No More Learning

Already at the end of the sixth century B. C. , the drama presents
the twofold character which in Greece it never lost, the chorus and
the dialogue, the former due to Dorian lyric poetry, the latter to the
Ionic verse-forms of Archilochus. With the full development of dra-
matic form the lyric was reduced from its supreme position to an
inferior station, in which it should no longer be the controlling ele-
ment, but merely the efficient and beautiful handmaid of dramatic
dialogue. In Æschylus the lyric still assumes undue proportions; in
Sophocles the lyric and dramatic are blended in perfect harmony;
but. in Euripides the work of disintegration has set in, and the lyric
tends to become a mere artistic appendage.
All works on Greek literature treat this subject more
or less
fully. Flach's "Geschichte der Griechischen Lyrik (Tübingen: 1883)
is the most complete work on the whole field. Symonds's Greek
Poets) and Jebb's Classical Greek Poetry) are both excellent. The
Greek student finds Bergk's Poetæ Lyrici Græci' (Leipzig: 1882)
indispensable. An attractive and convenient edition of the Poeta
Lyrici Græci Minores) is that by Pomtow (Leipzig: 1885). Farnell's
(Greek Lyric Poetry (Longmans: 1891) is confined to the “melic
writers. The most popular treatment of Greek music will be found
in Naumann's History of Music,' edited by Sir F. Gore Ouseley
(Cassell & Co. ). Chappell's History of Music' (London: 1874) is a
standard work. Monro's (The Modes of Ancient Greek Music) (Clar-
endon Press : 1894) is intended for the specialist.
(
(
tRushton
Faurelough


## p. 15184 (#125) ##########################################

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## p. 15184 (#126) ##########################################


LUDWIG UHLAND


## p. 15184 (#127) ##########################################

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## p. 15184 (#128) ##########################################


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## p. 15185 (#129) ##########################################

15185
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
(1787-1862)
BY CHARLES HARVEY GENUNG
OHANN LUDWIG UHLAND was born on April 26th, 1787, at Tü-
bingen, where now his statue stands. Although the place
itself is a dull little university town, the region round about
is filled with romantic associations. Near by are the ancestral castles
of the Hohenstaufens and Hohenzollerns, of the family that domi-
nated the brilliant period of Walther von der Vogelweide and of that
under which the German empire regained her ancient lustre. Through
the valley runs the highway along which swept the armies of the
Suabian emperors to their new dominions in Italy. It was amid
these romantic memories that Uhland's genius grew to maturity. In
Tübingen he was educated, and there in 1810 he took his degree in
law. For two years he practiced in the ministry of justice at Stutt-
gart. When in 1815 the question of a constitution was precipitated
by the King of Würtemberg, Uhland burst into patriotic verse, and
in that year he published his first collection of poems. He sprang at
once into unbounded popularity. Goethe, who recognized that such
popular enthusiasm implied merit somewhere, found it in the ballads;
and when Uhland went into politics oethe remonstrated: there
vere many men in Suabia, he said, capable of serving the State, but
there was only one such poet as Uhland. Nevertheless the political
career which the poet began in 1819, when he was elected to the
assembly, was continued at intervals throughout his life. He received
in 1829 the coveted professorship of German language and literature
at the University of Tübingen; but since he was not permitted to
take his seat in the Assembly at the same time, he resigned from his
congenial post in 1833. He was one of the most prominent of the
opponents to the royal Constitution. In 1839 he refused re-election;
and lived in retirement until in 1848 he was elected to the National
Assembly at Frankfort.
Aside from politics and poetry, Uhland was, like Rückert, a distin-
guished scholar. Schérer regarded him as one of the founders of the
science of Romance philology; and his contributions to Germanistic
studies are of permanent value. One exquisite monograph, in which
the qualities of poet and of scholar are equally manifest, is still a
XXVI–950


