BOOKS AND BOOKMEN.

Lyttelton Times, Volume CXXIII, Issue 15902, 13 April 1912, Page 6

BOOKS AND BOOKMEN.

RUSSIAN DRAMA

“ KING-HUNGER.”

A PLAY BY ANDREYEV, (By A. G. STEPHENS.)

A good short account of the Russian author Leonid Andreyev is given in W. L. Phelps’s recent “ Essays on Russian Novelists” (Macmillan). Phelps writes in 1911 that “ Andreyev is at this moment regarded by many Russians as the foremost literary artist among the younger school of writers.” He was born in 1871; when ho was twentyseven his literary work attracted notice. He owes a debt to Tolstoy and Nietzche and has read Poet with profit; but he says his best teacher has been the Bible. He is fast becoming an international celebrity. His terrible picture of war, “ The Red Laugh/’ has been translated into German, French and English ; his dramas have been published in America; and many of his short stories are known everywhere in Germany. The size and modem surge of L. Andreyev’s drama makes Shakespearian drama seem in comparison limited and medieval, Andreyev, of course, employs modern .stage resources, and has no notion of displaying inn-yard actors. His ideas demand a gigantic setting; his plots represent the dramatic struggle of a nation, the contemporary turmoil of his country, Russia. “King-Hunger” is a dramatio spectacle in prologue and five scenes, first published in 1903, translated into English by E. M. Ivayden, and issued as the last number in the splendid series of “Poet Lore Plays (Boston, R. G. Badger). Mr Kavden’s version is impressive and seems excellent, though occasionally his use of words is that of a foreigner. These unfamiliar usages aid the strange power of the piece; Mr Kaydon’s language yields new English values.

King-Hunger is a symbolio figure, like Death or Time. Ho represents the hunger, the bodily hunger and starvation, of masses of men, paupers and peasants, in a country such -as Russia. Ho rouses his subjects to revolt against the dominating class, against rank and wealth and luxury—rouses them, and betrays them; for what can they do, poor starvelings, against soldiers, engineers, artillery? So that really. King is on the side of the rich, since every futile revolt cases social pressure hy destroying a portion of the much-too-manv and by rivetting more firmly the chains of the remainder, slaves. Tile prologue shows an ancient belfry, the top of a cathedral' tower, with a city that might be Moscow behind and below. The Persons speaking in the prologue are King-Hunger, Death and Time! They are grandly conceived, wondevfullv imaged; their appearance is described so closely that they could he realised upon any stage. They converse of the affairs of men, and the picture of dreadful gloom that they draw is developed more fully in the first scene, which represents a factory where King-Hunger calls upon the working men to revolt:

King Hunger: There’s no other way. (Silence. Deep righing). Third Working-man (he ooiues up and speaks in his colourless voice): You he, King-Hunger. Then you have killed my father, and grandfather, and great-grand-father, and would’st thou kill us? Where do vou lead us, unarmod ? Don t you 6eo hov/ ignorant we are, how blind and impotent. You are a traitor. Only here you are a king, but there you lackey upon their tables. Only here you wear a crown, but there you walk about with _ a napkin. King-Jlungor (shouting with rage): Shut up. You have lost your senses. ' Resolute Voices: No. Ret him speak. Go ahead, old man. You, King, listen. King-Hunger (meekly apologising): Pardon mo, my children. Certainly, let. him speak. Speak, old man, "fear not. Third working-man: I am not afraid. I am only a screw of the machine. I fear nothing. " But why do you deceivo us ? Why do you inspire U 3 with fallacious faith in victory? Have, then, the starvelings ever conquered? King-Hunger: Yes—but now they Will conquer. Voices: It must bo ended. We cannot live thus. 'Tis better far to die. There’s no other way. Second Working-man: Suppose there is another way? Voices: Which? Speak, which? He la raving 1 (They orowd about King-Hunger and the First Working-man).' Second Working-man (dreamily): Snpposo —to try—inflame with dreams the earth? (Laughter. He speaks in a fever of agitation and hurry). Just wait. There’s another King, not King-Hunger. (Startled). But I don’t know his name. (Laughter). Voices: Wo are afraidl Afraid! Have pity. King-Hungor. We are so afraid! King-Hunger (with a commanding movement of hishnnd he restores silence, and all aglow with the rod reflection of the furnace hi speaks with cold, despairing ferocity): You’ro appalled, my children? Very well. But listen, cowards. Not with a palm of peace have I come to you—but I was sent to murder. You will not stop tbo machines? Then I’ll stop them. You will not quit work —t-hen I will compel you fo. And hence I will be upon your hoels. I will break into your quarters; I will strangle your infants; I will drain tho last milk from the breasfa of your wives and mothers—and slay them. And ton thoir corpses you shall shed bitter tears 1 (Ho shouts ferociously): Loath! Hither I (Amid silence, amid turbid tranquility, thrice blares in the distance tho raucous tramrsot of Doath, then nearer, and still nearer. Tho remotost fires, as if stifled by darkness, grow dim; and in the corner, behind tho group of workmen, rises something giI gantio, shapoless, black.)

(Tho workmg-mon timidly press close to on o another, clearing the corner, where Death towers in a black and ehapelose blot.) King-Hunger: Have you heard ? He Is here. Ho stands over you and waits obediently. One movement, only a signal, and as a dismal black cloud ho will rush on your hovels, ruthless, and slay ycur wives and babes. You know what it means when coffins are carried in a long procession ever the gloomy streets—Hftlo coffins—tiny coffins—peaceful woodbn cradles ? (Stern silence). Resolve, O cowards, for whom death, for whom perdition? For you or your children? Hasto. Ho waits. (Silence). First 'Working-man (resolutely) : For us. Second Working-pian: For us I For us! (Many stern, submissive, enraptured voices): For us! For us! Tcko us, 0 Death! Victory or doath! Death! (With shouts thov. throw themselves at the feet of immobile Death. Illumined by the red glow of the furnace, with head clasped I between his hands, King-Hunger wails loud i in frsnziod despair and onravishment). i Tho second sceno is not less effective. Tito setting is in two storeys; in the upper storey i 3 seen, through the immense windows of a palace, a dance of tho wealthy, proceeding to music. In the lower storey is a cellar of the palace, where is hold a meeting of “Ladies —harlots and carrion; Gentlemen —hooligans, pickpockets, cutthroats and pimps ” —with n dreadful travesty of tho decorum and rales of a businoss meeting. They resolve on a riot, and dance horribly to the sound of the music from above—which, all tho time, figures in evening dress are seen dancing through tho windows abovß. The third sceno shows tho trial of the starving. It typifies the refusal of the rich to listen to tho plea of the subjects of King-Hunger. Here is an incident. A woman is charged with infanticide King-Hunger: Tell us, starveling, how it happened. (With drooping hands and motionless, the woman speaks up dully and dispassionately.) Young Woman: One night my baby and I crossed the long bridgo. over tbo river. And since I had long before decided, so then approaching tire middle, whore the river is deep and swift, I said: “ Look, baby, dear, Jiow the water is a-roaring bolow.” Sho said, I can’t reach, mamma, tho railing is so high.” I said, “ Come, lot me lift you, baby dear.” And when Bho was gazing down into ths black deep, I threw her over. That’s all. I King-Hunger: Did she grip you? Young Woman: No. King-Hunger: She screamed? Young Woman: Yes, once. King-Hungor: "What was her name? Young Woman:.Baby dear. King-Hunger: No, her nnme. How was she called? Young Woman: Baby dear. “ King-Hunger (covering his faoe, he speaks

with aad, quivering voice): HonouTablo judges, I bog to simulato a. meditative air. (The judges knit their brows, gaze on the ceiling, chew their lips. Vencrab.o clenco. Then they riso and gravelr bow to Death.) Death: Condemned—in tho name of ’Satan! Tho fourth soeno show 3 at a distance tho revolt of tho starving. The action passes in a ballroom, whither is brought from time to time news of the partial success and final failure of the revolutionaries—conquered by . engineers and artillery. Here as elsewhere, the characterisation is subtle, the drama grand. - The piece is throughout written on the plane of the few extracts wo have been able to givo; in tho immense scope of its strength it dwarfs contemporary French and English drama, which by contrast appears almost trivial. Then the fifth sceno: —

Evening. Bloody sunset. Tile whole sky is one taciturn. noisoleES red fire, as if flooded with thick, dark blood. The earth and everything thereon seems almost black. A doserted, barren moor; not a, tree, not even a bush, not one tall flguro. Level—only in the middle, near tho loft border, quite a high, rugged hillock, and on its summit nil immense, long, old machine-gun _on high wheels. Loaning on the machine m profile, his face in tho direction of its mouth, motionless, towers King-Hunger. Before tho .mouth of tho gun, vanishing in tho densa twilight, aro the. prostrated corpses of the slain. They are the starving. The sharp silhouette of Loath in vaguely outlined over the dead field. Ho stands immobile, as if upon guard. . Behind tho gun, at some distance, *re tho Victors; they appeared as rpectdt-ors in the court room, then in tho magnificent hall on the night of tho great revolt. Like dark silhouettes they pass. Some stand in groups, pressed close, and their figures are oloarly delineated on tho background of tho sunset. Enforced by respect for/loath, they converse quietly, in suppressed whispers. The purpling elcy sheds it« reflection upon the whole scone. Conversation of the Victors: How dark I The sunset is re beautiful. As if a »«. of fire cl- blood. Winds will rife to-morrow. Carefully tuck up your dress, here’s blood. Oh. yes; thank you. (Cautiously she oircuits the livid! spot, tucking her skirts up.) How silent! Yes, not a rustle. 'Tis always so, where many dead lie. There’s nothing more peaceful than dead men. How many of them lie here? Manv. Many. Yes. Enough for this time. If this wont teach them.

How tranquil 1 King-Hunger (coming out of his • trance, ho extends his hand toward the dead and begins, quietly, rctrainingly): What did you pain, madmen? Whore did you go? What did you hope? How did you struggle? Wo have machine guns, we havo brains, wo havo power. What have you, wretched scum? Now you aro reduced to tho ground and gaze heavenward with glassy eyes. Heaven will not answer you. The black earth will Ewallow you to-night, and on your graves will sprout forth fat grass, for our cattlo to graze. Was that your wish, madmen? Triumphant Voices: Wlioro did you go? What did you gain? Tho black oarth will swallow you soon. There come the gravediggers. They bring spades. Be buried, madrnon! Woe unto the vanquished! King-Hunger: Oh, my son, my Bon 1 You clamoured so loud —why are you mute? Oh, my daughter, ray daughter, you hated so profoundly, so intensely,* you most miserable on earth —ariso. Arioo from tho dust! Rend the shadowy bones of Death I Arise! I conjuro you in the name of Lifo. You’ro silent I Then bo you

(Suddenly a confused commotion. rises on tho dead field, a rustling, an indistinct crunching of broken bones, a persistent scratching of the earth with sharp, dead nails; and terrified, with outstretched necks, tho victors listen attentively. A dull, fandistant, thousand-strong murmur, as if underground, send a reply). —Wo shall yet come.—We shall yet come.— .Woe unto the victorious.

King-Hunger: What do I ‘hear ? (A distant dead murmur.) Wo shall yet come! —We shall yet come! —Woe unto tho victorious

(Tho voices die away; peROo and eilonoe reign again on tho dead field, and vaguely appears tho motionless silhouotte of Death. Stupor grips all for a whilo. Roaring, KingHunger suddenly swings himself over to tho other side and menacingly shouts in ferocious rapture.) King-Hunger: Ha-ha I Havo you heard? They shall yet come! They shall yot come! Woo unto the victorious! (Ho roars. Panic, terror and flight. Dismayed voices.) Hurry I Hurry!—The dead arise I —Tho dead arise!— They run after us I—Hurry!— Run! Run! The dead arise!

(Elbowing, stumbling, knocking down sobbing women, they run, wildly howling. His sinewy, Bwayinv body outstretched after the fleeing, enravislied with frenzied ecstasy, King-Hunger shouts.) King-Hunger: Rim! Run! The. dead ariso! (Curtain.) SINGING THE DOMINION. THE WORK OF A SERIOUS POET. If over a man’s work disclosed his ago it is the poetry of Hubert Church, whose poems have been collected and published by Thomas C. Lothian, of Melbourne. Even a fleeting glance at tho writings in the modest book would tell the reador that they havo. come from a man who has seen many years of life. Gravity, but not ponderous seriousness, is met everywhere in thobook, and maturity adds weight oven to the lighter love lyrics. It is obvious that Hubert Church has not written moroly because he had a pen between hia fingers, nor because there was a smooth space of white paper to be filled. Ho has considered matters earnestly and lie has written with tile best that his brain could furnish. The Inks have taught him, the enchantment or .the forests lias enveloped him and the music of tho waves lias entered into his heart. He has worked, as he would wish to sleep, in “ a temple by the eversounding sea.” Bom in Tasmania and transplanted into New Zealand., lie has had instilled into him the majesty and the freedom of the uplands. lor lnm the memories of Hobart have still a tender call. New* Zealand, however, lias claimed tho love of his later years, and he sings of the dominion reverently in dignified blank verso. To him the dominion is apart from the “ haggard world that toils day after day tor the disordered wain reeking with strife. But it is Sne forest that lie sings supremely—tho forests and the majestic mountains. Then down to the seas once more, and his soul lifts to the calm splendour of the deep basins where the groat hills all but encompass the sea i

This fiord is a still monastery aloof, ■Where tired eyes that do beseech the morn -oft step to retard below the gleam And let them slumber, feel the eider fall Pram Solitude's delicious wings that float Unheard by them that hearken evermore She is thv lord, O Sea, and thou art led To her secluded ebambor, at her foot Thv wave is the enchantment of a prayer ■Murmuring for forgiveness; she has made Thee anthem to inviolable walls, Chancels of mist upgathermg from the foam Tho melancholy of thy wilderness. There is beauty in tho lilies by Church when ho speaks of the wonders of tho hills giving tho echoes of tho music from the “Voices within the waterfall that spake more than ever was graved in Holy Writ. Again ho draws a beautiful picture: Tho wavo Tolls not tho secret of the mocking past, Tho cloud floats lonely from the sea, her, heart Breaks on the mountain . . .

Communion with tlio woods has made Church feol tho evils of. tho city and he declares that humanity has drawn tho saddest lot “from tho urn of fate.” For him, New Zealand’s future •has its dangers, and he gives his warning: The price w» pay garrets mullet packed, Infancy with decrep'ituds of crime, Innosence the plaything of the debauched Breaks at the source the majesty of race: The fountain i 3 polluted, babes are found Not in tho cradle, but the sopulchro. Dew Land, for this I blfcmo not thee alone, That wo lack little. foet about the door; That now a, pantomime of gaiety Is dearer to the woman s heart than love That is indeed lcvo most when dowered with pain. Oli. to bo homely is too obsolete; Batter tho giddy emptiness of froth. In “New Zealand” Hubert Church reaches lofty heights. Other poems in tho volume aro written in tho same serious strain and with the samo wealth of music. “To the Light” is a delving into deeper things, and “ A Fugue'’ has much to commend it. Both includo many lines that will uot be forgotten

easily, and both will influence the l'eader to return to them after the last leaf of the volume haß been turned, down. Of the lyrics, attention is du® and onjoymont is to be found in ‘ Fidelis,” “At Her Gate,” “Hush” ant l “ Shadows.” NEW BOOKS. “ More Man,” by Margaret Dalbam, emphasises tho argument in favour or the author’s sex (says tho “ Bookfeljow ”). She declares that “the civilised world is slowly but surely reverting to a state when once again matriarchy, and not patriarchy, will rule tho domestic relations, and that this will b® tlie true solution of the much-vexed "Vj oman Question.” In her proof of this sho does not “ propose to flinch from even an unsavoury fact,” and she does not flinch. Woman’s battle now “is a battlo for the possession of her own body, and her own spiritual being; it is a revolt against too much and compulsory maternity, and nothing but domesticity, without the just recognition that her need of intellectual and spiritual freedom is much greater, not less, than man’s. Man lias yet to learn that woman has a positivo value of her own, and that one quite independent of her relations with man.”

Evidently Mr Jeffery Farnol’s hook, “Tlie Money Moon,” lias, in the opinion of his London publishers, Messrs Sampson, Low and Co., come to stay (says the “ Booklover ”). They are now bringing out a fine art edition, with sixty illustrations, by Arthur J. Keller, thirty-six being full pago plates, in colour, sepia, and half-tone mono-tint. That is a fair indication of their belief in the selling capacity of this writer. All we hear from those who have read it is. that they think it charming. Mrs David ltitchie has told an interesting story in “ Tlio Human Ory ” (Methuen and Co.) The central figure is Violet Broodlow, a girl who lias been taught that r’ i may not marry because of tiie taint of insanity in her family. There is something fated and hopeless about her from the beginning, and it is to Mrs Ritchie’s credit that the heroine has been mado an ordinarily kind, simple girl, instead of the luridly emotional creature it would have been easy to paint. Such a story as this could not “end happily” in the conventionaal sense. In the artistic sense it does, and for a pago or two proves that the author can strike the stronger note if she will. Oddly enough, with all her inclination to restraint of feeling, there is much superfluity of material. The study of Mrs Tremayne, clever though it is in its unkindness, takes up too _ much space, and Mossmore, the politicianhero, carefully analysed and truly observed, is rather a mass of good material than a man. Mrs Ritchie has done well, and sho should achieve still better Work in the future. “The Reward of Virtue,” by Amber Reeves (Mr William _ Hememann. Christchurch, Messrs Whitconvbe and Tombs) has been attracting favourable attention in the reviews Miss Reeves is a daughter of Mr William Pember Heaves, and it is evident that she has inherited a capacity for literary expression. Tho book tells of the life of a middle-class girl in a well-to-do family, and it reveals an astonishingly large amount of insight and analytical power. Tho title, one gathers, is cynical in its conception. The “ reward ” is disilllusionment and restraint. But certainly the story is worth reading. “ Sixes and Sevens ” is the last of tho works of “ 0. Henry,” tho author of some of America’s best short stories. “ 0. Henry,” whose real name was Porter, is dead, and this volume contains a collection of his later writings. “ Porter .brings Clemens’s American humour to a finer flower of wit, and fringes it with elaborate phrases,” says tho “ Bookfcllow.” “ Wo read, of a roof-garden, that ‘ The _ ballet was now in the midst of a musical vagary, and danced upon the stage programmed as Bolivian peasants, clothed in some portions of its anatomy as Norwegian lisher-maidens, in others as ladies-in-waiting of Mario Antoinette, historically denuded in other portions so as. to represent sea nymphs, and presenting the tout ensemble of a social club of Central Park West housemaids at a fish fry.’ Observe that tho complex artifice -of such a passage, contains its duo share of criticism or life; it is not an evanescent firework, despite its glitter. 1 0. Henry ’ will livo long, and in ‘Sixes and Sevens’ ho has increased by a little his claim to immortality.” A cheap edition of Mr Michael M’Cattily’s “ Priests and People in Ireland is a topical work-in view of the opening of the Home Rule campaign in Britain. The book (Christchurch. Messrs Whitcombo and Tombs) is partisan, of course, but it is vigorous and informative. Another cheap edition of present interest presents -“Roosevelt The Man,” by Mr W. Holt White (Melrose, Christchurch, Messrs Whitcombe and Tombs). Tho book is full of good stories of the ex-President, who at present is making a bold bid for the succession to Mr Taft. A good story of the lighter kind is “ Essence of Honeymoon” (Mr William I Heinemann. Christchurch, Messrs Whiti combe and Tombs). It is ail idyll of a ! happy, rollicking nature, full of joy and light-hearted fun. There . is a problem as well as a honeymoon in the pages of this novel, and the ending, of course, is entirely satisfactory. Mrs Florence Barclay, tho author of “ Tho Rosary,” is not letting tho literary grass grow under her. feet. Another story by her is announced for publication with Messrs Putnam before tho end of IVterch. It JS called “ Through tho Postom Gate,” and is a “ romance in seven days.” A. young man, full of the' fire of youth, is hero, and a perfectly charming woman is heroine; and all ends happily. Mr Norman Angell writes a preface to a volume announced by Mr Heinemann, which ranges with his own “ Great Illusion.” It is entitled W ar and its Alleged Benefits,” and tho author is Mr J. Novikow, vice-presi-dent of the International Institute of Sociology. It is a parallel and complement to the “ Great Illusion, and Mr Angcll says that “ it contains more arguments against war m tho abstract than anything I know. /r a - , Cassell’s “Now Magazine (Chiistchurpli, Messrs Simpson and V illiarns contimiOß to maintain a } -S standard. 'Hie February number had thirteen complete tales, most of them freely illustrated. The hst included a long complete novel by Flank I. Packard, as well as thrilling stones of land and sea by Tom Gallon Captain Frank 11. Shaw. Blanche Eardley and nrinv others. The March number of manj o maE azine is now on sale S 3 ££& another fine set of »tori f , to addition to an attractive art supplein option for women readers. me x t ’ has been initiated by the NeV South Wales Bookstalls Company which has arranged to publish in Australia cheap reprints ol popular American novels. The first volume, is “ Brtr M’Cutcheon,” a very attractive . Vith tho characteristic American ftf lt is pocket size, with illustrations and tho price is only one slnl-, Un <?T?„rt’ry ’Ande,” by Edward Dyson, l published by the New South tw® u s Bookstalls Company in an at- " al ®.“ form. Tho semi-connected x deal with factory life and the B t° n of Australian worker that Mr has learned to picture riTklly ' lewdly. Tlio illustrations, which a,nd many and vigorous, arc by Will aT ® n . “ You may find my factory « decked in their best,” writes the +lior in a foreword, “ patrolling the ! n x(Bf thoroughfares of tho working i cll ji’s suburb on fine Saturday nights, j girls in twos and threos, the boys j • 1 small parties, the ‘ donahs ’ grimac- ??* and giggling, the lads ‘ wording J with laboured jocularities pecu- j liar to tho class.” Tho type is interfeting and Mr Dyson has made of it (he material for u. highly valuable tolume.- ’ *

“ How to Dance,” by Edward. Soott, i is a handy little guide to the ways of j the ballroom, published by MeSsra ! Ward, Lock , and Company. The ' author, as a dancing master of wide | experience and many accomplishments, j is peculiarly well qualified for the task-- 1 of enlightening tho people who attend | balls and- “ parties.” , |