Act II shows the mistress installed in the bosom of her lover's family.

Modernity, however, though satisfying to the heroic pose, has its penalties. Our ultra-modern family finds itself confronted with social ostracism. Still, they love their grandchild, and the mother of the grandchild is the price that they must pay. But the grandchild dies. The semi-official daughter-in-law consequently becomes a somewhat unprofitable luxury, and in the final act is given her _congé_. Even more than in _Liebelei_, however, the claim to merit lies almost exclusively in the precision with which each successive phase of the problem is portrayed. As a series of family pictures, the play succeeds, and succeeds brilliantly; as a drama of continuous interest, it fails, and fails hopelessly.

The next play of Schnitzler is _The Veil of Beatrice._ This "tragedy of sensualism" has qualities too arresting to be lightly disregarded. The dramatist has forsaken his problems to portray how the fatal temperament of a young girl of the Italian Renaissance works out its own destruction.

In the first act, we are shown the garden of Filippo, a poet of Bologna, which is on the eve of being plundered by the enemy. The heads on Bolognese shoulders are worth little purchase, and who leaves not the town to-night will never leave the town at all. The Duke invites Filippo to the palace to recite his poems. Filippo refuses, so that he may leave the city of doom with his beloved Beatrice, a daughter of the people. On learning, however, that Beatrice has dreamt of the Duke, he spurns her in an egoistic paroxysm of refined jealousy, typical in its subtlety more of the twentieth century than the Renaissance.

"So much I give thee, more than thou canst dream, So much that to be worthy of my love, Loathing should fasten on thee at the thought This earth is trod by other men than I."

Beatrice leaves him with the vague intimation--

"Feel I that without thee I cannot live And have desire for death, I come again To take thee with me."

In the second act, Beatrice is on the point of marrying her legitimate suitor, Vittorino, and escaping from the town, when the Duke appears and proposes to exercise the _jus ultimæ nodis_. Owing to the remonstrances of her brother Francesco, he generously offers to relinquish his intentions. Beatrice is bidden to go on her way, but stands riveted to the spot by a fatalistic impulse to realise her dream. And what is more, she insists on being the wife of the Duke. Her wish is granted. The nuptials are celebrated by a gigantic _fête_ in the palace, whose doors are thrown open to rich and poor. Beatrice, however, with the placid _naïveté_ of her will-less temperament, flies to Filippo.

"What boots it, Were I this eve an empress to whom worlds Bowed, or the callat of a fool? For I Am with thee now to die by thine own side."

Filippo pretends to poison both her and himself, and on her discovering the ruse, commits suicide in earnest. Beatrice rushes back to the palace, but discovering that she has left behind that priceless veil which was the wedding-gift of her husband, leads back the Duke to the chamber of love and death. The living is confronted with the dead rival, and the indignant Francesco slays his sister.

The power of this tragedy, however, lies not so much in the actual plot or even in the marvellous delineation of Beatrice, gracefully and innocently childish in the very irresponsibility of her fated sin, as in the rich tints of the picture and the gorgeous frame in which the picture is set. All the multicoloured elements of the Renaissance take their place in the vivid scheme--poets, sculptors, courtiers, courtesans, soldiers, and populace. Annihilation and vitality grow each more grandiose from their mutual juxtaposition, and the red blood of life flows but the quicker and the warmer beneath the black shadow of doom. Few more eloquent tragedies have been written on the great twin themes: "In the midst of life we are in death; in the midst of death we are in life."

Reverting back to prose, we come to _Der Einsame Weg_ (_The Lonely Way_, 1903). If, however, the tendency to import the methods of the short story and the long novel were apparent in _Liebelei_ and _Vermächtniss_, it is even more marked in this play. A son, finding a sire in the shape of the middle-aged lover of his now dead mother, repudiates the natural for the putative father; a neurotic and over-sexed young girl, finding that her lover, unknown to himself, is suffering from an incurable disease, dies by her own act. These are the two _motifs_, knit together by no shred of logical connection, which form the threads on which the drama is hung. Yet, if here we have Schnitzler at his worst, the many excellences even of this play attest by implication the merits of Schnitzler at his best. The scene between father and son is a sheer masterpiece. How delicately does the father intimate that "mothers also have their destinies like other women." And how complete is his rejection.

JULIAN. It is now absolutely impossible for you to forget that you are my son.

FELIX. Your son--it is nothing but a word--it is a mere empty sound--I know it, but I don't realise it.

JULIAN. Felix!

FELIX. You are further away from me since I know it.

Interesting, again, is the Nietzschean sanction for intrigue: "One has the right to exploit to the completest extent all one's life with all the ecstasy and all the shame which is involved."

Far superior, however, to _Der Einsame Weg_, with its heavy Ibsenite atmosphere, is _Zwischenspiel_ (1905), where that problem of the quadrangle, compared to which that of the triangle is from the more advanced standpoint but _vieux jeu_, is treated with the most delicate and biting raillery. Victor Amadeus, the pianist, and his wife Cecilie, the singer, love each other with as much genuine constancy as can be expected from normal persons of the artistic temperament. Victor Amadeus, however, philanders with a countess, and his wife with a prince. Mutual jealousy! Too civilised, however, to interfere by any display of primitive emotion with the sacred love of the new modernity, they grant each other, on general principles, _carte blanche_. And so, at the end of Act I, they separate for their mutual holiday. Henceforward the husband and wife are to be the most Platonic of comrades. The necessities of their professional engagements, however, bring about their meeting in their old home. But the affair with the countess is dead, and the affair with the prince has apparently not yet matured. Then do Victor Amadeus and Cecilie forget the ultra-modern theories which they are bound in duty to exemplify, and only realise that they are man and woman. Bursting with his new humanity, Victor Amadeus begins in the third act to be quite jealous of the prince. His astonishment can consequently be imagined when his Serene Highness presents himself to ask the husband formally for the hand of the wife. On the situation being explained to him, the prince gracefully retires, gallant gentleman that he is. But the reunited pair cannot live happily ever after. Cecilie, it is true, had been faithful, but faithful, she explains, by the narrowest of margins. She cannot guarantee the future; and does not history repeat itself? True, they had loved each other, but what love can be proof against the theories of the newer sexual ethics?

"If we had only before," says Cecilie, "shrieked into each other's faces our rage, our bitterness, our despair, instead of posing as superior people who never lost their heads, then we should have been true to ourselves--and that we never were."

And so that parting, taking place, as it does, when all barriers but their two selves have disappeared, rings down the curtain on this most brilliant of satires on the ultra-modern.

On almost as high a level is _Freiwild_[1], a piece which gains an added interest from the fact that it has not only been censored because an army officer is given a box on the ears, but that the actors on one occasion refused to play it till solemnly assured by the author that the apparent realism of the portrayal of the _procurer-impresario_ was, after all, merely poetic licence. The play is a vehement satire on the duel. In a scene marvellous in its ingenious stagecraft and airy atmosphere, we are shown the picturesque gardens of an Austrian pleasure resort. Close by is the local theatre, where musical comedy is performed for the entertainment of officers. One of the actresses, however, Anna, shocks all orthodox traditions by refusing to participate in that social life which, according to the manager, is the sacred duty of the efficient chorus girl. For Anna, Paul Rohring, an analytical painter, entertains feelings which are quixotic, and Karinski, a heavy bully of a fire-eater, feelings typical of a less exalted Don. But the overtures of Karinski are rebuffed ignominiously. Rohring[2] cannot repress the smile of sarcastic triumph. The discomfited lady-killer, aspersing the name of Anna with an insolent _gaucherie_, has his ears boxed for his pains. The inevitable challenge is brought to Rohring by one Poldi, the complete exponent of punctilious aristocracy, the past-master in all the intricacies of the _duelli codex_, the super-gentleman. But Rohring, who is anxious to marry Anna and live a long and happy life, rejects the inevitable challenge. Genuine consternation on the part of Poldi, who explains that the unpurged shame of the box on the ears spells ruin to Karinski's military career. Poldi proposes a compromise--the solemn farce of a bloodless duel. Rohring, however, disdains playing dummy parts in solemn farces. It is all madness. It is in vain that the incarnation of military honour expostulates.

"For you it is madness, but others have grown up in this madness; what is madness to you is for others the very element in which they live."

Finally, Rohring is given to understand that, unless he flees, the outraged Karinski will shoot him at sight. But with a somewhat human perversity our heroic painter refuses to run away. An encounter _à l'Américaine_ takes place in the gardens, but Rohring, drawing just a second too late, is shot dead. And now, as orthodox applause to the red-handed, cold-blooded murderer, comes from the mouth of Karinski's own friend in six words the indictment of the duel, irrevocably damning in the cold subtlety of its satire: "And now you have won back your honour."

If, however, in this play Schnitzler proved his ability to write a problem drama which should be something more than a mere series of isolated phases, we find again in his next play, _The Call of Life_, in spite of its many excellences, the old taint of the one-acter.

The _motif_ of the play is the claim of the desire for life to ride rough-shod over all other claims. A beautiful daughter is wasting the best years of her life in the care of a querulous father, incurably ill, but never dying. The little garrison town is agog with the excitement of a newly declared war. This war, moreover, has a special interest, in that the local regiment, the Blue Cuirassiers, had in the last war, by ignominious flight, branded itself with shame. Though this episode took place over thirty years ago and none of the actual renegades are now in the regiment, the Blue Hussars, with that inflated idea of honour only found in Teutonic countries, resolve to purge the disgrace by dying gloriously in the front of the fray. Among the officers is Lieutenant Max, who has cast on Marie, the beautiful daughter, eyes of admiration. Irony, moreover, sharpens the situation when the bedridden father, who was once a member of the Blue Cuirassiers, explains he himself was responsible for the historic flight.

"What was the good of it? Who would have thanked me? They would have put me in a grave with a thousand others and piled the earth on top, and that would have been the end of it. And I wouldn't have it. I wanted to live--to live like others. I wanted to have a wife and children and live. And so I rushed from the field; and so it has happened that the young men whom I don't know are going to their death and that I still live on at seventy-nine and will survive them all--all--all."

The old soldier, however, is unduly sanguine as to the protraction of his life, for the same call of life which ordered him from the battle orders his daughter to pour poison into the water for which he now craves.

It is outside the purpose of this essay to argue the ethics of this precipitation of the inevitable. Suffice it that it constitutes a most efficient curtain--a curtain, however, so efficient that there seems no compelling necessity for a continuation of the play. A continuation, however, there is, and in the rooms of Max, which are visited at night by Marie, who ensconces herself behind a curtain. She sees the major's wife come to urge a vain prayer that he should desert the army and elope with her. They are discovered by the major, who, shooting the wife, spares the lover. It is, however, when the major leaves that we understand the intense hypertrophy of life evoked by imminent death. Marie, knowing all, yet presents herself. Max can only realise that his life has but a few remaining hours, and that these remaining hours stand now before him. Another curtain, strong, if slightly crude, yet followed by a third act, which is nothing but an epilogue.

This somewhat exaggerated scorn, however, of such of the more complicated effects of theatricalism as are manifested in the ingenious concatenation of the plot, or the representation of sensational incidents which have no justification but their own inherent dramatic force, fails absolutely to affect Schnitzler's position as a writer of one-act plays. Indeed, it is his subordination of plot to atmosphere that constitutes in this sphere his paramount excellence. As, moreover, Mr. Henry James in his _Embarrassments and Terminations_ wrote short stories independent in themselves yet harmonising with some permeating _motif_, so has Schnitzler in his _Anatol_, _Marionetten_, and _Lebendigen Stunden_ given us symmetrical one-act sequences.

Let us deal first with the Anatol-Cyclus, a series of one-acters portraying the amoristic vicissitudes of a _fin de siècle_ sentimentalist, flitting prettily from heart to heart, till he is eventually encompassed by the matrimonial net. Little action weighs down these delicate pieces. Anatol and the flame of the moment participate in a dialogue, or Anatol appeals to the worldly wisdom of his friend Max to rescue him from some dilemma in which he has been landed by his own weakness or his own folly. That is all. Yet each piece sheds a little more light upon the holy of holies of Anatol's heart, and illumines with equal clarity and colour the charm and individuality of each successive priestess of the temple. Though no doubt the chief effect of the cycle lies in its accumulative force, some idea of the general airiness and brilliance may perhaps be obtained by a short sketch of two of the most striking. In _The Question to Fate_ Anatol confides to Max his anxiety. Does the flame of the moment burn true and for him alone? By hypnotism he proposes to extract from his unconscious love that answer which will make him either the happiest or the most miserable of mankind. Cora enters, and is duly soothed into a hypnotic trance. Anatol, however, insists on being left alone with her at this critical moment of his fate, so Max retires into the adjoining room. And now, when the helpless girl is ready to answer every question, and, what is more, to answer it with automatic accuracy, and the book of truth lies ready in his trembling hand, the seeker of knowledge has not the courage to know. Waking her up with a kiss, he expresses complete reassurance to the re-entering Max. Cora, however, manifests a perhaps intelligible anxiety as to the nature of her answers.

In the _Farewell Supper_, the scene of which is laid in the _cabinet particulier_ of a Viennese restaurant, Anatol describes to Max the ineffable woes of being on with the new love before he is off with the old. What a strain it is, moreover, to be compelled to eat two suppers every night! However, he and Anna (the old love) had at the initiation of their romance arranged to confide to each other the first symptom of approaching _ennui_. To-night at this supper he will tactfully intimate that she is no longer indispensable to his soul's happiness. He implores Max to stay as the helpful buffer in an inevitable scene. Enter Anna, fresh from the stage and hungry for oysters. The pangs of starvation temporarily appeased, Anna announces that she has something important to communicate. She has grown tired of Anatol and fallen in love with another. She hopes he will not mind, but better she should tell him now than when it was too late. Collapse of Max into uproarious laughter. With pique mingling with his relief, Anatol rises to the occasion, professing the righteous indignation of a wounded spirit. To vindicate his _amour-propre_, he contemptuously informs her that he too has fallen in love with another, but as far as he is concerned his confession does come too late. "Only a man could be so brutal," retorts Anna; "a woman would never be so tactless as to say anything so crude." And so the comedy ends with the girl carrying off the remains of the supper to her cavalier round the corner.

The whole cycle, however, should be read to appreciate the racy ripple of the dialogue, the subtle malice of the characterisation, and the general verve and irony of these most sparkling of comedies.

Perhaps at this moment it may be convenient just to mention the audacious psychology of the super-Boccacian _Reigen_. English decorum, no doubt, for-bids anything but the most casual allusion to this sequence of duologues, where all the members of the social hierarchy are linked together by participation in the same eternal plot.

