No More Learning

5889 (#477) ###########################################

5889
JOHN FORD
(1586-? )
HE dramatic genius of the English Renaissance had well-nigh
spent itself when the sombre creations of John Ford ap-
Speared upon a stage over which the clouds of the Civil War
were fast gathering. Little is known of this dramatist, who repre-
sents the decadent period which followed the age of Shakespeare.
He was born in 1586; entered the Middle Temple in 1602; after 1641
he is swallowed up in the turmoil of the time. The few scattered
records of his life add nothing to, nor do they take anything from, the
John Ford of 'The Broken Heart' and 'Perkin Warbeck. '
His plays are infected with a spirit alien to the poise and beauty
of the best Elizabethan drama. His creations tell of oblique vision;
of a disillusioned genius, predisposed to abnormal or exaggerated forms
of human experience. He breaks through the moral order, in his love
for the eccentricities of passion. He weaves the spell of his genius
around strange sins.
The problems of despair which Ford propounds but never solves,
form the plot of The Broken Heart'; Calantha, Ithocles, Penthea,
Orgilus, are wan types of the passive suffering which numbs the soul
to death. Charles Lamb has eulogized the final scene of this drama.
To many critics, the self-possession of Calantha savors of the theatri-
cal. The scene between Penthea and her brother Ithocles, who had
forced her to marry Bassanes though she loved Orgilus, is replete
with the tenderness, the sense of subdued anguish, of which Ford was
a master. He is the dramatist of broken hearts, whose waste places
are unrelieved by a touch of sunlight. His love of "passion at war
with circumstance" again finds expression in 'Love's Sacrifice,' a
drama of moral confusions. In 'The Lover's Melancholy' sorrow has
grown pensive. A quiet beauty rests upon the famous scene in which
Parthenophil strives with the nightingale for the prize of music.
'The Lady's Trial,' 'The Fancies Chaste and Noble,' 'The Sun's
Darling' (written in conjunction with Dekker), are worthy only of
passing notice. They leave but a pale impression upon the mind.
In 'Perkin Warbeck,' the one historical play of Ford, he exhibits his
mastery over straightforward, sinewy verse. The Witch of Edmon-
ton,' of which he wrote the first act, gives a signal example of his
modern style and spirit.
X-369


## p. 5890 (#478) ###########################################

5890
JOHN FORD
With the exception of 'Perkin Warbeck,' his dramas are destitute
of outlook. This moral contraction heightens the intensity of passion,
which in his conception of it has always its ancient significance of
suffering. His comic scenes are contemptible. He is at his greatest
when dealing with the subtleties of the human heart. Through him
we enter into the darker zones of the soul; we apprehend its remoter
sufferings. Confusion of spiritual vision, blended with the tyranny of
passion, produce his greatest scenes. His are the tragedies of "unful-
filled desire. "
The verse of Ford is measured, passionless, polished. There is a
subtle music in his lines which haunts the memory.
With Ford the sun-born radiance of the noblest Elizabethan drama
fades from the stage. An artificial light, thereafter, replaced it.
FROM PERKIN WARBECK'
[Perkin Warbeck and his followers are presented to King Henry VII. by
Lord Dawbeny as prisoners. ]
D^
AWBENY
King Henry-
Dawbeny-
"Parthenophil is lost, and I would see him;
For he is like to something I remember,
A great while since, a long, long time ago. "
Life to the King, and safety fix his throne.
I here present you, royal sir, a shadow
Of Majesty, but in effect a substance
Of pity; a young man, in nothing grown
To ripeness, but th' ambition of your mercy;
Perkin, the Christian world's strange wonder!
Dawbeny-
King Henry-
We observe no wonder; I behold ('tis true)
An ornament of nature, fine and polished,
A handsome youth, indeed, but not admire him.
How come he to thy hands?
From sanctuary.
At Bewley, near Southampton; registered,
With these few followers, for persons privileged.
Dawbeny,
I must not thank you, sir! you were to blame
To infringe the liberty of houses sacred;
Dare we be irreligious?
Gracious lord!
They voluntarily resigned themselves,
Without compulsion.


## p. 5891 (#479) ###########################################

JOHN FORD
5891
King Henry-
Warbeck-
Dawbeny-
King Henry
Warbeck
.
So? 'twas very well
Turn now thine eyes,
'Twas very well.
Young man! upon thyself and thy past actions:
What revels in combustion through our kingdom
A frenzy of aspiring youth has danced;
Till wanting breath, thy feet of pride have slipt
To break thy neck.
Warbeck-
But not my heart; my heart
Will mount till every drop of blood be frozen
By death's perpetual winter. If the sun
Of Majesty be darkened, let the sun
Of life be hid from me, in an eclipse
Lasting and universal. Sir, remember
There was a shooting in of light when Richmond
(Not aiming at the crown) retired, and gladly,
For comfort to the Duke of Bretagne's court.
Richard, who swayed the sceptre, was reputed
A tyrant then; yet then, a dawning glimmer'd
To some few wand'ring remnants, promising day
When first they ventur'd on a frightful shore
At Milford Haven.
Whither speeds his boldness?
Check his rude tongue, great sir.
Oh, let him range:
The player's on the stage still; 'tis his part:
He does but act. - What followed?
______
-
King Henry-
Bosworth Field:
Where at an instant, to the world's amazement,
A morn to Richmond and a night to Richard
Appear'd at once. The tale is soon applied:
Fate which crowned these attempts, when least assured,
Might have befriended others, like resolved.
A pretty gallant! thus your aunt of Burgundy,
Your duchess aunt, informed her nephew: so
The lesson, prompted, and well conned, was molded
Into familiar dialogue, oft rehearsed,
Till, learnt by heart, 'tis now received for truth.
Truth in her pure simplicity wants art
To put a feigned blush on; scorn wears only
Such fashion as commends to gazers' eyes
Sad ulcerated novelty, far beneath; in such a court
Wisdom and gravity are proper robes
By which the sovereign is best distinguished
From zanies to his greatness.


