"
-
Fabrice made haste to remove the telltale writing which might
have compromised Clélia, and to tear out a number of leaves.
-
Fabrice made haste to remove the telltale writing which might
have compromised Clélia, and to tear out a number of leaves.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v04 - Bes to Bro
1872 (#62) ############################################
1872
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
to his favors that I have ventured to hope that he would accord
me this additional grace. "
The Duchess spoke quite slowly, so as to give herself time to
enjoy the expression of the Prince. It was delicious, on account
of his profound astonishment, and that remnant of grand airs
which the pose of his head and arms still betrayed. The Prince
had remained as if struck by a thunderbolt; from time to time,
he exclaimed, in his high-pitched voice, shrill and perturbed, as
though articulating with difficulty: "How is this? how is this? »
After concluding her compliment, the Duchess, as though from
respect, afforded him ample time to reply; then she added:
·-
"I venture to hope that your Most Serene Highness will
deign to pardon the incongruity of my costume:" but as she
spoke, her mocking eyes flashed with so bright a gleam that the
Prince could not meet them. He looked at the ceiling, a sign
with him of the most extreme embarrassment.
"How is this? how is this? " he said to himself again; then
by good luck, he found a phrase: "Madame la Duchesse, pray
be seated," and he himself pushed forward a chair, with fairly
good grace. The Duchess was by no means insensible to this
attention, and she moderated the petulance of her glance.
"How is this? how is this? " still repeated the Prince in-
wardly, shifting so uneasily in his chair that one would have
said that he could not find a secure position.
"I am going to take advantage of the freshness of the night
to travel post," resumed the Duchess, "and as my absence may
be of some duration, I was unwilling to leave the territory of
your Most Serene Highness without expressing my thanks for
all the favors which for five years your Highness has deigned to
show me. " At these words the Prince at last understood; he
turned pale. It was as man of the world that he felt it most
keenly, on finding himself mistaken in his predictions. Then he
assumed a grand air, in every way worthy of the portrait of
Louis XIV. , which was before his eyes. "Admirable," said the
Duchess to herself, "there is a man. "
"And what is the motive of this sudden departure? " asked
the Prince, in a fairly firm tone.
"I have contemplated leaving, for some time," replied the
Duchess, "and a slight insult which has been shown to Mon-
signor del Dongo, who is to be condemned to-morrow to death
or to the galleys makes me hasten my departure. "
## p. 1873 (#63) ############################################
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1873
"And to what city are you going? "
"To Naples, I think. " As she arose, she added, "It only
remains for me to take leave of your Most Serene Highness,
and to thank him very humbly for all his earlier kindnesses. "
She, on her part, spoke with so firm an air that the Prince saw
clearly that in a few seconds all would be finished. He knew
that if a triumphant departure was once effected, all compromise
would be impossible. She was not the woman to retrace her
steps. He hastened after her.
"But you know very well, Madame la Duchesse," he said,
taking her hand, "that I have always regarded you with a
friendship to which it needed only a word from you to give
another name. But a murder has been committed; there is no
way of denying that. I have intrusted the conduct of the case
to my best judges
At these words the Duchess drew herself up to her full
height. All semblance of respect, or even of urbanity, disap-
peared in a flash. The outraged woman was clearly revealed,
the outraged woman addressing herself to the one whom she
knows to be of bad faith. It was with an expression of keenest
anger and even of contempt that she said to the Prince, dwell-
ing upon every word:
"I am leaving forever the States of your Most Serene High-
ness, in order that I shall never again hear mentioned the Fiscal
Rassi, or the other infamous assassins who have condemned my
nephew and so many others to death. If your Most Serene High-
ness does not wish to mingle a tinge of bitterness with the last
moments which I am to pass with a prince who is both polite
and entertaining when he is not misled, I beg him very humbly
not to recall the thought of those infamous judges who sell
themselves for a thousand crowns or a decoration. "
The admirable accent, and above all the tone of sincerity,
with which these words were uttered, made the Prince tremble;
for an instant he feared to see his dignity compromised by a
still more direct accusation. On the whole, however, his sensa-
tions quickly culminated in one of pleasure. He admired the
Duchess, and at this moment her entire person attained a sub-
lime beauty.
"Heavens! how beautiful she is," the Prince said to himself:
(( one may well overlook something in so unique a woman, one
whose like perhaps is not to be found in all Italy. Well,
-
IV-118
## p. 1874 (#64) ############################################
1874
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
with a little diplomacy it might not be altogether impossible
to make her mine. -There is a wide difference between such
a being and that doll of a Marquise Balbi; besides, the latter
steals at least three hundred thousand francs a year from my
poor subjects. But did I understand her aright? " he thought
all of a sudden: "she said, 'condemned my nephew and so many
others. " His anger came to the surface, and it was with a
haughtiness worthy of supreme rank that the Prince said, "And
what must be done to keep Madame from leaving? »
"Something of which you are not capable,” replied the Duch-
ess, with an accent of the bitterest irony and the most thinly
disguised contempt.
The Prince was beside himself, but thanks to his long practice
of the profession of absolute sovereign, he found the strength to
resist his first impulse. "That woman must be mine," he said
to himself. "I owe myself at least that; then I must let her
perish under my contempt. If she leaves this room, I shall never
see her again. " But, intoxicated as he was at this moment with
wrath and hatred, how was he to find words which would at once
satisfy what was due to himself and induce the Duchess not to
desert his court on the instant? "A gesture," he thought, "is
something which can neither be repeated nor turned into ridi-
cule," and he went and placed himself between the Duchess and
the door of his cabinet. Just then he heard a slight tapping at
this door.
"Who is this jackanapes? " he cried, at the top of his lungs,
"who is this jackanapes who comes here, thrusting his idiotic
presence upon me? " Poor General Fontana showed his face, pale
and in evident discomfiture, and with the air of a man at his
last gasp, indistinctly pronounced these words:-"His Excellency
Count Mosca solicits the honor of being admitted. "
"Let him enter," said the Prince in a loud voice; and as
Mosca made his salutation, greeted him with:
"Well, sir, here is Madame the Duchess Sanseverina, who
declares that she is on the point of leaving Parma to go and
settle at Naples, and has made me saucy speeches into the
bargain. "
―――――――――
"How is this? " said Mosca, turning pale.
"What, then you knew nothing of this project of departure?
"Not the first word. At six o'clock I left Madame joyous
and contented. "
>>
## p. 1875 (#65) ############################################
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1875
This speech produced an incredible effect upon the Prince.
First he glanced at Mosca, whose growing pallor proved that he
spoke the truth and was in no way the accomplice of the
Duchess's sudden freak. "In that case," he said to himself, "I
am losing her forever. Pleasure and vengeance, everything is
escaping me at once. At Naples she will make epigrams with
her nephew Fabrice, about the great wrath of the little Prince
of Parma. He looked at the Duchess; anger and the most vio-
lent contempt were struggling in her heart; her eyes were fixed
at that moment upon Count Mosca, and the fine lines of that
lovely mouth expressed the most bitter disdain. The entire
expression of her face seemed to say, "Vile courtier! " "So,"
thought the Prince, after having examined her, "I have lost
even this means of calling her back to our country. If she
leaves the room at this moment, she is lost to me. And the
Lord only knows what she will say in Naples of my judges,
and with that wit and divine power of persuasion with which
heaven has endowed her, she will make the whole world believe
her. I shall owe her the reputation of being a ridiculous tyrant,
who gets up in the middle of the night to look under his
bed! "
Then, by an adroit movement, and as if striving to work off
his agitation by striding up and down, the Prince placed himself
anew before the door of his cabinet. The count was
on his
right, pale, unnerved, and trembling so that he had to lean for
support upon the back of the chair which the Duchess had occu-
pied at the beginning of the audience, and which the Prince, in
a moment of wrath, had hurled to a distance. The Count was
really in love. "If the Duchess goes away, I shall follow her,"
he told himself; "but will she tolerate my company? that is the
question. "
On the left of the Prince stood the Duchess, her arms crossed
and pressed against her breast, looking at him with superb
intolerance; a complete and profound pallor had succeeded the
glowing colors which just before had animated those exquisite
features.
The Prince, in contrast with both the others, had a high color
and an uneasy air; his left hand played in a nervous fashion
with the cross attached to the grand cordon of his order, which
he wore beneath his coat; with his right hand he caressed his
chin.
## p. 1876 (#66) ############################################
1876
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
"What is to be done? " he said to the Count, not altogether
realizing what he was doing himself, but yielding to his habit of
consulting the latter about everything.
"Indeed, Most Serene Highness, I know nothing about it,"
answered the Count, with the air of a man who is rendering up
his final sigh; he could hardly utter the words of his response.
His tone of voice gave the Prince the first consolation which his
wounded pride had found during the interview, and this slight
satisfaction helped him to a phrase which was comforting to his
self-esteem:
_______
"Well," said he, "I am the most reasonable of all three; I
am quite ready to leave my position in the world entirely out of
consideration. I am going to speak as a friend," and he added
with a charming smile of condescension, a fine imitation of the
happy times of Louis XIV. , "as a friend speaking to friends:
Madame la Duchesse," he continued, "what are we to do to
make you forget your untimely resolution ? »
"Really, I am at a loss to say," replied the Duchess, with a
deep sigh, "really, I am at a loss to say: I have such a horror
of Parma! " There was no attempt at epigram in this speech;
one could see that she spoke in all sincerity.
The Count turned sharply away from her; his courtier's soul
was scandalized. Then he cast a supplicating glance at the
Prince. With much dignity and self-possession the latter allowed
a moment to pass; then, addressing himself to the Count, "I
see," said he, "that your charming friend is altogether beside
herself. It is perfectly simple, she adores her nephew;" and
turning towards the Duchess, he added with the most gallant
glance, and at the same time with the air which one assumes in
borrowing a phrase from a comedy: "What must we do to find
favor in these lovely eyes? »
The Duchess had had time to reflect: She answered in a
firm, slow tone, as if she were dictating her ultimatum:-
"His Highness might write me a gracious letter, such as he
knows so well how to write: he might say to me, that being by
no means convinced of the guilt of Fabrice del Dongo, First
Grand Vicar of the Archbishop, he will refuse to sign the
sentence when they come to present it to him, and that this
unjust procedure shall have no consequence in the future. "
"How is that? Unjust! " cried the Prince, coloring to the
whites of his eyes, and with renewed anger.
