Russian plays, of which the pre-eminent characteristics were reality and naturalness. This being so it is easy to understand that Russian plays form an exceedingly interesting commentary, an illuminating “abstract and brief chronicle” of the Russian life of to-day. I will give a few instances taken from plays which were being performed during the winter season.[3] It must be remembered that there is a censorship in Russia which is almost as severe where politics are concerned as our censor in England is severe when the public morality is liable to be shocked. In spite of this, politics, if not always mentioned outright, permeate the Russian stage just as much as they permeate Russian life, and in some cases they are allowed to be mentioned outright, for the Russian censorship acts in a way peculiarly its own, or rather it acts just as our censorship does when morals are concerned, in an utterly illogical and incomprehensible fashion. There is a play called _Walls_ being performed at the State-subventioned theatre in St. Petersburg. This play would be forbidden in England, not because it inculcates immorality, but because certain facts are mentioned in it over which we draw a veil in this century, but which Shakespeare did not shrink from mentioning in the days of Queen Elizabeth. That is by the way. In this play we get among other things a glimpse of the life of an old schoolmaster, who has retired, and his wife; they have a daughter aged fifteen. These nice old parents feel that there is a gulf between them and their child. The daughter conceals her movements. She hides a portion of her life from her parents, and this distresses them. We see the interior of their home, and we see them waiting for the daughter in anxiety when she is returning late from one of the expeditions about which she refuses to speak. The father is distressed by the young generation. “In my time,” he says, “we were Liberals, and we worked for the cause, but quietly; now every one howls in the street and there is no talent anywhere.” He looks at Hertzen’s portrait, which is hanging on the wall, and he says: “Where have they got a man like him?” At last the daughter arrives, a charming, simple, natural girl, pretty and attractive. They beg her to say where she has been, and to be admitted into her confidence. We, the public, know to a man that she has been to something political, socialistic or revolutionary; we know that the parents know, and that she knows that the parents know, and that the parents know that she knows that they know. In spite of this she refuses to give any details. The father tells her she is on a wrong tack. “It’s all words,” he says. “You don’t understand, you can’t understand,” she answers. Then after a while she gives the following astounding explanation of her ideals: “There are two loves--a small love and a great love. The small love is what one feels for one’s favourite chair, one’s table, one’s