## p. 5892 (#480) ###########################################

5892
JOHN FORD
King Henry-
Warbeck-
-
Warbeck
Your antic pageantry, and now appear
In your own nature; or you'll taste the danger
Of fooling out of season.
King Henry-
Sirrah, shift
I expect
No less than what severity calls justice,
And politicians safety; let such beg
As feed on alms: but if there can be mercy
In a protested enemy, then may it
Descend to these poor creatures whose engagements
To the bettering of their fortunes have incurred
A loss of all to them, if any charity
Flow from some noble orator; in death
I owe the fee of thankfulness.
King Henry-
So brave?
What a bold knave is this!
We trifle time with follies.
Urswick, command the Dukeling and these fellows
To Digby, the Lieutenant of the Tower.
Meet freedom in captivity: the Tower,
Our childhood's dreadful nursery!
Noble thoughts
Was ever so much impudence in forgery?
The custom, sure, of being styled a king
Hath fastened in his thought that he is such.
PENTHEA'S DYING SONG
From The Broken Heart ›
OH
H, NO more, no more,- too late;
Sighs are spent; the burning tapers
Of a life as chaste as fate,
Pure as are unwritten papers,
Are burnt out; no heat, no light
Now remains; 'tis ever night.
Love is dead; let lovers' eyes
Locked in endless dreams,
Th' extremes of all extremes,
Ope no more, for now Love dies;
Now Love dies - implying
Love's martyrs must be ever, ever dying.


## p. 5893 (#481) ###########################################

JOHN FORD
5893
Amethus-
ENAPHON - Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales
M Which poets of an elder time have feigned
To glorify their Temple, bred in me
Desire of visiting that paradise.
To Thessaly I came; and living private
Without acquaintance of more sweet companions
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts,
Amethus
Menaphon-
Menaphon
Amethus-
FROM THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY
AMETHUS AND MENAPHON
I day by day frequented silent groves
And solitary walks. One morning early
This accident encountered me: I heard
The sweetest and most ravishing contention
That art and nature ever were at strife in.
I cannot yet conceive what you infer
By art and nature.
I shall soon resolve ye.
A sound of music touched my ears, or rather
Indeed entranced my soul. As I stole nearer,
Invited by the melody, I saw
This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute,
With strains of strange variety and harmony,
Proclaiming, as it seemed, so bold a challenge
To the clear quiristers of the woods, the birds,
That, as they flocked about him, all stood silent,
Wondering at what they heard: I wondered too.
And so do I: good, on!
A nightingale,
Nature's best skilled musician, undertakes
The challenge, and for every several strain
The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her own;
He could not run division with more art
Upon his quaking instrument than she,
The nightingale, did with her various notes
Reply to: for a voice and for a sound,
Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe
That such they were than hope to hear again.
How did the rivals part?


## p. 5894 (#482) ###########################################

5894
JOHN FORD
You term them rightly;
For they were rivals, and their mistress harmony.
Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last
Into a pretty anger, that a bird,
Menaphon-
Amethus-
Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes,
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study
Had busied many hours to perfect practice.
To end the controversy, in a rapture
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly
So many voluntaries and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,
Concord in discord, lines of differing method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.
Now for the bird.
Menaphon-
The bird, ordained to be
Music's first martyr, strove to imitate
'These several sounds; which when her warbling throat
Failed in, for grief down dropped she on his lute,
And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness,
To see the conqueror upon her hearse
To weep a funeral elegy of tears;
That trust me, my Amethus, I could chide
Mine own unmanly weakness that made me
A fellow mourner with him.
Amethus-
Menaphon-
I believe thee.
He looked upon the trophies of his art,
Then sighed, then wiped his eyes, then sighed and cried:-
"Alas, poor creature! I will soon revenge
This cruelty upon the author of it;
Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood,
Shall never more betray a harmless peace
To an untimely end:" and in that sorrow,
As he was pushing it against a tree,
I suddenly stept in.


## p. 5895 (#483) ###########################################

5895
FRIEDRICH, BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
(1777-1843)
HE romantic school had many false and erratic tendencies,
but it produced some of the most fanciful and poetic crea-
tions of literature. Fouqué was called the Don Quixote of
the Romanticists, and his early romances of chivalry were devoured
by the public as quickly as they appeared. But his fame proved to
be a passing fancy; and his later works scarcely found a publisher.
This was owing partly to a change in public taste, and partly to
his mannerisms. His descriptions often deteriorate into tediousness,
and the narrative is broken by far-fetched
digressions. He was so imbued with the
spirit of chivalry that he became one-sided,
and his scenes were always laid in "the
chapel or the tilt-yard. " Critics of his time
speak of his mediæval romances as "full of
sweet strength and lovely virtue. " Others
say "the heroes are almost absurd, and do
not arouse enthusiasm. " Heine asserts that
Fouqué's laurel is genuine; Coleridge places*
him above Walter Scott; Thomas Carlyle
compares him to Southey, and describes
him as a man of genius, with little more
than an ordinary share of talent. Fouqué
was introduced to romanticism by Wilhelm
von Schlegel, and drew his first inspiration from Cervantes. What-
ever his shortcomings, it cannot be denied that he succeeded in catch-
ing the spirit of chivalry. His knights may be unreal and quixotic,
but he delineates his characters with the irresistible touch of a poet,
and his work displays noble thoughts and depth of feeling.
FOUQUÉ
Friedrich, Baron de la Motte Fouqué, was descended from a
French family that had emigrated to Prussia, and his grandfather
was a general under Frederick the Great. Fouqué was born at Bran-
denburg, February 12th, 1777, and was a thorough German at heart.
He received a military education, and at the age of nineteen proved
himself a brave soldier in the campaign of the Rhine. He served
under the Duke of Weimar, and his friend and comrade in arms was,
the wonderfully gifted but unfortunate Heinrich von Kleist.
He was
obliged to resign on account of ill health, and withdrawing to his



## p. 5896 (#484) ###########################################

5896
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
estates he devoted himself to literary pursuits. Once again, how-
ever, in the exciting times of the war against Napoleon, his sword
defended his country. He enlisted as a volunteer, and was after-
wards honorably retired with the rank of major. and decorated with
the Order of St. John. One of his patriotic poems, 'Frisch auf zum
Fröhlichen Jagen' (Come, rouse ye for the merry hunt), with refer-
ence to the rising against Napoleon, is still a popular song. In
Halle, Fouqué delivered lectures on history and poetry which at-
tracted much attention and admiration. In 1842 he was called to
Berlin by Frederick William IV. , but his literary efforts were at an
end. He died in Berlin, January 23d, 1843.
At the beginning of this century, Fouqué was one of the most cele-
brated authors. At the present day, with a few brilliant exceptions,
all of his plays, romances, and poems have been relegated to obliv-
ion. There is one work, however, a gem in German literature, that
has won for its author an enduring place in the memory of readers;
and that is the charming and graceful narrative of 'Undine. ' It af-
fords an example of the writer's best style of production; it breathes
the fresh fragrance of the woods, and is animated by the beautiful
thought that peoples the sea and air with nymphs and spirits. With
exquisite tenderness Fouqué portrays the beautiful character of Un-
dine. At first her nature reflects all the capriciousness of the ele-
ments, then, gradually growing more human through her love, her
soul expands and she becomes an ideal of womanly love, devotion,
and unselfishness.
The real and unreal are so perfectly blended in this story, that
the suffering of Undine excites deep sympathy. Undine, the foster-
daughter of a good old fisherman and his wife, is a water nymph, and
as such is born without a soul. The knight Huldbrand von Ring-
stetten is sent by Bertalda in quest of adventure, and riding through
an enchanted forest he reaches the fisherman's hut, where he is
detained by a storm. He falls in love with the laughing, wayward
Undine, and marries her. At once the bewitching maiden gives up
her wild pranks, grows gentle, and is devoted to the knight with all
her heart; for through her marriage to a human being she receives
a soul. Her uncle Kühleborn, a forest brook, tries to entice her back
to her native element the sea.
The bridal couple go to their castle, where Bertalda joins them,
doing much to disturb their happiness. Huldbrand, though he still
loves his beautiful wife, cannot at times suppress an instinctive shud-
der, and he is attracted to Bertalda, whose nature is more akin to his
. own.
One day, while they are sailing on the Danube, Kühleborn man-
ages to steal away a necklace with which Bertalda is playing in the


## p. 5897 (#485) ###########################################

FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
5897
water. Undine richly compensates Bertalda for her loss by a much
rarer gift, but Huldbrand angrily upbraids her for continuing to hold
intercourse with her uncanny relatives. In tears she parts from him,
and vanishes in the waves. The knight marries Bertalda, but on the
wedding-day, Undine, deeply veiled, rises from the sea to claim her
husband, and with a kiss she takes away his life.
Heine says of 'Undine':-
"A wondrous lovely poem. The genius of Poetry kissed slumbering Spring,
and smiling he opened his eyes, and all the roses and the nightingales sang;
and what the fragrant roses said and what the nightingales sang, our worthy
Fouqué put into words and called it 'Undine. »»
THE MARRIAGE OF UNDINE
From Undine'
B
EFORE the nuptial ceremony, and during its performance, Un-
dine had shown a modest gentleness and maidenly reserve;
but it now seemed as if all the wayward freaks that effer-
vesced within her burst forth with an extravagance only the
more bold and unrestrained. She teased her bridegroom, her
foster-parents, and even the priest, whom she had just now
revered so highly, with all sorts of childish tricks; but when the
ancient dame was about to reprove her too frolicsome spirit, the
knight in a few words imposed silence upon her by speaking of
Undine as his wife.
The knight was himself indeed just as little pleased with Un-
dine's childish behavior as the rest; but all his looks and half-
reproachful words were to no purpose. It is true, whenever the
bride observed the dissatisfaction of her husband- and this occa-
sionally happened-she became more quiet, and placed herself
beside him, stroked his face with caressing fondness, whispered
something smilingly in his ear, and in this manner smoothed the
wrinkles that were gathering on his brow. But the moment after,
some wild whim would make her resume her antic movements;
and all went worse than before.
The priest then spoke in a kind although serious tone:-
"My fair young maiden, surely no one can look on you with-
out pleasure; but remember betimes so to attune your soul, that
it may produce a harmony ever in accordance with the soul of
your wedded bridegroom. "
-


