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ARIADNE

OTJIDA'S NOVELS.Uniform Edition, crown Boo, red dothextra, 5*. each.F0LLE FARINB.IDALIA:A Romance.CHANDOS:ANovel.UNDER TWO FLAGS.TRICOTRIN.CECIL, CASTLEMAINE'S GAGE.HELD IN BONDAGE.PASCAREL:OnlyaStory.PUCK:His Vicissitudes, Adventures,&c.A DOG OF FLANDERS.STRATHMORE.TWO LITTLE WOODEN SHOES.SIGNA.IN A WINTER CITY.CHATTO $ WIKDUS, PICCADILLY,IT.

AriadneTHE STORY OF A DREAM.By OUIDA,AUTHOR OF "PUCK," " SIGNA," "TRICOTRIN," " TWO LITTLEWOODEN SHOES," ETC." La forza d'Amorenon risguarda al delitto."IN THREE VOLUMES.VOL. III.lantton:CHAPMAN & HALL, ICHATTO & WINDUS,193, PICCADILLY. I 74 & 75, PICCADILLY.1877.[AllRights Reserved.^

LONDON:BRADBURY, AQNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIAR3.

ABIADNE:THE STORY OF A DREAM.CHAPTER I.So the months passed by and became years,fulfilling their course with that terrible speed■which sows the earth so thick with graves.Istitched on for the people of Rome, and thepeople said " he grows old; he has no sport inhim;let him be;" and very often thereforepassedme by tohurry to another stall before the"old stone mouth of Truth, where there was anewly-come cobbler of leather who had a verycomical -nit and had very cheap prices;Ido notVOL. III.B

2ARIADNE.know whether his work wore well. ButImadeenough tolive onand get bread for Pales. Thatsufficed.Very oftenIwould go and look at my lostHercnesin the gallery of the Vatican. Imightas well never have soldhim;butwe know everythingtoo late.And when the gaping foreign crowds,allfrothytalk,andnota shred of knowledge orof reverenceamidst them, gathered round the pedestal hestood on, and praised him,Iwanted to cry outto them, " Stand aside, ye fools — he is mine."But he was not mine any more.SometimesIused to wonder, would she besorryif she knew thatIhad lost him?But no doubt he was better there, and morefittingly in place with the Jupiter Anxur in thepalace of the Pope. Ihad never been greatenough for him;Ihad only loved him, and whatuse is that?Time wore away,Isay, and took the days andthe weeks and the months, and Rome was sweptwith the by-winds of winter and scorched withthe sand-blasts of the summer, and its travertine

ARIADNE. 3and its porphyry^ and its old brick that has thehuesof porphyry,were transfiguredintomatchlessglory with every sun that set; and my Ariadnecame thither no more."Where was she ? Iknew not. She was notforsaken, since Maryx stayed on in the cityalways,andIknew well that he wouldnot forgetthat unuttered oath by the Cross.He was shut for ever inhis roomat work,theysaid. To my sight, all the greatness had goneout of his work. But the world didnot see this.Before a great fame the world is a myope.The cunning of his hand, and the force of it,and the grace,were all there as of old,of course;for the consummate artist, by long mastery ofhis art, does acquire at last what is almost amechanical aptitude, and can scarcely do ill, sofar as mereform goes,eVen working with blindeyes. But the soul of all art lies in the artist'sown delight in it; and that was now lackingforever in his. These things that he createdhadno joy for him.Men and women, losing the tiring theylove,lose much, but the artist loses far more; forB 2

4 ARIADNE.hhnare slaughteredallthe children of his dreams,and from him are driven all the fair companionsof his solitude.Maryx laboured by day and by night in hishouse upon the GoldenHill;butit was labour,itwasno morecreation, and the delight of creation.He worked from habit, from pride, to save himselfperhaps from madness;for there is no friendor physicianHke work ;but his old mother hadsaid rightly — he waslike a dead man. He hadnever spoken any word to me of Gioja since thatnight in the amphitheatre. Indeed,Isaw himbut seldom.Ifelt that my presence was pain tohim, andIfelt remorse. Why hadIcompelledFortune and brought this evil upon him in themidst of his lofty,peaceful, and victorious hfe ?We are sorry meddlers, and play with Fate toomuch.He had never reproached me;but for thatvery forbearance my ownconscience but rebukedme the more.One dayImet himin the park of the PamfiliDoria: they are very grand and lovely, thesewoods, with then: slopes of grass that are

ARIADNE. 5like the moorlands of the north, and their oldgnarled oaks, and their empurpled hoards ofviolets, that are so many that you cannot treadthere a step in winter without crushing half ahundred little fragrant hoodedheads.Ihad gone on an errand with a gardener'shobnailed shoes; he was walking against thewind, as men walk who would escape fromghoststhat will keep pace with them, ghosts that thesunlight neverscares away.He almost struck against me as he passed,and,pausing, recognisedme.It was twilight in a wintry eve; the seabreezewas sweeping keen and cold through thebranches of the pines;the swans and the statuesby the water's edge looked chill and shadowy;the bold uplands of the shelving turf werecrisp with glistening frost; the owls werehooting.He looked at me inthe sad twilight which lastsbut such aHttle momenthere inRome." It is you!" he said with a gentle voice." My old fiiend, haveIbeen neglectful ofyou or unkind ?Ihave not seen you for

6ARIADNE.so long. But if there be anything you ever"want of me" Nay,there is nothing,"Isaid tohim. " Andwe only hurt one another.ing»>We both are wait-ThenIstopped, afraid thatIshould woundhim; for he was veryproud in some things." Come home with me now,"he said abruptly,"taking nonotice of mylast words. Come homewith me. You shall see my work. Rome holdsno bettercritic."Then he turned, and we went downwardsthrough the park, under the broad branches ofthe ilexes, and the owls flapped in our faces, andthe darkness seU, and the swans went off thewater to their nests amongst the reeds; andwe wanted together through the gates and tohis own house, which was not far distant, andwhereIhad never been since the day thatIhad seen the copy of the Nausicaa shattered onthe floor.The place was almost dark. We entered hisstudio andhe struck alight, andIbegan to seethe gHmmer of the marbles and the plaster's

ARIADNE. 7whiteness. We had walked quite in silence; whatcould we say to one another, he andI?He drew the shrouding cloths off a greatgroup, and the lights from above fell onit.Its name matters nothing; it stands to-daybefore the senate-house of a greatnation;it wasa composition from the heroic ages. It wasmajestic, pine, and solemn;there was not a falseline init nora weak one;it had the consummateease and strength that only the trained hand ofaperfect master can command; yetWhat was lackinginit ?Itwashard to tell. Butit waslifeless. Itwaswork, composition, not art. It was like a deadbody from which the soul has fled. Ilooked atit in silence." WeU ? " he asked, and watched my face.Then,beforeIcould measure my words to teUthe truth, yet veil it,he, scanning my face, readmy mind and cast the cloths back again andlaughed aloud;alaugh thatIcanhear still whenIsit and think and the night is quiet." Ah,it does not deceive you any more thanme! You seeit aright. It is imposture. It will

8 ARIADNE.cheat the world. It cannot cheat you or me. Itis aHe. Look atit;it is the first thingIeversoldto anyman that hasno shadow of myself putinto it, no beautyin my sight, no preciousnessorgladness for me, no thought or soul of mineblent withit to make it as strong and holy as aman's labours canbe. Itis alie. It is not art;—it is cold, hard,joyless, measured,mechanicalHke any stone creature that the copyist sits andchips from some plaster model of the galleries,and caUs a god!Ialways thought so, felt so.Who knows our work as we, the makers, do ?And nowIam certain, looking on your face.Hush! Do not speak. Tell me no Hes. Thething is lie enough."Iwas silent.Itwas of no use to seek to foist on him theempty phrases of an artificial compHment;hewould have seen through them and despisedme.The light from above fell on the half-shroudedgroup and on his face; his eyeshad a terribleanguishin them, such as one could picture in awounded lion's that feels his mighty strengthebbing awayand cannot rise again.

ARIADNE. 9The lamp that he held he dashed upon thefloor;the flame was extinguished on the stone." Look at that light!" he said." A moment,less than a moment, and it is quenched — justfalling; that is the light inus, who think ourselvesthe Hght of the world. One blow, andwe are in darkness for ever. We make Zeusin rage,and Christ with pity; we should makethem both only laughing; anygod must laugh-Look !men have called me great,and strongerthan most of themImay have been; and theywill go oncalling me great and great everythingthatIdo, sheerly from habit's sake, and theforce of memories, and the imitation of numbers-But for me,Iknow very weUIshall never begreat any more. The cunning may stay in myhand,but the soul is gone out of my body, andthe art in me is dead.Iam an artist no more.No more! "He was silent alittle while,gazingout throughthe unshuttered windows into the starless night;the quenchedlamp lay at his feet."Look! " he said suddenly, all the long-imprisonedsuffering of so manymonths of silence

10 ARIADNE.breaking loose Hke a river long pent-up and"breakingits banks. Look! From alittle lad,allIcared for was art. Going behind my muleover the stony ground,Isaw only the imagesIhad seen in the churches and the faces of thegods and the saints. Starving and homeless inParis,Iwas happy as abird of the air, becausethe day showed mebeautiful shapes, and bynightin sleepIsaw loveHer stiU. When fame came tome, and the praises of men and their triumphs,Iwas glad because by such meansIcould giveray years to the studiesIloved,and the visionsof mybrainin palpable form to the people. Neveronce wasIproud with the pride of a fool; butIwas glad — ah,God!Iwas glad. The stubbornstone obeyed me, submissive as a slave;Idelightedinmystrength;Iknew my mastery; mylabour wasbeautiful to me,and wakingIthoughtof it and went to it as to the sweetest mistressthat could smile on earth. When oneloves anart,itis the love of the creator and of the offspringbothin one;itis thej 03- of the lover andof the child;whenit fails us, what can the wholeworld give ? And now inmeitis dead — dead —

ARIADNE. 11dead. Icare for the marble no more than theworkman that hews it for daily bread. It saysnothing to me now. It is blank and cold, andIcurse it.IshaU nevermake it speak any more.Iampalsied beforeIam old! "Then his head drooped upon his breast; hedropped down on the bench beside him, andcovered his face with his hands.He had forgotten thatIwas there.Iwent away in silence and left him, notto seea great man weep.What comfort could one give tohim?Verily the sculpturesof the Greeks were rightLove burns up the soul.

CHAPTERII.Davs and weeks and months went by,for — timedevours so fast. Itwas again full summer thefierce fair summer of the south,andIwas sittingvacantly one night by the staU, with the lampswinging on its cord above my head, and thedin of the laughter, and the swish of the oarsin the water, and the Hght low chords of thetwanging guitars, and the merry steps of theyoung menandmaidens on the bridge, all soundingdiscordant and hateful on my ears, as theyhad alwaysin the old time sounded welcome andmusical; and this,Ido think, asIhave saidbefore, is oneof the unkindest things of sorrow,that it makes us almost loathe the gay andinnocent mirthof others.Iwas sitting so,Isay, with the moonlight all

ARIADNE. 13silvery aboutmy feet, and the people around medancing our beautiful native saltarello,that, sincethe foreigners have come in such shoals,ourladsand lasses have grown almost ashamed of, learningto jig and jump instead, with no more gracethan the stranger from over sea: for want ofgrace is progress too,it seems. And now,beingsummer, there were no foreigners to look on andmake them blush for being graceful, so theydanced that perfect dance in the space betwixtthe fountain and the street,andIsat aloof andweary in the moonlight, with the sound of thetambourines thumping throughmy brain.Suddenly ahand fell on my shoulder. It wasthat of Maryx." Iam going away. HereIshall lose nrybrain beforeIlose my Hfe. When one is strong,one does not die. You have — seen Iam like aparalytic. Perhaps travel may do something.You will not speak of me. Go and visit mymother.Ishall be away tillIfeel some force"to work, or untilHe did not end his phrase, butIunderstoodit asit stood. He meantuntil he heard that she

14ARIADNE.had been forsaken. Icould say nothing to him.Iknew that he was nolonger himself.Helooked at my Apollo Sandaliarius,the littlewhite figure that he had sculptured in the daysof his youth, when he had been a lustrous-eyed,eager-Hmbedlad, fiUed with anoble and buoyantfervour of Hfe, and that faith inhis ownstrengthwhich compels the destinyit craves.A great anguish came into his eyes." Ah! to go back five-and-twenty years; —who would not give his very soul to do it!Well,Ihave allIwished for then; and whatuseisit? "Then,asif ashamed, he paused, and added, ina colder, calmer voice, —"I cannot tell whereImay go — the east,most likely. Comfort mj' mother.good man. Farewell, my friend."Hepressedmy hand, and left meYou are aThe sky seemed emptier, the world seemedgreyer, than before. But he did wisely to go —thatIknew. Here, inaction and the desperatepain of failing force would gnaw at his veryvitals, till he would curse himself and weep

ARIADNE. 15before the genius of his own works, as did yournorthern Swift. For there can be nothing soterrible as to see your soul dead, whilst yet yourbody stiU Hves.SoIwas left alone in the city, and the daysand weeks and months crept slowly " on; ohneHast, ohne Bast," as the German says of thestars. Only, when onehas neither the eager joyof haste,nor the serene joy of rest, Hfe is but apoor and wearisome thing that crawls foot-sore,like a galledmule ona stony way.The mother of Maryx, left all alone on theGolden HiU, did not murmur; she understoodfew things, but she understood why he wasgone." I always said thatit would be so. Ialwayssaid it," she muttered, with her feeble handsfeeHng the wooden cross at her neck, that shehad worn ever since her first communion, whenshe had been a little bright brown-eyed girl,nodoubt, clanking in her wooden shoes over the"sunburnt fields. You see, because he hadmastered that wicked thing so long, and struckit and hewn it into any shape he chose, and

16ARIADNE.made a slave of it, he thought it never couldharm him; butIknew.' His father used tolaugh and say, How can it hurt me ? It isIwho hurt it,hewing it out of its caverns, andbreaking it up into atoms.' But all the same,one day it had its revenge — and crushed him.He was only a common rough hewer of stone.Oh,Iknow! And my son is great, and a kindof kinginhis way;but it is aU the same — themarble does not forgive. It bides its time, thenit strikesinits turn."And she accepted what it had brought her,with the kind of numbness of mingled despairand patience which is the peasant's form ofresignation to the wUl of God. In her fancy,the marble never forgave its masters;in mine,Ithought, " what art ever forgives its foUowers,when they opentheir eyes to behold anybeautyoutside its own? " .Love art alone, forsaking all other loves, andshe willmake you happy, with a happiness thatshaU defy the seasons and the sorrows of time,the pains of the vulgar and the changes offortune,and be with you day and night, a light

ARIADNE. 17that is never dim. But mingle with it anyhuman love — and art will look for ever at youwith the eyes of Christ when he looked at thefaithless follower as the cock crew.VOL. HI.c

CHAPTER III.Thus time went on,and the old woman spanher flax in the beautiful house on the hill,andgrew feebler and a little blind; and I, down inmy corner by the fountain, worked for my breadin torrid summers and inicy winters, and grewgloomy, they said, and pleasedbut few; and myneighbours said, " what did it matter to you? —to you nothing happened. It was not as if shehad been your daughter."And,indeed,nothing had happened to me, ofcourse; onlyall the simple pleasures of Hfe weredead and gone, and the wrinkled faces of theold manuscripts said nothing to me, and thespeU of the arts for me was broken; and 1should have cared nothing though my foot had

ARIADNE. 19laid bare all the jewels of the Faustines,or thelost Cupid of Praxiteles.For a great sorrow is like that subtle poisonwhich is carried by a carrion-fly in summer, andthe paralysis of it runs through all the nerves,and the nearest and the most distant are alikestricken and numb.It is murder to take life;but perhaps to takeaway all the joy of life is a more cruel thing, inreal truth.How was it with her? Was the false andfaithless joy that had allured her gone from her ?Was she left alone ?Isat and wondered, till the sunHght on thestones seemed to scorch my eyes blind,and thesweet noise of the falling water sounded hideous.Rome is so beautiful when it Hes under thesplendour of its heavens of light; but it hadceased to be anything to me save a prison thatheld my body, while my sick soul was far awayover strange lands, seeking — seekingIhad little hope that he would be faithful toher,or merciful in any way; yet sometimesIfancied that such perfect love from her, and herc 2

20ARIADNE.entire innocence of evil,and her many high andrare gifts, might so gain even 'on him, that itwould not be quite with her as it had been withothers. SoIfancied,hoping against hope, andsitting stitching by my old place under theshadow of the old ecclesiastical walls.Hilarion came no more to Rome.It was not fear that kept him away; he wasone of the boldest of men. It was, probably,that dislike to moral pain, and instinctive avoidanceof it, which were very strong in his temperament.It was also, perhaps, some pang ofconscience; for his conscience was always fullyawake to the evil he did, and the worst thingin him was that, knowing it, he deliberatelyselected it. But then, indeed, to him and tohisschool there is no clear right and no clear wrongin anything. All men were irresponsible in hissight, being born without any will of their own,and all adrift in a chaotic darkness that had nobeginning or end.Hilarion came no more to Rome, and thebeauty of Da'ila was wasted on the empty airand on the peasants, who had no ej-es to behold

ARIADNE. 21it, but only saw the locust on the wheat-stalk,the beetle in the vine-leaf, the fever mist in thereedy places by the rivers, and all the other soreand various curses of then- daily lives.If any asked for news of him there, theyalways said that they knew nothing. Perhapsit was true. Hilarion was one of those who havemany houses inmany lands,but have nohome.They are commonin your generation.Of Httle Amphion, also,Ihad seen no moresince that fatal night.. All about me the life was unchanged. Myneighbours gambled at trisella and zecchinettoas of old;ErsiHa scolded and laboured, with awrinkle the more betwixt her black brows;Pippo cooked, and Pipistrello played; and theyoungsters skipped upon the stones to thetwanging of lute and viol and the thump oftambourine; and the nightingales sang in thegardens; and the goats rang their bells withearly daylight down the streets.But to me all the world seemed dead — deadas Nero's slaughtered mUlions were beneath thesoil.

22ARIADNE.A year had gone by since Maryx had leftRome, and it was summer again — full summer,with all the people going out,in merryhonestfooling, to the country; and the lusty-lungedreapers coming through the streets all the nightlong, singing, with the tasselled corn in theirhair, and the poppies behind then- ears.Ah, the poppies! — Love's gift.WhenIsaw themIgrew more heart-sickthan before, and all the loud sonorous reapingsongsbeat on my ears with a stupid hatefulsound.One night they came by me over the bridge,louder andmore mirthful than ever,and the girlsof our streets were dancing the saltarella withsome young fisher-fellows from the boats below,and all of a sudden the harmless, noisy joyousnessof it all smote me so sharply thatIcouldnot bear it any longer,andIrose up and walkedaway.All the day long, and some time before,Idonot know whyit was, but a sudden restlessnesshad seized on me, and that kind of feeling ofsomething strange about me which one has at

ARIADNE. 23times; nervous depression, wise men say, andweak mencaU such things presentiments.Ifelt a loathing of those blithe guitars andshaking tambourines, and handsome maidens;Irose and caUed Pales, and strolledaway in thewhite stiUnight alongthe familiar ways. BynightRome is still a " city for the gods; the shadowsveil its wounds,the lustre silvers aU its stones;its silence is haunted as no other silence is;ifyou have faith, there where the dark gloss of thelaurel brushes the marble as in Agrippa's time,you wUl see the Immortals passing by chainedwith deadleaves and weeping. In earlier daysIhad seen them; days when no human affectionchained my thoughts to earth:nowIwent overthe stones bent and blind,and only thinking —flunking — thinking — when wecan only think andcannot dream, then truly we areold.Iwent along through the Forum, and pastthe arch of Trajan, and through Constantine's,out on that broad road between the mulberrytrees, with the ruins of the inniunerable templesstandingeverywhereamidst the fields andgardens,the reaped com and the ripening cherries.

24 ARIADNE.The road curvesto the left, as everyone knows,and goes tothe baths of the poor madman, Caracalla;and there are shapeless mounds of brickand stoneand rubble everywhereamongst the turfand the tilled soil, and you know that they wereall sacred one day,and beautiful,with domes andporticoes, andcolumns andhighspringingarches,and thronging multitudes worshipping in them,and the smoke of sacrifice ascending, and thegreat statues standing with serene faces immutableand calm amidst the uproar of emotion andof prayer.The night was still and luminous; a nulHonstars were shining in the violet blue above;allwas quiet, with only the sound of hooting owlsthat flew from the looming mass of the Flaviantheatre behind mein the dark.Ithought of thebroad burning noons, of the gathered people, ofthe knife of the priest, of the fall of the ox,ofthe fountain of blood, of the frenzy of death, ofthe worship of Attis, of all that came with theaccursed eastern races to rum Rome with itslusts. iIthought and shuddered and went on and

ARIADNE. 25forgot them: what mattered the fall of the godsor the nations? — Ihad not been able to keeppure and in safety one short human Hfe.It was midsummer time, and the scents of theland were aU sweet and heavy about me, thereaped wheat leaned against the broken altar,and the cut clover was piled by the forsakenlararia; the an1 was aHght and alive with fireflies,and the crickets alone answered the owls singingamongst the stalks of the corn.The might}- red masses of the baths rose insight; they were not red now, but brown andgrey, stripped of their marbles, and bare in themoonlight, with the bushes blowing on theirsummits, and the many things that only ventureforth by night, creeping over the mosaic floorsthat once had felt so manymilHon soft, white,useless feet glistening with the unguents and theperfumes there.Inthat warm summer night the scents of theinnumerable bird-sown plants and flowers weresweet upon the night as ever was the stream offragrance poured over patrician limbs in theserecesses, now so dark and drear and given over

26 ARIADNE.to the stoat and the newt, in that eternal ironyof mortal fame which seems always tolaugh aloudthrough Rome.It was a hiding-place for thieves in that time,butIcould have'no fear,I,old and poor, withouta coin of value on me.Iwalked through it,unthinking; thinking only of that long-abidingsorrow which had fallen uponme and others becauseIhadmeddled with the great goddess ofPræneste.Now at that time the place was perilous andquite unguarded;beggars slept there,and thievesalso if they chose, and so it was not strange thataway from the broad moonlight, just where themosaic pavement slopesdown under the fragmentof marble cornice in the central hall, there wererough work and some evil thing being done:there was an old manbeingheld and searched bytwo sturdy half-clad rogues.Iwas old too, but very strong, andIhad myknife; the thieves werebut two; they fled withoutmy touching them, thinking the guards were— behind me fled, and havingno wound worse thanthat from Pales' sharp teeth. The old manmut-

ARIADNE. 27tered many curses and few blessings; he hadbeen robbed of a few copper coins; he wasverypoor, he said;lookinginhis haggard faceIsawthat he was the old man, Ben Sulim, of theGhetto.Igavehim back his curses, and set him withhis face to the moonlight, and bade him be gone.Thenhe would have thanked me,butIstrodeawayfrom him out over the vineyards where thereused to be aU those open marble courts for theRomans' sports and daily gossiping;a hare ranbefore me into a sheaf of corn,a broad-wingedowl flew slowty Hke a puff of smoke borne on aslow wind;they were all that held the place ofthe Roman people now.Iwalked homeward by many amile across thepale campagna, sweet with flowering thyme, andrife with fever, and backward hito Rome byway of the Lateran church and palace:it wasfull dawn whenIreached my stall and slept. Ithought no more of the accident of the night:savenow and thenIwishedIhad not meddledwith the thieves.It was far into the vintage month, and the first

ARIADNE. —29not reverent of death are reverent of wealth" He was the richest manin Ghetto."And thus it proved.What he would have said to me, noman couldtell;but b\' all the people round him his largepossessions had been long suspected.The Syrian Jew had died as so many a miserhas died in this world, a starved and wretchedskeleton,but leaving a mass of wealth behindhim, and no word of any kind to will it, fordeath had come upon him unawares, and nodoubt like all men whose treasures lie in thingsof earth, the veiy thought of death had alwaysbeen shunned, and put awajr, bjr him.There were a great outcry in the place, andgreat agitation, for he had lived and died a badand cruel man, and had been muchhated even byhis ownpeople, and had always been thought anusurer;and nowit seemed there was no kind ofwealth he had not owned in secret, gold andsilver,scrip and bond,and, though none of hispersuasion can ownhouse or land inRome,manyof those Ghetto leases, one of which is thoughta fine fair fortune.

30ARIADNE.Would the wealth all fall to the State,lapse tothe Church ?That was the excitement of the quarter as,later on next day, when the lean frightful bodyof him had been shovelled into the earth oftheir burial place going towards Aventine, themen of law spent long hours unearthing all theevidences of his riches,and though sunset wasnear at hand,yet were far off the close of theirlabours, searching and sealingfrom morn to eve.Isaid nothing to any one, but went home ;got those papers which she had first put inmyhands in those early days when she had livedunder the shadow of my Hermes; and took themto those chambers in the Vatican where dweltmy mighty friend, who had risen to be a cardinal,andvery mighty and powerful, and was a— good andgenerousmanwithal; forinthose daysone could do nothing without a voice from theVatican, and with it could do everything inRome.He was a goodman, and a greatman, and hadneverforgotten that but for my poor service tohimin his youth,hein all likelihood would never

ARIADNE. 31have Hved to wear thebroad scarlet hat above hislevel classic brows.He waskind; he waseveninterested; hekeptthe matter in his own hands; he could propelthe law, andfulfil it;in a word,he so acted thatthe chief treasures of the dead manawaited her,whenever she should claim them.Ionly told himIhad lost her, and all clue toher. Icoiddnot tell him of Flilarion.Why do all things come toolate ?The easternpeople say the gods sit above andlaugh to see the woe and perplexity and painof men; verily, devils themselves might weepbefore those twolittle words — toolate.When he told me that this should certainly behers,thatifIcould findher living,and bring herinto Rome, she should become possessor of allthis strange accursed wealth,got together,noneknew how, throughout a long lonely Hfe ofhorrible barrenness, and hatred of all humanthings, when he told me,Isay,Ifelt giddy.Iremember coming out from his gracious presence,andpassingdown those gigantic staircasesbetween the Swiss in their yellow jerkins and

32ARIADNE.their cuirasses of steel, and going out along thelong stone passages into the daylight like adrunken man.Had itbeen but a little earlier, only a littleearlier!Had it come only just ere the earth hadhad time to bear and blossom and be reapedforharvests these three short summers!What was the shield of Athene beside what theshield of gold would have been ?What power had love or the arts to shelter,compared with what the mere force of wealthwould havehad ?Icursed the dead manin his graveBrutalitmight be, butIwras so: — brutal asonemay be whoin savage wars sees the daughterof hisheart and hearth dishonoured and lyinglifeless, with a sword thrust in her breast, whenso little could have saved her— just a moment —just a word!Iwent down out of the Vatican into the noblesunlit square, where in a high west wind thefountains were tossing like waves of the sea allfoam, and blown aloft in a storm; and the blackshadow of the mighty obelisk was travelling

ARIADNE.slowly across the whiteness of the place like theshadow of the arm of Time.Within, in the Sistine vaults,there were themultitudes come to judgment, and the openingheavens, and the yawning graves, and all theawful greatness that is veiled in the dusk asthe voices chaunt the Miserere: — if the day prefiguredthere everbreak, will nonerise from thetomb to ask why salvation came toolate ?VOL. III. I)

CHAPTER IVIwent to Pippo, andIsaid tohim" You are an old friend, and a true one, willyou lend me a sum of money?" andIassuredhim that for whatIwanted, there were thingsenough stiUin the chamber to give him back hisloanif that was whathe feared.But Pippo scratchedhis head mournfully." " Dear one, do not ask it," said he. Friendshipis a sturdy plant, a sweet herb and asavoury,but whenit touches the purse-strings —somehow it shrivels. Ishould be loth tolove you less. So let us say nothing aboutmoney."It was wise in him, no doubt, and he proceededto show that it was because of his verylove for me, that he spoke so, after cooking for

ARIADNE. 35me more than a score of years, and charging meat pleasure.ErsiHa, who had listened as she washed herclothes on the edge of the wellin the yard,hungher linen to dry, then followed me out." Ihave" money, take it," said she. Ifit beto find her, or to do any good for her. Andwhen you see her, tell her thatIhave promisedOui' Lady six candles as taU asIamif only ShewiU bring her back, but to be sure the maidennever cared for these things, nor believed inthem. Nay, take the inoney. Iam not HkePippo. You wUl pay me again, and if not —not.Ihave cursed her many a time, butIwould walk bare-foot tobringher back."Isaw the hot tears in her fierce black eyes,with the brown wrinkles round them; she was astem and hasty soul,but her heart was true.ButIwould not take a woman's money,andIwent and unlocked the chamber of mine,thatInever had entered since the clay thatIhad sold Hermes in the barter, which had beento me as the bidding to bind his son to the altarmust have been to Abraham of old.i) 2

36ARIADNE.AndItook the other things thatIhad, theEtruscan armlet, and the bronze catacomb lamp,and the beautiful fire-blackened flower-crownedcolossal head, and sold them to men who hadthe heart to chaffer and deal in such sacredthings — Inever had been able to do it — and putthe money that they gave me in a leathern bag,and set off on my way to the gilded city thatHilarion best loved.For thereIknew that quite easily,Ior anyonecould hear of him,and know at once whitherhe had gone, and who was with him." Bring her back!" Alas!from the path shehad taken there is noreturn.YetIwent to searchfor her;baring nowthesetidings of her inheritance.Itook the money, and made up my Httle packas hi the days of my wanderings, so that itstrapped tightly onmy back, and caUed to Palesto come with me, and left Rome oncemore. Itwas in the light shining weather of earlyautumn, when the air is once moreelastic afterthe swooningheats of summer, and there is thescent of fresh wine everywhere upon the wind,.

ARIADNE. 37and oranges begin to fall at your feet, as youwalk, and the arbutus begins to redden itsberries,and the maize has its embrowned plumes,tall as the sapHngs of maple.It matters nothing howIfared; toiling onthrough the white dust along that road by thesea, with the blue wavesunderneath and thegreenpalms above me.Iwalked all the way; the sum of Ersilia'smoney was smaU, andIcould not tell howImight need it. OftenIpaid my night's lodgingand supper by an hour of stitching at brokenshoeleather, and Pales if tired never complained.Iknew a dog once which, taken from its homein Paris to new owners inMilan,ran away fromthe unknown master, and found its wayon footaU thosemany wearymUes across the mountains,back to Paris, and died upon the doorstep ofits old home; this is true;no fancy, but a fact;will you heed it,you who call the animals dumbbeasts ?Ionly did what that poor lonely little dogfound possible, hunted and baffled, and tormentedwith hunger and thirst, as no doubt it

38 ARIADNE.must have been, all along the cruel strangehighways.Iwalked along the sea-road first, and thenacross the great central plains of France, and itwas fair autumn weather always, broken onlyby noble storms that swept the land majestically,and made the swoUen rivers rise.The air had the first crispness of winter whenIentered the city of Paris.Iwas weary in limb and brain, butIwentstraight to the house of Hilarion.Ihad not seen it since the night that Lilashad died there. It was in abye-street,being anold smaU palace in a noble but antiquatedquarter;it had belonged tohis mother's peopleinother centuries;it stood between court andgarden, and was darkened by some stately treesof lime and chestnut. Ifound it not withoutdifficulty ;it was evening;Irang at the largebronze gate-beU, without thinking whatIshoulddo whenit was answered.An old servant came and replied to methrough the bars of the gates. HUarion was notthere; he had gone away in the spring; no

ARIADNE. 39doubt he would return soon for the winter; theycould not tell where he was;no, there was noone in the house exceptdomestics. That was allhe said, or would say, being trained to silenceno doubt.Iturned away, and went into the busierstreets, Pales clinging close to me, for the blitheand busygaiety, and the crowds, and the glitter,and theinnumerable lamps,made these streets sostrangely bewildering after the dusky moonlitways of Rome, with their vast flights of stairs,and their great deserted courts, and their melodyof murmuring waters, and then- white gleam ofcolossalmarbles or gigantic domes.The city was all in the height of a fine frostywinter-night's merriment, and, what seemed tomeafter suchlong absence incredible,multitudes,aU light-hearted and light-footed, were pouringdown the streets, going to theatres or cafes orother places of diversion, with the Hghts allsparkling aU amongst their trees, and the windowsof then- shops, and frontages of their buildingsaU gay with colour and ornament andinvitation to amusement.

