A perfectly reliable person recently arriving from soviet Russia, in telling how people live there, casually made the following remark:

"They are quite friendly with Gorky. Lunacharsky often comes to see him in the evenings, and they play cards. Trotzky comes, too, sometimes. They would have a drink, a bite to eat. Just as it used to be before.'

Enough! That's all I need. With two fingers I grasp this little bend of an edge and pull out into the light of day a whole concrete picture.

Maxim Gorky's library on a winter evening. Gorky paces back and forth over a thick carpet with long, noiseless strides. With every step, a long lock of his straight hair dances over his square forehead. His hands are in the pockets of his black coat, buttoned up to the chin. His whole appearance is pensive. On a sofa in the corner sits his wife, the actress Andreyeva who is now in charge of all the state theatres. She is knitting.

'What are you thinking about?' asks Madame Andreyeva.

'Oh, things in general. I saw a dead body to-day on the Mokhovaya; one could n't tell whether the man starved or froze to death. And people walked past with absolute indifference. No doubt many of them thought, "What does it matter? To-morrow it may be I, and other people will walk past with just as much indifference." Horrible, is n't it?'

'Do you expect anybody to-night?' 'Yes, Lunacharsky telephoned that he would come. And Trotzky promised to run in after the conference. By the way, have we anything in the house?"

"There's some cold veal. And I can have some macaroni prepared. Then there's some fish, and, of course, we can open up some canned things. There's a little cheese, too.'

'Any wine?'

'Nothing but the red. Not more than three bottles of port wine, I think. But there's still a big bottle of whiskey, the one you added lemon peels to. . . . Ah, Anatoly Vasilyevich! You ought to be ashamed of yourself for neglecting us like this. You have n't been here for three days now.'

Lunacharsky stood in the doorway, squinting his dark, near-sighted eyes, trying to reach with his tongue an icicle that hung from his reddish moustache, and rubbing his glasses that became moist the moment he entered the warm room from the cold street.

'What a cold,' he mumbled in his slightly hoarse baritone. Looks like at least twenty below. Yes, Holy Russia is rather cold to-night, he-he. Well, are we going to have a game to-night? Only if you'll get the better of me the way you did the other night, I'll simply have to refuse to play with you.'

'How is your wife?' asked Madame Andreyeva, folding her work and putting it away.

'Oh, a rather annoying thing happened to her. Last night she decided to walk home from the theatre; wanted to take a walk or something. Think of her wanting to do this, when we have two automobiles! Well, she stumbled over some dead body in the dark and fell down, bruising her whole shoulder. It's blue all over now.'

'Awful! She ought to have a compress.'

'Was it on the Mokhovaya?' asked Gorky pensively.

'What has the Mokhovaya got to do with it? It was way over on the other side. Is Lev Davdych (Trotzky) coming?'

'He promised to stop in after the conference. There is a fine player for you. A clever fellow, he is.'

'It's pretty warm here, though.'

'Yes, Mary likes it to be that way. That is a habit she acquired back in Italy.'

'Anatoly Vasilyevich, I can tell you a piece of news that will really concern you. Our sugar is nearly all gone.'

'I have sixty pounds saved for you. And how was the flour I sent you yesterday?'

'Wonderful. Where did you manage to get it?'

'Oh, my Letts got it somewhere. Marvelously convenient fellows, these Letts are. They can get almost anything, right from under the ground. For instance, do you like real Little Russian sausage?'

'How can you ask such a question?' Fine. You'll have it to-morrow. Ah, and here is our Leon Drey. I can tell it by the horn of his automobile.'

Smartly moving his shoulders covered with a well-fitting uniform, Lev Davidych Trotzky entered the room. His clean-shaven cheeks were still frostbitten. His smart yellow leggings made merry noises every time he took

ing at his gold watch. 'By the way, Lev, do you remember about that old professor I told you about, the one who tried to organize a hunger rebellion on the Petrograd Side? Have they let him go?'

'Oh, yes, I remember. But unfortunately you asked too late about him. I called up the Extraordinary Commission people the very next day, but he had just been shot.'

'Oh, the Devil take you all! Why in thunder are you always in such confounded hurry? The old man could n't harm anybody. His three daughters died of typhoid, and he could n't last long, either. Oh, well. Whose turn is it to deal out? Yours, Alexey Maximych, is n't it? So. No, I don't need any, thank you. Suppose we start with the jack, eh? How do you like it? Hehe. The whole five are mine.'

A maid entered the room.

"The cook asks whether she should heat up the veal?'

'No,' Gorky raised his head from his cards. "Tell her to serve the meat cold, but to heat up the wine. And we want some pickles.

Several minutes later, 'Step in, gentlemen, we'll have a bite. What will you have first, veal, fish, or macaroni? Have a glass of this whiskey; I prepared it with some lemon peels. It's fine now.'

Thus they live now, these good friends, who have cost Russia such an exorbitant price.

VOL. 21-NO. 1059

MAJOR IAN HAY BEITH has been lecturing to British audiences on his tour experiences in America, and the Times thus reports his treatment of the thorny question of Anglo-American relations:

'The three barriers to an absolute understanding of one another,' said 'Ian Hay,' 'are (1) garbled history, (2) the Atlantic Ocean, (3) the fact that we possess a common language. Instead of a common language being a common bond, it is a common handicap, a common danger, and a common nuisance. It is far easier to start trouble with someone whose language one understands than with someone whose language one does not know. The difficulty of garbled history is now being partially overcome, for the school history books are being revised and the false impressions being removed from child minds. English people do not understand American town life the equal of our provincial life. New York is merely an excrescence, for two thirds of America's population live in small towns. The outstanding features of American social life to-day are newlymarried couples and Ford cars.

"The danger in America is the great mistake of gathering up all the peculiarities of a nation into a single individual. The typical Englishman (through American spectacles) is a rather drooping man, with a heavy moustache, dropped aitches, and a monocle in the right eye. The American is a born "booster," but the Englishman is a born "knocker," who likes to surround himself with a sense of self-depreciation.

The Englishman habitually ridicules his own country, its institutions, and customs; refers disparagingly to his own relations; and thinks that the Empire is going to the dogs. England treats America with the patronizing air of an old gentleman; and America responds with the degenerate air of a small boy. But in fundamental things we are one, and individually we believe in liberty and justice. We hate tyranny oppression, and ill-treatment, and love things that are clean, healthy, and of good report. Americans and English men alike are idealists and sentimen talists.'

Reviving Paris

THE Bal Bullier recently opened it doors for the first time since the war An immense crush of students, models and all the population of the Lati Quarter assembled at the fête. Befor the war the Bal Bullier was always centre of gaiety of the Quarter, an many there were who would not be lieve that peace had really come unt the old place had opened again.

Massed American bands added th only touch which Trilby and Litt Billy would not have recognized i the motley throng which sang an danced, drank deep, and talked unt the dawn.

In spite of the invasion of foreigne into Paris, the show was predominant French, true to its decades of tradition

Wheels

THE fifth 'cycle' of Wheels, th annual anthology of modern ver

Wilde's Art-Teaching

THE final volume of Wilde's collected works (Metheuen edition) has just been issued. It is entitled Art and Decoration and sells for six shillings, six pence. Of this volume the Athenæum remarks:

'With this material in hand public opinion may be expected, within the next twenty years or so, to fix approximately Wilde's definitive place in literature; for there is nothing recondite in his work; its qualities and defects are on or very near the surface, and might have been coolly estimated long since but for the contingent circumstances. "The final judgment cannot, we suppose, be very favorable.'

Mr. H. G. Wells's Play

IN the Reandean Company's announcement of its future plans, it was stated that the next production at the St. Martin's Theatre would be a new play by Mr. H. G. Wells and Mr. St. John Ervine. Mr. Wells, however, now writes to explain the exact situation with regard to the play.

I learn (he writes), that I have blossomed into a playwright. This is news to me. I know very little about the stage. I am incurious about it; I am quite sure I shall never be clever enough to write a play. But my friend, Mr. St. John Ervine, has made a play out of an early book of mine, and apparently he is modestly putting my name, or somebody is putting my name, before his own. It is his play.

My share in it has been simply to supply the book, the original raw material so to speak, and afterward to spend three or four days with the real and only playwright, chiefly in a summer house, reading over the dialogue and making the most modest suggestions, which he accepted or rejected as he thought good. It seems to me that he has made a very ingenious and pleasing adaptation of my story, but I know practically nothing about this business.

Discoveries in Gethsemane

THE discovery of a very early Christian church in the Garden of Gethsemane has directed attention to the valuable work which is being carried out in Palestine under the direction of the newly-formed Department of Antiquities. Sir Herbert Samuel recognized from the outset of his career as British High Commissioner that the whole world was anxious that all possible care should be taken of the monuments, and every facility afforded for investigating the history of the Holy Land. He called to his aid the Director of the British School of Archæology in Jerusalem, who is now home once more after strenuous work which he has had the gratification of seeing bear fruit.

Excavations in the Garden of Gethsemane were begun by the Franciscans in the spring of last year, and they discovered a church of the thirteenth century. In digging the foundations for a new building on the spot they discovered traces of a much earlier church on a slightly different axis. They duly received permission to excavate this earlier building, which proved to be a church of about the fourth century and one of the oldest monuments of Christianity in Palestine. The whole of the outside wall can be traced, together with the two rows of columns which supported the aisles, and three apses, the central one being the largest. Here

and there are well-preserved though small remains of the original mosaic floor.

The Franciscans have undertaken to preserve these remains in such a way that they will be permanently visible: even though a new church be built, it will be designed to enclose the old church, and steps will be taken to distinguish the outline of the ancient structure and to preserve the pavement and the bases of columns in a way that is quite satisfactory. The central apse of this building reaches out just beyond the modern limits of the garden toward the rocks which are usually associated with the Agony of Christ. It has been arranged that the work shall be completed by the Board of Antiquities on behalf of the government. Some architectural fragments, including columns with capitals in Corinthian style, came to light in the course of the excavation.

A Kipling Verse in Court If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the will which says to them 'Hold on'

THESE lines from Mr. Rudyard Kipling's poem, 'If' have been used by Genatosan, Ltd., to advertise their well-known nerve food.

Mr. Kipling brought an action before Mr. Justice Peterson in the Chancery Division to restrain the company from so using the quotation.

Mr. Hughes, K.C., said it was difficult to imagine anything more annoying to an author than the vulgarization of his work by association with the miserable claptrap of a patent medicine vendor. To a man with any literary sensibility, indeed, it was nothing less than a gross insult.

Mr. Alexander S. Watt, literary agent to Mr. Kipling, proved the pub