The Russian writer Dmitry Mereshkovsky has called Roshpin's The Pale Horse "the most Russian book of the period," according to the introduction in the new edition. We are not disposed to dispute that statement after reading the first chapter, in which we found: "The hotel bores me to weariness. I know so well its hall porter in his blue tunic, its gilt mirrors, its carpets. There is a shabby sofa in my room and dusty curtains. I have placed three kilograms of dynamite under the table. I have brought it from abroad. The dynamite smells of a chemist's shop. I have headaches at night."
He should have tried the dynamite. We understand that it is an excellent cure for headaches when used internally.
In his introduction to Madeleine: An Autobiography, Judge Ben B. Lindsey writes of the book, "It ought to be read and pondered over. It is true." For our part, we doubt whether the book will prove of any vital aid in solving what newspapers are fond of referring to as "white slavery"; for, although much of the book is convincing and seemingly veracious, it is hard to grasp its intent. Indeed, there is such a mass of informative detail in this life story of a woman of the underworld that it almost seemed to us as if it were intended to be a companion book to such works as How To Be a Boy Scout or Golf in Fifty Lessons. It is true that the author of the book takes great pains to dwell frequently on the way in which her whole physical and spiritual nature revolted against the life which she was leading, but at other times there is a very evident intimation of her satisfaction in having been at any rate a leading member of her profession. Certainly, she writes with a good deal of gusto of the manner in which she and her friend Olga succeeded in selling the same bottle of champagne seven times to a befuddled gentleman, and undeniable pride in her accounts of how well she succeeded professionally in an executive capacity.
And yet, though we are not very much concerned with seeking for morals in books, there is one telling sermon in the volume, and all the more telling because it does not seem to have been within the plan of the writer. "Madeleine" ought to do something to clear away the mist in minds which confuse prudery and virtue. Even in her most degraded and sinful moments, Madeleine remains a proper person. In telling of her conversation with an associate in the life of shame Madeleine writes, "I felt sure that human degradation could go no further; when she took a box of cigarettes from under her pillow and offered me one I was speechless with indignation." A year or so later, while Madeleine still has both feet set in the primrose path, she violently upbraids a girl who wants her to use rouge. "I would not have my face painted, and that settled it! Not only for that day but for all of the succeeding days in which I remained in the business. I had to draw a line somewhere." Again she rails at present-day fashions, and observes, "If a girl had come into Lizzie Allen's parlors wearing some of the present-day street styles she would have been told to go upstairs and put on her clothes."
But we were even more impressed by the chapter in which Madeleine goes to Butte to open a brothel and takes a dislike to the town because of its loose observance of the Sabbath. "Clothing stores, groceries, saloons, small drygoods shops, cigar stands, dance halls and variety shows elbowing one another and wide open for business, gave a shock to my sense of the fitness of things."
There are persons to whom a preposition is as inspiring as a trumpet call. Dangle an "on" before a dying essayist and he will get up and dash you off something entitled "On an Old Penwiper," or "On the Delights of Washing Before Breakfast." It is essential that an essayist be an enthusiast about more things than prepositions. They are merely his springboards. He ought to be a man who wears his Corona on his sleeve, for there is no moment of the day or night in which he is safe from the onrush of ideas. I once knew a man who was a complete essayist at heart but a city editor by profession. He came into the office one July afternoon and called me over. "As I was walking downtown," he began, "I saw a little piece of ice in the middle of Broadway. Write me a funny story about it."
The assignment floored me completely. I idled over it for an hour and then reported back that I couldn't see a story in the suggestion. "What suggestion?" said the city editor. The thing had gone from his mind. He was of the mold from which great men are made. Having said of anything "Let it be done" he at once felt not only that it was accomplished, but that he had done it himself. The matter never came to his mind again. At the moment I spoke to him he was already deeply engrossed in a scheme for a story computing the value of all the lobster salad sold in the City of New York, exclusive of Brooklyn, the Bronx and Staten Island, in a single evening.