric impulse into forms of par-
able and allegory, to overtake the meaning
of which her panting reader toiled after
her in vain. This habit, with a remarkable
condensation of structure, occasionally put
upon a phrase a greater weight of mean-
ing than it could bear, and gave a look
of affectation to the utterance of the most
simple and natural of singers.
Yet when all fair abatement is made,
H. H. 's place in literature is won. Twenty
years ago, Emerson thought it the first HELEN JACKSON
place among American woman poets; and
he affirmed that no one had wrought to finer perfection that most
difficult verse form, the sonnet. Some of her sonnets, like Poppies
in the Wheat, October,' (Thought,' and (Burnt Ships,' show great
beauty of execution, a fertile fancy, and a touch of true imagination.
Other poems display rare felicity of cadence; like Coming Across,'
which holds the very roll and lift of the urging wave, and 'Gondo-
lieds, where a nice ear catches the rhythm of the rower's oar, whose
sound gives back to memory the melancholy beauty of a Venetian
night. In another group of verses appears the note of familiar
emotional experiences, as in The Mother's Farewell to a Voyager,'
Best,' and 'Spinning,'. a noble and tender lyric which deserves to

-


## p. 8058 (#254) ###########################################

8058
HELEN FISKE JACKSON
)
live. It is no doubt the sweetness and genuineness of these household
poems which have gained for H. H. her wide and affectionate recog-
nition. But her meditative, out-of-door verses are most truly char-
acteristic. My Legacy,' My Tenants,' My House not Made with
Hands, My Strawberry, Locusts and Wild Honey,' breathe that
love of nature which was with her a passion. In color and defi-
niteness of drawing they recall Emerson's Nut-hatch,' or Thoreau's
(Mist. But their note of comprehension of the visible natural world
and of oneness with it is her own. And where she is simply the
imaginative painter of beautiful scenes, as in Distance) and October,'
her touch is faultless. Her last poems were personal and introspect-
ive, and the touching Habeas Corpus' fell unfinished from her slight
hands not long before she died.
Helen Fiske was born in 1831, in the village of Amherst, Mas-
sachusetts, where her father held a professor's chair in the college.
Her education was the usual desultory and ineffectual course of
training prescribed for well-placed girls of her time. At twenty-one
she married Captain Edward Hunt of the United States army, and
began the irresponsible, wandering existence of an army officer's wife.
Travel and social experience ripened her mind, but it was only after
the death of her husband and her only child that she set herself to
write.
From 1867 to her death, eighteen years later, her pen hardly
rested. She wrote verses, sketches of travel, essays, children's stories,
novels, and tracts for the time. Her life in the West after her mar-
riage to Mr. William Jackson, a banker of Colorado Springs, revealed
to her the wrongs of the Indian, which with all the strength of her
ardent nature she set herself at once to redress. Newspaper letters,
appeals to government officialism, and finally her (Century of Dis-
honor,'- a sharp arraignment of the nation for perfidy and cruelty
towards its helpless wards, — were her service to this cause. Her
most popular story, Ramona,' a romance whose protagonists are of
Indian blood, was also an appeal for justice. This book, however,
rose far above its polemic intention; the beauty of its descriptions, its
dramatic movement, its admirable characterization, and its imaginat-
ive insight entitling it to rank among the half-dozen best distinctively
American stories. Two novels in the No Name Series) - Mercy
Philbrick's Choice and Hetty's Strange History' - show the quali-
ties that infuse her prose: color, brilliancy of touch, grace of form,
certainty of intuition, and occasional admirable humor. She had not
the gift of construction, and she lacked the power of self-criticism;
so that she is singularly uneven, and her fiction may not perhaps sur-
vive the generation whose conduct of life inspired it. But it is gen-
uine and full of character.


## p. 8059 (#255) ###########################################

HELEN FISKE JACKSON
8059
(Bits of Travel,' Bits of Travel at Home,' and 'Glimpses of
Three Coasts) are vagabond sketches so brilliantly picturesque as to
seem overwrought, perhaps, to the reader who did not know the
intensity of her temperament and the vividness of her familiar
speech. Her Bits of Talk' is a collection of brief ethical essays on
the homely duties of household life,- essays inspired by a sensitive
conscience and written with delightful freshness and humor.
It is as a poet, however, that H. H. is most vividly remembered.
Hers was the vision and the faculty divine,” and it would seem
that she might have reached the upper heights had her fight been
steadied by a larger knowledge and a sterner self-discipline.
(C
REVENUES
I
SMILE to hear the little kings,
When they count up their precious things,
And send their vaunting lists abroad
Of what their kingdoms can afford.
One boasts his corn, and one his wine,
And one his gold and silver fine;
One by an army, one by a fleet,
Keeps neighbor kings beneath his feet;
One sets his claim to highest place
On looms of silk and looms of lace;
And one shows pictures of old saints
In lifelike tints of wondrous paints;
And one has quarries of white stone
From which rare statue-shapes have grown:
And so, by dint of wealth or grace,
Striving to keep the highest place,
They count and show their precious things,
The little race of little kings.
“O little kings! ” I long to say,
« Who counts God's revenues to-day?
Who knows, on all the hills and coasts,
Names of the captains of his hosts?
What eye has seen the half of gold
His smallest mine has in its hold ?
What figures tell one summer's cost
Of fabrics which are torn and tost
To clothe his myriads of trees?
Who reckons, in the sounding seas,