## p. 15186 (#130) ##########################################

15186
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
T
standard classic: the essay on Walther von der Vogelweide, published
in 1821, and dealing with the most fascinating theme in the whole
range of German studies, — the greatest of the minnesingers, from
whom descended the fairest traditions of that golden age to the
wooden age of the mastersingers, to be at last rejuvenated and once
more made fruitful by the Romantic poets, and chief among them
by Uhland himself. If the politician, as Goethe feared, threatened to
consume the poet, these scholarly pursuits served only to sustain and
stimulate the genius of the singer. All these publications relating
to old German and Romance philology have since appeared in eight
volumes, under the collective title of (Schriften zur Geschichte der
Dichtung und Sage' (Contributions to the History of Poetry and
Legend).
But it is the poet Uhland that the world knows and loves. He
wrote some three hundred and fifty poems, fully half of them master-
pieces, which have become an essential part of German culture. It
is inconceivable,” wrote Herman Grimm, “that they should ever grow
old. The first collection of poems, of 1815, was gradually enlarged
in the subsequent editions. In 1875 they had reached their sixtieth
edition,, and this average of one edition annually has since been in-
creased. His two plays, Ernst, Herzog von Schwaben? (Ernest, Duke
of Suabia) and (Ludwig der Bayer' (Louis the Bavarian), although
spirited examples of the historical drama, could not retain their foot-
hold on the stage. Uhland is probably the most popular German
poet after Schiller. In him Professor Francke sees united the fine
spirit of Walther von der Vogelweide and the epic impressiveness
of the Nibelungenlied. He revealed to Germany her better self mir-
rored in her shining past.
As a lyric poet, Uhland stands in the foremost rank among the
many singers of his tuneful race. After Goethe, he is with Eichen-
dorff and Heine the favorite of the composers; and this is one of the
surest tests of a poet's lyric quality. The constant temptation which
he offers to translators, only to lure them on to half-successes, is
another test. No lyrics except Heine's, and not excepting Goethe's,
have ever been so often attempted in English as Uhland's. Through
these innumerable versions, as well as through the universal medium
of music, his poetry has become a part of the world's lyric reper-
toire. Among the Romantic poets he occupies a peculiar place;
he is as far removed from the intellectual kite-flying of Novalis and
Brentano as he is from the massive might of Kleist and the austerity
of Platen: but like Kleist he brought order into the lawlessness of
Romanticism, and turned it from caprice to poetry”; like Platen
he insisted upon finished form and faultless measures. He rescued
stately figures for us from the knightly past, and summoned spirits


## p. 15187 (#131) ##########################################

10
1
1
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
15187
from the dreamland of ancient legend. Solemn haunting echoes
of the past are borne to us in his verse across the centuries, and
all these quaint and shadowy recollections of the age of wonders he
has made a permanent part of our modern culture. His idea of the
romantic may be inferred from his saying, "A region is romantic
when spirits walk there. " But it is as if he saw the spirits and
their legendary train pass over from afar, as one watches the play
of changing color on the floating clouds of sunset; his feet the while
are firmly planted on the earth. He never loses his foothold in
reality. Nor does he glorify the past to the point of despising the
present. He is genuine and sane. In him the romantic elements
as we find them in Goethe are more perfectly manifest than in any
other poet of the Romantic group. With fewest exceptions, his bal-
lads and lyrics are little masterpieces of dramatic narrative and inusi-
cal form. Uhland's position in the history of German poetry is best
defined in the apt paradox of David Strauss, who called him the
classic of Romanticism. "
lawa-bawang
Grun
THE SHEPHERD'S SONG ON THE LORD'S DAY
TH
HE Lord's own day is here!
Alone I kneel on this broad plain:
A matin-bell just sounds; again
'Tis silence, far and near.
Here kneel I on the sod:
Oh, deep amazement, strangely felt!
As though, unseen, vast numbers knelt
And prayed with me to God.
Yon heaven, afar and near,
So bright, so glorious seems its cope
As though e'en now its gates would ope;-
The Lord's own day is here!
Translation of W. W. Skeat.


## p. 15188 (#132) ##########################################

15188
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
THE LUCK OF EDENHALL
0
F EDENHALL the youthful lord
Bids sound the festal trumpet's call;
He rises at the banquet board,
And cries, 'inid the drunken revelers all,
“Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall! »
The butler hears the words with pain, -
The house's oldest seneschal,-
Takes slow from its silken cloth again
The drinking-glass of crystal tall:
They call it The Luck of Edenhall.
Then said the lord, “This glass to praise,
Fill with red wine from Portugal! ”
The graybeard with trembling hand obeys:
A purple light shines over all;
It beams from the Luck of Edenhail.
Then speaks the lord, and waves it light:-
« This glass of fashing crystal tall
Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite;
She wrote in it, If this glass doth fall,
Farewell then, 0 Luck of Edenhall!
« 'Twas right a goblet the fate should be
Of the joyous race of Edenhall!
We drink deep draughts right willingly;
And willingly ring, with merry call.
Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall! »
First rings it deep, and full, and mild,
Like to the song of a nightingale,
Then like the roar of a torrent wild;
Then mutters at last, like the thunder's fall,
The glorious Luck of Edenhall.
“For its keeper, takes a race of might
The fragile goblet of crystal tall:
It has lasted longer than is right:-
Kling! klang! with a harder blow than all
Will I try the Luck of Edenhall! ”
As the goblet, ringing, flies apart,
Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall;
1


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JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
15189
And through the rift the flames upstart:
The guests in dust are scattered all
With the breaking Luck of Edenhall!
In storms the foe, with fire and sword !
He in the night had scaled the wall;
Slain by the sword lies the youthful lord,
But holds in his hand the crystal tall,
The shattered Luck of Edenhall.
On the morrow the butler gropes alone,
The graybeard, -- in the desert hall
He seeks his lord's burnt skeleton;
He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall.
“The stone wall,” saith he, doth fall aside;
Down must the stately columns fall:
Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride;
In atoms shall fall this earthly ball,
One day, like the Luck of Edenhall. ”
Translation of H. W. Longfellov.
THE MINSTREL'S CURSE
HERE stood in former ages a castle high and large;
Above the slope it glistened far down to ocean's marge;
Around it like a garland bloomed gardens of delight,
Where sparkled cooling fountains, with sun-bow glories dight.
THE
There sat a haughty monarch, who lands in war had won;
With aspect pale and gloomy he sat upon the throne:
His thoughts are fraught with terrors, his glance of fury blights;
His words are galling scourges, with victims' blood he writes.
Once moved towards this castle a noble minstrel pair,
The one with locks all golden, snow-white the other's hair:
With harp in hand, the graybeard a stately courser rode;
In flower of youth, beside him his tall companion strode.
Then spake the gray-haired father: Be well prepared, my son:
Think o'er our loftiest ballads, breathe out thy fullest tone;
Thine utmost skill now summon, - joy's zest and sorrow's smart;-
'Twere well move with music the monarch's stony heart. ”


## p. 15190 (#134) ##########################################

15190
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
Now in the spacious chamber the minstrels twain are seen;
High on the throne in splendor are seated king and queen:
The king with terrors gleaming, a ruddy Northern Light;
The queen all grace and sweetness, a full moon soft and bright.
The graybeard swept the harp-strings, — they sounded wondrous
clear;
The notes with growing fullness thrilled through the listening ear:
Pure as the tones of angels the young man's accents flow;
The old man's gently murmur, like spirit-voices low.
They sing of love and springtime, of happy golden days,
Of manly worth and freedom, of truth and holy ways;
They sing of all things lovely, that human hearts delight,
They sing of all things lofty, that human souls excite.
The courtier train around them forget their jeerings now;
The king's defiant soldiers in adoration bow;
The queen to tears now melted, with rapture now possessed,
Throws down to them in guerdon a rosebud from her breast.
“Have ye misled my people, and now my wife suborn ? »
Shouts out the ruthless monarch, and shakes with wrath and
scorn;
He whirls his sword — like lightning the young man's breast it
smote,
That 'stead of golden legends, bright life-blood filled his throat.
Dispersed, as by a tempest, was all the listening swarm;
The youth sighs out his spirit upon his master's arm,
Who round him wraps his mantle, and sets him on the steed,
There tightly binds him upright, and from the court doth speed.
Before the olden gateway, there halts the minstrel old;
His golden harp he seizes, above all harps extolled :
Against a marble pillar he snaps its tuneful strings;
Through castle and through garden his voice of menace rings:-
“Woe, woe to thee, proud castle! ne'er let sweet tones resound
Henceforward through thy chambers, nor harp's nor voice's sound:
Let sighs and tramp of captives and groans dwell here for aye,
Till retribution sink thee in ruin and decay.
“Woe, woe to you, fair gardens, in summer light that glow:
To you this pallid visage, deformed by death, I show,
That every leaf may wither, and every fount run dry,-
That ye in future ages a desert heap may lie.


## p. 15191 (#135) ##########################################

JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
15191
“Woe, woe to thee, curst tyrant! that art the minstrel's bane:
Be all thy savage strivings for glory's wreath in vain!
Be soon thy name forgotten, sunk deep in endless night,
Or, like a last death murmur, exhaled in vapor light! ”
The graybeard's curse was uttered; heaven heard his bitter cry:
The walls are strewn in fragments, the halls in ruins lie;
Still stands one lofty column to witness olden might -
E'en this, already shivered, may crumble down to-night.
Where once were pleasant gardens, is now a wasted land;
No tree there lends its shadow, nor fount bedews the sand:
The monarch's name recordeth no song, nor lofty verse;
'Tis wholly sunk — forgotten! Such is the Minstrel's Curse!
Translation of W. W. Skeat.
ENTERTAINMENT
I
STOPPED at an inn one day to dine:
The host was a generous fellow;
A golden apple, for a sign,
Hung out on a branch, so mellow.
It was the good old apple-tree
Himself so nobly dined me;
Sweet fare and sparkling juices he
Was pleased and proud to find me.
To his green-house came many a guest,
Light-winged and light-hearted;
They sang their best, they ate his best,
Then up they sprang and departed.
I found a bed to rest my head
A bed of soft green clover;
The host a great cool shadow spread
For a quilt, and covered me over.
I asked him what I had to pay:
I saw his head shake slightly;
Oh, blest be he, for ever and aye,
Who treated me so politely.
Translation of Charles T. Brooks.


