“Et s’il m’interroge encore
   Sur la derniere heure?—­

   Dites lui que j’ai souri
   De peur qu’il ne pleure ...”

touch, perhaps, the very high-water mark of exquisite simplicity and tenderness blent with matchless beauty of expression.  Pelleas et Melisande was the culminating point of this, his first, period—­a simple, pathetic love-story of boy and girl—­love that was pure and almost passionless.  It was followed by three little plays—­“for marionettes,” he describes them on the title-page; among them being La Mort de Tintagiles, the play he himself prefers of all that he has written.  And then came a curious change:  he wrote Aglavaine et Selysette.  The setting is familiar to us; the sea-shore, the ruined tower, the seat by the well; no less than the old grandmother and little Yssaline.  But Aglavaine herself is strange:  this woman who has lived and suffered; this queenly, majestic creature, calmly conscious of her beauty and her power; she whose overpowering, overwhelming love is yet deliberate and thoughtful.  The complexities of real life are vaguely hinted at here:  instead of Golaud, the mediaeval, tyrannous husband, we have Selysette, the meek, self-sacrificing wife; instead of the instinctive, unconscious love of Pelleas and Melisande, we have great burning passion.  But this play, too, was only a stepping-stone—­a link between the old method and the new that is to follow.  For there will probably be no more plays like Pelleas et Melisande, or even like Aglavaine et Selysette.  Real men and women, real problems and disturbance of life—­it is these that absorb him now.  His next play will doubtless deal with a psychology more actual, in an atmosphere less romantic; and the old familiar scene of wood, and garden, and palace corridor will be exchanged for the habitual abode of men.

I have said it was real life that absorbed him now, and yet am I aware that what seems real to him must still appear vague and visionary to many.  It is, however, only a question of shifting one’s point of view, or, better still, of enlarging it.  Material success in life, fame, wealth—­these things M. Maeterlinck passes indifferently by.  There are certain ideals that are dear to many on which he looks with the vague wonder of a child.  The happiness of which he dreams is an inward happiness, and within reach of successful and unsuccessful alike.  And so it may well be that those content to buffet with their fellows for what are looked on as the prizes of this world, will still write him down a mere visionary, and fail to comprehend him.  The materialist who complacently defines the soul as the “intellect plus the emotions,” will doubtless turn away in disgust from M. Maeterlinck’s constant references to it as the seat of something mighty, mysterious, inexhaustible in life.  So, too, may the rigid follower of positive religion, to whom the Deity is a power concerned only with the judgment, reward, and punishment of men, protest at his saying that “God,