Since that time gold has been discovered in all manner of places, under the grass roots of the hill-side benches, in the bottom of Monte Cristo Island, and in the sands of the sea at Nome.  And now the gold hunter who knows his business shuns the “favourable looking” spots, confident in his hard-won knowledge that he will find the most gold in the least likely place.  This is sometimes adduced to support the theory that the gold hunters, rather than the explorers, are the men who will ultimately win to the Pole.  Who knows?  It is in their blood, and they are capable of it.

Piedmont, California. 
February 1902.

FOMA GORDYEEFF

“What, without asking, hither hurried whence? 
And, without asking, whither hurried hence! 
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!”

“Foma Gordyeeff” is a big book—­not only is the breadth of Russia in it, but the expanse of life.  Yet, though in each land, in this world of marts and exchanges, this age of trade and traffic, passionate figures rise up and demand of life what its fever is, in “Foma Gordyeeff” it is a Russian who so rises up and demands.  For Gorky, the Bitter One, is essentially a Russian in his grasp on the facts of life and in his treatment.  All the Russian self-analysis and insistent introspection are his.  And, like all his brother Russians, ardent, passionate protest impregnates his work.  There is a purpose to it.  He writes because he has something to say which the world should hear.  From that clenched fist of his, light and airy romances, pretty and sweet and beguiling, do not flow, but realities--yes, big and brutal and repulsive, but real.

He raises the cry of the miserable and the despised, and in a masterly arraignment of commercialism, protests against social conditions, against the grinding of the faces of the poor and weak, and the self-pollution of the rich and strong, in their mad lust for place and power.  It is to be doubted strongly if the average bourgeois, smug and fat and prosperous, can understand this man Foma Gordyeeff.  The rebellion in his blood is something to which their own does not thrill.  To them it will be inexplicable that this man, with his health and his millions, could not go on living as his class lived, keeping regular hours at desk and stock exchange, driving close contracts, underbidding his competitors, and exulting in the business disasters of his fellows.  It would appear so easy, and, after such a life, well appointed and eminently respectable, he could die.  “Ah,” Foma will interrupt rudely—­he is given to rude interruptions—­“if to die and disappear is the end of these money-grubbing years, why money-grub?” And the bourgeois whom he rudely interrupted will not understand.  Nor did Mayakin understand as he laboured holily with his wayward godson.