Miklas. It is hard to say.
Cölestin. Still thou knowest him?
Miklas. As I know myself, my lord.
Cölestin. Consider. Full fifteen years have flown since that hour when he slew the cruel Duke.
Miklas. Yes, my lord. His step indeed was heavier, his face was paler; and a gnawed and ragged beard hung about his mouth, stiffened with blood and sweat. Yet it was he, our King, our star, at very thought of whom our hearts must leap, to whose heroic deed we sing triumphant songs,--it was he, and that I swear by God the Father.
Cölestin. Go on.
Miklas. Yet, mindful of what happened once, I made as though I had never seen the two; and when they asked whether there was a path that led to the sea and to the Burial-wife, and did not touch at town or capital, I said: "Oh, yes; yet it is difficult to follow it, and not wander lost by night among the bushes. Come in and sleep beside my hearth, and I will play the host and spread the straw for you, and early in the morning, for your sake and for God's sweet service my son will lead you to the witch-wife." It was said and done. The fire of pine chips had scarcely burned to ashes,--heigho!--I ran to the stable and flung the saddle on the horse; and when the early dawn of the March morning lay abroad white and misty on the hedges, I held my rein before your castle,--"To the Queen" my cry. Thou wert with me for the rest.
Cölestin. Thinkest thou thy son--?
Miklas. Set thyself at rest, My son has always been a clever youth and I answer for it they will be upon the spot before the sun there dips beneath the sea. Yes, if I mistake not ... but wait! [He runs to the top of the hill, looks to the right and motions furtively.] Come here! But crouch down well, that they may not spy us.
Cölestin. My God, my God, how my old limbs do tremble! It is joy! [He goes up the slope, assisted by his attendant.] I see three coming.
Miklas. The small one is my boy. The other two--thou knowest them?
Cölestin. My eyes have failed me a little, else I might. [Coming back down.] My God, if it were they! If the evening of my life might shine so clear that before I closed my eyes in death they might rest upon the Queen, their heart, their light, pleasured in happiness without alloy! At such a sight I think I could not die.... Come, come! Let us announce what we have seen; then may that bond once so shamefully severed in wrong and need, be solemnly renewed, before we turn our joyous bark toward home. Come, come! [They all go out at the left.]
[TheKingandHans Lorbasscome in at the right from above, both unkempt and in rags like two wayfarers.Kinggrown gray, lean, and sallow, comes down forward silent and gloomy.]
Hans Lorbass[with hair grown quite white, and a wooden leg, carrying a sack on his back, calls into the wing]. There, take it, rascal, it is the last! And leave! [Coming down.] The clown has led us twelve whole hours without a path through bushes and morass. He knew well enough why he did it!
King. Dost thou think--
Hans Lorbass. Oh let it be, no matter!
King. Here is a fire. Is there corn in the sack?
Hans Lorbass[opening the sack]. Wait.... Yes.
King. Good! I am hungry.
Hans Lorbass. I am not, too?
King. The corn was dear. Sometimes it costs us money, sometimes blood.
Hans Lorbass. We do not pay the blood.
King. We pay more. We give out bit by bit from our own souls for our lives' nakedest necessities, and pay for each mouthful with a shred of joy--if indeed there be joy in clinging like a pitiable miser to one's last vacant remnants of hopeless hope.
Hans Lorbass. If it be not happiness it is life.
King. What a life!
Hans Lorbass. Our wants are over now. I wager if I climbed up to the top of the hill, I should find not one but three ships to take us to Gotland.
King. Cook us our supper first.
Hans Lorbass. Good, good! [During the foregoing he has been fetching cooking utensils, partly from the sack and partly from the outer wall of the tower, where they lie among tree-stumps, etc.]
King. I shall come soon enough to Gotland, and soon enough shall see that refuge whence I once bore to save them those most daring wishes of my powerless youth.
Hans Lorbass. Until a heron came.
King. Hans, be still!
Hans Lorbass. How can I, here in this place, where the sea and churchyard, yes, even the sea-wind itself, that strips the boughs with knife-like tongue, all vie with each other to tell us of that day when an old doting witch-wife with her cursed chatter, betrayed thee from thy confident path, to pause and play the hero?
King. Where is she hiding, that I may rip that shriveled skin of hers about her ears?
