ussian literature
is made up of just that small fraction of the whole which has
escaped government inquisition.

However, in spite of all the unheard-of constraints which weigh upon
her, Russia has already given us such great authors, that we need
not hesitate to say that on the day when she regains liberty of
speech and of pen, her literature will take its place among the
first in the world.

II

ANTON TCHEKOFF[2]

[2] This spelling has been adopted here, rather than Chekhov,
since it is more familiar to the public. In all other cases, the
_ch_ and _v_ have been retained.

"There is a saying that man needs only six feet of ground, but that
is for a corpse and not for a living man. It is not six feet of
ground that man requires, not even an entire estate, but the whole
terrestrial globe, nature in its fullness, so that all his faculties
can expand freely."

This is the proud profession of faith that Anton Tchekoff made on
entering the literary world. He was born January 17, 1860, at
Taganrog, where his father, a freed serf, lived. After attending
school in his native town, he took up the study of medicine at
Moscow. Once a doctor, rather than practise, he devoted most of his
time to literature. His career as an author does not offer us any
extraordinary situations. He owed his success, and later on his
glory, to severe and prolonged work. His literary talent manifested
itself while he was still a student. He began his career with
humorous short stories which were published in various newspapers.
They brought him enough for the bare necessities of life.

These stories have been collected in two volumes. They are very
short, almost miniatures. For the most part they are elegant
trifles, worked out with painstaking care. One feels that the author
had no definite goal in sight; he wrote them simply to amuse and
entertain his readers. One would search in vain for any sort of
philosophy. On the contrary, one finds there a rather significant
spirit, a gaiety, care-free, loquacious and, at times, ironical.
Unimportant people tell pleasant things about themselves or others.
All these men are a trifle debauched, talky, futile, and their
companions are flighty, intriguing little women who chatter
incessantly. Everything begins and ends with a laugh. This recalls
some of the early works of Gogol, but, we repeat, one finds no moral
element in this laughter, and these tiny comedies are in reality no
more than s