_A vaulted tower in the castle. In the centre of the background is a
landing with stairs going up and down. Beyond, a corridor that loses
itself in the distance. In the left foreground a window, and next to it
a vaulted passage. In the right foreground a door bound with iron, and
next to it a chimney-piece. In the middle of the room is a table with
the remains of a feast upon it. Overturned goblets, burned-out lights,
stringed instruments, garments, etc., about. On the left side of the
stage is the throne, with the King's arms hanging upon it. Night, and
half-darkness. The wind wails faintly in the chimney._
Scene 1.
Anna Goldhair _cowering with covered face in the shadow of the throne_.
Hans Lorbass _and_ Coelestin _enter from the landing._
_Hans Lorbass_. Master!... No answer.
_Coelestin_. His lair is empty. The hall seems forsaken. Nothing, but
the sighing of the autumn wind. Not even a trace of the women that herd
with him.
_Hans Lorbass_. And before the door, the foe.
_Coelestin_. We are to suffer for his sins.
_Hans Lorbass_. Pah!--We!
_Coelestin_. Since he so far betrayed morality as to draw to his lustful
embraces the young maid with the golden hair, even from the very feet
of his most virtuous spouse, it has gone ill with him and us. For half
a year this shameless wanton bond has blazoned itself beneath this
roof.
_Hans Lorbass_. If I choose to cry him down, why it is my affair. I
advise thee, old man, to let it be.
_Coelestin_. Have I ever yet mingled with the crowd that boldly raise
their heads against him? But now the foe hangs at our very heels,--and
he, instead of showing fist in need, buries a thorn in our own flesh;--
must I still be silent?
_Hans Lorbass_. Gabble or not, as thou choosest. Dost thou think the
slime out of thy old mouth can make him slippery enough to--
_Coelestin_. Hark! [_A muffled drum-beat_]. The morning signal of the
foe!
_Hans Lorbass_ [_stretching out his arms_]. Come, mighty hour!
_Coelestin_. There is one way ... some one might ... with more influence
than I ... seek out the King and fetch him here. The tardy day still
lies in heavy sleep . . wilt thou go? [Hans Lorbass _nods._]
_Coelestin_. Good! [_Going out._] I am cold.
_Hans Lorbass_. What? All empty?... Thou shadow there, give answer what
thou art. What, Goldhair, thou? Asleep here on the stones? Where is the
King?... The King, where is he?
_Anna Goldhair_ [_gets up trembling_]. I do not know.
_Hans Lorbass_. Is he asleep somewhere?
_Anna Goldhair_. No.
_Hans Lorbass_. Where have the women gone, then,--those wanton
flaunting blossoms of his?
_Anna Goldhair_. He sprang up from the table to-night and drove them
out with scourging.
_Hans Lorbass_. How was he before that?
_Anna Goldhair_. His greeting long since stiffened into silence and
sternness. All night long his feet have wandered up and down the
echoing passages.
_Hans Lorbass_. And to-night--which way did he go?
[Anna Goldhair _motions towards the left._]
_Hans Lorbass_. Give me a light.
_Anna Goldhair_ [_as she takes a taper from the table and gives it to
him_]. Hans!
_Hans Lorbass_. Well?
_Anna Goldhair_. Hans--dost thou know what the Queen says of me?
_Hans Lorbass_. Queens are no friends of thine; the women will have
none of thee now. Thou'dst best befriend thyself, and be thine own
queen. [_He goes out._]
[Anna Goldhair _cowers down again in the shadow of the throne. Then,
from behind, the_ King._]
_King_ [_coming forward_]. When I was yet a little boy I loved to put
my ear down to the earth and shudder at the danger coming toward me in
the thunder of the horses' hoofs. Even so now, the voice of the north
wind wails aloud in the chimney how grim-visored death stands
threatening upon my outer wall.... Was it for this the sea once rolled
in music to my feet, for this my drawn sword thrilled in my hand, for
this a woman beckoned me from out the clouds,--that here in this corner
my young and lusty body should rot away to naught? Patience yet! I know
my revenge! Though every broil burst out here, though my life itself
were forfeit, though I became a very brute, scurvy and bleeding, goaded
to despair, yet justice should be done! Only wait! I will die right
joyfully, but fight--I will not. [_He sees_ Anna Goldhair.] What,
Goldhair, thou awake? Come here!--Come, I command thee! Thou wast no
joyous guest at the feast, I warrant. Nor I.... Do not speak,
Goldhair.... Hush! Lest they believe I vaunt my sin. But then, what
they believe is naught to me. Come, give me thy hand. Thou art fettered
to me,--yet thou wast only a plaything, only a splinter of glass
wherein I saw my image, only the last string of a broken lute.... Lean
down. I will entrust something to thy care: here, under my doeskin
corselet I carry a treasure. It is not much to see, neither gold nor
precious stone,--only a feather. I won it once, it was a prize,--that
was long since.... Enough, that it was precious to me. If I should come
to harm to-day, take it and throw it in the fire. Wilt thou?
_Anna Goldhair_. Yes, sire.
_King_. I thank thee. [_Caressing her._] Why dost thou shroud thy
pretty hair with a grey veil? It is still golden. Dost thou thus seek
to shroud dreams of the past? What look'st thou at so? [_Whispers._] Is
thy sorrow for thy Queen.
[Anna Goldhair _hides her face in her hands, shuddering._]
_King_. Then cease thy grief ... methinks the sword already clangs
without to bring thee peace.
_Hans Lorbass_. Master.
_King_. Thou, Hans, here in my tower, which thou hast so avoided? What
brings thee here?
_Hans Lorbass_. We are attacked. The Duke has surrounded the castle by
night with a thousand men. The battering-ram and beam had even begun
their cursed work, when suddenly there came a lull, and by the glow
of torches we saw upon the plain a white flag held aloft upon a
lance-point. We held communication a spear's length from the camp.
There he stood, murder in his glance, and there stood Skoell and Gylf,
and all the other vermin that have crawled to his feet; and he rolled
his eyes, gnashing his teeth like a nut-cracker--Heaven send we're not
the nut!
_King_. What offer did he make?
_Hans Lorbass_. A respite until day-break, in which time to yield
thyself and me into his hands.
_King_. Me, Hans, and alone.
_Hans Lorbass_ And if they yield he will allow his heart to melt with
pity; he will butter on both sides the bread of all the people who will
shout for him. That is his way; all innocence, like the rest of us.
_King_. And if?
_Hans Lorbass_. If not? He swore,--and here his spleen burst out--that
let a single sword be raised against him, a single spear be laid in
rest, and he would hang and quarter every living, breathing thing,
without mercy. This he calls choking rebellion in the seed.
_King_. And what was the decision of the people?
_Hans Lorbass_. The people will fight.
_King_. Will fight? Will fight? This flock of nestlings, lacking in
every sort of strength, inspired by no courage-breeding fire, wanting
in power, in discipline,--
_Hans Lorbass_. Like their King himself.
_King_. Like their King himself. Quite true. The shadow of a King, set
on the throne by woman's love, is not the man to lead a forlorn hope.
_Hans Lorbass_. Though his people offer themselves to the sword for
him.
_King_. Take care; I have outgrown thy scorn. [_Knocking on the door to
the right._]
_Coelestin_ [_outside_]. Open the door for the King's son.
_Hans Lorbass_. Shall I?
_King_. Thou must. This house is his; and if he chose to, he could
drive me hence.
[Coelestin _enters, leading in the young_ Prince _by the hand. It is
gradually growing light._]
_The Young Prince_ [_running to_ Anna Goldhair]. Anna! Ah, Anna, art
thou here? The mother told me thou wast dead. Say. Anna, art thou vexed
with me? I eat my supper all alone, I say my prayers and go to bed all
alone. I sing alone, I play alone,--and oh, the mother weeps so much!
They said my father had been cruel to her,--how sorry he would be to
see her weep! Anna, dear Anna, come and help us, for we are so sad!
[Anna Goldhair _kneels down before him and sobs on his neck._]
_King_. What now?
_Coelestin_. My Prince, my little Prince!
_King_. Well?
_Coelestin_. Nay, with her thou canst have no concern. Thou knowest to
whom thy mother sent thee, and what she graved so deep upon thy heart.
_The Young Prince_ [_timidly approaching the_ King]. My mother called
me very early, and bid me come to thee before my breakfast with Uncle
Coelestin, and kneel down here before thee, and ask thee--something,--I
forget.
_Coelestin_. Then, my lord, according to the measure of my wisdom I must
speak here for this child, who in his innocence cannot comprehend how
basely thou hast forsaken thy people. I must embolden myself to speak a
last warning to thee. I speak not of the sins that now already weigh
thee down: eternal God shall judge them, for thou mayst not sin and not
atone. But even now thy spirit, corroded with rancorous spite, hast
turned the edge of our ancestral sword against thy honor and thy
manhood. Lo, there it glistens in thy burning grasp; and to that
all-avenging sword I make my prayer: to the arm where still resides
our safety: to the eyes from which looks out an unquenched thirst of
fighting: that thou wilt lead to victory thy broken people, who
surround the tower and call upon thee in their need.
_King_. The sword that I unthinking raised--led thereto by occasion
only--I will lay down still clean. Thou callest it the all-avenging;
and it shall win that praise itself. Let the foe mow you down in
sheaves, it shall be naught to me,--it comes too late.
_Coelestin_. Good! Though thou so hatest thy people--
_King_. I hate ye not.
_Coelestin_. As to appease thy long-cherished revenge by scornful
laughter in their hour of need, yet one thing I shall never think, sir
King,--that thou wilt yield without a struggle, and give up thy
weaponless body to the slaughter.
_King_. What can I otherwise? In whose blood shall I dip this body to
make it consecrate? With what right shall I plunge this sword into
fiery service? He who stands without there serves a righteous cause. So
sayest thou. The Chancellor, likewise. You all agree. Therefore I
counsel thee: be wise, rescue your country and make clean your house.
There is still time ... the storm yet lulls. The Duke has need of me;
deliver me to him.
_Coelestin_. All my strength is broken against this madness, which
destroys itself.... And the hour presses.... What can I do? The crowd
shrieks lamentations in my ear. Kneel down, my child, stretch out thy
arms,--perhaps, that silent picture will reach this heart. [_He makes
the young_ Prince _kneel down._]
_King_. Stand up. . . Come here. . . Thou hast stood in my way, and yet
I loved thee. A madness, an absurdity! [_Aside._] Suppose: if thou wert
not,--if in this coming hour I might but strike a blow for my own
throne.... Where now?
_The young Prince_ [_clinging to_ Hans]. I am afraid.
_Hans Lorbass_ [_gazing at the_ King]. There is the pinch. [_Going up
to him, aside_]. And if---
_King_. If--what?
_Hans Lorbass_. If through some chance, quite unforseen, this land
should all at once become thine own, entirely thine?
_King_ [_bewildered_]. What dost thou mean?
_Hans Lorbass_. Well then, if that should disappear that stands in thy
way? [_Bursting out._] Then wouldst thou take thy sword in both thy
hands and storm exulting on the foe?... Well?
_King_. I understand thee not.
_Hans Lorbass_. Then--
_King_. Silence, silence! Thou knowest I have quenched the last embers
of my desires. Thinkest thou to kindle a new blaze thereon by victory
and sin? A fire must run from heaven, must mount from hell, to light a
new life in my fading course. A thing of horror must first come to
pass; whence it came would be as naught to me, if it could but rise
wonder-like upon my sight. Alas, from out these ashes no miracle can
rise for me! I can no longer hope and struggle.... The door stands open
to the upper room.... Once more I mount up to the height, once more
behold the gray dawn turn to gold in rosy glory--
_Hans Lorbass_. Wilt thou come back?
_King_. Nay, didst thou not think so? I--[_As Coelestin with the young
Prince puts himself in the way._] Away with the child!--I must die!
[_Goes out._]
_Hans Lorbass_ [_to himself_]. "A thing of horror must first come to
pass." And then, "If I might strike a blow for my own throne." "If thou
wert not." And looked at him with such eyes!--Coelestin, if I had
something to ask--thou knowest, perhaps, the King will yield to
me--more than--in short, I am beloved by him--
_Coelestin_. Good reason for it.
_Hans Lorbass_. Yes. Then what if I knew how to goad him into harness,
so that even before the hour had struck, he had the Bastard by the
throat with your all-avenging sword?
_Coelestin_. It would be possible? Thou couldst?
_Hans Lorbass_. Yes. But I need the Prince.
_Coelestin_. The Princeling,--why?
_Hans Lorbass_. With him by the hand I would sit there on the landing
and hold watch till he came down.
_Coelestin_. And then?
_Hans Lorbass_. Then, Major-domo,--that is my affair.
_Coelestin_. The Queen left him in my care. But I know, Hans Lorbass
that thou lovest him. Wilt thou, my little Prince?
_The Young Prince_. Dost thou ask me? I love to stay with him,--he
teaches me to fight. [_He runs to him._]
_Coelestin_. And may God bless thee in thy task.
_Hans Lorbass_. Much thanks. [_Turning to_ Anna Goldhair.] I do not
want her. Take her with thee.
_Coelestin_. Come, poor wench.
_The Young Prince_. May Anna stay here, too?
[Hans Lorbass _hushes him._]
_Anna Goldhair_. Oh, Coelestin, if I could hide somewhere, and see my
dear Queen pass by just once!
_Coelestin_. Spare me thy plaints.... Well, wait, I will hide thee here
behind the curtains of the door; stay there, and do not move, and when
she goes to the cathedral--come, come!
[Coelestin _and_ Anna Goldhair _go out._]
_Hans Lorbass_ [_grimly_]. My Prince!
_The Young Prince_ [_tenderly_]. My Hans!
_Hans Lorbass_. And still it grips me cruelly hard.
_The Young Prince_. What is it thou grumblest in thy beard? Come, let
us fight.
_Hans Lorbass_. Let us fight, child! If thou knewest how to fight
indeed!
_The Young Prince_. How strange thou art to-day? Say, Hans, is it true
that a cruel enemy stands before the gate?
_Hans Lorbass_. Quite true.
_The Young Prince_. Will he come inside?
_Hans Lorbass_. Not yet. Before long.
_The Young Prince_. How long?
_Hans Lorbass_. Until the drums sound the attack.
_The Young Prince_. Soon?
_Hans Lorbass_. Very soon.
_The Young Prince_. Oh, that is splendid! And why did the father go up
to his tower?
_Hans Lorbass_. Because ... If I knew whether this young blood would be
poured out in vain. To every foulness God created he has given a tongue
to shriek: "Behold my purpose!" And such a deed as this to-day ... but
no! "If thou wert not!"
_The Young Prince_. If I were not,--what then?
_Hans Lorbass_. Wha--? Why? His sick desires, his failing deeds, the
dreams that mock his brain, that make the right seem wrong,--if he
might see a wish of his become a fact, as if by magic power, perhaps
that knowledge of renewed strength might scatter his gloom to its
accursed source and set him free. Now show thy worth and bleed here
quietly on my breast--what dost thou there!
_The Young Prince_ [_playing about meanwhile has drawn the sword from
its sheath_]. I am learning to carry the King's sword. Forward! Hasten,
the foe will come! Very well. Then I shall be the victor.
_Hans Lorbass_. Put it down!
_The Young Prince_. Ah, no!
_Hans Lorbass_. Put it down!
_The Young Prince_. Oh-oo! That is sharp!
_Hans Lorbass_. Thou knowest who alone may carry that?
_The Young Prince_. The King.
_Hans Lorbass_. Well then.
_The Young Prince_. But he left it there!
_Hans Lorbass_ [_sternly_]. To take it up again. [_Draws his sword._]
_The Young Prince_. Wait! I will kill thee! [_He has grasped the sword
in both hands, and thrusting at Hans, who does not see him, he wounds
him on the hand._]
_Hans Lorbass_ [_laughing grimly_]. The fiend torment--
_The Young Prince_. Thou bleedest--O me!
_Hans Lorbass_. The very weakness of this child avenges itself in
death.
_The Young Prince_. Wilt thou not scold me! [_Unfastening his
neckerchief_] Take my kerchief,--ah, please! Wrap it about thy hand.
Quick!
_Hans Lorbass_. Is it intended for a sign to me to turn back in my
path? The wish was there, but who knows when he cherished it, whether
he was not so rent by torment, so quite unmanned as to harbor a thought
that sprang therefrom? He must ... Yea, and I must. The hour will slip
away.... [_Drums sound in the distance._] Hark, hark! There it is,--the
time has come. [_Drums._] Again!
_The Young Prince_. Is that the signal?
_Hans Lorbass_. What signal?
_The Young Prince_. For the attack?
_Hans Lorbass_. Yes. For the attack and--
_The Young Prince_. What happiness! Is it not, Hans! If I were grown!
If I were a man!
_Hans Lorbass_. Come here!
_The Young Prince_. Why dost thou look at me so sternly? Just like the
father.... Wouldst thou strike me? No, thou shalt not.... I am a king's
son.
_Hans Lorbass_. Come here!
_The Young Prince_. I am not afraid. [_Goes to him._] Just think, the
people say the father hates me. I believe it not. Whatever he should
do, I know right well he loves me,--even as much as thou, my Hans.
[_Throws his arms around him._]
_Hans Lorbass_. How dost thou know?
_The Young Prince_. What, Hans?
_Hans Lorbass_. About the father.
_The Young Prince_. Listen! One night, quite lately, when I had been a
little while in my bed, and was all alone, only think!--he came very
softly within my chamber. I was afraid, because I had not seen him in
so long, and all the people said: "The King is wicked." But he stood
there before my bed and looked at me,--Hans, what is all that noise?
_Hans Lorbass_. Hasten,--thou knowest not what it means to thee!
_The Young Prince_. And looked at me so stern and wild that I was
frightened and pretended that I slept. Then he leaned over me, so low
that I had nearly died of fright, and then,--only think, my Hansel,--he
kissed me. Here on my forehead, on my hair and both my cheeks, and then
very softly went away.
_Hans Lorbass_. Thy good angel put the words into thy mouth! Could he
do so, my little man, then 'twas a fever in his blood that spoke
to-day,--no hate of thee!... It seems as though thou wert even dearer
to me now,--and yet my thoughts have scarce deserved it. [_Clasps him
to him._] Now let me, let ... There below they call upon thy father,
and he ... I have it! I will take thee in my arms and show thee to the
leaderless throng below, him who shall lead them when his form rears
itself kinglike and his brow darkens. Come then! Friend, if thy King
fights not for thee to-day, then fight thou for thy King! [_He raises
him in his arms and hurries with him down the steps._]
Scene 2.
Anna Goldhair _comes timidly from the right, pushed into the room.
After her, the_ Chancellor, Coelestin, _nobles and ladies, who stand so
as to form a passage. Then, the_ Queen. _After her, other ladies_. Anna
Goldhair _in a shrinking attempt to hide herself, crouches near the
door, behind those coming in._
_Chancellor_. Away, lest the Queen see thee! Out of the way, wench!
_Queen_ [_observing that someone is concealed from her_]. Who--? [_She
motions them to let her see. The group separates. She looks silently
down upon the kneeling_ Anna, _whose face is bowed to the earth, and
strokes her hair._] Much evil has come upon us both; therefore be it
unto thee according to thy sorrow, not according to thy deed. [_She
raises her and gives her over to her women._]
_Chancellor_ [_meanwhile aside to_ Coelestin
]. Send above to the King
straightway. I cannot yet forbear to hope that when he--dost thou hear?
_Coelestin_ [_who is looking in anxious search toward the background_].
Where is the Prince?
_Murmur of Voices_. The King comes.
[_The_ King _comes down the steps._]
_King_ [_startled, bewildered_]. Why do ye stand there so amazed? Do ye
not know me? I am he, your King, your much-loved King, he with whose
hero-tread treason has entered in your flock, into your hearts.
_Queen_ [_coming forward_]. My King!
_King_ [_reeling back_]. Thou! Thou hast come here,--into this den
where lust holds sway? Burst open all the windows wide! Perfume the air
with fine resin! Fetch sage and thyme and peppermint, that the fumes of
this place may not attaint her breath! Hasten! Faded and withered, let
them--
_Coelestin_ [_whispers_]. My lord, where hast thou left the Prince?
_King_. What? Who? The--the--am I the Prince's keeper?
_Queen_. My King, the battle rages now already about the castle walls.
The door still holds. The people wait, counting their heart-throbs till
thou comest, trusting in thee still. There is yet time. There lies the
kingly sword and waits for thee.
_King_ [_to himself_]. If Hans understood me rightly--
_Queen_. Stoop to it. It is worth the stooping for.
_King_. Thinkest thou?... Still?... And that this hand is worthy, too,
to raise it?
_Queen_. I trust in it as in immortal life.
_King_. Believest thou also that miracles still come to pass?
_Queen_. I believe in thee.
_King_. Then--[_he stoops, but starts back with a shriek._] Blood!
There is blood on it! Coelestine! Approach, lean down. Nearer. Thou hast
asked me just now, only in pretence, where I ... I ask thee, with whom
hast _thou_ left the Prince?
_Coelestin_. Hans Lorbass was with him.
_King_. Alone?
_Coelestin_. Alone.
_King_. Yes?... It is well.... See how the red shines bright on the
gray steel! The life that coursed within this blade cannot die--it
lives--it lives and drags me down, a death-devoted man, unto a doubly
shameful end.
_Chancellor_ [_to the_ Queen]. Speak again before this madness gains
upon him!
_Queen_. My King.
_King_. Ha! The angel of destruction broods over us.... Where is thy
child? Where is thy child?
_Queen_. I know that he is safe, for the most faithful of the faithful
guards him. Think of thyself and of thy sword.
_King_. An hour since was this blade still clean.... I seemed too
great--nay, nay, too small--to wield it; doubted and cursed myself and
you and all the world. And yet defiance still blazed high in me; I
could be a warrior, perhaps a hero, and knew it not ... ah, cursed
fool!... Now I gaze in envy at that man, could even kiss his feet, who
with accusing conscience and hand yet free from blood-guiltiness, stood
a transgressor here within this hall. O were this sword still clean,
how might I wield it! What miracles exultingly perform! But for me now
no saving miracle can come to pass ...
