Chapter V · (continued 2)

"I can't commend your choice," I said.

"What shall I read then?" she cried. And throwing her book on the table, she added, "It's better that I fill up my time with nonsense," and with this she ran out into the garden.

That evening I read "Hermann and Dorothea" aloud to Gagin. At first Assja occupied herself rather noisily near us, then suddenly ceased and became attentive, seated herself quietly beside me, and listened to the reading to the end. On the following day I was again puzzled by her mood till it occurred to me that she had been seized with a whim to be womanly and discreet like Dorothea. In a word, she was an enigmatical creature. Full of conceit and irritable as she was, she attracted me even while she made me angry. I was more and more convinced that she was not Gagin's sister. His behavior toward her was not that of a brother; it was too gentle, too considerate, and at the same time a little constrained. A singular occurrence seemed, by every token, to confirm my suspicions.

One evening, when I came to the vineyard where the Gagins lived, I found the gate locked. Without much thought I went to a broken place which I had often noticed in the wall, and sprang over. Not far from this place, and aside from the path, there was a small clump of acacia. I had reached it, and was on the point of passing it. Suddenly I heard Assja's voice, the words spoken excitedly and through tears:

"No. I will love no one but you: no, no—you alone and for ever!"

"Listen, Assja. Compose yourself," replied Gagin. "You know that I believe you." I heard the voices of both in the arbor. I saw both through the sparse foliage. They were not aware of my presence.

"You—you alone," she repeated, threw herself on his neck, and clinging to his breast, she kissed him amid violent sobs. "Come, enough," he said, while he smoothed her hair gently with his hand.

For a moment I stood motionless. Suddenly I recollected myself. Enter and join them? For nothing in the world! it shot through my brain. With hasty steps I gained the wall, leaped it, and reached my dwelling almost on the run. I laughed, rubbed my hands together, and congratulated myself on the chance which had so unexpectedly confirmed my suspicion (whose truth I had not doubted for an instant); but my heart was heavy. "They dissemble well?" I thought. "And for what purpose? Why do they wish to amuse themselves at my expense? I would not have thought it of them!" What a disturbing discovery it was!

I slept ill, and on the following day I rose early, buckled on my knapsack, and after telling my landlady not to expect me at night, I turned my steps toward the mountains, following the stream on which the town of S—— is built. These mountains are very interesting from a geological point of view; they are particularly remarkable for the regularity and purity of their basaltic formations; but I was not bent on geological investigation. I could give no account to myself of my own feelings. One thing, however, was clear: I had not the least desire to see the Gagins. I insisted to myself that the only ground of my sudden distaste for their society lay in vexation at their falseness.

What had been the necessity of calling themselves brother and sister? I resolutely avoided thinking of them, loitered idly among the hills and valleys, spent much time in village inns in friendly talk with the landlord and his guests, or lay on a flat or sunny rock in the lovely weather, and watched the clouds float over. In this way three days passed not unpleasantly, though from time to time I had a stifled feeling at my heart. This quiet nature accorded perfectly with my state of mind. I gave myself up completely to the chance of the moment and the impressions that it brought to me; following one another without haste, they flooded my soul, and left finally a single feeling where everything which I had seen or heard or experienced during these three days was blended—everything: the faint resinous smell of the woods, cry and tapping of the woodpeckers, the continual murmur of the clear brooks with spotted trout in their sandy shallows, the not too bold outlines of the mountains, gray rock, the friendly villages with venerable churches and trees, storks in the meadows, snug mills with wheels merrily turning, the honest faces of the country people with their blue smocks and gray stockings, the slow creaking wagons and well-fed horses, or sometimes a yoke of oxen, long-haired lads strolling along the cleanly kept paths under apple and pear trees. To this day I remember with pleasure the impressions of that time. I greet you, little nook of modest ground, with your modest content, with your signs everywhere visible of busy hands, of labor constant if not severe—greetings to you and peace.

At the end of the third day I returned to S——. I have forgotten to say that in my vexation with the Gagins, I had endeavored to reinstate the image of my hard-hearted widow. But I remember, as I began to think of her, I saw before me a little peasant girl, about five years old, out of whose round little face a pair of great innocent eyes were regarding me curiously. The look was so childlike, so confiding, a kind of shame swept over me. I could not continue a lie before that gaze, and at once and for ever I said good-by to my early flame.

I found a note from Gagin waiting for me. My sudden whim astonished him. He made me some reproaches that I had not taken him with me, and begged me to come to him as soon as I should return. Distrustfully I read this note, yet the following day found me at L——.

Gagin's reception was friendly. He overwhelmed me with affectionate reproaches; but no sooner had Assja caught sight of me than she broke into loud laughter, designedly, it seemed, and without the least cause, and ran away precipitately. Gagin lost his temper, grumbled at her for a crazy girl, and begged me to excuse her. I must confess that I was very cross with Assja. I was uncomfortable before, and now this unnatural laughter and ridiculous behavior must be added. However, I acted as if I had observed nothing, and detailed to Gagin all the incidents of my little journey. He told me what he had done during my absence. But the conversation went lame. Assja kept running in and out. Finally I declared that I had some pressing work, and that it was time for me to be at home. Gagin tried to detain me at first, then looking keenly at me, he begged permission to accompany me. In the hall Assja approached me suddenly, and held out her hand to me. I gave her fingers an almost imperceptible pressure, and bade her good-by carelessly. We crossed the Rhine together, strolled to my favorite oak tree near the little shrine to the Virgin, and sat down on a bench to enjoy the landscape. There a remarkable conversation took place between us.

At first we only spoke in the briefest words, then fell into silence and fixed our eyes on the shining river.

"Tell me," Gagin began suddenly, with his accustomed smile, "what is your opinion of Assja? She must appear a little singular to you. Not so?"

"Yes," I answered, not without a certain constraint. I had not expected him to speak of her.

"One must learn to know her well to form a judgment upon her," he continued. "She has a very good heart, but a wild head. It is hard to live quietly with her. However, it is not her fault, and if you knew her history——"

"Her history!" I interrupted him. "Isn't she then your——" Gagin looked at me.

"Is it possible that you have doubted that she was my sister? No," he went on, without heeding my confusion. "She is; at least she is my father's daughter. Listen to me. I have confidence in you, and I will tell you all about her.

"My father was a very honest, sensible, cultivated, and unfortunate man. Fate had no harder blows for him than for others, but he could not bear the first one that he felt from her. He had married early—a love match; his wife, my mother, soon died, and I was left a six months' old baby. My father took me to his country estates, and for twelve whole years he lived there in absolute seclusion. He himself took charge of my education, and would never have been separated from me if my uncle, his brother, had not come to visit us in our country house. This uncle lived in Petersburg, where he held a rather important post. He persuaded my father, who could not be induced to quit his home under any consideration, to trust me to his care. He showed his brother what an injury it was to a boy of my age to live in such complete isolation, and that, with a companion always melancholy and silent as my father, I should inevitably remain behind boys of my age—yes, that my character might easily be endangered by such a life. For a long time my father resisted his brother's arguments, but at last he yielded. I cried at parting from my father, whom I loved, though I had never seen a smile on his face; but Petersburg once reached, our gloomy and silent nest was soon forgotten. I went to school, and was afterward placed in a regiment of the Guards. Every year I spent some weeks at our country house, and with every year I found my father more melancholy, more reserved, and depressed to an alarming degree. He went to church daily, and had almost given up speech. On one of my visits—I was then in my twentieth year—I saw for the first time about the house a little lean, black-eyed girl, who might have been about ten years old. It was Assja. My father said she was an orphan whose care he had undertaken: those were his own words. I gave her no further attention. She was as wild, quick, and shy as a little animal, and if I entered my father's favorite room, a great dismal chamber in which my mother had died, and which had to be lighted even by day, she always slunk out of sight behind my father's old-fashioned easy chair, or hid behind the bookcase. It happened that for the three or four years following I was prevented by my service from visiting our estate. Every month I received a short letter from my father, in which Assja was spoken of seldom and always incidentally. My father was already past his fiftieth year, but looked still a young man. Imagine my distress then when I suddenly received a perfectly unexpected letter from our steward, announcing the fatal illness of my father, and begging me urgently to come home as quickly as possible if I wished to see him alive. I rushed headlong home, and found my father, though in the last agony. My presence seemed the greatest joy to him; he clasped me in his wasted arms, turned on me his gaze half doubtful, half imploring, and after he had obtained from me a promise that I would carry out his last wishes, he ordered his old servant to fetch Assja. The old man brought her. She could hardly support herself on her feet, and was trembling in every limb.

