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 
 
 THE Bassofs' Country-house. A large room which is both 
 parlor and dining-room. In the rear, to the left, an open 
 door leading to Bassoff's study, to the right, a door into his 
 wife's bed-room. These rooms are separated by a corridor, 
 of which the 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. Has Vlass 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 
 
 be well to cover up these bare walls. — Hang some frames — or 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 
 of himself. — These 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 ! 
 
 Sus. Won it, — from some drunken merchant. 
 
 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]. I don't wish to talk to you about him. 
 
 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 — they say you won it away from somebody at the Club. 
 
 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. 
 long. — My dear 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 
 
 his unruly 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 ! 
 
 Far. I tried at first to divert his mind. — And 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 ! 
 
 Kal. There is something inharmonious in his soul — and when 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, my patroness, that with the best intentions, it will be impossible for 
 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. Sister ! Indeed you are a 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 it does not spoil my looks. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Var. I will open the door of the veranda. — Olga 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. I wanted to run up here before, but Nadya was naughty. 
 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. 
 
 01 ga [somewhat offended]. Of course you find all this ridiculous. 
 It does not entertain you? I understand. Well, what of that? We all 
 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 I think you exaggerate. 
 
 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. I have made you all gloomy. — 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. How are the children? 
 
 Yulia [entering from the veranda]. Just see all the guests I bring 
 you! Never mind, we will not stay long! How are you, Olga Aleksey- 
 evna ! Why don't you gentlemen come in? 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 a. Trying hard to be witty. Yes? And without success? 
 My dear Varvara, your Pavel Sergueyevitch has nervous prostration. 
 
 Far. Why do you 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 in here. What have you been talking about? 
 
 Zam. [entering]. I have been demoralizing the young generation. 
 , . . . 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]. You are 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.] 
 
 Yulia. Wait a moment! Fancy, 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. ... I am kind and generous when it suits me 
 . . . or at least when I can be so without an effort. 
 
 Mary a. Sonya ! Stop fooling and run away. 
 
 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 are not a man 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 life often enough. Life! But what is life? When you speak the 
 word, it rises before me like a giant monster, constantly calling for human 
 victims. It devours the brain and force of man daily, greedily drinks his 
 blood. [Varvara listens attentively to Rumin's words, and an ex- 
 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 evil and 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 cruel. Everything in it is strictly foreordained . . . 
 only man's being is accidental, senseless, and aimless. 
 
 Marya [calmly]. Then you should try all the more to make this 
 accident a fact of social necessity;. — then your life would not be senseless. 
 
 Olga. Heavens ! When people say anything severe and condemn- 
 ing, I shrivel up, as though I were condemned. How little kindness there 
 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. Is it something new, Kaleria? 
 
 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 was somewhat curt with him. Really it's too bad to 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. I am 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 trifles? And what do you mean when 
 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'll do 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 this from you, and you could have spared me here 
 — 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 with Kaleria 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 say it so calmly. 
 
 Rumin. Suicides among doctors are frequent. 
 
 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. Is the poetry to be read here ? 
 
 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. 
 
 Ice and snow with their unchangeable robe eternally cover the sum- 
 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 in. — Serguey will return presently. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 A meadow in front of the Bassoffs' veranda, thickly encircled with 
 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. They dress up in other men's clothes and say — 
 all sorts of things, — just what suits them best. — They shout and bustle 
 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? So that is how they do it! And do they sing? 
 
 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. Well, then ! as I said, the Germans came. 
 My factory was an old one, the machinery not good for much — 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. I left my city house, an old and extensive house. And now I 
 am out of business, — I have only one business — that's to count my money. 
 Oh ! Ho ! I am an old fool, if the truth be known. ... I sold out and 
 at once felt like an orphan. — I am lonesome and I don't know what to do 
 with myself. Here are my hands, for instance, ... I never noticed 
 them before — now they swing like useless things. 
 
 [He laughs. A pause. 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. A fine woman. She draws like a 
 magnet! If I only were ten years younger. — 
 
 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 
 botvinya * and 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 is not the bashful kind, but a loafer, I believe. 
 
 Vlass [approaching]. Who is a loafer? 
 
 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 I'll take a bath, too. Come, Piotr; I may be drowned; 
 then you'll get your legacy all the quicker ! 
 
 Sus. No, I can't go. I must speak with them. 
 
 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. It looks as though he meant to live with me. 
 
 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. Well, Iakov, why don't you say something? 
 
 Shal. I am tired. — By the way, what's the name of this belligerent 
 lady? 
 
 Bas. Marya Lvovna. — Eh, Piotr, such a battle of words 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. I am gentle, but I confess I was almost rude to her. 
 
 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? Why don't you mention that? Then she 
 says, this passage is clear, and that one — false, ugly. — My dear woman, 
 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 
 they make a business of eating Sterlet soup; — so it is when people meet an 
 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. — I mean, yes, rather often. 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 is a splendid woman! 
 
 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 a most fascinating woman ! 
 
 [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 I think your nerves are playing 
 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. Well, let's go in. Now, Yasha, I have a request 
 to make. I wish you would — somehow — in one way 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. 
 
 Shal. Yes, and married again, and divorced again. 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 really ought 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. 
 
 Sonya [also speaks low]. Yes, go, but do be careful, Max, I beg of 
 you. — 
 
 Zimin [takes her hand]. And you, too, .... 
 
 Sonya. Au revoir! — We'll meet in three weeks, not before? 
 
 Zimin. No, not before. Au revoir, dear Sonya. In my absence, 
 don't — [He hesitates and is silent.] 
 
 Sonya. Well?
 
 3 o 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 ! ' 
 When a girl says about herself, ' I am a maiden ! ' 'I am a maiden ! ' it's a 
 sure sign she is no longer a maiden ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! I beg your pardon. 
 
 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. [walking away]. 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 last night 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]. I am about, as usual. I was tired of listening to the 
 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. Shall we go in? 
 
 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 falls from 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 to live — if I must have some one 
 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 is afraid of you. Is that nice? And your brother — is in love 
 with that arguer, that wicked Marya Lvovna. 
 
 Far. [surprised, reprehensively]. Olga ! Olga ! What ails you! 
 You are wrong — listen! 
 
 Olga. Yes, yes, I may be wrong! And that haughty Kaleria ! She 
 talks of beauty! — 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 business matters — everyone says that. 
 You must know it! And you, too, — you have planned some way to have 
 no children. — 
 
 Far. [rises slowly and looks at Olga in surprise']. Planned? What 
 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, I thought I would tell you some- 
 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 really thought you were made up. 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 this gentleman'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 whole nature rises up in wrath against her despotism. 
 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, it certainly 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 does Marya Lvovna put in? 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 go. I cannot express what I feel. 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 is he? 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 to her, she laughs. Sussloff 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. It's half-past seven. Formerly you were the only one late. 
 Now it's everybody. This is the result of your influence. 
 
 Yulia. Is this impertinence? 
 
 Zam. No, it's a compliment. 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]. We will finish this scene at 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.] 
 
 Bas. [twisting the reel]. My highly esteemed lady, you should be 
 kinder and more lenient. — We 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.
 
 4 o 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, let it be then ! 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. Let me tell you. — 
 
 Bas. What? 
 
 * Meaning the author Shalimoff, abbreviation for Jacob, Iakov.
 
 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 to you: 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 see no one laughing, and I want them 
 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 a morbid desire to play the clown, only 
 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 ! Serious conversation again ! Spare me ! I am too 
 tired to be serious! I don't want philosophy, — 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 I wish to 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 so, Varvara Michailovna? 
 
 Far. Your mustache becomes you wonderfully. 
 
 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 it enough, and you can't understand a man who — 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, 
 hastily comes from the house.] 
 
 Bas. Such fishing! 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 is but a boy ! 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. Why do you get so excited? 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 it, then? Well, 
 well, don't get excited, Varya. — I am off to fish. — I 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 the center of a group of men to whom he is telling a story. 
 On the right is heard Sonya's voice. She is playing an accordion; some 
 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. Sonya : ' Not that way ! Slower.' 
 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.' An explosive 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: l The tired
 
 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. A dark cloud 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 ! 
 
 Yulia. To be married is also a doubtful pleasure. In your place I 
 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 to go. I have lived, and worked — and 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. 
 It seems 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. Shalimoff slowly with- 
 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. [following him, grumbling]. If it were an accident, they'd 
 scream louder. He wanted to be a hero. Just see him running ! 
 
 [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 respect. 
 
 Vlass. I love you! 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]. You have given me much, but it is not 
 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 told me — [laughs, and looks absent-mindedly into Var- 
 vara' s eyes'] — he told me that he loved me! Me! a gray-haired woman, 
 with 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. — I am just like the rest ! I am a poor woman. 
 Help me. — He should not come near me. — I can't do it. I will go away ! 
 
 Far. I understand. You pity him — but 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 — 
 
 [Sonya issues 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, I don't understand your fear ! 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. Why weigh all this! Why calculate? How we all fear to 
 live! What does it mean, pray tell me, what does it mean? How we 
 pity ourselves ! — I don't know what I am saying. — Perhaps this is wrong 
 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. I shall go with you. 
 
 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
 
 5 2 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 shall I do! [laughs softly]. 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 
 oppresses me. In my youth I swore to do the impossible — I swore to con- 
 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 pity. Life frightens me by 
 the insistence of its demands, and I avoid them so carefully. — I hide my- 
 self behind the screen of different theories. You understand this, I know. 
 — I met you, and in my heart there suddenly bloomed a bright and beautiful 
 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 life, and don't 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 don't know how to be necessary to men, and I believe 
 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 a human 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 any longer. Good-bye. 
 
 [He goes quickly into the woods on the left. 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 is a zoological type, that's a fact. 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! [From the right appears PusTABAlKA. 
 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.] 
 
 Sus. 'All humanity on earth.' — [He coughs.] You are all latent 
 rascals. — 'Men die for money.' That is all bosh — money is nothing — 
 when you have it. — [He dozes.] The fear of one's neighbors' opinion is 
 something. — If a man is sober — but I say, you are all rascals in your 
 hearts. — [He drops off to sleep. Dudakoff and Olga slowly walk in, 
 arm in arm. She leans on his shoulder, looking up.] 
 
 Dud. Certainly, we are both right. We whirled, we bustled, and 
 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? 
 
 Olga. But what can we do ? 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. Yes, that will follow. I have decided to remain 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 have suffered much. Now, I am master, and lord 
 of my life. That's all there is to it. I am going now. Au revoir, my 
 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, O thou, my luxury ! 
 
 [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 is it! Oh, it's you? 
 
 Yulia. How you reek of wine! A whole haycock cannot drown it. 
 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]. I can'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 probably with someone else. I believe you wanted to 
 go to the river. — Go, I 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. Well, I thought I could live with my nephew until the end of 
 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. He wants nothing. I under- 
 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 charity. That would be more sensible. 
 
 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] . It is time to go home, time to go ! 
 
 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 at him, and bending tozvard Shalimoff, he whispers in his 
 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 at your 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 ? 
 
 Shal. Nature is beautiful, but why do mosquitoes exist? I left my 
 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']. Who is going 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. Do you — 
 
 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 a child. Sit down 
 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. All right — Where shall I go? — 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 — and to 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 when they are given to me in such a simple and friendly manner. 
 [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. I was 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 to you 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 Kyrill, you 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. 
 
 Sonya. No, let's sit down a minute. — You are grieved, Mamma. 
 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, 
 by-low,' my dear mother. I think it is you now who do not understand the 
 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 ... as you work yourself ... 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 shall have such a pleasant life. 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, — but his is the only work that lasts. 
 
 [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. I believe this is the second year that you have been writing it? 
 
 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 said — we should be well-meaning. 
 — Misanthropy, my friend, is an unnecessary luxury. — I came here 
 eleven years ago, — and 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 did I miss your 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 [in an undertone']. 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 
 listens and 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. 
 
 Sus. Aha! You are frightened! 
 
 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 sat here, suddenly comes Marya 
 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 I have brought with me. 
 
 Bas. Halloa! 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 
 
 I measured it with rapturous eyes 
 And tested the power of my spirit 
 In its presence.' 
 Is that right? Go in ; my wife will be very glad to see you. 
 
 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 ! It's absolutely impossible to talk to you. — 
 
 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, I'll get it for you. [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 
 is young, 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 along. [ They disappear in the woods. Colon looks 
 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. Why should you care for me? 
 
 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 all quizzically and laughs gently]. Yes, I know 
 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 [speaks quickly]. Ah! That's cruel, but you are right! 
 
 [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
 
 7 2 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 treat you with sausage, most delicious sausage, — 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 — We shall move back into 
 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 tell me, what kind of a beast a democrat is? 
 
 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, then. Well, what is it? [Yulia takes 
 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 ! — sh ! — [She draws him 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 [rises]. How unforgiving you are! 
 
 Var. [firmly and coldly]. 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 remember Kyrill said to me, Bassoff will prosper with such a wife. 
 He is thoughtless and inclined to vulgarity — but she — 
 
 Var. [simply]. Why do you say. this, Olga? To prove that I don't 
 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 — is dead to me. [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. All here ? But where are Vlass and Marya Lvovna ? 
 
 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' — we — are the 
 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 [nervously]. You must be just. A man's complaint is pictur- 
 esque. It is cruel, Varvara, 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.' 
 Olga [to Bassoff]. How sharply she has learned to talk. 
 Bas. Yes, Balaam's — [He 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. It's not you who were rude. 
 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, and hide the chasm between us — 
 on the heights, — and our kin below, in the depths, — whence they look up 
 at us as though we were their enemies, who live by their toil ! They have 
 sent us on to find the way to a better life, and we left them behind, and have 
 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' is forgotten or overlooked.] 
 
 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 is going to read us some poetry. 
 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 is swallowed 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 my country. — 
 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. 
 
 [He remains motionless, looking in turn at Shalimoff, Rumin, and 
 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 to enjoy good living and peace — in a word, to re- 
 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 all children of mechanics and of the poor. We lived through days of 
 anxiety in our youth. Now, in our mature years, we wish to lead an easy and 
 restful life. That's our psychology. You don't like it, Marya Lvovna? 
 But it's quite natural, and could not be otherwise. 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 useless to teach me, Marya Lvovna. I am a 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. It's very sad. 
 
 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 speak.~\ 
 
 Yulia. I say, Nicolas Petrovitch — 
 
 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 I am going away forever. Good-bye. 
 
 Far. [without heeding him]. Do you know what I thought? I 
 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 to make you laugh, and overstepped the limits.' — 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 sighs and 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 limits by your denunciation! 
 
 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 anything. Such an irritable 
 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 ! '] 
 
 Pust. You can patrol this district, while I patrol the other, — we 
 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 ! 
 
 Pust. Look at this 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 is wounded. 
 
 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 it.] 
 
 Bas. Is that you? I thought it was Zamysloff, — 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 
 already. Well, they can carry him now. 
 
 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 can ? So much the better. 
 
 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. I ought to get something for a drink ! 
 
 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 laid him down — 
 
 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 all masques ! 
 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 listen ! I have dearly paid for my right to speak 
 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.
 
 9 o 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? 
 
 Sony a [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 — the people and all that happens 
 to them is so 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 ! 
 But Joy wills Everlastingness, 
 — Wills deep, deep Everlastingness!' 
 
 Nietzsche wrote: 
 
 O Mensch! Gieb Adit! 
 Was spricht die tiefe Mitternacht? 
 ' Ich schlief, ich schlief — , 
 ' Aus tiefem Traum bin ich erwacht : 
 ' Die Welt ist tief, 
 ' Und tiefer als der Tag gedacht. 
 ' Tief ist ihr Weh — , 
 ' Lust — tiefer noch als Herzeleid : 
 ' Weh spricht : Vergeh ! 
 ' Doch alle Lust will Ewigkeit — , 
 ' — will tiefe, tiefe Ewigkeit!" 
 
 Tille translates: 
 
 O man! Lose not sight! 
 What saith the deep midnight? 
 
 " I lay in sleep, in sleep ; 
 From deep dream I woke to light. 
 The world is deep, 
 And deeper than ever day thought it 
 
 might. 
 Deep is its woe, — 
 And deeper still than woe — delight. 
 Saith woe: ' Pass, go! 
 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 bookseller remarked not long ago that the novels 
 of Valdes were the only books for which he found a market 
 in the United States. If one were to infer from that sweeping 
 statement that the name of Valdes is widely known in our 
 country, he would be in error. Notwithstanding the kindly 
 efforts of Mr. Sylvester Baxter and Mr. Howells, and the 
 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 is prefaced by the wish, ' May this my last song be the sweetest of all ; ' 
 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 is seldom easy for a Spanish author to establish a popular cult out- 
 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, it is almost a necessity to outline the books in their chronological 
 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, ' I deplore the use 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 to make 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 as any in America. More modest than the first in scope and more 
 congenial in atmosphere, it is wrought out with a 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 is marvelously well told, and is a beautiful tribute to the glories of 
 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 the French 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 is we 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. 
 
 Jose, the fourth novel, is an unpretentious story of life in a fishing vil- 
 lage, which has already been translated into six languages. Its popularity 
 is due to its simple charm and wide appeal. 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 the life 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 may proceed slowly, stopping frequently to relate episodes or describe 
 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 all their qualities of charm and depth, are nothing 
 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: 
 
 4 In spite of his striking and somewhat weatherbeaten face 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 all the politicians; representative several times;, senator at last and mem- 
 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, too, he enters with such affectionate insight into the lives of his crea- 
 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 
 is only 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
 
 9 8 THE NOVELS OF A. PALACIO VALDES 
 
 his teachers wise and foolish ; we see the adverse conditions which affect his 
 growth, and behold as with our own eyes his slips back and his leaps toward 
 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 
 forget it, the sublime truth which to all eternity will soar above human 
 knowledge and sum up all truths, self-denial.' I wish I could quote all of 
 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. 
 
 He has 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- 
 pathy, and no other so embodies that spirit of subtle satire against human 
 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 it. It is a brilliant piece of work in every way; the 
 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 it such later on, — 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, ' I aspire to no other fame in my art than to be called a humble fol- 
 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 little northern fishing village of Rodillero, 
 where the scene of Jose is laid, incessant labor against odds is the keynote; 
 the scant enjoyment of life is closely bound up with daily toil. 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 that the book suffers from the nauseating sweet- 
 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 field of 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 I cannot pass upon ; my closest approach to the upper circles 
 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, is rotten through and through, and furthermore that the novel 
 is unsatisfactory. 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 quicksilver mine, 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 is not narrowly orthodox, but it seems as if one must be strangely creed- 
 bound who can fail to find it a source of inspiration. It is an indication of 
 the stylistic power of Valdes that he can write a novel full of philosophy and 
 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 I have called Valdes' middle style, — 
 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 book is bipartite, like El Cuarto 
 Poder; it unites a love-story of no 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 is avowedly 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 is so concentrated, the atmosphere of Valencia, ' land of flowers,' 
 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. 
 
 The story of Captain Ribot might well serve as a model of character- 
 growth in literature. In the first chapter his ruling passion seems to be a 
 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 
 lies vulgarly 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 in holy innocence of heart through shady groves, to bathe in limpid 
 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 ! O pure streams ! O green fields and thick 
 chestnut-groves ! How I loved you ! Let 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 is not his only self-accusation. ' 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 is primarily a novel of character, secondarily of 
 manners; it deals 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 and greatest strength. His personages impress the reader 
 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 Enfermo accomplishes the ruin of a girl physically 
 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 
 hard to unravel. ' They are very few who can explain the secret origins, 
 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 
 path of the intimate psychology of human actions Valdes follows his own 
 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 
 purely sincere and natural, and when he does aim at an unexpected effect he 
 often blunders. But, to quote his own words, ' the novelist is under an 
 imperative obligation never to bore his reader, to keep his interest alert, his 
 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 in all her manifestations, in the 
 acts of men as well as in the forests and rivers; a sensuous delight in existence 
 for its own 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 his eyes and saw his son a yard away, with his pinafore of 
 gray drilling, his little white shoes, and his tangled black hair falling in 
 ringlets over his forehead. 
 
 ' Papa . . Tata said you didn't want . . you didn't want . 
 you didn't want . . 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 in his deep black eyes lively indignation and 
 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 get up, and you'll see if I settle Tata ! ' 
 
 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 is given which sets before one the 
 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, a spirit of sympathetic wholesomeness 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 
 is apparent, 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 many other 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 rises suddenly from the low lying brink 
 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 t m ^HOU readst the book, 
 
 ' * Word upon word unfurls, 
 
 I 
 
 Flower upon flower, 
 
 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 
 
 IT 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 
 would renew art or life without the abandonment to law, not rule. 
 In virtue of creative power a 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, fs an 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 ' The Flame of 
 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 actress are symbols. It is no mere personal 
 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 to prolong such a state of intensity by a supreme effort 
 he moved in it as easily as if it were his natural mode of being, 
 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 the permanent 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. . . . He becomes multanime.' 
 
 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 its pages ' The Flame of Life ' pours the whole earthly material 
 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 
 1 palpitating under a thousand girdles of green and the weight of her great 
 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 power. He personifies it thus : ' 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 ' visions,' his intensified sight had ' cleared away the 
 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 their disease under the splendour of that ancient yet 
 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 call of the great law of creation leads him. 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 in mind, are but the 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 in extreme conservatism or extreme radicalism. 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, 
 his personality and purpose in writing in order to understand the works of 
 the man. 
 
 When Sudermann gave ' Frau Sorge ' to the press he was thirty years 
 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 we can, 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 ' surprise and astonishment ' of the first reading, 
 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, 
 lest we may fall into the mistakes Richard M. Meyer makes in his ' German 
 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 in place before proceeding. 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 to elevate the moral sense of the people. 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 
 are these conditions? The family, the school, the church, the society, the 
 government, in so far as they retard a healthful development of individuality. 
 
 One may thus have an idea what will be treated in his writings and 
 especially in his novels. 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 literally from Luther : ' 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,' in the histories of Modern 
 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 natural thing to do. That Sudermann, as 
 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 a different education, who have pursued a different vocation, and 
 who have ripened in a different decade, should have a different ' Weltansch-
 
 122 RECENT GERMAN CRITICISM 
 
 auung.' Thus, in the ' Weltanschauung ' is where they are alike, and also 
 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.' However, what one calls ' Zeitgeist ' in literature, is ' Im Grund 
 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, and whispered ' Frau Sorge.' One sees the influence of repentance 
 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 
 4 Weltanschauung.' Different phases of mastery are shown throughout. 
 The desire ' das ich zu betatigen,' is aroused more and more. Slowly, but 
 surely, Paul is prepared for the decisive moment when his inner self must 
 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, in accordance with 
 his experiences and 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 side of 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 
 necessary questions, indeed conforms with all formalities essential to the 
 recovery of the sufferer, but fails; while Parsifal without thinking of the
 
 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 the drama 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 is the source of the mysterious power which threatens 
 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 him into a temporary belief that he is relieved. 
 She, to Wagner, is the source of all evil, burdened as she is with the curse 
 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 
 the hand 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. 
 
 Parsifal's resistance to Kundry's wiles demonstrates that he can not be 
 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. This is 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 in the 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 
 
 ANY book that will broaden or deepen the acquaintance of the 
 American public with current German literature is to be 
 heartily welcomed. Professor Heller's ' Studies in Modern 
 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 literature; and the reader who seeks in this book for a dis- 
 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 of study in the essays on Sudermann and Hauptmann is 
 direct and simple. The plays and 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 is vivacious and original enough to make the result 
 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 German criticism. It has been so customary in Germany, 
 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 is apt to be somewhat misled by it. 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 
 criticism of Hauptmann is severe, it recognizes what is fine and great in the 
 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: A LAMENT 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 the Libyan 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 
 
 TWO previous articles in Poet Lore have been devoted to a dis- 
 cussion of the whole subject of versions of Shakespeare before 
 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 up is Charles Johnson's alteration of 'As You 
 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 in the original. . 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 combat in the lists, before beginning which 
 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 chief change in the play is instituted, namely, the wooing of Celia 
 by Jacques. This is done in the words of Touchstone to Audrey, patched 
 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. Viola's speech, ' She never told her love,' etc., is 
 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, 
 but the play ends substantially as in Shakespeare, except that Jacques marries 
 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 3 4 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 to be found anywhere, and that of Corin and Phoebe 
 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 a little sudden, the great dramatist being undoubtedly 
 influenced not a little by the 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 
 it ' generally but a mean play ' with ' some very good pieces in 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, his language, which is often coarse, is 
 not Scotch in its idiom or apparent pronunciation, but Yorkshire dialect. 
 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 is no excuse for stating an unverified inference as a fact. 
 
 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 Miller deserts Moliere, Lucilia is speedily and com- 
 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 word on Miller's lack of art, it may be said that whenever 
 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 of him as ' Sharp-judging Adriel, the Muses' friend. Himself 
 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 being reported by the priests. Act IV is without change 
 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 his example, or reproached by it, stabs himself. This is precisely as in 
 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 is the only attempt to give a play of Shakespeare's a strictly clas- 
 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 is represented as having a son, Marius Junior, who is 
 in love with Lavinia, daughter of Metellus. The last is a partisan of 
 Sulla and wishes his chief to be his son-in-law. This device affords oppor- 
 tunity to introduce several scenes and many passages from ' Romeo and 
 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 lines, partly Mercutio's, spoken by Sulpitius. 
 
 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 is not worth while to waste any time or words upon such a contempt- 
 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 
 
 MR. HOWELLS has attained the distinction which some few 
 living writers in each generation share with the phenomena 
 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 
 gorging at the ' quick lunch ' counters of fiction, turn to Mr. Howells with 
 a grumble or a 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- 
 felicities of our peculiar American climate. 
 
 And in recent years he has given us nothing that so well repays a critical 
 acceptance as the vision of himself that appears in his latest novel. In ' The 
 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. We do thoroughly like him, and, if one may 
 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 in a kind of subtle self-expression of the artist. 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. We don't make friends 
 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 
 us the corollary of this, that fiction is the novelist's impression of life. 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, 
 it may 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 find. If there is truth or beauty it is largely the 
 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 all respect, of Mr. Howells. 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 
 Lapham, and many, many of us, I fear, disagreed with him about the 
 daughters of that ill-fated paint merchant. We should like to be able now, 
 some of us, to look forward a few years to the time when Lapham's grand- 
 daughters, fresh from college and a year abroad, should settle down in one 
 of Boston's ' younger sets.' Lapham was so typically an American of the 
 better sort that we take it a little hard he should not still stand for us in his 
 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, I fear, as we finish the tragic story of Dr. Anther 
 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 
 
 it is constantly with his literary personality as here revealed, and not with the 
 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 
 still a question unanswered. 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 villagers and the young Harvard men seem as true, as 
 like to life, as thoroughly natural, in a word, as any of the long line of those 
 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 a man's personality never anywhere gets quite so clear a state- 
 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 joy and 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, 
 it is an atmosphere born less of the Doctor's death than of the deeper tragedy 
 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 it dies 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 
 is the 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. There are, for example, the blunders and the follies of youth, 
 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 fail to see life whole and themselves as only factors. 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 
 all other 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 is easy to say that Mr. Howells would make a deeper appeal if his 
 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 suits the American temper. And more than that, it bears its part — 
 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 is. They recognize certain infelicities in his work; but 
 he, too, suits their temper, else he could not have had so large, though of 
 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 
 
 THE PLAY given in this 
 number of Poet Lore by 
 that remarkable new Rus- 
 sian, Maxim Gorki, is his 
 latest dramatic production, 
 and is given here, so far as 
 we can ascertain, for the first time in 
 English. It follows upon the play of 
 slum life, known to some of our readers, 
 doubtless, through the German version, 
 called ' Nachtasyl.' (For an exhaustive 
 critique of this new writer, see the article 
 on him in Poet Lore, Autumn number, 
 1904.) This current piece is an illus- 
 tration of quite another phase of Russian 
 life, among the class calling itself the 
 ' Intellectuals,' and it portrays this class 
 in the haunt it loves, the summer cottages 
 of the forest country surrounding St. 
 Petersburg. 
 
 The piece well exemplifies the singu- 
 larity of Gorki's art and the characteris- 
 tically serious purpose animating it. 
 
 Judged by the usual dramatic stand- 
 ards as to plot, construction, and move- 
 ment, this piece would be sentenced at a 
 first glance as desperately chaotic. It 
 may also be observed, however, that it 
 does not profess to be a Drama,' but 
 merely ' Scenes.' And these ' Scenes ' 
 exhibit characters and dialogue of an ex- 
 traordinarily present-moment quality, re- 
 alistic to the utmost degree of the de- 
 sultory and just-as-it-comes variety. 
 
 With all its longwinded, irrelevant 
 caprice of talk, its fitfulness in the ' rela- 
 tioning ' of groups and persons, and the 
 fragmentariness of what coherence there 
 is among them toward any unified out- 
 come, the play, as a whole, amounts to 
 an exposition of Russian social frivolity 
 in the class called in England the ' upper 
 middle ' class. It is an exposition made 
 by a faithful and patriotic, although a 
 
 keenly cynical literary artist, who probes 
 to heal. 
 
 Despite the eccentric method, gradu- 
 ally the reader catches the artistic and 
 ethical clew to this dramatic labyrinth. 
 This play without method has yet a 
 method in its lack of method. This play 
 without design has this design — drift. 
 It is the drift of discontented idlers, 
 restlessly amusing themselves on the 
 brink of social revolution. Some two or 
 three of them are half aware of the evil 
 day ahead and the ill-spent days now 
 passing. All of them are more or less un- 
 consciously affected by a lurking suspicion 
 of their own superficialness, and these 
 clever and susceptible but materially- 
 minded ' Summer-folk,' cultivating their 
 leisurely pleasures so epicureanly in fair 
 weather, and so readily clashed into ridi- 
 culous and contemptible discord at the 
 first rough thrust breaking in upon the 
 smooth surface of their days, are so to 
 the life shown to us that we are inclined 
 to sum them up unfeelingly, at the end, 
 as Shalimoff is made to sum them up in 
 the closing sentence of these ' Scenes ' 
 from Russian life. Then we realize the 
 grim pathos implied, and that Gorki has 
 most skilfully led us to think of them 
 as a swarm of drifting summer flies be- 
 ginning to buzz prodigiously with appre- 
 hension because they are destined to be 
 swept from the face of the earth at the 
 approach of serious winter-weather life in 
 Russia, and to be succeeded by the 
 stronger people of a new Russia. 
 
 The strange piece is not without its 
 significance as reflected upon somewhat 
 similar conditions of socially-selfish life 
 in this and other countries. 
 
 Browning's ' Blot on the Scutcheon,' 
 when put on the stage, has a straightfor- 
 
 (152)
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS 
 
 i53 
 
 ward power to move the heart. Its emo- 
 tions are as pure and simple as any pre- 
 sented by Heme in his plays of American 
 domestic life, such, for example, as ' Grif- 
 fith Davenport.' Beside Browning's 
 play the sophisticated passions of most 
 other modern stage pieces appear elabo- 
 rately conscious and grown up. On the 
 other hand, the unashamed directness of 
 Shakespeare's Ferdinand and Miranda, 
 whose ' fire i' th' blood ' is openly curbed 
 by Prospero's wisdom and magic, seem 
 primitive and far away. 
 
 Shakespeare's lovers are, indeed, re- 
 lated to Browning's in the simple direct- 
 ness of youthful love, but they live on an 
 enchanted isle, girdled about with the 
 fair unrealities of fancy; while Brown- 
 ing's live in England, the formal, stately, 
 substantial England of the eighteenth 
 century. 
 
 The wooing of Richard Feverel and 
 Lucy is comparable in its morning quality 
 to the love surprising Mertoun and Mil- 
 dred. And the conflict of the later hap- 
 piness of Meredith's youthful pair with 
 the insidious rigidities of English social 
 custom, although in detail so different, is 
 not unlike the conflict of the future mar- 
 ried happiness of Mildred with the social 
 codes of honor armed against her in 
 the ideals of her brother, whose whole 
 life has been devoted to holding up the 
 head of his family. He holds it up with 
 so supreme a pose that it is bound to 
 draw down upon it at some time unruly 
 Nature's tragic laughter. The time ar- 
 rives and makes the drama of the ' Blot.' 
 
 The complexity of Browning's play 
 comes in, thus, through the social situa- 
 tion which shapes the tragic climax. 
 Criticism of that climax as unnecessary 
 is likely to be due to a failure to under- 
 stand that the antithesis is designedly 
 and realistically drawn between the pure 
 simplicity of human nature in the lovers 
 
 and the complexity of social nature em- 
 bodied in Tresham. He is the flower 
 of a consummate social perfection, en- 
 tirely true as an ideal both to his time 
 and character. 
 
 The falsity in its application, when it 
 condemns his sister and blights her 
 future, he is certainly intelligent enough 
 to detect as soon as he learns from Mer- 
 toun's lips that he, the suitor, is the clan- 
 destine lover. Yet this enlightening 
 word, which might have averted his 
 sword and spoiled the tragedy, is just 
 what turns the rage of Tresham's right- 
 eousness from Mildred upon Mertoun, 
 and causes him to let fall the stroke that 
 makes the tragedy. 
 
 The Poet is unerring in precipitating 
 the fatality then, because the obscure 
 pressure of the ages, and the secret com- 
 pulsion of race, are necessarily before- 
 hand with reason at such a moment and 
 prompt in the blood. And also, because 
 all the reason and character in Tresham 
 have until then been loyally applied to- 
 ward making him the liege creature, the 
 professed standard-bearer of the be- 
 queathed family pride, whose momentum 
 alone would drive him its own way for 
 a time, although he were to see clear, as 
 he does, by the lightning stroke of his 
 own action, an instant later. 
 * * * 
 
 In the production of ' The Blot,' by 
 Mrs. Sarah Cowell Lemoyne last spring, 
 opening in New York April 7th, at the 
 Hudson Theatre, in Boston May 15th, 
 at the Park Theatre, the simpler aspects 
 of the play were irresistible in their effect 
 upon the appreciation of the audience. 
 The complexer aspects, dependent upon 
 what may be called the social atmosphere, 
 and demanding a high degree of artistic 
 excellence in the conception and of finish 
 in the acting, were not so satisfactorily 
 rendered. The Tresham of Mr. W.
 
 154 
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS 
 
 Beach succeeded in expressing the simpler 
 touches of brotherly tenderness, and also 
 the more external truths of the demeanor 
 required for the interplay with the old 
 retainer, Gerard, a character part acted 
 to perfection by Mr. Theo Hamilton. 
 The heroics, too, of the passage at arms 
 with Mertoun in the great scene under 
 Mildred's window, were extremely effec- 
 tive. He was decidedly unsuccessful in 
 portraying the stately habits of idealism be- 
 longing to the character and the social 
 atmosphere. These habits of idealism 
 are dramatically important, almost essen- 
 tial, in this play, since they do not belong 
 merely to external etiquette and deport- 
 ment, valuable as they are pictorially 
 there also. They have sunk deep. They 
 have become religious in Tresham's 
 breast, building up within him the master- 
 motive and infatuation on which the 
 tragic situation rests. 
 
 T& ifc 7jt 
 
 Browning's characters are not apt to 
 be ' in the air.' They usually belong to 
 an ascertainable social environment. His- 
 torical study may well be spent upon 
 them. And this is one of the things 
 which make it so interesting and so diffi- 
 cult to do them justice, and which also 
 make it so well worth while. The 
 human nature and life in them are doubly 
 real in being true to each single char- 
 acter and to the social atmosphere and 
 social relations in which they move. 
 
 The scene in which Mertoun asks 
 Tresham for his sister's hand was disap- 
 pointing. The characters did not belong 
 to their century, and their pictorial cos- 
 tumes only made them seem the more 
 made-up and dressed for some society 
 masked function. The historic illusion 
 the plot requires was not satisfied. 
 
 For the soliloquy scene under the oaks, 
 too, a Tresham organically capable of 
 thinking and feeling as Tresham thought 
 
 and felt then, is peculiarly requisite. 
 
 These were the least perfectly realized 
 portions of scenes in many other respects 
 admirably filled. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Mildred's nature and character 
 seemed almost ideally incarnate in Miss 
 Grace Elliston's still and grave ingenu- 
 ousness. She showed in her personation 
 just the last and ripest phase of a youth- 
 fulness still mere girlhood while border- 
 ing on the mature, and a character pre- 
 cociously intelligent, but quite devoid of 
 the external sprightliness and buoyant 
 shrewdness so generally belonging, for 
 example, to modern American girlhood. 
 The English type imagined by Browning 
 suits just this well-rounded statuesque- 
 ness, just this unslim sort of maidenliness. 
 And his inner situation requires just such 
 a highly organized, high-minded, and 
 sensitive, yet phlegmatic and docile na- 
 ture, to make us see why she was so 
 stunned, so hopeless and helpless beneath 
 the threat of her fate. She would be 
 naturally slow to distrust or criticize 
 conventional ideals of life and honor up- 
 held by a loved brother. Even a younger 
 Gwendolen of her time, much more a 
 modern American girl, would be likelier 
 to circumvent or control them instead of 
 enduring them as Mildred did. But 
 such a loyal, slow-sure heart sees wholly 
 right when it does see. And when the 
 tragic blow falls, it finds, through the 
 spiritual illumination of its own steadfast 
 love, just such divine words as Mildred's 
 to say in place of any harsh judgment or 
 resentment. 
 
 Miss Elliston's beautiful voice and re- 
 pressed manner, even in a certain effect 
 of teachableness and lack of independent 
 vigor which they occasionally betrayed, 
 were almost as well adjusted as her per- 
 son to create the illusion which the char- 
 acter of Mildred requires.
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS 
 
 i55 
 
 Her selection and training for the in- 
 terpretation, so well given, speak highly 
 for Mrs. Lemoyne's cultured judgment. 
 So, in fact, does the whole play. It owed 
 life and inspiration to her management. 
 No hearer could fail to thank, her with 
 enthusiasm for so poetic a presentment 
 of a charming play. Some of the clumsy 
 subterfuges resorted to in the Barrett 
 stage version must have rendered it more 
 stagey instead of more stageable. Mrs. 
 Lemoyne's version will have proved this, 
 once for all. No succeeding manager 
 will think it needful, for example, to 
 transfer the final dialogue between Mil- 
 dred and Tresham from Mildred's cham- 
 ber, where it is manifestly suitable it 
 should be, to the park, for the sake of in- 
 ducing Mildred to guess that Tresham 
 has slain Mertoun from seeing her lover's 
 cloak lying on the grass, instead of from 
 feeling it in her brother's manner when 
 he comes to her, and proving it by seeing 
 his empty scabbard. 
 
 Mrs. Lemoyne's own fulfillment of 
 the part of Gwendolen was not so ade- 
 quate in personal presentment, quality of 
 voice, and repose of manner as in the 
 vivacious intelligence of shades of mean- 
 ing in her reading, and in her beautiful 
 costuming. Perhaps Gwendolen, also, 
 like Mr. Beach's Tresham and Mr. Al- 
 baugh's frank and boyish Mertoun, 
 needed a more organic grounding on 
 the ease of well-bred courtliness de- 
 noting the historic epoch of the play. 
 Although incisively and unerringly in- 
 tuitional, Browning's Gwendolen is one 
 whose intuitions ' toy with the bow, yet 
 hit the white.' 
 
 ' Marlowe,' as played at the opening 
 cf the new theatre in the Elizabeth Cary 
 
 Agassiz House at Radcliffe College at 
 Cambridge, June 19th and 20th, was a 
 rare pleasure to witness. The title-role 
 was played with distinction in impersona- 
 tion and phrasing by Professor George 
 P. Baker, and Mr. Lyman's versatile pre- 
 sentment of the tenderness and the fierce 
 malignity required by the moodiness of 
 the man who was Marlowe's evil genius, 
 stood out in high relief. 
 
 The poetic value of this play, since it 
 was printed a year or two ago, has be- 
 come very well recognized. No stage 
 presentation was needed to assure us of 
 its delicate beauty, or even of the fra- 
 grance of the Elizabethan age enfolded 
 in the conception of the characters and 
 the pleasant fashioning of its phrases. 
 This poetic beauty and this Elizabethan 
 fragrance constituted an essential part of 
 the unusual pleasure in seeing it put on 
 the stage. The unassuming good taste 
 and sufficiently scholarly care exercised 
 in the details of setting and properties 
 further marked it favorably above the 
 few attempts made on the professional 
 stage of late to produce any modern plays 
 of such good literary quality. For when 
 the public has been given pieces that could 
 lay claim to being poetic, the result has 
 been pretentious rather than finished. 
 
 Still, the main thing about Josephine 
 Preston Peabody's ' Marlowe ' was 
 neither that it was gracefully acted or 
 well produced, nor even that it was 
 charming to heed and behold, but that it 
 acted well and held the interest of the 
 audience. 
 
 When compared in dramatic value, as 
 in fairness it should be, with plays of 
 its own poetic class, it must be ad- 
 mitted, by virtue of its stage trial, to 
 stand better in breadth of qualities than 
 Aldrich's ' Judith ' or Phillips' « Ulysses,' 
 for it adds to the poetic value in which it 
 is akin to these plays a firmer, better-
 
 i 5 6 
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS 
 
 balanced stage construction, and a lighter 
 sportive vein, showing a capacity for 
 humor. The fourth act of the play 
 reached its highest altitude ; and in this 
 act the supreme moment was one that 
 summed up in a symbolic incident the 
 character of Marlowe and his relation 
 with Alysonn. When the restless, in- 
 satiable Poet would quench his thirst, he 
 renounces wine and will take from the 
 hand of his adoring ' little Quietude ' 
 nothing but ' a cup of water.' This was, 
 of course, an essentially poetic touch, 
 figurative and subtle, but it was a poetry 
 growing so directly from the vital situa- 
 tion, and this backed the symbol so ob- 
 viously that it became a moving incident 
 in the dramatic sense. It was felt, if 
 not consciously realized, by the audience. 
 
 * * 
 
 Russia's condition of revolution has 
 caused an upheaval which affects the 
 world in art as well as in political signifi- 
 cance. One of the first good results of 
 this anarchy is an enforced acquaintance 
 with Russian literature, music, and dra- 
 matic art. 
 
 The past spring season has brought a 
 strange company of actors to America, 
 who started without resources and with- 
 out friends in the foreign lands they pro- 
 posed to visit. Their errand was qui- 
 xotic: Mr. Paul Orleneff proposed to 
 carry all over the world a play called 
 ' The Chosen People,' which sets forth 
 the persecution of the Jews in Russia. It 
 was proscribed by the censor. This play 
 is an extraordinary one, covering the 
 whole Jewish question and finding in the 
 characters voices for Zionism, for amal- 
 gamation, for the Hebrew faith, for social 
 democracy, for segregation, as the case 
 may be. This discussion is dramatically 
 interwoven with a simple story. The 
 scene is in an old Jewish watchmaker's 
 home. It deals with the old man, his 
 
 son and daughter, who are free-thinking 
 university students, a Gentile who wishes 
 to marry the girl, an ardent Zionist, his 
 rival, a social democrat, and a prosperous 
 Jewish physician, who stands for worldly 
 success. It is a remarkable piece of work, 
 both because of its art and of the art with 
 which it was given. Mr. Paul Orleneff, 
 who was bidden by Maxim Gorki 
 to carry the drama abroad, plays the 
 Zionist; Madame Alia Nasimoff, hailed 
 during a short season in London as a 
 Russian Duse, plays Lia, the Jewish girl; 
 and a company of thirteen, under the ad- 
 mirable training of Orleneff, produced a 
 piece of consistent art in which their per- 
 sonalities count for the parts they present. 
 This has made of the construction of the 
 play drawn by Tchirikoff a whole of 
 remarkable texture. The technique of 
 Orleneff as stage manager, after his career 
 of twenty years in Russia, fuses his ma- 
 terials into a single expression. There 
 is no question of a melodramatic appeal 
 to the audience. The ' fourth wall ' is 
 there. It is life, simple and without self- 
 consciousness, which the audience may see 
 as if by a strange chance. The American 
 habit of theatricalism is absolutely absent. 
 
 In addition to this play the Orleneff 
 company has given five others : ' Crime 
 and Punishment ' and ' Karamasoff 
 Brothers' by Dostoievsky; 'Ghosts' by 
 Ibsen ; ' Feodor Ivanovitch ' by Count 
 Alexis Tolstoi; 'Misfortune' by Andro- 
 vitch ; and ' Countess Julie ' by August 
 Strindberg. The latter was a benefit for 
 Madame Alia Nasimoff, a beautiful, 
 strange little Russian, with a thrilling 
 voice and a mingled method, in which the 
 ' repressed ' is colored at times by a really 
 great emotional outburst. 
 
 Madame Nasimoff is returning from 
 Russia in September with a new com- 
 pany, costumes which she has procured in 
 Paris, and a repertory of thirty-two new
 
 LIFE AND LETTERS 
 
 i57 
 
 plays by both the Tolstois, and by Gorki, 
 Tchirikoff, Andreeiv, and others. The 
 season to be given is arranged in series. 
 An Ibsen series will be given, presenting 
 plays not yet seen in America; a Maeter- 
 linck series, and one each of Gorki, Tol- 
 stoi, Dostoievsky, Strindberg, Haupt- 
 mann, Sudermann. The new play of 
 Gorki, written in prison, ' The Children 
 of the Sun,' will be produced among the 
 novelties. Another will be the ' Salome ' 
 of Oscar Wilde. 
 
 A little theatre in East Third Street 
 has been taken and is to be remodeled. 
 Its patrons include many names among 
 the prominent Russian Jews. After the 
 first performance of ' The Chosen Peo- 
 ple ' by the courtesy of Charles Frohman 
 at the Herald Square Theatre, the com- 
 pany was obliged last season to continue 
 its presentations at the various theatres 
 on the Bowery, to which many American 
 lovers of a superb dramatic art were con- 
 tent to make their pilgrimages. 
 
 F. B. 
 
 * 
 
 French appreciation of Shakespeare 
 is placed earlier than that of any other 
 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 
 1675 and 1684 catalogued the books of 
 his master. Louis XIV possessed a copy 
 of Shakespeare! There is no reason to 
 suppose that he ever opened it. But his 
 librarian had an opinion of the poet which 
 is in the main favorable. ' This English 
 poet,' he writes, 'has a fine imagination; 
 his descriptions are true to nature, and he 
 expresses himself with exquisite precision; 
 but these fine qualities are marred by the 
 rubbish with which his comedies are in- 
 terlarded.' This criticism was never pub- 
 
 lished ; it proves at least that the name of 
 Shakespeare had reached France at the 
 end of the seventeenth century. It was 
 in 1694 that Addison made his list of the 
 best English poets without including 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 A love-letter of antiquity, perhaps 
 the oldest in existence, dated by its erud- 
 ite finders as belonging to 220O B. C, 
 has been discovered in Chaldea recently, 
 at Sippara, the Sepharvoni of the Bible. 
 The lady lived there, her correspondent 
 in Babylon, and he writes on clay to her, 
 hoping she may come to him in the month 
 of festivals, called Marchesvan : 
 
 ' To the lady, Kasbuya [little ewe] 
 says Gimil Marduk [the favorite of 
 Merodach] this: May the sun god of 
 Marduk afford you eternal life. I write 
 wishing that I may know how your health 
 is. Oh, send me a message about it. I 
 live in Babylon and have not seen you, 
 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 
 happy. Come in Marchesvan. May you 
 live long for my sake.' 
 
 In the old French of Benoit's ' Roman 
 de Troie,' F. M. Warren, in a recent 
 number of the Modern Language Notes, 
 asks his scientific colleagues if they can- 
 not recognize an image of the new-discov- 
 ered substance, radium : 
 
 ' Une pierre ot enz alumee 
 Dont il n'ist flambe ne fumee; 
 Sanz descroistre art et nuit et jor; 
 Granz est li feus de sa chalor.' 
 
 — w. 14825-14828. 
 
 * 
 
 *
 
 THE PUBLISHER'S DESK 
 
 THE edition of this number 
 of Poet Lore is the largest 
 ever printed. It will reach 
 many new readers, and we 
 hope gain many new friends; 
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 Lore's old subscribers are its friends as 
 well. Most of them have watched it 
 through all its years and phases, they 
 have seen its growth and gradual ex- 
 pansion and are, we hope, gratified to 
 see the magazine as it is today, in the 
 perfect flower of fulfilled ideals. 
 
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 To our new friends we would explain 
 a little. Unlike the majority of maga- 
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 eye on the advertising returns, neither is 
 it designed for the great general public. 
 Instead, it is meant for those few who 
 can appreciate a magazine which is, in the 
 highest sense, A Magazine of Letters, and 
 which for sixteen years has maintained 
 an editorial standard of excellence not 
 even attempted by any other American 
 periodical. In an age characterized as 
 commercial, and in a country where the 
 sign of the dollar is the crest of nobility, 
 such an attitude is, in itself, an achieve- 
 ment. 
 
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 This number is a fair sample of what 
 others will be, although it will be our 
 endeavor to continue the constant im- 
 provement hitherto shown in the maga- 
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 bers and we shall be glad to receive aM 
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 it is possible to make a fairer offer than 
 
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 It is entirely contrary to our custom 
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 interested in Poet Lore, we shall be glad 
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 ments. It seems to us that no one really 
 interested in modern letters can see one 
 copy of Poet Lore without wishing to see 
 
 it regularly. 
 
 * * * 
 
 With the present number is estab- 
 lished a new department, RECENT 
 GERMAN CRITICISM, under the 
 direction of Professor Paul H. Grum- 
 mann of the University of Nebraska. A 
 large number of scholars have been se- 
 cured as contributors, and considerable 
 space will be devoted regularly to this 
 work, which it is our intention to render 
 of distinct value to those interested in 
 German literature. The department will 
 cover the whole field of German litera- 
 ture, although special attention will be 
 devoted to recent movements. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Every reader of Poet Lore will be par- 
 ticularly interested in one of our new 
 books for this fall, Alterations and 
 Adaptations of Shakespeare, by Frederick 
 W. Kilbourne, Ph.D. A small portion 
 of this work has already been printed in 
 Poet Lore — " Some Curious Versions of 
 Shakespeare " in the present number 
 being one of the articles — but the main 
 part of the work is now published for 
 the first time. It is a book that no lover 
 or student of Shakespeare can afford to 
 overlook. 
 
 (I5«D
 
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