## p. 5898 (#486) ###########################################

5898
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
"Soul! " cried Undine, with a laugh. "What you say has a
remarkably pretty sound; and for most people, too, it may be a
very instructive and profitable caution. But when a person has
no soul at all, how, I pray you, can such attuning be then pos-
sible? And this in truth is just my condition. "
The priest was much hurt, but continued silent in holy dis-
pleasure, and turned away his face from the maiden in sorrow.
She went up to him, however, with the most winning sweetness,
and said:
-
"Nay, I entreat you, first listen to me, before you are angry
with me; for your anger is painful to me, and you ought not to
give pain to a creature that has not hurt you. Only have patience
with me, and I will explain to you every word of what I meant. "
It was evident that she had come to say something important;
when she suddenly faltered as if seized with inward shuddering,
and burst into a passion of tears. They were none of them able
to understand the intenseness of her feelings; and with mingled
emotions of fear and anxiety, they gazed on her in silence.
Then wiping away her tears and looking earnestly at the priest,
she at last said:
"There must be something lovely, but at the same time some-
thing most awful, about a soul. In the name of God, holy man,
were it not better that we never shared a gift so mysterious?
Again she paused, and restrained her tears, as if waiting for
an answer. All in the cottage had risen from their seats, and
stepped back from her with horror. She, however, seemed to
have eyes for no one but the holy man; an awful curiosity was
painted on her features, which appeared terrible to the others.
«< Heavily must the soul weigh down its possessor," she pur-
sued, when no one returned her any answer "very heavily! for
already its approaching image overshadows me with anguish and
mourning. And alas, I have till now been so merry and light-
hearted! » and she burst into another flood of tears and covered
her face with her veil.
The priest, going up to her with a solemn look, now addressed
himself to her, and conjured her, by the name of God most holy,
if any spirit of evil possessed her, to remove the light covering
from her face. But she sank before him on her knees, and
repeated after him every sacred expression he uttered, giving
praise to God, and protesting that she "wished well to the whole
world. "


## p. 5899 (#487) ###########################################

FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
5899
The priest then spoke to the knight: "Sir bridegroom, I
leave you alone with her whom I have united to you in mar-
riage. So far as I can discover there is nothing of evil in her,
but assuredly much that is wonderful. What I recommend to
you is prudence, love, and fidelity. "
Thus speaking, he left the apartment; and the fisherman with
his wife followed him, crossing themselves.
Undine had sunk upon her knees. She uncovered her face,
and exclaimed, while she looked fearfully round upon Huldbrand,
"Alas, you will now refuse to look upon me as your own; and
I still have done nothing evil, poor unhappy child that I am! "
She spoke these words with a look so infinitely sweet and touch-
ing, that her bridegroom forgot both the confession that had
shocked and the mystery that had perplexed him; and hastening
to her, he raised her in his arms. She smiled through her tears;
and that smile was like the morning light playing upon a small
stream. "You cannot desert me! " she whispered confidingly,
and stroked the knight's cheeks with her little soft hands. He
turned away from the frightful thoughts that still lurked in the
recesses of his soul, and were persuading him that he had been
married to a fairy, or some spiteful and mischievous being of the
spirit world. Only the single question, and that almost unawares,
escaped from his lips: -
"Dearest Undine, tell me this one thing: what was it you
meant by 'spirits of earth' and 'Kühleborn,' when the priest
stood knocking at the door? »
"Tales! mere tales of children! " answered Undine laughing,
now quite restored to her wonted gayety. "I first frightened you.
with them, and you frightened me. This is the end of my
story, and of our nuptial evening.
"Nay, not so," replied the enamored knight, extinguishing
the tapers, and a thousand times kissing his beautiful and be-
loved bride; while, lighted by the moon that shone brightly
through the windows, he bore her into their bridal apartment.
The fresh light of morning woke the young married pair: but
Huldbrand lay lost in silent reflection. Whenever, during the
night, he had fallen asleep, strange and horrible dreams of spec-
tres had disturbed him; and these shapes, grinning at him by
stealth, strove to disguise themselves as beautiful females; and
from beautiful females they all at once assumed the appearance
of dragons. And when he started up, aroused by the intrusion


## p. 5900 (#488) ###########################################

5900
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
of these hideous forms, the moonlight shone pale and cold before
the windows without.
He looked affrighted at Undine, in whose
arms he had fallen asleep: and she was reposing in unaltered
beauty and sweetness beside him. Then pressing her rosy lips
with a light kiss, he again fell into a slumber, only to be
awakened by new terrors.
When fully awake he had thought over this connection. He
reproached himself for any doubt that could lead him into error
in regard to his lovely wife. He also confessed to her his injust-
ice; but she only gave him her fair hand, sighed deeply, and
remained silent. Yet a glance of fervent tenderness, an expres-
sion of the soul beaming in her eyes, such as he had never wit-
nessed there before, left him in undoubted assurance that Undine
bore him no ill-will.
He then rose joyfully, and leaving her, went to the common
apartment, where the inmates of the house had already met.
The three were sitting round the hearth with an air of anxiety
about them, as if they feared trusting themselves to raise their
voice above a low, apprehensive undertone. The priest appeared
to be praying in his inmost spirit, with a view to avert some
fatal calamity. But when they observed the young husband come
forth so cheerful, they dispelled the cloud that remained upon
their brows: the old fisherman even began to laugh with the
knight, till his aged wife herself could not help smiling with
great good-humor.
Undine had in the mean time got ready, and now entered the
room: all rose to meet her, but remained fixed in perfect admi-
ration- she was so changed, and yet the same. The priest,
with paternal affection beaming from his countenance, first went
up to her; and as he raised his hand to pronounce a blessing, the
beautiful bride sank on her knees before him with religious awe;
she begged his pardon in terms both respectful and submissive
for any foolish things she might have uttered the evening
before, and entreated him with emotion to pray for the welfare
of her soul. She then rose, kissed her foster-parents, and after
thanking them for all the kindness they had shown her, said:
"Oh, I now feel in my inmost heart how much, how infinitely
much, you have done for me, you dear, dear friends of my
childhood! "
At first she was wholly unable to tear herself away from their
affectionate caresses; but the moment she saw the good old


## p. 5901 (#489) ###########################################

FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
5901
mother busy in getting breakfast, she went to the hearth, ap-
plied herself to cooking the food and putting it on the table, and
would not suffer her to take the least share in the work.
She continued in this frame of spirit the whole day: calm,
kind, attentive-half matronly and half girlish. The three who
had been longest acquainted with her expected every instant to
see her capricious spirit break out in some whimsical change or
sportive vagary. But their fears were quite unnecessary. Undine
continued as mild and gentle as an angel. The priest found it
all but impossible to remove his eyes from her; and he often
said to the bridegroom:-
"The bounty of Heaven, sir, through me its unworthy instru-
ment, intrusted to you yesterday an invaluable treasure: cherish
it as you ought, and it will promote your temporal and eternal
welfare. "
―――
Toward evening Undine was hanging upon the knight's arm
with lowly tenderness, while she drew him gently out before the
door, where the setting sun shone richly over the fresh grass and
upon the high slender boles of the trees. Her emotion was vis-
ible; the dew of sadness and love swam in her eyes, while a
tender and fearful secret seemed to hover upon her lips, but was
only made known by hardly breathed sighs. She led her hus-
band farther and farther onward without speaking. When he
asked her questions, she replied only with looks, in which, it is
true, there appeared to be no immediate answer to his inquiries,
but a whole heaven of love and timid devotion. Thus they
reached the margin of the swollen forest stream, and the knight
was astonished to see it gliding away with so gentle a murmur-
ing of its waves, that no vestige of its former swell and wildness
was now discernible.
"By morning it will be wholly drained off," said the beautiful
wife, almost weeping, "and you will then be able to travel,
without anything to hinder you, whithersoever you will. "
"Not without you, dear Undine,” replied the knight, laugh-
ing: "think only, were I disposed to leave you, both the Church
and the spiritual powers, the emperor and the laws of the realm,
would require the fugitive to be seized and restored to you. "
"All this depends on you-all depends on you," whispered
his little companion, half weeping and half smiling. "But I still
feel sure that you will not leave me; I love you too deeply to
fear that misery. Now bear me over to that little island which


## p. 5902 (#490) ###########################################

5902
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
lies before us. There shall the decision be made. I could easily,
indeed, glide through that mere rippling of the water without
your aid, but it is so sweet to lie in your arms; and should you
determine to put me away, I shall have rested in them once
more,
for the last time. "
·
Huldbrand was so full of strange anxiety and emotion, that
he knew not what answer to make her. He took her in his
arms and carried her over, now first realizing the fact that this
was the same little island from which he had borne her back to
the old fisherman, the first night of his arrival. On the farther
side he placed her upon the soft grass, and was throwing himself
lovingly near his beautiful burden; but she said to him:-"Not
here, but opposite me. I shall read my doom in your eyes, even
before your lips pronounce it; now listen attentively to what I
shall relate to you. " And she began:-
"You must know, my own love, that there are beings in the
elements which bear the strongest resemblance to the human
race, and which at the same time but seldom become visible to
you. The wonderful salamanders sparkle and sport amid the
flames; deep in the earth the meagre and malicious gnomes pur-
sue their revels; the forest spirits belong to the air, and wander
in the woods; while in the seas, rivers, and streams live the
widespread race of water spirits. These last, beneath resounding
domes of crystal, through which the sky can shine with its sun
and stars, inhabit a region of light and beauty; lofty coral-trees
glow with blue and crimson fruits in their gardens; they walk
over the pure sand of the sea, among exquisitely variegated
shells, and amid whatever of beauty the old world possessed,
such as the present is no more worthy to enjoy,-creations which
the floods covered with their secret veils of silver; and now these
noble monuments sparkle below, stately and solemn, and bedewed
by the water, which loves them, and calls forth from their crevices
delicate moss-flowers and enwreathing tufts of sedge.
(( Now, the nation that dwell there are very fair and lovely to
behold, for the most part more beautiful than human beings.
Many a fisherman has been so fortunate as to catch a view of a
delicate maiden of the waters, while she was floating and sing-
ing upon the deep. He would then spread far the fame of her
beauty; and to such wonderful females men are wont to give the
name of Undines. But what need of saying more?
You, my
dear husband, now actually behold an Undine before you. "
-