"'Now take her,' said my father to me with earnestness. 'I bequeathe to you my daughter, your sister. You will hear everything from Jacob,' he added, while he pointed to his valet.

"Assja burst out sobbing, and threw herself on the bed. Half an hour afterward my father was dead.

"I learned the following story: Assja was the daughter of my father and a former waiting maid of my mother's, named Tatiana. She rose distinct to my remembrance, this Tatiana, with her tall, slender figure, her serious face, regular features, her dark and earnest eyes. She had the reputation of a proud, unapproachable girl. As nearly as I could learn from Jacob's reserved and respectful story, my father had entered into close relations with her some years after my mother's death. At that time Tatiana was not in her master's house, but living with a married sister, the dairywoman, in a separate hut. My father became very much attached to her, and wished to marry her after my departure, but she herself refused this in spite of his entreaties.

"'The departed Tatiana Vlassievna'—so Jacob told me, standing against the door, with his hands crossed behind his back—'was in all things very thoughtful, and would not lower your father. "A fine wife I should be for you—a real lady wife!" she said to him—in my presence she has said it.' Tatiana never would come back to the house, but remained, together with Assja, living with her sister as before. As a child I had often seen Tatiana at church on saint days. She stood among the servants, usually near a window. She wore a dark cloth wound about her head and a yellow shawl on her shoulders—the strong outline of her face clear against the transparent pane; and she prayed silently and humbly, bowing very low after the old fashion. When my uncle took me away Assja was just two; when she lost her mother, just nine years old.

"Immediately after Tatiana's death my father took Assja home to himself. He had already expressed a wish to have her with him, but Tatiana had refused it. You can imagine what Assja must have felt when she was taken into the master's house. To this day she has not forgotten the hour when for the first time they dressed her in a silk dress and kissed her little hand. In her mother's lifetime she had been brought up with great strictness: my father left her without a single restraint. He was her instructor; except him, she saw no one. He did not spoil her; at least he did not follow her about like a nursemaid, but he loved her fondly, and refused her nothing. He was conscious of guilt toward her. Assja soon discovered that she was the principal person in the household. She knew the master was her father, but at the same time she began to understand her equivocal position. Wilfulness and distrust were developed to an extreme degree in her. Bad manners were contracted; simplicity vanished. She wished (she herself told me) to compel the whole world to forget her origin. She was ashamed of her mother, was ashamed of being ashamed, and was in turn proud of her. You see that she knew and knows still many things that should not be known at her age. But does the blame rest with her? Youth was strong in her: her blood flowed hot, and no hand near to guide her—the fullest independence in everything! Is such a fate easily borne? She would not be inferior to other girls. She rushed headlong into study. But what good could result from it? The life, lawlessly begun, seemed likely to develop lawlessly. But the heart remained true and the reason sound.

"And so I found myself, a young fellow of twenty, weighted with the care of a thirteen-year old girl! In the first days after my father's death my voice caused her a feeling of feverish horror, my caresses made her sad, and only by degrees and after a long time did she become accustomed to me. And later, when she had gained security that I really considered her my sister, and that I loved her as a sister, she attached herself passionately to me: with her there is no half feeling.

"I brought her to Petersburg. Hard as it was to leave her—I could not live with her in any case—I placed her at one of the best boarding-schools. Assja agreed to the necessity of our separation, but it cost her a sickness which came near to being a fatal one. Little by little she reconciled herself, and she staid four years in this establishment. But contrary to my expectations, she remained almost her old self. The principal of the school often complained to me. 'I cannot punish her,' she would say; 'and I can do nothing by kindness.' Assja comprehended everything with great quickness, learned wonderfully—better than all; but it was utterly impossible to bring her under the common rule. She rebelled; was sulky. I could not blame her much. In her position she must keep herself at the service of every one, or avoid every one. Only one of all her companions was intimate with her—an insignificant, silent, and poor girl. The other young girls with whom she was associated, of good families for the most part, did not like her, and taunted and jibed her whenever they could find opportunity. Assja was not behind them by a hair's breadth. Once, in the hour for religious instruction, the teacher came to speak of the idea of vice. 'Sycophancy and cowardice,' said Assja aloud, 'are the meanest vices.' In a word, she continued to walk in her own way, only her manners improved somewhat; but even in this respect, I fancy, she has made no wonderful advance.

"She had reached her seventeenth year. It was useless to keep her longer at school. I found myself in great perplexity. All of a sudden a happy thought struck me: to quit the service, and to travel with Assja for a year or two. Done as soon as thought. So here are we both now on the banks of the Rhine: I occupied in learning to paint, she following out her whims in her usual way. But now I must hope that you will not pass too harsh judgment upon her; for however much she may insist that everything is indifferent to her, she does care very much for the opinion of others, and especially for your own."

And Gagin smiled again his gentle smile. I wrung his hand.

"That is how it stands now," Gagin continued. "But I have my hands full with her. A real firebrand, that girl! Up to this time no one has ever pleased her; but alas if ever she falls in love! At times I do not know what to do with her. Lately she took it into her head to declare that I was growing cold to her, but that she loved only me, and would love only me her life long. And how she sobbed!"

"So that was it," I said to myself, and bit my lip. "But tell me," I asked Gagin, "now that our hearts are open, has really no one ever caught her fancy? Surely she must have seen many young men in Petersburg?"

"And they are all absolutely distasteful to her. No. Assja is seeking a hero—an entirely extraordinary man, or else an artistic shepherd among his flock. But enough of this gossip. I am detaining you," he added as he rose.

"Come," I said, "let us go back. I don't care to go home."

"And your work?"

I made no reply. Gagin laughed good-naturedly, and we returned to L——. As the well-known vineyard and the little white house on the hillside came in sight, my heart was warmed in a curious way—yes, that was it—warmed and soothed as if, unknown to me, some one had poured some healing drops there. Gagin's story had made me cheerful.

Assja met us at the threshold. I had expected to find her still laughing, but she stepped forward to us, pale, silent, and with eyes down cast.

"Here he is again," Gagin said to her, "and be sure of this: it was his own wish to come back."

Assja looked at me inquiringly. I held out my hand to her, and this time I grasped tightly her cold and slender fingers. I felt deep pity for her. Now I understood much that had before disturbed me in her: her inner restlessness, her offensive manner, her endeavor to show herself other than she was—all was clear to me. I had had a glimpse into this soul. A constant weight oppressed it. Fearfully the untrained will fought and struggled, yet her whole being was striving after truth. Now I understood why this singular girl had attracted me: it was not only the charm which invested her whole body; it was her soul which drew me.

Gagin began to fumble among his sketches. I asked Assja to come for a walk with me through the vineyard. She gave a ready, almost humble assent. We climbed the hill about half way, and stopped on a broad plateau.

"And you felt no ennui without us?" Assja began.

"Did you, then, feel any in my absence?" I asked.

Assja looked at me sideways.

"Yes," she replied. "Is it pleasant in the mountains?" she immediately continued. "Are they high? Higher than the clouds? Tell me what you have seen. You have told my brother, but I have heard nothing about it."

"Why did you go away?" I interrupted her.

"I went—because—— Now I will not go away," she added in a gentle, confiding tone. "You were cross today."

"I?"

"You."

"But why? I beg you——"

"I don't know; but you were cross, and went away cross. It was very unpleasant to me to have you go away in that manner, and I am glad that you have come back."

"I am equally glad," I replied.

Assja moved her shoulders slightly, one after the other, as children do when they are in good humor.

"Oh, I am famous at guessing," she went on. "Long ago my father had only to cough, and I knew instantly whether he was pleased with me or not."

Till this time Assja had never spoken to me of her father. That struck me.

"You loved your father very much?" I asked, and I felt to my great annoyance that I was blushing.

She did not answer, but she also blushed. We were both silent. In the distance a steamboat with its trailing smoke was descending the Rhine: our looks followed it.

"Why do you not tell me something?" Assja said half aloud.

"Why did you laugh to-day when you saw me coming?" I asked her.

"I do not know myself. Sometimes I want to cry, and yet must laugh. You must not judge me by what I do. Ah, by the way, what a wonderful story it is about the Lorelei. Isn't it her rock that we see yonder? They say that at first she drew every one else beneath the water, but after she was acquainted with love, she cast herself in. The story pleases me. Frau Luise tells me all sorts of fairy stories. Frau Luise has a black cat with yellow eyes——"

Assja raised her head and threw back her hair.

"Ah, how comfortable I feel!" she said.

At this moment broken, monotonous tones fell on our ears. Hundreds of voices in unison repeated a hymn with measured pauses. A troop of pilgrims was moving along the way beneath us with flags and crosses.

"I would like to go with them!" cried Assja, while she listened to the sound of the voices, gradually dying away.

"Are you so devout?"

"I would like to go somewhere far off, to pray, to accomplish something difficult," she added. "The days hurry by, life will come to an end, and what have we done?"

"You are ambitious," I said. "You do not wish to live in vain. You would like to leave behind some trace of your existence."

"Would it be impossible?"

"Impossible," I had nearly repeated. I looked into her clear eyes and only said:

"Well, try it."

"Tell me," Assja began after a little silence, while flying shadows followed each other across her face, which had grown pale again—"did that lady please you very much? You remember, my brother drank to your health once, in the ruins; it was the day after we had made acquaintance."

I laughed aloud.

"It was a jest of your brother's; no lady has pleased me, at least no one now pleases me."

"What is it that pleases you in women?" asked Assja, tossing back her head in childish curiosity.

"What a singular question!" I exclaimed.

Assja was a little disturbed.

"I should not have asked the question—not so? Forgive me. I am used to chatter about everything that goes through my head. That is why I am afraid to talk."

"Only talk, for heaven's sake! Don't be afraid," I broke in. "I am so glad that at last you cease to be shy." Assja lowered her eyes and laughed; a still, gentle laughter that I did not recognize as hers.

"Well, tell me something then," she said, while she smoothed her dress and tucked it about her feet as if disposing herself to sit for a long while—"tell me something, or read something aloud, as that time when you read to us out of 'Onegin.'"

She grew suddenly thoughtful.

she said to herself in a low voice.

"In Pushkin the verse is somewhat different," I ventured.[J]

"I would have liked to be Pushkin's Tatiana," she continued, still lost in thought. "Tell me something," she cried suddenly, with vivacity.

But I could find nothing to say. I looked at her as she sat there, gentle and peaceful, surrounded with the clear sunshine. Everything about us glowed with happiness; the sky, the earth, the water. It seemed as if the very air was bathed in a splendor.

"Look, how beautiful!" I said, involuntarily lowering my voice.

"Yes, beautiful," she answered as gently, without looking at me. "If we were both birds, we would fly high up there—would soar. We would sink deep into that blue. But we are no birds."

"We may have wings though," I answered.

"How?"

"In time you will discover. There are feelings that swing us off from the earth. Don't fear; you will have wings."

"Have you had them then?"

"How shall I say? I believe that I have never flown till now."

Assja fell again into thought. I bent toward her a little.

"Can you waltz?" she asked unexpectedly.

"Yes, I can," I answered, somewhat surprised.

"Then come, come—I will ask my brother to play a waltz for us—we will imagine that we are flying, that our wings have grown."

She ran to the house. I hastened after her, and in a few moments we were whirling round the narrow room to the music of a charming waltz. Assja danced exceedingly well, with lightness and skill. Something soft and feminine came suddenly into her childish, earnest face. For a long time afterward my hand felt the contact of her delicate form, for a long time I seemed to feel her close, quickened breathing, and to see before me the dark, fixed, half-closed eyes, and the animated pale face with its wreathing hair.

This whole day passed so that one could not have wished it better. We were merry as children. Assja was very lovable and natural. It was a pleasure for Gagin to see her. It was late when I went away. In the middle of the Rhine I told the ferryman to leave the boat to the current. The old man drew in his oars and the majestic stream bore us onward. While I looked about me and listened, and called forgotten things to memory, I felt a sense of unrest in my heart. I turned my eyes to the heavens, but in the heavens was no rest; with its glittering host of stars it was in steady motion, revolving, trembling. I bent to the river, but there also in the dark, cool depths the stars were dancing and flickering; everywhere the restless spirit of life met me, and the restlessness in my own heart grew stronger. I leaned over the side of the boat. The murmuring of the breeze in my ears, the low splash of the water against the stern of the boat, excited me, and the freshness of the waves did not cool me. Somewhere on the shore a nightingale began her song, and this music worked upon me like a sweet poison. Tears filled my eyes, but not the tears of an indefinite rapture. What I experienced was not the vague feeling of boundless longing in which it seems as if the heart could embrace everything: no. In me arose a burning desire for happiness. Only as yet I did not dare call this happiness by its real name. But bliss—bliss to overflowing was what I longed for. The boat drifted further and further, and the old ferryman sat bowed over his oars and fast asleep.

On my way to the Gagins the following day I did not ask myself if I was in love with Assja, but I thought of her continually; her destiny absorbed me, and I rejoiced over our unhoped-for meeting. I felt that I had known her only since yesterday. Until then she had always avoided me. And now that she had finally admitted me to her friendship, in what a bewitching light did her image appear to me; what a mysterious charm streamed from it to me.

Hastily I sprang up the well-known path, straining my eyes for a glimpse of the little white house in the distance. I did not think of the future; I did not think even of the morrow; but my heart was light in me.

Assja blushed as I entered the room. I observed that she had again dressed herself with great care, but the expression of her face did not correspond with her finery; it was melancholy. And I had come so happily disposed! I believe that she was inclined to run away in her usual fashion, but forcibly compelled herself to remain. I found Gagin in that peculiar mood of artistic enthusiasm which catches dilettanti by surprise whenever they imagine themselves about to take nature by storm, as they express it. He stood with hair disordered, and bedaubed with paint, before a fresh canvas, drawing madly. Furiously he nodded to me, stepped backward, half closed his eyes, and then precipitated himself again upon his work. I did not like to disturb him, and sat down beside Assja. Slowly her dark eyes turned on me.

"You are not as you were yesterday," I ventured, after I had made some vain attempts to bring a smile to her lips.

"No, I am not," she replied, with a slow, suppressed voice. "But that is nothing. I did not sleep well. I was thinking the whole night."

"About what?"

"Oh, I thought about many things. It has been my habit from childhood, even when I was living with my mother."

She spoke this with a certain emphasis, and repeated it.

"When I was living with my mother I—I wondered why no one can know beforehand what is to happen to him. Sometimes one sees a misfortune coming, and yet cannot turn away from it; and why cannot one always say boldly the truth? Then I thought that I do not know anything, and that I must learn. I must be educated over again. I have been very badly brought up. I do not know how to play the piano, I cannot draw, I sew dreadfully; I have no capacity; I must be very tiresome."

"You are unjust to yourself," I answered. "You have read much, you are cultivated, and with your intellect——"

"Have I an intellect?" she asked with such naïve curiosity that I could not help laughing. She did not laugh.

"Brother, have I an intellect?" she asked Gagin.

He made her no answer, but continued his work, busily laying on his colors, and with one arm flourished in the air.

"Sometimes I hardly know myself what goes through my head," Assja went on with the same thoughtful expression. "At certain times I am actually afraid of myself. Ah, I wish—— Is it really true that women ought not to read much?"

"It is not necessary that they should read much, but——"

"Will you tell me what to read? Will you tell me what to do? I will do everything that you tell me," she said, turning to me with an innocent confidence.

I did not readily find any answer to make.

"The time with me will not seem long to you?"

"How can you think so!" I said.

"Well, I thank you," cried Assja, "but I thought you might be ennuyé."

And her little hot hand grasped mine tightly.

"N.!" cried Gagin at this moment, "isn't this background too dark?"

I went over to him. Assja rose and left the room.

An hour afterward she returned, stood in the doorway, and beckoned to me.

"Listen," she said. "Would you be sorry if I died?"

"What ideas you have to-day!" I exclaimed.

"I imagine that I shall die soon. Sometimes it seems to me as if everything about me was taking leave of me. It is better to die than to live as—— Ah, don't look at me so. Indeed I am not a hypocrite. I shall be afraid of you again."

"Have you ever been afraid of me?"

"If I am unlike other people, the fault is not mine," she answered. "Already, you see, I cannot laugh any more."

She was melancholy and depressed until evening. Something was passing in her that I could not understand. Her eyes often rested on me, and every time they did so I felt my heart chilled by their strange expression. She was quiet—and yet whenever I looked at her it seemed to me that I must beg her to be calm. Her appearance fascinated me; I found the greatest charm in her pale features, in her slow, aimless movements; but she fancied—I do not know why—that I was in ill humor.

"Listen," she said to me a little while before my departure. "The thought haunts me that you think me frivolous. In future you must believe everything that I tell you, and you must be frank with me. I will always tell you the truth, I give you my word of honor."

This "word of honor" made me laugh.

"Oh, do not laugh," she broke in with eagerness, "or else I must say to you to-day what you said to me yesterday: 'Why do you laugh so much?'" And after a short silence she continued: "Do you remember, yesterday we were talking of wings? My wings are grown—but where shall I fly?"

"What are you saying!" I replied. "To you all ways are open."

Assja looked in my eyes long and keenly.

"You have a bad opinion of me today," she said, and drew her eyebrows together.

"I have a bad opinion? Of you!"

"What is the matter with you two to-day?" Gagin interrupted me. "Shall I play a waltz for you as I did yesterday?"

"No, no," exclaimed Assja, clasping her hands together—"not for the world to-day."

"I won't insist—be easy."

"Not for the world," she repeated, and her cheeks grew pale.

Does she love me? I thought, as I came to the Rhine, whose waves rolled swiftly by.

Does she love me? I asked myself when I awoke the next morning. I did not wish to look into my own heart. I felt that her image—the image of the "girl with the bold laugh"—had impressed itself upon my soul, and that I could not easily get rid of it. I went to L—— and remained there the whole day; but I had only one glimpse of Assja. She was not well; her head ached. She came down stairs for a few moments with her head bound up, her eyes half closed, pale and weak; she smiled feebly, said, "It will pass; it is nothing; everything passes, does it not?" and went away. I was depressed and had a painful sense of blankness, but I would not go home till very late, without, however, seeing her again.

I spent the next day like a man walking in his sleep. I tried to work, but could not; then I tried to be absolutely idle, and to think of nothing; but neither did that succeed. I strolled about the town, returned home, and went out again.

"Are you Mr. N.?" said suddenly the voice of a child behind me. I turned. A little boy was standing before me. "From Miss Annette," and handed me a note.

I opened it, and recognized Assja's irregular and scrawling handwriting. "I must see you," she wrote. "Come to-day at four o'clock to the stone chapel on the way to the ruins. Something unexpected has happened. For heaven's sake, come. You shall know everything. Say to the bearer, 'yes.'"

"Any answer?" the boy asked me.

"Say 'yes,'" I replied. The boy ran off.

When I had reached my room I sat down and fell into deep thought. My heart beat forcibly. I read Assja's note several times over. I looked at the clock; it was not yet midday.

The door opened: Gagin walked in.

His face was gloomy. He seized my hand and shook it warmly. Apparently he was very much excited.

"What is the matter?" I asked him.

Gagin took a chair and drew it near mine. "Four days ago," he began with a forced smile, and stammering a little, "I amazed you with a confidence; and to-day I shall amaze you even more. With any other I probably should not—so plainly. But you are a man of honor; you're my friend, are you not? Well, here then; my sister Assja loves you."

I started up from my chair.

"You say—your sister——"

"Yes, yes," Gagin interrupted me. "I tell you she has lost her senses and will make me lose mine, moreover. Happily she is not used to lying and has great trust in me. Oh, what a soul the girl has! But she will surely do herself a mischief."

"You must be mistaken," I said.

"No, I'm not. Yesterday, you know, she staid in bed nearly all day; she ate nothing: to be sure she complained of nothing. She never complains. I was not uneasy, although toward evening she grew feverish. But at two o'clock this morning our landlady roused me. 'Come to your sister,' said she. 'There is something wrong with her.' I hastened to Assja, and found her not yet undressed, very feverish, in tears: her head was burning hot, her teeth chattered. 'What's the matter?' I asked. 'Are you sick?' She threw herself upon my neck, and insisted that I should take her away from there as speedily as possible if I wished her to remain alive. I could make nothing of it—tried to pacify her. Her sobs increased, and suddenly among her sobs I heard—well, in one word, I discovered that she loves you. I assure you, neither of us, being reasonable men, can have the smallest idea of the impetuosity of her feelings and the incredible violence with which she expresses them; it is as sudden and as inevitable as a thunder storm. You are a delightful fellow," Gagin continued, "But I must confess that I do not see why she has fallen in love with you. She believes that she has loved you from the first moment she saw you. She was crying lately on that account, even when she was declaring that she loved nobody but me. She imagines that you despise her; she fancies that you know her origin. She asked me if I had told you the story of her life. I naturally denied it, but it is astonishing how keen she is. She wishes only one thing: to go away: immediately away. I staid with her till morning. She wrung a promise from me that we would leave here to-morrow, and then at last she fell asleep. I thought it over and over, and decided—to talk with you. Assja is right, in my opinion. It is best that we should both leave this place. I should have taken her away to-day if an idea that has got into my head didn't prevent it. Perhaps—who can tell?—my sister pleases you? If this should be the case, why should I take her away? So I determined to put shame aside. Besides, I have myself noticed—so I decided—from your own mouth to learn——" Poor Gagin became hopelessly confused. "Pray excuse me," he added. "I am inexperienced in such matters."

I seized his hand.

"You wish to know whether your sister pleases me? Yes, she pleases me," I said in a steady voice. Gagin looked at me.

"But," he said with an effort, "you don't want to marry her?"

"How can I answer such a question? Think, yourself, how could I at this moment——"

"I know, I know," Gagin interrupted me. "I have not the least right to expect an answer from you, and my question was improper—to the last degree. But what was I to do? One cannot play with fire. You do not know Assja. It would be possible for her to drown herself—to run away, to seek an interview with you. Any other girl would know how to conceal everything and to wait opportunities—but not she. This is her first experience. That is the worst of it! If you had seen her as she lay sobbing at my feet, you would share my anxiety."

I became thoughtful. Gagin's expression, "seek an interview with you," sank into my heart. It seemed abominable not to answer his confidence with confidence as free.

"Yes," I said at last. "You are right. An hour ago I received a note from your sister. Here it is."

Gagin took the note, read it hurriedly, and let his hands fall on his knees. The expression of his features was ludicrous enough, but I was in no mood for laughter.

"You're a man of honor. I repeat it," he said. "But what is to be done now? What! She wishes to hurry away from here, yet she writes to you and reproaches herself for her own want of foresight. And when can she have written this? What does she want of you?"

I succeeded in calming him, and we began to talk, as coolly as we could, about what we might have to do.

At last we decided as follows: To guard against any desperate step on her part, I was to meet Assja at the appointed place, and have a fair explanation with her. Gagin pledged himself to remain at home and to avoid all appearance of knowing about the note. In the evening we agreed to meet again. "I have full confidence in you," said Gagin, and pressed my hand strongly. "Spare Assja and myself. But we shall leave to-morrow," he added as he rose, "for you will not marry Assja."

"Give me time till evening," I said.

"So be it. But you will not marry her."

He went away. I threw myself on the sofa and shut my eyes. My head spun round like a top. Too many emotions came crowding upon me. Gagin's frankness annoyed me, and I was angry with Assja. Her love distressed and delighted me at once. I could not understand how she could betray herself to her brother. The necessity of a hasty, an instantaneous decision tormented me. "Marry a seventeen-year-old girl of such a disposition! How can I do it?" I said, getting up from my seat.

I crossed the Rhine at the appointed hour, and the first face that met me on the opposite shore was that of the same boy who had come to me in the morning. He seemed to be waiting for me.

"From Miss Annette," he said, and gave me another letter. Assja wrote to appoint another place for our meeting. In half an hour I was to come, not to the chapel, but to the house of Frau Luise, knock at the door, and ascend to the third story.

"'Yes' again?" the boy asked me.

"Yes," I answered, and walked along the bank of the river. There was not time to return to my house, and I had no inclination to stroll about the streets. Just beyond the limits of the village there was a little garden with a covered bowling alley and tables for beer drinkers. I entered it. A few middle-aged men were playing ninepins. The balls rolled noisily, and from time to time I caught expressions of applause. A pretty girl, with eyelids reddened by crying, brought me a glass of beer. I looked her in the face. She turned hastily away and disappeared.

"Yes, yes," said a fat and ruddy-cheeked man who was sitting near me. "Our little Nancy is in great trouble to-day. Her lover is gone with the conscripts." I looked after her. She had retired to a corner and buried her face in her hands. One after another the tears trickled through her fingers. Some one called for beer. She brought it, and went back to her place. Her grief reacted upon me. I began to think of the interview before me; but I thought of it with anxiety, not with joy. I did not go light-hearted to the rendezvous. No joyful exchange of mutual love was before me; I had a promise to redeem, a hard duty to perform. "There is no jesting possible with her"—this expression of Gagin's pierced my soul like an arrow. And was not this the very happiness for which I had longed four days ago, in the little boat which the waves bore onward? Now it seemed to be possible—but I wavered, I thrust it from me; I must put it away from me. The very unexpectedness of it confused me. Assja herself, with her impetuosity, her past history, her education—this charming but singular being—let me confess it—inspired me with fear. For a long time I gave myself up to these conflicting feelings. The deferred tryst was at hand. "I cannot marry her," I decided at last, "and she shall not know that I love her."

I rose, and after I had pressed a thaler in poor Nancy's hand (for which she did not even thank me) I went straight to Frau Luise's house. Already the shadow of dusk was in the air, and above the darkening streets a narrow streak, the reflection of the sunset, reddened in the sky. I knocked lightly at the door. It was opened instantly. I stepped across the threshold and found myself suddenly in darkness.

"This way!" whispered an old woman's voice. "Some one is waiting for you."

I advanced a couple of steps, stumbling. A skinny hand clutched mine.

"Is it you, Frau Luise?" I asked.

"Yes," the same voice answered. "Yes, it is I, my handsome young gentleman." The old woman led me up one steep staircase and stopped at the bottom of a second. By the dull light which came in through a little window I recognized the wrinkled visage of the burgomaster's widow. A hateful, sly smile distorted her shrunken lips and half closed the little bleared eyes. She pointed out a small door to me. I opened it with a hand that trembled, and shut it again behind me.

It was nearly dark in the little room which I entered, and at first I did not discover Assja. Wrapped in a great cloak, she was sitting in a chair by the window, with her head averted and almost hidden, like a frightened bird. Her breath came quickly, and she was trembling in every limb. I felt an inexpressible pity for her. I approached her; she turned her head away still more.

"Anna Nicolaevna!" I addressed her.

She started suddenly as if she wished to look at me, but dared not. I took her hand. It was cold, and lay in mine like a dead thing.

"I wished," Assja began, and tried to smile, but her pallid lips would not obey her—"I wanted—no, I cannot," she said, and was silent. And in truth her voice broke at every word.

I sat down beside her.

"Anna Nicolaevna!" I repeated, and again found nothing further to say.

There was a silence. I still held her hand and looked at her. She was in the same constrained attitude as before: breathed heavily, and bit her under lip in order to keep back her tears. My eyes were fixed on her. There was something touchingly helpless in her shy immobility. It seemed as if she had just been able to reach the chair, and had fallen there. My heart overflowed.

"Assja!" I whispered, almost inaudibly.

Slowly she raised her eyes to mine. Oh, the glance of a woman who loves! Who shall describe it? Her eyes expressed entreaty, trust, questioning, surrender. I could not withstand their magic. A burning fire thrilled me like the prick of red-hot needles. I bent down and pressed my lips to her hand.

A little hurried sound as of a broken sob fell on my ear, and I felt on my hair the tender touch of a hand that trembled like a leaf. I raised my head, and looked in her face. The expression of fear was gone from her features. Her glance swept past me into the room. Her lips were a little apart, her forehead white as marble, and the hair pushed off as if the wind had blown it back. I forgot everything; I drew her toward me; willingly her hand obeyed, and her whole body followed; the shawl slipped from her shoulders, and her head bowed silently to my breast and laid itself against my burning lips.

"Yours!" she whispered faintly.

Already my arm was about her, when suddenly, like a gleam of lightning, the thought of Gagin flashed through my brain. "What are we doing?" I cried, and moved roughly away. "Your brother knows all—he knows that we are here together."

Assja sank into her chair.

"Yes," I went on, while I rose and went over to the other side of the room. "Your brother knows everything. I had to tell him everything."

"You had to?" she stammered unintelligibly. She could not come to herself, and only half comprehended me.

"Yes, yes," I repeated with a certain bitterness, "and you are to blame for it—you alone. Why did you betray your secret? Who compelled you to tell your brother? He himself was with me to-day, and told me of your conversation with him."

I avoided looking at Assja, and went up and down the room with great strides. "Now everything is lost—everything, everything."

Assja was about to get up from her chair.

"Oh, sit still," I cried; "sit still, I beg you. You have to do with a man of honor—yes, with a man of honor. But in Heaven's name what disturbed you so? Have you seen any change in me? But it was impossible for me to conceal it from your brother when he made me a visit to-day."

"What am I saying?" I thought to myself, and the idea that I should be a base hypocrite, that Gagin knew of this meeting, that everything had been talked over, twisted and spoiled, maddened me.

"I did not call my brother," Assja said, in a frightened, harsh voice. "He came of his own will."

"Only see what you have done," I went on. "Now you want to go away."

"Yes, I must go," she said in a whisper, "and I only asked you to come here that I might take leave of you."

"And do you think," I retorted, "that it is easy for me to part from you?"

"Why were you obliged to tell my brother?" repeated Assja with an expression of amazement.

"I tell you, I could not do otherwise. If you had not betrayed yourself——"

"I had locked myself into my chamber," she answered simply. "I did not know that my landlady had another key."

This innocent speech from her mouth at such a moment nearly cost me my self-control. Even now I cannot think of it without emotion. Poor, honest, innocent child!

"And so it is all over," I began again. "All. Now indeed we must part." I threw a stolen glance at Assja, whose face became more and scarlet. She was, I felt, alarmed and ashamed. I myself was greatly agitated, and spoke like one in a fever. "You did not leave the budding feeling time to unfold itself. You yourself have torn the bond between us. You had no confidence in me; you cherished suspicion against me."

While I was speaking Assja bent forward more and more, then sank suddenly on her knees, let her head fall into her hands, and broke into sobs. I rushed to her and tried to raise her, but she resisted me. I cannot endure women's tears; when I see them I lose my self-possession at once.

"Anna Nicolaevna, Assja!" I cried repeatedly. "I beg, I implore you! Stop, for God's sake!" I took her hand again.

But to my extremest astonishment she sprang up suddenly, sped like a flash through the door, and vanished.

When Frau Luise came in a few moments later, I still stood in the middle of the chamber as if thunderstruck. I could not believe that the interview had come to an end so abrupt, so unmeaning, when I myself had not said the hundredth part of what I meant to say, and was, besides, quite uncertain how it should finally terminate.

"Is the young lady gone?" Frau Luise asked me, and raised her yellow eyebrows quite to the parting of her hair.

I stared at her like an idiot, and went away.

I left the village and made my way into the fields. Vexation, the keenest vexation possessed me. I overwhelmed myself with reproaches. How had it been possible for me to misunderstand the reason which had induced Assja to change our place of meeting? How could I have failed to know what it must have cost her to go to the old woman? Why had I not detained her! Alone with her in the dim, empty room I had found the strength, I had had the heart to drive her from me—even to reproach her for coming. Now her image followed me; I besought her pardon. The memory of that pale face, those shy, wet eyes, that hair flowing over the bowed back, the soft nestling of her head against my breast, consumed me like a fire. "Yours!" Her whisper still rang in my ears. "I have acted conscientiously," I tried to say to myself. Lies! What was the conclusion I truly wished? Am I in a condition to part with her? Can I lose her? "O fool! fool!" I repeated with bitterness.

By this time the night had fallen. With hasty steps I sought the house where Assja lived.

Gagin came to meet me.

"Have you seen my sister?" he called to me, still at a distance.

"Isn't she at home then?" I returned.

"No."

"She has not come back?"

"No. Excuse me," Gagin went on. "I could not stand it. I went to the chapel in spite of our agreement; she was not there; she cannot have gone there."

"She did not go to the chapel."

"And you have not seen her?"

I had to acknowledge that I had seen her.

"Where?"

"At Frau Luise's. We separated an hour ago," I added. "I believed certainly that she had come home."

"Let us wait," said Gagin.

We entered the house and sat down near each other. We were silent. Neither of us was without anxiety. We watched the door and listened. At last Gagin rose.

"This is the end of everything," he cried. "I don't know if my heart is in my body. She will kill me yet, by God! Come, let us search for her."

We went out. It had grown dark.

"Of what did you talk with her?" asked Gagin as he crushed his hat down over his eyes.

"I was with her five minutes at longest," I answered. "I spoke to her as we had decided."

"Well," he said, "we would better go, each for himself; in that way we shall find her sooner. In any event, come back here in an hour."

Hastily I descended the hill and ran to the town. I made my way rapidly through all the streets, staring in all directions, took another glance at the windows of Frau Luise's house, reached the Rhine, and began to walk quickly along its bank. From time to time I met women, but Assja was nowhere to be seen. It was no longer vexation that I felt. A secret fear oppressed me, and not fear alone; no, remorse, the warmest pity. Love! yes, tenderest love! Wringing my hands, I called on Assja, into the gathering darkness of the night; softly at first, then louder and louder; a hundred times I repeated that I loved her. I swore never to part from her. I would have given everything in the world to hear her gentle voice again, to hold her cold hand, to see herself standing before me. So near had she been to me, in perfect trustfulness, in utter simplicity of heart and feeling had she come to me and laid her inexperienced youth in my hands; and I had not caught her to my heart; I had thrown away the bliss of seeing the shy face bloom into a joy, a rapture of peace—this thought drove me to madness.

"Where can she be gone? What is become of her?" I called out, desperate with helpless fears. Suddenly something white glimmered near by on the shore. I knew the spot. An old half sunken cross with quaint inscription stood there, over the grave of a man drowned seventy years before. My heart stood still in my body. I ran to the cross. The white figure had disappeared. "Assja!" I shouted. My wild cry terrified me. No one made answer.

I determined to see if Gagin had found her.

As I hastened up the footpath I saw a light in Assja's chamber. It calmed me a little.

I drew near the house. The door was fastened. I knocked. A window in the darkened first story was carefully raised, and Gagin's head showed itself.

"Found?" I asked.

"She is come back," he whispered to me. "She is in her chamber, and undressing. All is as it should be."

"God be thanked!" I cried, in a transport of inexpressible joy. "God be thanked! Now all will be well. But you know we have something to say to each other."

"Another time," he answered, softly closing the window—"another time. For this, good-by."

"Till to-morrow then," I said. "Tomorrow everything will be clear."

"Good-by," Gagin repeated, and the window was shut. I came near to knocking again. I wished to tell Gagin at once that I sought his sister's hand. But such a wooing, at such an hour! "Till to-morrow then," I thought. "To-morrow I shall be happy!"

"To-morrow I shall be happy!" Happiness has no to-morrow; it has no yesterday; it knows of no past; it thinks of no future. The present belongs to it, and not even the present day—only the moment.

I do not know how I reached S——. Not my feet brought me; not the boat carried me; I was borne over as if on broad, mighty wings. My way led me by a thicket in which a nightingale was singing. It seemed to me it sang of my love and my joy.

The next morning, as I drew near the familiar little house, one circumstance seemed strange: all its windows were open, and the door as well. Scraps of paper lay strewn about the threshold, and behind the door a maid was visible with her broom.

I stepped up to her.

"They're off!" she volunteered, before I could ask her if the Gagins were at home.

"Off!" I repeated. "What, gone? Where?"

"They went at six o'clock this morning, and did not say where. But stop. You are surely Mr. N."

"I am Mr. N."

"There is a letter for you inside." She went in and returned with a letter. "Here it is, if you please."

"But it isn't possible. How can it be?" I said. The maid stared at me stupidly, and began to sweep.

I opened the letter. It was Gagin who wrote. From Assja not a line. He began with a hope that I would not be angry with him on account of his sudden departure. He felt assured that, after mature thought, I would agree to his decision. He had found no other way out of a situation which might easily become difficult, even dangerous. "Yesterday," he wrote, "as we were both waiting silently for Assja, I convinced myself fully that a separation was necessary. There are prejudices which I know how to respect. I understand that you cannot marry Assja. She has told me everything. For her own sake I am compelled to yield to her repeated, desperate prayers." In conclusion he expressed his regret that our acquaintance should be broken off so abruptly; wished me happiness; shook my hand affectionately; and assured me that it would be useless for me to try to find them.

"What prejudices?" I cried out, as if he could hear me. "Nonsense! Who has given him the right to rob me of her?" I clutched my head with my hands.

The maid began to call loudly for the landlady. Her terror rendered me my self control. One thought took possession of me—to find them, to find them at whatever cost. To submit to this stroke, to calmly accept it, was impossible. I learned from the landlady that they had taken a steamboat about six o'clock in the morning to go down the Rhine. I went to the office. There I was told that they had taken tickets for Cologne. I went home with the intention to pack at once and follow them. My way led me by Frau Luise's house. All at once I heard some one call me. I raised my head, and saw the Burgomaster's widow at the window of the very room where, the day before, I had met Assja. She summoned me with her disagreeable smile. I turned away, and would have gone on, but she called after me that something was there for me. This brought me to a standstill, and I entered the house. How shall I describe my feelings as I again beheld that little room?

"To tell the truth," the old woman said to me, handing me a little note, "I was only to give you that if you came here of your own free will. But you are such a handsome young gentleman. Take it."

I took the letter.

The following words were hastily scrawled in pencil on a scrap of paper:

"Farewell! We shall not see each other any more. It is not from pride that I go. No; I cannot do anything else. Yesterday, when I was crying before you, it only needed a word from you—only one single word. I should have staid. You did not speak it. It must be better so. Farewell, for always."

One word! Fool that I had been! This word! I had said it with tears over and over. I had scattered it to the wind. I had repeated it—how often—to the lonely fields; but to her I had not said it. I had not told her that I loved her. And now I must never say it. When I met her in that fatal room, I myself had no clear consciousness of my love. Perhaps I was not even yet awakened to it while I was sitting with her brother in helpless and fearful silence. A moment later it broke out with irresistible force as I shuddered at the possibility of harm to her, and began to seek her, to call her, but then it was already too late. "But that is impossible," you say. I do not know whether it is possible, but I know that it is true. Assja would not have left me if there had been a trace of coquetry in her, and if her position had not been a false one. She could not bear that which every other girl could have borne; but that I had not realized. My evil genius held my confession back from my lips, as I saw Gagin for the last time, at the dark window, and the last thread that I might have seized slipped from my fingers.

On the same day I returned to L—— with my travelling trunk, and took passage for Cologne. I remember that, as the boat was under way, and I was taking leave in spirit of the streets and the places I should never lose from memory, I saw Nancy on the bank. She was sitting on a bench. Her face was pale, but not sorrowful, and a stalwart young peasant stood beside her, laughing and talking to her. On the other shore of the river the little Madonna looked out, sad as ever, from the green shadow of the old oak tree.

I found myself on the Gagins' track in Cologne. I learned that they had started for London. Hastily I followed them; but in London all my inquiries were fruitless. For a long time I would not be discouraged, for a long time I kept up an obstinate search; but at last I was obliged to give up hope of finding them.

And I never saw them again; I never saw Assja again. Of her brother I heard brief news sometimes; but she had for ever vanished from my sight. I do not know if she is yet living. Once, while travelling, years afterward, I caught a hasty glimpse of a woman in a railway carriage whose face reminded me vividly of features never to be forgotten, but I was deceived by a chance resemblance. Assja remained in my memory as I had known her in the fairest days of my life, and as I had last seen her, bowed over the arm of the low wooden chair.

But I will confess that I did not grieve too long for her. Yes, I have even fancied that Fate had been kind in refusing to unite us. I consoled myself with the thought that I could not have been happy with such a wife. I was young, and the future—this short, fleeting life—seemed endless to me. Why should not that be again which once had been so sweet, and even better and more beautiful? I have known other women, but the feeling which Assja awakened in me—that deep and ardent tenderness—has never repeated itself.

No! No eyes could compensate me for the loss of those that once were lifted, with such love, to mine. No heart has ever rested on my breast which could make my own beat with such delicious anguish! Condemned to the solitary existence of a man without a family tie, I bring my life to its gloomy end; but I guard still, as a sacred relic, her letters and the dried geranium sprig which she once tossed me from the window. There clings a faint fragrance to it even yet; but the hand that gave it, the hand that it was only once vouchsafed to me to kiss, has mouldered, perhaps, for many a year in the grave. And I—what has become of me? What remains to me of myself—of those happy and painful days—of those winged hopes and desires? So the slight fragrance of a feeble weed outlasts all the joys and all the sorrows of a man. Nay, it outlasts the man himself!

TO BEETHOVEN.

Sidney Lanier.

THE DRAMATIC CANONS.

At intervals of varying length, the journals of the Anglo-Saxon races are given to discussing the question whether the present age be one of decadence or progress in dramatic art. Most readers of "The Galaxy" have seen some phases of this discussion, which starts up afresh after the arrival of every noted foreign actor or the production of a new play. It is at present confined to the English-speaking nations, and prevails more in America than England just now.

In France there is no lively interest in the theme. The French dramatic authors seem to be pretty well satisfied themselves, and to satisfy their audiences; their best claim to success being found in the fact that English and American dramatic authors of the present day almost invariably pilfer from them.

In the course of this perennial discussion we constantly meet with appeals, on the part of those learned gentlemen, the theatrical critics, to the "dramatic canons." Such and such a play is said to offend against these "canons," and they are spoken of as something of which it is shameful to be ignorant, but at the same time with a vagueness of phrase betraying a similar vagueness of definition. It has seemed to us that an inquiry into the nature of these canons may not be out of place at the present time. This we propose to determine by consulting the practice of those authors of former times whose productions still hold the stage as "stock plays," so called, and of those modern authors still living whose plays are well known and famous, being still successfully acted. By such an analysis we may possibly settle something, especially if our inquiry shall call forth the actual experience of those living who have attained great success, whether as authors or adapters.

