Silence of God (R Anderson)
PREFACE TO SEVENTH EDITION

In again reissuing The Silence of God I wish to make a few points clearer for the benefit of those who skim a book instead of reading it. I do not deny the occurrence
of miracles during the present dispensation. On the contrary I believe there is adequate proof that miracles occur in the present day. And while I would guard against
assuming that a miracle gives proof of Divine action, I do not doubt that there are in fact Divine miracles. Nor in saying this am I referring to spiritual miracles such as
every true Christian has experienced.

But I maintain that what may be called evidential miracles have no place in this "Christian dispensation." Any one who thinks out even the simple problem of prayer must
understand how and why the people of God, in the days before Christ came, craved such proofs of His presence and power. But in the ministry and death and
resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ God has openly manifested, not only His power, but His goodness and love-toward-man; and to demand an evidential miracle,
now, is to reopen questions which have been for ever settled.

No one may limit what God will do in response to faith. But we may dogmatically assert that, in view of the revelation He has given of Himself in Christ, He will yield
nothing to the petulant demands of unbelief. And that revelation supplies the key to the double mystery of the silence of Heaven and the life of faith on earth.

R. A.

PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION

In his introduction to The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne descants feelingly upon his incapacity for literary effort during the years in which he held an appointment
in the Custom House. But there are spheres of work in the Public Service compared with which the Custom House might seem almost a sanctuary! And having regard
to the circumstances in which the present volume was written, the demand for a new edition within a few weeks of its first appearance gives striking proof of deep and
widespread interest in the subject of which it treats.

Conflicting criticisms have been passed upon the structure of the book. In the opinion of some the middle chapters embarrass the argument, and ought to be omitted or
curtailed. Others, again, have strongly urged that these very chapters should be amplified, and definite additions made to them. These seemingly contradictory
suggestions are both alike legitimate. To a very limited class such incidental dissertations seem unnecessary, and the mere critic turns from them with impatience; but in
the estimation of the great majority of readers they are of exceptional interest. The ninth and eleventh chapters, for example, which might perhaps have been excluded,
seem to have attracted special notice.

It must not be forgotten, moreover, that, unlike those doctrines which belong to the Christian dispensation in common with that which preceded it, the great
characteristic truth of Christianity is ignored by the religion of Christendom, and receives but scant attention even in our best religious literature. It is of vital moment,
therefore, to unfold here its character and scope, and to emphasize its transcendent importance. Indeed it will probably be found that the reader's appreciation of the
argument will be precisely in proportion to his apprehension of this truth.

One of the leading daily papers, for instance, informs its readers that the author "finds the sufficient cause of the silence in the doctrine of the Atonement." And another
journal - a Review of the highest class1 - indicates as the "main contention" of the book, "that the Christian facts supply an adequate explanation of the 'Silence of
God.'" It might a priori seem impossible that any one could so misread these pages; but the preceding paragraph may perhaps account for the phenomenon. "The
Atonement" is not a specially Christian doctrine at all: it holds as prominent a place in Judaism as in Christianity. And the author's "contention," most plainly expressed,
is that "the Christian facts," so far from explaining the silence of Heaven, seem only to render it still more inexplicable.

In the judgment of this last-cited critic the intensely Protestant and Christian position maintained throughout this volume is nothing more than a "peculiar view of
Scripture as a supreme guide in matters of faith and speculation." And writing from the standpoint this indicates, his strictures are, of course, unsympathetic and severe.
Nor can the author complain of this; for one who deals hard blows should expect hard blows in return. But there should be no "hitting below the belt." The impartial
reader can decide whether these pages afford even a colorable pretext for the charge of "occasional departures from reverence." And no less unwarrantable is the
allegation that Mr. Balfour is here referred to in "a patronizing tone." Considerable freedom, indeed, is used in criticizing the arguments of a still more distinguished man.
But the author's misgivings upon that score have been relieved by receiving a letter from Mr. Gladstone himself. "I am very glad," he writes, "that those arguments
should be thoroughly canvassed by persons so well disposed and competent as yourself."

CHAPTER 1
THE SILENT HEAVEN

A silent Heaven is the greatest mystery of our existence. Some there are, indeed, for whom the problem has no perplexities. In a philosophy of silly optimism, or a life
of selfish isolation, they have "attained Nirvana." For such the sad and hideous realities of life around us have no existence. Upon their path these cast no shadow. The
serene atmosphere of their fools' paradise is undisturbed by the cry of the suffering and the oppressed. But earnest and thoughtful men face these realities, and have
ears to hear that cry; and their indignant wonder finds utterance at times in some such words as those of the old Hebrew prophet and bard, "Doth God know? And is
there knowledge in the Most High?"

Society, even in the great centers of our modern civilization, is all too like a slave-ship, where, with the sounds of music and laughter and revelry on the upper deck,
there mingle the groans of untold misery battened down below. Who can estimate the sorrow and suffering and wrong endured during a single round of the clock even
in the favored metropolis of highly favored England? And if it be thus in the green tree, what shall be said of the dry! What mind is competent to grasp the sum of all this
great world's misery, heaped up day after day, year after year, century after century? Human hearts may plan, and human hands achieve, some little to alleviate it, and
the strong and ready arm of human law may accomplish much in the protection of the weak and the punishment of the wicked. But as for God - the light of moon and
stars is not more cold and pitiless than He appears to be! Every new chapter in the stow of Turkish misrule raises a fresh storm of indignation throughout Europe. The
conscience of Christendom is outraged by tales of oppression and cruelty and wrong inflicted on the Christian subjects of the Porte.

Here is a testimony to the Armenian massacres of 1895:

"Over 60,000 Armenians have been butchered. In Trebizond, Erzeroum, Erzinghian, Hassankaleh, and numberless other places the Christians were crushed like grapes
during the vintage. The frantic mob, seething and surging in the streets of the cities, swept clown upon the defenseless Armenians, plundered their shops, gutted their
houses, then joked and jested with the terrified victims, as cats play with mice. The rivulets were choked up with corpses; the streams ran red with human blood; the
forest glades(c)
 Copyright     and rocky cavesInfobase
                 2005-2009,     were peopled
                                        Mediawith  the dead and dying; among the black ruins of once prosperous villages lay roasted infants by their mangled
                                               Corp.                                                                                                   Page mothers'
                                                                                                                                                                1 / 176
corpses; pits were dug at night by the wretches destined to fill them, many of whom, flung in when but lightly wounded, awoke underneath a mountain of clammy
corpses, and vainly wrestled with death and with the dead, who shut them out from light and life for ever.
"Over 60,000 Armenians have been butchered. In Trebizond, Erzeroum, Erzinghian, Hassankaleh, and numberless other places the Christians were crushed like grapes
during the vintage. The frantic mob, seething and surging in the streets of the cities, swept clown upon the defenseless Armenians, plundered their shops, gutted their
houses, then joked and jested with the terrified victims, as cats play with mice. The rivulets were choked up with corpses; the streams ran red with human blood; the
forest glades and rocky caves were peopled with the dead and dying; among the black ruins of once prosperous villages lay roasted infants by their mangled mothers'
corpses; pits were dug at night by the wretches destined to fill them, many of whom, flung in when but lightly wounded, awoke underneath a mountain of clammy
corpses, and vainly wrestled with death and with the dead, who shut them out from light and life for ever.

"A man in Erzeroum, hearing a tumult, and fearing for his children, who were playing in the street, went out to seek and save them. He was borne down upon by the
mob. He pleaded for his life, protesting that he had always lived in peace with his Moslem neighbors, and sincerely loved them. The statement may have represented a
fact, or it may have been but a plea for pity. The ringleader, however, told him that that was the proper spirit, and would be condignly rewarded. The man was then
stripped, and a chunk of his flesh cut out of his body, and jestingly offered for sale: 'Good fresh meat, and dirt cheap,' exclaimed some of the crowd. 'Who'll buy fine
dog's meat?' echoed the amused bystanders. The writhing wretch uttered piercing screams as some of the mob, who had just come from rifling the shops, opened a
bottle and poured vinegar or some acid into the gaping wound. He called on God and man to end his agonies. But they had only begun. Soon afterwards two little boys
came up, the elder crying, 'Hairik, Hairik (Father, Father), save me! See what they've done to me!' and pointed to his head, from which the blood was streaming over
his handsome face, and down his neck. The younger brother - a child of about three - was playing with a wooden toy. The agonizing man was silent for a second and
then, glancing at these his children, made a frantic but vain effort to snatch a dagger from a Turk by his side. This was the signal for the renewal of his torments. The
bleeding boy was finally dashed with violence against the dying father, who began to lose strength and consciousness, and the two were then pounded to death where
they lay. The younger child sat near, dabbling his wooden toy in the blood of his father and brother, and looking up, now through smiles at the prettily dressed Kurds
and now through tears at the dust-begrimed thing that had lately been his father. A slash of a saber wound up his short experience of God's world, and the crowd
turned its attention to others.

"These are but isolated scenes revealed for a brief second by the light, as it were, of a momentary lightning-flash. The worst cannot be described." - Contemporary
Review, January 1896.

The following refers to still more recent horrors:

"In no place in this region has the attack upon the Christians been more savage than in Egin. Every male above twelve years of age who could be found was slain. Only
one Armenian was found who had been seen and spared. Many children and boys were laid on their backs and their necks cut like sheep. The women and children
were gathered together in the yard of the Government building and in various places throughout the town. Turks, Kurds, and soldiers went among these women,
selected the fairest, and led them aside to outrage them. In the village of Pinguan fifteen women threw themselves into the river to escape dishonor." - The Times,
December 10, 1896.

And what is the element in all this which most exasperates the public sentiment? It is that the Sultan has the power to prevent all this, but will not. That, while possessing
ample means to restrain and punish, he remains unmoved, and in the safe seclusion of his palace gives himself up to a life of luxury and ease. But has Almighty God no
power to check such crimes? Even Abdul Hamid has been shamed into laying aside the dignity of kingship, and making heard his personal voice in Europe to repel the
charge his seeming inaction has raised to his discredit. 1 But in vain do we strain our ears to hear some voice from the throne of the Divine Majesty. The far-off heaven
where, in perfect peace and unutterable glory, God dwells and reigns, is silent!

"So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that are done under the sun; and behold, the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no comforter; and on the
side of their oppressors there was power; but they had no comforter." And this in a world ruled and governed by a God who is Almighty!

And when we withdraw our thoughts from the great world around us, and fix them upon the narrow circle of His faithful people, the facts are no less stern, and the
mystery grows more inscrutable. Devoted men leave our shores, forsaking the security, the comforts, the charms, the countless benefits of life in the midst of our
Christian civilization, to carry the knowledge of the true God to heathen lands. But by and by we hear of their massacre by the hands of those whom thus they sought to
elevate and bless. And where is "the true God" they served? The little band of Christian men who were in a special sense His accredited ambassadors, noble women
too, who shared in their exile and their labors, and little children whose tender helplessness might excite the pity of a very devil, in their terror and agony cried to
Heaven for the succor which never came. The God they trusted might surely have turned the hearts, or restrained the hands, of their brutal murderers. Is it possible to
imagine circumstances that would more fitly claim the hell of Him whom they worshipped as all-powerful both in heaven and on earth? But the earth has drunk in their
blood, and a silent Heaven has seemed to mock their cry! And these horrors are but mere ripples on the surface of the deep, wide sea of the Church's sufferings
throughout the ages of her history. From the old days of Pagan Rome right down through the centuries of so-called "Christian" persecutions, the untold millions of the
martyrs, the best and purest and noblest of our race, have been given up to violence and outrage and death in hideous forms. The heart grows sick at the appalling
story, and we turn away with a dull but baseless hope that it may be in part at least untrue. But the facts are too terrible to make exaggeration of them possible. Torn by
wild beasts in the arena, torn by men as merciless as wild beasts, and far more hateful, in the torture chambers of the Inquisition, His people have died, with faces
turned to heaven, and hearts upraised in prayer to God; but the heaven has seemed as hard as brass, and the God of their prayers as powerless as themselves or as
callous as their persecutors!

But most men are selfish in their sympathies. Some private grief at times looms greater than all the sum of the world's miseries and the Church's sufferings. If ever there
was a saint on earth, it is the mother to whose deathbed sons and daughters have been summoned from various pursuits of business or of pleasure. In all their
wanderings that mother's piety and faith have been a guiding and restraining influence. And now, thus gathered once more in the old home, they are keen to watch how,
in the solemn crisis of her last days on earth, God will deal with one of the loveliest and truest of His children. And what do they behold? The poor body racked with
pain that never ceases till all capacity for suffering is quenched by the hand of Death! If human skill could give relief the attending physician would be dismissed as
heartless or incompetent. Is, God, then, incompetent or heartless? To Him they look to relieve the death agonies of the dying saint, but they look to Him in vain!

Or it may be some grief more selfish still. The crash of some great sorrow that turns a bright home into a waste, and leaves the heart so benumbed and hard that even
the so-called "consolations of religion" appear but hollow platitudes. Why should God be so cruel? Why is Heaven so terribly silent?

The most prolific fancy, the most facile pen, would fail to picture or portray, in their endless variety, the experiences which have thus stamped out the last embers of
faith in many a crushed and desolated heart. "There are times," as a Christian writer2 puts it, "when the heaven that is over our heads seems to be brass, and the earth
that is under us to be iron, and we feel our hearts sink within us under the calm pressure of unyielding and unsympathizing law." How true the statement, but how
inadequate! If it were merely on behalf of this or that individual that God failed to interfere, or on one occasion or another, belief in His infinite wisdom and goodness
ought to check our murmurs and soothe our fears. And, further, if, as in the days of the patriarchs, even a whole generation passed away without His once declaring
Himself, faith might glance back, and hope look forward, amidst heart searchings for the cause of His silence. But what confronts us is the fact, explain it as we may,
that for eighteen centuries the world has never witnessed a public manifestation of His presence or His power.

"Doth God know?" At first the thought comes up as an impatient yet not irreverent appeal. But presently the words are formed upon the lip to imply a challenge and
suggest a doubt; and at last they are boldly uttered as the avowal of a settled unbelief. And then the sacred records which awed and charmed the mind in childhood,
telling of "mighty
 Copyright         acts" of Divine
             (c) 2005-2009,        intervention
                              Infobase          "in the old time," begin to lose their vividness and force, till at last they sink to the level of Hebrew legendsPage
                                        Media Corp.                                                                                                               and old-world
                                                                                                                                                                        2 / 176
myths. In presence of the stern and dismal facts of life, the faith of earlier days gives way, for surely a God who is entirely passive and always unavailable is for all
practical purposes non-existent.
that for eighteen centuries the world has never witnessed a public manifestation of His presence or His power.

"Doth God know?" At first the thought comes up as an impatient yet not irreverent appeal. But presently the words are formed upon the lip to imply a challenge and
suggest a doubt; and at last they are boldly uttered as the avowal of a settled unbelief. And then the sacred records which awed and charmed the mind in childhood,
telling of "mighty acts" of Divine intervention "in the old time," begin to lose their vividness and force, till at last they sink to the level of Hebrew legends and old-world
myths. In presence of the stern and dismal facts of life, the faith of earlier days gives way, for surely a God who is entirely passive and always unavailable is for all
practical purposes non-existent.

CHAPTER 2
THE MYSTERY REMAINS

When we turn to Holy Writ this mystery of a silent Heaven, which is driving so many to infidelity, if not to atheism, seems to become more utterly insoluble. The life and
teaching of the great Prophet of Nazareth have claimed the admiration of multitudes, even of those who have denied to Him the deeper homage of their faith. All
generous minds acclaim Him as the noblest figure that has ever passed across the stage of human life. But Christianity claims for Him infinitely more than this. The great
and unknown God had dwelt in impenetrable darkness and unapproachable light - seeming contradictories which harmonize in fact in a perfect representation of His
attitude toward men. But now He at last declared Himself. The Nazarene was not merely the pattern man of all the ages, He was Himself Divine, "God manifest in the
flesh." The inspired prophets had foreshadowed this: now it was accomplished. The dream of heathen mythology was realized in the great foundation fact of Christianity
- God assumed the form of a man and dwelt as a man among men, speaking words such as mere man never spoke, and scattering on every hand the proofs of His
Divine character and mission.

But the sphere of the display was confined to the narrowest limits - the towns and villages of a district scarcely larger than an English county. If this was to be the end of
it, a theory so sublime must be exploded by its inherent incredibility. But throughout His ministry He spoke of a mysterious death He had to suffer, and of His rising
from the dead and returning to the heaven from which He had come down, and of triumphs of His power to follow upon that ascension - triumphs such as they to
whom He spoke were then incapable of understanding. And, in keeping with the hopes He thus inspired, among His latest utterances, spoken after His resurrection and
in view of His ascension, we find these sublime and pregnant words - "All power is given unto Me in heaven and on earth." The position of avowed unbelief here is
perfectly intelligible; but what can be said for the covert skepticism of modern Christianity which explains this to mean nothing more than the assertion of a mystical
authority to send out preachers of the gospel!

Accept the scheme of revelation as to man's apostasy and fall, and his consequent alienation from God, and the history of the world down to the time of Christ can be
explained. But type and promise and prophecy testified with united voice that the advent of Messiah should be the dawn of a brighter day, when "the heavens should
rule," when all wrong should be redressed, and sorrow and discord should give place to gladness and peace. The angelic host who heralded His birth confirmed the
testimony, and seemed to point to its near fulfillment. And these words of Christ Himself ring out like a proclamation that earth's great jubilee at last was come. Nor did
the events of the early days which followed belie the hope. If because of a great public miracle wrought by them in His name the apostles were threatened with
penalties, they appealed from men to God, and then and there God gave public proof that He heard their prayer, for "the place was shaken where they were
assembled." (Acts 4:31) Sudden judgment fell upon Ananias and Sapphira when they sinned, and as a consequence "great fear came upon all." (Acts 5:1-11) "By the
hands of the apostles were many signs and wonders wrought among the people." (Acts 5:12) From the surrounding villages "the multitude" - that is the inhabitants en
masse - gathered to Jerusalem carrying their sick, and they were healed every one." (Acts 5:16) And when their exasperated enemies seized the apostles and thrust
them into the common prison, "the angel of the Lord by night opened the prison doors and brought them forth." (Acts 5:19)

At this very period it was, no doubt, that the martyr Stephen fell. Yes, but ere he sank beneath the blows showered upon him by his fierce murderers, the heavens were
opened, and revealed to him a vision of his Lord in glory. If martyrdom brought such visions now, who would shrink from being a martyr! By a like vision the most
prominent witness to his death became changed into an apostle of the faith he had resisted and blasphemed. And when he in his turn found himself in the grasp of cruel
enemies at Philippi, his midnight prayer was answered by an earthquake which shook the foundations of his prison. Unseen hands struck off the chains which bound
him, freed his feet from the stocks in which they had been made fast, and threw the gaol doors open. The Apostle Peter, too, had experienced a like deliverance when
held a prisoner by Herod at Jerusalem, and this on the very eve of the day appointed for his death. The record is definite and thrilling. "Peter was sleeping between two
soldiers, bound with two chains; and the keepers before the door kept the prison, and behold the angel of the Lord came upon him, and a light shined in the prison; and
he smote Peter on the side and raised him up, saying, Arise up quickly. And his chains fell off from his hands." "The iron gate" of the prison "opened to them of its own
accord," and together they passed into the street.

These are but gleanings from the narrative of the opening chapters of the Acts of the Apostles. Divine intervention was no mystic theory with these men. "All power in
heaven and on earth ' was no mere shibboleth. The story of the infant Church, like the early history of the Hebrew nation, was an unbroken record of miracles. But
there the parallel ends. Under the old economy the cessation of Divine intervention in human affairs was regarded as abnormal, and the fact was explained by national
apostasy and sin. And the times of national apostasy were precisely the period of the prophetic dispensation. Then it was that the Divine voice was heard with
increasing clearness. But in contrast with this, Heaven has now been dumb for eighteen long centuries. This fact, moreover, might seem less strange if prophecy had
ceased with Malachi, and miracles had not been renewed in Messianic times. But though miraculous powers and prophetic gifts abounded in the Pentecostal Church,
yet when the testimony passed out from the narrow sphere of Judaism, and was confronted by the philosophy and civilization of the heathen world - at the very time in
fact when, according to accepted theories, their voice was specially required - that voice died away for ever. Is there nothing here to excite our wonder? Some of
course will dispose of the matter by rejecting every record of miracles, whether in Old Testament times or New, as mere legend or fable. Others again will protest that
miracles are actually wrought today at certain favored shrines. But here in Britain, at least, most men are neither superstitious nor infidel. They believe the Biblical record
of miracles in the past, and they assent to the fact that ever since the days of the apostles the silence of Heaven has been unbroken. Yet when challenged to account for
this, they are either wholly dumb or else they offer explanations which are utterly inadequate, if not absolutely untrue. To plead that the idea of Divine intervention in
human affairs is unreasonable or absurd is only to afford a proof how easily the mind becomes enslaved by the ordinary facts of experience. The believer recognizes
that such intervention was common in ancient times, and the unbeliever most fairly argues that if there really existed a God, all-good and almighty, such intervention
would be common at all times. The taunt would be easily met if the Christian could make answer that this world is a scene of probation where God in His infinite
wisdom has thought fit to leave men absolutely to themselves. But in presence of an open Bible such an answer is impossible. The mystery remains that "God, who at
sundry times and in divers manners spake in time past unto the fathers," never speaks to His people now! The Divine history of the favored race for thousands of years
teems with miracles by which God gave proof of His power with men, and yet we are confronted by the astounding fact that from the days of the apostles to the
present hour the history of Christendom will be searched in vain for the record of a single public event to compel belief that there is a God at. 1

CHAPTER 3
HAVE MIRACLES CEASED?

In the old time men worshipped false gods, as they do still in heathendom today. Atheism is the recoil from Christianity rejected. But the unbelief of earnest men who
are willing to believe, but cannot, is not to be confounded with the blind and bitter atheism of apostates.

Nor will it avail to plead that the miracles by which Christianity was accredited at first still live as evidence of its truth. That will not satisfy the question here at issue,
which  is not the truth of Christianity but the fact of a silent Heaven. That in presence of the measureless ocean or human suffering in the great world around us, and in
 Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.
spite of the articulate cry so constantly wrung from the hearts of His faithful people, God should preserve a silence which is absolute and crushing - this      Page     3 / 176
                                                                                                                                                                    is a mystery
which Christianity seems only to render more inscrutable.
are willing to believe, but cannot, is not to be confounded with the blind and bitter atheism of apostates.

Nor will it avail to plead that the miracles by which Christianity was accredited at first still live as evidence of its truth. That will not satisfy the question here at issue,
which is not the truth of Christianity but the fact of a silent Heaven. That in presence of the measureless ocean or human suffering in the great world around us, and in
spite of the articulate cry so constantly wrung from the hearts of His faithful people, God should preserve a silence which is absolute and crushing - this is a mystery
which Christianity seems only to render more inscrutable.

Here, however, we are assuming that miracles are possible, and thus we shall incur the contempt of all persons of superior enlightenment. But we can brook their
sneers. Nor will they betray us into the folly of turning aside to enter upon the great miracle controversy, save in so far as the subject in hand requires it. Open infidelity
has made no advance upon the arguments of Hume. Indeed the phenomenal triumphs of modern science have only served to weaken the infidel's position, for they have
discredited the theory that new discoveries in nature might yet account for the miracles of Scripture. The only thing distinctive about the infidelity of our own times is that
it has assumed the dress and language of religion. Among its teachers are "Doctors of Divinity" and Professors in Christian universities and colleges. And as the disciples
and admirers of these men claim for them superior intelligence and special rigor of mental perception, an examination of these pretensions may not be inopportune. But
vivisection is to be deprecated, and mere abstract statements carry little weight. How, then, are we to proceed? An Oxford Professor of the past generation will do as
the corpus vile for the inquiry. Let us turn to the treatise upon "The Evidences of Christianity" in the notorious "Essays and Reviews." Its thesis may be stated in a single
sentence - That the reign of law is absolute and universal. From this it follows of course:

(1) that a miracle is an impossibility,

(2) that Holy Scripture is altogether unreliable.

Inspiration, therefore, is out of the question, save as all goodness and genius are inspired.

It may seem feeble to turn back now to the "Essays and Reviews," but the last forty years have made no change in the German Rationalism which that epoch-making
book first brought to the notice of the average Englishman. These views are being taught to-day in many of our schools of theology. The future occupants of so-called
Christian pulpits are being taught that the miraculous in Scripture must be rejected, and that the Bible must be read like any other book.

Now what concerns us here is not whether this teaching is true: let us assume its truth. Nor yet whether the teachers be honest: we assume their integrity. But what can
be said for their intelligence? Any dullard can trade upon the labors of others. The most commonplace of men can understand and adopt the tenets of the rationalists.
Where mental power will declare itself is in the capacity to review preconceived ideas in the light of the new tenets. Let us apply this test to the Christian rationalists.
The incarnation, the resurrection, the ascension of Christ - these are incomparably the greatest of all miracles. If we accept them the credibility of other miracles
resolves itself entirely into a question of evidence. If we reject them the whole Christian system falls to pieces like a house of cards. To change the figure, when
Christianity is exposed to the clear light and air of "modern thought," what seemed to be a living body crumbles into dust. Yet these men profess unfaltering faith in
Christianity. But while their faith does credit to their hearts, it proves the weakness of their heads. Those who believe in the Divinity of Christ while rejecting inspiration
and miracles, may pose as persons of superior enlightenment - in fact, they are credulous creatures who would believe anything. Such faith as theirs is the merest
superstition. Appeal might here be made to unnumbered witnesses among the scholars and thinkers of our time, who in face of this dilemma have found themselves
compelled to choose "between a deeper faith and a bolder unbelief." If Christ was indeed Divine, no person of ordinary intelligence will question that He had power to
open the eyes of the blind, the ears of the deaf, the lips of the dumb. If He had power to forgive sins, it is a small matter to believe that He had power to heal diseases.
If He could give Eternal Life there is nothing to wonder at in the record that He could restore natural life. And if He is now upon the throne of God, and all power in
heaven and earth is His, every man of common sense will brush aside all sophistries and quibbles about causation and natural laws, and will recognize that our Divine
Lord could do for men today all He did for them in the days of His ministry on earth. But how is it that He does not? I know that if in the days of His humiliation this
poor crippled child had been brought into His presence He would have healed it. And I am assured that His power is greater now than when He sojourned upon earth,
and that He is still as near to us as He then was. But when I bring this to a practical test, it fails. Whatever the reason, it does not seem true. This poor afflicted child
must remain a cripple. I dare not say He cannot heal my child, but it is clear He will not. And why will He not? How is this mystery to be explained? The plain fact is
that with all who believe the Bible the great difficulty respecting miracles is not their occurrence but their absence.

In his "Foundations of Belief," Mr. Balfour reproduces the suggestion that if the special circumstances in which a miracle was wrought were again to recur, the miracle
would recur also. But even if the truth of this could be ascertained, it would have no bearing on the present problem. Miracles, Mr. Balfour avers, are "wonders due to
the special action of Divine power." As then we have to do neither with a mere machine nor with a monster, but with a personal God who is infinite in wisdom and
power and love, how is it that in a world which, pace the philosopher, cries aloud for that "special action," we look for it in vain? In his "Studies Subsidiary to the
Works of Bishop Butler," Mr. Gladstone speaks in the same sense, but still more definitely. In his discussion of Hume's dictum, that miracles are impossible because
they imply the violation of natural laws, he says: "Now, unless we know all the laws of nature, Hume's contention is of no avail; for the alleged miracle may come under
some law not yet known to us." But surely this admission is fatal. The evidential value of miracles, against which Hume is arguing, depends on the assumption that they
are due, as Mr. Balfour says, to "the special action of Divine power," and that but for such action they would not have occurred. That is to say, it is essential that the act
or event represented as miraculous should be supernatural. If, therefore, the "alleged" miracle can be brought within the sphere of the natural, it is thereby shown not be
a real miracle. In other words, it is not a miracle at all.

If a miracle were indeed a violation of the laws of nature, not a few of us who believe in miracles would renounce our faith. For then the word "impossible" would be
transferred to the sphere in which it is rightly predicated of acts attributable to the Almighty. "It is," we declare, "impossible for God to lie": it is equally impossible for
Him to violate His own laws; He "cannot deny Himself." But this vaunted dictum owes its seeming force solely to confounding what is above nature with what is against
nature. Beyond this it is nothing but a cloak for ignorance. Here is a stone upon the road. In obedience to unchanging law it lies there inert and tends to sink into the
ground. Were it to rise from the earth and fly upward toward the sky, it would, you say, be indeed a miracle. But this you know is absolutely impossible. Impossible! A
rude boy who comes along snatches it from us and flings it into the air. This mischievous urchin has thus achieved what you declared to be impossible! But," you
exclaim, "this is mere trifling, we saw the boy throw it up!" Is it by our senses, then, that the limits of possibility are to be fixed? This is materialism with a vengeance!
Suppose the boy himself should fall over a precipice, and you grasped him and drew him up again to safety, would this be a violation of the law of gravitation? Why,
then, should it be such if his rescue were achieved by some unseen hand? A miracle it would be, no doubt, but not "a violation of the laws of nature." As Dean Mansel
expresses it, a miracle is merely "the introduction of a new agent, possessing new powers, and therefore not included under the rules generalized from a previous
experience." But some thoughtless person may still object that matter can be put in motion only by matter, and that to talk of a stone being raised by an unseen hand is
therefore absurd. Indeed! Will the objector tell us how it is he puts his own body in motion? The power of something that is not matter over matter is one of the
commonest facts of life. The Apostle Peter walked upon the sea. "Nonsense," the infidel exclaims, with a toss of his head, "that would be a violation of natural laws!"
And yet the phenomenon may have been as simple as that produced when he himself shakes his head! It is possible, moreover, that the laws may yet be explained
under which the miracles were performed. 1 Nor would they cease to be miracles if those laws were known; for the test of a miracle is not that it should be
inexplicable, but that it should be beyond human power to accomplish it. Whether or not the power in exercise be Divine is matter of evidence or inference; but once
the presence of Divine power is ascertained, a miracle, regarded as a fact, is accounted for.

If a surgeon restores sight to a blind man, or a physician rescues a fever patient from death, the fact excites no other emotion than our gratitude. But when we are told
that such cures have been achieved by Divine power with out the use of medicine or the knife, we are called upon to refuse even to examine the evidence. The plain
fact is that men
 Copyright        do not believe
              (c) 2005-2009,     in "Divine
                               Infobase     power,"
                                         Media       or the "unseen hand." Disguise it as we will this is the real point of the controversy. In the case of every
                                                 Corp.                                                                                                            human
                                                                                                                                                               Page     4 being,
                                                                                                                                                                          / 176
"special action" is a duty if thereby he can relieve suffering or avert disaster; but in the case of the Divine Being it is not to be expected or indeed tolerated! It is
accepted as an axiom that Almighty God must be a cipher in His own world!
the presence of Divine power is ascertained, a miracle, regarded as a fact, is accounted for.

If a surgeon restores sight to a blind man, or a physician rescues a fever patient from death, the fact excites no other emotion than our gratitude. But when we are told
that such cures have been achieved by Divine power with out the use of medicine or the knife, we are called upon to refuse even to examine the evidence. The plain
fact is that men do not believe in "Divine power," or the "unseen hand." Disguise it as we will this is the real point of the controversy. In the case of every human being,
"special action" is a duty if thereby he can relieve suffering or avert disaster; but in the case of the Divine Being it is not to be expected or indeed tolerated! It is
accepted as an axiom that Almighty God must be a cipher in His own world!

The doctrinaire infidel rejects Christianity on the ground that the only evidence of its truth is the miracles by which it was accredited at the first, and that miracles are
impossible - propositions, both of which are untenable. The ordinary infidel, on the other hand, bringing practical intelligence and common sense to bear upon the
question, rejects Christianity because, he argues, if the Christian's God were not a myth He would not remain passive in presence of all the suffering and wrong which
prevail in the world. That is to say, discarding the contention of the doctrinaire philosopher that miracles are impossible, he maintains that if there really existed a
Supreme Being of infinite goodness and power, miracles would abound. And the vast majority of infidels belong to this second category. But though the philosophers
are few, and their sophistries have failed to take hold of the minds of common men, they have well-nigh monopolized the attention of Christian apologists. Common
men, moreover, unlike the philosophers, are apt to be both fair and earnest, and ready to consider any reasonable explanation of their difficulties. But the answer
offered them is for the most part either futile or inadequate.

Mr. Gladstone, for instance, falls back upon the plea that "if the experience of miracles were universal, they would cease to be miracles." But what possible ground is
there for this? They would cease to excite wonder, no doubt; but that is no test of the miraculous. In the beginning of our Lord's ministry, and before the antipathy of the
religious leaders of the Jews took shape in plots for His destruction, His miracles of healing were so numerous and so free to all, that they must have come to be
regarded as matters of course. He "went about," we read, "in all Galilee, healing all manner of disease and all manner of sickness among the people. And the report of
Him went forth into all Syria, and they brought unto Him all that were sick, holden with divers diseases and torments, possessed with devils, and epileptic, and palsied;
and He healed them." (Matthew 4:23, 24 (R.V.)) In presence of such an unlimited display of miraculous power all sense of wonder must have soon died out. But yet
every fresh cure was a fresh miracle, and would have been recognized as such. And so would it be in our own day, if, for example, whenever a wicked man committed
an outrage upon his neighbor, Divine power intervened to strike down the offender and protect his victim. The event would cease to excite the least surprise; but all
would none the less recognize the hand of God, and own His justice and goodness. And there would be no infidels left - except, of course, the philosophers!

The difficulty therefore remains unsolved. The true explanation of it will be considered in the sequel; but at this stage the discussion of it is a mere digression. So far as
the present argument is concerned the matter may be summed up in borrowed words: "The Scripture miracles stand on a solid basis which no reasoning can overthrow.
Their possibility cannot be denied without denying the very nature of God as an all-powerful Being; their probability cannot be questioned without questioning His moral
perfections; and their certainty as matters of fact can only be invalidated by destroying the very foundations of all human testimony."2

CHAPTER 4
EVIDENTIAL VALUE OF MIRACLES

That Paley, and those who follow him have mistaken and misstated the evidential value of the miracles of Christ may seem to some a startling proposition; but it is by no
means a novel one. To this error, moreover, it is that the argument against miracles in John Stuart Mill's "Essays on Religion" owes its seeming cogency.

The unbelief of the Christianized skeptic compares unfavorably with the agnosticism of the honest infidel. The one in rejecting miracles destroys the authenticity of the
Gospels, and thus recklessly undermines the foundations of Christianity. The object of the other is a defense of human reason against supposed encroachments upon its
authority. The one trades in sophistries which have been again and again refuted and exposed. The other propounds arguments which have never yet been adequately
answered. The pseudo-Christian practically joins hands with the atheist; for no amount of special pleading will avail to silence Paley's challenge, "Once believe there is a
God, and miracles are not incredible." The avowed agnostic seizes upon Paley's gratuitous assertion that a revelation can only be made by miracles, and he sets himself
to prove that miracles are wholly invalid for such a purpose.

Among English men of letters Mill's position is almost unique. From the account of his childhood in that saddest of books, his "Autobiography," it would appear that he
approached the study of Christianity from the standpoint of a cultured pagan. He was wholly unconscious, therefore, that his argument against the theologian's position
was entirely in accord with the teaching of Scripture. "A revelation cannot be proved Divine unless by external evidence": such is his mode of restating Paley's thesis.
And the problem this involves may be explained by the following illustration.

A stranger appears, say in London, the metropolis of the world, claiming to be the bearer of a Divine revelation to mankind, and in order to accredit his message he
proceeds to display miraculous power. Let us assume for the moment that after the strictest inquiry the reality of the miracles is established, and that all are agreed as to
their genuineness. Here, then, we are face to face with the question in the most practical way. If the "Christian argument" be sound we are bound to accept whatever
gospel this prophet proclaims. And no one who knows anything of human nature will doubt that it would be generally received. The Christian, however, would be kept
back by the words of the inspired apostle:

"But though we or an angel from heaven should preach unto you any gospel other than that which we preached unto you, let him be anathema." (Galatians 1:8)

In a word, the Christian would at once give up his "Paley" and fall back upon the position of the skeptic in the "Essays on Religion"! He would insist, moreover, on
bringing the new miracle-accredited gospel to the test of Holy Writ, and finding it inconsistent with the gospel he had already received, he would reject it. That is to say,
he would test the message, not by the miracles, but by a preceding revelation known to be Divine.

That Christ came to found a new religion, and that Christianity was received in the world on the authority of miracles - these are theses which command almost
universal acceptance in Christendom. It may seem startling to maintain that both are alike erroneous, and that the Christian position has been seriously prejudiced by the
error. And yet this is the conclusion which the preceding argument suggests, and to which full and careful inquiry will lead us. Is it not a fact that those in whose midst
the miracles of Christ were wrought were the very people who crucified Him as a profane impostor? Is it not a fact that when challenged to work miracles in support of
His Messianic claims He peremptorily refused? (Matthew 12:38-39; 16:1-4)

"However," says Bishop Butler, in summing up his argument on this subject, "the fact is allowed that Christianity was professed to be received into the world upon the
belief of miracles," and "that is what the first converts would have alleged as their reason for embracing it." Language cannot be plainer. The "first converts," having
witnessed the miracles, reasoned out the matter, and concluded that he who wrought them must be sent of God; and thus became converts. But where is the authority
for such a statement? As a matter of fact not one of the disciples is reported to have attributed his faith to that ground. 1 The narrative of the first Passover of the
ministry, which may seem at first sight to refute this, is in fact the clearest proof of it. Here are the words:

"Many believed on His name, beholding His signs which He did. But Jesus did not trust Himself unto them, for that He knew all men. (John 2:23-24 (R.V.))

That is to say, He refused to recognize any such discipleship.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                               Page 5 / 176
Then follows the story of Nicodemus, who was one of the number of these miracle-made converts. He had reasoned himself into discipleship, precisely as Butler
supposes; but, as Dean Alford expresses it,2 he had to be taught that "it is not learning that is needed for the kingdom, but life, and life must begin by birth." Such is
"Many believed on His name, beholding His signs which He did. But Jesus did not trust Himself unto them, for that He knew all men. (John 2:23-24 (R.V.))

That is to say, He refused to recognize any such discipleship.

Then follows the story of Nicodemus, who was one of the number of these miracle-made converts. He had reasoned himself into discipleship, precisely as Butler
supposes; but, as Dean Alford expresses it,2 he had to be taught that "it is not learning that is needed for the kingdom, but life, and life must begin by birth." Such is
throughout the testimony of St. John. Entirely in harmony with it is the testimony of St. Peter, who shared with him the special privilege of witnessing that greatest of the
miracles, the Transfiguration on the Holy Mount. "Being born again (he writes), not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the Word of God."3

Still more striking and significant is the case of St. Paul. As great a reasoner as Butler, and moreover a man of unswerving devotion to what he deemed to be the truth,
the completed testimony of the ministry and miracles of Christ left him a bitter opponent and persecutor of Christianity. "I obtained mercy" is his own explanation of the
change which took place in him. And again, "It pleased God, who called me by His grace, to reveal His Son in me." Some may call such language mystical. To others,
who are themselves what St. Paul till then had been, it may even seem offensive. But whatever its meaning, and however regarded, certain it is that it implies something
wholly different from what Bishop Butler's words would indicate. 4

But if the miracles were not intended to be a ground of faith in Christ, why, it will be asked, were they given at all? They had a twofold character and purpose. Just as a
good man who is possessed of the means and the opportunity to relieve suffering is impelled to action by his very nature, so was it with our blessed Lord. When "the
Word was made flesh and tabernacled among us," it was, if we may so speak with reverence, a matter of course that sickness and pain and even death should give way
before Him. He "went about doing good and healing all that were oppressed of the devil because God was with Him." The skeptics talk as though our Lord were
represented as stopping in His teaching at intervals in order to work some miracle to silence unbelief. The idea is absolutely grotesque in its falseness. On the contrary
we read such statements as this, that "He did not many mighty works because of their unbelief."(Matthew 13:58) As a matter of fact, while there is not recorded a
single instance in the whole course of His ministry where faith appealed to Him in vain - and this it is which makes the inexorable reign of law to-day so strange and
overwhelming - neither is there recorded a solitary instance where the challenge of unbelief was rewarded by a miracle. Every challenge of the kind was met by
referring the caviler to the Scriptures.

And this suggests the second great purpose for which the miracles were given. With the Jew politics and religion were inseparable. Every hope of spiritual blessing
rested on the coming of Messiah. With that advent was connected every promise of national independence and prosperity. The pious few who constituted the little
band of His true disciples thought first and most of the spiritual aspect of His mission. The multitude thought only of deliverance from the Roman yoke, and the
restoration of the bygone glories of their kingdom. In the case of all alike His chief credentials were to be sought in the Scriptures which foretold His coming, and to
these it was that His ultimate appeal was always made. "Ye are searching the Scriptures," He said to the Jews, "and these are they which bear witness of Me, and ye
will not come to Me." (John 5: 39, 40)

"If they hear not Moses and the prophets neither will they be persuaded though one rose from the dead." (Luke 16:31)

In this respect the evidence of the miracles was purely incidental. It is nowhere suggested that they were given to accredit the teaching; their evidential purpose was
solely and altogether to accredit the Teacher. It was not merely that they were miracles, but that they were such miracles as the Jews were led by their Scriptures to
expect. Their significance depended on their special character,5 and their relation to a preceding revelation accepted as Divine by those for whose benefit they were
accomplished.

And this suggests, it may be remarked in passing, another flaw in the Christian argument from miracles, as usually stated. What is supernatural is not of necessity Divine.
"Every one who works miracles is sent of God: this man works miracles, therefore He is sent of God." The logic of the syllogism is perfect. But the Jew would rightly
repudiate the major premise, and of course reject the conclusion. As a matter of fact he attributed the miracles of Christ to Satan, and our Lord met the taunt, not by
denying Satanic power, but by appealing to the nature and purpose of His acts. As they were manifestly aimed against the archenemy, they could not, He urged, be
assigned to his agency.

The subordination of the testimony of miracles to that of Scripture appears more plainly still in the teaching after the resurrection. "Beginning (we read) at Moses and all
the prophets He expounded unto them in all the Scriptures the things concerning Himself." And again, "These are the words which I spake unto you while I was yet with
you, that all things must be fulfilled which were written in the law of Moses and in the prophets and in the Psalms concerning Me."6 Nor was it otherwise when the
apostles took up the testimony. St. Peter's appeal, addressed to the Jews of Jerusalem, was to "all the prophets, from Samuel and those that follow after, as many as
have spoken."(Acts 3:24) Such also was St. Paul's defense when arraigned before Agrippa' "I continue unto this day (he declared) witnessing both to small and great,
saying none other things than those which the prophets and Moses did say should come."(Acts 26:22) And when we turn to the dogmatic teaching of the Epistles we
have the same truth still more explicitly enforced, that Christ

"was a minister of the circumcision for the truth of God, to confirm the promises made unto the fathers, and that the Gentiles might glorify God for His mercy, as it is
written."(Romans 15:8, 9)

Page after page might thus be filled to prove the falseness of the dictum here under discussion. "A new religion"! It would be nearer the truth to declare that one great
purpose of Messiah's advent was to put an end to the reign of religion altogether. Such a statement would be entirely in keeping with the spirit of the only passage in the
New Testament where the word occurs in relation to the Christian life. (James 1:27) Christ was Himself the reality of every type, the substance of every shadow, the
fulfillment of every promise of the old religion. Whether we speak of the altar or the sacrifice, the priest or the temple in which He ministered, Christ was the antitype of
all. His purpose was not to set these aside that He might set up others in their place - He came, not to destroy the law and the prophets, but to fulfill them. The very
details of that elaborate ritual, the very furniture of that gorgeous shrine which was the scene and center of the national worship, all pointed to Him. The ark of the
covenant, the mercy-seat which covered it, the most holy place itself, and the veil which shut it in - all were but types of Him. The several altars and the many sacrifices
bore witness to His infinite perfections and the varied aspects of His death as bringing glory to God and full redemption to mankind. In plain truth, the attempt to set up
a religion now, in the sense in which Judaism was a religion, is to deny Christianity and to apostatize from Christ. 7

In the light of this truth the force of the skeptic's argument is wholly dissipated. When the Nazarene appeared, the question with the Jew was not whether, like another
John the Baptist, He was "a man sent of God," but whether He was the Sent One, the Messiah to whom all their religion pointed and all their Scriptures bore testimony.

"We have found the Messiah:" "We have found Him of whom Moses in the law, and the prophets, did write." (John 1:41, 45)

Such were the words in which His disciples gave expression to their faith, and by which they sought to draw others to Him. The question, then, is not whether a
revelation can be accredited by external evidence, but whether such evidence can avail to accredit a person whose coming has been foretold. And this no accurate
thinker would for a moment dispute. In Dean Swift's fierce invective against the Irish bishops of his day he suggested that they were highwaymen who, having waylaid
and robbed the prelates appointed by the Crown, had entered on their Sees in virtue of the stolen credentials. The whole point of this satire lay in the theoretical
possibility of the suggestion. Nothing is more difficult in certain circumstances than to accredit an envoy. But, if he be expected, the merest trifle may suffice. An agent is
sent upon some
 Copyright        mission of secrecy
             (c) 2005-2009,          andMedia
                              Infobase   danger.Corp.
                                                 A messenger will follow later with new and full instructions for his guidance. The messenger is described to him, but his
                                                                                                                                                            Page 6 / 176
sense of the peril of his position makes him plead that he shall have adequate credentials. In response to his appeal I pick up a scrap of paper, tear it in two, and
handing him the half I tell him that the other moiety will be presented by the envoy. No document, however elaborate, would give surer proof of his identity than would
that torn piece of paper.
thinker would for a moment dispute. In Dean Swift's fierce invective against the Irish bishops of his day he suggested that they were highwaymen who, having waylaid
and robbed the prelates appointed by the Crown, had entered on their Sees in virtue of the stolen credentials. The whole point of this satire lay in the theoretical
possibility of the suggestion. Nothing is more difficult in certain circumstances than to accredit an envoy. But, if he be expected, the merest trifle may suffice. An agent is
sent upon some mission of secrecy and danger. A messenger will follow later with new and full instructions for his guidance. The messenger is described to him, but his
sense of the peril of his position makes him plead that he shall have adequate credentials. In response to his appeal I pick up a scrap of paper, tear it in two, and
handing him the half I tell him that the other moiety will be presented by the envoy. No document, however elaborate, would give surer proof of his identity than would
that torn piece of paper.

Thus we see in what sense, and how certainly and simply, "external evidence" may avail "to accredit a revelation." And the skeptic's objection being set aside, he is
again confronted with the irrefutable force of Paley's argument upon the main issue.

But another question claims notice here, ignored alike by exponent and objector. They have discussed the problem from the purely human standpoint, whereas the
revelation offered for our acceptance claims to be Divine. Man is but a creature; can God not speak to him in such wise that His word shall carry with it its own
sanction and authority? To assert that God cannot speak thus to man is practically to deny that He is God. To assert that He has never in fact spoken thus involves a
transparent petitio principii.. It might be urged that the authenticity of prophecy and promise has been established by their fulfillment. But certain it is that the prophets
declare that God did thus speak to them, the Scriptures assume it, and the faith of the Christian endorses it

CHAPTER 5
A NEW DISPENSATION

In the preceding chapter it has been shown that on this question of the evidential value of miracles the infidel is right and the Christian is wrong. It is not true that a
revelation can only be made by miracles. The error of Paley's thesis can be demonstrated by argument. It can be exemplified moreover by reference to the case of the
Baptist, who, though the bearer of a Divine revelation of supreme importance, had no miracles to appeal to in support of it. (John 10:41) It has been further argued that,
so far as their evidential force was concerned, the "Christian miracles" were for that favored people "of whom, as concerning the flesh, Christ came." And if this be well
founded we shall be prepared to find that so long as the kingdom was being preached to Jews, miracles abounded, but that when the gospel appealed to the heathen
world, miracles lost their prominence, and soon entirely ceased. The question remains whether the sacred record will confirm this supposition.

Who can fail to mark the contrast between the earlier and the later chapters of the Acts of the Apostles? Measured by years the period they embrace is comparatively
brief; but morally the latter portion of the narrative seems to belong to a different age. And such is in fact the case. A new dispensation has begun, and the Book of the
Acts covers historically the period of the transition. "To the Jew first" is stamped on every page of it. The Savior's prayer upon the Cross (Luke 23:34) had secured for
the favored nation a respite from judgment. And the forgiveness asked for carried with it a right to priority in the proclamation of the great amnesty. When "the apostle
of the circumcision," by express revelation, brought the gospel to Gentiles they were relegated to a position akin to that formerly held by the "proselytes of the gate."1
And even "the apostle of the Gentiles" addressed himself first, in every place he visited, to the children of his own people. And this not from prejudice, but by Divine
appointment. "It was necessary," he declared at Pisidian Antioch, "that the word of God should first be spoken to you." (Acts 13:46 (R.V.); cf 17:2, 10; 18:1-4) Even
at Rome, deeply though he longed to visit the Christians there (Romans 1:2), his first care was to summon "the chief of the Jews," and to them "he testified the kingdom
of God." And not until the testimony had been rejected by the favored people did the word go forth,

"The salvation of God is sent unto the Gentiles, and they will hear it." (Acts 28:17, 23, 28)

But, it will be objected, the Epistle to the Romans had been already written. True; but this only makes the narrative of the Acts still more significant. Those who profess
to account for the Bible on natural principles seem ignorant of some of the main facts of the problem they pretend to solve. They give no explanation of the omissions of
Scripture. Contrast, for example, the first Gospel with the fourth. The writers of both shared the same teaching and were instructed in the same truths. How is it, then,
that Matthew contains not a single sentence which is foreign to the purpose for which it was written, as presenting Israel's Messiah, the "son of David, the son of
Abraham"?2 How is it that John, which presents Him as the Son of God, omits even the record of his birth, and deals throughout with truth for all scenes and all time?
And so with the Acts of the Apostles. As St. Paul's companion and fellow-laborer, the writer must have been familiar with the great truths revealed to the Church in the
earlier Epistles, but not a trace of them appears in his treatise. Written under the Divine guidance for a definite purpose, nothing foreign to that purpose finds a place. To
the superficial it may appear but a chance collection of incidents and memoirs, and yet, as has been rightly said "there is not a book upon earth in which the principle of
intentional selection is more evident to a careful observer."3

The special and distinctive position enjoyed by the Jew was a main feature of the economy then about to close. "There is no difference" (Romans 3:22) is a canon of
Christian doctrine. Men talk of the Divine history of the human race, but there is no such history. The Old Testament is the Divine history of the family of Abraham. The
call of Abraham was chronologically the central point between the creation of Adam and the Cross of Christ, and yet the story of all the ages from Adam to Abraham is
dismissed in eleven chapters. And if during the history of Israel the light of revelation rested for a time upon heathen nations, it was because the favored nation was
temporarily in captivity. But God took up the Hebrew race that they might be a center and channel of blessing to the world. It was owing to their pride that they came
to regard themselves as the only objects of Divine benevolence. When some great French wine-grower appoints an agent in this country, he no longer supplies his
wines except through that agent. His object, however, is not to hinder but to facilitate the sale, and to ensure that spurious wines shall not be palmed off upon the public
in his name. Akin to this was the purpose with which Israel was called out in blessing. The knowledge of the true God was thus to be maintained on earth. 4 But the
Jews perverted agency into a monopoly of Divine favor. That temple which was to have been a "house of prayer for all nations" (Mark 11:17 (R.V.)) they treated as
though it were not God's house, but their own, and ended by degrading it till it became at last "a den of thieves." But the position thus Divinely accorded them implied a
priority in blessing. And this principle pervades not only the Old Testament Scriptures but the Gospels. To us indeed it is natural to read the Gospels in the light of the
Epistles, and thus "to read into them" the wider truths of Christianity. But if the canon of Scripture ended with the Gospels this would be impossible. 5 Suppose again
the Epistles were there, but the Acts of the Apostles left out, how startling would appear the heading "To the Romans," which would confront us on turning from the
study of the Evangelists! How could we account for the transition this involved? How could we explain the great thesis of the Epistle, that there is no difference between
Jew and Gentile, both being by nature on a common level of sin and ruin, both being called in grace to equal privileges and glory? The earlier Scriptures will be
searched in vain for teaching such as this. Not the Old Testament merely but even the Gospels themselves are seemingly separated from the Epistles by a gulf. To
bridge over that gulf is the Divine purpose for which the Acts of the Apostles has been given to the Church. The earlier portion of the book is the completion of and
sequel to the Gospels; its concluding narrative is introductory to the great revelation of Christianity.

But was not the death of Stephen, recorded in the seventh chapter, the crisis of the Pentecostal testimony? Undoubtedly it was; and thereupon "the apostle to the
Gentiles" received his commission. But it was a crisis akin to that which marked the ministry of our blessed Lord Himself when the Council at Jerusalem decreed his
destruction. (Matthew 12:14) From that time He enjoined silence respecting His miracles (Matthew 12:15-16), and His teaching became veiled in parables (Matthew
13). But though His ministry entered upon this altered phase, it continued until His death. So was it in the record of the Acts. Progress in revelation, like growth in
nature, is gradual, and sometimes can be appreciated only by its developments. The apostle to the circumcision gives place to the apostle to the Gentiles as the central
figure in the narrative, but yet in every place the Jew is still accorded a priority in the offer of blessing, and it is not until, in every place from Jerusalem round to Rome,
that blessing has been despised, that the Pentecostal dispensation is brought to a close by the promulgation of the solemn decree, "The salvation of God is sent unto the
Gentiles."6
 Copyright
The         (c) 2005-2009,
     hopes excited           Infobase
                   in the breasts of theMedia  Corp.
                                         disciples                                                                                                    Page
                                                   by their Lord's last words of cheer and promise were more than realized. Converts flocked to them by      7 / 176
                                                                                                                                                        thousands, and
"signs and wonders were wrought among the people." And, as already noticed, not only was Divine power in exercise to accredit their testimony, but also to deliver
them from outrage, and rescue them from bonds and imprisonment. Nor was St. Paul behind the rest in these respects. But compare the record of Pentecostal days
figure in the narrative, but yet in every place the Jew is still accorded a priority in the offer of blessing, and it is not until, in every place from Jerusalem round to Rome,
that blessing has been despised, that the Pentecostal dispensation is brought to a close by the promulgation of the solemn decree, "The salvation of God is sent unto the
Gentiles."6

The hopes excited in the breasts of the disciples by their Lord's last words of cheer and promise were more than realized. Converts flocked to them by thousands, and
"signs and wonders were wrought among the people." And, as already noticed, not only was Divine power in exercise to accredit their testimony, but also to deliver
them from outrage, and rescue them from bonds and imprisonment. Nor was St. Paul behind the rest in these respects. But compare the record of Pentecostal days
with the narrative of his imprisonment in Rome, and mark the change! When dragged to gaol at Philippi as a common disturber of the peace, Heaven came down to
earth in answer to his midnight prayer, the prison doors flew open, his gaoler became a disciple, and the magistrates who had committed him, besought him, with
obsequious words, to comply with commands they no longer dared to enforce. But now he is "the prisoner of the Lord." His bonds are known everywhere to be for
Christ. (Philippians 1:13) In other words, there is no side issue, no incidental charge, as at Philippi, to conceal the true character of the accusation against him. It is a
public fact that it is only because he is a teacher of Christianity that he is held in bonds. If the received theory respecting miracles be well founded, this is the scene and
here is the occasion for "signs and wonders and mighty deeds," such as he had appealed to in his earlier career. (2 Corinthians 12:12) But Heaven is silent There is no
earthquake now to awe his persecutors. No angel messenger strikes off his chains. He stands alone, forsaken of men, even as his Master was, and seemingly forsaken
of God. 7 How natural the skeptic's taunt that miracles were cheap with the peasants of Galilee and the rabble of Jerusalem! A miracle at Nero's Court might indeed
have "accredited Christianity." In truth, it might have shaken the world. But miracle there was none; for, the special testimony to the Jew having ceased, the purpose for
which miracles were given was accomplished.

Like a day that breaks with unclouded splendor, and approaches noontide in all the glory of perfect summer, but then begins to wane, and early closes in amidst the
gloom of gathering storm-clouds that shut out the sky and darken all the scene, so was it with the course of that brief story. At the first great Pentecost three thousand
converts were baptized in a single day, the manifested power of God filled every soul with awe, and those who were His own had "gladness of heart" and "favor with all
the people." And when the first threat of persecution drove them together in prayer, "the place was shaken where they were assembled... and with great power gave
the apostles witness of the resurrection of the Lord Jesus." (Acts 4:23-33) The seeming check of the first martyr's death was followed by the conversion of him who
caused it, the fierce persecutor and blasphemer, won over to the faith he had struggled to destroy, and chained to the chariot-wheels of the triumph of the gospel. (2
Corinthians 2:14) But now we see that same Paul, albeit the greatest of the apostles and the foremost champion the faith has ever known, standing alone at Caesar's
judgment-seat, a weak, crushed man, given up to death to satisfy the policy or caprice of Imperial Rome. In days to come "the song of Moses and the song of the
Lamb" shall mingle once again in the anthem of the redeemed (Revelation 15:3): the song of Moses

I will sing unto the Lord for He hath triumphed gloriously,

The horse and his rider hath He thrown into the sea" -

that song of the public triumph of Divine power openly displayed; and the song of the Lamb - the song of that deeper but hidden triumph of faith in the unseen. But now
the song of Moses has ceased, and the Church's only song is the song of Him who overcame, and won the throne through open defeat and shame. The days of the
"rushing mighty wind," "the tongues of fire," the earthquake shock, are past. The anchor of the Christian's hope is firmly fixed in the veiled realities of heaven. He
endures "as seeing Him who is invisible."

CHAPTER 6
CHRISTIANITY DISTINGUISHED

The Sovereign of the Universe is on the whole a good Sovereign, but with so much business on His hands that He has not time to look into details. Such was Cicero's
apology two thousand years ago for Jupiter's neglect of his terrestrial kingdom. 1 And the words would fairly express the vague thoughts which float through the minds
of common men if they think of God at all in relation to the affairs of earth. But there are times in every life when, in the language of the old Psalm, "heart and flesh cry
out for the living God." (Psalms 74:2) The living God: not a mere Providence, but a real Person - a God to help us as our fellow-man would help if only he had the
power. And at such times men pray who never prayed before; and men who are used to pray, pray with a passionate earnestness they never knew before. But what
comes of it? "When I cry and call for help He shutteth out my prayer": (Lamentations 3:8 (R.V.)) such is the experience of thousands. Men do not speak of these
things; but, as they brood over them, the cold mist of a settled unbelief quenches the last spark of faith in hearts chilled by a sense of utter desolation, or roused to
rebellion by a sense of wrong.

To some no doubt all this will savor of the mingled profanity and ignorance of unbelief. But by many these pages will be welcomed as giving full and fair expression to
familiar thoughts. And the statement of these difficulties here is made with a view to their solution. But where is that solution to be found? It is no novel experience with
men that Heaven should be silent. But what is new and strange and startling is that the silence should be so absolute and so prolonged; that, through all the changing
vicissitudes of the Church's history for nearly two thousand years that silence should have remained unbroken. This it is which tries faith, and hardens unfaith into open
infidelity.

Can this mystery be solved? Mere speculations respecting it are profitless. The solution must be found in Holy Scripture, if at all. The Old Testament, of course, will
throw no light on it. Neither will the Gospels afford a clew; for these are the record of "days of heaven upon earth." Nor yet need it be sought in the Acts of the
Apostles, for, as already seen, the Book is the record of a transitory dispensation marked by abundant displays of the power of God among men. Is it not clear that if
the key to the great secret of the Gentile dispensation can be found at all, it is in the writings of the apostle to the Gentiles that we must make search for it?

But here the ways divide. The wide and well-worn highway of religious controversy will never lead us to the truth we seek. That is reached only by a path which the
general reader will refuse. Our choice lies between a study of these Epistles viewed as disclosing the "Pauline" developments, or perversions, of the teaching of the great
Rabbi of Nazareth, or as containing that further revelation promised and foreshadowed by our Divine Lord in the later discourses of His ministry on earth. The one road
is deemed the highway of modern enlightenment, the other is disparaged as a by-path now disused, or frequented only by the mystic and the unlearned. But in this
sphere popularity is no test of truth. Let the atheistic evolutionist account for it if he can, the fact remains that man is essentially a religious being. He may sink so low as
to deify humanity and make self his god, but a god of some sort he must have. 2 Religion is a necessity to him. The Christian religion prevails in Christendom; other
systems hold sway among the decaying civilizations of the world; but neither the deepest degradation nor the highest enlightenment has ever produced a single nation or
tribe of atheists.

This undoubted fact, however, may well give rise to most serious thoughts. It cannot be admitted that the element of truth is of no account in religion, or that all these
religions are equally acceptable. And once we come to the question of their relative excellence the religion of Christendom defies all comparison. May we, then,
maintain that all adherents of the Christian religion are assured of Divine favor? Let us for a moment, forgetting what is due to "the spirit of the age," assume the Divine
authority of Scripture, and we shall find ourselves confronted by doubts whether religion in this sense is of any avail whatever. Judaism was, indeed, a Divine religion. It
had "ordinances of Divine service and its sanctuary," (Hebrews 9:1(R.V.)) Divinely appointed in a sense to which no other system could pretend. And yet we read:

"He is not a Jew who is one outwardly, neither is that circumcision which is outward in the flesh; but he is a Jew who is one inwardly, and circumcision is that of the
heart." (Romans 2:28)
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                                Page 8 / 176
And again,
had "ordinances of Divine service and its sanctuary," (Hebrews 9:1(R.V.)) Divinely appointed in a sense to which no other system could pretend. And yet we read:

"He is not a Jew who is one outwardly, neither is that circumcision which is outward in the flesh; but he is a Jew who is one inwardly, and circumcision is that of the
heart." (Romans 2:28)

And again,

"For neither is circumcision anything, nor uncircumcision, but a new creature." (Galatians 6:15)

Now, if in a religion which seemed to consist so much in externals, the externals were absolutely of no value whatever save as they had their counterpart and reality in a
man's heart and life, this surely must be still more true of Christianity. May we not assert with confidence that he is not a Christian who is one outwardly, but he only is a
Christian who is one inwardly? May we not maintain that there is a distinction sharp and clear between Christianity and the religion of Christendom.

In the case of the Roman and Greek Churches, this distinction becomes a deep and yawning gulf. And further, as Mr. Froude has well said, in those countries which
rejected the Reformation, "culture and intelligence have ceased to interest themselves in a creed which they no longer believe. The laity are contemptuously indifferent,
and leave the priests in possession of the field in which reasonable men have ceased to expect any good thing to grow. This is the only fruit of the Catholic reaction of
the sixteenth century." And he adds: "If the same phenomena are beginning to be visible in England, coincident with the repudiation by some of the clergy of the
principles of the Reformation; and if they are permitted to carry through their Catholic 'revival,' the divorce between intelligence and Christianity will be as complete
among ourselves as it is elsewhere." "Between intelligence and Christianity" a divorce is impossible. But by "Christianity" the author here means "the religion of
Christendom"; and with this correction his assertion is irrefutable. Mr. Balfour's "Foundations of Belief" escapes the difficulty here suggested by stopping short at the
very threshold. His work is "introductory to the study of theology." And here his criticisms are searching, and his logic is without a flaw. But one step more would have
brought him to the point where the ways divide. What is the theology he is aiming at? Is it the religion of Christendom - a human religion based on a Divine ideal, framed
to reach and regulate men's opinions and conduct so far as the spiritual side of their complex being is concerned? Or is it

Christianity - a Divine revelation commanding the faith and thus molding the character and controlling the whole life of those who receive it? In the estimation of some
the great religion of Asia compares favorably with that of Christendom, on account of its freedom from priestcraft and ceremonial observances, its repudiation of
penance and everything of mere asceticism, and the singular truth and beauty of its doctrine of "the middle path." But the comparison is altogether dishonest. It is drawn
between the ideal Buddhism of our English admirers of Gautama, and the Christian system in its more corrupt developments. The practical Buddhism of Buddhist races
is a gross and degrading superstition, and it cannot compare with the Christian religion even at its worst. And even the refined Buddhism presented by its Western
exponents is wanting in that ennobling element which is distinctive of Christianity. The wholly legendary and half mythical story of Gautama's life are a poor equivalent
for the well-ascertained facts of the ministry of Christ. 3 Here let a Witness speak whose judgment is warped by no religious bias.

"It was reserved for Christianity," says Mr. Lecky, "to present to the world an ideal character which, through all the changes of eighteen centuries has filled the hearts of
men with an impassioned love, has shown itself capable of acting on all ages, nations, temperaments, and conditions; has not only been the highest pattern of virtue, but
the highest incentive to its practice, and has exerted so deep an influence that it may be truly said that the simple record of three short years of active life has done more
to regenerate and soften mankind than all the disquisitions of philosophers and all the exhortations of moralists. This has, indeed, been the well-spring of whatever has
been best and purest in the Christian life. Amid all the sins and failings, amid all the priestcraft, the persecutions, and fanaticism which have defaced the Church, it has
preserved in the character and example of its Founder an enduring principle of regeneration."

If the Christian religion, even in its outward and human side, can justly claim such a testimony as this, what words are adequate to describe Christianity in the higher and
deeper sense? And let no one carp at this distinction as fanciful or forced. In fact, it is broad and vital. Just as the religion of Asia is based on the life and teaching of
Gautama, so the religion of Christendom, regarded as a human system, claims to be based on the life and teaching of the great Rabbi of Nazareth. But the advent and
ministry of Christ were, in fact, introductory to the great revelation of Christianity. Thus was crowned and completed, as it were, the fabric which had been rearing for
ages. In the public aspect of it His mission had relation to the economy about to close. He was "born under the law." (Galatians 4:4) He "was a minister of the
circumcision for the truth of God." Hence His words, "I am not sent but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel." And as the result, infinite love, and grace which
knows no distinctions, were restrained. "I have a baptism to be baptized with," He exclaimed, "and how am I straitened till it be accomplished!"

CHAPTER 7
ANOTHER GREAT TRUTH

Just half a century ago the theologians of Christendom were startled by the publication of Ferdinand Christian Baur's treatise on Paul. 1 It was an epoch-making book.
The author's critical researches had led him to assert the unquestionable authenticity of the Epistles to the Romans, the Corinthians, and the Galatians. And fastening on
these writings as our safest guides in historical inquiries respecting the character and rise of primitive Christianity, he went on to demonstrate its Pauline origin. "These
authentic documents," he urged (to quote a recent writer), "reveal antitheses of thought, a Petrine and a Pauline party in the Apostolic Church. The Petrine was the
primitive Christian, made up of men who, while believing in Jesus as the Messiah, did not cease to be Jews, whose Christianity was but a narrow neo-Judaism. The
Pauline was a reformed and Gentile Christianity, which aimed at universalizing the faith in Jesus by freeing it from the Jewish law and traditions. The universalism of
Christianity, and, therefore, its historical importance and achievements, are thus really the work of the Apostle Paul. His work he accomplished not with the approval
and consent, but against the will and in spite of the efforts and oppositions, of the older apostles, and especially of their more inveterate adherents who claimed to be
the party of Christ."2

If we are to understand the sequel to the present argument we must rescue from its false environment of German rationalism the important truth which Baur thus brought
to light and distorted. 3 We must need recognize the intensely Jewish character of the Pentecostal dispensation. And in this connection we must also apprehend the
twofold aspect of the death of Christ. The Cross was the manifestation of Divine love without reserve or limit; but it was also the expression of man's unutterable
malignity. Did reverence permit us to give play to imagination on such a subject, we might suppose the death of Christ accomplished by the Roman power in spite of
protests and appeals from an aggrieved and downtrodden Jewish people. More than this, we might suppose "the King of the Jews" given up to death on grounds of
public policy, yet treated to the last with all the respect and homage due to His personal character and royal claims.

And who will dare to aver that the atoning efficacy of the death of our Divine Lord, however accomplished, could be less than infinite? But mark the emphasis which
Scripture lays upon the manner of His death. It was "the death of the Cross." No element of contempt or hate was wanting. Imperial Rome decreed it, but it was the
favored people who demanded it. The "wicked bands" by which they murdered their Messiah were those of their heathen masters, but the responsibility for the act was
all their own. Nor was it the ignorant rabble of Jerusalem that forced the Roman government to set up the cross on Calvary. Behind the mob was the great Council of
the nation. Neither was it a sudden burst of passion that led these men to clamor for His death. Hostile sects forgot their differences in deep-laid plots to compass His
destruction. The time, moreover, was the Paschal feast, when Jews from every land were gathered in Jerusalem. Every interest, every class, every section of that
people shared in the great crime. Never was there a clearer case of national guilt. Never was there an act for which a nation could more justly be summoned to
account.

But Infinite mercy could forgive even that transcendent sin, and in Jerusalem itself it was that the great amnesty was first proclaimed. Pardon and peace were preached,
 Copyright
by          (c) 2005-2009,
   Divine command,          Infobase
                     to the very       Media
                                 men who       Corp. the Son of God! But here prevailing misconceptions are so fixed that the whole significance of thePage
                                            crucified                                                                                                                9 is/ lost.
                                                                                                                                                             narrative     176
The apostles were Divinely guided to declare that if, even then, the "men of Israel" repented, their Messiah would return to fulfill to them all that their, own prophets had
foretold and promised of spiritual and national blessing. 4
account.

But Infinite mercy could forgive even that transcendent sin, and in Jerusalem itself it was that the great amnesty was first proclaimed. Pardon and peace were preached,
by Divine command, to the very men who crucified the Son of God! But here prevailing misconceptions are so fixed that the whole significance of the narrative is lost.
The apostles were Divinely guided to declare that if, even then, the "men of Israel" repented, their Messiah would return to fulfill to them all that their, own prophets had
foretold and promised of spiritual and national blessing. 4

To represent this as Christian doctrine, or the institution of "a new religion," is to betray ignorance alike of Judaism and of Christianity. The speakers were Jews - the
apostles of One who was Himself "a minister of the circumcision." Their hearers were Jews, and as Jews they were addressed. The Pentecostal Church which was
based upon the testimony was intensely and altogether Jewish. It was not merely that the converts were Jews, and none but Jews but that the idea of evangelizing
Gentiles never was even mooted. When the first great persecution scattered the disciples, and they "went everywhere preaching the Word," they preached, we are
expressly told, "to none but to the Jews."5 And when after the lapse of years Peter entered a Gentile house, he was publicly called to account for conduct that seemed
so strange and wrong. 6

In a word, if "To the Jew first" is characteristic of the Acts of the Apostles as a whole, "To the Jew only" is plainly stamped upon every part of these early chapters,
described by theologians as the "Hebraic section" of the book. The fact is clear as light. And if any are prepared to account for it by Jewish prejudice and ignorance,
they may at once throw down this volume, for it is here assumed that the apostles of the Lord, speaking and acting in the memorable days of Pentecostal power, were
Divinely guided in their work and testimony.

The Jerusalem Church, then, was Jewish. Their Bible was the Jewish Scriptures. The Jewish temple was their house of prayer and common meeting-place. (Acts 2:46;
3:1, 5:42) Their beliefs and hopes and words and acts all marked them out as Jews. Hence the amazing number of the converts. On the day of Pentecost alone three
thousand were baptized. (Acts 2:41) Soon afterwards their company would seem to have more than trebled. 7 At the time of the sin and death of Ananias and
Sapphira, still further "multitudes, both of men and women," were added to their company. And at the time of the appointment of the men who, by a strange vagary of
tradition, have been misnamed "the deacons,"8 it is recorded that

"the number of the disciples multiplied in Jerusalem greatly, and a great company of the priests were obedient to the faith."

(Acts. 6:7)

Nothing was further from the thoughts of these men than "founding a new religion." On the contrary, while hailing the rejected Nazarene as their national Messiah, they
clung with passionate devotion to the religion of their fathers.

But what bearing has all this upon the question here? The Jews had crucified the Messiah. But now, when vengeance swift and terrible might have been expected to fall
upon that guilty people, Divine mercy held back the judgment and called them once again to repentance. The testimony was full and clear, and it was confirmed by a
signal display of miraculous power. But what was the answer of the men who sat "in Moses' seat" - the accredited leaders and representatives of the nation? (Matthew
23:2) By the murder of Stephen they re-enacted, so far as it was in their power to re-enact, the supreme tragedy of Calvary. Having regard to all the events which
marked the interval, that further crime betokened a more deliberate hate, and therefore a greater depth of guilt, even than the Crucifixion itself. There was no popular
clamor now to blind their judgment. When, some months before, in a formal meeting of their national senate, the plot to murder the apostles was first mooted, it was
one of the great doctors of the Sanhedrin who intervened on their behalf. 9 Gamaliel's words, moreover, and the action which the council took on them, give proof how
entirely the position and teaching of the apostles were within the scope of Jewish beliefs and hopes, and how thoroughly they were regarded as a Jewish sect. 10 But
these men were so blinded by religious rancor that no voice, human or Divine, could avail to restrain them.

Heaven's best gifts, when perverted or abused, often turn to what is virulently bad; and religion, when divorced from spiritual life, appears to have some mysterious
power to narrow and harden and deprave the human heart. "It cannot be that a prophet perish out of Jerusalem!" (Luke 13:33) The pathos of the words does not
conceal their scathing irony. Among common men, however evil or degraded, a prophet might pass unharmed: religious men alone would persecute and murder him! In
every age, indeed, religion has been the most implacable enemy of God, the most relentless persecutor of His people. Witness the tombs of the prophets! Witness the
blood-stained pages of the Church's history! The Christian martyrs in unnumbered millions - for though their names are written in heaven, earth has kept no record of
them - the best and purest and noblest of mankind, have been tortured and done to death in the name of religion. 11 How just is the infidel's taunt that it radically
vitiates the standard of human morals!12

The men by whose hands the "first martyr" died were the very men who had been "the betrayers and murderers" of Christ. In times of riot or excitement mobs will
commit excesses which, in his better moments, every man of them would deprecate. But these men were not of the class that mobs are made of. The high priest
presided. Around him were the elders and the scribes. By the great Council of the nation it was that the deed was done. Its members were the acknowledged religious
leaders of the people. Many of them, like Saul of Tarsus, himself the formal witness of the death, were men of blameless life, of untiring zeal and intensest piety. And as
the cruel stones were showered upon that face which had shone like an angel's as they looked on it, it was hatred to the Nazarene that fired their hearts. Their King
they had driven out: Stephen was the messenger sent after Him to declare anew their deliberate purpose to reject Him. (Luke 19:14) This was their answer to the
heaven-sent testimony of Pentecost. "All manner of sin" against the Son might be forgiven; they had now committed that deeper sin against the Holy Ghost, for which
there could be no forgiveness. (Matthew 12:31, 32)

During the forty years of Jeremiah's ministry the first destruction of Jerusalem was delayed. So well -nigh forty years elapsed before the crash of that still more awful
judgment which engulfed them. God is very pitiful, and then, as now, "He had compassion on his people and on His dwelling-place. But they mocked the messengers of
God, and despised His words, and misused His prophets, until the wrath of the Lord arose against His people till there was no remedy." (2 Chronicles 36:15 etc.) But
though the public event which marked their fall was thus deferred, the death of Stephen was the secret crisis of their destiny. Never again was a public miracle
witnessed in Jerusalem. The special Pentecostal proclamation (Acts. 3:19-26) was withdrawn. The Pentecostal Church was scattered. The apostle of the Gentiles
forthwith received his commission, and the current of events set steadily, and with continually increasing force, toward the open rejection of the long-favored people
and the public proclamation of the great characteristic truth of Christianity. Within that truth lies concealed the key to the mystery of a silent Heaven.

CHAPTER 8
ATTACKS REBUFFED

We have now reached a stage in this inquiry where a retrospect may be opportune. Expression has been given to difficulties and doubts to which no thoughtful person
is a stranger. And these, it has been seen, are rather intensified, than answered or removed, by an appeal to the mere surface current of Scripture testimony. The
"Christian argument" from miracles has been shown to be not only inadequate, but faulty. And we have turned to the Acts of the Apostles to find how fallacious is the
popular belief that the Jerusalem Church was Christian. In fact, it was thoroughly and altogether Jewish. The only difference, indeed, between the position of the
disciples during the "Hebraic period" of the Acts, and during the period of the Lord's earthly ministry, was that the great fact of the Resurrection became the burden of
their testimony. And finally we have seen how the rejection of that testimony by the favored nation led to the unfolding of the Divine purpose to deprive the Jew of his
vantage-ground   of privilege Infobase
 Copyright (c) 2005-2009,     and to usher in theCorp.
                                        Media     Christian dispensation.                                                                               Page 10 / 176
The Divine religion of Judaism in every part of it, both in the spirit and the letter, pointed to the coming of a promised Messiah; and to maintain that a man ceased to be
a Jew because he cherished that hope, and accepted the Messiah when He came - this is a position absolutely grotesque in its absurdity. It would not be one whit more
"Christian argument" from miracles has been shown to be not only inadequate, but faulty. And we have turned to the Acts of the Apostles to find how fallacious is the
popular belief that the Jerusalem Church was Christian. In fact, it was thoroughly and altogether Jewish. The only difference, indeed, between the position of the
disciples during the "Hebraic period" of the Acts, and during the period of the Lord's earthly ministry, was that the great fact of the Resurrection became the burden of
their testimony. And finally we have seen how the rejection of that testimony by the favored nation led to the unfolding of the Divine purpose to deprive the Jew of his
vantage-ground of privilege and to usher in the Christian dispensation.

The Divine religion of Judaism in every part of it, both in the spirit and the letter, pointed to the coming of a promised Messiah; and to maintain that a man ceased to be
a Jew because he cherished that hope, and accepted the Messiah when He came - this is a position absolutely grotesque in its absurdity. It would not be one whit more
monstrous to declare that in our own day a man ceases to be a Christian if and when faith in Christ, from being a mere shibboleth of his creed, becomes a reality in his
heart and life.

Twenty years after the Pentecostal Church was formed, the disciples were still regarded by their own nation as a Jewish sect. "The sect of the Nazarenes," Tertullus
called them in his arraignment of Paul before Felix; and Paul, in his defense, repudiated the charge, claiming that the followers of the Way were the true worshippers of
the ancestral God of his nation. 1 Israel fell, not because the disciples, alive to the spiritual significance of their religion, accepted Christ, but because the nation rejected
Him, and persisted in that rejection, "despising His words and misusing His prophets, till there was no remedy."

It would be an idle and profitless speculation to discuss what would have been the course of the dispensation if the Pentecostal testimony had led the Jews to
repentance. What concerns us is the fact that Israel's fall was due to the national rejection of Messiah, and that that fall was "the reconciling of the world" (Romans
11:15) - a radical change in God's attitude toward men, such as the Old Testament Scriptures gave no indication of, and even the Gospels foreshadowed but vaguely.
We thus steer our course unswayed by the ignorance of the Christian skeptic and the animus of the avowed unbeliever. The one, disparaging the Epistles, turns back to
the Sermon on the Mount to seek there an ideal Christianity: the other has no difficulty in showing that the teaching of Christ, when so perverted, is the dream of a
visionary. The Sermon on the Mount combines principles of limitless scope with precepts designed for the time at which they were spoken, and the spiritually intelligent
cannot fail to discriminate between the two. It was for such the Bible was written, and neither for infidels nor fools. 2

We conclude, then, as we study the records of the Pentecostal Jewish Church, that the characteristic truths of Christianity have yet to be revealed. Turning back to the
earlier Scriptures with the knowledge we now possess, we may find them there in embryo, but the full and formal promulgation of them must be sought in the Epistles.
But here the parting of the ways will become still more definitely marked. In passing away from the ministry of "the apostle to the circumcision," we leave behind us, of
course, the religion of Christendom - for is not St. Peter its patron saint? Mere Protestantism, moreover, has but little sympathy with studies of this kind. And as for that
school of religious thought which seems for the moment to stand highest in the popular favor, we break with it entirely on entering upon the inquiry which lies before us.
None such will accompany the truth-seeker as he passes on his lonely way.

But while other schools will be simply indifferent to this inquiry, open hostility will be the attitude of those who claim to be the party of progress and enlightenment. It
may be well, therefore, to turn aside once again to examine their pretensions. No generous mind would willingly insult a man's religion, whether he be Christian or Jew,
Mahometan or Buddhist. But when "religious" men pose as skeptics and critics, they come out into the open, and forfeit all "right of sanctuary." Courtesy is due to the
religious man who stands behind the labarum of his creed. Courtesy is no less due to the agnostic who refuses faith in all that lies outside the sphere of sense or
demonstration. But what shall be said for those who discard belief in the supernatural while they claim to be the true exponents of a system which has the supernatural
as its only basis; or who deprecate belief in the inspiration of the Scriptures, while they profess to hold and teach that to which, apart from inspiration in the strictest
sense, none but the credulous would listen?

These men pretend to mental superiority; but we only need to tear away the lion's skin they masquerade in to find - exactly what we might expect! Here is a dilemma
from which there is no escape. If the New Testament be Divinely inspired, we accept its teaching; we believe that Jesus was the Son of God, that He was born of a
virgin, that He died and rose again, that He ascended to heaven, and now sits as man at the right hand of God; in a word, we are Christians, and to take any other
position is to stultify ourselves by dethroning reason itself. If, on the other hand, the New Testament be not inspired, no consensus of mere human opinion or testimony,
however ancient or venerable or widespread, would warrant our accepting figments so essentially incredible; in a word, we are agnostics, and to take any other
position is to pose as superstitious fools who would believe anything.

The Christian and the infidel cannot both be right, yet both are entitled to respect, for the one position is logically as unassailable as the other. But what shall be said for
the unbelieving Christian, or the Christianized infidel? If he be dishonest he is almost bad enough for a gaol; if he be honest he is almost weak enough for an asylum. The
weak deserve our pity; the wicked our contempt. And their claim to be freethinkers, their affectation of intellectual superiority, give proof that with the majority the
more generous alternative is the true one. The old Jewish proverb about straining out a gnat and swallowing a camel well describes their attempt to combine the most
fastidious skepticism with the blindest faith. These modern Sadducees talk "as though wisdom were born with them "whereas, in fact, like their prototypes of old, they
are the stupid advocates of an impossible compromise.

Let there be no misunderstanding here. It is not a question of demanding faith on grounds which are either false or inadequate. It is not a question of trading on the
superstitious element in human nature, lest common men, in throwing off the restraints of religion, should allow liberty to degenerate into license. This appeal is
addressed to the fair-minded, the intelligent, the thoughtful. If we possess a revelation, and if the doctrines of Christianity are Divinely accredited as true, reason
commands our acceptance of them, and unbelief is an outrage upon reason itself. If, on the other hand, we have no revelation; or, what comes to the same thing, if the
Divine element in Scripture is merely traditional, and must be separated from abounding error - picked out like treasure from a dust-heap - -then we must either give up
our Protestantism and fall back on the authority of the Church, or else we must needs face the matter fairly, and accept and act upon the dictum that "the rational
attitude of the thinking mind towards the supernatural is that of skepticism." The superstitious will take refuge in the former alternative; the latter will commend itself to all
free and fearless thinkers. The former, indeed, is not only intellectually deplorable, but logically absurd. We are called upon to believe the Scriptures because the
Church accredits them. The Bible is not infallible, but the Church is infallible, and upon the authority of the Church our faith can find a sure foundation. 3 But how do we
know that the Church is to be trusted? The ready answer is, We know it upon the authority of the Bible. That is to say, we trust the Bible on the authority of the
Church, and we trust the Church on the authority of the Bible! It is a bad case of "the confidence trick."

But, it will be said, is it not to the Church that we owe the Bible?4 Regarded as a book we owe it indeed in a sense to the Church, just as we owe it to the printer. But
in a sense which appeals to us more closely here in England we owe it to noble men who rescued it for us in defiance of the Church. Let not the Protestants of England
forget William Tyndale. His life work was to bring the Bible within reach even of the humblest peasant. And for no other offense than this the Church hounded him to
his death, never resting till it strangled him at the stake and flung his body to the flames.

But the Bible is more than a book - it is a revelation; and thus regarded, it is above the Church. We do not judge the Bible by the Church; we judge the Church and its
teaching by the Bible. 5 This is our safeguard against the ignorance and tyranny of priestcraft. But in our day those who deprecate most strongly the tyranny of the priest
are precisely those who champion most loudly the tyranny of the professor and the pundit. The occupant of a University chair cannot fail to be eminent in the branch of
knowledge in which he excels, and his value as a specialist is unquestionable. But he may be so utterly unspiritual, and withal so deficient in judgment and common
sense, that his opinion may be worth less than that of an intelligent peasant or a Christian schoolboy. The fabric of the Bible, he tells us, is wholly unreliable, but some of
its most unbelievable mysteries are truths Divinely revealed. But what claim has he to be listened to in such a case? The setting of the trinket is worthless, and most of its
seeming gems are spurious, but here and there he indicates a diamond or a pearl. But the profoundest knowledge of mathematics or Oriental dialects does not qualify a
man  to judge(c)of2005-2009,
 Copyright         pearls and diamonds.
                               Infobase Still
                                        Media lessCorp.
                                                   does it fit him to recognize spiritual truths. 6                                                        Page 11 / 176
If the Bible has really been discredited by modern research, let us have the honesty to own the fact and the manliness to face its consequences. But if the Bible has not
been thus discredited, if the results of modern research have been entirely in its favor,7 then let us show a bolder front in our stand for faith.. And let faith and unbelief
knowledge in which he excels, and his value as a specialist is unquestionable. But he may be so utterly unspiritual, and withal so deficient in judgment and common
sense, that his opinion may be worth less than that of an intelligent peasant or a Christian schoolboy. The fabric of the Bible, he tells us, is wholly unreliable, but some of
its most unbelievable mysteries are truths Divinely revealed. But what claim has he to be listened to in such a case? The setting of the trinket is worthless, and most of its
seeming gems are spurious, but here and there he indicates a diamond or a pearl. But the profoundest knowledge of mathematics or Oriental dialects does not qualify a
man to judge of pearls and diamonds. Still less does it fit him to recognize spiritual truths. 6

If the Bible has really been discredited by modern research, let us have the honesty to own the fact and the manliness to face its consequences. But if the Bible has not
been thus discredited, if the results of modern research have been entirely in its favor,7 then let us show a bolder front in our stand for faith.. And let faith and unbelief
measure their distance once again.

The Bible was written for honest hearts. It is addressed, moreover, to spiritual men. And what is the practical test of spirituality?

"If any man think himself to be a prophet, or spiritual, let him acknowledge that the things which I write unto you are the commandments of the Lord" (1 Corinthians
14:37)

these words betoken, not the insolence of a priest, but the authority of an inspired apostle. It is as believers then, and in the spirit of faith, that we turn to the Epistles.

CHAPTER 9
CHRISTIAN DOCTRINE

"In Christ's grand and simple creed, expressed in His plainest words, eternal life was the assured inheritance of those who loved God with all their hearts, who loved
their neighbors as themselves, and who walked purely, humbly, and beneficently while on earth. In the Christian sects and churches of today, in their recognized
formularies and elaborate creeds, all this is repudiated as infantine and obsolete; the official means and purchase-money of salvation are altogether changed; eternal life
is reserved for those, and for those only, who accept, or profess, a string of metaphysical propositions conceived in a scholastic brain and put into scholastic
phraseology."1

To any one who aims at having clear thoughts and well-based beliefs nothing is more helpful than adverse criticism. Hence the value of the words here quoted. They
may be taken, moreover, as expressing the opinions of a large and important class by whom the writer, though no longer with us, may still be claimed as a champion
and representative.

A preliminary question which presents itself is, Where are we to find this "grand and simple creed" thus commended to our acceptance? If, as the agnostic tells us, the
Gospels are mere human records, what can be sillier than to appeal to them for the teaching of Christ! It was a conceit of ancient writers to put long speeches into the
mouths of their heroes, and the discourses attributed to the Nazarene fall at once into the category of romance. But we are told that while the evangelists are not to be
trusted when they record plain events of which they were eye-witnesses, like the miracles of Christ, they are to be believed implicitly when they profess to record
verbatim His prolonged discourses I If the Gospels be Divinely inspired, agnosticism is sheer folly: if they be not inspired, our faith is sheer superstition. The next thought
which these words suggest is that if eternal life be indeed reserved for those whose character and conduct are marked by absolute perfection, the whole human race is
doomed. Perfect love to God and man is a standard which excludes even the saintliest of saints, and common men may at once dismiss all hope of reaching it. And yet
the author is right. It is thus and only thus that eternal life can be inherited by any child of Adam. What concerns us, then, is to inquire whether possibly some other road
to blessing may be open to us. Agnosticism is Greek for ignorance; may we not hope that this particular agnostic is true to his name, and that Divine love goes far
beyond what he seems ever to have realized or heard of? The statements here challenged are important as showing how seriously the great truth of the Reformation is
prejudiced by the very prominence assigned to it in our Protestant system of theology. That it should loom great in our estimation is but natural, having regard to the
fierceness of the struggle to which we owe its recovery. And yet the dogma that justification is by faith is but a secondary truth, and ancillary to another of wider range
and more transcendent moment. "For this cause it is on the principle of faith, that it may be according to Grace."2 Grace is the characteristic truth of Christianity.
According to the great doctrinal treatise of the New Testament, we are "justified by grace," "justified by faith," "justified by blood" - that is, by the death of Christ in its
application to us, for such is the meaning of the sacrificial figure of which the word "blood" is the expression in the New Testament. Grace is the principle on which God
justifies a sinner; faith is the principle on which the benefit is received; and the death of Christ is the ground on which alone all this is possible - we are "justified freely by
His grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus." (Romans 3:24)

And they who are thus justified can urge no claim to the benefit on the ground either of merit or of promise. For if we could earn a title to it, there were no need of
redemption; and if God had pledged Himself by covenant to grant it, there were no room for grace. Grace is sovereign, but it is free.

There are two alternative principles on which alone justification is now theoretically possible. The one is by man's deserving it; the other is through God's unmerited
favor. Let a man, from the cradle to the grave, be everything he ought to be, and do everything he ought to do; let him, as our author puts it, love God with all his heart,
and his neighbor as himself, walking "purely, humbly, and beneficently while on earth," and such an one will "inherit eternal life." But all such pretensions betoken moral
and spiritual ignorance and degradation. All men are sinners; and being sinners they are absolutely dependent upon grace.

Mr. Greg's words are based on the incident in our Lord's ministry which called forth the parable of "The Good Samaritan." "A certain lawyer," desirous of testing the
Savior's doctrine, put to Him the question, "Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?" He had heard no doubt that the great Rabbi was heretical, disparaging the
law of Moses, and pointing the common folk to an easy bypath to life. How great then must have been his surprise when he got answer, "What is written in the law?
How readest thou?" In response he repeated the well-known words, so familiar to every Jew, enjoining love to God and man. And surprise must have grown into
astonishment when the Savior added, "Thou hast answered right; this do and thou shalt live." The strictest legalist in the Sanhedrin could find no flaw in teaching such as
that! But the question was, how a man could in inherit life, and to such a question, one and only one answer was possible. To hide his confusion the lawyer at once
proposed a further question, "And who is my neighbor?" thus seeking to escape upon a side issue, as is the way with lawyers of every age. And this drew from the
Lord that exquisite story which has taken such hold upon the minds of men. The Greek word for "neighbor" is the one near, and the lawyer's inquiry implied that he was
not bound to love every one with whom he came in contact. The high-caste Jew, if such a phrase may be allowed, would rather die than owe his rescue to a Samaritan,
so the Lord brings a Samaritan into the parable, contrasts his conduct with that of the Levite and the priest, and asks which of the three acted as neighbor to the poor
wretch whom the robbers had left half dead upon the roadside.

Such was the surface teaching of the parable, but in common with every other parable, it had a hidden and spiritual meaning. He had answered the inquiry how a
perfect being could inherit life: He now unfolds how a ruined sinner can be saved. The traveler upon the road from the city of blessing to the city of the curse is robbed
of his all, and left wounded almost to death, and helpless. A priest and a Levite pass by. Why a priest and a Levite? Because He would thus impersonate the law and,
in a word, religion. These could help a man who was able to help himself, but for the helpless sinner they can do nothing. "But a certain Samaritan came where he was."
Why a Samaritan? Because He would teach that the Savior is One whom, but for his ruin and misery, the sinner would despise and repel. "And" - let us mark the
words - "when he saw him he had compassion on him, and went to him, and bound up his wounds, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took
care of him;" and at the inn he paid the reckoning, and made provision for his future.

In every detail the story has its counterpart in spiritual truth. It tells of a Savior who saves; who comes to a sinner where he is and as he is; who binds up wounds that
 Copyright
are         (c) more
    deeper and  2005-2009,
                       terribleInfobase  Media Corp.
                                than any brigand's                                                                                                        Page
                                                   knife can inflict; who brings him out of the place of danger to a place of security and peace, and provides for12   / 176
                                                                                                                                                                   all his
future needs. And all this without bargain or condition, and unconstrained by any motive save His own infinite compassion. How one longs that honest-minded men like
the author of "The Creed of Christendom" could be brought at least to hear these truths and to know that this is the gospel of Christianity! Their writings give proof that
care of him;" and at the inn he paid the reckoning, and made provision for his future.

In every detail the story has its counterpart in spiritual truth. It tells of a Savior who saves; who comes to a sinner where he is and as he is; who binds up wounds that
are deeper and more terrible than any brigand's knife can inflict; who brings him out of the place of danger to a place of security and peace, and provides for all his
future needs. And all this without bargain or condition, and unconstrained by any motive save His own infinite compassion. How one longs that honest-minded men like
the author of "The Creed of Christendom" could be brought at least to hear these truths and to know that this is the gospel of Christianity! Their writings give proof that
here in Christian England there are persons of enlightenment and culture whose most legitimate revolt against priestcraft and everything of mere religion has thrown them
back into pagan darkness. But in the midst of this darkness light is shining. The agnostic's version of "Christ's grand and simple creed" would make Pharisees of some
men - and heaven is absolutely closed to such - while it would relegate mankind in general to the position of hopeless and desperate outlawry. But Holy Scripture
testifies that "Christ died for the ungodly," and that the man who believes in Him is justified.

And believing in Him has nothing in common with "accepting a string of metaphysical propositions." It means bowing to the Divine judgment upon sin, and accepting
Christ as Savior and Lord. Distrust was the turning point in the creature's fall, for the overt act of sin was but the fruit of unbelief. How natural, then, that trust should be
the turning point in his recovery! There was a time in England when the wearing of a certain flower was the recognized avowal of loyalty or treason. And this was a
mere outward act which might be insincere, whereas a man's beliefs are part and parcel of himself. The tragedy of Calvary has come to be regarded as a mere incident
in history, natural in the circumstances, and fitted to emphasize and enhance the dignity of man. God points to it as the world's "crisis," an event of such stupendous
moment that, in view of it, indifference is impossible. He who died there does not seek either our pity or our patronage: He claims our faith. It is a question of personal
loyalty to Himself. But this chapter is a digression. Let us turn to the teaching of the Epistle to the Romans.

CHAPTER 10
MYSTERY NOW MANIFESTED

Postscripts are proverbially important, and apostolic postscripts are no exception to the rule. But the final postscript to St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans has been
treated with strange neglect by theologians. Witness the extraordinary carelessness with which it has been translated even by the Revisers of 1881! With his own hand it
was, no doubt, that, after his secretary, Tertius, had laid down the pen, the apostle added the pregnant words which end the Epistle: "Now to Him that is able to
stablish you according to my gospel even the preaching of Jesus Christ according to [the] revelation of a mystery which hath been kept in silence through times eternal,
but now is manifested and by prophetic scriptures according to the commandment of the Eternal God is made known unto all the nations unto obedience of faith - to
the only wise God through Jesus Christ be the glory for ever."1

"My Gospel." The words, three times repeated by St. Paul, (Romans 2:16; 16:25; 2 Timothy 2:8) are no mere conventional expression. They are explained in several
of his Epistles, (See, e.g., Ephesians 3; Colossians 1:25, 26) and with peculiar definiteness in his letter to the Galatians. He there declares in explicit and emphatic terms
that the gospel which he preached among the Gentiles was the subject of a special revelation peculiar to himself. Not only was he not taught it by those who were
apostles before him, but he it was who, by Divine command, communicated it to "the twelve"; and this was not until his second visit to Jerusalem, seventeen years after
his conversion. (Galatians 1:11-2:12) It is certain, therefore, that his testimony was essentially distinct in character and scope from anything we shall find in the ministry
of the other apostles, as recorded in the Acts. And this, he declares, they themselves acknowledged. "They saw," he says, "that the gospel of the uncircumcision was
committed unto me, as the gospel of the circumcision was unto Peter." (Galatians 2:7) The latter was a promise according to the Scriptures of the prophets: the former,
a proclamation according to the revealing of a mystery kept secret from eternity, but now manifested in this Christian dispensation, and by prophetic Scriptures made
known to all nations. What, then, were those writings? What the mystery which was thus revealed?

The rendering of the passage in our English versions is a compromise between translation and exegesis; and that the exposition thus suggested is erroneous is clear from
the fact that it makes the apostle's statement inconsistent to the verge of absurdity. If it be by the writings of the Hebrew prophets that the gospel is made known to all
the nations, it certainly was not a mystery kept secret through all the ages! The words "by prophetic writings" refer, of course, to the Scriptures of the NEW Testament;
and as the gospel thus made known was entrusted, not even to the other apostles, but only to "the apostle of the Gentiles," it is, again of course, to the Epistles of Paul
that we must turn to seek for it. Do these Epistles, then, contain any great characteristic truth or truths which cannot be found in the earlier Scriptures?

Our English word "mystery" means something which is either incomprehensible or unknown; but this is not the significance of the Greek musterion. 2 In its primary
meaning in classical and Biblical Greek it is simply a secret; and a secret when once disclosed may be understood by any one. A patent lock is a "mystery." It is as
easily opened as any other, provided we have the proper key, but without the key it cannot be opened at all. The mysteries of the New Testament are Divine truths
which till then had been "kept in silence"; truths which had not been revealed in the earlier Scriptures, and which, until revealed, could not be known. Once and once
only, the word was used by the Lord Himself, as recorded in the three first Gospels, and it occurs four times in the Apocalypse. But with these exceptions it is found
only in St. Paul's Epistles, where it occurs no fewer than twenty times.

In some of these passages the word is used in a secondary sense. In others, definite secrets are revealed. And notably we find the following:

The mystery of Lawlessness, culminating in the revelation of the Lawless One. 3

The mystery that at the coming of the Lord some of His people will pass to heaven, as Elijah did, "with death untasted and the grave unknown." (1 Corinthians 15:51)

The mystery that in the present dispensation believers are united to Christ in a special relationship as members of a body of which He Himself is the head. (Ephesians
3:4, 6; 5:30, 32; 1 Corinthians 12:12, 13, etc.)

Here, then, we have specific "mysteries" respecting which the earlier Scriptures are silent; and it may be added that, though now revealed, they are still unknown to the
majority of Christians. But these are truths essentially for the believer, whereas the "mystery" of the apostle's postscript is emphatically a truth for all - a truth to be
"made known to all the nations for the obedience of faith." The apostle's statement, moreover, assumes that his words would be understood by those to whom they
were addressed. Therefore, as he had never personally visited Rome, we may confidently turn to the Epistle itself to find within it the truth referred to.

First, then, it is a mystery truth - a truth which till then had been "kept in silence." Secondly, it is a truth of universal scope and application. And thirdly, it is a truth to be
found in the Epistle to the Romans. With these clews to guide us there can be no difficulty in fixing upon the truth which is here in question; for one, and only one, will
satisfy these requirements.

In common with some other great truths of the Christian faith, Reconciliation has received but scant notice from theologians. Many a page might be filled with quotations
from standard books which either misrepresent or deny it. But all attempts to oust it from our creeds rest, as Archbishop Trench declares, "on a foregone determination
to get rid of the reality of God's anger against sin."4 Sin not merely alienated man from God, it alienated God from man. A just and holy God could not but regard him
as an enemy. But "while we were enemies we were reconciled to God by the death of His Son." And "through our Lord Jesus Christ" they who believe "have now
received the reconciliation." (Romans 5:10, 11) "All things are of God who reconciled us to Himself through Christ, and gave unto us the ministry of the reconciliation,
to wit, that God was in Christ reconciling the world unto Himself, not reckoning unto them their trespasses, and having committed unto us the word of the reconciliation.
We  are ambassadors,
 Copyright               therefore,
             (c) 2005-2009,         on behalf
                               Infobase  Mediaof Christ,"
                                                 Corp. the apostle adds, "as though God were entreating by us, we beseech men on behalf of Christ, Page
                                                                                                                                                     be ye reconciled
                                                                                                                                                             13 / 176  to
God"5 - an appeal to the sinner, not, as too commonly represented, to forgive his God, but to come within the unsought benefit which God in His infinite grace has
accomplished. For (the apostle further adds)
to get rid of the reality of God's anger against sin."4 Sin not merely alienated man from God, it alienated God from man. A just and holy God could not but regard him
as an enemy. But "while we were enemies we were reconciled to God by the death of His Son." And "through our Lord Jesus Christ" they who believe "have now
received the reconciliation." (Romans 5:10, 11) "All things are of God who reconciled us to Himself through Christ, and gave unto us the ministry of the reconciliation,
to wit, that God was in Christ reconciling the world unto Himself, not reckoning unto them their trespasses, and having committed unto us the word of the reconciliation.
We are ambassadors, therefore, on behalf of Christ," the apostle adds, "as though God were entreating by us, we beseech men on behalf of Christ, be ye reconciled to
God"5 - an appeal to the sinner, not, as too commonly represented, to forgive his God, but to come within the unsought benefit which God in His infinite grace has
accomplished. For (the apostle further adds)

"Him who knew no sin He made to be sin on our behalf, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him."

(2 Corinthians 5:21).

Words could not be simpler, and yet, as already noticed, the truth so plainly taught is in many quarters perverted or denied. Just as in our day there are doctrinaire
philanthropists who talk of crime as though it were nothing but a natural eccentricity of weak natures, so there are theologians who delight in such representations of sin
that if provision had not been made for it in the Divine economy the omission would be entirely to the discredit of the Deity. Others, again, so fritter away the great
truths of Divine love to the world and the reconciliation of the world to God through Christ, that the sovereignty of God degenerates into mere favoritism, and the death
of Christ is no more than a means by which the favored few can attain to blessing. This great truth of Reconciliation will be sought in vain in the Old Testament
Scriptures. The revelation of it, indeed, was impossible so long as the Jew held the position which he forfeited by rejecting the Messiah. Reading the Gospel of John in
the light of the Epistles we can discern it in the teaching of our Lord; but without that light no one would dare to formulate it. To the Jew, indeed, the doctrine must have
been astounding, and even among Christians it is received with hesitation and reserve. But the difficulties which beset the exposition of the fifth chapter of Romans relate
only to the argument. The doctrine it teaches is unequivocally clear. "As through one trespass [the result was] unto all men to condemnation; even so through one act of
righteousness [the result was] unto all men to justification of life." If words have any meaning this declares that the death of Christ has efficacy as complete and universal
as the sin of Adam. If that sin "brought death into the world, and all our woe," so the great dikaioma brought justification of life to all men in so far as the Eden trespass
brought condemnation to them.

But the work of Christ goes infinitely further than this. The Eden trespass ushered in the reign of sin. "Sin reigned unto death." "The wages of sin is death," and sin
claimed the very throne of God as an agency for enforcing its just demands. But Calvary has dethroned sin, and grace now reigns supreme. And this, not at the expense
of righteousness, but through righteousness. And as sin reigned unto death, so grace now reigns unto eternal life. Or, getting behind the magnificent imagery of the
Epistle, we grasp the amazing truth that the Divine attitude toward men is one of universal beneficence. It is not that the Gentile has attained to the special position of
privilege from which the Jew has fallen, for apart from "the household of faith" there is no favored people now.

"There is no distinction between Jew and Greek, for the same Lord is Lord of all, and is rich unto all that call upon Him; for whosoever shall call upon the name of the
Lord shall be saved."

(Romans 10:12 (R.V.))

Eternal life is thus brought within reach of every human being to whom this testimony comes. 6 How, then, is it possible that so few receive the benefit? The answer to
this question claims a chapter to itself.

CHAPTER 11
SATAN'S INFLUENCE

The devil of Christendom is a myth. Just as human fancy, working on a basis of fact and truth, has impersonated an object for its worship, so by a like process it has
created a scapegoat to account for the crimes and vices of humanity. A mythical Jesus is the Buddha of Christendom; a mythical Satan is its bogey. In the one case as
in the other a gulf separates the myth from the reality.

The Satan of Christian mythology is a monster of wickedness, the instigator to every crime of exceptional brutality or loathsome lust. The Satan of Scripture is the awful
being who dared to offer his patronage to our Divine Lord. When a man is led into evil courses "he is drawn away by his own lust." (James 1:14) The human heart, our
Lord Himself declares, is the vile spring from which immoralities and crimes proceed. (Mark 7:21) Using the word "immoral" in its narrow, popular sense, there is no
basis for the belief that Satan ever provokes to an immoral act. Indeed, if we leave out of account his incitements aimed against Christ personally, the solitary instance
of Ananias and Sapphira alone affords a pretext for asserting that he ever tempted any one to do anything which human judgment would condemn. 1

This statement may seem startling, but it is true, and its truth can be established. Of the unseen world we know absolutely nothing beyond what Scripture reveals: to the
Scriptures, therefore, we must turn. And here the Old Testament is eloquent by reason of its silence. If the popular belief were well founded, is it possible that from
Genesis to Malachi not a word could be found in support of it? In three passages only is Satan mentioned. The first describes the fall of man, and there the entire aim of
the tempter was to alienate the creature from God. In the role of philanthropist he appeared to our first parents, and sowed in their hearts the seeds of distrust. (Genesis
2) The next passage describes his assaults on Job, and here again his only aim was to lead the patriarch to doubt the Divine goodness. (Job 1; 2) And the third narrates
that mysterious incident in which he sought to hinder the high priest Joshua in the discharge of his sacred office. 2

When we turn to the New Testament we must avoid the popular error of confounding Satan with the angels that "kept not their own principality, but left their own
habitation." (Jude 6; Peter 2:4) These are in bonds, awaiting "the judgment of the great day." They have no part in the course of human affairs. Demons, again, are
beings of a wholly different order. It is assumed that they are subordinate to the devil, and as some of them are expressly called "unclean spirits," uncleanness is
attributed to Satan. But the assumption is based in part upon Jewish beliefs, and, even if a true one, the inference is forced. A ruler may have vicious subjects and yet
not himself be vicious!3

But are not sins described as "the works of the devil"? And what of the words," He that doeth sin is of the devil"? Will the objector consider the definition of sin to
which this refers - one of the only definitions in the Bible? "Sin is lawlessness." (John 3:4 (R.V.)). The possession of an independent will is man's proud but perilous
boast. His duty and safety and happiness alike demand that this will shall be subordinated to the will of God, and all revolt against the Divine will is sin. Lawlessness is
its essence; the element of immorality is entirely accidental.

And this explains the apostolic comment upon the precept "Be angry and sin not."4 Anger may in itself be right. But if cherished it is apt to degenerate into
vindictiveness; and thus what in its inception may betoken fellowship with God - for "God is angry every day" (Psalm 7:11) - may lead to thoughts and even acts which
are only evil. Therefore the apostle adds, "Let not the sun go down upon your wrath, neither give occasion to the devil." The Satan myth leads men to read this as
though it were no more than a warning against homicidal violence. But the closing passage of this same Epistle (Ephesians 6:10-20) gives proof that the apostle's
theology of Satanic temptations relates to a far different sphere. The normal conflict of the Christian life begins where the struggle with "flesh and blood" has ceased. It is
in the spiritual sphere, and not in the domain of morals, that the panoply of God is needed. The Pharisee or the Buddhist can boast as high a standard of morality as the
Christian. Their motives may be lower, but the outward results are the same. When some man of repute is betrayed into acts of shame, the devil would be held
 Copyright (c)
accountable   for2005-2009,     Infobase
                  his fall in any         Mediacourt.
                                  ecclesiastical Corp.But not at the Old Bailey5 where prejudice avails nothing, and proof must be full and clear. No onePage    14 / that
                                                                                                                                                           may assert  176
Satan might not stoop to such means to attain his ends, but we may aver that no "previous conviction" is recorded to his prejudice.
though it were no more than a warning against homicidal violence. But the closing passage of this same Epistle (Ephesians 6:10-20) gives proof that the apostle's
theology of Satanic temptations relates to a far different sphere. The normal conflict of the Christian life begins where the struggle with "flesh and blood" has ceased. It is
in the spiritual sphere, and not in the domain of morals, that the panoply of God is needed. The Pharisee or the Buddhist can boast as high a standard of morality as the
Christian. Their motives may be lower, but the outward results are the same. When some man of repute is betrayed into acts of shame, the devil would be held
accountable for his fall in any ecclesiastical court. But not at the Old Bailey5 where prejudice avails nothing, and proof must be full and clear. No one may assert that
Satan might not stoop to such means to attain his ends, but we may aver that no "previous conviction" is recorded to his prejudice.

"But," the objector will indignantly demand, "did not our Lord Himself denounce him as a liar and a murderer?" Yes truly, such were His words to the Pharisees who
were plotting His death. But what is their significance? Let us consider them with open minds, for the Satan myth has so obscured their meaning that the commentaries
will not help us. To the Jews' vain boast of their descent from Abraham, the Lord replied that the patriarch's children would walk in their father's ways; but as for them,
they sought to kill Him because He had spoken to them God given truth. They then fell back upon that figment of the apostate, the fatherhood of God, thus bringing on
themselves the scathing words, "Ye are of your father the devil, and the desires of your father it is your will to do. He was a murderer from the beginning and has not
stood in the truth because truth is not in him. When he speaketh the lie he speaketh of his own, for he is a liar and the father of it."6 These, remember, are not words of
vulgar invective. They are the words of Christ Himself to men of character and repute, honorable and earnest men who, under their responsibilities as the religious
leaders of the people, deplored His teaching as pestilent and profane. Such language addressed by such lips to such men is awful in its solemnity; but what does it
mean?

The devil was "a murderer from the beginning." The beginning of what? Not of his own existence, surely, for he was created in perfection and beauty. Nor yet of the
Eden paradise, for Satan had dragged down others in his ruin long before our earth became the home of man. His being a murderer connects itself immediately with the
truth which he has refused and the lie of which he is the father. As we listen to these solemn and mysterious words of our Divine Lord we are accorded a glimpse into a
past eternity when the great mystery of God was first made known to "principalities and powers," the great intelligences of the heavenly world.7 Greatest of them all
was the being whom now we know as Satan, and the promulgation of the purpose of the ages disclosed to him the fact that a First-born was yet to be revealed who
was "in all things to have the pre-eminence."

Science has poured contempt upon the old belief that man is the center of the universe. And yet the old belief was right. But He who claims this transcendent dignity is
not the man of Eden - "vain insect of an hour!" - but the Man who is "the Lord from Heaven." And He it is who is the object of the devil's hate. In compassing the fall of
Adam he may perchance have imagined that he was the promised first-born. But it was not till the Temptation of Christ Himself that Satan and his lie were at last
revealed. Not one person in a thousand of those who read the record of it attempts to realize its significance. How could the Satan of Christendom dare to stand before
the Lord of Glory! And how could the suggestions of such a loathsome monster be anything but hateful and repulsive? Suppose the biographer of some noble-minded
and holy woman sought to emphasize the purity of her mind and the steadfastness of her character by recording that she was once closeted with a man well known to
her as a coarse and shameless libertine, and yet passed through the ordeal unscathed! No less preposterous does the narrative of the temptation appear if we read it in
the false light of the Satan myth. 8

The Satan of Scripture is a being who claimed to meet our Lord on more than equal terms. Having "led Him up" and given Him that mysterious vision of earthly
sovereignty, "the devil said unto Him," we read, "To Thee will I give all this authority and the glory of them; for it hath been delivered unto me, and to whomsoever I will
I give it. If thou therefore wilt worship before me it shall all be thine."

Is this no more than the raving of irresponsible madness or impious profanity? It is the bold assertion of a disputed right. Satan claims to be the First-born, the rightful
heir of creation, the true Messiah, and as such he claims the worship of mankind. Men dream of a devil, horned and hoofed - a hideous and obscene monsters who -
haunts the squalid slums and gilded vice-dens of our cities, and tempts the depraved to acts of atrocity or shame. But, according to Holy Writ, he "fashions himself into
an angel of light," and "his ministers fashion themselves as ministers of righteousness."' Do "ministers of righteousness" (2 Corinthians 11:14) corrupt men's morals or
incite them to commit outrages?

And this prepares the way for the further statement that it is the religion of the world that he controls, and not its vices and its crimes. "The god of this world" is his awful
title - a title Divinely conceded to the Evil One, not because the Supreme has delegated His sovereignty, but because the world accords him its homage. It is in the
sphere of religion, then, that the influence of the Tempter is to be sought - not in the records of our criminal courts, not in the pages of obscene novels, but in the
teaching of false theologies. The lie of which he is the father is the denial of the Christ of God, the Christ of Calvary, the only mediator between God and men, the
propitiation for the world's sins - the "mercy-seat"9 where an outcast sinner can meet a holy God and find pardon and peace. But "the god of this world hath blinded
the minds of the unbelieving that the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God, should not dawn upon them." (2 Corinthians 4:4 (R.V.)) Hence it
is that men turn to the Church, to religion, to morality, to "the Sermon on the Mount" - making the Lord Himself minister to their self-righteousness and pride - in a
word, to anything and everything rather than to the Cross of Christ.

What led to the discovery of the planet Neptune was the apparent disturbance from some unknown cause in the movements of other planets. And have we not reason
to search for a "Neptune" in the spiritual sphere? Is it not clear that there is some sinister influence in operation here? How else can it be explained that in the full light of
our advanced civilization, even persons of the highest intelligence and culture are gulled by the tricks and superstitions which form the stock-in-trade of priestcraft?

But "the lie" has other phases. The mind of the Tempter is disclosed no less in some of our most popular books of piety. Eternal judgment and a hell for the impenitent,
redemption by blood, and the need of salvation through the death of the great Sin-bearer - these and kindred doctrines are rejected as survivals of a dark and
credulous ages: it is for man to work out his own destiny, and to raise himself to the Divine ideal. And all this is prefaced and made plausible by boldly insinuating that
plain words Divinely spoken are either misunderstood or spurious. A new gospel some men call this: it is the oldest gospel known. In every point it reminds us of the
old, old words: "Hath God said?" "Ye shall not surely die:" "Ye shall be as gods knowing good and evil." The "Jesus" of this theology bears a sinister resemblance to the
great philanthropist of Eden! In the name of that "other Jesus" (2 Corinthians 11:4) the Christ of God would be again rejected if He returned to earth to-day.

During His ministry on earth the Lord's acts and words to the fallen and depraved led to His being branded as the friend of the dishonest and the immoral. And why?
This question is best answered by another: Did He not come to seek and to save the lost? How then could He drive them from His presence? A strange Savior such
would be! Sin He could not tolerate, but for sinners His love and pity were infinite. And His detractors mistook sympathy with sinners for sympathy with sin. But when
men refused to own that they were lost, and separated themselves from Him by an impassable barrier of religion and morality, infinite love was powerless.
Omnipotence itself was baffled! And He who had wept in silence in presence of human sorrow gave way to unrestrained outbursts of grief as He contemplated their
doom. 10

On yet another occasion He exclaimed, "How often would I have gathered thy children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and ye would not." (Luke
13:34) The hand stretched out to save them they thrust from them with obloquy. And what wonder! Men of blameless morality, of the deepest piety, of intense
devotion to religion - men looked up to and respected by the people, who acknowledged them as leaders, were told that the degraded and depraved had better hopes
of heaven than themselves. His teaching was a public scandal; His mission was an insult to them. And all truth and decency were outraged when He openly called them
"children of hell," and told them they had the devil for their father! When a malignant tumor is eating at the vitals the tenderness of the physician is useless; the surgeon's
knife must reach the mischief, let the risk be what it may. And surely if He who was so gracious, so "meek and lowly in heart," spoke such scathing words as these, it
was because no tenderer treatment could avail. It was because their own case was desperate, and their influence was disastrous. And such men must have successors
and representatives
 Copyright            on earthInfobase
            (c) 2005-2009,     to-day. Who
                                        MediaareCorp.
                                                they, then? and where? Let the thoughtful reader work out the answer for himself. But let him keep inPage   view the15factors
                                                                                                                                                                         / 176of
the problem. It was not the "publicans and harlots" who were branded thus as hell-begotten. Alas for human nature, no devil was needed to account for the sins of
such! But to the religious Jews it was that these awful words were spoken. And why? Because the Satan cult is to be sought for, not in pagan orgies, but in the
acceptance of the Eden gospel, and the pursuit of religious systems, which honor man and dishonor Christ. 11
of heaven than themselves. His teaching was a public scandal; His mission was an insult to them. And all truth and decency were outraged when He openly called them
"children of hell," and told them they had the devil for their father! When a malignant tumor is eating at the vitals the tenderness of the physician is useless; the surgeon's
knife must reach the mischief, let the risk be what it may. And surely if He who was so gracious, so "meek and lowly in heart," spoke such scathing words as these, it
was because no tenderer treatment could avail. It was because their own case was desperate, and their influence was disastrous. And such men must have successors
and representatives on earth to-day. Who are they, then? and where? Let the thoughtful reader work out the answer for himself. But let him keep in view the factors of
the problem. It was not the "publicans and harlots" who were branded thus as hell-begotten. Alas for human nature, no devil was needed to account for the sins of
such! But to the religious Jews it was that these awful words were spoken. And why? Because the Satan cult is to be sought for, not in pagan orgies, but in the
acceptance of the Eden gospel, and the pursuit of religious systems, which honor man and dishonor Christ. 11

CHAPTER 12
GRACE AND JUDGMENT

Everybody knows the little girl who, having heard her father complain that his watch needed cleaning, stole away to clean it in a basin of soap-suds! The story is but a
grotesquely exaggerated instance of what we all suffer from - ignorant zeal, unintelligent desire to please. No one but a brute would vent his anger on his baby, when,
with eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed at the thought of having done a kind and useful service, she brings him his ruined watch. But if this were done by one who ought
to have known better, no such restraint would be called for. To this every one will assent; but no one seems to take account of similar considerations in our relations
with the Deity. "The chief end of man is to glorify and enjoy himself for ever." Such is the present-day reading of the first great thesis in the catechism of the Westminster
Divines. 1 And to attain this end man wants a religion and a god, just as a prince needs a private chaplain. But a chaplain should know his place, and not intrude where
his presence would be embarrassing. And so with God. It is intolerable that He should claim to decide in what way alone we can please Him. In leading moral and
religious lives we "render to God the things that are God's." And we must not forget what is due to ourselves. But "the chief end of man is to glorify GOD." This is what
the Westminster Divines really wrote; but that was long ago, and the Westminster Divines were ignorant, and knew nothing of "the gospel of humanity "!

In a word, God claims our homage, and we offer Him our patronage. He claims the undivided devotion of our life, and we offer Him religion and morality. But God
does not want our patronage; neither does He want either our morality or our religion. "Monstrous!" the reader will exclaim, preparing to throw down the volume. "Is it
a matter of indifference whether we are moral and religious, or not?" By no means a matter of indifference as regards ourselves: not even as to our life on earth, to say
nothing of the judgment to come. But of supreme indifference to God. The man who struts about, inflated by the conceit begotten of humanity gospels, is like the Jew
who supposed he was doing the Most High a benefit when he piled "the fat of fed beasts" (Isaiah 1:2) upon His altar - the altar of the "God who made the world and all
things that are therein." Strange though it may seem, God has a purpose and a will; and He is so unreasonable as to require the recognition of that purpose, and
compliance with that will. But these are matters of revelation; and, therefore, here once again the ways divide. Human religion in every phase of it is of interest to men,
and books about it will be read, noticed, and discussed. But Christianity is a Divine revelation, and, therefore, to use a popular vulgarism, it is "boycotted." But in the
great truths of Christianity, now so little known, is to be found the only true philosophy, the only true solution of the deeper problems of life, which so perplex and
grieve us.

God's judgments are righteous. And the principles which govern them are clearly stated:

"He will render to every man according to his deeds: to them who, by patient continuance in well-doing, seek for glory and honor and immortality, eternal life." (Romans
2:6, 7)

Who will question the equity of this? The story is told of Bishop Wilberforce, that a Hampshire railway porter, a hedge theologian of local fame, tried to pose him with
the question, "What is the way to heaven?" "The way to heaven?" said the bishop, as the train in which he was seated moved out of the station - "turn to the right, and
keep straight on!" But what is the right? This is the vital question. And this every man claims to settle for himself. Whatever reason and conscience declare to be right is
right - this is a maxim almost universally accepted. And in the absence of a revelation, it is, within certain limits, practically true. But when the Supreme makes known
His will, compliance with that will becomes the test of well-doing.

In the Mosaic economy, religion and morality had prominence. And in the cult of Christendom, which, in one aspect of it, is but a corrupted form of Judaism, disguised
by Christian phraseology, religion and morality are everything. But the era of religion and morality is past. These were like guides which were followed in the darkness
till the goal was reached to which they led. The Mosaic economy was a state of tutelage which ended with the coming of Christ. To set up morality and religion now is
to bring ourselves within the denunciation of the words which follow in the passage quoted: "But unto them that are contentious, and do not obey the truth, but obey
unrighteousness, indignation and wrath." Hence the Lord's reply to the question, "What shall we do that we might work the works of God? "This," He replied," is the
work of God, that ye believe on Him whom He hath sent," (John 6:28-29) "Then a man may be as immoral as he likes, provided only he 'believes' as you call it." Such
is the rejoinder of the contentious. Such was the criticism of those who heard His words. Reason told them it was wrong; and clinging to their morality and religion,
instead of believing in "the Sent One," they crucified Him.

To set up an altar "to an unknown God" is the highest possible attainment of natural religion. But as St. Paul said at Athens, (Acts 17:22-31) even the light of nature
should teach men that God does not want our service or our patronage "as though He needed anything." He wished men to seek Him, even though they had need to
grope for Him blindly and in darkness - "to feel after Him and find Him." And He could give them blessing in spite of ignorance, for "He is a rewarder of diligent
seekers." If they but "turned to the right and kept straight on," He could, as St. Paul declared, overlook the ignorance. "But now," he goes on to say, "He commandeth
all men everywhere to repent." And the change depends on this, that God has revealed Himself in Christ, and therefore ignorance of His will is sin that shuts men up to
judgment. A new era has dawned upon the world. "The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us." The darkness is past, the true light is shining. To turn now to
conscience or to law - to religion and morality - is to act like men who, with the sun in the zenith, keep shutters barred and curtains drawn. The principle on which God
deals with men is the same, but the measure of man's responsibility is entirely changed. Such was the great truth so plainly stated by our Divine Lord in His words to
Nicodemus. This, He declared, was the condemnation, not that men's deeds were evil - though for these there shall be wrath in the day of wrath - but that, because
their deeds were evil, they had brought upon themselves a still direr doom: light had come into the world, but they turned from it and loved the darkness.

Men cannot and will not believe that the great controversy between them and God is altogether about Christ. To most men, indeed, the very statement seems to savor
of mysticism. The death of Christ is one of the commonplaces of the philosophy, as well as of the theology, of Christendom. Men boast of it as the highest tribute to
human worth. But God's estimate of it is vastly different. "The Son of God has died by the hands of men! This astounding fact is the moral center of all things. A bygone
eternity knew no other future; an eternity to come shall know no other past. That death was the world's crisis. For long ages, despite conscience outraged, the light of
nature quenched, law broken, promises despised, and prophets cast out and slain, the world had been on terms with God. But now a tremendous change ensued.
Once for all the world had taken sides. In the midst stood that cross in its lonely majesty: God on one side with averted face; on the other Satan, exulting in his triumph.
And the world took sides with Satan."2

And in presence of that cross God calls upon every one to whom the record comes to declare himself on the one side or the other. But men struggle to evade the issue.
Many, of course, ignore it altogether in a selfish or a vicious life; but not a few attempt a compromise by turning to religion. But so far as this supreme question is
concerned the result is the same for all. What the end will be of those who never heard of Christ we know not. But there is neither reserve nor mystery in Scripture as
to what the portion will be of those who "obey the gospel" and of those who reject it. Upon that choice depends the eternal destiny of each. Hence the virulence with
which the Bible is attacked; for if Christ be beyond our reach our responsibility is at an end. Some there are indeed who affect personal devotion to Himself though they
 Copyrightor(c)
disparage       2005-2009,
             despise          Infobase
                      the Scriptures. ButMedia
                                          everyCorp.                                                                                                       Page
                                                 thoughtful person recognizes that it is only through the record that we can reach the person, that it is only     16 /the
                                                                                                                                                               through   176
written Word that we can reach the Living Word. Hence His declaration:
Many, of course, ignore it altogether in a selfish or a vicious life; but not a few attempt a compromise by turning to religion. But so far as this supreme question is
concerned the result is the same for all. What the end will be of those who never heard of Christ we know not. But there is neither reserve nor mystery in Scripture as
to what the portion will be of those who "obey the gospel" and of those who reject it. Upon that choice depends the eternal destiny of each. Hence the virulence with
which the Bible is attacked; for if Christ be beyond our reach our responsibility is at an end. Some there are indeed who affect personal devotion to Himself though they
disparage or despise the Scriptures. But every thoughtful person recognizes that it is only through the record that we can reach the person, that it is only through the
written Word that we can reach the Living Word. Hence His declaration:

"He that rejecteth Me, and receiveth not My words, hath one that judgeth him. the word that I have spoken, the same shall judge him in the last day." (John 12:48)

The consequences, then, of accepting or rejecting Christ are eternal. No other question is open. Morality! In morals, as in physics, the greater includes the less, and the
gospel teaches a higher morality than conscience and law combined. But in this Christian dispensation God is not imputing their sins to men. Were it otherwise the
silence of Heaven would give place to the thunders of His judgments. Every question of judgment was either settled for ever at the Cross, or has been postponed to the
day that is still to come: God "knows how" "to reserve the unjust to the day of judgment to be punished," (2 Peter 2:9) and the day of judgment is not yet.

A red-letter day it must have seemed to the village community of Nazareth when the great Rabbi who had grown to manhood in their midst reappeared in their
synagogue, and stood up to read the Sabbath lesson from the Prophets. (Luke 4:16-22) Opening the roll delivered to Him, He found the passage beginning, "The Spirit
of the Lord is upon me, because He anointed me to preach good tidings to the poor; He hath sent me to proclaim release to the captives, and recovering of sight to the
blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised, to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord ": and abruptly closing the book, He handed it back to the attendant and sat
down. Having stood forward to read the lesson for the day, He stopped in the middle of the opening sentence. What wonder that all eyes were fastened on Him! "This
day," He broke the silence by declaring, "is this Scripture fulfilled in your ears."

"And the day of vengeance of our God" were the words that followed without a break on the open page before Him; but He left those words unread. "The acceptable
year of the Lord" He then and there proclaimed, and it still runs its course, but the great day of judgment is even now still future. Not that the moral government of the
world is in abeyance. Even here and now men reap what they sow. Righteousness prospers and iniquity brings its own penalty. Not always indeed, nor openly; but
generally, and with sufficient definiteness to make it clear that this is the rule - the ordinary course of things. And further, in the Divine economy provision is made for
human government; and the sword is entrusted to men that rulers may be a terror to the evil doer and a protection to the good. Were it otherwise society would be
impossible. But while men are thus empowered to punish offenses against human laws, the judgment of sin is altogether with God.

And here we recall another declaration of our Divine Lord. "The Father judgeth no man, but hath committed all judgment unto the Son." "We believe that Thou shalt
come to be our judge" is upon the lips of thousands who in their hearts imagine that He will mediate in the judgment between them and an offended God. But it is to the
crucified One Himself that in virtue of the Cross the Divine prerogative of judgment has been assigned. And He, the sinner's only Judge, is now the sinner's Savior.
Purification for sins accomplished, He has "sat down on the right hand of the Majesty on high." (Hebrews 1:3) The official attitude of Christ, if such a phrase may be
allowed, is one of rest. The work of redemption is complete. The great amnesty has been proclaimed. Heaven is thrown open to the lost of earth. Eternal life is brought
within the reach of the weakest and the worst of men. God is not imputing trespasses, but preaching peace. And the only Being in the universe who has power to punish
sin is now seated on the throne of God as Savior, and His presence there has changed that throne into a throne of grace. Grace reigns through righteousness unto
eternal life; for "the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord."3

"How monstrous all this is! The idea of supposing that people who have consistently lived religious lives are to be shut out of heaven, while the worthless and depraved
can obtain forgiveness and acceptance simply by believing in Christ!" Such will be the criticism these statements will generally evoke. Monstrous it may seem; but
before men hold it up to censure or ridicule let them pause and reflect what it is that they are thus rejecting. "To Him bear all the prophets witness that through His name
every one that believeth on Him shall receive remission of sins." (Acts 10:43 (R.V.)) Nor is it a dogma of "Pauline doctrine," but the teaching of one of the simplest
parables of Christ, that waifs and tramps from the highways and the slums sit down in the Kingdom of God, while the once invited guests - the moral and religious - are
excluded. (Luke 14:15-24) And the parable is explained by the doctrine that His Divine mission was "not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance."

CHAPTER 13
THE REIGN OF GRACE

A silent Heaven! Yes, but it is not the silence of callous indifference or helpless weakness; it is the silence of a great sabbatic rest, the silence of a peace which is
absolute and profound - a silence which is the public pledge and proof that the way is open for the guiltiest of mankind to draw near to God. When faith murmurs, and
unbelief revolts, and men challenge the Supreme to break that silence and declare Himself, how little do they realize what the challenge means! It means the withdrawal
of the amnesty; it means the end of the reign of grace; it means the closing of the day of mercy and the dawning of the day of wrath.

Among the statements which distressed the orthodox in the late Professor Tyndall's famous Birmingham address on "Science and Man," was his reference to the Herald
Angels' song. "Look to the East at the present moment" (he exclaimed) "as a comment on the promise of peace on earth and goodwill towards men. The promise is a
dream ruined by the experience of eighteen centuries, and in that ruin is involved the claim of the 'heavenly host' to prophetic vision." But the angels' song was not a
promise; still less was it a prophecy. That anthem of praise was a Divine proclamation. The time was not yet when God could enforce peace between man and man;
but grace "came by Jesus Christ," and with that advent peace and goodwill became the attitude of God to men. And this "on earth," even in the midst of their sorrows
and their sins. "He came and preached good tidings of peace." (Ephesians 2:17 (R.V. marg.)) And "he that has ears to hear" can catch the echo of that voice as it still
vibrates in our air. If God is silent now it is because Heaven has come down to earth, the climax of Divine revelation has been reached, there is no reserve of mercy yet
to be unfolded. He has spoken His last word of love and grace, and when next He breaks the silence it will be to let loose the judgments which shall yet engulf a world
that has rejected Christ. For

"our God shall come and shall not keep silence." (Psalm 50:3)

A silent Heaven is a part of the mystery of God; but Holy Writ declares that a day is fixed in the Divine chronology when "the mystery of God shall be
finished." (Revelation 10:7) And when that day breaks, the heavenly host shall again be heard, proclaiming that "The sovereignty of the world1 is become our Lord's
and His Christ's, and He shall reign for ever and ever." And at this signal the wonderful beings that sit on thrones around the throne of God shall raise the anthem,

"We give Thee thanks, O Lord God Almighty, which art, and wast, and art to come, because Thou hast taken to Thee Thy great power, and hast reigned. And the
nations were angry and Thy wrath is come, and the time of the dead that they should be judged, and that Thou shouldest give reward to Thy servants the prophets and
to the saints and them that fear Thy name, small and great, and shouldest destroy them that destroy the earth." (Revelation 11:15-18)

Then at last He will assume the power that even now is His by right, and openly reward the good and put down the evil. In a word, He will do then what men think He
ought to do now and always. And if He delays to do this, it is not that He is "slack concerning His promise." God's own "apology" for His inaction is that He is

"long-suffering to us-ward, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance." (2 Peter 3:9)

Copyright
Through  all(c)
             the2005-2009,  Infobase
                ages until Christ came Media  Corp.
                                       the course                                                                                                    Page 17The
                                                  of human history was an unanswered indictment by which every attribute of God was seemingly discredited.        / 176
Divine power and wisdom and righteousness and love were all brought into question. But the advent of Christ was God's full and final revelation of Himself to man.
There are mysteries, no doubt, which still remain unsolved, but they are mysteries which lie beyond the horizon of our world. First among these is the origin of evil. Not
ought to do now and always. And if He delays to do this, it is not that He is "slack concerning His promise." God's own "apology" for His inaction is that He is

"long-suffering to us-ward, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance." (2 Peter 3:9)

Through all the ages until Christ came the course of human history was an unanswered indictment by which every attribute of God was seemingly discredited. The
Divine power and wisdom and righteousness and love were all brought into question. But the advent of Christ was God's full and final revelation of Himself to man.
There are mysteries, no doubt, which still remain unsolved, but they are mysteries which lie beyond the horizon of our world. First among these is the origin of evil. Not
the Eden fall, but the fall of that wonderful Being to whose "devices" the Eden fall was due. Why did God permit the first and noblest of His creatures to turn devil? But
of all the questions which immediately concern us, there is not one which the Cross of Christ has left unanswered. Men point to the sad incidents of human life on earth,
and they ask "Where is the love of God?" God points to that Cross as the unreserved manifestation of love so inconceivably infinite as to answer every challenge and
silence all doubt for ever. 2 And that Cross is not merely the public proof of what God has accomplished; it is the earnest of all that He has promised. The crowning
mystery of God is Christ, for in Him "are all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge hidden." (Colossians 2:2, 3 (R.V.)) And those hidden treasures are yet to be
unfolded. It is the Divine purpose to "gather together in one all things in Christ." (Ephesians 1:10) Sin has broken the harmony of creation, but that harmony shall yet be
restored by the supremacy of our now despised and rejected Lord. In the very name of His humiliation every knee in heaven and on earth and in the underworld shall
bow before Him, and every tongue shall confess that He is Lord. (Philippians 2:10)

And to believe in Christ is to own His Lordship now. Hence the promise, "If thou shalt confess with thy mouth Jesus as Lord, and shalt believe in thy heart that God
raised Him from the dead, thou shalt be saved."3 The sinner who thus believes in Christ anticipates now and here the realization of the supreme purpose of God, and he
is absolutely and for ever saved. It was in the power of these truths that the martyrs lived and died. Here was the secret of their triumph - not "the general sense of
Scripture corrected in the light of reason and conscience"; not the insolent pretensions of priestcraft, degrading to every one who tolerates them. With hearts awed by
the fear of God, garrisoned by the peace of God, and exulting in the love of God, shed abroad there by the Divine Spirit, they stood for the truth against priests and
princes combined, and daring to be called heretics they were faithful to their Lord in life and in death.

Heaven was as silent then as it is now. No sights were seen, no voice was heard, to make their persecutors pause. No signs were witnessed to give proof that God was
with them as they lay upon the rack or gave up their life-breath at the stake. But with their spiritual vision focused upon Christ, the unseen realities of heaven filled their
hearts, as they passed from a world that was not worthy of them to the home that God has prepared for them that love Him. But with us, the degenerate sons of a
degenerate age, faith falters beneath the strain of the petty trials of our life. And while He is saying" I will never leave thee nor forsake thee," our murmurs drown His
voice; and though professing to be "followers of them who through faith and patience inherit the promises," our petulance and unbelief put from us the infinite
compassions of God. "They endured as seeing Him who is invisible": we can see nothing but our troubles and our sorrows, which loom the greater because viewed
through tears of selfish grief, that blind our eyes to the glories of eternity.

The dispensation of law and covenant and promise - the distinctive privileges of the favored people - was marked by the public display of Divine power upon earth.
But the reign of grace has its correlative in the life of faith. Ours is the higher privilege, the greater blessedness of those "who have not seen and yet have
believed." (John 20:29) And walking by faith is the antithesis of walking by sight. If "signs and wonders" were vouchsafed to us, as in Pentecostal days, faith would sink
to a lower level, and the whole standard and character of the discipline of Christian life would be changed. 4 The sufferings of Paul denote a higher faith than "the mighty
deeds" of his earlier ministry. Not until miracles had ceased, and he had entered on the path of faith as we now tread it, was it revealed to him that his life was to be "a
pattern to them that should afterwards believe." (1 Timothy 1:16).

And what a life it was! Here is the amazing record:

"Of the Jews five times received I forty stripes save one. Thrice was I beaten with rods, once was I stoned, thrice I suffered shipwreck, a night and a day have I been in
the deep; in journeyings often, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils by my own countrymen, in perils by the heathen, in perils in the city, in perils in the
wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils among false brethren; in weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and
nakedness." (2 Corinthians 11:24-27.)

And all this not only without a murmur, but with a heart exulting in God. Instead of grumbling at his infirmities he made a boast of them. Instead of repining at his
persecutions he learned to take pleasure in them. 5 Not vainly nor morbidly, but "for Christ's sake," his Master and Lord, for whom, he declared, "he had suffered the
loss of all things." Reviewing all his privations and sufferings he describes them as "light affliction which is for the moment, working for us more and more exceedingly an
eternal weight of glory," and he adds, "while we look, not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen; for the things which are seen are temporal,
but the things which are not seen are eternal. (2 Corinthians 4:17, 18)

How different this from the experience described in the opening chapter! There it is a case of those who, seeing nothing beyond the events and circumstances of their
life, turn away from God with hardened and embittered hearts. But the sons of faith look away from the fierce waves and threatening storm-clouds, for well they know
that

Above the voice of many waters,

The mighty breakers of the sea,

The Lord on high is mighty."6

And thus, filled with glad thoughts of the home beyond and of the glory to which He is calling them, they can rejoice in Him, even though in heaviness in manifold trials,
for the proof of their faith is precious. (1 Peter 1:6, 7)

Men understand and appreciate the asceticisms of religion - "will-worship, and humility, and severity to the body" - penances and ordinances which are "after the
precepts and doctrines of men." (Colossians 2:23 (R.V.)) But these have nothing in common with the life of faith. They are paths by which men delude themselves in
vain efforts to reach the Cross. But it is at the Cross itself that the life of faith begins. And the spiritual miracles of that life are more wonderful than any which merely
controlled or suspended the operation of natural laws. Greatest of them all is the miracle of the new birth by the Spirit of God, with its outward side of conversion from
a life of selfishness or sin to a life of consecrated service. And those who have experienced it can say in the words of Holy Writ, "We know that the Son of God is
come, and hath given us an understanding, that we may know Him that is true." (John 1:5:20) And carrying the truth to others, they find it produces the same results
which they themselves have proved. And this not merely in isolated cases or in favoring circumstances. Recent years, during which so many who have publicly pledged
their belief that the Bible is true,7 and who are subsidized to teach that it is Divine, have been laboring to prove that it is unreliable and human - these have been
precisely the years in which Christian men have carried it to some of the most degraded races of the heathen world, with results that surpass all previous records, giving
overwhelming proof of its Divine character and mission.

To men like these there is a sense in which Heaven is not silent. The science of today has taught us that there are rays of light, till now unknown, which can penetrate the
densest substances. But these rays can only be evolved when the atmosphere of earth has been excluded. And such wonders have their counterpart in the spiritual
sphere. Those
 Copyright (c)who   can thus Infobase
               2005-2009,     escape from the influence
                                       Media  Corp.     of earth, and rise above the seen and temporal, have eyes to see and ears to hear the sights and
                                                                                                                                                       Pagesounds
                                                                                                                                                               18of/ 176
another world; and with united voice they testify that God is with His people and that His Word is true.

And behind these men are tens of thousands of Christians at home, including not a few of the greatest theologians, and thinkers, and scholars of the age, who share their
overwhelming proof of its Divine character and mission.

To men like these there is a sense in which Heaven is not silent. The science of today has taught us that there are rays of light, till now unknown, which can penetrate the
densest substances. But these rays can only be evolved when the atmosphere of earth has been excluded. And such wonders have their counterpart in the spiritual
sphere. Those who can thus escape from the influence of earth, and rise above the seen and temporal, have eyes to see and ears to hear the sights and sounds of
another world; and with united voice they testify that God is with His people and that His Word is true.

And behind these men are tens of thousands of Christians at home, including not a few of the greatest theologians, and thinkers, and scholars of the age, who share their
beliefs and rejoice in their triumphs. Not that the question, What is truth? can be settled by a plebiscite! For truth has always been in a minority. But there is no element
of cohesion in error. Among the children of error there is no bond of unity save such as depends on common hostility to truth. One generation kills the prophets;
another builds their sepulchers. Those who shed the martyrs' blood are repudiated and condemned by their successors and representatives today. But the children of
truth in every age are one. Great is the "cloud of witnesses" encompassing us round - the righteous dead of all the ages past. And when our race shall have been run, we
too in time shall pass from the arena to join the mighty throng, until at last, their ranks complete, the ever-swelling host shall stand, a countless multitude, before the
throne of God.

What a success this book might have been had it but fulfilled the promise of its earlier pages! If only it had gone on to enforce the revolt against faith suggested in the
opening chapter, then indeed it would have been "reviewed" in the newspapers and "called for" at the libraries. But while skeptical attacks upon the Bible rank with
general literature, 8 any defense of it which appeals to its deeper teaching is deemed unsuited for notice in the secular press. And so it comes about that everything
which unbelief has to urge is brought prominently before the public, but the vast majority of people never hear of a book which is distinctly Christian.

Religion and Skepticism are rival competitors for popular favor. And yet there are many who, though conscious of longings too deep to be satisfied by mere religion,
make choice of religion because they know of no other refuge from unbelief. And there are others again who, "with too much knowledge for the skeptic's side," drift
into skepticism in their recoil from priestcraft. 9 To some such, perchance, these pages may suggest a better way. For Christianity delivers us not only from skepticism
on the one hand, but from superstition on the other.

And to not a few this volume may be welcome as affording a clew to pressing difficulties which perplex and distress the thoughtful. Infidelity trades upon the silence of
Heaven, the inaction of the Supreme. If there be a God, almighty and all-good, why does He not use His power and give proof of His goodness in the way men choose
to expect of Him? The answer usually offered by the Christian apologist fails either to silence the opponent or to satisfy the believer. And rightly so, for it is lacking not
only in cogency but in sympathy. The God of the Bible is infinite both in power and in compassion; and in other ages His people had public proof of this. Why, then, is
He so silent?

The question is not why He does not always declare Himself, but why He never does so. If, as already urged, whole generations even passed away without
experiencing any direct manifestation of Divine power on earth, then, in presence of some crushing sorrow, some hideous wrong, His people might well exclaim with
Gideon long ago, "If the Lord be with us, why then is all this befallen us? and where be all His miracles which our fathers told us of?" (Judges 6:13) But what concerns
us is the fact that throughout the entire course of this Christian dispensation since Pentecostal times, "the finger of God" (Luke 11:20) has never been openly at work
upon earth, never once has a public miracle been witnessed - "a single public event to compel belief that there is a God at all!" Are we left to grope in darkness for the
answer? Does revelation throw no light upon it? To suggest the solution of this mystery these pages have been written. It now remains but to recapitulate the argument
they offer.

An appeal to "the Christian miracles," it has been urged, so far from solving the mystery, serves only to intensify it. The purpose of the miracles, moreover, was to
accredit the Messiah to Israel, and not, as generally supposed, to accredit Christianity to the heathen. And therefore, as Scripture plainly indicates, they continued so
long as the testimony was addressed to the Jew, but ceased when, the Jew being set aside, the gospel went out to the Gentile world.

But the crisis which deprived the favored nation of its vantage-ground of privilege was made the occasion of a new revelation to mankind. Israel's fall was "the
reconciliation of the world." (Romans 11:15) God assumed a new attitude toward men. Mercy there had always been for Gentiles, for the diligent seeker after God
never sought Him in vain. (Acts 17:27; Hebrews 11:6; Romans 2:7. And see specially Acts 10:34, 35.) But Christianity goes infinitely beyond this. It is the realization of
the change foreshadowed by the prophetic words, "I was found of them that sought Me not; I was made manifest unto them that asked not after Me." (Romans 10:20)
It is not that God will give heed to the cry of the true penitent who entreats for mercy, for this He ever did, but that He Himself is entreating even the impenitent to turn
to Him; He is beseeching men to be reconciled. (2 Corinthians 5:20) It is not that there is mercy for some men, but that God has now made a public declaration of His
grace, "salvation-bringing to all men."10 Grace is on the throne, reigning through righteousness unto eternal life. (Romans 5:21.)

But it is plain matter of fact that before this, the great characteristic truth of Christianity, was revealed there was immediate Divine intervention upon earth: in a word,
there were miracles; whereas, after this truth was revealed, they ceased. The era of the reign of grace is precisely the era of the silence of God. To grace, therefore, we
look to explain the silence. Christianity is the supreme and final revelation of the Divine "kindness and love-toward-man."11 Therefore when God again declares
Himself it can only be in wrath, and wrath must await "the day of wrath." (Romans 2:5)

Not that human government has lost its Divine sanction, for "the powers that be are ordained of God." (Romans 13:1) Nor yet that the moral government of the world
is in abeyance: the laws of nature are relentlessly enforced. 12 But in this higher sphere there is neither court nor constable empowered to deal with the sins of men: for
he to whom alone belongs the high prerogative of judgment is now enthroned as Savior. God is no longer "imputing their trespasses" to men. 13 From the throne of the
Divine Majesty there has gone forth the proclamation of pardon and peace, and this without condition or reserve. And now a silent Heaven gives continuing proof that
this great amnesty is still in force, and that the guiltiest of men may turn to God and find forgiveness of sins and eternal life. God is silent because He has spoken His last
word of mercy and love, and judgment must await the "day of judgment" - there can be no place for it in this "day of grace."14

To many all this will seem the merest mysticism. Others, again, will see no meaning in it whatsoever. For to them the ministry and death of Christ are but a splendid
episode which has raised humanity to a higher level than it ever before attained. For such, indeed, the problem of this book has no significance. 15 Having but a timid
belief in the supernatural, the absence of miracles excites in them neither wonder nor distress. But there are not a few, happily, who have learned to think of Calvary,
not as an upward step in the inevitable progress of the race toward the goal of its high destiny, but as a tremendous crisis which has brought man's probation to an end,
leaving him absolutely dependent upon Divine grace, or, if he rejects the proffered mercy, shutting him up to judgment. And such will form a worthier estimate of the
clew here offered to the mystery of a silent Heaven.

Appendices

Note 1

In these pages I am dealing only with miracles in the theological sense; that is, with Divine miracles. The phenomena of Spiritualism I have never personally investigated;
but if genuine they are clearly miraculous, and to reject, on a priori grounds, the mass of evidence adduced in proof of them in books like Professor A. R. Wallace's
"Miracles and Modern Spiritualism," seems to me to savor of the stupidity of unbelief. Assuming their genuineness, no Christian need hesitate to account for them by
 Copyright (c)
demoniacal      2005-2009,
            agency.          Infobase
                     To attribute them Media  Corp.
                                       to departed                                                                                                         Page
                                                   spirits is as unphilosophical as it is unscriptural. It would seem that in this Christian dispensation, when the19
                                                                                                                                                                   third/ 176
Person of the Trinity dwells on earth, demons are subject to restraints which were not imposed in a preceding age, but there is no reason to refuse belief in their
presence or their power.
In these pages I am dealing only with miracles in the theological sense; that is, with Divine miracles. The phenomena of Spiritualism I have never personally investigated;
but if genuine they are clearly miraculous, and to reject, on a priori grounds, the mass of evidence adduced in proof of them in books like Professor A. R. Wallace's
"Miracles and Modern Spiritualism," seems to me to savor of the stupidity of unbelief. Assuming their genuineness, no Christian need hesitate to account for them by
demoniacal agency. To attribute them to departed spirits is as unphilosophical as it is unscriptural. It would seem that in this Christian dispensation, when the third
Person of the Trinity dwells on earth, demons are subject to restraints which were not imposed in a preceding age, but there is no reason to refuse belief in their
presence or their power.

Religious miracles also claim a passing notice here. I do not allude to the tricks of priests, but to cases of extraordinary cures from serious illness; and some at least of
these appear to be supported by evidence sufficient to establish their truth. The phenomena of hysteria and mimetic disease will probably account for the majority of
cases of the kind. Others again may be explained as instances of the power of the mind and will over the body. The diseases which are necessarily fatal are
comparatively few. But when a patient gives up hope his chances of recovery are greatly reduced. On the other hand, the progress of disease may be controlled, and
even checked, by some mastering influence or emotion which turns the patient's thoughts back to life, and makes him believe he is convalescent. But while the vast
majority of seemingly miraculous cures may thus be explained on natural principles, there may perhaps be some which are genuine miracles. There are no limits to the
possibilities of faith, and God may thus declare Himself at times.

There is nothing in this admission to clash with the concluding statement of my second chapter, that in our dispensation, unlike those which preceded it, there are no
public events to compel belief in God. I am there dealing, not with the mere fact of miracles, but with their evidential value; and if there have been miracles in
Christendom, that element is wanting in them. I may add that among Christians it is pestilently evil to make the exceptional experience of some the rule of faith for all.
The Word of God is our guide, and not the experience of fellow-Christians; and when this is ignored the practical consequences are disastrous. The annals of "faith-
healing," as it is called, are rich in cases of mimetic or hysterical disease, but about the spiritual wreckage due to failures innumerable they are silent.

Note 2

According to the dictionary the primary meaning of religion is "piety." But this, of course, is entirely personal and subjective. In these pages I use the word only in its
original sense, in which alone it occurs in our English Bible. "How little 'religion' once meant godliness, how predominantly it was used for the outward service of God, is
plain from many passages in our Homilies, and from other contemporary literature." But though Archbishop Trench, from whose "English Past and Present" this
sentence is quoted, suggests that such a use of the word is now obsolete, I venture to maintain that it is in this, its original, but now secondary, meaning that it is
commonly used at the present day.

And I may appeal to the fact that the Revisers have retained it even in (Galatians 1:13-14), where "the Jews' religion" is twice given as the equivalent of "Judaism." In
the only other passages where it occurs (Acts 26:5; James 1:26-27), it is the rendering of the Greek qrhskei>a, a word which means the outward ceremonial service of
religion, the external form, as contrasted with eujse>beia, a word which, with one exception, is always translated godliness in the fifteen passages where it occurs
Qrhskei>a is rendered worshipping in Colossians 2:18, thus plainly showing that it is outward ceremonial it implies. Its use in Acts 26:5 needs no comment, but in
James 1 its significance is generally missed. "Pure religion," the writer declares, "is this" - and every Israelite (for to such the Epistle was specially addressed) would
expect a reference to new ordinances in lieu of those of the bygone dispensation; but his thoughts turn in a wholly different direction - "to visit the fatherless and widows
in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world." As Archbishop Trench remarks, the very qrhskei>a of Christianity "consists in acts of mercy, of love,
of holiness." The words are intended, not to indicate a parallel, but to suggest a contrast. In no more forcible and striking manner could the apostle teach that
Christianity is not a qrhskei>a at all.

Note 3

The Acts of the Apostles is divided by theologians into three main periods: The Hebraic (chaps. 1-5); the transitional (6-12), and the Gentile (13-28). But this
classification is arbitrary. The Hebraic section includes at least the first nine chapters; and if the view of the Book here advocated be correct, the rest must be regarded
as transitional. That it is so in a real sense no student can fail to recognize; and that this is the intention of the narrative I venture to maintain. The admission of the
Gentiles, recorded in (chap. 10), was on strictly Jewish lines, as the apostles came to understand, and James explained at the Council of Jerusalem (15:13, etc.). Those
that were scattered by the Stephen persecution preached "to Jews only" (11:19). The marginal note to ver. 20 in R.V. shows that the passage must not be strained to
imply a denial of this. That Paul's ministry during the year he spent in Antioch was confined to Jews, appears from (14:27).1 When from Antioch Paul and Barnabas
came to Salamis "they preached in the synagogues of the Jews" (13:5). When they came to Pisidian Antioch, they again repaired to the synagogue (ver. 14). And it was
not till the Jews rejected the ministry that the apostles "turned to the Gentiles" (ver. 46). This passage marks one of the minor crises in the narrative. At Iconium again
the apostles preached in the synagogue of the Jews (14:1). As the "Greeks" here mentioned were attending the synagogue, they were evidently proselytes, and are not
to be confounded with the "Gentiles" of verses 2 and 5. Verse 27 of the fourteenth chapter, makes it clear that Paul's ministry among the Gentiles began with his sojourn
in Pisidia (chap. 13).

Chap. 15 claims far fuller notice than can here be given to it. Any one can see, however, that it records the session of a council of Jews to deal with new problems to
which the conversion of Gentiles had given rise. Chap. 16:1-8 records the apostles' visits to existing Churches. The vision of ver. 9 then called them to Philippi where
(as probably at Lystra) they found no synagogue. But on passing thence to Thessalonica "Paul, as his manner was," frequented the synagogue 17:2. So also at Berea
(ver. 10), and at Athens (ver. 17).

From Athens Paul came to Corinth where "he reasoned in the synagogue every Sabbath" (28:4). So also at Ephesus (ver. 19, and 19:8). Thence it was he turned
towards Jerusalem upon that mission which is regarded by some as the fulfillment of his ministry, and by others as a turning away from the path of testimony to the
Gentiles, seemingly marked out for him to follow. Be this as it may, having been carried a prisoner to Rome, his first care was to call together - not the Christians, much
though he longed to see them (Romans 1:10, 11), but - "the chief of the Jews," and to them to give the testimony which he had brought to his nation in every place to
which his ministry had led him. In his introductory address to them he claimed the place of a Jew among Jews: "I have done nothing (he declared) against the people, or
the customs of our fathers (28:17); but when these, the Jews of Rome, refused the proffered mercy, his mission to his nation was at an end; and for the first time
separating himself from them, he exclaimed, "Well spake the Holy Ghost through Isaiah the prophet unto your fathers" - and he went on to repeat the words which our
Lord Himself had used at that kindred crisis of His ministry when the nation had openly rejected Him (Acts 28:25; Matthew 13:13, cf. 12:14-16).

My contention is that the Acts, as a whole, is the record of a temporary and transitional dispensation in which blessing was again offered to the Jew and again rejected.
Hence the sustained emphasis with which the testimony to Israel is narrated, and the incidental way in which the testimony to Gentiles is treated. Of the thousands
baptized at Pentecost a large proportion doubtless were of the strangers mentioned in 2:9-11; and these carried the testimony to the Jews in all the places there
enumerated. The 5,000 men mentioned in 4:4 were apparently resident in Jerusalem, and these, when scattered by the Stephen persecution, "went everywhere
preaching the Word," "but to the Jews only" 8:1-4, and 11:19. Surely we may assume that there was not a district, not a village, inhabited by Jews, where the gospel
did not come.

Some, perhaps, will appeal to passages like Acts 15:12 to disprove my statement that miracles had special reference to the favored nation. The careful student,
however, will see that nothing in the narrative is inconsistent with what I have urged. For example, the miracle at Lystra was in response to the faith of the man who
benefited
 Copyright by(c)
              it (14:9), and itsInfobase
                 2005-2009,      effect onMedia
                                          the heathen
                                                 Corp.who witnessed it was not to lead them to Christianity, but first to make them pay Divine honor toPage
                                                                                                                                                         the apostles,
                                                                                                                                                                20 / and
                                                                                                                                                                       176
then, finding they were not gods but men, to stone them. I have not said that there were no miracles wrought among the heathen, but that, when the gospel was carried
to the heathen, miracles lost their prominence, and that they ceased absolutely just at the time when, if the recognized hypothesis were true, they would have been of the
highest value. The great miracle of 16:26 was a Divine intervention on behalf of the apostle. And among the Jews of Ephesus (19:11) and the Christians of Corinth (1
did not come.

Some, perhaps, will appeal to passages like Acts 15:12 to disprove my statement that miracles had special reference to the favored nation. The careful student,
however, will see that nothing in the narrative is inconsistent with what I have urged. For example, the miracle at Lystra was in response to the faith of the man who
benefited by it (14:9), and its effect on the heathen who witnessed it was not to lead them to Christianity, but first to make them pay Divine honor to the apostles, and
then, finding they were not gods but men, to stone them. I have not said that there were no miracles wrought among the heathen, but that, when the gospel was carried
to the heathen, miracles lost their prominence, and that they ceased absolutely just at the time when, if the recognized hypothesis were true, they would have been of the
highest value. The great miracle of 16:26 was a Divine intervention on behalf of the apostle. And among the Jews of Ephesus (19:11) and the Christians of Corinth (1
Corinthians 12:10) there were miracles, as doubtless elsewhere also. But there were no miracles seen by Felix or Festus or Agrippa; and, as already noticed, when
Paul stood before Nero the era of miracles had closed. The miracles of Acts 28:8, 9 are chronologically the last on record, and the later Epistles are wholly silent
respecting them.

Note 4

Every one recognizes that the advent of Christ marked a signal "change of dispensation," as it is termed: that is, a change in God's dealings with men. But the fact is
commonly ignored that the rejection of Christ by the favored people, and their fall in consequence from the position of privilege formerly held by them, marked another
change no less definite and important (Romans 11:15). And yet this fact affords the solution of many difficulties and a safeguard against many errors. As indicated in
these pages, it gives the clew to the right understanding of the Acts of the Apostles - a book which is primarily the record, not, as commonly supposed, of the founding
of the Christian Church, but of the apostasy of the favored nation. But it also explains much that perplexes Christians in the teaching of the Gospels.

During the last Carlist rising in Spain a wealthy Spanish marquis was said to have mortgaged his entire estate to its utmost value, and to have thrown the proceeds into
the war-chest of the insurrection. It was a reasonable act on the part of any one who believed in the Pretender's cause. To him, and to others like him, the accession of
Don Carlos to the throne would bring back their own, and far more besides. So was it with the disciples in days when the kingdom was being preached to the earthly
people. Certain of the Lord's precepts had reference to the special circumstances of that special dispensation. Take "the Sermon on the Mount" for example. Our Lord
was there unfolding the principles of the promised kingdom, and giving precepts for the guidance of those who were awaiting its establishment. It is all for us, doubtless,
but not always in the same sense that it was intended to convey to them. Christians, for instance, pray the kingdom prayer. But with us "Thy kingdom come" is a general
appeal for the advancement of the Divine cause: with them it was a definite petition for the near realization of the promised earthly reign. And what a meaning the prayer
for daily bread had for those who were enjoined to carry neither purse nor scrip, but to trust their heavenly Father to feed them as He feeds the birds; for, like the
birds, they had "neither storehouse nor barn"!

Principles are unchanging, but the definite precepts recorded in such passages as Matthew 5:39-42 and 6:25-34 were framed with reference to the circumstances of
the time, and to the special testimony which the kingdom disciple was to maintain. The Christian, unlike the kingdom disciple in this respect, is entitled to defend himself
against outrage, and to resist any invasion of his personal or civil rights; and he is expressly enjoined to make provision for the future. Banking, insurance, and thrift are
not forbidden by Christianity. "Take nothing for your journey," the Lord directed, as He sent out the Twelve, "neither staves, nor scrip, nor bread, nor money; neither
have two coats" (Luke 9:3). And referring to this, when He was about to be taken away from them, He asked, "When I sent you without purse, and scrip, and shoes,
lacked ye anything? And they said, Nothing. Then said He unto them, But now, he that hath a purse, let him take it, and likewise his scrip; and he that hath no sword,
let him sell his garment and buy one" (Luke 22:35-36).

What can be plainer than this? In civilized communities, of course, the State takes charge of "the sword" (Romans 13:4), and the individual citizen is not left to defend
himself; but the principle is the same. One who is "instructed unto the kingdom," the Lord declares, is like "a householder who brings out of his treasure things new and
old" (Matthew 13:52). But Christians nowadays are not thus "instructed." They are rather like householders who, bringing out whatever comes first to their hand, give
new milk to their guests and old wine to their babies! And as the result Holy Scripture is brought into contempt, and earnest and honest-hearted believers are stumbled
or perplexed.

Another clew is needed to guide us in the right use of the teaching of the Gospels. Some of the Lord's words were addressed to the apostles as such, and we must
remember this in applying them to ourselves.

With reference to the Sermon on the Mount it may be asked, Does any one imagine our Lord supposed that people would wish to add twenty inches to their height?
Matthew 6:27 should no doubt be read as the American Revisers render it, "Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit to the measure of his life?"

Note 5

The primary and usual meaning of musth>rion in Biblical Greek is indicated by its use in the Septuagint. It occurs eight times in Daniel (verses 18, 19, 27, 28, 29, 30,
47 (twice), and again in 4:9), and in every case it is translated secret in our English version. The word occurs also in the Apocrypha, and always in this same sense.
This, too, is its ordinary use in the New Testament; but the word was then already acquiring the further meaning which belongs to it in the writings of the Greek Fathers,
namely, a symbol or secret sign. And in this sense it appears to be used in Revelation 1:20 and 17:5, 7. In chap. 10:7 it occurs in its earlier meaning. So also apparently
in Ephesians 5:32, though the Vulgate understands it differently, using the word sacramentum to translate it. If it is to be read in the one way, the secret referred to is
that believers are members of the Body of Christ: if in the other way, marriage is the symbol intended.

The Latin version of Ephesians 5:32 is of special interest as indicating the original meaning of sacrament, as "a mystery; a mysterious or holy token or
pledge" (Webster). Bishop Taylor thus speaks of God sending His people "the sacrament of a rainbow." And Hooker writes: "As often as we mention a sacrament, it is
improperly under. stood; for in the writings of the ancient fathers all articles which are peculiar to Christian faith, all duties of religion containing that which sense or
natural reason cannot of itself discern, are most commonly named sacraments. Our restraint of the word to some few principal Divine ceremonies importeth in every
such ceremony two things, the substance of the ceremony itself, which is visible; and besides that, something else more secret, in reference whereunto we conceive that
ceremony to be a sacrament."

In this passage, it will be noticed, the word is used precisely in the secondary sense assigned to it in Johnson's "Dictionary," viz., "An outward and visible sign of an
inward and spiritual grace." Johnson's first meaning of the word is "an oath"; and the Latin word sacramentum may possibly have acquired that meaning on account of
some outward act or sign which accompanied the taking of an oath. According to Hooker's use of the word sacrament, the English practice of kissing the Testament
would be so described.

Note 6

If the reader will take up the New Testament, and with the help of a good concordance turn to every passage where the devil is mentioned or referred to, he will be
startled to find how little there is to give even a seeming support to the popular superstition upon this subject. Three passages only can I find that seem to suggest that
Satan tempts to acts of immorality. Of 1 John 3:8-10, I have already spoken. The other two are 1 Corinthians 7:5, and 1 Timothy 5:15; and with these I will deal
presently.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                            Page 21 / 176
In the temptation of our Lord there was of course no question of morality. The devil's aim was to draw Him away from the path of dependence upon God, and
specially to divert Him from the path which led to the Cross. It was this also which brought such a terrible rebuke upon Peter when the Lord addressed him as
"Satan" (Matthew 16:23). And when Satan asked to have Peter (as he had asked to have Job) it was his faith he sought to destroy. "I made supplication for thee," the
If the reader will take up the New Testament, and with the help of a good concordance turn to every passage where the devil is mentioned or referred to, he will be
startled to find how little there is to give even a seeming support to the popular superstition upon this subject. Three passages only can I find that seem to suggest that
Satan tempts to acts of immorality. Of 1 John 3:8-10, I have already spoken. The other two are 1 Corinthians 7:5, and 1 Timothy 5:15; and with these I will deal
presently.

In the temptation of our Lord there was of course no question of morality. The devil's aim was to draw Him away from the path of dependence upon God, and
specially to divert Him from the path which led to the Cross. It was this also which brought such a terrible rebuke upon Peter when the Lord addressed him as
"Satan" (Matthew 16:23). And when Satan asked to have Peter (as he had asked to have Job) it was his faith he sought to destroy. "I made supplication for thee," the
Lord added, "that thy faith fail not" (Luke 22:31, 32 R.V.).

And with the memory of this before him no doubt it was that the apostle wrote the words, "Your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he
may devour: whom withstand steadfast in your faith" (1 Peter 5:8-9). In the parable of the tares in the field, it is the devil who sows the tares (Matthew 13:39). And in
the parable of the sower the devil's work is described as taking away the word out of the hearts of those who hear it, "lest they should believe and be saved." And if
Elymas the sorcerer was called a "son of the devil," it was because of his "seeking to turn aside the proconsul from the faith" (Acts 13:8-10).

Two passages indicate his mysterious "power of death," viz., (Hebrews 2:14, Jude 9 which tells of his claiming as of right the body of Moses. And two passages again
indicate his power of inflicting disease and pain, namely, Luke 13:16, and Acts 10:38, but these may probably be explained by reference to the case of Job. In
Revelation 12:9 (R.V.), he is called "the deceiver of the whole world" (cf. Revelation 20:10); and in that book he is represented as the leader in the great coming
struggle between faith and unfaith, between the acknowledgment of God and the denial of Him. There is no need to quote the many passages which indicate his
malignant hatred of God and of His people, but if he be the obscene monster of Christian tradition, how is it that, from cover to cover, the Bible is silent on the subject?
In his "devices" upon men the Satan of Scripture is the enemy, not of morals, but of faith.

And if in view of the mass of testimony leading to this conclusion we turn back to the two passages above cited, we shall be prepared to read them in a new light. In 1
Timothy 5 we shall read verse 15 in the light of verse 12. The "turning aside after Satan" there referred to is "the setting at nought their first faith." And the Christian will
not hesitate to follow Calvin in understanding the "faith" here intended as the faith of Christ. The word pisto occurs two hundred times in the Epistles; and in this sense
only is it used, with the solitary exception of Titus 2:10. There is the very strongest presumption therefore against the suggestion that here it means no more than a
woman's "troth" to her dead husband. Such a suggestion, moreover, makes the apostle contradict himself. It makes him say that young widows "have condemnation"
because they wish to marry again; and yet he ends by expressly enjoining that they are to marry again! (ver. 14 R.V.). Verses 11-13 give his reasons for that injunction.
The passage is incidentally an overwhelming condemnation of nunneries, but the usual construction put upon it is an outrage upon Holy Writ and a gross libel upon
women. And I may add that if that construction were the true one the limit of age at which widows were to be provided for would certainly have been fixed much
earlier than sixty.

The expressions" waxing wanton against Christ," and "turning aside after Satan," are to be explained by reference to the Scriptural standard of spiritual life and the
Scriptural theology of Satanic temptations. So also of 1 Corinthians 7:5. The solemn practical lesson there to be learned is that any departure from prudence and
propriety may give Satan an advantage - an occasion to undermine or corrupt the Christian's faith.

As for Ananias, his story is so misread that the lesson of it is lost to the Church. He was not a bad man, but a good man. In the enthusiasm of his zeal he sold his landed
property that he might devote the proceeds to the common fund. But here the suggestion presented itself to him to put aside a portion for his own use. His wife was in
the plot, and boldly lied to conceal it. But Ananias spoke no lie, he only acted one, as people are used to do nowadays. If he lived to-day he would be held in the
highest repute. Indeed there are few to be found in these selfish days who could compare with him. The moral is not the wickedness of man but the holiness and
"severity" of God, and the subtlety of Satanic temptations. Satan tempted him, not to a vicious or "immoral" act, but only to do what, as the apostle said, he had an
unquestionable right to do. He did not lie to men - so the Word expressly tells us - but he lied to God, and swift judgment fell on him. If God were dealing thus with
men in our day, the number of the burials would be a serious difficulty!

To the case of Judas I have not expressly referred, because it so obviously falls within the category of temptations aimed directly against Christ Himself.

Note 7

The exegesis here offered of John 8:44 is not based on the grammar of the Greek article. The Revisers have adopted an unsatisfactory compromise between exposition
and translation. "To speak a lie" is not English. In our language the proper expression is "to tell a lie." But no one would so render the Greek words lalei~n to; and by
inserting in the margin the old and discarded gloss, the Revisers only betray their dissatisfaction with their own reading. The words must mean either some definite lie, or
else in the abstract sense the whole range of what is false. (See Psalm 5:6 LXX). In this view of the passage all speech would be regarded as divided between truth and
falsehood - God-speech and devil-speech. But this is somewhat fanciful here, and, in regard to the words which follow, somewhat forced. And if, as I venture to urge,
it is not the false in the abstract which is here in view, but a concrete instance of it, the question of grammar is no longer open. And, thus rendered, the connection is
clear between Satan the liar and Satan the murderer. He is not the instigator to all murders, but to the murder there and then in question, the murder of the Christ; he is
not the father of lies, but the father of the lie of which "the murder" is the natural consequence.

In Romans 1:25, where both words ("truth" and "lie") have the article, I suppose both are used in the abstract sense. In Revelation 21:27, and Revelation 22:15 the
word "lie" is anarthrous. But in (2 Thessalonians 2:11) it is again the lie of John 8:44. The Lawless One who is yet to be revealed, is described as he "whose coming is
after the working of Satan with all power and signs and lying wonders." God does not incite men to tell lies or to believe lies. But of those who reject "the truth" it is
written, "He shall send them strong delusion that they should believe the lie." Because they have rejected the Christ of God, a judicial blindness shall fall upon them that
they shall accept the Christ of humanity, who will be Satan incarnate.

In these pages I have kept clear of prophecy, for they are addressed in part to those who have no belief in prophecy. But if the prophetic student will shake himself free
from the Satan myth he will find the Divine forecast of the future become radiant with new light. Terrible wars are yet to convulse the nations, bringing famine in their
train. But the coming Man will bring peace to the world. He will command universal homage not merely by reason of his Satanic miraculous powers, but because of his
splendid human qualities. The adherents of "the truth" will, alone of all the race, have cause to mourn his sovereignty. His reign will be the era of man's "millennium," a
time of order and prosperity unparalleled, when the arts of peace shall flourish, and the utopias of philosophers and socialists will be realized. And that the Satan cult
which will then prevail on earth will be marked by a high morality and a specious "form of godliness," is plainly indicated by the warning that, but for Divine grace, it
would "deceive the very elect." It is also, I venture to think, plainly foreshadowed by current events. Christians are trifling with skeptical attacks upon Scripture. But the
real issue involved in these attacks is the Divinity of Christ; and I venture to predict that those of us who shall live for another quarter of a century, shall yet witness a
widespread abandonment of that great truth by many of the Churches. The decline of faith during the last five-and-twenty years has been appalling, and we are already
within measurable distance of a more general acceptance of the Satan cult - a religion marked by a high morality and an earnest philanthropy, but wholly devoid of all
that is distinctively Christian. "Free from dogma" is the favorite expression: and this "freedom" means the ignoring of the great truths of Christianity.

Note 8

How   deep-seated
 Copyright         and venerable
             (c) 2005-2009,      is theMedia
                             Infobase  popularCorp.
                                                belief that all misdeeds of a certain gravity are due to Satanic influence. But this belief suggests a difficulty
                                                                                                                                                            Page  which
                                                                                                                                                                    22 /has
                                                                                                                                                                         176
perplexed and distressed many a thoughtful Christian. Multitudes innumerable thus transgress. Nor are they to be found only in the squalid dwellings of our city slums,
but in the abodes of wealth and culture; not only in our great unlovely towns, but in every village and hamlet in the land. Nor are these shores in any special sense the
domain of Satan. On the contrary, if vice and crime are signs of his presence and power, other countries must claim more of his activity than our own. And when we
that is distinctively Christian. "Free from dogma" is the favorite expression: and this "freedom" means the ignoring of the great truths of Christianity.

Note 8

How deep-seated and venerable is the popular belief that all misdeeds of a certain gravity are due to Satanic influence. But this belief suggests a difficulty which has
perplexed and distressed many a thoughtful Christian. Multitudes innumerable thus transgress. Nor are they to be found only in the squalid dwellings of our city slums,
but in the abodes of wealth and culture; not only in our great unlovely towns, but in every village and hamlet in the land. Nor are these shores in any special sense the
domain of Satan. On the contrary, if vice and crime are signs of his presence and power, other countries must claim more of his activity than our own. And when we
turn to the darker scenes of heathenism, the appalling tale of hideous vice and cruelty gives proof that, there, the devil must be still more busy than in Christendom. But
if the majority of the many thousands of millions of mankind are thus under his personal influence, he must be acquainted with the life and circumstances of each
individual. Are we, then, to conclude that he is practically omnipresent and omniscient? Are we to ascribe to him these attributes of Deity?

As regards the unseen world, any belief which does not rest upon revelation is essentially superstitious: what, then, is the testimony of Scripture on this subject? The first
chapter of the Epistle to the Romans treats of the condition of the heathen with a definiteness which leaves nothing to be desired. To this passage, then, let us appeal,
and by it let the popular belief be tested. Here are the words:

"Knowing God, they glorified Him not as God, neither gave thanks; but became vain in their reasonings, and their senseless heart was darkened. Professing themselves
to be wise, they became fools, and changed the glory of the incorruptible God for the likeness of an image of corruptible man, and of birds, and fourfooted beasts, and
creeping things. Wherefore God gave them up in the lusts of their hearts unto uncleanness, that their bodies should be dishonored among themselves: for that they
exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshipped and served the creature rather than the Creator, who is blessed for ever. For this cause God gave them up unto
vile passions.. .. And even as they refused to have God in their knowledge, God gave them up unto a reprobate mind, to do those things which are not fitting" (Romans
1:21-28, R.V.).1

If Satan were immediately responsible for the baser immoralities of men, it is inconceivable that such a passage would contain no allusion to the fact; but allusion there is
none. The words are clear and simple - "God gave them up"; and human nature in its alienation from God accounts for their depravity. Nor will it avail to plead that it is
only pagan depravity which is here in question. If no devil is needed to account for the abominations of the heathen world, why appeal to the supernatural to explain the
vices and crimes of Christendom? To do so is as unphilosophical as it is unscriptural.

And why should Satan tempt men in this way? His doing so would be intelligible if his power over them depended on their leading vicious lives. But Scripture vetoes
this suggestion. Some who own his sway are slaves of vice, but others are religious zealots of blameless character; and our Lord expressly declares that it is the zealots
who are farthest from the kingdom. (Matthew 21:31)

Not that immorality is any passport to heaven, any recommendation to Divine favor. On the contrary, it is a highway to "the City of Destruction"; but it is for this very
reason that it brings a man within reach of hope, for in "the City of Destruction" it is that the Savior is seeking the lost. The devotee of blameless life, who thanks God
that he is not as other men, is entirely on the devil's side; whereas, were he tempted to open sin, he might be brought to his knees to pray that other prayer which would
bring all heaven to his help.

How it would simplify matters if morality were a distinctive badge of the regenerate, and immorality characterized the rest! But vice is not the hallmark of the devil's
handiwork. "A form of godliness" (2 Timothy 3:5) is one of his "devices." Among the most dangerous enemies of Christ and Christianity, are men who live pure and
upright lives, and who preach righteousness. "And no marvel; for even Satan fashioneth himself into an angel of light: it is no great thing therefore if his ministers also
fashion themselves as ministers of righteousness." (2 Corinthians 11:14, (15 R.V)) And if "the very elect" are deceived by the fraud, it is mainly because they are blinded
by this error of the Satan myth.

It is not, I again repeat, in the domain of morals that the devil's influence is distinctively declared, but in the spiritual sphere. Our race has not sprung from Adam in Eden
innocence, but from Adam the fallen and sinful outcast. Human nature is thus poisoned at its very source by ignorance and distrust of God. It is a fallen nature. And
Satan it was who thus debased it. What wonder, then, that he is able to influence the main currents of human thought and action in regard to things Divine! What
wonder that he can control the religion of the race!

All this may excite the contempt of the agnostic, but we challenge him to offer some other explanation of the well-ascertained facts. The evolutionist pretends to account
for the condition of the lower strata of humanity; but how can he explain the phenomena of the religion of Christendom? In spite of all the advantages which civilization
affords, men have bartered the sublime truths of Christianity for the superstitions of old-world paganism. Such figments as baptismal regeneration and the possession of
mystic powers by a priestly caste are wholly repugnant to Christianity, and Judaism, even in its apostasy, was free from them; and yet they have been adopted as an
integral part of the Christian religion. This one fact is proof that, so far at least as the origin of man is concerned, evolution is false and the story of the Eden fall is true.

But this kind of Satanic influence involves no knowledge of the inner experience of each life, no possession of Divine attributes. It implies no special action directed
simultaneously against millions of individuals scattered over all the globe. That the devil does deal with individuals we know; but Scripture indicates that such cases are
exceptional. The warning to the Twelve, that Satan desired to have them, though intended for all, was specially for Peter. It is but natural that he should seek to drag
down those who stand out as champions of the truth. Nor can even the lowliest disciple be sure of immunity from his attacks. He "walketh about," we read, "as a
roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour." (1 Peter 5:8) And a prowling lion may seize even the very weakest for his prey. This may explain conflicts which
sometimes try the faith even of the humblest Christian.

The old classification of "the world, the flesh, and the devil" is a right one. And "our wrestling is not against flesh and blood." (Ephesians 6:12 (R.V.)) In the "flesh"
sphere our safety is in flight. But flight from Satan is impossible. "Flee youthful lusts;" (2 Timothy 2:22) but "Resist the devil, and he will flee from you." (James 4:7) Such
is the distinction clearly marked in Scripture. The baser "lusts of the flesh" are entirely under a man's control, unless indeed he is enervated by vicious indulgence; but
with the strongest and holiest of men "the whole armor of God" is the only sure defense against the attacks of Satan. (Ephesians 6:11)

Of the devil's aim and methods I have already spoken. No one, I repeat, may assert that he might not use the basest means to ensnare a minister of Christ, and thus mar
his testimony and destroy his usefulness. But it cannot be asserted too often or too plainly that his normal effort is not to tempt to the commission of sins such as lead to
contrition, and teach us how weak we are; but, by drawing us away to mere human morality, or religion, or philosophy, to deaden or destroy our sense of dependence
upon God. For sin may humble a Christian; but human philosophy and religion can only foster his self-esteem. And pride is "the snare of the devil"; (1 Timothy 3:6, 7)
not humility.

That there are "unclean spirits" we know. And certain abnormal phases of depravity may be due possibly, even in our own day, to demoniacal possession; but this is
wholly distinct from Satanic temptations. And demons even are not all "unclean." The warned-against "teachings of demons" in "later times" are not incitements to vice,
but to a more exacting morality and a spirituality more transcendental than even Christianity enjoins. Marriage itself is repulsive to this fastidious cult, and certain kinds
of food, "which God created to be received with thanksgiving," it absolutely rejects. 2

The  flagrant(c)
 Copyright    immoralities
                 2005-2009,ofInfobase
                              some of the  Corinthian
                                       Media     Corp. converts drew from the apostle no suggestion of Satanic agency, save indeed as a possible means      towards
                                                                                                                                                          Page   23the
                                                                                                                                                                     / 176
restoration of those who had sinned. (1 Corinthians 5:1-5.) The warning, "Lest Satan should get an advantage of us," was given when their zeal to clear themselves
betrayed them into resentment against the offenders. (2 Corinthians 2:11) And it was the advent of false teachers "preaching another Jesus" which evoked the further
warning against the Serpent's "subtlety," lest their minds should be "corrupted from the simplicity that is in Christ." (2 Corinthians 6:3, 4) So again, when persecution
wholly distinct from Satanic temptations. And demons even are not all "unclean." The warned-against "teachings of demons" in "later times" are not incitements to vice,
but to a more exacting morality and a spirituality more transcendental than even Christianity enjoins. Marriage itself is repulsive to this fastidious cult, and certain kinds
of food, "which God created to be received with thanksgiving," it absolutely rejects. 2

The flagrant immoralities of some of the Corinthian converts drew from the apostle no suggestion of Satanic agency, save indeed as a possible means towards the
restoration of those who had sinned. (1 Corinthians 5:1-5.) The warning, "Lest Satan should get an advantage of us," was given when their zeal to clear themselves
betrayed them into resentment against the offenders. (2 Corinthians 2:11) And it was the advent of false teachers "preaching another Jesus" which evoked the further
warning against the Serpent's "subtlety," lest their minds should be "corrupted from the simplicity that is in Christ." (2 Corinthians 6:3, 4) So again, when persecution
prevailed in the Thessalonian church, he was solicitous "to know their faith," fearing "lest the Tempter should tempt them," and their confidence in God should fail.

