No More Learning

In form, of
course, though Sidney had a leaning toward the unities,-it is
purely romantic. Its art is to be found in the most distinctive char-
acteristic of the Elizabethans,- the art of putting together canorous
words and phrases. When Sidney retired to Penshurst in 1580, the
whole world was reading John Lyly's 'Euphues'; in which the love of
elaborate language found vent in complicated systems of alliteration,
antitheses, and similes borrowed from an artificial natural history.
Sidney, though like Shakespeare after him he did not entirely escape
this craze,
was not slow to transmute the rather mechanical sys-
tem of Lyly into something more really musical. His style shows
traces also of the foreign models he set himself; but in the end, like
the matter he borrowed, it resolves itself into something individual,
in its persistent aim in saying what it has to say simply (according
to his lights) and beautifully. More specifically, its verse contains
also many experiments in the classic metres, which Harvey, Spenser,
and other literary men of the day hoped to introduce into English;
but Sidney, whatever were his failures, never held anything but the
loftiest estimate of the real poet or worker in words. His eloquent
defense of "poesie," written soon after the Arcadia, and before Eng-
land had produced more than a very few of the works for which her
literature is now famous, is a marvel of prophetic sympathy. In
spite of his sometimes academic judgments, the very fact of his crit-
icism shows that he had an interest in the then unfashionable and
sordid theatre; and more than any of the criticising pamphleteers of
his time, he had an ear for the poetry of the common people. "Cer-
tainly," he says, in the famous passage in the 'Defense of Poesie,'
"I must confess mine own barbarousness: I never heard the old song
of Percy and Douglas that I found not my heart moved more than
with a trumpet; and yet it is sung but by some blind crowder, with
no rougher voice than rude style,- which being so evilly appareled
in the dust and cobwebs of that uncivil age, what would it work
trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of Pindar? »
It is with this notion of Sidney as a literary man of wide sym-
pathy and high thoughts, if of a somewhat too bookish Muse, that we
can most easily apprehend his last and perhaps greatest work,-the
series of sonnets and poems called 'Astrophel and Stella. ' Literary
gossip and scholarship are still busy with the question whether the
Stella of the Sonnets, Penelope Devereux, was already Lady Rich,
and so a married woman, when Astrophel made his poetical love to
her. The important thing to-day is that there was a Stella at all.
Lady Rich, married against her will to an unworthy spouse, remains
true to him, in the Sonnets at least; and Sidney in the end, having
-


## p. 13388 (#198) ##########################################

13388
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
pledged his hand to Frances Walsingham, the daughter of his friend
Sir Francis Walsingham, transcends his earthly love in a love of
eternal and spiritual things. "The argument cruel Chastity," says
Thomas Nash, his first editor; "the prologue Hope, the epilogue
Despair. " "My theory of the love which it portrays," says Mr.
Symonds, one of his recent biographers, "is that this was latent
up to the time of her betrothal, and that the consciousness of the
irrevocable at that moment made it break into the kind of regretful
passion which is peculiarly suited for poetic treatment. " Certainly it
was not the mere amatorious element in the poems which made the
name of Astrophel dear to men like Jonson, Crashaw, Wither, and
stately Sir Thomas Browne; nor is it the artificial element that need
concern the reader in these days. Without either of these, there is
plenty of lettered charm, searching thought into the relations of the
body and the soul, high and beautiful speculation on the conditions
of earthly life, expressed everywhere in the spirit of one who, as
Wotton says, was "the very essence of congruity. "
Pets Duffinca
THE ARRIVAL IN ARCADIA
M
USIDORUS (who, besides he was merely unacquainted in the
country, had his wits astonished with sorrow) gave easy
consent to that, from which he saw no reason to disagree,
and therefore (defraying the mariners with a ring bestowed upon
them) they took their journey together through Laconia: Claius
and Strephon by course carrying his chest for him, Musidorus.
only bearing in his countenance evident marks of a sorrowful
mind supported with a weak body; which they perceiving, and
knowing that the violence of sorrow is not at the first to be
striven withal (being like a mighty beast, sooner tamed with fol-
lowing than overthrown by withstanding), they gave way unto it
for that day and the next,- never troubling him either with
asking questions or finding fault with his melancholy, but rather
fitting to his dolor, dolorous discourses of their own and other
folks' misfortunes. Which speeches, though they had not a lively
entrance to his senses shut up in sorrow, yet like one half asleep
he took hold of much of the matters spoken unto him, so as a
man may say, e'er sorrow was aware, they made his thoughts
}


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SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
13389
bear away something else beside his own sorrow: which wrought
so in him that at length he grew content to mark their speeches;
then to marvel at such wit in shepherds; after to like their
company; and lastly to vouchsafe conference: so that the third
day after, in the time that the morning did strew roses and vio-
lets in the heavenly floor against the coming of the sun, the
nightingales (striving one with the other which could in most.
dainty variety recount their wrong-caused sorrow) made them put
off their sleep; and rising from under a tree (which that night
had been their pavilion) they went on their journey, which by-
and-by welcomed Musidorus's eyes (wearied with the wasted soil
of Laconia) with delightful prospects. There were hills which
garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys,
whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver
rivers; meadows enameled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers;
thickets, which being lined with most pleasant shade, were wit-
nessed so too by the cheerful disposition of so many well-tuned
birds; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober secur-
ity, while the pretty lambs with bleating oratory craved the
dam's comfort: here a shepherd's boy piping as though he should
never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal
singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to
work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music. As for the
houses of the country (for many houses came under their eye),
they were all scattered, no two being one by the other, as yet
not so far off as that it barred mutual succor: a show as it
were of an accompanable solitariness and of a civil wildness. I
pray you (said Musidorus, then first unsealing his long-silent lips),
what countries be these we pass through which are so diverse in
show, the one wanting no store, the other having no store but
of want?
-
The country (answered Claius) where you were cast ashore,
and now are past through, is Laconia, not so poor by the bar-
renness of the soil (though in itself not passing fertile) as by
a civil war, which being these two years within the bowels of
that estate, between the gentlemen and the peasants (by them
named Helots), hath in this sort as it were disfigured the face of
nature, and made it so unhospitable as now you have found it:
the towns neither of the one side nor the other willingly opening
their gates to strangers, nor strangers willingly entering for fear
of being mistaken.


## p. 13390 (#200) ##########################################

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
13390
But the country where now you set your foot is Arcadia;
and even hard by is the house of Kalander, whither we lead
you. This country being thus decked with peace, and (the child
of peace) good husbandry, these houses you see so scattered are
of men, as we two are, that live upon the commodity of their
sheep; and therefore in the division of the Arcadian estate are
termed shepherds: a happy people, wanting little because they
desire not much. What cause then, said Musidorus, made you
venture to leave this sweet life, and put yourself in yonder un-
pleasant and dangerous realm? Guarded with poverty (answered
Strephon) and guided with love. But now (said Claius), since it
hath pleased you to ask anything of us, whose baseness is such
as the very knowledge is darkness, give us leave to know some-
thing of you, and of the young man you so much lament; that
at least we may be the better instructed to inform Kalander, and
he the better know how to proportion his entertainment. Musi-
dorus (according to the agreement between Pyrocles and him
to alter their names) answered, that he called himself Palladius,
and his friend Daiphantus: but till I have him again (said he)
I am indeed nothing, and therefore my story is of nothing; his
entertainment (since so good a man he is) cannot be so low as I
account my estate: and in sum, the sum of all his courtesy may
be to help me by some means to seek my friend.
They perceived he was not willing to open himself farther,
and therefore, without farther questioning, brought him to the
house; about which they might see (with fit consideration both
of the air, the prospect, and the nature of the ground) all such
necessary additions to a great house as might well show Kalander
knew that provision is the foundation of hospitality, and thrift
the fuel of magnificence. The house itself was built of fair and
strong stone, not affecting so much any extraordinary kind of
fineness, as an honorable representing of a firm stateliness. The
lights, doors, and stairs rather directed to the use of the guest
than to the eye of the artificer; and yet as the one chiefly heeded,
so the other not neglected: each place handsome without curiosity,
and homely without loathsomeness; not so dainty as not to be
trod on, nor yet slubbered up with good-fellowship: all more
lasting than beautiful, but that the consideration of the exceed-
ing lastingness made the eye believe it was exceeding beautiful.
The servants not so many in number, as cleanly in apparel and
serviceable in behavior; testifying even in their countenances, that


## p. 13391 (#201) ##########################################

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
13391
their master took as well care to be served as of them that did
serve. One of them was forthwith ready to welcome the shep-
herds as men who, though they were poor, their master greatly
favored; and understanding by them that the young man with
them was to be much accounted of,- for that they had seen
tokens of more than common greatness, howsoever now eclipsed
with fortune,— he ran to his master, who came presently forth,
and pleasantly welcoming the shepherds, but especially applying
him to Musidorus, Strephon privately told him all what he knew
of him, and particularly that he found this stranger was loth to
be known.
No, said Kalander (speaking aloud), I am no herald to inquire
of men's pedigrees: it sufficeth me if I know their virtues; which
(if this young man's face be not a false witness) do better
apparel his mind than you have done his body. While he was
thus speaking, there came a boy, in show like a merchant's
'prentice, who, taking Strephon by the sleeve, delivered him a
letter, written jointly both to him and to Claius from Urania;
which they no sooner had read, but that with short leave-taking
of Kalander (who quickly guessed and smiled at the matter), and
once again (though hastily) recommending the young man unto
him, they went away, leaving Musidorus even loth to part with
them, for the good conversation he had had of them, and obliga-
tion he accounted himself tied in unto them: and therefore, they
delivering his chest unto him, he opened it, and would have
presented them with two very rich jewels, but they absolutely
refused them, telling him that they were more than enough
rewarded in the knowing of him; and without hearkening unto
a reply (like men whose hearts disdained all desires but one) got
speedily away, as if the letter had brought wings to make them
fly. But by that sight Kalander soon judged that his guest was
of no mean calling; and therefore the more respectfully entertain-
ing him, Musidorus found his sickness (which the fight, the sea,
and late travel had laid upon him) grow greatly: so that fearing
some sudden accident, he delivered the chest to Kalander, which
was full of most precious stones, gorgeously and cunningly set in
divers manners; desiring him he would keep those trifles, and if
he died, he would bestow so much of it as was needful, to find
out and redeem a young man, naming him Daiphantus, as then
in the hands of Laconian pirates.
But Kalander, seeing him faint more and more, with careful
speed conveyed him to the most commodious lodging in his


