Author of Por Recenzo!



"In essence Esperanto is an artificial language with no history and no literature behind it." — MR. HAROLD COX, in the Spectator, May 10, 1930.

THE need for a brief sketch in English of the literature of Esperanto has been felt for some time past. Eminent men show constantly in their pronouncements that they have had no opportunity to study the subject, and beginners in Esperanto ask for some guide to what they should read.

This little book is an attempt partially to meet the need, and though the rapidity with which the literature is growing will soon make it inadequate, it may serve its purpose for a short while.

My thanks are due to the magazine International Language for permission to reprint much of the matter here presented, and to several friends, especially Mr. L. N. Newell (author of the article on Esperanto poetry), Mr. J. J. Sullivan, and Mr. Bernard Long, for valuable criticism and suggestions.


Copyright by the author in all countries






MORE than we care always to show are we creatures of moods, and in our tastes in books, as in other things of equal importance, it is good to be catholic in our appreciation, to preserve an equal relish for Petronius or Jane Austen, for Anatole France or the poetry of Meredith. And so in a literature which is virile and growing it is good to see a balance, to find the subtlest of psychological analysis and the coarsest of earthy humour, and contrasted with the heights of pathos and the cries of those whom Life has broken, the happy content of men and women leading lives of a little kindliness, some malice, and uneventful usefulness.

The bookshelf of the Esperantist holds all this, with behind it a background wider than has yet inspired tile writers arid songsters of the world. To his hand is the poignancy of Bratescu‑Voinesti, whose study of a Rumanian childhood finds response in all who remember the sorrowful incidents of their own; he would have been acclaimed by the authoress of that fine outburst in The Mill on the Floss against the cant phrase of the unimaginative grown‑up, "My dear child, when you are older you will have real troubles to bear. . . ." If the reader is a young man of twenty‑five and believes himself to be without illusions concerning life, as one very often does at that age, what fuel to his feelings are the short stories of Stamatov, the Bulgarian Dostoevsky! They confirm the teaching of all his experience; his mistakes, as Wilde would have said. Perhaps the mood is of a desire for solitude, for a quietness whispering of romance and adventure—the soul will find satisfaction in the countryside, after the fingers have reached to a volume of prose poetry from Catalonia, Barbaraj Prozaĵoj, by Prudenci Bertrana, translated, as such a book should be, by one himself a poet, Jaume Grau Casas, famous for his experiments with the sonnet in


Esperanto. Perhaps there are few people in England who know even of the existence of Catalonia, its language, its literature, and its aspirations to autonomy.

There is a very fine translation in Esperanto of a book known to most of us as All Quiet on the Western Front. In some respects more complete than the English version, En Okcidento Nenio Nova is a notable piece of work.

As a means of access to the literature of the smaller nations Esperanto offers unique opportunities, and it is interesting to devote a few weeks solely to the treasures to be had from a country such as Bulgaria, and instructive, too, to one's sense of proportion to realise that not all that is great comes from the Great Powers.

At this point, I can hear the reader break in upon my eulogy with eager quotation of an old saying about translators and traitors, and it is true that the books of which I have so far spoken are not in the language in which originally they were available to a linguistic minority, that enjoyment of them throughout the world depends on an Esperanto translation.

Yet it is a fact still insufficiently recognised that the art of the translator is at a higher level in these times than ever before. Strindberg and D'Annunzio are available to the English‑speaking world in language which goes a long way to conveying the style and meaning of the original, and although the late Mr. Scott Moncrieff may have spoken of “the dark night of what is called civilization,” he himself did something to indicate that a glimmer may exist by his translations of Proust and Stendhal, which are generally agreed to be the heralds of a new art.

The truth is that a translator need be no more of a traitor than the most perfect friend, while life is as it is, must always fall short of the final, the perfect sympathy; in the past he was, often a murderer or like Sir Thomas Urquhart, who gave us Rabelais, an egoistic creator, and perhaps it is only now that he is come into his true function as an affectionate interpreter.

In Esperanto these friendships, these sympathies, are many. To several in Hungary we owe an intimate knowledge of a literature which too many of us know only by repute: there remain in my mind chiefly La Cikoni‑Kalifo, a marvellous book, translated by one who


may be destined to be the Scott Moncrieff of our language; and the subtle short stories of a contemporary writer, Frederic Karinthy, whose work shows a remarkable affinity with Western developments of the conte.

How many English people know anything of the mind of the Japanese of to‑day? In Deklaracio, by Arishima, they would find a revelation not soon forgotten of the inner turbulence and conflict through which the youth of Japan is passing, and from Akita's Danco de Skeletoj they would understand something of its bitterness and disillusionment.

Sometimes it is in a past civilisation that we like to pass the idle hours, and then that classic romance of Ancient Egypt, La Faraono, from the Polish of Prus, will hold no terrors by, reason of its three volumes; has not Wells done something to re‑accustom us to this form by his William Clissold?

If of the past we seek its wisdom, there is no book to which we shall turn more often than the Bible, to the Esperanto translation of which even The Times Literary Supplement accorded “a certain majestic roundness of tone and rhythm.”

Zamenhof gave us many of our "classics": Schiller's Rabistoj, Goethe's Ifigenio en Taŭrido, Gogol's Revizoro, Marta, that epic of a suffering woman by Elisabeth Orzesko, and Hamlet, which, when staged at the Esperanto Congress in Antwerp in 1928, was rapturously enjoyed by an audience drawn from nearly every country in the world; the translation of the Old Testament from the original Hebrew is undoubtedly his masterpiece, and whether for worldly wisdom or spiritual counsel, the Scriptures will remain for the Esperantist a fount to be kept always at hand.

To speak of the Scriptures is to remember their beauty in English, and to recollect that genius in translation is not a new thing of this century. Yet it remains true, I think, that the general level, as distinct from individual work of brilliance, is higher than ever before, and we who are Esperantists can be proud to have our share in a development of international understanding.





IT is of great significance that in the same year as Zamenhof published Esperanto to the world, in 1887, there appeared his beautiful poem, Mia Penso. It will always be a matter for regret that devotion to the humanitarian aspect of an international language should have left him but little time also to enrich it in its literature. As it is, we have several poems and prose works from his pen, which have been collected together in a volume worthy of the contents, entitled Originala Verkaro. They are sufficient to indicate how much humanity was the poorer in one respect for its enrichment in other fields.

Nothing of real importance occurred later in the original literature of the language until after the first congress at Boulogne-Sur-Mer in 1905. In 1906 a Frenchman, H. Sentis, wrote a story Urso and some poems. A later novel by him has been translated into French from Esperanto. Dr. Vallienne, a French Esperantist of great activity in the movement, published in 1907 a long novel

entitled Kastelo de Prelongo, and followed it in the next year by Ĉu Li, equally long and equally readable. These two books remind one of the writings in the last century of G. P. R. James or Le Fanu; not that they are historical, or aim at the horror which Le Fanu achieved so often, but they are in the same tradition. Kastelo de Prelongo deals with a castle, a noble family, and much mystery; Mrs. Henry Wood might have written most parts of it, although some portions, one fears, would have horrified her on moral grounds.

Ĉu Li is on the familiar theme of identical twins. There is no drawing of character, no subtle analysis, but


there is well‑elaborated plot, situation follows situation, the interest and excitement are sustained throughout. There might have been some doubt as to whether books of this kind could be written in Esperanto; Dr. Vallienne removed it.

The point was pressed home still further by an Englishman, H. A. Luyken, who published in 1912 a novel, Paŭlo Debenham, and in the following year Mirinda Amo. These books suffer from containing propaganda of a religious nature, but they reveal considerable gifts of narrative and description. Since the War the same writer has published Stranga Heredaĵo and Pro Iŝtar, both showing a great advance on the earlier works. Especially Pro 19far is a clever and vivid story: the scene is Babylon, and Biblical characters such as job are introduced.

Returning to the period before the War, we notice in the field of poetry work by Devjatnin, a prolific Russian writer, and a small volume published by two Poles in 1908 under the names Elski and Eska. In 1912, in England, John Merchant published a humorous story in the Jerome K. Jerome vein, Tri Angloj Alilande.

Dr. Privat, who is author of the almost "classic" Vivo de Zamenhof and Historio de la Lingvo Esperanto, has written a volume of poems, Tra l'Silento (1913), as well as a charming little study of childhood and youth, Karlo, and a play Ginevra, based on the famous Arthurian legend.

The real evolution of Esperanto literature to a point when it might be compared in many ways with that produced in any national language is a development which is to be placed historically after the War, and which had its centre in the capital of a country left by the War in unhappy state, Hungary.

It was in Budapest that a cultural magazine which has never been equalled in the Esperanto press saw the light. Literatura Mondo will always be associated with the names outstanding in our present literature, names which will become of historical importance: K. Kalocsay, Julio Baghy, Raymond Schwartz, Nikolao Hohlov, and many others from all parts of the world.

Already in 1921, in the year before Literatura Mondo appeared, K. Kalocsay had published some of his poems


in a volume entitled Mondo kaj Koro (unfortunately now out of print, like the novels of Vallienne and the early work of Luyken), and in 1922 Baghy, another Hungarian, published a first collection of verse.

Like several other great poets a doctor, cultured, refined, ultra-sensitive, Kalocsay has enriched our literature with translations from ten languages (his translations of Poe and Baudelaire are wonderful pieces of work), and with original poetry of which the best is wistfully bitter and will live as long as our literature itself. Occasionally he lapses unfortunately, both from rhyme, rhythm, and poetic feeling.

Julio Baghy is an actor, son of an actor, dark, tall, handsome. A man of deep emotion and versatile talent, he is the author of a novel, of volumes of short stories, and of poetry, all of which place him in the front rank of our writers.

His poetry is rugged, passionate, pessimistic when philosophical, sympathetic when dealing with children, with light women, or with prisoners of war. His experiences as a prisoner in Siberia during the War (in a camp where Esperanto was used as the means of communication between prisoners of several nationalities) gave him the background for his famous novel, Viktimoj, written in bold, powerful style, around a conventional theme of husband, wife and lover. The minor characters are well drawn—a drunkard, a prostitute, a Jewish pedlar; and the general incidents of the background are vividly pictured, whether it is the departure of a train-load of prisoners or the occasion during a counter‑revolution when Chinese soldiers wore forced to strip before being driven into the river to be shot at.

In subsequent collections of short stories—Dancu, Marionetoj! and Migranta Plumo—Baghy has produced the most diverse work, showing benevolent humour, malice and satire, Dickensian sentiment about children ability to recreate historical atmosphere, and as many other facets of a varied genius.

Raymond Schwartz is a youngish man who would give one the impression by his businesslike manner and metallic voice that he is a bank official. So he is. Born in Alsace‑Lorraine, he is as much at home in Germany as in France. He chooses to live in Paris, where in


1926 he published Verdkata Testamento, a volume of clever and Rabelaisian verse which perhaps could only have been written by a Parisian. In 1928 appeared Prozo Ridetanta, a delightful collection of tales, humorous, clear-cut, shrewd; and in this year (1930) has appeared Anni kaj Montmartre, a study of the life and the people usually associated with the district named. It too is clear‑cut, and shows much sympathetic observation and an ability to draw character in the rough, although both types and plot are conventional. The names of actual streets and cafés are used, but whether these and much of the local colour are fitted to a book intended for a worldwide audience is a nice point which raises some of the literary problems of the writer in an international language.

These three writers, Kalocsay, Baghy, and Schwartz, are outstanding figures in our literature, and seem likely to remain so; their future work should be followed with the closest attention and sympathy. Another who may do great work is a Russian, Nikolao Hohlov. An Esperantist since 1905, he is living again in Moscow, after several years in the Balkans, in Malta, and in Budapest, as a result of wartime upheaval. In addition to many translations he has published a collection of verse, La Tajdo, whose depths and beauties reveal themselves to the mind with slow but persistent sureness.

It is rather difficult to place H. J. Bulthuis, a Dutch writer, whose long, novels show a remarkable gift of making the everyday seem interesting. Of his trio, Idoj de Orfeo, Jozef kaj la edzino de Potifar, kaj La Vila Mano, the last, a study of country life, is the most even and the most truthful. His leisurely descriptions drive some readers to distraction, but there is something wonderful about his ability to make interesting the purchase of sixpennyworth of apples. A man who has led a fairly uneventful life, he describes only those scenes of town and country which he knows, and writes of people whose minds he understands. The result is naturalness, unspoilt by a tendency to conventional moralising and unnaturally good and bad people, and to unnecessary melodrama.

Two writers of long novels deserve mention, although their work is of little interest so far as the evolution of


the literature is concerned. Jean Forge, a pallid, dark young man by real name Fethke, of Polish descent, has proved by two novels, Abismoj and Saltego Trans Jarmiloj, that the language is suitable for the light and clever novels of the twentieth‑century railway bookstall. The first is a pastiche of Wells's Time Machine, dealing with a visit of modern people to Ancient Rome; the

second is a superficial analysis of four human minds. Both are easy to read and hard to remember; written in fluent style, they are clever proofs of their own existence in Esperanto.

Teo Jung is a German from the Rhine, young, slightly built, of gnome‑like merriment and great personal charm, whose writings I find distinctly dull. They remind me of the criticism passed on a certain phase of German literature given some time ago by a reviewer in the Nation: "It does not deal with life on the basis of human relationship, but represents an escape from life, or life in a primitive and undeveloped form"—a criticism which is applicable to a good deal of Esperanto literature.

However, his long novel, Landoj de l'Fantazio, is an achievement. Some of the ideas and descriptions are of great interest, and my readers should take care to form their own opinion, and to read his ballad Alta Kanto de la Amo.

Many other writers there are who have as yet published little, but whose names are likely to become known in Esperanto literature. In Russia Eŭgeno Miĥalski has made us hope that he will not be satisfied to continue to do poorly what Whitman did superbly; in Belgium Jan van Schoor has produced Amo kaj Poezio, a book of verses charming in their appealing sentiment. Grenkamp‑Kornfeld, a Pole, has shown literary ability in Krioj de l'Koro. In England R. J. Yarworth has introduced the world to a sound vein of English humour, and over the pen‑name "Eleno Vinfero" have appeared verses and sketches of talent by L. N. Newell.

Two writers call for final comment, both of whom have published first books in this year of 1930.

Stellan Engholm is a Swede, and is known only as the author of Al Torento. The work suffices to place him in the forefront of our writers. It is an idyll of modern


youth, in which is captured something of a breathless beauty which I had found only in Joseph Hergesheimer's The Lay Anthony. It is written in the simplest language, its artifices are few, and its spell is felt from the opening words.

Kenelm Robinson is an Englishman with remote strains of German and Huguenot blood. His book Se Grenereto . . . should be avoided by those who read for pleasure, but it is important. A writer who can place such a delicate piece of fun as La Paganta Gasto in a volume next to La Manio (reminiscent of James Joyce's Dublin at its most gruesome) is no doubt equal to any-

thing else in the same cover or to come.

The question of what is to come, not only front all the living writers I have dealt with, but from those I have had to omit, and from those who are to arise in the future, to that question a few words may now be devoted. They can but deal partially with a matter too vast for the scope of this little book.



It would be foolish to avoid discussion of the future of Esperanto literature by saying that it is bound up with the future of the language itself, depending upon factors political and sociological. The same would apply to any literature, English, Irish, or Catalonian. Art is a domain in which politicians have in influence as great as it is frequently unconscious, and also moral forces of which a Moses or a Joynson‑Hicks are the spokesmen will operate upon a new literature as upon one old‑established.

Without entering into questions of Marxism or morality in literature generally, it may be said at once that hitherto the majority of Esperantist writers have been moved by humanitarian motives, a fact which has naturally had its effect upon their work and caused a plethora of pleadings for the brotherhood of man and universal peace. Others, perhaps, wished to help the language just by showing that it was fitted to be a literary medium. Baghy is an avowed opponent of any idea of "Art for Art's Sake," and even Schwartz becomes on occasion an


apostle of a creed. It is for this reason that writers of the Stellan Engholm and Kenelm Robinson type assume a special significance; they are unknown in the Esperanto movement as such, and they have clearly written in Esperanto because, having something to say, they considered the language to be the most opportune medium for self‑expression. The case is parallel to that of Conrad's weighing of the question whether he should write in French or English; in passing, it is interesting to note the discussion raging among his friends whether he later regretted his decision. Decisions of this kind are made frequently: in this century a Rumanian, Panait Istrati, and an American, Julien Green, have chosen French; in the last a Maarten Maartens preferred English to his mother Dutch.

An artist will choose his audience for quantity or for capacity for appreciation, or for both reasons. Esperanto offers to the artist in words an audience which is small, but is world‑wide and growing. It is likely to attract talent and genius chiefly from those whose mother-tongue has a limited sphere—those who feel the need of a wider boundary than Sweden or post‑war Hungary—but it will attract eventually all who feel that what they have to say can be fittingly expressed to the people of all countries. A writer of the Compton Mackenzie type will always be dependent upon the language of his characters and upon a circle able to follow his intimate and local allusions.

An author who wants to write about Clapham Common will always realise (I hope) that he is approaching a theme only slightly less impossible than the conveyance to outsiders of family chaff. The important point is that if he is determined to write for the world, in Esperanto, what he knows and divines of the human ethos of that London common, then he will write something totally different from that which he would write if he had his mind only on readers acquainted with English ways and English thought. It may be true that love is much the same the world liver; it is certainly true that on Clapham Common it assumes in expression of both its normal and abnormal aspects forms which must be specially interpreted for a public ignorant of English ideology and English customs.


The same holds good of the bandstand audience, the sportsmen, and the loungers, of any park or common in the country.

This is only one facet of an interesting question; another is the dependence of a writer upon special turns of speech and upon slang. Kenelm Robinson was faced by this problem when dealing with schoolboy talk. He has this much in common with Raymond Schwartz: that he has not been content to look for his themes and backgrounds in some vague internationality, as the majority of our writers have naturally preferred to do. Schwartz in his Anni kaj Montmartre has boldly tackled the problem of locality by describing that adjacent to his Parisian flat, and attempting to reproduce the chatter and banter of the women with the vegetable stalls in the Rue Lepic.

The growing internationalism of literature as regards translations raises afresh this problem of how much knowledge a writer may assume on the part of his readers. Into that problem it is not for me to enter now; I point out merely this: that a Galsworthy, all André Gide, or an Italo Svevo, it Jacques de Lacretelle or a Franz Werfel, are justified in writing for those of their own tongue and culture, and in making a thousand allusions which in translation will be lost or misunderstood, in depending for effect on turns of speech, phrases, and even individual words of their characters. A man setting out to write in an international language, however, must fix his mind not on his own people, but on the world at large, and he is not justified in the introduction of allusions and subtleties which would aid him when writing in his own language. He will be rewarded in other ways, but much he must forego, local allusions, individual tricks of speech.

The last point on which I wish to touch is the economic one. I hold with Arnold Bennett that it is the business of an author, if possible, to make money by his work, and regret that at present no writer in Esperanto can live from the profits of his labours. Esperantist writers hitherto have been in the position common to men who write poetry: they have known from the outset that they would have little, if any, material reward. A change is coming, however, Schwartz tells me that he has profited from his books, and the company publishing this brochure


possibly made history by the recent payment of advance royalties to an original writer in the international language. Another aspect of the economic in literature has perhaps been noticed only by the more acute readers of the English and Esperanto socialist press. It is simply this: that whereas in the past literature has, been subject to sexual morality, it may in future be governed by a political code. Where once a book was banned because it pleaded for a homosexual, it may quite soon raise an outcry because it suggests that wealth and virtue can be combined in the same individual.

The point will not be new to attentive readers of the literary columns of the Daily Herald or Sennaciulo; it is beyond the scope of all article on the literature of a new language. Let us sum up.

When that language becomes as universal as it is international many new things will be required: new ways of thought for a new world and for writers a new technique.

When that time comes it will find a new literature, and that literature will be one founded by the Esperantist writers of this generation, who bring to its problems their experience and their brains.

What will be the final culture of that day is not to be known in our time; yet we may be sure that it will not be of a quality inferior to the cultures of the present, nor unworthy of those who have contributed to it, themselves gone gloriously before.



The phrase, “poetry in an 'artificial' language,” seems at first sight to be a contradiction in terms. Poetry is a phenomenon of languages which have expressed the joys and griefs of a people during many centuries; and any taint of " artificiality " is death to poetic expression.

Yet there already exists in the literature of Esperanto a proportionately large quantity of writing, which at any rate must be termed “verse”; and it can be shown, I think, that, of this body of verse, a fair proportion beyond any


doubt deserves the name of poetry. In other words, Esperanto, by its construction and elements, and the life infused into it by those who speak it, is to some extent already capable of the highest forms of literary expression.

The attempt to define poetry has at times degenerated almost into a parlour game: a definition to please everybody is impossible. For my purpose here I shall assume it to mean that form of writing which, with or without rhyme or strict metrical form expresses an event, an emotion or an idea, in the most economical way, with that "surcharge" or added quality which, by means of sound, rhythm or association, conveys a meaning or impression not explicit in the words and phrases themselves. Verse is possible in any jargon; poetry is possible only in language with a history and traditions, and with hearers who are sensitive thereto.

On what may be termed the physical side—i.e., its sounds and rhythms and the possible combinations—Esperanto is as well endowed as many national languages which possess world‑famous literatures. It lacks the rich vowel sequences of English or French; but it has the vowels of Italian (the language which in general it most resembles), with all their clarity and beauty, and all their subtle variations, resulting from the proximity of the various consonants, and diphthongal combinations. In consonant sounds it is even richer than Italian.

In the matter of history arid tradition it is necessarily behind the national languages, for it has been in existence not much more than forty years; and to the extent that it lags behind the national languages, it must less suitable for poetic expression than they are. But in tradition and associations it is infinitely richer than one would expect: from the time of its first appearance it has been the field of intense literary activity and even in the early years had developed a style and spirit of its own. Its literature has been created not by men painfully seeking expression for undeveloped ideas, as in the dim beginnings of a primitive national culture, but by men already charged with the cultures of the oldest civilisations of Europe and, to some extent, of the East. The writers of Esperanto have fused their individual traditions, and have created a new international culture, allied to, but distinct from, the older national cultures.


It is significant of its aptitude for poetry that Zamenhof had written poems in it before the publication of the language in 1887. In one of these, Mia Penso, he poignantly expresses the regrets and longings of a man who, for an ideal, has dedicated himself to a life of drudgery and solitude. Zamenhof rarely wrote verse, and more rarely rose to the heights of poetry, but certainly in this poem and in Ho, mia kor'! there is an intensity of emotion which touches us deeply; and even those who disagree with its central idea cannot fail to be moved by the majestic harmonies of his Preĝo sub la verda standardo.

Although rarely poetic in expression, Zamenhof was a poet at heart, with a poet's feeling for language; this was the quality which enabled him to give such character and beauty to the language which he created.

Zamenhof was an inspired translator, and has given us, among others, fine translations of Goethe's Iphigenia in Tauris, and the Old Testament (the Song of Solomon especially, with its barbaric passion and longing, is very colourful and moving).

Among other noteworthy translators of the early days were A. Kofman and Antoni Grabowski. The latter was the first writer in the language after Zamenhof, and he did much to develop Esperanto style. His most noted works are El Parnaso de l'Popoloj, a collection of translations from thirty languages, containing some delightful poems (specially noteworthy is the sonnet Estrino Mia, from Dante and the epic Sinjoro Tadeo, by Mickiewiez, the most famous of all Polish poems. It deals with the last uprising of the Poles at the beginning of the nineteenth century; the translation, which closely follows the singing irregular Alexandrines of the original, is very musical and shows an extraordinary power of capturing subtle impressions of sight and sound and atmosphere. It is certainly one of the greatest triumphs of Esperanto translation.

Dr. Vallienne has translated two other epics: the Chanson de Rolande and the Ćneid. The Eneidohas the characteristic rhythm and conciseness and the thunder of Latin verse, and must be ranked with Sinjoro Tadeo. The Rolandkanto nobly expresses the sadness of that fight at the pass, when chivalry died. Another epic, this time from the Hungarian, is Tragedio de I'Homo, by


Emeriko Madach, translated by K. Kalocsay, who is responsible for some of the finest translations we have in Esperanto; a linguist, he has translated from many languages. Another fine example of his work is Johano la Brava, from the Hungarian of A. Petöfi.

Translations from the poetry of all countries are being published constantly, but space does not allow me to mention more than the few above outstanding figures.

On the original side, which is possibly more important as having more influence on the growth of Esperanto's characteristic culture, there are very many poets, amongst whom I have already spoken of Zamenhof. The following sketch gives only a few representative names, and is by no means exhaustive.

The two dominating personalities in the more modem poetry are undoubtedly Kalocsay, just mentioned, and Julio Baghy. Both are Hungarians, and both are known in their national literature. Their common nationality makes it natural to group them together, although their characters are fundamentally different.

Baghy's temperament is romantic, strongly coloured with pessimism. He has suffered much, both during the war and after, and many of his poems shew the anguish of an idealist who has had his illusions roughly torn from him. Sklaviĝo, in his second volume of verse (Pilgrimo), expresses his conviction of the worthlessness of life. Yet one thing holds him: cruelty and injustice rouse him to frenzy, and he has sworn to devote himself to the underdog, to the expression of his mute sufferings. In Poeto kaj Muzo he shows us the bitter choice he has made; and in Antaŭ la Tribunalo, the speech of an unmarried mother, who has killed her child, to her judges, he makes a terrible indictment of organised society. In the same volume Pilgrimo there are many other fine poems, as well as some very poor ones: Infanoj en la parko, for example, is a pleasant, if somewhat over‑sweet, study of the mind of the child, with its frankness and affection—and unconscious cruelty. Dancanta Ĉevalo is a spirited prancing poem about men starting off for war, and about the lawless egoism of men who have been brutalised by war. In Renkonto he suggests atmosphere with wonderful economy, though there’s a hint of sentimentality in the poem. Baghy is both an artist and a moralist; generally


the moralist is quite subservient to the artist, but occasionally gets the upper hand, with deplorable results. In Preter la vivo, his first volume of verse, he gives us mostly poems written during his captivity in Russia during the war and just after his return to Budapest. Most of them are excellent; Melankolio, L'Aŭtuno, and 1919 are exceptionally fine.

Kalocsay's original work, which shows rather the restrained expression of a cultured, sceptical mind, is difficult of access, being mostly in back‑numbers of the literary review Literatura Mondo and in the tiny volume Mondo kaj Koro. It is characterised by great technical skill (perhaps even greater than Baghy's), and is carefully polished. His finest poem is Iras Abiturient', in Mondo kaj Koro, in which the middle‑aged man recalls the joy and ambition and unrealised ideals of his youth; this, with Poploj en aleo and Aŭtuna Fantazio, has no need to fear comparison with anything in the national literatures. Other magnificent poems of his are Vokas Voinemoinen, a greeting to the Helsinki Congress, and Pala Procesio (in Literatura Mondo). He and Baghy have done more than any other writers to increase the flexibility and emotional power of Esperanto.

Another modern is Nikolao Hohlov, a Russian who has wandered through Europe gathering the impressions which he gives us in La Tajdo. He is a master of technique and verbal beauty, he has taken Verlaine's motto for his own: De la musique, avant toute chose. Vintra Fabelo describes with marvellous skill a sled ride over the snow. In 1905: Moskvo he shows that in Esperanto, as in other languages, a few suggestive details are enough to convey a broad scene and a complex mental state. En Malsereno is the profound expression of a despair which sometimes touches all who think and feel. All Hohlov's work is rich in beauty of colour and sound, and he has produced some of the finest poetry in the language.

Eŭgeno Miĥalski is a poet of the present day in Russia. Those who have the opportunity of reading some modern Russian work are aware that there is a new point of view, a new consciousness, struggling to birth in that locked up world. Miĥalski's Prologo gives some clue to that new phenomenon; and his verse, though difficult, well


repays study. He is emphatically a poet worth watching.

Other poems specially worth study are Al la edzino, by Romano Frenkel (in Verdaj Fajreroj), a poem written in the first numbness after the death of his wife; Al la Majstro by Bruno Migliorini (in Esperanta Legolibro de Migliorini); and La Alta Kanto de la Amo, by Teo Jung, a troubadour legend turned into modern verse with careful craftsmanship. Space does not allow more than mention of the volumes by Van Schoor, Casas, Privat, Olŝvanger, Grenkamp, Bicknell, Nekrasov, Mangada, Djatlov, and others whose work merits serious study.

In another genre, Esperanto has sonic delightful poems of wit and satire by Devjatnin, Schwartz and Beraru. Devjatnin's Unuaj Esperantaj Satiroj contains some excellent mockery of the Esperantists. Schwartz is the essence of Gallic wit; he satirises men and movements and especially whips the Esperantists with a stinging lash. Every poem in his Verdkata Testamento is a joy, whether for its wit, satire, frank riskiness or hilarious enjoyment of on outrageous pun. Beraru in some respects resembles Schwartz, but lacks his versatility. He has a pretty wit in his own line, and his Spite la vivon makes very amusing reading.

To any one who will study even the few poets mentioned in this sketch, it should be clear that if Esperanto still lacks its Shakespeare or Keats—or its Barham—it nevertheless has a large body of poetry which will bear comparison with much of the best in the older literatures, and that in further development it will produce works as great as any in the national languages.





This is a short novel,* originally written in Esperanto by a new Swedish author. It is a work of remarkable beauty, which would receive attention in any national language, and in ours is something of an event.

Its story is slight and simple. The opening shows us a young man who is working for his father on a farm, and in the evening asks for some money to go into the town Torento, one of those vast expanses of chimney and furnace that have sprung up with  the rise of industrialism. The father asks the purpose of the money. For a dance? Why, in his young days . . . but then, that's all young people think about now, nothing satisfies them but they must have amusement, smart clothes, everything that costs money.

The son goes off in a huff, but finds his spirits again as he walks down the hillside into the town. He joins some chums; one of them lends him a few shillings, and, while they sit sipping coffee, covertly fills the cups with brandy. Not that any of them care very much for spirits, perhaps, but they are young and love to be lawless.

Karlo, our hero, next finds himself, to his great astonishment, asking a girl into the dancing‑park, and secretly marvels at his own audacity; still more at his fluency on the most trivial topics as he sees her home. Finally, her manner becomes a little strange; she is reluctant to agree to a further meeting. He succeeds in making her change her mind, and wonders to himself whether it is just swank on her part; he has heard that girls are like that.

The next morning he arises, feeling bucked with life, but he soon feels that he must get some more money from somewhere. He is too proud to ask his dad, in

* Al Torento by Stellan Engholm. Heroldo de Esperanto, Cologne.


spite of sympathetic enquiry as to how he enjoyed himself last night.

Well, a walk across the fields and he is with his friend Bertil. Bertil lends readily enough, but feels called upon to give some advice about girls. Down there in town there are all sorts, some decent, some . . . better left alone.

Karlo laughs. He doesn't intend to become a father. No, says Bertil, one never does. Karlo blushes, retorts by asking his friend what he knows about it, anyway. Recovering his good‑humour, he asks for Bertil's opinion of the new friend.

And the new friend is to enter his life, to fill his thoughts, to give him a fresh outlook and a new purpose in life; to puzzle him, too, by a certain strangeness, an unwillingness to yield him all her thoughts and time, until he insists to a point at which she tells him all: that she has accepted his friendship under false pretences, that she is with child by another man who has deserted her.

He is struck as if by lightning. His first conscious feelings are of a desire to hit her, to smash her; then he realises the futility of the situation; he looks at her, at her pallor, her bitten lips, her tears; he puts out his hand to caress her.

The end is not to come yet, though. He is to leave her, to get a job in Torento, to go to military service, and only when the child is of an age when already it can play by itself is he to return to his first and lasting beauty.

Let it be said again that the story is simple; it is in the telling that the author has shown his power of conveying without sentimentality a tenderness and understanding which I think could not have come from a Latin, a Slav, or any but a Nordic writer. The understanding of the youth's intellectual, as well as his emotional stirrings, the portrayal of industrial and country vistas in sun and darkness, their effect onl Karlo's feelings—these are marvellously done. If I say that this is the finest piece of imaginative prose in our original literature, allowance must be made for the viewpoint of an Englishman.

 Reading this book, I stopped only occasionally to say to myself, this is clever, this is beautiful, this is true.




New work by Baghy is always something of an event in our literature, and this collection* of short stories will add to his reputation as one of the few great writers as yet who use Esperanto as a medium of expression.

The mastery of the language which is shown in these pages is not very far short of awe‑inspiring, so much has the author wrought it to his use; it is impossible to glance at any page without realising possibilities of phrase hitherto unthought of. One has the feeling that here is the work of a writer who is destined permanently to leave his mark on Esperanto as a means of literary expression, and there are things on every page too good to be forgotten.

Baghy shows great boldness of style, and some of his newly minted expressions are very good: knaro en tagmeza silento—a striking phrase; kion esprimi neeble per vortoj—a pleasing experiment; lia rigardo soife sorbas la liniojn. Not so pleasing on first sight, but perhaps very useful, is his habit of omitting pronouns where customarily they are repeated. La . . . homo estas ja bona ĉar ne vantadas pri sia boneco; and Ne darfas fajfi! Kanti devas! Multe! are fair examples.

Fordormas is a common enough metaphor in English, but the construction makes it bold in Esperanto. If this germ of a new method of word‑building (cf. forvelki) is destined to sprout, its effects on the language will be great indeed; it will increase the world's power of taking lustre and an added significance from its neighbours, and give it something of the range possessed by the English word.

Certain other phrases are novel, and if they are widely imitated the new use will confer great flexibility and ease. Consider: La ungojn ĝi pikas en lian koron; Kisas patrinan amon al !a ĉeriza buŝeto; Enŝtelis sin en ŝian dormoĉambron; these suggest new lines of development.

* Dancu, Marionetoj!, by Julio Baghy. Published by the author in Budapest.


Most of these examples are in themselves small things, but the prophetic eye can see in them the beginning of a development of Esperanto style which can only be compared with the patient construction of a style by Zamenhof and his helpers in the early years of the language.

We have devoted so much space to the consideration of the volume from the linguistic point of view that it will be impossible adequately to deal with the stories from a literary standpoint, but one pronouncement can with confidence be given, after a comparison with his previous long novel, Viktimoj, that they reveal the short story to be a genre in which he is equally happy.

They reveal on every page their author as a man whom bitter experience has not embittered, with that capacity for facing life which is the possession of poets and dreamers. His idealism never soars to the clouds, and his sentimentality is not mawkish, although at times just a little sweet.

The humour of Kiel Mihok instruis angle is superb, and the story is worthy of Jacobs. In Nur Homo the eternal triangle is treated in the style called "powerful," but the story rises above the conventional, and has moments of real beauty. In both these stories Baghy uses as a background those war prison‑camps of Siberia, of which his memory will always be vivid; La koro de parencois, one guesses, a recollection of childish days in a troupe of theatrical players. For Unu el la kvar, the author makes a bold leap with his imagination, and pictures the emotions of a Roman soldier whose lot is to scourge Jesus of Nazareth, not knowing that this is the great healer of whom his wife has spoken. The soldier, whose brutality is lightened by parental affection, has ordered her to take their blind child to receive the touch of his hands. His duties have put the matter out of mind, but when he is urging with the scourge one of those who that day carry their cross up Calvary, a woman pushes through the crowd, holding out a child for the blessing of the man, who, to the soldier, is but one of the many criminals he has dealt with whilst stationed in Jerusalem.

His feelings, and the triumph in him of duty over compassion, are finely shown, but the portrayal of Jesus is reverent rather than new.


The three stories mentioned are perhaps the best of the eleven in the collection. All are noteworthy, and we think enough has been said to show that this book should be possessed by every Esperantist who values the literature of his language. The production of a mind at once original and forceful, it is a volume which repays study and merits continual re‑reading.

In collaboration with L. N. NEWELL.



A glance at the caricature on this volume of short stories* brought to mind a hundred pictures of French life: it is one of those comic sketches with which the Paris press helps its readers to make light of life and the cost of living.

The name of the author made me live again a night at the famous Green Cat Esperantist cabaret in Paris, and renew acquaintance with its witty master of the ceremonies. It told me, too, what to expect.

For this is a book which perhaps only a Parisian, certainly only a Frenchman, could have written, one of those works of art which divide their readers instantly into two camps.

Personally, I find myself among the admirers, and I write for those who share my relish of Gallic philosophy and wit, unhampered by their ethical beliefs or by too serious an outlook on life.

The French attitude can be appreciated, tolerated, or condemned, but it cannot be dismissed It is of the earth, earthy; it is a philosophy of great antiquity, which may outlive many a one Saxon and solemn, and produce in the future, as in the past, men who will alter human thought without taking themselves too seriously.

Here, surely, we touch on the essential basis of their sanity, not to admit that anything is above a little gentle mocking, not life, not love, not religion, nor, in the case of Schwartz, Esperanto or the Esperantists. Really, it

* Prozo Ridetanta, by Raymond Schwartz. Esperantista Centra Oficejo, Paris.


might be a good idea if fellowship of the B.E.A. were made conditional upon the production by the candidate that if he had read one of these stories, La Vunda Punkto, and had been seen to laugh heartily meanwhile.

And when we have enjoyed the laugh against ourselves, we are entitled to enjoy such stories as Kutimo el Trimardouille, and Migranto, which are in the true vein of Rabelais, or Eniro Senpuga, where an old theme is given new life and we are reminded of the immortal Mr. Pooter, in the Diary of a Nobody, who regaled himself and friends with refreshments at the Mansion House Ball, under the impression that they were free, to find himself faced with a bill impossible to meet.

In Lokomotiva Koro a pretty fancy is well worked out: two railway            engines, passing each other daily, feel drawn together, feel the desire for closer contact . . . and the causes of the head‑on collision are never established, because we humans have never penetrated the recesses of a railway engine's heart.

Each story is it success in its own genre, excepting perhaps the first, and the collection is a striking refutation of the accusation of E. V. Lucas, that the French have seventy‑two ways of cooking a potato and only one joke.

That joke is the foundation of Silkaj Ŝtrumpoj, which tells of a scientist who gains an important prize by means, as he thinks, of a learned paper, in reality, by the help of a wife who is pretty and prodigal of her favours: but the humour animating the other stories is varied enough to please any taste.

The writing of Schwartz is distinguished for for me by its imagery, which is whimsical with a whimsicality which is unethereal, but very effective and vivid. Take this, for example: La fulmotrafita Kubik kiel malplena sako kunfaldiĝis mizere sur sia seĝo, or Lia imago, kiel sciuro en kaĝo, ĝis entuziasmo turniĝis ĉirkaŭ nur unu sola akso: Claudine Caval. The only fault that call be found is that in some places his humour can hardly be appreciated by one ignorant of Paris or the French language; for example, the name of a village, Bicque‑la‑Crotte, and references to that institution, the concierge.

Such trifles, however, will detract from no‑one's enjoyment of a volume which is the fitting companion


on our shelves of the author's previous work, the immortal Verdkata Testamento. Schwartz shows again that he is amongst our foremost original writers, and his work will be welcomed by all who possess that nice sense of proportion which is a sense of humour, and most of all by those who love Paris, France, and the French.



When a book* appears with a dedication "To the Master, André Gide," with the significant title Se Grenereto . . ., and a final note, "to be continued in further volumes, of which twenty‑eight are already written," then we know what to expect. We are in the presence of a hypersensitive person, determined to tell the world of his most intimate thoughts, emotions, and experiences, to reveal himself in all his moods.

Now, there were people of this type before Gide. Rousseau, for example, Amiel, Marie Bashkirtseff. They usually live to love and quarrel with equal intensity, to exercise a considerable influence in their lifetime and after, and to be disliked and despised by those who have expended incalculable thought and effort in the concealment of their own thoughts and feelings. Obviously, they cannot but reveal also others, and in general humanity itself.

The choice by one of them of Esperanto as his medium, however—this is nothing quite new, and from that point of view the present work merits some attention.

It is to be noticed at once that the writer has acted upon one of the dicta of Gide—that it is possible to tell more about oneself in the form of fiction than would ever be possible when writing in the first person.

The story which forms the greater part of this volume, then, while it allows us to believe that some of the characters and situations may be perfectly imaginary, is on the whole to be taken as the author's picture of himself and his environment at the time depicted. We are

* Se Grenereto by Kenelm Robinson. Published by the author, London.


shown a boy of fourteen, of cultured, impoverished family, who is at one of those small boarding schools "for the sons of gentlemen" which are common enough phenomena of the countryside. The atmosphere is realistically conveyed, down to the minutest and least pleasing details: there are descriptions of walks to church, of the arrival of a parcel of cakes from home, of a football match of incidents seldom referred to in grown‑up days.

The boy on whose character the story is based is shown to us as having the thinnest of skins, one on whom a puritan upbringing has made an indelible impression; a boy who, when faced with a beating of relatively trifling nature, feels slightly sick, and begins to pray passionately, "O God, don't let me be beaten; O God, don't let me be beaten. . . . Of such one would say, that he might end in mental derangement, in suicide, or in genius.

The beating of sensitive children is not a pleasant subject; but then, the author has no idea of making this a pleasant book; it is obvious that anyone who can write certain of the passages which we read here is going to tell what he feels and remembers without regard to his own or others' feelings. At the same time it is particularly to be noted that he at several points disclaims any desire to write a roman ŕ clef, either in this or other matters; after some savage references to religious observances, he introduces a kind‑hearted clergyman, obviously for no reason but that which is indicated. In any case, it would be easy to exaggerate the influence upon him of corporal punishment. We must remember that the portion of his life shown here is of the smallest, that he must have had and was to have countless other embitterments.

He has given us a picture of himself which there is no reason to doubt—it is too true of his type for that. The capacities for generosity, for meanness, for sentiment, for detachment—all these are recorded with what seems a memory of abnormal accuracy.

A number of sketches are also included, of a most varied nature. Some are clever, some are naďve: one is a proof that the writer has a rich sense of humour; another is rather terrible; several contain interesting


remarks on life and literature. All of them serve the purpose intended, and reveal their author to us.

A particular point calls for special comment: the “twenty‑eight volumes already written,” whose existence there is no reason to doubt, although it is to be inferred from remarks in this one that the reference is to an intimate journal of the Barbellion type, and not to a deliberate artistic creation. Of one thing we can be sure, that they will not be published. For all its facets of naďvety and daring, Se Grenereto . . . reveals in certain features a mind which has acquired too much caution and discretion ever to publish that later record of love, triumph, humiliation, and reflection.

We can be fairly certain that Kenelm Robinson will still further reveal himself to us, but it will be, let us hope, on an ever higher artistic plane.



For the appreciation of this novel* are necessary some experience and understanding of country life, so that one may share the attitude of a writer who sees human beings against the background of Nature, and who writes here with an ever‑present consciousness of the influences which have shaped them.

Several years of life in London at close quarters with my fellow men have left me a believer in the saying of André Gide that “the most interesting thing in the world is human personality, and after that the relations between personalities,” and therefore with a marked preference for novels in which the infinite reactions of character upon character occupy the forefront of the scene; but memories of my native Wessex tell me that this is a very good book indeed, and cause me to wonder at friends who have found it as tedious as it is long.

The author has succeeded in his aim, which was to give a complete picture of rural life in the Dutch province of Groningen. He understands exactly the outlook

* La Vila Mano, by H. J. Bulthuis. N. V. Joh. Ykema's Uitgeverszaak, The Hague.


upon their world of those who live far from towns, and his story moves placidly along like a sluggish stream among the reeds.

If he describes at leisure every throw of the dice during a lottery, he does right. Life is leisurely among these people. As to his minute descriptions of farm implements and country roads, they may be of permanent interest to a generation wholly urbanised.

Bulthuis has two gifts, here shown very clearly. He knows how to tell a story, and he can reproduce natural conversation.

His people talk as people do in life, easily arid trivially, and his description of the chat and chipping in the village inn is one of the best things in the book, followed closely by a similar account of the gossip at the barber's, and the conversation between a group of children in Chapter X.

These are only a few of the memorable passages in an enjoyable story, whose characters, from the village innkeeper to the villains who reform, are well drawn and lifelike; the touch of melodrama at the end seems quite unnecessary for the sustaining of interest.



This volume* is another proof that we who have the key are privileged, that to us is given the opportunity to read literature unknown in the West among those who would nevertheless appreciate it as we can do now.

Michael Babits is indebted to English; he has enriched himself (and, by translation, his countrymen) from Wilde and Poe. To Esperanto we fortunate few owe the power of entering into the soul of a poet who is definitely of "that immortal choir" destined to live in minds made better by their presence.

The indelible impression left upon our consciousness is from a mind described by Lord Dunsany in his famous definition: “For what is it to be a poet? It is to see at a glance the glory of the world, to see beauty in

* La Cikoni‑Kalifo, by Miĥaelo Babits. Biblioteko Tutmonda, Nos. 23‑25, Hirt und Sohn, Leipzig.


all its forms and manifestations, to feel ugliness like a pain . . .” And here are seen and felt clearly those things which most of us perceive but in a glass, darkly.

We are first shown Elemiro Tŕbory in his sixteenth year—when for him the world is budding. At school he is admired by his companions, his home is a background of affection and understanding, and dancing, playing football, or browsing in beloved books in his study, he feels the same tang in life, is to his friends and family the same likeable and unaffected boy.

He can hardly remember that life was ever darkened by other than passing shadows. Only at intervals strange fancies have overcast his mind. As a child the smell from a joiner's workshop which he passed daily brought to his mind vague, discomforting sensations. He felt that in there he had at some time passed tormented hours and known degradation; but the fancies passed.

The first sharp shock comes in his sixteenth year—during speech‑day. This day is described in detail: we feel with him the zenith of his joy in life. The sunlight on his bed, the smell of the coffee brought in by the maid, the conscious pleasure in a room of his own, in the feel of the cold water, in the sight of his mother, of whose prettiness he is so proud before his schoolfellows; later, at school, the ragging, the chipping of the masters—all these are brought to the mind in pristine freshness until suddenly we are stopped short.

In the afternoon heat he dozes for a moment—and could swear to the feel of a kick. A trick such as the mind will play in fatigue and heat.

The same night, asleep, he feels the kick again, repeated; he feels blow after blow and hears a torrent of railing, and he wakes—into the life of that other Elemiro Tŕbory, to flee which down the tunnel of the years is to be his tragic destiny. He is the youngest apprentice in a small workshop where the master is a bully, the wife a slut, and his companions leering and obscene. For him are the filthiest and most humiliating tasks, to be carried out in terror of mind and body to the amusement of his tormentors, for him the realisation that he is the unnamed, unwanted brat of a streetwalker, born to kicks and hunger.

From now on there are two persons in the body of


Flemiro Tŕbory: the Kalifo who exults by day and the Cikonio of the horror of the night, and each is to become increasingly conscious of the other. The schoolboy is to grow up, to travel, and to love, with a growing fear of the life to which he goes in sleep by night. He is to recognise in the darker world prototypes of those he sees in waking hours; as the brat he is to wreak his vengeance on his master's child (an incident described to horror‑point in its voluptuous sadism), to run away to hunger on the streets of a great city, and to be haunted, dogged, by the feeling that somewhere, at sometime, there was another and a very different life.

The alternations become ever more frequent, the beauty and the filth draw closer, self‑respect and humiliation become intertwined, and the final catastrophe is reached.

We put down the book and tell ourselves that it was but a book, that it was a translation, that Elemiro Tŕbory was a Hungarian, and then we realise something more: that it was the spiritual experience of a poet, that the translation was by one a genius in his art, and that Elemiro Tŕbory is ourself. He is ourself, not because we have all smelt that coffee and those sweat-soaked sheets, seen that study or the workshop window‑ledge with its dusty bottles and its never‑opened window, but because we have all been Cikoni‑Kalifoj. We have all known the joy of power and the humiliation of the snub, the sense of walking on air and the taste of dust. Few of us but are very important and happy in some spheres, very insignificant and miserable in others. Few of us are thick-skinned enough to be unconscious of the contrast.

The author's power of evoking scenes and scents, wet streets and frowsy hotels, is paralleled in English literature by Compton Mackenzie in Sinister Street, but there is a universality here which is lacking in the finest work of the English writer. La Cikoni‑Kalifo is one of the most memorable works of imaginative literature in Esperanto.




"From the Rumanian."* Once that would have meant to me, as to most English people, vague ideas of a barbaric race, or impressions of Bucharest gathered from Compton Mackenzie's Sylvia and Michael, impressions of heat, dust, one‑storey houses, "hotels" infested with beetles, and rich dissolute young business men.

To be an Esperantist, however, above all to have read Bratescu Voinesti's Niĉjo Mensogulo, is to have a very different conception, to have great expectations on reading "from the Rumanian." In my case they were not disappointed.

Of the author we learn in the preface that he was born in 1880, is an ex-deputy and a member of the Rumanian Academy, has studied foreign literatures, and translated Guy de Maupassant.

The significance of that translation becomes apparent very soon as one reads Nobela Peko. The man who can so convey the eeriness of rivers and reeds has affinity of soul with the author who is known to most by his Boule de Suif and Fifi, but is, one may be sure, dear to Sadoveanu for a lesser‑known aspect, his Contes pour la Jeunesse.

Especially of Sur l'Eau we are reminded by the descriptive passages in Nobela Peko, the story of a young nobleman who engages a local gamekeeper as his guide for fishing and shooting, discovers and betrays his daughter, and murders in self‑defence when trapped by the frenzied father.

The tale of love is well told, but the book will remain in my mind for its evocation of past emotion.

Never able to express the feelings aroused in me by solitude and a pool shot with the wings of dragonflies, by the sight of a train in the night, crawling, an electric worm, in the valley below, or by the loneliness of a bed-time stroll with my hosts in a tiny French village, to

* Nobela Peko, by Mihail Sadoveanu. Translated by Tiberio Morariu. Internacia Mondliteraturo, Vol. 21, Ferdlinand Hirt und Sohn, Leipzig.


the sound only of the shutters going up in the café, the last drinker's singing of the latest Parisian ditty, and the crickets in the hedge—these feelings I find here expressed, and the expression is not only "from the Rumanian," but is of the universal, approaching genius.



The first thought in the mind of the Anglo‑Saxon reader of this remarkable pair of stories* is that publication of at least the first would be impossible in English, except in bowdlerized form.

We may permit the leerings of Cabell, we may have progressed to a point represented by the recent publication of such a daring little book as Lays Porsena, or the Future of Swearing, by Robert Graves, or Ludovici's Man, an Indictment, but in fiction frankness as to the sexual side of life is not to be thought of, and the physical side of marriage is a theme rigidly taboo, although in saying this one is not unmindful of that terrible incident in The Forsyte Saga.

It is sincerely to be hoped, however, that squeamish readers will not let certain features of these stories blind them to the real literary merit which they contain. As the writer of the preface remarks, Belgian literature is as yet too poorly represented in our language, and this introduction to the work of the doyen of modern Flemish writers is an opportunity of which we ought to take the fullest advantage. The more so, as one feels that the translation has done full justice to the original, and caught its very spirit. The translator is at present serving as a conscript in the Army of his country and has been able to associate himself with the author in the grim and sordid picture of the life of a Belgian conscript which Servokapabla! gives us.

It is an unforgettable one of the gloomy barracks, the dreary route-march, the beer house and the brothel, and it is unrelieved by any touch of humour, or any indica-

* Servokapabla! and Marcus Tybout, by Georges Eekhoud. Translated by Leon Bergiers. Internacia Mondliteraturo, No. 20, Hirt und Sohn, Leipzig.


tion of kindly feeling among men rendered sullen beasts by a discipline degrading and inhuman.

Perhaps the opening chapters of the story are in some ways the most remarkable, in which the passionate mother-love of Barbel Goor for her favourite son is presented with a vividness and sympathy the more marked when contrasted with the rest of the story, in which the author drags us remorselessly through bestiality and cruelty, until the tale is ended by the suicide of her loved one while imprisoned for a trifling offence on parade.

It is the pages descriptive of Barbel's married life which are of the crudity at which we have hinted, and it must be stated that Eckhoud gives us a picture of his race which is far from flattering when he shows us their apparent lack of any control over their animal appetites. Animalism in men is frequently found with generosity and kindness, tolerance and good humour, but not so with the hard and brutal types with whom we meet both in Servokapabla! and its companion story, Marcus Tybout.

The last, the story of a Flemish Don Juan who is eventually pounded to death by the outraged men‑folk of one of his victims, is told with all the skill and vividness of Servokapabla! and with the same lack of any attempt to whitewash the Flemish character.

The person in whose mouth is placed the story of Marcus and his exploits opens his narration with an expression of distaste for conventional company and of sympathy with the outcasts and scallywags of the world which many of us would echo, but few would be found to share his liking for Marcus Tybout.

Dislike for the characters of the tale does not, however, override our admiration of the skilful character drawing which we find there, or our thanks for the insight into the intimate lives of a people so near in mileage and so distant in time and spirit.

The two stories together form a book of outstanding merit, and it is impossible to close without a special word of thanks to Messrs. Hirt and Sohn for the whole series, of which this is a recent number.

The uniformly high literary merit, the excellence of the translations, the pleasing production and the low price are considerations which should appeal to every Esperantist who has our literature at heart.




1887. Poems by Zamenhof, Mia Penso, and Ho! Mia Kor', appeared in the same year as the publication of the language.

1897. First original book appeared in Nürnberg, Germany.*

1906. Urso, story by H. Sentis, France.

1907. Kastelo de Prelongo, novel by Dr. Vallienne, France.

1908. Ĉu Li? Novel by Dr. Vallienne.

1909. Karlo, short tale by Dr. Edmond Privat.

1912. Tri Angloj Alilande, short novel by John Merchant. Paŭlo Debenham, novel by H. A. Luyken.

1913. Mirinda Amo, novel by H. A. Luyken.

1915. Nova Sento, a philosophical romance by "Tagulo" (an Englishman, Henry Hyams).

1920. Pro Kio? Detective romance by "Argus" (a German, F. Ellersick).

1921. Mondo kaj Koro, poems by K. Kalocsay.

1922. Stranga Heredaĵo, novel by H. A. Luyken. Bukedo, poems by Julio Baghy.

1923. Abismoj, novel byJ Forge, Preter la Vivo, poems by Julio Baghy. Idoj de Orfeo, novel by H. J. Bulthuis.

1924. Pro Iŝhtar, novel by H. A. Luyken. Saltego Trans Jarmiloj, novel by Jean Forge.

1925. Viktimoj, novel by Julio Baghy.

1926. Jozef kaj la Edzino de Potifar, novel by H. J. Bulthuis. Pilgrimo, poems by Julio Baghy.

1928. Amo kaj Poezio, poems by Jan van Schoor. La Tajdo, poems by N. Hohlov. La Vila Mano, novel by H. J. Bulthuis. Dancu, Marionetoj, short stories by Baghy.

1929. Migranta Plumo, short stories by Baghy.

1930, Al Torento, short novel by Stellan Engholm. Se Grenereto . . . by Kenelm Robinson.

* About the actual volume to appear first there appears to exist some doubt; more than one little book appeared in Nürnberg in 1897. Priority is usually given to Marko Kraljeviĉ by M. Abesgus, a Russian.



The reader should first acquire the Fundamenta Krestomatio, an anthology intended by Zamenhof as a standard for the style of the language, and study the more important pieces, including Zamenhof's important poems. He might well pass from that to Al Torento, one of the latest books in the original literature, written in simple but effective style. (Note.—“Paduso” is a wild cherry tree.) He should read the writings of Baghy, Schwartz (if he can accept the latter's Gallic attitude and occasional lapses from good taste), Forge, Bulthuis, Luyken, and Jung, make his and own compare their varied styles. He should make his own explorations and discoveries if possible, but the selections which follow may be helpful.

If he is interested as a student he should visit the library of the British Esperanto Association, which contains several thousand volumes classified on the Dewey system, and whose curator, Mr. M. C. Butler, is always willing to assist enquirers. There is also the voluminous Bibliografio de Lingvo Internacia,             compiled by Petro Stojan of Geneva, which costs ten shillings.

Future developments should be followed in the literary columns of International Language, Heroldo de Esperanto (weekly), and Esperanto (monthly).


FUNDAMENTA KRESTOMATIO. Various authors and translators. Cloth, 5s. Paper, 3s.

HISTORIO DE LA LINGVO ESPERANTO. By Edmond Privat. Part I, cloth, 2s. 6d. Part II, cloth, 6s.

VIVO DE ZAMENHOF. By Edmond Privat. 3s.


ABISMOJ. Jean Forge. Cloth, 4s. 6d. Paper, 3s.

AL TORENTO. Stellan Engholm. 1s. 9d.

ANNI KAJ MONTMARTRE. Raymond Schwartz. 2s. 3d.

DANCU, MARIONETOJ! Julio Baghy. Cloth, 4s. Half cloth, 3s.

* All prices quoted are net; 10 per cent should be added for postage.


IDOJ DE ORFEO. H. J. Bulthuis. 4s. 3d.

JOZEF KAJ LA EDZINO DE POTIFAR. H. J. Bulthuis. Cloth, 6s.

JUNECO KAJ AMO. E. Payson. Cloth, 2.s. 6d. Paper, 1s 3d.

KARLO. Edmond Privat. 6d.

LANDOJ DE L'FANTAZIO. Teo Jung. Cloth, 5s. 6d. Paper, 3s. 6d.

MIGRANTA PLUMO. Julio Baghy. Cloth, 4s. 6d. Paper, 3s.

ORIGINALA VERKARO. Collected writings of Zamenhof. Cloth, 15s.

PRO IŜTAR. H. A. Luyken. Cloth, 7s.

PROZO RIDETANTA. Raymond Schwartz. 2s. 6d.

RUĜO KAJ BLANKO. L. Jvn. (Interesting little tales of Soviet Russia.) 8d.


SE GRENERETO . . . Kenelm Robinson. Cloth, 6s.

STRANGA HEREDAĴO. H. A. Luyken. Cloth, 7s. Paper, 5s. 6d.

VERDKATA TESTAMENTO. Raymond Schwartz. 2s.

VIKTIMOJ. Julio Baghy. Cloth, 6s. Half cloth, 4s. 6d. Paper, 4s.

VILA MANO. H. J. Bulthuis. Cloth, 7s. Paper, 6s.



AMO KAJ POEZIO. Jan van Schoor. 1s. 3d.

ETERNA SOPIRO. I. Olsvanger. 8d.

KRIOJ DE L'KORO. S. Grenkamp‑Kornfeld. 3d.

MONDO KAJ KORO. K. Kalocsay. 6d.

NOVAJ AMAJ POEMOJ. Jaume Grau Casas. 9d.

PILGRIMO. J. Baghy. Cloth, 2s. 6d. Better paper, 2s. Ordinary paper, 1s. 6d.

PRETER LA VIVO. J. Baghy. 2s.

PROLOGO. Eŭgeno Miĥalski. 9d.

SPITE LA VIVON. Misu Beraru. 1s. 6d.

TAJDO, LA. N. Hohlov. 1s. 3d.

TRAFENDITA TURO. Professor Cart. 1d.

Note also Vortoj de Profesoro Cart. 2s. 6d. Professor Cart is a pioneer of Esperanto, and president of the Lingva Komitato(Language Committee).



BATALO DE L’VIVO. Dickens. Translated by Zamenhof. 1s.

HAMLETO. Shakespeare. Translated by Zamenhof. 1s. 6d.

LA DORMANTO VEKIĜAS. H. G. Wells. Translated by A. F. Milward. Cloth, 5s. Paper, 3s. 6d.

LA VENECIA KOMERCISTO. Shakespeare. Translated by A. Wackrill. 1s. 6d.

LUNO DE IZRAEL. Rider Haggard. Translated by M. C. Butler and E. Payson. Cloth, 5s. Paper, 3s. 6d.

OK NOVELOJ. Arnold Bennett. Translated by A. Mackrill. 1s.

REĜO LEAR. Shakespeare. Translated by A. L. Ashley and A. J. Curry. 2s. 6d.

SONĜO DE SOMERMEZA NOKTO. Shakespeare. Translated by L. Briggs. Paper boards, 1s. 3d. Paper, 9d.


BULGARA ANTOLOGIO. Compiled by I. H. Krestanov. A comprehensive anthology, recommended. 3s 3d.

BULGARAJ RAKONT0J. I. M. Vazov. Translated by At. D. Atanasov. 5d.

NOVAJ BULGARAJ RAKONTOJ. I. M.Vazov. Translated by G. Atanasov. 1s.

The best of these stories from the Bulgarian is Avo Joco rigardas. It tells of an old man who becomes blind during the Russo‑Turkish war, and can only believe the later news of a free Bulgaria after he has felt with his hands the uniforms, first of a police official, then of a soldier, who visit his remote village.

The buttons, the epaulettes, the sword, they are no longer those of the Turk, but of a new Bulgaria, and when a railway is constructed through that part of the world, the happiness of Avo Joco is complete.

Every day he waits to "see" the trains pass, and never having seen such, forms for himself a picture of a fiery dragon, carrying everywhere the message of a new Bulgaria.

Passengers often enquire with curiosity about an old


man whom they see on the hillside, waving a stick, who to the driver and guard is a regular sight: one day they are told at a station further along the line that he has been picked up dead.

He had fallen white saluting the new Bulgaria.

NUNTEMPAJ RAKONTOJ. G. P. Stamatov. Translated by I. H. Krestanov. 1s. 4d.

Subtle, vivid analysis of the human mind, by one who has been called "the Bulgarian Dostoevsky." Realistic, bitter, clever.

VERSAĴOJ. Ĥristo Botjov. Translated by Dobrev. 1s.

Man of action, dreamer and poet, who died in the fight for Bulgaria's freedom, Botjov is a national hero, and his poems have a high place in the literature of his country.

The two most famous, Haĝi Dimitro, a stirring tribute to a fallen comrade, and Mia Preĝo, have already appeared in Bulgara Antologio; they are reprinted here with some fifteen others, all expressing the emotions of one battling against wrong and oppression, bitter to his foes and oppressors, generous to his comrades and countrymen. There are passing glances to love and to mourning, to the sorrows and joys of the individual, but the dominating note is of a call to arms and a union of effort against the foe.

The translator seems to have caught excellently the spirit of the original, and the high estimation of his work which he has received from his countrymen renders any comment from me unnecessary, although the forms trovatos and mutantas call for criticism.

A portrait and an introductory study add to the very great interest of the book.


An excellent description of Bulgaria and its people.


ELEKTITAJ VERSAĴOJ. Marie Under. Translated by H. Dresen. 2s.


KVIN NOVELOJ. F. Tuglas. Translated by H. Seppik. 3s. 6d.

Five short stories of marvellous and fantastic beauty; the volume is outstanding in the translated literature of Esperanto. Separately can be had

EN LA FINO DE LA MONDO. F. Tuglas. Translated by H. Seppik. 1s.


BONHUMORAJ RAKONTOJ. Various authors. 6d.

DU KOCINELOJ. G. Gardonyi. Translated by K. Kalocsay. 5d.

DU NOVELOJ. By M. Jókai. Translated by J. Luczenbacher. 6d.

Jókai is perhaps the only Hungarian novelist who has attained international fame; he even became popular in England during last century. These are stories of vivid action in times when war was a matter of personal encounter.

HUNGARAJ RAKONTOJ. Ferenc Herczeg. Translated by A. Panajott. 5d.

NORDA VENTO. F. Karinthy. Translated by Karlo Bodó. 1s.

A book of short stories, some of which show a remarkable affinity with recent developments in the English short story. Gerald Bullett might have written Senespera Amo.

MORGAŬ MATENE. F. Karinthy. Translated by K. Kalocsay. 1s. 3d.

A play by the author of Norda Vento, with a most interesting preface, but rather difficult to understand; one is reminded of Compton, Mackenzie's malicious dig: “One of those awfully clever novels by Gide—you don't have to finish it.”

MALLUMAĴOJ. Abonyi Árpád. Translated by Lengyel Pá1. 2d.

LA CIKONI‑KALIFO. Miĥaelo Babits. Translated by Karlo Bodó. 1s. 6d.

This book, whether for itself or for its translation, is one of the glories of our literature. As with Karinthy, an affinity with tendencies in contemporary English literature is very noticeable.


TRAGEDIO DE L'HOMO. P. Mádach. Translated by K. Kalocsay. Cloth, 4s. 6d.

This drama has in theme and grandeur been compared both to Faust and to Paradise Lost. The Esperanto translation is famous for beauty.

NI KANTU!  Kolekto de hungaraj popolkantoj. Cloth, 1 s. 6d.

Luckily for most of us, the titles only of these Hungarian folksongs are in the native language.

When De szeretnék a kirallyal beszelni proves to be a delightful ditty of the kind made famous by A. A. Milne we take heart, and find ourselves thoroughly enjoying Ez az én szeretom ez a pici barna or Mikor szurkébe, eltiztem, azon kezdtem gondolkodni, which expresses the feelings of a soldier as he puts on his uniform to go to the war. Several Socialist songs are included, but the book will appeal to most on account of the poems of those who lived untroubled by discontent possibly divine.

The volume shows a talent of which the anonymous translators should be proud.


DEKLARACIO. T. Ariŝima. Translated by T. Tooguu. 2s. 8d.

A remarkable novel, presenting the mind of modern Japanese youth.

JAPANAJ RAKONTOJ. Compiled by Cif Toŝhio. 10d.

KRIMO DE FAN. Naoja Ŝiga. Translated by s‑ino Maĉiko‑kaĵi. 8d.

An interesting little study of motives for a crime.

DANCO DE SKELETOJ. Ujaku, Akita. Translated by H. Suzui and K. Susuki. 1s.

And other plays. Dramatic, realistic, symbolic, showing European influences very strongly.

LA PATRO REVENAS. Kan Kikuĉi. Translated by Hirokaju Kaĵi. 8d.

A play slightly Galsworthian.



AELITA. Alexis Tolstoj. Translated by E. Pill. Cloth, 5s. Paper, 3s. 6d.

A conventional story of adventure on Mars, by a contemporary writer.

ELEKTITAJ NOVELOJ. I. S. Turgenev. Translated by A. Mexin. 1s. 4d.

KRUCUMO. A. Drozdov. Translated by N. Hohlov. 1s.

Contains clear‑cut, graphic pictures of Russia in revolution, by a contemporary writer. An important book.

MORTO DE DANTON. A. Tolstoj. Translated by N. Hohlov. 1s. 8d.

A play of the French Revolution, by the author of Aelita.

ORIENTAJ FABELOJ. Vlas Doroŝevic. Translated by N. Hohlov. 1s. 4d.

LA REĜO JUDEA. K. R. Translated by V. Devjatnin. Cloth, 3s.

By a member of the Russian Royal Family, who preferred to remain anonymous.

LA REVIZORO. Gogol. Translated by L. L. Zamenhof. 1s. 9d.

Translated by the author of Esperanto. Well known in English under the title of The Government Inspector.

RUĜA STELO. A. Bogdanov. Translated by N. Nekrasov and S. Rublov. 1s. 9d.

Another study of life on Mars, of original conception, into which a famous scientist has projected his ideas—ideas original and revolutionary.

Other important works from the Russian include La Sonĝo de Makaro; by V. Korolenko, and by Puŝkin, La Kapitanfilino and Tri Noveloj. Prices, 6d, 1s. 6d., and 1s. 4d. respectively.


EL MODERNA HISPANA PARNASO. Compiled and translated by Julio Mangada Rosenörn. 1s. 2d.

These blank‑verse translations from modern Spanish poets linger hauntingly in the mind, especially Mia


Bovpaŝtisto (Gabriel y Galán) and La Lignaĵisto (A. de Soltomayor). The book is tastefully produced and illustrated with some very fine photographs.

DON KIĤOTO DE LA MANCHA. Miĥaelo de Cervantes Saavedra. Translated by Julio Mangada Rosenörn. 8d.

The appearance in our literature of the immortal and beloved Don Quixote is an event of some importance, or it should be, if the translation is worthy, and one opens this slim volume with trepidation.

One finds one's fears to have been groundless, for if a judgment can be formed from the first chapter (which is here presented, with a promise of others to follow), the greatest of romantics is as lovable as ever in his new costume. This volume is to be enjoyed both for itself and for its promise.


NIĈJO MENSOGULO. I. A. Bratescu‑Voinesti. Translated by T. Morariu. 6d.

The story which gives the title to the book conveys the tragedy of the sensitive and misunderstood child with a poignancy which I have never before encountered in fiction. The effect throughout adolescence of the nickname “Liar” given during childhood by unimaginative and unobservant playmates is traced to its final tragedy with a delicacy and restraint which make the story memorable and a masterpiece.

After this one would expect anticlimax from the other stories, but after one or two of indifferent merit containing, like the first, a rural background, comes a story, slight but masterly in construction, of an elderly office clerk, who has an overcoat for which he has long craved stolen on the first day of triumphant possession.

There are other treasures in the volume of which space prevents mention; one is left with the conviction that Bratescu‑Voinesti is a writer of whom Rumania should be proud indeed.

NOBELA PEKO.—Mihail Sadoveaunu. Translated by T. Morariu. 1s. 4d.



LA MALGRANDA JOHANO. F. van Eeden. Translated by H. J. Bulthuis. 1s. 6d.

The fable opens with a picture of a child's outlook on life which Compton Mackenzie could not have done with greater delicacy, and then begin John's adventures, guided by the fairy, Konvolvulido, who symbolises the search of the individual for beauty. Sad it is to say that in the final chapter he casts her aside to follow the call to serve humanity.

Here we have the age-long feud between the artist and the humanitarian. Foolish, for it is possible to serve the ideals of both, as any one who works for an international language and spends the bedtime hours with W. H. Davis or the Golden Treasury can show.

The boy's adventures in the animal world enable the author to exercise on the human race his gift of delicate satire, although later with Eksplorulo, his experiences take a grimmer turn. The whole is a wonderful and fascinating phantasy, and in its Esperanto version is a work of beauty which does nothing to remove a suspicion I have always entertained that in the sphere of translation Mr. Bulthuis possesses at least a touch of genius.


TAGLIBRO DE VILAĜPEDELO. St. Blicher. Translated by H. J. Bulthuis. 6d.

Originally written in Danish in 1824 and published in Esperanto in 1922, this book has always seemed to me insufficiently known; it in a little literary gem of the first water.

The form is that of a diary kept from 1708 by a country boy, simple, unsophisticated, naďve, of scanty education received from the village pastor, and no outstanding moral qualities.

At fifteen years of age he enters the service of the lord of the manor, with one of whose guests he becomes enamoured. He worships from afar, idealises, is disillusioned; by the death of his master he is turned into the world again, he goes reluctantly to the wars, sees foreign lands, meets in tragic circumstances the love of his youth, and returns to his native village to pass his


last years as deacon in the little church in which he was baptised and his forefathers worshipped.

Here are no grand passions, no breathless moments, only the etching of a picture by unaffected words and naturally expressed heartcries; a picture of a social atmosphere not to be found in this century in England. To read this expression of unquestioning piety, of unservile service to a landowning class, and of human emotions common to all humanity, is to experience that reverent wonder felt on turning out of a rusty box the deeds and papers of an old manor house. It is to live for an hour in the ethos of an age which will not return.


DIBUK. Ŝ. Anski (S. Z. Rappoport). Translated by Izrael Lejzerowicz. 8d.

It is easy to understand the enormous success that has attended this play all over Europe and the United States, and the reading of this Esperanto translation from the original Yiddish has made me regret bitterly that I missed seeing the recent London production, and that hopes of enjoying one in the international language must be small for some time to come

In these days the civilised world has lost much of its belief in the supernatural as a near reality and, tired of titillating our palates with the harmless gnomes and fairies of a Barrie or a Maeterlinck, we are fascinated by the introduction to a community of Russian Jews, in which every man is intensely aware of feared and unknown forces around him bent on mischief and destruction.

The skill with which the author introduces us to such an atmosphere and makes us believe with his characters in the phenomena of demons and divine visitations is nothing short of marvellous; throughout the play one has the sensation that one is in the borderland in which the powers outside ourselves that make for evil are ever at our hand, to be fought only by prayer, fasting, ritual and the Rabbi's exorcisms.

To bring to the reading of this play one's imagination and sense of the dramatic is to enjoy an emotional experience of the first order.

Printed in Great Britain by Billing and Sons Ltd., Guildford and Esher


LUNO DE IZRAEL. Sir H. Rider Haggard. Translated by E. S. Payson & M. C. Butler. Cloth 5s.; paper, 1s. 6d.; postage 4d.

LA DORMANTO VEKIĜAS. H. G. Wells. Translated by A. Frank Milward. Cloth, 5s.; paper, 3s. 6d.; postage 4d.

PRI LA ORIGINO DE L'HOMO. Sir Arthur Keith, F.R.S. Translated by W. Brown and F. R. A. McCormick. Cloth, 2s. 6d.; paper, 1s. 9d.; postage 2d.

PINOKJO. From the Italian of C. Colladi. Illustrated. Translated by Mirza Alarchesi. Cloth, 5s.; paper, 1s. 6d.; postage 4d.

JUNECO KAJ AMO. Original. E. S. Payson. Cloth, 2s. 6d., paper, 1s. 3d.; postage 2d.

POR RECENZO! Original. K. R. C. Sturmer. Cloth, 2s. 6d; paper, 1s. 6d.; postage 2d.

ESPERANTO POR INFANOJ. G. Gladstone Solomon, A.R.D.S. With many illustrations by the author. Duxten limp, 1s. 6d.; postage 2d.


In English

ESPERANTO: ITS AIMS AND CLAIMS. By Bernard Long, B.A. Limp cloth, 1s.; paper, 6d.; postage 1 d.

ESPERANTO LITERATURE. By K. R. C. Sturmer. Paper, 6d.; postage 1d.

Obtainable from



and all Booksellers.


of books published
in or about Esperanto


concerning the spread of Esperanto



Annual Subscription
2/6 post free.


A Weekly

Esperanto Newspaper

is something you ought to have. It gives you news from all over the world, with an international point of view. It gives you all the news of the Esperanto movement, and in its literary columns you can read about the new books in Esperanto. Well printed, well illustrated.

Send a postcard for a free specimen,
or a ten‑shilling note for a trial ten months.




This book

contains particulars

of only a few

of the publications


in Esperanto!

Send a postcard
for our
complete book-list



142, High Holborn, LONDON, W.C. 1

[back cover]

SOURCE: Sturmer, K. R. C. Esperanto Literature: Notes and Impressions. London: The Esperanto Publishing Co., Ltd., 1930. [46 pp. + 2 pp. adverts]

Notlibro de Praktika Esperantisto de K. R. C. Sturmer
(Enhavtabelo konstruita de R. Dumain)

Por Recenzo! de K. R. C. Sturmer

Se Grenereto... de Kenelm Robinson (K. R. C. Sturmer)

Vizito al Julio Baghy de K. R. C. Sturmer

Londono Tra Lupeo” de William Auld

Enkonduko al Literatura Kritiko:
Ĉap. VIII ‑ Ĉefaj demandoj por la E–literaturhistorio:
2. La problemo de la malfruoj
de Giorgio Silfer

Esperanto & Interlinguistics Study Guide / Esperanto-Gvidilo (kun interlingvistiko)

Alireteje / Offsite:

De paĝo al paĝo de Ludwig Totsche / Lajos Tárkony
(p. 122-126; ankaŭ mencioj en kritiko pri Baghy)

Home Page | Site Map | What's New | Coming Attractions | Book News
Bibliography | Mini-Bibliographies | Study Guides | Special Sections
My Writings | Other Authors' Texts | Philosophical Quotations
Blogs | Images & Sounds | External Links

CONTACT Ralph Dumain

Uploaded 1 September 2009

Site ©1999-2015 Ralph Dumain