[_The smothered tumult in the court becomes suddenly louder._]
_Two Nobles_ [_at the window_]. God be merciful! Fly!--Save yourselves!
[Hans Lorbass, _the young_ Prince _in his arms, rushes up the steps._]
_Hans Lorbass_ [_breathless_]. Here--take the child! The foe is close
at hand--within the court!
_King_ [_in frenzied joy throwing himself upon the_ Prince]. My
miracle!
_Hans Lorbass_. If you would save yourself, barricade this door,
strengthen it ten-fold with beams, break off stones from the roof, roll
them down and heap them up--
_King_. Thou art wrong, my friend. The door--fling open!
[Hans Lorbass _tears open the door with a joyous shout. They hear the
approaching battle-cry of the enemy._]
_King_ [_who has seized the sword and shield_]. To me, man of the
righteous cause!
[_The_ Duke _rushes on the_ King _with a shout of laughter, behind him
his men, among them_ Skoell, Ottar, Gylf, _held in check by_ Hans _with
upraised sword, stand crowded together at the door. Short conflict.
The_ Duke _falls._]
_King_ [_to the crowd, his foot upon the prostrate body_]. On your
knees. [_The foremost sink upon their knees, the rest shrink back._]
_King_ [_during a long silence looks furtively at the_ Queen, _and the
councillors. Then to the crowd_]. Carry this man's body outside the
door.... Let everyone submit himself unto the peace of God, which
henceforth only he who courts his death will violate. Before we part, I
will come down to you, and under the free air of heaven I, your Duke,
will receive your oath and your allegiance. Away!
[_The_ Duke's _men seize the body and hurry out._]
_Hans Lorbass_ [_tickling_ Skoell _under the nose with his
sword-blade_]. Who has it now, thou clown?
_Chancellor_ [_approaching hesitatingly_]. My gracious Lord and King, I
would say: Forgive us, but the strength of all our words must break
against thy glorious victory. I only say: We are returned to thee. No
reproaches or regrets shall cheapen our return; we only ask [_with a
glance at the_ Queen] that honor be spared, and once again, after the
cruel conflict of to-day, we offer thee our country's throne in faith
and loyalty.
_King_. I thank you noble lords, and put it from me.
_Chancellor_. A second time thou turnest thy happiness and ours to
lamentation.
_King_. Stay! Let not a poisoned word pollute this moment, for now at
last the riddling clouds of fate prepare to fall. I may slip the
fetters from my body, which weakness, shame, unwilling gratitude,
sorrow, and mistaken kindnesses, combined to weave about me. I dare to
speak, for now the sword has freed me.... For that I have shrunk from
thee, my wife, forgive me. Didst thou know how shudderingly I sent
myself into an exile of inexpiable guilt! From thence I now return,
love-empty; and still the harmony of thy grace, the breath of thy
self-forgetful love, wafts like a summer breeze about my head, heavy
with blessings. Yes, if I dared to stay, how much of all I have ...
Hush!... I know not the path that I must choose. I only know the end. I
only know that faint and far away there sounds a voice reproaching my
delay. It calls me back into the eternal gray,--that boundless country
where thy blessing ends, where no guiding star rises to lead me on.
Farewell. Forgive me if thou canst. If not ... I know no word to say
that can lift the load of guilt from off my soul.... I must endure and
bear it with me silently.
_Queen_. Nay, my friend.... If thou hast laden thy life with guilt so
heavily, then must thou give me of thy burden a share to bear. I think
that all we leave unspoken to-day will burn our souls forever; and
therefore I make free confession: I have failed thee sorely. I saw thy
misery, I saw the torture growing on thy pale brow, and yet I had but
one thought; one alone; how to beguile him from that path on which his
soul delays and hesitates, but whither his stumbling feet turn of
themselves,--that he might leave me never again, whether in love or
hate ... this was my thought ... and as a bridal pair stand at the
altar and exchange their rings, while the deep church-bells lull them
into a smiling dream, so we in parting near each other, and offer,
smiling, guilt for guilt. [_She reaches out her hand to him with a
faint smile, and sinks back into the arms of her women._]
_King_ [_kissing her hand, overcome with feeling_]. I thank thee.
_The Young Prince_ [_timidly_]. Papa!
_King_ [_recovering himself_]. Thou too, my son! Come here! I made thee
poor return--and had he not [_motioning toward_ Hans] known me better
than I myself ... give him thy hand; for thanks to him, I lay down
undefiled this borrowed sword. [_Gives the sword over to the_
Chancellor.] Hans!
_Hans Lorbass_. Here, master! [_He hands the_ King _his old sword,
which he seizes eagerly._]
_King_. Farewell.
ACT V.
_The scene of the first act. Early spring. March. The trees and bushes
are still bare, but tipped with the delicate red of young leaf-buds. In
the background, upon the slopes, is still snow, in the foreground fresh
young grass. The church-yard has grown larger. The crosses and
headboards reach back to the sand-hills. Sun-set. A blue haze hangs
over the sea._
Scene I.
_Out of a freshly dug grave on the right an invisible hand throws clods
of earth, but stops as_ Coelestin _enters on the right, led by two young
men. Behind them_, Miklas _and an old_ Fisherman.
_Fisherman_. This is the place, my lord.
_Coelestin_ [_much aged and broken_]. I thank thee, friend! That is the
tower?
_Fisherman_ [_nodding_]. And above it cross on cross.
_Coelestin_. Let me rest a little, I am dizzy. The way hither was hard.
Yet I rejoice to know that worn-out as I am, I still may serve our
young Prince. And more than him, our dear and holy lady, our Queen.
Else surely I had--remained at home.
_Fisherman_ [_has meantime shaken the door of the tower_]. The tower
seems empty. The door is barred. There was a storm quite late.... Who
knows where she wanders now, scouting for new graves.
_Coelestin_. Who speaks of graves? Fie! The hour will ripen all too soon
for us to yield our withered sinful bodies to the worms. Build a fire
for me, since we must wait. The evening lowers and this March wind
blows cold on me. Make haste. [_To the old_ Fisherman.] Run thou to our
sovereign Lady, who so honored thee as to share thy hut, and tell her I
beg her wait therein until we come to fetch her as she said.
_Fisherman_. Yes, my lord. [_Goes out._]
_Coelestin_ [_to_ Miklas _while the young men build the fire_]. And
thou, Miklas, tell us thy story again and on thy faith. It was last
night the strangers knocked at thy door?
_Miklas_. Yes, my lord.
_Coelestin_. How many?
_Miklas_. Two.
_Coelestin_. And thou didst open it?
_Miklas_. Yes. I had lain a long time in bed, but I arose. The
moonlight fell bright through the window-bars. I saw them and was
afraid.
_Coelestin_. Why?
_Miklas_. The first had long white hair hanging all wild and shaggy
about a gloomy brow. One leg was hacked off, and a wooden one replaced
it.
_Coelestin_. Thou will still--?
_Miklas_. Whoever looked into that eye, must know, my lord: Hans
Lorbass stood before me.
_Coelestin_. And the other?
_Miklas_. It is hard to say.
_Coelestin_. Still thou knowest him?
_Miklas_. As I know myself, my lord.
_Coelestin_. Consider. Full fifteen years have flown since that hour
when he slew the cruel Duke.
_Miklas_. Yes, my lord. His step indeed was heavier, his face was
paler; and a gnawed and ragged beard hung about his mouth, stiffened
with blood and sweat. Yet it was he, our King, our star, at very
thought of whom our hearts must leap, to whose heroic deed we sing
triumphant songs,--it was he, and that I swear by God the Father.
_Coelestin_. Go on.
_Miklas_. Yet, mindful of what happened once, I made as though I had
never seen the two; and when they asked whether there was a path that
led to the sea and to the Burial-wife, and did not touch at town or
capital, I said: "Oh, yes; yet it is difficult to follow it, and not
wander lost by night among the bushes. Come in and sleep beside my
hearth, and I will play the host and spread the straw for you, and
early in the morning, for your sake and for God's sweet service my son
will lead you to the witch-wife." It was said and done. The fire of
pine chips had scarcely burned to ashes,--heigho!--I ran to the stable
and flung the saddle on the horse; and when the early dawn of the March
morning lay abroad white and misty on the hedges, I held my rein before
your castle,--"To the Queen" my cry. Thou wert with me for the rest.
_Coelestin_. Thinkest thou thy son--?
_Miklas_. Set thyself at rest, My son has always been a clever youth
and I answer for it they will be upon the spot before the sun there
dips beneath the sea. Yes, if I mistake not ... but wait! [_He runs to
the top of the hill, looks to the right and motions furtively._] Come
here! But crouch down well, that they may not spy us.
_Coelestin_. My God, my God, how my old limbs do tremble! It is joy!
[_He goes up the slope, assisted by his attendant._] I see three
coming.
_Miklas_. The small one is my boy. The other two--thou knowest them?
_Coelestin_. My eyes have failed me a little, else I might. [_Coming
back down._] My God, if it were they! If the evening of my life might
shine so clear that before I closed my eyes in death they might rest
upon the Queen, their heart, their light, pleasured in happiness
without alloy! At such a sight I think I could not die.... Come, come!
Let us announce what we have seen; then may that bond once so
shamefully severed in wrong and need, be solemnly renewed, before we
turn our joyous bark toward home. Come, come! [_They all go out at the
left._]
[_The_ King _and_ Hans Lorbass _come in at the right from above, both
unkempt and in rags like two wayfarers_. King _grown gray, lean, and
sallow, comes down forward silent and gloomy._]
_Hans Lorbass_ [_with hair grown quite white, and a wooden leg,
carrying a sack on his back, calls into the wing_]. There, take it,
rascal, it is the last! And leave! [_Coming down._] The clown has led
us twelve whole hours without a path through bushes and morass. He knew
well enough why he did it!
_King_. Dost thou think--
_Hans Lorbass_. Oh let it be, no matter!
_King_. Here is a fire. Is there corn in the sack?
_Hans Lorbass_ [_opening the sack_]. Wait.... Yes.
_King_. Good! I am hungry.
_Hans Lorbass_. I am not, too?
_King_. The corn was dear. Sometimes it costs us money, sometimes
blood.
_Hans Lorbass_. We do not pay the blood.
_King_. We pay more. We give out bit by bit from our own souls for our
lives' nakedest necessities, and pay for each mouthful with a shred of
joy--if indeed there be joy in clinging like a pitiable miser to one's
last vacant remnants of hopeless hope.
_Hans Lorbass_. If it be not happiness it is life.
_King_. What a life!
_Hans Lorbass_. Our wants are over now. I wager if I climbed up to the
top of the hill, I should find not one but three ships to take us to
Gotland.
_King_. Cook us our supper first.
_Hans Lorbass_. Good, good! [_During the foregoing he has been fetching
cooking utensils, partly from the sack and partly from the outer wall
of the tower, where they lie among tree-stumps, etc._]
_King_. I shall come soon enough to Gotland, and soon enough shall see
that refuge whence I once bore to save them those most daring wishes of
my powerless youth.
_Hans Lorbass_. Until a heron came.
_King_. Hans, be still!