## p. 13392 (#202) ##########################################

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
13392
house; where, being possessed with an extreme burning fever,
he continued some while with no great hope of life: but youth
at length got the victory of sickness, so that in six weeks the
excellency of his returned beauty was a creditable ambassador of
his health; to the great joy of Kalander, who, as in this time he
had by certain friends of his, that dwelt near the sea in Messenia,
set forth a ship and a galley to seek and succor Daiphantus, so
at home did he omit nothing which he thought might either
profit or gratify Palladius.
For having found in him (besides his bodily gifts beyond the
degree of admiration) by daily discourses, which he delighted
himself to have with him, a mind of most excellent composition,
a piercing wit quite void of ostentation, high erected thought
seated in a heart of courtesy, an eloquence as sweet in the utter-
ing as slow to come to the uttering, a behavior so noble as
gave a majesty to adversity,—and all in a man whose age could
not be above one-and-twenty years,- the good old man
even enamored of a fatherly love towards him; or rather became
his servant by the bonds such virtue laid upon him, once he
acknowledged himself so to be, by the badge of diligent attend-
was
ance.
But Palladius having gotten his health, and only staying there
to be in place where he might hear answer of the ships set
forth, Kalander one afternoon led him abroad to a well-arrayed
ground he had behind his house, which he thought to show
him before his going, as the place himself more than in any
other delighted in. The backside of the house was neither field,
garden, nor orchard: or rather it was both field, garden, and
orchard; for as soon as the descending of the stairs had deliv-
ered them down, they came into a place cunningly set with
trees, of the most taste-pleasing fruits: but scarcely they had
taken that into their consideration, but that they were suddenly
stept into a delicate green; of each side of the green a thicket,
and behind the thickets again new beds of flowers, which being
under the trees, the trees were to them a pavilion, and they
to the trees a mosaical floor, so that it seemed that Art therein
would needs be delightful, by counterfeiting his enemy Error and
making order in confusion.
In the midst of all the place was a fair pond, whose shaking
crystal was a perfect mirror to all the other beauties, so that it
bare show of two gardens; one in deed, the other in shadows,-
and in one of the thickets was a fine fountain made thus: a


## p. 13393 (#203) ##########################################

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
13393
naked Venus of white marble, wherein the graver had used such
cunning that the natural blue veins of the marble were framed
in fit places, to set forth the beautiful veins of her body. At her
breast she had her babe Eneas, who seemed, having begun to
suck, to leave that to look upon her fair eyes, which smiled at
the babe's folly,-meanwhile the breast running.
Hard by was a house of pleasure, built for a summer-retiring
place; whither, Kalander leading him, he found a square room
full of delightful pictures, made by most excellent workmen of
Greece. There was Diana, when Actæon saw her bathing, in
whose cheeks the painter had set such a color as was mixed
between shame and disdain; and one of her foolish nymphs, who
weeping, and withal lowering, one might see the workman meant
to set forth tears of anger. In another table was Atalanta;
the posture of whose limbs was so lively expressed, that if the
eyes were only judges, as they be the only seers, one would
have sworn the very picture had run. Besides many more, as of
Helena, Omphale, Iole: but in none of them all beauty seemed
to speak so much as in a large table which contained a comely
old man, with a lady of middle age, but of excellent beauty; and
more excellent would have been deemed, but that there stood
between them a young maid, whose wonderfulness took away all
beauty from her, but that which it might seem she gave her
back again by her very shadow. And such difference (being
known that it did indeed counterfeit a person living) was there
between her and all the other, though goddesses, that it seemed
the skill of the painter bestowed nothing on the other of new
beauty, but that the beauty of her bestowed new skill on the
painter. Though he thought inquisitiveness an uncomely guest,
he could not choose but ask who she was, that bearing show of
one being indeed, could with natural gifts go beyond the reach
of invention. Kalander answered that it was made for Philo-
clea, the younger daughter of his prince, who also with his wife.
were contained in that table; the painter meaning to represent
the present condition of the young lady, who stood watched by
an over-curious eye of her parents: and that he would also
have drawn her eldest sister, esteemed her match for beauty, in
her shepherdish attire, but that rude clown her guardian would
not suffer it; neither durst he ask leave of the prince, for fear
of suspicion. Palladius perceived that the matter was wrapped
up in some secrecy, and therefore would for modesty demand.
XXIII-838


## p. 13394 (#204) ##########################################

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
13394
no farther: but yet his countenance could not but with dumb elo-
quence desire it; which Kalander perceiving,- Well (said he),
my dear guest, I know your mind, and I will satisfy it: neither
will I do it like a niggardly answerer, going no farther than the
bounds of the question; but I will discover unto you, as well
that wherein my knowledge is common with others, as that which
by extraordinary means is delivered unto me; knowing so much
in you (though not long acquainted) that I shall find your ears
faithful treasurers. So then sitting down, and sometimes casting
his eye to the picture, he thus spake :-
This country, Arcadia, among all the provinces of Greece,
hath ever been had in singular reputation: partly for the sweet-
ness of the air, and other natural benefits, but principally for
the well-tempered minds of the people, who (finding that the
shining title of glory, so much affected by other nations, doth
indeed help little to the happiness of life) are the only people
which, as by their justice and providence, give neither cause nor
hope to their neighbors to annoy; so are they not stirred with
false praise to trouble others' quiet, thinking it a small reward
for the wasting of their own lives in ravening, that their pos-
terity should long after say they had done so. Even the Muses
seem to approve their good determination, by choosing this
country for their chief repairing-place; and by bestowing their
perfections so largely here, that the very shepherds have their
fancies lifted to so high conceits, as the learned of other nations
are content both to borrow their names and imitate their cun-
ning.
Here dwelleth and reigneth this prince, whose picture you
see, by name Basilius: a prince of sufficient skill to govern so
quiet a country; where the good minds of the former princes
had set down good laws, and the well bringing up of the people
doth serve as a most sure bond to hold them. But to be plain
with you, he excels in nothing so much as the zealous love
of his people, wherein he doth not only pass all his own fore-
goers, but as I think, all the princes living. Whereof the cause
is, that though he exceed not in the virtues which get admira-
tion, as depth of wisdom, height of courage, and largeness of
magnificence; yet he is notable in those which stir affection, as
truth of word, meekness, courtesy, mercifulness, and liberality.
He being already well stricken in years, married a young
princess, Gynecia, daughter of the king of Cyprus, of notable


