the prohibition upon the ugly in fiction. As life in any
manifestation becomes interesting in his eyes, his pen moves
freely. And so he makes life interesting in many varieties, even
when his Russian prepossessions lead him far away from our Western
moods.

Freedom. That is the word here, and also in his method of telling
these stories. No one seems to have said to Tchekoff, "Your
stories must move, move, move." Sometimes, indeed, he pauses
outright, as life pauses; sometimes he seems to turn aside, as
life turns aside before its progress is resumed. No one has ever
made clear to him that every word from the first of the story must
point unerringly toward the solution and the effect of the plot.
His paragraphs spring from the characters and the situation. They
are led on to the climax by the story itself. They do not drag the
panting reader down a rapid action, to fling him breathless upon
the "I told you so" of a conclusion prepared in advance.

I have in mind especially a story of Tchekoff's called "The Night
Before Easter." It is a very interesting story; it is a very
admirable story, conveying in a few pages much of Russian
spirituality and more of universal human nature; but I believe
that all, or nearly all, of our American magazines would refuse
it; not because it lacks picturesqueness, or narrative suspense,
or vivid characterization--all of these it has in large measure.
They would reject it because it does not seem to move rapidly, or
because it lacks a vigorous climax. The Goltva swollen in flood
lies under the Easter stars. As the monk Jerome ferries the
traveler over to where fire and cannon-shot and rocket announce
the rising of Christ to the riotous monastery, he asks, "Can you