possess different qualities, but all, or nearly all, speak with the tongue of Rudolf Hans Bartsch. With the exception of the few Slavs who do no more than flit across the pages, they are all as profoundly convinced as he is himself of the superiority of the German race to all others. Not that Bartsch is naïve enough to say so plainly. Indeed, he is too much of an artist not to throw a few shadows into the picture, and even to let a few stray rays of light rest upon his antagonists. Thus, among a wilderness of chauvinistic Slav priests, he places one solitary example of tolerance and evangelical charity. He admits that the Slav peasants possess both minds and hearts, and really would be all right, if only they would not listen to anti-German agitators. In one passage he goes so far as to express his belief that even among educated Slavs some decent men may be found. But these concessions are so obviously made for the sake of being able to say See how impartial we are!' that they alter nothing about the trend of the book. In the choice of passages to illustrate this there is a veritable embarras de richesses, but the following must serve :

6

'Reconquest!' [cried Georg]. What sort of a reconquest is this, compared to the German invasion of a thousand years back? The German came with the Bible and the book of Nibelungen in his hand; with song, fiddle, harp, and hero's tale. But he also cleared forests, dried swamps, built castles and churches, fortified towns, and brought with him a great breath of relief, a higher existence as a god might do! Like the Archangel Michael, who soared down from the skies to kill the dragon, he conquered this land. But this nation crawls upon us out of the depth of venomous envy, and strikes from below into our entrails!' etc., etc.

And again, this passage of a speech made to German hearers:

'Out of the wealth of the German soul let us bestow gifts upon our antagonists, and continue to bestow until they grow up to become our brothers. Let us open to them the wonders of our language, of our culture, so that the souls of their children, flowering richly and reconciled, should one day stand up in testimony against their fathers, who would have destroyed what is German. For each sorrow, for each injury and each shame which they inflict upon us we will answer with a German school; shall we not?'

This remains the supreme offence of the Slav: the rejection of German culture, and the preposterous ambition to develop his own. Now, although I do not think that any sane and unbiassed person has ever dreamt of underrating German culture, it may perhaps be permitted to doubt whether this is the right way to set about spreading it. Certainly it is not to this method that the English language owes its world-supremacy. Can it be an 3 к

VOL. LXXI-No. 423

insult to the German tongue to suggest that it can safely be trusted to take care of itself? In their doings the Styrian Germans-as well as Bartsch himself-seem to have calculated without one deep-rooted quality of human nature: the spirit of contradiction. If the German school were not so persistently crammed down the Slav throat, it is more than likely that, by this time, its manifold advantages would have done their own work. In German ears the unbroken panegyric sounds sweetly, no doubt; but we others, while reading on page after page about the German soul,' the German heart,' the German mind,' as well as of countless dear German faces,' and 'dear German eyes,' and 'dear German lips,' are apt to get somewhat restive, and to wonder whether the dear German arms and legs, and fingers and toes,' are not coming next.

What makes the book significant is that it is written, not by a German, but an Austrian subject. There comes a moment in the tale when Georg, disheartened by his failures and unable any longer to look on at the 'sufferings' of his people, resolves to emigrate to his 'real home.'

'Yes, endless longing-home-sickness for the German Empire overcame him!'

He is at Salzburg when this happens; and on the top of a high tower, while watching the cloud-banks to the South, he makes the following reflections:

'So lie darkness, battle, and heavy clouds over Austrian minds, while over there, in the holy German Empire, the heavens glow like the golden ground of a royal, Byzantine picture! There is the sun-there the great light flames and shines-there all is fair, free, and clear! Oh, thou home of my soul, thou land of my great poets, thou mighty empire-to thee do I belong!'

Next day Georg makes a sort of 'general repetition' of his emigration, by taking a walk to the Bavarian frontier, so as to get at least ‘a mouthful of German air,' and press his foot upon the holy soil. On the Austrian side he sees many things which displease him-even the trees, which are rare and scraggy. From time to time a cleanly looking village. Aha!' he comments, the German neighbourhood.' When crossing the bridge which marks the frontier he steps as people do in church. He would like best of all to throw himself on the ground and kiss it, but is deterred from this by the presence of a customs official sitting behind the blue-and-white barrier. On the other side of that magic line the world seems transformed. The very road appears to Georg about twice as broad as Austrian roads, and the trees which shade it twice as tall and luxuriant as Austrian trees.

To the young man it seemed as though only in a court-carriage with six nodding horses would it be suitable to drive into the land of might and greatness. Tears started to his eyes.

"Germany! Germany! My Empire!'

Thus writes or rather, rhapsodises-a man who, until lately, still wore the Austrian uniform-a fact which, especially when viewed in the light of the enormous success achieved by the book, furnishes food for reflection.

In the event Georg recovers from his rapture sufficiently to recognise his duty towards his co-nationalists in the South, and therefore to renounce the 'home of his soul' and that land of freedom in which police regulations thrive so luxuriantly. It is some time after this that he settles in Styria, and sets about paving a little bit of the way which is to lead to the Adriatic.

It seems hardly fair to close this notice without saying more of the wonderful word-pictures already mentioned, and which shine like gorgeously flaming, or tenderly tinted, landscapes through all of this author's novels-Styrian landscapes, by preference. Bartsch is-to express it un-academically-' cracked upon' Styria. This first became apparent in his Zwölf aus der Steiermark (Twelve Men from Styria), but Das Deutsche Leid beats it in this respect. According to Bartsch, there is no spot on earth worth living on-not even the holy German Empire, apparently-but Southern Styria.

'Ah!' [cries his mouthpiece Georg, in one of his ecstasies], 'if all the sick hearts in the German Empire knew how we live here here in the Styrian infinity! In troops they would come and settle in this world, blessed above all belief, teeming with restfulness, a fulfilment above fulfilments! '

And further on :

'Come all ye who are weary of the toils of the market-place, the noise of the cities, the vanity of society, and enter into the wonderful rest of these hills! Ye Germans, do not let this paradise of peace, this dreamland of home-sick hearts, this sunny, southern Styria be torn from you!'

All through the book the southern vineyards lie as a glowing background, the miniature windmills rattle in the breeze, scaring the birds from the ripening grapes, the earth smells good, while the winter storms roar almost audibly, and the summer sun shines well-nigh palpably upon a world of which not a charm escapes this seer's eyes.

Although the subject is not much in fashion nowadays, I should like to mention that the morals of this novel belong to what has sometimes been defined as 'farmyard morals.' The couples pair and unpair again as light-heartedly as the birds of the air; conjugal fidelity is, at best, indulgently smiled at, and

its opposite treated as an excellent joke. It is true that the hero himself ends by conquering an illegal passion; but that is only because all along he has been too busy with his soul to have much attention over for less-exalted things.

But for once farmyard morals have their uses, since they are responsible for a regular treat in the way of character-drawing. For the sake of Willibald Himmelmayer alone it is worth while swallowing the Germanic raptures. In the person of this delightfully irresponsible, perversely fascinating musical genius and roué the system of morals aforenamed finds its concentrated expression. It is thus that Bartsch first introduces him :

For the taste of light-hearted people he was the very distillation of an artist; his existence and his life were, in a sort of way, the ether-like essence of well-being. It was like the foam of champagne; for no earthly weight could trouble this divine profligate.

Besides a passion for music, Himmelmayer has a passion for Nature, with whom he lives on a footing of personal intimacy, into which he is eagerly ready to introduce others. Hence his influence over Georg Botzenhardt.

'Master, dear Master' [the young man pleads in one of his moments of love-sickness]; ' lead me into your life, and let me forget the girl who consumes my blood like poison; weave your magic moods around me!'

Upon which Himmelmayer says: 'Hah! then let us get into the country!' and carries him off to a hill-top.

So once more they started off through the autumnal world on the search for impressions one of those pilgrimages in which nothings are of allimportance. The mirror-like qualities of a black forest-pool were enough cause for rejoicing, as was also the turquoise blue of the heavens which, from another point of view, the small bit of water reflected. The world seemed as deserted, as though nothing more than asters, turnips, and shreds of mist remained upon the scrap-heap of the year; but, with a word of joy and gratitude, the light-hearted musician enriched impoverished Nature. He said, while pointing to the mill in the valley: 'Listen, Georg, to the merry, digestive work! "Into the sack! Into the sack! That is the great return into ourselves the internal reception of all God's gifts.'

Presently Himmelmayer whispers: 'Hark!' for, long before his companion, he has noted the rising of the wind.

And as though soft, innumerable drums were beating, the patter of the horse-chestnuts began. The many, many loosened fruits bounded against the earth, and rolled deliciously for nine, ten, eleven seconds. The trees still stood expectant, before settling back into calm; only here and there, like the titter of some tender reminiscence, a single chestnut dropped on the hard earth. And there was again nothing but suggestion, and the deeply transparent, tepid, splendidly shining night.

'Heavens-that was beautiful!' said Georg in a whisper.

Himmelmayer, to whom such trifles of Nature were just as important and rejoiceful as to the youngster, purred like a satisfied tom-cat.

'Ah, yes, der liebe Gott and I often make these little arrangements. This one was quite successful, was it not?'

Himmelmayer is so completely devoid of moral sense that scrupulous persons can only enjoy his society with an uneasy conscience, and yet cannot quite escape enjoying it. He who feels nothing but shocked when the frivolous musician sets off on a foot-tour, in the company of Georg, in order to visit a whole collection of old sweethearts-he has one in about every second village-must indeed be inexorable; and any person who maintains his gravity while the incorrigible Don Juan is building up artistic dams in the cart-ruts in order to shake awake the sleepers on the top of hay-wagons, and thus enable him to pass in review the rustic beauties of the neighbourhood, must be of resisting constitution.

But he is not a Don Juan alone. The scene in which, having at last become conscious of vanished youth, he first sinks into despondency, then, rising above it, takes refuge at the piano, in order to give musical expression to the emotions convulsing him, lends a touch of grandeur to this extravagant figure.

It was splendid; and Himmelmayer smiled, entranced, through the roll and the purling of the harmonies. He was delivered. The approach of age was to be the title of his work; a wonderful symphony which gave tongue to his lamentations, his terrors, his accusations against God, his useless prayers, out of which, with growing triumph the solution rose higher and higher Work-clear and serene work!

Needless to say that anybody called Himmelmayer must be as German as his surroundings; yet his ways are refreshingly un-German. 'Politics and the national question give me pains in my inside,' he once remarks to Georg. Not that he is indifferent to his own people, but that he is, in first line, an artist. He wears his nationality gaily, 'like a nosegay in his buttonhole.'

While making our way through The German Sorrow, we were sometimes tempted to wish that others among the characters would wear it in this fashion, which, on the whole, seems preferable to wielding it as a sledge-hammer.

To those politicians upon whose programme the severance between Austria and German interests figures conspicuously, German Sorrow will not prove very comforting reading.

Among other novels of the 'national' category there are several which would deserve a fuller notice than I am here able to give them. Lieb Vaterland, for instance, by Rudolf Stratz