## p. 8060 (#256) ###########################################

8060
HELEN FISKE JACKSON
The shining corals, wrought and graved,
With which his ocean floors are paved ?
Who knows the numbers or the names
Of colors in his sunset flames ?
What table measures, marking weight,
What chemistries, can estimate
One single banquet for his birds ? »
Then, mocked by all which utmost words
And utmost thoughts can frame or reach,
My heart finds tears its only speech.
In ecstasy, part joy, part pain,
Where fear and wonder half restrain
Love's gratitude, I lay my ear
Close to the ground, and listening hear
This noiseless, ceaseless, boundless tide
Of earth's great wealth, on every side,
Rolling and pouring up to break
At feet of God, who will not take
Nor keep among his heavenly things
So much as tithe of all it brings;
But instant turns the costly wave,
Gives back to earth all that it gave,
Spends all his universe of power
And pomp to deck one single hour
Of time, and then in largess free,
Unasked, bestows the hour on me.
Copyright 1874, by Roberts Brothers.
HABEAS CORPUS
M
Y BODY, eh ? Friend Death, how now?
Why all this tedious pomp of writ?
Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow
For half a century, bit by bit.
In faith thou knowest more to-day
Than I do, where it can be found!
This shriveled lump of suffering clay,
To which I now am chained and bound,
Has not of kith or kin a trace
To the good body once I bore:
Look at this shrunken, ghastly face,-
Didst ever see that face before ?


## p. 8061 (#257) ###########################################

HELEN FISKE JACKSON
8061
Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art;
Thy only fault thy lagging gait,
Mistaken pity in thy heart
For timorous ones that bid thee wait.
Do quickly all thou hast to do,
Nor I nor mine will hindrance make:
I shall be free when thou art through;
I grudge thee naught that thou must take!
Stay! I have lied: I grudge thee one,
Yes, two I grudge thee at this last, –
Two members which have faithful done
My will and bidding in the past.
I grudge thee this right hand of mine;
I grudge thee this quick-beating heart:
They never gave me coward sign,
Nor played me once a traitor's part.
I see now why in olden days
Men in barbaric love or hate
Nailed enemies' hands at wild crossways,
Shrined leaders' hearts in costly state:
The symbol, sign, and instrument
Of each soul's purpose, passion, strife,
Of fires in which are poured and spent
Their all of love, their all of life.
O feeble, mighty human hand!
O fragile, dauntless human heart!
The universe holds nothing planned
With such sublime, transcendent art!
Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine:
Poor little hand, so feeble now;
Its wrinkled palm, its altered line,
Its veins so pallid and so slow.
[A stanza here was left incomplete. ]
Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art:
I shall be free when thou art through.
Take all there is— take hand and heart:
There must be somewhere work to do.
Copyright 1886, by Roberts Brothers.


## p. 8062 (#258) ###########################################

8062
HELEN FISKE JACKSON
MY HICKORY FIRE
O
HELPLESS body of hickory-tree,
What do I burn in burning thee?
Summers of sun, winters of snow,
Springs full of sap's resistless flow;
All past year's joys of garnered fruits;
All this year's purposed buds and shoots;
Secrets of fields of upper air,
Secrets which stars and planets share;
Light of such smiles as broad skies fling;
Sound of such tunes as wild winds sing;
Voices which told where gay birds dwelt,
Voices which told where lovers knelt;-
O strong white body of hickory-tree,
How dare I burn all these in thee?
But I too bring, as to a pyre,
Sweet things to feed thy funeral fire:
Memories waked by thy deep spell;
Faces of fears and hopes which fell;
Faces of darlings long since dead, -
Smiles that they smiled, and words they said;
Like living shapes they come and go,
Lit by the mounting flame's red glow.
But sacredest of all, O tree,
Thou hast the hour my love gave me.
Only thy rhythmic silence stirred
While his low-whispered tones I heard;
By thy last gleam of flickering light
I saw his cheek turn red from white;
O cold gray ashes, side by side
With yours, that hour's sweet pulses died !
But thou, brave tree, how do I know
That through these fires thou dost not go
As in old days the martyrs went
Through fire which was a sacrament?
How do I know thou dost not wait
In longing for thy next estate ? --
Estate of higher, nobler place,
Whose shapes no man can use or trace.
How do I know, if I could reach
The secret meaning of thy speech,
But I thy song of praise should hear,
Ringing triumphant, loud, and clear,-