## p. 1877 (#67) ############################################
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1877
"That is not all," replied the Duchess with truly Roman
pride, "this very evening- and," she interposed, glancing at the
clock, "it is already a quarter past eleven-this very evening,
his Most Serene Highness will send word to the Marquise Raversi
that he advises her to go into the country to recuperate from
the fatigues which she must have suffered from a certain trial
which she was discussing in her salon early in the evening. "
The Prince strode up and down his cabinet, like a madman.
"Did one ever see such a woman? " he exclaimed. "She is lack-
ing in respect for me. "
The Duchess replied with perfect grace:
:-
"I have never in my life dreamed of lacking respect for his
Most Serene Highness; His Highness has had the extreme con-
descension to say that he was speaking as a friend to friends.
What is more, I have not the smallest desire to remain in
Parma," she added, glancing at the Count with the last degree of
contempt. This glance decided the Prince, who up to that mo-
ment had been quite uncertain, notwithstanding that his words had
seemed to imply a promise; he had a fine contempt for words.
There were still a few more words exchanged; but at last
Count Mosca received the order to write the gracious note soli-
cited by the Duchess. He omitted the phrase "this unjust proced-
ure shall have no consequence in the future. " "It is sufficient,”
said the Count to himself, "if the Prince promises not to sign.
the sentence which is to be presented to him. " The Prince
thanked him by a glance, as he signed.
The Count made a great mistake; the Prince was wearied and
would have signed the whole. He thought that he was getting
out of the scene well, and the whole affair was dominated, in his
eyes, by the thought-"If the Duchess leaves, I shall find my
court a bore inside of a week. " The Count observed that his
master corrected the date, and substituted that of the next day.
He looked at the clock; it indicated almost midnight. The min-
ister saw, in this altered date, nothing more than a pedantic
desire to afford proof of exactitude and good government. As to
the exile of the Marquise Raversi, the Prince did not even frown:
the Prince had a special weakness for exiling people.
"General Fontana! " he cried, half opening the door.
The General appeared, with such an astonished and curious a
face that a glance of amusement passed between the Duchess
and the Count, and this glance established peace.
## p. 1878 (#68) ############################################
1878
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
"General Fontana," said the Prince, "you are to take my
carriage, which is waiting under the colonnade; you will go to
the house of Mme. Raversi, and have yourself announced: if
she is in bed, you will add that you are my representative, and
when admitted to her chamber, you will say precisely these words,
and no others: 'Mme. la Marquise Raversi, his Most Serene
Highness requires that you shall depart before eight o'clock to-
morrow morning, for your chateau of Valleja. His Highness will
notify you when you may return to Parma. › »
The Prince's eyes sought those of the Duchess, but the latter,
omitting the thanks which he had expected, made him an extremely
respectful reverence, and rapidly left the room.
woman! " said the Prince, turning towards Count
"What a
Mosca.
Copyrighted by George H. Richmond and Company.
CLÉLIA AIDS FABRICE TO ESCAPE
From La Chartreuse de Parme
ON
NE day- Fabrice had been a captive nearly three months,
had had absolutely no communication with the outside
world, and yet was not unhappy-Grillo had remained
hanging about the cell until a late hour of the morning. Fa-
brice could think of no way of getting rid of him, and was on
pins and needles; half-past twelve had struck when at last he
was enabled to open the little trap in the hateful shutter.
Clélia was standing at the window of the aviary in an expect-
ant attitude, an expression of profound despair on her contracted
features. As soon as she saw Fabrice she signaled to him that
all was lost; then, hurrying to her piano, and adapting her
words to the accompaniment of a recitative from a favorite
opera, in accents tremulous with her emotion and the fear of
being overheard by the sentry beneath, she sang:—
"Ah, do I see you still alive? Praise God for his infinite
mercy! Barbone, the wretch whose insolence you chastised the
day of your arrival here, disappeared some time ago and for a
few days was not seen about the citadel. He returned day be-
fore yesterday, and since then I have reason to fear he has a
design of poisoning you. He has been seen prowling about the
kitchen of the palace where your meals are prepared.
I can
## p. 1879 (#69) ############################################
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1879
assert nothing positively, but it is my maid's belief that his
skulking there bodes you no good. I was frightened this morn-
ing, not seeing you at the usual time; I thought you must be
dead. Until you hear more from me, do not touch the food
they give you; I will try to manage to convey a little chocolate
to you.
In any case, if you have a cord, or can make one from
your linen, let it down from your window among the orange-
trees this evening at nine o'clock. I will attach a stronger cord
to it, and with its aid you can draw up the bread and chocolate
I will have in readiness. "
Fabrice had carefully preserved the bit of charcoal he had
found in the stove; taking advantage of Clélia's more softened
mood, he formed on the palm of his hand a number of letters in
succession, which taken together made up these words:-
"I love you, and life is dear to me only when I can see you.
Above all else, send me paper and a pencil. ”
As Fabrice had hoped and expected, the extreme terror visible
in the young girl's face operated to prevent her from terminating
the interview on receipt of this audacious message; she only tes-
tified her displeasure by her looks. Fabrice had the prudence to
add: "The wind blows so hard to-day that I couldn't catch
quite all you said; and then, too, the sound of the piano drowns
your voice.
You were saying something about poison, weren't
what was it? "
you
-
-
At these words the young girl's terror returned in all its vio-
lence; she hurriedly set to work to describe with ink a number
of large capital letters on the leaves she tore from one of her
books, and Fabrice was delighted to see her at last adopt the
method of correspondence that he had been vainly advocating for
the last three months. But this system, although an improve-
ment on the signals, was less desirable than a regular exchange
of letters, so Fabrice constantly feigned to be unable to decipher
the words of which she exhibited the component letters.
A summons from her father obliged her to leave the aviary.
She was in great alarm lest he might come to look for her there;
his suspicious nature would have been likely to scent danger in
the proximity of his daughter's window to the prisoner's. It had
occurred to Clélia a short time before, while so anxiously await-
ing Fabrice's appearance, that pebbles might be made factors in
their correspondence, by wrapping the paper on which the mes-
sage was written round them and throwing them up so they
## p. 1880 (#70) ############################################
1880
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
should fall within the open upper portion of the screen. The
device would have worked well unless Fabrice's keeper chanced
to be in the room at the time.
Our prisoner proceeded to tear one of his shirts into narrow
strips, forming a sort of ribbon. Shortly after nine o'clock that
evening he heard a tapping on the boxes of the orange-trees
under his window; he cautiously lowered his ribbon, and on
drawing it up again found attached to its free end a long cord
by means of which he hauled up a supply of chocolate, and, to
his inexpressible satisfaction, a package of note-paper and a
pencil. He dropped the cord again, but to no purpose; perhaps
the sentries on their rounds had approached the orange-trees.
But his delight was sufficient for one evening. He sat down
and wrote a long letter to Clélia; scarcely was it ended when he
fastened it to the cord and let it down. For more than three
hours he waited in vain for some one to come and take it; two
or three times he drew it up and made alterations in it. "If
Clélia does not get my letter to-night," he said to himself,
"while those ideas of poison are troubling her brain, it is more
than likely that to-morrow she will refuse to receive it. "
The fact was that Clélia had been obliged to drive to the city
with her father. Fabrice knew how matters stood when he heard
the General's carriage enter the court about half-past twelve; he
knew it was the General's carriage by the horses' step. What
was his delight when, shortly after hearing the jingle of the
General's spurs as he crossed the esplanade, and the rattle of
muskets as the sentries presented arms, he felt a gentle tug at
the cord, the end of which he had kept wrapped around his
wrist! Something heavy was made fast to the cord; two little
jerks notified him to haul up. He had some difficulty in land-
ing the object over a cornice that projected under his window.
The article that he had secured at expense of so much trouble
proved to be a carafe of water wrapped in a shawl. The poor
young man, who had been living for so long a time in such
complete solitude, covered the shawl with rapturous kisses. But
words are inadequate to express his emotion when, after so many
days of vain waiting, he discovered a scrap of paper pinned to
the shawl.
"Drink no water but this; satisfy your hunger with choco-
late," said this precious missive. "To-morrow I will try to get
some bread to you; I will mark the crust at top and bottom with
## p. 1881 (#71) ############################################
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1881
me?
little crosses made with ink. It is a frightful thing to say, but
you must know it:-I believe others are implicated in Barbone's
design to poison you. Could you not have understood that the
subject you spoke of in your letter in pencil is displeasing to
I should not think of writing to you were it not for the
great peril that is hanging over us. I have seen the Duchess;
she is well, as is the Count, but she is very thin. Write no
more on that subject which you know of: would you wish to
make me angry? »
It cost Clélia an effort to write the last sentence but one of
the above note. It was in everybody's mouth in court circles.
that Mme. Sanseverina was manifesting a great deal of friendly
interest in Count Baldi, that extremely handsome man and
quondam friend of the Marquise Raversi. The one thing cer-
tain was that he and the Marquise had separated, and he was
alleged to have behaved most shamefully toward the lady who
for six years had been to him a mother and given him his stand-
ing in society.
The next morning, long before the sun was up, Grillo entered
Fabrice's cell, laid down what seemed to be a pretty heavy pack-
age, and vanished without saying a word. The package con-
tained a good-sized loaf of bread, plentifully ornamented with
little crosses made with a pen. Fabrice covered them with
kisses. Why? Because he was in love. Beside the loaf lay a
rouleau incased in many thicknesses of paper; it contained six
thousand francs in sequins. Finally, Fabrice discovered a hand-
some brand-new prayer-book: these words, in a writing he was
beginning to be acquainted with, were written on the fly-leaf:-
"Poison! Beware the water, the wine, everything; confine
yourself to chocolate. Give the untasted dinner to the dog; it
will not do to show distrust; the enemy would have recourse to
other methods. For God's sake, be cautious! no rashness!