There is one passage of Scripture which some seem to think refutes what has been here maintained. As a matter of fact it may be appealed to in support of it. The
following are the opening words of the second chapter of Ephesians:

"And you did He quicken, when ye were dead through your trespasses and sins, wherein aforetime ye walked according to the course of this world, according to the
prince of the power of the air, of the spirit that now worketh in the sons of disobedience; among whom we also all once lived in the lusts of flesh, doing the desires of
the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, even as the rest." (Ephesians 2:1-3 R.V.).

Those who read this passage in the light of the Satan myth entirely lose its special teaching. The life of every unregenerate man, whether marked by the grossest vice or
by high morality, by utter atheism or by intense religious zeal, is "according to the spirit that worketh in the sons of disobedience." The life of Saul the persecutor had
been as pure and blameless as was the life of Paul the apostle of the Lord. And yet he here brackets himself with the Ephesian converts. Hence the emphatic "all" of the
third verse. All alike had walked "according to the prince of the power of the air," and therefore "according to the course of this world," for Satan is this world's prince
and god. (John 14:30;16:11; 2 Corinthians 4:4) So far from implying that their "trespasses and sins" had been due to supernatural incitement, the apostle expressly
declares they had been altogether natural and human. The Gentile sensualists were but "doing the desires of the flesh"; the Jewish zealot "the desires of the mind."3

For the terms immorality and sin are not convertible. The one refers to an arbitrary human standard of right; the other to a standard altogether Divine. As already
indicated, the essence of sin is lawlessness. Man was endowed by his Creator with a will absolutely free. But, though all blessing depended on his keeping it in
subjection, he asserted it in opposition to the Divine will. And as the result "the carnal (or natural) mind is enmity against God; for (as the apostle adds) it is not subject
to the law of God, neither indeed can be." (Romans 8:7) Our fallen nature has thus become subject to its own law of gravitation; and it would be as unreasonable to
expect a man to achieve the physical feat of mounting upward towards the sky, as to suppose that, apart from Divine grace, the life of an unregenerate sinner could turn
Godward. In the one case as in the other, a miracle alone could account for the phenomenon. And such a miracle both the apostle himself and the Ephesian converts
had experienced. Hence the added words:

"But God, being rich in mercy, for His great love wherewith He loved us, even when we were dead through our trespasses, quickened us together with
Christ." (Ephesians 2:4, 5 (R.V.))

No miracle, indeed, is needed to enable men to lead moral and religious lives. Here the words of Enid's song are true:

"For man is man, and master of his fate."4

It is in the spiritual sphere that, by the law of his nature, he ever gravitates downward, and falls away from God.

Finally, I would again remark that the Christian who turns to prophecy with a mind unbiased by traditional views about Satan will find new meaning in the predictions
relating to the "latter days." Delegated authority was all the devil claimed in the Temptation, as appears from the very words he used. To him, he declared, had been
"delivered" the kingdoms of the world, with all the power and the glory of them. (Luke 4:6) But the power and the glory the Christian has been taught to ascribe to God
alone. In his last great effort, therefore, Satan incarnate will claim to be Divine. (2 Thessalonians 2:4) And the lie, we are told, will be accredited by "all power and signs
and lying wonders." (2 Thessalonians 2:9) God's "millennium" will be anticipated and travestied by the reign of the Man of Sin. And the fact that the devil will yield to
him "his throne and great authority" (Revelation 13:2 (R.V.)) has led to the assumption that his rule will be marked by Saturnalian orgies of violence and lust. But how,
then, can we explain the words of Christ, that the world will hail him as the true Messiah, and that, if such a thing were possible, the very elect would be deceived by
the imposture? (Matthew 24:24) If read with a right appreciation of the Satan of Scripture, these words of our Divine Lord are a most solemn warning to the believer,
even for the days we live in; but read in the false light of the Satan myth, they remain an insoluble enigma.

Note 9

According to English law "the Lord's day" - as Sunday is designated in the old statutes - is a day on which no judge or magistrate may sit, and no jury may be
impaneled. The criminal may be taken red-handed, but all that the law can do is to hold him in ward until the day of grace has run its course, and a competent tribunal
may adjudicate upon his crime. If our law went further in the same direction, and the functions of the constable also were suspended, it would afford an apter illustration
of the great truth that is here in question. But to make the parable complete, we must go even further still, and suppose not only that the criminal enjoys for the moment
freedom even from arrest, but that there is an amnesty in force by which he may secure absolute immunity from all the consequences of his crime.

But to hold such language is to speak in an unknown tongue; and to turn to the words of Scripture in support of it is to risk losing men's attention altogether. The
mystery of the gospel is that God can justify a sinner, and yet be just. He justifies the ungodly. "To him that worketh not, but believeth in Him that justifieth the ungodly,
his faith is counted for righteousness." (Romans 4:5) Here is another kindred statement: "The grace of God hath appeared salvation-bringing to all men." And the
passage proceeds: "For we also were aforetime foolish, disobedient, deceived, serving divers lusts and pleasures, living in malice and envy, hateful, hating one another.
But when the kindness of God our Savior, and His love-toward-man, appeared, not by works done in righteousness, which we did ourselves, but according to His
mercy He saved us." (Titus 2:11-14; 3:3-5). Or if any would wish to have words spoken by the lips of our blessed Lord Himself, they will be found in many a passage
of the Gospels. Here, for example, is His testimony to Nicodemus' "For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him
should not perish, but have everlasting life."

Are we not justified, then, in saying that forgiveness and eternal life are brought within reach of all; that heaven is made as free to sinful men as infinite love and grace
can make it? If words have any, meaning, this, and nothing less than this, is the truth. But how is this gospel treated? In the minds of the religious it excites the utmost
indignation. They no longer burn men at the stake for proclaiming it, as in darker days they used to do, but though their anger shows itself in gentler ways it is just as
real. And upon common men it makes no impression whatever. A man once stood on London Bridge, for a wager, offering real sovereigns for a shilling each. The
notice he displayed was plainly worded, and it was read by hundreds of the passers-by. But by all it was read incredulously, and therefore with indifference. He won
his wager: not a single coin was taken from him! And for the same reason "the gospel of the grace of God" is ignored. It will be thus ignored by hundreds who will read
these pages. Men are possessed by the belief that eternal life can be attained only upon impracticable conditions, and so their attitude towards the whole matter is one
of apathy. But apathy gives place to anger if any one dares to speak of eternal judgment and a hell for the impenitent. No blasphemy can be too daring to hurl at a God
who would not bring a sinner to heaven in the way that a constable brings a drunken prisoner to the lock-up - without his will, or, if needs be, against his will!
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                             Page 24 / 176
But man, made in the image of God, is endowed with a will, and to that will the Divine appeal is addressed. "Ye will not come to Me that ye might have life" was the
Lord's yearning entreaty to those who listened to His words, but refused to give heed to them. "Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely." God's own heaven
is the home to which He is calling sinful men. Hell has been prepared, not for such, but for the devil and his angels. But if men refuse Christ and take sides with Satan,
his wager: not a single coin was taken from him! And for the same reason "the gospel of the grace of God" is ignored. It will be thus ignored by hundreds who will read
these pages. Men are possessed by the belief that eternal life can be attained only upon impracticable conditions, and so their attitude towards the whole matter is one
of apathy. But apathy gives place to anger if any one dares to speak of eternal judgment and a hell for the impenitent. No blasphemy can be too daring to hurl at a God
who would not bring a sinner to heaven in the way that a constable brings a drunken prisoner to the lock-up - without his will, or, if needs be, against his will!

But man, made in the image of God, is endowed with a will, and to that will the Divine appeal is addressed. "Ye will not come to Me that ye might have life" was the
Lord's yearning entreaty to those who listened to His words, but refused to give heed to them. "Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely." God's own heaven
is the home to which He is calling sinful men. Hell has been prepared, not for such, but for the devil and his angels. But if men refuse Christ and take sides with Satan,
they must reap what they sow.

Note 10

"Of what value, then, is prayer?" some one will ask, and "What place is there for it?" It is with extreme diffidence that I venture to give expression to thoughts on this
subject which have long taken possession of my own mind. And I do so only because it may possibly bring relief to many who are sorely distressed at the seeming
failure of the prayer-promises of the Gospels. Words could not be plainer than those in which our Lord impressed on His disciples that Almighty power was absolutely
at their disposal, if only they had faith. When they wondered that the fig tree withered at His word, He told them that they too could command this, or even the moving
of a mountain. And He added, "And all things whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive." (Matthew 21:20-22) How many there are who in intensest
earnestness have claimed such promises, and have reaped bitter disappointment which has staggered their faith! It is easy of course to explain the failure by reading into
the promise conditions of one kind or another, though the Lord Himself made no conditions whatever. But instead of tampering thus with His words, let us consider
whether the true solution of the difficulty may not be found in the truth which these pages have endeavored to unfold.

And here the striking fact claims attention that while the record of the Pentecostal dispensation presents us with the practical counterpart of all such promises, the
Epistles, which unfold the doctrine of the present dispensation, and describe the life which befits that doctrine - the life of faith - inculcate thoughts about prayer which
are essentially different, and which are entirely in accord with the actual experience of spiritual Christians. 1

Some perhaps may urge that while the earlier Gospels may thus be explained, St. John cannot be treated in this way. I can in reply but plead with the thoughtful reader
to consider whether every word addressed to the apostles is intended to apply to all believers at all times. Take John 14:12 as a test of this. Is every believer to be
endowed with miraculous powers equal to or greater than those exercised by the Lord Himself? We are prepared at once to limit the scope of such words: is it so
clear, then, that the words which immediately follow are of universal application? We have the fact, I repeat, that both these promises were proved to be true in the
Pentecostal dispensation, and that neither has been proved to be true in the Christian Church. 2 So also of Chap. 15-16; 16:23 etc.

But, it will be asked, Is not the promise explicitly repeated in St. John's First Epistle (1 John 3:22, and 5:14,15)? I think not. It seems to me that the apostles were in a
special sense empowered both to act and to pray in the name of the Lord Jesus, whereas the Christian should bow in presence of the words, "according to His will."
As Dean Alford here remarks, "If we knew His will thoroughly, and submitted to it heartily, it would be impossible for us to ask anything, for the spirit or for the body,
which He should not hear and perform. And it is this ideal state, as always, which the apostle has in view." But the Christian too commonly makes his own longings, or
his supposed interests, and not the Divine will, the basis of his prayer; he goes on to persuade himself that his request will be granted; he then regards this "faith" as a
pledge that he has been heard; and finally, when the issue belies his confident hopes, he gives way to bitterness and unbelief. True faith is always prepared for a refusal.
Some, we read, "through faith," "obtained promises"; but, no less "through faith," "others were tortured, not accepting deliverance."

Some, perhaps, may think it a sufficient refutation of all this to appeal to what are called "striking answers to prayer," such as certain Christians have experienced in
every age. But the appeal refutes itself. They are justly regarded as "striking answers" precisely because they are exceptional. No one may dare to limit what God will
do for the believer. But to make the experience of some the standard of faith for all is one of the greatest errors and snares of Christian life. If these promises are of
universal application, the fact that an answer to prayer should be considered striking in any sense is proof of general apostasy.

A detailed examination of the passages in the Epistles which refer to this subject would far exceed the limits of a note. One more may suffice. I allude to the familiar
words of Philippians 4:6, 7: "In nothing be anxious; but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. And the
peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall guard your hearts and your thoughts in Christ Jesus" (R.V.). It is a solemn thing to make unconditioned demands
upon God. To the record of such prayers may often be added the solemn words: "He gave them their request, but sent leanness into their soul." Hezekiah prayed in this
way. He claimed a prolongation of his life, and God granted his petition; and the added years gave him his son Manasseh, and the consequences of Manasseh's sin (that
God "would not pardon ")still rest as a blight and a curse upon that nation! Such a prayer, I make bold to say, is unfitting to the Christian. How different the teaching of
the Divine Spirit! It may be the life of husband or wife, of parent or child, that is in the balance: what then shall be the believer's attitude? To claim it, as Hezekiah did,
and chance the awful risks which the answer may entail? Or "by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving," to leave the request with God; and having thus left it all with
Him, to trust His love and wisdom with the issue? It was thus the apostle prayed, when he sought relief from that mysterious hindrance to his ministry; and the denial of
his request, instead of bringing bitterness of soul, only served to teach him more of "the power of Christ" (2 Corinthians 12:8, 9). Above all it was thus the Master
prayed in the garden of Gethsemane (Matthew 26:39, 42).

The prayer of the Pentecostal age was like drawing cheques to be paid in coin over the counter. The prayer of the Christian dispensation - that is, of the life of faith - is
to make known our requests to God, and to be at peace. If the matter were one within the power of a friend to deal with - a friend whose wisdom we could trust and
of whose love we were assured - should we not be content to say, after telling him all, "Now you know my feelings and my wishes, and I leave the case entirely in your
hands." And this is just what God invites.

Note 11

The skeptic seldom admits that any position once held by him is untenable, and a signal exception to this is deserving of special notice. Not content with making havoc
of the Old Testament, criticism has long been "running amuck" through the New Testament also. "It has been demonstrated" (says a recent writer) "that the selection of
the books composing it and their separation from the vast mass of spurious gospels, epistles, and apocalyptic literature was a gradual process, and, indeed, that the
rejection of some books and the acceptance of others was accidental."1 But all this is now exploded by the greatest living authority upon the subject, Professor
Harnack of Berlin. And his testimony is all the more telling because he gives no sign of repentance as regards his utter rejection of Christianity. Himself the foremost
champion of unorthodoxy, he freely owns that in this matter the critics are wrong and the orthodox are right. Here is an extract from the preface to his recent work on
"The Chronology of the oldest Christian Literature": "There was a time - -the general public indeed has not got beyond it - in which the oldest Christian literature,
including the New Testament, was looked upon as a tissue of deceptions and forgeries. That time is passed. For science it was an episode in which it learned much,
and after which it has much to forget. The results, however, of the following investigations go in a 'reactionary' direction, beyond what can be described as the middle
position of present-day criticism. The oldest Literature of the Church in all main points and in most details, from the point of view of literary criticism, is genuine and
trustworthy. In the whole New Testament there is in all probability only a single writing which can be looked upon as pseudonymous in the strictest sense of the word -
ie., the Second Epistle of Peter."

This is but one of many proofs that the tide has turned which in recent years has threatened to undermine the Christian faith. In the skepticism of the day there is nothing
distinctive
 Copyrightsave   that so manyInfobase
             (c) 2005-2009,   of its champions  are men who are publicly pledged and subsidized to teach what they deny. It is only the unstable and the
                                        Media Corp.                                                                                                        ignorant
                                                                                                                                                        Page    25 who
                                                                                                                                                                     / 176are
overwhelmed by a book like that above cited. 2 Neither the well-instructed nor the spiritual can be thus led to reject the Bible as a fraud and Christianity as a
superstition. They can understand the difference between a Divine revelation and human comments and commentaries. To take a single example - they do not regard
the Ussher-Lloyd Chronology in the margin of our English Bible as "equally inspired with the sacred text itself." (2) And while refusing to accept open-mouthed the wild
ie., the Second Epistle of Peter."

This is but one of many proofs that the tide has turned which in recent years has threatened to undermine the Christian faith. In the skepticism of the day there is nothing
distinctive save that so many of its champions are men who are publicly pledged and subsidized to teach what they deny. It is only the unstable and the ignorant who are
overwhelmed by a book like that above cited. 2 Neither the well-instructed nor the spiritual can be thus led to reject the Bible as a fraud and Christianity as a
superstition. They can understand the difference between a Divine revelation and human comments and commentaries. To take a single example - they do not regard
the Ussher-Lloyd Chronology in the margin of our English Bible as "equally inspired with the sacred text itself." (2) And while refusing to accept open-mouthed the wild
conjectures of certain Egyptologists as to the antiquity of ancient dynasties, they recognize that the "conjectural periods" between the Deluge and the Kingdom must be
largely extended.

If we eliminate the blunders of theologians and "reconcilers" on the one hand and the theories (as distinguished from the facts) of science on the other, a ponderous
treatise like Mr. A.D. White's would be reduced to very small proportions. The whole "Mosaic Cosmogony" controversy is ruled out at once, and many questions
which seem of serious moment shrink into the background or entirely disappear. Moreover, there is in Holy Scripture a "hidden harmony" unknown to those who ignore
the scheme of type and prophecy which permeates the whole. This study is a sure antidote to skepticism. No student of prophecy is a skeptic. And as regards the
typology of Scripture, which is the alphabet of the language in which the New Testament is written, there is not one of the rationalists who has given proof of possessing
any knowledge whatever. Ignorance of the alphabet is a fatal defect in those who claim to expound the text; and this ignorance, which Hengstenberg deplored in his
day, is still absolute in the case of all without exception who are seeking to prove that the Bible is but a human book. "Truth brings out the hidden harmony, when
unbelief can only, with a dull dogmatism, deny."

Footnotes

Preface to Second Edition

1 Literature

Chapter 1

1 The Marquis of Salisbury's speech at the Pavilion, Brighton, on the 19th of November, 1895

2 Dean Mansel

Chapter 2

1 See Appendix, Note 1

Chapter 3

1 This possibly may be what Mr. Gladstone means in the statement criticized at (p. 25 ante.) But if so, I am at a loss to understand either his language or his argument.
He seems to suggest that the "alleged" miracles may yet be explained to us, just as the predicted eclipse of the moon which terrified the South Sea Islanders might
afterwards have been explained to the savages. My own meaning an illustration may make plain. That fire should come down from the sky and kindle a pile of wood is
a commonplace phenomenon. It might occur during any thunderstorm. But if I heap wood together upon a certain spot, and at my word lightning falls upon it and
consumes it, this is a miracle; and the element of the miraculous is in the fact that I have set in motion some power that is above nature and competent to control it.

2 Bishop Van Mildert's "Boyle Lectures," sermon 21. Of the truth of these last words Hume's celebrated treatise supplies most striking proof. He takes exception to
the evidence for the Christian miracles; but when he goes on to speak of certain miracles alleged to have occurred in France upon the tomb of Abb Paris, the famous
Jansenist, he admits that the evidence in support of them was clear, complete, and without a flaw. But yet he rejects them, and that solely because of "the absolute
impossibility, or miraculous nature of the events!" It behooves us to regard such evidence with suspicion; but to accept the evidence and yet to reject the facts thus
established, is indeed "to destroy the very foundations of all human testimony."

Chapter 4

1 If any should quote the case of Simon Magus as an exception, they are welcome to their argument!

2 Greek Test. Com., John 3

3 1 Peter 1:23. Still more definite are the Lord's words addressed to Peter in response to the confession of His Messiahship, "Blessed art thou, Simon Bar-Jonah; for
flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but My Father which is in heaven.(Matthew 26:17)

4 St. Paul's testimony gains in emphasis because of the vision on the Damascus road which, but for his explicit words, might lead us to call him a miracle-made disciple.

5 Very strikingly is this exemplified in John the Baptist's case (Matthew 11:2-5; see also John 5:36).

6 Luke 24:27-44. This threefold division of the Old Testament was the one commonly adopted by the Jew-the law, the prophets and the "Hagiographa." The Psalms
stood first in the third division and thus came to give its name to the whole.

7 As regards the use of the word "Religion", see Appendix, Note 2

Chapter 5

1 Acts 10. This is made still more clear by chapter 15:2.

2 The prophetic utterance of Matthew 16:18 will not be deemed an exception to this.

3 The Bampton Lectures, 1864.

4 Such was the spirit of their inspired Scriptures. See, e.g., 2 Chronicles 6:32, 33; Psalms 67:1-3, etc.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                             Page   26 / do
                                                                                                                                                                       176
5 "If," says the author of "Supernatural Religion," "Christianity consist of the doctrines preached in the Fourth Gospel, it is not too much to say that the Synoptics   not
teach Christianity at all. The extraordinary phenomenon is presented of three Gospels, each professing to be complete in itself, and to convey the good tidings of
salvation to man, which have actually omitted the doctrines which are the conditions of that salvation." This is a fair specimen of the sort of statement which, owing to
3 The Bampton Lectures, 1864.

4 Such was the spirit of their inspired Scriptures. See, e.g., 2 Chronicles 6:32, 33; Psalms 67:1-3, etc.

5 "If," says the author of "Supernatural Religion," "Christianity consist of the doctrines preached in the Fourth Gospel, it is not too much to say that the Synoptics do not
teach Christianity at all. The extraordinary phenomenon is presented of three Gospels, each professing to be complete in itself, and to convey the good tidings of
salvation to man, which have actually omitted the doctrines which are the conditions of that salvation." This is a fair specimen of the sort of statement which, owing to
prevailing ignorance of Holy Scripture, suffices to undermine the faith even of cultured people in our day. The Gospels were not written "to teach Christianity," but to
reveal Christ in the different aspects of His person and work as Israel's Messiah, Jehovah's servant, Son of Man and Son of God. No one of them is "complete in
itself"; and the Fourth alone expressly professes to teach the way of salvation (John 20:31).

6 See Appendix, Note 3.

7 2 Timothy 2 4:16. This passage disposes of the tradition that St. Peter was Bishop of Rome.

Chapter 6

1 Froude's "Cesar, a Sketch" p.87.

2 We know, and it is our pride to know, that man is by his constitution a religious animal; that atheism is against, not only our reason but our instincts; and that it cannot
prevail long" (Edmund Burke). "Street arabs and advanced thinkers," is Mr. Balfour's classification of the exceptions to this rule ("Defense of Philosophic Doubt ").

3 For a calm, scholarly, and crushing refutation of those who, like de Bunsen, Seydel, & etc., represent Buddhism as the original of Christianity, and of those who, like
Sir Edwin Arnold, read Christianity into Buddhism; see Prof. Kellogg's "Light of Asia and Light of the World" (Macmillan).

The Buddhism of Gautama, I may add, has no claim to be reckoned a religion, for it has no God. It was not a religion at all, but merely a philosophy. But his followers,
in obedience to the instinctive craving of human nature for a religion, made Gautama himself their God. And the Buddhism of later times has invariably assimilated some
of the elements of the base polytheisms by which it has been surrounded.

Chapter 7

1 Remember this book was first published in 1897

2 "The Place of Christ in Modern Theology," by Principal Fairbairn, D.D., p. 267.

3 A dozen years before Baur's "Paul" appeared, the truth thus attributed to him was discussed at the then celebrated "Powerscourt meetings" in Ireland!

4 Though the Revisers have reproduced St. Peter's words in one important passage which the Authorized Version has misread, yet to take these simple words in their
plain and obvious meaning is to risk being looked upon as either fool or faddist. The words are: "Repent ye therefore, and turn again, that your sins may be blotted out,
that so there may come seasons of refreshing from the presence of the Lord; and that He may send the Christ who hath been appointed for you, even Jesus; whom the
heaven must receive until the times of restoration of all things, where of God spoke by the mouth of His holy prophets.... Ye are the sons of the prophets and of the
covenant which God made with your fathers" (Acts 3:19 etc.). The whole passage should be carefully studied, and by all means see Alford's notes, showing how fully
and definitely all this refers to Jewish hopes and promises.

5 Acts 8:1, 4; cf 11:19. It is noteworthy that at this time all the believers went out preaching except the apostles. And yet there are those who maintain that preaching is
an exclusively apostolic function!

6 Acts 11. The words "they that were of the circumcision" might seem to suggest that there were Gentiles at that time in the Church. But, as Dean Alford says, Luke
uses the phrase from the standpoint of the time when he was writing: "In this case all those spoken of would belong to the circumcision."

7 (Acts 4:4) If "the number of the men came to be about five thousand," it is reasonably certain that the whole company was double this number at least.

8 They are never so called in the Acts. Indeed, our English word "deacon" has no equivalent in ancient or in Biblical Greek, and if the Revisers had been true to their
avowed principles of translation the word would have disappeared. Dia>konov is used twenty-two times in the Epistles, and should be rendered "minister" in every
case, and especially in Philippians 1:1, and 1 Timothy 3:8 and 12, where ministers are distinguished from bishops. In the Gospels it occurs eight times, and always as
equivalent to "servant" in the common acceptation, save in John (12:26), where it is used in a higher sense.

9 Acts 5:21, 33-40. I use the word murder advisedly, for under the Roman law the Jews had no power to put any one to death. See John (18:31). The crucifixion was
a judicial murder; the stoning of Stephen was murder pure and simple.

10 Acts 5:34-40; cf 22:3. A quarter of a century later they were still known as "the sect of the Nazarenes" (Acts 24:5)

11 The victims of the so-called Christian persecutions have been wildly estimated at over fifty millions! Of the victims of pagan Rome I have never seen any estimate.
And pagan persecutions also were in the name of religion! From the death of Abel in primeval times down to the massacres of Armenian Christians today, religion has
heaped up the tale of human guilt and sorrow.

12 Mill's "Autobiography," p. 40.

Chapter 8

1 Acts 24:5-14 "After the Way, which they call a sect, so serve I the God of our fathers" (see also 28:22), and he goes on to appeal to the law and the prophets. "The
Way" came to be the common expression for their teaching {see, e.g., Acts 19:9, 23, 22:4, 24:14, 2 R.V.). And speaking before a heathen judge he purposely uses,
not the Jewish expression, oJ qeorwn hJmw~n, but the term familiar to the heathen, oJ patrw~|ov qeo>v, the ancestral or tutelary God.

2 See Appendix, Note 4

3 This is the position assumed by "Lux Mundi."
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                             Page 27 / 176
4 The Old Testament we owe, of course, entirely to the Jews.

5 The Church of England teaches unequivocally that there is neither salvation nor infallibility in the Church, and that the Church's authority in matters of faith is controlled
2 See Appendix, Note 4

3 This is the position assumed by "Lux Mundi."

4 The Old Testament we owe, of course, entirely to the Jews.

5 The Church of England teaches unequivocally that there is neither salvation nor infallibility in the Church, and that the Church's authority in matters of faith is controlled
and limited by Holy Writ (see Articles 18-21). And this is Protestantism; not a repudiation off authority in the spiritual sphere, but a revolt against the bondage of mere
human authority falsely claiming to be Divine. It delivers us from the authority of "Church", that we may be free to bow to the authority of God.. "The Church" claims to
mediate between God and man. But Christianity teaches that all pretensions of the are both false and profane, and points to our Divine Lord as the only Mediator.
Protestantism is not our religion, but it leaves us with a free conscience and an open Bible, face to face with God. It is not an anchorage for faith; but it is like the
breakwater which renders our anchorage secure. It shields us from influences which make Christianity impossible.

6 These men declare that to them our faith in Holy Writ seems foolishness. But Holy Writ warns us that "the natural man receive not the things of the Spirit of God: for
they are foolishness unto him" (1 Corinthians 2:14).

7 To record the points on which the Bible was formerly attacked, marking off those which modem research has disposed of - this is a task which awaits a competent
pen. And when the book is written it will astonish both friends and foes.

Chapter 9

1 W. R. Greg's "Creed of Christendom."

2 Diastewv i[na katarin (Romans 4:16). Theology has no better definition of grace than that given by Aristotle (Rhet. ii. vii.).

Chapter 10

1 Our English versions have distorted the passage, first by a punctuation (I have followed Dean Alford's), which makes the mystery a characteristic of the power to
stablish us, whereas it characterizes the preaching by which we are stablished; and secondly, by their rendering of the words dia> te grafw~n profhtikw~n (cf. Matthew
26:56, "the scriptures of the prophets"). It claims notice also that both "revelation" and "mystery" are anarthrous; but while the English idiom seems to require the article
before the former word, its insertion before "mystery" is not only unnecessary, but misleading.

2 See appendix, Note 5

3 2 Thessalonians 2:7-8. Within the Church, of course. Lawlessness in the world is as old as sin.

4 "Synonyms," (Part 2. p. 123)

5 2 Corinthians 5:18-20. This passage is inseparably associated in my mind with an incident once narrated to me by the late Sir Robert Lush. When Sergeant Wilkins
returned to the Law Courts after an illness which practically ended his career Mr. Lush (as he then was) saw him sitting with his face in his hands, and he noticed that
tears were falling from between his fingers. The Sergeant was not of his acquaintance, but when he saw him hurriedly leave the court, he followed him, and delicately
referring to what he had seen, he asked if he was in any trouble in which he could be of service to him. The Sergeant gratefully acknowledged his kindness but
explained his seeming distress by the fact that the words above quoted, which he had been reading that morning, had come back to his mind as he sat in court, and he
could not restrain his emotion. The incident will be appreciated by those who know the sort of man he was. Suffice it to say it had not been his habit to read the Bible.
But how many such there are who turn to it in times of sickness or trouble?

6 Such a statement will be resented by that school of religious thought which boasts as its founder one of the greatest of the Church's teachers. But let us appeal from
the disciples to their master. Here is Calvin's commentary upon the verse above quoted (Romans 5:18). "He makes this favor common to all because it is propounded
to all, and not because it is in reality extended to all; for though Christ suffered for the sins of the whole world and is offered through God's benignity indiscriminately to
all yet all do not receive Him." And the following extract from his commentary on the third chapter of the Gospel of St. John is no less apposite. Referring to the
sixteenth verse he says: "Christ employed the universal term whosoever both to invite indiscriminately all to partake of life, and to cut off every excuse from unbelievers.
Such is the import of the term world. Though there is nothing in the world that is worthy of God's favor yet He shows Himself to be reconciled to the whole world when
He invites all men without exception to the faith of Christ, which is nothing else than an entrance into life? And if any one ask, how then is Judgment possible? The
answer is that Judgment is based upon this very truth. (See c. 12. post.)

Chapter 11

1 See Appendix, Note 6.

2 Zechariah 3:1, 2. In 1 Chronicles 21:1 and Psalm 109:6, the word rendered Satan in A.V. is merely an adversary. And I cannot avail myself of Isaiah 14:12, etc.,
Ezekiel 28:14, etc., much as they would help me, because there is no way of ascertaining certainly whether Satan is there intended. I have no doubt of it myself. The
word devil does not occur in the Old Testament. In the four places where "Devils" is used in A.V. the R.V. adopts other words.

3 In Matthew 12:24-27, our Lord neither adopted nor rejected the Jewish belief. How grotesque is the suggestion that at such a time He should have discoursed to
them on demonology! Passing the subject by, He turned their taunt back upon themselves by the words, "If I by Beelzebub cast out demons, by whom do your sons
cast them out?" Unless the phenomena described by spiritualists may be explained by delusions or fraud, they must be attributed to demons; and there seems strong
reason to believe that some men are possessed by "unclean" demons.

4 Ephesians 4:26. The words are quoted verbatim from Psalm 4:4 (LXX).

5 Old Bailey is the Criminal Court in London

6 John 8:44. See Appendix, Note 7.

7 This is probably the explanation of the "coincidences" between Christianity and some of the old religions of the world. I do not allude to Buddhism, for its seeming
"coincidences" admit of a much more prosaic explanation (see, e.g., Professor Kellogg's work referred to at p. 68 ante, note) but to the cult of Tammuz and ancient
Babylon. Scripture warns us that in the future Satan will travesty the Divine mysteries; is it strange if he has done so in the past?
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                             Page 28 / 176
8 See appendix, Note 6
7 This is probably the explanation of the "coincidences" between Christianity and some of the old religions of the world. I do not allude to Buddhism, for its seeming
"coincidences" admit of a much more prosaic explanation (see, e.g., Professor Kellogg's work referred to at p. 68 ante, note) but to the cult of Tammuz and ancient
Babylon. Scripture warns us that in the future Satan will travesty the Divine mysteries; is it strange if he has done so in the past?

8 See appendix, Note 6

9 In 1 John 2:2 and 4:10. He is called the iJlasmo>v. In (Romans 3:25) He is called the iJlasth>rion (mercy-seat). The word occurs but once again in the New
Testament, i.e., (Hebrews 9:5).

10 In John 11:35 the word used betokens silent tears. The word in Luke 19:41 means to lament with every outward expression of grief.

11 For a further discussion of the general question, see Appendix, Note 8.

Chapter 12

1 "The Scotch Catechism" it is commonly called, as though Westminster were somewhere north of the Tweed! This catechism was compiled by pious and learned
"Dons" of Cambridge University, and adopted by "an assembly of learned and godly divines" convened in Westminster Abbey.

2 "The Gospel and its Ministry", Kregel Publications 1978

3 See Appendix, Note 9

Chapter 13

1 hJ basile>ia tou~ ko>smou (Revelation 11:15).

2 Anything which is manifest is of course raised out of the sphere of doubt or question; and God declares that in the Cross of Christ His grace and kindness and love
have been manifested (Titus 2:2, 3:4; John 4:9). But, ignoring the stupendous fact that, for our sakes, He "spared not His own Son," men seek to put Him upon proof of
His love; and the test is whether He complies with some specific appeal urged in the petulance of present need or sorrow.

3 Romans 10:9 (R. V.). The true Buddhist will declare himself by the way in which he names his master, never omitting some title expressive of his reverence for him.
And the true Christian will declare himself in the same way. If a man habitually writes or speaks about "Jesus," we may be sure, whatever his creed may be, that he is a
Socinian at heart." That Jesus Christ is Lord" is the special testimony of Christianity and the Christian will not forget it even in his words.

4 See Appendix, Note 10.

5 Here is an ascending scale of experience:

"Hath God forgotten to be gracious? Hath He in anger shut up His tender mercies?" (Psalm 77:9).

"I was dumb, I opened not my mouth, because Thou didst it" (Psalm 39:9).

"I have learned in whatsoever state I am therewith to be content" (Philippians 4:11).

"Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake" (2
Corinthians 12:9, 10).

6 Psalm 93:4 (R. V. revised. The word voice is in the plural, but it is obviously the Hebrew poetical plural: not several voices, but "the great voice").

7 Every candidate for ordination must publicly declare, in reply to the Bishop, that he "unfeignedly believes all the canonical Scriptures of the Old and New
Testaments." Whether such a pledge ought to be required I will not discuss. The fact remains. And this being so, when clergymen set themselves to discredit the Bible,
the primary question suggested concerns their own honesty. Has the Church a lower standard of morality than the Clubs?

8 Appendix, Note 11.

9 "The lives of the Newmans afford an apt illustration. Both made shipwreck of their faith - the one in religion, the other in infidelity. The "Apologia" and the "Phases of
Faith" are among the saddest of books.

10 swth>riov pa~sin ajnqrw>poiv, (Titus 2:11).

11 filanqrwpi>a (Titus 3:4).

12 As an infidel writer has somewhere said, "Nature knows nothing of any such foolery as 'forgiveness of sins.'"

13 See Appendix, Note 8.

14 In proportion to our appreciation of the Christian revelation will be our appreciation of the argument that God cannot now intervene, or declare Himself, directly and
openly. But this leaves unanswered the difficulty that He so often fails to intervene indirectly on behalf of His own people. The life of faith has always been a life of trial,
and it is so specially in this dispensation of a silent Heaven. But it is our joy to know that our Divine Lord "was in all points tempted like as we are, apart from
sin" (Hebrews 4:15). The statement seems to involve a contradiction, for how could He be tempted as we are tempted if, as the added words (cwriav) imply,
"throughout these temptations, in their origin, in their process, in their result, sin had nothing in Him; He was free and separate from it"? (Alford). The explanation will be
found in what has here been unfolded (Chap. 11, ante) respecting Satanic temptations as primarily designed to destroy our confidence in God. The thirty years before
our Lord entered on His public ministry, spent in enforced inaction in the midst of abounding sorrow and evil and wrong, must have been to Him a living martyrdom, the
Tempter ever taunting Him with the seeming apathy of God. And when we read that "He suffered, being tempted" (Hebrews 2:18), we can realize how truly He was
human, and how deep and real was His humiliation.

15 Such have
 Copyright  (c)been preciselyInfobase
                2005-2009,    the criticisms thisCorp.
                                         Media    volume has evoked. One of the chief organs of cultured thought in England describes it as "a book fullPage
                                                                                                                                                         of religious
                                                                                                                                                                 29 / 176
mysticism." And one of the leading press organs of the "Sadducees," while speaking in flattering terms of the way in which the problem of the book is stated, can see
nothing in the proposed solution of it. So it ever was. To the Jew the gospel of Christ was an offense because it set aside religion; to the cultured Greek it was
foolishness because it ignored what he was pleased to call wisdom. The "philosopher" was thinking of evolution and the upward progress of humanity, but the gospel
our Lord entered on His public ministry, spent in enforced inaction in the midst of abounding sorrow and evil and wrong, must have been to Him a living martyrdom, the
Tempter ever taunting Him with the seeming apathy of God. And when we read that "He suffered, being tempted" (Hebrews 2:18), we can realize how truly He was
human, and how deep and real was His humiliation.

15 Such have been precisely the criticisms this volume has evoked. One of the chief organs of cultured thought in England describes it as "a book full of religious
mysticism." And one of the leading press organs of the "Sadducees," while speaking in flattering terms of the way in which the problem of the book is stated, can see
nothing in the proposed solution of it. So it ever was. To the Jew the gospel of Christ was an offense because it set aside religion; to the cultured Greek it was
foolishness because it ignored what he was pleased to call wisdom. The "philosopher" was thinking of evolution and the upward progress of humanity, but the gospel
spoke to him of grace that would pardon his sins and of judgment to come. If the leaders of the school of thought and teaching here alluded to could only be brought to
apprehend the truth this volume contains, their whole position and testimony would be changed. But their literature will be searched for it in vain. Such a statement is
easily made, but if untrue it can as easily be answered; let the book be cited which refutes it.

Appendices:

Note 3

1 Because if Gentiles had been evangelized during his first visit, there would have been no need to announce on his return that God had opened the door of faith to
Gentiles.

Note 8

1 The whole passage from ver. 18 claims careful study. Science explains the condition of civilized man by evolution - although the only law it can point to is degeneracy:
the rest is all mere theory - Revelation explains the state of the world generally by the fact that, having originally the knowledge of God, they willfully lost it, and so God
left them to the darkness of their own deliberate choice.

2 See 1 Tim. 4:1-4. It may be noticed here in passing that during recent years, both in Europe and America, these doctrines have been insidiously taught by certain
spiritualists, who commend their teaching by seemingly pure and blameless lives.

3 In the N. T. "the flesh" means usually either the body, or bodily nature, of man, or else human nature as a whole in its fallen and corrupt condition. But in Ephesians
2:3 it is contrasted with "the mind," and therefore it appears to mean man's corrupt bodily nature. In Ephesians 1:18; 4:18 (as also in 1 John 5:20), dia>voia is translated
"understanding." (In 1:18 the R. V. reads kardi>a.) St. Paul uses the word flesh in different senses even in the same passage; see Ephesians 2:3, 11, 15, ex. gr.

4 "Idylls of the King."

Note 9

1 (James 5:13) may seem to be an exception. But without raising the question where "the Elders of the Church" are to be found in our day it may suffice to notice that
this Epistle, being expressly addressed to Israel (Chap. 1:I), belongs dispensationally to the Pentecostal era, which will be renewed when Israel is restored.

2 See Chap. 5 ante. I am convinced that they will be equally true in a dispensation which is still future; but I do not enter on such topics here.

Note 10

1 Mr. Andrew D. White's "Warfare of Science with Theology," vol. 2 p.388. This writer's appointment to the American Embassy at Berlin will no doubt call increased
attention to his book. Real forensic skill is apparent in the use he makes of his great erudition for, allowing for one important omission, his work is quite encyclopedic.
His indictment of "theology" is overwhelming, and with much of it I am of course in thorough sympathy. But of Christianity, so far as appears from his treatise, he knows
absolutely nothing. To him our Divine Lord is merely "the Blessed Founder" of the Christian religion - the Buddha of Christendom. Indeed he belongs to that large class
of persons who, without offense, may be aptly described as Christianized Buddhists.

2 "Warfare of Science with Theology."

3 "Warfare of Science with Theology." (Vol. 1:p 253)

O Pioneers!
Willa Cather

Part I

The Wild Land

I

One January day, thirty years ago, the little town of Hanover, anchored on a windy Nebraska tableland, was trying not to be blown away. A mist of fine snowflakes
was curling and eddying about the cluster of low drab buildings huddled on the gray prairie, under a gray sky. The dwelling-houses were set about haphazard on the
tough prairie sod; some of them looked as if they had been moved in overnight, and others as if they were straying off by themselves, headed straight for the open plain.
None of them had any appearance of permanence, and the howling wind blew under them as well as over them. The main street was a deeply rutted road, now frozen
hard, which ran from the squat red railway station and the grain "elevator" at the north end of the town to the lumber yard and the horse pond at the south end. On
either side of this road straggled two uneven rows of wooden buildings; the general merchandise stores, the two banks, the drug store, the feed store, the saloon, the
post-office. The board sidewalks were gray with trampled snow, but at two o'clock in the afternoon the shopkeepers, having come back from dinner, were keeping
well behind their frosty windows. The children were all in school, and there was nobody abroad in the streets but a few rough-looking countrymen in coarse overcoats,
with their long caps pulled down to their noses. Some of them had brought their wives to town, and now and then a red or a plaid shawl flashed out of one store into
the shelter of another. At the hitch-bars along the street a few heavy work-horses, harnessed to farm wagons, shivered under their blankets. About the station
everything was quiet, for there would not be another train in until night.

On the sidewalk in front of one of the stores sat a little Swede boy, crying bitterly. He was about five years old. His black cloth coat was much too big for him and
made him look like a little old man. His shrunken brown flannel dress had been washed many times and left a long stretch of stocking between the hem of his skirt and
 Copyright
the          (c)clumsy,
    tops of his  2005-2009,   Infobase
                        copper-toed    Media
                                     shoes. HisCorp.
                                                cap was pulled down over his ears; his nose and his chubby cheeks were chapped and red with cold.Page          30quietly,
                                                                                                                                                        He cried   / 176
and the few people who hurried by did not notice him. He was afraid to stop any one, afraid to go into the store and ask for help, so he sat wringing his long sleeves
and looking up a telegraph pole beside him, whimpering, "My kitten, oh, my kitten! Her will fweeze!" At the top of the pole crouched a shivering gray kitten, mewing
everything was quiet, for there would not be another train in until night.

On the sidewalk in front of one of the stores sat a little Swede boy, crying bitterly. He was about five years old. His black cloth coat was much too big for him and
made him look like a little old man. His shrunken brown flannel dress had been washed many times and left a long stretch of stocking between the hem of his skirt and
the tops of his clumsy, copper-toed shoes. His cap was pulled down over his ears; his nose and his chubby cheeks were chapped and red with cold. He cried quietly,
and the few people who hurried by did not notice him. He was afraid to stop any one, afraid to go into the store and ask for help, so he sat wringing his long sleeves
and looking up a telegraph pole beside him, whimpering, "My kitten, oh, my kitten! Her will fweeze!" At the top of the pole crouched a shivering gray kitten, mewing
faintly and clinging desperately to the wood with her claws. The boy had been left at the store while his sister went to the doctor's office, and in her absence a dog had
chased his kitten up the pole. The little creature had never been so high before, and she was too frightened to move. Her master was sunk in despair. He was a little
country boy, and this village was to him a very strange and perplexing place, where people wore fine clothes and had hard hearts. He always felt shy and awkward
here, and wanted to hide behind things for fear some one might laugh at him. Just now, he was too unhappy to care who laughed. At last he seemed to see a ray of
hope: his sister was coming, and he got up and ran toward her in his heavy shoes.

His sister was a tall, strong girl, and she walked rapidly and resolutely, as if she knew exactly where she was going and what she was going to do next. She wore a
man's long ulster (not as if it were an affliction, but as if it were very comfortable and belonged to her; carried it like a young soldier), and a round plush cap, tied down
with a thick veil. She had a serious, thoughtful face, and her clear, deep blue eyes were fixed intently on the distance, without seeming to see anything, as if she were in
trouble. She did not notice the little boy until he pulled her by the coat. Then she stopped short and stooped down to wipe his wet face.

"Why, Emil! I told you to stay in the store and not to come out. What is the matter with you?"

"My kitten, sister, my kitten! A man put her out, and a dog chased her up there." His forefinger, projecting from the sleeve of his coat, pointed up to the wretched little
creature on the pole.

"Oh, Emil! Didn't I tell you she'd get us into trouble of some kind, if you brought her? What made you tease me so? But there, I ought to have known better myself."
She went to the foot of the pole and held out her arms, crying, "Kitty, kitty, kitty," but the kitten only mewed and faintly waved its tail. Alexandra turned away
decidedly. "No, she won't come down. Somebody will have to go up after her. I saw the Linstrums' wagon in town. I'll go and see if I can find Carl. Maybe he can do
something. Only you must stop crying, or I won't go a step. Where's your comforter? Did you leave it in the store? Never mind. Hold still, till I put this on you."

She unwound the brown veil from her head and tied it about his throat. A shabby little traveling man, who was just then coming out of the store on his way to the
saloon, stopped and gazed stupidly at the shining mass of hair she bared when she took off her veil; two thick braids, pinned about her head in the German way, with a
fringe of reddish-yellow curls blowing out from under her cap. He took his cigar out of his mouth and held the wet end between the fingers of his woolen glove. "My
God, girl, what a head of hair!" he exclaimed, quite innocently and foolishly. She stabbed him with a glance of Amazonian fierceness and drew in her lower lip-most
unnecessary severity. It gave the little clothing drummer such a start that he actually let his cigar fall to the sidewalk and went off weakly in the teeth of the wind to the
saloon. His hand was still unsteady when he took his glass from the bartender. His feeble flirtatious instincts had been crushed before, but never so mercilessly. He felt
cheap and ill-used, as if some one had taken advantage of him. When a drummer had been knocking about in little drab towns and crawling across the wintry country in
dirty smokingcars, was he to be blamed if, when he chanced upon a fine human creature, he suddenly wished himself more of a man?

While the little drummer was drinking to recover his nerve, Alexandra hurried to the drug store as the most likely place to find Carl Linstrum. There he was, turning over
a portfolio of chromo "studies" which the druggist sold to the Hanover women who did chinapainting. Alexandra explained her predicament, and the boy followed her
to the corner, where Emil still sat by the pole.

"I'll have to go up after her, Alexandra. I think at the depot they have some spikes I can strap on my feet. Wait a minute." Carl thrust his hands into his pockets,
lowered his head, and darted up the street against the north wind. He was a tall boy of fifteen, slight and narrow-chested. When he came back with the spikes,
Alexandra asked him what he had done with his overcoat.

"I left it in the drug store. I couldn't climb in it, anyhow. Catch me if I fall, Emil," he called back as he began his ascent. Alexandra watched him anxiously; the cold was
bitter enough on the ground. The kitten would not budge an inch. Carl had to go to the very top of the pole, and then had some difficulty in tearing her from her hold.
When he reached the ground, he handed the cat to her tearful little master. "Now go into the store with her, Emil, and get warm." He opened the door for the child.
"Wait a minute, Alexandra. Why can't I drive for you as far as our place? It's getting colder every minute. Have you seen the doctor?"

"Yes. He is coming over to-morrow. But he says father can't get better; can't get well." The girl's lip trembled. She looked fixedly up the bleak street as if she were
gathering her strength to face something, as if she were trying with all her might to grasp a situation which, no matter how painful, must be met and dealt with somehow.
The wind flapped the skirts of her heavy coat about her.

Carl did not say anything, but she felt his sympathy. He, too, was lonely. He was a thin, frail boy, with brooding dark eyes, very quiet in all his movements. There was a
delicate pallor in his thin face, and his mouth was too sensitive for a boy's. The lips had already a little curl of bitterness and skepticism. The two friends stood for a few
moments on the windy street corner, not speaking a word, as two travelers, who have lost their way, sometimes stand and admit their perplexity in silence. When Carl
turned away he said, "I'll see to your team." Alexandra went into the store to have her purchases packed in the egg-boxes, and to get warm before she set out on her
long cold drive.

When she looked for Emil, she found him sitting on a step of the staircase that led up to the clothing and carpet department. He was playing with a little Bohemian girl,
Marie Tovesky, who was tying her handkerchief over the kitten's head for a bonnet. Marie was a stranger in the country, having come from Omaha with her mother to
visit her uncle, Joe Tovesky. She was a dark child, with brown curly hair, like a brunette doll's, a coaxing little red mouth, and round, yellow-brown eyes. Every one
noticed her eyes; the brown iris had golden glints that made them look like gold-stone, or, in softer lights, like that Colorado mineral called tiger-eye.

The country children thereabouts wore their dresses to their shoe-tops, but this city child was dressed in what was then called the "Kate Greenaway" manner, and her
red cashmere frock, gathered full from the yoke, came almost to the floor. This, with her poke bonnet, gave her the look of a quaint little woman. She had a white fur
tippet about her neck and made no fussy objections when Emil fingered it admiringly. Alexandra had not the heart to take him away from so pretty a playfellow, and
she let them tease the kitten together until Joe Tovesky came in noisily and picked up his little niece, setting her on his shoulder for every one to see. His children were
all boys, and he adored this little creature. His cronies formed a circle about him, admiring and teasing the little girl, who took their jokes with great good nature. They
were all delighted with her, for they seldom saw so pretty and carefully nurtured a child. They told her that she must choose one of them for a sweetheart, and each
began pressing his suit and offering her bribes; candy, and little pigs, and spotted calves. She looked archly into the big, brown, mustached faces, smelling of spirits and
tobacco, then she ran her tiny forefinger delicately over Joe's bristly chin and said, "Here is my sweetheart."

The Bohemians roared with laughter, and Marie's uncle hugged her until she cried, "Please don't, Uncle Joe! You hurt me." Each of Joe's friends gave her a bag of
candy, and she kissed them all around, though she did not like country candy very well. Perhaps that was why she bethought herself of Emil. "Let me down, Uncle Joe,"
she said, "I want to give some of my candy to that nice little boy I found." She walked graciously over to Emil, followed by her lusty admirers, who formed a new circle
and teased the
 Copyright   (c) little boy untilInfobase
                  2005-2009,      he hid hisMedia
                                             face inCorp.
                                                     his sister's skirts, and she had to scold him for being such a baby.                            Page 31 / 176
The farm people were making preparations to start for home. The women were checking over their groceries and pinning their big red shawls about their heads. The
men were buying tobacco and candy with what money they had left, were showing each other new boots and gloves and blue flannel shirts. Three big Bohemians were
The Bohemians roared with laughter, and Marie's uncle hugged her until she cried, "Please don't, Uncle Joe! You hurt me." Each of Joe's friends gave her a bag of
candy, and she kissed them all around, though she did not like country candy very well. Perhaps that was why she bethought herself of Emil. "Let me down, Uncle Joe,"
she said, "I want to give some of my candy to that nice little boy I found." She walked graciously over to Emil, followed by her lusty admirers, who formed a new circle
and teased the little boy until he hid his face in his sister's skirts, and she had to scold him for being such a baby.

The farm people were making preparations to start for home. The women were checking over their groceries and pinning their big red shawls about their heads. The
men were buying tobacco and candy with what money they had left, were showing each other new boots and gloves and blue flannel shirts. Three big Bohemians were
drinking raw alcohol, tinctured with oil of cinnamon. This was said to fortify one effectually against the cold, and they smacked their lips after each pull at the flask. Their
volubility drowned every other noise in the place, and the overheated store sounded of their spirited language as it reeked of pipe smoke, damp woolens, and
kerosene.

Carl came in, wearing his overcoat and carrying a wooden box with a brass handle. "Come," he said, "I've fed and watered your team, and the wagon is ready." He
carried Emil out and tucked him down in the straw in the wagonbox. The heat had made the little boy sleepy, but he still clung to his kitten.

"You were awful good to climb so high and get my kitten, Carl. When I get big I'll climb and get little boys' kittens for them," he murmured drowsily. Before the horses
were over the first hill, Emil and his cat were both fast asleep.

Although it was only four o'clock, the winter day was fading. The road led southwest, toward the streak of pale, watery light that glimmered in the leaden sky. The light
fell upon the two sad young faces that were turned mutely toward it: upon the eyes of the girl, who seemed to be looking with such anguished perplexity into the future;
upon the sombre eyes of the boy, who seemed already to be looking into the past. The little town behind them had vanished as if it had never been, had fallen behind
the swell of the prairie, and the stern frozen country received them into its bosom. The homesteads were few and far apart; here and there a windmill gaunt against the
sky, a sod house crouching in a hollow. But the great fact was the land itself, which seemed to overwhelm the little beginnings of human society that struggled in its
sombre wastes. It was from facing this vast hardness that the boy's mouth had become so bitter; because he felt that men were too weak to make any mark here, that
the land wanted to be let alone, to preserve its own fierce strength, its peculiar, savage kind of beauty, its uninterrupted mournfulness.

The wagon jolted along over the frozen road. The two friends had less to say to each other than usual, as if the cold had somehow penetrated to their hearts.

"Did Lou and Oscar go to the Blue to cut wood to-day?" Carl asked.

"Yes. I'm almost sorry I let them go, it's turned so cold. But mother frets if the wood gets low." She stopped and put her hand to her forehead, brushing back her hair.
"I don't know what is to become of us, Carl, if father has to die. I don't dare to think about it. I wish we could all go with him and let the grass grow back over
everything."

Carl made no reply. Just ahead of them was the Norwegian graveyard, where the grass had, indeed, grown back over everything, shaggy and red, hiding even the wire
fence. Carl realized that he was not a very helpful companion, but there was nothing he could say.

"Of course," Alexandra went on, steadying her voice a little, "the boys are strong and work hard, but we've always depended so on father that I don't see how we can
go ahead. I almost feel as if there were nothing to go ahead for."

"Does your father know?"

"Yes, I think he does. He lies and counts on his fingers all day. I think he is trying to count up what he is leaving for us. It's a comfort to him that my chickens are laying
right on through the cold weather and bringing in a little money. I wish we could keep his mind off such things, but I don't have much time to be with him now."

"I wonder if he'd like to have me bring my magic lantern over some evening?"

Alexandra turned her face toward him. "Oh, Carl! Have you got it?"

"Yes. It's back there in the straw. Didn't you notice the box I was carrying? I tried it all morning in the drug-store cellar, and it worked ever so well, makes fine big
pictures."

"What are they about?"

"Oh, hunting pictures in Germany, and Robinson Crusoe and funny pictures about cannibals. I'm going to paint some slides for it on glass, out of the Hans Andersen
book."

Alexandra seemed actually cheered. There is often a good deal of the child left in people who have had to grow up too soon. "Do bring it over, Carl. I can hardly wait
to see it, and I'm sure it will please father. Are the pictures colored? Then I know he'll like them. He likes the calendars I get him in town. I wish I could get more. You
must leave me here, mustn't you? It's been nice to have company."

Carl stopped the horses and looked dubiously up at the black sky. "It's pretty dark. Of course the horses will take you home, but I think I'd better light your lantern, in
case you should need it."

He gave her the reins and climbed back into the wagon-box, where he crouched down and made a tent of his overcoat. After a dozen trials he succeeded in lighting the
lantern, which he placed in front of Alexandra, half covering it with a blanket so that the light would not shine in her eyes. "Now, wait until I find my box. Yes, here it is.
Good-night, Alexandra. Try not to worry." Carl sprang to the ground and ran off across the fields toward the Linstrum homestead. "Hoo, hoo-o-o-o!" he called back
as he disappeared over a ridge and dropped into a sand gully. The wind answered him like an echo, "Hoo, hoo-o-o-o-o-o!" Alexandra drove off alone. The rattle of
her wagon was lost in the howling of the wind, but her lantern, held firmly between her feet, made a moving point of light along the highway, going deeper and deeper
into the dark country.

II

On one of the ridges of that wintry waste stood the low log house in which John Bergson was dying. The Bergson homestead was easier to find than many another,
because it overlooked Norway Creek, a shallow, muddy stream that sometimes flowed, and sometimes stood still, at the bottom of a winding ravine with steep,
shelving sides overgrown with brush and cottonwoods and dwarf ash. This creek gave a sort of identity to the farms that bordered upon it. Of all the bewildering things
about a new country, the absence of human landmarks is one of the most depressing and disheartening. The houses on the Divide were small and were usually tucked
away   in low(c)
 Copyright    places; you did Infobase
                 2005-2009,    not see them untilCorp.
                                         Media    you came directly upon them. Most of them were built of the sod itself, and were only the unescapable   ground32
                                                                                                                                                        Page      in /another
                                                                                                                                                                       176
form. The roads were but faint tracks in the grass, and the fields were scarcely noticeable. The record of the plow was insignificant, like the feeble scratches on stone
left by prehistoric races, so indeterminate that they may, after all, be only the markings of glaciers, and not a record of human strivings.
On one of the ridges of that wintry waste stood the low log house in which John Bergson was dying. The Bergson homestead was easier to find than many another,
because it overlooked Norway Creek, a shallow, muddy stream that sometimes flowed, and sometimes stood still, at the bottom of a winding ravine with steep,
shelving sides overgrown with brush and cottonwoods and dwarf ash. This creek gave a sort of identity to the farms that bordered upon it. Of all the bewildering things
about a new country, the absence of human landmarks is one of the most depressing and disheartening. The houses on the Divide were small and were usually tucked
away in low places; you did not see them until you came directly upon them. Most of them were built of the sod itself, and were only the unescapable ground in another
form. The roads were but faint tracks in the grass, and the fields were scarcely noticeable. The record of the plow was insignificant, like the feeble scratches on stone
left by prehistoric races, so indeterminate that they may, after all, be only the markings of glaciers, and not a record of human strivings.

In eleven long years John Bergson had made but little impression upon the wild land he had come to tame. It was still a wild thing that had its ugly moods; and no one
knew when they were likely to come, or why. Mischance hung over it. Its Genius was unfriendly to man. The sick man was feeling this as he lay looking out of the
window, after the doctor had left him, on the day following Alexandra's trip to town. There it lay outside his door, the same land, the same lead-colored miles. He knew
every ridge and draw and gully between him and the horizon. To the south, his plowed fields; to the east, the sod stables, the cattle corral, the pond,-and then the grass.

Bergson went over in his mind the things that had held him back. One winter his cattle had perished in a blizzard. The next summer one of his plow horses broke its leg
in a prairiedog hole and had to be shot. Another summer he lost his hogs from cholera, and a valuable stallion died from a rattlesnake bite. Time and again his crops had
failed. He had lost two children, boys, that came between Lou and Emil, and there had been the cost of sickness and death. Now, when he had at last struggled out of
debt, he was going to die himself. He was only forty-six, and had, of course, counted upon more time.

Bergson had spent his first five years on the Divide getting into debt, and the last six getting out. He had paid off his mortgages and had ended pretty much where he
began, with the land. He owned exactly six hundred and forty acres of what stretched outside his door; his own original homestead and timber claim, making three
hundred and twenty acres, and the halfsection adjoining, the homestead of a younger brother who had given up the fight, gone back to Chicago to work in a fancy
bakery and distinguish himself in a Swedish athletic club. So far John had not attempted to cultivate the second half-section, but used it for pasture land, and one of his
sons rode herd there in open weather.

John Bergson had the Old-World belief that land, in itself, is desirable. But this land was an enigma. It was like a horse that no one knows how to break to harness, that
runs wild and kicks things to pieces. He had an idea that no one understood how to farm it properly, and this he often discussed with Alexandra. Their neighbors,
certainly, knew even less about farming than he did. Many of them had never worked on a farm until they took up their homesteads. They had been
HANDWERKERS at home; tailors, locksmiths, joiners, cigarmakers, etc. Bergson himself had worked in a shipyard.

For weeks, John Bergson had been thinking about these things. His bed stood in the sittingroom, next to the kitchen. Through the day, while the baking and washing
and ironing were going on, the father lay and looked up at the roof beams that he himself had hewn, or out at the cattle in the corral. He counted the cattle over and
over. It diverted him to speculate as to how much weight each of the steers would probably put on by spring. He often called his daughter in to talk to her about this.
Before Alexandra was twelve years old she had begun to be a help to him, and as she grew older he had come to depend more and more upon her resourcefulness and
good judgment. His boys were willing enough to work, but when he talked with them they usually irritated him. It was Alexandra who read the papers and followed the
markets, and who learned by the mistakes of their neighbors. It was Alexandra who could always tell about what it had cost to fatten each steer, and who could guess
the weight of a hog before it went on the scales closer than John Bergson himself. Lou and Oscar were industrious, but he could never teach them to use their heads
about their work.

Alexandra, her father often said to himself, was like her grandfather; which was his way of saying that she was intelligent. John Bergson's father had been a shipbuilder,
a man of considerable force and of some fortune. Late in life he married a second time, a Stockholm woman of questionable character, much younger than he, who
goaded him into every sort of extravagance. On the shipbuilder's part, this marriage was an infatuation, the despairing folly of a powerful man who cannot bear to grow
old. In a few years his unprincipled wife warped the probity of a lifetime. He speculated, lost his own fortune and funds entrusted to him by poor seafaring men, and
died disgraced, leaving his children nothing. But when all was said, he had come up from the sea himself, had built up a proud little business with no capital but his own
skill and foresight, and had proved himself a man. In his daughter, John Bergson recognized the strength of will, and the simple direct way of thinking things out, that had
characterized his father in his better days. He would much rather, of course, have seen this likeness in one of his sons, but it was not a question of choice. As he lay
there day after day he had to accept the situation as it was, and to be thankful that there was one among his children to whom he could entrust the future of his family
and the possibilities of his hard-won land.

The winter twilight was fading. The sick man heard his wife strike a match in the kitchen, and the light of a lamp glimmered through the cracks of the door. It seemed
like a light shining far away. He turned painfully in his bed and looked at his white hands, with all the work gone out of them. He was ready to give up, he felt. He did
not know how it had come about, but he was quite willing to go deep under his fields and rest, where the plow could not find him. He was tired of making mistakes. He
was content to leave the tangle to other hands; he thought of his Alexandra's strong ones.

"DOTTER," he called feebly, "DOTTER!" He heard her quick step and saw her tall figure appear in the doorway, with the light of the lamp behind her. He felt her
youth and strength, how easily she moved and stooped and lifted. But he would not have had it again if he could, not he! He knew the end too well to wish to begin
again. He knew where it all went to, what it all became.

His daughter came and lifted him up on his pillows. She called him by an old Swedish name that she used to call him when she was little and took his dinner to him in
the shipyard.

"Tell the boys to come here, daughter. I want to speak to them."

"They are feeding the horses, father. They have just come back from the Blue. Shall I call them?"

He sighed. "No, no. Wait until they come in. Alexandra, you will have to do the best you can for your brothers. Everything will come on you."

"I will do all I can, father."

"Don't let them get discouraged and go off like Uncle Otto. I want them to keep the land."

"We will, father. We will never lose the land."

There was a sound of heavy feet in the kitchen. Alexandra went to the door and beckoned to her brothers, two strapping boys of seventeen and nineteen. They came in
and stood at the foot of the bed. Their father looked at them searchingly, though it was too dark to see their faces; they were just the same boys, he told himself, he had
not been mistaken in them. The square head and heavy shoulders belonged to Oscar, the elder. The younger boy was quicker, but vacillating.

"Boys," said the father wearily, "I want you to keep the land together and to be guided by your sister. I have talked to her since I have been sick, and she knows all my
wishes. I want
 Copyright  (c) no quarrels among
                2005-2009,          my children,
                             Infobase            and so long as there is one house there must be one head. Alexandra is the oldest, and she knows myPage
                                       Media Corp.                                                                                                      wishes.33
                                                                                                                                                                She/ will
                                                                                                                                                                     176
do the best she can. If she makes mistakes, she will not make so many as I have made. When you marry, and want a house of your own, the land will be divided fairly,
according to the courts. But for the next few years you will have it hard, and you must all keep together. Alexandra will manage the best she can."
not been mistaken in them. The square head and heavy shoulders belonged to Oscar, the elder. The younger boy was quicker, but vacillating.

"Boys," said the father wearily, "I want you to keep the land together and to be guided by your sister. I have talked to her since I have been sick, and she knows all my
wishes. I want no quarrels among my children, and so long as there is one house there must be one head. Alexandra is the oldest, and she knows my wishes. She will
do the best she can. If she makes mistakes, she will not make so many as I have made. When you marry, and want a house of your own, the land will be divided fairly,
according to the courts. But for the next few years you will have it hard, and you must all keep together. Alexandra will manage the best she can."

Oscar, who was usually the last to speak, replied because he was the older, "Yes, father. It would be so anyway, without your speaking. We will all work the place
together."

"And you will be guided by your sister, boys, and be good brothers to her, and good sons to your mother? That is good. And Alexandra must not work in the fields
any more. There is no necessity now. Hire a man when you need help. She can make much more with her eggs and butter than the wages of a man. It was one of my
mistakes that I did not find that out sooner. Try to break a little more land every year; sod corn is good for fodder. Keep turning the land, and always put up more hay
than you need. Don't grudge your mother a little time for plowing her garden and setting out fruit trees, even if it comes in a busy season. She has been a good mother
to you, and she has always

When they went back to the kitchen the boys sat down silently at the table. Throughout the meal they looked down at their plates and did not lift their red eyes. They
did not eat much, although they had been working in the cold all day, and there was a rabbit stewed in gravy for supper, and prune pies.

John Bergson had married beneath him, but he had married a good housewife. Mrs. Bergson was a fair-skinned, corpulent woman, heavy and placid like her son,
Oscar, but there was something comfortable about her; perhaps it was her own love of comfort. For eleven years she had worthily striven to maintain some semblance
of household order amid conditions that made order very difficult. Habit was very strong with Mrs. Bergson, and her unremitting efforts to repeat the routine of her old
life among new surroundings had done a great deal to keep the family from disintegrating morally and getting careless in their ways. The Bergsons had a log house, for
instance, only because Mrs. Bergson would not live in a sod house. She missed the fish diet of her own country, and twice every summer she sent the boys to the river,
twenty miles to the southward, to fish for channel cat. When the children were little she used to load them all into the wagon, the baby in its crib, and go fishing herself.

Alexandra often said that if her mother were cast upon a desert island, she would thank God for her deliverance, make a garden, and find something to preserve.
Preserving was almost a mania with Mrs. Bergson. Stout as she was, she roamed the scrubby banks of Norway Creek looking for fox grapes and goose plums, like a
wild creature in search of prey. She made a yellow jam of the insipid ground-cherries that grew on the prairie, flavoring it with lemon peel; and she made a sticky dark
conserve of garden tomatoes. She had experimented even with the rank buffalo-pea, and she could not see a fine bronze cluster of them without shaking her head and
murmuring, "What a pity!" When there was nothing more to preserve, she began to pickle. The amount of sugar she used in these processes was sometimes a serious
drain upon the family resources. She was a good mother, but she was glad when her children were old enough not to be in her way in the kitchen. She had never quite
forgiven John Bergson for bringing her to the end of the earth; but, now that she was there, she wanted to be let alone to reconstruct her old life in so far as that was
possible. She could still take some comfort in the world if she had bacon in the cave, glass jars on the shelves, and sheets in the press. She disapproved of all her
neighbors because of their slovenly housekeeping, and the women thought her very proud. Once when Mrs. Bergson, on her way to Norway Creek, stopped to see
old Mrs. Lee, the old woman hid in the haymow "for fear Mis' Bergson would catch her barefoot."

III

One Sunday afternoon in July, six months after John Bergson's death, Carl was sitting in the doorway of the Linstrum kitchen, dreaming over an illustrated paper, when
he heard the rattle of a wagon along the hill road. Looking up he recognized the Bergsons' team, with two seats in the wagon, which meant they were off for a pleasure
excursion. Oscar and Lou, on the front seat, wore their cloth hats and coats, never worn except on Sundays, and Emil, on the second seat with Alexandra, sat proudly
in his new trousers, made from a pair of his father's, and a pink-striped shirt, with a wide ruffled collar. Oscar stopped the horses and waved to Carl, who caught up his
hat and ran through the melon patch to join them.

"Want to go with us?" Lou called. "We're going to Crazy Ivar's to buy a hammock."

"Sure." Carl ran up panting, and clambering over the wheel sat down beside Emil. "I've always wanted to see Ivar's pond. They say it's the biggest in all the country.
Aren't you afraid to go to Ivar's in that new shirt, Emil? He might want it and take it right off your back."

Emil grinned. "I'd be awful scared to go," he admitted, "if you big boys weren't along to take care of me. Did you ever hear him howl, Carl? People say sometimes he
runs about the country howling at night because he is afraid the Lord will destroy him. Mother thinks he must have done something awful wicked."

Lou looked back and winked at Carl. "What would you do, Emil, if you was out on the prairie by yourself and seen him coming?"

Emil stared. "Maybe I could hide in a badger-hole," he suggested doubtfully.

"But suppose there wasn't any badger-hole," Lou persisted. "Would you run?"

"No, I'd be too scared to run," Emil admitted mournfully, twisting his fingers. "I guess I'd sit right down on the ground and say my prayers."

The big boys laughed, and Oscar brandished his whip over the broad backs of the horses.

"He wouldn't hurt you, Emil," said Carl persuasively. "He came to doctor our mare when she ate green corn and swelled up most as big as the water-tank. He petted
her just like you do your cats. I couldn't understand much he said, for he don't talk any English, but he kept patting her and groaning as if he had the pain himself, and
saying, 'There now, sister, that's easier, that's better!'"

Lou and Oscar laughed, and Emil giggled delightedly and looked up at his sister.

"I don't think he knows anything at all about doctoring," said Oscar scornfully. "They say when horses have distemper he takes the medicine himself, and then prays
over the horses."

Alexandra spoke up. "That's what the Crows said, but he cured their horses, all the same. Some days his mind is cloudy, like. But if you can get him on a clear day, you
can learn a great deal from him. He understands animals. Didn't I see him take the horn off the Berquist's cow when she had torn it loose and went crazy? She was
tearing all over the place, knocking herself against things. And at last she ran out on the roof of the old dugout and her legs went through and there she stuck, bellowing.
Ivar came running with his white bag, and the moment he got to her she was quiet and let him saw her horn off and daub the place with tar."
Copyright
Emil       (c) watching
     had been  2005-2009,   Infobase
                        his sister,     Media
                                    his face    Corp. the sufferings of the cow. "And then didn't it hurt her any more?" he asked.
                                             reflecting                                                                                                 Page 34 / 176

Alexandra patted him. "No, not any more. And in two days they could use her milk again."
can learn a great deal from him. He understands animals. Didn't I see him take the horn off the Berquist's cow when she had torn it loose and went crazy? She was
tearing all over the place, knocking herself against things. And at last she ran out on the roof of the old dugout and her legs went through and there she stuck, bellowing.
Ivar came running with his white bag, and the moment he got to her she was quiet and let him saw her horn off and daub the place with tar."

Emil had been watching his sister, his face reflecting the sufferings of the cow. "And then didn't it hurt her any more?" he asked.

Alexandra patted him. "No, not any more. And in two days they could use her milk again."

The road to Ivar's homestead was a very poor one. He had settled in the rough country across the county line, where no one lived but some Russians,-half a dozen
families who dwelt together in one long house, divided off like barracks. Ivar had explained his choice by saying that the fewer neighbors he had, the fewer temptations.
Nevertheless, when one considered that his chief business was horsedoctoring, it seemed rather short-sighted of him to live in the most inaccessible place he could find.
The Bergson wagon lurched along over the rough hummocks and grass banks, followed the bottom of winding draws, or skirted the margin of wide lagoons, where the
golden coreopsis grew up out of the clear water and the wild ducks rose with a whirr of wings.

Lou looked after them helplessly. "I wish I'd brought my gun, anyway, Alexandra," he said fretfully. "I could have hidden it under the straw in the bottom of the wagon."

"Then we'd have had to lie to Ivar. Besides, they say he can smell dead birds. And if he knew, we wouldn't get anything out of him, not even a hammock. I want to talk
to him, and he won't talk sense if he's angry. It makes him foolish."

Lou sniffed. "Whoever heard of him talking sense, anyhow! I'd rather have ducks for supper than Crazy Ivar's tongue."

Emil was alarmed. "Oh, but, Lou, you don't want to make him mad! He might howl!"

They all laughed again, and Oscar urged the horses up the crumbling side of a clay bank. They had left the lagoons and the red grass behind them. In Crazy Ivar's
country the grass was short and gray, the draws deeper than they were in the Bergsons' neighborhood, and the land was all broken up into hillocks and clay ridges. The
wild flowers disappeared, and only in the bottom of the draws and gullies grew a few of the very toughest and hardiest: shoestring, and ironweed, and snow-on-
themountain.

"Look, look, Emil, there's Ivar's big pond!" Alexandra pointed to a shining sheet of water that lay at the bottom of a shallow draw. At one end of the pond was an
earthen dam, planted with green willow bushes, and above it a door and a single window were set into the hillside. You would not have seen them at all but for the
reflection of the sunlight upon the four panes of window-glass. And that was all you saw. Not a shed, not a corral, not a well, not even a path broken in the curly grass.
But for the piece of rusty stovepipe sticking up through the sod, you could have walked over the roof of Ivar's dwelling without dreaming that you were near a human
habitation. Ivar had lived for three years in the clay bank, without defiling the face of nature any more than the coyote that had lived there before him had done.

When the Bergsons drove over the hill, Ivar was sitting in the doorway of his house, reading the Norwegian Bible. He was a queerly shaped old man, with a thick,
powerful body set on short bow-legs. His shaggy white hair, falling in a thick mane about his ruddy cheeks, made him look older than he was. He was barefoot, but he
wore a clean shirt of unbleached cotton, open at the neck. He always put on a clean shirt when Sunday morning came round, though he never went to church. He had a
peculiar religion of his own and could not get on with any of the denominations. Often he did not see anybody from one week's end to another. He kept a calendar, and
every morning he checked off a day, so that he was never in any doubt as to which day of the week it was. Ivar hired himself out in threshing and corn-husking time,
and he doctored sick animals when he was sent for. When he was at home, he made hammocks out of twine and committed chapters of the Bible to memory.

Ivar found contentment in the solitude he had sought out for himself. He disliked the litter of human dwellings: the broken food, the bits of broken china, the old wash-
boilers and tea-kettles thrown into the sunflower patch. He preferred the cleanness and tidiness of the wild sod. He always said that the badgers had cleaner houses
than people, and that when he took a housekeeper her name would be Mrs. Badger. He best expressed his preference for his wild homestead by saying that his Bible
seemed truer to him there. If one stood in the doorway of his cave, and looked off at the rough land, the smiling sky, the curly grass white in the hot sunlight; if one
listened to the rapturous song of the lark, the drumming of the quail, the burr of the locust against that vast silence, one understood what Ivar meant.

On this Sunday afternoon his face shone with happiness. He closed the book on his knee, keeping the place with his horny finger, and He sendeth the springs into the
valleys, which run among the hills; They give drink to every beast of the field; the wild asses quench their thirst. The trees of the Lord are full of sap; the cedars of
Lebanon which he hath planted; Where the birds make their nests: as for the stork, the fir trees are her house. The high hills are a refuge for the wild goats; and the
rocks for the conies. repeated softly:- Before he opened his Bible again, Ivar heard the Bergsons' wagon approaching, and he sprang up and ran toward it.

"No guns, no guns!" he shouted, waving his arms distractedly.

"No, Ivar, no guns," Alexandra called reassuringly.

He dropped his arms and went up to the wagon, smiling amiably and looking at them out of his pale blue eyes.

"We want to buy a hammock, if you have one," Alexandra explained, "and my little brother, here, wants to see your big pond, where so many birds come."

Ivar smiled foolishly, and began rubbing the horses' noses and feeling about their mouths behind the bits. "Not many birds just now. A few ducks this morning; and
some snipe come to drink. But there was a crane last week. She spent one night and came back the next evening. I don't know why. It is not her season, of course.
Many of them go over in the fall. Then the pond is full of strange voices every night."

Alexandra translated for Carl, who looked thoughtful. "Ask him, Alexandra, if it is true that a sea gull came here once. I have heard so."

She had some difficulty in making the old man understand.

He looked puzzled at first, then smote his hands together as he remembered. "Oh, yes, yes! A big white bird with long wings and pink feet. My! what a voice she had!
She came in the afternoon and kept flying about the pond and screaming until dark. She was in trouble of some sort, but I could not understand her. She was going
over to the other ocean, maybe, and did not know how far it was. She was afraid of never getting there. She was more mournful than our birds here; she cried in the
night. She saw the light from my window and darted up to it. Maybe she thought my house was a boat, she was such a wild thing. Next morning, when the sun rose, I
went out to take her food, but she flew up into the sky and went on her way." Ivar ran his fingers through his thick hair. "I have many strange birds stop with me here.
They come from very far away and are great company. I hope you boys never shoot wild birds?"

Lou and Oscar grinned, and Ivar shook his bushy head. "Yes, I know boys are thoughtless. But these wild things are God's birds. He watches over them and counts
them, as we do our cattle; Christ says so in the New Testament."
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                          Page 35 / 176
"Now, Ivar," Lou asked, "may we water our horses at your pond and give them some feed? It's a bad road to your place."

"Yes, yes, it is." The old man scrambled about and began to loose the tugs. "A bad road, eh, girls? And the bay with a colt at home!"
They come from very far away and are great company. I hope you boys never shoot wild birds?"

Lou and Oscar grinned, and Ivar shook his bushy head. "Yes, I know boys are thoughtless. But these wild things are God's birds. He watches over them and counts
them, as we do our cattle; Christ says so in the New Testament."

"Now, Ivar," Lou asked, "may we water our horses at your pond and give them some feed? It's a bad road to your place."

"Yes, yes, it is." The old man scrambled about and began to loose the tugs. "A bad road, eh, girls? And the bay with a colt at home!"

Oscar brushed the old man aside. "We'll take care of the horses, Ivar. You'll be finding some disease on them. Alexandra wants to see your hammocks."

Ivar led Alexandra and Emil to his little cave house. He had but one room, neatly plastered and whitewashed, and there was a wooden floor. There was a kitchen
stove, a table covered with oilcloth, two chairs, a clock, a calendar, a few books on the window-shelf; nothing more. But the place was as clean as a cupboard.

"But where do you sleep, Ivar?" Emil asked, looking about.

Ivar unslung a hammock from a hook on the wall; in it was rolled a buffalo robe. "There, my son. A hammock is a good bed, and in winter I wrap up in this skin.
Where I go to work, the beds are not half so easy as this."

By this time Emil had lost all his timidity. He thought a cave a very superior kind of house. There was something pleasantly unusual about it and about Ivar. "Do the
birds know you will be kind to them, Ivar? Is that why so many come?" he asked.

Ivar sat down on the floor and tucked his feet under him. "See, little brother, they have come from a long way, and they are very tired. From up there where they are
flying, our country looks dark and flat. They must have water to drink and to bathe in before they can go on with their journey. They look this way and that, and far
below them they see something shining, like a piece of glass set in the dark earth. That is my pond. They come to it and are not disturbed. Maybe I sprinkle a little corn.
They tell the other birds, and next year more come this way. They have their roads up there, as we have down here."

Emil rubbed his knees thoughtfully. "And is that true, Ivar, about the head ducks falling back when they are tired, and the hind ones taking their place?"

"Yes. The point of the wedge gets the worst of it; they cut the wind. They can only stand it there a little while-half an hour, maybe. Then they fall back and the wedge
splits a little, while the rear ones come up the middle to the front. Then it closes up and they fly on, with a new edge. They are always changing like that, up in the air.
Never any confusion; just like soldiers who have been drilled."

Alexandra had selected her hammock by the time the boys came up from the pond. They would not come in, but sat in the shade of the bank outside while Alexandra
and Ivar talked about the birds and about his housekeeping, and why he never ate meat, fresh or salt.

Alexandra was sitting on one of the wooden chairs, her arms resting on the table. Ivar was sitting on the floor at her feet. "Ivar," she said suddenly, beginning to trace
the pattern on the oilcloth with her forefinger, "I came to-day more because I wanted to talk to you than because I wanted to buy a hammock."

"Yes?" The old man scraped his bare feet on the plank floor.

"We have a big bunch of hogs, Ivar. I wouldn't sell in the spring, when everybody advised me to, and now so many people are losing their hogs that I am frightened.
What can be done?"

Ivar's little eyes began to shine. They lost their vagueness.

"You feed them swill and such stuff? Of course! And sour milk? Oh, yes! And keep them in a stinking pen? I tell you, sister, the hogs of this country are put upon! They
become unclean, like the hogs in the Bible. If you kept your chickens like that, what would happen? You have a little sorghum patch, maybe? Put a fence around it, and
turn the hogs in. Build a shed to give them shade, a thatch on poles. Let the boys haul water to them in barrels, clean water, and plenty. Get them off the old stinking
ground, and do not let them go back there until winter. Give them only grain and clean feed, such as you would give horses or cattle. Hogs do not like to be filthy."

The boys outside the door had been listening. Lou nudged his brother. "Come, the horses are done eating. Let's hitch up and get out of here. He'll fill her full of notions.
She'll be for having the pigs sleep with us, next."

Oscar grunted and got up. Carl, who could not understand what Ivar said, saw that the two boys were displeased. They did not mind hard work, but they hated
experiments and could never see the use of taking pains. Even Lou, who was more elastic than his older brother, disliked to do anything different from their neighbors.
He felt that it made them conspicuous and gave people a chance to talk about them.

Once they were on the homeward road, the boys forgot their ill-humor and joked about Ivar and his birds. Alexandra did not propose any reforms in the care of the
pigs, and they hoped she had forgotten Ivar's talk. They agreed that he was crazier than ever, and would never be able to prove up on his land because he worked it so
little. Alexandra privately resolved that she would have a talk with Ivar about this and stir him up. The boys persuaded Carl to stay for supper and go swimming in the
pasture pond after dark.

That evening, after she had washed the supper dishes, Alexandra sat down on the kitchen doorstep, while her mother was mixing the bread. It was a still, deep-
breathing summer night, full of the smell of the hay fields. Sounds of laughter and splashing came up from the pasture, and when the moon rose rapidly above the bare
rim of the prairie, the pond glittered like polished metal, and she could see the flash of white bodies as the boys ran about the edge, or jumped into the water.
Alexandra watched the shimmering pool dreamily, but eventually her eyes went back to the sorghum patch south of the barn, where she was planning to make her new
pig corral.

IV

For the first three years after John Bergson's death, the affairs of his family prospered. Then came the hard times that brought every one on the Divide to the brink of
despair; three years of drouth and failure, the last struggle of a wild soil against the encroaching plowshare. The first of these fruitless summers the Bergson boys bore
courageously. The failure of the corn crop made labor cheap. Lou and Oscar hired two men and put in bigger crops than ever before. They lost everything they spent.
The whole country was discouraged. Farmers who were already in debt had to give up their land. A few foreclosures demoralized the county. The settlers sat about on
the wooden sidewalks in the little town and told each other that the country was never meant for men to live in; the thing to do was to get back to Iowa, to Illinois, to
any place that had been proved habitable. The Bergson boys, certainly, would have been happier with their uncle Otto, in the bakery shop in Chicago. Like most of
their neighbors,
 Copyright        they were meant
             (c) 2005-2009,         to follow
                               Infobase  Mediain Corp.
                                                 paths already marked out for them, not to break trails in a new country. A steady job, a few holidays, nothing
                                                                                                                                                          Page to36think
                                                                                                                                                                     / 176
about, and they would have been very happy. It was no fault of theirs that they had been dragged into the wilderness when they were little boys. A pioneer should have
imagination, should be able to enjoy the idea of things more than the things themselves.
courageously. The failure of the corn crop made labor cheap. Lou and Oscar hired two men and put in bigger crops than ever before. They lost everything they spent.
The whole country was discouraged. Farmers who were already in debt had to give up their land. A few foreclosures demoralized the county. The settlers sat about on
the wooden sidewalks in the little town and told each other that the country was never meant for men to live in; the thing to do was to get back to Iowa, to Illinois, to
any place that had been proved habitable. The Bergson boys, certainly, would have been happier with their uncle Otto, in the bakery shop in Chicago. Like most of
their neighbors, they were meant to follow in paths already marked out for them, not to break trails in a new country. A steady job, a few holidays, nothing to think
about, and they would have been very happy. It was no fault of theirs that they had been dragged into the wilderness when they were little boys. A pioneer should have
imagination, should be able to enjoy the idea of things more than the things themselves.

The second of these barren summers was passing. One September afternoon Alexandra had gone over to the garden across the draw to dig sweet potatoes-they had
been thriving upon the weather that was fatal to everything else. But when Carl Linstrum came up the garden rows to find her, she was not working. She was standing
lost in thought, leaning upon her pitchfork, her sunbonnet lying beside her on the ground. The dry garden patch smelled of drying vines and was strewn with yellow
seed-cucumbers and pumpkins and citrons. At one end, next the rhubarb, grew feathery asparagus, with red berries. Down the middle of the garden was a row of
gooseberry and currant bushes. A few tough zenias and marigolds and a row of scarlet sage bore witness to the buckets of water that Mrs. Bergson had carried there
after sundown, against the prohibition of her sons. Carl came quietly and slowly up the garden path, looking intently at Alexandra. She did not hear him. She was
standing perfectly still, with that serious ease so characteristic of her. Her thick, reddish braids, twisted about her head, fairly burned in the sunlight. The air was cool
enough to make the warm sun pleasant on one's back and shoulders, and so clear that the eye could follow a hawk up and up, into the blazing blue depths of the sky.
Even Carl, never a very cheerful boy, and considerably darkened by these last two bitter years, loved the country on days like this, felt something strong and young and
wild come out of it, that laughed at care.

"Alexandra," he said as he approached her, "I want to talk to you. Let's sit down by the gooseberry bushes." He picked up her sack of potatoes and they crossed the
garden. "Boys gone to town?" he asked as he sank down on the warm, sun-baked earth. "Well, we have made up our minds at last, Alexandra. We are really going
away."

She looked at him as if she were a little frightened. "Really, Carl? Is it settled?"

"Yes, father has heard from St. Louis, and they will give him back his old job in the cigar factory. He must be there by the first of November. They are taking on new
men then. We will sell the place for whatever we can get, and auction the stock. We haven't enough to ship. I am going to learn engraving with a German engraver
there, and then try to get work in Chicago."

Alexandra's hands dropped in her lap. Her eyes became dreamy and filled with tears.

Carl's sensitive lower lip trembled. He scratched in the soft earth beside him with a stick. "That's all I hate about it, Alexandra," he said slowly. "You've stood by us
through so much and helped father out so many times, and now it seems as if we were running off and leaving you to face the worst of it. But it isn't as if we could really
ever be of any help to you. We are only one more drag, one more thing you look out for and feel responsible for. Father was never meant for a farmer, you know that.
And I hate it. We'd only get in deeper and deeper."

"Yes, yes, Carl, I know. You are wasting your life here. You are able to do much better things. You are nearly nineteen now, and I wouldn't have you stay. I've always
hoped you would get away. But I can't help feeling scared when I think how I will miss you-more than you will ever know." She brushed the tears from her cheeks, not
trying to hide them.

"But, Alexandra," he said sadly and wistfully, "I've never been any real help to you, beyond sometimes trying to keep the boys in a good humor."

Alexandra smiled and shook her head. "Oh, it's not that. Nothing like that. It's by understanding me, and the boys, and mother, that you've helped me. I expect that is
the only way one person ever really can help another. I think you are about the only one that ever helped me. Somehow it will take more courage to bear your going
than everything that has happened before."

Carl looked at the ground. "You see, we've all depended so on you," he said, "even father. He makes me laugh. When anything comes up he always says, 'I wonder
what the Bergsons are going to do about that? I guess I'll go and ask her.' I'll never forget that time, when we first came here, and our horse had the colic, and I ran
over to your place-your father was away, and you came home with me and showed father how to let the wind out of the horse. You were only a little girl then, but you
knew ever so much more about farm work than poor father. You remember how homesick I used to get, and what long talks we used to have coming from school?
We've someway always felt alike about things."

"Yes, that's it; we've liked the same things and we've liked them together, without anybody else knowing. And we've had good times, hunting for Christmas trees and
going for ducks and making our plum wine together every year. We've never either of us had any other close friend. And now-" Alexandra wiped her eyes with the
corner of her apron, "and now I must remember that you are going where you will have many friends, and will find the work you were meant to do. But you'll write to
me, Carl? That will mean a great deal to me here."

"I'll write as long as I live," cried the boy impetuously. "And I'll be working for you as much as for myself, Alexandra. I want to do something you'll like and be proud
of. I'm a fool here, but I know I can do something!" He sat up and frowned at the red grass.

Alexandra sighed. "How discouraged the boys will be when they hear. They always come home from town discouraged, anyway. So many people are trying to leave
the country, and they talk to our boys and make them lowspirited. I'm afraid they are beginning to feel hard toward me because I won't listen to any talk about going.
Sometimes I feel like I'm getting tired of standing up for this country."

"I won't tell the boys yet, if you'd rather not."

"Oh, I'll tell them myself, to-night, when they come home. They'll be talking wild, anyway, and no good comes of keeping bad news. It's all harder on them than it is on
me. Lou wants to get married, poor boy, and he can't until times are better. See, there goes the sun, Carl. I must be getting back. Mother will want her potatoes. It's
chilly already, the moment the light goes."

Alexandra rose and looked about. A golden afterglow throbbed in the west, but the country already looked empty and mournful. A dark moving mass came over the
western hill, the Lee boy was bringing in the herd from the other half-section. Emil ran from the windmill to open the corral gate. From the log house, on the little rise
across the draw, the smoke was curling. The cattle lowed and bellowed. In the sky the pale half-moon was slowly silvering. Alexandra and Carl walked together down
the potato rows. "I have to keep telling myself what is going to happen," she said softly. "Since you have been here, ten years now, I have never really been lonely. But
I can remember what it was like before. Now I shall have nobody but Emil. But he is my boy, and he is tender-hearted."

That night, when the boys were called to supper, they sat down moodily. They had worn their coats to town, but they ate in their striped shirts and suspenders. They
were grown(c)
 Copyright   men  now, and, as
                2005-2009,      Alexandra
                             Infobase      said,Corp.
                                        Media    for the last few years they had been growing more and more like themselves. Lou was still the slighter      of the 37
                                                                                                                                                           Page     two,/ the
                                                                                                                                                                           176
quicker and more intelligent, but apt to go off at half-cock. He had a lively blue eye, a thin, fair skin (always burned red to the neckband of his shirt in summer), stiff,
yellow hair that would not lie down on his head, and a bristly little yellow mustache, of which he was very proud. Oscar could not grow a mustache; his pale face was
as bare as an egg, and his white eyebrows gave it an empty look. He was a man of powerful body and unusual endurance; the sort of man you could attach to a corn-
I can remember what it was like before. Now I shall have nobody but Emil. But he is my boy, and he is tender-hearted."

That night, when the boys were called to supper, they sat down moodily. They had worn their coats to town, but they ate in their striped shirts and suspenders. They
were grown men now, and, as Alexandra said, for the last few years they had been growing more and more like themselves. Lou was still the slighter of the two, the
quicker and more intelligent, but apt to go off at half-cock. He had a lively blue eye, a thin, fair skin (always burned red to the neckband of his shirt in summer), stiff,
yellow hair that would not lie down on his head, and a bristly little yellow mustache, of which he was very proud. Oscar could not grow a mustache; his pale face was
as bare as an egg, and his white eyebrows gave it an empty look. He was a man of powerful body and unusual endurance; the sort of man you could attach to a corn-
sheller as you would an engine. He would turn it all day, without hurrying, without slowing down. But he was as indolent of mind as he was unsparing of his body. His
love of routine amounted to a vice. He worked like an insect, always doing the same thing over in the same way, regardless of whether it was best or no. He felt that
there was a sovereign virtue in mere bodily toil, and he rather liked to do things in the hardest way. If a field had once been in corn, he couldn't bear to put it into wheat.
He liked to begin his corn-planting at the same time every year, whether the season were backward or forward. He seemed to feel that by his own irreproachable
regularity he would clear himself of blame and reprove the weather. When the wheat crop failed, he threshed the straw at a dead loss to demonstrate how little grain
there was, and thus prove his case against Providence.

Lou, on the other hand, was fussy and flighty; always planned to get through two days' work in one, and often got only the least important things done. He liked to keep
the place up, but he never got round to doing odd jobs until he had to neglect more pressing work to attend to them. In the middle of the wheat harvest, when the grain
was over-ripe and every hand was needed, he would stop to mend fences or to patch the harness; then dash down to the field and overwork and be laid up in bed for
a week. The two boys balanced each other, and they pulled well together. They had been good friends since they were children. One seldom went anywhere, even to
town, without the other.

To-night, after they sat down to supper, Oscar kept looking at Lou as if he expected him to say something, and Lou blinked his eyes and frowned at his plate. It was
Alexandra herself who at last opened the discussion.

"The Linstrums," she said calmly, as she put another plate of hot biscuit on the table, "are going back to St. Louis. The old man is going to work in the cigar factory
again."

At this Lou plunged in. "You see, Alexandra, everybody who can crawl out is going away. There's no use of us trying to stick it out, just to be stubborn. There's
something in knowing when to quit."

"Where do you want to go, Lou?"

"Any place where things will grow." said Oscar grimly.

Lou reached for a potato. "Chris Arnson has traded his half-section for a place down on the river."

"Who did he trade with?"

"Charley Fuller, in town."

"Fuller the real estate man? You see, Lou, that Fuller has a head on him. He's buying and trading for every bit of land he can get up here. It'll make him a rich man,
some day."

"He's rich now, that's why he can take a chance."

"Why can't we? We'll live longer than he will. Some day the land itself will be worth more than all we can ever raise on it."

Lou laughed. "It could be worth that, and still not be worth much. Why, Alexandra, you don't know what you're talking about. Our place wouldn't bring now what it
would six years ago. The fellows that settled up here just made a mistake. Now they're beginning to see this high land wasn't never meant to grow nothing on, and
everybody who ain't fixed to graze cattle is trying to crawl out. It's too high to farm up here. All the Americans are skinning out. That man Percy Adams, north of town,
told me that he was going to let Fuller take his land and stuff for four hundred dollars and a ticket to Chicago."

"There's Fuller again!" Alexandra exclaimed. "I wish that man would take me for a partner. He's feathering his nest! If only poor people could learn a little from rich
people! But all these fellows who are running off are bad farmers, like poor Mr. Linstrum. They couldn't get ahead even in good years, and they all got into debt while
father was getting out. I think we ought to hold on as long as we can on father's account. He was so set on keeping this land. He must have seen harder times than this,
here. How was it in the early days, mother?"

Mrs. Bergson was weeping quietly. These family discussions always depressed her, and made her remember all that she had been torn away from. "I don't see why the
boys are always taking on about going away," she said, wiping her eyes. "I don't want to move again; out to some raw place, maybe, where we'd be worse off than we
are here, and all to do over again. I won't move! If the rest of you go, I will ask some of the neighbors to take me in, and stay and be buried by father. I'm not going to
leave him by himself on the prairie, for cattle to run over." She began to cry more bitterly.

The boys looked angry. Alexandra put a soothing hand on her mother's shoulder. "There's no question of that, mother. You don't have to go if you don't want to. A
third of the place belongs to you by American law, and we can't sell without your consent. We only want you to advise us. How did it use to be when you and father
first came? Was it really as bad as this, or not?"

"Oh, worse! Much worse," moaned Mrs. Bergson. "Drouth, chince-bugs, hail, everything! My garden all cut to pieces like sauerkraut. No grapes on the creek, no
nothing. The people all lived just like coyotes."

Oscar got up and tramped out of the kitchen. Lou followed him. They felt that Alexandra had taken an unfair advantage in turning their mother loose on them. The next
morning they were silent and reserved. They did not offer to take the women to church, but went down to the barn immediately after breakfast and stayed there all day.
When Carl Linstrum came over in the afternoon, Alexandra winked to him and pointed toward the barn. He understood her and went down to play cards with the
boys. They believed that a very wicked thing to do on Sunday, and it relieved their feelings.

Alexandra stayed in the house. On Sunday afternoon Mrs. Bergson always took a nap, and Alexandra read. During the week she read only the newspaper, but on
Sunday, and in the long evenings of winter, she read a good deal; read a few things over a great many times. She knew long portions of the "Frithjof Saga" by heart,
and, like most Swedes who read at all, she was fond of Longfellow's verse,-the ballads and the "Golden Legend" and "The Spanish Student." To-day she sat in the
wooden rockingchair with the Swedish Bible open on her knees, but she was not reading. She was looking thoughtfully away at the point where the upland road
 Copyright (c)
disappeared      2005-2009,
              over the rim of Infobase
                              the prairie.Media Corp.
                                           Her body                                                                                                     Page
                                                     was in an attitude of perfect repose, such as it was apt to take when she was thinking earnestly. Her mind38
                                                                                                                                                               was/slow,
                                                                                                                                                                    176
truthful, steadfast. She had not the least spark of cleverness.
Alexandra stayed in the house. On Sunday afternoon Mrs. Bergson always took a nap, and Alexandra read. During the week she read only the newspaper, but on
Sunday, and in the long evenings of winter, she read a good deal; read a few things over a great many times. She knew long portions of the "Frithjof Saga" by heart,
and, like most Swedes who read at all, she was fond of Longfellow's verse,-the ballads and the "Golden Legend" and "The Spanish Student." To-day she sat in the
wooden rockingchair with the Swedish Bible open on her knees, but she was not reading. She was looking thoughtfully away at the point where the upland road
disappeared over the rim of the prairie. Her body was in an attitude of perfect repose, such as it was apt to take when she was thinking earnestly. Her mind was slow,
truthful, steadfast. She had not the least spark of cleverness.

All afternoon the sitting-room was full of quiet and sunlight. Emil was making rabbit traps in the kitchen shed. The hens were clucking and scratching brown holes in the
flower beds, and the wind was teasing the prince's feather by the door.

That evening Carl came in with the boys to supper.

"Emil," said Alexandra, when they were all seated at the table, "how would you like to go traveling? Because I am going to take a trip, and you can go with me if you
want to."

The boys looked up in amazement; they were always afraid of Alexandra's schemes. Carl was interested.

"I've been thinking, boys," she went on, "that maybe I am too set against making a change. I'm going to take Brigham and the buckboard to-morrow and drive down to
the river country and spend a few days looking over what they've got down there. If I find anything good, you boys can go down and make a trade."

"Nobody down there will trade for anything up here," said Oscar gloomily.

"That's just what I want to find out. Maybe they are just as discontented down there as we are up here. Things away from home often look better than they are. You
know what your Hans Andersen book says, Carl, about the Swedes liking to buy Danish bread and the Danes liking to buy Swedish bread, because people always
think the bread of another country is better than their own. Anyway, I've heard so much about the river farms, I won't be satisfied till I've seen for myself."

Lou fidgeted. "Look out! Don't agree to anything. Don't let them fool you."

Lou was apt to be fooled himself. He had not yet learned to keep away from the shell-game wagons that followed the circus.

After supper Lou put on a necktie and went across the fields to court Annie Lee, and Carl and Oscar sat down to a game of checkers, while Alexandra read "The
Swiss Family Robinson" aloud to her mother and Emil. It was not long before the two boys at the table neglected their game to listen. They were all big children
together, and they found the adventures of the family in the tree house so absorbing that they gave them their undivided attention.

V

Alexandra and Emil spent five days down among the river farms, driving up and down the valley. Alexandra talked to the men about their crops and to the women
about their poultry. She spent a whole day with one young farmer who had been away at school, and who was experimenting with a new kind of clover hay. She
learned a great deal. As they drove along, she and Emil talked and planned. At last, on the sixth day, Alexandra turned Brigham's head northward and left the river
behind.

"There's nothing in it for us down there, Emil. There are a few fine farms, but they are owned by the rich men in town, and couldn't be bought. Most of the land is rough
and hilly. They can always scrape along down there, but they can never do anything big. Down there they have a little certainty, but up with us there is a big chance. We
must have faith in the high land, Emil. I want to hold on harder than ever, and when you're a man you'll thank me." She urged Brigham forward.

When the road began to climb the first long swells of the Divide, Alexandra hummed an old Swedish hymn, and Emil wondered why his sister looked so happy. Her
face was so radiant that he felt shy about asking her. For the first time, perhaps, since that land emerged from the waters of geologic ages, a human face was set toward
it with love and yearning. It seemed beautiful to her, rich and strong and glorious. Her eyes drank in the breadth of it, until her tears blinded her. Then the Genius of the
Divide, the great, free spirit which breathes across it, must have bent lower than it ever bent to a human will before. The history of every country begins in the heart of a
man or a woman.

Alexandra reached home in the afternoon. That evening she held a family council and told her brothers all that she had seen and heard.

"I want you boys to go down yourselves and look it over. Nothing will convince you like seeing with your own eyes. The river land was settled before this, and so they
are a few years ahead of us, and have learned more about farming. The land sells for three times as much as this, but in five years we will double it. The rich men down
there own all the best land, and they are buying all they can get. The thing to do is to sell our cattle and what little old corn we have, and buy the Linstrum place. Then
the next thing to do is to take out two loans on our half-sections, and buy Peter Crow's place; raise every dollar we can, and buy every acre we can."

"Mortgage the homestead again?" Lou cried. He sprang up and began to wind the clock furiously. "I won't slave to pay off another mortgage. I'll never do it. You'd just
as soon kill us all, Alexandra, to carry out some scheme!"

Oscar rubbed his high, pale forehead. "How do you propose to pay off your mortgages?"

Alexandra looked from one to the other and bit her lip. They had never seen her so nervous. "See here," she brought out at last. "We borrow the money for six years.
Well, with the money we buy a half-section from Linstrum and a half from Crow, and a quarter from Struble, maybe. That will give us upwards of fourteen hundred
acres, won't it? You won't have to pay off your mortgages for six years. By that time, any of this land will be worth thirty dollars an acre-it will be worth fifty, but we'll
say thirty; then you can sell a garden patch anywhere, and pay off a debt of sixteen hundred dollars. It's not the principal I'm worried about, it's the interest and taxes.
We'll have to strain to meet the payments. But as sure as we are sitting here to-night, we can sit down here ten years from now independent landowners, not struggling
farmers any longer. The chance that father was always looking for has come."

Lou was pacing the floor. "But how do you KNOW that land is going to go up enough to pay the mortgages and-"

"And make us rich besides?" Alexandra put in firmly. "I can't explain that, Lou. You'll have to take my word for it. I KNOW, that's all. When you drive about over the
country you can feel it coming."

Oscar had been sitting with his head lowered, his hands hanging between his knees. "But we can't work so much land," he said dully, as if he were talking to himself.
"We can't even try. It would just lie there and we'd work ourselves to death." He sighed, and laid his calloused fist on the table.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                             Page 39 / 176
Alexandra's eyes filled with tears. She put her hand on his shoulder. "You poor boy, you won't have to work it. The men in town who are buying up other people's land
don't try to farm it. They are the men to watch, in a new country. Let's try to do like the shrewd ones, and not like these stupid fellows. I don't want you boys always to
have to work like this. I want you to be independent, and Emil to go to school."
country you can feel it coming."

Oscar had been sitting with his head lowered, his hands hanging between his knees. "But we can't work so much land," he said dully, as if he were talking to himself.
"We can't even try. It would just lie there and we'd work ourselves to death." He sighed, and laid his calloused fist on the table.

Alexandra's eyes filled with tears. She put her hand on his shoulder. "You poor boy, you won't have to work it. The men in town who are buying up other people's land
don't try to farm it. They are the men to watch, in a new country. Let's try to do like the shrewd ones, and not like these stupid fellows. I don't want you boys always to
have to work like this. I want you to be independent, and Emil to go to school."

Lou held his head as if it were splitting. "Everybody will say we are crazy. It must be crazy, or everybody would be doing it."

"If they were, we wouldn't have much chance. No, Lou, I was talking about that with the smart young man who is raising the new kind of clover. He says the right thing
is usually just what everybody don't do. Why are we better fixed than any of our neighbors? Because father had more brains. Our people were better people than these
in the old country. We OUGHT to do more than they do, and see further ahead. Yes, mother, I'm going to clear the table now."

Alexandra rose. The boys went to the stable to see to the stock, and they were gone a long while. When they came back Lou played on his DRAGHARMONIKA
and Oscar sat figuring at his father's secretary all evening. They said nothing more about Alexandra's project, but she felt sure now that they would consent to it. Just
before bedtime Oscar went out for a pail of water. When he did not come back, Alexandra threw a shawl over her head and ran down the path to the windmill. She
found him sitting there with his head in his hands, and she sat down beside him.

"Don't do anything you don't want to do, Oscar," she whispered. She waited a moment, but he did not stir. "I won't say any more about it, if you'd rather not. What
makes you so discouraged?"

"I dread signing my name to them pieces of paper," he said slowly. "All the time I was a boy we had a mortgage hanging over us."

"Then don't sign one. I don't want you to, if you feel that way."

Oscar shook his head. "No, I can see there's a chance that way. I've thought a good while there might be. We're in so deep now, we might as well go deeper. But it's
hard work pulling out of debt. Like pulling a threshingmachine out of the mud; breaks your back. Me and Lou's worked hard, and I can't see it's got us ahead much."

"Nobody knows about that as well as I do, Oscar. That's why I want to try an easier way. I don't want you to have to grub for every dollar."

"Yes, I know what you mean. Maybe it'll come out right. But signing papers is signing papers. There ain't no maybe about that." He took his pail and trudged up the
path to the house.

Alexandra drew her shawl closer about her and stood leaning against the frame of the mill, looking at the stars which glittered so keenly through the frosty autumn air.
She always loved to watch them, to think of their vastness and distance, and of their ordered march. It fortified her to reflect upon the great operations of nature, and
when she thought of the law that lay behind them, she felt a sense of personal security. That night she had a new consciousness of the country, felt almost a new relation
to it. Even her talk with the boys had not taken away the feeling that had overwhelmed her when she drove back to the Divide that afternoon. She had never known
before how much the country meant to her. The chirping of the insects down in the long grass had been like the sweetest music. She had felt as if her heart were hiding
down there, somewhere, with the quail and the plover and all the little wild things that crooned or buzzed in the sun. Under the long shaggy ridges, she felt the future
stirring.

Part II

Neighboring Fields

I

IT is sixteen years since John Bergson died. His wife now lies beside him, and the white shaft that marks their graves gleams across the wheat-fields. Could he rise from
beneath it, he would not know the country under which he has been asleep. The shaggy coat of the prairie, which they lifted to make him a bed, has vanished forever.
From the Norwegian graveyard one looks out over a vast checker-board, marked off in squares of wheat and corn; light and dark, dark and light. Telephone wires
hum along the white roads, which always run at right angles. From the graveyard gate one can count a dozen gayly painted farmhouses; the gilded weather-vanes on the
big red barns wink at each other across the green and brown and yellow fields. The light steel windmills tremble throughout their frames and tug at their moorings, as
they vibrate in the wind that often blows from one week's end to another across that high, active, resolute stretch of country.

The Divide is now thickly populated. The rich soil yields heavy harvests; the dry, bracing climate and the smoothness of the land make labor easy for men and beasts.
There are few scenes more gratifying than a spring plowing in that country, where the furrows of a single field often lie a mile in length, and the brown earth, with such a
strong, clean smell, and such a power of growth and fertility in it, yields itself eagerly to the plow; rolls away from the shear, not even dimming the brightness of the
metal, with a soft, deep sigh of happiness. The wheatcutting sometimes goes on all night as well as all day, and in good seasons there are scarcely men and horses
enough to do the harvesting. The grain is so heavy that it bends toward the blade and cuts like velvet.

There is something frank and joyous and young in the open face of the country. It gives itself ungrudgingly to the moods of the season, holding nothing back. Like the
plains of Lombardy, it seems to rise a little to meet the sun. The air and the earth are curiously mated and intermingled, as if the one were the breath of the other. You
feel in the atmosphere the same tonic, puissant quality that is in the tilth, the same strength and resoluteness.

One June morning a young man stood at the gate of the Norwegian graveyard, sharpening his scythe in strokes unconsciously timed to the tune he was whistling. He
wore a flannel cap and duck trousers, and the sleeves of his white flannel shirt were rolled back to the elbow. When he was satisfied with the edge of his blade, he
slipped the whetstone into his hip pocket and began to swing his scythe, still whistling, but softly, out of respect to the quiet folk about him. Unconscious respect,
probably, for he seemed intent upon his own thoughts, and, like the Gladiator's, they were far away. He was a splendid figure of a boy, tall and straight as a young pine
tree, with a handsome head, and stormy gray eyes, deeply set under a serious brow. The space between his two front teeth, which were unusually far apart, gave him
the proficiency in whistling for which he was distinguished at college. (He also played the cornet in the University band.)

When the grass required his close attention, or when he had to stoop to cut about a headstone, he paused in his lively air,-the "Jewel" song,-taking it up where he had
left it when his scythe swung free again. He was not thinking about the tired pioneers over whom his blade glittered. The old wild country, the struggle in which his sister
was destined to succeed while so many men broke their hearts and died, he can scarcely remember. That is all among the dim things of childhood and has been
forgotten in the brighter pattern life weaves to-day, in the bright facts of being captain of the track team, and holding the interstate record for the high jump, in the all-
 Copyright
suffusing    (c) 2005-2009,
           brightness of being Infobase  Media
                               twenty-one.      Corp.
                                           Yet sometimes,    in the pauses of his work, the young man frowned and looked at the ground with an intentness   Page    40 / 176
                                                                                                                                                                which
suggested that even twentyone might have its problems.
When the grass required his close attention, or when he had to stoop to cut about a headstone, he paused in his lively air,-the "Jewel" song,-taking it up where he had
left it when his scythe swung free again. He was not thinking about the tired pioneers over whom his blade glittered. The old wild country, the struggle in which his sister
was destined to succeed while so many men broke their hearts and died, he can scarcely remember. That is all among the dim things of childhood and has been
forgotten in the brighter pattern life weaves to-day, in the bright facts of being captain of the track team, and holding the interstate record for the high jump, in the all-
suffusing brightness of being twenty-one. Yet sometimes, in the pauses of his work, the young man frowned and looked at the ground with an intentness which
suggested that even twentyone might have its problems.

When he had been mowing the better part of an hour, he heard the rattle of a light cart on the road behind him. Supposing that it was his sister coming back from one of
her farms, he kept on with his work. The cart stopped at the gate and a merry contralto voice called, "Almost through, Emil?" He dropped his scythe and went toward
the fence, wiping his face and neck with his handkerchief. In the cart sat a young woman who wore driving gauntlets and a wide shade hat, trimmed with red poppies.
Her face, too, was rather like a poppy, round and brown, with rich color in her cheeks and lips, and her dancing yellow-brown eyes bubbled with gayety. The wind
was flapping her big hat and teasing a curl of her chestnut-colored hair. She shook her head at the tall youth.

"What time did you get over here? That's not much of a job for an athlete. Here I've been to town and back. Alexandra lets you sleep late. Oh, I know! Lou's wife was
telling me about the way she spoils you. I was going to give you a lift, if you were done." She gathered up her reins.

"But I will be, in a minute. Please wait for me, Marie," Emil coaxed. "Alexandra sent me to mow our lot, but I've done half a dozen others, you see. Just wait till I finish
off the Kourdnas'. By the way, they were Bohemians. Why aren't they up in the Catholic graveyard?"

"Free-thinkers," replied the young woman laconically.

"Lots of the Bohemian boys at the University are," said Emil, taking up his scythe again. "What did you ever burn John Huss for, anyway? It's made an awful row. They
still jaw about it in history classes."

"We'd do it right over again, most of us," said the young woman hotly. "Don't they ever teach you in your history classes that you'd all be heathen Turks if it hadn't been
for the Bohemians?"

Emil had fallen to mowing. "Oh, there's no denying you're a spunky little bunch, you Czechs," he called back over his shoulder.

Marie Shabata settled herself in her seat and watched the rhythmical movement of the young man's long arms, swinging her foot as if in time to some air that was going
through her mind. The minutes passed. Emil mowed vigorously and Marie sat sunning herself and watching the long grass fall. She sat with the ease that belongs to
persons of an essentially happy nature, who can find a comfortable spot almost anywhere; who are supple, and quick in adapting themselves to circumstances. After a
final swish, Emil snapped the gate and sprang into the cart, holding his scythe well out over the wheel. "There," he sighed. "I gave old man Lee a cut or so, too. Lou's
wife needn't talk. I never see Lou's scythe over here."

Marie clucked to her horse. "Oh, you know Annie!" She looked at the young man's bare arms. "How brown you've got since you came home. I wish I had an athlete
to mow my orchard. I get wet to my knees when I go down to pick cherries."

"You can have one, any time you want him. Better wait until after it rains." Emil squinted off at the horizon as if he were looking for clouds.

"Will you? Oh, there's a good boy!" She turned her head to him with a quick, bright smile. He felt it rather than saw it. Indeed, he had looked away with the purpose of
not seeing it. "I've been up looking at Angelique's wedding clothes," Marie went on, "and I'm so excited I can hardly wait until Sunday. Amedee will be a handsome
bridegroom. Is anybody but you going to stand up with him? Well, then it will be a handsome wedding party." She made a droll face at Emil, who flushed. "Frank,"
Marie continued, flicking her horse, "is cranky at me because I loaned his saddle to Jan Smirka, and I'm terribly afraid he won't take me to the dance in the evening.
Maybe the supper will tempt him. All Angelique's folks are baking for it, and all Amedee's twenty cousins. There will be barrels of beer. If once I get Frank to the
supper, I'll see that I stay for the dance. And by the way, Emil, you mustn't dance with me but once or twice. You must dance with all the French girls. It hurts their
feelings if you don't. They think you're proud because you've been away to school or something."

Emil sniffed. "How do you know they think that?"

"Well, you didn't dance with them much at Raoul Marcel's party, and I could tell how they took it by the way they looked at you-and at me."

"All right," said Emil shortly, studying the glittering blade of his scythe.

They drove westward toward Norway Creek, and toward a big white house that stood on a hill, several miles across the fields. There were so many sheds and
outbuildings grouped about it that the place looked not unlike a tiny village. A stranger, approaching it, could not help noticing the beauty and fruitfulness of the outlying
fields. There was something individual about the great farm, a most unusual trimness and care for detail. On either side of the road, for a mile before you reached the
foot of the hill, stood tall osage orange hedges, their glossy green marking off the yellow fields. South of the hill, in a low, sheltered swale, surrounded by a mulberry
hedge, was the orchard, its fruit trees knee-deep in timothy grass. Any one thereabouts would have told you that this was one of the richest farms on the Divide, and
that the farmer was a woman, Alexandra Bergson.

If you go up the hill and enter Alexandra's big house, you will find that it is curiously unfinished and uneven in comfort. One room is papered, carpeted, over-furnished;
the next is almost bare. The pleasantest rooms in the house are the kitchen-where Alexandra's three young Swedish girls chatter and cook and pickle and preserve all
summer long-and the sitting-room, in which Alexandra has brought together the old homely furniture that the Bergsons used in their first log house, the family portraits,
and the few things her mother brought from Sweden.

When you go out of the house into the flower garden, there you feel again the order and fine arrangement manifest all over the great farm; in the fencing and hedging, in
the windbreaks and sheds, in the symmetrical pasture ponds, planted with scrub willows to give shade to the cattle in fly-time. There is even a white row of beehives in
the orchard, under the walnut trees. You feel that, properly, Alexandra's house is the big out-of-doors, and that it is in the soil that she expresses herself best.

II

Emil reached home a little past noon, and when he went into the kitchen Alexandra was already seated at the head of the long table, having dinner with her men, as she
always did unless there were visitors. He slipped into his empty place at his sister's right. The three pretty young Swedish girls who did Alexandra's housework were
cutting pies, refilling coffeecups, placing platters of bread and meat and potatoes upon the red tablecloth, and continually getting in each other's way between the table
and the stove. To be sure they always wasted a good deal of time getting in each other's way and giggling at each other's mistakes. But, as Alexandra had pointedly
told her sisters-inlaw, it was to hear them giggle that she kept three young things in her kitchen; the work she could do herself, if it were necessary. These girls, with
their long letters
 Copyright         from home, Infobase
             (c) 2005-2009,    their finery, and their
                                          Media   Corp.love-affairs, afforded her a great deal of entertainment, and they were company for her when EmilPage
                                                                                                                                                           was away
                                                                                                                                                                  41 at/ 176
school.

Of the youngest girl, Signa, who has a pretty figure, mottled pink cheeks, and yellow hair, Alexandra is very fond, though she keeps a sharp eye upon her. Signa is apt
always did unless there were visitors. He slipped into his empty place at his sister's right. The three pretty young Swedish girls who did Alexandra's housework were
cutting pies, refilling coffeecups, placing platters of bread and meat and potatoes upon the red tablecloth, and continually getting in each other's way between the table
and the stove. To be sure they always wasted a good deal of time getting in each other's way and giggling at each other's mistakes. But, as Alexandra had pointedly
told her sisters-inlaw, it was to hear them giggle that she kept three young things in her kitchen; the work she could do herself, if it were necessary. These girls, with
their long letters from home, their finery, and their love-affairs, afforded her a great deal of entertainment, and they were company for her when Emil was away at
school.

Of the youngest girl, Signa, who has a pretty figure, mottled pink cheeks, and yellow hair, Alexandra is very fond, though she keeps a sharp eye upon her. Signa is apt
to be skittish at mealtime, when the men are about, and to spill the coffee or upset the cream. It is supposed that Nelse Jensen, one of the six men at the dinner-table, is
courting Signa, though he has been so careful not to commit himself that no one in the house, least of all Signa, can tell just how far the matter has progressed. Nelse
watches her glumly as she waits upon the table, and in the evening he sits on a bench behind the stove with his DRAGHARMONIKA, playing mournful airs and
watching her as she goes about her work. When Alexandra asked Signa whether she thought Nelse was in earnest, the poor child hid her hands under her apron and
murmured, "I don't know, ma'm. But he scolds me about everything, like as if he wanted to have me!"

At Alexandra's left sat a very old man, barefoot and wearing a long blue blouse, open at the neck. His shaggy head is scarcely whiter than it was sixteen years ago, but
his little blue eyes have become pale and watery, and his ruddy face is withered, like an apple that has clung all winter to the tree. When Ivar lost his land through
mismanagement a dozen years ago, Alexandra took him in, and he has been a member of her household ever since. He is too old to work in the fields, but he hitches
and unhitches the work-teams and looks after the health of the stock. Sometimes of a winter evening Alexandra calls him into the sitting-room to read the Bible aloud to
her, for he still reads very well. He dislikes human habitations, so Alexandra has fitted him up a room in the barn, where he is very comfortable, being near the horses
and, as he says, further from temptations. No one has ever found out what his temptations are. In cold weather he sits by the kitchen fire and makes hammocks or
mends harness until it is time to go to bed. Then he says his prayers at great length behind the stove, puts on his buffalo-skin coat and goes out to his room in the barn.

Alexandra herself has changed very little. Her figure is fuller, and she has more color. She seems sunnier and more vigorous than she did as a young girl. But she still has
the same calmness and deliberation of manner, the same clear eyes, and she still wears her hair in two braids wound round her head. It is so curly that fiery ends escape
from the braids and make her head look like one of the big double sunflowers that fringe her vegetable garden. Her face is always tanned in summer, for her sunbonnet
is oftener on her arm than on her head. But where her collar falls away from her neck, or where her sleeves are pushed back from her wrist, the skin is of such
smoothness and whiteness as none but Swedish women ever possess; skin with the freshness of the snow itself.

Alexandra did not talk much at the table, but she encouraged her men to talk, and she always listened attentively, even when they seemed to be talking foolishly.

To-day Barney Flinn, the big red-headed Irishman who had been with Alexandra for five years and who was actually her foreman, though he had no such title, was
grumbling about the new silo she had put up that spring. It happened to be the first silo on the Divide, and Alexandra's neighbors and her men were skeptical about it.
"To be sure, if the thing don't work, we'll have plenty of feed without it, indeed," Barney conceded.

Nelse Jensen, Signa's gloomy suitor, had his word. "Lou, he says he wouldn't have no silo on his place if you'd give it to him. He says the feed outen it gives the stock
the bloat. He heard of somebody lost four head of horses, feedin' 'em that stuff."

Alexandra looked down the table from one to another. "Well, the only way we can find out is to try. Lou and I have different notions about feeding stock, and that's a
good thing. It's bad if all the members of a family think alike. They never get anywhere. Lou can learn by my mistakes and I can learn by his. Isn't that fair, Barney?"

The Irishman laughed. He had no love for Lou, who was always uppish with him and who said that Alexandra paid her hands too much. "I've no thought but to give the
thing an honest try, mum. 'T would be only right, after puttin' so much expense into it. Maybe Emil will come out an' have a look at it wid me." He pushed back his
chair, took his hat from the nail, and marched out with Emil, who, with his university ideas, was supposed to have instigated the silo. The other hands followed them, all
except old Ivar. He had been depressed throughout the meal and had paid no heed to the talk of the men, even when they mentioned cornstalk bloat, upon which he
was sure to have opinions.

"Did you want to speak to me, Ivar?" Alexandra asked as she rose from the table. "Come into the sitting-room."

The old man followed Alexandra, but when she motioned him to a chair he shook his head. She took up her workbasket and waited for him to speak. He stood
looking at the carpet, his bushy head bowed, his hands clasped in front of him. Ivar's bandy legs seemed to have grown shorter with years, and they were completely
misfitted to his broad, thick body and heavy shoulders.

"Well, Ivar, what is it?" Alexandra asked after she had waited longer than usual.

Ivar had never learned to speak English and his Norwegian was quaint and grave, like the speech of the more old-fashioned people. He always addressed Alexandra in
terms of the deepest respect, hoping to set a good example to the kitchen girls, whom he thought too familiar in their manners.

"Mistress," he began faintly, without raising his eyes, "the folk have been looking coldly at me of late. You know there has been talk."

"Talk about what, Ivar?"

"About sending me away; to the asylum."

Alexandra put down her sewing-basket. "Nobody has come to me with such talk," she said decidedly. "Why need you listen? You know I would never consent to such
a thing."

Ivar lifted his shaggy head and looked at her out of his little eyes. "They say that you cannot prevent it if the folk complain of me, if your brothers complain to the
authorities. They say that your brothers are afraid-God forbid!-that I may do you some injury when my spells are on me. Mistress, how can any one think that?-that I
could bite the hand that fed me!" The tears trickled down on the old man's beard.

Alexandra frowned. "Ivar, I wonder at you, that you should come bothering me with such nonsense. I am still running my own house, and other people have nothing to
do with either you or me. So long as I am suited with you, there is nothing to be said."

Ivar pulled a red handkerchief out of the breast of his blouse and wiped his eyes and beard. "But I should not wish you to keep me if, as they say, it is against your
interests, and if it is hard for you to get hands because I am here."

Alexandra made an impatient gesture, but the old man put out his hand and went on earnestly:- "Listen, mistress, it is right that you should take these things into account.
You  know that
 Copyright       my spells come
             (c) 2005-2009,      from God,
                             Infobase  MediaandCorp.
                                                that I would not harm any living creature. You believe that every one should worship God in the wayPage    revealed42
                                                                                                                                                                    to /him.
                                                                                                                                                                         176
But that is not the way of this country. The way here is for all to do alike. I am despised because I do not wear shoes, because I do not cut my hair, and because I have
visions. At home, in the old country, there were many like me, who had been touched by God, or who had seen things in the graveyard at night and were different
afterward. We thought nothing of it, and let them alone. But here, if a man is different in his feet or in his head, they put him in the asylum. Look at Peter Kralik; when
interests, and if it is hard for you to get hands because I am here."

Alexandra made an impatient gesture, but the old man put out his hand and went on earnestly:- "Listen, mistress, it is right that you should take these things into account.
You know that my spells come from God, and that I would not harm any living creature. You believe that every one should worship God in the way revealed to him.
But that is not the way of this country. The way here is for all to do alike. I am despised because I do not wear shoes, because I do not cut my hair, and because I have
visions. At home, in the old country, there were many like me, who had been touched by God, or who had seen things in the graveyard at night and were different
afterward. We thought nothing of it, and let them alone. But here, if a man is different in his feet or in his head, they put him in the asylum. Look at Peter Kralik; when
he was a boy, drinking out of a creek, he swallowed a snake, and always after that he could eat only such food as the creature liked, for when he ate anything else, it
became enraged and gnawed him. When he felt it whipping about in him, he drank alcohol to stupefy it and get some ease for himself. He could work as good as any
man, and his head was clear, but they locked him up for being different in his stomach. That is the way; they have built the asylum for people who are different, and they
will not even let us live in the holes with the badgers. Only your great prosperity has protected me so far. If you had had ill-fortune, they would have taken me to
Hastings long ago."

As Ivar talked, his gloom lifted. Alexandra had found that she could often break his fasts and long penances by talking to him and letting him pour out the thoughts that
troubled him. Sympathy always cleared his mind, and ridicule was poison to him.

"There is a great deal in what you say, Ivar. Like as not they will be wanting to take me to Hastings because I have built a silo; and then I may take you with me. But at
present I need you here. Only don't come to me again telling me what people say. Let people go on talking as they like, and we will go on living as we think best. You
have been with me now for twelve years, and I have gone to you for advice oftener than I have ever gone to any one. That ought to satisfy you."

Ivar bowed humbly. "Yes, mistress, I shall not trouble you with their talk again. And as for my feet, I have observed your wishes all these years, though you have never
questioned me; washing them every night, even in winter."

Alexandra laughed. "Oh, never mind about your feet, Ivar. We can remember when half our neighbors went barefoot in summer. I expect old Mrs. Lee would love to
slip her shoes off now sometimes, if she dared. I'm glad I'm not Lou's mother-in-law."

Ivar looked about mysteriously and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "You know what they have over at Lou's house? A great white tub, like the stone water-
troughs in the old country, to wash themselves in. When you sent me over with the strawberries, they were all in town but the old woman Lee and the baby. She took
me in and showed me the thing, and she told me it was impossible to wash yourself clean in it, because, in so much water, you could not make a strong suds. So when
they fill it up and send her in there, she pretends, and makes a splashing noise. Then, when they are all asleep, she washes herself in a little wooden tub she keeps under
her bed."

Alexandra shook with laughter. "Poor old Mrs. Lee! They won't let her wear nightcaps, either. Never mind; when she comes to visit me, she can do all the old things in
the old way, and have as much beer as she wants. We'll start an asylum for old-time people, Ivar."

Ivar folded his big handkerchief carefully and thrust it back into his blouse. "This is always the way, mistress. I come to you sorrowing, and you send me away with a
light heart. And will you be so good as to tell the Irishman that he is not to work the brown gelding until the sore on its shoulder is healed?"

"That I will. Now go and put Emil's mare to the cart. I am going to drive up to the north quarter to meet the man from town who is to buy my alfalfa hay."

III

Alexandra was to hear more of Ivar's case, however. On Sunday her married brothers came to dinner. She had asked them for that day because Emil, who hated
family parties, would be absent, dancing at Amedee Chevalier's wedding, up in the French country. The table was set for company in the dining-room, where highly
varnished wood and colored glass and useless pieces of china were conspicuous enough to satisfy the standards of the new prosperity. Alexandra had put herself into
the hands of the Hanover furniture dealer, and he had conscientiously done his best to make her dining-room look like his display window. She said frankly that she
knew nothing about such things, and she was willing to be governed by the general conviction that the more useless and utterly unusable objects were, the greater their
virtue as ornament. That seemed reasonable enough. Since she liked plain things herself, it was all the more necessary to have jars and punchbowls and candlesticks in
the company rooms for people who did appreciate them. Her guests liked to see about them these reassuring emblems of prosperity.

The family party was complete except for Emil, and Oscar's wife who, in the country phrase, "was not going anywhere just now." Oscar sat at the foot of the table and
his four tow-headed little boys, aged from twelve to five, were ranged at one side. Neither Oscar nor Lou has changed much; they have simply, as Alexandra said of
them long ago, grown to be more and more like themselves. Lou now looks the older of the two; his face is thin and shrewd and wrinkled about the eyes, while Oscar's
is thick and dull. For all his dullness, however, Oscar makes more money than his brother, which adds to Lou's sharpness and uneasiness and tempts him to make a
show. The trouble with Lou is that he is tricky, and his neighbors have found out that, as Ivar says, he has not a fox's face for nothing. Politics being the natural field for
such talents, he neglects his farm to attend conventions and to run for county offices.

Lou's wife, formerly Annie Lee, has grown to look curiously like her husband. Her face has become longer, sharper, more aggressive. She wears her yellow hair in a
high pompadour, and is bedecked with rings and chains and "beauty pins." Her tight, high-heeled shoes give her an awkward walk, and she is always more or less
preoccupied with her clothes. As she sat at the table, she kept telling her youngest daughter to "be careful now, and not drop anything on mother."

The conversation at the table was all in English. Oscar's wife, from the malaria district of Missouri, was ashamed of marrying a foreigner, and his boys do not
understand a word of Swedish. Annie and Lou sometimes speak Swedish at home, but Annie is almost as much afraid of being "caught" at it as ever her mother was of
being caught barefoot. Oscar still has a thick accent, but Lou speaks like anybody from Iowa.

"When I was in Hastings to attend the convention," he was saying, "I saw the superintendent of the asylum, and I was telling him about Ivar's symptoms. He says Ivar's
case is one of the most dangerous kind, and it's a wonder he hasn't done something violent before this."

Alexandra laughed good-humoredly. "Oh, nonsense, Lou! The doctors would have us all crazy if they could. Ivar's queer, certainly, but he has more sense than half the
hands I hire."

Lou flew at his fried chicken. "Oh, I guess the doctor knows his business, Alexandra. He was very much surprised when I told him how you'd put up with Ivar. He says
he's likely to set fire to the barn any night, or to take after you and the girls with an axe."

Little Signa, who was waiting on the table, giggled and fled to the kitchen. Alexandra's eyes twinkled. "That was too much for Signa, Lou. We all know that Ivar's
perfectly harmless. The girls would as soon expect me to chase them with an axe."
 Copyright
Lou flushed(c)
            and2005-2009,   Infobase
                signaled to his        Media
                                wife. "All the Corp.                                                                                                 Page 43
                                               same, the neighbors will be having a say about it before long. He may burn anybody's barn. It's only necessary     / 176
                                                                                                                                                              for one
propertyowner in the township to make complaint, and he'll be taken up by force. You'd better send him yourself and not have any hard feelings."
Little Signa, who was waiting on the table, giggled and fled to the kitchen. Alexandra's eyes twinkled. "That was too much for Signa, Lou. We all know that Ivar's
perfectly harmless. The girls would as soon expect me to chase them with an axe."

Lou flushed and signaled to his wife. "All the same, the neighbors will be having a say about it before long. He may burn anybody's barn. It's only necessary for one
propertyowner in the township to make complaint, and he'll be taken up by force. You'd better send him yourself and not have any hard feelings."

Alexandra helped one of her little nephews to gravy. "Well, Lou, if any of the neighbors try that, I'll have myself appointed Ivar's guardian and take the case to court,
that's all. I am perfectly satisfied with him."

"Pass the preserves, Lou," said Annie in a warning tone. She had reasons for not wishing her husband to cross Alexandra too openly. "But don't you sort of hate to
have people see him around here, Alexandra?" she went on with persuasive smoothness. "He IS a disgraceful object, and you're fixed up so nice now. It sort of makes
people distant with you, when they never know when they'll hear him scratching about. My girls are afraid as death of him, aren't you, Milly, dear?"

Milly was fifteen, fat and jolly and pompadoured, with a creamy complexion, square white teeth, and a short upper lip. She looked like her grandmother Bergson, and
had her comfortable and comfort-loving nature. She grinned at her aunt, with whom she was a great deal more at ease than she was with her mother. Alexandra winked
a reply.

"Milly needn't be afraid of Ivar. She's an especial favorite of his. In my opinion Ivar has just as much right to his own way of dressing and thinking as we have. But I'll
see that he doesn't bother other people. I'll keep him at home, so don't trouble any more about him, Lou. I've been wanting to ask you about your new bathtub. How
does it work?"

Annie came to the fore to give Lou time to recover himself. "Oh, it works something grand! I can't keep him out of it. He washes himself all over three times a week
now, and uses all the hot water. I think it's weakening to stay in as long as he does. You ought to have one, Alexandra."

"I'm thinking of it. I might have one put in the barn for Ivar, if it will ease people's minds. But before I get a bathtub, I'm going to get a piano for Milly."

Oscar, at the end of the table, looked up from his plate. "What does Milly want of a pianny? What's the matter with her organ? She can make some use of that, and
play in church."

Annie looked flustered. She had begged Alexandra not to say anything about this plan before Oscar, who was apt to be jealous of what his sister did for Lou's children.
Alexandra did not get on with Oscar's wife at all. "Milly can play in church just the same, and she'll still play on the organ. But practising on it so much spoils her touch.
Her teacher says so," Annie brought out with spirit.

Oscar rolled his eyes. "Well, Milly must have got on pretty good if she's got past the organ. I know plenty of grown folks that ain't," he said bluntly.

Annie threw up her chin. "She has got on good, and she's going to play for her commencement when she graduates in town next year."

"Yes," said Alexandra firmly, "I think Milly deserves a piano. All the girls around here have been taking lessons for years, but Milly is the only one of them who can ever
play anything when you ask her. I'll tell you when I first thought I would like to give you a piano, Milly, and that was when you learned that book of old Swedish songs
that your grandfather used to sing. He had a sweet tenor voice, and when he was a young man he loved to sing. I can remember hearing him singing with the sailors
down in the shipyard, when I was no bigger than Stella here," pointing to Annie's younger daughter.

Milly and Stella both looked through the door into the sitting-room, where a crayon portrait of John Bergson hung on the wall. Alexandra had had it made from a little
photograph, taken for his friends just before he left Sweden; a slender man of thirty-five, with soft hair curling about his high forehead, a drooping mustache, and
wondering, sad eyes that looked forward into the distance, as if they already beheld the New World.

After dinner Lou and Oscar went to the orchard to pick cherries-they had neither of them had the patience to grow an orchard of their own-and Annie went down to
gossip with Alexandra's kitchen girls while they washed the dishes. She could always find out more about Alexandra's domestic economy from the prattling maids than
from Alexandra herself, and what she discovered she used to her own advantage with Lou. On the Divide, farmers' daughters no longer went out into service, so
Alexandra got her girls from Sweden, by paying their fare over. They stayed with her until they married, and were replaced by sisters or cousins from the old country.

Alexandra took her three nieces into the flower garden. She was fond of the little girls, especially of Milly, who came to spend a week with her aunt now and then, and
read aloud to her from the old books about the house, or listened to stories about the early days on the Divide. While they were walking among the flower beds, a
buggy drove up the hill and stopped in front of the gate. A man got out and stood talking to the driver. The little girls were delighted at the advent of a stranger, some
one from very far away, they knew by his clothes, his gloves, and the sharp, pointed cut of his dark beard. The girls fell behind their aunt and peeped out at him from
among the castor beans. The stranger came up to the gate and stood holding his hat in his hand, smiling, while Alexandra advanced slowly to meet him. As she
approached he spoke in a low, pleasant voice.

"Don't you know me, Alexandra? I would have known you, anywhere."

Alexandra shaded her eyes with her hand. Suddenly she took a quick step forward. "Can it be!" she exclaimed with feeling; "can it be that it is Carl Linstrum? Why,
Carl, it is!" She threw out both her hands and caught his across the gate. "Sadie, Milly, run tell your father and Uncle Oscar that our old friend Carl Linstrum is here. Be
quick! Why, Carl, how did it happen? I can't believe this!" Alexandra shook the tears from her eyes and laughed.

The stranger nodded to his driver, dropped his suitcase inside the fence, and opened the gate. "Then you are glad to see me, and you can put me up overnight? I
couldn't go through this country without stopping off to have a look at you. How little you have changed! Do you know, I was sure it would be like that. You simply
couldn't be different. How fine you are!" He stepped back and looked at her admiringly.

Alexandra blushed and laughed again. "But you yourself, Carl-with that beard-how could I have known you? You went away a little boy." She reached for his suitcase
and when he intercepted her she threw up her hands. "You see, I give myself away. I have only women come to visit me, and I do not know how to behave. Where is
your trunk?"

"It's in Hanover. I can stay only a few days. I am on my way to the coast."

They started up the path. "A few days? After all these years!" Alexandra shook her finger at him. "See this, you have walked into a trap. You do not get away so easy."
She put her hand affectionately on his shoulder. "You owe me a visit for the sake of old times. Why must you go to the coast at all?"
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                                Page 44 / 176
"Oh, I must! I am a fortune hunter. From Seattle I go on to Alaska."

"Alaska?" She looked at him in astonishment. "Are you going to paint the Indians?"
"It's in Hanover. I can stay only a few days. I am on my way to the coast."

They started up the path. "A few days? After all these years!" Alexandra shook her finger at him. "See this, you have walked into a trap. You do not get away so easy."
She put her hand affectionately on his shoulder. "You owe me a visit for the sake of old times. Why must you go to the coast at all?"

"Oh, I must! I am a fortune hunter. From Seattle I go on to Alaska."

"Alaska?" She looked at him in astonishment. "Are you going to paint the Indians?"

"Paint?" the young man frowned. "Oh! I'm not a painter, Alexandra. I'm an engraver. I have nothing to do with painting."

"But on my parlor wall I have the paintings-"

He interrupted nervously. "Oh, water-color sketches-done for amusement. I sent them to remind you of me, not because they were good. What a wonderful place you
have made of this, Alexandra." He turned and looked back at the wide, map-like prospect of field and hedge and pasture. "I would never have believed it could be
done. I'm disappointed in my own eye, in my imagination."

At this moment Lou and Oscar came up the hill from the orchard. They did not quicken their pace when they saw Carl; indeed, they did not openly look in his
direction. They advanced distrustfully, and as if they wished the distance were longer.

Alexandra beckoned to them. "They think I am trying to fool them. Come, boys, it's Carl Linstrum, our old Carl!"

Lou gave the visitor a quick, sidelong glance and thrust out his hand. "Glad to see you."

Oscar followed with "How d' do." Carl could not tell whether their offishness came from unfriendliness or from embarrassment. He and Alexandra led the way to the
porch.

"Carl," Alexandra explained, "is on his way to Seattle. He is going to Alaska."

Oscar studied the visitor's yellow shoes. "Got business there?" he asked.

Carl laughed. "Yes, very pressing business. I'm going there to get rich. Engraving's a very interesting profession, but a man never makes any money at it. So I'm going to
try the goldfields."

Alexandra felt that this was a tactful speech, and Lou looked up with some interest. "Ever done anything in that line before?"

"No, but I'm going to join a friend of mine who went out from New York and has done well. He has offered to break me in."

"Turrible cold winters, there, I hear," remarked Oscar. "I thought people went up there in the spring."

"They do. But my friend is going to spend the winter in Seattle and I am to stay with him there and learn something about prospecting before we start north next year."

Lou looked skeptical. "Let's see, how long have you been away from here?"

"Sixteen years. You ought to remember that, Lou, for you were married just after we went away."

"Going to stay with us some time?" Oscar asked.

"A few days, if Alexandra can keep me."

"I expect you'll be wanting to see your old place," Lou observed more cordially. "You won't hardly know it. But there's a few chunks of your old sod house left.
Alexandra wouldn't never let Frank Shabata plough over it."

Annie Lee, who, ever since the visitor was announced, had been touching up her hair and settling her lace and wishing she had worn another dress, now emerged with
her three daughters and introduced them. She was greatly impressed by Carl's urban appearance, and in her excitement talked very loud and threw her head about.
"And you ain't married yet? At your age, now! Think of that! You'll have to wait for Milly. Yes, we've got a boy, too. The youngest. He's at home with his grandma.
You must come over to see mother and hear Milly play. She's the musician of the family. She does pyrography, too. That's burnt wood, you know. You wouldn't
believe what she can do with her poker. Yes, she goes to school in town, and she is the youngest in her class by two years."

Milly looked uncomfortable and Carl took her hand again. He liked her creamy skin and happy, innocent eyes, and he could see that her mother's way of talking
distressed her. "I'm sure she's a clever little girl," he murmured, looking at her thoughtfully. "Let me see-Ah, it's your mother that she looks like, Alexandra. Mrs.
Bergson must have looked just like this when she was a little girl. Does Milly run about over the country as you and Alexandra used to, Annie?"

Milly's mother protested. "Oh, my, no! Things has changed since we was girls. Milly has it very different. We are going to rent the place and move into town as soon as
the girls are old enough to go out into company. A good many are doing that here now. Lou is going into business."

Lou grinned. "That's what she says. You better go get your things on. Ivar's hitching up," he added, turning to Annie.

Young farmers seldom address their wives by name. It is always "you," or "she."

Having got his wife out of the way, Lou sat down on the step and began to whittle. "Well, what do folks in New York think of William Jennings Bryan?" Lou began to
bluster, as he always did when he talked politics. "We gave Wall Street a scare in ninety-six, all right, and we're fixing another to hand them. Silver wasn't the only
issue," he nodded mysteriously. "There's a good many things got to be changed. The West is going to make itself heard."

Carl laughed. "But, surely, it did do that, if nothing else."

Lou's thin face reddened up to the roots of his bristly hair. "Oh, we've only begun. We're waking up to a sense of our responsibilities, out here, and we ain't afraid,
neither. You(c)
 Copyright    fellows back there
                2005-2009,       must be
                             Infobase    a tame
                                      Media      lot. If you had any nerve you'd get together and march down to Wall Street and blow it up. Dynamite
                                               Corp.                                                                                                    it, I mean,"
                                                                                                                                                       Page     45 / with
                                                                                                                                                                      176a
threatening nod.

He was so much in earnest that Carl scarcely knew how to answer him. "That would be a waste of powder. The same business would go on in another street. The
Carl laughed. "But, surely, it did do that, if nothing else."

Lou's thin face reddened up to the roots of his bristly hair. "Oh, we've only begun. We're waking up to a sense of our responsibilities, out here, and we ain't afraid,
neither. You fellows back there must be a tame lot. If you had any nerve you'd get together and march down to Wall Street and blow it up. Dynamite it, I mean," with a
threatening nod.

He was so much in earnest that Carl scarcely knew how to answer him. "That would be a waste of powder. The same business would go on in another street. The
street doesn't matter. But what have you fellows out here got to kick about? You have the only safe place there is. Morgan himself couldn't touch you. One only has to
drive through this country to see that you're all as rich as barons."

"We have a good deal more to say than we had when we were poor," said Lou threateningly. "We're getting on to a whole lot of things."

As Ivar drove a double carriage up to the gate, Annie came out in a hat that looked like the model of a battleship. Carl rose and took her down to the carriage, while
Lou lingered for a word with his sister.

"What do you suppose he's come for?" he asked, jerking his head toward the gate.

"Why, to pay us a visit. I've been begging him to for years."

Oscar looked at Alexandra. "He didn't let you know he was coming?"

"No. Why should he? I told him to come at any time."

Lou shrugged his shoulders. "He doesn't seem to have done much for himself. Wandering around this way!"

Oscar spoke solemnly, as from the depths of a cavern. "He never was much account."

Alexandra left them and hurried down to the gate where Annie was rattling on to Carl about her new dining-room furniture. "You must bring Mr. Linstrum over real
soon, only be sure to telephone me first," she called back, as Carl helped her into the carriage. Old Ivar, his white head bare, stood holding the horses. Lou came down
the path and climbed into the front seat, took up the reins, and drove off without saying anything further to any one. Oscar picked up his youngest boy and trudged off
down the road, the other three trotting after him. Carl, holding the gate open for Alexandra, began to laugh. "Up and coming on the Divide, eh, Alexandra?" he cried
gayly.

IV

Carl had changed, Alexandra felt, much less than one might have expected. He had not become a trim, self-satisfied city man. There was still something homely and
wayward and definitely personal about him. Even his clothes, his Norfolk coat and his very high collars, were a little unconventional. He seemed to shrink into himself as
he used to do; to hold himself away from things, as if he were afraid of being hurt. In short, he was more self-conscious than a man of thirty-five is expected to be. He
looked older than his years and not very strong. His black hair, which still hung in a triangle over his pale forehead, was thin at the crown, and there were fine, relentless
lines about his eyes. His back, with its high, sharp shoulders, looked like the back of an overworked German professor off on his holiday. His face was intelligent,
sensitive, unhappy.

That evening after supper, Carl and Alexandra were sitting by the clump of castor beans in the middle of the flower garden. The gravel paths glittered in the moonlight,
and below them the fields lay white and still.

"Do you know, Alexandra," he was saying, "I've been thinking how strangely things work out. I've been away engraving other men's pictures, and you've stayed at
home and made your own." He pointed with his cigar toward the sleeping landscape. "How in the world have you done it? How have your neighbors done it?"

"We hadn't any of us much to do with it, Carl. The land did it. It had its little joke. It pretended to be poor because nobody knew how to work it right; and then, all at
once, it worked itself. It woke up out of its sleep and stretched itself, and it was so big, so rich, that we suddenly found we were rich, just from sitting still. As for me,
you remember when I began to buy land. For years after that I was always squeezing and borrowing until I was ashamed to show my face in the banks. And then, all at
once, men began to come to me offering to lend me money-and I didn't need it! Then I went ahead and built this house. I really built it for Emil. I want you to see Emil,
Carl. He is so different from the rest of us!"

"How different?"

"Oh, you'll see! I'm sure it was to have sons like Emil, and to give them a chance, that father left the old country. It's curious, too; on the outside Emil is just like an
American boy,-he graduated from the State University in June, you know,-but underneath he is more Swedish than any of us. Sometimes he is so like father that he
frightens me; he is so violent in his feelings like that."

"Is he going to farm here with you?"

"He shall do whatever he wants to," Alexandra declared warmly. "He is going to have a chance, a whole chance; that's what I've worked for. Sometimes he talks about
studying law, and sometimes, just lately, he's been talking about going out into the sand hills and taking up more land. He has his sad times, like father. But I hope he
won't do that. We have land enough, at last!" Alexandra laughed.

"How about Lou and Oscar? They've done well, haven't they?"

"Yes, very well; but they are different, and now that they have farms of their own I do not see so much of them. We divided the land equally when Lou married. They
have their own way of doing things, and they do not altogether like my way, I am afraid. Perhaps they think me too independent. But I have had to think for myself a
good many years and am not likely to change. On the whole, though, we take as much comfort in each other as most brothers and sisters do. And I am very fond of
Lou's oldest daughter."

"I think I liked the old Lou and Oscar better, and they probably feel the same about me. I even, if you can keep a secret,"-Carl leaned forward and touched her arm,
smiling,-"I even think I liked the old country better. This is all very splendid in its way, but there was something about this country when it was a wild old beast that has
haunted me all these years. Now, when I come back to all this milk and honey, I feel like the old German song, 'Wo bist du, wo bist du, mein geliebtest Land?'-Do you
ever feel like that, I wonder?"
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                              Page 46 / 176
"Yes, sometimes, when I think about father and mother and those who are gone; so many of our old neighbors." Alexandra paused and looked up thoughtfully at the
stars. "We can remember the graveyard when it was wild prairie, Carl, and now-"
"I think I liked the old Lou and Oscar better, and they probably feel the same about me. I even, if you can keep a secret,"-Carl leaned forward and touched her arm,
smiling,-"I even think I liked the old country better. This is all very splendid in its way, but there was something about this country when it was a wild old beast that has
haunted me all these years. Now, when I come back to all this milk and honey, I feel like the old German song, 'Wo bist du, wo bist du, mein geliebtest Land?'-Do you
ever feel like that, I wonder?"

"Yes, sometimes, when I think about father and mother and those who are gone; so many of our old neighbors." Alexandra paused and looked up thoughtfully at the
stars. "We can remember the graveyard when it was wild prairie, Carl, and now-"

"And now the old story has begun to write itself over there," said Carl softly. "Isn't it queer: there are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating
themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before; like the larks in this country, that have been singing the same five notes over for thousands of years."

"Oh, yes! The young people, they live so hard. And yet I sometimes envy them. There is my little neighbor, now; the people who bought your old place. I wouldn't have
sold it to any one else, but I was always fond of that girl. You must remember her, little Marie Tovesky, from Omaha, who used to visit here? When she was eighteen
she ran away from the convent school and got married, crazy child! She came out here a bride, with her father and husband. He had nothing, and the old man was
willing to buy them a place and set them up. Your farm took her fancy, and I was glad to have her so near me. I've never been sorry, either. I even try to get along with
Frank on her account."

"Is Frank her husband?"

"Yes. He's one of these wild fellows. Most Bohemians are good-natured, but Frank thinks we don't appreciate him here, I guess. He's jealous about everything, his
farm and his horses and his pretty wife. Everybody likes her, just the same as when she was little. Sometimes I go up to the Catholic church with Emil, and it's funny to
see Marie standing there laughing and shaking hands with people, looking so excited and gay, with Frank sulking behind her as if he could eat everybody alive. Frank's
not a bad neighbor, but to get on with him you've got to make a fuss over him and act as if you thought he was a very important person all the time, and different from
other people. I find it hard to keep that up from one year's end to another."

"I shouldn't think you'd be very successful at that kind of thing, Alexandra." Carl seemed to find the idea amusing.

"Well," said Alexandra firmly, "I do the best I can, on Marie's account. She has it hard enough, anyway. She's too young and pretty for this sort of life. We're all ever
so much older and slower. But she's the kind that won't be downed easily. She'll work all day and go to a Bohemian wedding and dance all night, and drive the hay
wagon for a cross man next morning. I could stay by a job, but I never had the go in me that she has, when I was going my best. I'll have to take you over to see her
to-morrow."

Carl dropped the end of his cigar softly among the castor beans and sighed. "Yes, I suppose I must see the old place. I'm cowardly about things that remind me of
myself. It took courage to come at all, Alexandra. I wouldn't have, if I hadn't wanted to see you very, very much."

Alexandra looked at him with her calm, deliberate eyes. "Why do you dread things like that, Carl?" she asked earnestly. "Why are you dissatisfied with yourself?"

Her visitor winced. "How direct you are, Alexandra! Just like you used to be. Do I give myself away so quickly? Well, you see, for one thing, there's nothing to look
forward to in my profession. Wood-engraving is the only thing I care about, and that had gone out before I began. Everything's cheap metal work nowadays, touching
up miserable photographs, forcing up poor drawings, and spoiling good ones. I'm absolutely sick of it all." Carl frowned. "Alexandra, all the way out from New York
I've been planning how I could deceive you and make you think me a very enviable fellow, and here I am telling you the truth the first night. I waste a lot of time
pretending to people, and the joke of it is, I don't think I ever deceive any one. There are too many of my kind; people know us on sight."

Carl paused. Alexandra pushed her hair back from her brow with a puzzled, thoughtful gesture. "You see," he went on calmly, "measured by your standards here, I'm a
failure. I couldn't buy even one of your cornfields. I've enjoyed a great many things, but I've got nothing to show for it all."

"But you show for it yourself, Carl. I'd rather have had your freedom than my land."

Carl shook his head mournfully. "Freedom so often means that one isn't needed anywhere. Here you are an individual, you have a background of your own, you would
be missed. But off there in the cities there are thousands of rolling stones like me. We are all alike; we have no ties, we know nobody, we own nothing. When one of us
dies, they scarcely know where to bury him. Our landlady and the delicatessen man are our mourners, and we leave nothing behind us but a frock-coat and a fiddle, or
an easel, or a typewriter, or whatever tool we got our living by. All we have ever managed to do is to pay our rent, the exorbitant rent that one has to pay for a few
square feet of space near the heart of things. We have no house, no place, no people of our own. We live in the streets, in the parks, in the theatres. We sit in
restaurants and concert halls and look about at the hundreds of our own kind and shudder."

Alexandra was silent. She sat looking at the silver spot the moon made on the surface of the pond down in the pasture. He knew that she understood what he meant.
At last she said slowly, "And yet I would rather have Emil grow up like that than like his two brothers. We pay a high rent, too, though we pay differently. We grow
hard and heavy here. We don't move lightly and easily as you do, and our minds get stiff. If the world were no wider than my cornfields, if there were not something
beside this, I wouldn't feel that it was much worth while to work. No, I would rather have Emil like you than like them. I felt that as soon as you came."

"I wonder why you feel like that?" Carl mused.

"I don't know. Perhaps I am like Carrie Jensen, the sister of one of my hired men. She had never been out of the cornfields, and a few years ago she got despondent
and said life was just the same thing over and over, and she didn't see the use of it. After she had tried to kill herself once or twice, her folks got worried and sent her
over to Iowa to visit some relations. Ever since she's come back she's been perfectly cheerful, and she says she's contented to live and work in a world that's so big
and interesting. She said that anything as big as the bridges over the Platte and the Missouri reconciled her. And it's what goes on in the world that reconciles me."

V

Alexandra did not find time to go to her neighbor's the next day, nor the next. It was a busy season on the farm, with the corn-plowing going on, and even Emil was in
the field with a team and cultivator. Carl went about over the farms with Alexandra in the morning, and in the afternoon and evening they found a great deal to talk
about. Emil, for all his track practice, did not stand up under farmwork very well, and by night he was too tired to talk or even to practise on his cornet.

On Wednesday morning Carl got up before it was light, and stole downstairs and out of the kitchen door just as old Ivar was making his morning ablutions at the pump.
Carl nodded to him and hurried up the draw, past the garden, and into the pasture where the milking cows used to be kept.

The dawn in the east looked like the light from some great fire that was burning under the edge of the world. The color was reflected in the globules of dew that
sheathed
 Copyrightthe(c)
              short gray pasture
                 2005-2009,       grass. Carl
                              Infobase   Mediawalked
                                                Corp.rapidly until he came to the crest of the second hill, where the Bergson pasture joined the one that had belonged
                                                                                                                                                        Page     47 / 176to
his father. There he sat down and waited for the sun to rise. It was just there that he and Alexandra used to do their milking together, he on his side of the fence, she on
hers. He could remember exactly how she looked when she came over the close-cropped grass, her skirts pinned up, her head bare, a bright tin pail in either hand, and
the milky light of the early morning all about her. Even as a boy he used to feel, when he saw her coming with her free step, her upright head and calm shoulders, that
The dawn in the east looked like the light from some great fire that was burning under the edge of the world. The color was reflected in the globules of dew that
sheathed the short gray pasture grass. Carl walked rapidly until he came to the crest of the second hill, where the Bergson pasture joined the one that had belonged to
his father. There he sat down and waited for the sun to rise. It was just there that he and Alexandra used to do their milking together, he on his side of the fence, she on
hers. He could remember exactly how she looked when she came over the close-cropped grass, her skirts pinned up, her head bare, a bright tin pail in either hand, and
the milky light of the early morning all about her. Even as a boy he used to feel, when he saw her coming with her free step, her upright head and calm shoulders, that
she looked as if she had walked straight out of the morning itself. Since then, when he had happened to see the sun come up in the country or on the water, he had
often remembered the young Swedish girl and her milking pails.

Carl sat musing until the sun leaped above the prairie, and in the grass about him all the small creatures of day began to tune their tiny instruments. Birds and insects
without number began to chirp, to twitter, to snap and whistle, to make all manner of fresh shrill noises. The pasture was flooded with light; every clump of ironweed
and snow-on-themountain threw a long shadow, and the golden light seemed to be rippling through the curly grass like the tide racing in.

He crossed the fence into the pasture that was now the Shabatas' and continued his walk toward the pond. He had not gone far, however, when he discovered that he
was not the only person abroad. In the draw below, his gun in his hands, was Emil, advancing cautiously, with a young woman beside him. They were moving softly,
keeping close together, and Carl knew that they expected to find ducks on the pond. At the moment when they came in sight of the bright spot of water, he heard a
whirr of wings and the ducks shot up into the air. There was a sharp crack from the gun, and five of the birds fell to the ground. Emil and his companion laughed
delightedly, and Emil ran to pick them up. When he came back, dangling the ducks by their feet, Marie held her apron and he dropped them into it. As she stood
looking down at them, her face changed. She took up one of the birds, a rumpled ball of feathers with the blood dripping slowly from its mouth, and looked at the live
color that still burned on its plumage.

As she let it fall, she cried in distress, "Oh, Emil, why did you?"

"I like that!" the boy exclaimed indignantly. "Why, Marie, you asked me to come yourself."

":Yes, yes, I know," she said tearfully, "but I didn't think. I hate to see them when they are first shot. They were having such a good time, and we've spoiled it all for
them."

Emil gave a rather sore laugh. "I should say we had! I'm not going hunting with you any more. You're as bad as Ivar. Here, let me take them." He snatched the ducks
out of her apron.

"Don't be cross, Emil. Only-Ivar's right about wild things. They're too happy to kill. You can tell just how they felt when they flew up. They were scared, but they didn't
really think anything could hurt them. No, we won't do that any more."

"All right," Emil assented. "I'm sorry I made you feel bad." As he looked down into her tearful eyes, there was a curious, sharp young bitterness in his own.

Carl watched them as they moved slowly down the draw. They had not seen him at all. He had not overheard much of their dialogue, but he felt the import of it. It
made him, somehow, unreasonably mournful to find two young things abroad in the pasture in the early morning. He decided that he needed his breakfast.

VI

At dinner that day Alexandra said she thought they must really manage to go over to the Shabatas' that afternoon. "It's not often I let three days go by without seeing
Marie. She will think I have forsaken her, now that my old friend has come back."

After the men had gone back to work, Alexandra put on a white dress and her sun-hat, and she and Carl set forth across the fields. "You see we have kept up the old
path, Carl. It has been so nice for me to feel that there was a friend at the other end of it again."

Carl smiled a little ruefully. "All the same, I hope it hasn't been QUITE the same."

Alexandra looked at him with surprise. "Why, no, of course not. Not the same. She could not very well take your place, if that's what you mean. I'm friendly with all my
neighbors, I hope. But Marie is really a companion, some one I can talk to quite frankly. You wouldn't want me to be more lonely than I have been, would you?"

Carl laughed and pushed back the triangular lock of hair with the edge of his hat. "Of course I don't. I ought to be thankful that this path hasn't been worn by-well, by
friends with more pressing errands than your little Bohemian is likely to have." He paused to give Alexandra his hand as she stepped over the stile. "Are you the least bit
disappointed in our coming together again?" he asked abruptly. "Is it the way you hoped it would be?"

Alexandra smiled at this. "Only better. When I've thought about your coming, I've sometimes been a little afraid of it. You have lived where things move so fast, and
everything is slow here; the people slowest of all. Our lives are like the years, all made up of weather and crops and cows. How you hated cows!" She shook her head
and laughed to herself.

"I didn't when we milked together. I walked up to the pasture corners this morning. I wonder whether I shall ever be able to tell you all that I was thinking about up
there. It's a strange thing, Alexandra; I find it easy to be frank with you about everything under the sun except-yourself!"

"You are afraid of hurting my feelings, perhaps." Alexandra looked at him thoughtfully.

"No, I'm afraid of giving you a shock. You've seen yourself for so long in the dull minds of the people about you, that if I were to tell you how you seem to me, it would
startle you. But you must see that you astonish me. You must feel when people admire you."

Alexandra blushed and laughed with some confusion. "I felt that you were pleased with me, if you mean that."

"And you've felt when other people were pleased with you?" he insisted.

"Well, sometimes. The men in town, at the banks and the county offices, seem glad to see me. I think, myself, it is more pleasant to do business with people who are
clean and healthy-looking," she admitted blandly.

Carl gave a little chuckle as he opened the Shabatas' gate for her. "Oh, do you?" he asked dryly.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                            Page 48 / 176
There was no sign of life about the Shabatas' house except a big yellow cat, sunning itself on the kitchen doorstep.
clean and healthy-looking," she admitted blandly.

Carl gave a little chuckle as he opened the Shabatas' gate for her. "Oh, do you?" he asked dryly.

There was no sign of life about the Shabatas' house except a big yellow cat, sunning itself on the kitchen doorstep.

Alexandra took the path that led to the orchard. "She often sits there and sews. I didn't telephone her we were coming, because I didn't her to go to work and bake
cake and freeze ice-cream. She'll always make a party if you give her the least excuse. Do you recognize the apple trees, Carl?"

Linstrum looked about him. "I wish I had a dollar for every bucket of water I've carried for those trees. Poor father, he was an easy man, but he was perfectly
merciless when it came to watering the orchard."

"That's one thing I like about Germans; they make an orchard grow if they can't make anything else. I'm so glad these trees belong to some one who takes comfort in
them. When I rented this place, the tenants never kept the orchard up, and Emil and I used to come over and take care of it ourselves. It needs mowing now. There she
is, down in the corner. Maria-a-a!" she called.

A recumbent figure started up from the grass and came running toward them through the flickering screen of light and shade.

"Look at her! Isn't she like a little brown rabbit?" Alexandra laughed.

Maria ran up panting and threw her arms about Alexandra. "Oh, I had begun to think you were not coming at all, maybe. I knew you were so busy. Yes, Emil told me
about Mr. Linstrum being here. Won't you come up to the house?"

"Why not sit down there in your corner? Carl wants to see the orchard. He kept all these trees alive for years, watering them with his own back."

Marie turned to Carl. "Then I'm thankful to you, Mr. Linstrum. We'd never have bought the place if it hadn't been for this orchard, and then I wouldn't have had
Alexandra, either." She gave Alexandra's arm a little squeeze as she walked beside her. "How nice your dress smells, Alexandra; you put rosemary leaves in your
chest, like I told you."

She led them to the northwest corner of the orchard, sheltered on one side by a thick mulberry hedge and bordered on the other by a wheatfield, just beginning to
yellow. In this corner the ground dipped a little, and the bluegrass, which the weeds had driven out in the upper part of the orchard, grew thick and luxuriant. Wild
roses were flaming in the tufts of bunchgrass along the fence. Under a white mulberry tree there was an old wagon-seat. Beside it lay a book and a workbasket.

"You must have the seat, Alexandra. The grass would stain your dress," the hostess insisted. She dropped down on the ground at Alexandra's side and tucked her feet
under her. Carl sat at a little distance from the two women, his back to the wheatfield, and watched them. Alexandra took off her shade-hat and threw it on the ground.
Marie picked it up and played with the white ribbons, twisting them about her brown fingers as she talked. They made a pretty picture in the strong sunlight, the leafy
pattern surrounding them like a net; the Swedish woman so white and gold, kindly and amused, but armored in calm, and the alert brown one, her full lips parted, points
of yellow light dancing in her eyes as she laughed and chattered. Carl had never forgotten little Marie Tovesky's eyes, and he was glad to have an opportunity to study
them. The brown iris, he found, was curiously slashed with yellow, the color of sunflower honey, or of old amber. In each eye one of these streaks must have been
larger than the others, for the effect was that of two dancing points of light, two little yellow bubbles, such as rise in a glass of champagne. Sometimes they seemed like
the sparks from a forge. She seemed so easily excited, to kindle with a fierce little flame if one but breathed upon her. "What a waste," Carl reflected. "She ought to be
doing all that for a sweetheart. How awkwardly things come about!"

It was not very long before Marie sprang up out of the grass again. "Wait a moment. I want to show you something." She ran away and disappeared behind the low-
growing apple trees.

"What a charming creature," Carl murmured. "I don't wonder that her husband is jealous. But can't she walk? does she always run?"

Alexandra nodded. "Always. I don't see many people, but I don't believe there are many like her, anywhere."

Marie came back with a branch she had broken from an apricot tree, laden with paleyellow, pink-cheeked fruit. She dropped it beside Carl. "Did you plant those, too?
They are such beautiful little trees."

Carl fingered the blue-green leaves, porous like blotting-paper and shaped like birch leaves, hung on waxen red stems. "Yes, I think I did. Are these the circus trees,
Alexandra?"

"Shall I tell her about them?" Alexandra asked. "Sit down like a good girl, Marie, and don't ruin my poor hat, and I'll tell you a story. A long time ago, when Carl and I
were, say, sixteen and twelve, a circus came to Hanover and we went to town in our wagon, with Lou and Oscar, to see the parade. We hadn't money enough to go to
the circus. We followed the parade out to the circus grounds and hung around until the show began and the crowd went inside the tent. Then Lou was afraid we looked
foolish standing outside in the pasture, so we went back to Hanover feeling very sad. There was a man in the streets selling apricots, and we had never seen any before.
He had driven down from somewhere up in the French country, and he was selling them twenty-five cents a peck. We had a little money our fathers had given us for
candy, and I bought two pecks and Carl bought one. They cheered us a good deal, and we saved all the seeds and planted them. Up to the time Carl went away, they
hadn't borne at all."

"And now he's come back to eat them," cried Marie, nodding at Carl. "That IS a good story. I can remember you a little, Mr. Linstrum. I used to see you in Hanover
sometimes, when Uncle Joe took me to town. I remember you because you were always buying pencils and tubes of paint at the drug store. Once, when my uncle left
me at the store, you drew a lot of little birds and flowers for me on a piece of wrapping-paper. I kept them for a long while. I thought you were very romantic because
you could draw and had such black eyes."

Carl smiled. "Yes, I remember that time. Your uncle bought you some kind of a mechanical toy, a Turkish lady sitting on an ottoman and smoking a hookah, wasn't it?
And she turned her head backwards and forwards."

"Oh, yes! Wasn't she splendid! I knew well enough I ought not to tell Uncle Joe I wanted it, for he had just come back from the saloon and was feeling good. You
remember how he laughed? She tickled him, too. But when we got home, my aunt scolded him for buying toys when she needed so many things. We wound our lady
up every night, and when she began to move her head my aunt used to laugh as hard as any of us. It was a music-box, you know, and the Turkish lady played a tune
while she smoked. That was how she made you feel so jolly. As I remember her, she was lovely, and had a gold crescent on her turban."
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                         Page 49 / 176
Half an hour later, as they were leaving the house, Carl and Alexandra were met in the path by a strapping fellow in overalls and a blue shirt. He was breathing hard, as
if he had been running, and was muttering to himself.
"Oh, yes! Wasn't she splendid! I knew well enough I ought not to tell Uncle Joe I wanted it, for he had just come back from the saloon and was feeling good. You
remember how he laughed? She tickled him, too. But when we got home, my aunt scolded him for buying toys when she needed so many things. We wound our lady
up every night, and when she began to move her head my aunt used to laugh as hard as any of us. It was a music-box, you know, and the Turkish lady played a tune
while she smoked. That was how she made you feel so jolly. As I remember her, she was lovely, and had a gold crescent on her turban."

Half an hour later, as they were leaving the house, Carl and Alexandra were met in the path by a strapping fellow in overalls and a blue shirt. He was breathing hard, as
if he had been running, and was muttering to himself.

Marie ran forward, and, taking him by the arm, gave him a little push toward her guests. "Frank, this is Mr. Linstrum."

Frank took off his broad straw hat and nodded to Alexandra. When he spoke to Carl, he showed a fine set of white teeth. He was burned a dull red down to his
neckband, and there was a heavy three-days' stubble on his face. Even in his agitation he was handsome, but he looked a rash and violent man.

Barely saluting the callers, he turned at once to his wife and began, in an outraged tone, "I have to leave my team to drive the old woman Hiller's hogs out-a my wheat. I
go to take dat old woman to de court if she ain't careful, I tell you!"

His wife spoke soothingly. "But, Frank, she has only her lame boy to help her. She does the best she can."

Alexandra looked at the excited man and offered a suggestion. "Why don't you go over there some afternoon and hog-tight her fences? You'd save time for yourself in
the end."

Frank's neck stiffened. "Not-a-much, I won't. I keep my hogs home. Other peoples can do like me. See? If that Louis can mend shoes, he can mend fence."

"Maybe," said Alexandra placidly; "but I've found it sometimes pays to mend other people's fences. Good-bye, Marie. Come to see me soon."

Alexandra walked firmly down the path and Carl followed her.

Frank went into the house and threw himself on the sofa, his face to the wall, his clenched fist on his hip. Marie, having seen her guests off, came in and put her hand
coaxingly on his shoulder.

"Poor Frank! You've run until you've made your head ache, now haven't you? Let me make you some coffee."

"What else am I to do?" he cried hotly in Bohemian. "Am I to let any old woman's hogs root up my wheat? Is that what I work myself to death for?"

"Don't worry about it, Frank. I'll speak to Mrs. Hiller again. But, really, she almost cried last time they got out, she was so sorry."

Frank bounced over on his other side. "That's it; you always side with them against me. They all know it. Anybody here feels free to borrow the mower and break it, or
turn their hogs in on me. They know you won't care!"

Marie hurried away to make his coffee. When she came back, he was fast asleep. She sat down and looked at him for a long while, very thoughtfully. When the kitchen
clock struck six she went out to get supper, closing the door gently behind her. She was always sorry for Frank when he worked himself into one of these rages, and
she was sorry to have him rough and quarrelsome with his neighbors. She was perfectly aware that the neighbors had a good deal to put up with, and that they bore
with Frank for her sake.

VII

Marie's father, Albert Tovesky, was one of the more intelligent Bohemians who came West in the early seventies. He settled in Omaha and became a leader and
adviser among his people there. Marie was his youngest child, by a second wife, and was the apple of his eye. She was barely sixteen, and was in the graduating class
of the Omaha High School, when Frank Shabata arrived from the old country and set all the Bohemian girls in a flutter. He was easily the buck of the beer-gardens,
and on Sunday he was a sight to see, with his silk hat and tucked shirt and blue frock-coat, wearing gloves and carrying a little wisp of a yellow cane. He was tall and
fair, with splendid teeth and close-cropped yellow curls, and he wore a slightly disdainful expression, proper for a young man with high connections, whose mother had
a big farm in the Elbe valley. There was often an interesting discontent in his blue eyes, and every Bohemian girl he met imagined herself the cause of that unsatisfied
expression. He had a way of drawing out his cambric handkerchief slowly, by one corner, from his breastpocket, that was melancholy and romantic in the extreme. He
took a little flight with each of the more eligible Bohemian girls, but it was when he was with little Marie Tovesky that he drew his handkerchief out most slowly, and,
after he had lit a fresh cigar, dropped the match most despairingly. Any one could see, with half an eye, that his proud heart was bleeding for somebody.

One Sunday, late in the summer after Marie's graduation, she met Frank at a Bohemian picnic down the river and went rowing with him all the afternoon. When she got
home that evening she went straight to her father's room and told him that she was engaged to Shabata. Old Tovesky was having a comfortable pipe before he went to
bed. When he heard his daughter's announcement, he first prudently corked his beer bottle and then leaped to his feet and had a turn of temper. He characterized
Frank Shabata by a Bohemian expression which is the equivalent of stuffed shirt.

"Why don't he go to work like the rest of us did? His farm in the Elbe valley, indeed! Ain't he got plenty brothers and sisters? It's his mother's farm, and why don't he
stay at home and help her? Haven't I seen his mother out in the morning at five o'clock with her ladle and her big bucket on wheels, putting liquid manure on the
cabbages? Don't I know the look of old Eva Shabata's hands? Like an old horse's hoofs they are-and this fellow wearing gloves and rings! Engaged, indeed! You
aren't fit to be out of school, and that's what's the matter with you. I will send you off to the Sisters of the Sacred Heart in St. Louis, and they will teach you some
sense, I guess!"

Accordingly, the very next week, Albert Tovesky took his daughter, pale and tearful, down the river to the convent. But the way to make Frank want anything was to
tell him he couldn't have it. He managed to have an interview with Marie before she went away, and whereas he had been only half in love with her before, he now
persuaded himself that he would not stop at anything. Marie took with her to the convent, under the canvas lining of her trunk, the results of a laborious and satisfying
morning on Frank's part; no less than a dozen photographs of himself, taken in a dozen different love-lorn attitudes. There was a little round photograph for her watch-
case, photographs for her wall and dresser, and even long narrow ones to be used as bookmarks. More than once the handsome gentleman was torn to pieces before
the French class by an indignant nun.

Marie pined in the convent for a year, until her eighteenth birthday was passed. Then she met Frank Shabata in the Union Station in St. Louis and ran away with him.
Old Tovesky forgave his daughter because there was nothing else to do, and bought her a farm in the country that she had loved so well as a child. Since then her story
had been a part of the history of the Divide. She and Frank had been living there for five years when Carl Linstrum came back to pay his long deferred visit to
Alexandra.
 Copyright Frank  had, on theInfobase
            (c) 2005-2009,     whole, done  better
                                        Media      than one might have expected. He had flung himself at the soil with savage energy. Once a year hePage
                                               Corp.                                                                                                 went to50Hastings
                                                                                                                                                                 / 176
or to Omaha, on a spree. He stayed away for a week or two, and then came home and worked like a demon. He did work; if he felt sorry for himself, that was his
own affair.
Marie pined in the convent for a year, until her eighteenth birthday was passed. Then she met Frank Shabata in the Union Station in St. Louis and ran away with him.
Old Tovesky forgave his daughter because there was nothing else to do, and bought her a farm in the country that she had loved so well as a child. Since then her story
had been a part of the history of the Divide. She and Frank had been living there for five years when Carl Linstrum came back to pay his long deferred visit to
Alexandra. Frank had, on the whole, done better than one might have expected. He had flung himself at the soil with savage energy. Once a year he went to Hastings
or to Omaha, on a spree. He stayed away for a week or two, and then came home and worked like a demon. He did work; if he felt sorry for himself, that was his
own affair.

VIII

On the evening of the day of Alexandra's call at the Shabatas', a heavy rain set in. Frank sat up until a late hour reading the Sunday newspapers. One of the Goulds was
getting a divorce, and Frank took it as a personal affront. In printing the story of the young man's marital troubles, the knowing editor gave a sufficiently colored account
of his career, stating the amount of his income and the manner in which he was supposed to spend it. Frank read English slowly, and the more he read about this
divorce case, the angrier he grew. At last he threw down the page with a snort. He turned to his farm-hand who was reading the other half of the paper.

"By God! if I have that young feller in de hayfield once, I show him someting. Listen here what he do wit his money." And Frank began the catalogue of the young
man's reputed extravagances.

Marie sighed. She thought it hard that the Goulds, for whom she had nothing but good will, should make her so much trouble. She hated to see the Sunday newspapers
come into the house. Frank was always reading about the doings of rich people and feeling outraged. He had an inexhaustible stock of stories about their crimes and
follies, how they bribed the courts and shot down their butlers with impunity whenever they chose. Frank and Lou Bergson had very similar ideas, and they were two of
the political agitators of the county.

The next morning broke clear and brilliant, but Frank said the ground was too wet to plough, so he took the cart and drove over to Sainte-Agnes to spend the day at
Moses Marcel's saloon. After he was gone, Marie went out to the back porch to begin her butter-making. A brisk wind had come up and was driving puffy white
clouds across the sky. The orchard was sparkling and rippling in the sun. Marie stood looking toward it wistfully, her hand on the lid of the churn, when she heard a
sharp ring in the air, the merry sound of the whetstone on the scythe. That invitation decided her. She ran into the house, put on a short skirt and a pair of her husband's
boots, caught up a tin pail and started for the orchard. Emil had already begun work and was mowing vigorously. When he saw her coming, he stopped and wiped his
brow. His yellow canvas leggings and khaki trousers were splashed to the knees.

"Don't let me disturb you, Emil. I'm going to pick cherries. Isn't everything beautiful after the rain? Oh, but I'm glad to get this place mowed! When I heard it raining in
the night, I thought maybe you would come and do it for me to-day. The wind wakened me. Didn't it blow dreadfully? Just smell the wild roses! They are always so
spicy after a rain. We never had so many of them in here before. I suppose it's the wet season. Will you have to cut them, too?"

"If I cut the grass, I will," Emil said teasingly. "What's the matter with you? What makes you so flighty?"

"Am I flighty? I suppose that's the wet season, too, then. It's exciting to see everything growing so fast,-and to get the grass cut! Please leave the roses till last, if you
must cut them. Oh, I don't mean all of them, I mean that low place down by my tree, where there are so many. Aren't you splashed! Look at the spider-webs all over
the grass. Good-bye. I'll call you if I see a snake."

She tripped away and Emil stood looking after her. In a few moments he heard the cherries dropping smartly into the pail, and he began to swing his scythe with that
long, even stroke that few American boys ever learn. Marie picked cherries and sang softly to herself, stripping one glittering branch after another, shivering when she
caught a shower of raindrops on her neck and hair. And Emil mowed his way slowly down toward the cherry trees.

That summer the rains had been so many and opportune that it was almost more than Shabata and his man could do to keep up with the corn; the orchard was a
neglected wilderness. All sorts of weeds and herbs and flowers had grown up there; splotches of wild larkspur, pale green-and-white spikes of hoarhound, plantations
of wild cotton, tangles of foxtail and wild wheat. South of the apricot trees, cornering on the wheatfield, was Frank's alfalfa, where myriads of white and yellow
butterflies were always fluttering above the purple blossoms. When Emil reached the lower corner by the hedge, Marie was sitting under her white mulberry tree, the
pailful of cherries beside her, looking off at the gentle, tireless swelling of the wheat.

"Emil," she said suddenly-he was mowing quietly about under the tree so as not to disturb her-"what religion did the Swedes have away back, before they were
Christians?"

Emil paused and straightened his back. "I don't know. About like the Germans', wasn't it?"

Marie went on as if she had not heard him. "The Bohemians, you know, were tree worshipers before the missionaries came. Father says the people in the mountains
still do queer things, sometimes,-they believe that trees bring good or bad luck."

Emil looked superior. "Do they? Well, which are the lucky trees? I'd like to know."

"I don't know all of them, but I know lindens are. The old people in the mountains plant lindens to purify the forest, and to do away with the spells that come from the
old trees they say have lasted from heathen times. I'm a good Catholic, but I think I could get along with caring for trees, if I hadn't anything else."

"That's a poor saying," said Emil, stooping over to wipe his hands in the wet grass.

"Why is it? If I feel that way, I feel that way. I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do. I feel as if this tree knows
everything I ever think of when I sit here. When I come back to it, I never have to remind it of anything; I begin just where I left off."

Emil had nothing to say to this. He reached up among the branches and began to pick the sweet, insipid fruit,-long ivory-colored berries, tipped with faint pink, like
white coral, that fall to the ground unheeded all summer through. He dropped a handful into her lap.

"Do you like Mr. Linstrum?" Marie asked suddenly.

"Yes. Don't you?"

"Oh, ever so much; only he seems kind of staid and school-teachery. But, of course, he is older than Frank, even. I'm sure I don't want to live to be more than thirty,
do you? Do you think Alexandra likes him very much?"
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                             Page 51 / 176
"I suppose so. They were old friends."

"Oh, Emil, you know what I mean!" Marie tossed her head impatiently. "Does she really care about him? When she used to tell me about him, I always wondered
"Yes. Don't you?"

"Oh, ever so much; only he seems kind of staid and school-teachery. But, of course, he is older than Frank, even. I'm sure I don't want to live to be more than thirty,
do you? Do you think Alexandra likes him very much?"

"I suppose so. They were old friends."

"Oh, Emil, you know what I mean!" Marie tossed her head impatiently. "Does she really care about him? When she used to tell me about him, I always wondered
whether she wasn't a little in love with him."

"Who, Alexandra?" Emil laughed and thrust his hands into his trousers pockets. "Alexandra's never been in love, you crazy!" He laughed again. "She wouldn't know
how to go about it. The idea!"

Marie shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, you don't know Alexandra as well as you think you do! If you had any eyes, you would see that she is very fond of him. It would
serve you all right if she walked off with Carl. I like him because he appreciates her more than you do."

Emil frowned. "What are you talking about, Marie? Alexandra's all right. She and I have always been good friends. What more do you want? I like to talk to Carl
about New York and what a fellow can do there."

"Oh, Emil! Surely you are not thinking of going off there?"

"Why not? I must go somewhere, mustn't I?" The young man took up his scythe and leaned on it. "Would you rather I went off in the sand hills and lived like Ivar?"

Marie's face fell under his brooding gaze. She looked down at his wet leggings. "I'm sure Alexandra hopes you will stay on here," she murmured.

"Then Alexandra will be disappointed," the young man said roughly. "What do I want to hang around here for? Alexandra can run the farm all right, without me. I don't
want to stand around and look on. I want to be doing something on my own account."

"That's so," Marie sighed. "There are so many, many things you can do. Almost anything you choose."

"And there are so many, many things I can't do." Emil echoed her tone sarcastically. "Sometimes I don't want to do anything at all, and sometimes I want to pull the four
corners of the Divide together,"-he threw out his arm and brought it back with a jerk,-"so, like a table-cloth. I get tired of seeing men and horses going up and down,
up and down."

Marie looked up at his defiant figure and her face clouded. "I wish you weren't so restless, and didn't get so worked up over things," she said sadly.

"Thank you," he returned shortly.

She sighed despondently. "Everything I say makes you cross, don't it? And you never used to be cross to me."

Emil took a step nearer and stood frowning down at her bent head. He stood in an attitude of self-defense, his feet well apart, his hands clenched and drawn up at his
sides, so that the cords stood out on his bare arms. "I can't play with you like a little boy any more," he said slowly. "That's what you miss, Marie. You'll have to get
some other little boy to play with." He stopped and took a deep breath. Then he went on in a low tone, so intense that it was almost threatening: "Sometimes you seem
to understand perfectly, and then sometimes you pretend you don't. You don't help things any by pretending. It's then that I want to pull the corners of the Divide
together. If you WON'T understand, you know, I could make you!"

Marie clasped her hands and started up from her seat. She had grown very pale and her eyes were shining with excitement and distress. "But, Emil, if I understand, then
all our good times are over, we can never do nice things together any more. We shall have to behave like Mr. Linstrum. And, anyhow, there's nothing to understand!"
She struck the ground with her little foot fiercely. "That won't last. It will go away, and things will be just as they used to. I wish you were a Catholic. The Church helps
people, indeed it does. I pray for you, but that's not the same as if you prayed yourself."

She spoke rapidly and pleadingly, looked entreatingly into his face. Emil stood defiant, gazing down at her.

"I can't pray to have the things I want," he said slowly, "and I won't pray not to have them, not if I'm damned for it."

Marie turned away, wringing her hands. "Oh, Emil, you won't try! Then all our good times are over."

"Yes; over. I never expect to have any more."

Emil gripped the hand-holds of his scythe and began to mow. Marie took up her cherries and went slowly toward the house, crying bitterly.

IX

On Sunday afternoon, a month after Carl Linstrum's arrival, he rode with Emil up into the French country to attend a Catholic fair. He sat for most of the afternoon in
the basement of the church, where the fair was held, talking to Marie Shabata, or strolled about the gravel terrace, thrown up on the hillside in front of the basement
doors, where the French boys were jumping and wrestling and throwing the discus. Some of the boys were in their white baseball suits; they had just come up from a
Sunday practice game down in the ballgrounds. Amedee, the newly married, Emil's best friend, was their pitcher, renowned among the country towns for his dash and
skill. Amedee was a little fellow, a year younger than Emil and much more boyish in appearance; very lithe and active and neatly made, with a clear brown and white
skin, and flashing white teeth. The Sainte-Agnes boys were to play the Hastings nine in a fortnight, and Amedee's lightning balls were the hope of his team. The little
Frenchman seemed to get every ounce there was in him behind the ball as it left his hand.

"You'd have made the battery at the University for sure, 'Medee," Emil said as they were walking from the ball-grounds back to the church on the hill. "You're pitching
better than you did in the spring."

Amedee grinned. "Sure! A married man don't lose his head no more." He slapped Emil on the back as he caught step with him. "Oh, Emil, you wanna get married right
off quick! It's the greatest thing ever!"

Emil laughed.
Copyright  (c)"How am I going
               2005-2009,     to get married
                          Infobase           without any girl?"
                                     Media Corp.                                                                                                         Page 52 / 176
Amedee took his arm. "Pooh! There are plenty girls will have you. You wanna get some nice French girl, now. She treat you well; always be jolly. See,"-he began
checking off on his fingers,-"there is Severine, and Alphosen, and Josephine, and Hectorine, and Louise, and Malvina-why, I could love any of them girls! Why don't
Amedee grinned. "Sure! A married man don't lose his head no more." He slapped Emil on the back as he caught step with him. "Oh, Emil, you wanna get married right
off quick! It's the greatest thing ever!"

Emil laughed. "How am I going to get married without any girl?"

Amedee took his arm. "Pooh! There are plenty girls will have you. You wanna get some nice French girl, now. She treat you well; always be jolly. See,"-he began
checking off on his fingers,-"there is Severine, and Alphosen, and Josephine, and Hectorine, and Louise, and Malvina-why, I could love any of them girls! Why don't
you get after them? Are you stuck up, Emil, or is anything the matter with you? I never did know a boy twenty-two years old before that didn't have no girl. You wanna
be a priest, maybe? Not-a for me!" Amedee swaggered. "I bring many good Catholics into this world, I hope, and that's a way I help the Church."

Emil looked down and patted him on the shoulder. "Now you're windy, 'Medee. You Frenchies like to brag."

But Amedee had the zeal of the newly married, and he was not to be lightly shaken off. "Honest and true, Emil, don't you want ANY girl? Maybe there's some young
lady in Lincoln, now, very grand,"-Amedee waved his hand languidly before his face to denote the fan of heartless beauty,-"and you lost your heart up there. Is that it?"

"Maybe," said Emil.

But Amedee saw no appropriate glow in his friend's face. "Bah!" he exclaimed in disgust. "I tell all the French girls to keep 'way from you. You gotta rock in there,"
thumping Emil on the ribs.

When they reached the terrace at the side of the church, Amedee, who was excited by his success on the ball-grounds, challenged Emil to a jumping-match, though he
knew he would be beaten. They belted themselves up, and Raoul Marcel, the choir tenor and Father Duchesne's pet, and Jean Bordelau, held the string over which
they vaulted. All the French boys stood round, cheering and humping themselves up when Emil or Amedee went over the wire, as if they were helping in the lift. Emil
stopped at five-feet-five, declaring that he would spoil his appetite for supper if he jumped any more.

Angelique, Amedee's pretty bride, as blonde and fair as her name, who had come out to watch the match, tossed her head at Emil and said:- "'Medee could jump much
higher than you if he were as tall. And anyhow, he is much more graceful. He goes over like a bird, and you have to hump yourself all up."

"Oh, I do, do I?" Emil caught her and kissed her saucy mouth squarely, while she laughed and struggled and called, "'Medee! 'Medee!"

"There, you see your 'Medee isn't even big enough to get you away from me. I could run away with you right now and he could only sit down and cry about it. I'll show
you whether I have to hump myself!" Laughing and panting, he picked Angelique up in his arms and began running about the rectangle with her. Not until he saw Marie
Shabata's tiger eyes flashing from the gloom of the basement doorway did he hand the disheveled bride over to her husband. "There, go to your graceful; I haven't the
heart to take you away from him."

Angelique clung to her husband and made faces at Emil over the white shoulder of Amedee's ball-shirt. Emil was greatly amused at her air of proprietorship and at
Amedee's shameless submission to it. He was delighted with his friend's good fortune. He liked to see and to think about Amedee's sunny, natural, happy love.

He and Amedee had ridden and wrestled and larked together since they were lads of twelve. On Sundays and holidays they were always arm in arm. It seemed strange
that now he should have to hide the thing that Amedee was so proud of, that the feeling which gave one of them such happiness should bring the other such despair. It
was like that when Alexandra tested her seed-corn in the spring, he mused. From two ears that had grown side by side, the grains of one shot up joyfully into the light,
projecting themselves into the future, and the grains from the other lay still in the earth and rotted; and nobody knew why.

X

While Emil and Carl were amusing themselves at the fair, Alexandra was at home, busy with her account-books, which had been neglected of late. She was almost
through with her figures when she heard a cart drive up to the gate, and looking out of the window she saw her two older brothers. They had seemed to avoid her ever
since Carl Linstrum's arrival, four weeks ago that day, and she hurried to the door to welcome them. She saw at once that they had come with some very definite
purpose. They followed her stiffly into the sitting-room. Oscar sat down, but Lou walked over to the window and remained standing, his hands behind him.

"You are by yourself?" he asked, looking toward the doorway into the parlor.

"Yes. Carl and Emil went up to the Catholic fair."

For a few moments neither of the men spoke.

Then Lou came out sharply. "How soon does he intend to go away from here?"

"I don't know, Lou. Not for some time, I hope." Alexandra spoke in an even, quiet tone that often exasperated her brothers. They felt that she was trying to be superior
with them.

Oscar spoke up grimly. "We thought we ought to tell you that people have begun to talk," he said meaningly.

Alexandra looked at him. "What about?"

Oscar met her eyes blankly. "About you, keeping him here so long. It looks bad for him to be hanging on to a woman this way. People think you're getting taken in."

Alexandra shut her account-book firmly. "Boys," she said seriously, "don't let's go on with this. We won't come out anywhere. I can't take advice on such a matter. I
know you mean well, but you must not feel responsible for me in things of this sort. If we go on with this talk it will only make hard feeling."

Lou whipped about from the window. "You ought to think a little about your family. You're making us all ridiculous."

"How am I?"

"People are beginning to say you want to marry the fellow."

"Well, and what
 Copyright      is ridiculousInfobase
           (c) 2005-2009,     about that?"
                                       Media Corp.                                                                                                   Page 53 / 176
Lou and Oscar exchanged outraged looks. "Alexandra! Can't you see he's just a tramp and he's after your money? He wants to be taken care of, he does!"
"How am I?"

"People are beginning to say you want to marry the fellow."

"Well, and what is ridiculous about that?"

Lou and Oscar exchanged outraged looks. "Alexandra! Can't you see he's just a tramp and he's after your money? He wants to be taken care of, he does!"

"Well, suppose I want to take care of him? Whose business is it but my own?"

"Don't you know he'd get hold of your property?"

"He'd get hold of what I wished to give him, certainly."

Oscar sat up suddenly and Lou clutched at his bristly hair.

"Give him?" Lou shouted. "Our property, our homestead?"

"I don't know about the homestead," said Alexandra quietly. "I know you and Oscar have always expected that it would be left to your children, and I'm not sure but
what you're right. But I'll do exactly as I please with the rest of my land, boys."

"The rest of your land!" cried Lou, growing more excited every minute. "Didn't all the land come out of the homestead? It was bought with money borrowed on the
homestead, and Oscar and me worked ourselves to the bone paying interest on it."

"Yes, you paid the interest. But when you married we made a division of the land, and you were satisfied. I've made more on my farms since I've been alone than when
we all worked together."

"Everything you've made has come out of the original land that us boys worked for, hasn't it? The farms and all that comes out of them belongs to us as a family."

Alexandra waved her hand impatiently. "Come now, Lou. Stick to the facts. You are talking nonsense. Go to the county clerk and ask him who owns my land, and
whether my titles are good."

Lou turned to his brother. "This is what comes of letting a woman meddle in business," he said bitterly. "We ought to have taken things in our own hands years ago. But
she liked to run things, and we humored her. We thought you had good sense, Alexandra. We never thought you'd do anything foolish."

Alexandra rapped impatiently on her desk with her knuckles. "Listen, Lou. Don't talk wild. You say you ought to have taken things into your own hands years ago. I
suppose you mean before you left home. But how could you take hold of what wasn't there? I've got most of what I have now since we divided the property; I've built
it up myself, and it has nothing to do with you."

Oscar spoke up solemnly. "The property of a family really belongs to the men of the family, no matter about the title. If anything goes wrong, it's the men that are held
responsible."

"Yes, of course," Lou broke in. "Everybody knows that. Oscar and me have always been easy-going and we've never made any fuss. We were willing you should hold
the land and have the good of it, but you got no right to part with any of it. We worked in the fields to pay for the first land you bought, and whatever's come out of it
has got to be kept in the family."

Oscar reinforced his brother, his mind fixed on the one point he could see. "The property of a family belongs to the men of the family, because they are held
responsible, and because they do the work."

Alexandra looked from one to the other, her eyes full of indignation. She had been impatient before, but now she was beginning to feel angry. "And what about my
work?" she asked in an unsteady voice.

Lou looked at the carpet. "Oh, now, Alexandra, you always took it pretty easy! Of course we wanted you to. You liked to manage round, and we always humored
you. We realize you were a great deal of help to us. There's no woman anywhere around that knows as much about business as you do, and we've always been proud
of that, and thought you were pretty smart. But, of course, the real work always fell on us. Good advice is all right, but it don't get the weeds out of the corn."

"Maybe not, but it sometimes puts in the crop, and it sometimes keeps the fields for corn to grow in," said Alexandra dryly. "Why, Lou, I can remember when you and
Oscar wanted to sell this homestead and all the improvements to old preacher Ericson for two thousand dollars. If I'd consented, you'd have gone down to the river
and scraped along on poor farms for the rest of your lives. When I put in our first field of alfalfa you both opposed me, just because I first heard about it from a young
man who had been to the University. You said I was being taken in then, and all the neighbors said so. You know as well as I do that alfalfa has been the salvation of
this country. You all laughed at me when I said our land here was about ready for wheat, and I had to raise three big wheat crops before the neighbors quit putting all
their land in corn. Why, I remember you cried, Lou, when we put in the first big wheat-planting, and said everybody was laughing at us."

Lou turned to Oscar. "That's the woman of it; if she tells you to put in a crop, she thinks she's put it in. It makes women conceited to meddle in business. I shouldn't
think you'd want to remind us how hard you were on us, Alexandra, after the way you baby Emil."

"Hard on you? I never meant to be hard. Conditions were hard. Maybe I would never have been very soft, anyhow; but I certainly didn't choose to be the kind of girl I
was. If you take even a vine and cut it back again and again, it grows hard, like a tree."

Lou felt that they were wandering from the point, and that in digression Alexandra might unnerve him. He wiped his forehead with a jerk of his handkerchief. "We never
doubted you, Alexandra. We never questioned anything you did. You've always had your own way. But you can't expect us to sit like stumps and see you done out of
the property by any loafer who happens along, and making yourself ridiculous into the bargain."

Oscar rose. "Yes," he broke in, "everybody's laughing to see you get took in; at your age, too. Everybody knows he's nearly five years younger than you, and is after
your money. Why, Alexandra, you are forty years old!"

"All that doesn't concern anybody but Carl and me. Go to town and ask your lawyers what you can do to restrain me from disposing of my own property. And I advise
you to do what
 Copyright      they tell you;Infobase
            (c) 2005-2009,     for the authority you can exert by law is the only influence you will ever have over me again." Alexandra rose. "I think IPage
                                         Media Corp.                                                                                                      would rather not
                                                                                                                                                                54 / 176
have lived to find out what I have to-day," she said quietly, closing her desk.

Lou and Oscar looked at each other questioningly. There seemed to be nothing to do but to go, and they walked out.
your money. Why, Alexandra, you are forty years old!"

"All that doesn't concern anybody but Carl and me. Go to town and ask your lawyers what you can do to restrain me from disposing of my own property. And I advise
you to do what they tell you; for the authority you can exert by law is the only influence you will ever have over me again." Alexandra rose. "I think I would rather not
have lived to find out what I have to-day," she said quietly, closing her desk.

Lou and Oscar looked at each other questioningly. There seemed to be nothing to do but to go, and they walked out.

"You can't do business with women," Oscar said heavily as he clambered into the cart. "But anyhow, we've had our say, at last."

Lou scratched his head. "Talk of that kind might come too high, you know; but she's apt to be sensible. You hadn't ought to said that about her age, though, Oscar. I'm
afraid that hurt her feelings; and the worst thing we can do is to make her sore at us. She'd marry him out of contrariness."

"I only meant," said Oscar, "that she is old enough to know better, and she is. If she was going to marry, she ought to done it long ago, and not go making a fool of
herself now."

Lou looked anxious, nevertheless. "Of course," he reflected hopefully and inconsistently, "Alexandra ain't much like other women-folks. Maybe it won't make her sore.
Maybe she'd as soon be forty as not!"

XI

Emil came home at about half-past seven o'clock that evening. Old Ivar met him at the windmill and took his horse, and the young man went directly into the house. He
called to his sister and she answered from her bedroom, behind the sitting-room, saying that she was lying down.

Emil went to her door.

"Can I see you for a minute?" he asked. "I want to talk to you about something before Carl comes."

Alexandra rose quickly and came to the door. "Where is Carl?"

"Lou and Oscar met us and said they wanted to talk to him, so he rode over to Oscar's with them. Are you coming out?" Emil asked impatiently.

"Yes, sit down. I'll be dressed in a moment."

Alexandra closed her door, and Emil sank down on the old slat lounge and sat with his head in his hands. When his sister came out, he looked up, not knowing whether
the interval had been short or long, and he was surprised to see that the room had grown quite dark. That was just as well; it would be easier to talk if he were not
under the gaze of those clear, deliberate eyes, that saw so far in some directions and were so blind in others. Alexandra, too, was glad of the dusk. Her face was
swollen from crying.

Emil started up and then sat down again. "Alexandra," he said slowly, in his deep young baritone, "I don't want to go away to law school this fall. Let me put it off
another year. I want to take a year off and look around. It's awfully easy to rush into a profession you don't really like, and awfully hard to get out of it. Linstrum and I
have been talking about that."

"Very well, Emil. Only don't go off looking for land." She came up and put her hand on his shoulder. "I've been wishing you could stay with me this winter."

"That's just what I don't want to do, Alexandra. I'm restless. I want to go to a new place. I want to go down to the City of Mexico to join one of the University fellows
who's at the head of an electrical plant. He wrote me he could give me a little job, enough to pay my way, and I could look around and see what I want to do. I want to
go as soon as harvest is over. I guess Lou and Oscar will be sore about it."

"I suppose they will." Alexandra sat down on the lounge beside him. "They are very angry with me, Emil. We have had a quarrel. They will not come here again."

Emil scarcely heard what she was saying; he did not notice the sadness of her tone. He was thinking about the reckless life he meant to live in Mexico.

"What about?" he asked absently.

"About Carl Linstrum. They are afraid I am going to marry him, and that some of my property will get away from them."

Emil shrugged his shoulders. "What nonsense!" he murmured. "Just like them."

Alexandra drew back. "Why nonsense, Emil?"

"Why, you've never thought of such a thing, have you? They always have to have something to fuss about."

"Emil," said his sister slowly, "you ought not to take things for granted. Do you agree with them that I have no right to change my way of living?"

Emil looked at the outline of his sister's head in the dim light. They were sitting close together and he somehow felt that she could hear his thoughts. He was silent for a
moment, and then said in an embarrassed tone, "Why, no, certainly not. You ought to do whatever you want to. I'll always back you."

"But it would seem a little bit ridiculous to you if I married Carl?"

Emil fidgeted. The issue seemed to him too far-fetched to warrant discussion. "Why, no. I should be surprised if you wanted to. I can't see exactly why. But that's none
of my business. You ought to do as you please. Certainly you ought not to pay any attention to what the boys say."

Alexandra sighed. "I had hoped you might understand, a little, why I do want to. But I suppose that's too much to expect. I've had a pretty lonely life, Emil. Besides
Marie, Carl is the only friend I have ever had."

Emil was awake now; a name in her last sentence roused him. He put out his hand and took his sister's awkwardly. "You ought to do just as you wish, and I think
 Copyright
Carl's a fine(c) 2005-2009,
              fellow. He and IInfobase Mediaget
                               would always    Corp.                                                                                                    Page
                                                 on. I don't believe any of the things the boys say about him, honest I don't. They are suspicious of him      55he's
                                                                                                                                                          because / 176
intelligent. You know their way. They've been sore at me ever since you let me go away to college. They're always trying to catch me up. If I were you, I wouldn't pay
any attention to them. There's nothing to get upset about. Carl's a sensible fellow. He won't mind them."
Marie, Carl is the only friend I have ever had."

Emil was awake now; a name in her last sentence roused him. He put out his hand and took his sister's awkwardly. "You ought to do just as you wish, and I think
Carl's a fine fellow. He and I would always get on. I don't believe any of the things the boys say about him, honest I don't. They are suspicious of him because he's
intelligent. You know their way. They've been sore at me ever since you let me go away to college. They're always trying to catch me up. If I were you, I wouldn't pay
any attention to them. There's nothing to get upset about. Carl's a sensible fellow. He won't mind them."

"I don't know. If they talk to him the way they did to me, I think he'll go away."

Emil grew more and more uneasy. "Think so? Well, Marie said it would serve us all right if you walked off with him."

"Did she? Bless her little heart! SHE would." Alexandra's voice broke.

Emil began unlacing his leggings. "Why don't you talk to her about it? There's Carl, I hear his horse. I guess I'll go upstairs and get my boots off. No, I don't want any
supper. We had supper at five o'clock, at the fair."

Emil was glad to escape and get to his own room. He was a little ashamed for his sister, though he had tried not to show it. He felt that there was something indecorous
in her proposal, and she did seem to him somewhat ridiculous. There was trouble enough in the world, he reflected, as he threw himself upon his bed, without people
who were forty years old imagining they wanted to get married. In the darkness and silence Emil was not likely to think long about Alexandra. Every image slipped
away but one. He had seen Marie in the crowd that afternoon. She sold candy at the fair. WHY had she ever run away with Frank Shabata, and how could she go on
laughing and working and taking an interest in things? Why did she like so many people, and why had she seemed pleased when all the French and Bohemian boys, and
the priest himself, crowded round her candy stand? Why did she care about any one but him? Why could he never, never find the thing he looked for in her playful,
affectionate eyes?

Then he fell to imagining that he looked once more and found it there, and what it would be like if she loved him,-she who, as Alexandra said, could give her whole
heart. In that dream he could lie for hours, as if in a trance. His spirit went out of his body and crossed the fields to Marie Shabata.

At the University dances the girls had often looked wonderingly at the tall young Swede with the fine head, leaning against the wall and frowning, his arms folded, his
eyes fixed on the ceiling or the floor. All the girls were a little afraid of him. He was distinguished-looking, and not the jollying kind. They felt that he was too intense and
preoccupied. There was something queer about him. Emil's fraternity rather prided itself upon its dances, and sometimes he did his duty and danced every dance. But
whether he was on the floor or brooding in a corner, he was always thinking about Marie Shabata. For two years the storm had been gathering in him.

XII

Carl came into the sitting-room while Alexandra was lighting the lamp. She looked up at him as she adjusted the shade. His sharp shoulders stooped as if he were very
tired, his face was pale, and there were bluish shadows under his dark eyes. His anger had burned itself out and left him sick and disgusted.

"You have seen Lou and Oscar?" Alexandra asked.

"Yes." His eyes avoided hers.

Alexandra took a deep breath. "And now you are going away. I thought so."

Carl threw himself into a chair and pushed the dark lock back from his forehead with his white, nervous hand. "What a hopeless position you are in, Alexandra!" he
exclaimed feverishly. "It is your fate to be always surrounded by little men. And I am no better than the rest. I am too little to face the criticism of even such men as Lou
and Oscar. Yes, I am going away; to-morrow. I cannot even ask you to give me a promise until I have something to offer you. I thought, perhaps, I could do that; but I
find I can't."

"What good comes of offering people things they don't need?" Alexandra asked sadly. "I don't need money. But I have needed you for a great many years. I wonder
why I have been permitted to prosper, if it is only to take my friends away from me."

"I don't deceive myself," Carl said frankly. "I know that I am going away on my own account. I must make the usual effort. I must have something to show for myself.
To take what you would give me, I should have to be either a very large man or a very small one, and I am only in the middle class."

Alexandra sighed. "I have a feeling that if you go away, you will not come back. Something will happen to one of us, or to both. People have to snatch at happiness
when they can, in this world. It is always easier to lose than to find. What I have is yours, if you care enough about me to take it."

Carl rose and looked up at the picture of John Bergson. "But I can't, my dear, I can't! I will go North at once. Instead of idling about in California all winter, I shall be
getting my bearings up there. I won't waste another week. Be patient with me, Alexandra. Give me a year!"

"As you will," said Alexandra wearily. "All at once, in a single day, I lose everything; and I do not know why. Emil, too, is going away." Carl was still studying John
Bergson's face and Alexandra's eyes followed his. "Yes," she said, "if he could have seen all that would come of the task he gave me, he would have been sorry. I hope
he does not see me now. I hope that he is among the old people of his blood and country, and that tidings do not reach him from the New World."

Part III

Winter Memories

I

Winter has settled down over the Divide again; the season in which Nature recuperates, in which she sinks to sleep between the fruitfulness of autumn and the passion
of spring. The birds have gone. The teeming life that goes on down in the long grass is exterminated. The prairie-dog keeps his hole. The rabbits run shivering from one
frozen garden patch to another and are hard put to it to find frost-bitten cabbage-stalks. At night the coyotes roam the wintry waste, howling for food. The variegated
fields are all one color now; the pastures, the stubble, the roads, the sky are the same leaden gray. The hedgerows and trees are scarcely perceptible against the bare
earth, whose slaty hue they have taken on. The ground is frozen so hard that it bruises the foot to walk in the roads or in the ploughed fields. It is like an iron country,
and the spirit is oppressed by its rigor and melancholy. One could easily believe that in that dead landscape the germs of life and fruitfulness were extinct forever.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                              Page 56 / 176
Alexandra has settled back into her old routine. There are weekly letters from Emil. Lou and Oscar she has not seen since Carl went away. To avoid awkward
encounters in the presence of curious spectators, she has stopped going to the Norwegian Church and drives up to the Reform Church at Hanover, or goes with Marie
Shabata to the Catholic Church, locally known as "the French Church." She has not told Marie about Carl, or her differences with her brothers. She was never very
frozen garden patch to another and are hard put to it to find frost-bitten cabbage-stalks. At night the coyotes roam the wintry waste, howling for food. The variegated
fields are all one color now; the pastures, the stubble, the roads, the sky are the same leaden gray. The hedgerows and trees are scarcely perceptible against the bare
earth, whose slaty hue they have taken on. The ground is frozen so hard that it bruises the foot to walk in the roads or in the ploughed fields. It is like an iron country,
and the spirit is oppressed by its rigor and melancholy. One could easily believe that in that dead landscape the germs of life and fruitfulness were extinct forever.

Alexandra has settled back into her old routine. There are weekly letters from Emil. Lou and Oscar she has not seen since Carl went away. To avoid awkward
encounters in the presence of curious spectators, she has stopped going to the Norwegian Church and drives up to the Reform Church at Hanover, or goes with Marie
Shabata to the Catholic Church, locally known as "the French Church." She has not told Marie about Carl, or her differences with her brothers. She was never very
communicative about her own affairs, and when she came to the point, an instinct told her that about such things she and Marie would not understand one another.

Old Mrs. Lee had been afraid that family misunderstandings might deprive her of her yearly visit to Alexandra. But on the first day of December Alexandra telephoned
Annie that to-morrow she would send Ivar over for her mother, and the next day the old lady arrived with her bundles. For twelve years Mrs. Lee had always entered
Alexandra's sitting-room with the same exclamation, "Now we be yust-a like old times!" She enjoyed the liberty Alexandra gave her, and hearing her own language
about her all day long. Here she could wear her nightcap and sleep with all her windows shut, listen to Ivar reading the Bible, and here she could run about among the
stables in a pair of Emil's old boots. Though she was bent almost double, she was as spry as a gopher. Her face was as brown as if it had been varnished, and as full of
wrinkles as a washerwoman's hands. She had three jolly old teeth left in the front of her mouth, and when she grinned she looked very knowing, as if when you found
out how to take it, life wasn't half bad. While she and Alexandra patched and pieced and quilted, she talked incessantly about stories she read in a Swedish family
paper, telling the plots in great detail; or about her life on a dairy farm in Gottland when she was a girl. Sometimes she forgot which were the printed stories and which
were the real stories, it all seemed so far away. She loved to take a little brandy, with hot water and sugar, before she went to bed, and Alexandra always had it ready
for her. "It sends good dreams," she would say with a twinkle in her eye.

When Mrs. Lee had been with Alexandra for a week, Marie Shabata telephoned one morning to say that Frank had gone to town for the day, and she would like them
to come over for coffee in the afternoon. Mrs. Lee hurried to wash out and iron her new cross-stitched apron, which she had finished only the night before; a checked
gingham apron worked with a design ten inches broad across the bottom; a hunting scene, with fir trees and a stag and dogs and huntsmen. Mrs. Lee was firm with
herself at dinner, and refused a second helping of apple dumplings. "I ta-ank I save up," she said with a giggle.

At two o'clock in the afternoon Alexandra's cart drove up to the Shabatas' gate, and Marie saw Mrs. Lee's red shawl come bobbing up the path. She ran to the door
and pulled the old woman into the house with a hug, helping her to take off her wraps while Alexandra blanketed the horse outside. Mrs. Lee had put on her best black
satine dress-she abominated woolen stuffs, even in winter-and a crocheted collar, fastened with a big pale gold pin, containing faded daguerreotypes of her father and
mother. She had not worn her apron for fear of rumpling it, and now she shook it out and tied it round her waist with a conscious air. Marie drew back and threw up
her hands, exclaiming, "Oh, what a beauty! I've never seen this one before, have I, Mrs. Lee?"

The old woman giggled and ducked her head. "No, yust las' night I ma-ake. See dis tread; verra strong, no wa-ash out, no fade. My sister send from Sveden. I yust-a
ta-ank you like dis."

Marie ran to the door again. "Come in, Alexandra. I have been looking at Mrs. Lee's apron. Do stop on your way home and show it to Mrs. Hiller. She's crazy about
cross-stitch."

While Alexandra removed her hat and veil, Mrs. Lee went out to the kitchen and settled herself in a wooden rocking-chair by the stove, looking with great interest at
the table, set for three, with a white cloth, and a pot of pink geraniums in the middle. "My, a-an't you gotta fine plants; such-a much flower. How you keep from
freeze?"

She pointed to the window-shelves, full of blooming fuchsias and geraniums.

"I keep the fire all night, Mrs. Lee, and when it's very cold I put them all on the table, in the middle of the room. Other nights I only put newspapers behind them. Frank
laughs at me for fussing, but when they don't bloom he says, 'What's the matter with the darned things?'-What do you hear from Carl, Alexandra?"

"He got to Dawson before the river froze, and now I suppose I won't hear any more until spring. Before he left California he sent me a box of orange flowers, but they
didn't keep very well. I have brought a bunch of Emil's letters for you." Alexandra came out from the sitting-room and pinched Marie's cheek playfully. "You don't look
as if the weather ever froze you up. Never have colds, do you? That's a good girl. She had dark red cheeks like this when she was a little girl, Mrs. Lee. She looked
like some queer foreign kind of a doll. I've never forgot the first time I saw you in Mieklejohn's store, Marie, the time father was lying sick. Carl and I were talking
about that before he went away."

"I remember, and Emil had his kitten along. When are you going to send Emil's Christmas box?"

"It ought to have gone before this. I'll have to send it by mail now, to get it there in time."

Marie pulled a dark purple silk necktie from her workbasket. "I knit this for him. It's a good color, don't you think? Will you please put it in with your things and tell him
it's from me, to wear when he goes serenading."

Alexandra laughed. "I don't believe he goes serenading much. He says in one letter that the Mexican ladies are said to be very beautiful, but that don't seem to me very
warm praise."

Marie tossed her head. "Emil can't fool me. If he's bought a guitar, he goes serenading. Who wouldn't, with all those Spanish girls dropping flowers down from their
windows! I'd sing to them every night, wouldn't you, Mrs. Lee?"

The old lady chuckled. Her eyes lit up as Marie bent down and opened the oven door. A delicious hot fragrance blew out into the tidy kitchen. "My, somet'ing smell
good!" She turned to Alexandra with a wink, her three yellow teeth making a brave show, "I ta-ank dat stop my yaw from ache no more!" she said contentedly.

Marie took out a pan of delicate little rolls, stuffed with stewed apricots, and began to dust them over with powdered sugar. "I hope you'll like these, Mrs. Lee;
Alexandra does. The Bohemians always like them with their coffee. But if you don't, I have a coffee-cake with nuts and poppy seeds. Alexandra, will you get the cream
jug? I put it in the window to keep cool."

"The Bohemians," said Alexandra, as they drew up to the table, "certainly know how to make more kinds of bread than any other people in the world. Old Mrs. Hiller
told me once at the church supper that she could make seven kinds of fancy bread, but Marie could make a dozen."

Mrs. Lee held up one of the apricot rolls between her brown thumb and forefinger and weighed it critically. "Yust like-a fedders," she pronounced with satisfaction.
"My, a-an't (c)
 Copyright  dis 2005-2009,
                nice!" she exclaimed
                             InfobaseasMedia
                                         she stirred
                                                Corp.her coffee. "I yust ta-ake a liddle yelly now, too, I ta-ank."                                Page 57 / 176
Alexandra and Marie laughed at her forehandedness, and fell to talking of their own affairs. "I was afraid you had a cold when I talked to you over the telephone the
other night, Marie. What was the matter, had you been crying?"
told me once at the church supper that she could make seven kinds of fancy bread, but Marie could make a dozen."

Mrs. Lee held up one of the apricot rolls between her brown thumb and forefinger and weighed it critically. "Yust like-a fedders," she pronounced with satisfaction.
"My, a-an't dis nice!" she exclaimed as she stirred her coffee. "I yust ta-ake a liddle yelly now, too, I ta-ank."

Alexandra and Marie laughed at her forehandedness, and fell to talking of their own affairs. "I was afraid you had a cold when I talked to you over the telephone the
other night, Marie. What was the matter, had you been crying?"

"Maybe I had," Marie smiled guiltily. "Frank was out late that night. Don't you get lonely sometimes in the winter, when everybody has gone away?"

"I thought it was something like that. If I hadn't had company, I'd have run over to see for myself. If you get down-hearted, what will become of the rest of us?"
Alexandra asked.

"I don't, very often. There's Mrs. Lee without any coffee!"

Later, when Mrs. Lee declared that her powers were spent, Marie and Alexandra went upstairs to look for some crochet patterns the old lady wanted to borrow.
"Better put on your coat, Alexandra. It's cold up there, and I have no idea where those patterns are. I may have to look through my old trunks." Marie caught up a
shawl and opened the stair door, running up the steps ahead of her guest. "While I go through the bureau drawers, you might look in those hat-boxes on the closet-
shelf, over where Frank's clothes hang. There are a lot of odds and ends in them."

She began tossing over the contents of the drawers, and Alexandra went into the clothescloset. Presently she came back, holding a slender elastic yellow stick in her
hand.

"What in the world is this, Marie? You don't mean to tell me Frank ever carried such a thing?"

Marie blinked at it with astonishment and sat down on the floor. "Where did you find it? I didn't know he had kept it. I haven't seen it for years."

"It really is a cane, then?"

"Yes. One he brought from the old country. He used to carry it when I first knew him. Isn't it foolish? Poor Frank!"

Alexandra twirled the stick in her fingers and laughed. "He must have looked funny!"

Marie was thoughtful. "No, he didn't, really. It didn't seem out of place. He used to be awfully gay like that when he was a young man. I guess people always get what's
hardest for them, Alexandra." Marie gathered the shawl closer about her and still looked hard at the cane. "Frank would be all right in the right place," she said
reflectively. "He ought to have a different kind of wife, for one thing. Do you know, Alexandra, I could pick out exactly the right sort of woman for Frank-now. The
trouble is you almost have to marry a man before you can find out the sort of wife he needs; and usually it's exactly the sort you are not. Then what are you going to do
about it?" she asked candidly.

Alexandra confessed she didn't know. "However," she added, "it seems to me that you get along with Frank about as well as any woman I've ever seen or heard of
could."

Marie shook her head, pursing her lips and blowing her warm breath softly out into the frosty air. "No; I was spoiled at home. I like my own way, and I have a quick
tongue. When Frank brags, I say sharp things, and he never forgets. He goes over and over it in his mind; I can feel him. Then I'm too giddy. Frank's wife ought to be
timid, and she ought not to care about another living thing in the world but just Frank! I didn't, when I married him, but I suppose I was too young to stay like that."
Marie sighed.

Alexandra had never heard Marie speak so frankly about her husband before, and she felt that it was wiser not to encourage her. No good, she reasoned, ever came
from talking about such things, and while Marie was thinking aloud, Alexandra had been steadily searching the hat-boxes. "Aren't these the patterns, Maria?"

Maria sprang up from the floor. "Sure enough, we were looking for patterns, weren't we? I'd forgot about everything but Frank's other wife. I'll put that away."

She poked the cane behind Frank's Sunday clothes, and though she laughed, Alexandra saw there were tears in her eyes.

When they went back to the kitchen, the snow had begun to fall, and Marie's visitors thought they must be getting home. She went out to the cart with them, and tucked
the robes about old Mrs. Lee while Alexandra took the blanket off her horse. As they drove away, Marie turned and went slowly back to the house. She took up the
package of letters Alexandra had brought, but she did not read them. She turned them over and looked at the foreign stamps, and then sat watching the flying snow
while the dusk deepened in the kitchen and the stove sent out a red glow.

Marie knew perfectly well that Emil's letters were written more for her than for Alexandra. They were not the sort of letters that a young man writes to his sister. They
were both more personal and more painstaking; full of descriptions of the gay life in the old Mexican capital in the days when the strong hand of Porfirio Diaz was still
strong. He told about bull-fights and cock-fights, churches and FIESTAS, the flowermarkets and the fountains, the music and dancing, the people of all nations he met
in the Italian restaurants on San Francisco Street. In short, they were the kind of letters a young man writes to a woman when he wishes himself and his life to seem
interesting to her, when he wishes to enlist her imagination in his behalf.

Marie, when she was alone or when she sat sewing in the evening, often thought about what it must be like down there where Emil was; where there were flowers and
street bands everywhere, and carriages rattling up and down, and where there was a little blind bootblack in front of the cathedral who could play any tune you asked
for by dropping the lids of blacking-boxes on the stone steps. When everything is done and over for one at twentythree, it is pleasant to let the mind wander forth and
follow a young adventurer who has life before him. "And if it had not been for me," she thought, "Frank might still be free like that, and having a good time making
people admire him. Poor Frank, getting married wasn't very good for him either. I'm afraid I do set people against him, as he says. I seem, somehow, to give him away
all the time. Perhaps he would try to be agreeable to people again, if I were not around. It seems as if I always make him just as bad as he can be."

Later in the winter, Alexandra looked back upon that afternoon as the last satisfactory visit she had had with Marie. After that day the younger woman seemed to
shrink more and more into herself. When she was with Alexandra she was not spontaneous and frank as she used to be. She seemed to be brooding over something,
and holding something back. The weather had a good deal to do with their seeing less of each other than usual. There had not been such snowstorms in twenty years,
and the path across the fields was drifted deep from Christmas until March. When the two neighbors went to see each other, they had to go round by the wagon-road,
which was twice as far. They telephoned each other almost every night, though in January there was a stretch of three weeks when the wires were down, and when the
 Copyright
postman   did(c)
              not2005-2009,
                  come at all.Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                  Page 58 / 176

Marie often ran in to see her nearest neighbor, old Mrs. Hiller, who was crippled with rheumatism and had only her son, the lame shoemaker, to take care of her; and
shrink more and more into herself. When she was with Alexandra she was not spontaneous and frank as she used to be. She seemed to be brooding over something,
and holding something back. The weather had a good deal to do with their seeing less of each other than usual. There had not been such snowstorms in twenty years,
and the path across the fields was drifted deep from Christmas until March. When the two neighbors went to see each other, they had to go round by the wagon-road,
which was twice as far. They telephoned each other almost every night, though in January there was a stretch of three weeks when the wires were down, and when the
postman did not come at all.

Marie often ran in to see her nearest neighbor, old Mrs. Hiller, who was crippled with rheumatism and had only her son, the lame shoemaker, to take care of her; and
she went to the French Church, whatever the weather. She was a sincerely devout girl. She prayed for herself and for Frank, and for Emil, among the temptations of
that gay, corrupt old city. She found more comfort in the Church that winter than ever before. It seemed to come closer to her, and to fill an emptiness that ached in her
heart. She tried to be patient with her husband. He and his hired man usually played California Jack in the evening. Marie sat sewing or crocheting and tried to take a
friendly interest in the game, but she was always thinking about the wide fields outside, where the snow was drifting over the fences; and about the orchard, where the
snow was falling and packing, crust over crust. When she went out into the dark kitchen to fix her plants for the night, she used to stand by the window and look out at
the white fields, or watch the currents of snow whirling over the orchard. She seemed to feel the weight of all the snow that lay down there. The branches had become
so hard that they wounded your hand if you but tried to break a twig. And yet, down under the frozen crusts, at the roots of the trees, the secret of life was still safe,
warm as the blood in one's heart; and the spring would come again! Oh, it would come again!

II

If Alexandra had had much imagination she might have guessed what was going on in Marie's mind, and she would have seen long before what was going on in Emil's.
But that, as Emil himself had more than once reflected, was Alexandra's blind side, and her life had not been of the kind to sharpen her vision. Her training had all been
toward the end of making her proficient in what she had undertaken to do. Her personal life, her own realization of herself, was almost a subconscious existence; like an
underground river that came to the surface only here and there, at intervals months apart, and then sank again to flow on under her own fields. Nevertheless, the
underground stream was there, and it was because she had so much personality to put into her enterprises and succeeded in putting it into them so completely, that her
affairs prospered better than those of her neighbors.

There were certain days in her life, outwardly uneventful, which Alexandra remembered as peculiarly happy; days when she was close to the flat, fallow world about
her, and felt, as it were, in her own body the joyous germination in the soil. There were days, too, which she and Emil had spent together, upon which she loved to look
back. There had been such a day when they were down on the river in the dry year, looking over the land. They had made an early start one morning and had driven a
long way before noon. When Emil said he was hungry, they drew back from the road, gave Brigham his oats among the bushes, and climbed up to the top of a grassy
bluff to eat their lunch under the shade of some little elm trees. The river was clear there, and shallow, since there had been no rain, and it ran in ripples over the
sparkling sand. Under the overhanging willows of the opposite bank there was an inlet where the water was deeper and flowed so slowly that it seemed to sleep in the
sun. In this little bay a single wild duck was swimming and diving and preening her feathers, disporting herself very happily in the flickering light and shade. They sat for
a long time, watching the solitary bird take its pleasure. No living thing had ever seemed to Alexandra as beautiful as that wild duck. Emil must have felt about it as she
did, for afterward, when they were at home, he used sometimes to say, "Sister, you know our duck down there-" Alexandra remembered that day as one of the
happiest in her life. Years afterward she thought of the duck as still there, swimming and diving all by herself in the sunlight, a kind of enchanted bird that did not know
age or change.

Most of Alexandra's happy memories were as impersonal as this one; yet to her they were very personal. Her mind was a white book, with clear writing about weather
and beasts and growing things. Not many people would have cared to read it; only a happy few. She had never been in love, she had never indulged in sentimental
reveries. Even as a girl she had looked upon men as work-fellows. She had grown up in serious times.

There was one fancy indeed, which persisted through her girlhood. It most often came to her on Sunday mornings, the one day in the week when she lay late abed
listening to the familiar morning sounds; the windmill singing in the brisk breeze, Emil whistling as he blacked his boots down by the kitchen door. Sometimes, as she lay
thus luxuriously idle, her eyes closed, she used to have an illusion of being lifted up bodily and carried lightly by some one very strong. It was a man, certainly, who
carried her, but he was like no man she knew; he was much larger and stronger and swifter, and he carried her as easily as if she were a sheaf of wheat. She never saw
him, but, with eyes closed, she could feel that he was yellow like the sunlight, and there was the smell of ripe cornfields about him. She could feel him approach, bend
over her and lift her, and then she could feel herself being carried swiftly off across the fields. After such a reverie she would rise hastily, angry with herself, and go
down to the bath-house that was partitioned off the kitchen shed. There she would stand in a tin tub and prosecute her bath with vigor, finishing it by pouring buckets of
cold well-water over her gleaming white body which no man on the Divide could have carried very far.

As she grew older, this fancy more often came to her when she was tired than when she was fresh and strong. Sometimes, after she had been in the open all day,
overseeing the branding of the cattle or the loading of the pigs, she would come in chilled, take a concoction of spices and warm home-made wine, and go to bed with
her body actually aching with fatigue. Then, just before she went to sleep, she had the old sensation of being lifted and carried by a strong being who took from her all
her bodily weariness.

Part IV

The White Mulberry Tree

I

The French Church, properly the Church of Sainte-Agnes, stood upon a hill. The high, narrow, red-brick building, with its tall steeple and steep roof, could be seen for
miles across the wheatfields, though the little town of SainteAgnes was completely hidden away at the foot of the hill. The church looked powerful and triumphant there
on its eminence, so high above the rest of the landscape, with miles of warm color lying at its feet, and by its position and setting it reminded one of some of the
churches built long ago in the wheat-lands of middle France.

Late one June afternoon Alexandra Bergson was driving along one of the many roads that led through the rich French farming country to the big church. The sunlight
was shining directly in her face, and there was a blaze of light all about the red church on the hill. Beside Alexandra lounged a strikingly exotic figure in a tall Mexican
hat, a silk sash, and a black velvet jacket sewn with silver buttons. Emil had returned only the night before, and his sister was so proud of him that she decided at once
to take him up to the church supper, and to make him wear the Mexican costume he had brought home in his trunk. "All the girls who have stands are going to wear
fancy costumes," she argued, "and some of the boys. Marie is going to tell fortunes, and she sent to Omaha for a Bohemian dress her father brought back from a visit to
the old country. If you wear those clothes, they will all be pleased. And you must take your guitar. Everybody ought to do what they can to help along, and we have
never done much. We are not a talented family."

The supper was to be at six o'clock, in the basement of the church, and afterward there would be a fair, with charades and an auction. Alexandra had set out from
home early, leaving the house to Signa and Nelse Jensen, who were to be married next week. Signa had shyly asked to have the wedding put off until Emil came home.

 Copyrightwas
Alexandra   (c) 2005-2009,
                well satisfiedInfobase  Media Corp.
                               with her brother.                                                                                                      Page
                                                 As they drove through the rolling French country toward the westering sun and the stalwart church, she       59 / 176
                                                                                                                                                        was thinking of
that time long ago when she and Emil drove back from the river valley to the still unconquered Divide. Yes, she told herself, it had been worth while; both Emil and the
country had become what she had hoped. Out of her father's children there was one who was fit to cope with the world, who had not been tied to the plow, and who
The supper was to be at six o'clock, in the basement of the church, and afterward there would be a fair, with charades and an auction. Alexandra had set out from
home early, leaving the house to Signa and Nelse Jensen, who were to be married next week. Signa had shyly asked to have the wedding put off until Emil came home.

Alexandra was well satisfied with her brother. As they drove through the rolling French country toward the westering sun and the stalwart church, she was thinking of
that time long ago when she and Emil drove back from the river valley to the still unconquered Divide. Yes, she told herself, it had been worth while; both Emil and the
country had become what she had hoped. Out of her father's children there was one who was fit to cope with the world, who had not been tied to the plow, and who
had a personality apart from the soil. And that, she reflected, was what she had worked for. She felt well satisfied with her life.

When they reached the church, a score of teams were hitched in front of the basement doors that opened from the hillside upon the sanded terrace, where the boys
wrestled and had jumping-matches. Amedee Chevalier, a proud father of one week, rushed out and embraced Emil. Amedee was an only son,-hence he was a very
rich young man,-but he meant to have twenty children himself, like his uncle Xavier. "Oh, Emil," he cried, hugging his old friend rapturously, "why ain't you been up to
see my boy? You come to-morrow, sure? Emil, you wanna get a boy right off! It's the greatest thing ever! No, no, no! Angel not sick at all. Everything just fine. That
boy he come into this world laughin', and he been laughin' ever since. You come an' see!" He pounded Emil's ribs to emphasize each announcement.

Emil caught his arms. "Stop, Amedee. You're knocking the wind out of me. I brought him cups and spoons and blankets and moccasins enough for an orphan asylum.
I'm awful glad it's a boy, sure enough!"

The young men crowded round Emil to admire his costume and to tell him in a breath everything that had happened since he went away. Emil had more friends up here
in the French country than down on Norway Creek. The French and Bohemian boys were spirited and jolly, liked variety, and were as much predisposed to favor
anything new as the Scandinavian boys were to reject it. The Norwegian and Swedish lads were much more self-centred, apt to be egotistical and jealous. They were
cautious and reserved with Emil because he had been away to college, and were prepared to take him down if he should try to put on airs with them. The French boys
liked a bit of swagger, and they were always delighted to hear about anything new: new clothes, new games, new songs, new dances. Now they carried Emil off to
show him the club room they had just fitted up over the post-office, down in the village. They ran down the hill in a drove, all laughing and chattering at once, some in
French, some in English.

Alexandra went into the cool, whitewashed basement where the women were setting the tables. Marie was standing on a chair, building a little tent of shawls where she
was to tell fortunes. She sprang down and ran toward Alexandra, stopping short and looking at her in disappointment. Alexandra nodded to her encouragingly.

"Oh, he will be here, Marie. The boys have taken him off to show him something. You won't know him. He is a man now, sure enough. I have no boy left. He smokes
terrible-smelling Mexican cigarettes and talks Spanish. How pretty you look, child. Where did you get those beautiful earrings?"

"They belonged to father's mother. He always promised them to me. He sent them with the dress and said I could keep them."

Marie wore a short red skirt of stoutly woven cloth, a white bodice and kirtle, a yellow silk turban wound low over her brown curls, and long coral pendants in her
ears. Her ears had been pierced against a piece of cork by her great-aunt when she was seven years old. In those germless days she had worn bits of broomstraw,
plucked from the common sweepingbroom, in the lobes until the holes were healed and ready for little gold rings.

When Emil came back from the village, he lingered outside on the terrace with the boys. Marie could hear him talking and strumming on his guitar while Raoul Marcel
sang falsetto. She was vexed with him for staying out there. It made her very nervous to hear him and not to see him; for, certainly, she told herself, she was not going
out to look for him. When the supper bell rang and the boys came trooping in to get seats at the first table, she forgot all about her annoyance and ran to greet the tallest
of the crowd, in his conspicuous attire. She didn't mind showing her embarrassment at all. She blushed and laughed excitedly as she gave Emil her hand, and looked
delightedly at the black velvet coat that brought out his fair skin and fine blond head. Marie was incapable of being lukewarm about anything that pleased her. She
simply did not know how to give a half-hearted response. When she was delighted, she was as likely as not to stand on her tip-toes and clap her hands. If people
laughed at her, she laughed with them.

"Do the men wear clothes like that every day, in the street?" She caught Emil by his sleeve and turned him about. "Oh, I wish I lived where people wore things like that!
Are the buttons real silver? Put on the hat, please. What a heavy thing! How do you ever wear it? Why don't you tell us about the bullfights?"

She wanted to wring all his experiences from him at once, without waiting a moment. Emil smiled tolerantly and stood looking down at her with his old, brooding gaze,
while the French girls fluttered about him in their white dresses and ribbons, and Alexandra watched the scene with pride. Several of the French girls, Marie knew,
were hoping that Emil would take them to supper, and she was relieved when he took only his sister. Marie caught Frank's arm and dragged him to the same table,
managing to get seats opposite the Bergsons, so that she could hear what they were talking about. Alexandra made Emil tell Mrs. Xavier Chevalier, the mother of the
twenty, about how he had seen a famous matador killed in the bull-ring. Marie listened to every word, only taking her eyes from Emil to watch Frank's plate and keep it
filled. When Emil finished his account,-bloody enough to satisfy Mrs. Xavier and to make her feel thankful that she was not a matador,-Marie broke out with a volley of
questions. How did the women dress when they went to bull-fights? Did they wear mantillas? Did they never wear hats?

After supper the young people played charades for the amusement of their elders, who sat gossiping between their guesses. All the shops in Sainte-Agnes were closed
at eight o'clock that night, so that the merchants and their clerks could attend the fair. The auction was the liveliest part of the entertainment, for the French boys always
lost their heads when they began to bid, satisfied that their extravagance was in a good cause. After all the pincushions and sofa pillows and embroidered slippers were
sold, Emil precipitated a panic by taking out one of his turquoise shirt studs, which every one had been admiring, and handing it to the auctioneer. All the French girls
clamored for it, and their sweethearts bid against each other recklessly. Marie wanted it, too, and she kept making signals to Frank, which he took a sour pleasure in
disregarding. He didn't see the use of making a fuss over a fellow just because he was dressed like a clown. When the turquoise went to Malvina Sauvage, the French
banker's daughter, Marie shrugged her shoulders and betook herself to her little tent of shawls, where she began to shuffle her cards by the light of a tallow candle,
calling out, "Fortunes, fortunes!"

The young priest, Father Duchesne, went first to have his fortune read. Marie took his long white hand, looked at it, and then began to run off her cards. "I see a long
journey across water for you, Father. You will go to a town all cut up by water; built on islands, it seems to be, with rivers and green fields all about. And you will visit
an old lady with a white cap and gold hoops in her ears, and you will be very happy there."

"Mais, oui," said the priest, with a melancholy smile. "C'est L'Isle-Adam, chez ma mere. Vous etes tres savante, ma fille." He patted her yellow turban, calling, "Venez
donc, mes garcons! Il y a ici une veritable clairvoyante!"

Marie was clever at fortune-telling, indulging in a light irony that amused the crowd. She told old Brunot, the miser, that he would lose all his money, marry a girl of
sixteen, and live happily on a crust. Sholte, the fat Russian boy, who lived for his stomach, was to be disappointed in love, grow thin, and shoot himself from
despondency. Amedee was to have twenty children, and nineteen of them were to be girls. Amedee slapped Frank on the back and asked him why he didn't see what
the fortune-teller would promise him. But Frank shook off his friendly hand and grunted, "She tell my fortune long ago; bad enough!" Then he withdrew to a corner and
sat glowering
 Copyright  (c)at2005-2009,
                  his wife. Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                        Page 60 / 176
Frank's case was all the more painful because he had no one in particular to fix his jealousy upon. Sometimes he could have thanked the man who would bring him
evidence against his wife. He had discharged a good farm-boy, Jan Smirka, because he thought Marie was fond of him; but she had not seemed to miss Jan when he
Marie was clever at fortune-telling, indulging in a light irony that amused the crowd. She told old Brunot, the miser, that he would lose all his money, marry a girl of
sixteen, and live happily on a crust. Sholte, the fat Russian boy, who lived for his stomach, was to be disappointed in love, grow thin, and shoot himself from
despondency. Amedee was to have twenty children, and nineteen of them were to be girls. Amedee slapped Frank on the back and asked him why he didn't see what
the fortune-teller would promise him. But Frank shook off his friendly hand and grunted, "She tell my fortune long ago; bad enough!" Then he withdrew to a corner and
sat glowering at his wife.

Frank's case was all the more painful because he had no one in particular to fix his jealousy upon. Sometimes he could have thanked the man who would bring him
evidence against his wife. He had discharged a good farm-boy, Jan Smirka, because he thought Marie was fond of him; but she had not seemed to miss Jan when he
was gone, and she had been just as kind to the next boy. The farm-hands would always do anything for Marie; Frank couldn't find one so surly that he would not make
an effort to please her. At the bottom of his heart Frank knew well enough that if he could once give up his grudge, his wife would come back to him. But he could
never in the world do that. The grudge was fundamental. Perhaps he could not have given it up if he had tried. Perhaps he got more satisfaction out of feeling himself
abused than he would have got out of being loved. If he could once have made Marie thoroughly unhappy, he might have relented and raised her from the dust. But she
had never humbled herself. In the first days of their love she had been his slave; she had admired him abandonedly. But the moment he began to bully her and to be
unjust, she began to draw away; at first in tearful amazement, then in quiet, unspoken disgust. The distance between them had widened and hardened. It no longer
contracted and brought them suddenly together. The spark of her life went somewhere else, and he was always watching to surprise it. He knew that somewhere she
must get a feeling to live upon, for she was not a woman who could live without loving. He wanted to prove to himself the wrong he felt. What did she hide in her heart?
Where did it go? Even Frank had his churlish delicacies; he never reminded her of how much she had once loved him. For that Marie was grateful to him.

While Marie was chattering to the French boys, Amedee called Emil to the back of the room and whispered to him that they were going to play a joke on the girls. At
eleven o'clock, Amedee was to go up to the switchboard in the vestibule and turn off the electric lights, and every boy would have a chance to kiss his sweetheart
before Father Duchesne could find his way up the stairs to turn the current on again. The only difficulty was the candle in Marie's tent; perhaps, as Emil had no
sweetheart, he would oblige the boys by blowing out the candle. Emil said he would undertake to do that.

At five minutes to eleven he sauntered up to Marie's booth, and the French boys dispersed to find their girls. He leaned over the cardtable and gave himself up to
looking at her. "Do you think you could tell my fortune?" he murmured. It was the first word he had had alone with her for almost a year. "My luck hasn't changed any.
It's just the same."

Marie had often wondered whether there was anyone else who could look his thoughts to you as Emil could. To-night, when she met his steady, powerful eyes, it was
impossible not to feel the sweetness of the dream he was dreaming; it reached her before she could shut it out, and hid itself in her heart. She began to shuffle her cards
furiously. "I'm angry with you, Emil," she broke out with petulance. "Why did you give them that lovely blue stone to sell? You might have known Frank wouldn't buy it
for me, and I wanted it awfully!"

Emil laughed shortly. "People who want such little things surely ought to have them," he said dryly. He thrust his hand into the pocket of his velvet trousers and brought
out a handful of uncut turquoises, as big as marbles. Leaning over the table he dropped them into her lap. "There, will those do? Be careful, don't let any one see them.
Now, I suppose you want me to go away and let you play with them?"

Marie was gazing in rapture at the soft blue color of the stones. "Oh, Emil! Is everything down there beautiful like these? How could you ever come away?"

At that instant Amedee laid hands on the switchboard. There was a shiver and a giggle, and every one looked toward the red blur that Marie's candle made in the dark.
Immediately that, too, was gone. Little shrieks and currents of soft laughter ran up and down the dark hall. Marie started up,-directly into Emil's arms. In the same
instant she felt his lips. The veil that had hung uncertainly between them for so long was dissolved. Before she knew what she was doing, she had committed herself to
that kiss that was at once a boy's and a man's, as timid as it was tender; so like Emil and so unlike any one else in the world. Not until it was over did she realize what it
meant. And Emil, who had so often imagined the shock of this first kiss, was surprised at its gentleness and naturalness. It was like a sigh which they had breathed
together; almost sorrowful, as if each were afraid of wakening something in the other.

When the lights came on again, everybody was laughing and shouting, and all the French girls were rosy and shining with mirth. Only Marie, in her little tent of shawls,
was pale and quiet. Under her yellow turban the red coral pendants swung against white cheeks. Frank was still staring at her, but he seemed to see nothing. Years
ago, he himself had had the power to take the blood from her cheeks like that. Perhaps he did not remember-perhaps he had never noticed! Emil was already at the
other end of the hall, walking about with the shoulder-motion he had acquired among the Mexicans, studying the floor with his intent, deep-set eyes. Marie began to
take down and fold her shawls. She did not glance up again. The young people drifted to the other end of the hall where the guitar was sounding. In a moment she
heard Emil and Raoul singing:-

"Across the Rio Grand-e There lies a sunny land-e, My bright-eyed Mexico!"

Alexandra Bergson came up to the card booth. "Let me help you, Marie. You look tired."

She placed her hand on Marie's arm and felt her shiver. Marie stiffened under that kind, calm hand. Alexandra drew back, perplexed and hurt.

There was about Alexandra something of the impervious calm of the fatalist, always disconcerting to very young people, who cannot feel that the heart lives at all unless
it is still at the mercy of storms; unless its strings can scream to the touch of pain.

II

Signa's wedding supper was over. The guests, and the tiresome little Norwegian preacher who had performed the marriage ceremony, were saying good-night. Old
Ivar was hitching the horses to the wagon to take the wedding presents and the bride and groom up to their new home, on Alexandra's north quarter. When Ivar drove
up to the gate, Emil and Marie Shabata began to carry out the presents, and Alexandra went into her bedroom to bid Signa good-bye and to give her a few words of
good counsel. She was surprised to find that the bride had changed her slippers for heavy shoes and was pinning up her skirts. At that moment Nelse appeared at the
gate with the two milk cows that Alexandra had given Signa for a wedding present.

Alexandra began to laugh. "Why, Signa, you and Nelse are to ride home. I'll send Ivar over with the cows in the morning."

Signa hesitated and looked perplexed. When her husband called her, she pinned her hat on resolutely. "I ta-ank I better do yust like he say," she murmured in
confusion.

Alexandra and Marie accompanied Signa to the gate and saw the party set off, old Ivar driving ahead in the wagon and the bride and groom following on foot, each
leading a cow. Emil burst into a laugh before they were out of hearing.

"Those  two (c)
 Copyright  will2005-2009,
                  get on," saidInfobase
                                Alexandra as they
                                        Media     turned back to the house. "They are not going to take any chances. They will feel safer with those cows
                                               Corp.                                                                                                  Pagein their
                                                                                                                                                               61 own
                                                                                                                                                                   / 176
stable. Marie, I am going to send for an old woman next. As soon as I get the girls broken in, I marry them off."

"I've no patience with Signa, marrying that grumpy fellow!" Marie declared. "I wanted her to marry that nice Smirka boy who worked for us last winter. I think she
Alexandra and Marie accompanied Signa to the gate and saw the party set off, old Ivar driving ahead in the wagon and the bride and groom following on foot, each
leading a cow. Emil burst into a laugh before they were out of hearing.

"Those two will get on," said Alexandra as they turned back to the house. "They are not going to take any chances. They will feel safer with those cows in their own
stable. Marie, I am going to send for an old woman next. As soon as I get the girls broken in, I marry them off."

"I've no patience with Signa, marrying that grumpy fellow!" Marie declared. "I wanted her to marry that nice Smirka boy who worked for us last winter. I think she
liked him, too."

"Yes, I think she did," Alexandra assented, "but I suppose she was too much afraid of Nelse to marry any one else. Now that I think of it, most of my girls have
married men they were afraid of. I believe there is a good deal of the cow in most Swedish girls. You high-strung Bohemian can't understand us. We're a terribly
practical people, and I guess we think a cross man makes a good manager."

Marie shrugged her shoulders and turned to pin up a lock of hair that had fallen on her neck. Somehow Alexandra had irritated her of late. Everybody irritated her. She
was tired of everybody. "I'm going home alone, Emil, so you needn't get your hat," she said as she wound her scarf quickly about her head. "Good-night, Alexandra,"
she called back in a strained voice, running down the gravel walk.

Emil followed with long strides until he overtook her. Then she began to walk slowly. It was a night of warm wind and faint starlight, and the fireflies were glimmering
over the wheat.

"Marie," said Emil after they had walked for a while, "I wonder if you know how unhappy I am?"

Marie did not answer him. Her head, in its white scarf, drooped forward a little.

Emil kicked a clod from the path and went on:- "I wonder whether you are really shallowhearted, like you seem? Sometimes I think one boy does just as well as
another for you. It never seems to make much difference whether it is me or Raoul Marcel or Jan Smirka. Are you really like that?"

"Perhaps I am. What do you want me to do? Sit round and cry all day? When I've cried until I can't cry any more, then-then I must do something else."

"Are you sorry for me?" he persisted.

"No, I'm not. If I were big and free like you, I wouldn't let anything make me unhappy. As old Napoleon Brunot said at the fair, I wouldn't go lovering after no woman.
I'd take the first train and go off and have all the fun there is."

"I tried that, but it didn't do any good. Everything reminded me. The nicer the place was, the more I wanted you." They had come to the stile and Emil pointed to it
persuasively. "Sit down a moment, I want to ask you something." Marie sat down on the top step and Emil drew nearer. "Would you tell me something that's none of
my business if you thought it would help me out? Well, then, tell me, PLEASE tell me, why you ran away with Frank Shabata!"

Marie drew back. "Because I was in love with him," she said firmly.

"Really?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes, indeed. Very much in love with him. I think I was the one who suggested our running away. From the first it was more my fault than his."

Emil turned away his face.

"And now," Marie went on, "I've got to remember that. Frank is just the same now as he was then, only then I would see him as I wanted him to be. I would have my
own way. And now I pay for it."

"You don't do all the paying."

"That's it. When one makes a mistake, there's no telling where it will stop. But you can go away; you can leave all this behind you."

"Not everything. I can't leave you behind. Will you go away with me, Marie?"

Marie started up and stepped across the stile. "Emil! How wickedly you talk! I am not that kind of a girl, and you know it. But what am I going to do if you keep
tormenting me like this!" she added plaintively.

"Marie, I won't bother you any more if you will tell me just one thing. Stop a minute and look at me. No, nobody can see us. Everybody's asleep. That was only a
firefly. Marie, STOP and tell me!"

Emil overtook her and catching her by the shoulders shook her gently, as if he were trying to awaken a sleepwalker.

Marie hid her face on his arm. "Don't ask me anything more. I don't know anything except how miserable I am. And I thought it would be all right when you came
back. Oh, Emil," she clutched his sleeve and began to cry, "what am I to do if you don't go away? I can't go, and one of us must. Can't you see?"

Emil stood looking down at her, holding his shoulders stiff and stiffening the arm to which she clung. Her white dress looked gray in the darkness. She seemed like a
troubled spirit, like some shadow out of the earth, clinging to him and entreating him to give her peace. Behind her the fireflies were weaving in and out over the wheat.
He put his hand on her bent head. "On my honor, Marie, if you will say you love me, I will go away."

She lifted her face to his. "How could I help it? Didn't you know?"

Emil was the one who trembled, through all his frame. After he left Marie at her gate, he wandered about the fields all night, till morning put out the fireflies and the stars.

III

One  evening,
 Copyright  (c)a 2005-2009,
                 week after Signa's wedding,
                              Infobase  MediaEmil    was kneeling before a box in the sittingroom, packing his books. From time to time he rose and wandered
                                                 Corp.                                                                                               Page 62  about  the
                                                                                                                                                                  / 176
house, picking up stray volumes and bringing them listlessly back to his box. He was packing without enthusiasm. He was not very sanguine about his future. Alexandra
sat sewing by the table. She had helped him pack his trunk in the afternoon. As Emil came and went by her chair with his books, he thought to himself that it had not
been so hard to leave his sister since he first went away to school. He was going directly to Omaha, to read law in the office of a Swedish lawyer until October, when
Emil was the one who trembled, through all his frame. After he left Marie at her gate, he wandered about the fields all night, till morning put out the fireflies and the stars.

III

One evening, a week after Signa's wedding, Emil was kneeling before a box in the sittingroom, packing his books. From time to time he rose and wandered about the
house, picking up stray volumes and bringing them listlessly back to his box. He was packing without enthusiasm. He was not very sanguine about his future. Alexandra
sat sewing by the table. She had helped him pack his trunk in the afternoon. As Emil came and went by her chair with his books, he thought to himself that it had not
been so hard to leave his sister since he first went away to school. He was going directly to Omaha, to read law in the office of a Swedish lawyer until October, when
he would enter the law school at Ann Arbor. They had planned that Alexandra was to come to Michigan-a long journey for her-at Christmas time, and spend several
weeks with him. Nevertheless, he felt that this leavetaking would be more final than his earlier ones had been; that it meant a definite break with his old home and the
beginning of something new-he did not know what. His ideas about the future would not crystallize; the more he tried to think about it, the vaguer his conception of it
became. But one thing was clear, he told himself; it was high time that he made good to Alexandra, and that ought to be incentive enough to begin with.

As he went about gathering up his books he felt as if he were uprooting things. At last he threw himself down on the old slat lounge where he had slept when he was
little, and lay looking up at the familiar cracks in the ceiling.

"Tired, Emil?" his sister asked.

"Lazy," he murmured, turning on his side and looking at her. He studied Alexandra's face for a long time in the lamplight. It had never occurred to him that his sister was
a handsome woman until Marie Shabata had told him so. Indeed, he had never thought of her as being a woman at all, only a sister. As he studied her bent head, he
looked up at the picture of John Bergson above the lamp. "No," he thought to himself, "she didn't get it there. I suppose I am more like that."

"Alexandra," he said suddenly, "that old walnut secretary you use for a desk was father's, wasn't it?"

Alexandra went on stitching. "Yes. It was one of the first things he bought for the old log house. It was a great extravagance in those days. But he wrote a great many
letters back to the old country. He had many friends there, and they wrote to him up to the time he died. No one ever blamed him for grandfather's disgrace. I can see
him now, sitting there on Sundays, in his white shirt, writing pages and pages, so carefully. He wrote a fine, regular hand, almost like engraving. Yours is something like
his, when you take pains."

"Grandfather was really crooked, was he?"

"He married an unscrupulous woman, and then-then I'm afraid he was really crooked. When we first came here father used to have dreams about making a great
fortune and going back to Sweden to pay back to the poor sailors the money grandfather had lost."

Emil stirred on the lounge. "I say, that would have been worth while, wouldn't it? Father wasn't a bit like Lou or Oscar, was he? I can't remember much about him
before he got sick."

"Oh, not at all!" Alexandra dropped her sewing on her knee. "He had better opportunities; not to make money, but to make something of himself. He was a quiet man,
but he was very intelligent. You would have been proud of him, Emil."

Alexandra felt that he would like to know there had been a man of his kin whom he could admire. She knew that Emil was ashamed of Lou and Oscar, because they
were bigoted and self-satisfied. He never said much about them, but she could feel his disgust. His brothers had shown their disapproval of him ever since he first went
away to school. The only thing that would have satisfied them would have been his failure at the University. As it was, they resented every change in his speech, in his
dress, in his point of view; though the latter they had to conjecture, for Emil avoided talking to them about any but family matters. All his interests they treated as
affectations.

Alexandra took up her sewing again. "I can remember father when he was quite a young man. He belonged to some kind of a musical society, a male chorus, in
Stockholm. I can remember going with mother to hear them sing. There must have been a hundred of them, and they all wore long black coats and white neckties. I
was used to seeing father in a blue coat, a sort of jacket, and when I recognized him on the platform, I was very proud. Do you remember that Swedish song he taught
you, about the ship boy?"

"Yes. I used to sing it to the Mexicans. They like anything different." Emil paused. "Father had a hard fight here, didn't he?" he added thoughtfully.

"Yes, and he died in a dark time. Still, he had hope. He believed in the land."

"And in you, I guess," Emil said to himself. There was another period of silence; that warm, friendly silence, full of perfect understanding, in which Emil and Alexandra
had spent many of their happiest half-hours.

At last Emil said abruptly, "Lou and Oscar would be better off if they were poor, wouldn't they?"

Alexandra smiled. "Maybe. But their children wouldn't. I have great hopes of Milly."

Emil shivered. "I don't know. Seems to me it gets worse as it goes on. The worst of the Swedes is that they're never willing to find out how much they don't know. It
was like that at the University. Always so pleased with themselves! There's no getting behind that conceited Swedish grin. The Bohemians and Germans were so
different."

"Come, Emil, don't go back on your own people. Father wasn't conceited, Uncle Otto wasn't. Even Lou and Oscar weren't when they were boys."

Emil looked incredulous, but he did not dispute the point. He turned on his back and lay still for a long time, his hands locked under his head, looking up at the ceiling.
Alexandra knew that he was thinking of many things. She felt no anxiety about Emil. She had always believed in him, as she had believed in the land. He had been more
like himself since he got back from Mexico; seemed glad to be at home, and talked to her as he used to do. She had no doubt that his wandering fit was over, and that
he would soon be settled in life.

"Alexandra," said Emil suddenly, "do you remember the wild duck we saw down on the river that time?"

His sister looked up. "I often think of her. It always seems to me she's there still, just like we saw her."

"ICopyright
   know. It's(c)
              queer what things
                 2005-2009,     one remembers
                             Infobase         and what things one forgets." Emil yawned and sat up. "Well, it's time to turn in." He rose, and goingPage
                                       Media Corp.                                                                                                  over to 63
                                                                                                                                                            Alexandra
                                                                                                                                                               / 176
stooped down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Good-night, sister. I think you did pretty well by us."

Emil took up his lamp and went upstairs. Alexandra sat finishing his new nightshirt, that must go in the top tray of his trunk.
"Alexandra," said Emil suddenly, "do you remember the wild duck we saw down on the river that time?"

His sister looked up. "I often think of her. It always seems to me she's there still, just like we saw her."

"I know. It's queer what things one remembers and what things one forgets." Emil yawned and sat up. "Well, it's time to turn in." He rose, and going over to Alexandra
stooped down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Good-night, sister. I think you did pretty well by us."

Emil took up his lamp and went upstairs. Alexandra sat finishing his new nightshirt, that must go in the top tray of his trunk.

IV

The next morning Angelique, Amedee's wife, was in the kitchen baking pies, assisted by old Mrs. Chevalier. Between the mixing-board and the stove stood the old
cradle that had been Amedee's, and in it was his black-eyed son. As Angelique, flushed and excited, with flour on her hands, stopped to smile at the baby, Emil
Bergson rode up to the kitchen door on his mare and dismounted.

"'Medee is out in the field, Emil," Angelique called as she ran across the kitchen to the oven. "He begins to cut his wheat to-day; the first wheat ready to cut anywhere
about here. He bought a new header, you know, because all the wheat's so short this year. I hope he can rent it to the neighbors, it cost so much. He and his cousins
bought a steam thresher on shares. You ought to go out and see that header work. I watched it an hour this morning, busy as I am with all the men to feed. He has a lot
of hands, but he's the only one that knows how to drive the header or how to run the engine, so he has to be everywhere at once. He's sick, too, and ought to be in his
bed."

Emil bent over Hector Baptiste, trying to make him blink his round, bead-like black eyes. "Sick? What's the matter with your daddy, kid? Been making him walk the
floor with you?"

Angelique sniffed. "Not much! We don't have that kind of babies. It was his father that kept Baptiste awake. All night I had to be getting up and making mustard
plasters to put on his stomach. He had an awful colic. He said he felt better this morning, but I don't think he ought to be out in the field, overheating himself."

Angelique did not speak with much anxiety, not because she was indifferent, but because she felt so secure in their good fortune. Only good things could happen to a
rich, energetic, handsome young man like Amedee, with a new baby in the cradle and a new header in the field.

Emil stroked the black fuzz on Baptiste's head. "I say, Angelique, one of 'Medee's grandmothers, 'way back, must have been a squaw. This kid looks exactly like the
Indian babies."

Angelique made a face at him, but old Mrs. Chevalier had been touched on a sore point, and she let out such a stream of fiery PATOIS that Emil fled from the kitchen
and mounted his mare.

Opening the pasture gate from the saddle, Emil rode across the field to the clearing where the thresher stood, driven by a stationary engine and fed from the header
boxes. As Amedee was not on the engine, Emil rode on to the wheatfield, where he recognized, on the header, the slight, wiry figure of his friend, coatless, his white
shirt puffed out by the wind, his straw hat stuck jauntily on the side of his head. The six big work-horses that drew, or rather pushed, the header, went abreast at a
rapid walk, and as they were still green at the work they required a good deal of management on Amedee's part; especially when they turned the corners, where they
divided, three and three, and then swung round into line again with a movement that looked as complicated as a wheel of artillery. Emil felt a new thrill of admiration for
his friend, and with it the old pang of envy at the way in which Amedee could do with his might what his hand found to do, and feel that, whatever it was, it was the
most important thing in the world. "I'll have to bring Alexandra up to see this thing work," Emil thought; "it's splendid!"

When he saw Emil, Amedee waved to him and called to one of his twenty cousins to take the reins. Stepping off the header without stopping it, he ran up to Emil who
had dismounted. "Come along," he called. "I have to go over to the engine for a minute. I gotta green man running it, and I gotta to keep an eye on him."

Emil thought the lad was unnaturally flushed and more excited than even the cares of managing a big farm at a critical time warranted. As they passed behind a last
year's stack, Amedee clutched at his right side and sank down for a moment on the straw.

"Ouch! I got an awful pain in me, Emil. Something's the matter with my insides, for sure."

Emil felt his fiery cheek. "You ought to go straight to bed, 'Medee, and telephone for the doctor; that's what you ought to do."

Amedee staggered up with a gesture of despair. "How can I? I got no time to be sick. Three thousand dollars' worth of new machinery to manage, and the wheat so
ripe it will begin to shatter next week. My wheat's short, but it's gotta grand full berries. What's he slowing down for? We haven't got header boxes enough to feed the
thresher, I guess."

Amedee started hot-foot across the stubble, leaning a little to the right as he ran, and waved to the engineer not to stop the engine.

Emil saw that this was no time to talk about his own affairs. He mounted his mare and rode on to Sainte-Agnes, to bid his friends there good-bye. He went first to see
Raoul Marcel, and found him innocently practising the "Gloria" for the big confirmation service on Sunday while he polished the mirrors of his father's saloon.

As Emil rode homewards at three o'clock in the afternoon, he saw Amedee staggering out of the wheatfield, supported by two of his cousins. Emil stopped and helped
them put the boy to bed.

V

When Frank Shabata came in from work at five o'clock that evening, old Moses Marcel, Raoul's father, telephoned him that Amedee had had a seizure in the
wheatfield, and that Doctor Paradis was going to operate on him as soon as the Hanover doctor got there to help. Frank dropped a word of this at the table, bolted his
supper, and rode off to SainteAgnes, where there would be sympathetic discussion of Amedee's case at Marcel's saloon.

As soon as Frank was gone, Marie telephoned Alexandra. It was a comfort to hear her friend's voice. Yes, Alexandra knew what there was to be known about
Amedee. Emil had been there when they carried him out of the field, and had stayed with him until the doctors operated for appendicitis at five o'clock. They were
afraid it was too late to do much good; it should have been done three days ago. Amedee was in a very bad way. Emil had just come home, worn out and sick himself.
She had given him some brandy and put him to bed.

Marie  hung(c)
 Copyright  up 2005-2009,
               the receiver. Poor Amedee's
                             Infobase Mediaillness
                                             Corp.had taken on a new meaning to her, now that she knew Emil had been with him. And it might so Page
                                                                                                                                                easily have
                                                                                                                                                        64 been the
                                                                                                                                                            / 176
other way-Emil who was ill and Amedee who was sad! Marie looked about the dusky sitting-room. She had seldom felt so utterly lonely. If Emil was asleep, there was
not even a chance of his coming; and she could not go to Alexandra for sympathy. She meant to tell Alexandra everything, as soon as Emil went away. Then whatever
was left between them would be honest.
Amedee. Emil had been there when they carried him out of the field, and had stayed with him until the doctors operated for appendicitis at five o'clock. They were
afraid it was too late to do much good; it should have been done three days ago. Amedee was in a very bad way. Emil had just come home, worn out and sick himself.
She had given him some brandy and put him to bed.

Marie hung up the receiver. Poor Amedee's illness had taken on a new meaning to her, now that she knew Emil had been with him. And it might so easily have been the
other way-Emil who was ill and Amedee who was sad! Marie looked about the dusky sitting-room. She had seldom felt so utterly lonely. If Emil was asleep, there was
not even a chance of his coming; and she could not go to Alexandra for sympathy. She meant to tell Alexandra everything, as soon as Emil went away. Then whatever
was left between them would be honest.

But she could not stay in the house this evening. Where should she go? She walked slowly down through the orchard, where the evening air was heavy with the smell of
wild cotton. The fresh, salty scent of the wild roses had given way before this more powerful perfume of midsummer. Wherever those ashes-ofrose balls hung on their
milky stalks, the air about them was saturated with their breath. The sky was still red in the west and the evening star hung directly over the Bergsons' windmill. Marie
crossed the fence at the wheatfield corner, and walked slowly along the path that led to Alexandra's. She could not help feeling hurt that Emil had not come to tell her
about Amedee. It seemed to her most unnatural that he should not have come. If she were in trouble, certainly he was the one person in the world she would want to
see. Perhaps he wished her to understand that for her he was as good as gone already.

Marie stole slowly, flutteringly, along the path, like a white night-moth out of the fields. The years seemed to stretch before her like the land; spring, summer, autumn,
winter, spring; always the same patient fields, the patient little trees, the patient lives; always the same yearning, the same pulling at the chain-until the instinct to live had
torn itself and bled and weakened for the last time, until the chain secured a dead woman, who might cautiously be released. Marie walked on, her face lifted toward
the remote, inaccessible evening star.

When she reached the stile she sat down and waited. How terrible it was to love people when you could not really share their lives!

Yes, in so far as she was concerned, Emil was already gone. They couldn't meet any more. There was nothing for them to say. They had spent the last penny of their
small change; there was nothing left but gold. The day of love-tokens was past. They had now only their hearts to give each other. And Emil being gone, what was her
life to be like? In some ways, it would be easier. She would not, at least, live in perpetual fear. If Emil were once away and settled at work, she would not have the
feeling that she was spoiling his life. With the memory he left her, she could be as rash as she chose. Nobody could be the worse for it but herself; and that, surely, did
not matter. Her own case was clear. When a girl had loved one man, and then loved another while that man was still alive, everybody knew what to think of her. What
happened to her was of little consequence, so long as she did not drag other people down with her. Emil once away, she could let everything else go and live a new life
of perfect love.

Marie left the stile reluctantly. She had, after all, thought he might come. And how glad she ought to be, she told herself, that he was asleep. She left the path and went
across the pasture. The moon was almost full. An owl was hooting somewhere in the fields. She had scarcely thought about where she was going when the pond
glittered before her, where Emil had shot the ducks. She stopped and looked at it. Yes, there would be a dirty way out of life, if one chose to take it. But she did not
want to die. She wanted to live and dream-a hundred years, forever! As long as this sweetness welled up in her heart, as long as her breast could hold this treasure of
pain! She felt as the pond must feel when it held the moon like that; when it encircled and swelled with

In the morning, when Emil came downstairs, Alexandra met him in the sitting-room and put her hands on his shoulders. "Emil, I went to your room as soon as it was
light, but you were sleeping so sound I hated to wake you. There was nothing you could do, so I let you sleep. They telephoned from SainteAgnes that Amedee died at
three o'clock this morning."

VI

The Church has always held that life is for the living. On Saturday, while half the village of Sainte-Agnes was mourning for Amedee and preparing the funeral black for
his burial on Monday, the other half was busy with white dresses and white veils for the great confirmation service to-morrow, when the bishop was to confirm a class
of one hundred boys and girls. Father Duchesne divided his time between the living and the dead. All day Saturday the church was a scene of bustling activity, a little
hushed by the thought of Amedee. The choir were busy rehearsing a mass of Rossini, which they had studied and practised for this occasion. The women were
trimming the altar, the boys and girls were bringing flowers.

On Sunday morning the bishop was to drive overland to Sainte-Agnes from Hanover, and Emil Bergson had been asked to take the place of one of Amedee's cousins
in the cavalcade of forty French boys who were to ride across country to meet the bishop's carriage. At six o'clock on Sunday morning the boys met at the church. As
they stood holding their horses by the bridle, they talked in low tones of their dead comrade. They kept repeating that Amedee had always been a good boy, glancing
toward the red brick church which had played so large a part in Amedee's life, had been the scene of his most serious moments and of his happiest hours. He had
played and wrestled and sung and courted under its shadow. Only three weeks ago he had proudly carried his baby there to be christened. They could not doubt that
that invisible arm was still about Amedee; that through the church on earth he had passed to the church triumphant, the goal of the hopes and faith of so many hundred
years.

When the word was given to mount, the young men rode at a walk out of the village; but once out among the wheatfields in the morning sun, their horses and their own
youth got the better of them. A wave of zeal and fiery enthusiasm swept over them. They longed for a Jerusalem to deliver. The thud of their galloping hoofs interrupted
many a country breakfast and brought many a woman and child to the door of the farmhouses as they passed. Five miles east of Sainte-Agnes they met the bishop in
his open carriage, attended by two priests. Like one man the boys swung off their hats in a broad salute, and bowed their heads as the handsome old man lifted his two
fingers in the episcopal blessing. The horsemen closed about the carriage like a guard, and whenever a restless horse broke from control and shot down the road ahead
of the body, the bishop laughed and rubbed his plump hands together. "What fine boys!" he said to his priests. "The Church still has her cavalry."

As the troop swept past the graveyard half a mile east of the town,-the first frame church of the parish had stood there,-old Pierre Seguin was already out with his pick
and spade, digging Amedee's grave. He knelt and uncovered as the bishop passed. The boys with one accord looked away from old Pierre to the red church on the
hill, with the gold cross flaming on its steeple.

Mass was at eleven. While the church was filling, Emil Bergson waited outside, watching the wagons and buggies drive up the hill. After the bell began to ring, he saw
Frank Shabata ride up on horseback and tie his horse to the hitch-bar. Marie, then, was not coming. Emil turned and went into the church. Amedee's was the only
empty pew, and he sat down in it. Some of Amedee's cousins were there, dressed in black and weeping. When all the pews were full, the old men and boys packed
the open space at the back of the church, kneeling on the floor. There was scarcely a family in town that was not represented in the confirmation class, by a cousin, at
least. The new communicants, with their clear, reverent faces, were beautiful to look upon as they entered in a body and took the front benches reserved for them.
Even before the Mass began, the air was charged with feeling. The choir had never sung so well and Raoul Marcel, in the "Gloria," drew even the bishop's eyes to the
organ loft. For the offertory he sang Gounod's "Ave Maria,"-always spoken of in Sainte-Agnes as "the Ave Maria."

Emil began to torture himself with questions about Marie. Was she ill? Had she quarreled with her husband? Was she too unhappy to find comfort even here? Had she,
perhaps,
 Copyrightthought  that he would
             (c) 2005-2009,      come to
                             Infobase    her? Was
                                       Media   Corp.she waiting for him? Overtaxed by excitement and sorrow as he was, the rapture of the service tookPagehold65
                                                                                                                                                              upon   his
                                                                                                                                                                  / 176
body and mind. As he listened to Raoul, he seemed to emerge from the conflicting emotions which had been whirling him about and sucking him under. He felt as if a
clear light broke upon his mind, and with it a conviction that good was, after all, stronger than evil, and that good was possible to men. He seemed to discover that
there was a kind of rapture in which he could love forever without faltering and without sin. He looked across the heads of the people at Frank Shabata with calmness.
organ loft. For the offertory he sang Gounod's "Ave Maria,"-always spoken of in Sainte-Agnes as "the Ave Maria."

Emil began to torture himself with questions about Marie. Was she ill? Had she quarreled with her husband? Was she too unhappy to find comfort even here? Had she,
perhaps, thought that he would come to her? Was she waiting for him? Overtaxed by excitement and sorrow as he was, the rapture of the service took hold upon his
body and mind. As he listened to Raoul, he seemed to emerge from the conflicting emotions which had been whirling him about and sucking him under. He felt as if a
clear light broke upon his mind, and with it a conviction that good was, after all, stronger than evil, and that good was possible to men. He seemed to discover that
there was a kind of rapture in which he could love forever without faltering and without sin. He looked across the heads of the people at Frank Shabata with calmness.
That rapture was for those who could feel it; for people who could not, it was non-existent. He coveted nothing that was Frank Shabata's. The spirit he had met in
music was his own. Frank Shabata had never found it; would never find it if he lived beside it a thousand years; would have destroyed it if he had found it, as Herod
slew the innocents, as Rome slew the martyrs.

SAN-CTA MARI-I-I-A,

wailed Raoul from the organ loft;

O-RA PRO NO-O-BIS!

And it did not occur to Emil that any one had ever reasoned thus before, that music had ever before given a man this equivocal revelation.

The confirmation service followed the Mass. When it was over, the congregation thronged about the newly confirmed. The girls, and even the boys, were kissed and
embraced and wept over. All the aunts and grandmothers wept with joy. The housewives had much ado to tear themselves away from the general rejoicing and hurry
back to their kitchens. The country parishioners were staying in town for dinner, and nearly every house in Sainte-Agnes entertained visitors that day. Father Duchesne,
the bishop, and the visiting priests dined with Fabien Sauvage, the banker. Emil and Frank Shabata were both guests of old Moise Marcel. After dinner Frank and old
Moise retired to the rear room of the saloon to play California Jack and drink their cognac, and Emil went over to the banker's with Raoul, who had been asked to sing
for the bishop.

At three o'clock, Emil felt that he could stand it no longer. He slipped out under cover of "The Holy City," followed by Malvina's wistful eye, and went to the stable for
his mare. He was at that height of excitement from which everything is foreshortened, from which life seems short and simple, death very near, and the soul seems to
soar like an eagle. As he rode past the graveyard he looked at the brown hole in the earth where Amedee was to lie, and felt no horror. That, too, was beautiful, that
simple doorway into forgetfulness. The heart, when it is too much alive, aches for that brown earth, and ecstasy has no fear of death. It is the old and the poor and the
maimed who shrink from that brown hole; its wooers are found among the young, the passionate, the gallant-hearted. It was not until he had passed the graveyard that
Emil realized where he was going. It was the hour for saying good-bye. It might be the last time that he would see her alone, and today he could leave her without
rancor, without bitterness.

Everywhere the grain stood ripe and the hot afternoon was full of the smell of the ripe wheat, like the smell of bread baking in an oven. The breath of the wheat and the
sweet clover passed him like pleasant things in a dream. He could feel nothing but the sense of diminishing distance. It seemed to him that his mare was flying, or running
on wheels, like a railway train. The sunlight, flashing on the window-glass of the big red barns, drove him wild with joy. He was like an arrow shot from the bow. His
life poured itself out along the road before him as he rode to the Shabata farm.

When Emil alighted at the Shabatas' gate, his horse was in a lather. He tied her in the stable and hurried to the house. It was empty. She might be at Mrs. Hiller's or
with Alexandra. But anything that reminded him of her would be enough, the orchard, the mulberry tree. . . When he reached the orchard the sun was hanging low over
the wheatfield. Long fingers of light reached through the apple branches as through a net; the orchard was riddled and shot with gold; light was the reality, the trees
were merely interferences that reflected and refracted light. Emil went softly down between the cherry trees toward the wheatfield. When he came to the corner, he
stopped short and put his hand over his mouth. Marie was lying on her side under the white mulberry tree, her face half hidden in the grass, her eyes closed, her hands
lying limply where they had happened to fall. She had lived a day of her new life of perfect love, and it had left her like this. Her breast rose and fell faintly, as if she
were asleep. Emil threw himself down beside her and took her in his arms. The blood came back to her cheeks, her amber eyes opened slowly, and in them Emil saw
his own face and the orchard and the sun. "I was dreaming this," she whispered, hiding her face against him, "don't take my dream away!"

VII

When Frank Shabata got home that night, he found Emil's mare in his stable. Such an impertinence amazed him. Like everybody else, Frank had had an exciting day.
Since noon he had been drinking too much, and he was in a bad temper. He talked bitterly to himself while he put his own horse away, and as he went up the path and
saw that the house was dark he felt an added sense of injury. He approached quietly and listened on the doorstep. Hearing nothing, he opened the kitchen door and
went softly from one room to another. Then he went through the house again, upstairs and down, with no better result. He sat down on the bottom step of the box
stairway and tried to get his wits together. In that unnatural quiet there was no sound but his own heavy breathing. Suddenly an owl began to hoot out in the fields.
Frank lifted his head. An idea flashed into his mind, and his sense of injury and outrage grew. He went into his bedroom and took his murderous 405 Winchester from
the closet.

When Frank took up his gun and walked out of the house, he had not the faintest purpose of doing anything with it. He did not believe that he had any real grievance.
But it gratified him to feel like a desperate man. He had got into the habit of seeing himself always in desperate straits. His unhappy temperament was like a cage; he
could never get out of it; and he felt that other people, his wife in particular, must have put him there. It had never more than dimly occurred to Frank that he made his
own unhappiness. Though he took up his gun with dark projects in his mind, he would have been paralyzed with fright had he known that there was the slightest
probability of his ever carrying any of them out.

Frank went slowly down to the orchard gate, stopped and stood for a moment lost in thought. He retraced his steps and looked through the barn and the hayloft. Then
he went out to the road, where he took the footpath along the outside of the orchard hedge. The hedge was twice as tall as Frank himself, and so dense that one could
see through it only by peering closely between the leaves. He could see the empty path a long way in the moonlight. His mind traveled ahead to the stile, which he
always thought of as haunted by Emil Bergson. But why had he left his horse?

At the wheatfield corner, where the orchard hedge ended and the path led across the pasture to the Bergsons', Frank stopped. In the warm, breathless night air he
heard a murmuring sound, perfectly inarticulate, as low as the sound of water coming from a spring, where there is no fall, and where there are no stones to fret it.
Frank strained his ears. It ceased. He held his breath and began to tremble. Resting the butt of his gun on the ground, he parted the mulberry leaves softly with his
fingers and peered through the hedge at the dark figures on the grass, in the shadow of the mulberry tree. It seemed to him that they must feel his eyes, that they must
hear him breathing. But they did not. Frank, who had always wanted to see things blacker than they were, for once wanted to believe less than he saw. The woman
lying in the shadow might so easily be one of the Bergsons' farm-girls. . . . Again the murmur, like water welling out of the ground. This time he heard it more distinctly,
and his blood was quicker than his brain. He began to act, just as a man who falls into the fire begins to act. The gun sprang to his shoulder, he sighted mechanically and
fired three times without stopping, stopped without knowing why. Either he shut his eyes or he had vertigo. He did not see anything while he was firing. He thought he
 Copyright
heard         (c) 2005-2009,
       a cry simultaneous     Infobase
                            with        Media
                                 the second     Corp.
                                            report, but he was not sure. He peered again through the hedge, at the two dark figures under the tree. TheyPage    66 /a176
                                                                                                                                                           had fallen  little
apart from each other, and were perfectly still- No, not quite; in a white patch of light, where the moon shone through the branches, a man's hand was plucking
spasmodically at the grass.
hear him breathing. But they did not. Frank, who had always wanted to see things blacker than they were, for once wanted to believe less than he saw. The woman
lying in the shadow might so easily be one of the Bergsons' farm-girls. . . . Again the murmur, like water welling out of the ground. This time he heard it more distinctly,
and his blood was quicker than his brain. He began to act, just as a man who falls into the fire begins to act. The gun sprang to his shoulder, he sighted mechanically and
fired three times without stopping, stopped without knowing why. Either he shut his eyes or he had vertigo. He did not see anything while he was firing. He thought he
heard a cry simultaneous with the second report, but he was not sure. He peered again through the hedge, at the two dark figures under the tree. They had fallen a little
apart from each other, and were perfectly still- No, not quite; in a white patch of light, where the moon shone through the branches, a man's hand was plucking
spasmodically at the grass.

Suddenly the woman stirred and uttered a cry, then another, and another. She was living! She was dragging herself toward the hedge! Frank dropped his gun and ran
back along the path, shaking, stumbling, gasping. He had never imagined such horror. The cries followed him. They grew fainter and thicker, as if she were choking. He
dropped on his knees beside the hedge and crouched like a rabbit, listening; fainter, fainter; a sound like a whine; again-a moan-another-silence. Frank scrambled to his
feet and ran on, groaning and praying. From habit he went toward the house, where he was used to being soothed when he had worked himself into a frenzy, but at the
sight of the black, open door, he started back. He knew that he had murdered somebody, that a woman was bleeding and moaning in the orchard, but he had not
realized before that it was his wife. The gate stared him in the face. He threw his hands over his head. Which way to turn? He lifted his tormented face and looked at
the sky. "Holy Mother of God, not to suffer! She was a good girl-not to suffer!"

Frank had been wont to see himself in dramatic situations; but now, when he stood by the windmill, in the bright space between the barn and the house, facing his own
black doorway, he did not see himself at all. He stood like the hare when the dogs are approaching from all sides. And he ran like a hare, back and forth about that
moonlit space, before he could make up his mind to go into the dark stable for a horse. The thought of going into a doorway was terrible to him. He caught Emil's horse
by the bit and led it out. He could not have buckled a bridle on his own. After two or three attempts, he lifted himself into the saddle and started for Hanover. If he
could catch the one o'clock train, he had money enough to get as far as Omaha.

While he was thinking dully of this in some less sensitized part of his brain, his acuter faculties were going over and over the cries he had heard in the orchard. Terror
was the only thing that kept him from going back to her, terror that she might still be she, that she might still be suffering. A woman, mutilated and bleeding in his
orchard-it was because it was a woman that he was so afraid. It was inconceivable that he should have hurt a woman. He would rather be eaten by wild beasts than
see her move on the ground as she had moved in the orchard. Why had she been so careless? She knew he was like a crazy man when he was angry. She had more
than once taken that gun away from him and held it, when he was angry with other people. Once it had gone off while they were struggling over it. She was never
afraid. But, when she knew him, why hadn't she been more careful? Didn't she have all summer before her to love Emil Bergson in, without taking such chances?
Probably she had met the Smirka boy, too, down there in the orchard. He didn't care. She could have met all the men on the Divide there, and welcome, if only she
hadn't brought this horror on him.

There was a wrench in Frank's mind. He did not honestly believe that of her. He knew that he was doing her wrong. He stopped his horse to admit this to himself the
more directly, to think it out the more clearly. He knew that he was to blame. For three years he had been trying to break her spirit. She had a way of making the best
of things that seemed to him a sentimental affectation. He wanted his wife to resent that he was wasting his best years among these stupid and unappreciative people;
but she had seemed to find the people quite good enough. If he ever got rich he meant to buy her pretty clothes and take her to California in a Pullman car, and treat
her like a lady; but in the mean time he wanted her to feel that life was as ugly and as unjust as he felt it. He had tried to make her life ugly. He had refused to share any
of the little pleasures she was so plucky about making for herself. She could be gay about the least thing in the world; but she must be gay! When she first came to him,
her faith in him, her adoration- Frank struck the mare with his fist. Why had Marie made him do this thing; why had she brought this upon him? He was overwhelmed
by sickening misfortune. All at once he heard her cries again-he had forgotten for a moment. "Maria," he sobbed aloud, "Maria!"

When Frank was halfway to Hanover, the motion of his horse brought on a violent attack of nausea. After it had passed, he rode on again, but he could think of nothing
except his physical weakness and his desire to be comforted by his wife. He wanted to get into his own bed. Had his wife been at home, he would have turned and
gone back to her meekly enough.

VIII

When old Ivar climbed down from his loft at four o'clock the next morning, he came upon Emil's mare, jaded and lather-stained, her bridle broken, chewing the
scattered tufts of hay outside the stable door. The old man was thrown into a fright at once. He put the mare in her stall, threw her a measure of oats, and then set out
as fast as his bow-legs could carry him on the path to the nearest neighbor.

"Something is wrong with that boy. Some misfortune has come upon us. He would never have used her so, in his right senses. It is not his way to abuse his mare," the
old man kept muttering, as he scuttled through the short, wet pasture grass on his bare feet.

While Ivar was hurrying across the fields, the first long rays of the sun were reaching down between the orchard boughs to those two dewdrenched figures. The story
of what had happened was written plainly on the orchard grass, and on the white mulberries that had fallen in the night and were covered with dark stain. For Emil the
chapter had been short. He was shot in the heart, and had rolled over on his back and died. His face was turned up to the sky and his brows were drawn in a frown, as
if he had realized that something had befallen him. But for Marie Shabata it had not been so easy. One ball had torn through her right lung, another had shattered the
carotid artery. She must have started up and gone toward the hedge, leaving a trail of blood. There she had fallen and bled. From that spot there was another trail,
heavier than the first, where she must have dragged herself back to Emil's body. Once there, she seemed not to have struggled any more. She had lifted her head to her
lover's breast, taken his hand in both her own, and bled quietly to death. She was lying on her right side in an easy and natural position, her cheek on Emil's shoulder.
On her face there was a look of ineffable content. Her lips were parted a little; her eyes were lightly closed, as if in a day-dream or a light slumber. After she lay down
there, she seemed not to have moved an eyelash. The hand she held was covered with dark stains, where she had kissed it.

But the stained, slippery grass, the darkened mulberries, told only half the story. Above Marie and Emil, two white butterflies from Frank's alfalfa-field were fluttering in
and out among the interlacing shadows; diving and soaring, now close together, now far apart; and in the long grass by the fence the last wild roses of the year opened
their pink hearts to die.

When Ivar reached the path by the hedge, he saw Shabata's rifle lying in the way. He turned and peered through the branches, falling upon his knees as if his legs had
been mowed from under him. "Merciful God!" he groaned;

Alexandra, too, had risen early that morning, because of her anxiety about Emil. She was in Emil's room upstairs when, from the window, she saw Ivar coming along
the path that led from the Shabatas'. He was running like a spent man, tottering and lurching from side to side. Ivar never drank, and Alexandra thought at once that one
of his spells had come upon him, and that he must be in a very bad way indeed. She ran downstairs and hurried out to meet him, to hide his infirmity from the eyes of
her household. The old man fell in the road at her feet and caught her hand, over which he bowed his shaggy head. "Mistress, mistress," he sobbed, "it has fallen! Sin
and death for the young ones! God have mercy upon us!"

Part V
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                            Page 67 / 176
Alexandra
and death for the young ones! God have mercy upon us!"

Part V

Alexandra

I

Ivar was sitting at a cobbler's bench in the barn, mending harness by the light of a lantern and repeating to himself the 101st Psalm. It was only five o'clock of a mid-
October day, but a storm had come up in the afternoon, bringing black clouds, a cold wind and torrents of rain. The old man wore his buffalo-skin coat, and
occasionally stopped to warm his fingers at the lantern. Suddenly a woman burst into the shed, as if she had been blown in, accompanied by a shower of rain-drops. It
was Signa, wrapped in a man's overcoat and wearing a pair of boots over her shoes. In time of trouble Signa had come back to stay with her mistress, for she was the
only one of the maids from whom Alexandra would accept much personal service. It was three months now since the news of the terrible thing that had happened in
Frank Shabata's orchard had first run like a fire over the Divide. Signa and Nelse were staying on with Alexandra until winter.

"Ivar," Signa exclaimed as she wiped the rain from her face, "do you know where she is?"

The old man put down his cobbler's knife. "Who, the mistress?"

"Yes. She went away about three o'clock. I happened to look out of the window and saw her going across the fields in her thin dress and sun-hat. And now this storm
has come on. I thought she was going to Mrs. Hiller's, and I telephoned as soon as the thunder stopped, but she had not been there. I'm afraid she is out somewhere
and will get her death of cold."

Ivar put on his cap and took up the lantern. "JA, JA, we will see. I will hitch the boy's mare to the cart and go."

Signa followed him across the wagon-shed to the horses' stable. She was shivering with cold and excitement. "Where do you suppose she can be, Ivar?"

The old man lifted a set of single harness carefully from its peg. "How should I know?"

"But you think she is at the graveyard, don't you?" Signa persisted. "So do I. Oh, I wish she would be more like herself! I can't believe it's Alexandra Bergson come to
this, with no head about anything. I have to tell her when to eat and when to go to bed."

"Patience, patience, sister," muttered Ivar as he settled the bit in the horse's mouth. "When the eyes of the flesh are shut, the eyes of the spirit are open. She will have a
message from those who are gone, and that will bring her peace. Until then we must bear with her. You and I are the only ones who have weight with her. She trusts
us."

"How awful it's been these last three months." Signa held the lantern so that he could see to buckle the straps. "It don't seem right that we must all be so miserable. Why
do we all have to be punished? Seems to me like good times would never come again."

Ivar expressed himself in a deep sigh, but said nothing. He stooped and took a sandburr from his toe.

"Ivar," Signa asked suddenly, "will you tell me why you go barefoot? All the time I lived here in the house I wanted to ask you. Is it for a penance, or what?"

"No, sister. It is for the indulgence of the body. From my youth up I have had a strong, rebellious body, and have been subject to every kind of temptation. Even in age
my temptations are prolonged. It was necessary to make some allowances; and the feet, as I understand it, are free members. There is no divine prohibition for them in
the Ten Commandments. The hands, the tongue, the eyes, the heart, all the bodily desires we are commanded to subdue; but the feet are free members. I indulge them
without harm to any one, even to trampling in filth when my desires are low. They are quickly cleaned again."

Signa did not laugh. She looked thoughtful as she followed Ivar out to the wagon-shed and held the shafts up for him, while he backed in the mare and buckled the
hold-backs. "You have been a good friend to the mistress, Ivar," she murmured.

"And you, God be with you," replied Ivar as he clambered into the cart and put the lantern under the oilcloth lap-cover. "Now for a ducking, my girl," he said to the
mare, gathering up the reins.

As they emerged from the shed, a stream of water, running off the thatch, struck the mare on the neck. She tossed her head indignantly, then struck out bravely on the
soft ground, slipping back again and again as she climbed the hill to the main road. Between the rain and the darkness Ivar could see very little, so he let Emil's mare
have the rein, keeping her head in the right direction. When the ground was level, he turned her out of the dirt road upon the sod, where she was able to trot without
slipping.

Before Ivar reached the graveyard, three miles from the house, the storm had spent itself, and the downpour had died into a soft, dripping rain. The sky and the land
were a dark smoke color, and seemed to be coming together, like two waves. When Ivar stopped at the gate and swung out his lantern, a white figure rose from beside
John Bergson's white stone.

The old man sprang to the ground and shuffled toward the gate calling, "Mistress, mistress!"

Alexandra hurried to meet him and put her hand on his shoulder. "TYST! Ivar. There's nothing to be worried about. I'm sorry if I've scared you all. I didn't notice the
storm till it was on me, and I couldn't walk against it. I'm glad you've come. I am so tired I didn't know how I'd ever get home."

Ivar swung the lantern up so that it shone in her face. "GUD! You are enough to frighten us, mistress. You look like a drowned woman. How could you do such a
thing!"

Groaning and mumbling he led her out of the gate and helped her into the cart, wrapping her in the dry blankets on which he had been sitting.

Alexandra smiled at his solicitude. "Not much use in that, Ivar. You will only shut the wet in. I don't feel so cold now; but I'm heavy and numb. I'm glad you came."

Ivar turned the mare and urged her into a sliding trot. Her feet sent back a continual spatter of mud.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.
Alexandra spoke to the old man as they jogged along through the sullen gray twilight of the storm. "Ivar, I think it has done me good to get cold clearPage  through68  / 176
                                                                                                                                                                     like this,
once. I don't believe I shall suffer so much any more. When you get so near the dead, they seem more real than the living. Worldly thoughts leave one. Ever since Emil
died, I've suffered so when it rained. Now that I've been out in it with him, I shan't dread it. After you once get cold clear through, the feeling of the rain on you is
Alexandra smiled at his solicitude. "Not much use in that, Ivar. You will only shut the wet in. I don't feel so cold now; but I'm heavy and numb. I'm glad you came."

Ivar turned the mare and urged her into a sliding trot. Her feet sent back a continual spatter of mud.

Alexandra spoke to the old man as they jogged along through the sullen gray twilight of the storm. "Ivar, I think it has done me good to get cold clear through like this,
once. I don't believe I shall suffer so much any more. When you get so near the dead, they seem more real than the living. Worldly thoughts leave one. Ever since Emil
died, I've suffered so when it rained. Now that I've been out in it with him, I shan't dread it. After you once get cold clear through, the feeling of the rain on you is
sweet. It seems to bring back feelings you had when you were a baby. It carries you back into the dark, before you were born; you can't see things, but they come to
you, somehow, and you know them and aren't afraid of them. Maybe it's like that with the dead. If they feel anything at all, it's the old things, before they were born,
that comfort people like the feeling of their own bed does when they are little."

"Mistress," said Ivar reproachfully, "those are bad thoughts. The dead are in Paradise."

Then he hung his head, for he did not believe that Emil was in Paradise.

When they got home, Signa had a fire burning in the sitting-room stove. She undressed Alexandra and gave her a hot footbath, while Ivar made ginger tea in the
kitchen. When Alexandra was in bed, wrapped in hot blankets, Ivar came in with his tea and saw that she drank it. Signa asked permission to sleep on the slat lounge
outside her door. Alexandra endured their attentions patiently, but she was glad when they put out the lamp and left her. As she lay alone in the dark, it occurred to her
for the first time that perhaps she was actually tired of life. All the physical operations of life seemed difficult and painful. She longed to be free from her own body,
which ached and was so heavy. And longing itself was heavy: she yearned to be free of that.

As she lay with her eyes closed, she had again, more vividly than for many years, the old illusion of her girlhood, of being lifted and carried lightly by some one very
strong. He was with her a long while this time, and carried her very far, and in his arms she felt free from pain. When he laid her down on her bed again, she opened her
eyes, and, for the first time in her life, she saw him, saw him clearly, though the room was dark, and his face was covered. He was standing in the doorway of her room.
His white cloak was thrown over his face, and his head was bent a little forward. His shoulders seemed as strong as the foundations of the world. His right arm, bared
from the elbow, was dark and gleaming, like bronze, and she knew at once that it was the arm of the mightiest of all lovers. She knew at last for whom it was she had
waited, and where he would carry her. That, she told herself, was very well. Then she went to sleep.

Alexandra wakened in the morning with nothing worse than a hard cold and a stiff shoulder. She kept her bed for several days, and it was during that time that she
formed a resolution to go to Lincoln to see Frank Shabata. Ever since she last saw him in the courtroom, Frank's haggard face and wild eyes had haunted her. The trial
had lasted only three days. Frank had given himself up to the police in Omaha and pleaded guilty of killing without malice and without premeditation. The gun was, of
course, against him, and the judge had given him the full sentence,-ten years. He had now been in the State Penitentiary for a month.

Frank was the only one, Alexandra told herself, for whom anything could be done. He had been less in the wrong than any of them, and he was paying the heaviest
penalty. She often felt that she herself had been more to blame than poor Frank. From the time the Shabatas had first moved to the neighboring farm, she had omitted
no opportunity of throwing Marie and Emil together. Because she knew Frank was surly about doing little things to help his wife, she was always sending Emil over to
spade or plant or carpenter for Marie. She was glad to have Emil see as much as possible of an intelligent, city-bred girl like their neighbor; she noticed that it improved
his manners. She knew that Emil was fond of Marie, but it had never occurred to her that Emil's feeling might be different from her own. She wondered at herself now,
but she had never thought of danger in that direction. If Marie had been unmarried,-oh, yes! Then she would have kept her eyes open. But the mere fact that she was
Shabata's wife, for Alexandra, settled everything. That she was beautiful, impulsive, barely two years older than Emil, these facts had had no weight with Alexandra.
Emil was a good boy, and only bad boys ran after married women.

Now, Alexandra could in a measure realize that Marie was, after all, Marie; not merely a "married woman." Sometimes, when Alexandra thought of her, it was with an
aching tenderness. The moment she had reached them in the orchard that morning, everything was clear to her. There was something about those two lying in the grass,
something in the way Marie had settled her cheek on Emil's shoulder, that told her everything. She wondered then how they could have helped loving each other; how
she could have helped knowing that they must. Emil's cold, frowning face, the girl's content-Alexandra had felt awe of them, even in the first shock of her grief.

The idleness of those days in bed, the relaxation of body which attended them, enabled Alexandra to think more calmly than she had done since Emil's death. She and
Frank, she told herself, were left out of that group of friends who had been overwhelmed by disaster. She must certainly see Frank Shabata. Even in the courtroom her
heart had grieved for him. He was in a strange country, he had no kinsmen or friends, and in a moment he had ruined his life. Being what he was, she felt, Frank could
not have acted otherwise. She could understand his behavior more easily than she could understand Marie's. Yes, she must go to Lincoln to see Frank Shabata.

The day after Emil's funeral, Alexandra had written to Carl Linstrum; a single page of notepaper, a bare statement of what had happened. She was not a woman who
could write much about such a thing, and about her own feelings she could never write very freely. She knew that Carl was away from post-offices, prospecting
somewhere in the interior. Before he started he had written her where he expected to go, but her ideas about Alaska were vague. As the weeks went by and she heard
nothing from him, it seemed to Alexandra that her heart grew hard against Carl. She began to wonder whether she would not do better to finish her life alone. What
was left of life seemed unimportant.

II

Late in the afternoon of a brilliant October day, Alexandra Bergson, dressed in a black suit and traveling-hat, alighted at the Burlington depot in Lincoln. She drove to
the Lindell Hotel, where she had stayed two years ago when she came up for Emil's Commencement. In spite of her usual air of sureness and selfpossession, Alexandra
felt ill at ease in hotels, and she was glad, when she went to the clerk's desk to register, that there were not many people in the lobby. She had her supper early,
wearing her hat and black jacket down to the dining-room and carrying her handbag. After supper she went out for a walk.

It was growing dark when she reached the university campus. She did not go into the grounds, but walked slowly up and down the stone walk outside the long iron
fence, looking through at the young men who were running from one building to another, at the lights shining from the armory and the library. A squad of cadets were
going through their drill behind the armory, and the commands of their young officer rang out at regular intervals, so sharp and quick that Alexandra could not
understand them. Two stalwart girls came down the library steps and out through one of the iron gates. As they passed her, Alexandra was pleased to hear them
speaking Bohemian to each other. Every few moments a boy would come running down the flagged walk and dash out into the street as if he were rushing to announce
some wonder to the world. Alexandra felt a great tenderness for them all. She wished one of them would stop and speak to her. She wished she could ask them
whether they had known Emil.

As she lingered by the south gate she actually did encounter one of the boys. He had on his drill cap and was swinging his books at the end of a long strap. It was dark
by this time; he did not see her and ran against her. He snatched off his cap and stood bareheaded and panting. "I'm awfully sorry," he said in a bright, clear voice, with
a rising inflection, as if he expected her to say something.

"Oh, it was my
 Copyright      fault!" said Alexandra
            (c) 2005-2009,    Infobase eagerly. "Are you an old student here, may I ask?"
                                       Media Corp.                                                                                                     Page 69 / 176
"No, ma'am. I'm a Freshie, just off the farm. Cherry County. Were you hunting somebody?"
As she lingered by the south gate she actually did encounter one of the boys. He had on his drill cap and was swinging his books at the end of a long strap. It was dark
by this time; he did not see her and ran against her. He snatched off his cap and stood bareheaded and panting. "I'm awfully sorry," he said in a bright, clear voice, with
a rising inflection, as if he expected her to say something.

"Oh, it was my fault!" said Alexandra eagerly. "Are you an old student here, may I ask?"

"No, ma'am. I'm a Freshie, just off the farm. Cherry County. Were you hunting somebody?"

"No, thank you. That is-" Alexandra wanted to detain him. "That is, I would like to find some of my brother's friends. He graduated two years ago."

"Then you'd have to try the Seniors, wouldn't you? Let's see; I don't know any of them yet, but there'll be sure to be some of them around the library. That red building,
right there," he pointed.

"Thank you, I'll try there," said Alexandra lingeringly.

"Oh, that's all right! Good-night." The lad clapped his cap on his head and ran straight down Eleventh Street. Alexandra looked after him wistfully.

She walked back to her hotel unreasonably comforted. "What a nice voice that boy had, and how polite he was. I know Emil was always like that to women." And
again, after she had undressed and was standing in her nightgown, brushing her long, heavy hair by the electric light, she remembered him and said to herself, "I don't
think I ever heard a nicer voice than that boy had. I hope he will get on well here. Cherry County; that's where the hay is so fine, and the coyotes can scratch down to
water."

At nine o'clock the next morning Alexandra presented herself at the warden's office in the State Penitentiary. The warden was a German, a ruddy, cheerful-looking man
who had formerly been a harness-maker. Alexandra had a letter to him from the German banker in Hanover. As he glanced at the letter, Mr. Schwartz put away his
pipe.

"That big Bohemian, is it? Sure, he's gettin' along fine," said Mr. Schwartz cheerfully.

"I am glad to hear that. I was afraid he might be quarrelsome and get himself into more trouble. Mr. Schwartz, if you have time, I would like to tell you a little about
Frank Shabata, and why I am interested in him."

The warden listened genially while she told him briefly something of Frank's history and character, but he did not seem to find anything unusual in her account.

"Sure, I'll keep an eye on him. We'll take care of him all right," he said, rising. "You can talk to him here, while I go to see to things in the kitchen. I'll have him sent in.
He ought to be done washing out his cell by this time. We have to keep 'em clean, you know."

The warden paused at the door, speaking back over his shoulder to a pale young man in convicts' clothes who was seated at a desk in the corner, writing in a big
ledger.

"Bertie, when 1037 is brought in, you just step out and give this lady a chance to talk."

The young man bowed his head and bent over his ledger again.

When Mr. Schwartz disappeared, Alexandra thrust her black-edged handkerchief nervously into her handbag. Coming out on the streetcar she had not had the least
dread of meeting Frank. But since she had been here the sounds and smells in the corridor, the look of the men in convicts' clothes who passed the glass door of the
warden's office, affected her unpleasantly.

The warden's clock ticked, the young convict's pen scratched busily in the big book, and his sharp shoulders were shaken every few seconds by a loose cough which
he tried to smother. It was easy to see that he was a sick man. Alexandra looked at him timidly, but he did not once raise his eyes. He wore a white shirt under his
striped jacket, a high collar, and a necktie, very carefully tied. His hands were thin and white and well cared for, and he had a seal ring on his little finger. When he
heard steps approaching in the corridor, he rose, blotted his book, put his pen in the rack, and left the room without raising his eyes. Through the door he opened a
guard came in, bringing Frank Shabata.

"You the lady that wanted to talk to 1037? Here he is. Be on your good behavior, now. He can set down, lady," seeing that Alexandra remained standing. "Push that
white button when you're through with him, and I'll come."

The guard went out and Alexandra and Frank were left alone.

Alexandra tried not to see his hideous clothes. She tried to look straight into his face, which she could scarcely believe was his. It was already bleached to a chalky
gray. His lips were colorless, his fine teeth looked yellowish. He glanced at Alexandra sullenly, blinked as if he had come from a dark place, and one eyebrow twitched
continually. She felt at once that this interview was a terrible ordeal to him. His shaved head, showing the conformation of his skull, gave him a criminal look which he
had not had during the trial.

Alexandra held out her hand. "Frank," she said, her eyes filling suddenly, "I hope you'll let me be friendly with you. I understand how you did it. I don't feel hard toward
you. They were more to blame than you."

Frank jerked a dirty blue handkerchief from his trousers pocket. He had begun to cry. He turned away from Alexandra. "I never did mean to do not'ing to dat woman,"
he muttered. "I never mean to do not'ing to dat boy. I ain't had not'ing ag'in' dat boy. I always like dat boy fine. An' then I find him-" He stopped. The feeling went out
of his face and eyes. He dropped into a chair and sat looking stolidly at the floor, his hands hanging loosely between his knees, the handkerchief lying across his striped
leg. He seemed to have stirred up in his mind a disgust that had paralyzed his faculties.

"I haven't come up here to blame you, Frank. I think they were more to blame than you." Alexandra, too, felt benumbed.

Frank looked up suddenly and stared out of the office window. "I guess dat place all go to hell what I work so hard on," he said with a slow, bitter smile. "I not care a
damn." He stopped and rubbed the palm of his hand over the light bristles on his head with annoyance. "I no can t'ink without my hair," he complained. "I forget English.
We not talk here, except swear."

Alexandra
Copyrightwas  bewildered. Frank
          (c) 2005-2009,        seemed
                          Infobase     to have
                                   Media  Corp.undergone a change of personality. There was scarcely anything by which she could recognize her handsome
                                                                                                                                            Page    70 / 176
Bohemian neighbor. He seemed, somehow, not altogether human. She did not know what to say to him.

"You do not feel hard to me, Frank?" she asked at last.
Frank looked up suddenly and stared out of the office window. "I guess dat place all go to hell what I work so hard on," he said with a slow, bitter smile. "I not care a
damn." He stopped and rubbed the palm of his hand over the light bristles on his head with annoyance. "I no can t'ink without my hair," he complained. "I forget English.
We not talk here, except swear."

Alexandra was bewildered. Frank seemed to have undergone a change of personality. There was scarcely anything by which she could recognize her handsome
Bohemian neighbor. He seemed, somehow, not altogether human. She did not know what to say to him.

"You do not feel hard to me, Frank?" she asked at last.

Frank clenched his fist and broke out in excitement. "I not feel hard at no woman. I tell you I not that kind-a man. I never hit my wife. No, never I hurt her when she
devil me something awful!" He struck his fist down on the warden's desk so hard that he afterward stroked it absently. A pale pink crept over his neck and face. "Two,
t'ree years I know dat woman don' care no more 'bout me, Alexandra Bergson. I know she after some other man. I know her, oo-oo! An' I ain't never hurt her. I never
would-a done dat, if I ain't had dat gun along. I don' know what in hell make me take dat gun. She always say I ain't no man to carry gun. If she been in dat house,
where she ought-a been- But das a foolish talk."

Frank rubbed his head and stopped suddenly, as he had stopped before. Alexandra felt that there was something strange in the way he chilled off, as if something came
up in him that extinguished his power of feeling or thinking.

"Yes, Frank," she said kindly. "I know you never meant to hurt Marie."

Frank smiled at her queerly. His eyes filled slowly with tears. "You know, I most forgit dat woman's name. She ain't got no name for me no more. I never hate my wife,
but dat woman what make me do dat- Honest to God, but I hate her! I no man to fight. I don' want to kill no boy and no woman. I not care how many men she take
under dat tree. I no care for not'ing but dat fine boy I kill, Alexandra Bergson. I guess I go crazy sure 'nough."

Alexandra remembered the little yellow cane she had found in Frank's clothes-closet. She thought of how he had come to this country a gay young fellow, so attractive
that the prettiest Bohemian girl in Omaha had run away with him. It seemed unreasonable that life should have landed him in such a place as this. She blamed Marie
bitterly. And why, with her happy, affectionate nature, should she have brought destruction and sorrow to all who had loved her, even to poor old Joe Tovesky, the
uncle who used to carry her about so proudly when she was a little girl? That was the strangest thing of all. Was there, then, something wrong in being warm-hearted
and impulsive like that? Alexandra hated to think so. But there was Emil, in the Norwegian graveyard at home, and here was Frank Shabata. Alexandra rose and took
him by the hand.

"Frank Shabata, I am never going to stop trying until I get you pardoned. I'll never give the Governor any peace. I know I can get you out of this place."

Frank looked at her distrustfully, but he gathered confidence from her face. "Alexandra," he said earnestly, "if I git out-a here, I not trouble dis country no more. I go
back where I come from; see my mother."

Alexandra tried to withdraw her hand, but Frank held on to it nervously. He put out his finger and absently touched a button on her black jacket. "Alexandra," he said
in a low tone, looking steadily at the button, "you ain' t'ink I use dat girl awful bad before-"

"No, Frank. We won't talk about that," Alexandra said, pressing his hand. "I can't help Emil now, so I'm going to do what I can for you. You know I don't go away
from home often, and I came up here on purpose to tell you this."

The warden at the glass door looked in inquiringly. Alexandra nodded, and he came in and touched the white button on his desk. The guard appeared, and with a
sinking heart Alexandra saw Frank led away down the corridor. After a few words with Mr. Schwartz, she left the prison and made her way to the street-car. She had
refused with horror the warden's cordial invitation to "go through the institution." As the car lurched over its uneven roadbed, back toward Lincoln, Alexandra thought
of how she and Frank had been wrecked by the same storm and of how, although she could come out into the sunlight, she had not much more left in her life than he.
She remembered some lines from a poem she had liked in her schooldays:- Henceforth the world will only be A wider prison-house to me,-and sighed. A disgust of life
weighed upon her heart; some such feeling as had twice frozen Frank Shabata's features while they talked together. She wished she were back on the Divide.

When Alexandra entered her hotel, the clerk held up one finger and beckoned to her. As she approached his desk, he handed her a telegram. Alexandra took the
yellow envelope and looked at it in perplexity, then stepped into the elevator without opening it. As she walked down the corridor toward her room, she reflected that
she was, in a manner, immune from evil tidings. On reaching her room she locked the door, and sitting down on a chair by the dresser, opened the telegram. It was
from Hanover, and it read:-

Arrived Hanover last night. Shall wait here until you come. Please hurry. CARL LINSTRUM.

Alexandra put her head down on the dresser and burst into tears.

III

The next afternoon Carl and Alexandra were walking across the fields from Mrs. Hiller's. Alexandra had left Lincoln after midnight, and Carl had met her at the
Hanover station early in the morning. After they reached home, Alexandra had gone over to Mrs. Hiller's to leave a little present she had bought for her in the city. They
stayed at the old lady's door but a moment, and then came out to spend the rest of the afternoon in the sunny fields.

Alexandra had taken off her black travelingsuit and put on a white dress; partly because she saw that her black clothes made Carl uncomfortable and partly because
she felt oppressed by them herself. They seemed a little like the prison where she had worn them yesterday, and to be out of place in the open fields. Carl had changed
very little. His cheeks were browner and fuller. He looked less like a tired scholar than when he went away a year ago, but no one, even now, would have taken him
for a man of business. His soft, lustrous black eyes, his whimsical smile, would be less against him in the Klondike than on the Divide. There are always dreamers on the
frontier.

Carl and Alexandra had been talking since morning. Her letter had never reached him. He had first learned of her misfortune from a San Francisco paper, four weeks
old, which he had picked up in a saloon, and which contained a brief account of Frank Shabata's trial. When he put down the paper, he had already made up his mind
that he could reach Alexandra as quickly as a letter could; and ever since he had been on the way; day and night, by the fastest boats and trains he could catch. His
steamer had been held back two days by rough weather.

As they came out of Mrs. Hiller's garden they took up their talk again where they had left it.

"But could you
 Copyright     come away like
           (c) 2005-2009,     that, Carl,
                          Infobase   Mediawithout
                                             Corp.arranging things? Could you just walk off and leave your business?" Alexandra asked.                  Page 71 / 176
Carl laughed. "Prudent Alexandra! You see, my dear, I happen to have an honest partner. I trust him with everything. In fact, it's been his enterprise from the beginning,
you know. I'm in it only because he took me in. I'll have to go back in the spring. Perhaps you will want to go with me then. We haven't turned up millions yet, but
steamer had been held back two days by rough weather.

As they came out of Mrs. Hiller's garden they took up their talk again where they had left it.

"But could you come away like that, Carl, without arranging things? Could you just walk off and leave your business?" Alexandra asked.

Carl laughed. "Prudent Alexandra! You see, my dear, I happen to have an honest partner. I trust him with everything. In fact, it's been his enterprise from the beginning,
you know. I'm in it only because he took me in. I'll have to go back in the spring. Perhaps you will want to go with me then. We haven't turned up millions yet, but
we've got a start that's worth following. But this winter I'd like to spend with you. You won't feel that we ought to wait longer, on Emil's account, will you, Alexandra?"

Alexandra shook her head. "No, Carl; I don't feel that way about it. And surely you needn't mind anything Lou and Oscar say now. They are much angrier with me
about Emil, now, than about you. They say it was all my fault. That I ruined him by sending him to college."

"No, I don't care a button for Lou or Oscar. The moment I knew you were in trouble, the moment I thought you might need me, it all looked different. You've always
been a triumphant kind of person." Carl hesitated, looking sidewise at her strong, full figure. "But you do need me now, Alexandra?"

She put her hand on his arm. "I needed you terribly when it happened, Carl. I cried for you at night. Then everything seemed to get hard inside of me, and I thought
perhaps I should never care for you again. But when I got your telegram yesterday, then-then it was just as it used to be. You are all I have in the world, you know."

Carl pressed her hand in silence. They were passing the Shabatas' empty house now, but they avoided the orchard path and took one that led over by the pasture
pond.

"Can you understand it, Carl?" Alexandra murmured. "I have had nobody but Ivar and Signa to talk to. Do talk to me. Can you understand it? Could you have believed
that of Marie Tovesky? I would have been cut to pieces, little by little, before I would have betrayed her trust in me!"

Carl looked at the shining spot of water before them. "Maybe she was cut to pieces, too, Alexandra. I am sure she tried hard; they both did. That was why Emil went
to Mexico, of course. And he was going away again, you tell me, though he had only been home three weeks. You remember that Sunday when I went with Emil up to
the French Church fair? I thought that day there was some kind of feeling, something unusual, between them. I meant to talk to you about it. But on my way back I met
Lou and Oscar and got so angry that I forgot everything else. You mustn't be hard on them, Alexandra. Sit down here by the pond a minute. I want to tell you
something."

They sat down on the grass-tufted bank and Carl told her how he had seen Emil and Marie out by the pond that morning, more than a year ago, and how young and
charming and full of grace they had seemed to him. "It happens like that in the world sometimes, Alexandra," he added earnestly. "I've seen it before. There are women
who spread ruin around them through no fault of theirs, just by being too beautiful, too full of life and love. They can't help it. People come to them as people go to a
warm fire in winter. I used to feel that in her when she was a little girl. Do you remember how all the Bohemians crowded round her in the store that day, when she
gave Emil her candy? You remember those yellow sparks in her eyes?"

Alexandra sighed. "Yes. People couldn't help loving her. Poor Frank does, even now, I think; though he's got himself in such a tangle that for a long time his love has
been bitterer than his hate. But if you saw there was anything wrong, you ought to have told me, Carl."

Carl took her hand and smiled patiently. "My dear, it was something one felt in the air, as you feel the spring coming, or a storm in summer. I didn't SEE anything.
Simply, when I was with those two young things, I felt my blood go quicker, I felt-how shall I say it?-an acceleration of life. After I got away, it was all too delicate, too
intangible, to write about."

Alexandra looked at him mournfully. "I try to be more liberal about such things than I used to be. I try to realize that we are not all made alike. Only, why couldn't it
have been Raoul Marcel, or Jan Smirka? Why did it have to be my boy?"

"Because he was the best there was, I suppose. They were both the best you had here."

The sun was dropping low in the west when the two friends rose and took the path again. The straw-stacks were throwing long shadows, the owls were flying home to
the prairie-dog town. When they came to the corner where the pastures joined, Alexandra's twelve young colts were galloping in a drove over the brow of the hill.

"Carl," said Alexandra, "I should like to go up there with you in the spring. I haven't been on the water since we crossed the ocean, when I was a little girl. After we first
came out here I used to dream sometimes about the shipyard where father worked, and a little sort of inlet, full of masts." Alexandra paused. After a moment's thought
she said, "But you would never ask me to go away for good, would you?"

"Of course not, my dearest. I think I know how you feel about this country as well as you do yourself." Carl took her hand in both his own and pressed it tenderly.

"Yes, I still feel that way, though Emil is gone. When I was on the train this morning, and we got near Hanover, I felt something like I did when I drove back with Emil
from the river that time, in the dry year. I was glad to come back to it. I've lived here a long time. There is great peace here, Carl, and freedom. . . . I thought when I
came out of that prison, where poor Frank is, that I should never feel free again. But I do, here." Alexandra took a deep breath and looked off into the red west.

"You belong to the land," Carl murmured, "as you have always said. Now more than ever."

"Yes, now more than ever. You remember what you once said about the graveyard, and the old story writing itself over? Only it is we who write it, with the best we
have."

They paused on the last ridge of the pasture, overlooking the house and the windmill and the stables that marked the site of John Bergson's homestead. On every side
the brown waves of the earth rolled away to meet the sky.

"Lou and Oscar can't see those things," said Alexandra suddenly. "Suppose I do will my land to their children, what difference will that make? The land belongs to the
future, Carl; that's the way it seems to me. How many of the names on the county clerk's plat will be there in fifty years? I might as well try to will the sunset over there
to my brother's children. We come and go, but the land is always here. And the people who love it and understand it are the people who own it-for a little while."

Carl looked at her wonderingly. She was still gazing into the west, and in her face there was that exalted serenity that sometimes came to her at moments of deep
feeling. The level rays of the sinking sun shone in her clear eyes.

"Why are you
 Copyright (c)thinking of such
               2005-2009,      things now,
                            Infobase       Alexandra?"
                                       Media Corp.                                                                                                       Page 72 / 176
"I had a dream before I went to Lincoln-But I will tell you about that afterward, after we are married. It will never come true, now, in the way I thought it might." She
took Carl's arm and they walked toward the gate. "How many times we have walked this path together, Carl. How many times we will walk it again! Does it seem to
Carl looked at her wonderingly. She was still gazing into the west, and in her face there was that exalted serenity that sometimes came to her at moments of deep
feeling. The level rays of the sinking sun shone in her clear eyes.

"Why are you thinking of such things now, Alexandra?"

"I had a dream before I went to Lincoln-But I will tell you about that afterward, after we are married. It will never come true, now, in the way I thought it might." She
took Carl's arm and they walked toward the gate. "How many times we have walked this path together, Carl. How many times we will walk it again! Does it seem to
you like coming back to your own place? Do you feel at peace with the world here? I think we shall be very happy. I haven't any fears. I think when friends marry, they
are safe. We don't suffer like-those young ones." Alexandra ended with a sigh.

They had reached the gate. Before Carl opened it, he drew Alexandra to him and kissed her softly, on her lips and on her eyes.

She leaned heavily on his shoulder. "I am tired," she murmured. "I have been very lonely, Carl."

They went into the house together, leaving the Divide behind them, under the evening star. Fortunate country, that is one day to receive hearts like Alexandra's into its
bosom, to give them out again in the yellow wheat, in the rustling corn, in the shining eyes of youth!

Oedipus Trilogy
SOPHOCLES

ARGUMENT

To Laius, King of Thebes, an oracle foretold that the child born
to him by his queen Jocasta would slay his father and wed his mother.
So when in time a son was born the infant's feet were riveted together
and he was left to die on Mount Cithaeron. But a shepherd found the
babe and tended him, and delivered him to another shepherd who took
him to his master, the King or Corinth. Polybus being childless
adopted the boy, who grew up believing that he was indeed the King's
son. Afterwards doubting his parentage he inquired of the Delphic god
and heard himself the weird declared before to Laius. Wherefore he
fled from what he deemed his father's house and in his flight he
encountered and unwillingly slew his father Laius. Arriving at Thebes
he answered the riddle of the Sphinx and the grateful Thebans made
their deliverer king. So he reigned in the room of Laius, and
espoused the widowed queen. Children were born to them and Thebes
prospered under his rule, but again a grievous plague fell upon the
city. Again the oracle was consulted and it bade them purge
themselves of blood-guiltiness. Oedipus denounces the crime of which
he is unaware, and undertakes to track out the criminal. Step by
step it is brought home to him that he is the man. The closing scene
reveals Jocasta slain by her own hand and Oedipus blinded by his own
act and praying for death or exile.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Oedipus.

The Priest of Zeus.

Creon.

Chorus of Theban Elders.

Teiresias.

Jocasta.

Messenger.

Herd of Laius.

Second Messenger.

Scene: Thebes. Before the Palace of Oedipus.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

OEDIPUS THE KING

Suppliants of all ages are seated round the altar at the palace doors,
at their head a PRIEST OF ZEUS. To them enter OEDIPUS.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                                                                                                         Page 73 / 176
OEDIPUS
My children, latest born to Cadmus old,
Why sit ye here as suppliants, in your hands
Suppliants of all ages are seated round the altar at the palace doors,
at their head a PRIEST OF ZEUS. To them enter OEDIPUS.

OEDIPUS
My children, latest born to Cadmus old,
Why sit ye here as suppliants, in your hands
Branches of olive filleted with wool?
What means this reek of incense everywhere,
And everywhere laments and litanies?
Children, it were not meet that I should learn
From others, and am hither come, myself,
I Oedipus, your world-renowned king.
Ho! aged sire, whose venerable locks
Proclaim thee spokesman of this company,
Explain your mood and purport. Is it dread
Of ill that moves you or a boon ye crave?
My zeal in your behalf ye cannot doubt;
Ruthless indeed were I and obdurate
If such petitioners as you I spurned.

PRIEST
Yea, Oedipus, my sovereign lord and king,
Thou seest how both extremes of age besiege
Thy palace altars--fledglings hardly winged,
and greybeards bowed with years; priests, as am I
of Zeus, and these the flower of our youth.
Meanwhile, the common folk, with wreathed boughs
Crowd our two market-places, or before
Both shrines of Pallas congregate, or where
Ismenus gives his oracles by fire.
For, as thou seest thyself, our ship of State,
Sore buffeted, can no more lift her head,
Foundered beneath a weltering surge of blood.
A blight is on our harvest in the ear,
A blight upon the grazing flocks and herds,
A blight on wives in travail; and withal
Armed with his blazing torch the God of Plague
Hath swooped upon our city emptying
The house of Cadmus, and the murky realm
Of Pluto is full fed with groans and tears.
Therefore, O King, here at thy hearth we sit,
I and these children; not as deeming thee
A new divinity, but the first of men;
First in the common accidents of life,
And first in visitations of the Gods.
Art thou not he who coming to the town
of Cadmus freed us from the tax we paid
To the fell songstress? Nor hadst thou received
Prompting from us or been by others schooled;
No, by a god inspired (so all men deem,
And testify) didst thou renew our life.
And now, O Oedipus, our peerless king,
All we thy votaries beseech thee, find
Some succor, whether by a voice from heaven
Whispered, or haply known by human wit.
Tried counselors, methinks, are aptest found [1]
To furnish for the future pregnant rede.
Upraise, O chief of men, upraise our State!
Look to thy laurels! for thy zeal of yore
Our country's savior thou art justly hailed:
O never may we thus record thy reign:--
"He raised us up only to cast us down."
Uplift us, build our city on a rock.
Thy happy star ascendant brought us luck,
O let it not decline! If thou wouldst rule
This land, as now thou reignest, better sure
To rule a peopled than a desert realm.
Nor battlements nor galleys aught avail,
If men to man and guards to guard them tail.

OEDIPUS
Ah! my poor children, known, ah, known too well,
The quest that brings you hither and your need.
Ye sicken all, well wot I, yet my pain,
How great soever yours, outtops it all.
Your sorrow touches each man severally,
Him  and none
Copyright   (c) other, but I grieve
                2005-2009,          at once
                               Infobase  Media Corp.                     Page 74 / 176
Both for the general and myself and you.
Therefore ye rouse no sluggard from day-dreams.
Many, my children, are the tears I've wept,
The quest that brings you hither and your need.
Ye sicken all, well wot I, yet my pain,
How great soever yours, outtops it all.
Your sorrow touches each man severally,
Him and none other, but I grieve at once
Both for the general and myself and you.
Therefore ye rouse no sluggard from day-dreams.
Many, my children, are the tears I've wept,
And threaded many a maze of weary thought.
Thus pondering one clue of hope I caught,
And tracked it up; I have sent Menoeceus' son,
Creon, my consort's brother, to inquire
Of Pythian Phoebus at his Delphic shrine,
How I might save the State by act or word.
And now I reckon up the tale of days
Since he set forth, and marvel how he fares.
'Tis strange, this endless tarrying, passing strange.
But when he comes, then I were base indeed,
If I perform not all the god declares.

PRIEST
Thy words are well timed; even as thou speakest
That shouting tells me Creon is at hand.

OEDIPUS
O King Apollo! may his joyous looks
Be presage of the joyous news he brings!

PRIEST
As I surmise, 'tis welcome; else his head
Had scarce been crowned with berry-laden bays.

OEDIPUS
We soon shall know; he's now in earshot range.
[Enter CREON]
My royal cousin, say, Menoeceus' child,
What message hast thou brought us from the god?

CREON
Good news, for e'en intolerable ills,
Finding right issue, tend to naught but good.

OEDIPUS
How runs the oracle? thus far thy words
Give me no ground for confidence or fear.

CREON
If thou wouldst hear my message publicly,
I'll tell thee straight, or with thee pass within.

OEDIPUS
Speak before all; the burden that I bear
Is more for these my subjects than myself.

CREON
Let me report then all the god declared.
King Phoebus bids us straitly extirpate
A fell pollution that infests the land,
And no more harbor an inveterate sore.

OEDIPUS
What expiation means he? What's amiss?

CREON
Banishment, or the shedding blood for blood.
This stain of blood makes shipwreck of our state.

OEDIPUS
Whom can he mean, the miscreant thus denounced?

CREON
Before thou didst assume the helm of State,
The sovereign of this land was Laius.

OEDIPUS
I heard as much, but never saw the man.

CREON
 Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.          Page 75 / 176
He fell; and now the god's command is plain:
Punish his takers-off, whoe'er they be.
OEDIPUS
I heard as much, but never saw the man.

CREON
He fell; and now the god's command is plain:
Punish his takers-off, whoe'er they be.

OEDIPUS
Where are they? Where in the wide world to find
The far, faint traces of a bygone crime?

CREON
In this land, said the god; "who seeks shall find;
Who sits with folded hands or sleeps is blind."

OEDIPUS
Was he within his palace, or afield,
Or traveling, when Laius met his fate?

CREON
Abroad; he started, so he told us, bound
For Delphi, but he never thence returned.

OEDIPUS
Came there no news, no fellow-traveler
To give some clue that might be followed up?

CREON
But one escape, who flying for dear life,
Could tell of all he saw but one thing sure.

OEDIPUS
And what was that? One clue might lead us far,
With but a spark of hope to guide our quest.

CREON
Robbers, he told us, not one bandit but
A troop of knaves, attacked and murdered him.

OEDIPUS
Did any bandit dare so bold a stroke,
Unless indeed he were suborned from Thebes?

CREON
So 'twas surmised, but none was found to avenge
His murder mid the trouble that ensued.

OEDIPUS
What trouble can have hindered a full quest,
When royalty had fallen thus miserably?

CREON
The riddling Sphinx compelled us to let slide
The dim past and attend to instant needs.

OEDIPUS
Well, _I_ will start afresh and once again
Make dark things clear. Right worthy the concern
Of Phoebus, worthy thine too, for the dead;
I also, as is meet, will lend my aid
To avenge this wrong to Thebes and to the god.
Not for some far-off kinsman, but myself,
Shall I expel this poison in the blood;
For whoso slew that king might have a mind
To strike me too with his assassin hand.
Therefore in righting him I serve myself.
Up, children, haste ye, quit these altar stairs,
Take hence your suppliant wands, go summon hither
The Theban commons. With the god's good help
Success is sure; 'tis ruin if we fail.
[Exeunt OEDIPUS and CREON]

PRIEST
Come, children, let us hence; these gracious words
Forestall the very purpose of our suit.
And may the god who sent this oracle
Save us withal
 Copyright  (c) and rid us of this
                2005-2009,         pest. Media Corp.
                              Infobase                 Page 76 / 176
[Exeunt PRIEST and SUPPLIANTS]

CHORUS
PRIEST
Come, children, let us hence; these gracious words
Forestall the very purpose of our suit.
And may the god who sent this oracle
Save us withal and rid us of this pest.
[Exeunt PRIEST and SUPPLIANTS]

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Sweet-voiced daughter of Zeus from thy gold-paved Pythian shrine
Wafted to Thebes divine,
What dost thou bring me? My soul is racked and shivers with fear.
(Healer of Delos, hear!)
Hast thou some pain unknown before,
Or with the circling years renewest a penance of yore?
Offspring of golden Hope, thou voice immortal, O tell me.

(Ant. 1)
First on Athene I call; O Zeus-born goddess, defend!
Goddess and sister, befriend,
Artemis, Lady of Thebes, high-throned in the midst of our mart!
Lord of the death-winged dart!
Your threefold aid I crave
From death and ruin our city to save.
If in the days of old when we nigh had perished, ye drave
From our land the fiery plague, be near us now and defend us!

(Str. 2)
Ah me, what countless woes are mine!
All our host is in decline;
Weaponless my spirit lies.
Earth her gracious fruits denies;
Women wail in barren throes;
Life on life downstriken goes,
Swifter than the wind bird's flight,
Swifter than the Fire-God's might,
To the westering shores of Night.

(Ant. 2)
Wasted thus by death on death
All our city perisheth.
Corpses spread infection round;
None to tend or mourn is found.
Wailing on the altar stair
Wives and grandams rend the air--
Long-drawn moans and piercing cries
Blent with prayers and litanies.
Golden child of Zeus, O hear
Let thine angel face appear!

(Str. 3)
And grant that Ares whose hot breath I feel,
Though without targe or steel
He stalks, whose voice is as the battle shout,
May turn in sudden rout,
To the unharbored Thracian waters sped,
Or Amphitrite's bed.
For what night leaves undone,
Smit by the morrow's sun
Perisheth. Father Zeus, whose hand
Doth wield the lightning brand,
Slay him beneath thy levin bold, we pray,
Slay him, O slay!

(Ant. 3)
O that thine arrows too, Lycean King,
From that taut bow's gold string,
Might fly abroad, the champions of our rights;
Yea, and the flashing lights
Of Artemis, wherewith the huntress sweeps
Across the Lycian steeps.
Thee too I call with golden-snooded hair,
Whose name our land doth bear,
Bacchus to whom thy Maenads Evoe shout;
Come with thy bright torch, rout,
Blithe god whom we adore,
The god whom gods abhor.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                       Page 77 / 176
[Enter OEDIPUS.]
OEDIPUS
Ye pray; 'tis well, but would ye hear my words
Bacchus to whom thy Maenads Evoe shout;
Come with thy bright torch, rout,
Blithe god whom we adore,
The god whom gods abhor.

[Enter OEDIPUS.]
OEDIPUS
Ye pray; 'tis well, but would ye hear my words
And heed them and apply the remedy,
Ye might perchance find comfort and relief.
Mind you, I speak as one who comes a stranger
To this report, no less than to the crime;
For how unaided could I track it far
Without a clue? Which lacking (for too late
Was I enrolled a citizen of Thebes)
This proclamation I address to all:--
Thebans, if any knows the man by whom
Laius, son of Labdacus, was slain,
I summon him to make clean shrift to me.
And if he shrinks, let him reflect that thus
Confessing he shall 'scape the capital charge;
For the worst penalty that shall befall him
Is banishment--unscathed he shall depart.
But if an alien from a foreign land
Be known to any as the murderer,
Let him who knows speak out, and he shall have
Due recompense from me and thanks to boot.
But if ye still keep silence, if through fear
For self or friends ye disregard my hest,
Hear what I then resolve; I lay my ban
On the assassin whosoe'er he be.
Let no man in this land, whereof I hold
The sovereign rule, harbor or speak to him;
Give him no part in prayer or sacrifice
Or lustral rites, but hound him from your homes.
For this is our defilement, so the god
Hath lately shown to me by oracles.
Thus as their champion I maintain the cause
Both of the god and of the murdered King.
And on the murderer this curse I lay
(On him and all the partners in his guilt):--
Wretch, may he pine in utter wretchedness!
And for myself, if with my privity
He gain admittance to my hearth, I pray
The curse I laid on others fall on me.
See that ye give effect to all my hest,
For my sake and the god's and for our land,
A desert blasted by the wrath of heaven.
For, let alone the god's express command,
It were a scandal ye should leave unpurged
The murder of a great man and your king,
Nor track it home. And now that I am lord,
Successor to his throne, his bed, his wife,
(And had he not been frustrate in the hope
Of issue, common children of one womb
Had forced a closer bond twixt him and me,
But Fate swooped down upon him), therefore I
His blood-avenger will maintain his cause
As though he were my sire, and leave no stone
Unturned to track the assassin or avenge
The son of Labdacus, of Polydore,
Of Cadmus, and Agenor first of the race.
And for the disobedient thus I pray:
May the gods send them neither timely fruits
Of earth, nor teeming increase of the womb,
But may they waste and pine, as now they waste,
Aye and worse stricken; but to all of you,
My loyal subjects who approve my acts,
May Justice, our ally, and all the gods
Be gracious and attend you evermore.

CHORUS
The oath thou profferest, sire, I take and swear.
I slew him not myself, nor can I name
The slayer. For the quest, 'twere well, methinks
That Phoebus, who proposed the riddle, himself
Should give the answer--who the murderer was.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.       Page 78 / 176
OEDIPUS
Well argued; but no living man can hope
To force the gods to speak against their will.
I slew him not myself, nor can I name
The slayer. For the quest, 'twere well, methinks
That Phoebus, who proposed the riddle, himself
Should give the answer--who the murderer was.

OEDIPUS
Well argued; but no living man can hope
To force the gods to speak against their will.

CHORUS
May I then say what seems next best to me?

OEDIPUS
Aye, if there be a third best, tell it too.

CHORUS
My liege, if any man sees eye to eye
With our lord Phoebus, 'tis our prophet, lord
Teiresias; he of all men best might guide
A searcher of this matter to the light.

OEDIPUS
Here too my zeal has nothing lagged, for twice
At Creon's instance have I sent to fetch him,
And long I marvel why he is not here.

CHORUS
I mind me too of rumors long ago--
Mere gossip.

OEDIPUS
Tell them, I would fain know all.

CHORUS
'Twas said he fell by travelers.

OEDIPUS
So I heard,
But none has seen the man who saw him fall.

CHORUS
Well, if he knows what fear is, he will quail
And flee before the terror of thy curse.

OEDIPUS
Words scare not him who blenches not at deeds.

CHORUS
But here is one to arraign him. Lo, at length
They bring the god-inspired seer in whom
Above all other men is truth inborn.
[Enter TEIRESIAS, led by a boy.]

OEDIPUS
Teiresias, seer who comprehendest all,
Lore of the wise and hidden mysteries,
High things of heaven and low things of the earth,
Thou knowest, though thy blinded eyes see naught,
What plague infects our city; and we turn
To thee, O seer, our one defense and shield.
The purport of the answer that the God
Returned to us who sought his oracle,
The messengers have doubtless told thee--how
One course alone could rid us of the pest,
To find the murderers of Laius,
And slay them or expel them from the land.
Therefore begrudging neither augury
Nor other divination that is thine,
O save thyself, thy country, and thy king,
Save all from this defilement of blood shed.
On thee we rest. This is man's highest end,
To others' service all his powers to lend.

TEIRESIAS
Alas, alas, what misery to be wise
When wisdom profits nothing! This old lore
I had forgotten; else I were not here.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.        Page 79 / 176
OEDIPUS
What ails thee? Why this melancholy mood?
TEIRESIAS
Alas, alas, what misery to be wise
When wisdom profits nothing! This old lore
I had forgotten; else I were not here.

OEDIPUS
What ails thee? Why this melancholy mood?

TEIRESIAS
Let me go home; prevent me not; 'twere best
That thou shouldst bear thy burden and I mine.

OEDIPUS
For shame! no true-born Theban patriot
Would thus withhold the word of prophecy.

TEIRESIAS
_Thy_ words, O king, are wide of the mark, and I
For fear lest I too trip like thee...

OEDIPUS
Oh speak,
Withhold not, I adjure thee, if thou know'st,
Thy knowledge. We are all thy suppliants.

TEIRESIAS
Aye, for ye all are witless, but my voice
Will ne'er reveal my miseries--or thine. [2]

OEDIPUS
What then, thou knowest, and yet willst not speak!
Wouldst thou betray us and destroy the State?

TEIRESIAS
I will not vex myself nor thee. Why ask
Thus idly what from me thou shalt not learn?

OEDIPUS
Monster! thy silence would incense a flint.
Will nothing loose thy tongue? Can nothing melt thee,
Or shake thy dogged taciturnity?

TEIRESIAS
Thou blam'st my mood and seest not thine own
Wherewith thou art mated; no, thou taxest me.

OEDIPUS
And who could stay his choler when he heard
How insolently thou dost flout the State?

TEIRESIAS
Well, it will come what will, though I be mute.

OEDIPUS
Since come it must, thy duty is to tell me.

TEIRESIAS
I have no more to say; storm as thou willst,
And give the rein to all thy pent-up rage.

OEDIPUS
Yea, I am wroth, and will not stint my words,
But speak my whole mind. Thou methinks thou art he,
Who planned the crime, aye, and performed it too,
All save the assassination; and if thou
Hadst not been blind, I had been sworn to boot
That thou alone didst do the bloody deed.

TEIRESIAS
Is it so? Then I charge thee to abide
By thine own proclamation; from this day
Speak not to these or me. Thou art the man,
Thou the accursed polluter of this land.

OEDIPUS
Vile slanderer, thou blurtest forth these taunts,
And think'st forsooth as seer to go scot free.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.           Page 80 / 176
TEIRESIAS
Yea, I am free, strong in the strength of truth.
OEDIPUS
Vile slanderer, thou blurtest forth these taunts,
And think'st forsooth as seer to go scot free.

TEIRESIAS
Yea, I am free, strong in the strength of truth.

OEDIPUS
Who was thy teacher? not methinks thy art.

TEIRESIAS
Thou, goading me against my will to speak.

OEDIPUS
What speech? repeat it and resolve my doubt.

TEIRESIAS
Didst miss my sense wouldst thou goad me on?

OEDIPUS
I but half caught thy meaning; say it again.

TEIRESIAS
I say thou art the murderer of the man
Whose murderer thou pursuest.

OEDIPUS
Thou shalt rue it
Twice to repeat so gross a calumny.

TEIRESIAS
Must I say more to aggravate thy rage?

OEDIPUS
Say all thou wilt; it will be but waste of breath.

TEIRESIAS
I say thou livest with thy nearest kin
In infamy, unwitting in thy shame.

OEDIPUS
Think'st thou for aye unscathed to wag thy tongue?

TEIRESIAS
Yea, if the might of truth can aught prevail.
OEDIPUS
With other men, but not with thee, for thou
In ear, wit, eye, in everything art blind.

TEIRESIAS
Poor fool to utter gibes at me which all
Here present will cast back on thee ere long.

OEDIPUS
Offspring of endless Night, thou hast no power
O'er me or any man who sees the sun.

TEIRESIAS
No, for thy weird is not to fall by me.
I leave to Apollo what concerns the god.

OEDIPUS
Is this a plot of Creon, or thine own?

TEIRESIAS
Not Creon, thou thyself art thine own bane.

OEDIPUS
O wealth and empiry and skill by skill
Outwitted in the battlefield of life,
What spite and envy follow in your train!
See, for this crown the State conferred on me.
A gift, a thing I sought not, for this crown
The trusty Creon, my familiar friend,
Hath lain in wait to oust me and suborned
This mountebank, this juggling charlatan,
This tricksy (c)
 Copyright    beggar-priest,
                 2005-2009,for   gain alone
                               Infobase   Media Corp.   Page 81 / 176
Keen-eyed, but in his proper art stone-blind.
Say, sirrah, hast thou ever proved thyself
A prophet? When the riddling Sphinx was here
A gift, a thing I sought not, for this crown
The trusty Creon, my familiar friend,
Hath lain in wait to oust me and suborned
This mountebank, this juggling charlatan,
This tricksy beggar-priest, for gain alone
Keen-eyed, but in his proper art stone-blind.
Say, sirrah, hast thou ever proved thyself
A prophet? When the riddling Sphinx was here
Why hadst thou no deliverance for this folk?
And yet the riddle was not to be solved
By guess-work but required the prophet's art;
Wherein thou wast found lacking; neither birds
Nor sign from heaven helped thee, but _I_ came,
The simple Oedipus; _I_ stopped her mouth
By mother wit, untaught of auguries.
This is the man whom thou wouldst undermine,
In hope to reign with Creon in my stead.
Methinks that thou and thine abettor soon
Will rue your plot to drive the scapegoat out.
Thank thy grey hairs that thou hast still to learn
What chastisement such arrogance deserves.

CHORUS
To us it seems that both the seer and thou,
O Oedipus, have spoken angry words.
This is no time to wrangle but consult
How best we may fulfill the oracle.

TEIRESIAS
King as thou art, free speech at least is mine
To make reply; in this I am thy peer.
I own no lord but Loxias; him I serve
And ne'er can stand enrolled as Creon's man.
Thus then I answer: since thou hast not spared
To twit me with my blindness--thou hast eyes,
Yet see'st not in what misery thou art fallen,
Nor where thou dwellest nor with whom for mate.
Dost know thy lineage? Nay, thou know'st it not,
And all unwitting art a double foe
To thine own kin, the living and the dead;
Aye and the dogging curse of mother and sire
One day shall drive thee, like a two-edged sword,
Beyond our borders, and the eyes that now
See clear shall henceforward endless night.
Ah whither shall thy bitter cry not reach,
What crag in all Cithaeron but shall then
Reverberate thy wail, when thou hast found
With what a hymeneal thou wast borne
Home, but to no fair haven, on the gale!
Aye, and a flood of ills thou guessest not
Shall set thyself and children in one line.
Flout then both Creon and my words, for none
Of mortals shall be striken worse than thou.

OEDIPUS
Must I endure this fellow's insolence?
A murrain on thee! Get thee hence! Begone
Avaunt! and never cross my threshold more.

TEIRESIAS
I ne'er had come hadst thou not bidden me.

OEDIPUS
I know not thou wouldst utter folly, else
Long hadst thou waited to be summoned here.

TEIRESIAS
Such am I--as it seems to thee a fool,
But to the parents who begat thee, wise.

OEDIPUS
What sayest thou--"parents"? Who begat me, speak?

TEIRESIAS
This day shall be thy birth-day, and thy grave.

OEDIPUS
Thou lov'st (c)
Copyright   to speak in riddles
                2005-2009,      and dark
                             Infobase    words.
                                       Media Corp.   Page 82 / 176
TEIRESIAS
In reading riddles who so skilled as thou?
This day shall be thy birth-day, and thy grave.

OEDIPUS
Thou lov'st to speak in riddles and dark words.

TEIRESIAS
In reading riddles who so skilled as thou?

OEDIPUS
Twit me with that wherein my greatness lies.

TEIRESIAS
And yet this very greatness proved thy bane.

OEDIPUS
No matter if I saved the commonwealth.

TEIRESIAS
'Tis time I left thee. Come, boy, take me home.

OEDIPUS
Aye, take him quickly, for his presence irks
And lets me; gone, thou canst not plague me more.

TEIRESIAS
I go, but first will tell thee why I came.
Thy frown I dread not, for thou canst not harm me.
Hear then: this man whom thou hast sought to arrest
With threats and warrants this long while, the wretch
Who murdered Laius--that man is here.
He passes for an alien in the land
But soon shall prove a Theban, native born.
And yet his fortune brings him little joy;
For blind of seeing, clad in beggar's weeds,
For purple robes, and leaning on his staff,
To a strange land he soon shall grope his way.
And of the children, inmates of his home,
He shall be proved the brother and the sire,
Of her who bare him son and husband both,
Co-partner, and assassin of his sire.
Go in and ponder this, and if thou find
That I have missed the mark, henceforth declare
I have no wit nor skill in prophecy.
[Exeunt TEIRESIAS and OEDIPUS]

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Who is he by voice immortal named from Pythia's rocky cell,
Doer of foul deeds of bloodshed, horrors that no tongue can tell?
A foot for flight he needs
Fleeter than storm-swift steeds,
For on his heels doth follow,
Armed with the lightnings of his Sire, Apollo.
Like sleuth-hounds too
The Fates pursue.

(Ant. 1)
Yea, but now flashed forth the summons from Parnassus' snowy peak,
"Near and far the undiscovered doer of this murder seek!"
Now like a sullen bull he roves
Through forest brakes and upland groves,
And vainly seeks to fly
The doom that ever nigh
Flits o'er his head,
Still by the avenging Phoebus sped,
The voice divine,
From Earth's mid shrine.
(Str. 2)
Sore perplexed am I by the words of the master seer.
Are they true, are they false? I know not and bridle my tongue for
fear,
Fluttered with vague surmise; nor present nor future is clear.
Quarrel of ancient date or in days still near know I none
Twixt the Labdacidan house and our ruler, Polybus' son.
Proof is there none: how then can I challenge our King's good name,
How in a blood-feud join for an untracked deed of shame?
 Copyright
(Ant. 2) (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                          Page 83 / 176
All wise are Zeus and Apollo, and nothing is hid from their ken;
They are gods; and in wits a man may surpass his fellow men;
Twixt the Labdacidan house and our ruler, Polybus' son.
Proof is there none: how then can I challenge our King's good name,
How in a blood-feud join for an untracked deed of shame?

(Ant. 2)
All wise are Zeus and Apollo, and nothing is hid from their ken;
They are gods; and in wits a man may surpass his fellow men;
But that a mortal seer knows more than I know--where
Hath this been proven? Or how without sign assured, can I blame
Him who saved our State when the winged songstress came,
Tested and tried in the light of us all, like gold assayed?
How can I now assent when a crime is on Oedipus laid?

CREON
Friends, countrymen, I learn King Oedipus
Hath laid against me a most grievous charge,
And come to you protesting. If he deems
That I have harmed or injured him in aught
By word or deed in this our present trouble,
I care not to prolong the span of life,
Thus ill-reputed; for the calumny
Hits not a single blot, but blasts my name,
If by the general voice I am denounced
False to the State and false by you my friends.

CHORUS
This taunt, it well may be, was blurted out
In petulance, not spoken advisedly.

CREON
Did any dare pretend that it was I
Prompted the seer to utter a forged charge?

CHORUS
Such things were said; with what intent I know not.

CREON
Were not his wits and vision all astray
When upon me he fixed this monstrous charge?

CHORUS
I know not; to my sovereign's acts I am blind.
But lo, he comes to answer for himself.
[Enter OEDIPUS.]

OEDIPUS
Sirrah, what mak'st thou here? Dost thou presume
To approach my doors, thou brazen-faced rogue,
My murderer and the filcher of my crown?
Come, answer this, didst thou detect in me
Some touch of cowardice or witlessness,
That made thee undertake this enterprise?
I seemed forsooth too simple to perceive
The serpent stealing on me in the dark,
Or else too weak to scotch it when I saw.
This _thou_ art witless seeking to possess
Without a following or friends the crown,
A prize that followers and wealth must win.

CREON
Attend me. Thou hast spoken, 'tis my turn
To make reply. Then having heard me, judge.

OEDIPUS
Thou art glib of tongue, but I am slow to learn
Of thee; I know too well thy venomous hate.

CREON
First I would argue out this very point.

OEDIPUS
O argue not that thou art not a rogue.

CREON
If thou dost count a virtue stubbornness,
Unschooled by reason, thou art much astray.

OEDIPUS
 Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                        Page 84 / 176
If thou dost hold a kinsman may be wronged,
And no pains follow, thou art much to seek.
CREON
If thou dost count a virtue stubbornness,
Unschooled by reason, thou art much astray.

OEDIPUS
If thou dost hold a kinsman may be wronged,
And no pains follow, thou art much to seek.

CREON
Therein thou judgest rightly, but this wrong
That thou allegest--tell me what it is.

OEDIPUS
Didst thou or didst thou not advise that I
Should call the priest?

CREON
Yes, and I stand to it.

OEDIPUS
Tell me how long is it since Laius...

CREON
Since Laius...? I follow not thy drift.

OEDIPUS
By violent hands was spirited away.

CREON
In the dim past, a many years agone.

OEDIPUS
Did the same prophet then pursue his craft?

CREON
Yes, skilled as now and in no less repute.

OEDIPUS
Did he at that time ever glance at me?

CREON
Not to my knowledge, not when I was by.

OEDIPUS
But was no search and inquisition made?

CREON
Surely full quest was made, but nothing learnt.

OEDIPUS
Why failed the seer to tell his story _then_?

CREON
I know not, and not knowing hold my tongue.

OEDIPUS
This much thou knowest and canst surely tell.

CREON
What's mean'st thou? All I know I will declare.

OEDIPUS
But for thy prompting never had the seer
Ascribed to me the death of Laius.

CREON
If so he thou knowest best; but I
Would put thee to the question in my turn.

OEDIPUS
Question and prove me murderer if thou canst.

CREON
Then let me ask thee, didst thou wed my sister?

OEDIPUS
A fact so plain I cannot well deny.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.     Page 85 / 176
CREON
And as thy consort queen she shares the throne?
Then let me ask thee, didst thou wed my sister?

OEDIPUS
A fact so plain I cannot well deny.

CREON
And as thy consort queen she shares the throne?

OEDIPUS
I grant her freely all her heart desires.

CREON
And with you twain I share the triple rule?

OEDIPUS
Yea, and it is that proves thee a false friend.

CREON
Not so, if thou wouldst reason with thyself,
As I with myself. First, I bid thee think,
Would any mortal choose a troubled reign
Of terrors rather than secure repose,
If the same power were given him? As for me,
I have no natural craving for the name
Of king, preferring to do kingly deeds,
And so thinks every sober-minded man.
Now all my needs are satisfied through thee,
And I have naught to fear; but were I king,
My acts would oft run counter to my will.
How could a title then have charms for me
Above the sweets of boundless influence?
I am not so infatuate as to grasp
The shadow when I hold the substance fast.
Now all men cry me Godspeed! wish me well,
And every suitor seeks to gain my ear,
If he would hope to win a grace from thee.
Why should I leave the better, choose the worse?
That were sheer madness, and I am not mad.
No such ambition ever tempted me,
Nor would I have a share in such intrigue.
And if thou doubt me, first to Delphi go,
There ascertain if my report was true
Of the god's answer; next investigate
If with the seer I plotted or conspired,
And if it prove so, sentence me to death,
Not by thy voice alone, but mine and thine.
But O condemn me not, without appeal,
On bare suspicion. 'Tis not right to adjudge
Bad men at random good, or good men bad.
I would as lief a man should cast away
The thing he counts most precious, his own life,
As spurn a true friend. Thou wilt learn in time
The truth, for time alone reveals the just;
A villain is detected in a day.

CHORUS
To one who walketh warily his words
Commend themselves; swift counsels are not sure.

OEDIPUS
When with swift strides the stealthy plotter stalks
I must be quick too with my counterplot.
To wait his onset passively, for him
Is sure success, for me assured defeat.

CREON
What then's thy will? To banish me the land?

OEDIPUS
I would not have thee banished, no, but dead,
That men may mark the wages envy reaps.

CREON
I see thou wilt not yield, nor credit me.

OEDIPUS
[None but a fool would credit such as thou.] [3]
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.         Page 86 / 176
CREON
Thou art not wise.
I see thou wilt not yield, nor credit me.

OEDIPUS
[None but a fool would credit such as thou.] [3]

CREON
Thou art not wise.

OEDIPUS
Wise for myself at least.

CREON
Why not for me too?

OEDIPUS
Why for such a knave?

CREON
Suppose thou lackest sense.

OEDIPUS
Yet kings must rule.

CREON
Not if they rule ill.

OEDIPUS
Oh my Thebans, hear him!

CREON
Thy Thebans? am not I a Theban too?

CHORUS
Cease, princes; lo there comes, and none too soon,
Jocasta from the palace. Who so fit
As peacemaker to reconcile your feud?
[Enter JOCASTA.]

JOCASTA
Misguided princes, why have ye upraised
This wordy wrangle? Are ye not ashamed,
While the whole land lies striken, thus to voice
Your private injuries? Go in, my lord;
Go home, my brother, and forebear to make
A public scandal of a petty grief.

CREON
My royal sister, Oedipus, thy lord,
Hath bid me choose (O dread alternative!)
An outlaw's exile or a felon's death.

OEDIPUS
Yes, lady; I have caught him practicing
Against my royal person his vile arts.

CREON
May I ne'er speed but die accursed, if I
In any way am guilty of this charge.

JOCASTA
Believe him, I adjure thee, Oedipus,
First for his solemn oath's sake, then for mine,
And for thine elders' sake who wait on thee.

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Hearken, King, reflect, we pray thee, but not stubborn but relent.

OEDIPUS
Say to what should I consent?

CHORUS
Respect a man whose probity and troth
Are known to all and now confirmed by oath.

OEDIPUS
Dost know what grace thou cravest?
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                        Page 87 / 176
CHORUS
Yea, I know.
Are known to all and now confirmed by oath.

OEDIPUS
Dost know what grace thou cravest?

CHORUS
Yea, I know.

OEDIPUS
Declare it then and make thy meaning plain.

CHORUS
Brand not a friend whom babbling tongues assail;
Let not suspicion 'gainst his oath prevail.

OEDIPUS
Bethink you that in seeking this ye seek
In very sooth my death or banishment?

CHORUS
No, by the leader of the host divine!
(Str. 2)
Witness, thou Sun, such thought was never mine,
Unblest, unfriended may I perish,
If ever I such wish did cherish!
But O my heart is desolate
Musing on our striken State,
Doubly fall'n should discord grow
Twixt you twain, to crown our woe.

OEDIPUS
Well, let him go, no matter what it cost me,
Or certain death or shameful banishment,
For your sake I relent, not his; and him,
Where'er he be, my heart shall still abhor.

CREON
Thou art as sullen in thy yielding mood
As in thine anger thou wast truculent.
Such tempers justly plague themselves the most.

OEDIPUS
Leave me in peace and get thee gone.

CREON
I go,
By thee misjudged, but justified by these.
[Exeunt CREON]

CHORUS
(Ant. 1)
Lady, lead indoors thy consort; wherefore longer here delay?

JOCASTA
Tell me first how rose the fray.

CHORUS
Rumors bred unjust suspicious and injustice rankles sore.

JOCASTA
Were both at fault?

CHORUS
Both.

JOCASTA
What was the tale?

CHORUS
Ask me no more. The land is sore distressed;
'Twere better sleeping ills to leave at rest.

OEDIPUS
Strange counsel, friend! I know thou mean'st me well,
And yet would'st mitigate and blunt my zeal.

CHORUS
(Ant.   2) (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.
 Copyright                                                     Page 88 / 176
King, I say it once again,
Witless were I proved, insane,
If I lightly put away
And yet would'st mitigate and blunt my zeal.

CHORUS
(Ant. 2)
King, I say it once again,
Witless were I proved, insane,
If I lightly put away
Thee my country's prop and stay,
Pilot who, in danger sought,
To a quiet haven brought
Our distracted State; and now
Who can guide us right but thou?

JOCASTA
Let me too, I adjure thee, know, O king,
What cause has stirred this unrelenting wrath.

OEDIPUS
I will, for thou art more to me than these.
Lady, the cause is Creon and his plots.

JOCASTA
But what provoked the quarrel? make this clear.

OEDIPUS
He points me out as Laius' murderer.

JOCASTA
Of his own knowledge or upon report?

OEDIPUS
He is too cunning to commit himself,
And makes a mouthpiece of a knavish seer.

JOCASTA
Then thou mayest ease thy conscience on that score.
Listen and I'll convince thee that no man
Hath scot or lot in the prophetic art.
Here is the proof in brief. An oracle
Once came to Laius (I will not say
'Twas from the Delphic god himself, but from
His ministers) declaring he was doomed
To perish by the hand of his own son,
A child that should be born to him by me.
Now Laius--so at least report affirmed--
Was murdered on a day by highwaymen,
No natives, at a spot where three roads meet.
As for the child, it was but three days old,
When Laius, its ankles pierced and pinned
Together, gave it to be cast away
By others on the trackless mountain side.
So then Apollo brought it not to pass
The child should be his father's murderer,
Or the dread terror find accomplishment,
And Laius be slain by his own son.
Such was the prophet's horoscope. O king,
Regard it not. Whate'er the god deems fit
To search, himself unaided will reveal.

OEDIPUS
What memories, what wild tumult of the soul
Came o'er me, lady, as I heard thee speak!

JOCASTA
What mean'st thou? What has shocked and startled thee?

OEDIPUS
Methought I heard thee say that Laius
Was murdered at the meeting of three roads.

JOCASTA
So ran the story that is current still.

OEDIPUS
Where did this happen? Dost thou know the place?

JOCASTA
 Copyright
Phocis      (c) 2005-2009,
       the land is called; theInfobase  Media Corp.
                               spot is where             Page 89 / 176
Branch roads from Delphi and from Daulis meet.
Where did this happen? Dost thou know the place?

JOCASTA
Phocis the land is called; the spot is where
Branch roads from Delphi and from Daulis meet.

OEDIPUS
And how long is it since these things befell?

JOCASTA
'Twas but a brief while were thou wast proclaimed
Our country's ruler that the news was brought.

OEDIPUS
O Zeus, what hast thou willed to do with me!

JOCASTA
What is it, Oedipus, that moves thee so?

OEDIPUS
Ask me not yet; tell me the build and height
Of Laius? Was he still in manhood's prime?

JOCASTA
Tall was he, and his hair was lightly strewn
With silver; and not unlike thee in form.

OEDIPUS
O woe is me! Mehtinks unwittingly
I laid but now a dread curse on myself.

JOCASTA
What say'st thou? When I look upon thee, my king,
I tremble.

OEDIPUS
'Tis a dread presentiment
That in the end the seer will prove not blind.
One further question to resolve my doubt.

JOCASTA
I quail; but ask, and I will answer all.

OEDIPUS
Had he but few attendants or a train
Of armed retainers with him, like a prince?

JOCASTA
They were but five in all, and one of them
A herald; Laius in a mule-car rode.

OEDIPUS
Alas! 'tis clear as noonday now. But say,
Lady, who carried this report to Thebes?

JOCASTA
A serf, the sole survivor who returned.

OEDIPUS
Haply he is at hand or in the house?

JOCASTA
No, for as soon as he returned and found
Thee reigning in the stead of Laius slain,
He clasped my hand and supplicated me
To send him to the alps and pastures, where
He might be farthest from the sight of Thebes.
And so I sent him. 'Twas an honest slave
And well deserved some better recompense.

OEDIPUS
Fetch him at once. I fain would see the man.

JOCASTA
He shall be brought; but wherefore summon him?

OEDIPUS
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.       Page 90 / 176
Lady, I fear my tongue has overrun
Discretion; therefore I would question him.
JOCASTA
He shall be brought; but wherefore summon him?

OEDIPUS
Lady, I fear my tongue has overrun
Discretion; therefore I would question him.

JOCASTA
Well, he shall come, but may not I too claim
To share the burden of thy heart, my king?

OEDIPUS
And thou shalt not be frustrate of thy wish.
Now my imaginings have gone so far.
Who has a higher claim that thou to hear
My tale of dire adventures? Listen then.
My sire was Polybus of Corinth, and
My mother Merope, a Dorian;
And I was held the foremost citizen,
Till a strange thing befell me, strange indeed,
Yet scarce deserving all the heat it stirred.
A roisterer at some banquet, flown with wine,
Shouted "Thou art not true son of thy sire."
It irked me, but I stomached for the nonce
The insult; on the morrow I sought out
My mother and my sire and questioned them.
They were indignant at the random slur
Cast on my parentage and did their best
To comfort me, but still the venomed barb
Rankled, for still the scandal spread and grew.
So privily without their leave I went
To Delphi, and Apollo sent me back
Baulked of the knowledge that I came to seek.
But other grievous things he prophesied,
Woes, lamentations, mourning, portents dire;
To wit I should defile my mother's bed
And raise up seed too loathsome to behold,
And slay the father from whose loins I sprang.
Then, lady,--thou shalt hear the very truth--
As I drew near the triple-branching roads,
A herald met me and a man who sat
In a car drawn by colts--as in thy tale--
The man in front and the old man himself
Threatened to thrust me rudely from the path,
Then jostled by the charioteer in wrath
I struck him, and the old man, seeing this,
Watched till I passed and from his car brought down
Full on my head the double-pointed goad.
Yet was I quits with him and more; one stroke
Of my good staff sufficed to fling him clean
Out of the chariot seat and laid him prone.
And so I slew them every one. But if
Betwixt this stranger there was aught in common
With Laius, who more miserable than I,
What mortal could you find more god-abhorred?
Wretch whom no sojourner, no citizen
May harbor or address, whom all are bound
To harry from their homes. And this same curse
Was laid on me, and laid by none but me.
Yea with these hands all gory I pollute
The bed of him I slew. Say, am I vile?
Am I not utterly unclean, a wretch
Doomed to be banished, and in banishment
Forgo the sight of all my dearest ones,
And never tread again my native earth;
Or else to wed my mother and slay my sire,
Polybus, who begat me and upreared?
If one should say, this is the handiwork
Of some inhuman power, who could blame
His judgment? But, ye pure and awful gods,
Forbid, forbid that I should see that day!
May I be blotted out from living men
Ere such a plague spot set on me its brand!

CHORUS
We too, O king, are troubled; but till thou
Hast questioned
Copyright        the survivor,Infobase
            (c) 2005-2009,      still hopeMedia
                                           on. Corp.   Page 91 / 176
OEDIPUS
My hope is faint, but still enough survives
Ere such a plague spot set on me its brand!

CHORUS
We too, O king, are troubled; but till thou
Hast questioned the survivor, still hope on.

OEDIPUS
My hope is faint, but still enough survives
To bid me bide the coming of this herd.

JOCASTA
Suppose him here, what wouldst thou learn of him?

OEDIPUS
I'll tell thee, lady; if his tale agrees
With thine, I shall have 'scaped calamity.

JOCASTA
And what of special import did I say?

OEDIPUS
In thy report of what the herdsman said
Laius was slain by robbers; now if he
Still speaks of robbers, not a robber, I
Slew him not; "one" with "many" cannot square.
But if he says one lonely wayfarer,
The last link wanting to my guilt is forged.

JOCASTA
Well, rest assured, his tale ran thus at first,
Nor can he now retract what then he said;
Not I alone but all our townsfolk heard it.
E'en should he vary somewhat in his story,
He cannot make the death of Laius
In any wise jump with the oracle.
For Loxias said expressly he was doomed
To die by my child's hand, but he, poor babe,
He shed no blood, but perished first himself.
So much for divination. Henceforth I
Will look for signs neither to right nor left.

OEDIPUS
Thou reasonest well. Still I would have thee send
And fetch the bondsman hither. See to it.

JOCASTA
That will I straightway. Come, let us within.
I would do nothing that my lord mislikes.
[Exeunt OEDIPUS and JOCASTA]

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
My lot be still to lead
The life of innocence and fly
Irreverence in word or deed,
To follow still those laws ordained on high
Whose birthplace is the bright ethereal sky
No mortal birth they own,
Olympus their progenitor alone:
Ne'er shall they slumber in oblivion cold,
The god in them is strong and grows not old.

(Ant. 1)
Of insolence is bred
The tyrant; insolence full blown,
With empty riches surfeited,
Scales the precipitous height and grasps the throne.
Then topples o'er and lies in ruin prone;
No foothold on that dizzy steep.
But O may Heaven the true patriot keep
Who burns with emulous zeal to serve the State.
God is my help and hope, on him I wait.

(Str. 2)
But the proud sinner, or in word or deed,
That will not Justice heed,
Nor reverence the shrine
Of  images divine,
 Copyright   (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.       Page 92 / 176
Perdition seize his vain imaginings,
If, urged by greed profane,
He grasps at ill-got gain,
(Str. 2)
But the proud sinner, or in word or deed,
That will not Justice heed,
Nor reverence the shrine
Of images divine,
Perdition seize his vain imaginings,
If, urged by greed profane,
He grasps at ill-got gain,
And lays an impious hand on holiest things.
Who when such deeds are done
Can hope heaven's bolts to shun?
If sin like this to honor can aspire,
Why dance I still and lead the sacred choir?

(Ant. 2)
No more I'll seek earth's central oracle,
Or Abae's hallowed cell,
Nor to Olympia bring
My votive offering.
If before all God's truth be not bade plain.
O Zeus, reveal thy might,
King, if thou'rt named aright
Omnipotent, all-seeing, as of old;
For Laius is forgot;
His weird, men heed it not;
Apollo is forsook and faith grows cold.
[Enter JOCASTA.]

JOCASTA
My lords, ye look amazed to see your queen
With wreaths and gifts of incense in her hands.
I had a mind to visit the high shrines,
For Oedipus is overwrought, alarmed
With terrors manifold. He will not use
His past experience, like a man of sense,
To judge the present need, but lends an ear
To any croaker if he augurs ill.
Since then my counsels naught avail, I turn
To thee, our present help in time of trouble,
Apollo, Lord Lycean, and to thee
My prayers and supplications here I bring.
Lighten us, lord, and cleanse us from this curse!
For now we all are cowed like mariners
Who see their helmsman dumbstruck in the storm.
[Enter Corinthian MESSENGER.]

MESSENGER
My masters, tell me where the palace is
Of Oedipus; or better, where's the king.

CHORUS
Here is the palace and he bides within;
This is his queen the mother of his children.

MESSENGER
All happiness attend her and the house,
Blessed is her husband and her marriage-bed.

JOCASTA
My greetings to thee, stranger; thy fair words
Deserve a like response. But tell me why
Thou comest--what thy need or what thy news.

MESSENGER
Good for thy consort and the royal house.

JOCASTA
What may it be? Whose messenger art thou?

MESSENGER
The Isthmian commons have resolved to make
Thy husband king--so 'twas reported there.

JOCASTA
What! is not aged Polybus still king?

MESSENGER
No, verily; he's
Copyright        dead and in his
            (c) 2005-2009,       grave. Media Corp.
                             Infobase                 Page 93 / 176
JOCASTA
What! is he dead, the sire of Oedipus?
What! is not aged Polybus still king?

MESSENGER
No, verily; he's dead and in his grave.

JOCASTA
What! is he dead, the sire of Oedipus?

MESSENGER
If I speak falsely, may I die myself.

JOCASTA
Quick, maiden, bear these tidings to my lord.
Ye god-sent oracles, where stand ye now!
This is the man whom Oedipus long shunned,
In dread to prove his murderer; and now
He dies in nature's course, not by his hand.
[Enter OEDIPUS.]

OEDIPUS
My wife, my queen, Jocasta, why hast thou
Summoned me from my palace?

JOCASTA
Hear this man,
And as thou hearest judge what has become
Of all those awe-inspiring oracles.

OEDIPUS
Who is this man, and what his news for me?

JOCASTA
He comes from Corinth and his message this:
Thy father Polybus hath passed away.

OEDIPUS
What? let me have it, stranger, from thy mouth.

MESSENGER
If I must first make plain beyond a doubt
My message, know that Polybus is dead.

OEDIPUS
By treachery, or by sickness visited?

MESSENGER
One touch will send an old man to his rest.

OEDIPUS
So of some malady he died, poor man.

MESSENGER
Yes, having measured the full span of years.

OEDIPUS
Out on it, lady! why should one regard
The Pythian hearth or birds that scream i' the air?
Did they not point at me as doomed to slay
My father? but he's dead and in his grave
And here am I who ne'er unsheathed a sword;
Unless the longing for his absent son
Killed him and so _I_ slew him in a sense.
But, as they stand, the oracles are dead--
Dust, ashes, nothing, dead as Polybus.

JOCASTA
Say, did not I foretell this long ago?

OEDIPUS
Thou didst: but I was misled by my fear.

JOCASTA
Then let I no more weigh upon thy soul.

OEDIPUS
Must I not fear my mother's marriage bed.
 Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.
JOCASTA                                               Page 94 / 176
OEDIPUS
Must I not fear my mother's marriage bed.

JOCASTA
Why should a mortal man, the sport of chance,
With no assured foreknowledge, be afraid?
Best live a careless life from hand to mouth.
This wedlock with thy mother fear not thou.
How oft it chances that in dreams a man
Has wed his mother! He who least regards
Such brainsick phantasies lives most at ease.

OEDIPUS
I should have shared in full thy confidence,
Were not my mother living; since she lives
Though half convinced I still must live in dread.

JOCASTA
And yet thy sire's death lights out darkness much.

OEDIPUS
Much, but my fear is touching her who lives.

MESSENGER
Who may this woman be whom thus you fear?

OEDIPUS
Merope, stranger, wife of Polybus.

MESSENGER
And what of her can cause you any fear?

OEDIPUS
A heaven-sent oracle of dread import.

MESSENGER
A mystery, or may a stranger hear it?

OEDIPUS
Aye, 'tis no secret. Loxias once foretold
That I should mate with mine own mother, and shed
With my own hands the blood of my own sire.
Hence Corinth was for many a year to me
A home distant; and I trove abroad,
But missed the sweetest sight, my parents' face.

MESSENGER
Was this the fear that exiled thee from home?

OEDIPUS
Yea, and the dread of slaying my own sire.

MESSENGER
Why, since I came to give thee pleasure, King,
Have I not rid thee of this second fear?

OEDIPUS
Well, thou shalt have due guerdon for thy pains.

MESSENGER
Well, I confess what chiefly made me come
Was hope to profit by thy coming home.

OEDIPUS
Nay, I will ne'er go near my parents more.

MESSENGER
My son, 'tis plain, thou know'st not what thou doest.

OEDIPUS
How so, old man? For heaven's sake tell me all.

MESSENGER
If this is why thou dreadest to return.

OEDIPUS
Yea, lest the(c)
Copyright     god's word be fulfilled
                 2005-2009,  Infobase in Media
                                         me. Corp.      Page 95 / 176
MESSENGER
Lest through thy parents thou shouldst be accursed?
If this is why thou dreadest to return.

OEDIPUS
Yea, lest the god's word be fulfilled in me.

MESSENGER
Lest through thy parents thou shouldst be accursed?

OEDIPUS
This and none other is my constant dread.

MESSENGER
Dost thou not know thy fears are baseless all?

OEDIPUS
How baseless, if I am their very son?

MESSENGER
Since Polybus was naught to thee in blood.

OEDIPUS
What say'st thou? was not Polybus my sire?

MESSENGER
As much thy sire as I am, and no more.

OEDIPUS
My sire no more to me than one who is naught?

MESSENGER
Since I begat thee not, no more did he.

OEDIPUS
What reason had he then to call me son?

MESSENGER
Know that he took thee from my hands, a gift.

OEDIPUS
Yet, if no child of his, he loved me well.

MESSENGER
A childless man till then, he warmed to thee.

OEDIPUS
A foundling or a purchased slave, this child?

MESSENGER
I found thee in Cithaeron's wooded glens.

OEDIPUS
What led thee to explore those upland glades?

MESSENGER
My business was to tend the mountain flocks.

OEDIPUS
A vagrant shepherd journeying for hire?

MESSENGER
True, but thy savior in that hour, my son.

OEDIPUS
My savior? from what harm? what ailed me then?

MESSENGER
Those ankle joints are evidence enow.

OEDIPUS
Ah, why remind me of that ancient sore?

MESSENGER
I loosed the pin that riveted thy feet.

OEDIPUS
Yes, from my cradle that dread brand I bore.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.
MESSENGER                                             Page 96 / 176
Whence thou deriv'st the name that still is thine.
OEDIPUS
Yes, from my cradle that dread brand I bore.

MESSENGER
Whence thou deriv'st the name that still is thine.

OEDIPUS
Who did it? I adjure thee, tell me who
Say, was it father, mother?

MESSENGER
I know not.
The man from whom I had thee may know more.

OEDIPUS
What, did another find me, not thyself?

MESSENGER
Not I; another shepherd gave thee me.

OEDIPUS
Who was he? Would'st thou know again the man?

MESSENGER
He passed indeed for one of Laius' house.

OEDIPUS
The king who ruled the country long ago?

MESSENGER
The same: he was a herdsman of the king.

OEDIPUS
And is he living still for me to see him?

MESSENGER
His fellow-countrymen should best know that.

OEDIPUS
Doth any bystander among you know
The herd he speaks of, or by seeing him
Afield or in the city? answer straight!
The hour hath come to clear this business up.

CHORUS
Methinks he means none other than the hind
Whom thou anon wert fain to see; but that
Our queen Jocasta best of all could tell.

OEDIPUS
Madam, dost know the man we sent to fetch?
Is the same of whom the stranger speaks?

JOCASTA
Who is the man? What matter? Let it be.
'Twere waste of thought to weigh such idle words.

OEDIPUS
No, with such guiding clues I cannot fail
To bring to light the secret of my birth.

JOCASTA
Oh, as thou carest for thy life, give o'er
This quest. Enough the anguish _I_ endure.

OEDIPUS
Be of good cheer; though I be proved the son
Of a bondwoman, aye, through three descents
Triply a slave, thy honor is unsmirched.

JOCASTA
Yet humor me, I pray thee; do not this.

OEDIPUS
I cannot; I must probe this matter home.

JOCASTA
 Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.       Page 97 / 176
'Tis for thy sake I advise thee for the best.

OEDIPUS
OEDIPUS
I cannot; I must probe this matter home.

JOCASTA
'Tis for thy sake I advise thee for the best.

OEDIPUS
I grow impatient of this best advice.

JOCASTA
Ah mayst thou ne'er discover who thou art!

OEDIPUS
Go, fetch me here the herd, and leave yon woman
To glory in her pride of ancestry.

JOCASTA
O woe is thee, poor wretch! With that last word
I leave thee, henceforth silent evermore.
[Exit JOCASTA]

CHORUS
Why, Oedipus, why stung with passionate grief
Hath the queen thus departed? Much I fear
From this dead calm will burst a storm of woes.

OEDIPUS
Let the storm burst, my fixed resolve still holds,
To learn my lineage, be it ne'er so low.
It may be she with all a woman's pride
Thinks scorn of my base parentage. But I
Who rank myself as Fortune's favorite child,
The giver of good gifts, shall not be shamed.
She is my mother and the changing moons
My brethren, and with them I wax and wane.
Thus sprung why should I fear to trace my birth?
Nothing can make me other than I am.

CHORUS
(Str.)
If my soul prophetic err not, if my wisdom aught avail,
Thee, Cithaeron, I shall hail,
As the nurse and foster-mother of our Oedipus shall greet
Ere tomorrow's full moon rises, and exalt thee as is meet.
Dance and song shall hymn thy praises, lover of our royal race.
Phoebus, may my words find grace!

(Ant.)
Child, who bare thee, nymph or goddess? sure thy sure was more than
man,
Haply the hill-roamer Pan.
Of did Loxias beget thee, for he haunts the upland wold;
Or Cyllene's lord, or Bacchus, dweller on the hilltops cold?
Did some Heliconian Oread give him thee, a new-born joy?
Nymphs with whom he love to toy?

OEDIPUS
Elders, if I, who never yet before
Have met the man, may make a guess, methinks
I see the herdsman who we long have sought;
His time-worn aspect matches with the years
Of yonder aged messenger; besides
I seem to recognize the men who bring him
As servants of my own. But you, perchance,
Having in past days known or seen the herd,
May better by sure knowledge my surmise.

CHORUS
I recognize him; one of Laius' house;
A simple hind, but true as any man.
[Enter HERDSMAN.]

OEDIPUS
Corinthian, stranger, I address thee first,
Is this the man thou meanest!

MESSENGER
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                         Page 98 / 176
This is he.

OEDIPUS
OEDIPUS
Corinthian, stranger, I address thee first,
Is this the man thou meanest!

MESSENGER
This is he.

OEDIPUS
And now old man, look up and answer all
I ask thee. Wast thou once of Laius' house?

HERDSMAN
I was, a thrall, not purchased but home-bred.

OEDIPUS
What was thy business? how wast thou employed?

HERDSMAN
The best part of my life I tended sheep.

OEDIPUS
What were the pastures thou didst most frequent?

HERDSMAN
Cithaeron and the neighboring alps.

OEDIPUS
Then there
Thou must have known yon man, at least by fame?

HERDSMAN
Yon man? in what way? what man dost thou mean?

OEDIPUS
The man here, having met him in past times...

HERDSMAN
Off-hand I cannot call him well to mind.

MESSENGER
No wonder, master. But I will revive
His blunted memories. Sure he can recall
What time together both we drove our flocks,
He two, I one, on the Cithaeron range,
For three long summers; I his mate from spring
Till rose Arcturus; then in winter time
I led mine home, he his to Laius' folds.
Did these things happen as I say, or no?

HERDSMAN
'Tis long ago, but all thou say'st is true.

MESSENGER
Well, thou mast then remember giving me
A child to rear as my own foster-son?

HERDSMAN
Why dost thou ask this question? What of that?

MESSENGER
Friend, he that stands before thee was that child.

HERDSMAN
A plague upon thee! Hold thy wanton tongue!

OEDIPUS
Softly, old man, rebuke him not; thy words
Are more deserving chastisement than his.

HERDSMAN
O best of masters, what is my offense?

OEDIPUS
Not answering what he asks about the child.

HERDSMAN
He speaks at random, babbles like a fool.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.            Page 99 / 176
OEDIPUS
If thou lack'st grace to speak, I'll loose thy tongue.
Not answering what he asks about the child.

HERDSMAN
He speaks at random, babbles like a fool.

OEDIPUS
If thou lack'st grace to speak, I'll loose thy tongue.

HERDSMAN
For mercy's sake abuse not an old man.

OEDIPUS
Arrest the villain, seize and pinion him!

HERDSMAN
Alack, alack!
What have I done? what wouldst thou further learn?

OEDIPUS
Didst give this man the child of whom he asks?

HERDSMAN
I did; and would that I had died that day!

OEDIPUS
And die thou shalt unless thou tell the truth.

HERDSMAN
But, if I tell it, I am doubly lost.

OEDIPUS
The knave methinks will still prevaricate.

HERDSMAN
Nay, I confessed I gave it long ago.

OEDIPUS
Whence came it? was it thine, or given to thee?

HERDSMAN
I had it from another, 'twas not mine.

OEDIPUS
From whom of these our townsmen, and what house?

HERDSMAN
Forbear for God's sake, master, ask no more.

OEDIPUS
If I must question thee again, thou'rt lost.

HERDSMAN
Well then--it was a child of Laius' house.

OEDIPUS
Slave-born or one of Laius' own race?

HERDSMAN
Ah me!
I stand upon the perilous edge of speech.

OEDIPUS
And I of hearing, but I still must hear.

HERDSMAN
Know then the child was by repute his own,
But she within, thy consort best could tell.

OEDIPUS
What! she, she gave it thee?

HERDSMAN
'Tis so, my king.

OEDIPUS
With what intent?

HERDSMAN
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.            Page 100 / 176
To make away with it.

OEDIPUS
OEDIPUS
With what intent?

HERDSMAN
To make away with it.

OEDIPUS
What, she its mother.

HERDSMAN
Fearing a dread weird.

OEDIPUS
What weird?

HERDSMAN
'Twas told that he should slay his sire.

OEDIPUS
What didst thou give it then to this old man?

HERDSMAN
Through pity, master, for the babe. I thought
He'd take it to the country whence he came;
But he preserved it for the worst of woes.
For if thou art in sooth what this man saith,
God pity thee! thou wast to misery born.

OEDIPUS
Ah me! ah me! all brought to pass, all true!
O light, may I behold thee nevermore!
I stand a wretch, in birth, in wedlock cursed,
A parricide, incestuously, triply cursed!
[Exit OEDIPUS]

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Races of mortal man
Whose life is but a span,
I count ye but the shadow of a shade!
For he who most doth know
Of bliss, hath but the show;
A moment, and the visions pale and fade.
Thy fall, O Oedipus, thy piteous fall
Warns me none born of women blest to call.

(Ant. 1)
For he of marksmen best,
O Zeus, outshot the rest,
And won the prize supreme of wealth and power.
By him the vulture maid
Was quelled, her witchery laid;
He rose our savior and the land's strong tower.
We hailed thee king and from that day adored
Of mighty Thebes the universal lord.

(Str. 2)
O heavy hand of fate!
Who now more desolate,
Whose tale more sad than thine, whose lot more dire?
O Oedipus, discrowned head,
Thy cradle was thy marriage bed;
One harborage sufficed for son and sire.
How could the soil thy father eared so long
Endure to bear in silence such a wrong?

(Ant. 2)
All-seeing Time hath caught
Guilt, and to justice brought
The son and sire commingled in one bed.
O child of Laius' ill-starred race
Would I had ne'er beheld thy face;
I raise for thee a dirge as o'er the dead.
Yet, sooth to say, through thee I drew new breath,
And now through thee I feel a second death.
[Enter SECOND MESSENGER.]
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.          Page 101 / 176
SECOND MESSENGER
Most grave and reverend senators of Thebes,
What Deeds ye soon must hear, what sights behold
I raise for thee a dirge as o'er the dead.
Yet, sooth to say, through thee I drew new breath,
And now through thee I feel a second death.
[Enter SECOND MESSENGER.]

SECOND MESSENGER
Most grave and reverend senators of Thebes,
What Deeds ye soon must hear, what sights behold
How will ye mourn, if, true-born patriots,
Ye reverence still the race of Labdacus!
Not Ister nor all Phasis' flood, I ween,
Could wash away the blood-stains from this house,
The ills it shrouds or soon will bring to light,
Ills wrought of malice, not unwittingly.
The worst to bear are self-inflicted wounds.

CHORUS
Grievous enough for all our tears and groans
Our past calamities; what canst thou add?

SECOND MESSENGER
My tale is quickly told and quickly heard.
Our sovereign lady queen Jocasta's dead.

CHORUS
Alas, poor queen! how came she by her death?

SECOND MESSENGER
By her own hand. And all the horror of it,
Not having seen, yet cannot comprehend.
Nathless, as far as my poor memory serves,
I will relate the unhappy lady's woe.
When in her frenzy she had passed inside
The vestibule, she hurried straight to win
The bridal-chamber, clutching at her hair
With both her hands, and, once within the room,
She shut the doors behind her with a crash.
"Laius," she cried, and called her husband dead
Long, long ago; her thought was of that child
By him begot, the son by whom the sire
Was murdered and the mother left to breed
With her own seed, a monstrous progeny.
Then she bewailed the marriage bed whereon
Poor wretch, she had conceived a double brood,
Husband by husband, children by her child.
What happened after that I cannot tell,
Nor how the end befell, for with a shriek
Burst on us Oedipus; all eyes were fixed
On Oedipus, as up and down he strode,
Nor could we mark her agony to the end.
For stalking to and fro "A sword!" he cried,
"Where is the wife, no wife, the teeming womb
That bore a double harvest, me and mine?"
And in his frenzy some supernal power
(No mortal, surely, none of us who watched him)
Guided his footsteps; with a terrible shriek,
As though one beckoned him, he crashed against
The folding doors, and from their staples forced
The wrenched bolts and hurled himself within.
Then we beheld the woman hanging there,
A running noose entwined about her neck.
But when he saw her, with a maddened roar
He loosed the cord; and when her wretched corpse
Lay stretched on earth, what followed--O 'twas dread!
He tore the golden brooches that upheld
Her queenly robes, upraised them high and smote
Full on his eye-balls, uttering words like these:
"No more shall ye behold such sights of woe,
Deeds I have suffered and myself have wrought;
Henceforward quenched in darkness shall ye see
Those ye should ne'er have seen; now blind to those
Whom, when I saw, I vainly yearned to know."
Such was the burden of his moan, whereto,
Not once but oft, he struck with his hand uplift
His eyes, and at each stroke the ensanguined orbs
Bedewed his beard, not oozing drop by drop,
But one black gory downpour, thick as hail.
Such   evils, issuing
 Copyright            from the double
               (c) 2005-2009,         source,
                               Infobase  Media Corp.    Page 102 / 176
Have whelmed them both, confounding man and wife.
Till now the storied fortune of this house
Was fortunate indeed; but from this day
Not once but oft, he struck with his hand uplift
His eyes, and at each stroke the ensanguined orbs
Bedewed his beard, not oozing drop by drop,
But one black gory downpour, thick as hail.
Such evils, issuing from the double source,
Have whelmed them both, confounding man and wife.
Till now the storied fortune of this house
Was fortunate indeed; but from this day
Woe, lamentation, ruin, death, disgrace,
All ills that can be named, all, all are theirs.

CHORUS
But hath he still no respite from his pain?

SECOND MESSENGER
He cries, "Unbar the doors and let all Thebes
Behold the slayer of his sire, his mother's--"
That shameful word my lips may not repeat.
He vows to fly self-banished from the land,
Nor stay to bring upon his house the curse
Himself had uttered; but he has no strength
Nor one to guide him, and his torture's more
Than man can suffer, as yourselves will see.
For lo, the palace portals are unbarred,
And soon ye shall behold a sight so sad
That he who must abhorred would pity it.
[Enter OEDIPUS blinded.]

CHORUS
Woeful sight! more woeful none
These sad eyes have looked upon.
Whence this madness? None can tell
Who did cast on thee his spell,
prowling all thy life around,
Leaping with a demon bound.
Hapless wretch! how can I brook
On thy misery to look?
Though to gaze on thee I yearn,
Much to question, much to learn,
Horror-struck away I turn.

OEDIPUS
Ah me! ah woe is me!
Ah whither am I borne!
How like a ghost forlorn
My voice flits from me on the air!
On, on the demon goads. The end, ah where?

CHORUS
An end too dread to tell, too dark to see.

OEDIPUS
(Str. 1)
Dark, dark! The horror of darkness, like a shroud,
Wraps me and bears me on through mist and cloud.
Ah me, ah me! What spasms athwart me shoot,
What pangs of agonizing memory?

CHORUS
No marvel if in such a plight thou feel'st
The double weight of past and present woes.

OEDIPUS
(Ant. 1)
Ah friend, still loyal, constant still and kind,
Thou carest for the blind.
I know thee near, and though bereft of eyes,
Thy voice I recognize.

CHORUS
O doer of dread deeds, how couldst thou mar
Thy vision thus? What demon goaded thee?

OEDIPUS
(Str. 2)
Apollo, friend, Apollo, he it was
That brought these ills to pass;
But  the right(c)
 Copyright     hand that dealt the
                  2005-2009,       blow Media Corp.
                               Infobase               Page 103 / 176
Was mine, none other. How,
How, could I longer see when sight
Brought no delight?
OEDIPUS
(Str. 2)
Apollo, friend, Apollo, he it was
That brought these ills to pass;
But the right hand that dealt the blow
Was mine, none other. How,
How, could I longer see when sight
Brought no delight?

CHORUS
Alas! 'tis as thou sayest.

OEDIPUS
Say, friends, can any look or voice
Or touch of love henceforth my heart rejoice?
Haste, friends, no fond delay,
Take the twice cursed away
Far from all ken,
The man abhorred of gods, accursed of men.

CHORUS
O thy despair well suits thy desperate case.
Would I had never looked upon thy face!

OEDIPUS
(Ant. 2)
My curse on him whoe'er unrived
The waif's fell fetters and my life revived!
He meant me well, yet had he left me there,
He had saved my friends and me a world of care.

CHORUS
I too had wished it so.

OEDIPUS
Then had I never come to shed
My father's blood nor climbed my mother's bed;
The monstrous offspring of a womb defiled,
Co-mate of him who gendered me, and child.
Was ever man before afflicted thus,
Like Oedipus.

CHORUS
I cannot say that thou hast counseled well,
For thou wert better dead than living blind.

OEDIPUS
What's done was well done. Thou canst never shake
My firm belief. A truce to argument.
For, had I sight, I know not with what eyes
I could have met my father in the shades,
Or my poor mother, since against the twain
I sinned, a sin no gallows could atone.
Aye, but, ye say, the sight of children joys
A parent's eyes. What, born as mine were born?
No, such a sight could never bring me joy;
Nor this fair city with its battlements,
Its temples and the statues of its gods,
Sights from which I, now wretchedst of all,
Once ranked the foremost Theban in all Thebes,
By my own sentence am cut off, condemned
By my own proclamation 'gainst the wretch,
The miscreant by heaven itself declared
Unclean--and of the race of Laius.
Thus branded as a felon by myself,
How had I dared to look you in the face?
Nay, had I known a way to choke the springs
Of hearing, I had never shrunk to make
A dungeon of this miserable frame,
Cut off from sight and hearing; for 'tis bliss
to bide in regions sorrow cannot reach.
Why didst thou harbor me, Cithaeron, why
Didst thou not take and slay me? Then I never
Had shown to men the secret of my birth.
O Polybus, O Corinth, O my home,
Home of my ancestors (so wast thou called)
How fair a nursling then I seemed, how foul
The   canker that
 Copyright        lay festeringInfobase
             (c) 2005-2009,      in the bud!Media Corp.   Page 104 / 176
Now is the blight revealed of root and fruit.
Ye triple high-roads, and thou hidden glen,
Coppice, and pass where meet the three-branched ways,
Had shown to men the secret of my birth.
O Polybus, O Corinth, O my home,
Home of my ancestors (so wast thou called)
How fair a nursling then I seemed, how foul
The canker that lay festering in the bud!
Now is the blight revealed of root and fruit.
Ye triple high-roads, and thou hidden glen,
Coppice, and pass where meet the three-branched ways,
Ye drank my blood, the life-blood these hands spilt,
My father's; do ye call to mind perchance
Those deeds of mine ye witnessed and the work
I wrought thereafter when I came to Thebes?
O fatal wedlock, thou didst give me birth,
And, having borne me, sowed again my seed,
Mingling the blood of fathers, brothers, children,
Brides, wives and mothers, an incestuous brood,
All horrors that are wrought beneath the sun,
Horrors so foul to name them were unmeet.
O, I adjure you, hide me anywhere
Far from this land, or slay me straight, or cast me
Down to the depths of ocean out of sight.
Come hither, deign to touch an abject wretch;
Draw near and fear not; I myself must bear
The load of guilt that none but I can share.
[Enter CREON.]

CREON
Lo, here is Creon, the one man to grant
Thy prayer by action or advice, for he
Is left the State's sole guardian in thy stead.

OEDIPUS
Ah me! what words to accost him can I find?
What cause has he to trust me? In the past
I have bee proved his rancorous enemy.

CREON
Not in derision, Oedipus, I come
Nor to upbraid thee with thy past misdeeds.
(To BYSTANDERS)
But shame upon you! if ye feel no sense
Of human decencies, at least revere
The Sun whose light beholds and nurtures all.
Leave not thus nakedly for all to gaze at
A horror neither earth nor rain from heaven
Nor light will suffer. Lead him straight within,
For it is seemly that a kinsman's woes
Be heard by kin and seen by kin alone.

OEDIPUS
O listen, since thy presence comes to me
A shock of glad surprise--so noble thou,
And I so vile--O grant me one small boon.
I ask it not on my behalf, but thine.

CREON
And what the favor thou wouldst crave of me?

OEDIPUS
Forth from thy borders thrust me with all speed;
Set me within some vasty desert where
No mortal voice shall greet me any more.

CREON
This had I done already, but I deemed
It first behooved me to consult the god.

OEDIPUS
His will was set forth fully--to destroy
The parricide, the scoundrel; and I am he.

CREON
Yea, so he spake, but in our present plight
'Twere better to consult the god anew.

OEDIPUS
Dare ye inquire concerning such a wretch?
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.           Page 105 / 176
CREON
Yea, for thyself wouldst credit now his word.
'Twere better to consult the god anew.

OEDIPUS
Dare ye inquire concerning such a wretch?

CREON
Yea, for thyself wouldst credit now his word.

OEDIPUS
Aye, and on thee in all humility
I lay this charge: let her who lies within
Receive such burial as thou shalt ordain;
Such rites 'tis thine, as brother, to perform.
But for myself, O never let my Thebes,
The city of my sires, be doomed to bear
The burden of my presence while I live.
No, let me be a dweller on the hills,
On yonder mount Cithaeron, famed as mine,
My tomb predestined for me by my sire
And mother, while they lived, that I may die
Slain as they sought to slay me, when alive.
This much I know full surely, nor disease
Shall end my days, nor any common chance;
For I had ne'er been snatched from death, unless
I was predestined to some awful doom.
So be it. I reck not how Fate deals with me
But my unhappy children--for my sons
Be not concerned, O Creon, they are men,
And for themselves, where'er they be, can fend.
But for my daughters twain, poor innocent maids,
Who ever sat beside me at the board
Sharing my viands, drinking of my cup,
For them, I pray thee, care, and, if thou willst,
O might I feel their touch and make my moan.
Hear me, O prince, my noble-hearted prince!
Could I but blindly touch them with my hands
I'd think they still were mine, as when I saw.
[ANTIGONE and ISMENE are led in.]
What say I? can it be my pretty ones
Whose sobs I hear? Has Creon pitied me
And sent me my two darlings? Can this be?

CREON
'Tis true; 'twas I procured thee this delight,
Knowing the joy they were to thee of old.

OEDIPUS
God speed thee! and as meed for bringing them
May Providence deal with thee kindlier
Than it has dealt with me! O children mine,
Where are ye? Let me clasp you with these hands,
A brother's hands, a father's; hands that made
Lack-luster sockets of his once bright eyes;
Hands of a man who blindly, recklessly,
Became your sire by her from whom he sprang.
Though I cannot behold you, I must weep
In thinking of the evil days to come,
The slights and wrongs that men will put upon you.
Where'er ye go to feast or festival,
No merrymaking will it prove for you,
But oft abashed in tears ye will return.
And when ye come to marriageable years,
Where's the bold wooers who will jeopardize
To take unto himself such disrepute
As to my children's children still must cling,
For what of infamy is lacking here?
"Their father slew his father, sowed the seed
Where he himself was gendered, and begat
These maidens at the source wherefrom he sprang."
Such are the gibes that men will cast at you.
Who then will wed you? None, I ween, but ye
Must pine, poor maids, in single barrenness.
O Prince, Menoeceus' son, to thee, I turn,
With the it rests to father them, for we
Their natural parents, both of us, are lost.
O leave them not to wander poor, unwed,
Thy kin, nor let them share my low estate.
OCopyright
   pity them(c)
              so 2005-2009,
                 young, and but   for theeMedia Corp.
                               Infobase                 Page 106 / 176
All destitute. Thy hand upon it, Prince.
To you, my children I had much to say,
Were ye but ripe to hear. Let this suffice:
With the it rests to father them, for we
Their natural parents, both of us, are lost.
O leave them not to wander poor, unwed,
Thy kin, nor let them share my low estate.
O pity them so young, and but for thee
All destitute. Thy hand upon it, Prince.
To you, my children I had much to say,
Were ye but ripe to hear. Let this suffice:
Pray ye may find some home and live content,
And may your lot prove happier than your sire's.

CREON
Thou hast had enough of weeping; pass within.

OEDIPUS
I must obey,
Though 'tis grievous.

CREON
Weep not, everything must have its day.

OEDIPUS
Well I go, but on conditions.

CREON
What thy terms for going, say.

OEDIPUS
Send me from the land an exile.

CREON
Ask this of the gods, not me.

OEDIPUS
But I am the gods' abhorrence.

CREON
Then they soon will grant thy plea.

OEDIPUS
Lead me hence, then, I am willing.

CREON
Come, but let thy children go.

OEDIPUS
Rob me not of these my children!

CREON
Crave not mastery in all,
For the mastery that raised thee was thy bane and wrought thy fall.

CHORUS
Look ye, countrymen and Thebans, this is Oedipus the great,
He who knew the Sphinx's riddle and was mightiest in our state.
Who of all our townsmen gazed not on his fame with envious eyes?
Now, in what a sea of troubles sunk and overwhelmed he lies!
Therefore wait to see life's ending ere thou count one mortal blest;
Wait till free from pain and sorrow he has gained his final rest.

SOPHOCLES

OEDIPUS AT COLONUS

Translation by F. Storr, BA
Formerly Scholar of Trinity College, Cambridge
From the Loeb Library Edition
Originally published by
Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA
and
William Heinemann Ltd, London

First published in 1912

----------------------------------------------------------------------

ARGUMENT
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                            Page 107 / 176
Oedipus, the blind and banished King of Thebes, has come in his
wanderings to Colonus, a deme of Athens, led by his daughter Antigone.
He sits to rest on a rock just within a sacred grove of the Furies and
----------------------------------------------------------------------

ARGUMENT

Oedipus, the blind and banished King of Thebes, has come in his
wanderings to Colonus, a deme of Athens, led by his daughter Antigone.
He sits to rest on a rock just within a sacred grove of the Furies and
is bidden depart by a passing native. But Oedipus, instructed by an
oracle that he had reached his final resting-place, refuses to stir,
and the stranger consents to go and consult the Elders of Colonus (the
Chorus of the Play). Conducted to the spot they pity at first the
blind beggar and his daughter, but on learning his name they are
horror-striken and order him to quit the land. He appeals to the
world-famed hospitality of Athens and hints at the blessings that his
coming will confer on the State. They agree to await the decision of
King Theseus. From Theseus Oedipus craves protection in life and
burial in Attic soil; the benefits that will accrue shall be told
later. Theseus departs having promised to aid and befriend him. No
sooner has he gone than Creon enters with an armed guard who seize
Antigone and carry her off (Ismene, the other sister, they have
already captured) and he is about to lay hands on Oedipus, when
Theseus, who has heard the tumult, hurries up and, upbraiding Creon
for his lawless act, threatens to detain him till he has shown where
the captives are and restored them. In the next scene Theseus returns
bringing with him the rescued maidens. He informs Oedipus that a
stranger who has taken sanctuary at the altar of Poseidon wishes to
see him. It is Polyneices who has come to crave his father's
forgiveness and blessing, knowing by an oracle that victory will fall
to the side that Oedipus espouses. But Oedipus spurns the hypocrite,
and invokes a dire curse on both his unnatural sons. A sudden clap of
thunder is heard, and as peal follows peal, Oedipus is aware that his
hour is come and bids Antigone summon Theseus. Self-guided he leads
the way to the spot where death should overtake him, attended by
Theseus and his daughters. Halfway he bids his daughters farewell,
and what followed none but Theseus knew. He was not (so the Messenger
reports) for the gods took him.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

OEDIPUS, banished King of Thebes.
ANTIGONE, his daughter.
ISMENE, his daughter.
THESEUS, King of Athens.
CREON, brother of Jocasta, now reigning at Thebes.
POLYNEICES, elder son of Oedipus.
STRANGER, a native of Colonus.
MESSENGER, an attendant of Theseus.
CHORUS, citizens of Colonus.

Scene: In front of the grove of the Eumenides.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

OEDIPUS AT COLONUS

Enter the blind OEDIPUS led by his daughter, ANTIGONE.

OEDIPUS
Child of an old blind sire, Antigone,
What region, say, whose city have we reached?
Who will provide today with scanted dole
This wanderer? 'Tis little that he craves,
And less obtains--that less enough for me;
For I am taught by suffering to endure,
And the long years that have grown old with me,
And last not least, by true nobility.
My daughter, if thou seest a resting place
On common ground or by some sacred grove,
Stay me and set me down. Let us discover
Where we have come, for strangers must inquire
Of denizens, and do as they are bid.

ANTIGONE
Long-suffering father, Oedipus, the towers
That fence the city still are faint and far;
 Copyright
But where we(c)stand
                2005-2009,
                      is surelyInfobase    Media Corp.
                                 holy ground;                            Page 108 / 176
A wilderness of laurel, olive, vine;
Within a choir or songster nightingales
ANTIGONE
Long-suffering father, Oedipus, the towers
That fence the city still are faint and far;
But where we stand is surely holy ground;
A wilderness of laurel, olive, vine;
Within a choir or songster nightingales
Are warbling. On this native seat of rock
Rest; for an old man thou hast traveled far.

OEDIPUS
Guide these dark steps and seat me there secure.

ANTIGONE
If time can teach, I need not to be told.

OEDIPUS
Say, prithee, if thou knowest, where we are.

ANTIGONE
Athens I recognize, but not the spot.

OEDIPUS
That much we heard from every wayfarer.

ANTIGONE
Shall I go on and ask about the place?

OEDIPUS
Yes, daughter, if it be inhabited.

ANTIGONE
Sure there are habitations; but no need
To leave thee; yonder is a man hard by.

OEDIPUS
What, moving hitherward and on his way?

ANTIGONE
Say rather, here already. Ask him straight
The needful questions, for the man is here.
[Enter STRANGER]

OEDIPUS
O stranger, as I learn from her whose eyes
Must serve both her and me, that thou art here
Sent by some happy chance to serve our doubts--

STRANGER
First quit that seat, then question me at large:
The spot thou treadest on is holy ground.

OEDIPUS
What is the site, to what god dedicate?

STRANGER
Inviolable, untrod; goddesses,
Dread brood of Earth and Darkness, here abide.

OEDIPUS
Tell me the awful name I should invoke?

STRANGER
The Gracious Ones, All-seeing, so our folk
Call them, but elsewhere other names are rife.

OEDIPUS
Then may they show their suppliant grace, for I
From this your sanctuary will ne'er depart.

STRANGER
What word is this?

OEDIPUS
The watchword of my fate.

STRANGER
Nay, 'tis not(c)
 Copyright    mine to bid theeInfobase
                 2005-2009,    hence without
                                       Media Corp.   Page 109 / 176
Due warrant and instruction from the State.

OEDIPUS
The watchword of my fate.

STRANGER
Nay, 'tis not mine to bid thee hence without
Due warrant and instruction from the State.

OEDIPUS
Now in God's name, O stranger, scorn me not
As a wayfarer; tell me what I crave.

STRANGER
Ask; your request shall not be scorned by me.

OEDIPUS
How call you then the place wherein we bide?

STRANGER
Whate'er I know thou too shalt know; the place
Is all to great Poseidon consecrate.
Hard by, the Titan, he who bears the torch,
Prometheus, has his worship; but the spot
Thou treadest, the Brass-footed Threshold named,
Is Athens' bastion, and the neighboring lands
Claim as their chief and patron yonder knight
Colonus, and in common bear his name.
Such, stranger, is the spot, to fame unknown,
But dear to us its native worshipers.

OEDIPUS
Thou sayest there are dwellers in these parts?

STRANGER
Surely; they bear the name of yonder god.

OEDIPUS
Ruled by a king or by the general voice?

STRANGER
The lord of Athens is our over-lord.

OEDIPUS
Who is this monarch, great in word and might?

STRANGER
Theseus, the son of Aegeus our late king.

OEDIPUS
Might one be sent from you to summon him?

STRANGER
Wherefore? To tell him aught or urge his coming?

OEDIPUS
Say a slight service may avail him much.

STRANGER
How can he profit from a sightless man?

OEDIPUS
The blind man's words will be instinct with sight.

STRANGER
Heed then; I fain would see thee out of harm;
For by the looks, marred though they be by fate,
I judge thee noble; tarry where thou art,
While I go seek the burghers--those at hand,
Not in the city. They will soon decide
Whether thou art to rest or go thy way.
[Exit STRANGER]

OEDIPUS
Tell me, my daughter, has the stranger gone?

ANTIGONE
Yes, he has gone; now we are all alone,
And thou may'st speak, dear father, without fear.
 Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.
OEDIPUS                                              Page 110 / 176
Stern-visaged queens, since coming to this land
First in your sanctuary I bent the knee,
ANTIGONE
Yes, he has gone; now we are all alone,
And thou may'st speak, dear father, without fear.

OEDIPUS
Stern-visaged queens, since coming to this land
First in your sanctuary I bent the knee,
Frown not on me or Phoebus, who, when erst
He told me all my miseries to come,
Spake of this respite after many years,
Some haven in a far-off land, a rest
Vouchsafed at last by dread divinities.
"There," said he, "shalt thou round thy weary life,
A blessing to the land wherein thou dwell'st,
But to the land that cast thee forth, a curse."
And of my weird he promised signs should come,
Earthquake, or thunderclap, or lightning flash.
And now I recognize as yours the sign
That led my wanderings to this your grove;
Else had I never lighted on you first,
A wineless man on your seat of native rock.
O goddesses, fulfill Apollo's word,
Grant me some consummation of my life,
If haply I appear not all too vile,
A thrall to sorrow worse than any slave.
Hear, gentle daughters of primeval Night,
Hear, namesake of great Pallas; Athens, first
Of cities, pity this dishonored shade,
The ghost of him who once was Oedipus.

ANTIGONE
Hush! for I see some grey-beards on their way,
Their errand to spy out our resting-place.

OEDIPUS
I will be mute, and thou shalt guide my steps
Into the covert from the public road,
Till I have learned their drift. A prudent man
Will ever shape his course by what he learns.
[Enter CHORUS]

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Ha! Where is he? Look around!
Every nook and corner scan!
He the all-presumptuous man,
Whither vanished? search the ground!
A wayfarer, I ween,
A wayfarer, no countryman of ours,
That old man must have been;
Never had native dared to tempt the Powers,
Or enter their demesne,
The Maids in awe of whom each mortal cowers,
Whose name no voice betrays nor cry,
And as we pass them with averted eye,
We move hushed lips in reverent piety.
But now some godless man,
'Tis rumored, here abides;
The precincts through I scan,
Yet wot not where he hides,
The wretch profane!
I search and search in vain.

OEDIPUS
I am that man; I know you near
Ears to the blind, they say, are eyes.

CHORUS
O dread to see and dread to hear!

OEDIPUS
Oh sirs, I am no outlaw under ban.

CHORUS
Who can he be--Zeus save us!--this old man?

OEDIPUS
No favorite (c)
Copyright   of fate,
                2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.       Page 111 / 176
That ye should envy his estate,
O, Sirs, would any happy mortal, say,
Grope by the light of other eyes his way,
Who can he be--Zeus save us!--this old man?

OEDIPUS
No favorite of fate,
That ye should envy his estate,
O, Sirs, would any happy mortal, say,
Grope by the light of other eyes his way,
Or face the storm upon so frail a stay?

CHORUS
(Ant. 1)
Wast thou then sightless from thy birth?
Evil, methinks, and long
Thy pilgrimage on earth.
Yet add not curse to curse and wrong to wrong.
I warn thee, trespass not
Within this hallowed spot,
Lest thou shouldst find the silent grassy glade
Where offerings are laid,
Bowls of spring water mingled with sweet mead.
Thou must not stay,
Come, come away,
Tired wanderer, dost thou heed?
(We are far off, but sure our voice can reach.)
If aught thou wouldst beseech,
Speak where 'tis right; till then refrain from speech.

OEDIPUS
Daughter, what counsel should we now pursue?

ANTIGONE
We must obey and do as here they do.

OEDIPUS
Thy hand then!

ANTIGONE
Here, O father, is my hand,

OEDIPUS
O Sirs, if I come forth at your command,
Let me not suffer for my confidence.

CHORUS
(Str. 2)
Against thy will no man shall drive thee hence.

OEDIPUS
Shall I go further?

CHORUS
Aye.

OEDIPUS
What further still?

CHORUS
Lead maiden, thou canst guide him where we will.

ANTIGONE [1]
******

OEDIPUS
******

ANTIGONE
******
Follow with blind steps, father, as I lead.

OEDIPUS

******

CHORUS
In a strange land strange thou art;
To her will incline thy heart;
Honor whatso'er the State
 Copyright
Honors,       (c) 2005-2009,
          all she              Infobase Media Corp.
                  frowns on hate.                        Page 112 / 176

OEDIPUS
CHORUS
In a strange land strange thou art;
To her will incline thy heart;
Honor whatso'er the State
Honors, all she frowns on hate.

OEDIPUS
Guide me child, where we may range
Safe within the paths of right;
Counsel freely may exchange
Nor with fate and fortune fight.

CHORUS
(Ant. 2)
Halt! Go no further than that rocky floor.

OEDIPUS
Stay where I now am?

CHORUS
Yes, advance no more.

OEDIPUS
May I sit down?

CHORUS
Move sideways towards the ledge,
And sit thee crouching on the scarped edge.

ANTIGONE
This is my office, father, O incline--

OEDIPUS
Ah me! ah me!

ANTIGONE
Thy steps to my steps, lean thine aged frame on mine.

OEDIPUS
Woe on my fate unblest!

CHORUS
Wanderer, now thou art at rest,
Tell me of thy birth and home,
From what far country art thou come,
Led on thy weary way, declare!

OEDIPUS
Strangers, I have no country. O forbear--

CHORUS
What is it, old man, that thou wouldst conceal?

OEDIPUS
Forbear, nor urge me further to reveal--

CHORUS
Why this reluctance?

OEDIPUS
Dread my lineage.

CHORUS
Say!

OEDIPUS
What must I answer, child, ah welladay!

CHORUS
Say of what stock thou comest, what man's son--

OEDIPUS
Ah me, my daughter, now we are undone!

ANTIGONE
Speak, for thou standest on the slippery verge.

OEDIPUS
 Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.          Page 113 / 176
I will; no plea for silence can I urge.

CHORUS
ANTIGONE
Speak, for thou standest on the slippery verge.

OEDIPUS
I will; no plea for silence can I urge.

CHORUS
Will neither speak? Come, Sir, why dally thus!

OEDIPUS
Know'st one of Laius'--

CHORUS
Ha? Who!

OEDIPUS
Seed of Labdacus--

CHORUS
Oh Zeus!

OEDIPUS
The hapless Oedipus.

CHORUS
Art he?

OEDIPUS
Whate'er I utter, have no fear of me.

CHORUS
Begone!

OEDIPUS
O wretched me!

CHORUS
Begone!

OEDIPUS
O daughter, what will hap anon?

CHORUS
Forth from our borders speed ye both!

OEDIPUS
How keep you then your troth?

CHORUS
Heaven's justice never smites
Him who ill with ill requites.
But if guile with guile contend,
Bane, not blessing, is the end.
Arise, begone and take thee hence straightway,
Lest on our land a heavier curse thou lay.

ANTIGONE
O sirs! ye suffered not my father blind,
Albeit gracious and to ruth inclined,
Knowing the deeds he wrought, not innocent,
But with no ill intent;
Yet heed a maiden's moan
Who pleads for him alone;
My eyes, not reft of sight,
Plead with you as a daughter's might
You are our providence,
O make us not go hence!
O with a gracious nod
Grant us the nigh despaired-of boon we crave?
Hear us, O hear,
But all that ye hold dear,
Wife, children, homestead, hearth and God!
Where will you find one, search ye ne'er so well.
Who 'scapes perdition if a god impel!

CHORUS
Surely we pity
 Copyright (c) thee and him alike
                2005-2009,  Infobase Media Corp.    Page 114 / 176
Daughter of Oedipus, for your distress;
But as we reverence the decrees of Heaven
We cannot say aught other than we said.
Who 'scapes perdition if a god impel!

CHORUS
Surely we pity thee and him alike
Daughter of Oedipus, for your distress;
But as we reverence the decrees of Heaven
We cannot say aught other than we said.

OEDIPUS
O what avails renown or fair repute?
Are they not vanity? For, look you, now
Athens is held of States the most devout,
Athens alone gives hospitality
And shelters the vexed stranger, so men say.
Have I found so? I whom ye dislodged
First from my seat of rock and now would drive
Forth from your land, dreading my name alone;
For me you surely dread not, nor my deeds,
Deeds of a man more sinned against than sinning,
As I might well convince you, were it meet
To tell my mother's story and my sire's,
The cause of this your fear. Yet am I then
A villain born because in self-defense,
Striken, I struck the striker back again?
E'en had I known, no villainy 'twould prove:
But all unwitting whither I went, I went--
To ruin; my destroyers knew it well,
Wherefore, I pray you, sirs, in Heaven's name,
Even as ye bade me quit my seat, defend me.
O pay not a lip service to the gods
And wrong them of their dues. Bethink ye well,
The eye of Heaven beholds the just of men,
And the unjust, nor ever in this world
Has one sole godless sinner found escape.
Stand then on Heaven's side and never blot
Athens' fair scutcheon by abetting wrong.
I came to you a suppliant, and you pledged
Your honor; O preserve me to the end,
O let not this marred visage do me wrong!
A holy and god-fearing man is here
Whose coming purports comfort for your folk.
And when your chief arrives, whoe'er he be,
Then shall ye have my story and know all.
Meanwhile I pray you do me no despite.

CHORUS
The plea thou urgest, needs must give us pause,
Set forth in weighty argument, but we
Must leave the issue with the ruling powers.

OEDIPUS
Where is he, strangers, he who sways the realm?

CHORUS
In his ancestral seat; a messenger,
The same who sent us here, is gone for him.

OEDIPUS
And think you he will have such care or thought
For the blind stranger as to come himself?

CHORUS
Aye, that he will, when once he learns thy name.

OEDIPUS
But who will bear him word!

CHORUS
The way is long,
And many travelers pass to speed the news.
Be sure he'll hear and hasten, never fear;
So wide and far thy name is noised abroad,
That, were he ne'er so spent and loth to move,
He would bestir him when he hears of thee.

OEDIPUS
Well, may he come with blessing to his State
Copyright
And me! Who(c) serves
               2005-2009,    Infobase
                      his neighbor     Media
                                   serves    Corp.
                                          himself. [2]   Page 115 / 176

ANTIGONE
He would bestir him when he hears of thee.

OEDIPUS
Well, may he come with blessing to his State
And me! Who serves his neighbor serves himself. [2]

ANTIGONE
Zeus! What is this? What can I say or think?

OEDIPUS
What now, Antigone?

ANTIGONE
I see a woman
Riding upon a colt of Aetna's breed;
She wears for headgear a Thessalian hat
To shade her from the sun. Who can it be?
She or a stranger? Do I wake or dream?
'This she; 'tis not--I cannot tell, alack;
It is no other! Now her bright'ning glance
Greets me with recognition, yes, 'tis she,
Herself, Ismene!

OEDIPUS
Ha! what say ye, child?

ANTIGONE
That I behold thy daughter and my sister,
And thou wilt know her straightway by her voice.
[Enter ISMENE]

ISMENE
Father and sister, names to me most sweet,
How hardly have I found you, hardly now
When found at last can see you through my tears!

OEDIPUS
Art come, my child?

ISMENE
O father, sad thy plight!

OEDIPUS
Child, thou art here?

ISMENE
Yes, 'twas a weary way.

OEDIPUS
Touch me, my child.

ISMENE
I give a hand to both.

OEDIPUS
O children--sisters!

ISMENE
O disastrous plight!

OEDIPUS
Her plight and mine?

ISMENE
Aye, and my own no less.

OEDIPUS
What brought thee, daughter?

ISMENE
Father, care for thee.

OEDIPUS
A daughter's yearning?

ISMENE
Yes, and I had news
ICopyright
 would myself   deliver, so I came
            (c) 2005-2009,    Infobase Media Corp.    Page 116 / 176
With the one thrall who yet is true to me.

OEDIPUS
A daughter's yearning?

ISMENE
Yes, and I had news
I would myself deliver, so I came
With the one thrall who yet is true to me.

OEDIPUS
Thy valiant brothers, where are they at need?

ISMENE
They are--enough, 'tis now their darkest hour.

OEDIPUS
Out on the twain! The thoughts and actions all
Are framed and modeled on Egyptian ways.
For there the men sit at the loom indoors
While the wives slave abroad for daily bread.
So you, my children--those whom I behooved
To bear the burden, stay at home like girls,
While in their stead my daughters moil and drudge,
Lightening their father's misery. The one
Since first she grew from girlish feebleness
To womanhood has been the old man's guide
And shared my weary wandering, roaming oft
Hungry and footsore through wild forest ways,
In drenching rains and under scorching suns,
Careless herself of home and ease, if so
Her sire might have her tender ministry.
And thou, my child, whilom thou wentest forth,
Eluding the Cadmeians' vigilance,
To bring thy father all the oracles
Concerning Oedipus, and didst make thyself
My faithful lieger, when they banished me.
And now what mission summons thee from home,
What news, Ismene, hast thou for thy father?
This much I know, thou com'st not empty-handed,
Without a warning of some new alarm.

ISMENE
The toil and trouble, father, that I bore
To find thy lodging-place and how thou faredst,
I spare thee; surely 'twere a double pain
To suffer, first in act and then in telling;
'Tis the misfortune of thine ill-starred sons
I come to tell thee. At the first they willed
To leave the throne to Creon, minded well
Thus to remove the inveterate curse of old,
A canker that infected all thy race.
But now some god and an infatuate soul
Have stirred betwixt them a mad rivalry
To grasp at sovereignty and kingly power.
Today the hot-branded youth, the younger born,
Is keeping Polyneices from the throne,
His elder, and has thrust him from the land.
The banished brother (so all Thebes reports)
Fled to the vale of Argos, and by help
Of new alliance there and friends in arms,
Swears he will stablish Argos straight as lord
Of the Cadmeian land, or, if he fail,
Exalt the victor to the stars of heaven.
This is no empty tale, but deadly truth,
My father; and how long thy agony,
Ere the gods pity thee, I cannot tell.

OEDIPUS
Hast thou indeed then entertained a hope
The gods at last will turn and rescue me?

ISMENE
Yea, so I read these latest oracles.

OEDIPUS
What oracles? What hath been uttered, child?

ISMENE
Thy country (so it runs) shall yearn in time
To have thee(c)for2005-2009,
 Copyright         their weal alive or dead.
                               Infobase  Media Corp.   Page 117 / 176
OEDIPUS
And who could gain by such a one as I?
What oracles? What hath been uttered, child?

ISMENE
Thy country (so it runs) shall yearn in time
To have thee for their weal alive or dead.

OEDIPUS
And who could gain by such a one as I?

ISMENE
On thee, 'tis said, their sovereignty depends.

OEDIPUS
So, when I cease to be, my worth begins.

ISMENE
The gods, who once abased, uplift thee now.

OEDIPUS
Poor help to raise an old man fallen in youth.

ISMENE
Howe'er that be, 'tis for this cause alone
That Creon comes to thee--and comes anon.

OEDIPUS
With what intent, my daughter? Tell me plainly.

ISMENE
To plant thee near the Theban land, and so
Keep thee within their grasp, yet now allow
Thy foot to pass beyond their boundaries.

OEDIPUS
What gain they, if I lay outside?

OEDIPUS
Thy tomb,
If disappointed, brings on them a curse.

OEDIPUS
It needs no god to tell what's plain to sense.

ISMENE
Therefore they fain would have thee close at hand,
Not where thou wouldst be master of thyself.

OEDIPUS
Mean they to shroud my bones in Theban dust?

ISMENE
Nay, father, guilt of kinsman's blood forbids.

OEDIPUS
Then never shall they be my masters, never!

ISMENE
Thebes, thou shalt rue this bitterly some day!

OEDIPUS
When what conjunction comes to pass, my child?

ISMENE
Thy angry wraith, when at thy tomb they stand. [3]

OEDIPUS
And who hath told thee what thou tell'st me, child?

ISMENE
Envoys who visited the Delphic hearth.

OEDIPUS
Hath Phoebus spoken thus concerning me?

ISMENE
So say the envoys who returned to Thebes.

OEDIPUS
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.         Page 118 / 176
And can a son of mine have heard of this?

ISMENE
ISMENE
So say the envoys who returned to Thebes.

OEDIPUS
And can a son of mine have heard of this?

ISMENE
Yea, both alike, and know its import well.

OEDIPUS
They knew it, yet the ignoble greed of rule
Outweighed all longing for their sire's return.

ISMENE
Grievous thy words, yet I must own them true.

OEDIPUS
Then may the gods ne'er quench their fatal feud,
And mine be the arbitrament of the fight,
For which they now are arming, spear to spear;
That neither he who holds the scepter now
May keep this throne, nor he who fled the realm
Return again. _They_ never raised a hand,
When I their sire was thrust from hearth and home,
When I was banned and banished, what recked they?
Say you 'twas done at my desire, a grace
Which the state, yielding to my wish, allowed?
Not so; for, mark you, on that very day
When in the tempest of my soul I craved
Death, even death by stoning, none appeared
To further that wild longing, but anon,
When time had numbed my anguish and I felt
My wrath had all outrun those errors past,
Then, then it was the city went about
By force to oust me, respited for years;
And then my sons, who should as sons have helped,
Did nothing: and, one little word from them
Was all I needed, and they spoke no word,
But let me wander on for evermore,
A banished man, a beggar. These two maids
Their sisters, girls, gave all their sex could give,
Food and safe harborage and filial care;
While their two brethren sacrificed their sire
For lust of power and sceptred sovereignty.
No! me they ne'er shall win for an ally,
Nor will this Theban kingship bring them gain;
That know I from this maiden's oracles,
And those old prophecies concerning me,
Which Phoebus now at length has brought to pass.
Come Creon then, come all the mightiest
In Thebes to seek me; for if ye my friends,
Championed by those dread Powers indigenous,
Espouse my cause; then for the State ye gain
A great deliverer, for my foemen bane.

CHORUS
Our pity, Oedipus, thou needs must move,
Thou and these maidens; and the stronger plea
Thou urgest, as the savior of our land,
Disposes me to counsel for thy weal.

OEDIPUS
Aid me, kind sirs; I will do all you bid.

CHORUS
First make atonement to the deities,
Whose grove by trespass thou didst first profane.

OEDIPUS
After what manner, stranger? Teach me, pray.

CHORUS
Make a libation first of water fetched
With undefiled hands from living spring.

OEDIPUS
And after I have
Copyright        gotten this pure
            (c) 2005-2009,        draught?
                             Infobase  Media Corp.     Page 119 / 176
CHORUS
Bowls thou wilt find, the carver's handiwork;
With undefiled hands from living spring.

OEDIPUS
And after I have gotten this pure draught?

CHORUS
Bowls thou wilt find, the carver's handiwork;
Crown thou the rims and both the handles crown--

OEDIPUS
With olive shoots or blocks of wool, or how?

CHORUS
With wool from fleece of yearling freshly shorn.

OEDIPUS
What next? how must I end the ritual?

CHORUS
Pour thy libation, turning to the dawn.

OEDIPUS
Pouring it from the urns whereof ye spake?

CHORUS
Yea, in three streams; and be the last bowl drained
To the last drop.

OEDIPUS
And wherewith shall I fill it,
Ere in its place I set it? This too tell.

CHORUS
With water and with honey; add no wine.

OEDIPUS
And when the embowered earth hath drunk thereof?

CHORUS
Then lay upon it thrice nine olive sprays
With both thy hands, and offer up this prayer.

OEDIPUS
I fain would hear it; that imports the most.

CHORUS
That, as we call them Gracious, they would deign
To grant the suppliant their saving grace.
So pray thyself or whoso pray for thee,
In whispered accents, not with lifted voice;
Then go and look back. Do as I bid,
And I shall then be bold to stand thy friend;
Else, stranger, I should have my fears for thee.

OEDIPUS
Hear ye, my daughters, what these strangers say?

ANTIGONE
We listened, and attend thy bidding, father.

OEDIPUS
I cannot go, disabled as I am
Doubly, by lack of strength and lack of sight;
But one of you may do it in my stead;
For one, I trow, may pay the sacrifice
Of thousands, if his heart be leal and true.
So to your work with speed, but leave me not
Untended; for this frame is all too week
To move without the help of guiding hand.

ISMENE
Then I will go perform these rites, but where
To find the spot, this have I yet to learn.

CHORUS
Beyond this grove; if thou hast need of aught,
The guardian of the close will lend his aid.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.         Page 120 / 176
ISMENE
I go, and thou, Antigone, meanwhile
CHORUS
Beyond this grove; if thou hast need of aught,
The guardian of the close will lend his aid.

ISMENE
I go, and thou, Antigone, meanwhile
Must guard our father. In a parent's cause
Toil, if there be toil, is of no account.
[Exit ISMENE]

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Ill it is, stranger, to awake
Pain that long since has ceased to ache,
And yet I fain would hear--

OEDIPUS
What thing?

CHORUS
Thy tale of cruel suffering
For which no cure was found,
The fate that held thee bound.

OEDIPUS
O bid me not (as guest I claim
This grace) expose my shame.

CHORUS
The tale is bruited far and near,
And echoes still from ear to ear.
The truth, I fain would hear.

OEDIPUS
Ah me!

CHORUS
I prithee yield.

OEDIPUS
Ah me!

CHORUS
Grant my request, I granted all to thee.

OEDIPUS
(Ant. 1)
Know then I suffered ills most vile, but none
(So help me Heaven!) from acts in malice done.

CHORUS
Say how.

OEDIPUS
The State around
An all unwitting bridegroom bound
An impious marriage chain;
That was my bane.

CHORUS
Didst thou in sooth then share
A bed incestuous with her that bare--

OEDIPUS
It stabs me like a sword,
That two-edged word,
O stranger, but these maids--my own--

CHORUS
Say on.

OEDIPUS
Two daughters, curses twain.

CHORUS
Oh God!
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.     Page 121 / 176
OEDIPUS
Sprang from the wife and mother's travail-pain.
Two daughters, curses twain.

CHORUS
Oh God!

OEDIPUS
Sprang from the wife and mother's travail-pain.

CHORUS
(Str. 2)
What, then thy offspring are at once--

OEDIPUS
Too true.
Their father's very sister's too.

CHORUS
Oh horror!

OEDIPUS
Horrors from the boundless deep
Back on my soul in refluent surges sweep.

CHORUS
Thou hast endured--

OEDIPUS
Intolerable woe.

CHORUS
And sinned--

OEDIPUS
I sinned not.

CHORUS
How so?

OEDIPUS
I served the State; would I had never won
That graceless grace by which I was undone.

CHORUS
(Ant. 2)
And next, unhappy man, thou hast shed blood?

OEDIPUS
Must ye hear more?

CHORUS
A father's?

OEDIPUS
Flood on flood
Whelms me; that word's a second mortal blow.

CHORUS
Murderer!

OEDIPUS
Yes, a murderer, but know--

CHORUS
What canst thou plead?

OEDIPUS
A plea of justice.

CHORUS
How?

OEDIPUS
I slew who else would me have slain;
I slew without intent,
A wretch, but innocent
In the law's eye, I stand, without a stain.

CHORUS
 Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.    Page 122 / 176
Behold our sovereign, Theseus, Aegeus' son,
Comes at thy summons to perform his part.
[Enter THESEUS]
I slew without intent,
A wretch, but innocent
In the law's eye, I stand, without a stain.

CHORUS
Behold our sovereign, Theseus, Aegeus' son,
Comes at thy summons to perform his part.
[Enter THESEUS]

THESEUS
Oft had I heard of thee in times gone by--
The bloody mutilation of thine eyes--
And therefore know thee, son of Laius.
All that I lately gathered on the way
Made my conjecture doubly sure; and now
Thy garb and that marred visage prove to me
That thou art he. So pitying thine estate,
Most ill-starred Oedipus, I fain would know
What is the suit ye urge on me and Athens,
Thou and the helpless maiden at thy side.
Declare it; dire indeed must be the tale
Whereat _I_ should recoil. I too was reared,
Like thee, in exile, and in foreign lands
Wrestled with many perils, no man more.
Wherefore no alien in adversity
Shall seek in vain my succor, nor shalt thou;
I know myself a mortal, and my share
In what the morrow brings no more than thine.

OEDIPUS
Theseus, thy words so apt, so generous
So comfortable, need no long reply
Both who I am and of what lineage sprung,
And from what land I came, thou hast declared.
So without prologue I may utter now
My brief petition, and the tale is told.

THESEUS
Say on, and tell me what I fain would learn.

OEDIPUS
I come to offer thee this woe-worn frame,
A gift not fair to look on; yet its worth
More precious far than any outward show.

THESEUS
What profit dost thou proffer to have brought?

OEDIPUS
Hereafter thou shalt learn, not yet, methinks.

THESEUS
When may we hope to reap the benefit?

OEDIPUS
When I am dead and thou hast buried me.

THESEUS
Thou cravest life's last service; all before--
Is it forgotten or of no account?

OEDIPUS
Yea, the last boon is warrant for the rest.

THESEUS
The grace thou cravest then is small indeed.

OEDIPUS
Nay, weigh it well; the issue is not slight.

THESEUS
Thou meanest that betwixt thy sons and me?

OEDIPUS
Prince, they would fain convey me back to Thebes.

THESEUS
IfCopyright
   there be no
             (c)compulsion,
                 2005-2009,then methinks
                             Infobase  Media Corp.   Page 123 / 176
To rest in banishment befits not thee.

OEDIPUS
Prince, they would fain convey me back to Thebes.

THESEUS
If there be no compulsion, then methinks
To rest in banishment befits not thee.

OEDIPUS
Nay, when _I_ wished it _they_ would not consent.

THESEUS
For shame! such temper misbecomes the faller.

OEDIPUS
Chide if thou wilt, but first attend my plea.

THESEUS
Say on, I wait full knowledge ere I judge.

OEDIPUS
O Theseus, I have suffered wrongs on wrongs.

THESEUS
Wouldst tell the old misfortune of thy race?

OEDIPUS
No, that has grown a byword throughout Greece.

THESEUS
What then can be this more than mortal grief?

OEDIPUS
My case stands thus; by my own flesh and blood
I was expelled my country, and can ne'er
Thither return again, a parricide.

THESEUS
Why fetch thee home if thou must needs obey.

THESEUS
What are they threatened by the oracle?

OEDIPUS
Destruction that awaits them in this land.

THESEUS
What can beget ill blood 'twixt them and me?

OEDIPUS
Dear son of Aegeus, to the gods alone
Is given immunity from eld and death;
But nothing else escapes all-ruinous time.
Earth's might decays, the might of men decays,
Honor grows cold, dishonor flourishes,
There is no constancy 'twixt friend and friend,
Or city and city; be it soon or late,
Sweet turns to bitter, hate once more to love.
If now 'tis sunshine betwixt Thebes and thee
And not a cloud, Time in his endless course
Gives birth to endless days and nights, wherein
The merest nothing shall suffice to cut
With serried spears your bonds of amity.
Then shall my slumbering and buried corpse
In its cold grave drink their warm life-blood up,
If Zeus be Zeus and Phoebus still speak true.
No more: 'tis ill to tear aside the veil
Of mysteries; let me cease as I began:
Enough if thou wilt keep thy plighted troth,
Then shall thou ne'er complain that Oedipus
Proved an unprofitable and thankless guest,
Except the gods themselves shall play me false.

CHORUS
The man, my lord, has from the very first
Declared his power to offer to our land
These and like benefits.

THESEUS
 Copyright
Who    could (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.
             reject                                 Page 124 / 176
The proffered amity of such a friend?
First, he can claim the hospitality
These and like benefits.

THESEUS
Who could reject
The proffered amity of such a friend?
First, he can claim the hospitality
To which by mutual contract we stand pledged:
Next, coming here, a suppliant to the gods,
He pays full tribute to the State and me;
His favors therefore never will I spurn,
But grant him the full rights of citizen;
And, if it suits the stranger here to bide,
I place him in your charge, or if he please
Rather to come with me--choose, Oedipus,
Which of the two thou wilt. Thy choice is mine.

OEDIPUS
Zeus, may the blessing fall on men like these!

THESEUS
What dost thou then decide--to come with me?

OEDIPUS
Yea, were it lawful--but 'tis rather here--

THESEUS
What wouldst thou here? I shall not thwart thy wish.

OEDIPUS
Here shall I vanquish those who cast me forth.

THESEUS
Then were thy presence here a boon indeed.

OEDIPUS
Such shall it prove, if thou fulfill'st thy pledge.

THESEUS
Fear not for me; I shall not play thee false.

OEDIPUS
No need to back thy promise with an oath.

THESEUS
An oath would be no surer than my word.

OEDIPUS
How wilt thou act then?

THESEUS
What is it thou fear'st?

OEDIPUS
My foes will come--

THESEUS
Our friends will look to that.

OEDIPUS
But if thou leave me?

THESEUS
Teach me not my duty.

OEDIPUS
'Tis fear constrains me.

THESEUS
_My_ soul knows no fear!

OEDIPUS
Thou knowest not what threats--

THESEUS
I know that none
Shall hale thee hence in my despite. Such threats
Vented  in anger
 Copyright        oft, are blusterers,
             (c) 2005-2009,    Infobase Media Corp.    Page 125 / 176
An idle breath, forgot when sense returns.
And for thy foemen, though their words were brave,
Boasting to bring thee back, they are like to find
THESEUS
I know that none
Shall hale thee hence in my despite. Such threats
Vented in anger oft, are blusterers,
An idle breath, forgot when sense returns.
And for thy foemen, though their words were brave,
Boasting to bring thee back, they are like to find
The seas between us wide and hard to sail.
Such my firm purpose, but in any case
Take heart, since Phoebus sent thee here. My name,
Though I be distant, warrants thee from harm.

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Thou hast come to a steed-famed land for rest,
O stranger worn with toil,
To a land of all lands the goodliest
Colonus' glistening soil.
'Tis the haunt of the clear-voiced nightingale,
Who hid in her bower, among
The wine-dark ivy that wreathes the vale,
Trilleth her ceaseless song;
And she loves, where the clustering berries nod
O'er a sunless, windless glade,
The spot by no mortal footstep trod,
The pleasance kept for the Bacchic god,
Where he holds each night his revels wild
With the nymphs who fostered the lusty child.

(Ant. 1)
And fed each morn by the pearly dew
The starred narcissi shine,
And a wreath with the crocus' golden hue
For the Mother and Daughter twine.
And never the sleepless fountains cease
That feed Cephisus' stream,
But they swell earth's bosom with quick increase,
And their wave hath a crystal gleam.
And the Muses' quire will never disdain
To visit this heaven-favored plain,
Nor the Cyprian queen of the golden rein.

(Str. 2)
And here there grows, unpruned, untamed,
Terror to foemen's spear,
A tree in Asian soil unnamed,
By Pelops' Dorian isle unclaimed,
Self-nurtured year by year;
'Tis the grey-leaved olive that feeds our boys;
Nor youth nor withering age destroys
The plant that the Olive Planter tends
And the Grey-eyed Goddess herself defends.

(Ant. 2)
Yet another gift, of all gifts the most
Prized by our fatherland, we boast--
The might of the horse, the might of the sea;
Our fame, Poseidon, we owe to thee,
Son of Kronos, our king divine,
Who in these highways first didst fit
For the mouth of horses the iron bit;
Thou too hast taught us to fashion meet
For the arm of the rower the oar-blade fleet,
Swift as the Nereids' hundred feet
As they dance along the brine.

ANTIGONE
Oh land extolled above all lands, 'tis now
For thee to make these glorious titles good.

OEDIPUS
Why this appeal, my daughter?

ANTIGONE
Father, lo!
Creon approaches with his company.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.        Page 126 / 176
OEDIPUS
Fear not, it shall be so; if we are old,
This country's vigor has no touch of age.
ANTIGONE
Father, lo!
Creon approaches with his company.

OEDIPUS
Fear not, it shall be so; if we are old,
This country's vigor has no touch of age.
[Enter CREON with attendants]

CREON
Burghers, my noble friends, ye take alarm
At my approach (I read it in your eyes),
Fear nothing and refrain from angry words.
I come with no ill purpose; I am old,
And know the city whither I am come,
Without a peer amongst the powers of Greece.
It was by reason of my years that I
Was chosen to persuade your guest and bring
Him back to Thebes; not the delegate
Of one man, but commissioned by the State,
Since of all Thebans I have most bewailed,
Being his kinsman, his most grievous woes.
O listen to me, luckless Oedipus,
Come home! The whole Cadmeian people claim
With right to have thee back, I most of all,
For most of all (else were I vile indeed)
I mourn for thy misfortunes, seeing thee
An aged outcast, wandering on and on,
A beggar with one handmaid for thy stay.
Ah! who had e'er imagined she could fall
To such a depth of misery as this,
To tend in penury thy stricken frame,
A virgin ripe for wedlock, but unwed,
A prey for any wanton ravisher?
Seems it not cruel this reproach I cast
On thee and on myself and all the race?
Aye, but an open shame cannot be hid.
Hide it, O hide it, Oedipus, thou canst.
O, by our fathers' gods, consent I pray;
Come back to Thebes, come to thy father's home,
Bid Athens, as is meet, a fond farewell;
Thebes thy old foster-mother claims thee first.

OEDIPUS
O front of brass, thy subtle tongue would twist
To thy advantage every plea of right
Why try thy arts on me, why spread again
Toils where 'twould gall me sorest to be snared?
In old days when by self-wrought woes distraught,
I yearned for exile as a glad release,
Thy will refused the favor then I craved.
But when my frenzied grief had spent its force,
And I was fain to taste the sweets of home,
Then thou wouldst thrust me from my country, then
These ties of kindred were by thee ignored;
And now again when thou behold'st this State
And all its kindly people welcome me,
Thou seek'st to part us, wrapping in soft words
Hard thoughts. And yet what pleasure canst thou find
In forcing friendship on unwilling foes?
Suppose a man refused to grant some boon
When you importuned him, and afterwards
When you had got your heart's desire, consented,
Granting a grace from which all grace had fled,
Would not such favor seem an empty boon?
Yet such the boon thou profferest now to me,
Fair in appearance, but when tested false.
Yea, I will proved thee false, that these may hear;
Thou art come to take me, not to take me home,
But plant me on thy borders, that thy State
May so escape annoyance from this land.
_That_ thou shalt never gain, but _this_ instead--
My ghost to haunt thy country without end;
And for my sons, this heritage--no more--
Just room to die in. Have not I more skill
Than thou to draw the horoscope of Thebes?
Are  not my (c)
 Copyright    teachers surer guides
                 2005-2009,         than thine--
                               Infobase  Media Corp.   Page 127 / 176
Great Phoebus and the sire of Phoebus, Zeus?
Thou art a messenger suborned, thy tongue
Is sharper than a sword's edge, yet thy speech
My ghost to haunt thy country without end;
And for my sons, this heritage--no more--
Just room to die in. Have not I more skill
Than thou to draw the horoscope of Thebes?
Are not my teachers surer guides than thine--
Great Phoebus and the sire of Phoebus, Zeus?
Thou art a messenger suborned, thy tongue
Is sharper than a sword's edge, yet thy speech
Will bring thee more defeats than victories.
Howbeit, I know I waste my words--begone,
And leave me here; whate'er may be my lot,
He lives not ill who lives withal content.

CREON
Which loses in this parley, I o'erthrown
By thee, or thou who overthrow'st thyself?

OEDIPUS
I shall be well contented if thy suit
Fails with these strangers, as it has with me.

CREON
Unhappy man, will years ne'er make thee wise?
Must thou live on to cast a slur on age?

OEDIPUS
Thou hast a glib tongue, but no honest man,
Methinks, can argue well on any side.

CREON
'Tis one thing to speak much, another well.

OEDIPUS
Thy words, forsooth, are few and all well aimed!

CREON
Not for a man indeed with wits like thine.

OEDIPUS
Depart! I bid thee in these burghers' name,
And prowl no longer round me to blockade
My destined harbor.

CREON
I protest to these,
Not thee, and for thine answer to thy kin,
If e'er I take thee--

OEDIPUS
Who against their will
Could take me?

CREON
Though untaken thou shalt smart.

OEDIPUS
What power hast thou to execute this threat?

CREON
One of thy daughters is already seized,
The other I will carry off anon.

OEDIPUS
Woe, woe!

CREON
This is but prelude to thy woes.

OEDIPUS
Hast thou my child?

CREON
And soon shall have the other.

OEDIPUS
Ho, friends! ye will not surely play me false?
Chase this ungodly villain from your land.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.      Page 128 / 176
CHORUS
Hence, stranger, hence avaunt! Thou doest wrong
In this, and wrong in all that thou hast done.
OEDIPUS
Ho, friends! ye will not surely play me false?
Chase this ungodly villain from your land.

CHORUS
Hence, stranger, hence avaunt! Thou doest wrong
In this, and wrong in all that thou hast done.

CREON (to his guards)
'Tis time by force to carry off the girl,
If she refuse of her free will to go.

ANTIGONE
Ah, woe is me! where shall I fly, where find
Succor from gods or men?

CHORUS
What would'st thou, stranger?

CREON
I meddle not with him, but her who is mine.

OEDIPUS
O princes of the land!

CHORUS
Sir, thou dost wrong.

CREON
Nay, right.

CHORUS
How right?

CREON
I take but what is mine.

OEDIPUS
Help, Athens!

CHORUS
What means this, sirrah? quick unhand her, or
We'll fight it out.

CREON
Back!

CHORUS
Not till thou forbear.

CREON
'Tis war with Thebes if I am touched or harmed.

OEDIPUS
Did I not warn thee?

CHORUS
Quick, unhand the maid!

CREON
Command your minions; I am not your slave.

CHORUS
Desist, I bid thee.

CREON (to the guard)
And O bid thee march!

CHORUS
To the rescue, one and all!
Rally, neighbors to my call!
See, the foe is at the gate!
Rally to defend the State.

ANTIGONE
Ah, woe is me, they drag me hence, O friends.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.     Page 129 / 176
OEDIPUS
Where art thou, daughter?
Rally to defend the State.

ANTIGONE
Ah, woe is me, they drag me hence, O friends.

OEDIPUS
Where art thou, daughter?

ANTIGONE
Haled along by force.

OEDIPUS
Thy hands, my child!

ANTIGONE
They will not let me, father.

CREON
Away with her!

OEDIPUS
Ah, woe is me, ah woe!

CREON
So those two crutches shall no longer serve thee
For further roaming. Since it pleaseth thee
To triumph o'er thy country and thy friends
Who mandate, though a prince, I here discharge,
Enjoy thy triumph; soon or late thou'lt find
Thou art an enemy to thyself, both now
And in time past, when in despite of friends
Thou gav'st the rein to passion, still thy bane.

CHORUS
Hold there, sir stranger!

CREON
Hands off, have a care.

CHORUS
Restore the maidens, else thou goest not.

CREON
Then Thebes will take a dearer surety soon;
I will lay hands on more than these two maids.

CHORUS
What canst thou further?

CREON
Carry off this man.

CHORUS
Brave words!

CREON
And deeds forthwith shall make them good.

CHORUS
Unless perchance our sovereign intervene.

OEDIPUS
O shameless voice! Would'st lay an hand on me?

CREON
Silence, I bid thee!

OEDIPUS
Goddesses, allow
Thy suppliant to utter yet one curse!
Wretch, now my eyes are gone thou hast torn away
The helpless maiden who was eyes to me;
For these to thee and all thy cursed race
May the great Sun, whose eye is everywhere,
Grant length of days and old age like to mine.

CREON
Listen, O men
Copyright  (c) of Athens, mark
               2005-2009,      ye this?Media Corp.
                           Infobase                  Page 130 / 176
OEDIPUS
They mark us both and understand that I
Grant length of days and old age like to mine.

CREON
Listen, O men of Athens, mark ye this?

OEDIPUS
They mark us both and understand that I
Wronged by the deeds defend myself with words.

CREON
Nothing shall curb my will; though I be old
And single-handed, I will have this man.

OEDIPUS
O woe is me!

CHORUS
Thou art a bold man, stranger, if thou think'st
To execute thy purpose.

CREON
So I do.

CHORUS
Then shall I deem this State no more a State.

CREON
With a just quarrel weakness conquers might.

OEDIPUS
Ye hear his words?

CHORUS
Aye words, but not yet deeds,
Zeus knoweth!

CREON
Zeus may haply know, not thou.

CHORUS
Insolence!

CREON
Insolence that thou must bear.

CHORUS
Haste ye princes, sound the alarm!
Men of Athens, arm ye, arm!
Quickly to the rescue come
Ere the robbers get them home.
[Enter THESEUS]

THESEUS
Why this outcry? What is forward? wherefore was I called away
From the altar of Poseidon, lord of your Colonus? Say!
On what errand have I hurried hither without stop or stay.

OEDIPUS
Dear friend--those accents tell me who thou art--
Yon man but now hath done me a foul wrong.

THESEUS
What is this wrong and who hath wrought it? Speak.

OEDIPUS
Creon who stands before thee. He it is
Hath robbed me of my all, my daughters twain.

THESEUS
What means this?

OEDIPUS
Thou hast heard my tale of wrongs.

THESEUS
Ho! hasten to the altars, one of you.
Command my liegemen leave the sacrifice
Copyright
And         (c) 2005-2009,
     hurry, foot             Infobase
                 and horse, with       Media Corp.
                                 rein unchecked,                Page 131 / 176
To where the paths that packmen use diverge,
Lest the two maidens slip away, and I
THESEUS
Ho! hasten to the altars, one of you.
Command my liegemen leave the sacrifice
And hurry, foot and horse, with rein unchecked,
To where the paths that packmen use diverge,
Lest the two maidens slip away, and I
Become a mockery to this my guest,
As one despoiled by force. Quick, as I bid.
As for this stranger, had I let my rage,
Justly provoked, have play, he had not 'scaped
Scathless and uncorrected at my hands.
But now the laws to which himself appealed,
These and none others shall adjudicate.
Thou shalt not quit this land, till thou hast fetched
The maidens and produced them in my sight.
Thou hast offended both against myself
And thine own race and country. Having come
Unto a State that champions right and asks
For every action warranty of law,
Thou hast set aside the custom of the land,
And like some freebooter art carrying off
What plunder pleases thee, as if forsooth
Thou thoughtest this a city without men,
Or manned by slaves, and me a thing of naught.
Yet not from Thebes this villainy was learnt;
Thebes is not wont to breed unrighteous sons,
Nor would she praise thee, if she learnt that thou
Wert robbing me--aye and the gods to boot,
Haling by force their suppliants, poor maids.
Were I on Theban soil, to prosecute
The justest claim imaginable, I
Would never wrest by violence my own
Without sanction of your State or King;
I should behave as fits an outlander
Living amongst a foreign folk, but thou
Shamest a city that deserves it not,
Even thine own, and plentitude of years
Have made of thee an old man and a fool.
Therefore again I charge thee as before,
See that the maidens are restored at once,
Unless thou would'st continue here by force
And not by choice a sojourner; so much
I tell thee home and what I say, I mean.

CHORUS
Thy case is perilous; though by birth and race
Thou should'st be just, thou plainly doest wrong.

CREON
Not deeming this city void of men
Or counsel, son of Aegeus, as thou say'st
I did what I have done; rather I thought
Your people were not like to set such store
by kin of mine and keep them 'gainst my will.
Nor would they harbor, so I stood assured,
A godless parricide, a reprobate
Convicted of incestuous marriage ties.
For on her native hill of Ares here
(I knew your far-famed Areopagus)
Sits Justice, and permits not vagrant folk
To stay within your borders. In that faith
I hunted down my quarry; and e'en then
i had refrained but for the curses dire
Wherewith he banned my kinsfolk and myself:
Such wrong, methought, had warrant for my act.
Anger has no old age but only death;
The dead alone can feel no touch of spite.
So thou must work thy will; my cause is just
But weak without allies; yet will I try,
Old as I am, to answer deeds with deeds.

OEDIPUS
O shameless railer, think'st thou this abuse
Defames my grey hairs rather than thine own?
Murder and incest, deeds of horror, all
Thou blurtest forth against me, all I have borne,
No willing sinner;
 Copyright         so it pleased
            (c) 2005-2009,       the gods
                              Infobase   Media Corp.    Page 132 / 176
Wrath haply with my sinful race of old,
Since thou could'st find no sin in me myself
For which in retribution I was doomed
O shameless railer, think'st thou this abuse
Defames my grey hairs rather than thine own?
Murder and incest, deeds of horror, all
Thou blurtest forth against me, all I have borne,
No willing sinner; so it pleased the gods
Wrath haply with my sinful race of old,
Since thou could'st find no sin in me myself
For which in retribution I was doomed
To trespass thus against myself and mine.
Answer me now, if by some oracle
My sire was destined to a bloody end
By a son's hand, can this reflect on me,
Me then unborn, begotten by no sire,
Conceived in no mother's womb? And if
When born to misery, as born I was,
I met my sire, not knowing whom I met
or what I did, and slew him, how canst thou
With justice blame the all-unconscious hand?
And for my mother, wretch, art not ashamed,
Seeing she was thy sister, to extort
From me the story of her marriage, such
A marriage as I straightway will proclaim.
For I will speak; thy lewd and impious speech
Has broken all the bonds of reticence.
She was, ah woe is me! she was my mother;
I knew it not, nor she; and she my mother
Bare children to the son whom she had borne,
A birth of shame. But this at least I know
Wittingly thou aspersest her and me;
But I unwitting wed, unwilling speak.
Nay neither in this marriage or this deed
Which thou art ever casting in my teeth--
A murdered sire--shall I be held to blame.
Come, answer me one question, if thou canst:
If one should presently attempt thy life,
Would'st thou, O man of justice, first inquire
If the assassin was perchance thy sire,
Or turn upon him? As thou lov'st thy life,
On thy aggressor thou would'st turn, no stay
Debating, if the law would bear thee out.
Such was my case, and such the pass whereto
The gods reduced me; and methinks my sire,
Could he come back to life, would not dissent.
Yet thou, for just thou art not, but a man
Who sticks at nothing, if it serve his plea,
Reproachest me with this before these men.
It serves thy turn to laud great Theseus' name,
And Athens as a wisely governed State;
Yet in thy flatteries one thing is to seek:
If any land knows how to pay the gods
Their proper rites, 'tis Athens most of all.
This is the land whence thou wast fain to steal
Their aged suppliant and hast carried off
My daughters. Therefore to yon goddesses,
I turn, adjure them and invoke their aid
To champion my cause, that thou mayest learn
What is the breed of men who guard this State.

CHORUS
An honest man, my liege, one sore bestead
By fortune, and so worthy our support.

THESEUS
Enough of words; the captors speed amain,
While we the victims stand debating here.

CREON
What would'st thou? What can I, a feeble man?

THESEUS
Show us the trail, and I'll attend thee too,
That, if thou hast the maidens hereabouts,
Thou mayest thyself discover them to me;
But if thy guards outstrip us with their spoil,
We may draw rein; for others speed, from whom
They will not 'scape to thank the gods at home.
Lead on, I say, the captor's caught, and fate
Hath  ta'en the
 Copyright   (c)fowler in the toils
                 2005-2009,         he spread;
                               Infobase   Media Corp.   Page 133 / 176
So soon are lost gains gotten by deceit.
And look not for allies; I know indeed
Such height of insolence was never reached
But if thy guards outstrip us with their spoil,
We may draw rein; for others speed, from whom
They will not 'scape to thank the gods at home.
Lead on, I say, the captor's caught, and fate
Hath ta'en the fowler in the toils he spread;
So soon are lost gains gotten by deceit.
And look not for allies; I know indeed
Such height of insolence was never reached
Without abettors or accomplices;
Thou hast some backer in thy bold essay,
But I will search this matter home and see
One man doth not prevail against the State.
Dost take my drift, or seem these words as vain
As seemed our warnings when the plot was hatched?

CREON
Nothing thou sayest can I here dispute,
But once at home I too shall act my part.

THESEUS
Threaten us and--begone! Thou, Oedipus,
Stay here assured that nothing save my death
Will stay my purpose to restore the maids.

OEDIPUS
Heaven bless thee, Theseus, for thy nobleness
And all thy loving care in my behalf.
[Exeunt THESEUS and CREON]

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
O when the flying foe,
Turning at last to bay,
Soon will give blow for blow,
Might I behold the fray;
Hear the loud battle roar
Swell, on the Pythian shore,
Or by the torch-lit bay,
Where the dread Queen and Maid
Cherish the mystic rites,
Rites they to none betray,
Ere on his lips is laid
Secrecy's golden key
By their own acolytes,
Priestly Eumolpidae.

There I might chance behold
Theseus our captain bold
Meet with the robber band,
Ere they have fled the land,
Rescue by might and main
Maidens, the captives twain.

(Ant. 1)
Haply on swiftest steed,
Or in the flying car,
Now they approach the glen,
West of white Oea's scaur.
They will be vanquished:
Dread are our warriors, dread
Theseus our chieftain's men.
Flashes each bridle bright,
Charges each gallant knight,
All that our Queen adore,
Pallas their patron, or
Him whose wide floods enring
Earth, the great Ocean-king
Whom Rhea bore.

(Str. 2)
Fight they or now prepare
To fight? a vision rare
Tells me that soon again
I shall behold the twain
Maidens so ill bestead,
By their kin buffeted.
Today, today Zeus worketh some great thing
This  day shall
 Copyright   (c)victory bring. Infobase Media Corp.
                 2005-2009,                           Page 134 / 176
O for the wings, the wings of a dove,
To be borne with the speed of the gale,
Up and still upwards to sail
I shall behold the twain
Maidens so ill bestead,
By their kin buffeted.
Today, today Zeus worketh some great thing
This day shall victory bring.
O for the wings, the wings of a dove,
To be borne with the speed of the gale,
Up and still upwards to sail
And gaze on the fray from the clouds above.
(Ant. 2)
All-seeing Zeus, O lord of heaven,
To our guardian host be given
Might triumphant to surprise
Flying foes and win their prize.
Hear us, Zeus, and hear us, child
Of Zeus, Athene undefiled,
Hear, Apollo, hunter, hear,
Huntress, sister of Apollo,
Who the dappled swift-foot deer
O'er the wooded glade dost follow;
Help with your two-fold power
Athens in danger's hour!
O wayfarer, thou wilt not have to tax
The friends who watch for thee with false presage,
For lo, an escort with the maids draws near.
[Enter ANTIGONE and ISMENE with THESEUS]

OEDIPUS
Where, where? what sayest thou?

ANTIGONE
O father, father,
Would that some god might grant thee eyes to see
This best of men who brings us back again.

OEDIPUS
My child! and are ye back indeed!

ANTIGONE
Yes, saved
By Theseus and his gallant followers.

OEDIPUS
Come to your father's arms, O let me feel
A child's embrace I never hoped for more.

ANTIGONE
Thou askest what is doubly sweet to give.

OEDIPUS
Where are ye then?

ANTIGONE
We come together both.

OEDIPUS
My precious nurslings!

ANTIGONE
Fathers aye were fond.

OEDIPUS
Props of my age!

ANTIGONE
So sorrow sorrow props.

OEDIPUS
I have my darlings, and if death should come,
Death were not wholly bitter with you near.
Cling to me, press me close on either side,
There rest ye from your dreary wayfaring.
Now tell me of your ventures, but in brief;
Brief speech suffices for young maids like you.

ANTIGONE
Here is our savior; thou should'st hear the tale
From  his own
 Copyright  (c)lips; so shall my
                2005-2009,       part be Media
                              Infobase   brief. Corp.   Page 135 / 176
OEDIPUS
I pray thee do not wonder if the sight
Brief speech suffices for young maids like you.

ANTIGONE
Here is our savior; thou should'st hear the tale
From his own lips; so shall my part be brief.

OEDIPUS
I pray thee do not wonder if the sight
Of children, given o'er for lost, has made
My converse somewhat long and tedious.
Full well I know the joy I have of them
Is due to thee, to thee and no man else;
Thou wast their sole deliverer, none else.
The gods deal with thee after my desire,
With thee and with this land! for fear of heaven
I found above all peoples most with you,
And righteousness and lips that cannot lie.
I speak in gratitude of what I know,
For all I have I owe to thee alone.
Give me thy hand, O Prince, that I may touch it,
And if thou wilt permit me, kiss thy cheek.
What say I? Can I wish that thou should'st touch
One fallen like me to utter wretchedness,
Corrupt and tainted with a thousand ills?
Oh no, I would not let thee if thou would'st.
They only who have known calamity
Can share it. Let me greet thee where thou art,
And still befriend me as thou hast till now.

THESEUS
I marvel not if thou hast dallied long
In converse with thy children and preferred
Their speech to mine; I feel no jealousy,
I would be famous more by deeds than words.
Of this, old friend, thou hast had proof; my oath
I have fulfilled and brought thee back the maids
Alive and nothing harmed for all those threats.
And how the fight was won, 'twere waste of words
To boast--thy daughters here will tell thee all.
But of a matter that has lately chanced
On my way hitherward, I fain would have
Thy counsel--slight 'twould seem, yet worthy thought.
A wise man heeds all matters great or small.

OEDIPUS
What is it, son of Aegeus? Let me hear.
Of what thou askest I myself know naught.

THESEUS
'Tis said a man, no countryman of thine,
But of thy kin, hath taken sanctuary
Beside the altar of Poseidon, where
I was at sacrifice when called away.

OEDIPUS
What is his country? what the suitor's prayer?

THESEUS
I know but one thing; he implores, I am told,
A word with thee--he will not trouble thee.

OEDIPUS
What seeks he? If a suppliant, something grave.

THESEUS
He only waits, they say, to speak with thee,
And then unharmed to go upon his way.

OEDIPUS
I marvel who is this petitioner.

THESEUS
Think if there be not any of thy kin
At Argos who might claim this boon of thee.

OEDIPUS
Dear friend, forbear, I pray.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.           Page 136 / 176
THESEUS
What ails thee now?
At Argos who might claim this boon of thee.

OEDIPUS
Dear friend, forbear, I pray.

THESEUS
What ails thee now?

OEDIPUS
Ask it not of me.

THESEUS
Ask not what? explain.

OEDIPUS
Thy words have told me who the suppliant is.

THESEUS
Who can he be that I should frown on him?

OEDIPUS
My son, O king, my hateful son, whose words
Of all men's most would jar upon my ears.

THESEUS
Thou sure mightest listen. If his suit offend,
No need to grant it. Why so loth to hear him?

OEDIPUS
That voice, O king, grates on a father's ears;
I have come to loathe it. Force me not to yield.

THESEUS
But he hath found asylum. O beware,
And fail not in due reverence to the god.

ANTIGONE
O heed me, father, though I am young in years.
Let the prince have his will and pay withal
What in his eyes is service to the god;
For our sake also let our brother come.
If what he urges tend not to thy good
He cannot surely wrest perforce thy will.
To hear him then, what harm? By open words
A scheme of villainy is soon bewrayed.
Thou art his father, therefore canst not pay
In kind a son's most impious outrages.
O listen to him; other men like thee
Have thankless children and are choleric,
But yielding to persuasion's gentle spell
They let their savage mood be exorcised.
Look thou to the past, forget the present, think
On all the woe thy sire and mother brought thee;
Thence wilt thou draw this lesson without fail,
Of evil passion evil is the end.
Thou hast, alas, to prick thy memory,
Stern monitors, these ever-sightless orbs.
O yield to us; just suitors should not need
To be importunate, nor he that takes
A favor lack the grace to make return.

OEDIPUS
Grievous to me, my child, the boon ye win
By pleading. Let it be then; have your way
Only if come he must, I beg thee, friend,
Let none have power to dispose of me.

THESEUS
No need, Sir, to appeal a second time.
It likes me not to boast, but be assured
Thy life is safe while any god saves mine.
[Exit THESEUS]

CHORUS
(Str.)
Who craves excess of days,
Scorning the common span
Of life, I judge
 Copyright    (c) that man
                  2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.   Page 137 / 176
A giddy wight who walks in folly's ways.
For the long years heap up a grievous load,
Scant pleasures, heavier pains,
CHORUS
(Str.)
Who craves excess of days,
Scorning the common span
Of life, I judge that man
A giddy wight who walks in folly's ways.
For the long years heap up a grievous load,
Scant pleasures, heavier pains,
Till not one joy remains
For him who lingers on life's weary road
And come it slow or fast,
One doom of fate
Doth all await,
For dance and marriage bell,
The dirge and funeral knell.
Death the deliverer freeth all at last.
(Ant.)
Not to be born at all
Is best, far best that can befall,
Next best, when born, with least delay
To trace the backward way.
For when youth passes with its giddy train,
Troubles on troubles follow, toils on toils,
Pain, pain for ever pain;
And none escapes life's coils.
Envy, sedition, strife,
Carnage and war, make up the tale of life.
Last comes the worst and most abhorred stage
Of unregarded age,
Joyless, companionless and slow,
Of woes the crowning woe.

(Epode)
Such ills not I alone,
He too our guest hath known,
E'en as some headland on an iron-bound shore,
Lashed by the wintry blasts and surge's roar,
So is he buffeted on every side
By drear misfortune's whelming tide,
By every wind of heaven o'erborne
Some from the sunset, some from orient morn,
Some from the noonday glow.
Some from Rhipean gloom of everlasting snow.

ANTIGONE
Father, methinks I see the stranger coming,
Alone he comes and weeping plenteous tears.

OEDIPUS
Who may he be?

ANTIGONE
The same that we surmised.
From the outset--Polyneices. He is here.
[Enter POLYNEICES]

POLYNEICES
Ah me, my sisters, shall I first lament
My own afflictions, or my aged sire's,
Whom here I find a castaway, with you,
In a strange land, an ancient beggar clad
In antic tatters, marring all his frame,
While o'er the sightless orbs his unkept locks
Float in the breeze; and, as it were to match,
He bears a wallet against hunger's pinch.
All this too late I learn, wretch that I am,
Alas! I own it, and am proved most vile
In my neglect of thee: I scorn myself.
But as almighty Zeus in all he doth
Hath Mercy for co-partner of this throne,
Let Mercy, father, also sit enthroned
In thy heart likewise. For transgressions past
May be amended, cannot be made worse.

Why silent? Father, speak, nor turn away,
Hast thou no word, wilt thou dismiss me then
In mute disdain, nor tell me why thou art wrath?
OCopyright
   ye his daughters, sisters mine,
             (c) 2005-2009,         do yeMedia Corp.
                              Infobase                 Page 138 / 176
This sullen, obstinate silence try to move.
Let him not spurn, without a single word
Of answer, me the suppliant of the god.
Why silent? Father, speak, nor turn away,
Hast thou no word, wilt thou dismiss me then
In mute disdain, nor tell me why thou art wrath?
O ye his daughters, sisters mine, do ye
This sullen, obstinate silence try to move.
Let him not spurn, without a single word
Of answer, me the suppliant of the god.

ANTIGONE
Tell him thyself, unhappy one, thine errand;
For large discourse may send a thrill of joy,
Or stir a chord of wrath or tenderness,
And to the tongue-tied somehow give a tongue.

POLYNEICES
Well dost thou counsel, and I will speak out.
First will I call in aid the god himself,
Poseidon, from whose altar I was raised,
With warrant from the monarch of this land,
To parley with you, and depart unscathed.
These pledges, strangers, I would see observed
By you and by my sisters and my sire.
Now, father, let me tell thee why I came.
I have been banished from my native land
Because by right of primogeniture
I claimed possession of thy sovereign throne
Wherefrom Etocles, my younger brother,
Ousted me, not by weight of precedent,
Nor by the last arbitrament of war,
But by his popular acts; and the prime cause
Of this I deem the curse that rests on thee.
So likewise hold the soothsayers, for when
I came to Argos in the Dorian land
And took the king Adrastus' child to wife,
Under my standard I enlisted all
The foremost captains of the Apian isle,
To levy with their aid that sevenfold host
Of spearmen against Thebes, determining
To oust my foes or die in a just cause.
Why then, thou askest, am I here today?
Father, I come a suppliant to thee
Both for myself and my allies who now
With squadrons seven beneath their seven spears
Beleaguer all the plain that circles Thebes.
Foremost the peerless warrior, peerless seer,
Amphiaraiis with his lightning lance;
Next an Aetolian, Tydeus, Oeneus' son;
Eteoclus of Argive birth the third;
The fourth Hippomedon, sent to the war
By his sire Talaos; Capaneus, the fifth,
Vaunts he will fire and raze the town; the sixth
Parthenopaeus, an Arcadian born
Named of that maid, longtime a maid and late
Espoused, Atalanta's true-born child;
Last I thy son, or thine at least in name,
If but the bastard of an evil fate,
Lead against Thebes the fearless Argive host.
Thus by thy children and thy life, my sire,
We all adjure thee to remit thy wrath
And favor one who seeks a just revenge
Against a brother who has banned and robbed him.
For victory, if oracles speak true,
Will fall to those who have thee for ally.
So, by our fountains and familiar gods
I pray thee, yield and hear; a beggar I
And exile, thou an exile likewise; both
Involved in one misfortune find a home
As pensioners, while he, the lord of Thebes,
O agony! makes a mock of thee and me.
I'll scatter with a breath the upstart's might,
And bring thee home again and stablish thee,
And stablish, having cast him out, myself.
This will thy goodwill I will undertake,
Without it I can scare return alive.

CHORUS
For the king's
 Copyright  (c)sake who sentInfobase
                2005-2009,   him, Oedipus,
                                      Media Corp.   Page 139 / 176
Dismiss him not without a meet reply.

OEDIPUS
Without it I can scare return alive.

CHORUS
For the king's sake who sent him, Oedipus,
Dismiss him not without a meet reply.

OEDIPUS
Nay, worthy seniors, but for Theseus' sake
Who sent him hither to have word of me.
Never again would he have heard my voice;
But now he shall obtain this parting grace,
An answer that will bring him little joy.
O villain, when thou hadst the sovereignty
That now thy brother holdeth in thy stead,
Didst thou not drive me, thine own father, out,
An exile, cityless, and make we wear
This beggar's garb thou weepest to behold,
Now thou art come thyself to my sad plight?
Nothing is here for tears; it must be borne
By _me_ till death, and I shall think of thee
As of my murderer; thou didst thrust me out;
'Tis thou hast made me conversant with woe,
Through thee I beg my bread in a strange land;
And had not these my daughters tended me
I had been dead for aught of aid from thee.
They tend me, they preserve me, they are men
Not women in true service to their sire;
But ye are bastards, and no sons of mine.
Therefore just Heaven hath an eye on thee;
Howbeit not yet with aspect so austere
As thou shalt soon experience, if indeed
These banded hosts are moving against Thebes.
That city thou canst never storm, but first
Shall fall, thou and thy brother, blood-imbrued.
Such curse I lately launched against you twain,
Such curse I now invoke to fight for me,
That ye may learn to honor those who bear thee
Nor flout a sightless father who begat
Degenerate sons--these maidens did not so.
Therefore my curse is stronger than thy "throne,"
Thy "suppliance," if by right of laws eterne
Primeval Justice sits enthroned with Zeus.
Begone, abhorred, disowned, no son of mine,
Thou vilest of the vile! and take with thee
This curse I leave thee as my last bequest:--
Never to win by arms thy native land,
No, nor return to Argos in the Vale,
But by a kinsman's hand to die and slay
Him who expelled thee. So I pray and call
On the ancestral gloom of Tartarus
To snatch thee hence, on these dread goddesses
I call, and Ares who incensed you both
To mortal enmity. Go now proclaim
What thou hast heard to the Cadmeians all,
Thy staunch confederates--this the heritage
that Oedipus divideth to his sons.

CHORUS
Thy errand, Polyneices, liked me not
From the beginning; now go back with speed.

POLYNEICES
Woe worth my journey and my baffled hopes!
Woe worth my comrades! What a desperate end
To that glad march from Argos! Woe is me!
I dare not whisper it to my allies
Or turn them back, but mute must meet my doom.
My sisters, ye his daughters, ye have heard
The prayers of our stern father, if his curse
Should come to pass and ye some day return
To Thebes, O then disown me not, I pray,
But grant me burial and due funeral rites.
So shall the praise your filial care now wins
Be doubled for the service wrought for me.

ANTIGONE
One boon, O Polyneices, let me crave.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.       Page 140 / 176
POLYNEICES
What would'st thou, sweet Antigone? Say on.
Be doubled for the service wrought for me.

ANTIGONE
One boon, O Polyneices, let me crave.

POLYNEICES
What would'st thou, sweet Antigone? Say on.

ANTIGONE
Turn back thy host to Argos with all speed,
And ruin not thyself and Thebes as well.

POLYNEICES
That cannot be. How could I lead again
An army that had seen their leader quail?

ANTIGONE
But, brother, why shouldst thou be wroth again?
What profit from thy country's ruin comes?

POLYNEICES
'Tis shame to live in exile, and shall I
The elder bear a younger brother's flouts?

ANTIGONE
Wilt thou then bring to pass his prophecies
Who threatens mutual slaughter to you both?

POLYNEICES
Aye, so he wishes:--but I must not yield.

ANTIGONE
O woe is me! but say, will any dare,
Hearing his prophecy, to follow thee?

POLYNEICES
I shall not tell it; a good general
Reports successes and conceals mishaps.

ANTIGONE
Misguided youth, thy purpose then stands fast!

POLYNEICES
'Tis so, and stay me not. The road I choose,
Dogged by my sire and his avenging spirit,
Leads me to ruin; but for you may Zeus
Make your path bright if ye fulfill my hest
When dead; in life ye cannot serve me more.
Now let me go, farewell, a long farewell!
Ye ne'er shall see my living face again.

ANTIGONE
Ah me!

POLYNEICES
Bewail me not.

ANTIGONE
Who would not mourn
Thee, brother, hurrying to an open pit!

POLYNEICES
If I must die, I must.

ANTIGONE
Nay, hear me plead.

POLYNEICES
It may not be; forbear.

ANTIGONE
Then woe is me,
If I must lose thee.

POLYNEICES
Nay, that rests with fate,
Whether I live or die; but for you both
ICopyright
 pray to heaven  ye may escape
            (c) 2005-2009,       all ill; Media Corp.
                             Infobase                   Page 141 / 176
For ye are blameless in the eyes of all.
[Exit POLYNEICES]
POLYNEICES
Nay, that rests with fate,
Whether I live or die; but for you both
I pray to heaven ye may escape all ill;
For ye are blameless in the eyes of all.
[Exit POLYNEICES]

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Ills on ills! no pause or rest!
Come they from our sightless guest?
Or haply now we see fulfilled
What fate long time hath willed?
For ne'er have I proved vain
Aught that the heavenly powers ordain.
Time with never sleeping eye
Watches what is writ on high,
Overthrowing now the great,
Raising now from low estate.
Hark! How the thunder rumbles! Zeus defend us!

OEDIPUS
Children, my children! will no messenger
Go summon hither Theseus my best friend?

ANTIGONE
And wherefore, father, dost thou summon him?

OEDIPUS
This winged thunder of the god must bear me
Anon to Hades. Send and tarry not.

CHORUS
(Ant. 1)
Hark! with louder, nearer roar
The bolt of Zeus descends once more.
My spirit quails and cowers: my hair
Bristles for fear. Again that flare!
What doth the lightning-flash portend?
Ever it points to issues grave.
Dread powers of air! Save, Zeus, O save!

OEDIPUS
Daughters, upon me the predestined end
Has come; no turning from it any more.

ANTIGONE
How knowest thou? What sign convinces thee?

OEDIPUS
I know full well. Let some one with all speed
Go summon hither the Athenian prince.

CHORUS
(Str. 2)
Ha! once more the deafening sound
Peals yet louder all around
If thou darkenest our land,
Lightly, lightly lay thy hand;
Grace, not anger, let me win,
If upon a man of sin
I have looked with pitying eye,
Zeus, our king, to thee I cry!

OEDIPUS
Is the prince coming? Will he when he comes
Find me yet living and my senses clear!

ANTIGONE
What solemn charge would'st thou impress on him?

OEDIPUS
For all his benefits I would perform
The promise made when I received them first.

CHORUS
(Ant. 2) (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.
 Copyright                                         Page 142 / 176
Hither haste, my son, arise,
Altar leave and sacrifice,
If haply to Poseidon now
The promise made when I received them first.

CHORUS
(Ant. 2)
Hither haste, my son, arise,
Altar leave and sacrifice,
If haply to Poseidon now
In the far glade thou pay'st thy vow.
For our guest to thee would bring
And thy folk and offering,
Thy due guerdon. Haste, O King!
[Enter THESEUS]

THESEUS
Wherefore again this general din? at once
My people call me and the stranger calls.
Is it a thunderbolt of Zeus or sleet
Of arrowy hail? a storm so fierce as this
Would warrant all surmises of mischance.

OEDIPUS
Thou com'st much wished for, Prince, and sure some god
Hath bid good luck attend thee on thy way.

THESEUS
What, son of Laius, hath chanced of new?

OEDIPUS
My life hath turned the scale. I would do all
I promised thee and thine before I die.

THESEUS
What sign assures thee that thine end is near?

OEDIPUS
The gods themselves are heralds of my fate;
Of their appointed warnings nothing fails.

THESEUS
How sayest thou they signify their will?

OEDIPUS
This thunder, peal on peal, this lightning hurled
Flash upon flash, from the unconquered hand.

THESEUS
I must believe thee, having found thee oft
A prophet true; then speak what must be done.

OEDIPUS
O son of Aegeus, for this state will I
Unfold a treasure age cannot corrupt.
Myself anon without a guiding hand
Will take thee to the spot where I must end.
This secret ne'er reveal to mortal man,
Neither the spot nor whereabouts it lies,
So shall it ever serve thee for defense
Better than native shields and near allies.
But those dread mysteries speech may not profane
Thyself shalt gather coming there alone;
Since not to any of thy subjects, nor
To my own children, though I love them dearly,
Can I reveal what thou must guard alone,
And whisper to thy chosen heir alone,
So to be handed down from heir to heir.
Thus shalt thou hold this land inviolate
From the dread Dragon's brood. [4] The justest State
By countless wanton neighbors may be wronged,
For the gods, though they tarry, mark for doom
The godless sinner in his mad career.
Far from thee, son of Aegeus, be such fate!
But to the spot--the god within me goads--
Let us set forth no longer hesitate.
Follow me, daughters, this way. Strange that I
Whom you have led so long should lead you now.
Oh, touch me not, but let me all alone
Find out the sepulcher that destiny
 Copyright
Appoints   me(c)in2005-2009,    Infobase
                  this land. Hither,       Media Corp.
                                     this way,           Page 143 / 176
For this way Hermes leads, the spirit guide,
And Persephassa, empress of the dead.
Follow me, daughters, this way. Strange that I
Whom you have led so long should lead you now.
Oh, touch me not, but let me all alone
Find out the sepulcher that destiny
Appoints me in this land. Hither, this way,
For this way Hermes leads, the spirit guide,
And Persephassa, empress of the dead.
O light, no light to me, but mine erewhile,
Now the last time I feel thee palpable,
For I am drawing near the final gloom
Of Hades. Blessing on thee, dearest friend,
On thee and on thy land and followers!
Live prosperous and in your happy state
Still for your welfare think on me, the dead.
[Exit THESEUS followed by ANTIGONE and ISMENE]

CHORUS
(Str.)
If mortal prayers are heard in hell,
Hear, Goddess dread, invisible!
Monarch of the regions drear,
Aidoneus, hear, O hear!
By a gentle, tearless doom
Speed this stranger to the gloom,
Let him enter without pain
The all-shrouding Stygian plain.
Wrongfully in life oppressed,
Be he now by Justice blessed.

(Ant.)
Queen infernal, and thou fell
Watch-dog of the gates of hell,
Who, as legends tell, dost glare,
Gnarling in thy cavernous lair
At all comers, let him go
Scathless to the fields below.
For thy master orders thus,
The son of earth and Tartarus;
In his den the monster keep,
Giver of eternal sleep.
[Enter MESSENGER]

MESSENGER
Friends, countrymen, my tidings are in sum
That Oedipus is gone, but the event
Was not so brief, nor can the tale be brief.

CHORUS
What, has he gone, the unhappy man?

MESSENGER
Know well
That he has passed away from life to death.

CHORUS
How? By a god-sent, painless doom, poor soul?

MESSENGER
Thy question hits the marvel of the tale.
How he moved hence, you saw him and must know;
Without a friend to lead the way, himself
Guiding us all. So having reached the abrupt
Earth-rooted Threshold with its brazen stairs,
He paused at one of the converging paths,
Hard by the rocky basin which records
The pact of Theseus and Peirithous.
Betwixt that rift and the Thorician rock,
The hollow pear-tree and the marble tomb,
Midway he sat and loosed his beggar's weeds;
Then calling to his daughters bade them fetch
Of running water, both to wash withal
And make libation; so they clomb the steep;
And in brief space brought what their father bade,
Then laved and dressed him with observance due.
But when he had his will in everything,
And no desire was left unsatisfied,
It thundered from the netherworld; the maids
Shivered,
 Copyrightand
            (c)crouching
                2005-2009, at their father's
                               Infobase      kneesCorp.
                                          Media           Page 144 / 176
Wept, beat their breast and uttered a long wail.
He, as he heard their sudden bitter cry,
Folded his arms about them both and said,
Then laved and dressed him with observance due.
But when he had his will in everything,
And no desire was left unsatisfied,
It thundered from the netherworld; the maids
Shivered, and crouching at their father's knees
Wept, beat their breast and uttered a long wail.
He, as he heard their sudden bitter cry,
Folded his arms about them both and said,
"My children, ye will lose your sire today,
For all of me has perished, and no more
Have ye to bear your long, long ministry;
A heavy load, I know, and yet one word
Wipes out all score of tribulations--_love_.
And love from me ye had--from no man more;
But now must live without me all your days."
So clinging to each other sobbed and wept
Father and daughters both, but when at last
Their mourning had an end and no wail rose,
A moment there was silence; suddenly
A voice that summoned him; with sudden dread
The hair of all stood up and all were 'mazed;
For the call came, now loud, now low, and oft.
"Oedipus, Oedipus, why tarry we?
Too long, too long thy passing is delayed."
But when he heard the summons of the god,
He prayed that Theseus might be brought, and when
The Prince came nearer: "O my friend," he cried,
"Pledge ye my daughters, giving thy right hand--
And, daughters, give him yours--and promise me
Thou never wilt forsake them, but do all
That time and friendship prompt in their behoof."
And he of his nobility repressed
His tears and swore to be their constant friend.
This promise given, Oedipus put forth
Blind hands and laid them on his children, saying,
"O children, prove your true nobility
And hence depart nor seek to witness sights
Unlawful or to hear unlawful words.
Nay, go with speed; let none but Theseus stay,
Our ruler, to behold what next shall hap."
So we all heard him speak, and weeping sore
We companied the maidens on their way.
After brief space we looked again, and lo
The man was gone, evanished from our eyes;
Only the king we saw with upraised hand
Shading his eyes as from some awful sight,
That no man might endure to look upon.
A moment later, and we saw him bend
In prayer to Earth and prayer to Heaven at once.
But by what doom the stranger met his end
No man save Theseus knoweth. For there fell
No fiery bold that reft him in that hour,
Nor whirlwind from the sea, but he was taken.
It was a messenger from heaven, or else
Some gentle, painless cleaving of earth's base;
For without wailing or disease or pain
He passed away--and end most marvelous.
And if to some my tale seems foolishness
I am content that such could count me fool.

CHORUS
Where are the maids and their attendant friends?

MESSENGER
They cannot be far off; the approaching sound
Of lamentation tells they come this way.
[Enter ANTIGONE and ISMENE]

ANTIGONE
(Str. 1)
Woe, woe! on this sad day
We sisters of one blasted stock
must bow beneath the shock,
Must weep and weep the curse that lay
On him our sire, for whom
In life, a life-long world of care
'Twas ours to bear,
In death must
 Copyright     (c)face the gloomInfobase Media Corp.
                   2005-2009,                          Page 145 / 176
That wraps his tomb.
What tongue can tell
That sight ineffable?
Must weep and weep the curse that lay
On him our sire, for whom
In life, a life-long world of care
'Twas ours to bear,
In death must face the gloom
That wraps his tomb.
What tongue can tell
That sight ineffable?

CHORUS
What mean ye, maidens?

ANTIGONE
All is but surmise.

CHORUS
Is he then gone?

ANTIGONE
Gone as ye most might wish.
Not in battle or sea storm,
But reft from sight,
By hands invisible borne
To viewless fields of night.
Ah me! on us too night has come,
The night of mourning. Wither roam
O'er land or sea in our distress
Eating the bread of bitterness?

ISMENE
I know not. O that Death
Might nip my breath,
And let me share my aged father's fate.
I cannot live a life thus desolate.

CHORUS
Best of daughters, worthy pair,
What heaven brings ye needs must bear,
Fret no more 'gainst Heaven's will;
Fate hath dealt with you not ill.

ANTIGONE
(Ant. 1)
Love can turn past pain to bliss,
What seemed bitter now is sweet.
Ah me! that happy toil is sweet.
The guidance of those dear blind feet.
Dear father, wrapt for aye in nether gloom,
E'en in the tomb
Never shalt thou lack of love repine,
Her love and mine.

CHORUS
His fate--

ANTIGONE
Is even as he planned.

CHORUS
How so?

ANTIGONE
He died, so willed he, in a foreign land.
Lapped in kind earth he sleeps his long last sleep,
And o'er his grave friends weep.
How great our lost these streaming eyes can tell,
This sorrow naught can quell.
Thou hadst thy wish 'mid strangers thus to die,
But I, ah me, not by.

ISMENE
Alas, my sister, what new fate
******
******
Befalls us orphans desolate?

CHORUS
His end was(c)
Copyright   blessed; therefore,
               2005-2009,       children,
                            Infobase      stay Corp.
                                      Media            Page 146 / 176
Your sorrow. Man is born to fate a prey.

ANTIGONE
Befalls us orphans desolate?

CHORUS
His end was blessed; therefore, children, stay
Your sorrow. Man is born to fate a prey.

ANTIGONE
(Str. 2)
Sister, let us back again.

ISMENE
Why return?

ANTIGONE
My soul is fain--
ISMENE
Is fain?

ANTIGONE
To see the earthy bed.

ISMENE
Sayest thou?

ANTIGONE
Where our sire is laid.

ISMENE
Nay, thou can'st not, dost not see--

ANTIGONE
Sister, wherefore wroth with me?

ISMENE
Know'st not--beside--

ANTIGONE
More must I hear?

ISMENE
Tombless he died, none near.

ANTIGONE
Lead me thither; slay me there.

ISMENE
How shall I unhappy fare,
Friendless, helpless, how drag on
A life of misery alone?

CHORUS
(Ant. 2)
Fear not, maids--

ANTIGONE
Ah, whither flee?

CHORUS
Refuge hath been found.

ANTIGONE
For me?

CHORUS
Where thou shalt be safe from harm.

ANTIGONE
I know it.

CHORUS
Why then this alarm?

ANTIGONE
How again to get us home
I know not.

CHORUS
Copyright
Why        (c)roam?
    then this  2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.   Page 147 / 176

ANTIGONE
I know not.

CHORUS
Why then this roam?

ANTIGONE
Troubles whelm us--

CHORUS
As of yore.

ANTIGONE
Worse than what was worse before.

CHORUS
Sure ye are driven on the breakers' surge.

ANTIGONE
Alas! we are.

CHORUS
Alas! 'tis so.

ANTIGONE
Ah whither turn, O Zeus? No ray
Of hope to cheer the way
Whereon the fates our desperate voyage urge.
[Enter THESEUS]

THESEUS
Dry your tears; when grace is shed
On the quick and on the dead
By dark Powers beneficent,
Over-grief they would resent.

ANTIGONE
Aegeus' child, to thee we pray.

THESEUS
What the boon, my children, say.

ANTIGONE
With our own eyes we fain would see
Our father's tomb.

THESEUS
That may not be.

ANTIGONE
What say'st thou, King?

THESEUS
My children, he
Charged me straitly that no moral
Should approach the sacred portal,
Or greet with funeral litanies
The hidden tomb wherein he lies;
Saying, "If thou keep'st my hest
Thou shalt hold thy realm at rest."
The God of Oaths this promise heard,
And to Zeus I pledged my word.

ANTIGONE
Well, if he would have it so,
We must yield. Then let us go
Back to Thebes, if yet we may
Heal this mortal feud and stay
The self-wrought doom
That drives our brothers to their tomb.

THESEUS
Go in peace; nor will I spare
Ought of toil and zealous care,
But on all your needs attend,
Gladdening in his grave my friend.

CHORUS
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.   Page 148 / 176
Wail no more, let sorrow rest,
All is ordered for the best.
Ought of toil and zealous care,
But on all your needs attend,
Gladdening in his grave my friend.

CHORUS
Wail no more, let sorrow rest,
All is ordered for the best.


FOOTNOTES
---------

1. The Greek text for the passages marked here and later in the text
have been lost.

2. To avoid the blessing, still a secret, he resorts to a
commonplace; literally, "For what generous man is not (in befriending
others) a friend to himself?"

3. Creon desires to bury Oedipus on the confines of Thebes so as to
avoid the pollution and yet offer due rites at his tomb. Ismene tells
him of the latest oracle and interprets to him its purport, that some
day the Theban invaders of Athens will be routed in a battle near the
grave of Oedipus.

4. The Thebans sprung from the Dragon's teeth sown by Cadmus.

SOPHOCLES

ANTIGONE

Translation by F. Storr, BA
Formerly Scholar of Trinity College, Cambridge
From the Loeb Library Edition
Originally published by
Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA
and
William Heinemann Ltd, London

First published in 1912

----------------------------------------------------------------------

ARGUMENT

Antigone, daughter of Oedipus, the late king of Thebes, in defiance of
Creon who rules in his stead, resolves to bury her brother Polyneices,
slain in his attack on Thebes. She is caught in the act by Creon's
watchmen and brought before the king. She justifies her action,
asserting that she was bound to obey the eternal laws of right and
wrong in spite of any human ordinance. Creon, unrelenting, condemns
her to be immured in a rock-hewn chamber. His son Haemon, to whom
Antigone is betrothed, pleads in vain for her life and threatens to die
with her. Warned by the seer Teiresias Creon repents him and hurries
to release Antigone from her rocky prison. But he is too late: he
finds lying side by side Antigone who had hanged herself and Haemon who
also has perished by his own hand. Returning to the palace he sees
within the dead body of his queen who on learning of her son's death
has stabbed herself to the heart.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ANTIGONE and ISMENE - daughters of Oedipus and sisters of Polyneices
and Eteocles.

CREON, King of Thebes.

HAEMON, Son of Creon, betrothed to Antigone.

EURYDICE, wife of Creon.

TEIRESIAS, the prophet.

CHORUS, of Theban elders.

ACopyright
  WATCHMAN (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                            Page 149 / 176
A MESSENGER
TEIRESIAS, the prophet.

CHORUS, of Theban elders.

A WATCHMAN

A MESSENGER

A SECOND MESSENGER

----------------------------------------------------------------------

ANTIGONE


ANTIGONE and ISMENE before the Palace gates.

ANTIGONE
Ismene, sister of my blood and heart,
See'st thou how Zeus would in our lives fulfill
The weird of Oedipus, a world of woes!
For what of pain, affliction, outrage, shame,
Is lacking in our fortunes, thine and mine?
And now this proclamation of today
Made by our Captain-General to the State,
What can its purport be? Didst hear and heed,
Or art thou deaf when friends are banned as foes?

ISMENE
To me, Antigone, no word of friends
Has come, or glad or grievous, since we twain
Were reft of our two brethren in one day
By double fratricide; and since i' the night
Our Argive leaguers fled, no later news
Has reached me, to inspirit or deject.

ANTIGONE
I know 'twas so, and therefore summoned thee
Beyond the gates to breathe it in thine ear.

ISMENE
What is it? Some dark secret stirs thy breast.

ANTIGONE
What but the thought of our two brothers dead,
The one by Creon graced with funeral rites,
The other disappointed? Eteocles
He hath consigned to earth (as fame reports)
With obsequies that use and wont ordain,
So gracing him among the dead below.
But Polyneices, a dishonored corse,
(So by report the royal edict runs)
No man may bury him or make lament--
Must leave him tombless and unwept, a feast
For kites to scent afar and swoop upon.
Such is the edict (if report speak true)
Of Creon, our most noble Creon, aimed
At thee and me, aye me too; and anon
He will be here to promulgate, for such
As have not heard, his mandate; 'tis in sooth
No passing humor, for the edict says
Whoe'er transgresses shall be stoned to death.
So stands it with us; now 'tis thine to show
If thou art worthy of thy blood or base.

ISMENE
But how, my rash, fond sister, in such case
Can I do anything to make or mar?

ANTIGONE
Say, wilt thou aid me and abet? Decide.

ISMENE
In what bold venture? What is in thy thought?

ANTIGONE
Lend me a hand to bear the corpse away.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                            Page 150 / 176
ISMENE
What, bury him despite the interdict?
In what bold venture? What is in thy thought?

ANTIGONE
Lend me a hand to bear the corpse away.

ISMENE
What, bury him despite the interdict?

ANTIGONE
My brother, and, though thou deny him, thine
No man shall say that _I_ betrayed a brother.

ISMENE
Wilt thou persist, though Creon has forbid?

ANTIGONE
What right has he to keep me from my own?

ISMENE
Bethink thee, sister, of our father's fate,
Abhorred, dishonored, self-convinced of sin,
Blinded, himself his executioner.
Think of his mother-wife (ill sorted names)
Done by a noose herself had twined to death
And last, our hapless brethren in one day,
Both in a mutual destiny involved,
Self-slaughtered, both the slayer and the slain.
Bethink thee, sister, we are left alone;
Shall we not perish wretchedest of all,
If in defiance of the law we cross
A monarch's will?--weak women, think of that,
Not framed by nature to contend with men.
Remember this too that the stronger rules;
We must obey his orders, these or worse.
Therefore I plead compulsion and entreat
The dead to pardon. I perforce obey
The powers that be. 'Tis foolishness, I ween,
To overstep in aught the golden mean.

ANTIGONE
I urge no more; nay, wert thou willing still,
I would not welcome such a fellowship.
Go thine own way; myself will bury him.
How sweet to die in such employ, to rest,--
Sister and brother linked in love's embrace--
A sinless sinner, banned awhile on earth,
But by the dead commended; and with them
I shall abide for ever. As for thee,
Scorn, if thou wilt, the eternal laws of Heaven.

ISMENE
I scorn them not, but to defy the State
Or break her ordinance I have no skill.

ANTIGONE
A specious pretext. I will go alone
To lap my dearest brother in the grave.

ISMENE
My poor, fond sister, how I fear for thee!

ANTIGONE
O waste no fears on me; look to thyself.

ISMENE
At least let no man know of thine intent,
But keep it close and secret, as will I.

ANTIGONE
O tell it, sister; I shall hate thee more
If thou proclaim it not to all the town.

ISMENE
Thou hast a fiery soul for numbing work.

ANTIGONE
I pleasure those whom I would liefest please.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.      Page 151 / 176
ISMENE
If thou succeed; but thou art doomed to fail.
Thou hast a fiery soul for numbing work.

ANTIGONE
I pleasure those whom I would liefest please.

ISMENE
If thou succeed; but thou art doomed to fail.

ANTIGONE
When strength shall fail me, yes, but not before.

ISMENE
But, if the venture's hopeless, why essay?

ANTIGONE
Sister, forbear, or I shall hate thee soon,
And the dead man will hate thee too, with cause.
Say I am mad and give my madness rein
To wreck itself; the worst that can befall
Is but to die an honorable death.

ISMENE
Have thine own way then; 'tis a mad endeavor,
Yet to thy lovers thou art dear as ever.
[Exeunt]

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Sunbeam, of all that ever dawn upon
Our seven-gated Thebes the brightest ray,
O eye of golden day,
How fair thy light o'er Dirce's fountain shone,
Speeding upon their headlong homeward course,
Far quicker than they came, the Argive force;
Putting to flight
The argent shields, the host with scutcheons white.
Against our land the proud invader came
To vindicate fell Polyneices' claim.
Like to an eagle swooping low,
On pinions white as new fall'n snow.
With clanging scream, a horsetail plume his crest,
The aspiring lord of Argos onward pressed.

(Ant. 1)
Hovering around our city walls he waits,
His spearmen raven at our seven gates.
But ere a torch our crown of towers could burn,
Ere they had tasted of our blood, they turn
Forced by the Dragon; in their rear
The din of Ares panic-struck they hear.
For Zeus who hates the braggart's boast
Beheld that gold-bespangled host;
As at the goal the paean they upraise,
He struck them with his forked lightning blaze.

(Str. 2)
To earthy from earth rebounding, down he crashed;
The fire-brand from his impious hand was dashed,
As like a Bacchic reveler on he came,
Outbreathing hate and flame,
And tottered. Elsewhere in the field,
Here, there, great Area like a war-horse wheeled;
Beneath his car down thrust
Our foemen bit the dust.

Seven captains at our seven gates
Thundered; for each a champion waits,
Each left behind his armor bright,
Trophy for Zeus who turns the fight;
Save two alone, that ill-starred pair
One mother to one father bare,
Who lance in rest, one 'gainst the other
Drave, and both perished, brother slain by brother.

(Ant. 2)
Now Victory to Thebes returns again
And smiles upon her chariot-circled plain.
Now   let feast
 Copyright   (c)and festal should
                 2005-2009,    Infobase Media Corp.   Page 152 / 176
Memories of war blot out.
Let us to the temples throng,
Dance and sing the live night long.
(Ant. 2)
Now Victory to Thebes returns again
And smiles upon her chariot-circled plain.
Now let feast and festal should
Memories of war blot out.
Let us to the temples throng,
Dance and sing the live night long.
God of Thebes, lead thou the round.
Bacchus, shaker of the ground!
Let us end our revels here;
Lo! Creon our new lord draws near,
Crowned by this strange chance, our king.
What, I marvel, pondering?
Why this summons? Wherefore call
Us, his elders, one and all,
Bidding us with him debate,
On some grave concern of State?
[Enter CREON]

CREON
Elders, the gods have righted one again
Our storm-tossed ship of state, now safe in port.
But you by special summons I convened
As my most trusted councilors; first, because
I knew you loyal to Laius of old;
Again, when Oedipus restored our State,
Both while he ruled and when his rule was o'er,
Ye still were constant to the royal line.
Now that his two sons perished in one day,
Brother by brother murderously slain,
By right of kinship to the Princes dead,
I claim and hold the throne and sovereignty.
Yet 'tis no easy matter to discern
The temper of a man, his mind and will,
Till he be proved by exercise of power;
And in my case, if one who reigns supreme
Swerve from the highest policy, tongue-tied
By fear of consequence, that man I hold,
And ever held, the basest of the base.
And I contemn the man who sets his friend
Before his country. For myself, I call
To witness Zeus, whose eyes are everywhere,
If I perceive some mischievous design
To sap the State, I will not hold my tongue;
Nor would I reckon as my private friend
A public foe, well knowing that the State
Is the good ship that holds our fortunes all:
Farewell to friendship, if she suffers wreck.
Such is the policy by which I seek
To serve the Commons and conformably
I have proclaimed an edict as concerns
The sons of Oedipus; Eteocles
Who in his country's battle fought and fell,
The foremost champion--duly bury him
With all observances and ceremonies
That are the guerdon of the heroic dead.
But for the miscreant exile who returned
Minded in flames and ashes to blot out
His father's city and his father's gods,
And glut his vengeance with his kinsmen's blood,
Or drag them captive at his chariot wheels--
For Polyneices 'tis ordained that none
Shall give him burial or make mourn for him,
But leave his corpse unburied, to be meat
For dogs and carrion crows, a ghastly sight.
So am I purposed; never by my will
Shall miscreants take precedence of true men,
But all good patriots, alive or dead,
Shall be by me preferred and honored.

CHORUS
Son of Menoeceus, thus thou will'st to deal
With him who loathed and him who loved our State.
Thy word is law; thou canst dispose of us
The living, as thou will'st, as of the dead.

CREON
 Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.      Page 153 / 176
See then ye execute what I ordain.

CHORUS
With him who loathed and him who loved our State.
Thy word is law; thou canst dispose of us
The living, as thou will'st, as of the dead.

CREON
See then ye execute what I ordain.

CHORUS
On younger shoulders lay this grievous charge.

CREON
Fear not, I've posted guards to watch the corpse.

CHORUS
What further duty would'st thou lay on us?

CREON
Not to connive at disobedience.

CHORUS
No man is mad enough to court his death.

CREON
The penalty _is_ death: yet hope of gain
Hath lured men to their ruin oftentimes.
[Enter GUARD]

GUARD
My lord, I will not make pretense to pant
And puff as some light-footed messenger.
In sooth my soul beneath its pack of thought
Made many a halt and turned and turned again;
For conscience plied her spur and curb by turns.
"Why hurry headlong to thy fate, poor fool?"
She whispered. Then again, "If Creon learn
This from another, thou wilt rue it worse."
Thus leisurely I hastened on my road;
Much thought extends a furlong to a league.
But in the end the forward voice prevailed,
To face thee. I will speak though I say nothing.
For plucking courage from despair methought,
'Let the worst hap, thou canst but meet thy fate.'

CREON
What is thy news? Why this despondency?

GUARD
Let me premise a word about myself?
I neither did the deed nor saw it done,
Nor were it just that I should come to harm.

CREON
Thou art good at parry, and canst fence about
Some matter of grave import, as is plain.

GUARD
The bearer of dread tidings needs must quake.

CREON
Then, sirrah, shoot thy bolt and get thee gone.

GUARD
Well, it must out; the corpse is buried; someone
E'en now besprinkled it with thirsty dust,
Performed the proper ritual--and was gone.

CREON
What say'st thou? Who hath dared to do this thing?

GUARD
I cannot tell, for there was ne'er a trace
Of pick or mattock--hard unbroken ground,
Without a scratch or rut of chariot wheels,
No sign that human hands had been at work.
When the first sentry of the morning watch
Gave the alarm, we all were terror-stricken.
The corpse had vanished, not interred in earth,
But strewn with
 Copyright        dust, as if byInfobase
             (c) 2005-2009,       one whoMedia
                                          soughtCorp.   Page 154 / 176
To avert the curse that haunts the unburied dead:
Of hound or ravening jackal, not a sign.
Thereat arose an angry war of words;
No sign that human hands had been at work.
When the first sentry of the morning watch
Gave the alarm, we all were terror-stricken.
The corpse had vanished, not interred in earth,
But strewn with dust, as if by one who sought
To avert the curse that haunts the unburied dead:
Of hound or ravening jackal, not a sign.
Thereat arose an angry war of words;
Guard railed at guard and blows were like to end it,
For none was there to part us, each in turn
Suspected, but the guilt brought home to none,
From lack of evidence. We challenged each
The ordeal, or to handle red-hot iron,
Or pass through fire, affirming on our oath
Our innocence--we neither did the deed
Ourselves, nor know who did or compassed it.
Our quest was at a standstill, when one spake
And bowed us all to earth like quivering reeds,
For there was no gainsaying him nor way
To escape perdition: _Ye_are_bound_to_tell_
_The_King,_ye_cannot_hide_it_; so he spake.
And he convinced us all; so lots were cast,
And I, unlucky scapegoat, drew the prize.
So here I am unwilling and withal
Unwelcome; no man cares to hear ill news.

CHORUS
I had misgivings from the first, my liege,
Of something more than natural at work.

CREON
O cease, you vex me with your babblement;
I am like to think you dote in your old age.
Is it not arrant folly to pretend
That gods would have a thought for this dead man?
Did they forsooth award him special grace,
And as some benefactor bury him,
Who came to fire their hallowed sanctuaries,
To sack their shrines, to desolate their land,
And scout their ordinances? Or perchance
The gods bestow their favors on the bad.
No! no! I have long noted malcontents
Who wagged their heads, and kicked against the yoke,
Misliking these my orders, and my rule.
'Tis they, I warrant, who suborned my guards
By bribes. Of evils current upon earth
The worst is money. Money 'tis that sacks
Cities, and drives men forth from hearth and home;
Warps and seduces native innocence,
And breeds a habit of dishonesty.
But they who sold themselves shall find their greed
Out-shot the mark, and rue it soon or late.
Yea, as I still revere the dread of Zeus,
By Zeus I swear, except ye find and bring
Before my presence here the very man
Who carried out this lawless burial,
Death for your punishment shall not suffice.
Hanged on a cross, alive ye first shall make
Confession of this outrage. This will teach you
What practices are like to serve your turn.
There are some villainies that bring no gain.
For by dishonesty the few may thrive,
The many come to ruin and disgrace.

GUARD
May I not speak, or must I turn and go
Without a word?--

CREON
Begone! canst thou not see
That e'en this question irks me?

GUARD
Where, my lord?
Is it thy ears that suffer, or thy heart?

CREON
Why seek to(c)probe
Copyright           and find Infobase
                2005-2009,    the seat ofMedia
                                          pain? Corp.   Page 155 / 176
GUARD
I gall thine ears--this miscreant thy mind.
Is it thy ears that suffer, or thy heart?

CREON
Why seek to probe and find the seat of pain?

GUARD
I gall thine ears--this miscreant thy mind.

CREON
What an inveterate babbler! get thee gone!

GUARD
Babbler perchance, but innocent of the crime.

CREON
Twice guilty, having sold thy soul for gain.

GUARD
Alas! how sad when reasoners reason wrong.

CREON
Go, quibble with thy reason. If thou fail'st
To find these malefactors, thou shalt own
The wages of ill-gotten gains is death.
[Exit CREON]

GUARD
I pray he may be found. But caught or not
(And fortune must determine that) thou never
Shalt see me here returning; that is sure.
For past all hope or thought I have escaped,
And for my safety owe the gods much thanks.

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Many wonders there be, but naught more wondrous than man;
Over the surging sea, with a whitening south wind wan,
Through the foam of the firth, man makes his perilous way;
And the eldest of deities Earth that knows not toil nor decay
Ever he furrows and scores, as his team, year in year out,
With breed of the yoked horse, the ploughshare turneth about.

(Ant. 1)
The light-witted birds of the air, the beasts of the weald and the wood
He traps with his woven snare, and the brood of the briny flood.
Master of cunning he: the savage bull, and the hart
Who roams the mountain free, are tamed by his infinite art;
And the shaggy rough-maned steed is broken to bear the bit.

(Str. 2)
Speech and the wind-swift speed of counsel and civic wit,
He hath learnt for himself all these; and the arrowy rain to fly
And the nipping airs that freeze, 'neath the open winter sky.
He hath provision for all: fell plague he hath learnt to endure;
Safe whate'er may befall: yet for death he hath found no cure.

(Ant. 2)
Passing the wildest flight thought are the cunning and skill,
That guide man now to the light, but now to counsels of ill.
If he honors the laws of the land, and reveres the Gods of the State
Proudly his city shall stand; but a cityless outcast I rate
Whoso bold in his pride from the path of right doth depart;
Ne'er may I sit by his side, or share the thoughts of his heart.

What strange vision meets my eyes,
Fills me with a wild surprise?
Sure I know her, sure 'tis she,
The maid Antigone.
Hapless child of hapless sire,
Didst thou recklessly conspire,
Madly brave the King's decree?
Therefore are they haling thee?
[Enter GUARD bringing ANTIGONE]

GUARD
Here is the culprit taken in the act
Of giving burial. But where's the King?
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                             Page 156 / 176
CHORUS
There from the palace he returns in time.
GUARD
Here is the culprit taken in the act
Of giving burial. But where's the King?

CHORUS
There from the palace he returns in time.
[Enter CREON]

CREON
Why is my presence timely? What has chanced?

GUARD
No man, my lord, should make a vow, for if
He ever swears he will not do a thing,
His afterthoughts belie his first resolve.
When from the hail-storm of thy threats I fled
I sware thou wouldst not see me here again;
But the wild rapture of a glad surprise
Intoxicates, and so I'm here forsworn.
And here's my prisoner, caught in the very act,
Decking the grave. No lottery this time;
This prize is mine by right of treasure-trove.
So take her, judge her, rack her, if thou wilt.
She's thine, my liege; but I may rightly claim
Hence to depart well quit of all these ills.

CREON
Say, how didst thou arrest the maid, and where?

GUARD
Burying the man. There's nothing more to tell.

CREON
Hast thou thy wits? Or know'st thou what thou say'st?

GUARD
I saw this woman burying the corpse
Against thy orders. Is that clear and plain?

CREON
But how was she surprised and caught in the act?

GUARD
It happened thus. No sooner had we come,
Driven from thy presence by those awful threats,
Than straight we swept away all trace of dust,
And bared the clammy body. Then we sat
High on the ridge to windward of the stench,
While each man kept he fellow alert and rated
Roundly the sluggard if he chanced to nap.
So all night long we watched, until the sun
Stood high in heaven, and his blazing beams
Smote us. A sudden whirlwind then upraised
A cloud of dust that blotted out the sky,
And swept the plain, and stripped the woodlands bare,
And shook the firmament. We closed our eyes
And waited till the heaven-sent plague should pass.
At last it ceased, and lo! there stood this maid.
A piercing cry she uttered, sad and shrill,
As when the mother bird beholds her nest
Robbed of its nestlings; even so the maid
Wailed as she saw the body stripped and bare,
And cursed the ruffians who had done this deed.
Anon she gathered handfuls of dry dust,
Then, holding high a well-wrought brazen urn,
Thrice on the dead she poured a lustral stream.
We at the sight swooped down on her and seized
Our quarry. Undismayed she stood, and when
We taxed her with the former crime and this,
She disowned nothing. I was glad--and grieved;
For 'tis most sweet to 'scape oneself scot-free,
And yet to bring disaster to a friend
Is grievous. Take it all in all, I deem
A man's first duty is to serve himself.

CREON
Speak, girl, (c)
 Copyright   with head bent low
                 2005-2009,      and downcast
                             Infobase         eyes,
                                      Media Corp.       Page 157 / 176
Does thou plead guilty or deny the deed?

ANTIGONE
A man's first duty is to serve himself.

CREON
Speak, girl, with head bent low and downcast eyes,
Does thou plead guilty or deny the deed?

ANTIGONE
Guilty. I did it, I deny it not.

CREON (to GUARD)
Sirrah, begone whither thou wilt, and thank
Thy luck that thou hast 'scaped a heavy charge.
(To ANTIGONE)
Now answer this plain question, yes or no,
Wast thou acquainted with the interdict?

ANTIGONE
I knew, all knew; how should I fail to know?

CREON
And yet wert bold enough to break the law?

ANTIGONE
Yea, for these laws were not ordained of Zeus,
And she who sits enthroned with gods below,
Justice, enacted not these human laws.
Nor did I deem that thou, a mortal man,
Could'st by a breath annul and override
The immutable unwritten laws of Heaven.
They were not born today nor yesterday;
They die not; and none knoweth whence they sprang.
I was not like, who feared no mortal's frown,
To disobey these laws and so provoke
The wrath of Heaven. I knew that I must die,
E'en hadst thou not proclaimed it; and if death
Is thereby hastened, I shall count it gain.
For death is gain to him whose life, like mine,
Is full of misery. Thus my lot appears
Not sad, but blissful; for had I endured
To leave my mother's son unburied there,
I should have grieved with reason, but not now.
And if in this thou judgest me a fool,
Methinks the judge of folly's not acquit.

CHORUS
A stubborn daughter of a stubborn sire,
This ill-starred maiden kicks against the pricks.

CREON
Well, let her know the stubbornest of wills
Are soonest bended, as the hardest iron,
O'er-heated in the fire to brittleness,
Flies soonest into fragments, shivered through.
A snaffle curbs the fieriest steed, and he
Who in subjection lives must needs be meek.
But this proud girl, in insolence well-schooled,
First overstepped the established law, and then--
A second and worse act of insolence--
She boasts and glories in her wickedness.
Now if she thus can flout authority
Unpunished, I am woman, she the man.
But though she be my sister's child or nearer
Of kin than all who worship at my hearth,
Nor she nor yet her sister shall escape
The utmost penalty, for both I hold,
As arch-conspirators, of equal guilt.
Bring forth the older; even now I saw her
Within the palace, frenzied and distraught.
The workings of the mind discover oft
Dark deeds in darkness schemed, before the act.
More hateful still the miscreant who seeks
When caught, to make a virtue of a crime.

ANTIGONE
Would'st thou do more than slay thy prisoner?

CREON
Copyright
Not          (c)is2005-2009,
    I, thy life                Infobase
                   mine, and that's      Media Corp.
                                    enough.            Page 158 / 176

ANTIGONE
Would'st thou do more than slay thy prisoner?

CREON
Not I, thy life is mine, and that's enough.

ANTIGONE
Why dally then? To me no word of thine
Is pleasant: God forbid it e'er should please;
Nor am I more acceptable to thee.
And yet how otherwise had I achieved
A name so glorious as by burying
A brother? so my townsmen all would say,
Where they not gagged by terror, Manifold
A king's prerogatives, and not the least
That all his acts and all his words are law.

CREON
Of all these Thebans none so deems but thou.

ANTIGONE
These think as I, but bate their breath to thee.

CREON
Hast thou no shame to differ from all these?

ANTIGONE
To reverence kith and kin can bring no shame.

CREON
Was his dead foeman not thy kinsman too?

ANTIGONE
One mother bare them and the self-same sire.

CREON
Why cast a slur on one by honoring one?

ANTIGONE
The dead man will not bear thee out in this.

CREON
Surely, if good and evil fare alive.

ANTIGONE
The slain man was no villain but a brother.

CREON
The patriot perished by the outlaw's brand.

ANTIGONE
Nathless the realms below these rites require.

CREON
Not that the base should fare as do the brave.

ANTIGONE
Who knows if this world's crimes are virtues there?

CREON
Not even death can make a foe a friend.

ANTIGONE
My nature is for mutual love, not hate.

CREON
Die then, and love the dead if thou must;
No woman shall be the master while I live.
[Enter ISMENE]

CHORUS
Lo from out the palace gate,
Weeping o'er her sister's fate,
Comes Ismene; see her brow,
Once serene, beclouded now,
See her beauteous face o'erspread
With a flush of angry red.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.         Page 159 / 176
CREON
Woman, who like a viper unperceived
Didst harbor in my house and drain my blood,
Comes Ismene; see her brow,
Once serene, beclouded now,
See her beauteous face o'erspread
With a flush of angry red.

CREON
Woman, who like a viper unperceived
Didst harbor in my house and drain my blood,
Two plagues I nurtured blindly, so it proved,
To sap my throne. Say, didst thou too abet
This crime, or dost abjure all privity?

ISMENE
I did the deed, if she will have it so,
And with my sister claim to share the guilt.

ANTIGONE
That were unjust. Thou would'st not act with me
At first, and I refused thy partnership.

ISMENE
But now thy bark is stranded, I am bold
To claim my share as partner in the loss.

ANTIGONE
Who did the deed the under-world knows well:
A friend in word is never friend of mine.

ISMENE
O sister, scorn me not, let me but share
Thy work of piety, and with thee die.

ANTIGONE
Claim not a work in which thou hadst no hand;
One death sufficeth. Wherefore should'st thou die?

ISMENE
What would life profit me bereft of thee?

ANTIGONE
Ask Creon, he's thy kinsman and best friend.

ISMENE
Why taunt me? Find'st thou pleasure in these gibes?

ANTIGONE
'Tis a sad mockery, if indeed I mock.

ISMENE
O say if I can help thee even now.

ANTIGONE
No, save thyself; I grudge not thy escape.

ISMENE
Is e'en this boon denied, to share thy lot?

ANTIGONE
Yea, for thou chosed'st life, and I to die.

ISMENE
Thou canst not say that I did not protest.

ANTIGONE
Well, some approved thy wisdom, others mine.

ISMENE
But now we stand convicted, both alike.

ANTIGONE
Fear not; thou livest, I died long ago
Then when I gave my life to save the dead.

CREON
Both maids, methinks, are crazed. One suddenly
Has lost her wits, the other was born mad.

ISMENE
 Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.        Page 160 / 176
Yea, so it falls, sire, when misfortune comes,
The wisest even lose their mother wit.
CREON
Both maids, methinks, are crazed. One suddenly
Has lost her wits, the other was born mad.

ISMENE
Yea, so it falls, sire, when misfortune comes,
The wisest even lose their mother wit.

CREON
I' faith thy wit forsook thee when thou mad'st
Thy choice with evil-doers to do ill.

ISMENE
What life for me without my sister here?

CREON
Say not thy sister _here_: thy sister's dead.

ISMENE
What, wilt thou slay thy own son's plighted bride?

CREON
Aye, let him raise him seed from other fields.

ISMENE
No new espousal can be like the old.

CREON
A plague on trulls who court and woo our sons.

ANTIGONE
O Haemon, how thy sire dishonors thee!

CREON
A plague on thee and thy accursed bride!

CHORUS
What, wilt thou rob thine own son of his bride?

CREON
'Tis death that bars this marriage, not his sire.

CHORUS
So her death-warrant, it would seem, is sealed.

CREON
By you, as first by me; off with them, guards,
And keep them close. Henceforward let them learn
To live as women use, not roam at large.
For e'en the bravest spirits run away
When they perceive death pressing on life's heels.

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Thrice blest are they who never tasted pain!
If once the curse of Heaven attaint a race,
The infection lingers on and speeds apace,
Age after age, and each the cup must drain.

So when Etesian blasts from Thrace downpour
Sweep o'er the blackening main and whirl to land
From Ocean's cavernous depths his ooze and sand,
Billow on billow thunders on the shore.

(Ant. 1)
On the Labdacidae I see descending
Woe upon woe; from days of old some god
Laid on the race a malison, and his rod
Scourges each age with sorrows never ending.

The light that dawned upon its last born son
Is vanished, and the bloody axe of Fate
Has felled the goodly tree that blossomed late.
O Oedipus, by reckless pride undone!

(Str. 2)
Thy might, O Zeus, what mortal power can quell?
Not  sleep that
 Copyright   (c)lays all else beneath
                 2005-2009,           its spell,
                               Infobase   Media Corp.   Page 161 / 176
Nor moons that never tier: untouched by Time,
Throned in the dazzling light
That crowns Olympus' height,
O Oedipus, by reckless pride undone!

(Str. 2)
Thy might, O Zeus, what mortal power can quell?
Not sleep that lays all else beneath its spell,
Nor moons that never tier: untouched by Time,
Throned in the dazzling light
That crowns Olympus' height,
Thou reignest King, omnipotent, sublime.

Past, present, and to be,
All bow to thy decree,
All that exceeds the mean by Fate
Is punished, Love or Hate.

(Ant. 2)
Hope flits about never-wearying wings;
Profit to some, to some light loves she brings,
But no man knoweth how her gifts may turn,
Till 'neath his feet the treacherous ashes burn.
Sure 'twas a sage inspired that spake this word;
_If_evil_good_appear_
_To_any, _Fate_is_near_;
And brief the respite from her flaming sword.

Hither comes in angry mood
Haemon, latest of thy brood;
Is it for his bride he's grieved,
Or her marriage-bed deceived,
Doth he make his mourn for thee,
Maid forlorn, Antigone?
[Enter HAEMON]

CREON
Soon shall we know, better than seer can tell.
Learning may fixed decree anent thy bride,
Thou mean'st not, son, to rave against thy sire?
Know'st not whate'er we do is done in love?

HAEMON
O father, I am thine, and I will take
Thy wisdom as the helm to steer withal.
Therefore no wedlock shall by me be held
More precious than thy loving goverance.

CREON
Well spoken: so right-minded sons should feel,
In all deferring to a father's will.
For 'tis the hope of parents they may rear
A brood of sons submissive, keen to avenge
Their father's wrongs, and count his friends their own.
But who begets unprofitable sons,
He verily breeds trouble for himself,
And for his foes much laughter. Son, be warned
And let no woman fool away thy wits.
Ill fares the husband mated with a shrew,
And her embraces very soon wax cold.
For what can wound so surely to the quick
As a false friend? So spue and cast her off,
Bid her go find a husband with the dead.
For since I caught her openly rebelling,
Of all my subjects the one malcontent,
I will not prove a traitor to the State.
She surely dies. Go, let her, if she will,
Appeal to Zeus the God of Kindred, for
If thus I nurse rebellion in my house,
Shall not I foster mutiny without?
For whoso rules his household worthily,
Will prove in civic matters no less wise.
But he who overbears the laws, or thinks
To overrule his rulers, such as one
I never will allow. Whome'er the State
Appoints must be obeyed in everything,
But small and great, just and unjust alike.
I warrant such a one in either case
Would shine, as King or subject; such a man
Would in the storm of battle stand his ground,
ACopyright
   comrade leal   and true; butInfobase
              (c) 2005-2009,     Anarchy-- Media Corp.    Page 162 / 176
What evils are not wrought by Anarchy!
She ruins States, and overthrows the home,
She dissipates and routs the embattled host;
But small and great, just and unjust alike.
I warrant such a one in either case
Would shine, as King or subject; such a man
Would in the storm of battle stand his ground,
A comrade leal and true; but Anarchy--
What evils are not wrought by Anarchy!
She ruins States, and overthrows the home,
She dissipates and routs the embattled host;
While discipline preserves the ordered ranks.
Therefore we must maintain authority
And yield to title to a woman's will.
Better, if needs be, men should cast us out
Than hear it said, a woman proved his match.

CHORUS
To me, unless old age have dulled wits,
Thy words appear both reasonable and wise.

HAEMON
Father, the gods implant in mortal men
Reason, the choicest gift bestowed by heaven.
'Tis not for me to say thou errest, nor
Would I arraign thy wisdom, if I could;
And yet wise thoughts may come to other men
And, as thy son, it falls to me to mark
The acts, the words, the comments of the crowd.
The commons stand in terror of thy frown,
And dare not utter aught that might offend,
But I can overhear their muttered plaints,
Know how the people mourn this maiden doomed
For noblest deeds to die the worst of deaths.
When her own brother slain in battle lay
Unsepulchered, she suffered not his corse
To lie for carrion birds and dogs to maul:
Should not her name (they cry) be writ in gold?
Such the low murmurings that reach my ear.
O father, nothing is by me more prized
Than thy well-being, for what higher good
Can children covet than their sire's fair fame,
As fathers too take pride in glorious sons?
Therefore, my father, cling not to one mood,
And deemed not thou art right, all others wrong.
For whoso thinks that wisdom dwells with him,
That he alone can speak or think aright,
Such oracles are empty breath when tried.
The wisest man will let himself be swayed
By others' wisdom and relax in time.
See how the trees beside a stream in flood
Save, if they yield to force, each spray unharmed,
But by resisting perish root and branch.
The mariner who keeps his mainsheet taut,
And will not slacken in the gale, is like
To sail with thwarts reversed, keel uppermost.
Relent then and repent thee of thy wrath;
For, if one young in years may claim some sense,
I'll say 'tis best of all to be endowed
With absolute wisdom; but, if that's denied,
(And nature takes not readily that ply)
Next wise is he who lists to sage advice.

CHORUS
If he says aught in season, heed him, King.
(To HAEMON)
Heed thou thy sire too; both have spoken well.

CREON
What, would you have us at our age be schooled,
Lessoned in prudence by a beardless boy?

HAEMON
I plead for justice, father, nothing more.
Weigh me upon my merit, not my years.

CREON
Strange merit this to sanction lawlessness!

HAEMON
For evil-doers
 Copyright (c) I2005-2009,
                 would urge Infobase
                            no plea. Media Corp.     Page 163 / 176
CREON
Is not this maid an arrant law-breaker?
Strange merit this to sanction lawlessness!

HAEMON
For evil-doers I would urge no plea.

CREON
Is not this maid an arrant law-breaker?

HAEMON
The Theban commons with one voice say, No.

CREON
What, shall the mob dictate my policy?

HAEMON
'Tis thou, methinks, who speakest like a boy.

CREON
Am I to rule for others, or myself?

HAEMON
A State for one man is no State at all.

CREON
The State is his who rules it, so 'tis held.

HAEMON
As monarch of a desert thou wouldst shine.

CREON
This boy, methinks, maintains the woman's cause.

HAEMON
If thou be'st woman, yes. My thought's for thee.

CREON
O reprobate, would'st wrangle with thy sire?

HAEMON
Because I see thee wrongfully perverse.

CREON
And am I wrong, if I maintain my rights?

HAEMON
Talk not of rights; thou spurn'st the due of Heaven

CREON
O heart corrupt, a woman's minion thou!

HAEMON
Slave to dishonor thou wilt never find me.

CREON
Thy speech at least was all a plea for her.

HAEMON
And thee and me, and for the gods below.

CREON
Living the maid shall never be thy bride.

HAEMON
So she shall die, but one will die with her.

CREON
Hast come to such a pass as threaten me?

HAEMON
What threat is this, vain counsels to reprove?

CREON
Vain fool to instruct thy betters; thou shall rue it.

HAEMON
Wert not my father, I had said thou err'st.
 Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.
CREON                                                   Page 164 / 176
Play not the spaniel, thou a woman's slave.
HAEMON
Wert not my father, I had said thou err'st.

CREON
Play not the spaniel, thou a woman's slave.

HAEMON
When thou dost speak, must no man make reply?

CREON
This passes bounds. By heaven, thou shalt not rate
And jeer and flout me with impunity.
Off with the hateful thing that she may die
At once, beside her bridegroom, in his sight.

HAEMON
Think not that in my sight the maid shall die,
Or by my side; never shalt thou again
Behold my face hereafter. Go, consort
With friends who like a madman for their mate.
[Exit HAEMON]

CHORUS
Thy son has gone, my liege, in angry haste.
Fell is the wrath of youth beneath a smart.

CREON
Let him go vent his fury like a fiend:
These sisters twain he shall not save from death.

CHORUS
Surely, thou meanest not to slay them both?

CREON
I stand corrected; only her who touched
The body.

CHORUS
And what death is she to die?

CREON
She shall be taken to some desert place
By man untrod, and in a rock-hewn cave,
With food no more than to avoid the taint
That homicide might bring on all the State,
Buried alive. There let her call in aid
The King of Death, the one god she reveres,
Or learn too late a lesson learnt at last:
'Tis labor lost, to reverence the dead.

CHORUS
(Str.)
Love resistless in fight, all yield at a glance of thine eye,
Love who pillowed all night on a maiden's cheek dost lie,
Over the upland holds. Shall mortals not yield to thee?

(Ant).
Mad are thy subjects all, and even the wisest heart
Straight to folly will fall, at a touch of thy poisoned dart.
Thou didst kindle the strife, this feud of kinsman with kin,
By the eyes of a winsome wife, and the yearning her heart to win.
For as her consort still, enthroned with Justice above,
Thou bendest man to thy will, O all invincible Love.

Lo I myself am borne aside,
From Justice, as I view this bride.
(O sight an eye in tears to drown)
Antigone, so young, so fair,
Thus hurried down
Death's bower with the dead to share.

ANTIGONE
(Str. 1)
Friends, countrymen, my last farewell I make;
My journey's done.
One last fond, lingering, longing look I take
At the bright(c)
 Copyright    sun.
                 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.                    Page 165 / 176
For Death who puts to sleep both young and old
Hales my young life,
And beckons me to Acheron's dark fold,
(Str. 1)
Friends, countrymen, my last farewell I make;
My journey's done.
One last fond, lingering, longing look I take
At the bright sun.
For Death who puts to sleep both young and old
Hales my young life,
And beckons me to Acheron's dark fold,
An unwed wife.
No youths have sung the marriage song for me,
My bridal bed
No maids have strewn with flowers from the lea,
'Tis Death I wed.

CHORUS
But bethink thee, thou art sped,
Great and glorious, to the dead.
Thou the sword's edge hast not tasted,
No disease thy frame hath wasted.
Freely thou alone shalt go
Living to the dead below.

ANTIGONE
(Ant. 1)
Nay, but the piteous tale I've heard men tell
Of Tantalus' doomed child,
Chained upon Siphylus' high rocky fell,
That clung like ivy wild,
Drenched by the pelting rain and whirling snow,
Left there to pine,
While on her frozen breast the tears aye flow--
Her fate is mine.

CHORUS
She was sprung of gods, divine,
Mortals we of mortal line.
Like renown with gods to gain
Recompenses all thy pain.
Take this solace to thy tomb
Hers in life and death thy doom.

ANTIGONE
(Str. 2)
Alack, alack! Ye mock me. Is it meet
Thus to insult me living, to my face?
Cease, by our country's altars I entreat,
Ye lordly rulers of a lordly race.
O fount of Dirce, wood-embowered plain
Where Theban chariots to victory speed,
Mark ye the cruel laws that now have wrought my bane,
The friends who show no pity in my need!
Was ever fate like mine? O monstrous doom,
Within a rock-built prison sepulchered,
To fade and wither in a living tomb,
And alien midst the living and the dead.

CHORUS
(Str. 3)
In thy boldness over-rash
Madly thou thy foot didst dash
'Gainst high Justice' altar stair.
Thou a father's guild dost bear.

ANTIGONE
(Ant. 2)
At this thou touchest my most poignant pain,
My ill-starred father's piteous disgrace,
The taint of blood, the hereditary stain,
That clings to all of Labdacus' famed race.
Woe worth the monstrous marriage-bed where lay
A mother with the son her womb had borne,
Therein I was conceived, woe worth the day,
Fruit of incestuous sheets, a maid forlorn,
And now I pass, accursed and unwed,
To meet them as an alien there below;
And thee, O brother, in marriage ill-bestead,
'Twas thy dead hand that dealt me this death-blow.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.           Page 166 / 176
CHORUS
Religion has her chains, 'tis true,
Let rite be paid when rites are due.
And now I pass, accursed and unwed,
To meet them as an alien there below;
And thee, O brother, in marriage ill-bestead,
'Twas thy dead hand that dealt me this death-blow.

CHORUS
Religion has her chains, 'tis true,
Let rite be paid when rites are due.
Yet is it ill to disobey
The powers who hold by might the sway.
Thou hast withstood authority,
A self-willed rebel, thou must die.

ANTIGONE
Unwept, unwed, unfriended, hence I go,
No longer may I see the day's bright eye;
Not one friend left to share my bitter woe,
And o'er my ashes heave one passing sigh.

CREON
If wail and lamentation aught availed
To stave off death, I trow they'd never end.
Away with her, and having walled her up
In a rock-vaulted tomb, as I ordained,
Leave her alone at liberty to die,
Or, if she choose, to live in solitude,
The tomb her dwelling. We in either case
Are guiltless as concerns this maiden's blood,
Only on earth no lodging shall she find.

ANTIGONE
O grave, O bridal bower, O prison house
Hewn from the rock, my everlasting home,
Whither I go to join the mighty host
Of kinsfolk, Persephassa's guests long dead,
The last of all, of all more miserable,
I pass, my destined span of years cut short.
And yet good hope is mine that I shall find
A welcome from my sire, a welcome too,
From thee, my mother, and my brother dear;
From with these hands, I laved and decked your limbs
In death, and poured libations on your grave.
And last, my Polyneices, unto thee
I paid due rites, and this my recompense!
Yet am I justified in wisdom's eyes.
For even had it been some child of mine,
Or husband mouldering in death's decay,
I had not wrought this deed despite the State.
What is the law I call in aid? 'Tis thus
I argue. Had it been a husband dead
I might have wed another, and have borne
Another child, to take the dead child's place.
But, now my sire and mother both are dead,
No second brother can be born for me.
Thus by the law of conscience I was led
To honor thee, dear brother, and was judged
By Creon guilty of a heinous crime.
And now he drags me like a criminal,
A bride unwed, amerced of marriage-song
And marriage-bed and joys of motherhood,
By friends deserted to a living grave.
What ordinance of heaven have I transgressed?
Hereafter can I look to any god
For succor, call on any man for help?
Alas, my piety is impious deemed.
Well, if such justice is approved of heaven,
I shall be taught by suffering my sin;
But if the sin is theirs, O may they suffer
No worse ills than the wrongs they do to me.

CHORUS
The same ungovernable will
Drives like a gale the maiden still.

CREON
Therefore, my guards who let her stay
Shall smart full sore for their delay.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.          Page 167 / 176
ANTIGONE
Ah, woe is me! This word I hear
Brings death most near.
CREON
Therefore, my guards who let her stay
Shall smart full sore for their delay.

ANTIGONE
Ah, woe is me! This word I hear
Brings death most near.

CHORUS
I have no comfort. What he saith,
Portends no other thing than death.

ANTIGONE
My fatherland, city of Thebes divine,
Ye gods of Thebes whence sprang my line,
Look, puissant lords of Thebes, on me;
The last of all your royal house ye see.
Martyred by men of sin, undone.
Such meed my piety hath won.
[Exit ANTIGONE]

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Like to thee that maiden bright,
Danae, in her brass-bound tower,
Once exchanged the glad sunlight
For a cell, her bridal bower.
And yet she sprang of royal line,
My child, like thine,
And nursed the seed
By her conceived
Of Zeus descending in a golden shower.
Strange are the ways of Fate, her power
Nor wealth, nor arms withstand, nor tower;
Nor brass-prowed ships, that breast the sea
From Fate can flee.

(Ant. 1)
Thus Dryas' child, the rash Edonian King,
For words of high disdain
Did Bacchus to a rocky dungeon bring,
To cool the madness of a fevered brain.
His frenzy passed,
He learnt at last
'Twas madness gibes against a god to fling.
For once he fain had quenched the Maenad's fire;
And of the tuneful Nine provoked the ire.

(Str. 2)
By the Iron Rocks that guard the double main,
On Bosporus' lone strand,
Where stretcheth Salmydessus' plain
In the wild Thracian land,
There on his borders Ares witnessed
The vengeance by a jealous step-dame ta'en
The gore that trickled from a spindle red,
The sightless orbits of her step-sons twain.

(Ant. 2)
Wasting away they mourned their piteous doom,
The blasted issue of their mother's womb.
But she her lineage could trace
To great Erecththeus' race;
Daughter of Boreas in her sire's vast caves
Reared, where the tempest raves,
Swift as his horses o'er the hills she sped;
A child of gods; yet she, my child, like thee,
By Destiny
That knows not death nor age--she too was vanquished.
[Enter TEIRESIAS and BOY]

TEIRESIAS
Princes of Thebes, two wayfarers as one,
Having betwixt us eyes for one, we are here.
The blind man cannot move without a guide.

CREON
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.           Page 168 / 176
Why tidings, old Teiresias?

TEIRESIAS
Princes of Thebes, two wayfarers as one,
Having betwixt us eyes for one, we are here.
The blind man cannot move without a guide.

CREON
Why tidings, old Teiresias?

TEIRESIAS
I will tell thee;
And when thou hearest thou must heed the seer.

CREON
Thus far I ne'er have disobeyed thy rede.

TEIRESIAS
So hast thou steered the ship of State aright.

CREON
I know it, and I gladly own my debt.

TEIRESIAS
Bethink thee that thou treadest once again
The razor edge of peril.

CREON
What is this?
Thy words inspire a dread presentiment.

TEIRESIAS
The divination of my arts shall tell.
Sitting upon my throne of augury,
As is my wont, where every fowl of heaven
Find harborage, upon mine ears was borne
A jargon strange of twitterings, hoots, and screams;
So knew I that each bird at the other tare
With bloody talons, for the whirr of wings
Could signify naught else. Perturbed in soul,
I straight essayed the sacrifice by fire
On blazing altars, but the God of Fire
Came not in flame, and from the thigh bones dripped
And sputtered in the ashes a foul ooze;
Gall-bladders cracked and spurted up: the fat
Melted and fell and left the thigh bones bare.
Such are the signs, taught by this lad, I read--
As I guide others, so the boy guides me--
The frustrate signs of oracles grown dumb.
O King, thy willful temper ails the State,
For all our shrines and altars are profaned
By what has filled the maw of dogs and crows,
The flesh of Oedipus' unburied son.
Therefore the angry gods abominate
Our litanies and our burnt offerings;
Therefore no birds trill out a happy note,
Gorged with the carnival of human gore.
O ponder this, my son. To err is common
To all men, but the man who having erred
Hugs not his errors, but repents and seeks
The cure, is not a wastrel nor unwise.
No fool, the saw goes, like the obstinate fool.
Let death disarm thy vengeance. O forbear
To vex the dead. What glory wilt thou win
By slaying twice the slain? I mean thee well;
Counsel's most welcome if I promise gain.

CREON
Old man, ye all let fly at me your shafts
Like anchors at a target; yea, ye set
Your soothsayer on me. Peddlers are ye all
And I the merchandise ye buy and sell.
Go to, and make your profit where ye will,
Silver of Sardis change for gold of Ind;
Ye will not purchase this man's burial,
Not though the winged ministers of Zeus
Should bear him in their talons to his throne;
Not e'en in awe of prodigy so dire
Would I permit his burial, for I know
No human soilure can assail the gods;
This too I know,
 Copyright        Teiresias, dire's
            (c) 2005-2009,          the fall
                              Infobase    Media Corp.   Page 169 / 176
Of craft and cunning when it tries to gloss
Foul treachery with fair words for filthy gain.
Should bear him in their talons to his throne;
Not e'en in awe of prodigy so dire
Would I permit his burial, for I know
No human soilure can assail the gods;
This too I know, Teiresias, dire's the fall
Of craft and cunning when it tries to gloss
Foul treachery with fair words for filthy gain.

TEIRESIAS
Alas! doth any know and lay to heart--

CREON
Is this the prelude to some hackneyed saw?

TEIRESIAS
How far good counsel is the best of goods?

CREON
True, as unwisdom is the worst of ills.

TEIRESIAS
Thou art infected with that ill thyself.

CREON
I will not bandy insults with thee, seer.

TEIRESIAS
And yet thou say'st my prophesies are frauds.

CREON
Prophets are all a money-getting tribe.

TEIRESIAS
And kings are all a lucre-loving race.

CREON
Dost know at whom thou glancest, me thy lord?

TEIRESIAS
Lord of the State and savior, thanks to me.

CREON
Skilled prophet art thou, but to wrong inclined.

TEIRESIAS
Take heed, thou wilt provoke me to reveal
The mystery deep hidden in my breast.

CREON
Say on, but see it be not said for gain.

TEIRESIAS
Such thou, methinks, till now hast judged my words.

CREON
Be sure thou wilt not traffic on my wits.

TEIRESIAS
Know then for sure, the coursers of the sun
Not many times shall run their race, before
Thou shalt have given the fruit of thine own loins
In quittance of thy murder, life for life;
For that thou hast entombed a living soul,
And sent below a denizen of earth,
And wronged the nether gods by leaving here
A corpse unlaved, unwept, unsepulchered.
Herein thou hast no part, nor e'en the gods
In heaven; and thou usurp'st a power not thine.
For this the avenging spirits of Heaven and Hell
Who dog the steps of sin are on thy trail:
What these have suffered thou shalt suffer too.
And now, consider whether bought by gold
I prophesy. For, yet a little while,
And sound of lamentation shall be heard,
Of men and women through thy desolate halls;
And all thy neighbor States are leagues to avenge
Their mangled warriors who have found a grave
I'Copyright
   the maw of(c)wolf or hound,Infobase
                 2005-2009,    or wingedMedia
                                           bird Corp.   Page 170 / 176
That flying homewards taints their city's air.
These are the shafts, that like a bowman I
Provoked to anger, loosen at thy breast,
And sound of lamentation shall be heard,
Of men and women through thy desolate halls;
And all thy neighbor States are leagues to avenge
Their mangled warriors who have found a grave
I' the maw of wolf or hound, or winged bird
That flying homewards taints their city's air.
These are the shafts, that like a bowman I
Provoked to anger, loosen at thy breast,
Unerring, and their smart thou shalt not shun.
Boy, lead me home, that he may vent his spleen
On younger men, and learn to curb his tongue
With gentler manners than his present mood.
[Exit TEIRESIAS]

CHORUS
My liege, that man hath gone, foretelling woe.
And, O believe me, since these grizzled locks
Were like the raven, never have I known
The prophet's warning to the State to fail.

CREON
I know it too, and it perplexes me.
To yield is grievous, but the obstinate soul
That fights with Fate, is smitten grievously.

CHORUS
Son of Menoeceus, list to good advice.

CHORUS
What should I do. Advise me. I will heed.

CHORUS
Go, free the maiden from her rocky cell;
And for the unburied outlaw build a tomb.

CREON
Is that your counsel? You would have me yield?

CHORUS
Yea, king, this instant. Vengeance of the gods
Is swift to overtake the impenitent.

CREON
Ah! what a wrench it is to sacrifice
My heart's resolve; but Fate is ill to fight.

CHORUS
Go, trust not others. Do it quick thyself.

CREON
I go hot-foot. Bestir ye one and all,
My henchmen! Get ye axes! Speed away
To yonder eminence! I too will go,
For all my resolution this way sways.
'Twas I that bound, I too will set her free.
Almost I am persuaded it is best
To keep through life the law ordained of old.
[Exit CREON]

CHORUS
(Str. 1)
Thou by many names adored,
Child of Zeus the God of thunder,
Of a Theban bride the wonder,
Fair Italia's guardian lord;

In the deep-embosomed glades
Of the Eleusinian Queen
Haunt of revelers, men and maids,
Dionysus, thou art seen.

Where Ismenus rolls his waters,
Where the Dragon's teeth were sown,
Where the Bacchanals thy daughters
Round thee roam,
There thy home;
Thebes, O Bacchus, is thine own.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.       Page 171 / 176
(Ant. 1)
Thee on the two-crested rock
Lurid-flaming torches see;
Where the Bacchanals thy daughters
Round thee roam,
There thy home;
Thebes, O Bacchus, is thine own.

(Ant. 1)
Thee on the two-crested rock
Lurid-flaming torches see;
Where Corisian maidens flock,
Thee the springs of Castaly.

By Nysa's bastion ivy-clad,
By shores with clustered vineyards glad,
There to thee the hymn rings out,
And through our streets we Thebans shout,
All hall to thee
Evoe, Evoe!

(Str. 2)
Oh, as thou lov'st this city best of all,
To thee, and to thy Mother levin-stricken,
In our dire need we call;
Thou see'st with what a plague our townsfolk sicken.
Thy ready help we crave,
Whether adown Parnassian heights descending,
Or o'er the roaring straits thy swift was wending,
Save us, O save!

(Ant. 2)
Brightest of all the orbs that breathe forth light,
Authentic son of Zeus, immortal king,
Leader of all the voices of the night,
Come, and thy train of Thyiads with thee bring,
Thy maddened rout
Who dance before thee all night long, and shout,
Thy handmaids we,
Evoe, Evoe!

[Enter MESSENGER]

MESSENGER
Attend all ye who dwell beside the halls
Of Cadmus and Amphion. No man's life
As of one tenor would I praise or blame,
For Fortune with a constant ebb and rise
Casts down and raises high and low alike,
And none can read a mortal's horoscope.
Take Creon; he, methought, if any man,
Was enviable. He had saved this land
Of Cadmus from our enemies and attained
A monarch's powers and ruled the state supreme,
While a right noble issue crowned his bliss.
Now all is gone and wasted, for a life
Without life's joys I count a living death.
You'll tell me he has ample store of wealth,
The pomp and circumstance of kings; but if
These give no pleasure, all the rest I count
The shadow of a shade, nor would I weigh
His wealth and power 'gainst a dram of joy.

CHORUS
What fresh woes bring'st thou to the royal house?

MESSENGER
Both dead, and they who live deserve to die.

CHORUS
Who is the slayer, who the victim? speak.

MESSENGER
Haemon; his blood shed by no stranger hand.

CHORUS
What mean ye? by his father's or his own?

MESSENGER
His own; in anger for his father's crime.
Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.          Page 172 / 176
CHORUS
O prophet, what thou spakest comes to pass.
What mean ye? by his father's or his own?

MESSENGER
His own; in anger for his father's crime.

CHORUS
O prophet, what thou spakest comes to pass.

MESSENGER
So stands the case; now 'tis for you to act.

CHORUS
Lo! from the palace gates I see approaching
Creon's unhappy wife, Eurydice.
Comes she by chance or learning her son's fate?
[Enter EURYDICE]

EURYDICE
Ye men of Thebes, I overheard your talk.
As I passed out to offer up my prayer
To Pallas, and was drawing back the bar
To open wide the door, upon my ears
There broke a wail that told of household woe
Stricken with terror in my handmaids' arms
I fell and fainted. But repeat your tale
To one not unacquaint with misery.

MESSENGER
Dear mistress, I was there and will relate
The perfect truth, omitting not one word.
Why should we gloze and flatter, to be proved
Liars hereafter? Truth is ever best.
Well, in attendance on my liege, your lord,
I crossed the plain to its utmost margin, where
The corse of Polyneices, gnawn and mauled,
Was lying yet. We offered first a prayer
To Pluto and the goddess of cross-ways,
With contrite hearts, to deprecate their ire.
Then laved with lustral waves the mangled corse,
Laid it on fresh-lopped branches, lit a pyre,
And to his memory piled a mighty mound
Of mother earth. Then to the caverned rock,
The bridal chamber of the maid and Death,
We sped, about to enter. But a guard
Heard from that godless shrine a far shrill wail,
And ran back to our lord to tell the news.
But as he nearer drew a hollow sound
Of lamentation to the King was borne.
He groaned and uttered then this bitter plaint:
"Am I a prophet? miserable me!
Is this the saddest path I ever trod?
'Tis my son's voice that calls me. On press on,
My henchmen, haste with double speed to the tomb
Where rocks down-torn have made a gap, look in
And tell me if in truth I recognize
The voice of Haemon or am heaven-deceived."
So at the bidding of our distraught lord
We looked, and in the craven's vaulted gloom
I saw the maiden lying strangled there,
A noose of linen twined about her neck;
And hard beside her, clasping her cold form,
Her lover lay bewailing his dead bride
Death-wedded, and his father's cruelty.
When the King saw him, with a terrible groan
He moved towards him, crying, "O my son
What hast thou done? What ailed thee? What mischance
Has reft thee of thy reason? O come forth,
Come forth, my son; thy father supplicates."
But the son glared at him with tiger eyes,
Spat in his face, and then, without a word,
Drew his two-hilted sword and smote, but missed
His father flying backwards. Then the boy,
Wroth with himself, poor wretch, incontinent
Fell on his sword and drove it through his side
Home, but yet breathing clasped in his lax arms
The maid, her pallid cheek incarnadined
With his expiring gasps. So there they lay
Two   corpses,
 Copyright   (c)one in death. His
                 2005-2009,        marriage
                               Infobase     ritesCorp.
                                         Media           Page 173 / 176
Are consummated in the halls of Death:
A witness that of ills whate'er befall
Mortals' unwisdom is the worst of all.
Fell on his sword and drove it through his side
Home, but yet breathing clasped in his lax arms
The maid, her pallid cheek incarnadined
With his expiring gasps. So there they lay
Two corpses, one in death. His marriage rites
Are consummated in the halls of Death:
A witness that of ills whate'er befall
Mortals' unwisdom is the worst of all.
[Exit EURYDICE]

CHORUS
What makest thou of this? The Queen has gone
Without a word importing good or ill.

MESSENGER
I marvel too, but entertain good hope.
'Tis that she shrinks in public to lament
Her son's sad ending, and in privacy
Would with her maidens mourn a private loss.
Trust me, she is discreet and will not err.

CHORUS
I know not, but strained silence, so I deem,
Is no less ominous than excessive grief.

MESSENGER
Well, let us to the house and solve our doubts,
Whether the tumult of her heart conceals
Some fell design. It may be thou art right:
Unnatural silence signifies no good.

CHORUS
Lo! the King himself appears.
Evidence he with him bears
'Gainst himself (ah me! I quake
'Gainst a king such charge to make)
But all must own,
The guilt is his and his alone.

CREON
(Str. 1)
Woe for sin of minds perverse,
Deadly fraught with mortal curse.
Behold us slain and slayers, all akin.
Woe for my counsel dire, conceived in sin.
Alas, my son,
Life scarce begun,
Thou wast undone.
The fault was mine, mine only, O my son!

CHORUS
Too late thou seemest to perceive the truth.

CREON
(Str. 2)
By sorrow schooled. Heavy the hand of God,
Thorny and rough the paths my feet have trod,
Humbled my pride, my pleasure turned to pain;
Poor mortals, how we labor all in vain!
[Enter SECOND MESSENGER]

SECOND MESSENGER
Sorrows are thine, my lord, and more to come,
One lying at thy feet, another yet
More grievous waits thee, when thou comest home.

CREON
What woe is lacking to my tale of woes?

SECOND MESSENGER
Thy wife, the mother of thy dead son here,
Lies stricken by a fresh inflicted blow.

CREON
(Ant. 1)
How bottomless the pit!
Does claim me too, O Death?
What  is this(c)
 Copyright    word he saith, Infobase Media Corp.
                 2005-2009,                         Page 174 / 176
This woeful messenger? Say, is it fit
To slay anew a man already slain?
Is Death at work again,
CREON
(Ant. 1)
How bottomless the pit!
Does claim me too, O Death?
What is this word he saith,
This woeful messenger? Say, is it fit
To slay anew a man already slain?
Is Death at work again,
Stroke upon stroke, first son, then mother slain?

CHORUS
Look for thyself. She lies for all to view.

CREON
(Ant. 2)
Alas! another added woe I see.
What more remains to crown my agony?
A minute past I clasped a lifeless son,
And now another victim Death hath won.
Unhappy mother, most unhappy son!

SECOND MESSENGER
Beside the altar on a keen-edged sword
She fell and closed her eyes in night, but erst
She mourned for Megareus who nobly died
Long since, then for her son; with her last breath
She cursed thee, the slayer of her child.

CREON
(Str. 3)
I shudder with affright
O for a two-edged sword to slay outright
A wretch like me,
Made one with misery.

SECOND MESSENGER
'Tis true that thou wert charged by the dead Queen
As author of both deaths, hers and her son's.

CREON
In what wise was her self-destruction wrought?

SECOND MESSENGER
Hearing the loud lament above her son
With her own hand she stabbed herself to the heart.

CREON
(Str. 4)
I am the guilty cause. I did the deed,
Thy murderer. Yea, I guilty plead.
My henchmen, lead me hence, away, away,
A cipher, less than nothing; no delay!

CHORUS
Well said, if in disaster aught is well
His past endure demand the speediest cure.

CREON
(Ant. 3)
Come, Fate, a friend at need,
Come with all speed!
Come, my best friend,
And speed my end!
Away, away!
Let me not look upon another day!

CHORUS
This for the morrow; to us are present needs
That they whom it concerns must take in hand.

CREON
I join your prayer that echoes my desire.

CHORUS
O pray not, prayers are idle; from the doom
Of fate for mortals refuge is there none.

CREON
 Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.        Page 175 / 176
(Ant. 4)
Away with me, a worthless wretch who slew
Unwitting thee, my son, thy mother too.
CHORUS
O pray not, prayers are idle; from the doom
Of fate for mortals refuge is there none.

CREON
(Ant. 4)
Away with me, a worthless wretch who slew
Unwitting thee, my son, thy mother too.
Whither to turn I know now; every way
Leads but astray,
And on my head I feel the heavy weight
Of crushing Fate.

CHORUS
Of happiness the chiefest part
Is a wise heart:
And to defraud the gods in aught
With peril's fraught.
Swelling words of high-flown might
Mightily the gods do smite.
Chastisement for errors past
Wisdom brings to age at last.




Copyright (c) 2005-2009, Infobase Media Corp.   Page 176 / 176