40 ARIADNE.Ifelt my head whirl;I, who had sat so longby the moss-grown fountain in the wall, whereeven Carnival had reeled away without touchingme, andhad left me quiet.Isat down onabench under aplane-tree, andtried to collect my thoughts.Now thatIhad come, what couldIdo ? hownearer wasI? Iseemed to myself to have comeona fool's errand.Under the tree was one of those gay littlepainted metal houses they call kiosques, wherethey sell newspapers always, and sometimesvolumes as well. In this little minaret-shapedtoy, withits bright gas,and its ear-ringed blackhaired girl to sit in it,Isaw Hilarion's name inlarge letters;there was a new poem of his onsale there, just as Martial's used to be sold at" the shop of Secundus, the freedman of thenoble Lucens, behind tbe Temple of Peace."The volume was called Fauriel.Iasked the womanifit were selling well; shelaughed at me for an ignoramus; who wasIthat did not know that all Paris thought andspoke of nothing else ?

ARIADNE. 41Ibought the slender, clear-typed book. Isatdown under the trees and readit: Pales at myfeet.It was beautiful; he seldom wrote anythingthat was otherwise. He had the secret of aperfect melody, and the sense of unerring colourand fonn.Ithad but a sHght story: Fauriel loved andwearied of love;there was Httle else for atheme;but the passion of it was like a pomegranateblossom freshlyburst open to the kiss of noon;the weariness of it was like the ashesof ahouse.The union wasintoxication to his own generation,which craves contrasts, as the sick palatecraves to be burnt and cloyed.Isat under the leafless branches and read thebook by the Hghtof the lamps above me. Therewerebands playing near some wheeling waltzingdreamy measure ; the verse seemed to go withthe music; the crowd wentby, the many wheelsmade a sound like the sea; beyond at the endwas the white pile of Napoleon's arch,and wintrymasses of trees and countless lights: — ifIlook

42 ARIADNE.at a line of the poem nowall the scene comesback to me.AsIread, the scorching passion, like a sandwindthat burns and passes; the hollowlove, thateveninits first fresh vows was not sincere;thecruel autopsis of a dead desire,the weary contemptof human nature; the slow voluptuousand yetindifferent analysis of the woman's lovelinessand of the amorouscharm that could nomore last than lasts the hectic flash of the skyat evening time — they all seemed to cut into myvery fleshlike stripes.Iseemed to hear her doom in them, theletters seemed stamped in fire.Iread it as a man reads a death warrant,seeing from beginning to end, as it were, inone flash of horrible comprehension. It toldme no more thanIknew, indeed; and yet itseemed to kill all hope in me. Because thisbook was freshly written, and it told me thatthe poet of it knew nothing of love save itsbrutality and its satiety: and how as a lovercould he give anymore than he knew?It phrenziedme. It seemed to me asifIsaw

ARIADNE. 43her dead, andhe showing aU her unveiledbeautiesto the gaze of men, as Nero showed in deathAgrippina. Itore the paper-cover off it, andthe pages with their delicate printing, and bitthem through and through with my teeth,andflung them on the ground and to the winds.People passing by me must have thought memad: the boys of the streets ranand caught theflying pages from the gutter to make them intoanyof the ten thousand uses that the ingenuityof poverty can teach them. ThenIrose andtried to remember whereIwas, and to find mywayto a cheap house of call whereIhad usedto Hve with the comedians twenty odd yearsbefore.That Httle hostelry had been pulled down tomake way for theblank, glaring,dreary,plasteredpileswhichyourmodern architects love,andwhichhave no more story in them, or light and shade,.or meaning of any kind, than has an age-worncoquette'shard enamelled face.The little wine-shop, once the abode of muchharmless merriment and wise content, had beenpulled down; butIfound another that suited

44 ARIADNE.me, and stayed on in Paris, going every nightand day to stare up at Hilarion's house, and ringat the closed gate,and receive the same answer,until the keeper of the gate grew angry, andthreatened to hand me over to the keeping ofgendarmes.No doubt wiser folks and richer ones wouldhave gone at once to the aid of the law to findher or hear of her,in many various ways, butIwas afraid: we Trasteverini have no love of thelaw, or ofits administrators,high andlow, andIthought itbest, rightly or wrongly, to keep closemy own counsel.Once passing a great public place, newlyerected, and very handsome in the soulless sortof splendour which is the highest that yourmodern architecture ever reaches,Isaw throughthe ranges of the columns in its halls the Neroand the Actea high-thronedin aplace of honour.The young artists were speaking ofit."How perfect it is," said one; "he is agreatman.""Aye, truly," said the other; "and what a■beautiful Hfe his has been; beautiful as any

46 ARIADNE.Icannot teU why this should have had power toentermybrain and make me stop, but soit was;and Pales pricked her sandy fox-like ears, asthough in that multitude of strangers seeingsome familiar face. Iwent where the flute wasbeingplayed, before a coffee-house door, beneaththe roadside trees,under thebright stillskies andthe shine of the gasHghts.It was hard to see tbe player, for there wereso many people crowding round and sitting atease upon green iron chairs, sipping coffee andeating sweet things, for the night was sereneandnot cold. ButIlistened standing on the edge ofthe crowd,and thoughallflutes have but onevoiceamongst them, yetit seemed to me that this onespoke with the sweet sad sound thatIhad heardat Daila, when the peaches had been ripe, andedging in a little nearer,Isaw that the playerwas Amphion, whomIhad never seen from thenight that he had sent Maryx and myself totheseashore.WhenIhad returned to Rome after that timeIhad utterly forgotten him,and when remembering,Ireproachedmyself and asked of him,I

ARIADNE. 47had been able to hear nothing; the fishermanby Quattro Capi could only say he had been anhonest though not auseful lad whilst with him,and had gone away — out of the city, for aughtthat he knew.And nowIwas sure that this was Amphion— playinghere, with the small olive face and thebig black eyes, and the nervous giriish hands,and making such soft, sweet, wailingmusic, thateventhe Paris crowd was still and touched.When the music ceased he took off the flatscarlet cap that he wore on his dark curls, andheld it outto those who had Hstened; they werenumerous, and aU gave wiUingly. The flute heplayed onwas a common one of ebony: not thesilver flute of Daila. He divided it and shppeditinhis breast,as his way always had been;thencame out of the crowd.Istoppedhim: " Do you know me? " Isaid." Where are you gomg ? Why do you strugglelike that ? "For he was trying to escapeme.He stood stiU,finding me resolute,but his facewas downcast and his voice faltered, as he stam-

48 ARIADNE.mered some iU-connected words of where heHved and how it fared with him: then lookingme suddenlyin the face,the tears spranginto hiseyes, he drew me aside hurriedly down into apassage-way." You areold and poor.Ican tell you," hesaid, quickly. "I shall not be jealous of you.You care for her, but you cannot keep her.Come home with me, andIwill teU you."" She is in thecity, then ? " Isaid,with a greatleap at myheart,and a dizziness before my sight." Yes, yes," he said, impatiently." Comehome with me."Ikept pace with his lithe and quick youngsteps to ahouse on the river." You will make me lose money,"he said,restlessly,looking backward at the crowded andilluminated streets we left.He had changed sorely from the »retty softlad that he had been at Daila; poverty andfeverish passions, and the ah- and the ways ofcities, had pinched and wasted his features andgiven a false colour to his worn cheeks, and apiteous eagerness to his glance. He drew me

ARIADNE. 49aside in a little passage-way, where there was abench under a pear-tree, and a sign of a sUverdeer swinging, asIwell remember, in the artificialHght." Sit down," he said, imperiously, and yettimidly." You wiU sayIhave done wrong, nodoubt. But if the time wereto come over againIwoidd not do otherwise. Icould not."Ishook with impatience." Who cares what you have done or left undone? " Icried crueUy,"Who cares? — tellme ofher: has he left her? "Amphion laughed aloud." Have youread Fauriel ?'" Ihave had it readto me. Ican understandthe tongue now. Have you read it ? Oh,itisbeautiful,so the world says — itis beautiful, nodoubt. Only reading it! why do you ask ? "A great heart sickness came over me:Iheldhim with both myhands onhis arm." For the love of God tell mein a few words,— since you know everything,it would seem is.she near me now?" Is she Hving? Has he forsakenher quite ?VOL. III. £

50ARIADNE.Amphion was silent,thinking."Come with me," he said,and turned towardsthe quarter where the grey Seine was glidinginthe moonlight through Old Paris, the Paris ofPhilippe d'Orleans and of the Reine Isabeau.Somethingin the boy's look and the sound ofthe voice froze my bloodin my veins and nailedmy tongue to my throat.Ithought to see her lying dead, or perhaps tosee some nameless wooden cross above theditches where the friendless and forlorn heburied.Icould not ask him another word. Pales creptafter us wearily withher head hung down.Ihad forgotten that for tenhoursIhad nevereatennor drank.He took me to ahouse standing quite on thewater, with the towers and walls of the moreancient quarter close about it,and afew trees andthe masts of boats rising above their boughs.He chmbed a steep dark stairway, smelHng of allfoul'odours,andpausedup onhighbefore acloseddoor." Goin there," he said,and opened tbe door.

ARIADNE. 51Myheart stood stUl. Ihad no clear thought — ofanything thatIshould see, only one idea thatshe must be within the chamber lying dead.Iset my foot upon the threshold with theghastliest fear myHfe had everknown.The room was almost in darkness, for onesmall lamp would not light it;it was a garret,but clean and spacious, with one casement,through whose leaded panes the stars wereshining, and the zinc roofs were glisteningunderthe rays of the moon.There was the form of a woman there: herfaceIcould not see. She was leaning herforehead against the window. She did not turnor move at the unclosing of the door. Palesran forward whining; thenIknew who itwas;Iwent to her timidly, and yet in joy,seeing that she lived, even though she Hved inmisery." Mydeal', will you not speak to me ? " Isaid,and tried to touch her hand. "WiU you noteven look? Iam your friend always, thoughpoor,and of so Httle use " — and thenIstopped,and a greater horror than the fear of death con-E 2

52ARIADNE.sumed me, for as she turned her face towardsme there was noHght of any land init,no lightof the reason or the soul;it had the mild,dumb,patient pain of a sick animal uponit, and in thegreat eyes, so lustrous and wide opened, therewas no comprehension, no answer, no recognition.The eyes looked at me; that was all; theydid not see me." WiU he be long ?" she said : her voicesounded faint, and far away."Do you not know me, " oh, my dear? Doyou not even know me? Icried in my mortalagony: she did not seem even to hear; shesighed a little wearily, and turned to tbe casementand leaned her forehead there.Iburstinto tears.IshaU always see that bare white room andthe plank floor, and the high garret window,with the stars shining through it, as long asIsee anything onearth. Sometimes in the nightIwake up shivering, and thinkingIam there;withher lustrous,hopeless eyeslooking at me so,with no sight in them and no reason.

ARIADNE. 53" Oh, my dear! Oh, my dear! Where isGod that he lets such things be ? " Icried inmy suffering, and raved and blasphemed, andknew not whatIsaid, but seemed to feel mjrvery heart-strings beingrent asunder.But she heard nothing, or, at least, she tookno notice; she was looking through the narrowpanes, as if her lover were to comeback to herfrom heaven.The boy, standing on the threshold, drew meback to hini." She is always Hke that," he said, very low." It is a pity he cannot see: it would servehim for fine verses."" Hush, " for the mercy of heaven. Can youjest?"I?— Jest?"ThenIfelt ashamed thatIhad hurt him withsuch a word, forIsawin his face what he felt."Forgive me, child,"Isaid humbly to him,asIfelt: " I, too, am madIthink.Mad!— who dares say any such word— who dares?— the clearest, purest, loftiest mind that everloved the sunhght of God's truth! Oh, she

54 ARIADNEwill know me in a little while. Let me go backand speak to her again. She has not seen mewell,the place is dark."And againItouchedher and spoke,and againher eyes rested on me, not seeming evento see" "thatIwas ahuman thing. WiU he be long ?she muttered oncemore,being disturbed." She asks only that," muttered Amphion." She says nothing else. You only pain her—you only make her more restless. Come away—now you have seen her."The boy spoke with the authority of an oldgreyheaded man, and his boyish face had thelook of age. He drew me out across thethreshold, and across the narrow passage-way,into another garret,much smaUer, and quite asbare." You want to hear," he said,'with a heavysigh,"pressing his hands to his forehead. Youwill be angry:you will sayIhave done wrong.ButIhated to let you know or any one. Iwas aU the friend she had, and though shenever knew me, yet that was a kind of joy-Well, this is how it was, — "

ARIADNE. 55He breathed quickly, then drew a long sigh,and so began to speak." You stayed hiRome ; that strong man, too,who makes the carvenimages:Icould not stay.Ihad plenty of money; his money; you remember.Icame here. Here,Ithought to myself,he would be sure to come: never is he longaway from Pales,for he says that here only domen know how to live,if in Rome only can theylearn to die. SoIstayed here andIwatchedhis house."Iknow how to watch;Iwas friends withthe snakes at home. The windows of the housewerealways shut;it was Hke the face of a blindman, it told nothing. One day, that is a yearago now, they opened. Ilived in a Httle roomhigh up, very near; so high, so near,Icouldsee down into his garden, andIlearned theirtongue, onlyIlet them believeIdid not knowit, because soIheard more. He Hved his oldHfe;quite his old life;it was all pleasure — whathe calls pleasure — and she stayed in her ownchambers with her marbles. What did she know ?Nothing. She was shut up as you shut a bird;tjy .'--.

56 ARIADNE.once or twice he had her with him at the opera;she was as white as the statues that she worships;she had a quantity of old Greek gold upon her.Iknew thatit was Greek, forIhad seen himbuy itin — Athens. Some onenearme saidit wasHelen risen. But she is not Helen,nothingisless like her; she read me of Helenin those oldsongs of war, in Rome. Ithink she sufferedvery much, because all those people looked so ather: asfor him he only smUed. This thatIteUyou of nowbelongstolast winter. Have patience:Imust tell it my own way." There came then to this city the wickedwitchfrom Rome; shewhom yrou caU a duchess;she sent for him, he went, and when he hadgone once, then he went often. She, in thoserooms with her marbles, was more than everalone. Her window opened on to the gardens,and from my garret windowIcould see. Sometimesshe would come out under the trees; theygrow very thickly, and it is damp there, but shewould sit still under them hour after hour —and he all the while about in the pleasureplaces, or with the Roman woman. Ido not

ARIADNE. 57think he was cruel to her; no,Ithink not;heonly left her: that is not cruelty, they say." AVhen the spring came, and all those lilacswere in flower, and the air, evenin this place,was sweet, she was all the clay long in thegarden,Icould see her shadow always on thegrass ; the grass hardly ever had his shadow, too.SometimesIfollowed him, andIsaw how hespent his nights;ifIhad been strong, like yoursculptor,Iwoulcl have killed him, butIam onlyaboy, — why did not the sculptor come ? TheRoman womanwent away,and he went also;Ilearned from his people that he had left no wordwhere he had gone." She used to walk to and fro in the moonlightunder the trees, till one was sick to see her.All day long she did nothing, nothing, only sitand listen,Isuppose, for his steps, or thesound of some one bringing some word fromhim. She got a look on her face like thelook that your dog's eyes have when it losesyou in a crowd. . You know whatImean.Men came and tried to see her;men who werehis friends, that is their friendship; — but never

58ARIADNE.woulcl she see any one. She was so foolish,Iheard the servants say; butIthink they weresorry for her, andIknew they loved her. Allthis timeIkept myself by means of my flute,and watched the house all the timeIwas notplaying. It was ahot summer:heat is so heavyhere, where all these zinc roofs burn your eyes;itis not like the heat on our shores, where weliein the air all night, and hear the cool soundof the waves." The summer was horrible here;it was allclouds of dust by clay, and glare of gas by night,and the noise of the streets roaring like anangry beast. She never left the garden. Shewas never quiet; she was always moving up anddown, and doingnothing; she who used to do somuch in every second of the clay in ' Rome. Iheard the people of the house say she thinkshe is coming ' back; and the older ones sighedand seemed pitiful, but the manat the gate,whois wicked, laughed with his friends. The}' triedto enter and see her; great princes some ofthem were; but never woulcl she see any one." One clay, when she was walking in the

ARIADNE. 59garden,Isaw a messenger take her a greatcasket; she said not one word, but she threwit on the ground, and the lid of it burst open,and pearls and other jewels rolled out,and shetrampled on them and trod them into the earth;— Inever had seenher like that. The man whohad brought them was frightened, and gatheredthem up and hurried away. The man at thegatelaughed, and toldhim she was a fool.'' That is how the summer wentby; and frommy garretIcould always see her, and allthe long moonlit nights she would — pace upand clown there under those trees: and thelilacs grew shrivelled and black. Then all atonceImissed her. Days went by; at lastIasked; the man at the gate laughed again:' she is gone,' said he, ' she is alovely creature,but not humanIthink; he wrote to her, butshe did not understand; she is gone away,somewhere or other,you see she did not understand— as if " it were not always so.' What isalways so?The Greek lad 'sighed, and drew his breathwearily; then again took up the thread of his

60ARIADNE.baldnarrative,which he told insimple, unlearnedfashion." Of courseIsearched for her everywhere,butit was long beforeIfound her. The manat thegate seemed mieasy, for fear of the displeasureof Hilarion;but he said, ' we have no orders;we can do nothing; when he comes back — 'So they did not stir, nor care: as for me,Ithought "she was dead. But stillIsought highandlow." One clay,in this very street,Iheard somewomentalking;this womanwhom you have seenwith her wasoneof them;theyspoke ofastrangerwho was dying of hunger, yet who had spent theonly coin she could earn by making the nets forthe fishermen of the Seine,in buying grey clayand earth. ThenIthought of her, for often shewoulcl mend the old men's nets \>y the Tiber,having learned to do itby the sea; and who butshe would have bought sculptors' clay instead ofbread?" ThenIquestioned the French woman ofher, and httle by little she told me.She hasa good soul, and a tender one, and she was

ARIADNE. 61'sorrowful,though knowing nothing. This girlis beautiful,' she said, ' and belongs to noblepeople,Ithink, but she has had some greatgrief, or else is mad. She passed clown mystreet one day at daybreak and asked for alittle empty room thatIhad to let, and toldme that she had not a coin in the world-,andbade me get her the fishing-nets to makeor mend.Ido not know why — she spoke tome; children and dogs like me, perhaps thatwas why. And she seemed to be in such greatwoe, thatIhad not the heart to turn heraway; andIgave her the room, and got herthe work, and piteous it is to see her lovelyslender hands amongst all that rough cordageand hemp,and tornby them, and yet working onand on; and with the first money she gained shebought clay, and she began to model a statue,like the figures one seesinthe churches; and allclay she makes or mends the nets,and half thenight, or more, labours at this clay; and she ismad,Ithink, for she never speaks, and scarcelya mouthful passes her hps, save a draught ofwater.'

62ARIADNE." Andwhen the womantold me this, thenIfeltsure that it was she. AndItold a He as ofhaving lost my sister, and begged to see her,and after a while the woman, who was anxious,and even frightened,let me go up to the roomonthe roof. And this is howIfound her." Theroom was bare, and there was aheap ofnets on the floor, and there was a statue in clay,which had his features and his form, onlyit waswingedand seemedhkeagod. She was cladintherough white garments she wore hiRome, andherarms were bare, and she was modelling the claystill with her hands,and she neverheard me enternor the womanspeak,who said to me, trembling,' Look— isit a false god that she will not evenleave it to break bread ? ' AndIsaid to her,' Aye;it is a false god.' For indeed, it was inhis very likeness; only greater than he, morebeautiful, more perfect, as, no doubt, he alwaysseemed to her: may he live for ever inpain, anddie without a friend!" The woman, trembling, went and touchedher, and said, ' come away,itis night, you mustbe hungry.' She turned and looked at us both.

ARIADNE. 63' Hush !it will be finished very soon; whenitisdone he will come back.' Then she turned againto the statue, and worked on at it,and her handsseemed so feverish thatIthought theymust have'burnt the clay as they touchedit. Is she yoursister?' asked the woman; andIlied andanswered' ' yes; and together we stood and watched her.' Whilst she still made the nets, she seemedto have some reason left, though she never'spoke,' said the woman, but since she hastouched that earth she seems mad. Is it indeedyour sister ' ? What sorrow is on her thatshe is thus ? ButIcould not speak. Iwatched her tillIfelt suffocated. Iknew notwhatIdid. Iwas beside myself. God forgiveme! "Ihad my knife in my vest— the knife thatshould have ended his lifein those nights of hispleasure, ifIhad not been a coward — such acoward! And nowlike the foolish wretchIwas,Iso loathed the sight of that image, and of herlovely life wasting and burning away on it, thatasIsaw itIsprang upon it, and plunged myknife into the very breast of it, and the moist

64ARIADNE.clay reeled and crumbled, andfell away, and allits beauty sank clown into a mere heap of earth— God forgive me !"And she herself fell down at the sight of theruined thing, as though my knife had strickenher hfe; fell with a great cry, as if her veryheart were bursting; and her forehead struckthe stones, and the blood came from hermouth."His voice sank into silence with a sob.Forme,Isat quietly hxhis side, with the Seine waterflowing underneath the wall down below,and thelamps looming yellow through the mist.Iwanted to know nothing more.Isawall thecruel months and years, asin a mirror one seesone's own eyes lookingback at one." Go on,"Isaid to the lad;and after alittlehe took up his tale." She washke a dead creaturemany clays and"weeks," he said. We called help; they gaveit some learned name; some fire of the spineand brain, they called it. She rose from herbed, for she is strong, they say, but her mind'seems gone ever since then. Will he be long?'

ARIADNE. 65she is always asking;that is all;you have heardher?"" Yes;Ihave heard her."Ispoke calmly, but it seemed to me as if thelamps burning through the fog were lights ofhell,andIheard allits fiends laughing." How has she lived all this while ?"This had passed in September, the boy said,and we were nowinMarch,and passing into earlydays of spring, and all the while that treasureandill-got wealth,hoarded inFiumara, had beenwaiting her, whilst she waslying between life anddeath in this river attic in the heart of a foreigncity!He hung his head, ashamed."I should have sent to you; yes,Iknew,Ithought of that, butIcouldnot:it was horrible,yet it was a kind of happiness to be the onlything between her and the workhouse — thehospital — the grave. For without me she would'have gone there. She is my sister,'Isaid tothe woman, and they believed me, and let medo for her. My money was almost gone, butIhad the flute, andIcould always get moneyinVOL. III.F

66 ARIADNE.plenty, playing here and there.They wouldhave hired me for the great theatres, butIwasafraid of that. Ihave played at the singingplacesin the openair — nowhere else — forIwasalways afraid he might return and see me, andso know. Indeed, she has wanted for nothing,for nothing that we could give. She is as wellhere as if she were in a palace; she knowsnothing of where she is. Of the statue she doesnot seem to have any remembrance; the peopleshovelled it — away it was only a heap of greyearth. You are angered; you thinkIdid wrong— yes— but for the moment,almost,Ithought theclay image was alive, andIfanciedIshould sether free of its spell. Indeed, indeed,she wantsfor nothing. She is docile;she lets the womando what she likes; but all day long she — watchesthe window, and all she says is that, will hebe long ? The woman says she sleeps but verylittle; when she awakes she says always thesame thing." And all Paris raves and weepsoverFauriel!The boy laughed bitterly, the tears coursingdownhis cheeks.

ARIADNE. 67" Isuppose he never sends to know where sheis,elsehis people wouldseek for her, — itis so easyto know anythingin this city. Ithink theyhavenever tried to know. She has never gone outof that room since that day," he continued." She has all she can want, oh, yes! indeed;she does not know whether it is a garret or apalace; only sometimes,Ithink, she feels thewant of air, without knowing what it is shefeels:" You will sayIshouldhave sent to you. Yes,Ithought ofit;but you see,Icannot write,andthenIhave been glad to be the only one nearher— the only thing she had. Of course she doesnot know. She sees me very often, but shenever knows me. There is always that blanklook inher eyes. Isuppose it is her brain thatis gone:" Oh! you are angry; do not be angry.PerhapsIdid ill. But hadIlet you know youwould have come, and that man who fives on theGolden Hill,and is rich;and she would neverhave wanted me any more." Imake plenty of money; yes, indeed. IfF 2

68 ARIADNE.Iwent to the concerts,Ishould be rich, too,they say, andIhave been so happy to workfor her, and to buy flowers and pretty things— though she never seems to see them — andthen,Ithink always, someday that cloud thatseems over her will break and go away, andthen perhapsIshall dare to say to her, " Ihave been of some little use; just look atme kindly once." And you see, ifIhad letyou know, all that woulcl have been over, asit is over "now. Of course you will take heraway?" Be still, for the pity of heaven!" Icried to"him. Be still, orIshall toobe mad."For the simple tale, as the lad told it, wasto me as full of woe and terror as the sublimesttragedy that everpoet writ. Listening,Iseemedto see and to hear all that had been suffered byher;every one of his poor words was big withgrief,big as the world itself for me. Oh, whyhadIbroken the steel!Men repent ofevil,theysay;itis ten thousandtimes more bitter to repent of having heldback from evil. Sorely, and in passion and

ARIADNE. 69agony,Irepented then having held my hand inVenice.The boj- was nothing to me.for him or remembrance.Ihad no mercyIt was quite late at night. Isat dumb andstupid inhis garret on the edge of his trucklebed;the muffled sound of all the hfe of Pariscameit]) dully, hke the distant sound of the seawhen oneis miles inland."Will you take her away?" he said, with apiteous entreatyinhis voice." Let me think,"Isaid to him; and the starsand the roofs seemed towhirl,and all the pulsesof the bestial worldto beatin mine.For itis bestial: abeast that for ever,devoursand has never enough.Yes,of courseIwould takeher away;Iwouldtake her to Rome.Romeis themighty motherofnations;inRomeshe might find peace once more.Ihad heard inother days that sometimes whenthe mind is shaken from its seat, and reasonclouded by any great shock, nothing is so likelyto restore it and awaken consciousness as the

70 ARIADNE.sight of a familiar place and a beloved scene,linked by memory with perishedhappiness.Yes,Iwould take her away.HereIdid not dare to ask for any counsel orany surgeon's aid;Ihad a dread of the inquisitionof strangers and of the many delays of longinquiry, and the same feverish eagerness thatAmphion had had to keep close to himself hersorrow and her needs, did now consume melikewise.IfIcould only get her back once more,Isaid to myself, back to the chamber on the river.And with that odd remembrance of trifleswhich comes to me sometimes across greatwoe,Ithought what apity it was that Hermeswas gone, and that there were now no redand golden bean-flowers to run across thecasement!" Yes, Iwill take her away,"Isaid.The poor lad saidnothing;his head droppedonhis chest. He had done all he could,and forsixmonths had gone to and fro, and outin allweathers, playing to get the means wherewith tofind her shelter and care, denying himself,and

ARIADNE. 71thinking only of her;but to me then he was nomore than any one of the leafless lime-boughsdroopingby the gates of Hilarion.ShiveringIwent across the passage-wayandopened the door of her chamber. The womanthat he paid for such service was sitting there,sewing at linen,a woman old aud gentle; sheherself was sitting, too, with her arms leaning onthe bare table, and one hand dreamily movinginto figures some loose white rose-leaves fallenfrom a rose-treein a pot. She didnothear me orheed me. WhenItouched her she lifted herheavy e3'es, in which a light like that of flameseemed toburn painfully." Will he be long ?" she said,and moved therose-leaves to and fro feverishly.The woman shook her head." That is all she ever sa3Ts," she muttered as" She says it in her sleep— suchshe stitched.— times as she does sleep and she wakes stretchingout her arms. Who is he ? He must be abeast."" Heis apoet! " Isaid, and went out from thechamber into the lighted ways of the city and

72 ARIADNE.their noise. My brain seemed reeling, and myeyes were blind.In the gayand shining avenues,all alight andfull of moving crowds, womenwere talking withwet soft eyes of Fauriel.

