oet Hore ipiaps;

SUMMER FOLK
(DATCHNIKI)
MAXIM GORKI
Richard G. Badger, Publisher, Bosto n
 LIBRARY

'INIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA

RIVERSIDE
VOLUME XVI AUTUMN 1905 NUMBER III

^SUMMER-FOLK*
[DATCHNIKI]
Scenes from Life

By Maxim Gorki
Translated from the Russian by Aline Delano

DRAMATIS PERSON/E
Serguey Vassilievitch Bassoff, Lawyer, 40.
Varvara Michailovna, his wife, 27.

Kaleria, his sister, 29.

Vlass, brother of Bassoff's wife, 25.

Piotr Ivanovitch Sussloff, Civil Engineer, 42.
Yulia Fillipovna, his wife, 30.
Kyrill Akimovitch Dudakoff, Physician, 40.
Olga Alekseyevna, his wife, 35.
Iakov Petrovitch Shalimoff, Author, 40.
Pavel Sergueyevitch Rumin, 32.
Marya Lvovna, Physician, 37.
Semion Semionytch Dvoetchie [Colon], Susslofs uncle, 55.
Nikalay Petrovitch Zamysloff, Bassofs junior partner, 28.
Zimin, a student, 23.
Pustobaika [Talker], First Watchman, 50.
Kropilkin, Second Watchman.
Sasha, Bassoff' s Maid-Servant.

*
Copyright, 1905, by Aline Delano

(0
 SUMMER-FOLK
A woman with a bandaged cheek.
Mr. Seminoff.
A lady in a yellow gown
A young man in a plaid suit ( Theatrical
A young lady in blue (
Amateurs
A young lady in pink
A Cadet
A gentleman in a tall hat

Scene : A Country place near St. Petersburg.

Time : The Present.

Act I. A Summer room in Bassofli's country-house.

Act II. A Field in front of the house.
Act III. A Glade in the Forest.
Act IV. Same as Act II.

ACT I

Bassofs' Country-house. A large room which is both

parlor and dining-room. In the rear, to the left, an open

THE door leading to Bassoff's study, to the right, a door into his
wife's bed-room.
of which the
These rooms are separated by a corridor,
entrance is draped by a dark curtain. To the
right a window and a wide door leading to the veranda,
to the left two windows. A large dining-table in the middle. A grand
piano opposite the door of the study. Wicker furniture. The sofa near
the entrance has a gray linen cover. Evening. Bassoff at the desk in his
study has a lamp with a green shade before him. He writes and hums, then
turns his head, listens, and peers into the twilight of the larger room.
Varvara comes out of her room noiselessly, strikes a match, holds it up,
 MAXIM GORKI 3

and looks about. The match goes out. As she moves in the darkness

toward the window, she stumbles against a chair.

Bassoff. Who's that?
Varvara. I.

Bas. Oh!
Far. Did you take the candle?
Bas. No.
Var. Ring for Sasha.
Bas. HasVlass come?
Var. [near the veranda door]. I don't know.
Bas. Absurd house! Electric bells and chinks in the wall! — and a

creaking floor.
—
[Hums.'] Varya, where are you?
Var. Here.
Bas. [gathering up his papers'] Is your room draughty?
Var. It is.
Bas. So I thought. [Sasha enters.]
Var. Bring a light, Sasha.
Bas. Sasha, has Vlass Michailovitch come?
Sasha. Not yet. [She goes out and returns with a lamp which she
places on the table beside the easy chair. Empties the ash-tray and
straightens the table-cloth on the dining-table. VARVARA pulls down the
window-shade, takes a book from the book-case and seats herself in the easy

chair.]
Bas. [good naturedly]. Vlass is getting unreliable
— and lazy.
—
He has acted very —
absurdly, of late.
Var. Will you have some tea ?
Bas. No; I am
going to the Susloffs'.
Var. Sasha, go over to Olga Alekseyevna and find out if she can come
and take tea with me. [Sasha goes out.]
Bas. [locking his papers in the desk]. There! That's done. [He
comes out of the study and stretches himself.] I wish you'd tell him so,

Varya, without hurting his feelings.

Var. What do you want me to say?
Bas. Well! —
that he ought to pay more attention to his duties.
Don't you think so?
Var. Very well. I'll tell him. But it seems to me you ought not to
4 SUMMER-FOLK
speak so of him before Sasha.
Bas. [looking around the room~\. Oh! That's all right. You
can't hide things from servants. How bleak it looks here It would
— Hang some frames — or —
!

be well to cover up these bare walls. pictures

It looks forlorn ! Now then I'm off. Give me your little paw. How
indifferent you are to me! You hardly say a word. What's the reason?
And you look so solemn. Tell me! What's the matter?
Var. I thought you were in a hurry to go to the Susloffs'.
Bas. Yes. I must be going. I haven't played chess with him for
an age. And I haven't kissed your little paw, for an age, either. How's
that? Strange, isn't it?
Var. [concealing a smile'] . We
had better postpone talk about me
until you are more at leisure. It's not important, is it?

Bas [reassured]. Of course not. I only said so because What —

can be the matter with you? You are a charming woman clever — —
frank —and so forth. If you had any grievance against me, you would
say so. — —
Why do your eyes shine? Are you not feeling well?
Var. No, I am well.
Bas. Let me suggest that you busy yourself with something, my
dear Varya ! You are reading too much. All excesses are injurious, you
know. It's a fact !

Var. Don't forget that fact when you are drinking red wine with
Susloff.
Bas. You are sarcastic. But all these spicy, up-to-date books are
worse than wine, I believe. I am in earnest. There is something narcotic
in them. —
They are all written by these neurotic, morbid gentlemen.
[Yawning.] You are soon to behold a real author, as the children say. I
am interested to see what he's like, now. No doubt he has a high opinion
— These
of himself. public characters are consumed by ambitions, generally
abnormal. — Kaleria, too, isn't normal, though, strictly speaking, she isn't
much of an author. She'll be pleased to see Shalimoff. She ought to
marry him! I mean it! She is getting old, yes, she is rather old,
— —
and she whines as though she had a chronic tooth-ache and she's no great —
beauty, either.
Var. What senseless talk, Serguey!
Bas. You think so ? Never mind. Nobody hears us. — I like to
 MAXIM GORKI 5

chatter now and then. [A dry cough is heard behind the drapery.'] Who's
that?
Susslof [Behind the drapery] I.
Bas. [goes to meet him]. I was just leaving for your house.

Sus. [silently exchanges greetings with Var.] Come along! I came

to fetch you. You haven't been in town today?
Bas. No. Why?
Sus [smiling with a grimace]. They say your junior partner won
2,000 roubles at the Club.
Bas. You don't say so
— from some drunken merchant.
!

Sus. Won it,

Var. Just as you usually put it.

Sus. How is that?

Var. This way: —

he 'won,' you say. Then you add emphatically,
'
from some drunken fellow.'
Sus. [with a smirk]. I didn't emphasize.
Bas. What of it? If he had said Zamysloff made the merchant
drunk and then won from him, that would be bad taste. Come along,
Piotr, Varya, when Vlass comes Oh there he — ! is !

Vlass [enters with an old portfolio]. You missed me, Patron? I am

glad to hear it! [Addresses Sussloff with a mock warning] There's a
man just arrived who's looking for you He is going about from house to
!

house inquiring loudly where you live. [He goes to his sister.] How are
you, Varya?
Var. How are you?
Sus. The deuce ! It must be my uncle.
Bas. Then it will not be convenient for you to have me ?
Sus.Nonsense! What do I care for my uncle, whom I hardly
know I have not laid eyes on him for ten years.
!

Bas [to Vlass]. This way. [They go into the study.]

Sus. [lighting a cigarette]. Won't you come, too?
Var. No. Is your uncle poor?
Sus. No. Rich. I suppose you think it's only poor relations I
don't like.
Var. I don't know.
Sus. [coughs irritably]. Now let me tell you that Zamysloff of yours
6 SUMMER-FOLK
will some day compromise Serguey. Indeed, he will! He's a rogue!
You don't believe me?
Var. [quietly]. don't wish to talk to you about him.
I

Sits. All right. [After a silence.'] And you I suppose you're —

proud of your directness. Take care! The part of a —
direct person is a
difficult one. To play it even passably, one must have lots of backbone,
audacity, and wit. — I don't want to hurt your feelings.
Var. I don't care.
Sus. You don't care to argue? Perhaps you really agree with me?
Var. [simply] I don't know how to argue. I don't know how to dis- —
cuss.
Sus. [gloomily]. Pray don't resent it. It's hard to believe that there
are persons who dare to be true to themselves.
Sasha [entering]. Olga Alekseyevna desired me to say that she is

coming. Shall I get the tea ready?

Var. Yes, please.
Sasha. Nikolai Petrovitch is coming, too. [Goes out.]
Sus. [going to the study door] Serguey, are you coming soon?
Bas. Yes.
Zamysloff [enters]. My greetings to my patroness! How do you
do, Piotr Ivanovitch.
Sus. [coughing]. My respects !
Well, you are a butterfly !

Zam. I am light-hearted! My purse is as light as my heart and my

head.
Sus. [with irony]. I will not dispute as to the head and heart, but as to
the purse
— won it away from somebody at the Club.
they say you
Zam
[softly]. You should have said I won it without adding more.
To win away from anybody is said of a man who cheats.
Var. We are always hearing something sensational about you.
That's the fate of uncommon men !

Zam. At any rate when I hear some scandal about myself I begin to
be convinced of my own excellence. —
Unfortunately I won only 42 roubles.
Sus. [coughs, goes to the left and looks out of the window.]
Bas [coming out]. Is that all! And I was dreaming of champagne.
— Well, have you anything to say? I am in a hurry. . . .

Zam. Are you going out? Then I'll speak to you later, there's no
 MAXIM GORKI 7

hurry.
— Varvara
Michailovna, I am so sorry you were not at the play.
Yulia Fillipovna acted splendidly !

Var. I know she generally acts well.

;

Zam. [with enthusiasm]. She has talent! Cut my head off if she
hasn't.
Sits,
[smiling sarcastically]. And if it were cut off? What would
you be without it? Well! Let's go, Serguey. Au revoir, Varvara Mich-
ailovna. Your servant. [He bows to Zamyslof.]
Bas. [peeping into the study where Vlass is sorting papers]. So! by
nine tomorrow morning you'll have all these papers copied !
—
can I count
on it?

Vlass. You may. And may you have a sleepless night, honored
patron !

[Sussloff and Bassoff go out.]

Zam. I am going, too. —
Pray give me your hand, my patroness.
Var. Stay and have some tea.

Zam. I will come later if you will allow me. [He goes out briskly. ~\

Vlass [coming out of the study~\. Varya, are they to have tea here?
Var. Call Sasha. [She places her hands on his shoulders.'] Why
do you look so tired?
Vlass [rubs his cheek against her hand]. I am tired. I was in Court

from 10 until 3. Then from 3 on, I ran about on errands, and had no time
to dine.
Var. You are only a clerk. You should be above that, Vlass.
Vlass. [sheepishly]. One should "aim for the top," I know.
But —
Varya,
—
since I love examples, I will take the example of the chimney-

sweep on the roof. —

To be sure he has climbed higher than any one, but is
he higher than himself?
Var. Don't be silly. Why don't you look out for another kind of
work, more useful, more important?
Vlass [making believe he is excited]. Madame! I take a strenuous,

though indirect part in the defence and guardianship of the sacred right of
property
—
and you call this useless labor What degenerate ideas
! !

Var. You don't wish to talk seriously?

[Sasha enters.]
Vlass [to Sasha]. Highly honored lady! Be generous, bring some
8 SUMMER-FOLK
tea and also something to eat.

Sasha. I'll bring it

directly. Would you like some croquettes, too?
Vlass. Yes, croquettes, or anything like that. I wait!
[Sasha goes out.']
Vlass [puts his arm round his sister's waist and walks with her up and
down]. Well! How goes it?
Far. Somehow I feel sad, dear Vlass. You know, sometimes, all of
a sudden — without
thinking, one feels as though one were in prison. —
Everything seems strange and unfriendly useless and no one seems to — —
be living in earnest. You, for —
instance, you are joking, fooling.
— —
Vlass \_assumes a comic pose].

Don't chide me, my friend,

For my often joking;
I wish to hide my woe
By my merry joking —
My own verses ! far superior to Kaleria's But I refrain. They are 5 yds.
— My dear
!

long. sister ! You want me to be serious? So a one-eyed man

wants everyone else to have only one eye.
[Sasha enters with the tea things and bustles around the table. The
rattle of the night watchman is heard outside.]
Far. Don't, Vlass Do be sensible.!

Flass. Very well [sadly]. [A pause.] But you are not generous,
sisterkin ! All day I am mum I copy all sorts of petitions and complaints
;

naturally I feel like chattering at night.

Far. Now, I feel more like going somewhere, where simple, whole-

some people live, where they talk differently and work earnestly, at some-
thing that everyone needs. You understand?
Flass [thoughtfully]. Yes, I understand. But you cannot escape,
Varya !

Far. I may.
—
I will go somewhere. [A pause.] [Sasha brings
the samovar] Shalimoff. will probably arrive tomorrow.
Flass [yawning]. I don't care for his last things. — They are dull
and uninteresting. They lack power.
Far. I saw him once at a party. I was a schoolgirl then. I re- — —
member as he came into the room he looked so strong, so energetic with
 MAXIM GORKI 9

hisunruly thick hair, and the frank, open face of a man who knows what
he loves and what he hates —
who realizes his power. I looked at him
and trembled for joy that such men exist. Yes, I was happy I remember !

how energetically he shook his head; how a dark strand of hair fell over his
forehead; and I can still see his inspired eyes. That was six or seven years

ago, no, eight years.

Vlass. You dream like a schoolgirl over a new teacher! Beware,
sister! Authors are masters in the art of conquest over women's hearts.
Var.Don't say that, Vlass, that's vulgar.
Vlass [warmly]. Don't be angry, Varya.
Far. Can't you understand that I am looking for him ... as
I look for Spring! —
My life is hard to bear.
Vlass. I understand, I understand. My life, too, is hard. — In fact
I am ashamed to live. — I can't see what's coming.
Var. Yes, yes, Vlass! But why do you ?

Vlass. Act like a clown ? I don't like to have any one see that I feel

unhappy.
Kaleria [entering]. What a beautiful night. And there you are, —
and what's more there's an odor of charcoal fumes here.
Vlass [awakening]. Good evening, Miss 'Abstraction.'
Kal. The forest is so silent, so plunged in thought. Oh, it's beauti-
ful ! The moon is soft, the shadows deep and warm. The day is never
as fine as the night.
Vlass [imitating her]. Yes, — old ladies are always jollier than
young girls,
— and cray-fish fly faster than swallows.
Kal. [seating herself at the table]. You don't understand things.
Pour me out some tea, Varya. Has any one called here?
Vlass [still jestingly]. No one. — 'To be or not to be.' — Since
no one is!
Kal. Please let me alone. [Vlass bows silently and withdraws to
the study, sorting papers on the table. The watchman's rattle and soft
whistle are heard from the window.]
Var. Did Yulia Fillipovna come to see you ?
Kal. Me? Yes, yes, she came to talk over the theatricals.
Var. Were you in the woods?
Kal. Yes, I met Rumin. —
He talked a great deal about you.
io SUMMER-FOLK
Far. What did he say?
Kal. You know. — [A pause, Vlass hums softly.']
Far. [sighing]. That's too bad!
Kal. For him?
Far. He told me once that to love a woman is man's tragic duty.
Kal. You thought differently of him once.
Far. You think then that it is my fault. Is that it?
Kal. Oh, no, Varya, no indeed
— And
!

Far. I tried at first to divert his mind. I showed him a great

deal of attention. — Then I saw what all that leads to. — And then, he
went off.

Kal. Did you have a final talk?

Far. No, no! not a word. [A pause.]
Kal. His love must be lukewarm and lack passion all words. — —
It lacks joy! And a joyless love offends a woman. Isn't he a humpback?
Far [surprised] I never noticed it.
. Do you think so ? Aren't you
mistaken
— and when
!

Kal. There is something inharmonious in his soul I see

that in a man, I begin to think that he is a physical monstrosity.

Flass [coming out of the study in a sad mood, shuffling his papers].
Taking into consideration the number of these briefs, I humbly represent
to you, patroness, that with the best intentions, it will be impossible for
my
me, in accordance with the wish of the patron, to complete the unpleasant
duty he has assigned me !

Far. I will help you later. Drink your tea !

Flass. Indeed you are a sister

Sister ! Be proud of this Miss ! !

'Abstraction,' learn to love your neighbor as long as I and my sister are

alive.
Kal. Let me tell you, you are a humpback, too.
Flass. From what point of view?
Kal. Your soul is humpbacked.
Flass. I hope does not spoil my looks.
it

Kal. Rudeness is as much of a defect as a hump. — Foolish men!

how much like humpbacks they are !

Flass [imitating her]. Those who are lame according to your aph-
orisms.
 MAXIM GORKI u
Kal. Vulgar men are to me as though they were marked with small-
pox, and they are generally blonde men.
Vlass. All dark men marry early; while the metaphysicians are blind
and deaf. —
It's a pity they are not dumb.

Kal. That's not even witty ! Most likely you are not familiar with
metaphysics.
Vlass. Yes, I know; tobacco and metaphysics are delectable things
for amateurs. I don't smoke, so I am ignorant as to tobacco, but I have

read the works of metaphysicians, and I can say that they produce nausea
and vertigo !

Kal. Weak brains grow dizzy even on the perfume of flowers.

Var. You will end by quarreling.
Vlass. I will eat; that's more to the point.
Kal. And I will play on the piano. — That's better. How hot it is

here, Varya
veranda. — Olga
!

Var. I will open the door of the is coming.

[A pause. Vlass sips his tea. Kaleria seats herself at the piano.
The soft whistle of the watchman is heard. Kaleria wanders softly over
the keyboard of the middle register. Olga Alekseyevna enters, pulling
the drapery aside quickly, as though she were a large frightened bird. She
throws of her grey shawl.']
Olga. Here I am !
— I had difficulty in getting away !
[She kisses

Varvara.] Good evening, Kaleria Vassilievna. Please go on playing; no

need to shake hands. How are you, Vlass?
Vlass. Good-evening, mutterchin !

Var. Sit down, sit down! Will you have some tea? Why didn't
you come before?
Olga [nervously]. Wait a moment. I was afraid. I thought
some one was hidden in the forest, some tramp. —
The watchmen keep —
whistling and it's such a shrill, doleful whistle. Why do they whistle so?
Vlass.
Yes, that's very alarming Aren't they hooting at us ?
!

Olga. wanted to run up here before, but Nadya was naughty.

I

Perhaps she wasn't feeling well. You know, Volka is ill, feverish. — —
Then I had to give Sonya a bath, and Meesha ran off into the woods after
dinner and has just come back, ragged, dirty, and hungry, of course. Then
my husband returned from the city out of sorts. Quite mum and scowling
12 SUMMER-FOLK
I was in a whirl. And the new maid is impossible She plunged the glass !

milk jars into boiling water and they cracked, of course.

Var. [smiling'] Why, my poor dear You are tired. !

—
.

Vlass.Oh, Martha, Martha! You care for much that's why

everything comes out overdone or underdone What wise words ! !

—
Kal. But inelegant —
'underdone,' 'overdone'! Fie!
Vlass. Pray pardon me. I am not the author of the Russian lan-
guage.
01ga [somewhat offended]. Of course you find all this ridiculous.
It does not entertain you? I understand. Well, what of that? all We
speak of what interests us most. When I think of the children, it's as
though I heard a bell within me. Yes, it's so difficult to manage children,
Vary a !

Var. Forgive me, dear, but

think you exaggerate. I

Olga [excitedly]. No, no, don't say that. You can't judge. You
don't know what an oppressive feeling it is, this responsibility for chil- —
dren !
They will ask me some day how they ought to live ! And then
what am I to say to them ?

Vlass. But why do you borrow trouble ? They may not ask. — They
may find out themselves how they'll have to live.
Olga. That's all you know !
They are asking already ! Terrible
questions such as no one can answer ! What a hardship, what a pity it is to
be a woman !

Vlass [in an undertone but with much earnest feeling]. One ought to
be human. [He goes into the study, sits at a table and writes.]
Var. Vlass, stop !
[She rises and slowly approaches the door lead-
ing out of the veranda.]
Kal.[romantically]. The smile of twilight puts out the starlight.
[She rises also from the piano and stands in the doorway beside Varvara.]
Olga.have made you all gloomy.
I Like a night-owl — !
Oh, Lord !

— Well! I'll say no more. Why did you go away, Varya? Come here,
or I will think that you can't bear to be with me.
Var.Nonsense, Olga I am simply touched.
—
!

Olga. Don't, dear I feel disgusted with myself,

! it's as though

my soul were shriveled like a little dog's. You know there are lap-dogs
like that. They are vicious, love no one and always want to snap at some
 MAXIM GORKI 13

one on the sly.

Kal. The sun rises and sets, but twilight reigns in the hearts of men.

Olga. What's that?

Kal. Nothing. I am talking to myself.

Vlass [in the study dolefully humming from the litany for the dead~\.
4 '

Family happiness Family happiness

! !

Far. Stop, Vlass, I beg of you !

Vlass. All right, I am mum.

Olga. It's my fault.
Kal. See all the people coming out of the forest. What a pretty

sight ! But how comically Pavel Sergueyevitch is swinging his arms !

Far. Who is with him?

Kal. Marya Lvovna, Yulia Fillipovna, Sonya, Zimin, and Zamysloff.
Olga [wraps herself in her shawl]. I am not properly dressed. That

elegant Madame Susloff will make fun of me. I can't bear her !

Far. Vlass, call Sasha.

Flass. My patroness, you are taking me away from the straight path
of duty. Beware !

Olga.The 'elegant' lady neglects her children; but strange to say,

they are always well.
Marya [entering by the door of the veranda]. Your husband told
me you were not feeling well. Is that so? What is the matter?
Far. I am glad you called, but I am quite well.
Mar. You look nervous. [To Olga]. You here also? It's a

long time since I saw you.

Olga. You say it as though you were pleased to see me, and I am
always complaining.
Mar.Perhaps I like complaints. are the children? How
Yulia [entering from the veranda]. Just see all the guests I bring
you! Never mind, we will not stay long! are you, Olga Aleksey- How
evna ! don't you gentlemen come in?
Why Varvara Michailovna, Pavel
Sergueyevitch, and Zamysloff are out there. Shall I call them in ?

Far. Certainly.
[The following speeches are spoken quickly.]
Yulia. Come, Kaleria.
Marya [to Vlass]. Why, have you lost flesh?
 i 4 SUMMER-FOLK
Flass. I don't know.
Sasha [entering]. Shall I fill the samovar?
Far. Yes, do, and be quick about it.
Mary a [to Vlass]. Why are you making faces?
Olga. He always does.
Vlass. That's my specialty !

Mary Trying hard to be witty.

a. Yes? And without success?
My dear Varvara, your Pavel Sergueyevitch has nervous prostration.
Far. Why you
do call him mine?
[Enter Rumin followed by Yulia and Kaleria. Vlass with a
scowl enters the study and shuts the door. Olga takes Marya aside and
whispers to her, pointing to her heart.]
Rumin. You will forgive our late intrusion?
Far. I am always pleased to see guests.
Yulia. That's the principal charm of country
life. But if you had
heard their disputes He and Marya Lvovna.
—
!

Rumin. I cannot speak indifferently of such important matters, of

what demands an explanation [Sasha brings the samovar.
Varvara at the table gives her directions and prepares the tea-cups.
Rumin at the piano keeps his eyes on her.]
Yulia. You are too nervous, and that's
why your arguments fail to
convince. [To Varvara] Your husband and mine are together armed
with weapons of suicide; they are drinking cognac, and I prophesy that they
will drink too much. My
husband's uncle has arrived unexpectedly, —
he is a beef-dealer or butter-merchant, — some kind of a merchant. He is

noisy and jolly, with grey hair and a stub-nose. He is quite entertaining!
' '
But where is Zamysloff ? My reasonable knight ?
Zam. [from the veranda]. 'I am here, Inezelia, under your win-
dow!'*
Yulia. Come
What have you been talking about?
in here.

Zam.
[entering]. have been demoralizing the young generation.
I

, Sonia and Zimin were trying to convince me that man has life
. . .

given him for the purpose of solving various social, moral and other prob-
lems, while I tried to convince them that life is an art. You understand, an

* The first verse of a Spanish ballad by Pushkin.

 MAXIM GORKI 15

art to look at everything with your own eyes and hear with your own ears.

Yulia. That's all bosh!

Zam. I have just invented it! But I feel this will be my firm belief.
Life is the art of finding beauty and joy everywhere, even in eating and
drinking. . . .
They dispute like vandals.
Yulia. Kaleria, stop your chatter.
Zam. I know you are a lover of beauty, Kaleria Vassilievna, — Why
don't you love me? That's a glaring contradiction.
Kal. [smiling]. Youare so noisy, so loud.
Zam. Hm ! But that's not to the point. I and this fine lady . . .

Yulia. Stop it! We came ....

Zam. [bowing]. To you !

Yulia. To ask
Zam {bowing lower]. You!
Yulia. I can't go on Let's go into your charming ! little room. . . .

I am so fond of it.
Zam. Yes Everything hinders us here.
!

Kal. [laughing]. Yes, come!

[They go towards the corridor.]
Wait a moment! Fancy,
Yulia. my husband's uncle's name is

Colon!
Zam. [makes two dots with his fingers in the air]. Colon! You
understand.
[They disappear behind the drapery, laughing.]
Olga. She is always so jolly, and yet, I know that her life with her
husband is not always pleasant.
Far. I don't think that concerns us, Olga.
Olga. I haven't said anything improper, have I ?

Rumin. Family tragedies are common now-a-days.

Sony a [looking in at the door]. Motherkin, I am going to take a
walk.
Mary a. Again ?
Sonya. Again! There are so many women here, and that's always
a bore.

Mary a [jestingly]. Be careful what you say; your mother is also a

woman.
 16 SUMMER-FOLK
Sony a [running towards her~\. Is that so, motherkin? How long
since?
Olga. What is she chattering about?
Var. She hasn't even stopped to say good evening.
Mary a. Soynka ! You are improper !

Sony a [to Varvara]. We saw each other today. But I'll kiss you
once more with delight. ... Iam kind and generous when it suits me
. or at least when
. . I can be so without an effort.

Sonya Stop fooling and run away.

Mary a. !

Sonya. See what a mother I have She called herself a woman just !

now. It is eighteen years since I made her acquaintance and I hear this

acknowledgment for the first time Remarkable ! !

Zimin [putting his head beyond the draperies~\. Are you coming or
not?
Sonya. Allow me to introduce my slave.
Var. Why don't you come in ?

Sonya. He is impossible in good society.

Zimin. She tore out the sleeve of my smoking-jacket,
— that's what's
the matter!
Sonya. Is that all? He is not satisfied with that, but wants more!
Motherkin I will call for you, will that be all right? I am going to hear

how Max will talk to me of love eternal.

Zimin. Not much !

Sonya. We'll see, young man. Au revoir. Is the moon up?

Zimin. I am not a young man — in Sparta. Now, look here, Sonya,
why do you jostle a man who
Sonya. You man
are not a yet. Go on, Sparta !

[Their voices and laughter are heard for some time near the house.,]
Rumin. You have a fine girl, Marya Lvovna.
Olga. I was like that at her age.
Var. It's delightful to see how you treat each other. Delightful.
[ To all.~\Please be seated and drink your tea !

Marya. Yes, we are friends.

Olga. Friends! How did you do it?
Marya. What?
Olga. Win your child's friendship.
 MAXIM GORKI 17

Marya. Very simply. We

should be sincere with our children, not
hide the truth from them, or deceive them.
Rumin [with a smile]. This is somewhat risky, you know. Truth is
cold and stern, and the pernicious poison of skepticism is ever concealed
therein. You may thus poison a child's mind at once, revealing to it the
terrible face of truth.

Marya. And you prefer to poison it gradually? So as not to notice

yourself how you will distort it?

Rumin [excitedly and nervously]. No, no, I never said so. I am
only opposing those unwise and unnecessary revelations, those attempts to
strip life of the beautiful garb of poetry which conceals its rude and fre-
quently hideous aspects. We should embellish life! We should prepare
new garments for it before discarding the old ones !

Marya. What are you talking about? I don't understand.

Rumin. I am speaking of man's right to covet deception. You speak
of often enough.
life Life! But what is life? When you speak the
word, rises
itbefore me like a giant monster, constantly calling for human
victims. It devours the brain and force of man daily, greedily drinks his
blood. listens attentively to Rumin's words, and an ex-
[Varvara
pression of wonder gradually steals over her face. She makes a motion
as though to stop Rumin.] Why is it thus? I see no reason in it, but I
know that the longer a man lives the more filth, vulgarity, vileness, and
roughness he sees the more he longs for beauty, brightness, and
. . .

purity! . . . He can't do away with the contradictions of life, can't ban-

ish all its eviland filth Don't, then, take from him the right to see what
!

kills the soul Grant him the right to turn aside from the facts that offend
!

him !A man seeks rest and oblivion, peace [He meets the eyes of !

Varvara, trembles and breaks off.]

Marya [quietly]. Your ideal man has become a bankrupt? I am
very sorry. Only in this way do you claim for him the right to rest peace-
fully. I am sure you don't flatter him.
Rumin [to Varvara]. Excuse me for talking so loud. ... I

see, you oppose this.

Far. If I do, it isn't because you are nervous.

Rumin. What, then, is your reason?
Far. [slowly and calmly] I remember two .
years ago, you spoke dif-
18 SUMMER-FOLK
ferently, but with as much fervor and conviction.
Rumin [agitated] . A man grows, develops, as well as his thoughts.
Marya. This tiny, dark thought flutters like a frightened bat.
Rumin [still agitated]. It rises in a spiral, but still it rises higher.
You suspect me of insincerity, Marya Lvovna?
Marya. I? No; I see you are sincere. You are excited, and al-

though hysterics fail to convince me —

I am at a loss to understand. It is as

though something had frightened you you would like to hide from . . .

life But I know you are not the only one who does. There are
many such frightened people.
Rumin. Yes, there are hosts of them, because men feel more and
more keenly that life is
Everythingcruel. strictly in it is foreordained . . .

only man's being accidental, senseless, and aimless.

is

Marya [calmly]. Then you should try all the more to make this
accident a fact of social necessity;. — then your
would not be senseless. life

Olga. Heavens When people say anything severe and condemn-

!

ing, I shrivel up, as though were condemned. How little kindness there
I

is in life. Well, I must go home It's so cosy here, Varya, ! and then . .

one hears something interesting, and the better part of the soul seems to
respond. . .It's getting late, too, and it's time to go.
.

Far. Don't go yet, my dear. Why are you in such haste, all at
once? They'll send for you if they need you.
Olga. Yes, that's so. Well, I'll stay awhile. [She goes and sits
down on the sofa and curls herself up like a ball. Rumin nervously taps
his fingers on the panes of the glass door.]
Far. [pensively]. We
live strange lives! We
talk and talk, and
there it ends. We have many opinions, ... we accept and reject
—
. . .

them with unwholesome speed. But when it comes to wishes, . . .

defined and strong, —

we don't have them at all.
Rumin. Is that meant for me?
Far. I include all. We live an ugly, dull and insincere life.
Yulia [rushing in] Help me, gentlemen . !

Kal. Really, that's unnecessary!

Yulia. She has written a new poem and has promised to read it at
our soiree for the benefit of the children's colony. I request that it ...
shall be read here, now. Gentlemen ! ask her !
 MAXIM GORKI 19

Rumin. Please read it ! I love your caressing verses.

Marya. Yes, I should love to hear it. We grow rude in discussions.

Do read it, my dear.

Var. something new, Kaleria?
Is it

Kal. Yes, but it's poetry in prose and rather uninteresting.

Yulia. Do read it, sweetheart. It's so little trouble to you! Do!
[She drags her off .]

Marya. But where is Vlass?

Var. He is in the study. He has a great deal to do.

Marya. I Really it's too bad to

was somewhat curt with him. see
him making a clown of himself.
Var. Yes. But you should be a little more lenient with him. He
is a dear man, much advised, but never petted.

Marya [smiling] . Like the rest of us. . . . That's why we are all

rude and rough.

Var. He lived with his father, a tippler, who abused him.
Marya. I'll go to him. [She goes to the door of the study, raps
and enters.]
Rumin [to Varvara]. You are becoming more and more intimate
with Marya Lvovna, isn't that so?
Var. I like her.

Olga [in an undertone]. How severely she judges everything!

Rumin. Marya Lvovna possesses in a high degree the severity of the
faithful . . . a blind and cold severity. How can this please?
Dudakof [enters from the corridor]. My greetings to you. You
here, Olga? Coming home soon?
Olga. Iam ready. Have you been walking?
Var. Would you like a glass of tea, Kyrill Akimovitch?
Dud. Tea? No. I don't drink it at night. ... I should
like to see you, Pavel Sergueyevitch. Can I see you tomorrow at your
house ?
Rumin. Certainly.
Dud. It's in regard to the colony of the minor criminals.
They are again in mischief devil take them . . . !

Rumin. They are abused, I know, and yesterday the papers accused
us .
you and me.
. .
20 SUMMER-FOLK
Dud. Yes; — in general, — there is no time to look into everything.

Everybody has his own affairs to

manage, .... and they can't do it.
Why? I am tired. I walked out into the woods. It did me good. My
nerves are on edge.
Var. You look careworn.
Dud. Very likely. This donkey of a mayor reprimands me. He
says: 'You don't economize enough! The patients eat too much and use
too much quinine.' The idiot! In the first place, that's none of his busi-
ness He ought to drain the streets in the lower part of the city,
then I wouldn't touch his quinine. I don't use it myself? Do I? I
despise it ... . and his insolence as well.
Olga. Is it worth while to get vexed at such trifles? You should
have been used to them, long ago.
Dud. But if all life is made of And what do you mean when trifles?

you say 'used to them'? Used to what? To have every idiot stick his
nose into your business and interfere with your life? Yes, I am getting
used to that. My reason tells me I must economize .... all right !

I'lldo so ! It's bad for the

business, but I'll economize. I have no other
practice and can't give up the devilish place.
Olga [reprovingly]. On account of your family? Yes? This is
not the first time I hear from you, and you could have spared me here
this
— you rough and tactless man [She throws her shawl over her head and
!

quickly goes into Varvara's room.]

Var. Olga What's the matter with you
! ?

Olga [almost sobbing]. Let me be, let me be ! ... I heard what

he said [Both disappear in Varvara's room.]
Dud. There I had no idea, ! Pavel Sergueyvitch, forgive me,
please. This is quite unexpected. I am so upset. [He turns quickly and
collides withKaleria and Yulia in the doorway.]
Yulia. The Doctor has almost taken us off our feet. What's the
matter with him?
Rumin. Nerves. [Varvara enters.] Has Olga Alekseyevna
. . .

gone?
Var. Yes, she's gone.
Yulia. I distrust this doctor. He is such a sickly-looking person

. . stammers .... and is so absent-minded that he tucks the

 MAXIM GORKI 21

teaspoons into his spectacle case and stirs his tea with his surgeon's hammer.
. . He may make mistakes in his prescriptions and give some inju-
. .

rious drug.
Rumin. I believe he will end in suicide.
Var. You so calmly.
say it

Rumin. among doctors are frequent.

Suicides
Var. Words agitate you more than men do. Don't you think so?
Rumin [shuddering]. Oh, Varvara [Kaleria seats herself at the !

piano, Zamysloff is beside her.]

Zam. Are you comfortable?
Kal. Yes, thank you.
Zam. Attention, gentlemen !

[Marya and Vlass enter; they are both animated.']

Vlass. poetry to be read here ?
Is the

Kal [with temper] If you wish to hear

. it you must stop talking.
Vlass. Let all life cease.

Marya. Silence ! Silence !

Kal. I am very glad. This is poetry in prose. Music will be set

to it in time.

Yulia. Melo-declamation ! How fine ! I love it ! I love every-

thing original. Automobiles, colored postal cards please me like a child.
Vlass [imitating her]. Earthquakes, gramophones, influenza.
Kal. [in a loud, shrill voice]. Will you allow me to read?
[All are seated. Kaleria softly touches the piano.]
'
It's called Edelweiss.'

The ice and snow with their eternal robe cover the Alpine summits and
over them cold silence reigns —
the wise silence of the haughty summits.
Boundless above them is the desert of skies and the myriad eyes of the
planets look sadly down upon the snow-bound heights.
At the foot of the hills, yonder, on the narrow
valleys of the earth,
life grows and struggles, while the sad lord of the plains man suffers. — —
In the dark caves of the earth groans and laughter, cries of rage and
whispers of love unite in one sad chord. But the stillness of the summits
and the gaze of the passionless stars disturb not the deep sighs of men.
and snow with their unchangeable robe eternally cover the sum-
Ice
mits of the Alps, and cold silence, —
the wise silence of the haughty heights
22 SUMMER-FOLK
reigns above them.
But on the border line of the ice, in the kingdom of perpetual silence,
grows the sad mountain flower — the Edelweiss — as though to tell some one
of the sorrows of earth and of the sufferings of weary men.
Above it, in the endless space of heaven, the proud sun moves silently,
the dumb moon sheds a sad light and the mute stars glimmer and shine.
And the icy robe of stillness descending from above, surrounds the
lonely flower
—
the Edelweiss.

[A -pause. All remain silent and wrapt in thought. The watch-

man's whistle is heard in the distance. With wide open eyes, Kaleria
looks before her.~\
Yulia [in an undertone]. How beautiful! So sad — so pure!—
Zam. I say, when you read this, you ought to wear a loose white

gown, as fluffy as the Edelweiss, you understand. That would be intensely

beautiful charming
! !

Vlass [approaching the piano]. I like it, too! [Laughs bashfully.]

I do like it It's fine
! !
—
It's like an iced cranberry drink on a hot day.

Kal. Go away.
Vlass. Don't be angry, — I am sincere.
Sasha. Mr. Shalimoff has arrived.

[General commotion. Varvara goes towards the door and pauses

as she sees Shalimoff, who enters.']
Shal. Have I the pleasure of seeing — ?

Far. [hesitating]. Pray

— walk — Serguey in. will return presently.

