Chapter II: Part 2

"Within ourselves," replied Gunther. "If it dwell within us, it is everywhere; if not, it is nowhere. He who asks for more has not yet passed the threshold. His heart is not yet what it should be. True love for the things of this earth, and for God, the final cause of all, does not ask for love in return. We love the divine spark that dwells in creatures themselves unconscious of it: creatures who are wretched, debased, and as the church has it, unredeemed. My Master taught me that the purest joys arise from this love of God or of eternally pure nature. I made this truth my own, and you can and ought to do likewise. This park is yours; but the birds that dwell in it, the air, the light, its beauty, are not yours alone, but are shared with you by all. So long as the world is ours, in the vulgar sense of the word, we may love it; but when we have made it our own, in a purer and better sense, no one can take it from us. The great thing is to be strong and to know that hatred is death, that love alone is life, and that the amount of love that we possess is the measure of the life and the divinity that dwells within us."

Gunther rose and was about to withdraw. He feared lest excessive thought might over-agitate the Queen, who, however, motioned him to remain. He sat down again.

"You cannot imagine--" said the Queen after a long pause, "--but that is one of the cant phrases that we have learned by heart. I mean just the reverse of what I have said. You can imagine the change that your words have effected in me."

"I can conceive it."

"Let me ask a few more questions. I believe--nay, I am sure--that on the height you occupy, and toward which you would fain lead me, there dwells eternal peace. But it seems so cold and lonely up there. I am oppressed with a sense of fear, just as if I were in a balloon ascending into a rarer atmosphere, while more and more ballast was ever being thrown out. I don't know how to make my meaning clear to you. I don't understand how to keep up affectionate relations with those about me, and yet regard them from a distance, as it were,--looking upon their deeds as the mere action and reaction of natural forces. It seems to me as if, at that height, every sound and every image must vanish into thin air."

"Certainly, your Majesty. There is a realm of thought in which hearing and sight do not exist, where there is pure thought and nothing more."

"But are not the thoughts that there abound projected from the realm of death into that of life, and is that any better than monastic self-mortification?"

"It is just the contrary. They praise death, or at all events extol it, because after it life is to begin. I am not one of those who deny a future life. I only say, in the words of my Master, 'Our knowledge is of life and not of death,' and where my knowledge ceases my thoughts must cease. Our labors, our love, are all of this life. And because God is in this world and in all that exist in it, and only in those things, have we to liberate the divine essence wherever it exists. The law of love should rule. What the law of nature is in regard to matter, the moral law is to man."

"I cannot reconcile myself to your dividing the divine power into millions of parts. When a stone is crushed, every fragment still remains a stone; but when a flower is torn to pieces, the parts are no longer flowers."

"Let us take your simile as an illustration, although in truth no example is adequate. The world, the firmament, the creatures that live on the face of the earth, are not divided--they are one; thought regards them as a whole. Take for instance the flower. The idea of divinity which it suggests to us, and the fragrance which ascends from it, are yet part and parcel of the flower; attributes without which it is impossible for us to conceive of its existence. The works of all poets, all thinkers, all heroes, may be likened to streams of fragrance wafted through time and space. It is in the flower that they live forever. Although the eternal spirit dwells in the cell of every tree or flower and in every human heart, it is undivided and in its unity fills the world. He whose thoughts dwell in the infinite regards the world as the mighty corolla from which the thought of God exhales."

Translation of S.A. Stern.

IN COUNTESS IRMA'S DIARY

From 'On the Heights'

Yesterday was a year since I lay at the foot of the rock. I could not write a word. My brain whirled with the thoughts of that day; but now it is over.

* * * * *

I don't think I shall write much more. I have now experienced all the seasons in my new world. The circle is complete. There is nothing new to come from without. I know all that exists about me, or that can happen. I am at home in my new world.

* * * * *

Unto Jesus the Scribes and Pharisees brought a woman who was to be stoned to death, and He said unto them, "Let him that is without sin among you cast the first stone."

Thus it is written.

But I ask: How did she continue to live--she who was saved from being stoned to death; she who was pardoned--that is, condemned to live? How did she live on? Did she return to her home? How did she stand with the world? And how with her own heart?

No answer. None.

I must find the answer in my own experience

* * * * *

"Let him that is without sin among you cast the first stone." These are the noblest, the greatest words ever uttered by human lips, or heard by human ear. They divide the history of the human race into two parts. They are the "Let there be light" of the second creation. They divide and heal my little life too, and create me anew.

Has one who is not wholly without sin a right to offer precepts and reflections to others?

Look into your own heart. What are you?

Behold my hands. They are hardened by toil. I have done more than merely lift them in prayer.

* * * * *

Since I am alone I have not seen a letter of print. I have no book and wish for none; and this is not in order to mortify myself, but because I wish to be perfectly alone.

* * * * *

She who renounces the world, and in her loneliness still cherishes the thought of eternity, has assumed a heavy burden.

Convent life is not without its advantages. The different voices that join in the _chorale_ sustain each other; and when the tone at last ceases, it seems to float away on the air and vanish by degrees. But here I am quite alone. I am priest and church, organ and congregation, confessor and penitent, all in one; and my heart is often _so_ heavy, as if I must needs have another to help me bear the load. "Take me up and carry me, I cannot go further!" cries my soul. But then I rouse myself again, seize my scrip and my pilgrim's staff and wander on, solitary and alone; and while I wander, strength returns to me.

* * * * *

It often seems to me as if it were sinful thus to bury myself alive. My voice is no longer heard in song, and much more that dwells within me has become mute.

Is this right?

If my only object in life were to be at peace with myself, it would be well enough; but I long to labor and to do something for others. Yet where and what shall it be?

* * * * *

When I first heard that the beautifully carved furniture of the great and wealthy is the work of prisoners, it made me shudder. And now, although I am not deprived of freedom, I am in much the same condition. Those who have disfigured life should, as an act of expiation, help to make life more beautiful for others. The thought that I am doing this comforts and sustains me.

