White Monkey* Mr. Galsworthy Appraises the Post-War Generation

The Story. The book is about several Forsytes and several more of their connections. Chiefly, there is Fleur Mont, collector of people-celebrated people, very modern people. In her collection was Wilfrid Desert, poet, who became much too fond of her. Here was a problem. Fleur wanted him in the collection. On the other hand, she did not love him even as much as she loved her husband, Michael, Wilfrid's best friend. She tried for a long while to eat her cake and have it too. Wilfrid would deliver ultimata-demanding that she yield "now or never." Somehow, it never seemed to be either. He told Michael all about it. Relationships grew increasingly strained, until finally something snapped and Wilfrid left for Jericho.

The older generation is chiefly represented by Michael's father, Sir Lawrence Mont, ninth baronet, and old Soames Forsyte, collector of pictures. Catastrophe overtook these gentlemen through the Providential Premium Reassurance Society, known to its intimates as the P. P. R. S. Manager Elderson of the Society brought ruin upon it and then decamped. So they retired from the board with dignity and little else.

A sub-plot-in many respects the best thing in the book-tells of the tribulations of Tony Bicket and his girl-wife, Victorine, units of the inarticulate masses. Tony was caught "snooping" books from the publishing firm for which he worked and of which Michael was a member. He did it for the support of Victorine, who was suffering from pneumonia. Deprived of his job, Tony became a capitalist, investing all he had in rubber balloons, which he hawked about the streets. He and Victorine looked upon Central Australia as the only place where happiness might await them. On her recovery, the young wife, abetted by Michael Mont, went surreptitiously to work as an artist's model-not infrequently in the "altogether"-to earn passage money. Accidentally, old Bicket came upon her picture in an exhibition, and her secret was out. Followed recriminations, the man crazed with horror at her shamelessness. But a final confession of his own thefts for her brought them together again and set them on the way to Australia.

Much to the delight of the older generation, Michael and Fleur finally permitted an eleventh baronet to come into the world, and the final happiness of all concerned was only qualified by

THE WHITE MONKEY-John Galsworthy ibner ($2.00).

the symbolic significance of a picture bequeathed by a dying Forsyte. It was a Chinese work, depicting a "large whitish sidelong monkey, holding the rind of a squeezed fruit in its outstretched paw." The picture is commented on as a perfect allegory. "Eat the fruits of life, scatter the rinds, and get copped doing it," says one of its observers; . . . a monkey's eyes are the human tragedy incarnate."

The Significance. Mr. Galsworthy's method has always been to propound

SCRIBE GALSWORTHY "Neither knows nor understands-"

a question, wrap it up in a story, present both sides with equal eloquence, and then not answer it. In this case, the question has something to do with the relative values of the post-War generation and those that came before it.

As fiction, this volume is not in its author's happiest vein. It is the latest and probably the least interesting addition to that formidable series, The Forsyte Saga. Mr. Galsworthy neither knows nor understands completely the society he is discussing. He is not himself a modern, and he is not in sympathy with modernism. Thus his study is lacking in force.

The Author. John Galsworthy is an Englishman of the old school. He is smooth-shaven, rather tall, middleaged. His chief works of fiction are embodied in the ponderous Forsyte Saga, a series of novels, beginning with The Man of Property-published 1906 -dealing with the lives and problems of a typical British family. Among his most talked of plays are The Silver Box, Strife, Justice, The Pigeon, The Skin Game, Loyalties.

Epitaphs

THE NEW SPOON RIVER-Edgar Lee Masters-Boni & Liveright ($2.50).

The Spoon River Anthology was published, first serially, then in book form, just before the War. It consisted of compressed, ironic little dramas in verse-the biting epitaphs of the dead of Spoon River, the voices of the inarticulate suddenly articulate from the grave. It was variously welcomed, but always with interest, its powerful originality indisputable.

Spoon

The War is over, but people are still dying in Spoon River. The foreign born have come into their own. River has become "a ganglion for the monster brain Chicago." An addition has been made to the old cemetery, to accommodate the ashes of the lately dead. The new names of the departed include such as Euripides Alexopoulos, Didymus Hupp, Saul Kostecki, Teresa Pashkowsky, Diamandi Viktoria, Yet Sing Low. Their problems have changed, too. They have become those of an age of faster transportation, closer communication of the city and the towns which draw their strength from the city. There remains the old keen irony, the uncompromising economy of expression, the free but careful technique. The book has not the importance of the first Spoon River-but only because its method is no longer an innovation,

Psychological Spooks

CHALK FACE-Waldo Frank-Boni & Liveright ($2.00).

John Mark was a doctor and a genius, albeit a young one. He loved "Mildred, chaste as thought, Mildred, deep as discovery, Mildred, remote and imminent as truth!" Two things stood between him and Mildred-his parents' opposition to the match and a rival whom he had never seen. The rival was murdered under circumstances of which he was mysteriously conscious. Shortly thereafter, his parents were also assassinated. In both crimes, a strange figure with a white head was curiously implicated. John Mark began to feel that he himself was in some occult way guilty. He came to grips with the white-headed man, strove with him, conquered him-conquered his own embodied will.

This is no ordinary mystery story. It is a strange, bold plunge into the heart of man. The struggle of John Mark is the struggle of every man with his own will. The story is a weird allegory of the soul battles of man, a daring objectification of the subconscious. It is also an insidious pitfall for the unwary reader of detective stories who may stumble unsuspectingly on its tortuous analyses of the human intelligence. As an experiment, its courage and interest cannot be denied.

Rugged Lincoln

Do You Like Sea? And

Character?

Joseph C. Lincoln's latest book* is a character study of the old coast guards -life-savers who seldom if ever mind a call. I have written of Mr. Lincoln before in these columns; but whenever I nave a chance to talk with him, I am reminded again of a character so filled with humorful wisdom and real charity, that I have a wish to impart something of it to others. The other day I discovered two things about this exceedingly popular novelist that I had not realized before: first, that like Robert W. Chambers, Robert Cortes Holliday, W. B. Maxwell and many other writers, he started his artistic career drawing rather than writing and then discovered his aptitude lay in the telling of stories. Perhaps this explains why he has always preferred to dwell more on intimate character sketches of Cape Cod folk rather than to bother too greatly with plot. He sees his quaint people whole and puts them on paper so, sketches them lightly and then inks them in with dialogue and anecdote, the situation furnishing a light background to the picture. The other thing I discovered about Mr. Lincoln was that when he was a boy he had a toy theatre. Did you have a toy theatre? Did you paint the scenery and write the plays? Well, I did; and, like Mr. Lincoln, I kept it up until I was ashamed to have people know I played with such toys.

However, Mr. Lincoln has little time for hobbies these days, with the possible exception of golf. He works sincerely and hard for six or eight months on a novel; and for Rugged Water he did considerable research, going back and talking to some of the old guards, gathering details and anecdotes from them. That is probably why he. has succeeded in creating so admirably the tense atmosphere of the life and actions of the old time life-saver.

There is much in common between Joseph Lincoln and Zane Grey-personally, I mean-their books are little alike. Both are out-of-door men. Both have families in which they are interested and of which they are proud. Both have sons who are determined to follow in their father's footsteps; in fact, young Lincoln is about to become a reporter and later has his eye on the magazine field. If you haven't read Rugged Water and like stories of sea and character, do; and if you want to read one of the most striking animal stories for the past ten years, look in the current Ladies' Home Journal for Zane Grey's The Wolf Tracker.

J. F.

*RUGGED WATER-Joseph C. LincolnAppleton ($2.00).

