ABSTRACT
. . .Although the play cannot entertain or greatly convince us, we feel indebted to the Society for allowing us to see Mrs. R.S. Townsend's able translation of Chekhov's work; for it belongs to a world apart from ours, to a state of mind as foreign to that of Western or Southern Europe as it is possible to find. The technique of the play, too, is totally different from anything we are likely to attempt; we are not ready for such cold realism, such repetitions, such slow and elusive action, such vague pictures of the characters presented. . . .