CHAPTER V— t—Next dayIgot such changes in my papersas were needful for the journey,andItook heronher homeward way. She did not resist. Shewas not in any wa}' sensible of where she went,and she was docile,like a gentle animal stunnedwith man}'blows.Her bodily health did notseem weak, though she was very feverish, andher pulses stopped at times in a strange way.The woman who had been with her wept atparting from her." Will she find him there ? " she asked." Nay, never there, nor anywhere,"Isaid;for who finds love afresh that oncehas been forsaken?She had had the clue and the sword, and she

74 ARIADNE.had given them up to him, and he inreturnhadgiven her shipwreck and death. It was so threethousand years ago,and it is so to-day, and willbe so to-morrow.From my httle stock of moneyIpaid thatwomanwell,for she had been true and tender;the restIspent in going back to Rome. Theboy came with me.Iwas hard and cruel to himat that time, butIcould not say himnay.Throughout the journey she did not change inany way; the noise, and movement, and manychanges, seemed to perplex and trouble hervaguely, as they trouble a poorlamb sent on thatiron road, but no more. She never spoke,exceptnow and then when she woulcl look wistfully outat some gleam of sky or water or spreadingplain,and ask: " will he be long ? " Neither of menor of Aiiipliion had she the slightest consciousness.It was the madness of one all-absorbentand absorbed idea; indeed, what else is Love?Even the beautiful snow-ranges and the sereneglory of the mountains, from whichIhad hopedsomething, failed to alter her or rouse her. Ithink she did not know them from the clouds, or

ARIADNE. 75see them even. No doubt all she ever saw indaylight orhi darkness was one face alone.It seemed to me asifthat journey would neverend;to meitwaslike ahorrible,distorteddream,a nightmare in which an appalling horror leanedfor everon my heart; all the splendours of earlyspring, of virgin snows,of clear blue ice, of fallingavalanche and glacier spread uponthe mountainside, and underneath in the deep valleysthe lovely light of the fresh green,and of thepurples and azuresmantling the rocks where thegentians blossomed — all these,Isay, only servedto heighten the ghostliness of that long passagethrough the slow short days back to my country.For despair went with me.But tardy and terrible though it was,it drewon towards its end before many suns had risenand set.Itis so beautiful, that highway to our Romeacross the land from Etrurian Arezzo; theUmbrian soil is rich and fresh, masses of oakclothe the hills,avenues of oak and beech andclumps of forest-trees shelter the cattle andbreakthe lines of olive and of vine; behind are the

76 ARIADNE.mountains, dusky against the light, with floatingvapours veiling them, andhalfhidingsome ruinedfortress or walled village,or somepile,half palaceand half prison, sethigh upon their ridges; andever and again,uponsome spur of them or eminence,thereis some old grey city,mighty in thepast and still in fame immortal; Cortona, withits citadel like a toweringrock, enthroned aloft;Assisi,sacred and grey upon the high hill-top;Spoleto,lovely in her ancientness as any dream,with calm deep woods around,and at her backthe purple cloud-swept heights that bear itsname;Perugia Augusta, with domes and towers,cupolas and castles,endless as a forest of stone;Foligno, grand and gaunt,and still and desolate,as all these cities are, their strength spent, theirfortresses useless,their errand clone, their geniusof war and art quenched with their beacon-fires;oneby one they succeed one another in the longpanoramaof the Appenine range;woodandwater,and corn and orchard, all beneath them andaround them, fruitful and inpeace, and in theirmidst, lone Trasimene, soundless and windless,with the silvery birds at rest upon its silvery

ARIADNE. 77waters, and here and there maybe a solitary sail,catching thelight and shininghke a silver shieldamidst the reedy shallows.Then, after Trasimene come the wild boldgorges of the Sabine mountains;wooded scarps,bold headlands,greatbreadths of stunted brushwood,with brooks that tumble through it; rocksthat glow in the sun with the deep colours of allthe marbles that earth makes;deep ravines,inwhich the new-born Tiber runs at will; andabove these the broad blue sky, aud late in theclay the burning gold of a stormy sunset shiningout of pearlymists that wreath the lower hills;then the wide level greenplains,misty and full ofshadows in the twilight, white villages hungalofton mountain edgeshke the nests of eagles;thena pause in the green fields,where once the buriedvestals wereleft alone in the bowels of the earth,with the single loaf and the pitcher of water, toface the endless night ofeternity;then "Roma,"says some voice as quietly as though the motherof mankind were only a wayside hamlet wherethe mules should stop and drink.Aye, there is no highway like it, wander the

78 ARIADNE.world as we will, and none that keeps suchmemories.But for me,Isaw no loveliness then of cityor of citadel, hoary with years; of monastery,sheltered amidst snows and forest;of silent lakesleepingin the serenest folds of the hills.Ionlystrained my ear with the eager hearkeningof anyspent and hunted animal to hear the name ofRome.AtlastIheard it, when the night had fallen,though the moonwas not as yet upover the edgeof the eastern horizon.The great bells were booming heavily: somecardinalhad died.Gently, and without haste,Iled her by thehand through the old familiar ways, shrouded inshadows under the cold starless skies.My heart almost ceased to beat. Here wasmy last hope. If this had no spell torouse her,she would sleep in the dreams of madness forever;none would ever awaken her. She hadloved the stones and the soil of Rome with afilial devotion; Rome alone would perchancehave power to save her.

ARIADNE. 79Iwalked on and led her by the hand. Herfingers moved a little in my hold as wepassedthrough the Forum, and past the basilica ofConstantine,as though some thrill ran throughher. ButIlooked in her face, and there wasnochange,it was still as stone, and the eyes wereburning, and had a sightless look.Iwent onward by way of the Capitol,past theAra CSli and the colossal figures of the Dioscuri.Once she paused, and a sort of tremorshook her, and for an instantIhoped for somepassing remembrance, ever so slight, that yetshoidd come to link her once more with theliving world.But none came;her eyes never altered; shewent with me obediently,passively, as she wouldhave gone with any stranger who had led herso, past the great stairs, and the divine Brethren,who once had been to her not any whit lesssacred than had been Rome itself.We went clown into the grim grey ruinousstreets, that pass under the Tarpeian Rock,with the lichen and the wild shrubs growing onmounds of brick that once were temples, and the

80ARIADNE.ipoor crowding together in dusky hovels that oncewerethe arched passages of palaces or the opencourts of public pleasure places.There waslittle light;hereand there alanternswungupon a cord, or the glow from a smith'sforge shone ruddy on the stones. She did notnotice anything; she came onward with me,walking straight!}', as the blind do. Thencefrom the darkness and the squalor and the ruin,we came out by winding ways on to the river'sbank by Quattro Capi.Theriver was full,butnot in flood;its tawnyhues werebrown with the soil of the mountains:onit a few boats were rocking, tied with ropesto the piles of the bridge; the island wasindistinct,and the farther shore was dim, but at thatinstant the moonrose, and lines of silver passedacross the pulsing stream, and touched to lightthe peristyle of the little moss-grown temple byour side, and the falling water of the Medicifountain.She moved forward of her ownwill,and walkedto the edge of the Tiber, and stood and lookedon the strong swift current and the shadowy

ARIADNE. 81shores, and on the domes and roofs and towersand temples that were gathered like a phantomcity on the edges of the shores.She looked in silence.Then all at once the blindness passed fromher eyes, she saw;and knew the sight she saw.She stretched out her arms, with a tremuloushesitation and gesture of ineffable welcome." This is Rome!" she cried, with a great sigh,while her very soul seemed to go forth to the cityas a child to its mother: then she fell on herknees and wept aloud.Iknew that she was saved, and Rome hadsaved her.VOL. III.G

CHAPTER VI.We stood there, two creatures, quite alone onthe edge of the river. There must have beenpeople near,but there were none in sight;theboats rocked onthelittle waves;the heavymassesof the trees wereblack;breadths of silveryhghtrippled under the arches;from the convent ofthe Franciscans on the island,there came distantsounds of chanting;the fidl moon hung abovethe pines of Pamfili. She remained kneeling :■herhead bowedclownbetweenher hands. Greatsobs shook allher frame.It was so still; there might have been onlyin the city, the ghostly world of all its deadmultitudes, it was so still. At lastIgrewfrightened, seeing her thus upon the stones, so-

ARIADNE. 83motionless.Itouched and raised her; she roseslowly to her feet." HaveIbeen mad ?" she said to me.Hardly couldIkeep from weeping,Imyself." Nay, my dear, not that," Isaid to her." Nay, never that; you have been ill. Butnow-?>She shivered from head to foot. With returningreasonno doubt she remembered all thingsthat had passed. She was silent, standing andlooking on the Etruscan river, she had loved sowell, asit flowed to the sea beneath the moon.Her eyeshad lost their strained look of unconsciouspain,and the burning light had gone outof them; they were wet and dim, and had anunspeakablemisery in them,like that in ayounganimal's, whenitis dying,andknows thatit dies." What month isit ? " she asked.Itoldher."It was summer when he wrote," she said,and then was still again, gazing at the water.Ibegan to fear that too soonIhad rejoiced,and that the clouds woulcl gather overher again,and that she again woulcl lose herself in thata 2

84 ARIADNE.strange awful night of the brain, which we, forwant of knowing what it is,call madness.But watching her features, as the rays of themoon fell on them,Isaw gradually returningthere the look of silence, of resolution, ofendurance, which was natural to them, andwhich had been on it on that first day of hersorrow, when she had dreamed of VirgilianRome, andfound the Ghetto.She turned her face to me, and though hervoice wasbroken and faint,it was firm."Ask me nothing. Icannot speak," she saidto me. "But you are good. Hide me in somecorner of Rome, and find me work. Imust live,"Imust live, since helivesThe last words she spoke so low thatIscarcelyheard them; she was speaking to herself then,not to me. Itook her hand." Restin the oldplace to-night. To-morrowwe willsee."She went with me obediently; speaking noThere was no one in the entrance ormore.upon the stairs;Ihad sent the boythere onward,to beg of Ersilia that it might be so;all was

ARIADNE. 85quiet and deserted; the one lamp burned beforethe Madonna in the wall.Strong shivers shook her, but she did notresist. She passed up the staircase with me tomy room, where no longer was there Hermes togreet her: Hermes, who made woman, but notsuch a womanas she was.Theyhad swept it clean, and it was spacious,but it looked desolate to me; she howeverseemed to see no change; as far as she sawanything she only saw tlie broad and openwindow, through which there shone the riverand the sky.Idrew her to the hearth where logs wereburning.There, suddenly she stopped and looked,then with a cry threw herself forward on therude warmbricks before the hearth, and kissedthem again and again and again, as women kissthe flushed cheek of their sleeping child." Oh, stones, you bore his feet, and felt therose leaves fall,and heard him say he loved me!Oh, dear stones, speak and tell meit was true."So murmuring to them she kissed the roughwarm bricks again and yet again, and laid her

86ARIADNE.tired head on them and caressed them;they werenot colder than his heart,Ithought."Oh, stones, it was no dream? Tell " me itwas no dream ? You heard him first! shemuttered, lyingthere, and then she crouched andwept and shuddered, and laid her soft mouthand beating breast to those senseless flags, becauseonce they had borne his feet and once hadheard his voice. Would he have laughed hadhe been there ? Perhaps.Idrew back into the gloom and let her be.She had no thought of me or any living thing,save of him by whom she had been forsaken:no thought at all.She was mad still,if Love be madness: — andnot the sublimest self-oblivion which can everraise the mortal to deity, asIthink.Ilet her be;she had fallen forward with herarms flung outward, and her head resting on thestones. Strong shudders shook her at intervalsin the convulsion of her weeping; but she wasotherwise still. The warmth from the burningwood fell onher, and touched to gold the loosethick coils of her hair. Iclosed the door, and

ARIADNE. 87went out and sat clown on the stair outside, andwaitedin the dark.Other womenone might have striven to consolewith tidings of the peace that lies in riches;butherIdared not. When a greatheart is breakingbecause all life and all eternity are ruined, whocan talk of the coarse foolish sweetness that liesfor fools and roguesingold? Icould not at theleast. Perhaps, because stitching there wherethe streetsmeet, and the fountain fallsin the openan by the river, gold has always seemed so littleto me: so great,indeed, as a tempter,but as acomforter — how poor.Isat still in the dark, andIdid not know howthe hours went;the lamp was burning below inthe wall of the twisting staircase, and there wasthe hum of the distant voices on the bridge, andthe sound of the waterwashingitself away underthe bridge arches, and now and then the beat ofoars.Ihad clone the best thatIcould, butitweighed on me as thoughIhad done somecrime.Perhaps she woulcl reproach me for havingbrought her back to consciousness,as the suicide,

88 ARIADNE.snatched by some passing hand from death,hasblamed his saviour. She had only awakened toagony, like the patient under the knife when theanæsthetic has too soon ceased its spell. Ionlymade her suffer more a thousandfold by liftingup that cloud uponher brahi. YetIhad clonefor the best, andIhad praised heaven for itsmercies when she had looked with eyes of consciousnessupon the moonlit Tiber, andhad criedaloud the name of Rome!Ihad clone for the best: so hadIdone whenIhad gone up to the Golden Hill,and told thestory of my dream toMaryx.As my memories went back to him, thinkingdully there in the dark, not daring to enter thechamber again, for there was no sound, andIthought perhaps she slept in the gloom and thewarmth of the heat, a footfall that was familiarcame upon the stairs, a shadow was between meand the dull lamp swinging down below, thevoice of Maryx came through the silence and thedarkness to myear."Are you there? "he said to me, "are youthere ? "

ARIADNE. 89"Yes,Iam here. Hush! speak low!" Ianswered him; andIrose up, afraid, forIhad had no idea that he could have returnedto Rome, which was stupid in me, doubtless,.because several months had gone by sinceIhadset forth to walk across France, and from homeIhad had no tidings, shice none of my friendscoidd either read or write.A vague fear fell uponme,Ihardlyknow why,.seeing his dark and noble head bending clownupon mine in the gloom." Hush! speak low!" Isaid to him, and I*rose up from the stair and stared up at him." You are come back ? "" Yes,Ihave comeback. Iheard thathe waswith another woman, there in Cairo; is thattrue ? "" No doubt itis true; Icannot tell where hemay be, but she is here — alone."His great dark eyes seemed to have flame inthem, like alion's by night, as they looked downinto mine in the dusk of the stairway. Hegripped my shoulder with ahard hand." Tell meall," he said. AndItoldhim.

90 ARIADNE.Once he moaned aloud,like a strong beast intorture,as heheard: that wasall.He heard me without breaking his silence tothe end. Then he leaned against the wallof the stairs and covered his face with his hands,andIsaw the large tears fall throughhis claspedfingers, and drop oneby one.No doubt the manwho sees what he cherishesdead by disease in her youth suffers much lessthan he did then. For to Maryx she wasnot onlylost as utterly as by death, but she had perishesinher soul as in her body;she was destroyedmore absolutely thanif he had beheld the wormsof the grave devour her. The lover whoyieldswhat he loves toDeath, tries to beheve he doesbut surrender her to God; but he" Oh,my love, my love! " he said once: thatwas all.Very soon he bac! mastered his weakness andstood erect, and the veins werelike knotted endsonhis bold broad forehead." We are free — now," he said:andIwas silent.ForIknew whathe meant.Butwhat woulclvengeance serveher? Itseemed

ARIADNE. 91to me, a Roman, to whom vengeance was wildjustice and sacred duty, for the first time, a poorandfutile tiling. It could changenothing; undonothing; restore nothing. What use wasit — ? Ifone killed him what would he care ? he wasbrave, and he believed innohereafter.Maryx put out his arm and grasped the oldbronzehandle of the door."Let me see her," he said.Iclasped his hand inhesitation:Iwasafraidfor him and for her." " I was her master," he saidbitterly; Iwillseeher. She shall know that she is not friendless;— nor without an avenger. Let me see her.What do you fear ? HaveInot learnedpatienceall these years? "And he turned the handle of the door andentered. Istayed on the threshold in thegloom.She waslying still upon thehearth asIhadleft her;her arms were folded, and her head wasbent on them;the tumbled masses of her hah-hidher face;the flame from the hearth shed a dullred light about the dark and motionless figure.

92 ARIADNE.At the unclosing of the door she started androse to her feet, and stood as a wounded deerstands at gaze.Her face was white, and the eyes weredilated,and the miseryof all her look was verygreat; but it had the calmness of reason anc.much of her oldresolve and strength.When she saw Maryx she knew him, and adeep flush mounted over all the pallor of herface,lookingas if itscorched her asit rose.He was a strong manand hadlearnedpatience,as he said, the bitter uncomplaining patience ofahopeless heart,hehad thought to be calm. Butat thesight of her the iron bonds of his strengthwere wrenchedapart;he shook fromhead tofoot;all the manhood inhim melted into a passionatepity,inwhich all other moreselfish passions werefor the moment drowned and dead.He crossedthe floor of the chamber with a cry, and fell onhis knees at her feet." Take me," he muttered, " take me for theonly thingIcan be — your avenger! Oh, mylove, my love! — your lover never, your masterevennever more,but your friend for ever, and

ARIADNE. 93your avenger. Vengeanceis all that is left tous,but as God livesIwill give youthat."And he kissed the dust on which she stood, ashe swore.She looked down on him, startled and moved,and with the blood coming and goinginher face,and her eyesresting on him,bewildered, and inthe old dulness of half-conscious wonder.Then as he vowed his vow an electric thrillseemed to run through her, she put out herhands and thrust them against the air, as thoughthrusting him away." Myfriend! And you woulcl hurt him!"She muttered the words faintly:she was likea creature notfairly awake after a ghastly dream.Maryx rose slowly to his feet:all the passionof his pity and his pardon frozen inhis breast." Your avenger— andIwill take his life foryours," he answered slowly, as he stood erectbefore her, and his face, burned darker by thedesert sun,had a terrible look uponit.All the yearning and anguish of months andyears had gone out, as in one tempest-drivenflood,in the oath with which he had knelt clown

94ARIADNE.on the stones before her as before a thing made,by wrong and by dishonour, only tenfold moresacred and beloved:and all this was frozen inhim and turned back upon himself,and lay uponhis soullike ice.'She listened,and she understood.AVith one splendid gesture she threw her bailoutof her eyes, and stood erect, once more aliving thing of soul and fire." Iforbid you!"she cried, as she faced him;and her voice lost its weakness, and rang clear"and loud as a bell strikes. Iforbid you!There is nothing to avenge."'' Nothing? What! You forgive?"" There is nothing to forgive.""What! Are you woman, and born ofwoman ? Are you not forsaken like the vilestthing that lives?"The burning colour stained her face red oncemore." There is nothing to forgive;he has lovedme!"Maryx laughed aloud.Men who have truth, and honour, and fidelity

ARIADNE. 95spent their lives like water year after year,unloved and uncared for, going to their gravesunmourned. And such passion as this wasgiven to falsehood and to faithlessness!She took a step towards him; her face wascrimson, her mouth was firm, her hair tossedback showed her eyes gleaming, but resolute,under her lovely, low, broad brows — the browsof the Ariadne."Listen!" she said swiftly. "I have beenmad,Ithink,but nowIam sane.Iremember;you were always good — good and great — andIseemed thankless, thoughIwas not so in myheart. Youused to be my master, and you werefull of patience and pity, andIremember andIamgrateful. Yes. But — listen! Unless you promiseme neverto touch ahair of his head, neverto go near to him savein gentleness,Iwill killyou before you canreach him. Yes;Iam calm,andIsay the thingImean. Life is over forme, butIwill find strength to save him: thegods hear me, and they know."Then she was silent, and her mouth shutclose, as though it were the mouth of a mask

96ARIADNE.inmarble. Her words were not empty breath,she would have done the thing she said.There was perfect silence in the chamber.Then Maryxlaughed as menlaugh inthe dreamsoffever,or when they die ofthirst on abattle-field."And they say that God made woman!" hecried aloud.Her eyes were steady and resolute under thestraight classic Ariadne brows. She was gatheringher memories up slowly, one by one, andthe courage and endurance natural to her wereawoke." There is nothing to avenge," she said again."" Nothing, nothing; ifIchoose to forgive.What are you to me ? You have no right. Ifmy father lived and woulcl hurt him,Iwouldsay to him whatIsay to you. He has lovedme:can anything alter that ? Itired him — heleft me— that must be my fault. When thesun passes, does the earth curse the smi ?"Her voice shook, and lost its momentary—strength; but she conquered her weaknesssince such weakness would be blame to him."You are my friend— yet speak of hurting

ARIADNE. 97him! Do you not know ? While he livesIwill live. Icould not die and leave him on theearth, in the light, smiling on others! Youwill not hurt him? Promise me! "Maryx made no reply." You do not promise ?""No."" Then go. Ican see you no more untilyou do."She turned her face from him, and with agesture signed to him to leave her.He stood there, not seeming to see the sign,nor to see that she had turned away fromhim." Must one be worthless to be loved likethat! " he muttered; and his head fell on hischest, and he looked like an old mangrey withage, and he tinned and came out from thechamber, movingfeebly,and like oneblind.Iwent from the threshold to her side." Oh, my clear, are you grown cruel ? Thatman is noble, and full of pity and pain, and inthe old time he served you with so much tenderness."VOL. III.H

98ARIADNE.She crouched clown by the side of the hearthand sighedheavily." I cannot helpit — let mebe."Then suddenly she looked up at me with wideopendespairing eyes." He was wearyof me. It was my fault: nothis.Idid not know — — Idid not know. Hislove was my glory how couldItell ? WhenIwent to that cruel city thenIlearned, — Iwasonly a mere frail foolish thing in his sight,as the others were — only that;but how couldItell?"And then once more her head sank down, andshe wept bitterly."Yet you think those who love you have noright to avenge you?"Icried to her.She stretched her arms out to the vacantair." There is novengeance that would not beggarme more.Whilst he lives,Iwill find strengthto live. What vengeance doIwant? He hasloved me — the gods are good! "Then she swooned, and lost consciousness,and lay there,by the low fire of the hearth, like

ARIADNE. 99some fair pluckt flower cast down upon thestones.What could one do? Any vengeance woulclonly beggar her the more.Isat awake all the long cold night.H 2

CHAPTER VII.Quite in the east of Rome, nigh the PortaTiburtina, on the way that goes to Tivoli, thereis an old brick tower, whose age nomanknows,and whose walls are all scarred and burned withwar.The winding streets are set about it ina strange network, and at its base there is agreat stone basin, where the women wash theirlinen and the pretty pigeons bathe. From itscasements,barred with iron, you looked downwardinto one of the green gardens, shadowedwith leaning pines and massive ilex,that are theespecial glory of our city; and outward you sawoverall the majestic width of Rome, away to thefar distance where the trees ' of Monte Mario

ARIADNE. 101arise, and the Spada Villa sits on the hillside,hke an old man who crouches and counts overthe crimes of his youth, to the lovely long linesof hght where the sea lies,and where at sunsetall the little white and rosy clouds seem to goflocking westwardhke a flight of birds.In the middle ages, and maybe even earlier,when Stilicho counselled the making of theadjacent gate, the tower had been a fortressand a fighting-place; later on it had been adwelling-place, chiefly sought by artists for thesuidit wonder of its view, and its solitude inthe centre of the city, and the many legendsthat had gathered about it,as the owls hved onits roof. It had spacious chambers, painted andvaulted, and some were so high that no singlesort of noise from the streets below could reachthere,and nothing coidd be heard save the soundof the birds' wings and the rush of the wind onstormy days amongst the clouds.To this place after a while she came and lived.WhenItoldher at last of the curious treasureshe had inherited, it scarcely seemed to makeany impression onher;her first instinct was to

102ARIADNE.refuse it; then, whenIreasoned with her, shewoulcl only take a small part." Keep me enoughto live on," she said, " andgive the rest to the poor."From the great goodness of my priestlyfriend, we had no trouble or interference of anykind, only it was difficult to make her understandor comply with the few formalities thatwere needful for her entranceinto the inheritanceof the dead miser.Amongst other things which had belonged tohim, and been secreted by him, were manyjewels; diamonds, large as the eggs of littlebirds; and rubies and sapphires uncut. Shelooked at them, and pushed them away withdisgust." Let them be sold," she said; " there are"always the poorAnd, indeed, there are always the poor: thevast throngs born century after century, only toknow the pangs of life and of death, and nothingmore. Methinks that human life is, after all,but like a human body, with a fair and smilingface, but all the limbs ulcered and cramped and

ARIADNE. 103racked with pain. No surgery of statecraft hasever known how to keep the fair head erect, yetgive the trunk and the limbs health.As time went on she grew thankful to have theneeds of hfe thus supplied to her without effort,for she woulcl have foundit difficult to maintainherself; and her old pride, thoughit had bent toone,changedhi nothing to others,and she wouldhave starved sooner than have taken a crustshe had not earned. But always she refusedto spend more of the stores of the Ghettothan was necessary for her personal and dailywants; and she gave away such large sums andso much treasure, that she left herself barelyenough for those wants, simple thoughthey were." Themoney was wrung from the poor, thatIam sure. It shall go back to them," she said;and ifIhad not been able to cheat her innocently,and so restrain her hand, she woulcl havebeen once more amongst those who wakein themorning not knowing whence their daily breadcouldcome.Rome began to speak of her story, but no onesaw her.

104 ARIADNE." Find me some place where no one will knowthatIam living," she said to me. SoIfoundher the old brick tower, with its pines and itsold orange-treesbehind it, and the owls and thepigeons about its roof, where the wind-sownplants had made aliving wreath of green.Imade it as beautiful asIcould withoutlettingit show that money had been spent there,for of riches she had a strange horror; andwhen she saw anything that seemed " to her tohave costgold, she said always, take it away,and sell it for the poor." For she had somethinginher, asin the old days we had used tosay, of the serenity of the early saints,mingledwithall the Pagan force and Pagan graces of hermind and character. And, so far as she thoughtof them at all, she abhorred the riches of BenSulim,because she was sure that oppression anddishonesty and avarice, and all the unpunishedsins of the usurer and of the miser,had idledthat hoard together.It werehard to tell the change that had comeover her. All the absorption into Art which hadonce isolated her from the world of others, had

ARIADNE. 105now become equally absorbed into the memoryof her love, and a more absolute isolation still.After that night beside the hearth-fire, she nevernamed him. Only once, when, in my loathingof his heartlessness,Ilet escape me words toofurious against him, she stopped me as thoughIuttered blasphemy.The great fidelity of hers never waned orwavered. He had forsaken her: she could notsee that this could make any change in herownfealty.no other reason.She lived because he lived,and forHer life indeed was aliving death.When one is young still, and has by naturepure health and strength, actual death does notcome as easily as poets picture it. But becausethe body ails little, and the limbs move withouteffort, and the pulses beat with regularity, nonethe less doesa living death fall on the sensesand the soul; and the clays and the years are along blank waste that no effort canrecall or distinguish,and all the sweet glad sights andsounds of the earth are mere pain, as they areto the dying.

106ARIADNE.And there was no consolation possibleforher- — for her by whom Rome had been found anun,andLove had been found a destroyer. Toher all gods were dead: she had no faith onwhich to lean.The Farnesiani women who live immured inthe walls by the Viminal Hill,murmuring theirceaseless adoration of the Sacrament, wherenever daylight comes, or voices of friends areheard, or human faces seen, are less desolate,are more blessed than she, for in their livingsepulchre they have dreams of an eternal lifethat shall compensate for all.But to her this self-deception was notpossible.For her the Mother of Angels had no sigh orsmile.Yet there wasin her a great tenderness, whichhad been lacking before; suffering and lovehadbrought to her that sympathy which before hadbeen wanting. She had beenpure and truthful,and never unkind; but she had been hard asthe marble on which she wrought. Now nokindof pain was alien to her; the woe of others wassacred to her; when she spoke to the hungry

ARIADNE. 107and the naked there were tears in her voice;when she saw alittle child at its mother's breast,aninfinite yearning cameinto her eyes.So the clays and the weeks and the monthswent on, and she dwelt here in this high tower,undisturbed, and thinking only of one creature.Iam sure she had no hope that he wouldreturn to her. He had left her alone in herdesolation, as Ariadne was left onNaxos. Only,toher no consolation waspossible.Ido not think either that she ever understoodthe deep wrong that he had done to her. Insome way she had wearied him, and he hadforsaken her: that she understood.But shecherished the memories of his love as her onechief glory upon earth. She would have said,as Heloise says in one of her — letters:" I'lusjcm'humilias pour toi plus j'esperais gagner dans toncSur. Sile maitre dumonde, si 1'cmpereur lui-meme, eut voulum'honorer du nom de son epouse, j'aurais mi'eux aime etreappelee tamaitresse (pie sa feiunic et sonimperatrice."The world calls this sin. Aye, the world isvery wise, no doubt.It chooses its words well — the world whichlets the adulteress pass up the throne-rooms of

108 ARIADNE.courts, and live in the sunshine of prosperity,and bear her jewels on her forehead of brass,and wear the robe of her husband's shame asthough it were a garment of righteousness;buton the womanwho has loved greatly, and onlyloved too well, and has dared be faithful,andlyiew no solace for love's loss,pours down itsbinning oil of contumely, whilst it thrusts herto aliving tomb, as Rome its vestals.— No doubt the worldis wise, and just.But she knew nothing of the world. Thelittle she had seen of it in that white gildedcity which had made her misery, had filled herwith horror. She had felt any look of homagefrom other eyes than his an infidelity to him.She would havebeengladto beunlovelyinother'ssight to be moreutterly his own.As for meInever asked her anything.Icould imagine without any words the terribleease with which he had made her believe a greatpassion pure as religion and divine asmartyrdom,and then wearyinghimself of the very purity andgrace of the thing he had invoked, had droppedthe veil,and let her see herself andhim as others

ARIADNE. 109saw them. He had been, like the magicians ofold, who by their spells called up all shapes sobeautiful and unearthly, that the magician flungdown his crystal and fled appalled from the thingthat he had summoned.Inever asked her anything.Iserved her inall waysIcould, asIhad done ever since thattime when she had come to me in the middaysun with the poppies and the passiflora flowers inher hands, andIhad awakened from my sleepand said to her, " Dear, — Love is cruel; thathealways is."Iwas glad and thankful that she knew me wellenoughneverto offer me any of the gold of thedead man: that would have stung me so indeedthatIthinkIcould nevermore havelooked uponher face. But she knew me too well;andIdidsuch service for her asIcould,makingfit for herthe old, dusky,lofty rooms, and finding anhonestwomanto dwell there,for Ersilia could not leaveher own dwelling-house, and going on with myownlabours at the corner of the bridge, so as tobe nobiuden to any one.The poor httle Greek boy haunted the place,

110ARIADNE.and begged so piteously to see her once thatIcould not deny him. But it hurt her so muchthatIwas fain to hurry him away. She knewnothing of his service to her, and only rememberedat the sight of him all the clays that weregone: — he was sorely wounded,but he loved herwell,and submitted."It ishard! "— he said once." It is hard," saidI; " all great love is. Thatis how we tell the true from the false. Youwould not purchase the right of seeingher at thecost of telling her the debts she owes to you? ""Ah,no — never,never," saidthepoorlittlelad,who, though timid and false in some ways,inhislove of her was courageous and very true;and hewould come at evening time under the walls ofthe tower and play onhis flute, in hopes that thesounds might float up to her and soothe her;and the women at the fountain would stop inbeating their linen, and the dogs woulcl ceasebarking and comeround, and the people at thedoorways would pause in their quarrelling andswearing, and the very pigeous seemed to bepleased as they circled round and round before

ARIADNE. 111their goodnight's sleep — butIdoubt if eversheheard.She never seemed to me either to listen to, orto see, anything that wasin theair oraround herin the streets — unless it were some misery thatshe could relieve in any way, or some little childlaughing and catching at its mother's hair.Ithink the world only held for her one face,and the ah- only one voice:and wherever shewent she saw and heard those.And thoughIhad promised what Maryx hadrefused to promise, there were times thatIfeltthat whoever killed Hilarion would do well.He never came to Rome.ButIthink she always hoped with every sunwhich rose that he might come there, for shewoulcl cover herself so that no one could havetold whether she werelovely or unlovely, youngor old, and woulcl walk to and fro the city hourafter hour, day after clay, week after week,lookinghi every face she met; and Rome was only.dear toher now because its stones had borne hissteps and its watersmirrored his image.All powers,or thought,of Art, seemed to have

112 ARIADNE.perishedinher, and this pained me most of all.It seemed as if when that clay figure hadcrumbled down into a heap of grey earth inParis, all the genius in her had passed awaywith it.Ihoped always that the sight of the marbleswould awake itinher once more, as the sight ofthe tawny Tiber rolling beneath the moon hadbrought back her reason. But she passed by thenoble things that she had worshipped as thoughthey were not there, and looked in the face ofthe Dioscuri, and knew them not, for any signshe gave.Iwould have spoken to Maryx andasked his counsel,butIdared not do it. Hisownfate seemed to me so terrible,and his woe sosacred, thatIdared not enterhis presence.He stayed onin Rome: that was allIknew.Once or twiceIwent and saw his mother, towhomIdared not speak of Gioja, for she had apeasant's narrowness of judgment,and amother'sbitterness of exclusive love. She grew blind,and had ceased to be able to see the colours ofthe flowers in the atrium,and the sun sinning onthe roof of the pope's palace, which had made

ARIADNE. 113her feel she wasliving in the city of God. Butshe could still see the face of her son, and couldread whatit told her, though she saw it throughthe mist of failing sight." It is asIsaid," she repeated for the hundrethtime. It is asIsaid. The marble has"fallen on him and crushed him;it fell on hisfather's breast,it has fallen onhis heart: that isall. He thought he had mastered it:but you"seeFor the marble wastoher a real and devilishthing;bearing blows in subjection many a year,to rise and crushits hewer at the last." If he had only made the image of the trueGod! " — she said, and told her beads. She hadin her the firm belief and the intense hatredwhich made the monks and nuns of the earlymonastic ages rend out the eyes and bruise thebosomof thepagan deities,andobliterate with axeand knife the laughing groups of Hours and ofnymphs." Does he work?" I asked Giulio." Since he came back — never," the old mananswered me, andIwas afraid to ask to see him,VOL. III.I

114ARIADNE.and went out of the Hght lovely house wherethe roses. were pushing between the columns,and the nightingales sang all the long springnights.For it was spring now once more" You are cruel to Maryx, my dear,"Isaid,timidly to her that evening, forIfelt timid withher, being ever afraid to touch some wound." He woulcl hurt him," she said, under herbreath, and her face flushed and grew whiteagain.Iknew that it woidd be useless to urge her.Ithink thatit was, without her knowing it,hersense of the love of Maryx which made her heartharden itself like stone to him:for to a womanwho loves greatly eventhe mereutteranceof anypassion from any other than the one she lovesseems a sort of insult,and to hearken to it wouldbe aninfidelity." Why did she let the god come to her; shecould have died first," she had said, long beforeof Ariadne;and she herself wouldhave died,thatbeingher reading of faithfulness. Andtruly thereis no other.

