BLANCHE (_in a broken, gasping voice_):

The dagger struck me ... but I ...

Saved the king ...

I love him. Father ... have they let him live?

TRIBOULET: I cannot understand.

BLANCHE: It was my fault ...

Forgive me ... father, I----

[_She struggles, speechless, in the agony of death._

TRIBOULET (_shrieking_): Help! Help! Oh, help!

[_Rushing to the ferry-bell by the riverside, he rings it

madly. The people in the cottages around come running

out in wild alarm._

A WOMAN: What is it? Is she wounded?

A MAN: She is dead.

TRIBOULET (_taking the lifeless body in his arms and

hugging it to his breast_): I have killed my child!

I have killed my child!

FOOTNOTES:

[L] Victor Hugo was a man with a remarkable aptitude for

divining the real course of popular feeling and giving violent

expression to it. It was this that made him one of the leaders of the

modern republican movement in France. Precluded by his earlier works

from attacking the monarchy openly, he set about discrediting it by

a series of historical plays in which the French kings were depicted

in a sinister light. In "Marion de Lorme" he holds up the weakest of

the Bourbons to bitter contempt; in "The King Amuses Himself" ("Le roi

s'amuse"), produced in 1832, he satirises the most brilliant of the

Valois--François I. The portrait is a clever but one-sided piece of

work; it is based on facts; but not on all the facts. It is true that

François used to frequent low taverns and mix in disreputable company,

but he was also the most chivalrous king of his age, and a man of fine

tastes in art and letters. Nevertheless, the play is one of the best

of Victor Hugo's by reason of the strange and terrible character of

the king's jester, Triboulet. This ugly little hunchback is surely a

memorable figure in literature. The horror and pity which he excites

as he sits by the river in the storm and darkness, rejoicing in the

consummation of his scheme of revenge, have something of that awfulness

which is the note of veritable tragedy. The scene is a superb example

of dramatic irony.

The Legend of the Ages[M]

_Conscience_

Cain, flying from the presence of the Lord,

Came through the tempest to a mountain land;

And being worn and weary with the flight,

His wife and children cried to him, and said:

"Here let us rest upon the earth and sleep."

And, folded in the skin of beasts, they slept.

But no sleep fell on Cain; he raised his head,

And saw, amid the shadows of the night,

An eye in heaven sternly fixed on him.

"I am too near," he said, with trembling voice.

Rousing his weary children and worn wife,

He fled again along the wilderness.

For thirty days and thirty nights he fled.

Silent and pale, and shuddering at a sound,

He walked with downcast eyes, and never turned

To look behind him. On the thirtieth day

He came unto the shore of a great sea.

"Here we will live," he said. "Here we are safe.

Here on the lonely frontier of the world!"

And, sitting down, he gazed across the sea,

And there, on the horizon, was the eye

Still fixed on him. He leaped up, wild with fear,

Crying, "Oh, hide me! Hide me!" to his sons.

And Jabal, the tent-maker, sheltered him

Within his tent, and fastened down with stones

The flapping skins. But Cain still saw the eye

Burning upon him through the leathern tent.

And Enoch said, "Come, let us build with stone,

A city with a wall and citadel,

And hide our father there, and close the gates."

Then Tubalcain, the great artificer,

Quarried the granite, and with iron bands

Bound the huge blocks together, and he made

A city, with a rampart like a hill

Encircling it, and towers that threw a shade

Longer than any mountain's on the plain.

Deep in the highest and the strongest tower,

Cain was enclosed. "Can the eye see you now?"

His children asked him. "Yes, it is fixed on me,"

He answered. And with haggard face he crept

Out of the tower, and cried unto his sons,

"I will go down into the earth, and live

Alone, within a dark and silent tomb.

No one shall ever see my face again,

And I will never look at anything."

They made a vaulted tomb beneath the earth,

And he was lowered into it; the hole

Above his head was closed; but in the tomb

Cain saw the eye still sternly fixed on him.

_Eviradnus_

When John the Striker, lord of Lusace, died,

Leaving his kingdom to his gentle niece,

Mahaud, great joy there was in all the land;

For she was beautiful, and sweet and young,

Kind to the people, and beloved by them.

But Sigismund, the German emperor,

And Ladislas of Poland were not glad.

Long had they coveted the wide domains

Of John the Striker; and Eviradnus,

The tall, white-haired Alastian warrior,

Home from his battles in the Holy Land,

Heard, as he wandered through the castle grounds,

Strange talk between two strangers--a lute-player

And troubadour--who with their minstrelsy

Had charmed the lovely lady of Lusace.

And she was taking them with her that night

To Corbus Castle--an old ruined keep

From which her race was sprung. Ere she was crowned,

An ancient custom of the land required

Mahaud to pass the night in solitude

At Corbus, where her ancestors reposed,

Amid the silence of the wooded hills

On which the stronghold stands. Being afraid

Of the ordeal, Mahaud took with her

The two strange minstrels, so that they might make

Music and mirth until she fell asleep.

An old priest, cunning in the use of herbs,

Came with her to the border of the wood,

And gave her a mysterious wine to drink

To make her slumber till the break of day,

When all the people of Lusace would come

And wake her with their shouts, and lead her forth

To the cathedral where she would be crowned.

* * * * *

To enter Corbus on this solemn night,

Or linger in the woods encircling it,

Was death to any man. Eviradnus

Did not fear death. Opening the castle gate

He strode into the chamber where Mahaud

Would have to pass the night. Two long, dim lines

Of armed and mounted warriors filled the hall,

Each with his lance couched ready for the shock,

And sternly silent. Empty panoplies

They were, in which the lords of old Lusace

Had lived and fought and died, since the red days

When Attila, from whom their race was sprung,

Swept over Europe. Now, on effigies

Of the great war-horses they loved and rode,

Their armoured image sat; and eyeless holes

Gaped in their visors, black and terrible.

Seizing the leader of this spectral host,

Eviradnus dragged his clanging body down,

And hid it; and then leaped upon the horse.

And with closed visor, motionless mail and lance

Clenched in his gauntlet, he appeared transformed

Into an iron statue, like the rest,

As through the open window came the sound

Of lute-playing and laughter, and a song

Sung by the troubadour, rang righ and clear:

Come, and let us dream a dream!

Mount with me, and ride away,

By the winding moonlight stream,

Through the shining gates of day!

Come, the stars are bright above!

All the world is in our scope.

We have horses--joy and love!

We have riches--youth and hope!

Mount with me, and ride away,

Through the greenness and the dew;

Through the shining gates of day,

To the land where dreams come true!

"Look!" cried Mahaud, as she came in the hall

With the two minstrels. "It is terrible!

Sooner would I have lost my crown than come

Alone at midnight to this dreadful place."

"Does this old iron," said the troubadour,

Striking the armour of Eviradnus,

"Frighten you?" "Leave my ancestors in peace!"

Exclaimed Mahaud. "A little man like you

Must not lay hands on them." The troubadour

Grew pale with anger, but the tall lute-player

Laughed, and his blue eyes flamed upon Mahaud.

"Now I must sleep," she said, "the priest's strange wine

Begins to make me drowsy. Stay with me!

Stay and watch over me all night, my friends."

"Far have we travelled," said the troubadour,

"In hopes to be alone with you to-night."

And his dark face lightened with a grim smile,

When, as he spoke, Mahaud fell fast asleep.

"I'll take the girl," he cried to the lute-player,

"And you can have the land! Are you content?"

"Yes," said the lute-player, "but love is sweet."

"Revenge is sweeter!" cried the troubadour.

"'A little man like me!' Those were her words.

Neither as queen nor empress shall she reign!

I swore it when she flouted me. She dies!"

"I cannot kill her," said the lute-player,

"I love her." "So do I!" the other said.

"I love her and hate her. If she lived,

There would be war between us two. She dies!

We love her; we must kill her." As he spoke

The troubadour pulled at a ring, and raised

A flagstone in the floor. "I know this place,"

He said. "A lord of Lusace had this trap

Made for his enemies. 'Twill serve our need!

Help me to lift her. All the land is yours."

"Look!" screamed the lute-player. "Oh, God! Oh, God!"

The troubadour turned round, and his knees shook.

One of the iron images had leapt

Down from its lifeless horse, and with drawn sword

And clank of armour, it now drove at them.

"King Ladislas and Emperor Sigismund!"

It shouted in a terrible voice that fell

Upon them like a judgment from on high.

They grovelled at its iron feet, and shrieked,

"Mercy! Oh, mercy!" And Eviradnus,

Doffing his helmet and cuirass, exclaimed,

"I am a man and not an iron ghost!

It sickens me to see such cowardice

In the two greatest conquerors of the age.

Look! I have taken all my armour off;

Meet me like men, and use what arms you will."

"'Tis only an old man," said Ladislas.

"Hold him in front, while I strike from behind."

Eviradnus laid down his sword, to loose

The last piece of his armour, and the Pole

Ran at him with a dagger; with one hand

The old man gripped the little king, and shook

The life out of him. Then, as Sigismund

Snatched up his sword, and left him still unarmed,

Eviradnus stooped, and, seizing the dead king,

He whirled him by the feet, like a huge club.

Stricken with terror, Sigismund recoiled

Into the open trap. Eviradnus

Flung his strange weapon after him, and they fell,

The living emperor, and the lifeless king,

Into the dark abyss. Closing the stone,

Eviradnus put on his mail, and set

The hall in order. And when he had placed

The iron image on its horse, the dawn

Gleamed through the windows, and the noise

And murmur of the people of Lusace

Coming with branches of green broom to greet

Their lady, filled the air. Mahaud awoke.

"Where is my troubadour and lute-player?"

She said. Eviradnus bent over her,

His old grey eyes shining with tenderness.

"Lady," he said, "I hope that you slept well?"

_The Temple of the Captives_

The high-priest said unto the King of Kings:

"We need a temple to commemorate

Your glorious victories." The King of Kings

Called unto him the captives he had made,

And bade them build the temple, and he asked:

"Is there a man among you who can plan

And raise this monument unto my fame?"

"No," said they. "Kill a hundred of these slaves!"

The King of Kings exclaimed. And this was done.

One of the captives promised then to build

A temple on the mountain looking down

Upon the city of the King of Kings.

Loaded with chains, the prisoners were dragged

Along the streets and up the mountain track,

And there they toiled with grim and angry eyes,

Cutting a building in the solid rock.

"'Tis but a cavern!" said the King of Kings.

"We found a lion's lair," the captive said,

"And fashioned it into your monument.

Enter, O King of Kings, and see the work

Your slaves have built for you!" The conqueror

And captive entered. To a royal throne

The King of Kings was led, that he might view

The temple; and the builder flung himself

Face downwards at his feet. Then, suddenly,

The throne began to sink below the floor.

"Where are we going?" said the King of Kings.

"Down the deep pit into the inner hall!"

The captive said. A sound like thunder rang

Above them, and the King of Kings exclaimed:

"What noise was that?" "The block of stone

That covers in this pit," the captive said,

"Has fallen in its place!" The King of Kings

Groped in the darkness, and with trembling voice

He asked: "Is there no way out of this pit?"

"Surely," the captive said, "the King of Kings,

Whose hands are swift like lightning, and whose feet

Tread down all nations, can find out a way?"

"There is no light, no sound, no breath of air!"

Cried out the King of Kings. "Why is it dark

And cold within the temple to my fame?"

"Because," the captive said, "it is your tomb!"

_Jean Chouan_

The work of pacifying Brittany

Was going on; and children, women, men,

Fled from the revolutionary troops

In wild disorder. Over a bare plain

And up a hill, swept by the guns of France,

They ran, and reached the shelter of a wood.

There they re-formed--the peasant royalists.

And then Jean Chouan, who was leading them,

Cried: "Is there any missing?" "No," they said,

Counting their numbers. "Scatter along the wood!"

Jean Chouan cried again. The women caught

Their babies to their breasts, and the old men

Tottered beside the children. Panic, fear

Possessed the broken, flying peasantry.

Only Jean Chouan stayed behind to watch

The movements of the enemy. He stood

Silent in prayer below the sheltering hill;

A tall, wild figure, with his long, loose hair

Streaming upon the wind. And suddenly,

A cry rang shrill and keen above the roar

Of the French guns. A woman's cry it was;

And, looking from the hill, Jean Chouan saw

A woman labouring, with bare, torn feet,

And haggard, terror-stricken face, to reach

A refuge in the forest. Up the hill,

Swep by the French artillery, she toiled,

And the shells burst around her. "She is lost!"

Jean Chouan murmured. "She will be destroyed

Before she reaches shelter. Oh, the brutes,

To mass their fire upon a woman's head!"

* * * * *

Then on the height that overlooked the plain,

Jean Chouan sprang, and stood against the sky,

Fearless and proud, superb and motionless,

And cried, "I am Jean Chouan!" The French troops

Gazed for a moment in astonishment

At his tall figure. "Yes, it is the chief!"

They said to one another, as they turned

Their guns upon him. "Save yourself!" he cried,

"My sister, save yourself!" as, mad with fright,

The woman stumbled onward. Like a pine

Too strongly rooted in the rock to bend

Or break beneath the fury of the storm,

He towered amid the hurricane of death

That roared and flamed around him. "I will wait

Until you gain the forest!" he exclaimed.

The woman hastened. Over the hill she crept,

And staggered down the valley. "Is she safe?"

Jean Chouan shouted, as a bullet passed

Right through his body. Standing still erect,

He waited, with a smile upon his lips,

The answer. When some voices in the wood

Cried, "Jeanne is safe. Return!" Jean Chouan said,

"Ave Maria!" and then fell down dead.

_Civil War_

"Kill him!" the mob yelled. "Kill him!" as they surged

In fury round their prisoner. Unmoved

And unafraid he stood: a constable

Of Paris, captured by the Communards.

His hands were black with gunpowder; his clothes

Were red with blood. A simple, fearless man,

Charged with the task of carrying out the law,

He gave no quarter, and he asked for none.

All the day he had fought against the mob

That swept with sword and flame along the streets

Of Paris, while the German conqueror

Battened on France. A woman sprang at him,

And shrieked, "You have been killing us!" "That's true,"

The man replied. "Come, shoot him here!" she screamed.

"No! Farther on! At the Bastille!" "No! Here!"

And while the crowd disputed, the man said:

"Kill me just where you like; but kill me quick."

"Yes!" cried the woman, "shoot him where he stands.

He is a wolf!" "A wolf that has been caught,"

The prisoner said, "by a vile pack of curs!"

"The wretch insults us!" yelled the furious mob.

"Down with him! Death! Death! Death!" And with clenched fists

They struck him on the face. An angry flame

Gleamed in his eyes, but, silent and superb,

He marched along the street amid the howls

Of the ferocious, maddened multitude!

God! How they hated him! To shoot him seemed

Too light a sentence, as he calmly strode

Over the corpses of their comrades strewn

Along the street. "How many did you kill?"

They shrieked at him. "Murderer! Traitor! Spy!"

He did not answer; but the waiting mob

Heard a small voice cry: "Daddy!" and a child

Of six years' age ran from a house close by,

And struggled to remain and clasped his knees,

Saying, "He is my daddy. Don't hurt him!

He is my daddy--" "Down with the cursed spy!

Shoot him at once!" a hundred voices said;

"Then we can get on with our work!" Their yells,

The clangour of the tocsin, and the roar

Of cannon mingled. 'Mid the dreadful noise,

The child, still clinging to his father's knees,

Cried, "I tell you he's my daddy. Let him go!"

Pale, tearful, with one arm thrown out to shield

His father, and the other round his leg,

The child stood. "He is pretty!" said a girl.

"How old are you, my little one?" The child

Answered, "Don't kill my daddy!" Many men

Lowered their eyes, and the fierce hands that gripped

The prisoner began to loose their hold.

"Send the kid to its mother!" one man cried,

"And end this job!" "His mother died last month,"

The prisoner said. "Do you know Catherine?"

He asked his little boy. "Yes," said the child,

"She lives next door to us." "Then go to her,"

He said, in grave, calm, kindly tones. "No! No!

I cannot go without you!" cried his son.

"They're going to hurt you, daddy, all these men!"

The father whispered to the Communards

That held him. "Let me say good-bye to him,

And you can shoot me round the corner-house;

Or where you will!" They loosed their prisoner

A moment, and he said unto his child:

"You see, we're only playing. They are friends,

And I am going for a walk with them.

Be a good boy, my darling, and run home."

Raising his face up to be kissed, the child

Smiled through his tears, and skipped into the house.

"Now," said his father to the silent mob,

"Where would you like to shoot me; by this wall,

Or round the corner?" Through the crowd of men,

Mad with the lust for blood, a shudder passed,

And with one voice they cried: "Go home! Go home!"

FOOTNOTES:

[M] English poetry of the last eighty years is fine in quality

and great in volume, but it would be difficult to maintain that it

is the finest and greatest poetry of the period. It was France that

produced the master-singer, and with rare generosity both Tennyson and

Swinburne acknowledged that Victor Hugo was their superior. The range

of power of the Frenchman was marvellous; he was a great novelist, a

great playwright, a great political writer; but, above all, he was a

poet. His immense force of imagination and narrative power is displayed

at its best in "The Legend of the Ages" ("La Légende des Siécles"). The

first part appeared in 1859, the second in 1877, and the last in 1883.

It consists of a series of historical and philosophic poems, in which

the story of the human race is depicted in the lightning flashes of a

resplendent imagination. Some of the poems, given here for the first

time in English, contain stories as fine as the masterpieces of the

great novelists.

HENRIK IBSEN[N]

The Master Builder

_Persons in the Drama_

HALVARD SOLNESS, _the Master Builder_

ALINE SOLNESS, _his wife_

DR. HERDAL, _physician_

KNUT BROVIK, _formerly an architect, now in Solness's employment_

RAGNAR BROVIK, _his son_

KAIA FOSLI, _his niece, book-keeper_

HILDA WANGEL

ACT I

SCENE.--_A plainly furnished work-room in the house of_ HALVARD

SOLNESS. _At the back, visible through an open door, is the

draughtsman's office, where sit_ KNUT BROVIK _and his son_,

RAGNAR, _occupied with plans and calculations. At the desk

in the outer office_ KAIA FOSLI _is writing in the ledger.

She is young, slight, and delicate-looking. She wears a

green shade over her eyes. All three work for some time

in silence_.

KNUT BROVIK _(rising as if in distress_): No, I can't

bear it much longer!

KAIA: You're feeling very ill, aren't you, uncle?

BROVIK: Oh, I seem to get worse every day!

RAGNAR _(advancing)_: You ought to go home, father.

BROVIK: Not till _he_ comes! I'm determined to have

it out--with the chief!

KAIA _(anxiously)_: Oh, no, uncle! Wait awhile.

Hush! I hear him on the stairs.

[_They go back to their work_. HALVARD SOLNESS, _mature,

healthy, vigorous, comes in_.

SOLNESS: Are they gone?

KAIA: No. _[She takes the shade off her eyes_.

SOLNESS _(approaching her and whispering_): Kaia!

Why do you always take off that shade when I come?

KAIA: I look so ugly with it on.

SOLNESS _(stroking her hair_): Poor, poor little

Kaia------

KAIA: Hush------

[BROVIK _comes into the front room_.

BROVIK: May I have a few words with you?

SOLNESS: Certainly.

[BROVIK _sends_ KAIA _out_.

BROVIK: It will soon be all over with me. (SOLNESS

_places him in an armchair_.) Thanks. Well, you see, it's

about Ragnar. That weighs most upon me. What's to

become of him?

SOLNESS: Your son will stay with me as long as ever

he likes.

BROVIK: But he wants to have a chance. He must do

something on his own account.

SOLNESS: Well, but he has learnt nothing, except, of

course, to draw.

BROVIK: You had learnt little enough when you were

with me, and yet you cut me out. Now, how can you

have the heart to let me go to my grave without having

seen what Ragnar is fit for? And I'm anxious to see

him and Kaia married--before I go.

SOLNESS: I can't drag commissions down from the

moon for him.

BROVIK: He can have the building of that villa at Lövstrand,

if you would only approve of his plans, and

retire------

SOLNESS _(angrily):_ Retire? I?

BROVIK: From the agreement, that is.

SOLNESS: So that's it, is it? Halvard Solness to make

room for younger men! Never in the world!

BROVIK _(rising painfully_): Then I'm to die without

any certainty, any gleam of happiness or trust in Ragnar?

SOLNESS: You must pass out of life as best you can.

[BROVIK _reels_. RAGNAR _enters and takes his father

home._ SOLNESS _detains_ KAIA.

SOLNESS: You want to marry Ragnar.

KAIA: I cared for him once--before I met you. I

can't be separated from you------

SOLNESS: Marry him as much as you please. Make

him stay here, and then I can keep _you_, too, my dear

Kaia.

KAIA _(sinks down before him_): Oh, how unspeakably

good you are to me!

SOLNESS: Get up! For goodness' sake get up! I

think I hear someone.

[MRS. SOLNESS _enters. She is wasted with grief, but has

once been beautiful_.

MRS. SOLNESS _(with a glance at_ KAIA): Halvard!

I'm afraid I'm disturbing you.

SOLNESS: Not in the least. What is it, Aline?

MRS. SOLNESS: Merely that Dr. Herdal is in the drawing-room.

SOLNESS: I'll come later on, dear--later on.

[_Exit_ MRS. SOLNESS.

KAIA: Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I'm sure Mrs. Solness

thinks ill of me in some way!

SOLNESS: Oh, not in the least! You'd better go now,

all the same, Kaia. And mind you get that matter about

Ragnar settled for me. Please give me Ragnar's drawings

before you go. I might glance over them.

KAIA _(happy):_ Oh, yes, please do!

[MRS. SOLNESS _and_ DR. HERDAL _enter_.

MRS. SOLNESS: Halvard, I cannot keep the doctor any

longer.

SOLNESS: Well, then, come in here.

KAIA: Good-night, Mrs. Solness.

[KAIA _goes out_.

MRS. SOLNESS: She must be quite an acquisition to you,

Halvard, this Miss Fosli.

SOLNESS: Yes, indeed. She's useful in all sorts of

ways.

MRS. SOLNESS: So it seems.

[MRS. SOLNESS _goes out_.

SOLNESS: Tell me, doctor, did you notice anything odd

about Aline?

DR. HERDAL _(smiling_): Well, one couldn't help noticing

that your wife--h'm------

SOLNESS: Well?

DR. HERDAL: That your wife isn't particularly fond

of this Miss Fosli. There's nothing of any sort in the

case, is there?

SOLNESS: Not on _my_ side.

DR. HERDAL: On hers, then?

SOLNESS: Hardly a fair question! Still, you know

she's engaged to Ragnar; but since she came here she

seemed to drift quite away from _him_.

DR. HERDAL: She drifted over to you, then?

SOLNESS: Yes, entirely. She quivers when she comes

near me.

DR. HERDAL: Why on earth don't you tell your wife

the rights of it?

SOLNESS: Because I seem to find a sort of--of salutary

self-sacrifice in allowing Aline to do me an injustice.

It's like paying off a little bit of a huge, immeasurable

debt I owe her. Oh, I know she thinks I'm ill--crazy.

And, I think, so do you.

DR. HERDAL: And what then?

SOLNESS: Then I dare say you fancy I'm an extremely

happy man--Solness, the master builder!

DR. HERDAL: You've certainly had luck on your side.

First of all, the home of your wife's family was burnt

down for you. A great grief to her--but _you_ rose on the

ruins. Yes, you've had luck.

SOLNESS: But luck must turn. The younger generation

will come knocking at my door. Then there's an

end of Halvard Solness, the master builder. (_A knock

at the door. Starts_.) What's that?

DR. HERDAL: Someone is knocking at the door.

SOLNESS (_loudly_): Come in!

[HILDA WANGEL _enters. She is dressed in a tourist

costume, skirt caught up for walking, and carries

a knapsack and alpenstock_.

HILDA: You don't recognise me?

SOLNESS (_doubtfully_): No. I must admit that--just

for the moment.

DR. HERDAL: But I recognise you, Miss Wangel.

SOLNESS: Wangel? You must be the doctor's daughter

up at Lysanger?

HILDA: Yes. Who else's daughter should I be?

[SOLNESS _calls in his wife, an old friend of_ MISS

WANGEL'S. HILDA _asks leave to stay the night_. MRS.

SOLNESS _consents amiably. She and the doctor go

out._ HILDA and SOLNESS _alone_.

HILDA: Mr. Solness, have you a bad memory?

SOLNESS: Not that I'm aware of.

HILDA: Don't you remember what happened up at Lysanger?

SOLNESS: It was nothing much, was it?

HILDA: How can you say that? Don't you remember

how you climbed the new church tower when it was

finished, and hung a great wreath on the weather-cock; and

how I stood with the other white-frocked schoolgirls and

screamed, "Hurrah for Mr. Solness?" And you sang up

there--like harps in the air! And afterwards you

kissed me, kissed me and said in ten years I'd be _your_

princess, and you'd come back and give me a castle in

Spain--a kingdom--

SOLNESS (_open-mouthed_): _I_ did?

HILDA: Yes, _you_. Well, the ten years are up to-day.

I want my kingdom! Out with my kingdom, Mr. Solness!

On the table!

SOLNESS: But, seriously, what do you want to do here?

HILDA: I don't want that stupid imaginary kingdom--I've

set my heart upon quite a different one.

SOLNESS (_gazing at her_): I seem--it's strange--to

have gone about all these years torturing myself with the

effort to recover something--some experience which I

seem to have forgotten. What a good thing it is that

you have come to me now. I'd begun to be so afraid--so

terribly afraid of the younger generation. One day

they'll thunder at my door.

HILDA: Then I'd go out and open it. Let them come

in to you on friendly terms, as it were.

SOLNESS: No, no, no! The younger generation--it

means retribution.

HILDA (_with quivering lips_): Can _I_ be of any use to

you, Mr. Solness?

SOLNESS: Yes, you can. For you, too, come--under

a new banner, it seems to me. Youth marshalled against

youth! _You_ are the very one I have most needed.

HILDA (_with happy, wondering eyes_): Oh, heavens, how

lovely!

SOLNESS: What?

HILDA: Then I _have_ my kingdom!

SOLNESS _(involuntarily)_: Hilda!

HILDA _(with quivering lips): Almost_--I was going to say.

[_She goes out_. SOLNESS _follows her_.

ACT II

SCENE.--_A small drawing-room in the house of_ SOLNESS. SOLNESS _is

examining_ RAGNAR BROVIK'S _drawings_. MRS. SOLNESS _is

attending to her flowers_.

SOLNESS: Is she still asleep?

MRS. SOLNESS _(looking at him_): Is it Miss Wangel

you are sitting there thinking about? She was up long

ago.

SOLNESS: Oh, was she? So we've found a use for one

of our three nurseries, after all, Aline, now that Hilda

occupies one of them.

MRS. SOLNESS: Yes, we have. Their emptiness is

dreadful.

SOLNESS: We'll get on far better after this, Aline.

Things will be easier.

MRS. SOLNESS: Because _she_ has come?

SOLNESS _(checking himself_): I mean when once we've

moved into our new house. It's for your sake I've

built it.

MRS. SOLNESS: You do far too much for me.

SOLNESS: I can't bear to hear you say that. Stick to

what I said. Things 'll be easier in the new place.

MRS. SOLNESS _(lamenting)_: Oh heavens, easier!

Halvard, you can never build up a real home again for

_me. This_ is no home; It will be just as desolate, as

empty there as here.

[HILDA WANGEL _comes in_.

HILDA: Good-morning, Mr. Solness!

SOLNESS (_nods_): Slept well?

HILDA: Deliciously! As if in a cradle. Oh, I lay

and stretched myself like--like a princess. But I

dreamed I was falling over a precipice. It's tremendously

thrilling when you fall and fall----

MRS. SOLNESS (_ready to go out_): I must go into town

now, Halvard. (_To_ HILDA) And I'll try to get one or

two things that may be of use to you.

HILDA: Oh, you dear, sweet Mrs. Solness. You're

frightfully kind----

MRS. SOLNESS: It's only my duty.

[MRS. SOLNESS _goes out_.

HILDA: What made her say that about her duty?

Doesn't it sting you?

SOLNESS: H'm! Haven't thought much about it.

HILDA: Yes it does. Why should she talk in that

way? She might have said something really warm and

cordial, you understand.

SOLNESS: Is that how you'd like to have it?

HILDA: Yes, precisely. (_She wanders over to the

table and looks over_ RAGNAR'S _portfolio of drawings_.)

Are all these drawings yours?

SOLNESS: No; they're drawn by a young man I employ.

HILDA (_sits down_): Then I suppose he's frightfully

clever.

SOLNESS: Oh, he's not bad, for my purpose.

HILDA: I can't understand why you should be so

stupid as to go about teaching people. No one but yourself

should be allowed to build.

SOLNESS: I keep brooding on that very thought.

(_Calling her to the window_) Look over there; that's

my new house.

HILDA: It seems to have a tremendously high tower.

Are there nurseries in _that_ house, too?

SOLNESS: Three--as there are here. But there will

never be any child in them. We have had children,

Aline and I, but we didn't keep them long, our two

little boys. The fright Aline got when our old house

was burnt down affected her health, and she failed to

rear them. Yet that fire made me. I built no more

churches; but cosy, comfortable homes for human beings.

But my position as an artist has been paid for in Aline's

happiness. I could have prevented that fire by seeing to

a flue. But I didn't. And yet the flue didn't actually

cause the fire. Yet it was my fault in a certain sense.

HILDA: I'm afraid you must be--ill.

SOLNESS: I don't think I'll ever be quite of sound

mind on that point.

[RAGNAR _enters, and begs a few kind words about his

drawings to cheer his father, who is dying_. SOLNESS

_dismisses him almost brutally, and bids him never

think of building on his own account_.

HILDA (_when_ RAGNAR _has gone_): That was horribly

ugly--and hard and bad and cruel as well.

SOLNESS: Oh, you don't understand my position,

which I've paid so dear for. _(Confidentially)_ Hilda,

don't you agree with me that there exists special chosen

people, who have the power of desiring, _craving_ a thing,

until at last it _has_ to happen? And aren't there helpers

and servers who must do their part too? But they never

come of themselves. One has to call them very persistently,

inwardly. So the fire happened conveniently

for me; but the two little boys and Aline were sacrificed.

She will never be the woman she longed to be.

HILDA: I believe you have a sickly conscience. I

should like your conscience to be thoroughly robust.

SOLNESS: Is _yours_ robust?

HILDA: I think it is.

SOLNESS: I think the Vikings had robust consciences.

And the women they used to carry off had robust consciences,

too. They often wouldn't leave their captors

on any account.

HILDA: These women I can understand exceedingly

well.

SOLNESS: Could you come to love a man like that?

HILDA: One can't choose whom one's going to love.

SOLNESS: Hilda, there's something of the bird of prey

in you!

HILDA: And why not? Why shouldn't I go a-hunting

as well as the rest? Tell me, Mr. Solness, have you

never called me to you--inwardly, you know?

SOLNESS _(softly)_: I almost think I must have.

HILDA: What did you want with me?

SOLNESS: You are the younger generation, Hilda.

HILDA: Which you fear so much----

SOLNESS: Towards which, in my heart, I yearn so

deeply.

[_In the next scene_ HILDA _compels_ SOLNESS _to write a

few kind words on_ RAGNAR'S _drawings, and send

them to_ BROVIK. _He entrusts the portfolio to_ KAIA,

_and thereupon dismisses her and_ RAGNAR _from his

service._ MRS. SOLNESS _re-enters._

MRS. SOLNESS: Are you really dismissing them, Halvard?

SOLNESS: Yes.

MRS. SOLNESS: Her as well?

SOLNESS: Wasn't that what you wished?

MRS. SOLNESS: But how can you get on without

_her_----? Oh, no doubt you've someone else in reserve,

Halvard.

HILDA _(playfully)_: Well, _I_ for one am not the person

to stand at that desk.

SOLNESS: Never mind, never mind. It'll be all right,

Aline. Now for moving into our new home--as quickly

as we can. This evening we'll hang up the wreath--right

on the pinnacle of the tower. What do you say to

that, Hilda?

HILDA _(with sparkling eyes_): It'll be splendid to see

you up so high once more.

MRS. SOLNESS: For heaven's sake, don't, Miss Wangel.

My husband!--when he always gets so dizzy.

HILDA: He--dizzy? I've seen him with my own eyes

at the top of a high church tower.

MRS. SOLNESS: Impossible!

SOLNESS: True, all the same.

MRS. SOLNESS: You, who can't even go out on the

second-floor balcony?

SOLNESS: You will see something different this evening.

MRS. SOLNESS: You're ill, you're ill! I'll write at

once to the doctor. Oh, God, Oh, God!

[_She goes out._

HILDA: Don't tell me _my_ master builder daren't, _cannot_

climb as high as he builds. You promised me a kingdom,

and then you went and--well! Don't tell me you

can ever be dizzy!

SOLNESS: This evening, then, we'll hang up the wreath,

Princess Hilda.

HILDA (_bitterly_): Over your new home--yes.

SOLNESS: Over the new house, which will never be a

_home_ for _me_.

HILDA (_looks straight in front of her with a far-away

expression, and whispers to herself. The only words

audible are_): Frightfully thrilling----

ACT III

SCENE.--_A large, broad verandah attached to_ SOLNESS'S

_dwelling-house. A flight of steps leads down to the garden

below. Far to the right, among the trees, is a glimpse of

the new villa, with scaffolding round the tower. Evening

sky, with sun-lit clouds._

MRS. SOLNESS: Have you been round the garden, Miss

Wangel?

HILDA: Yes, and I've found heaps of flowers.

MRS. SOLNESS: Are there, really? You see, I seldom

go there. I don't feel that it is _mine_ any longer. They've

parcelled it out and built houses for strangers, who can

look in upon me from their windows.

HILDA: Mrs. Solness--may I stay here with you a

little?

MRS. SOLNESS: Yes, by all means, if you care to; but

I thought you wanted to go in to my husband--to help

him?

HILDA: No, thanks. Besides, he's not in. He's with

the men over there. He looked so fierce, I didn't dare

to talk to him.

MRS. SOLNESS: He's so kind and gentle in reality.

HILDA: _He_------

MRS. SOLNESS: You don't really know him yet, Miss

Wangel.

HILDA: Are you pleased about the new house?

MRS. SOLNESS: It's what Halvard wants. It's simply

my duty to submit myself to _him_.

HILDA: That must be difficult, indeed, when one has

gone through so much as you have--the loss of your two

little boys------

MRS. SOLNESS: One must bow to Providence and be

thankful, too.

[DR. HERDAL _enters and goes in again with_ MRS. SOLNESS.

_She wishes to talk to him about her husband's mad

scheme. As they go_ SOLNESS _enters_.

SOLNESS: Poor Aline! I suppose she was talking

about the two little boys? (HILDA _shudders_) Poor

Aline, she will never get over it.

HILDA: I am going away.

SOLNESS: I won't allow you to. I wish you simply to

_be_ here, Hilda.

HILDA: Oh, thank you. You know it wouldn't end

there. That's why I'm going. You have duties to _her_.

Live for those duties.

SOLNESS: Too late! Those powers--devils, if you

will!--and the troll within me as well, have drawn the

life-blood out of her. I'm chained alive to a dead

woman!--(_in wild anguish_) _I--I_, who cannot live without

joy in life.

HILDA: What will you build next?

SOLNESS (_shaking his head_): Not much more.

HILDA (_with an outburst_): Oh, it seems all so foolish--not

to be able to grasp your own happiness, merely because

someone you know happens to stand in the way----

SOLNESS: If only one had the Viking spirit in life----

HILDA: And the other thing? What was that?

SOLNESS: A robust conscience.

HILDA (_radiant_): I know what you're going to build

next.

SOLNESS: What?

HILDA: The castle--_my_ castle. Build it for me this

moment. The ten years are up. Out with my castle,

Mr. Solness! It shall stand on a very great height, so

that I can see far--far around. We shall build--we two

together--the very loveliest thing in all the world!

SOLNESS: Hilda, tell me what it is.

HILDA: Builders are such very, very stupid people----

SOLNESS: No doubt--but tell me what we two are to

build together?

HILDA: Castles in the air! So easy to build (_scornfully_),

especially for builders who have a--a dizzy conscience.

SOLNESS: We shall build one--with a firm foundation.

(RAGNAR _enters with the wreath_) Have _you_ brought

the wreath, Ragnar? Then I suppose your father's better?

Wasn't he cheered by what I wrote him?

RAGNAR: It came too late--he was unconscious. He

had had a stroke.

SOLNESS: Go home to him. Give _me_ the wreath.

RAGNAR: You don't mean that you yourself--no--I'll

stop.

HILDA: Mr. Solness, I will stand here and look at you.

[SOLNESS _takes the wreath and goes down through the

garden._ MRS. SOLNESS, _in an agony of apprehension,

re-enters and sends_ RAGNAR _to fetch her husband

back from the new building. She returns indoors._

SOLNESS (_re-entering_): Oh, it's _you_, Hilda! I was

afraid it was Aline or the doctor that wanted me.

HILDA: You're easily frightened. They say you're

afraid to climb about scaffoldings. Is it true you're

afraid?

SOLNESS: Not of death--but--of retribution.

HILDA: I don't understand that.

SOLNESS: Sit down, and I'll tell you something. You

know I began by building churches. I'd been piously

brought up. I thought it was the noblest task, pleasing

to Him for Whom churches are built. Then up at Lysanger

I understood that He meant me to have no love

and happiness of my own, but just to be a master builder

for Him all my life long. That was why He took my

little children! Then, that day, I did the impossible. I

was able to climb up to a great height. As I stood hanging

the wreath on the vane, I cried, "O Mighty One, I

will be a free builder--I, too, in my sphere as Thou in

Thine. I will build no more churches for Thee--only

homes for human beings." But _that_ is not worth six-pence,

Hilda.

HILDA: Then you will never build anything more?

SOLNESS: On the contrary, I'm just going to begin--the

only possible dwelling-place for human happiness------

HILDA: Our castles in the air.

SOLNESS: Our castles in the air--yes.

HILDA: Then let me see you stand free and high up

(_passionately_). I will have you do it--just once more,

Mr. Solness. Do the _impossible_, once again.

SOLNESS: If I do, I will talk to Him once again up

there--"Mighty Lord, henceforth I will build nothing

but the loveliest thing in the world."

HILDA (_carried away_): Yes--yes--yes! My lovely,

lovely castle! My castle in the air!

[_The others go out upon the verandah. The band of the

Masons' Union is heard_. RAGNAR _tells_ SOLNESS

_that the foreman is ready to go up with the wreath_.

SOLNESS _goes out. The others watch eagerly_.

DR. HERDAL: There goes the foreman up the ladder.

RAGNAR: Why, but it's------

HILDA (_jubilant_): It's the master builder himself.

MRS. SOLNESS: Oh, my God! Halvard, Halvard! I

must go to him!

DR. HERDAL (_holding her_): Don't move, any of you.

Not a sound.

RAGNAR: I feel as if I were looking at something

utterly impossible.

HILDA (_ecstatically_): It is the _impossible_ that he is

doing now. Can you see anyone else up there with him?

There is One he is striving with. I hear a song--a

mighty song. He is waving to us. Oh, wave back.

Hurrah for Master Builder Solness!

[_The shout is taken up. Then a shriek of horror. A

human body, with planks and pieces of wood, is

vaguely seen crashing down behind the trees_.

HILDA: _My_ Master Builder!

A VOICE: Mr. Solness is dead. He fell right into the

quarry.

RAGNAR: So, after all, he could not do it.

HILDA: But he mounted right up to the top. And I

heard harps in the air. (_Waves her shawl, and shrieks

with wild intensity) My--my_ Master Builder!

FOOTNOTES:

[N] Henrik Ibsen, poet and the creator of a new type of drama,

was born at Skien, in South Norway, on March 20, 1828. Apprenticed

first to a chemist at Grimstad, he next entered Christiania University,

but speedily wearied of regular academic studies. He then undertook

journalistic work for two years, and afterwards became a theatrical

manager at Bergen. In 1857 he was appointed director of the National

Theatre at Christiania, and about this time wrote, at intervals,

plays in the style of the ancient Norse sagas. "The Master Builder"

("Bygmester Solness") belongs to his later efforts, and was completed

in 1892. In it many critics discern the highest attainments of Ibsen's

genius, and its realism is strangely combined with romance. It is a

plea for the freedom of the human spirit; and the terrible drama is

wrought out in language of extraordinary symbolism. Hilda Wangel is

the "superwoman," who will suffer nothing to stand between her and the

realisation of herself. Had Solness been as strong a spirit, the end

might have been different. But he has a "sickly conscience," unable to

bear the heights of freedom. Here again Ibsen is unique in his estimate

of mankind. Nevertheless, his characters are all actual personalities,

and live vividly. Ibsen died on May 23, 1906.

The Pillars of Society[O]

_Persons in the Drama_

CONSUL BERNICK

MRS. BERNICK

OLAF, _their son_

MARTHA BERNICK, _sister of the consul_

LONA HESSEL, _elder stepsister of Mrs. Bernick_

JOHAN TÖNNESEN, _her younger brother_

HILMAR TÖNNESEN, _Mrs. Bernick's brother_

RECTOR RÖRLUND

DINA DORF, _a young lady living at the consul's_

KRAP, _the consul's clerk_

SHIPBUILDER AUNE

MRS. RUMMEL _and other ladies, friends of the consul's family_

ACT I

SCENE.--_A large garden-room in_ CONSUL BERNICK'S _house. A number of

ladies are seated in the room_. AUNE, _who has been sent for

by the_ CONSUL, _is addressed by_ KRAP _at the door of the_

CONSUL'S _room_.

KRAP: I am ordered by the consul to tell you that you

must stop those Saturday talks to the workmen about the

injury that our new machines will do to them. Your

first duty is to this establishment. Now you know the

will of the consul.

AUNE: The consul would have said it differently.

But I know I have to thank for this the American that

has put in for repairs.

KRAP: That is enough. You know the consul's wishes.

Pardon, ladies!

[KRAP _bows to ladies, and he and_ AUNE _go into the

street_. RECTOR RÖRLUND _has been reading aloud,

and now shuts the book and begins to converse with

the ladies_.

RÖRLUND: This book forms a welcome contrast to the

hollowness and rottenness we see every day in the papers

and magazines, which reflect the condition of the whited

sepulchres, the great communities to-day. Doubt, restlessness,

and insecurity are undermining society.

DINA: But are not many great things being accomplished?

RÖRLUND: I do not understand what you mean by

great things.

MRS. RUMMEL: Last year we narrowly escaped the

introduction of a railroad.

MRS. BERNICK: My husband managed to block the

scheme, but the papers, in consequence, said shameful

things about him. But we are forgetting, dear rector,

that we have to thank you for devoting so much time

to us.

RÖRLUND: Do you not all make sacrifices in a good

cause to save the lapsed and lost?

HILMAR TÖNNESEN (_coming in with a cigar in his

mouth_): I have only looked in in passing. Good-morning,

ladies! Well, you know Bernick has called a cabinet

council about this railway nonsense again. When it is a

question of money, then everything here ends in paltry

material calculations.

MRS. BERNICK: But at any rate things are better than

formerly, when everything ended in dissipation.

MRS. RUMMEL: Only think of fifteen years ago.

What a life, with the dancing club and music club! I

well remember the noisy gaiety among families.

MRS. LYNGE: There was a company of strolling players,

who, I was told, played many pranks. What was

the truth of the matter?

Mrs. Rummel, when Dina is out of the room, explains to the ladies

that the girl is the daughter of a strolling player who years before

had come to perform for a season in the town. Dorf, the actor, had

deserted both wife and child, and the wife had to take to work to

which she was unaccustomed, was seized with a pulmonary malady, and

died. Then Dina had been adopted by the Bernicks.

Mrs. Rummel goes on to explain that at that season also Johan, Mrs.

Bernick's brother, had run away to America. After his departure it

was discovered that he had been playing tricks with the cash-box of

the firm, of which his widowed mother had become the head. Karsten,

now Consul, Bernick had just come home from Paris. He became engaged

to Betty Tönnesen, now his wife, but when he entered her aunt's room,

with the girl on his arm, to announce his betrothal, Lona Hessel rose

from her chair and violently boxed his ear. Then she packed her box,

and went off to America. Little had been heard of Lona, except that

she had in America sung in taverns, and had given lectures, and had

written a most sensational book.

ACT II

SCENE.--_The same garden-room._ MRS. BERNICK. AUNE _enters and greets_

CONSUL BERNICK.

BERNICK: I am not at all pleased, Aune, with the way

things are going on in the yard. The repairs are slow.

The _Palm Tree_ should long since have been at sea.

That American ship, the _Indian Girl_, has been lying here

five weeks. You do not know how to use the new machines,

or else you will not use them.

AUNE: Consul, the _Palm Tree_ can go to sea in two

days, but the _Indian Girl_ is as rotten as matchwood in

the bottom planking. Now, I am getting on for sixty,

and I cannot take to new ways. I am afraid for the

many folk whom the machinery will deprive of a livelihood.

BERNICK: I did not send for you to argue. Listen

now. The _Indian Girl_ must be got ready to sail in two

days, at the same time as our own ship. There are reasons

for this decision. The carping newspaper critics

are pretending that we are giving all our attention to the

_Palm Tree_. If you will not do what I order, I must

look for somebody who will.

AUNE: You are asking impossibilities, consul. But

surely you cannot think of dismissing me, whose father

and grandfather worked here all their lives before me.

Do you know what is meant by the dismissal of an old

workman?

BERNICK: You are a stubborn fellow, Aune. You

oppose me from perversity. I am sorry indeed if we

must part, Aune.

AUNE: We will not part, consul. The _Indian Girl_

shall be cleared in two days.

[AUNE _bows and retires._ HILMAR TÖNNESEN _comes

through the garden gate._

HILMAR: Good-day, Betty! Good-day, Bernick.

Have you heard the new sensation? The two Americans

are going about the streets in company with Dina Dorf.

The town is all excitement about it.

BERNICK (_looking out into the street_): They are

coming here. We must be sure to treat them well.

They will soon be away again.

[JOHAN _and_ LONA _enter. Presently all disperse into

the garden, and_ BERNICK _goes up to_ JOHAN.

BERNICK: Now we are alone, Johan, I must thank

you. For to you I owe home, happiness, position, and

all that I have and am. Not one in ten thousand would

have done all that you then did for me. I was the guilty

one. On the night when that drunken wretch came home

it was for Betty's sake that I broke off the entanglement

with Madame Dorf; but still, that you should act in such

a noble spirit of self-sacrifice as to turn appearances

against yourself, and go away, can never be forgotten

by me.

JOHAN: Oh, well, we were both young and thoughtless.

I was an orphan, alone and free, and was glad to get

away from office drudgery. You had your old mother

alive, and you had just engaged yourself to Betty, who

was very fond of you. We agreed that you must be

saved, and I was proud to be your friend. You had

come back like a prince from abroad, and chose me for

your closest friend. Now I know why. You were

making love to Betty. But I was proud of it.

BERNICK: Are you going back to your American

farm? Not soon, I hope.

JOHAN: As soon as possible. I only came over to

please Lona. She felt homesick. You can never think

what she has been to me. You never could tolerate her,

but to me she has been a mother, singing, lecturing, writing

to support me when I was ill and could not work.

And I may as well tell you frankly that I have told her

all. But do not fear her. She will say nothing. But

who would have dreamt of your taking into your house

that little creature who played angels in the theatre, and

scampered about here? What became of her parents?

BERNICK: I wrote you all that happened. The

drunken scoundrel, after leaving his wife, was killed in

a drinking bout. After the wife died it was through

Martha that we took little Dina in charge.

To the amazement of the Bernicks and some others, Johan makes it known

that he has asked Dina to be his wife, and that she has consented. To

their further astonishment and annoyance, Lona declares her profound

approval of this engagement. Moreover, Lona now challenges Bernick

to clear his soul of the lie on which he has stood for these fifteen

years. It is a three-fold lie--the lie towards Lona, then the lie

towards Betty, then the lie towards Johan. But Bernick shrinks from

the terrible shame that would come on him as one of the "pillars of

society."

ACT III

SCENE.--CONSUL BERNICK'S _garden-room again_. KRAP _is

speaking to the_ CONSUL.

KRAP: The _Palm Tree_ can sail to-morrow, but as for

the _Indian Girl_, in my opinion she will not get far. I

have been secretly examining the bottom of the ship,

where the repairs have been pushed on very fast. The

rotten place is patched up, and made to look like new, for

Aune has been working himself all night at it. There is

some villainy at work. I believe Aune wants, out of

revenge for the use of the new machines, to send that

ship to the bottom of the sea.

BERNICK: This is horrible. True, Aune is an agitator

who is spreading discontent, but this is inconceivable.

[KRAP _goes out, and presently_ LONA HESSEL _enters_.

BERNICK: Well, Lona, what do you think of me now?

LONA: Just what I thought before. A lie more or

less----

BERNICK: I can talk to you more confidentially than

to others. I shall hide nothing from you. I had a part

in spreading that rumour about Johan and the cash-box.

But make allowance for me. Our house when I came

home from my foreign tour was threatened with ruin,

and one misfortune followed another. I was almost in

despair, and in my distraction got into that difficulty

which ended with the disappearance of Johan. Then

after you and he left various reports were spread. Some

folks declared that he had taken the money to America.

I was in such difficulty that I did not say a word to contradict

the rumours.

LONA: So a lie has made you one of the pillars of

society.

JOHAN (_entering_): I have come to tell you that I intend

not only to marry Dina Dorf, but to remain here and

to defy all these liars. Yesterday I promised to keep

silence, but now I need the truth. You must set me free

by telling the truth, that I may win Dina.

BERNICK (_in great agitation_): But just reflect on my

position. If you aim such a blow as this at me I am

ruined irretrievably. The welfare of this community is

also at stake. If my credit is not impaired, I shall soon

be a millionaire, when certain company projects mature.

Johan, go away, and I will share with you. I have

staked all I possess on schemes now about to mature, but

if my character is impaired, my utter ruin is inevitable.

To the surprise of Bernick, Johan announces that he will go to

America, but will shortly return for Dina, and that accordingly he

will sail next day in the _Indian Girl_, the captain having promised

to take him. He will sell his farm and be back in two months, and then

the guilty one must take the guilt on himself.

JOHAN: The wind is good, and in three weeks I shall

be across the Atlantic unless the _Indian Girl_ should go to

the bottom.

BERNICK (_involuntarily starting_): Go to the bottom?

Why should she?

JOHAN: Yes, indeed, why?

BERNICK (_very softly_): Go to the bottom?

They separate, and Aune enters, and anxiously asks if Bernick is

positively determined that the American ship shall sail the next day,

on pain of his dismissal. He replies that he supposes the repairs

are properly finished, and therefore the _Indian Girl_ must sail. A

merchant steps in to say that the storm-signals have been hoisted,

for a tempest is threatening. This gentleman says to Bernick that the

_Palm Tree_ ought to start all the same, for she is a splendidly-built

craft, and she is only to cross the North Sea; but as for the _Indian

Girl_, such an old hulk would be in great peril. But Bernick evades

the remonstrance, and no alteration is made in the plans of procedure.

The ship is to sail.

ACT IV

SCENE.--_The same garden-room. It is a stormy afternoon and growing

dark_.

Bernick is apprised that he is to be most honourably fêted by his

fellow citizens who are about to form a procession, and to parade

before his house with music. The proudest moment of his life is at

hand. But the fact that the sea is running high outside the harbour

is causing great agitation to the mind of Bernick. Lona looks in to

say that she has been saying farewell to Johan. He has not changed his

determination to sail. A strange incident happens. Little Olaf Bernick

runs away from home to slip on board the ship and accompany his uncle

to America.

LONA: So the great hour has arrived. The whole

town is to be illuminated.

BERNICK (_pacing to and fro in agitation_): Yes.

Lona, you despise me.

LONA: Not yet.

BERNICK: You have no right to despise me. For you

little realise how lonely I stand in this narrow society.

What have I accomplished, with all my efforts? We

who are considered the pillars of society are but its tools

after all. Since you came home from America I have

been keenly feeling all this. All this show and deception

gives me no satisfaction. But I work for my son, who

will be able to found a truer state of things and to be

happier than his father.

LONA: With a lie for its basis? Think what an

heritage you are preparing for Olaf.

BERNICK: Why did you and Johan come home to

crush me?

LONA: Let me just tell you that after all Johan will

not come back to crush you. For he has gone for ever

and Dina has gone also to become his wife.

BERNICK (_amazed_): Gone--in the _Indian Girl_?

LONA: They did not dare to risk their lives in that

crazy tub. They are in the _Palm Tree_.

Bernick rushes to his office to order the _Indian Girl_ to be stopped

in the harbour, but he learns that she already is out at sea. But

presently Hilmar comes to tell him that Olaf has run away in the

_Indian Girl_. He cries out that the ship must be stopped at any cost.

Krap says it is impossible. Music is heard, for the procession is

approaching. Bernick, in an agony of soul, declares that he cannot

receive anyone. The whole street blazes with the illuminations, and

on a great transparency on the opposite house gleams the inscription,

"Long live Karsten Bernick, the Pillar of our Society!"

BERNICK (_at the window, shrinking back_): I cannot

look at all this. Away with all these mocking words! I

shall never see Olaf again.

MRS. BERNICK: You will see him again, Karsten, all

right. I have got him. Do you think a mother does not

watch? I overheard a few words from our boy which

set me on my guard. I and Aune went in the sailing

boat from the yard and reached the _Indian Girl_ when she

was on the point of sailing, and he was soon discovered

hiding away.

BERNICK: And is the ship under sail again?

MRS. BERNICK: No. The darkness came on more

densely, the pilot was alarmed, and so Aune, in your

name, took it on himself to order the ship to stay till

to-morrow.

BERNICK: What an unspeakable blessing.

KRAP: The procession is coming through the garden

gate, consul.

Rector Rörlund, at the head of the procession, makes a presentation to

Bernick in the name of the committee, and expresses the public esteem

and admiration for the consul's services to society. Bernick, to the

astonishment of the audience, proceeds to make a full confession of

the duplicity and deceit of which he has been guilty. He unreservedly

places himself in the hands of the people, who quietly disperse.

Bernick at once finds that, whatever the people may think, he has

won the sympathy of all his own circle. Lona lays her hands on his

shoulder with the words, "Brother-in-law, you have at last discovered

that the spirit of Truth and the spirit of Freedom are the real

Pillars of Society."

FOOTNOTES:

[O] "The Pillars of Society," published in 1877, is perhaps

the most conspicuous of the series of psychological dramatic studies

through which Ibsen has exercised untold influence on European drama.

In it he deals with the problem of hypocrisy in a small commercial

centre of industry, and pours scorn on contemporary humanity, while

cherishing the highest hopes of human possibilities for the future.

BEN JONSON[P]

Every Man in His Humour

_Persons in the Comedy_

OLD KNOWELL

YOUNG KNOWELL, _in love with Bridget_

BRAIN-WORM

MASTER STEPHEN, _a country gull_

MASTER MATTHEW, _a town gull_

CAPTAIN BOBADILL

DOWN-RIGHT

WELL-BRED, _his half-brother_

KITELY, _husband to Down-right's sister_

COB, CASH, FORMAL

JUSTICE CLEMENT

DAME KITELY

BRIDGET, _Kitely's sister_

TIB, _Cob's wife_

ACT I

SCENE I.--_In_ KNOWELL'S _house. Enter_ KNOWELL, _with a letter from_

WELL-BRED _to_ YOUNG KNOWELL.

KNOWELL: This letter is directed to my son.

Yet I will break it open.

What's here? What's this?

(_Reads_) "Why, Ned, I beseech thee, hast thou forsworn all thy

friends i' the Old Jewry? Dost thou think us all Jews that inhabit

there yet? If thou dost, come over and but see our frippery. Leave thy

vigilant father alone, to number over his green apricots evening and

morning, o' the north-west wall. Prythee, come over to me quickly this

morning; I have such a present for thee! One is a rhymer, sir, o' your

own batch, but doth think himself a poet-major of the town; the other,

I will not venture his description till you come."

Why, what unhallowed ruffian would have writ In such a scurrilous

manner to a friend! Why should he think I tell my apricots?

[_Enter_ BRAIN-WORM.

Take you this letter, and deliver it my son,

But with no notice I have opened it, on your life.

[_Exeunt. Then, enter_ YOUNG KNOWELL, _with the letter,

and_ BRAIN-WORM.

YOUNG KNOWELL: Did he open it, say'st thou?

BRAIN-WORM: Yes, o' my word, sir, and read the contents.

For he charged me on my life to tell nobody

that he opened it, which unless he had done he would

never fear to have it revealed.

[YOUNG KNOWELL _moves apart to read the letter. Enter_

STEPHEN. KNOWELL _laughs_.

STEPHEN: 'Slid, I hope he laughs not at me; an he

do----

KNOWELL: Here was a letter, indeed, to be intercepted

by a man's father! Well, if he read this with

patience---- (_Seeing_ STEPHEN) What, my wise cousin!

Nay, then, I'll furnish our feast with one gull more.

How now, Cousin Stephen--melancholy?

STEPHEN: Yes, a little. I thought you had laughed

at me, cousin.

KNOWELL: Be satisfied, gentle coz, and, I pray you,

let me entreat a courtesy of you. I am sent for this

morning by a friend in the Old Jewry: will you bear me

company?

STEPHEN: Sir, you shall command me twice as far.

KNOWELL: Now, if I can but hold him up to his

height!

SCENE II.--BOBADILL'S _room, a mean chamber, in_ COB'S _house_.

BOBADILL _lying on a bench. Enter_ MATTHEW, _ushered

in by_ TIB.

MATTHEW: 'Save you, sir; 'save you, captain.

BOBADILL: Gentle Master Matthew! Sit down, I pray

you. Master Matthew in any case, possess no gentlemen

of our acquaintance with notice of my lodging. Not

that I need to care who know it! But in regard I would

not be too popular and generally visited, as some are.

MATTHEW: True, captain, I conceive you.

BOBADILL: For do you see, sir, by the heart of valour

in me except it be to some peculiar and choice spirit like

yourself--but what new book have you there?

MATTHEW: Indeed, here are a number of fine

speeches in this book.

"O eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears"--

There's a conceit! Another:

"O life, no life but lively form of death!

O world, no world but mass of public wrongs"--

O the Muses! Is't not excellent? But when will you come to see my

study? Good faith I can show you some very good things I have done of

late. But, captain, Master Well-bred's elder brother and I are fallen

out exceedingly.

BOBADILL: Squire Down-right, the half-brother was't not? Hang him rook!

Come hither; you shall chartel him. I'll show you a trick or two you

shall kill him with, at pleasure, the first staccato, if you will, by

this air. Come, put on your cloak, and we'll go to some private place

where you are acquainted, some tavern or so. What money ha' you about

you?

MATTHEW: Faith, not past a two shillings or so.

BOBADILL: 'Tis somewhat with the least; but come, we will have a bunch

of radish and salt to taste our wine, and after we'll call upon Young

Well-bred.

[_Exeunt_.

ACT II

SCENE I.--KITELY'S _house_. KITELY _explains to_ DOWN-RIGHT _that_

WELL-BRED, _who lodges with him brings riotous companions

to the house, which makes him much troubled for his pretty

wife and sister_. BOBADILL _and_ MATTHEW _calling in search

of_ WELL-BRED, _the former insults_ DOWN-RIGHT, _and leaves

him storming_.

SCENE II.--_Moorfields_. _Enter_ BRAIN-WORM, _disguised as a maimed

soldier_.

BRAIN-WORM: The truth is, my old master intends to

follow my young master, dry-foot, over Moorfields to

London this morning. Now I, knowing of this hunting

match, or rather conspiracy, and to insinuate with my

young master, have got me before in this disguise, determining

here to lie in ambuscade. If I can but get

his cloak, his purse, his hat, anything to stay his journey,

I am made for ever, in faith. But here comes my young

master and his cousin, as I am a true counterfeit man of

war, and no soldier.

[_Enter_ YOUNG KNOWELL _and_ STEPHEN. BRAIN-WORM,

_with a cock-and-bull tale of his services in the

wars, persuades_ STEPHEN _to buy his sword as a

pure Toledo. Exeunt. Presently, enter_ OLD KNOWELL,

_and_ BRAIN-WORM _meets him_.

BRAIN-WORM (_aside_): My master! Nay, faith, have at

you; I am fleshed now, I have sped so well. Worshipful

sir, I beseech you, respect the estate of a poor soldier;

I am ashamed of this base course of life, but extremity

provokes me to it; what remedy?

KNOWELL: I have not for you now.

BRAIN-WORM: Good sir, by that hand, you may do the

part of a kind gentleman, in lending a poor soldier the

price of a can of beer; Heaven shall pay you, sweet worship!

KNOWELL: Art thou a man, and shamest not thou to beg?

To practise such a servile kind of life?

Either the wars might still supply thy wants,

Or service of some virtuous gentleman.

BRAIN-WORM: Faith, sir, I would gladly find some

other course--I know what I would say; but as for

service--my name, sir? Please you, Fitzsword, sir.

KNOWELL: Say that a man should entertain thee now,

Would'st thou be modest, humble, just, and true?

BRAIN-WORM: Sir, by the place and honour of a

soldier.

KNOWELL: Nay, nay, I like not these affected oaths.

But follow me; I'll prove thee. [_Exit._

BRAIN-WORM: Yes, sir, straight. 'Slid, was there ever

a fox in years to betray himself thus! Now shall I be

possessed of all his counsels, and by that conduit, my

young master. [_Follows_ KNOWELL.

ACT III

SCENE I.--_A room in the Windmill Tavern._ WELL-BRED, BOBADILL,

MATTHEW. _Enter_ YOUNG KNOWELL _with_ STEPHEN.

WELL-BRED: Ned Knowell! By my soul, welcome!

(_Lower_) Sirrah, there be the two I writ of. But what

strange piece of silence is this? The sign of the Dumb

Man?

KNOWELL: Oh, sir, a kinsman of mine; he has his

humour, sir.

STEPHEN: My name is Master Stephen, sir; I am

this gentleman's own cousin, sir; I am somewhat melancholy,

but you shall command me.

MATTHEW: Oh, it's your only fine humour, sir. Your

true melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit. I am melancholy

myself, divers times, and then I do no more but

take pen and paper presently, and overflow you half a

score or a dozen of fine sonnets at a sitting.

WELL-BRED: Captain Bobadill, why muse you so?

KNOWELL: He is melancholy, too.

BOBADILL: Why, sir, I was thinking of a most honourable

piece of service was performed at the beleaguering

of Strigonium; the first but the best leaguer that ever

I beheld with these eyes. Look you, sir, by St. George,

I was the first man that entered the breach; and had I

not effected it with resolution, I had been slain if I had

had a million of lives. Observe me judicially, sweet sir.

They had planted me three demiculvirins just in the

mouth of the breach, but I, with these single arms, my

poor rapier, ran violently upon the Moors, and put 'em

pell-mell to the sword.

[_Enter_ BRAIN-WORM, _who discloses himself apart, to_

KNOWELL _and_ Well-Bred, _and reports that_ OLD

KNOWELL _is awaiting his return at_ JUSTICE

CLEMENT'S _house. Exeunt_.

SCENE II.--_At_ KITELY'S. KITELY _has gone to_ JUSTICE CLEMENT'S;

_very anxious about his wife and sister, he has ordered_

CASH _to send him a messenger if_ WELL-BRED _comes home

with any of his boon-companions. Enter to_ CASH,

WELL-BRED, _with the party as in the last scene_.

WELL-BRED: Whither went your master, Thomas,

canst thou tell?

CASH: I know not; to Justice Clement's, I think, sir.

[_Exit._

KNOWELL: Justice Clement! What's he?

WELL-BRED: Why, dost thou not know him? He is a

city magistrate, a justice here, an excellent good lawyer

and a great scholar; but the only mad merry old fellow

in Europe. [_Enter_ CASH.

BOBADILL: Master Kitely's man, pray thee vouchsafe

us the lighting of this match. (CASH _takes match, and

exits_) 'Tis your right, Trinidado. Did you never take

any, Master Stephen?

STEPHEN: No, truly, sir, but I'll learn to take it now,

since you commend it so.

BOBADILL: Sir, I have been in the Indies where this

herb grows; where neither myself nor a dozen gentlemen

more of my knowledge have received the taste of any

other nutriment in the world for the space of one and

twenty weeks, but the fume of this simple only. By Hercules,

I do hold it, and will affirm it, before any prince in

Europe, to be the most sovereign and precious weed that

ever the earth tendered to the use of man.

[COB _has entered meanwhile_.

COB: Mack, I marvel what pleasure they have in taking

this roguish tobacco. It's good for nothing but to

choke a man, and fill him full of smoke and embers.

And there were no wiser men than I, I'd have it present

whipping, man or woman, that should but deal with a

tobacco pipe.

[BOBADILL _cudgels him. Enter_ CASH, _who drags off the

lamenting_ COB. _While the rest are conversing_,

MATTHEW _and_ BOBADILL _slip out_.

WELL-BRED: Soft, where's Master Matthew? Gone?

BRAIN-WORM: No, sir, they went in here.

WELL-BRED: Oh, let's follow them. Master Matthew

is gone to salute his mistress in verse. We shall have the

happiness to hear some of his poetry now. He never

comes impoverished. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.--JUSTICE CLEMENT'S. COB _finds_ KITELY _and reports the

arrival of_ WELL-BRED'S _party_. KITELY _hurries home

in a panic. Enter_ CLEMENT _with_ OLD KNOWELL _and_ FORMAL.

CLEMENT (_to_ COB): How now, sirrah? What make

you here?

COB: A poor neighbour of your worship, come to

crave the peace of your worship; a warrant for one that

has wronged me, sir; an I die within a twelvemonth and

a day, I may swear by the law of the land that he killed

me.

CLEMENT: How, knave? What colour hast thou for

that?

COB: Both black and blue, an't please your worship;

colour enough, I warrant you. [_Baring his arm_.

CLEMENT: How began the quarrel between you?

COB: Marry indeed, an't please your worship, only

because I spake against their vagrant tobacco; for nothing

else.

CLEMENT: Ha! You speak against tobacco. Your

name?

COB: Cob, sir, Oliver Cob.

CLEMENT: Then, Oliver Cob, you shall go to jail.

COB: Oh, I beseech your worship, for heaven's sake,

dear master justice!

CLEMENT: He shall not go; I did but fear the knave.

Formal, give him his warrant. (_Exeunt_ FORMAL _and_

COB) How now, Master Knowell, in dumps? Your

cares are nothing. What! Your son is old enough to

govern himself; let him run his course.

ACT IV

SCENE I.--_At_ KITELY'S. DAME KITELY _and_ DOWN-RIGHT, _who, to his

sister's great indignation, is reproving her for admitting_

WELL-BRED'S _companions. Enter_ BRIDGET, MATTHEW, _and_

BOBADILL; WELL-BRED, STEPHEN, YOUNG KNOWELL, _and_

BRAIN-WORM _at the back_.

BRIDGET: Servant, in truth, you are too prodigal

Of your wit's treasure thus to pour it forth

Upon so mean a subject as my worth.

What is this same, I pray you?

MATTHEW: Marry, an elegy, an elegy, an odd toy.

I'll read it if you please.

[_Exit_ DOWN-RIGHT, _disgusted. The rest listen to_

MATTHEW'S _"elegy," consisting of scraps from Marlowe.

As_ DOWN-RIGHT _re-enters, fuming_, WELL-BRED

_is beginning to chaff_ MATTHEW. DOWN-RIGHT

_interrupts with an attack on the whole company, and

threatens to slit_ BOBADILL'S _ears. Swords are drawn

all round, and_ KNOWELL _is endeavouring to calm the

disturbance, when_ KITELY _enters_.

WELL-BRED: Come, let's go. This is one of my

brother's ancient humours, this.

STEPHEN: I am glad nobody was hurt by his "ancient

humour."

[_Exeunt all but they of the house_. BRIDGET _and_ DAME

KITELY _praise the conduct of_ KNOWELL, _whereupon_

KITELY _conceives that he must be_ DAME KITELY'S

_lover_.

SCENE II.--_The Old Jewry_. WELL-BRED _has agreed with_ KNOWELL _to

persuade_ BRIDGET _to meet him at the Tower so that they

may be married_. BRAIN-WORM _has been despatched to

carry out other details of the plot. Meeting_ OLD KNOWELL

_with_ FORMAL _he reports that (as_ FITZSWORD) _his

connection with_ OLD KNOWELL _has been discovered; that

he has escaped with difficulty from_ YOUNG KNOWELL, _and

that the father had better hasten to_ Cob's _house to catch

his son in_ flagrante delicto. _He then goes off with_

FORMAL. _Enter_ BOBADILL, YOUNG KNOWELL, MATTHEW,

_and_ STEPHEN.

BOBADILL: I will tell you, sir, by way of private; were

I known to her majesty, I would undertake to save three

parts of her yearly charge in holding war. Thus, sir, I

would select nineteen more gentlemen of good spirit;

and I would teach the special rules, your punto, your reverso,

your staccato, till they could all play very near

as well as myself. We twenty would come into the field,

and we would challenge twenty of the enemy; kill them,

challenge twenty more; kill them, and thus kill every

man his twenty a day, that's twenty score; twenty score,

that's two hundred; five days a thousand, two hundred

days kills forty thousand.

[_Enter_ DOWN-RIGHT, _who challenges_ BOBADILL _to draw

on the spot, and cudgels him while_ MATTHEW _runs

away, to_ KNOWELL'S _enjoyment. Exeunt all_.

WELL-BRED _makes the proposed arrangement with_

BRIDGET. BRAIN-WORM, _who has stolen_ FORMAL'S

_clothes, tricks_ KITELY _and_ DAME KITELY _severally

into hurrying off to_ COB'S _house to catch each other

in misdoing. Then, meeting_ BOBADILL _and_

MATTHEW _he engages to procure them a warrant against_

DOWN-RIGHT, _and a sergeant to serve it_. OLD

KNOWELL, KITELY, _and_ DAME KITELY _attended by_

CASH, _meet outside_ COB'S _house, each with their own

suspicions; there is a general altercation, while_ TIB

_refuses to admit any of them_.

SCENE III.--_A street_. BRAIN-WORM, _who has exchanged_ FORMAL'S

_clothes for a sergeant's attire. Enter_ MATTHEW _and_

BOBADILL.

MATTHEW: 'Save you, friend. Are you not here by

appointment of Justice Clement's man?

BRAIN-WORM: Yes, an't please you, sir; with a warrant

to be served on one Down-right.

[_Enter_ STEPHEN, _wearing_ DOWN-RIGHT'S _cloak, which

he had picked up in the scrimmage. As they are

arresting him_, DOWN-RIGHT _enters. He submits to

arrest, but has_ STEPHEN _arrested for wearing his

cloak. The whole party marches off to_ JUSTICE

CLEMENT'S.

ACT V

SCENE.--_Hall in_ JUSTICE CLEMENT'S. CLEMENT, KITELY, OLD KNOWELL.

CLEMENT: Stay, stay, give me leave; my chair, sirrah.

Master Knowell, you went to meet your son. Mistress

Kitely, you went to find your husband; you, Master

Kitely, to find your wife. And Well-bred told her first,

and you after. You are gulled in this most grossly all.

[BOBADILL _and_ MATTHEW _are ushered in; then_ BRAIN-WORM,

_with_ DOWN-RIGHT _and_ STEPHEN; _all make their charges_.

CLEMENT: You there (_to_ BOBADILL), had you my

warrant for this gentleman's apprehension?

BOBADILL: Ay, an't please your worship; I had it of

your clerk.

CLEMENT: Officer (_to_ BRAIN-WORM), have you the

warrant?

BRAIN-WORM: No, sir; your worship's man, Master

Formal, bid me do it.

BRAIN-WORM, _in fear of some worse penalty, discloses himself. As

he reveals one after another of his devices, the delighted_ JUSTICE

_begs for him a readily granted pardon from_ OLD KNOWELL. _Finally,

he announces that by this time_ YOUNG KNOWELL _and_ BRIDGET _are

married_. CLEMENT _despatches a servant to bring home the young couple

to dinner "upon my warrant." Enter_ BRIDGET, YOUNG KNOWELL, _and_

WELL-BRED.

CLEMENT: Oh, the young company--welcome, welcome,

give you joy. Nay, Mistress Bridget, blush not;

Master Bridegroom, I have made your peace; give me

your hand. So will I for all the rest, ere you forsake

my roof. Come, put off all discontent; you, Master

Down-right, your anger; you, Master Knowell, your

cares; Master Kitely and his wife, their jealousy.

KITELY: Sir, thus they go from me. Kiss me, sweetheart.

CLEMENT: 'Tis well, 'tis well. This night we'll dedicate

to friendship, love, and laughter.

FOOTNOTES:

[P] Ben Jonson was born at Westminster in 1573. He was

brought up by his stepfather, a master bricklayer, and educated at

Westminster School, where he got his learning under Camden. While

still a youngster, he went a-fighting in the Low Countries, returning

to London about 1592. In 1598 he emerged as a dramatic author with

the play "Every Man in His Humour." This was the first of a series of

comedies, tragedies, and masques, which rank highly. In human interest,

however, none surpassed his first success. Unlike Shakespeare, with

whom he consorted among the famous gatherings of wits at the Mermaid

Tavern, Jonson regarded himself as the exponent of a theory of dramatic

art. He was steeped in classical learning, which he is wont to display

somewhat excessively. Besides his dramas, Jonson wrote many lyrical

pieces, including some admirable songs, and produced sundry examples of

other forms of versification. He died on August 6, 1637.

JUVENAL[Q]

Satires

_I.--Of Satire and its Subjects_

Still shall I hear and never pay the score,

Stunned with hoarse Codrus' "Theseid" o'er and o'er?

Shall this man's elegies and the other's play

Unpunished murder a long summer day?

The poet exclaims against the dreary commonplaces in contemporary

poetry, and against recitations fit to crack the very statues and

colonnades of the neighbourhood! But _he_ also underwent his training

in rhetoric.

So, since the world with writing is possessed,

_I'll versify in spite_, and do my best

To make as much wastepaper as the rest!

It may be asked, why write satire? The reason is to be found in the

ubiquitous presence of offensive men and women. It would goad anyone

into fury to note the social abuses, the mannish women, and the

wealthy upstarts of the imperial city.

When the soft eunuch weds, and the bold fair

Tilts at the Tuscan boar with bosom bare,

When all our lords are by his wealth outvied

Whose razor on my callow beard was tried,

When I behold the spawn of conquered Nile,

Crispinus, both in birth and manners vile,

Pacing in pomp with cloak of purple dye--

I cannot keep from satire, though I try!

There is an endless succession of figures to annoy: the too successful

lawyer, the treacherous spy, the legacy-hunter. How one's anger blazes

when a ward is driven to evil courses by the unscrupulous knavery of a

guardian, or when a guilty governor gets a merely nominal sentence!

Marius, who pilled his province, 'scapes the laws,

And keeps his money, though he lost his cause:

His fine begged off, contemns his infamy,

Can rise at twelve, and get him drunk ere three--

Enjoys his exile, and, condemned in vain,

Leaves thee, victorious province, to complain!

Such villainies roused Horace into wrath,

And 'tis more noble to pursue his path

Than an old tale of Trojan brave to treat,

Or Hercules, or Labyrinth of Crete.

It is no time to write fabulous epics when cuckolds connive at

a wife's dishonour, and when horse-racing ne'er-do-wells expect

commissions in the army. One is tempted to fill volumes in the open

street about such figures as the forger carried by his slaves in a

handsome litter, or about the wealthy widow acquainted with the mode

of getting rid of a husband by poison.

Wouldst thou to honours and preferment climb?

Be bold in mischief--dare some mighty crime,

Which dungeons, death, or banishment deserves,

For virtue is but drily praised--and starves.

To crime men owe a mansion, park, and state,

Their goblets richly chased and antique plate.

Say, who can find a night's repose at need,

When a son's wife is bribed to sin for greed,

When brides are frail, and youths turn paramours?

If nature can't, then wrath our verse ensures!

Count from the time since old Deucalion's boat,

Raised by the flood, did on Parnassus float:

Whatever since that golden age was done,

What human kind desires, and what they shun,

Joy, sorrow, fear, love, hatred, transport, rage,

Shall form the motley subject of my page.

And when could Satire boast so fair a field?

Say, when did vice a richer harvest yield?

When did fell avarice so engross the mind?

Or when the lust of play so curse mankind?

O Gold, though Rome beholds no altar's flame,

No temples rise to thy pernicious name,

Such as to Victory, Virtue, Faith are reared,

Or Concord, where the clamorous stork is heard,

Yet is thy full divinity confessed,

Thy shrine established here, in every breast.

After a vigorous outburst against the degrading scramble among

impoverished clients for doles from their patrons, and a mordant

onslaught upon the gluttony of the niggardly rich, Juvenal sees in his

age the high-water mark of iniquity.

Nothing is left, nothing for future times,

To add to the full catalogue of crimes:

Vice has attained its zenith; then set sail,

Spread all thy canvas, Satire, to the gale.

_II.--A Satire on Rome_

This sharp indictment is put in the mouth of one Umbricius, who is

represented as leaving his native city in disgust. Rome is no place

for an honourable character, he exclaims.

Here, then, I bid my much-loved home farewell.

Ah, mine no more! There let Arturius dwell,

And Catulus; knaves, who, in truth's despite,

Can white to black transform, and black to white.

Build temples, furnish funerals, auctions hold,

Farm rivers, ports, and scour the drains for gold!

But why, my friend, should _I_ at Rome remain?

_I_ cannot teach my stubborn lips to feign;

Nor when I hear a great man's verses, smile,

And beg a copy, if I think them vile.