* * * * *

My work prospers. But last winter's wood is not yet fit for use. My little pitchman has brought me some that is old, excellent, and well seasoned, having been part of the rafters of an old house that has just been torn down. We work together cheerfully, and our earnings are considerable.

* * * * *

Vice is the same everywhere, except that here it is more open. Among the masses, vice is characterized by coarseness; among the upper classes, by meanness.

The latter shake off the consequences of their evil deeds, while the former are obliged to bear them.

* * * * *

The rude manners of these people are necessary, and are far preferable to polite deceit. They must needs be rough and rude. If it were not for its coarse, thick bark, the oak could not withstand the storm.

I have found that this rough bark covers more tenderness and sincerity than does the smoothest surface.

* * * * *

Jochem told me, to-day, that he is still quite a good walker, but that a blind man finds it very troublesome to go anywhere; for at every step he is obliged to grope about, so that he may feel sure of his ground before he firmly plants his foot on the earth.

Is it not the same with me? Am I not obliged to be sure of the ground before I take a step?

Such is the way of the fallen.

Ah! why does everything I see or hear become a symbol of my life?

* * * * *

I have now been here between two and three years. I have formed a resolve which it will be difficult to carry out. I shall go out into the world once more. I must again behold the scenes of my past life. I have tested myself severely.

May it not be a love of adventure, that genteel yet vulgar desire to undertake what is unusual or fraught with peril? Or is it a morbid desire to wander through the world after having died, as it were?

No; far from it. What can it be? An intense longing to roam again, if it be only for a few days. I must kill the desire, lest it kill me.

Whence arises this sudden longing?

Every tool that I use while at work burns my hand.

I must go.

I shall obey the impulse, without worrying myself with speculations as to its cause. I am subject to the rules of no order. My will is my only law. I harm no one by obeying it. I feel myself free; the world has no power over me.

I dreaded informing Walpurga of my intention. When I did so, her tone, her words, her whole manner, and the fact that she for the first time called me "child," made it seem as if her mother were still speaking to me.

"Child," said she, "you're right! Go! It'll do you good. I believe that you'll come back and will stay with us; but if you don't, and another life opens up to you--your expiation has been a bitter one, far heavier than your sin."

Uncle Peter was quite happy when he learned that we were to be gone from one Sunday to the Sunday following. When I asked him whether he was curious as to where we were going, he replied:--

"It's all one to me. I'd travel over the whole world with you, wherever you'd care to go; and if you were to drive me away, I'd follow you like a dog and find you again."

I shall take my journal with me, and will note down every day.

* * * * *

[By the lake.]--I find it difficult to write a word.

The threshold I am obliged to cross, in order to go out into the world, is my own gravestone.

I am equal to it.

How pleasant it was to descend toward the valley. Uncle Peter sang; and melodies suggested themselves to me, but I did not sing. Suddenly he interrupted himself and said:--

"In the inns you'll be my niece, won't you?"

"Yes."

"But you must call me 'uncle' when we're there?"

"Of course, dear uncle."

He kept nodding to himself for the rest of the way, and was quite happy.

We reached the inn at the landing. He drank, and I drank too, from the same glass.

"Where are you going?" asked the hostess.

"To the capital," said he, although I had not said a word to him about it. Then he said to me in a whisper:--

"If you intend to go elsewhere, the people needn't know everything."

I let him have his own way.

I looked for the place where I had wandered at that time. There--there was the rock--and on it a cross, bearing in golden characters the inscription:--

HERE PERISHED

IRMA, COUNTESS VON WILDENORT,

IN THE TWENTY-FIRST YEAR
OF HER LIFE.

_Traveler, pray for her and honor her memory_.

I never rightly knew why I was always dissatisfied, and yearning for the next hour, the next day, the next year, hoping that it would bring me that which I could not find in the present. It was not love, for love does not satisfy. I desired to live in the passing moment, but could not. It always seemed as if something were waiting for me without the door, and calling me. What could it have been?

I know now; it was a desire to be at one with myself, to understand myself. Myself in the world, and the world in me.

* * * * *

The vain man is the loneliest of human beings. He is constantly longing to be seen, understood, acknowledged, admired, and loved.

I could say much on the subject, for I too was once vain. It was only in actual solitude that I conquered the loneliness of vanity. It is enough for me that I exist.

How far removed this is from all that is mere show.

* * * * *

Now I understand my father's last act. He did not mean to punish me. His only desire was to arouse me; to lead me to self-consciousness; to the knowledge which, teaching us to become different from what we are, saves us.

* * * * *

I understand the inscription in my father's library:--"When I am alone, then am I least alone."

Yes; when alone, one can more perfectly lose himself in the life universal. I have lived and have come to know the truth. I can now die.

* * * * *

He who is at one with himself, possesses all....

I believe that I know what I have done. I have no compassion for myself. This is my full confession.

I have sinned--not against nature, but against the world's rules. Is that sin? Look at the tall pines in yonder forest. The higher the tree grows, the more do the lower branches die away; and thus the tree in the thick forest is protected and sheltered by its fellows, but can nevertheless not perfect itself in all directions.

I desired to lead a full and complete life and yet to be in the forest, to be in the world and yet in society. But he who means to live thus, must remain in solitude. As soon as we become members of society, we cease to be mere creatures of nature. Nature and morality have equal rights, and must form a compact with each other; and where there are two powers with equal rights, there must be mutual concessions.

Herein lies my sin.

_He who desires to live a life of nature alone, must withdraw himself from the protection of morality. I did not fully desire either the one or the other; hence I was crushed and shattered_.

My father's last action was right. He avenged the moral law, which is just as human as the law of nature. The animal world knows neither father nor mother, so soon as the young is able to take care of itself. The human world does know them and must hold them sacred.

I see it all quite clearly. My sufferings and my expiation are deserved. I was a thief! I stole the highest treasures of all: confidence, love, honor, respect, splendor.

How noble and exalted the tender souls appear to themselves when a poor rogue is sent to jail for having committed a theft! But what are all possessions which can be carried away, when compared with those that are intangible!

Those who are summoned to the bar of justice are not always the basest of mankind.

I acknowledge my sin, and my repentance is sincere.

My fatal sin, the sin for which I now atone, was that I dissembled, that I denied and extenuated that which I represented to myself as a natural right. Against the Queen I have sinned worst of all. To me she represents that moral order which I violated and yet wished to enjoy.

To you, O Queen, to you--lovely, good, and deeply injured one--do I confess all this!

If I die before you,--and I hope that I may,--these pages are to be given to you.

* * * * *

I can now accurately tell the season of the year, and often the hour of the day, by the way in which the first sunbeams fall into my room and on my work-bench in the morning. My chisel hangs before me on the wall, and is my index.

The drizzling spring showers now fall on the trees; and thus it is with me. It seems as if there were a new delight in store for me. What can it be? I shall patiently wait!

* * * * *

A strange feeling comes over me, as if I were lifted up from the chair on which I am sitting, and were flying, I know not whither! What is it? I feel as if dwelling in eternity.

Everything seems flying toward me: the sunlight and the sunshine, the rustling of the forests and the forest breezes, beings of all ages and of all kinds--all seem beautiful and rendered transparent by the sun's glow.

I am!

I am in God!

If I could only die now and be wafted through this joy to dissolution and redemption!

But I will live on until my hour comes.

Come, thou dark hour, whenever thou wilt! To me thou art light!

I feel that there is light within me. O Eternal Spirit of the universe, I am one with thee!

I was dead, and I live--I shall die and yet live.

Everything has been forgiven and blotted out.--There was dust on my wings.--I soar aloft into the sun and into infinite space. I shall die singing from the fullness of my soul. Shall I sing!

Enough.

* * * * *

I know that I shall again be gloomy and depressed and drag along a weary existence; but I have once soared into infinity and have felt a ray of eternity within me. That I shall never lose again. I should like to go to a convent, to some quiet, cloistered cell, where I might know nothing of the world, and could live on within myself until death shall call me. But it is not to be. I am destined to live on in freedom and to labor; to live with my fellow-beings and to work for them.

The results of my handiwork and of my powers of imagination belong to you; but what I am within myself is mine alone.

* * * * *

I have taken leave of everything here; of my quiet room, of my summer bench; for I know not whether I shall ever return. And if I do, who knows but what everything may have become strange to me?

* * * * *

(Last page written in pencil.)--It is my wish that when I am dead, I may be wrapped in a simple linen cloth, placed in a rough unplaned coffin, and buried under the apple-tree, on the road that leads to my paternal mansion. I desire that my brother and other relatives may be apprised of my death at once, and that they shall not disturb my grave by the wayside.

No stone, no name, is to mark my grave.

ÉMILE AUGIER

(1820-1889)

As an observer of society, a satirist, and a painter of types and characters of modern life, Émile Augier ranks among the greatest French dramatists of this century. Critics consider him in the line of direct descent from Molière and Beaumarchais. His collected works ('Theatre Complet') number twenty-seven plays, of which nine are in verse. Eight of these were written with a literary partner. Three are now called classics: 'Le Gendre de M. Poirier' (M. Poirier's Son-in-Law), 'L'Aventurière' (The Adventuress), and 'Fils de Giboyer' (Giboyer's Boy). 'Le Gendre de M. Poirier' was written with Jules Sandeau, but the admirers of Augier have proved by internal evidence that his share in its composition was the greater. It is a comedy of manners based on the old antagonism between vulgar ignorant energy and ability on the one side, and lazy empty birth and breeding on the other; embodied in Poirier, a wealthy shopkeeper, and M. de Presles, his son-in-law, an impoverished nobleman. Guillaume Victor Émile Augier was born in Valence, France, September 17th, 1820, and was intended for the law; but inheriting literary tastes from his grandfather, Pigault Lebrun the romance writer, he devoted himself to letters. When his first play, 'La Ciguë' (The Hemlock),--in the preface to which he defended his grandfather's memory,--was presented at the Odéon in 1844, it made the author famous. Théophile Gautier describes it at length in Vol. iii. of his 'Art Dramatique,' and compares it to Shakespeare's 'Timon of Athens.' It is a classic play, and the hero closes his career by a draught of hemlock.

Augier's works are:--'Un Homme de Bien' (A Good Man); 'L'Aventurière' (The Adventuress); 'Gabrielle'; 'Le Joueur de Flute' (The Flute Player); 'Diane' (Diana), a romantic play on the same theme as Victor Hugo's 'Marion Delorme,' written for and played by Rachel; 'La Pierre de Touche' (The Touchstone), with Jules Sandeau; 'Philberte,' a comedy of the last century; 'Le Mariage d'Olympe' (Olympia's Marriage); 'Le Gendre de M. Poirier' (M. Poirier's Son-in-Law); 'Ceinture Dorée' (The Golden Belt), with Edouard Foussier; 'La Jeunesse' (Youth); 'Les Lionnes Pauvres' (Ambition and Poverty),--a bold story of social life in Paris during the Second Empire, also with Foussier; 'Les Effrontés' (Brass), an attack on the worship of money; 'Le Fils de Giboyer' (Giboyer's Boy), the story of a father's devotion, ambitions, and self-sacrifice; 'Maître Guérin' (Guérin the Notary), the hero being an inventor; 'La Contagion' (Contagion), the theme of which is skepticism; 'Paul Forestier,' the story of a young artist; 'Le Post-Scriptum' (The Postscript); 'Lions et Renards' (Lions and Foxes), whose motive is love of power; 'Jean Thommeray,' the hero of which is drawn from Sandeau's novel of the same title; 'Madame Caverlet,' hinging on the divorce question; 'Les Fourchambault' (The Fourchambaults), a plea for family union; 'La Chasse au Roman' (Pursuit of a Romance), and 'L'Habit Vert' (The Green Coat), with Sandeau and Alfred de Musset; and the libretto for Gounod's opera 'Sappho.' Augier wrote one volume of verse, which he modestly called 'Pariétaire,' the name of a common little vine, the English danewort. In 1858 he was elected to the French Academy, and in 1868 became a Commander of the Legion of Honor. He died at Croissy, October 25th, 1889. An analysis of his dramas by Émile Montégut is published in the Revue de Deux Mondes for April, 1878.

A CONVERSATION WITH A PURPOSE

From 'Giboyer's Boy'

_Marquis_--Well, dear Baroness, what has an old bachelor like me done to deserve so charming a visit?

_Baroness_--That's what I wonder myself, Marquis. Now I see you I don't know why I've come, and I've a great mind to go straight back.

_Marquis_--Sit down, vexatious one!

_Baroness_--No. So you close your door for a week; your servants all look tragic; your friends put on mourning in anticipation; I, disconsolate, come to inquire--and behold, I find you at table!

_Marquis_--I'm an old flirt, and wouldn't show myself for an empire when I'm in a bad temper. You wouldn't recognize your agreeable friend when he has the gout;--that's why I hide.

_Baroness_--I shall rush off to reassure your friend.

_Marquis_--They are not so anxious as all that. Tell me something of them.

_Baroness_--But somebody's waiting in my carriage.

_Marquis_--I'll send to ask him up.

_Baroness_--But I'm not sure that you know him.

_Marquis_--His name?

_Baroness_--I met him by chance.

_Marquis_--And you brought him by chance. [_He rings_.] You are a mother to me. [_To Dubois_.] You will find an ecclesiastic in Madame's carriage. Tell him I'm much obliged for his kind alacrity, but I think I won't die this morning.

_Baroness_--O Marquis! what would our friends say if they heard you?

_Marquis_--Bah! I'm the black sheep of the party, its spoiled child; that's taken for granted. Dubois, you may say also that Madame begs the Abbé to drive home, and to send her carriage back for her.

_Baroness_--Allow me--

_Marquis_--Go along, Dubois.--Now you are my prisoner.

_Baroness_--But, Marquis, this is very unconventional.

_Marquis [kissing her hand_]--Flatterer! Now sit down, and let's talk about serious things. _[Taking a newspaper from the table_.] The gout hasn't kept me from reading the news. Do you know that poor Déodat's death is a serious mishap?

_Baroness_--What a loss to our cause!

_Marquis_--I have wept for him.

_Baroness_--Such talent! Such spirit! Such sarcasm!

_Marquis_--He was the hussar of orthodoxy. He will live in history as the angelic pamphleteer. And now that we have settled his noble ghost--

_Baroness_--You speak very lightly about it, Marquis.

_Marquis_--I tell you I've wept for him.--Now let's think of some one to replace him.

_Baroness_--Say to succeed him. Heaven doesn't create two such men at the same time.

_Marquis_--What if I tell you that I have found such another? Yes, Baroness, I've unearthed a wicked, cynical, virulent pen, that spits and splashes; a fellow who would lard his own father with epigrams for a consideration, and who would eat him with salt for five francs more.

_Baroness_--Déodat had sincere convictions.

_Marquis_--That's because he fought for them. There are no more mercenaries. The blows they get convince them. I'll give this fellow a week to belong to us body and soul.

_Baroness_--If you haven't any other proofs of his faithfulness--

_Marquis_--But I have.

_Baroness_--Where from?

_Marquis_--Never mind. I have it.

_Baroness_--And why do you wait before presenting him?

_Marquis_--For him in the first place, and then for his consent. He lives in Lyons, and I expect him to-day or to-morrow. As soon as he is presentable, I'll introduce him.

_Baroness_--Meanwhile, I'll tell the committee of your find.

_Marquis_--I beg you, no. With regard to the committee, dear Baroness, I wish you'd use your influence in a matter which touches me.

_Baroness_--I have not much influence--

_Marquis_--Is that modesty, or the exordium of a refusal?

_Baroness_--If either, it's modesty.

_Marquis_--Very well, my charming friend. Don't you know that these gentlemen owe you too much to refuse you anything?

_Baroness_--Because they meet in my parlor?

_Marquis_--That, yes; but the true, great, inestimable service you render every day is to possess such superb eyes.

_Baroness_--It's well for you to pay attention to such things!

_Marquis_--Well for me, but better for these Solons whose compliments don't exceed a certain romantic intensity.

_Baroness_--You are dreaming.

_Marquis_--What I say is true. That's why serious societies always rally in the parlor of a woman, sometimes clever, sometimes beautiful. You are both, Madame: judge then of your power!

_Baroness_--You are too complimentary: your cause must be detestable.

_Marquis_--If it was good I could win it for myself.

_Baroness_--Come, tell me, tell me.

_Marquis_--Well, then: we must choose an orator to the Chamber for our Campaign against the University. I want them to choose--

_Baroness_--Monsieur Maréchal?

_Marquis_--You are right.

_Baroness_--Do you really think so, Marquis? Monsieur Maréchal?

_Marquis_--Yes, I know. But we don't need a bolt of eloquence, since we'll furnish the address. Maréchal reads well enough, I assure you.

_Baroness_--We made him deputy on your recommendation. That was a good deal.

_Marquis_--Maréchal is an excellent recruit.

_Baroness_--So you say.

_Marquis_--How disgusted you are! An old subscriber to the Constitutionnel, a liberal, a Voltairean, who comes over to the enemy bag and baggage. What would you have? Monsieur Maréchal is not a man, my dear: it's the stout _bourgeoisie_ itself coming over to us. I love this honest _bourgeoisie_, which hates the revolution, since there is no more to be gotten out of it; which wants to stem the tide which brought it, and make over a little feudal France to its own profit. Let it draw our chestnuts from the fire if it wants to. This pleasant sight makes me enjoy politics. Long live Monsieur Maréchal and his likes, _bourgeois_ of the right divine. Let us heap these precious allies with honor and glory until our triumph ships them off to their mills again.

_Baroness_--Several of our deputies are birds of the same feather. Why choose the least capable for orator?

_Marquis_--It's not a question of capacity.

_Baroness_--You're a warm patron of Monsieur Maréchal!

_Marquis_--I regard him as a kind of family protégé. His grandfather was farmer to mine. I'm his daughter's guardian. These are bonds.

_Baroness_--You don't tell everything.

_Marquis_--All that I know.

_Baroness_--Then let me complete your information. They say that in old times you fell in love with the first Madame Maréchal.

_Marquis_--I hope you don't believe this silly story?

_Baroness_--Faith, you do so much to please Monsieur Maréchal--

_Marquis_--That it seems as if I must have injured him? Good heavens! Who is safe from malice? Nobody. Not even you, dear Baroness.

_Baroness_--I'd like to know what they can say of me.

_Marquis_--Foolish things that I certainly won't repeat.

_Baroness_--Then you believe them?

_Marquis_--God forbid! That your dead husband married his mother's companion? It made me so angry!

_Baroness_--Too much honor for such wretched gossip.

_Marquis_--I answered strongly enough, I can tell you.

_Baroness_--I don't doubt it.

_Marquis_--But you are right in wanting to marry again.

_Baroness_--Who says I want to?

_Marquis_--Ah! you don't treat me as a friend. I deserve your confidence all the more for understanding you as if you had given it. The aid of a sorcerer is not to be despised, Baroness.

_Baroness_ [_sitting down by the table_]--Prove your sorcery.

_Marquis_ [_sitting down opposite_]--Willingly! Give me your hand.

_Baroness_ [_removing her glove_]--You'll give it back again.

_Marquis_--And help you dispose of it, which is more. [_Examining her hand_.] You are beautiful, rich, and a widow.

_Baroness_--I could believe myself at Mademoiselle Lenormand's!

_Marquis_--While it is so easy, not to say tempting, for you to lead a brilliant, frivolous life, you have chosen a rôle almost austere with its irreproachable morals.

_Baroness_--If it was a rôle, you'll admit that it was much like a penitence.

_Marquis_--Not for you.

_Baroness_--What do you know about it?

_Marquis_--I read it in your hand. I even see that the contrary would cost you more, for nature has gifted your heart with unalterable calmness.

_Baroness_ [_drawing away her hand_]--Say at once that I'm a monster.

_Marquis_--Time enough! The credulous think you a saint; the skeptics say you desire power; I, Guy François Condorier, Marquis d'Auberive, think you a clever little German, trying to build a throne for yourself in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. You have conquered the men, but the women resist you: your reputation offends them; and for want of a better weapon they use this miserable rumor I've just repeated. In short, your flag's inadequate and you're looking for a larger one. Henry IV. said that Paris was worth a mass. You think so too.

_Baroness_--They say sleep-walkers shouldn't be contradicted. However, do let me say that if I really wanted a husband--with my money and my social position, I might already have found twenty.

_Marquis_--Twenty, yes; but not one. You forget this little devil of a rumor.

_Baroness [rising]_--Only fools believe that.

_Marquis [rising]_--There's the _hic_. It's only very clever men, too clever, who court you, and you want a fool.

_Baroness_--Why?

_Marquis_--Because you don't want a master. You want a husband whom you can keep in your parlor, like a family portrait, nothing more.

_Baroness_--Have you finished, dear diviner? What you have just said lacks common-sense, but you are amusing, and I can refuse you nothing.

_Marquis_--Maréchal shall have the oration?

_Baroness_--Or I'll lose my name.

_Marquis_--And you _shall_ lose your name--I promise you.

A SEVERE YOUNG JUDGE

From 'The Adventuress'

_Clorinde_ [_softly_]--Here's Célie. Look at her clear eyes. I love her, innocent child!

_Annibal_--Yes, yes, yes! [_He sits down in a corner._]

_Clorinde_ [_approaching Célie, who has paused in the doorway_]--My child, you would not avoid me to-day if you knew how happy you make me!

_Célie_--My father has ordered me to come to you.

_Clorinde_--Ordered you? Did you need an order? Are we really on such terms? Tell me, do you think I do not love you, that you should look upon me as your enemy? Dear, if you could read my heart you would find there the tenderest attachment.

_Célie_--I do not know whether you are sincere, Madame. I hope that you are not, for it distresses one to be loved by those--

_Clorinde_--Whom one does not love? They must have painted me black indeed, that you are so reluctant to believe in my friendship.

_Célie_--They have told me--what I have heard, thanks to you, Madame, was not fit for my young ears. This interview is cruel--Please let me--

_Clorinde_--No, no! Stay, Mademoiselle. For this interview, painful to us both, nevertheless concerns us both.

_Célie_--I am not your judge, Madame.

_Clorinde_--Nevertheless you do judge me, and severely! Yes, my life has been blameworthy; I confess it. But you know nothing of its temptations. How should you know, sweet soul, to whom life is happy and goodness easy? Child, you have your family to guard you. You have happiness to keep watch and ward for you. How should you know what poverty whispers to young ears on cold evenings! You, who have never been hungry, how should you understand the price that is asked for a mouthful of bread?

_Célie_--I don't know the pleadings of poverty, but one need not listen to them. There are many poor girls who go hungry and cold and keep from harm.

_Clorinde_--Child, their courage is sublime. Honor them if you will, but pity the cowards.

_Célie_--Yes, for choosing infamy rather than work, hunger, or death! Yes, for losing the respect of all honest souls! Yes, I can pity them for not being worthier of pity.

_Clorinde_--So that's your Christian charity! So nothing in the world--bitter repentance or agonies of suffering, or vows of sanctity for all time to come--may obliterate the past?

_Célie_--You force me to speak without knowledge. But--since I must give judgment--who really hates a fault will hate the fruit of it. If you keep this place, Madame, you will not expect me to believe in the genuineness of your renunciations.

_Clorinde_--I do not dishonor it. There is no reason why I should leave it. I have already proved my sincerity by high-minded and generous acts. I bear myself as my place demands. My conscience is at rest.

_Célie_--Your good action--for I believe you--is only the beginning of expiation. Virtue seems to me like a holy temple. You may leave it by a door with a single step, but to enter again you must climb up a hundred on your knees, beating your breast.

_Clorinde_--How rigid you all are, and how your parents train their first-born never to open the ranks! Oh, fortunate race! impenetrable phalanx of respectability, who make it impossible for the sinner to reform! You keep the way of repentance so rough that the foot of poor humanity cannot tread it. God will demand from you the lost souls whom your hardness has driven back to sin.

_Célie_--God, do you say? When good people forgive they betray his justice. For punishment is not retribution only, but the acknowledgment and recompense of those fighting ones that brave hunger and cold in a garret, Madame, yet do not surrender.

_Clorinde_--Go, child! I cannot bear more--

_Célie_--I have said more than I meant to say. Good-by. This is the first and last time that I shall ever speak of this.

[_She goes_.]

A CONTENTED IDLER

From 'M. Poirier's Son-in-Law'

[_The party are leaving the dining-room._]

_Gaston_--Well, Hector! What do you think of it? The house is just as you see it now, every day in the year. Do you believe there is a happier man in the world than I?

_Duke_--Faith! I envy you; you reconcile me to marriage.

_Antoinette_ [_in a low voice to Verdelet_]--Monsieur de Montmeyran is a charming young man!

_Verdelet_ [_in a low voice_]--He pleases me.

_Gaston_ [_to Poirier, who comes in last_]--Monsieur Poirier, I must tell you once for all how much I esteem you. Don't think I'm ungrateful.

_Poirier_--Oh! Monsieur!

_Gaston_--Why the devil don't you call me Gaston? And you, too, dear Monsieur Verdelet, I'm very glad to see you.

_Antoinette_--He is one of the family, Gaston.

_Gaston_--Shake hands then, Uncle.

_Verdelet_ [_aside, giving him his hand_]--He's not a bad fellow.

_Gaston_--Agree, Hector, that I've been lucky. Monsieur Poirier, I feel guilty. You make my life one long fête and never give me a chance in return. Try to think of something I can do for you.

_Poirier_--Very well, if that's the way you feel, give me a quarter of an hour. I should like to have a serious talk with you.

_Duke_--I'll withdraw.

_Poirier_--No, stay, Monsieur. We are going to hold a kind of family council. Neither you nor Verdelet will be in the way.

_Gaston_--The deuce, my dear father-in-law. A family council! You embarrass me!

_Poirier_--Not at all, dear Gaston. Let us sit down.

[_They seat themselves around the fireplace_.]

_Gaston_--Begin, Monsieur Poirier.

_Poirier_--You say you are happy, dear Gaston, and that is my greatest recompense.

_Gaston_--I'm willing to double your gratification.

_Poirier_--But now that three months have been given to the joys of the honeymoon, I think that there has been romance enough, and that it's time to think about history.

_Gaston_--You talk like a book. Certainly, we'll think about history if you wish. I'm willing.

_Poirier_--What do you intend to do?

_Gaston_--To-day?

_Poirier_--And to-morrow, and in the future. You must have some idea.

_Gaston_--True, my plans are made. I expect to do to-day what I did yesterday, and to-morrow what I shall do to-day. I'm not versatile, in spite of my light air; and if the future is only like the present I'll be satisfied.

_Poirier_--But you are too sensible to think that the honeymoon can last forever.

_Gaston_--Too sensible, and too good an astronomer. But you've probably read Heine?

_Poirier_--You must have read that, Verdelet?

_Verdelet_--Yes; I've read him.

_Poirier_--Perhaps he spent his life at playing truant.

_Gaston_--Well, Heine, when he was asked what became of the old full moons, said that they were broken up to make the stars.

_Poirier_--I don't understand.

_Gaston_--When our honeymoon is old, we'll break it up and there'll be enough to make a whole Milky Way.

_Poirier_--That is a clever idea, of course.

_Gaston_--Its only merit is simplicity.

_Poirier_--But seriously, don't you think that the idle life you lead may jeopardize the happiness of a young household?

_Gaston_--Not at all.

_Verdelet_--A man of your capacity can't mean to idle all his life.

_Gaston_--With resignation.

_Antoinette_--Don't you think you'll find it dull after a time, Gaston?

_Gaston_--You calumniate yourself, my dear.

_Antoinette_--I'm not vain enough to suppose that I can fill your whole existence, and I admit that I'd like to see you follow the example of Monsieur de Montmeyran.

_Gaston_ [_rising and leaning against the mantelpiece_]--Perhaps you want me to fight?

_Antoinette_--No, of course not.

_Gaston_--What then?

_Poirier_--We want you to take a position worthy of your name.

_Gaston_--There are only three positions which my name permits me: soldier, bishop, or husbandman. Choose.

_Poirier_--We owe everything to France. France is our mother.

_Verdelet_--I understand the vexation of a son whose mother remarries; I understand why he doesn't go to the wedding: but if he has the right kind of heart he won't turn sulky. If the second husband makes her happy, he'll soon offer him a friendly hand.

_Poirier_--The nobility cannot always hold itself aloof, as it begins to perceive. More than one illustrious name has set the example: Monsieur de Valcherrière, Monsieur de Chazerolles, Monsieur de Mont Louis--

_Gaston_--These men have done as they thought best. I don't judge them, but I cannot imitate them.

_Antoinette_--Why not, Gaston?

_Gaston_--Ask Montmeyran.

_Verdelet_--The Duke's uniform answers for him.

_Duke_--Excuse me, a soldier has but one opinion--his duty; but one adversary--the enemy.

_Poirier_--However, Monsieur--

_Gaston_--Enough, it isn't a matter of politics, Monsieur Poirier. One may discuss opinions, but not sentiments. I am bound by gratitude. My fidelity is that of a servant and of a friend. Not another word. [_To the Duke_.] I beg your pardon, my dear fellow. This is the first time we've talked politics here, and I promise you it shall be the last.

_The Duke_ [_in a low voice to Antoinette_]--You've been forced into making a mistake, Madame.

_Antoinette_--I know it, now that it's too late.

_Verdelet_ [_softly, to Poirier_]--Now you're in a fine fix.

_Poirier_ [_in same tone_]--He's repulsed the first assault, but I don't raise the siege.

_Gaston_--I'm not resentful, Monsieur Poirier. Perhaps I spoke a little too strongly, but this is a tender point with me, and unintentionally you wounded me. Shake hands.

_Poirier_--You are very kind.

_A Servant_--There are some people in the little parlor who say they have an appointment with Monsieur Poirier.

_Poirier_--Very well, ask them to wait a moment. [_The servant goes out_.] Your creditors, son-in-law.

_Gaston_--Yours, my dear father-in-law. I've turned them over to you.

_Duke_--As a wedding present.

THE FEELINGS OF AN ARTIST

From 'M. Poirier's Son-in-Law'

_Poirier_ [_alone_]--How vexatious he is, that son-in-law of mine! and there's no way to get rid of him. He'll die a nobleman, for he will do nothing and he is good for nothing.--There's no end to the money he costs me.--He is master of my house.--I'll put a stop to it. [_He rings. Enter a servant_.] Send up the porter and the cook. We shall see my son-in-law! I have set up my back. I've unsheathed my velvet paws. You will make no concessions, eh, my fine gentleman? Take your comfort! I will not yield either: you may remain marquis, and I will again become a _bourgeois_. At least I'll have the pleasure of living to my fancy.

_The Porter_--Monsieur has sent for me?

_Poirier_--Yes, François, Monsieur has sent for you. You can put the sign on the door at once.

_The Porter_--The sign?

_Poirier_--"To let immediately, a magnificent apartment on the first floor, with stables and carriage houses."

_The Porter_--The apartment of Monsieur le Marquis?

_Poirier_--You have said it, François.

_The Porter_--But Monsieur le Marquis has not given the order.

_Poirier_--Who is the master here, donkey? Who owns this mansion?

_The Porter_--You, Monsieur.

_Poirier_--Then do what I tell you without arguing.

_The Porter_--Yes, Monsieur. [_Enter Vatel_.]

_Poirier_--Go, François. [_Exit Porter_.] Come in, Monsieur Vatel: you are getting up a big dinner for to-morrow?

_Vatel_--Yes, Monsieur, and I venture to say that the menu would not be disowned by my illustrious ancestor himself. It is really a work of art, and Monsieur Poirier will be astonished.

_Poirier_--Have you the menu with you?

_Vatel_--No, Monsieur, it is being copied; but I know it by heart.

_Poirier_--Then recite it to me.

_Vatel_--Le potage aux ravioles à l'Italienne et le potage à l'orge à la Marie Stuart.

_Poirier_--You will replace these unknown concoctions by a good meat soup, with some vegetables on a plate.

_Vatel_--What, Monsieur?

_Poirier_--I mean it. Go on.

_Vatel_--Relevé. La carpe du Rhin à la Lithuanienne, les poulardes à la Godard--le filet de boeuf braisé aux raisins à la Napolitaine, le jambon de Westphalie, rotie madère.

_Poirier_--Here is a simpler and far more sensible fish course: brill with caper sauce--then Bayonne ham with spinach, and a savory stew of bird, with well-browned rabbit.

_Vatel_--But, Monsieur Poirier--I will never consent.

_Poirier_--I am master--do you hear? Go on.

_Vatel_--Entrées. Les filets de volaille à la concordat--les croustades de truffe garniés de foies à la royale, le faison étoffe à la Montpensier, les perdreaux rouges farcis à la bohemienne.

_Poirier_--In place of these side dishes we will have nothing at all, and we will go at once to the roast,--that is the only essential.

_Vatel_--That is against the precepts of art.

_Poirier_--I'll take the blame of that: let us have your roasts.

_Vatel_--It is not worth while, Monsieur: my ancestor would have run his sword through his body for a less affront. I offer my resignation.

_Poirier_--And I was about to ask for it, my good friend; but as one has eight days to replace a servant--

_Vatel_--A servant, Monsieur? I am an artist!

_Poirier_--I will fill your place by a woman. But in the mean time, as you still have eight days in my service, I wish you to prepare my menu.

_Vatel_--I will blow my brains out before I dishonor my name.

_Poirier_ [_aside_]--Another fellow who adores his name! [_Aloud_.] You may burn your brains, Monsieur Vatel, but don't burn your sauces.--Well, _bon jour_! [_Exit Vatel_.] And now to write invitations to my old cronies of the Rue des Bourdonnais. Monsieur le Marquis de Presles, I'll soon take the starch out of you.

[_He goes out whistling the first couplet of 'Monsieur and Madame Denis.'_]

A CONTEST OF WILLS

From 'The Fourchambaults'

_Madame Fourchambault_--Why do you follow me?

_Fourchambault_--I'm not following you: I'm accompanying you.

_Madame Fourchambault_--I despise you; let me alone. Oh! my poor mother little thought what a life of privation would be mine when she gave me to you with a dowry of eight hundred thousand francs!

_Fourchambault_--A life of privation--because I refuse you a yacht!

_Madame Fourchambault_--I thought my dowry permitted me to indulge a few whims, but it seems I was wrong.

_Fourchambault_--A whim costing eight thousand francs!

_Madame Fourchambault_--Would you have to pay for it?

_Fourchambault_--That's the kind of reasoning that's ruining me.

_Madame Fourchambault_--Now he says I'm ruining him! His whole fortune comes from me.

_Fourchambault_--Now don't get angry, my dear. I want you to have everything in reason, but you must understand the situation.

_Madame Fourchambault_--The situation?

_Fourchambault_--I ought to be a rich man; but thanks to the continual expenses you incur in the name of your dowry, I can barely rub along from day to day. If there should be a sudden fall in stocks, I have no reserve with which to meet it.

_Madame Fourchambault_--That can't be true! Tell me at once that it isn't true, for if it were so you would be without excuse.

_Fourchambault_--I or you?

_Madame Fourchambault_--This is too much! Is it my fault that you don't understand business? If you haven't had the wit to make the best use of your way of living and your family connections--any one else--

_Fourchambault_--Quite likely! But I am petty enough to be a scrupulous man, and to wish to remain one.

_Madame Fourchambault_--Pooh! That's the excuse of all the dolts who can't succeed. They set up to be the only honest fellows in business. In my opinion, Monsieur, a timid and mediocre man should not insist upon remaining at the head of a bank, but should turn the position over to his son.

_Fourchambault_--You are still harping on that? But, my dear, you might as well bury me alive! Already I'm a mere cipher in my family.

_Madame Fourchambault_--You do not choose your time well to pose as a victim, when like a tyrant you are refusing me a mere trifle.

_Fourchambault_--I refuse you nothing. I merely explain my position. Now do as you like. It is useless to expostulate.

_Madame Fourchambault_--At last! But you have wounded me to the heart, Adrien, and just when I had a surprise for you--

_Fourchambault_--What is your surprise? [_Aside_: It makes me tremble.]

_Madame Fourchambault_--Thanks to me, the Fourchambaults are going to triumph over the Duhamels.

_Fourchambault_--How?

_Madame Fourchambault_--Madame Duhamel has been determined this long time to marry her daughter to the son of the prefect.

_Fourchambault_--I knew it. What about it?

_Madame Fourchambault_--While she was making a goose of herself so publicly, I was quietly negotiating, and Baron Rastiboulois is coming to ask our daughter's hand.

_Fourchambault_--That will never do! I'm planning quite a different match for her.

_Madame Fourchambault_--You? I should like to know--

_Fourchambault_--He's a fine fellow of our own set, who loves Blanche, and whom she loves if I'm not mistaken.

_Madame Fourchambault_--You are entirely mistaken. You mean Victor Chauvet, Monsieur Bernard's clerk?

_Fourchambault_--His right arm, rather. His _alter ego_.

_Madame Fourchambault_--Blanche did think of him at one time. But her fancy was just a morning mist, which I easily dispelled. She has forgotten all about him, and I advise you to follow her example.

_Fourchambault_--What fault can you find with this young man?

_Madame Fourchambault_--Nothing and everything. Even his name is absurd. I never would have consented to be called Madame Chauvet, and Blanche is as proud as I was. But that is only a detail; the truth is, I won't have her marry a clerk.

_Fourchambault_--You won't have! You won't have! But there are two of us.

_Madame Fourchambault_--Are you going to portion Blanche?

_Fourchambault_--I? No.

_Madame Fourchambault_--Then you see there are not two of us. As I am going to portion her, it is my privilege to choose my son-in-law.

_Fourchambault_--And mine to refuse him. I tell you I won't have your little baron at any price.

_Madame Fourchambault_--Now it is your turn. What fault can you find with him, except his title?

_Fourchambault_--He's fast, a gambler, worn out by dissipation.

_Madame Fourchambault_--Blanche likes him just as he is.

_Fourchambault_--Heavens! He's not even handsome.

_Madame Fourchambault_--What does that matter? Haven't I been the happiest of wives?

_Fourchambault_--What? One word is as good as a hundred. I won't have him. Blanche need not take Chauvet, but she shan't marry Rastiboulois either. That's all I have to say.

_Madame Fourchambault_--But, Monsieur--

_Fourchambault_--That's all I have to say.

[_He goes out._]

ST. AUGUSTINE OF HIPPO

(354-430)

BY SAMUEL HART

St. Augustine of Hippo (Aurelius Augustinus) was born at Tagaste in Numidia, November 13th, 354. The story of his life has been told by himself in that wonderful book addressed to God which he called the 'Confessions'. He gained but little from his father Patricius; he owed almost everything to his loving and saintly mother Monica. Though she was a Christian, she did not venture to bring her son to baptism; and he went away from home with only the echo of the name of Jesus Christ in his soul, as it had been spoken by his mother's lips. He fell deeply into the sins of youth, but found no satisfaction in them, nor was he satisfied by the studies of literature to which for a while he devoted himself. The reading of Cicero's 'Hortensius' partly called him back to himself; but before he was twenty years old he was carried away into Manichæism, a strange system of belief which united traces of Christian teaching with Persian doctrines of two antagonistic principles, practically two gods, a good god of the spiritual world and an evil god of the material world. From this he passed after a while into less gross forms of philosophical speculation, and presently began to lecture on rhetoric at Tagaste and at Carthage. When nearly thirty years of age he went to Rome, only to be disappointed in his hopes for glory as a rhetorician; and after two years his mother joined him at Milan.