No More Learning

It was tracing your perdition,
For the blood upon your hand !
PAIN IN AUTUMN
From (The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. "
Scribner's Sons
Copyright 1880, by Charles
, a
A Preys on my heart, and clouds my brain;
And shadows brood above my dreams,
Like spectral mists o'er haunted streams.
There is no fire within the grate,
The room is cold and desolate,
And dampness on the window-panes
Foretells the equinoctial rains.
The stony road runs past the door,
Dry and dusty evermore;
Up and down the people go,
Shadowy figures, sad and slow,
And the strange houses lie below.
Across the road the dark elms wait,
Ranged in a row before the gate,
Giving their voices to the wind,
And their sorrows to my mind.
Behind the house the river flows,
Half unrest and half repose:
Ships lie below with mildewed sails,
Tattered in forgotten gales;
Along each hulk a whitish line,
The dashing of the ancient brine.
Beyond, the spaces of the sea,
Which old Ocean's portals be:
The land runs out its horns of sand,
And the sea comes in to meet the land.


## p. 14037 (#223) ##########################################

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
14037
Sky sinks to sea, sea swells to sky,
Till they meet, and mock the eye,
And where they meet the sand-hills lie;
No cattle in their pastures seen,
For the yellow grass was never green.
With a calm and solemn stare
They look to heaven in blank despair,
And heaven, with pity dumb the while,
Looks down again with a sickly smile.
The sky is gray, half dark, half bright,
Swimming in dim, uncertain light,
Something between the day and night.
And the winds blow, but soft and low,
Unheard, unheeded in their woe;
Like some sick heart, too near o'erthrown
To vent its grief by sigh or moan,
Some heart that breaks, like mine - alone.
And here I dwell, condemned to see,
And be, what all these phantoms be,
Within this realm of penal pain,
Beside the melancholy main:
The waste which lies, as legend saith,
Between the worlds of Life and Death;
A soul from Life to Death betrayed,
A shadow in the world of shade.
BIRDS
From «The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. Copyright 1880, by Charles
Scribner's Sons
B
IRDS are singing round my window,
Tunes the sweetest ever heard;
And I hang my cage there daily,
But I never catch a bird.
So with thoughts my brain is peopled,
And they sing there all day long;
But they will not fold their pinions
In the little cage of Song!


## p. 14038 (#224) ##########################################

14038
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
THE DEAD
From “The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. "
Scribner's Sons
Copyright 1880, by Charles
1
THINK about the dead by day,
I dream of them at night:
They seem to stand beside my chair,
Clad in the clothes they used to wear,
And by my bed in white.
The commonplaces of their lives,
The lightest words they said,
Revive in me, and give me pain,
And make me wish them back again,
Or wish that I were dead.
I would be kinder to them now,
Were they alive once more;
Would kiss their cheeks, and kiss their hair,
And love them, like the angels there,
Upon the silent shore.


## p. 14039 (#225) ##########################################

14039
THEODOR STORM
(1817-1888)
TEODOR STORM is one of the masters of the German novelle.
His range is somewhat limited, for he is intensely national,
almost sectional. Born in Husum, a small town on the sea-
coast of Schleswig-Holstein, he had the Northerner's deep love for
home; and all his work is colored by this love. After passing through
the gymnasium of his native town, he went to Lübeck to prepare for
the university. Here his love of poetry was awakened; and Goethe,
Eichendorf, and Heine exerted an influence
upon him which he never outgrew. He stud-
ied law at Kiel and at Berlin, and settled
down to a quiet practice at Husum. The
revolutionary disturbances of 1848 drove him
from his home, and led him to accept posi-
tions under the Prussian government; first
at Potsdam, and then at Heiligenstadt in
Southern Germany. During these latter
years he acquired that intimate acquaint-
ance with Southern manners and modes of
thinking which he turned to artistic uses in
some of his stories. He returned to Husum
in 1864, where he held the position of land- THEODOR STORM
vogt until 1880. He then retired to his
country home in Holstein; and some of his most delightful work was
produced in his old age.
Storm led the most uneventful of lives: happy in his family and
conscientious in his official duties. In his literary work there is
very curiously an ever-returning undertone of sadness, of lost hopes,
of disappointed lives. He began his literary career as lyric poet, - by
Liederbuch Dreier Freunde (Song-Book of Three Friends), a small
volume published in 1843 in conjunction with Tycho and Theodor
Mommsen. By their truth to nature and their simple pathos these
poems promised to place Storm high among German lyric poets, had
not his growing fame as story-teller led him to cultivate prose at the
expense of poetry. His first great success was 'Immen-see,' published
in 1850. Even to-day it is one of the most popular and best known
of his works. It is a story of reminiscence,- an old man going back