ARIADNE. 115Spring had come,Isay, and.nowhere is springmore beautiful thanhere inRome.The glad water sparkles and ripples everywhere;abovethe broad porphyry basins butterfliesof every colour flutter, and swallows fly;lovers and children swing balls of flowers, madeas onlyourRomans know how to make them;thewide lawns under the deep-shadowed avenues arefullof blossoms;the ah-is fidl of fragrance; thepalmsrise against a cloudless sky;the nights arelustrous;in the cool of the great galleries thestatues seem to smile;so spring had been to mealways;but now the season was without joy, andthe scent of the flowers on the wind hurt me asit smote mynostrils.For a great darkness seemed always betweenme and the sun, andIwondered that the birdscould sing, and the children run amongst theblossoms — the world being so vile.The spring brought no change to her; nochange could ever come; there was the pity ofit. She hved onmerely because he lived; shehad said the truth; she could not set the yawninggulf of the grave between herself and him;i 2

116 ARIADNE.she could not sink into eternal silence whilst hisvoice was stdl upon some other's ear, his kissuponsome other's mouth. For all else, life wasterrible to her; and the fever ofit began to consumeher, and she grew weak and sufferedmuch, though she never complained; alwaysindifferent to physical pain, she was now as itseemed insensible to it, and her genius seemeddead.She had bought everything that ever he hadwritten, and she had learned the tongue that theywere written in, and night and day she hungover them, and their pages grew blistered andillegible inmany places with the scorching tearsthat fell on them.OnceIfound her thus:her eyes gazed at mewearily, and with sad bewilderment."Itry to see in them what he wished for, andwhereIfailed," she said, with a piteous humilityin her words.Icursed the books, and him by whom theywere written. Icould have said to her thetruth;Icould have said, "you had no faultsave this ; that with you he heard but the

ARIADNE. 117nightingales, and so pined for the jibberingapes! "ButIforbore;Iwas afraid lest she shouldturn to hate me, knowing thatIhated him.Weaker natures than hers woulcl have soughtsympathy, and would have suffered shame:shedid neither. She was too absolutely purein theperfectness of her love to be conscious of thatshame which is the reflection " of the world'sreproaches; there was no world " for her;andshe had been tooused to dwell alone amidst herdreams and her labours to seek for the pity orthe pardon of others, or to regret its absence.She had fallen in her own sight,not because hehad loved her, but because he had left her;because she had in some way that she did notunderstand become of no value, and no honour,and no worthinhis sight.She did notrebel against his sentence, but sheloathed herself because she had incurred it.All the lofty, pure, and poetic passion which shehad dreamed of inher ignorance over the pagesof Dante and Petrareca and Sospitra she hadgiven to him: that she had been nothing, in

118 ARIADNE.truth, higher or better than a toy tohim was incomprehensibleto this nature which had thepurity and the force of Electra and Antigone.In some way she had failed: that was all sheknew.With her he had heard only the nightingales.And in some strange, horrible way, the snakesand 'the apes had been stronger than she,andto him had been sweeter, and so had drawnhimback to themand hadleft her alone.That wasall she knew.With an intense pride she had an intensehumility. "He loved me once," she said; andthis seemed to her to be a wonder still so greatthatitexcusedinhim all later cruelty; and,likethe woman she once had pitied on the Maremmashore, she woulcl not have wished her woundsless deep,nor their pain less,nor their hideousnessless,because those wounds assured her he—had loved her once.Alas! even this poor and bitter consolationwas a self-deception. Even when he had laid hisroses on her knees and wooed her first, he hadnot loved her, not even with such love as that

ARIADNE. 119foul patrician jade wrung from him by treadingonhis wornheart,as a vine gathereronthebruisedand pressed-out grapes crushed in the vats atautumn.For so he soon told me, evenhe, himself, withthat cynical frankness which at times broke upfrom under the soft disguises of his usual words.Hehad nevercome to Rome;neveronce sincethat chill and bitter Lenten night when MaryxandIhad found the chamber empty, and Hermesin themoonlight alone.I,asking always people whomIknew,learnedthat he had never beenhiRome since then,norever once at Dai'la. It was not fear certainlywhich kept him from the city; but probablyitwas that sort of restless but fruitless and vagueremorse which is the repentance of such a manas he.For the difference between good and bad inmen lies less,Ithink, in what they do thaninhow they feel, and so lesshi act than conscience;and many a one amongst us could undo the evilhe has clone if only he woulcl not push away thepainit causes him, andhurry on leaving the past

120ARIADNE.behind himlike a dead mule on the high road torotforgotten.We all sin,but some of us walk on,notlookingback, and some of us do look back, and thus dogo again over the ill-trodden path, and so, perchance,meetangels on the way — to mendit.Hilarion never looked back: not because hewas altogether cruel,but because he had tendernesssufficient twined in with his cruelty to makehim reluctant to see pain, although quite recklessas to causing it. The masters of the worldwould slay ten thousand victims here in Rome,yet weep sometimes if abeloved slave died:andwhy? — because they were only Humanity letloose to allits instincts.Idreaded lest he should come to Rome, forIknew that even such comparative calm as she hadattained woulcl be destroyed again, if she couldbehold his face or hear his footstep onthe stones.Iwatched for him ceaselessly and in anxiety,but he never came, andIheard that he wasinParis and inother places that he loved, and thevile Sovrana woman was also absent,and the palesad peace thatreigned with us, as it reigns over

ARIADNE. 121aburied village when the snow has coveredit,andthe fires are out, and the cries stilled, and thesleepers all sleeping forever, was untroubled byany burst of storm or break of dawn.It was night with us always: night always:even in the golden glory of wide Rome, with thehght upon the amethystine hills, and blue aerialdistances, and the sound of birds' wings andchildren's laughter, and the people's gladness,everywhereabout the bright broad waters.

CHAPTER VIIIOne evening, when a late Easter was quiteover,Iwas carrying home some work thatIhad clone, andIwent perforce past the palaceof the Sovrana princes; the palace of hisblackbrowedwanton, who there ruled hke OlympiaPamfili,and had the great world all about her;for she who makes her husband's shame, nowadayscan clothe herself with it as with a garmentof righteousness; be her lord only but vilealso.In the shadow of the mighty courtyard of theplace, there was a vast crowd of gay grandpeople coming and going;amongst themIatlength sawHilarion;he was enteringthe house.My heart leapt with a wild bound, as though theblood of only twenty years pulsedinit.

ARIADNE. 123But for mypromise to her lie would have diedwith the moment that the moonlight fell on hisfair, serene, cold features, and revealed them tome.Ileft my errand undone, and waited by thepalace gates. It wasin the oldest part of Rome— a mighty place built out of travertine, fromgreatruins, in the middle ages by some pope;justnow its courts were alight with lamps andtorches, and up the vast stairs one could see theservingmen,allred and gold,hke strutting paroquetsstanding one above another ; no doubtthis kind of hfe must be fine to lead, andIdaresaypeople hi the midst of it very soon forget —unless they wish very much to remember.Istood outside the gates with sundry otherfolks, who had come there to stare at the foreignprinces and great ladies who alighted and passedup between the meninred and gold.No one noticed me; a good manyhours wentby; the people by the gates had long beforegrown tired of looking on,and had gone away;Iwas left alone, butIdid not stir; there were afret and fume of the waiting horses all around,

124 ARIADNE.and their breath was like steam on the night;after a time the people within began to comeforth again, amongst the earliest of them hecame; in your great world lovers are carefulIbelieve to preserve this sort of affectation, itsaves the honour of the ladies and their lords.Istoppedhim as he wentout tohis equipage." Let me have a word with you," saidI.He turned, andIthink he grew paler;but hewas brave always, and for me,Imust say, hehad always been gentle inhis conduct,and neverhad made me feel in any way thatIwas only acobbler at a street corner, stitching for dailybread." Isit you, oldfriend ? " he said, with akindlyindifference — real or assumed."Do you wantme? It is late. Will not to-morrow do aswell ? "" To-morrow will not do," said I." Comeout with me."And he came, beingalways brave,asIsay,andno doubt seeing some look onmy face that toldhimIwaslongingfor hislife.The palace stood,asIsay,in oneof the oldest

ARIADNE. 125parts of Rome; a turn or two of apassage-way,and one wasin front of the dome of Agrippa, thegloomiest, grandest thing that the world holds,Ithink,above all when the moonlight is uponit,as it was onit now.Iwalked thence, and he with me; his attendantsremained at a sign from him before thepalace.When there was no one to hear in the desertedplace,Istopped;he also.He spoke beforeIcould speak." If you were a younger man, you would killme — would you not? "His blue eyes were serene,and met mine, buthis face was troubled."IfIhad notpromised never to harm you,Iwould find the means to kill you now, old thoughImay be."He looked at me thoughtfully." "Whom have you promised ?'" You must know. There cannot be two who,so wronged, wouldyet forgive."He sighed alittle restlessly." Is she well?" he said, after a pause, and

126ARIADNE.there was a sort of shame in his voice, and hiseyelids fell.Icursedhim.Heaven be merciful to me a sinner. Icalleddown onhis head every blight and vengeance ofheaven, allill and wretchedness and despair thathfe can everheap on those whom God and manforsake.Icursed himinhis lyingdown and hisuprising, inhismanhood and his age;Icursedall offspring thatmight be begottenby him, andall womenthat his love might light on;Icursedhim as in the Scriptures holy men curse thechildren of hell.Iwas' wrong, and such curses should blisterthe lips that utter them, being all weak and ateach other's mercy, and all adrifthi an inexplicablemystery of existence, as we are. ButIwas beside myself;Ithought only of her;Isaw only in him the cruel brutality of Love,which in his passion-flower hides an asj), andwith his kiss upon the hps gives death.He stood tranquil and unmoved under the furyof my words, and he showed no resentment; heshuddered ahttle once,that wasall. He didnot

ARIADNE. 127seek to go away. He stood quite quietly by thegranite steps of the Pantheon, with the columnsbehind him that have withstood the fires and thesiegesof two thousand years.When my voice had died, choked in mythroat by the force of my own misery and hate,he looked at me, with his clear cold eyes dim."Iam sorry that you should hate me," hesaid, under his breath, " but you are right— asyou see things. And why do you call on anygod ? Rome has outlived them all."The patiencein him, and the serenity, quelledthe tempests of my fury and my loathing, as answering,passion would have fed them. Istoodstock-still, and stared on him, in the moonlight.him." Can one never hart you!" I muttered to" Are you brute, or devil, or what, thatyou feel nothing, and only stand and smile — likethat ? "" DidIsmile ?" said Hilarion." Nay— youhurt me when you hate me. It is natural thatyoushould,and justenough; only, when you callon God ! Has everHe listened ? "

128 ARIADNE." No! since He never kept her from you —No!"" Who shall keep the womanfrom the man ? ""said he, with a sortof scorn. Nature will not;andit is Nature alone that is strong."" Iblame not your love;Iam no puritan;whatIcurse in you is your bitter coldness ofsoul, your deception, your faithlessness, yourcruelty, your abandonment;how could you leaveher, once havingloved her — how ? "" I neverloved her,"he said, wearily. " Whatsaid Anakreon hi your dream ? Instead of Erositis Philotes. It is abitter truth."Igroaned aloud.The clay that she had spent her force on inher delirium inParis, was morereal,moreworthyworship,than this phantom of passion, whichhadled her on to perish!" I am ashamed — Iregret! " he mutteredhurriedly, with a true contrition for the moment"inhis voice. Why didyou ask me to leave heralone? And then one saw that Maryx loved her:that was a temptation the more. DoIseembase to you? Men always do whenever they

ARIADNE. 129speak the truth. Yetit was not onlybaseness —no. Such purity with such passion as hersInever knew. She never understoodIdid herwrong; she only loved me. She was so calm,too, so like the old statues and the old fancies ofthe immortals, with eyes that never seemedhkely to weep or snide or look anywhere exceptstraight to then- home in heaven. Inever had"seen a womanlike that" Therefore youwere not contentuntilyouhadmade her like to others! "" She neverbecame so— never," he saidquickly." Imay have ruined her as you and the worldcall nun; but, asIlive here,IswearIleft hersoul unsullied. Coarse words wouldhave canceredone's tongue, spoken to her! One nightItookher to the operain Paris — only one. It seemedlike dragging Athene through a bagnio; a mereman's look at her seemedinsult."" You could feel that! And yet"" Aye, and yetIforsook her, you would say.Because of that; can you not understand ? Shewas a constant shame to me! If you hadpoured oui poison to a creature trusting you,VOL. III.K

130ARIADNE.and she kissed you as she drank it,and thoughteach throeit caused her sweet because the hurtwas from you, could you bear that ? It was sowith us. She stung me always, not meaning;"and thenItired" You cannot think it of me thatIwoulcldesert a woman brutally, and a woman soyoung," he said after a pause, with an impatienceand apology in his tone, for it hurt him,that such as I, or any one indeed, could deemhim guflty of such kind of grossness in hiscruelty." Iwas faithless;Ileft her—yes;butImeantto return. Ithought she woulcl more easilyunderstand that one might weary — of courseIneverdreamed that she woulcl flee awayto misery"" No,Iremember!" Ianswered him, bitterly.like that"You said of old, when you buried a dead loveyou cast some rich gifts on its grave, as theRomans the porcapræsentanea. Well, you seethere are dead things you cannot bury so, andthere are things that wdl not die at all, not evenat your bidding. You are a famous poet, but it

ARIADNE. 131seems to me that you arebut a shallow studentof greatnatures."" — She will love me always you mean yes." "You dare to triumph ?" No, Imeant — no triumph. There are womenhive that, they make one dread lest ever thereshould be the endless Hereafter that we wisemen laugh at. How should we bear their eyes?"A shiver shook him as he walked to and fro inthe moonlight." Tell me more of her," he said, pausingbefore me." Iwill tell you nothing."" You think me so unworthy?"" Ithink any one of the galley slaves that todin the gangs, with their crimes written on theirbreasts, better and honester than you — yes."He was silent; the moonlight poured clownbetween us white and wide; there lay a littledead bird on the stones,Iremember,a redbreast,stiff andcold. The people traffic in such thingshere, in the square of Agrippa;it had fallen,doubtless, off somemarket staU.Poor little robin!All theinnocent sweetwood-K 2

132ARIADNE.land singing-life of it was over, over in agony,and not a soul in all the wide earth was thebetter for its pain, not even the huckster whohad missed making his copper coin byit. Woeisme; the sorrow of the world is great.Ipointed to it where it lay, poor httle softhuddled heap of bright feathers; there is nosadder sight than a dead bird, for what lovelierlife can there be than a bird's life, free inthe sun and the rain, in the blossom andfoliage ?" Make the little cold throat sing at sunrise,""Isaid to him. When you can do that, thenthink to undo what you have done."" "She wiU forget:—"You know she never wdl forget.your crime."" 'She wdl have her art" Will the dead bird shig ? "There isHe was silent." Tell me," he said abruptly, after a httlewhile, " tell me, is she here in Rome ? "Iwould not answer him;Istared on himstupidly, seeing his pale fair face in all its

ARIADNE. 133beauty against the granite columns of Agrippa'stemple." Is she inRome 1" he asked." Iwdl not tell you."" Then she is! WhenIlearned inParis thatyou had found her,Iknew that she was safe.You thoughtIdrove her away. You dome wrong.Ileft herindeed — butIwoulclhave returned.Iwrote to her to try and make her see that onemight weary, still not be a brute;how couldItell that she would take it so? My servantsshould have sought her,,they might have knownthatIhad nointention to drive her fromme; notlike that. WhenIreached Paris,thenIsoughtfor her,but then you had been there, and hadgone;Irecognised that it was you by whatthey said, — you had found her in wretchednessi" She kept herself by making fishermen's nets—yes." ijIwould not tell him all the truth;Icouldnotbear that he should know that her lovely andlofty mind had lost itself in the fell gloom ofmadness for his sake.

134ARIADNE.He movedimpatiently with a gesture of shrinkingandregret.Hilarion could inflict all tortures of theemotions on a woman, and forsake her, andfeel no pang; but physical need in any womanhurt him, and the thought that it was sufferedfor him, or through him, stung himsharply; in his code his honour was hurtif the creature he had caressed could wantfor bread. She might die of pain, or dragout a living death in solitude ; but that wasnothing. That did not touch his honour, not inany way." Does she want— now ?" he said, withatingeof"ashamed agitation in his cheek. Does shewant ? Surely she must. AndI" "She wants for nothing,"Ianswered him;"and my patienceIcannot answer for: not ifyou insult her — so. Words are no use;Icameto say to you, ' Go out of Rome.' Donot outrageher with the sight of you beside that patricianjade in the palace yonder; break with thatJezebel, and go to what other vile woman youwill, — only not here."

ARIADNE. 135Hilarion laughed ahttle drearily."Jezebel as you call her has the wit to stingme, and bum me, whenever she touches me;so she keeps me. Men are made so. Jezebelmakes me a beast in my own sight, and afool in the sight of men; still she keepsme. Why ? Ido not know very well. Whatis the sorcery of shameless women? Whocan tell? But a sorcery it is. History tedsyou that."" Will you leave your adulteress ? That isaUIcare to know."" If she be here," he said softly; yet for thisjade he had forsaken her!" TeUme of her,"he said again." Do you regret her ?""Yes, — and no.Iseem brutal to you, nodoubt. ButIcould not live beside her;Jezebel suits me far better."" AVhat fault had she ?"" The worst ; she loved me too well. Do younot see ?It was aperpetual reproach."He was silent; his face was troubled andashamed, and he moved impatiently away.

136 ARIADNE."Can you not understand? To bethoughtfaithful, faultless,half divine; and all the timeone knows — oh! say it is thanklessness andworthlessnessinone,no doubt itis;but men aremade so. There are womenthat all the time oneworks one's will on them, make one ashamed."" And so one does worse? "He threw his head back with a gesture ofirritation." And leaves them ? Is that worse? Onecannotlive in ah- toorarified; we are but brutes,as nature made us. That is not our fault.Not thatImeant to leave her long, only shetook it so. She could not understand."No, she could notunderstand.It seemed to me that never word more pitifulhad been spoken. She could not understandthat Love wasmortal.He had walked to the edge of the fountain;the moon shone on the water, and the waterreflected the pale and troubled beauty of hisface." We arefaithful only tothe faithless,you oncesaid," he muttered, turningback from the water

ARIADNE. 137that mirroredhim." That is true. AVho is itsays that we are happiest with light and venalwomen because we are not ashamed to be withthem the mere beasts that nature made us ?Montaigne,Ithink. It is true. And besidesthat, with her, every httle lieItold her suchlies as one must always tell to women — seemedto sting me asIsaidit. She neverdoubted me!If she had doubted me once,it woulcl have beeneasy; but she always believed — always. InVenice she made her marble inmylikeness, butmade me a god. That washer fault always. Shenever saw me as the thingIam! "He sighed; a sigh selfish and restless." Woulcl you have the truth, the wholetruth?" he said, as with an effort. "AVell,then — Inever loved her;Itell youIneverloved her — No! She was so lovely, and hadso much genius, and she was so unhke allothers, and she was so utterly at peace, sogiven — over toher art and dreams, so stiff, so faraway Iwanted to destroy it all. Oh, not fromany vdeness — men are not vde; they are onlychildren; when children see a flower they must

138ARIADNE.rootit up; a frost-crystal, they must snatch andbreak it;Iwas a chdd and cruel: chUdren arecruel. Passion is brutal, too;but it is strongand constant.Ihad not passion. Isaid tomyself she shaU care for me and not her art;butInever should have said it if she hadnotlooked so far away from earth and all its follies.Inever loved her; no! One must be hurt tolove;she never hurt me."Oh, terrible words and terrible truth; he hadhurt her as he would,and she alone of the twohad been faithful.He ascended the steps of thetemple, andwalked to and fro wearily, for his consciencestirred and smote him." AVasit vanity ? " he muttered. "Perhapsitwas vanity! It was not love.Something oflove — its amorous charm, of course — came intoit; for she was so lovely in body and mind,and she worshipped me as never other creatureever did,Ithink ;but for the rest 1nevershould have touched her if you had not cautionedme, and if she had not had those deep,serene, abstracted eyes of hers, that seemed

ARIADNE. 139to be always seeing heaven and to pass bymen. One longed to call up one's own imagein them, as in calm waters, and trouble them— for ever! do you not know ? You call thatbase ? — AVell you are right, maybe. It wasso. Icared but httle for her, butIwishedto be the first. PerhapsIwas a coward, andtreacherous,as you say:Idid not thhik of that.She loved her art, her gods, her dreams;Isaidto myself she should love me. Inever had meta woman with apure soul; hers was quite pure;Iwrote my name acrossit out of sport, and — yousee the name burns there in fire always; wellit may.''He had not even loved her! He who hadtaught her that imperishable love which possessesthe body and the soul, and fills all earthand heaven, and lets no living thing reign besideit for a moment, nor any thought obtain aplace!" " You never loved her ? Imuttered." Younever loved her ? You who wrote your name, asyou say, across her very soul, so that it burnsthere always, and wUl burn on,and on,and on, so

140 ARIADNE.that GodHimself could not quench the flame — ofit, even if He would. You never loved her!you!"It seemed to me the pitifulest thing that everthe ear of mancould hear;it stunned me.Across my brain ranalineIonce —had readinsome coarse cruel book:" Les femmes ne savent pas distinguerl'appetit de1'amour."AVas great Love nowhere in the world savehere and there in some woman's breakingheart ? — AVas Philotes the only thing menknew ?Icould speak no more to him; the unutterabledesolation of it struck me dumb. Ifelt asin that very spot somepagan Roman might havefelt, seeing his daughter passing by between theguards to perish for the love of Christ, he knowingall the while that her Christ was dead inGalilee, and could not aid her, and that theangelic hosts she waited for to break the wheeland quench the fires, had never had a shape orsubstance, saveinthe heated fancyof some desertsaint or hunted preacher.

ARIADNE. 141He laughed a httle, partly in cruelty and farmore in sadness, and looked me full in theface." If you were a youngmanyou wouldkillme."Ilooked him also full in the face." IfIhad not promised her nevertokill you,Iwoidd find the means to do it now — old asIam."" You would do quite right," he said dreamily," and, perhaps,you would do me a service: whocanteU? AAre — know so httle."Alas no: he said, truly; we know so httle,and it cripples our hand; the worst vengeancewe can think of is a swift, sure blow that dealsout death, and then, perhaps, aU the while weonly summon man's best friend.Istood before himbaffled,impotent,paralyzed.The merciless frankness of him froze the verycui-rent of my blood, andIsaw thathe spoke thetruth.He had not evenloved her once.He had better loved this blackbrowed illustriousjade here in Rome, who struck himinherfuries, and draggedhim in the dust in her softmoments.

142 ARIADNE." AVill you tell me where she is ? " he saidabruptly once more." No, Iwill not."" Are you afraid thatIshould makeher returnto me ? "" No: your vanity has nothing more to»igam." Ishould have gone back to her."" You think so. But you would not.""AVhy?"" Because you know that though she maynever look upon your face again,none the lessis she yours for ever. Since men are faithfulonly to the faithless, what is true to them theycaneasily forsake."He was silent.There was amist like tearshihis eyes." She loved me toomuch, Itell you:no manshould everbe loved much," he said, impatiently." It wearies us,anditmakes us too sure. AVomeiiwUl not understand,"" Base women understand that weU; and,understanding, keep you and such as you.to them."Go

ARIADNE. 143ThenIturned,and woulcl have gone away.But he overtook me."I respect you, because you would kill me.Cannot we part in peace ? Is there nothingthatIcould do ? "" No. There is nothing. When men do whatyou have done, God himself coidd do nothing.You must know that. As for peace there can benone between us. Farewell : when you liedying, maybe you wUl wish that Love werebeside you, and you wiU call on it, and call in>»vam.Then without other wordsIleft him

CHAPTER IXIleft him and went away by myself fromthe Pantheon homeward to the chamber by thebridge where Hermes and all other treasures ofmy past weremissing.Iknew thathe would go out of Rome;Iknewthat he would not seek her; because, althoughhis heart in a manner smote him, thinking of herso near, and knowinghimself so beloved, yet thedesire of ease and the dislike of pain werestronger emotions with him than any other. Shewas so utterly his own: though lands and seashad stretched between them, and half a worldhad parted them, none the less,he knew weUenough — toowell, — woulcl she be faithful; never,though she were left alone till her youth shouldflee away and grey age come, never woulcl any

ARIADNE. 145other gain from her a moment's thought or apassing glance: he knew.AVhy should he return to her ? — his passionhad nothing to conquer, his vanity nothing togain. And what did he know of love ? — thispoet with words that burned as they sang, thislover with eyes that caressed as they looked, tillthe souls of women dropped in his path likejessamine flowers when the wind passes." Ihad never left Dorothea had she refusedme her trust," says the lover whois faitlUess,ina play of Calderon's.Never was line written that embodied saddertruth; and Dorothea forgives outrageonoutrage,crime on crime, and even when he has biddenassassins slay her, would still kiss his hand andpray for him to the Christ onher cross;but lienever forgives: — though against him she has nofault, save the one fault of having had faith inhim." If you love me you wiU listen to me! " praysthe man to the woman; and she hstens: " Youshould have turned your ear from me!" says theman whenitis toolate.vol. in.L

146 ARIADNE.Not because he is vUe; no. Hilarion saidjustly; very few men are that ;but becausehe islike a child, and his plaything was beautifulwhilst yetit was arefused secret, a treasurewithheld,a toy untried,but being once attained andowned, the plaything hes forgotten in a corner,whilst theplayer runs forthin the sun.Calderonls Dorothea was not hatecibecause shehad given her trust, but she wasforsaken becauseshe had done so, and then hated because thememory of wrong done to her stung a ficklefierce heart to remorse." AVho has done the wrong, never pardons: "in love,beyondall else,is this true.Hilarion went back to the apes in his upastree, because they never made him wish himselfother than he was; they never recalled tohim.".11he might have been: innocently she had cloneboth. So he had left her.Iknew, asIsay, that he woulcl go out ofRome; and on the morrowIlearned that he haddone so.Iwas thankful.AVonien hope that the deadlove may revive; but men knowthat of all

ARIADNE. 147dead things none are so past recall as a deadpassion.The courtezan may scourge it with a whip ofnettles back into hfe;but the innocent womanmay wet it for ever with her tears, she will findno resurrection.Iwas thankful, for it was best so; yet ifIcould have hated him more thanIdid it wouldhave been for his obedience to me.To be near her, yet not even look uponherface !—Iforgot that hardly could he care to lookonit much more than amurderer cares to lookon the thing he has stifled and thrust away into"the earth. AVhy could he not have left her inpeace ? " Isaid,again and again. No doubt heoften asked himself so; for men are not base;they are children.Maryx all this whUeInever saw.Ibelievedthat although he had refused to give hispromise,he woulcl not harm her lover for her sake;butIknew nothing:Ionly knew thatHilarion passedout of Rome, as he had entered it,insafety.The nightingales sang through all the longlovely springtide nights under the myrtles ontheL 2

148 ARIADNE.Golden HU1, but their master never came out tohear them, nor heeded that the summer drewnigh.Art is an angel of God, but when Love hasentered the soul,the angel unfoldsits plumesandtakes flight, and the wind of its wings withers asit passes. He whomit has left misses the angelat his ear,but he is alone for ever. Sometimesit will seem to 1dm then that it had been noangel ever, but a fiend that lied, making himwaste his yearsin a barren toil,and hisnights ina joyless passion; for there are two things besidewhich aU Art is but a mockery and a curse:they are a child that is dying and a love thatislost.Meanwhile she grew thinner and thinner andtaller still, as it seemed, and the colourless fairnessof her face had the paUid whiteness of thestephanotis flower,and she waslovely stiU,but itwas a loveliness which had a certain terrorinitfor those who saw her, though such were onlythe poor of the city." She has the look of our Beatrice," said onewomanwho cleaned the stone stairs of Barberini,

ARIADNE. 149sometimes, and knew those haunting eyes thathave all the woe of all creation in their appeal.And what to me was the most hopeless sorrowof all was this, that every memory and impulseof art seemed extinct in her. AAThat had oncebeen the exclusive passion of her life seemed tohave been trodden clown and stamped out by theyet more absolute and yet more tyrannical passionwhich had dethroned it; as a great stormwave rises, and sweepsover, andeffaces, all landmarksand dwellings of the earth wherever itreaches, so had the passion of Hilarion sweptaway every other thought and feeling.The sickness and the sorrow round her shewoulcl do her best to help, going from one to another,silent and afraid of no pestilence. Thej>eople were afraid of her,but she was neverso ofthem,evenwhen the breathof their lips wasdeath.To the httle children she was very tender, she,who had never seemed even to see that thechildren played in the sun, or smiled at theirmother's bosoms; and she would touch themgently,and a great anguish would comeinto hereyes,that nowwerealways so wistful,and strained

150 ARIADNE.and full of hopeless longing, like the eyes of acaptive animal."You must love these people that you servethem so," said a priest to her one day,meetingher where the pestilence raged."No," she answered him,"I am only sorryfor them. Iamsorry for anything that lives."And it was the truth. Her heart had openedto pity,butit was closed to all save one love.It was a summer heavy and sickly. Wan,fever-worn children glided through the streets;the little beU, that told of passing souls needingthe church's sacraments, rang ceaselessly; bydaylight andby torchlight the black figures of thebeccamorti passed along the beautiful, solemn,empty ways, where the sun burned and the dustdrifted;the heat lay on the city like a pall, andthe wide, scorched, yeUow plain was like abasinof brass beneath the unchanging pale blue ofthe sky.For myselfIhad borne such seasons before,and had been unharmed; but for herIwasanxious. Yet she seemed to feel no change inthe weather,norin the aspect of the city around

ARIADNE. 151her; she was vaguely oppressed,and would liefor hours motionless in the darkened rooms, andwoulcl drag herself outward with effort, onlyifsheheard of any inneed;but she never made anylament. To physical discomfort she had alwaysbeen indifferent, andIthink of it now she wasinsensible.In the heats of summerIwoulcl have had hertake some sort of change, but, as before, sherefused to leave Rome." Itishere that he wUl seek meif he want me— ever," she said ; and I, thinking of the crueltruths thathe haduttered inthemoonlight by theTemple of Agrippa, felt my very heart grow cold." Oh, my dear! oh, my chUd!you perish fora dream,"Isaid, and dared say no more.She smiled faintly, a smUe that hurt one morethan other women's weeping." In your dream Love brought the poppyflowers, but thatIdo not understand. Howcan one die while what oneloves stilllives? Tohe a dead thingin the cold, and the dark, while"othersA shudder shook her; the Greek-like temper

152ARIADNE.in her recoiled from the Christian honors of thegrave. AVith him she would have gone to hergrave as a child to its mother;but withouthim if she were dead under the sod, or waUedin the stones of a crypt,it seemed to her thatshe would wake and rise, when the lips of otherstouched him.Alas! alas!she never thought of him save asalone. She never knew what were those apeswhich jabbered in the bay tree of his fame andpassions. He was still sacred to her, with thesublime sanctity of a great love which enfolds thething it cherishes as with the divine mist, whichof old veiled the gods.AVhoever can still love thus is happy — aye,even in wretchedness, even when alone. It iswhen the mist has dissolved, as the mists of themorning, and the nakedness and the deformityand the scars which it hid are disclosed, it isthen, and then only,that we are miserable beyondall reach of solace, and canhave no refuge but inthe eternal oblivion of that death which then weknow can be only a forgetting and an end, withouthope.

ARIADNE. 153She stayed aU the summerin Rome.One day a thought struck me. It was earlyinthe morning, and the heaviness of the weatherhad lifted a httle, a few showers having fallen,andit was just so golden and white and sunny amorning as that whenIhad fallen asleep beforethe Ariadne in Borghese, with rosy mists uponthe mountain heights, and breadths of amberlight upon the river, and tender little cloudsthat flew before the breeze and promised rain atsunset.A thought struck me, andIallured her intothe openair while yetit was very early, and benther steps — she not heeding whither she went —across the Tiber to the Scala Regia of theAratican." Come hither with me;Ihavebusiness here,"Isaid to her; and she came, not hearing at allmost probably, for her mind was almost alwaysplunged so deeplyinto the memories of her deadjoy that it was easy to guide her where onewould.SometimesIfancied she had not wholly yetaU clearness of her reason; but thereIwas

154ARIADNE.wrong; she was quite sane, only she had but onethought night and day.They knew me well at that mighty place, andhad always orders tolet mepass.Itook her up theimmense stairways that seembudded for some palace of Hercules, and thewide, still solemn passages and corridors, whereall the arts of the whole world's innumerablecenturies seem to be so near one, from thegolden crowns of the Etruscan Larthia to theflower garlands of Raffaelle's scholars.Itook her into the galleries which she hadnever entered since the days when she hadstudied there the humblest yet the proudest ofArt's acolytes. It was eight in the morning;there was no one near; the vast chambersseemed countless like the centuries they heldembalmed. AVe went past the sarcophagi andthe stones from the tombs, past the colossalheads and the cinerary urns; past the vases ofporphyry and agates and chalcedony, and thedeep, serene-eyed faces of the gods, and so intothe Chiaramonti gallery;past the Gannymede ofLeucares andthecolossalIsis,and theolivepresses

ARIADNE. 155of tlie Nonii, to the spot where whatIhad onceowned was standing, between the radiated jasperof the Assyrian basin,and the yellowmarble oftheVolscian Jove; near the grand bust of Cæsaras high pontiff, and the sculptured legend ofAlkestis, which Evhodus has inscribed to his"veiy dear and very blessed wife, MetiliaActe." For there islove which lives beyond thetomb.There my Hermes was, well companioned andbetter sheltered than with me, beneath thosenoble arched roofs, amidst those endless processionsof gods and of heroes, and of emperors;but for myself, you know, asIhave said, italways seemed to me that the smile had passedoff the mouthof the statue.Of course it was a foolish and vain fancy;forwhat could a few years spent in a poor man'schamber matter to a creature endowed with thatsplenchdhfe of marbles which counts bycenturiesand cycles, and sees whole dynastiesand nationsroll away?She walked with me down the long gaUery,cold even in the midsummer morning; and she

156ARIADNE.looked neither toright nor left,but into vacancyalways, for she saw nothing that was around her,or at the least cared not for it, becauseallmemories of the art she had adored seemed tohave perished inher. Ilaid my hand upon hershoulder,andmade her pausebefore the Mercury.Isaid to her:"Look. He was a friend to you once.you pass him by "now?AA'illShe lifted her eyes with an effort, and restedthem on the pentelic stoneof the statue.Hermes' head was slightly bent downward,likethat most beautiful Hermes of the Belvidere.His gaze seemed to meet hers.A thrill ran through her. She stood andlooked upward at the calm, drooped face."It is your Greek god! " she said, and thenwas still, and there seemed to fall on her thatstrange,mystical, divine tranquillity which doeslie in the glance of all great statues, whetherfrom the rude sphynx that lies couchant in thedesert, or the perfect godhead that wasbroughtto Rome from the seashore by Antium.Its owncalm seemed to fall uponher.

ARIADNE. 157Then hot tears filled her eyes, and fell slowlyclown her pale cheeks." OnceItoo coidd make the marbles speak!"she murmured; and her fainting soul stirredin her, and awoke to a sense of its own lostpower.She did not ask howit was that Hermes washere in the palace of the pope — not then; shestood looking at the statue, and seeming, as itwere,slowly to gather fromit remembrance andstrength, and the desires of art,and the secretsof art's creation.That desire of genius which in the artist neverwholly dies, and makes the painter in the swoonof death behold goldenhorizons and lovely citiesof the clouds, and the musician hear the musicof the spheres, and the poet rave of worldsbeyond the sun; that desire, or instinct, orpower, be it what it wiU, woke inher at the feetof Hermes; Hermes, who had seen all hereffort and watched all her dreams, and beenthe silent witness of those first kisses of passionwhich had burned away her genius beneaththem.

158 ARIADNE.She sat downby the zacchus of the statue, onthe great lion's head, that bore, with threeothers like it, the burden of the oval jasperbasin.She waslost in thought. Idid not speak toher. The early light of morning streamedthrough the length of the gaUery. Her face hadthe pained bewilderment of one who, after longunconsciousness and exhaustion, recovers littlebylittle the memories and the forces of life.Here,if "— " anywhere in the divine city of theVatican for in truth a city and divine it is,and well hasit been called so — here,if anywhere,will wake the soul of the artist;here, where thevery pavement bears the story of Odyssus, andeach passage-wayis a Via Sacra, and everystoneis old with years whose tale is told by hundredsor by thousands, and the wounded Adonis canbe adored beside the tempted Christ of Sistine,and the seriousbeauty of theErythean Sybil,livesbeside the laughing grace of ivy-crowned Thalia,and the Jupiter Maximus frowns on the mortalsmade of earth's dust, and the Jehovah who hascalled forth womanmeets the first smile of Eve.

ARIADNE. 159A Divine City indeed, holding in its innumerablechambers and its courts of granite andof porphyry aU that man has ever dreamed of,in his hope and in his terror, of the UnknownGod.She sat quite stUl along whde,while the sunbeamscame hi from on high, and the graveguardians of the place pacedbehind the grating.There was no sound at all anywhere,except thesound of the distant water fallingin the gardenswithout,farther away beyond the home of theMuses and of the ApoUo Musagetes.Then suddenly she rose and looked again atthe statue." This has hved two thousand years and more,and menstUl sayitis beautiful.Itried to makesuch a statue of him, so that his beauty shouldlive always. Iwill try once more. Otherwomen could not do that. Perhaps the worldwill praise it, and he wiU see it, and then he"wiU knowKnow how weU she loved him still! Ah, thathe knew too well! Men like Hilarion neverdistrust then- own power to keep what once

160ARIADNE.is theirs.Only after a little they do not wantit; so they leaveit — that is all." Let us go home," she said with eager haste,the first sign of eagerness thatIhad seen inhersinceIhad brought her to the Tiber's side." Let us go home. IwUl work there in thetower. You shall get memarble — the oldmarbleof Luna, the Etruscan marble — andIwill try;thenperhaps the world will keepit asit has keptHermes;and me they will forget, but him never.Itis the statues that live,not the sculptor."And then for a moment, in that loneliness ofthe Chiaranionte, she leaned against the Greekgod,and laid her lips to his cold pure limbs, asshe had done to the stones of the hearth in mychamber." He used to caress you," she murniured to" "the marble. Dear god,give me strength!Then we went silently through the BraccioNuovo, past the bronze Augustus, fit master ofthe world, and Titus's hive of honey; betweenthe Corinthian columns and past the pillars ofred granite, over the mosaics of theshining floor,and so through manyhalls and corridors into the

ARIADNE. 161open air of the gardens. It was early morning,and the birds were astir in the thick waUs of theclipped box and ilex; blue butterflies flew overthe old Latin tombstones; lizardsraninbetweenthe blossoming orange-hedges; here and there alate-faUen fruit had tumbled,aballof gold, uponthe grass.Thesegardens aregreenvalleys fuUof fragranceand shadow;behind them,like their mountainalp,is the great dome, altering from white topiu-ple, as the day passes and the cloudschange." Tellme," she said, below her breath, as wepaced amongst the trees, "why is the Hermes"there ? Icanremember nothing, onlyWalking between the tall walls of leaf andbough,Itook courage and told her of the thingsthatIhad done and the sorrowIhad sufferedsinceIhad seen the saU upon the sea.For the first time she weptfor us,not for him." AndIam thankless— only thankless!" she"murmured. Oh, why love "me so much, youtwo for whomIhave no love!Iheard the birds singing in theVOL. III.orange-M

162 ARIADNE.flowers, and the bees hum in the fountain'sedge, and they only sounded sad and harshto me."My clear, love is given, not bought,"Isaid"to her. That is all."

CHAPTER XThat verynightImade a sculptor's workroomin the tower,andIhad brought thither the earthsand planes and tools of the glyptic art, and oncemorethatdesire to createenteredintoher withoutwhich the soul which has been once possessedbyitis dumb as a flute without the breath of man,is empty as a temple whose gods have been overthrown.The passion which consumed her woulcl atleast find some vent and solace in this — soIthought; even if, asIfeared greatly, the geniusin her might nomore revive than can a flowerthat has been scorched by the noon sun and thenfrozen by the night. Idid not know how thismight prove; any way, obedient to her wish,Iplaced within her reach all the material neces-M 2

164 ARIADNE.saries of sculpture,and left her alone to summonwhat vision she would. Alas! no visions werepossible to her — now on the silver of the sunlight,as on the blackness of the darkness, shesaw only one face.Shut in her tower, where only the pigeonssaw her, flying about the high casements totheir homes in the roof, she held communionwith that art which now was in her only anotherform of love. In the marbles she only saw hisfeatures and his form: as the soft windstouched her cheek, she thought of his kisses;when the stars shone on her, she thought onlyof his eyes; — love is an absolute possession ofall the senses and aU the soul, orit is nothing.Therefore there are few who know love: asthere are few who are great,or do heroic deeds,or know or attain to anything which demandsintensity of character." Do not enter there," she said to me, meaningthis highest place under the roof, where the sunshone on the clay and the stones. "IfIcancontent myself — ever — thenIwiU tell you. Butit escapesme ; " and she would sit for hours

ARIADNE. 165silent andlookinginto vacancy, striving,no doubt,to recall that power which had passed away fromher; that mystical power of artistic creationwinch is nomore tobe commanded thanitcan beexplained.SometimesIwas half afraid of whatIhaddone, for she grew weaker and more feverish,it seemed to me and woulcl not stir from theplace inthe heavy torrid weather, when the verydogs in the streets could scarcely drag theirlimbs from sun to shadow; and sometimesIcould have beaten out my brains against tliewaU becauseIhad had that accursed dream inBorghese, and now had to watch its slow fulfilmentand could do nothing: " for the Romanwoman had said,justly, Either the temple ofLubentina,or death."There was no middle course between the two.And who could wish her less faithful even tothe faithless, since by fidelity alone is loveliftedfrom the beastinto the god?So months passed by,and she remained allthelong empty clays shut there with the dumb claysand the Carrara marbles, that woulcl lie there

166ARIADNE.blocks of poor pale stone, till she could bidthem arise and speak.Sometimes the artist'screation is spontaneous,electric, full of sudden and eager joys, like thebirthof love itself: sometimes itisaccomplishedonly withsoretravail,and manypangs and sleeplessnights,Idee the birth of children. Whetherthe offspring of joy or of pain be tlie holiest andthe strongest, who shall say? — is our ladyof SanSisto or the Delphic Sibyl worth the most ?All this timeInever saw the one whosepleasure it had been to teach her the gladnessof laborious clays, and all the secrets of the artsthat say to the wood and the stone, " tell menthe vision wehave had of heaven." He did notsummonme, andIdid not dare to seek him.Isaw the old mother, who grew quite blind,and who struck herstaff at theemptyair,and saidtome: "So wouldIstrike the girl wereshe here;was she blind like me " that she could not see agreatlife at her feet?One night Giulio, the foreman, said to me," the master has beenill; we were very afraid."It seemed that the fever of oui' city, which had

ARIADNE. 167never touched Maryx once in aU the five-andtwentyyears which had passed since he had firststood by the white lions hi the portico of VillaMedicia,had taken hold onhimhithisunhealthyand burning summer.Isuppose the fever comes up from the soil; —our marveUous soU that, hke the water of oursprings and fountains,never changes takeit awa}'or shut it up as you may, and bears such lovelyluxuriance of leaf and blossoms; — because theearthhere has all been so scorched through andthrough with blood,and every handsbreadth ofits space is as it were a sepulchre,and the lushgrass, and the violets that are sweeter here thanever they are elsewhere, and all the deliciousmoist hanging mosses and herbs and ferns are,after aU, so rich,because born from the bodies ofvirgins and martyrs, and heroes, and all thenameless mUhons that he buried here.Blood must have soaked through the — soildeeper than any tree can plunge its roots: tenthousand animals woidd be slaughtered in thecircus in a clay, not to speak of men: — however,come whenceit may,the fever, that evenHorace

168ARIADNE.feared,is here always, and terrible in our Rome,above aU, when the first great rains come;andat last, after letting him go free of it five-andtwentyyears, the fever had struck down Maryx.But he had never lain down under it nor seenanyphysician;ithad only wasted and wornhim,as the slow fire at the roots wastes and wears thetrunk of a doomed tree,that the charcoal-burnershave marked: that was all.Ihad not dared to go to him, but one nightwhenIsat by my stall, with Pales sleeping, andthe lamp swinging, and the people standing orlying about to get abreath of air, thoughno airwas there under the sultry skies,Maryx touchedme on the shoulder. He was very enfeebled, heleaned upon a stick, and his face was pale andhaggard, and the look of age, of old age, haddeepenedon his face, whilst yet he was in theprime of his manhood.Irose and looked inhis face, for indeed beforehimIfelt always so much remorse, thatIfeltas a criminal in his presence;I,who had daredto meddle with Fate and compelit." I am grieved " — Ibegan to him, and thenI

ARIADNE. 169coidd not end the phrase, for all words seemedso trite and useless between him and me, andlike aninsult tohim."I know," he said gently. "Yes;Ihavebeen iU; it does not matter. For the firsttimeIhave been glad that my mother wasblind."" Idid not dare to ask to see you."" No, Iunderstand. He has been inRome ? ""Yes;months since."Iknew. TeU herIbroke my oath for hersake. Ishut myself in my house. IfIhadseen him, — "His lips closed with no more spoken, butthere was no necessity for words.Itold him what had passed between me andHUarion by the church of Agrippa. He heardin sUence, sitting on the bench from whichIhadrisen. The blood rose over his wasted features,pale with the terrible pallor of dark skins.AVhenIhad ended he smUed alittle drearily." That is the love that women choose— Godhelp them! "Then he was silent, and as the lamp-light fell

170 ARIADNE.onhim,Ithought his facelooked darker, wearier,older than it had done a few moments earlier.For there is nothing morepiteous than the wasteof a great nature which gives all its gold; —to see dross preferred."He was kinder to' the dog he slew! " hesaid, and he drew his breath heavily and withlabour, as he spoke."And the dog — he regretted,"Ianswered,for my heart was hard as a flint against Hilarion,andIwould fain have heard another curse himasIcursedhim.But the hatred of Maryx was too deep forwords; and beyond evenhis hate washis infiniteyearning of pity for her and the sickness ofloathing that filled his soul. To one who hadloved her with a lover's love, her fate washorrible as it could not be even to me, an oldman, and only her friend.He sat stillhi the light of my poor dull lamp,and the people went by and he saw nothing ofthem, and tbe water fell down from the wallbehind him, and looked like gleaming sabrescrossed.

ARIADNE. 171" Iwoulcl notpromise," he muttered, verylow:" butIwiU holdmy hand whileI can. She toldme — Ihave no right! "That had been the bitterest word that she haduttered to him: he had no right, none uponearth; he who had lost all peace, all ambition,aU art, aU happiness, through her; and forher woulcl have lost the world and his ownsoul." AA'e have noright, you andI," he said oncemore, and then he rose up with that drearydejection of movement which makes the limbsdrag hke leaden weights when the spirit withinis broken." She wants for nothing?" he asked abruptly." Nothing that we can give" IfIcan serve her, come to me. Ifnot, lether forget thatIhve, whdstIdo five. Thisfever kills hi time, they say. Ishall not complainwhen the time comes. Good-night."Then his hand, which was dry and hot withthe malady within him, pressed mine, and hewent away slowly, walking with bent head, asold mendo.

172 ARIADNE.Ithought of the day when he had comepast my board with vigorous, elastic steps,andhis bold, brilliant eyes, bright as an eagle's;the day when he had taken up the AA'inglessLove.Alas, what love that is love indeed bearswings? Love that is loveis fettered where itisborn, and stirs not, even under any rain ofblows." Maryx is ill,"Isaid toher on the morrow." I amsorry," she said,and looked pained." AVill you not see him? — say some gentleword ? "" Icannot, to be faithful."" Faithful to the faithless! That is asked of" inone.Her face gathered uponit that look of resolutionand of force which made its dehcate linessevere, as the features of the Athene to whomher youth had been dedicated. The flush of adeep emotion, that in another would have beenshame, but inher was rather anger than shame,burned onher face." To be faithful is no virtue;but only women

ARIADNE. 173that are vile canbe faithless. Itis nothing whatone is asked;it is what one is, what one wills,thatmatters."Iremember how in the early days she hadscorned Ariadne, saying that Ariadne shouldhave died ere Dionysos scaled the rock.— Fidelity in her was purification nay, wasinnocence that needed no purification; and notalone innocence,but supreme duty and joy thatdefied aU cruelty of man to bruise it much, orutterly to destroy it.She knew not enough of human nature andhuman ways and the evU thereof, to understandall that faithless womenwere;but the instinctin her recoUed from them not less with scomthan horror. Faith to Hilarion was inher naturewhat faith in heaven was to the martyrs, whosebones lie here in the eternal night of subterraneanRome. It was a religion, an instinct,and a paradise— a paradise whence not even thesilence and the abandonment of the god by whomshe was forsaken could drive her out wholly intodarkness.For in a great love there is a seU-sustaining

174 ARIADNE.strengthby which itlives,deprivedof everything,as there are plants that hve upon our barrenruinsbinned bythe sun,and parched and shelterless,yetever lifting green leaves to the light.

CHAPTER XLThe months went on, and seemed to me tocreep as blind worms creep, and to do no moregood than they to any living soul.AU these months she had shut herself in thestudio of her tower, not stirring out, and onlybreathing the fresher ah- of night from oneof herbarred casements, when the sun was setting, orthe stars had come out from the dark blue ofRoman skies. For me,Istitched at my stall,and Pales, growing older,slept more, and grewmoresharp of tooth and temper; and there weremany changes amongst my neighbours, right andleft, and many marriage groups went by, andmany biers;but nothing touched memuch, andaUIcared to think of was of her,my Ariadne.One clay— it might perhaps be six or seven

176 ARIADNE.months after the day thatIhad led her throughthe Chiaramonti Gallery to Hermes — whenIhad gone to ask for her, as never a day passedbutIdid do, and Ersilia also, she opened thedoor of her lofty studio and came down a fewof the stone stairs tomy side." Come," she said to me; and then Iknewthat she had foundher strength and compassedsome greatlabour.The studio was a wide and lofty place, withwaUs and floor of stone, and narrow windowsthat opened in their centre on a hinge, andthe plants that grew upon the roof hung clownbefore their bars, and the pigeons flew in andoutin the daytime." Look," she said, and led me in and let mestand before the statue she had made, and whichshe had herself cut out from theblock, andshapedin every line,till it stood there,a white and wondrousthing, erect in the sunlight shining fromthe skies, and seemed to live,nay,to leap forthto life as the Apollo does inBelvidere.Itwas the same form that she had made iiithe clay at Venice and at Paris; that is, it was

ARIADNE. 177Hilarion: the man made god, by the deifyingpower of the passion which thus beheld him.Everycurve of the slender and symmetrical limbswasIds,every hne of the hannonious and Greeklikefeatures his also; but it was no longer amortal,itwas adivinity;and abouthis feet playedan ape and an asp,andin his hand he held adeadbird, and he looked at the bird in weariness anddoubt.That was aU.There was no other allegory. She knew thatmarble must speak in the simplest words, aspoets spake of old, or not at all.Marble must be for everthe Homer of the arts;ceasing to be that, as it does cease if it bewreathedwithornamentortorturedintometaphor,it ceases also to be art. Marble must speak tothe people as it did of old over the blue Ægean—sea andunder the woods of Pelion, or be dumba mere tricked-out doU offancy and of fashion.She knew tins, she who had been trained byMaryx;and evenhad she forgottenhis teachings,her own genius, cast on broad andnoble lines,would have obeyed the axiom bydistinct.vol. hi.K

178 ARIADNE.Istood silent and amazed before the statue;amazed because the spiritualised and perfectbeauty giveninit to Hilarion seemed to me themost amazing pardon that a woman's forgivenessever on this earth bestowed; silent, because I,who had dwelt among sculptors all my years,could neverhave conceivedit possible for her togive to any shape of stone such vitality, suchproportion, such anatomical perfection, such personalsublimity as wereall here.It was a great work;it would have been greatin Athens, and was how much greater in thismodern age! And she was only a woman, andso young." Oh, my dear! oh, my dear! " Icried out toher, " standing before it. Athene is with youstill. You have the clue and the sword. Oh,mydear, with such gifts praise heaven! AVhat doesthe pain or the loss in hfe matter. You aregreat! "She looked at me from under her lovely lowbrows and her half-falling hair, as the Ariadneof the Capitol looks at you; only with a lookmore intense — a look of deeppity,deeper scorn.

ARIADNE. 179" Is that aU that you know! Great! AVhatuse is that ? Icould not kdl the ape and theasp. Perhaps he would not haveleft me ifIhadbeen foolish and like other women."Ilike an idiot cried out,—"You blaspheme, and against yourself! Thegods' gifts are greater than his. You have theclue and the sword. How can you care ? Lethimperish, the ingrate and fool! "The look in her eyes grew darker and deeperwith sadness and scorn. She turned from mewith almost aversion." Ihave only createdit that he maysee it,andthat others maystill see his face whenIshallhave been dead a thousand years; for it will beof him they wiU think, not of me."Then she was silent, andIcould have spokenmad words against him, butIdared not; andIthought of the Daphne of Borghese with thelaurel growing out of her breast, the laurel thatalways is bitter, and that hurts when it springsfrom the heart of a woman."Oh, my dear,"Isaid humbly to her, "begrateful; you have the gifts that a million of>" 2

180ARIADNE.mortals live and die without ever even comprehending.Be not thankless;genius is consolation.""For all but one thing," she said very low;andher eyelids were wet.And indeed after all there is nothing morecruel than the impotence of genius to hold andkeep those commonest joys and mere naturalaffections which dullards and worse than dullardsrejoice in at their pleasure;the common humanthings, whose loss makes the great possessionsof its imperial powers all valueless and vain asharps unstrung, or as lutes that arebroken."It is very beautiful, and it is very great,"Isaid to her, and said but barren truth." It is himself," she answered." AVhat willyou callit ? "" Only— a poet."" You wiUlet it go out to the world, surely ? "" Yes, that he may see it."" You think he will come toyou? "She shrank alittle, as ifone had stung her"No: he will not comeback; no. But perhapshe willremember a little, and drive the asps

ARIADNE. 181and the apes away. IfIcould pray as the womenpray in the churches, that is allIwould ask;nothing else — nothing else."" My God! How can you forgive hke that ? ""Toloveat all,is that not always to forgive ?"Then a heavy sigh parted her beautiful lipsthat werenow so pale yet stiU so proud, and shewent away from my presence and left me alonewith the marble. Hadit not been her creationIthinkIshould have struck the statue,and cursedit, and cast it down headlong;as of old, theycast the false gods.That clayIwent and sought Maryx. Thefever had passed from him with the heats ofsummer, and the perilous rams of the autumn,and its agues and its fires had ceased to chiU andburn him turn by turn. But he was weakenedand aged,and never, so Giulio told me, touchedthe plane or the chisel; his workmen he paid asof yore, but the workrooms were locked.Iasked to see him, andItold him." Youbade me sayhow you could serve her,"Isaid,tohim. "You can serve her now.Iam anold man and poor,and obscure,Icando nothing;

182ARIADNE.willyoulet the great world see her work ?Of noother mancouldIask such a thing after — after,— but you arenot like others."His heart heaved, and the nerves of his cheekquivered,but he pressedmy hand." Ithank you that you know me well enough.AVhatIcan doIwill. She was mypupil. loweher such simple service as that."" The work is great,"I"said to him. Ithought it might bring her fame, and fame consoles."Maryx smiled; a wearysmile." Does it? Those who haveit not, flunk so;yes,Idaresay."" Butif it do not consoleit may do somethingat the least;light some other passion, ambition,pride, desire of achievement, aU an artist feels!If she can gather the laurel, let her. At theleast,it will be better than love."" She shall gather it," said he, who had beenher master; and he came out with me into thenight. It was a cold clear night, and the starsshone on the river."I have gathered it," he added. "AAreU,I

ARIADNE. 183would change places with any beggar that crawlshome to-night."Icould not answerhim.AVe walked through the city in silence,he hadlost his strength and his elasticity of movement,but he bore himself erect, and something of thevigour of energyhad returned to him — since hecould serveher.Her tower was far from the Golden HiU; hehad never enteredit;butIhad the keys of herworking room, andIknew that at this hour sheslept, or at least lay on her bed, shut inherchamber if sleepless. On the threshold of thestudioIpaused,frightened, for it seemed to mecruel to bring him there, and yet he was obligedto see the statueif he meant to help her to fame." Perhaps you had better not see it,"Imuttered,"after all it is nothing, thoughbeautiful;nothing except — Hilarion."His face did not change, asIwatched it withfear in the chdl yellow lamplight."It could be nothing else, being her work.Open."My hands shook at the lock;Ifelt afraid.

184 ARIADNE.IfIhad longed to take a mallet and beat itsbeauty down into atoms and dust, what mightnot he do, he who had struck the Nausicaa asmen strike a faithless wife ?He took the keyfrom me, and thrust it intothe door." AVhat do you fear ?" he"said. ShallIharm"the stone whenIhave let the manlive?Then he opened the door and entered. Ihadleft alamp burniug there; alamp that swung ona chain hung from above, and was immediatelyabove the head of the statue. The stream of softgoldenlight from the burningolive oil fell full onthe serene beauty of the figure, holding the deadnightingale in its hand, with doubt upon itsfeatures that was not regret.A strong shudder shook Maryx.Idrew the door to, and waited without. Itseemed to me thatIwaited hours,but no doubtthey were only minutes. AVhen the door unclosed,and he came forth from the chamber,hewas calm and his face was only stern. ■- j" It is a great work;it would be great for agreat man. It will give her fame.It shall giveit

ARIADNE. 185to her. Youlook strangely ? AVhat do youfear ?AmIso base as not to serve the geniusIfostered?My genius is dead:hers lives. ThatIcan serve atleast."" You canreach such nobility as that!""I seenothing noble.Iamnotquitebase, thatis aU. Tellher — nay,Iforgot;shemustnotknowthatitisIwho do anything — else you should teUher that her master thanks her."And with that brave and tender word he leftme and went out into the darkness.It seemed to methathis forgiveness was greatereventhan hers:since evengreater than hers washis loss.Now when the springtime of that year came,the world of the artsspokeonly of one great pieceof sculpture, shown in the public haUs, whereParis holds its rivalry of muses.Before this statue of the poet all the greatworld paused inawe and ecstasy."Is it the work of Maryx?" asked one halfthe world,and the other half answered:" No!Itis greater than any work of Maryx."And before the new youthful strength thus

186 ARIADNE.arisen they slighted and spoke dl of thegreat strength that had been as a giant's inthe past.So had he his reward.

CHAPTER XII.AVhex he had goneaway that eveningandIhadreturned to the studio to put out the lights, andsee that all was safe, it being past midnight,Ifound her there, beside the work of her hands.A long, loose, white robe clung close to her, andfell about her feet; she looked taller, whiter,lovelier,perhaps, than ever, but it seemed to methat there wasinher beautysomething unearthly;one coidd have imagined her to be that Sospitraof her lover's poem, who was lifted above allearthly woes, save the two supreme sorrows —Love and Death.She sat down on the wooden bench that stoodnear the statue and motioned me to stay." You brought Maryxhere ?" she asked me." Yes:Ithought you wereasleep."

188 ARIADNE." Iseldom sleep— inmy chamber Icould hearyour voices, but not what you said.seem good to him — whatIhave done ? "Does it"It seems great."ThenItold her all that he said to me; andthe noble soul of him seemed to me to shinethrough the words like the light through alampof alabaster; andIsaw that they touched herdeeply. Her sad eyes gatheredmoisture in them,and her grandmouth, always so resolutely closedas though afraid that any reproach of her lostlover should escape them, trembled and grewsoft." He is too good to me," she said at length." Oh, why was Iborn only to bring so muchmisery to others!"" Nay,there is somemisery clearer to us thanjoy," saidI. " Maryx loves you."A shudder ran through her and she stoppedme." Never speak of love to me. A woman faithfidwill not even think that any can feel love forher — save one;itis almost infidelity."" Nay,Ispoke not of love so; woulclIinsult

ARIADNE. 189you ? Imean simply and truly that his love foryouis great enough tovanquishanyremembranceof hiniseU; greatenough too tomakehim holdhishand because you bid him: greater there cannotbe."She put out herhand to sUence me." He received meinto his house whenIhad nofriend and no hope hi the world, and he was sogood to me. If he woulcl but forget me!Ihavebeen thankless. He taught me the strength andthe secrets of the arts, andIhave given him inreturn only pain and ingratitude."" Dear, itis onpain that love lives longest.'Alas! that she knew. She was silent somemoments, whdst above her rose the beauty ofher owncreation.Since shehadreturned tothepursuit and the occupationof art, the youthinher hadrevived;thenumbness and deadness which had seemed like ahalf paralysed inteUigence had passed off her;she had gatheredup the clue and lifted up thesword, and though it was love that nerved herand not art, the effort had brought back inspiration,and inspiration to the artist is the very

190 ARIADNE.breath of life; without it his body maylive buthis soul does not.She looked at her statue with wistful eyes." You will send it to Paris."" To Paris ? Before showingit here ? ""Yes — he does not come here; he would notsee it."A deep flush came on the paleness of herface, as it always did at the very mention ofHilarion." He will know thatIhave made it — he willbelieve init," she said a little later; "becausehe sawmemake the Love in Venice."" AAliere did that Love go ?"" It was sent from Venice in a ship; and theship foundered, and went down, in a storm."" And the statue waslost ? "" Yes."She leaned her head upon her hands, so thatIcould not see her face; she had neverbeforespoken to me of that time. Istood sdent,thinking how terrible an augury had been thatfoundered Love,sunk to the bottom of the deepsea, companioned only with the dead.

ARIADNE. 191AlmostIlonged to teU her of all that he hadsaid by the temple of Agrippa, butIdared not ;she believed that he had loved her once;Ihadnot courage to say to her — even his first caresseswere ahe!To her Hilarion remained a creature whocould do no wrong:Ihad not heart to sayto her — there was no sort of truth in himever, not even when he swore to you eternalfaith."And if he do read the message of yourmarble,"Iasked her, abruptly; "if he do readit, if he be touched byit if he come backtoyou, what then? AVill you let him comenow? "Her face was leaning on her hands, butIcould see the blush that covered her throat androse to her temples." It would be different now," she muttered." ThenIdid not know— no,Idid not know.Iobeyed him. Ihad no idea thatIbecameworthless inhis sight. AVhen you spoke to meso bitterly hi Venice, you pained me, butIdidnotunderstand;Inever did until those friends

192 ARIADNE.of hisinParis (he called them friends) wrote tome and sent me their jewels when he was away.It is not thatIcare what the whole worldthinks me, but to be lowered in his sight, toseem to him only a fraU foolish thing hke the"restA great heavy sob heaved her heart; sheliftedher face to mine,it was burning now, with anindignant painin heruplifted eyes." Look ! AVhat doesit mean ? — who is to teUthe ways of the world ? That vile womanwhomhe hved with here in Rome, she is faithless andcruel and false, and betrayed him as well as herhusband,and yet he goes back to her and theworld sees no shame inher, though she wears hisjewels about her neck, and dishonours her chUdren.AndI, who sleeping and waking, neverthink,but of him; who have never athought hemight not know; who am his alone, his always,in life and in eternity, if eternity there be,Iam shameful, you say, and he has ceased to loveme becauseIloved him — too well: who canunderstand ? Icannot."Iknew not what to say to her:the laws and

ARIADNE. 193the ways of the world are sadly full of injusticeand cast hi stiff lines that fit hi but ill with thechangeful and wayward needs of human life:Iknew not what to say.She lapsedinto sdence ;it wasnatural to herto endure;it was very seldom that any reproachescaped her either of fate or of him. Herbrain perplexed itself wearily over the problemof where her fault had lain by which she hadlost him; she was too loyal to see that the faultwas hihhnseU." " ShaU it go then to Paris ? Isaid, to leadher thoughts back to her labours.She gave a sign of assent." Mayit be sold?"" Ah no— never!"" Itis to come back to you, then ? "" Unless he wish forit."" AVould you giveithim ? "" Ihave given him my life!"" ShallIput your name on it, or will youcarveit there?""No. Let it go as the work of a pupU ofMaryx. That is true."oVOL. in.

194 ARIADNE."Maryx thinks it will give you a fame notsecond tohis own."" Fame ?Ido not care for fame.'She lookedup at the marble once more." OnceIused to thinkIshould hke all theages that are to come to echo my name, but thatis nothing — to me now. If onlyit may speak tohim: that is allIwant. Perhaps you do notbelieve,because he has left me;but indeed whenIwaswith him he heard onlythenightingales,andthe apes and the asps never came near. Do youremember when we walked by Nero's fields thatnight of Carnival,you said he waslike Pheineus.But the evd spirits never had any power onhim whenIwas there: he told me so, so often.If onlyby that marbleIcan speak tohim! Ifone could only put one's soul and one's life intothe thing one creates, and die hi one's body,soas to be alive hi art alone, and close to what oneloves! — there are legends: — "She wound her arms close about the whitelimbs of her statue, and laid her hps to themas she had done to the Hermes, and leant onthe cold sculpture her beating breakingheart.

ARIADNE. 195" Take my life away with you," she cried toit," takeit to him — take it to him! "Then she broke down and wept, and sobbedbitterly, as womendo.o 2

CHAPTER XIII.The statue went to Paris, and the word andthe weight of Maryx went with it, asIhave said,and did for it what influence can do in a day,and genius unaided maybeg for in vain througha score of years.It was accepted by the judges of the Salon,and placed between a group of Louis Rochet'sand a figure, by Paul Dubois. Maryx had hadcarved upon it the letters of her name:Gioja:no more. It was made known to those whom itconcerned that she was a woman,andvery young,and his pupil in Rome.The statue had been unveiled but a fewdays when the city spoke of it and spoke ofhttle else, wherever art was comprehended and

ARIADNE. 197talked of; it took a tired public by surprise,and its triumph was instantaneous and widespread.There was something in it that was unhke allthe world had ever seen; the very mystery thatto many enveloped its meaning only added toits chann for the curiosity of mankind. Withina few weeks her name was a household word inthe world of art: that short and haj>py-souiidingname that was in such sad unlikeness to herdestiny. She had been the original of theNausicaa, some sculptor told them so; and thentheyflocked to where theNausicaa could be seen,and talked the more of her, and some few beganto say — " that is the same face as the Romangirl had who was with Hilarion."For though the world has a shallow memoryfor exceUence,it is always tenacious of remembrancesthat are hurtful,and of recollections thatcan tarnish renown.One day HUarion arrived hi Paris, havingbeen absent for amonth or so: he loved all thearts, nor ever missed the fresh fruits of them;he went early to the Salon one bright morning

198ARIADNE.with some associates, who were famous men intheir own way, and artists. One of them,midwayin the central chamber, touched him andpointed to the Roman marble." Look! That is the marvel of allParis. Aperfect creation, and they say the sculptor is onlya woman."Hilarion listlessly lifted his eyes to the figure:then his face lost all colour, and he approachedit quickly." Now Isee you, beside it — it is like you,""said one of his friends. Perhaps you haveknown her inRome ? She is aRoman, and wasa pupil of Maryx, they say."Hilarion was silent. He was very pale. Heunderstood the parable in the stone.His friends spoke learnedly around him,praising the work with the discriminative homageof great critics. On the base of the statue hername was cut after the habit of sculptors; heread it, andithurthim curiously.Hestoodbefore the figure, that wasbuthimselfmade god, and heedednothing of the jestsof hisfriends. As the sun shone all about the fair

ARIADNE. 199pale Carrara marble, and iUumined the name cutonthe stone,he felt apang that hadneverbeforetouched his cold, voluptuous self-control andfortunate hfe." " AATho else could love me like that! hethought to himself; and thought also, — whatbeasts we are, that it is not love that touchesus, but the pursuit of itthat we desire.He understood that to him alone was consecratedher creation. She had striven to excelonly thatby excelling she might reach some placein his remembrance. The bird was dead: herepented that he had kiUedit.A little later, a womanwho could say to himwhat men could not venture to say, spoke tohimofit."This poet is you," she said. "AVho lovesyou like that ? AVas the poorbird that hes " deada mere woman, hke Aedon and Philomel ?He answered, "Yes, but a womanwithout sin;the sin wasmine."And his conscience stirredinhimand his heartwent out to her, and he remembered her as hehad seen her when he had kissed her first, and

200 ARIADNE.trembling she had cried to him, " It will be aUmylife!"It was all her life:it had been only a summeror two of his.The statue he would have bought if any extravagance— if half his fortune — could have purchasedit;but he thatit was inno way tobe had.In early morning, long before the men andwomen of his own world were astir,he rose oftenand went into the lonely place where the figurestood, and looked at it."No one else could love me like that," hethought over and overagain to himself.She had acceptedher fate at Idshands withoutreproach and without appeal;but this messagesent tohimin the marble, this parable hi stone,moved him as no words and as no woe wouldhave done. The faint hope with which she hadsent it forth was fulfilled. He remembered —almost he repented.He read the parable of the marble, but hestayed on with the apes and the asps, and theone mocked and beguiled him, and the others

ARIADNE. 201bit his tired senses into a poisonous irritationwhich he fancied was passion. But still when hewas in solitude he remembered, he regretted,almost he repented.Meanwldle about him the great world talkedof her wherever the arts were understoodbymen,and saluted her as a great artist.The laurelwas set like a sharp spear in her breast, andwas watered with her heart's blood, as withDaphne's.Hearing that, he strove to silence his conscience,saying " to himseff, Her genius is withher; it wdl console her in time.Ihave notharmed her, — so much."One night, on an impulse, he wrote to her,and sent it through me. They were but sevenwords:" Iam unworthy,butIthank you."Igave them to her. She wept over them andblessed them as other women weep over andbless the face of their firstborn. She was thankfulas other women are before some great gift ofhomage and of honour rendered to them in thesight of nations.

202 ARIADNE.To me the words seemedbut poorand cold.Icould not tell then how he felt when hewrote them.Iheard from him long afterwards,when all was of no use.They did contain, indeed, perhaps the truestutterance that he had ever made. He felt hisownunworthiness,he who had been wrapped allhis days in the togaof a superb and indifferentand eontenqduous vanity, and the sense of itwounded and galled him; yet he thanked herbecause he had a heart in his breast, and because,as he said,menare not vile, they are onlychddren — children spoilt often by the world'sindulgence or by the world's injustice.He would go,Isay,inthe early morning, whennone of his own world were about, and standbefore the statue and think of her till a greatshame enteredinto him and a great regret.An angel comes once in then- lives to mostmen: seldom do they know their visitant; oftendo they thrust the door against it. Any way,itnever comes but once. He recognised the angelnow; nay, he had known it when first he hadopened his arms to it;but it had brought too

ARIADNE. 203pure a breath of heaven with it: he had put itaway and gone back to the apes and the asps;and the marble looked at him, and its parablesmote him into remembrance and regret.But he did not return; for he had not lovedher.Besides he didnotdare to take to this creaturewho still loved him and who dwelt under theshield of Athene, merelymore shame again. Hedid not dare to look in those clear eyes which"saw the faces of the immortals, and say, Inever loved you;Ionly ruined your life out ofa vain caprice."She, wearing out her years in silence andsolitude for his sake in that loneliness which ismore bitter and sorrowful than any widowhood,would not have touched him;but she, with theclue and the sword in her hands and the laurelin her breast, regained a place in his remembrance,and haunted him.The dead he would have forgotten;but tinsliving woman, of whom the world spoke, whomitcrowned, who had the supreme powers of art,and threw them clown at his feet and dedicated

204ARIADNE.them to him alone, this living woman he couldnotforget,and he said againand againto himself," AVho else could love melike that ? "There aremen whom the entire consciousnessof theperfect possession of a woman's life makesindifferent:there is no need to guard what wdlnot stray: such men need the spur of uncertainty,the stimulant of rivalry; this is whyinnocent women fail and vile women succeed.Hilarion was one of these men; the absoluteconsecration of her, body and soul, to himselfdid not cement butonly loosened the bonds thatbound him."She will always be there," he had said tohimself. So he had left her and had strayed tothose of whom he was not so sure.Thefaint unformed jealousy which nowrose inhim of Maryx drew his thoughtsback toher asnosense of her Uving and dying for his sake couldeverhave done. Hecould nottell thatMaryxnevereven saw her face. He could not know that shehad refused to seeher master, and that Maryx ofhis ownwill shrank from any approach to her.He heard that Maryx had placed her talent

ARIADNE. 205before the world, and heard all men speak thename of her teacher hi company with hers; avague irritation, which wasnot worthy of abettername, stirredinhim;he knew they werebothinRome.It was his perception of the love of Maryx forher which had first made him subjugate her tohis own passion. The affinity of Maryx to h6rin this,their common, art stirredinhim arestlessannoyance which only was not jealousy,becausehe knew her too well and because he loved hertoo little.He knew that she to himself would be for everfaithful;but though he knew this, he did notlike to think that any other lived who couldrender her that loyalty, that tenderness, thatservice in which his own passion had been lacking.He knew well that she would live and diealone;but he did not care to think that agreaterthan himself could caU toher consolation inhersolitude the gifts and the arms of Athene.He knew himself to be very base in this;butwhen the world speaking of her said, " she wasthe pupU of Maryx," he felt a contemptuous

206 ARIADNE." impatience; when they said she was amistressof Hilarion," he was content. He knew thattins was very base, so base that seeingithianyother manhe woidd have caUedit the dishonourof aknave. Yet soit was.Andstill there were times when standingbeforethe marble in the pure morning light, he thoughtwith many apang of that young life which hadbeen as pure as the hght of clay ere he hadcloudedit; and his conscience smotehim sorely,because byhis act, and by his wiU, for ever therewould lie across the lustre of her fame the heavyshadow of the world's reproach."You grow dull,"said the apes and the aspstohim; and he made them no answer: he hadalways forgotten all things so easily, and now, —for once, — he could not forget.Meanwhde Maryx was also inParis.He had not yielded to any other the care ofher labour, nor let any chance escape him ofbeing first to do her service. AAlien he heardand read, as he did, that her work was declaredgreater than his own (for the world is verymutable and false to its own idols) he was glad

ARIADNE. 207— for her sake. He knew thatit was not so, butthe strong alone canbe generous.He was thankful that by any means of his,Art could console her; the divine Dionysos, whocame toher in her loneliness on Naxos, amidstthe salt sea, and who might perchance make thebarren rock bloom with flowers for her oncemore.AVhen the fame of the statue was certain,andaU Paris,and thus all the world, spoke ofit,hereturned to us." AViUshe see me — now? " he asked meIanswered him — yes.The clay had been chiU;it was eveningtime;lamps that swung from cords shed a faint lighthi her studio as he entered; she rose and wenttohim. Isawhim shiver and movea stepbackwardinvoluntarily: thenhe controUed himself." Ihave done whatIcould,"he said;and thenhis voice was choked inhis throat.She looked up into his eyes." You will not hurt him ? "" No."Then she took his hands inhers.

208ARIADNE." You are my master and my friend:Ithankyou."He shivered again at her touch;but the bravesoulinhimkept — silence."Dear: you — aremy pupil nomore," he said,with a smile, all! the courage of that smUe!" You are greater thanI; the world says so."" " The world is foolish," she answered. IfIbe greatin any way,itis byyou alone."" Nay— by Athene!" he said, and strove tosmUe again.He left her very soonToremain near her was beyond his strength.We went together down the dusky stairs andout into the night.AVe went onin silence through thecity towardsthe river's banks." She looks ill," he said abruptly, once," Oh no — oh no,"Isaid, with feverish denial." She seldom sleeps,Ithink; and now that themarble is gone — herlife seemsgone away withit.That is aU— that is all! "" All!" he echoed: and walked onin sUence.We came upon the moonlit quietness of Tiber.

ARIADNE. 209" Do they indeed caU her so great inParis ? "Icried, asIlooked up at my own window whereshe had used to stand amongstthebean flowers towatch the river on just such a night as thisone was." Yes. They have crowned her there; and— they say, ' a great genius ? — yes, — she wasoneof theloves of Hilarion.' That is what theysay,almost always."" And yet we lethim live." She wishes it. Have we a right to makeher more desolate ? "Idid not answer him.Iwas sick of heart.The beautiful Immortal who had come toher hiher loneliness, was that offspring of Jove wecallArt: nius,t the bow of slander be bent, and thearrowof scorn be sped to slay her, as the shaftof Artemis slew Ariadne?Mine had been only a dream — only a dream;must she always suffer for that ?Maryx had paused,and was standing on thebrink of the water,looking clown into its hmpiddarkness. The moonlight seU onthe white locksthat had come about his forehead, and the linesVOL III.r

210 ARIADNE.of age that these few years had scored upon hischeeks. He waslost in thought." Thereis one hope for her," he said tohimself;then saidaloud to me:" AVith the morningIshall returnto Paris."Then he went across the Tiber to his homeupon the hill of Janus.He wentinto one room and locked himselfin.it was the room where she had laboured, andwhere there stood the Apollo CithSradus,AVho can tell how he prayed thereand wrestledin prayer, and to what gods ?Be Ids god whatit would,he came out thencewith every neiwe in him strung to a sacrifice asgreat as ever sent menhere inRome to martyrdom.AVith the grey dawn, whilst the city heloved was stiU wrapped in her mantle of mist,he left the lovely house that he had buUt forhimself under the cypresses and amongst themyrtles, and passed out of Rome.

CHAPTER XIAIt was the night of the second day when hereached Paris. He went straight to the houseof Hilarion.It was seven in the evening. He was wellknownthere, and entered without question orhindrance.They had been friends for a score of years.The household showed him without hesitationinto the presence of their master, who wasalone,inhis own chamber, with all the gracefullitter collected by a luxurious and curious tastestrewnround him, and the smell of flowers, forwhich he had a feminine fondness, was upon theah-, and their blossoms were glowing against theold armour and the old- sculptures, and the dark,book-lined walls of the place.r 2

212ARIADNE.Hilarion drew a deeper breath as he saw whohad entered, buthe had a graceful and graciousgreeting always for friend and foe." It is years since wemet,my friend," he said;" Iamglad—"Then he paused; for even to him it was noteasy to be false of tongue toMaryx; nor did hemistake the glance that flashed for one instantfrom the passionate eyes that met his." AVe can be friends no more," said Maryx,yet he approached and stoodby the hearth." Crispino went to take your life in Venice,"he said slowly, standing there; " the Greek boywatched for you night and clay here;Isworeto kill you — and you live still,because she bidsus let youlive."Hilarion was silent: he felt no resentment:brave himself, he had no anger against those whowoulcl have killed him; he thought them right." You make me think of the Devotio of theRomans,"he said,with apassing smUe. " Threatenedmenlive long, they say."Maryx kept down unuttered whatever passionhe felt; he had nerved himself to a great un-

ARIADNE. 213selfish effort — alast supreme sacrifice, — and wastoo strong to be easily shaken from his purpose." Listen to"me," he said, calmly still. AVeare wrong and she is right. To kill you woulddo her no service, and you perhaps noinjury:what do we know!Ihavenotcome to avengeher;she told me the truth;Ihave no title to do it.Had she wished it,Iwould not have stayed myhand — for that, but since she chooses to forgiveyou itis not for us to make her more desolatethan sheis."Hilarion interruptedhim."Have you no title?" he said, with his"coldest smile. Surely you have one. Ithinkyou loved her yourself.""Idid:Ido."He added nothingmore, and there was silencebetween them.Maryx breathed heavily, and his teeth wereset hard: he looked away from Hilarion,aU thewhUe he had never once looked at him; he wasafraid to look at him,lest thegreat hate thatfiUedhis soul should vanquish the resolve on which hehad come there.

214 ARIADNE." "Iloved her: yes," he resumed; Ishouldhave givenher peace, honour,my name, such asit is, allthat — one can give: that is whyIhavesome right to speak to you. Bear with me.Iwoulcl have killed you as her father, were heliving, woulcl have done; let me speak toyou as her father could not do.Iamnomoralist.Iwill read you no homily. Iwant but to tellyou the truth asIknow it. She loves you withso great alove thatIthink the earth never heldone like it. Honest men, and lovers that arefaithful, break their hearts — in vain for suchpassion as that; and you! nay, bear with me.You must know very well that what you did wasthe act of a coward — since she was defenceless,and had no godbut you."Hilarion's serene eyeslit with sudden fire, buthe looked down, and he remained mute." There is no one to tell you all that she hassuffered, nor how absolutely she forgives," saidMaryx." That is why Ihave come to tell you.It is just to her that you should know."Then he told to Hilarion all that he knewhimself: from the time that she had lost her

ARIADNE. 215reason, when the clay image had crumbled downunder the blows of Amphion, to the moment,three nights before, when she had said to himhimself, ere she would touch his hand, "You willnot hurt him ? "It would have cost him less to have cut hisheart-out of his bosom than itcost him to tell thestory of that changeless passion;but he told itwithout flinching, abating no tittle of its truth.HUarion heard him inunbroken silence,leaningagainst the oaken shelf of his hearth, withhis head bent down and his eyelids drooped.His face grew paler when he heard of her physicalsufferings and needs, sinceit was these thathe was touched by most keenly. AVith all thewide and varied comprehensionof hisintelligence,there was acertain shaUowness of feelinghi himwhich made the deepest woesof the human heartseldomintelligible tohim." AVhy didthe oldmantellmenothingof this ? "he muttered, when he had heard to the end." He would not teU you lest you should go toher;Itell you that you may go."Hilarion was silent still He couldill measure

216 ARIADNE.the generosity of the man who loved her vainly;but itsmote him and made him feel humbled andashamed." No woman,Ithink, ever loved you as thiswoman does, whom you have left asIwould notleave aclog," saidMaryx,and somethingof his oldardent eloquence returned to him, and his voicerose and rang clearer as the courage in him consummatedthe self-sacrifice that hehad sethimself"for her sake. Have you ever thought what youhave clone? AVhenyouhavekiUedArtin anartist,you have done the cruellest murder that earthcanbehold. Other and weaker natures than hersmight forget, but she never.Her fame will beshort-lived as thatrose, for she seesbut your face,and the world will tire of that, but she wUl not.She can dream nomore. She can only remember.Do you know what that is to the artist ? —it is to be blind and to wear}' the world; theworld thathas nomore pity than you have! Youthink her consoledbecause her genius hasnot lefther: are you a poet and yet do not know thatgenius is only apower to suffer more and to rememberlonger ? — nothingelse. Yousay toyour-

ARIADNE. 217self that she will have fame, that will beguile heras the god came to Ariadne:perhaps:but acrossthat fame, let it become what it may, there willsettle for ever the shadow of the world's dishonour;itwiU be for ever poisoned, and cursed,and embittered by the scorn of fools, and the reproachof women, since by you they have beengiven their lashes of nettles, andbyyouhave beengiven then bye-word to hoot. She wdl walk inthe light of triumph, you say, and therefore youhave not hurt her:do you notsee that the fiercerthatlightmaybeat onher, the sharper wUl the eyesof the world search out the brand with which youhave burned her. For when do menforgive forcein the woman? and when do women ever forgivethe woman's greatness ? and when does every curfail to snarl at the- life that is higher than itsfellows ? It is by the very genius in her thatyou have had such power to wound, such powerto blight and to destroy. By so long as hernameshaU be spoken, so long wdl the wrong you havedone her cling round it, to make it meet for reproach.A mere woman dies, and her woeandhershame die with her, and the earth coversher and

218ARIADNE.them;but such shelter is denied for ever to thewomanwho has genius and fame;long after sheis dead she will lie out on common soil,nakedand unhouselled,for all the winds to blow onherand all the carrion birds to tear."His voice broke down for a moment, and hepaused and breathed heavily and with pain. Afaint dusky red of anger,yetmoreof shame,cameon the face of Hilarion.AVhat was noble in him was touched andaroused; what was vain and unworthy waswounded and stung.""Ido not follow you," he muttered. AAdiatwoulcl you have me do ? "" AVhat ? surely you know that when Parissalutes in her a great artist,it tells also the taleof her ruinby you "?Hilarion moved restlessly." Iknow! She was seenhere one winter;isitmy fault ? If the statue had been unlike me,Paris would not have remembered.""That is all you say?"" Itis all there is to say;if she would forget,the world would forget too."

ARIADNE. 219" Oh my God ! "Maryx groaned aloud. It seemed to him astenible as when of old some lovely human life,in its first youth, was laid low in sacrifice tosome god of stone, whose eyes of stone couldnot evenbehold in pity its death throes."But she will not forget. HaveItold you soin vam? " he cried aloud,and his voice rose and"rolled hke thunder through the silence. She— wiU never forget, God helpher! Vile womenand light ones forget; and the adulteress forgets,and the harlot; but she — can you lookat that marble and insult her, still? To heryou are lover and lord, and husband andking, and the only god that she knows, and theone shame of her life and its one glory. Haveyou nopity ? have you no human heart in yourbreast ? were you not born of a woman? Youfound her content and innocent, and in peace,and for your own pleasure and vanity drove allthat away, and all her dreams and all her girlhoodperished by — you and you only say sheshould forget! Can even men forget when theywill ? "

220 ARIADNE."Ican," Hilarion answered;— and he lied."Is it your boast?" said Maryx, and thefierce pangs in him rose to fury, and he barelyheld his hand from the throat of the man whostood there." AVell then, forget if you will,and may Godforget you in recompense! Listen one momentmore, andIhave done. To-dayIcome fromthe presence of men who are great, and whosay that neverhas a womanbeen so near greatnessas she is. You know her — you, as noother can — know her pure and perfect, and withoutsoil save such as you, in your sport, havechosen to cast onher. Youknow her truth andinnocence so entirely that you have confessed howthey shamed you and wearied you by their veryexcellence. She is lovely as the morning; sheis yours in life and in death. AVhat more canyou want ? AViU you not go back toher ? AVillyou not give honour where you have given dishonour? Will you not, when you are dying,be glad to feel one wrong the less was done ?Youhave said she is to forget. She will onlyforget inher grave. Have youno pity ? AAliat

ARIADNE. 221canIsay to move you? If you have no tendernessfor such love as hers you are colder than themarble in winch she has made your likeness,andlifted itup as a godto the world! "The strength of his own emotion choked hiswords; he pleaded for her as never woidd he forhis ownlife's sake have pleaded for himself.Hilarion listened in silence; his eyelids werestdl drooped; his face was still tinged with thefaint red of what washalf shame, half anger.He was shaken to the depths ofhis nature,butthose depths were not deep as in the nature ofthe man who besought him, and they had longbeen fiUed up with the slough of vanity, and ofseU-indulgence.His heart thrilled, his pulse quickened, hiseyes were dim, he was fuU of pain, evenfull ofrepentance; he thought of the young head thathad lain on his breast in such faith, as the doveon its safest shelter;he felt the clinging caressof those hands which were so weak in his own,though so strong to wield the sword of Athene.All that had ever been in him of manhood,of tenderness, of valour, yearned in one tender

222ARIADNE.longing to yield to the impulse within him; butall that was vain, selfish, and cold stirred undercensure and nerved him against emotion. Theimperious irritation of his temper rose, and hisvanity was wounded by the very shame he felt.His pride refused; his impatience of counselchafed; and that cruel mockery which oftenmastered him as if it were a devilthat livedinhim,and were stronger than he,spurredhim nowto what he knew was an infamy.He lifted his eyes slowly with a contemptuousregard,and smiled." You wastemuch eloquence," he said. "Youhave loved her; you love still. Console heryourself."Maryx struck him on the mouth.

CHAPTER XVTo a blow there is but one answer;in ourland at leastThe dawn was scarcely broken when they metagain. The air was grey and windless,and cold.They did not speak a word.Hilarion' s first shot struck Maryx in thebreast. Maryx had fired in the air.He stood a moment erect, with his face to thesunrise, then fell to the ground, backward, hishead striking the turfand the stones. Theyheardhim say as he fell:" She bade me nothurt him — Ipromised."Then he lay quite still, and the blood began towrell out slowly from his mouth.The delicate and nervous hand that had hewnsuchlovely andmajestic shapesout from therocks,

224ARIADNE.clenched the roots of the rank grasses in the convulsionof a mortal agony:in another momentit relaxedits hold and was motionless,palm upward,on the earth:never more to create, nevermore to obey the will of the soul and the brain.The sun came over the low hills suddenly, andit was day. He gave one long slow shudderingsigh as his life blood chokedhim; then stretchedhis limbs out wearily, and lay there dead.

CHAPTER XVI.And the old mother was sitting at home blind,and teUingher wooden beads, and saying in herprayers:" Dear Mother of God, let him soon comeback, for whenIhear his voiceIseem to see ahttle still;itis not aU quite dark."Isat by my staU by the bridge, and it wasbrilliant noontide, and the waters were glancinglike satin in the sun, when the story of his deathcame to me. Giulio broughtitto me, rushinglikeamad creature down from the Golden HiU,hiswhite hair blowing from his bare head, and hiseyes seeming to leap from then- sockets." Themaster!the master! " he cried, and fora long time could say no more, staring at theskies and gasping the name of Maryx.VOL. III.Q

226 ARIADNE.AVhenIarose and understoodit seemed to meas if the Tiber ran blood, and as if all Romerocked with the throes of an earthquake.Maryx dead!It seemed to me asif the veryearth must groanaloud, and the very dogs of the streets weep.AVhy hadIbroken the steel in Venice ? — Icursed my imbecihty and my feebleness of purpose,Icursedthe mother that had borne me,a fool only fit to bring ruin on all fives thatIhonoured and loved!" ItisIwho have murdered him— I ! " Icriedloud to the terrified crowds.Fortune had blessed him for five and twentyyears,andIhad bade him pause that day by theAVingless Love!Iremember how bright the noon was,how thefresh winds from the sea rushed by,how thehttlebirds were singing, and how the swallows and thepigeons were whirling and darting above thewaters;andhe waslying dead,he whose thoughtsand whose labours had been strong as Hercules,and as Adonisbeautiful!He was dead — dead — dead — the great soul of

ARIADNE. 227him gone out into nothingness as the flame of thelamp he had struck down had been quenched inthe darkness.An awful silence seemedto fall onRome.There were so many wept for him.And none could be found who dared tell hismother for me — they say thatIwas mad, asIhad been that day whenIhad seen thewhite sailfade out of sight on the sea.Ihad murdered him — that was aU that seemedwritten to me, everywhere, on the sky as on ascroU, and on the streets as on tablets of stone.As the throngs of students and of poor rushedbyme over the bridge, going tohis beautiful home,where the sculptures were and the nightingales,to know if indeed this thing were true,Istood intheir wayand cried to them:" Throw mein the river,itisIwhokilled him.Iwas the first to bid him look onher face! "And they did not understand me and pushedme aside, andIseU, and some of them trampledon me as they rushed onward. AVhenIrose,bruised and crushed, a sudden memory struckacross my heavingbrain.q 2

228ARIADNE.The one for whom he had died she must notknow!oh, she must never know!Isaid to myself;yet how keep from her what all Romemourned, how deafen her ear to the woe thatwas a whole city's ?Istaggered up to the house on the GoldenHill,why,Iknow not, only as aU Rome wasflocking there; there was a great multitudebefore the gates, and there were throngs of hisown friends in the green garden ways.The old bhnd womanwithin heard the noise ofthe many feet, andnodded her head." That is all the princes come for him,Idaresay:he lives with the kings, you know," andthen, for she grew childish,she sent her maids" about: Go, tell them he is not home, but hewill be home to-night; yes, to-night. Ibadehim notbe long."And no one could be found who woulcl tell herthe truth. AVhen at last a priest told her, shewould not believe. She shook her head." Dead before me ? Nay,nay, Godis good."AVhen the priest sadly insisted, she would nothear.

