text:
Page:Dictionary of spoken Russian (1945).djvu/404

 □ я много лет был на ответственной работе. I've held executive positions for many years.

отвечать (dur of ответить) to answer. Я удивляюсь, почему он не отвечает на моё письмо. I can't understand why he doesn't answer my letter. • to be responsible. Вам придётся самому за это отвечать. You yourself will have to be responsible for it. □ Она отвечает вам взаимностью? Does she return your love? • Я за это головой отвечаю. I stake my life on it.

отвечу See ответить.

отвешивать (dur of отвесить) to weigh out. Нам сейчас отвешивают сахар. They are weighing out the sugar for us now.

отвешу See отвесить.

отводить (-вожу, -водит; dur of отвести) to lead. Эта тропинка отводит слишком далеко от дороги. This path leads too far from the road. • to take. Кто у вас отводит детей в школу? Who takes the children to school here?

отвожу See отводить.

отвожу See отвозить.

отвозить (-вожу, -возит; dur of отвезти) to drive.

отворачивать (dur of отворотить).

-ся to turn one's back. Не отворачивайся, пожалуйста, слушай, что тебе говорят. Don't turn your back on me; listen to what I have to say.

отворить (-творю, -творит; pct of отворять) to open. Отворите окно! Open the window.

отворотить (-рочу, -ротит; pct of отворачивать).

отворять (dur of отворить) to open. Я звоню, звоню, а ворота всё не отворяют! I keep ringing, but they don't open the gate.

отвращение disgust. Я не мог скрыть своего отвращения. I couldn't hide my disgust. • aversion. У меня отвращение к жирной пище. I have an aversion to greasy food.

отвыкать (dur of отвыкнуть) to get out of the habit. Я понемногу отвыкаю от курения. I'm beginning to get out of the smoking habit.

отвыкнуть (p -вык, -выкла; pct of отвыкать) to get out of practice. Я отвык говорить по-русски. I got out of practice in my Russian. □ Я отвык вставать так рано. I'm not used to getting up so early any more.

отвяжу See отвязать.

отвяжусь See отвязаться.

отвязать (-вяжу, -вяжет; pct of отвязывать) to untie. Отвяжите на ночь лошадей. Untie the horses for the night.

-ся to get loose. Как это случилось, что собака отвязалась? How did the dog get loose? • to get rid of. Я никак не могу от него отвязаться. I just can't get rid of him. □ Отвяжитесь! Let me alone!

отвязывать (dur of отвязать) to untie.

-ся to get loose; to get rid of.

отдавать (-даю, -даёт; imv -давай; dur of отдать) to devote. Он отдаёт всё своё свободное время работе в клубе. He devotes all his free time to work in the club. • to smell of. Эти конфеты отдают мылом. This candy smells of soap. □ Зуб так болит, что в голову отдаёт. My tooth aches so that my whole head's throbbing.

отдам See отдать.

отдать (-дам, -дает, §29; imv -дай; p отдал, отдала, отдало, -и; отдался, -лась, -лось, лись; ppp отданный, sh F отдана; pct of отдавать) to return. Вы ему отдали книгу? Did you return the book to him? • to give. Я отдал распоряжение; вас пропустят. I gave the order; they'll let you through. — Надо отдать ему должное — работать он умеет. You've got to give him credit. He knows how to work. • to pay. Сколько отдали за валенки? How much did you pay for the felt boots? — Отдай сперва старый долг, потом проси ещё. Pay your old debt first; then ask for more. • to send. Пожалуйста, отдайте моё бельё в стирку. Would you send my things to the laundry? • to send in. Паспорт я отдал в прописку. I sent my passport in to be registered. □ отдать под суд to take to court. За это его отдали под суд. They took him to court for it. □ Где здесь можно отдать платье в чистку? Where can I have my clothes cleaned here? • Как он играет — отдай всё, да мало! He plays so well that it takes your breath away. • Вратарь в финале великолепно отдал мяч. The goalie made a spectacular save in the final quarter.

отдаю See отдавать.

отдел department. А что вам сказали в справочном отделе? What did they tell you in the information department? — За сапогами пройдите в обувной отдел. Go to the shoe department for your boots. • section. Вы осмотрели все отделы музея? Did you go through all the sections of the museum? — О вчерашнем состязании была заметка в отделе спорта. There was a write-up in the sports section about yesterday's match. □ технический отдел technical department.

отделение branch. Ваш чек примут в местном отделении Госбанка. They'll accept your check at the local branch of the Gosbank (state bank of USSR). • department. Скажите ему, как пройти в бельевое отделение. Tell this man how to get to the lingerie department. • compartment. Я хочу купить бумажник с несколькими отделениями. I'd like to buy a wallet with several compartments. • separation. У нас проведено отделение церкви от государства. We have a separation of church and state. □ отделение милиции police station. Вам придётся зайти в отделение милиции. You'll have to go to the police station. □ После доклада будет концертное отделение. There will be a concert after the lecture.

отдельный separate. Положите эти бумаги в отдельную папку. Put these papers into a separate folder. — Можно нам получить отдельный столик? May we have a separate table? • isolated. По нескольким отдельным случаям судить нельзя. You can't judge by a few isolated instances. • individual. Не ходите к директору с каждым отдельным вопросом. Don't go to the manager with each individual problem. □ отдельно extra. За это придётся заплатить отдельно. You'll have to pay extra for this. • away. Я живу отдельно от родителей. I live away from my parents.

отдохнуть (pct of отдыхать) to take a rest. Присядем отдохнуть. Let's sit down and take a rest. • to rest. Вам надо поехать отдохнуть. You'll have to go away for a rest.

отдых rest. Он работал весь год без отдыха. He worked all year round without taking a rest. — Он уехал в дом отдыха. He went to a rest home. — Инструктор дал ему десятиминутный отдых. The coach took him out of the game for a ten-minute rest. • relaxation. Для меня шахматы прекрасный отдых. I find chess a wonderful relaxation.


text:
Page:Atharva-Veda samhita.djvu/352

iv. 18- víçiṣān). In b, SPP. reports all his authorities as reading çāyayā (p. -ya); no such form has been noted among our mss. ⌊but Ppp. has çāyā tvam; Benares ms. R., chāyayā; and T., chayayā⌋; in most mss. y and p are but imperfectly distinguished, and, as some of SPP's authorities are oral, he is to be presumed right; and the translation implies çāyaya ⌊for the saṁdhi, Prāt. ii. 17⌋. The comm. reads instead kṣāyaya, from kṣi (= kṣayam prāpaya). He rehearses the series of diverse senses given by Yāska to dhāman, and declares them all intended by the word in a. The verse he regards as addressed to the sahadevī.

5. I, with this herb, have spoiled all witchcrafts—what one they have made in the field, what in the kine, or what in thy men (púruṣa).

6. He who hath made hath not been able to make; he hath crushed (çṛ) a foot, a finger; he hath made what is excellent for us, but for himself a burning (tápana).

7. Let the off-wiper wipe off the kṣetriyá and whatever curse [there is]; [wipe] off, forsooth, the sorceresses, off all the hags.

8. Having wiped off the sorcerers, off all the hags, O off-wiper, with thee do we wipe off all that.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

title: Page:Atharva-Veda samhita.djvu/352


text: Template:Short-title

title: Template:Short-title


text:
Page:EB1911 - Volume 01.djvu/40

 made her his concubine, and is said by some authorities to have married her after she bore him a son, Sancho. The vacillations and submissions of El Motamid did not save him from the fate which overtook his fellow-princes. Their scepticism and extortion had tired their subjects, and the mullahs gave Yusef a “fetva” authorizing him to remove them in the interest of religion. In 1091 the Almoravides stormed Seville. El Motamid, who had fought bravely, was weak enough to order his sons to surrender the fortresses they still held, in order to save his own life. He died in prison in Africa in 1095.

ABBADIE, ANTOINE THOMSON D’ (1810–1897), and ARNAUD MICHEL D’ (1815–1893), two brothers notable for their travels in Abyssinia during the first half of the 19th century. They were both born in Dublin, of a French father and an Irish mother, Antoine in 1810 and Arnaud in 1815. The parents removed to France in 1818, and there the brothers received a careful scientific education. In 1835 the French Academy sent Antoine on a scientific mission to Brazil, the results being published at a later date (1873) under the title of Observations relatives à la physique du globe faites au Brésil et en Éthiopie. The younger Abbadie spent some time in Algeria before, in 1837, the two brothers started for Abyssinia, landing at Massawa in February 1838. They visited various parts of Abyssinia, including the then little-known districts of Ennarea and Kaffa, sometimes together and sometimes separately. They met with many difficulties and many adventures, and became involved in political intrigues, Antoine especially exercising such influence as he possessed in favour of France and the Roman Catholic missionaries. After collecting much valuable information concerning the geography, geology, archaeology and natural history of Abyssinia, the brothers returned to France in 1848 and began to prepare their materials for publication. The younger brother, Arnaud, paid another visit to Abyssinia in 1853. The more distinguished brother, Antoine, became involved in various controversies relating both to his geographical results and his political intrigues. He was especially attacked by C. T. Beke, who impugned his veracity, especially with reference to the journey to Kaffa. But time and the investigations of subsequent explorers have shown that Abbadie was quite trustworthy as to his facts, though wrong in his contention—hotly contested by Beke—that the Blue Nile was the main stream. The topographical results of his explorations were published in Paris in 1860–1873 in Géodésie d’Éthiopie, full of the most valuable information and illustrated by ten maps. Of the Géographie de l’Éthiopie (Paris, 1890) only one volume has been published. In Un Catalogue raisonné de manuscrits éthiopiens (Paris, 1859) is a description of 234 Ethiopian manuscripts collected by Antoine. He also compiled various vocabularies, including a Dictionnaire de la langue amarinna (Paris, 1881), and prepared an edition of the Shepherd of Hermas, with the Latin version, in 1860. He published numerous papers dealing with the geography of Abyssinia, Ethiopian coins and ancient inscriptions. Under the title of Reconnaissances magnétiques he published in 1890 an account of the magnetic observations made by him in the course of several journeys to the Red Sea and the Levant. The general account of the travels of the two brothers was published by Arnaud in 1868 under the title of Douze ans dans la Haute-Éthiopie. Both brothers received the grand medal of the Paris Geographical Society in 1850. Antoine was a knight of the Legion of Honour and a member of the Academy of Sciences. He died in 1897, and bequeathed an estate in the Pyrenees, yielding 40,000 francs a year, to the Academy of Sciences, on condition of its producing within fifty years a catalogue of half-a-million stars. His brother Arnaud died in 1893.

ABBADIE, JAKOB (1654?–1727), Swiss Protestant divine, was born at Nay in Bern. He studied at Sedan, Saumur and Puylaurens, with such success that he received the degree of doctor in theology at the age of seventeen. After spending some years in Berlin as minister of a French Protestant church, where he had great success as a preacher, he accompanied Marshal Schomberg, in 1688, to England, and next year became minister of the French church in the Savoy, London. His strong attachment to the cause of King William appears in his elaborate defence of the Revolution (Défense de la nation britannique, 1692) as well as in his history of the conspiracy of 1696 (Histoire de la grande conspiration d’Angleterre). The king promoted him to the deanery of Killaloe in Ireland. He died in London in 1727. Abbadie was a man of great ability and an eloquent preacher, but is best known by his religious treatises, several of which were translated from the original French into other languages and had a wide circulation throughout Europe. The most important of these are Traité de la vérité de la religion chrétienne (1684); its continuation, Traité de la divinité de Jésus-Christ (1689); and L’Art de se connaitre soi-méme (1692). ʼABBAHU, the name of a Palestinian (q.v.) who flourished c. 279–320. ʼAbbahu encouraged the study of Greek by Jews. He was famous as a collector of traditional lore, and is very often cited in the Talmud. ABBA MARI (in full, Abba Mari ben Moses ben Joseph), French rabbi, was born at Lunel, near Montpellier, towards the end of the 13th century. He is also known as Yarhi from his birthplace (Heb. Yerah, i.e. moon, lune), and he further took the name Astruc, Don Astruc or En Astruc of Lunel. The descendant of men learned in rabbinic lore, Abba Mari devoted himself to the study of theology and philosophy, and made himself acquainted with the writing of Moses Maimonides and Nachmanides as well as with the Talmud. In Montpellier, where he lived from 1303 to 1306, he was much distressed by the prevalence of Aristotelian rationalism, which, through the medium of the works of Maimonides, threatened the authority of the Old Testament, obedience to the law, and the belief in miracles and revelation. He, therefore, in a series of letters (afterwards collected under the title Minhat Kenaot, i.e. “Jealousy Offering”) called upon the famous rabbi Solomon ben Adret of Barcelona to come to the aid of orthodoxy. Ben Adret, with the approval of other prominent Spanish rabbis, sent a letter to the community at Montpellier proposing to forbid the study of philosophy to those who were less than thirty years of age, and, in spite of keen opposition from the liberal section, a decree in this sense was issued by ben Adret in 1305. The result was a great schism among the Jews of Spain and southern France, and a new impulse was given to the study of philosophy by the unauthorized interference of the Spanish rabbis. On the expulsion of the Jews from France by Philip IV. in 1306, Abba Mari settled at Perpignan, where he published the letters connected with the controversy. His subsequent history is unknown. Beside the letters, he was the author of liturgical poetry and works on civil law.

ABBAS I. (1813–1854), pasha of Egypt, was a son of Tusun Pasha and grandson of Mehemet Ali, founder of the reigning dynasty. As a young man he fought in Syria under (q.v.), his real or supposed uncle. The death of Ibrahim in November 1848 made Abbas regent of Egypt, and in August following, on the death of Mehemet Ali—who had been deposed in July 1848 on account of mental weakness,—Abbas succeeded to the pashalik. He has been generally described as a mere voluptuary, but Nubar Pasha spoke of him as a true Turkish gentleman of the old school. He was without question a reactionary, morose and taciturn, and spent nearly all his time shut up in his palace. He undid, as far as lay in his power, the works of his grandfather, good and bad. Among other things he abolished trade monopolies, closed factories and schools, and reduced the strength of the army to 9000 men. He was inaccessible to adventurers bent on plundering Egypt, but at the instance of the British government allowed the construction of a railway from Alexandria to Cairo. In July 1854 he was murdered in Benha Palace by two of his slaves, and was succeeded by his uncle, Said Pasha. ABBAS II. (1874–  ), khedive of Egypt. Abbas Hilmi Pasha,

title: Page:EB1911 - Volume 01.djvu/40


text:
The New International Encyclopædia/Samaria

SAMARIA (Heb. Shōmērōn, probably watch or guard, Aramaic Shamrayin, Gk. Σαμáρεια, Samareia, Σεμερών, Semerōn, Σομορών, Somorōn, Σεμαρεών, Semareōn, Lat. Samaria). A city of ancient Palestine (Map: Palestine, C 3), which, early in the ninth century B.C., was made by Omri the capital of the kingdom of Israel. According to I. Kings xvi. 23-24, after reigning six years at Tirzah, Omri bought the site from one Shemer, and named the city which he built there after the original owner. It was situated on a hill of more than 300 feet elevation, isolated on all sides except the east. It was about six miles northwest of Shechem and commanded the road northward to the plain of Esdraelon and westward to the coast. It was thus well adapted for a fortified capital. Under Ahab the city became a centre of Baal worship. The Syrians laid siege to it during the reign of Ahab (I. Kings xx. 1), and again in the time of Joram (II. Kings vi. 24 et seq.), but did not capture it. It was invested by Shalmaneser, King of Assyria, and, after a siege of three years, was taken by his successor, Sargon, in B.C. 722. (See .) Samaria was captured by Alexander the Great (B.C. 331), who killed many of the inhabitants and replaced them with Macedonian colonists. It was taken and completely destroyed by John Hyrcanus (B.C. 120), but was soon rebuilt and remained in the possession of the Jews till Pompey restored it to the descendants of the expelled Samaritans. It was fortified by Gabinius. Augustus gave the town to Herod the Great, who rebuilt it with much splendor and called it Sebaste, after the Emperor (Σεβαστή, from Σεβαστός = Augustus), Philip the Evangelist preached Christianity in Samaria (Acts viii. 5), and in the third century it was an episcopal see. A Greek bishop still derives his title from Sebaste. After the Mohammedan conquest of Palestine the importance of Sebaste declined. It is now a small village (Sebastiyeh), with but few relics of its former greatness.


text:
Page:Atharva-Veda samhita.djvu/353

183 1. Both art thou not relative-making, and now art thou kin-making; also do thou cut off (? ā-chid) the progeny of the witchcraft-maker, like a reed of the rainy season (vā́rṣika).

2. Thou art bespoken (?) by a Brāhman, by Kaṇva son of Nṛshad; thou goest like a brilliant army (?); there is no fear (bhayá) there where thou arrivest (pra-āp), O herb.

3. Thou goest to the head (ágra) of the herbs, causing to shine (dīp) upon [us] as it were with light; also rescuer art thou of the simple (pā́ka), likewise slayer art thou of the demoniac.

4. When yonder, in the beginning, the gods by thee removed (nis-kṛ) the Asuras, from thence, O herb, wast thou born, an off-wiper.

5. Splitting apart (vi-bhid), hundred-branched—"splitting apart" by name is thy father; in return (pratyák), do thou split apart him who assails us.

6. The non-existent came into being (sam-bhū) from the earth; that

title: Page:Atharva-Veda samhita.djvu/353


text:
The Thousandth Man

One man in a thousand, Solomon says, Will stick more close than a brother. And it’s worth while seeking him half your days If you find him before the other. Nine nundred and ninety-nine depend On what the world sees in you, But the Thousandth man will stand your friend With the whole round world agin you.

'Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show Will settle the finding for 'ee. Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go By your looks, or your acts, or your glory. But if he finds you and you find him. The rest of the world don’t matter; For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim With you in any water.

You can use his purse with no more talk Than he uses yours for his spendings, And laugh and meet in your daily walk As though there had been no lendings. Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em call For silver and gold in their dealings; But the Thousandth Man h’s worth 'em all, Because you can show him your feelings.

His wrong’s your wrong, and his right’s your right, In season or out of season. Stand up and back it in all men’s sight — With that for your only reason! Nine hundred and ninety-nine can’t bide The shame or mocking or laughter, But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side To the gallows-foot — and after!

title: The Thousandth Man


text:
The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Fugger

FUGGER, the name of a German princely family, whose founder was, a weaver in Graben, near Augsburg, in the first half of the 14th century, who acquired a large property in lands by commerce in cloths. His son, of the same name, continued the occupation of weaver and cloth merchant, and obtained by marriage the right of citizenship in Augsburg. , eldest son of the latter, was known as “Fugger the Rich.” The nephews of the last,, and , born about the middle of the 15th century, covered the Baltic with their commerce, which extended also to Hungary, Italy, and even to India, influenced the affairs of the empire by lending money to the princes, married into the most illustrious families, and were ennobled by the emperor Maximilian I. They built in Tyrol the splendid castle of Fuggerau, embellished the city of Augsburg, and found a new source of wealth by working the mines of the Inn valley. The only heirs of these three brothers were the two sons of Georg, (1489-1535) and (1493-1560). The emperor Charles V. resorted to them both when pressed for money, yielded to them the privilege of coining, made them counts and princes of the empire, and was lodged in the splendid mansion of Anton when he attended the diet of Augsburg. They established at Augsburg a cabinet of antiquities, a gallery of paintings, and a botanical garden, built the church of Saint Maurice, paid 3,000 crowns to Titian for a few paintings, and collected the two largest libraries that had yet been seen in Germany. Their name was given to a street in Madrid, and “as rich as a Fugger” became a proverb. Upon the death of these two brothers the family divided into numerous lines, and its most important branches at present are the princely houses of Fugger-Kirchberg and Fugger-Babenhausen.

title: The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Fugger


text:
The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Fugitive

FUGITIVE (Lat. fugire, to flee), literally, one who flees away. Under this head might be considered two classes of cases: 1, that of

fugitives from justice, by which is meant those who flee from one jurisdiction to another to escape prosecution or punishment for crime (see ); 2, that of persons fleeing to avoid compulsory labor for others. It was one of the compromises of the constitution of the United States that “no person held to service or labor in one state, under the laws thereof, escaping into another, shall, in consequence of any law or regulation therein, be discharged from such service or labor, but shall be delivered up on claim of the party to whom such service or labor may be due.” (Art. iv., § 2.) Although the word slave was not here employed, the purpose was to provide for the reclamation of slaves fleeing from their masters; and in 1793 an act was passed by congress to give effect to the provision by means of the arrest of any person claimed as a fugitive from slavery, and his return to the state from which he was found to have fled, after a summary judicial hearing. The repugnance to the institution of slavery on the part of large numbers of people in the northern states rendered this act of little practical value, and another was passed in 1850 with more stringent provisions. Some of these were exceedingly obnoxious, especially that which gave a larger fee to the judicial officer when the person arrested was adjudged to be a slave than when decided to be free, and that which required all persons to assist when called upon in the arrest and return of the person claimed. Although many persons were remanded under this act, the hostility to slavery which was created, or at least intensified by it, probably led to the giving of assistance in a larger number of escapes than had ever been made before, and the act became of little service. A widespread organization to assist fugitives to their liberty became known popularly as the “underground railroad,” and a great many persons were aided by it. The act was repealed after the civil war broke out, and the constitutional provision became unimportant after slavery was abolished.

title: The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Fugitive


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/245

Rh close at hand in that unfinished song. His mood again became one of vast pity for her; and issuing from the church with this feeling, there, near the very entrance, he had come upon a rustic picture of husband, wife, and child, with a sharpness of transition that had seemed the return of his spirit to its own world of flesh and blood. There to him was the poetry and the religion of life—the linked hands of lovers; the twining arms of childhood; health and joyousness; and a quiet walk over familiar fields in the evening air from peaceful church to peaceful home. And so, thinking of this as he walked on alone and thinking also of her, the two thoughts blended, and her image stood always before him in the path-way of his ideal future.

The history of the next several days may soon be told. He wrote to his friends, stating that there was no game in the neighborhood, and that he had given up the idea of joining them and would return home. He took the letter to the station, and waited for the train to pass southward, watching it rush away with a subtle pleasure at being left on the platform, as though the bridges were now burned behind him. Then he returned to the farm-house, where Ezra met him with that look of stupid alarm which was natural to him whenever his few thoughts were agitated by a new situation of affairs.

Word had come from the convent that he was wanted there to move a fence and make changes in the garden, and, proud of the charge, he wished to go; but certain autumnal work in his own orchard and garden claimed his time, and hence the trouble. But Gordon, who henceforth had no reason for tarrying with the old couple, threw himself eagerly upon this opportunity to


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/246

228 do so, and offered his aid in despatching the tasks. So that thus a few days passed, during which he unconsciously made his way as far as any one had ever done into the tortuous nature of the old man, who began to regard him with blind trustfulness.

But they were restless, serious days. One after an other passed, and he heard nothing of Sister Dolorosa. He asked himself whether she were ill, whether her visits to old Martha had been made to cease; and he shrank from the thought of bearing away into his life the haunting pain of such uncertainty. But some inner change constrained him no longer to call her name. As he sat with the old couple at night the housewife renewed her talks with him, speaking sometimes of the convent and of Sister Dolorosa, the cessation of whose visits plainly gave her secret concern; but he listened in silence, preferring the privacy of his own thoughts. Sometimes, under feint of hunting, he would take his gun in the afternoon and stroll out over the country; but always the presence of the convent made itself felt over the landscape, dominating it, solitary and impregnable, like a fortress. It began to draw his eyes with a species of fascination. He chafed against its assertion of barriers, and could have wished that his own will might be brought into conflict with it. It appeared to watch him; to have an eye at every window; to see in him a lurking danger. At other times, borne to him across the darkening fields would come the sweet vesper bell, and in imagination he would see her entering the church amid the long procession of novices and nuns, her hands folded across her breast, her face full of the soft glories of the lights that streamed in through the pictured windows. Over


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/247

Rh the fancied details of her life more and more fondly he lingered.

And thus, although at first he had been interested in her wholly upon general grounds, believing her secretly unhappy, thus by thinking always of her, and watching for her, and walking often beside her in his dreams, with the folly of the young, with the romantic ardor of his race, and as part of the never-ending blind tragedy of the world, he came at last to feel for her, among women, that passionate pain of yearning to know which is to know the sadness of love.

Sleepless one night, he left the house after the old couple were asleep. The moon was shining, and unconsciously following the bent of his thoughts, he took the foot-path that led across the fields. He passed the spot where he had first met her, and absorbed in recollection of the scene, he walked on until before him the convent towered high in light and shadow. He had reached the entrance to the long avenue of elms. He traversed it, turned aside into the garden, and, following with many pauses around its borders, lived over again the day when she had led him through it. The mere sense of his greater physical nearness to her inthralled him. All her words came back: "These are daffodils. They bloomed in March, long ago. . . . And here are violets, which come in April. After awhile, leaving the garden, he walked across the lawn to the church and sat upon the steps, trying to look calmly at this whole episode in his life, and to summon resolution to bring it to an end. He dwelt particularly upon the hopelessness of his passion; he made himself believe that if he could but learn that she were not ill and suffering—if he could but see her once more, and be


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/248

230 very sure—he would go away, as every dictate of reason urged.

Across the lawn stood the convent building. There caught his eye the faint glimmer of a light through a half-opened window, and while he looked he saw two of the nuns moving about within. Was some one dying? Was this light the taper of the dead? He tried to throw off a sudden weight of gloomy apprehension, and resolutely got up and walked away; but his purpose was formed not to leave until he had intelligence of her.

One afternoon, a few days days later, happening to come to an elevated point of the landscape, he saw her figure moving across the fields in the distance below him. Between the convent and the farm-house, in one of the fields, there is a circular, basin-like depression; and it was here, hidden from distant observation, with only the azure of the heavens above them, that their meeting took place.

On the day when she had been his guide he had told her that he was going away on the morrow, and as she walked along now it might have been seen that she thought herself safe from intrusion. Her eyes were bent on the dust of the path-way. One hand was passing bead by bead upward along her rosary. Her veil was pushed back, so that between its black border and the glistening whiteness of her forehead there ran, like a rippling band of gold, the exposed edges of her shining hair. In the other hand she bore a large cluster of chrysanthemums, whose snow-white petals and green leaves formed a strong contrast with the crimson symbol that they partly framed against her sable bosom.

He had come up close before the noise of his feet in the stubble drew her attention. Then she turned


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/249

Rh and saw him. But certain instincts of self-preservation act in women with lightning quickness. She did not recognize him, or give him time to recognize her. She merely turned again and walked onward at the same pace. But the chrysanthemums were trembling with the beating of her heart, and her eyes had in them that listening look with which one awaits the oncoming of danger from behind.

But he had stopped. His nature was simple and trustful, and he had expected to renew his acquaintanceship at the point where it had ceased. When, therefore, she thus reminded him, as indeed she must, that there was no acquaintanceship between them, and that she regarded herself as much alone as though he were nowhere in sight, his feelings were arrested as if frozen by her coldness. Still, it was for this chance that he had waited all these days. Another would not come; and whatever he wished to say to her must be said now. A sensitiveness wholly novel to his nature held him back, but a moment more and he was walking beside her.

"I hope I do not intrude so very far," he said, in a tone of apology, but also of wounded self-respect.

It was a difficult choice thus left to her. She could not say "Yes" without seeming unpardonably rude; she could not say "No" without seeming to invite his presence. She walked on for a moment, and then, pausing, turned towards him.

"Is there anything that you wished to ask me in regard to the convent?" This she said in the sweetest tone of apologetic courtesy, as though in having thought only of herself at first she had neglected some larger duty.


text:
The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Fugue

FUGUE (Lat. fuga, flight), a species of musical composition in which one voice or part seems to be perpetually flying away from another, whence the name. The principal musical thought of the piece, or the subject, having been performed by one voice or part, is taken up by another, and so on with all the voices or parts, each commencing after the others, and all performing together. The result is an endless pursuit and flight of the same theme by the different parts. Fugues are simple, double, or counter, the last being much the most complicated.

title: The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Fugue


text:
The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Führich, Joseph von

FÜHRICH, Joseph von, a German painter, born at Kratzau, Bohemia, Feb. 9, 1800. He studied in Prague and Rome, and was early associated with Overbeck and other artists in decorating the villa Massimi. In 1834 he settled in Vienna, where he became professor of historical painting at the academy of fine arts. He stands at the head of his profession in his specialty of

Scriptural painting, and has executed admirable works for the church of the Viennese suburb Lerchenfeld and for other churches. Among his more recent productions are the celebrated missal completed in 1868 for the emperor Francis Joseph as a present for the pope; two allegorical cartoons representing spring and autumn (1869); and a series of illustrations of the parable of the prodigal son (1870).


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/250

232 If he had feared that he would see traces of physical suffering on her face, he was mistaken. She had forgotten to draw her veil close, and the sunlight fell upon its loveliness. Never had she been to him half so beautiful. Whatever the expression her eyes had worn before he had come up, in them now rested only inscrutable calmness.

"There is one thing I have wished very much to know," he answered, slowly, his eyes resting on hers. "I was at the church of the convent last Sunday and heard you sing. They said you were not well. I have hoped every day to hear that you were better. I have not cared to go away until I knew this."

Scarcely had he begun when a flush dyed her face, her eyes fell, and she stood betrayed by the self-consciousness of what her own thoughts had that day been. One hand absently tore to pieces the blooms of the chrysanthemums, so that the petals fell down over her dark habit like snowflakes. But when he finished, she lifted her eyes again.

"I am well now, thank you," she said; and the first smile that he had ever seen came forth from her soul to her face. But what a smile! It wrung his heart more than the sight of her tears could have done.

"Then I shall hope to hear you sing again to-morrow," he said, quickly, for she seemed on the point of moving away.

"I shall not sing to-morrow," she replied a little hurriedly, with averted face, and again she started on. But he walked beside her.

"In that case I have still to thank you for the pleasure I have had. I imagine that one would never do wrong if he could hear you sing whenever he is tempted,"


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/251

Rh he said, looking sidewise at her with a quiet, tentative smile.

"It is not my voice," she replied more hurriedly. "It is the music of the service. Do not thank me. Thank God."

"I have heard the service before. It was your voice that touched me."

She drew her veil about her face and walked on in silence.

"But I have no wish to say anything against your religion," he continued, his voice deepening and trembling. "If it has such power over the natures of women, if it lifts them to such ideals of duty, if it develops in them such characters, that merely to look into their faces, to be near them, to hear their voices, is to make a man think of a better world, I do not know why I should say anything against it."

How often, without meaning it, our words are like a flight of arrows into another's heart. What he said but reminded her of her unfaithfulness. And therefore while she revolved how with perfect gentleness she might ask him to allow her to continue her way alone, she did what she could: she spoke reverently, though all but inaudibly, in behalf of her order.

"Our vows are perfect and divine. If they ever seem less, it is the fault of those of us who dishonor them."

The acute self-reproach in her tone at once changed his mood.

"On the other hand, I have also asked myself this question: Is it the creed that makes the natures of you women so beautiful, or it is the nature of woman that gives the beauty to the creed? It is not so with


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/252

234 any other idea that women espouse? with any other cause that they undertake? Is it not so with anything that they spend their hearts upon, toil for, and sacrifice themselves for? Do I see any beauty in your vows except such as your life gives to them? I can believe it. I can believe that if you had never taken those vows your life would still be beautiful. I can believe that you could change them for others and find yourself more nearly the woman that you strive to be that you were meant to be!" He spoke in the subdued voice with which one takes leave of some hope that brightens while it disappears.

"I must ask you," she said, pausing—"I must ask you to allow me to continue my walk alone;" and her voice quivered.

He paused, too, and stood looking into her eyes in silence with the thought that he should never see her again. The color had died out of his face.

"I can never forgive your vows," he said, speaking very slowly and making an effort to appear unmoved. "I can never forgive your vows that they make it a sin for me to speak to you. I can never forgive them that they put between us a gulf that I cannot pass. Remember, I owe you a great deal. I owe you higher ideas of a woman's nature and clearer resolutions regarding my own life. Your vows perhaps make it even a sin that I should tell you this. But by what right? By what right am I forbidden to say that I shall remember you always, and that I shall carry away with me into my life–"

"Will you force me to turn back?" she asked in greater agitation; and though he could not see her face, he saw her tears fall upon her hands.


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/253

Rh "No," he answered sadly; "I shall not force you to turn back. I know that I have intruded. But it seemed that I could not go away without seeing you again, to be quite sure that you were well. And when I saw you, it seemed impossible not to speak of other things. Of course this must seem strange to you—stranger, perhaps, than I may imagine, since we look at human relationships so differently. My life in this world can be of no interest to you. You cannot, therefore, understand why yours should have any interest for me. Still, I hope you can forgive me," he added abruptly, turning his face away as it flushed and his voice faltered.

She lifted her eyes quickly, although they were dim. "Do not ask me to forgive anything. There is nothing to be forgiven. It is I who must ask—only leave me!"

"Will you say good-bye to me?" And he held out his hand.

She drew back, but, overborne by emotion, he stepped forward, gently took her hand from the rosary, and held it in both his own.

"Good-bye! But, despite the cruel barriers that they have raised between us, I shall always–"

She foresaw what was coming. His manner told her that. She had not withdrawn her hand. But at this point she dropped the flowers that were in her other hand, laid it on her breast so that the longest finger pointed towards the symbol of the transfixed heart, and looked quickly at him with indescribable warning and distress. Then he released her, and she turned back towards the convent.

"Mother," she said, with a frightened face, when she reached it, "I did not go to old Martha's. Some one was hunting in the fields, and I came back. Do not


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/254

236 send me again, Mother, unless one of the Sisters goes with me." And with this half-truth on her lips and full remorse for it in her heart, she passed into that deepening imperfection of nature which for the most of us makes up the inner world of reality.

Gordon wrote to her that night. He had not foreseen his confession. It had been drawn from him under the influences of the moment; but since it was made, a sense of honor would not have allowed him to stop there, even had feeling carried him no further. Moreover, some hope had been born in him at the moment of separation, since she had not rebuked him, but only reminded him of her vows.

His letter was full of the confidence and enthusiasm of youth, and its contents may be understood by their likeness to others. He unfolded the plan of his life—the life which he was asking her to share. He dwelt upon its possibilities, he pointed out the field of its aspirations. But he kept his letter for some days, unable to conceive a way by which it might be sent to its destination. At length the chance came in the simplest of disguises.

Ezra was starting one morning to the convent. As he was leaving the room, old Martha called to him. She sat by the hearthstone, with her head tied up in red flannel, and her large, watery face flushed with pain, and pointed towards a basket of apples on the windowsill.

"Take them to Sister Dolorosa, Ezra," she said "Mind that you see her, and give them to her with your own hands. And ask her why she hasn't been to see me, and when she is coming." On this point her mind seemed more and more troubled. "But what's the use


text:
The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Fulda

FULDA, a town of Prussia, in the province of Hesse-Nassau, on a river of the same name, here crossed by three bridges, 56 m. N. E. of Frankfort; pop. in 1871, 9,490. It contains a palace and gardens, formerly the residence of the prince-bishops, a number of churches, two convents, an ecclesiastical seminary, and a number of schools. The cathedral is a fine modern building, the fourth which has stood on this site. Of the ancient church it retains only a crypt, in which is the sarcophagus of St. Boniface. There is a library of 50,000 volumes, manufactories of cotton, linen, and woollen, and trade in corn and cattle. The abbey of Fulda was founded about 750 under the auspices of St. Boniface, became flourishing in the following century through the learning of Rabanus Maurus, who taught at the school connected with the abbey, and obtained from Otho I. in 968 the primacy of all abbeys in Germany. It was raised to the dignity of a bishopric in 1752. This was secularized in 1803, and given to the prince of Orange-Nassau, was annexed to the grand duchy of Berg in 1806, and in 1809 to the principality of Frankfort. After the peace most of the territory was given to the electorate of Hesse, and in 1866 was with the latter annexed to Prussia.

title: The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Fulda


text: Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/280


text: The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Posthumous Poems


text:
Talk:The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Posthumous Poems

Out-of-sorts text?
Ignoring the OCR, pagination-wise, I am not quite sure what is going on with the following pages... They don't seem to "fit" with the work somehow. I'll figure it out eventually... Londonjackbooks (talk) 16:46, 30 April 2012 (UTC)

Ok... I see in the beginning Selection, and following "Selections", that the pagination goes thusly: 48, [assumed 48a], 48b, 49, 50, etc... Londonjackbooks (talk) 20:19, 30 April 2012 (UTC)


text:
Page:Wittgenstein - Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922.djvu/65

Rh be replaced according to the rules of logical syntax.

We can, for example, express what is common to all notations for the truth-functions as follows: It is common to them that they all, for example, can be replaced by the notations of “~p” (“not p”) and “p∨q” (“p or q”).

(Herewith is indicated the way in which a special possible notation can give us general information.)

The sign of the complex is not arbitrarily resolved in the analysis, in such a way that its resolution would be different in every propositional structure.

The proposition determines a place in logical space: the existence of this logical place is guaranteed by the existence of the constituent parts alone, by the existence of the significant proposition.

The propositional sign and the logical co-ordinates: that is the logical place.

The geometrical and the logical place agree in that each is the possibility of an existence.

Although a proposition may only determine one place in logical space, the whole logical space must already be given by it.

(Otherwise denial, the logical sum, the logical product, etc., would always introduce new elements—in co-ordination.)

(The logical scaffolding round the picture determines the logical space. The proposition reaches through the whole logical space.)

The applied, thought, propositional sign, is the thought. The thought is the significant proposition.

The totality of propositions is the language.

Man possesses the capacity of constructing languages, in which every sense can be expressed, Rh


text: The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Privately Printed Poems


text:
Page:Wittgenstein - Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922.djvu/67

Rh without having an idea how and what each word means—just as one speaks without knowing how the single sounds are produced.

Colloquial language is a part of the human organism and is not less complicated than it.

From it it is humanly impossible to gather immediately the logic of language.

Language disguises the thought; so that from the external form of the clothes one cannot infer the form of the thought they clothe, because the external form of the clothes is constructed with quite another object than to let the form of the body be recognized.

The silent adjustments to understand colloquial language are enormously complicated.

Most propositions and questions, that have been written about philosophical matters, are not false, but senseless. We cannot, therefore, answer questions of this kind at all, but only state their senselessness. Most questions and propositions of the philosophers result from the fact that we do not understand the logic of our language.

(They are of the same kind as the question whether the Good is more or less identical than the Beautiful.)

And so it is not to be wondered at that the deepest problems are really no problems.

All philosophy is “Critique of language” (but not at all in Mauthner’s sense). Russell’s merit is to have shown that the apparent logical form of the proposition need not be its real form.

The proposition is a picture of reality.

The proposition is a model of the reality as we think it is.

At the first glance the proposition—say as it stands printed on paper—does not seem to be Rh


text:
Page:Wittgenstein - Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922.djvu/69

Rh picture of the reality of which it treats. But nor does the musical score appear at first sight to be a picture of a musical piece; nor does our phonetic spelling (letters) seem to be a picture of our spoken language. And yet these symbolisms prove to be pictures—even in the ordinary sense of the word—of what they represent.

It is obvious that we perceive a proposition of the form aRb as a picture. Here the sign is obviously a likeness of the signified.

And if we penetrate to the essence of this pictorial nature we see that this is not disturbed by apparent irregularities (like the use of ♯ and ♭ in the score).

For these irregularities also picture what they are to express; only in another way.

The gramophone record, the musical thought, the score, the waves of sound, all stand to one another in that pictorial internal relation, which holds between language and the world.

To all of them the logical structure is common.

(Like the two youths, their two horses and their lilies in the story. They are all in a certain sense one.)

In the fact that there is a general rule by which the musician is able to read the symphony out of the score, and that there is a rule by which one could reconstruct the symphony from the line on a gramophone record and from this again—by means of the first rule—construct the score, herein lies the internal similarity between these things which at first sight seem to be entirely different. And the rule is the law of projection which projects the symphony into the language of the musical score. It is the rule of translation of this language into the language of the gramophone record.

The possibility of all similes, of all the Rh


text:
Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/281

 UNPUBLISHED POEMS


text:
Page:Wittgenstein - Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922.djvu/71

Rh imagery of our language, rests on the logic of representation.

In order to understand the essence of the proposition, consider hieroglyphic writing, which pictures the facts it describes.

And from it came the alphabet without the essence of the representation being lost.

This we see from the fact that we understand the sense of the propositional sign, without having had it explained to us.

The proposition is a picture of reality, for I know the state of affairs presented by it, if I understand the proposition. And I understand the proposition, without its sense having been explained to me.

The proposition shows its sense.

The proposition shows how things stand, if it is true. And it says, that they do so stand.

The proposition determines reality to this extent, that one only needs to say “Yes” or “No” to it to make it agree with reality.

Reality must therefore be completely described by the proposition.

A proposition is the description of a fact.

As the description of an object describes it by its external properties so propositions describe reality by its internal properties.

The proposition constructs a world with the help of a logical scaffolding, and therefore one can actually see in the proposition all the logical features possessed by reality if it is true. One can draw conclusions from a false proposition.

To understand a proposition means to know what is the case, if it is true.

(One can therefore understand it without knowing whether it is true or not.)

One understands it if one understands it constituent parts.

The translation of one language into another Rh


text:
Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/282

 These Poems, the copyright of the Editors, have never before been printed.


text:
Page:Wittgenstein - Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922.djvu/73

Rh is not a process of translating each proposition of the one into a proposition of the other, but only the constituent parts of propositions are translated.

(And the dictionary does not only translate substantives but also adverbs and conjunctions, etc., and it treats them all alike.)

The meanings of the simple signs (the words) must be explained to us, if we are to understand them.

By means of propositions we explain ourselves.

It is essential to propositions, that they can communicate a new sense to us.

A proposition must communicate a new sense with old words.

The proposition communicates to us a state of affairs, therefore it must be essentially connected with the state of affairs.

And the connexion is, in fact, that it is its logical picture.

The proposition only asserts something, in so far as it is a picture.

In the proposition a state of affairs is, as it were, put together for the sake of experiment.

One can say, instead of, This proposition has such and such a sense, This proposition represents such and such a state of affairs.

One name stands for one thing, and another for another thing, and they are connected together. And so the whole, like a living picture, presents the atomic fact.

The possibility of propositions is based upon the principle of the representation of objects by signs.

My fundamental thought is that the “logical constants” do not represent. That the logic of the facts cannot be represented.

The proposition is a picture of its state of affairs, only in so far as it is logically articulated. Rh


text:
Page:Wittgenstein - Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922.djvu/75

Rh (Even the proposition “ambulo” is composite, for its stem gives a different sense with another termination, or its termination with another stem.)

In the proposition there must be exactly as many thing distinguishable as there are in the state of affairs, which it represents.

They must both possess the same logical (mathematical) multiplicity (cf. Hertz’s Mechanics, on Dynamic Models).

This mathematical multiplicity naturally cannot in its turn be represented. One cannot get outside it in the representation.

If we tried, for example, to express what is expressed by “(x).fx” by putting an index before fx, like: “Gen.fx”, it would not do, we should not know what was generalized. If we tried to show it by an index g, like: “f(xg)” it would not do—we should not know the scope of the generalization.

If we were to try it by introducing a mark in the argument places, like “(G, G).F(G, G)”, it would not do—we could not determine the identity of the variables, etc.

All these ways of symbolizing are inadequate because they have not the necessary mathematical multiplicity.

For the same reason the idealist explanation of the seeing of spatial relations through “spatial spectacles” does not do, because it cannot explain the multiplicity of these relations.

Reality is compared with the proposition.

Propositions can be true or false only by being pictures of the reality.

If one does not observe that propositions have a sense independent of the facts, one can easily believe that true and false are two relations Rh


text: The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Unpublished Poems


text:
Page:Wittgenstein - Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922.djvu/77

Rh between signs and things signified with equal rights.

One could, then, for example, say that “p” signifies in the true way what “~p” signifies in the false way, etc.

Can we not make ourselves understood by means of false propositions as hitherto with true ones, so long as we know that they are meant to be false? No! For a proposition is true, if what we assert by means of it is the case; and if by “p” we mean ~p, and what we mean is the case, then “p” in the new conception is true and not false.

That, however, the signs “p” and “~p” can say the same thing is important, for it shows that the sign “~” corresponds to nothing in reality.

That negation occurs in a proposition, is no characteristic of its sense (~ ~p=p).

The propositions “p” and “~p” have opposite senses, but to them corresponds one and the same reality.

An illustration to explain the concept of truth. A black spot on white paper; the form of the spot can be described by saying of each point of the plane whether it is white or black. To the fact that a point is black corresponds a positive fact; to the fact that a point is white (not black), a negative fact. If I indicate a point of the plane (a truth-value in Frege’s terminology), this corresponds to the assumption proposed for judgment, etc. etc.

But to be able to say that a point is black or white, I must first know under what conditions a point is called white or black; in order to be able to say “p” is true (or false) I must have determined under what conditions I call “p” true, Rh


text:
Page:Wittgenstein - Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922.djvu/79

Rh and thereby I determine the sense of the proposition.

The point at which the simile breaks down is this: we can indicate a point on the paper, without knowing what white and black are; but to a proposition without a sense corresponds nothing at all, for it signifies no thing (truth-value) whose properties are called “false” or “true”; the verb of the proposition is not “is true” or “is false”—as Frege thought—but that which “is true” must already contain the verb.

Every proposition must already have a sense; assertion cannot give it a sense, for what it asserts is the sense itself. And the same holds of denial, etc.

One could say, the denial is already related to the logical place determined by the proposition that is denied.

The denying proposition determines a logical place other than does the proposition denied.

The denying proposition determines a logical place, with the help of the logical place of the proposition denied, by saying that it lies outside the latter place.

That one can deny again the denied proposition, shows that what is denied is already a proposition and not merely the preliminary to a proposition.

A proposition presents the existence and non-existence of atomic facts.

The totality of true propositions is the total natural science (or the totality of the natural sciences).

Philosophy is not one of the natural sciences.

(The word “philosophy” must mean something Rh


text:
Page:Wittgenstein - Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922.djvu/81

Rh which stands above or below, but not beside the natural sciences.)

The object of philosophy is the logical clarification of thoughts.

Philosophy is not a theory but an activity.

A philosophical work consists essentially of elucidations.

The result of philosophy is not a number of “philosophical propositions”, but to make propositions clear.

Philosophy should make clear and delimit sharply the thoughts which otherwise are, as it were, opaque and blurred.

Psychology is no nearer related to philosophy, than is any other natural science.

The theory of knowledge is the philosophy of psychology.

Does not my study of sign-language correspond to the study of thought processes which philosophers held to be so essential to the philosophy of logic? Only they got entangled for the most part in unessential psychological investigations, and there is an analogous danger for my method.

The Darwinian theory has no more to do with philosophy than has any other hypothesis of natural science.

Philosophy limits the disputable sphere of natural science.

It should limit the thinkable and thereby the unthinkable.

It should limit the unthinkable from within through the thinkable.

It will mean the unspeakable by clearly displaying the speakable.

Everything that can be thought at all can be Rh


text:
Page:Wittgenstein - Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922.djvu/83

Rh thought clearly. Everything that can be said can be said clearly.

Propositions can represent the whole reality, but they cannot represent what they must have in common with reality in order to be able to represent it—the logical form.

To be able to represent the logical form, we should have to be able to put ourselves with the propositions outside logic, that is outside the world.

Propositions cannot represent the logical form: this mirrors itself in the propositions.

That which mirrors itself in language, language cannot represent.

That which expresses itself in language, we cannot express by language.

The propositions show the logical form of reality.

They exhibit it.

Thus a proposition “fa” shows that in its sense the object a occurs, two propositions “fa” and “ga” that they are both about the same object.

If two propositions contradict one another, this is shown by their structure; similarly if one follows from another, etc.

What can be shown cannot be said.

Now we understand our feeling that we are in possession of the right logical conception, if only all is right in our symbolism.

We can speak in a certain sense of formal properties of objects and atomic facts, or of properties of the structure of facts, and in the same sense of formal relations and relations of structures.

(Instead of property of the structure I also say Rh


text:
Page:Wittgenstein - Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922.djvu/85

Rh “internal property”; instead of relation of structures “internal relation”.

I introduce these expressions in order to show the reason for the confusion, very widespread among philosophers, between internal relations and proper (external) relations.)

The holding of such internal properties and relations cannot, however, be asserted by propositions, but it shows itself in the propositions, which present the facts and treat of the objects in question.

An internal property of a fact we also call a feature of this fact. (In the sense in which we speak of facial features.)

A property is internal if it is unthinkable that its object does not possess it.

(This blue colour and that stand in the internal relation of brighter and darker eo ipso. It is unthinkable that these two objects should not stand in this relation.)

(Here to the shifting use of the words “property” and “relation” there corresponds the shifting use of the word “object”.)

The existence of an internal property of a possible state of affairs is not expressed by a proposition, but it expresses itself in the proposition which presents that state of affairs, by an internal property of this proposition.

It would be as senseless to ascribe a formal property to a proposition as to deny it the formal property.

One cannot distinguish forms from one another by saying that one has this property, the other that: for this assumes that there is a sense in asserting either property of either form.

The existence of an internal relation between Rh


text:
Page:Wittgenstein - Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922.djvu/87

Rh possible states of affairs expresses itself in language by an internal relation between the propositions presenting them.

Now this settles the disputed question “whether all relations are internal or external”.

Series which are ordered by internal relations I call formal series.

The series of numbers is ordered not by an external, but by an internal relation.

Similarly the series of propositions “aRb”,

 * “(∃x):aRx.xRb”,
 * “(∃x,y):aRx.xRy.yRb”, etc.

(If b stands in one of these relations to a, I call b a successor of a.)

In the sense in which we speak of formal properties we can now speak also of formal concepts.

(I introduce this expression in order to make clear the confusion of formal concepts with proper concepts which runs through the whole of the old logic.)

That anything falls under a formal concept as an object belonging to it, cannot be expressed by a proposition. But it is shown in the symbol for the object itself. (The name shows that it signifies an object, the numerical sign that it signifies a number, etc.)

Formal concepts, cannot, like proper concepts, be presented by a function.

For their characteristics, the formal properties, are not expressed by the functions.

The expression of a formal property is a feature of certain symbols.

The sign that signifies the characteristics of a formal concept is, therefore, a characteristic feature of all symbols, whose meanings fall under the concept. Rh


text:
Author talk:Richard Randolph Stevenson

Biographical sources

 * Find a Grave - AdamBMorgan (talk) 18:29, 30 April 2012 (UTC)

title: Author talk:Richard Randolph Stevenson


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Irving, Joseph


text:
Author:Frank Harris

Novels

 * Great Days (1914)
 * Love in Youth (1916)
 * Pantopia (1930)

Short fiction

 * Elder Conklin and Other Stories (1895)
 * Montes the Matador, and Other Stories (1900)
 * Unpath'd Waters (1913)
 * The Yellow Ticket, and Other Stories (1914)
 * The Veil of Isis, and Other Stories (1915)
 * Undream'd of Shores (1924)

Essays

 * Confessional (1930)

Autobiographies

 * My Life and Loves (1922)
 * My Reminiscences as a Cowboy (1930)

Biographies

 * Oscar Wilde, His Life and Confessions (1916)
 * Bernard Shaw (1931)

title: Author:Frank Harris


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/255

Rh of asking you to find out for me?" she added, flashing out at him with heroic anger.

The old man stood in the middle of the room, dry and gnarled, his small eyes kindling into a dull rage at a taunt made in the presence of a guest whose good opinion he desired. But he took the apples in silence and left the room.

As Gordon followed him beyond the garden, noting how his mind was absorbed in petty anger, a simple resolution came to him.

"Ezra," he said, handing him the letter, "when you give the Sister the apples, deliver this. And we do not talk about business, you know, Ezra."

The old man took the letter and put it furtively into his pocket, with a backward shake of his head towards the house.

"Whatever risks I may have to run from other quarters, he will never tell her" Gordon said to himself.

When Ezra returned in the evening he was absorbed, and Gordon noted with relief that he was also unsuspicious. He walked some distance to meet the old man the next two days, and his suspense became almost unendurable, but he asked no questions. The third day Ezra drew from his pocket a letter, which he delivered, merely saying:

"The Sister told me to give you this."

Gordon soon turned aside across the fields, and having reached a point screened from observation he opened the letter and read as follows:

"I have received your letter. I have read it. But how could I listen to your proposal without becoming


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/256

238 false to my vows? And if you knew that I had proved false to what I held most dear and binding, how could you ever believe that I would be true to anything else? Ah, no! Should you unite yourself to one who for your sake had been faithless to the ideal of womanhood which she regarded as supreme, you would soon withdraw from her the very love that she had sacrificed even her hopes of Heaven to enjoy.

"But it seems possible that in writing to me you believe my vows no longer precious to my heart and sacred to my conscience. You are wrong. They are more dear to me at this moment than ever before, because at this moment, as never before, they give me a mournful admonition of my failure to exhibit to the world in my own life the beauty of their ineffable holiness. For had there not been something within me to lead you on—had I shown to you the sinless nature which it is their office to create—you would never have felt towards me as you do. You would no more have thought of loving me than of loving an angel of God.

"The least reparation I can make for my offense is to tell you that in offering me your love you offer me the cup of sacred humiliation, and that I thank you for reminding me of my duty, while I drain it to the dregs.

"After long deliberation I have written to tell you this; and if it be allowed me to make one request, I would entreat that you will never lay this sin of mine to the charge of my religion and my order.

"We shall never meet again. Although I may not listen to your proposal, it is allowed me to love you as one of the works of God. And since there are exalted women in the world who do not consecrate themselves to the Church, I shall pray that you may find one of


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/257

Rh these to walk by your side through life. I shall pray that she may be worthy of you; and perhaps you will teach her sometimes to pray for one who will always need her prayers.

"I only know that God orders our lives according to his goodness. My feet he set in one path of duty, yours in another, and he had separated us forever long before he allowed us to meet. If, therefore, having thus separated us, he yet brought us together only that we should thus know each other and then be parted, I can not believe that there was not in it some needed lesson for us both. At least, if he will deign to hear the ceaseless, fervent petition of one so erring, he will not leave you unhappy on account of that love for me, which in this world it will never be allowed me to return. Farewell!"

The first part of this letter awakened in Gordon keen remorse and a faltering of purpose, but the latter filled him with a joy that excluded every other feeling.

"She loves me!" he exclaimed; and, as though registering a vow, he added aloud, "And nothing—God help me!—nothing shall keep us apart."

Walking to a point of the landscape that commanded a view of the convent, he remained there while the twilight fell, revolving how he was to surmount the remaining barriers between them, for these now seemed hardly more than cobwebs to be brushed aside by his hand; and often, meanwhile, he looked towards the convent, as one might look longingly towards some forbidden shrine, which the coming night would enable him to approach.


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/258

240

A night for love it was. The great sun at setting had looked with steadfast eye at the convent standing lonely on its wide landscape, and had then thrown his final glance across the world towards the east; and the moon had quickly risen and hung about it the long silvery twilight of her heavenly watchfulness. The summer, too, which had been moving southward, now came slowly back, borne on warm airs that fanned the convent walls and sighed to its chaste lattices with the poetry of dead flowers and vanished songsters. But sighed in vain. With many a prayer, with many a cross on pure brow and shoulder and breast, with many a pious kiss of crucifix, the convent slept. Only some little novice, lying like a flushed figure of Sleep on a couch of snow, may have stirred to draw one sigh, as those zephyrs, toying with her warm hair, broke some earthly dream of too much tenderness. Or they may merely have cooled the feverish feet of a withered nun, who clasped her dry hands in ecstasy, as on her cavernous eyes there dawned a vision of the glories and rewards of Paradise. But no, not all slept. At an open window on the eastern side of the convent stood the sleep less one, looking out into the largeness of the night like one who is lost in the largeness of her sorrow.

Across the lawn, a little distance off, stood the church of the convent. The moonlight rested on it like a smile of peace, the elms blessed it with tireless arms, and from the zenith of the sky down to the horizon there rested on outstretched wings, rank above rank


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/259

Rh and pinion brushing pinion, a host of white, angelic cloud-shapes, as though guarding the sacred portal.

But she looked at it with timid yearning. Greater and greater had become the need to pour into some ear a confession and a prayer for pardon. Her peace was gone. She had been concealing her heart from the Mother Superior. She had sinned against her vows. She had impiously offended the Divine Mother. And to-day, after answering his letter in order that she might defend her religion, she had acknowledged to her heart that she loved him. But they would never meet again. To-morrow she would make a full confession of what had taken place. Beyond that miserable ordeal she dared not gaze into her own future.

Lost in the fears and sorrows of such thoughts, long she stood looking out into the night, stricken with a sense of alienation from human sympathy. She felt that she stood henceforth estranged from the entire convent—Mother Superior, novice, and nun—as an object of reproach, and of suffering into which no one of them could enter.

Sorer yet grew her need, and a little way across the lawn stood the church, peaceful in the moonlight. Ah, the divine pity! If only she might steal first alone to the shrine of her whom most she had offended, and to an ear gracious to sorrow make confession of her frailty. At length, overcome with this desire and gliding noiselessly out of the room, she passed down the moonlit hall, on each side of which the nuns were sleeping. She descended the stairway, took from the wall the key of the church, and then softly opening the door, stepped out into the night. For a moment she paused, icy and faint with physical fear; then, passing like a swift


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/260

242 shadow across the silvered lawn, she went round to the side entrance of the church, unlocked the door, and, entering quickly, locked herself inside. There she stood for some time with hands pressed tightly to her fluttering heart, until bodily agitation died away before the recollection of her mission; and there came upon her that calmness with which the soul enacts great tragedies. Then slowly, very slowly, hidden now, and now visible where the moonlight entered the long, gothic windows, she passed across the chancel towards the shrine of one whom ancestral faith had taught her to believe divine; and before the image of a Jewish woman—who herself in full humanity loved and married a carpenter nearly two thousand years ago, living beside him as blameless wife and becoming blameless mother to his children—this poor child, whose nature was unstained as snow on the mountain-peaks, poured out her prayer to be forgiven the sin of her love.

To the woman of the world, the approaches of whose nature are defended by the intricacies of willfulness and the barriers of deliberate reserve; to the woman of the world, who curbs and conceals that feeling to which she intends to yield herself in the end, it may seem incredible that there should have rooted itself so easily in the breast of one of her sex this flower of a fatal passion. But it should be remembered how unbefriended that bosom had been by any outpost of feminine self-consciousness; how exposed it was through very belief in its unearthly consecration; how like some unwatched vase that had long been collecting the sweet clews and rains of heaven, it had been silently filling with those unbidden intimations that are shed from above as the best gifts of womanhood. Moreover, her


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/261

Rh life was unspeakably isolate. In the monotony of its routine a trifling event became an epoch; a fresh impression stirred within the mind material for a chapter of history. Lifted far above commonplace psychology of the passions, however, was the planting and the growth of an emotion in a heart like hers.

Her prayer began. It began with the scene of her first meeting with him in the fields, for from that moment she fixed the origin of her unfaithfulness. Of the entire hidden life of poetic reverie and unsatisfied desires which she had been living before, her innocent soul took no account. Therefore, beginning with that afternoon, she passed in review the history of her thoughts and feelings. The moon outside, flooding the heavens with its beams, was not so intense a lamp as memory, now turned upon the recesses of her mind. Nothing escaped detection. His words, the scenes with him in the garden, in the field—his voice, looks, gestures—his anxiety and sympathy—his passionate letter—all were now vividly recalled, that they might be forgotten; and their influence confessed, that it might forever be renounced. Her conscience stood beside her love as though it were some great fast-growing deadly plant in her heart, with deep-twisted roots and strangling tendrils, each of which to the smallest fibre must be uptorn so that not a germ should be left.

But who can describe the prayer of such a soul! It is easy to ask to be rid of ignoble passions. They come upon us as momentary temptations and are abhorrent to our better selves; but of all tragedies enacted within the theatre of the human mind what one is so pitiable as that in which a pure being prays to be forgiven the one feeling of nature that is the revelation of


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/262

244 beauty, the secret of perfection, the solace of the world, and the condition of immortality?

The passing of such a tragedy scars the nature of the penitent like the passing of an age across a mountain rock. If there had lingered thus long on Sister Dolorosa's nature any upland of childhood snows, these vanished in that hour; if any vernal belt of maidenhood, it felt the hot breath of that experience of the world and of the human destiny which quickly ages whatever it does not destroy. So that while she prayed there seemed to rise from within her and take flight forever that spotless image of herself as she once had been, and in its place to stand the form of a woman, elder, altered, and set apart by sorrow.

At length her prayer ended and she rose. It had not brought her the peace that prayer brings to women; for the confession of her love before the very altar—the mere coming into audience with the Eternal to renounce it—had set upon it the seal of irrevocable truth. It is when the victim is led to the altar of sacrifice that it turns its piteous eyes upon the sacrificing hand and utters its poor dumb cry for life; and it was when Sister Dolorosa bared the breast of her humanity that it might be stabbed by the hand of her religion, that she, too, though attempting to bless the stroke, felt the last pangs of that deep thrust.

With such a wound she turned from the altar, walked with bowed head once more across the church, unlocked the door, stepped forth and locked it. The night had grown more tender. The host of seraphic cloud-forms had fled across the sky; and as she turned her eyes upward to the heavens, there looked down upon her from their serene, untroubled heights only the stars,


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/263

Rh that never falter or digress from their forewritten courses. The thought came to her that never henceforth should she look up to them without being reminded of how her own will had wandered from its orbit. The moon rained its steady beams upon the symbol of the sacred heart on her bosom, until it seemed to throb again with the agony of the crucifixion. Never again should she see it without the remembrance that her sin also had pierced it afresh.

With what loneliness that sin had surrounded her! As she had issued from the damp, chill atmosphere of the church, the warm airs of the south quickened within her long-sleeping memories; and with the yearning of stricken childhood she thought of her mother, to whom she had turned of yore for sympathy; but that mother's bosom was now a mound of dust. She looked across the lawn towards the convent where the Mother Superior and the nuns were sleeping. To-morrow she would stand among them a greater alien than any stranger. No; she was alone; among the millions of human beings on the earth of God there was not one on whose heart she could have rested her own. Not one save him–him—whose love had broken down all barriers that it might reach and infold her. And him she had repelled. A joy, new and indescribable, leaped within her that for him and not for another she suffered and was bound in this tragedy of her fall.

Slowly she took her way along the side of the church towards the front entrance, from which a paved walk led to the convent building. She reached the corner, she turned, and then she paused as one might pause who had come upon the beloved dead, returned to life.

For he was sitting on the steps of the church, leaning


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/264

246 against one of the pillars, his face lifted upward so that the moonlight fell upon it. She had no time to turn back before he saw her. With a low cry of surprise and joy he sprang up and followed along the side of the church; for she had begun to retrace her steps to the door, to lock herself inside. When he came up beside her, she paused. Both were trembling; but when he saw the look of suffering on her face, acting upon the impulse which had always impelled him to stand between her and unhappiness, he now took both of her hands.

"Pauline!"

He spoke with all the pleading love, all the depth of nature, that was in him.

She had attempted to withdraw her hands; but at the sound of that once-familiar name, she suddenly bowed her head as the wave of memories and emotions passed over her; then he quickly put his arms around her, drew her to him, and bent down and kissed her.

For hours there lasted an interview, during which he, with the delirium of hope, she with the delirium of despair, drained at their young lips that cup of life which is full of the first confession of love.

In recollections so overwhelming did this meeting leave Gordon on the next morning, that he was unmindful of everything beside; and among the consequences of absent-mindedness was the wound that he gave himself by the careless handling of his gun.

When Ezra had set out for the convent that morning


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/265

Rh he had walked with him, saying that he would go to the station for a daily paper, but chiefly wishing to escape the house and be alone. They had reached in the fields a rotting fence, on each side of which grew briers and underwood. He had expected to climb this fence, and as he stood beside it speaking a few parting words to Ezra he absently thrust his gun between two of the lower rails, not noticing that the lock was sprung. Caught in the brush on the other side, it was discharged, making a wound in his left leg a little below the thigh. He turned to a deadly paleness, looked at Ezra with that stunned, bewildered expression seen in the faces of those who receive a wound, and fell.

By main strength the old man lifted and bore him to the house and hurried off to the station, near which the neighborhood physician and surgeon lived. But the latter was away from home; several hours passed before he came; the means taken to stop the hemorrhage had been ineffectual; the loss of blood had been very great; certain foreign matter had been carried into the wound; the professional treatment was unskilful; and septic fever followed, so that for many days his life hung upon a little chance. But convalescence came at last, and with it days of clear, calm thinking. For he had not allowed news of his accident to be sent home or to his friends; and except the old couple, the doctor, and the nurse whom the latter had secured, he had no company but his thoughts.

No tidings had come to him of Sister Dolorosa since his accident; and nothing had intervened to remove that sad image of her which had haunted him through fever and phantasy and dream since the night of their final interview. For it was then that he had first


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/266

248 in how pitiless a tragedy her life had become entangled, and how conscience may fail to govern a woman's heart in denying her the right to love, but may still govern her actions in forbidding her to marry. To plead with her had been to wound only the more deeply a nature that accepted even this pleading as a further proof of its own disloyalty, and was forced by it into a state of more poignant humiliation. What wonder, therefore, if there had been opened in his mind from that hour a certain wound which grew deeper and deeper, until, by comparison, his real wound seemed painless and insignificant.

Nevertheless, it is true that during this interview he had not been able to accept her decision as irreversible. The spell of her presence over him was too complete; even his wish to rescue her from a lot, henceforth unhappier still, too urgent; so that in parting he had clung to the secret hope that little by little he might change her conscience, which now interposed the only obstacle between them.

Even the next day, when he had been wounded and life was rapidly flowing from him, and earthly ties seemed soon to be snapped, he had thought only of this tie, new and sacred, and had written to her. Poor boy!—he had written, as with his heart's blood, his brief, pathetic appeal that she would come and be united to him before he died. In all ages of the world there have been persons, simple in nature and simple in their faith in another life, who have forgotten everything else in the last hour but the supreme wish to grapple to them those they love, for eternity, and at whatever cost. Such simplicity of nature and faith belonged to him; for although in Kentucky the unrest


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/267

Rh of the century touching belief in the supernatural, and the many phases by which this expresses itself, are not, unknown, they had never affected him. He believed as his fathers had believed, that to be united in this world in any relation is to be united in that relation, mysteriously changed yet mysteriously the same, in an other.

But this letter had never been sent. There had been no one to take it at the time; and when Ezra returned with the physician he had fainted away from loss of blood.

Then had followed the dressing of the wound, days of fever and unconsciousness, and then the assurance that he would get well. Thus, nearly a month had passed, and for him a great change had come over the face of nature and the light of the world. With that preternatural calm of mind which only an invalid or a passionless philosopher ever obtains, he now looked back upon an episode which thus acquired fictitious remoteness. So weak that he could scarcely lift his head from his pillow, there left his heart the keen, joyous sense of human ties and pursuits. He lost the key to the motives and forces of his own character. But it is often the natural result of such illness that while the springs of feeling seem to dry up. the conscience remains sensitive, or even burns more brightly, as a star through a rarer atmosphere. So that, lying thus in the poor farm-house during dreary days, with his life half-gone out of him and with only the sad image of her always before his eyes, he could think of nothing but his cruel folly in having broken in upon her peace; for perfect peace of some sort she must have had in comparison with what was now left her.


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/268

250 Beneath his pillow he kept her letter, and as he often read it over he asked himself how he could ever have hoped to change the conscience which had inspired such a letter as that. If her heart belonged to him, did not her soul belong to her religion; and if one or the other must give way, could it be doubtful with such a nature as hers which would come out victorious? Thus he said to himself that any further attempt to see her could but result in greater suffering to them both, and that nothing was left him but what she herself had urged—to go away and resign her to a life, from which he had too late found out that she could never be divorced.

As soon as he had come to this decision, he began to think of her as belonging only to his past. The entire episode became a thing of memory and irreparable incompleteness; and with the conviction that she was lost to him her image passed into that serene, reverential sanctuary of our common nature, where all the highest that we have grasped at and missed, and all the beauty that we have loved and lost, take the forms of statues around dim walls and look down upon us in mournful, never-changing perfection.

As he lay one morning revolving his altered purpose, Ezra came quietly into the room and took from a table near the foot of the bed a waiter on which were a jelly-glass and a napkin.

"She said I'd better take these back this morning," he observed, looking at Gordon for his approval, and motioning with his head towards that quarter of the house where Martha was supposed to be.

"Wait awhile, will you, Ezra?" he replied, looking at the old man with the dark, quiet eye of an invalid. "I


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/269

Rh think I ought to write a few lines this morning to thank them for their kindness. Come back in an hour, will you?"

The things had been sent from the convent; for, from the time that news had reached the Mother Superior of the accident of the young stranger who had visited the convent some days before, there had regularly come to him delicate attentions which could not have been supplied at the farm-house. He often asked himself whether they were not inspired by her; and he thought that when the time came for him to write his thanks, he would put into the expression of them some thing that would be understood by her alone—something that would stand for gratitude and a farewell.

When Ezra left the room, with the thought of now doing this another thought came unexpectedly to him. By the side of the bed there stood a small table on which were writing materials and a few books that had been taken from his valise. He stretched out his hand and opening one of them took from it a letter which bore the address, "Sister Dolorosa." It contained those appealing lines that he had written her on the day of his accident; and with calm, curious sadness he now read them over and over, as though they had never come from him. From the mere monotony of this exercise sleep overtook him, and he had scarcely restored the letter to the envelope and laid it back on the table before his eyelids closed.

While he still lay asleep, Ezra came quietly into the room again, and took up the waiter with the jelly-glass and the napkin. Then he looked around for the letter that he was to take. He was accustomed to carry Gordon's letters to the station, and his eye now rested on


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/270

252 the table where they were always to be found. Seeing one on it, he walked across, took it up and read the address, "Sister Dolorosa," hesitated, glanced at Gordon's closed eyes, and then, with an intelligent nod to signify that he could understand without further instruction, he left the room and set out briskly for the convent.

Sister Dolorosa was at the cistern filling a bucket with water when he came up and, handing her the letter, passed on to the convent kitchen. She looked at it with indifference; then she opened and read it; and then in an instant everything whirled before her eyes, and in her ears the water sounded loud as it dropped from the chain back into the cistern. And then she was gone—gone with a light, rapid step, down the avenue of elms, through the gate, across the meadows, out into the fields bucket and cistern, Mother Superior and sisterhood, vows and martyrs, zeal of Carmelite, passion of Christ, all forgotten.

When, nearly a month before, news had reached the Mother Superior of the young stranger's accident, in accordance with the rule which excludes from the convent worldly affairs, she had not made it known except to those who were to aid in carrying out her kindly plans for him. To Sister Dolorosa, therefore, the accident had just occurred, and now—now as she hastened to him—he was dying.

During the intervening weeks she had undergone by insensible degrees a deterioration of nature. Prayer had not passed her lips. She believed that she had no right to pray. Nor had she confessed. From such a confession as she had now to make, certain new-born instincts of womanhood bade her shrink more deeply


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/271

Rh into the privacy of her own being. And therefore she had become more scrupulous, if possible, of outward duties, that no one might be led to discover the paralysis of her spiritual life. But there was that change in her which soon drew attention; and thenceforth, in order to hide her heart, she began to practice with the Mother Superior little acts of self-concealment and evasion, and by-and-by other little acts of pretense and feigning, until—God pity her!—being most sorely pressed by questions, when sometimes she would be found in tears or sitting listless with her hands in her lap like one who is under the spell of mournful phantasies, these became other little acts of positive deception. But for each of them remorse preyed upon her the more ruthlessly, so that she grew thin and faded, with a shadow of fear darkening always her evasive eyes.

What most held her apart, and most she deemed put upon her the angry ban of Heaven, was the consciousness that she still loved him, and that she was even bound to him the more inseparably since the night of their last meeting. For it was then that emotions had been awakened which drew her to him in ways that love alone could not have done. These emotions had their source in the belief that she owed him reparation for the disappointment which she had brought upon his life. The recollection of his face when she had denied him hope rose in constant reproach before her; and since she held herself blamable that he had loved her, she took the whole responsibility of his unhappiness.

It was this sense of having wronged him that cleft even conscience in her and left her struggling. But how to undo the wrong—this she vainly pondered; for


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/272

254 he was gone, bearing away into his life the burden of enticed and baffled hope.

On the morning when she was at the cistern—for the Sisters of the Order have among them such interchange of manual offices—if, as she read the letter that Ezra gave her, any one motive stood out clear in the stress of that terrible moment, it was, that having been false to other duties she might at least be true to this. She felt but one desire—to atone to him by any sacrifice of herself that would make his death more peaceful. Beyond this everything was void and dark within her as she hurried on, except the consciousness that by this act she separated herself from her Order and terminated her religious life in utter failure and disgrace.

The light, rapid step with which she had started soon brought her across the fields. As she drew near the house, Martha, who had caught sight of her figure through the window, made haste to the door and stood awaiting her. Sister Dolorosa merely approached and said:

"Where is he?"

For a moment the old woman did not answer. Then she pointed to a door at the opposite end of the porch, and with a sparkle of peculiar pleasure in her eyes she saw Sister Dolorosa cross and enter it. A little while longer she stood, watching the key-hole furtively, but then went back to the fireside, where she sat upright and motionless with the red flannel pushed back from her listening ears.

The room was dimly lighted through half-closed shutters. Gordon lay asleep near the edge of the bed, with his face turned towards the door. It might well have been thought the face of one dying. Her eyes rested


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/273

Rh on it a moment, and then with a stifled sob and moan she glided across the room and sank on her knees at the bedside. In the utter self-forgetfulness of her remorse, pity, and love, she put one arm around his neck, she buried her face close beside his.

He had awaked, bewildered, as he saw her coming towards him. He now took her arm from around his neck, pressed her hand again and again to his lips, and then laying it on his heart crossed his arms over it, letting one of his hands rest on her head. For a little while he could not trust himself to speak; his love threatened to overmaster his self-renunciation. But then, not knowing why she had come unless from some great sympathy for his sufferings, or perhaps to see him once more since he was now soon to go away, and not understanding any cause for her distress but the tragedy in which he had entangled her life—feeling only sorrow for her sorrow and wishing only by means of his last words to help her back to such peace as she still might win, he said to her with immeasurable gentleness:

"I thought you would never come! I thought I should have to go away without seeing you again! They tell me it is not yet a month since the accident, but it seems to me so long—a lifetime! I have lain here day after day thinking it over, and I see things differently now—so differently! That is why I wanted to see you once more. I wanted you to understand that I felt you had done right in refusing—in refusing to marry me. I wanted to ask you never to blame yourself for what has happened—never to let any thought of having made me unhappy add to the sorrow of your life. It is my fault, not yours. But I meant


text:
Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/274

256 it—God knows, I meant it!—for the happiness of us both! I believed that your life was not suited to you I meant to make you happy! But since you cannot give up your life, I have only been unkind. And since you think it wrong to give it up, I am glad that you are so true to it! If you must live it, Heaven only knows how glad I am that you will live it heroically. And Heaven keep me equally true to the duty in mine, that I also shall not fail in it! If we never meet again, we can always think of each other as living true to ourselves and to one another. Don't deny me this! Let me believe that your thoughts and prayers will always follow me. Even your vows will not deny me this! It will always keep us near each other, and it will bring us together where they cannot separate us."

He had spoken with entire repression of himself, in the slow voice of an invalid, and on the stillness of the room each word had fallen with hard distinctness. But now, with the thought of losing her, by a painful effort he moved closer to the edge of the bed, put his arms around her neck, drew her face against his own, and continued:

"But do not think it is easy to tell you this! Do not think it is easy to give you up! Do not think that I do not love you! Oh Pauline—not in another life, but in this—in this!" He could say no more; and out of his physical weakness tears rose to his eyes and fell drop by drop upon her veil.