Chapter II: Part 2

"I tell you, maiden," returned the old man, "you will be the first at this court after the king's mother, for true regal pride is on your brow, and you possess the art of doing great things with small means. Believe me, a trifling gift, chosen as you can choose, will cause greater pleasure to a nobleman than a heap of gold flung down before him. The Persians are accustomed to bestow and to receive costly gifts. They know how to enrich one another. You will teach them to make each other happy. How beautiful you are! Is that right, or do you desire higher cushions? But what is that! Do you not see clouds of dust rolling hither from the town? That must be Cambyses, who is coming to meet you. Keep yourself upright, girl. Above all, try to bear your husband's glance and return it. Few can bear the fire of his eye. If you succeed in meeting it without fear or embarrassment, you have conquered. Courage, courage, my daughter! May Aphrodite adorn you with her loveliest charms! To horse, my friends! I think the King is coming to meet us."

Nitetis sat very erect in the golden carriage, and pressed her hands on her heart. The cloud of dust came nearer and nearer. Now bright sunbeams were reflected in the weapons of the approaching host, and darted from the cloud of dust like lightning from a stormy sky. Now the cloud divided, and figures could be distinguished; now the approaching procession vanished behind the thick bushes at a turn of the road; and now, not a hundred feet away, the galloping riders were seen distinctly as they approached nearer and nearer.

The whole procession seemed to consist of a gay crowd of horses, men, purple, gold, silver, and jewels. More than two hundred riders, all on snow-white Nisaean steeds, whose bridles and caparisons glittered with gold bells and buckles, feathers, tassels, and embroidery, were followed by a man who was often carried away by the powerful coal-black horse on which he rode, but who generally proved to the unmanageable, foaming animal that he was strong enough to tame its wildness. The rider, whose knees pressed the horse so that the animal trembled and panted, wore a garment with a scarlet and white pattern, which was embroidered with silver eagles and falcons. His trousers were of purple, his boots of yellow leather. He wore a golden belt round his waist, in which was a short dagger-like sword, whose hilt and sheath were incrusted with jewels. The rest of his dress resembled Bartja's. His tiara also was surrounded by the blue-and-white fillet of the Achaemenidae. Thick jet-black hair streamed from it. A thick beard of the same color covered the whole lower portion of his hale, rigid face. His eyes were even darker than his hair and beard, and glittered with a fire that burned instead of warming. A deep red scar, caused by the sword of a Massagetian warrior, marked the lofty brow, large aquiline nose, and thin lips of the rider. His whole bearing bore the stamp of great power and immoderate pride.

Nitetis could not turn her eyes from his form. She had never seen any one like him. She thought she saw the essence of all manliness in the intensely proud face. It seemed to her as if the whole world, but especially she herself, had been created to serve this man. She feared him, and yet her humble woman's heart longed to cling to this strong man as the vine clings to the elm. She did not know whether the father of all evil, terrible Seth, or the giver of all light, great Ra, was to be imagined in this form.

As light and shade alternate when the heavens are clouded at noon, so did deep red and ashy pallor appear on her face. She forgot the precepts of her fatherly friend; and yet when Cambyses forced his wild snorting steed to stand still by the side of her carriage, she gazed breathlessly into the flashing eyes of the man, for she knew that he was the King, though no one had told her.

The stern face of the ruler of half the world softened more and more, the longer she, urged by a strange impulse, endured his piercing glance. At last he waved his hand in welcome and rode towards her companions, who had dismounted, and who either prostrated themselves in the dust before the King, or stood bowing low, in accordance with Persian custom, hiding their hands in the sleeves of their garments.

Now he himself sprang from his horse. At the same time all his followers swung themselves out of the saddle. The carpet-bearers in his train spread, quick as thought, a heavy purple carpet on the road, so that the King's foot should not touch the dust. A few seconds later, Cambyses greeted his friends and relations with a kiss.

Then he shook Croesus's hand, and ordered him to mount again and accompany him to Nitetis as interpreter.

The highest dignitaries hastened up and helped the King to mount. He gave the signal, and the whole procession moved on. Croesus rode beside Cambyses by the golden carriage.

"She is beautiful, and pleasing to my heart," cried the Persian to his Lydian friend. "Now translate to me faithfully what she says in answer to my questions, for I understand only Persian, Babylonian, and Median."

Photogravure from a Painting by Edwin Long, R.A.

"Once a year in each village the maidens of age to marry were
collected all together into one place, while the men stood
round them in a circle. Then a herald called up the damsels
one by one and offered them for sale. He began with the most
beautiful; when she was sold for no small sum, he offered for
sale the one who came next to her in beauty. All of them were
sold to be wives. The richest of the Babylonians who wished
to wed, bid against each other for the loveliest maidens,
while the humbler wife-seekers who were indifferent about
beauty took the more homely damsels with a marriage
portion.... The marriage portions were furnished by the money
paid for the beautiful damsels, and thus the fairer maidens
portioned out the uglier.

No one was allowed to give his daughter in marriage to the
man of his choice, nor might any one carry away the damsel
whom he had purchased without finding bail really and truly
to make her his wife. If, however, it turned out that they
did not agree, the money might be paid back."--_Herodotus_,
Book I. Sec. 196.]

Nitetis had understood his words. Inexpressible joy filled her heart, and before Croesus could answer the King she said in a low tone, in broken Persian, "How shall I thank the gods, who let me find favor in your eyes? I am not ignorant of the language of my lord, for this noble old man has instructed me in the Persian language during our long journey. Pardon me if I can answer in broken words only. My time for instruction was short, and my understanding is only that of a poor ignorant maiden."

The usually stern King smiled. His vanity was flattered by Nitetis's eagerness to gain his approbation, and this diligence in a woman seemed as strange as it was praiseworthy to the Persian, who was used to see women grow up in ignorance and idleness, thinking of nothing but dress and intrigue.

He therefore answered with evident satisfaction, "I am glad that I can speak to you without an interpreter. Continue to try to learn the beautiful language of my fathers. My companion Croesus shall remain your teacher in the future."

"Your command fills me with joy," said the old man, "for I could not desire a more grateful or more eager pupil than the daughter of Amasis."

"She confirms the ancient fame of Egyptian wisdom," returned the King; "and I think that she will soon understand and accept with all her soul the teachings of the magi, who will instruct her in our religion."

Nitetis looked down. The dreaded moment was approaching. She was henceforth to serve strange gods in place of the Egyptian deities.

Cambyses did not observe her emotion, and continued:--"My mother Cassandane shall initiate you in your duties as my wife. I will conduct you to her myself to-morrow. I repeat what you accidentally overheard: you please me. Look to it that you keep my favor. We will try to make you like our country; and because I am your friend I advise you to treat Boges, whom I sent to meet you, graciously, for you will have to obey him in many things, as he is the superintendent of the harem."

"He may be the head of the women's house," returned Nitetis. "But it seems to me that no mortal but you has a right to command your wife. Give but a sign and I will obey, but consider that I am a princess, and come from a land where weak woman shares the rights of strong men; that the same pride fills my breast which shines in your eyes, my beloved! I will gladly obey you the great man, my husband and ruler; but it is as impossible for me to sue for the favor of the unmanliest of men, a bought servant, as it is for me to obey his commands."

Cambyses's astonishment and satisfaction increased. He had never heard any woman save his mother speak like this, and the subtle way in which Nitetis unconsciously recognized and exalted his power over her whole existence satisfied his self-complacency. The proud man liked her pride. He nodded approvingly and said, "You are right. I will have a special house prepared for you. I alone will command you. The pleasant house in the hanging gardens shall be prepared for you to-day."

"I thank you a thousand times!" cried Nitetis. "If you but knew how you delight me by your gift! Your brother Bartja told me much of the hanging gardens, and none of the splendors of your great realm pleased us as much as the love of the king who built the green mountain."

"To-morrow you will be able to enter your new dwelling. Tell me how you and the Egyptians liked my envoys?"

"How can you ask! Who could become acquainted with noble Croesus without loving him? Who could help admiring the excellent qualities of the young heroes, your friends? They have become dear to our house, especially your beautiful brother Bartja, who won all hearts. The Egyptians are averse to strangers, but whenever Bartja appeared among them a murmur of admiration arose from the gaping throng."

At these words the King's face grew dark. He gave his horse a heavy blow, so that it reared, turned its head, galloped in front of his retinue, and in a few minutes reached the walls of Babylon....

The walls seemed perfectly impregnable, for they were two hundred cubits high, and their breadth was so great that two carriages could easily pass each other. Two hundred and fifty high towers surmounted and fortified this huge rampart. A greater number of these citadels would have been necessary if Babylon had not been protected on one side by impenetrable marshes. The enormous city lay on both sides of the Euphrates. It was more than nine miles in circumference, and the walls protected buildings which surpassed even the pyramids and the temples of Thebes and Memphis in size....

Nitetis looked with astonishment at this huge gate; with joyful emotion she gazed at the long wide street, which was festively decked in her honor.

JOSE ECHEGARAY

(1832-)

The period of political disorder and disturbance which followed the revolution of 1868 in Spain was also a period of disorder and decline for the Spanish stage. The drama--throwing off the fetters of French classicism that paralyzed inspiration at the beginning of the century--had revived for a time. But after its rejuvenescence of the glories of the Golden Age of Spanish literature, uniting a new beauty of form with truth to nature in the Classic-Romantic School, it sank into a debasement hitherto unknown. Meretricious sentiment, dullness, or buffoonery, chiefly of foreign production, occupied the scene before adorned by the imagination, the wisdom, and the wit, of a Zorilla, a Tamayo, a Ventura de la Vega.

It was at this period of dramatic decadence that Echegaray appeared to revive once more the romantic traditions of the Spanish stage, peopling it again with noble and heroic figures,--in whom, however, the chivalric spirit of the Middle Ages is at times strangely joined to the casuistic modern conscience. The explanation of this is perhaps to be found in part in the mental constitution of the dramatist, in whom the analytic and the imaginative faculties are united in marked degree, and who had acquired a distinguished reputation as a civil engineer long before he entered the lists as an aspirant for dramatic honors. Born in Madrid in 1832, his earlier years were passed in Murcia, where he took his degree of bachelor of arts, applying himself afterward with notable success to the study of the exact sciences. Returning to Madrid, after enlarging his knowledge of his profession of civil engineer by practical study in various provinces of Spain, he was appointed a professor in the School of Engineers, where he taught theoretical and applied mathematics, finding time however for the production of important scientific works, and for the study of political economy and general literature. On the breaking out of the revolution of 1868 he joined actively in the movement, taking office under the new government as Director of Public Works, and holding a ministerial portfolio. He took office a second time in 1872, and later filled the post of Minister of Finance, which he resigned on the proclamation of the Republic. Retiring from public life, he went to Paris; and while there wrote, being then a little past forty, his first dramatic work, 'The Check-Book,' a domestic drama in one act, which was represented anonymously in Madrid two years later, when the author for the third time held a ministerial portfolio.

'The Check-Book' was followed in rapid succession by a series of productions whose titles, 'La Esposa del Vengador' (The Avenger's Bride), 'La Ultima Noche' (The Last Night), 'En el Puno de la Espada' (In the Hilt of the Sword), 'Como Empieza y Como Acaba' (How it Begins and How it Ends), sufficiently indicate their character. They are of unequal merit, but all show dramatic power of a high order. But on the representation in 1877 of 'Locura o Santidad?' (Madman or Saint?), the fame of the statesman and the scientist was completely and finally eclipsed by that of the dramatist, in whom the press and public of Madrid unanimously recognized a new and vital force in the Spanish drama. In this tragedy the keynote of Echegaray's philosophy is clearly struck. Moral perfection, unfaltering obedience to the right, is the end and aim of man; and the catastrophe is brought about by the inability of the hero to make those nearest to him accept this ideal of life. "Then virtue is but a lie," he cries, when the conviction of his moral isolation is forced upon him; "and you, all of you whom I have most loved in this world, perceiving what I regarded as divinity in you, are only miserable egoists, incapable of sacrifice, a prey to greed and the mere playthings of passion! Then you are all of you but clay; you resolve yourselves to dust and let the wind of the tempest carry you off! ... Beings shaped without conscience or free-will are simply atoms that meet to-day and separate to-morrow. Such is matter--then let it go!"

But the punishment of sin, in Echegaray's moral code, is visited upon the innocent equally with the guilty; and the guilty are never allowed to escape the retributive consequences of their wrong-doing. The pessimistic coloring of the picture would be at times unendurably oppressive, were it not relieved and lightened by the moral dignity of the hero. Echegaray's pessimism is, so to say, altruistic, never egoistic; and the compensating sense of righteousness vindicated rarely fails to explain, if not to justify, his darkest scenes.

Judged by the canons of art, Echegaray's dramatic productions will be found to have many imperfections. But their defects are the defects of genius, not of mediocrity, and spring generally from an excess of imagination, not from poverty of invention or faulty insight. The plot is often overweighted with an accumulation of incidents, and the means employed to bring about the desired end are often lacking in verisimilitude. Synthetic rather than analytic in his methods, and a master in producing contrasts, Echegaray captivates the imagination by arts which the cooler judgment not seldom condemns. His characters too are not always inhabitants of the real world, and not infrequently act contrary to the laws which govern it. The secondary characters are too often carelessly drawn, sometimes being mere shadowy outlines, while an altogether disproportionate part of the development of the plot is intrusted to them.

On the other hand, in the world of the passions Echegaray treads with secure step. Its labyrinthine windings, its depths and its heights, are all familiar to him. Here every accent uttered is the accent of truth; every act is prompted by unerring instinct. Nothing is false; nothing is trivial; nothing is strained. The elemental forces of nature seem to be at work, and the catastrophe results as inevitably from their action as if decreed by fate.

The genius of Echegaray, which in its irregular grandeur and its ethical tendency has been not inaptly likened by a Spanish critic to that of Victor Hugo, rarely descends from the tragic heights on which it achieved its first and its greatest triumphs; but that its range has been limited by choice, not nature, is abundantly proved in the best of his lighter productions, 'Un Critico Incipiente' (An Embryo Critic). Of his achievement in tragedy the culminating point was reached--after a second series of noteworthy productions, among them 'Lo Que no Puede Decirse' (What Cannot be Told), 'Mar Sin Orillas' (A Shoreless Sea), and 'En el Seno de la Muerte' (In the Bosom of Death)--in 'El Gran Galeoto' (The Great Galeoto), represented in 1881 before an audience which hailed its author as a "prodigy of genius," a second Shakespeare. Other notable works followed,--'Conflicto entre Dos Deberes' (Conflict between Two Duties), 'Vida Alegre y Muerte Triste' (A Merry Life and a Sad Death), 'Lo Sublime en lo Vulgar' (The Sublime in the Commonplace); but 'El Gran Galeoto' has remained thus far its author's supreme dramatic achievement. In its title is personified the evil speaking which not always with evil intent, sometimes even with the best motives, slays, with a venom surer than that of the adder's tongue, the reputation which it attacks; turning innocence itself by its contaminating power into guilt.

FROM 'MADMAN OR SAINT?'

[Don Lorenzo, a man of wealth and position living in Madrid,
has discovered that he is the son, not as he and all the
world had supposed, of the lady whose wealth and name he has
inherited, but of his nurse Juana, who dies after she has
revealed to him the secret of his birth. In consequence he
resolves publicly to renounce his name and his possessions,
although by doing so he will prevent the marriage of his
daughter Inez to Edward, the son of the Duchess of Almonte.
The mother will consent to Don Lorenzo's renunciation of his
possessions but not of his name, as this would throw a stigma
on Inez's origin. He refuses to listen either to the
reasoning or to the entreaties of his wife, the duchess,
Edward, and Dr. Tomas. Finally they are persuaded that he is
mad, and Dr. Tomas calls in a specialist to examine him. The
specialist, with two keepers, arrives at the house at the
same time with the notary, whom Don Lorenzo has sent for to
make before him a formal act of renunciation of his name and
possessions.]

Don Lorenzo _enters and stands listening to_ Inez

Don Lorenzo [_aside_]--"Die," she said!

_Edward_--You to die! No, Inez, not that; do not say that.

_Inez_--And why not? If I do not die of grief--if happiness could ever visit me again--I should die of remorse.

_Lorenzo_ [_aside_]--"Of remorse!" She! "If happiness could ever visit her again!" What new fatality floats in the air and hangs threateningly above my head? Remorse! I have surprised another word in passing! I traverse rooms and halls, and I go from one place to another, urged by intolerable anguish, and I hear words that I do not understand, and I meet glances that I do not understand, and tears greet me here and smiles there, and no one opposes me, and every one avoids me or watches me. [_Aloud._] What is this? What is this?

_Inez_ [_hurrying to him and throwing herself into his arms_]--Father!

_Lorenzo_--Inez! How pale you are! Why are your lips drawn as if with pain? Why do you feign smiles that end in sighs!--How lovely in her sorrow! And I am to blame for all!

_Inez_--No, father.

_Lorenzo_--How cruel I am! Ah! you think it, although you do not say it.

_Edward_--Inez is an angel. Rebellious thoughts can find no place in her heart; but who that sees her can fail to think it and to say it?

_Lorenzo_--No one; you are right.

_Edward_ [_with energy_]--If I am right, then you are wrong.

_Lorenzo_--I am right also. There is something more pallid than the pallid brow of a lovesick maiden; there is something sadder than the sad tears that fall from her beautiful eyes; something more bitter than the smile that contracts her lips; something more tragic than the death of her beloved.

_Edward_ [_with scornful vehemence_]--And what is that pallor, what are those tears, and what the tragedies you speak of?

_Lorenzo_--Insensate! [_Seizing him by the arm._] The pallor of crime, the tears of remorse, the consciousness of our own vileness.

_Edward_--And it would be vile, and criminal, and a source of remorse, to make Inez happy?

_Lorenzo_ [_despairingly_]--It ought not to be so--but it would! [_Pause._] And this it is that tortures me. This is the thought that is driving me mad!

_Inez_--No, father, do not say that! Follow the path you have marked out for yourself, without thought of me. What does it matter whether I live or die?

_Lorenzo_--Inez!

_Inez_--But do not vacillate--and above all, let no one see that you vacillate; let your speech be clear and convincing as it is now; let not anger blind you. Be calm, be calm, father; I implore it of you in the name of God.

_Lorenzo_--What do you mean by those words? I do not understand you.

_Inez_--Do I rightly know myself what I mean? There--I am going. I do not wish to pain you.

_Edward_ [_to Lorenzo_]--Ah, if you would but listen to your heart; if you would but silence the cavilings of your conscience.

_Inez_ [_to Edward_]--Leave him in peace--come with me; do not anger him, or you will make him hate you.

_Lorenzo_--Poor girl! She too struggles, but she too will conquer! [_With an outburst of pride._] She will show that she is indeed my daughter!

[_Inez and Edward go up the stage; passing the study door,
Inez sees the keepers and gives a start of horror._]

_Inez_--What sinister vision affrights my gaze!--No, father, do not enter there.

_Edward_--Come, come, my Inez!

_Inez_ [_to her father_]--No, no, I entreat you!

_Lorenzo_ [_approaching her_]--Inez!

_Inez_--Those men there--look!

[_Inez stretches out her hand toward the study; Don Lorenzo
stands and follows her gaze. At this moment the keepers,
hearing her cry, show themselves between the curtains._]

_Edward_ [_leading Inez away_]--At last!

* * * * *

_Lorenzo_--Now I am more tranquil! The wound is mortal! I feel it here in my heart! I thank thee, merciful God!

Dr. Tomas _and_ Dr. Bermudez _enter and stop to observe_ Don
Lorenzo.

_Dr. Tomas_--There he is--sitting in the arm-chair.

_Dr. Bermudez_--Unfortunate man!

_Lorenzo_ [_rising, aside_]--Ah, miserable being! Still cherishing impossible hopes. Impossible? And what if they honestly believe that I-- [_Despairingly_] Ah! If they loved me they would not believe it. [_Pause._] Did I not hear Inez--the child of my heart--speak of remorse? Why should she speak of remorse? [_Aloud, with increasing agitation._] They are all wretches! They would almost be glad that I should die. But no: I will not die until I have fulfilled my duty as an honorable man; until I have put the climax to my madness.

_Dr. Tomas_ [_laying his hand on Don Lorenzo's shoulder_]--Lorenzo--

_Lorenzo_ [_turning, recognizes him and draws back angrily_]--He!

_Dr. Tomas_--Let me present to you Dr. Bermudez, one of my best friends. [_Pause. Don Lorenzo regards both strangely._]

_Dr. Bermudez_ [_to Dr. Tomas, in a low voice_]--See the effort he makes to control himself; he is vaguely conscious of his condition--there is not a doubt left on my mind.

_Lorenzo_--One of your best friends--one of your best friends--

_Dr. Bermudez_ [_aside to Dr. Tomas_]--The idea is escaping him, and he is striving to retain it.

_Lorenzo_ [_ironically_]--If he is one of your best friends, then your loyalty is a guarantee for his.

_Dr. Bermudez_ [_aside, to Dr. Tomas_]--At last he has found the word. But notice how unnatural is the tone of his voice. [_Aloud._] I have come to be a witness, according to what Dr. Tomas tells me, of a very noble action.

_Lorenzo_--And of an act of base treachery also.

_Dr. Tomas_--Lorenzo!

_Dr. Bermudez_ [_aside, to Dr. Tomas_]--Let him go on talking.

_Lorenzo_--And of an exemplary punishment.

_Dr. Bermudez_ [_aside to Dr. Tomas_]--A serious case, my friend, a serious case.

_Lorenzo_ [_to Dr. Tomas_]--Call everybody: those of the household and strangers alike. Let them assemble here, and here await my orders, while I go to fulfill my duty yonder. What are you waiting for?

_Dr. Bermudez_ [_aside, to Dr. Tomas_]--Let him have his way; call them.

[_Dr. Tomas rings a bell; a servant enters, to whom he speaks
in a low voice and who then goes out._]

_Lorenzo_--It is the final trial; I could almost feel pity for the traitors. Ah! I am sustained by the certainty of my triumph. Be still, my heart. There they are--there they are. I do not wish to see them. To treat me thus who loved them so dearly!--I do not wish, and yet my eyes turn toward them--seeking them--seeking them!

* * * * *

_Lorenzo_--Inez! It cannot be! She! no, no. It cannot be! My child!

[_Hurries towards her with outstretched arms. Inez runs to
him._]

_Inez_--Father!

[_Dr. Bermudez hastens to interpose, and separates them
forcibly._]

_Dr. Bermudez_--Come, come, Don Lorenzo; you might hurt your daughter seriously.

_Lorenzo_ [_seizing him by the arm and shaking him violently_]--Wretch! Who are you to part me from my child?

_Dr. Tomas_--Lorenzo!

_Edward_--Don Lorenzo!

_Angela_--My God!

[_The women group themselves instinctively together, Inez in
her mother's arms, the duchess beside them. Dr. Tomas and
Edward hasten to free Bermudez from Don Lorenzo's grasp_.]

_Lorenzo_ [_aside, controlling himself_]--So! The imbeciles think it is another access of madness! Ha, ha, ha! [_Laughing with suppressed laughter. All watch him._]

_Dr. Bermudez_ [_aside to Dr. Tomas_]--It is quite clear.

_Angela_ [_aside_]--Oh, my poor Lorenzo!

_Inez_ [_aside_]--My poor father!

_Lorenzo_ [_aside_]--Now you shall see how my madness will end. Before I leave this house, with what pleasure will I turn that doctor out of it. Courage! The coming struggle inspires me with new strength. What! Is a man to be declared mad because he is resolved to do his duty? Ah, it cannot be! Humanity is neither so blind nor so base as that. Enough! I must be calm. Treachery has begun its work; then let the punishment begin too. [_Aloud._] The hour has come for me to perform a sacred duty, though a most painful one. It would be useless to ask you to witness formalities which the law requires, but which you would only find irksome. The representative of the law awaits me in yonder room; and in obedience to another and a higher law, I am going now to renounce a fortune which is not mine, and a name which neither I nor my family can conscientiously bear longer. After this is done I will return here, and with my wife, and--and my daughter--and let no one seek to dissuade me from my purpose, for it would be in vain--I will leave this house which has been for me in the past the abode of love and happiness, but which is to-day the abode of treachery and baseness. Gentlemen [_to Dr. Tomas and Dr. Bermudez_], lead the way; I beg you to do so.

[_All slowly enter the study. On the threshold Lorenzo casts
a last look at Inez._]

Translation made for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,'
by Mary J. Serrano

FROM 'THE GREAT GALEOTO'

[In the scenes which are here cited the poison of slander
begins to work. Don Severo, uttering the anonymous gossip of
the world, has implanted in the mind of his middle-aged
brother Don Julian the first suspicion of the honor of his
young wife Teodora and the loyalty of his adopted son Ernest.
Teodora, who has been warned by Mercedes, Don Severo's wife,
overhears the accusing words of her brother-in-law, who is
talking with her husband in an inner apartment; and
horror-struck, is about to fly from the room.]

_Julian_ [_inside_]--Let me go!

_Mercedes_ [_inside_]--No, for Heaven's sake!

_Julian_--It is they. I will go!

_Teodora_ [_to Ernest_]--Go! go!

_Severo_ [_to Ernest_]--You shall give me satisfaction for this!

_Ernest_--I will not refuse it.

_Enter_ Julian, _pale and disordered; wounded and seemingly
in a dying condition, supported by_ Mercedes. Don Severo
_stations himself at the right_, Teodora _and_ Ernest _remain
in the background_.

_Julian_--Together! Where are they going?--Stop them! They shun my presence! Traitors!

[_He makes a movement as if to rush toward them, but his
strength fails him and he totters_.]

_Severo_ [_hurrying to his assistance_]--No, no.

_Julian_--They deceived me--they lied to me! Wretches! [_While he is speaking, Mercedes and Severo lead him to the arm-chair on the right._] There--look at them--she and Ernest! Why are they together?

_Teodora and Ernest_ [_separating_]--No!

_Julian_--Why do they not come to me? Teodora!

_Teodora_ [_stretching out her arms, but without advancing_]--My Julian!

_Julian_--Here, on my heart! [_Teodora runs to Julian and throws herself into his arms. He presses her convulsively to his breast. Pause._] You see!--You see! [_To his brother._] I know that she deceives me! I press her in my arms--I might kill her if I would--and she would deserve it--but I look at her--_I look at her_--and I cannot!

_Teodora_--Julian!

_Julian_--And he? [_Pointing to Ernest._]

_Ernest_--Sir!--

_Julian_--And I loved him! Be silent and come hither. [_Ernest advances._] You see she is still mine. [_Presses her closer._]

_Teodora_--Yours--yours!

_Julian_--Do not act a part! Do not lie to me!

_Mercedes_--For God's sake! [_Trying to calm him._]

_Severo_--Julian!

_Julian_ [_to both_]--Peace. Be silent. [_To Teodora._] I divined your secret. I know that you love him. [_Teodora and Ernest try to protest, but he will not let them._] Madrid knows it too--all Madrid!

_Ernest_--No, father.

_Teodora_--No.

_Julian_--They would still deny it! When it is patent to all! When I feel it in every fibre of my being, for the fever that consumes me has illuminated my mind with its flame!

_Ernest_--All these fancied wrongs are the offspring of a fevered imagination, of delirium! Hear me, sir--

_Julian_--You will lie to me again!

_Ernest_--She is innocent! [_Pointing to Teodora._]

_Julian_--I do not believe you.

_Ernest_--By my father's memory I swear it!

_Julian_--You profane his name and his memory by the oath.

_Ernest_--By my mother's last kiss--

_Julian_--It is no longer on your brow.

_Ernest_--By all you hold most sacred, father, I swear it, I swear it!

_Julian_--Let there be no oaths, no deceitful words, no protests.

_Ernest_--Well, then, what do you wish?

_Teodora_--What do you wish?

_Julian_--Deeds!

_Ernest_--What does he desire, Teodora? What would he have us do?

_Teodora_--I do not know. What can we do, what can we do, Ernest?

_Julian_ [_watching them with instinctive distrust_]--Ah, would you deceive me to my very face? You are laying your plans together, wretches! Do I not see it?

_Ernest_--These are the imaginings of fever.

_Julian_--Fever, yes! The fire of fever has consumed the bandage with which you both blindfolded me, and at last I see clearly! And now why do you gaze on each other? why, traitors? Why do your eyes shine, Ernest? Speak. Their brightness is not the brightness of tears. Come nearer--nearer still.

[_Draws Ernest to him, bends his head, and so forces him to
his knees. Don Julian thus remains between Teodora, who
stands at his side, and Ernest, who kneels at his feet. Don
Julian passes his hand over Ernest's eyes._]

_Julian_--I was right--It is not with tears! They are dry!

_Ernest_--Pardon!--Pardon!

_Julian_--You ask my pardon? Then you confess your guilt.

_Ernest_--No!

_Julian_--Yes!

_Ernest_--It is not that!

_Julian_--Then look into each other's eyes before me.

_Severo_--Julian!

_Mercedes_--Sir!

_Julian_ [_to Teodora and Ernest_]--You are afraid, then? You do not love each other like brother and sister, then? If you do, prove it! Let your souls rise to your eyes and in my presence mingle their reflection there, that so I may see, watching them closely, if that brightness is the brightness of light or of fire. You too, Teodora--I will have it so. Come--both; nearer still!

[_Forces Teodora to kneel before him, draws their faces
together, and compels them to look at each other._]

_Teodora_ [_freeing herself by a violent effort_]--Oh no!

_Ernest_ [_also tries to release himself, but Julian holds him in his grasp_]--I cannot!

_Julian_--You love each other! You love each other! I see it clearly! [_To Ernest._] Your life!

_Ernest_--Yes.

_Julian_--Your blood!

_Ernest_--All!

_Julian_ [_keeping him on his knees_]--Remain there.

_Teodora_--Julian! [_Restraining him._]

_Julian_--Ah, you defend him, you defend him.

_Teodora_--Not for his sake.

_Severo_--In Heaven's name--

_Julian_ [_to Severo_]--Silence! Bad friend! bad son! [_Holding him at his feet._]

_Ernest_--Father!

_Julian_--Disloyal! Treacherous!

_Ernest_--No, father.

_Julian_--Thus do I brand you as a traitor on the cheek--now with my hand, soon with my sword! [_With a supreme effort he raises himself and strikes Ernest on the face._]

_Ernest_ [_rises to his feet with a terrible cry and retreats, covering his face with his hands_]--Ah!

_Severo_--Justice! [_Stretching out his hand toward Ernest._]

_Teodora_--My God! [_Hides her face with her hands and falls into a chair._]

_Mercedes_ [_to Ernest, exculpating Julian_]--It was delirium!

[_These four exclamations in rapid succession. A moment of
stupor; Julian still standing and regarding Ernest, Mercedes
and Severo trying to calm him._]

_Julian_--It was not delirium, it was chastisement, by Heaven! What! Did you think your treachery would go unpunished, ingrate!

_Mercedes_--Let us go, let us go!

_Severo_--Come, Julian.

_Julian_--Yes, I am going.

[_Walks with difficulty toward his room, supported by Severo
and Mercedes, stopping from time to time to look back at
Ernest and Teodora._]

_Mercedes_--Quick, Severo!

_Julian_--Look at them, the traitors! It was justice! Was it not justice? So I believe.

_Severo_--For God's sake, Julian! For my sake!

_Julian_--You, you alone, of all the world, have loved me truly. [_Embraces him_.]

_Severo_--Yes, I alone!

_Julian_ [_stops near the door and looks at them again_]--She weeps for him--and does not follow me. She does not even look at me; she does not see that I am dying--yes, dying!

_Severo_--Julian!

_Julian_--Wait, wait! [_Pauses on the threshold._] Dishonor for dishonor!--Farewell, Ernest! [_Exeunt Julian, Severo, and Mercedes._]

Translation made for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,'
by Mary J. Serrano

THE EDDAS

(ICELANDIC; NINTH TO THIRTEENTH CENTURIES)

BY WILLIAM H. CARPENTER

The fanciful but still commonly believed meaning of the word "Edda," which even many of the dictionaries explain as "great-grandmother," does not, after all, inaptly describe by suggestion the general character of the work to which it is given. The picture of an ancient dame at the fireside, telling tales and legendary lore of times whose memory has all but disappeared, is a by no means inappropriate personification, even if it has no other foundation. In point of fact, 'Edda' as the title of a literary work has nothing whatsoever to do with a great-grandmother, but means "the art of poetry," "poetics"; and only by an extension of its original use does it belong to all that is now included under it.

There are in reality two 'Eddas,' which are in a certain sense connected in subject-material, but yet in more ways than one are wholly distinct. As originally applied, the name now used collectively unquestionably belonged to the one, variously called, to distinguish it from the other, the 'Younger Edda,' on account of the relative age of its origin; the 'Prose Edda,' since in its greater part it is written in prose; and the 'Snorra Edda,' the Edda of Snorri, from the author of the work in its original form. In contradistinction to this, the other is called the 'Elder Edda,' the 'Poetical Edda,' and from the name of its once assumed author, the 'Saemundar Edda,' the Edda of Saemund.

Legitimately and by priority of usage, the name 'Edda' belongs to the first-named work alone. In the form in which it has ultimately come down to us, this is the compilation of many hands at widely different times; but in its most important and fundamental parts it was undoubtedly either written by the Icelander Snorri himself, or under his immediate supervision.

Snorri Sturluson, its author, both from the part he played in national politics in his day and from his literary legacy to the present, is altogether the most remarkable man in the history of Iceland. He was born in 1179, his father, Sturla Thordarson, being one of the most powerful chieftains of the island. As was the custom of the time, he was sent from home to be fostered, remaining away until his foster-father's death, or until he was nineteen years old; his own father in the meantime having died as well. He entered upon active life with but little more than his own ambition to further him; but through his brother's influence he made the following year a brilliant marriage, and thus laid the foundation of his power, which thereafter steadily grew. In 1215 Snorri was elected "Speaker of the Law" for the Commonwealth. At the expiration of his term of service in the summer of 1218 he went to Norway, where he was received with extraordinary hospitality both by King Hakon, who made him his liegeman, and by the King's father-in-law, Earl Skuli. On the authority of some of the sagas, he is said to have promised the latter at this time to use his influence to bring Iceland under the dominion of Norway. Two years later he returned to Iceland, taking back with him as a present from the King a ship and many other valuable gifts. In 1222 he was again made "Speaker of the Law," which post he now held continuously for nine years.

Iceland, as the Commonwealth neared its end, was torn apart by the jealous feuds of the chieftains. A long series of complications had aroused a bitter hostility to Snorri among his own relatives. In 1229, he found it necessary to ride to the Althing at the head of eight hundred men. The matter did not then come to an open rupture, but in 1239 it finally resulted in a regular battle, in which Snorri's faction was worsted. To avoid consequences he immediately after fled to Norway. Unwisely, he here gave his adherence to Earl Skuli, now at odds with the King, and thereby incurred the active displeasure of the latter; who, evidently fearing the use of Snorri's power against him, forbade him by letter to return to Iceland. The command was disregarded, however, and he presently was back again in his native land. In 1240 Skuli was slain, and shortly afterward King Hakon seems to have resolved upon Snorri's death. Using Arni, a son-in-law of the Icelander, as a willing messenger, he sent a letter to Gissur, another son-in-law, between whom and his father-in-law an active feud was on foot, demanding that he send the latter a prisoner to Norway, or if that were impossible, to kill him. Gissur accordingly, with seventy men at his back, came to Snorri's farmstead Reykjaholt on the night of the 22d of September, 1241, when the old chieftain was mercilessly slain in the cellar, where he had taken refuge, by an unknown member of the band.

In spite of his political life, Snorri found opportunity for abundant literary work. The 'Icelandic Annals' say that he "compiled the 'Edda' and many other books of historical learning, and Icelandic sagas." Of these, however, only two have come down to us: his 'Edda' and the sagas of the Norse kings, known since the seventeenth century as the 'Heimskringla,' the best piece of independent prose literature, and in its bearing the most important series of sagas, of all the number that are left to attest the phenomenal literary activity of the Icelanders.

Snorri's 'Edda'--both as he, the foremost poet of his day, originally conceived it, and with its subsequent additions--is a handbook for poets, an _Ars poetica_, as its name itself signifies. That it served its purpose as a recognized authority is discoverable from the references to it in later Icelandic poets, where "rules of Edda," "laws of Edda," "Eddic art," and "Edda" are of frequent occurrence, as indicating an ideal of poetical expression striven for by some and deprecated by others. As Snorri wrote it, the 'Edda' was an admirably arranged work in three parts: the 'Gylfaginning,' a compendium of the old mythology, the knowledge of which in Snorri's day was fast dying out; the 'Skaldskaparmal,' a dictionary of poetical expressions, many of which, contained in ancient poems, were no longer intelligible; and the 'Hattatal,' a poem or rather series of poems, exemplifying in its own construction the use and kinds of metre. As it has come down to us, it has been greatly added to and altered. A long preface filled with the learning of the Middle Ages now introduces the whole; the introductions and conclusions of the parts of the work have been extended; several old poems have been included; a Skaldatal, or list of skalds, has been added, as have also several grammatical and rhetorical tracts,--some of which are of real historical value.

With regard to matter and manner, the parts of Snorri's 'Edda' are as follows:--The 'Gylfaginning' (the Delusion of Gylfi) is a series of tales told in answer to the questions of Gylfi, a legendary Swedish king, who comes in disguise to the gods in Asgard to learn the secret of their power. By way of illustration it quotes, among other poetical citations, verses from several of the lays of the 'Elder Edda.' The 'Skaldskaparmal' (Poetical Diction) is also in great part in the form of questions and answers. It contains under separate heads the periphrases, appellatives, and synonyms used in ancient verse, which are often explained by long tales; and like the preceding part, it also is illustrated by numerous poetical quotations here, particularly from the skalds. The 'Hattatal' (Metres), finally, consists of three poems: the first an encomium on the Norwegian king Hakon, and the others on Earl Skuli. It exemplifies in not fewer than one hundred and two strophes the use of as many kinds of metre, many of them being accompanied by a prose commentary of greater or less length.

That Snorri really wrote the work as here described seems to be undoubted, although there is no trace of it as a whole until after his death. At what period of his career it arose, can however merely be conjectured. We only know with certainty the date of the 'Hattatal'; that may not unlikely have been the nucleus of the whole, which falls undoubtedly between 1221 and 1223, shortly after the return from the first visit to Norway. The oldest manuscript of the 'Snorra Edda,'--now in the University Library at Upsala, Sweden,--which was written before 1300, assigns the work to him by name; and the 'Icelandic Annals,' as has already been stated, under the year of his death corroborate the statement of his authorship of "the Edda"--that is, of course, of this particular 'Edda,' for there can be no thought of the other.

Snorri's poetical work outside of the 'Edda' is represented only by fugitive verses. An encomium that he wrote on the wife of Earl Hakon has been lost. As a poet, Snorri undoubtedly stands upon a lower plane than that which he occupies as a historian. He wrote at a time when poetry was in its decline in Iceland; and neither in the 'Hattatal' nor in his other verse, except in form and phraseology, of which he had a wonderful control, does he rise to the level of a host of earlier skalds. It is his critical knowledge of the old poetry of Norway and Iceland that makes his 'Edda' of such unique value, and particularly as no small part of the material accessible to him has since been irrevocably lost. Snorri's 'Edda,' in its very conception, is a wonderful book to have arisen at the time in which it was written, and in no other part of the Germanic North in the thirteenth century had such a thing been possible. It is not only, however, as a commentary on old Norse poetry that it is remarkable. Its importance as a compendium of the ancient Northern mythology is as great,--one whose loss nothing could supplant. As a whole, it is of incalculable value to the entire Germanic race for the light that it sheds upon its early intellectual life, its ethics, and its religion.

The history of the 'Elder Edda' does not go back of the middle of the seventeenth century. In 1643 the Icelandic bishop Brynjolf Sveinsson sent as a present to Frederick III. of Denmark several old Icelandic vellums, among which was the manuscript, dating, according to the most general assignment, from not earlier than 1350; since called the 'Codex Regius' of the 'Edda.' Not a word is known about its previous history. As to when it came into the hands of the bishop, or where it was discovered, he has given us no clew whatsoever. He had nevertheless not only a name ready for it, but a distinct theory of its authorship, for he wrote on the back of a copy that he had made, "Edda Saemundi Multiscii" (the Edda of Saemund the Wise).

Both Bishop Brynjolf's title for the work and his assumption as to the name of its author--for both are apparently his--are open to criticism. The name 'Edda' belongs, as we have seen, to Snorri's book; to which it was given, if not by himself, certainly by one of his immediate followers. It is not difficult, however, to explain its new application. Snorri's 'Edda' cites, as has been mentioned, a number of single strophes of ancient poems, many of which were now found to be contained in Brynjolf's collection in a more or less complete form. This latter was, accordingly, not unnaturally looked upon as the source of the material of Snorri's work; and since its subject-matter too was the old poetry, it was consequently an earlier 'Edda.' Subsequently the title was extended to include a number of poems in the same manner found elsewhere; and 'Edda' has since been irretrievably the title both of the old Norse lays and of the old Norse _Ars poetica_, to which it more appropriately belongs.

The attribution of the work to Saemund was even less justifiable. Saemund Sigfusson was an Icelandic priest, who lived from 1056 to 1133. As a young man he studied in Germany, France, and Italy, but came back to Iceland about 1076. Afterward he settled down as priest and chieftain, as was his father before him, on the paternal estate Oddi in the south of Iceland, where he lived until his death. Among his contemporaries and subsequently he was celebrated for his great learning, the memory of which has even come down to the present day in popular legend, where like learned men elsewhere he is made an adept in the black art, and many widely spread tales of supernatural power have clustered locally about his name. Saemund is the first writer among the Icelanders of whom we have any information; and besides poems, he is reputed to have written some of the best of the sagas and other historical works. It is not unlikely that he did write parts of the history of Iceland and Norway in Latin, but nothing has come down to us that is with certainty to be attributed to him. There is however no ancient reference whatsoever to Saemund as a poet, and it is but a legend that connects him in any way with the Eddie lays. Internal criticism readily yields the fact that they are not only of widely different date of origin, but are so unlike in manner and in matter that it is idle to suppose a single authorship at all. Nor is it possible that Saemund, as Bishop Brynjolf may have supposed was the case, even collected the lays contained in this 'Edda.' It is on the contrary to be assumed that the collection, of which Brynjolf's manuscript is but a copy, arose during the latter half of the twelfth century, in the golden age of Icelandic literature; a time when attention was most actively directed to the past, when many of the sagas current hitherto only as oral tradition were given a permanent form, and historical works of all sorts were written and compiled.

The fact of the matter is, that here is a collection of old Norse poems, the memory of whose real time and place of origin has disappeared, and whose authorship is unknown. Earlier commentators supposed them to be of extreme age, and carried them back to the very childhood of the race. Modern criticism has dispelled the illusions of any such antiquity. It has been proved, furthermore, that the oldest of the poems does not go back of the year 850, and that the youngest may have been written as late as 1200. As to their place of origin, although all have come to us from Iceland, by far the greater number of them apparently originated in Norway; several arose in the Norse colonies in Greenland; and although the whole collection was made in Iceland, where alone many of them had been remembered, but two are undoubtedly of distinct Icelandic parentage. With regard to their authorship, results are less direct. Folk-songs they are not in the proper sense of the word, in that in their present shape they are the work of individual poets, who made over in versified form material already existing in oral tradition. Only a small part of the ancient poetry that arose in this way has been preserved. From prose interpolations which supply breaks in the continuity of the lays in the 'Elder Edda' itself, as well as from isolated strophes of old poems, else unknown, quoted in Snorri's 'Edda,' and from the citation and use of such poetical material in sagas and histories,--we know for a certainty that many other lays in the ancient manner once existed that have now been for all time lost.

Brynjolf's manuscript contains, whole or in part, as they are now considered to exist, thirty-two poems. From other sources six poems have since been added, presumably as ancient as the lays of the 'Codex Regius,' so that the 'Elder Edda' is made up of thirty-eight poems, not all of which, however, are even reasonably complete. In form they are in alliterative verse, but three different metres being represented, all the simplest and least artificial of the many kinds used by the Norsemen. In content the lays fall under three heads: they are mythic, in that they contain the myths of the old heathen religion of the Norsemen; ethic, in that they embody their views of life and rules of living; or they are heroic, in that they recount the deeds of legendary heroes of the race.