"This is red; that is what I am," said Isadora Duncan; whipping a red scarf from her body and waving it bolshevikily. If by her dancing Saturday at Symphony Hall she meant to confirm this statement, one should concede her any tinge of red she wished. She saw red, surely, she looked pink, and she acted scarlet.

But what was the purpose of Isadora, or rather Mrs. Serge Yessinin the bride, in performing as she did? Did she, by the scantiness of her costume, wish to excite our sympathy for the starving Russians, as scantily clad? Was she demonstrating some orgiatic dance of the Slava, newly taught her by her latest husband? Or was she trying to get the audience in such a state of frenzied enthusiasm that when she came to her climactic outburst it would dash madly to the stage and with her as leader straightway set up a soviet in America? If she were in a Billy Sunda tabernacle or a revivalist revival meeting, she might have done so. But she was in Symphony Hall, in Boston, among the cold and dispassionate. Perhaps it is kinder to imagine that she was merely interpreting her feelings on finding that the last piece of soap in the bath-tub had disappeared down the drain-pipe.