## p. 8063 (#259) ###########################################

HELEN FISKE JACKSON
8063
The waiting angels could discern,
And token of thy heaven learn ?
O glad, freed soul of hickory-tree,
Wherever thine eternity,
Bear thou with thee that hour's dear name,
Made pure, like thee, by rites of flame!
Copyright 1874, by Roberts Brothers.
POPPIES IN THE WHEAT
A
LONG Ancona's hills the shimmering heat,
A tropic tide of air with ebb and flow,
Bathes all the fields of wheat until they glow
Like Aashing seas of green, which toss and beat
Around the vines. The poppies lithe and fleet
Seem running, fiery torchmen, to and fro
To mark the shore.
The farmer does not know
That they are there. He walks with heavy feet,
Counting the bread and wine by autumn's gain;
But I-I smile to think that days remain
Perhaps to me in which, though bread be sweet
No more, and red wine warm my blood in vain,
I shall be glad, remembering how the fleet
Lithe poppies ran like torchmen with the wheat.
Copyright 1874, by Roberts Brothers.
BURNT SHIPS
O
LOVE, sweet Love, who came with rosy sail
And foaming prow across the misty sea!
O Love, brave Love, whose faith was full and free
That lands of sun and gold, which could not fail,
Lay in the west; that bloom no wintry gale
Could blight, and eyes whose love thine own should be,
Called thee, with steadfast voice of prophecy
To shores unknown!
O Love, poor Love, avail
Thee nothing now thy faiths, thy braveries;
There is no sun, no bloom; a cold wind strips
The bitter foam from off the wave where dips
No more thy prow; the eyes are hostile eyes;
The gold is hidden; vain thy tears and cries:
O Love, poor Love, why didst thou burn thy ships?
Copyright 1874, by Roberts Brothers.


## p. 8064 (#260) ###########################################

3064
HELEN FISKE JACKSON
SPINNING
L'
IKE a blind spinner in the sun,
I tread my days;
I know that all the threads will run
Appointed ways;
I know each day will bring its task,
And being blind, no more I ask.
I do not know the use or name
Of that I spin;
I only know that some one came,
And laid within
My hand the thread, and said, “Since you
Are blind, but one thing you can do. ”
Sometimes the threads so rough and fast
And tangled fly,
I know wild storms are sweeping past,
And fear that I
Shall fall; but dare not try to find
A safer place, since I am blind.
I know not why, but I am sure
That tint and place,
In some great fabric to endure
Past time and race,
My threads will have; so from the first,
Though blind, I never felt accurst.
I think perhaps this trust has sprung
From one short word
Said over me when I was young, -
So young, I heard
It, knowing not that God's name signed
My brow, and sealed me his, though blind.
But whether this be seal or sign
Within, without,
It matters not. The bond Divine
I never doubt.
I know he set me here, and still
And glad and blind, I wait his will;
But listen, listen, day by day,
To hear their tread


## p. 8065 (#261) ###########################################

HELEN FISKE JACKSON
8065
Who bear the finished web away,
And cut the thread,
And bring God's message in the sun,
“Thou poor blind spinner, work is done. ”
Copyright 1874, by Roberts Brothers.
A MAY-DAY IN ALBANO
From Bits of Travel
W"
E WENT Maying on donkeys, and we found more flowers than
could have been picked in a month. What a May-day for
people who had all their lives before gone Maying in
india-rubbers and an east wind, on the Atlantic coast of Amer-
ica; had been glad and grateful over a few saxifrages and hous-
tonias, and knelt in ecstasy if they found a shivering clump of
dog-tooth violets!
Our donkey-man looked so like a New-Englander that I have
an uncomfortable curiosity about him: slim, thin, red-haired,
freckled, blue-eyed, hollow-chested, I believe he had run away in
his youth from Barnstable, and drifted to the shores of the Alban
Lake. I watched him in vain to discover any signs of his under-
standing our conversation, but I am sure I heard him say «Gee »
to the donkeys.
The donkey-boy too had New England eyes,- honest, dark
blue-gray, with perpetual laugh in them. It was for his eyes I
him along, he being as superfluous as a fifth leg to the
donkey. But when he danced up and down with bare feet on the
stones in front of the hotel door, and twisted and untwisted his
dirty little fingers in agony of fear lest I should say no, all the
while looking up into my face with a hopeful imploring smile, so
like one I shall never see again,- I loved him, and engaged him
then and there always to walk by my donkey's nose so long as I
rode donkeys in Albano. I had no sooner done this than, presto!
my boy disappeared; and all I could see in his stead was a sort
of human pin-wheel, with ten dangerous toes for spokes, flying
round and round by my side. What a pleased Italian boy, aged
eleven, can do in the way of revolving somersets passes belief,
even while you are looking at it. But in a moment he came
down right end up, and with the air of a mature protector, took
my donkey by the rope, and off we went.
XIV-505


## p. 8066 (#262) ###########################################

8066
HELEN FISKE JACKSON
I never find myself forming part of a donkey, with a donkey-
man in rear, without being reminded of all the pictures I have
seen of the Flight into Egypt, and being impressed anew with
a sense of the terrible time that Holy Family must have had
trying to make haste on such a kind of animal: of all beasts, to
escape from a hostile monarch on! And one never pities Joseph
any more for having to go on foot: except for the name of the
thing, walking must always be easier.
If I say that we climbed up a steep hill to the Capuchin
church and convent, and then bore off to the right along the
shores of the Alban lake, and resolved to climb on till we
reached the Convent of Palazzuola, which is half-way up the side
of Monte Cavo, it does not mean anything to people who do not
know the Alban Lake and Monte Cavo. Yet how else can I tell
where we had our Maying? The donkey path from Albano up
to Palazzuola — and there is no other way of going up- zigzags
along the side of the hill, which is the south shore of the Alban
Lake. Almost to the last it is thickly wooded: looking at this
south shore from a distance, those who have been through the
path can trace its line faintly marked among the tree-tops, like
a fine thread indenting them; but strangers to it would never
dream that it was there. The path is narrow; only wide enough
for two donkeys to pass, if both behave well.
On the left hand you look down into the mystic lake, which
is always dark and troubled, no matter how blue the sky: never
did I see a smile or a placid look of rest on the Alban Lake.
Doubtless it is still linked with fates and oracles we do not
know. . On the right hand the hill stretches up, sometimes sharply
in cliffs, sometimes in gentle slopes with moist hollows full of
ivies and ferns; everywhere are flowers in clusters, beds, thickets.
It seemed paltry to think of putting a few into a basket, hope-
less to try to call the roll of their names. First come the vetches
scrambling in and out, hooking on to everything without dis-
crimination; surely a vetch is the most easily contented of plants:
it will hold by a grass stalk or an ilex trunk, or lie flat on the
roadside, and blossom away as fast as it can in each place. Yel-
low, and white, and crimson, and scarlet, and purple, and pink,
and pale green;-seven different vetches we brought home. Peri- .
winkle, matted and tangled, with flowers one inch and a half
in diameter (by measurement); violets in territories, and of all
shades of blue; Solomon's-seals of three different kinds; dark


## p. 8067 (#263) ###########################################

HELEN FISKE JACKSON
8067
blue bee-larkspur whose stems were two feet high; white honey-
suckle wreathing down from tall trees; feathery eupatoriums;
great arums, not growing like ours, on a slender stalk, but look-
ing like a huge cornucopia made out of yellow corn-husks, with
one end set in the ground; red catchfly and white; tiny pinks
not bigger than heads of pins; clovers of new sorts and sizes,-
one of a delicate yellow, a pink one in small flat heads, and an-
other growing in plumes or tassels two inches long, crimson at
base and shading up to white at top. One could not fancy this
munched in mouthfuls even by sacred cattle: it should be eaten
head by head like asparagus, nibbled slowly down to the luscious
color at the stem.
The holly was in blossom and the white thorn, and huge
bushes of yellow broom swung out across our path at every turn;
we thought they must light it up at night. Here and there were
communities of crimson cyclamens, that most bewildering of all
Italy's flowers. “Mad violets” the Italians call them, and there
is a pertinence in the name: they hang their heads and look
down as if no violet could be more shy, but all the while their
petals turn back like the ears of a vicious horse, and their whole
expression is of the most fascinating mixture of modesty and
mischief. Always with the cyclamens we found the forget-me-
nots, nodding above them in fringing canopies of blue; also the
little flower that the Italians call forget-me-not, which is the
tiniest of things, shaped like our forget-me-not, but of a pale
purple color.
Dandelions there were too, and buttercups, warm-
ing our hearts to see; we would not admit that they were any
more golden than under the colder sun where we had first picked
them. Upon the chickweed, however, we looked in speechless
wonder: chickweed it was, and no mistake,— but if the canary-
birds in America could only see it! One bud would be a break-
fast. One bud, do I say? I can fancy a thrifty Dicky eating
out a ragged hole in one side, like a robin from a cherry, and
leaving the rest for next day. The flowers are as wonderful as
the buds, whitening the ground and the hedges everywhere with
their shining white stars, as large as silver quarters of dollars
used to be.
Now I come with shamefacedness to speak of the flowers
whose names I did not know. What brutish people we are, even
those of us who think we love Nature well, to live our lives out
so ignorant of her good old families! We are quite sure to
>


## p. 8068 (#264) ###########################################

8068
HELEN FISKE JACKSON
know the names and generations of hundreds of insignificant men
and women, merely because they go to our church or live in our
street; and we should feel ourselves much humiliated if we were
not on what is called “speaking terms with the best people
wherever we go.
But we
are not ashamed to spend summer
after summer face to face with flowers and trees and stones, and
never so much as know them by name. I wonder they treat us
so well as they do, provide us with food and beauty so often,
poison us so seldom. It must be only out of the pity they feel,
being diviner than we.
The flowers which I did not know were many more than
those which I knew, and most of them I cannot describe. There
was a blue flower like a liverwort, only larger and lighter, and
with a finely notched green leaf; there was a tiny bell-shaped
flower, yellow, growing by twos and threes, and nodding perpet-
ually; there was a trumpet-shaped flower the size of a thimble,
which had scarlet and blue and purple all blended together in
fine lines and shadings; there was another trumpet-shaped flower,
quite small, which had its blue and purple and scarlet in sepa-
rate trumpets but on one stem; there was a tiny blue flower,
shaped like a verbena, but set at top of a cluster of shut buds
whose hairy calyxes were of a brilliant claret red; there was a
yellow flower, tube-shaped, slender, long, white at the brim and
brown at the base, and set by twos, in shelter of the joining of
its leaves to the stalk; there was a fine feathery white flower, in
branching heads, like our wild parsley, but larger petaled, and a
white star-shaped flower which ran riot everywhere; and besides
these, were so many others which I have no colors to paint,
that at night of this wonderful May-day, when we numbered its
lowers, there were fifty-two kinds.
As we came out of the woods upon the craggy precipices near
the convent, we found the rocks covered with purple and pink
thyme. The smell of it, crushed under the donkey's hoofs, was
delicious. Somebody was homesick enough to say that it was
like going across a New England kitchen the day before Thanks-
giving, and spilling the sweet marjoram.
The door of the cloister was wide open. Two monks were
standing just outside, absorbed in watching an artist who was
making a sketch of the old fountain. The temptation was too
strong for one member of our party: when nobody looked, she
sprang in and walked on, determined to have one look over the


## p. 8069 (#265) ###########################################

HELEN FISKE JACKSON
8069
parapet down into the lake. She found herself under old ilex-
trees, among dark box hedges, and the stone parapet many rods
ahead. A monk, weeding among the cabbages, lifted his head,
turned pale at sight of her, and looked instantly down at his
weeding again, doubtless crossing himself and praying to be kept
from temptation. She saw other monks hurrying to and fro at
end of the garden, evidently consulting what was to be done.
She knew no one of them would dare to come and speak to
a woman, so she pushed on for the parapet, and reached it.
Presently a workman, not a monk, came running breathlessly:
«Signorina, signorina, it is not permitted to enter here. ”
"I do not understand Italian,” said she, smiling and bow-
ing, and turning away and looking over the parapet. Down,
down, hundreds of feet below, lay the lake, black, troubled, un-
fathomed. A pebble could have been swung by a string from
this parapet far out into the lake. It was a sight not to be
forgotten. The workman gesticulated with increased alarm and
horror: “O dearest signorina, indeed it is impossible for you to
remain here.
The holy fathers” at this moment the donkey-
man came hurrying in for dear life, with most obsequious and
deprecating gestures and words, beckoning the young lady out,
and explaining that it was all a mistake, that the signorina was
Inglese and did not understand a word of Italian -- for which
-
gratuitous lie I hope he may be forgiven. I am sure he enjoyed
the joke; at any rate, we did, and I shall always be glad that
one woman has been inside the closed cloister of Palazzuola, and
looked from its wall down into the lake.
We climbed round the convent on a narrow rocky path over-
hanging the lake, to see an old tomb «supposed to be that of
Cneius Cornelius Scipio Hispallus. ” We saw no reason to doubt
its being his. Then we climbed still farther up, into a field
where there was the most wonderful massing of flowers we had
yet seen: the whole field was literally a tangle of many-colored
vetches, clovers, chickweed, and buttercups. We stumbled and
caught our feet in the vetches, as one does in blackberry-vines;
but if we had fallen we should have fallen into the snowy arms
of the white narcissus, with which the whole field glistened like
a silver tent under the sun. Never have I seen any flower show
so solemnly beautiful, unless it might have been a great morning
opening I once saw of giant pond-lilies, in a pond on Block
Island.
But here there were in addition to the glittering white


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8070
HELEN FISKE JACKSON
disks, purple and pink and yellow orchids, looking, as orchids
always do, like imprisoned spirits just about to escape.
As we came down the mountain the sunset lights kindled the
whole Campagna into a flaming sea. The Mediterranean beyond
seemed, by some strange optical effect, to be turned up around
the horizon, like a golden rim holding the misty sea. The lake
looked darker and darker at every step of our descent. Mount
Soracte stood clear cut against the northern sky; and between
us and it went up the smoke of that enchantress, Rome, - the
great dome of St. Peter's looming and fading and looming and
fading again through the yellow mist, like a gigantic bubble, as
the power of the faith it represents has loomed and faded and
loomed through all the ages.
Copyright 1872, by Roberts Brothers.


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8071
HENRY JAMES
(1843-)
A
ENRY JAMES has added much to American literature in a form
of fiction in which he was to some extent an innovator.
Still more important is his influence on younger men,
through the success with which he carried out his method. The
novel of delicate observation, of social details, free form, strong
emphasis, depending for its charm on subtlety of suggestion, is largely
his creation. This we may see by reading the novels written before
his time. We shall then realize better how new a note his was;
and then in the works of men ten or fifteen years younger we can
see clearly how much there is in their manner directly suggested by
him.
When he began, as a very young man, his first work clearly showed
his bent. His boyhood had been a preparation for detachment and
expression, but it had only emphasized tendencies existing in him
from the first. He was born in 1843, in New York city. Even in his
earliest years he showed an extraordinary love for refinement and
intellectual delicacy. He tells us himself that he used to sit on the
hearth-rug and study Punch, when the other boys were playing their
games. He wanted to know intimately the life which the pictures
of John Leech and the other illustrators suggested to him. They
interested him because it was with character they dealt, and because
their characteristics were intimacy, light irony, and fineness of detail.
When he was only eleven he was able to carry out his hope; and he
spent the next six years — among the most impressionable of a boy's
life - in Italy and England, making still stronger his taste for culture,
for art, for charming tradition of every kind, social and artistic. For
six years more his home was in Newport, and in his own family he
heard always brilliant conversation. His father, Henry James, was
an impassioned and eloquent writer on ethics and religion. William
James, the psychologist, was a brother; and the rest of the family
were all original and expressive talkers. During these years Henry
used often to lock himself in his room all day, taking his meals
there and refusing to be disturbed. At the end of several days he
would show the family a story,- a very bad one at first. When
he was about twenty they began to understand that he had talent.
His unremitting work was giving him the power of expressing more


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8072
HENRY JAMES
as a career.
adequately the things he saw. In 1862 he entered the Harvard Law
School, but studied little law, going instead to listen to lectures of
James Russell Lowell and devoting himself to the study of books.
His first successes in the magazines decided him to trust to literature
In 1869 he went abroad again, and since then has lived
there practically all the time, with Paris at first and then London as
his home, and Italy as his chief visiting-place. There is little to tell
of his life. It is a quiet study of people in society, of books, of art
and places; and the most important results of it are given in an
account of his work. His first novel showed only promise, not very
much skill. This was Watch and Ward, published in 1871. But
after some shorter studies he produced in 1875 (Roderick Hudson,' a
novel hardly inferior to his best later work. It combines forcible
character study with more sentiment than he ever allows himself in
his later books, and with the delicate play of intellectual acuteness
which we associate above all else with Mr. James's work. This book
made prominent at once the two motives which have been dominant
ever since. The first is the contrast between Americans and Euro-
peans. The second is the contrast between the artistic nature on the
one hand, and on the other the absolutely prosaic, inartistic, merely
human type of man. The earlier novels have more simplicity, more
rapid movement, more fun than the later ones. Another point of
Mr. James's art comes out clearly in this first long novel; namely, the
principle that the story should stop with abruptness and incomplete-
ness, like the tale of any man's life broken off without warning on a
certain day. Perhaps the fact that Mr. James has carried on the
story of the heroine of this novel in another, - the only instance of
that practice in his works, — shows an exceptional interest in her; and
he has certainly left no other creation so poetic as Christina Light.
After several more short stories, “The American appeared in 1877.
Besides retaining much of his early charm, this story gives us the
most careful picture of a genuine American which Mr. James has
drawn. Most of his books have Americans in them; but they are
Americans floating in European circles, who have become denational-
ized, or else the crude class set in contrast against the background
of foreign culture. Christopher Newman, however, is a man through
and through, with the native qualities in their most typical form.
Another American character, not less famous, Daisy Miller, is the
heroine of the story of the same name which appeared two years
later. The burlesque element is more marked there. The emphasis
is laid on crudities which are noticeable mainly because they are dif-
ferent from certain things in Europe. Still there is in the story also
something of the same depth of understanding that appears in the
analysis of Christopher Newman; and there is in the character of the


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HENRY JAMES
8073
heroine a power of pathos which Mr. James has not often shown. It
is clearly the most popular of his shorter stories. It was dramatized
four years later, but without success. In the mean time, in 1881,
appeared Washington Square,' a gentle and pleasing study, the scene
of which is laid in New York's old aristocratic neighborhood; and
“The Portrait of a Lady,' one of the most popular of the longer
novels, and containing some of the author's best drawn characters.
Until 1886 less important works appeared; and then came two
long novels, the much discussed Bostonians) and the less read but
more liked Princess Casamassima. ' (The Bostonians) was simple in
construction, with little plot, giving simply a long, careful picture of
three American types. It shows no liking for any one of the char-
acters depicted, but extreme subtlety, and probably as much accuracy
as could be obtained without sympathy. The Princess Casamassima'
is one of the great triumphs of Mr. James's art; and taken with
(Roderick Hudson, to which it is a sort of sequel, it probably gives
a more adequate idea of his art than any other work. In the earlier
story of Christina Light the artistic element and charm are at the
highest; in the later one, the grayer atmosphere is charged with a
power of substantial analysis and construction that he has never sur-
passed. It was in a review of this novel that Mr. Howells first
uttered his earnest appreciation of Mr. James's greatness, his ori-
ginality, and his influence on younger writers. "The Tragic Muse,'
which was published in 1890, is the most complicated of his stories,
the most difficult in structure, and in spite of its great length it is
successful to the end. One of his friends said on reading it, “I will
say it is your best novel if you promise never to do it again ;)
meaning that one step further in the direction of elaboration would
be fatal. The characters in this story are English, and Mr. James
makes them with hardly an exception more charming than he does
his Americans. The warning of his friend has been justified by Mr.
James's own books in the last half-dozen years. His strength has
been given mainly to an attempt to become more dramatic. Several
short comedies were written - and not acted. (The American was
presented without success; and other unsuccessful efforts in connec-
tion with the stage were made, which showed Mr. James's perception
of the fact that the drama must be quicker, more striking, than his
natural method. Toward that end he is working constantly. His
novel “The Other House,' published in 1896, is so condensed in treat-
ment as well as dramatic in plot that it might be put upon the stage
with little change. Few of his admirers ever expected to see a mur-
der in one of Mr. James's books; and yet this last novel, with a plot
that might well be called sensational, is one of his most finished
pieces of art.