ARIADNE. 229"Look you," she said to him: "the marblekilled them all, and the marble took the soul outof him, but God would not take his body too.No, becauseIshoidd be aU alone; God is toogood for that."And she told her beads, and they could notmake her beheve, since she was sure that Godwas good.Icrept back to my stall, shivering in the fuUsummer heat.By eveningIsent the Greek lad, who onlyhved to do her any service if he could, to saytothe people of Gioja thatIwas unwell andwoulcl be with her on the morrow, bidding himcaution those about her to keep the truth fromher ear.Ihad no fear that she woulcl come outinto the streets. She seldom went abroad, forwhen she needed air there was the great gardenof her own dwelling,and she never now left itsgates.The night and the day and another nightpassed.Isent the lad with messages[to her tosay thatIwas stdl sick, and should scarce be ableto traverse the city for a few clays:Ifelt asifI

230 ARIADNE.could neverlook upon her face and think of him,and holdmy silence — andsurely to know the truthwouldkill her.Icould not tell what to do.It seemed to me as if the earth could neverhold so much woe and still go on, through theair,round the sun, and bring the seasons onebyone, and the birth of the children.On the third day they brought his dead bodyhome to Rome. Great artists came with it.They laid the bier down in the north room:they laidit beneath the Apollo Cithæradus." A great man is dead," they said, " and thereare nonehvingdhat are Idee tohim."It was serenemidsummer weatherOutside, under the arbutus and laurel, hisnightingales were still flooding the evening airwith their music; his roses were blooming, hiscloves were sleeping under the leaves, his aloeswere unsheathing fresh blades in the light; thesunrays and the moonrays wandered by turnacross the marble floor, aU night long the birdssang — the birds he had loved to hear, — and helay dead there in his leaden shroud: under theApollo of the Lute.

ARIADNE. 231The people came there and stood there inlargeqidet crowds, at thnes weeping and waihng,foraU Rome had honoured him.His charities had been liberal as the fragranceof the summer, and the young and the oldmourned one with another, saying, ' to be inneed was to be his friend: ' but neither thelamentation of the people nor the song of thenightingales could reach the ear that was deaf forthe first time to then- sorrow and to then- song.He was dead: and HUarion had killed him.Isaid it over and over to myself, again andagain and again, kneelingon the thresholdof theroom by the side of Giulio: and stiUit seemedto meimpossible ; stUl it seemed to me that,ifindeed it were so, the earth must stand stUl, andthe sun cease to rise.The hghts burnedaround thebier; the shutterswere closed; the nightingales — sang without, wecould hear them; in her own chamber his—mother sat and told her beads and said"Dead? Nay, never! God is too good forthat."Idid not know how time went.Iseemed to

232ARIADNE.have knelt there for ever and ever; the candleswere like clusters of stars; the faint singing ofthe birds washke a child's dream of angels; theApolloleaned above onhis mutelyre; and inthemidst was Maryx dead.Isuppose two or three nights had passed, andstdl he lay there for the sight of the Romanpeople,and the multitudes came and went, softly,and weeping,until out of aU the great city therewerefew left who had not bent their knee therewhere he lay, and gone down, away under thestars, through the cypresses, saying, that earthhad not his like.OnceIheard the voice of a woman, saying:" There is one whomIpity more than he :itisthe man who slewhim."AVere there womenwho pitied Hilarion ?Doubtless some womenpitied Cam.In the gloom, whilst the lights were burningstill, some oneraised me at last,and thrust meout from the doorway,and there were torches likea great fire,flaring and flaming imder the warmsummer skies, and making the moonlight red;and there were voices chanting, and black robes

ARIADNE. 233and white, and the nightingales were frightenedand dumb : thenIknew that the end wascome.Istumbled out by the side of Giulio,and togetherwe went down the green garden paths,under the boughs, over the faUen orange flowersthat were hke snow upon the ground: for thelast time we foUowed him.His fellow sculptors bore his paU, and theyouths of the ATilla Medici were his firstmourners. Behind them were the crowds ofRome, the Ulustrious and the beggar side byside.Thus was his body borne down the GoldenHiU for evermore, over the bridge, across thewater,hi the hush of the night, and out of thecity gates, beyond the waUs, to the burial-groundby San Lorenzo.Ihad so little sense left in me, so little consciousness,save thatIwas alive, and stumbledon in the midst of the multitudes, with thethousands of flaming torches, and the tenthousand stars of fight that even the pooresthand had found means to carry there, amidst the

234ARIADNE.dull slow sound of the rolling wheels of theprinces and the tramp of the feet of the poor, andthe sighing moanof the chants as they rose andfell, thatInever remembered that the funeralmust pass onits road by the tower which stoodnear to the Gateway of Honorius.AAdienIremembered, the torches were alreadyburning on the wind under the very walls:Iscreamed aloud, but who should have heard, orhearing would have heeded ?Ilooked up: her casements were aU open:she was awake in the lovely summer night thatwas near onits twelfth hour.The people rolled on like the heavy waves of asea, and the flare, as of fire, illumined the silentsolitary way:Iwas borne on with the throngsonward and onward to the field of tombs.There the earth yawned and the grave tookhim.Iknow not how long atime had gone when themultitudes passed backward to the city,leavinghim there alone.The torches were burninglow; old men wereweeping hke little children, the children in their

ARIADNE. 235fathers' arms were silent and afraid;the sorrowof aU Rome was his requiem.As the crowds bore me with them through thegates,in the starlit midnight, the people nearestme gave way; a shadowy white figure came—through the press, andIsaw the face of Giojathere — unveUed, in the duU red glow of thetorchlight." AA'ho is it— dead?" she asked, and her voiceseemed to me to come from afar off as if from theheights of the ah- or the depths of the graves.BeforeIcould answer her, Ghdio spoke:willing to slay her if the words woulcl slay." Maryx is dead. AVhom else shouldaU Romemourn ?Yourlover killed him — for your sake."

CHAPTER XVII.The summer went on; the nightingales ofMaryx sang on under the rose thickets, and theglossy leaves of the laurels;the rank grass grewon his grave, and it was marked by one vastrough block of white marble, as though to say,thatnohand after his dared carve the rocks ; hismother, blind and in dotage, sat and told herwooden beads, and smiled and said always:" Dead ! Nay, nay; God weretoogood for that."Rome was empty and silent as the grave, andonly the hot winds wereleft to wander,unquiet,through the deserted streets.And she — my Ariadne,— was dying slowly asthe summer died." Youhave killed her!" Ihad said to Giuhothatnight.

ARIADNE. 237" So best," he had answered me; for his soulwas set against her as a thing accursed; he, whohad seen the blows of the mallet shatter thecopy of the Nausicaa.The wise men whomIbrought to her, saidthere was no disease; there may have beennone ; but none the lessIknew that her lifewas over,and the Greek lad knew it too, becausehe loved her. From that night when she hadseen the funeral of Maryx pass beneath herwaUs, and learned by whom he had been slain,she seemed to droop just as aflower wdl; thereis no decay that you can see; the blossomis lovely, and its leaves young, and the dews ofmorning are on it, but, nevertheless,it fades —fades — fades, and you know that in ahttle whileyou wiUrise some day and findit dead.AVho canmeasure what she felt ?Aidon never had more innocence and moreremorse — Aidon who slew what she cherished inthe dark, not knowing.By her had death come to the oneandcrime tothe other:had she beenin the old days of Rome,she woulcl have plungedher living body into the

238ARIADNE.yawning earth,or the leaping fires, to purify thesouls of those whom she had cursed." Let me go tohim!" she cried once ; for itwas still the living manof whom she thought themost, and perchance the womanin the crowdhadbeen right; perhapsit was he who needed pitythe most.Thenher head fell onher breast." Icannot,""she muttered. He wiU hateme for ever, — now."She dared not go tohim; she through whom,all innocently,Ids hands were red with the bloodof his friend.She was to herself accursed,and the death andthe sin thathad comeby her lay onher innocentsoullike lead, and under the ghastly weight of itthe youthinher withered as the grass withers upunder aheavy stone.Day by clay, slowly,the strengthin her waned,and the loveliness of her faded.To her none of the common excuses for hisact wouldhave been inteUigible. She understoodnone of the customs and conventions that rulethe world he dweltin;she couldnot have compre-

ARIADNE. 239bended whyin the eyes of men he had clone nowrong,but merely followed out his right in vengeanceof ablow. She knew nothing of aU this:she only understood that he had kdled his friend— through her.She, who would have dragged herself throughseas of blood to save him from pang or shame,had brought this guUt upon her head: thatwas aU she understood. For her Maryx haddied. For her Hdarion was a murderer. Thiswas aU she knew. A sense of overwhelmingand ineffaceable guUt seU uponher: she shrankaway, ashamed and afraid, from the hght of theday.Of himIheardnothing save thathe had notattempted to escape from whatever the laws ofhis fellows might do to him; thatIheard.Justice!Ilaughedaloud asIheard. What couldbring back the dead froni the sepulchre ? AVhatcould hght again the divine fires of the genius hehad quenched?Justice!ThenIunderstood how men could grow cruel.Had his doom been in myhands,Iwould have

240 ARIADNE.made every breath apang tohim such as DanteIdmself neverconceived inhell.There is no justice upon earth:andhardly anyvengeance. AVhen we are young we hope forboth;but we wait and wait,and we grow old,and death comes, but on justice we never havelooked. Death makes all men equal, say thepreachers. Oh, terrible irony! Equal he thethe murdered and the murderer.Once more, and for ever, the sword and theclue of Athene dropped from her weary hands.Art ceased to exist toher; from the sight of thewhiteness ofmarble she shrank as from the sightof a murdered creature;from the calm changelesseyes of the statues she fled as from the gazeof an avenginggod.She was innocent:yetthe Erinnyspursuedher,and night and day she had norest. AVith eachhot month of the summer the spirit within herseemed to faint more and more, and her bodygrew weaker and weaker, tiU at length she coiddnot rise, but lay there stdl and mute as theyoung angels that lie on the tombs with foldedhands and then- wings drooped, waiting

ARIADNE. 241" CouldI but suffer for him! " she said once;and it was still the living man that she meant.The dead waa at rest; but heIdared not say to her the thingIthought :that he suffered nothing, he who had slain menbefore this and only caUed it honour.She lay there,Isay, in the solitude of herchamber, and at last could not rise or moveat aU, and only saw the blue skies, and thechanges of sun and of stars, through the higharchedcasements barred with iron, with theblue veronica flowers hanging down them, andpast them the pigeons flying.The wise men said she should go from Rome,but that she woidd not do. Rome was to heras the mother in whose arms she would fainbreathe herlast.From the height of her chamber even as shelay she could see the whole width of the cityoutspread,and the long dark lines of the pineson the hdls, and the hght which told where thesea was. She would lie and look, as the dyingchUd looks at its mother's face.No one said she was dying;they said it wasVOL. IU. p.

242ARIADNE.weakness, and the hot heavy air of the summer.ButIknewit,and Amphion, and Ersilia, whosefierce eyes clouded with the rush os' tears whenevershe looked uponher.AVhether she knew it herselfIcannot tell;shehad so little thought of herself. All her life hadpassed away to the dead in his grave and theliving man with his sin. If she could havegone to Hilarion,Ithink she woulcl still havefound strength to live.Out in the world of men, fame awaited her,forthemyriad tongues of it made her their theme ;and because herlaurel had grown out of passionand death, the world spoke but the more of it,and was readyto crown as its reigning capricethis woman of so much loveliness and so muchgenius who had been so faithlessly forsaken andso fatally beloved.But the world called in vahi.As well might the Satyrs and SUeni have triedto wake Ariadne, dead on the shore, with theshaft inher breast.Men came to me, great men and other menwhose trade it was to chaffer in the works of

ARIADNE. 243genius; and they aU told the same tale; and thetrumpets of Fame were blowing loud in herhonour yonder over the mountains, and Romeitself began to wake and say, " AVhat daughter ofmine is this that has the ancient strength andthe ancient graceinher ? "ButIheard them, and bade them go theirways.They came too late.The trumpets of Fame sounded but as theemptyhooting of the gnats;the voice of Romewas as the voice of Niobe calling in vain."You come too late,"Isaid to them; andmy eyes were dry and my brain was calm; forthe gods had done their worst, and the earthmight as well have perished for aught that itheld for me.The summer wore away;the desert winds blewhotly, filled with sand,and drivingit; and bringingthe pestilence from the reedy swamps and thefeebleness of slow sickness from the shallows ofthe river.The vastness of Rome lay under the sun hkea graveyard: Death had been digging thereK 2

244ARIADNE.three thousand years, and had yet not done hislabours.The sky waslike abrazen vessel,and the feet ofthe few passing people sounded always like thesteps of muffled mourners burying their dead.By night in the white streets there seemed to beno other thing than the masked men and thetorches and the dead.It wasnot a sickher season thananyother, theysaid;but thusit seemed everto me, andthenoiseof the fountains lost allmelody to my ears, andsounded only a duU hollow murmur, as of a seathat could neverwash out thecrimes of thebloodstainedearth.Iwandered stupidly to and fro, and nearlyalways, day and night, sat on the threshold ofher door, the dog beside me.Icould do her no good.Itis hard to suffer oneself; but not to be ableto spare from suffering what we love — that isworse. She was almost always silent. Silenceseemed to have fallen onher like a spell. Fromthe night when Giulio had told her the hideoustruth she had scarcely spoken, save once or twice,

ARIADNE. 245when she had cried out that she would go to him,by whom this death had come.She grew stiUer and stdler, whiter and whiter,day by day; nothing seemed alive in her saveher great, lovely, lustrous eyes; her limbs laymotionless.At timesIused to think that shewas changing into the marble she had loved somuch. At timesIgrew foohsh and mad, andwoulcl go to the place where Hermes stood andcaU aloud tohim to help her — he who had madewomen out of sport.But neither from Hermes nor from any othergod could any help come.One day she broke her silence and said to me," How long shall Ifive ? "Ibroke down and wept."As long as God wills! " Ianswered her, asany other woulcl have done, since we are used tospeak so — we who know nothing"ButIam near death?"" Oh, my dear! oh, my love! AVe cannottell! ""I can tell," she said slowly; then, for thefirst time since that awful night when she had

246ARIADNE.heard of the death of Maryx, the large tearsgathered inher eyes and rolled down her wastedcheeks." Ithought to makehimhear thenightingales,"she said; and then her eyes closed and she wasdumb once more.She had thought that through her only theangels of the spring woulcl fill his life, and shehad brought him instead the curse of crime!Ikneeled down and kissed her slender hands,which had had strength to call out such nobleshapes from the dull stone, and make it speak tomen." Oh,mydear, you are innocent as the children"unborn,"Imurmured. How could you makehim hear, when he loved best the laughter ofdevils! "She sighed wearily and shook her head, hereyes and her lips were still closed. In her ownsight she was guilty; guilty of havingmissed theway to hold his soul and keepit.She had given all her life, butit had not beenenough;it had not sufficed to hold his heart tohers one moment. AVith all her force she had

ARIADNE. 247striven;but evil had been stronger than she;ithad beaten her,and when she had cried to thegods, they had been silent.For what can be stronger than vileness,andof what avail is love?Iwent outfromher chamber andintothe drouthand drought of the air. No rain had faUen formany weeks, and the wind was full of hot sand,and the air was full of the hissing and hootingof stinging things." The wise men on the thresholdsaid to me indeed, indeed, there is nodisease, none at all that we can see."AndIseemed no doubt to be mad to them, forIsaid,inreply:" Nay,nay, the laurel was set in her breast,and that kiUs, when the breastis — a woman's. Ifnot the temple of Lubentina, then death. Andthe temple she would not enter. Were she vileshe were living now, Uving and laughing andlaughing loud! "AndIwent and wandered the streets, and thedog followed me spiritless and sonowful, andas wepassedby the Greek lad, he said to me:"In the verse that she once read to me they

248 ARIADNE.threw inthe flames what they loved the best — see,Ihave broken my flute and burnt it. AViU thatplease the gods she told me of ? will they beappeased? wiU they save her ? "Ah, heaven! since ever the world began, menand women have been burning their treasuresinvain,and neverhas any answer come.It was a parching, sultry,misty day, with nosunshine,but a heavy heat everywhere;Iwanderedinto the woods of Borghese, and into thehalls and chambers of the .sculpture, and — stoodbefore the Ariadne. It seemed so cruel; therewas the bronze head, beautiful and strong, withthe ivy leaves around it, and there it would stayno doubt century after century,in thelightthere,whde she,its living likeness, would perish as aflower perishespluckedbefore its time.Mine had been only a dream; nothingbut adream;and she had to die for that.It seemed to me as if the hps of the lovelyThespianLove parted,andmoved, and said, " Fora great love the earth is too narrow; and where-Iamnot,Deathis kind."Isat down in the CæsarGaUery,and leaned:

ARIADNE. 249my tired forehead on my hands, and wished thatIhad never wakened from my sleep that summermorning when the gods had spokeninmy dream.The place was solitary, and not a soul wasnear; the clay was waning;through theiron barsof the casements the turf, burnt yeUow by thesun,looked full of glare against the black denseshadows of the ilex leaves; the insects hootinginthe branches sounded like the mocking of thefates;thebloated bestial emperors seemed to leerlike living things. Ithought the imperial wantoninher high chamber up above wassurelylaughing.Aye,indeed, it must seem strange to harlotsthat a womancan so love that death is sweetertoher than fame orgold or homage, or the worldof men, or any consolations of the senses andthe vanities of hfe;it must seem strange, forwhat should faithless womenknow of Love, theywho worship those poor base gods, Apate andPhilotes ?Ileaned my head upon my hands, and shutout from my sight the grey and sickly day;pestilence was abroad in all those amber andbrown glades of the scorched woods, and all

250 ARIADNE.that purple darkness of sweet shade: but thatdid not matter to me;it would harm me nomorethan it woulcl harm the infant Herakles smilingin his lion's skin: when life isno longer a desireto us,it will stay with us faithfully.Isat and thought,not of the bronzes or themarbles,butof themanwhohad come tomethere,onthat clay of my dream, with thesunlight shininginhis brave brown eyes, and smiling said: " stillbefore your Ariadne ? And if it be an Ariadne,who cares for her ? she couldbe consoled."But this my Ariadne had refused all consolation,and he — the man to whom Fortunehadbeengood for five and twenty years — was dead.Isat weary and stupid in the grey sultry air,before the feet of the white Dionysos, thinkingonly of the great hfe that had gone out like theflame of a lamp, and of the young life that wasfading slowly, dying as the summer died, unreconciledand unconsoled, though the hoarySilenus of the world had brought her thefoaming wine of fame, and the god that is arthad descended to her.Ifelt weary and stupid: a step came to me

ARIADNE. 251■over the marble floor;Ilooked up, and it woulclnot have seemed to me strange to have seen thegods arise, asIhad seen them in my dream. Ilooked up,andIsaw Hilarion.How canIteU whatIfelt ?Iput out my hands and thrust at themere air,as onimpulse one would do seeing some deadlyshape in the darkness. He stood between meand the bronze Ariadne.The strange colours of the light, yellow andgrey and weird, seU upon his face:Iraised myvoice to curse him, to curse him in his uprising-andhis downlying,inhis present and his future,in hfe and in death, as men of oldcursed whattheyabhorred. Butsomethingin his face stoppedme, and froze the torrent on my lips:it was theface of a manon whom every curse of God andmenhadalready fallen. Itwas the face of one whohad killed his best friend: those who have lookedon the Uke can understand — no other can.Hestood erect,and his old proud grace wasunchanged,becauseit was in him as it was in thestatuesaround,buthis beauty waslike thebraised,faded, worn beauty of a marble that has been

252 ARIADNE.subject to every storm and scorch of weatherthrough long years, and his eyes had the piteousbeseeching humiliation of a man vanquished andloathsome to himself.I.could not curse 1dm then; no more thanIcouldhave struck a woundedprisoner whose handswere fettered: there was that on his face whichtold me that the woman in the crowd had beenright, when she hadpitiedhimmore than the manhe had slain.He spoke first, and his voice had lost all itsaccustomedmelody,and sounded faint,yetharsh." Say nothing to me,""he muttered. Youcan say nothing thatIhave not heard night andclay, ever — since, in the air, all around. Saynothing tell me where she is ?"Iwas sUent: to me it was so horrible to beface to face with him, that he enchained me onlyby his gaze, as they say that some great snakesdo. And he was so changed!' Great God, sochanged! as the white Dionysos wouldhavebeen,dragged through flame andcarnage and the smokeof war.He spoke again.

ARIADNE. 253"I came as soon asIwas free. AVhere isshe ? "" AA'hat is she to you ?" Isaid." You neverloved her! "My mouth felt dry as if drink had not passedmy hps for days;Icould scarcely shape mywords to cast his ownagainst him."I never loved her; no! The greater mycurse."His voice was fahit,and had a strange soundinit. In his eyes there was a look that woke abitter pity in me, — pityIthrust away as vilestwrong toMaryx and to her. Imasteredit." Go you your ways,"Isaid"to him. Youhave done nothing that wUl make you unfit foryour great world; nothing agahist honour orthe codes of men. Go. The dead are dead.AVomen wUl not love you less; normenless feastyou. Nay,you will have a charm the more forboth. To me you are a murderer, but not tothem. Iam an ignorant man, — and low andpoor,and do not understand. Go that is allIask ofyou.He stood with his head bent patiently;he was

254ARIADNE.humble before me as a slave before his master,he, — who had treated the world as a clog, andlashed it and kicked it,and had hadit fawn onhim the more, for all his careless and audaciousinsolence." You must say what you choose," he muttered." It is waste of words. You cannot say to mewhatIhave not merited. Ihave taken a lifethat was beside my own, as Christ's beside aSatyr's!— "His face had a strange convulsion onit;theblood seemed toburn onhis brow, and leave hislips an ashen white ; he put his hand to histhroat as though some other hand were there andchokinghim." Go and forget,"Isaid to him." Ithasbeen— your boast you have nomemories, you do notchoose to have;you havemocked atpooriUiteratefools who spoke of regret or conscience. Go;write a poemon it; you have often said the poetshould use the sufferings of others for his lamp,as, southward, they kill fireflies to read with:that is all."" A'ou are cruel," he said simply, and with his

ARIADNE. 255oldcold accent;but he stoodpatiently;eveninmyloathing of him some shame of myself stirred inme;Ihad struck a wounded man, and one whowas at my mercy." Go! why will you not go?" Icried to him"furiously. AVhy come here to insult theirgraves? Is the world not wide enough that youmust drag your crimes to Rome ? Rome lovedhim, leave him alone to her. Go,Isay. Youare soilless — enough, as the world — sees, yourworld, nay,you will seduce womenall the easierfor that blood upon yourhand. Most womenarebut beasts of prey, and love the smeil of carnage.Iam cruel ? How many have cried that outagahist you, and when have you everhearkened ?AVhat was your pity, ever? AVhat was a deadlove to you ? You cast your porca præsentanea—after it, and buried it, and thought no moreexcept to smile. AVhy cannot you smile now?Be trae to yourself. Nothing matters. Youcanmake the world weep, you laughing all thewhile. Aye, you are right. His life was toyours as Christ's to a Satyr's: one day of hisbrought forth aharvest that all your ban-en years

256 ARIADNE.can never show. He blessed the nations:youhave cursed them. He loved:you betrayed. Helived for allmankind:youfor thenarrowkingdom— of your senses. And you have killed him you.—But hi a twelvemonth you will have forgottenwhywill you stand there? A'ou will have forgotten:you wiU — tell the world the story insonorous verse and then forget. Go, beforeIdo worse to you;Iamold and would not offendheaven."— He stood quite silent silent and patient, andwith the discolouredpaleness asof bruisedmarbleon Ids face. Then suddenly he put out hishands with a pathetic gesture, almost like atimid child's, and a great sob heaved hisbreast." Have some mercy. Do you not see ? — Isuffer! "There was silence betweenus.Iunderstood that he did suffer, passing allpowerof man to make him suffer more.A compassion thatIcould no longer combatstole into me. Ah,if Maryx, lyingin his grave,could have seen into my soul, he would not have

ARIADNE. 257beenangered; he woulcl havepitied his murderertoo.There was stillness between us.He leaned one hand on the pedestal of theDionysos, and stood with his head and shouldersbowed so thatIcouldnot seehis face.The day wasdeclining; the shadows weregrowingdark: they began to veU the bronze of theAriadne." AVhere is she ?" he said suddenly." What matter to you?" Isaid tohim." Can younot understand ? " he said,and hislaboured breath seemed to choke him as hespoke." If she do not shrink from me — ifIdonot appal her — what atonementIcan makeIwdl. Inever loved her — no. He did; as noother man could have done. Inever lovedher; but her message in the marble — thatIunderstood. She loves me: no other womancould ever love like that. If she do notshrink from me, whatIcan doIwill. AATiathonour, what peace, what amendsIcanrender herIwill give. Beside her innocence,her hohness,Iam vile indeed; but sinceVOL. III.S

258ARIADNE.she clings to me thus,IshaU have power toconsole."Imade himno answer,It seemed to me as if aU the devils of hellswarmed in the beautiful marble chamber, andjibedand laughedand mocked around us, crying," All things come toolate!"Ilooked up at him. The day was at an end;the dull red glow of a clouded sunset shonethrough the hon bars of the casement, andbathed the feet of the white sculptures as in asea of blood."You woidd do this?"He answered," By his hfe and byhis deathI swear it — yes."Iturned my face to the sunset andIsaid tohim, " Come! "Iwent out of the halls and through the gladesof the wood. He walked beside me. The bellsof the city were tolling far the last hour of hght.Around us were greyness and darkness.Awayin the great west that fronted us as wepassed down into Rome was the glow of the sunthat had sunk; behind the dark trees of the

ARIADNE. 259ATatican there were long low lines of tremulousluminance,and a vast held of pale, softblue, and above it a deep flush hke ' the awfulrose of dawn.'He closedhis eyes as aUits beauty met them.Never more could he look with calm gaze at allthe lovely mysteries of the air, or watch withpeace the glories of the sky.We passed without a word through the entangledstreets of the city.At last we reached her threshold,and climbedthe winding stair.It was almost dark: they had lit one lamp.There was the cryof the owls inthe dusk.Iopened her door. She lay quite still asIhadleft her; the chin gold of her curls seU overthe broad low brow that was the brow ofAriadne;her hps were slightly parted;her eyesgazedat the westernsky:where shelooked,therewas stiU a pale radiance and aflush left by thedead clay.Isigned tohim to enter.He entered; and looked." My God! She is dying!" he caUed aloud,

260ARIADNE.with a cry that rang through all the lonelyhouse.She heard his voice, and sprang up onher narrow bed, and stretched her arms tohim.He sank onhis knees beside her" You can forgive ? " he cried to herIn answer her white and wasted arms stoleabout his throat, and her lips sought his." Live, oh live!" he moaned as he knelt." Live for me— Ilove you!"Andfor the first time he told no lieShe made him no answer, but her arms restedabout his throat, and her cheek was against hisown. For a few moments she lay thus; thenwith ahttlesigh she moved alittle and lifted hertender weary eyes,to his." Forgive me— Imissed the way!" she murmuredfaintly while her sight grew blind.Thenher lips sought his once more, and onhis ownthey trembled one momentlonger, then grew coldand stiU.He loved her — and she was dead.

ARIADNE. 261L'ENVOI.Isit by the fountain in the wall, and thewater has no songfor me. The years have goneby;andIcease to count them. He lives andhe cannot forget,andheloves what is dead. Theworld seems empty, and the skies are dark. Allaround meIhear the Satyrslaughing, the Satyrswho could not net the soul of Ariadne. Theyblow on then- pipes, and the mad world dances:yet all they sing is for ever but this :" AU things come toolate! "THE END.EP.ADBPRY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.

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8 BOOKS PUBLISHEDBYCrown Svo, cloth gilt, Two very thick Volumes, ys. 6d. each.Cruikshank's Comic Almanack.Complete in Two Series:The First from 1835 to 1843;theSecond from 1844 to 1853. A Gatheringof the Best Humourof Thackeray, Hood, Mayhew, Albert Smith, A'Beckett,Robert Brough, &c. With 2000 Woodcuts and SteelEngravings by Cruikshank, Hine, Landells, &c.To be Completed inTwenty-four Parts, quarto, at 5^. each, profuselyillustrated by Coloured and PlainPlates and Wood Engravings,The CyclopædiaofCostume;or, A — — Dictionary of Dress Regal, Ecclesiastical, Civil, and Militaryfrom the Earliest Period in England to the reign of Georgethe Third. Including Notices of Contemporaneous Fashions onthe Continent,andprecededby a General History of the Costumesof the Principal — Countries of Europe. By J. R. Planch£,Somerset Herald. A Prospectus will be sent uponapplication.Part XVI.just ready."A most readable and interesting work — and it can scarcelybe consulted invain, vjhetlier the reader is in searchfor information as to military, court,ecclesiastical, legal,orprofessionalcostume. . .. All the chromo-lithographs,andmostof the woodcut illustrations — the latteramountingto several thousands— areveryelaboratelyexecuted;andthe work forms — alivre de luxe whichrendersitequallysuitedtothe library andthe ladies'drawing-room." Times.* * PartXIV. contains the Corns lesionofthe DICTIONARY, which,as Vol. I.of the Book,forms a Complete Work in itself. This volumemay now be had, handsomely bound in half redmorocco,gilt top,price,£3 13J. 6d. Casesfor binding the volume may alsobe had,price $s. each.The remainingParts willbe occupiedby the GENERAL HISTORYOF THE COSTUMES OF EUROPE, arranged Chronologically.Parts I. to X. now ready, 2ii, each.A History ofHertfordshire.ByJohn E. Cussans. Illustrated with full-page Plates on Copperand Stone, and a profusion of small Woodcuts." Mr. Cussans has, from sources not accessible to Clutterbuck, made mostvaluableadditions to the manorialhistoryofthe county from the earliest perioddownwards, cleared up many doubtful points, and given original details concerningvarioussubjectsuntouchedorimperfectly treated by that writer. Thepedigreesseemtohavebeen constructed withgreat care, andarea valuableadditionto the genealogical history of the county. Mr. Cussans appears to have donehis work conscientiously, and to havesparedneither time, labour,nor expensetorender his volumes worthy ofrankingin tliehighest class of CountyHistories."— Academy.Demy 8vo, half-bound morocco, 2U.Dibdin's Bibliomania;or, Book-Madness : A Bibliographical Romance. With numerousIllustrations. A New Edition, with a Supplement, including aKey to the Assumed Characters in the Drama.

