The volume of short tales entitled _Im Zwielicht_ is of a somewhat different character. Though coloured to some extent by the melancholy and "inevitableness" of the longer novels, those qualities are less intense, and we have lively touches of satire and brilliant flashes of wit that remind us of the sprightliness of French writers. The tales are told in the twilight by one or other of two friends, a man and a woman, between whom there exists merely an intellectual bond of sympathy and union. The stories laugh good-naturedly at narrow-mindedness and silly prejudice, an evil that Sudermann wisely recognises as existing everywhere, in the big city as in the small village. Women's social aspirations, their immense delight in entertaining celebrities, and their belief that in so doing they are moving in the stream of the world's history, are satirised with keenness and truth. He strikes a deeper note in the tale that sets forth the difficulties of friendship and love between a woman of mature years and a young man, a subject ably treated by Jean Richepin in his fine novel, Madame André, and it is very interesting to note the coincidence of view of the French and German writer. Perhaps Sudermann's views may help towards a satisfactory solution of that ever-recurring will-o'-the-wisp--platonic affection. His heroine declares that to turn friendship into love, or love into friendship, is impossible, because where such a transformation does take place, there must, in the first instance, have been either not friendship or not love. "From the day on which we reap love where we sowed friendship, the magic charm would be broken," she says, "Till then I was all and everything--then I should be merely one more." And again, "Love begins in the intoxication of the senses, and ends in the peace of calm friendship, that is marriage; the contrary is not forbidden, but it leads--to the desert." In _Iolanthe's Hochzeit_, Sudermann proves himself the possessor of the humour that borders on pathos. The little story has no tendency, it preaches no sermon, Onkel Hanckel, "a good fellow (_ein guter Kerl_) by profession," relates how he had to live up to the title, and how, at the mature age of forty-seven, he became, almost against his will, engaged to a young girl. His feelings at the wedding ceremony, his horror and shyness at the notion of being left alone with his bride afterwards, form a most delightful piece of comedy. Pütz, a surly, grasping, miserly, rich old man; Lothar, a dashing young lieutenant of dragoons; the maiden sister; and Iolanthe herself--are portrayed with a quaint humour of which the earlier works gave little indication, while the vigour, simplicity, and directness of the narrative are as fine as ever. The East Prussian dialect lends the original a local colour that would be difficult to reproduce in a translation.