## p. 14040 (#226) ##########################################

14040
THEODOR STORM
to his youth to live over again, in the twilight hour, the days of his
young lost love. This harking back to bygone times runs more or
less through all of Storm's work. It determines the form,-a tale
told in the first person by an elderly speaker; and it colors the spirit,
toning it down to the gray of sorrows outlived but not forgotten.
Renunciation and resignation are the watchwords of most of his
stories.
With his return home in 1864, a new and the most fruitful period
of his work began, marked by a great advance in characterization
and in firmness of touch; he is also more dramatic: 'In St. Jürgen'
is an example. He next tried the artist novel, a favorite type with
German writers. Psyche, published in 1875, has been especially
praised by German critics. Some of his strongest work was done in
the so-called chronicle novels,– romantic tales with a historic back-
ground, delineating North German life in the seventeenth century.
(Aquis Submersis) is one of the best of these, and by some critics
considered the finest he ever wrote. Pole Poppenspäler' (Paul the
Puppet-Player), written in 1877 for the children's magazine Deutsche
Jugend, is one of his most charming stories. He composed it with
the utmost care, on the principle that only the best is good enough
for children, and that one should not “write down ) to them. He
has also cultivated the Märchen: of these, 'Die Regentrude' (Rain-
Gertrude) is a most happy example of the blending of the real with
the fantastic.
After his retirement his country home became a Mecca for liter-
ary pilgrimages. He was a favorite of the German reading public,
because of his poetical, dreamy sentiment, his simplicity, his love
of home, and his finished workmanship. He knows how to create an
atmosphere and to produce a mood; he is one of the great masters
of the short story of character and sentiment.
(
AFTER YEARS
From Immen-see)
0
NCE more years have fled. It is a warm spring afternoon;
and a young man, with sunburnt and strongly marked
features, strolls leisurely along a shady road leading down
the side of a hill. His grave gray eyes seem watching attent-
ively for some alteration in the monotonous features of the
road, which is long in making its appearance. By-and-by a
cart comes slowly up the hill. Halloo, good friend,” cries the


## p. 14041 (#227) ##########################################

THEODOR STORM
14041
>
wanderer to the peasant trudging by its side, does this road
lead to Immen-see ? »
"Straight on,” replies the man, touching his round hat.
“Is it far from here ? »
Your Honor's just there. You'll see the lake before you
could half finish a pipe: the manor-house is close on to it. ”
The peasant went his way, and the other quickened his pace
under the trees. After a quarter of a mile their friendly shade
ceased on the left hand; and the path lay along the ridge of a
descent, wooded with ancient oaks, whose crests hardly reached
the level on which the traveler stood. Beyond these a wide
landscape was glowing in the sunlight. Far beneath him lay the
lake, calm, dark-blue, almost encircled by green waving forests,
which, opening on but one side, disclosed an extensive perspect-
ive, bounded in its turn by a blue mountain range. Exactly
opposite, it seemed as if snow had been strown among the green
foliage of the woods: this effect was caused by the fruit-trees,
now in full blossom; and amidst them, crowning the bank of
the lake, stood the whitewashed manor-house,- a substantial edi.
fice covered with red tiles. A stork flew from the chimney and
circled slowly over the water. “ Immen-see! » cried the traveler.
It almost seemed as if he had reached the end of his journey;
for he stood several minutes perfectly motionless, gazing over the
summits of the trees at his feet towards the opposite shore, where
the reflection of the house lay gently quivering on the water.
Then suddenly he continued his course.
The descent now became steep, so that the trees again shaded
the path; but also shut out all view of the prospect beyond, of
which a glimpse could only now and then be caught through
their branches. Soon the ground again rose, and the woods
were replaced by well-cultivated vineyards; on both sides of the
road stood blossoming fruit-trees, among whose fragrant branches
the bees were humming merrily and rifling the flowers. A
stately man, clad in a brown coat, now advanced to meet our
pedestrian; and when within a few paces he waved his cap in
the air, and in a clear hearty voice joyfully exclaimed, “Welcome,
brother Reinhardt! welcome to Immen-see!
"God bless you, Eric! thanks for your kind welcome! » cried
the other in answer.
Here the old friends met, and a hearty shaking of hands
followed. "But is it really you? ” said Eric after the first
»


## p. 14042 (#228) ##########################################

14042
THEODOR STORM
greeting, as he looked closely into the grave countenance of his
old schoolfellow.
“Certainly it is I. And you are your old self too, Eric;
only you look, if possible, even more cheerful than you always
used to do. ”
At these words a pleasant smile made Eric's simple feat-
ures look even merrier than before. “Yes, brother Reinhardt,”
said he, once more pressing his friend's hand: “since then I
have drawn the great prize. But you know all about that. ” Then,
rubbing his hands and chuckling with inward satisfaction, he
added, “That will be a surprise! She'd never expect him,- not
him, to all eternity! ”
“A surprise? To whom then? ” demanded Reinhardt.
« To Elizabeth. ”
"Elizabeth! You do not mean that you have not told her of
-
my visit ? »
“Not a word, brother Reinhardt! She's not expecting you,
nor does mother either. I invited you quite privately, that the
pleasure might be all the greater. You know how I enjoy car-
rying out my little plans sometimes. ”
Reinhardt grew thoughtful; and as they approached the house,
he with difficulty drew breath. On the left hand the vineyards
were soon succeeded by a large kitchen-garden, stretching down
to the water's edge. Meanwhile the stork had descended to
terra firma, and was marching gravely among the vegetable
beds. “Halloo! ” cried Eric, clapping his hands: “is that long-
legged Egyptian stealing my short pea-sticks again ? » The bird
rose slowly, and perched on the roof of a new building, which,
almost covered by the branches of the peach and apricot trees
trained against it, lay at the end of the kitchen garden. “That
is the manufactory,” said Eric. “I had that added two years
ago. The business premises were built by my father, of blessed
.
memory; the dwelling-house dates from my grandfather's time.
So each generation gets forward a little. ”
As he spoke, they reached an open space, bounded on both
sides by the business premises, and on the background by the
manor-house, whose two wings were joined by a high garden
wall; which did not, however, quite shut out all view of the rows
of dark yew-trees within, and over which drooped here and there
the clusters of the now flowering lilacs. Men with faces heated
alike by toil and exposure came and went, and saluted the two
(


## p. 14043 (#229) ##########################################

THEODOR STORM
11043
« Rein-
»
friends; and for each Eric had some order or inquiry respecting
his daily work. At length they reached the house. A cool and
spacious hall received them, at the end of which they entered a
somewhat darker side passage. Here Eric opened a door, and
they passed into a large garden-room. The thick foliage which
covered the windows had filled both sides of this apartment
with a sort of green twilight; but between these the wide-open
folding-doors at once admitted the full splendor of the spring sun-
shine, and revealed the charming view of a garden, full of circular
flower-beds and dark shady alleys, and divided down the centre
by a broad walk, beyond which appeared the lake and the forest
on its opposite shore. As the two companions entered, a breeze
laden with delicious perfume from the parterres was wafted
towards them.
On the terrace, facing the garden, sat a slight, girlish figure.
She rose, and advanced to meet the new-comers; but half-way
paused and stared at the stranger, motionless as though rooted
to the spot. He smiled, and held his hand towards her.
hardt! » cried she, “Reinhardt! My God! is it you? It is long
since we met. ”
"Long indeed,” said he,- and could utter no more; for as
he heard her voice, a sharp bodily pang shot through his heart;
and when he looked at her, she stood before him, the same
sweet tender form to whom years ago, he had bidden farewell
in his native place.
Eric, his whole face beaming with delight, had remained stand-
ing at the door. “Well, Elizabeth,” said he, “what do you say
to that? You didn't expect him,- not him, to all eternity! ”
Elizabeth's eyes were turned with a look of sisterly affection
towards him. “You are always so kind, Eric! ” said she.
He took her small hand caressingly in his. "And now we have
got him,” said he, we will not let him go again in a hurry.
He has been so long away, we must make him one of ourselves.
He looks quite a stranger. Only see what a fine gentleman he
has become! ”
Elizabeth stole a shy glance at the well-remembered face.
"It is only the time that we have not seen each other,”
said he.
At this moment her mother entered, a little key-basket jing-
ling on her arm. «Mr. Werner! ” exclaimed she, on perceiving
Reinhardt; "a guest as welcome as unexpected! » And now
>
1


## p. 14044 (#230) ##########################################

14044
THEODOR STORM
>
the conversation became general. The ladies settled themselves
to their needlework; and while Reinhardt partook of the refresh-
ments provided for him, Eric lighted his pipe, and sat, puffing
and discoursing, by his side.
Some days after this, when evening was drawing on, the
family were assembled, as usual at this hour, in the garden-
room.
The door stood open, and the sun had already sunk
behind the forests beyond the lake.
At the request of the whole party, Reinhardt consented to
read aloud some ballads which he had that afternoon received
from a friend in the country. He went to his room, and re-
turned, bringing a roll of papers, which seemed to consist of
several clearly written but detached sheets of paper.
They seated themselves round the table, Elizabeth by Rein-
hardt's side. “We will take them as they come,” said he. "I
have not yet had time to look them over. ”
Elizabeth unrolled the manuscripts. "Some are set to music,
said she. “You must sing them, Reinhardt. ”
The first he came to were some Tyrolese herdsman's songs,
of which he now and then hummed the cheerful airs as he read.
A general gayety began to pervade the little circle.
“Who can have composed these charming songs? ” asked
Elizabeth.
“Ah! ” said Eric, "easy enough to guess, I should think!
,
Journeymen tailors and hairdressers, and merry souls of that
sort! )
"They never were composed,” observed Reinhardt: “they
grow,- fall from the air, are borne on every breeze, like the
gossamers, and are sung in thousands of spots at the same
moment. Every circumstance of our own most personal actions
or sufferings may be found described among these ballads. It is
as though all had helped to write them. ”
He took up another sheet. "I stood on the high mountain
“I know that! cried Elizabeth. “You begin, and I will join
in, Reinhardt ! » And now they sang together that wondrous
melody, which one can hardly believe to have been discovered
by any merely human being; Elizabeth with her rather subdued
contralto accompanying his deeper tones.
The mother sat meanwhile stitching industriously at her
needlework; and Eric had folded his hands, and was listening
with the most devout attention. They finished; and Reinhardt
>
((
)


## p. 14045 (#231) ##########################################

THEODOR STORM
14045
silently laid the paper aside. From the shore of the lake the
chiming of the cattle bells was borne through the still evening
air. Involuntarily they listened, and then in a clear boy's voice,
the familiar sounds broke on their ear:
“I stood on the high mountain,
And marked the vale beneath. ”
(
Reinhardt smiled. "Do you not hear ? So it is carried from
mouth to mouth. ”
“It is often sung about here,” said Elizabeth.
“Yes,” remarked Eric: “it is only Caspar the cowboy, driv-
ing home the cattle. ”
They listened till the sounds had died away.
« Those are creation's echoes, and sleep in the forest depths,”
said Reinhardt; «God alone knows who first awakened them. ”
He drew out a fresh leaf.
It had already grown darker, and a crimson glow now bathed
the distant woods which bounded their horizon. Reinhardt un.
rolled the paper.
Elizabeth laid her hand on its other side, and
looked over the lines with him. Reinhardt read:
“Mother would not list to me:
The other's bride I was to be;
All I had learnt to cherish
Was from my heart to perish:
But that could never be.
« Mother well her work may rue:
Whom I fondly loved she knew;
What else had been so blameless
Is sinful now and shameless.
What shall I do?
“For all my joy and pride
I've now this grief to hide:
Ah, were those vows unsaid!
Ah, could I beg my bread
Far o'er yon brown hillside!
”
While reading, Reinhardt had noticed a slight trembling of
the paper; and as he uttered the last words, Elizabeth gently
pushed back her chair and passed silently into the garden. Her
mother's look followed her. Eric would have gone after her;


## p. 14046 (#232) ##########################################

14046
THEODOR STORM
(
but her mother remarked, Elizabeth is engaged in the garden,"
'and nothing more passed.
Gradually the pall of evening descended deeper and deeper on
lake and garden. The bats flew whirring past the open doors,
through which the perfume of the Aowers and shrubs entered
with ever-increasing strength. From the water rose the croaking
of the frogs; and while the moon shed her calm radiance over
the whole scene, a nightingale under the window commenced
her song, soon answered by another from a thicket in the gar-
den. Reinhardt's gaze long rested on the ot where Elizabeth's
graceful form had disappeared among the trees; then he rolled
up his papers, and bowing to his companions, he passed through
the house and down to the quiet water.
The silent forests threw their dark shadows far out over the
lake, while the centre glistened in the pale moonlight. As he
passed, a slight breeze shivered among the trees; but it was not
wind, - it was but the breath of the summer night. Reinhardt
strolled along the shore; and presently, at about a stone's-throw
from the water's edge, he perceived a white water-lily.
All at
once the wish seized him to examine it more closely; and throw-
ing off his clothes, he sprang into the water. The bottom was
level. Sharp stones and plants wounded his feet, and still it
never became deep enough for swimming. Suddenly the ground
ceased from beneath him, the water closed over his head, and
it was some time before he again rose to the surface. Now he
struggled with hand and foot; and swam round in circles until
he could find out where he had entered the lake. Soon he again
saw the lily. She lay lonely among her broad, shining leaves.
He swam slowly out, now and then raising his arms out of the
water, while the falling drops glittered in the moonlight. Still it
seemed as though the distance between himself and the flower
would never lessen: only when he looked towards the shore its
outline grew ever more and more indistinct.
He would not,
however, be baffled, and swimming boldly forward, he came at
length so close to the object of his pursuit that he could clearly
distinguish its silvery leaves; but at the same moment he felt
himself caught in a network of its strong and slippery roots,
which, rising from the earth, had entwined themselves round his
naked limbs. The unknown waters stretched black around him;
close behind he heard the spring of a fish; suddenly so strong
a thrill of horror came over him in the strange element, that


## p. 14047 (#233) ##########################################

THEODOR STORM
14047
« What
violently tearing himself free from the tangled plants, he swam
in breathless haste to the shore. Here he once more looked
back over the lake, where, beautiful and distant as ever, the lily
yet floated upon the surface of the dark deep. He dressed, and
returned slowly to the house; where, on entering, he found Eric
and his mother-in-law busied with the preparations for a short
journey on business matters which was to take place the follow-
ing day.
«Why, where have you been so late at night ? ” cried the
lady.
"I? ” replied he: “I wished to pay a visit to the water-lily;
but I could not manage it. ”
«Who would ever think of such a thing ? ” said Eric.
the deuce had you to do with the lily ? »
“I knew her well in former days,- a long time ago," an-
swered Reinhardt.
The following day Reinhardt and Elizabeth wandered together
on the farther shore of the lake; now through the wood, and
now on the steep and high banks by the water-side. Eric had
begged Elizabeth during his and her mother's absence to show
their visitor all the most beautiful views of the neighborhood;
and especially those from the farther shore, which commanded
the house itself. Thus they rambled from one lovely spot to
another, until at length Elizabeth became tired, and seated her-
self in the shade of some overhanging branches. Reinhardt
stood opposite to her, leaning against the trunk of a tree. All
at once, deep in the forest, he heard the cry of the cuckoo; and
suddenly it struck him that all this had happened just so once
before.
“Shall we gather strawberries? ” asked he, with a bitter
smile.
"It is not the strawberry season,” she replied.
“ It will soon be here, however. ”
Elizabeth shook her head in silence. She rose, and they con-
tinued their stroll. Often and often did his earnest gaze rest on
her as she walked by his side, - she moved so gracefully, almost
as though borne along by her light, floating drapery. Frequently
he involuntarily remained a step behind, that he might the bet-
ter observe her; and thus proceeding, they arrived at a wide,
open heath, from which there was an extensive prospect over the
surrounding country. Reinhardt stooped, and gathered something
((
»