## p. 5903 (#491) ###########################################

FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
5903
The knight would have persuaded himself that his lovely wife
was under the influence of one of her odd whims, and that she
was only amusing herself and him with her extravagant inven-
tions. He wished it might be so. But with whatever emphasis
he said this to himself, he still could not credit the hope for a
moment: a strange shivering shot through his soul; unable to
utter a word, he gazed upon the sweet speaker with a fixed eye.
She shook her head in distress, sighed from her full heart, and
then proceeded in the following manner:
"We should be far superior to you, who are another race of
the human family,- for we also call ourselves human beings, as
we resemble them in form and features,-had we not one evil
peculiar to ourselves. Both we and the beings I have mentioned
as inhabiting the other elements vanish into air at death and go
out of existence, spirit and body, so that no vestige of us re-
mains; and when you hereafter awake to a purer state of being,
we shall remain where sand and sparks and wind and waves
remain. Thus, we have no souls; the element moves us, and
again is obedient to our will while we live, though it scatters us
like dust when we die; and as we have nothing to trouble us,
we are as merry as nightingales, little gold-fishes, and other
pretty children of nature.
"But all beings aspire to rise in the scale of existence higher
than they are. It was therefore the wish of my father, who is a
powerful water prince in the Mediterranean Sea, that his only
daughter should become possessed of a soul, although she should
have to endure many of the sufferings of those who share that gift.
"Now, the race to which I belong have no other means of
obtaining a soul than by forming with an individual of your own.
the most intimate union of love. I am now possessed of a soul,
and my soul thanks you, my best beloved, and never shall cease
to thank you, if you do not render my whole future life miser-
able. For what will become of me, if you avoid and reject me?
Still, I would not keep you as my own by artifice. And should
you decide to cast me off, then do it now, and return alone
to the shore. I will plunge into this brook, where my uncle.
will receive me; my uncle, who here in the forest, far removed
from his other friends, passes his strange and solitary existence.
But he is powerful, as well as revered and beloved by many
great rivers; and as he brought me hither to the fisherman a
light-hearted and laughing child, he will take me home to my


## p. 5904 (#492) ###########################################

5904
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
parents a woman, gifted with a soul, with power to love and to
suffer. "
She was about to add something more, when Huldbrand with
the most heartfelt tenderness and love clasped her in his arms,
and again bore her back to the shore. There amid tears and
kisses he first swore never to forsake his affectionate wife, and
esteemed himself even more happy than Pygmalion, for whom
Venus gave life to this beautiful statue, and thus changed it into
a beloved wife. Supported by his arm, and in the confidence of
affection, Undine returned to the cottage; and now she first
realized with her whole heart how little cause she had for re-
gretting what she had left- the crystal palaces of her mysterious
father.
THE LAST APPEARANCE OF UNDINE
From Undine ›
HOULD I relate to you how passed the marriage feast at Castle
Ringstetten, it would be as if you saw a heap of bright and
pleasant things, but all overspread with a black mourning
crape, through whose darkening veil their brilliancy would ap-
pear but a mockery of the nothingness of all earthly joys.
It was not that any spectral delusion disturbed the scene of
festivity; for the castle, as we well know, had been secured
against the mischief of the water spirits. But the knight, the
fisherman, and all the guests were unable to banish the feeling
that the chief personage of the feast was still wanting, and that
this chief personage could be no other than the gentle and be-
loved Undine.
Whenever a door was heard to open, all eyes were involun-
tarily turned in that direction; and if it was nothing but the
steward with new dishes, or the cup-bearer with a supply of
wine of higher flavor than the last, they again looked down in
sadness and disappointment, while the flashes of wit and mer-
riment which had been passing at times from one to another
were extinguished by tears of mournful remembrance.
The bride was the least thoughtful of the company, and there-
fore the most happy; but even to her it sometimes seemed strange
that she should be sitting at the head of the table, wearing a
green wreath and gold-embroidered robe, while Undine was lying
a corpse, stiff and cold, at the bottom of the Danube, or carried


## p. 5905 (#493) ###########################################

FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUE
5905
out by the current into the ocean. For ever since her father
had suggested something of this sort, his words were continually
sounding in her ear; and this day in particular, they would neither
fade from her memory nor yield to other thoughts.
Evening had scarcely arrived when the company returned to
their homes; not dismissed by the impatience of the bridegroom,
as wedding parties are sometimes broken up, but constrained
solely by heavy sadness and forebodings of evil. Bertalda retired
with her maidens, and the knight with his attendants, to undress;
but there was no gay laughing company of bridesmaids and
bridesmen at this mournful festival.
Bertalda wished to awake more cheerful thoughts: she ordered
her maidens to spread before her a brilliant set of jewels, a pres-
ent from Huldbrand, together with rich apparel and veils, that
she might select from among them the brightest and most beauti-
ful for her dress in the morning. The attendants rejoiced at this
opportunity of pouring forth good wishes and promises of happi-
ness to their young mistress, and failed not to extol the beauty
of the bride with the most glowing eloquence. This went on
for a long time, until Bertalda at last, looking in a mirror, said
with a sigh:-
"Ah, but do you not see plainly how freckled I am growing?
Look here on the side of my neck,"
They looked at the place and found the freckles indeed, as
their fair mistress had said; but they called them mere beauty-
spots, the faintest touches of the sun, such as would only heighten
the whiteness of her delicate complexion. Bertalda shook her
head, and still viewed them as a blemish.
—
"And I could remove them," she said at last, sighing.
« But
the castle fountain is covered, from which I formerly used to
have that precious water, so purifying to the skin. Oh, had I
this evening only a single flask of it! "
"Is that all? " cried an alert waiting-maid, laughing as she
glided out of the apartment.
"She will not be so foolish," said Bertalda, well pleased and
surprised, "as to cause the stone cover of the fountain to be
taken off this very evening? " That instant they heard the
tread of men already passing along the court-yard, and could see
from the window where the officious maiden was leading them
directly up to the fountain, and that they carried levers and
other instruments on their shoulders.
X-370


## p. 5906 (#494) ###########################################

5906
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
"It is certainly my will," said Bertalda with a smile, "if it
does not take them too long. " And pleased with the thought
that a word from her was now sufficient to accomplish what had
formerly been refused with a painful reproof, she looked down
upon their operations in the bright moonlit castle court.
The men raised the enormous stone with an effort; some one
of the number indeed would occasionally sigh, when he recol-
lected that they were destroying the work of their former be-
loved mistress. Their labor, however, was much lighter than
they had expected. It seemed as if some power from within the
fountain itself aided them in raising the stone.
"It appears," said the workmen to one another in astonish-
ment, as if the confined water had become a springing fount-
ain. " And the stone rose more and more, and almost without
the assistance of the workpeople, rolled slowly down upon the
pavement with a hollow sound. But an appearance from the
opening of the fountain filled them with awe, as it rose like a
white column of water; at first they imagined it really to be a
fountain, until they perceived the rising form to be a pale
female, veiled in white. She wept bitterly, raised her hands
above her head, wringing them sadly as with slow and solemn
step she moved toward the castle. The servants shrank back,
and fled from the spring, while the bride, pale and motionless
with horror, stood with her maidens at the window. When the
figure had now come close beneath their room, it looked up to
them sobbing, and Bertalda thought she recognized through the
veil the pale features of Undine. But the mourning form passed
on, sad, reluctant, and lingering, as if going to the place of exe-
cution. Bertalda screamed to her maids to call the knight; not
one of them dared to stir from her place; and even the bride
herself became again mute, as if trembling at the sound of her
own voice.
While they continued standing at the window, motionless as
statues, the mysterious wanderer had entered the castle, ascended
the well-known stairs, and traversed the well-known halls, in
silent tears. Alas, how differently had she once passed through
these rooms!
The knight had in the mean time dismissed his attendants.
Half undressed and in deep dejection, he was standing before a
large mirror; a wax taper burned dimly beside him. At this
moment some one tapped at his door very, very softly.
Undine


## p. 5907 (#495) ###########################################

FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
5907
had formerly tapped in this way, when she was playing some of
her endearing wiles.
"It is all an illusion! " said he to himself. "I must to my
nuptial bed. "
"You must indeed, but to a cold one! " he heard a voice,
choked with sobs, repeat from without; and then he saw in the
mirror that the door of his room was slowly, slowly opened, and
the white figure entered, and gently closed it behind her.
"They have opened the spring," said she in a low tone; "and
now I am here, and you must die. "
He felt in his failing breath that this must indeed be; but
covering his eyes with his hands, he cried: "Do not in my death-
hour, do not make me mad with terror. If that veil conceals
hideous features, do not lift it! Take my life, but let me not see
you,»
――
"Alas! " replied the pale figure, "will you not then look upon
me once more? I am as fair now as when you wooed me on
the island! "
"Oh, if it indeed were so," sighed Huldbrand, "and that I
might die by a kiss from you! "
"Most willingly, my own love," said she. She threw back her
veil; heavenly fair shone forth her pure countenance. Trembling
with love and the awe of approaching death, the knight leant
towards her. She kissed him with a holy kiss; but she relaxed
not her hold, pressing him more closely in her arms, and weeping
as if she would weep away her soul. Tears rushed into the
knight's eyes, while a thrill both of bliss and agony shot through
his heart, until he at last expired, sinking softly back from her
fair arms upon the pillow of his couch a corpse.
"I have wept him to death! " said she to some domestics who
met her in the ante-chamber; and passing through the terrified
group, she went slowly out, and disappeared in the fountain.


## p. 5908 (#496) ###########################################

5908
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
SONG FROM MINSTREL LOVE›
H WELCOME, Sir Bolt, to me!
And a welcome, Sir Arrow, to thee!
But wherefore such pride
In your swift airy ride?
You're but splints of the ashen tree.
When once on earth lying,
There's an end of your flying!
Lullaby! lullaby! lullaby!
But we freshly will wing you
And back again swing you,
And teach you to wend
To your Moorish friend.
Ο
Sir Bolt, you have oft been here;
And Sir Arrow, you've often flown near;
But still from pure haste
All your courage would waste
On the earth and the streamlet clear.
What! over all leaping,
In shame are you sleeping?
Lullaby! lullaby! lullaby!
Or if you smote one,
'Twas but darklingly done,
As the grain that winds fling
To the bird on the wing.


## p. 5909 (#497) ###########################################

5909
ANATOLE FRANCE
(1844-)
NATOLE FRANCE, whose real name of Thibault is sunk in his
literary signature, was born in Paris, April 16th, 1844. His
father, a wealthy bookseller, seems to have been a thought-
ful, meditative man, and his mother a woman of great refinement
and tenderness. Their son shows the result of the double influence.
Always fond of books, he early devoted himself to literary work,
and made his début as writer in 1868 in a biographical study of
Alfred de Vigny. This was shortly followed by two volumes of
poetry: 'Les Poèmes Dorés' (Golden Verses)
and 'Les Noces Corinthéennes (Corinthian
Revels). Since this work of his youth he
has published at least twelve novels and
romances, of which the most familiar are:
'Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard' (The
Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard), 'Le Livre de
Mon Ami (My Friend's Book), 'Le Lys
Rouge (The Red Lily), and 'Les Désirs
de Jean Servieu' (Jean Servieu's Wishes).
Several volumes of essays, critical intro-
ductions to splendid editions of Racine,
Molière, La Fontaine, and Le Sage, of
'Manon Lescaut' and 'Paul and Virginia,'
numberless studies of men and books for
the reviews and journals, - these measure the tireless industry of an
incessant worker. In 1876 M. France became an attaché of the
Library of the Senate. In December 1896 he was received as
member of the French Academy, succeeding to the chair of Ferdi-
nand de Lesseps, whose eulogy he pronounced with exquisite taste
and grace.

ANATOLE FRANCE
Like Renan, whose disciple he is, this fine artist was formed in
the clerical schools. His perfection of style, clear, distinguished,
scintillating with wit and fancy, furnishes, as a distinguished French
critic remarks, a strong contrast to the painful and heavy periods of
the literary products of a State education. He is an enthusiastic
humanist, a fervent Neo-Hellenist, delicately sensitive to the beauty
of the antique, the magic of words, and the harmony of phrase.
Outside of France, his best known works are 'Le Crime de Syl-
vestre Bonnard' (crowned by the Academy) and 'Le Livre de Mon


## p. 5910 (#498) ###########################################

5910
ANATOLE FRANCE
Ami. ' The first of these expresses the author's Hellenism, sentiment,
experience, love of form, and gentle pessimism. Into the character
of Sylvestre Bonnard, that intelligent, contemplative, ironical, sweet-
natured old philosopher, he has put most of himself. In 'Le Livre de
Mon Ami' are reflected the childhood and youth of the author. It is
a living book, made out of the impulses of the heart, holding the
very essence of moral grace, written with exquisite irony absolutely
free from bitterness.
It is to be regretted that in some of his later writings this charm-
ing writer has fallen short of the standard of these works, though
the versatility of talent he displays is great and admirable.
'Thaïs' he has painted the magnificent Alexandria of the Ptolemies;
in Le Lys Rouge' the Florence of to-day. In 'La Rôtisserie de la
Reine Pedauque' (The Cook-Shop of the Queen Pedauque) and in
'Les Opinions de M. Jérome Coignard,' Gil Blas, Rabelais, Wilhelm
Meister, and Montaigne seem to jostle each other. In 'Le Jardin
d'Épicure (The Garden of Epicurus) a modern Epicurus, discreet,
indulgent, listless, listens to lively discussions between the shades of
Plato, Origen, Augustine, Hegel, and Schopenhauer, while an Esqui-
maux refutes Bossuet, a Polynesian develops his theory of the soul,
and Cicero and Cousin agree in their estimate of a future life.
In his own words, M. Anatole France has always been inclined to
take life as a spectacle, offering no solution of its perplexities, pro-
posing no remedies for its ills. His literary quality, as M. Jules
Lemaître observes, owes little or nothing to the spirit or literature of
the North. His intelligence is the pure and extreme product of
Greek and Latin tradition.
IN THE GARDENS
From The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard. Copyright, 1890, by Harper &
Brothers
APRIL 16.
T. DROCTOVEUS and the early abbots of Saint-Germain-des-Prés
S have been occupying me for the past forty years; but I do
not know whether I shall be able to write their history be-
fore I go to join them. It is already quite a long time since I
became an old man. One day last year, on the Pont des Arts,
one of my fellow-members at the Institute was lamenting before
me over the ennui of becoming old.
"Still," Sainte-Beuve replied to him, "it is the only way that
has yet been found of living a long time. "


## p. 5911 (#499) ###########################################

ANATOLE FRANCE
5911
I have tried this way, and I know just what it is worth.
The trouble of it is not that one lasts too long, but that one
sees all about him pass away-mother, wife, friends, children.
Nature makes and unmakes all these divine treasures with gloomy
indifference, and at last we find that we have not loved,-- we have
only been embracing shadows. But how sweet some shadows
are! If ever creature glided like a shadow through the life of a
man, it was certainly that young girl whom I fell in love with
when incredible though it now seems-I was myself a youth.
-
A Christian sarcophagus from the catacombs of Rome bears a
formula of imprecation, the whole terrible meaning of which I
only learned with time. It says:-"Whatsoever impious man vio-
lates this sepulchre, may he die the last of his own people! » In
my capacity of archæologist I have opened tombs and disturbed
ashes, in order to collect the shreds of apparel, metal ornaments,
or gems that were mingled with those ashes. But I did it only
through that scientific curiosity which does not exclude the feel-
ings of reverence and of piety. May that malediction graven by
some one of the first followers of the Apostles upon a martyr's
tomb never fall upon me! I ought not to fear to survive my own
people so long as there are men in the world; for there are
always some whom one can love.
But the power of love itself weakens and gradually becomes
lost with age, like all the other energies of man. Example
proves it; and it is this which terrifies me. Am I sure that I
have not myself already suffered this great loss? I should surely
have felt it, but for the happy meeting which has rejuvenated
me. Poets speak of the Fountain of Youth: it does exist; it
gushes up from the earth at every step we take.
And one
passes by without drinking of it!
The young girl I loved, married of her own choice to a rival,
passed, all gray-haired, into the eternal rest.