"
-
Fabrice made haste to remove the telltale writing which might
have compromised Clélia, and to tear out a number of leaves.
from the prayer-book, with which he made several alphabets;
each letter was neatly formed with powdered charcoal moistened
with wine. The alphabets were quite dry when at a quarter to
twelve Clélia appeared at the window of the aviary. "The main
thing now is to persuade her to use them," said Fabrice to him-
self. But as it happened, fortunately, she had much to say to
the young prisoner in regard to the plan to poison him (a dog
## p. 1882 (#72) ############################################
1882
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
belonging to one of the kitchen-maids had died after eating a
dish cooked for Fabrice), so that Clélia not only made no objec-
tion to the use of the alphabets, but had herself prepared one
in the highest style of art with ink. Under this method, which
did not work altogether smoothly at the beginning, the conver-
sation lasted an hour and a half, which was as long as Clélia
dared remain in the aviary. Two or three times, when Fabrice
trespassed on forbidden ground and alluded to matters that were
taboo, she made no answer and walked away to feed her birds.
Fabrice requested that when she sent him his supply of water
at evening she would accompany it with one of her alphabets,
which, being traced in ink, were legible at a greater distance.
He did not fail to write her a good long letter, and was careful
to put in it no soft nonsense—at least, of a nature to offend.
The next day, in their alphabetical conversation, Clélia had
no reproach to make him. She informed him that there was less
to be apprehended from the poisoners. Barbone had been way-
laid and nearly murdered by the lovers of the Governor's scullery-
maids; he would scarcely venture to show his face in the kitchens
again. She owned up to stealing a counter-poison from her
father; she sent it to him with directions how to use it, but the
main thing was to reject at once all food that seemed to have an
unnatural taste.
Clélia had subjected Don Cesare to a rigorous examination,
without succeeding in discovering whence came the six thousand
francs received by Fabrice. In any case, it was a good sign: it
showed that the severity of his confinement was relaxing.
The poison episode had a very favorable effect on our hero's
amatory enterprise: still, he could never extort anything at all
resembling a confession of love; but he had the felicity of living
on terms of intimacy with Clélia. Every morning, and often at
evening also, there was a long conversation with the alphabets;
every evening at nine o'clock Clélia received a lengthy letter, and
sometimes accorded it a few brief words of answer; she sent him
the daily paper and an occasional new book; finally, the rugged
Grillo had been so far tamed as to keep Fabrice supplied with
bread and wine, which were handed him daily by Clélia's maid.
This led honest Grillo to conclude that the Governor was not of
the same mind as those who had engaged Barbone to poison
the young Monsignor; at which he rejoiced exceedingly, as did
his comrades, for there was a saying current in the prison
## p. 1883 (#73) ############################################
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1883
"You have only to look Monsignor del Dongo in the face; he is
certain to give you money. "
Fabrice was very pale; lack of exercise was injuring his
health: but for all that he had never been so happy. The tone of
the conversation between Clélia and him was familiar and often
gay. The only moments of the girl's life not beset with dark
forebodings and remorse were those spent in conversing with him.
She was so thoughtless as to remark one day:-
"I admire your delicacy: because I am the Governor's daugh-
ter you have nothing to say to me of the pleasures of freedom! "
"That's because I am not so absurd as to have aspirations in
that direction," replied Fabrice. "How often could I hope to
see you if I were living in Parma, a free man again? And life
would not be worth living if I could not tell you all my thoughts
-no, not that exactly: you take precious good care I don't tell
you all my thoughts! But in spite of your cruel tyranny, to live
without seeing you daily would be a far worse punishment than
captivity; in all my life I was never so happy! Isn't it strange
to think happiness was awaiting me in a prison ? »
"There is a good deal to be said on that point," rejoined
Clélia, with an air that all at once became very serious, almost
threatening.
"What! " exclaimed Fabrice, in alarm, "am I in danger of
losing the small place I have won in your heart, my sole joy in
this world? "
"Yes," she replied. Although your reputation in society is
that of a gentleman and gallant man, I have reason to believe
you are not acting ingenuously toward me. But I don't wish to
discuss this matter to-day. "
«<
This strange exordium cast an element of embarrassment into
the conversation, and tears were often in the eyes of both.
Copyrighted by George H. Richmond and Company.
## p. 1884 (#74) ############################################
1884
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
(1756-1831)
W
ILLEM BILDERDIJK's personality, even more than his genius,
exerted so powerful an influence over his time that it has
been said that to think of a Dutchman of the late eighteenth
and early nineteenth century was to think of Bilderdijk. He stands
as the representative of the great literary and intellectual awakening
which took place in Holland immediately after that country became
part of the French empire. The history of literature has many exam-
ples of how, under political disturbances, the agitated mind has
sought refuge in literary and scientific pursuits, and it seemed at that
time as if Dutch literature was entering a new Golden Age. The
country had never known better poets; but it was the poetry of the
eighteenth century, to quote Ten Brink, "ceremonious and stagy. "
In 'Herinnering van mijne Kindheit (Reminiscences of My Child-
hood), a book which is not altogether to be relied upon, Bilderdijk
gives a charming picture of his father, a physician in Amsterdam,
but speaks of his mother in less flattering terms. He was born in
Amsterdam in 1756. At an early age he suffered an injury to his
foot, a peasant boy having carelessly stepped on it; attempts were
made to cure him by continued bleedings, and the result was that
he was confined to his bed for twelve years. These years laid the
foundation of a character lacking in power to love and to call forth
love, and developing into an almost fierce hypochondria, full of com-
plaints and fears of death. In these years, however, he acquired the
information and the wonderful power of language which appear in
his sinewy verse.
One of his poems, dated 1770, has been preserved, but is prin-
cipally interesting as a first attempt. Others, written in his twentieth
year, were prize poems, and are sufficiently characterized by their
titles:-Kunst wordt door Arbeid verkregen (Art came through
Toil), and 'Inloed der Dichthunst op het Staets bestuur' (Influence
of Poetry on Statesmanship). When he went to Leyden in 1780
to study law, he was already famous. His examinations passed, he
settled at the Hague to practice, and in 1785 married Katharina
Rebekka Woesthoven. The following year he published his romance,
'Elius,' in seven songs. The romance ultimately became his favorite
form of verse; but this was not the form now called romance. It
was the rhymed narrative of the eighteenth century, written with
## p. 1885 (#75) ############################################
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
1885
endless care and reflection, and in his case with so superior a treat-
ment of language that no Dutch poet since Huygens had approached it.
The year 1795 was the turning-point in Bilderdijk's life. He had
been brought up in unswerving faith in the cause of the house of
Orange, was a fanatic monarchist and Calvinist, "anti-revolutionary,
anti-Barneveldtian, anti-Loevesteinisch, anti-liberal" (thus Da Costa),
a warm supporter of William the Fifth, and at the entrance of the
French in 1795 he refused to give his oath of allegiance to the cause
of the citizens and the sovereignty of the people. He was exiled,
left the Hague, and went to London, and later to Brunswick. This
was not altogether a misfortune for him, nor an unrelieved sorrow.
He had been more successful as poet than as husband or financier,
and by his compulsory banishment escaped his financial difficulties
and what he considered the chains of his married life. In London
Bilderdijk met his countryman the painter Schweikhardt; and with
this meeting begins a period of his life over which his admirers
would fain draw a veil. With Schweikhardt were his two daughters,
of whom the younger, Katherina Wilhelmina, became Bilderdijk's
first pupil, and, excepting his "intellectual son," Isaak da Costa,
probably his only one. Besides her great poetic gifts she possessed
beauty and charm. She fell in love with her teacher and followed
him to Brunswick, where she lived in his house under the name of
Frau van Heusden. In spite of this arrangement, the poet seems to
have considered himself a most faithful husband; and he did his best
to persuade his wife to join him with their children, but naturally
without success. In 1802 the marriage was legally annulled, and
Frau van Heusden took his name. She did her best to atone for the
blot on her repute by a self-sacrificing lovableness, and was in close
sympathy with Bilderdijk on the intellectual side. Like him she was
familiar with all the resources of the art of poetry. Most famous of
her poems are the long one 'Rodrigo de Goth,' and her touching,
graceful 'Gedichten voor Kinderen' (Poems for Children). Bilderdijk's
verses show what she was to him:-
In the shadow of my verdure, firmly on my trunk depending,
Grew the tender branch of cedar, never longing once to leave me;
Faithfully through rain and tempest, modest at my side it rested,
Bearing to my honor solely the first twig it might its own call;
Fair the wreath thy flowers made me for my knotted trunk fast withering,
And my soul with pride was swelling at the crown of thy young blos-
soms;
Straight and strong and firmly rooted, tall and green thy head arises,
Bright the glory of its freshness; never yet by aught bedimmed.
Lo! my crown to thine now bending, only thine the radiant freshness,
And my soul finds rest and comfort in thy sheltering foliage.
## p. 1886 (#76) ############################################
1886
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
Meanwhile he was no better off materially. The Duke of Bruns-
wick, who had known him previously, received the famous Dutch
exile with open arms, and granted him a pension; but it never suf-
ficed. Many efforts were made to have his decree of exile annulled;
but they failed through his own peevish insolence and his boundless
ingratitude. King Louis (Bonaparte) of Holland extended his protec-
tion to the dissatisfied old poet; and all these royal gentlemen were
most generous. When the house of Orange returned to Holland, Will-
iam I. continued the favor already shown him, obtained a high pen-
sion for him, and when it proved insufficient, supplemented it with
gifts In this way Bilderdijk's income in the year 1816 amounted to
twenty thousand gold pieces. That this should be sufficient to keep
the wolf from the door in a city like Amsterdam, Bilderdijk thought
too much to expect, and consequently left in great indignation and
went to Leyden in 1817.
But these personal troubles in no way interfered with his talent.
On the contrary, the history of literature has seldom known so
great an activity and productiveness; all in all, his works amounted
to almost a hundred volumes. What he accomplished during his stay
in Germany was almost incredible. He gave lessons to exiled Dutch
in a great variety of branches, he saw volume upon volume through
print; he wrote his famous 'Het Buitenleven' (Country Life) after
Delille, he translated Fingal after Ossian, he wrote Vaderlandsche
Orangezucht' (Patriotic Love for Orange). After his return to Hol-
land he wrote 'De Ziekte der Geleerden' (The Disease of Genius:
1817), 'Leyden's Kamp' (Leyden's Battle: 1808), and the first five
songs of 'De Ondergang der eerste Wereld' (Destruction of the First
World: 1809), probably his masterpiece; moreover, the dramas Floris
V. , Willem van Holland,' and 'Kounak. ' The volumes published
between 1815 and 1819 bore the double signature Willem and Wil-
helmina Katherina Bilderdijk.