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8074
HENRY JAMES
(
To one who believes that the group of long novels is the best
work that Mr. James has done, several reasons present themselves.
He writes a great deal, and many of his themes in the shorter stories
are simply episodes. The ideas over which he has thought longest,
which are large and deeply understood, are in the main saved for the
sustained novels. These seldom indulge in the episode: their march
is continuous, their effect cumulative. Every page is an integral part
of the whole. Of the stories, many of which have simple pictur-
esque motives, this is less true. Their workmanship is less severe.
Another reason for the superiority of the great romances is that
Mr. James's method of accumulation - of fine distinctions, delicate
shades, and few sharp strokes —is in itself less appropriate to the
short story.
Although it is in fiction that he is mainly known, as the subtlest
of American novelists, and the inventor to a large extent of the pres-
ent artistic society novel, yet he is also one of our first essayists.
Early in his literary career he published “Transatlantic Sketches';
and since then have appeared Portraits of Places,' French Poets
and Novelists,' the Biography of Hawthorne, Partial Portraits,
(A Little Tour in France,' and other volumes of essays. There are
few more stimulating guides to thought, few more sincere and just
appreciations, than can be found among his essays; for Mr. James is a
man whose education in life has come largely through books. He is
especially happy in his descriptions of the French masters who have
influenced him. -Turgénieff, Mérimée, De Maupassant, and others, -as
well as some Englishmen with whom he is in sympathy, notably Du
Maurier. A very subtle artist writing about the work of other artists,
he has made such interesting essays that some careful readers put
him even higher as a critic than as a novelist. In both kinds of work
he has taught the same lesson,- the love of the artistic, perfect
finish, — which has been carried by him at least as far as by any
other American prose writer.
The volume called from one of its components (A Passionate Pil-
grim, published in 1875, contains six of Mr. James's earlier sketches.
Among these, The Madonna of the Future, perhaps better than any
other, illustrates at once his artistic delicacy of touch, his sympa-
thetic insight into character, and lastly the powerful impression made
upon his imagination by the art treasures of Italy. This masterpiece
in miniature it is happily possible to present here entire.


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HENRY JAMES
8075
THE MADONNA OF THE FUTURE
From "A Passionate Pilgrim, and Other Tales. ? Copyright 1875, by James R.
Osgood & Co. Reprinted by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , pub-
lishers, Boston.
W*
E HAD been talking about the masters who had achieved
but a single masterpiece,- the artists and poets who but
once in their lives had known the divine afflatus, and
touched the high level of the best. Our host had been showing
us a charming little cabinet picture by a painter whose name we
had never heard, and who after this one spasmodic bid for fame
had apparently relapsed into fatal mediocrity. There was some
discussion as to the frequency of this phenomenon; during which
I observed H— sat silent, finishing his cigar with a meditative
air, and looking at the picture which was being handed round
the table. "I don't know how common a case it is,” he said at
last, “but I've seen it. I've known a poor fellow who painted
his one masterpiece—and,” he added with a smile, he didn't
even paint that. He made his bid for fame and missed it. " We
all knew H—for a clever man who had seen much of men
and manners, and had a great stock of reminiscences.
Some one
immediately questioned him further; and while I was engrossed
with the raptures of my neighbor over the little picture, he was
induced to tell his tale. If I were to doubt whether it would
bear repeating, I should only have to remember how that charm-
ing woman our hostess, who had left the table, ventured back in
rustling rose color to pronounce our lingering a want of gallantry,
and finding us a listening circle had sunk into her chair in spite
of our cigars, and heard the story out so graciously that when
the catastrophe was reached, she glanced across at me and showed
me a tender tear in each of her beautiful eyes.
IT RELATES to my youth, and to Italy: two fine things! (H-
began). I had arrived late in the evening at Florence, and while
I finished my bottle of wine at supper, had fancied that, tired
traveler though I was, I might pay the city a finer compliment
than by going vulgarly to bed. A narrow passage wandered
darkly away out of the little square before my hotel, and looked
as if it bored into the heart of Florence. I followed it, and at
the end of ten minutes emerged upon a great piazza, filled only
with the mild autumn moonlight. Opposite rose the Palazzo


