No More Learning

"Well, sir," continued Robert, triumphantly, "I wager my
reputation as a A steward, that in 'arf an hour it will be open
again; fastened back too, sir, that's the horful thing-fastened
back! "
I examined the great screw and the looped nut that ran on it.
"If I find it open in the night, Robert, I will give you a
sovereign. It is not possible. You may go.
>>>
"Soverin' did you say, sir? Very good, sir. Thank ye, sir.
Good night, sir. Pleasant reepose, sir, and all manner of hin-
chantin' dreams, sir. "
Robert scuttled away, delighted at being released. Of course
I thought he was trying to account for his negligence by a silly
story intended to frighten me, and I disbelieved him. The con-
sequence was that he got his sovereign, and I spent a very
peculiarly unpleasant night.
I went to bed, and five minutes after I had rolled myself up
in my blankets the inexorable Robert extinguished the light that
burned steadily behind the ground-glass pane near the door. I lay
quite still in the dark trying to go to sleep, but I soon found
that impossible. It had been some satisfaction to be angry with
the steward, and the diversion had banished that unpleasant
sensation I had at first experienced when I thought of the
drowned man who had been my chum; but I was no longer
sleepy, and I lay awake for some time, occasionally glancing at
the porthole, which I could just see from where I lay, and
which in the darkness looked like a faintly luminous soup-plate
suspended in blackness. I believe I must have lain there for an
hour, and, as I remember, I was just dozing into sleep when I
was roused by a draught of cold air and by distinctly feeling the
spray of the sea blown upon my face. I started to my feet, and
not having allowed in the dark for the motion of the ship, I was
instantly thrown violently across the state-room upon the couch
which was placed beneath the porthole. I recovered myself


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FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD
4155
The port-
immediately, however, and climbed upon my knees.
hole was again wide open and fastened back!
Now these things are facts. I was wide awake when I got
up, and I should certainly have been waked by the fall had I
still been dozing. Moreover, I bruised my elbows and knees
badly, and the bruises were there on the following morning to
testify to the fact, if I myself had doubted it. The port-hole was
wide open and fastened back-a thing so unaccountable that I
remember very well feeling astonishment rather than fear when
I discovered it. I at once closed the plate again and screwed
down the looped nut with all my strength. It was very dark in
the state-room. I reflected that the port had certainly been
opened within an hour after Robert had at first shut it in my
presence, and I determined to watch it and see whether it would
open again. Those brass fittings are very heavy and by no
means easy to move; I could not believe that the clump had
been turned by the shaking of the screw. I stood peering out
through the thick glass at the alternate white and gray streaks
of the sea that foamed beneath the ship's side. I must have
remained there a quarter of an hour.
Suddenly, as I stood, I distinctly heard something moving
behind me in one of the berths, and a moment afterwards, just
as I turned instinctively to look-though I could of course see
nothing in the darkness-I heard a very faint groan. I sprang
across the state-room and tore the curtains of the upper berth
aside, thrusting in my hands to discover if there were any one
there. There was some one.
I remember that the sensation as I put my hands forward was
as though I were plunging them into the air of a damp cellar,
and from behind the curtain came a gust of wind that smelled
horribly of stagnant sea-water. I laid hold of something that
had the shape of a man's arm, but was smooth and wet and
icy cold.
But suddenly, as I pulled, the creature sprang violently
forward against me, a clammy, oozy mass, as it seemed to me,
heavy and wet, yet endowed with a sort of supernatural strength.
I reeled across the state-room, and in an instant the door opened
and the thing rushed out. I had not had time to be frightened,
and quickly recovering myself I sprang through the door and
gave chase at the top of my speed; but I was too late. Ten
yards before me I could see - I am sure I saw it
a dark
shadow moving in the dimly lighted passage, quickly as the
-


