res 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 rol