## p. 13395 (#205) ##########################################

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
13395
beauty, as by her picture you see: a woman of great wit, and in
truth of more princely virtues than her husband; of most un-
spotted chastity: but of so working a mind, and so vehement.
spirits, as a man may say, it was happy she took a good course,
for otherwise it would have been terrible:
Of these two are brought into the world two daughters, so
beyond measure excellent in all the gifts allotted to reasonable
creatures, that we may think they were born to show that nature
is no stepmother to that sex, how much soever some men
(sharp-witted only in evil speaking) have sought to disgrace them.
The elder is named Pamela; by many men not deemed inferior
to her sister: for my part, when I marked them both, methought
there was (if at least such perfection may receive the word of
more) more sweetness in Philoclea, but more majesty in Pamela;
methought love played in Philoclea's eyes, and threatened in
Pamela's; methought Philoclea's beauty only persuaded, but so
persuaded as all hearts must yield; Pamela's beauty used violence,
and such violence as no heart could resist. And it seems that
such proportion is between their minds: Philoclea so bashful, as
though her excellences had stolen into her before she was aware;
so humble, that she will put all pride out of countenance; in sum,
such proceedings as will stir hope, but teach hope good manners;
Pamela of high thoughts, who avoids not pride with not knowing
her excellences, but by making that one of her excellences, to be
void of pride; her mother's wisdom, greatness, nobility, but (if I
can guess aright) knit with a more constant temper. Now then,
our Basilius being so publicly happy as to be a prince, and so
happy in that happiness as to be a beloved prince, and so in his
private estate blessed as to have so excellent a wife and so over-
excellent children, hath of late taken a course which yet makes
him more spoken of than all these blessings. For, having made
a journey to Delphos and safely returned, within short space he
brake up his court and retired - himself, his wife and children —
into a certain forest hereby, which he called his desert: wherein
(besides an house appointed for stables, and lodgings for certain
persons of mean calling, who do all household services) he hath
builded two fine lodges; in the one of them himself remains with
his young daughter Philoclea (which was the cause they three
were matched together in this picture), without having any other
creature living in that lodge with him.


## p. 13396 (#206) ##########################################

13396
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
ASTROPHEL AND STELLA
D
OUBT you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast, surcharged, to music lendeth!
To you, to you, all song of praise is due,
Only in you my song begins and endeth.
Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure!
Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure!
To you, to you, all song of praise is due,
Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.
Who hath the lips where wit in fairness reigneth!
Who womankind at once both decks and staineth!
To you, to you, all song of praise is due,
Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.
Who hath the feet whose step all sweetness planteth!
Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth!
To you, to you, all song of praise is due,
Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.
Who hath the breast whose milk doth patience nourish!
Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish!
To you, to you, all song of praise is due,
Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.
Who hath the hand which, without stroke, subdueth!
Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth!
To you, to you, all song of praise is due,
Only at you all envy hopeless rueth.
Who hath the hair which, loosest, fastest tieth!
Who makes a man live, then glad when he dieth!
To you, to you, all song of praise is due,
Only of you the flatterer never lieth.
Who hath the voice which soul from senses sunders!
Whose force, but yours, the bolts of beauty thunders!
To you, to you, all song of praise is due,
Only with you not miracles are wonders.
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast, o'ercharged, to music lendeth!
To you, to you, all song of praise is due,
Only in you my song begins and endeth.


## p. 13397 (#207) ##########################################

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
13397
SONNETS TO STELLA
HE curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness
Bearing itself in my long-settled eyes,
Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise
With idle pains and missing aim do guess.
Some, that know how my spring I did address,
Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies;
Others, because the prince of service tries,
Think that I think State errors to redress.
But harder judges judge ambition's rage -
Scourge of itself, still climbing slippery place-
Holds my young brain captived in golden cage.
O fools, or over-wise! alas, the race
Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start
But only Stella's eyes and Stella's heart.
WITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face:
What! may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?
COME, sleep! O sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe;
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low!
With shield of proof shield me from out the press
Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw,—
Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease.
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so:
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,
A rosy garland and a weary head;
And if these things, as being thine in right,
Move not thy heavy grace,-thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.


## p. 13398 (#208) ##########################################

13398
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
BECAUSE I breathe not love to every one,
Nor do not use set colors for to wear,
Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair,
Nor give each speech a full point of a groan,
The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan
Of them which in their lips love's standard bear,
"What, he! " say they of me: "now I dare swear
He cannot love; no, no, let him alone! "
And think so still, so Stella know my mind
Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art;
But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find,
That his right badge is but worn in the heart:
Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove;
They love indeed who quake to say they love.
THOU blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare,
Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scattered thought;
Band of all evils; cradle of causeless care;
Thou web of will whose end is never wrought-
Desire, desire! I have too dearly bought
With price of mangled mind thy worthless ware;
Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought,
Who shouldst my mind to higher things prepare.
But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought;
In vain thou mad'st me to vain things aspire;
In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire:
For virtue hath this better lesson taught —
Within myself to seek my only hire,
Desiring naught but how to kill desire.
LEAVE me, O love which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and tumble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be,
Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light,
That doth but shine and give us sight to see.
Oh, take fast hold; let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death;
And think how evil becometh him to slide,
Who seeketh heaven and comes of heavenly breath.
Then farewell, world! thy uttermost I see:
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me!


