THE CONFESSION OF PHÆDRA From Phèdre › Scene: The palace at Træzen, in the Peloponnesus. Present: Phædra, Hippolytus, Enone. [to Enone] There I see him! PHEDRA My blood forgets to flow, my tongue to speak What I am come to say. Enone Phædra Hippolytus Phædra Think of your son, I hear Madam, is mine. No such base resentment, I could not blame you, prince, In public and in private I declared Myself your foe, and found no peace till seas Your hatred, never woman merited ·Hippolytus-A mother jealous of her children's rights Who reigned before her. Harassing suspicions No less than you, perhaps more violent. Phædra- Ah, prince, how Heaven has from the general law Made me exempt, be that same Heaven witness! Far different is the trouble that devours me! Hippolytus-This is no time for self-reproaches, madam. Phædra Hippolytus Phædra It may be that your husband still beholds The light, and Heaven may grant him safe return, Oh, I am mad! Do what I will, I cannot hide my passion. Yes, I see The strange effects of love. Theseus, though dead, for in your soul Ah, yes, for Theseus I languish and I long; not as the Shades Or like yourself. He had your mien, your eyes, On board the ship that brought thy sire to Crete? At your hands would the monster then have perished, To guide your doubtful steps within the maze My sister would have armed you with the clue. Had taught you all the labyrinth's crooked ways. I would myself have wished to lead the way, Phædra Phædra That I misconstrued words of innocence. Ah! cruel prince, too well To save you from mistake. I love. But think not I do not feel my guilt; no weak compliance As to myself. The gods will bear me witness, In leading a poor mortal's heart astray. Do you yourself recall to mind the past: 'Twas not enough for me to fly,-I chased you I sought to make you hate me. All in vain! I trembled, 'twas to beg you not to hate him Enone Theramenes Prove yourself worthy of your valiant sire. I feel it leap impatiently to meet Your arın. Strike home. Or if it would disgrace you To steep your hand in such polluted blood, If that were punishment too mild to slake Your hatred, lend me then your sword, if not What, madam, will you do? Just gods! But some one comes. Enter Theramenes Is that the form of Phædra that I see Hurried away? What mean these signs of sorrow? Hippolytus - Friend, let us fly. I am, indeed, confounded Phædra- but no; gods, let this dreadful secret Remain forever buried in oblivion. Translation of R. B. Boswell. ALFRED RAMBAUD (1842-) LFRED RAMBAUD, like many of his predecessors at the head of the Board of Education in France, taught in the ranks before he rose to be Grand Master of the University. He was born in 1842 at Besançon, in the province of Franche-Comté, whose children are supposed to be peculiarly hot-headed and tenacious of opinion. But M. Rambaud is no fanatic: he is liberal and conciliatory, with an ardent desire for the education of the masses. He is a disciple of Jules Ferry, who first called him to a leading position in the direction of public affairs, as private secretary and chef de cabinet at the ministry of Public Affairs in 1879. After three years at the École Normale, M. Rambaud was successively professor of history at Caen and at Nancy. On quitting the ministry he returned to his duties as professor, and was appointed to the Faculty of Letters in Paris. His works are educational and historical. His favorite occupation is looking over and preparing the great work he has undertaken in collaboration with his friend and colleague, Ernest Lavisse, the historian dear to French youth; namely, the General History from the Fourth Century to Our Day.' The first number of this serial history appeared in 1892. It is carefully done, clear, and in a widely liberal, philosophical spirit. M. Rambaud contributes the portion on Russia. He is an authority on all things Russian, knowing the language and having traveled in the country. His speeches form an important part of his "literary luggage," as the French say. He speaks well, but not in the florid, ornamental style common in France. He is journalier ("touch-and-go"), and must warm to his subject before mastering it. No one knows what will warm him; the man himself probably less than any one. But once warmed, his voice never falters in its soft, far-reaching wave of sound. His gestures are slow and propitiatory; he turns his head slyly from left to right, and sees very well with those small, dark, sharp yet merry eyes of his, that are surmounted, not shaded, by the thin regular arch of eyebrows, like notes of interrogation on his high narrow forehead. He has a great deal of dry humor, both as speaker and writer, and doubtless often laughs to himself at his opponents as he sits comfortably on the ministerial bench of the Chamber of |