Part 31

A little later he again inquired the time, and crossing his hands on his breast, in a faint voice he called Malivoire and tried to speak to him. But Malivoire could not catch the words he muttered.

Then the death-rattle began, and lasted till morn....

A candle lighted up the room.

It burnt slowly, it lighted up the four white walls on which the coarse ochre paint of the door and of the two cupboards cut a sharp contrast....

On the iron bedstead with its dimity curtains, a sheet lay thrown over a motionless body, molding the form as wet linen might do, indicating with the inflexibility of an immutable line the rigidity, from the tip of the toes to the sharp outline of the face, of what it covered.

Near a white wooden table Malivoire, seated in a large wicker arm-chair, watched and dozed, half slumbering and yet not quite asleep.

In the silence of the room nothing could be heard but the ticking of the dead man's watch.

From behind the door something seemed gently to move and advance, the key turned in the lock, and Sister Philomene stood beside the bed. Without looking at Malivoire, without seeing him, she knelt down and prayed in the attitude of a kneeling marble statue; and the folds of her gown were as motionless as the sheet that covered the dead man.

At the end of a quarter of an hour she rose, walked away without once looking round, and disappeared.

The next day, awaking at the hollow sound of the coffin knocking against the narrow stairs, Malivoire vaguely recalled the night's apparition, and wondered if he had dreamed it; and going mechanically up to the table by the bedside, he sought for the lock of hair he had cut off for Barnier's mother: the lock of hair had vanished.

THE AWAKENING

From 'Renee Mauperin'

A little stage had been erected at the end of the Mauperins' drawing-room. The footlights were hidden behind a screen of foliage and flowering shrubs. Renee, with the help of her drawing-master, had painted the curtain, which represented a view on the banks of the Seine. On either side of the stage hung a bill, on which were these words, written by hand:--

LA BRICHE THEATRE THIS EVENING,

'THE CAPRICE,'

To conclude with 'HARLEQUIN, A BIGAMIST.'

And then followed the names of the actors.

On all the chairs in the house, which had been seized and arranged in rows before the stage, women in low gowns were squeezed together, mixing their skirts, their lace, the sparkle of their diamonds, and the whiteness of their shoulders. The folding doors of the drawing-room had been taken down, and showed, in the little drawing-room which led to the dining-room, a crowd of men in white neckties, standing on tiptoe.

The curtain rose upon 'The Caprice.' Renee played with much spirit the part of Madame de Lery. Henry, as the husband, revealed one of those real theatrical talents which are often found in cold young men and in grave men of the world. Naomi herself--carried away by Henry's acting, carefully prompted by Denoisel from behind the scenes, a little intoxicated by her audience--played her little part of a neglected wife very tolerably. This was a great relief to Madame Bourjot. Seated in the front row, she had followed her daughter with anxiety. Her pride dreaded a failure. The curtain fell, the applause burst out, and all the company were called for. Her daughter had not been ridiculous; she was happy in this great success, and she composedly gave herself up to the speeches, opinions, congratulations, which, as in all representations of private theatricals, followed the applause and continued in murmurs. Amidst all that she thus vaguely heard, one sentence, pronounced close by her, reached her ears clear and distinct above the buzz of general conversation:--"Yes, it is his sister, I know; but I think that for the part he is not sufficiently in love with her, and really too much in love with his wife: did you notice it?" And the speaker, feeling that she was being overheard by Madame Bourjot, leaned over and whispered in her neighbor's ear. Madame Bourjot became serious.

After a pause the curtain went up again, and Henry Mauperin appeared as Pierrot or Harlequin, not in the traditional sack of white calico and black cap, but as an Italian harlequin, with a white three-cornered hat, and dressed entirely in white satin from head to foot. A shiver of interest ran through the women, proving that the costume and the man were both charming; and the folly began.