## p. 13398 (#209) ##########################################



## p. 13398 (#210) ##########################################


a
10101
1900ce
Ko
10
1190
SIENKIEWICZ
9
D
HONO
H2H
Pienenenel


## p. 13398 (#211) ##########################################

1. ¡


## p. 13398 (#212) ##########################################

AGAS


## p. 13399 (#213) ##########################################

13399
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
(1846-)
BY CHARLES HARVEY GENUNG
ITH all the confidence that can ever attach to human judg-
ment upon a living author, Sienkiewicz may be pronounced
the greatest creative genius in the field of fiction at the
end of the nineteenth century. In his own country a clique of Polish
critics applied to him the policy of silence, but they had underesti-
mated the force that they strove to check. With his splendid trilogy
of historical novels, Sienkiewicz sat self-crowned upon the throne of
Polish literature, left vacant by the death of Mickiewicz thirty years
before. It was with translations of these novels that he made his
first appearance before the English-speaking world; and at once was
felt the presence of the supreme master through the veil of an alien
tongue and the mists of a remote time and people. It has been said
that the creation of a new character is as important as the birth of
a new man. If it is the highest achievement of art to create a
new human character and endow it with inexhaustible freshness
and vitality, Sienkiewicz securely takes his rank among the greatest
One who has wandered through that wonder-world of Poland
in the seventeenth century can never again be quite the same: he is
one that has had a vision. The characters who ruled in that rug-
ged time enter the mind through these inspired pages, and like the
gods of Greece and the heroes of Homer, take up their abode in the
realms of the fancy forever.
artists.
Henryk Sienkiewicz was born at Wola Okrzejska in Lithuania,
in 1846. The facts obtainable about his life are meagre. He studied
at Warsaw, and from the first gave himself wholly to letters. For a
time he was editor of the Niwa. As a writer of fiction he first
came before the public in 1872, with a humorous tale, 'No Man is a
Prophet in his Own Country. ' In 1876 he came to America; and in
southern California, in the midst of that circle of which Madame
Modjeska was the centre and the inspiration, he met many of the
characters and had many of the experiences that have received
artistic immortality in his works. It was there that he found the
prototype of the inimitable Zagloba. Under the pen-name of "Lit-
wos," he wrote letters of travel for the Gazeta Polska which attracted


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
general attention. Several stories appeared under the same name,
some of them dealing with characteristically American scenes. In
1880 he published his first large work, 'Niewola Tartarska' (Tartar
Slavery). With this he served his apprenticeship in the historical
novel. Four years later came the first of his great masterpieces,
'Ogniem i Mieczem' (With Fire and Sword), and he entered at once
into his kingdom. In 1886 appeared Potop' (The Deluge), and in
1887 Pan Wolodyjowski' (Pan Michael). To the Poles themselves
these books represent the finest achievement of prose fiction in the
language; and they are unsurpassed by the best historical romances
of the world's literature. As if to show his boundless versatility, the
author next published the profound psychological novel 'Bez Dog-
matu' (Without Dogma). His two latest works are 'Rodzina Polan-
ieckich (Children of the Soil: 1894) and 'Quo Vadis' (1895), both of
which have secured a popular success in English. For a time Sien-
kiewicz edited the Slowoc in Warsaw; but his genius is restless. He
says himself that he is something of a gipsy; travel is a passion: but
Cracow and Warsaw are the cities to which he returns. After his
long sojourn in California he went to Africa; and his wanderings
have led him over all of Europe and far into the Orient. But he
is no idle rover: he plunges into the midst of men and events, and
describes with a realist's precision what he observes with a poet's
discernment. Freedom and independence are everything to him.
Of the short stories of Sienkiewicz, the best are those which
deal with Polish scenes and people. The stories of American life,
as 'Lillian Morris' and 'The Comedy of Errors,' lack the intimate
touch. The Polish tales are firmly drawn and faithful pictures,
revealing the closest knowledge of the life described and of the
modes of thought that condition it. They cover a varied field.
Light-hearted humor and deep feeling distinguish the story of artist
life entitled The Third. ' It is told in the first person by a young
painter, whose impulsive nature twice leads him into error in the
choice of a sweetheart. In all his amusing entanglements a distin-
guished actress is his friend and adviser; they are of the same art-
istic temperament: at last the obvious dawns upon him that his true
love is this "third. " In contrast to the gayety of this tale stands
the sad Na Marne,' a story of student life in Kieff. The title
may be paraphrased as 'Frittered Away. ' It is a powerful picture
of the struggles, temptations, and ambitions in the storm and stress
of university life. In it the solution of the highest problems is
attempted, and the author does not hesitate coldly to analyze the
loftiest human emotions; but never cynically, for through it all
breathes an atmosphere of poetry. The famous Bartek 'Zwycięzca '
(The Victor) tells of a poor Polish peasant who was forced to fight


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13401
under the Prussian eagle at Gravelotte and Sedan. After performing
marvels of blind valor, he went home only to become the victim of
the repressive injustice of the Prussian government. Strongest of all
the stories, in the judgment of the Poles themselves, is God's Will,'
from the collection of Szkice Weglem' (Charcoal Sketches). It is a
tale of village life in Poland, and the secrets of local administration
are ruthlessly laid bare,- its corruption, stupidity, and helplessness.
Of all these elements the village clerk avails himself to accomplish
his designs upon a handsome, honest peasant woman, who has a
husband and child. Through sufferings infinitely pitiable,- for in her
simple-mindedness she does not know that her persecutor has no
power to carry out his threats,- she is at last brought to yield that
she may save her husband; and her husband kills her.
The story
moves to its catastrophe with the inevitableness of a force of nature.
The tragedy is enlivened by many scenes of the sprightliest humor;
always, however, directly bearing upon the relentless development of
the plot.
The diverting description of the village court in session
is a triumph of realistic drawing. The political significance of the
story aroused the opposition of the aristocratic and clerical party,
whose policy of non-intervention in local affairs was therein so sav-
agely attacked. But it soon became obvious that Sienkiewicz had
something victorious in his nature; that he was a supreme artist,
taking his materials where he found them and treating them as his
genius chose. The author of 'God's Will' was the author also of
that tender bit of pathos Yanko the Musician,' the story of the poor
boy who struggled to express his inner aspirations but "died with all
his music in him. " Now over his grave the willows whisper. With
the same tender touch was written 'The Old Servant,' which forms
the introduction to 'Hania,' a story of love and renunciation. Every-
where there is a faithful reproduction of the hopes and sorrows and
faults of the Polish people. For his thought the author always finds
the right form, and for his feeling the right figure.
Sienkiewicz had won the supreme piace among the short-story
writers of his native land. The historical trilogy gave him a like
place among the novelists on a larger scale. Then, from those won-
derful pictures of the vigorous and valiant men of action who repre-
sented the old Polish commonwealth, he turned to the delineation of
a modern Pole in Without Dogma. ' The book is the diary of the
hero. It is the record of a silent conflict with his own soul, full of
profound observations, subtle philosophy, lofty wisdom; but the pro-
tagonist is passive, "a genius without a portfolio.
" He reveals every
cranny of his mind's dwelling-place: the lofty galleries whence he
has a wide panorama of humanity and the world; the stately halls
filled with the treasures of science and art; the dungeons also where