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10 BOOKS PUBLISHEDBYCrown Svo, cloth boards, 6s. per Volume;a few LargePapercopies (only 50 printed), at 12s. per Vol.Early English Poets.Edited, withIntroductionsand Annotations,byRev.A.B.GROSART." Mr. Grosart has spentthemost laborious andthe most enthusiastic careonthe perfect restoration andpreservationof the text;andit isvery unlikelythatany otheredition of thepoet can everbe calledfor. . . FromMr.Grosart wealwaysexpect andalways receivethefinalresults ofmostpatient and competentscholarship" — Examiner.I. Fletcher's (Giles,B.D.)CompletePoems: Christ's Victoriein Heaven, Christ's Victorie onEarth, Christ's Triumph overDeath, and Minor Poems.With Memorial-Introduction andNotes. OneVol.2. Davies' (Sir John)Complete Poetical Works, includingPsalms I.to L.in Verse,and other hitherto UnpublishedMSS., for the first time Collectedand Edited. With Memorial-Introductionand Notes.Two Vols.Complete Collected Poems. WithMemorial-Introductionand Notes,Steel Portrait, Index of FirstLines, and Glossarial Index, &c.Three Vols.4. Sidney's (Sir Philip)Complete Poetical Works, includingall those in "Arcadia."With Portrait, Memorial-Introduction,Essay on the Poetry ofSidney, andNotes. Three Vols.5. Donne's (Dr. John)Complete Poetical Works, includingthe Satires and variousfrom MSS. With Memorial-Introductionand Notes.3.Herrick's(Robert)Hesperides,Noble Numbers, and \Inthepress.'■.* Othervolumesarein activepreparation.Crown 8vo, cloth extra, with Illustrations, 6s.Fairholt's Tobacco:Its Historyand Associations;with an Account of the Plant andits Manufacture, and its Modesof Usein all Ages and Countries.By F. W. Fairholt, F.S.A. A New Edition, with Coloured" Frontispiece andupwards of 100 Illustrations by the Author.A verypleasant and instructivehistoryof tobacco and its associations, whichwe cordially recommend alike to the votaries and to the enemies of the muchmalignedbutcertainlynot neglected weed. . . . Pull of interest and information."—DailyNews.Crown 8vo, cloth extra, with Illustrations, 4s. 6d.Faraday's ChemicalHistoryofa Candle.Lectures delivered to a Juvenile Audience. A New Edition.Edited by W. Crookf.s, F.C.S. With numerous Illustrations.Crown 8vo, cloth extra,with Illustrations, 4s. 6d.Faraday's Various Forces ofNature.ANewEdition. Editedby W. Crookes,F.C.S. With numerousIllustrations.

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12BOOKS PUBLISHED BYThe Ruskin Grimm. — Square crown Svo, cloth extra, 6s. 6d.;gilt edges, "]s. 6d.German Popular Stories.Collected by the Brothers Grimm, and Translated by EdgarTaylor. Edited, with an Introduction, by John Ruskin.With 22 Illustrations after the inimitable designs of George"Cruikshank. Both Series Complete.Tlu>illustrations of'this volume....are of quite sterlingandadmirableart,ofa class precisely parallelin elevation to the characterof the tales whichthey illustrate;andtheoriginal etchings,asIhavebeforesaidin theAppendixtomy ' Elements ofDrawing,'wereunrivalledinmasterfulness of touchsinceRembrandt{insome qualitiesofdelineation,unrivalled evenby him). . ..Tomakesomewhat enlarged copies of them, looking at them througha magnifyingglass,andneverputtingtwo lines whereCruikshank hasputonly one, wouldbeanexercisein decision andseveredrawingwhichwouldleaveafterwards little to belearntin schools." — Extractfrom Introduction by John Ruskin.One Vol. crown 8vo, cloth extra,

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CHATT0 &" WINDUS, PICCADILLY. 15Three Vols.royal 4to, cloth boards, £6 6s.HistoricalPortraits;Upwards of 430 Engravings of Rare Prints.Comprising theCollections of Rodd, Richardson, Caulfield, &c. "WithDescriptive Text to every Plate, giving a briefoutline ofthe mostimportant Historical and Biographical Facts andDates connectedwith each Portrait, andreferences to original Authorities.Two Vols. 8vo, cloth extra, with Illustrations, 36*.Haydon's Correspondence& Table-Talk.With a Memoir by his Son, Frederic Wordsworth Haydon.Comprising a large number of hitherto UnpublishedLetters fromKeats, Wilkie, Southey, Wordsworth, Kirkup, LeighHunt, Landseer,Horace Smith, SirG. Beaumont,Goethe,Mrs. Siddons, Sir Walter Scott, Talfourd, Jeffrey, MissMitford, Macready, Mrs. Browning, Lockhart, Hallam,and others. With 23 Illustrations, including Facsimiles of manyinteresting Sketches,Portraits of Haydonby Keats and Wilkie,and Haydon's Portraits of Wilkie, Keats, and MariaFoote.'* Therecan, we think, be no question of its interest in a purelybiographicalsense, orofitsliterarymerit. The letters and table-talk form a most valuablecontribution tothe socialandartistic historyofthetime." — PallMallGazette.Two Vols. royal8vo, with Coloured Frontispieces,cloth extra,£2 $s.Hope's Costume of the Ancients.Illustratedinupwardsof 320 Outline Engravings, containing Representationsof Egyptian, Greek, and Roman Habits andDresses. " The substance ofmany expensive works,containingall that may benecessaryto give to artists, and even to dramatic performers and to others engaged inclassical representations,anidea ofancient costumessufficientlyampletopreventtheiroffendingin theirperformances bygross andobvious blunders."Crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, "]s. 6d.Hood's (Thomas) Choice Works,In Prose and Verse. Including the Cream OF THE COMICAnnuals. With Life of the Author, Portrait, and over TwoHundred originalIllustrations."Not onlydoes the volume include the better-known poems bythe author,butalso whatishappilydescribedas ' ' the Cream ofthe ComicAnnuals.' Such deliciousthingsas Don't yousmell Fire? ' — 'Tlie Parish Revolution,' and ' Muggins andDuggins,"willnever want readers." GraphicCrown 8vo, cloth extra, with Photographic Portrait,6s.Hood's (Tom) Poems, Humorous andPathetk. Edited, witha Memoir, by his Sister, Frances FreelingBroderip.

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CHATT0 & WINDUS, PICCADILLY. 17Two Vols. Svo, with 52 Illustrations and Maps, cloth extra, gilt, 14s.Josephus's Complete Works.Translated by Whiston. Containing both"The Antiquities ofthe Jews," " and The Wars of theJews."Small 8vo, cloth, full gilt, gilt edges, with Illustrations, 6s.Kavanaghs' PearlFountain,By Bridget and Julia Kavanagh.And other Fairy Stories.With Thirty Illustrations by" J. Moyr Smith.Genuine new fairy storiesof theold type, some of them as delightfulas thebest of Grimm's ' German PopularStories.' .... For the most part, thestories are downright,thorongh-s'oingfairy stories ofthe most admirable kind.. . . . Mr. Moyr Smith's illustrations, too, are admirable. Look at thatwhiterabbit.Anyone wouldsee at the first glance that he is a rabbit with amiiui,anda very uncommonmind too — that he is a fairy rabbit, andthat he isposing as chief adviser to some one— -without reading evenaword of thestory.Again,notice the fairy-like effect ofthe little pictureof the fairy-bird ' Don'tforget-me,'flyingawaybackinto Jairy-land. A more perfectly dream-like impressionoffairy-landhas hardly been given in any illustration of fairy tales-within our knowledge." — Spectator.Crown Svo, cloth extra, gilt, with Portraits, ys. 6d.Lamb 's Complete Works,In Prose and Verse,reprinted from the Original Editions, withmany Pieces hitherto unpublished. Edited, withNotes and Introduction,byR. H. Shepherd. " With Two Portraits andFacsimileof apage of the Essay on Roast"Pig."A complete edition of Lamb's writings, inprose and verse, has longbeenwanted, and is new supplied. The editor appears to have taken great painsto bringtogether Lamb's scattered contributions, and his collection contains anumberofpieces whichare now reproduced — for the first time since theiroriginalappearance in variousoldperiodicals." SaturdayReview.Crown 8vo, cloth extra, withnumerous Illustrations, ioj.6d.Mary & Charles Lamb:Their Poems, Letters, and Remains. With Reminiscences andNotes by W. Carew Hazlitt. With Hancock's Portrait oftheEssayist, Facsimiles ofthe Title-pages ofthe rareFirst Editionsof Lamb's and Coleridge's Works, andnumerousIllustrations.*'Verymanypassages will delight those fondof literary trifles;hardly — anyportionwillfailininterest forloversofCharlesLambandhissister." Standard.Crown 8vo, cloth extra, with Illustrations, 7*. 6d.Life inLondon ;or, The History of Jerry Hawthorn and Corinthian Tom. Withthe whole of Cruikshank's Illustrations, in Colours, after the'Originals.

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CHATT0 &> WINDUS, PICCADILLY. 19Crown 8vo, cloth extra, with Illustrations, 2>. 6d.MadreNatura v.TheMolochofFashion.By Luke Limner. With 32 Illustrations by the Author.Fourth Edition, revised and enlarged." Agreeably -written and amusinglyillustrated. — Common sense and eruditionarebrought tobear on thesubjects discussed init." Lancet.*-Magna Charta.Handsomely printedinfacsimile, price 5*.An exact FacsimUe of the Original Document in the BritishMuseum, printedon fine plate paper, nearly 3 feet longby 2 feetwide, with the Arms and Seals of the Barons emblazoned in Goldand Colours.%* A fuU Translation, with Notes, ona large sheet, 6d.Small 8vo, cloth extra, withIllustrations, ys. 6d.MarkTwain'sAdventtiresof Tojn SawyerWith One HundredIllustrations."Theearlierpart of the book is to our — thinkingtlie most amusing thingMarkTwain has -written. The humour is not always uproarious, but it is alwaysgenuine,andsometimes almost patlietic." Athenæum.** A book tobe read. Thereis acertainfreshness and novelty about it,apracticallyromantic character, so to speak, which will make it very attractive."—Spectator.Crown Svo, cloth extra, withIllustrations, ys. 6d.Mark Twain's Choice Works.Revised and Corrected throughout by the Author.Portrait, and numerousIllustrations.Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.With Life,Mark Twain's Pleasure Trip on theContinent of Europe. ("The Innocents Abroad," and "TheNew Pilgrim's Progress.")Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 8s.Marston's (Philip B.)AllinAll:Poems and Sonnets.Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 8j-.Marston's (Philip B.)Song Tide,Andother Poems. Second Edition." This is afrst work of extraordinary performance — and of stillmore extraor*dinarypromise. Theyoungest schoolofEnglishpoetry has receivedanimportaniAccession toits ranksinPhilipBourke Marston." Examiner.

20BOOKS PUBLISHEDBYTwo Vols. crown Svo, cloth extra, 18/.Marston's (Dr. Westland) DramaticandPoetical Works. Collected Library Edition." The 'Patrician's Daughter' is anoasis in the desert of modem dramaticliterature,arealemanation of mind. We do not recollect anymodern work inwhich statesofthought are sofreely developed,except the ' Torquato Tasso ' ofGoethe. Theplayis a work ofartin the same sense tluitaplayofSophoclesis a"workofart;it is onesimpleidea inastate ofgradualdevelopment . . . ' TheFavourite of Fortune' is one of the most important additions to the stock ofEnglishprose comedythathas been made duringthepresent century." — TlMES.Crown Svo, cloth extra, gilt, gilt edges, 7^. 6a".Muses ofMayfair :Vers de Societe of the Nineteenth Century. Including Selectionsfrom Tennyson, Browning, Swinburne, Rossetti, JeanIngelow, Locker, Ingoldsby, Hood, Lytton, C. S. C;Landor,Austin Dobson, &c. Edited by H. C. Pennell.Demy Svo, uniform with "AcademyNotes," is.NationalGallery,PictorialNotesin the.(The British School.) With upwardsof 100 Illustrations ofthe principal Pictures at Trafalgar Square. Edited by HenryBlackburn.Crown Svo, cloth extra, with Vignette Portraits, price 6s.;. per Vol.The OldDramatistsBen Jonson's Works.With Notes, Critical and Explanatory,and a BiographicalMemoir by William Gifford.Edited by Col. Cunningham.Three Vols.Chapman 's Works.Now First Collected. Completein Three Vols. Vol. I. containsthe Plays complete,including thedoubtful ones; Vol. II. thePoems and Minor Translations,with an Introductory Essay byFcap. 8vo, cloth extra.1, 6s.Algernon CharlesSwinburne;Vol.III. the Translationsof the Iliad and Odyssey.Marlowe's Works.Including his Translations. Edited,withNotes and Introduction,by Col. Cunningham. One Vol.Massinger's Plays.From the Text of WilliamGifford. With the addition ofthe Tragedy of " Believe as youList." Edited by Col. Cunningham.One Vol.O'Shaughuessy 's (Arthur) An Epic ofWomen, and other Poems. Second Edition.

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22 BOOKS PUBLISHEDBYThe Piccadilly Novels — continued.The Frozen Deep.Illustrated by G.Du Maurier andJ. Mahoney. By Wilkie Collins.The Lawand the Lady.Illustrated by S.L. Fildes and Sydney Hall.By Wilkie Collins.V Also aPOPULAR EDITIONof WILKIE COLLINS'SNOVELS, post 8vo, Illustrated boards, 2s. each.Felicia.By M. Betham-Edwards."With a Frontispieceby W. Bowles.A noblenovel. Its teachingiselevated,its story is sympathetic, andthe kindoffeelingitsperusalleaves behind is that more ordinarily derivedfrom music crpoetrytlianfromprosefiction.— Few worksinmodernfiction standashighin ourestimation as this." Sunday Times.Patricia Kemball.By E. Lynn Linton." With Frontispiece by G.DuMaurier.A veryclever and well-constructed story, originaland striking, interesting— allthrough. " A novelaboundingin thoughtand power andinterest." Times.Displays genuinehumour, aswellas keensocial observation. Enoughgraphicportraitureand — -witty observation tofurnish materials forlialf-a-dozen novels ofthe ordinarykind." SaturdayReview.TheAtonement of Learn Dundas.By e.Lynnlinton.Witha Frontispieceby Henry" Woods.Inkernarrowness and ker depth,in herboundless loyalty,Jierpassion, self-forgettingthat exclusiveness of love which is akin to cruelty, and the fiercehumility which is vicarious pride, Learn Dundas isa strikingfigure. In onequality the authoress has in some measure surpassed herself. —Pall MallGazette.TheEvilEye,andother Stories. ByKatharine s.Macquoid.' Illustrated by Thomas R. Macquoid and Percy Macquoid.'Cameos delicately, ifnot very minutelyorvividly,wrought,andquite finishedenough to give a pleasurablesense ofartistic — ease andfaculty. Amendationwordofcom-is merited bythe illustrations." Academy.Number Seventeen.By Henry Kingslet.Oakshott Castle.By Henry Kingsley.With a Frontispieceby Shirley Hodson."A brisk and clear north windof sentiment— sentiment that braces insteadenervating— blows through — all his works,and makes ofall their readershealthier andmoreglad." Spectator.at once0PZ "', SelTl'\ _.*y Florence Marryat." Illustrated by F. A. Fraser.A — story which arouses and sustains ihe reader's interest to ahigher degreethan, perhaps, any of its author's former works. .. . A verystory." Graphic.excellentW/"iaiiieS- __ _ „ Mrs- Oliphant.With Illustrations k byA.Hopkinsand H. Woods."Js„"iI,->' — " pleasant and readable book, written with practical ease andgrace. Times.

CHATTO &" WINDUS, PICCADILLY. 23The Piccadilly Novels— continued.Tlie Best of Husbands.Illustrated byJ. Moyr Smith.By James Payn.Walter's Word.ByJames Payn.Illustrated by J. Moyr Smith.Halves.By James Payn.With a*' Frontispieceby J. Mahoney.His ntroels are always commendable in the sense of art. They alsopossessanotlcer distinct claim to our liking:thegirts in them are remarkablycharmingandtrue to nature, as most people, — we betiez'e, liave tlie good fortuneobserve tonature represented by girls." Spectator.The Way weLive Now.By Anthony trollope." With Illustrations.Mr. Trollopehas a true artist's idea of tone, of colour, of harmony:hispictures are one, and seldom out of drawing; lie never strains caricature."— aftereffect, isfidelity itself in expressing English life, is never guilty ofFortnightly Review.Diamond CutDiamond.By t.a.trollope.11Full oflife, of interest, of close observation, and sympathy.... — WhenMr. Trollopepaintsa scene it is sure to be a scene worthpainting." SaturdayReview.Bound to the Wheel.Guy Waterman.One Against tlie World.The Lionin tlie Path.By John Saunders.By John Saunders.ByJohn Saunders.— ByJohn Saunders."A carefully written and beautiful story a story of goodness and truth,which is yet as interestingas thoughitdealt withtheopposite qualities.. . .The authorofthis really clever story has been at greatpains to work outallits details with elaborate conscientiousness, and the result is avery vividpictureof the ways of life and habits of thought of a hundred and fifty years ago... . Certainly a very interestingbook." — Times.Ready-MoneyMortiboy.By W. Besantand James Rice.V READY-MONEY MORTIBOY may also be had inillustrated boards, at 2s.MyLittle Girl.Case ofMr.Literaft.This Sunof Vulcan.WithHarpand Crown.The Golden Butterfly.By W. Besant and James Rice.By W. Besantand James Rice.By W. Besantand James Rice.By W. Besant and James Rice.By W. Besant and James Ri£E.With a Frontispiece*''byF. S. Walker.The GoldenButterfly ' willcertainly addtothehappinessof — mankind, for wedefy anybodyto readit with agloomycountenance." Times.

24BOOKS PUBLISHEDBYCrown 8vo, red cloth, extra, 5/. each.Ouida 's Novels. — Uniform Edition.Folk Farine. By Ouida. Pascarel. By Ouida.Idalia.Bv By Ouida. Puck.By Ouida.Chandos. By Ouida. DogofFlanders. By Ouida.UnderTwoFlags. By Ouida. Strathmore. By OuidaTricotrin. Bv By Ouida. TwoLittle WoodenShoes.ByCecilCastlemaine'sOuida.Gage.By Ouida. Signa.By Ouida.HeldinBondage.By Ouida. In a Winter City. By Ouida.NewNovel by Ouida.— Three Vols. crown8vo., 3U. 6d.Ariadne:The Story of a Dream.By Ouida.Three Vols. crown 8vo, 31^. 6d.What He Cost Her.By James Payn, Author of " Lost Sir Massingberd."Three Vols. crown Svo, 31*. 6d.Juliefs Guardian.By Mrs. H. Lovf.tt Cameron.Two Vols. crownSvo, 21s.The New Republic;or, Culture, Faith, and Philosophy in anEnglish Country House.T. A. Trollope's New Novel.— Three Vols. crown8vo, 31*. 6d.A Family Party in theSt. Peter.By T. AdolphusTrollope.Piazza ofNew Novel by James Greenwood. — 3 Vols. crown Svo, 31s-. 6d.Dick Temple.ByJames Greenwood.Three Vols. crown8vo, 31^. 6d.John Lexley's Troubles.By C. W. Bardsley, M.A.Lost Rose;and other Stories.Three Vols. crown8vo, 31J. 6_.By Katharine S. Macquoid.

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26 BOOKS PUBLISHED BYCrown Svo, cloth extra, 6.r.Red-Spinner's By Stream andSea:A Book for Wanderers and Anglers. By William Senior(Red-Spinner).Handsomely printed, price 5^.TheRollof Battle Abbey;or, A List of the Principal Warriors who came over from Normandywith William the Conqueror, andSettled in this Country,a.d. 1066-7. Printed on fine plate paper, nearly three feet bytwo,with the principal Arms emblazoned inGold and Colours.In4to, veryhandsomely printed, extragold cloth, 12s.The Rollof Caerlaverock.The Oldest Heraldic Roll;including the Original Anglo-NormanPoem, and an English Translation of the MS. in the BritishMuseum. ByThomas Wright, M.A. The Arms emblazonedin Gold and Colours.Crown 8vo, cloth extra, "Js. 6d.Memoirs of the Sanson Family:SevenGenerations of Executioners. By Henri Sanson. Translatedfrom the French, with Introduction, by Camille Barrere."— A faithsultranslation ofthiscurious work, whichwillcertainlyrepayperusalnoton thegroundof itsbeingfullofhorrors, for ihe originalauthor seemstobe ratherashamed of the technical aspect ofhis profession, and is commendablyreticent as toits details,butbecause it contains alucidaccountofthe mostnotablecauses celebres from tlie time of Louis XIV. to a period within the memoryofpersons stillliving. ... Can scarcely fail to be extremely entertaining." —Daily Telegraph.Crown Svo, clo_h extra, profusely Illustrated, 4s, 6d. each,The "Secret Out" Series.The Volumes are as follows:The Artof Amusing:A Collection of Graceful Arts,Games, Tricks,Puzzles, and Charades.ByFrank Bellew. 300Illustrations.Magician's Own Book:Performances withCups and Balls,Eggs, Hats, Handkerchiefs, &c.All from Actual Experience.Edited by W. H. Cremer. 200Illustrations.Magic No Mystery:Tricks with Cards, Dice, Balls,&c., with fullydescriptive Directions;theArt of SecretWriting;the Training of Performing Animals,&c. With Coloured Frontispieceandmany Illustrations.The Merry Circle:Hanky-Panky:Very Easy Tricks, Very DifficultTricks, White Magic, Sleight ofHand. Edited by W. H. Cre-A BookofNew IntellectualGamesmer. 200 Illustrations. and Amusements. By ClaraBellew. Many Illustrations.The Secret Out:One Thousand Tricks with Cards,and other Recreations;with EntertainingExperiments in Drawing-roomor "White Magic." ByW. H. CREMER. 300 Engravings.

CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY. 27Dyce's Shakespeare.— In 9 vols. 8vo, cloth extra, £4 ios.The IVorks ofShakespeare.Editedby theRev. Alexander Dyce. A New Edition, beingthe Third, with Mr. Dyce's Final Corrections.*«* This edition is nota mere reprint ofthat which appeared in 1857,butpresentsa text verymateriallyalteredandamendedfrom beginning toend, witha large body ofcriticalNotes almost entirelynew,and a Glossary,in which thelanguageoftliepoet, his allusions tocustoms, &°c, arefully explained.The best text ofShakespeare which has yetappeared. Mr.Dyce's edition isagreatwork, worthyofhisreputation,andfor tliepresentit contains the standardtext." — Times.Inreduced facsimile, small Svo, half Roxburghe, 10*. 6d.TheFirst Folio Shakespeare.Mr. William Shakespeare's Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies.Published according to the true Originall Copies. London,Printed by Isaac Iaggard and Ed. Blount, 1623. — AnexactReproduction of the extremely rare original, inreduced facsimile— by a photographic process ensuring the strictest accuracyin everydetail. A fullprospectus will be, sent upon application,"To Messrs. Cluitto and Windus belongs the merit ofhaving done more tofacilitate tlie criticalstudyofthe text ofour greatdramatist thanalltheShakespeareclubsand societies put together. A completefacsimile of the celebratedFirstFolioedition of 1623forhalf-a-guineais atonce a miracle of cheapness andenterprise. Beingina reduced form, tlie type is necessarily ratherdiminutive,butitis asdistinct asinagenuinecopy of the original,andwilt befoundtobe asusefulandfar morehandy to tliestudent thanthe latter." — Athenæum.Post 8vo, with Illustrations, cloth extra, gilt edges, 18/.The Lansdowue Shakespeare.BeautifuUy printedin red and black, in small but veryclear type.With engraved facsimile of Droeshout'sPortrait, and 37 beautifulSteel Plates, after Stothard.Two Vols. crown8vo, cloth extra, 18s.The SchoolofShakespeare.Including "The Life and Death of Captain Thomas Stukeley,"with a New Life of Stucley, from Unpublished Sources; " AWarning for Fair Women," with aReprint of the Account oftheMurder; " ""Nobody and Somebody," "The Cobbler's Prophecy,Histriomastix," "The Prodigal Son," &c. Edited, with Introductionsand Notes, by Richard Simpson. [/« thepress.Crown Svo, cloth extra, with Illustrations, "]s. 6d.Signboards:Their History. With Anecdotes of Famous Taverns and RemarkableCharacters. ByJacob Larwood and John CamdenHotten. With nearly 100" Illustrations.Even if we were ever somaliciouslyinclined, wecould notpickoutallMessrs.LarwoodandHottensplums,because thegood thingsare so numerousas lo defythemost wholesaledepredation."— -Times.

28 BOOKS PUBLISHEDBYCrown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, with 10full-page TintedIllustrations, ys. 6d.Sheridan's Complete Works,with Life and Anecdotes. Including his Dramatic Writings,printed from the Original Editions, his Works in Prose andPoetry, Translations, Speeches, Jokes, Puns, &c.;with a Collectionof Sheridaniana.11The editorhas brought together "within a manageable compass notonlyihesevenplaysby which Sheridan is best known,but acollection alsoof his poeticalpieces-whichare lessfamiliar tothepublic,sketches ofunfinisheddramas, selectionsfrom hisreportedwitticisms,and extractsfrom his principalspeeches. To theseisprefixed a short but well-written memoir,giving thechief facts in Sheridan'sliterary andpoliticalcareer;so that, with this volumein his hand', thestudentmay consider himself tolerablywell furnished with all thatis necessaryfor ageneralcomprehension oftlie subjectofit."— PallMallGazette.Crown Svo, cloth extra, gilt, 6s. 6d.The Slang Dictionary:Etymological, Historical, and Anecdotal. AnEntirely NewEdition, revised throughout, and"'considerably Enlarged.IVe aregladtoseetheSlangDictionaryreprintedandenlarged. From a highscientificpoint ofview this book isnot to be despised. Of course it cannot fait tobeamusingalso. It contains the very vocabularyof unrestrained humour, andoddity,andgrotesqueness. Ina word,itprovidesvaluable — material both for ihestudent oflanguageand thestudentofhuman nature." Academy.Exquisitely printedinminiature, cloth extra, gilt edges, 2s. 6d.The Smoker 's Text-Book.By J.Hamer, F.R.S.L.Crown Svo,cloth extra, gs.Stedman 's Victorian Poets:" Critical Essays. By Edmund Clarence Stedman.We oughtto be thankfulto those who do critical work with competent skillandunderstanding,withhonesty ofpurpose, and withdiligenceand tlioroughnessofexecution. AndMr.Stedman, havingchosento work in this line,deserves thethanks of Englishscholars by these qualitiesand bysomething more; . ...heisfaithful, studious,anddiscerning." — SaturdayReview.Imperial 4to,containing 150 beautifully-finished full-page Engravingsand Nine Vignettes, all tinted, and some illuminated in gold andcolours, half-morocco, £9 gs.Stothard'sMonumentalEffigiesofGreatBritain. With Historical Description andIntroduction by JohnKempe,F.S. A. A NewEdition,withalargebodyofAdditionalNotes by John Hewitt.%* A few Large Papercopies,royal folio, with the arms illuminatedingoldand colours, andthe plates verycarefully finishedinbody-colours,heightened withgoldin the very finest style, half-morocco,,£15 15.1.

CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY. 29Large Svo, half-Roxburghe, with Illustrations, price gs.Stow *s SurveyofLondon.A New Edition, with Copper-Editedby W. J. Thoms, F.S.A.plate Illustrations.Crown Svo, cloth extra, withIllustrations, ys. 6d.Swiffs Choice IVorks,in Prose and Verse. With Memoir, Portrait, and Facsimiles of" " theMapsin the Original Editionof Gulliver's Travels."The' Tale of a Tub' is,in my apprehension^ the masterpiece ofSwift;certainly Rabelaishas nothing-superior, even in invention, noranything so cotidensed,sopointed,sofull ofreal meaning,ofbitingsatire, offelicitous analogy.The * Battle ofthe Books* issuch an improz'ementon the similar combat in the— Luirin, ** thatwe canhardlyownitas animitation." Hallam.Szuift's reputation asaPoethas been ina maimerobscuredbythegreatersplendourtbythe naturalforceandinventivegenius,ofhis prose writings;but,if hehadnever written either the * Taleofa Tub* or ' Gullivers Travels? his namemerely as apoet would JiSve come down to us, and liavc gone down to posterityt"with "well-earned Jwnours" — Hazlitt.Mr. Swinburnes Works:The Queen Mother andRosamond.Fcap.8vo,Atalanta in Calydon.A New Edition. Crown 8vo,6s.Chastelard.A Tragedy. Fcap. 8vo, 7s.Poems andBallads.Fcap.8vo, gs.Notes on "Poems andBallads." 8vo, IJ.William Blake:A CriticalEssay. With FacsimilePaintings. Demy8vo,i6j.Songsbefore Sunrise.Crown 8vo, ios. 6d.nd IBothwell:A Tragedy.8vo, 12^. 6d.Two Vols. crownGeorge Chapman:AnEssay. Crown 8vo, -ps.Songsof Two Nations.Crown 8vo, 6s.Essaysand Studies.Crown 8vo, 12J.Erechtheus:A Tragedy.Crown 8vo,6s.Note of an English Republicantn the Muscovite Crusade.8vo,u.Crown 8vo, cloth extra, with Illustrations, "]s. 6d.Strutss Sports and Pastimes of thePeople of England;including the Rural and Domestic Recreations,May Games, Mummeries, Shows, Processions, Pageants,and Pompous Spectacles, from the Earliest Period to thePresentTime. With 140 Illustrations. Editedby William Hone.* * A few Large Paper Copies, with an extra set of CopperplateIUustrations, carefuUy coloured by hand, from the Originals, 50J.

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32CHATTO 6" HINDUS, PICCADILLY.Large crown8vo, cloth antique, with Illustrations, Is. 6d.Walton a?id Cottons Complete Angler;or, The Contemplative Man's Recreation:being a Discourse ofRivers,Fishponds,Fish andFishing, writtenby Izaak Walton;and Instructions how to Angle for a Trout or Grayling ina clearStream, by Charles Cotton. With Original Memoirs andNotes by Sir Harris Nicolas, K.C.M.G. With the 61 Plate" Illustrations, precisely as inPickering's two-volume Edition.A mong the reprintscf theyear,few willbe more welcome tluin this editionofthe ' Complete Angler,' with Sir Harris — Nicolas's Memoirs and Notes, andStothard1sandInskipp'sillustrations." Saturday Review.___Carefully printed on paper toimitate the Original, 22 in. by 14in., 2s.The Warrant to Execute CharlesI.An exact Facsimile of this important Document, with the FiftynineSignatures of the Regicides, and corresponding Seals.Beautifully printed onpaper toimitate the Original MS., price 2s.Warrant to ExecuteMary Q. of Scots.An exactFacsimile, including the Signature of Queen Elizabeth,andaFacsimile of the Great Seal.Crown Svo, cloth extra, with Vignette Portrait, gs.Wells' Joseph andhis Brethren:A Dramatic Poem. By Charles Wells. With anIntroductoryEssayby AlgernonCharles Swinburne."The authorof ' fosephand his Brethren ' will some day iiave to be acknowledgedamongthememorable men ofthe secondgreatperiodin ourpoetry. . .There are lines even in tlie overtureof his poem which might,it seems to me,morenaturallybe mistaken even byanexpertin verse for tlie work of theyoungShakspeare, thanany to begathered elsewhere in thefieldsofEnglishpoetry." —Swinburne.Crown 8vo,cloth extra, with Illustrations, 7*. 6d.Wright 's Caricature History of theGeorges. ( TlieHouseofHanover.) With 400 Pictures, Caricatures,Squibs, Broadsides, Window Pictures,&c. By Thomas Wright," Esq., M.A., F.S.A.Emphatically one_ of the liveliestof books, asalso oneof — the most interesting.Has the twofoldmeritofbeing at once amusingand edifying." Morning Post.Largepost 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, with Illustrations, 7.?. 6d.Wright 's History of Caricature andofthe Grotesque in Art, Literature, Sculpture, andPainting, fromthe Earliest Times to the Present Day. By Thomas Wright,M.A.,F.S.A. Profusely illustrated by F. W. Fairholt,F.S.A." A very amusingandinstructive volume." — Saturday Review.J. 0GDEN AND CO., PRINTERS, 172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C.