Give me thy hand,
Alighieri
!
Krasinski - The Undivine Comedy
Rise, O Sun !
Shine down into these
depths still tenanted by darkness ; throw thy glittering
bridges of rainbows from bank to bank across the white
torrents ! How fresh is the air ! I feel so strong, I see
so far, my sight is so clear and piercing, I know I shall
not miss a single shot to-day. The poor chamois brows-
ing there upon that dizzy cliff will not live till noon !
Dost thou not hear? The shrill horns of our hunters re-
echo through the pines of the mountain. Come ! let us go !
Alighieri. I will remain here.
Young Man. Alighieri, what is the matter with thee
to-day ? Thou hast scarcely spoken to me since sunset.
When we began to climb these rocks at midnight, in
silence didst thou skirt the precipices, using thy hand
only to point out to me their dangers ; and now when the
chase is about to begin, when the trees shiver with the
bayings of our dogs, when the earth, the rocks, and my
131
132
THE ^'FRAGMENT:'
spirit tremble with eagerness, thou hesitatest and hast no
desire to accompany us!
Alighicri. Knowest thou not this is the hour in which
I am accustomed to pray to God ?
Young Man. Then I will wait for thee.
Alighieri. Knowest thou not that I am wont to pray
to the Lord only in solitude?
Young Man. Then tell me at what time I shall return
for thee.
Alighieri. Thou wilt find me this evening in the same
place.
Young Man. I wish to Heaven thou wouldst accom-
pany me ! Come ! 1 cannot fire aright without thee.
We will mount that naked peak where crystals form and
chamois bound. The hunters say the whole world can
be seen from that point : come !
Alighieri. The whole world may be seen from here
also !
Young Man. How ?
Alighieri. By closing our eyes, and humbling our
spirits before the Lord !
Young Man. Hark ! again they wind the horn. Adieu !
Now on, on ! over these abysses, and up those heights, —
up — up, among the clouds ! I am sorry from my heart,
Alighieri, that thou wilt not come with me.
Alighieri. Bend not thus over the precipice, — hold by
the branches ! I can still see, — I see thee, — turn not to-
wards me, — take care there on the edge of the waterfall !
He hears me no longer. He flies like a bird, scarcely
touching earth. In the dawn of existence, the child, agile,
light and careless, sports like the spirits whom Death will
approach no more. But they know the mysteries of being,
and he has scarcely wakened to the consciousness of life !
As the ether which fills the infinite may condense into
dark masses, form brilliant suns, or float as light vapor on
through s])ace, — so may he become all or nothing ; the
Elect of Heaven, or the prey of Hell !
{He raises his hands in prayer. )
Merciful Father ! Thy ways on earth have in our days
grown obscure ! Thy face is veiled in clouds ! ! Men
INTRODUCTION. 133
seek thee anew, and cannot find Thee ! But even now
Thou risest upon the horizon ; Thou increasest ! Why-
do they gaze forever into the heights of Heaven ? Ah,
if they would but look toward their own horizons !
Heavenly Father ! this moment of transition is for
their eyes a fearful twilight ; for their thoughts a dread-
ful temptation ; and for their hearts a terrible grief! If
Thou shortenest it not, many of them must perish !
{He kneels. ')
I pray to Thee, Lord, for him whose soul Thou hast
committed to my charge. Graciously listen to the testi-
mony I bear Thee of him ! Unconsciously, but without
ceasing, his soul strives to break a way to Thy Heaven !
The germ of all beauty, a spark from Thee, burns in
its depths, but the body, like a thick veil, wraps it on all
sides. The spirit over which I watch still seeks Thee
through this fog, O Lord ! . . .
He knows not yet, O God, that thou art also present
within himself; Thou whom he sees above him, whom
he acknowledges below him ; Thou who art everywhere !
Pardon him then, Lord, if he languishes for Thee !
Behold, Lord, I am sad even unto death, for the mo-
ments of his innocence are passing away, — soon must his
heart be torn by the struggle of Good and Evil, — the sole
but bitter source of virtue ! Remember me. Lord ! Show
Thy mercy upon me, by showing Thy pity upon him !
{He bows his forehead to the earth. )
Merciful Father ! I do not pray Thee to remove from
his path any of the cares of life ! I know that, like all
the exiles upon earth who through this world return to
Thee, he, too, must pass through the probation of evil
when the hour of temptation sounds ! Thy will be done !
Strike him with the scourge of grief, that he may be
humbled among men ; let them load him with chains, let
his body suffer martyrdom, if Thou wilt only spare him
the shame of baseness and save him from the eternal
night of the soul ! Let me warn him in these last, fleet-
ing moments !
Let this night obey me ! When in Thy name I shall
command it, let the winds of the valleys and the mists of
12*
134
THE "FRAGMENT:
the torrents gather round me, that I may form them into
ephemeral figures, and breathe my thoughts into a Dream
which will only live until to-morrow's dawn !
But in it will be Thy Eternal Truth and the transitory
truth of this world !
