vote "right," and, moreover, they must prove that they had done so on the day after the vote by producing the torn ballot. The commission in Carinthia easily disposed of this difficulty by the rule that no vote would be counted unless both ballots, the whole one and the torn one, were placed in the envelop. One of the sources of greatest bitterness in the plebiscites might well have been omitted. Both the Poles and the Danes

feel bitterly

about the treaty

these areas. By the treaty these were entitled to vote, no matter how young they had been when their families had left, and they were not scattered over the world, but

those in the plebiscite territories, even though not domiciled there at the time of the plebiscite, could return and cast

their ballot. It is said that this provision was proposed by the Polish representatives at Paris, who were counting on Silesian-Polish emigrants coming back from the Westphalian mines, and even from America, to vote for their native land. But though some Poles did come back, the provision worked far more in favor of Germany. Thousands of children had, of course, been born to the German soldiers and officials during their brief station in

were close at hand in Ger

many.

In Silesia the Poles claim that the out-voters cast almost 190,000 votes for Germany, and these ought, they say, to be deducted from the German majority to get a true picture of the wishes of the inhabitants. The majority would still have been for Germany, however, though it is of no consequence to the result how the majority of the

whole region voted. By the treaty the Sile

sian vote was not to be counted as a unit, but by communes, and the line was to be drawn according to the majority given in each commune. The number of non-residents voting was registered in each commune, so it is possible to arrive at some conclusion as to the effect of their voting. Assuming that all the out-voters voted for Germany, which is not even claimed by the Poles, one can tell that their vote did not swing the majority in

any of the larger cities, and only in three of the small towns. It is possible, however, that there is something in the Danes' point that the organized enthusiasm over the return of these émigrés had a psychological reaction on the result.

Of course it is obvious that a question of first importance in any plebiscite is what unit shall be taken for the voting. Shall it be the commune or shall it be a larger area? If it is a larger area, shall a line be drawn between a town and its hinterland, and if not, shall the majority in the town be considered or the majority in the hinterland? This is of importance in the northern zone in Schleswig, where the town of Tondern, on the southern edge, voted German. The Germans, who won the southern zone, claim that Tondern should not have gone to Denmark, but should have been given to them. The Danes answer that the hinterland of Tondern gave a compact majority for Denmark.

In Schleswig there were several cases of "enclaves," or isolated units, imbedded in a mass of votes for the other side; in Silesia the problem was present in a most acute form. Here virtually all the cities and large towns voted German, and the country-side, except in the west, voted Polish. Consequently, it became impossible to draw a line which should separate the German and Polish communes. This, because of the dispute between France and England arising from it, is the reason why the conference of ambassadors was forced to turn to the council of the League of Nations for advice. The line advised by the league council was a compromise, an effort to give to each side a number of people proportionate to the number of those voting

for it, at the same time keeping the minorities left on each side as small as possible, and paying some attention, as the treaty directed, to the economic and geographic conditions of the region. An essential part of the league line is the convention drawn up between Poland and Germany, under the auspices of the league. By this convention the economic and social unity of the region is preserved in detail for a period of fifteen years. So, thanks to the insoluble puzzle of how to draw the upper Silesian line according to the vote of the communes, we have a new kind of frontier, which may well serve to show how to do away eventually with the problems of both frontiers and plebiscites.

Upper Silesia and Schleswig give point to another question. In a region which has had a common history for centuries and which has been closely knit together by modern industry, should not the inhabitants be given the opportunity to vote on the alternative of unity, with autonomy, under either of the two contending states or under international administration? There was a party of considerable size in upper Silesia for autonomy, no matter under which state. It is, however, doubtful whether the rivalries of Poland and Germany could have been settled for long in such a fashion.

Have the plebiscites held under the treaties actually brought justice and tranquillity? They have proved to be no simple self-administering formula, but full of the most complex difficulties; yet in each case they seem to have given an approximate indication of the wish of the inhabitants. No one can claim that the plebiscites brought tranquillity in any of the regions during the period immediately before and

after the voting. On the contrary, they stimulated what had been at worst a latent hate, and in Silesia brought on for the time being a miniature civil war. Yet if there had been no plebiscite, and the whole area had been handed over outright to Poland, as was provided in the first draft of the treaty, it would have been far more certainly a source of future trouble than now seems likely. So, too, in southern Carinthia the plebiscite prevented the handing over of the people there against their will. In Schleswig the plebiscite has at last settled a question which has agitated Europe for over fifty years. Hate has died down, the Danes have shown themselves most magnanimous to their German minorities and, except for a few editors on each side, the issue is over.

Shall we keep the plebiscite? The answer depends on what value we shall continue to give to self-determination. As the twentieth century advances, we grow impatient of nationalism as keeping us back from more important issues and preserving a spirit of separatism where the world needs unity. No doubt the ideal would be to remove the emphasis from nationalism by free trade, local autonomy, and the protection of minorities. The new frontier in upper Silesia points the way, but it

will be long before all frontiers can be so softened. Until then nationalism cannot be ignored in frontier-drawing.

It seems probable that self-determination will continue to appeal to our sense of both justice and expediency save in exceptional cases, such as key deposits of ore or coal or a great harbor at the mouth of an international river, where the welfare of nations or of a continent is bound up in their disposition.

If we are to continue our belief in self-determination for places of less economic or political consequence, the plebiscite, however faulty, is the only tool we have. Our problem is to perfect it. Some of the faults of the recent plebiscites can easily be avoided. Others will be harder to guard against so long as national jealousies are high, as they are sure to be after a war. The first lesson of the recent plebiscites is not to hold a vote where the interest centers on the wealth of the region rather than on the wishes of the inhabitants. The second lesson is to choose the plebiscite commission exclusively from countries neutral not only in theory, but in fact. Such auspices alone can bring to bear on any plebiscite the objectivity necessary for one of the hardest problems of political science.

B

ACK in the Liechtenstein Strasse, Vienna, Emilie Bardach resumed her old life without too much unhappiness.

"All is as it used to be. My depression is over. Nothing is changed here. Only I am different. I am more sure of myself, more independent, even happier."

She says so to Ibsen in the letter she writes him at once. He refers to the detail in his answer.

The things most important in his letters would not be written down with ink.

Since his last flaming outburst at Gossensass ten days had gone by. They had been ten days of reflection. The impossible had become more apparent as the impossible. No man of sixty could turn his back on a good wife, a beloved son, to say nothing of everything else that was treasured in his life, for the sake of any new love, however enthralling. It was not to

He was not a letter-writer. Direct expression from himself to another person seems always to have been hard for him. The difficulty sprang, doubtless, from his repressed inner life, from his shut-up heart. Only face to face with his public could he let himself go, and then only with his soul's experience distilled and distilled again. The easy, unthinking flow of the pen which makes a correspondent was something he never knew.

Then he was a man with a secret. He was not only that, but he was a famous man whose letters might easily betray him. A sentence, two or three words, a word, might fling open a door that never could be closed again. In writing to this girl he could not be otherwise than on his guard. She was in a position to read between the lines.

as he had told her in the Tyrol, a true poet must be made through pain and renunciation, he had come to that.

At the same time a poet's pain and renunciation are what creates his song. Already the new strain is beginning to wake within him. This is not a mere seeking of "material for his plays," such as has been ascribed to him. It is the natural, inevitable impulse of the creator. The deeper, the more convulsive the emotion, the more eager he is to give it creative utterance.

82

"32, Maxmilian Strasse, Munich, "Oct. 7, 1889.

"With my whole heart I thank you, my beloved Fräulein, for the dear and delightful letter which I received on the last day of my stay at Gossensass, and have read over and over again.

"There the last autumn week was a very sad one, or it was so to me. No more sunshine. Everything-gone. The few remaining guests could give me no compensation for the brief and beautiful end-of-summer life. I went to walk in the Pflerschthal. There there is a bench where two can commune together. But the bench was empty, and I went by without ever sitting down. So, too, the big salon was waste and desolate.

Do you remember the big deep baywindow on the right from the veranda? What a charming niche! The flowers and plants are still there, smelling so sweetly-but how empty-how lonely -how forsaken!

"We are back here at home and you in Vienna. You write that you feel surer of yourself, more independent, happier. How glad I am of these words! I shall say no more.

"A new poem begins to dawn in me. I want to work on it this winter, transmuting into it the glowing inspiration of the summer. But the end may be disappointment. I feel it. It is my way. I told you once that I only corresponded by telegraph. So take this letter as it is. You will know what it means. A thousand A thousand greetings from your devoted-H. I."

On October 8 Emilie Bardach jots down in her diary: "A few words before I go to bed. I have good news. To-day, at last, came Ibsen's long expected letter. He wants me to read between the lines. But do not the lines themselves say enough? This evening I paid grandmama a quite unpleasant visit. The weather is hot and stuffy, and so is papa's mood. In other days this would have depressed me; but now I have something to keep me up."

I give this paragraph as it stands, since it helps to show the continued absence of the morbid. That the girl was impressed, and perhaps a little excited, goes without saying. She had been strangely singled out by a great European personality, and asked to give her life to coöperation in his work. She could not but feel herself as one chosen. There was nothing in her experience of the human heart to tell her that the appeal had been made in a fit of madness. That gods could go mad was a fact at which she could n't guess. The call having come, she was ready to dedicate herself.

Something of this she probably told him in her next letter, which found him at Munich, vainly trying to resume his work on "Hedda Gabler." The new poem, later to become "The Master Builder," born of what Gosse calls "the illuminating soul-adventures at Gossensass," has for the moment eluded him. A few weeks later he will be working vigorously on "Hedda Gabler," but he cannot compose himself yet. On October 15 he replies to her:

"I receive your letter with a thousand thanks and have read it and read it again. Here I sit as usual at my desk, and would gladly work, but cannot do so.

"My imagination is ragingly at work, but always straying to where in working hours it should not. I cannot keep down the memories of the summer, neither do I want to. The things we have lived through I live again and again-and still again. To make of them a poem is for the time being impossible.

"For the time being?

"Shall I ever succeed in the future? And do I really wish that I could and would so succeed?