The worst feature is the predominance of crafty and cozening Greeks,

who, by their versatility and diplomacy, can oust the Roman.

I cannot rule my spleen and calmly see

A Grecian capital--in Italy!

A flattering, cringing, treacherous artful race,

Of torrent tongue, and never-blushing face;

A Protean tribe, one knows not what to call,

Which shifts to every form, and shines in all:

Grammarian, painter, augur, rhetorician,

Rope-dancer, conjurer, fiddler, and physician,

All trades his own your hungry Greekling counts;

And bid him mount the sky--the sky he mounts!

The insinuating flatteries of these aliens are so masterfully

contrived that the blunt Roman has no chance against such a nation of

actors.

Greece is a theatre where all are players.

For, lo! their patron smiles--they burst with mirth;

He weeps--they droop, the saddest souls on earth;

He calls for fire--they court the mantle's heat;

"'Tis warm," he cries--the Greeks dissolve in sweat!

Besides, they are dangerously immoral. Their philosophers are

perfidious. These sycophant foreigners can poison a patron against a

poor Roman client. This leads to an outburst against poverty and its

disadvantages.

The question is not put, how far extends

One's piety, but what he yearly spends.

The account is soon cast up: the judges rate

Our credit in the court by our estate.

Add that the rich have still a gibe in store,

And will be monstrous witty on the poor.

This mournful truth is everywhere confessed--

Slow rises worth by property depressed.

At Rome 'tis worse; where house-rent by the year,

And servants' bellies costs so devilish dear.

It is a city where appearance beyond one's means must be kept up;

whereas, in the country one need never spend money even on a toga.

Everything has its price in Rome. To interview a great man, his

pampered lackeys must have a fee.

Then there are risks in a great capital unknown in country towns.

There are tumble-down tenements with the buttresses ready to give;

there are top garrets where you may lose your life in a fire. You

could buy a nice rustic home for the price at which a dingy hovel is

let in Rome. Besides, the din of the streets is killing. Rome is bad

for the nerves. Folk die of insomnia. By day you get crushed, bumped,

and caked with mud. A soldier drives his hobnails into your toe. You

may be the victim of a street accident.

Heavens! should the axle crack, which bears a weight

Of huge Ligurian stone, and pour the freight

On the pale crowd beneath, what would remain,

What joint, what bone, what atom of the slain?

The body, with the soul, would vanish quite,

Invisible, as air, to mortal sight!

Meanwhile, unconscious of their master's fate,

At home they heat the water, scour the plate,

Arrange the strigils, fill the cruse with oil,

And ply their several tasks with fruitless toil.

But he, the mangled victim, now a ghost,

Sits pale and trembling on the Stygian coast,

A stranger shivering at the novel scene,

At Charon's threatening voice and scowling mien,

Nor hopes a passage thus abruptly hurled,

Without his farthing to the nether world.

In the dark there are equal perils.

Prepare for death if here at night you roam,

And sign your will before you sup from home.

Lucky if people throw only dirty water from their windows! Be thankful

to escape without a broken skull. A drunken bully may meet you.

There are who murder as an opiate take,

And only when no brawls await them, wake.

And what chance have you, without attendants, against a street rough?

Then there is the burglar; and the criminal classes are regularly

increased in town whenever the authorities grow active enough to clear

the main Italian roads of bandits.

The forge in fetters only is employed;

Our iron-mines exhausted and destroyed

In shackles; for these villains scarce allow

Goads for our teams or ploughshares for the plough.

Oh, happy ages of our ancestors,

Beneath the kings and tribunician powers!

One jail did all the criminals restrain,

Whom now the walls of Rome can scarce contain.

_III.--A Satire on the Vanity of Human Wishes_

Look round the habitable world; how few

Know their own good; or, knowing it, pursue.

To headlong ruin see whole houses driven,

Cursed with their prayers, by too indulgent heaven.

The several passions and aspirations of mankind, successively

examined in the light of legend and history, prove how hollow, if not

pernicious, are the principal objects of pursuit. Wealth is one of the

commonest aims.

But avarice spreads her deadly snare,

And hoards amassed with too successful care.

For wealth, in the black days, at Nero's word,

The ruffian bands unsheathed the murderous sword.

Cut-throats commissioned by the government

Are seldom to an empty garret sent.

The traveller freighted with a little wealth,

Sets forth at night, and wins his way by stealth:

Even then he fears the bludgeon and the blade--

Starts in the moonlight at a rush's shade,

While, void of care, the beggar trips along,

And to the robber's face will troll his song.

What would the "weeping" and the "laughing" sages of ancient Greece

have thought of the pageants of modern Rome? Consider the vanity of

ambition. It is illustrated by the downfall of the powerful minister

Sejanus. On his overthrow, the fickle mob turned savagely upon his

statues.

What think the people? They!

They follow fortune, as of old, and hate

With all their soul the victim of the state.

Yet in this very hour that self-same crowd

Had hailed Sejanus with a shout as loud,

If his designs (by fortune's favour blessed)

Had prospered, and the aged prince oppressed;

For since our votes have been no longer bought,

All public care has vanished from our thought.

Romans, who once with unresisted sway,

Gave armies, empire, everything, away,

For two poor claims have long renounced the whole

And only ask--the circus and a dole.

Would you rather be an instance of fallen greatness, or enjoy some

safe post in an obscure Italian town? What ruined a Crassus? Or a

Pompey? Or a victorious Cæsar? Why, the realisation of their own

soaring desires.

Another vain aspiration covets fame in eloquence. But the gift

of oratory overthrew the two greatest orators of Greece and

Rome--Demosthenes and Cicero. If Cicero had only stuck to his bad

verses, he would never have earned Antony's deadly hatred by his

"Second Philippic" (see Vol. IX, p. 155).

"I do congratulate the Roman state

Which my great consulate did recreate!"

If he had always used such jingling words

He might have scorned Mark Antony's swords.

A different passion is for renown in war. What is the end of it all?

Only an epitaph on a tombstone, and tombstones themselves perish; for

even a tree may split them!

Produce the urn that Hannibal contains,

And weigh the paltry dust which yet remains.

AND IS THIS ALL? Yet THIS was once the bold,

The aspiring chief, whom Afric could not hold.

Spain conquered, o'er the Pyrenees he bounds;

Nature opposed her everlasting mounds,

Her Alps and snows. O'er these with torrent force

He pours, and rends through rocks his dreadful course.

Already at his feet Italia lies.

Yet, thundering on, "Think nothing done," he cries,

"Till Rome, proud Rome, beneath my fury falls,

And Afric's standards float without her walls!"

But what ensued? Illusive glory, say.

Subdued on Zama's memorable day,

He flies in exile to a petty state,

With headlong haste; and, at a despot's gate,

Sits, mighty suppliant, of his life in doubt,

Till the Bithynian monarch's nap be out!

Nor swords, nor spears, nor stones from engines hurled,

Shall quell the man whose frown alarmed the world:

The vengeance due to Cannæ's fatal field,

And floods of gore, a poisoned ring shall yield!

Fly, madman, fly! At toil and danger mock,

Pierce the deep snow, and scale the eternal rock,

To please the rhetoricians, and become

A declamation--for the boys of Rome!

Consider next the yearning after long life.

Pernicious prayer! for mark what ills attend

Still on the old, as to the grave they bend:

A ghastly visage, to themselves unknown;

For a smooth skin, a hide with scurf o'ergrown;

And such a cheek, as many a grandam ape

In Tabraca's thick woods is seen to scrape.

The old man rouses feelings of impatient loathing in those around him;

his physical strength and faculties for enjoyment are gone. Even if

he remain hale, he may suffer harrowing bereavements. Nestor, Peleus,

and Priam had to lament the death of heroic sons; and in Roman history

Marius and Pompey outlived their good fortune.

Campania, prescient of her Pompey's fate,

Sent a kind fever to arrest his date:

When lo! a thousand suppliant altars rise,

And public prayers obtain him of the skies.

The city's fate and his conspired to save

His head, to perish near the Egyptian wave.

Again, there is the frequent prayer for good looks. But beauty is a

danger. If linked with unchastity, it leads to evil courses. Even if

linked with chastity, it may draw on its possessor the tragic fate

of a Lucretia, a Virginia, a Hippolytus, or a Bellerophon. What is a

Roman knight to do if an empress sets her heart on him?

Amid all such vanities, then, is there nothing left for which men may

reasonably pray?

Say, then, shall man, deprived all power of choice,

Ne'er raise to Heaven the supplicating voice?

Not so; but to the gods his fortunes trust.

_Their_ thoughts are wise, _their_ dispensations just.

What best may profit or delight they know,

And real good for fancied bliss bestow;

With eyes of pity they our frailties scan;

More dear to them than to himself is man.

By blind desire, by headlong passion driven,

For wife and heirs we daily weary Heaven;

Yet still 'tis Heaven's prerogative to know,

If heirs, or wife, will bring us weal or woe.

But (for 'tis good our humble hope to prove),

That thou mayst still ask something from above,

Thy pious offerings to the temple bear,

And, while the altars blaze, be this thy prayer:

O THOU, who know'st the wants of human kind,

Vouchsafe me health of body, health of mind;

A soul prepared to meet the frown of fate,

And look undaunted on a future state;

That reckons death a blessing, yet can bear

Existence nobly, with its weight of care;

That anger and desire alike restrains,

And counts Alcides' toils, and cruel pains,

Superior far to banquets, wanton nights,

And all the Assyrian monarch's soft delights!

Here bound, at length, thy wishes. I but teach

What blessings man, by his own powers, may reach.

THE PATH TO PEACE IS VIRTUE. We should see,

If wise, O Fortune, nought divine in thee:

But _we_ have deified a name alone,

And fixed in heaven thy visionary throne!

FOOTNOTES:

[Q] Juvenal was born, it is usually believed, at Aquinum,

about 55 A.D. He lived to an advanced age, but the year of his death

is unknown. Rome he evidently knew well, and from long experience.

But there is great obscurity about his career. His "Satires," in

declamatory indignation, form a powerful contrast to the genial mockery

of Horace (p. 91): where Horace may be said to have a Chaucerian smile

for human weakness, Juvenal displays the wrath of a Langland. Juvenal

denounces abuses at Rome in unmeasured terms. Frequently Zolaesque in

his methods of exposing vice, he contrives by his realism to produce

a loathing for the objects of his attack. Dryden rendered into free

and vigorous English several of the satires; and Gifford wrote a

complete translation, often of great merit. The translation here has,

with adaptations, been drawn from both, and a few lines have been

incorporated from Johnson, whose two best-known poems, "London" and

"The Vanity of Human Wishes," were paraphrases from Juvenal.

FRIEDRICH KLOPSTOCK[R]

The Messiah

_I.--The Mount of Olives_

Rejoice, ye sons of earth, in the honour bestowed on man. He who was

before all worlds, by Whom all things in this visible creation were

made, descended to our earth as your Redeemer. Near Jerusalem, once

the city where God displayed His grace, the Divine Redeemer withdrew

from the multitude and sought retirement. On the side where the sun

first gilds the city with its beams rises a mountain, whose summit He

had oft honoured with His presence when during the solitary night He

spent the hours in fervent prayer.

Gabriel, descending, stands between two perfumed cedars and addresses

Jesus.

Wilt Thou, Lord, here devote the night to prayer,

Or weary, dost thou seek a short repose?

Permit that I for Thine immortal head

A yielding couch prepare. Behold the shrubs

And saplings of the cedar, far and near,

Their balmy foliage already show.

Among the tombs in which Thy prophets rest

The cooling earth yields unmolested moss.

Jesus answered not, but regarded Gabriel with a look of divine

complacency. He went up to the summit, where were the confines of

heaven, and there prayed. Earth rejoiced at the renewal of her beauty

as His voice resounded and penetrated the gates of the deep, but

only He and the Eternal Father knew the whole meaning of the divine

petition. As Jesus arose from prayer, in His face shone sublimity,

love, and resignation.

Now He and the Eternal Father entered on discourse mysterious and

profound, obscure even to immortals; discourse of things which in

future ages should display to man the love of God. A seraph entered

the borders of the celestial world, whose whole extent is surrounded

by suns. No dark planet approaches the refulgent blaze.

There, central of the circumvolving suns,

Heaven, archetype of every blissful sphere,

Orbicular in blazing glory, swims,

And circumfuges through infinitude

In copious streams, the splendour of the spheres.

Harmonious sounds of its revolving motion

Are wafted on the pinions of the winds

To circumambient suns. The potent songs

Of voice and harp celestial intermingle

And seem the animation of the whole.

Up to this sacred way Gabriel ascended, approaching heaven, which, in

the very centre of the assemblage of suns, rises into a vast dome.

When the Eternal walks forth, the harmonic choirs, borne on the wings

of the wind to the borders of the sunny arch, chant His praise,

joining the melody of their golden harps. During the hymn the seraph,

as messenger of the Mediator, stood on one of the suns nearest heaven.

The Eternal Father rewarded the choirs with a look of benignity and

then beheld the Chief Seraph, whose name with God is _The Chosen_, and

by the heavenly host is called _Eloah_.

The awful thunder seven times rolled forth,

The sacred gloom dispelling, and the Voice

Divine gently descended: "God is Love.