_Hans Lorbass_. How can I, here in this place, where the sea and
churchyard, yes, even the sea-wind itself, that strips the boughs with
knife-like tongue, all vie with each other to tell us of that day when
an old doting witch-wife with her cursed chatter, betrayed thee from
thy confident path, to pause and play the hero?
_King_. Where is she hiding, that I may rip that shriveled skin of hers
about her ears?
_Hans Lorbass_. She who played our fate in the world is not at home
when we come back so worsted by it.
_King_. Burial-wife!
_Hans Lorbass_ [_laughs mockingly_]. Yes, call away, my friend!... Come
here instead and sit down on this tub. The fire is singing,--the water
will soon boil; come warm thyself.
_King_. Thou art right. This cold sea wind pants like a bloodhound
through the gorge. [_He sits down by the fire._] The country-people say
that spring is coming. Is it true, I wonder?
_Hans Lorbass_. What?
_King_. Why, that spring is coming.
_Hans Lorbass_. Then I believe it, for my leg that I lost begins to
pain me.
_King_. Listen! Back in the hedge a shepherd pipes upon his willow
whistle. The streams are beginning to thaw and run down hill.... Brown
buds come out on all the branches. The very sunsets are different.
Look, high up in the blue the wild geese fly in their triangle.
Northward they go. Not I.... I must. We both must, Hans, for we have
grown old.
_Hans Lorbass_. Because our heads are white? Thou art wrong, master. I
dare venture many a conflict lies in our path before thou goest to thy
fathers' lofty house, and anointest thyself with thy fathers' honors.
_King_. Honors are the mail-coat of the weary. I have need of them.
_Hans Lorbass_. Thou?
_King_. More than thou thinkest for. [_Goes up, laughing bitterly._]
_Hans Lorbass_. Whither now?
_King_. Do not ask.
_Hans Lorbass_. Thou lookest toward the south,--what seekest thou
there? Hast thou not known it all long since? That sunny land, those
blue, flower-sown havens, whither thy hasting step once fled? Thou
knowest they are full of stench and lamentation. Those beauteous women,
fairest of the fair,--or passing as the fairest,--to bow in whose
impious slavery once compassed all thy thoughts? Thou knowest they are
all as empty as drained-out casks. And so, because the desire was
lacking in thee to fill them with thy own soul, thou hast sourly turned
away and sought perfection farther on. Thou hast come hither over lands
and seas, and climbest up into the star-teeming void. Yet thou wilt
never, never reach thy star. And that vailed enchanting distance
itself, if it would once unmask and let thee reach it, how miserable it
would look! Every conflict there would seem only a wrangle, every woman
but a doll! Come now, lay aside thy shoulder-belt stretch thyself out
and eat thy supper.
_King_. Let be, old grumbler! I seek naught in the distance.... But
near by, floating in the haze of the spring evening, I think I see a
dim shape of white battlements.
_Hans Lorbass_. It may well be. The town is only three miles farther
on, and the air is clear. Still I advise thee, do not think upon the
past.
_King_. Why?
_Hans Lorbass_. It was an evil-omened year. The worst of all, I think.
It taught thy wild untrammeled spirit to circle-hopping in a cage, to
limp instead of fly.
_King_. Thou art wrong, my friend. Something wakes in me at sight of
those roofs.... There the wings of happiness once grazed my cheek,
there, though in the midst of torture joy ripened to summer in my
heart. Let me gaze on the place where imploring trustfulness once
confessed itself to me by joyous sacrifice, and the purest of womankind
yielded herself up in sweet urgency, and an oppressed country confided
in me as a master; where even victory surrendered me her standard; let
me gaze upon the spot, and then, instead of stretching forth my kingly
hand in love and gratitude, I must slip past it outlawed, like a beggar
or a thief. I stand here now and gaze through tears at that white glow
of light, and gnaw my lips to bleeding.
_Hans Lorbass_. Master!
_King_. It is nothing,--nothing! All I have ever desired, all my soul's
treasure, all I could not attain, can be spoken in one word. And that I
may not speak. In silence I decide, and put it from me. I tear it from
my breast, where it has clung so long; and with it all my longing pain
blows like a faded leaf a world away.--Now I will lie down and sleep;
for I am weary.
_Hans Lorbass_. And do thy pains and desires all come to an end thus?
Look! Above there, where the sandy turf broadens among frozen clods
past the sun-pierced snow. The wisest of womankind has prepared a bed
for pilgrims such as we. Look!
_King_ [_going toward the open grave_]. I see. It is just suited to a
guest like me. Here, where--[_He starts back in alarm._] Hans!
_Hans Lorbass_. What is the matter?
_King_. Come here. The grave is ready, but it is not empty. Look down
and tell me what thou callest it, crouched there gray in the sand, that
leers at me with staring eyes. Is it a corpse? Is it a spirit?
_Hans Lorbass_. Oh look at it! The badger is at work. Thou hast her
now.
_King_. The Burial-wife? [Hans Lorbass _nods._]
_King_. Out with her!
_Hans Lorbass_ [_stopping him_]. Listen to me. Thou knowest I have
known her longer than thou. Leave her alone. She was wont to lie thus
for hours and days, and heed no words nor prayers; but seemed as dead.
She is proof then against all summons and all blows; but when her time
comes, then her limbs will stir, and she will come up out of the grave.
[Coelestin _and the train with the young_ Prince _enter._]
_Coelestin_. There they stand!
_King_ [_turning fiercely and raising his sword_]. What do you want? A
quarrel? We two are snarling dogs. We blindly seize on everybody near.
Now come on! Speak!
_The Young Prince_. My father!
_King_. Wha--?
_The Young Prince_. My King!
_King_ You would mock the man that fled from you?
_The Young Prince_. Down on your knees and honor him as I do!
_King_ [_dazed_]. Hans!... But stand up!... Am I King? A hapless
wretch,--naught but my man, my sword, and that pot of soup there, to
call my own. I have no more. My very crown, the gloomy throne of
Gotland must be fought for anew; stand up my son. [_He raises him, and
will embrace him, but suddenly pales, staring past the men in great
agitation._] Hans! Dost thou see who stands there in the twilight of
the wood--how spirit-like, how severed from this world--[_He shrieks._]
[_Enter the_ Queen. _Behind her at a short distance, two of her
women._]
_Queen_. Witte!
_King_. Go! I know thee not. And yet--I know thee. Thou art my--peace.
Thou art ... Naught art thou more for me.... My body withers and my
strength is fallen asunder. Therefore I may not say: "Thou art." ...
Only "Thou wast." Still thou wast once of a surety--my wife.
_Queen_. I am to-day--I am a thousandfold! Hast thou forgot what I
promised thee the day thou gavest thyself with hesitation to my
service? I search thy face. I know thou turnest wearied back to thy
northern home. Dost thou forget then where a balsam is prepared to heal
thy bruised feet, dost thou forget where a thousand arms reach out to
greet their loved one? Knowest thou not where thy home stands and calls
to thee? Knowest thou not how well-nigh breathless with its joy my
smile says unto thee: "I charm thee not?"
_King_. Nay, charm me not. I am not worthy. Life has seared me, and put
a shameful kiss upon my brow.
_Queen_. Then let me cool it with my health-bringing hand, and thou
wilt never feel the scar again.
_King_. How can I feel that scar or even the happiness after which I
longed, now that those hours are past which knew thy love for me?
_Queen_. In no other have I trusted. I guarded thy son for thee; and
still thy throne stands empty, waiting its master.
_King_. Then thou hast waited fifteen years and sorrowed not. So shalt
thou learn my mystery. Two kingdoms I have won, to pleasure me; the
first has vanished into air, the second is my shame. Justice became a
mock,--all gifts a usury; and everywhere I turned a murderous laugh
pursued me. Then purity plunged in the mire, then honor mocked its own
best gift: all this the magic of the heron wreaked upon me.... Yea, now
thou knowest; a charm was all my crime and all my fate, year after
year. It blinded me to love and life, to wife and child; it hunted me
away from thee, and drove me from place to place; and when a lucent
flight of happiness sprang up from heaven after my downfall, it drowned
its glory in a flood of tears. Behold! [_He tears open his gorget and
draws out the last of the heron's feathers._] The enchantment's last
beguiling pledge I hold here in my hand. When this feather shrivels in
the flame there sinks an unblessed woman to her death, that woman whose
wraith stood in the heavens for me to gaze upon,--that woman whom I
sought and never found! Behold! I bury the madness in its grave, and
with the act I put the longing from me. [_He tosses the feather into
the flames. There is a flash of lightning, and a roll of thunder
follows it._]
_Queen_ [_sinks down, whispering with failing strength_]. Now are we
two protected from all mischance.... I still ... have been thy
happiness ... even in ... death. [_She dies._]
_Prince_. Mother! Speak one word to me!
_King_. It was thou? It was thou? [_He throws himself upon her body._]
_The Young Prince_ [_in tears_]. Ah, Mother!
_Coelestin_. She has gone, and I, the shadow of a shadow, stay behind.
_The Men_ [_murmur among themselves_]. His is the blame! Tear him from
off her body! [_They draw their swords to attack the_ King.]
_Hans Lorbass_ [_blocking the way with drawn sword_]. Away there!
[_The Burial-wife mounting solemnly out of the open grave._]
_Burial-wife_. Children, cease your strife! Can you not see his spirit
wanders far? He is wrapped about with the whisperings of eternity. The
message of death is on the way, the stone of sacrifice doth reek for
blood. Long has this man belonged to me; and now--[_she raises her arm
and lets it fall_]--I come into my own. [_The_ King _breathes heavily,
stirs, and dies._]
_Hans Lorbass_ [_kneels down beside him with a cry_]. Master, master!
_Burial-wife_. Thus from lust and guilt and sorrow have I cleansed his
soul. To both of them it shall be as though they had not been. Wrap
them about with linen, bear them to my dark abode; then go in silent
thought from hence, for my work is done.
_Hans Lorbass_ [_rises, in anguished bitterness_]. Mine must begin
anew. How gladly have I ever braved fresh dangers as my darling's
slave! That service, too, is past; but now his kingdom calls loudly on
my sword for aid. [_Pointing seaward._] Northward there lies a land
debauched, crying from out its shame for justice, for a righteous law,
for vengeance, for salvation; for a master,--and that shall the man
become!
_Translated by Helen Tracy Porter_.
MARAH OF SHADOWTOWN.
The days pass by in Shadowtown
Wearily, wearily;--
And Bitter-Sweet Marah of Shadowtown
Sighs drearily, drearily.
"Mother, tell him to come to me
While my hair is gold and beautiful
And my lips and eyes are young
While the songs that are welling up in my heart
May still be sung.
"The days go by so wearily
Like crooked goblins, eerily,
Like silly shadows, fast and still,
Wind-driven and drearily.
"Like the gray clouds are my eyes gray, mother,
Like them, heavy as things grown old
Only the clouds' tears are but dream-tears--
Lifeless, cold.
"Last night I had the strangest dream,--
It seemed I stood on a barren hill
Where the wings of the ragged clouds went by
Hurrying and still.
"And all of a sudden the moon came out
Making a pathway over the down,--
And turned my hair to a gold mist, mother,
To light the way to Shadowtown.