Hans Lorbass. She who played our fate in the world is not at home when we come back so worsted by it.
King. Burial-wife!
Hans Lorbass[laughs mockingly]. Yes, call away, my friend!... Come here instead and sit down on this tub. The fire is singing,--the water will soon boil; come warm thyself.
King. Thou art right. This cold sea wind pants like a bloodhound through the gorge. [He sits down by the fire.] The country-people say that spring is coming. Is it true, I wonder?
Hans Lorbass. What?
King. Why, that spring is coming.
Hans Lorbass. Then I believe it, for my leg that I lost begins to pain me.
King. Listen! Back in the hedge a shepherd pipes upon his willow whistle. The streams are beginning to thaw and run down hill.... Brown buds come out on all the branches. The very sunsets are different. Look, high up in the blue the wild geese fly in their triangle. Northward they go. Not I.... I must. We both must, Hans, for we have grown old.
Hans Lorbass. Because our heads are white? Thou art wrong, master. I dare venture many a conflict lies in our path before thou goest to thy fathers' lofty house, and anointest thyself with thy fathers' honors.
King. Honors are the mail-coat of the weary. I have need of them.
Hans Lorbass. Thou?
King. More than thou thinkest for. [Goes up, laughing bitterly.]
Hans Lorbass. Whither now?
King. Do not ask.
Hans Lorbass. Thou lookest toward the south,--what seekest thou there? Hast thou not known it all long since? That sunny land, those blue, flower-sown havens, whither thy hasting step once fled? Thou knowest they are full of stench and lamentation. Those beauteous women, fairest of the fair,--or passing as the fairest,--to bow in whose impious slavery once compassed all thy thoughts? Thou knowest they are all as empty as drained-out casks. And so, because the desire was lacking in thee to fill them with thy own soul, thou hast sourly turned away and sought perfection farther on. Thou hast come hither over lands and seas, and climbest up into the star-teeming void. Yet thou wilt never, never reach thy star. And that vailed enchanting distance itself, if it would once unmask and let thee reach it, how miserable it would look! Every conflict there would seem only a wrangle, every woman but a doll! Come now, lay aside thy shoulder-belt stretch thyself out and eat thy supper.
King. Let be, old grumbler! I seek naught in the distance.... But near by, floating in the haze of the spring evening, I think I see a dim shape of white battlements.
Hans Lorbass. It may well be. The town is only three miles farther on, and the air is clear. Still I advise thee, do not think upon the past.
King. Why?
Hans Lorbass. It was an evil-omened year. The worst of all, I think. It taught thy wild untrammeled spirit to circle-hopping in a cage, to limp instead of fly.
King. Thou art wrong, my friend. Something wakes in me at sight of those roofs.... There the wings of happiness once grazed my cheek, there, though in the midst of torture joy ripened to summer in my heart. Let me gaze on the place where imploring trustfulness once confessed itself to me by joyous sacrifice, and the purest of womankind yielded herself up in sweet urgency, and an oppressed country confided in me as a master; where even victory surrendered me her standard; let me gaze upon the spot, and then, instead of stretching forth my kingly hand in love and gratitude, I must slip past it outlawed, like a beggar or a thief. I stand here now and gaze through tears at that white glow of light, and gnaw my lips to bleeding.
Hans Lorbass. Master!
King. It is nothing,--nothing! All I have ever desired, all my soul's treasure, all I could not attain, can be spoken in one word. And that I may not speak. In silence I decide, and put it from me. I tear it from my breast, where it has clung so long; and with it all my longing pain blows like a faded leaf a world away.--Now I will lie down and sleep; for I am weary.
Hans Lorbass. And do thy pains and desires all come to an end thus? Look! Above there, where the sandy turf broadens among frozen clods past the sun-pierced snow. The wisest of womankind has prepared a bed for pilgrims such as we. Look!
King[going toward the open grave]. I see. It is just suited to a guest like me. Here, where--[He starts back in alarm.] Hans!
Hans Lorbass. What is the matter?
King. Come here. The grave is ready, but it is not empty. Look down and tell me what thou callest it, crouched there gray in the sand, that leers at me with staring eyes. Is it a corpse? Is it a spirit?
Hans Lorbass. Oh look at it! The badger is at work. Thou hast her now.
King. The Burial-wife? [Hans Lorbassnods.]
King. Out with her!
Hans Lorbass[stopping him]. Listen to me. Thou knowest I have known her longer than thou. Leave her alone. She was wont to lie thus for hours and days, and heed no words nor prayers; but seemed as dead. She is proof then against all summons and all blows; but when her time comes, then her limbs will stir, and she will come up out of the grave.
[Cölestinand the train with the youngPrinceenter.]
Cölestin. There they stand!
King[turning fiercely and raising his sword]. What do you want? A quarrel? We two are snarling dogs. We blindly seize on everybody near. Now come on! Speak!
The Young Prince. My father!
King. Wha--?
The Young Prince. My King!
KingYou would mock the man that fled from you?
The Young Prince. Down on your knees and honor him as I do!
King[dazed]. Hans!... But stand up!... Am I King? A hapless wretch,--naught but my man, my sword, and that pot of soup there, to call my own. I have no more. My very crown, the gloomy throne of Gotland must be fought for anew; stand up my son. [He raises him, and will embrace him, but suddenly pales, staring past the men in great agitation.] Hans! Dost thou see who stands there in the twilight of the wood--how spirit-like, how severed from this world--[He shrieks.]
[Enter theQueen.Behind her at a short distance, two of her women.]
Queen. Witte!
King. Go! I know thee not. And yet--I know thee. Thou art my--peace. Thou art ... Naught art thou more for me.... My body withers and my strength is fallen asunder. Therefore I may not say: "Thou art." ... Only "Thou wast." Still thou wast once of a surety--my wife.
Queen. I am to-day--I am a thousandfold! Hast thou forgot what I promised thee the day thou gavest thyself with hesitation to my service? I search thy face. I know thou turnest wearied back to thy northern home. Dost thou forget then where a balsam is prepared to heal thy bruised feet, dost thou forget where a thousand arms reach out to greet their loved one? Knowest thou not where thy home stands and calls to thee? Knowest thou not how well-nigh breathless with its joy my smile says unto thee: "I charm thee not?"
King. Nay, charm me not. I am not worthy. Life has seared me, and put a shameful kiss upon my brow.
Queen. Then let me cool it with my health-bringing hand, and thou wilt never feel the scar again.
King. How can I feel that scar or even the happiness after which I longed, now that those hours are past which knew thy love for me?
Queen. In no other have I trusted. I guarded thy son for thee; and still thy throne stands empty, waiting its master.
King. Then thou hast waited fifteen years and sorrowed not. So shalt thou learn my mystery. Two kingdoms I have won, to pleasure me; the first has vanished into air, the second is my shame. Justice became a mock,--all gifts a usury; and everywhere I turned a murderous laugh pursued me. Then purity plunged in the mire, then honor mocked its own best gift: all this the magic of the heron wreaked upon me.... Yea, now thou knowest; a charm was all my crime and all my fate, year after year. It blinded me to love and life, to wife and child; it hunted me away from thee, and drove me from place to place; and when a lucent flight of happiness sprang up from heaven after my downfall, it drowned its glory in a flood of tears. Behold! [He tears open his gorget and draws out the last of the heron's feathers.] The enchantment's last beguiling pledge I hold here in my hand. When this feather shrivels in the flame there sinks an unblessed woman to her death, that woman whose wraith stood in the heavens for me to gaze upon,--that woman whom I sought and never found! Behold! I bury the madness in its grave, and with the act I put the longing from me. [He tosses the feather into the flames. There is a flash of lightning, and a roll of thunder follows it.]
Queen[sinks down, whispering with failing strength]. Now are we two protected from all mischance.... I still ... have been thy happiness ... even in ... death. [She dies.]
Prince. Mother! Speak one word to me!
King. It was thou? It was thou? [He throws himself upon her body.]
The Young Prince[in tears]. Ah, Mother!
Cölestin. She has gone, and I, the shadow of a shadow, stay behind.
The Men[murmur among themselves]. His is the blame! Tear him from off her body! [They draw their swords to attack theKing.]
Hans Lorbass[blocking the way with drawn sword]. Away there!
[The Burial-wife mounting solemnly out of the open grave.]
Burial-wife. Children, cease your strife! Can you not see his spirit wanders far? He is wrapped about with the whisperings of eternity. The message of death is on the way, the stone of sacrifice doth reek for blood. Long has this man belonged to me; and now--[she raises her arm and lets it fall]--I come into my own. [TheKingbreathes heavily, stirs, and dies.]
Hans Lorbass[kneels down beside him with a cry]. Master, master!
Burial-wife. Thus from lust and guilt and sorrow have I cleansed his soul. To both of them it shall be as though they had not been. Wrap them about with linen, bear them to my dark abode; then go in silent thought from hence, for my work is done.
Hans Lorbass[rises, in anguished bitterness]. Mine must begin anew. How gladly have I ever braved fresh dangers as my darling's slave! That service, too, is past; but now his kingdom calls loudly on my sword for aid. [Pointing seaward.] Northward there lies a land debauched, crying from out its shame for justice, for a righteous law, for vengeance, for salvation; for a master,--and that shall the man become!
Translated by Helen Tracy Porter.
The days pass by in ShadowtownWearily, wearily;--And Bitter-Sweet Marah of ShadowtownSighs drearily, drearily."Mother, tell him to come to meWhile my hair is gold and beautifulAnd my lips and eyes are youngWhile the songs that are welling up in my heartMay still be sung."The days go by so wearilyLike crooked goblins, eërily,Like silly shadows, fast and still,Wind-driven and drearily."Like the gray clouds are my eyes gray, mother,Like them, heavy as things grown oldOnly the clouds' tears are but dream-tears--Lifeless, cold."Last night I had the strangest dream,--It seemed I stood on a barren hillWhere the wings of the ragged clouds went byHurrying and still."And all of a sudden the moon came outMaking a pathway over the down,--And turned my hair to a gold mist, mother,To light the way to Shadowtown."But when I did not see him coming,And because the clouds grew dark and grayI walked through the shadows down the hillsideTo help him better to find the way."And in some wise I came to a forestWhen all around was so strange and dim,--That I thought, 'If I should be lost in the darkness,How could my hair be light for him?'"But groping, I found I was on a pathwayWhere low soft branches swept my face,--When suddenly, close beside, and before meI knew dim forms kept even pace."They were so cowering, shivering, whiteThat I felt some ill thing came behindAnd I heard a moan on the wind go by'Ah, but the end of the path to find!'"Then I looked behind, and saw that nearLike a wan marsh-fog, came a cloudHurrying on,--and I knew it wrappedA dead love--as a shroud."And guiltily the figures went,Like coward things in a guilty raceAnd not one dared to look behindFor fear he knew that dead love's face."Then suddenly at my side I knewHe I loved went;--but, for my hair,Shadowed and blown about my face,He knew me not beside him there."And he, too, cowered with shaking handsOver his eyes, for fear to meetHaunting and still, my pallid faceIn that strange mist of winding-sheet."So on the shadowy figures wentHurrying the loathéd cloud before,--Seeking an end of a fated pathThat went winding evermore."Oh, Mother, that path was hideous,--Long and ill and hideous--And the way was so near to Shadowtown,--Fairer to Shadowtown--But the gold of my hair shall not light the wayFor anyone else to Shadowtown."Gray-eyed Marah of ShadowtownTurns away wearily, wearilyWeaving her gold hair back and forth,Thus she sings, and drearily--"Little Love, when you shall die, then so shall I,Ha, merrily!"Then let them put us in some deep spotWhere one the growing of trees' roots hearsAnd you at my heart, all wet with tears,All wet with tears."Your wings are draggled and limp and wet,--Little Love,--From what rainy land have you come, and far,--Or who that has held you was crying so,--Who, little Love--?My eyes are heavy and wet with tearsWhose eyes besides are heavy so--?--Oh, little Love, how dumb you are!--"Then, poor Love, that has lived in my heartCome, take my hand, we will go together,Hemlock boughs are full of sleepOut of the way of the weather."For a cavern of cold gray mist is my heartWill not the hemlock boughs be betterOver our feet and under our headsKeeping us from the weather?"Her gold hair duskily glints in her handsMarah of Shadowtown sings--"Together,--You, little Love, and I, will goInto the Land of Pleasanter Weather."Anne Throop.
The days pass by in ShadowtownWearily, wearily;--And Bitter-Sweet Marah of ShadowtownSighs drearily, drearily.
"Mother, tell him to come to meWhile my hair is gold and beautifulAnd my lips and eyes are youngWhile the songs that are welling up in my heartMay still be sung.
"The days go by so wearilyLike crooked goblins, eërily,Like silly shadows, fast and still,Wind-driven and drearily.
"Like the gray clouds are my eyes gray, mother,Like them, heavy as things grown oldOnly the clouds' tears are but dream-tears--Lifeless, cold.
"Last night I had the strangest dream,--It seemed I stood on a barren hillWhere the wings of the ragged clouds went byHurrying and still.
"And all of a sudden the moon came outMaking a pathway over the down,--And turned my hair to a gold mist, mother,To light the way to Shadowtown.
"But when I did not see him coming,And because the clouds grew dark and grayI walked through the shadows down the hillsideTo help him better to find the way.
"And in some wise I came to a forestWhen all around was so strange and dim,--That I thought, 'If I should be lost in the darkness,How could my hair be light for him?'
"But groping, I found I was on a pathwayWhere low soft branches swept my face,--When suddenly, close beside, and before meI knew dim forms kept even pace.
"They were so cowering, shivering, whiteThat I felt some ill thing came behindAnd I heard a moan on the wind go by'Ah, but the end of the path to find!'
"Then I looked behind, and saw that nearLike a wan marsh-fog, came a cloudHurrying on,--and I knew it wrappedA dead love--as a shroud.
"And guiltily the figures went,Like coward things in a guilty raceAnd not one dared to look behindFor fear he knew that dead love's face.
"Then suddenly at my side I knewHe I loved went;--but, for my hair,Shadowed and blown about my face,He knew me not beside him there.
"And he, too, cowered with shaking handsOver his eyes, for fear to meetHaunting and still, my pallid faceIn that strange mist of winding-sheet.
"So on the shadowy figures wentHurrying the loathéd cloud before,--Seeking an end of a fated pathThat went winding evermore.
"Oh, Mother, that path was hideous,--Long and ill and hideous--And the way was so near to Shadowtown,--Fairer to Shadowtown--But the gold of my hair shall not light the wayFor anyone else to Shadowtown."
Gray-eyed Marah of ShadowtownTurns away wearily, wearilyWeaving her gold hair back and forth,Thus she sings, and drearily--"Little Love, when you shall die, then so shall I,Ha, merrily!
"Then let them put us in some deep spotWhere one the growing of trees' roots hearsAnd you at my heart, all wet with tears,All wet with tears.
"Your wings are draggled and limp and wet,--Little Love,--From what rainy land have you come, and far,--Or who that has held you was crying so,--Who, little Love--?My eyes are heavy and wet with tearsWhose eyes besides are heavy so--?--Oh, little Love, how dumb you are!--
"Then, poor Love, that has lived in my heartCome, take my hand, we will go together,Hemlock boughs are full of sleepOut of the way of the weather.
"For a cavern of cold gray mist is my heartWill not the hemlock boughs be betterOver our feet and under our headsKeeping us from the weather?"
Her gold hair duskily glints in her handsMarah of Shadowtown sings--"Together,--You, little Love, and I, will goInto the Land of Pleasanter Weather."
Anne Throop.
Go fight your fight with Tagal and with Boer,Cheer in the lust of strength and brutal pride;Beat down the lamb to fatten up the fox,Shout victory o'er the prostrate shape of truth.Take cross and pike and gold and sophistry,To pray and prod and purchase, wheedle, wile;Stamp out the roses in a waste of weeds,Shout while the trembling voice of truth is hushed.Shatter with iron heel the poet's dream,The prophet's protest, and the ages' hope,Of brotherhood and light and love on earth--Of peace and plenty and a perfect race.Tear down the fabric of ten thousand years,The world's best wisdom woven in its woe;Lift ruthless hands to rend the fairy faneThat holds the heart hopes of humanity.Let loose greed, envy, lust, and avarice,The myriad throated dragon of desire;Let might rule, riot, batten on the meek,The tyranny of man o'er man seem right.Forget the Lord Christ smiled, forgave, and died;Frowned down every appeal to brutish strength;Bade man put up the sword, lest by the swordHe perish; prayed evil might be paid by good.Forget he turned cheek to the coward blow,Cried "Pardon!" yes, seven and seventy times! "Judge not;Do not condemn; give coat as well as cloak;Resist not evil, wrong's not made right by wrong."Forget each drop of blood burns in the race,Cries for atonement while the last man lives;That murder for the state is murder still,The gilded not less guilty though more great.Forget, and flay and flame; in din grow deafTo piteous cries without, and voice within;Conquer, triumph, and when the world is won,Turn terroring towards the demon in your heart.William Mountain.
Go fight your fight with Tagal and with Boer,
Cheer in the lust of strength and brutal pride;
Beat down the lamb to fatten up the fox,
Shout victory o'er the prostrate shape of truth.
Take cross and pike and gold and sophistry,
To pray and prod and purchase, wheedle, wile;
Stamp out the roses in a waste of weeds,
Shout while the trembling voice of truth is hushed.
Shatter with iron heel the poet's dream,
The prophet's protest, and the ages' hope,
Of brotherhood and light and love on earth--
Of peace and plenty and a perfect race.
Tear down the fabric of ten thousand years,
The world's best wisdom woven in its woe;
Lift ruthless hands to rend the fairy fane
That holds the heart hopes of humanity.
Let loose greed, envy, lust, and avarice,
The myriad throated dragon of desire;
Let might rule, riot, batten on the meek,
The tyranny of man o'er man seem right.
Forget the Lord Christ smiled, forgave, and died;
Frowned down every appeal to brutish strength;
Bade man put up the sword, lest by the sword
He perish; prayed evil might be paid by good.
Forget he turned cheek to the coward blow,
Cried "Pardon!" yes, seven and seventy times! "Judge not;
Do not condemn; give coat as well as cloak;
Resist not evil, wrong's not made right by wrong."
Forget each drop of blood burns in the race,
Cries for atonement while the last man lives;
That murder for the state is murder still,
The gilded not less guilty though more great.
Forget, and flay and flame; in din grow deaf
To piteous cries without, and voice within;
Conquer, triumph, and when the world is won,
Turn terroring towards the demon in your heart.
William Mountain.
If, as has so often been said, literature is an expression of life, surely we may study literature to discover the laws of life. Not all our writers, but all our masters, have given us records from which we may learn what has been discerned and accepted concerning life by the race.
The scientific study of our day has led men to consider genius from the modern point of view. Is genius a natural product? If so, whence comes it, and what are its laws? These are among the most interesting questions of the present time. Formerly, men contented themselves with calling the literary faculty a "gift," the result of "inspiration." Of late we have been told that it is a natural race impulse which finds expression in some individual. Personally, we believe genius to be the heated, pregnant condition of a great mind under the influence of a great enthusiasm. However our definitions of genius may differ, on one point we all agree. We are all sure that genius is true to life, that genius teaches us the truth.
In its formed philosophical theories it may err, but not in its perceptions of life. Shelley may teach atheistic views in 'Queen Mab,' and he may err, for intellectual belief is a matter of opinion. Nevertheless Shelley's inspired interpretation of life can but be accepted as real. George Meredith may teach in his 'Lord Ormond and his Aminta' doctrines of free love, resulting from an attempt to separate what can not be separated in our human lives,--the physical and the spiritual loves; and in doing this he may err. Nevertheless, in his inspired representations of life and character, coming not from thought alone but from his whole nature, Meredith cannot err.
Those of us who read thoughtlessly, without formed theory, accept literature as real. Have you never, when asked: "Did you ever know of a case of love at first sight?" answered carelessly: "Oh, yes! There's Romeo and Juliet, you know?" Or have you never instanced, as the most persuasive oration you ever heard, Mark Antony's speech in 'Julius Cæsar?'
Thinkers who claim a natural mental origin for the literary gift must believe in its reality as a matter of course. Those who speak reverently of its "inspiration" claim a spirit of truth, not of error, for its parent. Even those who enjoy comparisons of the states of genius and insanity, ranging from Shakespeare, with his words: "The fool, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact" to the masterly modern treatment of John Fiske, agree that the sharp division line of truth and error separates the two. They confess that while the insane mind may accept hallucinations, the mind of genius deals only with the truth. The results of both are imaginative; only those of insanity are imaginary.
All thinkers, then, accept the masterpieces of literature as among life's real phenomena. Whether Meredith's novels hold this high place is at present a matter of opinion. For men do not know Meredith very well. A knowledge of his position on this question of Destiny will help us to learn whether or not he ranks among the elect.
In our great literature there has always appeared a close sequence between wisdom and success, righteousness and happiness, and, on the other hand, between the choice of moral evil and suffering. This sequence has been not merely expressed in words, but built into the very structure of the plot through the workings of the imagination kindled by genius. The law of this succession, and its relationship with other laws, philosophers have always been seeking. It is this search that has led men into the mazy discussions of freedom and fatalism. For in this law lies the crucial point of the question of human destiny.
'Beowulf,' our first epic, tells us not only much of the manner of life of our rude Saxon ancestors, but also much of their thought. The note of fatalism in its chord of life is no weak one. "A man must bear his fate," the hero says when about to go into a dangerous combat. Yet even in 'Beowulf' we find the contrasting element, the character choice appearing.
As a child boldly states a problem as though it were a solution, Beowulf naïvely says: "Fate always aids the undoomed man, if his courage holds out." This expression side by side of the two elements of the question has never been surpassed, and is, in its way, matchless.
Have we learned much more to-day? We cannot fail to recognize the duality of the truth, but have we been able yet to join the two sides into one, to discover the unity that surely lies behind the seeming contrast?
Each side of the question has been largely developed. Some, in a narrow spirit, have echoed merely Beowulf's, "Fate always aids the undoomed man"; while others, often as narrowly, have answered, "A man succeeds, if his courage holds out." Ever in our greatest literature the two elements have appeared side by side. The mystery has always been recognized.
That even Shakespeare is reverent before fate, yet believes in the influence of character on a man's life can easily be seen from words like Helena's in 'All's Well that Ends Well':--
"Our remedies oft in ourselves do lieWhich we ascribe to heaven; the fated skyGives us free scope, only doth backward pullOur slow designs when we ourselves are dull."
"Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie
Which we ascribe to heaven; the fated sky
Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull."
'Macbeth,' with its successive steps of unhappiness following one critical evil choice is sufficient proof of Shakespear's belief in the determining power of character. 'King Lear,' with its sad result of folly shows his belief in the influence of the critical foolish decision. In the uncrowned king's conversation with his fool, occur these words:
Lear. Dost thou call me fool, boy?
Fool. All thy other titles thou hast given away; that thou wast born with.
In Robert Browning literature has brought even up to the present time the old mystery, the ever continuing struggle between fatalism and freedom. But to him, as to most thinkers of his day, fate has become the instrument of a God, a divine Providence rules the world, while man, too, has his little realm of choice.
At the present time this discussion is carried to a greater extent than ever before. The one side finds its expression in our modern idealistic philosophy, the other in our modern sceptical science. Idealistic philosophy, since Kant, has been trying to lay the responsibility for all life upon the free moral choice. It has been seeking to prove that the spiritual is the source of life.
Modern science, on the other hand, with its keen, wide-opened eyes, has tried to lay all the necessary sequence of law, forgetting at times that law is but the explanation of the phenomena. Science sometimes refuses to consider such phenomena as require a new point of view, beyond the physical and mental,--a moral point of view. By this refusal to recognize the spiritual part of man, science attempts to avoid a second mystery. The mystery of the union of the physical and mental realms it has been forced, long since, to accept. It would shun the moral realms because that, too, entails its mystery of connection.
Once accept physical life, and science is, in so far, free from impassable gulfs. Once accept mental life and that realm also becomes capable of study. Let the free moral nature once be accepted, and again we shall have reached firm footing. But to cross between these realms by law, by reason, is impossible; for life, any kind of life, is its own only explanation.
While the problem of freedom becomes simple for one who, like Meredith, will take this view, there are many who will not or cannot do so, and the very impossibility of the question from reason's point of view makes the path a very labyrinth for them. We all try to solve the question, and different personalities arrive at different answers; but all are partial. They vary from the logical, but dead outcome of Swinburne: "There is no bad nor good," to the struggling faith of Omar Khayyam:
"The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,But here or there as strikes the Player goes;And he that toss'd you down into the Field,He knows about it all--He knows--He knows."
"The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But here or there as strikes the Player goes;
And he that toss'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all--He knows--He knows."
At such a time as this of ours it is especially helpful to study a writer like George Meredith, who far from ignoring the many sides of the problem, yet clings firmly to his faith in character. With no doubtful accent, he tells us that Character is the Source of Destiny.
As any great writer of the day must do, Meredith accepts much in the arguments of the fatalists. He does not refuse to see that nature and circumstances are strong to mould life. He recognizes the great power of environment and the absolute power, within its realm, of heredity. Like Beowulf, like Shakespeare, like Browning, he is reverent before human destiny. Yet in spite of all this, he accepts the moral with its necessary result of freedom. He declares that, although the laws of necessity rule up to the crisis of the moral choice, that very choice sets all the laws of intellect and body working according to itself.
All the stronger for his acceptance of life's necessity becomes his belief in life's freedom. All the stronger for his concessions becomes his final dictum. The more intricate the machine, the greater its master's mind. The narrower the realm of choice, the greater power must that choice have, to move life as it does.
To show that the same peculiar mixture of belief in fatalism and in the determining power of character on life exists in Meredith's writings as in Beowulf and in Shakespeare, let me quote a few words from 'Evan Harrington':
"Most youths, like Pope's women, have no character at all, and indeed a character that does not wait for circumstances to shape it, is of small worth in the race that must be run."
Again he says:
"When we have cast off the scales of hope and fancy, and surrender our claims on made chance: when the wild particles of this universe consent to march as they are directed, it is given them to see if they see at all that some plan is working out: that the heavens, icy as they are to the pangs of our blood, have been throughout speaking to our souls; and, according to the strength there existing, we learn to comprehend them."
That Meredith, although very reverent before human destiny, is not, on the other hand, one of those who lay the responsibility for their own lives on "the stars," or "fate," or "Providence," may be shown by a study of the characters into whose mouths he puts such sentiments.
In 'Rhoda Fleming' who is it but Algernon, "the fool," who says:
"I'm under some doom. I see it now. Nobody cares for me. I don't know what happiness is. I was born under a bad star. My fate's written."
It is of Algernon, likewise, that the author says:
"Behind the figures he calculated that, in all probability, Rhoda would visit her sister this night. 'I can't stop that,' he said: and hearing a clock strike, 'nor that.' The reflection inspired him with fatalistic views."
In 'The Tragic Comedians,' who is it but Clotilde, "the craven," who lays the successive steps which lead to the tragedy in her life, now to fate, now to other people's power or lack of insight, now to Providence? She reaps, as Meredith plainly shows us, simply what she sows.
In 'Sandra Belloni,' it is Mr. Barrett, that sentimentalist of the better order, of which class the author says: "We will discriminate more closely here than to call them fools," who lets his whole life be crushed with the melancholy thought that he is under the influence of some baneful star. His death, which he lets chance bring or keep away, is a fitting conclusion to his story. He shuts two pistols up together in the same case overnight, knowing that one of them is loaded, the other not. In the morning he takes out one, prepared to fire it upon himself, in case his beloved does not keep tryst. She does not come, he fires, the pistol happens to be loaded, and so comes death. It shows that the "star" of which he thought was not a real star burning clear in the high heavens. It was rather but a will-o'-the-wisp, born of the marshy exhalations of his own morbid brain. Meredith reverences the real star. He kindly ridicules the will-o'-the-wisp.
But there is still another class of fatalists in Meredith's novels. He recognizes also the fatalism of youth. Such is that of the young Wilfrid in 'Sandra Belloni,' concerning whom the author informs us that we "shall see him grow." Meredith is too great a thinker not to see that this tendency toward fatalism does not belong merely to the "fool," the "craven," and the "sentimentalist," but that it is a tendency of our youth. We are all weak when we are growing, he assures us. Is not ours preëminently a growing age?
But we must not linger too long on the negative side of Meredith's belief. We have seen that he is willing to recognize that there is a wonderful, mysterious power governing human destiny. We have seen, also, that he does not side in the least with those who lay the responsibility for their own lives on fate. Let us seek for his positive message.
In the 'Adventures of Harry Richmond' he says:
"If a man's fate were as a forbidden fruit, detached from him, and in front of him, he might hesitate fortunately before plucking it; but, as most of us are aware, the vital half of it lies in the seed paths he has traversed."
This is certainly a very definite statement of a strong belief in a man's choice of his own destiny. Again, in 'Modern Love' we find the following: