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 W-shaped Chair of the unfortunate Queen Cassiopeia who sits in the Milky Way. Aratus, the Greek poet, claims that the sparkles of light which twinkle in this vicinity are particles of dust which the hero stirred up in his haste to rescue Andromeda.

What a charming picture to impress upon the sky!

But now in the twentieth century we analyze this dust which the ancients claim their Perseus raised—and what do we find? Every particle in that misty path is a mighty sun, suspended amidst multitudes of other mighty suns, massed in one long strip of splendor across the sky. For (calmly speaking) the Milky Way is a zone of innumerable stars so very distant that the individual lights are blended in one continuous band of silvery haze.

Against this glorious path stands Perseus, sword upraised among its stars, while entangled in the fearful locks of the Gorgon Medusa glows Algol, the "Blinking Demon." This so-called demon-star actually winks, that is, it indulges in one long, slow wink at intervals of exactly 2 days, 20 hours and 49 minutes. Such a phenomenon used to be a source of terror to the Arabs who feared it might be predictive of some disaster.

Although Perseus and the Gorgon are figments of fancy the wink of this amazing star is not imaginary by any means, for its light actually drops from the 2nd magnitude to the 4th magnitude and stays thus, half darkened, for about 20 minutes. Then it begins to slowly brighten and in the course of the next three hours regains its former brilliancy. In the clear air of the desert where the large stars burn like fire-brands, this change in brightness is very noticeable. Since it was not understood, it seemed terrifying and the superstitious Arabs imagined it to be the eye of a demon. It seemed a fitting star for the ancient Greeks to place on the

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312 entire day outside the house; and when he came home the maid informed him that Anna Arkadyevna had a headache, and begged him not to disturb her.

before had they let a day end with a quarrel unsettled. This was the first time. This was not a mere quarrel; it was evidently the avowal of permanent coldness. How was it possible for him to look at her as he had done when he came into her room after his document? how could he look at her, and see that her heart was full of despair, and then go out with a calm, indifferent face? He had not only grown cold to her, but he hated her, because he loved some other woman. This was clear. And, as she recalled all the cruel words which he had said to her, Anna began to imagine also the words which she was certain he would like to say to her and might say, and she grew more and more irritated.

"I will not keep you," she imagined him saying. "You may go wherever you please. As you don't care to be divorced from your husband, you probably intend to go back to him. If you want money, I will give it to you. How many rubles do you want?"

All these insulting words which the cruel man might say were said merely in her imagination, but she could not forgive him any more than if he had really said them.

"But did he not swear to me only yesterday that he loved me? Is he not a sincere and honest man?" she said to herself a moment afterward. "Have I not been in despair several times before, all for nothing?"

She passed the entire day, except two hours during which she made a visit to her protégés, the Wilsons, in alternate doubt and hope. Was all at an end? Was there any chance of a reconciliation? Should she leave him then and there, or should she wait and see him once again? She waited for him all day; and in the eve

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Rh ning she went to her room, telling Annushka to say that she had a headache.

"If he comes in spite of that, it will show that he loves me still; if not, it is over, and I shall make up my mind what there is for me to do."....

Late in the evening she heard his carriage-wheels on the pavement, his ring, and his steps, and his colloquy with the maid; he believed what he was told, he did not care to make any further inquiries, and he went to his room. Evidently all was at an end. And Death as the only means of establishing a love for her in his heart, of punishing him, and of winning the victory in the struggle which the evil spirit that had possession of her soul was waging with him, clearly, vividly, presented itself before her.

Now everything was a matter of indifference—whether they went to the country or not, whether she procured the divorce or not—it was unnecessary; the one essential thing was to punish him.

When she poured out her usual dose of opium, and it came over her that if she swallowed all that was in the vial she would die, it seemed so easy and simple that she felt a real joy in imagining how he would mourn, repent, and love her when it was too late. She lay on her bed with open eyes, and watched the dying candle-light on the molded cornice of the ceiling mingle with the shadow of the screen which divided the room; she vividly pictured to herself how he would think when she was no more, when she was only a memory. "How could I speak to her such cruel words?" He would say to himself. "How could I leave her without saying anything at all? and now she is no more; she has left us forever! She is there ...."

Suddenly the shadow of the screen seemed to waver and cover the whole cornice, the whole ceiling; other shadows from the other sides joined in with it; for an instant they seemed to be running, then with new rapidity they trembled, melted together, and all became dark.

"Death!" thought she; and such a great terror seized upon her, that for a long time she did not know where

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314 she was; and it was long before her trembling hands could find the matches, in order to light another candle in place of the one that had burned down and gone out.

"No, no! anything .... only to live! I love him, and he loves me; these dreadful days will go by!" she said to herself, feeling that tears of joy poured down her cheeks at her return to life. And to escape her terror she fled to Vronsky's library.

He was in his library, soundly sleeping. She went to him, and, holding the candle above his face, looked at him a long time. Now, as he slept, she felt such love for him, that at the sight of him she could not refrain from tears of tenderness; but she knew that, if he woke he would look at her with a cold, self-justifying look, and that before she spoke a word of her love she would not be able to resist the temptation of proving to him how wrong he was.

Without waking him she went back to her room; and, after a second dose of opium, she fell into a heavy sleep which lasted till morning, and all the time she was conscious of herself.

Toward morning she had the frightful nightmare which she had experienced several times even before her liaison with Vronsky. She saw a little old man, with unkempt beard, doing something, bending over a gourd, and muttering unintelligible French words; and, as always when she had this nightmare, and therein lay the horror of the dream, she felt that the little old man paid no heed to her, but did this horrible something in the gourd over her head. She awoke in a cold perspiration.

When she got up, the events of the day before seemed enveloped in mist.

"There was a quarrel. It has happened several times before. I said I had a headache, and he didn't come to see me. That is all. To-morrow we shall go away. I must see him, and get ready for our departure," she said to herself; and, knowing that he was in his library, she started to go to him.

But, in crossing the drawing-room, her attention was

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Rh arrested by the sound of a carriage stopping, and she looked out of the window and saw a carriage, from the window of which a young girl in a light hat was putting out her head, and giving orders to the footman, who was at the door-bell. After a colloquy in the vestibule, some one came up-stairs, and Anna heard Vronsky's steps in the room next the drawing-room. Then he ran swiftly down-stairs. Anna looked out again, and saw him go out to the door-steps bare-headed, and approach the carriage. The young girl in the lilac-colored hat handed him a package. Vronsky smiled as he spoke to her. The carriage drove away, and Vronsky came quickly up-stairs again.

The mist which enwrapped everything in Anna's soul suddenly cleared away. The feelings of the day before tore her anguished heart more cruelly than ever. She now could not understand how she could have so far debased herself as to stay a single day under his roof. She went to his library, to acquaint him with the resolution that she had taken.

"The Princess Sorokin and her daughter have brought me the money and papers from maman. I could not get them yesterday. How is your headache? better?" he said quietly, seeming not to notice the gloomy and solemn expression of Anna's face.

She did not reply; but, standing in the middle of the room, she looked fixedly at him. He glanced at her for an instant, his brows contracted, and he continued to read his letter. Without speaking, Anna turned slowly about, and left the room. He might yet detain her; but she had reached the door. He said not a word, the only sound heard was the rustling of the sheet of paper.

"Oh! by the way," he exclaimed, just as she was on the threshold, "do we really go to-morrow?"

"You, but not I," answered she, turning round on him.

"Anna, it is impossible to live in this way."

"You, not I," she repeated.

"It's becoming intolerable!"

"You .... you will be sorry for this," said she; and she went out.

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316 Frightened at the despairing tone with which she spoke those last words, he sprang up and started to follow her; but, on reflection, he seated himself again, and, firmly clenching his teeth, he frowned. That unbecoming threat, as he termed it, irritated him. "I have tried every means," he said to himself: "the only thing left is to pay no attention;" and he made up his mind to go to the city and to his mother's again, to have her sign a deed,.

Anna heard the sound of his steps in his library and the dining-room. He stopped at the drawing-room. But he did not come to her: he only gave some directions about sending the stallion to Voitof. Then she heard the calash drive to the entrance, a door opened and Vronsky went out. Then he came back into the vestibule again and some one ran up-stairs. It was his valet, who was sent to get a pair of forgotten gloves. She went to the window, and saw Vronsky take his gloves, then touch the coachman's back, and say some words to him; and then, without glancing at the window, he sat down as usual, in the carriage, crossing one leg over the other. And, putting on the gloves, he turned the corner, and disappeared from Anna's sight.

is gone. It's all over," said Anna to herself, as she stood at the window; and the impression of blackness which she had felt in the night at the dying candle and that of the nightmare blending in one, filled her heart with chill horror. "No, I cannot endure this," she cried, and, crossing the room, she rang the bell violently. She was so afraid to stay alone, that, without waiting, she went to meet the servant.

"Find out where the count has gone."

The man replied that he had gone to the stables. "He left word that the carriage would return immediately if you wished to go out."

"Very well. Wait, I am going to write a note, send Mikhaïl with it to the stables. Have him hurry."

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Rh She sat down and wrote:—

She sealed the note, and gave it to the servant; and, in her fear of being alone, she went to the nursery.

"Why, he is not the same as he was. Where are his blue eyes, and his pretty, timid smile?" was her first thought when she saw the plump and rosy little girl, with her dark curly hair, instead of Serozha, whom, in the confusion of her thoughts, she had expected to see.

The little girl was seated at the table, noisily tapping on it with a glass stopper. She looked unintelligently at her mother with two dark, currant-colored eyes. Answering the English nurse that she was well, and expected to go to the country the next day, Anna sat down beside the little girl, and began to spin the stopper from the carafe in front of her. The motion of the child's brows and her hearty laugh recalled Vronsky so vividly that Anna, choking down her sobs, rose suddenly, and hurried from the room.

"Is it possible that all is over? No, it cannot be," thought she. "He will return. But how can he explain that smile of his and his animation, after he spoke with her? But even if he doesn't explain it, I shall believe him; if I do not believe, there is only one thing left, and that I do not want."

She looked at her watch. Twelve minutes had gone by.

"Now he must have received my note, and must come back in ten minutes. And what if he should n't come back? No, but that's impossible. He must not find me with red eyes; I'll go and bathe my face. There, there! Have I brushed my hair yet?" She could not remember. She put her hands to her head. "Yes, I brushed my hair, but I really don't remember when it was." She actually did not believe that her hands told her truly, and she went to the pier-glass to see. Her hair was properly arranged, but she could not remember anything about it.

"Who is this?" she asked herself, as she caught sight

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318 of a glowing face and strangely brilliant eyes gazing at her from the mirror. "Yes, it is I." And she suddenly seemed to feel his kisses; and she shivered, and shrugged her shoulders. Then she put her hand to her lips, and kissed it. "It must be that I am going out of my mind; "and she fled to her room, which Annushka was putting in order.

"Annushka," she said, as she stood before the maid, not knowing what to say.

"Will you go to Darya Aleksandrovna's?" said the maid, as if reading her thoughts.

"To Darya Aleksandrovna's? Yes, I will go there. Fifteen minutes to go, fifteen to come back. He ought to be here." She looked at her watch. "Oh! how could he leave me in such a condition? How can he live, and not be at peace with me?" She went to the window, and looked out into the street; perhaps she had made a mistake in calculating, and she began over again to count the minutes since he left.

Just as she was about going to consult the great clock, so as to verify hers, a carriage stopped before the door. It was the count's calash, but no one came up-stairs, and she heard voices in the vestibule. It was the messenger, who came back in the calash. She hurried down to him.

"They were too late for the count. He had gone to the Nizhegorodsky railway station."

"What is the matter? what is it?" she asked, addressing the ruddy, jolly Mikhaïl, who handed her back the note. Oh, yes; he did not receive it, she remembered.

"Go with this note to the Countess Vronsky's in the country, you understand? and bring an answer back to me immediately!"

"But what shall I do?" she thought "Yes, I will go to see Dolly, to be sure, or else I shall go out of my mind. Ah! I might telegraph!" And she wrote the following despatch:—

Having sent the telegram, she went and dressed; and then, with her hat on, she again looked at the stout,

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Rh good-natured Annushka, whose little, gentle gray eyes were full of sympathy.

"Annushka, my dear, what am I to do?" murmured she, dropping into an arm-chair with a sob.

"You mustn't excite yourself so, Anna Arkadyevna. Go out for a drive; that will divert you. These things will happen," said the maid.

"Yes, I am going out," said Anna, collecting her thoughts, and rising. "If a despatch comes while I am gone, send it to Darya Aleksandrovna's. Or ....no, I will come back—I must keep from thinking. I must do something, and go out, and, above all, get out of this house," thought she, listening, with alarm, to the wild beating of her heart. She hastened out and got into the calash.

"Where do you wish to go?" asked Piotr, just before he took his seat on the box.

"To Znamenko, to the Oblonskys'."

weather was clear. A fine, thick rain had fallen all the morning, but now it had just cleared off. The roofs and flagstones and harnesses and the metal-work of the carriages glittered in the May sunshine. It was three o'clock, the liveliest time in the streets.

Sitting in the corner of the comfortable calash, which swung easily on its elastic springs as it rolled swiftly along, drawn by a pair of grays, Anna, soothed by the monotonous rumble of the wheels and the hurrying impressions that she received in the fresh, pure air, reviewed the events of the past few days, and her situation seemed entirely different from what it had been at home. Now, the idea of death did not frighten her so much, and death itself did not seem to her so inevitable. Now she blamed herself for the humiliation to which she had stooped.

"I begged him to forgive me. I bent before him. I accused myself. Why did I? Can't I live without him?"

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XXIV.]

And thereto answerd Hagen: “See lest ye take amiss

The words that I have spoken, howe’er ye do in this.

I give you faithful counsel: as ye regard your life,

Go well-arm’d to the Hun-folk, as if for battle-strife.

“Will ye not be dissuaded, so send ye for your men,

The best that ye can muster or any way can gain;

And from them all I’ll choose ye a thousand warriors good:

So may ye fear no evil from angry Kriemhild’s mood.”

“That rede I’ll gladly follow,” the king in answer said.

Then sent he heralds riding, who through his kingdom sped.

And so they brought the warriors, three thousand men or more.

They dreamt not of the evil that lay for them in store.

All through the lands of Gunther right joyously they rode.

On every man a charger and raiment were bestow’d—

Of those who were to journey away from Burgundy.

A goodly number follow’d the king right willingly.

Then Hagen, lord of Tronjé, his brother Dankwart bade

The four score knights who served them unto the Rhine to lead.

They came in knightly order; with arms and wearing gear

Within King Gunther’s borders right soon did they appear.

Now came the gallant Volker,— a high-born minstrel he,—

To join with thirty liegemen the royal company.

Such splendid raiment had they, a king had worn it well.

That he would ride to Hunsland, to Gunther bade he tell.


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320 And, leaving this question unanswered, she began to read the sign-boards mechanically.

"Kontor i sklad. Zubnoï Vratch —Yes, I will tell Dolly all about it. She does not love Vronsky. It will be hard, shameful, .... but I will confess everything. She loves me. I will follow her advice. I will not allow him to treat me like a child. Philoppof—Kalatchi; they say they send those loaves as far as Petersburg. The water at Moscow is so good; ah! the wells of Muitishchensky!"

And she remembered how long, long ago, when she was seventeen, she had gone with her aunt to the monastery of Troïtsa.

"They traveled with horses in those days. Was it really I, with the red hands? How many things which seemed then beautiful and unattainable are worthless to me now! What I was then, is passed forever beyond recall! And ages could not bring me back. Would I have believed then that I could have fallen into such debasement? .... How proud and self-satisfied he will be when he reads my note! But I will tell him. .... How disagreeable this paint smells! Why are they always painting and building? Modui i uborui. Fashionable Dressmaker," she read.

A man bowed to her; it was Annushka's husband.

"Our parasites, as Vronsky says. Ours? Why ours? Ah, if one could tear out the past by the root! But that's impossible; one can only avoid thinking about it. And I do that."

And yet, here she recalled her past with Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, and how she had driven him out of her memory.

"Dolly will think that I am leaving the second husband, and that I am, therefore, really bad. Do I want to be good? I cannot." .... And she felt the tears com-

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252

Now who was this same Volker I fain would let you know:

He was of noble lineage; to him did fealty owe

In the Burgundian country, full many a noble knight.

Because he play’d the fiddle he was the Minstrel hight.

Then Hagen chose the thousand: they were to him well-known;

And what in hard-fought battles their strength of hand had done,

And all they e’er had ventured, that had he seen full well.

No man of aught save valour in all their deeds could tell.

The envoys of Kriemhilda were sore discomfited,

For they of both their rulers the wrath began to dread;

And leave they daily sought for, that they might thence begone.

But Hagen would not grant it: through cunning that was done.

He said unto his masters: “We must be on our guard

Lest we to go allow them, before we are prepared

Within a week thereafter to Etzel’s land to go.

If any ill-will bear us, thus shall we better know.

“So shall not Dame Kriemhilda be taking heed hereto,

That any, by her counsel, should evil to us do.

And if it be her purpose her own may be the pain:

With us to Hunsland take we so many chosen men.”

Their bucklers, then, and saddles, and all of such like gear

As they to Etzel’s country had in their minds to bear,

By many valiant liegemen for use were ready made.

The envoys of Kriemhilda were unto Gunther bade.


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Rh ing. And, seeing two happy young girls going by, she fell to wondering why they were smiling at each other. "Probably about love. They don't know how sad and wretched it is. .... The boulevards and the children! There are three little boys, playing horse. Serozha! my little Serozha. I shall lose all. I shall never have him again. .... Well, if he does not come back, all is indeed lost. Perhaps he missed the train, and has already reached home. Do I wish to humiliate myself still more?" she said, reproaching herself for her weakness. "No, I'm going to Dolly's. I shall say to her, 'I am unhappy, I am suffering; I deserve it; but I am so unhappy, help me!' Oh, these horses, this calash! how I hate to use them! they are his. I will never see them again!"

While thinking over what she should say to Dolly, and deliberately torturing her heart, she reached the house, and went up the steps.

"Is there any one here?" she asked, in the anteroom.

"Katerina Aleksandrovna Levina," answered the servant.

"Kitty, the same Kitty with whom Vronsky was once in love," thought Anna; "and he thinks of her with love, and is sorry that he did not marry her; and he thinks of me with hate, and is sorry that he ever met me.

When Anna arrived, the two sisters were talking over the subject of feeding babies. Dolly went alone to the drawing-room to receive the guest that had come to disturb their conversation.

"You have n't gone away yet? I was just going to your house," said Dolly, "I have a letter from Stiva to-day."

"We had a despatch," answered Anna, glancing round to see if Kitty was coming.

"He writes that he does not understand what Alekseï Aleksandrovitch requires, but that he will not come away till he has a definite answer."

"I thought you had company. May I read the letter?"

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Rh "Go on where you come from, nigger; we don't allow no tramps here!"

He came forward threateningly, as if to drive the old man away.

T IS doubtful if Black Cunjer ever had the slightest intention of coming up the path from the road. Certainly he did not quicken his lagging pace, nor notice the foreman or the trembling group of negroes.

There was about his unhurried advance a certain dignity, despite his tattered garments and shuffling gait. He came straight forward until he was opposite the shed and hardly ten feet away. The firelight shone redly on his dusky features as he passed. Oberman approached swaggeringly.

Then Black Cunjer looked up, his blank eyes fixed for a moment upon the mottled countenance of the foreman. Without a word, he turned into the underbrush and headed toward the uncut woods. In another moment the night and the mist had hidden him from the straining eyes.

A breath of relief escaped the negroes, like a long-drawn sigh of the pine branches above their heads. Oberman moved-nearer the fire, and gave a thick laugh.

"Now you see it's all your tom-fool notions about 'tricks' and 'cunjer.' I ain't hurt—am I?"

He rubbed his hairy hands together as if greatly elated.

