The Equinox (Volume III, Number I)

THE EQUINOX where was no art to cut or polish, so that they look like bits of glass or half-sucked sweetmeats? The art of Russia has always been either without art, or with art derived. Napoleon was probably in an extremely bad temper when he spoke of Saint Basil’s as “that mosque,” but it is a mosque. It is probably the greatest building in the world in its peculiar way, but that way is the way of the mosque, even more so than St. Mark’s or the cathedral at Granada. But the great Russians are not less because they have been compelled to wear civilized clothing. There is only one art purely Russian, and that is the ‘Russian Ballet,’ which was not invented by Russians at all. The real Russian ballet is a savage mimicry of the Italian ballet. Have you not seen those uncut emeralds, the size of a walnut, through which the Tsars bored holes to wear them on a string? In its grossest stupidities the Rus- sian spirit is still childishly great. I suppose a Russian cook could make some- thing tasty of Edward Garnett, as a Chinese cook makes masterpieces of puppy dogs. Chekhov is not to be judged at all by the standard of Guy de Maupassant. He is not to have his stories split up by our Garnetts or Barnetts or Darnetts into: a, humorous b. indigenous ¢. historical—pastoral—comical etc. Each story is to be judged by itself. This is of course true of every work of art, and that is why critics are such a hang-dog race of marmots. But speaking as a marmot, which is, after all, the right of marmots, Article 1 in the Magna Charta of marmots, I may say that Chekhov was yery much better when he was not think- ing of Kopecks. He has turned out a dreadful lot of bad work under the lash of the publisher. But at his best, in stories like The Witch, he is unsurpassed. One feels a positive anguish that one has not met that witch! Even a Gladys Belasco or a Léa de L’ame Morte—or Del Amor?—can hardly console one for her loss. Les amours nés de V'imagination—-either one must smoke opium or hashish, or live in Russia, or allow oneself to be fooled by a Russian woman, or read Chekhov. This is an admirable edition of Chekhov, but how is it, while I am on another subject, that a firm of the standing of Macmillan can publish Chekhov (either without fear of prosecution, or because they have squared the judges) with ap- parent good hope of selling a great number of copies, while a native Chekhov like Alexander Harvey finds it difficult to get a publisher, and all the other American Chekhovs can never get a story printed? HEAvENLY Bripecrooms. By THEoporE ScHRoEDER and Ina C——. Reprinted from the Alienist and Neurologist. Tuts book has been left entirely unedited by Mr. Theodore Schroeder, with the 280