## p. 15192 (#136) ##########################################

15192
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
THE MOUNTAIN BOY
T".
HE shepherd of the Alps am I;
The castles far beneath me lie;
Here first the ruddy sunlight gleams,
Here linger last the parting beams.
The mountain boy am I!
Here is the river's fountain-head, -
I drink it from its stony bed;
As forth it leaps with joyous shout,
I seize it ere it gushes out.
The mountain boy am I!
The mountain is my own domain :
It calls its storms from sea and plain;
From north to south they howl afar;
My voice is heard amid their war.
The mountain boy am I!
The lightnings far beneath me lie;
High stand I here in clear blue sky;
I know them, and to them I call,
“In quiet leave my father's hall. ”
The mountain boy am I!
And when the tocsin sounds alarms,
And mountain bale-fires call to arms,
Then I descend, - I join my king,
My sword I wave, my lay I sing.
The mountain boy am I!
Anonymous Translation in Longfellow's (Poets and Poetry of Europe.
THE CASTLE BY THE SEA
*H*
AST thou seen that lordly castle,
That castle by the sea ?
Golden and red above it
The clouds float gorgeously.
And fain it would stoop downward
To the mirrored wave below;
And fain it would soar upward
In the evening's crimson glow. ”.


## p. 15193 (#137) ##########################################

JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
15193
“Well have I seen that castle,
That castle by the sea,
And the moon above it standing,
And the mist rise solemnly. ”
« The winds and the waves of ocean,
Had they a merry chime?
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers,
The harp and the minstrel's rhyme ? ” –
« The winds and the waves of ocean,
They rested quietly;
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail,
And tears came to mine eye. ” –
And sawest thou on the turrets
The king and his royal bride,
And the wave of their crimson mantles,
And the golden crown of pride ?
«Led they not forth, in rapture,
A beauteous maiden there,
Resplendent as the morning sun,
Beaming with golden hair? ”–
« Well saw I the ancient parents,
Without the crown of pride:
They were moving slow, in weeds of woe;
No maiden was by their side! ”
Translation of H. W. Longfellow.
THE PASSAGE
ANY a year is in its grave,
Since I crossed this restless wave;
And the evening, fair as ever,
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.
M
.
Then in this same boat beside
Sat two comrades old and tried, -
One with all a father's truth,
One with all the fire of youth.
One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;


## p. 15194 (#138) ##########################################

15194
JOHANN LUDWIG VHLAND
But the younger, brighter form
Passed in battle and in storm.
So, whene'er I turn my eye
Back upon the days gone by,
Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me,-
Friends that closed their course before me.
But what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend ?
Soul-like were those hours of yore:
Let us walk in soul once more.
Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee,-
Take,- I give it willingly;
For, invisible to thee,
Spirits twain have crossed with me.
Translation of Sarah Taylor Austin.
THE NUN
IN
N THE silent cloister garden,
Beneath the pale moonshine,
There walked a lovely maiden,
And tears were in her eyne.
“Now, God be praised! my loved one
Is with the blest above:
Now man is changed to angel,
And angels I may love. ”
She stood before the altar
Of Mary, mother mild,
And on the holy maiden
The Holy Virgin smiled.
Upon her knees she worshiped
And prayed before the shrine,
And heavenward looked -- till Death came
And closed her weary eyne.
From the Foreign Quarterly Review.


## p. 15195 (#139) ##########################################

JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
15195
THE SERENADE
W*41
HAT sounds so sweet awake me ?
What fills me with delight?
O mother, look! who sings thus
So sweetly through the night ? »
“I hear not, child, I see not;
Oh, sleep thou softly on!
Comes now to serenade thee,
Thou poor sick maiden, none! )
“It is not earthly music
That fills me with delight;
I hear the angels call me:
O mother dear, good night! ”
From the Foreign Quarterly Review.
TO
U'ON
PON a mountain's summit
There might I with thee stand,
And o'er the tufted forest,
Look down upon the land;
There might my finger show thee
The world in vernal shine,
And say, if all mine own were,
That all were mine and thine.
Into my bosom's deepness,
Oh, could thine eye but see,
Where all the songs are sleeping
That God e'er gave to me!
There would thine eye perceive it,
If aught of good be mine, -
Although I may not name thee,-
That aught of good is thine.
From the Foreign Quarterly Review.


## p. 15196 (#140) ##########################################

15196
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
THE SUNKEN CROWN
A
OFT on yonder hillside
A little cot doth stand;
You look from off its threshold
Far out upon the land.
There sits a free-born peasant
l'pon the bank at even,
And whets his scythe, and singeth
His grateful song to Heaven.
Below on the lake are falling
The silent shadows down;
Beneath the wave lies hidden,
All rich and rare, a crown.
In the darksome night it sparkles
With rubies and sapphires gay;
But no man recks where it lieth
From the times so old and gray.
Translation of H. W. Dulcken.
A MOTHER'S GRAVE
A.
GRAVE, O mother, has been dug for thee
Within a still — to thee a well-known - place.
A shadow all its own above shall be,
And flowers its threshold too shall ever grace.
And even as thou died'st, so in thy urn
Thou'lt lie unconscious of both joy and smart:
And daily to my thought shalt thou return;
I dig for thee this grave within my heart.
Translation of Frederick W. Ricord.
THE CHAPEL
T*
HERE aloft the chapel standeth,
Peering down the valley still;
There beneath, by fount and meadow,
Rings the shepherd's carol shrill.
Sadly booms the bell's slow knelling,
Solemn sounds the last lament;


## p. 15197 (#141) ##########################################

1
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JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
15197
Hushed are all the boy's loud carols,
Still he stands with ears attent.
There aloft are borne to burial
They who filled the vale with glee;
There aloft, O youthful shepherd,
Men shall chant the dirge for thee!
Translation of W. W. Skeat.
THE SMITHYING OF SIGFRID'S SWORD
S"
IGFRID was young, and haughty, and proud,
When his father's home he disavowed.
in his father's house he would not abide:
He would wander over the world so wide.
He met many a knight in wood and field
With shining sword and glittering shield.
But Sigfrid had only a staff of oak:
He held him shamed in sight of the folk.
And as he went through a darksome wood,
He came where a lowly smithy stood.
There was iron and steel in right good store;
And a fire that did bicker, and flame, and roar.
"O smithying-carle, good master of mine,
Teach me this forging craft of thine.
«Teach me the lore of shield and blade,
And how the right good swords are made! ”
He struck with the hammer a mighty blow,
And the anvil deep in the ground did go.
He struck: through the wood the echoes rang,
And all the iron in Ainders sprang.
And out of the last left iron bar
He fashioned a sword that shone as a star.
C
«Now have I smithied a right good sword,
And no man shall be my master and lord;


## p. 15198 (#142) ##########################################

15198
JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND
"And giants and dragons of wood and field,
I shall meet like a hero, under shield. ”
Translation of Elizabeth Craigmyle.
I
ICHABOD: THE GLORY HAS DEPARTED
RIDE through a dark, dark Land by night,
Where moon is none and no stars lend light,
And rueful winds are blowing:
Yet oft have I trodden this way ere now,
With summer zephyrs a-fanning my brow,
And the gold of the sunshine glowing.
I roam by a gloomy Garden-wall;
The death-stricken leaves around me fall,
And the night blast wails its dolors:
How oft with my love I have hitherward strayed
When the roses flowered, and all I surveyed
Was radiant with Hope's own colors!
But the gold of the sunshine is shed and gone,
And the once bright roses are dead and wan,
And my love in her low grave molders;
And I ride through a dark, dark Land by night,
With never a star to bless me with light,
And the Mantle of Age on my shoulders.
Translation of James C. Mangan.


## p. 15199 (#143) ##########################################

1
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1
1
1
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15199
ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS
11
(1853-)
BY WILLIAM HENRY BISHOP
B
1
4
EFORE heaven! your Worship should read what I have read,”
exclaims an honest inn-keeper in Don Quixote,' concern-
ing Felixmarte of Hyrcania, who, with one back-stroke, cut
asunder five giants through the middle.
At another time he
encountered a great and powerful army of about a million six hun-
dred thousand soldiers, all armed from top to toe, and routed them
as if they had been a flock of sheep. ”
This was said in response to a protest against his wasting his
time over the foolish books of chivalry of the epoch, and a recom-
mendation that he should read, instead, the real exploits of Gon-
salvo de Cordova, the Great Captain, who had in fact put to fight
a dozen men or so with his own hand. The paragraph is a useful
one, as throwing light on the insatiate nature of the thirst for mere
adventure and movement in fiction. It has no limits; but was just
as impatient of the splendid feats of arms, battles, sieges, and roman-
tic doings — as we should consider them- of all kinds, that were
then of daily occurrence, as the same school is at present of the
happenings of real life all about us. The change is one of relation
rather than spirit; and the school of criticism that demands only the
startling and exceptional, and eschews all else as tame, is still, numer-
ically at least, superior to any other. How much nobler an aim is
that of Palacio Valdés and his kind, who show us feeling, beauty,
and innate interest everywhere throughout common existence; and
who lighten and dignify the otherwise commonplace days as they
pass, by leading us to look for these things. Nothing is truer than
that the purpose of the arts is to please; but a Spanish proverb
also well says: “Show me what pleases you and I will tell you what
1
1
1
)
you are. ”
Armando Palacio Valdés, in some respects the most entertaining
and natural, and perhaps all in all the most satisfactory, of the later
Spanish novelists, was born October 4th, 1853. His birthplace was
Entralgo,- a small village near Oviedo, the capital of the province
of Asturias, in the northwest of Spain. He received his earlier edu-
cation at the small marine town of Avilés, and at Oviedo; and then


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ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS
(C
2
)
took his degree in law at the University of Madrid. The smaller
towns mentioned above, and others where he has lived, have been
celebrated under assumed names in his novels. He is not averse to
admitting that Entralgo is “Riofrió,” of “El Idyl de un Enfermo' (The
Idyl of a Convalescent), 1884. A young man with shattered health,
from Madrid, goes there to recuperate. There are smoking chim-
neys in the neighborhood, — for modern enterprise, largely English, is
developing a treasure of mineral wealth in these northern provinces;
but the invalid opens his window the morning after his arrival
upon a delightful fresh prospect of mountains and vale, that at once
begins to bring a balm of healing to his lungs. Valdés excels in the
description of the scenery in which he places his real and moving
characters, but he uses the gift with praiseworthy moderation. So
close and appreciative an observer could not fail to give us accurate
pictures of the life of the capital of Madrid, as in Aguas Fuertes)
(Etchings), 1885, and Espuma' (Foam), 1890; but though the former
volume of graceful sketches is playfully humorous, the tone of the
latter is over-full of sophistication, and in a way depressing. He is
distinctly at his best in depicting existence in the rural communities
or minor towns. He still spends a part of his summer in an ances-
tral homestead at Entralgo.
Avilés is the «Nieva” of his exquisite (Marta y Maria' (Martha
and Mary), 1883. The scene opens with a crowd of good people at
night elbowing one another in the street and in the rain too - to
get near the lighted house where a party is in progress, so as to hear
the rare singing of Maria, that floats out at the windows. This is
a book among books. Apart from its many charms in the lighter
way; apart from the delectable traits of the sweetly practical, material
younger sister, Martha, the plot of the book is raised to a great
dignity by the conflict between earth and heaven shown in the un-
usual character of Maria. She is the petted elder daughter of the
house, young and beautiful, and already betrothed; but she becomes
possessed by an unworldly ideal of devotion, that leads her to desire
to rival the mediæval saints. She shakes off, or gently loosens, all
the human ties that hold her; endeavors to practice the rigors of
the most cruel asceticism; and finally arrives at being apprehended
in her father's drawing-room by a file of soldiers, who lead her away,
for having a part in a plot to restore the Carlist pretender to the
throne of Spain. It was her conscientious belief, pushed to the point
of fanaticism, that the pure cause of religion was thus going to be
greatly advanced. This novel has been translated into English under
the title of The Marquis of Peñalta. '
Yet another rainy night, a wild and furious one of winter, is
chosen for the opening scene of 'El Maestrante' (The Grandee), 1893:


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ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS
15201
1
11
1
01
al
at Lancia,” which is really Oviedo. It seems to have been a gloomy
place in the early fifties; and the story, which turns upon the martyr-
dom of a little child, by a family whose sanity we cannot but suspect,
leaves a sombre impression in keeping with the surroundings. Can-
dás, the place where Valdés married (called «Rodillero” in the book),
furnishes an appropriate setting for José, 1885; an idyl of fisher life,
that in its main lines calls to mind the similar work of Pereda. Can-
dás is represented as the most striking of all the maritime villages of
Asturias, consisting as it does of a handful of houses piled one above
another in a chasm that catches the hollow echoing of the sea; it
opens upon a breaking surf, and a beach filled with fishing-boats
and fishing-nets.
Valdés devoted himself with especial ardor at Madrid to studies
in political and moral science; and looked forward to a professorship
in those branches. He was made first secretary for the section cov-
ering those departments at the Atheneum; a very useful semi-public
institution with a fine lecture-hall and library, and a chosen member-
ship of seven hundred persons. At twenty-two he was the editor of
an important scientific magazine, La Revista Europea (The European
Review). He wrote many scientific articles; and much excellent crit-
icism, later gathered into books, on (The Spanish Novelists,' (The
Orators of the Atheneum,' and the like. His first novel, Señorito
Octavio,' 1881, appeared when he had reached the age of twenty-four.
He himself finds some fault with it—repents of certain exaggera-
tions in the book. The fault would seem to be towards the close, in a
forced strain of sentiment and a lurid conclusion; but apart from
this, it abounds in the same sweet, humorous, and generally engaging
qualities as all his later books. It gave at the very start a promise
that has been brilliantly fulfilled.
(Riverita' (Young Rivera), 1886, treats largely of the career of a
young man about town. The author's vein of droll humor is indulged
in a cousin of Riverita's, - Enrique, a gilded youth, who frequents the
company of bull-fighters, and takes part in an amateur bull-fight him-
self. The true devotee of the sport, he holds, never even perceives
its gory features; his attention being fixed upon the deeds of valor
of the champions, and their artistic dealing with the bull. “And
besides,” he says, “I suppose you have seen dead animals at the
butcher-shop. And you eat sausages, don't you? ”
,
Riverita' leads us on to a sequel in Maximina. ' At the quaint
little port of Pasajes, close to San Sebastian, Riverita wooes and
marries a sweet young girl of modest and shrinking nature; they
move to Madrid; a child is born, and she dies. It is impossible not
to see here a record of some part of the interior life of the author.
On the day on which he was thirty years old, he married at Candás
XXVI-951
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ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS
a young girl of sixteen. The child-wife died a year and a half later,
leaving him an infant son. Marriage, birth, death, — what events
are more ordinary, yet what more momentous ? They are described
in Maximina' in a way that touches the chords of the deepest
and truest human feeling. El Cuarto Poder' (The Fourth Estate, or
The Press), 1888, takes its title from the founding of a newspaper
in a primitive little community; but the real scheme of the action
turns round the breaking off of an engagement between plain sincere
Cecilia and a steady-going young engineer, Gonzalo, by the machi-
nations of a pretty younger sister and arch-coquette, Venturita. The
opening chapter — where, on the occasion of a gala night at the thea-
tre, all the leading characters of the little place are introduced - is a
masterly piece of exposition and of social history. "La Hermana
"
San Sulpicio' (Sister San Sulpicio), 1889, is a gay, bright piece of
light comedy; showing how an engaging young novice, who has
mistaken her vocation in entering a convent, finds much more happi-
ness in leaving it and marrying her devoted suitor. Its scene is laid
at Seville; as that of the much less satisfactory (Los Majos de Cadiz'
(The Dandies of Cadiz), 1896, is at the more southern Andalusian city.
These are dandies of the lower class who wear short jackets and gay
sashes, and their social relations are unpleasant. In (La Fe' (Faith),
1892, an earnest young priest, Gil Lastra, undertakes to convert a
notorious skeptic, Montesinos, and is himself disastrously perverted.
El Origen del Pensamiento) (The Origin of Thought), 1894, appeared
in an English version — much mutilated, however - in an American
magazine. An erratic old man, Don Pantaleón, conceives the notion
that if he can only take off a portion of some one's skull, he can see
the actual process of the secretion of thought, and thus confer great
benefit on the human race. No other victim offering, he kidnaps a
sweet little grandchild of his own; but happily the child is rescued
in time — at the very last moment.
Many, or most, of these books have been translated into several
other languages, and have everywhere met with warm favor. There
are in a few of them incidents and personages treated with a freedom
more approximating that which French, rather than English, writers
allow themselves in certain matters; but it can truthfully be said
that the tone is everywhere one of exemplary morality. Regret and
reproach, not a Aippant levity, are the feelings made to attend the
contemplation of these scenes. Palacio Valdés is particularly happy
in his feminine types; above all, those of young girls just budding
into womanhood. Carmen, Marta, Rosa, Teresa, Maximina, Julita, Ven-
turita, and Sister San Sulpicio may be named; there is one or more
of them in almost every book. These, in their several ways, are all
depicted with a most natural and playful touch; they have the very


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ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS
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11
essence of youth; they have a delicate charm, sensuous yet pure,
and they are not merely pretty to look at, but their talk scintillates
with intelligence. In some respects Valdés's women recall those of
Thomas Hardy, in other respects they are like Turgénieff's. In that
field he is unequaled by any Spanish contemporary.
11
William Henry Bishy
11
2
ME
[The following translations are from the original Spanish, by William Henry
Bishop, for (A Library of the World's Best Literature. ']
It
THE BELLE OF THE VILLAGE STORE
From (Señorito Octavio)
S"
a
1
He had just completed her eighteenth year; her skin was as
white as milk, her hair red as gold. Her mother was
blonde of the same type also, and yet the mother had never
passed for a beauty. Carmen's eyes were blue,- a deep dark
blue, like that of the sea; and one's imagination plunged into
their mysterious depths, and fancied he might find there palaces
of crystal and enchanting gardens, as in the hidden caves of
ocean. It seemed scarcely credible that such a rosebud was the
daughter of that rough pig of a Don Marcelino. While yet a
a
child, they had been wont to call her “The Little Angel. ” She
used to be much put out over it, too, and would run home to
the house weeping when, on the letting out of school, the child-
ren would follow her, giving her this complimentary nickname.
And in fact it would be difficult to imagine anything sweeter,
more charming, in the ethereal unworldly way, than Carmen
had been at twelve years old. On arriving at woman's estate,
the “angel” in her had become somewhat obscured; that celes-
tial epithet had been a little shorn of its accuracy. Yet nothing
had been lost by the change; for to the gloriously pure, sweet
lines of the girlish figure had been added certain terrestrial con-
tours and material roundnesses that became her to a marvel.
I confess a liking for women with this mingling of heaven
and earth; there is nothing that approaches it in thorough fasci-
nation. Hence it has happened to me, not merely once but many
times, in the course of this narration, to fancy, myself throwing
down my pen, and introducing myself among the minor person-
ages of the story, for the pure pleasure of paying court with
1


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ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS
the rest to the lovely daughter of Don Marcelino. Suppose now
that she had not given me the mitten; - anything whatever, you
know, is within the field of supposition, and yet it is a bold one;
for, even apart from the aforesaid winning curves, it was stated
in Vegalora that she had a very pretty fortune of her own. If
Don Marcelino had accepted me for a son-in-law, I should have
been at the present moment a clerk, measuring off cotton or
percale by the yard, or at your service generally for whatever
you might please to command, in his accredited establishment.
In this way I should at any rate have escaped the humiliation and
martyrdom that fall to the lot, in Spain, of the luckless wight
who may, like myself, devote himself to letters or the fine arts
with more liking for them than capacity; though it is true, there
might have fallen upon my head other evils, of a sort from
which I pray heaven to save all of you now and forever, amen!
But then who would have written this veracious history of
Señorito Octavio ? Galdós, Alarcón, and Valera are occupied with
more august matters; and I am certain besides that they have
never even set foot in the shop of Don Marcelino.
While as
for me, in all that relates to Vegalora, and also its district for
six leagues all around, I assert — though this kind of talk may
appear over-bold and conceited to some that there is not another
novelist who is worthy to loose the latchet of my shoe, in respect
of knowing absolutely everything about it.
MARIA'S WAY TO PERFECTION
From Marta y Maria)
0"
NE evening, after the retirement of the family and servants,
mistress and maid were together in Maria's boudoir up in
the tower. Maria was reading by the light of the polished
metal astral lamp, while Genoveva was sitting in another chair
in front of her, knitting a stocking. They would often pass an
hour or two thus before going to bed, the señorita having been
long accustomed to read to the small hours of the morning.
She did not seem so much occupied as usual with her read-
ing; but would frequently put the book on the table and remain
pensive for a while, her cheek resting on her hand. She would
take it up in a hesitating way, but only presently to lay it down
again. It was evident too by the creaking chair, as she often
changed position, that she was nervous. From time to time she


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(
»
would fix upon Genoveva a long gaze, that seemed to betray a
timid and uneasy desire, and a certain inward conflict with some
thought striving for utterance. On the other hand, Genoveva,
that evening, was more engrossed than usual with her stocking;
weaving in among its meshes, no doubt, a multitude of more or
less philosophical considerations that made it desirable for her to
give convulsive nods every now and then, very much as when one
is going to sleep.
At last the señorita concluded to break the silence.
"Genoveva, will you read for me this passage from the life of
St. Isabel ? ” she asked, handing her the book.
“With all the pleasure in the world, señorita. ”
"See, begin here where it says: When her husband) »
Genoveva commenced to read the paragraph to herself, but
Maria quickly interrupted her with -
"No, no: read it aloud. ”
(Thereupon the maid reads a passage of some twenty lines, in the char-
acteristic pious and mystical style of the Bollandist Lives of the Saints. The
gist of it is that the young and lovely princess and saint, Isabel, would pass
ber nights and days in the practice of the most austere penances. Of these
the wearing a hair-cloth shirt, and having herself scourged with the discipline
by her damsels, were a portion. ]
«That will do: you need not read any further.
What do you
think of it ? »
"I have often read the identical story before. ”
“Yes, so you have. But- now what would you think of my
trying to do something of the same kind ? ” she burst forth,
with the impetuosity of one who has decided to give utterance to
a thought with which she has long been preoccupied.
Genoveva stared at her with wide-open eyes, not taking in her
meaning
"Do you not understand ? »
"No, señorita. ”
Maria arose, and throwing her arms around her neck, with face
aflame with blushes, whispered close in her ear:-
"I mean, you silly thing, that if you would consent to do
the office of those damsels of St. Isabel to-night, I for my part
would imitate the saint. ”
« What office ? "
“Oh, you stupid, stupid thing! I mean that of giving me
a few lashes, in commemoration of those that our dear Savior


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ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS
received, and all the saints as well, patterning themselves after
him. ”
“What are you saying, señorita ? What put such a thing in
your head ? »
“I have thought of it because I wish to mortify my flesh,
and humiliate myself, at one and the same time. That is true
penance, and the kind that is most pleasing in the eyes of God,
for the reason that he himself suffered it for us. I have tried
to perform it unaided, but I have not been able to; and besides,
it is not so effective a humiliation as receiving it from the hands
of another. Now you will be so obliging as to gratify this desire
of mine, won't you? ”
"No, señorita, not for anything. I cannot do it. ”
“Why won't you, silly thing? Don't you see that it is for
my good ? If I should fail to deliver myself from some days of
purgatory because you would not do what I ask you, would you
not be troubled with remorse ? »
"But, my heart's dove, how could I make up my mind to
maltreat you, even if it were for your soul's good ? ”
« There is no way for you to get out of it: it is a vow I have
made, and I must fulfill it. You have aided me till now on my
way to virtue: do not abandon me at the most critical moment.
You will not, Genoveva dear; say you will not. ”
“For God's sake, señorita, do not make me do this! »
« Do, do, dearest Genoveva, I beg of you by the love that you
bear me.