ACT II

A meadow front of the Bassoffs' veranda, thickly encircled with

in

pines, firs, and birches, hi front, on the left, under some pines, a round
table and three chairs. In the rear the low veranda of the house with an
awning. Opposite, a wide settee, fitted in between the trunks of a group of
trees. Beyond, the road. Still more to the rear, on the right, a small,
open, shell-shaped stage. On the left, a road leading to the Sussloffs'
country-house. A
few seats face the stage. Evening. Sunset. Kaleria
is playing on the piano at the Bassoffs'. Pustobaika, the watchman,
moves about in a leisurely way, placing seats for the audience. Kropil-
 MAXIM GORKI 23

KIN, with a gun slung behind his back, stands near the pines.
Kropilkin. All new folks?
Pustobaika. What's that?
Kro. I say, all new folks? Not the same people who rented it last
Summer?
Pus [taking his pipe out']. They're all alike.

Kro. [sighing] . To be sure. They are all the same kind of gentry.
Oh, oh, oh!
Pus. Summerfolk are all alike. I have seen hosts of them, these five

years. To me they are like bubbles in a puddle of water, they swell and
burst,
— burst. . . That's the way of it.
.

[ Young people with accordions, mandolins, and guitars appear on the

forest road.]
Kro. They have music, too Are they going to play on the stage?
!

Pus. Certainly. Why

shouldn't they?
Kro. I never saw the gentry act. I suppose it's funny? Have you
seen them?
Pus. Yes, many times. I have seen many sights. [On the right
Colon's distant laughter is heard.]
Kro. How do they do it?
Pus. Very simply. up in other men's clothes and say
They dress —
all sorts of things,
just
— them what
best. They shout and bustle
suits —
about as though they were doing some work they make believe they're
—
angry and deceive one another. One makes believe he's honest, an- —
other that he's clever or unhappy — Whatever suits 'em,
'

they act. [A whistle on the left, and a voice calling a dog: Bayan !

'

Bayan ! Pustobaika strikes the seat with the back of his axe.]
Kro. Is that So that is how they do it! And do they sing?
so?
Pus. They don't sing much. The engineer's wife squeals now and
then, but she has a thin voice.
Kro. The gentry are coming.
[Colon appears on the right of the stage, followed by Sussloff.]
Colon [good-naturedly]. Don't laugh at me! You can't compete
with me! You are only 40 and you are bald; I am about 60 and my hair
curls even though I am grey. So! There you are! Oh! Oh! Oh!
[Pustobaika still goes on clumsily arranging the seats. Kropilkin
carefully withdraws.]
24 SUMMER-FOLK
Sus. That's your luck! Go on. — I am listening.
Colon. Let's sit down. Germans came.
Well, then ! as I said, the

My was an old one, the machinery not good for much

factory whereas —
they set up new machinery, and their goods
— were superior to mine and
cheaper. I saw that my business would run down. I thought it over, I —
couldn't compete with the Germans. So I decided to sell out to them.
[He lapses into silence. ]
Sus. And you sold everything out?
Colon. an old and extensive house. And now I
—my have
I left city house,
am out of business, I only one business
—
that's to count my money.
Oh Ho! I am an
old fool, if the truth be known. ... sold out and
I

an orphan. —
!

at once felt like I am lonesome and Idon't know what do to

with myself. Here are hands, for instance, ... never noticed
— now my
I

them before swing

they like useless things.

[He laughs.
pause. A
Varvara appears on the veranda with
her hands behind her back and slowly walks up and down.~\ There is
Bassoff's wife walking up and down. fine woman. She draws like a A
magnet! were ten years younger.
If I only —
Sus. I thought you were married?

Colon. I have been married several times. But some of my wives —

died, and others ran away.
—
I had children, too; two girls. Both died. —
And a boy. — —
He was drowned. I was lucky where women were con-
cerned. —
I got them all here, in Russia, and easily, too, it's not hard —
to get wives away from husbands in Russia Russians make bad husbands! !

Sometimes I came and looked about me and I saw that the wife
was a worthy woman, while the husband was a nonentity. So I would win
her over. —
Oh! oh! [Vlass appears on the veranda; he stands and
looks at his sister. Yes, all that is past and gone. And now there is —
nothing more,
— ~\

nobody and nothing, you understand!

—
Sus. How do you expect to live now?
Colon. I don't know. Advise me! By the way, my dear boy, your
* and
botvinya suckling pig are impossible dishes; whoever eats pig in
Summer. — It's an anachronism.
Vlass [speaking to Varvara]. Well, Varya?

* A cold soup of kvas, sliced cucumbers, sifted spinage, and cold fish.
 MAXIM GORKI 25

Var. [to Vlass]. Nothing.

—
I am a poor mortal, am I not?

Vlass [putting his arm about her waist']. I would like to tell you

something comforting
—
but I don't know what to say.
Var. Don't mind me, dear.
Colon. Mr. Chernoff is coming our way.
Sus. Clown !

Colon. He
not the bashful kind, but a loafer, I believe.
is

Vlass [approaching]. is a loafer? Who

Colon. My
nephew. Oh! oh! Perhaps you too are not much of
a business man? Are you?
Vlass. Since I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, estimable
Semion Semionovitch, I take it that when you say 'business' you mean
squeezing your neighbor out of his worldly goods? Alas! I am not a
business man in that sense of the word.
Colon. Oh! Oh! Don't despair! In youth, you understand that's
not an easy matter; the conscience is still tender, and the head is filled with

pink jelly instead of brains. But when you mature, you will stride some-
one's neck most comfortably. Oh! oh! Prosperity is attained much more
easily if you stride your neighbor's neck.
Vlass. I believe you; you are surely an experienced man in such
matters.
[He bows and withdraws.]
Colon. I suppose he is tickled at saucing me.
Well, let him; let the

youngsters have their fun.

[His head droops and he is silent.]

Kal. [appearing on the veranda]. You don't wish to make up?
Var. [in an undertone]. I can't.

Kal. Whose advent are you expecting now?

Var. I don't know I don't know. ;

[Kaleria shrugs her shoulders, descends the steps of the veranda,

goes to the left and disappears round the corner of the house.]
Colon. Well, Petrucha, how am I to live now?
Sus. It can't be decided right off. I must think it over.

Colon. Can't be decided, eh? — What did you say?

Sus. I didn't say anything.
Colon. No, and you never will, that's what I think. [Bassoff and
26 SUMMER-FOLK
Shalimoff are seen coming out of the forest on the right. They bow as
they pass and sit down at the table under the pines. Bassoff has a towel
hanging round his neck.'] There are the lawyer and the author. [Ad-
dressing them.] Are you taking a walk?
Bas. We've just had a dip.
Colon. Is the water cold?
Bas. So, so.
Colon. I think
take a bath, too.
I'll Come, Piotr; I may be drowned;
then you'll get your legacy all the quicker !

Sus. No, must speak with them.

I can't go. I

Colon. Well, I am going. [He rises and goes into the forest on the
right. Susloff follows him with his eyes. Smiles and goes towards
Bassoff.]
Bas. Varya, order a bottle of beer here, order three bottles. Well,
how is your uncle?
[Varvara goes in.]
Sus. He annoys me.
Bas. Yes, old people are not entertaining.
Sus. though he meant to live with me.
It looks as
Bas. Does he ? Is that so ? Well, what are you going to do ?
Sus. Deuce knows I suppose it will be as he wishes.
!

[Sasha brings the beer.]

Bas. don't
Shal. amI —why
Well, Iakov,
tired.
By
you something?
way, what's name of
the
say
the this belligerent

lady?
Bas. Marya Lvovna. — Eh, such words Piotr, a battle of as we had
at dinner!
Sus. With Marya Lvovna, of course.
Shal. A fierce woman, I say !

[Varvara reappears on the veranda.]

Sus. I don't fancy her.
Shal. am gentle, but I confess I was almost rude to her.
I

Bas. She abused you !

Shal. [to Sussloff]. Put yourself in my place. A man writes, feels

deeply
—
finally he simply becomes exhausted. He comes to his friends to
rest, to rusticate, to collect his thoughts. . . . All at once a lady appears
 MAXIM GORKI 27

and begins to question him What are your beliefs? What are your ideals?
:

Why don't you write of this? don't you mention that? Then she
Why
says, this passage is clear, and that one false, ugly. dear woman, — — My
write it yourself, then it will be clear, and true, and noble Write like a !

genius, only leave me alone ! Oh my !

Bas. You must bear it, my friend When people travel on the Volga
—
!

it is when people meet an

they make a business of eating Sterlet soup; so

author, — every one else wants to seem clever. You must bear it !

Shal. It's indelicate ! It's not clever! Does she come here often?
Bas. No. —
mean, yes, rather often.
I I am not fond of her, either!

She is as straight as a ramrod. She is my wife's —

friend, and (I confess)
she has spoilt my wife. [He looks round and sees Varvara on the terrace.]
You here, Varya?
Far. As you see.
[Zamysloff and Yulia Fillipovna are walking briskly on the road
that leads from Sussloff's house. They are laughing. Shalimoff with
a smile looks at Bassoff, who seems uneasy.']
Zam. Varvara We are getting up
! a picnic.
Yulia. How do you do, my dear !

Var. Come in.

[They disappear in the house. SUSSLOFF rises and slowly follows

them.]
Zam. Is Kaleria Vassilievna at home?
Shal. [laughing]. I believe you are a little afraid of your wife, Ser-
guey?
Bas [with a sigh]. Nonsense! She a splendid woman!
is

Shal. [with a smile]. Then why do you say it so dolefully?

Bas. You see she is jealous of me — in regard to my assistant. You
understand?
,

— And his wife, .... just observe her.

— I tell you,
she is most fascinating woman
a !

[SoNYA and ZlMlN pass at the back of the stage.]

Shal. Is that so? We'll keep an eye on her. But let me tell you
that this Marya Lvovna takes away all my desire to get acquainted with the
ladies of the neighborhood !

Bas. Well, this lady is entirely different. I tell you she is simply

a stunner ! You will see for yourself. [A pause.] You haven't published
28 SUMMER-FOLK
anything for some time, Yacov. Are you writing anything important ?
Shal. [annoyed]. Absolutely nothing, I tell you! What can I write
when I can't understand anything. Men seem to be somehow tangled up,
contradictory, slippery, intangible.
—
Bas. That's what you should portray, — you should say: 'I don't
understand it.' Be sincere above all things.
Shal. Thank you for the advice. Sincerity ! It isn't that ! I cer-

tainly could do one thing sincerely: I could lay down my pen and like Dio-
cletian start a
cabbage patch.
[Beggars are heard singing softly round the corner of Bassoff's
house: 'Benefactors who feed us; give us alms for Christ's and the holi-
day's sake,
—
we will pray for your parents.' Pustobaika appears and
goes towards the sound to drive the beggars off.~\ No, I must eat, which
means that I must write, and for whom am I writing? I am at a loss to
know. The reader ought to be clearly conceived in one's mind. Who
and what he is. Five years ago I was sure I knew my reader and what he
expected of me
—
and all at once, —
I can't explain how, I lost him. —
That's where the tragedy comes in. They say a new reader has come to the
front now. Who is he? —
Bas. I don't understand you. What do you mean by losing your '

reader'? Here am I .... all of us, the intelligent public of the

land,
— are we not readers? I don't understand. How
can you lose us?
Shal. [thoughtfully]. The
intelligent public
— of course I am not
thinking about that
—but about this 'new' reader.
Bas. [shakes his head]. Well, I don't understand.
Shal. Neither do I. I go about and see people. They are a dis-

tinctly different type, face, eyes, everything. I look at them ;

I feel that

they won't read me they are not interested in that sort of thing. 'Last
;

Winter I read at a social gathering —

the same thing happened. I saw

many eyes attentively fixed on me, examining me, but they were strangers
to me, —
they don't sympathize with me. They don't need me —
any
—
more than they do Latin. —
I am too old for them and all my thoughts —
are old. — I don't know who they are, whom
they love, what they want.
Bas. Yes; that's interesting. Only think your nerves are playing
I

you a trick. You will rest here and relax, then you will find your reader.
The principal thing in life is a calm, attentive attitude towards everything —
 MAXIM GORKI 29

that's what I believe in. go Now,

Well, let's in. Yasha, I have a request

to make. I wish you would — somehow — one way in or another — act

the peacock's part.

Shal. [surprised]. What's — that? the peacock's part. What's that
for?
Bas. I mean
open your peacock's fan and show off your feathers to
my wife — Varya — get her interested for friendship's sake. —
Shal. [after a pause]. You mean I must play the part of a lightning
conductor. You are a queer man. All right, if you say so.
Bas. No, no, don't think I mean anything she's a dear girl only — —
somehow she pines for something. Everybody's longing for something
now a— certain attitude of mind, perhaps. Queer conversations all —
bosh, you know By the way, are you married? I heard you were, that is,
!

I heard that you were divorced.

Yes, and married again, and divorced again.

Shal. It is not easy,

you know, to find a comrade in a wife.

Bas. Yes, that's true, very true, my dear fellow. [They enter the
house. A lady in a yellow dress and a young man in a plaid suit come out
of the ivoods.]
The Lady. No one yet 1 And it was to begin at 6 ! I like that !

The Man. I reallyought to act the leading man's parts.

The Lady. That's what I thought.
The Man. Yes, the leading man's parts, and he gives me the comic
parts ! It's absurd, I say !

The Lady. He
keeps all the best parts for himself. [They re-enter
the forest on the right. Sonya and Zimin appear from the opposite direc-
tion. In the rear of the stage Sussloff is seen walking slowly towards his
house.]
Zimin [in a low voice]. I won't go, Sonya. I leave tomorrow, you
know.
Yes, go, but do be careful, Max, I beg of
you.
—Sonya [also speaks low].

Zimin [takes her hand]. And you, too, ....

Sonya. Au revoir! —
We'll meet in three weeks, not before?
Zimin. not before. Au revoir, dear Sonya. In my absence,
don't — [He No, hesitates and is silent.]

Sonya. Well?
3o SUMMER-FOLK
Zimin. No; nothing — just foolishness. Au revoir, Sonya !
—
'

Sony a [detaining his hand]. No; tell me, in your absence,' what?
Zimin [softly, looking down]. You won't marry?
Sonya. Don't you dare to speak that way, Max, nor think, either!
Do you hear me That's absurd, and mean.
! You understand, Maxim !

Zimin. Don't, don't be offended !

Forgive me, please All sorts !

of foolish thoughts come into my head! A man is not master of his

thoughts, you know.
Sonya [excitedly]. That's not true! That's a lie, Maxim. I want
you to know that it's a lie, invented to justify weakness; remember, Maxim,
I don't believe it. Go !

Zimin [presses her hand]. Yes, dear Sonya, I will remember . . .

I will! Au revoir, my
darling! [Zimin hastily disappears behind the cor-
ner of. the house. Sonya
looks after him and slowly mounts the steps of
the veranda, and then goes into the house. Dudakoff, Vlass, and
Marya Lvovna come out of the woods on the right, followed by Colon.
Marya Lvovna sits down on the settee. Colon sits beside her. Yawns.]
Dud. Men are thoughtless, and life is hard. Why is that?
Vlass. I am aware of that, doctor! I'll go on with my story: My
father was a cook, a man of changeable moods he loved me devotedly and
took me
along wherever he went like his pipe. —
I ran away several times
;

to my mother, but he would come to the laundry where she worked, smash

things generally, and recapture me. While he was with the Bishop a fatal
thought entered his head to educate —
me! He put me into a seminary for
the clergy. But after a few months, my father left the Bishop's service and
hired himself out to an engineer, and I was transferred to a school for rail-
way engineers. Next year I was put into an agricultural school, because
my father entered the service of a president of a Zemstvo commission. The
art school and the commercial school had also the honor of harboring me.

Briefly, at seventeen, the distaste for science absolutely prevented my study-

ing anything, even a game of cards or how to smoke. Why do you look
at me in that way, Marya Lvovna ? —
Marya [lost in thought]. It is all so sad.
Vlass. Sad? But it is all in the past.

A woman with a bandaged cheek. Say, have you seen Genitchka?

He is a little boy. Didn't he come this way? He wore a straw hat. He
 MAXIM GORKI 31

has flaxen hair.

Marya. No, we haven't seen him.
The Woman. That's too bad He ! is the RozoftY boy ! He is real
smart haven't you seen him ?
;

Vlass. No, we haven't see him.

[The woman mutters something and disappears in the woods.']

Colon. Well, Mr. Chernoff, I must say that you understand — —
Vlass. What? No, I don't.
Colon. I like you.
Vlass. Really ?
Colon. That's the truth.
Vlass. I am delighted for your sake! [Colon laughs. ~\

Dud. You will not get on, Vlass !

Vlass. When ?
Dud. Never. In general.
Colon. Of course,you won't get on
—
because you are honest and
upright, .... and every one, you understand, is interested to try,
— whether you will ever bend.
Vlass. That remains to be seen ! Meanwhile let's have some tea.

The folks are probably at the tea-table.

Dud. Yes, that's the thing to do.
Colon. I wouldn't object to going. But is it proper for me to go?
Vlass. Certainly, gran'pa. I'll lead the way. [He runs ahead, the
rest slowly follow.]
Colon. A very nice fellow.

Marya. Yes, a good fellow, only he shouldn't mock at life.

Colon. That's nothing. That will right itself in time. In general,
honesty is fastened to a man somewhere on the outside, like a necktie, so to

speak. A
man usually advertises himself I am honest 'I am honest
:
'
!
'
!
'

'I am a maiden
'

When a girl says about herself, I am a maiden

'
it's a !
'
!

sure sign she is no longer a maiden ! Ha ! ha ha

beg your pardon.
! ! I

Marya. Who can stop you !

[ They go up on the veranda. Suss-
LOFF meets them.]
Colon. Where are you bound, Piotr?
Sus. Nowhere. To get a smoke outdoors.
[Sussloff goes slowly towards his house. The woman with a band-
32 SUMMER-FOLK
aged cheek runs towards him. A gentleman wearing a tall hat comes out
of the forest, stops and shrugs his shoulders. ]
The Woman. Have you seen a little boy, sir? Kolichka. I mean —
Genitchka. —
He wore a jacket!
Sus. No. Off with you !

[ The woman runs away.]

The Gentleman [bowing politely~\. I beg your pardon, sir, were you
looking for me?
Sus. [surprised]. I wasn't looking for anybody. That woman was.
The Gentleman. You see I was invited to play the leading part.
Sus. [walkingaway]. That does not concern me!
The Gentleman [offended]. But, allow me, whom does it concern?
Where can the stage manager be found? I have been looking for him for
two hours. Is he gone? —
The ignoramus! [Goes up on the stage and
disappears behind the scenery. Olga is coming on the road from Suss-
loff's house.]
Olga. How do you do, Piotr Ivanovitch?
Sus. Good evening. Don't you think it is sultry?
Olga. Sultry? I think it's

Sus. [lighting a cigarette]. I am stifling. I met some crazy people.

They are looking for boys and stage managers.
Olga. Is that so? You are tired? Your hands shake.
Sus. [goes back with her to Bassoff's house]. It's because I drank
too much lastnight and slept poorly.
Olga. Why do you drink?
Sus. To live merrier.

Olga. Have you met my husband?

Sus. He is drinking tea at the Bassoffs'.
Far. [appearing on the veranda]. Are you coming to see me, Olga?
Olga. I am taking a walk.

Far. Why did you leave Piotr Ivanovitch ?

Sus. [smiles]. am about, as usual. I was tired of listening to the

I

honorable author and Marya Lvovna.

Far. Is that it? You are not interested? I am. —
Sus [shrugs his shoulder]. You are at liberty to be. Au revoir,
meanwhile.
[He goes towards his house.]
 MAXIM GORKI 33

Olga [in a subdued voice]. Do

you understand why he acts like that?

Far. No. I don't care to. we go in?

Shall

Olga. Stay with me awhile; they won't miss you.

Far. Certainly not. What ails you?
Olga. How can I be indifferent, Varya? He returned from town,
looked in for a minute and disappeared. . . .
Surely you don't think
that can make me happy?
Far. He is at our house. [ They walk slowly towards the group of
pines.]
Olga [excitedly]. He runs away from me and the children. I under-
stand he needs rest from his work. But I am tired, too, very tired ! I can't
do anything, everything fallsfrom my hands. This maddens me 1 He
should remember that I gave him my strength and youth everything
— !

Far. [kindly]. My dear Olga. It seems to me you like to complain.

No? Am I mistaken? [Muffled voices are heard disputing within; they
grow louder.]
Olga. I don't know.
Perhaps you are right! I shall tell him —
that it's better that I should go and the children. — —
Far., That's a good plan You must simply part for a while. Go
—
!

I'll give you the money.

Olga. I already owe you so much.

Far. Nonsense Calm yourself. Let us sit down here.

!

Olga. I hate myself because I cannot live without your help. You
think it's easy for me to take your money
— your husband's money? How
can I respect myself if I don't know how — must have some one
to live if I

to brace me up all my life. Sometimes, let me tell you, I don't even like
you,
— I hate you ! Because you are so calm, and you only reason ; you
don't feel.
Far. Dearest, I only know how to be silent. I can't allow myself to
complain
— that's all !

Olga. Those who help men, must despise them in their hearts. I
want to be the one to help. [Rumin passes quickly and enters the house of
the Bassoffs.]
Far. So that you could despise men?
Olga. Yes, I don't love them. I don't like Marya Lvovna, — why
3
34 SUMMER-FOLK
does she judge so harshly? I don't like Rumin he only argues and does —
nothing, dares nothing. I don't like your husband. He has become as soft
as putty, he afraid of you. Is that nice? And your brother
is — is in love
with that arguer, that wicked Marya Lvovna.
Far. [surprised, reprehensively]. Olga Olga What ails you!
wrong —
! !

You are listen!

Olga. Yes, yes, I may be wrong! And that haughty Kaleria She
of beauty! —
!

talks she simply wants to marry!

Far. [coldly and sternly]. Olga You must not give vent to such feel-
!

ings. It will put you in such a bad light.

Olga [under her breath, but emphatically and viciously .] I don't care

where it
puts me if only I escape this slow torture ! I want to live ! I am as

good as anybody else! I understand everything! I am not a fool! I see

that you, too — oh! I understand! You can enjoy life. Your husband is
rich — he is not any too scrupulous in matters —
business says that.
You must know it! And you, too,
— you have planned everyone
some way to have
no children. —
Far. [rises slowly and looks at Olga
Planned? What in surprise'].
do you mean ?
Olga [hesitating]. I didn't mean anything. I only wanted to say —
my husband told me that many women don't want to have children. —
Far. I don't understand; but I feel that
you suspect me in something
low. I don't choose to ask what it is.

Olga. Don't talk so, Varya. Don't look at me in that way. Only
it's true that your husband
people talk —
about him.
Far. [shuddering, speaking deliberately]. You were like a sister to
me. Had I not known how hard your life was — if I hadn't remembered
that once we planned a different life.

Olga [sincerely] .
Forgive me — do ! I —
am. wicked.
Far. We planned a good, cheerful life and we have both buried our
dreams. It hurts me, Olga. Did you mean it? —
It hurts.

Olga. Don't, Varya, don't !

Far. I am
going. [Olga rises.] No, don't follow me, don't !

Olga. Forever, Varya, forever?

Far. Don't speak! Wait —
I don't understand why you should

have attacked me?

 MAXIM GORKI 35

[Colon quickly comes down the steps of the veranda, and approach-
ing Varvara, takes her hand.]
Colon. I ran away, madam! Mr. Rumin is an interesting philoso-
pher
— he got
the better of me, so I had to leave! I can't argue. So I ran

away! Let him talk! I would rather chat with you. This old devil
likes you very much. Indeed he does. But what's the matter 'with you?
You seem disturbed?
[He looks at Olga and groans.]
Olga [gently]. Shall I go, Varya?
Var. [firmly]. Yes. [Olga goes quickly. Varvara looks after
her and then addresses Colon] —
You made some remark What was it? —
Excuse me.
Colon [simply and in a friendly manner]. Madame, the more I ob-
serve you the more I become convinced that you are not happy. Isn't that
true? [He laughs.]
Var. [measuring him from head to foot, speaks calmly and deliber-
ately]. Can you tell me, Semion Semionovitch, who gave you the right to
speak to me in this manner?
Colon. Eh, eh ! Don't talk that way !
My age and my experience
gave me the right.
Var. Excuse me. But it seems to me — that is not sufficient to allow
you to interfere. —
Colon [good-naturedly]. Nobody interferes. I see you are, so to

speak, a stranger and so, you understand, thought I you some- I would tell

thing
— but I suppose I went awkwardly about it, —
so forgive me, if that's
the case.
Var. [smiling] Forgive me, too. I may have expressed myself too
—
.

abruptly, but really I am not used to such insinuations.

Colon. I understand. I see you are not used to it ! How could you
be ! Let us go and take a walk ! Humor the old man !

[Semionoff on a bicycle, riding furiously, brings up near Colon.]

Colon [startled]. God bless you, my dear sir! What are you about?
Sem. [out of breath]. Excuse me is it over? —
Colon. Over! What? Bless my heart!
Sem. Such a pity! My tire burst! I went to two rehearsals today.
Colon. What's that to me?
36 SUMMER-FOLK
Sent. You don't take part? Excuse me! I thought you were made
up.
Colon [to Varvara]. What does he mean?
Far. [to Semionoff]. Have you come to rehearse?
Sent. Yes, and —
Far. They haven't begun yet.
Sent, [elated]. Oh, I thank you — that's too bad — but I am always
so punctual !

Colon. Why is it too bad?

Son. [gallantly']. It would have been too bad, if I were late. I beg
your pardon. [He goes aside, still bowing.]
Colon. What a monstrous insect. He almost crushed me. And I

am supposed to enjoy it! Let's get away, or some other beetle will walk
over us !

Far. [absent-mindedly]. Yes; come! I will get my shawl. Wait a

minute. [She goes into the house. Semionoff accosts Colon.]

Sem. Two more are coming presently. Two young ladies and a

cadet. —
Colon. Are they? Very glad to hear it.
Sem. They'll be here soon
—
you know it's the cadet whose sister shot

herself.
Colon. Indeed?
Sem. Wasn't it a sensational affair? A young lady shooting herself.
Colon. Yes. An accident?
Sem. I thought you were made up.
really Your face and hair looked
as though you were made up.
Colon. Thank you !

Sem. I am sure I don't flatter you.

Colon. I believe you, only I don't see wherein you could flatter me.

Sem. Why? When a man is made up he always looks better than

he naturally does. Perhaps you are the decorator?
[Sussloff emerges from the woods, the lady in yellow is also seen

approaching with the young man in a plaid suit.]

Colon. No, I am simply thisgentleman's uncle.
The lady in yellow. Mr. Sazonoff !

Sem. Someone is calling me. It's strange that though I have such a
 MAXIM GORKI 37

simple name no one seems to remember it. Au re voir !

[He goes towards the calling voice, profusely bowing to the lady.]
Sus. [approaching]. Have you seen my wife? [Colon shakes his
head and draws a sigh of relief.] Those artists are assembled in the house.
Colon. This burr stuck to me. A decorator he called me spindle- —
legged Spinoza Takes up a place on earth. There they are disputing
!

again!
[Kaleria, Shalimoff, Rumin, and Varvara come out of the house.
Colon rises to meet them, attentively listening to the altercation. Suss-
LOFF takes his seat and gloomily looks at the disputants.]
Shal. [wearily]. No; I am willing to flee from her to the North Pole.
She is a spit-fire !

Rumin. My wrath against her despotism.

whole nature rises up in

People of that type are criminally intolerant. Why do they suppose that
every one must accept their belief?
Var [looks at them fixedly]. Point out something greater and nobler.
Kal. You call great and noble those cold dreams lacking all poetical
fervor —
those dreams of general satiety.
Var. [excitedly]. I don't know. I see nothing brighter. [Shali-
moff listens attentively to the words of Varvara.] I am not a talker,

but I feel. Men ought to be awakened to the realization of the dignity

which exists in all men alike. Then we won't insult each other. We don't
know how to respect man, and that is what is so painful, so distressing.
Kal. Well, itcertainly is not Marya Lvovna who can teach us that.
Var. You are all so opposed to her !
Why?
Rumin. She is the one who is unfriendly. She exasperates us. When
I hear how some men define life it seems to me as though some one rough

and strong were holding me and seeking to mutilate me.

Kal. How hard it is to live in such an environment.
Var. And is it easier to live among those who complain, Kaleria?
Let us be just. Is it easier to live among men who only groan or talk of
themselves and fill their life with complaints and nothing else? What do
we put into life — any of us? You or I?
Rumin. And what put in?does Marya Lvovna
Enmity?
Kal.
Forgotten words forgotten and —
so much the better. Live
men cannot live by dead precepts.
38 SUMMER-FOLK
[The amateurs are gathering about the stage. Pustabaika places
some chairs on the stage.]
Colon. You shouldn't get excited, Varvara. Don't you think so?
This conversation ought to stop. Let us go and take a walk you
—
promised.
Var. Yes, I'll cannot express what I feel.
go. I I don't know

how to do it. And I am sorry, so sorry to be mentally mute.

Shal. I can vouch that it isn't so. Will you allow me to accompany
you?
Far. Certainly.
Colon. Let us walk to the river — to the pavilion. Why do you get
excited, madam?
Var. Oh, I feel the depressingness of misunderstandings. [They
disappear on the forest road. Sussloff looks after them and smiles.,]
Rumin [also looking after them as they disappear]. How she has
waked up since Shalimoft came. How she talks! And what he?
is She
can't help seeing that he is used up, that he has lost ground under his feet,
and when he speaks he lies to himself and deceives others.
Kal. She knows it. Last night after her conversation with him she
cried like a disappointed child. Yes, he seemed strong and resolute to her
from a distance she expected that he would bring something new and inter-
;

esting into her life.

[Zamysloff and Yulia Fillipovna appear round the corner of

Bassoff's house. He
whispers she laughs. Sussloff
to her, sees it.~\
Rumin. Let's go in. Play something. I should like to hear some
music.
Kal. Very well. Yes, it's sad to see that all around us are so —
Yulia. See ! Our artists have arrived. The rehearsal was to be at
six. What time is it now?

Zam. half-past seven.

It's Formerly you were the only one late.
Now it's everybody. This is the result of your influence.
Yulia. Is this impertinence?
Zam. No,
a compliment.
it's I will go and see my chief a minute,
with your permission.
Yulia. Come back soon.
[Zamysloff goes to the Bassoffs. Yulia Fillipovna, humming,
 MAXIM GORKI 39

goes towards the trees, where she sees her husband.]

Sus. Ah, where have you been ?
Yulia. Here and there. —
[Near the stage are a lady in yellow, a young man, Semionoff, a cadet,
and two young ladies. Pustobaika is noisily placing a table on the stage.
Laughter and exclamations:] 'Gentlemen!' 'Where is the stage man-
ager?' 'Mr. Stepanoff!' 'He is here, I saw him.' 'We will be late.'
1
In town.'
'

I beg your pardon

— Semionoff, not Stepanoff, if you please.'
Sus. You spent all that time with him! So openly 1 You think it's

smart Every one laughs at me. You understand !

—
!

Yulia. Do they? that's too bad.

Sus. We must have an explanation. I cannot allow you —
Yulia. The part of the wife who is a laughing stock, does not suit
me, either.
Sus. Beware, Yulia. I am capable of
—
Yulia. Of
being as rough as a cabman ? I am aware —
of that.
Sus. How dare you speak so! Harlot!
Yulia [in an undertone]. will finish this scene atWe home. — You
had better go. People are coming this way. Such a face! [She shud-
ders with disgust. Sussloff takes a step forward, but retreats, and re-
peating his ejaculation through his teeth, disappears in the woods.]
Sus. I'll shoot you some time.

Yulia [calls after him]. Not today? No? [She hums] 'The
' '

weary day [her voice quavers] has sunk in the crimson waves.' [She
looks before her with dilated eyes and slowly bows her head. Marya,
followed by Dudakoff and Bassoff, who carry fishing rods, comes from
Bassoff's house. Marya is very much agitated.]

— We My
highly esteemed lady, you should be
Bas. [twisting the reel].
kinder and more lenient. are all human! Devil take the man who
tangled up my fishing-rods.
Marya. Allow me !

Dud. A man grows weary, don't you know ?

Bas. You
shouldn't say that, my highly esteemed lady. According
to your theory if he is an author he must be a hero, isn't that what you —
mean ? It isn't a very comfortable position for every author to be placed in.
Marya. We must always raise our standards.
4o SUMMER-FOLK
Bas. That may be. — I agree that we should raise them ! But
within the limits of the possible. Everything comes about gradually. Evo-
lution Evolution
! That's the point to be emphasized.
!

Marya. I don't ask for the impossible. But we live in a country

where the author alone can be a herald of truth, an equitable judge of the
vices of his people and a defender of its interests. He alone can be that, and
such a one the Russian author ought to be.
Bas. Of course, but —
Marya [descends the terrace steps~\. I don't see this in your friend;

no, I don't see this at all! What are his ideals? What are his aims?
Where is his hatred, his love? Is he my friend or my enemy? I don't
know.
[She quickly disappears around the corner of the house.]
Bas. [untangling his fishing rods~\. I respect you, Marya Lvovna, for

this enthusiasm. —
Gone? Tell me, pray, why does she get so excited?
Even a schoolboy now-a-days knows that a writer must be honest ....
that he must defend the people and all that, and that a soldier must be brave,
— a lawyer clever —
and yet this impetuous woman still harps on the old
lessons. Come, dear doctor, let's catch some trout. — I wonder who tan-

gled the fishing-rods ? Devil take him

—
!

Dud. Yes, she talks a great deal and cleverly, too — But her life

is simple,
— she has a good practice, and her wants are few.
Bas. This Yaska * is a smart rascal ! You noticed how cleverly he
slipped out when she got him in a tight place? [Laughs. He is a good ~\

talker, but after the death of his first wife, whom he left, and with whom,
by the way, he lived but six months and then deserted her —
Dud. You should say
they separated.'
'

Bas. Well
separated, ! it be then let ! And now that she is dead he
wants to recover her estate. That's business !

Dud. That's shady business And unnecessary!

—
!

Bas. He doesn't consider it unnecessary, my dear doctor. Let's go

to the river. —
Dud. me
Let tell you.
—
Bas. What?
* the author Shalimoff, abbreviation for Jacob, Iakov.
Meaning
 MAXIM GORKI 41

Dud. [thoughtfully and deliberately]. You don't consider it peculiar,

— that is, you are not surprised that we are not disgusted with one another?
What do you think?
Bas. [stops]. What? Are you in earnest?
Dud. Yes, quite so — We seem to be a very flippant sort of peo-

ple, don't you think so?

Bas. [walks on]. No, I don't think so. — I am quite well
— on the
whole I am normal, —
excuse me
Dud. I am not joking.
Bas. Joking? Look here, my dear Doctor! .... let me
say this toyou: Doctor, cure thyself! I will ask you, by the way: You
won't push me off into the water?

Dud. [seriously shrugging his shoulders]. Why should I?

Bas. [walks on]. Well, I don't know, . . .
you are in a strange
mood. —
Dud. [gloomily]. It is difficult to talk to you seriously.
Bas. Don't, then You have a queer idea about original conver-
!

sation. — Let us not talk seriously.

[Bassoff and Dudakoff go out. Sonya and Vlass enter from the
right. Zamysloff comes from Bassoff's house and runs toward the
stage. He is noisily met and surrounded by a group of people to whom
he explains something.]
Sonya. I don't believe in your poetry.

Vlass. I am sorry for you.

— I have some very fine poems. For
instance :

The peach and the pine-apple

Have not been made for us;
Then don't make eyes at the peach and pine-apple.
Sonya [laughs]. Oh, worthy Vlass! Why do you fritter yourself
away on trifles? Why not consider yourself in a more serious light?
Vlass [softly and mysteriously]. Wise Sophia! I have tried! I
have even written a poem about such trials. —
[He softly hums through his
nose to the tune of 'One evening in the dreary Fall']
'For business small I am too great; —
For business great I am too small.' —
Sonya [seriously]. Don't try to be funny! I can see how little you
42 SUMMER-FOLK
feel like it.
— Tell me, how would you like to live?

Vlass [with warmth]. Well! Very well! I would like to live

very well !

Sony a. What then do you do to that end?

Vlass [dolefully]. Nothing, absolutely nothing !

Marya [calling from the forest]. Sonya !

Sony a. I am here. What is it?

Marya. Come home. You have company.

Sonya. I am coming. [Marya joins them.] I put this clown in

your care. He talks nonsense and needs to be lectured. [She runs of.]
Vlass [meekly]. Begin! Your daughter scolded me all the way
from the station, but I am still living.
—
Marya [gently]. My
dear boy, why do you make a clown of your-
self? Why value yourself so little? Who cares? —
Vlass. No one, you say. But I no one laughing, and I want them
see
to laugh. [He begins to talk rapidly and earnestly.] I am sick at heart,
Marya Lvovna, — I am sick at heart ! All these people I neither love nor

respect! They are pitiful and as small as mosquitoes.

— I cannot talk to
them seriously they
— excite in me morbid desire to play the clown, only
a
more openly than they do. — My head is full of nonsensical stuff. I want —
to scold, to groan, to complain. — I believe I'll take to drink. Among
them, I can only live as they do — and this distorts me. Their vulgarity
poisons me! There they are — coming — can you hear them? Some-
times I look upon them with loathing. . . . Come ! I want so much

to talk with you.

Marya [takes his arm]. If you knew how pleased I am to see you
like that!
Vlass. You won't believe when I say there are times when I want to

say something harsh, wicked, offensive [They go into the

forest. Shalimoff, Yulia, and Varvara enter from the right.]

Shal. My conversation again
Serious Spare me I am too
—
! ! !

tired to be serious! don't want philosophy,

I I've had enough of it!
Let me vegetate, strengthen my nerves. I want to walk, to court the —
ladies. —
Yulia. Can you court ladies without disturbing your nerves? That's
quite unique !
Why don't you court me?
 MAXIM GORKI 43

Shal. I will not fail to take advantage of your amiable permission.

Yulia. I didn't give you leave. I asked you why you didn't?

Shal. I shall still consider your question in the light of an amiable

permission.
Yulia. We'll drop that subject. Reply truthfully to my question !

Shal. Very well. I admit the possibility of friendship with a woman,

but I believe it to be unstable. — You can't deceive Nature !

Yulia. In other words, you admit friendship only as a prologue to

love.
Shal. Love ! I look upon love in a serious light. When I love a
woman wish to
I raise her above the earth. I wish to adorn her life with
all the flowers of my thought and feelings.
Zam. Yulia Fillipovna, you are wanted.
Yulia. I am coming. Au revoir, Mr. Gardener! Put your hot-
house in order.
[She goes towards the stage.]
Shal. Yes, at once. — Charming and so bright! — Why do you look
at me Varvara Michailovna?
so,
Your mustache becomes you wonderfully.
Far.
Shal. [smiling]. Does it? I am very much obliged to you. You
don't like my manner of speech? You are very severe! But, then, one
can't talk to her differently !

Far. I believe I am losing the capacity for wonder.

Shal. I understand you are surprised to see me in this light? Yes?

But one can't be so noisily sincere as the hysterical Mr. Rumin I beg
— —
!

your pardon. I believe he is your friend?

Far. [shakes her head negatively]. I have no friends. —

Shal. I respect my inner life too much to disclose it to the curious.
The Pythagoreans communicated their secrets to the elect only. —
Far. Now, your mustache is de trop.
Shal. Never mind the mustache. You know the proverb :
'

When
you live with wolves you must howl with the wolves.' This applies espe-
cially to those who drink the bitter cup of solitude It seems —
you have not
enjoyed enough, and you can't understand a man who
it but I dare not —
detain you any longer. [He bows and goes towards the stage where the
assembled public looks on. Zamysloff, with book in hand, steals across
44 SUMMER-FOLK
the stage to show Semionoff how to act. Bassoff, with the fishing-rods,
hastilycomes from the house.]
Such fishing!
Bas. Perfectly wonderful! The doctor, with all his
nonchalance, caught one at once. And such large trout! Uncle caught
three. [Looks about carefully.] Just as I came this way, fancy! I saw,
near the pavilion, by the pines, Vlass kneeling before Marya Lvovna, —
kissing her hands! What do you think of that? Tell him, dearest, that
he but a boy
is She is old enough to be his mother.
!

Far. [almost whispering]. Listen, Serguey! Please don't mention

this to any one! You don't understand! You have misunderstood, I —
am afraid you will tell this to everybody, and it — would be wrong. — See?
Bas. do you get so excited?
Why If I am not to mention it, I won't,
and that's the end of it. But if this isn't idiotic And Marya Lvovna ! !

Far. Give me your word of honor that you will forget it. Will you ?
Bas. Word of honor. —
Well, all right. Devil take them! But —
will you explain to me? —
Far. I can explain nothing. I only know that it isn't what you
think; it isn't a love affair.
Bas. Is that so? Not a love affair! What is then? Well,
well, don't get excited, Varya.
— I am off to fish. — I
it,

haven't seen anything.

Yes; by the way, let me tell you that Yashka, — the brute !

Far. What else, Serguey What else !

—
!

Bas. What's the matter with you How queerly you act? This is

an entirely different matter.

Far. Wait, —
I don't want to hear it, understand me! — I don't
wish to, Serguey!
Bas. [surprised] But it is nothing, you crank
. What ails you ? !

He simply means to sue his sister-in-law for the land that belonged to his
deceased wife, from whom he was —
Far. Pray, say no more Can't you understand?
!
Don't, Serguey! —
Bas. [of ended]. You must take care of your nerves, Varya. Excuse
the remark, but you are behaving in a very strange way. And what's more,
you offend me! [He goes off.]
[Varvara slowly goes towards the veranda. Loud laughter and
bustle around the stage.]
Zam. Watchman! Where is the lantern?
 MAXIM GORKI 45

Yulia. Where is my part?

Sem. 'Semionof,' if you please.
Yulia. Let me pass !

Zam. Attention, please, we are ready to begin!

ACT III

A meadow. Beyond, in the field, under the trees, around a rug, on

which bottles and edibles are placed, sit Bassoff, Colon, Shalimoff,
Sussloff, Zamysloff; to the right, a large samovar; by its side Sasha
washes the cups; still further, Pustobaika smokes a pipe; opposite lie oars,
baskets, and an iron tub; nearer the front, on the left, a haycock and a large
overturned stump. Kaleria, Varvara, and Yulia are sitting on the hay.
Bassoff is group of men to whom he is telling a story.
the center of a
On the right heard Sonya's voice. She is playing an accordion; some
is

one else plays a guitar. Evening.

Yulia. Your picnic is dull !

Kaleria. Like our life.

Varvara. Men are always jolly.

Yulia. They drank a great deal, and are now probably telling each
'
other improper stories.
\_A pause. way Sonya
Slower.' : Not that !

The sounds of a guitar. Colon laughs.] I had a glass, too, but it does

not cheer me! On the contrary, when I drink even a small glass I grow —
more serious. Life seems less attractive, and I feel like doing something
impossible
—
!

Kal. [pensively]. Everything is tangled blurred! It frightens

me.
Var. What frightens you ?
Kal. Men. They are not reliable. — I don't believe in anyone.

Var. Yes, they are unreliable — I understand you. [Bassoff is

'

mimicking the Armenian accent. Why do you do that, my dear fellow ?

I feel finely.' Anexplosive burst of laughter from the men.']
Kal. No, you don't understand me and I don't understand
—
. . .

you,
— and no one understands anyone. They don't wish to understand.
Men wander like icebergs in the north they collide.
— —
[Colon rises and goes to the right. Yulia sings softly: The tired l
46 SUMMER-FOLK
day has dipped into the red waters.' When Varvara begins to speak,
Yulia stops, and looks at her fixedly. ~\

Var. Life is a bazaar. All want to cheat, to give less and take more.
[Yulia resumes singing
'

The deep blue arch of sky grows darker and a

light shadow falls on the earth.']
Kal. What should people be, so that we shouldn't be tired of them?
Far. They should be more honest and more enterprising.
Kal. They must be daring, Varya. Anyway, they must be more
positive in all respects.
Yulia. Stop talking It isn't entertaining
! Let's sing. !

*
Var. What a fine duet you are singing, Yulia Fillipovna.
* So in
original.
Yulia. Yes, I think so. So poetical I love everything pure.
! You
don't believe me? But I love to see and hear everything that is pure.
[She laughs.,]
Kal. I am growing
desperate. Despair like an autumn cloud grows
in my soul. darkAcloud of despair oppresses me, Varya. I love no one !

I don't wish to love. I shall die a bona fide old maid.

Var.
Don't, dear. It's so depressing !

To be married is also a doubtful pleasure. In your place I

Yulia.
should marry Rumin. He is rather soured, but then. —
[Sonya's voice is heard. Wait a minute. Now, begin. No, the
mandolin begins first. A duet between the mandolin and the guitar.']
Kal. He is made of India rubber.
Var. A sad song haunts me. The washerwomen in my mother's
establishment sang it. I was a very young schoolgirl, then. When I came
home, the laundry was always full of a gray, suffocating steam in which
half-clad women were rocking to and fro, and wearily singing :

'

Pity me, my own mother,

Pity me, the unfortunate one !

Miserable am I among strangers;

Pent up am I and my heart is withered.'
And I cried when I heard this song. —
[Bassoff's voice is heard. 'Sasha/ Bring some beer and port
wine.']
 MAXIM GORKI 47

How happy I was then Those women loved me. I remember that in the
!

evening, after the work was done, we used to sit around and drink tea at a
large, clean table. I sat with them as though I were one of them.

Kal. You are despondent, Varya, you moralize like Marya Lvovna.
Yulia. My dear friends, we are living wrong.
Var. [thou glit fully]. Yes, indeed; and we don't know how to live

any better. My mother worked all her life. She was kind and cheery.
Everyone loved her. She educated me. How she rejoiced when I grad-
uated At that time she had rheumatism and could no longer work. —
—
!

Her death was peaceful. She said, Don't cry, Varya, it's nothing.
'

It's time for me have lived, and worked

to go. Iand this is the end.' —
Her life had more meaning than mine, and I am ashamed to live as I do.
It is as if I were in a strange circle
—
surrounded by strangers and I don't —
understand their life. I don't understand the life of the cultured classes.

Itseems unstable, hastily made to last only a little while, as booths are built
at fairs. —
This life is like the ice over the living waves of a river. It is —
strong and shining, but full of dirt, full of much that is low and —
bad. —
When I read good, earnest books, it seems to me as though the warm sun
of truth were rising. —
The ice thaws, exposing the mud that's in it, and the
waves of the river wash it off; they break up the ice, and carry it off some-
where. —
Kal. [disgusted]. Why don't you leave your husband He is vulgar
—
!

and altogether unnecessary to you. [Varvara looks at Kaleria in as-

tonishment.]
Kal. [insisting]. Leave him and go off somewhere. You ought to

study
— fall in love with someone —
only you should go away!
Var. [rising angrily]. How coarse all this is !

Kal. You should You have no aversion for anything that is low.
—
!

You like washerwomen. You can live anyhow.

Yulia. You talk very unfeelingly about your brother.
Kal [quietly]. Do
you want me to tell you something about your
husband?
Yulia [smiling]. Do! I want to be offended. I very often tell him
things that anger him. He pays me back in the same coin. Quite recently
he told me I was a harlot.
Var. And you ! What did you do ?
48 SUMMER-FOLK
Yulia. I didn't reply. I don't know — I don't know what he meant.
I am not curious. I only have a great curiosity about men. [Varvara
rises and takes three steps aside.,] I am good-looking that's my misfor- —
tune. Even when I was yet in the Sixth Grade at school my teachers looked
at me so that I blushed —
and that pleased them they smiled like gourmands ;

in a delicatessen shop.
Kal. Brr ! How low !

Yulia. Yes; and my married friends educated me. But I owe most
to my husband. He distorted my imagination. He inoculated me with a
feeling of curiosity toward men.[She laughs. slowly with- Shalimoff
draws from the group of men, and comes totvard the women.'] And I
spoiled his life The proverb says
!
Having taken the skin, give back
:
'

the string.'
Shal. [approaching]. A fine proverb, and invented by a generous
man. Varvara Michailovna, don't you want to take a walk to the river?
Far. Yes; if you like.
Shal. Allow me to give you my arm.
Far. No, thank you. I don't need it.
Shal. How sad you seem. You are not like your jolly brother.

[They go to the right.]

Kal. There are so few among us who are satisfied with life. Now,
you are always pleasant, and yet
—
Yulia. How
do you like this gentleman? To me there is something
fiendish about him. He must be as cold as a frog. — Let's go to the river,
too.
Kal. Yes, let's.

Yulia. I think he's somewhat in love with her. She really is a

stranger to all of us, and she looks so inquisitively at everyone. What does
she want to see? I don't like her. I'm afraid of her. She is severe and
pure. [They go. On the right are heard loud cries and laughter. Voices:
'A boat! Be quick! Where are the oars?' Pustabaika rises slowly,
and placing the oars over his shoulder, is about to go. Sussloff and Bas-
SOFF run out when they hear the voice. Zamysloff runs up to Pusta-
BAIKA and snatches an oar from him.]
Zam. Hurry! The deuce take you! Do you hear? It's an acci-
dent, probably. You idiot! — [He runs off.]
 MAXIM GORKI 49

Pust. were an accident, they'd

[following him, grumbling]. If it

scream louder. He wanted to be a hero.

him running Just see !

[For several minutes the stage remains empty. Voices: 'Don't

throw stones. Hold on! Take the oar.' Laughter. From the left
comes Mary A Lvovna with Vlass. Both are agitated.']
Mary a [with suppressed animation]. Do you hear? I won't have
it ! Don't you dare to talk to me like that. What right have I given you ?

Vlass. I will speak ! I will !

Mary a [putting out her hands as though to push Vlass away]. I

demand
Vlass.
respect.
love you!I I love you with all my soul! —
I love your

heart, your mind, this severe lock of gray hair! Your eyes, your voice
—
Mary a. Silence How dare you
—
! !

Vlass. I can't leave I need you as I do air or fire.

Mary a. Oh, my God! Can't you spare me that? Can't you?
Vlass [clutching his head]. You raised me in my own estimation. I
wandered in the twilight without road or aim. You taught me to believe
in my own power. —
Mary a. Go away! Don't torment me, my dear boy. Don't tor-

ment me.
Vlass [falling on his knees]. me much, but it is not
You have given
enough. Be generous! I want to believe that I am worthy not only of
your regard, but of your love. I beseech you, don't repel me !

Mary a. No, it's I who beseech you. Go I will answer you later !

— not now. Rise, rise, I pray!

Vlass. Believe me. Your love is necessary to me. I have soiled

my heart among all these miserable people. I need a fire that will consume

all the filth and rust of my soul.

Marya. Show some respect for me. I am an old woman. You

see it. You must go away. Go !

Vlass. Very well. I will go. But you will always believe me ?
Marya. Yes, yes. Always. Go.
[Vlass goes hurriedly towards the forest to the right. He collides
with his sister.]
Var. Look out ! What's the matter with you ?
Vlass. Is that you ? Forgive me !

4
50 SUMMER-FOLK
Mary a [extending her hands, as she sees Varvara]. Come here,
my dear, come!
Far. What's the matter with you? Has he offended you?
Mary a. No. — I mean — — yes Did you '

say offended ? I'm sure

'

I don't know !

Far. Sit down What

has happened?
Mary a. He toldme — [laughs, and looks absent-mindedly into Var-
vara' s — he told me that he loved me! Me! a gray-haired woman,
with
eyes']
false teeth — three false teeth ! I am an old woman, my dear Can't
—
!

he see it? M.y daughter is eighteen. It is impossible It's useless.

Far. [agitated]. My dear one! My own dear one! Calm your-

self. Tell me. You say — —
Mary a. I am not. — am I just like the rest I am a poor woman.
— He should —
!

Help me. not come near me. I can't do it. I will go away
— but
!

Far. I understand. You pity him you like him. Poor

Vlasik !

Marya. Ah, I am lying to you! I don't pity him. I pity myself!

Far. [quickly]. No. — Then why —
[Sonyaissues from the wood, and remains several minutes behind the

haycock. She has some flowers in her hands, and she was about to scatter
them over her mother and Varvara when she heard her mother speak.
She makes a motion to go toward her, then, turning, she softly goes away.]
Marya. I love him. You find that ridiculous? But I do. I have
gray hair
—
still, I want to love. I am like a starved woman. I have not

lived as yet. My marriage was a torture that lasted three years. I never

loved anyone. Now, I am ashamed to confess I long to be caressed! I

am longing for a strong and tender caress! I know it is too late too —
late. I beg of you, dearest, to help me. Persuade him that he is mistaken,
that he does not love me. I am very miserable ! I have suffered so much.
Far. Dear one, don't understand your fear
I If you love him, and !

he loves you, it is all right. If you fear future suffering, perhaps it may

yet be far distant.

Marya. You think it possible? And my daughter? My Sonya?
And what about my age ? My cursed age ! And these gray hairs ? He —
is very young. In a year he will give me up. No ! I don't want that
humiliation !
 MAXIM GORKI 51

Var. weigh all this! Why calculate? How we all fear to

Why
live! What does
it mean,
pray tell me, what does it mean? How we
ourselves I don't —
know what I am saying. Perhaps this is wrong
—
pity
—
!

and I should not speak thus But I understand! I am struggling like a

fly that beats against the glass. I long for liberty and I suffer for you. —
I should be glad to see you happy. And I am sorry for my brother. You
could be so good to him. He never had a mother. He, too, has suffered
much humiliation and grief. You could be his mother.
Mary a [bowing her head]. A mother! Yes — only a mother. I

understand.
Var. [hastily]. No, you don't understand. I did not say —
[Rumin comes out of the wood from the right. He sees the women,
stops, and coughs. They do not hear him. He comes nearer.]
Mary a. You don't want to say it —
but it is said [spontaneously and
simply]. I must be a mother to him, a friend. Oh, my dear, I would like
to cry. I shall go. Look, yonder stands Rumin. I must look like a very

foolish old woman [She rises and slowly goes into the woods.]
!

Far. go with you.

I shall

Rumin [quickly]. Varvara Michailovna, may I ask you to remain?

I shall not detain you long.

Var. I will catch up with you, Marya Lvovna. Go toward the

watchman's hut. What do you want, Pavel Sergueyitch?
Rumin [looking back]. I will tell you presently. [He looks down,
and is silent.]
Var. Why are you looking about so mysteriously? What is it?

[At the rear of the stage Sussloff passes from right to left. He
'

hums. Bassoff's voice is heard, saying, Vlass, didn't you want to read
the poetry? Where are you going? ']
Rumin. I — I will tell you. You have known me for a long time. —
Var. Four years. But what is the matter with you?
Rumin. I am a little excited. I fear — I haven't the courage to say
the words. I wish that you. —
Var. I don't understand. What am I to do ?
Rumin. Yes — only yes !

Var. What? Speak plainer.

Rumin [softly]. That much I wished to tell you long ago. Now, I
52 SUMMER-FOLK
understand. [A pause. Varvara, frowning, looks at Rumin sternly,
and slowly walks away J]
Far. [involuntarily']. What a queer day !

Rumin [in a suppressed voice]. It seems to me that I have loved you

all my —
life I loved you before I knew or saw you. You were the woman
of my dream. What a wonderful apparition, created and sought through
life. — Sometimes it's never found. I met you, my dream. —
Far. [calmly]. Pavel Sergueyitch, you must not speak so. I don't
love you.
Rumin. No, perhaps not. But let me say.
—
Far. Why? What for?
Rumin. What shall I do! What do! [laughs softly].
shall I So
all is at an end — and so simply
— I have been deciding for such a long
time to say this to you — I feared and longed for the hour when I might
tell you that I love you, and now I have said it!

Far. But, Pavel Sergueyitch, what can I do?

Rumin. Yes, yes. Of course, I understand. Do you know that on
you and your opinion of me I built all my hopes, and now they have fled, and
life is ended, too.
Far. Don't say that You must not grieve me. Is it my fault?
!

Rumin. How this hurts me An unkept promise weighs on me and

—
!

I swore to con-
oppresses me. my youth swore to do the impossible
In I

secrate my life in a struggle for everything that seemed good and honest.
Now, my best years are past, and I have done nothing! At first I prepared,
waiting, attempting
—
and imperceptibly I have grown accustomed to live
calmly and quietly. I prized this calmness, and I feared to disturb it. You
see how sincerely I speak. Don't deprive me of the joy of being sincere.
I am sorry to say it, but there is a sweetness in this sorrow this confession. —
Far. Well, what can I do for you ?
Rumin. I don't ask for love. I ask for Life frightens me by
the insistence of its demands, and I avoid them so carefully.
pity.
I hide my- —
self You understand this, I know.
behind the screen of different theories.
— met you, and in my heart there suddenly bloomed a bright and beautiful
I

hope that you would help me to redeem my promise, that you would give
me strength, and the desire to work for the good of life.
Far. [with annoyance, and sadly]. I cannot understand it, I cannot.

I am a beggar myself. I, too, stand before life in a maze — I am seeking

 MAXIM GORKI 53

some sign from and don't

life, find it. Is this life? Is it
possible to live
as we live? The soul demands a bright and beautiful life, while we are sur-
rounded with beastly idleness. I am disgusted, I am ashamed to live thus

any longer. We all fear something, we clutch each other and ask for help.
We groan and shriek. —
Rumin. I, too, ask help. I am a weak and vacillating man, but if
you only would !
—
Far. [passionately]. It is a lie ! I don't believe you. These are
only pitiful appeals. I cannot put my heart into you, even if I am strong!
I don't believe there is a force somewhere which exists outside of man and
which can make him brave. It is either in him or it does not exist at all !

I will say no more. An enmity — rises in my soul.

Rumin. Toward me? Why?
Far. Oh, not toward you
— toward everybody. We live here

strangers to all. — We
know how to be necessary to men, and I believe
don't
that soon, perhaps tomorrow, other men will come, stronger and bolder,
and will sweep us off from the face of the earth like dust. The enmity to
deceit and lies rises in my soul.
Rumin. But I want to be deceived! Indeed I do, now that I know
the truth — I have nothing to live for.
Far. [with aversion]. Don't bare your soul before me! I pity a

beggar if he is a man that has been robbed, but if he has lost all he had, or
was born a beggar, I don't pity him.
Rumin [offended]. Don't be so cruel. You are wounded, too, your-
self.

Far. [energetically, almost with disdain]. Yes, a wounded man is not

a sick man. It is only his body that has been bruised. Only he is ill who
is poisoned.
Rumin. Spare me. Remember I am still a man.
Far. And I, am I not ahuman being, too? Am I only something
you need, so that you could live better? Is that it? And isn't it cruel?
I see. I know You were not the only man who swore in his youth.
!

There are thousands who have broken their oaths !

Rumin[beside himself]. Good-bye. I understand. I was too late.

Yes, of course. Only remember, Shalimoff, too — look at him —
look at
him —
54 SUMMER-FOLK
Far. [coldly]. Shalimoff? You have no right
Rumin. Good-bye. I can't endure this
Good-bye. any longer.
goes quickly into the woods on the left.
[He Varvara starts as
though to follow him, but shakes her head negatively, and seats herself on
the stump. At the rear of the stage, by the carpet with the lunch, appears
Sussloff, who pours out some wine and drinks it. Varvara rises and
goes into the woods, to the left. Rumin from the right enters quickly,
looks about, and with a gesture of annoyance, sits down on the haycock.
Sussloff, who is somewhat tipsy, approaches, whistling.~\
Sus. Did you hear?
Rumin. What?
Sus. [seating himself]. The dispute.
Rumin. No. What dispute?
Sus. [lighting a cigarette]. The dispute of Vlass with the writer and
Zamysloff.
Rumin. No.
Sus.I'm sorry.
Rumin. Don't set the hay on fire
—
!

Sus. Devil take the hay! Yes, they had a dispute, but it's only
gymnastics. I was a philosopher myself once upon a time. I said all the

fashionable words, and I know their value —

'conservatism,' 'intellectual-
ity,' 'democracy'
— what else? All this is dead! It's all a lie! In the
first place a man a zoological type, that's a fact.
is You know that your-
self. No matter how many gymnastic exercises you
go through, you can't
hide the fact that you want to eat and drink and enjoy a woman. This — —
is all truth Yes, when Shalimoff talks, I understand: he is
a writer; the game of words is his business. And when Vlass talks, I
understand also: he is young and foolish. — But when Zamysloff talks, the
rascal, the carnivorous animal ! I should like to stop his throat with my fist.

Do you hear? He has got Bassoff into a predicament! It's a dirty story.

They'll get about 50,000, Bassoff and —

this rascal! Yes. But after-
wards no one will call them respectable And that proud Varvara, who!

still hesitates to choose a lover.

Rumin. You talk basely. [He hurries of.]
Sus. Idiot! Jelly-fish! appears PusTABAlKA.
[From the right
He takes the pipe from his mouth, and looks at Sussloff.]
 MAXIM GORKI 55

Sus. Well, what are you glaring at?

Pust. I'm off. [He slowly departs.]
on — You are all latent
— 'Men humanitymoney.' That[He coughs.]
Sus. 'All earth.'
rascals. die for bosh — money nothing
— is all is

when you have — [He it. The of dozes.] opinion fear one's neighbors' is

something.
— man sober
If a — but you
is I
your say, are all rascals in
hearts.— [He drops Dudakoff and Olga slowly walk
off to sleep. in,
arm in arm. She leans on his shoulder,
looking up.]
Dud. Certainly, we are both right. whirled, we bustled, and We
lost all regard for each other. And why should you respect me? What
am I?
Olga. My dear Kyrill — you are the father of my children. I re-

spect and love you.

Dud. I am weary, and I let myself go. I can't control my nerves —
and you take everything so much to heart. In this way an impossible situa-
tion is created.

Olga. You are all I have in the world — you and our children. I

have no one else.

Dud. Remember, Olga, —

you and I once dreamed of a different
life. [Yulia and Zamysloff appear behind the trees on the left.] Isn't

that so?
But what can we do ?
Olga. What can we do? We have children.
They demand our attention.
Dud. Yes. I understand — children. But one doubts, some-
times —
Olga. What shall we do, then, dear? [They go into the woods.]
Yulia [coming out of the woods, laughing]. So pompous! and so
touching What a lesson for me
! !

Zam. Is this the prologue to the fifth or sixth child? Well, my

dear Yulia, I shall expect you.
Yulia [with a sneer]. I am not so sure of that — If we are so loving
— shouldn't I, too, return to the path of virtue, duckie?

Zam. That will follow, Yulia.

Yulia. I have decided to remain
Yes, that will follow. in the
path
of vice, and my summer
romance will die a natural death. — What were
you disputing about with Vlass and the author?
56 SUMMER-FOLK
Zam. Vlass was like a lunatic today. We talked about religion. —
Yulia. And what do you believe?
Zam. I? I believe in myself, Yulia. I believe only in my right to
live as I choose.
Yulia. I believe nothing.
Zam. My past is a starving childhood, —
my youth likewise, full —
of humiliations. I had a sad past, my dear Yulia. I have seen much that

is bad and painful. I am master, and lord

have suffered much. Now, I

of my life. That's all there

going now. isAu revoir, my
to it. I am
joy. We must still be quite careful and keep away from each other.
Yulia [with pathos]. Near or far, is it not all the same, O knight?
Whom shall we fear when we love so passionately?
Zam. I
despair, thou, my luxury O !

[He goes into the woods. Yulia looks after him, then about the
meadow, and gives a sigh of relief. She goes toward the haycock, singing:
' '
Be calm, thou soul tormented by sadness She sees her husband, pauses !

and for several moments stands motionless, looking at him. She wants to
go, but returns, and, with a smile, seats herself beside him. She tickles his

face with a wisp of grass. Sussloff grunts.']

Yulia. How musical !

Sus. What the devil you? is it! Oh, it's

Yulia. you reek of wine! A whole haycock cannot drown it.

How
You will fail through drinking expensive wine, my friend !

Sus. [stretching out his hands]. You so near? I forget, Yulia, —

when all this happened.
Yulia. It is useless to remember the happy moment, my friend. —
Listen. Do you want to please me ?
Sus. What shall I do? I am ready. Believe me, Yulia, I am ready
to do everything for you.
Yulia. That is just how a loving husband should be.
Sus. [kissing her hand]. Tell me, what do you wish?
Yulia [taking out a small revolver from her pocket]. Let's shoot
each other, first you and then I.
Sus. This is a poor joke, Yulia ! Throw away that horrible thing, I

beg of you. Throw it away !

Yulia. Wait a moment. Take your hand away. My proposition

 MAXIM GORKI 57

does not please you? But didn't you once mean to shoot me? I would
shoot myself first but that I fear you will deceive me and live and I don't —
care to be deceived by you another time, nor to part from you. I will live

a long, long time. Are you glad?

Sus. [dejectedly]. Listen, Yulia, we can't go on like this.
Yulia. Yes, we can. Don't you see ? Now, do you wish me to shoot

you?
Sus. [covering his face with his hands']. Don't look at me like that.
Devil take it I will go away
! I can't stand this.!

Yulia [merrily]. Go! — I will shoot

you in the back. No, I can't,
for here come Marya Lvovna. She is a good woman Why don't you
!

fall in love with her, Piotr? She has beautiful hair!

Sus. [in a suppressed voice]. You drive me crazy! What have I

done ? Why do you hate me ?

Yulia [with disdain]. Ican't hate you.
Sus. [breathlessly]. You torture me. Why? Say! [Marya
Lvovna walks by, wrapt in thought, stooping, and with her head bowed.
Sussloff stands in front of his wife without removing his eyes from the
revolver in her hand.]
Yulia. Come here, Marya Lvovna. Piotr, you have made me a vile
woman. Go ! Go Marya Lvovna, how soon are we going home?
!

Marya. I don't know. They have all gone somewhere. Haven't

you seen Varvara Michailovna?
Yulia. She is with someone else. believe you wanted to
I

go to the river. — Go,probablyI shan't miss you. [Sussloff leaves silently.]

Marya [absent-mindedly]. How stern you are!
Yulia. A good thing. A philosopher, I am told, gives this advice:
When you approach a woman, take a whip along.
Marya. That's Nietsche?
Yulia. Yes, I believe he was a little off. I don't know any philoso-

phers that are entirely sane. But if I were a philosopher, I should say to a
woman, When you approach a man, my dear, take a heavy stick.' [From
'

the left at the end of the field come Olga and Kaleria. They sit down
near the carpet with the refreshments.] I was told that one of the savage
tribes has the following charming custom: A man, before he plucks the
flowers of pleasure, strikes the woman on her head with a stick. We civi-
58 SUMMER-FOLK
lized people do this after marriage. Has no one struck you on the head?
Marya. Yes.
Yulia [with a smiie~\. Savages are more honest. Don't you think
so ? Why do you look so gloomy ?
Marya. Don't ask. Is not life hard to you? [Colon appears with-
out a hat, holding a fishing-rod.~\
Yulia [laughing']. Who
has ever heard me groan? I am always
jolly
— There comes uncle — Do you like him? I do, very much.
Marya. Yes, he is an excellent man.
Colon[approaching']. My hat swam away. The young people
started to save it, and drowned it definitely. Hasn't anybody a spare hand-
kerchief for my head? because the mosquitoes bite my bald spot.
Yulia [rising]. Wait a moment, I will get you one. [She goes to
the rear of the stage.]
Colon. Mr. Chernoff has been amusing the folks — He is a good
boy.
Marya. Is he jolly?
Colon. Very. He simply sparkles. He read us his poetry. A
lady asked him to write some verses in her album. He wrote at once.
Says he, You'

looked into my eyes with a smile, but your glance missed and
fell into my heart.'
Says he, it is two weeks since I hoped, madam. — You
understand — and then —
Marya [hastily]. Don't, Semion Semionitch. Don't say any more.
I know those verses. Tell me, are you going to stay here for some time ?
Colon. thought I could live with my nephew until the end of
Well, I

my days, but I don't see any wish on his part to strengthen me in this inten-
tion. I have no other place to go. I have no one. I have money and

nothing else.

Marya [looking at him absent-mindedly]. You are rich, then?

Solon. Yes, I am worth nearly a million. [Sighs.] Nearly a mil-
lion. When I die, Piotr will have it all, but evidently that does not make
any impression on him. He doesn't seem to care for me. He seems to
be a man
that does not wish for anything. wants nothing. I under- He
stand him. I suppose he knows the money will be his anyway. Why
should he borrow trouble? [Sighs again.]
Marya [with more interest]. You poor man ! You should use it for
 MAXIM GORKI 59

some public That would be more sensible.

charity.
Colon. Yes, that is what a fellow advised me once, but I didn't like
him. He was a red-haired rascal. To tell the truth, I am sorry to leave
the money to Piotr. What will he do with it? As it is, he is quite self-
sufficient. [Marya laughs. Colon looks at her attentively.'] Why do
you laugh? Do I seem silly? I am
no fool only I am unac- . . .

customed to living alone. Dear, dear! I sigh and groan, thinking about

one thing, and when I go on thinking I am sorry for everybody. You are
a good woman. Let me tell you! [He laughs.]
Marya. Thank you.
Colon. You are welcome. I thank you. You called me a poor man.
I never heard that before. Everybody calls me rich. I thought I was
rich, and now it seems I am poor.
Yulia [walking toward them with a handkerchief in her hand]. Are
you making a declaration of love, uncle?
Colon. No, I am too old for that. I can only express my regards
now. — Tie the handkerchief as well as you can. Now I'll eat something
before I go.

Yulia. There, that is very becoming to you !

Colon. Now
you are telling a whopper. I have a manly face. Let's
go and take a bite. I wanted to ask
you.
—
You don't love your husband,
do you?
Yulia. Do you think I can love him ?
Colon. Then, why did you marry him?
Yulia. He pretended to be interesting !

Colon [laughing]. Oh, get out! [They go to the rear of the stage.
Great commotion and laughter are heard. From the left appear Bassoff,
somewhat under the influence of liquor, SHALIMOFF, DuDAKOFF, and
Vlass. Vlass goes to the rear while the other three seat themselves on the
hay.]
Zam. [calling in the zvoods]. Folks, it's time to go home!
Bas. It's very beautiful about here, Yasha ! We had a fine walk,
didn't we?
Shal. You sat still all the time like an owl. You sat and drank, and
now you are not fit for much. [In the rear of the stage Sonya if tying the
handkerchief on Colon's head. Laughter. Zamysloff comes from the
60 SUMMER-FOLK
woods, and goes towards the rug where the refreshments are, takes a bottle
of wine and a tumbler, and approaches Bassoff. He is followed by
Colon, who waves Sonya away.]
Bas. [throwing himself on the hay~\. I'll sit down. One . .

— —
.

must be seated to admire nature nature, the woods, the trees, the hay
I love nature. [Then in a sad tone.] I love men, too I love my poor, —
immense, absurd country my Russia! —I love everything and everybody —
— My heart is as tender as a peach
— Yakov, you may use that expression.
It is a
good comparison My . . . heart is as tender as a peach !

Shah All right, I'll use it.

Sonya. Now, Semion Semionitch, allow me !

Colon. What are you going to do? You have had enough fun with
the old man. Now I am offended. [He sighs.~\
Bas. Ah, will some one pour me out some wine? It's good wine!
This is jolly, my dear fellows! Life is a glorious occupation for him who
looks at it in a friendly and simple way —
confidently, with simple, child-
like eyes. Then all is well. [Colon stands opposite the stump and laughs,
listening to Bassoff's chatter.'] Oh, Lord! Let us look with bright,
child-like eyes into one another's hearts. Then all will be well. Uncle —
is laughing. He caught a lovely young trout, and I took it and put it back
into its native element, because I am a pantheist that's a fact and I — —
love trout, too But uncle's hat is drowned
! There you are! —
Shal. You talk too
much, Serguey.
Bas. Judge not that ye be not judged. I don't talk any worse than
you do. You are eloquent — I am eloquent, too. Hark, I hear the voice
of Marya Lvovna. She is an excellent woman, worthy of the deepest re-

gard.
Shal. No, I don't like that mitrailleuse. ... I am generally an
admirer of women who are not worthy of regard.
Bas.Nothing truer The women who are unworthy of regard are
!

better than the worthy ones. They are better, that's a fact !

Colon. No doubt about it! You who have married a queen, so to

speak
—
Bas. You mean my wife, Varya? Oh, she is a puritan — a wonder-
ful woman — a saint — but it's dull music. She reads a great deal, and
always speaks as though she were quoting an apostle. Let's drink her
health.
 MAXIM GORKI 61

Shal. Your conclusion is quite unexpected. Still, Marya Lvovna is —

Bas. [interrupting]. You know she had quite a romantic episode
with my assistant? That's a fact! I saw him declaring his love to her!

Colon. Hm !
Perhaps that had better not be spoken of. [He goes

Bas. Oh, by the way, that is a secret !

Kal. [approaching] Serguey, have you seen Varya ?

.

Bas. Ah, here is my sister, the poetess. Yakov, has she read her
poetry to you? You should hear it. It is quite charming. Everything
so lofty — clouds, mountains, stars.
Kal. I think you have had too much to drink.
Bas. Only one glass.
Zam. From this bottle?
Shal. Your poetical essays appeal to me very much.
Kal. If I were to take you at your word, I should bring you four
very thick note-books.
Shal. Don't frighten me. I am timid !

Kal. That remains to be seen.

Yiilia [singing in the woods] . time to go home, time to go
It is !

Kal. Yes, we are all tired. [Kaleria goes to the right, and meets
Sonya. Zamysloff goes
to the side, where he hears the voice of Yulia.
Bassoff winks and bending tozvard Shalimoff, he whispers in his
at him,
ear. Shalimoff listens and laughs.]
Kal. When I go out I
always carry with me a vague hope, but when
I return, I return alone. — Does that ever happen to you?
Sonya. No.
Kal It will.

Sonya [laughing]. I believe you like to say sad things.

Kal. You think so? I should like to veil your eyes with the tremu-

lous shadow of thought. I often see uncouth men beside you, and I am sur-

prised atyour temerity in facing the filth of life. Aren't you disgusted
with them?
Sonya [laughing]. The filth is only superficial. It is easily washed
off with soap. [They go to the rear, talking.]
Shal. [rising] You have a sharp tongue, Serguey.
.
— Look, there is

the husband himself !

62 SUMMER-FOLK
Bas. Who ? I ?

Nature is beautiful, but why do mosquitoes exist? I left my

Shal.

plaid somewhere about here. [He goes to the right. Bassoff stretches
himself out and hums. In the rear Sasha, Sonya, and Pustobaika are
covering up things. On the left, near the haycock, Varvara stands with
a hunch of flowers. ]
Vlass [from the woods']. is going Who in the boat?
Bas. Varya, are you taking a walk? I am here alone. They have
all gone off.

Far.You've had too much, Serguey.

Bas. you Do —
Var. Cognac is bad for you. You will complain of your heart, next.
Bas. No, I drank port wine mostly —
Don't find fault with me,
Varya. You always talk so harshly, so severely to me, and I I am a —
kind-hearted fellow. I love everybody with the love of down
a child. Sit
beside me, my darling
— Let us open our hearts to each other — We must.
Var. Don't. They are all getting ready to go home. Get up and
go to the boat. Come, Serguey.
Bas. —
Where shall I go?
All right I am coming. —
[He tries to
walk steadily. Varvara looks at him with a set face. Looking to the
right she sees Shalimoff, who approaches her with a smile.]
Shal. You look tired. Your eyes are sad. Are you tired?
Var. Yes, a little.

Shal. I am very tired, too. I am tired of looking at these people,

and it grieves me to see you among them. Forgive me !

Var. For what?

Shal. I look at you as you walk silently in this noisy crowd, while
your eyes mutely question to — and me your
silence is more eloquent than
words. I, too, have felt the cold and weight of loneliness.

Sonya [calling]. Mamma, are you in the boat?

Marya [from the woods]. No, I am going to walk.
Var. [handing a flower to Shalimoff]. Do you want it?
Shal. [with a how and a smile]. I thank you. I save flowers reli-

giously they are given to me in such a simple and friendly manner.

when
[Vlass, in the woods on the right: 'Holloa, watchman, where is the sec-
ond pair of oars?'] Your flower shall be placed in one of my books.
 MAXIM GORKI 63

Some time I will take it up, see the flower, and think of you. Is that ridicu-

lous, or sentimental?
Var. [in an undertone, looking down]. Go on.
Shal. [looking questioningly into her face]. You must feel sad among
all these men who unfortunately do not know how to live.
Var. Teach them to live better.
Shal. I lack the confidence of a teacher. I am a stranger, a lonely
observer of life. I don't know how to talk eloquently, and my words will
not inspire courage in these people. What are you thinking about?
Var. I have similar thoughts. They keep me from people. They
should be stifled at their birth.
Shal. Then your soul will be a cemetery. No, one ought to fear to
withdraw into one's self. Believe me, away from them the air is purer and
clearer. Everything seems more distinct.
Var. I understand you —
and am pained as though some dear one
were dying. [A noise on the right.]
Shal. [without listening]. If you but knew how sincerely I spoke just
now. You may not believe me, perhaps, but still I will say to you, I long
to be sincerer, better, and wiser.
Var. I thank you.

Shal. [kissing her hand with agitation]. I think when I stand beside

you that I am standing on the threshold of an unknown happiness as deep

as the sea, that you possess a magic power which you could transmit to an-
other as a magnet attracts iron, — and a bold, foolish thought rises in my
mind —I think that if you — [He interrupts himself, looking around.
Varvara follows his motion.]
Var. What if I — — I

Shal. Varvara Michailovna, you won't laugh at me? Do you want

me to say it?
Var. No. I understand. You are not a clever tempter.
Shal. [confused]. No, you misunderstand me you
— —
Var. [simply, gently, and sadly]. How I loved you when I read your
books How I awaited you You seemed to me so bright, so intuitive.
! !

Such you appeared to me when you read one evening. I was only seventeen

then, and since that time your image has lived in my memory like a bright
star.

Shal. [looking down, in a whisper]. Don't, don't. I apologize.

64 SUMMER-FOLK
Far. Iwas suffocated with commonplace. — I imagined you to be
—
and I felt happier
—
I had some hope.

Shal. You ought to be zealous. You should understand.

Far. You came, and you are like the rest — like the rest. This is

so sad. Tell me, what happened to you ? Is it impossible to keep your soul
intact?
Shal. [excitedly]. But why should you apply to me standards differ-
ent from those you apply to others? You all live as you please. Why
should I, an author, live as you wish me to live?
Far. No, no, don't say that! Don't. Throw away the flower I
gave you. I gave it
you to as I knew you formerly, one of whom I thought
better things, one more ideal. Throw away my flower. [She hurries
away.~\
Shal. [looking after her']. Devil take it! [Crushes the flower.]
Serpent !
[He nervously voipes his lips zvith his handkerchief and follows
Varvara. Dudakoff and Olga come out of the woods on the left.]
Zam. [singing in the woods]. 'O night, cover'
—
Yulia [echoes him]. 'With thy transparent veil.'

Flass [in the woods]. Do sit down.

Dud. Here we are. Just on time.
Olga. I am so tired. — My dear you
Kyrill, must not forget this day.
Dud. And you Your — promise
— You should be more self-con-
tained.

Olga. I am so glad, my friend, that now our life will be brighter.

[ They pass on. Pustobaika, with a basket, appears on the right, search-
ing on the ground.]
Pust. They made a mess of it here ! left nothing but dirt ! All they
do is to clutter up. [He goes to the left.]
Yulia [in the woods]. Who
is still missing?

Sonya. Halloa, Mamma !

Bas. Halloa, motherkin.

Mary a [appearing from the left, tired and distracted]. I am here,
Sonya.
Sonya [running out from the woods]. Come, Mamma, come . . .

What's the matter with you ?

Marya. Nothing. I am going to walk. Go on, tell them not to
 MAXIM GORKI 65

wait for me.

Sony a [runs to one side, and making a trumpet with her hands, calls].
Go along. Don't wait for us. We are going to walk What did you —
say? Good-bye.
Colon [from the woods]. It will tire you.
Sonya. Good-bye.
Mary a. Why didn't you go with them?
Sonya. Because I stayed with you.
Marya. Well, come along.
No, let's sit down a minute. —
You are grieved, Mamma.
Sonya.
Darling mother, sit down so — —
Now let me put my arms around you —
That's it — Now, tell me, what's the matter with you? [The sounds of
laughter and loud exclamations come from the woods.]
Yulia [from the zvoods] Don't rock the boat.
—
.

Zam. No, don't sing better pray.

Bas. [from the same direction]. Go on, music. [A guitar and man-
dolin are tuned.]
Vlass [from the woods] .
They have pushed off.

Marya. Sonya, my little daughter, if you but knew !

Sonya. I do know.
Marya. No, you don't.
Sonya. Dear mother, remember when I was small and could not un-
derstand my lessons and cried like a little fool, how you came to me, put
—
my head on your bosom and rocked me so. [She sings.] 'By-low-by,
dear mother. think you now who do not understand the
—my
by-low,' I it is

lesson. If you love him — [Colon laughs.]

Marya. Sonya, keep still! How
do you know that? [Sounds of
the guitar and mandolin in the distance.]
Sonya. Sh! Don't move! By-low, baby, by-low, my mother! My
mother is wise. She taught me to think clearly. He is a fine lad. Don't
repel him. In your hands he will be better. You have already educated
one. I am not a bad person, am I, Mamma? Now you will bring up
another.
Marya. That is impossible, my own darling.
Sonya. Sh! He will be a brother to me. He is rough. You will
make him gentler. You are so kind. You will teach him to work with
66 SUMMER-FOLK
pleasure ... you work yourself
as ...
as you taught me. He
will be a good companion to me, and we will live happily. At first there
will be only three of us, and after a while we shall be four, because, my
darling, I am going to marry this funny Maxim. I love him, Mamma.
He is so nice.

Marya. Sonya, my little girl, you will be happy indeed!

Sonya. Keep still and listen. We shall complete our studies. Then
we shall live cosily, and happily, and pleasantly. There will be four of us,
Mamma — four energetic, honest people.
Marya. O my joy my happiness No,
! ! there will be only three of us
— you, your husband, and I. And he, if he should be with us, will be only
as your brother or my son.

Sonya. And we have such a pleasant life.

shall That's what we shall
do. Meanwhile, rest, Mamma. Don't cry. By-low, my mother. [Tears
are in Sonya' s voice. The music of mandolins and guitars in the distance. ~\

ACT IV

Same scene as that of the second act. Evening. The sun has set.
Bassoff and Sussloff are playing chess under the pines. Sasha is setting
the table for supper on the veranda. From the right the sounds of a
gramophone come from the forest. Within Kaleria plays some sad
music.
Bas. Most of all, our country needs well-meaning men. A man who
means well is an evolutionist; he is not hasty.
Sus. I take the knight.
Bas. Take him A well-meaning man changes the forms of life
—
!

slowly, imperceptibly, the only work that lasts.

but his is

[Dudakoff hastily comes round the corner of the house. ~\

Dud. Halloa! Is my wife here?

Bas. Your wife? No. Sit down, doctor.
Dud. I can't, I am in a hurry .... I must write my school
report.
Bas. the second year that you have been writing it?
I believe this is

Dud. Good
reason why. No one works but myself. There are men
galore, but no workers. —
Why? [He goes off.]
 MAXIM GORKI 67

Bas. This Doctor is a funny man.

Sus. Your move. —
Bas. Yes. —
There she goes. — I — we should be well-meaning.
said
— Misanthropy, an — came here
—myand friend, is unnecessary luxury. I

eleven years ago, all I possessed was a portfolio and a carpet. The
portfolio was empty and the carpet poor. I, too, was poor.

Sus. Check to the queen.

Bas. The deuce ! How miss yourdid I move with the knight?
Sus. If a man philosophizes he loses.
' '

Bas. Fact,' fact,' say the ducks.

[He becomes absorbed in the game. Vlass and Marya are coming
from the forest. They cannot see the players.]

Marya an undertone'].
[in My dear good youth! Believe me, you
will soon get over this you
—
will, and then you will thank me.
Vlass [audibly]. It grieves me, it grieves me very much. [Bassoff
listensand makes a sign to Sussloff to keep still.]
Marya. Go, go as soon as you can, my dear boy. I promise to write
you
— Work, seek to make a place in life —
Dare,- don't give in to the in-
fluence of the details of life. You are good and I love you. Yes, yes, I
love you. [Bassoff stares, while Sussloff winks.] But you don't need
my love, and it does me no good. I am not ashamed to confess it. But I —
am sorry. You will quickly get over your infatuation, while I I should —
love you more and more as time went on. And it would only be ridiculous
and perhaps commonplace, at all events it would be sad for me.

Vlass. No, I swear to you. —

Marya. There is no need of swearing.
Vlass. When love passes respect remains.
—
Marya. That is not enough for a woman who loves. — And please
remember this, my dear boy : I am ashamed to live a selfish life. It may
be absurd, queer, but at present it is hard to live a selfish life. Go, my
friend, go. And be sure that when you need a friend, come to me, and —
I will meet you as a son, a dearly beloved son Good-bye
— !

Vlass. Give me
your hand. I should like to kneel before
you How
devotedly I love you. I could —
weep. Good-bye
— !
!

Marya. Good-bye, my dearest, my loved one Remember my —

advice — Don't give in — never, never, never —
68 SUMMER-FOLK
Vlass. I am going
— my love! My pure first love! I thank you.
[Marya quickly takes the road that leads into the woods on the right.
Vlass is about to go into Bassoff' s house when he sees Bassoff and Suss-
LOFF and understands that they have heard all. Bassoff rises, bows and is
about to speak.] Silence, not a word Silence [Vlass goes in.~\ ! !

Bas. \_confused~\. There's discipline for you.

Aha! You are frightened!
Sus.
Bas. No; but did you ever see anything like it? I suspected as much,
but such generosity They acted well
!
[He laughs. Yulia and Zamy- !

sloff are seen coming from Sussloff's house. Yulia walks towards her
husband. Zamysloff also goes into the house.~\
Sus. That's all premeditated so as to hold the lad better.
Bas. Yes, that's so! It's too funny for anything!
Sus. [frowning']. She is a crafty woman. She has played me a trick,
too. You know, uncle followed her advice and gave all his money to —
Yulia. Piotr, there's some one here to see you. —
Bas. [interrupting]. No; let me tell you what happened.
Sus. Who is it?
Yulia [to her husband]. A contractor; he says it's urgent business.
Something has tumbled. —
Sus. Bosh! [leaving hurriedly].
Bas. Fancy, my dear. While we suddenly comes Marya
sat here,
Lvovna. — It seems there is a love affair between them [laughs].
—
Yulia. Between whom? My husband and Marya? [Laughs.]
Bas. No! Vlass! Between this clown and this —
Yulia. Indeed But thanks to your tongue every one knows
! it al-

ready.
Bas. But here are the details! [Colon appears round the corner
with packages, followed by Rumin.]
Colon. Peace be unto you! Is Varvara Michailovna at home? See
whom have brought with me.
I

Halloa!
Bas. Have you returned from distant lands? How are
you ? You have improved wonderfully and how tanned you are you have !

lost flesh, though Where do you come from ?

!

Rumin. From the south. I saw the sea for the first time. How do
you do, Yulia Fillipovna ?
 MAXIM GORKI 69

Yulia. You have really improved, Pavel Serguevitch,

— if that's the

result, I had better go south myself.

Colon. I am going in. [He goes in.] I brought you some sweets,
niece.
'
Bas. I saw the sea
Imeasured it with rapturous eyes
And tested the power of my spirit
In its presence.'
Is that right? Go in wife will be very glad to see you.
; my
Rumin. It's grand Music alone is capable of expressing its beauty
—
!

and greatness. Man feels so insignificant in its presence an atom con-

fronting eternity.
[VARVARA appears around the corner.']
Bas. I will put away the chess. Varya, do you know that Pavel
Sergueyevitch has returned?
Var. Is he here ?

Bas. [going up to her]. Yes; and I believe he has added to his vocab-
ulary of graphic words. Varucha —
If you but knew! as I was playing a !

game with Sussloff, Marya Lvovna and Vlass came up, unexpectedly. I
told you it was a love affair !
[He laughs.] You said it wasn't, you know.
But it is, it is. That's a fact.

Var. Don't, Serguey, I fear you may utter some vulgarity.

Bas. But I haven't yet.

Var. I asked you not to mention their relations, and you tell it to

everybody. Can't you understand that you are doing wrong?

Bas. There you go absolutely impossible to talk to you.
! It's —
Colon [seating himself on the step of the veranda]. I brought

sweets to all the ladies —

so that they should remember me pleasantly, you
know. Will you give me your photograph?
Var. Yes, get it for you.
I'll [She goes in.]
Colon. Well, uncle Vlass, it's about time for us to be going.
Vlass. Yes, I wish the hours would pass quickly.
Colon. We have less than twenty-four hours now. I wish we could
get your sister to come with us.
Vlass. They are all loafers here.
Colon. I am glad you are going with me. I live in a pretty little
;o SUMMER-FOLK
town. There's a river and the woods are near. I have a large house of ten
rooms. When you cough in one room the echo answers in the others; in

the winter when it storms outside, the echo is very noticeable. That's how
it is. [Sonya approaches quickly from the right.~\ Of course, when one
isyoung, solitude is good for man, but in old age, you understand, it's better
to have a companion. [He sighs audibly.] Ah! here comes the tom-boy!
[Addressing her.] Good-bye, I am going away tomorrow, and after to-

morrow you'll forget the old man, as though he had never lived.
Sonya. No, I won't. You have such a funny name.
Colon. Is that the reason why you'll remember me ?
Sonya. No, dear uncle, I really won't forget you ! You are such a

good, dear man, so simple ! I like people who are natural. Have you
seen mamma?
Colon. No, I haven't had that pleasure.
Vlass. She isn't here. Let us go and look for her. — She may be in
the pavilion by the river.
Kal. Are you willing I should go with you ?

Sonya. Come They disappear

along. woods.
[ Colon looks in the

after them, sighs and hums. Varvara, followed by Rumin, comes out
of the house with a photograph in her hands.]
Far. Here's my photograph. When do you go?
Colon. Tomorrow. Thank you Ah, my dear lady, 1 have become !

quite attached to you.

Far. should you care for me?
Why
Colon. How
do I know? Do people care for some reason? It's

generally without any reason. True affection, you know, like the sun in

the sky, is not to be explained.

Far. I don't know.
Colon. Yes; I see you don't. You'd better come and stay with me.
Your brother is going. You could find yourself an occupation.
Far. What could I do? I don't know how to do anything.
Colon. You haven't been taught, that's why. You can learn! Vlass
and I are going to build schools, —
a boys' school and girls' school.
Rumin [absent-mindedly]. One should have something to do, that
life may have a meaning — some important thing
—
something that would
leave a trace hereafter — One should build temples —
 MAXIM GORKI 71

Colon. Yes, but that's too highfalutin for me. Even the schools
were suggested to me by a kind person, —
I didn't think of them myself, —
that's how it was!
Ritmin. Yes; even the higher schools give only contradictory theories
and suggestions concerning the mysteries of life.
Var. [annoyed] Heavens, what an old story
. !

Rumin [looks at them and laughs gently]. Yes, I know

all quizzically

they are idle words, dead, like autumn leaves. —

I say them only because it's

an old habit. —
I cannot tell why, —
perhaps because it's autumn now.
—
Since I saw the sea the ceaseless noise of the green waves echoes in my heart
and their music drowns all the words of men, like rain drops in the sea.
Var. You are a queer fellow. What is the matter with you? [Ka-
leria and Vlass are coming from the forest on the right.]
Rumin [laughing]. Nothing, I assure you.
Kal. To stand firmly means to stand knee-deep in mud.
Vlass. And you wish to stand firmly in the air? You are more con-
cerned about the spotlessness of your train than the purity of your soul?
But who cares for you, cold and pure though you may be?
Kal. Myself!
Vlass. An error ! You are useless even to yourself.
Kal. I don't wish to talk with you —
you are rude. [She goes into
the house.]
Colon. Well, uncle Vlass ! You have provoked the lady, so now are
you satisfied?
Vlass [seating himself on the lowest step at his sister's feet]. I am

tired of her. [Mimicking her.] 'I am dying of longing!' I told her

she must live with people and die alone.
Rumin Ah! That's cruel, but you are right!
[speaks quickly].
[Bassoff and Yulia come out on the veranda.]
Var. [aside]. Life passes us by without touching our hearts, it —
only acts on our brains.
Bas. I told Sasha to serve
supper here. [Sussloff is seen briskly
walking from his house.] Semion Semionitch, we will have a farewell feast
in your honor, and some champagne. It's a legitimate excuse !

Colon. I am highly honored.

Sus. Yulia, I want to see you a moment.
Yulia. What's the matter? [Sussloff takes his wife apart and
72 SUMMER-FOLK
whispers something in her ear. She moves away from him. He compels
her to take his arm and leads her to the right, where they remain conversing
for a few moments, then they return to the veranda as Bassoff is about
to leave.]
Bas. I'll you with sausage, most delicious sausage,
treat one of my —
clients sent it from the Ukraine. But where is my assistant? [In an
undertone.] He is also the assistant of Yulia Fillipovna's husband!
Far. [indignant, in a low voice]. That's horrible, Serguey!
Bas. [boldly]. But every one knows it! And why should you speak
so bluntly, Varya? [He goes into the house.]
Yulia. Uncle ! A wall crumbled in one of Piotr's prisons and crushed
two women !

Sus. [smiling]. And you rejoice!

Far. [frightened]. You don't mean it! Where did it happen?
Sus. In a district prison.
Colon. Accept my felicitations Had you inspected the work?
—
!

Sus. I did. It's the fault of that rascally contractor!

Yulia. He lies !
— He had no time to inspect it !

Colon. You ought to be whipped! Calling yourself men! Loafers!

Sus. [smiling viciously]. I'll shoot myself; that will be fine acting. —
Rumin [shakes his head]. No, you won't shoot yourself.
Sus. But if I should?
Far. Tell us about it, Piotr. Did those who were crushed die ?

Sus. [with a scowl]. I don't know. I'll go there tomorrow.

Floss [scolds aloud] . Such rascality !

Sus. [with a snarl] Look out, young man, be careful.

.

Olga [approaching]. Good evening. How funny you look like —

birds in the fall —
I have seen you today before now Ah, Pavel Ser- —
gueyvitch! When did you return? [Sussloff goes aside with his wife
and tells her something. His face has a vicious expression. Yulia makes
a mock bow and returns to the veranda. Sussloff, whistling, goes to-
wards his house. Colon, after glancing at Yulia, follows him.]
Rumin. Today.
Olga. And
here already? You are a faithful friend. My! How
hot it is! But Fall
will be here presently shall move back into — We
town, and then within our stone walls we shall become strangers to each
 MAXIM GORKI 73

other.
Vlass [growling] The whining begins
. !

Bas. [in the doorway]. Please, Pavel Sergueyvitch, I wish to see you
a moment. [Rumin enters the house. He is met by Kaleria and Shali-
MOFF. Vlass, without replying to Olga, rises from the steps and goes
towards the pines.]
Olga [to Vlass]. Isn't that so?
Shal. [indifferently and slowly]. Democracy is expected to give new
life. But pray me, what kind of a beast a democrat is?
tell

Kal. [agitated]. Yes, you are right, a thousand times right. — It is

still a beast. It has but one conscious wish not to be hungry. —

Shal. And to wear squeaking boots.
Kal. What does he believe ? What does he profess ?
Vlass [with irritation]. And you! What do you believe? What
do you profess ?
Kal. [not replying to Vlass]. Life is renewed by the Faithful — by
the aristocracy of the spirit —
Vlass. Who is this aristocracy? Where is it?
Kal. I don't wish to speak to you, Vlass. Let us go off, Iakov
Petrovitch — there. —
[They descend the steps of the veranda and seating
themselves, continue their conversation. Kaleria is agitated, Shalimoff
calm, indifferent, and appears weary.]
Far. [approaching] Vlass You seem very nervous today
. ! !

Vlass. I am distressed.
Yulia. Let's go to the river, Vlass.
Vlass. No, excuse me, I don't care to.
Yulia. Please come ! I want to tell
you something.
Vlass [reluctantly]. So be
it, Well, what is it? [Yulia takes
then.
his arm and speaks to him inaudibly as they walk to the rear of the stage.
Varvara goes up the steps of the veranda.]
Olga [catching Varvara's hand] .
Varya ! Are you still angry
with me ?
Var. [pensively]. Angry? No.
Vlass [speaks loudly in the rear of the stage]. Vulgar man! If he
hadn't been my sister's husband —
Yulia. Sh !
— — [She draws him
sh ! into the woods.]
74 SUMMER-FOLK
Var. [frightened]. Heavens! What now?
Olga. Probably the engineer's wife is telling tales.
— Varya, I see

you are still angry. It was but a word that escaped me in a moment of ex-
citement.
Var. [pensively]. Don't say any more — please! I don't like any-

thing patched
— like patched friendship. . . .

Olga How unforgiving you are!

Var. [firmly and coldly].
[rises].
We forgive too much.
— It's a weakness,
which kills esteem. There is one man whom I forgave too much — now I

am of no consequence in his estimation.

Olga. You mean Serguey Vassilievitch? [Varvara makes no reply,

she nods and rocks to and fro, gazing vacantly beyond.] How quickly
people change. I remember him as a student. What a fine fellow he was
' '

then. Poor and light-hearted. Happy-go-lucky his friends called him.

. . . You have changed but little . .
you are the same dreamy,
.

earnest, and serious woman. When it was known that you had become
engaged, I Kyrill said to me, Bassoff will prosper with such a wife.
remember
He is thoughtless and inclined to vulgarity but she — —
Var. [simply]. do you say. this, Olga? To prove that I don't
Why
amount to much?
Olga. Varya! How can you think such a thing? . . . It sim-

ply came into my head. ...

Var. [without raising her voice, distinctly and like a verdict to herself.]

Yes, I am also a helpless, pitiable creature. Is it what you wished to say?

I know it ;.
I knew it long ago.
Sasha
[from the veranda]. Madam, your husband wishes to see
you. [Varvara rises and silently goes into the house.]
Olga [following her]. Wait a moment, Varya; you have misunder-
stood me !

Kal. [in an undertone]. The man who thinks that the truth is discov-
ered — dead to me.
is [A pause. Shalimoff smokes.] Tell me, does
life make you sad?
Shal. Yes now and then, quite sad.
;

Kal. Often?
Shal. One is never happy. I have already seen too much to be merry.
And then, I say this without hesitation, it is not a time when one can be
 MAXIM GORKI 75

merry.
—
Kal. The life of every thinking person is a sad drama.
Shal. Tell me. —
Kal. What?
Shal. [rising]. Tell me frankly, do you like my stories?
Kal. [with animation]. Exceedingly! Particularly the last one.
—
They are less realistic, they are less brutal. They have that tender, warm
sadness which envelops the soul like a cloud that covers the sun at sunset.
But few can appreciate them; those few love you.
Shal. [with a smile']. I thank you. You spoke of your new verses.
Will you read them?
Kal. Some time. [A pause. Shalimoff silently bows his head,
acquiescing. Vlass and Yulia are slowly coming to the pines from the
forest on the right. Yulia goes into the house.'] Do you wish to hear it
now?
Shal. What now? —
Kal. [with a smile]. You forgot so quickly?
Shal. [frowning]. I beg your pardon, but
—
Kal. [rising] . You asked me to read my verses — Would you like

to hear them now ?

Shal. [hurriedly]. Yes! It's such a fine evening. It will be delight-
ful. But you were mistaken. I did not forget. I was simply absent-

minded. I misunderstood your question.

Kal. [goes in]. Very well, I will read them, although you really don't
care —
Shal. [following her]. I assure you it isn't so. [Kaleria quickly
runs up the steps of the veranda. Shalimoff shrugs his shoulders and
makes a grimace. Turning round he sees Vlass. Colon and Sussloff
are coming from SussloFf's house. Both are silent and out of sorts.]
Shal. [to Vlass]. You are dreaming?
Vlass [pleasantly]. I am whistling.
[Olga enters the veranda. She seats herself in a rocking-chair be-
side the railing. Rumin, who followed her, places himself beside her.
She talks to him. Bassoff comes next; he pauses by the table and ex-
amines the hors d'oeuvre. Varvara remains standing, leaning on the
columns. Zamysloff stands before her.]
76 SUMMER-FOLK
Bas. But where are Vlass and Marya Lvovna ?
All here ?

Vlass. I am here. [Yulia comes from the house humming and

seats herself on one of the steps. Colon remains standing, listening to
Zamysloff. Susloff, glancing at the orator, passes on to the pines,
where Shalimoff and Vlass sit in silence.']
Zam. We are all complex people, Varvara Michailovna.
Bas. [bending over the railing']. You here, Iakov! That's good.
Zam. It is this complexity of our psychology that causes us the best —
people of the land to be —
called the 'Intellectuals,' and you. [Marya —
and Sonya are seen approaching.]
Var. [nervously]. We are not 'the Intellectuals' are the — we —
summer-folk of our country transients. —
We bustle and seek the best
places in life. We do nothing and talk altogether too much.
Bas. [with a sneer]. You, above all, prove the truth of your own
words.
[Kaleria comes with a copybook in hand, pauses by the table, and

listens.]
Var. [excitedly]. And there is so much mendacity in our conversa-
tions ! To
conceal from each other our spiritual poverty we adopt graphic
sentences and cheap tags of book lore. We
speak of the tragedy of our
life, without knowing it, we like to groan, whine, and complain.
DuDAKOFF approaches the veranda and places himself so as not to
he seen by his wife.]
Rumin You must be just. A man's complaint is pictur-
[nervously].
esque. It Varvara,
is cruel,to doubt the sincerity of a man's complaints.
Var. We have complained enough. We must have the courage to
be silent. We know how to be silent when we are happy? Each one
swallows his dose of happiness by himself, but his sorrow, perhaps an in-
significant scratch of the heart, we proclaim in public, we show it, shouting
and calling the world's attention to our trouble. We throw the remnants
of food from our houses and poison the air of the town. In the same way
we discard from, our souls all their filth and burden and cast them under the
feet of our neighbors. I am sure that hundreds and thousands of healthy

men perish poisoned and stunned by our groans and complaints. Who
granted the baneful right to poison men with the intolerable aspect of our in-

dividual wounds?
 MAXIM GORKI 77

Vlass [softly]. Bravo, Varya!

Colon. Clever girl! Well said. [Marya silently strokes the hand
of Varvara. Vlass and Sonya are also beside her. Rumin nods ner-
vously.]
Rumin. I ask leave to speak —
allow me to make my last speech!
Kal. You '

must have the courage to be silent.'

Bassoff]. How she has learned to talk.
Olga
Bas.
[to
Yes, Balaam's
— [Hesharply
claps his hand over his mouth, and does
not finish the sentence. Varvara, in her excitement, did not notice her
husband's remark, but many heard and understood it. Shalimoff smiles
and shakes his head reprovingly. Vlass and Sonya look at Bassoff with

contempt. Others pretend not to have heard. The fragmentary remarks

which followed the zvords of VARVARA are succeeded by an awkward silence.
Sussloff coughs and smiles. Varvara, perceiving something unusual,
uneasily looks around.]
Far. I believe I must have said something rude. Why do you all

look at me so?
Vlass. not you who were rude.
It's

Olga [with an innocent air]. What is the trouble?

Marya [persuasively and softly]. Don't Vlass Please don't! [She !

tries to remove the impression of what Vlass said, gradually becomes excited

and speaks with fervor. Shalimoff, Sussloff, and Zamysloff pretend

not to listen. Dudakoff nods his head approvingly. Bassoff looks at her
with gratitude and by gestures invites people to listen.] We must all be
different. We, who are children of washerwomen, cooks, and healthy work-
men, should be different Our country never had educated men united to
!

the people by ties of kinship. Our blood relationship should inspire us with
a strong wish to broaden, reconstruct, and enlighten the lives of our kin,
who spend their time in work, darkness, and filth ! We should endeavor
to broaden life not through pity or charity, — we should do
it for our own
sake, to escape this cursed estrangement, hide the and chasm between
us —
on the heights, —
and our kin below, in the depths, — whence look up
they
at us as though we were their enemies, who live by their toil They have !

sent us on to find the way and we left them behind, and have
to a better life,
wandered ourselves. We
have made our own solitude and filled it with
restless confusion and inward dualism. Such is our drama we have created :
78 SUMMER-FOLK
it ourselves and it is to be our punishment. Yes, Varya, we have no right
to groan
— [She is overcome by her feelings and seats herself opposite Var-
VARA. Silence.']
Dud. Yes ; it's all true !

Olga [quickly]. Do
you hear? Come here!
Shal. [raises his hat]. Have you finished, Madam?
Marya. Yes.
Olga [leads her husband aside to the end of the veranda]. You
have heard and understood ? What a fool that Bassoff is !

Dud. [in a low voice]. What has Bassoff to do with all this? [A
general commotion on the veranda. Varvara looks around. There is
'
still an uncertainty whether Bassoff's break'
forgotten or overlooked.]
is

Olga. Sh ! Varvara was saying such wicked things that he called her
Balaam's Ass.
Dud. Well, he is a ruffian. You know you are needed at home,

Olga !
—
Olga. Wait a minute. Kaleria going to read us some poetry.
is

But it's all right, all right ! Varvara has become so overbearing.
[Rumin, dejected, descends the steps and promenades up and down.]
Shal. Ladies and gentlemen, Kaleria Vassiliovna has most kindly
consented to read us her poetry.
Bas. Do hurry, my dear !

Kal. [excited]. Very well, I will read. —

Shal. Here is a chair for you.
Kal. I don't need it. Varvara, what is the matter? This interest
in my poetry surprises me.
Far. I can't tell. Evidently, some one has made some tactless re-
mark and they all wish to hide it.

Kal. I'll begin. I fear the same fate will overtake my poetry as
your sermons, Varya. Everything isswallowed in the bottomless pit of life.

Driven by the breath of Autumn

The picturesque snowflakes slowly fall
Like small dead flowers
From the cold heights.

They whirl above the earth,

The tired, ailing, dirty earth,
 MAXIM GORKI 79

Tenderly covering its filth

With their pure and caressing shroud.

Black, gloomy birds.

—
Dead trees and shrubs. —
White mute snowflakes
Are falling from the cold heights.

[A pause. Everybody looks at Kaleria as though expecting more.]

Shal. Charming!
Rumin [thoughtfully"]. The picturesque 'snowflakes fall like cold,
dead flowers.'
Vlass [excitedly] . I can make poetry, too. I will read you my verses.
Colon [laughing]. Goon!
Shal. An interesting contest !

Far. Vlass, is this necessary?

Zam. If it is funny, it is.

Marya. My dear fellow, let me remind you once more to be true to

yourself !
[All look at the excited face of Vlass. There is a hush.]
Vlass. I want to show you how easy and simple it is to put such rub-

bish into your neighbors' heads. Listen !

[He reads clearly and distinctly,
and with sarcasm in his voice.]

Small, useless men

Who tread the soil of country. my —
They go about and dolefully seek a place
Where they can hide from life.
They wish cheap happiness,
Repletion, comforts, and rest.
They go about complaining and groaning,
These commonplace liars and cowards.

Narrow, stolen thoughts,

Fashionable, telling words. —
Men creep timidly on the outskirts of life
Like ghostly shadows.

remains motionless, looking in turn at Shalimoff, Rumin, and

[He
Sussloff. All feel uneasy. Kaleria shrugs her shoulders. Shalimoff
80 SUMMER-FOLK
slowly lights a cigarette. Sussloff becomes excited. Marya and Var-
VARA go up to Vlass as though they were apprehensive.']
Dud. [softly and distinctly]. Yes, this is
very telling
— remarkably
true.
Yulia. Bravo! I like it, too.
Colon. You said it. You honest soul !

Kal. It's impudent and wicked! Why did you say all this?
Zam. Yes, it's not cheerful.
Shal. What
do you think of it, Serguey?
Bas. Well, you see, of course the rhymes are poor, but as a joke —
Zam. It is too serious to be a joke.
Yulia [to Shalimoff]. How cleverly you dissemble!
Sus. [spitefully]. Allow me, an ignorant man, to reply to this. Ex-
cuse me, I am at a loss what to call this kind of authorship. I will not reply
to you, Vlass Michailovitch ! I will address myself directly to the source

of your inspiration, to you, Marya Lvovna.

Vlass. What's that? Beware!
Marya [haughtily]. Me? Why? However, I am listening!
Sus. I do so, because I know that you are the muse who inspired this

poet.
Vlass. No
vulgarity, if you please.
Yulia [gently]. He
can't do without it.

Sus.Pray don't interrupt me. When I have finished, I will be re-

sponsible for everything I have said. Yes, Marya Lvovna, you are, so to

speak, a person of ideas. Somewhere you

are accomplishing something

mysterious, perhaps something great, historical. But that doesn't concern

me. Evidently you believe that your activity gives you the right to treat
people haughtily.
Marya [calmly]. That isn't true.
Sus. You undertake to influence and teach everyone. You have
taught this young man to denounce everyone.
Vlass. What nonsense you are talking !

Sus. [vehemently]. Hold on, young man! Until now I bore your
impudence patiently. ...
I must tell you that if we do not live as you

wish us to, esteemed Marya Lvovna, we have our reasons. We endured

and suffered in our youth. It is but natural that having arrived at years of
 MAXIM GORKI 3i

maturity we should want and peace

to enjoy in a word, to re-
good living
—
ward ourselves abundantly for the anxious and hungry years of our youth.
Shal. [dryly] Whom do you mean by we,' if you please ?
.
'

Sus. [getting more excited]. We! I, you, he, all of us. Yes, we
are allchildren of mechanics and of the poor. lived through days of We
anxiety our youth. Now, in our mature years, we wish to lead an easy and
in

restful life. That's our psychology. You don't like it, Marya Lvovna?
But it's and could not be otherwise.
quite natural, Primarily, my most
esteemed Marya Lvovna, you must consider the man, and all the other ab-

surd details follow. Therefore, pray don't disturb us. Even if you abuse

us, or incite others to abuse us, or call us liars and cowards, not one of us
will undertake a life of public service — no, not one.
Dud. What a cynic ! You would better stop !

Sits, [becoming more excited]. I will speak for myself. I am no

longer a youth. It is Marya Lvovna. I am a
useless to teach me, man of
mature years, a commonplace Russian, a Russian resident, and nothing else.
This is my plan of life. I prefer to remain a resident. I shall live as I

choose, and I defy all your sermons, appeals, and ideas [He claps his hat !

upon his head and quickly disappears in the direction of the house. Zamy-
SLOFF, Bassoff, and Shalimoff go aside and converse in low, animated
tones. Varvara and Marya make another group. Yulia, Colon, and
DuDAKOFF, with his wife, form another group. General excitement. Ka-
LERIA, crest-fallen, stands alone under the pine tree. Rumin walks up and
down excitedly.]
Vlass [going aside and clasping his head in his hands] . Devil take it

all! [Sonya follows him and talks to him.]

Marya. But this is hysterics !
Only the man who is laboring under
a mental stress can make a show of himself in this way !

Rumin [to Marya]. You see how distressing the truth is!

Far. Yes.
very sad.It's

Colon [to Yulia]. I understand nothing absolutely nothing.

—
Yulia [to Marya]. Tell me, my dear, has he offended you?
Marya. Oh, no. He wronged himself.
Colon. These are strange doings !

Dud. [to his wife]. Wait a moment. [To Colon.] This is like
an abscess, — an abscess of the soul, — such as may occur to any of us.
6
82 SUMMER-FOLK
[He waves his hands, greatly agitated, and cannot
Yulia. I say, Nicolas Petrovitch — speak.~\

Zam. [approaching her]. All this has unnerved you. —

Yulia. Not at all. But I can't remain here any longer. Please ac-

company me.
Zam. It is all so absurd. And the host prepared such a
'

palatable
'

surprise. It's too bad !

Yulia. We
have had enough surprises. [ They go out.']

Shal. [approaching Kaleria]. Well, what's your opinion?

Kal. It's dreadful It's like slime from the bottom of the sea, and
!

it strangles me. [Bassoff goes to Vlass and slightly pulls his coat sleeve. ~\

Vlass. Well, what is it?

Bassoff [taking him aside]. I want to speak to you.
Rumin
[to Varvara, greatly excited]. This avalanche of spiteful
vulgarity has crushed my soul I am completely upset. Good-bye, I am
!

going. I came to take leave of you. I had hoped to spend such a pleasant

evening
— my last one. — Now Good-bye.I am going away forever.
Far. [without heeding him]. you know what I thought? I Do
thought that Sussloff was more sincere than any of us. He certainly was.
He expressed brutally the bare truth which the others did not dare to express.
Rumin [retreating]. Is that all you have to say? Is that your fare-
well ! Heavens !
[He retreats to the rear of the stage.]
Bas. [to Vlass], Well, my dear fellow, you distinguished yourself!
What's to be done now ? You have offended your sister, Yakov, who, you
know, is a writer and respected by all and myself; also Sussloff and Rumin.
You should apologize.
Vlass. Apologize To them ! !

Bas. Well, what of that? You can say 'I was only joking. I

wanted make you laugh, and overstepped the limits.'

to They will excuse —
you. They are all used to your eccentricities; they know that you are prac-
tically a clown !

Vlass [shouting]. Go to the devil! You are a clown yourself!

Sonya. Gentlemen, spare us !

Var. What's the matter with you, Vlass?

Marya. This is a wave of lunacy !

Colon. Vlass, you had better go.

 MAXIM GORKI 83

Bas. I am offended, too.

Var. Serguey ! Vlass ! I beg of you !

Bas. No, I am not a clown !

Var. Vlass, don't you dare !

Vlass. Only my regard for my sister prevents me from telling you.

—
[Kaleria approaches them.']
Sasha [to Varvara]. Shall I serve?
Var. Go
away.
Sasha [aside to Colon] It would be much better to serve
. ! When
the master sees the food and the table he will be pacified.
Colon [to Sasha]. Clear out!
Bas. [to Vlass]. No. Come, come. [Suddenly turns ferociously
to Vlass and shouts:] You are nothing but a kid !

Kal.Serguey, this is absurd

—
!

Bas.Yes, a kid that's a fact!

Shal. [taking Bassoff by the arm and leading him off into the house.
Sasha follows them]. I don't —
Mary a. Oh, Vlass, you are to blame !

Vlass. So you blame me?

Sasha [to Bassoff]. Shall I serve?
Bas. Get out ! I am nothing here ! I am not master in my own
house !
[ They all go in.]

Mary a [to Sonya]. Take him to our house. [To Vlass.] Go

with her.
Vlass. Forgive me. And you, sister, forgive me, too. I am to
blame. My poor little sisterkin, do go !

Var. [in an undertone]. Where, where, shall I go?

Colon. To my house. That would be so nice !
[Nobody hears him.
He sighsand slowly goes towards Sussloff's house.]
Marya. You had better come to my house, Varya.
Var. I am coming by and by, Vlass.
[Varvara goes into the house,
while Marya, followed by Vlass and Sonya, goes toward the forest.
Kaleria, completely overcome and tottering, also goes into the house.]
Olga. This is scandalous, and so unexpected. Did you understand
what it all meant, Kyrill?
Dud. Yes, I understood. Sooner or later we were all bound to get
84 SUMMER-FOLK
disgusted with one another, and now it has come to pass. Vlass hit the
mark. But you should go home, Olga !

Glga. Wait a moment. This is so exciting Perhaps something !

else will happen !

Dud. Don't, Olga. That isn't right; we must go home! The chil-
dren are screaming and crying! Volka has abused the nurse. She is
angry, and he says she pulled his ear. In general, there is a catastrophe
there. I told you long ago that you ought to go home.
Olga. You didn't.
Dud. I did! We stood here, and you were speaking about Bassoff
when I told you.

Olga. You told me nothing.

Dud. I don't know why you dispute? I remember it distinctly. I

said,
'

Go home! '

Olga. You
couldn't have said,
'

Go home !
'

Only children and ser-

vants are addressed in that way !

Dud. You are a quarrelsome woman !

Olga. Aren't you ashamed of yourself ! And you promised to con-

trol yourself !

Dud. [walking away]. Don't. This is idiotic! Just like a woman!

Olga [following him~\. Idiotic! And I am nothing but a woman.
[With tears in her eyes.] Thank you! [They disappear in the forest.
The stage remains empty for a few moments. It grows dark. Bassoff
and Shalimoff re-enter the veranda.]
Shal. [to Bassoff]. You should be something of a philosopher, my
dear fellow. It's absurd to get excited over such trifles !

' '

Bas. It's very annoying. Nothing but a kid I hope you are no !

longer angry?
Shal. Such eccentricities as those of this unsuccessful rhymster are
common in daily papers ! But whom do they harm ? [ They descend the
steps and go toward the open.]
Sus. [approaching with a hurried step]. I have returned. [To Bas-
soff.] I am to apologize to you. [To Shalimoff.] I beg your pardon,
too I lost my self-control But she has exasperated me for a long time,
—
! !

she, and people like her! They are simply antagonistic to me ! I detest

her face and manner!

 MAXIM GORKI 85

Bas. I know, my friend, I know ! One should be gentle and con-

siderate.
Shal. [dryly]. But you overstepped the
by your denunciation! limits
Bas. [hastily]. That will do. I agree to everything he said. By
Jove, to be frank, I should like this lady to understand that
—
Sus. All women are actresses. Russian women are dramatic actresses

par excellence. They often play the heroine.

Bas. Yes, it's very hard to live with women. [Varvara and Marya
appear on the terrace.']
Shal. We make all those difficulties ourselves ! We should under-
stand that women are still an inferior race.
Bas. \_as though quoting]. Certainly, a woman is much nearer to the
animal plane. To subject a woman
to our will it is necessary to subject her
to a strong and picturesque despotism. [In the forest, on the right, a shot is
heard. No one heeds it.]
Sus. A woman should become a mother. Then, fortunately, she is

in our hands.
Far. [in an undertone, and emphatically]. Horrible !

Marya. Heavens ! This is dissolution ! It is like the stench of

corpses. Let's go, Varya. [Sussloff hems and haws as he slowly with-

draws.]
Bas. [hastily running to his wife]. Piotr has overstepped the limit!
Far. [to Shalimoff]. It's you ! You!
Shal. [taking off his hat and shrugging his shoulders] What did I do ? .

Marya. Let's go, Varya. Come! [She leads Varvara away.]

Bas. [looking after them inquiringly]. Devil take it! They heard
what we said.
Shal. [with a smile] . You are not a good ally !

Bas. [troubled]. I wish I hadn't said Such an irritable

anything.
monster! Why
say such things heedlessly?
Shal. [dryly]. I am going tomorrow. It's getting too cold and
damp here. I am going in now.
Bas. [dolefully]. And my sister is bawling! That's a fact! [They
go. Silence. Pustobaika and Kropilkin come around the corner of
Bassoff's house. They are warmly clad, and carry watchmen' s rattles and
whistles. Sounds of the piano come from Sussloff's house. The voices
86 SUMMER-FOLK
of Yulia and Zamysloff mingle in a duet — The weary day
— we
! !
']

Pust. You can patrol this district, patrol the other,while I

must be heard — and then we'll meet in Stepanida's kitchen and have some
tea.
Kro. We started too early. They are all awake yet.
Pust. We must let them know that we are about, for effect. Go
along.
—
Kro. [going to the left] .
Oh, Lord All !
right !

Look at this
Pust. rubbish! Heathens!
Just like drunks, these
summer-folks Wherever!
they go they clutter up but it is for the likes of;

us to pick up after them. [He rattles and whistles energetically. Kro-

pilkin replies in the same way. Pustobaika goes. Kaleria appears
and sits down under the pines, sad and wrapt in thought. She listens to

the singing, nods, keeping time to the music, and softly sings. To the right,
in the forest, the voice of Pustobaika is heard.]
Pust. [excited and speaking tow]. Bless my heart! Who are you?
How did this happen?
[Kaleria listens alarmed.]
Pust. [appears, supporting Rumin]. Shall I take you to Bassoff's
house?
Kal. Serguey !
Serguey !

Rumin. Please send for the doctor !

Kal. What happened, Pavel Sergueyevitch? [To Pustobaika.]

What is the matter with him?
Pust. I was patrolling, and saw him crawling towards me, — he says
he wounded.
is

Kal. Are you wounded? [Calls.] Serguey! Send for Marya

Lvovna, quick A doctor, quick
! !

Bas. [comes running from the house]. What's the matter with you?
What does all this mean?
Rumin. Forgive me.
Kal. Who wounded you ?
Pust. [grumbling] . Who could attack him here ? He must have done
it himself. No doubt about it! And here is the pistol! [He takes a
pistol from his coat and carefully and leisurely examines
Bas. Is that you? I thought it was Zamysloff, —
it.]
I thought that
 MAXIM GORKI 87

Piotr had. — [He runs away and shouts :] Marya Lvovna !

Shal.[wrapped in a plaid]. What is it? What happened?

Kal. Are you very much hurt?
Rumin. I am ashamed, ashamed. —
Shal. Perhaps it is not a dangerous wound?
Rumin. Take me away from here — I do not wish her to see me.
Do take me elsewhere
—
!

Kal. [to Shalimoff]. Go on. Call some one. [Shalimoff goes

towards Sussloff's house. People are running about. A general com-
motion. Marya, Varvara, Sonya, and Vlass appear.]
Marya. Is that you ? What a pity Come, Sonya, help me. Take
—
!

off the coat. Don't get excited, carefully !

Far. Pavel Sergueyevitch !

Rumin. Forgive me. I should have done it thoroughly, but when —

a man's heart is small and palpitates, it is hard to hit it. —
Far. Why did you do it ?
Kal. [to Rumin, shouting hysterically]. It's cruel. [Bethinks her-
self.] What am I
saying? Forgive me !

Flass [to Kaleria]. Go away, go away, my dear, you shouldn't be

here!
[He goes towards the pines. Men are running about. Sussloff,
Colon, without hat or coat, and with an overcoat thrown over his shoulders,
then Zamysloff and Yulia. Dudakoff, disheveled and angry. Olga
timid and uneasy.]
Marya. Ah, there it is !
Well, that isn't serious !

Rumin. People are coming this way. Give me your hand, Varvara
Michailovna.
Far. Why did you do it ?

Rumin. I love you — I can't live without you !

Flass [speaks with his teeth shut] . The deuce take you with your love !

Kal. [screams]. Don't you dare! You should not treat dying men
like that!

Marya [to Varvara]. You'd better go! And you, sir, please be
calm. It's a trifling wound. Ah, here's the doctor!
Dud. Is he wounded? In the shoulder? And what an idea to aim
at the shoulder? You should have aimed at the left side or the head — if
88 SUMMER-FOLK
you meant to do it. —
Mary a. What
do you mean, Kyrill Akimovitch !

Dud. That's so!

I beg your pardon. I see you have bandaged it

Well, they can carry him now.

already.
Bas. Take him to our house, —
don't you think so, Varya ?
Rumin. There is no need of carrying me. I can walk.
Dud. You So much the better.
can ?

Rumin [he sways to and fro as he walks. Bassoff and Sussloff sup-
port him']. There it is! I had no luck in living and none in dying. I
am a miserable creature !
[He is led into the house.]
Yulia. He is right.
Zam. [dolefully]. What a sad comedy!
Pust. [to Colon]. I found him.
Colon. All right.
Pust. ought to get something for a drink
I !

Colon [reprovingly]. You should be more disinterested. [He gives

him a coin.]
Pust. Thank you, sir.
Kal. [to Varvara]. Is he dying? I should have been the one to do
it. Don't you think so, Varya ?
Far. Don't talk! [Hysterically.] How disgusting we all are!
And why ?
Shal. [to Marya]. Is his wound dangerous?
Marya. No.
Shal. Hm! Not a pleasant accident! Allow me, Varvara Mich-
ailovna !

Var. [shuddering]. What is it?

Shal. A
few minutes ago you heard the words —
[Bassoff, Sussloff, and Dudakoff come out of the house.]
Bas. We him down —
laid
Var. Say no more.
— I don't wish to hear any explanation. I hate

you all!You are miserable people! Miserable wretches!

Vlass. One moment, sister. Let me explain You are masques all !

—
:

As long as I live I shall try to tear off the tatters that cover your lies your
vulgarity,
—
the niggardliness of your feelings and the prostitution of your
thoughts. [Shalimoff, shrugging his shoulders, walks off.]
 MAXIM GORKI 89

Marya. Don't ! It's useless !

Far. No ;
let them have dearly paid for my right to speak
listen ! I

frankly. They have distorted my soul, poisoned my life. Was I like this
formerly ? I have lost my faith. I believe nothing. —
I have no energy —
— nothing to live for! Was I like this before?
Yulia. I can say the same. Indeed I can.
Olga [to her husband]. Look at Varvara She is beside herself !
—
she looks positively wicked! [Dudakoff waives his wife away.~\
Bas. Don't, Varya, don't! Can't you say all this in a different way?
Is it worth while to excite yourself for this Rumin? What if he is an idiot,
is it worth while for his sake?

Far. Go away, Serguey !

Bas. My dear friend!

Far. I never was your friend, or you mine ! Never ! We were only
man and wife Now, we are strangers
! I will leave you now ! !

Bas. Where will you go? Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Varya?
Saying such things before people, on the street?
[Sussloff stands still in the rear, at the stage. ~\

Far. There are no people here.

Marya. Come, Varya.
Yulia. Don't interfere ! Let her say all she wants to.
Colon [sadly]. How sad this all is!

Kal. [to Marya] . What does it all mean ?

Marya. Calm yourself. Help me to get her away.
Far. Yes, I will go, far away from here where all is rotting around
me. Away from the idlers ! I want to live I will live and be busy, I
!

will do something to harm you. I will oppose you !

[She looks at them
and shouts desperately:] I curse you all ! I curse you !

Flass. That will do, sister! [He takes her hand and leads her
away.]
Bas. [to Shalimoff]. Why don't you help me to put a stop to this?
Shal. [smiling calmly]. Give her a glass of cold water What —
else can you do?
Yulia [approaches Varvara]. How glad I should be to go away
also!
Bas. Varya ! Where are you going? You are doing wrong, Marya.
9o SUMMER-FOLK
You are a doctor and should quiet her.
Marya. Leave me alone.
Colon [to Bassoff]. All I can say, is that you are an innocent ras-
cal. [He follows Varvara and Vlass into the woods, on the right.']
Kal. [sobs~\. And what is to become of me? Where am I to go?
a
Sony [going up to her] Come to us, . come — !

[She takes Kaleria's arm and leads her away.]

Ynlia. Well, Piotr Ivanovitch, let's go home and continue our life.
Bas. How's that? You are all insane today. This fool of a Rumin !

It's all owing to his stupid nerves! Yakov, why don't you say something?
Why do you laugh? You believe they are not in earnest? So unexpected
and all of a sudden Bang
! And everything gone to the devil
! What is !

to be done, now ?
Shal. Calm yourself, my friend. This is only rhetoric on history's
soil,
— believe me! [He takes Bassoff's arm and leads him toward the
house. Dudakoff, with his arms behind his back, comes out of the house
and paces slowly towards the right.]
Bas. Deuce take it all !

Shal. [with a smirk] . Calm yourself. You see the Sussloffs went off

to continue their life. — Let us, also, calmly continue ours.

Olga. Will he die, Kyrill?

Dud. [gloomily]. No, — Come on.— No one will die.
Shal. Ah! my dear friend, all this
— people and
the all that happens
to them isso meaningless! So insignificant! Pour me out some wine!
[The faint whistling of the watchman is heard in the distance.]
 DAS TRUNKNE LIED.
By Friedrich Nietzsche

Translated from the German by William Benjamin Smith

MAN! Give ear!

What saith the Midnight deep and drear?
'From sleep, from sleep
I woke and from a dream profound: —
The world is deep,
And deeper than the day can sound.
Deep is its woe, —
Joy
—
deeper still than heart's distress ;

Woe saith, Forgo !

ButJoy wills Everlastingness,

— Wills deep, deep Everlastingness!'

Nietzsche wrote: Tille translates:

O Mensch! Gieb Adit! O man! Lose not sight!

Was spricht die tiefe Mitternacht? What saith the deep midnight?
'

Ich schlief, ich schlief — ,

"
I lay in sleep, in sleep ;

Traum
'

Aus tiefem bin ich erwacht : From deep dream I woke to light.
'

Die Welt ist tief, The world is deep,

'

Und tiefer als der Tag gedacht. And deeper than ever day thought it
'
Tief ist ihr Weh — might.
'

Lust — tiefer noch

,

als Herzeleid :
Deep is its woe, —
'

Weh spricht :
Vergeh ! And deeper still than woe — delight.
Ewigkeit —
'

Doch alle Lust will Saith woe:

'

Pass, go!
'
— will tiefe, tiefe Ewigkeit!"
,

Eternity's sought by all delight,

—
Eternity deep
— by all delight !
'

The original may be drunk, Nietzsche called it

'

Das trunkne Lied,'

' '
but Tille's translation is not only drunk,' it is also disorderly.' As it

cannot be locked up from the public, here is a corrective, a rendering that

does not gratuitously smutch the brightest gem in the coronet of Nietzsche's
fame.

(90
 THE NOVELS OF A. PALACIO
VALDES
By S. Griswold Morley

A MADRID
in the

country, he
efforts
bookseller remarked not long ago that the novels
of Valdes were the only books for which he found a market
United
statement that the
States.

would be
Mr.
If one
name
were to infer from that sweeping
of Valdes is widely known in our

Notwithstanding the kindly

in error.

Sylvester Baxter and Mr. Howells, and the

of
fact that all but three of his fifteen novels have been translated into English,
Valdes seems to be still a stranger to the general reading public here. His
name is absent from the pages of literary reviews in which Zola and d'An-

nunzio are mentioned half a dozen times a month. So another attempt to

render it more familiar can hardly be out of place. Moreover, his latest
' '
novel prefaced by the wish, May this my last song be the sweetest of all
is ;

and that expression, even if not taken literally, lends a certain color of time-
liness to a review of his work at this moment.
It seldom easy for a Spanish author to establish a popular cult out-
is

side his own land, Cervantes being the great exception. In general, works
coming from the Iberian peninsula are dipped too thoroughly in the ex-
treme nationalism which Ferdinand and Isabella established there and which
has been the basis for Spain's strength and weakness ever since. The Span-
iard's point of outlook over the social and moral world is seldom ours, and
often the very events which he describes are so strange to us that we can
hardly credit their possibility. Hence perhaps we have grown wary of
Spanish local reputations, and hesitate before letting ourselves be persuaded
to take them seriously.
Such reluctance has no place in dealing with the writings of Valdes.
If he was born with any provinciality it has disappeared before the wider

knowledge of the traveler and philosopher. He is not a blind eulogist of

the habits of his countrymen; neither on the other hand does he use his
breadth of view to propagate at home the cause of liberty and education.
He enters no controversy about affairs of church or state, he has been the
mover in no political revolutions; he is content merely to describe the lives
of men and women, moving in a frame of such native customs as possess

(92)
 S. GRISWOLD MORLEY 93

charm and interest without being exotic. On account of his very modera-
tion he has never been really popular at home. He
is the least known to
his compatriots of all the living Spanish novelists of the front rank.
Valera,
the half-mystic philosopher and statesman, Pereda, the pessimistic ultra-
montane, are members of the Spanish Academy; Perez Galdos, the radical,
has in addition the more significant honor of naming a street in Madrid;
but Valdes remains without external reward.
The fact is that he never can be a truly popular author in any country.
In his own words, Those who like myself hate all excess will never find
'

favor with the public' From the nature of his work the lovers of it must
always be restricted to a small circle of those who are willing to think as
they read,
—
and not only to think, but to ponder, to search for delicate
beauties in the middle of long paragraphs, to read with appreciation caress-

ing descriptions where every word has its effect. Valdes sprinkles the dra-
matic element with a sparing hand. That is due partly to his system of
composition, as we shall see, and partly to the fact that inward crises interest
him more than outward ones.
His novels cannot well be lumped together for discussion. Each one
has its peculiar savor, and the diverse themes include life among laborers,
high society, philosophy, religion, and pure emotion. For this reason, and
in order to point out the gradual changes in method which Valdes has

adopted, almost a necessity to outline the books in their chronological

it is

order. The method is academic,' I know; so are President Eliot's speeches

'

and Beethoven's second symphony.

The first novel, El Senorito Octavio, is a romantic tale of illicit love
between an ill-treated countess and her majordomo, complicated by the
'
emotional spasms of a virtuoso of sensibility.' No doubt the author had
this book especially in mind when he wrote
in later days, with characteristic
'

self-scrutiny, deplore theIuse of certain theatrical effects in some of my

works. When I wrote them I did not give ear to the advice of the muses,
but catered to the depraved taste of the shallow and ignorant public' And
yet, although El Senorito Octavio betrays the youth of its author and is of
small significance compared to his later work, it shows fully developed at
the very outset his fascinating style and his unerring grasp of characters and
their relations to each other. This inborn power to create character enables
him tomake delightful reading out of many a flimsy plot.
Marta y Maria (Martha and Mary), the second novel, is as well
94 THE NOVELS OF A. PALACIO VALDES
known any in America.
as More modest than the first in scope and more
is wrought out with a
congenial in
atmosphere, it perfection of detail and
sympathy in which Valdes peculiarly excels, and which may be called the
aerial perspective of literature. It is a simple story of a few honest souls

in an Asturian coast-town, without more excitement than a dance, a picnic,

and a Carlist uprising nipped in the bud. Ricardo, the young marquis of
Penalta, is betrothed to Maria ; but her terrestrial affections quickly fade
before a growing mystic love for Christ and his church. Her sister Marta
'

meanwhile, cumbered about much serving,' cherishes a silent love for

Ricardo, whereby she wins him at last, as Maria wins her way to a convent.
Merely a picture of sincere hearts drawn their several ways, the whole set
in relief by a sweet sensuousness which never falls to sensuality; but Valdes
has not written anything since which makes a closer appeal to whole-hearted
readers.
It matters less perhaps that he points to a reversal of the Scriptural
judgment concerning the superiority of the contemplative to the active life.
Though Mary of the New Testament chose the better part in sitting at
Jesus' feet, Valdes indicates plainly enough that he considers household
labors of more service in this particular instance. Maria, an enraptured
mystic, intent only upon worship, saddens her lover, breaks her father's
heart, kills her mother, with serene confidence in the rectitude of her aims.
Marta goes about binding up the wounds
dealt by her sister, without ever

pausing to ask herself if her energies are being directed toward the greatest
development of her spiritual nature. Never was the imposing selfishness
of religiosity contrasted more sharply with the sublime religion of a useful
life. There is, of course, another side to the shield, and that was displayed
afterwards in La Fe.
Valdes has been called the leader of the French naturalistic school in
Spain, but such a label is unjust to him. Rightly or wrongly, French natur-
alism stands to us for the representation of man in his brute nature alone,
and Valdes always prefers to emphasize the spiritual values. He is a nat-
uralist only so far as that means that he does not willingly put any scene upon
his canvas which Nature could disown. It is true that he has been led at
times into a Gallicism foreign to his nature. El Idilio de tin Enfermo
(An Invalid's Idyll) is the book which exhibits the tendency most clearly.
An anemic young man plunges into the country in search of health, and
 S. GR1SWOLD MORLEY 95

whiles away his enforced vacation by beguiling a farmer's daughter. The

story marvelously well told, and is a beautiful tribute to the glories of
is

nature among the Asturian hills, but it exhales an unhealthy odor, which
I am sure must later have become unpleasant to its author's nostrils. Valdes
never at any time in his career hesitates to describe the working of man's
lower instincts when it lies in his path, and he does it with a healthy frank-
ness which contrasts sharply with the morbid gloating of d'Annunzio and
his like; but his favorite province is on a higher level. Far from being a
disciple of theFrench school, he expresses disgust for it in plain language.
In the essay on novel-writing prefixed to Los Majos de Cadiz he writes :

'
It is enough to glance impartially at certain recent well-known French

novels, which describe life in the country and in mining communities, to be

convinced that their author has not honestly described what he has witnessed,
but has with transparent artifice raked together into one community all the
crime, obscenity, and horrors that he has read of in the newspapers for sev-
eral years, which happened in the various departments of France. On the
other hand, in certain German, English, and Spanish novels dealing with
rural life there is found nothing but honesty, purity, and happiness. This
is even more false. With all respect to both parties, I believe that
. . .

to depict life as it really iswe must expel anger from our hearts,
rid ourselves of all restless yearning, and observe it without prejudice.' Ab-
solute sincerity, then, is the goal at which Valdes aims, and he almost always
reaches it.

is an
Jose, the fourth novel, unpretentious story of life in a fishing vil-

lage, which has already been translated into six languages. popularity Its

is due to simple charm and wide appeal.

its As Marta y Maria dealt with
middle-class scenes, Jose depicts with close fidelity the humbler sorrows and

aspirations of those whose daily bread is won by toil. Work is the key-
note of the book; work to catch fish, and then to sell them at a fair price,
work to wrest life from wind and water; Jose must struggle to win a liveli-
hood from nature, and to win his sweetheart from her niggardly mother.
Yet the whole is not depressing, for one feels a glory in labor in the open,
with opportunity to see, and fight, and accomplish. The simple pleasures
earned are all the sweeter. Mr. Howells has rightly criticised certain exag-

gerations in the book, which mar its perfection somewhat, but not enough
to prevent it from ranking well in a modest class.
96 THE NOVELS OF A. PALACIO VALDES
At this point in the novelist's career a change in his method begins to
be apparent. Thus far his stories have been somewhat restricted in scope;
they deal with few characters and the scenes are all laid in Asturias, the
northern province where Valdes was born. Henceforth the circle covered
is enlarged; the ground includes the whole of Spain, from Madrid to Valen-

cia, from Cadiz to Dijon. From unraveling the secrets of a few obscure
hearts he branches out with set purpose to offer something like a compre-
hensive view of thelife and manners of all Spain. It is not by chance that

a bull-fight is described in one book, a tobacco-factory in another, a romeria

in a third. Most Spanish novelists like to style themselves painters of
'

customs '; some of them are nothing else; and Valdes, too, lays on the local
color with a full brush at times.
He states his literary creed as follows :
'
The novel partakes of the
nature of the drama and of the epic, but is, in my opinion, more like the sec-
ond. Accordingly, it is not requisite that in it the action should progress

rapidly to a close, as in the drama, without ever turning aside; on the con-
trary it proceed slowly, stopping frequently to relate episodes or describe
may
places and customs, like an epic poem.' There is no reason to discuss the
value of this theory of the novel, which doubtless is as good as another; yet
when I have heard a reader of Valdes exclaim, 'Ah, but his plots are no
'

good ! I have sometimes wondered whether he was not unconsciously trans-

lating the above-quoted prescription into plain English. At any rate, as
Valdes applies it in this second period of his development, it means that plots
are, rather than worthless, non-existent. Such books as Riverita, Maximina,
and La Espuma, with of charm and depth, are nothing
all their qualities

but collections of mild adventures hung on a thread of one or two lives.

One can hardly detect in them anything like the statement of a problem and
its solution; instead there are descriptions of characters, more descriptions
of characters, and then a relation of some of their actions in their several

spheres.
For the average reader there is nothing more tedious than to wade
through the solid pages which are intended to acquaint him thoroughly with
the physical appearance, mental and moral characteristics, and past history
of the personages who come upon the scene. He skips those pages or com-
passes them according as he considers the author's thoughts more or less
worth getting at. Take as a random example of description, neither the
 S. GRISWOLD MORLEY 97

best nor worst, the following from La Espuma:

In spite of his striking and somewhat weatherbeaten face
4
and his

martial bearing, General Patirio was a counterfeit veteran. His promotions

had been won without a drop of bloodshed. First instructor in military
science to a person of royal blood then a member of several scientific com-
;

missions, and lastly employed in the War

Office, cultivating the friendship
of the politicians; representative several times;, senator at last and mem-
all

ber of the highest military court; he had never been on a battle-field except
once when pursuing a rebel general, and that with the firm intention never
to catch him. He subscribed to two or three scientific reviews; he
. . .

quoted German names in public when his profession was alluded to; but

the truth is that the reviews always remained unopened on his dressing-table,
and the German names, though well pronounced, were only empty sounds
upon his lips.'
This is graphic, humorous, well done in short; but it continues through
four pages, and the person in question is one of the least important in the
book. What shall the reader do, then, when a full quarter of a novel is
taken up by such presentation of its characters, many of whom drop subse-
quently out of sight? Valdes is led to such excesses primarily by his great
power of grasping and isolating a character. Like Dickens and Balzac, he
finds it hard to choose from the abundance of figures which press about his
brain ;
and when he discovered his strength he did not for a time control it.
Then, with such affectionate insight into the lives of his crea-
too, he enters
tions that he cannot bear to have his readers misconceive them; and so he
is lured along indefinitely from one illuminating touch to another. There
isonly one better way to present character, by action.
—
We
must hasten to modify such harsh strictures by pointing out that
these same novels are full of the greatest beauties. What they lack in sweep
they make up in intimate revelation of the heart. Riverita and its sequel
Maximina are a perfect mine of interesting observations. It is the fashion

to read only Maximina, for the sake of the beautiful character of the heroine,
but it is a great mistake. The two are not separate stories, but merely
halves of the same one, and they should never be disjoined. Together they
form a real epic of a man's life. We
witness with involuntary sympathy the
growth from childhood of this native of Madrid, Miguel Rivera, so frank,
so clear-sighted, and so human. We meet his companions good and bad,
7
98 THE NOVELS OF A. PALACIO VALDES

his teachers wise and foolish we ;

see the adverse conditions which affect his

own toward
back and his leaps
growth, and behold as with our eyes his slips
an ideal, his small heart-burnings and his absorbing passions. And when
Riverita has run his thorny course to the end, after a brief space of happi-
'

ness with his noble wife, out of so many rude shocks he learned,
never to
the sublime truth which to all eternity will soar above human
forget it,
could quote all of
wish I
knowledge and sum up all truths, self-denial.' I

those fine closing pages of Maximina, for they show better than any
others

how admirably Valdes has given expression to the broadest aspirations of

the human race.
Hehas too keen an eye for foibles to fall into sentimentality, even in
this most intimate of all his writings, but we do not need his statement that
Maximina is a portrait of his wife, for we feel instinctively that Rivera is
Valdes himself. No other character in all his work is drawn with such sym-
that spirit of subtle satire against human
pathy, and no other so embodies
futilities combined with deep reverence for the sacred things of life, which
is the spirit of Valdes himself.
To this middle manner, in which the sluggish flow of the story is broken
up by a set purpose to describe local customs, belong a number of novels of
more or less
importance. El Cuarto Poder (The Fourth Estate, The Power
of the Press) might be divided into two separate books, having no necessary
connection with each other. On one side stands the story of an unreason-
ing, all-powerful love, which brings sorrow and destruction to those who are

by chance bound to a brilliant piece of work in every way; the

it. It is

three chief characters are vividly real; Cecilia in particular, the type of the
true woman, loving and suffering in silence, is a figure which deserves to
stand out long in literature. On the other side is a satirical description, in
strokes broad even to caricature, of a Spanish provincial town and its ludi-
crous efforts to keep abreast of the times. Each half is excellent in its way,
but there is a lack of connection between the two which seems quite un-
necessary. One
could almost go through the volume picking out every other
chapter, and hold in one hand a complete love-story, and in the other a
society satire As in the Italian epics, the author spins one thread up to a
!

certain point, and leaves it hanging while he departs to perform a like office
for another strand of his multiple cord.
If this be a defect, —
and the subsequent change in his method indicates
 S. GRISWOLD MORLEY 99

that he considered such later on,

it —
it is not the result of haste or careless-

ness, but of the theory which he held at that time. It was much later that
' '
he praised the Daphnis and Chloe of Longus above all other novels, and
'

said, aspire to no other fame in my art than to be called a humble fol-

I
'

lower of that immortal work.' The Daphnis and Chloe represents above
'

all absolute unity and continuity. It does not contain a paragraph which

does not deal directly with the fortunes of the hero and heroine, although
many charming glimpses of pastoral life are introduced through them. So
that Valdes could hardly have called himself a disciple of Longus at the
time when he wrote El Citarto Poder.
Beside his lengthy descriptions, however, he has a gift which is really
independent of mere local color; that is, the inestimable ability to throw
about each of his stories its own atmosphere, into which the reader enters

at the first page, and from which he never emerges till the last is reached.
He has the power to create a mood,' as Symonds said of the painter Luini.
'

That mood, not to be confounded with the personality of the writer, varies
at will with admirable subtlety. Thus, / Puritani, the gem of the collection
of short stories called Aguas fuertes (Etchings), is redolent of dead rose-
leaves, of that delicate regret for lost youth expressed so perfectly in some
of the poems of Ronsard. In the littlenorthern fishing village of Rodillero,
where the scene of Jose is laid, incessant labor against odds is the keynote;
the scant enjoyment of life closely bound up with daily toil.
is In La
Hermana San Sulpicio (Sister Saint Sulpice) a story
,
of sunny Seville, where
roses bloom the whole year round, merry leisure gives room for the devel-

opment of pure emotion.

The steadfast loves of the bewitching Sister and the Galician poet are
but a pretext to present an unequaled picture of southern Spain, the Spain —
of romance, of the guitar and olive tree, which enjoys fame out of all pro-
portion to its geographical extent. This enchanted air seems itself to supply
means of subsistence without forethought on the part of man, and the

gay out-of-door existence seems to admit no misfortunes; we can hardly be

persuaded to take seriously the shadowy catastrophes which threaten the

lovers now and then. Not book suffers from the nauseating sweet-
that the
ness of U Abbe
Constantin, for example; it is too lively a representation of
an actual city for that; but one feels from the outset the demand of luxuriant
nature herself that this true-hearted Galician, slow yet astute, shall win his
ioo THE NOVELS OF A. PALACIO VALDES
charming Gloria,
—
and incidentally her fortune, for Sanjurjo, like every
good gallego, reserves for business a corner of his brain which even love
cannot fill.

From such a fieldof light-hearted enjoyment among common folk

Valdes turned, as if to emphasize his versatility, to another sphere and more
doubtful pleasures. La Espuma
(Froth) is professedly a picture of life in
the Madrid aristocracy, that —
assemblage of noble degenerates and rich
parvenus which has so little connection with the real vitality of Spain.
Valdes has been accused of treating in this book a society in which he never
moved and which therefore he could not but misrepresent. That is a
matter which cannot pass upon my closest approach to the upper circles
I ;

of Spain is an acquaintance with a Provengal gentleman whose cousin was

the French ambassador to the court of Portugal. What is fairly clear,
however, is that the society as painted, whether it be faithful to the life or

imaginary, isrotten through and through, and furthermore that the novel
isunsatisfactory. As regards the first point, there is hardly a decent char-
acter in this gallery of high society luminaries, not to say an honest or a
noble one. For the second, the book is scarcely more than a loose collection
of anecdotes or a description of scandalous habits. There is small trace of
anything resembling a story; a protracted exposition crowded with de-
scriptions leads to a hurried end which is rather a cessation, leaving many
threads unknotted. One chapter offers a glimpse at the life of workers
in a quicksilvermine, by way of demonstrating somewhat baldly the dis-
parity between labor and reward in this base world. The characters are
drawn with our author's accustomed skill, and the banker Salabert makes a
strong central figure for the throng of money-worshippers, yet the defects
of the work overshadow its excellences. It is, in fact, the only novel of

Valdes which bears distinct marks of haste.

From such an unsatisfactory treatment of an ignoble subject we pass
to something powerful and lofty. La Fe (Faith), though it has some of
the defects which I have pointed out in other works of this middle stage, is
the most significant of any for the study of its author's attitude toward life,
and the one which most clearly disproves the inconceivably misleading state-
ment of an English critic, that Valdes has surrendered his nationality to
French naturalism. The book is nothing else than a confession of faith,
told through the soul-experiences of Father Gil.
 S. GRISWOLD MORLEY 101

This young priest, fresh from the theological seminary, is satisfied at

first with his charities and with the beliefs which have been
taught him.
Then he meets a hardened skeptic, a man of fine character and learning far
superior to his own, who awakens in him doubts never before dreamt of.
Once put upon the track of investigation, Father Gil is sufficiently honest
with himself to pursue it as far as it can lead him. He studies science, and
its answer seems to him unbearable; philosophy, and its reasonings are in-

adequate and contradictory; he turns in despair to his superiors in the church,

and meets the old familiar sophistries, now appearing childish. During this

psychological development the position of Father Gil in the town has

changed. His colleagues disliked him from the first, instinctively envying
his intelligence and disinterestedness; now their enmity finds its opportunity.

Seizing upon a fatal indiscretion of the priest and the false accusation of a

slighted woman, they bring Father Gil to court upon a terrible charge; he
is found guilty and condemned to a long imprisonment. But this over-
whelming misfortune, greater than those which had permanently embittered
his friend the materialist, leaves Father Gil serene and glad, for at the very
moment of his accusation he has found that point of support in life which
he had so long sought in vain. He has found it in Faith; not Faith in any
creed or book or theory, but Faith based upon the inborn impulse of man's
heart, which says of one thing, This is sublime, and of another, That is
base. This Faith triumphs over trials and over reason. The judge was '

far from suspecting that, as he entered the prison, the vicar of Penascosa
had just been released from the dungeons of skepticism. Behind this
. . .

apparent life which surrounds us he saw the real life, the infinite life, and
he entered upon it with a heart brimming over with joy. .This is. .

the life of the spirit. The world cannot change it nor time
destroy it, for
it is the
very essence of time and the world.'
This novel has given offense to some of the theologians. Evidently,
it not narrowly orthodox, but it seems as if one must be strangely creed-
is

bound who can fail to find it a source of inspiration. It is an indication of

power of Valdes that he can write a novel full of philosophy and
the stylistic

mysticism and yet carry the reader with him in ever-tightening grip, so that
the psychical crisis has an absorbing interest wholly apart from the course
of material events.
Valdes is not such a shallow writer that we have a right to regard the
io2 THE NOVELS OF A. PALACIO VALDES
opinions of any of his personages as his own, however much sympathy he
reveals for them. Like every true artist, he reserves the right to emphasize
now one side of his personality, now another. So if the refined idealism of
Father Gil seem to us practical Americans a bit purposeless, we must remem-
ber that it is only the proper pendant to the exaltation of Works which was
given expression in Marta y Maria. The sovereign quality of La Fe may
be defined in words used by a great Spanish critic in another connection it :

'
is that kind of ethical beauty which does not always coincide with artistic
beauty, but which at times reaches that imperceptible point at which moral
emotion becomes a source of aesthetic emotion.'
Up to this point extends what
have called Valdes' middle style,
I —
that in which description of characters and customs almost smothers plot.
In the same class, though chronologically later, belongs El Origen del Pen-
samiento (The Origin of Thought), which first appeared in abbreviated
form as a serial in The Cosmopolitan. The bookbipartite, like El Cuarto
is

Poder; unites a love-story of no

it special interest and a satire on pedantic
science. The
lesson which the author intends to convey is expressed in too

particular terms to have a very universal application, and a few eloquent

pages at the close hardly suffice to raise the general level of merit above that
which Valdes' character-drawing always reaches. Add to its native faults
the alien sin of expurgation, and it is evident that Valdes was introduced to
the American magazine-reading public in the least favorable way.
With El Maestrante (' The Grandee ') Valdes begins to gain real mas-
tery of the vast material which his ability to conceive distinct characters

places at his disposal, and which so far had tended to swamp his writings.
He digests better his matter, and substitutes action for description to a cer-
tain extent. Moreover, in El Maestrante he has had the luck to hit upon
'

a theme of genuine power. So thoroughly do I believe in the importance

'

of the theme chosen for a work,' writes Valdes, that a fine and worthy sub-

ject is the greatest piece of good fortune which an artist can come upon in

his life; it is a real gift of the gods.' No doubt he speaks from his own ex-
perience, since it is as story-teller that he
is weakest; but for once the gods

were gracious to him. He

has found a subject both strong and unhack-
neyed, taken apparently from the annals of some society for the prevention
of cruelty to children.
El Maestrante differs much from such a philosophical study as La Fe,
 S. GRISWOLD MORLEY 103

or such a rambling description of society as La Espuma. It is a swift,

straightforward tragedy of pure human passion, drawn against the clear

but not obtrusive background of a provincial city. Illicit love brings with

it unbridled jealousy, and that sweeps inexorably on to punishment, awful

in that it falls heaviest
upon one innocent. This novel gives an impression
of power lacking in all the rest. It has not the symmetry and serene per-

fection of La Alegria del Capitan Ribot, but it possesses a certain jagged,

irregular beauty of its own.

In Los
Majos de Cadiz (the title is untranslatable, but it has been called
The Gallants of Cadiz) we have a novel not conspicuous in any way, except
that in it Valdes continues his new-found ability to reproduce manners with-
out overloaded description. Here the art is the more striking since the
book isavowedly a picture of a certain class of Andalusian —
society, a

layer which might be classified somewhere between the petite bourgeoisie

and the day laborers. A simple story with few actors suffices to present a
better image of it than some previous ill-digested volumes succeeded in con-

veying by pages of description and a multiplicity of personages.

La Alegria del Capitan Ribot (The Joy of Captain Ribot) is of far
different importance. It would be superfluous to lavish praises upon this

charming novel, when Mr. Howells has already done it with such authority
and skill. It is the fine flower of the achievement of Valdes; it exhibits all
his best qualities with none of his defects. The plot is not novel, perhaps,
but the actors are so human, the interest awakened so lively and intimate,
'
the action so concentrated, the atmosphere of Valencia, land of flowers,'
is

so well conveyed, that it is hard to judge the book from the standpoint of
an outsider; one feels himself drawn into the circle as if a witness of real life.
Thestory of Captain Ribot might well serve as a model of character-
growth In the first chapter his ruling passion seems to be a
in literature.

fondness for tripe, as cooked by Seflora Ramona. This appetite pales be-
fore the attractions of a married woman, Cristina Marti, and occasional
over-indulgence in cognac leads him to express his passion in a manner not
at all ideal. But circumstances bring out the real nobility of his character
as his acquaintance with the Marti family becomes more intimate. His
affection for Cristina rises to a higher plane, and at the end we see him

rejoicing in the pure love of her child. Thus the joy of Captain Ribot
passes in a rising scale from the lowest physical desire to the most unselfish
io 4 THE NOVELS OF A. PALACIO VALDES
love known to man, that for a child. If anyone imagines that the moral
liesvulgarly patent upon the surface of the book, let him read it, and in
reading find the story so absorbing that he will need to think twice before he
perceives its real significance. So far removed is the ethical teaching of
' '

Valdes from the east wind type of sermonizing.

It is not easy, even if we should wish it, to cast a coldly critical glance

at a work in which the author frankly throws himself at our mercy. Such
is La Aldea perdida (The Ruined Village), published in 1903, latest and
perhaps last product of Valdes' pen. He entitles it a novel-poem,' and in '

truth it is a heroic epic in prose, cast within the limits of a country village.
It is a reconstruction of the author's youthful memories, as we are told in
an impassioned preface, and the heroes and villains, unvarying in their might,
loom up through the mist of past years in a kind of mock-Homeric grandeur.
They are to be enjoyed, not criticised, these accounts of epic battles between
the youths of Entralgo and the youths of Rivota, in which knotty cudgels
descend on unprotected heads with surprisingly mild results. Such scenes
of primitive freedom and others more peaceful are the outward manifesta-
tions of pastoral bliss in the spot where Valdes was born, and to which he
looks back longingly.

'

Yes, I, too, was born and lived in Arcadia !

I, too, knew what it was
to walk holy innocence of heart through shady groves, to bathe in limpid
in

brooks, to tread under foot a carpet ever green. The cow-bells . . .

tinkled; the cattle lowed; we boys and girls walked behind the herd singing
in chorus some old ballad. Upon earth all was peace; in the air all love.
Dear little spot, so well hidden ! And yet, men thirsty for wealth
saw thee. Armed with picks they fell upon thee, and tore thy virgin bosom
and profaned thy spotless beauty.' Rich deposits of coal brought upon
Entralgo a railroad, miners, blasphemy, and crime, the improvements of —
civilization. Civilization At the fatal end an old nobleman, a lover of
!

Greek culture, exclaims, You say that civilization is beginning. / tell you
'

'
that savagery is beginning!

It would be unfair to do more than point out how unconvincing is this

pessimism, so rare in Valdes. How far is this laudator temporis acti, rapt
in memories, from the keen satirist of the old order in La Espuma and El
 S. GRTSWOLD MORLEY 105

Cuarto Poder! The melodramatic plot, the personages, Demetria, Flora,

Pluto, half allegorical in essence as in name, what havoc the scalpel of
Valdes the literary critic would make with them if it were applied! I leave
to others the ungrateful task. It is
pleasanter to enter whole-heartedly into
Arcadia with the novelist-poet, and listen to his lyrical admiration of nature.
Far, far back in the depths of his artistic consciousness, behind his theories
and his training, Valdes is a subjective and emotional writer; and when he
chooses, fully conscious of his act, to loose the rein with which he is wont to
hold himself within the bounds of restrained art, we may trust him to express
his own excuse and deliver judgment upon himself.

'

O valley of Laviana pure streams! O green fields and thick ! O

chestnut-groves How loved you
! Let
I your perfumed breath caress my
!

brow an instant, let the mysterious echo of your voices still ring in my ears,
let me again see before my eyes the radiant forms of those beings who shared

the pleasures of my childhood. I am about to give you the parting kiss

and cast you into the whirlpool of the world. My breast is oppressed, my
hand trembles. A secret voice tells me that you ought never to leave the
recesses of my heart.'

Valdes, in casting a glance back over his own work, blamed himself
for various literary errors. A
sentence which I have already quoted confessed
those occasional lapses into effectism which, in fact, became less and less fre-
'

quent in his later work; and that

not his only self-accusation.
is I repent

having begun to write novels when too young. I regret having ...
written more than I should. Far from being proud of the number of my
works I am ashamed when I think of the great writers who in their long and

laborious lives have not produced so much. It is a fault of the times which

I have not been able to escape.' Imagine Balzac making such an admission,
which is truer of Balzac than of Valdes! The latter, like Flaubert, is his
own keenest critic, and so we may be allowed, in reviewing his work, to lay
more stress upon its beauties, which he leaves unmentioned.
It is one of the signs of his greatness that the astonishing variety in his
work makes generalization concerning it dangerous. Do we pronounce him
an optimist? some one will remind us of one or two novels of most depress-
ing tone. A realist? read La J Idea perdida. A
moralist? how is El
Idilio de un Enfermo to be classified upon that basis? Such multiformity
of creation simply means that Valdes is a many-sided man, and that he takes
106 THE NOVELS OF A. PALACIO VALDES

pleasure in giving expression now to one mood, now to another. He is not

a writer to be labeled in a few sentences, but some general lines may be
drawn with all reserve and caution.
The novel of Valdes primarily a novel of character, secondarily of
is

manners; deals
it only occasionally with class problems, and least of all with
events. The author is interested above all in his men and women, who are

in general average in virtue and talents,

—
the kind of people we meet every

day. The inner development of these single characters is his study, not
such broad questions as political clashes of the past or present, racial antag-
onism, or the strife between socialism and clericalism. He has neither the
wish nor the power to handle large masses after Zola's fashion. Be it
noted in passing that these mass-problems, which occupy very much some
novelists of the present, usually result from passing or lo:al conditions, which
interest the present generation deeply, but will become obsolete within a
measurable time. Valdes, by his very modesty of aim, attains a high degree
of universality. He depicts the everlasting struggles going on in the human
heart between the good angel and the demon; the weak selfishness of one,
the self-denial of another, the unreasoning passion of a third. His power
to conceive character and put it in action with unerring consistency as well as

growth is his first His personages impress the reader

and greatest strength.
as inevitable, like the best of Balzac's; only very seldom does one find a per-

son, like Paca of Los Majos de Cadiz, who smacks of arbitrary traits inse-
curely dovetailed together. The great majority seem to have stepped into
the book out of life; and the best of them, such as Marta and her father of
Marta y Maria; Maximina; Cecilia, Ventura, and Gonzalo of El Cuarto
Poder; Cristina and Captain Ribot, will bear comparison with any char-
acters in fiction for reality and interest. The abnormal development of a
master-passion, Balzac's favorite theme, is not often touched by Valdes.
On the other hand, he is strong where Balzac was occasionally weak, in com-
bining truth with poetry in the lives of ordinary folk.
In directing the movements of his actors Valdes is guided by a horror
of the morally impossible. Aiming only at perfect sincerity, he is not gov-
erned by sensationalism any more than by a superficial idea of the inevitable.
He will not falsify reality to satisfy poetic justice,' nor is he led astray by
'

the theory, more seductive nowadays, which assigns success always to the

well-equipped. And so the villain in Maximina gets off scot-free and An-
;
 S. GRISWOLD MORLEY 107

dres of El Idilio de tin the ruin of a girl physically

Enfermo accomplishes
and mentally his superior, as the result of a peculiar sequence of events.
Few acts or states bring inevitable consequences in this world; incompetence
and crime are not always punished, nor ability and virtue rewarded. Con-
versely, a given act may be the result of an entanglement
of motives very

They are very few who can explain the secret origins,
'
hard to unravel.
the fundamental roots of human actions: some because they pay no attention
to psychology, which they deem useless; others endowed with keen and
subtle minds, because they use them solely to search for a selfish motive;

hardly anyone lifts the lid of that magic chest of feelings, and longings, and

hopes, and contradictions, which we call the human heart.' In the narrow
of human actions Valdes follows his own
path of the intimate psychology
delicate instinct with almost invariable success.
Movement in his stories is generally very leisurely, as I have indicated.
This fault he overcame to some extent in his later work. His novels charm,
but do not compel not more than two or three out of all could ever induce
;

an excitable reader to pass over his usual bed-time by half an hour. Not
that a greater number of theatrical incidents would be desirable; Valdes
deserves the highest praise for the firm stand he has taken in favor of the
effect he
purely sincere and natural, and when he does aim at an unexpected
'

often blunders. But, to quote his own words, the novelist is under an
his
imperative obligation never to bore his reader, to keep his interest alert,
mind fettered by invisible bonds, which will carry him through the imaginary
world without his feeling the fatigues of the journey.' It is not necessary

to draw upon police records in order to hold a reader's interest, witness

1

Eugenie Grandet.' Inasmuch as he is reading fiction, not observing life,

however, the reader has a right to expect progress toward some goal; and
that is what Valdes has frequently failed to provide. The most obvious ex-
ceptions are El Idilio de tin Enfermo, El Maestrante, and La Alegria
del

Capitdn R'ibot.
His style, however, is so attractive that it counterbalances in large meas-
ure any deficiencies of structure. It possesses wonderful power and flexibil-

ity, passing easily and naturally from satirical description to earnest and
sympathetic eloquence. It is always personal, bearing a constant under-

current of the author's quiet humor. In this respect it is like the style of
Anatole France, without the taint; and the comparison between the two
io8 THE NOVELS OF A. PALACIO VALDES
writers might be carried further. Each conducts his stories at the same
sauntering gait, and the archaeological lore which France turns to such liter-

ary account is represented in the Spaniard by a really profound acquaintance

with modern science. Valdes' language is never ordinary, and one rightly
fears to skip a page of description, lest one miss some well-turned phrase or

humorously acute observation. His pages glow with an inner light which
gives a poetic radiance to the commonest occurrences of life. This light is

nothing else than deep sympathy with nature her manifestations, in the
in all

acts of men as well as in the forests and rivers; a sensuous delight in existence
for own
its sake.
As an example let me quote a bit from a short story called Solo!
(Alone!).

Fresnedo, a hard-working merchant of Madrid, is enjoying a vacation

in the country with his little son.
He was sound asleep, taking his usual siesta. A well-known voice
awoke him.
' '

Papa, papa !

He opened and saw his son a yard away, with his pinafore of
his eyes

gray white shoes, and his tangled black hair falling in

drilling, his little
ringlets over his forehead.
you didn't want
'

Papa . . Tata said you didn't want . . .

you didn'twant . . to buy me a cart . and she said

. the. .

ram wasn't mine . . that it was Carmita's (his sister), and she doesn't
let me catch it by the horns and she pricked my hand.'
The child, in pronouncing this speech in his pretty broken fashion, stop-

ping at each phrase, showed deep black eyes lively indignation and
in his

great thirst for justice. For a moment it seemed that he was going to burst
into tears; but his sturdy temperament came to the fore, and after a pause
he closed his peroration with a teamster's ejaculation. His father had been
listening to him rapt in delight, urging him by gestures to continue, as if
heavenly music were enchanting his ears. At hearing the exclamation he
broke out in loud and merry laughter. The child looked at him in astonish-
ment, unable to understand how what made him so angry could amuse his
papa. The latter could have listened to him for hours and hours without

moving an eyelash. And that notwithstanding the fact that, as his mother-
in-law used to tell her visitors, when she wished to give her son-in-law the
 S. GRISVVOLD MORLEY 109

coup de grace, and ruin him completely in the public eye, he had gone to sleep
while Gayarre was singing La Favorita/ff
'So, my cherub? Doesn't Tata let you take the ram by the horns?
'

Wait till I and you'll see if I settle Tata

get up, !

Fresnedo drew his son to him and planted two tremendous kisses on
his cheeks, at the same time caressing his little head with his hands.

Fragmentary as this passage is when removed from its context, I think

that a careful reader cannot help feeling its charm at once. How simple
a matter, and yet how exactly each touch given which sets before one the
is

situation, the attitudes, the shades of thought of each actor! Will not
every father see himself in Fresnedo? Yet the fascination does not lie in

the photographic accuracy of the scene so much as in an indescribable spirit

added to
it, wholesomeness
a spirit of sympathetic which pervades most of
Valdes' work. To the frankness which we expect in a Latin writer he adds
great delicacy of feeling, so that although he paints sordid and even brutal
instincts at times, he dwells upon them only enough to produce the effect of
reality which he desires.
Because Valdes is a subjective writer, we can pick out of his novels
some indications of his personal beliefs, however carefully he may refrain
from preaching, or from identifying himself with any of his creations. It
isapparent, for example, that he has a poor opinion of the existing represen-
tatives of the Spanish nobility. Some of the Aguas fuertes show him in line
with so manyother merely literary men as an opponent of capital punish-
ment. Clearly, too, he is not a believer in any church creed, and despises
bigotry
—or would, if he were not too wise to despise anything, as much —
as he does pedantic science. Many of the novels, especially the later ones,
point a moral, which does not always lie near the surface. That moral, as
'
far as it can be generalized at all, is the old-fashioned one,
Right living is
necessary to true happiness.' Thus he states himself that La Alegria del
'

Capitdn Ribot is a protest from the depths against the eternal adultery of
the French novel.' Through almost every page there runs, implied rather
than expressed, a vein of optimism, which he somewhere attributes to indul-
gence while a child in certain very hard and sweet lozenges, peculiar to the
town of Gijon. It is not a devotee's blind faith that things will come out
right in the end; it is something nobler and deeper, a belief in the reality of
no THE NOVELS OF A. PALACIO VALDES
man's higher aspirations.
Such as this work is, it will compare well with that of any novelist alive
today. We
may be permitted to hope, too, that La Aldea perdida will not
' '

prove Valdes' last song for he is only fifty-one, and the novelist can with
;

difficulty remain silent for whom every bit of surrounding life is worthy
matter for a story. In any one of his novels the student of character will
find a hundred points of interest; and in a few, Marta y Maria, El Maes-

trante, La
Alegria del Capitdn Ribot, there is that union of perfected
form and absorbing interest of theme which constitutes enduring superiority.
Yet those who love Spanish literature do not seek in it chiseled form or a
golden flow of words, such as the Italianates admire; they look for spon-
taneity, sincerity, and flashes of insight. After all Valdes is a Spaniard in
his artistic expression, in spite of his emancipation from peninsularity of
view.

{A complete story by Valdes will be published in the Winter Number of Poet Lore)

AN ITALIAN LANDSCAPE
By Gabriele D'Annunzio
Translated from the Italian by Clarence Stratton

E, mute, still ride our weary courses

Thro' this old fathering earth where Peace expands
Her flowers among the works of human hands, —
We hear the slow, sonorous pace of the horses.
Then in the sanctity
of the night just born,
There suddenly from the low lying brink
rises

Of the sea, a sweet long chant. The sun may sink,

But this sunset to us appears a morn.
I remember. Thro' the infinitude
Above the silence of all things ascended
Unapprehended still, a sense divine
Of peace, forgetfulness. A multitude
Of hills stood round, — afar in slope descended
To meet the plain, Mont Carno, god supine.
 THE BOOK
Written in a copy of 'The Flame of Life' by Gabriele D' Annunzio
By Florence Brooks

m m
t
^HOU readst the book,
' * Word upon word unfurls,
Flower upon flower,

I Rhythm and riches, unborn power of rhyme,

The drip of color caught in a clear cup,
The wine of souls in tears, prismatic, white,
Gloweth, groweth.

One sweet phrase

Molten of divers jewels
Shineth piercing, and the flash
From the dark translucence
Of thine eyes, unmined riches,
The shadow of thy soul
Darkens and lightens.

And thus the book

Thy thought did linger over
Bending as a lover,
Hath drunk thy beauty,
Thrills with thy nobility,
Throbs with thy passion,
Gives thee to me !

the mystic birth

Shows in the pangs

Powerfully, thy superb being.

As a strong bush
Of dark roses in shadow
1 see thy abundance before me
Splendid, compelling.

(in)
 THE SYMBOLISM OF THE
FLAME OF LIFE
By Florence Brooks
would be a mean world if ardor had not its chance, a wanton world
if passion had not its use. Health is as beholden to the ecstasies
as to the lethargies in nature's alternation. No specific creation

IT would renew art or life without the

In virtue of creative power a
abandonment to law, not rule.
man steps away from the crowd of the
passive. They follow him.
In the mind of D'Annunzio's poet,
Stelio Effrena, surging with Latin

ardors, an
fs anomaly. This poet, who is D'Annunzio himself, gathers to
him the Gothic mystery. His effort to bare mystery, to grasp it, makes the
book unique. The burning flame flares into the mist of spirit which is the

impalpable of art. He does not lose himself, he gains others.

Gabriel D'Annunzio is a symbolist. His mastery of his own forms of
symbolism is prefigured in other work, but is more perfect in of
'
The Flame
Life.' In the development of time the greatest works reach symbolism.
Filled with images, instilling power with ever fresher and more wonderful

symbols, this book elucidates the psychology of creation. It is a message of

a poet to poets, of a creator to creators. It is the solitary utterance of the
consciousness of creative processes.
In this study of creative force shown in the spiritual realm the char-
acters of the poet-lover and the It is no mere personal
actress are symbols.

exposition. The author

displays the man and the woman, translated to spir-
ituality through sensuality, in their eternal and supreme use, fused for the
work that is to come. The flesh falls away and leaves the live soul.
For his little hour, Stelio Effrena becomes one of the creators. He
proceeds with joy, for he is a man. Mystery, the unfolding of wonder, is
symbolized in La Boscarine, whom he names Perdita. The man is strong
and bright, but she is poignant with tragic fate. She is the vision, he the
seer; she substance, he the maker. She is the fuel, he the flame.
To enhance the perpetual energy of man D'Annunzio uses the melan-
choly limitation of woman. This deep-souled, dumb woman gave him the
'

idea of a deep shut-up house, where violent hands suddenly opened all the
doors and windows, causing them to turn on their corroded hinges.' And
(112)
 FLORENCE BROOKS 113

*
to her it was given
prolong such a state of intensity by a supreme effort
to
he as easily as if it were his natural mode of being,
moved in it

ceaselessly enjoying the miraculous world of his own that he renewed by an

act of continual creation.'
And when the poet had drawn on this woman, his Perdita, to live in
'
a
' '

higher zone of life to suffer the transfigurations that it should please the
Life Giver to work in her for the satisfaction of his own constant desire of
poetry and beauty
'
... he brought, in her as he had in himself, the
'

intimate marriage of art with life, and he thus found in his own substance a

spring of perennial harmonies.'

He becomes multanime, says (in an earlier work) D'Annunzio, to
whom the idea is not new. The souls thus created are germinated from the '

ideas caused to blossom on thepermanent basis of his being. .' And . .

either gradually or all at once they become new souls. . . .' The '

'
creator's center of gravity is displaced, his personality becomes another

personality. becomes multanime.'

. . . He
The creator does not lose himself, he gains others.
'

Intellectually he recognizes in the woman's mystery the surviving

power of the primitive myth . . . the renewed initiation of the deity
that has fused all energies in one single ferment.
From pages The Flame of Life pours the whole earthly material
its
' '

which Stelio Effreno found and garnered for joyous creation.

1

To
create with joy is the text of his
'

splendid speech at the poet's

festival, flushed with Venetian color. An unknown power converged in
'

him, abolishing the limits of his own person and conferring a fulness of his
'

solitary voice.' The significances of sense penetrate the greater depths

'

until they come upon the great mystery and shudder.' Their vision pro-
longs itself upon the veil upon which life has painted the voluptuous images
that give pleasure.'
The speaker describes the beautiful city of art, his Venice, as a woman
palpitating under a thousand girdles of green and the weight of her great
1

'

jewels,' and her lover was the god of the young autumn. For, he says, the
soul of Venice, the soul fashioned for the city beautiful by its great artists,
is autumnal.'
The images of the feted poet, which he pours over the multitude of
Venetian women and nobles, gathered to do him honor, glorifies for them
8
ii 4 THE SYMBOLISM OF THE FLAME OF LIFE
his psychology of creative He
personifies it thus
power. Venice teaches :
'

us the possibility of transforming pain into stimulating energies; she

. .

teaches that joy is the most certain means of knowledge offered us by

Nature, and that he who has suffered much is less wise than he who has en-
' '

joyed.' In his final had cleared away the

visions,' his intensified sight
mists of inert sadness from more than one spirit, and in more than one had
killed cowardice and vain tears, and in more than one had instilled forever
a scorn of complaining sorrows and weak compassions.'
And he brings at the end with velocity a flood of images, his teaching.
'And they who had withdrawn into a hermit's cell to adore a sad phantom
that only lived in the blurred mirror of their own eyes; and they who had
made themselves kings of a windowless palace, from the immemorial await-
ing a visitation there; and they who had hoped to dig up the image of beauty
from under some ruin and had only found a worn Sphinx that only tormented
them with its endless enigmas; and they who sat down evening after evening,
pale, to await the arrival of a mysterious stranger bringing endless gifts
under his mantle ... all those who are sterilized by a resigned mourn-
ing or devoured by a desperate pride .... he would bid them all
come and recognize under the splendour of that ancient yet
their disease
ever resurgent soul, ...
to create with joy !
'

The poet discovers, possesses, and thereof shapes life of what was but
matter. His material may be human, it may be found under the earth, in
mines, wells, oceans, gardens, even kitchens; it may be the needs and moods
of men which the master will form into armies or unions or forces, it may be
ideas, emotions, yearnings. The poet surveys the whole earth, he takes what
he will. He finds his bread and wine at every board. To him women yield
refreshment and he is like the wandering priest to those who revere him, who
feed him, who deem him sacred.
The of the great law of creation leads him.
call He rises over ob-
stacles which he does not even see in his creative impulses. The myth,
that collection of related images, that image which is a symbol, the spiritual-

ity of sensuality, the visibility of beauty, the intricate and forever inter-

weaving flesh and spirit, these are his wisdom.

The cult of symbolism is exotic to American life. We have no time
for the caress of the dream. We
are heaping together treasures from our
earth, it is the time of accumulation, not of construction of material. We
 LINES SENT WITH A COPY OF THE RUBAIYAT 115

are bringing wood for the fire whose flame has not yet been struck. The
flame is invisible, almost unimaginable as yet.
Emerson and Poe were symbolists, and in phases Henry James is a
symbolist. The symbolism of Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Meredith, D'Annunzio,
Mallarme, and of many less blazoned living men is a sign of their develop-
ment in spite of a materialistic age, of their translation into the realm where
the process of creation is carried on.

LINES SENT WITH A COPY OF

THE RUBAIYAT
By George Germond

T HE Persian, wandering through his garden place,

Insatiable, questing, searching space,
Dreamt of the road whereby the earthly grove
Should broaden to those fields immortals pace.

Old Omar, piercing immortality,

Set his free spirit groping for the key

Whereby the Wherefore, Where,

—

and the Beyond

Should open to your sight, Humanity, —

And many a fairy vista laid he bare,

Where his delights our vision still may share,
—
His sorrows and his laughter cling to us,
While o'er the way we slowly onward fare.

But thou and I, where through life's maze we move,

The Key have found life's mystery to prove
Of Here, and Now, Hereafter, and Ourselves, —
Mysterious, simple,
—
and men call it Love.
 RECENT GERMAN CRITICISM
Hermann Sudermann
By Warren Washburn Florer
'HEN one considers the development of the German novel
'

since Goethe's Wilhelm Meister,' and especially the

development since 1848, or the more recent one since the
founding of the German Empire, it seems almost incredit-
able that contemporary German literature, so rich in mod-
ern productive forces, is practically unknown in this
country where German influence is so strong. And where known, a per-
verted conception of it usually exists. The recent activity in German litera-
ture has renewed the interest in the writings of Hermann Sudermann, the

great dramatist and novelist. Sudermann is known in this country more as

a dramatist than as a novelist, and mostly through an English interpretation
of
'

Heimat.' No German writer who has attained a literary reputation

is, therefore, more misunderstood than Sudermann. This is due mainly
to the fact that we are wont to accept dogmatic statements of the critics as
infallible decisions.
It is indisputably true that the majority of critics read into a work
their own ideas rather than read out of it the fundamental ideas underlying
the author's words. The critics may, however, in order to substantiate their
point of view, cite only passages, or parts of passages, or even words, which
ostensibly lend support to their contention. Or they may judge a writer
by a single book which is but a part of a larger plan, and, at the best, can
give one but a limited insight into the man's life work. This is dangerous,
not to say unscientific, —
dangerous, because the reader may accept the
criticism as final unscientific, because the deductions drawn from such insuffi-
;

cient premises are necessarily lacking in logical conclusiveness.

Again, it is very difficult for a critic, who has been brought up in cer-

tain lines of thought, to free himself entirely from the deep-rooted prejudices
of early associations, and especially so when he ventures to express a judg-
ment on the literary productions of an author so complex and so subtle in

(116)
 HERMANN SUDERMANN 117

experience and character as Sudermann. Some critics, there aie, who in-
tend to dedicate their work to 'Seiner Majestat,' or freely translated, to
'

the powers that be.' But the most dangerous critics of all for the Ameri-
can student outside of the classroom are those who write
'

copy.' Such
criticisms are usually based on the interpretation of the actors, and these in-

terpretations are as widely different as the characters of the actors. The

' '
'

Magda of
'

D-use would not recognize the Magda of Mrs. Patrick

Campbell.
From the above it will be seen that if one follows the critics one will
obtain but a confused conglomeration of ideas, or will accept the criticism
that appeals to his own subjective tastes. One feels almost tempted to follow
Goethe, put aside the critical reviews and books and go to the sources, that is,
to the author's writings. Even these, we must bear
mind, are but the in- in

complete and imperfect expression of the inner thoughts of the author. The
modernists are mostly serious men and women, writing for serious men and
women, not necessarily, however, conservative.
Before one can read Sudermann with appreciation one must have at-
tained a certain development, for each individual will only learn that which
he can learn. One is at once limited by his own Seele-life-experience. One
must free himself before he can appreciate a man who is already freed. That
is, one must first attain a largeness
of spirit, a comprehensiveness of vision
which enables one to see a man or a man's work with eyes from which the
scales of prejudice have fallen, it matters not whether these prejudices are
rooted extreme conservatism or extreme radicalism.
in Furthermore, one
must consider that the range of an author is as broad as human nature itself
in its deepest significance. One must look a little deeper into the depths of
'

human nature, since that which one is wont to call good or bad in a pow-
erful man,' or in a powerful book,
'
is only in the shallow surface. Under
the surface resting in dynamic power is the natural,' and the natural is

essentially true, and truth should be the ultimate

aim of man. Even thus
equipped it is necessary to know as much as possible the
man, his experience,
understand the works of
his personality and purpose in writing in order to
the man.
Frau Sorge to the press he was thirty years
' '

When Sudermann gave

of age, so inexperience can not be charged against him. We have not,
unfortunately, the real direct autobiography of the boy, the youth, and the
n8 RECENT GERMAN CRITICISM
young man, although to understand a man thoroughly one must know him
in his earlier years. Fortunately, however, Sudermann leads us to the por-
tals from which wecan, to a certain extent, view his inner development,
'

namely, his novels, and especially in Frau Sorge,' into which, as Goethe
'

did in Werthers Leiden,' he poured his very life blood. And, if, after
' '

one has recovered from the and astonishment of the first reading,
surprise
'
one begins to read his works with observation and investigation,' he need
not be classed among those who seeing see and do not perceive.
'
Sudermann has given a key, as it were, to himself and to his Frau
'

Sorge in the dedicatory poem to his parents.

From it one may deduct several important facts. Sudermann has
known Frau Sorge throughout his entire life. Notwithstanding this he has
never lost the
courage and strength to struggle with care and adversity.
He knows by experience where the true flowers of fortune grow. By his
own endeavors he has outgrown the sorrows of the past and now looks upon
life in a healthy optimistic spirit. In this poem is contained the theme of
his entire work.
In order to appreciate Sudermann it is necessary to study his character,
we may fall into the mistakes Richard M. Meyer makes in his German
'
lest

Literature of the Nineteenth Century.' Meyer has apparently caught but

a fleeting glimpse of Sudermann, as he disappeared hurriedly in the orange

groves of Bellagio.
What a different conception of Sudermann may one obtain from his

own words and actions :

'

We boys are young

—
we have strength,
Our courage has not as yet lost its savor
— '

Or later in 1902 in answer to inquiries which Crottewitz sent through-

out Germany in order to obtain the opinions of various artists concerning
'

the future of German literature, Sudermann replied Create artists talk

: !

not.'

Again, Sudermann's speech which was forced by the movement culmi-

' ' '

nated in what is known as the Lex Heinze before the Goethebund at

'

Munich, April, 1900, is of interest. A word concerning the

'

Goethebund
'

'

may be before proceeding.

in place The Goethebund is a sort of de- '

fensive and offensive alliance of the artists (in the broad meaning of the
'

word) of Germany against the powerful movement inspired by the Cen-

 HERMANN SUDERMANN 119

' ' '

trum and the ultra scholastic conservatives to clip the artist's wings
and to impose upon him limitations according to their conception of what
'

good and evil is. This movement culminated, as stated, in the Lex
Heinze.' According to this bill, works of art were to be submitted to a
jury consisting of extremely conservative and safe men. They were to
stamp the works of art as good or bad according to their finding. No more
fitting acknowledgment of Goethe's broad conception
of art could be ren-
'

dered than by calling the alliance of modern artists the Goethebund,' and
'

by the selection of Goethe as its Schutzpatron.'

'Our Schutzpatron, in whose name we are here gathered, once said:
"
In every artist there must be concealed a germ of audacity, without which
no talent is conceivable." So spake Goethe. Rob the artist of this privilege
to be audacious and to endeavor to seek his own path through the under-
brush, meaning in plain words, rather to trot along decorously and comfort-
ably upon the macadamized roads behind the retinue of the prince, and
you will soon see how soon German art will be at an end. But that shall
never happen. And in order that it shall never happen stands our Goethe-
bund on guard, and will take good heed that no force shall be applied to
German making and creating, that no force shall be applied to German
thinking and investigation, it matters not whether it may come.'
Such is the caliber of Sudermann the man.
The next question is — what are his aims? The aims of a writer
often give rise to many unphilosophical discussions. Sudermann, however,
in
'

Heimat,' defined his aim in a short concise sentence, The purpose of '

art is moral sense of the people.

to elevate the Knowing his aim, what is
his method? In order to elevate the moral sense of the people, one must
awaken the moral sense. What is his process? Exposure. What is to
be exposed? The conditions which tend to dull the moral sense. What
The the
are these conditions? family, the school, the church, the society,
of individuality.
government, in so far as they retard a healthful development
One may thus have an idea what will be treated in his writings and
in his novels.
especially And knowing the nature of the poet, one may see
that he will not handle things with gloves. By experience Sudermann first

learned what was right and then went ahead. He blazed his own path
through the underbrush of society, and at the age of thirty he had so freed
himself that, like his creation Paul Meyhofer, he could stand up with an
120 RECENT GERMAN CRITICISM
erect head and tell the truth before the tribunals of the world, regardless of

consequence. And as one knows, to quote from Luther

literally The :
'

'
entire world hates the truth, if it hits,' or truth is the most unbearable
thing on the earth.' Sudermann is one of the few who have recognized the
heart and contemplation of man, because he has looked a little deeper into
' '
the Seele of a human being and has been courageous enough to reveal
his feeling, his contemplation. One may thus see that his writings are a
veritable mine for the honest reader.
The object of this short article is not to treat the development, or to
give an aesthetic discussion of the author's books. The reader may find
these in Kawerau's
'

Hermann Sudermann,' Modern in the histories of

German Literature, in various articles and criticisms. A simple statement
will be made in regard to Sudermann's literary position in the light of the
most recent contemporary literature. Sudermann has been severely criti-
cised by men who, to a large extent,
'

have pastured their youth on the

' ' '

literature of a hundred years ago as being a Tendenz writer. But

that has been the lot of nearly all men who have dared to treat the social
'
conditions of the age in which they have lived. People have a habit of
trying to drive artists out of the world; this is, perhaps, not due to the
evilness of mankind, but is rather the divine will of the Creator, for if one
does not strike the tuning fork it will not resound.'
'
Before noticing Gustav Frenssen's Jorn Uhl,' an observation on the
influence of Sudermann's writings in another direction deserves to be made.
' ' '

In his dramas, Die Ehre,' Heimat,' and Es Lebe das Leben,' and in the
'

powerful short play, Fritzchen,' which is a model of its kind, Sudermann

has attacked the subtle parasitic forces which are undermining the govern-
ing society of Germany. These works have helped to pave the way for
those novels which are today revealing the conditions which exist in the
army life. The strongest book is Baron Schlicht's (Wolf Graf von Bau-
dissin)
'

Men of the First Class.' This demonstrates, even if Sudermann

' '
be a Tendenz writer, that he has caught the tendencies of the times, per-
haps, however, not in every respect. He has seen to a great extent, das '

Gewirre der Leidenschaften, Familien und Reiche sich zwecklos bewegen-

die unaufloslichen Ratsel der Missverstandnisse, denen oft ein einsilbiges

Wort zur Entwicklung fehlt, unsaglich verderbliche Verwirrungen ver.ur-

sachen.' And perhaps he has fulfilled, more than one at the present can
 HERMANN SUDERMANN 121

divine, the words of the poet of Hemme

Ich glaube, es liegt daran
:
'
. . .

daran, dass ich nicht mit beiden Beinen im Trubel der Menschheit stehe.
Ich muss mich mit meinen beiden festen Beinen breitspurig hinstellen und
muss die Augen often haben. So wie es wirklich ist, das Leben, rund um
mich her, das muss ich sehen. Man muss den Dingen, so wie sie sind, auf
den Grund gehen. Das Leben muss man ansehen und dann seine Quellen
suchen. Das Leben sprudelt rings umher; aber wer sieht die Quellen, die
Wassergange unter der Erde? Sie stehen und staunen Bunt ist das :

Leben, ein Wirbel! Nein. Es hat Quelle und Lauf. Es ist ein Strom.
Woher kommt er? Wohin geht er? Wer das weiss, der kann mehr als
'

andere Leute !

' '

This fact explains to a great extent the similarity of Frau Sorge and
1

Jorn UhL' Both poets seem to have observed the current of the life of the
nation. Whence it comes, and whither it is going. Whether Frenssen
'
was under the influence of Frau Sorge,' or not, the fact remains that Suder-
' ' '

mann first made Sorge as the basis of a Roman,' and that his Frau
'

' ' '

Sorge and other writings, especially Katzensteg,' Es War,' and the

above-mentioned dramas, helped to prepare the way for the unprecedented
reception of Frenssen's writings. The fact that Frenssen does not mention
Sudermann has given rise to much speculation, but it does not prove any-
thing. In reality it is the most That Sudermann, as
natural thing to do.
a young man almost a generation ago, in this age when the development
has been so rapid and so powerful, saw the hidden springs and the secreted
burns which have fed the current of the new century, and that he has sung,
in his particular way, melodies which have not been sung before, is sufficient

to establish for him a permanent place in the history of German literature.

Again, both poets agree that each man must have

an independent 'Welt-
anschauung;' that the development of a 'Weltanschauung' is slow; that
this development begins in the earliest childhood, and that it means 'Auf, :

'

entdecke dir selbst Land, Wasser, Gerate und Nahrung It is thus per- !

fectly natural that the poets who know whence the current of life comes,
'

and whither it goes, should have to a certain extent a similar Weltanschau-

ung.' It is also perfectly natural that the poets who have lived in different

localities, who have been brought up in a different atmosphere, who have

enjoyed who have pursued a
a different education, different vocation, and
'

who have ripened in a different decade, should have a different Weltansch-

122 RECENT GERMAN CRITICISM
' '

Thus, in the is where they are alike, and also

Weltanschauung
auung.'
where they are different, although they have the same ultimate aim the —
development of an independent personality within its environments. The
environments, or impelling forces, will be similar in some respects and dif-
ferent in others. Both come from what one may call modern Germany —
the North —
but Sudermann's
'
Heimat is Lithuania, and Frenssen's '

'
1
Heimat' is
Schleswig-Holstein. Frenssen lives in the old Heimat.' Sud-
ermann has a new Heimat '-Berlin, but he still keeps alive the old. Both
'

have the history, philosophy, and literature of the past, from which they
profit in their own way. Both live under the influence of the same general
Zeitgeist in literature, is Im Grund
' ' ' '

Zeitgeist.' However, what one calls

der Herren eigner Geist, in dem die Zeiten sich bespiegeln.' Therefore,
one cannot compare the two poets with the same glass, nor gauge them with
the same measure.
' '

As
stated before, both poets have Sorge as the fundamental basis of
'
their work. However, it is a different Sorge,' and therefore requires a
different treatment. A
word in regard to the Frau Sorge which hovered
' '

over Paul Meyhofer's life, may be in place. An observant reader will

notice that the theme of Paul's mother's life, as seen in her actions and
poems, is repentance. In Paul's early childhood, repentance checked his

development. Under the influence of the confirmation hour he felt re-

'

pentance. And when the organ was pealing out, Lobe den Herrn, den
machtigen Konig der Ehren,' Paul noticed at the altar the picture of Mag-
dalene, Frau Sorge.' One sees the influence of repentance
and whispered
'

throughout the book. Finally Paul recognizes what has been retarding his
development. In his confession before the court he said: Mir fehlte die '

Wiirde und das Selbstbewusstsein, —

ich vergab mir zu viel gegeniiber den
'

Menschen und mir selber.' Repentance is his real Frau Sorge.' But the
poet must not allow Paul to despair. Along with the influence of repent-
ance one sees the development of Paul's individuality with the growth of his
Different phases of mastery are shown throughout.
4

Weltanschauung.'
is aroused more and more. Slowly, but
'
The desire das ich zu betatigen,'
moment when his inner self must
surely, Paul is prepared for the decisive
assert its supremacy. He recognizes that no one can live for him, and that
he must free himself before he can begin to live an independent life. When
'

he recognizes this fact his Frau Sorge loses its magic and powerful con-
'
 THE MOTIVATION OF PARSIVAL 123

trol. He
has gained his individuality, he has conquered through his own
' '

experiences and exertions. From now on Wiirde and Selbstbewusstsein ' '

are no longer lacking in his life. And that certainly is a solution of the
problem which the artist undertook to solve.
' '

Frenssen, although he treats different Sorgen,' recognizes selbstbe-

'
wusstsein in the development of manhood. However, accordance with in

his experiencesand vocation, he adds one important element. He recom-

' ' '
mends the Christian Weltanschauung.' His Jorn Uhl illustrates the de-
velopment of a man within the newer, or perhaps, better, within the con-
ception of Christianity, as Frenssen sees it. Sudermann, however, has not
overlooked the strong, invisible, blessing forces which are to be found in
the New Testament. We see these forces in
'
Frau Sorge,' not as visible
as in 'Jorn Uhl,' but powerfully present. With Sudermann it is more the
religion of the layman than that of the pastor, but none the less religion.
The broad-minded
reader, quoting indirectly from Stern, will observe
that the fundamental idea is that sorrow has blighted the youth of many
excellent and capable young men, and that only the strength of the oppor-
tune moment of victorious decision can rescue, remains true for thousands.
He will see that it is the object of the poets to treat the inner life, the poeti-
cal sideof an oppressed nature, and to search for the divine spark in the
harshness of stern duty. He will find both Sudermann and Frenssen out-
spoken opponents of those poets who need a beautiful, externally gentile
man in order to find human life worthy of representation. They have thus
recognized that a 'simple, deep life is worth relating.' That alone is suffi-
cient to assure a lasting influence on German literature. Sudermann accom-
plished this in 'Frau Sorge' in 1887.

The Motivation of Wagner"*s Parsival

By Paul H. Grummann
HATEVER the final estimate of Wagner as a poet may be,
it can not be denied that he is without a peer in the recon-

struction of older themes. His skill in this respect has

led Prof. Wolfgang Golther to the statement that Wag-
' '
ner in his Der Ring des Nibelungen has successfully
reconstructed the whole body of myths of which only a
i2 4 RECENT GERMAN CRITICISM
paltry fragment is
preserved in the Eddas. While this statement contains
a compliment which the author deserves in a manner, it involves a serious
error. Wagner was so steeped in his philosophy that he was quite unable
to reconstruct an old system of myths objectively, nor did he care to do so.

Consciously and unconsciously he interpreted into his material the world

'

conception which he had come to accept. Consequently Der Ring des

'

Nibelungen embodies the pessimism of Schopenhauer and not the rugged

view of life held by the old Icelandic bards. This does not detract from
the merits of the modern author, for it is essential for the great poet that
he make his poetry reflect his convictions.

A comparison of Wagner's Parsifal with the main source of the drama

will likewise show the marked pessimism of the poet. It is hardly surpris-
ing that Nietsche broke all bonds with Wagner when this play appeared,
for its philosophy is the very antipode of Nietsche's positive, joyous, and

optimistic system of thought. What is indicated in the gloomy figure of

Wotan in the 'Ring' is but carried to its logical conclusion in Parsifal.
Nowhere is the pessimistic doctrine of renunciation preached in a more merci-
less manner, hence Nietsche saw nothing short of treason to human nature

in the play.

Naturally the epic breadth of the medieval poet disappears in the li-

bretto of Wagner. With extraordinary skill the essential features are ab-
stracted from the fourteen thousand lines of the older poet and reconstructed
in accordance with the author's conception. Long as the musical dramas

may appear, we can but marvel at Wagner's genius for condensation. The
medieval poem is crowded with incidents, while the newer version is stripped
of all minor adventures. Complex situations are simplified. Wolfram,
for instance, presents Titurel as the father of Frimuntel, whose children are

Amphortas, Trevrezent, and Schoiziana. This is reduced by making Am-

phortas the son of Titurel and eliminating the other characters. Similarly
Parsifal's father is merely referred to, and his half-brother, who plays an

important part in the older poem, is dropped entirely.

Wolfram presents Gawain as a pseudo-Parsifal. He is zealous in
behalf of Amphortas, rides out and champions the cause of the grail in a
large number of adventures, appears at the service of the grail
and asks all
essential to the
necessary questions, indeed conforms with all formalities
of the
recovery of the sufferer, but fails; while Parsifal without thinking
 THE MOTIVATION OF PARSIVAL 125

formalities succeeds on account of his inherent goodness. Wagner simply

has Gawain seek for a remedy for Amphortas and lets him depart from the
castle in despair when he fails to find it. It is apparent at once that Wag-
ner in this instance has not merely condensed but suppressed elements that

did not serve his purpose. The medieval poet tried to show the importance
of a faith not dominated by formality, a fruitful task, but not in accordance
with Wagner's conception of the theme and hence the changes already noted.
The early adventures of Parsifal are suppressed entirely because they
would make him appear too worldly. He does not join Arthur's knights
of the Round Table,
for in spite of their ultimate virtues they were sur-
rounded by worldly glamour. Wagner's Parsifal is associated only with
the knights of the grail, who must be pure in heart and also renounce all
thoughts of worldly glory. The medieval Parsifal is married to Kond-
wiramur, and has two sons, one of whom is Lohengrin. Since Wagner
considered the relation of marriage incompatible with the real service of
the grail, it was impossible for him to retain this feature. In spite of his

marriage vows Wolfram's Parsifal is

tempted by Guinevere, whom he serves
in a large number of adventures. Absolute chastity then was regarded es-
sential to the Parsifal of Wagner.
Nowhere in the drama, however, is there a more complete change than
in the conception of Kundry. In Wolfram's poem she is an insignificant
witch, who serves merely as a messenger of the grail. Wagner eliminates all
of the other female characters of his source and presents a composite figure
in Kundry. Not only this, but she becomes by far the most important char-
acter of thedrama in accordance with the larger purposes of the plot. She
becomes the cause of the wound of Amphortas, she is to blame for the loss
of the sacred spear, she the source of the mysterious power which threatens
is

the grail at the hands of Klingsor. Although she brings comfort to the
wounded Amphortas, it must be remembered that the remedy is only pallia-
tive; in a measure she deceives himtemporary belief that he is relieved.
into a

She, to Wagner, is the source of burdened as she is with the curse

all evil,

of tempting men, and hence the chaste Parsifal must withstand her wiles in
order to carry out his mission.
In his portrayal of Kundry, Wagner has utilized certain characteristics
' '

of die rauhe Else described most minutely in the legend of Wolfdietrich.

Else, according to the medieval legend, is a princess who, under a powerful

126 RECENT GERMAN CRITICISM
charm, has been converted into a faun-like creature. Wolfdietrich in the
course of his adventures finds and liberates her from her charm by
kissing
her three times, although at each kiss she is converted into a more hideous
creature. Since Wolfdietrich's courage does not fail, he is rewarded by
thehand of the liberated princess. Kundry in Wagner's drama similarly is
burdened with an awful curse from which some one must liberate her. In-
stead of changing forms, she assumes three distinct personalities, probably
the most effective feature of the drama. At first she tries to win Parsifal
by reminding him of his dead mother whose place she tries to take in his
affections. Then
she appeals to his sense of pity. Finally she makes it
appear that her salvation depends upon his love. She is liberated, how-
ever, by the abstinence and not the love of the hero. While Else marries
her hero, Kundry henceforth lives a life of renunciation, devotes herself to
menial service and meekly anoints the feet of Parsifal.
In Wolfram's poem Guinevere laughs at the approach of the clownish
Parsifal, who serves her in a large number of rather questionable adventures.
Wagner makes this laughter the token of the potency of Kundry's terrible
curse,

'
Und wiederkehrt mir das verfluchte Lachen
'

[Again the accursed laughter comes upon me]

The change is not

only in harmony with the poet's general plan, but adds a
dramatic intensity to the character of Kundry that is of supreme impor-
tance.

Kundry's wiles demonstrates that he can not be

Parsifal's resistance to

tempted and breaks the power of Klingsor, who at Wagner's hands has also
undergone a complete transformation. In the source he is merely a magi-
cian, a heathen, and therefore a foe of the grail. The fact that medieval
legends report that the grail and spear were put into the hands of the angels
who had remained neutral in the rebellion of Lucifer, probably suggested to
Wagner the conception of Klingsor as the prince of evil, the sworn foe of
God. Thisis indicated most clearly by the fact that Klingsor has belonged

to the knights of the grail and has lost his place among them on account of
his wickedness. Klingsor represents the force of evil and the most powerful
weapon inthe hands of this evil one is Kundry, the beautiful woman. Just
' '
as Siegfried in the Ring learns to fear in consequence of his love and ac-
 MODERN GERMAN LITERATURE 127

complishes his own ruin, Parsifal succeeds in his exalted mission because he
does not succumb to it.
It is this attitude to woman which most
conclusively classifies Wagner
as a pessimist. In the negation of natural instincts, the pessimist reasons
that woman's temptation is the natural source of evil, since this temptation
'

prolongs what he calls the fever of existence.' Whatever exists is doomed

to decay and acquiescence is the only wise course. This is the dominant
' '

note in the later dramas of Wagner, and the motivation of the Ring and
especially Parsifal proves conclusively that he was conscious of the world
conception to which he gave expression. He
not only turned to a period
which was famous for its acts of self-abnegation, but recast these characters
with a philosophical rigidness entirely foreign to Wolfram. Even if we
were ignorant of the fact that the poet took more than a passive interest in
the philosophical discussions of his day, a comparison of his drama with
Wolfram's epic would convince us that his chief interest in his swan song
was its philosophy.

Modern German Literature*

By John Scholte Noller

book that will broaden or deepen the acquaintance of the

American public with current German literature is to be
Professor Heller's Studies in Modern

ANY
'

heartily welcomed.
German Literature is such a book, intended frankly and
'

plainly for the public, not for the specialist, written in a pop-
ular, breezy style, giving what the public wants first of all
—
a mixture of descriptive and judicial criticism.
The book is hardly what its title may suggest at first sight. It is in

no sense a history of modern German literature, or of the German literature

of the nineteenth century; it is not even a comprehensive study of contem-

porary German and the reader who seeks in this book for a dis-
literature;
' ' ' '

quisition on influences and movements will be disappointed. It con-

sists of two elaborate essays on Sudermann and Hauptmann, each covering

*Studies in Modern German Literature, by Otto Heller, Ph.D.; Ginn & Co.,
Boston, 1905; pp. viii, 301.
128 RECENT GERMAN CRITICISM
over one hundred pages, followed by a sort of appendix of sixty-five pages,
in which the names and principal works of some forty women authors of the
last century and the present day are passed in rapid review. The book thus
has no logical plan, no organic unity; still, if there are plenty of logical
books, but few that are both instructive and entertaining, the author need
make no apology for the apparently lawless structure of his work.
The method the essays on Sudermann and Hauptmann is
of study in

direct and simple.

plays and The
novels are analyzed in chronological order
— save for occasional grouping on another basis and with the telling —
' '

of the story the author gives his view of the structure, characterization,
and ethical significance of the works reviewed. The author has the gift
that is essential to the success of the method used; he knows how to make
' '

an outline of the action interesting and intelligible to the general reader,

and he steers clear of the dryness and lifelessness usually found in such out-
'

lines. In fact, the literature studied is seen through a temperament,'

and the temperament vivacious and original enough to make the result
is

pleasant as well as informing to the reader. For this very reason criticism
of the work is made difficult, since it resolves itself almost inevitably into a
dispute de gustibus. The present generation is still far from occupying the
1 '
view point of eternity with reference to such authors as Sudermann and
Hauptmann, and hence it would be folly to attempt a dogmatic denial of

any of Professor Heller's judgments, which must simply be taken with the
proper allowance for the personal equation, as is always the case with im-
pressionistic criticism. It is enough to say that these judgments represent

the opinion of a keen and independent observer, and as such are worthy of a

respectful hearing.
' '

In one respect, the author of the Studies seems somewhat partisan,

or rather, seems to be affected by an unconscious reaction against the tend-
ency of recent Germanhas been so customary in Germany,
criticism. It

during the last few years, to overrate Hauptmann and to make light of
Sudermann, that a corrective of this injustice was quite in order; but Pro-
fessor Heller makes such an effort to stand straight against this German
current that he leans backward. The result is that the essay on Sudermann
'

might also be headed For the defense,' and that on Hauptmann For the
'

prosecution;' and as the American public, for which the book is intended,
knows little or nothing of the reason for this distribution of emphasis, the
 MODERN GERMAN LITERATURE 129

reader apt to be somewhat misled by it.

is Not that there is any real par-
tisanship in the author's attitude; for while the first essay is sympathetic in
tone, it does not cover up Sudermann's insufficiencies; and though the
Hauptmann is severe, it recognizes what is fine and great in the
criticism of
"
feminine genius of the poet of the Sunken Bell."
One other general criticism, or caution, seems in order. Professor
Heller makes the impression of approaching his critical task with rather too
fixed and rigid a theory of the drama — a theory that could be used, mutatis

mutandis, to discredit many of the world's greatest dramas, and that leads
the author, for example, to impugn the dramatic significance of Goethe's
'
Faust.' Especially in these days, when the old standards and laws of lit-
erary form are so generally disregarded, is it peculiarly unjust to the genius
of a great poet to measure his work by his observance of such standards or
laws. Hauptmann suffers from such a test, as Maeterlinck would, and as
Sudermann does not; the handicap is hardly a fair one.
As already intimated, the chapter on the Women
Writers of the Nine-
teenth Century has no organic connection with the rest of the book. It is

interesting and valuable in itself, however, as a brief review of the contribu-

tion of the other sex to German literature during the last hundred years;
and the slight acquaintance of the average American with this important
field of literary endeavor justifies the attention here given to it.
LINUS: ALAMENT AT THE GATH
ERING OF THE VINTAGE
By Edith M. Thomas

OW the golden tire of Phoebus

Turns, to trace its shortest arc;
Now, no more sings Philomela
From the leafy turret dark —
Nightingale and swallow flitting,
Voiceless, to theLibyan shore;
Now, upon Demeter's daughter
Shuts the sunken iron door —
And now, young Linus is no more.
He was with us at the pruning
Ere the leaf shot forth the vine;
He was with us in the Maytime
When the buds were red as wine, —
With us, when the summer dewfall
Made the meadows silvery hoar,
Shared our nooning in the shadow,
Shared the toiler's homely store —
But Linus shares with us no more.
He is fled,
— the well-beloved
With the lighted eyes of dawn,
With the tresses of sea-amber,
And the footstep of the fawn !

If the red-eyed pack of Sirius

His fair-fashioned body tore,
There was found no stain of crimson
On the path his footstep wore;
Yet Linus — Linus comes no more.
He is
strangely parted from us,
None received his passing-sigh!
Now, the evening-purple clusters
(130)
 EDITH M. THOMAS 131

Heavy on the trellis lie :

When we crush those purple clusters

Filled with sweetness to the core —
Lo ! it is the life of Linus
That the presses shall outpour;
But Linus we shall see no more.

He is gone with all of beauty,

Withered from the season's crown,
One by one, slow-faltering downward —
As these vine-leaves falter down
—
!

Otherwhere is other mourning

Ay, the boatman stills his oar,
Stays the shepherd, winding foldward,
At far cries that, searching sore,
Make murmur of no more! no more!

This the burden, this the sorrow,

Where they winnow out the corn ;

This the burden breathing lonely

Through the hunter's unblown horn !

Say, to those that mourn Adonis,

Trampled by the mountain boar —
Say to those that yet mourn Daphnis,
On the misty threshing floor,
That Linus — Linus is no more !

Ask if they have hope of Daphnis

When the morrow spring is born :

Will he rise among the furrows,

Midst the tender blades of corn?
Ask the foresters if Cypris
Their Adonis will restore? —
Plenteous flowers wake after Winter, —
Not the flower that bloomed before!
And Linus —
Linus wakes no more.
 SOME CURIOUS VERSIONS OF
» SHAKESPEARE
By Frederick W. Kilbourne
previous articles in Poet Lore have been devoted to a dis-
cussion of thewhole subject of versions of Shakespeare before

TWO 1800, and to a catalogue raisonne of such works, with a short

characterization of those about which information is obtain-
able. Even
the brief statements or descriptions therein given
are sufficient to indicate that many of these alterations differ

greatly, and some of them very strangely, from their originals.

Thinking that it may be of interest to have fuller accounts of some
of the more curious of these products of the perverse ingenuity of Shake-
speare's adapters and would-be improvers, I have selected for this purpose
several of the remade plays, whose right to be characterized as strange will
be conceded, I am sure, to be beyond dispute.
The first I shall take Charles Johnson's alteration of 'As You
up is

Like It,' which, for the sake of having a more significant title, he called
Love in a Forest. Johnson, who was a tavern-keeper as well as a writer
of plays, and as a poetaster of the time is said to be mentioned in one of
'

the versions of the Dunciad,' dedicated the printed copies of his play to
the Worshipful Society of Free Masons, of which he was evidently an
enthusiastic member.
The play, when acted in 1723, met with no success, and was withdrawn
after six performances. Strangely enough, its original seems to have been
entirely unknown to the stage of the period, for there is no record of its
representation from the Restoration until 1740, when it was acted about
twenty-five times at Drury Lane. This fact makes all the more laudable
Johnson's desire, as expressed in his prologue, of restoring to the stage
one more of Shakespeare's plays, and had he been content with this and not
have deemed it necessary to revise Shakespeare for the purpose, we should
have been much indebted to him. But unfortunately his judgment was at
'

fault and he stultified himself by his declaration that he had refined his

[Shakespeare's] ore,' 'weeded the beautiful parterre,' and 'restored the

scheme from time and error.' Behold the result of the refining, weeding,
and restoring processes ! Touchstone. Audrey, William, Corin, and Phoebe

(132)
 FREDERICK W. KILBOURNE ^33

are removed root and branch. Silvius appears only in Act II, Scene 4,
where he speaks about twenty lines given to Corin the original.
in . How
the deficiency thus created is made up will be seen in the course of the account
of the play, which follows.
The first two acts are not greatly changed. A ludicrous modification
is that of the wrestling bout to a before beginning which
combat in the lists,

Charles and Orlando defy each other with the speeches of Bolingbroke and
'

Norfolk in Richard the Second,' I. i. Jacques himself reports his moral-

izing on the deer, a change approved by Genest but criticized by Furness
'

as obliterating one of Shakespeare's artistic touches, whereby an important

character is described and the keynote struck before he himself appears."
More considerable changes appear in the Third Act. The verses which
Celia ought to read are omitted, and she makes the comments and verses
given to Touchstone in Shakespeare's play. After Orlando and Jacques
enter, the chiefchange in the play is instituted, namely, the wooing of Celia
This is done in the words of Touchstone to Audrey, patched
by Jacques.
with some speeches of Benedick's from Much Ado,' the whole dialogue
'

'

being given an eighteenth century tone. This monstrous device,' curiously

enough, anticipates George Sand's French version of the play, Comme il
Vous Plana, but the coincidence is undoubtedly a mere accident, as it is
not likely she had read Johnson's play.
The Fourth Act opens with a conversation in which Jacques tells Rosa-
'

lind of his love for Celia. She never told her love,' etc., is
Viola's speech,
inserted in the scene between Rosalind and Orlando. It is Robert Du Bois

who brings Rosalind Orlando's excuse for not keeping his promise, and
he is the brother who is rescued from the lioness. Oliver is
reported as
having made away with himself to escape punishment, thus making Orlando
his father's heir.
Of course, the changes already made affect the denouement somewhat,
Shakespeare, except that Jacques marries
but the play ends substantially as in

Celia. To compensate for the omitted portions, the burlesque play of

'

Pyramus and Thisbe from Midsummer Night's Dream is dragged in,

'

being represented before the Duke during the interval between the exit of
the disguised Rosalind and her return in her true character.

Johnson's chief purpose appears to have been to give the play greater
unity of action by limiting the action to fewer characters and to improve
the characterizations of the chief persons. In following out the first design
i 34 SOME CURIOUS VERSIONS OF SHAKESPEARE
he has deprived us of some of the best of the original; how lamentably he
has failed in the second is almost too obvious from the foregoing account
of his strange changes to need comment.
What shall be said of the transformation of the melancholy Jacques
into an eighteenth century lover? It is certainly most remarkable. One
of Shakespeare's most distinctive characters, a universal favorite nowadays,
is to our minds thereby entirely spoiled. Nothing but a complete failure
to comprehend the great dramatist's purpose or ignorance of true
dramatic art could have brought about such a perversion. The comedy is,
as Furness points out, so thoroughly English that it cannot be transplanted
to German or French soil. The Germans cannot appreciate the sparkling
wit and vivacity of Rosalind, and consequently turn to Jacques and Touch-
stone as the leading characters. How it strikes a French mind may be
learned from an examination of Sand's Comme II Vous Plana, in which
Jacques is made
the hero, being converted from a misogynist into a jealous
lover, almost provoked to a duel with Orlando by Celia's coquetry. John-
son's mind seems to have undergone a sort of Frenchification, if one may
so speak, the process being checked, however, before it was completed, so
that he did not carry the change in the characterization of Jacques so far
as his French successor. At any rate, both, it will be admitted, have debased
the character most effectually. Perhaps the best criticism on the trans-
'

formed Jacques is that which Johnson makes Celia herself utter, Jacques's
love looks a little awkward it does not sit so easy on him.'
; We
should,
however, amend it by making the language stronger.
The omission of Touchstone and Audrey deprives us of some of the
most delightful comedy found anywhere, and that of Corin and Phoebe
to be
lowers the characterization of Rosalind somewhat by taking away from her
her desire to make a lover happy by using her good offices in his behalf.
Another useless and very bad change is the removal of Oliver and the
substitution of Robert as the brother rescued by Orlando. This was made
necessary by the change in the lover of Celia. Perhaps, also, Johnson had
in mind poetical justice, which would be, in his opinion, better satisfied by
having Oliver take his own life. But how much it injures the conception of
Orlando, besides removing one of the chief teachings of the play, the lesson
of forgiveness, to take away from him the opportunity to show his mag-
nanimity in preserving and forgiving an enemy ! We must admit that
 FREDERICK W. KILBOURNE 135

Oliver's conversion is sudden, the great dramatist being undoubtedly

a little

influenced not a the

little
by dramatic convention which called for a pairing
off of the chief characters in the fifth act. Nevertheless, one gets a fresh
'

admiration for Shakespeare's genius, in observing his method of making

earthly things even,' as compared with that of his uninspired reviser.
A
greater Johnson has lamented that Shakespeare lost the opportunity
for a fine piece of moralizing, in not recording the conversation between the

usurping duke and the hermit. Fortunately this idea did not occur to his
lesser namesake, for which we may be grateful.
The dialogue when Shakespeare is followed is not greatly altered, but
of course Johnson's changes and omissions make necessary much of his own
composition.
As a concluding word it
may be affirmed that this version is an ex-

tremely bad transformation of Shakespeare's most charming comedy. As

we have seen, it was the opinion even of Johnson's contemporaries that
this play was not good.
Another pleasing comedy that has suffered violence at the hands of
revisers and adapters is The Taming of the Shrew,' as, besides being al-
'

tered, it has been resorted to for farces and afterpieces.

The chief alteration is so unique as to be well worth a little attention.
Here, again, there is a change of title, but in this case it is a much more vio-
lent one. Indeed were the original title not appended as a subtitle to the
altered play, the disguise would be complete. Sauny, the Scot, or the Tam-
ing of the Shrew, is one of the earliest versions of Shakespeare, for it was
first acted in April, 1667, although not printed until 1698. It is attrib-

uted, with much probability, to the Actor Lacy, though Langbaine in his

account of dramatic writers does not speak of it as his. Lacy himself took
the part of Sauny, who is Grumio turned into a Scotchman. The play met
with considerable success, although Pepys, who records seeing it, thought
' '

generally but a mean play with some very good pieces in it.'
'

it

The scene of the play is transferred to London, the dialogue is short-

ened and strangely enough converted into prose, and the fifth act is almost
entirely new. Petruchio remains as in the original, but the names of the
most of the other dramatis personse are changed. Katherine becomes
Margaret, daughter of Lord Beaufoy (Baptista). In Winlove, son of
Sir Lionel Winlove, and a country gentleman of Oxford education, may be
136 SOME CURIOUS VERSIONS OF SHAKESPEARE
recognized Lucentio, now become an Englishman. Gremio, Hortensio, and
Biondello become respectively Woodall, a rich old citizen, Geraldo, and
Jamy. The character of Sauny is much more important than that of
Grumio in Shakespeare's play. He is Petruchio's Scotch servant and a
mere buffoon. Curiously enough, which is often coarse, is
his language,
not Scotch in idiom or apparent pronunciation, but Yorkshire dialect.
its

Margaret and Petruchio talk like people of the London streets.

The Induction is omitted —
not a bad change, as its representation is
unnecessary. The First Act is very short, consisting of Shakespeare's first
scene only. The second scene of Act I and the whole of Act II constitute
Lacy's Second Act. Sauny figures very prominently in this act. Act III
consists of Shakespeare's Third Act with the first two scenes of his Fourth
Act. Winlove (Lucentio) speaks a kind of French English. Petruchio
makes Margaret smoke. Snatchpenny, a London thief, has the part of
the pedant. The remainder of Act IV and the first scene of Act V of the
original make up Lacy's Fourth Act. Woodall is represented as hiring
Winlove, as a Frenchman, to woo Bianca for him. Act V, as has been
said, is almost entirely Lacy's, although the wager on the wives' obedience
is introduced. It consists mainly in a prolongation of Margaret's resist-
ance to Petruchio. He declares her to be dead and orders his servants to
carry her out and bury her. The wager episode follows and then the play
ends with a dance.
It will be seen that the play has thus been transformed into a low
comedy or into a mere farce. The change of scene has been attended with
a marked lowering of the whole tone of the play and a striking degradation
of the chief characters. For this the little good humor that has been added
is far from compensating, much less does it excuse it. The prolongation
of Margaret's stubbornness, while perhaps good fooling, certainly cannot
be called an improvement or even a welcome addition. Shakespeare knew
when to stop.
On the whole, the play, although bad enough as an alteration of

Shakespeare, is still a fairly good play, because so much of the original is

retained. There was no call to change the setting and to degrade the play.
This and the destruction of the poetry are the chief features to be con-
demned. It is only one more proof of the lack of anything like reverence
for Shakespeare among the playwrights and audiences of the period, that
 FREDERICK W. KILBOURNE '37

such a version could be made and, moreover, be tolerated, let alone be re-
ceived with applause, as it was.
I pass now to one of the strangest alterations in the
list, James Miller's

The Universal Passion, which was acted nine times and printed in 1737.
The Old Variorum editors put it down as a pasticcio of Much Ado About '

'

Nothing,' 'As You Like It,' and Love's Labor's Lost.' This is not so, as
there is nothing from either of the latter two. Another writer describes
it as an alteration of 'All's Well that Ends Well.' It is evident that these
authorities had not read the play. Any one seeing simply the list of char-
acters might easily be led to think it an alteration of several of Shakespear's

plays, but there no excuse for stating an unverified inference as a fact.

is

The play is, in truth, a wretched jumble of Much Ado about Nothing
' '

'

and Moliere's Princess of Elis.' Miller in his prologue acknowledges

his indebtedness to Shakespeare, but says nothing of Moliere.
The scene is laid at Genoa and the characters (with their Shake-
spearean equivalents) are as follows:

Protheus, a nobleman of Genoa (Benedick) ;

Joculo, the court jester;

Bellario, a young Venetian lord (Claudio) ;

Gratiano, the Duke of Genoa (Leonato) ;

Byron, bastard brother to the Duke (Don John) ;

Gremio (Borachio and Conrade) ;

Porco (Dogberry) ;

Asino (Verges) ;

Lucilia (Hero) ;

Liberia (Beatrice) ;

Delia (Margaret).

Most of the First Act is from Moliere, somewhat altered. Bellario

is in love with Lucilia, but, as she is in the habit of treating her suitors with

contempt, he determines to affect indifference to her. He engages Joculo

to help him. Gratiano, the father of Lucilia, expresses to her his wish
that she should marry and she declares to him her aversion to matrimony.
The remainder of the act, consisting mostly of a wit combat between Pro-
theus and Liberia, is from the first and third scenes of the First Act of
'
Much Ado.'
138 SOME CURIOUS VERSIONS OF SHAKESPEARE
Moliere furnishes almost all of Act II, although some dialogue is
taken from Shakespeare. The action is chiefly occupied with the affairs
of Bellario and Lucilia, each of whom pretends to be in love with some one
else.

In the Third Act, the first part of which is chiefly from Moliere, Lu-
cilia consents to take Bellario after Joculo tells her that her suitor has res-

cued her father from two ruffians and after her father himself urges her
to do so. At this point is speedily and com-
Miller deserts Moliere, Lucilia
pletely metamorphosed into Shakespeare's Hero,
and the play follows
Much Ado in the main, though with many changes in minor details, from
Don Pedro's proposal in Act II, i, to bring about a match between Benedick
and Beatrice to the end.
In attempting to improve upon his original the reviser has fallen into

many absurdities. In particular, the Fifth Act is badly confused. For

example, he introduces a scene between Joculo and Delia in which she begs
that worthy to intercede for her with Lucilia, at a time when that lady is

supposed to be dead.
Miller alters the dialogue greatly, introduces lines from 'Twelfth
Night' and 'Two Gentlemen of Verona,' and altogether has succeeded in
making a most wretched amalgamation of two good plays.
It cannot be supposed that a compilation from Shakespeare and Mo-

liere should be a wholly bad play. Even the most violent treatment cannot
rob two such geniuses of their vigor, but they have certainly suffered sadly
at the hands of Miller. It is not worth while to do more than censure the

general principle this alteration exhibits. To make a play by combining

different plays of the same author's, or plays in the same language, is bad

enough, but to make one out of the plays of authors writing in different
languages is too contemptible a practice on which to waste any words. Be-

sides, in this case, what an absurdity to metamorphose suddenly

Moliere's
vivacious heroine, who somewhat resembles Beatrice, into the quiet-spirited
Hero !

As a final Miller's lack of art, it may be said that whenever

word on
he varies from his originals he alters for the worse and often succeeds in
spoiling scenes or characters. There can be no dissent from the opinion
that this is about the most outrageous instance of lack of reverence for two
great masters and of the length to which a would-be improver
of Shake-

speare will go.

 FREDERICK W. KILBOURNE 139

There is no better example of the fatuity of attempting to circumscribe

the romantic drama by the artificial rules of the classical drama than the
revision now to be considered, the two tragedies which Sheffield made out
'

of Julius Caesar.'
John Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave, Marquis of Normanby, and Duke
of Buckinghamshire, was a man and writer of no little reputation in his
day. He was an intimate friend of, and even a co-worker with, Dryden,
who spoke '

Sharp-judging Adriel, the Muses' friend. Himself

of him as
'

a muse,' and who dedicated to him his 'Auranzebe and his translation of
the JEne'id. He was also a friend of Pope, who at the command of His '

Grace,' wrote two of the choruses in the Duke's second play. Of course,
living in the age that he did, he would be likely to be a thoroughgoing
classicist, and those who have read his verse Essay on Poetry will not need
to be told that he was in accord with his time. This being the case, one
'

can readily anticipate that, when he set to work to alter Julius Caesar,' he
would have the intention of making it 'regular' if possible, and such we
find to be the spirit in which his revision was made.
His alterations were never acted, but were published by his duchess
in 1722, after his death. In order to observe the unities and to bring
Shakespeare's play into harmony with the classical form, he divided it, as
'
has been said, into two plays, which he called The Tragedy of Julius
C<esar' and 'The Death of Marcus Brutus,' and furnished each with a pro-
logue and choruses. In the prologue to the first play, he says,

'Hope to mend Shakespeare! or to match his style!

'Tis such a jest would make a stoic smile.
Too fond of fame, our poet soars too high;
Yet freely owns he wants the wings to fly;
That he confesses while he does the fault.'

If such was his real opinion we wonder at his vanity in undertaking

this well-nigh impossible task. Sheffield is so solicitous lest anyone should
think he neglects to observe the unity of time, that he is careful to state that
the play begins the day before Caesar's death and ends within an hour
after it.

The alterations in the plot of the first play are slight, but the diction

is much changed and there is a good deal of Sheffield's own poetry. In

the First Act, all the low comedy is omitted and the offering of the crown is
i40 SOME CURIOUS VERSIONS OF SHAKESPEARE
made a part of the action. In Act II, the scene between Brutus and Portia
is transformed into an insipid love dialogue. Calphurnia is omitted in Act
III, the ill omens the Act IV is without change
being reported by priests.
as to action. Brutus's address is turned into blank verse and the Fifth Act
ends with Antony's address, the opening lines of which are worth quoting
as an example of Sheffield's improvement upon Shakespeare.

'Friends, countrymen, and Romans, hear me gently;

I come to bury Caesar, not to
praise him.
Lo here the fatal end of all his glory :

The evil that men do, lives after them;

The good is often bury'd in their graves;
So let it be with Caesar. Noble Brutus
Has told you Caesar was ambitious:
If he was so, then he was much to blame;
And
he has dearly paid for his offense.
I come to do my duty to dead Caesar.'

The second tragedy, having but two acts of the original to draw upon,
called for much additional material. Accordinglv the Duke introduces
several new characters, as Theodotus, a philosopher; Dolabella; Varius,
a young Roman, bred at Athens; and Junia, wife of Cassius and sister of
Brutus. In reality, an almost entirely new play is manufactured, as the
first three acts are entirely Sheffield's, and although the substance of the
fourth and fifth acts is Shakespeare's, the words are the Duke's. Many
variations are made even when the scenes are founded on Shakespeare. For
instance,instead of Pindarus unwillingly holding the sword for Cassius
to run upon, the servant kills himself, after which his master, encouraged

by example, or reproached by it, stabs himself. This is precisely as in

his
the case of Eros and Antony, in 'Antony and Cleopatra,' which probably

suggested the change here.

The scene lies at Athens in the first three acts and near Philippi in

the last two. The Duke apologizes for thus violating the unity of place:
Our scene is Athens
'

But here our author, besides other faults

Of ill expressions and of vulgar thoughts,
Commits one crime that needs an act of grace
And breaks the law of unity of place.'
 FREDERICK W. KILBOURNE 141

Truly an audacious thing to do The unity of time, however, we are

!

informed, has been preserved, for the play begins the day before the battle
of Philippi and ends with that event. Here the Duke's solicitude has made
him absurdly inconsistent, for the movements could not be made from
Athens to Philippi in the time, nor could Cassius get back in twenty-four
hours from Sardis, where Junia says he has gone. Probably his grace did
not look into the geography of his scene, which is unpardonable in so great
a stickler for correctness.
This the only attempt to give a play of Shakespeare's a strictly clas-
is

sical form, and no reader of the Duke's plays will have any doubt as to the

superiority of Shakespeare's treatment. The best excuse for Sheffield's

two plays lies in Shakespeare's duality of heroes. But Brutus is the one
upon whom Shakespeare meant to fix the greatest attention, and his pur-
pose is to show how Brutus's misfortunes come as the result of his one
error in assassinating Caesar —
doing evil that good may come. Shake-
speare's reason for not ending his play with the murder of Caesar appears in
the words of Brutus over Cassius's body:

'O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet!

Thy spirit walks abroad and turns our swords
In our own proper entrails.'

But the critics, among them the Duke, did not see this in their shortsighted-
ness.
The battle between the classicists and the romanticists over the unities
has been fought and the victory lies with the latter, so there is no necessity
for a discussion of them here. Suffice it to say that the attempt to make
over Shakespeare's play so as to conform to them has resulted in a very bad
alteration of it. Sheffield's inconsistency has been pointed out, and when,
besides his violence to the construction of the play, he has so spoiled the
verse, as the sample given abundantly testifies, we can have nothing but
contempt for his misguided efforts.

There are several other versions that might properly claim a place
in an article dealing with curious ones. Indeed, so many of them belong
more or less to this category that it is difficult to choose among them. But
a stop must be made somewhere, and so I have fixed upon Otway's Cains
Marias as the last I shall describe. This play, which is, strictly, not a
version of Shakespeare at all but a borrowing, or rather a theft, from him,
i42 SOME CURIOUS VERSIONS OF SHAKESPEARE
certainly bears a highly curious relation to
'

Romeo and Juliet,' from which

it is in part taken.

That Otway, who, at his best, could

produce the finest tragedies of
his age, should stoop to commit such a literary crime as this play exhibits —
he says himself that he has 'rifled him [Shakespeare] of half a plav
'
—
can be explained only as due to the exigency of his pecuniary affairs.
The quarrel between Marius and Sulla doubtless occurred to him as
a suitable subject for a tragedy and, having, as usual, to write for bread,
he was probably anxious to have his play ready at the earliest possible
moment. The feud between the houses of Montague and Capulet being
familiar to him, he evidently, in an evil moment, conceived the idea of

transferring its incidents to the enmity between the partisans of Marius

and those of Sulla, and of making use also of as much of Shakespeare's
dialogue as his plan permitted. 'To such low shifts, of late,' says he, by
'

way of apology, are poets worn.'

In treating of this strange hodgepodge of Shakespeare and Roman
history, I shall pay attention only to the Shakespearean portions, as being
those that come within the scope of my subject. As to the character of the
parts of the play which are Otway's own, no more need be said than that

they follow fairly closely the historical facts.

Caius Marius represented as having a son, Marius Junior, who is
is

in love with Lavinia, daughter of Metellus. The last is a partisan of

Sulla and wishes his chief to This device affords oppor-
be his son-in-law.
and many passages from Romeo and
'

tunity to introduce several scenes

Juliet.' The greater part of the Nurse's character is retained and Sulpitius
uses some of Mercutio's speeches.
The First Act is almost all Otway's. A mangled form of the descrip-
tion of Queen Mab is spoken by Sulpitius. In the Second Act, Metellus

expresses to Lavinia his desire that she should be married, as Lady Capulet
does to Juliet; most of the Nurse's lines appear, but in prose, and Metellus
speaks some of Capulet's lines in III., 5, of Romeo and Juliet.'
'

Sulpitius
conjures for Marius Junior, as Mercutio for Romeo in Shakespeare, and
then follows the garden scene between Marius Junior and Lavinia, most of
the lines being taken from Shakespeare. The Third Act includes con-
siderable of
'
Romeo and Juliet
'

: Lavinia's nurse comes to young Marius

and is quizzed by Sulpitius; Lavinia speaks Juliet's soliloquy in III., 2;
 FREDERICK W. KILBOURNE 143

and then cames a scene between her and the Nurse, somewhat as in Shake-
speare's II., 5. In the Fourth Act about twenty lines of Shakespeare's III.,

5 are introduced in the parting scene between Marius Junior and Lavinia,
the Priest of Hymen gives her a sleeping potion, she speaks some lines from
IV., I, and, after the priest goes out, Juliet's soliloquy in IV., 3. Shake-
speare is
again laid under a heavy contribution in Otway's last act. The
Nurse discovers Lavinia apparently dead, Marius Junior hears of her death,
soliloquizes as in Shakespeare, and buys poison of an apothecary. At the
tomb young Marius kills the priest, not knowing who he is, and drinks the

poison, but before he dies Lavinia awakes. She later kills herself, and the
play ends with some partly Mercutio's, spoken by Sulpitius.
lines,
From this brief account of the relation of Otway's play to Shake-

speare's it will be seen that Otway speaks truly when he declares he has

pilfered half a play. He makes some changes in the passages he steals,

in the way of abridgement, and to some of the scenes he follows he adds

considerable of his own.

It not worth while to waste any time or words upon such a contempt-
is

ible piece of thieving as this. It would seem as if Otway might have found
material enough for a play without resorting to such an expedient. The
only redeeming feature of it all is that he had sufficient good sense not to
alter greatly what he stole, but this scarcely makes his sin the less.
His main change, the restoration of Lavinia to consciousness before
Marius Junior dies, is pronounced by Genest to be an improvement, and this
device is retained in Theophilus Gibber's version and in Garrick's, and the
revision of the latter by Kemble. Whether it heightens the pathos of the
situation or not is a debatable question. It may make it a little more

tragic, but it seems almost too much piling on of agony to make Romeo
discover that he has poisoned himself unnecessarily.
 MR. HOWELLS' PHILOSOPHY
AND 'THE SON OF ROYAL
LANGBRITH.'
By E. S. Chamberlayne
HOWELLS has attained the distinction which some few
living writers in each generation share with the phenomena

MR. of nature, the distinction of being criticised, even, if you

will,of being roundly abused, as the weather is, for ex-

ample, and of being, at the same time, artistically almost as

indispensable, almost as much taken for granted, as the
weather itself. No late riser, hurrying to his office after a bad night, is of
too mean a spirit to fling his jibe at the day's excess of heat or cold or wet,
and to feel himself somehow made more righteous by so doing. And in
much the same way the mean spirited thinkers of the hour, dyspeptic from
'

counters of fiction, turn to Mr. Howells with

'

gorging at the quick lunch

a grumble ora complaint that is, in its essence, merely a recognition of the

position he has attained. For Mr. Howells has become one of the chief ele-
ments in our American literary weather. One may say at once that one
doesn't like the climate — which makes it
obviously open to one to move —
but so long as one lives, intellectually, in America it is essential to a certain

very desirable quality of mind that one accept Mr. Howells, with all his lim-
itations, in the same philosophical spirit in which one meets the trifling in-
of our peculiar American climate.
felicities

And
in recent years he has given us nothing that so well repays a critical
In The
'

acceptance as the vision of himself that appears in his latest novel.

Son of Royal Langbrith,' he has produced, perhaps without intention, a
tragedy. I fancy, indeed, that if he ever wrote what was tragic in the ob-

jective, dramatic sense it would be more or less despite his conscious purpose.
For he shrinks, artistically, from frankly grappling with problems that for
the ordinary novelist exercise a sort of fascination. The tragedies of life,
for Mr. Howells, one very well knows, are far more subtle, far more delicate

things than such crude dramatic expressions of life as fill the newspaper and
the more cheaply popular novel. But in the story of Dr. Anther he has
found one of the oldest forms of popular tragedy. And though he has
treated it,of necessity, in the manner peculiar to himself, he has not robbed
it of its essentially tragic elements.
( 144)
 E. S. CHAMBERLAYNE 145

It may be Mr. Hovvells's misfortune — it is certainly his charm — that

his attitude toward life is rarely quite his reader's attitude, is perhaps rarely
the attitude of his countrymen, of his contemporaries. And for this, how-
ever roughly it
may occasionally rub his sensibilities, we must be selfishly
grateful. For, though we in America still are, and may always be, too
immature, in a literary sense, to view life as he views it, we are far from
wishing him to view it as we do. It is not in the least necessary to agree
with Mr. Howells — or, so far as that goes, of course, with any man — in

order thoroughly to like him. do thoroughly We him, and, may like if one
venture to guess, this is perhaps just because we so little agree with him.
One rarely realizes it, one perhaps never fully appreciates it, and yet
in a sense it is true, that the chief appeal of any art lies less in its technical
excellence, less in what we have come to consider its objective truth or beauty,
than kind of subtle self-expression of the artist.
in a There is a great deal
of talk —
most of it very idle talk —
about the technique of this or the other
school of expression. Realism, romanticism, impressionism the terms cover :

a deal of careless thinking. But, in effect, what we call style or manner is

no more than the dress in which an artist arrays himself. And dress, how-
ever expressive of self, is always a relative thing. don't make friends We
with a man's clothes. In a word, there is in every work of art something
besides beauty, something besides truth. There is in it always an artist.
For it is a fact, though we have so far accepted
it as only a theory, that

landscape painting actually may be the expression of one's emotions in the

presence of nature. And Mr. Henry James, I believe, has somewhere given
the novelist's impression of life.
us the corollary of this, that fiction is The
books in which foreigners record their impressions of a country are always
received in opposite ways by the two classes into which their readers are
divided. Those who are ignorant of the country turn to the writer for a
knowledge of what he has seen; those who are well informed turn to the
things he has seen for a knowledge of the writer.
The novelist, of course, is merely a traveler who gives us from time to
time his impressions of the world through which he is passing. And when
we turn to any well-liked writer —
as we turn to Mr. Howells in his recent
novel — we fancy that we seek some expression of truth or beauty, or seek,
itmay be, just a picture of life itself. But in reality we never do seek these.
Though perhaps unconsciously, it is always the writer that we seek, always
10
146 MR. HOWELLS' PHILOSOPHY
the writer alone that we truth or beauty it is largely the
find. If there is

truth or beauty of the artist's mind, the truth or beauty of that mystery we
call personality. We
know Shakespeare's heart far better than we know
the life men lived under Elizabeth of England. The great Russians have
revealed themselves far more clearly than they have revealed the manners
of their countrymen. We know the mind of Balzac; we only doubt and
question now his picture of the time in which he lived.

And this is true, with respect, of Mr. Howells.

all One might say
of him, as is often said of clever women, that it is easy to disagree with him,
but impossible not to like him. Some of us disagreed with him about Silas
and many, many of I fear, disagreed with him about the
Lapham, us,

daughters of that ill-fated paint merchant. We

should like to be able now,
some of look forward a few years to the time when Lapham's grand-
us, to

daughters, fresh from college and a year abroad, should settle down in one
Lapham was so typically an American of the
'

of Boston's younger sets.'

better sort that we takehard he should not still stand for us in his
it a little
'

representative capacity, as so related to one of these younger sets.'

But
we do not take it hard that Mr. Howells in this earlier work has given us
so clear a vision of his literary personality. America can very well endure
the loss of the finest product of Lapham's million, the modern American

girl
— we have her, as it is, in such abundance — but the America of today,
and more, one fancies, the America of tomorrow, could ill endure the loss

to its letters of this expression of the strong, kind, sane spirit we all admire.
And some of us again, we finish the tragic story of Dr. Anther
I fear, as

in this later novel, will feel constrained to disagree with Mr. Howells about
that admirable old New England village doctor. We
want to feel that life
would have treated him more kindly than Mr. Howells has treated him.
We want to make ourselves believe that he would have had something finer
than the peace of acquiescence to fill his final hours when fate denied his
love. We
would have had him suffer. Surely the love of so fine a nature
as his was worthy a little suffering. He was to die, it seems, in any event,
and end it all. Peace was so poor a thing to give him. He deserved better
of life than that.
And yet, in this novel we have Mr. Howells as we perhaps have not so

fully, have not so clearly had him in any work since he revealed
the breadth
'
and tolerance of his mind in The Rise of Silas Lapham.' And, in truth,
 E. S. CHAMBERLAYNE 147

constantly with his literary personality as here revealed, and not with the
it is

pictured life of this small New England village, that we find ourselves most
concerned. His
picture of village life interests us, the ethical problem he
discusses through his characters is always an attractive one, the somewhat

prosaic love affair of Dr. Anther compels a measure of acceptance which

Mr. Howells's more prosaic love affairs have not always done. But in the
end the chief interest and certainly the lasting value of the work will be
found in its self-revelation of the author.
The middle-aged doctor in The Son of Royal Langbrith loves a
' '

widow who lacks the courage to tell her son that his father was a scoundrel,
and so to win for herself the young man's sanction for the second marriage
that, as it is, the boy's ignorant worship of his father's memory would make
a sacrilege. The ostensible problem of the tale is the ethical question
whether the truth should be told about the man who is believed in the
village to have been a worthy character, the question whether, from largely
selfish motives, one should ever set in motion moral forces that might prove,
however slightly or subtly, of evil effect. The problem is treated as only-
Mr. Howells could treat it, and Dr. Anther's conclusion that he is not justi-
fied in bending the weak will of the woman he loves to compass the end they

both desire becomes, with some reservations, the reader's own.

The ethical problem is satisfactorily solved; but there appears to be
a question unanswered.
still And it is in the answer to this question that
one finds the heart of Mr. Howells's philosophy. Dr. Anther is the hero
of the novel. The widow's son, with his blind
worship of his unworthy
lather, is merely one of the implements fate has used to thwart the Doctor's
love. The real problem seems only to be fairly stated when this first and
superficial question has been
settled. For the real problem, the question
toward which the current of the story has been setting from the first, is the
old, old question of the human will in its relation to destiny. What shall
be a man's attitude toward the Power that thwarts his will? Anther is not
a great personage. There is no glitter and tinsel about him, very little even
of cleverness and worldly knowledge in his composition; though Mr. How-
ells has seen in him a slightly clearer, more refined intelligence than Lapham

required for his career. But the world-old tragedy is as truly stated in this
prosaic, middle-aged man with his love for a weak and simple woman as in

any dramatic philosopher or poet of the past. For none of the vital thing*
148 MR. HOWELLS' PHILOSOPHY
of life is primarily a matter of expression. No
man, were he poet or clown,
ever found speech that would rightly express his love; and the tragedy of
life is as real in the private of the Guard, crushed and dying in the ditch, as

in the emperor, riding off into the night with the bitterness of Waterloo upon

his heart. Men of duller vision have rebuked Mr. Howells for not giving
his problems a broader, more vivid statement; as though love and life, pur-

pose and failure and death were matters of mere expression and somehow
lost their essence when not
stated in courtly phrases.
It is not, however, the particular expression he has here chosen that so
arrests attention. The life he pictures is much like that of his other novels.
The New England and the young Harvard men seem as true, as
villagers
thoroughly natural, in a word, as any of the long line of those
like to life, as
that have come before them. There is even discernible in the impalpable
medium in which they move a kind of scent —
one would not like to call it
a fragrance —
as though the moral essence of long generations of Puritan

consciences, slowly drying and hardening, had permeated the atmosphere,

as in some localities one detects, faint and delicate and by no means disa-

greeable, the distant suggestion of dried and salted cod. The casual reader
may esteem the Doctor's love story but slightly; and, indeed, if the casual
reader be young —
as she is likely to be —
she may even fancy that the un-

disciplined Harvard student, with his own little love affair, is the center of
interest. But the story is the story of Dr. Anther;and we follow with
appreciation the vision of his struggle, as he gropes, dumb and blind, amid
the shadows of desire — as, in degree, we all must do
—
until he wins his

way to the one right course that fate has allotted him. And yet, there is in
the novel something more engrossing than even this view of Anther's

tragedy. It is, in a word, just the expression, in this new form, of the view

that Mr. Howells takes, artistically, of all that is tragic.

Perhaps man's personality never anywhere gets quite so clear a state-
a
ment as in his attitude toward the tragedy of life. We have all smiled
fondly over the pages of Victor Hugo. That delightful soul meets the
tragic with a Gallic zest and lightness that somehow are always suggestive
of Hotspur killing his seven men before breakfast and coming in to complain
to his wife that life is dull. Victor Hugo turns to the tragic as some men
turn to play or to high finance, for the very joy of the game. Hawthorne,
on the other hand, one might fancy, sought the tragedy of life because,
 E. S. CHAMBERLAYNE 149

dreaming, moody, long shut unnaturally within himself, only the tragic
in life could furnish objective forms for the shadows that had gathered in

the disused chambers of his soul. Mr. Howells turns to the tragic, if at
all, as in this recent novel, with an air of reluctance, as though under com-
pulsion of his exacting literary conscience. But he meets it, when found,
with a philosophy as far removed from the self-centered gloom of his coun-
tryman as it is from the impersonal, almost sprightly gloom of the great
Frenchman. In fact, artistically, there is for Mr. Howells practically no
gloom in life. He has been touched by the serenity and tolerance of age.
He has come into the secret of content. Life, for him, holds tragedies, of
course; but they are so, one sees, only because men fail of the right view of
life. For what is bitterness in them may be transmuted
into serenity and

peace, into even joyand happiness of a kind, if one but has this secret. And
in The Son of Royal Langbrith Dr. Anther has the ill fortune to receive
' '

this secret from Mr. Howells.

Dr. Anther, in a word, wins peace, not as we all may in the kind em-
brace of Time, which gave us birth, but at once —
on the spot, as one may
say — by
the simple expedient of abandoning, not alone the woman he loves,
but his love as well. His sudden tranquillity comes to one with the effect of
a shock. And if, in the end, the atmosphere of the story is one of gloom,
an atmosphere born less of the Doctor's death than of the deeper tragedy
it is

of the death of his love. For his love dies with the birth of his peace; he
may not realize it, it is
open to question whether Mr. Howells realized it,

but itdies as surely, almost as dramatically, as the Doctor himself does.

For it is not in love to abandon its object without suffering. Peace
comes with time, not with renunciation. To love, in such a case as this, is

inevitably to suffer. And what, indeed, one asks, is suffering, what unen-
durable thing is it, that it should be escaped at such a cost? After all, love
isthe stuff that life is made of. Philosophy and the calm serenity of age are
doubtless well in their way; but their way is not the way of youth. And
youth, as it happens, is the abiding element of life. The world never grows
old. Men are always at the beginning. Through the ages they have been
pushing their slow way into the shadows of the Unknown. The way looks
long in the retrospect. But the Mystery they search is boundless, and they
stand today where they stood yesterday, where they will stand tomorrow,
where, in effect, they will always stand, at the threshold of life. It is idle
150 MR. HOWELLS' PHILOSOPHY
for age to tell them it has found the way of peace, has discovered an escape
from suffering. Who wishes to escape? Not youth, surely. Not love.
What does youth reck, of suffering? And love —
love is not love without

suffering. There are many finer things in life than peace. Oh, if one
comes to that, there are many finer things in life than the wisdom and seren-
ity of age. example, the blunders and the follies of youth,
There are, for
the blind struggles of ignorance and weakness, the inevitable failure of the
dreams of love and their eternal rebirth. These things are finer, for it is
upon these that the structure of human life, like the ocean coral, is slowly
reared.
It is the failing of common men
to view life only in its relation to them-
selves; they whole
fail and themselves as only factors.
to see life The
child wonders for what purpose curious bugs and insects are created. And
men look upon trees and plants and animals only as ministering in some way
to themselves. It never occurs to them that an oak, for instance, or a toy

spaniel, may exist primarily for itself. It is only the artist who sees all life
as so existing; for it is only beauty that translates these alien forms of being
into terms that men can comprehend. Science and philosophy fail in this,
for they are bounded by reason and the mystery of the spirit that is in all
;

life is never revealed to the mind alone. No mere intellectual effort will
ever bring us into the heart of another personality. Love will do it for the
individual and art, closer always to love than to philosophy, will do it for
;

the race. Men of a certain temper view woman as always something rela-
tive to man ;
they see her as the loved mistress or as wife and mother, but in
allother ways they see her as only a kind of inferior man. But the true lit-
erary artist never compares her; he lets her stand alone and be herself. He
shows to cruder, duller minds the vision of her beauty; and common men,
touched by this vision, may know her, if they will, as she is.
It is the same with many of the common things of life; they lie so close
about us that we never think of looking at them as other than related to our-
selves. We
see the life of the average person in terms of the life we live,
or of the life we aspire to live, and so turn from it. And when an artist
with so fine a feeling as Mr. Howells takes these seemingly inferior forms
of life and reveals their essential truth and beauty, he does us a service that
we cannot appreciate too highly. For art, after all, is far more true, far
more enduring, than any philosophy of life.
 E. S. CHAMBERLAYNE 151

In fact, though Mr. Howells's philosophy is so sane and kind and sure
an element in his work, it is his artistic vision that makes the stronger appeal.
We see this in the conclusion of the present story. Mrs. Langbrith, as he
sees her, is perhaps as weak a woman as any he has shown us, just as Dr.
Anther is one of his finest, strongest men. But Mr. Howells whispers no
philosophical secret to the woman in her distress; he leaves her to life and
to her woman's nature. And these deal with her far more kindly, leave her
more consistent with herself, leave her, in a word, by her very suffering and

grief, closer to the reader's sympathies than her lover's dearly bought tran-
quillity leaves him. She has been weak, throughout the story, where he is
strong, weak in will, weak perhaps in mind; but in the end she shows some
evidence of the woman's strength that has been latent in her, shows at least
the woman's power to love and to suffer. And the reader knows that this,
however crude her expression of it, is as fine a thing as the man's strength he
has been earlier asked to view.
It easy to say that Mr. Howells would make a deeper appeal if his
is

artistic vision of life were less obscured by the rosy clouds of his philosophy.

But that is merely saying that if he were not Mr. Howells he would ob-
viously be someone else. And, in truth, we do not want him other than he
is. The American climate has various admittable infelicities, but on the
whole it American temper. And more than that, it bears its part
suits the —
perhaps no small one —
in forming this temper, of which in a modest way

we sometimes boast. We grumble about our climate now and then, but our
fault finding is itself of the whimsical American kind which only foreigners
ever make the blunder of taking seriously. It is, after all, our climate and
no one's else we may say of it what we will.
; But let no alien raise a voice
against it. It must not be touched with ungentle hand; it is something
essentially American and therefore not to be profaned. And so the younger
generation makes rather free with Mr. Howells, as the way of younger
generations mostly recognize certain infelicities in his work; but
is.
They
he, too, suits their
temper, he could not have had so large, though of
else
course so unacknowledged, a share in forming it. But let no man who is
not, artistically, his countryman raise a voice against him. He is not to be
profaned by alien touch. He is ours and no one's else. For he, too, in
what is faulty, as in what is finest, truest, best, is essentially American.
 LIFE AND LETTERS
PLAY given in this keenly cynical literary artist, who probes
number Poet Lore by
of to heal.
remarkable new Rus- the eccentric

THE
that Despite method, gradu-
Gorki, is his
sian, Maxim ally the reader catches the artistic and
latest dramatic production, ethical clew to this dramatic labyrinth.
and is given here, so far as This play without method has yet a
we can ascertain, for the first time in method in its lack of method. This play
English. It follows upon the play of without design has this design drift. —
slum life, known to some of our readers, It is the drift of discontented idlers,
doubtless, through the German version, restlessly amusing themselves on the
called
'

Nachtasyl.' (For an exhaustive brink of social revolution. Some two or

critique of this new writer, see the article three of them are half aware of the evil
on him in Poet Lore, Autumn number, day ahead and the ill-spent days now
1904.) This current piece is an illus- passing. All of them are more or less un-
tration of quite another phase of Russian consciously affected by a lurking suspicion
life, among the class calling itself the of their own superficialness, and these
'

Intellectuals,' and it portrays this class clever and susceptible but materially-
'

in the haunt it loves, the summer cottages minded Summer-folk,' cultivating their
of the forest country surrounding St. leisurely pleasures so epicureanly in fair
Petersburg. weather, and so readily clashed into ridi-
The piece well exemplifies the singu- culous and contemptible discord at the
larity of Gorki's art and the characteris- firstrough thrust breaking in upon the
tically serious purpose animating it. smooth surface of their days, are so to
Judged by the usual dramatic stand- the life shown to us that we are inclined

ards as to plot, construction, and move- to sum them up unfeelingly, at the end,
ment, this piece would be sentenced at a as Shalimoff is made to sum them up in
' '

first glance as desperately chaotic. It the closing sentence of these Scenes

may also be observed, however, that it from Russian life. Then we realize the
does not profess to be a Drama,' but grim pathos implied, and that Gorki has
' '

merely Scenes.' And these Scenes

'
most skilfully led us to think of them
exhibit characters and dialogue of an ex- as a swarm of drifting summer flies be-

traordinarily present-moment quality, re- ginning to buzz prodigiously with appre-

alistic to the utmost degree of the de- hension because they are destined to be
sultory and just-as-it-comes variety. swept from the face of the earth at the
With all its longwinded, irrelevant approach of serious winter-weather life in
'

caprice of talk, its fitfulness in the rela- Russia, and to be succeeded by the
stronger people of a new Russia.
'

tioning of groups and persons, and the

fragmentariness of what coherence there The strange piece is not without its

is among them toward any unified out- significance as reflected upon somewhat
come, the play, as a whole, amounts to similar conditions of socially-selfish life
an exposition of Russian social frivolity in this and other countries.
'
in the class called in
'
England the upper '

middle an exposition made

class. It is Browning's Blot on the Scutcheon,'
by a faithful and patriotic, although a when put on the stage, has a straightfor-

(152)
 LIFE AND LETTERS i53

ward power to move the heart. Its emo- and the complexity of social nature em-
tions are as pure and simple as any pre- bodied in Tresham. He is the flower
sented by Heme in his plays of American of a consummate social perfection, en-
'

domestic life, such, for example, as Grif- tirely true as an ideal both to his time
fith Davenport.' Beside Browning's and character.
play the sophisticated passions of most The falsity in its application, when it
other modern stage pieces appear elabo- condemns his sister and blights her
rately conscious and grown up. On the future, he is certainly intelligent enough
other hand, the unashamed directness of to detect as soon as he learns from Mer-

Shakespeare's Ferdinand and Miranda, toun's lips that he, the suitor, is the clan-
whose
'

fire i'
openly curbed
th' blood
'

is destine lover. Yet this enlightening

by Prospero's wisdom and magic, seem word, which might have averted his
primitive and far away. sword and spoiled the tragedy, is just
Shakespeare's lovers are, indeed, re- what turns the rage of Tresham's right-
lated to Browning's in the simple direct- eousness from Mildred upon Mertoun,
ness of youthful love, but they live on an and causes him to let fall the stroke that
enchanted isle, girdled about with the makes the tragedy.
fair unrealities of fancy; while Brown- The Poet is unerring in precipitating
ing's live in England, the formal, stately, the fatality then, because the obscure
substantial England of the eighteenth pressure of the ages, and the secret com-
century. pulsion of race, are necessarily before-
The wooing of Richard Feverel and hand with reason at such a moment and
Lucy is comparable in its
morning quality prompt in the blood. And also, because
to the love surprising Mertoun and Mil- all the reason and character in Tresham
dred. And the conflict of the later hap- have until then been loyally applied to-

piness of Meredith's youthful pair with ward making him the liege creature, the
the insidious rigidities of English social professed standard-bearer of the be-

custom, although in detail so different, is queathed family pride, whose momentum

not unlike the conflict of the future mar- alone would drive him its own way for
ried happiness of Mildred with the social a time, although he were to see clear, as
codes of honor armed against her in he does, by the lightning stroke of his
the ideals of her brother, whose whole own action, an instant later.
life has been devoted to holding up the * * *
head of his family. He holds it up with In the production of The Blot,' by
'

so supreme a pose that it is bound to Mrs. Sarah Cowell Lemoyne last spring,
draw down upon it at some time unruly opening in New York April 7th, at the
Nature's tragic laughter. The time ar- Hudson Theatre, in Boston May 15th,
'
rives and makes the drama of the Blot.' at the Park Theatre, the simpler aspects
Thecomplexity of Browning's play of the play were irresistible in their effect
comes in, thus, through the social situa- upon the appreciation of the audience.
tion which shapes the tragic climax. The complexer aspects, dependent upon
Criticism of that climax as unnecessary what may be called the social atmosphere,
is likely to be due to a failure to under- and demanding a high degree of artistic
stand that the antithesis is designedly excellence in the conception and of finish
and realistically drawn between the pure in the acting, were not so satisfactorily

simplicity of human nature in the lovers rendered. The Tresham of Mr. W.

154 LIFE AND LETTERS
Beach succeeded in expressing the simpler and felt then, is peculiarly requisite.
touches of brotherly tenderness, and also These were the least perfectly realized

the more external truths of the demeanor portions of scenes in many other respects
required for the interplay with the old admirably filled.
* * *
retainer, Gerard, a character part acted
to perfection by Mr. Theo Hamilton. Mildred's and
nature character
The arms
heroics, too, of the passage at seemed almost ideally incarnate in Miss
with Mertoun in the great scene under Grace Elliston's still and grave ingenu-
Mildred's window, were extremely effec- ousness. She showed in her personation
tive. He was decidedly unsuccessful in just the last and ripest phase of a youth-
portraying the stately habits of idealism be- fulness still mere girlhood while border-
longing to the character and the social ing on the mature, and a character pre-
atmosphere. These habits of idealism cociously intelligent, but quite devoid of
are dramatically important, almost essen- the external sprightliness and buoyant
tial, in this play, since they do not belong shrewdness so generally belonging, for
merely to external etiquette and deport- example, to modern American girlhood.
ment, valuable as they are pictorially The English type imagined by Browning
there also. They have sunk deep. They suits just this well-rounded statuesque-
have become religious in Tresham's ness, just this unslim sort of maidenliness.
breast, building up within him the master- And his inner situation requires just such
motive and infatuation on which the a high-minded, and
highly organized,
tragic situation rests.
sensitive, yet phlegmatic and docile na-
ture, to make us see why she was so
T& ifc 7jt

Browning's characters are not apt to stunned, so hopeless and helpless beneath
be
'

in the air.' They usually belong to the threat of her fate. She would be
an ascertainable social environment. His- naturally slow to distrust or criticize
torical study may well be spent upon conventional ideals of life and honor up-
them. And this is one of the things held by a loved brother. Even a younger
which make it so interesting and so diffi- Gwendolen of her time, much more a
cult to do them justice, and which also modern American girl, would be likelier
make it so well worth while. The to circumvent or control them instead of
human nature and life in them are doubly enduring them as Mildred did. But
real in being true to each single char- such a loyal, slow-sure heart sees wholly
acter and to the social atmosphere and right when it does see. And when the
social relations in which they move. tragic blow falls, it finds, through the
The scene in which Mertoun asks spiritual illumination of its own steadfast
Tresham for his sister's hand was disap- love, just such divine words as Mildred's
pointing. The characters did not belong to say in place of any harsh judgment or
to their century, and their pictorial cos- resentment.
tumes only made them seem the more Miss Elliston's beautiful voice and re-

made-up and dressed for some society pressed manner, even in a certain effect
masked function. The historic illusion of teachableness and lack of independent
the plot requires was not satisfied. vigor which they occasionally betrayed,
For the soliloquy scene under the oaks, were almost as well adjusted as her per-
too, a Tresham organically capable of son to create the illusion which the char-
thinking and feeling as Tresham thought acter of Mildred requires.
 LIFE AND LETTERS i55

Her selection and training for the in- Agassiz House at Radcliffe College at

terpretation, so well given, speak highly Cambridge, June 19th and 20th, was a
for Mrs. Lemoyne's cultured judgment. rare pleasure to witness. The title-role
So, in fact, does the whole play. It owed was played with distinction in impersona-
life and inspiration
her management.
to tion and phrasing by Professor George
No hearer could fail to thank, her with P. Baker, and Mr. Lyman's versatile pre-
enthusiasm for so poetic a presentment sentment of the tenderness and the fierce
of a charming play. Some of the clumsy malignity required by the moodiness of
subterfuges resorted to in the Barrett the man who was Marlowe's evil genius,
stage version must have rendered it more stood out in high relief.
stagey instead of more stageable. Mrs. The poetic value of this play, since it
Lemoyne's version will have proved this, was printed a year or two ago, has be-
once for all. No succeeding manager come very well recognized. No stage
will think it needful, for example, to presentation was needed to assure us of
transfer the final dialogue between Mil- its delicate beauty, or even of the fra-
dred and Tresham from Mildred's cham- grance of the Elizabethan age enfolded
ber, where it is manifestly suitable it in the conception of the characters and

should be, to the park, for the sake of in- the pleasant fashioning of its phrases.
ducing Mildred to guess that Tresham This poetic beauty and this Elizabethan
has slain Mertoun from seeing her lover's fragrance constituted an essential part of
cloak lying on the grass, instead of from the unusual pleasure in seeing it put on
feeling it in her brother's manner when the stage. The unassuming good taste
he comes to her, and proving it by seeing and sufficiently scholarly care exercised
his empty scabbard. in the details of setting and properties
further marked it favorably above the
few attempts made on the professional
Mrs. Lemoyne's own fulfillment of stage of late to produce any modern plays
the part of Gwendolen was not so ade- of such good literary quality. For when
quate in personal presentment, quality of the public has been given pieces that could
voice, and repose of manner as in the lay claim to being poetic, the result has
vivacious intelligence of shades of mean- been pretentious rather than finished.
ing in her reading, and in her beautiful Still, the main thing about Josephine
' '
costuming. Perhaps Gwendolen, also, Preston Peabody's Marlowe was
like Mr. Beach's Tresham and Mr. Al- neither that it was gracefully acted or
baugh's frank and boyish Mertoun, well produced, nor even that it was
needed a more organic grounding on charming to heed and behold, but that it
the ease of well-bred courtliness de- acted well and held the interest of the
noting the epoch of the play.
historic audience.
Although and
unerringly in-
incisively When compared in dramatic value, as
tuitional, Browning's Gwendolen is one in fairness should be, with plays of
it
'

whose intuitions toy with the bow, yet its own poetic class, it must be ad-
hit the white.'
mitted, by virtue of its stage trial, to
stand better in breadth of qualities than
' ' «
Aldrich's Judith or Phillips' Ulysses,'
'

Marlowe,' as played at the opening for it adds to the poetic value in which it
cf the new theatre in the Elizabeth Cary is akin to these plays a firmer, better-
i
56 LIFE AND LETTERS
balanced stage construction, and a lighter son and daughter, who are free-thinking
sportive vein, showing a capacity for university students, a Gentile who wishes
humor. The fourth act of the play to marry the girl, an ardent Zionist, his
reached its and in this
highest altitude ; rival, a social democrat, and a prosperous
act supreme moment was one that
the Jewish physician, who stands for worldly
summed up in a symbolic incident the success. It is a remarkable piece of work,
character of Marlowe and his relation both because of its art and of the art with
with Alysonn. When the restless, in- which it was given. Mr. Paul Orleneff,
satiable Poet would quench his thirst, he who was bidden by Maxim Gorki
renounces wine and will take from the to carry the drama abroad, plays the
'

Zionist; Madame Alia Nasimoff, hailed

'

hand of his adoring little Quietude

'

nothing but a cup of water.' This was, during a short season in London as a
of course, an essentially poetic touch, Russian Duse, plays Lia, the Jewish girl;
figurative and subtle, but it was a poetry and a company of thirteen, under the ad-
growing so directly from the vital situa- mirable training of Orleneff, produced a
tion, and this backed the symbol so ob- piece of consistent art in which their per-
viously that it became a moving incident sonalities count for the parts they present.
in the dramatic sense. It was felt, if This has made of the construction of the
not consciously realized, by the audience. play drawn by Tchirikoff a whole of
* * remarkable texture. The technique of
Russia's condition of revolution has Orleneff as stage manager, after his career

caused an upheaval which affects the of twenty years in Russia, fuses his ma-
world in art as well as in political signifi- terials a single expression.
into There
cance. One of the first good results of is no question of a melodramatic appeal

The fourth wall is ' '

to the audience.
this anarchy is an enforced acquaintance
with Russian literature, music, and dra- there. It is life, simple and without self-

matic art. consciousness, which the audience may see

The past spring season has brought a
as if by a strange chance. The American
strange company of actors to America, habit of theatricalism is absolutely absent.
who started without resources and with- In addition to this play the Orleneff
'

out friends in the foreign lands they pro- company has given five others Crime :

' '

posed to visit. Their errand was qui- and Punishment Karamasoff and
xotic: Mr. Paul Orleneff proposed to Brothers' by Dostoievsky; 'Ghosts' by
' '

carry all over the world a play called

Ibsen Feodor Ivanovitch
; by Count
'

The Chosen People,' which sets forth Alexis Tolstoi; 'Misfortune' by Andro-
' '

the persecution of the Jews in Russia. It vitch and

;
Countess Julie by August
was proscribed by the censor. This play Strindberg. The latter was a benefit for
is an extraordinary one, covering the Madame Alia
Nasimoff, a beautiful,
whole Jewish question and finding in the strange little Russian, with a thrilling
characters voices for Zionism, for amal- voice and a mingled method, in which the
' '

gamation, for the Hebrew faith, for social repressed is colored at times by a really
democracy, for segregation, as the case great emotional outburst.
may be. This discussion is dramatically Madame Nasimoff is returning from
interwoven with a simple story. The Russia in September with a new com-
scene is in an old Jewish watchmaker's pany, costumes which she has procured in
home. It deals with the old man, his Paris, and a repertory of thirty-two new
 LIFE AND LETTERS i57

plays by both the Tolstois, and by Gorki, lished it proves at least that the name of
;

Tchirikoff, Andreeiv, and others. The Shakespeare had reached France at the
season to be given is arranged in series. end of the seventeenth century. It was
An Ibsen series will be given, presenting in 1694 that Addison made his list of the
plays not yet seen in America; a Maeter- best English poets without including
linck series, and one each of Gorki, Tol- Shakespeare.
stoi, Dostoievsky, Strindberg, Haupt-
mann, Sudermann. The new play of
'

Gorki, written in prison, The Children

of the Sun,' will be produced among the
Alove-letter of antiquity, perhaps
' ' the oldest in existence, dated by its erud-
novelties. Another will be the Salome
ite finders as belonging to 220O B. C,
of Oscar Wilde.
A has been discovered in Chaldea recently,
little East Third Street
theatre in
at Sippara, the Sepharvoni of the Bible.
has been taken and is to be remodeled.
Its patrons include many names among
The lady lived there, her correspondent
the prominent Russian Jews. After the
in Babylon, and he writes on clay to her,
first performance of
'

The Chosen Peo- hoping she may come to him in the month
'
of festivals, called Marchesvan :
ple by the courtesy of Charles Frohman
at theHerald Square Theatre, the com-
'

To the lady, Kasbuya [little ewe]

says Gimil Marduk [the favorite of
pany was obliged last season to continue
its presentations at the various theatres Merodach] this: May the sun god of

on the Bowery, which many American

to
Marduk afford you eternal life. I write

lovers of a superb dramatic art were con- wishing that I may know how your health
tent to make their pilgrimages.
is. Oh, send me a message about it. I
live in Babylon and have not seen you,
F. B.
and for this reason I am very anxious.
*
Send me a message that will tell me when
you will come to me, so that I may be
French appreciation of Shakespeare
happy. Come in Marchesvan. May you
is placed earlier than that of any other live long for my sake.'
nation's critics by Monsieur Jusserand's
'

citation in his History of English Lit-

'

erature of the opinion of Nicholas Clem-

ent, librarian to Louis XIV, who between In the old French of Benoit's
'

Roman
1675 and 1684 catalogued the books of de Troie,' F. M. Warren, in a recent
his master. Louis XIV possessed a copy number of the Modern Language Notes,
of Shakespeare! There is no reason to asks his scientific colleagues if they can-
suppose that he ever opened it. But his not recognize an image of the new-discov-
librarian had an opinion of the poet which ered substance, radium :

'
is in the main favorable. This English
Une
'

poet,' he writes, 'has a fine imagination; pierre ot enz alumee

his descriptions are true to nature, and he Dont il n'ist flambe ne fumee;
Sanz descroistre art et nuit et jor;
expresses himself with exquisite precision;
Granz est li feus de sa chalor.'
but these fine qualities are marred by the
rubbish with which his comedies are in-
— w. 14825-14828.
terlarded.' This criticism was never pub- * *
 THE PUBLISHER'S DESK
edition of this number satisfied subscriber. We do not see how
of Poet Lore is the largest it is possible to make a fairer offer than
ever printed. It will reach

THE
this.
* * *
many new readers, and we
hope gain many new friends; It entirely contrary to our custom
is

the great majority of Poet to distribute free samples, but if you have
Lore's old subscribers are its friends as any friends whom you think would be
well. Most
them have watched it
of interested in Poet Lore,we shall be glad
through all its years and phases, they to send them a copy with our compli-
have seen its growth and gradual ex- ments. It seems to us that no one really
pansion and are, we hope, gratified to interested in modern letters can see one
see the magazine as it is today, in the copy of Poet Lore without wishing to see
perfect flower of fulfilled ideals. it regularly.
* * *
* * *
With the number is estab-
present
lished a new department, RECENT
To our new friends we would explain
GERMAN CRITICISM,
under the
a Unlike the majority of maga-
little.
Paul H. Grum-
Professor
direction of
zines, Poet Lore is not made with the main mann of the University of Nebraska. A
eye on the advertising returns, neither is
large number of scholars have been se-
it designed for the great general public. cured as contributors, and considerable
Instead, it is meant for those few who
space will devoted regularly to this
be
can appreciate a magazine which is, in the
is our intention to render
work, which it
highest sense, A Magazine of Letters, and of distinct value to those interested in
which for sixteen years has maintained German The
literature. department will
an editorial standard of excellence not cover the whole field of German litera-
even attempted by any other American ture, although special attention will be
periodical. In an age characterized as
devoted to recent movements.
commercial, and in a country where the * * *
sign of the dollar is the crest of nobility,
such an attitude is, in itself, an achieve- Every reader of Poet Lore will be par-
ment. ticularly interested in one of our new
books for this fall, Alterations and
* * *
Adaptations of Shakespeare, by Frederick
This number is a fair sample of what W. Kilbourne, Ph.D. small portion A
of this work has already been printed in
although it will be our
others will be,
endeavor to continue the constant im- Poet Lore
" —
Some Curious Versions of
"
in the present number
provement hitherto shown in the maga- Shakespeare
—
one of the articles but the main
zine. If you are interested in this issue being
part of the work is now published
for
we are sure you will be in future num-
It is a book that no lover
bers and we shall be glad to receive aM the first time.
or student of Shakespeare can afford to
subscriptions with the understanding that
the full price will be refunded to any dis- overlook.

(I5«D
 3
jj A 000 236 643