Yet in its way, this book, written originally for a select circle and subsequently published by universal request, is one of the most refined feats of intellectualism which Schnitzler has ever performed. For the delicacy of the style is in inverse ratio to the delicacy of the subject-matter, and the various nuances of social technique are described and differentiated with the masterly touch of combined experience and intuition. Scarcely suited, no doubt, as a Sunday School prize, the book will, none the less, well repay perusal by modern men and women of the modern world.

The series _Marionetten_, to which allusion has already been made, has for its _motif_ the ironic tragedy of those who essay to manipulate the lives of others. The best of three plays is _The Puppet-player_. To the happy fireside of Eduard and Anna there is introduced an old friend, George Merklin, whom the husband had casually encountered. Merklin is a picturesque, if battered, Bohemian who encircles himself somewhat showily with a halo of alleged mysticism. The whole art of the dramatist, however, in this little piece is devoted to creating an atmosphere of light melancholy, in which the poetic isolation of the second-rate genius, Merklin, stands in vivid contrast to the prosaic happiness of his less gifted friend. The climax comes when it transpires that Merklin had loved Anna in the past and had brought the two together by way of a psychological experiment at a Bohemian supper.

"The little girl who was so nice to you simply did what I wished. You two were the puppets in my hand. I pulled the strings. It was arranged that she should pretend to be in love with you. For you always roused my sympathy, my dear Eduard; I wanted to awake in you the illusion of happiness, so that you should be ready for true happiness when you found it."

And so this shoddy superman goes out into this lonely world, having played with the fates of others only to have played away his own life's happiness.

Perhaps, however, Schnitzler's most characteristic series of one-acters is the one headed _Lebendige Stunden_. Life should be weighed as much by quality as by quantity. One man can traverse more life in a few seconds than another in whole years. It is typical, however, of Schnitzler's method that he essays not merely to lead up to a violent climax by artifices of calculated stagecraft, but to set the vivid hour in an harmonious and poetic frame. The most striking of the series is the extraordinary fantasia, _The Woman with the Dagger_.

Leonhardt, a seriously romantic youth, in apparently the full flush of his first grand passion, meets the wife of a dramatic author in the Renaissance saloon of a picture gallery. Pre-eminent among the pictures on the wall is that of a woman robed in white, holding a dagger in her uplifted hand, and gazing at the floor as if there lay someone whom she had murdered. It is then in this atmosphere that our gallant urges his suit to the unresponsive Pauline, who coolly informs him that she has confessed to her husband that she is in danger, and that they are travelling away to-morrow. And then, as she is on the point of saying farewell, she stands before the picture.

PAULINE (_looking closer_). Who lies there in the shadow?

LEONHARDT. Where?

PAULINE. Do you not see?

LEONHARDT. I see nothing.

PAULINE. It is you.

LEONHARDT. I? Pauline, what an extraordinary jest!

And then, as they look and look, they fall into an hypnotic trance and the clock of the world goes back some five hundred years. Pauline has become Paola, and Leonhardt, Lionardo, while the racy Viennese idiom is turned to classical blank verse. It is early dawn in the studio of the Master Remigio, and Remigio is away on his travels. Lionardo arrogates the claims of love on the strength of the favours which he has just enjoyed. Paola spurns him as the mere mechanical toy of her passion. She loves and has always loved her husband. That this is no mere pose is apparent from the fact that on the sudden entrance of the husband she immediately elucidates the situation. Remigio, however, with a sublime tolerance, perhaps more typical of the husband in Mr. Shaw's _Irrational Knot_ than of a hot-blooded Italian, pardons Paola on the general principles of twentieth-century philosophy. Lionardo, however, piqued and insulted as being regarded as

"The glass, the poor mean glass From which a child drank a forbidden draught, The merest pitiful tool of a chance and fate,"

vows vengeance on Remigio. Paola anticipates this vengeance by killing Lionardo on the spot with a dagger, thus exemplifying the pose of the picture. Remigio rises to the occasion and seizes on this splendidly tragic attitude to complete an unfinished portrait of this loyalest of wives.

And then they awaken from their trance. But the magnet of destiny draws them inexorably. Pauline grants the assignation, with an air, however, of mystic fatality, which shows only too well with what precision the present must once again mirror the past.

But perhaps the most sustained and elaborated specimen of our author's method is the ironic tragedy of the French Revolution, _The Green Cockatoo._ The "Green Cockatoo" is an underground tavern where brilliant, if disreputable, actors give, for the edification of their aristocratic audiences, impromptu representations of crime and vice.

Henri, the star-man, moreover, has just married the actress Léocadie, not for the sake of paradox, but in all seriousness. When his turn comes, he rushes on to the stage shouting out that he found his wife, Léocadie, with her lover the duke, and killed her. Such a calamity being not apparently _primâ facie_ improbable, even the manager is almost as alarmed as the audience, till he realises that the whole thing is but an histrionic _tour de force_. And then, as the play progresses, the atmosphere becomes more and more lurid with impending gloom. Jest and reality intermingle in the subtlest of ironies. It is part of the entertainment that the ragamuffins should lavish on their patrons the freest of insults. But is there not a paradox within the paradox, when one remembers that the Bastille has fallen that very day? The various types, moreover, of an aristocracy exhibiting the levity of people who are shortly going to be hanged are delightfully portrayed--the _viveur_, "for whom every day is lost in which he has not captured a woman or killed a man," the pretty young noble whose corrupt flirtation is so deftly adumbrated, and the lascivious _grande dame_, who, in spite of her husband's anxiety, is very far from shocked at these spectacular novelties. And then Henri snaps up the truth from the demeanour of the manager and his colleagues. The Duke comes on to the stage and the actor then gives yet another representation of the avenging husband--and this time he surpasses himself, for he is but acting the truth.

Less sensational, but of equal psychological grimness, is the play _The Mate_, which is in the same series as the _Green Cockatoo_. The theme is the pathetic irony of the illusion of a middle-aged professor, who gives an almost paternal benediction to what he fondly imagines to be the grand passion of his young and temperamental wife. When, consequently, his wife dies suddenly, the husband is prepared quite honestly to condole with the lover, for after all has he not a right to be pitied even more than himself? When, therefore, he learns from his young colleague that he has just become engaged to another girl with whom he has been in love for some time his righteous indignation is unbounded.

"I would have raised you from the ground if you had been broken by grief. I would have gone with you to her grave, if the woman who is lying over there had been your love; but you have turned her into your wanton, and you have filled this house with lies and foulness right up to the roof till it makes me sick--and that's why--that's why, yes, that's why I'm going to kick you out."

But there is an anti-climax within an anti-climax, for the man learns from a mutual woman friend of the dead woman and of himself, that the imagined _grande passion_ had been even from the standpoint of the lady nothing more or less than a miserable trumpery adventure.

Reverting now to Schnitzler's longer plays, some mention should be made of _Komtesse Mizzi_, _Der Junge Medardus_, and, above all, _Das Weites Land_.

_Komtesse Mizzi_, entitled, appropriately enough, "A Family Day" is in form a one-acter, though of sufficient length and substance to have obtained separate publication. There is little, if any, action. The play is based on character, dialogue, and situation. Yet it possesses distinct psychological titillation in its presentation of a daughter who takes a filial interest in her father's "actress-mistress," and who is sensible enough, aristocrat though she is, to meet the lady herself with all friendliness, and chat with her as woman to woman without the slightest affectation. This feminine freemasonry, however, is perhaps explained by the fact that the countess herself has lived her own life, to such good effect that she is the mother of a grown-up boy by her father's best friend, Prince Egon. When, consequently, the prince introduces the boy as his own natural child by an unknown mother, the atmosphere becomes somewhat rare. At first highly irritated, she treats with frigid indifference the frank exuberant youth, who divines the truth with instinctive intuition, only, however, shortly afterwards to consent to marry the prince, and thus become the official stepmother of her own long-lost child. The racy worldly optimism of this play is particularly characteristic of the essentially benevolent malice of the Schnitzlerian cynicism.

Of a totally different order is _Der Junge Medardus_, a long play of historical patriotism, specially written for the respectable and official Burg Theater of Vienna. It might seem indeed at first sight that Schnitzler, the refined, ultra-modern analyst, would be somewhat out of his element amid all the blood and thunder of the Napoleonic campaigns, which _primâ facie_ offer but small scope for psychological subtleties. The _tour de force_ consequently becomes all the more creditable when the author, in spite of all his trappings of patriotic melodrama, manages successfully to execute his own favourite tricks. The canvas on which this drama is portrayed is so vast as to render any synopsis necessarily inadequate. The idyll, however, and double suicide of the young French prince Franz and the bourgeois girl Agatha, is one of the purest and sweetest love episodes which Schnitzler has ever written. But it is Agatha's brother, the young, brave, and picturesque Medardus, who provides the most precious examples of recherche psychology. The suicide of the dead couple, Agatha and Franz, had been occasioned by the refusal of Franz's family to consent to the marriage. When, consequently, Franz's sister, Helene (a character somewhat analogous to Mathilde de la Môle in Stendhal's _Le Rouge et le Noir_) wishes to put flowers on the graves of the dead pair, Medardus refuses to allow her. Helene has him challenged by her suitor, but Medardus emerges triumphantly from the duel. Anxious to carry the war into the enemy's camp, and to redress the balance of the family account, he succeeds, by the dashing conquest of the most perilous difficulties, in becoming the lover of Helene, with the eventual object of rousing the whole household and flaunting to her own family the haughty girl's dishonour. Helene, however, is erratic in her favours. Medardus, like Julien, is scorched by his own fire. The ending, moreover, of the play, though extremely effective theatrically, strikes us from the psychological standpoint as distinctly false. Helene and Medardus both plot to assassinate Napoleon. Hearing that Helene is Napoleon's mistress, Medardus kills her instead of Napoleon. So far, so good. But when our quixotic hero, when offered a free pardon on the sole condition that he undertakes to make no further attempt against Napoleon's life, obstinately refuses to give the required word, one can only say that he is observing the etiquette neither of melodrama nor even of life, but solely of patriotic tragedy.

But of all the longer plays of Schnitzler, the best and most distinctive in that erotic "General Post" entitled _Das Weite Land_ (The Wide Country). This drama, which is the only full-dress drawing-room comedy which Schnitzler has written, belongs to what we have already designated as the "slice of life" school. It depends for its convincingness neither on any particularly drastic situation nor on the disproportionate merit of any individual act. The author simply takes a group of representative modern people, rich, intellectual, and energetic, and shows the respective crossings and intertwinings of their various lives. The complexity of the intrigue is overwhelming, not to say bewildering, for practically every character, from the prolific Aigon to the virginal Erna, and from the active business man Friedrich to his polyandrous wife Genia, is subject to one or more erotic moods, with whose more or less simultaneous conjugation in the past, present, and future tenses the play specifically deals. Though, too, all the characters lead emotional lives, they deserve credit in that they none of them wear their souls upon their sleeves, or carry their temperaments in their pockets with the ostentatious affectation of those Sudermannic personages who never for a moment lose the consciousness that they are living in an atmosphere of "high problem." For the people with whom we have now to deal are so occupied with the concrete acts of their actual lives that they have little time to waste in mere airy generalities. When consequently they do philosophise, shortly, crisply, and in the light of personal experience, they are for that very reason all the more convincing. The whole _motif_ of this play, where the spirits of Congreve and Henry James seem to amalgamate in so strange but yet so harmonious a compound, is well crystallised in the following quotation: "Love and deception--faithfulness and unfaithfulness--adoration for one woman and desire for another woman or several others, yes, my good Hofreiter, the soul is a wide country."

As can be seen from these tolerant words, which have all the greater force in that the man who speaks them is at any rate temporarily more or less in love with his friend's wife, the mood in which the problem of promiscuity is treated is less one of indignant satire than of an ironic charity, which, while finding the complications at once comic and tragic, yet assigns to every phase of love from the kiss Friedrich gave to Erna three thousand metres above the sea, to Otto's nocturnal escalades of Genia's room, its own specific emotional value, even though the final verdict is to be found in the words of the middle-aged Friedrich, refusing to elope with the twenty-year-old Erna: "Everything's an illusion!"

From the point of view, also, of concentrated crispness of dialogue and characterisation, Schnitzler has never achieved anything better than this play. How telling in particular is the dialogue between the mutually unfaithful spouses, Genia and Friedrich. The husband is interrogating his wife about a young Russian virtuoso who had just blown out his brains.

GENIA. He was not my lover. I'm sorry to say he was not my lover. Is that enough for you!

Or take again the passage between Friedrich and Genia after Friedrich has just fought a fatal duel with the twenty-five year old naval officer, Otto.

GENIA. But why? If you cared the least bit about me--if it had been a case of hate--if it had been jealousy--love--

FRED. No--I feel at any rate damned little of all that. But no man likes to be made an ass of.

In his new asexual play, _Professor Bernhardi_, Schnitzler strikes out an entirely new line, leaves that light, airy sphere which he had made so peculiarly his own, and embarks into the grim realms of pure problem. The play is an avowed and deliberate tract in the manner of Granville Barker, Galsworthy, or Brieux. Yet however devoid it may be of those qualities which one is accustomed to label Schnitzlerian, it is the most earnest, the most ethical, the most convincing of all his plays.

Put shortly, the piece deals with an "affaire Dreyfus" in the medical profession. Professor Bernhardi, a great Jewish doctor, has in the face of numerous obstacles succeeded in building up the prosperity of a new hospital, the Elisabethinum, treating mainly Catholic patients, but supported mainly by Jewish funds. A substantial percentage of the staff are Jewish, and it is instructive to observe how almost instinctively the Jews and Catholics range themselves into two camps. In the first act a Catholic girl is dying of septic poisoning as the result of some outside doctor's clumsy attempt to help her to escape the consequences of her own indiscretion. The patient herself, however, in a state of blissful delirium, confident of recovery, and expecting the speedy advent of her lover, is deriving the maximum of enjoyment out of the few minutes she has yet to live. Under these circumstances there arrives a Catholic priest, sent for, not by the girl but by a nurse, with the object of administering the last sacrament. Out of sheer humanity and medical conscientiousness, Professor Bernhardi is reluctant to have his patient's last hours marred by the realisation of her death and the shattering of her happy dream. The Catholic priest is insistent. The Professor is politely firm. There is an animated dialogue in the course of which the Professor touches the priest very lightly on the shoulder, though there is nothing in the nature of an assault. In the meanwhile the patient dies comfortably. The Clerical and Anti-semitic parties exploit the incident with inaccurate though artistic journalistic embellishments. There is a tremendous uproar. The Governors of the hospital threaten to resign. Under pressure from his friends, the Professor is willing to tender, not indeed an abject apology, but a polite explanation. The Clerical party thereupon blackmail him by threatening to raise the question in Parliament, if he does not secure the election to a vacant post on the hospital staff of a Catholic candidate who is on the one hand the protégé of the cousin of their leader, and on the other hand incompetent. Refusing to be a party to the job, Bernhardi secures the election to the post of a man who is both competent and a Jew. Bernhardi, moreover, relies on the personal assurance of Flint, the Minister for Education and Public Worship, that he will help him by his support in Parliament. When, however, matters came to a head, Flint, scenting in the middle of his speech with the divine flair of the true politician the actual state of public opinion, throws Bernhardi to the wolves and himself suggests a prosecution for sacrilege. The Executive Board of the hospital are divided as to what course they shall pursue. Shall they pass a vote of confidence in their chief, or, on the other hand, suspend him until the determination of the proceedings. By a fine stroke of irony Bernhardi realises that he will be in a minority through the vote of the very Jew through the conscientious insistence on whose election to the Board he had lost the proffered opportunity of bribing the Clericals and squaring the whole matter. He consequently resigns from the Board. The trial takes place. The priest himself denies that there was any assault. Bernhardi, however, is defended by a converted Jew, who, sinking the advocate in the Catholic, conducts the case so lukewarmly that Bernhardi is convicted on the perjured evidence of a vindictive colleague and a hysterical lay sister. During the trial the priest is convinced that Bernhardi was morally right in the course which he adopted, but, as he feels subsequently driven as a matter of conscience to inform him, refrained out of sheer religious duty from telling the truth. Bernhardi serves his term and becomes, much to his disgust, a political hero and a popular martyr. The hysterical lay sister eventually confesses her perjury and Bernhardi is finally righted, though the final note in the play is that Bernhardi was really rather a fool to have involved himself in such grave consequences for the mere sake of a quixotic principle. Some portion possibly of the effect produced by this play depends on the full appreciation of its personal allusions and some knowledge of the circumstances on which it was substantially founded. Nevertheless, present symptoms would appear to indicate that this play will have especial interest, not only to Jews and Anti-Semites, but to impartial students of ethics and sociology. Though, moreover, "pure problem" and studded with long didactical speeches, the dramatic interest is well sustained, at any rate up to the fourth Act, while the different characters are distinguished with the sharpest precision. We would refer in particular to Flint, that delightfully bland opportunist, that benevolently unscrupulous politician, that perfectly conscientious hypocrite who honestly believes that there is a higher and larger duty both in politics and in life than the observance of one's own principles and the keeping of one's given word.

Schnitzler, moreover, is not only a dramatist, but a writer of short stories and novels, which stand on practically as high a level as his plays. Like De Maupassant, Schnitzler has only one real _motif_. Unlike De Maupassant, however, it is the psychological complications in which he is chiefly interested. In further contrast, his short stories lack that inevitable precision of climax which is the chief mark of the French author. Yet perhaps it is for this very reason that, with their picturesque atmosphere and pathetic simplicity, they obtain an added reality. In the almost clinical minuteness of his psychology, explicable from the fact that he was once a doctor, he is reminiscent of Mr. Henry James, of a Mr. James, however, who writes without preciosity about individuals linked with ordinary human beings by very much more than just some shred of normality. Among his earlier short stories we would mention in particular _Die Frau der Weisen, Das neue Lied_, and the hypnotic fantasia at the beginning of _Dämmerseelen_.

The more recent series, _Masken und Wunder_, also possesses a well-merited claim to recognition for its series of studies, some modern, some symbolical, yet all written with that almost intangible softness, combined at the same time with a certain neat strength, which is the essential mark of Schnitzler's literary style. One of the most striking is the telepathic romance, _Redegonda's Diary_; but in our view the best short story in the whole book is that Maupassantian _Death of the Bachelor_ where the three intimate friends of a dead man are summoned to his bedside, only to find their friend dead and to read in a letter addressed to them all, of the three separate yet identical domestic reasons which were responsible for their participation in this superb piece of posthumous buffoonery.

Far more significant than any of his short stories is Schnitzler's comparatively recent novel, _Der Weg ins Freie_ (The Road to the Open), a novel which both by its actual success and its intrinsic merit, stands out conspicuously among modern German literature. This book is an admirable example of what one can perhaps call the "slice of life" novel. Actual plot in the stereotyped sense of the term it has none. Georg von Wergenthin, a young aristocratic Viennese dilettante, has, in the course of an active emotional life, a fairly serious _liaison_ with Anna Rosner, a music-mistress belonging to a good Jewish set. The child to which Anna and Georg had both been looking forward, though in somewhat varying degrees, dies. Georg accepts a post of conductor in a German town. Anna reassumes the normal tenor of her spinster life. Finis. Neither conventional marriage nor even more conventional suicide, but just life, a slice of sheer probable real convincing life. But the book is far more than the history of Anna, and far more than the history of Georg, even though it would appear at first sight that the enumeration of Georg's emotions tends somewhat to swamp the four hundred and sixty pages of this novel which yet reads so shortly. For Georg's soul is a mirror which reflects not only itself but a considerable number of the more interesting characters of a specific modern Viennese set. And the lives of Anna and Georg touch the lives of numerous other persons, persons too who, at any rate, give the impression of being no mere characters in novels, but of having been honourably plagiarised, and without suffering either caricature or idealisation in the process, from the pages of the book of life itself. And all these various lives are followed up and adumbrated and described at greater or lesser detail. Of course they have nothing to do with the story of Georg von Wergenthin. But they play an important part in the life of Georg von Wergenthin, just as he plays a more or less important part in their existence. And though of course Georg is the nominal hero of the book, it is the modern Jewish set with, of course, its Gentile appanages which constitutes the real subject-matter. And how vivid and interesting on their merits are all these characters--old Ehrenberg, the Jewish millionaire, with his delightful habit of talking Yiddish before smart company, specially to annoy his snobbish son Oskar; Oskar himself, who, on being caught by his father in the flagrant act of posing as a Catholic in front of a church and given a box on the ears by way of reproof, makes an abortive attempt to commit hara-kiri with a revolver; Else Ehrenberg, the temperamental, but unmarried sister of Oskar; Heinrich Bermann, the brilliant self-centred author, with his grand passion for his faithless actress in the foreign town; Leo Golowski, the enthusiastic Zionist; Therese Golowski, the Socialist agitatress, with her temporary trip with that fascinating hussar-officer, Demeter Stanzides; Winternitz, the poet, with his not very _soigné_ hands and his naïf mania for reciting his own erotic verses; Dr. Stauber, the benevolent modern of the last generation; Anna herself, with her soft wistfulness and her essential dignity; Sissy Wyner, with her high wanton spirits and pretty English accent; and of course Georg himself, Georg the aristocrat, Georg the _grand amoureux_, Georg the composer, Georg the dilettante, Georg the drifter, Georg the ineffectual.

In the technique of this novel Schnitzler marks what we suggest to be a new departure, by the insertion of substantial slabs of past life into the analysis of his hero's thoughts, a process which by a tremendous economy of space and time thus describes simultaneously the inner workings of Georg's mind, and simultaneously narrates important pieces of antecedent history which have no place in the official action of the novel.

Some tribute, also, must be paid to the style, which is at times soft and sweet, at times light and crisp, yet always lucid, always individual, and always possessed of that gracefulness which is so rare a quality in German prose literature.

To revert to Schnitzler the dramatist, what are his chief claims, his chief excellences, his chief defects? It seems to us that the essence of his merit lies in the fact that, speaking broadly, he handles problems neither as ends in themselves, as do the more advanced of our own dramatists, nor yet, like Sudermann, as mere pegs on which to hang violently theatrical stage effects. Some problem may constitute the centre of most of his plays; yet, with a few exceptions, this problem is not presented too nakedly or without sufficient relief. Each problem is bathed in an artistic atmosphere, and each character in the picture limned with the most subtle psychology. It is true that, as has already been pointed out, many of the acts in his early longer dramas exhibit too strong a tendency to form self-independent pictures; yet it is this defect which forms the chief charm of his one-acters. It is true that nearly all his characters are Bohemian--artists, flâneurs, actresses, journalists, doctors, painters--yet each author creates, as of right, the population of his own individual world; and is it not rather a claim to glory to have attained such heights of dramatic celebrity without having written more than one single play specifically devoted to fashionable life? It is true that the ethics of these plays, with their chronic and inevitable intrigues, may strike the English mind as somewhat unusual; yet Schnitzler enjoys the reputation of being the most brilliant and accurate portrayer of contemporary Viennese life. It is, moreover, in the nature of all problem plays that they should be pieces of special pleading, where the other side is allowed just so much of a hearing as will not permit of its convincing. After all, from the standpoint of dramatic art, that which counts is not the ethics, but the presentation of the problem.

Yet, with all his subtlety and all his problems, he is never heavy. Vienna stands intellectually nearer to Paris than to Berlin, so that the Teutonic introspection and sentimentalism are touched with a Gallic sprightliness and a Gallic grace. No dramatist has written tragedy with so light a hand, or comedy with so ironically pathetic a smile, as has Arthur Schnitzler.

[Footnote 1: "Der Freiwild" (sic); correct title is "Freiwild"--transcriber's note (M.D.)]

[Footnote 2: "Rohring" is "Rönning" in the original play--transcriber's note (M.D.)]

ÉMILE VERHAEREN

"Mais les plus exaltés se dirent dans leur cœur, 'Partons quand même avec notre âme inassouvie Puisque la force et que la vie Sont au delà des vérités et des erreurs.'"

"Vivre c'est prendre et donner avec liesse. Toute la vie est dans l'essor."

The above principles, prefixed to the _Forces Tumultueuses_ of Émile Verhaeren, are well fitted to supply the key to a man who both in thought and in technique is indisputably the most modern and the most massive force in the whole of contemporary European poetry. For Verhaeren is no narrow specialist with an outlook limited to some particular sphere. He is the singer of the whole fulness of modern European life as a whole, with its clashes, its complexities, its agonies and its tensions, its deserted country-sides and its pullulating metropoles, its armaments and its Armageddons, its brothels, cathedrals, laboratories and Stock Exchanges, its sciences and its sensualities, its arts, philosophies and aspirations. His muse is no serene nymph piping delicately on some Parnassian slope, but an extremely tumultuous Amazon, at once primeval, and ultra-modern, chanting the pæan of battle, steeped in the wine of victory, and suckling the supermen of the future on her universal breasts. No muse in the whole of literature is more highly charged with vitality, and no reader is qualified to enjoy her unless he, too, is charged to the maximum with "the red tonic liquor of a harsh and formidable reality."

Let us then glance first at the early _milieu_ of a man who combines the exultant fury of the lyric with the wide outlook of the cosmopolitan sociologist, and who can incidentally beat both Baudelaire and Wordsworth at their own respective game.

Verhaeren was born on the 21st May 1855 at St. Amand in Belgium, one of the most strenuous countries in the modern world, which, it is interesting to remember, holds the European record for sensualism, alcoholism, and clericalism. St. Amand is situated on the broad plains of the Scheldt, and it is not unimportant to lay some stress on the Flemish ancestry and environment of a man who, though he wrote in the French language, is more Germanic than Gallic in his temperament, and who represents in the sphere of verse perhaps the nearest analogue to the crass majesty and red sensuality of Rubens. His early country upbringing, moreover, is responsible for that _joie de vivre_ in the fields, and, above all, the wind, the symbolisation of fury and rebellion which was to inspire those nature lyrics, many of which are nearly as great, though by no means as interesting, as his cosmic and metropolitan poems.

Verhaeren was originally intended for the priest-hood, and was educated at the Jesuit school of St. Barbe in Ghent, where he had for his schoolfellows such men as Maeterlinck, Van Lenbergh, and Rodenbach. Leaving school, he went to Brussels, where he felt "his multiplied heart grow and become exalted" with the roaring intensity of metropolitan life. All thoughts of a holy life were now abandoned, and in 1881 the poet was called to the Bar. His chief interests, however, were literature, Socialism, and Brussels life. Joining the Young Belgian group under the leadership of Edmond Picard, he became a frequent contributor to _L'Art Moderne_ and _La Jeune Belgique_. Politically he was a Socialist, associated himself with the Socialist leader Vandervelde, and was one of the founders of the philanthropic _Maison des Peuples_.

But it was in the poetic representation of "the monstrous scenery of the crass Flemish Kermesses" (_Les Flamands_, 1883) that Verhaeren gave the first vent to his violent virility. In this work a Rubensesque and Rabelaisian subject-matter is treated with poetic exaltation by a man who found in the great national festivals of past and present Flanders, with

"Des chocs de corps, des heurts de chair et des bourrades, Des lèchements subis dans un etreignement,"

the same patriotic inspiration which Mr. G. K. Chesterton has discovered in that beer; into which he has, as it were, so successfully transubstantiated the whole national spirit of our English body-politic. Thus our poet wallows defiantly in the black roughness of his Flemish peasants:

"Les voici noirs, grossiers, bestiaux--ils sont tels,"

or casts regretful glances towards the healthier grossness of the artists of old Flanders:

"Vos pinceaux ignoraient le fard, Les indécences, les malices, Et les sous-entendus de vice Qui clignent l'œil dans notre art, Vos femmes suaient la santé, Rouge de sang blanche de graisse, Elles menaient les ruts en laisse Avec des airs de royauté."

But these poems are far more than mere erotic or gastronomic diversions. Somewhat turgid, no doubt, with red health, they yet possess the same sweep and the same impetus with which Aristophanes himself once gave expression to the riotous fecundity of the earth and the Dionysian forces of nature.

In _Les Moines_ (_The Monks_, 1886), Verhaeren treats a subject-matter which _primâ facie_ would seem to denote the abandonment of the cult of the flesh for the cult of the spirit. Yet such veneration as the poet may ever have possessed for the Catholic creed was æsthetic rather than religious. He penetrates, it is true, into the "enormous shrine where the Middle Ages slumber," but it is less to worship than to describe in a rigid, but majestic prosody "the grand survivors of the Christian world"--the

"Moines venus vers nous des horizons gothiques Mais dont l'âme mais dont l'esprit meurt de demain."

Psychologically the interesting feature of this work is that, so far from being in any way obsessed by any Chestertonian nostalgia for a dead and mediæval past, the poet anticipates with all apparent serenity the day when "the final blasphemy will have transpierced God like to an immense sword." Even, moreover, in these, as it were, antiquarian descriptions the poet emphasizes the contrast between the visionary life of the cloister (a life, albeit, where occasionally

"Un repas colossal souffle fourneaux béants Éructant vers l'azur sa flamme et sa fumée")

and the real life of the outside world, and seems by no means unsympathetic to the rebellious monk who requires

"Le ciel torride et le désert et l'air des monts Et les tentations en rut des vieux demons Agaçant de leurs doigts la chair enflée des gouges En lui brûlant la lèvre avec de grands seins rouges."

Yet both _Les Flamands_ and _Les Moines_ seem quite innocent and playful in comparison with the great black trinity of _Les Soirs, Les Débâcles_, and _Les Flambeaux Noirs_ (1887-1891), in which Verhaeren gave expression to the mental and physical crisis which for a time seemed to imperil both his life and his reason. In these poems, many of which were written in London and its

"Gares de suie et de fumée ou du gaz pleure Ses spleens d'argent lointain vers des chemins d'éclair, Où des bêtes d'ennui baillent à l'heure Dolente immensément qui tinte à Westminster,"

Verhaeren leaves the objective mood of his earlier poems to clothe his soul in the Nessian shirt of the most poisonous subjectivity. But true tragic dignity stalks in the very extremity of his agony. Compared, indeed, with the gigantic bass of this unhappiness, black, definite, drastic, what is the grey wistfulness of Verlaine but the hysterical falsetto of a whining child? Verhaeren, on the other hand, with the ecstatic defiance of a kind of Nietzschean Prometheus sets himself to plumb the lowest abysses of despair, and himself eggs on the eagles of torment to devour every shred of his own soul. With "brutal teeth of fire and madness he bites and outrages his own heart within him," lashes himself in his thought and in his blood, in his effort, in his hope, in his blasphemy:

"Et quand lève le soir son calice de lie Je me le verse à boire insatiablement."

Or take again the sinister gusto of the passage:

"Aurai-j'enfin l'atroce joie De voir nuits après nuits comme une proie La démence attaquer mon cerveau, Et détraque, malade, sorti de la prison Et des travaux forcés de sa raison D'appareiller vers un lointain nouveau?"

The technique of these poems is worthy of some study. Having little use for the orthodox alexandrine (except in a few instances like _Le Gel_, where the icy massiveness of the blocked couplets faithfully mirrors the polar desolation of his own soul), he fashions his own metres to incarnate his own moods. Such a refrain as "Ce minuit dallé d'ennui" will boom out again and again the dull monotonous clank of his own weary spirit. At other times the grinding engines of a disorganised mind whirr and jar with spasmodic feverishness:

"C'est l'heure où les hallucinés, Les gueux, et les déracinés Dressent leur orgueil dans la vie."

Note, too, the ghastly effectiveness of the internal rhymes. Is not, for instance, such a line as

"Les chiens du noir espoir out aboyé ce soir"

a triple series, as it were, of metrical mirrors, where the bitten mind barks savagely back at its own mad image. Or listen to the Titanic thud of such a line as

"La Mer choque ses blocs de flots contre les rocs,"

or the silent smash of

"Dites suis-je seul avec mon âme, Mon âme hélas maison d'ébène Où s'est fendu sans bruit un soir Le grand miroir de mon espoir?"

At times transcending the blank negativity of despair, the poet will coquet positively with his own madness, as he wanders "hallucinated in the forest of numbers," or wishes to march towards "madness and her suns, her white suns of moonlight in the great weird noon, and her distant echoes bitten by dins and barkings and full of vermilion hounds." Or abandoning the more specific formulation of his own emotions, he will give vent to his feelings by letting his brain dance upon the lurid boards of some _macabre_ theme. The little poem, _La Tête_, is dank with all the smooth bloodiness of the guillotine, while the _Dame en Noir_, with the ghastly rhymes and assurances of its refrain, is swathed in a black pathos, in comparison with which the most lurid horrors of Baudelaire appear the mere artificial extravagances of a perverse mind.

As we have already seen, the blackness of the trilogy which we have just considered was no mere dabbling in morbidity, but the genuine expression of a genuine unhappiness. In, however, _Les Apparus dans Mes Chemins, Les Vignes de Ma Muraille_ the storm gradually exhausts itself, and is replaced by a more serene and confident mood. Contrast, for instance, with the drastic violence of _Les Débâcles_ the jaded weariness of such a lyric as _Celui de la Fatigue_, where the poet sings of an "ardour broken on the whirling staircase of the infinite," or of such a passage as

"Je m'habille des loques de mes jours Et le bâton de mon orgueil il plie, Mes pieds dites comme ils sont lourds De me porter de me trainer toujours Au long de siècle de ma vie."

And as a complete antithesis, again, to the black bloodiness of such poems as _La Tête_ or _Un Meurtre,_ take the white suavity of _St. Georges_:

"Il vient un bel ambassadeur Du pays blanc illuminé de marbres Où dans les pares au bords des mers sur l'arbre De la bonté suavement croit la douceur."

But this serenity marked rather a respite in Verhaeren's development than a real abatement of his poetic fury. With the furnaces of his mind recharged to their maximum capacity with blazing health, he starts to race his muse over the main lines of the modern civilisation, which lead from _The Hallucinated Country-sides_ to _The Tentacular Towns_. Though written at different times, these two sets of poems constitute the contrasting halves of a complete whole, and were published together in 1895 with two prologues, _La Ville_ and _La Plaine_. The prologues, in particular, well illustrate the new rushing irregular prosody, specially forged for the purpose of hammering out that white-hot steel of the modern civilisation which enmeshes in its fabric all the helpless flotsam of the agricultural economy. The academic harmony of the alexandrine is here abandoned. The rhymes crash out at lesser and greater intervals as they march along on feet that range from the quick spasm of some dissyllabic line to the spondaic emphasis of a full-length alexandrine.

In _Les Campagnes Hallucinés_ itself the prosody is no doubt simpler, as the poet describes the ruined and pestilential country with its fevers, its sins, its beggars, its pilgrims, its diseases, insanities and débauchés, and the immense monotony of its interminable plains.

"C'est la plaine, la plaine blême Interminablement toujours la même, Par au-dessus, souvent Rage si forte le vent, Que l'on dirait le ciel fendu Au coup de boxe De l'équinoxe; Novembre hurle ainsi qu'un loup Lamentable par le soir fou."

Perhaps, however, the most sinister poems in _Les Campagnes_ are the _Chansons de Fou_, with their naïf absurdities and their intuitive reason, where the rhymes laugh and clatter like rows of grinning teeth, and the almost Dureresque _Le Fléau_, from its exordium,

"La Mort a bu du sang Au cabaret des Trois Cercueils La Mort a mis sur le comptoir Un écu noir, 'C'est pour les cierges, pour les deuils,'"

down to its ghastly climax,

"Et les foules suivaient vers n'importent où, Le grand squelette aimable et soûl Qui trimballait sur son cheval bonhomme L'épouvante de sa personne, Jusqu'aux lointains de peur et de panique, Sans éprouver l'horreur de son odeur, Ni voir danser, sous un repli de sa tunique, Le trousseau de vers blancs qui lui têtaient le cœur."

The final significance of _Les Campagnes_ lies in its last poem, _Le Départ_, describing the desertion by the whole country-side of that dead mournful plain which is being eaten up by the town.

"Tandis qu'au loin là-bas Sous les cieux lourds fuligineux et gras, Avec son front comme un Thabor, Avec ses sugoirs noirs et ses rouges haleines Hallucinant et attirant les gens des plaines, C'est la ville que le jour plombe et que la nuit éclaire La ville en plâtre, en stuc, en bois, en marbre, en fer, en or-- Tentaculaire."

It is, however, in _Les Villes Tentaculaires_, where the fever and indefatigable aspiration of the town are described with a Zolaesque exaltation, that the originality of the departure initiated by Verhaeren is more specifically manifested. For he now boldly stalks forward as the pioneer realist in European poetry. Disregarding alike the orthodox subject-matter and the orthodox terminology of official poesy, he seeks and finds his inspiration in the vast forces at work in actual modern life. The realism of Verhaeren, in somewhat pointed contrast to the realism of some of our own patriotic or fashionable poets, even though such expressions as "cabs" and "steamers" are to be found in his work in the original English, depends for its æsthetic value neither on the swing of its slang nor the egregiousness of its expletives. The hot blast of his sincerity sweeps away at once any impeachment of mere dabbling in the ultra-modern. His diction is frequently brusque, and even red, if we may borrow his favourite colour, if not his favourite adjective; yet it never loses the dignity of authentic poetry. For the poet would seem to have been personally susceptible, in the highest degree, to that peculiar multiplication of vitality and intensification of emotion which is the essential effect produced by big metropoles upon certain temperaments. And this cerebral ecstasy is increased by the consciousness of being on the threshold of a new age, "for the ancient dream is dead, and the new one is now being forged." Thus the poet will wander into _The Cathedrals_, take pity on the multitudinous misery of the praying hordes, and boom out again and again the refrain:

"Ô ces foules, ces foules Et la misère et la détresse qui les foulent."

But note the sociological symbolism of the climax:

"Et les vitraux grands de siècles agenouillés Devant le Christ avec leurs papes immobiles Et leurs martyrs et leurs héros semblent trembler Au bruit d'un train lointain qui roule sur la ville."

For refusing to bear the cross of Gothic ideas, the poet plunges deliberately into the inferno of modern life. And each fresh circle but kindles his ardour and inflames his Muse. For he will pass with growing exaltation from the muscled teeming life of the port to the garish ballet of a music hall where

"Des bataillons de chair et de cuisses en marche Grouillent sur des rampes ou sous des arches, Jambes, hanches, gorges, maillots, jupes, dentelles,"

and then, as midnight strikes and the crowd ebbs away, he will stalk into the "brilliant chemical atmosphere" where

"Au long de promenoirs qui s'ouvrent sur la nuit --Balcons de fleurs, rampes de flammes-- Des femmes en deuil de leur âme Entrecroisent leurs pas sans bruit."

Nor does the poet disdain the grinding factories where

"Entre des murs de fer et pierre Soudainement se lève altière La force en rut de la matière,"

or even the Bourse itself, where he sings in feverish staccato rhythm the

"Langues sèches, regards aigus, gestes inverses, Et cervelles qu'en tourbillons les millions traversent."

But it is typical of Verhaeren's essential optimism that after describing with Zolaesque detail both a strike and a "shop of luxury," he should find the ransom of the future in

"La maison de la science au loin dardée Obstinément par à travers les faits jusqu'aux idées."

In _Les Heures Claires_ (1896) the drastic violence of _Les Villes Tentaculaires_ abates for the time being into a mood of resigned, but yet robust melancholy, which immortalises the sweetness, deepness, and softness of the poet's love for his wife.

In _Les Forces Tumultueuses_, however, the poet has got once again into the full swing of his drastic stride. The mood is to some extent the same as that of _Les Villes Tentaculaires_, though the Zolaesque concreteness of detail is merged in the broadness of a genuine Lucretian sweep. The book consists of a series of lyrical poems, lyrical, albeit, in the sense rather of Pindar than of Herrick, which exalt the various phases of human energy. Thus in the poem, _L'Art,_ Verhaeren soars upwards with a tremendous rush:

"D'un bond Son pied cassant le sol profond Son double aile dans la lumière Le cou tendu, le feu sous les paupières Partit, vers le soleil et vers l'extase, Ce dévoreur d'espace et de splendeur Pégase."

In _Les Maîtres_ the poet describes the various types of superman, from "the monk" of the Middle Ages to the banker of the twentieth century, who dominates the world as he "binds sinister destiny to his bourgeois will," and sows in the distance his winged gold.

"Son or aile qui s'enivre d'espace, Son or planant, son or rapace, Son or vivant, Son or dont s'éclairent et rayonnent les vents, Son or qui boit la terre Par les pores de son misère Son or ardent, son or furtif, son or retors. Morceau d'espoir et de soleil--son or!"

Some mention must also be made of the poem, _Les Femmes_, which, subdivided into _L'Éternelle, L'Amante,_ _L'Amazone_, ranks in our view as the greatest sex poem of the century. In contrast, for instance, with Swinburne, who treats sex rather as a thing of beauty and of pleasure than as an underlying world-force, and who has both the advantage and the disadvantage of the specifically classical conception of life, Verhaeren, whether he rings his changes in _L'Amante_ on the soft refrain, "Mon rêve est embarqué dans une île flottante," shows in _L'Amazone_ that the New Woman can be something considerably more poetic than a Strindbergian monstrosity, or sings in _L'Éternelle_ her "who thinks she encloses the whole world within her flesh," will boom out again and again the cosmic and universal peal. The verse throughout is as beautiful as can be desired. But it has something more than beauty; it has stature, majesty, speed, force, that exaltation of reality which is the essence of the highest poetry.

In the poems, _La Science_, _L'Erreur, La Folie_, _Les Cultes_, Verhaeren proceeds to formulate his own philosophy of life, and his prophetic enthusiasm for the new modern truths, under whose clear feet the old texts have crumbled, as he expounds

"Comment la vie est une à travers tous les êtres Qu'ils soient matière instruit esprit ou volonté Forêt myriadaire et rouge où s'enchevêtrent Les débordements fous de la fécondité."

Put shortly, his philosophy is a compound of those of Nietzsche and of Bergson. His soul, no doubt, swings in unison with the universal rhythm of the world, but, like Nietzsche, he finds in force and life realities transcending all errors, and after a historic survey of the more popular deities of humanity from Gog to Jehovah, and from Satan to Christ, enunciates his belief in humanity in stanzas of sublime blasphemy, far more truly religious than the ambiguous scrolls and rubrics of any antiquarian creed:

"L'homme respire et sur la terre il marche, seul. Il vit pour s'exalter du monde et de lui-même, Sa langue oublie et la prière et le blasphême; Ses pieds foulent le drap de son ancien linceul. Il est l'heureuse audace au lieu d'être la crainte; Tout l'infini ne retentit que de ses bonds Vers l'avenir plus doux, plus clair et plus féconds Dont s'aggrave le chant et s'alentit la plainte. Penser, chercher, et découvrir sont ses exploits. Il emplit jusqu'aux bords son existence brêve; Il n'enfle aucun espoir, il ne fausse aucun rêve, Et s'il lui faut des Dieux encore--qu'il les soit!"

In _La Multiple Splendeur_ and _Les Visages de la Vie_ the same insatiable gusto for an infinitude of life darts again and again its red tongue. It is impossible by mere quotation to do justice to the full vastness of Verhaeren's lyric sweep. We would, however, at any rate, refer to the majesty of _Le Monde_ with its combined crash and concord of incessant life and the Cyclopean weight of the adamantine line which buttresses at either end the flaming rivers of its verse,

"Le monde est fait avec des astres et des hommes,"

or to the sublimity of _Les Penseurs_ in which the poet tells how

"Autour de la terre obsédée Circule au fond des nuits, au cœur des jours Toujours L'orage amoncelé des idées,"

and how

"Descartes et Spinoza, Leibniz, Kant et Hegel"

"fixed the highest pinnacles of inaccessible problems for the goal of their silver arrows, and carried within themselves the grand obstinate dream of one day, imprisoning eternity in the white ice of immobile truth."

The very names, too, of some of the poems may possibly reflect some of the facets of their multiplied splendour: _Le Verbe, Les Vieux Empires, La Louange du Corps Humain, A la Gloire des Cieux, A la Gloire du Vent, Les Rêves, L'Europe, La Conquête, Les Souffrances, La Joie, La Ferveur, Les Idées, La Vie, L'Effort, L'Action, Plus Loin que les Gares, Le Soir_. And again and again rings out in various keys the true Nietzschean note. For "vast hopes come from the unknown" has displaced the ancient balance whereof souls are now tired. But the only reality is life:

"La vie en cris ou en silence, La vie en lutte ou en accord Avec la vie avec la mort La vie âpre, la vie intense, Elle est ici dans la fureur ou dans la haine De l'ascendant et rouge ardeur humaine."

It is fine proof also of the vast vitality of Verhaeren that even in so recent a work as _Les Rhythmes Souveraines_ the muscled majesty of his verse, though possibly a trifle less violent, shows no abatement of its essential strength. We would mention in particular the poems _Michel Ange, Chant d'Hercule, Les Barbares_ with the swift crispness of its one-foot lines, and above all _Le Paradis_ with its almost Miltonic picture of

"L'archange endormant Ève au creux de sa grande aile."

But does not Verhaeren transcend Milton in the wideness of his humanity when he describes not with regret but with the maximum of exalted exultation how

"Ève bondit soudain hors de son aile immense, Oh l'heureuse subite et féconde démence, Que l'ange avec son cœur trop pur ne comprit pas."

In his latest volume, _Les Blés Mouvants_, Verhaeren sinks back no doubt to a quieter and serener mood, but who shall say that these eclogues do not simply represent the sage crouch for another leonine spring?

We do not propose to make more than a passing reference to Verhaeren's plays, for it is the lyric rather than the drama which is his true medium of expression.

_Hélène de Sparte_, with all its graceful Alexandrines, is inferior to any play by D'Annunzio, and even the socialist drama _Les Aubes_ is, notwithstanding the fine verses with which it is sown, simply stiff and heavy when compared with Hauptmann's _Weavers_. It is by his lyrics that Verhaeren lives, and will continue to live beyond his mere death whenever it comes, as the greatest and most essentially European poet of our new age. For his lyrics are equally great, both in their message and the method of their expression. Disdaining alike the cowardice and the perversity of those who, refusing to face the red realities of the present century, fly for their comfort to the pale shadows of the Middle Ages, Verhaeren has plunged boldly into the very brazier of our modern existence. He affirms, he combats, he prophesies, but he rarely, if ever, rests. He hymns every phase of life, from the human brain to the human body, and from the winds and seas of nature to the towns and marts of man. And no message is more virile, more tonic, more essentially healthy, for is not his message the phœnix of a new humanitarian faith soaring aloft on its fiery wings out of the corpses of the decomposing dogmas? And his prosody has the supreme excellence that it is not a mere æsthetic end in itself, but a drastic instrument of expression. Your pure æsthete, no doubt, may cavil at his ruggedness. For he is the Rodin of poetical rhyme, the veritable Vulcan of verse, or rather a Siegfried forging the sword of the future on the anvil of the present, as he drives in the stubborn nails of his nouns with the hissing hammers of his adjectives. His lines no doubt at times will growl, grind and boom, hit the reader in the face with all the force of a clenched fist, and palpitate with a full-bloodedness somewhat overpowering for the jaded and the anæmic. But is not this the very seal of success in a man who specifically sets himself to sing not the mere beauty of beauty, but the beauty of force, the beauty of life, "life violent, prodigious, unsatiated, the universal spasm of all things"?

THE FUTURE OF FUTURISM

"Repose-toi!... Repose-toi!... il n'est doux que dormir!..."

"Non, la vie est à brûler comme un falot de paille, Il faut l'ingurgiter d'une lampe hardie, Tels ces jongleurs de foire qui vont mangeant du feu D'un coup de langue, escamotant la Mort dans l'estomac."

The above quotation from M. Marinetti's poem, _Le Démon de la Vitesse_, is well adapted to give some idea of the feverish but sustained energy of those pictures whose recent exhibition in the Sackville Gallery so successfully scandalised not only the _doyens_ of the Royal Academy but even the official champions of all that is new and progressive in our modern English art. But for a correct appreciation even of the Futurist pictures themselves, it is essential to realise that, so far from being the mere isolated extravagances and _tours de force_ of a new technique, they constitute an integral part of a living scheme, which with all its lavish use of the most ostentatious hyperbolism, has yet claims to be seriously considered as a substantial movement, artistic, literary, economic, sociological, and above all human.

Let us then make some scrutiny of this "Rising City" of Futurism, as it rears with such vehement exaltation from out the trampled debris of a superseded and dishonoured past. For this purpose, having first examined those conditions of contemporary Italy which more immediately provoked this "Red Rebellion," we shall proceed to some analysis of the general character of the movement and of the aggressive and sensational works of M. Marinetti himself, the audacious Mercury of this new message.

The direct cause of the Futurist movement is to be found in the fact that that modern current of electric energy, which has been galvanising the states of Northern and Central Europe to a more and more strenuous and a more and more complicated activity has, so far as Italy is concerned, not succeeded in flowing further south than Milan. In this connection it is not without its significance that, while Milan is indubitably the vital and commercial capital of the peninsula, the official capital should be merely Rome, aureoled with its hybrid halo of majesty and malaria, the centre of the tourist, the archæologist, and the Papacy, that august shadow of a once living empire.

Even, moreover, the great heroes of the _Risorgimento Italiano_, the euphonious title by which Italians designate the unification of their country, suffered from an undue obsession with the democratic ideals of a mediæval past. Dissipating their energy in rushing reams of republican rhetoric or the purple pomp of patriotic platitudes, they remained sublimely oblivious to the crying economic needs of a country which, with all its natural richness and all its natural genius, still, so far as general material and intellectual progress is concerned, lags no inconsiderable distance behind the increasingly quick march of the European civilisation. Nor did matters improve when the régime of the naïf idealists was succeeded by that of the opportunist bureaucracy which has since governed Italy. A vast portion of the country still remains unforested, uncultivated, unirrigated, and above all uneducated. The taint of malaria still infects wide tracts of land, which with proper treatment might have been profitably developed by those masses of sturdy labourers who have emigrated to America with an almost Irish eagerness. Indeed with all respect to M. Marinetti, who has himself fought in the Tripolitan trenches, the Italo-Turkish war was occasioned (if we can rely on one of the most brilliant and responsible of the Parisian reviews) not so much by a _bonâ fide_ desire to find a place in the sun for the not yet surplus population of a not yet fully developed country, as by an indisputably authentic ambition to find a lucrative outlet for the money of the clique of clerical capitalists who control the Bank of Rome. So far, however, as no inconsiderable portion of Italy itself is concerned, we are confronted with a country of museums, ruins, and ciceroni which, exploiting the _Fremdenindustrie_ after the manner of some more perverse and inexcusable Switzerland, prostitutes with venal ostentation the faded beauties of its undoubtedly glorious past to the complete ruin of its only potentially splendid present.

A certain pseudo-Nietzscheanism has no doubt been introduced into Italy beneath the auspices of D'Annunzio. Yet, with all his fanfaronnade of tense and exuberant virility, the atmosphere of D'Annunzio is, speaking broadly, moistly rank and exotically enervating. With the possible exception of his latest novel, his heroes are languidly feverish dilettantes whose lives are principally devoted to the literary and æsthetic cultivation of all the neurotic luxuriance of their own erotic morbidities. This brings us to the important sociological fact of that rigid obsession with sex, as the one paramount emotional, artistic, and vital value which, sapping the manhood not only of Italy but also indeed of France, tends to corrupt the whole social, political, and economic life of the two nations.

It is this exaggerated preoccupation with the sexual aspect of life which has produced, by way of a vehement but deliberate _riposte_, the important Futurist maxim, "Méprisez la femme." With an enthusiasm in fact almost worthy of our own Young Men's Christian Association, these comparative Hippolyti of a young mother-country, only recently wedded in the bonds of political union, flaunt themselves as the unscrupulous iconoclasts of such firmly established national ideals as "the glorious conception of Don Juan and the grotesque conception of the cocu." Thus the Futurists would banish the nude from painting and adultery from the novel, so that they may be able to substitute the sublime male fury of creation of artistic and scientific masterpieces for all the sterile embraces of hedonistic eroticism, and, like some gallant band of twentieth-century Hercules, cleanse the Augean stables of the Latin civilisation of its vast surplus of malignant mud vomited forth by that stewing and pestiferous swamp of sex. As an antidote to that virulent plague of luxurious and diseased sexuality, which it is their self-imposed mission to eradicate, they pen the drastic prescription of "patriotism and war, the only hygiene of the world." So hot indeed is the ardour of these militant apostles of a new Latin civilisation, that they once incurred the displeasure of established authority by insisting on a war with Austria with such a maxim of vehemence that an Austrian journal actually demanded the intervention of the Italian Government.

And whether this policy indicates the mere tetanic spasms of a delirious Chauvinism, or the lucid vision of an inspired if heretical diplomacy, it is certainly symptomatic of a tense, combative, and drastic energy which is, in the deepest sense of the word, essentially Nietzschean. In this connection the attitude of the Futurists towards Nietzsche is instructive. They have read his books, thrilled to his magic, and yet they repudiate him. For they cavil, and not altogether unreasonably, at the bigoted and hidebound dualism of Nietzsche's political philosophy, and his obstinate and obsolete division of the political world into the divine spirit of a few strong geniuses and the brute matter of a weak and numerous proletariate.

Yet, taking the matter in its broad lines, M. Marinetti's programme for "the indefinite physiological and intellectual progress of man" expresses admirably the whole theory of the Nietzschean Superman. Nietzschean also are such phrases as, "the type inhuman, mechanical, cruel, omniscient and combative," or "the multiplied man who mingles with iron, nourishes himself on electricity, and only appreciates the delight of the danger and of the heroism of every single day." The real distinction lies in the fact that the Futurist Superman is more practical, more concrete, more up-to-date, and, above all, infinitely less dreamy than his elder and more pedantic brother.

And in spite of M. Marinetti's analysis of Nietzscheanism as nothing but the artificial resurrection of a dead and past antiquity, the two ideals are harmonious in their denunciation of the facile and automatic reverence for "the good old days," and their savage exhortation to "sweep away the grey cinders of the Past with the incandescent lava of the Future."

This announcement of a virile desire to improve and improve and improve, not only on the past but also on the present, constitutes the principal mark in the Futurist platform. Hence the leaders of the movement have coined the two words _passéisme_, the object of their onslaught, and _Futurism_, the watch-word of their faith. And truculently pushing their theories to the extreme limit of extravagant logic, M. Marinetti and his brothers in arms exhorted the assembled Venetians, in the 200,000 multicoloured manifestos which on a certain memorable day they flung down into the Piazza San Marco, "to cure and cicatrize this rotting town, magnificent wound of the Past, and to hasten to fill its small fœtid canals with the ruins of its tumbling, leprous palaces." But the remedy is constructive as well as destructive.

"Burn the gondolas, those swings for fools, and erect up to the sky the rigid geometry of large metallic bridges and factories with waving hair of smoke; abolish everywhere the languishing curve of the old architecture."

We see at once how, in this more than Wellsian enthusiasm for all the romantic possibilities of a scientific civilisation, they declare the most sanguinary war _à l'outrance_ with that Ruskinian and Pre-Raphaelite sentimentalism which, sublimely burying its mediæval head in the immemorial sands of a crumbling past, is somewhat ill-adapted to confront the onrushing simoon of an increasingly definite and formidable future. And with the deliberate object of emphasizing his point with the maximum of provocative aggressiveness, the Futurist will fling at his enemies the insolent paradox that a motor-car in motion has a higher æsthetic value than the Victory of Samothrace, or announce with theatrical solemnity that the pain of a man is just about as interesting in their eyes as the pain of an electric lamp, suffering in convulsive spasms and crying out with the most agonising effects of colour.

Yet if we strip this new "beauty of mechanism" and "æsthetic of speed" of its loud garb of ostentatious extravagance, the intrinsic theories themselves strike us as neither monstrous nor unreasonable. For if we may presume to put our own unauthorised gloss on M. Marinetti's vividly illuminated manuscript, what the Futurist really wishes is to break down the conventional divorce that is so often thought to exist between ideal Art and actual Life, so as to bring the two elements into the most drastic and immediate contact. Art, in fact, should not be an escape _from_ but an exaltation _of_ the red impetus of life. Art's function is not merely to titillate the dispassionate æsthetic feeling of the dilettante or connoisseur, but to thrill with a keen vital emotion the actual experiencer of life. Form is not an end in itself, its sole function is to extract the whole emotional quality of its content. And when confronted with the problem of what content is best fitted to be the proper subject of artistic representation, your Futurist would promptly retort that, inasmuch as the tumultuous twentieth-century emotions of "steel, pride, fever, and speed" are those to which the twentieth-century civilisation will naturally vibrate with the most authentic sympathy, those emotions and those alone are the proper subject-matter for twentieth-century art.

Having thus obtained some rough idea of the broad lines of the new Futurism, let us proceed to examine its manifestation in the spheres of painting and literature. So far as their painting is concerned, the primary principle of the Futurists is their subordination of intrinsic æsthetic form to emotional content. This principle, though carried to a pitch far transcending anything which had ever been previously essayed, is by no means without its exemplifications, in the history both of past and contemporary art. Even indeed in the eighteenth century Blake had transferred on to the painted canvas his highly abstract ideas of esoteric mysticism. The content of the pictures of Blake is of course diametrically opposed to the content of the Futurists, yet an authentic analogy lies in the fact that a content at all should have been specifically painted. With a similar qualification we can remember with advantage how Rossetti and Burne-Jones, as indisputably modern in the fact that they had the courage to paint a content at all, as they were indisputably reactionary in the actual content which they felt inspired to portray, gave pictorial representation to the Pre-Raphaelite nostalgia for a præ-mediæval past. More analogous are the canvases of Franz von Stuck, the Munich Secessionist, who also sets out to paint ideas and to give æsthetic form to psychological contents. Thus his _Krieg_, with its grimly triumphant rider, steadfastly pursuing the goal of an ideal, future over the wallowing corpses of a transcended present, expresses perfectly in the sphere of paint the whole spirit of the Nietzschean Superman.

Even better examples of the growing predominance of the content in the sphere of art are to be found in Rodin, who moulds even in immobile statuary something of the tumultuous sweep of the present age, or in Max Klinger the creator in concrete form of the most abstract and impalpable ideas.

So also modern music, as represented at any rate by the tense restlessness of Richard Strauss with all his fine shades of crouching fear and exultant cruelty, or the mystical sensuousness of Debussy, ceases to be a mere meaningless euphony of pleasing melody, devoid of any vital significance except its own æsthetic beauty, sets itself more and more to travel, in the sphere of sound, over the whole vibrant gamut of the human emotions.

To achieve the presentation of a content with the maximum of drastic effect, the Futurists have invented a new technique. Without embarking oh any elaborate technical discussion, we would say that their chief principle in the painting of apparently even the most objective phenomena is that it should be the aim of the artist to reproduce no mere picturesque copy of some stationary pose, but that whole sensorial or emotional quality inherent in all dynamic life which radiates to the mind of the spectator, or which again may be simply flashed into dynamic life by the mind of the spectator himself.

And as, according to our latest and most fashionable metaphysical authority, the ego, whether of a man, an insect, or a cosmos, is merely a movement, it should not strike us as altogether unreasonable if the dynamic idea of movement should enter very prominently into the Futurist paintings. For, realising fully that consciousness is a stream and not a pond, and that both cerebral memories and visual impressions are but, as it were, the flying nets hastily created and re-created to catch a world that is perpetually on the run, the Futurists make boldly ingenious efforts to capture the jumping chameleon of truth, by portraying not one but several phases of the unending series of the human cinematograph.

Thus in Severini's picture of the "Pan-Pan dance at the Monico," the artist sets himself to paint the whole moving, multicoloured soul of this by no means spiritual Montmartre tavern, with all its various subdivisions of male and female customers engaged in their mutual revels and their mutual dances, the deviltry of its _rigolo_ music, and all the hustling clash and clatter of its insolent carouse.--

It is also significant of their general _Weltanschauung_ that the Futurists should frequently find their inspiration in the speed, stress, and creativity of a glorious modernity. Thus Russolo's "Rebellion," angular, aggressive, rampant, reproduces the whole red energy of an insurgent proletariate, while the same painter's "Train" essays, and not unsuccessfully, to paint the very lights and ridges of velocity itself.

The feats of the new culture in the realm of literature are quite as impressive and as sensational as in that of painting. This brings us to some consideration of M. Marinetti himself, both the real and the official, chief of the new movement.

To comprehend the true essence of this man, who certainly constitutes a European portent which, whether hated or loved, can scarcely be ignored, it is necessary to realise that while a poet he is above all a man of the world and of action. While, also, as would appear from his visit to the _Morning Post_ correspondent in Tripoli, he is a gentleman inflamed by a genuine if no doubt slightly truculent patriotism, he has all the advantages of being an almost perfect cosmopolitan. Born in Egypt of Italian parents, educated in France, and now directing the Futurist movement from Milan, M. Marinetti combines all the heat of an African temperament with all the mercurial dash and aggressiveness of the modern Latin civilisation. At present only in the early thirties, M. Marinetti founded in the years 1904--1905 his international review _Poesia_. To this journal he endeavoured to attract all that was strenuous, aspiring, and daring in the artistic youth of the Latin civilisation. Eventually the various tentative ideals and ideas which he and his colleagues entertained became crystallised in the word _Futurism_, which grew more and more a definite creed with a more and more definite catechism of literature, music, painting, politics, and life. Since the publication of the first Futurist manifesto in the _Figaro_ in 1909, M. Marinetti has devoted himself to waging with all his militant energy of tongue, sword, and pen the campaign of Futurism. Meeting after meeting, demonstration after demonstration has he addressed in Italy, and, carrying the war into the enemy's country, he has even had the audacity to hurl his defiance from Trieste itself. And if the deliberate provocativeness at which he has pitched his propaganda has brought upon him the venomous hatred of both numerous and powerful enemies, it has merely served to give but an additional fillip to the fury of his impetus.

It is indeed not only amusing, but also an indication of the man's verve and defiance, to remember that when he had been hissed for a whole hour on end in the Theatre Mercadante of Naples, where he was delivering a lecture, and an apparently quite edible orange was eventually thrown at him, he should with fine _bravura_ take out his penknife and both peel and eat the orange. In Italy, at any rate, Futurism has swept the universities, and the disciples of the new faith number 50,000. Endeavouring to give to the campaign a cosmopolitan significance, the Futurists have carried their pictures, their manifestos, and their books to Madrid, to Berlin, to Paris (where they were enthusiastically toasted by the "Association Générale des Etudiants," the Parisian equivalent of the Oxford and Cambridge Unions), and even to England itself, which, with a surprising lack of its usual insularity, would actually appear to be taking an intelligent interest in a new movement without waiting, as was the case with Nietzscheanism, until it has first become the respectable if _passée_ object of the devotion of Continental academicism.

Before we proceed on our short survey of the chief works of M. Marinetti, which have been written in French and only subsequently translated into Italian, it is necessary to make some brief mention of the new technique which he employs. This new technique is Free Verse, first introduced into French literature in the _Palais Nomades_ of M. Gustave Kahn. It should be remembered, of course, that French Free Verse is an article totally distinct from that mixture of rolling dithyramb and conversational slap-dash which characterises the work of Walt Whitman.

So far indeed as M. Gustave Kahn is concerned, the innovation simply consisted not in any repudiation of rhyme in itself, but in the emancipation of French verse from the strait-waistcoat of the Alexandrine and the strict disciplinary rules of academic composition.

M. Marinetti, on the other hand, in the three volumes which it is now proposed to consider, viz. _La Conquête des Étoiles_ (Sansot, 1902), _Destruction_ (Vanier, 1904), _La Ville Charnelle_ (Sansot, 1908), carries the metrical revolution considerably further. For while the essence of classicism itself when compared with the polyphonic though at times majestic ebullitions of Walt Whitman, they subserve no specific rule. Metre, genuine metre, is invariably present, but the precise shape which it happens to take is determined by the exigencies not of the particular metre in which the poet happens to be writing, but of the particular mood or emotion which clamours for expression in the form most specifically appropriate to its own particular idiosyncrasies. If, in fact, we may endeavour to crystallise the theory of this verse, which though free from mechanical restraint is always subordinate to the command of its own dynamic soul, we should say that it is simply the principle of onomatopœia carried from the sphere of words to the sphere of metre.

In the _Conquête des Étoiles_ the twenty-four-year-old Marinetti, with the characteristic verve of audacious adolescence, essays to open the oyster of the poetical world with the sword of a romantic epic. Bearing evidence at times, in its grandiose anthropomorphism of natural phenomena, of the influence of "his old masters the French Symbolists," the poem of this future champion of a concrete modernity challenges, at any rate in the gigantic massing of its imagery, that grandiose if somewhat bourgeois romantic Victor Hugo. For here poetic Pelion is piled upon poetic Ossa with the most drastic vengeance. For the Sovereign Sea, chanting her inaugural battle-cry,

"Hola-hé! Hola-ho! Stridionla, Stridionla, Stridionla! Stridionlaire!"

to her ancient waves, puissant warriors with venerable beards of foam, lashes them to conquer Space and mount to the assault of the grinning Stars. And missiles are there in her Reservoir of Death--"petrified bodies, bodies of steel, embers and gold, harder than the diamond, the suicides whose courage failed beneath the weight of their heart, that furnace of stars, those who died for that they stoked within their blood the fire of the Ideal, the great flame of the Absolute that encompassed them." And for an army has she the legions of her amazon cavalry, the veterans of the Sea, the great waves, the riotous, prancing narwhals with their scaly rings, the typhoons, the cyclones and the haughty trombes (water-spouts), "draping around their loins their fuliginous veils, or lifting masses of darkness in their great open arms." And so this feud of the elements proceeds from climax to climax, from crescendo to crescendo, till the astral fortresses succumb to the shock of an infernal charge, and the last star expires "with her pupils of grey shadow imploring the Unknown, oh how sweetly."

No doubt the poem almost reels at times as though intoxicated with the excesses of its own imagery. Yet making all due discount for this healthy turgidity of adolescence, it is impossible to dispute the authentic poetical value of this brilliant epic.

By so masterly a grasp is the metre handled that the reader, quite oblivious of the immaterial question of whether he is perusing verse or prose, is only conscious of the ideas and emotions themselves. The following passage is typical not only of the poem's potency of expression, but of the intimate union which is effected between the meaning and the form.

"C'est ainsi que passe le Simoun, aiguillonant sa furie de désert en désert, avec son escorte caracolante de sables soulevés tout ruisselants de feu; c'est ainsi que le Simoun galope sur l'océan figé des sables, en balangant son torse géant d'idole barbare sur des fuyantes croupes d'onagres affolés."

In the series of poems, however, known as _Destruction_,

"Since there is only splendour in this word of terror And of crushing force like a Cyclopæan hammer,"

that boyish robustness which we have seen playing so naïvely in the romantic limbo, has attained the solidity of manhood. Finding it no longer necessary to have recourse for his subject-matter to some set theme of an Elemental War, the author reproduces the experiences of his own inner life in a new lyrical language, whose rhythm vibrates responsively to every thrill of its creator's spirit, and takes faithfully every colour of his chameleon soul.

For the poet is now reverential:

"Tu es infinie et divine, o Mer, et je le sais de par le jurement de tes lèvres, écumantes de par ton jurement que répercutent de plage en plage les echos attentifs ainsi que des guetteurs."

now jocund:

"O Mer, mon âme est puerile et demande un jouet";

now, almost sensually, adoring:

"O toi ballerina orientale au ventre sursautant, dont les seins sont rouges par le sang des naufrages";

now sunk in the abject ecstasies of opium:

"Derrière des vitres rouges des voix rauques criaient 'De la moelle et du sang pour les lampdes d'oubli C'est le prix des beaux rêves!... c'est le prix....' Et j'entrais avec eux au bouge de ma chair";

now gentle:

"C'est pour nous que le Vent las de voyages eternels, désabusé de sa vitesse de fantôme, froissant d'une main lasse, au tréfonds de l'espace, les velours somptueux d'un grand oreiller d'ombre tout diamantés de larmes siddrales";

now bitterly conscious of the ironic raillery of the sea:

"Vos caresses brûlantes, vos savantes caresses, sont pareilles à des tâtonnements d'aveugles qui vont ramant par les couloirs d'un labyrinthe! Vos baisers out toujours l'acharnement infatigable d'un dialogue enragé entre deux sourds emprisonnés au fond d'un cachot noir."

Even more characteristic of the feverish, but not unhealthy ardour of the book is that series of ten poems entitled _Le Démon de la Vitesse_, a kind of railway journey of the modern soul. For now the poet, stoking the engines of his pounding brain with the monstrous coals of his own energy, drives his train of Æschylean images (well equipped with all the latest modern inventions) with all the record-breaking rapidity of some Trans-American express, from the "vermilion terraces of love," across "Hindu evenings," "tyrannical rivers," "avenging forests," "milleniar torrents," and "the dusky corpulence of mountains," to traverse "the delirium of Space," and "the supreme plateaux of an absurd Ideal," to end finally in the grinding shock of a collision and all the agony of a shipwrecked vessel. It is in this series of poems that the author's wealth of imagery, always superabundant, lavishes its most profound and incessant exuberance.

For such phrases as "the drunken fulness of streaming stars in the great bed of heaven," "oh, folly, my folly, oh, Eternal Juggler," "O wind, crucified beneath the nails of the stars," "the flesh scorched in the burning tunic of a terrible desire," "the sad towns crucified on the great crossed arms of thewhite road" are not mere isolated flashes of poetical riches, but casual samples of an opulence displaying itself on this same grandiose scale throughout every line of every poem. Note, also, that the poet has completely fused himself with the whole scientific universe. He will thus portray a man in the terms of some dynamic entity of mechanical science, which as likely as not will itself be represented in terms of humanity. Contrast, for instance, such phrases as--

"Les géantes pneumatiques de l'Orgueil," or "train fougueux de mon âme,"

with--

"Colonnes de fumée, immenses bras de nègre, annelés d'étincelles et de rubis sanglants."

To sum up the essential character of _Destruction,_ we would say that releasing poetry from the shackles of the conventional subject-matter, the conventional language, and the conventional metres to which it had been so long confined, it lays the hitherto untravelled lines of the speed and beauty of the whole of modern civilisation, with its all-unexplored scientific and psychological regions, as it sings the rushing rhapsody of the whole spirit of the twentieth century.

"I bid ye pant your fury and your spleen, I reck not the long roarings of your wrath, O galloping Simoons of my ambition, Who heavily the city's threshold paw, Nor ever shall ye cross her sensual walls, Ye neigh in vain in my stopped ears, already With rosy murmurs steeped and stupefied (And subterranean voices of the deep), Like spells of freshness full of the sea's song."

The above quotation may perhaps give such readers as have not the luxury of the French language some faint shadow of the warm charm of _La Ville Charnelle_, which, at any rate from the conventional standard of ordinary æsthetic beauty, represents the zenith of M. Marinetti's poetical achievement. For in his second volume of verse, our author abandons the furious pace of his rushing modernity to sing the almost sensual beauty of a tropical town, with "the silky murmur of its African sea," its pointed "mosques of desire," and its "hills moulded like the knees of women, and swathed in the linen billows of its dazzling chalk." The swift piston rhythm of _Destruction_ is exchanged for a measure which, though untrammelled by any tight convention, is often clad in the Turkish trousers of some languorous rhyme, or slides with the voluptuous swish of some blank alexandrine. But if the flood of images has abated its turbulence to a serener beauty, it has not thereby suffered any loss of volume, as is evidenced by such phrases as "les molles éméraudes de prairies infinies," "la bouche éclatée des horizons engloutisseurs," or "jusqu'au volant trapeze de ce grand vent gymnaste."

Or take the following passage from _The Banjoes of Despair and of Adventure_:

"Elles chantent, les benjohs hystériques et sauvages, comme des chattes énervées par l'odeur de l'orage. Ce sont des nègres qui les tiennent empoignées violemment, comme on tient une amarre que secoue la bourrasque. Elles miaulent, les benjohs, sous leurs doigts frénétiques, et la mer, en bombant son dos d'hippopotame, acclame leurs chansons par des flic-flacs sonores et des renaclements."

More aery and fantastic in their radiance are the _Little Dramas of Light_, which in the same volume play outside the walls of _La Ville Charnelle_. For pushing the pathetic fallacy to the extreme limit of pantheism, or anthropomorphism, as one cares to put it, our author constructs his miniature scenes out of the interplay of plants, elements, and the very fabrics of human invention, all participating in something of the mingled dash, despair, and desire which go to weave the somewhat complex tissue of our ultra-modern humanity.

Even the titles of a few of these delicate poems give some idea of their darting beauty--"The Foolish Vines and the Greyhound of the Firmament" (the Moon), "The Life of the Sails," "The Death of the Fortresses," "The Folly of the Little Houses," "The Dying Vessels," "The Japanese Dawn," "The Courtesans of Gold" (the Stars).

Observe, also, the eminently twentieth-century temperament of the "coquettish vessels," who, "half-clothed in their ragged sails, and playing like urchins with the incandescent ball of the sun," have yet experienced "amid the disillusioned smile of the autumn evenings" the desire for a fuller and more tumultuous life than is afforded by the "ventriloquist soliloquies of the gurgling waters of the quays."

"C'est ainsi, c'est ainsi que les jeunes Navires implorent affolées délivrance, en s'esclaffant de tous leurs linges bariolés, claquant au vent comme les lèvres brulées de fièvre. Leurs drisses et leurs haubans se raidissent tels des nerfs trop tendus qui grincent de désir, car ils veulent partir et s'en aller vers la tristesse affreuse (qu'importe?) inconsolable et (qu'importe?) infinie d'avoir tout savouré et tout maudit (qu'importe?)."

We can perhaps best formulate the dynamic _élan de vie_, which pulses through every line of M. Marinetti's poems, by indulging in the perversion of the great line of Baudelaire, so that we can give to our poet for his motto:

"Je haïs la ligne qui tue le mouvement."

M. Marinetti's activity, however, is not limited to the sphere of verse. In 1905 he published _Le Roi Bombance_ (_Mercure de France_), a satyric tragedy, compound of the scarcely harmonious temperaments of Rabelais and Maeterlinck, a wild extravaganza of anthropophagy and resurrection, which satirises the prominent figures in contemporary Italian politics, including the recently dead Crispi, Ferri, and Tenatri, and contains withal a profound undercurrent of sociological truth. _Poupées Electriques_ (Sansot) followed in 1909, a play which, with all its brilliance and originality, somehow just misses the real dramatic pitch.

Far more significant are the _belles lettres_ of _Les Dieux s'en vont D'Annunzio reste_ (Sansot, 1908), with its steely dash of style and its criticism at once singularly acute and delightfully malicious of the official protagonist of all Italian culture, and the recently published _Futurisme_ (Sansot, 1911).

But of all the works of M. Marinetti, the most impressive is the great prose epic, _Mafarka Le Futuriste_. It is in the three hundred pages of this novel, which describes the destructive and creative exploits of a militant and intellectual African prince, that the Futurist leader has given the most complete expression to the vehement surge of his genius. In this book, the spirits of the East and of the West strangely combine. The gross heat of an African sun beats incessantly down upon these torrid pages, yet even the most oriental passages have such a Homeric freshness of epic sweep as to render them immeasurably cleaner than the sniggering indecencies of not a few of even the more fashionable and respectable of our lady novelists. Incident follows on incident, adventure on adventure, with the magic bewilderment of some Arabian Night, an Arabian night illumined by the galvanic current of some twentieth-century genie, as it flashes image after image on the multicoloured sheet of some dancing cinematograph. The style bounds with a lithe male crispness, in comparison with which even the luxuriant and self-complacent flowers of D'Annunzio himself seem at times to offer but rank and androgynous beauties.

How admirable, for instance, is such a passage as--

"And Mafarka-el-Bey bounded forward, with great elastic steps, sliding on the voluptuous springs of the wind and rolling--like a word of victory--in the very mouth of God";

or such a perfect Homeric simile as--

"All the beloved sweetness of his vanished youth mounted in his throat, even as from the courtyard of schools there mount the joyous cries of children towards their old masters, leaning over the parapet of the terrace from which they see the flight of the vessels upon the sea";

or such a perfect description as--

"Et d'en haut descendaient les rayons des étoiles des milliers de chainettes dorées tintinabulantes, qui balançaient au ras de l'eau leurs tremblants reflets, innombrables veilleuses."

But the wondrous story of how Mafarka-el-Bey exhorted to the work of war the thousands of his wallowing soldiers from the putrescent bed of that dried-up lake; of how, disguising himself as an aged beggar, he visited the camp of the negroes; of the monstrous tale which he there told his Ethiopian foes; of the stratagem by which he drew the two pursuing wings of the infatuated army to the stupendous shock of an internecine collision; of how he annihilated the maddened hordes of the Hounds of the Sun with the stones flung by the mechanical Giraffes of War; of the Neronian banquet in the grotto of the Whale's Belly; of the agonised hydrophobic death of his brother Magamal, the light of his eyes; of the nocturnal journey in which he conveyed across the sea his brother's body in a sack to the land of the Hypogeans; of the Futurist Discourse which he there held; of his passing encounter with the fellahin Habbi and Luba; of how, disdaining the more banal method of filial creation, he compelled the weavers of Lagahourso and the smiths of Milmillah to make the body of that Airgod Gazourmeh, whose spirit he had fashioned out of the glory of his own unaided brain; and of how he died exultantly, brushed away beneath the gigantic wings of his son, as it flew like some hilarious parricide into the clear infinitude, is it not all written in the pages of _Mafarka Le Futuriste_? (E. Sansot & Cie, Paris, 3 fr. 50 c.)

Note, also, the religious exultation of martial and intellectual energy, whose hoarse prayer is uttered on almost every page. For Mafarka is the prophet of that "new voluptuousness which shall have rid the world of love when he shall have founded the religion of the concrete will and of the heroism of every single day."

And to still further exemplify his new religion of war and energy, and inspired, too, no doubt by the airy message of the Arab bullets, M. Marinetti finished on the 29th November 1911 in the trenches of Sidi-Missri, near Tripoli, the great free-verse epic of three hundred and fifty pages, entitled _The Popes Monoplane_. The function of this poem, which is certainly the most original epic known to literary history, is to serve as an anti-clerical, an anti-pacifist, and anti-Austrian polemic. And this function it accomplishes by a technique which in its successful audacity transcends even itself. For nowhere is the free verse of Marinetti more free. New harmonies and even new dissonances are conjured up according to the emotion to be expressed and the object to be described, while the terminology of mechanics and physiology is judiciously mingled with just a trace of the old romanticism. The whole epic quite literally flies with inordinate swiftness. For the poet is, on his monoplane, careering over the heart of Italy. He takes counsel of his father the volcano, and, flying back to Rome, fishes up by means of an iron chain with a spring-trap the great polished Seal, or, as he exultantly describes it,

"Un pape, un vrai pape, le saint Pontif lui-même."

And on he flies on his missionary career, with the miserable Vicar of God dangling helplessly beneath him, now present at the debates of _Les Moucherons Politiciens_, now assisting at the tumultuous congress of _Les Syndicate Pacifistes_, now side by side with the moon, now exhorting the Italian youth to shake off their execrable lethargy, and, finally, participating in the eventual overthrow of the Austrian enemy. This poem marks an immense advance on the earlier epic, _La Conquête des Étoiles_, to which we have already referred. It pullulates with an equal energy, but this energy is tenser and far less turgid. It is an energy, moreover, whose impetus is expended not on imaginative abstractions, but on the drastic attack of concrete political problems. As a sheer piece, too, of description, Marinetti's description of the _Battle of Monfalcone_ is in our view superior to any of the military verse even of Kipling himself. _The Pope's Monoplane_ is, of course, an aggressively specific example of realism in poetry. But it is a realism which, so far from clipping the wings of Pegasus, rather spurs him to higher and more strenuous flights. We may perhaps conclude our survey of this work by an endeavour to render into English a characteristic passage from the dialogue between the Poet and the Volcano.

THE VOLCANO

Ne'er have I slept; I labour endlessly, Enriching space with many a masterpiece That lives and dies in a day. Over the baking of the chiselled rocks Upon the vitrefaction of the many-coloured sands I keep my watch So well that the clay 'neath my fingers Will metamorphose To a porcelain of perfect rose, Which I shatter with the buffets of my steam.

My accomplice is the Strait of Messina Which dozes in the dawn, couching white and glossy As an Angora cat... My accomplice is the Strait of Messina Lolling like a cushion of lazy turquoise silk, With soft Arabian words embroidered by the wake Of clouds and languorous sails, Words woven silently methinks With a fair silver thread upon the ocean's robe.

The perfidious moon is my accomplice, The arch-courtesan of the painted stars, For nowhere are the moon's cajoleries So luring and persuasive.

And nowhere does the moon cast such assiduous eyes To seduce the hard red funnels of the steamers, Those surly strollers South With a fat cigar in their mouth Whose smoke they spit against the azure sky.

And nowhere does the moon throw such a tender shower Of soft and violet ashes, As that which lulls to sleep the lava petrified On the black houses hanging on my flanks. And nowhere has the moon such poignancy Of inundations of light and ecstasy, As on the gashed paths Carved by my surgical fire.

But woe to those who follow the bleating light of the moon, And the plaintive bells of the flocks, And the bitter flutes of the shepherds whose world-weary notes Are long, long threads that vanish in the blue! Woe to those who refuse to make their galloping blood Keep step with the gallop of the blood of my devastation!

And woe to those who wish to root their heads, To root their feet and houses In a craven hope of eternity! A truce to building, for ye must encamp! Nay, am I not shaped even as a tent Whose truncated top fanneth my wrath? I only love the acrobatic stars Who balance on the rolling balls of smoke Wherewith I juggle!

MYSELF I can dance to them, and juggle in mid air, And shower my song on the reverberations Of thy storms that breed In subterranean depths!... And I descend To hear the diapasons of thy voice. So make a pause In the electrical discharges of thy tubes That tear from thy base the underlying rocks. Enjoin to silence all thy babbling grottoes, That all a-flutter quiver ceaselessly. Gag with thick cinders The basaltic echoes whose chorus rings thy praise.

What good are thy volcanic bombs That serve as punctuations for the growlings of thy speech? And what care I for the ruddy jets Of thine aggressive foam? Thy deluges of mud have soiled my wings of white, But check me not, for proof against thine avalanche Of scoria I descend, gilded and aureoled By all the powdery shower of thy dumbfounded gold.

It is also relevant to mention that M. Marinetti has been recently formulating new rules and principles for his new literary code. Among the more drastic phases of this stylistic revolution we would mention the employment of mathematical signs and symbols, the rebellion from too rigid and pedantic a syntax, the minimum use of the adjective and the infinitive, the opening up of new fields of images and metaphors, and the freer and more increased use of onomatopœia. These ideas are succinctly, though no doubt extravagantly, set out in the two manifestos entitled _Wireless Imagination and Words at Liberty_ and _The Futurist Anti-Tradition_.

Space vetoes more than the enumeration of the other Futurist poets--Luccini, Palazzescho, Folgore, and Altomare--though we may perhaps mention the recently published _Poesie Electrichie_ of Govoni, and the _A Claude Debussy_ of Paolo Buzzi, which won the first prize of the first international competition of "Poesia," and which transfers into a marvellously fluid Italian verse the at once ethereal and faunish emotions of the composer's music.

But if, finally, we may speculate on the Future of Futurism, its real prospects and its real significance are to be found in the fact that, though extravagant and aggressive, it is in essence a concentrated manifestation of the whole vital impetus of the twentieth century. Its relationship to Nietzscheanism we have already examined. Almost equally close is its affinity to the standpoints of such representative spirits of the real genius of this particular age as Verhaeren and Mr. Wells; Verhaeren, the gazer on the _Multiple Splendour_ of the _Tumultuous Forces_ of the _Visages of Life_, with his motto, "Life is to be mounted and not to be descended; the whole of life is in the soaring upwards," who expresses in the strenuous majesty of his verse the whole raging complex of our psychological and material civilisation; Mr. Wells, too, the glorifier of all the new machinery of our scientific fabric; Mr. Wells, who, with all his intoxication for the "gigantic syntheses of life," expresses himself most effectually by the maxim, "The world exists for and by initiative, and the method of initiative is individuality."

Even if we go to more concrete and more topical manifestations, there is not wanting evidence that the fiery blast of the Futurists is fanned by the huge bellows of our own labouring _Zeitgeist_.

If indeed we may meddle with the very latest metaphysical terminology, we would suggest that it is by a singularly brilliant and apposite stroke of intuition on the part of, the newly discovered _élan de vie_ that, at a time which is moving at an unprecedented rapidity, at a time when the two great brother nations of the Teutonic race are preparing their rival sacrifices for the God of War with all the mocking and drastic fraternity of a Cain and of an Abel; when the air is thick with the wings of a new and regenerated France; when the militant mænads of both the West and the East, under the inspiration of their dashing and elusive Pythoness, are waging with foaming fanaticism a Holy War of Sex; when even one of the most responsible of our lawyers is coquetting dangerously with both the theory and the practice of the superior ethical value of Active Resistance; when the most venerable of our Lord Justices recently interpolated a homily on the Law of Change into the middle of an otherwise purely legal judgment; when the two young, but patriotic _condottieri_ of either political party are fast leaping into a more and more aggressive prominence; when the insurgent masses of our industrial proletariat have made a vehement and not entirely unsuccessful charge against existing economic fabric of the country; when Mr. Thomas Hardy has attended, in the pages of even the _Fortnightly Review_, the funeral of the old God of pity, and when Bergsonism, judiciously advertised in the masquerade of a religious revival, has replaced the old Eternal Absolute with the creative activity of an endless Movement, the Futurists should now exalt the sublime vehemence of war, and the aggressive fury of youth, while M. Marinetti chants the strident hallelujahs of the new God of sweat and agony and tension, and Signor Russolo and his _confrères_ exhibit to us in the actual canvases of the Sackville Galleries the rampant hordes of rebellion and the painting of Movement itself.

INDEX

Abel, 237 _Advent_, 110 Æschylus (_cf_. Corelli), 115 Alcibiades, 61 _Almansor_, 32 _Alroy_, 55 Altomare, 236 _Amour, De l'_, 13, 14 _Anatol_, 161, 176-9 _Anne Veronica_, 120 Anti-Semite, 115, 190 Anti-Semitism, 115 Antoine, 98 _Aphrodite_, 129 _Arabian Nights_, 144 _Ardath_, 114, 115 Aristotle, 74 _Armance_, 15-16 Athanasius, 89 Attila, 117 _Aubes, Les_, 210 Austria, 215 _Awkward Age, The_, 153

BALFOUR, Mr., 123 Balzac, 38, 201 _Banti, Consultation de_, 9 Barker, 162 Barrie, J. M., 132 _Baths of Lucca_, 35 Baudelaire, 121, 144, 154 Beaconsfield. _See_ Disraeli Beardsley, 144 Belgium, 197 Bergson, 208 Bergsonism, 238 Berlioz, 38, 44 Beyle. _See_ Stendhal _Beyond the Rocks_, 128 Bible, 89, 120 Bigillon, 5 Birrell, 64 Björnsen, 98 _Black Flags_, 95, 100, 111-13 Blake, 219 Blatchford, Robert, 132 _Blés Mouvants, Les_, 210 Bohair, 38 _Bond, The_, 104 _Book of Songs_, 30, 31, 35, 36, 49 Borgia, 86 Borne, 38, 39 Bottomley, Horatio, 119 Bourget, 24 _Bovary, Madame_, 16 _Boy_, 115 Brandes, 71 Brieux, 188 Browning, 63 Brummel, 61 Bryce, 60 _Büchse von Pandora_, 138, 145, 149, 150, 155 Buddhism, 72 Burne-Jones, 219 Buzzi, 236 Byron, 30, 52, 93

CAIN, 81, 237 _Call of Life_, 175-6 _Campagnes Hallucinés_, 202-4 Carlyle, 44, 66 Carpani, 11 Casanova, 64 Catholicism, 39, 110 Cervantes, 30 Chant, Mrs. Ormiston, 133 _Chartreuse de Parme_, 20, 21 Chateaubriand, 6 Chauvinism, 215 Chesterton, G. K., 119, 198 Christ, 71, 110, 118, 208 _Childe Harold_, 52 Christianity, 71, 72, 73, 76, 78, 79, 80, 88, 93; Electric Principle of, 114 _Comédie Humaine_, 16 _Confession of a Fool_, 95, 97, 105-8 Congreve, 187 _Conquête des Étoiles_, 223-5 _Conrad_, 52 Conservatism, 67 _Contarini Fleming_, 55, 62 Corelli, Miss Marie, 114-33 _Countess Mizzi_, 161, 184 Court Theatre, 139 Craigie, Mrs., 69 _Creditor, The_, 103 Crispi, 230 Crowley, Aleister, 114 _Crown Bride_, ill

_Damascus, To_, 110 _Dämmerseelen_, 191 D'Annunzio, 210, 214, 231 Daru, 3, 4, 9, 12, 18 Darwin, 84, 136 _Death Dance_, 97, 110-11 _Débâcles, Les_, 199 Debussy, 219 Dembowska, Countess, 12 Democracy, 67 _Démon de la Vitesse_, 212, 226 _De Profundis_, 140 _Destruction_, 223, 225 _Deutschland_, 40 Disraeli, 50-69 Disraeli, Mrs., 62, 63, 68 Don Juan, 19, 50, 97, 215 _Dorian Gray_, 132 D'Orsay, 61 Dowie, Dr., 117 _Dream Pictures_, 30, 32 Drury Lane, 122 Dugazon, 7 Dumas, 38

_Easter_, 110 _Ehre, Die_, 136 _Einsame Weg, Der_, 171, 172 Eldon, 67 _Elizabeth's Visits to America_, 128 _Embarrassments_, 177 _Endymion_, 52 _Erdgeist_, 134, 135, 145-9 Essen, Siri von, 95 _Esther Waters_, 129 Eugenics, 154

FAGUET, 24 Fakredeen, 52 _Father, The_, 101, 102 Faust, 158 Ferri, 230 _Feuerwerk_, 154 Fichte, 74

_Flamands, Les_, 198, 199 _Flambeaux Noirs_, 199-202 _Fleurs du Mal_, 121 Foote, G. W., 119 _Forces Tumultueuses_, 196 _Foundations of Belief_, 123 France, 214, 237 _Franziska_, 155, 157-9 _Frau Margit_, 95 Free Love, 139, 154 _Free Opinions_, 119 Free Verse, 223 _Freiwild_, 173-5 Froude, 51 _Frühlingserwachen_, 135, 145, 150-3, 159 Futurism, 212-38

GALSWORTHY, 157, 159, 162, 163 Gambetta, 67 Garvice, Charles, 116 Gautier, 38 _Geheimniss der Gilde_, 95 _Genealogy of Morals_, 70-90 Genesis, 119 Germany, 72, 135-9 Gladstone, 53, 54, 61, 65, 66, 68 _Gluckspeter_, 95 Glyn, Elinor, 126-30 _God's Good Man_, 122 Goethe, 74, 144 Gog, 208 Govoni, 236 _Green Cockatoo_, 161, 182-3 Guilbert, Mélanie, 7 Gull, Ranger, 115

HALEVY, Jehudah, 43 _Hallucinated Country-sides_, 202-4 _Hannele_, 137 Hardy, 238 Hart, Julius, 137 _Harzreise_, 34 Hauptmann, 137, 210 _Haydn and Mozart, Lives of_, 11 _Heimkehr_, 34 Heine, 26-49, 60, 77, 89 Heine, Amalie, 31, 32 Heine, Samson, 29 Heine, Solomon, 30 _Hélène de Sparte_, 210 Heliogabalus, 121 Hermant, Abel, 122 _Hidalla_, 154 Higher Criticism (Corelli), 119 _His Hour_, 128 _History of Painting in Italy_, 12 Hitchman, 50 Hobbes, 83 Hofmann, 28 Hogarth, 150 Holy Alliance, 27 _Holy Orders_, 121 Hugo, 38, 224 Humboldt, 38

IBSEN, 153 Idealists, 87 Ihering, 85 _In Allen Satteln Gerecht_, 156 _In Allen Wassern Gewaschen_, 156 _Inferno_, 109 Ingersoll, 119 _Intoxication_, 110 Isaiah, 72, 133 Israel, 71, 78 _Italian Travels_, 11 _Italy_, 35, 213

JACK the Ripper, 149 James, Henry, 137, 153, 177, 187 Jeremiah, 72 Jesuits, 118 Jesus, 71, 72 Jew-Millionaires, 121 Jews, 118 Jezebels, Upper-Ten, 121, 127 Job, 111 _Johannes_, 137 Josepha, 30 _Journal, Le_, 24 Judæa, 78 _Julien_, 17-20 _Junge Leiden_, 35 Juvenal, 133

KABLY, Mdlle., 3 Kahn, Gustave, 223 _Kammersänger, Der_, 140-142 Kant, 40, 87 Karl Moor, 19 Key, Ellen, 88, 96 Kipling, 110, 234 Klinger, 219

LAFAYETTE, 38 _Lamiel_, 22-23 _Lebendige Stunden_, 177, 180-182 _Legends_, 109 _Les Dieux s'en vont D'Annunzio reste_, 230 Lesbos, 131 _Liebelei_, 164-166, 169 _Liebestrank, Der_, 153 Life Force, 145 "Little Mary," 132 Longfellow, 153 Louason, 7, 8 Louis XVI, 2 Louis Philippe, 21 Louÿs, 115, 129 Loyola, 117 Luccini, 236 _Lucien Leuwen_, 21-22 _Lyrisches Intermezzo_, 32, 35, 36

MADONNA, 96, 97 Maeterlinck, 197, 230 _Mafarka le Futuriste_, 129, 231, 232 Maine, 81, 84 _Märchen, Das_, 167, 168 Marinetti, 129, 212-238 _Marionetten_, 177, 179 _Marius the Epicurean_, 124 _Marquis von Keith_, 153 _Marriage_, 98-100 _Masken und Wunder_, 191 _Mate, The_, 183 Maupassant, 98, 191 Maupin, Mademoiselle de, 157 Meade, L. T., 116 _Medardus, Der Junge_, 184-186 Meissner, 38 _Meister Olof_, 94 _Meister, Wilhelm_, 55 Melville, Walter, 115 _Mighty Atom, The_, 115 Milan, 4, 12, 13, 213 Milton, 210 _Minnehaha_, 153 Mirbeau, Octave, 122 Mirat, Matilde, 41 _Miss Julie_, 102, 103 _Mit Allen Hünden Gehetzt_, 156 _Moines, Les_, 199 Molière, 3, 121 _Monna Vanna_, 140 Moore, George, 106 _Motherly Love_, 104 Mouche, La, 48 _Multiple Splendeur, Le_, 208-209 _Murder of Delicia_, 115 _Musik_, 155, 156, 157

NAPOLEON, 29, 30, 69 Nerval, Gérard de, 38 New England, 67, 153 _New Machiavelli_, 105, 120 New Woman Movement, 96 Nietzsche, 24, 70-90, 136, 144, 208, 216 Nirvana, 73 Nonconformity, 119 _Nordsee Cyklus_, 33, 34 Northcliffe, 86 _Nouvelle Héloïse_, 3

_Oaha_, 154 O'Connell, 57 O'Connor, T. P., 50 _Open Sea, The_, 100, 108 Opportunism, 67 Orestes, 81 Ovid, 144

PALAZZESCHO, 236 Papacy, 213 Peel, 64 Péladan, 131 Pietragrua, Countess, 4, 10, 12 Pinero, 145 _Plain Dealer, The_, 141 _Playing with Fire_, 97, 104-105 Poe, 154 _Poesia_, 221, 236 _Poetische Nachlese_, 35, 47 _Pope's Monoplane, The_, 233-236 _Professor Bernhardi_, 188-190 Przybyszewski, 109 _Puppet-player_, 179-180

QUEUX, Le, 116

_Racine and Shakespeare_, 14, 15 _Ratcliff_, 32 _Raymond, Jack_, 119 Realism, 138 _Red Room_, 95 _Reigen_, 179 _Reisebilder_, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 49 René, 19 Restoration, French, 17 Revolution, French, 27, 28, 53 _Revolutionary Epicke_, 67 _Rhythmes Souveraines, Les_, 210 Richter, 38 _Risorgimento Italiano_, 213 _Road to the Open, The_, 192-194 Robespierre, 40 Rockefeller, 86 Rodenbach, 197, Rodin, 211 _Romance of Two Worlds_, 114 _Romantic School, The_, 40 Romanticism, 14, 27, 28, 138 _Romanzero_, 35, 47, 48 Rome, 79, 213 _Rome, Naples, and Florence_, 11 Roosevelt, President, 116 Rossetti, 219 _Rossini, Life of_, 15 _Rouge et le Noir, Le_, 9, 16, 17-20, 56, 185 Rousseau, 46, 83 Rubens, 197 Russolo, 220, 238

_Salome_, 140 Sand, 38 Sappho, 131 Satan, 208 _Satan, Sorrows of_, 114 Schiller, 144 Schlegel, 38 _Schloss von Wetterstein_, 155, 156 Schnitzler, 161-195 Schopenhauer, 72, 73, 74, 144 Secessionists, 140 Secessionsbühne, 137 Sefchen, 30 Selden, Camille, 48 Self-and-Sex Series, 130 Semites, 125 _Serialese, Manual of_, 133 Severini, 220 Shaw, G. B., 126, 135, 155, 159, 162, 163 Sichel, 51 Sidonia, 52 Smiles, Samuel, 115 Smith, Adam, 7 Socialists, 88 Sorel, Julien, 16-20 _Souvenirs d'Egotisme_, 24 Spencer, 77 _Spring's Awakening_, 115. See _Frühlingserwachen_ St. Amand, 197 St. Barbe, 197 St. Beuve, 24 Staël, Mme. de, 40 Stage Society, 139, 161, 162 Stendhal, 1-25, 74, 185 Sterne, 30 Stratford-on-Avon, 131 Strauss, 219 _Strife_, 163 Strindberg, 91-113 Stuck, 219 Sudermann, 88, 137 Suffragette, 96 Superman, 75, 80 85, 87, 136, 163 Sutro, 162 Swan, Annie, 116 _Swan White_, 111 Sweden, 96 Swedenborgianism, 110 _Swedish Destinies_, 98 _Swedish Miniatures_, 111 Swift, 30, 44 _Swiss Tales_, 100 Switzerland, 215 Symbolists, 224

TAINE, 20, 24, 136 Tamerlane, 86 _Tancred_, 55, 60, 65 Tanner, John, 97 _Tartuffe_, 121 Technique, 163 _Temporal Power_, 120, 124 Tenatri, 230

_Tentacular Towns_, 202-205 _Terminations_, 177 _Thelma_, 119, 124 Thorne, Guy, 115 _Three Weeks_, 127, 130 Thucydides, 132 Tolstoi, 76, 126 Tories, 65, 66, 67 Torquemada, 117 _Totentanz_, 126, 135, 142-4 Tracy, 7 _Turn of the Screw_, 137

UHL, Frida, 109 Ultramontanes, 21 Ultramontanism, 115

VAN Lenburgh, 197 _Veil of Beatrice_, 169-171 _Vendetta_, 115 _Venetia_, 56 Verhaeren, 196-211, 237 Verlaine, 154, 200 _Vermächtniss, Die_, 169 _Versunkene Glocke, Die_, 137 _Vie de Henri Brulard, La_, 24 _Vier Jahrzeiten, Die_, 154 _Ville Charnelle La_, 223, 228-230 _Villes Tentaculaires, Les_, 202-205 _Visages de la Vie_, _Les_, 208 _Vivian Grey_, 19, 52, 55, 56, 59 Voltaire, 42, 46, 77, 89 Voynich, Mrs., 119

WAGNER, 73 Ward, Mrs., 126 _Waste_, 163 _Weber, Die_, 136, 210 Wedekind, 98, 126, 134-160 _Weg ins Freie, Der_, 192-194 _Weites Land, Das_, 184, 186-188 Wells, 237 Werther, 19 Westermarck, 84 Whigs, 65, 66, 67 Whitman, Walt, 223 Wilde, 89, 139, 140 Will to Live, 73 Williams, Mrs. Brydges, 63 _Woman with the Dagger_, 180-182 Women atheists, 118 _Wormwood_, 115 Wycherley, 141

YOUNG Men's Christian Association, 215

_Zarathustra_, 70, 80-3, 88 _Zensur_, 155, 156 _Zwischenspiel_, 172, 173 Zola, 118, 136, 145