And he whom I love will one day remember Thy
Eternal Truth, — and thou wilt save him, Lord !
{Long silence. ^
Young Man {re-entering). What is this? Still in the
same place, under the same pine, and still at prayer ?
Give me thy hand ! Rise, Alighieri !
Alighieri. Thou, Henry ! So soon returned ?
Young Man. Thou dreamest ! Did I not leave thee
at sunrise? and now that sun sinks in the west, behind
the crest of yonder rocks. " »S<? j<? <? «," indeed ! Since
I left thee, I have thrice crossed the glacier of Hewal-
dyne, been on the very summit of the mountain, and to
the very foot of this ravine. Thrice have I wound the
horn ; thou must have heard it !
Alighieri. True ; it is already sunset !
Young Man. Has the day, then, passed away like a
moment for thee?
Alighieri. Happy he whose life thus flows ; he lives
in eternity ! What has happened to thee, Henry? What
means this blood upon thy breast and on the handle of
thy knife?
Young Man. Alighieri, a little more, and I must have
perished ! This is not the blood of a bounding roe or
innocent chamois. I will tell thee all as we wend our
way below, for I sent the hunters on in advance, and we
must hasten if we would overtake them before night-fall.
Alighieri. I will listen as I follow thee.
Young Man. Hearken, then, and I will tell thee all.
I fire upon a chamois; it falls and rolls to the bottom of
a precipice. I call my Tyrolese, show them the spot, but
they see nothing. Consequently, I must descend myself
to find my prey. Three of them follow me ; we make a
long, winding descent, ever lower and lower, until we
reach a dense wood, a thick forest of pines. But as we
advance we observe something moving in the thicket be-
JNTR OD UCTION.
135
fore us, within range of our bullets, — it may be a deer, a
stag. I look eagerly towards it, but in my haste have
forgotten to reload my gun. I seize a cartridge, but in
this very moment a bear starts from the thicket, stops,
and scents the air. Ah ! he has discovered us ! My men
instantly fire upon him ; their balls only graze his hide ;
rising and roaring, he rushes upon us ! They, crying
loudly upon me to follow, take to flight. Still shouting
as long as breath lasts them, they climb upon the
branches of a tall pine. I know not why I remain alone ;
what possible glory can a man achieve in a wild struggle
with a beast ? I know not why I was ashamed to run.
But my fathers never fled, whether before the wild beast
or upon the field of battle !
I throw away my gun, rapidly tear my knife from my
belt, — it is time, for the velvety king of the forests is
already upon my breast. As if he were human, he clasps
me in his arms ; he buries his claws in my quivering
flesh ! I strike him instantly in the breast ; it avails
not, and again I strike him ! He topples over at the
third blow, bears me with him to the earth, and lies
heavy and dead upon me. Throwing a glance of con-
tempt at my hunters, I leave the skin of my victim to
them in memory of their cowardice.
Alighieri. The Lord has saved thee ; hast thou ren-
dered thanks to him?
Voting Man. Not in words, but truly from my heart.
When I rose, shaking off the bear, and glad to find my-
self still living, I lifted my hands gratefully to Heaven.
Alighieri. There are moments in which the Lord ex-
acts no more.
Voting Man. It is strange that I feel no weariness ; I
am as fresh as I was at sunrise. Look, Alighieri, how
rapidly we descend. We cannot now be far from the
dwellings of man, for here is a young girl passing near
us. Ha ! good-evening, my Beauty ! Do you not hear
me? What do you fear? Do stay, and give me the lily
you bear in your hand !
T/ie Voting Girl {in passing). I will not give it to
you, but to the other !
Voting Man. And wherefore ?
136 THE '' fragment:'
The Young Girl. Because he looks like the white
angel which stands on our great altar to the right of the
Mother of God; but you do not belong to this country,
have never been in our church, and so have never seen
our angel ! {To Aiighieri. ) Good-evening ! I pray you,
sir, accept these flowers !
Alighieri. Tiianks, ray child. May you be happy !
Young Man. I suppose, then, I must be very ugly, fair
maiden ?
The Young Girl. You too are beautiful, but not like
our angel !
{She passes on. ^
Young Man. Give me the half of those flowers ; I will
keep them in memory of the fact that this simple young
girl felt the same impression which I experienced the first
time I saw thee. What she says is true, — very true, — and
it is not only thy face which is so much finer than mine,
but thy high soul, Alighieri. Dost thou remember the
hour in which we first met ? It is as present to me as if
it had been but yesterday.
Alighieri. To me too, Henry, for in that hour I be-
came thy friend.
Young Man. Yes, I still see the old building in whose
halls a thousand of my companions sat, and the professors
wlio instructed us from their high desks. I see the wind-
ing staircase and its embrasure, with its steps of stone, on
which thou first appearedst to me: — am I not right? I
was a proud boy, though still a mere child and very feeble.
I had just left my father's house, and was passing through
the throng of students, with pride upon my brow, for I
felt they hated me, though I knew not why. They crowded
round me, they pressed against me, they nearly stifled
me, they shouted " the little aristocrat," — as if I ought to
blush because I had more than one ancestor who had given
his life for his country and the church in which he was to
repose ! O God ! then first was hell born in my infant
breast ! i clung to the balustrade of iron while they i)ulled
me down by my hands, my feet, and the folds of my
mantle. Perhaps I should have rolled under their feet
hadst thou not then appeared : thou descendedst from
above, as pale, as slight, as thou art to day, but thine eyes
INTRODUCTION.
137
flashed fire ! No one knew thee, but they must have seen
thee from time to time and remembered the expression of
thy brow. Thou gavest a cry ; and they fell from me like
dead leaves !
Give me thy hand, Alighieri ! Ah ! I
can never, never forget that moment !
Alighieri. Thou mayst forget it, Henry ; but never
forget the words then spoken to thee, and the first I ever
addressed to thee !
Young Man. Ah ! I still feel thee embrace me ; I
still hear thy voice : ''They are unjust. Thou must be
more than just ; pardon them in thy soul, and love them
in thy deeds! " Then we descended together, and as
thou passedst through them, thou repeatedst, with a tran-
quil voice : " Shame ! shame ! "
Alighieri. And since that hour we have been insepar-
able !
Young Man. And will be until death ! for since that
hour I have felt thee my superior ; therefore is it I so love
thee.
Alighieri. Thou sayest : ''even until death" ?
Young Man. Yes.
Alighieri. But I must die before thee.
Young Man. Sadden not this tranquil hour with a pre-
sentiment so dark ! Rather let us with full eyes drink in
this softened light ; with full breasts breathe this balmy
air, perfumed by mountain roses. Look at the last rays
of light upon those peaks of snow, at that star rising above
yon crest of rocks ; the smile of God is upon us, — and thou
with me — and I with thee, — what would we more ?
Alighieri. I must, however, repeat it : I will die before
thee.
Young Man. Nay, thou art not kind ! Thou knowest
my father is already dead, — my mother and sister sleep in
the grave, — many of those among whom I grew up left
me long, long ago, — their graves ache for me in our poor
and distant country ! I am alone — the last of my race, —
and thou wilt abandon me, — thou too, Alighieri ! Thou
wilt go there, where it is happier to be ; thou wilt not
remain with me? No, oh, no, Alighieri !
Alighieri. I feel a germ of death in my breast ; but
canst thou only love the living ? My spirit will not die
138
THE "FRAGMENT:
in thee because my body leaves thee. In every heart into
which it passes thought takes new life !
That for which I have prayed, which I have desired,
thou wilt accomplish, — and I have desired that thou
shouldst be a hero among men, an angel among the
celestial spirits !
Looking upon these mountains in this glowing light,
this lovely sky, these trembling stars, wouldst thou not
be glad to stay the course of time? Thou exclaimest,
"How beautiful! " But, Henry, think what a miracle
in this world a soul would be which no mortal could see
without crying: " How beautiful ! "
Give such a bliss to thy Brothers ! Be in their midst a
Master-Work !
Young Man. Art thou thus expressing to me thy last
wishes? Cease, Alighieri, cease! I cannot bear it!
With a breath thou hast dimmed for me the transparency
of these bright skies ; a veil is darkening before my eyes ;
— speak! Where are we ? What can this mean? Were
we not already near the valley ? When at day-break this
morning we passed this place together, I saw somewhere
here, upon our right, a cross, — what can have become of
it?
Alighieri. Follow me !
Young Alan. Knowest thou this place better than I do ?
But look, friend, the moon rises, and she will solve this
mystery.
Alighieri. That is well. Let us wait.
Young Man. By the living God, the more light we
have the more does this country seem utterly unknown to
me! If these mists would only disperse ! — there — far —
far below — is a road which seems to whiten. No — it is
only a belt of fog across the plain. Ho ! Halloo ! Is
there no one there below us ? Halloo ! Answer ! I will
fire my gun ; perhaps some one will hear it.
Alighieri. The mountains hear and reply.
Young Man. Yes, in a voice of thunder. I cannot
imagine how it is possible we could have gone so far
astray. It seems to me we have never ceased to advance
in the right direction, and yet these rocks seem doubling
around us. The very sky has changed ; an ocean of cloud
INTROD UCTION.
139
surges up through the ravine ! It glitters like a motion-
less glacier !
On this side now the vapors rise; they blind, they
stifle me ! My head reels ! I can almost feel the dark-
ness ! Look, Alighieri ! The moon mounts higher, but
tawny and ghastly is her light, painful to look at, and
more perplexing than the darkness ! Alighieri, I cannot
extricate myself from this chaos !
Alighieri. Why, then, dost thou linger? Follow me !
Young Man. Down this steep, narrow gorge to our
left?
Alighieri. Such is my inspiration.
Young Man. Lead me as thou wilt ! I will follow,
seek, wind, climb down below, — do all thou mayst de-
sire ! But all will be in vain ; we are lost, and can do
nothing but wander about until the dawn of day. I have
never seen so strange, so wild, a night. To find the way
now, one must be the supreme master of these solitudes,
or the chamois which rule these rocks !
Ho ! Where art thou ? Answer !
Alighieri. Here ! Near thee !
Young Man. This bewildering fog ! It rises now di-
rectly under my feet ; it darkens my sight ; I cannot see
thee ! Ha ! now it breaks, it sails above and joins its
sister bands on high !
Look, Alighieri ! Is that not an old, long-bearded
king upon his throne, his sceptre in his hand ? After him
comes an immense serpent — no — rather a dragon — no —
now it is a cherub with four great wings. Look down
there ! Oh, far, far down, in the intervale among the
rocks ! there throngs a whole nation of spirits, hastening
to the Last Judgment ! Alighieri, what is this before me ?
Against what have I bruised myself?
Alighieri. It is the gateway of an ancient cemetery.
Young Man. Look at the moon ! It burns like a pale
purgatory of souls above the graves where their bodies rest.
But a moment ago I was so strong, so fresh, light as the
air, and now I am so weary, — so ill at ease, — and I know
not how nor why, unless the old dead here have cast their
spells upon me ! If I do not sit down upon this stone I
believe I will fall asleep.
X40
THE "FRAGMENTS
Alighieri. Lean upon me, Henry.
Young Man. Yes, — for my eyelids close; — I must rest
here !
Alighieri. Come but a few steps farther : only as far
as this White Chapel.
Young Man. I will. We will be more quiet under its
roof than out here in the open air.
A/ighieri. Why do you stop? Goon!
Young Man. Have these mists really blinded me? or
am I asleep ? Is this a dream ?
Alighieri. What seest thou, Henry?
Young Afan. Thy forehead grows strangely livid under
the rays of the moon, — thine eyes look hollow, — thou art
so slight and attenuated, — thou seemest older, older — but
sublime ! Is it really thyself, Alighieri?
Alighieri. It is really I, Henry.
Young Man. The voice alone recalls thee. It seems
to me now that a crown of laurel glitters round thy brow,
that it winds and unwinds, appears and disappears. Leave
me ! I fear thee ! I will go no farther !
Sleep bows me to the earth . . . I am falling . . . let
me fall ! Touch me not, Alighieri ! God is my witness
that I have somewhere seen a face like thine . . . some-
where. . . .
Alighieri. A few steps more !
Young Man. ' Where are we ? Where ?
Ah ! now I know the laurel crown, the strange fire in
the eye brought from other worlds ! This image stands
in the great Hall of my ancestors, under the canopy
strewn thick with silver stars : yes, it is under the green
canopy in my home ! My father told me that in centu-
ries past that man had visited Hell and Purgatory, and
had seen Paradise !
Master ! Master ! whither dost thou lead me?
Alighieri (bearing him into the chapel). Now thou
mayst sleep !
THE DREAM. 1 41
II.
THE DREAM.
It seemed to the young man that the figure of Dante
turned to him, and said : " From that reahii where Love,'
Wisdom, and the Eternal Will abide, thence have they
sent me to show thee the Hell of the present days!
Therefore banish all fear, and whither I go, follow me ! "
Like a pale column the Figure rose, and took its flight
across the night of space, gliding rapidly over nebulous
vapor, and through aerial waves. Sometimes a rapid me-
teor broke flashing under its feet, and here and there gray
dawns awoke, floating away to disappear in the distance.
But the soul of the Young Man was overwhelmed with
sadness, for it knew not whither it was going, and it went
into the Infinite : — and it felt it was the Infinite of Evil !
The Figure stopped upon the summit of a mountain,
and it appeared to the Young Man that*they com-
menced to descend within its bosom. The darkness
yielded by degrees, and where the way could be dis-
cerned, it appeared bordered on either side by walls cut
in the solid rock ; the most terrific passes were scarcely
penetrated by the doubtful twilight, and on the right and
the left, all along the rocky parapet, were ranged soldiers,
all arrayed in the same costume, all of the same height,
all alike in the expression of their features, all in per-
petual motion, sometimes leaning forward, and sometimes
standing erect ; all engaged in the same monotonous oc-
cupation of sedulously polishing the barrels of the mus-
kets, which all held in their hands. Light as a sigh, the
hand of the Shade swept the eyelids of the Young Man
as he said : "Look ! this is truly the entrance of the Hell
of Earth ! " And instantly he saw the Souls of the Sol-
diers, bent half-way out of their bodies, into which they
could return no more, and from which they could not
tear themselves away. And in their agony they cried :
" We can neither live nor die, — we must forever go where
they order us, — order us against God, and we go, —
13
142
THE ''FRAGMENTS
against our brothers, and we go :" — and their tears were
unquenchable! The Shade stopped and said: "Who
are you, and'what is your name? " But the souls of all
those bodies answered nothing. " Where is your coun-
try?
depths still tenanted by darkness ; throw thy glittering
bridges of rainbows from bank to bank across the white
torrents ! How fresh is the air ! I feel so strong, I see
so far, my sight is so clear and piercing, I know I shall
not miss a single shot to-day. The poor chamois brows-
ing there upon that dizzy cliff will not live till noon !
Dost thou not hear? The shrill horns of our hunters re-
echo through the pines of the mountain. Come ! let us go !
Alighieri. I will remain here.
Young Man. Alighieri, what is the matter with thee
to-day ? Thou hast scarcely spoken to me since sunset.
When we began to climb these rocks at midnight, in
silence didst thou skirt the precipices, using thy hand
only to point out to me their dangers ; and now when the
chase is about to begin, when the trees shiver with the
bayings of our dogs, when the earth, the rocks, and my
131
132
THE ^'FRAGMENT:'
spirit tremble with eagerness, thou hesitatest and hast no
desire to accompany us!
Alighicri. Knowest thou not this is the hour in which
I am accustomed to pray to God ?
Young Man. Then I will wait for thee.
Alighieri. Knowest thou not that I am wont to pray
to the Lord only in solitude?
Young Man. Then tell me at what time I shall return
for thee.
Alighieri. Thou wilt find me this evening in the same
place.
Young Man. I wish to Heaven thou wouldst accom-
pany me ! Come ! 1 cannot fire aright without thee.
We will mount that naked peak where crystals form and
chamois bound. The hunters say the whole world can
be seen from that point : come !
Alighieri. The whole world may be seen from here
also !
Young Man. How ?
Alighieri. By closing our eyes, and humbling our
spirits before the Lord !
Young Man. Hark ! again they wind the horn. Adieu !
Now on, on ! over these abysses, and up those heights, —
up — up, among the clouds ! I am sorry from my heart,
Alighieri, that thou wilt not come with me.
Alighieri. Bend not thus over the precipice, — hold by
the branches ! I can still see, — I see thee, — turn not to-
wards me, — take care there on the edge of the waterfall !
He hears me no longer. He flies like a bird, scarcely
touching earth. In the dawn of existence, the child, agile,
light and careless, sports like the spirits whom Death will
approach no more. But they know the mysteries of being,
and he has scarcely wakened to the consciousness of life !
As the ether which fills the infinite may condense into
dark masses, form brilliant suns, or float as light vapor on
through s])ace, — so may he become all or nothing ; the
Elect of Heaven, or the prey of Hell !
{He raises his hands in prayer. )
Merciful Father ! Thy ways on earth have in our days
grown obscure ! Thy face is veiled in clouds ! ! Men
INTRODUCTION. 133
seek thee anew, and cannot find Thee ! But even now
Thou risest upon the horizon ; Thou increasest ! Why-
do they gaze forever into the heights of Heaven ? Ah,
if they would but look toward their own horizons !
Heavenly Father ! this moment of transition is for
their eyes a fearful twilight ; for their thoughts a dread-
ful temptation ; and for their hearts a terrible grief! If
Thou shortenest it not, many of them must perish !
{He kneels. ')
I pray to Thee, Lord, for him whose soul Thou hast
committed to my charge. Graciously listen to the testi-
mony I bear Thee of him ! Unconsciously, but without
ceasing, his soul strives to break a way to Thy Heaven !
The germ of all beauty, a spark from Thee, burns in
its depths, but the body, like a thick veil, wraps it on all
sides. The spirit over which I watch still seeks Thee
through this fog, O Lord ! . . .
He knows not yet, O God, that thou art also present
within himself; Thou whom he sees above him, whom
he acknowledges below him ; Thou who art everywhere !
Pardon him then, Lord, if he languishes for Thee !
Behold, Lord, I am sad even unto death, for the mo-
ments of his innocence are passing away, — soon must his
heart be torn by the struggle of Good and Evil, — the sole
but bitter source of virtue ! Remember me. Lord ! Show
Thy mercy upon me, by showing Thy pity upon him !
{He bows his forehead to the earth. )
Merciful Father ! I do not pray Thee to remove from
his path any of the cares of life ! I know that, like all
the exiles upon earth who through this world return to
Thee, he, too, must pass through the probation of evil
when the hour of temptation sounds ! Thy will be done !
Strike him with the scourge of grief, that he may be
humbled among men ; let them load him with chains, let
his body suffer martyrdom, if Thou wilt only spare him
the shame of baseness and save him from the eternal
night of the soul ! Let me warn him in these last, fleet-
ing moments !
Let this night obey me ! When in Thy name I shall
command it, let the winds of the valleys and the mists of
12*
134
THE "FRAGMENT:
the torrents gather round me, that I may form them into
ephemeral figures, and breathe my thoughts into a Dream
which will only live until to-morrow's dawn !
But in it will be Thy Eternal Truth and the transitory
truth of this world !
And he whom I love will one day remember Thy
Eternal Truth, — and thou wilt save him, Lord !
{Long silence. ^
Young Man {re-entering). What is this? Still in the
same place, under the same pine, and still at prayer ?
Give me thy hand ! Rise, Alighieri !
Alighieri. Thou, Henry ! So soon returned ?
Young Man. Thou dreamest ! Did I not leave thee
at sunrise? and now that sun sinks in the west, behind
the crest of yonder rocks. " »S<? j<? <? «," indeed ! Since
I left thee, I have thrice crossed the glacier of Hewal-
dyne, been on the very summit of the mountain, and to
the very foot of this ravine. Thrice have I wound the
horn ; thou must have heard it !
Alighieri. True ; it is already sunset !
Young Man. Has the day, then, passed away like a
moment for thee?
Alighieri. Happy he whose life thus flows ; he lives
in eternity ! What has happened to thee, Henry? What
means this blood upon thy breast and on the handle of
thy knife?
Young Man. Alighieri, a little more, and I must have
perished ! This is not the blood of a bounding roe or
innocent chamois. I will tell thee all as we wend our
way below, for I sent the hunters on in advance, and we
must hasten if we would overtake them before night-fall.
Alighieri. I will listen as I follow thee.
Young Man. Hearken, then, and I will tell thee all.
I fire upon a chamois; it falls and rolls to the bottom of
a precipice. I call my Tyrolese, show them the spot, but
they see nothing. Consequently, I must descend myself
to find my prey. Three of them follow me ; we make a
long, winding descent, ever lower and lower, until we
reach a dense wood, a thick forest of pines. But as we
advance we observe something moving in the thicket be-
JNTR OD UCTION.
135
fore us, within range of our bullets, — it may be a deer, a
stag. I look eagerly towards it, but in my haste have
forgotten to reload my gun. I seize a cartridge, but in
this very moment a bear starts from the thicket, stops,
and scents the air. Ah ! he has discovered us ! My men
instantly fire upon him ; their balls only graze his hide ;
rising and roaring, he rushes upon us ! They, crying
loudly upon me to follow, take to flight. Still shouting
as long as breath lasts them, they climb upon the
branches of a tall pine. I know not why I remain alone ;
what possible glory can a man achieve in a wild struggle
with a beast ? I know not why I was ashamed to run.
But my fathers never fled, whether before the wild beast
or upon the field of battle !
I throw away my gun, rapidly tear my knife from my
belt, — it is time, for the velvety king of the forests is
already upon my breast. As if he were human, he clasps
me in his arms ; he buries his claws in my quivering
flesh ! I strike him instantly in the breast ; it avails
not, and again I strike him ! He topples over at the
third blow, bears me with him to the earth, and lies
heavy and dead upon me. Throwing a glance of con-
tempt at my hunters, I leave the skin of my victim to
them in memory of their cowardice.
Alighieri. The Lord has saved thee ; hast thou ren-
dered thanks to him?
Voting Man. Not in words, but truly from my heart.
When I rose, shaking off the bear, and glad to find my-
self still living, I lifted my hands gratefully to Heaven.
Alighieri. There are moments in which the Lord ex-
acts no more.
Voting Man. It is strange that I feel no weariness ; I
am as fresh as I was at sunrise. Look, Alighieri, how
rapidly we descend. We cannot now be far from the
dwellings of man, for here is a young girl passing near
us. Ha ! good-evening, my Beauty ! Do you not hear
me? What do you fear? Do stay, and give me the lily
you bear in your hand !
T/ie Voting Girl {in passing). I will not give it to
you, but to the other !
Voting Man. And wherefore ?
136 THE '' fragment:'
The Young Girl. Because he looks like the white
angel which stands on our great altar to the right of the
Mother of God; but you do not belong to this country,
have never been in our church, and so have never seen
our angel ! {To Aiighieri. ) Good-evening ! I pray you,
sir, accept these flowers !
Alighieri. Tiianks, ray child. May you be happy !
Young Man. I suppose, then, I must be very ugly, fair
maiden ?
The Young Girl. You too are beautiful, but not like
our angel !
{She passes on. ^
Young Man. Give me the half of those flowers ; I will
keep them in memory of the fact that this simple young
girl felt the same impression which I experienced the first
time I saw thee. What she says is true, — very true, — and
it is not only thy face which is so much finer than mine,
but thy high soul, Alighieri. Dost thou remember the
hour in which we first met ? It is as present to me as if
it had been but yesterday.
Alighieri. To me too, Henry, for in that hour I be-
came thy friend.
Young Man. Yes, I still see the old building in whose
halls a thousand of my companions sat, and the professors
wlio instructed us from their high desks. I see the wind-
ing staircase and its embrasure, with its steps of stone, on
which thou first appearedst to me: — am I not right? I
was a proud boy, though still a mere child and very feeble.
I had just left my father's house, and was passing through
the throng of students, with pride upon my brow, for I
felt they hated me, though I knew not why. They crowded
round me, they pressed against me, they nearly stifled
me, they shouted " the little aristocrat," — as if I ought to
blush because I had more than one ancestor who had given
his life for his country and the church in which he was to
repose ! O God ! then first was hell born in my infant
breast ! i clung to the balustrade of iron while they i)ulled
me down by my hands, my feet, and the folds of my
mantle. Perhaps I should have rolled under their feet
hadst thou not then appeared : thou descendedst from
above, as pale, as slight, as thou art to day, but thine eyes
INTRODUCTION.
137
flashed fire ! No one knew thee, but they must have seen
thee from time to time and remembered the expression of
thy brow. Thou gavest a cry ; and they fell from me like
dead leaves !
Give me thy hand, Alighieri ! Ah ! I
can never, never forget that moment !
Alighieri. Thou mayst forget it, Henry ; but never
forget the words then spoken to thee, and the first I ever
addressed to thee !
Young Man. Ah ! I still feel thee embrace me ; I
still hear thy voice : ''They are unjust. Thou must be
more than just ; pardon them in thy soul, and love them
in thy deeds! " Then we descended together, and as
thou passedst through them, thou repeatedst, with a tran-
quil voice : " Shame ! shame ! "
Alighieri. And since that hour we have been insepar-
able !
Young Man. And will be until death ! for since that
hour I have felt thee my superior ; therefore is it I so love
thee.
Alighieri. Thou sayest : ''even until death" ?
Young Man. Yes.
Alighieri. But I must die before thee.
Young Man. Sadden not this tranquil hour with a pre-
sentiment so dark ! Rather let us with full eyes drink in
this softened light ; with full breasts breathe this balmy
air, perfumed by mountain roses. Look at the last rays
of light upon those peaks of snow, at that star rising above
yon crest of rocks ; the smile of God is upon us, — and thou
with me — and I with thee, — what would we more ?
Alighieri. I must, however, repeat it : I will die before
thee.
Young Man. Nay, thou art not kind ! Thou knowest
my father is already dead, — my mother and sister sleep in
the grave, — many of those among whom I grew up left
me long, long ago, — their graves ache for me in our poor
and distant country ! I am alone — the last of my race, —
and thou wilt abandon me, — thou too, Alighieri ! Thou
wilt go there, where it is happier to be ; thou wilt not
remain with me? No, oh, no, Alighieri !
Alighieri. I feel a germ of death in my breast ; but
canst thou only love the living ? My spirit will not die
138
THE "FRAGMENT:
in thee because my body leaves thee. In every heart into
which it passes thought takes new life !
That for which I have prayed, which I have desired,
thou wilt accomplish, — and I have desired that thou
shouldst be a hero among men, an angel among the
celestial spirits !
Looking upon these mountains in this glowing light,
this lovely sky, these trembling stars, wouldst thou not
be glad to stay the course of time? Thou exclaimest,
"How beautiful! " But, Henry, think what a miracle
in this world a soul would be which no mortal could see
without crying: " How beautiful ! "
Give such a bliss to thy Brothers ! Be in their midst a
Master-Work !
Young Man. Art thou thus expressing to me thy last
wishes? Cease, Alighieri, cease! I cannot bear it!
With a breath thou hast dimmed for me the transparency
of these bright skies ; a veil is darkening before my eyes ;
— speak! Where are we ? What can this mean? Were
we not already near the valley ? When at day-break this
morning we passed this place together, I saw somewhere
here, upon our right, a cross, — what can have become of
it?
Alighieri. Follow me !
Young Alan. Knowest thou this place better than I do ?
But look, friend, the moon rises, and she will solve this
mystery.
Alighieri. That is well. Let us wait.
Young Man. By the living God, the more light we
have the more does this country seem utterly unknown to
me! If these mists would only disperse ! — there — far —
far below — is a road which seems to whiten. No — it is
only a belt of fog across the plain. Ho ! Halloo ! Is
there no one there below us ? Halloo ! Answer ! I will
fire my gun ; perhaps some one will hear it.
Alighieri. The mountains hear and reply.
Young Man. Yes, in a voice of thunder. I cannot
imagine how it is possible we could have gone so far
astray. It seems to me we have never ceased to advance
in the right direction, and yet these rocks seem doubling
around us. The very sky has changed ; an ocean of cloud
INTROD UCTION.
139
surges up through the ravine ! It glitters like a motion-
less glacier !
On this side now the vapors rise; they blind, they
stifle me ! My head reels ! I can almost feel the dark-
ness ! Look, Alighieri ! The moon mounts higher, but
tawny and ghastly is her light, painful to look at, and
more perplexing than the darkness ! Alighieri, I cannot
extricate myself from this chaos !
Alighieri. Why, then, dost thou linger? Follow me !
Young Man. Down this steep, narrow gorge to our
left?
Alighieri. Such is my inspiration.
Young Man. Lead me as thou wilt ! I will follow,
seek, wind, climb down below, — do all thou mayst de-
sire ! But all will be in vain ; we are lost, and can do
nothing but wander about until the dawn of day. I have
never seen so strange, so wild, a night. To find the way
now, one must be the supreme master of these solitudes,
or the chamois which rule these rocks !
Ho ! Where art thou ? Answer !
Alighieri. Here ! Near thee !
Young Man. This bewildering fog ! It rises now di-
rectly under my feet ; it darkens my sight ; I cannot see
thee ! Ha ! now it breaks, it sails above and joins its
sister bands on high !
Look, Alighieri ! Is that not an old, long-bearded
king upon his throne, his sceptre in his hand ? After him
comes an immense serpent — no — rather a dragon — no —
now it is a cherub with four great wings. Look down
there ! Oh, far, far down, in the intervale among the
rocks ! there throngs a whole nation of spirits, hastening
to the Last Judgment ! Alighieri, what is this before me ?
Against what have I bruised myself?
Alighieri. It is the gateway of an ancient cemetery.
Young Man. Look at the moon ! It burns like a pale
purgatory of souls above the graves where their bodies rest.
But a moment ago I was so strong, so fresh, light as the
air, and now I am so weary, — so ill at ease, — and I know
not how nor why, unless the old dead here have cast their
spells upon me ! If I do not sit down upon this stone I
believe I will fall asleep.
X40
THE "FRAGMENTS
Alighieri. Lean upon me, Henry.
Young Man. Yes, — for my eyelids close; — I must rest
here !
Alighieri. Come but a few steps farther : only as far
as this White Chapel.
Young Man. I will. We will be more quiet under its
roof than out here in the open air.
A/ighieri. Why do you stop? Goon!
Young Man. Have these mists really blinded me? or
am I asleep ? Is this a dream ?
Alighieri. What seest thou, Henry?
Young Afan. Thy forehead grows strangely livid under
the rays of the moon, — thine eyes look hollow, — thou art
so slight and attenuated, — thou seemest older, older — but
sublime ! Is it really thyself, Alighieri?
Alighieri. It is really I, Henry.
Young Man. The voice alone recalls thee. It seems
to me now that a crown of laurel glitters round thy brow,
that it winds and unwinds, appears and disappears. Leave
me ! I fear thee ! I will go no farther !
Sleep bows me to the earth . . . I am falling . . . let
me fall ! Touch me not, Alighieri ! God is my witness
that I have somewhere seen a face like thine . . . some-
where. . . .
Alighieri. A few steps more !
Young Man. ' Where are we ? Where ?
Ah ! now I know the laurel crown, the strange fire in
the eye brought from other worlds ! This image stands
in the great Hall of my ancestors, under the canopy
strewn thick with silver stars : yes, it is under the green
canopy in my home ! My father told me that in centu-
ries past that man had visited Hell and Purgatory, and
had seen Paradise !
Master ! Master ! whither dost thou lead me?
Alighieri (bearing him into the chapel). Now thou
mayst sleep !
THE DREAM. 1 41
II.
THE DREAM.
It seemed to the young man that the figure of Dante
turned to him, and said : " From that reahii where Love,'
Wisdom, and the Eternal Will abide, thence have they
sent me to show thee the Hell of the present days!
Therefore banish all fear, and whither I go, follow me ! "
Like a pale column the Figure rose, and took its flight
across the night of space, gliding rapidly over nebulous
vapor, and through aerial waves. Sometimes a rapid me-
teor broke flashing under its feet, and here and there gray
dawns awoke, floating away to disappear in the distance.
But the soul of the Young Man was overwhelmed with
sadness, for it knew not whither it was going, and it went
into the Infinite : — and it felt it was the Infinite of Evil !
The Figure stopped upon the summit of a mountain,
and it appeared to the Young Man that*they com-
menced to descend within its bosom. The darkness
yielded by degrees, and where the way could be dis-
cerned, it appeared bordered on either side by walls cut
in the solid rock ; the most terrific passes were scarcely
penetrated by the doubtful twilight, and on the right and
the left, all along the rocky parapet, were ranged soldiers,
all arrayed in the same costume, all of the same height,
all alike in the expression of their features, all in per-
petual motion, sometimes leaning forward, and sometimes
standing erect ; all engaged in the same monotonous oc-
cupation of sedulously polishing the barrels of the mus-
kets, which all held in their hands. Light as a sigh, the
hand of the Shade swept the eyelids of the Young Man
as he said : "Look ! this is truly the entrance of the Hell
of Earth ! " And instantly he saw the Souls of the Sol-
diers, bent half-way out of their bodies, into which they
could return no more, and from which they could not
tear themselves away. And in their agony they cried :
" We can neither live nor die, — we must forever go where
they order us, — order us against God, and we go, —
13
142
THE ''FRAGMENTS
against our brothers, and we go :" — and their tears were
unquenchable! The Shade stopped and said: "Who
are you, and'what is your name? " But the souls of all
those bodies answered nothing. " Where is your coun-
try?
