ov's favourite middle-classes,
but of the moujik, nourishing, in a particularly stuffy atmosphere, an
intense mysticism and an equally intense thirst for vodka.

"The Proposal" (1889) and "The Bear" (1890) may be taken as good
examples of the sort of humour admired by the average Russian. The
latter play, in another translation, was put on as a curtain-raiser to a
cinematograph entertainment at a London theatre in 1914; and had quite a
pleasant reception from a thoroughly Philistine audience. The humour is
very nearly of the variety most popular over here, the psychology is a
shade subtler. The Russian novelist or dramatist takes to psychology as
some of his fellow-countrymen take to drink; in doing this he achieves
fame by showing us what we already know, and at the same time he kills
his own creative power. Chekhov just escaped the tragedy of suicide by
introspection, and was only enabled to do this by the possession of
a sense of humour. That is why we should not regard "The Bear," "The
Wedding," or "The Anniversary" as the work of a merely humorous young
man, but as the saving graces which made perfect "The Cherry Orchard."

"The Three Sisters" (1901) is said to act better than any other of
Chekhov's plays, and should surprise an English audience exceedingly. It
and "The Cherry Orchard" are the tragedies of doing nothing. The three
sisters have only one desire in the world, to go to Moscow and live
there. There is no reason on earth, economic, sentimental, or other, why
they should not pack their bags and take the next train to Moscow. But
they will not do it. They cannot do it. And we know perfectly well that
if they were transplanted thither miraculously, they would be extremely
unhappy as soon as ever the excitement of the miracle had worn off. In
the other play Mme. Ranevsky can be saved from ruin if she will only
consent to a perfectly simple step--the sale of an estate. She cannot do
this, is ruined, and thrown out into the unsympathetic world. Chekhov is
the dramatist, not of action, but of inaction. The tragedy of inaction
is as overwhelming, when we understand it, as the tragedy of an Othello,
or a Lear, crushed by the wickedness of others. The former is being
enacted daily, but we do not stage it, we do not know how. But who
shall deny that the base of almost all human unhappiness is just this
inaction, manifesting itself in slovenliness of thought and execution,
education, and ideal?

The Russian, painf