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8076
HENRY JAMES
a man
Vecchio like some huge civic fortress, with the great bell-tower
springing from its embattled verge like a mountain pine from
the edge of a cliff. At its base in its projected shadow gleamed
certain dim sculptures which I wonderingly approached. One of
the images on the left of the palace door was a magnificent colos-
sus, shining through the dusky air like some embodied Defiance.
In a moment I recognized him as Michael Angelo's David.
turned with a certain relief from his sinister strength to a slen-
der figure in bronze, stationed beneath the high, light loggia
which opposes the free and elegant span of its arches to the dead
masonry of the palace: a figure supremely shapely and graceful;
gentle almost, in spite of his holding out with his light nervous
arm the snaky head of the slaughtered Gorgon. His name is
Perseus, and you may read his story, not in Greek mythology,
but in the memoirs of Bevenuto Cellini. Glancing from one of
these fine fellows to the other, I probably uttered some irre-
pressible commonplace of praise; for as if provoked by my voice,
rose from the steps of the loggia where he had been
sitting in the shadow, and addressed me in good English,-a
small slim personage, clad in a sort of black-velvet tunic (as it
seemed), and with a mass of auburn hair, which gleamed in the
moonlight, escaping from a little mediæval berretta, In a tone
of the most insinuating deference he asked me for my "impres-
sions. ” He seemed picturesque, fantastic, slightly unreal. Hover-
ing there in this consecrated neighborhood, he might have passed
for the genius of æsthetic hospitality,- if the genius of asthetic
hospitality were not commonly some shabby little custode, flour-
ishing a calico pocket-handkerchief, and openly resentful of the
divided franc. This fantasy was made none the less plausible
by the brilliant tirade with which he greeted my embarrassed
silence.
“I've known Florence long, sir, but I've never known her so
lovely as to-night. It's as if the ghosts of her past were abroad
in the empty streets. The present is sleeping; the past hovers
about us like a dream made visible. Fancy the old Florentines
strolling up in couples to pass judgment on the last performance
of Michael, of Benvenuto! We should come in for a precious
lesson if we might overhear what they say. The plainest
burgher of them in his cap and gown had a taste in the matter!
That was the prime of art, sir. The sun stood high in heaven,
and his broad and equal blaze made the darkest places bright


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HENRY JAMES
8077
C
and the dullest eyes clear. We live in the evening of time! We
grope in the gray dusk, carrying each our poor little taper of
selfish and painful wisdom, holding it up to the great models and
to the dim idea, and seeing nothing but overwhelming greatness
and dimness. The days of illumination are gone! But do you
know I fancy – I fancy” — and he grew suddenly almost familiar
in this visionary fervor — "I fancy the light of that time rests
upon us here for an hour!
I have never seen the David SO
grand, the Perseus so fair! Even the inferior productions of John
of Bologna and of Baccio Bandinelli seem to realize the artist's
dream. I feel as if the moonlit air were charged with the secrets
of the masters, and as if, standing here in religious contempla-
tion, we might - we might witness a revelation! ” Perceiving at
this moment, I suppose, my halting comprehension reflected in
my puzzled face, this interesting rhapsodist paused and blushed.
Then with a melancholy smile, “You think me a moonstruck
,
charlatan, I suppose. It's not my habit to hang about the piazza
and pounce upon innocent tourists. But to-night I confess I'm
under the charm. And then somehow I fancied you too were
an artist ! »
“I'm not an artist, I'm sorry to say, as you must understand
the term. But pray make no apologies. I am also under the
charm: your eloquent reflections have only deepened it. ”
"If you're not an artist, you're worthy to be one! ” he rejoined
with a bow. “A young man who arrives at Florence late in the
evening, and instead of going prosaically to bed, or hanging over
the travelers' book at his hotel, walks forth without loss of time
to pay his devoirs to the beautiful, is a young man after my own
heart! ”
The mystery was suddenly solved: my friend was an Ameri-
can! He must have been, to take the picturesque so prodigiously
to heart. «None the less so, I trust," I answered, "if the young
is a sordid New-Yorker. "
New-Yorkers,” he solemnly proclaimed, have been munifi-
cent patrons of art! ”
For a moment I was alarmed. Was this midnight revery
mere Yankee enterprise, and was he simply a desperate brother
of the brush who had posted himself here to extort an « order »
from a sauntering tourist ? But I was not called to defend my-
self. A great brazen note broke suddenly from the far-off sum-
mit of the bell-tower above us, and sounded the first stroke of
(
man
((


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8078
HENRY JAMES
C
midnight. My companion started, apologized for detaining me,
and prepared to retire. But he seemed to offer so lively a prom-
ise of further entertainment that I was indisposed to part with
him, and suggested that we should stroll homeward together. He
cordially assented, so we turned out of the Piazza, passed down
before the statued arcade of the Uffizi, and came out upon the
Arno.
What course we took I hardly remember; but we roamed
slowly about for an hour, my companion delivering by snatches a
sort of moon-touched æsthetic lecture. I listened in puzzled fas-
cination, and wondered who the deuce he was. He confessed
with a melancholy but all-respectful head-shake to his American
origin. We are the disinherited of Art! ” he cried.
““We are
condemned to be superficial! We are excluded from the magic
circle. The soil of American perception is a poor little barren
artificial deposit. Yes! we
are wedded to imperfection.