It was the mad story of Pierrot, married to one woman and wishing to marry another; a farce intermingled with passion, which had been unearthed by a playwright, with the help of a poet, from a collection of old comic plays. Renee this time acted the part of the neglected woman, who in various disguises interfered between her husband and his gallant adventures, and Naomi that of the woman he loved. Henry, in his scenes of love with the latter, carried all before him. He played with youth, with brilliancy, with excitement. In the scene in which he avows his love, his voice was full of the passionate cry of a declaration which overflows and swamps everything. True, he had to act with the prettiest Columbine in the world: Naomi looked delicious that evening in her bridal costume of Louis XVI., copied exactly from the 'Bride's Minuet,' a print by Debucourt, which Barousse had lent for the purpose.

A sort of enchantment filled the whole room, and reached Madame Bourjot; a sort of sympathetic complicity with the actors seemed to encourage the pretty couple to love one another. The piece went on. Now and again Henry's eyes seemed to look for those of Madame Bourjot, over the footlights. Meanwhile, Renee appeared disguised as the village bailiff; it only remained to sign the contract; Pierrot, taking the hand of the woman he loved, began to tell her of all the happiness he was going to have with her.

The woman who sat next to Madame Bourjot felt her lean somewhat on her shoulder. Henry finished his speech, the piece disentangled itself and came to an end. All at once Madame Bourjot's neighbor saw something glide down her arm; it was Madame Bourjot, who had just fainted.

* * * * *

"Oh, do pray go indoors," said Madame Bourjot to the people who were standing around her. She had been carried into the garden. "It is past now; it is really nothing; it was only the heat." She was quite pale, but she smiled. "I only want a little air. Let M. Henry only stay with me."

The audience retired. Scarcely had the sound of feet died away, when--"You love her!" said Madame Bourjot, seizing Henry's arm as though she were taking him prisoner with her feverish hands; "you love her!"

"Madame--" said Henry.

"Hold your tongue! you lie!" And she threw his arm from her. Henry bowed.--"I know all. I have seen all. But look at me!" and with her eyes she closely scanned his face. Henry stood before her, his head bent.--"At least speak to me! You can speak, at any rate! Ah, I see it,--you can only act in her company!"

"I have nothing to say to you, Laura," said Henry in his softest and clearest voice. Madame Bourjot started at this name of Laura as though he had touched her. "I have struggled for a year, madame," began Henry; "I have no excuse to make. But my heart is fast. We knew each other as children. The charm has grown day by day. I am very unhappy, madame, at having to acknowledge the truth to you. I love your daughter, that is true."

"But have you ever spoken to her? I blush for her when there are people there! Have you ever looked at her? Do you think her pretty? What possesses you men? Come! I am better-looking than she is! You men are fools. And besides, my friend, I have spoiled you. Go to her and ask her to caress your pride, to tickle your vanity, to flatter and to serve your ambitions,--for you are ambitious: I know you! Ah, M. Mauperin, one can only find that once in a lifetime! And it is only women of my age, old women like me,--do you hear me?--who love the future of the people whom they love! You were not my lover, you were my grandchild!" And at this word, her voice sounded as though it came from the bottom of her heart. Then immediately changing her tone--"But don't be foolish! I tell you you don't really love my daughter; it is not true: she is rich!"

"O madame!"

"Good gracious! there are lots of people. They have been pointed out to me. It pays sometimes to begin with the mother and finish with the dower. And a million, you know, will gild a good many pills."

"Speak lower, I implore--for your own sake: some one has just opened a window."

"Calmness is very fine, M. Mauperin, very fine, very fine," repeated Madame Bourjot. And her low, hissing voice seemed to stifle her.

Clouds were scudding across the sky, and passed over the moon looking like huge bats' wings. Madame Bourjot gazed fixedly into the darkness, straight in front of her. Her elbows resting on her knees, her weight thrown on to her heels, she was beating with the points of her satin shoes the gravel of the path. After a few minutes she sat upright, stretched out her arms two or three times wildly and as though but half awake; then, hastily and with jerks, she pushed her hand down between her gown and her waistband, pressing her hand against the ribbon as though she would break it. Then she rose and began to walk. Henry followed her.

"I intend, sir, that we shall never see each other again," she said to him, without turning round.

As they passed near the basin, she handed him her handkerchief:--

"Wet that for me."