But it was as though time had left him behind. The younger Hol-
land shook its head over the old gentleman of the past century, with
his antagonism for the poetry of the day and his rage against Shake-
speare and the latter's "puerile» (King Lear. ' For to Bilderdijk
even more than to Voltaire, Shakespeare was an abomination. Then
in 1830 he received the severest blow of his life: Katherina Wilhel-
mina died. This happened in Haarlem, whither he had gone in
1827. With this calamity his strength was broken and his life at an
end. He followed her in 1831.
He was in every way a son of the eighteenth century; he began
as a didactic and patriotic poet, and might at first be considered a
follower of Jakob Cats. He became principally a lyric poet, but his
lyric knew no deep sentiment, no suppressed feeling; its greatness
## p. 1887 (#77) ############################################
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
1887
His ode to Napoleon may therefore be
lay in its rhetorical power.
one of the best to characterize his genius. When he returned to his
native country after eleven years' exile, with heart and mind full of
Holland, it was old Holland he sought and did not find.
He did not
understand young Holland. In spite of this, his fame and powerful
personality had an attraction for the young; but it was the attraction
of a past time, the fascination of the glorious ruin. Young Holland
wanted freedom, individual independence, and this Bilderdijk con-
sidered a misfortune. "One should not let children, women, and
nations know that they possess other rights than those naturally theirs.
This matter must be a secret between the prince and his heart and
-to the masses it ought always to be kept as hidden as possi-
ble. " The new age which had made its entry with the cry of Liberty
would not tolerate such sentiments, and he stood alone, a powerful,
demonic, but incomprehensible spirit.
reason,
Aside from his fame as a poet, he deserves to be mentioned as
Jacob Grimm's correspondent, as philologist, philosopher, and theo-
logian.
-
ODE TO BEAUTY
CH
HILD of the Unborn! dost thou bend
From Him we in the day-beams see,
Whose music with the breeze doth blend?
To feel thy presence is to be.
Thou, our soul's brightest effluence - thou
Who in heaven's light to earth dost bow,
A Spirit 'midst unspiritual clods-
Beauty! who bear'st the stamp profound
Of Him with all perfection crowned,
Thine image-thine alone - is God's.
How shall I catch a single ray
Thy glowing hand from nature wakes-
Steal from the ether-waves of day
One of the notes thy world-harp shakes-
Escape that miserable joy,
ww
Which dust and self with darkness cloy,
Fleeting and false — and, like a bird,
Cleave the air-path, and follow thee
Through thine own vast infinity,
Where rolls the Almighty's thunder-word?
Perfect thy brightness in heaven's sphere,
Where thou dost vibrate in the bliss
## p. 1888 (#78) ############################################
1888
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
Of anthems ever echoing there!
That, that is life-not this-not this:
There in the holy, holy row
And not on earth, so deep below-
Thy music unrepressed may speak;
Stay, shrouded, in that holy place:-
Enough that we have seen thy face,
And kissed the smiles upon thy cheek.
-
-
We stretch our eager hands to thee,
And for thine influence pray in vain;
The burden of mortality
Hath bent us 'neath its heavy chain;
And there are fetters forged by art,
And science cold hath chilled the heart,
And wrapped thy god-like crown in night;
On waxen wings they soar on high,
And when most distant deem thee nigh—
They quench thy torch, and dream of light.
Child of the Unborn! joy! for thou
Shinest in every heavenly flame,
Breathest in all the winds that blow,
――――――――
PO
While self-conviction speaks thy name:
Oh, let one glance of thine illume
The longing soul that bids thee come,
And make me feel of heaven, like thee!
Shake from thy torch one blazing drop,
And to my soul all heaven shall ope,
And I dissolve in melody!
Translated in Westminster Review.
FROM THE ODE TO NAPOLEON'
OESY, nay! Too long art silent!
Seize now the lute! Why dost thou tarry?
Let sword the Universe inherit,
Noblest as prize of war be glory.
Let thousand mouths sing hero-actions:
E'en so, the glory is not uttered.
Earth-gods-an endless life, ambrosial,
Find they alone in song enchanting.
Watch thou with care thy heedless fingers
Striking upon the lyre so godlike;
## p. 1889 (#79) ############################################
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
1889
Hold thou in check thy lightning-flashes,
That where they chance to fall are blighting.
He who on eagle's wing soars skyward
Must at the sun's bright barrier tremble.
Frederic, though great in royal throning,
Well may amaze the earth, and heaven,
When clothed by thunder and the levin
Swerves he before the hero's fanfare.
Pause then, Imagination! Portals
Hiding the Future, ope your doorways!
Earth, the blood-drenched, yields palms and olives.
Sword that hath cleft on bone and muscle,
Spear that hath drunk the hero's lifeblood,
Furrow the soil, as spade and ploughshare.
Blasts that alarm from blaring trumpets
Laws of fair Peace anon shall herald:
Heaven's shame, at last, its end attaining.
Earth, see, O see your sceptres bowing.
Gone is the eagle once majestic;
On us a cycle new is dawning;
Look, from the skies it hath descended.
O potent princes, ye the throne-born!
See what Almighty will hath destined.
Quit ye your seats, in low adoring,
Set all the earth, with you, a-kneeling;
Or as the free-born men should perish —
Sink in grave with crown and kingdom.
Glorious in lucent rays, already
Brighter than gold a sceptre shineth;
No warring realm shall dim its lustre,
No earth-storm veil its blaze to dimness.
Can it be true that, centuries ended,
God's endless realm, the Hebrew, quickens
Lifting its horns—though not for always?
Shines in the East the sun, like noonday?
Shall Hagar's wandering sons be heartened
After the Moslem's haughty baiting?
Speed toward us, speed, O days so joyous!
Even if blood your cost be reckoned;
Speed as in Heaven's gracious favor,
Bringing again Heaven's earthly kingdom.
IV-119
## p. 1890 (#80) ############################################
1890
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
Yea, though through waters deep we struggle,
Joining in fight with seas of troubles,
Suffer we, bear we-hope-be silent!
On us shall dawn a coming daybreak-
With it, the world of men be happy!
Translated in the metre of the original, by E. Irenæus Stevenson, for the
(World's Best Literature ›
SLIGHTED LOVE
AN ORIENTAL ROMANCE
rose the star of evening, and the gray dusk was
SPLENDID a-fading.
O'er it with a hand of mildness, now the Night her veil was
drawing:
Abensaïd, valiant soldier, from Medina's ancient gateway,
To the meadows, rich with blossoms, walked in darkest mood of
musing-
Where the Guadalete's wild waves foaming wander through the
flat lands,
Where, within the harbor's safety, loves to wait the weary seaman.
Neither hero's mood nor birth-pride eased his spirit of its suffering
For his youth's betrothed, Zobeïde; she it was who caused him
anguish.
Faithless had she him forsaken, she sometime his best-beloved,
Left him, though already parted by strange fate, from realm and
heirship.
Oh, that destiny he girds not
strength it gave him, hero-
courage,
Added to his lofty spirit, touches of nobler feeling -
'Tis that she, ill-starred one, leaves him! takes the hand SO
wrinkled
Of that old man, Seville's conqueror!
Into the night, along the river, Abensaïd now forth rushes:
Loudly to the rocky limits, Echo bears his lamentations.
"Faithless maid, more faithless art thou than the sullen water!
Harder thou than even the hardened bosom of yon rigid rock-
wall!
Ah, bethinkest thou, Zobeïde, still upon our solemn love-oath?
How thy heart, this hour so faithless, once belonged to me, me
only?
Canst thou yield thy heart, thy beauty, to that old man, dead to
love-thoughts?
## p. 1891 (#81) ############################################
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
1891
Wilt thou try to love the tyrant lacking love despite his treasure?
Dost thou deem the sands of desert higher than are virtue-
honor?
Allah grant, then, that he hate thee! That thou lovest yet
another!
That thou soon thyself surrender to the scorned one's bitter feel-
ing.
Rest may night itself deny thee, and may day to thee be terror!
Be thy face before thy husband as a thing of nameless loathing!
May his eye avoid thee ever, flee the splendor of thy beauty!
May he ne'er, in gladsome gathering, stretch his hand to thee for
partner!
Never gird himself with girdle which for him thy hand em-
broidered!
Let his heart, thy love forsaking, in another love be fettered;
The love-tokens of another may his scutcheon flame in battle,
While behind thy grated windows year by year, away thou
mournest!
To thy rival may he offer prisoners that his hand has taken!
May the trophies of his victory on his knees to her be proffered!
May he hate thee! and thy heart's faith to him be but thing
accursed!
These things, aye and more still! be thy cure for all my sting
and sorrow! "
Silent now goes Abensaïd, unto Xeres, in the midnight;
Dazzling shone the palace, lighted, festal for the loathsome mar-
riage,
Richly-robèd Moors were standing 'neath the shimmer of the
tapers,
On the jubilant procession of the marriage-part proceeded.
In the path stands Abensaïd, frowning, as the bridegroom nears
him;
Strikes the lance into his bosom, with the rage of sharpest ven-
geance.
'Gainst the heaven rings a loud cry, those at hand their swords
are baring-
But he rushes through the weapons, and in safety gains his own
hearth.
Translation through the German, in the metre of the original, by E. Irenaeus
Stevenson.
## p. 1892 (#82) ############################################
1892
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER*
From Country Life'
THE
HERE he sits: his figure and his rigid bearing
Let us know most clearly what is his ideal:-
Confidence in self, in his lofty standing;
Thereto add conceit in his own great value.
Certain, he can read-yes, and write and cipher;
In the almanac no star-group's a stranger.
-
In the church he, faithful, leads the pious chorus;
Drums the catechism into young ones' noddles.
Disputation to him's half the joy of living;
Even though he's beaten, he will not give over.
Watch him, when he talks, in how learned fashion!
Drags on every word, spares no play of muscle.
Ah, what pains he takes to forget no syllable —
Consonants and vowels rightly weighed and measured.
Often is he, too, of this and that a poet!
Every case declines with precisest conscience;
Knows the history of Church and State, together.
Every Churchly light,-of pedant-deeds the record.
All the village world speechless stands before him.
Asking "How can one brain be so ruled by Wisdom?
1872
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
to his favors that I have ventured to hope that he would accord
me this additional grace. "
The Duchess spoke quite slowly, so as to give herself time to
enjoy the expression of the Prince. It was delicious, on account
of his profound astonishment, and that remnant of grand airs
which the pose of his head and arms still betrayed. The Prince
had remained as if struck by a thunderbolt; from time to time,
he exclaimed, in his high-pitched voice, shrill and perturbed, as
though articulating with difficulty: "How is this? how is this? »
After concluding her compliment, the Duchess, as though from
respect, afforded him ample time to reply; then she added:
·-
"I venture to hope that your Most Serene Highness will
deign to pardon the incongruity of my costume:" but as she
spoke, her mocking eyes flashed with so bright a gleam that the
Prince could not meet them. He looked at the ceiling, a sign
with him of the most extreme embarrassment.
"How is this? how is this? " he said to himself again; then
by good luck, he found a phrase: "Madame la Duchesse, pray
be seated," and he himself pushed forward a chair, with fairly
good grace. The Duchess was by no means insensible to this
attention, and she moderated the petulance of her glance.
"How is this? how is this? " still repeated the Prince in-
wardly, shifting so uneasily in his chair that one would have
said that he could not find a secure position.
"I am going to take advantage of the freshness of the night
to travel post," resumed the Duchess, "and as my absence may
be of some duration, I was unwilling to leave the territory of
your Most Serene Highness without expressing my thanks for
all the favors which for five years your Highness has deigned to
show me. " At these words the Prince at last understood; he
turned pale. It was as man of the world that he felt it most
keenly, on finding himself mistaken in his predictions. Then he
assumed a grand air, in every way worthy of the portrait of
Louis XIV. , which was before his eyes. "Admirable," said the
Duchess to herself, "there is a man. "
"And what is the motive of this sudden departure? " asked
the Prince, in a fairly firm tone.
"I have contemplated leaving, for some time," replied the
Duchess, "and a slight insult which has been shown to Mon-
signor del Dongo, who is to be condemned to-morrow to death
or to the galleys makes me hasten my departure. "
## p. 1873 (#63) ############################################
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1873
"And to what city are you going? "
"To Naples, I think. " As she arose, she added, "It only
remains for me to take leave of your Most Serene Highness,
and to thank him very humbly for all his earlier kindnesses. "
She, on her part, spoke with so firm an air that the Prince saw
clearly that in a few seconds all would be finished. He knew
that if a triumphant departure was once effected, all compromise
would be impossible. She was not the woman to retrace her
steps. He hastened after her.
"But you know very well, Madame la Duchesse," he said,
taking her hand, "that I have always regarded you with a
friendship to which it needed only a word from you to give
another name. But a murder has been committed; there is no
way of denying that. I have intrusted the conduct of the case
to my best judges
At these words the Duchess drew herself up to her full
height. All semblance of respect, or even of urbanity, disap-
peared in a flash. The outraged woman was clearly revealed,
the outraged woman addressing herself to the one whom she
knows to be of bad faith. It was with an expression of keenest
anger and even of contempt that she said to the Prince, dwell-
ing upon every word:
"I am leaving forever the States of your Most Serene High-
ness, in order that I shall never again hear mentioned the Fiscal
Rassi, or the other infamous assassins who have condemned my
nephew and so many others to death. If your Most Serene High-
ness does not wish to mingle a tinge of bitterness with the last
moments which I am to pass with a prince who is both polite
and entertaining when he is not misled, I beg him very humbly
not to recall the thought of those infamous judges who sell
themselves for a thousand crowns or a decoration. "
The admirable accent, and above all the tone of sincerity,
with which these words were uttered, made the Prince tremble;
for an instant he feared to see his dignity compromised by a
still more direct accusation. On the whole, however, his sensa-
tions quickly culminated in one of pleasure. He admired the
Duchess, and at this moment her entire person attained a sub-
lime beauty.
"Heavens! how beautiful she is," the Prince said to himself:
(( one may well overlook something in so unique a woman, one
whose like perhaps is not to be found in all Italy. Well,
-
IV-118
## p. 1874 (#64) ############################################
1874
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
with a little diplomacy it might not be altogether impossible
to make her mine. -There is a wide difference between such
a being and that doll of a Marquise Balbi; besides, the latter
steals at least three hundred thousand francs a year from my
poor subjects. But did I understand her aright? " he thought
all of a sudden: "she said, 'condemned my nephew and so many
others. " His anger came to the surface, and it was with a
haughtiness worthy of supreme rank that the Prince said, "And
what must be done to keep Madame from leaving? »
"Something of which you are not capable,” replied the Duch-
ess, with an accent of the bitterest irony and the most thinly
disguised contempt.
The Prince was beside himself, but thanks to his long practice
of the profession of absolute sovereign, he found the strength to
resist his first impulse. "That woman must be mine," he said
to himself. "I owe myself at least that; then I must let her
perish under my contempt. If she leaves this room, I shall never
see her again. " But, intoxicated as he was at this moment with
wrath and hatred, how was he to find words which would at once
satisfy what was due to himself and induce the Duchess not to
desert his court on the instant? "A gesture," he thought, "is
something which can neither be repeated nor turned into ridi-
cule," and he went and placed himself between the Duchess and
the door of his cabinet. Just then he heard a slight tapping at
this door.
"Who is this jackanapes? " he cried, at the top of his lungs,
"who is this jackanapes who comes here, thrusting his idiotic
presence upon me? " Poor General Fontana showed his face, pale
and in evident discomfiture, and with the air of a man at his
last gasp, indistinctly pronounced these words:-"His Excellency
Count Mosca solicits the honor of being admitted. "
"Let him enter," said the Prince in a loud voice; and as
Mosca made his salutation, greeted him with:
"Well, sir, here is Madame the Duchess Sanseverina, who
declares that she is on the point of leaving Parma to go and
settle at Naples, and has made me saucy speeches into the
bargain. "
―――――――――
"How is this? " said Mosca, turning pale.
"What, then you knew nothing of this project of departure?
"Not the first word. At six o'clock I left Madame joyous
and contented. "
>>
## p. 1875 (#65) ############################################
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1875
This speech produced an incredible effect upon the Prince.
First he glanced at Mosca, whose growing pallor proved that he
spoke the truth and was in no way the accomplice of the
Duchess's sudden freak. "In that case," he said to himself, "I
am losing her forever. Pleasure and vengeance, everything is
escaping me at once. At Naples she will make epigrams with
her nephew Fabrice, about the great wrath of the little Prince
of Parma. He looked at the Duchess; anger and the most vio-
lent contempt were struggling in her heart; her eyes were fixed
at that moment upon Count Mosca, and the fine lines of that
lovely mouth expressed the most bitter disdain. The entire
expression of her face seemed to say, "Vile courtier! " "So,"
thought the Prince, after having examined her, "I have lost
even this means of calling her back to our country. If she
leaves the room at this moment, she is lost to me. And the
Lord only knows what she will say in Naples of my judges,
and with that wit and divine power of persuasion with which
heaven has endowed her, she will make the whole world believe
her. I shall owe her the reputation of being a ridiculous tyrant,
who gets up in the middle of the night to look under his
bed! "
Then, by an adroit movement, and as if striving to work off
his agitation by striding up and down, the Prince placed himself
anew before the door of his cabinet. The count was
on his
right, pale, unnerved, and trembling so that he had to lean for
support upon the back of the chair which the Duchess had occu-
pied at the beginning of the audience, and which the Prince, in
a moment of wrath, had hurled to a distance. The Count was
really in love. "If the Duchess goes away, I shall follow her,"
he told himself; "but will she tolerate my company? that is the
question. "
On the left of the Prince stood the Duchess, her arms crossed
and pressed against her breast, looking at him with superb
intolerance; a complete and profound pallor had succeeded the
glowing colors which just before had animated those exquisite
features.
The Prince, in contrast with both the others, had a high color
and an uneasy air; his left hand played in a nervous fashion
with the cross attached to the grand cordon of his order, which
he wore beneath his coat; with his right hand he caressed his
chin.
## p. 1876 (#66) ############################################
1876
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
"What is to be done? " he said to the Count, not altogether
realizing what he was doing himself, but yielding to his habit of
consulting the latter about everything.
"Indeed, Most Serene Highness, I know nothing about it,"
answered the Count, with the air of a man who is rendering up
his final sigh; he could hardly utter the words of his response.
His tone of voice gave the Prince the first consolation which his
wounded pride had found during the interview, and this slight
satisfaction helped him to a phrase which was comforting to his
self-esteem:
_______
"Well," said he, "I am the most reasonable of all three; I
am quite ready to leave my position in the world entirely out of
consideration. I am going to speak as a friend," and he added
with a charming smile of condescension, a fine imitation of the
happy times of Louis XIV. , "as a friend speaking to friends:
Madame la Duchesse," he continued, "what are we to do to
make you forget your untimely resolution ? »
"Really, I am at a loss to say," replied the Duchess, with a
deep sigh, "really, I am at a loss to say: I have such a horror
of Parma! " There was no attempt at epigram in this speech;
one could see that she spoke in all sincerity.
The Count turned sharply away from her; his courtier's soul
was scandalized. Then he cast a supplicating glance at the
Prince. With much dignity and self-possession the latter allowed
a moment to pass; then, addressing himself to the Count, "I
see," said he, "that your charming friend is altogether beside
herself. It is perfectly simple, she adores her nephew;" and
turning towards the Duchess, he added with the most gallant
glance, and at the same time with the air which one assumes in
borrowing a phrase from a comedy: "What must we do to find
favor in these lovely eyes? »
The Duchess had had time to reflect: She answered in a
firm, slow tone, as if she were dictating her ultimatum:-
"His Highness might write me a gracious letter, such as he
knows so well how to write: he might say to me, that being by
no means convinced of the guilt of Fabrice del Dongo, First
Grand Vicar of the Archbishop, he will refuse to sign the
sentence when they come to present it to him, and that this
unjust procedure shall have no consequence in the future. "
"How is that? Unjust! " cried the Prince, coloring to the
whites of his eyes, and with renewed anger.
## p. 1877 (#67) ############################################
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1877
"That is not all," replied the Duchess with truly Roman
pride, "this very evening- and," she interposed, glancing at the
clock, "it is already a quarter past eleven-this very evening,
his Most Serene Highness will send word to the Marquise Raversi
that he advises her to go into the country to recuperate from
the fatigues which she must have suffered from a certain trial
which she was discussing in her salon early in the evening. "
The Prince strode up and down his cabinet, like a madman.
"Did one ever see such a woman? " he exclaimed. "She is lack-
ing in respect for me. "
The Duchess replied with perfect grace:
:-
"I have never in my life dreamed of lacking respect for his
Most Serene Highness; His Highness has had the extreme con-
descension to say that he was speaking as a friend to friends.
What is more, I have not the smallest desire to remain in
Parma," she added, glancing at the Count with the last degree of
contempt. This glance decided the Prince, who up to that mo-
ment had been quite uncertain, notwithstanding that his words had
seemed to imply a promise; he had a fine contempt for words.
There were still a few more words exchanged; but at last
Count Mosca received the order to write the gracious note soli-
cited by the Duchess. He omitted the phrase "this unjust proced-
ure shall have no consequence in the future. " "It is sufficient,”
said the Count to himself, "if the Prince promises not to sign.
the sentence which is to be presented to him. " The Prince
thanked him by a glance, as he signed.
The Count made a great mistake; the Prince was wearied and
would have signed the whole. He thought that he was getting
out of the scene well, and the whole affair was dominated, in his
eyes, by the thought-"If the Duchess leaves, I shall find my
court a bore inside of a week. " The Count observed that his
master corrected the date, and substituted that of the next day.
He looked at the clock; it indicated almost midnight. The min-
ister saw, in this altered date, nothing more than a pedantic
desire to afford proof of exactitude and good government. As to
the exile of the Marquise Raversi, the Prince did not even frown:
the Prince had a special weakness for exiling people.
"General Fontana! " he cried, half opening the door.
The General appeared, with such an astonished and curious a
face that a glance of amusement passed between the Duchess
and the Count, and this glance established peace.
## p. 1878 (#68) ############################################
1878
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
"General Fontana," said the Prince, "you are to take my
carriage, which is waiting under the colonnade; you will go to
the house of Mme. Raversi, and have yourself announced: if
she is in bed, you will add that you are my representative, and
when admitted to her chamber, you will say precisely these words,
and no others: 'Mme. la Marquise Raversi, his Most Serene
Highness requires that you shall depart before eight o'clock to-
morrow morning, for your chateau of Valleja. His Highness will
notify you when you may return to Parma. › »
The Prince's eyes sought those of the Duchess, but the latter,
omitting the thanks which he had expected, made him an extremely
respectful reverence, and rapidly left the room.
woman! " said the Prince, turning towards Count
"What a
Mosca.
Copyrighted by George H. Richmond and Company.
CLÉLIA AIDS FABRICE TO ESCAPE
From La Chartreuse de Parme
ON
NE day- Fabrice had been a captive nearly three months,
had had absolutely no communication with the outside
world, and yet was not unhappy-Grillo had remained
hanging about the cell until a late hour of the morning. Fa-
brice could think of no way of getting rid of him, and was on
pins and needles; half-past twelve had struck when at last he
was enabled to open the little trap in the hateful shutter.
Clélia was standing at the window of the aviary in an expect-
ant attitude, an expression of profound despair on her contracted
features. As soon as she saw Fabrice she signaled to him that
all was lost; then, hurrying to her piano, and adapting her
words to the accompaniment of a recitative from a favorite
opera, in accents tremulous with her emotion and the fear of
being overheard by the sentry beneath, she sang:—
"Ah, do I see you still alive? Praise God for his infinite
mercy! Barbone, the wretch whose insolence you chastised the
day of your arrival here, disappeared some time ago and for a
few days was not seen about the citadel. He returned day be-
fore yesterday, and since then I have reason to fear he has a
design of poisoning you. He has been seen prowling about the
kitchen of the palace where your meals are prepared.
I can
## p. 1879 (#69) ############################################
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1879
assert nothing positively, but it is my maid's belief that his
skulking there bodes you no good. I was frightened this morn-
ing, not seeing you at the usual time; I thought you must be
dead. Until you hear more from me, do not touch the food
they give you; I will try to manage to convey a little chocolate
to you.
In any case, if you have a cord, or can make one from
your linen, let it down from your window among the orange-
trees this evening at nine o'clock. I will attach a stronger cord
to it, and with its aid you can draw up the bread and chocolate
I will have in readiness. "
Fabrice had carefully preserved the bit of charcoal he had
found in the stove; taking advantage of Clélia's more softened
mood, he formed on the palm of his hand a number of letters in
succession, which taken together made up these words:-
"I love you, and life is dear to me only when I can see you.
Above all else, send me paper and a pencil. ”
As Fabrice had hoped and expected, the extreme terror visible
in the young girl's face operated to prevent her from terminating
the interview on receipt of this audacious message; she only tes-
tified her displeasure by her looks. Fabrice had the prudence to
add: "The wind blows so hard to-day that I couldn't catch
quite all you said; and then, too, the sound of the piano drowns
your voice.
You were saying something about poison, weren't
what was it? "
you
-
-
At these words the young girl's terror returned in all its vio-
lence; she hurriedly set to work to describe with ink a number
of large capital letters on the leaves she tore from one of her
books, and Fabrice was delighted to see her at last adopt the
method of correspondence that he had been vainly advocating for
the last three months. But this system, although an improve-
ment on the signals, was less desirable than a regular exchange
of letters, so Fabrice constantly feigned to be unable to decipher
the words of which she exhibited the component letters.
A summons from her father obliged her to leave the aviary.
She was in great alarm lest he might come to look for her there;
his suspicious nature would have been likely to scent danger in
the proximity of his daughter's window to the prisoner's. It had
occurred to Clélia a short time before, while so anxiously await-
ing Fabrice's appearance, that pebbles might be made factors in
their correspondence, by wrapping the paper on which the mes-
sage was written round them and throwing them up so they
## p. 1880 (#70) ############################################
1880
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
should fall within the open upper portion of the screen. The
device would have worked well unless Fabrice's keeper chanced
to be in the room at the time.
Our prisoner proceeded to tear one of his shirts into narrow
strips, forming a sort of ribbon. Shortly after nine o'clock that
evening he heard a tapping on the boxes of the orange-trees
under his window; he cautiously lowered his ribbon, and on
drawing it up again found attached to its free end a long cord
by means of which he hauled up a supply of chocolate, and, to
his inexpressible satisfaction, a package of note-paper and a
pencil. He dropped the cord again, but to no purpose; perhaps
the sentries on their rounds had approached the orange-trees.
But his delight was sufficient for one evening. He sat down
and wrote a long letter to Clélia; scarcely was it ended when he
fastened it to the cord and let it down. For more than three
hours he waited in vain for some one to come and take it; two
or three times he drew it up and made alterations in it. "If
Clélia does not get my letter to-night," he said to himself,
"while those ideas of poison are troubling her brain, it is more
than likely that to-morrow she will refuse to receive it. "
The fact was that Clélia had been obliged to drive to the city
with her father. Fabrice knew how matters stood when he heard
the General's carriage enter the court about half-past twelve; he
knew it was the General's carriage by the horses' step. What
was his delight when, shortly after hearing the jingle of the
General's spurs as he crossed the esplanade, and the rattle of
muskets as the sentries presented arms, he felt a gentle tug at
the cord, the end of which he had kept wrapped around his
wrist! Something heavy was made fast to the cord; two little
jerks notified him to haul up. He had some difficulty in land-
ing the object over a cornice that projected under his window.
The article that he had secured at expense of so much trouble
proved to be a carafe of water wrapped in a shawl. The poor
young man, who had been living for so long a time in such
complete solitude, covered the shawl with rapturous kisses. But
words are inadequate to express his emotion when, after so many
days of vain waiting, he discovered a scrap of paper pinned to
the shawl.
"Drink no water but this; satisfy your hunger with choco-
late," said this precious missive. "To-morrow I will try to get
some bread to you; I will mark the crust at top and bottom with
## p. 1881 (#71) ############################################
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1881
me?
little crosses made with ink. It is a frightful thing to say, but
you must know it:-I believe others are implicated in Barbone's
design to poison you. Could you not have understood that the
subject you spoke of in your letter in pencil is displeasing to
I should not think of writing to you were it not for the
great peril that is hanging over us. I have seen the Duchess;
she is well, as is the Count, but she is very thin. Write no
more on that subject which you know of: would you wish to
make me angry? »
It cost Clélia an effort to write the last sentence but one of
the above note. It was in everybody's mouth in court circles.
that Mme. Sanseverina was manifesting a great deal of friendly
interest in Count Baldi, that extremely handsome man and
quondam friend of the Marquise Raversi. The one thing cer-
tain was that he and the Marquise had separated, and he was
alleged to have behaved most shamefully toward the lady who
for six years had been to him a mother and given him his stand-
ing in society.
The next morning, long before the sun was up, Grillo entered
Fabrice's cell, laid down what seemed to be a pretty heavy pack-
age, and vanished without saying a word. The package con-
tained a good-sized loaf of bread, plentifully ornamented with
little crosses made with a pen. Fabrice covered them with
kisses. Why? Because he was in love. Beside the loaf lay a
rouleau incased in many thicknesses of paper; it contained six
thousand francs in sequins. Finally, Fabrice discovered a hand-
some brand-new prayer-book: these words, in a writing he was
beginning to be acquainted with, were written on the fly-leaf:-
"Poison! Beware the water, the wine, everything; confine
yourself to chocolate. Give the untasted dinner to the dog; it
will not do to show distrust; the enemy would have recourse to
other methods. For God's sake, be cautious! no rashness!
"
-
Fabrice made haste to remove the telltale writing which might
have compromised Clélia, and to tear out a number of leaves.
from the prayer-book, with which he made several alphabets;
each letter was neatly formed with powdered charcoal moistened
with wine. The alphabets were quite dry when at a quarter to
twelve Clélia appeared at the window of the aviary. "The main
thing now is to persuade her to use them," said Fabrice to him-
self. But as it happened, fortunately, she had much to say to
the young prisoner in regard to the plan to poison him (a dog
## p. 1882 (#72) ############################################
1882
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
belonging to one of the kitchen-maids had died after eating a
dish cooked for Fabrice), so that Clélia not only made no objec-
tion to the use of the alphabets, but had herself prepared one
in the highest style of art with ink. Under this method, which
did not work altogether smoothly at the beginning, the conver-
sation lasted an hour and a half, which was as long as Clélia
dared remain in the aviary. Two or three times, when Fabrice
trespassed on forbidden ground and alluded to matters that were
taboo, she made no answer and walked away to feed her birds.
Fabrice requested that when she sent him his supply of water
at evening she would accompany it with one of her alphabets,
which, being traced in ink, were legible at a greater distance.
He did not fail to write her a good long letter, and was careful
to put in it no soft nonsense—at least, of a nature to offend.
The next day, in their alphabetical conversation, Clélia had
no reproach to make him. She informed him that there was less
to be apprehended from the poisoners. Barbone had been way-
laid and nearly murdered by the lovers of the Governor's scullery-
maids; he would scarcely venture to show his face in the kitchens
again. She owned up to stealing a counter-poison from her
father; she sent it to him with directions how to use it, but the
main thing was to reject at once all food that seemed to have an
unnatural taste.
Clélia had subjected Don Cesare to a rigorous examination,
without succeeding in discovering whence came the six thousand
francs received by Fabrice. In any case, it was a good sign: it
showed that the severity of his confinement was relaxing.
The poison episode had a very favorable effect on our hero's
amatory enterprise: still, he could never extort anything at all
resembling a confession of love; but he had the felicity of living
on terms of intimacy with Clélia. Every morning, and often at
evening also, there was a long conversation with the alphabets;
every evening at nine o'clock Clélia received a lengthy letter, and
sometimes accorded it a few brief words of answer; she sent him
the daily paper and an occasional new book; finally, the rugged
Grillo had been so far tamed as to keep Fabrice supplied with
bread and wine, which were handed him daily by Clélia's maid.
This led honest Grillo to conclude that the Governor was not of
the same mind as those who had engaged Barbone to poison
the young Monsignor; at which he rejoiced exceedingly, as did
his comrades, for there was a saying current in the prison
## p. 1883 (#73) ############################################
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1883
"You have only to look Monsignor del Dongo in the face; he is
certain to give you money. "
Fabrice was very pale; lack of exercise was injuring his
health: but for all that he had never been so happy. The tone of
the conversation between Clélia and him was familiar and often
gay. The only moments of the girl's life not beset with dark
forebodings and remorse were those spent in conversing with him.
She was so thoughtless as to remark one day:-
"I admire your delicacy: because I am the Governor's daugh-
ter you have nothing to say to me of the pleasures of freedom! "
"That's because I am not so absurd as to have aspirations in
that direction," replied Fabrice. "How often could I hope to
see you if I were living in Parma, a free man again? And life
would not be worth living if I could not tell you all my thoughts
-no, not that exactly: you take precious good care I don't tell
you all my thoughts! But in spite of your cruel tyranny, to live
without seeing you daily would be a far worse punishment than
captivity; in all my life I was never so happy! Isn't it strange
to think happiness was awaiting me in a prison ? »
"There is a good deal to be said on that point," rejoined
Clélia, with an air that all at once became very serious, almost
threatening.
"What! " exclaimed Fabrice, in alarm, "am I in danger of
losing the small place I have won in your heart, my sole joy in
this world? "
"Yes," she replied. Although your reputation in society is
that of a gentleman and gallant man, I have reason to believe
you are not acting ingenuously toward me. But I don't wish to
discuss this matter to-day. "
«<
This strange exordium cast an element of embarrassment into
the conversation, and tears were often in the eyes of both.
Copyrighted by George H. Richmond and Company.
## p. 1884 (#74) ############################################
1884
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
(1756-1831)
W
ILLEM BILDERDIJK's personality, even more than his genius,
exerted so powerful an influence over his time that it has
been said that to think of a Dutchman of the late eighteenth
and early nineteenth century was to think of Bilderdijk. He stands
as the representative of the great literary and intellectual awakening
which took place in Holland immediately after that country became
part of the French empire. The history of literature has many exam-
ples of how, under political disturbances, the agitated mind has
sought refuge in literary and scientific pursuits, and it seemed at that
time as if Dutch literature was entering a new Golden Age. The
country had never known better poets; but it was the poetry of the
eighteenth century, to quote Ten Brink, "ceremonious and stagy. "
In 'Herinnering van mijne Kindheit (Reminiscences of My Child-
hood), a book which is not altogether to be relied upon, Bilderdijk
gives a charming picture of his father, a physician in Amsterdam,
but speaks of his mother in less flattering terms. He was born in
Amsterdam in 1756. At an early age he suffered an injury to his
foot, a peasant boy having carelessly stepped on it; attempts were
made to cure him by continued bleedings, and the result was that
he was confined to his bed for twelve years. These years laid the
foundation of a character lacking in power to love and to call forth
love, and developing into an almost fierce hypochondria, full of com-
plaints and fears of death. In these years, however, he acquired the
information and the wonderful power of language which appear in
his sinewy verse.
One of his poems, dated 1770, has been preserved, but is prin-
cipally interesting as a first attempt. Others, written in his twentieth
year, were prize poems, and are sufficiently characterized by their
titles:-Kunst wordt door Arbeid verkregen (Art came through
Toil), and 'Inloed der Dichthunst op het Staets bestuur' (Influence
of Poetry on Statesmanship). When he went to Leyden in 1780
to study law, he was already famous. His examinations passed, he
settled at the Hague to practice, and in 1785 married Katharina
Rebekka Woesthoven. The following year he published his romance,
'Elius,' in seven songs. The romance ultimately became his favorite
form of verse; but this was not the form now called romance. It
was the rhymed narrative of the eighteenth century, written with
## p. 1885 (#75) ############################################
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
1885
endless care and reflection, and in his case with so superior a treat-
ment of language that no Dutch poet since Huygens had approached it.
The year 1795 was the turning-point in Bilderdijk's life. He had
been brought up in unswerving faith in the cause of the house of
Orange, was a fanatic monarchist and Calvinist, "anti-revolutionary,
anti-Barneveldtian, anti-Loevesteinisch, anti-liberal" (thus Da Costa),
a warm supporter of William the Fifth, and at the entrance of the
French in 1795 he refused to give his oath of allegiance to the cause
of the citizens and the sovereignty of the people. He was exiled,
left the Hague, and went to London, and later to Brunswick. This
was not altogether a misfortune for him, nor an unrelieved sorrow.
He had been more successful as poet than as husband or financier,
and by his compulsory banishment escaped his financial difficulties
and what he considered the chains of his married life. In London
Bilderdijk met his countryman the painter Schweikhardt; and with
this meeting begins a period of his life over which his admirers
would fain draw a veil. With Schweikhardt were his two daughters,
of whom the younger, Katherina Wilhelmina, became Bilderdijk's
first pupil, and, excepting his "intellectual son," Isaak da Costa,
probably his only one. Besides her great poetic gifts she possessed
beauty and charm. She fell in love with her teacher and followed
him to Brunswick, where she lived in his house under the name of
Frau van Heusden. In spite of this arrangement, the poet seems to
have considered himself a most faithful husband; and he did his best
to persuade his wife to join him with their children, but naturally
without success. In 1802 the marriage was legally annulled, and
Frau van Heusden took his name. She did her best to atone for the
blot on her repute by a self-sacrificing lovableness, and was in close
sympathy with Bilderdijk on the intellectual side. Like him she was
familiar with all the resources of the art of poetry. Most famous of
her poems are the long one 'Rodrigo de Goth,' and her touching,
graceful 'Gedichten voor Kinderen' (Poems for Children). Bilderdijk's
verses show what she was to him:-
In the shadow of my verdure, firmly on my trunk depending,
Grew the tender branch of cedar, never longing once to leave me;
Faithfully through rain and tempest, modest at my side it rested,
Bearing to my honor solely the first twig it might its own call;
Fair the wreath thy flowers made me for my knotted trunk fast withering,
And my soul with pride was swelling at the crown of thy young blos-
soms;
Straight and strong and firmly rooted, tall and green thy head arises,
Bright the glory of its freshness; never yet by aught bedimmed.
Lo! my crown to thine now bending, only thine the radiant freshness,
And my soul finds rest and comfort in thy sheltering foliage.
## p. 1886 (#76) ############################################
1886
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
Meanwhile he was no better off materially. The Duke of Bruns-
wick, who had known him previously, received the famous Dutch
exile with open arms, and granted him a pension; but it never suf-
ficed. Many efforts were made to have his decree of exile annulled;
but they failed through his own peevish insolence and his boundless
ingratitude. King Louis (Bonaparte) of Holland extended his protec-
tion to the dissatisfied old poet; and all these royal gentlemen were
most generous. When the house of Orange returned to Holland, Will-
iam I. continued the favor already shown him, obtained a high pen-
sion for him, and when it proved insufficient, supplemented it with
gifts In this way Bilderdijk's income in the year 1816 amounted to
twenty thousand gold pieces. That this should be sufficient to keep
the wolf from the door in a city like Amsterdam, Bilderdijk thought
too much to expect, and consequently left in great indignation and
went to Leyden in 1817.
But these personal troubles in no way interfered with his talent.
On the contrary, the history of literature has seldom known so
great an activity and productiveness; all in all, his works amounted
to almost a hundred volumes. What he accomplished during his stay
in Germany was almost incredible. He gave lessons to exiled Dutch
in a great variety of branches, he saw volume upon volume through
print; he wrote his famous 'Het Buitenleven' (Country Life) after
Delille, he translated Fingal after Ossian, he wrote Vaderlandsche
Orangezucht' (Patriotic Love for Orange). After his return to Hol-
land he wrote 'De Ziekte der Geleerden' (The Disease of Genius:
1817), 'Leyden's Kamp' (Leyden's Battle: 1808), and the first five
songs of 'De Ondergang der eerste Wereld' (Destruction of the First
World: 1809), probably his masterpiece; moreover, the dramas Floris
V. , Willem van Holland,' and 'Kounak. ' The volumes published
between 1815 and 1819 bore the double signature Willem and Wil-
helmina Katherina Bilderdijk.
But it was as though time had left him behind. The younger Hol-
land shook its head over the old gentleman of the past century, with
his antagonism for the poetry of the day and his rage against Shake-
speare and the latter's "puerile» (King Lear. ' For to Bilderdijk
even more than to Voltaire, Shakespeare was an abomination. Then
in 1830 he received the severest blow of his life: Katherina Wilhel-
mina died. This happened in Haarlem, whither he had gone in
1827. With this calamity his strength was broken and his life at an
end. He followed her in 1831.
He was in every way a son of the eighteenth century; he began
as a didactic and patriotic poet, and might at first be considered a
follower of Jakob Cats. He became principally a lyric poet, but his
lyric knew no deep sentiment, no suppressed feeling; its greatness
## p. 1887 (#77) ############################################
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
1887
His ode to Napoleon may therefore be
lay in its rhetorical power.
one of the best to characterize his genius. When he returned to his
native country after eleven years' exile, with heart and mind full of
Holland, it was old Holland he sought and did not find.
He did not
understand young Holland. In spite of this, his fame and powerful
personality had an attraction for the young; but it was the attraction
of a past time, the fascination of the glorious ruin. Young Holland
wanted freedom, individual independence, and this Bilderdijk con-
sidered a misfortune. "One should not let children, women, and
nations know that they possess other rights than those naturally theirs.
This matter must be a secret between the prince and his heart and
-to the masses it ought always to be kept as hidden as possi-
ble. " The new age which had made its entry with the cry of Liberty
would not tolerate such sentiments, and he stood alone, a powerful,
demonic, but incomprehensible spirit.
reason,
Aside from his fame as a poet, he deserves to be mentioned as
Jacob Grimm's correspondent, as philologist, philosopher, and theo-
logian.
-
ODE TO BEAUTY
CH
HILD of the Unborn! dost thou bend
From Him we in the day-beams see,
Whose music with the breeze doth blend?
To feel thy presence is to be.
Thou, our soul's brightest effluence - thou
Who in heaven's light to earth dost bow,
A Spirit 'midst unspiritual clods-
Beauty! who bear'st the stamp profound
Of Him with all perfection crowned,
Thine image-thine alone - is God's.
How shall I catch a single ray
Thy glowing hand from nature wakes-
Steal from the ether-waves of day
One of the notes thy world-harp shakes-
Escape that miserable joy,
ww
Which dust and self with darkness cloy,
Fleeting and false — and, like a bird,
Cleave the air-path, and follow thee
Through thine own vast infinity,
Where rolls the Almighty's thunder-word?
Perfect thy brightness in heaven's sphere,
Where thou dost vibrate in the bliss
## p. 1888 (#78) ############################################
1888
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
Of anthems ever echoing there!
That, that is life-not this-not this:
There in the holy, holy row
And not on earth, so deep below-
Thy music unrepressed may speak;
Stay, shrouded, in that holy place:-
Enough that we have seen thy face,
And kissed the smiles upon thy cheek.
-
-
We stretch our eager hands to thee,
And for thine influence pray in vain;
The burden of mortality
Hath bent us 'neath its heavy chain;
And there are fetters forged by art,
And science cold hath chilled the heart,
And wrapped thy god-like crown in night;
On waxen wings they soar on high,
And when most distant deem thee nigh—
They quench thy torch, and dream of light.
Child of the Unborn! joy! for thou
Shinest in every heavenly flame,
Breathest in all the winds that blow,
――――――――
PO
While self-conviction speaks thy name:
Oh, let one glance of thine illume
The longing soul that bids thee come,
And make me feel of heaven, like thee!
Shake from thy torch one blazing drop,
And to my soul all heaven shall ope,
And I dissolve in melody!
Translated in Westminster Review.
FROM THE ODE TO NAPOLEON'
OESY, nay! Too long art silent!
Seize now the lute! Why dost thou tarry?
Let sword the Universe inherit,
Noblest as prize of war be glory.
Let thousand mouths sing hero-actions:
E'en so, the glory is not uttered.
Earth-gods-an endless life, ambrosial,
Find they alone in song enchanting.
Watch thou with care thy heedless fingers
Striking upon the lyre so godlike;
## p. 1889 (#79) ############################################
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
1889
Hold thou in check thy lightning-flashes,
That where they chance to fall are blighting.
He who on eagle's wing soars skyward
Must at the sun's bright barrier tremble.
Frederic, though great in royal throning,
Well may amaze the earth, and heaven,
When clothed by thunder and the levin
Swerves he before the hero's fanfare.
Pause then, Imagination! Portals
Hiding the Future, ope your doorways!
Earth, the blood-drenched, yields palms and olives.
Sword that hath cleft on bone and muscle,
Spear that hath drunk the hero's lifeblood,
Furrow the soil, as spade and ploughshare.
Blasts that alarm from blaring trumpets
Laws of fair Peace anon shall herald:
Heaven's shame, at last, its end attaining.
Earth, see, O see your sceptres bowing.
Gone is the eagle once majestic;
On us a cycle new is dawning;
Look, from the skies it hath descended.
O potent princes, ye the throne-born!
See what Almighty will hath destined.
Quit ye your seats, in low adoring,
Set all the earth, with you, a-kneeling;
Or as the free-born men should perish —
Sink in grave with crown and kingdom.
Glorious in lucent rays, already
Brighter than gold a sceptre shineth;
No warring realm shall dim its lustre,
No earth-storm veil its blaze to dimness.
Can it be true that, centuries ended,
God's endless realm, the Hebrew, quickens
Lifting its horns—though not for always?
Shines in the East the sun, like noonday?
Shall Hagar's wandering sons be heartened
After the Moslem's haughty baiting?
Speed toward us, speed, O days so joyous!
Even if blood your cost be reckoned;
Speed as in Heaven's gracious favor,
Bringing again Heaven's earthly kingdom.
IV-119
## p. 1890 (#80) ############################################
1890
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
Yea, though through waters deep we struggle,
Joining in fight with seas of troubles,
Suffer we, bear we-hope-be silent!
On us shall dawn a coming daybreak-
With it, the world of men be happy!
Translated in the metre of the original, by E. Irenæus Stevenson, for the
(World's Best Literature ›
SLIGHTED LOVE
AN ORIENTAL ROMANCE
rose the star of evening, and the gray dusk was
SPLENDID a-fading.
O'er it with a hand of mildness, now the Night her veil was
drawing:
Abensaïd, valiant soldier, from Medina's ancient gateway,
To the meadows, rich with blossoms, walked in darkest mood of
musing-
Where the Guadalete's wild waves foaming wander through the
flat lands,
Where, within the harbor's safety, loves to wait the weary seaman.
Neither hero's mood nor birth-pride eased his spirit of its suffering
For his youth's betrothed, Zobeïde; she it was who caused him
anguish.
Faithless had she him forsaken, she sometime his best-beloved,
Left him, though already parted by strange fate, from realm and
heirship.
Oh, that destiny he girds not
strength it gave him, hero-
courage,
Added to his lofty spirit, touches of nobler feeling -
'Tis that she, ill-starred one, leaves him! takes the hand SO
wrinkled
Of that old man, Seville's conqueror!
Into the night, along the river, Abensaïd now forth rushes:
Loudly to the rocky limits, Echo bears his lamentations.
"Faithless maid, more faithless art thou than the sullen water!
Harder thou than even the hardened bosom of yon rigid rock-
wall!
Ah, bethinkest thou, Zobeïde, still upon our solemn love-oath?
How thy heart, this hour so faithless, once belonged to me, me
only?
Canst thou yield thy heart, thy beauty, to that old man, dead to
love-thoughts?
## p. 1891 (#81) ############################################
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
1891
Wilt thou try to love the tyrant lacking love despite his treasure?
Dost thou deem the sands of desert higher than are virtue-
honor?
Allah grant, then, that he hate thee! That thou lovest yet
another!
That thou soon thyself surrender to the scorned one's bitter feel-
ing.
Rest may night itself deny thee, and may day to thee be terror!
Be thy face before thy husband as a thing of nameless loathing!
May his eye avoid thee ever, flee the splendor of thy beauty!
May he ne'er, in gladsome gathering, stretch his hand to thee for
partner!
Never gird himself with girdle which for him thy hand em-
broidered!
Let his heart, thy love forsaking, in another love be fettered;
The love-tokens of another may his scutcheon flame in battle,
While behind thy grated windows year by year, away thou
mournest!
To thy rival may he offer prisoners that his hand has taken!
May the trophies of his victory on his knees to her be proffered!
May he hate thee! and thy heart's faith to him be but thing
accursed!
These things, aye and more still! be thy cure for all my sting
and sorrow! "
Silent now goes Abensaïd, unto Xeres, in the midnight;
Dazzling shone the palace, lighted, festal for the loathsome mar-
riage,
Richly-robèd Moors were standing 'neath the shimmer of the
tapers,
On the jubilant procession of the marriage-part proceeded.
In the path stands Abensaïd, frowning, as the bridegroom nears
him;
Strikes the lance into his bosom, with the rage of sharpest ven-
geance.
'Gainst the heaven rings a loud cry, those at hand their swords
are baring-
But he rushes through the weapons, and in safety gains his own
hearth.
Translation through the German, in the metre of the original, by E. Irenaeus
Stevenson.
## p. 1892 (#82) ############################################
1892
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER*
From Country Life'
THE
HERE he sits: his figure and his rigid bearing
Let us know most clearly what is his ideal:-
Confidence in self, in his lofty standing;
Thereto add conceit in his own great value.
Certain, he can read-yes, and write and cipher;
In the almanac no star-group's a stranger.
-
In the church he, faithful, leads the pious chorus;
Drums the catechism into young ones' noddles.
Disputation to him's half the joy of living;
Even though he's beaten, he will not give over.
Watch him, when he talks, in how learned fashion!
Drags on every word, spares no play of muscle.
Ah, what pains he takes to forget no syllable —
Consonants and vowels rightly weighed and measured.
Often is he, too, of this and that a poet!
Every case declines with precisest conscience;
Knows the history of Church and State, together.
Every Churchly light,-of pedant-deeds the record.
All the village world speechless stands before him.
Asking "How can one brain be so ruled by Wisdom?
