with his whole work.
God bless him! But he must not be astonished if he is abandoned by his
pupils. The people must think according to rules of logic. And as in
the mean while they must live, consequently they wish to get some
consolation in this life. Masters of Zola's kind gave them only
corruption, chaos, disgust for life, and despair. Their rationalism
cannot prove anything else, and if it did, it would be with too much
zeal, it would overstep the limits. To-day the suffocated need some
pure air, the doubting ones some hope, tormented by uneasiness, some
quietude, therefore they are doing well when they turn therefrom where
the hope and peace flow, there where they bless them and where they
say to them as to Lazarus: _Tolle grabatum tuum et ambula_.

By this one can explain to-day's evolutions, whose waves flow to all
parts of the world.

According to my opinion, poetry as well as novels must pass through
it--even more: they must quicken it and make it more powerful. One
cannot continue any longer that way! On an exhausted field, only
weeds grow. The novel must strengthen the life, not shake it; make
it nobler, not soil it; carry good "news," and not bad. It does not
matter whether this which I say here please any one or not, because I
believe that I feel the great and urgent need of the human soul, which
cries for a change.

PART THIRD

WHOSE FAULT?

_A Dramatic Picture in One Act_.

CHARACTERS:

Jadwiga Karlowiecka.
Leon--A Painter.
A Servant.

In the House of Jadwiga Karlowiecka.

SCENE I.

Servant.--The lady will be here in a minute.

Leon (alone).--I cannot overcome my emotion nor can I tranquillize the
throbbing of my heart. Three times have I touched the bell and three
times have I wished to retreat. I am troubled. Why does she wish to
see me! (Takes out a letter). "Be so kind as to come to see me on a
very important matter. In spite of all that has happened I hope
you will not refuse to grant the request of--a woman. Jadwiga
Karlowiecka." Perhaps it would have been better and more honest to
have left this letter without an answer. But I see that I have cheated
myself in thinking that nothing will happen, and that it would be
brutal of me not to come. The soul--poor moth--flies toward the light
which may burn, but can neither warm nor light it. What has attracted
me here? Is it love? Can I answer the question as to whether I still
love this woman--so unlike my pure sweet