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13402
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
the evil impulses fret and sins are bred. But over the whole man-
sion of his soul lies a heavy enervating atmosphere: the galleries
afford a spectacle but stimulate no aspirations; the treasures of
knowledge and beauty feed a selfish pleasure quickly cloyed; even
the evil impulses rarely pass into action. This is the modern miasma
which he calls "Slavic unproductivity. " It is the over-cultivation
which is turning to decay, the refinement of self-analysis that lames
the will. The hero is a Hamlet in the guise of a young Polish noble-
man of the late nineteenth century. His only genuine emotion is his
love for Aniela; but this he doubts and philosophizes into apathy.
She marries another, loving him. Obstacles arouse him, and now he
puts forth an effort to win her. Her simplicity and faithfulness, her
dogma, saves him who is without dogma. The futility of his life is
symbolized in the words "Aniela died this morning. " The man
cannot command our respect any more than Wilhelm Meister can, or
Lermontov's "Hero of our Own Time"; but the interest of the psy-
chological analysis is irresistible. There is in it a hint of Bourget;
but in the quality of his psychology Sienkiewicz surpasses Bourget, as
he surpasses Zola and Flaubert in the quality of his realism. He has
been called a psychic realist, and 'Without Dogma' is the greatest
psychological romance that the subtle mind of Poland has produced.
'Children of the Soil' has in it certain echoes of the greater work:
It is a modern story also, turning upon the marriage of a man to a
woman whom he thinks he loves, and whom after much sin and sor-
row he learns to love at last. Quo Vadis,' the latest work, is a tale
of the times of Nero. Paganism and Christianity are contrasted. The
sympathy of the artist is naturally drawn to the ancient pagan, who
devoted his life to the worship of beauty, and faced death with a
stoic's calmness. The character of Petronius Arbiter is the master-
piece of the book. This conflict between two forms of civilization
has long been a favorite theme with the Polish poets: the dawn of a
new era while the lights of the old still blaze.
With this array of works, Sienkiewicz would take honorable rank
among the best writers of his generation; but his title to a place
among the great creators rests upon none of these. That claim is
based upon the famous historical trilogy, 'With Fire and Sword,'
'The Deluge,' and 'Pan Michael. ' Poland was the bulwark of Christ-
ian civilization on the east. Against the Tartar hordes and Mongolian
bands the gallant commonwealth maintained a stout resistance for
centuries: but her warlike neighbors did not recognize her importance
as the defender of the Christian marches; she was constantly exposed
to encroachments on the west. In the moment of her greatest peril
the Swedes attacked her from that quarter. These wonderful wars
of the seventeenth century are the theme of the trilogy. In the
-


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13403
descriptions of innumerable battles and sieges, Sienkiewicz displays
an astounding fertility of invention and an infinite variety of treat-
ment. These scenes stamp themselves indelibly upon the memory
with all the savage beauty and the thrilling horror of war. Amid the
bewildering rush and whirl of events, and in the breathless excite-
ment of individual destinies, the one animating thought is national
glory; and to this, life and love are freely sacrificed. But splendid as
the martial pageant is, revealing in itself a master hand of incom-
parable skill, the historical element is after all only the background
before which heroes of Homeric mold make proof of their manhood.
It is in the creation of living human beings that Sienkiewicz exhibits
his highest genius. Nothing could surpass in vital force, originality
of conception, and convincing realism of presentation, the character
of Zagloba, bibulous but steadfast, cowardly but courageous, boasting
but competent, lying but honest,- an incomparable character, to be
laughed at, admired, and loved; or the plucky little hoyden and dare-
devil Basia, who marries Pan Michael out of hand. And these are
but two of a dazzling galaxy of creations that hold the imagination
enthralled. From the magic of Sienkiewicz there is no escape; firmly
he grasps his wand, and once within the circle he describes, the
charm can never be eluded. There is here all the tense excitement
of intrigue and danger and hairbreadth escapes that fascinate in
Dumas; there is the same joy in the courage and sagacity of heroes
that stimulate in Dumas; but in Sienkiewicz there is also a deep
psychological interest, the working out of an inner problem, the
struggle of noble minds between selfishness and duty, which raise
these novels out of the class of romantic tales of adventure into
that higher region of poetry where we breathe the air that swept
the plains of Troy. These books have an almost conscious Homeric
touch; the very form of the similes is Homeric. But there is a flavor
of Shakespeare also: if Michael is a modern Hector, Zagloba is a
Polish Falstaff. In every case it is only of the greatest that we are
reminded.
Each of the three novels deals with a different campaign; each
has its own central figure; each sets its own psychological task. The
first deals with the uprising of the Zaporojians: the interest centres
in the noble but perhaps too highly idealized Pan Yan; the struggle
is between his duty to Poland and his love for Helena, whom the
Cossacks have carried off. Obviously the author's interest in his
characters grows as he proceeds, and they become more vivid and
convincing with each chapter. Zagloba, to be sure, is there with all
his qualities from the beginning; but the little knight, Pan Michael,
the incomparable swordsman, takes up more and more of the fore-
ground, while in the second and third of the novels Pan Yan and his