"But when I did not see him coming,
And because the clouds grew dark and gray
I walked through the shadows down the hillside
To help him better to find the way.
"And in some wise I came to a forest
When all around was so strange and dim,--
That I thought, 'If I should be lost in the darkness,
How could my hair be light for him?'
"But groping, I found I was on a pathway
Where low soft branches swept my face,--
When suddenly, close beside, and before me
I knew dim forms kept even pace.
"They were so cowering, shivering, white
That I felt some ill thing came behind
And I heard a moan on the wind go by
'Ah, but the end of the path to find!'
"Then I looked behind, and saw that near
Like a wan marsh-fog, came a cloud
Hurrying on,--and I knew it wrapped
A dead love--as a shroud.
"And guiltily the figures went,
Like coward things in a guilty race
And not one dared to look behind
For fear he knew that dead love's face.
"Then suddenly at my side I knew
He I loved went;--but, for my hair,
Shadowed and blown about my face,
He knew me not beside him there.
"And he, too, cowered with shaking hands
Over his eyes, for fear to meet
Haunting and still, my pallid face
In that strange mist of winding-sheet.
"So on the shadowy figures went
Hurrying the loathed cloud before,--
Seeking an end of a fated path
That went winding evermore.
"Oh, Mother, that path was hideous,--
Long and ill and hideous--
And the way was so near to Shadowtown,--
Fairer to Shadowtown--
But the gold of my hair shall not light the way
For anyone else to Shadowtown."
Gray-eyed Marah of Shadowtown
Turns away wearily, wearily
Weaving her gold hair back and forth,
Thus she sings, and drearily--
"Little Love, when you shall die, then so shall I,
Ha, merrily!
"Then let them put us in some deep spot
Where one the growing of trees' roots hears
And you at my heart, all wet with tears,
All wet with tears.
"Your wings are draggled and limp and wet,--Little Love,--
From what rainy land have you come, and far,--
Or who that has held you was crying so,--
Who, little Love--?
My eyes are heavy and wet with tears
Whose eyes besides are heavy so--?
--Oh, little Love, how dumb you are!--
"Then, poor Love, that has lived in my heart
Come, take my hand, we will go together,
Hemlock boughs are full of sleep
Out of the way of the weather.
"For a cavern of cold gray mist is my heart
Will not the hemlock boughs be better
Over our feet and under our heads
Keeping us from the weather?"
Her gold hair duskily glints in her hands
Marah of Shadowtown sings--"Together,--
You, little Love, and I, will go
Into the Land of Pleasanter Weather."
_Anne Throop._
DIES IRAE.
Go fight your fight with Tagal and with Boer,
Cheer in the lust of strength and brutal pride;
Beat down the lamb to fatten up the fox,
Shout victory o'er the prostrate shape of truth.
Take cross and pike and gold and sophistry,
To pray and prod and purchase, wheedle, wile;
Stamp out the roses in a waste of weeds,
Shout while the trembling voice of truth is hushed.
Shatter with iron heel the poet's dream,
The prophet's protest, and the ages' hope,
Of brotherhood and light and love on earth--
Of peace and plenty and a perfect race.
Tear down the fabric of ten thousand years,
The world's best wisdom woven in its woe;
Lift ruthless hands to rend the fairy fane
That holds the heart hopes of humanity.
Let loose greed, envy, lust, and avarice,
The myriad throated dragon of desire;
Let might rule, riot, batten on the meek,
The tyranny of man o'er man seem right.
Forget the Lord Christ smiled, forgave, and died;
Frowned down every appeal to brutish strength;
Bade man put up the sword, lest by the sword
He perish; prayed evil might be paid by good.
Forget he turned cheek to the coward blow,
Cried "Pardon!" yes, seven and seventy times! "Judge not;
Do not condemn; give coat as well as cloak;
Resist not evil, wrong's not made right by wrong."
Forget each drop of blood burns in the race,
Cries for atonement while the last man lives;
That murder for the state is murder still,
The gilded not less guilty though more great.
Forget, and flay and flame; in din grow deaf
To piteous cries without, and voice within;
Conquer, triumph, and when the world is won,
Turn terroring towards the demon in your heart.
_William Mountain_.
* * * * *
GEORGE MEREDITH ON THE SOURCE OF
DESTINY.
If, as has so often been said, literature is an expression of life,
surely we may study literature to discover the laws of life. Not all
our writers, but all our masters, have given us records from which we
may learn what has been discerned and accepted concerning life by the
race.
The scientific study of our day has led men to consider genius from the
modern point of view. Is genius a natural product? If so, whence comes
it, and what are its laws? These are among the most interesting
questions of the present time. Formerly, men contented themselves with
calling the literary faculty a "gift," the result of "inspiration." Of
late we have been told that it is a natural race impulse which finds
expression in some individual. Personally, we believe genius to be the
heated, pregnant condition of a great mind under the influence of a
great enthusiasm. However our definitions of genius may differ, on one
point we all agree. We are all sure that genius is true to life, that
genius teaches us the truth.
In its formed philosophical theories it may err, but not in its
perceptions of life. Shelley may teach atheistic views in 'Queen Mab,'
and he may err, for intellectual belief is a matter of opinion.
Nevertheless Shelley's inspired interpretation of life can but be
accepted as real. George Meredith may teach in his 'Lord Ormond and his
Aminta' doctrines of free love, resulting from an attempt to separate
what can not be separated in our human lives,--the physical and the
spiritual loves; and in doing this he may err. Nevertheless, in his
inspired representations of life and character, coming not from thought
alone but from his whole nature, Meredith cannot err.
Those of us who read thoughtlessly, without formed theory, accept
literature as real. Have you never, when asked: "Did you ever know of a
case of love at first sight?" answered carelessly: "Oh, yes! There's
Romeo and Juliet, you know?" Or have you never instanced, as the most
persuasive oration you ever heard, Mark Antony's speech in 'Julius
Caesar?'
Thinkers who claim a natural mental origin for the literary gift must
believe in its reality as a matter of course. Those who speak
reverently of its "inspiration" claim a spirit of truth, not of error,
for its parent. Even those who enjoy comparisons of the states of
genius and insanity, ranging from Shakespeare, with his words: "The
fool, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact" to the
masterly modern treatment of John Fiske, agree that the sharp division
line of truth and error separates the two. They confess that while the
insane mind may accept hallucinations, the mind of genius deals only
with the truth. The results of both are imaginative; only those of
insanity are imaginary.
All thinkers, then, accept the masterpieces of literature as among
life's real phenomena. Whether Meredith's novels hold this high place
is at present a matter of opinion. For men do not know Meredith very
well. A knowledge of his position on this question of Destiny will help
us to learn whether or not he ranks among the elect.
In our great literature there has always appeared a close sequence
between wisdom and success, righteousness and happiness, and, on the
other hand, between the choice of moral evil and suffering. This
sequence has been not merely expressed in words, but built into the
very structure of the plot through the workings of the imagination
kindled by genius. The law of this succession, and its relationship
with other laws, philosophers have always been seeking. It is this
search that has led men into the mazy discussions of freedom and
fatalism. For in this law lies the crucial point of the question of
human destiny.
'Beowulf,' our first epic, tells us not only much of the manner of life
of our rude Saxon ancestors, but also much of their thought. The note
of fatalism in its chord of life is no weak one. "A man must bear his
fate," the hero says when about to go into a dangerous combat. Yet even
in 'Beowulf' we find the contrasting element, the character choice
appearing.
As a child boldly states a problem as though it were a solution,
Beowulf naively says: "Fate always aids the undoomed man, if his
courage holds out." This expression side by side of the two elements of
the question has never been surpassed, and is, in its way, matchless.
Have we learned much more to-day? We cannot fail to recognize the
duality of the truth, but have we been able yet to join the two sides
into one, to discover the unity that surely lies behind the seeming
contrast?
Each side of the question has been largely developed. Some, in a narrow
spirit, have echoed merely Beowulf's, "Fate always aids the undoomed
man"; while others, often as narrowly, have answered, "A man succeeds,
if his courage holds out." Ever in our greatest literature the two
elements have appeared side by side. The mystery has always been
recognized.
That even Shakespeare is reverent before fate, yet believes in the
influence of character on a man's life can easily be seen from words
like Helena's in 'All's Well that Ends Well':--
"Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie
Which we ascribe to heaven; the fated sky
Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull."
'Macbeth,' with its successive steps of unhappiness following one
critical evil choice is sufficient proof of Shakespear's belief in the
determining power of character. 'King Lear,' with its sad result of
folly shows his belief in the influence of the critical foolish
decision. In the uncrowned king's conversation with his fool, occur
these words:
_Lear_. Dost thou call me fool, boy?
_Fool_. All thy other titles thou hast given away; that thou wast born
with.
In Robert Browning literature has brought even up to the present time
the old mystery, the ever continuing struggle between fatalism and
freedom. But to him, as to most thinkers of his day, fate has become
the instrument of a God, a divine Providence rules the world, while
man, too, has his little realm of choice.
At the present time this discussion is carried to a greater extent than
ever before. The one side finds its expression in our modern idealistic
philosophy, the other in our modern sceptical science. Idealistic
philosophy, since Kant, has been trying to lay the responsibility for
all life upon the free moral choice. It has been seeking to prove that
the spiritual is the source of life.
Modern science, on the other hand, with its keen, wide-opened eyes, has
tried to lay all the necessary sequence of law, forgetting at times
that law is but the explanation of the phenomena. Science sometimes
refuses to consider such phenomena as require a new point of view,
beyond the physical and mental,--a moral point of view. By this refusal
to recognize the spiritual part of man, science attempts to avoid a
second mystery. The mystery of the union of the physical and mental
realms it has been forced, long since, to accept. It would shun the
moral realms because that, too, entails its mystery of connection.
Once accept physical life, and science is, in so far, free from
impassable gulfs. Once accept mental life and that realm also becomes
capable of study. Let the free moral nature once be accepted, and again
we shall have reached firm footing. But to cross between these realms
by law, by reason, is impossible; for life, any kind of life, is its
own only explanation.
While the problem of freedom becomes simple for one who, like Meredith,
will take this view, there are many who will not or cannot do so, and
the very impossibility of the question from reason's point of view
makes the path a very labyrinth for them. We all try to solve the
question, and different personalities arrive at different answers; but
all are partial. They vary from the logical, but dead outcome of
Swinburne: "There is no bad nor good," to the struggling faith of Omar
Khayyam:
"The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But here or there as strikes the Player goes;
And he that toss'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all--He knows--He knows."
At such a time as this of ours it is especially helpful to study a
writer like George Meredith, who far from ignoring the many sides of
the problem, yet clings firmly to his faith in character. With no
doubtful accent, he tells us that Character is the Source of Destiny.
As any great writer of the day must do, Meredith accepts much in the
arguments of the fatalists. He does not refuse to see that nature and
circumstances are strong to mould life. He recognizes the great power
of environment and the absolute power, within its realm, of heredity.
Like Beowulf, like Shakespeare, like Browning, he is reverent before
human destiny. Yet in spite of all this, he accepts the moral with its
necessary result of freedom. He declares that, although the laws of
necessity rule up to the crisis of the moral choice, that very choice
sets all the laws of intellect and body working according to itself.