ART

In Chicago

Opened the 37th annual exhibit of American painting and sculpture at the Chicago Art Institute. The pictures, 325 in number, had been chosen by a jury which for many weeks searched the U. S., selecting from proposed entries those which best recommended themselves to the eye, with a continual hope of discovering among young artists some mute, inglorious Millet, some untrumpeted Whistler or coy Corot. The pictures were put on view; prizes were awarded. To Eugene F. Savage of Manhattan went the Frank G. Logan medal, carrying with it $1,500, for his painting Recessional, which showed (life-size) the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, fire in their nostrils, clouds in their hair, racing and racing down the midway of eternity. Malcolm Parcell, also of Manhattan, took the Logan $1,000 prize and the Wait Harris $300 award for his two portraits, Jim McKee and My Mother, the latter of which was acclaimed as one of the most exquisite productions ever hung in one of the Institute's U. S. exhibitions. Young Women, ingratiatingly painted by Leon Droll of Chicago, won for that artist the Potter Palmer prize of $1,000, while one Charles Grafly of Philadelphia was given the last large award, the Keith Spalding $1,000 medal, for his sculpture, Study of a Head of War. Many others were solaced with minor prizes which, though their greatest weight was one of honor, were yet of substance enough to keep coal in studio stoves, tea in studio pots.

In Boston

A man either sees what ne believes or believes what he sees. Let a painter regard a barn. If he sees a red rectangular building, useful for the housing of animals and grain, with a farm wagon in front of it, a maple tree behind it, he is in the latter class-an academician. If, on the other hand, he sees a toppling multicolored cube a-tilt against an oblong vegetable, with a grisly wheeled mechanism in the foreground, he sees what few believe. Such a one may be a member of the artist colony of Woodstock, Mass., whose pictures were last week on exhibit at the Boston Art Club. These artists are the Whigs of modern painting, an aesthetic Jacobin Club. Followers of the innovations of Derain and Picasso, their art is to intensify reality by warping it, to convince by deception. Notably successful among them are Judson Smith, landscape painter, Warren Wheelock, Earnest Fiene. The latter, with two canvases, Spring and Autumn, represents the most effective use of the Derainged perspective, mak

ing visible the spirit of these seasons in a bonfire of color as sober reproduction could never do. The work of these Woodstock artists was referred to by an English critic as "rather picayune than Picasso"-a witticism belied by such able technicians as A. A. Blanch, Herman More, H. L. McFee, Harry Gottlieb.

In a totally opposed tradition was the exhibition of the Guild of Boston. Artists which also opened last week. This group has always sought to preserve the manner of the old Boston School, rigorous, conservative, fastidious. Pictures of ships, girls, countrysides, they presented in their exhibition -tall Boston clipper-ships, New England girls, New England landscapes etched in pearly monotones. Mr. Tarbell is represented by the type of quiet interior which won him notice at other of the Guild's exhibits; Mr. Paxton likewise with an interior, suave, adept -a girl holding a cup, surfaces of flesh, porcelain, fabric, exquisitely touched. More spirited are the dancing sprites of Arthur Spear after the mode of Robert Chanler, the pencil drawings of Charles Woodbury.

In Philadelphia

A Gentleman with a High Hat; a Lady with an Ostrich Feather Fan. Secure in an elegance which time has not soiled, these two look out from history, nameless, irreproachable, erect. Much have they seen since one Rembrandt Harmens van Rijn, by painting them, preserved their finery from the fate that overtook its fashion. Lately, they have been themselves much watched, talked of-that serene lady, that impeccable gentleman-because a destitute nobleman, Felix Yusupov, once prince in Russia, sold them to a U. S. financier and art collector, Joseph E. Widener, of Philadelphia, so cheaply that he felt himself cheated (TIME, Nov. 3). Last week in Philadelphia, they were spoken of again—and for another reason. Their owner announced that since his father, Peter A. B. Widener, had suggested in his will that the collection he had begun should some day be given to a museum, he, Joseph E. Widener, was making plans to carry out the design. Where they would be given was not disclosed; but it was definitely stated that the Lady, the Gentleman, twelve more Rembrandts and other works of art, whose combined value exceeds $20,000,000, would be placed in a public muscum either in Manhattan, Philadelphia or Washing

ton.

