The name of the evening was "Meyerhold," the gentleman
responsible for the production. At last the Event that had been brewing
ceaselessly for the last ten years--ever since the last Revolution in
fact--was to reach creation. The moment of M. Meyerhold's life had
arrived--the moment, had we known it, of many other lives also; but we
did not know it. We buzzed and we hummed, we gasped and we gaped, we
yawned and we applauded; and the rustle of gold tissue, the scent of
gold leaf, the thick sticky substance of gold paint, filled the air,
flooded the arena, washed past us into the street outside. Meanwhile M.
Meyerhold, white, perspiring, in his shirt-sleeves with his collar
loosened and his hair damp, is in labour behind the gold tissue to
produce the child of his life... and Behold, the Child is produced!
And such a child! It was not I am sure so fantastic an affair in reality
as in my rememberance of it. I have, since then, read Lermontov's play,
and I must confess that it does not seem, in cold truth, to be one of
his finest works. It is long and old-fashioned, melodramatic and
clumsy--but then it was not on this occasion Lermontov's play that was
the thing.
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