The same Whys can be applied to another recent publication[7], Doroshevich’s impressions. Doroshevich is the most popular journalist in Russia, a witty, entertaining _feuilletonist_, who employs an original staccato rhythm. But there is no reason under the sun to translate his reportorial impressions of the war fugitives, written for a Moscow daily paper. Their value is purely local. How can we be interested in the management of the Russian relief-points, or their mismanagement? True, at times Doroshevich flashes brilliant impressionistic colors, as in describing the fugitives’ bonfires in the forest. But the rare gems do not justify the journalistic heap. I am uneasy about these fallacies of the publishers. Few though they are, they may serve the part of a spoonful of vinegar in a pot of honey. ---------- [2] _The Mantle and other stories, by Nikolai Gogol. New York: Frederic A. Stokes._ [3] _Makar’s Dream and other stories, by V. Korolenko. New York: Duffield._ [4] _Twenty-six Men and a Girl, by M. Gorky. New York: Frederic A. Stokes._ [5] _The Duel, by A. Kuprin. New York: Macmillan. The River of Life, by A. Kuprin. Boston: John W. Luce._ [6] _Dostoevsky, by Evgenii Soloviev. New York: Macmillan._ [7] _The Way of the Cross, by Doroshevich. New York: G. P. Putnam._ The Independent Exhibition LUPO DE BRAILA The rich aunt with whose aid the Chicago Society of Artists has managed, up to the present, to check all artistic impulses in this city, has lost her magic attraction and power. Her golden smiles and soft pillows have failed lately to captivate and hold. There is a new breed of young artists. They seem to be an energetic lot, and decline to live in the future of promises; and, what is more horrible, they decline to flirt with the rich aunt through the aid of the honorable society. For many years she was the bubbling liquid within the life-giving bottle. The magic corkscrew was in the safe, the combination known to the initiated few. According to these few, young artists had to go through a certain process of taming and self-effacement before they were gradually given the secret. A certain amount of artistic ignorance plus an ability to pull strings was required of every aspirant. A soft backbone bent by many kicks was also one of the main requirements. “Don’t knock, you’ll break the magic bottle” was their watchword. If you dared to ask questions concerning the sacred duty of the initiated few, you aroused a hatred that took years to melt,—a hatred that seemed impossible in such delicate souls. The few artists who refused to be tamed left the city and have settled in other parts.