The Widener collection is rivaled by only three others in the U S.-those of John P. Morgan (Manhattan), Michael Friedsam (Manhattan), Henry E. Huntington (Los Angeles). In addition to the group of Rembrandts (probably the finest in the world), it contains several items acquired from

the Morgan collection: some immensely valuable tapestries, two marbles by Donatello and paintings by such masters as Gainsborough, Reynolds, Romney. Constable, Holbein, Hals, Hobbema, Rubens, Millet, Corot, Daubigny, Dupré, Raphael, Tintoretto, Murillo, Goya, Velasquez.

In Paris

To the opening of the Fall Salon in Paris thronged many Americans. They saw the pictures and sculpture of Russians, Parisians, Italians, Argentines, Greeks! they saw little work by U. S. students, for fewer of these were included than has been the case for many a year. Among the few were Cameron Burnside, represented by a single picture; Cecil Howard, U. S. sculptor, whose work has recently become popular among British fashionables. Among the paintings, landscapes predominated over interiors; in the sculpture, imaginative groups over simple figures. Other U. S. artists exhibiting were E. H. Brewster, Draper Savage, Constance Bigelow, James D. Herbert.

CINEMA

The New Pictures

Garden of Weeds. "Saved by a Man from Syracuse" might have been the secondary title of this adventure. Betty Compson is the young person and that from which she is saved is a sort of country-club harem. There is an insidious individual who backs theatrical productions and swindles big business men as a relaxation. In his garden, country club, harem, is a variety of unfortunate and very lovely young women who have presumably come there from the various assemblies of his revues. He is just about to scalp another soul (subtitle writers are warned that this morbidly mixed metaphor is copyrighted and its use forbidden, no matter how great the temptation). That's where the man from Syracuse comes in. The soul-scalper is played by Rockliffe Fellowes in a manner to reinforce the growing judgment that he is about the next star to be discovered in the crowded California heavens.

The Only Woman. The old story of the girl who married the wastrel to save her father's crooked business fortunes. All the rest of the report is good news. Norma Talmadge played it in association with Eugene O'Brien. Sidney Olcott, who stands with Griffith, Lubitsch, and Cruze as one of the great directors, turned his hand to the old yarn and wove it into a bright and almost novel garment. Of late, Mr. Olcott has been directing in the East (Little Old New York, The Green Goddess, The Humming Bird) and deserted to do The Only Woman in Hollywood.

THE GUARDS MAN The Theatre Guild, Molnar, Alfred Lunt, Lynn Fontanne most amusingly involved in the attempt of a great actor to seduce his own wife.

EXPRESSING WILLIE-The blunt business man collides with the sharp intellectual sally of modern youth.

THE WEREWOLF-One of our more promiscuous houseparties, set in Spain and neatly played by Laura Hope Crews.

THE SHOW-OFF-Exposé of the man you all know who requires a sledgehammer of swaggering speech to drive a tack of accomplishment.

MINICK-Middle-class mixture of old and young generations which float apart like oil and water in the domestic tumbler.

THE FARMER'S WIFE-Genial English country comedy in which the widower Streetfield proposes to five different women.

GROUNDS FOR DIVORCE-The inimitable Ina Claire, being badly treated by one husband, takes another and then helps husband No. 1 to rediscover her.

Musical

The bands play, the girls dance, and everybody is actively amused at the following favorites in the musical comedy field: Kid Boots, Ritz Revue, I'll Say She Is, Ziegfeld Follies, The Grab Bag, The Grand Strect Follies, Scandals, Rose-Maric, The Dream Girl, Dixie to Broadway.

New Plays

Dixie to Broadway. Another ma chine gun of the show business ha opened up on the line. It is a Negr musical comedy with Florence Mill directing the fire. Experts assert that the new contrivance shoots the fastest of all its kind.