## p. 14048 (#234) ##########################################

14048
THEODOR STORM
>
(
Do you
So they
(
from among the plants which covered the ground. When he again
looked up, his whole face bore an expression of passionate sor-
row. “Do you know this flower ? » demanded he.
She looked at him inquiringly. “It is a heath: I have often
found them in the woods. ”
“I have an old book at home, continued he, "in which for-
merly I used to write all sorts of rhymes and songs, - though it
is very long now since I did so. Between its leaves there lies
another heath-blossom, though it is but a withered one.
remember who gave it me? ”
She bowed her head without reply; but her downcast eyes
rested fixedly on the plant which he held in his hand.
stood a long time; and as she again raised her eyes to his, he
saw that they were full of tears.
« Elizabeth,” said he, «behind yonder blue mountains lies our
youth. Alas! what traces of it remain to us ? »
Neither spoke further. In silence they again descended to
the lake. The air was sultry and heavy; lowering clouds began
to gather in the west. « There will be a storm,” said Elizabeth,
quickening her steps. Reinhardt nodded silently, and both
walked rapidly along the shore till they reached their boat.
As Reinhardt steered across, his look turned constantly on his
companion; but no answering glance met his. With eyes fixed
on the far distance, Elizabeth sat opposite to him, and allowed
her hand to lie on the edge of the little skiff. Gradually his gaze
sunk, and rested on it; and in a moment this slight and wasted
hand betrayed all that her face had striven so well to conceal.
On it the secret grief which will so frequently show itself in
a beautiful woman-hand that lies all night on a sickened heart,
had left its unmistakable traces; but as Elizabeth felt his eyes
resting on her hand, she allowed it to glide slowly overboard
into the water.
On arriving at home, they found a knife-grinder's cart posted
in front of the house. A man with long and shaggy black locks
stood busily turning the wheel and humming a gipsy air, while
a dog, harnessed to his little vehicle, lay growling beside him
on the ground. In the hall stood a ragged girl, with disfigured
though once beautiful features, who stretched her hand towards
Elizabeth, imploring charity. Reinhardt felt in his pocket; but
Elizabeth was too quick for him, and hastily pouring the whole
contents of her purse into the beggar's hand, she turned abruptly


## p. 14049 (#235) ##########################################

THEODOR STORM
14049
away.
Reinhardt heard her smothered sobs as she passed up the
stairs.
His first impulse was to follow her, but instantly recollecting
himself, he remained behind. The girl still stood motionless in
the hall, the money just given her in her hand,
“What do you want ? » asked Reinhardt.
She started violently. "I want nothing more, » said she.
Then turning her head and fixing on him her piercing gaze, she
retreated slowly towards the door. A cry, a name, burst from
his lips; but she heard it not. With bowed head, and arms
folded on her breast, she crossed the court-yard below; while in
his ear there sounded the long-forgotten and ominous words, -
«Death, death will o'ertake me,
Friendless,- alone. ”
For a few moments the very power of breathing seemed sus-
pended; then he too turned, and sought the solitude of his own
chamber.
He seated himself, and tried to study: but he could not collect
his scattered thoughts; and after wasting an hour in a fruitless
effort to fix his attention, he went down to the general sitting-
room. No one was there, - only the cool green twilight. On
Elizabeth's work-table lay a red ribbon she had worn the previ-
ous day. He took it in his hand; but its very touch gave him
pain, and he laid it down on its old resting-place. He could not
rest. He went down to the lake, and unmooring the boat, he
steered across, and once more went over every spot that he had
visited so shortly before with Elizabeth. When he again returned
to the house it was dark, and in the court-yard he met the coach-
man taking the carriage-horses to graze; the travelers were just
returned. As he entered the hall, he heard Eric pacing up and
down the garden-room. Reinhardt could not go to him. A
moment he paused irresolute; then he softly mounted the stairs
leading to his own room. Here he threw himself into an arm-
chair at the window. He tried to persuade himself that he was
listening to the nightingale which was already singing among the
yew-trees beneath him; but he only heard the wild throbbing of
his own heart. Below in the house all were going to rest. The
night passed away; but he felt it not. For hours he sat thus.
At length he rose, and lay down in the open window.
. The
night-dew trickled between the leaves; the nightingale had left
XXIV—879


## p. 14050 (#236) ##########################################

14050
THEODOR STORM
off singing. Gradually towards the east the deep blue of the
leaves was broken by a pale yellow flush; a fresh breeze sprang
up and played on Reinhardt's burning forehead; the first lark
sprang rejoicing in the air. Reinhardt turned quickly from the
window, and went to the table. He felt for a pencil, with which
he traced a few lines on a loose sheet of paper. This done, he
took his hat and stick, and leaving the note on his desk, he care-
fully opened the door and descended into the hall. The gray dawn
still rested in every corner: the great cat stretched herself out
on the straw mat, and rubbed herself against the hand which he
unconsciously held towards her. In the garden, however, the
sparrows were already twittering among the branches, and pro-
claimed to every one that the night was past. Suddenly he heard
a door open above. Some one came down the stairs, and as he
looked up, Elizabeth stood before him. She laid her hand on
his arm; she moved her lips, but he caught no sound.
« Thou
wilt never come back," said she at length. “I know it. Do not
deceive me.
Thou wilt never come back. ”
"Never! ” said he. She let her hand fall, and said no more.
He crossed the hall to the door, and there he once more turned
towards her. She stood motionless on the same spot, and gazed
after him with dead, glazing eyes. He made one step forward,
and stretched out his arms; then violently he tore himself away,
and went out. Without lay the world in the fresh morning light.
The dewdrops hanging in the spiders' webs sparkled in the first
rays of the sun. He looked not behind. Quickly he hurried for-
ward; and as he left that quiet home farther and farther behind,
there rose before him the wide, wide world.
(
»
Translation of H. Clark.


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14051
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
(1819–1896)
verse.
ILLIAM WETMORE STORY made himself accomplished in two
arts, like Blake or Rossetti. As a sculptor he was distin-
guished, and he was a graceful writer of both prose and
His statues of Edward Everett, George Peabody, Francis
Scott Key, Lowell, Bryant, Theodore Parker, or of such ideal or
historical subjects as Cleopatra, Medea, and The African Spirit, gave
him wide reputation. His published writings are of a varied nature,
ranging from legal books to love lyrics and odes of occasion. He
was one of those cultured Americans who
by long residence abroad become cosmopoli-
tan in spirit, and reflect their environment
in their work.
William Wetmore Story's father was
Judge Joseph Story, the noted jurist, whose
life the son wrote. William was born in
Salem, Massachusetts, February 19th, 1819;
and after being graduated from Harvard in
1838, studied law, was admitted to the bar,
and published several legal works. But the
desire to follow an art was strong in him;
and in 1848 he went to Rome, became a
sculptor, wrote many books, and resided at W. W. STORY
the Italian capital the remainder of his life,
a conspicuous member of the American colony. He died there in
1896.
As early as 1842 Story was editing and publishing law reports; and
two years later appeared his Phi Beta Kappa poem at Harvard. His
first book of 'Poems' dates from 1847; half a dozen volumes of verse
were printed during a period of well-nigh half a century,- the final
volume being A Poet's Portfolio' (1894), a volume of mingled prose
and verse in dialogue form, continuing the earlier (He and She:
A Poet's Portfolio (1883), and containing clever social verse and
pungent prose comment on life. Perhaps his most picturesque and
sympathetic prose is to be found in “Roba di Roma: or Walks and
Talks about Rome (1862), to which a sequel was “The Castle of St.
Angelo and the Evil Eye. ' Other books of essays are Conversations



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14052
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
in a Studio' (1890), and 'Excursions in Arts and Letters' (1891), –
polished, vigorous, often suggestive in thought and happy in expres-
sion. Story's sympathies are broad, and he is sensitive to the finer
issues of life and thought. In his mature poems he is the humanist
and apostle of culture.
A favorite verse form with him was the dramatic monologue made
famous by Browning, and many of his lyrics and narratives show the
influence of the Italy of art and literature. The most worthy of his
poetry is that gathered in the two volumes entitled Poems,' pub-
lished in 1886, and embodying several books previously issued.
THE GHETTO IN ROME
From (Roba di Roma. ' Copyright 1887, by William W. Story. Published by
Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
a
B° derived from the Talmud Ghet, and signifying segregation
and disjunction — is opprobrious; and fitly describes the
home of a people cut off from the Christian world, and banned
as infamous. Stepping out from the Piazza di Pianto, we plunge
at once down a narrow street into the midst of the common class
of Jews. The air reeks with the peculiar frowzy smell of old
woolen clothes, modified with occasional streaks of strata of
garlic; while above all triumphs the foul human odor of a
crowded and unclean population. The street is a succession of
miserable houses, and every door opens into a dark shop. Each
of these is wide open; and within and without, sprawling on
the pavement, sitting on benches and stools, standing in the
street, blocking up the passages, and leaning out of the upper
windows, are swarms of Jews,-fat and lean, handsome and
hideous, old and young, -as thick as ants around an ant-hill.
The shop doors are draped with old clothes, and second-hand
roba of every description. Old military suits of furbished shab-
biness, faded silken court dresses of a past century, with worn
embroidery, napless and forlorn dress-coats with shining seams
and flabby skirts, waistcoats of dirty damask, legs of velvet
breeches,- in a word, all the cast-off riffraff of centuries that
have fallen from their high estate,” are dangling everywhere
overhead. Most of the men are lounging about and leaning
against the lintels of the doors, or packed upon benches ranged


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WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
14053
in front of the shops. The children are rolling round in the
dirt, and playing with cabbage ends and stalks, and engaged in
numerous and not over-clean occupations. The greater part of
the women, however, are plying the weapon of their tribe, with
which they have won a world-wide reputation, - the needle, -
and, bent closely over their work, are busy in renewing old gar-
ments and hiding rents and holes with its skillful web-work.
Everybody is on the lookout for customers; and as you pass
down the street, you are subject to a constant fusillade of, “Pst,
Pst," from all sides. The women beckon you, and proffer their
At times they even seize the skirts of your coat in their
eagerness to tempt you to a bargain. The men come solemnly
up, and whisper confidentially in your ear, begging to know what
wares.
you seek
( C
Is there anything you can possibly want ? If so, do not be
abashed by the shabbiness of the shop, but enter, and ask even
for the richest thing. You will find it, if you have patience.
But once in the trap, the manner of the seller changes: he
dallies with you as a spider with a fly, as a cat with a mouse.
Nothing is to be seen but folded cloths on regular shelves -
all is hidden out of sight. At first, and reluctantly, he produces
a common, shabby enough article. “Oh no, that will never do,-
too common. ” Then gradually he draws forth a better specimen.
"Not good enough? why, a prince might be glad to buy it! ”
Finally, when he has wearied you out, and you turn to go,
he understands it is some superb brocade embroidered in gold,
some gorgeous portière worked in satin, some rich tapestry with
Scripture stories, that you want; and with a sigh he opens a
cupboard and draws it forth. A strange combination of incon-
sistent and opposite feelings has prevented him from exhibiting
it before. He is divided between a desire to keep it and a
longing to sell it. He wishes, if possible, to eat his cake and
have it too; and the poor ass in the fable between the two bun-
dles of hay was not in a worse quandary. At last, the article
you seek makes its appearance. It is indeed splendid, but you
must not admit it. It may be the dress the Princess d'Este wore
centuries ago,-faded, but splendid still; or the lace of Alexander
VI. the Borgia; or an ancient altar cloth with sacramental spots;
or a throne carpet of one of the popes. Do you really wish
to buy it, you must nerve yourself to fight. He begins at the
zenith, you at the nadir; and gradually, by dint of extravagant
laudation on his part, and corresponding depreciation on yours,


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14054
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
your side.
you approach each other. But the distance is too great, - the
bargain is impossible. You turn and go away.
He runs after
you when he sees that you are not practicing a feint, and offers
it for less; but still the price is too high, and he in turn leaves
you. You pass along the street. With a mysterious and con-
fidential air, another of the tribe approaches you. He walks by
Was it a gold brocade you wanted ? He also has one
like that which you have seen, only in better condition. Would
your Signoria do him the favor to look at it? You yield to his
unctuous persuasion, and enter his shop; but what is your aston-
ishment when, after a delusive show of things you do not want,
the identical article for which you have been bargaining is again
produced in this new shop, and asserted stoutly, and with a faint
pretense of indignation, to be quite another piece! This game
is sometimes repeated three or four times.