## p. 4156 (#534) ###########################################

4156
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD
shadow of a fast horse thrown before a dog-cart by the lamp on
a dark night. But in a moment it had disappeared, and I found
myself holding on to the polished rail that ran along the bulk-
head where the passage turned towards the companion. My hair
stood on end, and the cold perspiration rolled down my face. I
am not ashamed of it in the least: I was very badly frightened.
Still I doubted my senses, and pulled myself together. It was
absurd, I thought. The Welsh rare-bit I had eaten had disagreed
with me. I had been in a nightmare. I made my way back to
my state-room, and entered it with an effort. The whole place.
smelled of stagnant sea-water, as it had when I had waked on
the previous evening. It required my utmost strength to go in
and grope among my things for a box of wax lights. As I
lighted a railway reading lantern which I always carry in case I
want to read after the lamps are out, I perceived that the port-
hole was again open, and a sort of creeping horror began to
take possession of me which I never felt before, nor wish to feel
again. But I got a light and proceeded to examine the upper
berth, expecting to find it drenched with sea-water.
But I was disappointed. The bed had been slept in, and the
smell of the sea was strong; but the bedding was as dry as a
bone. I fancied that Robert had not had the courage to make
the bed after the accident of the previous night-it had all been
a hideous dream. I drew the curtains back as far as I could,
and examined the place very carefully. It was perfectly dry.
But the port-hole was open again. With a sort of dull bewilder-
ment of horror I closed it and screwed it down, and thrusting
my heavy stick through the brass loop, wrenched it with all my
might till the thick metal began to bend under the pressure.
Then I hooked my reading lantern into the red velvet at the
head of the couch, and sat down to recover my senses if I could.
I sat there all night, unable to think of rest-hardly able to
think at all. But the port-hole remained closed, and I did not
believe it would now open again without the application of a
considerable force.
myself slowly,
It was a beau-
The morning dawned at last, and I dressed
thinking over all that had happened in the night.
tiful day, and I went on deck, glad to get out in the early pure
sunshine, and to smell the breeze from the blue water, so different
from the noisome, stagnant odor from my state-room. Instinct-
ively I turned aft, towards the surgeon's cabin. There he stood,


## p. 4157 (#535) ###########################################

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD
4157
with a pipe in his mouth, taking his morning airing precisely as
on the preceding day.
"Good-morning," said he, quietly, but looking at me with
evident curiosity.
"There is something
"Doctor, you were quite right," said I.
wrong about that place. "
"I thought you would change your mind," he answered,
rather triumphantly. "You have had a bad night, eh? Shall I
make you a pick-me-up? I have a capital recipe. "
"No, thanks," I cried. "But I would like to tell you what
happened. "
I then tried to explain as clearly as possible precisely what
had occurred, not omitting to state that I had been scared as I
had never been scared in my whole life before. I dwelt particu-
larly on the phenomenon of the port-hole, which was a fact to
which I could testify, even if the rest had been an illusion. I
had closed it twice in the night, and the second time I had
actually bent the brass in wrenching it with my stick. I believe
I insisted a good deal on this point.
"You seem to think I am likely to doubt the story," said the
doctor, smiling at the detailed account of the state of the port-
hole. "I do not doubt it in the least. I renew my invitation to
you. Bring your traps here, and take half my cabin. "
"Come and take half of mine for one night," I said. "Help
me to get at the bottom of this thing. "
"You will get at the bottom of something else if you try,"
answered the doctor.
"What? " I asked.
"The bottom of the sea. I am going to leave the ship. It
is not canny. "
"Then
you will not help me to find out
"Not I," said the doctor, quickly. "It is my business to
keep my wits about me-not to go fiddling about with ghosts.
and things. "
>>
"Do you really believe it is a ghost? " I inquired, rather
contemptuously. But as I spoke I remembered very well the
horrible sensation of the supernatural which had got possession
of me during the night. The doctor turned sharply on me.
"Have you any reasonable explanation of these things to
offer? " he asked. "No, you have not. Well, you say you will
find an explanation. I say that you won't, sir, simply because
there is not any >>


## p. 4158 (#536) ###########################################

4158
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD
"But, my dear sir," I retorted, "do you, a man of science,
mean to tell me that such things cannot be explained? "
"I do," he answered, stoutly. "And if they could, I would
not be concerned in the explanation. "
I did not care to spend another night alone in the state-
room, and yet I was obstinately determined to get at the root
of the disturbances. I do not believe there are many men who
would have slept there alone, after passing two such nights.
But I made up my mind to try it, if I could not get any one to
share a watch with me. The doctor was evidently not inclined.
for such an experiment. He said he was a surgeon, and that in
case any accident occurred on board he must always be in readi-
ness. He could not afford to have his nerves unsettled. Perhaps
he was quite right, but I am inclined to think that his precaution
was prompted by his inclination. On inquiry, he informed me
that there was no one on board who would be likely to join me
in my investigations, and after a little more conversation I left
him. A little later I met the captain, and told him my story.
I said that if no one would spend the night with me I would
ask leave to have the light burning all night, and would try it
alone.
"Look here," said he, "I will tell you what I will do. I will
share your watch myself, and we will see what happens. It is
my belief that we can find out between us. There may be some
fellow skulking on board, who steals a passage by frightening
the passengers. It is just possible that there may be something
queer in the carpentering of that berth. "
I suggested taking the ship's carpenter below and examining
the place; but I was overjoyed at the captain's offer to spend
the night with me. He accordingly sent for the workman and
ordered him to do anything I required. We went below at once.
I had all the bedding cleared out of the upper berth, and we
examined the place thoroughly to see if there was a board loose
anywhere, or a panel which could be opened or pushed aside.
We tried the planks everywhere, tapped the flooring, unscrewed
the fittings of the lower berth and took it to pieces: in short,
there was not a square inch of the state-room which was not
searched and tested. Everything was in perfect order, and we
put everything back in its place. As we were finishing our
work, Robert came to the door and looked in.
"Well, sir - find anything, sir? " he asked with a ghastly
grin.