It differs from earlier Negro models in elaborateness of dress. Money an a mild amount of taste have gone int the manufacture.

Speed and decoration have overwhelmed slightly the humor of the evening. Hamtree Harrington is hire! to induce hysterics and is not as thor oughly ridiculous as he has been previously. His material rather than his method seemed at fault.

Florence Mills, who made sheer inpudence an explosive factor of success, retains her frantic popularity. She is seconded by Shelton Brooks, Cora Green and Will Vodery's band. But it is the chorus that carries the motion.

Heywood Broun-"The most exciting of all the musical comedies now current in New York."

The Rising Son is a family matter with the name Nugent on the invitations. J. C., Elliott and Ruth Nugent, best recalled for Kempy, tell another of their artless histories and in the telling unloose a moderate amount of laughter.

Toward the end of the second act, the novelist father discovers that his cook is his own mother. Previously, it seems, he has been a humble and happily ignorant Irish youth with an itch to write stories. He made money easily enough, but was always worried about the college education he had missed. His son was to go to college and proceed from there to the compusition of deathless literature instead of the ephemeral magazine humor which paid the family bills so promptly. The son preferred business. Only his affection for a girl who could write palliated his father's incredulous discomfiture.

The vaudeville experience of J. C. Nugent is usually visible through the fabric of the manuscript. His lack of simplicity and directness of attack on a full-length play diffuse the cumulative effect. His playing is characteristic. Elliott Nugent contrives miraculously to look and talk in a manner actually reminiscent of college boys. Ruth Nugent is pretty and Mary Shaw gives a notable performance as the Irish cook.

Alexander Woollcott-"A strangely miscellaneous comedy. . . . The Marxes

remain our favorite American family." The New York Times-"A good deal that is genuinely entertaining."

Follies, Fall Edition. Mr. Ziegfeld has caused to have inserted in the daily press tidings that henceforth the Follies will remain in Manhattan the year 'round. To the end that their popularity shall not diminish, he reports that three times after the opening he will invigorate the exercises with new material. The first of these invigorations is now on sale. The new ingredients are the Russian Lilliputians and Mitty and Tillio, French dancers; a pair of athletes called the Athenas; and new acts for Vivienne Segal, Lupino Lane, and minor revision in the monolog of Will Rogers.

Both the Lilliputians and Mitty and Tillio are regarded in Paris as belonging to the enthusiastic category of the "wows." In the Ziegfeld Follies, they seemed only pretty good. The former did a wooden soldiers march that might have created feverish rejoicing if wooden soldiers had not already marched so many miles across Our stages. Mitty and Tillio did "The Phantom Ship" and "The Mirage," both of which stick pleasantly in the memories of most of those who have recently been to Paris.

The dancing of Ann Pennington, the meditations of Will Rogers and the political speech of Tom Lewis remain the favorites of the current Follies family.

Percy Hammond-"The Follies continues to be the best of the shape-shows, no matter what they do to it."

Alloy. Through the fourth wall of a miserable mill-worker's hut in a steel town the audience is permitted to gaze at one of the most sordidly natural tragedies now open for inspection. It is a man-and-wife tragedy. The man is a drunkard and a beast. The woman is driven into the protecting arms of the family boarder. Vigorously written and vividly performed by Minna Gombell, the part of the girl carries the evening's interest. The saccharine platitudes and copybook virtue of the boarder (Ivan Miller), take the edge off the climax. If he were an individual rather than a clipping from a Y. M. C. A. pamphlet, the play would be decidedly engrossing. Under the circumstances, it is a capable but not a compelling contribution to the season's lists.

The Second Mrs. Tanqueray. A big, red apple-surrounded by rouge pots, pencil and puff for eyebrow and cheek-sat on a star's dressing table. Outside the rhythmic recall of an actress before the curtain attested the audience's approval. The clapping rose

and fell, mingled with cheers, finally lingered and fell The dressing-room door swung open and Ethel Barrymore appeared, beautiful, a little tired perhaps, excited and again successful. The big red apple seemed to smile and glisten with importance. It was Uncle John

International

MRS. CAMPBELL Comparisons were inevitable.

Drew's gift and its presence signaled another Barrymore opening.

"Speak your piece good and you will get a big red apple," was an early rural maxim that caught in John Drew's memory. When his niece Ethel appeared 23 years ago in her first star part (Clyde Fitch's Captain Jinks, he gave her a large red apple. It was the initiation of a custom which he has built into a Barrymore tradition.

These and many other magic facts one finds while burrowing through the pages of My Years on the Stage* by John Drew. One finds that Lionel Barrymore (46) is the oldest, Ethel (45) next and John (42) the Barrymore baby. This was the family of Maurice (Blythe) Barrymore and Georgie Drew. Georgie and John Drew were children of an elder John and his wife Louisa. All were actors. The blood and training of nine generations in the theatre has combined to make three of the greatest in our generation.

Since this is Ethel Barrymore's opening night, we must perforce pass by the brilliant Barrymore brothers. John is pottering about with various plays; and accurate chroniclers have it that he will not appear in the U. S. at all this year. Lionel and his lately acquired wife, Irene Fenwick, are touring in Belasco's Laugh, Clown, Laugh.

Miss Barrymore is one of the most beloved figures on our stage, one of the

*MY YEARS ON THE STAGE-John DrewDutton ($5.00).

greatest workers, and a true traditionalist. Few actresses in her position work year in and year out, in Manhattan and away, on the legitimate stage and in vaudeville, almost without a break. Actors are born wanderers; the craft arose in the tradition of the strolling player. Nowadays, an actor fancies to stay in Manhattan, possibly with short runs in Chicago, Philadelphia, Detroit and Boston. The dwindling of good road shows is not due to the cinema, but in a large measure to the refusal of good performers to undertake the hardships of provincial travel. Not so Ethel Barrymore. She is a trouper, honoring her followers throughout the smaller cities. Last season she toured. Now she is back again as "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray."

This part had been properly regarded for many years as the property of Mrs. Patrick Campbell who, as Paula Tanqueray, won her first great success in 1893. It was last played in this country at Wallack's Theatre at a benefit many years ago by Mrs. Campbell. When Ethel Barrymore assumed the role, comparisons were inevitable.

The part portrays a woman of rusty reputation who hopes to obtain position and happiness through a favorable marriage. In the opening act, most critics agreed, Miss Barrymore was heavy, rasping and overloud. The Campbell tradition calls for a flexibility, lightness and humor, which Miss Barrymore possesses preeminently but elected to omit in her interpretation. In the later acts, as calamaties gather, she was accorded universal admiration. The final half hour is one of the great things of her career. The play, for all its years, stands up stably enough.

Thus the curtain fell and cheers echoed from the auditorium to the little dressing-room where the big red apple waited on the table. Many productions had come and gone since the first red apple appeared at the première of Captain Jinks. And many eulogies have been spoken since that time, and much criticism written. But none of it is as true as the three sentences which came from the gallery of the old Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, when Captain Jinks had its opening performance preparatory to the Manhattan run. It was Miss Barrymore's first long and important rôle. She was somewhat nervous with her opening lines, and not quite audible.

"Speak up, Ethel," called a god of the gallery. "You're all right. The Drews is all good actors."

Heywood Broun "An uneven performance in an indifferent play."

Alexander Woollcott-"A still engrossing play . . . brought to glowing life by the magnificence of Ethel Barrymore."

Galli-Curci

People who sit in the glittering horseshoes of great opera houses, in the orchestras of famed concert halls, have cold faces, bright clothes. To brilliance, to frigidity runs their taste. Let a soprano pour out her soul in a fine frenzy of enthusiasm, they lift their eye

George Maillard Kesslere, P. B.

