nothing and fear nothing, who are gay in their misery, though
miserable in their joy.

Gorky's voice is not the calm, cultivated, well-balanced voice of
Chekhov, the Russian De Maupassant, nor even the apostolic, well-
meaning, but comparatively faint voice of Tolstoy, the preacher:
it is the roaring of a lion, the crash of thunder. In its
elementary power is the heart. rending cry of a sincere but
suffering soul that saw the brutality of life in all its horrors,
and now flings its experiences into the face of the world with
unequalled sympathy and the courage of a giant.

For Gorky, above all, has courage; he dares to say that he finds
the vagabond, the outcast of society, more sublime and
significant than society itself.

His Bosyak, the symbolic incarnation of the Over-man, is as naive
and as bold as a child--or as a genius. In the vehement passions
of the magnanimous, compassionate hero in tatters, in the
aristocracy of his soul, and in his constant thirst for Freedom,
Gorky sees the rebellious and irreconcilable spirit of man, of
future man,--in these he sees something beautiful, something
powerful, something monumental, and is carried away by their
strange psychology. For the barefooted dreamer's life is Gorky's
life, his ideals are Gorky's ideals, his pleasures and pains,
Gorky's pleasures and pains.

And Gorky, though broken in health now, buffeted by the storms of
fate, bruised and wounded in the battle-field of life, still like
Byron and like Lermontov,