Henry put one knee on the margin and gave her back the lace, which he had moistened. She laid it on her forehead and on her eyes. "Now let us go in," she said; "give me your arm."

"Oh, dear madame, what courage!" said Madame Mauperin, going to meet Madame Bourjot as she entered; "but it is unwise of you. Let me order your carriage."

"On no account," answered Madame Bourjot hastily: "I thank you. I promised that I would sing for you, I think. I am going to sing."

And Madame Bourjot advanced to the piano, graceful and valiant, with the heroic smile on her face wherewith the actors of society hide from the public the tears that they shed within themselves, and the wounds which are only known to their own hearts.

EDMUND GOSSE

(1849-)

Edmund William Gosse, or Edmund Gosse, to give him the name he has of late years adopted, is a Londoner, the son of P.H. Gosse, an English zoologist of repute. His education did not embrace the collegiate training, but he was brought up amid cultured surroundings, read largely, and when but eighteen was appointed an assistant librarian in the British Museum, at the age of twenty-six receiving the position of translator to the Board of Trade. Gosse is a good example of the cultivated man of letters who fitted himself thoroughly for his profession, though lacking the formal scholastic drill of the university.

He began as a very young man to write for the leading English periodicals, contributing papers and occasional poems to the Saturday Review, Academy, and Cornhill Magazine, and soon gaining critical recognition. In 1872 and 1874 he traveled in Scandinavia and Holland, making literary studies which bore fruit in one of his best critical works. He made his literary bow when twenty-one with the volume 'Madrigals, Songs, and Sonnets' (1870), which was well received, winning praise from Tennyson. His essential qualities as a verse-writer appear in it: elegance and care of workmanship, close study of nature, felicity in phrasing, and a marked tendency to draw on literary culture for subject and reference. Other works of poetry, 'On Viol and Flute' (1873), 'New Poems' (1879), 'Firdausi in Exile' (1885), 'In Russet and Gold' (1894), with the dramas 'King Erik' (1876) and 'The Unknown Lover' (1878), show an increasingly firm technique and a broadening of outlook, with some loss of the happy singing quality which characterized the first volume. Gosse as a poet may be described as a lyrist with attractive descriptive powers. Together with his fellow poets Lang and Dobson, he revived in English verse the old French metrical forms, such as the roundel, triolet, and ballade, and he has been very receptive to the new in literary form and thought, while keeping a firm grip on the classic models.

As an essayist, Gosse is one of the most accomplished and agreeable of modern English writers; he has comprehensive culture and catholic sympathy, and commands a picturesque style, graceful and rich without being florid. His 'Studies in the Literature of Northern Europe' (1879) introduced Ibsen and other little-known foreign writers to British readers.

Gosse has been a thorough student of English literature prior to the nineteenth century, and has made a specialty of the literary history of the eighteenth century, his series of books in this field including--'Seventeenth-Century Studies' (1883), 'From Shakespeare to Pope' (1885), 'The Literature of the Eighteenth Century' (1889), 'The Jacobean Poets' (1894), to which may be added the volume of contemporaneous studies 'Critical Kit-Kats' (1896). Some of these books are based on the lectures delivered by Gosse as Clark Lecturer at Trinity College, Cambridge. He has also written biographies of Sir Walter Raleigh and Congreve, and his 'Life of Thomas Gray' (1882) and 'Works of Thomas Gray' (1884) comprise the best edition and setting-forth of that poet. In such labors as that of the editing of Heinemann's 'International Library,' his influence has been salutary in the popularization of the best literature of the world. His interest in Ibsen led him to translate, in collaboration with William Archer, the dramatic critic of London, the Norwegian's play 'The Master Builder.'

Edmund Gosse, as editor, translator, critic, and poet, has done varied and excellent work. Sensitive to many literatures, and to good literature everywhere, he has remained stanchly English in spirit, and has combined scholarship with popular qualities of presentation. He has thus contributed not a little to the furtherance of literature in England.

[The poems are all taken from 'On Viol and Flute,' published by Henry Holt & Co., New York.]

FEBRUARY IN ROME

When Roman fields are red with cyclamen, And in the palace gardens you may find, Under great leaves and sheltering briony-bind, Clusters of cream-white violets, oh then The ruined city of immortal men Must smile, a little to her fate resigned, And through her corridors the slow warm wind Gush harmonies beyond a mortal ken. Such soft favonian airs upon a flute, Such shadowy censers burning live perfume, Shall lead the mystic city to her tomb; Nor flowerless springs, nor autumns without fruit, Nor summer mornings when the winds are mute, Trouble her soul till Rome be no more Rome.

DESIDERIUM

Sit there for ever, dear, and lean In marble as in fleeting flesh, Above the tall gray reeds that screen The river when the breeze is fresh; For ever let the morning light Stream down that forehead broad and white, And round that cheek for my delight.

Already that flushed moment grows So dark, so distant: through the ranks Of scented reed the river flows, Still murmuring to its willowy banks; But we can never hope to share Again that rapture fond and rare, Unless you turn immortal there.

There is no other way to hold These webs of mingled joy and pain; Like gossamer their threads enfold The journeying heart without a strain,-- Then break, and pass in cloud or dew, And while the ecstatic soul goes through, Are withered in the parching blue.

Hold, Time, a little while thy glass. And Youth, fold up those peacock wings! More rapture fills the years that pass Than any hope the future brings; Some for to-morrow rashly pray, And some desire to hold to-day, But I am sick for yesterday.

Since yesterday the hills were blue That shall be gray for evermore, And the fair sunset was shot through With color never seen before! Tyrannic Love smiled yesterday, And lost the terrors of his sway, But is a god again to-day.

Ah, who will give us back the past? Ah woe, that youth should love to be Like this swift Thames that speeds so fast, And is so fain to find the sea,-- That leaves this maze of shadow and sleep, These creeks down which blown blossoms creep, For breakers of the homeless deep.

Then sit for ever, dear, in stone, As when you turned with half a smile, And I will haunt this islet lone, And with a dream my tears beguile; And in my reverie forget That stars and suns were made to set; That love grows cold, or eyes are wet.

LYING IN THE GRASS

Between two golden tufts of summer grass, I see the world through hot air as through glass, And by my face sweet lights and colors pass.

Before me dark against the fading sky, I watch three mowers mowing, as I lie: With brawny arms they sweep in harmony.

Brown English faces by the sun burnt red, Rich glowing color on bare throat and head,-- My heart would leap to watch them, were I dead!

And in my strong young living as I lie, I seem to move with them in harmony,-- A fourth is mowing, and the fourth am I.

The music of the scythes that glide and leap, The young men whistling as their great arms sweep, And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep,

The weary butterflies that droop their wings, The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings, And all the lassitude of happy things,

Is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood, That gushes through my veins a languid flood, And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud.

Behind the mowers, on the amber air, A dark-green beech wood rises, still and fair, A white path winding up it like a stair.

And see that girl, with pitcher on her head, And clean white apron on her gown of red,-- Her evensong of love is but half said:

She waits the youngest mower. Now he goes; Her cheeks are redder than a wild blush-rose; They climb up where the deepest shadows close.

But though they pass, and vanish, I am there. I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair; Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer.

Ah! now the rosy children come to play, And romp and struggle with the new-mown hay; Their clear, high voices sound from far away.

They know so little why the world is sad; They dig themselves warm graves, and yet are glad; Their muffled screams and laughter make me mad!

I long to go and play among them there; Unseen, like wind, to take them by the hair, And gently make their rosy cheeks more fair.

The happy children! full of frank surprise, And sudden whims and innocent ecstasies; What Godhead sparkles from their liquid eyes!

No wonder round those urns of mingled clays That Tuscan potters fashioned in old days, And colored like the torrid earth ablaze,

We find the little gods and Loves portrayed, Through ancient forests wandering undismayed, And fluting hymns of pleasure unafraid.

They knew, as I do now, what keen delight A strong man feels to watch the tender flight Of little children playing in his sight.

I do not hunger for a well-stored mind; I only wish to live my life, and find My heart in unison with all mankind.

My life is like the single dewy star That trembles on the horizon's primrose bar,-- A microcosm where all things living are.