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13404
Helena become mere shadows. < The Deluge' deals with the Swedish
invasion and the dissensions among the Poles themselves; for to this
noble and gifted race Goethe's Xenion applies with sad force:—
"Each, if you take him alone, is fairly shrewd and discerning;
Let them in council meet, blockhead is the result. »
They triumphed in spite of their own traitors, by sheer native force
and exuberance of strength. The hero of this second novel is Kmita,
psychologically the most interesting of them all. In the wild days
of his thoughtless youth he had committed crimes; he was easily
won over to the service of the traitor Radziwill, for he was ill-
informed and inexperienced. At last his better nature awakes and
his eyes are opened: he finds himself disgraced and his career ruined;
he resolves to begin life anew under an assumed name, and win his
way to honor or find absolution in death. The book is largely a
story of this struggle. The crown of the series is Pan Michael. '
The subject is border warfare on the wind-swept steppes, and the
Tartar invasion which ended disastrously for Poland in the fall of
Kamenyets. Like a true artist, Sienkiewicz in the gloom of this sad
catastrophe has made a reconcilement. At the funeral of Michael the
commanding figure of Sobieski kneels beside the catafalque; and it
was Sobieski who a few years later turned back the tide of Turkish
invasion from the gates of Vienna. Pan Michael himself is of course
the hero of this closing volume. The woman he loved has died;
and the little knight, grown melancholy, has entered a monastery.
Zagloba in a delicious scene lures him forth again. At once the
impressionable warrior falls in love; but he is obliged to renounce
his love, yielding to his friend Ketling. It is at this moment that the
wholly delightful little Basia throws her arms around his neck, and
with the utmost emphasis asserts her own willingness to marry him.
"God has wrought a miracle," says Pan Michael solemnly. Through
the terrors of border warfare and the horrors of sieges this fearless
devoted woman accompanies him; she is all his joy, the crown of
his life. But Poland demands another sacrifice, and Michael brings
it without hesitation. He goes to a self-determined death with only
this message to his wife: "Remember, this life is nothing. " The
author's own wife died before the trilogy for which she had been his
inspiration and encouragement was completed; and the sublime scenes
of lovers' parting and heroic self-sacrifice with which the series ends,
are filled with a spirit of profound and chastened sorrow that is partly
autobiographic. The lofty sublimity of this conclusion is wholly
worthy of the noble thought that dominates it all: it is the apothe-
osis of Polish patriotism. In Sienkiewicz, as in all the great Polish
poets of the nineteenth century, love of country, pride in its glorious


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13405
past, and hope unquenched for the future, are the great inspiring
forces. There is a solemn pathos in the words with which the author
lays down his pen: "Here ends this series of books, written in the
course of a number of years and with no little toil, for the strength-
ening of hearts. "
Chest Grung
ZAGLOBA CAPTURES A BANNER
From With Fire and Sword. ' Copyright 1890, by Jeremiah Curtin.
printed by permission of Little, Brown & Co. , publishers
Re-
[At the decisive moment in a battle between the Polish forces under Prince
Yeremi and the peasant mob of the Zaporojians, the hussars of the former
are ordered to advance. Zagloba, reluctant, alarmed, indignant, is carried
forward with them. ]
WHE
WHEN the hussars moved forward, Zagloba, though he had
short breath and did not like a throng, galloped with the
others, because in fact he could not do otherwise without
danger of being trampled to death. He flew on therefore, closing
his eyes; and through his head there flew with lightning speed
the thought, "Stratagem is nothing, stratagem is nothing: the
stupid win, the wise perish! " Then he was seized with spite
against the war, against the Cossacks, the hussars, and every
one else in the world. He began to curse, to pray. The wind
whistled in his ears, the breath was hemmed in his breast. Sud-
denly his horse struck against something; he felt resistance.
Then he opened his eyes, and what did he see? Scythes, sabres,
flails, a crowd of inflamed faces, eyes, mustaches,—and all indefi-
nite, unknown, all trembling, galloping, furious. Then he was
transported with rage against those enemies, because they are not
going to the devil, because they are rushing up to his face and
forcing him to fight. "You wanted it, now you have it," thought
he, and he began to slash blindly on every side. Sometimes
he cut the air, and sometimes he felt that his blade had sunk
into something soft. At the same time he felt that he was still
living, and this gave him extraordinary hope. "Slay! kill! " he


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13406
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
roared like a buffalo. At last those frenzied faces vanished from
his eyes, and in their places he saw a multitude of visages, tops
of caps, and the shouts almost split his ears. "Are they fleeing? "
shot through his head. "Yes! " Then daring sprang up in
him beyond measure. "Scoundrels! " he shouted, "is that the way
you meet a noble? " He sprang among the fleeing enemy, passed
many, and entangled in the crowd, began to labor with greater
presence of mind now.
Meanwhile his comrades pressed the Cossacks to the bank of
the Sula, covered pretty thickly with trees, and drove them along
the shore to the embankment,-taking no prisoners, for there
was no time.
Suddenly Zagloba felt that his horse began to spread out
under him; at the same time something heavy fell on him and
covered his whole head, so that he was completely enveloped in
darkness.
"Oh, save me! " he cried, beating the horse with his heels.
The steed, however, apparently wearied with the weight of the
rider, only groaned and stood in one place.
Zagloba heard the screams and shouts of the horsemen rush-
ing around him; then that whole hurricane swept by, and all was
in apparent quiet.
Again thoughts began to rush through his head with the
swiftness of Tartar arrows: "What is this? What has happened?
Jesus and Mary, I am in captivity! "
On his forehead drops of cold sweat came out. Evidently his
head was bound just as he had once bound Bogun. That weight
which he feels on his shoulder is the hand of a Cossack. But
why don't they hang him or kill him? Why is he standing in
one place?
"Let me go, you scoundrel! " cried he at last, with a muffled
voice.
Silence.
"Let me go! I'll spare your life. Let me go,
I
No answer.
say! "
Zagloba struck into the sides of his horse again with his heels,
but again without result; the prodded beast only stretched out
wider and remained in the same place.
Finally rage seized the unfortunate captive; and drawing a
knife from the sheath that hung at his belt, he gave a terrible
stab behind. But the knife only cut the air.


