ABSTRACT
It is sheer light. When you read Chekhov's ‘The Seagull’, which was played for the first of two matinees at the Comedy yesterday, you recognize it as a work of great stature and insight. Not until you have seen it on the stage, however, do you realize that it is written in words of sheer light; that it illuminates everything it touches. Since, in the course of four acts, it touches upon everything of first importance in this endless pitch and toss of human life, it seems, at least to this cautious observer, to be a work of unalloyed genius, and superior in the range of its story to ‘The Cherry Orchard’ and the ‘Three Sisters’.