E'er beings gently emanated I was Love.

Creating worlds, I ever was the same,

And such I am in the accomplishment

Of my profoundest, most mysterious deed.

But in the death of the Eternal Son

Ye learn to know Me wholly--God, the Judge

Of every world. New adoration then

Ye will to the Supreme of heaven address."

The seraph having descended to the altar of the earth, Adam, filled

with eager expectation, hastened to him. A lucid, ethereal body was

the radiant mansion of his blessed spirit, and his form was as lovely

as the bright image in the Creator's mind when meditating on the form

of man in the blooming fields of Paradise. Adam approached with a

radiant smile, which suffused over his countenance an air of ineffable

and sweetest dignity, and thus with impassioned accents he spoke.

Hail, blessed seraph, messenger of peace!

Thy voice, resounding of thy message high,

Has filled our souls with rapture. Son of God,

Messiah, O that Thee I could behold,

Behold Thee in the beauty of Thy manhood,

E'en as this seraph sees Thee in the form

Which Thy compassion prompted Thee to take

My wretched progeny from death to save.

Point out to me, O seraph, show to me,

Where my Redeemer walked, my loving Lord;

Only from far I will His step attend.

Gabriel descends again to earth, the stars silently saluting him with

a universal morn. He finds Jesus placidly sleeping on a bare rock, and

after long contemplation, apostrophises all nature to be silent, for

her Creator sleeps.

_II.--Of Satan Warring, and the Council of the Sanhedrim_

The morn descends over the forest of waving cedars, and Jesus

awakes. The spirits of the patriarchs see Him with joy from their

solar mansion. Raphael, John's guardian angel, tells Jesus that this

disciple is viewing a demoniac among the sepulchres on the Mount of

Olives. He goes thither, and puts Satan to flight, who, returning to

hell, gives an account of what he knows of Jesus, and determines that

He shall be put to death. Satan is opposed by Abaddon. Another grim

fiend speaks.

Then Moloch fierce approached, a martial spirit.

From mountains and entrenchments huge he came,

Which still he forms, thus the domains of hell

To fence, in case the Thundering Warrior e'er

(He thus the dread Eternal nominates)

From heaven descending, should th' abyss molest.

All before Moloch with respect retired.

In sable armour clad, which to his pace

Resounded, he advanced as does a storm

Amid dark lowering clouds. The mountains shook

Before him, and behind, a trembling rock

In shattered fragments sunk. Thus he advanced

And soon attained the first revolter's throne.

After the council of fiends, all hell approves Satan's determination.

Satan and Adramelech return to earth to execute their design. Abaddon,

following them at a distance, sees at the gate of hell Abdiel, the

seraph who was once his friend, whom he addresses. But Abdiel ignoring

him, he presses forward, bewails the loss of his glory, despairs of

finding grace, and after vainly endeavouring to destroy himself,

descends to earth. Satan and Adramelech also advance to earth and

alight on Mount Olivet.

They both advanced and stormed against the Mount

Of Olives, the Redeemer there to find

Assembled with His confidential friends.

Thus down into the vale destructive cars

Of battle roll, against th' intrepid chief

Of the advancing and undaunted host.

Now brazen warriors throng from every point.

The thundering crash of the encounter, clash

Of sword and shield, a sullen iron din

O'er distant rocks resounds tow'rd heaven aloft,

And in the valley scatters death around.

Caiaphas assembles the Sanhedrim, and relates a vision which has

terrified him. He declares that Jesus must die, but counsels caution

as to the manner of the execution. Philo, a dreaded priest and

Pharisee, steps forward, and with great vehemence pronounces the dream

of Caiaphas a mere empty fiction, yet joins in counselling the death

of Jesus. He declares Caiaphas a disgrace to the priesthood of God,

but that Jesus would abolish the priesthood altogether.

So saying, Philo, with uplifted arms,

Advanced in the assembly and exclaimed:

"Spirit of Moses, reigning now in bliss,

Whether in thy celestial robes thou art,

Or whether thy yet mortal children now

In council met beneath a humble roof,

Thou deign'st to visit. Solemnly

I swear to thee, by yon dread covenant,

Which thou to us hast brought out of the storm

From God, to thee on Sinai revealed:

I will not rest till this thine adversary,

Who hates thy laws and thee, be from this earth

Exterminated."

The evil counsel is warmly opposed by Gamaliel and Nicodemus. Judas

has a private conference with Caiaphas. The Messiah sends Peter

and John into Jerusalem to prepare the Passover. Jesus, going to

Jerusalem, is met by Judas. Jesus institutes a memorial of His death.

Judas goes out from the supper. Then Jesus prays for His disciples,

and returns to the Mount of Olives.

_III.--Eloah Sings the Redeemer's Glory_

God descends towards the earth to judge the Mediator, and rests

on Tabor. The Almighty sends the seraph Eloah to comfort Jesus in

Gethsemane by singing a triumphant song on His future glory.

He soared on golden clouds and sang aloud:

"Hail me, I was found worthy after Thee

To feel what Thou dost feel, and to behold

At humble distance the Messiah's thoughts,

Which in the fearful and most dreadful hour

Of His humiliation, fill His mind.

No finite being ever saw God's thoughts:

Yet I have been found worthy from afar,

From an obscure dimension of created

And but finite understanding, to extend

My view into Divine Infinitude!

O with what feelings of creation new,

Divine Messiah, those redeemed by Thee--

With what surpassing transport they will see

Thee on Thy everlasting throne of glory!

How they will then behold those radiant wounds,

The splendid testimonies of Thy love

To Adam's race! How they will shout Thy praise

In never-ceasing songs and alleluias!

Ah, then the angel Death's tremendous trump

Will nevermore be heard, nor thunders, then,

O'er Thy redeemed from the Throne will roll,

The depths will bow before Thee, and the heights

To Thee, the Judge, will folded hands uplift.

The last of days will evanescent die

Before the throne, lost in eternity.

And Thou wilt gather all the righteous souls

Around Thee, that they, face to face, may see

Thy glory and behold Thee as Thou art."

Now the Messiah from the crimsoned dust

Rose victor, and the heavens sang aloud--

The third heaven, of the great Messiah's most

Transcendent sufferings which brought endless life

To precious souls, as now gone over Him.

So sang the heavens.

_IV.--Pilate's Wife Bewails the Saviour's Sufferings_

The Messiah is seized and bound. The assembled priests are seized

with consternation, but their fears are removed by the arrival of

successive messengers. Jesus being taken before Annas, Philo goes

thither and brings Him to Caiaphas. Portia, Pilate's wife, comes to

see Jesus. She approaches from the Procurator's palace near the hall

of assembly, by an arcade lit by lamps.

Impelled by curiosity at last

The great and wondrous Prophet to behold,

She to the high-priest's palace came in haste,

Only few attendants being with her.

And Portia saw Him Who awoke the dead,

And Who serenely bore the hellish rage

And malice of indignant priests, and now,

With wondrous magnanimity stood forth

Resolved to act with greatness, unadmired,

To beings so degenerate still unknown.

With fervid expectation and with joy

She stood and gazed upon the Holy Man,

And saw how He, sublime with dignified

Serenity, His base accusers faced.

On false evidence of suborned witnesses Jesus is condemned. Eloah and

Gabriel discourse on the Saviour's sufferings.

GABRIEL: Eloah! He at whose command the dead

Of the renewed creation shall arise,

The tempest of the resurrection shaking

The earth around, that she with bearing throes

Will yield the dust at His almighty call.

He then with thunders and attendant hosts

Of angels and in terrors clad, that stars

Before Him sink, will judge that sinful world.

ELOAH: He said, Let there be light! And there was light.

Thou, Gabriel, sawest how at His command

Effulgent beams rushed forth! With thought profound

He still advanced: and lo, at His right hand

Ten thousand times ten thousand beings bright

Collected, and an animating storm

Advanced before Him. Then the suns

Rolled in their orbits! Then the harmony

Of morning spheres resounded round the poles.

And then the heavens appeared!

GABRIEL: And at His word

Eternal night sank far below the heavens!

Thou sawest, Eloah, how He stood on high

O'er the Profound. He spake again, and, lo,

A hideous mass inanimate appeared

And lay before Him, seeming ruins vast

Of broken suns, or of a hundred worlds

To chaos crushed. He summoned then the flame,

And the nocturnal blaze rushed in the fields

Of everlasting death. Then misery

Existed, which from the depths ascended

In cries of anguish and despondency.

Then was created the infernal gulf!

Thus they communed. Portia no longer could

The Blessed Saviour's sufferings behold,

And lone ascended to the palace roof.

She stood and wrung her hands, her weeping eyes

To heaven uplifted, while she thus express'd

The agitated feelings of her heart:

"O Thou, the First of Gods, who didst create

This world from night of darkness, and who gav'st

A heart to man! Whatever be Thy name--

God, Jupiter, Jehovah, Romulus?

Or Abraham's God? Not of chosen few,

Thou art the Judge and Father of us all!

May I before Thee, Lord, with tears display

The feelings of my heart, and rend my soul?

What is the crime of this most peaceful man?

Why should He thus be barbarously used

And persecuted even unto death

By these inhuman and relentless men?

Dost Thou delight from Thine Olympus, Lord,

To look on suffering virtue? Is to Thee

The object sacred? To the heart of men,

That is not of humanity devoid,

It is most awful, wondrous, and endearing;

But He who formed the stars, can He admire

And wonder? No, far too sublime is He

To admiration ever scope to give!

Yet th' object must e'en to the God of Gods

Be sacred, else He never could permit

That thus the good and guiltless be oppress'd.

My tears of pity and compassion flow,

But thou discernest suffering virtue's tears

That flow in secret and to Thee appeal.

Great God of Gods, reward and if Thou canst,

Admire the magnanimity He shows."

Peter, in deep distress, tells John he has denied his Master, then

departs and deplores his guilt.

_V.--The Day of Oblation_

Eloah welcomes the returning morn with a hymn, and hails the Day of

the Atonement, precious, fair day of oblation, sent by Love Divine.

The Messiah is led to Pilate, and is accused by Caiaphas and Philo.

Judas, in despair, destroys himself. Jesus is sent to Herod, who,

expecting to see a miracle, is disappointed. After being treated with

derision, Jesus is sent back to Pilate, who seeks to save Him, but is

persuaded to release Barabbas. Jesus is scourged, arrayed in a purple

robe, crowned with thorns, and delivered to the priests, who cause Him

to be led to crucifixion. Eloah descends from the throne and proclaims

that the Redeemer is led to death, on which the angels of the earth

form a circle round Mount Calvary. Jesus is nailed to the cross. One

of the two thieves crucified with Him is converted. Uriel places a

planet before the sun to obscure the dreadful scene on Calvary, and

then conducts to earth the souls of all future generations of mankind.

The Angel of Death descends to address Jesus, Who dies. The earth

shakes, the veil of the Temple is rent, the Old Testament saints are

raised. The converted thief dies. Joseph of Arimathea begs the body

of Jesus, and he and Nicodemus wrap it in spices and perform the

interment. Mary and some devout women meet in John's house, to which

Nicodemus brings the crown of thorns taken from the body at burial.

The interment is solemnised by choirs of risen saints and angels.

FOOTNOTES:

[R] Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock, who was born at Quedlinburg

on July 2, 1724, and died on March 14, 1803, was one of Germany's

most famous eighteenth century poets. While studying theology at Jena

University, he conceived the idea of a great spiritual epic, and

actually planned in prose the first three cantos of "The Messiah,"

which he afterwards finished at Leipzig. These were published

anonymously in the _Bremische Beiträge_ in 1748, the remaining five

appearing in 1773. Although the poem perhaps lacks in unity of

conception and precision of style, it contains many noble passages

that are admitted by critics to mark a very high order of lyrical

genius. One of the chief distinctions of Klopstock was that he was

the real inaugurator of the emancipation of the German intellect from

the superficialism of French literary ascendancy. This distinction

was generously acknowledged by Goethe, who rejoiced at Klopstock's

success in first striking the keynote of intellectual freedom in

the Fatherland. Various odes, Biblical dramas, tragedies, and hymns

constitute his other works. The "Messiah" was translated into both

English prose and verse by G. Egerstorff, his work being published at

Hamburg in 1821.

GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSING[S]

Nathan the Wise

_Persons in the Drama_

SALADIN, _the Sultan_

SITTAH, _his sister_

NATHAN, _a rich Jew_

HAFI, _a Dervish_

RECHA, Nathan's _adopted daughter_

DAYA, _a Christian woman, companion to_ Recha

CONRADE, _a young Templar_

ATHANASIOS, _Patriarch of Palestine_

BONAFIDES, _a friar_

ACT I

SCENE I.--_Jerusalem. A hall in_ NATHAN'S _house_. NATHAN, _in

travelling dress_. DAYA _meeting him_.

DAYA: 'Tis he, 'tis Nathan, thanks to God, returned,

At last!

NATHAN: Yes, Daya, thanks; but why "at last"?

'Tis far to Babylon, and gathering in

One's debts makes tardy journeying.

DAYA: Oh, Nathan! How near you came to misery; when afar,

The house took fire, and Recha, 'mid the flames,

Had all but perished.

NATHAN: Recha, O my Recha!