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13407
Then Zagloba pulled with both hands at the covering which
bound his head, and tore it in a moment. What is this?
No Cossack. Deserted all around. Only in the distance was
to be seen in the smoke the red dragoons of Volodyovski flying
past; and farther on, the glittering armor of the hussars pursuing
the remnant of the defeated, who were retreating from the field
toward the water. At Zagloba's feet lay a Cossack regimental
banner. Evidently the fleeing Cossack had dropped it so that
the staff hit Zagloba's shoulder, and the cloth covered his head.
Seeing all this, and understanding it perfectly, that hero re-
gained his presence of mind completely.
"Oh, ho! " said he, "I have captured a banner. How is this?
Didn't I capture it? If justice is not defeated in this battle,
then I am sure of a reward. Oh, you scoundrels! it is your luck
that my horse gave out! I did not know myself when I thought
I was greater in strategy than in bravery. I can be of some
higher use in the army than eating cakes. Oh, God save us!
some other crowd is rushing on. Don't come here, dog-brothers;
don't come this way! May the wolves eat this horse! Kill!
slay! "
Indeed a new band of Cossacks were rushing toward Zagloba,
raising unearthly voices, closely pursued by the armored men of
Polyanovski. And perhaps Zagloba would have found his death
under the hoofs of their horses, had it not been that the hussars
of Skshetuski, having finished those whom they had been pur-
suing, turned to take between two fires those onrushing parties.
Seeing this, the Zaporojians ran toward the water, only to find
death in the swamps and deep places after escaping the sword.
Those who fell on their knees begging for quarter died under
the steel. The defeat was terrible and complete, but most ter-
rible on the embankment. All who passed that, were swept away
in the half-circle left by the forces of the prince. Those who did
not pass, fell under the continual fire of Vurtsel's cannon and the
guns of the German infantry. They could neither go forward
nor backward; for Krívonos urged on still new regiments, which,
pushing forward, closed the only road to escape. It seemed as
though Krívonos had sworn to destroy his own men; who stifled,
trampled, and fought one another, fell, sprang into the water on
both sides, and were drowned. On one side were black masses
of fugitives, and on the other masses advancing; in the middle,
piles and mountains and rows of dead bodies; groans, screams,
men deprived of speech; the madness of terror, disorder, chaos.


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
The whole pond was full of men and horses; the water over-
flowed the banks.
At times the artillery was silent. Then the embankment,
like the mouth of a cannon, threw forth crowds of Zaporojians
and the mob, who rushed over the half-circle and went under the
swords of the cavalry waiting for them. Then Vurtsel began to
play again with his rain of iron and lead; the Cossack reinforce-
ment barred the embankment. Whole hours were spent in these
bloody struggles.
Krivonos, furious, foaming at the mouth, did not give up the
battle yet, and hurried thousands of men to the jaws of death.
Yeremi, on the other side, in silver armor, sat on his horse,
on a lofty mound called at that time the Kruja Mogila, and
looked on. His face was calm; his eye took in the whole em-
bankment, pond, banks of the Sluch, and extended to the place
in which the enormous tabor of Krívonos stood wrapped in the
bluish haze of the distance. The eyes of the prince never left
that collection of wagons. At last he turned to the massive voe.
voda of Kieff, and said:-
"We shall not capture the tabor to-day. "
"How? You wished to — "
Time is flying quickly. It is too late. See! it is almost
evening. "
In fact, from the time the skirmishers went out, the battle,
kept up by the stubbornness of Krívonos, had lasted already so
long that the sun had but an hour left of its whole daily half-
circle, and inclined to its setting. The light, lofty, small clouds,
announcing fair weather and scattered over the sky like white-
fleeced lambs, began to grow red and disappear in groups from
the field of heaven. The flow of Cossacks to the embankment
stopped gradually, and those regiments that had already come.
upon it retreated in dismay and disorder.
The battle was ended; and ended because the enraged crowd
fell upon Krivonos at last, shouting with despair and madness:
"Traitor! you are destroying us. You bloody dog! We will
bind you ourselves, and give you up to Yeremi, and thus secure
our lives. Death to you, not to us! "
"To-morrow I will give you the prince and all his army, or
perish myself," answered Krivonos.
But the hoped-for to-morrow had yet to come, and the pres-
ent to-day was a day of defeat and disorder. Several thousand
of the best warriors of the lower country, not counting the mob,


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13409
lay on the field of battle, or were drowned in the pond and
river. Nearly two thousand were taken prisoners; fourteen colo-
nels were killed, not counting sotniks, essauls, and other elders.
Pulyan, next in command to Krívonos, had fallen into the hands
of the enemy alive, but with broken ribs.
"To-morrow we will cut them all up," said Krívonos. "I
will neither eat nor drink till it is done. "
In the opposite camp the captured banners were thrown down
at the feet of the terrible prince. Each of the captors brought
his own, so that they formed a considerable crowd,- altogether
forty. When Zagloba passed by, he threw his down with such
force that the staff split. Seeing this, the prince detained him,
and asked: -
―――
"And you captured that banner with your own hands? "
"At your service, your Highness. "
"I see that you are not only a Ulysses, but an Achilles. "
"I am
a simple soldier, but I serve under Alexander of
Macedon. "
"Since you receive no wages, the treasurer will pay you, in
addition to what you have had, two hundred ducats for this hon-
orable exploit. "
Zagloba seized the prince by the knees, and said, "Your favor
is greater than my bravery, which would gladly hide itself be-
hind its own modesty. "
A scarcely visible smile wandered over the dark face of
Skshetuski; but the knight was silent, and even later on he
never said anything to the prince, or any one else, of the fears
of Zagloba before the battle: but Zagloba himself walked away
with such threatening mien that, seeing him, the soldiers of the
other regiments pointed at him, saying:-
"He is the man who did most to-day. "
-
Night came. On both sides of the river and the pond, thou
sands of fires were burning, and smoke rose to the sky in col-
umns.