"He darsn’t harm none of you while you're working for me! I could twist him up like a piece of paper—that old nigger—huh—" he snapped his fingers. "He knows it, too, and if he ever gets the bunch, of you locoed again—I'm going to his darn shack, you are all so 'fraid of—and fix him, for good!"

The negroes gazed in silent awe at the huge hands that gripped together at the last words. It was rumored among the workmen that Oberman had killed a man "out yonder" with those hands.

After some bottles were handed around a more cheerful spirit animated the group. Tom announced, that he wasn't afraid of that old Cunjer, anyhow, that he'd been "puttin' on" all the while.

"Yass, niggers, I's goin' to chop down dat crap o' pines t'morrow mawnin'. Mis; Oberman is right, money look good ter me. Who gwine foller?"

Several volunteered, and Oberman promised to double every man's pay the moment they cut the last tree.

So with a general undercurrent of good-fellowship, the fire was banked, and the camp turned in for the night.

BERMAN watched the woodcutters leave at dawn.

When they were out of sight he turned, a glitter in his small eyes, to Ed Parker, the white man who helped him run the sawmill.

"Niggers is just like other hands—they got to be treated rough to learn 'em sense; when they get a real man to boss 'em"—he slapped his thigh jocosely—"they'll come under all right! This hoodoo stuff"—he spat, sneering,—"makes me tired."

"Well, I hopes we finish this job on time. Big money in it if we do—and hell to pay if we don't," Ed remarked.

Sundown came, without the gang. Oberman stopped work, and walked about impatiently. Presently, from the edge of the woods, he spied the two white laborers returning.

Rushing forward, he demanded, with many oaths, where the negroes were. They related briefly that while they were measuring the first lot of trees, they heard a cry from the negroes, and turned to see them running headlong from the pines. After following them to their homes miles away, the white men learned that Black Cunjer had appeared to the group and told them those were sacred trees, and if they cut down so much as one other, he would set his mark on them and their children.

Entreaties—extra money—threats proved vain. Nothing on earth could induce those negroes to return to the neighborhood of Black Cunjer.

When Oberman heard this story, even the rough laborers shrank from the blasphemy that poured from his lips. His sense of power, swollen the preceding night, his confident boasts of this very day—served to lash his fury to madness. He had been fooled, mocked at, by a miserable old scarecrow of a creature.

Well, Hock Oberman would show them—he'd give these niggers a lesson they'd never forget!

With this threat, he started off on a run toward the foot-path leading into the pines. The men began half-heartedly to follow, but they were all dead tired, and soon gave up the attempt.

Oberman ran deeper and deeper into the woods; his breath came in gasps, and sweat poured from his body. He slowed his pace to a walk, but still pushed ahead, heedless of the sheet lightning and the muttering thunder.

Just before the last bit of daylight faded, he reached the cabin, and with his clenched fist struck the sagging door.

It opened soundlessly, and like a shadow Black Cunjer rose from the threshold.

ITH a volley of oaths, Oberman demanded why he had sent his workmen away—when he would get them back—and ended by threatening the old negro's life unless he had every man in place by the next morning.

During this tirade, Black Cunjer spoke not a syllable, his expressionless eyes staring into the distorted face before him with a curious, unseeing gaze. This silence and impassivity stirred Oberman’s resentment as no words could have done.

As he stepped up on the log threshold, a sharp exclamation tore through his lips, and he moved aside so quickly as to lose his balance. But, recovering himself, his rage ten times greater, he seized the ancient negro by the back of his neck and shook him until the shrunken black head rolled from side to side—then released him with a cruel twist.

Black Cunjer’s head struck with powerful force against the door-jamb, his thin body crumpled up, and he fell headlong across the threshold, prone at Oberman's feet.

With an ugly laugh, the foreman stepped down on the rotting log, and stirred the prostrate body with his boot. A slow purple stream was trickling from Black Cunjer’s temple, and Oberman noticed the tip of his boot was wet with the dark blood.

He leaned over und felt the negro's heart. It was still.

Giving a shudder of repulsion, he scraped his boot against the log, then wiped it on the ground covered with pine needles, and turned to go back, blind fury still seething in his brain.

As Oberman hurried down the narrow path between the crowding tree trunks, his right foot felt wet, as if he had water in his boot. He tried to ignore it, but when the foot became stiff and cold, though he was panting with the heat, he stopped and, leaning against a tree, ran his fingers down the boot, to investigate.

He drew them out sopping wet, and by the sheet lightning, which grew momently brighter, he looked at them curiously. They were covered with blood!

Trembling, terrified, he managed with difficulty to pull off the boot. The blood that soaked his foot kept welling up from some secret source, and dripping slowly on the ground.

Cold sweat stood out on Oberman’s forehead as he stared down at the foot with which he had contemptuously touched Black Cunjer’s body.

INALLY he thrust his boot back on, and went limping with desperate haste toward the camp, calling aloud in


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322 "Yes, .... Kitty," said Dolly, confused; "she is in the nursery. You know she has been very ill."

"I heard so. May I read the letter?"

"Certainly; I'll go and get it. Alekseï Aleksandrovitch does not refuse; on the contrary, Stiva is quite hopeful," said Dolly, stopping at the door.

"I neither hope nor want anything," said Anna.

"Does Kitty think it humiliating to meet me?" thought Anna, when she was left alone. "Perhaps she is right; but she who once loved Vronsky has no right to thrust it in my face, even if she is right. I know that a virtuous woman cannot receive me in my present position. I have given up everything for him, and this is my reward! Ah, how I hate him! Why did I come here? I am more wretched here than at home."

She heard the voices of the two sisters in an adjoining room.

"And what am I to say to Dolly? Delight Kitty with the spectacle of my misery? Submit to her condescension? Never! Even Dolly would n't understand. I will not say anything to her. All I should want to see Kitty for would be to show her that I am indifferent,—that I scorn every one and everything."

Dolly came in with the letter; Anna silently looked it through, and returned it.

"I knew all that," said she; "but it doesn't interest me at all."

"Now, why not? I have good hopes," said Dolly, looking critically at Anna. She had never seen her in such a strange state of irritation. "When do you go away?"

Anna half closed her eyes, and looked before her without answering.

"Is Kitty afraid of me?" she asked, after a moment, glancing toward the door, with heightened color.

"Akh, what nonsense! But she is nursing the baby .... it does not go very well yet I have been giving her some advice.... she will be delighted, and is coming directly," answered Dolly, awkwardly, not knowing how to tell a fib. "Oh, there she is now."

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XXIV.]

And when the heralds enter’d, unto them Gernot said:

“The king will take the offer to us by Etzel made;

And we will come right gladly unto his festival,

And see again our sister: of that doubt not at all.”

Then spake to them King Gunther: “Can ye not tell us, pray,

When is this merry-making? or rather, on what day

’Twere best that we come thither?” ’Twas Schwemmelin replied:

“Ye must be there for certain at next Midsummer-tide.”

The king unto them granted, if haply they were will’d

(For not yet had they done it) to see the Dame Brunhild,

That they with his approval might to her presence go.

It was gainsaid by Volker: for her sake did he so.

“In sooth the Lady Brunhild is not now in the mood

For you to look upon her,” so spake the warrior good.

“Wait ye until to-morrow, then her they’ll let you see.”

So hoped they to behold her; but it was not to be.

The mighty prince then order’d (he held those envoys dear)

Out of his own great kindness, that folk should thither bear

His gold upon broad bucklers; great store thereof he had.

And by his kinsmen also rich gifts to them were made.

For Giselher and Gernot, Gere and Ortwein, too,

That they were kindly-hearted right plainly then did shew.

They such abundant largess unto the envoys gave,

That, fearful of their rulers, none of it would they have.


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Rh When Kitty heard that Anna was there, she had not wished to appear; but Dolly had persuaded her. Controlling her repugnance, she went to the parlor, and, blushing as she approached Anna, she held out her hand.

"I am very glad," said she, in a trembling voice.

Kitty was confused by the struggle between her dislike of this wicked woman and her desire to be polite to her; but, as soon as she saw Anna's beautiful, attractive face, all her unfriendliness vanished.

"I should not have been surprised if you had refused to see me; I am used to everything," said Anna. "You have been very ill; yes, you have changed."

Kitty felt that Anna looked at her with dislike, and she attributed her unfriendliness to the awkward position in which she stood in regard to herself, having once been her especial favorite. Her heart was filled with compassion.

They talked of Kitty's illness, about her baby, and of Stiva; but evidently nothing interested Anna.

"I came to bid you good-by," she said to Dolly, as she rose.

"When do you go?"

But, without answering her, Anna turned to Kitty.

"Well, I am very glad to have seen you again," said she, with a smile. "I've heard so much about you from every one, and especially from your husband. He came to see me, and I liked him very much," she added, with a wicked emphasis. "Where is he?"

"He has gone to the country," answered Kitty, blushing.

"Give my love to him; now don't forget!"

"I will do it, certainly," said Kitty, simply, with a compassionate look.

"So, prashchaï, Dolly, good-by," said Anna, kissing her; and, shaking hands with Kitty, she hastened away.

"She is as fascinating as ever," remarked Kitty, to her sister, when Dolly rejoined Kitty. "And how beautiful she is! But there is something very painful about her.... terribly painful."

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324 "She does n't seem to be in her usual state to-day. I thought she came near bursting into tears, when I accompanied her into the anteroom."

took her seat in her carriage in an even unhappier state of mind than she had been when she left her house. In addition to her former sufferings, she now felt the humiliation and sense of moral degeneracy which her meeting with Kitty had clearly made evident.

"Where would you wish to go now? Home?" asked Piotr.

"Yes, home," she replied, now not thinking at all where she was going.

"They looked on me as some strange, incomprehensible curiosity.—What can that man be saying so eagerly to the other?" thought she, seeing two passersby talking together. "Is it possible to say what one really feels? I wanted to confess to Dolly, and I am glad that I kept still. How she would have rejoiced at my unhappiness! She would have tried to hide it, but at heart she would have been glad; she would have thought it just that I should be punished for that happiness which she begrudged me. And Kitty would have been still more pleased. How I read her through and through! She knows her husband liked me uncommonly well, and she is jealous, and hates me; and, what's more, she despises me. In her eyes, I am an immoral woman. If I had been an immoral woman I might have made him fall in love with me, if I had wanted to! I confess I thought of it.—There goes a man who is delighted with his own looks," she said to herself, as a tall, florid man went by, and, mistaking her for an acquaintance, lifted his shiny hat from his shiny bald head, and instantly recognized his mistake.

"He thought he knew me! He knows me quite as well as any one in the world knows me. I don't know myself; I only know my appetites as the French say.—

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 grewsome head of the Gorgon Medusa where ever after it has flashed and faded in the most eerie fashion.

The mystery of this winking star was not discovered until 1889. Then Vogel found that the periodical change of brightness in Algol is caused by a huge dimly lighted sun,—relatively dark compared with Algol,—which revolves around the major sun at a distance of only 3,000,000 miles. (The earth revolves at a distance of 93,000,000 miles from our sun.) Every time this darker body passes between Algol and the earth, five-sixths of the light from Algol is cut off, thus making it appear to blink. Vogel also found, through the aid of the spectroscope, the diameter and mass of these stars. Algol was found to be about one million miles in diameter with a mass less than half that of the sun while its companion was found to be about 800,000 miles in diameter with a mass about one fourth that of our sun.

Thirty stars are now known to be of the Algol type. One of the most remarkable of these, V. Puppis, was found to be in the southern hemisphere and was carefully examined by. This star has a light variation of only 1½ days and is believed to whirl so closely to its companion that it is in actual contact.

The most favorable seasons for seeing Algol during the early evening are in the autumn, winter and early spring; in the autumn, low in the northeast, when it rises at sunset in the middle of September; in the winter, high up in the north, not far from the zenith; and in the spring, low down in the northwest. At the correct time it is possible for anyone to see its change in brilliancy although the best time to watch for this is during September and October. Algol rises at sunset in the middle of September and consumes 9 hours and 12 minutes in reaching the meridian. To best appreciate the change in this star compare it with the stars near by, especially to the 4th magnitude star that lies quite near to it.

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Rh They covet some of that bad ice-cream," she said to herself, as she watched two little street children standing in front of a vender, who had just set down from his head his tub of ice-cream, and was wiping his face with a corner of his coat.

"We all want our sweet delicacies; if not sugarplums, then bad ice-cream, just like Kitty, who, not catching Vronsky, took Levin. She envies me, she hates me; and we all hate one another, I Kitty, and Kitty me. That is a fact.—Tiutkin coiffeur—Je me fais coiffer par Tiutkin. .... I will tell him this nonsense when he comes," thought she, and smiled, and then instantly remembered that there was no one now to whom she could tell amusing things. "There is nothing amusing, nothing gay; it is all disgusting. The vesper-bell is ringing, and that storekeeper is crossing himself so quickly that one would think he was afraid of losing the chance.

"Why these churches, these bells, these lies? Just to hide the fact that we all hate one another, like those izvoshchiks who are swearing at each other so angrily. Yashvin was right when he said, 'He is after my shirt, and I am after his.' That is a fact."

She was so engrossed by these thoughts that she forgot her grief for a while, and was surprised when the carriage stopped in front of her house. The sight of the Swiss, coming to meet her, reminded her that she had sent a letter and a telegram.

"Is there an answer yet?"

"I will go and see," said the Swiss; and, looking on the secretary, he came back in a moment with a telegram in a thin, square envelop. Anna read:—

"And has the messenger come back?"

"Not yet," replied the Swiss.

"Ah! if that is so, then I know what I must do;" and, feeling a vague sense of anger and a desire for vengeance arising in her soul, she ran up-stairs.

"I myself will go and find him," thought she.

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326 "Before I go away forever, I will tell him all. I never hated any one as I hate this man!"

And when she caught sight of Vronsky's hat hanging on the peg, she shivered with aversion. She did not reflect that the despatch was in answer to her telegram, and that he could not as yet have received her note. She imagined him now chatting gayly with his mother and the Princess Sorokin, without a thought of her suffering.

"Yes, I must go as quickly as possible," she said, not knowing at all whither she should go.

She felt that she must fly from the thoughts that oppressed her in this terrible house. The servants, the walls, the furniture, everything about it, filled her with disgust and pain, and crushed her with a terrible weight.

"Yes, I must go to the railroad station, and if not there, then somewhere else, to punish him."

She looked at the time-table in the newspaper. The evening train went at two minutes past eight.

"Yes, I shall have plenty of time."

She ordered the two other horses to be harnessed, and she had transferred from her trunk to her traveling-bag things enough to last for several days. She knew that she should never come back again. She revolved a thousand plans in her head, and determined that when she had done what she had in mind to do, either at the countess's country seat, or at the station, she would go to the first city on the Nizhni Novgorod Railway and stay there.

Dinner was on the table. She went to it, smelt the bread and cheese, and persuading herself that the odor of the victuals was repugnant to her, she ordered the carriage again, and went out. The house was already casting a shadow across the wide street; but the sky was clear, and it was warm in the sun. Annushka, who brought her things, and Piotr, who carried them to the carriage, and the coachman, who was evidently angry, all were disagreeable to her, and vexed her with their words and motions.

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Rh "I do not need you, Piotr."

"Who will get your ticket?"

"Well, go if you wish; it makes no difference to me," she said pettishly.

Piotr nimbly mounted the box, and, folding his arms, ordered the coachman to drive to the station.

I am myself again. Now I remember it all," said Anna to herself, as soon as the calash started, and, rocking a little, rattled along over the cobble-stones of the pavement; and once more her impressions began to go whirling through her mind.

"Yes, what was that good thing that I was thinking about last? Tiutkin, the coiffeur? Oh, no; not that. Oh, yes; what Yashvin said about the struggle for existence, and hatred, the only thing that unites men. No; we go at haphazard."

She saw in a carriage drawn by four horses a party of merrymakers, who had evidently come to the city for a pleasure-trip.

"And the dog which you take with you does not help you at all. You can't get out of yourself." Glancing in the direction where Piotr was turning, she saw a working-man almost dead drunk, who, with a flopping head, was being led by a policeman. She added: "That man's way is quicker. Count Vronsky and I did not reach this pleasure, though we expected much."

And now for the first time Anna turned this bright light, all-revealing, upon her relations with the count; hitherto she had steadfastly refused to do so.

"What did he seek in me? A satisfaction for his vanity, rather than for his love!"

She remembered Vronsky's words, and the expression of his face, which reminded her of a submissive dog, when they first met and loved. Everything seemed a confirmation of this thought.

"Yes; he cared for the triumph of success above

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328 everything. Of course, he loved me, but chiefly from vanity. Now that he is not proud of me any more, it is over. He is ashamed of me. He has taken from me all that he could take, and now I am of no use to him. I weigh upon him, and he does not want to be in dishonorable relationship with me. He said, yesterday, he wanted the divorce and to marry me so as to burn his ships. Perhaps he loves me still,—but how? The zest is gone," she said in English.—"That man likes to show off, and he is mighty proud of himself," she added, as she looked at a ruddy-faced man riding by on a hired horse.

"There is nothing about me any longer to his taste. If I leave him, he will rejoice in the bottom of his heart."

This was not mere hypothesis; she saw this clearly, in that penetrating light which now revealed to her the meaning of life and of her false relations.

"My love has been growing more and more passionate and selfish; his has been growing fainter and fainter. That is why we cannot get on together." She went on thinking. "There can't be any help for it. He is all in all to me. I struggle to draw him closer and closer to me, and he wants to fly from me. Up to the time of our union, we flew to meet each other; but now we move irresistibly apart. This cannot be altered. He accuses me of being absurdly jealous,—and I am; I confess that I am absurdly jealous, and yet I am not either. I am not jealous, but my love is no longer satisfied. But ...." she opened her mouth to speak, and, in the excitement caused by the stress of her thoughts, she changed her place in the carriage.

"If I could only be something else than a passionate mistress, but I cannot, and I do not wish to be; and by this very wish I awake his dislike of me, while he stirs up all my evil passions, and this cannot be otherwise.

"Don't I know that he would not deceive me, that he is no longer in love with Kitty, that he has no intention of marrying Sorokina? I know it well, but it is none the easier for me. If now that he no longer loves me, he is kind, affectionate to me, merely from a sense of

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Rh duty, but cannot be what I must have, that would be a thousand times worse than to have him angry with me. That would be—hell! And so it is. He has long ceased to love me. When love ceases, hate begins.—I don't know these streets at all. What hosts of houses! in them, people, people,—no end of them! and they all hate one another!

"Well! let me think what could happen to me now that would give me happiness again? Suppose that Alekseï Aleksandrovitch should consent to the divorce, and would give me back Serozha, and that I should marry Vronsky?"

And as she thought of Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, Anna could see him with extraordinary vividness before her, as if alive, with his dull, lifeless, faded eyes, his white, blue-veined hands, and his cracking joints, and the intonations of his voice, and, as she recalled their relation to each other, which had been called love, she shuddered with aversion.

"Well! Suppose I got the divorce, and were married to Vronsky, would not Kitty still look at me as she looked at me to-day? She certainly would. Would not Serozha ask and wonder why I had two husbands? But between me and Vronsky what new feeling could I imagine? Is it possible that our relations might be, if not pleasanter, at least not so tormenting as they are now? No, and no!" she replied, without the least hesitation. "Impossible! We are growing apart; and I make him unhappy; he makes me unhappy, and I cannot change him; every means has been tried. The screw has been turned for the last time. ....

"Now, there's a beggar with a child. She thinks she inspires pity. Were we not thrown into the world to hate one another, and to torment ourselves and everybody else? Here come the schoolboys out to play! Serozha?"

It reminded her of her son.

"I used to think that I loved him, and I was touched by his gentleness. I have lived without him, I have given him up for my love, and was not sorry for the

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330 change, as long as I was contented with him whom I loved."

And she remembered with disgust what she called that love. And the clearness with which she now saw her own life, as well as the lives of others, delighted her.

"Thus am I, and Piotr and the coachman, Feodor, and that merchant, and all people from here to the Volga, wherever these remarks are applicable .... and everywhere and always," she thought, as the carriage stopped in front of the low-roofed station of the Nizhni Novgorod Railway, and the porters came hurrying out to meet her.

"Shall I book you for Obiralovka?" asked Piotr.

She had entirely forgotten why she had come, and only by a great effort could she understand what he meant.

"Yes," she said, handing him her purse; and, taking her little red bag, she got out of the carriage. As she entered the waiting-room for the first-class passengers with the throng, she reviewed all the details of her situation and the plans between which she was halting. And again hope and despair in alternation irritated the wounds in her tortured, cruelly palpitating heart. As she sat on the stelliform divan waiting for the train, she looked with aversion on the people going and coming,—they were all her enemies,—and thought now of how, when she reached the station, she would write to him, and what she would write, and then how at this very moment he—not thinking of her suffering—was complaining to his mother of his position, and how she would go to his room, and what she would say to him.

The thought that she might yet live happily crossed her brain; and how hard it was to love and hate him at the same time! And, above all, how frightfully her heart was beating!

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Rh

sounded, and some impudent young men, ugly and vulgar, and yet mindful of the impression they produced, hurried before her. Then Piotr, in his livery and top-boots, with his dull, good-natured face, crossed the waiting-room, and came up to escort her to the carriage. The noisy men about the door stopped talking while she passed out on the platform; then one of them whispered to his neighbor some remark, which was apparently impudent. Anna mounted the high steps, and sat down alone in the compartment on the dirty sofa which once had been white, and laid her bag beside her on the springy seat. Piotr, at the window, raised his gold-laced hat, with an inane smile, for a farewell, and departed. The saucy conductor shut the door. A woman, deformed, and ridiculously dressed up, followed by a little girl laughing affectedly, passed below the car-window. Anna looked at her with disgust. "Katerina Andreyevna has everything, ma tante," screamed the little girl.

"That child, even she is grotesque and makes grimaces," thought Anna; and she seated herself at the opposite window of the empty apartment, to avoid seeing the people.

A dirty hunchback muzhik passed close to the window, and examined the car-wheels; he wore a cap, from beneath which could be seen tufts of disheveled hair.

"There is something familiar about that humpbacked muzhik," thought Anna; and suddenly she remembered her nightmare, and drew back, trembling with fright, toward the carriage-door, which the conductor was just opening to admit a lady and gentleman.

"Do you want to get out?"

Anna did not answer; under her veil the conductor and the passengers did not see the horror in her face. She returned to her corner and sat down again. The couple took seats opposite her, and cast stealthy but curious

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332 glances at her gown. The husband and wife were obnoxious to her. The husband asked her if she objected to smoking,—evidently not for the sake of smoking, but as an excuse for entering into conversation with her. Having obtained her permission, he remarked to his wife in French that he felt even more inclined to talk than to smoke. They exchanged stupid remarks, with the hope of attracting Anna's attention.

Anna clearly saw how they bored each other, how they hated each other. It was impossible not to hate such painful monstrosities.

The second gong sounded, and was followed by the rumble of baggage, noise, shouts, laughter. Anna saw so clearly that there was nothing to rejoice at, that this laughter roused her indignation, and she longed to stop her ears so as not to hear it.

At last the third signal was given, the locomotive whistled, there was a sound of escaping steam, the train started, and the gentleman crossed himself.

"It would be interesting to ask him what he meant by that," thought Anna, looking at him angrily. Then she looked past the woman's head, out of the car-window, at the people apparently moving backward even while they were standing and walking on the platform. The carriage in which Anna sat moved past the stone walls of the station, the switches, the other carriages. The wheels with a ringing sound moved more easily and smoothly over the rails; the rays of the setting sun slanted into the car-window, and a light breeze played through the slats of the blinds in the carriages, and Anna forgot her neighbors, breathed in the fresh air, and took up again the course of her thoughts.

"There! What was I thinking about? Oh, yes, I was just deciding that I could not imagine any situation in which my life could be anything but one long misery. We are all dedicated to unhappiness; we all know it, and only seek for ways to deceive ourselves. But when we see the truth, what is to be done?"

"Reason was given to man, that he might avoid what annoys him," remarked the woman, in French, appar-

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254

Then Werbelin the herald unto the king did say:

“Your gifts, Lord King, so please ye, let in your kingdom stay;

We may not take them with us; my lord bade us take heed,

Lest gifts by us be taken: nor is there any need.”

Then did the Lord of Rhineland this thing unkindly take,

That they a great king’s treasure of small account should make;

So were they bound to take it, his gold and habiting,

And unto Etzel’s country were fain with them to bring.

They would see Uté also ere they set forth again.

So Giselher the ready brought both the minstrelmen

Unto his mother Uté. This word the lady sent:

That if Kriemhild were honour’d her mother was content.

Then bade the queen be given of gold and broidery,

All for the sake of Kriemhild,— so dear to her was she,—

And for the sake of Etzel, unto the minstrels both.

They readily might take it: ’twas done in honest troth.

The messengers’ leave-taking was done; and now they had

Parted from men and maidens; and so with hearts right glad

They rode on into Swabia; thus far ’twas Gernot’s will

His heroes should escort them, that none might do them ill.

When they, who thus did guard them, parted and homewards rode,

In Etzel’s power a safeguard they found on ev’ry road,

Whence none essay’d to rob them of horse or wearing gear.

And so to Etzel’s country they speedily drew near.


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Rh ently delighted with her sentence, and putting out her tongue.

The words fitted in with Anna's thought.

"To avoid what annoys him," she repeated, and a glance at the red-faced man, and his thin companion, showed her that the woman looked on herself as a misunderstood creature, and that her stout husband did not contradict this opinion, and took advantage of it to deceive her. Anna, as it were, read their history, and looked into the most secret depths of their hearts; but it was not interesting, and she went on with her reflections.

"Yes, it annoys me very much, and reason was given to avoid it; therefore it must be done. Why not extinguish the light when it shines on things disgusting to see? But how? Why does the conductor keep hurrying through the car? Why do the young people in this carriage scream so loud? Why do they speak? What are they laughing at? It is all false, all a lie, all deception, all vanity and vexation."

When the train reached the station, Anna went out with the other passengers, and, with the idea of avoiding too rude a contact with the bustling crowd, she hesitated on the platform, trying to recollect why she had come, and what she meant to do. All that seemed to her possible before to do, now seemed to her difficult to execute, especially amid this noisy crowd, which would not leave her in peace. Now the porters came to her, to offer her their services; now some young men, clattering with their heels up and down the platform, and talking loud, observed her curiously; now hurrying passengers pushed her aside.

Finally, remembering that she was proposing to go farther if there was no answer from Vronsky, she stopped an official, and asked him if a coachman had not been there with a letter for Count Vronsky.

"Count Vronsky? Just now some one was here. Princess Sorokin and her daughter met him. What kind of a looking man is this coachman?"

Even while she was talking with the official, the coach-

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334 man Mikhaïl, rosy and gay in his elegant blue livery and watch-chain, immensely proud that he had fulfilled his commission so well, came to her and handed her a note.

Anna broke the seal, and her heart stood still even before she had read the carelessly written lines:—

"Yes, that is what I expected," she said to herself, with an angry grimace.

"Very good, you may go home," she said to Mikhaïl. She spoke the words slowly and gently, because the tumultuous beating of her heart almost prevented her from breathing.

"No, I will not let you make me suffer so," thought she, addressing, with a threat, neither Vronsky nor her own self, so much as the thought that was torturing her; and she moved along the platform, past the station. Two chambermaids walking on the platform turned to look at her, and made audible remarks about her toilet. "She has genuine lace," they said. The young men would not leave her in peace. They stared at her, and passed her again and again, joking and talking with loud voices. The station-master came to her, and asked if she was going to take the train. A lad selling kvas did not take his eyes from her.

"Bozhe moï! where shall I go?" she said to herself, as she walked farther and farther along the platform.

When she reached the end of it, she stopped. Some women and children, who had come to the station to meet a man in spectacles, were talking and laughing. They too stopped talking, and turned to see Anna pass by. She hastened her steps, and reached the very limit of the platform. A freight-train was coming. The platform shook, and made her feel as if she were on a moving train.

Suddenly she remembered the man who was run over on the day when she met Vronsky for the first time, and

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Rh she knew then what was left for her to do. With light and swift steps she descended the stairway which led from the water-tank at the end of the platform down to the rails, and stood very near the train, which was slowly passing by. She looked under the cars, at the chains and the brake, and at the high iron wheels of the first car, and she tried to estimate with her eye the distance between the fore and back wheels, and the moment when the middle would be in front of her.

"There," she said, looking at the shadow of the car thrown upon the black coal-dust which covered the sleepers," there, in the center; he will be punished, and I shall be delivered from it all .... and from myself."

She was going to throw herself under the first car as its center came opposite where she stood. Her little red traveling-bag caused her to lose the moment; she could not detach it from her arm. She awaited the second. A feeling like that she had experienced once, just before taking a dive in the river, came over her, and she made the sign of the cross. This familiar gesture called back to her soul a whole series of memories of her youth and childhood; and suddenly the darkness which hid everything from her was torn asunder. Life, with its elusive joys, glowed for an instant before her. But she did not take her eyes from the car; and when the center, between the two wheels, appeared, she threw away her red bag, drawing her head between her shoulders, and, with outstretched hands, threw herself on her knees under the car. For a second she was horror-struck at what she was doing.

"Where am I? What am I doing? Why?"

She tried to get up, to draw back; but something monstrous, inflexible, struck her head, and threw her on her back.

"Lord, forgive me all!" she murmured, feeling the struggle to be in vain.

A little muzhik was working on the railroad, mumbling in his beard.

And the candle by which she had read the book

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336 that was filled with fears, with deceptions, with anguish, and with evil, flared up with greater brightness than she had ever known, revealing to her all that before was in darkness, then flickered, grew faint, and went out forever.

title: Page:Anna Karenina.djvu/1018


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XXIV.]

Where’er they found acquaintance, to them the news they said:

How the Burgundian people, ere many days were sped,

Unto the Hun-folk’s country were coming from the Rhine.

The news was carried also to Bishop Pilgerin.

As they by Bechelaren along the highway went,

To Rüdeger folk told it,— as naught could well prevent—

And also to Gotlinda, the margrave’s wedded wife.

That she was soon to see them was joy unto her life.

Folk saw how with the tidings the minstrels swiftly rode,

Until they found King Etzel at Gran, where he abode.

And greeting upon greeting which unto him were sent

They to the king deliver’d; ruddy with joy he went.

And when the queen the tidings did fairly understand,

That verily her brothers were coming to the land,

In mood she was right happy; and both the minstrelmen

With costly gifts rewarded: and honour had she then.

“Now Schwemmelin and Werbel, each one of you,” said she,

“Tell me which of my kinsmen will at our feasting be,

Of whom the best and dearest unto our land we bade?

And, when the news was told him, tell me what Hagen said?”

They said: “One morning early he came to the debate,

And not a good word from him we early had or late;

And when the ride to Hunsland was praised by all the folk

Grim Hagen looked not elsewise than if of death they spoke.


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256

“Your brothers here are coming, the noble kings all three,

In high and lordly humour. But who with them may be

That news I cannot give you, seeing I do not know;

But Volker the bold minstrel hath vow’d with them to go.”

“Him could I spare right blithely,” in answer spake the queen;

“Since many a time and often here Volker have I seen.

But fain I am of Hagen, the hero excellent;

That here we soon shall see him doth give me much content.”

Then went the royal lady where she the king did find;

How gently Dame Kriemhilda unto him spake her mind!

“How do the tidings please thee, my lord beloved,” she said,

“Now all my heart hath yearned for shall be accomplishéd.”

“Thy will is eke my pleasure,” thus did the king reply,

“Nor any of my kindred so glad to see were I,

If e’er they should be coming hither unto my land.

For sake of them that love thee is all my trouble bann’d.”

King’s officers then straightway commandment gave to all

That seats should be made ready in palace and in hall,

Meet for the guests belovéd who would be there anon.

By them, ere long, for Etzel was pleasure all fordone.


text: The Lay of the Nibelungs/Chapter 24

title: The Lay of the Nibelungs/Chapter 24


text: Talk:Ragged Trousered Philanthropists/Chapter 20


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Page:George McCall Theal, Ethnography and condition of South Africa before A.D. 1505 (2nd ed, 1919).djvu/170

146 collected, and timber—an article of necessity to the Arabians, which their own country did not furnish—to be cut, and possibly gold to be gathered in the territory that now bears the name Rhodesia. There is no record of any kind in existence, however, from which information can be obtained concerning the inhabitants of Eastern Africa in those far-off times, and mere conjecture is valueless.

About the year 992 before Christ an event of importance took place. Solomon, ruler of Israel, had extended his kingdom southward, was in possession of Idumea and the isthmus of Suez, and had established a naval station at Ezion-geber on the gulf of Akaba at the head of the Red sea. He must have known of the existence of an extensive traffic on the shores of what we term the Indian ocean, and have resolved to secure a share of it, or he would not have done this. But his subjects were unused to the sea, and so he had recourse to his ally, Hiram, king of the great commercial city of Tyre, then the wealthiest community in the known world, whose riches were gained by water traffic with many distant peoples.

The Phœnicians may have kept up an uninterrupted trade on the Indian ocean from the time when their ancestors removed from its shore to that of the Mediterranean, though it would appear that in the tenth century before Christ they purchased most, if not all, of the eastern produce that they needed from Sabean merchants, conveyed it in vessels up the Red sea, and then transported it on camels to Tyre. But in whatever manner they acquired their knowledge, some of the subjects of Hiram certainly were acquainted with the sea to the south, and they went as officers just as they would have done in a fleet entirely their own, while sailors were engaged wherever fishermen could be found or recruits could be hired or purchased. This was the manner in which the commerce of Tyre was carried on, just as in modern times the army of the Netherlands East India Company consisted of Dutch officers and foreign soldiers.

So with the aid of Hiram, who had a large share of the profit and who was unable to carry on the trade alone on account of Solomon's possession of Idumea, fleets were built at Ezion-geber,


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Rh of which every particle of the material must have been conveyed overland from the Mediterranean shore, and then they sailed southward to carry on commerce on a very large scale. Of this enterprise the following account is given in the ninth and tenth chapters of the first book of Kings:

“And king Solomon made a navy of ships in Ezion-geber, which is beside Eloth, on the shore of the Red sea, in the land of Edom. And Hiram sent in the navy his servants, shipmen that had knowledge of the sea, with the servants of Solomon. And they came to Ophir, and fetched from thence gold, four hundred and twenty talents, and brought it to king Solomon.”

“And the navy also of Hiram, that brought gold from Ophir, brought in from Ophir great plenty of almug trees, and precious stones.”

“Now the weight of gold that came to Solomon in one year was six hundred three score and six talents of gold, (equal to £3,646,350), beside that he had of the merchantmen, and of the traffic of the spice merchants, and of all the kings of Arabia, and of the governors of the country.”

“For the king had at sea a navy of Tharshish with the navy of Hiram: once in three years came the navy of Tharshish, bringing gold, and silver, ivory, and apes, and peacocks.”

Those Phœnicians must have known a great deal about Eastern Africa and its people, but they left absolutely nothing on record, and it is only from their brief connection with the kingdom of Israel that the information given in the sacred writings is obtained. They kept all their geographical knowledge carefully to themselves, for they did not wish to bring commercial rivalry into existence. And so the ships of Tharshish, which may be taken to mean the largest and best equipped vessels for long voyages then known, went up and down the coast ploughing the waters of the Indian sea, perhaps keeping the shore always in sight, or perhaps, like the South Arabian vessels, making direct courses from point to point with the sun and the stars for their guide, while the wisest men in Europe were ignorant of


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148 the existence of such a vast sheet of water or of the mass of land that closed it in on the western side.

Upon the death of Solomon his kingdom was divided into two sections, each too weak to carry on such great enterprises as he had engaged in, and though on one occasion subsequently the rulers of the separate states united to fit out and despatch a fleet from Ezion-geber, the attempt ended in failure and was never again repeated.

The extensive commerce of Tyre continued to be carried on, but whether she still maintained fleets in the Red sea is doubtful, for she may have needed foreign assistance to be able to do that. In the twenty-seventh chapter of Ezekiel, written about 588 years before Christ, there is a graphic account of her enormous trade, and from the twenty-second verse it would appear that her Indian wares were furnished by the merchants of Southern Arabia.

The splendid city was taken and destroyed after a siege of thirteen years by Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon, in the year 573 before Christ, but was soon afterwards rebuilt on an island close to the mainland, and partly recovered its commercial importance. It was taken again in 332 B.C. by Alexander the Great, of Macedon, after a siege of eight months, when its celebrity ceased for ever, as Alexandria, at the mouth of the western outlet of the Nile, took its place as the greatest commercial city of the world.

The Israelites and the Phoenicians not having supplied any information concerning the dark-skinned people of Africa, we turn now to the Greeks to ascertain whether they perchance knew and placed on record anything about them.

In the Homeric age, which is believed to have been somewhere between 1200 and 850 before Christ, the Greeks were aware that such people lived somewhere to the south, but of them, beyond their existence, they knew nothing. They considered the inhabited world to be a circular plane, with a great stream flowing round it, and farther away than the renowned city of Thebes in Egypt, on the border of this ocean stream, the Ethiopians were stated in the Iliad to dwell. The name Ethiopian was of


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Rh course not that by which the people called themselves, but was that applied to them by the Greeks, and meant (αἰθίοψ) sunburned, swarthy. They were described by Homer as a “blameless people, whom the gods themselves visit, and partake of their feasts.” In the Odyssey they are mentioned further as divided into two sections, the most distant of men, some living where the sun sets and some where he rises.

It is evident from this that the Greeks had a dim knowledge that black men were occupying the valley of the Nile above Egypt, but whether the remote ancestors of the Bantu were among them it is utterly impossible even to make a conjecture. There is, however, reference to another race in the upper valley of the Nile, which, if it stood alone, would be regarded with justice as mythical, but as from this time onward for many centuries it was constantly repeated, must be considered as having a foundation in fact. The Greeks had heard vague rumours of pygmies living in the same part of the world as the Ethiopians, and the poet introduced them in his immortal work as veritable tom-thumbs, “men no bigger than your fist,” whose mortal enemies were the cranes.

Probably no Greek of that age had ever seen a black man or a pygmy, and the vague knowledge that they had of the existence of such people must have been derived from Phoenician traders, who brought ivory among other things to them for sale; and who could have told them a great deal about Africa and its people, if they had not chosen to keep their knowledge to themselves and give fabulous accounts of everything beyond the immediate ken of those who listened to them. In this matter of the pygmies, we have the earliest reference by any European to the Bushman race, that must then have occupied wholly or partly all Africa south of the confines of Nubia.

The Homeric poems for many centuries were regarded by the Greeks as the repositories of all knowledge, and it was considered sinful to question the accuracy of Homer in such a matter as the locality of an island or the direction of a river. To so great a length did this reverence extend that even after the true form of the earth was known and its size approximately ascertained


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 sonian tradition. It forms one of the very few links that connect Hardy with some of the aspects of Victorianism in thought and art which flourished during his youth, and of which his writing is usually so independent. In its refrain, the iterated name, "Amabel" and in its sentimentality it reminds one somewhat of Tennyson's ballad of Oriana. These resemblances in form and content, however, prove to be rather superficial echoes, underneath which there is discoverable a strong dash of the real Hardy. In the opening stanza, for instance,

one can find the refrain and the sentimentality, but also such an uncommon verb as indwell, a foreshadowing of the free compounding process later used by Hardy in the word-formations of The Dynasts, and an "enlightened" scorn for "custom-straitened views." The lament is not, as in Tennyson, for the death of the poet's beloved, but for the dying out of the passion itself through the effects of changing circumstances and the action of "Time, the tyrant fell," although it causes the poet to wish "to creep to some housetop and weep" in typical mid-century fashion. The fourth and fifth stanzas are of interest as the first illustration of another dominant Hardy-theme:


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where is an example of a Hyperbole
where is an example of a Hyperbole 62.49.124.155 15:24, 29 November 2023 (UTC)


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Love is here considered as an objective force rather than a subjective emotion—as a universal phenomenon subject to certain universal laws rather than as an individual passion. The stanza is in striking harmony with one of Schopenhauer's fundamental ideas, that of the absolute subordination of the individual to the species, and with his conception of love as the mysterious working of the Immanent Will bent upon the preservation of the race. This viewpoint has little in common with the romantic or so-called "poetic" notions prevalent at the time. The young poet is colder because he sees himself no longer as isolated from the forces which drive on the external world, but as a real part of them. Likewise, in the two concluding stanzas, the usual sentimental vows of eternal fidelity give place to the logical but more disagreeable conclusions of "heartless" disillusion:


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 The poems of 1866 are headed by the most important sonnet called Hap—a real piece of versified philosophy, and one that sounds the distinctive tonality of all of the author's subsequent work:

Here is the first expression of the idea of the essential malignity of chance and circumstance, coupled with a deterministic tendency of thought. The great significance of this poem lies in the remarkable fact that Hardy expressed in it a typically Schopenhauerian idea at a time when he could not possibly have been acquainted with the writings of this philosopher—the idea that chance and necessity are not mutually exclusive and contradictory terms, but that chance is the manifestation of necessity. The failure to grasp this fundamental conception, which


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 century, but is seldom encountered in the novels. It is a lament for the fading of personal beauty and attractiveness while the fires of love within the heart rage on undiminished. Here also time is personified and anathematized: "Sportsman Time but rears his brood to kill." The second and third are more in the vein of pure lyric, and express her absolute devotion and faithfulness to her love, to whom she seems to be but a thought. In the fourth she indulges in a malediction of her younger and more successful rival, and is not deluded by any chimera of unselfish renunciation, but concludes:

—again a sentiment rather unpopular among romantic idealists.

A characteristically ironic comment on life is found in The Two Men. This ballad of modern life tells the story of one man, who resolves to dedicate his life to the good of mankind, who, in consequence, falls into poverty, generously renounces his love for her own good, and dies a pauper. The other man schemes to live off society, also falls into poverty, renounces his love in hopes of marrying a richer woman, which intention fails, and he also dies a pauper. So far the tale is common enough, but the real sting comes in the concluding stanza:


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 in itself, in the life of characteristic Wessex folk. It is also practically the only poem that shows throughout the direct influence of the work and spirit of William Barnes, both in content and in form. The entire piece is in dialect, and not the dialect encountered in the novels, but the more exact Dorset speech found in Barnes. The Barnes-tricks of more exact phonetic spellings of dialect words are also used, and footnotes give the English equivalents of all the more unusual Dorset words. The metre is regular, the quantities are always correct, the mood is always calm, and no philosophy is advanced, or even hinted at. The poem might well have been written by Barnes himself in an inspired moment, but it shows considerably more narrative power than do any of his own humorous bits of verse. This completes the poems of 1866 in the volume of Wessex Poems.

There is but one of this date in Poems of the Past and Present: The Ruined Maid, which may be regarded either as a very sympathetic or as a half-flippant treatment of its subject, depending on the emphasis,—tragic, sardonic, or naïve,—with which the final lines of each stanza—the debauched town-girl's answers to the innocent queries of her former friend from the country—are read. At the close, the country girl says to her former playmate:

and she gets this answer:


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 Her Definition, written in the summer of 1866, and included in Time's Laughingstocks, is one of the few pure lyrics among the early poems. Here the lover finds that the simple expression "That maiden mine!" applied to his mistress means more to him than any other imaginable epithet, however extravagant. This simple and innocuous idea is expressed in a perfect sonnet. Another sonnet, written at the same time and place and included in the same collection, is From Her in the Country, in which the speaker vainly attempts to feel the appeal of nature, but longs for the din and distraction of the city in spite of herself. The parallel to Eustacia Vye of The Return of the Native is obvious.

A Young Man's Epigram on Existence, which closes Time's Laughingstocks may be bracketed with the sonnet on Hap, as it strikes the note of youthful disillusionment common to nearly all of the early verses:

This bit of verse-philosophy is the last of the poems of this memorable year which were chosen for preservation. The great variety of styles and subjects, and the finish shown in their treatment, seem to indicate that these are but the scanty remains of an intense and very productive poetic activity of the young architect.

The poetical reliques of the next year (1867) are rather scanty, but include a few memorable pieces, chief among which is the curious and vivid Neutral Tones, ex-


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 hardly be said, however, to have attempted to carry on the Byronic tradition, despite his diabolical predilections for the things that seem bizarre and shocking to the sensibilities of modern society. Nothing could be more foreign to his nature as a poet than that air of the swashbuckling poseur so skilfully and successfully assumed by Byron. His temper was very different: very rarely indeed did he throw dignity and seriousness to the winds, and sincerity was his very breath of life.

His revolt against the optimism and superficial sweetness of his age reminded Mr. Gosse of Swinburne's similar attitude, but his reaction against convention and insincerity was, if anything, exceeded by his renunciation of the sensuousness so freely indulged in by Swinburne and the "fleshly school." Note what qualities in Swinburne he singled out for particular admiration in the tribute he wrote in 1909 (A Singer Asleep—in Satires of Circumstance):

In poetic execution, also, these two poets exhibit the greatest possible contrast, Swinburne's delight in the


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 the then popular manner of Dickens and Wilkie Collins, added to a brave tableau of paragraphs which set themselves to mention all the things that had come under the Victorian taboo.

Hardy sent it first to Constable's, where Meredith read it and returned it promptly. Undiscouraged, Hardy forwarded it to Chapman and Hall without delay. There it was accepted for publication. Meanwhile, however, Meredith had sent for the author, and in a memorable conference advised Hardy not to publish this Poor Man—at least not in its original form. He urged the inclusion of still more incident and a rigid elimination of all propaganda-talk—curious advice from such a source. The young novelist was later to recall the impression of that fruitful first interview, in the verses which he composed on the occasion of Meredith's death. They were published in Time's Laughingstocks under the title G. M., 1828-1909:


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 itself the repudiation of any highly organised national system.

But government from this ineffectual, inert place is only the most striking outcome of that inflexible constitution the wrangling delegates of 1787 did at last produce out of a conflict of state jealousies. They did their best to render centralisation or any coalescence of states impossible and private property impregnable, and so far their work has proved extraordinarily effective. Only a great access of intellectual and moral vigour in the nation can ever set it aside. And while the more and more sterile millions of the United States grapple with the legal and traditional difficulties that promise at last to arrest their development altogether, the rest of the world will be moving on to new phases. An awakened Asia will be reorganising its social and political conceptions in the light of modern knowledge and modern ideas, and South America will be working out its destinies, perhaps in the form of a powerful confederation of states. All Europe will be schooling its John Smiths to finer discipline and broader ideas. It is quite possible that the American John Smiths may have little to brag about in the way of national predominance by A. D. 2000. It is quite possible that the United States may be sitting meekly at the feet of at present unanticipated teachers.


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Hardy had the good sense to take Meredith's advice, and accordingly withdrew and rewrote the book, adopting a gentler mode of approach for his first attempt to win public favor. But even in its revised form the story failed to please its creator, and it remains unpublished to this day. The manuscript is at present in the possession of Mrs. Hardy.

Now definitely embarked on a fictional career, Hardy continued to "feel his way towards a method." He summoned his best powers and was soon completely absorbed in the first of what was destined to be known as the Wessex novels. The ambitious plan of recreating a whole geographical and spiritual Kingdom gradually materialized.

His mental equipment was of course varied and unique. Poetic passion, adequately restrained, was already his, and could be depended upon to flower into a genuinely individual narrative prose style. A philosophy based equally on experience and reading, and animated by a discerning power of insight into human characters, was to provide an intellectual framework which would unify the general impressions under development. The


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 A. D. 1776* Anno decimo fexto Georgi! III. C. 52; by the Authority aforefaid, That as well for fuch of the faid Bohea Teas, Singlo Teas, and Coffee, as remained unfold on the fifth Day of April out thouAnd’ fiufen hundred and feventy-fix, as alfo for fuch ' Bohea Teas as hereafter JJjall be imported at.any Time or Times on-before 3pKb0f‘fivtf’¥dtatSr>to bd computed Aofn-the 4mj»o?tatioh! thereof, exbofe fuch refpeftive Teas and Cdfee ,tonf}al^iao4iafi€c.faw» Ufage, qr Cuftom, to tha contrary Ltli lAftliiblPfcr-fOTtWer'ertafted bythfo Adthhrityeforefaid, That,' for BhrJ during the foid Terrti of'five Yqar)Mlto ^sseftaijutbd.^s-aiofefaid; there,(hall-fee dxa'wnbacfa and allnwedlfor allthefaid Teas ahdiCof- fee^wbif^ fbaij.'br’eicpocted.from this KingdomaaMerchandife to Maneb, or any of tho ,BrityfcColwiies or Plantations in'America, to the Exporter or Exporters thereof, fuch and the .fame Drawbacks pr Allow¬ ances, an}* tinder fuch Rules, Regulations, Securities, Penalties, and Forfeitures, as fuch Exporter or ExpQcterafwMltl tore-been intitled to in cafe fuch Teasaad Gofiifo had been exported within the Term Of thrpeiYeus.fsosLthe refpeftive Times of the Importation thereof; any Law, Ufage, or Cuftom, to the contwy.itMrtwatbAanding. ‘ by the. faid; Un*ed?Got*pan{r iaiitbr. Ship	oniafter'¥eok xrtseiaHoufaiidnfejten'hdgwlredi’and Coffee,! mported by tbe faid Ship<6|rirttr/04ryyjiti tbeYear indaithon&Bdfavenhupdrtdiand fev«nty*thrree, and-foow remaining widened-in-ch«'faid Company!*- Warehoaftss^dhaH rbeexported- af any Time within five Years,, 'tnbe compnfed front the ImpdrtaaionitMtetof.ytbevB'fliaU^berdrbam -backland allowed far the fuavey to the Expoetesor Exporters thereof, -fifofrMvdwtetfamd D>MmUctebPcAll0tvance»,,andvrtdeV fdeh Rute^- ®.eg«lj*tidrtk( >8flcferties^Pdfldl<ies;l«ffi)AeftupHq ad fiscS Keptwimar Exporters wofod-have-'been indtleffteinwyfe facto Coffee didd fonit^&pbh&i wlthnn the.'IFeyinrvfalKm Yearaftrnnthaf mpoftatfon thertnf; aoylM wyCWtom, for Ufage; to'the cotUrary rmt'i’ifaftxndsng.’’' ' - n J s i'- v' r . i V. lftbeidtdnartwhyt;!atod be it farther enafted By the ’Affthernyiafarefald; That if-the faid United Coni- panyxif- Merbhsnts of BttghnA (tiding to the'fih^/ntffaispftUlforany.Time ftegleft-to kfeop the Market fupnllddrwrttlrik ifeffident Quantity df Tea at /eafoiiabfoTrices, xoanftm faeCorKwmptfon ihe/eof ih Gr&iiifiitaiwii fh»M andtnay be lawfal tn fmdfortheCmninifliotietsfoftbe’Treafory, or ¥ny thtee or marts oHtam/^fortfasLofo High Tnufaffr fov’thfeTrmebeirtg, -ft) grant? bfcences eo any other Perfon or Perfotm'®ftffitowBadi»Pd»ti^f0r?rfl/ir,frt*h any Piute of Europe, iTO7fsdhboad«gwilrttWtMar1M¥tr-’«|d ftbjea lo'futfP'Dlfliw,; arid! dndeFftidh’Reftriftions and Limitations, andfuydfti tadMWdcfeesy^iid!wittofaeft Lictrtcts;- as drft'by 'fttry'Aft'Q' Afts’nbw ifi Foree prefcribedtmd divtjfiiil-wiih^Yefadft’to Ted' tb "be'irtroor tea froth' atty Parti Of Europe by the faid Uh feed Company of Mkmhanbs>of'Art*UMrf'tradfag-to theEajt Mitt j fthy Thing contained in tHs Aft to the eohtrary thereof inrtOiywUtfl^WnhftMding.	1 i< v	-ir.--	■ t s v ■(» W yd ,v-1 •-•a '.u-t.	. r •, ,<> r-U o>.t tr.j ,C i -> • . /i ; . •>'.>! la.’ts ai>.aY o»-«ir io V s’* '>■' ■" •■'C'A P.”;*1LWJ n-..i, w V r. t>i »<.	/ -t A»(teflwr^wiitth‘e^»Lineai orCoh jtteral, »«' Parc of GrMf^n/mwdUbd- Scet/amif not- "^th^^^tfie^Fdt'het'ojf’Wdthet'^etc Alifrisf;','	, ‘ after!>a,toCiftN''”irtbftit. 'and be inheritable, ‘as Htif off ^frs‘fa‘Mi4’,HonoWfoy MahOrs;-' Lahtfs; Teffe- jefty, «by’ hhif' frith the Advice ahd Cohfent of tRe Lordi Spixitual'an'd Temporal, and Comfobns, in this prfnftit PaSUXment'affeinbled, anclTy the Authdrfty bf*?he', farrt?, Ttjdt III anH every Perfon'for Per¬ fons, JSeft^flfe! KM^Trfalufdf-bt)r?i Subjeft’or Subjefts wHhlft thiJ Um th d •’Kingdom, Or arty othefof the Krng,'s RtaTms of Donffnlons,’ {ball and may hereafter lawfully inherit, add Ke inheritable^ fn Scotland, as Heir or Hefrs to any Honours, Manors, Lands, Tenements, or Hereditaments, and make their Pedigrees Vol. XII.	.4G	and 591 Eaft India Como pany to be al¬ lowed ofual Di^ counts on the Sale of all Tea* and Coffee, within five Years after the Importation thereof. The Term of three Yean ex- tended to fire, in relation to the Drawback on ex porting Teat and Coffee to Ireland and America. The fame Tim* allowed for ex¬ porting Coffee, brought by the Shrewlbury, ill >771, »nd yet remaining in the Company'* Warehoufes. In cafe the Company ne¬ glect to fupply the Home Mara ket with Tea, at reafonable Prices, Comm! fa fionero of the Treafury may grant Licenfes to any Perfon* to import th* fame. Preamble. AB 11 and 14 Col. in. All Perfcns, being the King1* natural born Subj-flt, fhall inherit at Heir* to any Manon, Digitized by kaOOQ e
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 * Tiile ot Ptedigree, wdre dr was, or is or are, or fhall be, bbrnOut of the King’s Allegiance, and but of
 * his Majefty’s Realms and Dominions, as freely, fully, and tffefttially, to' fcll'Irtterrteahd Purpofes^ as' if
 * fuch Father orMbfher^ or Fathers or Mothers, or other AnceftoF or Ahceftb'te, frbm? throiiyhr,;or
 * undetwhorh; *he, fai, of ihey, Ihall or may make’ or derive theii* Title for 'Pedi^rte;had beith hatu-
 * raiized, or rtahiral-diorA jSdbjeft for Subjefts wi'thfti<ht King’s'Doihirtidhs ; 'arhPLaftfof '^Ciiftoih'Tb'fhp
 * contrary rfotfeitBftahdrng 1 And whereas Doubts haVe fori fen Whether'the PfoVifidhoffthf aforWMd'Sta^
 * tute wpulcf- take place’ ih Scotlemd by the Rufes of the Common:Lavf thereof;batrff it'lsyeafbriabfe'tfut
 * the Rule vif Sticceffion fhould take place in both Parts df the UnfrtM Kingdom, arrtl That fuch
 * Doubts’ fhopld be1 removedbe it therefore declared and enafted by thb King’s moft‘ Excellertt Ma¬


text:
Page:Life of Thomas Hardy - Brennecke.pdf/162

 pressing the remembrance of a striking but dreary landscape which reflected a very bitter moment in his life. Love is regarded as the tormentor who deceives and "wrings with wrong." It shows also the author's desire to have the mood of nature correspond always to the mood of the human situation treated.

In Heiress and Architect the situation is highly artificial and unreal, but the idea, the "vanity of human wishes" is strongly emphasized. All of the heiress's hopes, fancies, and enthusiasms are frowned upon and waved aside by the cold and knowing architect, experienced not only in his profession but also in the school of life, who insists on designing her mansion with a view to the requirements of the more bitter moments in life. The pattern chosen for the stanzas of this poem is a rather unusual one, but is very appropriate to the thought contained in it:


text:
Page:Anna Karenina.djvu/1019

two months had passed by, half the hot summer was gone, but Sergyeï Ivanovitch had only just made up his mind to leave Moscow. An important event for him had just occurred. The year before he had finished his book, entitled, "An Essay on the Principles and the Forms of Government in Europe and in Russia," the fruit of six years of labor. The introduction, as well as some fragments from the book, had already appeared in the reviews, and certain parts had been read by the author to the people of his circle, so that the ideas contained in this treatise could not be a perfect novelty for the public; but nevertheless Sergyeï Ivanovitch expected that the book on its appearance would attract serious attention, and produce, if not a revolution in science, at least a powerful sensation in the learned world.

This book, after careful revision, had been published the year before, and distributed among the booksellers.

Though Sergyeï Ivanovitch answered reluctantly and with pretended indifference the questions of his friends who asked how the book was going, and though he refrained from inquiring of the booksellers how it was selling, nevertheless he followed eagerly and with strained attention every sign of the impression which his book was producing on society and literature.

But a week passed, a second, a third, and there was not a sign of any impression. His friends, specialists and savants, evidently out of politeness, spoke to him about it; but the rest of his acquaintances, not being interested in a book of scientific purport, did not speak about it at all. Society, also, which just at that time

title: Page:Anna Karenina.djvu/1019


text:
Page:The Works of H G Wells Volume 9.pdf/481

conceptions of what a good citizen should be are all at sixes and sevens. No two people will be found to agree in every particular of such an ideal, and the extreme divergences upon what is necessary, what is permissible, what is unforgivable in him, will span nearly the whole range of human possibility and conduct. As a consequence, we bring up our children in a mist of vague intimations, in a confusion of warring voices, perplexed as to what they must do, uncertain as to what they may do, doomed to lives of compromise and fluctuating and inoperative opinion. Ideals and suggestions come and go before their eyes like figures in a fog. The commonest pattern, perhaps—the commonest pattern certainly in Sunday-schools and edifying books, and on all those places and occasions when morality is sought as an end—is a clean and able-bodied person, truthful to the extent that he does not tell lies, temperate so far as abstinence is concerned, honest without pedantry, and active in his own affairs, steadfastly law-abiding and respectful to custom and usage, though aloof from the tumult of politics, brave but not adventurous, punctual in some form of religious exercise, devoted to his wife and children, and kind without extravagance to all men. Everyone feels that this is not enough, everyone feels that something more is wanted and something different; most people are a little interested in what that difference can be, and it is a business that much of


text:
Page:Life of Thomas Hardy - Brennecke.pdf/163

 In 1867 Hardy forsook London for Weymouth and began earnestly to practice the writing of prose as well as of verse. The two years or more which he spent at this popular south coast town, the "Budmouth" of his "Wessex," comprised a period of violently fermenting mental life. Not only did he observe objects and scenes with the eye of the trained artist, but he must have been at this time a keen diviner of hidden human motives, as they revealed themselves through the appearances and actions of the ever-varying holiday crowds that thronged the resort. Not only did he watch; one may be sure he established human contacts also. No mere amateur-student of life could have produced the many touches of psychological insight that are to be found in his earliest work. They were written by a young man who had observed and lived at the same time.

This intense and idealistic spiritual life, animated by Shelleyan visions in the midst of the gay and picturesque surroundings of the place, is probably reflected in a poem that he planned at this time: At a Seaside Town in 1869. Rewritten "from an old note," it was finally included in Moments of Vision: