Maxim Gorki | Page 2

might arm themselves with the Works of Sainte-Beuve for their profitable entertainment, rather than with the Writings of any other Frenchman, since they give the Quintessence of many Books and many Temperaments. As to the permanent value of the Literature of To-day, we can but express conjectures, or at most opinions, that are binding upon none. We may hope that After-Generations will interest themselves not merely in the Classic Forms of Poetry and History, but also in this less monumental Mode of the Criticism of our Era. And if this be not the case, we may console ourselves in advance with the reflection that the After-World is not of necessity going to be cleverer than the Present--that we have indeed no guarantee that it will be able to appreciate the Qualities of our Contemporaries quite according to their merits.
So much that is New, and to us Unknown, will occupy it in the Future!
GEORGE BRANDES.
Paris, May 1904.

CONTENTS
Introduction
Characterization
A New Romance
Scenes from the Abysses
English Translations of Gorki's Works

ILLUSTRATIONS
1. Maxim Gorki . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece
2. Maxim Gorki (in 1900)
3. Beggar Collecting for a Church Fund
4. Tartar Day-Labourer
5. Tramps--the Seated Figure is the Original of Luka
6. A Page from Gorki's Last Work
7. The Bare-footed Brigade on the Volga-Quay, at Nijni Novgorod
8. Love-Scene between Polja and Nil, Act 3 of "The Bezemenovs"
9. Gambling-Scene, Act 2 of "The Doss-house"
10. A Confabulation, Act 2 of "The Doss-house"
11. Concluding Scene, Act 3 of "The Doss-house"
12. The Actor, in "The Doss-house"
13. Vasilissa, the Keeper of "The Doss-house"
14. Nastja, servant in "The Doss-house"
15. The Baron, in "The Doss-house"
16. Letter to Herr Max Reinhardt

Characterisation; Environment; Gorki's predecessors; Reaction and pessimism; Literature and society; Gorki's youth; Hard times; A vagrant life; Journalist days; Rapid success; The new heroes; Creatures once men; Vagabond philosophy; Accusing symbolism.
Within the last few years a new and memorable note has been sounded among the familiar strains of Russian literature. It has produced a regeneration, penetrating and quickening the whole. The author who proclaimed the new voice from his very soul has not been rejected. He was welcomed on all sides with glad and ready attention. Nor was it his compatriots alone who gave ear to him. Other countries, Germany in particular, have not begrudged him a hearing; as has too often been the case for native genius. The young Russian was speedily accounted one of the most widely read in his own land and in adjacent countries.
Success has rarely been achieved so promptly as by Maxim Gorki. The path has seldom been so smooth and free from obstacles.
Not but that Gorki has had his struggles. But what are those few years, in comparison with the decades through which others have had, and still have, to strive and wrestle? His fight has rather been for the attainment of a social status, of intellectual self-mastery and freedom, than for artistic recognition. He was recognised, indeed, almost from the first moment when he came forward with his characteristic productions. Nay, he was more than recognised. He was extolled, and loved, and honoured. His works were devoured.
[Illustration: Maxim Gorki (in 1900)]
This startling success makes a closer consideration and appreciation of the author's works and personality incumbent on us.
A black, sullen day in March. Rain and vapour. No movement in the air. The horizon is veiled in the grey mists that rise from the earth, and blend in the near distance with the dropping pall of the Heavens.
And yet there is a general sense of coming Spring. The elder-bushes are bursting, the buds swelling. A topaz shimmer plays amid the shadowy fringes of the light birch stems, and on the budding tops of the lime-trees. The bushes are decked with catkins. The boughs of the chestnut glisten with pointed reddish buds. Fresh green patches are springing up amid the yellow matted grass of the road-side.
The air is chill, and saturated with moisture. Everything is oppressed, and exertion is a burden. . . .
Suddenly a wind springs up, and tears the monotonously tinted curtains of the sky asunder, tossing the clouds about in its powerful arms like a child at play, and unveiling a glimpse of the purest Heaven . . . only to roll up a thick dark ball of cloud again next moment. Everything is in motion.
The mist clears off, the trees are shaken by the wind till the drops fall off in spray.
The sky gets light, and then clouds over again.
But the weary, demoralising, despairing monotony has vanished.
Life is here.
Spring has come.
With all its atmosphere, with all its force and vigour, with its battles, and its faith in victory.
It is somewhat after this fashion that the personality of the young Russian author, and his influence on Russia, and on Russian Literature, may be characterised.
In order rightly to grasp the