## p. 4159 (#537) ###########################################

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD
4159
"You were right about the port-hole, Robert," I said; and I
gave him the promised sovereign. The carpenter did his work
silently and skillfully, following my directions. When he had
done he spoke.
"I'm a plain man, sir," he said. "But it's my belief you had
better just turn out your things and let me run half a dozen
four-inch screws through the door of this cabin. There's no
good never came o' this cabin yet, sir, and that's all about it.
There's been four lives lost out o' here to my own remembrance,
and that in four trips. Better give it up, sir—better give it up! "
"I will try it for one night more," I said.
"Better give it up, sir- better give it up! It's a precious
bad job," repeated the workman, putting his tools in his bag
and leaving the cabin.
But my spirits had risen considerably at the prospect of hav-
ing the captain's company, and I made up my mind not to be
prevented from going to the end of the strange business. I
abstained from Welsh rare-bits and grog that evening, and did
not even join in the customary game of whist. I wanted to be
quite sure of my nerves, and my vanity made me anxious to
make a good figure in the captain's eyes.
A THWARTED PLAN
From 'Marzio's Crucifix': copyrighted 1887, by F. Marion Crawford, and re-
produced by permission of the Macmillan Company, Publishers
M
ARZIO entered the inner studio when Gianbattista was gone,
leaving a boy who was learning to cut little files-the
preliminary to the chiseler's profession-in charge of the
outer workshop. The artist shut himself in and bolted the door,
glad to be alone with the prospect of not being disturbed during
the whole afternoon. He seemed not to hesitate about the work
he intended to do, for he immediately took in hand the crucifix,
laid it upon the table, and began to study it, using a lens from
time to time as he scrutinized each detail. His rough hair fell
forward over his forehead, and his shoulders rounded themselves
till he looked almost deformed.
He had suffered very strong emotions during the last twenty-
four hours-enough to have destroyed the steadiness of an ordi-
nary man's hand, but with Marzio manual skill was the first
habit of nature, and it would have been hard to find a mental


## p. 4160 (#538) ###########################################

4160
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD
impression which could shake his physical nerves. His mind,
however, worked rapidly and almost fiercely, while his eyes
searched the minute lines of the work he was examining.
Uppermost in his thoughts was a confused sense of humilia-
tion and of exasperation against his brother. The anger he felt
had nearly been expressed in a murderous deed not more than
two or three hours earlier, and the wish to strike was still
present in his mind. He twisted his lips into an ugly smile as
he recalled the scene in every detail; but the determination was
different from the reality, and more in accordance with his feel-
ings. He realized again that moment during which he had held
the sharp instrument over his brother's head, and the thought
which had then passed so rapidly through his brain recurred again
with increased clearness. He remembered that beneath the iron-
bound box in the corner there was a trap-door which descended
to the unused cellar, for his workshop had in former times been
a wine-shop, and he had hired the cellar with it. One sharp
blow would have done the business. A few quick movements,
and Paolo's body would have been thrown down the dark steps.
beneath, the trap closed again, the safe replaced in its position. It
was eleven o'clock then, or thereabouts. He would have sent the
workmen to their dinner, and would have returned to the inner
studio. They would have supposed afterwards that Don Paolo
had left the place with him. He would have gone home and
would have said that Paolo had left him—or no-he would have
said that Paolo had not been there, for some one might see him
leave the workshop alone. In the night he would have returned,
his family thinking he had gone to meet his friends, as he often
did. When the streets were quiet he would have carried the
body away upon the hand-cart that stood in the entry of the outer
room. It was not far - scarcely three hundred yards, allowing
for the turnings-to the place where the Via Montella ends in a
mud bank by the dark river. A deserted neighborhood too—a
turn to the left, the low trees of the Piazza de' Branca, the dark,
short, straight street to the water. At one o'clock after midnight
who was stirring? It would all have been so simple, so terribly
effectual.
And then there would have been no more Paolo, no more
domestic annoyances, no more of the priest's smooth-faced disap-
probation and perpetual opposition in the house. He would have
soon brought Maria Luisa and Lucia to reason. What could they


## p. 4161 (#539) ###########################################

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD
4161
do without the support of Paolo? They were only women after
all. As for Gianbattista, if once the poisonous influence of Paolo
were removed - and how surely removed! Marzio's lips twisted
as though he were tasting the sourness of failure, like an acid
fruit-if once the priest were gone, Gianbattista would come back
to his old ways, to his old scorn of priests in general, of churches,
of oppression, of everything that Marzio hated. He might marry
Lucia then, and be welcome. After all, he was a finer fellow
for the pretty girl than Gasparo Carnesecchi, with his claw fin-
gers and his vinegar salad. That was only a farce, that proposal
about the lawyer- the real thing was to get rid of Paolo. There
could be no healthy liberty of thought in the house while this
fellow was sneaking in and out at all hours. Tumble Paolo into
a quiet grave,- into the river with a sackful of old castings at
his neck, there would be peace then, and freedom. Marzio
ground his teeth as he thought how nearly he had done the
thing, and how miserably he had failed. It had been the inspi-
ration of the moment, and the details had appeared clear at once
to his mind. Going over them he found that he had not been
mistaken. If Paolo came again, and he had the chance, he
I would do it. It was perhaps all the better that he had found
time to weigh the matter.
But would Paolo come again? Would he ever trust himself
alone in the workshop? Had he guessed, when he turned so
suddenly and saw the weapon in the air, that the blow was on
the very point of descending? Or had he been deceived by the
clumsy excuse Marzio had made about the sun shining in his
eyes?
He had remained calm, or Marzio tried to think so. But the
artist himself had been so much moved during the minutes that
followed that he could hardly feel sure of Paolo's behavior. It
was a chilling thought, that Paolo might have understood and
might have gone away feeling that his life had been saved.
almost by a miracle.
He would not come back, the cunning
priest, in that case; he would not risk his precious skin in such
company. It was not to be expected-a priest was only human,
after all, like any other man. Marzio cursed his ill luck again as
he bent over his work. What a moment this would be if Paolo
would take it into his head to make another. visit! Even the
men were gone. He would send the one boy who remained to
the church where Gianbattista was working, with a message.
VII-261


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FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD
They would be alone then, he and Paolo. The priest might
scream and call for help- the thick walls would not let any
sound through them. It would be even better than in the morn-
ing, when he had lost his opportunity by a moment, by the
twinkling of an eye.
"They say hell is paved with good intentions- or lost oppor-
tunities," muttered Marzio. "I will send Paolo with the next
opportunity to help in the paving. "
He laughed softly at his grim joke, and bent lower over the
crucifix. By this time he had determined what to do, for his
reflections had not interfered with his occupation. Removing two
tiny silver screws which fitted with the utmost exactness in the
threads, he loosened the figure from the cross, removed the lat-
ter to a shelf on the wall, and returning laid the statue on a soft
leathern pad, surrounding it with sand-bags till it was propped
securely in the position he required. Then he took a very small
chisel, adjusted it with the greatest care, and tapped upon it
with the round wooden handle of his little hammer. At each
touch he examined the surface with his lens to assure him-
self that he was making the improvement he contemplated. It
was very delicate work, and as he did it he felt a certain pride
in the reflection that he could not have detected the place where
improvement was possible when he had worked upon the piece
ten years ago. He found it now, in the infinitesimal touches
upon the expression of the face, in the minute increase in the
depressions and accentuated lines in the anatomy of the figure.
As he went over each portion he became more and more certain
that though he could not at present do better in the way of idea
and general execution, he had nevertheless gained in subtle
knowledge of effects and in skill of handling the chisel upon
very delicate points. The certainty gave him the real satisfac-
tion of legitimate pride. He knew that he had reached the
zenith of his capacities. His old wish to keep the crucifix for
himself began to return.
If he disposed of Paolo he might keep his work. Only Paolo
had seen it. The absurd want of logic in the conclusion did not
strike him. He had not pledged himself to his brother to give
this particular crucifix to the cardinal, and if he had he could
easily have found a reason for keeping it back. But he was too
much accustomed to think that Paolo was always in the way of
his wishes, to look at so simple a matter in such a simple light.


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FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD
4163
"It is strange," he said to himself. "The smallest things
seem to point to it. If he would only come! "
Again his mind returned to the contemplation of the deed,
and again he reviewed all the circumstances necessary for its safe
execution. What an inspiration, he thought, and what a pity it
had not found shape in fact at the very moment it had presented
itself! He considered why he had never thought of it before, in
all the years, as a means of freeing himself effectually from the
despotism he detested. It was a despotism, he reflected, and no
other word expressed it. He recalled many scenes in his home,
in which Paolo had interfered. He remembered how one Sun-
day in the afternoon they had all been together before going to
walk in the Corso, and how he had undertaken to demonstrate
to Maria Luisa and Lucia the folly of wasting time in going to
church on Sundays. He had argued gently and reasonably, he
thought. But suddenly Paolo had interrupted him, saying that
he would not allow Marzio to compare a church to a circus, nor
priests to mountebanks and tight-rope dancers. Why not? Then
the women had begun to scream and cry, and to talk of his blas-
phemous language, until he could not hear himself speak. It was
Paolo's fault. If Paolo had not been there the women would
have listened patiently enough, and would doubtless have reaped
some good from his reasonable discourse. On another occasion
Marzio had declared that Lucia should never be taught anything
about Christianity; that the definition of God was reason; that
Garibaldi had baptized one child in the name of Reason and that
he, Marzio, could baptize another quite as effectually. Paolo had
interfered, and Maria Luisa had screamed. The contest had
lasted nearly a month, at the end of which time Marzio had been
obliged to abandon the uneven contest, vowing vengeance in
some shape for the future.
Many and many such scenes rose to his memory, and in
every one Paolo was the opposer, the enemy of his peace, the
champion of all that he hated and despised. In great things and
small his brother had been his antagonist from his early man-
hood, through eighteen years of married life to the present day.
And yet without Paolo he could hardly have hoped to find him-
self in his present state of fortune.
This was one of the chief sources of his humiliation in his
own eyes. With such a character as his, it is eminently true
that it is harder to forgive a benefit than an injury. He might


## p. 4164 (#542) ###########################################

4164
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD
have felt less bitterly against his brother if he had not received
at his hands the orders and commissions which had turned into
solid money in the bank. It was hard to face Paolo, knowing
that he owed two-thirds of his fortune to such a source. If he
could get rid of the priest he would be relieved at once from
the burden of this annoyance, of this financial subjection, as
well of all that embittered his life. He pictured to himself his
wife and daughter listening respectfully to his harangues and
beginning to practice his principles; Gianbattista an eloquent
member of the society in the inner room of the old inn, reformed,
purged from his sneaking fondness for Paolo,- since Paolo
would not be in the world any longer,- and ultimately married
to Lucia; the father of children who should all be baptized in
the name of Reason, and the worthy successor of himself, Marzio
Pandolfi.
Scrutinizing the statue under his lens, he detected a slight
imperfection in the place where one of the sharp thorns touched
the silver forehead of the beautiful tortured head. He looked
about for a tool fine enough for the work, but none suited his
wants. He took up the long fine-pointed punch he had thrown
back upon the table after the scene in the morning. It was too
long, and over-sharp, but by turning it sideways it would do the
work under his dexterous fingers.
"Strange! " he muttered, as he tapped upon the tool. "It is
like a consecration! "
When he had made the stroke he dropped the instrument into
the pocket of his blouse, as though fearing to lose it. He had
no occasion to use it again, though he went on with his work
during several hours.
The thoughts which had passed through his brain recurred,
and did not diminish in clearness. On the contrary, it was as
though the passing impulse of the morning had grown during
those short hours into a settled and unchangeable resolution.
Once he rose from his stool, and going to the corner dragged
away the iron-bound safe from its place. A rusty ring lay flat
in a little hollow in the surface of the trap-door. Marzio bent
over it with a pale face and gleaming eyes. It seemed to him
as though if he looked round he should see Paolo's body lying
on the floor, ready to be dropped into the space below. He
raised the wood and set the trap back against the wall, peer-
ing down into the black depths. A damp smell came up to his


## p. 4165 (#543) ###########################################

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD
4165
nostrils from the moist staircase. He struck a match and held
it into the opening, to see in what direction the stairs led down.
Something moved behind him and made a little noise. With
a short cry of horror Marzio sprang back from the opening and
looked round. It was as though the body of the murdered man
had stirred upon the floor. His overstrained imagination terrified
him, and his eyes started from his head. He examined the
bench and saw the cause of the sound in a moment. The silver
Christ, unsteadily propped in the position in which he had just
placed it, had fallen upon one side of the pad by its own
weight.
Marzio's heart still beat desperately as he went back to the
hole and carefully re-closed the trap-door, dragging the heavy
safe to its position over the ring. Trembling violently, he sat
down upon his stool and wiped the cold perspiration from his
forehead. Then, as he laid the figure upon the cushion, he
glanced uneasily behind him and at the corner.
With an anxious heart he left the house and crossed the
street to the workshop, where the men were already waiting for
the carts which were to convey the heavy grating to its des-
tination. The pieces were standing against the walls, wrapped
in tow and brown paper, and immense parcels lay tied up upon
the benches. It was a great piece of work of the decorative
kind, but of the sort for which Marzio cared little. Great brass
castings were chiseled and finished according to his designs.
without his touching them with his hands. Huge twining
arabesques of solid metal were prepared in pieces and fitted
together with screws that ran easily in the thread, and then
were taken apart again.
It was slow and troublesome
work, and Marzio cared little for it, though his artistic instinct
restrained him from allowing it to leave the workshop until it
had been perfected to the highest degree.
At present the artist stood in the outer room among the
wrapped pieces, his pipe in his mouth and his hands in his
pockets. A moment after Gianbattista had entered, two carts
rolled up to the door and the loading began.
"Take the drills and some screws to spare," said Marzio,
looking into the bag of tools the foreman had prepared. ་ One
can never tell in these monstrous things. "
"It will be the first time, if we have to drill a new hole after
you have fitted a piece of work, Maestro Marzio," answered the


## p. 4166 (#544) ###########################################

4166
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD
foreman, who had an unlimited admiration for his master's
genius and foresight.
"Never mind; do as I tell you. We may all make mistakes
in this world," returned the artist, giving utterance to a moral
sentiment which did not influence him beyond the precincts of
the workshop. The workman obeyed, and added the requisite
instruments to the furnishing of his leather bag.
"And be careful, Tista," added Marzio, turning to the appren-
tice. "Look to the sockets in the marble when you place the
large pieces. Measure them with your compass, you know; if
they are too loose you have the thin plates of brass to pack
them; if they are tight, file away, but finish and smooth it well.
Don't leave anything rough. "
Gianbattista nodded as he lent a helping hand to the workmen
who were carrying the heavy pieces to the carts.
"Will you come to the church before night? " he asked.
"Perhaps. I cannot tell. I am very busy. "
In ten minutes the pieces were all piled upon the two vehicles,
and Gian battista strode away on foot with the workmen. He
had not thought of changing his dress, and had merely thrown
an old overcoat over his gray woolen blouse. For the time, he
was an artisan at work. When working hours were over, and on
Sundays, he loved to put on the stiff high collar and the checked
clothes which suggested the garments of the English tourist. He
was then a different person, and in accordance with the change
he would smoke a cigarette and pull his cuffs over his hands,
like a real gentleman, adjusting the angle of his hat from time
to time, and glancing at his reflection in the shop windows as he
passed along. But work was work; it was a pity to spoil good
clothes with handling tools and castings, and jostling against the
men, and moreover the change affected his nature. He could
not handle a hammer or a chisel when he felt like a real gentle-
man, and when he felt like an artisan he must enjoy the liberty
of being able to tuck up his sleeves and work with a will. At
the present moment, too, he was proud of being in sole charge
of the work, and he could not help thinking what a fine thing it
would be to be married to Lucia and to be the master of the
workshop. With the sanguine enthusiasm of a very young man
who loves his occupation, he put his whole soul into what he was
to do, assured that every skillful stroke of the hammer, every
difficulty overcome, brought him nearer to the woman he loved.


## p. 4167 (#545) ###########################################

4167
PROSPER JOLYOT CRÉBILLON
(1674-1762)
BY ROBERT SANDERSON
ROSPER JOLYOT, tragic poet, called De Crébillon from the name
of the estate his father purchased near Dijon, France, was
born in that city January 13th, 1674. The elder Jolyot held
an office in the magistracy of the province of Burgundy, and he
intended that his son should follow in his footsteps. This the young
man did for a time. He was admitted to the bar as advocate to the
Parliament of Paris, and at the same time entered the office of a
procureur (prosecuting magistrate), there to study the forms of pro-
cedure and practice of law. This procureur,
whose name was Prieur, appears to have
worked a decisive influence over Jolyot's
career, as he was the first to discover in the
young man strong aptitudes for tragedy.
Being a man of letters, he was struck by
the correctness of his clerk's criticisms of
some of the French tragic poets, and urged
him to try his hand at writing a tragedy
himself. This Crébillon did at once, and
composed his maiden play, 'La Mort des
Enfants de Brute' (The Death of Brutus's
Children), a subject more than once treated
before. The king's troupe of players re-
fused it, and it was not even printed. Cré-
billon was greatly disappointed, but encouraged by the good Prieur,
he very soon conceived and wrote another tragedy, 'Idoménée'
(1705), which this time was received and played with some success.
'Idoménée' was followed by Atrée et Thyeste' (1707), a play
that put Crébillon in the very first rank of tragic poets. Called back
to his native place by his father's death, and detained there a
long time by a family lawsuit, he brought back from the country his
third tragedy, 'Électre' (1708), which was as much admired as the
preceding one. 'Rhadamiste et Zénobie,' Crébillon's masterpiece,
appeared in 1711. It formed part of the repertoire of the Comédie
Française up to the year 1829. 'Xerxès,' played in 1714, met with
flat failure; Sémiramis (1717) fared somewhat better. Disgusted

CRÉBILLON


## p. 4168 (#546) ###########################################

4168
PROSPER JOLYOT CRÉBILLON
with the poor success of his last two tragedies, it was nine years
before Crébillon wrote again for the stage. 'Pyrrhus appeared in
1726, and remained for a long time on the play-bills. Of his last two
tragedies Catilina' (1748) was for its author a renewal of success,
whilst 'Le Triumvirat,' written by Crébillon in his eightieth year,
contains here and there fine passages.
Crébillon was elected to the French Academy in 1731. He held
several offices during life. He was first receiver of fines, then royal
censor, and lastly king's librarian; but neither from these various
employments nor from his plays did he derive much profit. The
most prosperous epoch of his existence seems to have been about
the year 1715, during the brilliant but corrupt time of the Régence;
part of his life was spent in actual penury, and we find him
fifteen years later living in a poor quarter of the capital, having for
sole companions of his misery a lot of dogs and cats that he picked
up in the streets. However, Louis XV. gave him in his old age a
proof of his royal favor. After the representation of Catilina,' the
King ordered that the poet's complete works be printed at his
expense. The edition appeared in 1750, and yielded enough to save
Crébillon at least from actual want during his remaining lifetime.
It may be easily imagined that in his position of royal censor
he incurred the enmity of his colleagues whose plays he refused;
and in addition to his pecuniary embarrassments his life was embit-
tered by the attacks of his enemies, among whom Voltaire was not
the least conspicuous. Crébillon, who was a man of fine presence
and strong constitution, died on June 14th, 1762, in his eighty-ninth
year.
Taking the writer's tragedies as they appeared, 'Idoménée,' the
first one, is borrowed from Homer's Iliad. It is the story of Ido-
meneus, King of Crete, who returning from the siege of Troy and
being assailed by a frightful tempest, took a vow of sacrificing to
Neptune the first human creature he should meet on landing. His
own son, Idamantus, was the first person he encountered, and his
father at once sacrificed him. Such is the Greek legend; but it
being too atrocious in its nature to suit modern taste, in Crébillon's
tragedy Idamantus kills himself. We can in a measure understand
the terrible struggle going in the father's breast, obliged by his
vow to kill his own child; but only in a measure, for our modern
ideas will not admit that under such circumstances a parent should
be held to his vow. Nor does it help matters that Idamantus should
kill himself to save his father from committing the atrocious deed:
the subject is repulsive. The speech of Idomeneus in the first act,
recounting the storm scene, is not unfrequently mentioned as a piece
of rhetoric.


## p. 4169 (#547) ###########################################

PROSPER JOYLOT CRÉBILLON
4169
'Atrée et Thyeste' is far superior to 'Idoménée' both in con-
ception and construction. If the object of tragedy be to excite
terror, that condition is certainly fulfilled in 'Atrée et Thyeste. '
The subject, taken from Seneca, is well known. Atreus, King of
Argos, to avenge the wrong done him by his own brother Thyestes,
who had carried off his wife, had the latter's son killed and served
to him at a feast. Crébillon carries this fierce cruelty even farther,
for in his play he makes Atreus offer his brother a cup filled with
the blood of Plisthène, son of Thyestes. On being criticized for this
refinement of cruelty the poet bluntly answered, "I never should
have believed that in a land where there are so many unfortunate
husbands, Atreus would have found so few partisans. " The strongest
scenes are the closing ones. Although the general opinion at the
time was that Crébillon had chosen too horrible a subject, he re-
vealed his power as a tragic poet; and his reputation as such really
dates from the production of 'Atrée et Thyeste. '
Crébillon's Électre' is in the main the same as that of Sopho-
cles, Euripides, and others. Electra, whose father Agamemnon has
been murdered by Ægisthus, induces her brother Orestes to slay
the murderer. The change introduced into the plot by the French
poet is this one: he makes Electra love the son of her father's
slayer, whilst Orestes, who is ignorant of his own birth, loves the
daughter. The admirers of the classic models were up in arms at
these changes, and 'Électre' was attacked on all sides; but if it had
its defects, it had also its merits, and these were finally recognized
as being of high order. The scene between Clytemnestra and Elec-
tra in the first act, the meeting between Electra and Orestes, and
the latter's ravings when he discovers that he has killed his mother,
are among the best.
'Rhadamiste et Zénobie' is generally considered Crébillon's master-
piece: it is the only one of his tragedies that contains the romantic
element. As narrated in Tacitus, the legend upon which this play
is founded runs thus: Rhadamistus, son of Pharasmanes, King of
Iberia, had married his cousin Zenobia, daughter of his uncle Mithri-
dates, King of Armenia. The latter was put to death by order of
Rhadamistus, who took possession of his uncle's provinces. An
insurrection broke out, and Rhadamistus had to flee for his life. He
carried off Zenobia with him, but she, owing to her condition, unable
to bear the fatigues of the flight, begged her husband to put
her to death. After piercing her with his sword and throwing
her into the Araxes, he hurriedly made off for his father's kingdom.
Zenobia, however, was not dead. She was found on the bank of the
river by some shepherds, who carried her to the court of the King
Tiridates, who received her kindly and treated her as a queen.


## p. 4170 (#548) ###########################################

4170
PROSPER JOLYOT CRÉBILLON
In his tragedy Crébillon makes the husband and wife meet
again at the court of Pharasmanes; and Zenobia, believing herself to
be a widow, shows her love for Prince Arsames, own brother to
Rhadamistus. This invention is certainly no more improbable than
the whole story itself. The interview between Pharasmanes and his
son in the second act, and the meeting between Rhadamistus and
Zenobia in the third, are both remarkable, the first for its grandeur,
the second for its pathos and passion.
'Xerxès is an inferior tragedy. The strongest character in the
play is that of the prime minister Artaban, who sows discord between
the two sons of Xerxès, intending to seize the throne of Persia for
himself. Inferior also is Sémiramis. ' The famous queen is in love
with Agénor, who proves to be her own son Ninias; but even after
this discovery, Sémiramis perseveres in her passion. Such a subject
can be tolerated on the stage only on condition that the spectator be
made to feel the victim's struggle and remorse, as in Racine's
'Phèdre. '
'Pyrrhus' differs from Crébillon's previous tragedies in this one
point: no blood is spilled upon the stage; the poet does not rely
upon his usual method of striking terror to gain success. For the
first time his characters are heroic and express noble sentiments.
Pyrrhus, King of Epirus, has been brought up by his guardian
Glaucias under the name of Helenus, and believes himself to be his
son. It is only when the usurper Neoptolemes demands of Glaucias
the surrender of Pyrrhus, that the latter discovers the truth. The
courage and magnanimity of Glaucias in refusing to give up his
trust; of his son Illyrus in taking the place of Pyrrhus; of Pyrrhus
in revealing his true name and offering himself to the usurper, and
lastly of Neoptolemes in showing clemency, are worthy of admi-
ration.
Twenty-two years intervene between 'Pyrrhus' and 'Catilina'
(1748). As might be expected in a tragedy having for its principal
characters Cicero and Cato, political speeches are plentiful. The
scene between Catiline, Cato, and Cicero, in the fourth act, is per-
haps the strongest. Another interval of six years, and Crébillon
wrote his last tragedy 'Le Triumvirat' or 'Le Mort de Cicéron,'
which may be termed a rehabilitation of Cicero, who, the critics
said, should not have been made a subordinate character to that of
Catiline in Crébillon's previous tragedy. Although written in his
eightieth year, it cannot be said that this composition shows any
sign of mental decay.
With two such masters as Corneille and Racine towering with
their mighty height over all other French dramatic poets, it is often
difficult to be just towards the latter. They must always suffer by


## p. 4171 (#549) ###########################################

PROSPER JOLYOT CRÉBILLON
4171
comparison; yet all they wrote did not deserve almost entire oblivion.