All the stronger for his acceptance of life's necessity becomes his
belief in life's freedom. All the stronger for his concessions becomes
his final dictum. The more intricate the machine, the greater its
master's mind. The narrower the realm of choice, the greater power must
that choice have, to move life as it does.
To show that the same peculiar mixture of belief in fatalism and in the
determining power of character on life exists in Meredith's writings as
in Beowulf and in Shakespeare, let me quote a few words from 'Evan
Harrington':
"Most youths, like Pope's women, have no character at all, and indeed a
character that does not wait for circumstances to shape it, is of small
worth in the race that must be run."
Again he says:
"When we have cast off the scales of hope and fancy, and surrender our
claims on made chance: when the wild particles of this universe consent
to march as they are directed, it is given them to see if they see at
all that some plan is working out: that the heavens, icy as they are to
the pangs of our blood, have been throughout speaking to our souls;
and, according to the strength there existing, we learn to comprehend
them."
That Meredith, although very reverent before human destiny, is not, on
the other hand, one of those who lay the responsibility for their own
lives on "the stars," or "fate," or "Providence," may be shown by a
study of the characters into whose mouths he puts such sentiments.
In 'Rhoda Fleming' who is it but Algernon, "the fool," who says:
"I'm under some doom. I see it now. Nobody cares for me. I don't know
what happiness is. I was born under a bad star. My fate's written."
It is of Algernon, likewise, that the author says:
"Behind the figures he calculated that, in all probability, Rhoda would
visit her sister this night. 'I can't stop that,' he said: and hearing
a clock strike, 'nor that.' The reflection inspired him with fatalistic
views."
In 'The Tragic Comedians,' who is it but Clotilde, "the craven," who
lays the successive steps which lead to the tragedy in her life, now to
fate, now to other people's power or lack of insight, now to
Providence? She reaps, as Meredith plainly shows us, simply what she
sows.
In 'Sandra Belloni,' it is Mr. Barrett, that sentimentalist of the
better order, of which class the author says: "We will discriminate
more closely here than to call them fools," who lets his whole life be
crushed with the melancholy thought that he is under the influence of
some baneful star. His death, which he lets chance bring or keep away,
is a fitting conclusion to his story. He shuts two pistols up together
in the same case overnight, knowing that one of them is loaded, the
other not. In the morning he takes out one, prepared to fire it upon
himself, in case his beloved does not keep tryst. She does not come, he
fires, the pistol happens to be loaded, and so comes death. It shows
that the "star" of which he thought was not a real star burning clear
in the high heavens. It was rather but a will-o'-the-wisp, born of the
marshy exhalations of his own morbid brain. Meredith reverences the
real star. He kindly ridicules the will-o'-the-wisp.
But there is still another class of fatalists in Meredith's novels. He
recognizes also the fatalism of youth. Such is that of the young
Wilfrid in 'Sandra Belloni,' concerning whom the author informs us that
we "shall see him grow." Meredith is too great a thinker not to see
that this tendency toward fatalism does not belong merely to the
"fool," the "craven," and the "sentimentalist," but that it is a
tendency of our youth. We are all weak when we are growing, he assures
us. Is not ours preeminently a growing age?
But we must not linger too long on the negative side of Meredith's
belief. We have seen that he is willing to recognize that there is a
wonderful, mysterious power governing human destiny. We have seen,
also, that he does not side in the least with those who lay the
responsibility for their own lives on fate. Let us seek for his
positive message.
In the 'Adventures of Harry Richmond' he says:
"If a man's fate were as a forbidden fruit, detached from him, and in
front of him, he might hesitate fortunately before plucking it; but, as
most of us are aware, the vital half of it lies in the seed paths he
has traversed."
This is certainly a very definite statement of a strong belief in a
man's choice of his own destiny. Again, in 'Modern Love' we find the
following:
"In tragic life, God wot,
No villain need be! Passions spin the plot;
We are betrayed by what is false within."
"I take the hap
Of all my deeds. The wind that fills my sails
Propels; but I am helmsman. Am I wrecked,
I know the devil has sufficient weight
To bear; I lay it not on him, or fate.
Besides, he's damned. That man I do suspect
A coward, who would burden the poor deuce
With what ensues from his own slipperiness."
The main issue between freedom and fatalism lies in just this question:
Is a man's life determined by what he is or by what he does? Does his
nature, received through inheritance, moulded by circumstance,
determine his acts and so his life? Or does his moral choice determine
these?
Extreme fatalists declare that the former is true. Moralists,
idealists, believers in freedom, support the latter view.
Now Meredith leaves us no doubt as to his position on the point. Again
and again we see his characters choosing their lives. And their choices
rest on no inherited nature, but on character. Thus our author
declares, by his plots, as in plain words, that "Our deathlessness is
in what we do, not in what we are."
As we have said, a writer's thought of life can be best understood from
his plots. He builds life, consciously or unconsciously, as he believes
that nature builds it. Does he let the righteous perish and the evil
man prosper in the end? Then he either does not believe in this law of
ours, or in its present successful working. Perhaps, like Victor Hugo,
he teaches a higher law, that of self-sacrifice. Perhaps, like some
little modern writers, he teaches a lower law of the temporary success,
at times, of hypocrisy and deceit. Whatever he believes in and likes to
think of, his structure will disclose.
Now one very marked thing about Meredith's structure is the agreement
of the two crises, that of character and that of circumstances. When
any one of his characters chooses for good or evil, for wisdom or
folly, at that very time, and by that very choice, he decides his
future happiness and success, or unhappiness and failure. Therein lies
the decision of the question whether that particular novel shall be a
tragedy or a comedy.
When Dahlia Fleming chooses evil, she chooses unhappiness. No kind
Providence intervenes to save her from her harvest. How many of our
little writers of to-day would have caused her marriage with Edward to
take place in the end! Is not Meredith's conclusion far more true to
life?
When Diana of the Cross-Ways resists Percy's temptings and is led by
her hatred of his evil to betray his secret, she chooses for her own
happiness in the end. The storms through which she goes to reach it are
the natural result of her impulsive, unbalanced mind.
Stronger still is the teaching in 'The Tragic Comedians.' When Clotilde
chooses the craven's part to play, she chooses also the craven's
reward.
It is in his scientific insight into moral life that Meredith's growth
beyond Beowulf, Shakespeare, and even Browning appears. We of the
nineteenth century would be sorry to think that we had not one master
who goes even deeper into our modern life than these. We believe that,
as men of the later twentieth century look back upon our day, they will
call George Meredith our greatest literary exponent.
Beowulf asserts the general truth that Circumstance and Character
determine Destiny.
Shakespeare has not gone very much farther in the philosophy of life.
He teaches that character determines character, and that circumstance
determines circumstance; and that, in some way, circumstance obeys
character.
Browning would advance a step and teach us, as his age taught the
world, that the dependence of the external upon the spiritual comes
about through the agency of a personal God.
But Meredith takes up the cry of our scientific age, and says: "The god
of this world is in the machine, not out of it."
This is no irreverent teaching, for Meredith is not irreverent. It is
simply the search for primary causes. It is the result of the same
tendency that leads us to be dissatisfied with calling typhoid fever a
"dispensation of Providence," and to lay it to bad drains. Like
evolution in the physical world, this theory does not tend to remove
God, but to explain more fully his agency and methods. It is no new
theory. But the manner of its teaching is as new as this latter
nineteenth century of ours.
If one were to compare Meredith with Shakespeare on this subject, one
would naturally coordinate Macbeth and Rhoda Fleming, Diana of the
Cross-Ways and King Lear.
'Rhoda Fleming' is, like 'Macbeth,' a tale with a moral purpose. The
dependence of fate on the moral choice is its chief thought. The
book gains force, as all these novels do, from its striking
characterizations. We see Dahlia, the fair-haired one, whose great
failing is weakness,--the fault of a negative character. And we see
plainly the long process of pain to which she thereby subjects herself
in the course of her purification.
Rhoda, her sister has, on the other hand, the defects of the positive
character. She is head-strong, over-proud. It is from these
characteristics that she suffers or leads others to suffer. "The Fates
that mould us, always work from the main-spring."
In her relations with Anthony Hope, Rhoda takes the part of the
tempter. The interview between the two shows such wonderful insight
into character that from this passage alone Meredith might be ranked as
great. Rhoda discovers that she has sold her sister in marriage to a
brute. In her head-strong desire to buy her off from him, she goes to
her uncle to beg for a large sum of money. Anthony, although a poor man
in reality, has always delighted in deceiving his brother and his
nieces on that point. Rhoda finds him struggling with the greatest
temptation of his life. He has carried home money belonging to the bank
of which he is a trusted employee. His love of money, his former
deceit, make him very weak before Rhoda. So he falls. She is allowed to
take with her the money she wants. As the reader looks back over the
story, he sees that the money will prove useless for her ends, and that
his fall will ruin her uncle's life. Meredith here shows himself a
master of tragedy.
The life of the strong, impulsive, young Robert is not so dependent
upon the crises of temptation. For he knows himself and lives with a
constant purpose to conquer himself. His purpose is stronger than his
passions. In respect to his obedience to Socrates's favorite maxim, he
is a man rare even in our self-conscious age. What shall we say of
Edward, "villain and hero in one"? Like Dahlia he loses his life's
happiness through his besetting sin. Several times a courageous word
said that ought to be said, or a brave deed done that should have been
done might have saved him. And each time he proves himself a coward,
until it is too late. Like the children of Israel he would not enter
the promised land for fear of the inhabitants thereof. Like them too,
he atoned by spending his forty years in the wilderness, and there
laying down his life.
We must not neglect the "fascinating Peggy Lovell,"--a coquette whose
charm even a woman can feel. Avarice and love of pleasure are her
besetting sins. And avarice leads her to her fate. She has chosen to
sow her wild oats and to accrue her debts. These she pays, as we all
must in one way or another, with herself. Her way is to marry the man
who can pay them rather than the man she loves.
One and all, major and minor characters, they come to the crises of
their destinies. One after another chooses according to his character
his life. This is Meredith's teaching.
But our author is not always sounding the very depths of life. He is no
preacher, but a painter of human nature. The power of mind has a large
place in his books. "Drink of faith in the brains a full draught," he
tells us; and again:--"To read with a soul in the mirror of mind Is
man's chief lesson."
'Diana of the Cross-Ways' teaches the partial failure, the temporary
unhappiness, that result from lack of mental balance. It is the story
of a charming, brilliant, but impulsive woman who makes many mistakes
and who suffers from them. Diana is capable of loving one unworthy of
her, and for such lack of wisdom she pays dearly. Yet she holds firmly
and purely to the right and so wins happiness in the end. She is
foolish sometimes, but she is not a fool. Hence her story is not a
tragedy.
This novelist-philosopher has taught us, then, that folly tends to
bring failure, but that righteousness is stronger than folly. He is not
content to stop in his teachings even here. In 'The Tragic Comedians'
he goes still further, and deals with the interrelations of the moral
and intellectual. For character rules intellect, as intellect reacts
upon character.
'The Tragic Comedians' begins with the birth of a love. With Clotilde,
daughter of a highly respectable, but very conventional citizen, Alvan,
a Jew and demagogue, a man of widespread and somewhat notorious
reputation, falls in love. Clotilde is a beautiful, bright woman;
interesting, but cowardly. Like all Meredith's heroes and heroines, she
has her besetting sin.
To this sudden, overpowering new love Clotilde yields her heart, but
will not yield her actions. She is afraid. While Alvan would go at once
to her parents to ask for her hand, Clotilde, seeing only too plainly
how little hope there is of obtaining their consent, prefers to dally
with matters, and insists on his postponing the interview. Alvan's
straightforward nature cannot understand such half-way measures. He
leaves her unsought for a time, and begins to fade out of Clotilde's
mind. Suddenly, when in the mountains with a friend, she hears that
Alvan is near. She wants him then, and goes to seek him. Again he
misunderstands her. This time he asks her to run away with him, but she
refuses, seeming not so much shocked as afraid. She answers, not in a
womanly, straightforward way, but with an evasion. Then she consents to
let him speak to her father and mother. She addresses them first on the
subject, but is met with a torrent of angry words. The poor thing
cannot stand that. In her weakness she makes her next great mistake,
and runs away to Alvan, beseeching him to marry her secretly. The woman
who would not listen to his request for this very thing but a day or
two before now begs for it. She finds that it is too late. Her lover,
in his pride, has determined to meet her parents on their own ground.
He will win her, he now declares, by conventional methods. So he takes
her to a friend's home. It is there that the chief crisis of the book
takes place, a crisis which is one of the most interesting I know in
literature. It is a moral crisis.
Clotilde has come to it through various steps of weakness. Alvan has
reached it through pride and its reaction from his former shady life to
a desire for conventionalism. A strong man who had before obeyed
conventional rules might there have thrown them aside. To Alvan, on
account of their long disuse, they seemed more precious than they need.
So Alvan meets the crisis overconfident in his strength. Clotilde meets
it afraid, cowering in her weakness. Of her state Meredith says:
"Men and women alike, who renounce their own individuality by cowering
thus abjectly under some other before the storm, are in reality
abjuring their idea of that other, and offering themselves up to the
genius of Power in whatsoever direction it may chance to be manifested,
in whatsoever person. We no sooner shut our eyes than we consent to be
prey, we lose the soul of election."
Alvan handed Clotilde back to her parents. She meekly did what he said.
She was hurt. She could not understand his action. Had she but stood up
against this mistake, he might have had pity on her even yet. Or, had
he not changed his own rigid determination, the action might have
prevented that worst result, the weakening of her belief in him. There
is nothing like cowardice to destroy one's faith in others. There is
nothing like courageous action to clear away those mists of doubt.
Clotilde's "craven" will began to demoralize her mind.
But her chance is not over yet. She may still cling to Alvan. Doubtless
he will seek her, he has not given her up. Ah, but circumstances were
too strong. For the craven they are always too strong. By a short
imprisonment, by family storms and prayers, Clotilde is reduced to
external subjection. The disorder of her mind increases.
While submitting to her father's command, while writing words of
dismissal to Alvan, and even accepting the attentions of a former
suitor, she still says in her heart of hearts that she will always be
loyal to him. How peculiar seems the twisting, "serpentine" nature! She
still waits for Alvan to save her from the chains she daily forges for
herself. Meanwhile Alvan does his best. He uses all means,--
conventional and otherwise. He finally forces permission from
Clotilde's father to hold a free interview with Clotilde. She is to
tell him openly and freely whether she will marry him or not. So he
hopes to free her of coercion.
So far as circumstances are concerned, there is now nothing to prevent
a happy ending; but from moral causes it is impossible.
The chains she has forged for herself are too strong. Her fancies have
become diseased by long straining to a cowardly deceit. She think's
Alvan's messengers deceitful too.
So she refuses. She throws away thereby her last chance. And yet--can
we believe it?--she still hopes. Alvan has done his best and has
failed. His friends have tried to help him. Circumstance has given away
before them. And she has thrown away their help--yet she still hopes.
Alvan sends a challenge to her father. Prince Marko accepts it, and now
her shuddering trust is in Providence. Marko will be killed. Now Alvan
shall have her hand. But "Providence" does not save her. Alvan is
killed, and Prince Marko returns Clotilde cannot understand it. She is
stunned, but recovers sufficiently to marry Prince Marko.
"Not she, it was the situation they had created which was guilty," she
had thought.
"The craven with desires expecting to be blest is a zealot of the faith
which ascribes the direction of events to the outer world."
Of Alvan's death, Meredith says some very characteristic words. Let me
quote once again:
"He perished of his weakness, but it was a strong man that fell."
"He was 'a tragic comedian,' one of the lividly ludicious, whom we
cannot laugh at, but must contemplate, to distinguish where their
character strikes the note of discord with life; for otherwise, in the
reflection of their history, life will seem a thing demoniacally
inclined by fits to antic and dive into gulfs."
This, then, is George Meredith's message. We have eaten of the fruit of
the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and the power to choose
between the two has entered into our souls. We are under the rule of a
great overhanging law. Destiny's wheels we cannot stop, but through our
capacity for moral choice, our hands lie on the button that moves the
whole machine in its relation to our own individual lives.
This is a great lesson. How strong in its likeness to the teachings of
our great masters of the past! How needful in its new scientific form
to-day! How suggestive as to the universe! Does it not follow that as
our lives are planned so is this universe planned in which we live!
Does it not follow that the spiritual is the central life upon which
all else depends? It is the teaching of the childhood of the race,
broadened through knowledge of life's passion, humbled and heightened
through sight of God's hand, strengthened and widened through the
opening of our eyes in modern science to a fuller and clearer
knowledge, not only of the machinery of the universe, but also of its
motive power.
_Emily G. Hooker_.
THE TRAGEDY OF OPHELIA.
RENUNCIATION.
The "Tragedy of Hamlet" has its origin in the murder of Hamlet's
father, its development in Hamlet's preparation for revenge, and its
consummation in the murderer's death. It is well summed up in the
Anglicized title of the old German play, 'Fratricide Punished,'
('Hamlet,' Variorum Edition, Furness, Vol. II., p. 121). In the
progress of this tragedy Ophelia's own sad story has no part or lot.
She is in it, but not of it, and her relationship to it is an episode.
Like 'The Murder of Gonzago,' however, it is a tragedy within the
tragedy, but it turns wholly upon the loves of Hamlet and Ophelia,
their interruption, and its result. For this reason it is greatly shorn
of detail, and therefore doubtless it has always been regarded as a
mystery.
"The Tragedy of Ophelia" opens with a narrative of Hamlet's ardent
pursuit of Ophelia with vows of love, the surrender of her maiden heart
to him, and their free and bounteous interviews thereafter. Here the
action of the drama begins, and her father, doubting the integrity of
Hamlet's purpose, forbids her further reception of his attentions, and,
apparently without explanation made to Hamlet, she obeys him. Of what
Hamlet thinks or says of this we are not in terms informed, and can
only infer it from his conduct towards her afterwards. But that conduct
was of a most extraordinary character, seeming to many students of the
play to be inexplicable. The explanations of others may be resolved
into three theories, each of which deserves a passing notice. It has
been claimed that insanity will account for it, and indeed Hamlet's
treatment of Ophelia has been the chief argument advanced in proof of
his insanity; but it is incredible that Shakespeare should have devoted
the only two interviews which he had with her, and which had so
important an influence upon her life, to the mere vaporings of a
madman. It has been suggested that he is putting on "an antic
disposition," as he had foretold he would, with a view to deceiving the
King concerning his intentions, and such conduct would have been
fitting with the temptress in Belleforest's 'Hystorie,' (_Ibid_., 91);
but Shakespeare has transformed the creature of that story into
Hamlet's gentle sweetheart, and so to lacerate her soul by way of
subterfuge would have been an act of unjustifiable brutality, of which
he could by no means have been guilty. It has been urged that his
mind's eye is jaundiced by his mother's gross behavior, and that
thereupon he turns distrustfully from womankind; but long after his
mother's wicked marriage, perhaps a month afterwards, he is reveling in
Ophelia's love,--a balm that gracious Nature often pours on bleeding
hearts. And further, from either of these points of view, the sudden
and extravagant change in Hamlet's feelings towards Ophelia, the cruel
harshness of his speech to her soon after, and his subsequent complete
indifference to her, are beyond the requirements of the situation, and
the theories therefore seem rather to perplex than to explain.
Undoubtedly the cause of this is that they seek the solution of the
riddle in the effect on Hamlet's relations to Ophelia of prior
incidents in the play, his father's murder, his mother's marriage to
the murderer, and the ghostly mission of revenge. But there are in the
situation at the end of Act I of 'Hamlet' and wholly unconnected with
these incidents, all the elements of a tragedy, few and simple, but
profoundly significant. Thus, we have a prince who is an ardent lover,
a court lady who has as ardently returned his love, the lady's sudden
and unexplained refusal to see or hear from him, her ambitious and
time-serving courtier father, and for a King a "remorseless,
treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain." Let but a spark of jealous
suspicion reach such a mixture, and there must be an explosion; with a
war-hardened Othello-like titanic rage and murder, but with the softer
Hamlet renunciation and reproach, and with poor Ophelia, who represses
her feelings always, heart-break, insanity, and death.
Now, Hamlet is pictured as one of the most suspicious of men, and in
particular at this juncture about his mortal enemy the King. In
addition, he is very proud and very revengeful, as he admits, and there
is every indication that he has been passionately fond of Ophelia. When
therefore she persistently denies herself to him in private, though
doubtless a regular attendant at the functions of the court, his
suspicions are excited, his pride wounded, his anger aroused; and, with
"the pangs of despis'd love" in his heart, and in his mind a tumult of
conflicting thoughts, he suddenly presents himself before her, resolved
to know the truth. "What damned moments counts he o'er Who dotes, yet
doubts,--suspects, yet fondly loves." In Quarto I she says: "He found
me walking in the gallery, all alone"; that is, in the gallery of the
King's palace,--(compare lines 673 and 803),--and of course within
reach of the King; and, though Shakespeare afterwards transferred this
scene to her chamber in her father's house, it may not be overlooked
that the remarkable interview of which Ophelia tells was conceived
originally as occurring on the impulse of the moment and under stress
of feeling caused apparently, by Hamlet's unexpected and dumbfoundering
discovery:
"He took me by the wrist and held me hard.
Then goes he to the length of all his arm,
And, with his other hand thus o'er his brow,
He falls to such perusal of my face
As he would draw it. Long time stayed he so.
At last--a little shaking of my arm,
And thrice his head thus waving up and down--
He raised a sigh so piteous and profound
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk
And end his being. That done, he lets me go,
And with his head over his shoulder turned
He seemed to find his way without his eyes;
For out o' doors he went without their help,
And to the last bended their light on me."
In that harsh grip is anger, in that long study of her face the search
for truth, in his silence the wounded pride that cannot utter his
suspicions, in the triple nod the confirmation of their verity, in the
sigh the efflux of his love, in the hand-shaking a farewell, and in the
retroverted face a hope yet lingering but doomed to disappointment. For
Ophelia still utters no word of explanation, and Hamlet the lover
leaves her forever.
The renunciation of Ophelia at this interview is generally conceded,
but the reason assigned for it is the incompatibility of Hamlet's
passion for her with his mission of revenge;--a most unsatisfactory
explanation, because after the Ghost's command was laid on him he still
pursued her, for it was after that that she says: "I did refuse his
letters and denied his access to me." There is apparently an interval
of two months between Acts I and II of Hamlet, and during this period
Hamlet has evidently been brooding over his father's murder and
considering the means of executing his dread command, and he has
doubtless been vexing his soul over the conduct of Ophelia until he can
stand the strain no longer. In immediate sequence in the play his
silent interview with her follows upon her denial of herself to him,
and an echo of the bitter feeling then aroused in him is subsequently
heard, when he tells her that the prologue to the players' scene is
brief "as woman's love";--sometimes mistakenly supposed to refer to the
Queen, whose defection did not occur for more than thirty years after
her marriage. If Hamlet's belief in an intrigue between her and the
King be assumed, it fully explains his conduct before, at, and after
his renunciation of Ophelia, and it would seem that no other theory can
explain it adequately.
When Othello is brooding over the supposed delinquencies of Desdemona,
tortured by commingled love and hate, in his wrath he strikes her.
Afterwards he demands: "Let me see your eyes; look in my face"; and as
she does so, and he searches there for her innocence and finds it not,
he bitterly adjures her: "Swear thou art honest," though all the while
assured that she is "false as hell." And he weeps and laments over her
at the very moment that he determines upon an eternal separation.
Othello's interview with Desdemona and this interview of Hamlet's with
Ophelia are identical in outline, and they differ in detail only as the
character of the two men differ. Shakespeare has told us in words that
Othello is jealously suspicious of Desdemona, and with equal
faithfulness he has depicted jealous suspicion in the acts of Hamlet.
This mute interview between Hamlet and Ophelia reminds one of the "Dumb
Shew," which precedes the scene from the drama of 'Gonzago's Murder';
and as in the latter instance the Duke and Duchess afterwards put into
words the thoughts which the pantomime foreshadows, so on examination
will this be found to be the case in the second interview between
Hamlet and Ophelia, which immediately follows upon his great soliloquy.
This second interview concludes Scene i of Act III in Quarto II and in
the Folios, but in Quarto I it is in Act II, and logically it belongs
there. Act I of 'Hamlet' was designed to disclose the relation of the
several characters to each other, and the command imposed on Hamlet to
avenge his Father's death upon the King; and Act II was originally
intended to exhibit Hamlet erratically making ready to obey the Ghost's
command, and the various artifices which the King employs to detect his
hidden purpose. When Ophelia tells her father of Hamlet's wordless
interview with her, Polonius promptly goes to the King with the story
of their amours and his termination of them, and with the announcement
that Hamlet is mad for his daughter's love; and, after hearing his
reasons for this opinion, being impressed by them, naturally the first
thought of the King is: "How may we try it further?" To this Polonius
replies: "I'll loose my daughter to him" during one of his walks in the
gallery here, whilst you and I, unseen but seeing, will witness their
encounter. In Quarto I the meeting between Hamlet and Ophelia follows
at once, and when it fails Polonius undertakes to board him, and when
that fails Rosencrantz and Guildenstern assay him. Afterwards
Shakespeare saw fit to change the order of these scenes, but this
particular scene may properly be considered now, and before others
which it logically precedes.
In the interpretation of this interview, as of the former, commentators
have been misled by the assumption that it is in some way connected
with Hamlet's mission of revenge, and consequently they have found it,
as has been suggested, a veritable _pons asinorum_. Apart from the
three theories above referred to, there is an attempt to explain it on
the hypothesis that when Hamlet meets Ophelia in the palace, whither he
has been sent for by the King for the express purpose of meeting her,
but "as 'twere by accident," he at once suspects the ruse, and
therefore talks in the extraordinary manner recorded of him; that is,
that he is rude and brutal, and refuses to yield to his feelings of
affection, in order to deceive the King, who he well knows is within
hearing, or to punish Ophelia, who he is assured is spying on him. But
this theory seems to be wholly without support in the text. In the
first place, there is not a word which indicates that he suspects the
King's presence, and, on the contrary, the delivery of the soliloquy,
the admission that he is revengeful and ambitious, and the covert
threat to kill the King, all tend to prove that he does not suspect it.
Further, such a suspicion could reasonably originate only in the fact
that the King had sent for him, and that instead of the King he found
Ophelia, but it is to be remembered that in Quarto I the King does not
send for him, and that the meeting is in fact accidental. Conceding the
suspicion, however, for argument's sake, whilst it might induce Hamlet
to be reticent or cautious in his speech, it does not explain why
Shakespeare put into his mouth the denunciatory language he employs,
and this is after all the vital question. It cannot have been in order
to deceive the King by concealing his love for Ophelia, for such
concealment must necessarily undeceive him; the King, Queen, and
Polonius are all deluded into believing him mad for Ophelia's love, and
this test is expected to confirm them in it; but we know that in fact
the King is undeceived, for his comment is: "Love! His affections do
not that way tend; Nor what he spake, though it lack'd form a little,
Was not like madness." Were he profuse in his protestations of love,
the King might indeed be deceived into believing that it is not his
conduct, but Ophelia's, which troubles Hamlet; for herein the situation
differs from that narrated by Belleforest, the lady there being a mere
vulgar temptress, whose preconcerted blandishments Hamlet shrewdly
refuses to yield to. As for Ophelia's spying on him, it is untenable;
for she also expects that Hamlet will exhibit affection for her, and,
were he to do so, instead of betraying his secret, she would aid him in
concealing it. It seems plain from his inquiry that Hamlet sees
Polonius during the interview, but it is not probable that he believes
Ophelia to be cognizant of his presence; her answer is a denial of such
knowledge, and Hamlet's succeeding sarcastic speech is meant for the
conscience of Polonius, not for hers. The worst that he could say to
her is said before the discovery of her father, and before her
falsehood, and hence the discovery and the falsehood do not serve to
explain it. Nothing can explain it satisfactorily, but Hamlet's
conviction that she has transferred her affections to the King.
After Hamlet has for some time been in the King's chamber, whether it
is with or without the King's request, he meets Ophelia there, and he
finds her apparently waiting for some one, and whiling away the time by
reading. So it has been pre-arranged, and so it seems to him. Plainly
she has not been waiting for him, for, though he himself has been
waiting, she has not addressed him, and in the end he first accosts
her. Indeed, it has been planned that their meeting shall seem to him
to be "by accident," and, so seeming, the idea of her waiting for him
is precluded. Hence to him, already suspicious of her integrity, she
must have come to meet the King. But he has before this been convinced
of such an intrigue, as above shown, and because of it has renounced
her; and accordingly he petitions her lightly, if not ironically:
"Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd." Their meeting is on
the same day as, or certainly not more than one day later than, the
speechless interview; but Ophelia ignores that, and ignores his
petition also, and inquires into the state of his health "for this many
a day,"--that is, since Polonius has separated them,--to which he
responds gravely, and without show of affection. Thereupon ensues the
following conversation:
"_Oph_. My lord, I have remembrances of yours
That I have longed long to redeliver;
I pray you now receive them.
"_Ham_. No, not I;
I never gave you aught.
"_Oph_. My honor'd lord, you know right well you did,
And with them words of so sweet breath compos'd
As made the things more rich. Their perfume lost,
Take them again; for to the noble mind
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind."
It seems clear that Ophelia returns these remembrances in pursuance of
her father's orders, express or implied; that Hamlet repudiates them
because, proud and sensitive, he would blot their old associations from
his memory; and that Ophelia insists on their return with a sad and
tender recollection of those music-vows of love that he has made so
often. But why she should accuse him of unkindness towards her is not
so clear, since it is she who has broken off their intimacy. Her
meaning is not doubtful in Quarto I, where this reference to Hamlet's
unkindness follows upon his comments on her honesty, and evidently
refers to them. But in Quarto II Shakespeare changes the order of the
conversation, and so apparently intends to make Ophelia's suggestion of
unkindness refer to Hamlet's visit to her closet. Hence he had not only
frightened her at that interview, as she informed her father, but he
had hurt her, she realizes that he had renounced her, and in this
gentle way she now upbraids him. But Hamlet, wrought to sudden fury by
the reminiscence, like Othello, can see nothing but the supposed wrong
which she has done him, and, like Othello, charges her with unchastity,
without indicating the suspected man:
"_Ham_. Ha, ha! are you honest?
"_Oph_. My lord?
"_Ham_. Are you fair?
"_Oph_. What means your lordship!
"_Ham_. That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit
of no discourse to your beauty.
"_Oph_. Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with
honesty?
"_Ham_. Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform
honesty from what it is to a bawd, than the force of honesty can
translate beauty into his likeness. This was sometime a paradox, but
now the time gives it proof."
Though expressed figuratively, there can be no doubt of Hamlet's
intention in this passage to warn Ophelia against some temptation then
assailing her, which is attacking her virtue through the medium of her
beauty, and which will probably prevail over it. It concerns her
"honesty,"--a virtuous woman being honest in respect of others who have
claims on her, and chaste in respect of herself,--and undoubtedly it
refers to the temptation which assails all women who win unscrupulous
admirers by their charms, and to which they sometimes succumb. In
Ophelia's case it has been to Hamlet an impossible possibility that she
could prove unfaithful to him, but here and now, since he has
discovered her secret visit to the King, it has become reality.
Then, as the scene proceeds, Hamlet in a breath admits and denies his
former love for her, thus plainly repudiating any present affection.
(This conclusion is entirely consistent with his declaration "I lov'd
Ophelia" in the grave-yard scene). Here he renounces her in words, as
formerly he had renounced her by signs. Then he denounces himself and
his "old stock" as being without virtue, and concludes the subject by
declaring: "We are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us. Go thy ways
to a nunnery." Here he unmistakeably warns her against the King, for of
that old stock only they two are left. To the blandishments of both she
has yielded, as he supposes, and since Hamlet no longer loves her, and
the King but lusts after her, her only safe retreat is in a nunnery. In
those old days a nunnery was often the only refuge for a woman who was
fancied by a king, if she would retain her purity.
At this juncture Hamlet discovers Polonius, as is evident by his
suggestion that he had better remain at home when he desires to play
the fool; if the remark were not intended for his ear, it would be
absurd. Of course he realizes that Polonius has been listening to their
conversation, but he does not betray his knowledge, though the rest of
his comments are perhaps more particularly intended for Polonius's ear.
His words turn "wild and whirling," Ophelia notes the change, and her
responses change in tone accordingly. He protests that though she
marries she must lose that immediate jewel of her soul of which Iago
prates, or that she will transform her husband into the horned monster
of Othello's fears. And then he inveighs against wanton womankind in
general, but in such terms as might befit the woman he supposes that
she has become. He puts on "an antic disposition" for the benefit of
Polonius, but under it all is the pointed notice to Ophelia that their
past relationship can never be renewed, and the masked charge that it
is her adoption of the ways of her frail sisters that has made him
mad,--as her words indicate that she supposes him to be,--and that has
wrecked the future happiness of both of them.