The most obvious division of our subject is into tragedy, comedy, melodrama; but inasmuch as it is plain that the laws of success in all these walks of dramatic art must contain much in common, we have preferred a different division for analysis, leaving the kind of drama as a subdivision common to each part of the inquiry. A less obvious but equally just division will be as to the canons regulating the subject, the treatment, and the production of a successful drama, in whatever walk. We propose to ascertain our canons from the successful plays, still holding the stage, of Shakespeare, Sheridan, Knowles, Bulwer, Dion Boucicault, Tom Taylor, Augustin Daly, and Gilbert, together with such single plays, like "The Honeymoon," "Masks and Faces," and a few others, as are better known to the public than their authors, whose sole dramatic successes they were. Ephemeral successes, however great, cannot be safely taken as guides to a canon; but an established success of long standing, however repugnant to our tastes, must be examined, even if it take the form of the "Black Crook."

The influence of the French drama on Anglo-Saxon art has been so decided that no safe estimates of canons can be made which do not take into account the works of Sardou, Dumas, and the minor French authors, whose name is legion. Fortunately for our subject, the French work on simple principles, and will not confuse us any more than the Greeks, whom they imitate. Let us try, then, to ascertain our canons in their order, beginning with the subject of the drama.

What subjects are fit for dramatic treatment, and are there any entirely unfitted therefor?

We find a pretty wide range in the successful dramas of modern time. In tragedy we have ancient history, as shown by "Coriolanus," "Julius Cæsar," "Virginius," "Alexander the Great"; medieval history, in "Macbeth," "Richard III."; legendary stories, in "Lear," "Hamlet," "Othello," "Romeo and Juliet." In comedy and melodrama we have an almost infinite variety, as much so as in novel writing. History, legend, and pure invention claim equal right in the field. We have "The Tempest," "As You Like It," "Much Ado about Nothing," "Twelfth Night," "Henry IV.," "Henry V.," "Merchant of Venice," "The Wonder," "The Honeymoon," "Masks and Faces," "London Assurance," "School for Scandal," "The Rivals," "The Lady of Lyons," "Richelieu," "Wild Oats," "The Colleen Bawn," "Arrah-na-Pogue," "The Shaughraun," "The Wife," "The Merry Wives of Windsor," "Under the Gaslight," "Don Cæsar de Bazan," "American Cousin," "Rip Van Winkle," and the "Black Crook," all well known and successful plays, many perhaps being acted this very night all over the Union and England. We are not here examining the question of the goodness or badness of these plays, their merits or demerits: we are merely recognizing them as well known plays, constantly being acted, and always successful when well acted. Of all of these, the most constantly successful and most frequently acted are those of Shakespeare, Sheridan, and Bulwer, among the old plays, and those of Boucicault and Daly among living authors. Almost all playgoers are familiar with these works, and have seen them once or more; and every new aspirant for histrionic honors has one or more of the plays of the first three in his list of test characters. If he be a man and a tragedian, he must play Hamlet, Othello, Richard, Shylock, Macbeth, Richelieu, Claude Melnotte; if versatile, he must add Benedick, Charles Surface, Captain Absolute, and others to the list; if a lady, she must be tested in Portia, Ophelia, Pauline, Lady Teazle, Juliet—who knows what? Some very versatile ladies have tried all the light comedy characters, finishing with Lady Macbeth as an experiment. A short time ago there was quite an epidemic of Lady Macbeths, but that is over for the present. The stray sheep have returned to the fold. Let us return to them.

What can we glean about the limitations of the dramatic subject from these successful plays? There is a limitation somewhere, and the first and most obvious is—time. A novelist can make the minute description of a life interesting. The most celebrated novels, such as "Robinson Crusoe," "Vicar of Wakefield," "David Copperfield," "Pendennis," "The Three Guardsmen," and others, have been just such books, imitations of real biographies. But a play is limited in length to five acts, or six at most, and its time of acting has a practical limit of three hours, with the inter-acts. Each act is further practically limited to five scenes, and it is but seldom that it stretches over three, while the latter average is never exceeded and seldom reached in a five-act play. No scene can properly contain more than a chapter of a novel, so we find ourselves practically limited to a story which can be told inside of fifteen chapters, the further inside the better. The French, who are much more artificial than the English in their dramatic canons, almost invariably limit their acts to a single scene, reducing their story thereby to only five chapters. A careful comparison of successful acting plays will generally end in bringing us to one obvious canon:

I. The subject of a drama must be capable of being fully treated in fifteen chapters at most.

The next limitation that we meet is in the nature of the story. A novelist can describe his hero and heroine and the scenes in which they move. He can depict them in motion, and describe a long journey in strange countries, trusting to picturesque scenery and incident to help him out. He can give us a sketch of their former life, and tell how they fared after they were happily married. The dramatist cannot do this. He must put his people down in a given place and leave them there till his scene is over, opening another scene or another act after a silent interval. He can, indeed, put a narrative of supposed events into the mouth of any of his characters, but such narratives are always dull and prosy, and to be avoided. Shakespeare uses them sometimes, but only when he cannot help himself, and always makes them short. The nearest instances that occur to us are, the description by Tressel to Henry VI. of the murder of Prince Edward, usually put now in the first act of "Richard III.," and the story of Oliver in "As You Like It." Sometimes a short story cannot be helped, but if told, it is always found to be of a collateral circumstance not directly leading to the catastrophe. It generally is brought in only to explain the presence of a character on the stage in the successful drama. Sometimes it happens otherwise. For instance, Coleman makes Mortimer, in the "Iron Chest," tell the whole mystery of his life in the form of a story instead of acting it. The result is a poor play, seldom acted, and generally to small audiences, being only valuable for some special features of which we shall speak later. It is not too much to ask for acceptance of this second canon regarding the subject:

II. The subject should be capable of being acted without the aid of narrative.

Is it still possible to limit the subject, and do novels and dramas differ still further? A third limitation will reveal itself, if we compare a typical drama, like "Much Ado About Nothing," or "Hamlet," with a typical novel such as "David Copperfield" or "Robinson Crusoe." These latter depend for their interest on a series of adventures which befall a hero, sometimes entirely unconnected with each other, just as they happen to a man in real life, wherein he meets many and various scenes and persons. Neither possesses any sequence of events, depending on each other, such as pervades "Hamlet" and all acting plays. It is true that some few novelists, such as Wilkie Collins, write novels that depend on plot for their interest, but those typical novels which stand at the head of the list do not. The masterpieces of Scott, such as "Ivanhoe," "Talisman," "Old Mortality," are antiquarian studies, with very slight plots; Dickens and Thackeray's best novels have no plot worth mentioning; and where perfect plots are found, it is rare to find a lasting and enduring novel. In a play, on the other hand, a plot seems to be absolutely necessary to interest the spectator, the more intricate the better. We have all seen Shakespeare's plays so often, that we are apt to forget how intricate and involved many of his plots are; and when we consider that most of his plots were taken from very bad novels which have utterly perished from sight, while the plays still live, we begin to realize by the force of contrast another canon relating to the subject, which is this:

III. The subject must have a connected plot, in which one event depends on the other.

When we come to restrict the dramatic subject any further, we encounter more difficulty. Some might hold that the interest of the subject should depend on either love or death, but we are met at once by instances of plays in which the real interest is almost wholly political, such as "Henry V.," "Richard III.," or moral, such as "Lear." Referring once more to the effect of contrast with the novel for guidance, we find it very difficult to separate subjects proper for dramatic treatment any further than we have done, and almost impossible to lay down any absolute rule to which distinguished exceptions cannot be quoted. It might be said that the interest should turn on a single action, as it does in most plays, and especially in tragedies, but here we are met by "Much Ado About Nothing," "The Honeymoon," and other plays, where two or three plots progress side by side in perfect harmony. It seems, therefore, that any further absolute limitation of the abstract dramatic subject is impracticable, and we must be content with adding a mere recommendation for our fourth canon, much as follows:

IV. The interest of the plot generally turns on either love or death, and generally hinges on a single action or episode.

When we come to speak of the best subjects of dramatic writing, we are really approaching the domain of treatment, which is much wider and better defined. There it becomes a question for judgment and discretion, and much more certainty can be attained. Instead of considering all dramas, we narrow our search to the best only, judging them by the simple tests of success and frequency of acting, and finding what sort of subjects have been taken, and how they have been treated.