GALLI-CURCI

They clapped and clapped.

brows, clap and go away to their clubs or cabarets. But let her be a coloratura, let her sing with no emotion but with brilliance, with coldness, these cold, bright people in their turn give way to a fine frenzy of enthusiasm.

music increased; the warmth of the audience increased commensurably. She sang Bishop's Pretty Mocking Bird, the Polonaise from Mignon. Then the Mad Scene from Lucia-flight upon flight of crazy silver bells pealing in a ruined steeple rimed with frost.

That cold, brilliant audience rose to her; they clapped and clapped again; they cheered her until her car (which even the gallant 50 could scarce have budged) took her away. She had given them what they wanted, a flawless technical performance. Lind, Melba, PattiGalli-Curci.

Boston

One Friday afternoon, years ago, the Boston Symphony Orchestra-Dr. Muck at the wheel-played Chabrier's rhapsody, España-brilliant, flaming. The audience roared approbation, kept on roaring. Dr. Muck looked worried. He turned back the page of the score, looked at the audience, look at the orchestra. Plainly they wanted the piece again. Plainly he wanted to give it to them. But precedent - sacred precedent forbade repetition. Dr. Muck's courage failed him. After all, Boston was Boston. He went on to the next number.

they smothered her under mountains of flowers; Patti-they took her out to supper on their shoulders; Jenny Lind -50 brilliant, chilly young men pulled her carriage up Fifth Avenue. Now Galli-Curci, who recently made her first English appearance before the coldest, the shiniest audience in the land.

They did not even wait to hear her sing but met her steamer, conducted her to London with what the British press termed "unprecedented popular enthusiasm." She appeared before them to justify this reception; suddenly they became scpetical. Here was a lady in a Paris ball-gown, younger, slimmer than great divas are wont to be; she positively looked as if she were about to be emotional. The brilliant and the chilly sniffed; Galli-Curci sang. Her first song was Se tu m'ami, an old fall warm as the yellow wine, soft as the jargoning fountains of Italy. That was a mistake. Her next, a number from Dinorah, came more welcomely; it had a thinner flavor. The coldness of her

Karsavina

Last week, Thamar Karsavina, famed Russian dancer, premiére danseuse at the Imperial Ballet at St. Petersburg (now Leningrad), made her first appearance in the U. S. at Carnegie Hall, Manhattan. On the same night, another Russian lady, at another theatre, was filling the Manhattan engagements of what is declared to be her farewell tour. Outside that other theatre was displayed an advertisement familiar to five continents, simply worded-the most arrogant advertisement in the world. It read in large letters ANNA PAVLOWA; in small ones, as if the epithet was too indisputable to require emphasis, "The Incomparable." Karsavina is the only woman who has ever been capable of challenging the justice of that epithet. How rash was her

challenge? A large audience' went to see. For them she danced.

In chevelure of curled peruke, to a Mozart serenade, she swished her silken panniers, as did the belles of Bath, treading in the formal maze of a minuet, all the pride and fashion of the 18th Century caught in pattern of her narrow slippers. She danced a "HurdyGurdy" dance like a marionette of ivory pulled on silver wires, to an imaginary music-box that slowly wound down and down. In gold boots and scarlet gown, she glided through an adagio with her big partner, Vladimiroff, to music by Glazunov. Again with Vladimiroff, she did her famed Caucasian Dances, a 'slinky lady then, wild and jimp with shiny eyes, while a little drum tapped like a drunken heart-beat. In a dance called the "Polka Vendredi," with the flavor of a dirty joke of the '70's, she became the sort of person that modern Chief Justices and aging college presidents were warned against in their salad days a saucy, swaggering, heliotroped trollop. Young blades regarding her shivered slightly with a fear that all had not yet been told them; old bucks wiped away a tear and thought of the Bal Bullier.

Critical opinion next morning proclaimed that "Madame Karsavina is a very beautiful woman who gives much pleasure" (The New York Times); that "Madame Karsavina is one of the best dancers actively extant" (The New