And if, among the noiseless grasses, Death Should come behind and take away my breath, I should not rise as one who sorroweth:

For I should pass, but all the world would be Full of desire and young delight and glee,-- And why should men be sad through loss of me?

The light is flying: in the silver blue The young moon shines from her bright window through: The mowers are all gone, and I go too.

RUDOLF VON GOTTSCHALL

(1823-)

Rudolf Von Gottschall was born in Breslau, September 30th, 1823. He was the son of a Prussian artillery officer, and as a lad gave early evidence of extraordinary talent. His father was transferred to the Rhine, and young Gottschall was sent successively to the gymnasiums of Mainz and Coblenz. Even in his school days, and before he entered the university, he had through his cleverness attained a certain degree of eminence. His career at the University of Koenigsberg, whither he went to pursue the study of jurisprudence, was interrupted by the results attendant upon a youthful ebullition of the spirit of freedom. His sympathy with the revolutionary element was too boldly expressed, and when in 1842 he published 'Lieder der Gegenwart' (Songs of the Present), he found it necessary to leave the university in order to avert impending consequences. In the following year he published 'Censurfluechtlinge' (Fugitives from the Censor), a poem of a kind not in the least likely to conciliate the authorities. He remained for a time with Count Reichenbach in Silesia, and then went to Berlin, where he was allowed to complete his studies. He was however refused the privilege of becoming a university docent, although he had regularly taken his degree of _Dr. Juris_.

He now devoted himself wholly to poetry and general literature. For a while he held the position of stage manager in the theatre of Koenigsberg, and during this period produced the dramas 'Der Blinde von Alcala' (The Blind Man of Alcala: 1846), and 'Lord Byron in Italien' (Lord Byron in Italy: 1848). After leaving Koenigsberg he frequently changed his residence, living in Hamburg and Breslau, and later in Posen, where in 1852 he was editor of a newspaper. In 1853 he went to Italy, and after his return he settled in Leipzig. Here he definitely established himself, and undertook the editing of Blaetter fuer Litterarische Unterhaltung (Leaves for Literary Amusement), and also of the monthly periodical Unsere Zeit (Our Time). He wrote profusely, and exerted an appreciable influence upon contemporary literature. He was ennobled by the Emperor in 1877.

As a poet and man of letters, Gottschall possesses unusual gifts, and is a writer of most extraordinary activity. His fecundity is astonishing, and the amount of his published work fills many volumes. His versatility is no less remarkable than his productiveness. Dramatist and critic, novelist and poet,--in all his various fields he is never mediocre. Chief among his dramatic works are the tragedies 'Katharina Howard'; 'King Carl XII.'; 'Bernhard of Weimar'; 'Amy Robsart'; 'Arabella Stuart'; and the excellent comedy 'Pitt and Fox.' Of narrative poems the best known are 'Die Goettin, ein Hohes Lied vom Weibe' (The Goddess, a Song of Praise of Woman), 1852; 'Carlo Zeno,' 1854; and 'Sebastopol,' 1856.

He has published numerous volumes of verses which take a worthy rank in the poetry of the time. His first 'Gedichte' (Poems) appeared in 1849; 'Neue Gedichte' (New Poems) in 1858; 'Kriegslieder'(War Songs) in 1870; and 'Janus' and 'Kriegs und Friedens Gedichte' (Poems of War and Peace) in 1873. In his novels he is no less successful, and of these may be mentioned--'Im Banne des Schwarzen Adlers' (In the Ban of the Black Eagle: 1876); 'Welke Blaetter' (Withered Leaves: 1878); and 'Das Goldene Kalb' (The Golden Calf: 1880).

It is however chiefly as critic that his power has been most widely exerted, and prominent among the noteworthy productions of later years stand his admirable 'Portraets und Studien' (Portraits and Studies: 1870-71); and 'Die Deutsche Nationallitteratur in der Ersten Haelfte des 19. Jahrhunderts' (The German National Literature in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century: 1855), continued to the present time in 1892, when the whole appeared as 'The German National Literature of the Nineteenth Century.'

HEINRICH HEINE

From 'Portraits and Studies'