Let us then come at once to the question, What is the best method of treating a given subject? Here we are again confronted by a variety of decisions, some of which seem to conflict with others, but which all agree in some common particulars. In the dramas written, down to the time of Boucicault, it seemed to be assumed as a matter of course that every first-class play, comedy or tragedy, must be written in five acts. All of Shakespeare's, Sheridan's, Knowles's, follow this old rule, as inflexible and artificial as some of the French canons, but with the same compensating advantage, that author and audience knew what was expected of each, and troubled themselves little over the structure of their dramas. Of late years another custom has taken the place of the five-act play, and many if not most of the modern dramas, while of the same length as the old ones, are divided into four and even three acts. Especially is this the case with comedies, and those nondescript plays that are variously called "melodramas," "dramas," and "domestic dramas." In the case of three-act plays, the number of scenes in each act is frequently five, sometimes six or seven, but the common modern practice restricts the last act, if possible, to a single scene. The number of scenes must of course depend on how many are absolutely necessary to develop the story. The French system of a single scene to each act has one great advantage. It permits of very much finer scenery being introduced than in a scene which is to be shifted, whether closed in or drawn aside. For instance, when the curtain comes down between each scene, the stage may be crowded with furniture, and those temporary erections called "set pieces." There will always be plenty of time to remove these between the acts, and noise of hammering is of no consequence when the curtain is down. If there is more than one scene in the act, all this is changed. Let us say there are only two scenes. One of these must be a full-depth scene, but all the furniture and set pieces are restricted to that part of the stage which lies behind the two "flats" which make the front scene. In that front scene furniture is inadmissible, without rudely disturbing the illusion. Let us suppose the front scene to be the first, and that any furniture is left on the stage. At the close of the scene the characters leave the stage, but there stands the furniture. The old way to get rid of it is simple. Enter a "supe" in livery, who picks up the one table and two chairs. Exit, amid the howls of the gods in the gallery, who shriek "Soup! soup!" as if they were suddenly stricken with hunger. Of course this spoils the illusion; and the better the scenery, the more perfect the other illusions, the easier they are disturbed by such incongruity. Sometimes the set pieces in front, if there are any, and the furniture, disappear through trap doors. In the large city theatres, such as those where spectacular pieces are constantly produced, this method of changing a scene is common, but such theatres themselves are not common, and it costs a great deal to run them on account of the number of workmen required. Our present inquiry is directed to the ordinary theatre, with its stock company, simple scenery, and few traps. Of this kind of theatre every town furnishes at least one sample. In such theatres at least it will always be best to keep furniture and set pieces out of the front scenes as much as possible, to preserve the illusion. If the front scene come after the full-depth one, the wisdom of this rule becomes still more apparent. A "supe" taking out furniture is not half as ludicrous as one bringing it in, and without a trap such a spectacle is unavoidable. The first canon offered by common sense is obviously sound:

V. Keep furniture and set pieces out of front scenes, if possible.

This rule being followed, will probably reduce the front scenes of a drama to the open air, woods, gardens, halls, streets, church porches, and similar places, where the attention will be concentrated on the actors, not the picture. The scope of a front scene is further restricted by the fact that you must bring your characters on and take them off, being deprived of that valuable ally to illusion, the "tableau." If the scene be the first of the act, a tableau may indeed be discovered, but it cannot close the scene. The most common place for a front scene is between a first and a third full-depth scene, to give time for the change that goes on behind. This change always makes a certain amount of noise, and the use of the front scene is to take off the attention of the audience. This intention must be hidden at any price, for, if perceived, it is fatal to the illusion. To hide it there is only one method always reliable, which is to rivet the attention of the audience on your characters, put in your best writing, and get up an excitement to cover the scene. If you have any brilliant dialogue, any passage of great emotion, any mystery to be revealed, put it in your front scene so that your design may not be suspected, but the scene appear natural. In brief the canon says:

VI. Put the best writing into the front scenes.

The next question that arises as to the front scene relates to the character of incident that should be treated therein. It is obvious that it will not do to put in a crisis or a climax at such a place. At its best a front scene is only a makeshift, a preparation for the full scene. Its employment necessitates a loss of nearly three-quarters of the available space, and the tableau loses all its power, as developed in the full-depth scene. Its use is therefore a disagreeable necessity, so disagreeable that the French discard it entirely. Mechanically it is only an introduction to the full scene, and the more it partakes of the same character intellectually, the less will it weary the audience. The best preparation an audience can have for a scene is to make them eager therefor, and the best way to make them eager is to leave them in suspense, so that they are impatient for the movement of the flats that opens the next picture. A familiar instance of this employment of the front scene is found in the "Shaughraun," by Boucicault, before the Irish wake. The front scene represents the outside of a cottage with a door in the right flat; the peasants and other characters come in, talk about the wake, and enter the house one after another. In this scene it is also explained that the supposed corpse is not dead, but shamming, so that there is no tragic interest associated with the coming scene, but every one is anxious to see it. At last all the characters are off, the flats are drawn aside, and the celebrated Irish wake makes its appearance, taking the whole depth of the stage. The audience is satisfied, and the front scene has answered its end, as expressed in this canon:

VII. Front scenes ought to terminate in a suspense, which the following scene will relieve.

From this canon it follows that the front scene should deal only with explanatory and dependent matters, not the principal action of the drama. Sheridan, in "The Rivals" and the "School for Scandal," opens his first acts with front scenes, which introduce little of the matter of the story. I am inclined to think that he had a reason for this which still prevails, in the noise made by the audience. The beginning of the first act of most plays is distinguished in the auditorium by much shuffling of feet, opening of doors, taking of seats, especially by those who take the reserved seats in front of the house. All this disturbs the audience and makes them lose any fine points at the beginning of a play, unless the actors strain their voices unduly. In a front scene the flats immediately behind the actors serve as a sounding board for the voice, and reduce the volume of space to be filled by the speakers. The advantage gained in this way is balanced by the loss to the eye in losing the full-depth scene, wherefore this method of opening a play is not much in favor; but its use in the cases mentioned leads to a general canon as to the first act of a play, which also recommends itself to common sense:

VIII. Avoid fine points, and have plenty of action at the beginning of the first act.

This rule, however safe and sensible, is hampered by the necessities of the subject, to which everything must be subordinated. Let us see how the greatest masters of dramatic construction in modern times open their first acts. Of these Boucicault comes first, facile princeps. We will take the "Shaughraun" and "Flying Scud" for examples. Both open in a similar manner: in the first a young woman, in the second an old man, engaged in household work, singing away at nothing particular. A quiet picture not requiring close attention. To each, enter a disturber, somewhat disagreeable, arresting attention. A short squabble, then more characters coming on, one or more at a time, till the stage is pretty full, and no flagging of interest. The act does not drag. Compare this with Sardou's "Frou-Frou," "Fernande," and others. Sardou's first acts almost invariably drag, and the success does not come till afterward. One great difference is immediately perceptible. Sardou almost always brings on his people in pairs, and takes them off together, leaving the first act a succession of dualogues, with very little action. Now take "The Lady of Lyons," an old success, which nowhere drags. It opens with a picture, mother and daughter, doing nothing particular. Enter disagreeable Beauseant, who makes an offer and is rejected. A mild excitement at once arises, shut in by a front scene, short, lively, and spirited, where Glavis and Beauseant plot for revenge on Pauline. The scene ends in suspense, the actors having gone for Claude Melnotte, and the flats draw aside, revealing Melnotte's cottage and introducing the hero. By this time the audience is quiet and can take the fine points, so the third scene of the first act can be made exciting. There is thus no flagging of interest in either Bulwer or Boucicault. One does the thing in three scenes, the other in a single scene, but both employ the same means, which are thus expressed:

IX. Open the first act with a quiet picture, and bring in the disturbing element at once. Having aroused attention, bring on all your characters, and end with an excitement. Avoid bringing on characters in pairs in this act.

The first act of a play is always surrounded with difficulties. The interest of the audience has to be aroused, and all the characters brought in. Every part of it must hang together, and the attention must be excited more and more as the act progresses. This rule applies to the whole play likewise, but in the first act it is especially necessary, because there are so many things to divert attention, and the object of the act is to catch it. After a certain period it must flag, and the object of the dramatist must be to close his act before that dreadful period. The office of the first act is to prepare for the second; therefore it resembles the front scene in one important principle—it should end in suspense, and make the audience eager for the second act. Ending as it should in a full scene, it has the advantage over the front scene that a tableau is possible, and should be used. This tableau must be natural, and must come, as all tableaux come, out of a climax, but the climax must not be complete. It must leave the audience in suspense, and give them something to talk about in the inter-act. It must not be too long delayed, or the act will drag. These and various other reasons have led to this further canon, generally observed: