No More Learning

It was in an obscure corner of the opposite
side of the town, and presented a sombre and squalid appear-
ance. An old woman in the doorway, on my inquiring for Theo-
bald, ushered me in with a mumbled blessing and an expression
of relief at the poor gentleman having a friend. His lodging
seemed to consist of a single room at the top of the house. On
getting no answer to my knock, I opened the door, supposing
that he was absent; so that it gave me a certain shock to find
him sitting there helpless and dumb. He was seated near the
single window, facing an easel which supported a large canvas.
On my entering, he looked up at me blankly, without changing
his position, which was that of absolute lassitude and dejection,
his arms loosely folded, his legs stretched before him, his head
hanging on his breast. Advancing into the room, I perceived
that his face vividly corresponded with his attitude. He was
pale, haggard, and unshaven, and his dull and sunken eye gazed
at me without a spark of recognition. I had been afraid that
I
he would greet me with fierce reproaches, as the cruelly offi-
cious patron who had turned his peace to bitterness; and I was
relieved to find that my appearance awakened no visible resent-
ment. “Don't you know me? ” I asked as I put out my hand.
"Have you already forgotten me? ”
He made no response, kept his position stupidly, and left me
staring about the room. It spoke most plaintively for itself.
Shabby, sordid, naked, it contained, beyond the wretched bed, but
the scantiest provision for personal comfort. It was bedroom at
once and studio,- a grim ghost of a studio. A few dusty casts
and prints on the walls, three or four old canvases turned face
inward, and a rusty-looking color-box, formed, with the easel at
the window, the sum of its appurtenances. The place savored
horribly of poverty. Its only wealth was the picture on the easel,
presumably the famous Madonna. Averted as this was from the
door, I was unable to see its face; but at last, sickened by the
vacant misery of the spot, I passed behind Theobald, eagerly and
tenderly. I can hardly say that I was surprised at what I found:
a canvas that was a mere dead blank, cracked and discolored
by time.
This was his immortal work! Though not surprised,


## p. 8105 (#305) ###########################################

HENRY JAMES
8105
(
I confess I was powerfully moved, and I think that for five min-
utes I could not have trusted myself to speak. At last my silent
nearness affected him; he stirred and turned, and then rose and
looked at me with a slowly kindling eye. I murmured some
kind, ineffective nothings about his being ill and needing advice
and care; but he seemed absorbed in the effort to recall distinctly
what had last passed between us. “You were right,” he said
with a pitiful smile, «I'm a dawdler! I'm a failure! I shall do
nothing more in this world. You opened my eyes; and though
the truth is bitter, I bear you no grudge. Amen! I've been
sitting here for a week, face to face with the truth, with the past,
with my weakness and poverty and nullity. I shall never touch
a brush! I believe I've neither eaten nor slept. Look at that
canvas! he went on, as I relieved my emotion in the urgent
request that he would come home with me and dine.
« That was
to have contained my masterpiece! Isn't it a promising founda-
tion ? The elements of it are all here. " And he tapped his fore-
head with that mystic confidence which had marked the gesture
before. “If I could only transpose them into some brain that
had the hand, the will! Since I've been sitting here taking stock
of my intellects, I've come to believe that I have the material
for a hundred masterpieces. But my hand is paralyzed now, and
they'll never be painted. I never began! I waited and waited
!
to be worthier to begin, and wasted my life in preparation.
While I fancied my creation was growing, it was dying. I've
taken it all too hard! Michael Angelo didn't when he went at
the Lorenzo! He did his best at a venture, and his venture is
immortal. That's mine! » And he pointed, with a gesture I
shall never forget, at the empty canvas. "I suppose we're a
genus by ourselves in the providential scheme, - we talents that
can't act, that can't do nor dare! We take it out in talk, in
plans and promises, in study, in visions! But our visions, let me
tell you,” he cried with a toss of his head, “have a way of being
brilliant, and a man hasn't lived in vain who has seen the things
I have! Of course you'll not believe in them when that bit
of worm-eaten cloth is all I have to show for them; but to con-
vince you, to enchant and astound the world, I need only the
hand of Raphael. I have his brain. A pity, you'll say, I haven't
his modesty! Ah, let me babble now: it's all I have left! I'm
the half of a genius! Where in the wide world is my other
half ? Lodged perhaps in the vulgar soul, the cunning, ready


## p. 8106 (#306) ###########################################

8106
HENRY JAMES
fingers of some dull copyist, or some trivial artisan who turns out
by the dozen his easy prodigies of touch! But it's not for me to
sneer at him: he at least does something. He's not a dawdler!
Well for me if I had been vulgar and clever and reckless, - if I
could have shut my eyes and dealt my stroke! ”
What to say to the poor fellow, what to do for him, seemed
hard to determine; I chiefly felt that I must break the spell of
his present inaction, and remove him from the haunted atmo-
sphere of the little room it seemed such cruel irony to call a
studio. I cannot say I persuaded him to come out with me; he
simply suffered himself to be led, and when we began to walk
in the open air I was able to measure his pitifully weakened
condition. Nevertheless he seemed in a certain way to revive,
and murmured at last that he would like to go to the Pitti Gal-
lery. I shall never forget our melancholy stroll through those
gorgeous halls, every picture on whose walls seemed, even to my
own sympathetic vision, to glow with a sort of insolent renewal
of strength and lustre. The eyes and lips of the great portraits
seemed to smile in ineffable scorn of the dejected pretender who
had dreamed of competing with their triumphant authors; the
celestial candor, even, of the Madonna in the Chair, as we paused
in perfect silence before her, was tinged with the sinister irony
of the women of Leonardo. Perfect silence indeed marked our
whole progress, - the silence of a deep farewell; for I felt in all
my pulses, as Theobald, leaning on my arm, dragged one heavy
foot after the other, that he was looking his last. When we
came out, he was so exhausted that instead of taking him to my
hotel to dine, I called a carriage and drove him straight to his
own poor lodging. He had sunk into an extraordinary lethargy:
he lay back in the carriage with his eyes closed, as pale as death,
his faint breathing interrupted at intervals by a sudden gasp,
like a smothered sob or a vain attempt to speak. With the help
of the old woman who had admitted me before, and who emerged
from a dark back court, I contrived to lead him up the long steep
staircase and lay him on his wretched bed. To her I gave him
in charge, while I prepared in all haste to seek a physician. But
she followed me out of the room with a pitiful clasping of her
hands.
« Poor, dear, blessed gentleman,” she murmured: “is he dy-
ing? ”
Possibly. How long has he been thus ? »
(
>
(


## p. 8107 (#307) ###########################################

HENRY JAMES
8107
“Since a night he passed ten days ago. I came up in the
morning to make his poor bed, and found him sitting up in his
clothes before that great canvas he keeps there. Poor, dear,
strange man, he says his prayers to it! He had not been to bed,
nor since then properly! What has happened to him ? Has he
found out about the Serafina ? ” she whispered with a glittering
eye and a toothless grin.
« Prove at least that one old woman can be faithful,” I said,
«and watch him well till I come back. ”
My return was delayed through the absence of the English
physician on a round of visits, and my vainly pursuing him from
house to house before I overtook him. I brought him to Theo-
bald's bedside none too soon.
A violent fever had seized our
patient, and the case was evidently grave. A couple of hours
later I knew that he had brain fever. From this moment I was
with him constantly; but I am far from wishing to describe his
illness. Excessively painful to witness, it was happily brief.
Life burned out in delirium. A certain night that I passed at
his pillow, listening to his wild snatches of regret, of aspiration,
of rapture and awe at the phantasmal pictures with which his
brain seemed to swarm, recurs to my memory now like some
stray page from a lost masterpiece of tragedy.
Before a week was over we had buried him in the little
Protestant cemetery on the way to Fiesole. The Signora Sera-
fina, whom I had caused to be informed of his illness, had come
in person, I was told, to inquire about its progress; but she was
absent from his funeral, which was attended by but a scanty
concourse of mourners. Half a dozen old Florentine sojourners,
in spite of the prolonged estrangement which had preceded his
death, had felt the kindly impulse to honor his grave. Among
them
my friend Mrs. Coventry, whom I found my
departure waiting at her carriage door at the gate of the cem-
etery
“Well,” she said, relieving at last with a significant smile the
solemnity of our immediate greeting, and the great Madonna?
Have you seen her after all ? »
"I've seen her," I said; "she's mine — by bequest. But I •
shall never show her to you. "
"And why not, pray ? "
My dear Mrs. Coventry, you'd not understand her! ”
«Upon my word, you're polite. ”
was
on
(C
(
( ܕ
(c
)
((


## p. 8108 (#308) ###########################################

8108
HENRY JAMES
(C
»
« Excuse me: I'm sad and vexed and bitter. " And with
reprehensible rudeness I marched away. I was excessively impa-
tient to leave Florence: my friend's dark spirit seemed diffused
through all things. I had packed my trunk to start for Rome
that night; and meanwhile, to beguile my unrest, I aimlessly
paced the streets. Chance led me at last to the church of San
Lorenzo. Remembering poor Theobald's phrase about Michael
Angelo,— “He did his best at a venture,” — I went in and turned
my steps to the chapel of the tombs. Viewing in sadness the
sadness of its immortal treasures, I fancied, while I stood there,
that the scene demanded no ampler commentary. As I passed
through the church again to depart, a woman, turning away from
one of the side altars, met me face to face. The black shawl
depending from her head draped picturesquely the handsome
visage of Madonna Serafina. She stopped as she recognized
me, and I saw that she wished to speak. Her eye was bright,
and her ample bosom heaved in a way that seemed to portend
a certain sharpness of reproach. But the expression of my own
face apparently drew the sting from her resentment, and she
addressed me in a tone in which bitterness was tempered by a
sort of dogged resignation. "I know it was you, now, that sepa-
rated us,” she said. “It was a pity he ever brought you to see
me! Of course you couldn't think of me as he did. Well, the
Lord gave him, the Lord has taken him. I've just paid for a
nine-days' mass for his soul. And I can tell you this, signore,-
I never deceived him. Who put it into his head that I was
made to live on holy thoughts and fine phrases? It was his own
fancy, and it pleased him to think so. Did he suffer much ? »
she added more softly, after a pause.
«His sufferings were great, but they were short. ”
“And did he speak of me? " She had hesitated, and dropped
her eyes; she raised them with her question, and revealed in
their sombre stillness a gleam of feminine confidence, which for
the moment revived and illumined her beauty. Poor Theobald!
Whatever name he had given his passion, it was still her fine
eyes that had charmed him.
“Be contented, madam," I answered, gravely.
She dropped her eyes again, and was silent. Then exhaling
a full, rich sigh, as she gathered her shawl together: "He was a
magnificent genius! ”
I bowed, and we separated.
((
(


## p. 8109 (#309) ###########################################

HENRY JAMES
8109
Passing through a narrow side street on my way back to my
hotel, I perceived above a doorway a sign which it seemed to me
I had read before. I suddenly remembered that it was identical
with the superscription of a card that I had carried for an hour
in my waistcoat pocket. On the threshold stood the ingenious
artist whose claims to public favor were thus distinctly signalized,
smoking a pipe in the evening air, and giving the finishing
polish with a bit of rag to one of his inimitable “combinations. ”
I caught the expressive curl of a couple of tails. He recognized
me, removed his little red cap with a most obsequious bow, and
motioned me to enter his studio. I returned his bow and passed
on, vexed with the apparition. For a week afterwards, whenever
I was seized among the ruins of triumphant Rome with some
peculiarly poignant memory of Theobald's transcendent illusions
and deplorable failure, I seemed to hear a fantastic, impertinent
murmur, “Cats and monkeys, monkeys and cats-all human life
,
is there! ”


## p. 8110 (#310) ###########################################

8110
JĀMĪ
(1414-1492)
BY A. V. WILLIAMS JACKSON
HE Persian poet Jāmī was the last classic minstrel of Iran,
and a master in the historical, lyrical, and mystic literature.
He lived during the fifteenth century, and his writings are
fired by the last sparks from the torch of Firdausī, Sa'di, and Hāfiz;
so that his name has become one of the shining lights in the Persian
temple of poetic fame. Jāmi's native place was Jām, a small town in
the neighborhood of Herat in Khorassan. Hence he is called Jām-i;
although he plays upon this appellation as meaning also a “cup," and
as significant of his pouring out the spiritual wine of the love of God,
the wine of which the mystic Sūfīs so often speak: for Jāmi, like his
predecessors, had quaffed draughts from the flagon of the mystic
poetry of Sūfiism.
The minstrel's full name is given as Nūr-uddin 'Abd-urrahmān
Jāmī; his birth-year was 1414; and his education from early youth
was at the hands of eminent teachers. We know of his marriage,
and we are told of his endeavor, through his didactic prose story-
book ‘Bahāristān,' to give instruction to an only surviving son, born
late in life. A religious pilgrimage undertaken by Jāmi to Mecca
is also recorded. His poetic fame was so wide-spread that princes
unasked were ready to offer him favors: but Jāmi at heart was
devoted to Dervish teaching and to Sūfi philosophy, which won for
him a sort of saintly reputation; and when in 1492 he passed away,
advanced in years, he was mourned by the people of Herat and by
the highest dignitaries of State.
According to some accounts Jāmi was the author of nearly a
hundred works; it is not an exaggeration to attribute to him at least
forty. Fine manuscripts of his writings are not uncommon, and one
exquisite codex has been preserved which was prepared for the
Emperor of Hindustan, a century after Jāmi's death. This superb
specimen of Oriental calligraphy and illumination is said to have
cost thousands of dollars. Seven of the best of Jāmi's writings have
been gathered into a collection entitled (Haft Aurang,' (The Seven
Stars of the Great Bear,' or 'The Seven Thrones) as it is some-
times called. One of these seven is the pathetic story of Lailā and
Majnun”; another is the allegorical moral poem (Salāman and Absāl,'


## p. 8111 (#311) ###########################################

JĀMI
8111
an English adaptation of which is to be found in the works of
Edward Fitzgerald; the third of the seven stars is the romantic tale
of Yūsuf and Zulikhā,' or Joseph and Potiphar's wife. This latter
theme had been previously treated by Firdausī among other poets;
but it still remains one of Jāmi's masterpieces. The story is not the
simple incident of the Bible, but is elaborately developed from the
Koran. The beautiful Zulikhā's dream in her youth of an ideal
spouse is thrice repeated. Her disappointment in the marriage with
Potiphar is bitter and keen, and is intensified by her discovering that
the fair youth Joseph who was purchased in the slave market is
the embodiment of that glorious apparition she had beheld in the
vision. The poem is then developed on very romantic lines, so as
to bring out each of the characters in clearest colors; but after the
vicissitudes of years, the poem ends happily when the fair Zulīkhā,
now widowed, is united to Joseph as the ideal of manly beauty and
purity, and she becomes a worshiper of the true God. Jāmī's prose
work the Bahāristān,' or Abode of Spring,' comprises a series of
pithy short stories, entertaining brief tales, or Oriental wisdom, and is
modeled on Sa'di's (Gulistān. '
Considerable material is accessible to English readers who may be
interested in Jāmi: for example, S. Robinson, Persian Poetry) (Glas-
gow, 1883), from which the selections appended are taken; also L. S.
Costello, 'Rose Garden of Persia' (London, 1887); Edward Fitzgerald,
(Salāman and Absāl, Translated (American edition, Boston, 1887);
again, “The Bahāristān Literally Translated' (published by the Kama
Shastra Society, Benares, 1887). See also Sir Gore Ouseley, Biographi-
cal Notices of Persian Poets' (London, 1846); and for bibliographical
lists of translations into German and French, consult H. Ethé in
Geiger's Grundriss der Iranischen Philologie,' ii. 305, 307.
Air. Wiele aus
is Jackson
[The following selections are from Jāmi's Joseph and Zulaikha. ']
LOVE
A
HEART which is void of the pains of love is not heart;
A body without heart woes is nothing but clay and water.
Turn thy face away from the world to the pangs of love;
For the world of love is a world of sweetness.
Let there not be in the world an unloving heart!
Let not the pangs of love be less in the bosom of any one!
Heaven itself is confused with longings after love;


## p. 8112 (#312) ###########################################

8112
JĀMI
Earth is filled with the tumult at the clamors of its passion.
Become the captive of love, in order to become free; [ness.
Lay its sorrows to thy heart, that thou mayest know its glad.
The wine of love will inebriate and warm thee,
Will free from thee coldness and devotion to self.
In the memories of love the lover renews his freshness;
In his devotion to it he creates for himself a lofty fame.
If Mejnun had never drunk the wine from this cup,
Who would have spread his name throughout the worlds ?
Thousands of the wise and learned have passed away,
Passed away — forgotten, because strangers to love;
No name, no trace remains of their existence,
No history of them is left on the records of Time.
Many are the birds of beautiful forms
Which the people closes its lip and refuses to speak of;
When those who have all hearts tell stories of love,
The stories they tell are of the Moth and the Nightingale.
In the world thou mayest be skilled in a hundred arts,—
Love is the only one which will free thee from thyself.
Turn not thy face from love: even if it be shallow,
It is thy apprenticeship for learning the true one;
If thou dost not first learn thine A B C on thy slate,
How wilt thou ever be able to read a lesson from the Koran ?
I heard of a scholar who besought a teacher
To assist him in treading the path of his doctrine;
The teacher replied: “Thou hast never yet stirred a foot in
the way of love;
Go— become a lover, and then appear before me;
For till thou hast tasted the symbolical wine-cup,
Thou wilt never drain the real one to the lees. )
No! thou must not stay lingering over the image,
But quickly transport thyself over this bridge:
If thou desirest ever to reach the inn,
Thou must not remain standing at the bridge ahead. [tery,
Praise be to God!
that so long as I have dwelt in this monas-
I have been a nimble traveler in the road of love!
When the midwife first divided the navel-string,
She divided it with the knife of love;
When my mother first put my lips to her breast,
She gave me to suck the blood-tinged milk of love;
Although my hair is now white as milk,
The savor of love still dwells in my mind.
In youth or in age there is nothing like love;
The enchantment of love breathes upon me forever.
"Jāmi," it says, “thou hast grown old in love:
(
»
(


## p. 8113 (#313) ###########################################

JĀMI
8113
Rouse thy spirit, and in love die !
Compose a tale on the pleasures of love,
[existence!
That thou mayest leave to the world some memorial of thy
Draw thou a picture with thy delicate pencil,
Which, when thou quittest thy place, may remain in thy stead. ”
Translation of S. Robinson.
BEAUTY
IN
N THAT solitude in which Being is without a mark,
The universe still lay hidden in the treasure-house of non-
existence;
Whilst its substance had not yet taken the form of duality,
And was far from speech and talk, from “We” and “Ye," —
Beauty was free from the shackles of form,
And by its own light alone was it visible to itself;
It was a lovely bride behind the veil of her nuptial chamber,
Her vesture unsullied by a suspicion of a speck.
There was no mirror to reflect back its countenance,
Nor had ever comb passed a hand through its ringlets;
No breeze had ever ruffled a lock of its tresses;
Its eye had never been touched by a grain of surma dust;
No nightingale had yet nestled under the shade of his rose;
No rose had put yet on her adornment of verdure;
Its cheek was not yet embellished by mole or down,
And no eye had yet beheld it even in imagination;
Its voice of endearment was with itself alone,
And with itself was played its game of affection.
But wherever the power of Beauty exists,
Beauty is angered to be hidden by a veil.
A lovely face will not endure concealment:
Bar but the door, it will escape by the window!
Behold the tulip on the mountain-top,
How smilingly it comes forth in the vernal season;
It shoots out of the earth thro' every cleft of the rock,
And forces itself into notice by its own loveliness.
When a feeling of Beauty once falls upon the sight,
And strangely threads itself on the tie of sensation,
It can never again pass away from the fancy;
It insists henceforth on being heard or spoken of.
Wherever is the Beautiful, this is its law,
Imposed by the action of the Eternal Beauty;
XIV–508


## p. 8114 (#314) ###########################################

8114
JĀMI
Coming from the realms of the Holy, here it pitched its station,
And revealed itself in every quarter and to every spirit.
In every mirror is reflected its face,
In every place is heard its conversation and language;
And all the holy who are seeking the Holy,
Exclaim in ecstasy, “O thou Holy One! )
And from all the divers in this celestial ocean
Rises the shout, “Glory to the Lord of Angels! ”
From its brightness a beam fell upon the Rose,
[ingale;
And from the Rose came its melody into the soul of the Night-
From its fire the Taper kindled up its cheek,
And forth with a hundred Moths were burnt in every chamber;
From its light a spark set on fire the sun,
And straightway the Nile-lily raised its head from the water.
By its countenance Laila arrayed her own,
And Mejnun's passion was inflamed by every hair;
The mouth of Shirin opened its sugаred lip,
And stole the heart of Parviz and the soul of Ferhad;
The Moon of Canaan raised its head from its breast,
And bore away reason from the brain of Zulaikha.
Yes! - Beauty unveils its countenance in the private chamber,
Even when hid behind the veil from earthly lovers;
Of every veil which thou seest it is the veil-holder,
'Tis its decree which carries every heart into bondage;
In its love only has the heart its life;
In its love only has the soul its felicity.
The heart of every one who is enamored with the lovely
Is inspired by its love, whether he knows it or not.
Beware that thou fall into no error as to Beauty:
Love we must, when it shows forth its charms;
For as each thing is fair, so it is worthy of love:
It is the stem whence comes the object;
Thou art the mirror, it brings thee the image;
Thou art hid by a veil, it shows itself openly;
When thou lookest on Beauty, it is the mirror also,
For it is not only the treasure, but the treasure-house too.
We have in this matter no right to intermeddle — thou and I;
Our opinions about it are but vain fancies !
Be silent! — for this is a tale which has no ending;
Its language is one which has no interpreter.
Better for us that our business be love,
For without its converse we are nothing — nothing!
-
Translation of S. Robinson.


## p. 8115 (#315) ###########################################

JĀMI
8115
ZULAIKHA'S FIRST DREAM
NIGHT it was sweet as the morning of life,
A
Fish and fowl rested from motion,
Business drew its foot within the skirt of its garment.
Within this pleasure-house, full of varieties,
Naught remained open save the eye of the star.
Night, the thief, robbed the sentinel of his understanding;
The bell-ringer stilled the tongue of the bell;
The hound wound its tail round its neck like a collar,
And in that collar stifled its baying;
The bird of the night drew out its sword-like feathers,
And cut off its tuneful reed (i. e. , its throat] from its morn-
ing song; .
The watchman on the dome of the royal palace
Saw in imagination the drowsy poppy-head,
And no longer retained the power of wakefulness —
The image of that poppy-head called him into slumber.
The drummer no longer beat his tymbal,
His hand could no longer hold the drumstick.
The Muessin from the Minaret no longer cried, "Allah! Allah! the
Ever-Living!
Roll up your mattresses, ye nightly dead, and neglect not prayer! ”
Zulaikha, of the sugar lips, was enjoying the sweetest slumber
Which had fallen on her soft narcissus-like eyes;
Her head pressed the pillow with its hyacinthine locks,
And her body the couch with its roseate burthen.
The hyacinthine locks were parted on the pillow,
And painted the roseate cheeks with silken streaks;
The image-seeing eye was closed in slumber,
But another eye was open— that of the soul:
With that she saw suddenly enter a young man —
Young man, do I say? - rather a spirit!
A blessed figure from the realms of light,
Beauteous as a Huri borne off from the Garden of the Seventh
Heaven,
And had robbed trait by trait of each beauty, excellence, and per-
fection,
Copying one by one every alluring attraction.
His stature was that of the fresh box-tree;
[his;
The free-cypress in its freedom was a slave compared with
His hair from above hung down like a chain,
And fettered hand and foot even the judgment of the wise;
-


## p. 8116 (#316) ###########################################

8116
JĀMI
From his brow shot so resplendent a flash of light,
That sun and moon bent to the ground before him;
His eyebrows, which might have been a high altar for the
saintly,
Were an amber-scented canopy over the sleeper's eyes;
His face was as the moon's from its station in Paradise ;
From his eyelashes darted arrows to pierce the heart;
The pearly teeth within the ruby lips
Were lightning flashing from a roseate evening sky;
The smiles of his ruby lips were as sweet as sugar
When he laughed, his laugh was the lustre of the Pleiades;
The words of his mouth were sugar itself.
When this vision rose before the eye of Zulaikha,
At one glance happened that which needs must happen:
She beheld excellence beyond human limits,
Seen not in Peri, never heard of in Huri.
From the beauty of the image and the dream of its perfection,
She became his captive, not with her one but with a hundred
hearts.
Fancy made his form the ideal of her mind,
And planted in her soul the young shoot of love.
Translation of S. Robinson.
SILENT SORROW
O
N THE morrow, when the raven of night had taken its up-
ward flight,
And the cock was crowing its morning carol,
And the nightingales had ceased their soul-moving chant,
And had withdrawn from the rose-bush the veil of the rose-bud,
And the violet was washing its fragrant locks,
And the jessamine was wiping the night dew from its face,
Zulaikha still lay sunk in sweetest slumber,
Her heart-look still fixed on her last night's altar;
Sleep it was not,— rather a delightful bewilderment,
A kind of insanity from her nocturnal passion!
Her waiting-maids impress the kisses on her feet,
Her damsels approach to give the hand-kiss;
Then she lifteth the veil from her dewy tulip cheeks,
And shaketh off the sleep from her love-languishing eyes:
She looketh around on every side, but seeth not a sign
Of the roseate image of her last night's dream.
Translation of S. Robinson.
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8117
THOMAS ALLIBONE JANVIER
(1849-)
SA
N AMERICAN writer with a charming touch, and a quick eye
for picturesque features of the native life, is Thomas Alli-
bone Janvier, a Philadelphian now in the prime of his
power. Janvier first entered journalism, and then turned by a natural
deflection to more distinctive literary work. His profession and his
tastes brought him within the confines of the alluring land of Bohe-
mia, and he reproduces this experience delightfully in some of his
books, particularly in the short stories. In New York he has been a
student of humanity, who has tempered the
realism with which he depicts the charac-
teristics of the French, Spanish, and other
Romance foreign elements there commin-
gled, with a kindly humor and a pleasant
romanticism. His first book, Color Stud-
ies: Four Stories,' is made up of slight but
clever and agreeable sketches of New York
life with a flavor of the studio, carried even
to the naming of the personages after the
colors used by the painter, — Rose Madder,
Gamboge, Mangan Brown, and the like. Mr.
Janvier, however, did not confine himself
to the American metropolis for his studies.
THOMAS A. JANVIER
He has made a thorough study of Mexico, After painting by Carroll
and this knowledge is marked in his Mexi-
Beckwith
can Guide) (1886), an admirable book of its
class; while the romantic novel “The Aztec Treasure House: A Ro-
mance of Contemporaneous Antiquity' (1890), makes ingenious use of
that locale by the motive of a buried treasure. In spite of its fan-
tastic character, the novel has genuine romantic power and charm, is
rich in detail, and of sustained narrative interest. An Embassy to
Provence (1893)- graceful, happily touched travel sketches - gives
another side of his interest in the Latin races. Janvier's humor
comes pleasantly out in 'The Woman's Conquest of New York: By a
Member of the Committee of Safety of 1908,' published anonymously
in 1894. In Old New York,' dating the same year, is made up of
sympathetic papers on bygone Gotham; the picturesqueness of the
past even in the practical United States again appealing to him. Of

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## p. 8118 (#318) ###########################################

8118
THOMAS ALLIBONE JANVIER
late he has been interested especially in the Provençal land and lit-
erature: a long sojourn in Provence, and acquaintance with the bards
Mistral and Gras and the Félibrige group of singers, has led him,
with the aid of his wife, to introduce Gras's spirited “The Reds of
the Midi? to English readers, Mr. Janvier writing a preface to Mrs.
Janvier's felicitous translation. But whether at home or abroad, Jan-
vier's interest is plainly and increasingly in the picturesque exotic
scenes and character types which are furnished by those sun-loving
southern peoples, with their song, romance, and riant charm. He has
been little touched by the realism of the day, except as his studies
use the realistic method in reproducing the details of his pictures.
But humor, sentiment, the touch of illusion, are always present, mak-
ing him not only a pleasant but a wholesome writer.
THE EPISODE OF THE MARQUES DE VALDEFLORES
From Harper's Magazine. Copyright 1891, by Harper & Brothers
I
A*
NTONIO HILARION DOMINGUEZ MEDRANO Y CORELLA, Marques
de Valdeflores. When this brilliant name, with its pendent
rubrica, was written by the nobleman to whom it pertained
upon the register of the Casa Napoléon,-a modest hostelry,
founded in the interest of the traveling Franco-Hispano public
temporarily resident in the city of New York,—there ran through
that establishment a thrill which may be said to have shaken it,
figuratively speaking, from stem to stern.
As a rule the frequenters of the Casa Napoléon were not
noblemen. The exceptions to this rule were sporadic French
counts, whose costly patronage by no means was to be desired.
Thanks to Madame's worldly wisdom, - sharpened to a very
fine edge by five-and-twenty years of hotel-keeping,—these self-
constituted members of the French nobility rarely got ahead of
her. She “zized 'em up,” as she expressed it, promptly; and as
.
promptly they received their deserts: that is to say, they were
requested to pay in advance or to move on. Then they moved on.
But a nobleman from Old Spain, a genuine nobleman, and
so exalted a personage as a Marques, was quite another thing.
This was a splendor the like of which was unknown in all the
eighteen years during which the Casa Napoléon had run its some-
what checkered, but on the whole successful, career. Madame,
though an Imperialist rather than a Legitimist in her political


## p. 8119 (#319) ###########################################

THOMAS ALLIBONE JANVIER
8119
creed, had a soulful respect for a title; which respect she mani-
fested on this occasion by putting the silk coverlet on the bed in
the best apartment, and by hurriedly removing the brown holland
slips from the red-plush sofa and from the two red-plush arm-
chairs. Don Anastasio — whose royalist tendencies had led him
into a revolution in Mexico, that had ended in not leading him
but in most violently projecting him out of it - rejoiced in the
honor attendant upon entertaining so distinguished a representa-
tive of the principles for which, he was accustomed to declare,
he had suffered martyrdom. That he might lift himself to the
high plane of the situation, he lighted one of the choicest of his
reserved stock of smuggled cigars, and smoked it to the health
of the King of Spain. Telésforo, the Cuban negro who waited
in the dining-room upon the Spanish-speaking patrons of the
house, retired hurriedly to his den in the basement and put on
his clean shirt; which was not due, in the natural order of
things, until the ensuing Sunday. Even Jules—the one-eyed
French waiter; a pronounced Red, who openly boasted that he
had lost his eye while fighting in the Commune behind a barri-
cade — so far yielded to the spirit of the hour as to put on the
clean paper collar that (keeping it in the rarely used large soup
tureen) he held in reserve for occasions of especial festivity.
Marie, the trig chambermaid, stuck a bow of cherry-colored rib-
bon in her black hair. No more was required of her. Without
any extra adornment, Marie at all times was as fresh and as
blooming as the rose.
As it was with the proprietors and the retainers of the Casa
Napoléon, so was it also with the habitués of that rather eccen-
tric but most comfortable establishment. Colonel Withersby, who
had not been wholly successful in his latest venture in tramway
promotion in Nicaragua,- who had been compelled, in fact, to
leave Nicaragua with such inconsiderate celerity that his exodus
might with propriety be termed a fight,- was cheered by the
hope that Heaven had thrown in his way an opportunity to pro-
mote a tramway in some city (any city, he was not particular)
in Spain. Monsieur Duvent, the dealer in a very respectable
French gambling establishment in South Fifth Avenue, stroked
thoughtfully his respectable gray mustache, and made a few
trifling mental calculations in regard to the relative values of
current Spanish and American coins. Mrs. Myrtle Vane, who
was connected with the press, perceived at least a society item in


## p. 8120 (#320) ###########################################

8120
THOMAS ALLIBONE JANVIER
-
the situation; possibly, should the Marques prove to be in any
way a scandalous personage, a half-column article for the Sun.
day edition. Mrs. Mortimer — who presumably was a person of
substance, for she occupied a handsome apartment on the first
floor, yet she toiled not, neither did she spin- listened to Marie's
account of the arrival of the Marques with an expression of
much interest. Thereafter she descended to dinner clad in rai.
ment of price that far outshone in splendor the modest beauty
of the lilies of the field -a species of vegetation with which, in
point of fact, Mrs. Mortimer had but little in common.
Dr. Théophile (French creole, expatriated from the island
of Guadeloupe) alone refused to accept the Marques at his face
value. «Pooh! ” said Dr. Théophile rudely, when Don Anasta-
sio called him into the office that evening and showed him the
magnificent name upon the register. "Pooh! He is not a real
“
Marques. That is moonshine. A nobleman of that calibre, Don
Anastasio, does not come to the Casa Napoléon. Now and then,
I grant you, you have here a rich planter from the Islands or
from the Spanish Main; and now and then a revolutionist who
has been lucky enough — as you were - to get away with some
of the revolutionary swag. But a genuine Marques, and from
Old Spain, and rich ? Oh no, Don Anastasio: that is only a
dream! If he is a Marques he certainly is without money; if he
has money he certainly is not a Marques — and the chances are
that he has neither title nor cash. I saw something in the Epoca
last week about a monté dealer who had to leave Barcelona in a
hurry. No doubt your Marques is that very man. ”
However, Dr. Théophile was a natural-born remonstrant. It
was he who assailed Don Anastasio's claim to martyrdom in the
royalist cause. The Doctor's contention was that Don Anastasio
would have lived a most miserable life, ending in an early and
uncomfortable death, had not good fortune wafted him hurriedly
out of Mexico and safely deposited him in New York; where
his days were long in the land, and very pleasant to him in the
comfortable haven in the Casa Napoléon that he had secured by
his judicious marriage with Madame. Don Anastasio, who could
afford to be heroic under the circumstances, denied Dr. Théo-
phile's points absolutely, and clung to the belief in his martyrdom
with an affectionate fervor - that did not in the least interfere,
however, with his contentedly wearing shabby raiment and soiled
linen, and faring sumptuously every day. Indeed, the excellent


## p. 8121 (#321) ###########################################

THOMAS ALLIBONE JANVIER
8121
food that Madame gave him to eat, and the sound Bordeaux that
she gave him to drink, would have gone a long way toward
squaring accounts with a martyr whose martyrdom had been of
a much more vigorous sort.
After this denial of the validity of the Marques there was
something of a coolness between Dr. Théophile and Don Anas-
tasio, that endured until too much of Madame's rich food, and
too much of that especial old Bordeaux, brought on one of Don
Anastasio's bilious attacks, and so compelled him to resort to Dr.
Théophile for physicking. Madame, who was short and round,
and of a most quick and resolute temperament, did not suffer
her resentment of the aspersions upon the genuineness of the
Marques to take the form of a mere coolness: it took the form
of a very positive warmth. In her native clipped and softened
French of Toulouse, she rated Dr. Théophile most roundly for
venturing to call in question the honor of the nobleman within
her gates — who, in a most nobleman-like manner, was running
up a bill at the rate of from five to seven dollars a day. To
this rating Dr. Théophile, in his much more clipped and still
softer French of Guadeloupe, replied temperately that he would
not then discuss the matter further; but that he would have
much pleasure in resuming it at a later period, when time in its
fullness should have tested their conflicting opinions in the cru-
cible of practical results. He was wise in his generation, was
this Dr. Théophile. His warrings were not with womenkind.
With a man, he said, he was ready at all times to do battle with
tongue or pistol or sword. But with a woman — no! A woman,
he declared, was an inconclusive animal. You might grind her
between irrefutable arguments until you had reduced her to
figurative fragments, and at the end of this somewhat shocking
process she simply would reiterate her original proposition with
a calmly superior smile. Yet the women liked Dr. Théophile.
There was current an old-time rumor that the cause of his leav-
ing Guadeloupe was a dismal blight that had fallen upon his
heart. A man whose past has in it a bit of sad romance like
that is an object of tender solicitude to every right-natured
woman; and he easily finds forgiveness on the part of such gentle
judges for saying evil things about the sex that has done him so
cruel a wrong.


## p. 8122 (#322) ###########################################

8122
THOMAS ALLIBONE JANVIER
II
»
MEANWHILE, the Marques de Valdeflores — blissfully ignorant
of the doubts cast by Dr. Théophile upon his wealth and his
patent of nobility, and ignorant also of the very amiable designs
formed by the resident population of the Casa Napoléon for as-
sisting in the distribution of that wealth, and for rendering that
nobility commercially valuable — continued in apparent content-
ment to occupy Madame's best apartment, to eat largely of the
admirable food which she caused daily to be prepared for him,
and to drink most liberally of her excellent wines.
He was a very affable personage, was the Marques. «You
might think that he wasn't a nobleman at all! ” was Madame's
admiring comment when telling of the frank and entirely un-
affected way in which he had borrowed a dollar of Telésforo, the
Cuban negro, to pay his cab fare.
“You might know that he was not,” was the cynical comment
of Dr. Théophile, to whom this gracious fact was told.
Fortunately for the credit for hospitality of the Casa Napo-
léon, Dr. Théophile was the only one of the several dwellers
in or frequenters of that establishment who manifested the least
disposition toward standing the Marques off. The others, to do
them justice, more than atoned for Dr. Théophile's coldness by
their effusive friendliness. With a frank cordiality charming to
contemplate, they severally and collectively did their very best
to make him feel that, so far from being a stranger in a strange
land, he was very much at home among genuine friends. As
tending still further to emphasize this international comity, it was
even more delightful to observe the gracious friendliness with
which these friendly advances were met and reciprocated. Hav-
ing lived long enough in the world - he was a personable man,
in the prime of his mature manhood — to know how rarely the
perfect flower of friendship blooms, and possessing moreover
the open-hearted temperament of the South, it was only natural,
though on that account none the less pleasing, that the Marques
should do his part to show his grateful appreciation of the hos-
pitable kindness that was showered upon him. That he did his
.
part was admitted by everybody but the remonstrant Dr. Thé-
ophile, who declared morosely that he overdid it.
Mrs. Myrtle Vane, who sat beside him at the ordinary, suc-
ceeded in getting a good column article out of him on the very


## p. 8123 (#323) ###########################################

THOMAS ALLIBONE JANVIER
8123
.
-
first evening of their acquaintance. The Marques told her some
very racy stories about Spanish court life; and she worked them
up-her knowledge of Spanish, a language universally current
in the Casa Napoléon, enabling her to throw in a word here and
there that gave them local color — in a fashion that made them
still racier. As special correspondence under a Madrid date,
they were a decided hit in the Sunday edition. The editor vol-
untarily gave her six dollars and a half the thousand words, and
told her to go ahead and get some more. It was as good stuff
as he ever had come across, he said. certainly was admira-
bly scandalous. Mrs. Vane perceived that she had opened a gold
mine,- for the story-telling powers of the Marques appeared to
be inexhaustible, — and she worked it with a will. Feeling
under a real obligation to the nobleman who so considerably
was increasing her weekly income,- she was a kind-hearted soul,
not nearly so sophisticated as her very highly spiced illiterary
productions would have led one to suppose, - she was glad to
have an opportunity to show her appreciation of his kindness by
inviting him to accompany her, on a press order, to an evening
at the play. In the spirit in which it was offered, the Marques
accepted this polite invitation. It struck him that there was
something slightly pathetic about it. After the performance he
treated Mrs. Vane — at a certain restaurant well known for its
shady reputation and for the brilliant achievements of its chef -
to the very best supper that she had eaten in the whole course
of her life.
"He's a perfect high-toned gentleman,” Mrs. Vane declared
when recounting to Mrs. Mortimer rapturously - for little sup-
pers came rarely in her life — this extraordinary and delightful
-
experience. « He ordered all the highest priced things on the
bill of fare, and he set up the wine as if it was water; and he
never offered to do more than just nicely squeeze my hand. I
don't care what spiteful things Dr. Théophile says about him:
after that I know that he's a perfect high-toned gentleman all
the way through!
Inasmuch as Mrs. Mortimer, according to the repeated asser-
tion of Colonel Withersby, was a high-toned lady herself, it is
reasonable to suppose that she found pleasure in listening to
this handsome eulogy; and it is creditable to her generous im-
pulses to suppose, also, that when a few days later she invited
the Marques to a little supper in her own apartment, she was


## p. 8124 (#324) ###########################################

8124
THOMAS ALLIBONE JANVIER
actuated by an amiable desire to repay his kindness to her friend
in kind.
Mrs. Mortimer was a delightful hostess, and her little suppers
were renowned. To be sure, those who partook of them were
apt to find that in the long run they came rather high; but this
trifling drawback upon a pure enjoyment of her hospitality was
immaterial, inasmuch as, with a characteristic thoughtfulness, she
uniformly selected her guests from that moneyed class which is
superior in matters of amusement to considerations of expense.
On this particular occasion, it is needless to say that the
Marques enjoyed his supper with Mrs.