From the outside came sounds resembling the whining of a dog.
“What’s that? Who’s there?”
“That’s the Tartar crying!”
“Well!... What a character!”
“He’ll get used to it!” said Simon, and soon was asleep.
Soon the others were also asleep. But the door remained unshut.
ANDREEV, APOSTLE OF THE TERRIBLE
Of contemporary Russian fictionists, Leonid Nikolaevich Andreev rises largest with promise. Just past forty, he has for fourteen years been producing work of strength and individual flavor, and, now that Tolstoi is gone, his place is probably ahead of even Maxim Gorki—at least, he is primus inter pares.
Andreev’s life is best told in his own brief words:
“I was born in 1871, in Oryol, and studied there at the gymnasium. I studied poorly: while in the seventh class I was for a whole year known as the worst student, and my mark for conduct was never higher than 4, sometimes 3. The most pleasant time spent in school, which I recall to this day with pleasure, was recess time between the lectures, and also the rare occasions when I was sent out from the class-room. The sunbeams which penetrated some cleft, and which played with the dust in the hallway—all this was so mysterious, so interesting, so full of a peculiar, hidden meaning.